Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  Pera, at this time, was indulging itself in its last gayeties before the beginning of the summer season, when every one who is able to leave the town goes up the Bosphorus, or to the islands. The weather was growing warm, but still the dancing continued with undiminished vigor. Among other festivities there was to be a masked ball, a species of amusement which is very rare in Constantinople; but somebody had suggested the idea, one of the great embassies had taken it up, and at last the day was fixed and the invitations were issued. It was to be a great affair, and everybody went secretly about the business of composing costumes and disguises. There was much whispering and plotting and agreeing together in schemes of mystification. The evening came, everybody went, and the ball was a great success.

  Hermione had entirely hidden her costume with a black domino, which is certainly the surest disguise which anyone can wear. Its wide folds reached to the ground, and completely hid her figure, while even her hands were rendered unrecognizable by loose black gloves. Paul had been told what she was to wear; but he probably knew her by some sign, agreed upon beforehand, from all the other black dominos; for a number of other ladies had chosen the same over-garment to hide the brilliant costumes until the time came for unmasking. He came up to her immediately, and offered his arm, proposing to walk through the rooms before dancing; but Hermione would not hear of it, saying that if she were seen with him at first she would be found out at once.

  “Do not be unreasonable,” said she, as she saw the disappointed look on his face. “I want to mystify ever so many people first. Then I will dance with you as much as you like.”

  “Very well,” said Paul, rather coldly. “When you want me, come to me.”

  Hermione nodded, and moved away, mixing with the crowd under the hundreds of lights in the great ball-room. Paul sighed, and stood by the door, caring little for what went on. He was not a man who really took pleasure in society, though he had cultivated his social faculties to the utmost, as being necessary to his career. The fact that all the ladies were masked dispensed him for the time from the duty of making the round of the room and speaking to all his acquaintances, and he was glad of it. But Hermione was bent upon enjoying her first masked ball, and all the freedom of moving about alone. She spoke to many men whom she knew, using a high, squeaking voice which in no way recalled her natural tones. In the course of half an hour she found Alexander Patoff talking earnestly with a lady in a white domino, whom she recognized, to her surprise, as her aunt Chrysophrasia. Alexander evidently had no idea of her identity, for he was speaking in low and passionate tones, while Miss Dabstreak, who seemed to enter into the spirit of the mystification with amazing readiness, replied in the conventional squeak. She had concealed her hands in the loose sleeves of her domino, and as she was of about the same height as Hermione, it was absolutely impossible to prove that she was not Hermione herself.

  “Hermione,” exclaimed Alexander, just as the real Hermione came up to him, “I cannot bear to hear you talk in that voice! What is the use of keeping up this ridiculous disguise? Do you not see that I am in earnest?”

  “Perfectly,” squeaked Chrysophrasia. “So am I. But somebody might hear my natural voice, you know.”

  Hermione started, and drew back a little. It was a strange position, for Alexander was evidently under the impression that he was making love to herself, and her aunt was amused by drawing him on. She hesitated, not knowing what she ought to do. It was clear that, unless she made herself known to him, he might remain under the impression that she had accepted his love-making. She waited to see what would happen. But Chrysophrasia had probably detected her, for presently the white domino moved quickly away towards the crowd. Alexander sprang forward, and would have followed, but Hermione crossed his path, and laid her hand on his sleeve.

  “Will you give me your arm, Alexander?” she said, quietly, in her natural way.

  He stopped short, stared at her, and then broke into a short, half-angry laugh. But he gave her his arm, and walked by her side, with an expression of bewilderment and annoyance on his beautiful face. Hermione was too wise to say that she had overheard the conversation, and Alexander was ashamed to own that he had made a mistake, and taken some one else for her. But by making herself known Hermione had effectually annulled whatever false impression Chrysophrasia had made upon him.

  “Do you know who that lady in the white domino is, with whom I was talking a moment ago? Did you see her?” he asked, rather nervously.

  “It is our beloved aunt Chrysophrasia,” said Hermione, calmly.

  “Good heavens! Aunt Chrysophrasia!” exclaimed Alexander, in some horror.

  “Why ‘good heavens’?” inquired Hermione. “Have you been doing anything foolish? I am sure you have been making love to her. Tell me about it.”

  “There is nothing to tell. But what a wonderful disguise! How many dances will you give me? May I have the cotillon?”

  “You may have a quadrille,” answered Hermione.

  “A quadrille, two waltzes, and the cotillon. That will do very well. As nobody knows you in that domino, we can dance as often as we please, and you will only be seen with me in the cotillon. What is your costume? I am sure it is something wonderful.”

  “How you run on!” exclaimed the young girl. “You do not give one the time to refuse one thing before you take another!”

  “That is the best way, and you know it,” answered Alexander, laughing. “A man should never give a woman time to refuse. It is the greatest mistake that can be imagined.”

  “Did aunt Chrysophrasia refuse to dance with you?” inquired Hermione.

  Alexander bit his lip, and a faint color rose in his transparent skin.

  “Aunt Chrysophrasia is a hard-hearted old person,” he replied, evasively; but he almost shuddered at the thought that under the white domino there had lurked the green eyes and the faded, sour face of his æsthetic relative.

