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The Gilt Mask:
Marjorie Bowen:
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The Gilt Mask
by
Marjorie Bowen
First published in The Windsor Magazine, May 1915
This e-book edition: Project Gutenberg Australia, 2023
I.
HE Lady Dorothy stood in the window-space, a
little apart from the crowd—in heart and spirit very much
apart and exceedingly lonely, though she was the most admired and
courted of all the women in the fashionable gathering. She was
also certainly the most beautiful, the most notable, perhaps, by
reason of the manner in which her charms were set off by the
exceeding richness of her rose-coloured velvet and gilt habit and
the great plumed hat, on which the sweeping white feathers were
fastened by a circle of rose diamonds.
And as she was a great lady as well as a beauty, an heiress,
and one free to dispose of herself and her money, she had more
flatterers than enough pressing about her, and every other woman
in the room envying her, as how could they help envying one who
had birth and loveliness, wealth and position, and the world at
her feet?
But the Lady Dorothy Drummond was the most unhappy creature of
any there, man or woman.
The scene was the studio, or workshop, of a young sculptor
just rising sufficiently into fame to attract the fashionable
world to a display of their wit and beauty beneath his
roof—often to a display of their arrogance and ignorance;
but George Linton could smile at that, for these patrons were to
him but rungs of the ladder on which he meant to climb to
fame.
His work was largely that of a goldsmith and worker in
precious metals and jewels, a métier rather despised in
this practical age, relegated to the rank of tradesmen, or little
better; but he had, by the brilliancy of his skill, redeemed his
neglected art in the public eye, and made his exquisite
productions the mode.
The wonderful objects he designed and shaped were almost as
much sought after as the fashionable portraits of Romney or
Reynolds, and he was in a fair way to make as big a fortune as
either of these famous painters.
To attend the exhibits he gave of his work became a usual
diversion of the great world. Duchesses and statesmen were among
his patrons, and he seemed likely to revive the days of the great
Cellini when the Court of France had thronged the studio of the
master-craftsman.
He stood now among his patrons, a modest, manly figure in his
grey cloth suit, his face pale between the powdered curls, his
long, brown eyes elated, his face eager yet reserved, and very
likeable in its charming look of youth and strength.
The Lady Dorothy was watching him from under drooping lids.
She loved him, and she had just heard of his betrothal to another
woman—that was her tragedy.
As she looked at him, she was wondering what she should do
with the rest of her life. Now he had gone out of it, she could
see no purpose in living.
She had been one of his first patronesses, and it was largely
to her that he owed his success. She had first been attracted by
the beauty of his work, and then by the charm and power of the
man himself, and for more than a year she had secretly loved him
as it was in her noble nature to love—once only.
The distance between them had always been impossibly
great—she the great lady, the wealthy heiress, the
brilliant match, he the poor artist of humble birth—and his
attitude to her had always been one of becoming reverence,
gratitude, and devotion.
But she had hoped—ah, yes, the woman in her had
hoped—that one day, when he had climbed more to her level,
he might dare, for she had thought herself without a rival, and
tremblingly believed that her love was returned.
And now, at a breath, these hopes and beliefs were shattered.
There was another woman, and he was going to marry her, and his
patroness had been to him only his patroness.
The Lady Dorothy's gentle heart was incapable of feeling rage
or bitterness against anyone; she could think of his betrothed
with kindness, but deeply humiliated for the love given unasked,
great sadness for the love wasted, immense desolation and sorrow
for a loss that could never be replaced. These feelings did
overwhelm and bow her gallant heart.
She possessed one consolation—no one had ever been her
confidant, her secret had been proudly kept inviolate, and never
by look nor word nor gesture had she betrayed herself.
This helped her to endure the present moment. Afterwards, when
she was alone, she might permit herself the relief of tears or
prayers. Now she must stand calm and smiling before the crowd who
so little guessed the truth.
An ancient beau joined her and told her again the news that
was ringing in her heart.
"So Linton is going to marry? Your ladyship heard? One hardly
thought that he would be so monstrous foolish."
"Why foolish?" asked the Lady Dorothy gently.
"Why, because it is a person of no account—a little miss
from a boarding-school, a country parson's daughter!"
"You think that he might have made a more brilliant match?"
smiled the woman who loved George Linton.
