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The Lighted Match, a novel by Charles Neville Buck |
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Chapter 5. It Is Decided To Masquerade |
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_ CHAPTER V. IT IS DECIDED TO MASQUERADE The first day of quail-shooting found Van Bristow's guests afield. Separated from the others, Benton and Cara came upon a small grove, like an oasis in the stretching acres of stubble. Under a scarlet maple that reared itself skyward all aflame, and shielded by a festooning profusion of wild-grape, a fallen beech-trunk offered an inviting seat. The girl halted and grounded arms. The man seated himself at her feet and looked up. He framed a question, then hesitated, fearing the answer. Finally he spoke, controlling his voice with an effort. "Cara," he questioned, "how long have I?" Her eyes widened as if with terror. "A very--very little time, dear," she said. "It frightens me to think how little. Then--then--nothing but memory. Do you realize what it all means?" She leaned forward and laid a hand on each of his shoulders. "Just one week more, and after that I shall look out to sea when the sun sinks, red and sullen, into leaden waters and think of--of Arcady--and you." "Don't, Cara!" He seized her hands and went on talking fast and vehemently. "Listen! I love you--that is not a unique thing. You love me--that is the miracle. And because of a distorted idea of duty, our lives must go to wreck. Don't you see the situation is ludicrous--intolerable? You are trying to live a medieval life in a day of wireless telegraph and air ships." She nodded. "But what are we going to do about it?" she questioned simply. "Cara, dear--if I could find a way!" he pleaded eagerly. "Suppose I could play the magician!" He rose and stood back of the log. She leaned back so that she might look into his eyes. "I wish you could," she mused with infinite weariness. He stooped suddenly and kissed the drooping lips with a resentful sense of the monstrous injustice of a scheme of things wherein such lips could droop. "No, no, no!" she cried. "You must not! I've got to be Queen of Galavia--I've got to be his wife." Then, in a quick, half-frightened tone: "Yet when you are with me I can't help it. It's wicked to love you--and I do." He smiled through the misery of his own frown. "Am I so bad as that?" he questioned. "You are so bad"--she suddenly caught his hands in hers and slowly shook her head--"that I don't trust myself on the same side of the road with you. You must go across and sit on that opposite side." She lightly kissed his forehead. "That's a kiss before exile--now go." He measured the distance with disapproving eyes. "That must be fifteen feet away," he protested, "and my arms are not a yard long." He stretched them out, viewing them ruefully. "Go!" she repeated with sternness. He obeyed slowly, his face growing sullen. "If I am to stay here until I recant what I said about your odious kingdom and your miserable throne, I'll--I'll--" He cast about for a sufficiently rebellious sentiment, then resolutely asserted: "I'll stay here until I rot in my chains." He raised his hands and shook imaginary manacles. "Clink! Clink! Clink!" he added dramatically. "You are being punished for being too fascinating to a poor little fool princess who has played truant and who doesn't want to go back to school." She talked on with forced levity. "As for the kingdom,"--once more her eyes became wistful--"you may say what you like about it. You can't possibly hate it as much as I. There is no anarchist screaming his adherence to the red flag or inventing infernal machines, who hates all thrones as much as the one small girl who must needs be Queen of Galavia. No, _lese-majeste_ is not the fault for which you are being punished." For a while he was silent, then his voice was raised in exile, almost cheerfully. "Destiny is stronger than the paretic councils of little inbred kings. Why, Cara, I can get one good, husky Methodist preacher who can do in five minutes what I hardly think your royalties can undo--ever." "Oh, don't!" she stopped him with plaintive appeal. "I know all that. I know it. Don't you realize that the longer the flight into the open blue of the skies, the harder the return to a gilt cage? But, dearest--there is such a thing as keeping one's parole. I must go back, unless I am held by a force stronger than I. I must go back. I have been here almost too long." "Cara," he said slowly, "I, too, have a sense of duty. It is to you. The open blue of the skies is yours by right--divine right. You have nothing to do with cages, gilt or otherwise. My duty is to free you. I mean to do it. I haven't finished thinking it out yet, but I am going to find the way." Her answering voice was deeply grave. "If you just devise a situation where I shall have to fight it all out again, you will only make it harder for me. I must do what I must do. I could only be rescued by some power stronger than myself. Come, let's go back." At dinner that same evening Mrs. Van announced to her guests that "by request of one who should be nameless," punctuating her pledge of secrecy with a pronounced glance at Benton, there would be a masquerade affair on the evening before Cara's departure for New York. She said this was to be an informal sort of frolic in fancy dress, and the only requirement would be that every grown-up should for an evening return to childhood. On the next morning ensued a hegira from the place, the object whereof was guarded with the most diplomatic deception and secrecy. "Why this unanimous desertion?" demanded Van indignantly from the head of the table when it began to develop that an exodus impended. "Do your appetites crave the stimulus of city cooking? Are you leaving my simple roof for the lobster palaces?" Benton shook his head. "Singular," he commented, studying his grape-fruit with the air of an oracle gazing into crystal. "There, for example, is Colonel Centress who will probably tell you that he has had an imperative summons to confer with his brokers and--" He paused, while the ancient beau across the table quickly nodded affirmation. "Quite so. How did you guess it?" he inquired. "Never talk business at table, of course, but this is a mysterious flurry in stocks--quite a mysterious flurry." "Quite so," echoed Benton. "Nevertheless, if you were to shadow the gallant Colonel in Manhattan to-day he would probably lead you to a costuming tailor, where you would discover him in the act of being fitted with a Roman toga or a crusader's mail." Mrs. Porter-Woodleigh shot a malicious glance at the tall foreigner whose emotionless face proved a constant irritation to her exuberant vivacity. "I understand, Colonel Von Ritz," she innocently suggested, "that you are to impersonate a polar bear." The Galavian smiled deep in his eyes only; his lips remained sober. One would have said that he had not recognized the thrust. "I shall only remain myself," he replied. "I am allowed to be a looker-on in Venice." Under her breath the widow confided to her next neighbor: "Ah! then it is true." "What are _you_ going to town for?" demanded Mrs. Van, looking accusingly at Benton, as that gentleman arose from the table. "I should say," he laughingly responded, "that I am going to complete final arrangements for getting the Isis into commission, but nobody would believe me. You are all becoming so diplomatic of late!" Von Ritz glanced up casually. "There is one very dangerous diplomacy--one very difficult to become accustomed to," he commented. "I allude to the American diplomacy of frankness." "The _Isis_? To think I have never seen your yacht!" mused Cara. "And yet you are allowing me to cross on a steamer." "If she could be put in shape so soon," declared Benton regretfully, glancing from Von Ritz to Pagratide, "I should shanghai Mrs. Van for a chaperon and give a party to Europe. Unfortunately I can't get her in readiness promptly enough; unless," he added hopefully, "Miss Carstow can postpone her sailing-day?" _ |
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