"'My lord, beware of jealousy!'" quoted Lady Lysson laughing. "Don't be alarmed; a reformed rake makes the best husband, they say."
"I should be sorry to try one," was the dry rejoinder. "The reformation is too often skin deep, and they always make suspicious husbands, severe fathers—look around at all our neighbours!"
"But I defend Randolph from the charge of being one; he is a black swan," said his aunt.
"Oh, that example of arara avisis no longer orthodox!" cried the other smiling. "We have many specimens of them, and, to my thinking, they are over fond of seeking crumbs of comfort at the hands of the fair sex, if we take for example those on the Serpentine, to make perfect, and exclusively loving mates."
"Come, I will not have a word against my Randolph, evensous entendu, in epigrams. I have set my heart on his subduing yours, and giving me a right to call you my dear niece."
"I thank you for the cordial wish, dear Lady Lysson; we shall see—à propos, I have promised Mr. Tremenhere a, sitting forLe Dianeto-morrow, will you accompany me?—or mamma?"
"Oh, I will, gladly! I delight in that man's society; and he is so very reserved towards women, so totally devoid of love-making, exceptpar badinage—that one feels quite comfortable in cultivating the acquaintance—I speak as relates to you young marrying girls."
"Stop, stop Lady Lysson! you are too fascinating, too young at heart, to exclude yourself from love's attacks yet."
"My dear girl, I have played 'cat's cradle' once too often, ever to attempt it again. I could not unravel the very simplest;" she looked down and thought of "poor Lysson," as she ever termed him. Lady Dora looked down too, and began to thinkshehad played rather too earnestlyonceat "cat's cradle," and would not resume it again.
Tremenhere was in his studio alone—that is, free from living witnesses; but what crowding memories were around him! Here he was himself; not the man seeking oblivion of the past, in society with which he had no fellowship of soul, but the stern, sobered being, whose peace of mind seemed wrecked for ever, and on a rock so minute in appearance, as an "if!" Ever before him stood this word, blistering his eyesight.
Had he beenassuredof Minnie's infidelity, nothing could have induced him to meet Lord Randolph; as it was, he had a feverish desire to see him, as though in his eyes, by some superhuman power, he could read the whole truth, and either cast her memory for ever from him, or else sit down with every thought of her, collected around him like household gods, on his hearth, and live with them, cherish them, and, stilling the beating of his heart, bid it break amidst them, like a shattered, valueless vase, whose rich essences were poured upon the ground.
"But shewasfalse!" he cried, pacing the floor with hasty steps. "What fiend could ever have weaved together in one web, so much black evidence against her? And what a face she had to cover her lie with! Who could have doubted her—her smile, her clear, seraphic eye! Minnie, 'twas madness to love as I did; and, far more than that, to lose you even, evenifyou were false! Why could I not have closed my heart against all evidence? Why not have known sooner, thatnothinghere is perfect! Her mad fancy passed, shemighthave loved me again—shedidlove me once! Love me again!—love me again! and could I have waited for that love's return, as we watch the healthful glow coming back to the pale cheek we cherish? Oh no, no, no!—notthat! To sit and watch the silent tear, to feel the form shrink from our kindly enfolding; and at last see repulsion become toleration—toleration, patience—patience, friendship, and the heart pause there? Oh no, no! better ten thousand times separation and death!" He stopped, and then creeping silently across that large room, drew back a curtain hanging before a niche, and in this was a statue in marble. It was Minnie—Minnie in her desolation! The face was still, hopeless life; every feature perfection; but disenchantment sat over all, stealing away its life! She stood leaning against a broken pillar—fitting emblem of her fate. The forehead was pressed against the left arm; the heavy plaits of hair, as she had often worn them, looped down the side of her face, hung forward, shewing all the pale chiseling of that hopeless agony there depicted. The whole body denoted utter prostration; and the right arm drooped powerless at her side, holding by its stem a cup reversed! It was an inspiration of memory; and beneath, at its base, was inscribed, "Life's Chalice." It was one of those magically wrought creations which thrill the soul when we look upon them. Tremenhere stood with folded arms contemplating it.
"Night and day—night and day," he murmured, "have I passed to complete my thought, mydream—for I dreamed I saw her thus; and how like it is! What is wanting? the spark of life to make it move and speak to me. Speak to me! No, she would turn away, either in indifference, and love for another, or horror of me! Perhaps I have murdered her!" and the man's voice sank to a hollow whisper—"her, and her infant! Oh, if I have!" and the cold dew stood on his brow at the thought. "What a bitter reckoning there will be against me when they stand before heaven to condemn! Not only here, but hereafter! Never to find peace again, nor rest, nor happy thought? Oh! life is indeed a burthen; and death a terror!" He sank for some time in silent thought before her; then brushing away the dew from his brow, and hastily drawing the curtain before the statue, he turned away. "Poor, weak fool!" he cried contemptuously, "I am not fit to be alone. Shewasfalse—false to them, the nurses of her childhood—false to me, her loving husband—false to heaven! I will destroy all memory of her." He tore back the curtain, and raised his arm to do so—but the arm fell. "No," he said, turning away, "'tis a work of art—only that; only these have I to spur me over the mountains of sorrow, before I meet death—art and occupation, inactivity would be madness. And she, her cousin!" and he laughed aloud in scorn, "thinks I love her. That having loved Minnie, I could give even the memory of that affection so base a counterfeit! Heartless, worldly, proud earth-worm!—only this! to place herself beside——But I will not dream of her! If that other had held in her veins one drop of human blood, she would have shielded, upheld, watched overher, and she had not been lost. I was too rude a guardian; I loved her with a lion's love, and the shrinking thing, in terror, sought refuge where words were soft, and the hand gentler; but the heart—the heart, his did not love like mine! Mine would have poured out its every drop of life's current, to spare one hair of her fair head from suffering.——I am growing weak—weak—womanly weak," and he moved feverishly about the room, whispering to himself, "I must shake this off, I have a part to play; I must avoid solitude, seek excitement; time may do much, bring oblivion, as it darkens the mental vision.Shewill be here to-day—she who loves to entangle—to wanton with the insect awhile, and then crush it with her heel. Crush me!—me!!" and he laughed aloud. "I will bring her down, in her subdued pride, to acknowledge that she envies even the place in hatred, which her once despised cousin holds in my heart. I will bring her to marry another in hate, and love me in unloved bitterness, and be false to him—if I will. I will revenge Minnie, even though I cast her from me—only Ihad a right to condemn and blast her." A bell sounded in the outer chamber. "'Tis she!" he cried. "Nothere yet; there is a spirit in the place—I have evoked it." And, hastily closing the door, he passed into asalonluxuriantly furnished.
In a moment more, Lady Dora entered in all the pride of her glowing, majestic beauty, set off to greater advantage by her mourning robes, which floated in mockery of woe around her—Lady Ripley accompanied her. How false some positions are, in what's called society! Here were three persons, nearly allied, meeting as mere strangers, almost in coldness, without an allusion even to the past. Lady Ripley was gracious; her daughter strove by an unconstrained cordiality, where pride towered in majestic condescension, to seem perfectly indifferent, though Tremenhere smiled in his heart, as he read her well—his manner was so free from any significance of tone or look, so calm and unembarrassed, that Lady Dora asked herself involuntarily, "Have I dreamed the past of yesterday?" and she felt humbled on reflecting how weary an hour she had passed that morning, in schooling her looks and heart to meet, without betraying herself to him.