"By Heaven, I do, madam! He has a real future, and the time
will come when he will regret his little cottage girl."
"You are very severe, Mr. Bentham. Have you seen the
lady?"
"She is here—a creature without style or manners,
without brains, too, I think."
"It would be a true love-match, then," said the Lady Dorothy,
"and Mr. Linton is to be congratulated sincerely."
"Ah, that is what you ladies call romance, and cry over in the
paper novels," smiled Mr. Bentham tolerantly. "What do you call
it in a few years' time, when the prettiness and the love have
worn away, like taint off a new toy, and the prosperous husband
is ashamed of the silly, simple wife, and she is neglected and
shrewish at home, while he is enchained to some woman of wit and
culture?"
"Why, if that happens, I call it failure," replied the lady.
"I admit Mr. Linton may do a foolish thing if he marries fair
ignorance, but it's no use arguing about the matter, sir. Men do
not look for brains in their wives' dowries—it is never
pretty foolishness that is left to become an ancient
spinster."
Mr. Bentham laughed.
"Well, I credited Linton with more sense, at least. And, mark
me, this match will damage him. He might enter the beau
monde—she never can."
"He is successful enough to please himself," said Lady
Dorothy, "and I do not think he cares for the beau
monde."
"You have heard of his commission from the King of
France?"
"Nay, what is that?"
"He is to design a new State sword for His Majesty, in which
is to be placed the famous diamond, the Fleur-de-lis. It has been
sent over by a special messenger. I asked Linton to show it to
me, but he said he had sent it to the bank, and wisely
done—the thing is worth a kingdom."
The others coming up broke the conversation, and presently
Lady Dorothy escaped from all of them and wandered by herself
through the suite of studios, or workshops.
The top light of a winter afternoon fell coldly on the
pictures and tapestries and fine furniture, and on the shelves,
cases, and tables where George Linton's works stood. He had
experimented in most materials, and always brilliantly.
There were chalk and bistre drawings, portraits and landscapes
in oil, statuettes in clay, terra-cotta, and marble, objects cast
in bronze, goblets, candlesticks, clocks, trays and bells in
gold, silver, and porcelain, vases in majolica, copied from those
of Gubbio and Castel del Monte, and fine paintings on china.
Hero, too, were cases of jewellery—caskets, sword hilts,
rings, bracelets, coronets, watches, keys, combs, all wrought
with a perfect taste and a superb workmanship worthy of the great
Renaissance of craftsmanship.
In one corner was a wooden bracket, on which stood the lovely
antique Nike, with wings bound to the noble head, one wing broken
now, but the other still extended beyond the proud, dreaming face
and the close, waving hair—a perfect copy that Linton
himself had made in Italy.
The Lady Dorothy paused beneath and looked up at the serene
stone face. The look of smiling, passionless calm soothed her
aching heart. She gazed up into the marble visage as if it was
the countenance of a friend.
And here George Linton came to her.
She was ready for this—she had known he must come to her
sooner or later. She turned to him slowly and smiled.
"You have come to tell me of your betrothal?" she said. "I
have heard of it. I am glad you are happy. Will you not bring her
to me? I hear she is new to London; it might be I could be of use
to her."
He stood erect before her and strangely flushed.﹃You
overwhelm me with your graciousness,﹄he answered. "I may not so
trespass on your kindness, my lady. Miss Heriot will be more than
grateful for your protection, for she is new indeed to town, and
shall thank you with her own lips."
Dorothy Drummond was looking at him steadily and sweetly. She
did not answer, and her long fingers played with the lace of her
cravat, which heaved on her breast.
"And for myself I must thank you," added George Linton, "and
from my heart, most earnestly, most gratefully, my lady, most
humbly and sincerely."
There was a certain wistfulness in his words that startled
her, that almost shook her delicately held composure.
"You owe me nothing," she answered rather faintly. "Thank,
sir, your own merits."
"I owe you everything," he insisted eagerly. "When you gave me
your help, your encouragement, I was in despair. Whatever success
I have I lay at your feet—it is yours."
Despite her self-control she paled. How ironical his words
were, when she had nothing of him—nothing!
"I believed in you as an artist, sir," she answered, "and your
success has flattered my judgment, therefore I stand well
rewarded for my venture; and you exaggerate my services, perhaps
because you value your success now as you never did before, since
it has enabled you to gain your lady. And now will you not,
please, bring her to me?"
