THE MASK
Masked! Only her mouth and chin were visible, and several little pieces
of court-plaster effectually disguised these. There _was_ a mystery. He
to come blindfolded and she to wear a mask! Extraordinary! There was
something more than a jest: she really did not wish to be known, and the
reason lay far back of all this, beyond his grasp. He stood there
dumfounded. She rose. The movement was elegant.
"And this," she said ironically, "is the gentleman who leaned out of the
window?"
He brought all his faculties together, for he knew that he would need
them in this encounter. "Supposing I had fallen out of it? Well, it
could not have mattered. I should not have been more at your feet than I
am now." This was very good, considering how dry his tongue was.
"If you had fallen out? I had not thought of that. A modern Ulysses,
house-broken, and an itinerant siren! You had been wise to have stuffed
your ears that night."
"My mythology is rusty. And I much prefer Penelope. She interests me
vastly more than the ancient prize-fighter."
"But sit down, Mr. Hillard, sit down." The lady with the mask motioned
him to a chair directly under the light. She wished to study his face
while she talked.
Hillard reached the chair successfully enough, but he never could
recollect how. He sat down as a bashful man sits down in a crowded
ball-room, with his knees drawn in tightly and his feet at sympathetic
angles. He knew that she would have the best of him in this engagement.
All the bright things to say would come to him after he had gone home.
It was far easier to write letters. That mask! One might as well
converse with the Sphinx. His face was hers to study; her emotions would
be wholly her own.
Presently she laughed with malice.
"You are not comfortable in that chair."
"That is true; and yet it is soft and roomy. I am uneasy. Perhaps you
recall to my subconsciousness a period in my former existence on earth;
or, if you will, one of my ancestors."
"I fail to understand."
"Well, a Hillard two hundred years ago had his head cut off by an ax.
His executioner wore a mask."
"A mistake. Your ancestor should have been hanged."
"And I along with him, you would imply?"
"Are you not Irish? I have known Irishmen by the name of Hillard."
"They were in disguise. But I have a generous strain of Irish blood in
me. Otherwise I shouldn't have had the courage to follow up an adventure
like this."
"Thanks. The compliment is rather ambiguous."
"My compliments can not possibly be more ambiguous than your appearance.
Surely, there will be an hour for unmasking."
"It has already begun, Mr. Hillard."
"So I am the one who is to be unmasked? Well, I have only the mask
nature gave to me. I wish she had been more liberal. But I shall see
what can be done with it."
"Is there any mask quite so terrible, quite so deceptive, as this very
mask nature gives us? Can it not lie adroitly, break hearts, overthrow
empires? You can judge a character by this mask sometimes, but never the
working of the mind behind it." She resumed her seat on the divan.
"I wish I could read yours."
"And much good it would do you." She smiled, rather ruefully Hillard
thought.
He took note of her teeth, and felt a sudden tinge of regret. One may
disguise the face and hair, but the teeth are always the same. Two lower
teeth on the right side appeared to be gone; the others were firm and
glistening white. It was a pity, for a woman's teeth are as much her
glory as her hair.
"I am curious to learn what you brought for dinner."
He enumerated the delicacies.
"You have evidently studied your Lucullus," she said.
Silence. The ruddy light on her hair fascinated him.
"What is it?" she demanded.
"Your hair," with a simplicity which silenced her. "You have the most
beautiful hair I have ever seen."
"Thank you. And yet, for all you know, it may be a fine wig."
"If it is, I shall never be sure of anything again. Am I in prosaic New
York? Have you not, by some carpet-magic, transported me to old Europe?
If a dozen conspirators came in in cowls to render me the oath, I should
not be at all surprised."
"There is no magic; only a mask."
"And there is no way of seeing behind that?"
"None, absolutely none. I am told that you are a gentleman; so I am
confident that you will not stoop to use force."
"Only the force of eloquence, if ever I may lay claim to that again."