"You will scarcely pardon me, I fear," he said, "when I tell you, Lady Dora, that I had totally forgotten this engagement this morning, and was going to pass a morning at the Louvre."
"Oh, pray, do not let us detain you, Mr. Tremenhere!" she exclaimed haughtily. "I, too, had other engagements, but mamma wished me to come, having promised."
"You cannot doubt, Lady Dora," he gallantly said—but it was mere gallantry; no hidden tone of meaning could be detected by the nicest ear—"the great pleasure this remembrance gives me. I was blaming my own wretched memory, and anxious to convey to you the forgotten happiness, which was driving me for a morning's amusement among the dead beauties in the Spanish gallery, instead of immortalizing my pencil, by endeavouring to pourtray your living loveliness."
She bowed, and, biting her lip, accepted this overstrained compliment at its full value—empty as the wind; and in this mood she sat down to lend herself to his pencil. Lady Ripley had not noticed the by-play of all this, indeed how could she, ignorant as she was of the previous scene, and totally incapable of comprehending the possibility ofherdaughter, even condescending to the slightest approach to flirtation even with an artist, whatever his pretensions to birth might be? She was unusually gracious this day, which removed much of the embarrassment the others could not otherwise have failed to feel. As some little revenge for his cool impertinence when they entered, Lady Dora suddenly inquired—
"Mr. Tremenhere, how many days' journey do you reckon it from Paris to Florence? I mean," she added, fearful that her meaning might be misunderstood, "from Florence to Paris, supposing a person to travel as expeditiously as possible?"
"As many," he answered, smiling blandly in her face, and with perfect sincerity of tone, "as it would take a person to go from Paris to Florence."
"Is he a fool?" she thought, "or only insensible? Thank you," she added aloud. "I presume they would be the same, but my question remains unanswered."
"True," he replied, smiling; "I am very rude, but my attention was so engrossed by this most lovely Diana. I will endeavour to answer you: wereIa happy man, whom one so fair as yourself, Lady Dora, expected impatiently, I should not choose the commonplace mode of transporting myself; but, borrowing the wings of the wind (that is, supposing them disengaged,) flutter to her feet."
"Mr. Tremenhere is pleased to be facetious," answered Lady Dora, pettishly.
"Pardon me, I never was more serious. I am trying to convey to your mind how great my impatience would be; but you have interrupted, without hearing all I had to say. If fate and inclination together, had cast me upon the waters—we will say, for example, in a yacht—why, I would summon to my aid some fairy spell, and, like the peterel, run over the surface of the waters, from the blue Mediterranean to the dusky Seine, till I found myself, web-footed, and incapable of running thence, on the polished floors of your hotel!"
There is nothing more disagreeable than to have taken up a weapon to wound, and suddenly to find the point in your own bosom. She felt he was laughing at her.
"Mamma," she cried, "did Lady Lysson show you a letter she received to-day?"
"My love?" asked her mother, looking up from a book she had been perusing. Lady Dora repeated the question.
"Yes, his lordship wrote much pleased with his cruise."
"I trust Lord Randolph Gray is quite well?" inquired Tremenhere, with perfect composure. "Lady Lysson mentioned, in my presence, that he was shortly expected from Malta."
"Quite well!" ejaculated Lady Dora, amazed at his coolness; "but you are mistaken about his locality, Mr. Tremenhere; he was at Florence when she last heard from him."
"Indeed! Then," he continued, laughing, "I will sketch him as the peterel of my idea; shall I?"
"He will feel flattered, doubtless, at any notice from your pencil, Mr. Tremenhere," was her cold reply. Her mother was again deep in her book.
"I have an ornithological thought in my brain, hatching, Lady Dora; I propose sketching all my friends,à la plume."
"What will you make me?" she asked, hoping to change the style of their previous conversation.
"You!" and he lowered his tone, and looked fixedly at her. She could not withdraw her gaze, he was sketching her brow—"You!—you shall be the fabled weevil, and I, the sick man, fit to die, turning my face to you to implore for life. Do not turn your head away, and thus bid that sickness be to death; but, extracting my heart's disease, with your sweet breath, fly upwards to heaven, and burn it out by the sun that we may so live together!"
"You must be mad!" she involuntarily cried, turning her eyes hastily to where her mother sat. Butshehad heard nothing; they were at some distance from her, and he spoke so low.
"Yes, perhaps I am; but madmen have happy dreams sometimes, we cannot refuse them these, where their reality is so hopeless and sad. But you have not answered me; may I place you among my ornithological specimens, as the milkwhite weevil of my thoughts?"
"And if not the sick man," she asked, and the voice trembled, though she endeavoured to smile as in jesting, "what will you depict yourself?"
"A goose!" he answered, laughing; "and I will lend your ladyship my quills to write to Florence! Am I not abon enfant?"
This term in French, so completely in keeping with the character of the bird he chose as his representative, provoked a laugh even from Lady Dora, beneath which she covered, at least she fancied she covered, her confusion.
"How very lively you are, Dora!" said her mother approaching. "What has occurred?"
"A most absurd error on my part," he answered. "Only fancy, Lady Ripley: I was to-day forgetting sex, character—all, and (the quiver of arrows misled me) was going to transform Lady Dora into Cupid! Ye gods! who could withstand arrows from such a bow?"
"How could you imagine so absurd a thing, Mr. Tremenhere?" asked the not very imaginative Lady Ripley, not certain whether to feel offended or no.
"I really cannot conceive! Altogether it would have been out of place; for love, they say, flies out of the window when poverty enters at the door. This never could be applicable to Lady Dora," and he bowed in seeming excuse before her. So much did his heart war against her, that, even desirous as he was to gain his point, he could not restrain his tongue from words of bitterness; yet she felt it impossible to think he meant them: she looked upon it as a natural sarcasm of character, which made a gentle word doubly dangerous.
"You are going in a huge body to see a Parisian wonder to English eyes, to-night, I understand, Lady Ripley," he said, turning the conversation.
"Yes, truly; I am curious to see aBal Masqué à l'Opera, never having witnessed one."
"Indeed! shall you go early?"
"I really do not know. I was averse to going, and especially taking Lady Dora; but Lady Lysson has made up her party, and, closely concealed by dominoes, I presume we shall pass unnoticed."
"You accompany us, I believe?" hazarded Lady Dora, addressing him.
"I hope to meet you there," was the reply; "accompany,thatI shall not be able to accomplish. Lady Lysson spoke of a signal by which her party should know one another; a rose on the left breast, I think?"
"Yes; but it seems unnecessary to me," replied Lady Ripley; "for, of course, we shall none of us separate."
"But in mercy to those forced to come late and rejoin the party, it is done," he answered.
"A propos, Mr. Tremenhere!" cried Lady Dora. "I have not yet chosen my domino; until this moment I had forgotten it. Madame —— had promised to have two or three for my choice, completed this afternoon. We will, if you please, leave 'Diane' for to-day," and she rose.
"With regret, then, Lady Dora; but where so grave an occupation calls you, I must submit;" and with a few constrained words they parted. Parting is very awkward, where two persons have been trying their wings together in a flight of love; one or the other is sure to lose some feathers in endeavouring to smooth them down into sober propriety at the last moment. Tremenhere was perfectly calm, and all a mamma like Lady Ripley might wish to see him. Lady Dora blushed—half held out her hand—half withdrew it.