He hesitated a moment, looked at her intently, bowed and
withdrew. While he was gone, Lady Dorothy gazed up at the
Nike.
He returned with a young girl, who looked at the great lady
with a half-defiant awe.
"This is Grace Heriot, my lady, and this, Grace, is the Lady
Dorothy Drummond of whom you have so often heard me speak."
The two women were quick to take each other's measure.
Grace Heriot saw a lady of a finish, an elegance, an air that
was quite beyond her judgment and her criticism; Dorothy Drummond
saw a girl who was not the modest country girl she had imagined,
but a creature only superficially pretty, rather impudent and
bold, over-dressed in furbelows and silks. At the present moment,
elated with an excitement she could by no means disguise, she
laughed continually, and gave the impression that her betrothal,
and the sudden importance she had acquired as the future wife of
George Linton, had quite turned her foolish head.
"She will spend all his money on clothes and chariots and in
aping the fine lady she can never be," thought Lady Dorothy, with
a sinking heart.
Aloud she spoke sweetly, making the girl free of her house and
her friends. And she meant what she said. For the sake of George
Linton, she was prepared to champion his wife against all the
smiles and sneers of London society.
Grace Heriot answered lightly, and, glancing at George with a
simpering air of possession, told Lady Dorothy that he and she
were old sweethearts, and had known each other from childhood in
their native place in Northumberland.
"You must be very proud to see the position Mr. Linton holds
to-day," said Lady Dorothy, "very proud and very happy, Miss
Heriot. It is seldom such fine work so soon achieves
success."
"Oh, la, as to that, I know nothing at all," smiled Grace
Heriot. "I never held his cribbling and plastering of much
account, but now it has brought him a fortune, I am pleased
enough, of course."
"You do not care about his art, then?" asked the other.
"It don't seem to me a woman's business, ma'am," replied the
bride-elect. "But what does it matter to me what he does, say I,
as long as he keeps a fine house and gives me plenty of
pin-money?"
So this was the woman he was going to marry! This was the
woman for whose sake he was going to deny himself all other
women's company, comprehension, and understanding! This was to be
the lifelong companion of a man of an eager genius! Lady Dorothy
could not understand. A kind of shame kept her from looking
directly at him, but she was conscious that he was looking down
and not at either of them.
"Please honour me at my next reception, ma'am," she said, and,
with a curtsey, took her leave of both of them; she could not
longer endure now the airs and foolishness of this country
miss.
She moved away slowly, for a quick step was impossible to her
heavy mind.
Why had he done it? Why?
Love must he his motive. There could be no other. Love! He,
the man of such taste, discernment, refinement of perception and
judgment—he had been swept off his feet by this comeliness
of a milkmaid, this passing charm of country freshness!
Lady Dorothy turned into a little cabinet at the back of the
studio, where Linton worked and kept his precious gems.
One of the assistants was there. She asked him if the peridots
she was having reset were ready. The man hastened away to see,
and she remained alone in the little chamber, the walls of which
sparkled with cases of jewels.
"I must help him now more than ever," she thought. "I must buy
all I can. He will need it, with that girl to satisfy. And
I—what else have I to do with my money?"
She moved restlessly round the cases, gazing at the objects
within.
One especially caught her fancy as her preoccupied glance was
held by it—a small egg of silver gilt, the front finely
carved into the likeness of a mask, with smoothly banded hair and
sleepy eyes and smiling lips.
"Like me!" she thought. "My face is but a mask gilt with
smiles. I will take this in remembrance of the day I heard of his
betrothal."
The glass door of the case was unlocked. She took out the gilt
mask and put it in her pocket.
The assistant returned. The jewels were not ready.
"It is no matter," said the lady. "Send them when they are
completed. I have taken a little silver gilt ornament, tell Mr.
Linton."
She took up her muff and fur scarf, and left the room and the
house, descending with the November twilight that deepened over
Leicester Fields, and entering her chariot, which waited, with
other chariots and chairs, before George Linton's door.
And when she was inside, she drew up the leathern blinds, took
from her pocket the little trifle his fingers had fashioned, and
wept over it silently.
II.
