Need we describe a _bal de l'opera_?--we mean, in all its varied groups,
its mystery, its joyousness! Or only skim over the surface, and speak of
the mounting the carpeted stair, with the immense mirrors on the
landing, where you are startled at first by the shadow you cast upon
it--a gloomy vision pourtraying _tout en noir_! Then the almost silent
whispering groups, like muffled demons. Here, a couple _en costume_;
there, a man leaning against a pillar, looking frightfully sheepish, and
trying to smile and retort.
'Tis an Englishman, _sans masqué_, of course, (no gentleman covers his
face, unless he has a motive for so doing,) who is dreadfully intrigued
by two black dominoes, who are telling him all he has been doing the
last fortnight. He has been lured hither by an anonymous letter, asking
him to come and meet a blue domino; twice he has furtively looked at
this letter, to be certain it said blue, being positive in his own mind
that one of these two must be the writer. Shall we leave him in his
perplexity, and, standing on the stair leading down into the _salle de
danse_, where a dense crowd, in every imaginable dress, is jostled
together, endeavouring to dance, and, looking on, admire the sober,
judge-like gravity of several men--authors, artists, men of the highest
rank, semi-disguised--who are dancing the most grotesque figures without
a smile on their countenances? They look as if they had made a pact, for
an allotted time, with some mocking spirit, to make fools of themselves.
Or shall we look up in a _loge au premier_, and see a group of many, the
ladies all in black dominoes, the gentlemen in plain evening dress,
unmasked?
Yes; we will pause here. This is Lady Lysson's box; for see!--every lady
has a rose on the left breast. How amused they all appear! Some had been
before, others never; and there is something peculiarly exciting and
novel to an English lady the first time she sees a _bal de l'opera_: she
has heard so much of and against them, it is almost as a forbidden tree,
which makes the fruit the sweeter.
Tremenhere came in rather late, and alone. He was standing in the
_foyer_, looking around him: this large saloon was crowded to excess.
Near the clock (that place for rendezvous) he stood, well assured there
he should soon be seen by some of the party; but for some time he looked
in vain: they were all in their _loge_, too much delighted with the
scene to quit hastily. As he stood thus, some one brushed past him;
rather, they were pushed by the crowd. _He_ had not previously noticed
them, but they had been fixed, statue-like, regarding him; and the crowd
pushed them from their contemplative position against him.
"Oh!" ejaculated a trembling voice; "I beg pardon. I----"
He turned: it was a black domino, with the significant rose on its
breast. He instantly offered his arm, and the woman clung to it as in
terror.
"I see," he said in a low tone, "that I have been fortunate enough to
offer my protection to one of the 'Roses of the Left,' but to whom, I am
totally ignorant. How have you lost your party? 'Tis unpleasant in so
great a crowd; you might be insulted."
"Sir," she uttered in a low, scarcely audible, voice, and in French,
"you are mistaken--we are strangers."
"Strangers!" he cried, stopping an instant, and gazing at the
closely-concealed face and figure. "Impossible! else you had not taken
my arm; for you must be one of Lady L----'s party by your dress."
The girl was silent; but a sigh escaped her.
"You are terrified," he said kindly. "Do not fear; we are safe, and soon
shall meet some of our friends. I must indeed be accused of great
forgetfulness, when I admit I have no recollection or idea who you can
be. May I not know?"
"We are strangers," she uttered again, in a tone scarcely audible, still
in French. "I do not understand English."
"Well, as you will," he replied gaily. "I like it thus--'tis in keeping
with the place--this mystery. Only pardon me for reminding you, for
consistency sake, that your first words were decidedly not in French;
and though you cannot _understand English_, you have been replying to
all my questions addressed to you in that tongue. However, as you prefer
the other, _changeons_," and he commenced a fluent conversation in
Gallic. She had visibly started when he pointed out to her the error of
her confused mind. For some time their conversation was merely
monosyllabic on her part. "Some silly young English girl Lady Lysson has
brought with her," thought he, "who thinks she must sustain a character,
and this very stupid attempt at intriguing me is the result. How can she
have lost her party?--scarcely prudent in Lady Lysson to leave her so
unguarded; she is evidently young. Who can she be?"
