She Painted Her Face

by Dornford Yates

  Remembering his orders to Elgar, I hurled myself up to the doorway and on to the landing beyond.

  “Well done,” breathed Herrick. “Which way?” The mighty landing was empty, but, as we bolted across, a man came full tilt up the staircase, the head of which was six feet from Elizabeth’s door.

  So dim was the light and he was making such haste that though we must almost have met, I think he would have let us go by, but I dared not take the risk and hit him, very reluctantly, full on the jaw.

  As he crumpled and fell downstairs, Elizabeth’s door was opened, and Herrick and I passed in.

  Thirty seconds later, the four of us left the castle by way of the staircase-turret by which, two nights before, we had hoped to come in. The drive was clear. If Elgar had had his orders, he had not yet had time to carry them out. We darted across the gravel, slipped down the steps to the garden and hastened, Elizabeth leading, to where the walk began that led to the belvedere.

  Twenty minutes later, Winter, still breathing goodwill, was leading us down to where he had berthed the car.

  If our narrow escape had shocked us, the drive to Raven ministered to our minds. Woods and meadows were fragrant, the winds were still, and the Rolls seemed to skim the country through which we passed. After our two days’ confinement, the rush of the soft, night air was grateful beyond relief and I could have wished the journey as long again.

  Supper for three had been laid in our sitting-room, and a note addressed to Herrick was lying beside his plate.

  As he read it, his face grew grave.

  Sir,

  I am told that you are returning to Raven tonight. A man, of the name of Max Bracher, was found by Salzburg yesterday afternoon. He corresponds to your description of the man of that Christian name. Your identification of him is desired, and I beg you will visit Salzburg without delay. When found, he had been dead for some hours, shot through the back.

  Your obedient servant,

  Sergeant of Police

  I confess that from this time on a mediaeval vigilance ruled whatsoever we did. If we entered the Raven meadows, we took good care not to stroll too close to the woods: if we used the car, we were careful to waste no time on the neighbouring roads: if we sat out in the evening, Winter patrolled our vicinity, torch in hand: and at night, against all custom, the doors of the house were barred.

  Herrick visited Salzburg against his will, and viewed the corpse of the man we had known as Max. No evidence had been discovered – against Virgil or anyone else. Even the bullet was useless, for it had spread irreparably. The same day, Thursday, Elizabeth, resting at Raven, laid her plans, I sat by her side in the meadows, and listened – and watched the woods.

  The Duchess of Whelp was at Tracery, thirty-five miles from Innsbruck and ninety from where we lay. Tales out of number were told of the state she had kept, of the things she had said and done, of the efforts which had been made to obtain an invitation to enter her house. If the half were true, it is clear that for years before the War, the Château of Tracery sheltered the second Court. And now, though she shut herself up, her writ still ran; and though the ‘fountain of honour’ no longer played, its peaceful pool was reflecting, as never before, the vivid presence now nearly eighty years old.

  “I shall go there tomorrow,” said my lady. “And you, if you please, will drive me – there and back. At least, we’ll be breaking a record. No one’s gone uninvited to Tracery for certainly fifty years.”

  “With all my heart,” said I. “But won’t you take Winter, too? I mean, it’ll look more important than if you just roll up with me at the wheel.”

  Elizabeth seemed to reflect.

  At length —

  “Perhaps you’re right,” she murmured, pulling the grass. “I wish I knew what to expect. I know that she visited Brief very shortly before I was born, and my grandfather knew her well: but my – my uncle has never seen her since Mother was killed.”

  I sat up at that.

  “Are you sure that he saw her before?”

  Elizabeth started, and a hand went up to her head, “My God,” she breathed.

  “Exactly,” said I. “I’ll lay he’s never set eyes on the Duchess of Whelp. Your father saw her – and knew her: but the younger son – the ‘bad hat’ – was not at Brief when she came. He can’t deny her visit, because he knows it took place. It was a great occasion. Brief was delighted to honour so rare a guest. And so your uncle is bound to pretend he was there. But he wasn’t – because he isn’t the man he pretends to be: and all he knows of her visit is what he’s picked up from the staff.”

