Our readers must not suppose that Lady Dora Vaughan was in love with
Miles Tremenhere. The outcast of society could never find a cherished
home in a heart so proud as her's. True, we cannot always command our
feelings; but we can check them. Her's towards him were, more bordering
on hate than love--And why? because she had _nearly_ loved, and her
pride revolted so much against her weakness, that dislike towards the
object had followed; still, her sensations were far from agreeable. Do
as she might, she could not despise the man; she was bound to admire,
and even while doing so, feel that it would be worse than any marriage
with age or decrepitude (rank and wealth of course accompanying them,)
to love this noble-hearted man, simply because the laws of society
condemned him as an outcast, for his mother's supposed error. And this
frightful fault of pride, was the bane of a host of good qualities and
virtues in Lady Dora. It marred them all; making her seem worldly, cold,
and heartless, whereas a good, simple-minded mother would have created a
jewel of price in this girl. She had met Miles in Florence--met him
merely as an artist, whose rising talent entitled him to portray her
fine features for the admiration of posterity. As a very young man, when
wealth and position were his, Miles had studied painting as an art to
which inspiration called him. Sculpturing, too, he practised, but less
than the other. Perhaps it was, next to his mother's wrongs, the
severest blow of his unhappy fate, when he found himself driven from his
studio at the manor-house, where his happiest hours had been spent. He
had passed years of his life at different periods, since boyhood, in
Italy, and studied with the best masters. When his troubles seemed to
have quite overwhelmed him, after flinging back with scorn the hundred a
year his base cousin dared offer him--as indeed he would have done
thousands, from his, or any hand in charity--he had recourse to his
talents for support. He returned to Italy; and now every energy of his
genius was directed towards the acquirement of wealth, for the purpose
we have shown. This was the man Lady Dora had sat to; and, though she
did not admit the fact at Gatestone, she, but not her mother, had been
perfectly aware that he was the once master of the manor-house. Even
while under his pencil at Florence she had, struck by the name, sought
his confidence, which he freely gave her--only from her mother was it
withheld. Lady Dora never spoke of herself; imagining that every one
must know her rank and family, she merely spoke of having been at
Gatestone, and he inquired no farther. Under the mask with which pride
concealed the working of her features and heart, Lady Dora had warm
affections. Though she did not fully enter into the merits of
Tremenhere's case, neither did she believe that, had his mother been
innocent, he could be so much wronged; still she felt much sympathy for
one brought up in ignorance, so many years, and driven to the bitter
extremity, as she deemed it, of earning his existence; not knowing, that
the bread we honestly earn, is made sweeter to the palate, than that
which comes to us from parents and kindred--the cold household bread,
baked from our birth for us! The depth of thought, intelligence, and
something above any one she had ever met, made her involuntarily bow
before the commanding nature of this man. Of his plans or purposes she
knew nothing; merely supposing that, like hundreds of other artists, he
was earning his living. It was not to a girl like this one, that the
sacred motive of all his acts would be confided. Still it was impossible
to be thrown into the society of Lady Dora, and not admire her deeply,
especially a man like this; for he was too keen an observer--a
scrutinizer of all--not to perceive that under her pride lay feeling and
depth of soul. Insensibly this cold man began to watch for the days of
his visits at the Palazzo Nuovo, whither he went to complete the
portraits of herself, and the countess; but it was to his studio Lady
Dora came, accompanied by a waiting-woman, and sometimes her mother, to
mark the progress of her marble statue; and here, in his own home, his
household gods around him, Miles became so perfectly himself--at ease,
graceful, and courteous in manner, such as few could be, none surpass,
that insensibly Lady Dora felt her heart question her pride as to the
possibility of reconciliation; for with her they were two enemies at
open war--still she was not in love. Surrounded by admirers--sought
every where--chidden by her mother for her coldness--it was a bitter
pang to her, the discovery that this painter-sculptor, for such he was,
should give her heart an awakening start. At first she gave herself up
to the enjoyment of a new sensation; then, when she discovered how
dangerous the feeling might become, she drew back into her shell, which
lay outwardly cold and empty; whereas within beat a warm heart.
