THE MAN IN THE IRONED MASK.
The episode that turned Clorinda Bell's thoughts in the direction of Old
Maidenhood was not wanting in strangeness. She was an actress of whom
everybody spoke well, excepting actresses. This was because she was so
respectable. Respectability is all very well for persons who possess no
other ability; but bohemians rightly feel that genius should be above
that sort of thing. Clorinda never went anywhere without her mother.
This lady--a portly taciturn dame, whose hair had felt the snows of
sixty winters--was as much a part of her as a thorn is of a rose. She
accompanied her always--except when she was singing--and loomed like
some more substantial shadow before or behind her at balls and
receptions, at concerts and operas, private views and church bazaars.
Her mother was always with her behind the scenes. She helped her to make
up and to unmake. She became the St. Peter of the dressing-room in her
absence. At the Green Room Club they will tell you how a royal personage
asking permission to come and congratulate her, received the answer: "I
shall be most honored--in the presence of my mother."
There were those who wished Clorinda had been born an orphan.
But the graver sort held Miss Bell up as a typical harbinger of the new
era, when actresses would keep mothers instead of dog-carts. There was
no intrinsic reason, they said, why actresses should not be received at
Court, and visit the homes of the poor. Clorinda was very charming. She
was tall and fair as a lily, with dashes of color stolen from the rose
and the daffodil, for her eyes had a sparkle and her cheeks a flush and
her hair was usually golden. Not the least of her physical charms was
the fact that she had numerous admirers. But it was understood that she
kept them at a distance and that they worshipped there. The Society
journals, to which Clorinda was indebted for considerable information
about herself, often stated that she intended to enter a convent, as her
higher nature found scant satisfaction in stage triumphs, and she had
refused to exchange her hand either for a coronet or a pile of dollars.
They frequently stated the opposite, but a Society journal cannot always
be contradicting a contemporary. It must sometimes contradict itself, as
a proof of impartiality. Clorinda let all these rumors surge about her
unheeded, and her managers had to pay for the advertisement. The money
came back to them, though, for Clorinda was a sure draw. She brought the
odor of sanctity over the footlights, and people have almost as much
curiosity to see a saint as a sinner--especially when the saint is
beautiful.
Gentlemen in particular paid frequent pilgrimages to the shrine of the
saint, and adored her from the ten-and-sixpenny pews. There was at this
period a noteworthy figure in London dress circles and stalls, an
inveterate first-nighter, whose identity was the subject of considerable
speculation. He was a mystery in a swallow-tail coat. No one had ever
seen him out of it. He seemed to go through life armed with a white
breastplate, starched shot-proof and dazzling as a grenadier's cuirass.
What wonder that a wit (who had become a dramatic critic through drink)
called him. "The Man in the Ironed Mask." Between the acts he wore a
cloak, a crush-hat and a cigarette. Nobody ever spoke to him nor did he
ever reply. He could not be dumb, because he had been heard to murmur
"Brava, bravissima," in a soft but incorrect foreign manner. He was very
handsome, with a high, white forehead of the Goth order of architecture,
and dark, Moorish eyes. Nobody even knew his name, for he went to the
play quite anonymously. The pit took him for a critic, and the critics
for a minor poet. He had appeared on the scene (or before it) only
twelve months ago, but already he was a distinguished man. Even the
actors and actresses had come to hear of him, and not a few had peeped
at him between their speeches. He was certainly a sight for the "gods."
Latterly he had taken to frequenting the _Lymarket_, where Miss Clorinda
Bell was "starring" for a season of legitimate drama. It was the only
kind the scrupulous actress would play in. Whenever there was no first
night on anywhere else, he went to see Clorinda. Only a few rivals and
the company knew of his constancy to the entertainment. Clorinda was, it
will be remembered, one of the company.
It was the _entr'acte_ and the orchestra was playing a gavotte, to which
the eighteenth-century figures on the drop scene were dancing. The Man
in the Ironed Mask strolled in the lobby among the critics, overhearing
the views they were not going to express in print. Clorinda Bell's
mother was brushing her child's magnificent hair into a more tragical
attitude in view of the fifth act. The little room was sacred to the
"star," the desire of so many moths. Neither maid nor dresser entered
it, for Mrs. Bell was as devoted to her daughter as her daughter to her,
and tended her as zealously as if she were a stranger.
