A MASQUERADE OF HATE

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1152, 30 March 1894, Page 37

A MASQUERADE OF HATE

Sister Rose and I were at Newport last summer; hence tho title of this story. When in my comfortable, quiet, yet beautiful homo on the Susquehanna, I read "M - Novel," I came upon this passage: "In the Gothic age grim Humor painted 'The Dance of Death.' In our polished century some sardonic wit should give us the 'Masquerade of Hate.' " There, surrounded with comfort, luxury and beauty, with that feeling of security which one's home gives all about me, the bad passions had retired into the background of my imagination and lived there, shadows without form or reality, and I thought as I read this passage how overstrained, unreal and melodramatic it was. Yet I could not forget it! "A Masquerade of Hate!" Everything about me suggested peace. The river, broad, beneficent and tranquil, flowed ever onward for good. Tho trees, the flowers, the sky—all was beauty, all was the handiwork of love, yet I read again the words of the great master of English romance, and an inward voice told me that I should one day recognize a truth in them.

The fine passage which follows: "Love is rarely a hypocrite, but hate, how detect, how guard against it? It lurks where you least suspect it. It is created by causes that you can the least foresee, and civilization multiplies its varieties while it favors its disguise, for civilization increases the number of contending interests, and refinement renders more susceptible to the least irritation the cuticle of self love. But hate comes covertly forth from some self interest we have crossed or from some self love we have wounded, and, dullards that we are, how seldom we are aware of our offense! You may be hated by a man you have never seen in your life; you may be hated as often by one whom you have loaded with benefits; you may so walk as not to tread on a worm, but you must sit fast in your easy chair until you are carried out to your bier if you would be sure not to tread on some snake of a foe." Hate—a word I had almost forgotten. My own past, how secm-e it had been from the ugly monster thus startlingly summoned before me by the wand of the enchanter! I remembered how guarded my youth had been, the child of prosperity, the early loved. I had known no sorrow, scarcely disappointment, until a great grief came and shrouded me as if with a veil from other experience, for 1 was now 30 and had been 10 years a widow.

The few years of society and the gayworld which came between my school days and early marriage were so bright, so full of pleasure, that I looked back upon "society" as a land full of beauteous images, fair women, great men, sensible, brilliant, witty conversation, music, dancing, all that can charm the imagination and the senses, a refined luxury giving richness to the picture, an early love lending it romance and poetry.

When the chief figure was stricken out of this picture, I never wished to look upon it again. I knew that in looking upon the brilliant surface 1 should see only that void. So I had lived a quiet, retired life, surrounded only by the nearest and dearest friends, until grief had become melancholy, and finally perhaps only something less than that, but the world I had forgotten. Was, then, this brilliant pageant called society but a masquerade? Were men and women bowing, smiling, caressing and entertaining each other but to forward their own ends, to advance their own interests? Was there a skeleton at every feast, and hidden by a mask of polite and elegant demeanor did jealousy, distrust, scandal, detraction,walk among the guests? Hate—a potent word; it colored the landscape; it darkened the sun; it gave to the soft summer breeze a harsh and severe sound. I felt as if a disagreeable presence had stolen into my life and shut out the tranquillity and happiness, when there appeared walking on the green sward beneath my window Sister Rose. No disagreeable presence was Sister Rose. She banished hate and brought back light to the sun, music to the breeze. Sister Rose was 17, sweet, beautiful and colored like the rival flowers of York and Lancaster; she was the youngest, fairest bud on our ancestral tree, and though 18 years separated her from me we were sisters in the fondest truest sense, in mutual confidence and love, dashed with a sort of maternal authority on my part, a sort of deferential daughterhood on hers. She was all the world to me, dear Sister Rose. Mrs. Gibson walked by Sister Rose on the green. Mrs. Gibson was a gay lady who had come to pay us a visit. As they walked their conversation floated up to me through the still June air. "And Newport is so delightful?*' asked Sister Rose. "Oh, perfectly delightful. The ..climate of Italy and the best people in th© United States. Such a charming set or*** people in the cottages —yes, and palaces

too! Such gay scones at the Bellevue, the Fillmore: the Ocean is a little fast perhaps, bin very nice people there too. Such drives, such bathing, such dressing, such a dear old picturesque town! Oh, there is nothing like Newport—nothing! nothing!" "I should so like to go," said Rose.

