The Courtship of Morrice Buckler: A RomanceMason, A. E. W. (Alfred Edward Woodley)
History
The Courtship of Morrice Buckler: A Romance
Mason, A. E. W. (Alfred Edward Woodley)
Great Britain -- History -- James II, 1685-1688 -- Fiction; Historical fiction
"Madame!" I faltered out at last; and with a great effort she
recovered a part of her self-control.
"Mr. Buckler," she said, speaking with difficulty, while the blood
swirled in and out of her cheeks, "the present hurts me sorely, even
though--nay, all the more _because_, it comes from you. It is the
fashion, I know well, to believe that a few gems will bribe the good
will of any woman. But I hardly thought that--that you held me in such
poor esteem."
I protested that nothing could have been further from my designs than
the notion which she attributed to me, and went so far as to hint that
there was something extravagant and unreasonable in her anger. For,
said I, the gift was no bribe but a tribute, and, I continued, with
greater confidence as her pride diminished, if either of us had a
right to feel hurt, it was myself, whom she insulted by the imputation
of so mean a spirit.
"Then I am to humbly beg your pardon, I suppose," she cried, with
another flash of anger.
"Oh, there's no arguing with you," I burst out in a heat no less
violent than her own. "Who bids you beg my pardon? What makes you
suppose I need you should, unless it be your own proper and fitting
compunction? There's no moderation in your thoughts. You jump from one
extreme to the other as nimbly as--as----"
I was turning away with the sentence unfinished, when:
"I could supply the simile you want," she said, with a whimsical
demureness as sudden and inexplicable as her wrath, "only 'tis
something indelicate," and she broke into a ringing laugh.
To a man of my slow disposition, whose very passions have a certain
[oe]conomy which delays their growth, the rapid transitions of a
woman's humours have ever been confusing, and now I stood stockish and
dumb, gazing at the Countess open-mouthed, and vainly endeavouring,
like a fool, to reduce the various emotions she had expressed into a
logical continuity.
"And there!" she continued, "now I have shocked you by lack of
breeding!"
And once more she commenced to laugh with a mirth so natural and
infectious that presently it gained on me, and for no definite reason
that I could name I found myself laughing to her tune and with equal
heartiness. 'Twas none the less a wiser action than any deliberation
could have prompted me to, for here was our quarrel ended decisively,
and no words said.
For a while we strolled up and down the lawn, Ilga interspacing her
talk with little spirts of laughter, as now and again she looked at my
face, until we stopped at the end of the garden, just before a small
postern-door in the wall.
"It leads into the Park?" she asked.
"Yes! Shall we slip out?"
She looked back at the house.
"The host can hardly run away from his guests."
"There is no one in the room to notice us."
"But the room above? 'Twould look strange, whoever saw us."
"Nay, there can be no one there, for it is my dressing-room."
She took hold of the handle doubtfully and tried it.
"It is locked."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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