IV

Twice Freda sent messengers up to the Barracks, where the dance was in full swing, and as often they came back without answers.  Then she did what only Freda could do—put on her furs, masked her face, and went up herself to the Governor’s ball.  Now there happened to be a custom—not an original one by any means—to which the official clique had long since become addicted.  It was a very wise custom, for it furnished protection to the womankind of the officials and gave greater selectness to their revels.  Whenever a masquerade was given, a committee was chosen, the sole function of which was to stand by the door and peep beneath each and every mask.  Most men did not clamor to be placed upon this committee, while the very ones who least desired the honor were the ones whose services were most required.  The chaplain was not well enough acquainted with the faces and places of the townspeople to know whom to admit and whom to turn away.  In like condition were the several other worthy gentlemen who would have asked nothing better than to so serve.  To fill the coveted place, Mrs. McFee would have risked her chance of salvation, and did, one night, when a certain trio passed in under her guns and muddled things considerably before their identity was discovered.  Thereafter only the fit were chosen, and very ungracefully did they respond.

On this particular night Prince was at the door.  Pressure had been brought to bear, and he had not yet recovered from amaze at his having consented to undertake a task which bid fair to lose him half his friends, merely for the sake of pleasing the other half.  Three or four of the men he had refused were men whom he had known on creek and trail,—good comrades, but not exactly eligible for so select an affair.  He was canvassing the expediency of resigning the post there and then, when a woman tripped in under the light.  Freda!  He could swear it by the furs, did he not know that poise of head so well.  The last one to expect in all the world.  He had given her better judgment than to thus venture the ignominy of refusal, or, if she passed, the scorn of women.  He shook his head, without scrutiny; he knew her too well to be mistaken.  But she pressed closer.  She lifted the black silk ribbon and as quickly lowered it again.  For one flashing, eternal second he looked upon her face.  It was not for nothing, the saying which had arisen in the country, that Freda played with men as a child with bubbles.  Not a word was spoken.  Prince stepped aside, and a few moments later might have been seen resigning, with warm incoherence, the post to which he had been unfaithful.

* * * * *

A woman, flexible of form, slender, yet rhythmic of strength in every movement, now pausing with this group, now scanning that, urged a restless and devious course among the revellers.  Men recognized the furs, and marvelled,—men who should have served upon the door committee; but they were not prone to speech.  Not so with the women.  They had better eyes for the lines of figure and tricks of carriage, and they knew this form to be one with which they were unfamiliar; likewise the furs.  Mrs. McFee, emerging from the supper-room where all was in readiness, caught one flash of the blazing, questing eyes through the silken mask-slits, and received a start.  She tried to recollect where she had seen the like, and a vivid picture was recalled of a certain proud and rebellious sinner whom she had once encountered on a fruitless errand for the Lord.

So it was that the good woman took the trail in hot and righteous wrath, a trail which brought her ultimately into the company of Mrs. Eppingwell and Floyd Vanderlip.  Mrs. Eppingwell had just found the opportunity to talk with the man.  She had determined, now that Flossie was so near at hand, to proceed directly to the point, and an incisive little ethical discourse was titillating on the end of her tongue, when the couple became three.  She noted, and pleasurably, the faintly foreign accent of the “Beg pardon” with which the furred woman prefaced her immediate appropriation of Floyd Vanderlip; and she courteously bowed her permission for them to draw a little apart.

Then it was that Mrs. McFee’s righteous hand descended, and accompanying it in its descent was a black mask torn from a startled woman.  A wonderful face and brilliant eyes were exposed to the quiet curiosity of those who looked that way, and they were everybody.  Floyd Vanderlip was rather confused.  The situation demanded instant action on the part of a man who was not beyond his depth, while he hardly knew where he was.  He stared helplessly about him.  Mrs. Eppingwell was perplexed.  She could not comprehend.  An explanation was forthcoming, somewhere, and Mrs. McFee was equal to it.

“Mrs. Eppingwell,” and her Celtic voice rose shrilly, “it is with great pleasure I make you acquainted with Freda Moloof, Miss Freda Moloof, as I understand.”

Freda involuntarily turned.  With her own face bared, she felt as in a dream, naked, upon her turned the clothed features and gleaming eyes of the masked circle.  It seemed, almost, as though a hungry wolf-pack girdled her, ready to drag her down.  It might chance that some felt pity for her, she thought, and at the thought, hardened.  She would by far prefer their scorn.  Strong of heart was she, this woman, and though she had hunted the prey into the midst of the pack, Mrs. Eppingwell or no Mrs. Eppingwell, she could not forego the kill.

