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."
[Illustration: "She dropped him a very low, very slow, very marvellous
courtesy"]
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
Noblement
On s'avance;
On fait trois pas de côté
Deux battus, un jeté
Sans rompre la cadence----"
Then whispered, smiling:
"You are quite perfect, Duane; keep your head level, dear:
"Chassez
Rechassez
En mesure!
Saluez--
Gravement
Noblement
On s'avance
Sans 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.
"Where are you going, pretty mask?" he inquired, wending his pace and
trying to recognise the costume in the uncertain cross light.
But she merely laughed and continued to retreat before him, keeping the
distance between them, hastening her steps whenever he struck a faster
gait, pausing and looking back at him with a mocking smile when his
steps slackened; a gracefully malicious, tormenting, laughing creature
of lace and silk, whose retreat was a challenge, whose every movement
and gesture seemed instinct with the witchery of provocation.
On the edge of the ring of tables she paused, picked up a goblet, held
it out to a passing servant, who immediately filled the glass.
Then, before Duane could catch her, she drained the goblet to his health
and fled into the shadows, he hard on her heels, pressing her closer,
closer, until the pace became too hot for her, and she turned to face
him, panting and covering her masked face with her fan.
"Now, my fair unknown, we shall pay a few penalties," he said with
satisfaction; but she defended herself so adroitly that he could not
reach her mask.
"Be fair to me," she gasped at last; "why are you so rough with me
when--when you need not be? I knew you at once, Jack."
And she dropped her arms, standing resistless, breathing fast, her
masked face frankly upturned to be kissed.
"Now, who the devil," thought Duane, "have I got in my arms? And for
whom does she take me?"
He gazed searchingly into the slitted eye-holes; the eyes appeared to be
blue, as well as he could make out. He looked at the fresh laughing
mouth, a young, sensitive mouth, which even in laughter seemed not
entirely gay.
"Don't you really mind if I kiss you?" He spoke in a whisper to disguise
his voice.
"Isn't it a little late to ask me that?" she said; and under her mask
the colour stained her skin. "I think what we do now scarcely matters."
She was so confident, so plainly awaiting his caress, that for a moment
he was quite ready to console her. And did not, could not, with the
fragrant and yielding intimacy of Geraldine still warm in his quickened
heart.
She stood quite motionless, her little hands warm in his, her masked
face upturned. And, as he merely stared at her:
"What is the matter, Jack?" she breathed. "Why do you look at me so
steadily?"
He ought to have let her go then; he hesitated, wondering which Jack she
supposed him to be; and before he realised it her arms were on his
shoulders, her mouth nearer to his.
"Jack, you frighten me! What is it?"
"N-nothing," he continued to stammer.
"Yes, there is. Does your--your wife suspect--anything----"
"No, she doesn't," said Duane grimly, trying to free himself without
seeming to. "I've got an appointment----"
But the girl said piteously: "It isn't--Geraldine, is it?"
"_What_!"
"You--you admitted that she attracted you--for a little while.... Oh, I
_did_ forgive you, Jack; truly I did with all my miserable heart! I was
so fearfully unhappy--I would have done anything." ... Her face flushed
scarlet. "And I--did.... But you do love me, don't you?" And the next
moment her lips were on his with a sob.
Duane reached back and quietly unclasped her fingers. Then very gently
he forced her to a seat on a great fallen log. Still looking up at him,
droopingly pathetic in contrast to her gay début with him, she naïvely
slipped up the mask over her forehead and passed her hand across her
pretty blue eyes. Sylvia Quest!
The sinister significance of her attitude flashed over him, all doubt
vanished, all the comedy of their encounter was gone in an instant. Over
him swept a startled sequence of emotions--bitter contempt for Dysart,
scorn of the wretchedly equivocal situation and of the society that bred
it, a miserable desire to spare her, vexation at himself for what he had
unwittingly stumbled upon. The last thought persisted, dominated;
succeeded by a disgusted determination that she must be spared the shame
and terror of what she had inadvertently revealed; that she must never
know she had not been speaking to Dysart himself.
"If I tell you that all is well--and if I tell you no more than that,"
he whispered, "will you trust me?"
"Have I not done so, Jack?"
The tragedy in her lifted eyes turned him cold with fury.
"Then wait here until I return," he said. "Promise."