Tremenhere, however, guessed a part of the whole. There is a look, not
to be mistaken, in the downcast lid which lowers over the traitor
glance--there is the young blood, which will rush up rejoicing to the
cheek. No caution can check this tide, no dam limit its flow. More than
once her blush had made his heart question itself; and though that heart
acknowledged a warmer feeling than towards a mere acquaintance, still
it's joy was not full, the cup was not filled to overflowing, nor any
thing resembling it. Lady Dora had passed a sleepless night after the
conversation with Minnie. Minnie she had loved as a child--loved her now
as a girl; moreover, she was a part of herself, her flesh and
blood--degradation to one, would necessarily fall upon the other; and
knowing, as she knew the fascination of Miles, even acting upon
herself--the girl accustomed to society and adulation--she doubly
dreaded it in the case of an unsophisticated girl like her cousin. Lady
Dora, we have said, arose, it was about seven o'clock, a thing most
unusual for her to do. She dressed herself without the attendance of
her maid, and after a moment's thoughtful pause, put on a close
straw-bonnet and shawl, and, opening her door gently, crept down-stairs.
It will be remembered that Lady Dora had often been, as a child, a
resident at Gatestone; consequently, under the unavoidable influence of
Mrs. Gillett, the presiding goddess of the house. To her room, through
the gardens, Lady Dora resolved to go, as if accidentally in an early
walk, and implore her not to countenance in any way the
inter-communication of Minnie and Tremenhere. Poor Lady Dora quite
forgot, or disbelieved, that there is a communion of kindred spirits on
earth, and that vain is all earthly power to separate them. Thinking on
various things in deep cogitation, she skirted the gardens, passed
through the shrubbery, and was on the point of entering the
fruit-gardens leading to Mrs. Gillett's window, when she suddenly
paused. Through an opening of the majestic trees in the long walk called
the shrubbery, she saw in the distance a man's figure. He was slowly
walking in the holly-field before alluded to. She drew near the hedge
separating the grounds from this last named, and looked earnestly
through the interstices of the hedge; he was evidently strolling about,
on nothing especial bent. She paused in thought. "Was he, could he, be
expecting any one? if so----Surely not Minnie? oh, no! she was too
candid and retiring to deceive, or be guilty of such an act on so slight
an acquaintance." These questions answered, her decision was soon made;
it was far better to speak to him candidly, than through any servant
attain her object. Her pride made her sufficiently self-relying, and
placed her on too high a pedestal to fear, as a merely ordinary girl of
her age might have done. Thus resolved, she returned on her footsteps,
and walking hastily through the grounds, opened a small door leading to
the fields, and without further hesitation proceeded straight towards
the man, as matinal as herself; whom, at a glance, she had recognized,
as Tremenhere. He, too, had passed a restless night--a thing to him of
frequent occurrence; poor Miles had much to banish sleep from his
pillow, at all times. He never stayed to woo Morpheus, but rose at once,
however early it might be, in Aurora's reign. He had been up nearly two
hours, and something impelled him to visit this path, remembering that
one day's hour of waking, generally is succeeded by a parallel act, next
morning. Minnie had been across these fields at six the previous day,
and might she not do the like this? So much worth was his resolution to
quit the spot, and see her no more. His back was however, now turned
from Gatestone, and he sat upon a stile watching busy nature; he was too
sad to sing, or he would have united his voice with the tone of the
lark, and busy bee, as they rose above, or flew past him. No! he sat in
thought. Lady Dora's light step was unheard; it might have been a flying
hare's, 'twas so gently placed on the grass; a cough, however, startled
him, and then a cold untrembling.
"Mr. Tremenhere, pardon my interruption of your reverie, but may I speak
to you?"
"Good heavens! Lady Dora Vaughan!" and he was beside her.
"You naturally feel astonished at my being here, Mr. Tremenhere," she
coldly said, after an obeisance of the body which placed a barrier like
the Jura mountains between them--"precipitately steep." "But I was
walking in the gardens, and perceiving you, have come without
hesitation, well assured that you can place no false construction on the
otherwise hazardous act."
"Lady Dora must be fully aware that presumption, or self-appreciation
_above_ what I deserve, is not a fault of mine; what I am, I
know--_more_, I never shall seek to be."
He was to the full as proud as herself in word and look; she felt his
meaning, and thought they stood _equal_ in mental strength; but his was
the real, sterling pride, grounded on uprightness of cause--hers, the
worldly thing, born by accident of birth; but, like many unreal things,
it looked as pure as the other to the eye.
"Believe me, Mr. Tremenhere, I do full justice to you in all things. I
feel so much sympathy for a position so painful as yours, especially as
it must be here, in this neighbourhood."