In a few minutes more, he was fain to admit that the lady _did_ however
intrigue him, and considerably; for, by an evident effort over herself,
she overcame some cause of trepidation, and, if not easy in manner, was
sufficiently ingenuous and pleasing in her remarks to interest him much.
"Where have I heard her voice?" he mentally said. "It is evidently
subdued and disguised, and 'tis only when an unguarded tone escapes,
that I seem to hear a remembered one; yet 'tis too imperfectly uttered
to convey memory to my ear. Certainly she has intrigued me! Were she the
veriest Frenchwoman that ever made a vow to miss no one _bal masqué_,
and perfect in the amusements and mystifications of all, she could not
have more cleverly accomplished her purpose than this girl; for she has
called me by name, and I can guess no one she can be!"
"Here is a seat," he said, after a moment's pause in their
conversation; "shall we take advantage of it, or would you prefer going
to Lady Lysson's box?"
"Oh, not there!" she whispered shrinkingly.
"Why not there? On my life, lady, you puzzle me much. Come, confide in
me: I am addressing some one--some fair, young, unexpected guest, who,
having heard of the projected party, has escaped from governesses, etc.,
to come hither also--am I not right?" This was the only solution he
could find for the enigma, engendered by her strange fear at the
proposal he made, to go to Lady Lysson's box.
"You are wrong," she uttered. "I have no one to restrain my wishes. I
came here to-night for a purpose, but _alone_!"
"Alone!" and he started. "Then why this signal?" and he pointed to the
rose.
"I cannot tell you. Is Lady Dora Vaughan here to-night?"
"By heavens, you know them all! Who are you? Pray, tell me; confide in
my honour--I have never broken faith in my life!"
A sigh, almost a sob, escaped from her bosom. He turned amazed.
Tremenhere was not a vain man, but the strangeness of the whole scene
made him ask himself, whether it might not be some love-sick girl's
_escapade_; but the question, for which he could find no answer, was,
"Who can she be?" Her abrupt mention of Lady Dora's name confirmed this
idea.
"Lady Dora is here," he said, "that is, she was to be; but I came alone.
I have seen no one but yourself, my fair incognita, and now let me ask,
wherefore were you beneath the clock?"
"Because--because, 'tis a good point for observation; and I was looking
for some one."
"Then I have carried you away--shall we seek them?"
"No, I am content; that is, I have changed my mind."
"How did you know the reputation 'the clock' has as a point of
observation, as you term it; _we_ call it one of _rendezvous_--have you
been here often?"
"Heaven forbid! 'tis my _first_ visit."
"Indeed! then a powerful motive must have urged you to take so hazardous
a step, if in truth, as I believe, you are connected with some one of
Lady Lysson's society, and here _en cachette_."
"I have a motive--let it rest; I am satisfied it should do so; but
having had it, I was told _sous l'horloge_ I should most probably see
every one in the saloon better than elsewhere."
"Well, _mon domino_, you are a mystery; in truth, 'tis a scene from the
_Domino Noir_. I would I were the happy Horace; I dare not think so."
She was perfectly silent.
"Surely I have no fair _pensionnaire_ escaped from her convent, at my
side?"
"No, truly--one her own mistress. Is not Lady Dora Vaughan very
handsome?"
"Very!" and he started at the sudden transition in her speech. "Don't
you know her?"
"Well; but I wished to hear your opinion as an artist--you must be
better enabled to judge than I can."
"Now tell me when you saw her last? Give me at least a chance of
guessing who you are?"
She paused an instant, then added, "Yesterday, walking with you in the
Tuileries, and with several other ladies."