  “That’s right,” said Elizabeth, slowly, still pulling the grass. “What a fool you must think me for not having seen it myself.”

  “How can you?” I cried. “I’ve known the truth for a year, and you for less than a week.”

  “I suppose that’s why I am so stupid. You can’t wipe out all at once an impression of twenty years. And that’s what we’re up against. He’s Count of Brief by prescription. To pull him down is like trying to close some road that everyone’s used for ages and knows for a thoroughfare.”

  “Perhaps. But at least you’re offering them a very much prettier way.”

  Elizabeth Virgil flung out a joyous laugh.

  “Oh, Richard, a compliment! I must be good for you. You couldn’t have said that last week.”

  “I know,” I said, very conscious that I was red in the face. “I – I see the things, but I haven’t got Herrick’s tongue.”

  “What things do you see?”

  “Your – your points,” I stammered. “Your beauty. Your eyes and your mouth and your hands, and the way you move. They – they cry out for recognition: but I haven’t got any words. Only please don’t think I don’t see them – and all the rest. Perhaps if they weren’t so rare, I’d be able to – to pay them tribute: but when I see – perfection, it leaves me dumb.”

  With her eyes on the shimmering foliage, my lady touched my arm.

  “Stay dumb, for me,” she said gently. “It suits you well, and I – couldn’t ask any more.”

  I wiped the sweat from my face.

  “You always say the right thing.”

  “Do I?” said Elizabeth, frowning. “I’m not so sure.”

  But when I asked what she meant, she would not tell me, but bade me talk of Oxford and Harrow and then of the smiling manor which till I was eight years old had been my home.

  At eleven o’clock the next day I stood with my hat in my hand at the foot of Tracery’s steps. Elizabeth stood at their head, some ten feet up. We were waiting for the door to be opened, in some suspense. A liveried keeper had stopped us while we were yet in the drive and had been hardly persuaded to let us proceed.

  At last the door was opened, and a man all in black, with knee-breeches, inclined his head.

  His manner was ceremonious and very polite, but left in my mind no doubt that he did not mean to admit ‘The Lady Elizabeth Virgil’ or anyone else.

  When he had finished speaking, I saw my lady nod. Then she held out the little packet she had in her hand. A salver appeared from nowhere…

  I do not know what she said, as she laid the packet down, but after a little I saw the man bow and turn and Elizabeth cross the threshold into the hall.

  At least, she was in: but, as the door was shut and I turned to the car, I confess I felt far from sure that she was to be received. And if she was not, what then? The packet contained no less than the king’s great ring, with which she was hoping to gain the access she so much desired. If the Duchess of Whelp was scrupulous, well and good: but if she was not, Elizabeth would be dismissed – and the ring was gone. And ‘Old Harry’ might well be hostile to a girl that made bold to remind her that the bearings which Tracery flaunted were rightly hers.

  I sat down on a step of the Rolls and lighted a cigarette, while Winter stood like a statue beside his charge, determined, I think, to show that he could maintain the pace which the major- domo had set.

&nbs
p; The house was imposing, but grim, and plainly had not been cared for for several years. Massively built of stone, wind and weather could do but little harm, but rust was corrupting the bars to the lower windows and the stain of roof-water showed where the gutters were choked. The entrance-drive was unkempt, and grass was here and there sprouting between the setts of the apron which served the steps. The park, which was very handsome, was not kept up: posts and rails were rotting, and trees which the wind had felled lay still as they had fallen, the clods which their roots had hoisted stuck all with weeds.

  These things I found peculiar, for rumour had it the Duchess of Whelp was rich. But I think the truth was this – that when she had closed her Court, she had determined to let its residence go. What was the setting to her, when the jewel was gone?

  Nearly an hour had gone by, when the door was opened again and the major-domo appeared and began to descend the steps. Expecting some message, I rose and went to meet him, and then I saw that he was an Englishman.

