The Lure of the Mask

The Lure of the Mask, by Harold
MacGrath

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Title: The Lure of the Mask
Author: Harold MacGrath
Illustrator: Harrison Fisher Karl Anderson
Release Date: July 27, 2007 [EBook #22158]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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The LURE OF THE MASK

By HAROLD MAC GRATH
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY HARRISON FISHER AND KARL
ANDERSON
INDIANAPOLIS THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY
PUBLISHERS COPYRIGHT 1908
PRESS OF BRAUN WORTH & CO. BOOKBINDERS AND
PRINTERS BROOKLYN, N.Y.

TO MY FELLOW TRAVELER AND GENTLE CRITIC

CONTENTS
I THE VOICE IN THE FOG
II OBJECT, MATRIMONY
III MADAME ANGOT
IV BLINDFOLDED
V THE MASK
VI INTO THE FOG AGAIN
VII THE TOSS OF A COIN
VIII WHAT MERRIHEW FOUND
IX MRS. SANDFORD WINKS
X CARABINIERI
XI THE CITY IN THE SEA

XII A BOX OF CIGARS
XIII KITTY ASKS QUESTIONS
XIV GREY VEILS
XV MANY NAPOLEONS
XVI O'MALLY SUGGESTS
XVII GIOVANNI
XVIII THE ARIA FROM IL TROVATORE
XIX TWO GENTLEMEN FROM VERONA
XX KITTY DROPS A BANDBOX
XXI AN INVITATION TO A BALL
XXII TANGLES
XXIII THE DÉNOUEMENT
XXIV MEASURE FOR MEASURE
XXV FREE
XXVI THE LETTER
XXVII BELLAGGIO

THE LURE OF THE MASK
CHAPTER I
THE VOICE IN THE FOG

Out of the unromantic night, out of the somber blurring January fog,
came a voice lifted in song, a soprano, rich, full and round, young, yet
matured, sweet and mysterious as a night-bird's, haunting and elusive
as the murmur of the sea in a shell: a lilt from La Fille de Madame
Angot, a light opera long since forgotten in New York. Hillard,
genuinely astonished, lowered his pipe and listened. To sit dreaming by
an open window, even in this unlovely first month of the year, in that
grim unhandsome city which boasts of its riches and still accepts with
smug content its rows upon rows of ugly architecture, to sit dreaming,
then, of red-tiled roofs, of cloud-caressed hills, of terraced vineyards, of
cypresses in their dark aloofness, is not out of the natural order of
things; but that into this idle and pleasant dream there should enter so
divine a voice, living, feeling, pulsing, this was not ordinary at all.
And Hillard was glad that the room was in darkness. He rose eagerly
and peered out. But he saw no one. Across the street the arc-lamp
burned dimly, like an opal in the matrix, while of architectural outlines
not one remained, the fog having kindly obliterated them.
The Voice rose and sank and soared again, drawing nearer and nearer.
It was joyous and unrestrained, and there was youth in it, the touch of
spring and the breath of flowers. The music was Lecocq's, that is to say,
French; but the tongue was of a country which Hillard knew to be the
garden of the world. Presently he observed a shadow emerge from the
yellow mist, to come within the circle of light, which, faint as it was,
limned in against the nothingness beyond the form of a woman. She
walked directly under his window.
As the invisible comes suddenly out of the future to assume distinct
proportions which either make or mar us, so did this unknown
cantatrice come out of the fog that night and enter into Hillard's life, to
readjust its ambitions, to divert its aimless course, to give impetus to it,
and a directness which hitherto it had not known.
"Ah!"
He leaned over the sill at a perilous angle, the bright coal of his pipe
spilling comet-wise to the area-way below. He was only subconscious

of having spoken; but this syllable was sufficient to spoil the
enchantment. The Voice ceased abruptly, with an odd break. The singer
looked up. Possibly her astonishment surpassed even that of her
audience. For a few minutes she had forgotten that she was in New
York, where romance may be found only in the book-shops; she had
forgotten that it was night, a damp and chill forlorn night; she had
forgotten the pain in her heart; there had been only a great and
irresistible longing to sing.
Though she raised her face, he could distinguish no feature, for the
light was behind. However, he was a man who made up his mind
quickly. Brunette or blond, beautiful or otherwise, it needed but a
moment to find out. Even as this decision was