"And why not? Make Mrs. Clifton take you. Plenty of money, youth, beauty, good family; you should go. Come to Philadelphia with me, and we shall get a beautiful wardrobe prepared and —nous verrons!" "But I do not believe Sister Laura would like to leave her retirement. She has been quiet so long." "But she must not be quiet. She is shutting you out from that world to which you belong. In the name of that wronged and bereft world I claim you, and .von must come. She must give you

up!" So afterward argued Mrs. Gibson at greater length; so gently urged Rose. So finally my own judgment told me that Rose should peep at the world—that great, entrancing, sparkling world, only faintly foreshadowed to her in the dancing school balls, the accounts of Mrs. Gibson, the magazine stories. Armed and equipped with dresses, French maid (whom we found a horrible tyrant) and accompanied by Mrs. Gibson and a large party of her friends, we found ourselves rather startled and uncomfortable at Newport one hot day in August. Hot? No, not so very hot, but dust}', uncomfortable. Everything was new —our dresses were new and wither tight; our crinoline was prodigious; our heads, accustomed only to our own dressing, were screwed into unimaginable torment by our maid Matilde. In this state I ate my first dinner and took a survey. Fortunately our dresses (thanks to Mrs. Gibson, who had taken a contract to dress us as if we were two French dolls and had fulfilled it to admiration) were very handsome. We were spared the humiliation of finding ourselves badly dressed at Newport, perhaps one of greatest of the petites miseres of life. We had good rooms; we were introduced right and left: we had the golden key which milocks exclusive fashion's innermost wicket door —we had money. Another advantage we had—we were new. A something to do is the great want of the Newport habitues and a something to talk about the absolute necessity. Fur a few days we furnished them occupation. At the end of three days Mrs. Paston, who sat opposite us at table, knew all about us: that we had had a distant relative in the cabinet of one of the presidents; that we had so much (and no more) money; what the family politics were; what religion we professed, and Mrs. Paston sought our acquaintance, and we entered on the Newport course with heavy bets on our success. Shadow of Sutherland! did you rise before me to stiggest that eqtiine simile? Well, to return to my first dinner. Next me sat Mr. Gibson, a man whose vision, though straight enough as to the physical eye, was singularly oblique when contemplated with that second set of optics which we all possess, and which looks beyond and behind the other. To have contemplated Mr. Gibson with this second pair of eyes (which never grow feeble with years and only need spectacles in extreme youth) one would have seen that he was afflicted with a sort of moral strabismus, and that some things were lamentably confused to him, while ; others were peculiarly adapted to his j angle of vision; for instance, Mr. Gibson I never failed to see what he defined as a j "person of consequence" and was as blind as Belisarius to a person of "no : consequence." Perhaps, however, he was j as good a cicerone at Newport as I could ! have had, though for '-grade, phiioso- ; pher and friend" in any other sphere I j should not have chosen him. j

"Who is that young man who looks so much like a horse?" I asked of Mr. Gibson. "My dear -Mrs. Clifton, how can you sajr such things? That is Mr. Sutherland, a young man of the greatest consequence.

He is very rich, very aristocratic, a little ; given to gaming, and, they say. rather : too fond of horse racing and such little expensive amusements. However, if he doesn't injure his fortune, no matter. Ho i will soon have sown his wild oats." ; "He looks to melts if ho were in the habit of eating them." "He! he!" said Mr. Gibson, who never j laughed sincerely at any joke at an aris- : tocrat. i "And who is that little woman who ; looks so much like a poodle dog?" I "Now, Mrs. Clifton, you are too badl i That is Mrs. Smithson, the most exclu- :' sive woman here. Allow me to say that ! if Mrs. Smithson and Mrs. Paston ask to be introduced to you your fortune is j made! I mean at Newport!" I 1 must confess I was a little angry at I the imagined condescension of these ladies, but 1 knew Mr. Gibson, and I forgave him, for 1 remembered Iris strabismus. "Who is the lovely woman with roses in her hair, who is taking such care of the stupid little man by her side?" "Ah! that is Mrs. Morris Borrowe, the beauty, the petted of fortune, so amiable. bo careful too! Never hear airy thing against Mrs. Morris Borrowe! And the little man, twice her age, is Mr. Morris Borrowe, married by an ambitious mother. Every one said too bad, but immensely rich. She really seems to like him though; perhaps wary and deep—don't know. These innocent looking ones are the ones sometimes, Mrs. Clifton, he he!"

