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<h2> CHAPTER XXXVI — LOVE </h2>
<p>It was hours before Count Victor could trust himself and his tell-tale
countenance before Olivia, and as he remained in an unaccustomed seclusion
for the remainder of the day, she naturally believed him cold, though a
woman with a fuller experience of his sex might have come to a different
conclusion. Her misconception, so far from being dispelled when he joined
her and her father in the evening, was confirmed, for his natural gaiety
was gone, and an emotional constraint, made up of love, dubiety, and hope,
kept him silent even in the precious moments when Doom retired to his
reflections and his book, leaving them at the other end of the room alone.
Nothing had been said about the letter; the Baron kept his counsel on it
for a more fitting occasion, and though Olivia, who had taken its
possession, turned it over many times in her pocket, its presentation
involved too much boldness on her part to be undertaken in an impulse. The
evening passed with inconceivable dulness; the gentleman was taciturn to
clownishness; Mungo, who had come in once or twice to replenish fires and
snuff candles, could not but look at them with wonder, for he plainly saw
two foolish folks in a common misunderstanding.</p>
<p>He went back to the kitchen crying out his contempt for them.</p>
<p>"If yon's coortin'," he said, "it's the drollest I ever clapt een on! The
man micht be a carven image, and Leevie no better nor a shifty in the
pook. I hope she disnae rue her change o' mind alreadys, for I'll warrant
there was nane o' yon blateness aboot Sim MacTaggart, and it's no' what
the puir lassie's been used to."</p>
<p>But these were speculations beyond the sibyl of his odd adoration; Annapla
was too intent upon her own elderly love-affairs to be interested in those
upstairs.</p>
<p>And upstairs, by now, a topic had at last come on between the silent pair
that did not make for love or cheerfulness. The Baron had retired to his
own room in the rear of the castle, and they had begun to talk of the
departure that was now fixed for a date made imminent through the pressure
of Petullo. Where were they bound for but France? Doom had decided upon
Dunkerque because he had a half-brother there in a retirement compelled
partly for political reasons Count Victor could appreciate.</p>
<p>"France!" he cried, delighted. "This is ravishing news indeed,
Mademoiselle Olivia!"</p>
<p>"Yes?" she answered dubiously, reddening a little, and wondering why he
should particularly think it so.</p>
<p>"Ma foi! it is," he insisted heartily. "I had the most disturbing visions
of your wandering elsewhere. I declare I saw my dear Baron and his
daughter immured in some pestilent Lowland burgh town, moping mountain
creatures among narrow streets, in dreary tenements, with glimpse of
neither sea nor tree to compensate them for pleasures lost. But France!—Mademoiselle
has given me an exquisite delight. For, figure you! France is not so vast
that friends may not meet there often—if one were so greatly
privileged—and every roadway in it leads to Dunkerque—and—I
should dearly love to think of you as, so to speak, in my neighbourhood,
among the people I esteem. It is not your devoted Highlands, this France,
Mademoiselle Olivia, but believe me, it has its charms. You shall not have
the mountains—there I am distressed for you—nor yet the
rivulets; and you must dispense with the mists; but there is ever the
consolation of an air that is like wine in the head, and a frequent sun.
France, indeed! <i>Je suis ravi!</i> I little thought when I heard of this
end to the old home of you that you were to make the new one in my
country; how could I guess when anticipating my farewell to the Highlands
of Scotland that I should have such good company to the shore of France?"</p>
<p>"Then you are returning now?" asked Olivia, her affectation of
indifference just a little overdone.</p>
<p>In very truth he had not, as yet, so determined; but he boldly lied like a
lover.</p>
<p>"'Twas my intention to return at once. I cannot forgive myself for being
so long away from my friends there."</p>
<p>Olivia had a bodice of paduasoy that came low upon her shoulders and
showed a spray of jasmine in the cleft of her rounded breasts, which
heaved with what Count Victor could not but perceive was some emotion. Her
eyes were like a stag's, and they evaded him; she trifled with the pocket
of her gown.</p>
<p>"Ah," she said, "it is natural that you should weary here in this sorry
place and wish to get back to the people you know. There will be many that
have missed you."</p>
<p>He laughed at that.</p>
<p>"A few—a few, perhaps," he said. "Clancarty has doubtless often
sought me vainly for the trivial coin: some butterflies in the <i>coulisse</i>
of the playhouse will have missed my pouncet-box; but I swear there are
few in Paris who would be inconsolable if Victor de Montaiglon never set
foot on the <i>trottoir</i> again. It is my misfortune, mademoiselle, to
have a multitude of friends so busy with content and pleasure—who
will blame them?—that an absentee makes little difference, and as
for relatives, not a single one except the Baroness de Chenier, who is
large enough to count as double."</p>
