We digress—Miles was an ass in the dowagers' eyes—one of their host's mould; so they glanced him over, and,sotto voce, continued their perforations in somebody's character.
Lady Dora started, and coloured—then her fingers still strolled over the keys like a breeze among flowers, calling forth sweet odours—or a child in a garden, culling a single leaf of different buds, and scattering them carelessly about; for she only played a strain here and there, nothing through.
"I hope Lady Dora is well?" asked Miles, gently, as he stood beside her.
"Quite so, I thank you," she coldly replied, bowing over her hands, which did not cease.
Though Miles had keenly felt, without expressing it to Minnie, her cousin's neglect, still he forbore speaking of it to her, lest it might aggravate her pain, he was so watchful over this darling wife of his; still he fancied some engagement, fashionable indolence, or absence from home, occasioned it; any thing but the truth—wilful slight. He was therefore not prepared for her reception of him; he stood a moment silent, looking down on the flying fingers, and many thoughts creeping over his mind, scarcely leaving a trace, but faintly shadowing an idea, that this girl had loved him, her change of manner was so extraordinary since their parting in Italy. "I was not aware," he said at last, in commonplace phraseology, "that I should have the pleasure of meeting with your ladyship here." He was working with homely tools to get at a great truth—this girl's sentiments—they puzzled him; had she replied in a natural manner, he would have sought no farther, convinced that his impression had been erroneous. As it was, she answered with stern pride—
"It must be a matter of perfect indifference to Mr. Tremenhere;" and, ceasing her playing, she took her gloves, fan, and handkerchief from the piano, and without condescending to award him one look, walked majestically to the other end of the large room, and, seating herself on an ottoman by the fire, commenced conversing with the dowagers. Miles leaned an instant against the piano. A smile, half of contempt, and half triumph, played over his proud lip. Servants entered at that instant with lights. Quietly seating himself on the music-stool, he took up a book from a side table, and turned its leaves; but his thoughts flew off from pride and vexation to Minnie, his own quiet little cottage fireside, and that fairy wife, singing like a joyous bird, to soothe his weary spirit, when worn by a day's harassing. "Minnie—my own Minnie!" he whispered to his heart, and the dark flashing eyes of the previous moment, melted with the loving thoughts of her presence, and he forgot Lady Dora, all, save herself.
With the lights a few stragglers came dropping in,—one of the first was Lady Lysson. This lady had much more of the foreigner than Englishwoman, in both mind and manner, having lived many years abroad, where in fact she had known Tremenhere, and was an ardent admirer of his genius. She had a hasty, but most graceful manner; youthfulness of movement, not at all unbecoming, though no longer young; at every step, every gesture, you involuntarily said to yourself, "What a very charming girl she must have been!" though really charming still, even at forty-five. Not the least attraction was a sweet, half-lisping, slightly foreign accent, perfectly natural; you felt that if she talked in her sleep, or walked, or laughed, she would do all just as in her waking moments. She now flitted into the room, and, spying a desolate-looking being on the music-stool, tripped towards it, and, half dazzled by the lights, shading her eyes with her hand, cried, "Who are you? what unfortunate Robinson Crusoe have we on this isle? what, Mr. Tremenhere! this is indeed an agreeable surprise; since when are you our guest?"
"Since the last three hours, Lady Lysson," he replied cordially taking the proffered hand, and the heart was in the clasp, to thank the Samaritan who had not passed him by. Lady Dora coloured unseen, but it was shame; her own soul blushed for the weakness of its mould of clay, as she witnessed the generosity of another, and yet it was not all pride which dictated her conduct—an unknown, unacknowledged feeling prompted it.
"And you are going to remain with us a week—I mean, all the timemyreign lasts here?" asked Lady Lysson, gliding to a sofa beside his stool. "There, sit down, Mr. Tremenhere, and let us have a little pleasant vision of bygone days in sweet Florence—and how goes on your painting? Are you very successful in town? You deserve to be so; and—and—by the way, some old friends of your's are staying here—have you seen them? Lady Ripley and her daughter. Is not that Lady Dora by the fire? Lady Dora, my dear," and she gracefully waved her little hand—raising her voice at the same time, "come here; here's an old friend of yours, whom you will be delighted to meet again. For shame—for shame!" she added, tapping his arm with her fan, "to bring our horrible English coldness into my nephew's house. I, who am trying to banish it for ever from our else unparalleled homes, and make all cordial in meeting—regretful in parting—and not afraid to express these feelings, as in the sweet South; and here I find one of my petprotégéscrumbling my efforts to dust, and sitting cold and English on his stool of formality, at the extreme end of my own court, and kind friends in the distance—for shame! Dear Lady Dora, help me to scold this refractory subject."
Lady Dora was compelled to obey the summons; to do otherwise, would be to betray herself. She rose; but the proud lip was compressed—the nostril dilated with annoyance. "I have spoken to Mr. Tremenhere," she said, in as indifferent a tone as she could command, and she seated herself on the sofa beside Lady Lysson. Tremenhere bowed—he could scarcely conceal a smile of satisfaction. Every triumph to himself, was one to his little wife—his ever present magnet. "I have had the pleasure of standing beside Lady Dora Vaughan's music-stool while she drew forth some of the sweet strains she so well commands at will," he said. Lady Dora fixed her haughty eyes upon him undauntedly, to read the epigram, if one were intended—but he looked upon her with a cordial, friendly smile. "He is no fool," she thought—"is he impervious to every attack? Ihatethis man," she could not think even; "I despise him."
"Then, you wretches!" continued Lady Lysson, "why did you not take some of the weight of a hostess' burthen off my shoulders, and enliven the dreadful half-hour before dinner with some music? Mr. Tremenhere, I command you to take me back to sweet Florence on one of those melodies none can sing like yourself."
There was an irresistible charm of nature about Lady Lysson, before which art, constraint, and mere worldly formality, fled abashed, and nature came forth from every breast around her, to play with its fellow. Tremenhere threw off the cold, stern teaching of the world, and laughed and talked again, the happy Miles of his father's home. Even Lady Dora unbent, and condescended to ask him for one of the Tuscan airs he sang so well. Unhesitatingly he turned round the stool on which he sat, without rising, and running his hand over the keys, as one with old familiar friends, he commenced, not with stentorian lungs, but in tones scarcely to reach the fireside, so subdued they were, and yet certainly to touch the heart of all who could hear them. He had nearly concluded the second verse, when one of the ladies at the fire called Lady Lysson, to decide some disputed point of genealogical origin. "One instant—pray, don't cease!" she cried, rising to obey the summons. Lady Dora would have given worlds to accompany her, but it could not, with common politeness, have been accomplished; so she opened her fan, and, with eyes fixed on the group at the fire, sat perfectly indifferent, in seeming, to Miles and hisariette. The instant Lady Lysson rose, he, without even a pause, ran his fingers over the ivory, changed the key and air, having ceased singing in the middle of his verse; and, in a still lower tone, as if breathing to himself, but perfectly distinctly, commenced the hackneyed song of "My love and cottage near Rochelle." It was so pointedly done, sointernallysung, (if we may so express it,) that she could not but feel to whom he addressed it, and her fair, neglected cousin Minnie stood, in her mind's eye, on the shore, watching the receding vessel.