H Mrs. Morris Borrowe was a "deep one," she was very deep, for innocence and truth sat enthroned on her face, and kindness beamed from her whole demeanor. "Who is that fine intellectual man down the table?" "All! Warden Wood, very distinguished, but not a marrying man." "And the blink eyed youth?" "Mrs. Paston'sson; very good dancer." "And the nice looking party be} r ond. I mean the father and daughters?" "Don't know them," answered Mr. Gibson with withering enunciation. I wonder tf any description of type can give the force to this remark which Mr. Gibson gave. It was as if the destroying angel said to shivering wretches on the brink of the gulf: "Go down and never hope to rise! Twice wretched wretches, go down! down! down!" There is nothing in Milton more terrific than this sentence, pronounced by your true worldling. It says unimaginable things, and little as I knew of the world I felt a solemn conviction that that father and those daughters were driven out of the inner world of fashion as utterly as was Lucifer ejected from paradise. Sister Rose had a distinguished success the first dinner, for Mr. Sutherland, who sat opposite, began to stare at her. Poor Rose, looking up unconsciously, saw his eyes fixed upon her. and looking down blushed over face, neck and arms. Sutherland was not accustomed to that sort of thing, the coy maidens at whom he generally stared were past blushing, and he doubtless had a sensation very like that which a thirsty traveler experiences when he finds a fresh strawberry by the side of a dusty road—he intended from that moment to refresh himself with the '.wxppcted fruit. Mr. Gibs-.m found it out immediately. "See.'' he exclaimed, "Sutherland is staring at Rose! That is an immense compliment."

"Ad immense insult." said 1, taking fire at once "Now. Mrs. Clifton, be quiet. My good friend, yon do not know this world as 1 do. Why. men will look at handsome girls, and Sutherland is a little spoiled, hut a man of such position! Do listen to reason and bu quiet. If you want to have Rose see society, you must not quarrel with it at once because some of its modern innovations do not square with your very retired and peculiar notions."

•'But. Mr. Gibson, my 'retired notions," as yon please to call them, have been considered the rules of gentlemanly conduct since the world was young. Why, what did chivalry mean; what does poetry, romance, mean: what does civilization mean if not that man being strong shall protect, yes, graciously and respectfully protect, woman and not insult her —stare"

"You talk very well, dear Mrs. Clifton, 1 don't doubt, uncommonly, well, but it has no sort of effect at Newport—not the least, not the least I You might talk forever about chivalry, but I rather think nobody, at least not the young men, would know what j-ou meant, and if they did they would not care—no, not they. They would stare just as much, and the girls don't dislike it—he! hel Mrs. Clifton!"

Well, I thought I would swallow my disgust and bear with "modern innovations." 1 had come to Newport; I was undoubtedly rustic; 1113' ideas might change. After dinner I was presented to several ladies. They were faultlessly dressed, handsome, many of them fino m isicians and good linguists, and 1 anticipated much pleasure. What were the subjects we talked about? The rival claims of the different houses!

I There, with the "far sounding sea" singing immortal anthems in our ears, •with a night above our heads such as Lord Byron wrote verses about, and compares, as somebodj-irreverently says, to a 'black eyed woman," these educated, accomplished creatures could find nothing to say but on the all important point of which was the more fashionable, the Fillmore or the Bellevue! I asked Mrs. Paston who was the fine looking woman in blue whom I saw in the parlor. I "Oh, that is Mrs. Akerly, an old friend of mine, hut we do not speak now, for we are at the rival houses!" The tyranny of ideas is a power which knows no limits. It made Martin Luther fling his inkstand at the gentleman in black; it sent Napoleon to St. Helena; it is the force which drove men to the Crimea to starve and die, and it descends so low that it even makes the women hate each other, because they charge themselves with the honor of two rival taverns! Sister Rose had a success; Sutherland admired her; other young men followed; she danced perpetually, had flowers and all the insignia of bellehood. She enjoyed it; it was her tight. I could but admire the woman's instinct which taught her so readily what to do with her newly acquired honors. She was gay but reserved with Sutherland, whose character she read at a glance; she was amused with the satirical Warden Wood; she liked (1 feared too much) Tracy, a well appointed youth, who followed her much, but she bore her blushing honors •welL 1 had never been beautiful like Rose, and I enjoyed the sweet power it tfave her for her sake and my own.

i All was going on well. I was bathing, talking, amusing myself with the new revelations which society was teaching me, and although my high ideal of the conversation and elevation of that sect began to give way to a reality somewhat low I enjoyed myself. There is a fascination in a gay pageant, whether you find meaning in it or not. ;. One profound discovery I had made,

which was this: If you would succeed in society, you must at least pretend to be a fool!

