The Lure of the Mask by Harold MacGrath (ereader for comics .TXT) 📕

same fibers of gold. And every feature and contour of the face harmonized with the marvelous hair and the wonderful eyes; a beautiful face, warm, dreamy, engaging, mobile. It was not the face of a worldly woman; neither was it the face of a girl. It was too emotional for the second, and there was not enough control for the first. It seemed as if she stood on the threshold of life, with one hand lingering regretfully in the clasp of youth and the other doubtfully greeting womanhood; altogether, something of a puzzle.

But the prophecy of laughter did not come to pass; the little wrinkles faded, the mouth grew sad, and the silver points no longer danced in her eyes. The pain in her heart was always shadowing; like a jailer it jealously watched and repressed the natural gaiety which was a part of her. Those who have been in serious wrecks are never quite the same afterward; and she had seen her fairest dream beaten and crumpled upon the reef of disillusion.

Yet again the smile renewed itself. She was a creature of varying moods. She twisted and untwisted the newspaper. Should she? Ought she? Was it not dreadfully improper and bizarre? Had she not always regretted these singular impulses? And yet, what harm to read this letter and return it to the sender? She was so lonely here; it was like being among a strange people, so long ago was it that her foot had touched this soil. Was it possible that she was twenty-five? Was there not some miscount, and was it not fifteen instead? As old and as wise as the Cumæan Sybil at one moment, as light and careless as a Hebe the next. Would not this war of wisdom and folly be decided ere long?

She opened the paper and smoothed out the folds. "Madame Angot. There is a letter for you in the mail-department of this office." It was so droll. It was unlike anything she had ever heard of. A personal inquiry column, where Cupids and Psyches billed and cooed, and anxious Junos searched for recreant Jupiters! The merest chance had thrown the original inquiry under her notice. Her answer was an impulse to which she had given no second thought till too late. She ought to have ignored it. But since she had taken the first step she might as well take the second. She was lonely; the people she knew were out of town; and the jest might amuse her.

This man was, in all probability, a gentleman, since he was a member of a gentlemen's club. But second thought convinced her that this proved nothing. Men are often called gentlemen out of compliment to their ancestors. Still, if this man only saw the affair from her angle of vision, the grotesque humor of it and not the common vulgar intrigue! She hesitated, as well she might. Supposing that eventually he found out who she was? That would never, never do. No one must know that she was in America, about to step into the wildest of wild adventures. No; she must not be found out. The king, who had been kind to her, and the court must never know. From their viewpoint they would have declared that she was about to tarnish a distinguished name, to outrage the oldest aristocracy in Europe, the court of Italy. But she had her own opinion; what she proposed to do was in itself harmless and innocent. But this gentleman who leaned out of the window? What should she do with him? What had possessed her to sing at that moment? A block above or below his window, and no one would have heard, not even the policeman. This time the laughter bubbled. It was all so funny. She had heard every word of their conversation. She had seen the match flare in the young man's face. Fortunately they had not thought to peer into the area-ways. Was it the face she had seen in that flash of light that interested her sufficiently to risk the note? Against the dark of the night it had appeared for an instant, clean, crisp, ruddy as a cameo. Sometimes a single glance is enough; the instinct of the heart is often surer than the instinct of the mind. She would not have been afraid had he found her. The face warranted confidence.

She had sung because she had been happy, happy with that transient happiness which at times was her portion. Could she ever judge another man by his looks? She believed not. How she had run! The man, bareheaded, giving chase, and the burly policeman across the street! Chorus-ladies-what in the world were they?

She stepped down from the alcove, wound the grey veil round the riding-crop and tossed them into a corner. Somehow, in the daylight, the magic was gone from his face, for she had recognized him that first day in the park. He rode well. She knew that his interest in her had been only casual. She touched a bell. A maid appeared.

"Signora?"

"Bettina, you will go to the office of this newspaper and inquire for a letter addressed to Madame Angot. You can speak that much English. And be quick, for I may change my mind."

"I go at once, Signora." And she was back in less than half an hour.

