Black Oxen (Unabridged). Gertrude Atherton

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СКАЧАТЬ Dinwiddie's curiosity from Judge Trent—but I rather thought——"

      "Oh, yes, you have floored him completely. But I fancy he's more curious than ever. I—I—wish you would confide in me. I might be better able to defend you if the necessity arose."

      "Don't you believe I am what I represent myself to be?"

      "It is a terrible thing to say to a woman like you, but——"

      He expected her to rise in her majesty and order him to leave the house, but she merely smiled again and said:

      "You forget Judge Trent. Do you think if I were an impostor he would vouch for me?"

      "I believe you could make any man believe what you wished him to believe."

      "Except yourself."

      "Remember that a newspaper man—— However, I'll speak only for myself." He thrust his hands into his pockets and tried to summon his saturnine expression, but he had an uncomfortable feeling that he looked merely wistful and boyish and that this highly accomplished woman of the world was laughing at him. "For my own sake I want to know," he blurted out. "I haven't an idea why I suspect you, and it is possible that you are what you say you are. Certainly you are far too clever not to have an alibi it would be difficult to puncture. But I sensed something that first night … something beyond the fact that you were a European and did a curious thing—which, however, I understood immediately.… It was something more.… I don't think I can put it into words … you were there, and yet you were not there … somebody else seemed to be looking out of your eyes … even when Dinwiddie thought he had explained the matter.…"

      "You mean when he assumed that I was the illegitimate daughter of Mary Zattiany. Poor Mary! She always wanted a daughter—that is, when her own youth was over. That is the reason she was so fond of me. Do you think I am Mary's bastard?"

      "I did—I don't now.… I don't know what to think.… I have never lost that first impression—wholly."

      She stirred slightly. Was it a movement of uneasiness? He was horribly embarrassed, but determined to hold his ground, and he kept his eyes on her face, which retained its expression of mocking amusement.

      "But you think I am an adventuress of some sort."

      "The word does not apply to you. There is no question that you are a great lady."

      "Of course I might be an actress," she said coolly. "I may have been on the stage in Vienna when the war broke out, become accidentally associated with Countess Zattiany, won her confidence, owing to the extraordinary resemblance—our blood may have met and mingled in Cro-Magnon days—stolen her papers, led her to talk of her youth—of course every one knew Countess Zattiany's record in European Society—forged her power of attorney with the aid of an infatuated clerk, poisoned her—and here I am!"

      He laughed. "Bully plot for the movies. That is a new angle, as they say. I hadn't thought of it. And a good actress can put over anything. I once heard a movie queen, who was the best young aristocrat, in looks and manner, I ever saw on the screen, say to her director—repeating a telephone conversation—'I says and he says and then I seen he hadn't heard me.'"

      For the first time since he had known her she threw back her head and laughed heartily. Even her eyes looked young and her laugh was musical and thrilling.

      Then she demanded: "And do you think I am an actress—who got an education somehow?"

      "I think you are an actress, but not that sort. Your imaginative flight leaves me cold."

      "Perhaps you think I had Mary's personality transferred and that it exists side by side with my own here in this accidental shell. There are great scientists in Vienna."

      "Ah!" He looked at her sharply. "Button, button—I feel a sensation of warmth somewhere."

      She laughed again, but her eyes contracted and almost closed. "I fear you are a very romantic young man as well as a very curious one."

      "I deserved that. Well, I am curious. But not so curious as—interested."

      "I hope you are not falling in love with me." Her deep voice had risen to a higher register and was light and gay.

      "I am half in love with you. I don't know what is going to happen——"

      "And you want to protect yourself by disenchantment?"

      "Perhaps."

      "And you think it is my duty …"

      "Possibly I'd fall in love with you anyway, but I'd like to know where I stand. I have a constitutional hatred of mystery outside of fiction and the drama."

      "Ah." She gazed into the fire. "Mr. Dinwiddie, no doubt, is making investigations. If he verified my story, would you still disbelieve?"

      "I should know there was something back of it all."

      "You must have been a good reporter."

      "One of the best."

      "I suppose it is that."

      "Partly. I don't think that if you were not just what you are I'd care a hang. Other people's affairs don't excite me. I've outgrown mere inquisitiveness."

      "That is rather beside the point, isn't it? It all comes back to this—that you are afraid of falling in love with me."

      "You don't look as if it would do me any good if I did."

      "Why not let it go at that?"

      "I think the best thing I can do is to get out altogether."

      She rose swiftly and came close to him. "Oh, no! I am not going to let you go. You are the only person on this continent who interests me. I shall have your friendship. And you must admit that I have done nothing——"

      "Oh, no, you have done nothing. You've only to be." He wondered that he felt no desire to touch her. She looked lovely and appealing and very young. But she radiated power, and that chin could not melt.

      He asked abruptly: "How many men have you had in love with you?"

      "Oh!" She spread out her hands vaguely. "How can one remember?" And that look he most disliked, that look of ancient wisdom, disillusioned and contemptuous, came into her eyes.

      "You are too young to have had so very many. And the war took a good slice out of your life. I don't suppose you were infatuating smashed-up men or even doctors and surgeons."

      "Certainly not. But, when one marries young—and one begins to live early in Europe."

      "How often have you loved, yourself?"

      "That question I could answer specifically, but I shall not."

      He calculated rapidly. "Four years of war. Assuming that you are thirty-two, although sometimes you look older and sometimes younger, and that you married at seventeen, that would leave you—well, eleven years before the war began. I suppose you didn't fall in love once a year?"

      "Oh, no, I am a faithful soul. Say three years and a third to each attack."

      "You СКАЧАТЬ