<p>"And there will be—there will be the lady," said Olivia, with a poor
attempt at raillery.</p>
<p>For a moment he failed to grasp her allusion.</p>
<p>"Of course, of course," said he hastily; "I hope, indeed, to see <i>her</i>
there." He felt an exaltation simply at the prospect. To see her there! To
have a host's right to bid welcome to his land this fair wild-flower that
had blossomed on rocks of the sea, unspoiled and unsophisticated!</p>
<p>The jasmine stirred more obviously: it was fastened with a topaz brooch
that had been her mother's, and had known of old a similar commotion; she
became diligent with a book.</p>
<p>It was then there happened the thing that momentarily seemed a blow of
fate to both of them. But for Mungo's voice at intervals in the kitchen,
the house was wholly still, and through the calm winter night there came
the opening bars of a melody, played very softly by Sim MacTaggart's
flageolet. At first it seemed incredible—a caprice of imagination,
and they listened for some moments speechless. Count Victor was naturally
the least disturbed; this unlooked-for entertainment meant the pleasant
fact that the Duchess had been nowise over-sanguine in her estimate of the
Chamberlain's condition. Here was another possible homicide off his mind;
the Gaelic frame was capable, obviously, of miraculous recuperation. That
was but his first and momentary thought; the next was less pleasing, for
it seemed not wholly unlikely now that after all Olivia and this man were
still on an unchanged footing, and Mungo's sowing of false hopes was like
to bring a bitter reaping of regretful disillusions. As for Olivia, she
was first a flame and then an icicle. Her face scorched; her whole being
seemed to take a sudden wild alarm. Count Victor dared scarcely look at
her, fearing to learn his doom or spy on her embarrassment until her first
alarm was over, when she drew her lips together tightly and assumed a
frigid resolution. She made no other movement.</p>
<p>A most bewitching flageolet! It languished on the night with an
o'ermastering appeal, sweet inexpressibly and melting, the air unknown to
one listener at least, but by him enviously confessed a very siren spell.
He looked at Olivia, and saw that she intended to ignore it.</p>
<p>"Orpheus has recovered," he ventured with a smile.</p>
<p>She stared in front of her with no response; but the jasmine rose and
fell, and her nostrils were abnormally dilated. Her face had turned from
the red of her first surprise to the white of suppressed indignation. The
situation was inconceivably embarrassing for both; now his bolt was shot,
and unless she cared to express herself, he could not venture to allude to
it again, though a whole orchestra augmented the efforts of the artist in
the bower.</p>
<p>By-and-by there came a pause in the music, and she spoke.</p>
<p>"It is the blackest of affronts this," was her comment, that seemed at
once singular and sweet to her hearer.</p>
<p>"<i>D'accord</i>," said Count Victor, but that was to himself. He was
quite agreed that the Chamberlain's attentions, though well meant, were
not for a good woman to plume herself on.</p>
<p>The flageolet spoke again—that curious unfinished air. Never before
had it seemed so haunting and mysterious; a mingling of reproaches and
command. It barely reached them where they sat together listening, a fairy
thing and fascinating, yet it left the woman cold. And soon the serenade
entirely ceased. Olivia recovered herself; Count Victor was greatly
pleased.</p>
<p>"I hope that is the end of it," she said, with a sigh of relief.</p>
<p>"Alas, poor Orpheus! he returns to Thrace, where perhaps Madame Petullo
may lead the ladies in tearing him to pieces!"</p>
<p>"Once that hollow reed bewitched me, I fancy," said she with a shy air of
confession; "now I cannot but wonder and think shame at my blindness, for
yon Orpheus has little beyond his music that is in any way admirable."</p>
<p>"And that the gift of nature, a thing without his own deserving, like his—like
his regard for you, which was inevitable, Mademoiselle Olivia."</p>
<p>"And that the hollowest of all," she said, turning the evidence of it in
her pocket again. "He will as readily get over that as over his injury
from you."</p>
<p>"Perhaps 'tis so. The most sensitive man, they say, does not place all his
existence on love; 'tis woman alone who can live and die in the heart."</p>
<p>"There I daresay you speak from experience," said Olivia, smiling, but
impatient that he should find a single plea in favour of a wretch he must
know so well.</p>
<p>"Consider me the exception," he hurried to explain. "I never loved but
once, and then would die for it." The jasmine trembled in its chaste white
nunnery, and her lips were temptingly apart. He bent forward boldly,
searching her provoking eyes.</p>
<p>"She is the lucky lady!" said Olivia in a low voice, and then a pause. She
trifled with her book.</p>
<p>"What I wonder is that you could have a word to say of plea for this that
surely is the blackest of his kind."</p>
<p>"Not admirable, by my faith! no; not admirable," he confessed, "but I
would be the last to blame him for intemperately loving you. There, I
think his honesty was beyond dispute; there he might have found salvation.