"True! _Pray_, tell me something of yourself; let me see your eyes, your
mouth, or hand," and he took the one resting on her knee.
"Not for worlds!" she exclaimed in unmistakable terror, clasping them
together.
"Do not be alarmed, I would not use any violence; you are with one
incapable of an ungentlemanly act, I trust."
"I know _that_," she said emphatically, "or of one wilfully unkind or
cruel, if you allowed your heart to act freely."
"For mercy's sake, what do you mean? I entreat you tell me who you are.
I swear to you, your secret shall be safe." A strange, unaccountable
tremor crept over him, yet without a suspicion of any thing approaching
the truth.
"I cannot, dare not--I would I durst!" and again she sighed.
A thought crossed his mind, and he turned and looked fixedly at her, but
not a hair was visible, or of the eye, more than a speck. "No," he said,
after the survey, "you are not tall enough; yet this dress so disguises!
Tell me, I conjure you, is your name Mary?"
"No, on my honour; but cease guessing--you will not know me
to-night--some day you will, perhaps."
At that moment a group of several persons came up. The ladies had roses
on their breasts. One of the gentlemen, on whom a tall figure leaned,
stood still, but unbending, before Tremenhere, who was attentively
watching every turn in his domino's figure, to guess some known
style--but all was vain, graceful in every movement, but to him, still a
mystery.
"I declare," whispered a lady's voice, "you are the worst cavalier in
the world! We have been expecting you in our box this hour, and here you
are playing deserter." Miles started; his eye fell on Lord Randolph
Gray, on whose arm Lady Dora was leaning. He knew her figure at a
glance.
"Lady Lysson," he said, in an under tone to the speaker, "you should not
accuse me, for here have I been taking care of one of your strayed
lambs, which has singularly intrigued me! I fail to discover my fair
friend; pray, present me to her." He had risen to Lady Lysson as she
spoke; when he turned round again, the place beside him was vacant! The
domino had glided away, like a phantom. "Good heavens!" he exclaimed,
"where is she?"
"That lady beside you when we came up? She rose, and walked hurriedly
away when I spoke to you."
"But she is one of your party! She had a rose on her breast!" he cried
in amazement.
"Pardon me, this is some error. All my party is safe here," (she looked
round on the two behind her, Lady Dora and Lord Randolph, who were
conversing together,) "or up in the box. Your eyes have deceived you."
"Nay, I will not admit that; for though she persisted in speaking
French, her accent was English, though evidently disguised, and she knew
you all, and inquired about you, by name!"
"Oh!" laughed the lady, "I dare say it was one of our attendants, who,
with the true spirit of intrigue, has borrowed our disguise to amuse
herself at your expense."
"It was no servant," he emphatically said. And his wonder increased, the
more he thought of it.
"Come, leave off puzzling about your incognita. I should have deemed you
_trop Français_ to be scared by an intrigue _de bal masqué_. Come, Mr.
Tremenhere," she lowered her voice, "I have a favour to ask--something
to command," she added, smiling. "I made this party to-night, knowing
that my nephew would be here, and knowing also, that the laws of these
balls forbid serious acts--I mean angry ones----In good honest truth,
you must shake hands. He declares, that whatever you may have against
him, he is as ever kindly disposed towards you, and whatever your
quarrel, of the cause of which I am innocent, let me beg of you, for my
friendship sake towards both, to shake hands, forget, and forgive."
"Tremenhere," cried Lord Randolph, coming forward with a hand out, and
candour unmistakable on his brow, "I see my aunt is urging you; come,
give me your hand, and a grasp in friendship. On my soul you wronged
me, and from my soul I pity you!" He glanced upwards at the black band
on Miles's hat. This latter fixed his deep eyes on him, and in that
glance he read the other's inmost soul; no, guilt could never wear that
look! Lord Randolph he had thought led away by passion to commit an
unworthy act, for he knew he was no cold-blooded villain. A still, small
voice had been some time whispering to him, that look--the calm,
unblenching, feeling expression on the other's face brought a cold, grey
light of despair to his heart, like that of early winter's dawn, when,
for the first time by day, we look upon a loved face, whose spirit had
fled by torch-light.