"Permit me to fasten your glove, Lady Dora," he said quietly; "I see it embarrasses you."
She held it towards him, colouring deeply. Scarcely touching the hand, he buttoned it; and, bowing with perfect ease, he led the way to the outer door.
"Has the workwoman sent in those dominoes?" asked Madame ——, of her forewoman, that afternoon.
"No."
"Then send directly, and say theymustcome in at once; forcette belle Anglaise MiladyDora Vaughan, is coming to select one of them, andMiladyLysson, and several others, who are goingen cachetteto abal de l'opera, this evening."
This message was given to the workwoman; and Minnie's pale fingers trembled violently as she finished off the last hood, for she was the workwoman, in her little, sad garret!
Need we describe abal de l'opera?—we mean, in all its varied groups, its mystery, its joyousness! Or only skim over the surface, and speak of the mounting the carpeted stair, with the immense mirrors on the landing, where you are startled at first by the shadow you cast upon it—a gloomy vision pourtrayingtout en noir! Then the almost silent whispering groups, like muffled demons. Here, a coupleen costume; there, a man leaning against a pillar, looking frightfully sheepish, and trying to smile and retort.
'Tis an Englishman,sans masqué, of course, (no gentleman covers his face, unless he has a motive for so doing,) who is dreadfully intrigued by two black dominoes, who are telling him all he has been doing the last fortnight. He has been lured hither by an anonymous letter, asking him to come and meet a blue domino; twice he has furtively looked at this letter, to be certain it said blue, being positive in his own mind that one of these two must be the writer. Shall we leave him in his perplexity, and, standing on the stair leading down into thesalle de danse, where a dense crowd, in every imaginable dress, is jostled together, endeavouring to dance, and, looking on, admire the sober, judge-like gravity of several men—authors, artists, men of the highest rank, semi-disguised—who are dancing the most grotesque figures without a smile on their countenances? They look as if they had made a pact, for an allotted time, with some mocking spirit, to make fools of themselves. Or shall we look up in aloge au premier, and see a group of many, the ladies all in black dominoes, the gentlemen in plain evening dress, unmasked?
Yes; we will pause here. This is Lady Lysson's box; for see!—every lady has a rose on the left breast. How amused they all appear! Some had been before, others never; and there is something peculiarly exciting and novel to an English lady the first time she sees abal de l'opera: she has heard so much of and against them, it is almost as a forbidden tree, which makes the fruit the sweeter.
Tremenhere came in rather late, and alone. He was standing in thefoyer, looking around him: this large saloon was crowded to excess. Near the clock (that place for rendezvous) he stood, well assured there he should soon be seen by some of the party; but for some time he looked in vain: they were all in theirloge, too much delighted with the scene to quit hastily. As he stood thus, some one brushed past him; rather, they were pushed by the crowd.Hehad not previously noticed them, but they had been fixed, statue-like, regarding him; and the crowd pushed them from their contemplative position against him.
"Oh!" ejaculated a trembling voice; "I beg pardon. I——"
He turned: it was a black domino, with the significant rose on its breast. He instantly offered his arm, and the woman clung to it as in terror.
"I see," he said in a low tone, "that I have been fortunate enough to offer my protection to one of the 'Roses of the Left,' but to whom, I am totally ignorant. How have you lost your party? 'Tis unpleasant in so great a crowd; you might be insulted."
"Sir," she uttered in a low, scarcely audible, voice, and in French, "you are mistaken—we are strangers."
"Strangers!" he cried, stopping an instant, and gazing at the closely-concealed face and figure. "Impossible! else you had not taken my arm; for you must be one of Lady L——'s party by your dress."
The girl was silent; but a sigh escaped her.
"You are terrified," he said kindly. "Do not fear; we are safe, and soon shall meet some of our friends. I must indeed be accused of great forgetfulness, when I admit I have no recollection or idea who you can be. May I not know?"
"We are strangers," she uttered again, in a tone scarcely audible, still in French. "I do not understand English."
"Well, as you will," he replied gaily. "I like it thus—'tis in keeping with the place—this mystery. Only pardon me for reminding you, for consistency sake, that your first words were decidedly not in French; and though you cannotunderstand English, you have been replying to all my questions addressed to you in that tongue. However, as you prefer the other,changeons," and he commenced a fluent conversation in Gallic. She had visibly started when he pointed out to her the error of her confused mind. For some time their conversation was merely monosyllabic on her part. "Some silly young English girl Lady Lysson has brought with her," thought he, "who thinks she must sustain a character, and this very stupid attempt at intriguing me is the result. How can she have lost her party?—scarcely prudent in Lady Lysson to leave her so unguarded; she is evidently young. Who can she be?"
In a few minutes more, he was fain to admit that the ladydidhowever intrigue him, and considerably; for, by an evident effort over herself, she overcame some cause of trepidation, and, if not easy in manner, was sufficiently ingenuous and pleasing in her remarks to interest him much.
"Where have I heard her voice?" he mentally said. "It is evidently subdued and disguised, and 'tis only when an unguarded tone escapes, that I seem to hear a remembered one; yet 'tis too imperfectly uttered to convey memory to my ear. Certainly she has intrigued me! Were she the veriest Frenchwoman that ever made a vow to miss no onebal masqué, and perfect in the amusements and mystifications of all, she could not have more cleverly accomplished her purpose than this girl; for she has called me by name, and I can guess no one she can be!"
"Here is a seat," he said, after a moment's pause in their conversation; "shall we take advantage of it, or would you prefer going to Lady Lysson's box?"
"Oh, not there!" she whispered shrinkingly.
"Why not there? On my life, lady, you puzzle me much. Come, confide in me: I am addressing some one—some fair, young, unexpected guest, who, having heard of the projected party, has escaped from governesses, etc., to come hither also—am I not right?" This was the only solution he could find for the enigma, engendered by her strange fear at the proposal he made, to go to Lady Lysson's box.
"You are wrong," she uttered. "I have no one to restrain my wishes. I came here to-night for a purpose, butalone!"
"Alone!" and he started. "Then why this signal?" and he pointed to the rose.
"I cannot tell you. Is Lady Dora Vaughan here to-night?"
"By heavens, you know them all! Who are you? Pray, tell me; confide in my honour—I have never broken faith in my life!"
A sigh, almost a sob, escaped from her bosom. He turned amazed. Tremenhere was not a vain man, but the strangeness of the whole scene made him ask himself, whether it might not be some love-sick girl'sescapade; but the question, for which he could find no answer, was, "Who can she be?" Her abrupt mention of Lady Dora's name confirmed this idea.
"Lady Dora is here," he said, "that is, she was to be; but I came alone. I have seen no one but yourself, my fair incognita, and now let me ask, wherefore were you beneath the clock?"
"Because—because, 'tis a good point for observation; and I was looking for some one."
"Then I have carried you away—shall we seek them?"
"No, I am content; that is, I have changed my mind."
"How did you know the reputation 'the clock' has as a point of observation, as you term it;wecall it one ofrendezvous—have you been here often?"
"Heaven forbid! 'tis myfirstvisit."
"Indeed! then a powerful motive must have urged you to take so hazardous a step, if in truth, as I believe, you are connected with some one of Lady Lysson's society, and hereen cachette."
"I have a motive—let it rest; I am satisfied it should do so; but having had it, I was toldsous l'horlogeI should most probably see every one in the saloon better than elsewhere."
"Well,mon domino, you are a mystery; in truth, 'tis a scene from theDomino Noir. I would I were the happy Horace; I dare not think so."
