§ 11
A couple of days later came Mrs. Winthrop’s “Progressive Love” party. At this party there were twenty-four guests, twelve men and twelve women, appearing in purple silk dominoes and golden silk masks supplied by the hostess. Twelve short dances were followed by intermissions, during which the guests retired to cosy corners, and the men made ardent love to their unknown partners. “Tubby” Bates, of whom there was too much to be concealed by any domino, was appointed door-keeper, and it was his business to select the couples, so that each would have a new partner for every dance. At the end, every person voted for the most successful “lover” and also the worst, and there were prizes and “booby” prizes.
Love-making, more or less disguised, being the principal occupation of men and women in the South, Sylvia counted herself an expert at this game. She had learned to assume a different personality, disguising her voice, and doing it quite naturally—not by the crude method of putting a button under her tongue. She took her seat after the first dance, perfectly mistress of herself and pleasantly thrilled with curiosity. All of the “younger set” at home had made love to her in earnest, and their methods were an oft-told tale. But how would these strange men of Harvard play the game?
The tall domino at her side was in no hurry to begin. He sat very stiff and straight upon the velvet cushions; and finally it came to Sylvia that he was suffering from embarrassment. She leaned towards him, so as to display “a more coming-on disposition.” “Sir,” she whispered, “faint heart ne’er won fair lady.”
The tall domino considered this in silence. “You’ll have to excuse me,” he said, “I never played this game before.”
“It is the most wonderful game in the world!” said Sylvia, fervently.
“Perhaps,” was the reply. “To me it seems a very foolish game, and I think it was poor taste on Mrs. Winthrop’s part.”
“Dear me!” thought the girl, “what kind of a fish have I caught here?” There was something strangely familiar about the voice, but she could not place it. She had met so many men in the last week or two.
“Sir,” she said, “I fear me that you lack a little of that holiday glee which is necessary to such occasion as this. I would that I could sing a song to cheer your moping spirit—”
‘Nymphs and shepherds come away,
For this is Flora’s holiday!’
Then, leaning a little nearer yet, “Come, sir, you must make an effort.”
“What shall I do?”
“You must manage to throw yourself into a state of rapture. You must tell me that you adore me. You must say that my blue eyes make dim the vault of heaven——”
“But I can hardly see your eyes.”
“You should not expect to see them. Have you not been told that Love is blind?”
So she tried to drive this tall domino to play; but it was sorry frisking that he did. “You must fall down upon your knees before me,” she said; but he protested that he could really not do that. And when she insisted, “You must!” he got down, with such deliberation that the girl was half convulsed with laughter.
“Sir,” she chided, “that will not do. When you stop to ease each trouser-knee, how can I believe that you are overcome with the ardor of your feelings? You must get up and try again.” And actually she made him get up and plump down suddenly upon his knees; and was so mischievous and so merry about it that she got even him to laughing in the end.
She was sure by this time that she had met the man before, and she found herself running over the list of her acquaintances, trying to imagine which one could be capable of making love in such a fashion. But she could not think of one. She fell to studying the domino and the mask before her, wondering what feelings could be behind them. Was it timidity and lack of imagination? Or could it be that the man was sulky and uncivil as he seemed? When the bell rang and she rose, she breathed to herself the prayer that she might be spared running into another “stick” like that.
The next partner was Harmon, as she recognized before he had said a dozen sentences. Harmon did not know her, but being in love, he knew how to behave. He poured out to Sylvia all the things which she had known for the past week he was longing to say to her; and Sylvia said in reply everything which she had no intention of saying in reality. So the episode passed pleasantly, and the girl thought somewhat better of Mrs. Winthrop’s talents as a hostess.
Number Three was again a tall domino. He seated himself, and there was a long pause. “Well, sir,” said Sylvia, inquiringly.
The domino delayed again. “You’ll have to excuse me,” he said, at last; “I never played this game before.”
And Sylvia realized in a flash of dismay that it was the first man again! The same voice—even the same words! “Sir,” she said, coldly, “you are mistaken. You played the same game with me not twenty minutes ago.”
The tall domino expressed bewilderment. “I beg your pardon—there has been some mistake.”
“There has indeed,” said Sylvia. “The door-keeper has evidently got our numbers mixed.” She pondered for a moment. Should she go and tell Mr. Bates?