There was Mrs. Morris Borrowe, whom I had got to know, and who frequently took me to drive. She was charmingly natural, bright and even witty when we were alone, having a remarkable insight into character, but when we returned to the circle of our hotel she became almost vapid; a well bred languor overspread her features. She said nothing but commonplaces; no emotion betrayed itself on her trained features. O shadow of Maintenon, of Pompaflxrar, of Espinasse, of Recamier, was this your idea of being charming? We wear your dresses; wo copy your graces. Why cannot wo follow your sprightly footsteps still further and dare to be witty and wise as you were at 3 T our dear little suppers? Is it because ther*- arr fools in high places and we must follow the fashion as we do of an ugly collar because a duchess has a king's evil and be fools if we can—if not, play that we are? One of the wits of Newport was Mr. Semple. Ho was very well born and bred, and it was considered proper to laugh at his jokes. He, as it seemed, had taken out a license to be funny. All other wit was contraband. He might be laughed at. "Mrs. Clifton," he drawled one evening, "do you know that today I have made an atrocious pun? I said that the names of the houses should be split, and ours should"be called the 'Fill-rnelle,' and that the 'Vue-More,' from the names Fillmore and Bellevue. We are filled with belles, and they could view more without hurting them!" A silvery laugh echoed through the rooms. We all dared to be amused, and this gigantic achievement of wit passed into one of the legends of Newport intellectuality. One of the ladies of Newport had, as I had always supposed, a very enviable reputation for her wit, learning and cleverness, but I found this was a positive disadvantage to her, for on asking Mr. Semple about her he seemed rather disgusted and answered me: "Very good house, nice position, rich, too chatty; oh, decidedly too chatty!" The "second week of our stay still found Rose the reigning belle of the house. Neither Miss Chase, who sang, yor Miss Brown, who played, nor Miss

Robinson, whose mamma maneuvered, had anything to compare with Rose in point of success. And then came the unmaskingl I went to dress one day for dinner quite late and had not time to read a dirty note which I found on my table, and which I supposed was some begging letter, and seeing it lie there still unread as I was going to take my afternoon drive with Mrs. Borrowe I put it hastily in my pocket to read on the way. The afternoon was beautiful, and as Mrs. Borrowe looked out on the sea she quoted Horace Smith's fine lines:

To that cathedral, boundless as our wonder, Whose shining lamps the sun and moon supply; Its choir, the winds and waves; its organ, thunder: Its dome, the sky. The choir of "winds and waves" was chanting its majestic anthem. Nature was grand, calm and beneficent. I could not help asking Mrs. Borrowe if she did not sometimes find society tedious and unsatisfactory. "Yes, but it has attractions. I know I am born for something better, but 1 love it; 1 cannot escape from it; I believe we should all live with each other, and if the mass is stupid let us do our individual mite to make it brighter."

"But do we? Do we all take a lower tone when we mingle with soeiet}-? Would } T ou now, dear Mrs. Borrowe, have dared to quote that splendid simile which you have just spoken so appropriately if you "had been in the parlor at the hotel?" "No, because as Cecil says (that worldly wise Cecil!), 'We must, to succeed in society, consent to lose our individuality and float along with the mass, distinguished only for our extreme resemblance to all the rest.' And we must all remember that hate, envy, detraction, are always lying in wait for the successful person, and if I am so unfortunate as to command any excessive admiration I suffer for it. The most successful persons I know in society are women who have neither beauty nor wit, who dress well, and while they alarm and wound no one's vanity are still sought for their position, tact and 'knowledge of the word,' which means neve» showing any other kind of knowledge." At this moment I remembered my letter and drew it from my pocket.

