An Opera and Lady Grasmere/Book 1/Chapter 4

HY did your friend leave in alarm?" asked the yellow domino, as she and Harvey seated themselves at one of the supper-tables.

"He feared exposure."

"Not much harm in it this weather—answer again?"

"They are going to unmask."

"And he is hideous?"

"We came here uninvited," said Merceron calmly.

"Who are you?"

"A liberated captive."

"Then you will need a friend."

"I have found one," he gallantly replied.

"Do you know, I made sure that you were Captain Mills?" said the lady.

"You are disappointed?"

"No—not exactly," she replied.

The rooms were filling fast as this conversation progressed, grew quite full. Everybody save Hutchinson seemed to be present. The pink domino stood in the doorway with a partner; another guest, stout and bald-headed, evidently he who had slumbered on the balcony, was seated, handling a mênu.

A gong clashed on the hubbub—once—twice.

"It is two o'clock, we must unmask," said the yellow domino.

A hundred faces were exposed, hoods were falling back, the air was full of surprises and astonished laughter, satisfaction at deceits successfully carried out.

Merceron was gazing into a pair of lovely hazel eyes, set below hair of ruddy auburn. The face, though pale, was very beautiful, the half-exposed neck a dazzling-white. She, too, was not displeased with her companion's appearance; his manner charmed her even more.

Their hostess, a stately dowager hung with ancestral jewels, sailed down the rooms to greet her guests by name.

The domino and Merceron exchanged a glance, their turn was imminent. The latter, unconcerned, filled his companion's plate and his own, drank to her from a brimming wine-glass. Then the Marchioness was on them.

"I brought a young friend with me," explained the yellow domino with a subtle twinkle in the hazel eyes.

Merceron bowed, and the Marchioness was charmed. She gave him two jewelled fingers and passed on.

"Why did you?" asked Merceron, with danger behind him.

"Appearances were against me," laughed back the yellow domino; then, throwing her disguise aside, she stood out clear, gowned in amber satin with opals burning at her throat. "It was rather stuffy," she remarked.

A white hand stole out to assist Merceron, struggling with his draperies; its touch thrilled him.

He, too, was good to look upon as he emerged, tall and well knit, from the inky folds of his domino.

They supped like children, greedy and helping each other as the dishes passed. Music came softly from the further room, the wine sparkled ruddy or golden, flashing back the lights that hung above. Gallantry and the full-framed spirit of greater comedy leapt through the fleeting moment; something barbaric and primeval snatched at the hearts of these revellers feasting careless before the dawn, spurred on this crowd, frankly joyous with youth and the rich blood of lives untrammelled. A pagan hour it was, and beauty swung in the ascendant; the spirit's pale awakenings and wan-eyed tremors were all forgot—no place for white-lipped meditation.

"We dance no more?" said Merceron as they rose.

She took his arm and followed where he led.

"Let's go up to the little balcony again and watch the sun rise?" he proposed as they passed out together.

"An Alpine notion," she assented.

"Alpine is barbarous; they rouse you from slumber to yawn at an open-eyed sun."

"We will be the sun—let it discover us," she sent back. "I am ready;" and this time Merceron guided.

"It will be cold up there; I shall fetch the dominoes." He was with her again in an instant, and they mounted.

The conservatory was ghastly with the clashing of day and artificial light. They left it behind them without unfair glances into each other's face.

Beyond, the balcony hung deserted. Merceron wrapped his partner in the silken folds of the dominoes, yellow on black. She passed a hand under his arm, and leant over the rampart. Below rumbled a heavy market waggon, stacked high with green-stuff, and making a persistent line for Covent Garden. The sky above was a cold blue, pale, with sparse silver twinklings of paler stars. The air, though cool, was far from chilling.

A cart, ruddy with a regiment of geraniums, went by, and annunciation lilies, white and tender, mingled with the pots. More stacks of vegetables followed, drawn by mechanical-stepping horses, whose drivers dozed torpid in their seats.

"Le ventre de Londres—we are being fed," said the lady with a grimace, "and garlanded."

"Le cœur de Londres—where is it?" retorted Merceron.

"Where?" she demurely echoed.

"Here!" His eyes were on the sky, now growing pink and sentimental. Cherubs might have flopped over it without causing comment. "Here!" his eyes came down, met hers.

"London has no heart," she said.

"Six millions—think of them growing all so close together—no wonder some break!"

"Those are down below"—her gesture covered the street—"but we—are here—in the sunlight!" she rejoined, triumphant, challenging, glorying in her force and beauty. Her wrap was thrown aside: it shivered to the ground and fell about her feet, and she stood radiant, with parted lips, in the first shaft of the ascending sun. Her enlumined hair shone like burnished bronze.

"Were I artist, I would paint you as Aurora," said Merceron, kindling and captive.

"You have imagination."

"But no skill."

"More than you imagine."

"Both were too much."

"Not in this world," and she looked round, her eyes embracing the object of her speech. This world was a street silent with untouched morning, the green of a park verdant with dew and sunshine, and two happy mortals enthroned on a balcony. "Not in this world," she repeated.

"No, not too much—no equipment were sufficing here!" He, too, was in Eden or Paradise or Elysium. He seized his houri's hand. She withdrew it.

"Piccadilly will be crowded at noon," she observed. He looked down upon the street. Her words had filled it with surging traffic and myriad pedestrians. The dawn had passed, and zenith midday was pulsing full and vehement... yet below ran but a roadway, empty save for the rare passing of a Covent Garden waggon! His eyes swept from below, to her and back again. Silence—everywhere was silence; broken at last, as a crowd of busy men appeared, armed with gigantic hose-pipes. The two revellers looked on, full of interest. Piccadilly was receiving its morning bath.

On the balcony now stood but a man and a woman. Poetry had left them; yet there is virtue in good prose.

"I am dreadfully tired," said the lady.

"Shall I take you down?" asked Merceron, reluctant.

"I suppose so," she murmured. Her arm lay heavy in his, yet the burden was as a feather. Neither was greatly inclined to change the present for recreant motion.

"We will continue—when?" urged Merceron.

She met his questioning eyes, tenderly yet drooping.

"I may call—this afternoon?"

She smiled, soft, languid as a child weary with too much play. His heart leaped, exulted, flaming yet solicitous. She was adorable; he yearned madly to carry her down the intervening stairs, her arms heavy on his neck.

"This afternoon," he repeated. Such words!

She shook her head; but her eyes were kinder. "This afternoon!" The staircase lay before them.

Below, the company was thinning and good-nights flew here and there. The lady was herself again, erect, serene as though but new arrived. She exchanged farewells, and Merceron waited. He was in the hall when she came down, cloaked from head to foot, calm, self-possessed—a guest departing. Many eyes were on them, admiring, envious. Merceron assisted her to her carriage—an earl's coronet was on the panel. A hand lay lightly on his, the shadow of a hand's pressure. She had not forgotten.

"Au revoir," said Merceron.