For four days there was much driving to and fro between the city and the beach; the great hotel was all astir, and the villas along the shore were full of busy tongues and needles, for summer is the time for pleasure, and the Yorkes’ masquerade was the event of the season. On the appointed evening all things were propitious, the night was balmy, the sky cloudless, the moon lent her enchantment to the scene, and the lonely home beside the sea wore its most inviting aspect, for the hall of statues was brilliant with lights, blooming with flowers, and haunted by the fitful music of a band concealed among the shrubbery without. Yorke, looking stately and somber as the melancholy Dane, and Germain in a plain black silk domino, stood waiting for Cecil, mask in hand. Presently she came rustling down, in a costume both becoming and piquant, for the powdered hair made her fair skin dazzling, and the sweeping brocades of violet and silver set off her slender figure. She wore no ornaments, but a profusion of rich lace upon the dress, white plumes in her hair, and a cluster of roses on her bosom. With the costume she seemed to have assumed the coquetry of the French marquise, and greeted her companions in broken English, spoken with a charming accent and sprightly grace that caused Germain to compliment her on her skill, and Yorke to survey her with undisguised pride, as he said, with a significant smile, “Let me put the last touch to this ravishing toilet of yours, and prove that you were right in saying I had some taste in stones.”
Cecil bent her beautiful neck to let him clasp a diamond necklace about it, and held out a pair of lovely arms to receive their glittering fetters, with a little cry of pleasure, and a characteristic “Merci, monsieur! You are too gallant in so revenging yourself upon me for my idle words. These are superb, I kiss your munificent hands,” and as he essayed to fasten in the brooch, she touched his hand with her lips. The pin dropped, Germain took it up, and turning to him, she said, in her own voice, “Put it in my hair just here, there is no room for it below; diamonds are best on the head, and roses on the heart.”
As he deftly fastened it above her white forehead, she drew out a flower broken by Yorke’s unskillful hand, and tying it to the ribbon of Germain’s domino, she said, “Wear this, else among so many black dominoes I shall not know my friend, and make my confidences to wrong ears.”
“Now I am prouder of my rose than you of your jewels, madame, and thank you for it heartily,” he replied, surveying it with delight.
“Shall I wear not your favor, also?” asked Yorke, with extended hand.
“Oh, yes, but not that one, because it does not suit you. There’s rue for you; and here’s some for me, but we may wear our rue with a difference.”
As she quoted poor Ophelia’s words, from a vase nearby she gathered a flowerless sprig, and gave it to him with a glance that cut him to the heart. He took it silently, and instantly resuming her gay manner, she exclaimed, as the roll of a carriage was heard, “It is the Coventrys, they come early, because I asked them to play the host and hostess for an hour to increase the bewilderment of our guests, and give us greater freedom. She is to be Juno, and while she is masked, no one will suspect that it is Come, Germain, let us slip away, and return later.”
The rooms filled rapidly, and the mock host and hostess did the honors so well that the guests had no doubt of their identity, while the real master of the house moved among them unsuspected, watching impatiently for the arrival of the marquise and her friend. He waited long, but at last the white plumes were seen approaching, and many eyes followed the brilliant figure that entered, not on the arm of a black domino, but a young courtier in the picturesque costume of Elizabeth’s time. Yorke saw at a glance that this was not Germain; who was it then? Alfred flashed into his mind, but he was across the water, and not
expected to return for months. No new-made acquaintance of Cecil’s carried himself with such a gay and gallant air; for the disguise seemed to sit easily upon him, and he wore doublet and hose, velvet cloak and lovelocks, ruff and sword with none of the awkwardness that most men exhibit when in costume. Nor was this all he saw to disturb him; the charming marquise leaned upon the arm of this debonair Sir Walter Raleigh, talking with an animation that attracted attention, while the devotion of her escort, and the grace of both, roused much curiosity concerning this striking young couple. Hamlet followed them like a shadow, but their conversation was in whispers, and they went their way as if unconscious of anything but themselves. Yorke soon met the black domino with the white rose dangling on his breast, and drew him apart to ask eagerly, “Who is that with Cecil?”
