Miles Tremenhere Volume Ii Part 15

"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 you _trop Francais_ to be scared by an intrigue _de bal masque_. 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 b.a.l.l.s 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 friends.h.i.+p 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 friends.h.i.+p. 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 pa.s.sion 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 us _never_ speak 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! _There_ is a man who _never_ will 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 friends.h.i.+p, 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 pa.s.sions; 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 pa.s.sed on.

Persons talk of suffering; but could there be any to surpa.s.s Tremenhere's this evening? Obliged to listen to, and join in amus.e.m.e.nt 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 suns.h.i.+ne 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 tete-a-tete. 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 an _escapade_; and, proving the rose's privilege, has intrigued you."

"a.s.suredly, 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 a _loge_ door, and almost beside them stood a domino in brown, with blue ribbons. He glanced at the figure.

"Some _pauvre delaissee_," 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 me _why_ you should be glad. You are silent--shall _I_ tell 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 well _finessed_; 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.