Our readers must not suppose that Lady Dora Vaughan was in love with Miles Tremenhere. The outcast of society could never find a cherished home in a heart so proud as her's. True, we cannot always command our feelings; but we can check them. Her's towards him were, more bordering on hate than love—And why? because she had nearly loved, and her pride revolted so much against her weakness, that dislike towards the object had followed; still, her sensations were far from agreeable. Do as she might, she could not despise the man; she was bound to admire, and even while doing so, feel that it would be worse than any marriage with age or decrepitude (rank and wealth of course accompanying them,) to love this noble-hearted man, simply because the laws of society condemned him as an outcast, for his mother's supposed error. And this frightful fault of pride, was the bane of a host of good qualities and virtues in Lady Dora. It marred them all; making her seem worldly, cold, and heartless, whereas a good, simple-minded mother would have created a jewel of price in this girl. She had met Miles in Florence—met him merely as an artist, whose rising talent entitled him to portray her fine features for the admiration of posterity. As a very young man, when wealth and position were his, Miles had studied painting as an art to which inspiration called him. Sculpturing, too, he practised, but less than the other. Perhaps it was, next to his mother's wrongs, the severest blow of his unhappy fate, when he found himself driven from his studio at the manor-house, where his happiest hours had been spent. He had passed years of his life at different periods, since boyhood, in Italy, and studied with the best masters. When his troubles seemed to have quite overwhelmed him, after flinging back with scorn the hundred a year his base cousin dared offer him—as indeed he would have done thousands, from his, or any hand in charity—he had recourse to his talents for support. He returned to Italy; and now every energy of his genius was directed towards the acquirement of wealth, for the purpose we have shown. This was the man Lady Dora had sat to; and, though she did not admit the fact at Gatestone, she, but not her mother, had been perfectly aware that he was the once master of the manor-house. Even while under his pencil at Florence she had, struck by the name, sought his confidence, which he freely gave her—only from her mother was it withheld. Lady Dora never spoke of herself; imagining that every one must know her rank and family, she merely spoke of having been at Gatestone, and he inquired no farther. Under the mask with which pride concealed the working of her features and heart, Lady Dora had warm affections. Though she did not fully enter into the merits of Tremenhere's case, neither did she believe that, had his mother been innocent, he could be so much wronged; still she felt much sympathy for one brought up in ignorance, so many years, and driven to the bitter extremity, as she deemed it, of earning his existence; not knowing, that the bread we honestly earn, is made sweeter to the palate, than that which comes to us from parents and kindred—the cold household bread, baked from our birth for us! The depth of thought, intelligence, and something above any one she had ever met, made her involuntarily bow before the commanding nature of this man. Of his plans or purposes she knew nothing; merely supposing that, like hundreds of other artists, he was earning his living. It was not to a girl like this one, that the sacred motive of all his acts would be confided. Still it was impossible to be thrown into the society of Lady Dora, and not admire her deeply, especially a man like this; for he was too keen an observer—a scrutinizer of all—not to perceive that under her pride lay feeling and depth of soul. Insensibly this cold man began to watch for the days of his visits at the Palazzo Nuovo, whither he went to complete the portraits of herself, and the countess; but it was to his studio Lady Dora came, accompanied by a waiting-woman, and sometimes her mother, to mark the progress of her marble statue; and here, in his own home, his household gods around him, Miles became so perfectly himself—at ease, graceful, and courteous in manner, such as few could be, none surpass, that insensibly Lady Dora felt her heart question her pride as to the possibility of reconciliation; for with her they were two enemies at open war—still she was not in love. Surrounded by admirers—sought every where—chidden by her mother for her coldness—it was a bitter pang to her, the discovery that this painter-sculptor, for such he was, should give her heart an awakening start. At first she gave herself up to the enjoyment of a new sensation; then, when she discovered how dangerous the feeling might become, she drew back into her shell, which lay outwardly cold and empty; whereas within beat a warm heart. Tremenhere, however, guessed a part of the whole. There is a look, not to be mistaken, in the downcast lid which lowers over the traitor glance—there is the young blood, which will rush up rejoicing to the cheek. No caution can check this tide, no dam limit its flow. More than once her blush had made his heart question itself; and though that heart acknowledged a warmer feeling than towards a mere acquaintance, still it's joy was not full, the cup was not filled to overflowing, nor any thing resembling it. Lady Dora had passed a sleepless night after the conversation with Minnie. Minnie she had loved as a child—loved her now as a girl; moreover, she was a part of herself, her flesh and blood—degradation to one, would necessarily fall upon the other; and knowing, as she knew the fascination of Miles, even acting upon herself—the girl accustomed to society and adulation—she doubly dreaded it in the case of an unsophisticated girl like her cousin. Lady Dora, we have said, arose, it was about seven o'clock, a thing most unusual for her to do. She dressed herself without the attendance of her maid, and after a moment's thoughtful pause, put on a close straw-bonnet and shawl, and, opening her door gently, crept down-stairs. It will be remembered that Lady Dora had often been, as a child, a resident at Gatestone; consequently, under the unavoidable influence of Mrs. Gillett, the presiding goddess of the house. To her room, through the gardens, Lady Dora resolved to go, as if accidentally in an early walk, and implore her not to countenance in any way the inter-communication of Minnie and Tremenhere. Poor Lady Dora quite forgot, or disbelieved, that there is a communion of kindred spirits on earth, and that vain is all earthly power to separate them. Thinking on various things in deep cogitation, she skirted the gardens, passed through the shrubbery, and was on the point of entering the fruit-gardens leading to Mrs. Gillett's window, when she suddenly paused. Through an opening of the majestic trees in the long walk called the shrubbery, she saw in the distance a man's figure. He was slowly walking in the holly-field before alluded to. She drew near the hedge separating the grounds from this last named, and looked earnestly through the interstices of the hedge; he was evidently strolling about, on nothing especial bent. She paused in thought. "Was he, could he, be expecting any one? if so——Surely not Minnie? oh, no! she was too candid and retiring to deceive, or be guilty of such an act on so slight an acquaintance." These questions answered, her decision was soon made; it was far better to speak to him candidly, than through any servant attain her object. Her pride made her sufficiently self-relying, and placed her on too high a pedestal to fear, as a merely ordinary girl of her age might have done. Thus resolved, she returned on her footsteps, and walking hastily through the grounds, opened a small door leading to the fields, and without further hesitation proceeded straight towards the man, as matinal as herself; whom, at a glance, she had recognized, as Tremenhere. He, too, had passed a restless night—a thing to him of frequent occurrence; poor Miles had much to banish sleep from his pillow, at all times. He never stayed to woo Morpheus, but rose at once, however early it might be, in Aurora's reign. He had been up nearly two hours, and something impelled him to visit this path, remembering that one day's hour of waking, generally is succeeded by a parallel act, next morning. Minnie had been across these fields at six the previous day, and might she not do the like this? So much worth was his resolution to quit the spot, and see her no more. His back was however, now turned from Gatestone, and he sat upon a stile watching busy nature; he was too sad to sing, or he would have united his voice with the tone of the lark, and busy bee, as they rose above, or flew past him. No! he sat in thought. Lady Dora's light step was unheard; it might have been a flying hare's, 'twas so gently placed on the grass; a cough, however, startled him, and then a cold untrembling.

