“Love is like a dizziness,” says the old song. Love is something else—it is the most selfish feeling in existence. Of course, I don't allude to the fraternal or the friendly, or any other such nonsensical old-fashioned trash that artless people still believe in, but to the real genuine article that Adam felt for Eve when he first saw her, and which all who read this—above the innocent and unsusceptible age of twelve—have experienced. And the fancy and the reality are so much alike, that they amount to about the same thing. The former perhaps, may be a little short-lived; but it is just as disagreeable a sensation while it lasts as its more enduring sister. Love is said to be blind, and it also has a very injurious effect on the eyesight of its victims—an effect that neither spectacles nor oculists can aid in the slightest degree, making them see whether sleeping or waking, but one object, and that alone.

I don't know whether these were Mr. Malcolm or Ormiston's thoughts, as he leaned against the door-way, and folded his arms across his chest to await the shining of his day-star. In fact, I am pretty sure they were not: young gentlemen, as a general thing, not being any more given to profound moralizing in the reign of His Most Gracious Majesty, Charles II., than they are at the present day; but I do know, that no sooner was his bosom friend and crony, Sir Norman Kingsley, out of sight, than he forgot him as totally as if he had never known that distinguished individual. His many and deep afflictions, his love, his anguish, and his provocations; his beautiful, tantalizing, and mysterious lady-love; his errand and its probable consequences, all were forgotten; and Ormiston thought of nothing or nobody in the world but himself and La Masque. La Masque! La Masque! that was the theme on which his thoughts rang, with wild variations of alternate hope and fear, like every other lover since the world began, and love was first an institution. “As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be,” truly, truly it is an odd and wonderful thing. And you and I may thank our stars, dear readers, that we are a great deal too sensible to wear our hearts in our sleeves for such a bloodthirsty dew to peck at. Ormiston's flame was longer-lived than Sir Norman's; he had been in love a whole month, and had it badly, and was now at the very crisis of a malady. Why did she conceal her face—would she ever disclose it—would she listen to him—would she ever love him? feverishly asked Passion; and Common Sense (or what little of that useful commodity he had left) answered—probably because she was eccentric—possibly she would disclose it for the same reason; that he had only to try and make her listen; and as to her loving him, why, Common Sense owned he had her there.

I can't say whether the adage! “Faint heart never won fair lady!” was extant in his time; but the spirit of it certainly was, and Ormiston determined to prove it. He wanted to see La Masque, and try his fate once again; and see her he would, if he had to stay there as a sort of ornamental prop to the house for a week. He knew he might as well look for a needle in a haystack as his whimsical beloved through the streets of London—dismal and dark now as the streets of Luxor and Tadmor in Egypt; and he wisely resolved to spare himself and his Spanish leathers boots the trial of a one-handed game of “hide-and-go-to-seek.” Wisdom, like Virtue, is its own reward; and scarcely had he come to this laudable conclusion, when, by the feeble glimmer of the house-lamps, he saw a figure that made his heart bound, flitting through the night-gloom toward him. He would have known that figure on the sands of Sahara, in an Indian jungle, or an American forest—a tall, slight, supple figure, bending and springing like a bow of steel, queenly and regal as that of a young empress. It was draped in a long cloak reaching to the ground, in color as black as the night, and clasped by a jewel whose glittering flash, he saw even there; a velvet hood of the same color covered the stately head; and the mask—the tiresome, inevitable mask covered the beautiful—he was positive it was beautiful—face. He had seen her a score of times in that very dress, flitting like a dark, graceful ghost through the city streets, and the sight sent his heart plunging against his side like an inward sledge-hammer. Would one pulse in her heart stir ever so faintly at sight of him? Just as he asked himself the question, and was stepping forward to meet her, feeling very like the country swain in love—“hot and dry like, with a pain in his side like”—he suddenly stopped. Another figure came forth from the shadow of an opposite house, and softly pronounced her name. It was a short figure—a woman's figure. He could not see the face, and that was an immense relief to him, and prevented his having jealousy added to his other pains and tribulations. La Masque paused as well as he, and her soft voice softly asked:

“Who calls?”

“It is I, madame—Prudence.”

“Ah! I am glad to meet you. I have been searching the city through for you. Where have you been?”

“Madame, I was so frightened that I don't know where I fled to, and I could scarcely make up my mind to come back at all. I did feel dreadfully sorry for her, poor thing! but you know, Madame Masque, I could do nothing for her, and I should not have come back, only I was afraid of you.”