She was perfectly silent.
"Surely I have no fairpensionnaireescaped from her convent, at my side?"
"No, truly—one her own mistress. Is not Lady Dora Vaughan very handsome?"
"Very!" and he started at the sudden transition in her speech. "Don't you know her?"
"Well; but I wished to hear your opinion as an artist—you must be better enabled to judge than I can."
"Now tell me when you saw her last? Give me at least a chance of guessing who you are?"
She paused an instant, then added, "Yesterday, walking with you in the Tuileries, and with several other ladies."
"True!Pray, tell me something of yourself; let me see your eyes, your mouth, or hand," and he took the one resting on her knee.
"Not for worlds!" she exclaimed in unmistakable terror, clasping them together.
"Do not be alarmed, I would not use any violence; you are with one incapable of an ungentlemanly act, I trust."
"I knowthat," she said emphatically, "or of one wilfully unkind or cruel, if you allowed your heart to act freely."
"For mercy's sake, what do you mean? I entreat you tell me who you are. I swear to you, your secret shall be safe." A strange, unaccountable tremor crept over him, yet without a suspicion of any thing approaching the truth.
"I cannot, dare not—I would I durst!" and again she sighed.
A thought crossed his mind, and he turned and looked fixedly at her, but not a hair was visible, or of the eye, more than a speck. "No," he said, after the survey, "you are not tall enough; yet this dress so disguises! Tell me, I conjure you, is your name Mary?"
"No, on my honour; but cease guessing—you will not know me to-night—some day you will, perhaps."
At that moment a group of several persons came up. The ladies had roses on their breasts. One of the gentlemen, on whom a tall figure leaned, stood still, but unbending, before Tremenhere, who was attentively watching every turn in his domino's figure, to guess some known style—but all was vain, graceful in every movement, but to him, still a mystery.
"I declare," whispered a lady's voice, "you are the worst cavalier in the world! We have been expecting you in our box this hour, and here you are playing deserter." Miles started; his eye fell on Lord Randolph Gray, on whose arm Lady Dora was leaning. He knew her figure at a glance.
"Lady Lysson," he said, in an under tone to the speaker, "you should not accuse me, for here have I been taking care of one of your strayed lambs, which has singularly intrigued me! I fail to discover my fair friend; pray, present me to her." He had risen to Lady Lysson as she spoke; when he turned round again, the place beside him was vacant! The domino had glided away, like a phantom. "Good heavens!" he exclaimed, "where is she?"
"That lady beside you when we came up? She rose, and walked hurriedly away when I spoke to you."
"But she is one of your party! She had a rose on her breast!" he cried in amazement.
"Pardon me, this is some error. All my party is safe here," (she looked round on the two behind her, Lady Dora and Lord Randolph, who were conversing together,) "or up in the box. Your eyes have deceived you."
"Nay, I will not admit that; for though she persisted in speaking French, her accent was English, though evidently disguised, and she knew you all, and inquired about you, by name!"
"Oh!" laughed the lady, "I dare say it was one of our attendants, who, with the true spirit of intrigue, has borrowed our disguise to amuse herself at your expense."
"It was no servant," he emphatically said. And his wonder increased, the more he thought of it.
"Come, leave off puzzling about your incognita. I should have deemed youtrop Françaisto be scared by an intriguede bal masqué. Come, Mr. Tremenhere," she lowered her voice, "I have a favour to ask—something to command," she added, smiling. "I made this party to-night, knowing that my nephew would be here, and knowing also, that the laws of these balls forbid serious acts—I mean angry ones——In good honest truth, you must shake hands. He declares, that whatever you may have against him, he is as ever kindly disposed towards you, and whatever your quarrel, of the cause of which I am innocent, let me beg of you, for my friendship sake towards both, to shake hands, forget, and forgive."
"Tremenhere," cried Lord Randolph, coming forward with a hand out, and candour unmistakable on his brow, "I see my aunt is urging you; come, give me your hand, and a grasp in friendship. On my soul you wronged me, and from my soul I pity you!" He glanced upwards at the black band on Miles's hat. This latter fixed his deep eyes on him, and in that glance he read the other's inmost soul; no, guilt could never wear that look! Lord Randolph he had thought led away by passion to commit an unworthy act, for he knew he was no cold-blooded villain. A still, small voice had been some time whispering to him, that look—the calm, unblenching, feeling expression on the other's face brought a cold, grey light of despair to his heart, like that of early winter's dawn, when, for the first time by day, we look upon a loved face, whose spirit had fled by torch-light.
"I believe you!" he uttered, in a husky voice, grasping his hand. "Let us forget it." There was something so broken-hearted in the tone, that Lord Randolph felt his bosom swell—something choked him; for he was a man, as we have seen, of feeling.
"Better so," he said, in a low tone. "Forget it, Tremenhere—'twas destiny!"
Miles did not reply, but burst into a discordant laugh.
"I have done so," he said; "you see I have!This," and he pointed towards his hat, "is only the usage of society. Obligation! form! let usneverspeak of it!" And, wringing his hand, he turned to the ladies, who had discreetly conversed apart; but Lady Dora's eyes never quitted Tremenhere's face. But she did not read him as Lord Randolph did: as their hands parted, this latter mentally said—
"Poor fellow!Thereis a man whoneverwill know peace, whatever he may seem to the world. From my soul I pity him!"
Nothing was perceptible in Miles's manner. From that night he grew paler perhaps, but the canker was unseen. He was gayer, wittier, more amusing than ever; but as the door of his studio closed on the world, the man sat down with his conviction and undying remorse. One glance at Lord Randolph had enlightened his darkened mind. There were two feelings which grew apace in his heart from that moment—one was, a restless desire to be ever in the other's presence; he never gave utterance to a word of friendship, never spoke or alluded to Minnie; but, as if it could restore fame to her memory, his every earthly tie was Lord Randolph; and, to the utter amazement of all, an intimacy the most complete sprung up between them—both knew why, but neither ever noticed it. This horror of naming his wife prevented Miles seeking Mary Burns; he felt it would kill or madden him, to speak of her. He would crush her memory before all eyes, by a mask the most complete; only one eye should read his soul—Heaven's!
The other collateral feeling which he alluded to was, hatred towards Lady Dora, the most intense; for he felt the unkindness of her family had left Minnie exposed to all his own ungovernable passions; and she had been the first to place her cousin in an equivocal point of view with Lord Randolph. But these were feelings of after hours: we must return to the ball.
"Thank you," said Lady Lysson, pressing his hand, to thank him for his reconciliation with Lord Randolph. "Now give me your arm." And they passed on.
Persons talk of suffering; but could there be any to surpass Tremenhere's this evening? Obliged to listen to, and join in amusement and gaiety! Among all the masks there, there was not one more complete in disguising, than his face; for no one could have guessed, in the unconcerned laughter which at times crossed it, that it was as sunshine on ice—all cold and frozen beneath.
Lady Dora felt extremely piqued and galled at his manner. She had hoped for a triumph for her pride—vanity, it was not—in seeing him frown in jealous rage upon Lord Randolph; or else favour her with some of those sarcasms which spoke of vitality, even while they wounded. But nothing of the kind occurred. He was courteous in the extreme, witty, gay, and most attentive and polite to herself—nothing more.