"You are beginning well. For I tell you, Mr. Hillard, I shall expect but
the most brilliant wit from you to-night. As for me, I shall only
interpolate occasionally. Now, begin."
"I am not used to dancing without the pole."
"You must learn. Dance!"
"Upon what--nothing? And how shall I know that my dancing pleases you?"
"I agree to tell you. I wear this mask to-night because I am taking a
surreptitious leaf out of my book of cares."
"Cares? Have you any?"
"If I were without cares it would not be necessary to seek diversions of
this equivocal character." She crossed her arms. The magic of old Venice
seemed at that moment to enfold her.
"You are, then, seeking a diversion?"
"Nothing more or less. Do not flatter yourself that there is anything
personal or romantic on my side. I am bored."
"I am wholly in your hands," he said; "and they are very beautiful
hands."
"Is there anything more beautiful than a cat's paw, when the claws are
hidden? Never judge a woman by her hands." Nevertheless she buried her
hands in the depths of a down-pillow. She had forgotten her rings. She
slipped them off and managed to hide them.
"I promise to remember. Your letters--" he began diffidently. Where the
deuce was his tongue? Was he to be tongue-tied all the evening before
this Columbine, who, with the aid of her mask, was covertly laughing at
his awkwardness?
"My letters? A woman often writes what she will not say, and says what
she will not write. Did you not ask me to disillusion you?"
"Yes, but softly, softly. I begin to believe one thing: you brought me
here to teach me a lesson. Gentlemen should never use the personal
column."
"Nor should ladies read it. I am not saving any mercy for myself!" with
laughter.
"Shall I begin with my past?"
"Something less horrifying, if you please!"
"I object to the word nice," he said, seeking a new channel, for he was
not steering very well in those he had so far selected.
"The word was employed negligently. Your friends used the word."
"I should have preferred milksop!" He was growing impatient. "Hadn't you
better try some new kind of torture?"
"This is only a skirmish; your real torture hasn't even begun yet. But
this will give you an appetite. I do not drink champagne, but the
chambertin will do nicely. Oh, I propose that you shall pay for this
dinner, Mr. Hillard; pay for the privilege of sharing it with me."
"Bring on the check. I should like to settle the bill at once, and have
it off my mind."
"You may take off your gloves," she countered. "I know that you must
feel uncomfortable with them on. To clasp one's own hands is a kind of
personal sympathy. Try it."
He drew them off, not ungracefully, and tucked them away. He spread his
thin brown muscular fingers a few times, then folded his arms.
"You look quite Napoleonic in that pose."
"If this were only Elba and not St. Helena! I should be coming back to
you some day."
"I shall credit that against the partridges."
This time her laughter was relaxed and joyful. And somehow he felt more
at ease. He was growing accustomed to the mask. He stretched his legs
and fingered his nether lip.
"Have you not somewhere an invisible cloak?"
"I had one that night, which nature lent me," she answered readily. "I
was so invisible to you that I heard the policeman call out your name. I
thank you for insisting that I was not a chorus-lady."
Here was a revelation which accounted for many things. "I haven't been
very fortunate so far in this adventure."
"That is rank ingratitude. I am of the opinion that fortune has highly
favored you."
"But the mask, the mask! If you heard the policeman call my name, you
must have heard him speak of one Leddy Lightfinger."
"I did indeed. And is it not possible that I am that very person?"
Hillard dropped his hand toward his watch. "Why do you hate Italy?"
She sat straight, and what little he could see of her mouth had
hardened.
"There will be no retrospection this evening, if you please," her voice
rather metallic.
The mystery lifted its head again. One does not hate a country without a
strong and vital reason. Was Giovanni partly right, after all? Was this
a kind of trap, a play to gain his interest? Was her singing under his
window purely accidental? She hated Italy. The State or the Church? More
likely the State. And what had the State done to her or she to the
State? A conspirator, in need of funds and men? If this was the case,
she was not going about her cause scientifically. Italy had no hold upon
anything of his save his love of beauty. Perhaps her reason for hating
Italy was individual and singular: as she would have hated any other
country, had her unhappiness originated there.