"Yes, but why doesn't he speak?" said Clorinda.
"You haven't given him a chance, darling," said her mother.
"Nonsense--there is the language of flowers. All my lovers commence by
talking that."
"You get so many bouquets, dear. It may be--as you say his appearance is
so distinguished--that he dislikes so commonplace a method."
"Well, if he doesn't want to throw his love at my feet, he might have
tried to send it me in a billet-doux."
"That is also commonplace. Besides, he may know that all your letters
are delivered to me, and opened by me. The fact has often enough
appeared in print."
"Ah, yes, but genius will find out a way. You remember Lieutenant
Campbell, who was so hit the moment he saw me as Perdita that he went
across the road to the telegraph-office and wired, 'Meet me at supper,
top floor, Piccadilly Restaurant, 11.15,' so that the doorkeeper sent
the message direct to the prompter, who gave it me as I came off with
Florizel and Camilla. That is the sort of man I admire!"
"But you soon tired of him, darling."
"Oh, mother! How can you say so? I loved him the whole run of the
piece."
"Yes, dear, but it was only Shakespeare."
"Would you have love a Burlesque? 'A Winter's Tale' is long enough for
any flirtation. Let me see, was it Campbell or Belfort who shot himself?
I for----oh! oh! that hairpin is irritating me, mother."
"There! There! Is that easier?"
"Thanks! There's only the Man in the Ironed Mask irritating me now. His
dumb admiration provokes me."
"But you provoke his dumb admiration. And are you sure it is
admiration?"
"People don't go to see Shakespeare seventeen times. I wonder who he
is--an Italian count most likely. Ah, how his teeth flash beneath his
moustache!"
"You make me feel quite curious about him. Do you think I could peep at
him from the wing?"
"No, mother, you shall not be put to the inconvenience. It would give
you a crick in your neck. If you desire to see him, I will send for
him."
"Very well, dear," said the older woman submissively, for she was
accustomed to the gratification of her daughter's whims.
So when the Man in the Ironed Mask resumed his seat, a programme girl
slipped a note into his hand. He read it, his face impassive as his
Ironed Mask. When the play was over, he sauntered round to the squalid
court in which the stage door was located and stalked nonchalantly up
the stairs. The doorkeeper was too impressed by his air not to take him
for granted. He seemed to go on instinctively till he arrived at a door
placarded, "Miss Clorinda Bell--Private."
He knocked, and the silvery accents he had been listening to all the
evening bade him come in. The beautiful Clorinda, clad in diaphanous
white and radiating perfumes, received him with an intoxicating smile.
"It is so kind of you to come and see me," she said.
He made a stately inclination. "The obligation is mine," he said. "I am
greatly interested in the drama. This is the seventeenth time I have
been to see you."
"I meant here," she said piqued, though the smile stayed on.
"Oh, but I understood----" His eyes wandered interrogatively about the
room.
"Yes, I know my mother is out," she replied. "She is on the stage
picking up the bouquets. I believe she sent you a note. I do not know
why she wants to see you, but she will be back soon. If you do not mind
being left alone with me----"
"Pray do not apologize, Miss Bell," he said considerately.
"It is so good of you to say so. Won't you sit down?"
The Man in the Ironed Mask sat down beside the dazzling Clorinda and
stared expectantly at the door. There was a tense silence. His cloak
hung negligently upon his shoulders. He held his crush hat calmly in his
hand.
Clorinda was highly chagrined. She felt as if she could slap his face
and kiss the place to make it well.
"Did you like the play?" she said, at last.
He elevated his dark eyebrows. "Is it not obvious?"
"Not entirely. You might come to see the players."
"Quite so, quite so."
He leaned his handsome head on his arm and looked pensively at the
floor. It was some moments before he broke the silence again. But it was
only by rising to his feet. He walked towards the door.
"I am sorry I cannot stay any longer," he said.