"I promise," she sighed, "but I don't understand. I'm a--a little
frightened, dear. But I--believe you."
He swung on his heel and made toward the lights once more, and a moment
later the man he sought passed within a few feet of him, and Duane knew
him by his costume, which was a blue replica of his own gray silks.
"Dysart!" he said sharply.
The masked figure swung gracefully around and stood still, searching the
shadowy woodland inquiringly.
"I want a word with you. Here--not in the light, if you please. You
recognise my voice, don't you?"
"Is that you, Mallett?" asked Dysart coldly, as the former appeared in
the light for an instant and turned back again with a curt gesture.
"Yes. I want you to step over here among the trees, where nobody can
interrupt us."
Dysart followed more slowly; came to a careless halt:
"Well, what the devil do you want?" he demanded insolently.
"I'll tell you. I've had an encounter with a mask who mistook me for
you.... And she has said--several things--under that impression. She
still believes that I am you. I asked her to wait for me over there by
those oaks. Do you see where I mean?" He pointed and Dysart nodded
coolly. "Well, then, I want you to go back there--find her, and act as
though it had been you who heard what she said, not I."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean exactly that. The girl ought never to know that what she said
was heard and--and _understood_, Dysart, by any man in the world except
the blackguard I'm telling this to. Now, do you understand?"
He stepped nearer:
"The girl is Sylvia Quest. _Now_, do you understand, damn you!"
A stray glimmer from the distant lanterns fell across Dysart's masked
visage. The skin around the mouth was loose and ashy, the dry lips
worked.
"That was a dirty trick of yours," he stammered; "a scoundrelly thing to
do."
"Do you suppose that I dreamed for an instant that she was convicting
herself and you?" said Duane in bitter contempt. "Go and manufacture
some explanation of my conduct as though it were your own. Let her have
that much peace of mind, anyway."
"You young sneak!" retorted Dysart. "I suppose you think that what you
have heard will warrant your hanging around my wife. Try it and see."
"Good God, Dysart!" he said, "I never thought you were anything more
vicious than what is called a 'dancing man.' What are you, anyhow?"
"You'll learn if you tamper with my affairs," said Dysart. He whipped
off his mask and turned a corpse-like visage on the younger man. Every
feature of his face had altered: his good looks were gone, the youth in
his eyes had disappeared, only a little evil lustre played over them;
and out of the drawn pallor Duane saw an old man peering, an old man's
lips twitching back from uneven and yellowed teeth.
"Mallett," he said, "you listen to me. Keep your investigating muzzle
out of my affairs; forget what you've ferreted out; steer clear of me
and mine. I want no scandal, but if you raise a breath of it you'll have
enough concerning yourself to occupy you. Do you understand?"
"No," said Duane mechanically, staring at the man before him.
"Well, then, to be more precise, if you lift one finger to injure me
you'll cut a figure in court.... And you can marry her later."
"Who?"
"My wife. I don't think Miss Seagrave will stand for what I'll drag you
through if you don't keep clear of me!"
Duane gazed at him curiously:
"So _that_ is what you are, Dysart," he said aloud to himself.
Dysart's temples reddened.
"Yes, and then some!... I understand that you have given yourself the
privilege of discussing my financial affairs in public. Have you?"
Duane said in a dull voice: "The Algonquin Trust was mentioned, I
believe. I did say that you are a director."
"You said I was hard hit and that the Clearing House meant to weed out a
certain element that I represented in New York."
"I did not happen to say that," said Duane wearily, "but another man
did."
"Oh. _You_ didn't say it?"
"No. I don't lie, Dysart."
"Then add to that negative virtue by keeping your mouth shut," said
Dysart between his teeth, "or you'll have other sorts of suits on your
hands. I warn you now to keep clear of me and mine."
"Just what _is_ yours?" inquired Duane patiently.
"You'll find out if you touch it."
"Oh. Is--is Miss Quest included by any hazard? Because if the right
chance falls my way, I shall certainly interfere."
"If you do, I shall begin suit for alienation within twenty-four
hours."
"Oh, no, you won't. You're horribly afraid, Dysart. This grimacing of
yours is fear. All you want is to be let alone, to burrow through the
society that breeds your sort. Like a maggot in a chestnut you feed on
what breeds you. I don't care. Feed! What bred you is as rotten as you
are. I'm done with it--done with all this," turning his head toward the
flare of light. "Go on and burrow. What nourishes you can look out for
itself.... Only"--he wheeled around and looked into the darkness where,
unseen, Sylvia Quest awaited him--"only, in this set, the young have
less chance than the waifs of the East Side."
