Through the dark, mid-summer woodland music of violin, viola, and clarionet rang out, and the laughter and jolly uproar of the dancers swelled and ebbed, with now and then sudden intervals of silence slowly filled by the far noise of some unseen stream rushing westward under the stars.
Glade, greensward, forest, aisles, and the sylvan dancing floor, bounded by garlanded and beribboned pillars, swarmed with a gay company. Torchlight painted strange high lights on silken masks, touching with subdued sparkles the eyes behind the slanting eye-slits; half a thousand lanterns threw an orange radiance across the glade, bathing the whirling throngs of dancers, glimmering on gilded braid and sword hilt, on powdered hair, on fresh young faces laughing behind their masks; on white shoulders and jewelled throats, on fan and brooch and spur and lacquered heel. There was a scent of old-time perfume in the air, and, as Duane adjusted his mask and drew near, he saw that sets were already forming for the minuet.
He recognised Dysart, glorious in silk and powder, perfectly in his element, and doing his part with eighteenth-century elaboration; Kathleen, très grande-dame, almost too exquisitely real for counterfeit; Delancy Grandcourt, very red in the face under his mask, wig slightly awry, conscientiously behaving as nearly like a masked gentleman of the period as he knew how; his sister Naïda, sweet and gracious; Scott, masked and also spectacled, grotesque and preoccupied, casting patient glances toward the dusky solitudes that he much preferred, and from whence a distant owl fluted at intervals, inviting his investigations.
And there were the Pink ‘uns, too, easily identified, having all sorts of a good time with a pair of maskers resembling Doucette Landon and Peter Tappan; and there in powder, paint, and patch capered the Beekmans, Ellises, and Montrosses — all the clans of the great and near-great of the country-side, gathering to join the eternal hunt for happiness where already the clarionets were sounding “Stole Away.”
For the quarry in that hunt is a spectre; sighted, it steals away; and if one remains very, very still and listens, one may hear, far and faint, the undertone of phantom horns mocking the field that rides so gallantly.
“Stole away,” whispered Duane in Kathleen’s ear, as he paused beside her; and she seemed to know what he meant, for she nodded, smiling:
“You mean that what we hunt is doomed to die when we ride it down?”
“Let us be in at the death, anyway,” he said. “Kathleen, you’re charming and masked to perfection. It’s only that white skin of yours that betrays you; it always looks as though it were fragrant. Is that Geraldine surrounded three deep — over there under that oak-tree?”
“Yes; why are you so late, Duane? And I haven’t seen Rosalie, either.”
He did not care to enlighten her, but stood laughing and twirling his sword-knot and looking across the glittering throng, where a daintily masked young girl stood defending herself with fan and bouquet against the persistence of her gallants. Then he shook out the lace at his gilded cuffs, dropped one palm on his sword-hilt, saluted Kathleen’s finger-tips with graceful precision, and sauntered toward Geraldine, dusting his nose with his filmy handkerchief — a most convincing replica of the bland epoch he impersonated.
As for Geraldine, she was certainly a very lovely incarnation of that self-satisfied and frivolous century; her success had already excited her a little; men seemed suddenly to have gone quite mad about her; and this and her own beauty were taking effect on her, producing an effect the more vivid, perhaps, because it was a reaction from the perplexities and tears of yesterday and the passionate tension of the morning.
Within her breast the sense of impending pleasure stirred and fluttered deliciously with every breath of music; the confused happiness of being in love, the relief in relaxation from a sterner problem, the noisy carnival surging, rioting around her, men crowding about her, eager in admiration and rivalry, the knowledge of her own loveliness — all these set the warm blood racing through every vein, and tinted lip and cheek with a colour in brilliant contrast to the velvety masked eyes and the snow of the slender neck.