Only one person there read his heart, and keenly felt for that man, laughing over the tomb in his heart; for Lord Randolph had seen that conviction had been the inspiration of a moment, born of a glance at his own unshrinking face. Moore, in speaking of a heart, said, "Grief brought all its music forth." So it was with Lord Randolph. The shock he received on hearing of Minnie's death, called to vigour and beauty all the dormant qualities of a really sterling heart; and made him capable of feeling deeply for the man, whose hopeless woe was as an open page before him.
In the course of their rambles through that crowd, Lady Dora found herself on Tremenhere's arm, whose eye was searching every where for his mysterious domino. In spite of himself, she pre-occupied his mind; but amidst the dozens there, he failed to see any one at all resembling her, either in dress or that nameless grace perceptible in every undulation, of her unrelieved disguise.
"You are pre-occupied, Mr. Tremenhere," she said, after half a dozen absent replies had escaped his lips.
"Pardon me; I am boyish enough to be amused at this scene."
"One would not think it, for I never beheld a more seeking, anxious countenance—possibly you would prefer solitude."
"Solitude, and here? Lady Dora."
"Yes—Byron's."
"Oh! 'with some sweet spirit for my minister?' Nay, if that were the case, where find a fairer than the one who for awhile blesses me?" and he almost pressed her arm; and, aroused by her questioning, became Tremenhere as the world had made him.
"I certainly am pre-occupied," he said at last, "by that black domino, with whom you found me so very quietly tête-à-tête. The rose is emblematical in this case—a wild mystery."
"Oh! Lady Lysson, I make no doubt, was correct. Some one of our maids has made anescapade; and, proving the rose's privilege, has intrigued you."
"Assuredly, she was no servant; but her sudden disappearance when you came puzzles me. Let us talk of something else; it would be madness in me to waste these moments on another, when I have so few accorded me in your society. Lady Dora, tell me, does this amuse you, much?"
"Yes, 'tis something so original to me, unconceived before, the hundreds congregated. I ask whence do they come, whither will they go?"
"Probably, most of them to supper at some celebrated restaurant," he said laughing, and changing the vein of her moralizing; "and some to regret, some to rejoice. What will your feeling be?"
"It must be rejoicing, for the regret has been seized upon. Did you hear that deep sigh near us?"
He turned; they were leaning near alogedoor, and almost beside them stood a domino in brown, with blue ribbons. He glanced at the figure.
"Somepauvre delaissée," he said laughing; then turning towards the girl, cried, "do not sigh,il reviendra."
"Jamais," was the low reply, and the figure moved aside.
"Never mind her," he continued, turning towards Lady Dora; "but tell me, how will you rejoice, and why?"
"I am rejoicing, am I not?—I feel much amused."
'Twas true; the influence of the place was creeping over her cold nature. She was not the Lady Dora of any day yet in which he had seen her.
"You have not told mewhyyou should be glad. You are silent—shallItell you?"
"Do, I wish to know; I feel like one in a dream—how shall I wake?"
"Your dream will be unlike many—a realized one. You are happy—one you love is near you."
"How do you mean?" she cried starting; and almost, in her alarm, withdrawing her arm from his.
"Oh! you mistake me, Lady Dora; I am not so presumptuous—I allude to Lord Randolph."
"To him!" she exclaimed hastily and unthinkingly; "he will never make a pulse of mine beat quicker or slower."
"Indifference is worse than hate. I would rather hold the sentiment I inspire you with, than his."
"You speak in enigmas, Mr. Tremenhere."
"I would rather be hated than looked upon with indifference. We seek to crush a snake, but we step over a worm!"
"A man may be neither."
"What, then? A caged bird, to serve a woman's caprice; or a chained monkey, to amuse her?"
"Nay; you are looking on the species in degradation. Why not a creature free to come or go—thought of in absence—loved in presence—going, to return more gladly—sure of a kindly welcome?"
He looked fixedly at her. Could this be Lady Dora? An idea crossed his mind—she was one of two things, either luring him on to enchain, then crush him beneath the weight of those manacles; or else the arrival of Lord Randolph, the necessity of deciding her fate, the scene around, their isolation from all, and freedom from restraint, had combined to make her cast off the wearying mantle of her self-imposed pride, which had cloaked her in a corslet of impervious steel: it was a battle between them wellfinessed; both were on their guard.
"I will prove, before I advance," he thought, "and woe to the day she places herself in my hands. I will be unsparing, as she was merciless and cold-hearted. Right!" he said aloud, in answer to her last sentence. "I would be an eagle, free and soaring, mated with one wild and ambitious as myself—towering and untameable. Such a one I could choose—to such a one yield love for love, and, like the fabled bird, consume with the ardour of my affections, and rise again from my ashes to live again—love again!" His warmth aroused her to a sense of her danger.
"We are in truth playing our parts in the madness around us!" she said, in a voice which struggled to be calm.
"True; but we play our partscon amore, admit that; and the better, that we know two things—one is,you cannotlove—the other,Idare not."
"I should have thought you a man to dare all things!"
"You give me credit for more than I deserve. There are many things I would not encounter willingly—one is——"
"What?"
Despite his self-command, a cloud crossed his brow.
"I will tell you some day," he hastily answered; "but if I met this spectre,evenas spectre, I would fly it."
"I would fly nothing;thereis the difference between us."
"What if your wayward heart—for all hearts are so—fixed itself upon some unworthy object, would you not fly them?"
"No; were I to do so, I should never conquer; it would pursue me ever—flight would be vain. I would live near it, seek it, familiarize myself with it, till the inconstant heart grew tired of its bauble, then I——" she paused.
"Would dash it to earth, and trample on it, reckless of its fragile nature. Believe me, vases of potter's clay are as fragile as the finest Sèvres ever produced by fire."
"Perhaps so; but such should rest satisfied with draughts from water spring, nor seek to hold the ruby wine which a monarch sips; only degradation could ensue."
She was not actually thinking of him when she said this: it was only the overflowing of her cup of pride, which coloured her speech; but he remembered every word, and it strengthened his determination, if possible, to humble this spirit to the dust.
"What is it 'Ruy Blas' says so admirably, 'un ver de terre, amoureux d'une étoile,' the star shines on it, though it cannot abase itself, and sends its light to guide the poor worm of the earth to its home in a dark sod, where it may pine and die, rejected, despised, unloved, because it has been created only for that fate of grovelling insignificance!"
Neither heard the almost sob behind them; he was turned towards Lady Dora, and in the crowd stood the "Brown Domino," who had crept back unnoticed, to hear these last words.
"I have been a sceptic in love," she almost whispered.
"Havebeen; are you not now? I should fancy so." She was perfectly silent.
"If you havepresentfaith, on what is it grounded?"
"Perhaps on the dream of an hour!" she ejaculated, scarcely above her breath.
"Then watch its waking, and if it survive the glare of day, cherish it; if not in all freshness, banish it—'tis a temptation, not a rock to build upon. May I call to-morrow, and see if it be in existence? or passed, leaving no sweet savour behind of truth and futurity of joy? Here is Lady Lysson seeking you—may I call to-morrow?"
"Yes, but—but, come in forgetfulness of this night. I surely am spellbound. This is a part of some witchcraft in this giddy scene. Remember, and forget this—and—me—other than this, were vain madness!"
"I will only remember what I read then in your eyes; letthemanswer me—notyour lip; words are false, tears are recorded untruths, the eyes are scholars of the soul. They shall learn all its truth, and impart it to me in a glance. I will call to-morrow. And to-morrow," thought he, "I shall start for Marseilles; Imustgo there and know all!"