"Oh, no! You mustn't go without seeing my mother. She will be terribly
disappointed."
"Not less so than myself at missing her. Good-night, Miss Bell." He made
his prim, courtly bow.
"Oh, but you must see her! Come again to-morrow night, anyhow,"
exclaimed Clorinda desperately. And when his footsteps had died away
down the stairs, she could not repress several tears of vexation. Then
she looked hurriedly into a little mirror and marvelled silently.
"Is he gone already?" said her mother, entering after knocking
cautiously at the door.
"Yes, he is insane."
"Madly in love with you?"
"Madly out of love with me."
He came again the next night, stolid and courteous. To Clorinda's
infinite regret her mother had been taken ill and had gone home early in
the carriage. It was raining hard. Clorinda would be reduced to a
hansom. "They call it the London gondola," she said, "but it is least
comfortable when there's most water. You have to be framed in like a
cucumber in a hothouse."
"Indeed! Personally I never travel in hansoms. And from what you tell me
I should not like to make the experiment to-night. Good-bye, Miss Bell;
present my regrets to your mother."
"Deuce take the donkey! He might at least offer me a seat in his
carriage," thought Clorinda. Aloud she said: "Under the circumstances
may I venture to ask you to see my mother at the house? Here is our
private address. Won't you come to tea to-morrow?"
He took the card, bowed silently and withdrew.
In such wise the courtship proceeded for some weeks, the invalid being
confined to her room at teatime and occupied in picking up bouquets by
night. He always came to tea in his cloak, and wore his Ironed Mask, and
was extremely solicitous about Clorinda's mother. It became evident that
so long as he had the ghost of an excuse for talking of the absent, he
would never talk of Clorinda herself. At last she was reduced to
intimating that she would be found at the matinée of a new piece next
day (to be given at the theatre by a débutante) and that there would be
plenty of room in her box. Clorinda was determined to eliminate her
mother, who was now become an impediment instead of a pretext.
But when the afternoon came, she looked for him in vain. She chatted
lightly with the acting-manager, who was lounging in the vestibule, but
her eye was scanning the horizon feverishly.
"Is this woman going to be a success?" she asked.
"Oh, yes," said the acting-manager promptly.
"How do you know?"
"I just saw the flowers drive up."
[Illustration: "_I just saw the flowers drive up._"]
Clorinda laughed. "What's the piece like?"
"I only saw one rehearsal. It seemed great twaddle. But the low com. has
got a good catchword, so there's some chance of its going into the
evening bills."
"Oh, by the way, have you seen anything of that--that--the man in the
Ironed Mask, I think they call him?"
"Do you mean here--this afternoon?"
"Yes."
"No. Do you expect him?"
"Oh, no; but I was wondering if he would turn up. I hear he is so fond
of this theatre."
"Bless your soul, he'd never be seen at a matinée."
"Why not?" asked Clorinda, her heart fluttering violently.
"Because he'd have to be in morning dress," said the actor-manager,
laughing heartily.
To Clorinda his innocent merriment seemed the laughter of a mocking
fiend. She turned away sick at heart. There was nothing for it but to
propose outright at teatime. Clorinda did so, and was accepted without
further difficulty.
"And now, dearest," she said, after she had been allowed to press the
first kiss of troth upon his coy lips, "I should like to know who I am
going to be?"
"Clorinda Bell, of course," he said. "That is the advantage actresses
have. They need not take their husband's name in vain."
"Yes, but what am _I_ to call you, dearest?"
"Dearest?" he echoed enigmatically. "Let me be dearest--for a little
while."
She forbore to press him further. For the moment it was enough to have
won him. The sweetness of that soothed her wounded vanity at his
indifference to the prize coveted by men and convents. Enough that she
was to be mated to a great man, whose speech and silence alike bore the
stamp of individuality.
"Dearest be it," she answered, looking fondly into his Moorish eyes.
"Dearest! Dearest!"
"Thank you, Clorinda. And now may I see your mother? I have never learnt
what she has to say to me."
"What does it matter now, dearest?"
"More than ever," he said gravely, "now she is to be my mother-in-law."