“I have no idea.”
“Where did she meet him?”
“I cannot tell you.”
“But you went away together, and were to return together. When and how did you part?”
“We went to the music room to wait a little, but soon she sent me for her fan, which had been forgotten. I was gone some time, for the maid was busy with the ladies; when I returned Madame had disappeared, and I saw no more of her till she came in with Sir Walter.” “Rude to you, that is not like her!”
“I was to blame, if anyone; she grew tired of waiting, doubtless, and finding some friend, left me to follow her. I am glad she did, for he is a fitter escort for youth and beauty than I. They look like a prince and princess out of a fairy tale, and it does one’s heart good to watch them.” Yorke made no reply, but stood motionless beside Germain, looking where he looked, for the dancing had begun, and the young pair were slowly circling round the room to the sound of music, inspiring enough to stir the coldest blood. Twice the marquise floated by, with a glance over her shoulder as she passed; but the third time she looked in vain, for the two dark figures were gone, and a splendid Cleopatra held her court in the deserted recess.
“I am out of breath; let us stroll about and hear people’s comments on me and mine; that will be amusing,” she said, pausing, and her escort obeyed.
It was amusing, and something more, for as they passed through the glittering throng, or mingled with the groups gathered about each statue- haunted alcove, Cecil saw and heard the wonder, admiration, and reverence her husband’s genius inspired. This was the first time his works had been exhibited, and there was something so romantic in the fact that these fine statues had stood unknown, unseen, till they were brought to decorate his wife’s home, as if love alone could make him care for fame, that their beauty seemed increased fourfold in the spectators’ eyes; and so warm were the commendations bestowed upon the marbles, so varied and beautiful the tributes paid the man, that Cecil glowed behind the mask, and was glad of that screen to hide her smiles and tears. From many lips she heard the same story, sorrow, love, and fame, with endless embellishments, but always the same contrast between romance and reality for her. If he loved her, why so careless about Germain? What was the mystery that bound the two so closely together, with such a strange mingling of dislike and gratitude, forbearance and submission? Had she not a right to solve the secret if she could, now that her happiness depended on it? These thoughts saddened and silenced her so visibly that her companion soon perceived it.
“Where are all your spirits gone? Have I really offended you by coming? Or do these chattering people weary you? Tell me, Cecil, and let me do my best to make you gay again,” he whispered, bending till his curling locks touched her shoulder.
“Neither, Sir Walter; the heat oppresses me, so take me out into the garden, and leave me to rest, while you play the cavalier to some other lady, lest your devotion to one should give offense.”
“If I submit now, I may join you when I’ve done penance in a single dance, may I not? Remember how short my time is, and how much I have to say.”
“You may come if you will forget the past, and think only of the future.”
“I can safely promise that, for it is now the desire of my heart,” and with a curious blending of joy and regret in his voice, Sir Walter left the marquise on the broad steps that led down into the garden. Moonlight flooded the terrace, grove, and flowery paths where changing figures wandered to a
nd fro, or sat in the green nooks, each group making a graceful picture in that magic light. Here a troubadour sang to his guitar, as knights and ladies listened to his lay; there glided a monk or nun, somber and silent, as if blind and deaf to the gaiety about them; elves glittered in the grove; Mephistopheles followed a blond Margaret; Louis Fourteenth and Marie Stuart promenaded with stately pace along the terrace; and Rebecca the Jewess was flirting violently with Cardinal Wol- sey on the steps. Enjoying the mirth and mystery with a divided mind, Cecil wandered on, declining all courteous offers of companionship from fellow wanderers, and came at last to a retired nook, where a rustic seat stood under a leafy arch before the little fountain that sparkled in the moonlight. Scarcely was she seated, however, before a long shadow fell across the path, and turning, she saw a black domino behind her.
“Does Madame recognize me?”
