"What is the matter? Are they treading on your feet?" inquired the mask.

"_Some_ one is treading on me," murmured Sybil, with a sad double meaning.

"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 a.s.sume 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 gla.s.s 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 a.s.sent, 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 a.s.sent, 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 pa.s.sed 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 ident.i.ty.

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 gla.s.s 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 a.s.sent 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 circ.u.mstances 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 amus.e.m.e.nts 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 emanc.i.p.ated 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 Tec.u.mseh.

"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 a.s.sumed 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."