But she realized that it was too late. The couples were all settled and the game proceeding. It was the kind of blunder that was always being made at these parties—either because the door-keeper was stupid, or was bribed by some man who wanted to make love in earnest. It spoiled the game—but then, as Sylvia had just said, Love is blind.
“What shall we do—wait?” she asked; to which the man replied, “I don’t mind.”
“Thank you,” she said, graciously. “We’ll have to make the best of it. Don’t you think you can manage to do a little better than the last time?”
“I’ll try,” he replied. “It’s beastly stupid, I think.”
Sylvia considered. “No,” she declared, “I believe it’s the game of all games for you.”
“How so?”
“Go down into the deeps of you. Haven’t you something there that is real—something primitive and untamed, that chafes against propriety, and wishes it had not been born in Boston?”
“I was not born in Boston,” said he.
“Perhaps not in your body,” said Sylvia, “but your soul is a Boston soul. And now think of this opportunity to fling loose, to be just as bad as you want to be—and quite without danger of detection, of having your reputation damaged! Surely, sir, there could be no game more adapted to the New England conscience!”
“By Jove!” exclaimed the man; and actually there was warmth in his tone. Sylvia’s heart leaped, and she caught him by the hand. “Quick! Quick!” she cried. “Gather ye rosebuds while ye may—old time is still a-flying!”
“By Jove!” exclaimed the man again; and Sylvia, kindling with mischief, pressed his hand more tightly and brought him upon his knees before her. “Make haste! You have but one life—one chance to be yourself—to vent your emotions! I’ve no idea who you are, I can’t possibly tell on you—and so you may utter those things which you keep hidden even from yourself!”
“By Jove!” he exclaimed for the third time. “Really, if I had you to make love to——”
“But you have me! You have me! For several precious minutes—alone and undisturbed! You are not a Boston Brahmin in a domino—you are a faun in the forests of Arcady. Come, Mr. Faun!” And Sylvia began to sing in a low, caressing manner:
“Oh, come, my love, to Arcady!
A dream path leads us, dear.
One hour of love in Arcady
Is worth a lifetime here!”
There was a pause. She could feel the man’s hand trembling. “I am waiting!” she whispered; to which he answered, “I wish you would talk! You make love so much better than I!”
Sylvia broke into one of her merry laughs. “A leap-year party!” she cried.
But the other was in earnest. “I like to listen to you,” he said. “Please go on!”
Sylvia was laughing so that she felt tears in her eyes, and she wanted to wipe them away under her mask. Her handkerchief was gone, and she looked for it—in her lap, beside her on the seat, and then on the floor. This led to a curious and unexpected turn in the adventure—her recognition of this New England faun. Seeing what she was doing, he said, “I beg pardon. Have you lost something?”
It was like an explosion in Sylvia’s mind. Not merely the same words—but the same manner, the same accent, the same personality!
The search for the handkerchief gave her the chance to recover her breath. The Lord had delivered him into her hands again!
“Sir,” she said. “I resume. You have overwhelmed me with the torrent of your ardor. I feel myself swept away in a flood which my feeble will cannot resist. You come to me like a royal wooer—like some god out of the skies, stunning the senses of a mere mortal maiden! Who can this be—I ask myself. From what source can such superhuman eloquence and fervor spring? Can I endure it? I cry—or shall I be burned up and destroyed, like Danaï in the legend? It is just so that he descends upon me—like Jupiter, in a shower of gold!”
Sylvia could feel the tall domino stiffen and rear himself. She had meant to go on, but she stopped, so great was her curiosity. How would he take it?
At last came the voice from under the mask. “I see,” it said, “that you have the advantage of me. You do know who I am.”
Sylvia was almost transported—by a combination of amazement and amusement. “Know who you are?” she cried. “How could I fail to know who you are? You, my divinity! You, to whom all the world bends the knee! Sire, receive my homage—I bow in adoration before the Golden Calf!”
And she sunk down upon one knee before the tall domino!
It was putting herself into his hands. She was fully prepared to see him rise and stalk away—but so possessed was she that she would have enjoyed even that! Fortunately, however, at this moment the bell rang, saving her. She sprang to her feet, and caught the hand of her divinity in one quick clasp of parting. “Good-bye, Mr. van Tuiver!” she exclaimed. “Good-bye—until the next incarnation!”