CHAPTER VII MAINLY CONCERNS THE OWL

Late that night Ulrica made merry at my expense. She had noticed me walking tête-à-tête with old Mr. Keppel, and accused me of flirtation with him.

Now, I may be given to harmless frivolities with men of my own age, but I certainly have never endeavoured to attract those of maturer years. Elderly men may have admired me—that I do not deny—but assuredly this has been through no fault of my own. A woman's gowns are always an object of attention among the sterner sex. If, therefore, she dresses smartly she can at once attract a certain section of males, even though her features may be the reverse of prepossessing.

Truth to tell, a woman's natural chic, her taste in dress and her style of coiffure, are by far the most important factors towards her well-being. The day of the healthful, buxom, pink-and-white beauty is long past. The woman rendered artistic by soft chiffons, dainty blouses, and graceful tea-gowns reigns in her stead. Women nowadays are becoming very Continental. For instance, certain illustrated journals tell us that fur coats of every description are to be the mode, and a few foolish women think that if they possess such a garment, no matter what its shape, so long as it is of fur, they will be in the vanguard of Fashion! The really smart woman will, however, think twice before she hides her figure by any such bulky covering, merely because she happens to possess the fur, and it will take the furrier all the ingenuity at his command to produce the neat, short and close-fitting little coat or bolero which she would condescend to wear. Yes, we are yearly becoming more and more tasteful—more Parisian. Ulrica's suggestion caused me to laugh.

"Old Mr. Keppel walked with me because he wanted company, I suppose," I protested. "I had no idea such a misconstruction would be placed upon our conversation, Ulrica."

"Why, my dear, everyone noticed it and remarked upon it. He neglected his guests and walked with you for a whole hour in the garden. Whatever did you find to talk about all that long time?"

"Nothing," I responded simply. "He only took me round the place. I don't think he cares very much for the people he entertains, or he wouldn't have neglected them in that manner."

"No. But I heard some spiteful things said about yourself," Ulrica remarked.

"By whom?"

"By various people. They said that you had been angling after the old man for a long time—that you had followed him to Nice, in fact."

"Oh, Ulrica!" I cried indignantly. "How can they say such things? Why, you know it was yourself who introduced us."

"I know," she answered rather curtly. "But I didn't expect that you'd make such a fool of yourself as you've done to-night."

"I am not aware that I have made a fool of myself, as you choose to term it," I responded warmly. "Mr. Keppel invited me to walk in the garden, and as his guest I could not very well refuse."

"You know what an ill-bred, vulgar old fellow he is, and you might therefore have had some respect for his guests."

"I know that he is an honest, plain-spoken man," I said calmly. "He may be ill-bred, but, nevertheless, he's more the gentleman than half the over-dressed cads who so perpetually hang about us just because we happen to be both good-looking."

"If I were in your place I should be ashamed at having made such an exhibition of myself!" she exclaimed, with bitter sarcasm.

"I have made no exhibition of myself," I protested. "I like Mr. Keppel for his blunt manliness—but beyond that—why, Ulrica, you must be mad to suspect me of flirtation with him!"

"He's old enough to be your father," she snapped. "Yet Doris Ansell whispered in the drawing-room that she had watched him holding your hand in lover-like attitude."

"Then Doris Ansell lied!" I exclaimed angrily. "He never touched my hand. It is a foul libel upon him and upon me."

"I saw you myself walking with him."

"And you were walking with Gerald. He was, as usual, flirting with you," I said spitefully.

Her cheeks crimsoned, and I saw that my words had struck home. How cruel and ill-natured was such gossip as this; how harmful to my good name, and to his. I knew Doris Ansell well—a snub-nosed, under-sized little gossip, and had always believed that she entertained towards me some ill-will—for what reason I never could ascertain.

"And why should you fly into such a rage?" she inquired, with affected coolness. "If you were to change into Mrs. Ben Keppel you would at least possess a very substantial income, even if your husband was a rough diamond. You would exact the envy of half the women we know, and surely that's quite sufficient success to have obtained. One can't have everything in this world. Money is always synonymous with ugliness where marriage is concerned."

"I don't see any object to be obtained by discussing the matter further," I answered, with rising indignation. "Such a circumstance as you suggest will never occur, you may depend upon it."

"My dear Carmela," she said, laughing, "you are still a child, I really declare!"

"I am old enough to be mistress of my own actions," I answered quickly. "I shall certainly never marry for money."

"Because of Ernest—eh?"

