"A MERRY MASQUE"
It was a beautiful sight, one calculated to inspire feelings of mirth
and gaiety, even in a heart ill at ease with itself. Such a ball-room as
the Redouten-Saal is perhaps hardly to be seen elsewhere in Europe.
Such music I will venture to say can only be heard in Vienna, where the
whole population, from the highest to the lowest, seem to live only that
they may dance. Everybody knows the effect of brilliant light on the
animal spirits; the walls of these magnificent rooms are of a pale fawn
colour, almost approaching to white--the very shade that best refracts
and enhances the effect of hundreds of wax candles, shedding their soft
radiance on the votaries of pleasure below. No wonder people are in
good spirits; no wonder they throng the spacious halls, or parade the
long galleries above, and looking down from their elevated position,
pass many a pointed jest and humorous sally on the varied scene that
crowds the floor below. No wonder they frequent the refreshment-rooms
that skirt these galleries, and flirt and talk nonsense, and quiz each
other with the cumbrous vivacity of the Saxon race. When I entered from
the quiet street I was dazzled by the glare, and almost stupefied by the
hum of many voices, and the pealing notes of one of those waltzes which
Strauss seems to have composed expressly to remind the fallen children
of Adam of their lost Paradise. From a boy music has made me
melancholy--the sweeter the sadder; and although it is a morbid unmanly
feeling, which I have striven hard to overcome, it has always conquered
me, it will always conquer me to the last. I felt bitterly out of place
amongst these pleasure-worshippers. What had I to do here, where all
were merry and full of enjoyment? My very dress was out of keeping with
the scene, for I was one of a very small minority in civil attire.
Gorgeous uniforms, white, blue, and green, glittered all over the
ball-room; for in Austria no officer nowadays ever appears out of
uniform; and as an army of six hundred thousand men is officered almost
exclusively from the aristocracy, the fair ball-goers of Vienna find no
lack of partners in gaudy and warlike attire. The ladies were all
masked; not so their respective cavaliers, it being part of the
amusement of these balls that the gentler sex alone should appear
_incognito_, and so torment their natural prey at more than their usual
advantage; thus many a poisoned dart is planted, many a thrust driven
securely home, without a chance of a parry or fear of a return. Though
Pity is represented in a female garb, it seems to me that woman, when
she does strike, strikes harder, straighter, swifter, more unsparingly
than man. Perhaps she suffers as much as she inflicts, and this makes
her ruthless and reckless--who knows? if so, she would rather die than
acknowledge it. These are not thoughts for a ball, and yet they crowded
on me more and more as I stood under the musicians' gallery, gazing
vacantly at the throng.
Victor and his party had not yet arrived. I was sure to distinguish
them by Ropsley's scarlet uniform, and I was also sure that in such an
assemblage of military connoisseurs the costume of Queen Victoria's
body-guard would attract observation and remark that could not pass
unnoticed even by so preoccupied a spectator as myself. Besides, I knew
the colour of Valerie's dress; it was to be pink, and of some fabric,
beautiful exceedingly, of which I had forgotten the name as soon as
told. I was consequently sure of finding them whenever I wished, so I
stood quietly in my corner, and watched the crowd go by, without caring
to mingle in the stream or partake of the amusements every one else
seemed to find so delightful. How poor and vapid sounded the
conversation of the passers-by; how strained the efforts at wit; how
forced and unnatural the attempts at mystification! The Germans are too
like ourselves to sustain for any length of time the artificial pace of
badinage and repartee. It is not the genius of the nation, and they
soon come to a humble jog-trot of old trite jokes, or, worse still,
break down completely, and stop once for all. The only man that seemed
in his element was a French _attache_, and he indeed entered into the
spirit of the thing with a zest and enthusiasm of truly Parisian origin.
Surrounded by masks, he kept up a fire of witticism, which never failed
or diminished for an instant; like the juggler who plays with
half-a-dozen balls, now one, now another, now all up in air at once.