Through the gay tumult which rang ceaselessly around her, where she stood, plying her painted fan, her own laughter sounded at intervals, distinct in its refreshing purity, for it had always that crystalline quality under a caressing softness; but Duane, who had advanced now to the outer edge of the circle, detected in her voice no hint of that thrilling undertone which he had known, which he alone among men had ever awakened. Her gaiety was careless, irresponsible, childlike in its clarity; under her crescent mask the smiles on her smooth young face dawned and died out, brief as sun-spots flashing over snow. Briefer intervals of apparent detachment from everything succeeded them; a distrait survey of the lantern-lit dancers, a preoccupied glance at the man speaking to her, a lifting of the delicate eyebrows in smiling preoccupation. But always behind the black half-mask her eyes wandered throughout the throng as though seeking something hidden; and on her vivid lips the smile became fixed.
Whether or not she had seen him, Duane could not tell, but presently, as he forced a path toward her, she stirred, closed her fan, took a step forward, head a trifle lowered; and right of way was given her, as she moved slowly through the cluster of men, shaking her head in vexation to the whispered importunities murmured in her ear, answering each according to his folly — this man with a laugh, that with a gesture of hand or shoulder, but never turning to reply, never staying her feet until, passing close to Duane, and not even looking at him:
“Where on earth have you been, Duane?”
“How did you know me?” he said, laughing; “you haven’t even looked at me yet.”
“On peut voir sans regarder, Monsieur. Nous autres demoiselles, nous voyons très bien, très bien ... et nous ne regardons jamais.”
“She dropped him a very low, very slow, very marvellous courtesy”
She had paused, still not looking directly at him. Then she lifted her head.
“Everybody has asked me to dance; I’ve said yes to everybody, but I’ve waited for you,” she said. “It will be that way all my life, I think.”
“It has been that way with me, too,” he said gaily. “Why should we wait any more?”
“Why are you so late?” she asked. She had missed Rosalie, too, but did not say so.
“I am rather late,” he admitted carelessly; “can you give me this dance?”
She stepped nearer, turning her shoulder to the anxious lingerers, who involuntarily stepped back, leaving a cleared space around them.
“Make me your very best bow,” she whispered, “and take me. I’ve promised a dozen men, but it doesn’t matter.”
He said in a low voice, “You darling!” and made her a very wonderful bow, and she dropped him a very low, very slow, very marvellous courtesy, and, rising, laid her fingers on his embroidered sleeve. Then turning, head held erect, and with a certain sweet insolence in the droop of her white lids, she looked at the men around her.
Gray said in a low voice to Dysart: “That’s as much as to admit that they’re engaged, isn’t it? When a girl doesn’t give a hoot what she does to other men, she’s nailed, isn’t she?”
Dysart did not answer; Rosalie, passing on Grandcourt’s arm, caught the words and turned swiftly, looking over her shoulder at Geraldine.
But Geraldine and Duane had already forgotten the outer world; around them the music swelled; laughter and voice grew indistinct, receding, blending in the vague tumult of violins. They gazed upon each other with vast content.
“As a matter of fact,” said Duane, “I don’t remember very well how to dance a minuet. I only wanted to be with you. We’ll sit it out if you’re afraid I’ll make a holy show of you.”
“Oh, dear,” said Geraldine in pretty distress, “and I let you beguile me when I’m dying to do this minuet. Duane, you must try to remember! Everybody will be watching us.” And as her quick ear caught the preliminary bars of the ancient and stately measure:
“It’s the Menuet d’Exaudet,” she said hurri
edly; “listen, I’ll instruct you as we move; I’ll sing it under my breath to the air of the violins,” and, her hand in his, she took the first slow, dainty step in the old-time dance, humming the words as they moved forward:
“Gravement
Noblement
On s’avance;
On fait trois pas de côté
Deux battus, un jeté
Sans rompre la cadence — —”
Then whispered, smiling:
“You are quite perfect, Duane; keep your head level, dear:
“Chassez
Rechassez
En mesure!
Saluez —
Gravement
Noblement
On s’avance
Sans rompre la cadence.
“Quite perfect, my handsome cavalier! Oh, we are doing it most beautifully” — with a deep, sweeping reverence; then rising, as he lifted her finger-tips: “You are stealing the rest of my heart,” she said.
“Our betrothal dance,” he whispered. “Shall it be so, dear?”
