The Danger Mark
She walked leisurely toward the door, passing him with a civil nod of dismissal, and left him standing there in his flower-embroidered court-dress, the electric light shining full on the thin gray hair at his temples.
In the corridor she met Naïda, charming in her blossom-embroidered panniers; and she took both her hands and kissed her, saying:
"Perhaps you won't care to have me caress you some day, so I'll take this opportunity, dear. Where is your brother?"
"Duane is dressing," she said. "What did you mean by my not wishing to kiss you some day?"
"Nothing, silly." And she passed on, turned to the right, and met Sylvia Quest, looking very frail and delicate in her bath-robe and powdered hair. The girl passed her with the same timid, almost embarrassed little inclination with which she now invariably greeted her, and Rosalie turned and caught her, turning her around with a laugh. "What is the matter, dear?"
"M-matter?" stammered Sylvia, trembling under the reaction.
"Yes. You are not very friendly, and I've always liked you. Have I offended you, Sylvia?"
She was looking smilingly straight into the blue eyes.
"No—oh, no!" said the girl hastily. "How can you think that, Mrs. Dysart?"
"Then I don't think it," replied Rosalie, laughing. "You are a trifle pale, dear. Touch up your lips a bit. It's very Louis XVI. See mine?… Will you kiss me, Sylvia?"
Again a strange look flickered in the girl's eyes; Rosalie kissed her gently; she had turned very white.
"What is your costume?" asked Mrs. Dysart.
"Flame colour and gold."
"Hell's own combination, dear," laughed Rosalie. "You will make an exquisite little demon shepherdess."
And she went on, smiling back at the girl in friendly fashion, then turned and lightly descended the stairway, snapping on her loup-mask before the jolly crowd below could identify her.
Masked figures here and there detained her, addressing her in disguised voices, but she eluded them, slipped through the throngs on terrace and lawn, ran down the western slope and entered the rose-garden. A man in mask and violet-gray court costume rose from a marble seat under the pergola and advanced toward her, the palm of his left hand carelessly balanced on his gilded hilt.
"So you did get my note, Duane?" she said, laying her pretty hand on his arm.
"I certainly did. What can I do for you, Rosalie?"
"I don't know. Shall we sit here a moment?"
He laughed, but continued standing after she was seated.
The air was heavy with the scent of rockets and phlox and ragged pinks and candy-tuft. Through the sweet-scented dusky silence some small and very wakeful bird was trilling. Great misty-winged moths came whirring and hovering among the blossoms, pale blurs in the darkness, and everywhere the drifting lamps of fireflies lighted and died out against the foliage.
The woman beside him sat with masked head bent and slightly turned from him; her restless hands worried her fan; her satin-shod feet were crossed and recrossed.
"What is the matter?" he asked.
"Life. It's all so very wrong."
"Oh," he said, smiling, "so it's life that is amiss, not we!"
"I suppose we are.... I suppose I am. But, Duane"—she turned and looked at him—"I haven't had much of a chance yet—to go very right or very wrong."
"You've had chances enough for the latter," he said with an unpleasant laugh. "In this sweet coterie we inhabit, there's always that chance."
"There are good women in it, good wives. Your sister is in it."
"Yes, and I mean to take her out," said Duane grimly. "Do you think I want Naïda to marry some money-fattened pup in this set?"
"Where can you take her?"
"Where I'm going in future myself—among people whose brains are not as obsolete as my appendix; where there still exist standards and old-fashioned things like principles and religion, and a healthy terror of the Decalogue!"
"Is anybody really still afraid of the Decalogue?" she asked curiously.
"Even we are, but some of us are more afraid of ennui. Fire and fear are the greatest purifiers in the world; it's fear of some sort or other, and only fear, that keeps the world as decent as it is."
"I'm not afraid," she said, playing with her fan. "I'm only afraid of dying before I have lived at all."
"What do you call living?"
"Being loved," she said, and looked up at him.
"You poor little thing!" he said, only partly in earnest.
"Yes, I'm sorry for the girl I was.... I was rather a nice girl, Duane. You remember me before I married."
"Yes, I do. You were a corker. You are still."
She nodded: "Yes, outwardly. Within is—nothing. I am very, very old; very tired."
He said no more. She sat listlessly watching the dusk-moths hovering among the pinks. Far away in the darkness rockets were rising, spraying the sky with fire; faint strains of music came from the forest.
"Their Fête Galante has begun," she said. "Am I detaining you too long, Duane?"
"No."
She smiled: "It is rather amusing," she observed, "my coming to you for my morals—to you, Duane, who were once supposed to possess so few."
"Never mind what I possess," he said, irritated. "What sort of advice do you expect?"
"Why, moral advice, of course."
"Oh! Are you on the verge of demoralisation?"
"I don't know. Am I?… There is a man–"
"Of course," he said, coming as near a sneer as he was capable. "I know what you've done. You've nearly twisted poor Grandcourt's head off his honest neck. If you want to know what I think of it, it's an abominable thing to do. Why, anybody can see that the man is in love with you, and desperately unhappy already, I told you to let him alone. You promised, too."