He merely bowed. She scarcely knew well how to enter upon the subject of
Minnie; even to her undaunted mind, it was a most difficult one. "May I
ask," she said at last, "without a seeming impertinence, foreign to my
thought, whether your stay will be greatly prolonged here?"
He stood surprised; but, fixing his gaze upon her cold, impassive face,
he read nothing to point a suspicion of any personal interest on her
part.
"May I inquire your ladyship's motive for the question? I shall then,
possibly, be better enabled to reply with brevity and decision to it, as
I presume the dew still lying on the grass, induces you naturally, to
abridge this visit, as much as possible, once its motive explained. I
regret I cannot offer a more agreeable place of rest, than the grassy
turf."
"Thank you, Mr. Tremenhere. I like the country--its walks and
associations."
"Indeed! I thought I remembered other opinions in Florence; but we all
are liable to change. Let us hope it may ever be for the better, as your
decision for the sweet country and rural nature decidedly is."
"We will walk, if you please," she coldly replied, moving onwards. They
had been standing near the stile: there was another awkward pause.
"Mr. Tremenhere," she said at length, hastily, "I was made acquainted
last evening by my cousin, Miss Dalzell, with her extraordinary meeting
with yourself. 'Tis of that I would speak."
"Extraordinary! Lady Dora--why extraordinary? I naturally wished to see
an old acquaintance of boyhood, Mrs. Gillett. I have bad taste; but the
humble have often charms for me beyond many more sought after. Then I
had a message to give, which only Mrs. Gillett might be charged with;
then--I confess my audacity towards _your_ cousin, I had an earnest
desire once more to behold Miss Dalzell, and thank her for her candidly
expressed and warm sympathy with a _now_ disregarded man--one drooping,
but not _crushed_, Lady Dora."
The woman's heart softened at this tone; it was one of so much noble
pride, and knowledge of his rights. Her voice was gentler as she said--
"Whatever your misfortunes may have been, or are at this moment, I most
sincerely----"
He bowed, and interrupted her. "Your ladyship, I think, came here to
speak on some subject more interesting than my wrongs, I believe; pardon
me for reminding you of it."
She bit her lip. She saw that every word uttered in the pride of her
heart at Florence, when he had almost dared to speak of love, was
remembered against her.
"I thank you for recalling me to my immediate business in being here,
Mr. Tremenhere. I _know_ I am speaking to a man of the highest honour."
"You only do me justice," he replied. "'Twas born with me from _both_
parents."
"I would speak to you of my cousin, Miss Dalzell, and implore you to
quit this neighbourhood, or else avoid any further meeting with her."
Lady Dora committed a grievous error. She should not have permitted such
a thought to intrude upon her, as the possibility of her cousin
degrading herself, as she deemed it would be, by any attachment to
Tremenhere; still less should she have allowed him to imagine such a
thing within the nature of probability, as Minnie ever returning any
affection of his. She had opened a door in his heart, difficult to
close again; certainly _she_ could not accomplish it. Naturally he asked
himself, "What had Miss Dalzell said of him, so much to alarm her
cousin?" And through that open gate passed many sweet hopes into the
lone man's heart.
"May I ask," he said hastily, "whether your ladyship comes _from_ Miss
Dalzell thus requesting?"
"You cannot imagine, sir," and she drew her proud figure up, "that my
cousin could be unwomanly enough to make so strange a request--implying
fear of herself? No; _I_ fear for her, only because she is a
warm-hearted girl. Her sympathies are awakened for you; her uncle and
aunts have chosen otherwise for her; a marriage with you would be most
distasteful to them _on that account_," she hastily added, to soften the
real meaning of her heart, which she had nearly betrayed in her haste.
She would not wilfully pain any one. "And by some unfortunate event you
have met. It is paying you a compliment to say I fear for her."
"Paying _me_ a compliment," he sternly replied, "at the expense of one
whose memory I revere. Were I the acknowledged master of the
manor-house, my visits as a suitor would not be less pleasing than those
of my worthless cousin, Marmaduke Burton. As it is, Lady Dora Vaughan
ought to know how little there is to be feared from myself in attaching
any one; for, let my station be what it may, the heart knows of none,
and for one worthy of its love, will fearlessly speak. Thus, then, there
cannot really exist in your ladyship's mind the fear your words express.