“You did wrong, Prudence,” said La Masque, sternly, or at least as sternly as so sweet a voice could speak; “you did very wrong to leave her in such a way. You should have come to me at once, and told me all.”

“But, madame, I was so frightened!”

“Bah! You are nothing but a coward. Come into this doorway, and tell me all about it.”

Ormiston drew back as the twain approached, and entered the deep portals of La Masque's own doorway. He could see them both by the aforesaid faint lamplight, and he noticed that La Masque's companion was a wrinkled old woman, that would not trouble the peace of mind of the most jealous lover in Christendom. Perhaps it was not just the thing to hover aloof and listen; but he could not for the life of him help it; and stand and listen he accordingly did. Who knew but this nocturnal conversation might throw some light on the dark mystery he was anxious to see through, and, could his ears have run into needle-points to hear the better, he would have had the operation then and there performed. There was a moment's silence after the two entered the portal, during which La Masque stood, tall, dark, and commanding, motionless as a marble column; and the little withered old specimen of humanity beside her stood gazing up at her with something between fear and fascination.

“Do you know what has become of your charge, Prudence?” asked the low, vibrating voice of La Masque, at last.

“How could I, madame? You know I fled from the house, and I dared not go back. Perhaps she is there still.”

“Perhaps she is not? Do you suppose that sharp shriek of yours was unheard? No; she was found; and what do you suppose has become of her?”

The old woman looked up, and seemed to read in the dark, stern figure, and the deep solemn voice, the fatal truth. She wrung her hands with a sort of cry.

“Oh! I know, I know; they have put her in the dead-cart, and buried her in the plague-pit. O my dear, sweet young mistress.”

“If you had stayed by your dear, sweet young mistress, instead of running screaming away as you did, it might not have happened,” said La Masque, in a tone between derision and contempt.

“Madame,” sobbed the old woman, who was crying, “she was dying of the plague, and how could I help it? They would have buried her in spite of me.”

“She was not dead; there was your mistake. She was as much alive as you or I at this moment.”

“Madame, I left her dead!” said the old woman positively.

“Prudence, you did no such thing; you left her fainting, and in that state she was found and carried to the plague-pit.”

The old woman stood silent for a moment, with a face of intense horror, and then she clasped both hands with a wild cry.

“O my God! And they buried her alive—buried her alive in that dreadful plague-pit!”

La Masque, leaning against a pillar, stood unmoved; and her voice, when she spoke, was as coldly sweet as modern ice-cream.

“Not exactly. She was not buried at all, as I happen to know. But when did you discover that she had the plague, and how could she possibly have caught it?”

“That I do not know, madam. She seemed well enough all day, though not in such high spirits as a bride should be. Toward evening she complained of a headache and a feeling of faintness; but I thought nothing of it, and helped her to dress for the bridal. Before it was over, the headache and faintness grew worse, and I gave her wine, and still suspected nothing. The last time I came in, she had grown so much worse, that notwithstanding her wedding dress, she had lain down on her bed, looking for all the world like a ghost, and told me she had the most dreadful burning pain in her chest. Then, madame, the horrid truth struck me—I tore down her dress, and there, sure enough, was the awful mark of the distemper. `You have the plague!' I shrieked; and then I fled down stairs and out of the house, like one crazy. O madame, madame! I shall never forget it—it was terrible! I shall never forget it! Poor, poor child; and the count does not know a word of it!”

La Masque laughed—a sweet, clear, deriding laugh, “So the count does not know it, Prudence? Poor man! he will be in despair when he finds it out, won't he? Such an ardent and devoted lover as he was you know!”

Prudence looked up a little puzzled.

“Yes, madame, I think so. He seemed very fond of her; a great deal fonder than she ever was of him. The fact is, madame,” said Prudence, lowering her voice to a confidential stage whisper, “she never seemed fond of him at all, and wouldn't have been married, I think, if she could have helped it.”

“Could have helped it? What do you mean, Prudence? Nobody made her, did they?”

Prudence fidgeted, and looked rather uneasy.

“Why, madame, she was not exactly forced, perhaps; but you know—you know you told me—”

“Well?” said La Masque, coldly.

“To do what I could,” cried Prudence, in a sort of desperation; “and I did it, madame, and harassed her about it night and day. And then the count was there, too, coaxing and entreating; and he was handsome and had such ways with him that no woman could resist, much less one so little used to gentlemen as Leoline. And so, Madame Masque, we kept at her till we got her to consent to it at last; but in her secret heart, I know she did not want to be married—at least to the count,” said Prudence, on serious afterthought.

“Well, well; that has nothing to do with it. The question is, where is she to be found?”