"It is cruel, Ulrica, to taunt me like this!" I cried, bursting into tears. "Surely I've suffered enough! You do not suffer because, as you have said hundreds of times, you have no heart. Would that I had none! Love within me is not yet dead. Would to God it were! I might then be like you, cold and cynical, partaking of the pleasures of the world without a thought of its griefs. As I am, I must love. My love for that man is my very life! Without it I should die!"

"No, no, my dear," she said quickly, in kinder tones. "Don't cry, or your eyes will be a horrid sight to-morrow. Remember we're lunching over at Beaulieu with the Farnells. Come, dry your eyes and go to bed. I didn't mean anything, you know." And she drew down my head and kissed me tenderly on the brow.

I left her and went to my room, but her words rang constantly in my ears. The idea that the old millionaire had been attracted by me was a novel one. Surely that could not be possible. True, he had grown confidential enough to tell me things that were held secret from all his friends, yet I attributed this to his eccentricity.

No, it was surely not true that he was among my admirers. Through the dark hours of that night I thought it all over. Sometimes I saw in all that had occurred a disposition on his part to tell me some secret or other. He had been so preoccupied, and had so earnestly told me of the dull loneliness of his life, that colour was certainly lent to the theory that he looked upon me with affection. Yet, after all, I reasoned with myself that I could never in my life love a man of that age, and determined never to barter myself for money and position. I should even, if he told me the truth, be compelled to refuse his offer.

But the whole theory was ridiculous. It had been started by that lying, ill-natured woman for want of something else to gossip about. Why should I heed it? I liked him, it was true, but I could never love him—never!

Reader, you may think it strange that we two young women were wandering about the Continent together without any male relative. The truth is, that terrifying personage, so peculiarly British, known as Mrs. Grundy, is dead. It is her complete downfall in this age of emancipation, bicycles and bloomers, that more than anything else makes the modern spinster's lot, in many respects, an eminently attractive one.

We were discussing this over our coffee on the following morning, when Ulrica, referring to our conversation of the previous night, said:

"Formerly girls married in order to gain their social liberty; now they more often remain single to bring about that desirable consummation."

"Certainly," I acquiesced. "If we are permitted by public opinion to go to college, to live alone, to travel, to have a profession, to belong to a club, to wear divided skirts—not that I approve of them—to give parties, to read and discuss whatsoever seems good to us, and go to theatres, and even to Monte Carlo, without a masculine escort, then we have most of the privileges—and several others thrown in—for which the girl of twenty or thirty years ago was ready to sell herself to the first suitor who offered himself and the shelter of his name."

"I'm very glad, my dear Carmela, that you are at last becoming so very sensible," she answered approvingly. "Until now you've been far too romantic and too old-fashioned in your ideas. I really think that I shall convert you to my views of life in time—if you don't marry old Keppel."

"Kindly don't mention him again," I protested firmly. "To a certain extent I entirely agree with you regarding the emancipation of woman. A capable woman who has begun a career, and feels certain of advancement in it, is often as shy of entangling herself matrimonially as ambitious young men have ever shown themselves in like circumstances."

"Without doubt. The disadvantages of marriage to a woman with a profession are more obvious than to a man, and it is just the question of maternity, with all its duties and responsibilities, which is occasionally the cause of many women forswearing the privileges of the married state."

"Well, Ulrica," I said, "speaking candidly, would you marry if you had a really good offer?"

"Marry? Certainly not," she answered, with a laugh, as though the idea were perfectly preposterous. "Why should I marry? I've had a host of offers, just as every woman with a little money always has. But why should I renounce my freedom? If I married, my husband would forbid this and forbid that—and you know I couldn't live without indulging in my little pet vices of smoking and gambling."

"Wouldn't your husband's love fill the void?" I queried.

"It would be but a poor substitute, I'm afraid. The most ardent love nowadays cools within six months, and more often even wanes with the honeymoon."

"I've really no patience with you," I said hastily. "You're far too cynical."

She smiled, and then sighed gently. She looked so young in her pale pink peignoir.

"Contact with the world has made me what I am, my dear Carmela."

"Well," I said, "to be quite candid, I don't think that the real cause why so many women nowadays remain single is to be found in the theories we've been airing to one another. The fact is, after all, that we're only a bundle of nerves and emotions, and once our affections are involved we are capable of any heroism."

"You may be one of those, my dear," was her rather grave response. "I'm afraid, however, that I am not."

