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 time _my_
reign 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 pet
_protégés_ crumbling 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? I _hate_ this 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 his _ariette_. 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, so _internally_ sung, (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 how
_mine_ can in any way interest your ladyship."
"I would speak of my cousin," she faltered.
"Oh!" and he smiled; "true--of _my 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 assert _my_ happiness 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 family _secrets_ are 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, the _legitimate_ son 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, and _then_ I 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. _Your_ pride is the upas poison, withering all it touches:
_mine_ is 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.