"I thought we should find you in this corridor!" exclaimed Lord Randolph, without an idea of jealous fear. "Hollo! what is this bustle about? Oh! only a lady has fainted. I don't wonder—'tis deucedly warm!"
Some gentlemen were carrying a lady in a brown domino towards a private box. She was apparently lifeless in their arms. Unheeding, the party turned away laughing, and mounted the staircase to seek their box, and the remainder of their friends.
It would be a task of pain and sorrow to tell all the bitterness of a woman's life, thrown friendless, delicate, and poor, in any land, but especially a stranger one, for one who had been nurtured so gently. Surely—surely, the wind is ever tempered to the shorn lamb!
As the cares of life increased, so grew Minnie's energy; even when a dry crust alone broke her fast of the long, toiling day, her spirits upheld her. "If I have losthim," she mentally said, "it has been for some wise purpose; even though my stubborn heart rebels, still I am not comfortless; have I not my boy?—all my own!—no one to tear his love from me—no one to prejudice him against me: so Heaven preserve him to me, I may yet be content, if not happy!" and the young mother knelt beside him, and prayed fervently for strength to bear all! Poor Minnie knew herself so innocent, she could pray in hope.
There are, unhappily, those who scoff at religion, and call it cant. None are so cheerful and hopeful as those who place their reliance on it, in all afflictions; for they know 'tis a flower which will never fade, and 'tis in our sorrows we so truly discover all its worth, and weep for those who are in ignorance of its powers. Religion is indeed like an Arabian tree, shedding its odorous gums on those who lean against it for support!
Minnie found it so, and she discovered, too, that even in her wretchedness there were others more so. Her room was a poor garret, acinquième, for as yet she had little work, there are so many seeking life through the same channel—she had no friends—then, too, her child was a burthen to her efforts; she could not at all times leave him, and little Miles was now nearly five months old. Sometimes theconcièrgeof the house, who was better than most of that most mercenary class, would take her child for her, while she sought work. There was ever a fear over her, in going out, lest she should meet Tremenhere. What her hopes were respecting him, who might say? Did she know them herself? or were they those inseparable clingings of the heart, which, like a limpet on a rock, adheres, inseparable from it, however rough the dashing waves? She had hope, else life would have fled. She still resided near Tremenhere's friend, Duplin, whither he often came, and thus, from her high window, she could see his tall figure pass. Ever closely, doubly veiled, and muffled up, she had watched, and met him in the dusk—she had followed too, by day, and seen him, too frequently for her peace of mind, accompany Lady Dora in walks and rides. True, others were there; but he was ever byherside, and she began to question how it might terminate. Of such an event as marriage she had not dreamed, when, allowing all to believe her death, she had become so chilled at heart from the belief of the indifference of all, even poor sorrowing Dorcas, that she had no courage to make a friend there in confidence. "No," she said, in her disheartenment, "not to any of them will I betray my existence; they deserted me living, let them believe me dead!" and a morbid satisfaction at the thought crept over her. But when so fearful a consequence as his marriage with another broke in upon her mind, she became feverish, restless, and incapable of guiding herself aright. Before, however, this terror came to add to her sufferings, she used to toil cheerfully—her boy, lying perhaps on a pillow at her feet, crowing and laughing in her gentle face. Then he was so like his father—the same large brown eyes, and shading lashes, which tempered so much their fire—it was all Miles's face, but with her own light hair, in glossy curls, with a rich, sunny glow on the cheek; and with all the love she lavished on him, the little voice was seldom raised in tears, only laughter—laughter, which convulsed the bright face, as he hung, shrieking with it, round the fair mother's neck. We have said that, even in her wretchedness, Minnie had learned that there were others more so, in outward seeming. In the garret adjoining her own, she frequently heard, as the hours of the night crept on, and she was sitting up completing some work, a quiet, heavy step plodding up and down the room, in evident thought or pain. Often had she listened to this sad neighbour; and his sorrows and loneliness seemed to add to her own. A laugh beside her might have cheered; but this lonely watching wore on her already chastened heart. She asked theconcièrgeone day if she knew who it was.
"A poor old Frenchman," she replied; "very poor, I think, and all alone—but he seems proud in his necessity. And then, madame, you know I cannot do much for any one—I am not rich; and he never gives me an opportunity of speaking. He pays regularly; but I think, poor old man, that his means of existence are very small."
This decided kind-hearted Minnie. "We are never so poor," she said to herself, "but what we can assist one another, even if only by a kind word to lighten life's weary load. I will try and speak to this poor man."
Where a woman resolves upon doing a good action, she generally succeeds in some way. There was something about her, in her voice and manner, which at once inspired confidence and affection in the worthy; and when this pretty, delicate creature, with her little boy in her arms, tapped gently one evening at the next door, and asked for a light, if he had one, of the thin tenant, who was almost bent double by age, and still more, sorrow and poverty, the man's cold face brightened as he answered, while the poor lips trembled with cold, and possibly hunger, "My child, I have none; I am going—going out."
Alas, poor creature! he was going out in the bitterer cold, thinly clad, to endeavour to circulate the nearly frozen blood, before returning to creep into a half-covered bed, and there strive to practise the French proverb of "qui dort dîne," for he was dinnerless. There was something in the accent not strictly Gallic, though he spoke French.
"Don't go out to-night,mon voisin," she said smiling; "it is wet and cold; you are alone, so am I save formon enfant. Do you like children?"
"Yes," and he laid his thin hand on little Miles's head; "I love them well; I once had two of my own," and he stifled a sigh.
"Well, then, you shall come in, and do me a neighbourly kindness; I am a poorouvrière, and must work hard to-night—come in, I am going to make a fire; you shall nurse my boy whilst I work—will you oblige me?"
"Willingly," he answered, "if I can serve you."
"That you greatly can. Stay in your room till I have made mine comfortable, and then I will call you, I am so much obliged to you, it will help me greatly, for a child is anembarrassometimes, and I like working and talking—'tis very kind of you."
She had a talent for making the obliged seem her creditors, and thus placing them at perfect ease. So hurrying back to her room, Miles was laid on his accustomed place, a pillow on the floor; lest he should fall off, she seldom placed him on her bed. And then an Asmodeus might have seen Minnie—the fair and gentle—the one on whom the winds of heaven were once almost chidden, if they blew coldly—on her knees, lighting the stove in her room, for she soon found a match; the search for one was an excuse, and her face looked glad—that lip forgot its sadness—she was doing angels' work—charity. In an incredibly short space of time the room looked cheerful—the door of the stove was left open—the wood crackled in it—the glare lighted the humble garret. She drew the old, but clean curtain before the window—lit her lamp—placed her second chair (she had but two) and then she summoned her shivering guest.
"Stay," she cried, as he seated himself, springing up herself; "I have forgotten mybouillotte;" (we cannot call it kettle—it had no resemblance to such a thing; neither can we translate the word, to give any idea of that queer, tin sort of jug, which rattles as if it had marbles in its head, and which is pushed into hot ashes to boil.) "I have forgotten mybouillotte," cried she; "and what should I do without a cup of tea? Do you like tea, monsieur?"
"Yes, madame," he answered, faintly smiling; "but I have not taken any for some time."
