"Come, I will not have a word against my Randolph, even sous entendu, in epigrams. I have set my heart on his subduing yours, and giving me a right to call you my dear niece."
"I thank you for the cordial wish, dear Lady Lysson; we shall see—à propos, I have promised Mr. Tremenhere a, sitting for Le Diane to-morrow, will you accompany me?—or mamma?"
"Oh, I will, gladly! I delight in that man's society; and he is so very reserved towards women, so totally devoid of love-making, except par badinage—that one feels quite comfortable in cultivating the acquaintance—I speak as relates to you young marrying girls."
"Stop, stop Lady Lysson! you are too fascinating, too young at heart, to exclude yourself from love's attacks yet."
"My dear girl, I have played 'cat's cradle' once too often, ever to attempt it again. I could not unravel the very simplest;" she looked down and thought of "poor Lysson," as she ever termed him. Lady Dora looked down too, and began to think she had played rather too earnestly once at "cat's cradle," and would not resume it again.
CHAPTER XIII.
Tremenhere was in his studio alone—that is, free from living witnesses; but what crowding memories were around him! Here he was himself; not the man seeking oblivion of the past, in society with which he had no fellowship of soul, but the stern, sobered being, whose peace of mind seemed wrecked for ever, and on a rock so minute in appearance, as an "if!" Ever before him stood this word, blistering his eyesight.
Had he been assured of Minnie's infidelity, nothing could have induced him to meet Lord Randolph; as it was, he had a feverish desire to see him, as though in his eyes, by some superhuman power, he could read the whole truth, and either cast her memory for ever from him, or else sit down with every thought of her, collected around him like household gods, on his hearth, and live with them, cherish them, and, stilling the beating of his heart, bid it break amidst them, like a shattered, valueless vase, whose rich essences were poured upon the ground.
"But she was false!" he cried, pacing the floor with hasty steps. "What fiend could ever have weaved together in one web, so much black evidence against her? And what a face she had to cover her lie with! Who could have doubted her—her smile, her clear, seraphic eye! Minnie, 'twas madness to love as I did; and, far more than that, to lose you even, even if you were false! Why could I not have closed my heart against all evidence? Why not have known sooner, that nothing here is perfect! Her mad fancy passed, she might have loved me again—she did love me once! Love me again!—love me again! and could I have waited for that love's return, as we watch the healthful glow coming back to the pale cheek we cherish? Oh no, no, no!—not that! To sit and watch the silent tear, to feel the form shrink from our kindly enfolding; and at last see repulsion become toleration—toleration, patience—patience, friendship, and the heart pause there? Oh no, no! better ten thousand times separation and death!" He stopped, and then creeping silently across that large room, drew back a curtain hanging before a niche, and in this was a statue in marble. It was Minnie—Minnie in her desolation! The face was still, hopeless life; every feature perfection; but disenchantment sat over all, stealing away its life! She stood leaning against a broken pillar—fitting emblem of her fate. The forehead was pressed against the left arm; the heavy plaits of hair, as she had often worn them, looped down the side of her face, hung forward, shewing all the pale chiseling of that hopeless agony there depicted. The whole body denoted utter prostration; and the right arm drooped powerless at her side, holding by its stem a cup reversed! It was an inspiration of memory; and beneath, at its base, was inscribed, "Life's Chalice." It was one of those magically wrought creations which thrill the soul when we look upon them. Tremenhere stood with folded arms contemplating it.