“Found!” echoed Prudence; “has she then been lost?”

“Of coarse she has, you old simpleton! How could she help it, and she dead, with no one to look after her?” said La Masque, with something like a half laugh. “She was carried to the plague-pit in her bridal-robes, jewels and lace; and, when about to be thrown in, was discovered, like Moses is the bulrushes, to be all alive.”

“Well,” whispered Prudence, breathlessly.

“Well, O most courageous of guardians! she was carried to a certain house, and left to her own devices, while her gallant rescuer went for a doctor; and when they returned she was missing. Our pretty Leoline seems to have a strong fancy for getting lost!”

There was a pause, during which Prudence looked at her with a face full of mingled fear and curiosity. At last:

“Madame, how do you know all this? Were you there?”

“No. Not I, indeed! What would take me there?”

“Then how do you happen to know everything about it?”

La Masque laughed.

“A little bird told me, Prudence! Have you returned to resume your old duties?”

“Madame, I dare not go into that house again. I am afraid of taking the plague.”

“Prudence, you are a perfect idiot! Are you not liable to take the plague in the remotest quarter of this plague-infested city? And even if you do take it, what odds? You have only a few years to live, at the most, and what matter whether you die now or at the end of a year or two?”

“What matter?” repeated Prudence, in a high key of indignant amazement. “It may make no matter to you, Madame Masque, but it makes a great deal to me; I can tell you; and into that infected house I'll not put one foot.”

“Just as you please, only in that case there is no need for further talk, so allow me to bid you good-night!”

“But, madame, what of Leoline? Do stop one moment and tell me of her.”

“What have I to tell? I have told you all I know. If you want to find her, you must search in the city or in the pest-house!”

Prudence shuddered, and covered her face with her hands.

“O, my poor darling! so good and so beautiful. Heaven might surely have spared her! Are you going to do nothing farther about it?”

“What can I do? I have searched for her and have not found her, and what else remains?”

“Madame, you know everything—surely, surely you know where my poor little nursling is, among the rest.”

Again La Masque laughed—another of her low, sweet, derisive laughs.

“No such thing, Prudence. If I did, I should have her here in a twinkling, depend upon—it. However, it all comes to the same thing in the end. She is probably dead by this time, and would have to be buried in the plague-pit, anyhow. If you have nothing further to say, Prudence, you had better bid me good-night, and let me go.”

“Good-night, madame!” said Prudence, with a sort of groan, as she wrapped her cloak closely around her, and turned to go.

La Masque stood for a moment looking after her, and then placed a key in the lock of the door. But there is many a slip—she was not fated to enter as soon as she thought; for just at that moment a new step sounded beside her, a new voice pronounced her name, and looking around, she beheld Ormiston. With what feelings that young person had listened to the neat and appropriate dialogue I have just had the pleasure of immortalizing, may be—to use a phrase you may have heard before, once or twice—better imagined than described. He knew very well who Leoline was, and how she had been saved from the plague-pit; but where in the world had La Masque found it out. Lost in a maze of wonder, and inclined to doubt the evidence of his own ears, he had stood perfectly still, until his ladylove had so coolly dismissed her company, and then rousing himself just in time, he had come forward and accosted her. La Masque turned round, regarded him in silence for a moment, and when she spoke, her voice had an accent of mingled surprise and displeasure.

“You, Mr. Ormiston! How many more times am I to have the pleasure of seeing you again to-night?”

“Pardon, madame; it is the last time. But you must hear me now.”

“Must I? Very well, then; if I must, you had better begin at once, for the night-air is said to be unhealthy, and as good people are scarce, I want to take care of myself.”

“In that case, perhaps you had better let me enter, too. I hate to talk on the street, for every wall has ears.”

“I am aware of that. When I was talking to my old friend, Prudence, two minutes ago, I saw a tall shape that I have reason to know, since it haunts me, like my own shadow, standing there and paying deed attention. I hope you found our conversation interesting, Mr. Ormiston!”

“Madame!” began Ormiston, turning crimson.

“Oh, don't blush; there is quite light enough from yonder lamp to show that. Besides,” added the lady, easily, “I don't know as I had any objection; you are interested in Leoline, and must feel curious to know something about her.”

“Madame, what must you think of me? I have acted unpardonably.”

“Oh, I know all that. There is no need to apologize, and I don't think any the worse of you for it. Will you come to business, Mr. Ormiston? I think I told you I wanted to go in. What may you want of me at this dismal hour?”

“O madame, need you ask! Does not your own heart tell you?”

