Chapter 2

“It wasn’t exactly a fortunate marriage. See here, if you’re going in for the part of Romeo, it’s no good asking me to play Mercutio.”

I looked at Dick and smiled. “I shall ask nothing,” I said. “Yet—”

“Yet, you know mighty well, if you want a Mercutio, I’ll be ready to take up the rôle at a moment’s notice all for the sake of your _beaux yeux_. Well, you’re right. There’s something queer about you, Ramón, which makes us others glad to do what we can, even if it were to cost our lives. If you’d been a king in exile, you’d have had no trouble in finding followers. From your French valet to your Russian soldiers; from your English chauffeur to your American friend, it’s pretty well the same. I expect you’ll get to that masked ball.”

“If I don’t, it won’t be for lack of trying,” said I.

“But—”

“But what—”

“This affair of yours is going to end in tragedy—for someone,” said Dick.

III

THE GUEST WHO WAS NOT ASKED

During the next two or three days I found more to do. I got Dick to introduce me to his friend Henri de la Mole, not as Christopher Trevenna, but under my own name, and when he and his sister had been interested in what they chose to think a romance, I was able to learn through them that, curiously enough, Lady Vale-Avon had arranged for her daughter to appear at the ball as Juliet.

The costume, it seemed, decided itself, because there happened to be among Lady Vale-Avon’s inherited and most treasured possessions, an interesting pearl head-dress of the conventional Juliet fashion. This had been sent for from England; and if I could succeed in getting to the ball, as I fully intended to do, I should have little difficulty in identifying the head that I adored.

Had I not taken de la Mole more or less into my confidence, he would have done nothing to further my interests; but, if I really have any such power as Dick Waring hinted, I used it to enlist de la Mole upon my side. Finally he not only agreed, but offered to help me enter the Duchess of Carmona’s house as one of her masked guests. He had been asked to stand at the door that night, and request each person, or in any case the man of each party, to raise his mask for an instant. This, in order to keep out reporters and intruders of all sorts; and his promise was to let me pass in unchallenged. I might count on his good offices, not only in that way, but in any other way possible, for “all the world loves a lover,” said he. And he wished me the best of luck, though he looked as if he hardly expected me to have it.

Probably it was foolish and conceited, but I could not resist playing up to the rôle Dick suggested. She was to be Juliet. I would be Romeo.

By this time, no doubt, the Duchess’s invited guests had their costumes well under way; I had to get mine, and the only way to have something worthy of the occasion was to go to Paris for it. I did go, and was back in Biarritz in two days.

The rest moved easily, without a hitch. The night of the ball came. I dressed and went alone, rather than drag Dick into an affair which might end disagreeably.

I did not put myself forward, but stood for a while and watched the dancers, waiting for my chance.

Carmona had arrived the day before. I had never met him, but what I had heard I did not like; and having seen him once or twice in London, at a distance, he was recognizable in a costume copied from a famous portrait of that Duke of Alba who loomed great in Philip the Second’s day. Because of a slight difference one from the other, in the height of his shoulders, he was difficult to disguise; and though the arrangement of the costume was intended to hide the peculiarity, it was perceptible.

When the “Duke of Alba” had danced twice in succession with Juliet Capulet, I could bear my rôle of watcher no longer. Besides, I knew that I had not much time to waste. For the sake of de la Mole, who had run the risk of admitting a stranger, I must vanish before the hour for the masks to fall. When I took off my cap and bowed before this white Juliet with the pearl-laced plaits of gold, she gazed at me through her velvet mask in the silence of surprise. I could not guess whether she puzzled herself as to what was under my yellow-brown wig and my mask; but at least she must know it was Romeo who begged a dance.

I did not urge my claim on such a plea, however, least it should rouse Carmona’s opposition, and cause him to keep the girl from me if he could. I merely said, “The next is our dance,” risking a rebuff; but it did not come.

“Yes,” she said, almost timidly. It was the first time I had heard her speak, and her voice went to my heart.

The Duke stared, as though he would have stripped off my mask by sheer force of curiosity. But he had to let the girl go; and as the music began she was in my arms. I hardly dared believe my own luck. Neither of us spoke. I was lost in the sense of her nearness, the knowledge that it was the music which gave me the right to hold her thus, and that when the music died I must let her go.