"Then we will have a cup together. Are you not English?" she asked, pausing in her arrangement of thebouillottein the stove; and as she knelt on one knee to do so, she rested the tips of her white fingers (even still) on the floor, to support herself, and looked up in his face like a child. She looked like a picture thus; for the pale face was glowing with pleasure at her good deed, and the close neat littlegrisettecap concealing all that fair hair, except the braids on her forehead; she looked so innocent and pure, the old man bent his eyes upon that upturned face, and like a father, placing a hand on her shoulder, said in perfect English, though with a slightly foreign accent—
"I have lived much among English, and been in England; but that is long ago. I am a Swiss by birth."
"Oh!" she burst forth in English, "I am so happy to meet some one who speaks my own tongue, it has been a stranger to me so long a time; let us converse always in it: the sound has been lost to me. I have been teaching my child to speak his first word in my native tongue."
"What is your boy's name?" he asked, deeply interested in this fair young mother.
She hesitated a moment. In christening him he had been named "William," as second name, after her father, and by this she generally now called him to strangers; his father's might lead somehow to detection, for frequently theconcièrgetook him in her arms for a walk, when she was too busy to leave home, and always returned with an account of the many persons who stopped to inquire the boy's name. As William, or Guillaume Deval, who might recognize the parents? Almost an impulse induced her to give him Miles's name when this other inquired; but, checking herself, she said "William."
"Has he no father?" asked the old man, caressing the boy, who now sat on his mother's knee; and he looked searchingly at her. But any thought of error fled when you gazed in Minnie's pure face: sin never could look thus.
"We are parted," she said sadly. "Some day, perhaps, monsieur, I may tell you all, and ask your advice; for indeed you seem as an old friend, and father to me. I hope we shall often meet."
And they did; and it seemed as if a blessing followed her good deed, for work came pouring in, and she found constant employment, as we have seen, even from the first dressmakers in Paris—thus she knew of Lady Lysson's party to thebal de l'opera; and her fingers made the domino in which Lady Dora leaned on Tremenhere and listened to his love—so strange a thing is fate! An impulse, impossible to resist, impelled her to visit that scene, whose gaiety harmonized so little with her feelings. She had the two dominoes to make; and in the black one we have seen how much she intrigued Tremenhere—the other she had left with the woman keeping the cloaks, and her foresight served her purpose well, of knowing all. Who may tell the agony of this woman, leaning once again on his arm, and listening to those accents which thrilled her inmost soul—words too of interest fell from his lips, and her bursting heart said, "Throw off your mask, and he will fly you in horror or hate;" but nothing could ever equal in agony that moment when, leaning against the pillar in her second dress, she heard the greater portion of his conversation with Lady Dora; and, worse than all, the promise of the morrow! How could she dive into his heart, and read its sorrow, remorse, and revenge, prompting it to the part he was playing with her cousin? She only saw facts—heard words. She saw him friendly and kind with Lord Randolph; and in his face, whose every look she knew full well, she read confidence and friendship towards that man; then all the hate was her own—it was not mere jealousy, but personal dislike, or he could not so soon have forgotten her! No wonder then she fainted; and, when recovered from her swoon, she declined—nay, peremptorily refused all assistance to take her home—that toiling home, now made doubly painful; she returned to it nearly mad. Theconcièrge, who had taken charge of her boy, was terrified at the paleness of that still face. Minnie said she had a motive for wishing much to go; and the good-natured woman, thinking it so natural, at once consented to keep the boy with her.
"Pauvre pétite," said the woman to herself, as she gave the almost silent Minnie her key and lamp. "She has seen her monsieur, I dare say. Ah! I always thought she was not married—but forsaken, and with her child, too!pauvre pétite!I will bring up Guillaume," she said aloud. "Tenez!you can scarcely support your own weight, much less his! I'll bring him up to you."
And Minnie thanked her in a whisper, and crept almost lifeless up the stairs.
As yet she had confided nothing of her history to her old neighbour, whom she only knew as a poor man named Georges, who had lost place and fortune. By persuading him that he was useful to her, she had succeeded in making him more frequently her guest, than his own solitary companion. She feared speaking of the past; yet, so much did she love the venerable old man, that she longed to dare confide all, and ask his advice. Now she felt her total inability to act for herself, and resolved to tell him not later than the following day. But there is a destiny ever above ruling, far superior to our puny wills. Next day she was too ill to speak, or see him; she was confined to her bed, where the intense anguish of her mind drove madness through her frame; and the following one she was delirious, and her shrieking voice could only utter one name—"Tremenhere!" It was no moment for false delicacy. The old man, whom she had befriended, stood by her in her need, and the trembling hands wiped the cold moisture from her brow, or held the cup oftizaneto her lips. Little Miles was nursed below; and though her eye wandered, seeking something in her madness, she uttered but the one name, sometimes in accents of prayer, sometimes in shrieking horror, for the promised morrow was with her, even in her delirium!
On that morrow, which she so much dreaded, Tremenhere was away from Paris, and hurrying onward towards Marseilles. Once arrived there, his task was an easy one; there were tongues enough to speak to him of the toiling littleouvrière, so frail, so persevering, and of the child which came to solace her hours; even her beauty had not unstrung one malevolent tongue against her fame—all was toil, gentleness, and worth. As he drank down each bitter draught, his soul grew sterner—there was not a tear in it to quench the fire of remorse. All, too, had one tale to tell: she always said, when she had saved enough to pay her journey, she should follow her husband, who was an artist at Florence. To fill up the measure of all, he waited upon the lady, whose daughter, Minnie had accompanied on board the fated "Hirondelle." He presented himself as a relative of her husband; he durst not trust his feelings to say, "I am the man," lest all should shrink from him in horror. He spoke of an unhappy quarrel, their separation, and consequent ignorance of where she was. Here he heard of her with tears from the childless mother, of the affection her daughter bore Minnie, whom she had employed as a workwoman at first, but won by her gentleness, piety, and goodness, had besought her to accompany her to Malta, as nurse to her child—of Minnie's love and devotion for her little "Miles," for thus she had called him there—her firm refusal to wean him, for any sum, from her breast, and her eventually consenting to go to Malta, on their promise to send her, in six months, to Florence—the one dream of her loving wife's heart! 'Tis wonderful Miles could command his feelings enough to listen calmly to all this; but there is a calm far beyond that of perfect peace—'tis that of despair. His face changed not—'twas as though it had been chiseled in marble, by some cunning artificer, to imitate life, for none was there—not a muscle moved—not a shade crossed it; it was the tombstone of hope, whose ashes lay beneath. One thing he did: he sought the room where she had resided in her sorrow—the room where her child's first accents struck upon her ear; it had not been let since, so he sat down alone there for hours, and his wandering eyes looked on every spot on that dingy wall; nothing he left unregarded where her eyes had dwelt, and he saw, as in a vision, all the many thoughts she had left behind her to people the place. He rejoiced no one had ever inhabited the same room since. Seeking the landlord, he rented it for a year, and, paying in advance, carefully locked, and put his seal on it, lest any one should desecrate it.
"No voice in joy shall ever fill that place where she has wept so many silent tears—there, where she loved me still, our spirits have met again. Minnie, forgive me!" And the man knelt in that desolate abode, and prayed fervently. "If," he said, "I should ever be tempted to forget her sorrow, I will return hither, and fill my heart with memory, and hatred of myself!"
And in this mood he returned to Paris: and a week had elapsed since the ball. It will not seem strange if, on his arrival, he shut himself up in his studio, away from the world, for days. How commune with that?—or those who had known her, and now smiled over her grave?
