"Next Monday evening at ten o'clock," cried Ellen; and with these words she tripped lightly down the hill in the direction of the mansion.
The old hag then took her departure by the path on the opposite side; and, as she went along, she chuckled at the success of her intrigue.
CHAPTER CXLIX.
THE MASQUERADE.
The evening of the masquerade arrived.
It is not our intention to enter into a long description of a scene the nature of which must be so well known to our readers.
Suffice it to say that at an early hour Old Drury was, within, a blaze of light. The pit had been boarded over so as to form a floor level with the stage, at the extremity of which the orchestra was placed. The spacious arena thus opened, soon wore a busy and interesting appearance, when the masques began to arrive; and the boxes were speedily filled with ladies and gentlemen who, wearing no fancy costumes, had thronged thither for the purpose of beholding, but not commingling with, the diversions of the masquerade.
To contemplate that blaze of female loveliness which adorned the boxes, one would imagine that all the most charming women of the metropolis had assembled there by common consent that night; and the traveller, who had visited foreign climes, must have been constrained to admit that no other city in the universe could produce such a brilliant congress.
For the fastidious elegancies of fashion, sprightliness of manners, sparkling discourse, and all the refinements of a consummate civilization, which are splendid substitutes for mere animal beauty, the ladies of Paris are unequalled;—but for female loveliness in all its glowing perfection—in all its most voluptuous expansion, London is the sovereign city that knows in this respect no rival.
In sooth, the scene was ravishing and gorgeous within Old Drury on the night of which we are writing.
The spacious floor was crowded with masques in the most varied and fanciful garbs.