The Masked Ball.
How singularly different the various actors in our eventful drama of
real life passed the Thursday and the Friday preceding Learmont’s
masked ball. To the squire himself it was a period of restless
inquietude, for even in his moments of self-exaltation, and triumphant
congratulation, there was bitterness at his heart, and he could almost
fancy a voice said to him in a hissing whisper—“This is not real.” Had
it not been for the great preparations he occupied himself in making
and superintending for the approaching entertainment, his imagination,
having more leisure to brood upon the past, would have brought upon him
greater suffering than he really endured, but, as it was, each hour
that had winged its flight, he told himself that he was safer still,
and that he had now little more to do than enjoy the discomfiture of
his enemies. That Albert Seyton had died of the poison which he,
Learmont, thought he had taken, he entertained no doubt. The only
circumstance that surprised him much was that he had not seen Britton,
but having ascertained, upon inquiry, that the smith had not been one
degree removed from helpless intoxication since the Wednesday morning,
he felt satisfied, and rather pleased than otherwise, at the speedy
destruction which Britton must be making of his powers of existence.
Oh, with what malignant satisfaction he read and re-read, as he
supposed, the only document which could have hurled him from his high
estate to destruction, to death, to infamy! How he laughed with a wild
demoniac mirth at the simplicity of Albert Seyton in handing him the
confession, and being so easily put off from a knowledge of its
contents. With what a proud air he trod his splendid saloons, and how
haughtily he reasoned with himself about that Providence which he in
his wild excitement of fancied success almost considered he had
circumvented.
“This ball,” he muttered, “shall be the scene of my triumph and the
discomfiture of my enemies—envy shall become more envious, humility and
sycophancy more humble and cringing—for all shall see that the star of
Learmont is in the ascendant. Then, this confession, addressed to Sir
Francis Hartleton, shall make assurance doubly sure; I will totally
confound him by handing to him a document of my own contrivance
similarly addressed, but with contents most widely differing from this!
Yes, it shall be done. With seeming candour and simplicity the subtlest
plots are carried out, the deepest designs concluded successfully. What
will be the result? All that I can wish.—I will write a supposed
confession of Jacob Gray, and hand it to this active magistrate.”
For some moments Learmont was so delighted with this plan, that he
paced the saloon in which he was in silence, while a grim smile lit up
his face, giving him a close resemblance to some of those strange old
carvings, which modern fashion, if not modern taste, is rescuing from
the dust and oblivion of centuries at the present day.
In silent meditation he concocted his plan, which he considered would
either place Ada in his power, or force the magistrate in a very
disagreeable position, for the mock confession he meant to write, and
hand to Sir Francis Hartleton, as having been brought to him by his
secretary, he intended should merely contain an appeal to his,
Learmont’s, charity in favour of the orphan girl.
While triumph was thus setting on the brow of Learmont—while Heaven was
inflating his heart with the vanity of success, as if but to make his
fall more awful, Ada, who we have followed through her various fortunes
so long, was indeed happy in the best, the purest, acception of the
term. Her joy was not the feverish excitement arising from successful
machinations. It was heavenly serenity—the sunny happiness of a heart
which knew no guile, and was only too much blessed in being permitted
uncoerced and unpersecuted to follow out the dictates of its own
ennobling feelings.
The whole household indeed of Sir Francis Hartleton, seemed to share in
the satisfaction that there abounded, from what cause they knew not,
but they were satisfied, from the smiles of Ada and the returning
colour on her cheek, the evident happiness of Albert Seyton, and the
pleasure which sparkled in the eyes of their master and mistress, that
something must have happened to bring great joy among them.
It was the Saturday morning before Britton had the least interval of
sobriety, and then so stultified were his faculties with the debauch of
the last two days, far exceeding as it did any that he had previously
indulged in, that he was some time in comprehending what Bond the
butcher meant, when, after repeated howlings in his ear, he heard him
say—
“Britton, curse you, you beast, the squire, your rich friend, is going
to give a ball to-night, I hear, and all the people are to go, they
tell me, with masks. Do you hear, you brute?”
“Yes, and be hanged to you; you are as drunk as you can be, and you
know it,” responded Britton. “More brandy—more brandy! Damn Jacob
Gray—no, curse it, it’s no use damning Jacob Gray any more now: he’s
damned already—damn everybody.”
“Ah, Master Britton,” exclaimed a man who had just entered the Chequers
with a determination of enjoying a pipe, and a quart of ale, and a
grumble—“we live in hard times, Master Britton—are we to have our heads
smashed—are we to have our throats cut—are we to be murdered in our
beds—are we—”
“I tell you what,” said Bond, “if you come any more of your ‘are we’s,’
I’ll just throw you out of the window.”
“Throw me out of the window? pooh! I sit here on the liberty of the
subject, and what I mean to say is, that everything is smothered
now-a-days. Here’s been two murders, and they’ve both been smothered
up. There was poor Mr. Vaughan’s murder—who ever heard anything of
that, I should like to know? Then there’s been the murder of Mr. Gray,
a most mysterious affair; and Sir Francis Hartleton, who prides himself
so much upon his being such an active magistrate, he does
nothing—nothing, my masters, I may add, nothing.”
“Smash him!” said Britton, and Bond, immediately rising, would have
probably done some serious mischief, had not the man, who, by good luck
was near the doors taken alarm in time, and rushed out crying, ‘Murder’
until he was met and pacified by the landlord, who persuaded him to sit
down in the bar while he sneaked into the parlour to fetch his pipe and
ale.
Just as the landlord entered the room, Britton shouted to him in a
half-drowsy tone,—
“Hark you; mind my sedan-chair is ready to-night. I’m going to Squire
Learmont’s ball.”
“Bless your majesty—are you really! I never!”