The voice was feigned, nothing but the outline of the figure was visible, and no badge distinguished this domino from a dozen others, but after a moment’s pause and a brief scrutiny, Cecil seemed satisfied, and removing her mask, exclaimed with an air of perfect confidence, “It is Germain; you cannot hide yourself from me.”
“Is Madame sure?”
“Yes, I know you by the rapid beating of your heart. You forget that, mon ami.”
“Does no other heart beat fast when it approaches you, lovely marquise?”
“None but yours, I fancy. You have been dancing, and I bade you not, it is dangerous. Come now, and rest with me; the music is delicious from this distance, and the night too beautiful to waste in crowded rooms.”
With an inviting gesture she swept her silken train aside, that he might share the little seat, and as he took it, put up her hand to remove his mask, with the smile still shining on her face, the friendly tone still softening her voice.
“Take off that ugly thing, it impedes your breathing, and is bad for you.”
But he caught the hand, and imprisoned it in both his own, while the heartbeats grew more audible, and some inward agitation evidently made it difficult to speak quietly.
“No, permit me to keep it on; I cannot show as calm a face as you tonight, so let me hide it.”
Something in the touch and tone caused Cecil to look closer at the mask, which showed nothing but glittering eyes and glimpses of a black beard.
“Where is the sign that will assure me you are Germain?” she demanded.
“Here,” and turning to a fold of the black domino she saw the rose still hanging as she had tied it.
“No wonder you did not care to show your badge, it is so faded. Break a fresh one from the trellis yonder, and I will place it better for you.”
“Give me one from your bouquet, that is fresher and sweeter to me than any other in the garden or the world.”
“Moonlight and masquerading make you romantic; I feel so too, and will make a little bargain with you, since you prize my rose so highly. You shall take your choice of these I wear, if you will answer a few questions.”
“Ask anything—” he began eagerly, but caught back the words, adding, “put your questions, and if I can answer them without forfeiting my word, I will, truly and gladly.”
“Ah, I thought that would follow. If I forfeit my word in asking, surely you may do the same in answering. I promised Bazil to control my curiosity; I have kept my promise till he broke his, now I am free to satisfy myself.”
“What promise has he broken?”
“I will answer that when you have earned the rose. Come, grant my wish, and then you may question in return.”
“Speak, I will do my best.”
“Tell me then what tie binds you to Yorke?”
“The closest, yet most inexplicable.”
“You are his brother?”
“No.”
“He cannot be your father, that is impossible?”
“Decidedly, as there are but a few years difference between our ages.”
She heard a short laugh as this answer came, and smiled at her own foolish question.
“Then you must be akin to me, and so hound to him in some way. Is that it?”
“I am not akin to you, yet I am bound to you both, and thank God for it.”
“What is the mystery? Why do you haunt me? Why does Yorke let you come? And why do I trust you in spite of everything?”
“The only key I can give you to all this is the one word, love.”
She drew back, as he bent to whisper it, and put up her hand as if to forbid the continuance of the subject, but Germain said warmly, “It is because I love you that I haunt you. Yorke permits it, because he cannot prevent it, and you trust me, because your heart is empty and you long to fill it. Is not this true? I have answered your questions, now answer mine, I beg of you.”
“No, it is not true.”
“Then you do love?”
“Yes.”
“Whom, Cecil, whom?”
“Not you, Germain, believe that, and ask no more.”
“Is it a younger, comelier man than ft”
“Yes.”
“And you have loved him long?*”
“For years.”
“He is here tonight?*”
“He is. Now let us go in, I am tired of this.”
“Not yet, stay and answer me once more. You shall not go till I am satisfied. Tell me, have you no love for Yorke?”
His sudden violence terrified her, for, as she endeavored to rise, he held her firmly, speaking vehemently, and waiting her reply, with eyes that flashed behind the mask. Remembering his wild nature, and fearing some harm to Bazil, she dared not answer truly, and hoping to soothe him, she laid her hand upon his arm, saying, with well-feigned coldness, “How can I love him, when I have been taught for years only to respect and obey him? He has been a stern master, and I never can forget my lesson. Now release me, Germain, and never let this happen again. It was my fault, so I forgive you, hut there must be no more of it.”
