Miles Tremenhere Volume Ii Part 21

Lady Dora was lost in vain conjectures as to the cause of his estrangement; though a momentary doubt might arise, yet her unfailing pride came in to soothe her--"he durst not trust himself!" Thus she thought, and with this conviction arose a determination to go to his studio; this was not difficult of accomplishment. By a cleverly turned hint to her mother about Lord Randolph's impatience respecting her picture, Lady Ripley wrote, expressing a desire for its completion, as soon as he conveniently might attend to it; and soliciting an hour when Lady Dora might give him a sitting. This lady so arranged it, that her mother asked from herself without naming any impatience on her part, but Tremenhere smiled in scorn and triumph; for he saw the whole affair, as though it had been planned beneath his eye. He wrote, regretting much occupation had obliged him to banish himself from her ladyship's circle; for the happy indolence which there crept over him, unfitted him for other less pleasing occupations, but fixing an hour in which he should be too happy to see Lady Dora. Every line of this had been guardedly penned; and each word had a signification in that lady's eyes, flattering to herself. Lord Randolph had seen him several times, and always reported something about the mysteriously veiled picture; she was convinced in her own mind, that this was some portrait of herself, and she resolved, if practicable, to verify the fact; however, when she arrived there with an appearance of calm dignity, accompanied by her mother, nothing was to be seen but herself as Diana on the easel, and as unfinished as when she had last seen it. This confirmed her impression of some strange mystery; and Tremenhere's suffering face, which nothing could disguise, made her heart bound high in triumphant pride--it was suffering on her account. His manner still further strengthened this deep error on her part,--her mother accompanied her, consequently their words, beyond mere general ones, were few; still, when she spoke of his absenting himself from all society, the significance with which he whispered, "Better live with a sad memory, than a vain and dangerous reality," lost nothing of the effect he intended it to convey. The real truth was, he felt too worn in spirit, even for revenge sake, just then to continue his comedy with herself--he had only courage to suffer; but his absenting himself was as politic a thing as he could have done; and she left the studio with a tremor in her heart, of which she had thought herself incapable--one which not a little startled her yet rebelling pride, and made her look every hour with deeper gloom, or nervous excitement, on the preparations which were progressing for her marriage with Lord Randolph, whom she almost hated, and yet had not the courage to come to an open rupture with, lest Tremenhere should quite read her heart. She was bent upon bringing him to her feet, and then permitting a hope to gleam over his doubts.

CHAPTER XIX.

She was in this mood one day when he called, and found her in a tete-a-tete with Lord Randolph. She was dressed _a l'Amazone_, for her horse was awaiting its lovely mistress below.

"I have arrived _mal a propos_," he said, after the salutations of meeting were over. "I see your ladyship is going out."

"Come with us," asked Lord Randolph, shaking his hand warmly. "A gallop will chase away the clouds of study from your brow. Lady Dora, did you ever behold so altered a face? Why, man, your studio will be the death of you."

"Not _that_," he replied, looking gloomily downwards; then, as suddenly raising his head, he seemed to chase away shades and clouds, for the face became calm and smiling.

"Will you take me _en croupe_?" he asked, addressing Lord Randolph, in answer to his question. "I saw but two horses below--yours and Lady Dora's."

"Oh, no! I will send my groom away, if you will mount his. You must accompany us."

"Lady Dora says nothing; the lady may have too much excellent taste to admire a trio. In my opinion much pleasure is often lost in them, either in music or society."

"How so, Mr. Tremenhere?" she asked coldly.

"Why," he answered, laughing,--"there are the soprano, the contralto, and the mezzo; this last I have ever looked upon as an almost indistinct, useless sort of 'lend-its-aid' to support and show off the other two."

"Then I'll play mezzo," cried Lord Randolph good-humouredly, but with singular, though unconscious truth; "for I have a bad headache, and you two shall sing, and I will listen, occasionally throwing in a note."

"Don't let it be one of discord," cried Tremenhere, in the same tone as before. "We must have harmony; if Lady Dora consent to this, I will gladly take your groom's horse."

Her eyes said more than her lips, as she replied--"We shall be most happy of your company."

"Might I have chosen a character, in which to have handed Lady Dora down, by my humble skill, to posterity, I should have selected her present one. Lady, I never saw you so perfect as in your Amazonian costume; it suits your style far better than Diana even," and Tremenhere bent his eyes in well-schooled admiration upon her; still the effort was not an immense one, for, as an artist, he could not but have admired her perfection of beauty in this dress; then, too, she was grace personified in the management of a spirited horse, which seemed as a part of herself in pride of beauty.