But a quick thought came. If we danced the waltz through, Carmona or someone else would claim her for the next. If I could hide the girl before it was over, perhaps I might keep her for a little time. Indeed, I must keep her, if this meeting were not to end in failure; for there were things I had to say.

The conservatory was too obvious; and the shallow staircase with its rose-garlanded balusters, and its fat silk cushion for each step, would soon be invaded by a dozen couples. What to do, then? I would have given much to know the house.

“I must speak with you,” I said at last. “Where can we go?”

She did not say in return, “Do you know me, then?” or any other conventional thing. The hope in me that she had remembered well enough to guess who I was, brightened. She would not have answered a person she regarded as a stranger, as she answered me,

“There’s a card-room at the end of the corridor to the left, off the big hall, where we might rest for a moment or two,” she said. “But I mustn’t stop long.”

“No,” I promised. “I won’t try to keep you. I ask only a few moments. I can’t tell how I thank you for giving me those.”

I threw a glance round for Carmona, and saw him dancing with a stately Mary Stuart. I guessed his partner to be Lady Vale-Avon; and if I were right, it was a bad omen. She was not a woman to care for extraneous dancing, therefore she favoured Carmona in particular.

Still, for the moment he was occupied; and when his back was turned I whisked Lady Monica out of the ball-room, past the decorated staircase in the square hall, and to the room at the end of the corridor. There I pushed aside a portière and followed her in.

She had been right; the room was unoccupied, though two or three bridge tables were ready for players. In one corner was a small sofa. The girl sat down, carefully leaving no place for me, even had I presumed; and, leaning forward, clasped her little hands nervously round her knees.

Then she looked up at me through her mask; and I did not keep her waiting.

“I’ve no invitation to-night,” I said. “But I had to come. I came to see you. Do you forgive me for saying this?”

“I—think so,” she answered.

“You would be sure, if you knew all.”

“I do know. At least—I mean—but of course, I oughtn’t to be here with you.”

“According to convention you oughtn’t. Yet—”

“I’m not thinking of conventions. But—oh, I should hate you to misunderstand!”

“I could never misunderstand.”

I snatched off my mask and stood looking down at her, knowing that my face would say what was in my heart, and not now wishing to hide the secret.

“You know,” I said, “that I’ve worshipped you since the first moment I saw you. It was impossible to meet you in any ordinary way, for you have no friend who would introduce to you the Marqués de Casa Triana. Have you ever heard that name before, Lady Monica?”

“Yes,” she answered frankly. “I heard it yesterday. From Angèle de la Mole.”

“Her brother’s a friend of my best friend.”

“I know.”

“If it hadn’t been for him, I should have had great trouble in getting here to-night. Yet I would have come. Did Mademoiselle de la Mole tell you that I loved you?”

Lady Monica dropped her head and did not answer, but the little hands were pressed tightly together.

“I’ve always been proud of my name,” I said, “though it’s counted a misfortune to bear it; but when I saw you, then I knew for the first time how great a misfortune it may be.”

“Why?”

“Because my only happiness can come now in having you for my wife; and even if I could win your love, you wouldn’t be allowed to marry my father’s son.”

“Your father may have been mistaken,” the girl faltered. “I do think he was. But he was a gloriously brave man. Even the enemies against whom he fought must respect his memory. I—I’ve read of him. I—bought a book yesterday. You see—I’ve thought about you. I couldn’t help it. We saw each other only those few minutes, and we didn’t even speak; yet somehow it was different from anything else that ever happened to me.”

“It was fate,” I said. “We were destined to meet, and I was destined to love you. If I thought I could make you care, that would give me a right I couldn’t have otherwise; the right to try and win your love, and beat down every obstacle.”

“I could—I _do_ care,” she whispered. “Even if I were never to see you again, I shouldn’t forget. This—would be the romance of my life.”

“Angel!” I said. And then she took off her mask, with such a divine smile that I could have knelt at her feet as at the shrine of a saint.

“Isn’t it wonderful?” she asked. “I didn’t find out your name till yesterday, though I tried before; and we don’t know each other at all—”

“Why, we’ve known each other since the world began. My soul had been waiting to find yours again, and found it the other afternoon, on the road to my own land. That’s what people who don’t understand call ‘love at first sight.’ ”

“I think it must be so; because there was never anything like that first minute when you looked at me.”

