Part 16 (1/2)
She sprang to her feet, and, with the marvellous facility for meeting a conventional emergency possessed by all women in palace or tenement, between the time of rising and walking to the door, she had conquered the disorder of her countenance. Her hair was smoothed back into perfection; the laces on her dress had fallen into their original old graceful lines; her face, though flushed, would show no sign of tears in the softly shaded light.
Sylvia herself opened the door and gracefully besought the inquiring Baroness to come in. Immediately after the scene in the garden, she could not have done this so quietly; but she had cried her heart out now, and reviled the offender to a sympathetic audience, thus facilitating the return of self-control. Even if the Baroness von Lynar guessed that she had been weeping, it would only be put down to the score of that mysterious ”bad news.”
”How good of you!” breathed the Grand d.u.c.h.ess, with a less coherent undertone of appreciation from Sylvia. ”Oh, yes, thank you, _so_ much better; quite well again, though still very anxious. _Somebody_ must have been kind enough to tell dear Mary, for here she is, you see; and she and I have been talking matters over. We are quite _desolated_ at breaking our delightful visit suddenly short, but unluckily it can't be helped. This _unfortunate_ news from home! We must positively not lose an hour in returning.”
Baroness von Lynar was genuinely disconcerted, though perhaps her guests would scarcely have been flattered had they divined the true cause of her intense desire to detain them. Miss de Courcy had been the bright particular star of the house party at Lynarberg, as the mistress of the castle delicately declared, and it was grievous that the sky must be robbed of its most brilliant ornament. But it was far more grievous that Maximilian should be annoyed, and the Baroness's own pretty, secret little scheme probably be brought to confusion.
”It is too cruel!” she exclaimed, with unwonted sincerity. ”What shall we do without you? We could better have spared any others among our guests. Our poor party will be hopelessly shattered by your loss.
Could you not wire home that you are coming at your earliest convenience, dear Lady de Courcy, and stay with us at least until the day after to-morrow, when the Emperor's visit will be over?”
”Alas! I am afraid we could not do even that,” regretted the Grand d.u.c.h.ess, her eyes on Sylvia's face. ”It is necessary that we reach England as soon as possible. We were thinking of quite an early train to-morrow. You will forgive us, I know, dear Baroness von Lynar; but we have both been so upset by these sad tidings that we shall hardly be equal to facing any of our kind friends here again. These things are so unnerving, you know--and I give way so easily of late years. As a great favour to us both, pray mention to no one that we are going, until we have actually gone. If you would allow us to leave our adieux to be said by you, we would beg you for a carriage after an early cup of coffee in our rooms; then we could pick up Miss Collinson and the luggage we left at the Hohenburgerhof, and catch the Orient express from Salzbruck to Paris.”
The Baroness was aghast at her own defeat and her powerlessness to retrieve it. For once she failed in tact. ”But the Emperor?” she exclaimed. ”He will be deeply hurt if he is denied the sad privilege of bidding you farewell.”
The Grand d.u.c.h.ess hesitated, and Sylvia entered the conversational lists for the first time. ”The Emperor will understand,” she said quietly; ”I said good-bye to him--for us both--to-night.”
CHAPTER XI
THE LAST OF THE MAGIC CITRONS
BREAKFAST at Schloss Lynarberg was an informal meal. Those who were sociably inclined at that hour appeared; those who loved not their kind until later in the day, broke their fast in the safe seclusion of their own apartments.
Maximilian had shown himself at the breakfast-table every morning since the beginning of his visit, and it had been Sylvia's usual custom also to be present. But Lady de Courcy invariably kept her room till later, and on one occasion the daughter had borne her mother company. On the morning after the misunderstanding in the garden, therefore, the Emperor was only disappointed, not surprised, to find that Sylvia did not come. He had spent another wakeful night, but he could not bring himself to believe that Sylvia would never listen to him, that she would not yet be brought to see the future through his eyes.
It was his last whole day at Lynarberg, but, by his special request, no regular programme of entertainment had been made. As breakfast progressed, Maximilian turned over in his mind plan after plan for another meeting with Sylvia, and hoped that, by this time, she would be as ready to receive his overtures as he to make them. He longed to write her a letter, imploring her to come to him; but feared, unless he could make his first appeal in person, that he might defeat his own object. It would be better, perhaps, to wait until she was actually in his presence, then carry her away from the eyes of others by some bold stroke.
But she did not come, even when for half an hour they had all been strolling in the quaint pleasaunce, where the white peac.o.c.ks spread their jewelled tails and shrilly disputed for possession of the sundial. The Baroness, who walked by the Emperor's side, and appeared singularly _distraite_, despite her constant efforts at repartee, at length proposed that they should row out again to Cupid's Isle. The morning was so fine, and the red October lilies which had been in bud there the other day ought to be open by now.
Maximilian approved the idea. ”Shall you not send for Miss de Courcy?”
he inquired, with a simulated carelessness at which Malvine could have laughed--had she not been more inclined to weep. ”I think I remember hearing her say that there are no such lilies in England, and that she would like to see them in fuller bloom.”
The Baroness glanced quickly behind her. None of the others were within earshot, if she spoke in a low voice. ”Oh, but you have forgotten, have you not, Your Majesty? Miss de Courcy and her mother have already gone.”
He turned so white, under the coat of brown the mountains had given, that Malvine was startled. She had believed Sylvia--more or less-- supposing until now that the Emperor had actually been made aware of the intended flitting. There had been an affecting parting, perhaps, she had told herself; and for his sake she had refrained from mentioning the De Courcys at breakfast in the presence of other guests. For the last few moments she had been impatiently waiting for Maximilian to introduce the subject, hoping that he might be confidentially inclined; but it was a genuine surprise to discover that he had really been kept in ignorance. Malvine was very angry with Sylvia's deception; for, had she dreamed, in time, that the Emperor did not know the girl was going, she would slyly have given him a chance to follow, if he chose. Now, it was in all probability already too late for this.
”Where have they gone?” he asked the only sign of feeling in the pallor of his face and the fire in his eyes.
”To Salzbruck, Your Majesty.”
”Oh, is that all? Then they are coming back; or, at least, they are not leaving Rhaetia?”
”I am afraid they are leaving.”
”When?”
”To-day, by the Orient express. I did all I could to keep them. But some bad news reached Lady de Courcy last night, in a telegram from England. They both insisted that they must go home at once, begging as a favour, since they felt unequal to farewells, that no one should know until they were gone--except, of course, Your Majesty. Miss de Courcy said that--you knew; that you would understand.”
The Emperor was silent for a moment, and Malvine would have glanced up at him from under her artificially darkened lashes, if she had dared.
But she did not dare. Still, she was beginning to hope that the feeling she would fain have seen implanted in his heart had already taken root so deeply that it would not soon perish. In that case, after all, she would have thwarted the Chancellor--for a time at least; since a man, even when he is an emperor, cannot readily be persuaded to marry one woman when his heart is aching with love for another.