"Mr. Tremenhere has a versatile taste," she said involuntarily.
"Pardon me!" he replied, starting as if from a dream, and dropping his hands from the instrument. "I was not aware Lady Dora was listening. 'Tis an old English song, speaking of home. We citizens of the world should forget such places, especially in society. The heart, however, turns there in thought, sometimes."
He fixed his eyes on her, with the stern look of one judging her severely. She dropped her's carelessly on the figures of her fan. He rose, and moved a step towards the other group. A sudden impulse impelled her to exclaim hastily, "Mr. Tremenhere!" He stopped, and coldly turned towards her—"Can I oblige your ladyship in any thing?"
"Mr. Tremenhere," she continued hastily, beneath her breath, while her bosom swelled with her self-imposed task; "pray, be seated an instant, I have a word to say to you."
He bowed, and placing himself on the music-stool, awaited her next words in cold silence. She leaned towards him; then glancing at the others present, whose number was momentarily increasing, she whispered, moving to give him place beside her, and pointing to it with her fan, "I wish to speak confidentially to you."
"Of yourself?" he asked, surprised, seating himself where she pointed.
"No," she replied, drawing herself up in offended pride; "I should not presume to trouble you with my personal affairs, Mr. Tremenhere."
"You cannot wonder," he rejoined, "at my feeling the utmost surprise howminecan in any way interest your ladyship."
"I would speak of my cousin," she faltered.
"Oh!" and he smiled; "true—ofmy wife; it will scarcely astonish you if I say, I had totally forgotten the relationship for the moment."
"Let there be a truce of sarcasms," she said, hurriedly. "You judge me harshly, I make no doubt; but there are many things which make this union a most unfortunate, much to be regretted one."
"Pardon me, Lady Dora Vaughan, not to those most interested. I can boldly assertmyhappiness is a realized dream of paradise: my only sorrow, is in absence from the home Minnie makes such to me; and I think I may venture to declare, that no sigh of regret ever quivers on her lip. Those she justly prized have not forgotten her—Aunt Dorcas, for one."
"Yes, I am aware," she interrupted, with some confusion, "she has visited you. Come Mr. Tremenhere," and she looked up less coldly in his face, "make some allowances for my position; I am not quite my own mistress. I——"
"Lady Dora, my father was an old-fashioned man, and he had quaint notions, you will say; he taught me that it was ungentlemanly not to reply to a polite letter in all cases, and ungenerous in many."
"I see," she said, haughtily, "I have a prejudiced judge. I will only pursue this conversation sufficiently to ask a personal favour."
"Name it. You shall, if possible, be obeyed."
"'Tis—'tis;—in fact, no one here, except my mother, is aware of your marriage. May I ask you to preserve it a secret?"
He read her thought, and was resolved to bend her false pride to bare itself before him. "I cannot see," he said, "in what my celibacy interests any one here. There is no lady in love with me, or sighing for leap-year to declare herself!" he laughed carelessly.
"Mr. Tremenhere," she cried, "my meaning is this: I—my mother, too, is most anxious that your union with Miss Dalzell should not be published. These painful familysecretsare best preserved ever thus." The blood-red spot of pride mantled on her cheek, and flashed from her eye. He was speechless a moment; but what various passions passed over that face then, all settled in one—utter contempt. These two persons were the offspring of pride; but his proud spirit was the legitimate creation of a noble mind, unjustly spurned and contemned; hers, that foul-named thing whose father disowns it, whose mother blushes in shame as she looks upon it. Tremenhere rose in all his soul's dignity, and stood before her; her glance could not cross his—it shrunk, the unreal before the real.
"Lady Dora," he said, in his deep emphatic voice, "I have yet to learn in how much I, thelegitimateson of Tremenhere of the manor, am beneath Miss Dalzell of Gatestone, or those whom she calls kindred. True, she is now but an artist's wife; but that artist will make his name one to be respected by all;—he is working for a great end and purpose. Rely upon it, till that purpose be accomplished, his wife, the solace of all his best, happiest hours, will only keep her smiles to cheer his home, and support him in many trials; she will not, either from choice or necessity, lavish them on a cold, heartless society.There, his path of toil and bitterness, full often, shall be alone. As a flawless gem Minnie is to me; she needs no costly setting to prove her worth. It is not in a world like yours—like mine—she shall be named, to have one breath of slander dim her brightness now; but as surely as you and I stand face to face this day, so surely shall the day of her triumph come, and emanating from behind the cloud which now makes me so deep a shadow over your path." His face worked with the energy of his soul's anguish, at the thought even of his pure Minnie being dragged forth a target for the world's scorn, and for his sake, who would gladly shed his life's blood to save her one pang. He felt choking at the thought.
"So," he continued, with bitter irony, "you would have me as a tame lion in a cage, to caress through the bars in all security; but the moment it should dare dream of liberty, and, bursting its bonds, stand among you free, for every arm to be raised against it—every hand to hold a weapon to drive it back to slavery! I, Lady Dora, will be none such. I am proud as yourself—proud of my name,even as it is; and I will yet make it sound, with Fame's trumpet to herald it, unless the powers of hell combine against me, andthenI will show Minnie to the world—not before!"
"Pardon me," she cried, looking very pale—her better genius had triumphed; "pray, pardon me, Mr. Tremenhere; I did not mean to pain you—I——" she was almost in tears.
"Lady Dora," he sternly said, "you and I understand each other. You have a noble heart; let not the blighting world profane it with its heartless wisdom.Yourpride is the upas poison, withering all it touches:mineis spirit's right, riding on the winds which shall blast my enemies, and uproot them like trees in a whirlwind,—'tis the pride of love, too, which forbids my breathing the name of my beloved Minnie any where, until I can proclaim her with a voice no one can still, as Tremenhere's wife should be proclaimed! Rest satisfied," he contemptuously added; "your pride will not be shaken from its pedestal by the artist's wife!" He turned coldly away.
"Mr. Tremenhere—Miles Tremenhere!" she whispered anxiously, half rising; but he passed forward without hesitating, and joined the group at the fire.
"I saw you here discussing something with Lady Dora," cried the fair hostess; "was it music, painting, or—not love, I hope? 'Tis a subject best left unargued upon; it always reminds me of a game called 'cat's cradle,' which I played when a child with a cousin of my own, and through the loops of which, the fingers passed (for fingers, read arguments and reasonings, Mr. Tremenhere,) until at last he was certain to produce so incomprehensible a weaving of cord, that I could never unloose it, and I was fain to sit down conquered. Don't play at 'cat's cradle' with Lady Dora."
"Your ladyship need be under no apprehension for the result, were I to attempt it. Lady Dora's cleverness would undo any skein of mine."
"I don't know that. Lady Dora, my dear; where is she? She has left the room.——"
'Twas true; but she returned shortly with her mother, who received Miles with perfect good breeding as a mere acquaintance, which position he accepted, nor desired more.