  “To think that even she should have resisted you!” exclaimed Hermione, wickedly.

  “Better she than you,” said Alexander, lowering his tone as they passed near a group of persons who chattered loudly in feigned voices. “Better she than you, dear cousin,” he repeated, gently. “To be refused anything by you” ——

  “They do things very well here,” interrupted Hermione, pretending not to hear. “They have such magnificent rooms, and the floor is so good.”

  “Hermione, why do you” ——

  “Because,” said Hermione quickly, before he could finish his sentence, “because you say too much, cousin Alexander. I interrupt you because you go too far, and because the only possible way of checking you is to cut you short.”

  “And why must you check me? Am I rude or rough with you? Do I say anything that you should not hear? You know that I love you; why may I not tell you so? I know. You will say that Paul has spoken before me. But do you love Paul? Hermione, can you own to yourself that you love him, — not as a brother, but as the man you would choose to marry? He does not love you as I love you.”

  “Hush!” exclaimed the young girl. “You must not. I will go away and leave you.”

  “I will follow you.”

  “Why will you torment me so?” Perhaps her tone of voice did not express all the annoyance she meant to show, for Alexander did not desist. He only changed his manner, growing suddenly as soft and yielding as a girl.

  “I did not mean to annoy you,” he said. “You know that I never mean to. You must forgive me, you must be kind to me, Hermione. You have the stronger position, and you should be merciful. How can I help saying something of what I feel?”

  “You should not feel it, to begin with,” answered his cousin.

  “Will you teach me how I may not love you?” His voice dropped almost to a whisper, as he bent down to her and asked the question. But Hermione was silent for a moment, not having any very satisfactory plan to propose. Half reluctant, she sat down by him upon a sofa in the corner of an almost empty room. There were tall plants in the windows
, and the light was softened by rose-colored shades.

  “It must be a hard lesson to learn,” said Alexander, speaking again. “But if you will teach me, I will try and learn it; for I will do anything you ask me. You say I must not love you, but I love you already. When I am with you I am carried away, like a boat spinning down the Neva in the springtime. Can the river stop itself in order that what lives in it may not move any more? Can it say to the skiff, ‘Go no further,’ when the skiff is already far from the shore, at the mercy of the water?”

  “The boatman must pull hard at his oars,” laughed Hermione. “Have you never seen a caïque pull through the Devil’s Stream on the Bosphorus, at Bala Hissar? It is hard work, but it generally succeeds.”

  “A man may fight against the devil, but he cannot struggle against what he worships. Or, if he can, you must teach me how to do it, and give me some weapon to fight with.”

  “You must rely on yourself for that. You must say, ‘I will not,’ and it will be very easy. Besides,” she added, with another laugh, in which there was a rather nervous ring,— “besides, you know all this is only a comedy, or a pastime. You are not in earnest.”

  “I wish I were not,” answered Alexander, softly. “You tell me to rely upon myself. I rely on you. I love you, and that makes you stronger than me.”

  Hermione believed him, and perhaps she was right. She felt, and he made her feel, that she dominated him, and could turn him whither she would. Her pride was flattered, and though she promised herself that she would make him give up his love for her by the mere exertion of a superior common sense, she was conscious that the task was not wholly distasteful. She enjoyed the sensation of being the stronger, of realizing that Alexander was wholly at her feet and subject to her commands. That he should have gradually grown so intimate as to speak so freely to her is not altogether surprising. They were own cousins, and called each other by their Christian names. They met daily, and were often together for many consecutive hours, and Madame Patoff did her best to promote this state of things. Hermione had become accustomed to his devotion, for he had advanced by imperceptible stages. When he first said that he loved her, she took it as she might have taken such an expression from her brother, — as the exuberant expression of an affection purely platonic, not to say brotherly. When he had repeated it more earnestly, she had laughed at him, and he had laughed with her in a way which disarmed all her suspicions. But each time that he said it he laughed less, until she realized that he was not jesting. Then she reproached herself a little for having let the intimacy grow, and determined to persuade him by gentle means that he had made a mistake. She felt that she was responsible for his conduct, because she had not been wise enough to stop him at the outset, and she therefore felt also that it would be unjust to make a violent scene, and that it was altogether out of the question to speak to Paul about the matter. To tell the truth, she was not sorry that it was out of the question, and this was the most dangerous element in her intimacy with Alexander. When a young woman who has not a profound experience of the world undertakes to convince a man by sheer argument that he ought not to love her, the result is likely to be unsatisfactory, and she stands less chance of persuading than of being persuaded. A man who persuades a woman that she is able to influence him, and that he is wholly at her mercy, has already succeeded in making himself interesting to her; and she will not readily abandon the exercise of her power, since she is provided with the too plausible excuse that she is doing him good, and consequently is herself doing right.

  “I wish you would really listen to me, and take my advice,” said Hermione, after a pause. “There is so much that is good in you, — so much that is far better than this foolish love-making.”

  Alexander Patoff smiled softly, and his brown eyes gazed dreamily at hers, that just showed through the openings in the black domino.

