CHAPTER XIX.
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."