The Frenchman seemed to ask no respite, to shrink from no emergency; he
was little, he was ugly, he was not even gentleman-like, but he was "the
right man in the right place," and the ladies were enchanted with him
accordingly. Surrounded by his admirers, he was at a sufficient
distance for me to watch his proceedings without the risk of appearing
impertinent, and so I looked on, half amused at his readiness, half
disgusted with his flippancy, till I found my attention wandering once
more to my own unprofitable and discontented thoughts.
"_Mouton gui reve_," said a voice at my elbow, so close that it made me
start.
I turned rapidly round, and saw a lady standing so near that her dress
touched mine, masked, of course, and thoroughly disguised in figure and
appearance. Had it not been for the handsome arm and the camellia she
held to her lips, I should not have recognised her as the lady I had
spoken to at the door of the Opera, and who had appointed to meet me at
this very spot--a _rendezvous_ which, truth to tell, I had nearly
forgotten.
"_Mouton gui reve_," she repeated, and added, in the same language,
"Your dreams must be very pleasant if they can thus abstract you from
all earthly considerations, even music and dancing, and your duty
towards the fair sex."
"Now what _can_ this woman want with me? I wish she would let me
alone," was my inward thought: but my outward expression thereof was
couched in more polite language.
"Dreaming! of course I was dreaming--and of Madame; so bright a vision,
that I could hardly hope ever to see it realised. I place myself at
Madame's feet as the humblest of her slaves."
She laughed in my face. "Do not attempt compliments," she said, "it is
not your _metier_. The only thing I like about you English is your
frankness and straight-forward character. Take me upstairs. I want to
speak seriously to you. Don't look so preoccupied."
At this instant I recognised Ropsley's scarlet uniform showing to great
advantage on his tall person in the distance; I could not help glancing
towards the part of the room in which I knew the pink dress was to be
found, for the pink dress would of course have entered with Ropsley, and
where the pink dress was there would be _another_, whom, after to-night,
I had resolved _never, never_ to see again.
My mysterious acquaintance had now hooked herself on to my arm, and as
we toiled up the stairs it was necessary to say something. I said the
first thing that occurred to me. "How did you know I was an
Englishman?" She laughed again.
"_Not_ by your French," she answered; "for without compliment, you speak
it as well as I do; but who except an Englishman would go to sleep with
his eyes open in such a place as this? who else would forget such a
_rendezvous_ as I gave you here? who else, with a pretty woman on his
arm (I _am_ a pretty woman, though I don't mean to unmask), would be
longing to get away, and hankering after a pink dress and a black domino
at the other end of the room? You needn't wince, my friend; I know all
your secrets. You were in the seventh heaven when I interrupted you. I
wish you would come down to earth again."
I will not say where I wished _she_ would go down to, but I answered
gravely and politely enough--"It was not to tell me this you stopped
your carriage after the opera to-night; tell me how I can serve you--I
am at the disposition of Madame, though I am at a loss to discover what
she means by her pink dresses and black dominoes."
"I will not laugh at you for being serious," she replied. "I am serious
myself now, and I shall be for the next ten minutes. Frankly, I know
you; I know all about you. I know the drawing-room at Edeldorf, and I
know Valerie de Rohan--don't look so frightened, your secret is safe
with me. Be equally frank, Monsieur l'Interprete, and interpret
something for me, under promise of secrecy. You are an Englishman," she
added, hurriedly, her manner changing suddenly to one of earnestness,
not unmixed with agitation; "can I depend upon you?"
"Implicitly, Madame," was my reply.
"Then tell me why Victor de Rohan is constantly at the Hotel Munsch with
his foreign friends; tell me why he is always in attendance on that
proud young lady, that frigid specimen of an English 'meess'? Is it
true, I only ask you--tell me, is it true?"