He walked slowly up to Dysart and struck him across the face with open
palm.
"Break with that girl or I'll break your head," he said.
Dysart was down on the leaves, struggling up to his knees, then to his
feet, the thin blood running across his chin. The next instant he sprang
at Duane, who caught him by both arms and forced him savagely into
quivering inertia.
"Don't," he said. "You're only a thing that dances. Don't move, I tell
you.... Wipe that blood off and go and set the silly girl's heart at
rest.... And keep away from her afterward. Do you hear?"
He set his teeth and shook him so wickedly that Dysart's head rolled and
his wig fell off.
"I know something of your sloppy record," he continued, still shaking
him; "I know about your lap-dog fawning around Miss Seagrave. It is
generally understood that you're as sexless as any other of your kind. I
thought so, too. Now I know you. Keep clear of _me_ and _mine_,
Dysart.... And that will be about all."
He left him planted against a tree and walked toward the lights once
more, breathing heavily and in an ugly mood.
On the edge of the glade, just outside the lantern glow, he stood
sombre, distrait, inspecting the torn lace on his sleeve, while all
around him people were unmasking amid cries of surprise and shouts of
laughter, and the orchestra was sounding a march, and multicoloured
Bengal fires rolled in clouds from the water's edge, turning the woods
to a magic forest and the people to tinted wraiths.
Behind him he heard Rosalie's voice, caressing, tormenting by turns;
and, glancing around for her victim, beheld Grandcourt at heel in
calflike adoration.
Kathleen's laughter swung him the other way.
"Oh, Duane," she cried, the pink of excitement in her cheeks, "isn't it
all too heavenly! It looks like Paradise afire with all those rosy
clouds rolling under foot. Have you ever seen anything quite as
charming?"
"It's rotten," said Duane brusquely, tearing the tattered lace free and
tossing it aside.
"Wh-what!" she exclaimed.
"I say it's all rotten," he repeated, looking up at her. "All this--the
whole thing--the stupidity of it--the society that's driven to these
kind of capers, dreading the only thing it ever dreads--ennui! Look at
us all! For God's sake, survey us damn fools, herded here in our
pinchbeck mummery--forcing the sanctuary of these decent green woods,
polluting them with smoke and noise and dirty little intrigues! I'm sick
of it!"
"Duane!"
"Oh, yes; I'm one of 'em--dragging my idleness and viciousness and my
stupidity and my money at my heels. I tell you, Kathleen, this is no
good. There's a stench of money everywhere; there's a staler aroma in
the air, too--the dubious perfume of decadence, of moral atrophy, of
stupid recklessness, of the ennui that breeds intrigue! I'm deadly tired
of it--of the sort of people I was born among; of their women folk,
whose sole intellectual relaxation is in pirouetting along the danger
mark without overstepping, and in concealing it when they do; of the
overgroomed men who can do nothing except what can be done with money,
who think nothing, know nothing, sweat nothing but money and what it can
buy--like horses and yachts and prima donnas----"
She uttered a shocked exclamation, but he went on:
"Yes, prima donnas. Which of our friends was it who bought that pretty
one that sang in 'La Esmeralda'?"
"Duane!" she exclaimed in consternation; but he took her protesting
hands in his and held her powerless.
"You happen to be a darling," he said; "but you were not born to this
environment. Geraldine was--and she is a darling. God bless her. Outside
of my sister, Naïda, and you two--with the exception of the newly
fledged and as yet mercifully unregurgitated with vicious wisdom--who
are all these people? Ciphers, save for their balances at their banks;
nameless, save for the noisy reiteration of their hard-fisted forebears'
names; without any ambition, except financial and social; without any
objective, save the escape from ennui--without any taste, culture,
inspiration, except that of physical gratification! Oh, Lord, I'm one of
them, but I resign to-night."
"Duane, you're quite mad," she said, wrenching her hands free and gazing
at him rather fearfully.
"I think he's dead sensible," said a calm voice at her elbow; and Scott
Seagrave appeared, twirling his mask and blinking at them through his
spectacles.