"There was a letter, then?" The points were dancing again in the blue eyes.

"And here it is, signora." The maid's eyes sparkled, too. An intrigue! It would not be so dull hereafter.

"You may go. Perhaps," and Bettina's mistress smiled, "perhaps I may let you read it and answer it, after I am done with it. That would be rather neat."

"But it will be in English, signora; and that I can not read." Bettina's eyes filled with disappointment.

"You may use it as a lesson. In a few days you should be able to master it."

The slight nod was a dismissal, and the maid went about her duties, which were not many in this house. These were terrible days; the two of them alone in this strange palazzo, and the stuffy, ill-smelling trattoria they dined at! Che peccato! And that she should sit side by side with her mistress! Santa Maria, what was the good world coming to? And the ban on the familiar tongue! English? She despised it. German? She detested it. But to be allowed to speak in French, that alone made conversation tolerable. And this new mad whim! Oh, yes; the signora was truly mad this time.

Meanwhile the lady with the Venetian hair toyed with the letter. Club paper. Evidently he was not afraid to trust her. But would he amuse her? Would he have anything to say that would interest her? She ran the paper-knife under the flap. The contents gave her a genuine surprise. She ran to the window. Italian! It was written in Italian, with all the flourishes of an Italian born. She turned to the signature. Hillard; so he had signed his name in full? She ruminated. How came such a name to belong to a man who wrote Italian so beautifully? Here was something to ponder over. She smiled and looked at the signature again.... John, Giovanni. She would call him Giovanni. She had been rather clever. To have had the wit to look in the library for the blue book and the club list; not every woman would have thought of that. Then a new inspiration came to her, and she struck the bell again. She sent Bettina for the card-basket in the lower hall. She scattered the contents upon the floor, touched up the wood fire, and sat down Turkish-wise. She sorted the cards carefully, and lo! she was presently rewarded. She held up the card in triumph. He had called at this house on Thanksgiving Day. He was known, then, to the master and mistress, this Giovanni with the Irish surname. Very good. She now gave her full attention to the letter, which, incredible as it may seem, she had not yet perused.

To the Lady in the Fog-To begin with, let me say that I, too, have
laughed. But there was some degree of chagrin in my laughter. On my
word of honor, it was a distinct shock to my sense of dignity when
I saw that idiotic personal of mine in the paper. It is my first
offense of the kind, and I am really ashamed. But the situation was
not ordinary. Ordinary women do not sing in the streets after
midnight. As you could not possibly be ordinary, my offense has
greater magnitude. To indite a personal to a gentlewoman! A
thousand pardons! I doubted that it would come under your notice;
and even if it did, I was sure that you would ignore it. And yet I
am human enough to have hoped that you wouldn't. When I found your
note, it was a kind of vindication; it proved that a singular
episode had taken place. To find a woman with an appreciable sense
of humor is rare; to find one who couples this with initiation is
rarer still. I do not refer to wit, the eternal striving to say
something clever, regardless of cost. How you found out my name
confuses me.

"Indeed!" murmured the lady.

Doubtless you have the club list in your house. Do you know, when
the letter was brought me, I saw nothing unusual about the address.
It was only when I began this letter that I comprehended how clever
you were. There are half a dozen J.H's at the club. I tell you
truthfully, over my own name, that your voice startled me. It would
have startled me under ordinary circumstances. In New York one does
not sing in the streets. It is considered bad form by the police.

"Thanks! I must remember that."

I was startled, then, because my thoughts were far away. I was
dreaming of Italy, where I was born, though there is no more
Italian blood in my veins than there is in yours.

The ruddy head became erect and the blue eyes searched the glowing seams in the logs. Here was a riddle.

"What made him think that, I wonder?"

I therefore write this in a language familiar to us both, certain
you could not sing Lecocq's songs in Italian if you did not speak
and understand it thoroughly. Signora or signorina, whichever it
may be, have we no mutual friends? Are you not known to some one
who knows me? Some one who will speak for me, my character, my
habits? Modesty forbids that I myself should dwell upon my virtues.
I could refer you to my bankers, but money does not recommend