But here Mrs. Eppingwell did a strange thing.  So this, at last, was Freda, she mused, the dancer and the destroyer of men; the woman from whose door she had been turned.  And she, too, felt the imperious creature’s nakedness as though it were her own.  Perhaps it was this, her Saxon disinclination to meet a disadvantaged foe, perhaps, forsooth, that it might give her greater strength in the struggle for the man, and it might have been a little of both; but be that as it may, she did do this strange thing.  When Mrs. McFee’s thin voice, vibrant with malice, had raised, and Freda turned involuntarily, Mrs. Eppingwell also turned, removed her mask, and inclined her head in acknowledgment.

It was another flashing, eternal second, during which these two women regarded each other.  The one, eyes blazing, meteoric; at bay, aggressive; suffering in advance and resenting in advance the scorn and ridicule and insult she had thrown herself open to; a beautiful, burning, bubbling lava cone of flesh and spirit.  And the other, calm-eyed, cool-browed, serene; strong in her own integrity, with faith in herself, thoroughly at ease; dispassionate, imperturbable; a figure chiselled from some cold marble quarry.  Whatever gulf there might exist, she recognized it not.  No bridging, no descending; her attitude was that of perfect equality.  She stood tranquilly on the ground of their common womanhood.  And this maddened Freda.  Not so, had she been of lesser breed; but her soul’s plummet knew not the bottomless, and she could follow the other into the deeps of her deepest depths and read her aright.  “Why do you not draw back your garment’s hem?” she was fain to cry out, all in that flashing, dazzling second.  “Spit upon me, revile me, and it were greater mercy than this!”  She trembled.  Her nostrils distended and quivered.  But she drew herself in check, returned the inclination of head, and turned to the man.

“Come with me, Floyd,” she said simply.  “I want you now.”

“What the—” he began explosively, and quit as suddenly, discreet enough to not round it off.  Where the deuce had his wits gone, anyway?  Was ever a man more foolishly placed?  He gurgled deep down in his throat and high up in the roof of his mouth, heaved as one his big shoulders and his indecision, and glared appealingly at the two women.

“I beg pardon, just a moment, but may I speak first with Mr. Vanderlip?” Mrs. Eppingwell’s voice, though flute-like and low, predicated will in its every cadence.

The man looked his gratitude.  He, at least, was willing enough.

“I’m very sorry,” from Freda.  “There isn’t time.  He must come at once.”  The conventional phrases dropped easily from her lips, but she could not forbear to smile inwardly at their inadequacy and weakness.  She would much rather have shrieked.

“But, Miss Moloof, who are you that you may possess yourself of Mr. Vanderlip and command his actions?”

Whereupon relief brightened his face, and the man beamed his approval.  Trust Mrs. Eppingwell to drag him clear.  Freda had met her match this time.

“I—I—” Freda hesitated, and then her feminine mind putting on its harness—“and who are you to ask this question?”

“I?  I am Mrs. Eppingwell, and—”

“There!” the other broke in sharply.  “You are the wife of a captain, who is therefore your husband.  I am only a dancing girl.  What do you with this man?”

“Such unprecedented behavior!” Mrs. McFee ruffled herself and cleared for action, but Mrs. Eppingwell shut her mouth with a look and developed a new attack.

“Since Miss Moloof appears to hold claims upon you, Mr. Vanderlip, and is in too great haste to grant me a few seconds of your time, I am forced to appeal directly to you.  May I speak with you, alone, and now?”

Mrs. McFee’s jaws brought together with a snap.  That settled the disgraceful situation.

“Why, er—that is, certainly,” the man stammered.  “Of course, of course,” growing more effusive at the prospect of deliverance.

Men are only gregarious vertebrates, domesticated and evolved, and the chances are large that it was because the Greek girl had in her time dealt with wilder masculine beasts of the human sort; for she turned upon the man with hell’s tides aflood in her blazing eyes, much as a bespangled lady upon a lion which has suddenly imbibed the pernicious theory that he is a free agent.  The beast in him fawned to the lash.

“That is to say, ah, afterward.  To-morrow, Mrs. Eppingwell; yes, to-morrow.  That is what I meant.”  He solaced himself with the fact, should he remain, that more embarrassment awaited.  Also, he had an engagement which he must keep shortly, down by the water-hole off the hospital.  Ye gods! he had never given Freda credit!  Wasn’t she magnificent!

“I’ll thank you for my mask, Mrs. McFee.”

That lady, for the nonce speechless, turned over the article in question.

“Good-night, Miss Moloof.”  Mrs. Eppingwell was royal even in defeat.

Freda reciprocated, though barely downing the impulse to clasp the other’s knees and beg forgiveness,—no, not forgiveness, but something, she knew not what, but which she none the less greatly desired.

The man was for her taking his arm; but she had made her kill in the midst of the pack, and that which led kings to drag their vanquished at the chariot-tail, led her toward the door alone, Floyd Vanderlip close at heel and striving to re-establish his mental equilibrium.