Duane laughed: "Of course I am, you old reptile-hunting,
butterfly-chasing antediluvian! But, come on; Byzantium is gorging its
diamond-swathed girth yonder with salad and champagne; and I'm hungry,
even if Kathleen isn't----"
"I _am_!" she exclaimed indignantly. "Scott, can't you find Naïda and
Geraldine? Duane and I will keep a table until you return----"
"I'll find them," said Duane; and he walked off among the noisy,
laughing groups, his progress greeted uproariously from table to table.
He found Naïda and Bunbury Gray, and they at once departed for the
rendezvous indicated.
"Geraldine was here a little while ago," said Gray, "but she walked to
the lake with Jack Dysart. My, but she's hitting it up," he added
admiringly.
"Hitting it up?" repeated Duane.
"For a girl who never does, I mean. I imagine that she's a novice with
champagne. Champagne and Geraldine make a very fetching combination, I
can tell you."
"She took no more than I," observed Naïda with a shrug; "one solitary
glass. If a girl happens to be high strung and ventures to laugh a
little, some wretched man is sure to misunderstand! Bunny, you're a
gadabout!"
She made her way out from the maze of tables, Bunny following, somewhat
abashed; and Duane walked toward the shore, where dozens of lantern-hung
canoes bobbed, and the pasteboard cylinders of Bengal fire had burned
to smouldering sparks.
In the dim light he came on the people he was looking for, seated on the
rocks. Dysart, at her feet, was speaking in an undertone; Geraldine,
partly turned away from him, hands clasped around her knees, was staring
steadily across the water.
Neither rose as he came up; Dysart merely became mute; Geraldine looked
around with a start; her lips parted in a soundless, mechanical
greeting, then the flush in her cheeks brightened; and as she rose,
Dysart got onto his feet and stood silently facing the new arrival.
"I said after the third dance, you know," she observed with an assumed
lightness that did not deceive him. And, as he made no answer, he saw
the faint flicker of fright in her eyes and the lower lip quiver.
He said pleasantly, controlling his voice: "Isn't this after the third
dance? You are to be my partner for supper, I think."
"A long time after; and I've already sat at Belshazzar's feast, thank
you. I couldn't very well starve waiting for you, could I?" And she
forced a smile.
"Nevertheless, I must claim your promise," he said.
There was a silence; she stood for a moment gazing at nothing, with the
same bright, fixed smile, then turned and glanced at Dysart. The glance
was his dismissal and he knew it.
"If I must give you up," he said cheerfully, at his ease, "please
pronounce sentence."
"I am afraid you really must, Mr. Dysart."
There was another interval of constraint; then Dysart spoke. His
self-possession was admirable, his words perfectly chosen, his exit in
faultless taste.
They looked after him until he was lost to view in the throngs beyond,
then the girl slowly reseated herself, eyes again fixed on the water,
hands clasped tightly upon her knee, and Duane found a place at her
elbow. So they began a duet of silence.
The little wavelets came dancing shoreward out of the darkness, breaking
with a thin, splashing sound against the shale at their feet. Somewhere
in the night a restless heron croaked and croaked among the willows.
"Well, little girl?" he asked at last.
"Well?" she inquired, with a calmness that did not mislead him.
"I couldn't come to you after the third dance," he said.
"Why?"
He evaded the question: "When I came back to the glade the dancing was
already over; so I got Kathleen and Naïda to save a table."
"Where had you been all the while?"
"If you really wish to know," he said pleasantly, "I was talking to Jack
Dysart on some rather important matters. I did not realise how the time
went."
She sat mute, head lowered, staring out across the dark water. Presently
he laid one hand over hers, and she straightened up with a tiny shock,
turned and looked him full in the eyes.
"I'll tell you why you failed me--failed to keep the first appointment I
ever asked of you. It was because you were so preoccupied with a mask in
flame colour."
He thought a moment:
"Did you believe you saw me with somebody in a vermilion costume?"
"Yes; I did see you. It was too late for me to retire without
attracting your attention. I was not a willing eavesdropper."
"Who was the girl you thought you saw me with?"
"Sylvia Quest. She unmasked. There is no mistake."
So he was obliged to lie, after all.
"It must have been Dysart you saw. His costume is very like mine, you
know----"
"Does Jack Dysart stand for minutes holding Sylvia's hands--and is she
accustomed to place her hands on his shoulders, as though expecting to
be kissed? And does he kiss her?"
