An Opera and Lady Grasmere/Book 1/Chapter 3

HE two men drove on to Down Street and bade the cabman wait. Merceron worked the lift, and in a moment they were upstairs in the bedroom, and had switched on the electric light.

"Here they are!" cried Merceron, half buried in an old oak chest. He dragged the dominos out. A mask was pinned to each. Hutchinson's was bright red, and six inches of trouser-leg showed below; the other was black. Again the lift, and they rejoined their cab.

The awning still stood in front of the big house in Piccadilly, and Merceron sighed a sigh of relief. He had half feared that house and awning might vanish: so much did this adventure smack of fairy-tale. Everything, however, was real, solidly tangible.

They marched boldly into the hall, mounted the broad staircase with its sprinkling of powdered footmen and late-arriving guests. The lights within dazzled them.

"Good-night," said Merceron, as they emerged from the cloak-room, "we hunt single." He helped himself to a programme, waved a hand to Hutchinson, and disappeared in the crowded rooms.

For a moment the hubbub confused him. He had participated in nothing festive these last three years, had shut himself away from life with his work. Now his work was thrown to the winds, and he was going out to meet Life with wide-open arms.

A voice gave him his cue, took up the story of his abstinence—a falsetto voice, trilling pleasantly behind a yellow domino and mask.

"Why so late?" it asked.

"I was delayed."

"Vague," commented the domino.

"You might have intervened."

"I?"

"By coming earlier."

"A riddle—or flattery?" it queried.

"Truth," said Merceron.

"You 're not dancing?" asked the mask.

"I was waiting—waiting for you—and you have taken your time!"

"Long?" she tossed back.

"Three years."

"Bless my soul, the man's mad!"

"Only masked."

A silvery laugh rippled behind the mask, a flicker of amusement lit the dark eyes, and the lady turned.

"Another riddle?" was her parting shot.

Merceron followed her.

"Don't go," he said, "I have kept all these for you." And he displayed his empty programme.

"You have been generous," laughed the lady.

"You will be more so?"

"Impossible!" as she took his arm.

They waltzed—Merceron like a master, the lady lightly as wind-blown down. Breath failed them at last.

"The little conservatory—shall we sit out?" she asked, recovering. She had forgotten her falsetto notes, the voice was her own, and rich with music.

Merceron turned to the right.

"This way," she said, drawing him in the opposite direction. They left the crowd, and ascended a staircase. "I know the house, inside and out. They only ask you to their big things, I suppose?"

"Are you fair or dark?" inquired Merceron. "You wear a hood."

"Whichever you like," she returned unabashed.

"A chameleon?"

She laughed again.

Merceron continued:

"We will take your beauty for granted; you are taking mine?"

The mask nodded, merry-eyed. He followed her down an empty corridor. A tiny conservatory was at the far end, and beyond was a tinier balcony, hidden away under the stars. Piccadilly ran into the moonlight on either hand, the Green Park was a sylvan foreground.

On the balcony sat a stout domino, deep in an arm-chair, and snoring with wide-open mouth. The lady laughed in its face, and it awoke, scared, showing a bald head to the stars.

"We are alone," said the lady, as the stout domino fled.

"You were unkind."

"To brush it away?" she asked.

"It was happy," remarked Merceron.

"Perhaps it was even dreaming," speculated the lady.

"You have hurt its feelings."

"It will make a big supper."

They were seated now, and the waltz-music, stringed, came faintly from the rooms below.

"It is really too warm for a dance—it's absurd dancing in July," said the lady.

"One should dance in the open, like they do at flower-shows, or in a Corot?" answered Merceron.

"One could dance at garden-parties, if they were later," she hazarded.

"You did not lead me up here to discuss dancing," said Merceron, severely. "You have a mission—out with it! "

The lady shrunk back.

"You have never spoken to me like that before"

"Perfectly correct," assented Merceron.

"And even if we are masked—you know perfectly well whom you are speaking to."

"Not the foggiest idea."

The lady laughed now.

"You pretend beautifully," she said, "and I prefer your new voice to the real one," she maliciously added.

"It shall be permanent."

"Consider the strain!"

"For your sake?"

"That was sweet of you—take me downstairs before you get rude again."

"I will, if you will?"

"What?"

"Give me another chance;" and Merceron extracted three waltzes and supper from the yellow domino. Then they returned to the ball-room.

"That is Lady May," she whispered. Her gesture covered a slight pink domino. "Don't forget me," and she dropped his arm.

"I shall go up to the small conservatory if you're not here," returned Merceron, and he was alone.

So was Lady May. He accosted her without further ado, taking full advantage of his disguise.

"Pink suits you, you look well in pink," he began, critically.

Silence and cold eyes behind a mask greeted this raillery.

"This is our dance—your ladyship has not forgotten?" urged Merceron, undeterred.

"Is it?" said Lady May, in a voice dull and quite uninterested.

"You are cold?" suggested Merceron, bridling.

"Stifling, these things are so warm," she drawled.

"Why did you come?" he asked, and was rewarded by a stare so frigid that he almost laughed aloud. "We will dance?" He offered her an arm with a "May I, Lady May?"

"You may."

"It must be terrible to have a name like that—always cropping up!" The girl's arrogance annoyed Merceron. He was resolved on chastening it.

"If you don't like it, you may go," she retorted.

"I love it so well, that I would never ask you to change it."

A pink foot drummed the floor. Lady May was angry.

"I am not dancing, will you take me to a seat?" she said. Her former drawl was lacking.

"Shall be delighted," answered Merceron. The rest of their way was silence and a bow.

The yellow domino swung by more than once; and Merceron watched her, impatient for a renewal. At last he claimed his own.

"Supper will be on directly, let's get seats," she said, as she took his arm and led the way downstairs.

A frantic domino in red, with six inches of trouser-leg showing below, intercepted them. It was Hutchinson.

"I'm off," he said, breathless; "they're going to unmask—a girl told me."

The yellow domino was listening with some curiosity.

"Aren't you coming," continued Hutchinson, "things may get unpleasant?"

"I've only just begun—besides, there's supper," returned Merceron, undisturbed.

"Well, if you won't," said Hutchinson, "ta-ta—I'll look you up next leave," he concluded, and went off to the cloak-room.

Merceron was about to apologise to his partner, but she had gripped his arm with—

"Aren't you Captain Mills?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

"But you dance alike—you're exactly his figure."

"We probably go to the same tailor," suggested Merceron.

"Your voice"

"You prefer it—shall we sit there?" and he led the way to a vacant table.