This same evening two persons sat after dinner sipping their wine, in a hotel at the West End: these were Marmaduke Burton and Dalby. We must here introduce the latter as a totally different man to what we have seen him in Yorkshire; he was one of those who possess a serpent facility of slipping their skin, only thatheperformed the operation more than annually, and at will. He had crept into good society in town; there, where an honest, upright lawyer could not have met the views of his clients. Perhaps we are saying too much for some cases, for there were many men of the highest principle who employed Dalby; he was a very useful man, and being anxious to quit the country shortly, and practise in town, he lost no opportunity of increasing his connection. Here he was a perfectly different being; much of the formality of manner, necessary in the country, where levity might not have suited the homelier ideas of those seeking his aid, was thrown aside completely. He knew all the lessees, managers, English and foreign, of all the theatres, all the artists' studios, the actresses, models—all were familiar to him. Did Mr. —— want some fair one hastily summoned from Paris, to appear unexpectedly on the boards of his theatre, and take the town by surprise, Dalby was off, with just a carpet-bag, to France, and before any one imagined it possible, he had returned with the fair one, as in nine cases out of ten he succeeded. There was a bustling manner about him, yet not disagreeable when he pleased, which carried much before him. He took things for granted, and often left no room for a person to say "No." Had he entreated, it might have been otherwise; but he said—"Oh! you must do it, you know, my dear—it will be the making of you;" and thus many a good engagement was relinquished for an indifferent one, by some inexperienced, and often established actress, because it suited Dalby's policy to oblige his employer. He cared for no one but himself. Then he had a habit of loitering near the doors of theatres, and many a lady, distressed by the non-appearance of her carriage, was politely addressed by Dalby. More than once he had unceremoniously, in such a case, appropriated a bachelor friend's brougham, and, offering it as his own, received ten thousand thanks from some fussy dowager on a wet evening, and a cordial invitation to her house. A half-crown to the groom, and a—"If asked whose brougham it is, say Mr. Dalby's," made him perfectly tranquil; to the real owner he would say, (be it remembered, he always took care to select some man of Lord Randolph's mould—a quiet, easygoing person—for his instrument to be played upon,) "My dear fellow, a very particular client of mine, rich as Crœsus, missed her carriage, I have lent yours for ten minutes—you don't mind?"
"Oh! not in the least; let's stand here, and watch the girls get into the carriages. By Jove! there's a pretty one, who can she be? Is it Lady This? or Miss That?" etc., etc., etc.
We give the reader a skeleton sketch of most conversations of the kind, just to show how Dalby had got on so well; and, by means such as these, he was factotum to half the needy of those kind of slaves in town, so no wonder he resolved to relinquish quiet country practice.
"Don't I tell you," said Burton, continuing a conversation, "that I had no idea the fellow was coming. Gray made his acquaintance in Florence, but I never imagined it would be continued in town; the fellow is making his way every where—curse him!" and he ground his teeth bitterly.
"We'll clip his wings," answered Dalby; "but it must be done through her—she is his guiding star in all. If he lost her—well; he would soon disappear from our path."
"I hate that man, Dalby, yet I would not seriously injure him; but why he, an artist, cannot return to Italy, seems astonishing to me—'tis his proper field."
"There are too many there; moreover, he has some scheme in hand I cannot fathom. I discovered Mary Burns. She is residing in a very humble cottage near Kentish Town; part of the house she lets furnished, and ekes out an existence for herself and blind mother, by morning lessons as governess.Hehas established her thus."
"And does—does"—he couldn't say Mrs. Tremenhere. "Does his wife ever call there?"
"I think so. I looked in at an hour when Mary was absent, having ascertained when this was the case. I called as a stranger about lessons for my daughter, and saw the old mother; but she is deaf, blind, and half childish. She gave me little information. All she said was, 'Kind friends—old friends, very kind; so Mary says.' I rely more on what I elicited, guardedly, from the servant. I think more may be done there. The girl has a downcast look and a fixed smile, which betoken one to be perhaps bought. Some of these blind fools to their interest, are faithful to their employers—what business has the hireling to look to any thing but money?"
"True—but don't trust her too soon."
"No, nor by myself. I will set another to work, who knows only what I tell him—one of the red waistcoat messengers. Tell him a woman's in the case, and he will be alert and faithful. This girl said, a sweet fair lady and tall gentleman called sometimes—these must bethe manand his wife."
"Well, I leave it in your hands. Fancy my being obliged to leave Uplands! Fortunately, Gray, who is the most harum-scarum host in the world, let the name escape only the day he was expected. Of course, I could not stay and meet him; I told him we had had some discussion, and that the contact would be unpleasant to both. The fellow hasnouseenough to keep a still tongue. No one seems acquainted with former facts; he is only known as a rising artist, of good family, they think;—well, so he is on one side. I hinted no relationship, and begged Gray to insinuatefrom himself, to the dozen assembled there, that we had been on unfriendly terms, and thus prevent my name being mentioned."
"Oh! that was best; it may be as well he should hear little of you, if he could be persuaded somehow to take her there. Lady Dora might arrange that, if she so pleased——"
"My dear fellow, the oddest thing is, no one knows he is married! Lady Ripley drew me aside, and asked as a personal favour, that I would say nothing about the scandalous marriage of her niece—this before his coming was known; how they got on, all of them, I know not."
"Whew!" ejaculated Dalby, as if a thought struck him; "a bachelor, eh! Then what do they supposeherto be?"
"Her existence is unknown to his mere acquaintances, for I sifted Gray; he is like a sieve of wheat. I got all the corn, and threw the dust in his own eyes. My amount of information is this—This Miles is a capital fellow, not caring for any woman, else he were dangerous let loose amongst them; so deucedly good-looking, even Lady Dora might notice that; up to any thing—the best shot, horseman—all; so he's always welcome at Uplands—every fellow likes him."
"That is," said Burton, "as every manlikesthe best shot, etc., who cuts him out in all ways. So with these qualities, and the friends they create for a man, get to work, Dalby, and let's hunt this impostor out of the country."
"We'll see," said the other, rubbing his hands. "I have an idea—crude, 'tis true; give me time. As your professional friend, I deem myself called upon to meet your natural wishes, and get rid of a nuisance. Poor fellow! we will award him Italy; why couldn't he go there?" and he laughed contemptuously.
These were the creatures Sylvia and Juvenal had selected for their niece! Poor Minnie! no wonder she ran away. Reader, did you ever feel a desire to be an atrocious villain for five minutes? To have all the sentiments, ideas, schemes, and infamies, engendered in the minds of such? Think how many thousand thoughts they have to which we are total strangers! What a peep into another world it would be—a world of novelties! Every spectre fancy, a mental Ethiop!
We must not make Dalby so black as Burton; the one looked upon the matter thus:—"Burton is my client; in my heart I believe Tremenhere legitimate; but we have no proof—'tis not for me to seek for it. In my client's interest I must try and get this fellow out of the country quietly; it can best be done by means of his wife—make him jealous, and he will carry her off to the antipodes. How may this be accomplished? I must devise some plan;" but in thus coldly calculating, he never once considered, that in raising a cause of jealousy in a man's mind, you destroy his happiness—you brush the bloom from the peach, and it quickly fades. A jealous man desecrates every thing by his suspicions; turning the mysterious and beautiful vapour around her he loves, to mist and gloom. Is she sad?—she is regretting some one; gay?—some secret cause for joy exists; thoughtful?—'tis of another. He feels, in short, like a man tied to a galvanized corpse; the form is there—the spirit fled.