Clorinda bit her lip at the dignified rebuke, and rang for his
mother-in-law elect, who came from the sick room in her bonnet.
"Mother," she said, as the good dame sailed through the door, "let me
introduce you to my future husband."
[Illustration: _A Family Reunion._]
The old lady's face lit up with surprise and excitement. She stood still
for an instant, taking in the relationship so suddenly sprung upon her.
Then she darted with open arms towards the Man in the Ironed Mask and
strained his Mask to her bosom.
"My son! my son!" she cried, kissing him passionately. He blushed like a
stormy sunset and tried to disengage himself.
"Do not crumple him, mother," said Clorinda pettishly. "Your zeal is
overdone."
"But he is my long-lost Absalom! Think of the rapture of having him
restored to me thus. O what a happy family we shall be! Bless you,
Clorinda. Bless you, my children. When is the wedding to be?"
The Man in the Ironed Mask had regained his composure.
"Mother," he said sternly, "I am glad to see you looking so well. I
always knew you would fall on your feet if I dropped you. I have no
right to ask it--but as you seem to expect me to marry your daughter, a
little information as to the circumstances under which you have supplied
me with a sister would be not unwelcome.
"Stupid boy! Don't you understand that Miss Bell was good enough to
engage me as mother and travelling companion when you left me to starve?
Or rather, the impresario who brought her over from America engaged me,
and Clorinda has been, oh, so good to me! My little drapery business
failed three months after you left me to get a stranger to serve. I had
no resource but--to go on the stage."
The old woman was babbling on, but the cold steel of Clorinda's gaze
silenced her.
The outraged actress turned haughtily to the Man in the Ironed Mask.
"So _this_ is your mother?" she said with infinite scorn.
"So this is _not_ your mother!" he said with infinite indignation.
"Were you ever really simple enough to suspect me of having a mother?"
she retorted contemptuously. "I had her on the hire system. Don't you
know that a combination of maid and mother is the newest thing in
actresses' wardrobes? It is safer then having a maid, and more
comfortable than having a mother."
"But I _have_ been a mother to you, Clorinda," the old dame pleaded.
"Oh, yes, you have always been a good, obedient woman. I am not finding
fault with you, and I have no wish to part with you. I do find fault and
I shall certainly part with your son."
"Nonsense," said the Man in the Ironed Mask. "The situation is
essentially unchanged. She is still the mother of one of us, she can
still become the mother-in-law of the other. Besides, Clorinda, that is
the only way of keeping the secret in the family."
"You threaten?"
"Certainly. You are a humbug. So am I. United we stand. Separated, you
fall."
"You fall, too."
"Not from such a height. I am still on the first rungs."
"Nor likely to get any higher."
"Indeed? Your experience of me should have taught you different. High as
you are, I can raise you yet higher if you will only lift me up to you."
"How do you climb?" she said, his old ascendency reasserting itself.
"By standing still. Profound meditation on the philosophy of modern
society has convinced me that the only way left for acquiring notoriety
is to do nothing. Every other way has been exploited and is suspected.
It is only a year since the discovery flashed upon me, it is only a year
that I have been putting it in practice. And yet, mark the result!
Already I am a known man. I had the _entrée_ to no society; for
half-a-guinea a night (frequently paid in paper money) I have mingled
with the most exclusive. When there was no _premiere_ anywhere, I went
to see you--not from any admiration of you, but because the _Lymarket_
is the haunt of the best society, and in addition, the virtue of
Shakespeare and of yourself attracts there a highly respectable class of
bishops whom I have not the opportunity of meeting elsewhere. By doing
nothing I fascinated you--somebody was sure to be fascinated by it at
last, as the dove flutters into the jaws of the lethargic serpent--by
continuing to do nothing I completed my conquest. Had I met your
advances, you would have repelled mine. My theories have been completely
demonstrated, and but for the accident of our having a common
mother----"
"Speak for yourself," said Clorinda haughtily.
