The Reason Why

Chapter 20

So at last the Wednesday morning came--and they could go back to

England. From that Saturday night until they left Paris Tristram's

manner of icy, polite indifference to his bride never changed. She had

no more quaking shocks nor any fear of too much ardor! He avoided every

possible moment of her society he could, and when forced to be with her

seemed aloof and bored.

And the freezing manner of Zara was caused no longer by haughty

self-defense but because she was unconsciously numb at heart.

Unknown, undreamed-of emotion came over her, whenever she chanced to

find him close, and during his long absences her thoughts followed

him--sometimes with wonderment.

Just as they were going down to start for the train on the Wednesday

morning a telegram was put into her hand. It was addressed "La Baronne

de Tancred," and she guessed at once this would be Mimo's idea of her

name. Tristram, who was already down the steps by the concierge's desk,

turned and saw her open it, with a look of intense strain. He saw that

as she read her eyes widened and stared out in front of them for a

moment, and that her face grew pale.

For Mimo had wired, "Mirko not quite so well." She crumpled the blue

paper in her hand, and followed her husband through the bowing personnel

of the hotel into the automobile. She controlled herself and was even

able to give one of her rare smiles in farewell, but when they started

she leaned back, and again her face went white. Tristram was moved. Whom

was her telegram from? She did not tell him and he would not ask, but

the feeling that there were in her life, things and interests of which

he knew nothing did not please him. And this particular thing--what was

it? Was it from a man? It had caused her some deep emotion--he could

plainly see that. He longed to ask her but was far too proud, and their

terms had grown so distant he hardly liked to express even solicitude,

which, however, he did.

"I hope you have not had any bad news?"

Then she turned her eyes upon him, and he saw that she had hardly heard

him; they looked blank.

"What?" she asked vaguely; and then, recollecting herself confusedly,

she went on, "No--not exactly--but something about which I must think."

So he was shut out of her confidence. He felt that, and carefully

avoided taking any further notice of her.

When they got to the station he suddenly perceived she was not following

him as he made way for her in the crowd, but had gone over to the

telegraph office by herself.

He waited and fumed. It was evidently something about which she wished

no one to see what she wrote, for she could perfectly well have given

the telegram to Higgins to take, who would be waiting by the saloon

door.

She returned in a few moments, and she saw that Tristram's face was very

stern. It did not strike her that he was jealous about the mystery of

the telegram; she thought he was annoyed at her for not coming on in

case they should be late, so she said hurriedly, "There is plenty of

time."

"Naturally," he answered stiffly as they walked along, "but it is quite

unnecessary for Lady Tancred to struggle through this rabble and take

telegrams herself. Higgins could have done it when we were settled in

the train."

And with unexpected meekness all she said was, "I am very sorry."

So the incident ended there--but not the uneasy impression it left.

Tristram did not even make a pretense of reading the papers when the

train moved on; he sat there staring in front of him, with his handsome

face shadowed by a moody frown. And any close observer who knew him

would have seen that there was a change in his whole expression, since

the same time the last week.

The impossible disappointment of everything! What kind of a nature could

his wife have, to be so absolutely mute and unresponsive as she had

been? He felt glad he had not given her the chance to snub him again.

These last days he had been able to keep to his determination, and at

all events did not feel himself humiliated. How long would it be before

he should cease to care for her? He hoped to God--soon, because the

strain of crushing his passionate desires was one which no man could

stand long.

The little, mutinous face, with its alluring, velvet, white skin, her

slightly full lips, all curved and red, and tempting, and anything but

cold in shape, and the extraordinary magnetic attraction of her whole

personality, made her a most dangerous thing; and then his thoughts

turned to the vision of her hair undone that he had had on that first

evening at Dover. He had said once to Francis Markrute, he remembered,

that these great passions were "storybook stuff." Good God! Well, in

those days he had not known.

He thought, as he returned from his honeymoon this day, that he could

not be more frightfully unhappy, but he was really only beginning the

anguish of the churning of his soul--if he had known.

And Zara sat in her armchair, and pretended to read; but when he glanced

at her he saw that it was a farce and that her expressive eyes were

again quite blank.

And finally, after the uncomfortable hours, they arrived at Calais and

went to the boat.

Here Zara seemed to grow anxious again and on the alert, and, stepping

forward, asked Higgins to inquire if there was a telegram for her,

addressed to the ship. But there was not, and she subsided once more

quietly and sat in their cabin.

Tristram did not even attempt to play the part of the returning

bridegroom beyond the ordinary seeing to her comfort about which he had

never failed; he left her immediately and remained for all the voyage on

deck.

And when they reached Dover Zara's expectancy showed again, but it was

not until they were just leaving the station that a telegram was thrust

through the window and he took it from the boy, while he could not help

noticing the foreign form of address. And a certainty grew in his brain

that it was "that same cursed man!"

He watched her face as she read it, and noticed the look of relief as,

quite unconscious of his presence, his bride absently spread the paper

out. And although deliberately to try and see what was written was not

what he would ever have done, his eyes caught the signature, "Mimo,"

before he was aware of it.

Mimo--that was the brute's name!

And what could he say or do? They were not really husband and wife, and

as long as she did nothing to disgrace the Tancred honor he had no valid

reason for questions or complaints.

But he burnt with suspicion, and jealousy, and pain.

Then he thought over what Francis Markrute had said the first evening,

when he had agreed to the marriage. He remembered how he had not felt it

would be chivalrous or honorable to ask any questions, once he had

blindly gone the whole length and settled she should be his; but how

Francis had gratuitously informed him that she had been an immaculate

wife until a year ago, and married to an unspeakable brute.

He knew the financier very well, and knew that he was, with all his

subtle cleverness, a man of spotless honor. Evidently, then, if there

was anything underneath he was unaware of it. But was there anything?

Even though he was angry and suspicious he realized that the bearing of

his wife was not guilty or degraded. She was a magnificently proud and

noble-looking creature, but perhaps even the noblest women could stoop

to trick from--love! And this thought caused him to jump up

suddenly--much to Zara's astonishment. And she saw the veins show on the

left side of his temple as in a knot, a peculiarity, like the horseshoe

of the Redgauntlets, which ran in the Tancred race.

Then he felt how foolish he was, causing himself suffering over an

imaginary thing; and here this piece of white marble sat opposite him in

cold silence, while his being was wrung! He suddenly understood

something which he had never done before, when he read of such things

in the papers--how, passionately loving, a man could yet kill the thing

he loved.

And Zara, comforted by the telegram, "Much better again to-day," had

leisure to return to the subject which had lately begun unconsciously to

absorb her--the subject of her lord!

She wondered what made him look so stern. His nobly-cut face was as

though it were carved in stone. Just from an abstract, artistic point of

view, she told herself, she honestly admired him and his type. It was

finer than any other race could produce and she was glad she was half

English, too. The lines were so slender and yet so strong; and every

bone balanced--and the look of superb health and athletic strength.

Such must have been the young Greeks who ran in the Gymnasium at Athens,

she thought.

And then, suddenly, an intense quiver of unknown emotion rushed over

her. And if at that moment he had clasped her and kissed her, instead of

sitting there glaring into space, the rest of this story need never have

been written!

But the moment passed, and she crushed whatever it was she felt of the

dawning of love, and he dominated the uneasy suspicions of her fidelity;

and they got out of the train at Charing Cross--after their remarkable

wedding journey.