"Will you not sing?" he asked. This was an inspiration. Music might
assist in melting her new reserve.
"You recollect, then, that I possess a voice?"
"It is all I have to recollect. Tell me, whither is all this to lead?"
"To the door, and into the fog again."
"On my word, I'm half inclined to believe you to be an anarchist or a
Red, or something on that order."
"On account of my hair?" She laughed again. "Put yourself at ease. I am
neither Leddy Lightfinger nor a socialist. There are no dynamite bombs
in this house. I despise any organization which aims to destroy society.
Society is bad enough as it is; but think of trying to readjust it!"
"I give up the puzzle."
"That is better."
It is difficult to seek and hold a pair of eyes partly hidden behind a
mask. Several times he made the attempt, but his eyes were first to
lower.
Her severity, her irony and her apparent lack of warmth were mere
matters of calculation. Her plan was to inspire him with trepidation, to
keep him always at arm's length, for his own safety as well as hers. She
knew something of men. Even the best, if suddenly thrown into an affair
so strange as this, might commit an irreparable blunder; and this she
did not want Hillard to do. She was secretly pleased with his strong
face and shapely head. There was neither beard nor mustache to hide the
virtues or defects. The chin was square but not heavy, the mouth
humorous, kindly and firm, the nose bridged; and the brown eyes, sleepy
yet with latent fires, were really handsome. She knew all about him; she
was not afraid to be alone with him; nor was it really necessary to wear
a mask. But the romance in her heart, that she believed to be dead, was
not dead, only waiting to be rekindled. True, they were never to meet
again; it was all to begin to-night and end to-night. No man was likely
to forget a face met under such whimsical and extraordinary
circumstances; so he must not have hers to remember. She arose.
"I will sing!"
"That is more than I dared to hope." He made as though to rise.
"Sit down. I do not play by note; my memory is very good. While I am
singing I should much prefer you to remain where you are."
He obeyed without protest, and she went to the piano. Above the
instrument was a rare old Venetian mirror; in it he could see her face
fairly well. And where had he seen that mirror before?
"What shall it be?" she asked, and he forgot the mirror.
"The song you sang under my window."
"But that is for the male voice!"
"You sang it very well, nevertheless. I have a good memory, too." He
leaned forward, his arms crossed on his knees. Was there ever, in all
the world, such an Arabian night?
She sang, but without that buoyant note of the first night. One after
another he called out the popular airs of the old light operas. She had
them all on her tongue's end.
"Light opera appeals to you?" She had followed in the mirror his
slightest move. Was she disappointed?
Where had he seen that copy of Botticelli before? If only there was a
little more light.
"Pardon me," he said. "You asked--?"
She repeated her question, wondering what had drawn his attention.
"I like my grand opera after dinner. After dinner I shall want Verdi,
Berlioz, Gounod."
"But after dinner I may not care to sing." She spoke in German.
He was not expecting this tongue; besides, his German had never been a
finished product. For all that, he made a passable reply.
"You speak as many languages as a Swiss hotel-concierge."
"I wish I did. My mother had one idea in regard to my youth: I should
speak four languages and eventually become a great diplomat. As it
stands, I speak indifferent French and German, and am not in the
diplomatic service. My mother had one of the loveliest voices. It was a
joy to hear her speak, now Italian, now German, now French. She
understood that in these days one does not travel far with Greek and
Latin, though they come in handy when you strike old inscriptions. We
were great comrades. It was rare fun to go with her on an
antique-hunting expedition. They never fooled her nor got the better of
her in a bargain."
She liked the way he spoke of his mother.
"But you," he said; "you are not Italian."
She smiled.
"You are neither French, German nor English."
She still smiled, but to the smile she added a gentle shrug.
"You are American--like myself!" he hazarded.
Her fingers stirred over the keys again, and Grieg's _Papillon_
fluttered softly from flower to flower.