* It was a badly spelled, badly written letter, saying that the writer felt bound to tell me that he had seen Mr. Sutherland kissing my handsome sister, Miss Rose, in the dusk of the evening before as they were walking on the piazza, and that he (the writer) had some other facts to communicate, which he would do for $5, if I would write him a note and leave it on the table, when I went to dinner, in my own parlor. I supposed it was some waiter who wished to get money from me and showed it to Mrs. Borrowe. She looked it over attentively. "This is from no waiter. It is a lady's hand disguised. It is done to create a talk. The person who wrote it imagines that you will be frightened and will mention it to the landlord or some person about the house; you will complain of your parlor being entered by some waiter or servant, and the story will leak out, and having thus a real foundation for half the story a number of false ones will be erected on that. It is simply a plot, dictated by hate, to injure Rose." "Impossible! What has Rose done to anybody?" "Nothing intentionally, but everything unintentionally. She has been handsome, admired. Nothing could be so great a crime. For such crimes women have been poisoned; ton such a crime this letter has been written." We drove several miles in silence. Mrs. Borrowe at length broke it: "I wish you would do what I suggest about this letter." "Well?" "Write an answer and leave it on your table, saying you wish to know more.' 1

"But you assure mo that is what the writer wants?" "Yes, but I propose to foil the perpe-"" trator with her own tools. I think I see a well known hand in this."

After some conversation on this point I consented to follow Mrs. Borrowe'sadvice.

When we reached home, it was quite dusk, and I went to find Rose. She had been driving with Mrs. Gibson, whom I met in the hall and who said she had been home an hour.

Rose was not in my own room or hers, and Ma tilde, my maid, said she had come in very hurriedly, taken a shawl and gone out again. _

I waited ;:» hour vs. ry uneasily. Then I went out to see Mrs. G-ib.-.on again. She knew nothing of her: said she walked of: talking with Sutherland and some young ladies after the drive. At this moment one of the young ladies came in and said she had returned with Rose and Sutherland just before 1 drove up and thought Hose must be in her own room dressing for the hop. I went again. There was the dress she was to wear, but no Rose. I was getting more and more alarmed. I went to Mrs. Borrowe. She was frightened too. She asked me if I had perfect confidence in Rose, that she could not be deceiving me. "Perfect, perfect." "Then this is a plot to annoy you like all the rest. Now be calm; you must dress and go to the hop tonight. Tell everybody that Rose did not come because she had a headache. Be perfectly cool about it, and I will look for Rose. She is safe, depend upon it, but if you wish to save her and yourself a terrible scandal do not show that you are anxious about her." There was something so perfectly convincing in Mrs. Borrowe's manner that I submitted. Matilde exclaimed at my pale cheeks and haggard expression. "If madame would but color a leetle. She has the distinction, the air, the everything, but she has not the complexion. Would madame be brilliant tor the ball and permit me to color with discretion?" "Do what you like, Matilde."

So Matilde produced from her own magazines bottles and boxes and proceeded to make me up. A drawing sensation, of the skin convinced me that a color "charming, natural," like that which bloomed perpetually on the cheek of Matilde, was blushing on my own. My eyebrows, my hair, were also touched with various brushes and other instruments. After receiving the treatment which is generally bestowed on the "portrait of a lady," instead of the lady herself, I was pronounced finished and looked at myself. I hardly knew the enameled visago which presented itself. This, then, was one sort of "mask" which I had not remembered. It was easier than I thought to hide the anxiety which gnawed at my heart. I could better appear unconcerned behind this face. "Come," said Mr. Borrowe, knocking at my door; "here is Warden Wood waiting to escort you. Bless me, how well you look! lam on the track," she whispered; "be composedl There is nothing wrong." Mr. Warden Wood was too well bred to notice my abstractions, if indeed I showed any, and I cannot remember much of this evening, except that he and others complimented me much on my appearance, and that in the many inquiries for Rose I thought Mrs. Paston and Mrs. Smithson looked more interested than the occasion required, and both asked where was Mr. Sutherland.

Some unexpected inspiration enabled

me to say, with an indifferent tone, "Oh, I suppose he does care to come if my sister is not here." I was so excited and distressed that the effort to play so unnatural a part was rapidly depriving me of all my strength, when I saw Mrs. Borrowe enter with Sutherland. I had always detested this man, but at this moment he looked perfectly beautiful to me. He came up with Mrs. Borrowe, and after paying me some compliments asked for my fair sister. I made some inane answer, and a subtle attraction drew my eyes toward Mrs. Paston. Her face was distorted with rage, but became smiling immediately. As Sutherland passed her she gave him a look from which he quailed, and 1 have since observed that all the evil which the world had previously said of Sutherland was praise compared with what Mrs. Paston afterward treated him to. "I have not found Rose," whispered Mrs. Borrowe, "but I found Sutherland, which was next best, and I made him come here with me, although he didn't want to. But he came because he wants me to invite him to my supper party next week, and if matters are as I suspect he has been used by some ladies here to affix suspicion on Rose, and being seen here himself is so much in her favor. How well you look! What a color! Why, anxiety becomes you!" "Oh, dear woman! I am all painted up, and I am dying of anxiety about Rose. Do let me go. I shall drop down if you do not." So Mrs. Borrowe, serene and smiling,

piloted me to the door. We left Sutherland dancing madly, and with head almost bursting with pain I reached my ow_n_ room. r

There on the table was a note written in pencil to this effect:

Deak Lauha—Jcurinio Millwood is quite ill find wants mo to conic over and spend the night fcith her. I don't care for the hop. Yours affectionately, Rosk.