"Why do you object to Diana?" she inquired, fixing her full gaze upon him undauntedly, in all its fire.

"Diana," said Lord Randolph, before the other could reply, "conveys to my mind the idea of a lady over fond of being out at night, not a loving bride or wife," and he laughed significantly at Lady Dora, who turned away towards Tremenhere.

"You have not answered my question," she said.

"Something of Lord Randolph's thought is mine," he replied. "Diana is cold, uncheered, uncheering; she sails onward in her dignity and splendour, surrounded by satellites, uncaring for them all, beautiful, but unloving."

"What do you say to Endymion?" she asked, and her glance crossed his.

"She loved him, and he slept!" was the calm reply.

"That was _his_ fault; 'she could not wake his eye-lids with her kiss,'"

fell from her lips.

"Because," answered Tremenhere, "it was too queenly, too cold; had Venus embraced him, he would have started into waking life and love!" Her eye fell beneath his glance.

"The 'Mezzo' must put in a note," said Lord Randolph.

At the word "Mezzo," a gentle, but involuntary laugh escaped from Lady Dora. Tremenhere was grave. He despised while he played with this girl; and, turning to the other, asked in a tone almost too serious and feeling for the occasion, "What is your thought?"

"I think Diana was an arrant, heartless flirt, and certainly deceitful.

She a.s.sumed to herself a character not deserved--a strictly chaste G.o.ddess would never have come down o' night to embrace a shepherd on a hill. I think it is very fortunate he _did_ sleep; had he awakened, he would have had a very different opinion of the lady, and have been fully justified in nodding significantly when her name was mentioned. I only wonder she should have told of herself; for unless she did so--how was this midnight visit known?"

"Oh! she perhaps wanted the cleverness which some possess, of keeping her own counsel," answered Tremenhere.

"Most probably," hazarded Lady Dora, not liking to keep too painful a silence where the subject had become so strangely epigrammatic, "some star betrayed her mistress."

"True!" replied Tremenhere, "as in 'Love's Witnesses,'" and he repeated in a soft, impressive voice--

"Love! when we last night, embracing, Sigh'd farewell--who saw us part?

Was it night? or sly Aurora?

Or the stars? or the moon who heard?"

"A star shot down and told the ocean-- Ocean told a mariner; Then the mariner told his mistress; She--she told it every where!"

"'Gad, that's how Madam Diana's escapade became known, I bet my life!"

cried Lord Randolph.

She did not reply; she was dreaming over the tone in which "Love! when we last night, embracing," had dropped from his lips, and was lost in that tone's significance, which sent up the harmony to her eyes, with which her softened glance lit on Tremenhere's; and then faded into shade beneath her trembling lashes, consumed, Phoenix-like, by its own fire.

"Then Diana was cruel, too," continued Lord Randolph, hunting down the huntress. "Unsparing with her darts; the wound from which, like wound of hart, never heals!"

"Let her rest," said Lady Dora, fixing a full look of meaning on Tremenhere; "those skilled in venery say, there _is_ a balm for wound of hart."

"Yes, from the animal which has inflicted it," answered Tremenhere.

"Let us have a canter!" cried Lady Dora, starting off down an avenue of the _Bois de Boulogne_, where the sand deadened the sound of their flying horses' feet. It was a lovely day, and there were groups of equestrians. They had ridden some time, when they met three or four gentlemen together. After bowing _en pa.s.sant_, Lord Randolph suddenly stopped--

"That's Gillingham!" he exclaimed; "and riding the very horse he wants me to buy. Lady Dora, may I leave you five minutes, _a regret_, however, on my own account, under Tremenhere's care. I will rejoin you near the pond."

She merely bowed.

"Beware of the '_Mare au Diable_!'" cried Tremenhere to him, as he cantered off. "Have you read George Sand's tale of that name?" asked he of Lady Dora.

"No; that is, I am not certain of having done so--what is the plot?"

"Oh! one full of intense interest; simply told, and of simple persons.

It may not interest you."

"I like simplicity," she replied.

"Do you? I am glad to hear that. True feeling is _always_ simple, meek, and confiding."

"But the tale?" she asked, to change his tone. She wanted time to prepare herself for a _tete-a-tete_. She began to fear her own sudden impulses.