“I am not aware that it does! And to tell you the truth, Mr. Ormiston, I don't know that I even have a heart! I am afraid I must trouble you to put it in words.”

“Then, madame, I love you!”

“Is that all? If my memory serves me, you have told me that little fact several times before. Is there anything else tormenting you, or may I go in?”

Ormiston groaned out an oath between his teeth, and La Masque raised one jeweled, snowy taper finger, reprovingly.

“Don't Mr. Ormiston—it's naughty, you know! May I go in?”

“Madame, you are enough to drive a man mad. Is the love I bear you worthy of nothing but mockery!”

“No, Mr. Ormiston, it is not; that is, supposing you really love me, which you don't.”

“Madame!”

“Oh, you needn't flash and look indignant; it is quite true! Don't be absurd, Mr. Ormiston. How is it possible for you to love one you have never seen?”

“I have seen you. Do you think I am blind?” he demanded, indignantly.

“My face, I mean. I don't consider that you can see a person without looking in her face. Now you have never looked in mine, and how do you know I have any face at all?”

“Madame, you mock me.”

“Not at all. How are you to know what is behind this mask?”

“I feel it, and that is better; and I love you all the same.”

“Mr. Ormiston, how do you know but I am ugly.”

“Madame, I do not believe you are; you are all too perfect not to have a perfect face; and even were it otherwise, I still love you!”

She broke into a laugh—one of her low, short, deriding laughs.

“You do! O man, how wise thou art! I tell you, if I took off this mask, the sight would curdle the very blood in your veins with horror—would freeze the lifeblood in your heart. I tell you!” she passionately cried, “there are sights too horrible for human beings to look on and live, and this—this is one of them!”

He started back, and stared at her aghast.

“You think me mad,” she said, in a less fierce tone, “but I am not; and I repeat it, Mr. Ormiston, the sight of what this mask conceals would blast you. Go now, for Heaven's sake, and leave me in peace, to drag out the rest of my miserable life; and if ever you think of me, let it be to pray that it might speedily end. You have forced me to say this: so now be content. Be merciful, and go!”

She made a desperate gesture, and turned to leave him, but he caught her hand and held her fast.

“Never!” he cried, fiercely. “Say what you will! let that mask hide what it may! I will never leave you till life leaves me!”

“Man, you are mad! Release my hand and let me go!”

“Madame, hear me. There is but one way to prove my love, and my sanity, and that is—”

“Well?” she said, almost touched by his earnestness.

“Raise your mask and try me! Show me your face and see if I do not love you still!”

“Truly I know how much love you will have for me when it is revealed. Do you know that no one has looked in my face for the last eight years.”

He stood and gazed at her in wonder.

“It is so, Mr. Ormiston; and in my heart I have vowed a vow to plunge headlong into the most loathsome plague-pit in London, rather than ever raise it again. My friend, be satisfied. Go and leave me; go and forget me.”

“I can do neither until I have ceased to forget every thing earthly. Madame, I implore you, hear me!”

“Mr. Ormiston, I tell you, you but court your own doom. No one can look on me and live!”

“I will risk it,” he said with an incredulous smile. “Only promise to show me your face.”

“Be it so then!” she cried almost fiercely. “I promise, and be the consequences on your own head.”

His whole face flushed with joy.

“I accept them. And when is that happy time to come?”

“Who knows! What must be done, had best be done quickly; but I tell thee it were safer to play with the lightning's chain than tamper with what thou art about to do.”

“I take the risk! Will you raise your mask now?”

“No, no—I cannot! But yet, I may before the sun rises. My face”—with bitter scorn—“shows better by darkness than by daylight. Will you be out to see, the grand illumination.”

“Most certainly.”

“Then meet me here an hour after midnight, and the face so long hidden shall be revealed. But, once again, on the threshold of doom, I entreat you to pause.”

“There is no such word for me!” he fiercely and exultingly cried. “I have your promise, and I shall hold you to it! And, madame, if, at last, you discover my love is changeless as fate itself, then—then may I not dare to hope for a return?”

“Yes; then you may hope,” she said, with cold mockery. “If your love survives the sight, it will be mighty, indeed, and well worthy a return.”

“And you will return it?”

“I will.”

“You will be my wife?”

“With all my heart!”

“My darling!” he cried, rapturously—“for you are mine already—how can I ever thank you for this? If a whole lifetime devoted and consecrated to your happiness can repay you, it shall be yours!”

During this rhapsody, her hand had been on the handle of the door. Now she turned it.

“Good-night, Mr. Ormiston,” she said, and vanished.