Agitated as was the questioner, her words smote home to her listener's
heart. How blind I had been, living with them every day, and never to
see it! while here was a comparative stranger, one at least who, by her
own account, had been absent from Vienna for weeks, and she was mistress
of the details of our every-day life; she had been watching like a lynx,
whilst I was sleeping or dreaming at my post; well, it mattered little
which, now. The hand that held her bouquet was shaking visibly, but her
voice was steady and even slightly sarcastic as she read her answer in
my face, and resumed--
"What I have heard, then, is true, and Count de Rohan is indeed an
enviable man. You need not say another word, Monsieur l'Interprete, I
am satisfied. I thank you for your kindness. I thank you for your
patience; you may kiss my hand;" and she gave it me with the air of a
queen. "I am an old friend of his and of his family; I shall go and
congratulate him; you need not accompany me. Adieu! good sleep and
pleasant dreams to you."
I followed her with my eyes as she moved away. I saw her walk up to
Victor, who had a lady in blue, Constance, of course, upon his arm. She
passed close by him and whispered in his ear. He started, and I could
see that he turned deadly pale. For an instant he hesitated as if he
would follow her, but in a twinkling she was lost amongst the crowd, and
I saw her no more that night.
I threaded my way to where Ropsley in his scarlet uniform was conversing
with a knot of distinguished Austrian officers; they were listening to
his remarks with attention, and here, as elsewhere, in the ball-room at
Vienna as in the playground at Everdon, it seemed natural that my old
school-fellow should take the lead. Sir Harry was by his side
occasionally putting in his word, somewhat _mal-a-propos_, for though a
shrewd capable man, foreign politics were a little out of Sir Harry's
depth. Behind him stood the much-talked-of pink dress; its wearer was
closely masked, but I knew the flowers she held in her hand, and I
thought now was the time to bid Valerie a long farewell. She was a
little detached from her party, and I do not think expected me so soon,
for she started when I spoke to her, but bowed in acquiescence, and put
her arm within mine when I proposed to make the tour of the room with
her, although, true to the spirit of a masquerade, not a word escaped
her lips. I led her up to the galleries, and placed a seat for her apart
from the crowd. I did not quite know how to begin, and contrary to her
wont, Valerie seemed as silently disposed as myself. At last I took
courage, and made my plunge.
"I have asked to speak to you, to wish you good-bye," I said. "I am
going away to-morrow. For my own sake I must stay here no longer. I am
going back to the East. I am well now, and anxious to be on service
again. I have stayed in the Fatherland far too long as it is. To-morrow
at daybreak Bold and I must be _en route_ for Trieste." I paused; she
winced, and drew in her breath quickly, but bowed her head without
speaking, and I went on--"Mine has been a strange lot, and not a very
happy one; and this must account to you for my reserved, unsociable
conduct, my seeming ingratitude to my best and kindest friends. Believe
me, I am not ungrateful, only unhappy. I might have been, I ought to
have been a very different man. I shall to-night bid you farewell,
perhaps for ever. You are a true friend; you have always borne and
sympathised with me. I will tell you my history; bear and sympathise
with me now. I have been a fool and an idolater all my life; but I have
been at least consistent in my folly, and true in my idolatry. From my
earliest boyhood there has been but one face on earth to me, and that
one face will haunt me till I die. Was it my fault, that seeing her
every day I could not choose but love her? that loving her I would have
striven heart and soul, life and limb, to win her? And I failed. I
failed, though I would have poured out my heart's blood at her feet. I
failed, and yet I loved her fondly, painfully, madly as ever. Why am I
an exile from my country--a wanderer on the face of the earth--a ruined,
desperate man? Why, because of her. And yet I would not have it
otherwise, if I could. It is dearer to me to sorrow for her sake, than
it could ever have been to be happy with another. Valerie, God forbid
you should ever know what it is to love as I have done. God forbid that
the feeling which ought to be the blessing and the sunshine of a life
should turn to its blight and its curse! Valerie!"
