Cruel as the grave
"Do not press on us so, if you please, sir!" said Death, turning and
staring angrily at the unoffending little Grand Turk, and Fenella the
dumb girl, who happened to be immediately in the rear. Having thus
brow-beaten the imaginary enemy, Death turned to his companion and said:
"King Harold and Fair Edith were lovers, and these who assume their
parts are also lovers, and they take their related parts from a
sentimental motive! You are tired! let me lead you to a seat!" suddenly
exclaimed the stranger, feeling his partner's form drooping heavily from
his side.
She was almost fainting, she was almost sinking into a swoon. She
permitted her escort to take her to a chair, and to fetch her a glass of
water. And then she thanked him and requested him to select another
partner, as she was too much fatigued to go upon the floor again for an
hour, and that she preferred to sit where she was, and to watch the
masquerade march on before her.
But Death politely declared that he preferred to stand there by her and
share her pastime, if she would permit him to do so.
She bowed assent, and Death took up his position at her side.
CHAPTER XVII.
DRIVEN TO DESPERATION.
For only this night, as they whispered, I brought
My own eyes to bear on her so, that I thought,
Could I keep them one half-minute fixed--she would fall
Shrivelled!--She fell not; yes, this does it all.--BROWNING
As the circle revolved before them, Sybil saw no one but Lyon Berners
and Rosa Blondelle, and these she saw always--with her eyes, when they
were before them; with her spirit, when they had revolved away from
them. She saw him hold close to his heart the arm that leaned on his
arm; she saw him press her hand, and play with her fingers, and look
love in the glances of his eyes, and speak love in the tones of his
voice, although no _word_ of love had been uttered as yet.
At last--oh! deliverance from torture!--the music ceased, the
promenaders dispersed to their seats.
The relief was but short! The band soon struck up a popular quadrille,
and the gentlemen again selected their partners and formed sets. Lyon
Berners, who had conducted his fair companion to a distant seat, now led
her forth again, and stood with her at the head of one of the sets.
"There! you see! they _are_ lovers! I wonder who _he_ is?" whispered
Death, leaning to Sybil's ear.
Sybil bit her lip and answered nothing.
"Ah! you do not know, or will not tell! Well, will you honor me with
your hand in this quadrille?" requested the stranger, with a bow.
Scarcely knowing what she did, for her eyes and thoughts were still
following her husband and her rival, Sybil bowed assent, and arose from
her seat.
Death took her hand and led her up to the same quadrille, at the head
of which Harold the Saxon and Edith the Fair stood, and he placed
himself and his partner exactly opposite to, and facing them.
Thus Lyon Berners for the first time in the evening was obliged to see
his wife, for of course he knew her by her dress, as she knew him by his
dress. She saw him stoop and whisper to his partner, and she surmised
that he gave her a hint as to who was their _vis-a-vis_, and gave it as
a warning. She fancied here that her confidence had been betrayed in
small matters as well as in great, and even in this very small item of
divulging the secret of her costume to her rival. And at that moment she
took a resolution, which later in the evening she carried out. Now,
however, from behind her golden mask she continued to watch her husband
and her rival. She noticed, that from the instant her husband had
observed his wife's presence, he modified his manner towards his
partner, until there seemed nothing but indifference in it.
But this change, instead of being satisfactory to Sybil, was simply
disgusting to her, who saw in it only the effect of her own presence,
inducing hypocrisy and deception in them. And the resolution that she
had formed was strengthened.
Meanwhile the only couple that was wanted to complete the quadrille now
came up, and the dance began.
Sybil noticed, in an absent-minded sort of a way, how very gracefully
her grim partner danced. And the thought passed carelessly through her
mind, that if in that most ghastly disguise his manner and address were
so elegant and polished, how very refined, how perfect they must be in
his plain dress. And she wondered and conjectured who, among her
numerous friends and acquaintances, this gentleman could be; and she
admired and marvelled at the tact and skill with which he so completely
and successfully concealed his identity.
She noticed too, in the superficial sort of manner in which she noticed
everything except the objects of her agonizing jealousy, that her
strange partner watched Rosa as closely as she herself watched Lyon--and
she even asked herself:
"Does he know Rosa, and is he jealous?"
Meanwhile the mazy dance went merrily on, heying and setting, whirling
and twisting to the inspiring sound of music. And Sybil acted her part,
scarcely conscious that she did it, until the set was ended, and she was
led back to her seat by her partner, who, as he placed her in it, bowed
gracefully, thanked her for the honor she had done him, and inquired if
he could have the pleasure of bringing her a glass of water, lemonade,
or anything else.
But she politely declined all refreshment.
He then expressed a hope of having the honor of dancing with her again
during the evening, and with a final bow he withdrew.
But he did but make way for a succession of suitors, who, in low and
pleading tones, besought the honor of her hand in the waltz that was
about to begin. But to each of these in turn she excused herself, upon
the plea that she never waltzed.
