The Reason Why

Chapter 10

Mirko, crouched up by the smoldering fire, was playing the _Chanson

Triste_ on his violin when the two reached the studio. He had a

wonderful talent--of that there was no doubt--but his health had always

been too delicate to stand any continuous study. Nor had the means of

the family ever been in a sufficiently prosperous condition, in later

years, to procure a really good master. But the touch and soul of the

strange little fellow sounded in every wailing note. He always played

the _Chanson Triste_ when he was sad and lonely. He had been nearly

seven when his mother died, and he remembered her vividly. She had so

loved Tschaikovsky's music, and this piece especially. He had played it

to her--from ear then--the afternoon she lay dying, and for him, as for

them all, it was indissolubly connected with her memory. The tears were

slowly trickling down Mirko's cheeks. He was going to be taken away from

his father, his much loved Chrisette would not be near him, and he

feared and hated strangers.

He felt he was talking to his mother with his bow. His mother who was in

heaven, with all the saints and angels. What could it be like up there?

It was perhaps a forest, such as Fontainebleau, only there were sure to

be numbers of birds which sang like the nightingales in the Borghese

Gardens--there would be no canaries! The sun always shone and _Maman_

would wear a beautiful dress of blue gauze with wings, and her lovely

hair, which was fair, not red like Chrisette's, would be all hanging

down. It surely was a very desirable place, and quite different from the

Neville Street lodging. Why could he not get there, out of the cold and

darkness? Chrisette had always taught him that God was so good and kind

to little boys who had crippled backs. He would ask God with all the

force of his music, to take him there to _Maman_.

The sound of the familiar air struck a chill note upon Mimo and Zara, as

they came up the stairs; it made them hasten their steps--they knew very

well what mood it meant with the child.

He was so far away, in his passionate dream-prayer, that he did not hear

them coming until they opened the door; and then he looked up, his

beautiful dark eyes all wet with tears which suddenly turned to joy when

he saw his sister.

"_Chrisette adore_!" he cried, and was soon in her arms, soothed and

comforted and caressed. Oh, if he could always be with her, he really,

after all, would wish for no other heaven!

"We are going to have such a picnic!" Zara told him. "Papa and I have

brought a new tablecloth, and some pretty cups and saucers, and spoons,

and knives, and forks--and see! such buns! English buns for you to

toast, Mirko mio! You must be the little cook, while I lay the table."

And the child clapped his hands with glee and helped to take the papers

off; he stroked the pretty roses on the china with his delicate, little

forefinger--he had Mimo's caressing ways with everything he admired and

loved. He had never broken his toys, as other children do; accidental

catastrophes to them had always caused him pain and weeping. And these

bright, new flowery cups should be his special care, to wash, and dry,

and guard.

He grew merry as a cricket, and his laughter pealed over the paper cap

Mimo made for him and the towel his sister had for an apron. They were

to be the servants, and Mimo a lordly guest.

And soon the table was laid, and the buns toasted and buttered; Zara had

even bought a vase of the same china, in which she placed a bunch of

autumn red roses, to match those painted on it and this was a particular

joy.

"The Apache," which had not yet found a purchaser, stood on one easel,

and from it the traveling rug hung to the other, concealing all

unsightly things, and yesterday Mimo had bought from the Tottenham Court

Road a cheap basket armchair with bright cretonne cushions. And really,

with the flowers and the blazing fire when they sat down to tea it all

looked very cozy and home-like.

What would her uncle or Lord Tancred have thought, could they have seen

those tempestuous eyes of Zara's glistening and tender--and soft as a

dove's!

After tea she sat in the basket chair, and took Mirko in her arms, and

told him all about the delightful, new home he was going to, the kind

lady, and the beautiful view of the sea he would get from his bedroom

windows; how pretty and fresh it all looked, how there were pine woods

to walk in, and how she would--presently--come down to see him. And as

she said this her thoughts flew to her own fate--what would her

"presently" be? And she gave a little, unconscious shiver almost of

fear.

"What hast thou, Chrisette?" said Mirko. "Where were thy thoughts

then?--not here?"

"No, not here, little one. Thy Chrisette is going also to a new home;

some day thou must visit her there."

But when he questioned and implored her to tell him about it she

answered vaguely, and tried to divert his thoughts, until he said:

"It is not to _Maman_ in heaven, is it, dear Chrisette? Because there,

there would be enough place for us both--and surely thou couldst take me

too?"

* * * * *

When she got back to Park Lane, and entered her uncle's library he was

sitting at the writing table, the telephone in his hand. He welcomed her

with his eyes and went on speaking, while she took a chair.

"Yes, do come and dine.--May you see her if by chance she did not go to

Paris?" He looked up at Zara, who frowned. "No--she is very tired and

has gone to her room for the evening.--She has been in the country

to-day, seeing some friends.--No--not to-morrow--she goes to the country

again, and to Paris the following night--To the station? I will ask her,

but perhaps she is like me, and dislikes being seen off," then a

laugh,--and then, "All right--well, come and dine at eight--good-bye."