That he should have done me the honour to desire my removal from your
presence was flattering to my vanity, and a savage tribute to your power,
Mademoiselle Olivia."</p>
<p>"Oh!" cried Olivia, "you cannot deceive me, Count Victor. It is odd that
all your sex must stick up for each other in the greatest villanies."</p>
<p>"Not the greatest, Mademoiselle Olivia," said Count Victor with an
inclination; "he might have been indifferent to your charms, and that were
the one thing unforgivable. But soberly, I consider his folly scarce bad
enough for the punishment of your eternal condemnation."</p>
<p>"This man thinks lightly indeed of me," thought Olivia. "Drimdarroch has a
good advocate," said she shortly, "and the last I would have looked for in
his defence was just yourself."</p>
<p>"Drimdarroch?" he repeated, in a puzzled tone.</p>
<p>"Will you be telling me that you do not know?" she said. "For what did
Simon MacTaggart harass our household?"</p>
<p>"I have been bold enough to flatter myself; I had dared to think—"</p>
<p>She stopped him quickly, blushing. "You know he was Drimdarroch, Count
Victor," said she, with some conviction.</p>
<p>He jumped to his feet and bent to stare at her, his face all wrought with
astonishment.</p>
<p>"<i>Mon Dieu!</i> Mademoiselle, you do not say the two were one? And yet—and
yet—yes, <i>par dieu!</i> how blind I have been; there is every
possibility."</p>
<p>"I thought you knew it," said Olivia, much relieved, "and felt anything
but pleased at your seeming readiness in the circumstances to let me be
the victim of my ignorance. I had too much trust in the wretch."</p>
<p>"Women distrust men too much in the general and too little in particular.
And you knew?" asked Count Victor. .</p>
<p>"I learned to-day," said Olivia, "and this was my bitter schooling."</p>
<p>She passed him the letter. He took it and read aloud:</p>
<p>"I have learned now," said the writer, "the reason for your black looks at
Monsher the wine merchant that has a Nobleman's Crest upon his belongings.
It is because he has come to look for Drimdarroch. And the stupid body
cannot find him! <i>We</i> know who Drimdarroch is, do we not, Sim?
Monsher may have sharp eyes, but they do not see much further than a
woman's face if the same comes in his way. And Simon MacTaggart (they're
telling me) has been paying late visits to Doom Castle that were not for
the love of Miss Milk-and-Water. Sim! Sim! I gave you credit for being
less o' a Gomeral. To fetch the Frenchman to my house of all places! You
might be sure he would not be long among our Indwellers here without his
true business being discovered. Drimdarroch, indeed! Now I will hate the
name, though I looked with a difference on it when I wrote it scores of
times to your direction in the Rue Dauphine of Paris, and loved to dwell
upon a picture of the place there that I had never seen, because my Sim
(just fancy it!) was there. You were just a Wee Soon with the title, my
dear Traitour, my bonny Spy. It might have been yours indeed, and more if
you had patience, yes perhaps and Doom forby, as that is like to be my
good-man's very speedily. What if I make trouble, Sim, and open the eyes
of Monsher and the mim-mou'ed Madame at the same moment by telling them
who is really Drimdarroch? Will it no' gar them Grue, think ye?"</p>
<p>Count Victor stood amazed when he had read this. A confusion of feelings
were in his breast. He had blundered blindly into his long-studied
reprisals whose inadequate execution he was now scarce willing to regret,
and Olivia had thought him capable of throwing her to this colossal rogue!
The document shook in his hand.</p>
<p>"Well?" said Olivia at last. "Is it a much blacker man that is there than
the one you thought? I can tell you I will count it a disgrace to my
father's daughter that she ever looked twice the road he was on."</p>
<p>"And yet I can find it in me to forgive him the balance of his
punishment," cried the Count.</p>
<p>"And what for might that be?" said she.</p>
<p>"Because, Mademoiselle Olivia, he led me to Scotland and to your father's
door."</p>
<p>She saw a rapture in his manner, a kindling in his eye, and drew herself
together with some pride.</p>
<p>"You were welcome to my father's door; I am sure of that of it, whatever,"
said she, "but it was a poor reward for so long a travelling. And now, my
grief! We must steep the withies and go ourselves to the start of fortune
like any beggars."</p>
<p>"No! no!" said he, and caught her hand that trembled in his like a bird.
"Olivia!—oh, God, the name is like a song—<i>je t'aime! je
t'aime!</i> Olivia, I love you!"</p>
<p>She plucked her hand away and threw her shoulders back, haughty, yet
trembling and on the brink of tears.</p>
<p>"It is not kind—it is not kind," she stammered, almost sobbing. "The
lady that is in France."</p>
<p>"<i>Petite imbecile!</i>" he cried, "there is no lady in France worthy to
hold thy scarf; 'twas thyself, <i>mignonne</i>, I spoke of all the time;
only the more I love the less I can express."</p>
<p>He drew her to him, crushing the jasmine till it breathed in a fragrant
dissolution, bruising her breast with the topaz.</p>
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