“If I could have known, it would have saved me sleepless nights. For now you’re mine, my dearest, just as I am yours. Nothing can take you from me now.”

“Ah, I’m afraid! Even if—everything were different in your life, it would be difficult; for—there’s someone else in mine already.”

“There can be no one else, since you care for me.”

“Not _truly_ in my life. But there’s someone my mother wants me to marry.”

“The Duke of Carmona.”

“You knew?”

“You see, I’ve thought of nothing but you; and I’ve learned all I could about what concerns you.”

“I don’t like him, not even as a friend. He’s handsome enough, but I’m sure he has a most horrible temper. I could be afraid of him. I believe I _am_ afraid. And mother—you don’t know her, but—when she makes up her mind that you’re to do a certain thing, you find yourself doing it. That’s one reason I was so glad when you came to-night, and said, ‘The next is our dance,’ in such a determined way. Not only did you take me away from _him_, but—I felt you’d try to _keep_ me from him, in the end.”

“Try!” I echoed. “I will keep you. Trust me my darling. I’ve been foolish to come to Biarritz under another name. This isn’t Spain; and even a Casa Triana has a right to be here. But luckily not much harm’s done. Through the de la Moles I’ll be presented to Lady Vale-Avon; I’ll tell her that, though compared to the days when my people counted for something in the history of Spain, I’m penniless, still my father left me enough to live on and keep a wife who loves me better than she loves society. I’ll tell Lady Vale-Avon that there are countries in which my name’s well thought of, even in these piping times; that there I’ll do something worth doing—”

“You’ve already done things worth doing,” the girl broke in; “splendid things.”

“I’ve done nothing yet, but I’ll change that. I’ll ask your mother to give me a chance—to wait—”

“No,” she insisted. “Mother would refuse, and everything would be worse than ever.”

“Darling one, they couldn’t be worse. Because now, I’m doing what I oughtn’t to do, although it’s been forced upon me by my love. To deserve you in the faintest degree, I must be open in my dealings. I must speak to Lady Vale-Avon.”

“She’ll never consent.”

“At least I shall have done the right thing. Now we’ve had this talk, now you know that you’re all the world, and heaven besides, to me, even for your mother’s sake you won’t throw me over, will you?”

“No, a thousand times no. I didn’t dream loving would be like this. It would kill me to give you up.”

“Then nothing can part us.”

“It makes me feel brave to hear you say so. But—you don’t know mother.”

“I know myself, and I trust you.”

“I’m so young, and—I’ve never been allowed to have my own way. I’ve always given up.”

“Because you were alone, with no one to help you. Now you have me.”

“That’s true. But—”

“Precious one, there’s no ’but.’”

“I wish I could think so! Yet something seems to say that if you speak to mother, we shall be lost. I love you—but—_do_ let it be kept secret for a while.”

“With what end?”

“I hardly know. Only, I’ve the strongest presentiment it would be best.”

“And I’ve the strongest conviction that not only would it be wrong, but that you wouldn’t respect me if I consented.”

“I beg of you, wait at least till the royalties leave Biarritz before you tell mother, or anyone, who you are.”

I could not help smiling, though rather bitterly. “You’ve heard about my adventure in Barcelona?”

“Yes, from Angèle. I couldn’t bear it if you were to have trouble here.”

“There’s no danger of that.”

“One can’t tell. Circumstances which you don’t foresee might seem to involve you in some plot. Oh, if you love me, wait till the royalties have gone.”

How could I refuse those soft eyes, and those little clasped hands?

I caught the hands and crushed them against my lips, the rosy fingers that smelled of orris, and the polished nails like pink jewels. As I bent over my love, the curtain which covered the doorway waved as in a gust of wind.

Quick as light, Monica snatched away her hands, but it was too late. Carmona was holding back the portière for Lady Vale-Avon.

He must have been watching. He must have known that I had brought Lady Monica to this room. He must have fetched the girl’s mother on purpose to find us together.

These were the thoughts in my mind as I faced the two, mask in hand.

They had seen me kissing Monica’s fingers. It was useless to hope that they had not.

“Leave the room instantly, my daughter,” said Lady Vale-Avon, in a low voice. She too had taken off her mask.

It was a disastrous situation for me, and one all too difficult to carry off with dignity.