He spoke rapidly, sharply; she bent her fair head in silence until he ended.
"May I defend myself?" she asked.
"Of course."
"Then—I did not mean to make him care for me."
"You all say that."
"Yes; we are not always as innocent as I happen to be this time. I really did not try, did not think, that he was taking a little unaccustomed kindness on my part so seriously … I overdid it; I'd been beastly to him—most women are rude to Delancy Grandcourt, somehow or other. I always was. And one day—that day in the forest—somehow something he said opened my eyes—hurt me.... And women are fools to believe him one. Why, Duane, he's every inch a man—high-minded, sensitive, proud, generous, forbearing."
Duane turned and stared at her; and to her annoyance the blood mounted to her cheeks, but she went on:
"Of course he has affected me. I don't know how it might have been with me if I were not so—so utterly starved."
"You mean to say you are beginning to care for Delancy Grandcourt?"
"Care? Yes—in a perfectly nice way–"
"And otherwise?"
"I—don't know. I am honest with you, Duane; I don't know. A—a little devotion of that kind"—she tried to laugh—"goes to my head, perhaps. I've been so long without it.... I don't know. And I came here to tell you. I came here to ask you what I ought to do."
"Good Lord!" said Duane, "do you already care enough for him to worry about your effect on him?"
"I—do not wish him to be unhappy."
"Oh. But you are willing to be unhappy in order to save him any uneasiness. See here, Rosalie, you'd better pull up sharp."
"Had I?"
"Certainly," he said brutally. "Not many days ago you were adrift. Don't cut your cable again."
A vivid colour mounted to her temples:
"That is all over," she said. "Have I not come to you again in spite of the folly that sent me drifting to you before? And can I pay you a truer compliment, Duane, than to ask the hospitality of your forbearance and the shelter of your friendship?"
"You are a trump, Rosalie," he said, after a moment's scowling. "You're all right.... I don't know what to say.... If it's going to give you a little happiness to care for this man–"
"But what will it do to him, Duane?"
"It ought to do him good if such a girl as you gives him all of herself that she decently can. I don't know whether I'm right or wrong!" he added almost angrily. "Confound it! there seems no end to conjugal infelicity around us these days. I don't know where the line is—how close to the danger mark an unhappy woman may drift and do no harm to anybody. All I know is that I'm sorry—terribly sorry for you. You're a corker."
"Thanks," she said with a faint smile. "Do you think Delancy may safely agree with you without danger to his peace of mind?"
"Why not? After all, you're entitled to lawful happiness. So is he.... Only–"
"Only—what?"
"I've never seen it succeed."
"Seen what succeed?"
"What is popularly known as the platonic."
"Oh, this isn't that," she said naïvely. "He's rather in love already, and I'm quite sure I could be if I—I let myself."
Duane groaned.
"Don't come to me asking what to do, then," he said impatiently, "because I know what you ought to do and I don't know what I'd do under the circumstances. You know as well as I do where the danger mark is. Don't you?"
"I—suspect."
"Well, then–"
"Oh, we haven't reached it yet," she said innocently.
Her honesty appalled him, and he got up and began to pace the gravel walk.
"Do you intend to cross it?" he asked, halting abruptly.
"No, I don't.... I don't want to.... Do you think there is any fear of it?"
"My Lord!" he said in despair, "you talk like a child. I'm trying to realise that you women—some of you who appear so primed with doubtful, worldly wisdom—are practically as innocent as the day you married."
"I don't know very much about some things, Duane."
"I notice that," he said grimly.
She said very gravely: "This is the first time I have ever come very near caring for a man.... I mean since I married." And she rose and glanced toward the forest.
They stood together for a moment, listening to the distant music, then, without speaking, turned and walked toward the distant flare of light which threw great trees into tangled and grotesque silhouette.
"Tales of the Geneii," she murmured, fastening her loup; "Fate is the Sultan. Pray God nobody cuts my head off."
"You are much too amusing," he said as, side by side, they moved silently on through the pale starlight, like errant phantoms of a vanished age, and no further word was said between them, nor did they look at each other again until, ahead, the road turned silvery under the rays of the Lodge acetylenes, and beyond, the first cluster of brilliant lanterns gleamed among the trees.
"And here we separate," she said. "Good-bye," holding out her hand. "It is my first rendezvous. Wish me a little happiness, please."
"Happiness and—good sense," he said, smiling. He retained her hand for a second, let it go and, stepping back, saluted her gaily as she passed before him into the blaze of light.
CHAPTER XI
FÊTE GALANTE
The forest, in every direction, was strung with lighted lanterns; tall torches burning edged the Gray Water, and every flame rippled straight upward in the still air.
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 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 hurriedly; "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 NoblementOn s'avance; On fait trois pas de côté Deux battus, un jetéSans rompre la cadence–"Then whispered, smiling:
"You are quite perfect, Duane; keep your head level, dear:
"ChassezRechassezEn mesure!Saluez— Gravement NoblementOn s'avanceSans 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.