  As I approached, he stood still.

  “Sir,” he said, with a bow, “Her Grace desires to see you. If you please, I will show you the way to her private rooms.”

  His announcement took me aback, as well it might: but, though the summons shook me, my heart leaped up, for it meant that ‘Old Harry’s’ interest had been aroused. And that was everything.

  To my surprise, three footmen stood at the door, but the echoing hall within was that of a house whose owner had gone abroad. Furniture and pictures were shrouded and carpets rolled, but the marble floor was spotless and there was no sign of dust.

  We passed up a glorious staircase, the carpet of which was gone, by draped or hooded statues and sheeted tapestry, to enter a sunlit gallery down which three four-in-hands could have passed abreast. Its range of open windows commanded the wasting park, and, when it was in commission, it must have enriched the eye. I never saw proportions more lovely in all my life and, if you except kings’ houses, there can be existing few chambers so pleasant and yet so royal. At the gallery’s farther end a woman-servant was standing beside a door. To her I was delivered, and at once she ushered me into a drawing-room. This was small and stiff, but, though it showed no sign of having been lately used, its furniture was not shrouded and a carpet covered the floor.

  The woman, who looked very sour, addressed me in German and indicated a chair, and, when I had taken my seat, she passed to another door. As she opened this, I saw that it gave to a passage some six feet long. She closed the door behind her as though, I thought, she was happy to shut me out, and I can only suppose that I looked as much out of my depth as indeed I felt. Within thirty seconds, however, the door was opened again, and she beckoned me to approach. As I did so, I saw that a second door was now open at the farther end of the passage I had observed. Through this the woman pointed, and stood back against the wall, for me to go by. I passed her and entered the room, and the door behind me was shut.

  I stood in a spacious bedroom, splendidly furnished in the Italian style. Gold leaf, and velvet and beautifully painted wood; lantern and plaque and mirror; silver, dusky crimson and mellowed green made up a stately harmony of lovely things. In their midst, commanding them all from its dais, a great state bedstead stood with its head to the wall. And sitting up in bed was Her Grace the Duchess of Whelp.

  The room was full of light, and I saw her well. A highly elaborate coiffure attired her head, and a richly embroidered vesture swathed her from throat to wrist, but once I had seen her face, I had no eyes for anything else in that room. That this was painted was nothing – motley could not diminish the light of her countenance. Her cheeks were raddled, her lashes were stiff and laden, her lips were a scarlet blotch: but the visage thus overlaid was above these things. It was handsome as an eagle’s is handsome – with a cold majesty of feature, heedless of the sense of minority which it imposed. Her nose was aquiline and its bridge was high: her chin was jutting: her mouth was firm to a fault: her eyes, which were grey, were piercing and very clear; and the whole of her face was very finely shaped and might have been that of a woman of fifty years. Looking upon it, I knew that I was in the presence of something extremely rare – a ruling personality, that had no need to order because it controlled.

  I bowed – something awkwardly, dimly aware of Elizabeth sitting beside the bed and smiling at me to tell me that all was well.

  Old Harry inclined her head.

  “How do you do, Mr Exon. Come here, if you please.”

  I stepped to her side, and she put out a hand which was blazing with three magnificent rings.

  I took the fingers in mine and put them to my lips

  “That’s right,” says she. “I may be of bastard stock but—”

  “I think you are above lineage, madam.”

  “Nowadays, yes,” said Old Harry, folding her arms. “But it gave me a flying start. And now let’s talk about you. I’m told you’re a man of action, and so it seems. But you’re not very quick off the mark.” She tapped the papers that lay on her delicate quilt. “This Gering business. Why did you wait so long?”

  “For two reasons, madam,” said I. “First, for several months I was not myself. I found life hard to handle and had no brains to spare for anything else. And then I shrank from interference with a state of affairs which had been established so long.”

  “And then you saw Percy Virgil?”

  “Yes,” said I. “He’s – he’s not a nice-looking man.”