“Madame,” I said. “I am the Marqués de Casa Triana. I met Lady Monica some time ago, and have this moment told her that I love her. Now, I ask your consent to—”

“Casa Triana here!” exclaimed Carmona, in a tone which could have expressed no more of horror, had I been a bandit at large.

“Have no fear for your house,” I could not help sneering.

He gave me a look not to be forgiven a man by a man. “I have no such fear,” he said; “but there are those here whose safety is dear to me; and your name is not one which should be spoken under the same roof.”

It was thus that he chose to inform Lady Vale-Avon, if she had been ignorant of it, that I was a notorious character.

“Will you tell me,” he went on, “how you found your way into my mother’s house, where no one of your name could be an invited guest?”

“There’s a window,” said I, thinking to save de la Mole, “by which the world and his wife might enter.”

“I saw you, masked, in the ball-room half an hour ago.”

Half an hour ago! Perhaps he was not exaggerating. But the thirty minutes, if there had been thirty, had passed like one.

“I was there,” I admitted, “looking for Lady Monica Vale. We danced together, and I brought her here—”

“Who is this man, Duke?” Though she spoke to him, Lady Vale-Avon’s eyes, cold as points of steel, pierced mine.

“A person who, whatever his intentions may be, ought not to be in Biarritz while King Alfonso’s here.”

“I remember the name now. And he has come to your house, uninvited; he proposes to marry my daughter—a man whom I’ve never seen! You have your answer, Marqués de Casa Triana, if you need an answer. It is, no. Pray accept it quietly, and cease to persecute us, otherwise I must ask the Duke to act for me, as I have no husband or son. Is that enough?”

“It is not enough,” I echoed. “I love your daughter, and I trust she cares for me. I will not give her up.”

“Monica, I told you to go, and you disobey me,” exclaimed Lady Vale-Avon. “Now, I tell you to send this man away.”

“Mother—I love him,” faltered the girl. “Wait—when you’ve heard—when you know what he is—”

“You talk like a child, Monica,” her mother said. “You are a child. It’s your one excuse; but this man, who must have hypnotized you, has reached years of discretion. If he will not leave the room, we must.”

“I’ll go, Lady Vale-Avon,” I said, “but first let me say once more, frankly, I will never give up your daughter.” Then I looked straight at Monica. “Trust me,” I said, “as I trust you; and have courage.”

With that I bowed, and walked out at the window by which I hoped the Duke thought I had come in.

“I’m not sure,” I heard him say to Lady Vale-Avon, “that I oughtn’t to inform the police. In Barcelona, six or seven years ago—”

I waited for no more.

IV

“I DON’T THREATEN—I WARN”

In the garden I stopped, hiding away a scrap of a lace handkerchief I had stolen; wondering if I had been altogether wrong, yet not able to see what other course had been open.

Lingering near the window I saw Lady Vale-Avon go to Monica, and hold the girl by the hand while she talked with Carmona. They spoke only a few words. Then the Duke opened the door, and the two ladies went out, Monica not once looking up.

No sooner had they gone than Carmona walked to the window, and seeing me in the glimmering night joined me.

“This is my mother’s house,” he said in Spanish.

“And her garden, you would add,” I answered.

“Yes.”

“But there’s something here that is mine.”

“There is nothing here that is yours.” His voice, studiously cold at first, warmed with anger.

“It will be mine some day, in spite of—_everything_.”

“You boast, Marqués de Casa Triana.”

“No. For Lady Monica Vale has promised to marry me.”

Carmona caught his breath on a word by which, if he had not stopped to think, he would have given me the lie. But something restrained him and he laughed instead. “I wouldn’t count on the fulfilment of her promise if I were you,” he said. “Lady Monica’s a schoolgirl. I would tell you, for your own sake, that the best thing you can do is to forget you ever saw her; but that will be a waste of breath. What I will say is, you’ll be wise to leave Biarritz before anything disagreeable happens.”

“I intend to leave Biarritz,” I said quietly.

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“When Lady Monica and her mother leave.”

“You intend to persecute these ladies!”

“Not at all. But when they go to visit the Duchess of Carmona, that will be—the time I shall choose for leaving Biarritz.”

“Who has spoken of such a visit?”

“A person I trust.”