"I believe you!" he uttered, in a husky voice, grasping his hand. "_Let
us forget it._" There was something so broken-hearted in the tone, that
Lord Randolph felt his bosom swell--something choked him; for he was a
man, as we have seen, of feeling.
"Better so," he said, in a low tone. "Forget it, Tremenhere--'twas
destiny!"
Miles did not reply, but burst into a discordant laugh.
"I have done so," he said; "you see I have! _This_," and he pointed
towards his hat, "is only the usage of society. Obligation! form! let us
_never_ speak of it!" And, wringing his hand, he turned to the ladies,
who had discreetly conversed apart; but Lady Dora's eyes never quitted
Tremenhere's face. But she did not read him as Lord Randolph did: as
their hands parted, this latter mentally said--
"Poor fellow! _There_ is a man who _never_ will know peace, whatever he
may seem to the world. From my soul I pity him!"
Nothing was perceptible in Miles's manner. From that night he grew paler
perhaps, but the canker was unseen. He was gayer, wittier, more amusing
than ever; but as the door of his studio closed on the world, the man
sat down with his conviction and undying remorse. One glance at Lord
Randolph had enlightened his darkened mind. There were two feelings
which grew apace in his heart from that moment--one was, a restless
desire to be ever in the other's presence; he never gave utterance to a
word of friendship, never spoke or alluded to Minnie; but, as if it
could restore fame to her memory, his every earthly tie was Lord
Randolph; and, to the utter amazement of all, an intimacy the most
complete sprung up between them--both knew why, but neither ever noticed
it. This horror of naming his wife prevented Miles seeking Mary Burns;
he felt it would kill or madden him, to speak of her. He would crush her
memory before all eyes, by a mask the most complete; only one eye should
read his soul--Heaven's!
The other collateral feeling which he alluded to was, hatred towards
Lady Dora, the most intense; for he felt the unkindness of her family
had left Minnie exposed to all his own ungovernable passions; and she
had been the first to place her cousin in an equivocal point of view
with Lord Randolph. But these were feelings of after hours: we must
return to the ball.
"Thank you," said Lady Lysson, pressing his hand, to thank him for his
reconciliation with Lord Randolph. "Now give me your arm." And they
passed on.
Persons talk of suffering; but could there be any to surpass
Tremenhere's this evening? Obliged to listen to, and join in amusement
and gaiety! Among all the masks there, there was not one more complete
in disguising, than his face; for no one could have guessed, in the
unconcerned laughter which at times crossed it, that it was as sunshine
on ice--all cold and frozen beneath.
Lady Dora felt extremely piqued and galled at his manner. She had hoped
for a triumph for her pride--vanity, it was not--in seeing him frown in
jealous rage upon Lord Randolph; or else favour her with some of those
sarcasms which spoke of vitality, even while they wounded. But nothing
of the kind occurred. He was courteous in the extreme, witty, gay, and
most attentive and polite to herself--nothing more.
Only one person there read his heart, and keenly felt for that man,
laughing over the tomb in his heart; for Lord Randolph had seen that
conviction had been the inspiration of a moment, born of a glance at his
own unshrinking face. Moore, in speaking of a heart, said, "Grief
brought all its music forth." So it was with Lord Randolph. The shock he
received on hearing of Minnie's death, called to vigour and beauty all
the dormant qualities of a really sterling heart; and made him capable
of feeling deeply for the man, whose hopeless woe was as an open page
before him.
In the course of their rambles through that crowd, Lady Dora found
herself on Tremenhere's arm, whose eye was searching every where for his
mysterious domino. In spite of himself, she pre-occupied his mind; but
amidst the dozens there, he failed to see any one at all resembling her,
either in dress or that nameless grace perceptible in every undulation,
of her unrelieved disguise.