  “If there is anything good in me, you have put it there,” he answered. “Do not take it away; do not give me the physic of good advice.”

  “I think you need it more than usual to-night,” said his cousin. “You are more than usually foolish, you know.”

  “You are more than usually wise. But if you tell me to do anything to-night, I will do it.”

  “Then go away and dance with some one else,” laughed Hermione. To her surprise, Alexander rose quietly, and with one gentle glance turned away. Then she repented.

  “Alexander!” she exclaimed, almost involuntarily.

  “Yes,” he answered, coming back, and seating himself again by her side.

  “I did not tell you to come back,” she said, amused at his docility.

  “No — but I came,” he replied. “You called me. I thought you had forgotten something. Shall I go away again?”

  “No. You may stay, if you will be good,” said she, leaning back and looking away from him.

  “I promise. Besides, you admitted a moment ago that I was very good. Perhaps I am too good, and that is the reason why you sent me away.”

  “I did not say you were good. I said there was some good in you. You always take everything for granted.”

  “I will take all you grant,” said he.

  “I grant nothing. It is you who fancy that I do. You have altogether too much imagination.”

  “I never need it with you, even if I have it,” answered Alexander. “You are infinitely beyond anything I ever imagined in my wildest dreams.”

  “So are you,” laughed Hermione. “Only — it is in a different way.”

  “Why do you think I like you so much?” asked her cousin, suddenly changing his tone.

  “Because you ought not to,” she answered without hesitation.

  “Then you think that as soon as any one tells me that I should not like a thing, I make up my mind to like it and to have it? No, that is not the reason I love you.”

  “It was ‘liking,’ not ‘loving,’ a moment ago,” observed Hermione. “Please always say ‘liking.’ It is a much better word.”

  “Perhaps. It leaves more to the imagination, of which you say I have so much. The reason I like you so much, Hermione, is because you are so honest. You always say just what you mean.”

  “Yes. The difficulty lies in making you understand what I mean.”

  “As the Frenchman said when a man misunderstood him. You furnish me with an argument; you are not bound to furnish me with an understanding. No, I am afraid that would be asking the impossible. It is easier for a woman to talk than for a man to know what she thinks.”

  “I thought you said I was honest. Please explain,” returned Hermione.

  “Honesty does not always carry conviction. I mean that you are evidently most wonderfully honest, from your own point of view. If I could make my opinion yours, everything would be settled very soon.”

  “In what way?”

  “Why should I tell you? I have told you so often, and you will not believe me. If I say it, you will send me away again. I do not say it, — another proof of my goodness to-night.”

  “I am deeply sensible,” answered Hermione, with a laugh. “Come, I will give you one dance, and then you must go.”

  So they left their seat, and went into the ball-room just as the musicians began to play Nur für Natur; and the enchanting strains of the waltz carried them away in the swaying movement, and did them no manner of good. Just such conversations had taken place before, and would take place again so long as Hermione maintained the possibility of converting Alexander to the platonic view of cousinly affection. But each time some chance expression, some softer tone of voice, some warmer gleam of light in the Russian’s brown eyes, betrayed that he was gaining ground rather than losing anything of the advantage he had already obtained.

  Half an hour later Hermione laid her hand on Paul’s arm, and looked up rather timidly into his eyes through the holes in her domino. His expression was very cold and hard, but it changed as he recognized her.

  “At last,” he said happily, as he led her away.

  “At la
st,” she echoed, with a little sigh. “Do you want to dance?” she asked. “It is so hot; let us go and sit down somewhere.”

  Almost by accident they came to the place where Hermione had sat with Alexander. There was no one there, and they installed themselves upon the same sofa.

  “I thought you were never coming,” said Paul. “After all, what does it matter whether people see us together or not? I never can understand what amusement there is, after the first five minutes, in rushing about in a domino and trying to mystify people.”

  “No,” answered Hermione, “it is not very amusing. I would much rather sit quietly and talk with some one I know and who knows me.”

  “I want to tell you something to-night, dear,” said Paul, after a short silence. “Do you mind if I tell you now?”

  “No bad news?” asked Hermione, rather nervously.

  “No. It is simply this: I have made up my mind that I must speak to your father to-morrow. Do not be startled, darling. This position cannot last. I am not acting an honorable part, and he expects me to ask him the question. I know you have objected to my going to him for a long time, but I feel that the thing must be done. There can be no good objection to our marriage, — Mr. Carvel made Griggs understand that. Tell me, is there any real reason why I should not speak?”

  Hermione turned her head away. Under the long sleeves of her domino her small hands were tightly clasped together.

  “Is there any reason, dear?” repeated Paul, very gently. But as her silence continued his lips set themselves firmly, and his face grew slowly pale.

  “Will you please speak, darling?” he said, in changed tones. “I am very nervous,” he added, with a short, harsh laugh.

  “Oh — Paul! Don’t!” cried Hermione. Her voice seemed to choke her as she spoke. Then she took courage, and continued more calmly: “Please, please wait a little longer, — it is such a risk!”

  Paul laughed again, almost roughly.

  “A risk! What risk? Your father has done all but give his formal consent. What possible danger can there be?”