I had suffered enough during these few hours to give ine the right to faint away, which I did immediately, and on coming to sent for Mrs. Borrowe, who shared in my relief as she had in my anxiety. "Now, be quiet, dear Mrs. Clifton, and tomorrow we will get at the bottom of this mystery. This note Rose evidently left where j'ou could see it, and it was taken away by the same hand which was employed to bring you the anonymous communication. Tomorrow you will write an answer to that and leave it on your table when you go to dinner; depend there is a plot to be unraveled."

I waited impatiently for the morning to dawn, and as soon as the house was opened I put on my bonnet and went over to the other hotel, where I soon found Jeanuic Millwood's sickroom. There on a sofa lay sister Rose, quietly sleeping. The invalid was awake and told me that as Rose had read to her nearly all night she had asked her to lie down and get a little sleep.

I went across the room and kissed the cheek flushed with unaccustomed vigils. I determined, as 1 looked on the innocent face and thought of all her sweet and lovely qualities, that my Rose should henceforth open in some purer and better atmosphere than that of a watering place.

I followed Mrs. Borrowe's advice and wrote a few words, and leaving the note on my table went to dinner as usual. The scene which followed may best be described in theatrical parlance. The company being well seated at dinner, a woman stealthily creeps across the deserted passageway and enters my parlor, looks cautiously around and is on the point of seizing the note when the door to the lef£, leading to the bedroom, opens, and exit Mrs. Borrowe, Mrs. Graham, Lewis and one or two more, who surround the frightened woman, who proves to be Mrs. Paston's maid, and who, on the occasion of this unexpected detection, falls on her knees, implores pardon, says that her mistress has sent her, etc. The noise and confusion of this scene reached the dining room, and several ladles left the table. Mrs. Paston and Mrs. Smithson remained with perfect sang froid in their seats. The only sufferer was the poor waiting maid, who was discharged as being too fond of falsehood and intrigue, and if Sutherland had not turned state's evidence and confessed that these two lovely queens of fashion had requested him to stay out of sight on the night of the hop, promising him in return that he should see Rose in the parlor of one of them, we should never have known how much was mistress and how much was maid.

Mr. Gibson and I held a final meeting on the subject of Newport in my parlor just before we came away.

Mrs. Paston was announced. I sent back her card. "Why do you, my dear friend? Why, you will make an enemy for life of the woman," screamed the frightened Gibson. "Is that left to be done? Is she not as much my enemy now as she ever could be?" "But not openly. Do remember her position and ignore the facts. Charge it all to servants —servants who are always bad. It is. better to believe that the waiting maid lied than to lose Mrs. Paston." "But I know" "I know you do. But here is a perfect opportunity to pretend that you don't know." "But why pretend?" "Because that is society. If we do not pretend, we could not support the present structure of society. The truth is a very harsh and awkward thing and should not be spoken at all times. That is a charming idea doubtless in poetry and romance, but it doesn't do at Newport." The "Masquerade of Hate!" The romance of society was gone. It was truly a masquerade—brilliant, charming to the senses, but horribly false, fatally untrue. The guests could not be unmasked. Should the veil be pulled aside, more horrible would be the revelation than that of the "Dance of Death!" Yet was not all barren. 1 fca4 f osmd

Mrs. Borrowe in it and not of it. Her friendship was worth the wholp, and Rose—Rose found Mr. Tracy, and perhaps the loneliness of my house now (for my Rose has been transplanted) may have affected my spirits so powerfully that I have given a harsher coloring to the picture than I should have done were she still here to cheer mo and to show me by the perfect happiness of her marriage that some good thing can come out of society. But I wait impatiently for. some "sardonic wit" to attempt the "Masquerade of Hate" and recommended it to the attention of Warden Wood, who may favor the world with it. THE END.