"You are pre-occupied, Mr. Tremenhere," she said, after half a dozen
absent replies had escaped his lips.
"Pardon me; I am boyish enough to be amused at this scene."
"One would not think it, for I never beheld a more seeking, anxious
countenance--possibly you would prefer solitude."
"Solitude, and here? Lady Dora."
"Yes--Byron's."
"Oh! 'with some sweet spirit for my minister?' Nay, if that were the
case, where find a fairer than the one who for awhile blesses me?" and
he almost pressed her arm; and, aroused by her questioning, became
Tremenhere as the world had made him.
"I certainly am pre-occupied," he said at last, "by that black domino,
with whom you found me so very quietly tête-à-tête. The rose is
emblematical in this case--a wild mystery."
"Oh! Lady Lysson, I make no doubt, was correct. Some one of our maids
has made an _escapade_; and, proving the rose's privilege, has intrigued
you."
"Assuredly, she was no servant; but her sudden disappearance when you
came puzzles me. Let us talk of something else; it would be madness in
me to waste these moments on another, when I have so few accorded me in
your society. Lady Dora, tell me, does this amuse you, much?"
"Yes, 'tis something so original to me, unconceived before, the hundreds
congregated. I ask whence do they come, whither will they go?"
"Probably, most of them to supper at some celebrated restaurant," he
said laughing, and changing the vein of her moralizing; "and some to
regret, some to rejoice. What will your feeling be?"
"It must be rejoicing, for the regret has been seized upon. Did you hear
that deep sigh near us?"
He turned; they were leaning near a _loge_ door, and almost beside them
stood a domino in brown, with blue ribbons. He glanced at the figure.
"Some _pauvre delaissée_," he said laughing; then turning towards the
girl, cried, "do not sigh, _il reviendra_."
"_Jamais_," was the low reply, and the figure moved aside.
"Never mind her," he continued, turning towards Lady Dora; "but tell me,
how will you rejoice, and why?"
"I am rejoicing, am I not?--I feel much amused."
'Twas true; the influence of the place was creeping over her cold
nature. She was not the Lady Dora of any day yet in which he had seen
her.
"You have not told me _why_ you should be glad. You are silent--shall
_I_ tell you?"
"Do, I wish to know; I feel like one in a dream--how shall I wake?"
"Your dream will be unlike many--a realized one. You are happy--one you
love is near you."
"How do you mean?" she cried starting; and almost, in her alarm,
withdrawing her arm from his.
"Oh! you mistake me, Lady Dora; I am not so presumptuous--I allude to
Lord Randolph."
"To him!" she exclaimed hastily and unthinkingly; "he will never make a
pulse of mine beat quicker or slower."
"Indifference is worse than hate. I would rather hold the sentiment I
inspire you with, than his."
"You speak in enigmas, Mr. Tremenhere."
"I would rather be hated than looked upon with indifference. We seek to
crush a snake, but we step over a worm!"
"A man may be neither."
"What, then? A caged bird, to serve a woman's caprice; or a chained
monkey, to amuse her?"
"Nay; you are looking on the species in degradation. Why not a creature
free to come or go--thought of in absence--loved in presence--going, to
return more gladly--sure of a kindly welcome?"
He looked fixedly at her. Could this be Lady Dora? An idea crossed his
mind--she was one of two things, either luring him on to enchain, then
crush him beneath the weight of those manacles; or else the arrival of
Lord Randolph, the necessity of deciding her fate, the scene around,
their isolation from all, and freedom from restraint, had combined to
make her cast off the wearying mantle of her self-imposed pride, which
had cloaked her in a corslet of impervious steel: it was a battle
between them well _finessed_; both were on their guard.