Burton's motives were different to the others. He had a darker aim in view; he had to be revenged on both—how? he cared little, so he accomplished it. He well knew that Miles had suffered deepest wrong at his hands, but who had the proof? not himself even. He had destroyed every trace which might lead to it; he had been resolved not to seek it, thus to be enabled to say to his accusing spirit, "'Tis false, I do notknowit." How many like Burton trample awhile on conscience!
We have shown the position of Mary Burns. When Minnie had been a short time in town, she implored Miles to let her visit this poor girl; his natural goodness of heart had been a little warped by the world. He had become stern from the galling chain it threw around him, in the fault it accused his mother of; he judged woman harshly;—this, even now, made him frequently wish that Minnie had become his otherwise than by an elopement. At first, he peremptorily refused to permit her to go there. Minnie, in her soul's purity, looked amazed. "Why not?" she asked.
"Why?—why? oh, because it is not a fitting place for you to go to," was the reply.
"Why not, dear Miles?"
"Minnie, though you acted like an angel in visiting this poor girl in the country, and supporting her in her sorrow, by leading her aright; yet you must not forget that she has turned from the straight road—though you may pity, you must not associate with her."
She looked down silently some moments, then raising her full eyes to his face said, laying one fair hand on his shoulder, "Miles, dear, don't you believe Mary Burns to be a truly penitent woman?"
"Most truly and sincerely so."
"My dearest husband does not need me to recall to his mind our highest example of pardoning in a like case, I am sure? Do not be worldly and severe, my own love; think well, and from your own good heart, where would unhappy woman be if every door and heart closed against her?"
"My Minnie, my child, you are an angel!" he cried, clasping her to his bosom. "What should I be without you?—a cold, worldly wretch like those I associate with. I feared, darling, lest the censorious, ever hearing of it, should class your imprudence in flying with me with her deeper error. Forgive me, dearest, we will go and visit poor Mary; it will cheer her."
Our readers will see how the remembrance of his wife's fault ever haunted him; 'tis true, even in his fondest moments it would steal like a spectre across his mind. His adoration of her made this regret the more intense, and weakened the entire confidence he otherwise would have felt in her prudence—a thought beyond, never entered his imagination: but, strange though it be, such is man, naturally alittleself-conceited, and yet with all that, he cannot conceive that a woman may do for one from affection, what not all the world beside might win her to do for another! No, they cannot make this distinction; and thus Miles fancied Minnie too gentle, too little self-confident, to be perfectly relied upon, as he would have done on such a one as Lady Dora, or Minnie herself, had she suffered all sooner than have fled with him.
He was scarcely just; but this feeling was involuntary on his part, and, though happily unknown to her, was the thorn which rankled in his flesh. Together they visited Mary's neat little cottage, where a quiet, peaceful hope seemed to dwell; a faint blush rose to her pale cheek as they entered. She had been then living some few months respected by all, her fault unknown, and the meeting with Miles and his wife seemed like a momentary re-union with her error, and she blushed with shame and disgust towards herself. She had not forgotten her fault, nor the repentance due to it, but she had learned self-respect, and their presence for an instant degraded her again; but all was softened to peace in the kindness of both, and the deep interest evinced in her prosperity.
The first painful feeling passed, the interview was one of pleasure to all. Minnie had, even as a girl herself, upheld this sinking one; Miles had rescued her from shame, and placed her in comfort; and, as the girl looked from one to the other, her eyes swam in grateful tears. A lady and gentleman had been residing with her, and would return again shortly, meanwhile she hoped to let her rooms to others; then she had several pupils she visited at their own homes, and her poor dear mother had now every comfort. These words she could scarcely utter for her swelling tears of gratitude. With light hearts Tremenhere and Minnie quitted, promising to return soon. As they turned away he grasped his little wife's hand and said, "Thank you, dearest, for the happiness of to-day; when can I ever pay you my debt for all, my Minnie?"
This chapter of digression was necessary, to show our readers the exact position of all our various personages. We will now return to Miles at Uplands; only, however, to state, that after another day passed there, in necessary arrangements with the lordly master, he returned to town, to the great dissatisfaction of this latter and Lady Lysson, with whom he was a great favourite; but, beyond necessity, he never now associated with those where Minnie was a stranger. He avoided the slightest collision with Lady Dora, whose pride once more rose in the ascendant, as she beheld his evident avoidance of her. He was strictly polite; but no mortal could, from the manner of either, have imagined that they hadnearlyloved once, or that still Lady Dora remembered that feeling, though in anger towards her own weakness—still less could the world have supposed that he had married her favourite cousin—almost sister! These are the secrets of life, hidden from a prying world, and festering often from their bitterness in one's own heart.
He left Uplands, and was once more beside his loving wife, whose every thought had been his in absence. She was the model of what a wife should be, when left alone. She did not, like too many, cry, "I am free awhile; what shall I do, that I cannot when he is here?" Her thought was, "What shall I do to please Miles when he returns—how surprise him?" and the busy anxious heart sought through all its recesses to find one, if possible, where a warmer thought might be hidden, than any he had yet known, to welcome him with on his return.
Men of intrigue have emissaries every where; they are never above a little familiarity with servants of every description. These are their best friends; for the ones money cannot purchase, may always be bought by affability and kindness, and this without compromising one's self. Dalby seldom was guilty of so unwary an act as this, except in extreme cases. He found out all he wished to know adroitly; even thepurchasedwere unaware they were selling secrets. It was through some channel of this sort he discovered how soon Tremenhere left Uplands, and the same day at dinner he was there.
Lady Lysson did not like the man, but her nephew assured her he was a capital fellow; above all, extremely useful; so she received him, and attributed her personal antipathy to some flaw in her organ for comprehending exactly what a capital fellow should be. Lady Dora and her mother were beyond measure vexed. This former was hourly receiving warnings enough, in an indirect way, to cure her of her false pride, only they had not the effect of doing so; she did not yet see her fault. To make a confidant of this man, neither dreamed of; and they came down to dinner with the pleasant anticipation of hearing a dozen persons wondering about Tremenhere's marriage, and of hearing all particulars discussed and commented upon. They had decided upon braving the storm by quietly disclaiming any acquaintanceship with his wife; and on that very morning Lady Dora, under a better feeling than of late, had been asking her mother to allow her to visit poor Minnie, when they returned to town, but ineffectually. "We are forced to meet themanoccasionally," said Lady Ripley, coldly, "but visiting one who has so disgraced her family, is quite another thing!"
Great was their surprise when Dalby bowed most respectfully, but distantly to them, merely inquiring about their health. Still greater was it, when, Lady Lysson speaking with regret of Tremenhere's absence, the politic Dalby alluded to him as scarcely one with whose name he was acquainted! They both mentally thanked him, and dinner passed off delightfully.