So he had to lie again: "No, of course not," he said, smiling. "So it
could not have been Dysart."
"There are only two costumes like yours and Mr. Dysart's. Do you wish me
to believe that Sylvia is common and depraved enough to put her arms
around the neck of a man who is married?"
There was no other way: "No," he said, "Sylvia isn't that sort, of
course."
"It was either Mr. Dysart or you."
He said nothing.
"Then it _was_ you!" in hot contempt.
Still he said nothing.
"Was it?" with a break in her voice.
"Men can't admit things of that kind," he managed to say.
The angry colour surged up to her cheeks, the angry tears started, but
her quivering lips were not under command and she could only stare at
him through the blur of grief, while her white hands clinched and
relaxed, and her fast-beating heart seemed to be driving the very breath
from her body.
"Geraldine, dear----"
"It wasn't fair!" she broke out fiercely; "there is no honour in you--no
loyalty! Oh, Duane! Duane! How could you--at the very moment we were
nearer together than we had ever been! It isn't jealousy that is crying
out in me; it is nothing common or ignoble in me that resents what you
have done! It is the treachery of it! How _could_ you, Duane?"
The utter hopelessness of clearing himself left him silent. How much was
to be asked of him as sacrifice to code? How far was he expected to go
to shield Sylvia Quest--this unhappy, demoralised girl, whose reputation
was already at the mercy of two men?
"Geraldine," he said, "it was nothing but a carnival flirtation--a
chance encounter that meant nothing--the idlest kind of----"
"Is it idle to do what you did--and what she did? Oh, if I had only not
seen it--if I only didn't know! I never dreamed of such a thing in you.
Bunny Gray and I were taking a short cut to the Gray Water to sit out
the rest of his dance--and he saw it, too--and he was furious--he must
have been--because he's devoted to Sylvia." She made a hopeless gesture
and dropped her hand to her side: "What a miserable night it has been
for me! It's all spoiled--it's ended.... And I--my courage went.... I've
done what I never thought to do again--what I was fighting down to make
myself safe enough for you to marry--_you_ to marry!" She laughed, but
the mirth rang shockingly false.
"You mean that you had one glass of champagne," he said.
"Yes, and another with Jack Dysart. I'll have some more presently. Does
it concern you?"
"I think so, Geraldine."
"You are wrong. Neither does what you've been doing concern me--the kind
of man you've been--the various phases of degradation you have
accomplished----"
"What particular species of degradation?" he asked wearily, knowing that
Dysart was now bent on his destruction. "Never mind; don't answer,
Geraldine," he added, "because there's no use in trying to set myself
right; there's no way of doing it. All I can say is that I care
absolutely nothing for Sylvia Quest, nor she for me; that I love you;
that if I have ever been unworthy of you--as God knows I have--it is a
bitterer memory to me than it could ever be to you."
"Shall we go back?" she said evenly.
"Yes, if you wish."
They walked back together in silence; a jolly company claimed them for
their table; Geraldine laughingly accepted a glass of champagne, turning
her back squarely on Duane.
Naïda and Kathleen came across.
"We waited for you as long as we could," said his pretty sister,
smothering a yawn. "I'm horribly sleepy. Duane, it's three o'clock.
Would you mind taking me across to the house?"
He cast a swift, anxious glance at Geraldine; her vivid colour, the
splendour of her eyes, her feverish laughter were ominous. With her were
Gray and Sylvia, rather noisy in their gaiety, and the boisterous Pink
'uns, and Jack Dysart, lingering near, the make-up on his face in
ghastly contrast to his ashen pallor and his fixed and unvaried grin.
"I'm waiting, Duane," said Naïda plaintively.
So he turned away with her through the woods, where one by one the
brilliant lantern flames were dying out, and where already in the east a
silvery lustre heralded the coming dawn.
* * * * *
When he returned, Geraldine was gone. At the house somebody said she had
come in with Kathleen, not feeling well.
"The trouble with that girl," said a man whom he did not know, "is that
she's had too much champagne."
"You lie," said Duane quietly. "Is that perfectly plain to you?"
For a full minute the young man stood rigid, crimson, glaring at Duane.
Then, having the elements of decency in him, he said:
"I don't know who you are, but you are perfectly right. I did lie. And
I'll see that nobody else does."