“Didn’t you,” said Britton, as he flung the fire-shovel at the
landlord’s, head, who made a precipitate retreat without the ale and
the pipe, which articles, rather than again venture into the parlour,
he again supplied to the talkative man.
* * * * *
By one hour after sunset, Learmont had the various lamps and
chandeliers lit in his splendid mansion, and with feelings somewhat
akin to those with which he had first made a tour from room to room, he
glanced around him upon the rare magnificence with which he was
completely surrounded.
“’Tis well—exceedingly well,” he muttered. “I have suffered much to
bring about such a night of triumph as this. Within some few brief
hours three hundred of the highest and the noblest in this country will
be assembled in my halls, while I, the observed of all observers, do
the honours of my costly home. To-night I will claim a fulfilment of
the minister’s promise concerning the baronetcy. To-night, in soft
whispered accents, will I once more essay to win the hand of the proud
beauty whose ancient patrician name will add a lustre to my own too new
nobility. This is indeed a night of triumph! I ought to be happy.” Even
as he spoke, such a pang shot across his heart, that he absolutely
reeled again, and when he could speak, he said in faltering accents,—
“What—what means this emotion? Why do I tremble now? What have I to
fear?—Nothing—nothing.—What can happen?—Oh nothing!—I am safe—very
safe! I wish my company would come. I like to hear the hum of life in
my glorious abode!—I like to see the moving plumes!—I like to note the
diamond’s glittering presence!—I wish they would come. I wonder where
and how Albert Seyton died?—The poison he took was subtle!—He could not
escape—that was impossible—quite impossible! He might have been a
dangerous enemy!—I wish my halls were full!”
One of those disagreeable feelings came over Learmont now to which he
had been frightfully subject of late, namely, a fancy that some one was
constantly behind him, turning as he turned, and ever keeping so far
behind him as never to permit him to catch a glimpse of what it was.
This terror always for a time reduced him to a pitiable state of
nervous weakness, and the only resource he could ever find was to sit
in a chair, the back of which was close to a wall. Trembling,
therefore, and slinking along like one accursed, he sought the small
room he usually sat in, and there remained for some hours in the
position we have described, awaiting the coming of his guests.
Soon after nine o’clock, the street began to show signs of animation;
ancient lumbering coaches drawn by sleek, fat horses, bore precious
freights of rank and beauty to Learmont’s doors, which were thrown wide
open, the steps being lined by lacqueys, many of whom bore flaming
links. Some gentlemen came on horseback, concealing their costumes with
ample cloaks, and before ten o’clock (for our ancestors began their
amusements earlier and left off sooner than we do) the thoroughfare was
nearly blocked up with chairs.
Then ensued a scene of squabbling among coachmen, linkmen, chairman,
&c, a faint imitation of which sometimes is exhibited at a modern rout.
Learmont’s saloons presented a most dazzling appearance: the richness
and variety of the costumes—the immense looking-glasses—the brilliant
lighting—the glitter of diamonds—the waving of countless plumes—the
music now coming in wild crashes of melody, and then sinking to a
plaintive measure above the soft tones of which could be heard the hum
of voices—the merry laughter of the young, and the shuffle of the
dancers’ feet, as now and then a space would be cleared for a giddy
couple, who ere the regular ball began would extemporise a dance.
Learmont too was marching among his guests for some time, like a spirit
of evil. There was a cloud upon his brow, but he wrestled with the dark
spirit that clung to his heart, and soon his countenance became
wreathed in smiles, and he had a word of welcome, of gaiety, or of
friendship, for every one of his guests. Sometimes he would pause, and
cast his eye about him, to note if all had arrived,—a fact he could
only judge of by the thronged state of the rooms, for being a masked
hall there was no announcement of names. Learmont, however, had
provided against the contingency of not knowing those parties to whom
he wished to speak privately, by leaving orders in his hall that as
their tickets were taken, an accurate account of their costumes should
be brought to him.
He had already been told that the minister had arrived, and was
enveloped in a purple cloak, embroidered with silver lace, and that Sir
Francis Hartleton, likewise in domino, had come with a small party in
his company, he having a black velvet cloak, and a hat with white
feathers.
The Brereton party Learmont was well aware he would have no difficulty
in recognising, for they were too much impressed with their own dignity
to hesitate in throwing off all incognita as soon as possible.
The dancing was to commence at eleven o’clock; but before that hour
Learmont saw that the principal saloon was uncomfortably crowded, and
he immediately ordered the folding doors conducting to the next
apartment, which was deliciously cool to be thrown open, and the ball
to commence. Directing his eyes to the musicians, and clapping his
hands, they struck up a lively measure, when he advanced to the haughty
Lady Brereton, the younger, and offering her his hand, begged the
honour of opening the ball with her, at the same time slightly removing
his mask to assure her who he was, although such a measure was
needless, for there was not one of his guests who had ever seen him
before, that failed to recognise him. A large space was cleared for the
dance, and Learmont led the proud beauty to perform one of those
elaborate and tedious minuets now so properly exploded. When it was
over, Learmont led the lady to a magnificent seat, and while the band
struck up a lively measure, and one of those laughter-provoking dances
which a hundred couple might engage in was proceeding, making the very
lights dance in the chandeliers, he stooped to the lady’s ear, and
whispered,—
“May I presume to hope that my devotion to your beauty will ensure me
success in my suit for your hand? My income is immense, and I have
nearly half a million of ready money. The other half you see around you
in the decorations of this house.”
There was surely some fatality about Learmont’s money, for at that
moment a trembling servant stepped up to him, and said,—
“An it please you, sir, there’s a—a row in the hall; and, and—an please
you, sir, it’s—him.”
The man tendered to Learmont a dirty scrap of paper, on which he read,—
“The King of the Old Smithy, and friend.”