You have _proved_ how, in all confidence, I may be trusted near
disengaged hearts; I will conclude some kinder motive impelled you to
seek me to-day--some old scenes to recall to memory--_together_ to speak
some friendly word, which will bear repetition--something in short of
the past; or a friend, to inquire about. All are well, I believe; were,
when I left. Lord Randolph Gray perfectly recovered from his fall,
though they say, from some hidden cause, sad at heart. Or it may be only
an artistic visit this,--has your ladyship's portrait grown pale?
Colours fade sometimes, however much we may have endeavoured to make
them proof against so great sacrilege, to a lovely original. Shall I
call, when in the neighbourhood of Loughton Castle, and retouch it? or
will your ladyship send it to the artist's studio in town? I wait your
commands."
All this was uttered in a tone of _badinage_, leaving her abashed and
speechless. How she despised herself for having ever allowed a momentary
weakness of heart at Florence, to leave a dream on that man's mind that
she had almost loved him. How she hated him for having excited that
affection, and _now_ even forcing her to respect him. In her
self-abasement, she would have rejoiced in proving _him_ base, that she
might banish him, as she then could, from her thoughts. And, as the last
pain is ever keenest, she more than all else deplored her ill-advised
morning walk. She felt she had injured her cause, and, resolving to
abridge this meeting, also came to the decision of watching over Minnie,
and imploring her Aunt Dorcas to reason with her. How people hurry on
events by too much forethought, sometimes.
"I fear," she answered, after a moment's pause, stopping in her walk
with a frigidity of manner which would have convinced many of their
first error in supposing she had even dreamed of love. But Tremenhere
was not a superficial observer. "I fear, Mr. Tremenhere, that you
totally mistake my meaning and intention. Lest a greater error than the
first should ensue, we will, if you please, stop here in our
conversation. I trust I misjudge my cousin's warm heart, and that it
will never lead her into an act which would deprive her of all her
friend's sympathy. Nay, do not take any personal offence; but she is too
unsophisticated to trust her own judgment in all things."
"May I without offence say," said he, completely changing the
conversation, and smiling blandly, "that I regret much your ladyship's
portrait should have been entrusted to my care under the influence of a
more southern sky? Assuredly there can be nothing in nature to equal the
beauty of the dazzling English complexion!" And he gazed respectfully,
but admiringly on her glowing cheek. She certainly was beautiful at that
moment; many emotions combined to heighten the colouring of the fresh
morning air. Again she bit her lip. This man had beaten her; and not
alone doing it, but he knew he had done so, and made her feel it. She
merely bowed; and as they turned in their walk, finding herself near the
door entering Gatestone shrubbery, stopped. Then for the first time her
abased self-confidence made her dread lest any one should have seen her
with him. What would be thought, said, reported? And in this unenviable
state of mind, she took a cold, haughty leave of Tremenhere, who was
smiling, and courteous in the extreme. As he replaced his hat, he turned
away, and she hastily entered the grounds. Lady Dora almost forgot her
dignity enough to hurry towards the house; perhaps she would quite have
done so, had she seen Minnie concealed within the shrubs, with distended
eyes, full of wonder, and a little regret, earnestly watching her. Poor
girl! she did not know what to do or think. Her first movement had been
to join Dora; then one of delicacy withheld her--the other evidently
wished her visit unknown. Minnie had been matinal, too; and looking from
her window before descending, _not_ to seek Miles, but to walk in the
fresh garden among dew and flowers, she saw Dora pass out. Deeming the
other's motive like her own, she hastened her toilet, and just arrived
in the shrubbery as Dora joined Miles at the stile. Him she knew at a
glance; then her heart questioned, "What are they to each other?" She
knew they had met. Had she been confiding her admiration of him to one
who loved him? one perhaps beloved? She would ask Dora--no, she would
wait till they were alone--Dora would surely speak of the morning's
walk. So in this final decision Minnie paused, and, unseen by the other,
followed her to the house, where they shortly after met at breakfast.
"Dora, you are late," said Minnie, as she entered the breakfast parlour.
"Yes," was the reply, "we sleep well in country air."
"She will tell me when we are alone," thought Minnie. And when that
occurred, and the other kept silence of lip, and looked so thoughtful,
Minnie felt sadly disappointed. Dora was not all candour, and her pure
nature sickened at the worldly lesson. A first deception where we
trusted, _often_ mars a life; at all events, it taints life's current,
and breeds suspicion--_frequently_, error, on our part.