# Ethel Churchill/Chapter 99

CHAPTER XXIII.
THE MASKED BALL.
Life is made up of vanities—so small, So mean, the common history of the day,— That mockery seems the sole philosophy. Then some stern truth starts up—cold, sudden, strange; And we are taught what life is by despair:— The toys, the trifles, and the petty cares, Melt into nothingness—we know their worth; The heart avenges every careless thought, And makes us feel that fate is terrible.
Amid the many mirrors called into requisition by Lady Townshend's fête, not one gave back a lovelier likeness than that which reflected the face and form of Lady Marchmont. She was dressed after a picture which had impressed ​her imagination from a child, in her uncle's collection. It was called "The Enchantress;" but the real name, for it was obviously a portrait, and that of the artist, had long since been forgotten. The style of costume was peculiar and striking; but it suited the present as much as it had done the former wearer. The robe was of black velvet, fitting tight to the shape, with large, loose, hanging sleeves, lined with scarlet silk. Round the waist was a rope of pearls, from which hung large tassels; and the deep border was of various colours, forming an Etruscan pattern of small strange characters.
There were no ornaments on the neck and arms; indeed, Lady Marchmont had used up the principal of hers to form the curious head-dress of the picture. The hair was formed into one thick braid, which went round and round the head: amid the folds of this was wound a serpent of precious stones, whose head, formed of rubies and diamonds, rose out of the knot behind, and made a sort of crest. Two little wings, about the size of a butterfly's, ​were on either side of the serpent's head: and the brilliants, of which they were composed, caught every ray of passing light.
At her side was a bouquet of red and white roses, they had been sent that evening, with one single line,—"I hope and I fear!"
The poet who first likened his mistress' eyes to the midnight, must have crazed on such orbs as those of that young and lovely countess. There was the moonlight—clear, melancholy, and spiritual; but there was also the shadow of the coming storm—the radiance that is of the meteor, and the darkness that is of the cloud. There was a troubled and unquiet brightness in those dark black eyes, which revealed the passionate workings of the fevered spirit and the beating heart. The cheek was flushed to the richest crimson; and there was that quiver about the muscles of the mouth which betrays, more than any other external sign, the subdued emotion.
Henrietta was under the influence of strong excitement; every nerve had been overstrained during the day, and they were now braced with ​the forced composure of a desperate resolve. She was too agitated to rest: more than once she opened a volume, but only to close it hastily again without reading a single line; and then, starting from her seat, she resumed her hasty walk up and down the room.
The chair being announced, she fastened on her mask, and drew her domino round her, it not being her intention to display her splendid and fantastic costume till supper, when all the guests were expected to unmask. On her entrance into the ball-room, she drew her dark envelope more closely round; but in her hand there were the red and white roses.
"Ah, I needed not those signal flowers," said a low, sweet voice; and, garbed as a Spaniard, which suited well with his stately figure, Sir George Kingston came to her side. She took his arm in silence; all she had intended to say seemed like the words of a dream; for a few, a very few, moments she could he alive to nothing but the happiness of his presence.
Love has to every one its separate ​emotions; but there is one sensation common to all—the hurried, confused pleasure, which puts every thing else aside, of meeting.
Lady Marehmont heard none of the voices around her, saw nothing of the glittering crowd; her eyes were fixed on the ground. She did not venture to look at her companion; and yet her whole being was absorbed in his. While away from him she had framed her discourse, she had arranged the many reasons of farewell, she had convinced with argument, she had subdued him with entreaty; and now that she was at his side, what did she say?—nothing! and is not this a common case? Who ever said one-half of all that seemed in absence so easy to say?
The rooms at Lady Townshend's were much crowded, and there was something very odd in the quaint and strange looking figures that were assembled. Princesses, nuns, knights, pilgrims, bandits, and monks, mixed together with a superb defiance of the historical truths of costume that would nave driven an antiquary mad.
​ But there always is in my mind something at once ludicrous and mournful in a crowd congregated for the purpose of amusement. What discontent, what vanity, move the complicated wheels of the social machine! There are many pleasures that one can comprehend, and even go the length of admitting, that they are worth some trouble in endeavouring to obtain; but the mania of filling your house with guests of whom you know little, and for whom you care nothing, is only less incomprehensible than why they should be at the trouble of coming to you.
The Arabs of the desert, who gather beneath the shadow of the palm-tree to listen to some tale of wild enchantment, have an actual pleasure. The moonlight shows their dark eyes kindling with eager enjoyment, as they hear how the warrior gained his beautiful maiden at last. But this is not the case with our modern assemblings; no one can accuse them of wearing faces of eager enjoyment They are blasé and languid: ​to-morrow they will admit how tired they were of the party of the previous night; but the admission is made on their way to another.
Lady Townshend's fête was no exception to the general rule, excepting, perhaps, that a masquerade, by having a character for wit to support, is a little more wearisome, by being more forced than any thing else.
Lady Mary Wortley, who was there in her pretty oriental dress, accurate from the gold embroidered slippers to the sprig of jessamine in her plaited hair, thought it rather more tiresome than usual; for, by ill luck, Lord Marchmont had stationed himself at her side; and for a dull man to attempt persiflage, is more than mortal patience can endure. Glancing round, she saw Lady Marchmont and Sir George Kingston, whom her quick eye had recognised at once, enter a balcony which looked towards the garden.
"I tell you, beau masque" said her ladyship, "you are wasting time upon me that ​might be much better bestowed. There is Sir George Kingston busy making love to your wife. Don't you think that you had better look a little after her?"
"Oh, I am not at all alarmed," replied Lord Marchmont.
"Well," replied Lady Mary, "there is some Christian charity left in this wicked world. It is quite charming of you to devote yourself to the amusement of the town as you do. Why, every body is laughing at your blindness."
"How very ridiculous!" exclaimed he.
"Is Lord Marchmont talking of himself?" asked a mask behind: but while his lordship turned round to discover who was his new tormentor, Lady Mary effected her escape; and Lord Marchmont, finding himself near no one that he knew, began to consider whether he might not as well follow her advice.
Lady Mary's had been just a random assertion, only thrown out to get rid of a ​wearisome companion; and yet to what important consequences it led! But it is the inevitable consequence of guilt, it places its punishment on a chance; and that chance is sure to occur.