She was shaking all over; she was weeping convulsively under her mask: I
could hear her sobs, and yet I was pitiless. I went on. It was such a
relief in the selfishness of my sorrow, to pour out the pent-up grief of
years, to tell any one, even that merry, light-hearted girl, how
bitterly I had suffered--how hopeless was my lot. It was not that I
asked for sympathy, it was not that I required pity; but it seemed a
necessity of my being, that I should establish in the ears of one living
witness the fact of my great sorrow, ere I carried it away with me,
perhaps to my grave. And all this time the melody of the "Weintrauben"
was pealing on, as if in mockery. Oh, that waltz! How often she had
played it to me in the drawing-room at Beverley! Surely, surely, it
must smite that cold heart even now.
My companion's sobs were less violent, but she grasped the bouquet in
her hand till every flower drooped and withered with the pressure.
"Valerie," I continued, "do not think me vain or presumptuous. I speak
to you as a man who has death looking him in the face. I am resolved
never to return. I am no braver than my neighbours, but I have nothing
on earth to live for, and I pray to die. I can speak to you now as I
would not dare to speak if I thought ever to look in your face again.
You have been my consoler, my sister, my friend. Oh, I could have dared
to love you, Valerie; to strive for you, to win you, had I but been
free. You are, perhaps, far worthier than that proud, unfeeling girl,
and yet--and yet--it cannot be. Farewell, Valerie, dear Valerie; we
shall never meet again. You will be happy, and prosperous, and beloved;
and you will think sometimes of the poor wounded bird whose broken wing
you healed, only that it might fly away once more into the storm. As
for me, I have had no future for years. I live only in the past. Bold
and I must begin our wanderings again to-morrow--Bold whom she used to
fondle, whom I love for her sake. It is not every man, Countess
Valerie, that will sacrifice his all to an idea, and that idea a false
one!"
"Stop, Vere!" she gasped out wildly; "hush, for mercy's sake, hush!"
Oh! that voice, that voice! was I dreaming? was it possible? was I mad?
Still the wild tones of the "Weintrauben" swelled and sank upon mine
ear; still the motley crowd down below were whirling before my sight;
and as surely as I saw and heard, so surely was it Constance Beverley
who laid her hand in mine, and tearing down her mask, turned upon me a
look so wild, so mournful, so unearthly, that, through all my
astonishment, all my confusion, it chilled me to the heart. Many a day
afterwards--ay, in the very jaws of death, that look haunted me still.
"So true," she muttered; "oh, misery, misery! too late."
"Forgive me, Miss Beverley," I resumed, bitterly, and with cold
politeness; "this communication was not intended for you. I meant to
bid Countess Valerie farewell. You have accidentally heard that which I
would have died sooner than have told you. It would be affectation to
deny it now. I shall not annoy you any further. I congratulate you on
your many conquests, and wish you good-bye."
She was weeping once more, and wrung my hand convulsively.
"Vere, Vere," she pleaded, "do not be so hard upon me; so bitter, so
mocking, so unlike yourself. Spare me, I entreat you, for I am very
miserable. You do nob know how I am situated. You do not know how I
have struggled. But I must not talk thus _now_."
She recovered her self-command with a strong effort, and pale as death,
she spoke steadily on.
"Vere, we may not make our own lot in life; whatever is, is for the
best. It is too late to think of what might have been. Vere, dear
Vere, you are my brother--you never can be more to me than a dear,
_dear_ brother."
"Why not?" I gasped, for her words, her voice, her trembling frame, her
soft, sweet, mournful looks, had raised once more a legion of hopes that
I thought were buried for ever in my breast; and despite my cruel
taunts, I loved her, even whilst I smote, as the fierce human heart can
love, and tear, and rend, and suffer the while, far, far more keenly
than its victim.
"Because I am the promised wife of another. Your friend, Count de
Rohan, proposed for me this very day, and I accepted him."