The financier put the receiver down and looked at his niece, a whimsical

smile in his eyes.

"Well," he said, "your fianc is very anxious to see you, it seems. What

do you say?"

"Certainly not!" she flashed. "I thought it was understood; he shall not

come to the train. I will go by another if he insists."

"He won't insist; tell me of your day?"

She calmed herself--her face had grown stormy.

"I am quite satisfied with the home you have chosen for Mirko and will

take him there to-morrow. All the clothes have come that you said I

might order for him, and I hope and think he will be comfortable and

happy. He has a very beautiful, tender nature, and a great talent. If he

could only grow strong, and more balanced! Perhaps he will, in this

calm, English air."

Francis Markrute's face changed, as it always did with the mention and

discussion of Mirko--whose presence in the world was an ever-rankling

proof of his loved sister's disgrace. All his sense of justice--and he

was in general a just man--could never reconcile him to the idea of ever

seeing or recognizing the child. "The sins of the fathers"--was his

creed and he never forgot the dying Emperor's words. He had lost sight

of his niece for nearly two years after his sister's death. She had

wished for no communication with him, believing then that he had left

her mother to die without forgiveness, and it was not until he happened

to read in a foreign paper the casual mention of Count Shulski's murder,

and so guessed at Zara's whereabouts, that a correspondence had been

opened again, and he was able to explain that he had been absent in

Africa and had not received any letters.

He then offered her his protection and a home, if she would sever all

connection with the two, Mimo and Mirko, and she had indignantly

refused. And it was only when they were in dire poverty, and he had

again written asking his niece to come and stay with him for a few

weeks, this time with no conditions attached, that she had consented,

thinking that perhaps she would be able in some way to benefit them.

But now that she looked at him she felt keenly how he had trapped her,

all the same.

"We will not discuss your brother's nature," he said, coldly. "I will

keep my side of the bargain scrupulously, for all material things; that

is all you can expect of me. Now let us talk of yourself. I have

ventured to send some sables for your inspection up to your sitting room;

it will be cold traveling. I hope you will select what you wish. And

remember, I desire you to order the most complete trousseau in Paris,

everything that a great lady could possibly want for visits and

entertainments; and you must secure a good maid there, and return with

all the _apanages_ of your position."

She bowed, as at the reception of an order. She did not thank him.

"I will not give you any advice what to get," he went on. "Your own

admirable taste will direct you. I understand that in the days of your

late husband you were a beautifully dressed woman, so you will know all

the best places to go to. But please to remember, while I give you

unlimited resources for you to do what I wish, I trust to your honor

that you will bestow none of them upon the--man Sykypri. The bargain is

about the child; the father is barred from it in every way."

Zara did not answer, she had guessed this, but Mirko's welfare was of

first importance. With strict economy Mimo could live upon what he

possessed, if alone and if he chose to curtail his irresponsible

generosities.

"Do I understand I have your word of honor about this?" her uncle

demanded.

Her empress' air showed plainly now. She arose from the chair and stood

haughtily drawn up:

"You know me and whether my spoken word 'is required or no," she said,

"but if it will be any satisfaction to you to have it I give it!"

"Good--Then things are settled, and, I hope, to the happiness of all

parties."

"Happiness!" she answered bitterly. "Who is ever happy?" Then she turned

to go, but he arrested her.

"In two or three years' time you will admit to me that you know of four

human beings who are ideally happy." And with this enigmatic

announcement ringing in her ears, she went on up the stairs to her

sitting-room.

Who were the _four_ people? Herself and himself and Mimo and Mirko? Was

it possible that after all his hardness towards them he meant to be

eventually kind? Or was the fourth person not Mimo, but her future

husband? Then she smiled grimly. It was not very likely _he_ would be

happy--a beast, like the rest of men, who, marrying her only for her

uncle's money, having been ready to marry her for that when he had never

even seen her--was yet full enough of the revolting quality of his sex

to be desirous now to kiss her and clasp her in his arms!

As far as she was concerned he would have no happiness!

And she herself--what would the new life mean? It appeared a blank--an

abyss. A dark curtain seemed to overhang and cover it. All she could

feel was that Mirko was being cared for, that she was keeping her word

to her adored mother. She would fulfill to the letter her uncle's wishes

as to her suitable equipments, but beyond that she refused to think.

All the evening, when she had finished her short, solitary dinner, she

played the piano in her sitting-room, her white fingers passing from one

divine air to another, until at last she unconsciously drifted to the

_Chanson Triste_, and Mirko's words came back to her:

"There, there would be enough place for us both"--Who knows--that might

be the end of it!

And the two men heard the distant wail of the last notes as they came

out of the dining-room, and, while it made the financier uncomfortable,

it caused Tristram a sharp stab of pain.