They looked at each other as though they stood there alone; the lovely old air of the Menuet d’Exaudet seemed to exhale from the tremulous violins like perfume floating through the woods; figures of masked dancers passed and repassed them through the orange-tinted glow; there came a vast rustle of silk, a breezy murmur, the scented wind from opening fans, the rattle of swords, and the Menuet d’Exaudet ended with a dull roll of kettle-drums.
A few minutes later he had her in his arms in a deliciously wild waltz, a swinging, irresponsible, gipsy-like thing which set the blood coursing and pulses galloping.
Every succeeding dance she gave to him. Now and then a tiny cloud of powder-dust floated from her hair; a ribbon from her shoulder-knot whipped his face; her breath touched his lips; her voice, at intervals, thrilled and caressed his ears, a soft, breathless voice, which mounting exaltation had made unsteadily sweet.
“You know — dear — I’m dancing every dance with you — in the teeth of decency, the face of every convention, and defiance of every law of hospitality. I belong to my guests.”
And again:
“Do you know, Duane, there’s a sort of a delicious madness coming over me. I’m all trembling under my skin with the overwhelming happiness of it all. I tell you it’s intoxicating me because I don’t know how to endure it.”
He caught fire at her emotion; her palm was burning in his, her breath came irregularly, lips and cheeks were aflame, as they came to a breathless halt in the torchlight.
“Dear,” she faltered, “I simply must be decent to my guests.... I’m dying to dance with you again, but I can’t be so rude.... Oh, goodness! here they come, hordes of them. I’ll give them a dance or two — anybody who speaks first, and then you’ll come and find me, won’t you?... Isn’t that enough to give them — two or three dances? Isn’t that doing my duty as chatelaine sufficiently?”
“Don’t give them any,” he said with conviction. “They’ll know we’re engaged if you don’t — —”
“Oh, Duane! We are only — only provisionally engaged,” she said. “I am only on probation, dear. You know it can’t be announced until I — I’m fit to marry you — —”
“What nonsense!” he interrupted, almost savagely. “You’re winning out; and even if you are not, I’ll marry you, anyway, and make you win!”
“We have talked that over — —”
“Yes, and it is settled!”
“No, Duane — —”
“I tell you it is!”
“No. Hush! Somebody might overhear us. Quick, dear, here comes Bunny and Reggie Wye and Peter Tappan, all mad as hatters. I’ve behaved abominably to them! Will you find me after the third dance? Very well; tell me you love me then — whisper it, quick!... Ah-h! Moi aussi, Monsieur. And, remember, after the third dance!”
She turned slowly from him to confront an aggrieved group of masked young men, who came up very much hurt, clamouring for justice, explaining volubly that it was up to her to keep her engagements and dance with somebody besides Duane Mallett.
“Mon Dieu, Messieurs, je ne demanderais pas mieux,” she said gaily. “Why didn’t somebody ask me before?”
“You promised us each a dance,” retorted Tappan sulkily, “but you never made good. I’ll take mine now if you don’t mind — —”
“I’m down first!” insisted the Pink ‘un.
They squabbled over her furiously; Bunbury Gray got her; she swung away into a waltz on his arm, glancing backward at Duane, who watched her until she disappeared in the whirl of dancers. Then he strolled to the edge of the lantern-lit glade, stood for a moment looking absently at the shadowy woods beyond, and presently sauntered into the luminous dusk, which became darker and more opaque as he left the glare of the glade behind.
Here and there fantastic figures loomed, moving slowly, two and two, under the fairy foliage; on the Gray Water canoes strung with gaudy paper lanterns drifted; clouds of red fire rolled rosy and vaporous along the water’s edge; and in the infernal glow, hazy shapes passed and repassed, finding places among scores of rustic tables, where servants in old-time livery and powdered wigs hurried to and fro with ices and salads, and set the white-covered tables with silverware and crystal.
A dainty masked figure in demon red flitted across his path in the uncanny radiance. He hailed her, and she turned, hesitated, then, as though convinced of his identity, laughed, and hastened on with a nod of invitation.