Every moment his feelings became more vindictive towards Lady Dora: it was the only passion surviving in his heart—all the others were wrecked, and had gone down with the "Hirondelle."
Perhaps it was well that Marmaduke Burton had gone, no one knew whither, or a worse one than vindictiveness might have revived. Assuredly he might have been driven to murder, had he once given way to his prompting fiend.
It will seem almost strange to many, perhaps, that with this anguish raging in his heart, he never once thought even of suicide. Tremenhere was a brave man—an essentially courageous one; he feared nothing in this world. But he had a strong religious sense, implanted by his mother: he feared the suicide's unfailing hell, when madness comes not to plead for the act before Heaven. He was preparing himself, in the solitude of his chamber, for a pilgrimage of suffering and repentance, before he should meet her spirit, doomed in its other state to throw off the garb of mercy and forgivenessshewould ever have worn, and before Heaven accuse, perhaps condemn, him. He was preparing to face the world, and veil his suffering—to toil on; and then he asked himself, "For what?" Here his mother arose before him.
"Yes," he said, "I have deserted, forgotten, reviled her; it shall be my task to place her high in brightness and purity. And if, in my passage, one lip breathes Minnie's name in shadow before me, then will I bare all my own heavy sorrow, and, condemning myself, clear her! Now, it would but sully a fame like hers, to drag her forth uncalled for. I must watch my opportunity; and the day I debaseherenemies—her enemy, her heartless cousin—I will elevate her where none shall dare attaint her again!"
He heard Lord Randolph had called; and here it was that his heart turned towards that man. He remembered the kindly, though unadvisedly done, act at Uplands; this man's kindness of manner; his respectfulness towards her. Now the veil of darkness had fallen, he saw all aright; and a love—a love almost of womanly weakness—arose in his heart towards him. He was the first person whom he received; and when the other started at his pale cheek, he simply answered, he had been ill; a sudden obligation to visit the country, where illness had seized upon him. He started, however, when Lord Randolph begged his congratulations on his approaching marriage with Lady Dora, who had accepted him the previous day. However, his start was not perceptible to his friend, and he spoke all the speeches of usage as warmly as such are generally spoken; and, taking his arm, they proceeded together to the Hotel Mirabeau.
Lady Dora and her mother sat alone when they entered. The former, despite her general self-possession, coloured painfully, and then became of marble whiteness, while the pale, curling lip alone spoke her internal battle to seem calm.
"I bring you an invalid friend," said Lord Randolph; "Tremenhere has been very ill."
She looked fixedly at him; his eyes were hollow, his cheeks white; but even these were not sufficient excuse, to that despotic heart. "He should have kept his appointment," she mentally said, "any way."
"Have you been at home?" asked Lady Ripley; "for Lord Randolph told us you were not there when he called."
A sudden thought seized Tremenhere; he would make this illness subservient to his plans. "I was forced to leave Paris—circumstances obliged me," he said, and for an instant his eye lighted on Lady Dora; "and something of a slow, nervous fever has overwhelmed me ever since."
"Egad, yes!" cried Lord Randolph; "I found him seated listlessly at his easel, attempting to paint; and when I enteredsans ceremonie, the fellow mistook me for a rival artist, and hastily threw a covering over somechef d'œuvrehe was completing."
A faint colour crossed Miles's pale cheek, and unthinkingly his eye fell on Lady Dora, and theirs met in an instant; he read her thoughts, and saw where it might be made available to his purpose.
"I was painting from memory," he said—so he had been, butnotLady Dora, as she imagined. His look, his illness, all combined to make her believe herself the cause, or rather jealousy at Lord Randolph's return; and the exulting heart of the woman bounded with gratified pride; there was not one thought of sincere affection in it. Still she could not quite forgive his departure without seeking her. When a woman feels she has stepped rather too far, and in haste, and passes a sleepless night, collecting herself to undo the evil by apparent indifference, it is most provoking to find all thrown away, and that uttered words which we fancied were sunk deep into another's soul, generating loving thoughts and hopes, had passed over the surface like a meteor across the sky, leaving not the slightest trace of its passage.
"May I be permitted," he said, after a pause, in rather a low tone, for Lord Randolph was warmly discussing some political point with his mother-in-law elect, "to offer my congratulations on your approaching happiness? May you be so—I sincerely desire it."
"Thank you," she answered trembling, and biting her lip at his coolness.
"You appear to have held the happiness of more than his in your keeping—your own I mean, in suspense; and now, the battle over, the sun of joy bursts over all. Lord Randolph is perfectly happy, and I never saw your ladyship looking so well!"
"Then, taking you at your own judgment," she answered hastily, without thinking, and acrimoniously, "you are an exception to the general happiness, for you certainly do not look well; you should have placed——" She paused suddenly, and coloured, remembering what her words implied.
"You are right, Lady Dora. I ought to have placed my happiness in your keeping; would you have well guarded it?"
"I do not understand you, Mr. Tremenhere; and I fear you mistake my meaning," was the haughty reply.
"I fear I have mistaken much; forgive me, the error will have no mate—like myself, it will be lone—forgive me."
There was so much sadness in his voice, that her hand trembled with the emotion her pride even could not quell; she had accepted Lord Randolph in pique at Tremenhere's supposed trifling with her, and now those chains were already galling her; yet, how throw them off? how find courage to cast herself away on him—the man she had once so much despised? It was a fearful war within her. At this juncture Lord Randolph came to their aid in words, but every one was significant to their thoughts.
"Tremenhere!" he cried, "I appeal to you," and he turned to where the two sat, a little apart; she was knitting a purse. "Do you think abal masqué, as we went the other night, a place where no man should take his wife?"
"That depends much on the lady," was the reply.
"I said," answered Lady Ripley, "that in my opinion, from the description given me by Lady Lysson (for I thank goodness I was not there,) that scenes so totally at variance with decorum as men in female attire, andvice versâ, and the heterogeneous mass of persons collected there—their freedom of speech, want of all ceremony and obedience to the commonest rules of society, must leave an unfavourable trace on the mind—I declare, even Dora savours of it; for ever since she went there has been a restlessness of spirit, an unquietness of manner, I never noticed before. I should scarcely have wondered at any absurdity she might have committed."
"Oh, mamma!" exclaimed that lady, in painful confusion.
"On my life," laughed Lord Randolph, "Lady Ripley, you are epigrammatic in your speech. Has Lady Dora been guilty of any absurdity since?"
"You mistake me," hastily answered she, remembering the engagement contracted within a few days; "of any serious fault I trustmydaughter will never be guilty; but I mean, were she not perfect, as I may, I believe, call her, in strict propriety of thought and action, I should indeed dread what such influence might effect."
"Lady Dora could never forget what is due to her rank and station," said Tremenhere. "There may be a certain excitement in the scene, especially to a person visiting it for the first time; but we will leave all casualties of this kind to your unsophisticated girl, believing in such an absurdity as love different to what the world has viewed it, and thrown with one she fancied destined to call into being that feeling, there is really no saying whether such a one might not be led away by the atmosphere around her to give love for love, and speak her heart freely where the generous mask concealed her blushes from the eye envious to behold that record of her sincerity; but you will all perceive, I am depicting an imaginary scene, and persons. We are all too sage and old in fashion's ways to commit the like follies."
"Oh, of course!" answered the unseeing mother; but every word had echoed in Lady Dora's heart, or its facsimile; for the thing itself she did not possess—it had long been choked by pride.