LESS than a week later the Lady Dorothy, sitting
in her splendid withdrawing-room in her mansion in St. James's
Square, was told that Miss Grace Heriot wished to see her. It was
yet early in the morning, an impossible hour for a visit.
"Something has happened," thought the Lady Dorothy. She bade
the girl be admitted at once.
So they met again—the woman George Linton was going to
marry, and the woman who loved him.
The lady rose, tall and fair in her white lace morning-gown,
and held out her hand to her visitor.
Grace Heriot was finely dressed. She had already learnt the
trick of paint and powder yet her face showed pale, almost
distorted—she was openly agitated.
"This is not a fashionable hour for a visit, I know," she
began, with a laugh that was more than half hysterical, "and I
don't know why I should come to you at all!"
"You are in trouble? Please tell me. I will do anything I
can."
"There is nothing to be done!" cried the other, "and I don't
know why I came, unless to have someone to talk to, and you were
always interested in him!"
She dropped on to a settee and twisted her hands together on
her knee.
Lady Dorothy remained standing.
"It is about Mr. Linton?" she asked.
"Yes, about George. I was so happy, and now it is all over!
What shall I do? Oh, what shall I do?"
"Please tell me," urged the lady gently.
Grace Heriot looked at her wildly.
"Well," she blurted out, "he is supposed to have stolen the
French diamond—that thing he was to have put in the King's
sword—and everyone believes it, and he is quite ruined! I
doubt but they will put him in gaol or hang him at Tyburn!"
Lady Dorothy felt as if the world was breaking about her. She
stood for a moment quite still, holding her heart.
Grace Heriot began to sob noisily. That roused the other
woman.
"Hush," she said, "Hush! Tell me the whole story—tell me
everything."
"There is nothing to tell, ma'am. George can't find the
diamond, and they say he stole it."
"I thought he had sent it to the bank?"
"He says he gave it to his man to take, and the fellow
delayed, and put the thing in some case, and, when they went, it
was gone."
"It must be found."
"George searched two days, almost tearing the walls down."
"It must be found," repeated Lady Dorothy.
"Can you help?" cried Grace.
"I? What do you want me to do?"
"I don't know, but you are clever and powerful, and his
friend."
"Poor child!" answered the other. "I am as helpless as you. He
could replace the gem. I might help, true."
"Oh, ma'am," cried the girl frantically, "there ain't such
another stone in the world! What fortune could replace it?"
Lady Dorothy knew that she was right—her own entire
fortune would hardly make up half the value of the
Fleur-de-lis—and she knew, too, that George Linton would
never take money from her, under any disguise.
"It is somewhere—it must be found," she could only
repeat.
"Meanwhile, George is ruined!" cried Grace Heriot.﹃And, if
your ladyship can suggest nothing—why, I'll be going.﹄She
rose, dabbing at her face with a perfumed handkerchief.﹃So this
is the end of the fine days!﹄she cried desperately.
"What do yon mean?"
"That I must get back to the country and find another
husband!"
"You—you do not mean that you will forsake him?"
Grace Heriot broke out into violent defence of herself.
"Forsake! It is all very well to use fine words, my lady, but
he is ruined and an accused thief, and he can't hold me to my
promise; and if something can't be done, and the diamond isn't
found, we shall go home. My people have always been honest, and I
won't drag them into disgrace!"
Lady Dorothy stared at her in utter amazement.
"You—do not love him, then?" she stammered.
Grace Heriot tossed her head.
"I am going to marry an honest man!"
"Oh, you do not—"
Lady Dorothy broke off in a kind of terror.
"I do not know!" sobbed Grace. "George was always
strange—you never can be sure of clever men!"
"Nor of foolish women! But you—you do not mean what you
say? Of course, you will stand by him—of course, you
believe in him?"
"Do you?" flung out Grace.
"Absolutely."
"Well, you ain't asked to marry him, ma'am, and I am. And
unless he is cleared pretty soon, I will not be ruined and in
this way!"
Lady Dorothy struck her hands together passionately.
"You must not!" she cried. "He needs you now more than ever!
Do you not see it so? He is not ruined. I—I will help you
both, only you must not forsake him. Promise me that, I entreat
you. I plead with you to promise me that!
"Why, what is it to you, ma'am?" cried Grace, stepping back,
for the other woman was nearly kneeling to her in the vehemence
of her passion.