Lady Dora was not the affianced bride of Lord Randolph—true, he wished her to be his—so did Lady Lysson—so did Lady Ripley; but three affirmatives in this case, were conquered by one negative. Lady Dora said, when he proposed to her, "We do not know one another sufficiently yet;" and he was quite content to wait. Her beauty, position—all made him desire to make her his wife; but in truth she was not a person to inspire mad love in any one, except indeed, her despotic pride could bend, and the woman be all woman; but as it was he took it very calmly—she would be his some day, he presumed. But his love was not that St. Vitus' genus which makes a man ever restless—hot and cold all over, if another does but look at your love; or, like that deep-seated affection which bound Lady Lysson at sixteen to her "cat's cradle" cousin; and though a young lovely widow at twenty, deaf to every second offer, not seeing thepossibilityof calling another—husband. Neither of these loves swayed Lord Randolph; it was a connubial and well-disposed affection, which pulls its Templar nightcap well over its ears, and falls asleep, perfectly assured of awaking as soon as ever it shall be called upon to do so.
The cloth is gone—the ladies are gone, and the gentlemen sit alone—a cosey half-dozen.
"So," said Dalby, at last, "I find Tremenhere, the artist, has been here; did he make a long stay?"
"No," answered somebody, "only a day; we were sorry he quitted so soon. What a deuced pleasant, intelligent fellow he is!"
"I think him veryhawnsome," drawled a greyish-looking youth, like a raw March morning.
"By jingo, yes!" chimed a third; "if I were a woman, he is just the man I'd fall over head and ears in love with."
"Now, I don't think that," said the raw one, "he's too cold; and I don't quite like his long moustache."
"Well," retracted the second speaker, "perhaps I said too much; he certainly is well-looking, but he wants style; and somehow the ladies don't seem to admire him—they are the best judges."
"I tell you what," exclaimed Lord Randolph; "I think him one of the most distinguished-looking fellows I ever saw, and, were I in the service, would give half my pay for his moustache; why, 'tis the most perfect raven's wing I ever saw, and silky like his hair. My only surprise is, that one has never heard of any love affair of his; and here, as in Florence, he always moves in the best society."
"Who is he?" asked an elderly epicure, waking up from a dream "in memoriam" of the exquisite dinner his host had set before them.
"Oh! a—nobody, I believe," answered some one. "A decent family, I have heard, in the country; but then he is very unpresuming—that's one thing."
"Faith!" answered Lord Randolph, "he was sought after, courted, by every one in Florence; but the fellow seemed to me to dislike society, like one absorbed either by his art, or some secret preying thoughts."
"Perhaps he was agovernment spy," drawled the one before alluded to.
All this while Dalby had sat listening and smiling to himself; just what he wanted. Lord Randolph at last noticed this, and exclaimed, "Dalby—you who know every thing, I bet my life, know more than any of us about Tremenhere."
"How should I?" he answered evasively, to excite more curiosity on his host's part. "By the way, has he finished your 'Aurora' yet?" He wished them to think he was anxious to turn the subject.
"No," replied Lord Randolph. "He says he cannot meet with a face to please him for the goddess."
"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Dalby, as if involuntarily. "That's too good a joke!"
"By Jove! you know something more than you tell us, Dalby. Come, man, have it out; make a clean breast of it."
"Pshaw, I know nothing! I only laughed at the idea of not finding a lovely Aurorean face, even in London."
"Come, that won't do," cried two or three; "youdoknow something—let's have it."
Dalby thought a moment. To tell all these men would not do; he had gained his point, in exciting Lord Randolph's curiosity. His very hesitation said more than words. Finding himself rigorously attacked, he affected to have done this to raise a storm of curiosity in their minds; and, in the midst of their clamour, he quickly turned his eye on his host, and, giving him a peculiar look of intelligence, said, "I assure you, I know only this, that were I an engaged man, I should very much hesitate in trusting my 'ladye-love' so near so fascinating a man."
Lord Randolph gave a start; even little used as he was to solve enigmas, he saw something was meant, and the look convinced him, for himself alone. By a littlefinessehe silenced the clamorous, and turned their thoughts into another channel, and thus the after dinner passed.
"Come, now," said Lord Randolph, as he and Dalby sat together in the former's dressing-room, smoking a cigar, after every one else had retired for the night, "tell me what you meant after dinner, about Tremenhere. I confess that man, at home and abroad, has sorely puzzled me."
Dalby had well digested his plans, to obtain the concurrence in them which he eventually hoped for from the other, it was necessary that he should excite a feeling of pique against Miles; thus he went to his worthy work, first having bound his listener to solemn secresy, on the plea of personal interest in himself, making him guilty of an unprofessional want of silence and caution; this obtained, he began—"You know, perhaps, that Tremenhere is illegitimate?"
"Not I—how the deuce should I?"
"Well, then, he is. I should be unnecessarily exposing many painful family secrets, to tell you what family he lays claim to kindred with; I merely come to facts, which are true. He has been residing abroad some years—by the way," he seemed as if suddenly enlightened by a thought, though every word had been pre-conceived, "did he not meet Lady Dora Vaughan in Florence?"
"Yes; when I too met him," answered the other, not a little amazed at this turn.
"That, then, accounts for much."
"Whatcanyou mean, Dalby—pray, be quick?" actually Lord Randolph's heart gave a little quiet jump.
"Well then, in a few words, Lady Dora was recently in Yorkshire, and there too Tremenhere was."
"This has never been alluded to in my presence," said the listener, uncomfortably.
"Nor to one another,perhaps," emphasized Dalby. "I think there is a coolness between themnow."
"By Jove! I said as much to Lady Dora, and she denied it rather angrily and haughtily."
The other smiled. "It was not so in Yorkshire. Her ladyship was as usual kind, affable, and condescending, and this Tremenhere (mind I am speaking my mind in all candour to your lordship) mistook it, I fear, and acting thereupon, from what transpired, was rather presuming."
"How? in what manner?" asked Lord Randolph withhauteur. "And how did this occur? were they domiciled in one house?"
"No, this made the matter more audacious, he had been driven from this house, and used to enter surreptitiously through the grounds, and intrude upon Lady Dora's privacy."
"By George!" cried Lord Randolph, passing his hand through his hair, (like a bird trying to smooth its ruffled feathers,) as if it stood on end with horrified pride; "this comes of mixing in general society, as they do abroad. I set my face against it then, but Lady Lysson liked it, so I gave in; people should keep in their own class."
"There certainly are some confoundedly presuming persons," chimed in Dalby, not at all offended at what might have touched his sensitiveness, had he possessed such a thing; but he was, grammatically speaking, "an impersonal," taking nothing to himself. He made a pause here, wishing the other to commence the next facet in the diamond he was cutting, reserving to his own skill to polish each, according to the light required for his scheme; it would be a precious gem worth setting when he had completed it.
"Lady Ripley and her daughter were staying at the former's brother's, were they not? I have heard them speak of a homely Yorkshire family of relatives, not known beyond their own grounds."
"The same," answered Dalby, well pleased at the other's ignorance of the Formby family—it furthered his plans.