I did not pursue the subject further. She was kind and sympathetic in all else, save where my love was concerned. My affection for Ernest was to her merely an amusing incident. She seemed unable to realise how terribly serious I was, or what a crushing blow had fallen upon me when he had turned and forsaken me.

Gerald called at eleven, for he had arranged to accompany us to Beaulieu.

"Miss Rosselli," he cried, as he greeted me, "you're a brick—that you are!"

"A brick!" I echoed. "Why?"

"Why, you've worked an absolute miracle with the guv'nor. Nobody else could persuade him to set foot on the Vispera except to return to England, yet you've induced him to arrange for a cruise up the Mediterranean."

Ulrica glanced at me with a confident air. I knew the thought which rose in her mind.

"Are you glad?" I asked him.

"Glad? I should rather think so! We shall have a most glorious time! He intends asking the Farnells, Lord Eldersfield, Lord and Lady Stoneborough, and quite a lot of people. We've got you to thank for it. No power on earth would induce him to put to sea—except yourself, Miss Rosselli."

"No, Gerald," I said. "Please don't flatter me. It's bad form, you know. Your father asked me if I would like a cruise, and I responded in the affirmative, that's all."

"Well, at any rate, it's enough," answered the young man enthusiastically. "The guv'nor has sent for Davis, the skipper, and when I left him, was poring over a chart of the Eastern Mediterranean. There's only one condition that I've made, and I think you'll both agree with me."

"What's that?" inquired Ulrica, as she buttoned her glove.

"That we don't take that cur Barnes. I hate that fellow."

"So say all of us," Ulrica observed frankly.

"His air is so superior that people believe him to be at least a son of the house," Gerald said quickly. "I know that he tells the guv'nor all sorts of false tales about myself. He knew that I lost pretty heavily at Monte when I went over with you the other night, and as Mr. Barnes chanced to be there he was, of course, the amiable gentleman who told the tale. I always feel as though I'd like to give him a good sound kicking."

"Treat him with contempt," I urged. "Your father is not the kind of man to believe mere tales without proof. Even if he is a bit eccentric, he's the essence of justice—that you'll admit."

"Why, Miss Rosselli, I tell you that my old dad is the very best fellow in all the world. I know all men of his stamp have their little eccentricities, and therefore forgive him. If he's niggardly towards me, it's only because he doesn't believe in a young man going the pace too fast."

"Quite so," I answered, remembering how very lenient the world is towards the son of a millionaire. "No man should speak ill of his father—more especially of such an admirable type as your father is."

But I drew myself up short, for I saw a smile playing in the corners of Ulrica's mouth.

"Let's be off," she said. "We'll take a fiacre to the station. Gerald, tell them to get us a cab."

And young Keppel went forth to do her bidding.

The Carnival bal masqué at the Casino—the great event of King Carnival's reign—took place on the following Sunday night, and we made up a gay party to go to it. There were seven of us, and we looked a grotesque group as we assembled in the vestibule of the "Grand," attired in our fantastic costumes and wearing those mysterious masks of black velvet which so effectively conceal the features. Ulrica represented a Watteau shepherdess, with wig and crook complete, while I was en bébé, wearing a simple costume, surmounted by a sun-bonnet with a very wide brim. One of the women of the party was a Queen of Folly, and another wore a striking Louis XV. dress; while Gerald represented a demon, and wore pins in his tail in order to prevent others from pulling that appendage.

As the distance from the hotel to the Casino was only a few hundred yards, we walked. Laughter was abundant, for the novelty of the thing was sublime. Among our party only Gerald had witnessed a previous Carnival ball, and he had led us to expect a scene of wild merriment.

Certainly we were not disappointed. Having run the gauntlet of a crowd who smothered us with confetti, we entered the great winter-garden of the Casino, and found it a blaze of colour—the two colours of Carnival. Suspended from the high glass roof were thousands of bannerettes of mauve and gold, while the costumes of the revellers were of the self-same shades. Everywhere flashed coloured lights of similar hue, and the fun was already fast and furious. The side-rooms, which, as most readers will remember, are ordinarily devoted to gambling—for gambling in a mild form is permitted at Nice—were now turned into handsome supper-rooms, and in the winter-garden and the theatre beyond the scene was perhaps one of the liveliest and most enchanting in the whole world.

Everyone had gone there for full enjoyment. In the theatre there was wild dancing; the boxes were filled by the grand monde of Europe, princes and princesses, grand-dukes and grand-duchesses, counts and countesses, noted actresses from Paris and London, and well-known people of every nationality, all enjoying the scene of uproarious merrymaking. We viewed it first from our own box, but at length someone suggested that we should descend and dance, an idea which at once found ungrudging favour.

