"I declare you are ungracious enough to induce Mr. Tremenhere to cast the care of it off his hands, and but that I have its perfecting at heart, before my truant nephew's return from afar, to gladden his eyes with, I should advise him to leave Diane à la chasse for ever, and unfinished."
If the allusion to Lord Randolph made him wince, no eye saw it. As soon as the discussion between the ladies commenced, he had very coolly seated himself in a corner of the sofa; and with pencil and paper was silently sketching Lady Lysson's spaniel, which lay before the fire. Lady Ripley, too, had apartments in the Hotel Mirabeau—consequently, the ladies were as one family. We have seen before, the desire of the two families for an union between Lady Dora and Lord Randolph—a marriage now equally sought for by the gentleman. Though Minnie's death had affected him much, yet he knew not all the circumstances of the case; and, in truth, he was so innocent of any wrong towards her, that the memory soon passed away. On Tremenhere he looked as upon a sort of madman, really being incapable to dive into the recesses of a heart so filled with love, and its ever-accompanying pang—jealousy; and he was now daily expected in Paris to plead his own cause with Lady Dora, who had, unpromising any thing, alone consented, at his aunt's request, to sit for "La Diane," nominally for herself.
There was a feeling of deep repulsion in Lady Dora's heart towards Lord Randolph. Thinking, as she did, that he had at the very least sought to compromise her cousin—if in truth he had not done so—knowing, as she also did, that he and Tremenhere had met in a hostile manner, she felt any thing but easy at the inevitable meeting between them now, courted and sought after as the latter was every where, for his exalted talent, manners, wit, when he pleased, and a certain romance about him, which made him a hero—and what were his feelings at the prospect of seeing Lord Randolph? They were part of a whole of sorrow and suffering. He was resolved to fly nothing which might still more harden his heart; he would apply the iron to every part till he burned out and scarred the vitality still in it. He had but one desire—total callousness—that thus he might find peace; and before the world he had attained that wish—but in the privacy of his own room, unseen, unheard, who might tell the agony he endured? Something of this Lady Dora suspected; and beneath that pride-encased heart there was a woman's thought for him. She could not but respect him, and she dreaded him now more than ever—and this dread made her desire ardently the return of Lord Randolph, that she might endeavour to meet the wishes of all, and, becoming his wife, place him in barrier between Tremenhere and herself; but her fortification would not be a very strong one where her own heart was more than half traitor. Lord Randolph, too, knew Tremenhere was in Paris; but, as nothing forced him to remain, he presumed the meeting would have nothing very painful for him. He looked upon it in this light: that in life, more than once, it has happened, that the law's divorcing power has made wives strangers to their husbands; and society, backed by the rules of etiquette and politeness, has brought these same husbands into almost daily intercourse, without collision—thus he felt it would be between Tremenhere and himself. There was something of a jealous pang, a memory of past insinuations, which made him wish to secure Lady Dora at once—all his love, as he knew that passion, had revived for her. Now we will resume our narrative, where we left Miles sketching the dog.
"Mr. Tremenhere," cried Lady Lysson, "why don't you speak, and assist me in fighting your battles?"
"Mine? Lady Lysson!" he exclaimed, looking up. "Pardon me; I am compelled, though in gratitude for the intention doubtless, on your part, to disavow them as such. It has not been to oblige me, however pleasant the task, that Lady Dora sat for her portrait."
"I am tired of the subject," uttered that lady, pettishly curling her haughty lip, and at the same time etching her sketch with a hasty pen.
"I am perfectly ashamed of the length of time I have expended in pourtraying your beauties, Tiney," said Tremenhere; gravely shaking his head, "when I am compelled to notice the energy with which Lady Dora sketches her——What is Lady Dora sketching?" he asked, rising slowly from his quiet seat, and crossing towards her. As he did so, however, pausing an instant before Lady Lysson, and dropping her favourite's picture in her outstretched hand, with—
"An offering, Lady Lysson, though not by a Landseer. May I look at your labour?" he asked, gently leaning over Lady Dora's chair. She felt his warm breath on her bent neck, and her cheek coloured. She tried to persuade herself it was indignation at his cool audacity, and indifference to her haughtiness; but her heart rejected the excuse, for Tremenhere was her equal, and now received every where as one thrown by accident, or roguery, from his allotted sphere. Even the least liberal could not speak of him as one raised above his real position. She felt herself colouring, and felt also that his eyes were bent upon her; and, hastily tearing the etching in two, cast it aside, saying—
"Pshaw! Mr. Tremenhere; my child's play could never interest a person of your genius; and I am too proud to play second to any one!"
"That you never could," he said, gallantly taking up the pieces, and rejoining them.