She was standing up as she said it, and she spoke in a steady measured
voice; but she sat down when she had finished, and tried to put her mask
on again. Her fingers trembled so that she could not tie the strings.
I offered her my arm, and we went downstairs. Not a word did we
exchange till we had nearly reached the place where Sir Harry was still
standing talking to Victor de Rohan. Ropsley, in his scarlet uniform,
was whirling away with a lady in a blue dress, whose figure I recognised
at once for that of the Countess Valerie. It was easy to discover that
the young ladies, who resembled each other in size and stature, had
changed dresses; and the Countess, to enhance the deception, had lent
her bouquet to her friend. I was giddy and confused, like a man with
his death-hurt, but pride whispered in my ear to bear it in silence and
seeming unconcern.
Three paces more would bring us to Sir Harry. I should never see her
again. In a short time she might perhaps read my name in the _Gazette_,
and then hard, haughty, false as she was, she would like to know that I
had been true to her to the last. No, I would not part with her in
anger; my better angel conquered, and I wrung her hand, and whispered,
"God bless you, Constance." "God bless you, Vere," she replied; and the
pressure of those soft trembling fingers thrilled on mine for many a
day.
I recollect but little more of that ball in the Redouten-Saal. I believe
I congratulated Victor on his approaching marriage. I believe I wished
Valerie good-bye, and was a little disappointed at the resignation with
which she accepted my departure. I have a vague impression that even
Ropsley, usually so calm, so selfish, so unsympathising, accompanied me
home, under the impression that I was ill. My mind had been overstrung,
and I walked about like a man in a dream. But morning came at last, and
with my cased sword under my arm, and Bold in a leash at my feet, I
stood on the platform of the railway-station, waiting for the departure
of my train. An English servant, in the well-known livery, touched his
hat as he put a letter into my hand. Miser that I was! I would not
read it till I was fairly settled in the carriage. Little thought the
faded belle, with her false front, opposite me, or the fat man, with a
seal-ring on his fore-finger, by my side, how that scrap of paper was
all my wealth on earth; but they were honest Germans, and possessed that
truest of all politeness, which does as it would be done by. No
inquisitive regards annoyed me during its perusal; no impertinent
sympathy remarked on the tears which I am ashamed to say fell thick and
fast upon it ere it closed. I have it by me now, that yellow well-worn
paper. I have read those delicate womanly characters by scorching
sunlight, by the faint glimmer of a picket's lantern, far away on the
boundless sea, cramped and close in the stifling tent. If indeed "every
bullet has its billet," and any one of them had been destined to lodge
in my bosom, it must have found its way right through that fragile
shield--ay, carried in with it the very words which were ineffaceably
engraven on my heart. No wonder I can remember it all. Here it is:--
"Vere, you must not judge me as men are so prone to judge
women--harshly, hastily, uncharitably. We are not all frivolous,
selfish, and fond of change, caring only for our amusements, our
_conquests_, as you call them, and our enmities. You were bitter and
cruel to me last night. Indeed, indeed, I feel you had a right to be so,
Vere. I am so, _so_ sorry for you. But you must not think I have
treated you unkindly, or with want of confidence. Remember how you have
avoided me ever since we came to Vienna; remember how you have behaved
to me as a stranger, or at most a mere acquaintance; how you have never
once inquired about my prospects, or alluded to old times. Perhaps you
were right; perhaps you felt hurt, proud, and angry; and yet, Vere, I
had expected better things from _you_. Had I been in your place I think
I could have forgiven, I think I could have cared for, sympathised with,
and respected one whom I was forbidden to love. If I were a man, it
seems to me that I should not place happiness, however great, as the one
sole aim of my existence; that I should strive to win honour and
distinction, to benefit my fellow-men, and above all, to fulfil my duty,
even with no higher reward here below than my own approval. Vere, when
a man feels he is doing right, others think so too. I could be proud,
oh! so proud, of my brother. Yes, Vere, it is my turn to implore now,
and I entreat you let me be a sister, a very dear sister to you. As
such I will tell you all my griefs, all my doings; as such I can confide
in you, write to you, think of you, pray for you, as indeed I do, Vere,
every morning and evening of my life. And now let us dismiss at once
and for ever the thoughts of what might have been. The past is beyond
recall--the present, as you used to say, does not exist. The future
none can call their own. There is but one reality in life, and that is
Right. Vere, I have done right. I have followed the path of duty.