Next she was besieged by candidates for the delight of dancing with her
in the quadrille that was immediately to follow the waltz. And she
mechanically bowed assent to the first applicant, and excused herself to
all others, upon the plea of her previous engagement.
That Sybil consented to dance at all, under the painful circumstances of
her position, was due to the instinctive courtesy of her nature, which
taught her, that on such an occasion as this, the hostess must not
indulge her private feelings, however importunate they might be, but
that she must mingle in the amusements of her guests; for she forgot
that a masquerade ball was different from all other entertainments in
this, that her masquerade dress put her on an equality with all her
guests, and emancipated her from all the duties of a hostess as long as
she should wear her mask.
Meanwhile she was looking for her husband and her rival, who had both
disappeared. And presently her vigilance was rewarded. They reappeared,
locked in each other's arms, and whirling around in the bewildering
waltz. And she watched them, all unconscious that she herself was the
"observed of all observers," the "cynosure of eyes," the star of that
"goodlie company." All who were not waltzing, and many who were
waltzing, were talking of Sybil.
"Who is she? What is she? Where did she come from? Does any one know
her?" were some of the questions that were asked on all sides.
"She outshines every one in the room," whispered a "Crusader" to a
"Quaker."
"I have heard of 'making sunshine in a shady place,' but _she_ 'makes
sunshine' even in a lighted place!" observed Tecumseh.
"Who, then, is she?" inquired William Penn.
"No one knows," answered Richard Coeur de Lion.
"But what character does she take?" asked Lucretia Borgia.
"I should think it was a 'Priestess of the sun,'" surmised Rebecca the
Jewess.
"No! I should think she has taken the character of the 'Princess
Creusa,' the daughter of Creon, King of Corinth, and the victim of Medea
the Sorceress. Creusa perished, you know, in the robe of magic presented
to her as a wedding gift from Medea, and designed to burn the wearer to
ashes! Yes, decidedly it is Creusa, in her death robe of fire!"
persisted the 'gentle Desdemona,' who had just joined the motley group.
"You are every one of you mistaken. I heard her announced when she
entered--the 'Spirit of Fire,'" said Pocahontas, with an air of
authority.
"That is her assumed character! Now to find out her real one."
"Shall I whisper my opinion? Mind, it is _only_ an opinion, with no data
for a foundation," put in Charlemagne.
"Yes; do tell us who you take her to be," was the unanimous request of
the circle.
"Then I think she is our fair hostess!"
"Oh-h-h!" exclaimed all the ladies.
"Why do you think so?" inquired several of the gentlemen.
"Because the _correspondence_ is so perfect that it strikes me at once,
as it ought to strike everybody."
"How? how?"
"The correspondence between her nature and her costume, I mean! The
outward glow expresses the inward heat. Believe me, Sybil Berners has
been masquerading all her life, and now for the first time appears in
her true character--a 'Fire Queen!'"
Such gossip as this was going on all over the room, but only in this
circle was the secret of Sybil's character discovered. But soon this
discovery found its way through the crowd, and in half an hour after the
secret was first revealed, every one in the room knew of it, except the
person most concerned. Sybil was surrounded by a circle of admirers,
each one of whom, even by the slightest change of tone or manner,
revealed their knowledge, for it would have been as much against the
laws of etiquette and courtesy to recognize her before she was willing
to be recognized, as it would have been to have unmasked her before she
was ready to unmask. So they were very guarded in their manners--even
more guarded than they needed to be, for Sybil was not critical, she was
indeed scarcely observant of them. She was too deeply absorbed in
watching her adored husband and her abhorred rival, as, twined in each
other's embrace, they swam around and around in the dizzy waltz,
appearing, disappearing, and reappearing as they made the grand circle
of the saloon.
At first they did not see Sybil, entrenched as she was behind her group
of admirers; but the moment that they did see her--and Sybil knew that
very moment--they modified their manners towards each other. And again
Sybil was more disgusted than pleased at what she thought confirmed her
worst suspicions of them.
At length the waltz was over. Lyon Berners led his fair partner to a
seat, left her there and came to speak to his wife. But it was not until
her group of admirers had separated to go in search of partners for the
ensuing quadrille, that he had an opportunity of speaking to her
privately.
"How are you enjoying yourself?" he inquired, on general principles.
"I am looking on. I am really interested in all these fooleries,"
answered Sybil evasively, but truly.
"Why were you not waltzing?"
"Why? Because I did not choose and could not have borne to have had my
waist encircled by any other man's arm than yours, Lyon," answered his
wife, very gravely.
"My darling Sybil, that comes of your old-fashioned notions and country
training; and it deprives you of giving and receiving much pleasure,"
answered Mr. Berners.
And before Sybil could reply to that, the Black Prince came up to claim
her promised hand in the quadrilles that were then forming.
Again, as she flashed like fire through and through the mazes of the
dance, her elegant figure, her graceful motions, and her dazzling,
flame-like dress was the general subject of enthusiastic admiration.
It was impossible but that some of this praise should reach the ears of
its object. And equally impossible that her own name should not be