"I will prove, before I advance," he thought, "and woe to the day she
places herself in my hands. I will be unsparing, as she was merciless
and cold-hearted. Right!" he said aloud, in answer to her last sentence.
"I would be an eagle, free and soaring, mated with one wild and
ambitious as myself--towering and untameable. Such a one I could
choose--to such a one yield love for love, and, like the fabled bird,
consume with the ardour of my affections, and rise again from my ashes
to live again--love again!" His warmth aroused her to a sense of her
danger.
"We are in truth playing our parts in the madness around us!" she said,
in a voice which struggled to be calm.
"True; but we play our parts _con amore_, admit that; and the better,
that we know two things--one is, _you cannot_ love--the other, _I_ dare
not."
"I should have thought you a man to dare all things!"
"You give me credit for more than I deserve. There are many things I
would not encounter willingly--one is----"
"What?"
Despite his self-command, a cloud crossed his brow.
"I will tell you some day," he hastily answered; "but if I met this
spectre, _even_ as spectre, I would fly it."
"I would fly nothing; _there_ is the difference between us."
"What if your wayward heart--for all hearts are so--fixed itself upon
some unworthy object, would you not fly them?"
"No; were I to do so, I should never conquer; it would pursue me
ever--flight would be vain. I would live near it, seek it, familiarize
myself with it, till the inconstant heart grew tired of its bauble, then
I----" she paused.
"Would dash it to earth, and trample on it, reckless of its fragile
nature. Believe me, vases of potter's clay are as fragile as the finest
Sèvres ever produced by fire."
"Perhaps so; but such should rest satisfied with draughts from water
spring, nor seek to hold the ruby wine which a monarch sips; only
degradation could ensue."
She was not actually thinking of him when she said this: it was only the
overflowing of her cup of pride, which coloured her speech; but he
remembered every word, and it strengthened his determination, if
possible, to humble this spirit to the dust.
"What is it 'Ruy Blas' says so admirably, '_un ver de terre, amoureux
d'une étoile_,' the star shines on it, though it cannot abase itself,
and sends its light to guide the poor worm of the earth to its home in a
dark sod, where it may pine and die, rejected, despised, unloved,
because it has been created only for that fate of grovelling
insignificance!"
Neither heard the almost sob behind them; he was turned towards Lady
Dora, and in the crowd stood the "Brown Domino," who had crept back
unnoticed, to hear these last words.
"I have been a sceptic in love," she almost whispered.
"_Have_ been; are you not now? I should fancy so." She was perfectly
silent.
"If you have _present_ faith, on what is it grounded?"
"Perhaps on the dream of an hour!" she ejaculated, scarcely above her
breath.
"Then watch its waking, and if it survive the glare of day, cherish it;
if not in all freshness, banish it--'tis a temptation, not a rock to
build upon. May I call to-morrow, and see if it be in existence? or
passed, leaving no sweet savour behind of truth and futurity of joy?
Here is Lady Lysson seeking you--may I call to-morrow?"
"Yes, but--but, come in forgetfulness of this night. I surely am
spellbound. This is a part of some witchcraft in this giddy scene.
Remember, and forget this--and--me--other than this, were vain madness!"
"I will only remember what I read then in your eyes; let _them_ answer
me--_not_ your lip; words are false, tears are recorded untruths, the
eyes are scholars of the soul. They shall learn all its truth, and
impart it to me in a glance. I will call to-morrow. And to-morrow,"
thought he, "I shall start for Marseilles; I _must_ go there and know
all!"
"I thought we should find you in this corridor!" exclaimed Lord
Randolph, without an idea of jealous fear. "Hollo! what is this bustle
about? Oh! only a lady has fainted. I don't wonder--'tis deucedly warm!"
Some gentlemen were carrying a lady in a brown domino towards a private
box. She was apparently lifeless in their arms. Unheeding, the party
turned away laughing, and mounted the staircase to seek their box, and
the remainder of their friends.