Brother, I call upon you for your help along the rough steep way; you
have never failed me yet, you will not fail me now.
"You know my mother died when I was very young. Since then my father has
fulfilled the duties of both parents towards his child. As I have grown
older and seen more of the world, I have been better able to appreciate
his affection and devotion to myself. A little girl must have been a
sad clog upon a man like my dear father, a high-spirited gentleman, fond
of the world, fond of society, fond of pleasure. Besides, had it not
been for me, he would have married again, and he preferred to sacrifice
his happiness to his child. Can I ever repay him? No. Whatever may
have been his faults, he has been a kind, kind father to me. I will
tell you all frankly, Vere, as this is the last time the subject can
ever be mentioned between us. Had I been free to choose, I would have
been yours. I am not ashamed--nay, I am _proud_ to own it. But you
know how impossible it was, how absolutely my father forbade it. To
have disobeyed him would have been wicked and ungrateful. I feel that
even you would not have respected me had I done so. But of late he has
become most anxious to see me settled in life. From his own hints, and
Captain Ropsley's open assertions, it seems this alone can stave off
some dreadful evil. I do not understand it. I only know I am bound to
do all in my power for papa; and that he is entangled with that bad,
unprincipled man I feel convinced. Oh, Vere, it might have been far,
far worse. In accepting Count de Rohan I have escaped a great and
frightful danger. Besides, I esteem him highly, I like his society, I
admire his open, honourable character. I have known him all my life; he
is your oldest friend--I need not enlarge upon his merits to you. His
sister, too, is a charming, frank-hearted girl. From all I heard, from
all I saw, I had hoped, Vere, that she had effaced in your mind the
unhappy recollections of former days. She is beautiful, accomplished,
and attractive; can you wonder that I believed what I was told, and
judged, besides, by what I saw? Even now we might be related. You seem
to like her, and she would make any one happy. Forgive me, Vere,
forgive me for the suggestion. It seems so unfeeling now, whilst I have
your tones of misery ringing in my ears; and yet, Heaven knows, _your_
happiness is the wish nearest my heart. Consult only _that_, and I
shall be satisfied. To hear of your welfare, your success, will make me
happy. I cannot, I must not write to you again. You yourself would not
wish it. I ought to write no more now. I feel for you, Vere; I know
how you must suffer, but the steel must be tempered in the fire, and it
is through suffering that men learn to be great and good. There are
other prizes in life besides happiness. There is an hour coming for us
all, when even the dearest and closest will have to part. May we both
be ready when that hour arrives. And now it is time to bid the long
farewell; our paths in life must henceforth be separate. Do not think
unkindly of me, Vere; I may not be with you, but I may be proud of you,
and wish you every happiness. Forget me--yet not altogether. Dear,
_dear_ brother, God bless you! and farewell!
"Take care of poor Bold."
So it was really over at last. Well, and what then? Had it not been
over, to all intents and purposes, long ago? Yes, there was something
worth living for, after all. There was no bitterness now, for there was
nothing to hope; the cup had been drained to the dregs, and the very
intoxication of the draught had passed away, but it had invigorated the
system and given new life to the heart. It was much to feel that I had
been valued and appreciated by such a woman--much to know that my name
would never fall unmeaningly on her ear. And I would be worthy, I would
never fail. The sacrifice should be perfected. And though I might
never see her again on earth, I would preserve her image pure and
unsullied in my heart of hearts. Constance Beverley should henceforth
and for ever be my ideal of all that was purest and noblest and best
beloved in woman.