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.”