"And how did terminate?"
"Oh! of course, as you may imagine; Tremenhere was expelled in a summary manner, as her ladyship complained of the annoyance, and now I come to the pith of my tale." Lord Randolph blew forth a long puff of smoke, and drew nearer the fire; he was positively excited. "Remember," said the other in a whisper, "I have your lordship's word that this shall be a profound secret between us, happen what may."
"I pledge you my sacred honour."
"I will not mention names, but facts; this Tremenhere, under a quiet exterior, is a libertine,—one who knows no such thing as honour by practice, though it is a favourite theme of his. Enraged, I presume, by Lady Dora's just repulsion of his impertinence, he carried off a most lovely girl from the neighbourhood, to the distraction of her family, and this girl is now residing with him near Chiswick."
"By heavens!" exclaimed the other, "how one may be deceived! Had this girl no brother?"
"None; those kind of men know where they can in security work their villanies, and when this man complained to you that he could meet with no face worthy of his Aurora, I involuntarily thought of this girl, for she is the perfection of beauty in fairness."
"You know her?"
"I have seen her often; pardon my concealing her name, for the sake of her family."
"Egad, Dalby, I should like to see this girl! I worship beauty; the fellow deserves it at my hands for his impertinence to Lady Dora."
Dalby had exactly cut his diamond as he had desired to do. "Should you?" he said thoughtfully; "I will think how it may be done, but he is deucedly jealous often."
"Are they married?" asked Lord Randolph.
"I haveheardso, but we hear many things which are untrue." It would not have done to have said, Yes—for, though a fool, Lord Randolph was not devoid of principle.
"He is too jealous, at all events," continued the other, "to make her 'An Aurora' for others to gaze upon."
"Is she then so beautiful?" asked his host eagerly.
"I tell you this, my lord," was the emphatic reply. "I have seen much beauty, many portraits—I cannot in honest truth exceptevenLady Dora—I never sawany oneto equal Mrs. Tremenhere, as they call her."
"ByGeorge!" exclaimed his lordship, throwing his cigar in the fire—the words and action, spoke volumes of emotion, for him.
Dalby saw his scheme had taken root; curiosity leads to more real mischief than many another actual vice—he rose.
"Don't go yet; here, smoke another cigar before you go: it is early—not twelve."
"My dear lord, I was up early; we hard-working men are unused to these late hours of luxury. I am dead beat to-night," and he yawned convulsively, for no sleep was near his brain; it was waking, and watching every thing. He had done enough for one night; he would leave his lordship food for reflection. He had several aims in view—to revenge himself on Minnie, was one; but to serve Marmaduke, by driving Tremenhere out of England, was the principal object, thus securing a safe friend and patron to himself. This too, he did, with Lord Randolph, who saw nothing of the wickedness of the plot or plotters. He was ready to run into any mischief, for no particular motive, only from sheer idleness; and he was in good hands to lead him astray. With Tremenhere, he felt quite indignant; and firmly resolved, as soon as practicable, to cut the fellow. He had ordered this "Aurora;" so he must take it. Meanwhile, he would be very cool when they met, and let him comprehend that any attention he had received had been condescension, not equality.
Two days after these events, the lady portion of visiters quitted Uplands—some went one way, some another. Lady Lysson's chaperonage was over, so she, too, quitted her bachelor nephew's, and left him to his male companions, dogs and horses, for a while longer. Dalby remained, and a worse than himself returned—Marmaduke Burton; worse too, that he was more on an equality with their host than Dalby. He could work openly; yet, too, the coward trembled lest Tremenhere should ever discover his share in the nefarious plot—which plot we shall now permit to work itself out, without further explanation.
Lady Dora's better genius triumphed when she quitted Uplands. Something remained painfully on her mind after her conversation with Miles. His indignant pride debased her to her true littleness of conduct, and the really good-nature, had it not been biased by a worldly mother, triumphed; and one day her quiet, well-appointed brougham, which she chose in preference to their britscha, as being less ostentatious, and in better taste for her expedition, drove up to Tremenhere's pretty cottage at Chiswick. Minnie was alone; he had gone to town on business. She, all affection and forgiveness, had a singular memory in these times of heartlessness and calculation; she always forgot the bad, and held a bright sunny spot for the good deeds of all. In an instant she was in Dora's arms, her own round the other's neck, and her bright face, dimpling like a child's, and as innocent, held upwards for the kiss of peace.
"Dear, dear, Dora!" she cried, while on the setting of fringe which we have spoken of round her soft eyes, hung gems of tears, like May morning dew on hawthorn, "I knew you would come some day and see me." Here the joyous tears burst forth. "And Miles thinks so too, I know; for, whenever he returns, he always asks has any one called? well knowing no one would so, unless it were you; and when I say, 'No one, dear,' he takes me to his arms, and says, embracing me, 'Never mind, Minnie, I always come back to you—never mind the world, dear child!' Oh! he issokind, dearest Dora!" exclaimed the loving wife, "and I am soveryhappy!"
"Long may it last, dear Minnie," said her cousin, as she returned the caress; "I have been very cruel not to come sooner, but—but——"
"Don't speak of it, dear Dora," cried Minnie, ever anxious to save another any pain; "I know it was not your fault—my aunt wouldn't let you; but, now you are here,dostay all day, Miles will return at five, 'tis scarcely two yet," and she drew her beside her on an ottoman, and encircled her with her arms.
"I cannot Minnie, mamma does not know I have come; I shall have to tell her cautiously, for——"
"Oh! I know, I know, I've been a very naughty girl, but why did they lock me up? and why was my uncle going to take me to that odious Miss Burton's? If he had confided in my honour, Inevershould have ran away."
"Are you sure, Minnie—quite sure? Mr. Tremenhere is very persuasive, I make no doubt, and handsome too; I think him much improved since his marriage," she spoke constrainedly.
"How do you know?" asked her cousin, amazed; "when did you see him—and where?"
"Did he not tell you," inquired the other, much confused, "I met him at Uplands. Oh! I have perhaps done wrong in telling you." A strange sensation, half triumph, half pleasure, shot through her heart; it was one of those involuntary promptings of the evil one, which we cannot always master. "Why," prompted this fiend, "did Tremenhere deceive his wife? Dares he not trust himself to name me?"
"Oh! I see it all!" cried that pure-hearted wife; "it is just like my own dear Miles—he feared to pain me." She was sincere in this thoughtthen.
"Come, Minnie," cried Lady Dora, hastily rising, "put on your bonnet, we will have a quiet drive, we can then speak of all; I love a nice chat in a cosy, half-sleepy, jog-trot pace—my country pace, I call it. Come, we will go out for half an hour." She wished to break the thread of the conversation, and have a little time to recover herself.
"And then you will return with me, and remain?"
"I don't promise; we shall see."
The delighted Minnie was soon shawled and bonneted. It was a fine, clear day, almost frosty; they drove on till they arrived at Kensington Gardens; Minnie had told all, her flight, how accomplished—of her happiness she needed not to speak; it breathed in every glance, every tone, when his name fell from her lips. Dora more than once checked a sigh—this might have been hers but for her pride; the soul whispered this, the woman disavowed the thought; yet she had never loved him, or she would have sacrificed all, and even then have sighed over the poverty of the all she had to give. To check these thoughts, she drew the check-string at Kensington Gardens.