"It is for myself that I am speaking. When we are one, I shall continue
this policy of masterly inactivity of which I claim the invention,
though it has long been known in the germ. Everybody knows for instance
that not to trouble to answer letters is the surest way of acquiring the
reputation of a busy man, that not to accept invitations is an
infallible way of getting more, that not to care a jot about the
feelings of the rest of the household, is an unfailing means of
enforcing universal deference. But the glory still remains to him who
first grasped this great law in its generalized form, however familiar
one or two isolated cases of it may be to the world. 'Do nothing' is the
last word of social science, as 'Nil admirari' was its first. Just as
silence is less self-contradictory than speech, so is inaction a safer
foundation of fame than action. Inaction is perfect. The moment you do
anything you are in the region of incompleteness, of definiteness. Your
work may be outdone--or undone. Your inventions may be improved upon,
your victories annulled, your popular books ridiculed, your theories
superseded, your paintings decried, the seamy side of your explanations
shown up. Successful doing creates not only enemies but the material for
their malice to work upon. Only by not having done anything to deserve
success can you be sure of surviving the reaction which success always
brings. To be is higher than to do. To be is calm, large, elemental; to
do is trivial, artificial, fussy. To be has been the moth of the English
aristocracy, it is the secret of their persistence. _Qui s'excuse
s'accuse._ He who strives to justify his existence imperils it. To be is
inexpugnable, to do is dangerous. The same principle rules in all
departments of social life. What is a successful reception? A gathering
at which everybody _is_. Nobody does anything. Nobody enjoys anything.
There everybody _is_--if only for five minutes each, and whatever the
crush and discomfort. You are there--and there you _are_, don't you
know? What is a social lion? A man who _is_ everywhere. What is social
ambition? A desire to _be_ in better people's drawing-rooms. What is it
for which people barter health, happiness, even honor? To _be_ on
certain pieces of flooring inaccessible to the mass. What is the glory
of doing compared with the glory of being? Let others elect to do, I
elect to _be_."
"So long as you do not choose to be my husband----"
"It is husband or brother," he said, threateningly.
"Of course. I become your sister by rejecting you, do I not?"
"Don't trifle. You understand what I mean. I will let the world know
that your mother is mine."
They stood looking at each other in silent defiance. At last Clorinda
spoke:
"A compromise! let the world know that my mother is yours."
"I see. Pose as your brother!"
"Yes. That will help you up a good many rungs. I shall not deny I am
your sister. My mother will certainly not deny that you are her son."
"Done! So long as my theories are not disproved. Conjugate the verb 'to
be,' and you shall be successful. Let me see. How does it run? I
am--your brother, thou art--my sister, she is--my mother,--we are--her
children, you are--my womankind, they are--all spoofed."
So the man in the Ironed Mask turned out to be the brother of the great
and good actress, Clorinda Bell. And several people had known it all
along, for what but fraternal interest had taken him so often to the
_Lymarket_? And when his identity leaked out, Society ran after him, and
he gave the interviewers interesting details of his sister's early
years. And everyone spoke of his mother, and of his solicitous
attendance upon her. And in due course the tale of his virtues reached a
romantic young heiress who wooed and won him. And so he continued
_being_, till he was--no more. By his own request they buried him in an
Ironed Mask, and put upon his tomb the profound inscription
"HERE LIES THE MAN WHO WAS."
* * * * *
And this was why Clorinda, disgusted with men and lovers, and unable to
marry her brother, caught at the notion of the Old Maids' Club and
called upon Lillie.
It was almost as good a cover as a mother, and it was well to have
something ready in case she lost her, as you cannot obtain a second
mother even on the hire system. But Lord Silverdale's report consisted
of one word, "Dangerous!"--and he rejoiced at the whim which enabled him
thus to protect the impulsive little girl he loved.
Clorinda divined from Lillie's embarrassment next day that she was to be
blackballed.
"I am afraid," she hastened to say, "that on second thoughts I must
withdraw my candidature, as I could not make a practice of coming here
without my mother."
Lillie referred to the rules. "Married women are admitted," she said
simply. "I presume, therefore, your mother----"
"It's just like your presumption," interrupted Clorinda, and flouncing
angrily out of the Club, she invited a journalist to tea.
Next day the _Moon_ said she was going to join the Old Maids' Club.