“Where are you going, pretty mask?” he inquired, wending his pace and trying to recognise the costume in the uncertain cross light.
But she merely laughed and continued to retreat before him, keeping the distance between them, hastening her steps whenever he struck a faster gait, pausing and looking back at him with a mocking smile when his steps slackened; a gracefully malicious, tormenting, laughing creature of lace and silk, whose retreat was a challenge, whose every movement and gesture seemed instinct with the witchery of provocation.
On the edge of the ring of tables she paused, picked up a goblet, held it out to a passing servant, who immediately filled the glass.
Then, before Duane could catch her, she drained the goblet to his health and fled into the shadows, he hard on her heels, pressing her closer, closer, until the pace became too hot for her, and she turned to face him, panting and covering her masked face with her fan.
“Now, my fair unknown, we shall pay a few penalties,” he said with satisfaction; but she defended herself so adroitly that he could not reach her mask.
“Be fair to me,” she gasped at last; “why are you so rough with me when — when you need not be? I knew you at once, Jack.”
And she dropped her arms, standing resistless, breathing fast, her masked face frankly upturned to be kissed.
“Now, who the devil,” thought Duane, “have I got in my arms? And for whom does she take me?”
He gazed searchingly into the slitted eye-holes; the eyes appeared to be blue, as well as he could make out. He looked at the fresh laughing mouth, a young, sensitive mouth, which even in laughter seemed not entirely gay.
“Don’t you really mind if I kiss you?” He spoke in a whisper to disguise his voice.
“Isn’t it a little late to ask me that?” she said; and under her mask the colour stained her skin. “I think what we do now scarcely matters.”
She was so confident, so plainly awaiting his caress, that for a moment he was quite ready to console her. And did not, could not, with the fragrant and yielding intimacy of Geraldine still warm in his quickened heart.
She stood quite motionless, her little hands warm in his, her masked face upturned. And, as he merely stared at her:
“What is the matter, Jack?” she breathed. “Why do you look at me so steadily?”
He ought to have let her go then; he hesitated, wondering which Jack she supposed him to be; and before he realised it her arms were on his shoulders, her mouth nearer to his.
“Jack, you frighten me! What is it?
”
“N-nothing,” he continued to stammer.
“Yes, there is. Does your — your wife suspect — anything — —”
“No, she doesn’t,” said Duane grimly, trying to free himself without seeming to. “I’ve got an appointment — —”
But the girl said piteously: “It isn’t — Geraldine, is it?”
“What!”
“You — you admitted that she attracted you — for a little while.... Oh, I did forgive you, Jack; truly I did with all my miserable heart! I was so fearfully unhappy — I would have done anything.” ... Her face flushed scarlet. “And I — did.... But you do love me, don’t you?” And the next moment her lips were on his with a sob.
Duane reached back and quietly unclasped her fingers. Then very gently he forced her to a seat on a great fallen log. Still looking up at him, droopingly pathetic in contrast to her gay début with him, she naïvely slipped up the mask over her forehead and passed her hand across her pretty blue eyes. Sylvia Quest!
The sinister significance of her attitude flashed over him, all doubt vanished, all the comedy of their encounter was gone in an instant. Over him swept a startled sequence of emotions — bitter contempt for Dysart, scorn of the wretchedly equivocal situation and of the society that bred it, a miserable desire to spare her, vexation at himself for what he had unwittingly stumbled upon. The last thought persisted, dominated; succeeded by a disgusted determination that she must be spared the shame and terror of what she had inadvertently revealed; that she must never know she had not been speaking to Dysart himself.
“If I tell you that all is well — and if I tell you no more than that,” he whispered, “will you trust me?”
“Have I not done so, Jack?”
The tragedy in her lifted eyes turned him cold with fury.
“Then wait here until I return,” he said. “Promise.”
“I promise,” she sighed, “but I don’t understand. I’m a — a little frightened, dear. But I — believe you.”
He swung on his heel and made toward the lights once more, and a moment later the man he sought passed within a few feet of him, and Duane knew him by his costume, which was a blue replica of his own gray silks.
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 442