Masked as everyone was, with the little piece of black lace tacked to the bottom of the black velvet loup, in order to conceal the lower part of the features, it was impossible to recognise a single person in that whirling crowd. Therefore, immediately we descended to the floor of the theatre we at once became separated. I stood for a few moments bewildered. The blaze of colour made one's head reel. People in all sorts of droll costumes were playing various kinds of childish antics. Out in the winter-garden clowns and devils were playing leap-frog, and sylphs and angels, joining hands, were whirling round and round in huge rings, playing some game and screaming with laughter. Almost everyone carried miniature representations of Punch, with bells attached, large rattles, or paper flowers which, when blown, could be elongated to a ridiculous extent.

Never before, in all my life, had I been amidst such a merry and irresponsible crowd. The ludicrousness of Carnival reaches its climax in the ball at the Casino, and whatever may be said of it, it is without doubt one of the annual sights of Europe. I had heard it denounced as a disgraceful exhibition by old ladies, who had been compelled to admit that they had never been present; but I must say that from first to last, although the fun was absolutely unbridled, I saw nothing whatever to offend.

I was standing aside watching the dancers, when suddenly a tall man, dressed in a remarkable costume representing an owl, approached, and bowing, said in rather good English, in a deep, but not unmusical voice:

"Might I have the pleasure of this dance with mademoiselle?"

I looked at him in suspicion. He was a weird-looking creature in his bird-dress of mauve and gold, and the strange mask with two black eyes peering out at me. Besides, it was not my habit to dance with strangers.

"Ah!" he laughed. "You hesitate because we have not been introduced. Here in Nice at Carnival one introduces oneself. Well, I have introduced myself, and now I ask you what is your opinion of my marvellous get-up. Don't you think me a real fine bird?"

"Certainly," I laughed. "You're absolutely hideous."

"Thanks for the compliment," he answered pleasantly. "To unmask is forbidden, or I'd take off this terrible affair, for I confess I am half stifled. But if I'm ugly, you're absolutely charming. It's a case of Beauty and the Bird. Aren't my wings fetching?"

"Very."

"I knew you were English. Funny how we Frenchmen can always pick out English and Americans."

"How did you know I am English?" I inquired.

"Ah! now that's a secret," he laughed. "But hark! it's a waltz. Come under my wing, and let's dance. I know you'd dearly love a turn round. For this once throw the introduction farce to the winds, and let me take you round. The owl is never a ferocious bird, you know."

For a moment I hesitated, then consenting, I whirled away among the dancers with my unknown partner.

"I saw you up in that box," he said presently. "I was waiting for you to come down."

"Why?"

With woman's innate coquetry, I felt a delight in misleading him, just as he was trying to mislead me. There was a decided air of adventure in that curious meeting. Besides, so many of the dresses were absolutely alike that, now we had become separated, it was hopeless for me to discover any of our party. The Nice dressmakers make dozens of Carnival dresses exactly similar, and when the wearers are masked, it is impossible to distinguish one from the other.

"Well," he said evasively, in answer to my question, "I wanted a partner."

"And so you waited for me? Surely any other would have done as well?"

"No, that's just it. She wouldn't. I wanted to dance with you."

The waltz had ended, and we strolled together out of the theatre into the great winter-garden, with its bright flower-beds and graceful palms—a kind of huge conservatory, which forms a gay promenade each evening in the season.

"I don't see why you should entertain such a desire," I said. "Besides," and I paused to gain breath for the little untruth, "I fear now that my husband will be furious if he has noticed us."

"I might say the same about my wife—if I wished to import fiction into the romance," he said.

"Then you have no wife?" I suggested, with a laugh.

"My wife is just as real as your husband," he responded bluntly.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that if you really have a husband, it is an extremely surprising confession."

"Why surprising?"

"Well, it's true that husbands are like Somebody's sewing-machines, no home being complete without one," he laughed. "But I really had no idea that Mademoiselle Carmela Rosselli possessed such a useful commodity."

"What!" I gasped, glaring at the hideous-looking Owl. "You know me?"

"Yes," he responded, in a deeper tone, more earnestly than before. "I know quite well who you are. I have come here to-night expressly to speak with you."

I started, and stood glaring at him in wonderment.

"I have," he added, in a low, confidential voice, "something important to say to you—something most important."