There was no need to bid him release her, for as the words left her lips, like one in a paroxysm of speechless repentance, grief, or tenderness, he covered her hands with passionate tears and kisses, and was gone as suddenly as he had come. Cecil lingered a moment to recover herself and readjust her mask, and hardly had she done so when down the path came Hamlet, as if in search of her. The difference between the two had never been more strongly marked than now, for Germain had been in his most impetuous mood, and Yorke seemed unusually mild and calm, as Cecil hurried toward him, with a pleasant sense of safety as she took his arm, and listened to his quiet question.
“What has frightened you, my child?”
“Germain, he is so violent, so strange, that I can neither control nor understand him, and he must be banished, though it is hard to do it.” “Poor Germain, he suffers for the sins of others as well as for his own. But if he makes you unhappy, he shall go, and go at once. Why did you not tell me so before?”
“I did, but you said, let him stay. Have you forgotten that so soon?” Yorke laughed low to himself.
“It seems that I have forgotten. It was kind of me, however, to let him stay where he was the happiest; did you not think so, Cecil?”
“No, I thought it very unwise. I was hurt at yOur indifference, and tried to show you your mistake; but I have done harm to Germain, and he must go, although in him I lose my dearest friend, my pleasantest companion. I am very proud, but I humble myself to ask this favor of you, Bazil.”
“Gentle heart, how can he ever thank you for your compassion and affection;5 Be easy, he shall go; but as a last boon, give him one more happy day, and I will make sure that he shall not offend again, as he seems to have done tonight. I, too, am proud, but I humble myself, Cecil, to ask this favor of you.”
So gently he spoke, so entirely changed he seemed, that Cecil's eyes filled, for her heart felt very tender, and before she could restrain it, an impulsive exclamation escaped her.
“Ah, Bazil, if you were always as kind as now, how different my life would be.�
��
“So would mine, if I dared be kind.” The answer was impulsive as the exclamation, and he made a gesture as if to take her to himself; but something restrained him, and with a heavy sigh he walked in silence.
“Dared to be kind?” she echoed, in a grieved and wondering tone. “Are you afraid to show that you care for me a little?”
“Mortally afraid, because I cannot tell you all. But, thank heaven, there will come a time when I may speak, and for that hour I long, though it will be my last.”
“O Bazil, what do you mean by such strange words?”
“I mean that when I lie dying, I can tell my miserable mystery, and you will pity and pardon me at last.”
“But you once said you would never tell me.”
“Did I? Well, then Germain shall tell you when he dies. You'll not have long to wait.”
Cecil shivered at the ominous words, and started with a faint cry, for they seemed confirmed, as her eye fell on a dark figure lying with hidden face among the grass, not far from the solitary path they had unconsciously chosen. There was something so pathetic about the prostrate figure, flung down as if in the abandonment of despair, that Cecil was on the point of going to offer comfort, when her companion detained her, whispering earnestly, “Leave him to me, and go on alone. It is time for the unmasking, and we shall be missed. I'll follow soon, and bring him with me.”
She obeyed, and went on, more heavyhearted than when she came. Within, the gaiety was at its height, and as she entered, Sir Walter was instantly at her side, leading her away for the last dance before the masks were removed. Presently silence fell upon the motley throng, and all stood ready to reveal themselves, when a signal came. A single horn sounded a mellow blast, and in a moment the room brightened with smiling faces, as the black masks fell, while a general peal of laughter filled the air. Cecil glanced about her for her husband and Germain. They were standing together near the door, both unmasked now, and both more mysterious to her than ever. Neither looked as she expected to see them; Yorke was grim and pale, with smileless lips and gloomy eyes; Germain leaned near him, smiling his enchanting smile, and wearing the indescribable air of romance which always attached to him, and even now, rendered him a more striking figure than many of the gayer ones about him.
Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 15 Page 23