"Let us have a walk, Minnie," she cried suddenly; "the air is refreshing."
In an instant they were side by side, walking at a brisk pace through the walks. Lady Dora turned off towards the Palace, to avoid any rencontres. We often turn to avoid meeting something which is following us.
By chance, it so happened that Lord Randolph was riding down the road; he recognized Lady Dora's brougham, inquired, and in less than five minutes overtook her and her companion. What was to be done? Lady Dora was scarlet; nothing could more have annoyed her than this. Introduce her cousin she could not, as Mrs. Tremenhere; it would betray all. Had she had time to think, it would have been infinitely better to have said nothing than what she said. Pressing Minnie's arm, who, poor child, thought all Dora did must be right, she said, "Miss Dalzell, Lord Randolph Gray." Nevertheless, Minnie did start, and visibly; then a deep flush rose, and added still more to her extreme beauty. He was perfectly paralyzed. In overtaking Lady Dora, he expected in her companion to see some familiar face. Here he met a person whose name even was unknown to him; her confusion did not escape him either. Had they met before? Was she an humble companion? But, no: he assuredly must have then seen her before. And, to confirm him in the certainty of this not being the case, this fair girl called the proud daughter of Lady Ripley "Dora," and "dear Dora." She stood far below this latter in stature, though above middle height; but there was a fairy grace, lightness, and exquisite beauty about her, even his far-travelled eye had never before seen equalled; and when she smiled, or laughed with her light, joyous, modulated laugh, the face lit up so strangely bright, that she looked like some inspired spirit.
When a man or woman tries to be pleasant, he or she generally, notalways, is constrained, and seen to disadvantage. What with her beauty, the surprise of the meeting, and curiosity about her, Lord Randolph, never too brilliant, became downright enigmatical in speech, which, together with her embarrassment, so annoyed Lady Dora, that, hastily turning, she said—
"It is later than I imagined; let us return."
"Return!" thought he; "but whither? I would give worlds to know. Oh! I shall find out; doubtless she will often accompany Lady Dora; 'tis some young friend, not 'out' yet. Shall I escort you?" he asked, after handing them to the brougham.
"'Tis useless—I thank you," answered Lady Dora, coldly; "we have a call to make." He bowed, and they drove off. He sat round on his horse, watching them out of sight; politeness forbade his following. It was an immense relief to his half-affianced wife when they drove off; every instant she had dreaded to hear Minnie talk of Miles: he was ever on her lip. But though much pained and astonished at first at the untruth Dora had told; afterwards, though still reprehending it, she felt assured her cousin had done it for some good motive, so she held her tongue about her husband. Miss Dalzell could not acknowledge one.
"I thought it better to say you were a Miss Dalzell," said Lady Dora; "men are so inquisitive. Who would have dreamed of meeting Lord Randolph in Kensington Gardens? It was a fatality; I thought him still at Uplands."
"He said he was only in town for a day," suggested her cousin.
"So much the better; he will forget all about you, and no one will know you by that name, unless indeed——" She paused, looking greatly annoyed, as Dalby and Marmaduke Burton crossed her mind. Minnie questioned her; but turning the subject, they conversed about something else until they reached home. Lady Dora had taken the precaution of ascertaining whether they were followed. Minnie could not prevail upon her to remain; she left her compliments for Tremenhere, and promised her delighted cousin to return again soon. Lord Randolph had been found on that road not without motive; he was going to Tremenhere's cottage on an excuse, intending to see the reputed beauty, if possible. After the meeting with Minnie, he changed his mind: "I will not go to-day," he thought; "I shall be disgusted with any woman I could possibly see, after this beautiful girl. I must find out who she is; she realized all one's ideas of a fairy." Thus thinking, he turned his horse-homewards.
When Tremenhere returned to his cottage, he was assailed by a variety of feelings on hearing the events which had occurred during his absence. Of Lady Dora's coming, he was pleased; it gratified Minnie, but he would rather it had been done with her mother's cognizance, and in her company. There was something galling in this secret visit, but he forbore to say so to his little wife, she looked so joyous and happy; not one word of annoyance that her cousin had so long deferred it, not a harsh thought for even her aunt. All was forgiveness and sunshine in her sweet face.
"Verily, Minnie," said her enraptured husband, bending his fine eyes in fondest love upon her, "you are not fit for this cold world; you must live on a sunbeam, dearest, and be enwrapped at eve in the gorgeous clouds fringed with gold, in which the day-god sinks to rest."
"No, Miles," she answered laughing, her whole bright soul in his face, robed in smiles and dimples; "youshall be the day-god, rising at peep of day, higher and higher until you arrive at meridian splendour, andthenI will be the dial to mark your course, and live in your rays."
"I will accept that position, darling, for then I shall know you only live by my light. Minnie, Minnie, it would kill me to think any one even approached your heart, where I must reign alone!"
"How could that ever be possible?" she said, fondling his hand in both her own, and then kissing it almost with reverence.
"Now, tell me all about your drive," he inquired after a pause. Minnie had reserved this for the last; somehow her woman's unerring wit told even her unsophisticated nature, that it would pain Miles, and it grieved her so much to see a cloud on his brow. Even with this foresight, she was ill prepared for the annoyance which assailed him; he was most indignant at Lady Dora's introducing Minnie as Miss Dalzell. "In your position," he cried, "she should have been doubly guarded; better not have named you at all, and to Lord Randolph Gray, of all persons, I am sorely perplexed how to act."
She tried as much as possible to soothe him, but there was a sting in his heart—a sting of anticipated trouble arising out of this. He knew Lord Randolph so well, that he felt convinced he would seek every possible means of discovering who Minnie was: she was not a creature to be passed in a crowd—her beauty was too rare and remarkable. He thought at first of seeking him, and confiding the truth to him and his honour for secresy. Well would it have been had he done so; this would have shown the affair, when well explained, in a different light to the one in which the other now viewed it. Had he known Marmaduke Burton and Dalby were guests at Uplands, he would not have hesitated; but in ignorance of much, he at last grew calmer under the erroneous idea that perhaps Lord Randolph would think no more about her; besides, how could he trace her—how hear any thing of her? And, to crown all, he knew the other was leaving England on a tour in a month; so he resolved to let matters take their natural course, and, comforted by Minnie's assurance that his Lordship had not followed them, he dropped the subject, on her promising to go out no more with Lady Dora, at present.
Poor Tremenhere little imagined how much Lord Randolph really thought of Minnie; that evening he called at Lady Ripley's, and to his surprise was requested to enter a boudoir solely belonging to Lady Dora, where even he had seldom been admitted. He found her sitting alone, evidently awaiting his arrival.
"Lord Randolph," she said with more cordiality than was usual on her part, "I have a favour to solicit at your hands."
"At mine?" he said, gallantly kissing the fair one she extended towards him. "Thus let me thank the lovely messenger pleading to its companions. I shall indeed esteem myself happy in obliging you in any way."
