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.