I rapidly passed behind the screening curtains into
the hall, even as I heard a heavy foot stumbling at
the threshold and a somewhat husky voice offer some
sort of salutation.
PAKENHAM’S PRICE
The happiest women, like nations,
have no history.
—George
Eliot.
The apartment into which I hurriedly stepped I found
to be a long and narrow hall, heavily draped.
A door or so made off on the right-hand side, and
a closed door also appeared at the farther end; but
none invited me to enter, and I did not care to intrude.
This situation did not please me, because I must perforce
hear all that went on in the rooms which I had just
left. I heard the thick voice of a man, apparently
none the better for wine.
“My dear,” it began, “I—”
Some gesture must have warned him.
“God bless my soul!” he began again.
“Who is here, then? What is wrong?”
“My father is here to-day,” I heard her
clear voice answer, “and, as you suggest, it
might perhaps be better—”
“God bless my soul!” he repeated.
“But, my dear, then I must go! To-night,
then! Where is that other key? It would never
do, you know—”
“No, Sir Richard, it would never do. Go,
then!” spoke a low and icy voice, hers, yet
not hers. “Hasten!” I heard her half
whisper. “I think perhaps my father—”
But it was my own footsteps they heard. This
was something to which I could not be party.
Yet, rapidly as I walked, her visitor was before me.
I caught sight only of his portly back, as the street
door closed behind him. She stood, her back against
the door, her hand spread out against the wall, as
though to keep me from passing.
I paused and looked at her, held by the horror in
her eyes. She made no concealment, offered no
apologies, and showed no shame. I repeat that
it was only horror and sadness mingled which I saw
upon her face.
“Madam,” I began. And again, “Madam!”
and then I turned away.
“You see,” she said, sighing.
“Yes, I fear I see; but I wish I did not.
Can I not—may I not be mistaken?”
“No, it is true. There is no mistake.”
“What have you done? Why? Why?”
“Did you not always credit me with being the
good friend of Mr. Pakenham years ago—did
not all the city? Well, then I was not;
but I am, now! I was England’s agent
only—until last night. Monsieur,
you have come too soon, too late, too late. Ah,
my God! my God! Last night I gave at last that
consent. He comes now to claim, to exact, to
take—possession—of me ...
Ah, my God!”
“I can not, of course, understand you, Madam.
What is it? Tell me!”
“For three years England’s minister besought
me to be his, not England’s, property.
It was not true, what the town thought. It was
not true in the case either of Yturrio. Intrigue—yes—I
loved it. I intrigued with England and Mexico
both, because it was in my nature; but no more than
that. No matter what I once was in Europe, I was
not here—not, as I said, until last night.
Ah, Monsieur! Ah, Monsieur!” Now her hands
were beating together.