  “He’d look very well from a gallows,” observed the Duchess of Whelp. She turned to Elizabeth. “What made you allow Mr Exon to carry you off?”

  “That,” said Elizabeth, “is what I keep asking him.”

  “Sex,” said Old Harry, firmly. “You liked subjecting yourself to the strength of the male. It’s been done before. The Sabines kicked and screamed for the look of the thing: as a matter of hard fact, they were tickled to death.” She turned upon me. “And what do you mean, Richard Exon, by hiding this lady at Raven for over a week?”

  Her attack was so sudden that I was taken aback.

  “Madam,” I said, “it seemed the best thing to do.”

  “Did it, indeed?” said Old Harry. “Well, God preserve us all from your benevolence. The Lady Elizabeth Virgil, for whom the cities of Europe are being surreptitiously scoured, sharing two young men’s lodgings ten miles from her father’s house! And who’s this Herrick person? I knew a Naseby once…”

  “He’s one of the best,” said I. “And he pulls far more than his weight. As a matter of fact, he’s the present Lord Naseby’s heir.”

  “His mother,” said Elizabeth gently, “was my mother’s greatest friend.”

  “You’re not staying with his mother,” snapped Old Harry. “By consenting to do as you did, you were playing straight into the hands of father and son. Supposing you’d been discovered… Brief would have seen his chance and have flattened you out. He’d have trumpeted the scandal, played the outraged father and ordered his erring daughter out of his sight. ‘Never darken my doors again.’ And you would have had to go – your cousin would have seen to that. Father fooled, police fooled, Austria fooled – because you desired a weekend with a couple of men. And ring or no ring, I couldn’t have helped you at all. I used to be able to drop a soul-shaking hint, but I’ve never mastered the art of raising the dead.”

  There was a little silence, only disturbed by the sleeveless fret of a bee on a window pane.

  At length —

  “You should blame me, madam,” I said. “That Elizabeth should stay at Raven was my idea.”

  “Are you proud of it, Richard Exon?”

  “No, I’m not,” said I. “I’m greatly ashamed.”

  “Good,” said Old Harry. “In future stick to your last. Take action – that’s your forte. But never reflect. From what I hear, you have instinct – a precious faculty. Well, be content with that – and drown your ideas at birth. And now take a seat.” She touched a chair by her side. As I did her bidding, s
he turned to Elizabeth. “What were you going to tell me about your mother’s jewels?”

  Elizabeth recited the facts.

  When she had done, Old Harry wrinkled her brows.

  “I’m not surprised that your cousin found you de trop. That he’s drawn and sold the gems, there can be no doubt. And that by forgery. Now the English are a tolerant lot. They’ll overlook treason and fight for a murderer’s life, while a healthy theft in England is nearly always worthwhile. But they’ve always loathed forgery – probably because they feel that it isn’t playing the game. Witness, your poor father… Now Cousin Percy has committed that ‘loathsome’ crime. But yours is the only voice that can send him down. Without you, he can’t be arrested, much less arraigned. With you, he is doomed… And so you had to go. The sheep must be stolen to cover the theft of the lamb. I think it likely that you would have gone any way: but if he was to have the jewels, he obviously had to get them before he put you out… I’m afraid he’s an egoist. And you had him at your mercy, Mr Exon. In the dark…on a steep, stone stair… I hope you won’t have cause for regret that you let him live.”

  I swallowed before replying.

  “Madam,” I said, “we English are a tolerant lot.”

  “I know, I know. A very charming defect. But prevention is better than cure. That’s Percy’s motto, you know. Never mind. You were awkwardly placed. And now do I know everything? Or have you omitted some detail which you think of no account?”

  Together, Elizabeth and I went faithfully over the ground, while the Duchess interposed questions and comments, frequently acid, on what we had to relate. Finally, she glanced at a clock.

  “Lunch,” she said, “will be served in a quarter of an hour. For you two: in the Medici room. After that, you may sit on the terrace until I send. I must think this matter over. I don’t want to let you down, but I can’t make bricks without straw.”