"Thank you. Will you then do so by not naming to my mother, or indeed any one, our rencounter to-day? I mean so far as regards Miss——"
"Miss Dalzell?" he interrupted her in increased surprise.
"I see you have a retentive memory," she answered, with slight annoyance. She had hesitated at the name, hoping he might have forgotten it. "The fact is, for the present, I do not wish even my mother to know that I have seen Miss Dalzell."
"Is the fair lady some fairy, destined to take the whole world by surprise, in an unexpected, unannounceddébutshortly?" he asked.
"Decidedly not," she replied, vexed at the evident interest he displayed; not from jealousy of the man, but fear, lest this interest might lead to research. "Miss Dalzell," she continued, "will be shortly leaving town for the Continent with her—friends."
"Indeed! 'tis a pity; she would have been a constellation of the highest order in our spherical circle, where so few beauties are seen, next season."
"She seems to have captivated you, Lord Randolph."
"Captivated! no, my heart is not free," and he bowed conventionally to the fair speaker; "but I thought her of rare beauty. By Heavens!" he exclaimed, as a sudden idea struck him, "that dilatory fellow, Tremenhere, complains that he cannot meet with a model for his 'Aurora'—I wish he could see Miss Dalzell! I wonder whether she would sit to him? Pray, ask her, dear Lady Dora: does she live in town? I'll speak to Tremenhere about it." He was forgetting every thing she had been asking him. Lady Dora felt dreadfully embarrassed—her colour rose.
"Pray," she cried, "my lord, do not do a thing which would pain and annoy me excessively. I have requested you to forget all about Miss Dalzell, and you talk of her sitting for some foolish picture, and of all men on earth to Mr. Tremenhere."
Her last words awoke other thoughts in his mind. "I am very forgetful," he answered. "Rest assured, Lady Dora, no one shall hear her name or the meeting from me; but may I in return ask, why less to Mr. Tremenhere than any other person?"
"Oh!" she answered, evasively, "artists will dare any thing for a face which exactly meets their wants and wishes. Iparticularlydesire all which passed to-day, forgotten by you."
"You shall be obeyed."
"Some day possibly, you may know all; 'tis now a most painful mystery."
"You may rely upon me," he replied. "And now, may I ask, as onemuchinterested in you, Lady Dora, have you not recently met Mr. Tremenhere in the country? I do not mean at Uplands—in Yorkshire?"
In an instant her face became extremely pale, even to the lips, which quivered; then indignant pride at his questioning drove back the blood in flushing bounds. "Pardon me, my lord, I do not see the right you have to question. I was in Yorkshire with my mother."
"I too crave pardon," he replied, "for presuming too much on hopes for the future. I see you did meet him; the rest is no stranger to my knowledge—I am satisfied."
There was a calm dignity about him which she had never before seen. She would have given worlds to know what he alluded to—what he had heard. But she durst not do so, evenherpride scarcely restrained her from questioning; her mind was in a complete maze of fears. What could he mean? Individually, his opinion was of not the slightest importance to her, but, as transmitted perhaps by him to the world, it was altogether different; yet what could she say? Already she felt humbled at having been forced to ask so great a favour as silence from him; what was still more remarkable in this interview was, that he made no attempt whatever, beyond the most commonplace gallantry, to hint at his own suit, he seemed absorbed in other thoughts, and these were occasioned by her painful confusion at the mention of Tremenhere's name; and a bitter feeling in consequence arose in his mind against him, for his supposed impertinent presumption. There was a silence of a few minutes, broken at last by her coldly saying, "I believe we may now abridge this meeting, Lord Randolph—I have your promise of silence. You proposed visiting my mother, I think? Allow me to have you announced. I will rejoin you in the drawing-room shortly." So saying, she rang the bell.
"You may rely upon my discretion," he said, partially recovering himself. "And we will leave all to old Time, he unravels wonders and mysteries; you will not deprive me a long time of the pleasure of your society?"
She merely bowed, and smiled constrainedly as the servant followed him to the drawing-room, and announced him to Lady Ripley, who little imagined all the events of that day.
Man is a changeable, versatile animal, ever forgetful of the old for the new, more perfectly comprehending the fable of "sour grapes," than any other.
"I dare say," said Lord Randolph to himself next day, "that this very mysterious Miss Dalzell would not have proved half so pretty on second sight; there must be something strange about her, or why this mystery? There are days our eyes create beauty every where—yesterday was doubtless one of these; were she really so lovely, and a friend of Lady Dora's, some one must have seen and spoken of her, whereas I never heard the name even in my life until yesterday. That fellow Tremenhere," he continued after a thoughtful pause, "I should like to be revenged on his insolence; it won't do to cut him without an excuse, he has given me none, and he is a favourite in many circles where these artists hold a certain sway. I always thought it bad taste to give them too much liberty, and the event proves my just judgment." It will be seen that Lord Randolph was ratherarrièrein the more genial liberality of opinion, generally prevalent. He was of the Lady Dora school, which fosters absurd prejudices and deformities of mind, in the shape of circumscribing and false pride, reminding one of a village, somewhere in the Landes, whose inhabitants are all from birth afflicted with goîtres, which hideous swelling of the throat becomes from habit a beauty in their eyes; so much so, that 'tis told of them, that one day a healthy person appearing among them in church, their minister bade them thank God they were as they were, and not like that afflicted creature before them!
Lord Randolph's pride was in arms against the painter fellow, who had dared raise a thought, as he imagined, towards Lady Dora; it was not from any excessive love for her, but adherence tocaste. In her confusion, though it puzzled him at first, he finally thought he read only indignation, and he awarded to himself the right, to lower his presumption in some way. What fools we are to undertake perilous journeys in the dark!
The new idea banished the old: he almost forgot Miss Dalzell, and resolved to go whither he had been going yesterday, as he mounted his horse next morning—a fashionable morning—about two o'clock; so he turned his horse's head towards Chiswick, where he knew Tremenhere resided. He had never had occasion to call there before, having always met him either at his club, in society, or his own (Lord Randolph's) house. He was not quite certain of the cottage, but he inquired, and at last a pretty little villa was pointed out to him as the one he sought.
"I think the gentleman is not at home," said his informant, who looked like a tradesman; "for I know him well, and I saw him walking towards town an hour ago."
This suited the other's views exactly; so, leaving his horse in charge of a man who was loitering about, he walked quietly up to the cottage. The front gate stood open; he walked through a prettily arranged garden, filled with autumnal flowers, to the hall door, and rapped gently. He came, like a good general, to surprise, not storm the capital. A neat-looking girl answered the door. "Is Mr. Tremenhere at home?" inquired the visiter.
"No, sir," was the reply. "He will not return till this evening."
"Very provoking!" exclaimed he; "I am leaving town, and wished particularly to leave a message, or see him."
The girl made no reply; she was not evidently accustomed to see many visiters there.
"Could I see any one to leave it with, or write a note?" he asked.
"If you would please to step in, sir; I dare say you can write to master," she said, drawing back. Lord Randolph wanted no further invitation. In an instant he was following the girl down the passage.