He was silent for a moment, whether in surprise or anger I could not tell. But at last he said, “I’m less well-informed than your friend as to the plans of Lady Vale-Avon and her daughter. They may return to England; they may go to friends in Paris, they may visit my mother. But this doesn’t concern strangers like yourself; and my advice to the Marqués de Casa Triana is, _whatever happens, keep out of Spain_.”

“Do you threaten me?” I asked.

“I don’t threaten—I warn.”

“Thanks for your kind intentions. They give me food for thought.”

“All the better. You’ll be less likely to forget.”

“I shan’t forget,” I answered. “Indeed, I shall profit by your advice.” And with that I walked away, putting on my mask.

As Romeo had not known at what hour he might wish to leave the house of Capulet, he had ordered neither his own motor-car nor a carriage; but luckily a cab was lingering in the neighbourhood on the chance of a fare. I was glad not to walk to my hotel in the guise of Romeo; and I gained my quarters without meeting curious eyes in the corridors.

As I expected, Dick was in our private sitting-room, smoking and reading a novel.

“Well, what luck, friend Romeo?” he asked.

“Luck, and ill luck,” said I. Then I told the story of the evening.

“Humph! you’ve gone and got yourself into a pretty scrape,” was his comment at the end.

“You call it a ‘scrape’ when by a miracle the sweetest girl alive has fallen in love with you?”

“Just that, if the girl isn’t old enough to know her own mind, and has a mother who wouldn’t let her know it if she could. You’ve gone so far now, you’ll have to go further—”

“As far as the end of the world, if necessary.”

“Oh! you _Latin_ men, with your eyes of fire, your boiling passions, and your exaggerated expressions! What do we Yankees and other sensible persons see in you?”

“Heaven knows,” said I, shrugging my shoulders.

“I doubt it. Why, in the name of common sense, as you’d got to the age of twenty-seven without bothering about love, couldn’t you wait till the age of twenty-seven and a quarter, go quietly over to my country with me, a long sight better than the ‘end of the world,’ and propose to a charming American girl of rational age and plenty of dollars?”

“A rational age?”

“Over eighteen, anyhow. I believe you Latins have a fancy for these little white _ingénues_, who don’t know which side their bread’s buttered, or how to say anything but ‘Yes, please,’ and ‘No, thank you.’ When my time comes, the girl must be twenty-two and a good, patriotic American.”

“American girls are fascinating, but I happen to be in love with an English one, and it’s her misfortune and mine, not our fault, that she’s eighteen instead of twenty-two.”

“A big misfortune. You mustn’t kidnap an infant. That’s what makes it awkward. As I said, you can’t back out now.”

“Not while I live.”

“Don’t be so Spanish. But come to think of it, I suppose you can’t help that. What do you mean to do next?”

“Watch. And get word to Monica.”

“Angèle de la Mole will do what she can for you.”

“I hope so. Then everything else must depend on the girl.”

Dick’s lean, tanned face was half quizzical, half sad.

“Everything else must depend on the girl,” he repeated. “I wonder what would happen if anybody tried to prop up a hundred pound weight against a lilybud?”

V

A MYSTERY CONCERNING A CHAUFFEUR

For many days after this the young King of Spain motored back and forth between San Sebastian and Biarritz to visit the lady of his love; but at last the two Princesses bade good-bye to the Villa Mouriscot, and went to Paris. Lady Vale-Avon and Monica remained; but for the moment the girl was safe from Carmona, for the Duke followed the King to Madrid.

Lovely as Monica was, is, and always will be, and genuinely in love with her as I had no doubt Carmona was, still I began to believe that Dick Waring was right, and that the Duke’s desire to win Princess Ena’s friend was as much for Court favour as for the girl herself. Several weeks passed, and Monica and her mother continued to be tenants of the Villa Esmeralda. They went out little, except to visit the old Duchess of Carmona, who evidently did all she could to advance her son’s interests with invitations to luncheons and dinners; but try as I might I was never able to obtain an interview.

Fortunately for me, Lady Vale-Avon had seen me only in fancy dress; the costume of Romeo, with a ridiculous yellow-brown, wavy wig, upon which the _costumier_ had insisted against my arguments. Now, I blessed him for his obstinacy; for I was able to pass Lady Vale-Avon in the street without being recognized, and once got near enough to slip into Monica’s hand a note I had hastily scribbled on the leaf of a note-book.