"I know he is innocent, and I cannot bear that you should
break his heart—I cannot bear that you should do this
hateful thing," answered Lady Dorothy.
"I'll act as I choose, ma'am," replied Grace Heriot. "And here
is good-bye to you, and thanks for your good advice."
With that she flounced from the room.
And in this manner the Lady Dorothy heard of the ruin of
George Linton.
III.
THE diamond was not found. George Linton could
not produce it, nor amend his lame story of his careless
assistant and the mysterious disappearance of the gem.
The affair became of international importance. The unfortunate
artist was given a week in which to produce the jewel. If he
failed, he would be tried as a thief—the French Ambassador
would be satisfied with no less.
Grace Heriot and her parents left London, the betrothal was
openly broken, and the girl's desertion set the seal on the
blackness of the case against him. All fell away from
him—his patrons, his friends, his acquaintances.
He might be a thief, and he was certainly ruined. In either
case, the world that had once so admired and supported him no
longer needed him. He was not worth a war with France. Besides,
very few believed him innocent.
"Where will the fool sell the jewel?" they asked.
He was as swiftly, as completely ruined as a man can be. There
seemed utterly no chance, no hope for him, no straw at which he
could catch, no gleam of light to redeem the darkness of his
overthrow.
Then she came to him—came one dreary afternoon, when the
snow was falling without the studio windows, and he was sitting
alone in the cold light, with his head in his hands.
He rose up in amazement when he saw her beautiful presence
glowing in his deserted room.
She put down her white muff on his work-table and held out her
ungloved hand.
"Mr. Linton, you must not grieve—the diamond will be
found. And—and I have come to tell you that I am going into
the country to bring her back."
"Bring her back?"
"Grace Heriot. You must not blame her—she is but a
girl."
He broke in fiercely on her gentle voice.
"My lady, you mock me! I am glad she has gone—glad!"
"She—your betrothed!"
"There was some boy and girl promise between us. When she
heard of my good fortune, she—they—remembered it. I
had almost forgotten her. Now she has gone, let her go in
peace."
They stood staring at each other. She grasped the chair-back
behind her. His ruin had broken down many barriers between them;
never had she spoken so frankly to him before.
"You never cared, then?" she asked.
"Did you think I could?" he demanded hotly.
The truth was forced from her.
"It seemed—strange."
He gave a half sob and turned his head away.
"I cared for another."
"Another?"
He looked at her again now, and his eyes were dark with pain
and longing.
"My lady, do you think me a thief?"
"I know you are not."
"I stand before yon ruined, my lady, the creature whom you
raised up lies broken at your feet, and, as a man who has nothing
more to lose, I can speak to you."
"Speak, speak!"
"As one on the edge of death I speak to you, my lady!"
"No; no—not death!"
"I am mad, crazed by my misfortunes! Listen to what I dare. I
love you, my lady! I have always loved you—I have lived on
my love for you! Forgive this from one who will live no
more!"
She stretched out her hands to him and began to sob.
"My dear, my dear, I belong to you! Take me!"
He stepped back from her in awe, almost in horror.
"It is not possible!" he cried brokenly. "I am a
beggar—dishonoured!"
She slipped to her knees before him, still holding out her
hands.
"Make me your wife, if I am worthy! Look, the mask is off. I
took this, when I was last here, to remind me—the little
mask that you made—to remind me to keep my mask on." She
drew it from her bosom and held it out to him.
"I took this when I was last here."
"You must not kneel—oh, my lady—and to me! I
cannot believe it; it is not possible that I am so blessed. What
is this?"
For, in raising her, he had seen the gilt mask.
"You took this—this, my lady?"
"Yes, the little mask, to remind me—"
His voice broke between sobs and laughter.
"Then I am no longer ruined! I have my honour again, and you,
and you!"
He took the gilt mask from her.
"Yes," she cried, "it is off now—the mask!"
"You took this?" he stammered again.
"Yes. Did they not tell you?"
"By Heaven's grace, no one told me. And so she was
tested, and you were found. Oh, my lady, I can hardly
believe it!"
She wondered a little at his words, wondered through all her
joy.
"Look!" he said.
He pressed the top of the gilt toy. The mask flew back and
showed a hollow, where lay the gem in its curious case, the
famous Fleur-de-lis!
THE END
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