"Mr. Tremenhere, pardon my interruption of your reverie, but may I speak to you?"

"Good heavens! Lady Dora Vaughan!" and he was beside her.

"You naturally feel astonished at my being here, Mr. Tremenhere," she coldly said, after an obeisance of the body which placed a barrier like the Jura mountains between them—"precipitately steep." "But I was walking in the gardens, and perceiving you, have come without hesitation, well assured that you can place no false construction on the otherwise hazardous act."

"Lady Dora must be fully aware that presumption, or self-appreciation above what I deserve, is not a fault of mine; what I am, I know—more, I never shall seek to be."

He was to the full as proud as herself in word and look; she felt his meaning, and thought they stood equal in mental strength; but his was the real, sterling pride, grounded on uprightness of cause—hers, the worldly thing, born by accident of birth; but, like many unreal things, it looked as pure as the other to the eye.

"Believe me, Mr. Tremenhere, I do full justice to you in all things. I feel so much sympathy for a position so painful as yours, especially as it must be here, in this neighbourhood."

He merely bowed. She scarcely knew well how to enter upon the subject of Minnie; even to her undaunted mind, it was a most difficult one. "May I ask," she said at last, "without a seeming impertinence, foreign to my thought, whether your stay will be greatly prolonged here?"

He stood surprised; but, fixing his gaze upon her cold, impassive face, he read nothing to point a suspicion of any personal interest on her part.

"May I inquire your ladyship's motive for the question? I shall then, possibly, be better enabled to reply with brevity and decision to it, as I presume the dew still lying on the grass, induces you naturally, to abridge this visit, as much as possible, once its motive explained. I regret I cannot offer a more agreeable place of rest, than the grassy turf."

"Thank you, Mr. Tremenhere. I like the country—its walks and associations."

"Indeed! I thought I remembered other opinions in Florence; but we all are liable to change. Let us hope it may ever be for the better, as your decision for the sweet country and rural nature decidedly is."

"We will walk, if you please," she coldly replied, moving onwards. They had been standing near the stile: there was another awkward pause.

"Mr. Tremenhere," she said at length, hastily, "I was made acquainted last evening by my cousin, Miss Dalzell, with her extraordinary meeting with yourself. 'Tis of that I would speak."

"Extraordinary! Lady Dora—why extraordinary? I naturally wished to see an old acquaintance of boyhood, Mrs. Gillett. I have bad taste; but the humble have often charms for me beyond many more sought after. Then I had a message to give, which only Mrs. Gillett might be charged with; then—I confess my audacity towards your cousin, I had an earnest desire once more to behold Miss Dalzell, and thank her for her candidly expressed and warm sympathy with a now disregarded man—one drooping, but not crushed, Lady Dora."

The woman's heart softened at this tone; it was one of so much noble pride, and knowledge of his rights. Her voice was gentler as she said—

"Whatever your misfortunes may have been, or are at this moment, I most sincerely——"

He bowed, and interrupted her. "Your ladyship, I think, came here to speak on some subject more interesting than my wrongs, I believe; pardon me for reminding you of it."

She bit her lip. She saw that every word uttered in the pride of her heart at Florence, when he had almost dared to speak of love, was remembered against her.

"I thank you for recalling me to my immediate business in being here, Mr. Tremenhere. I know I am speaking to a man of the highest honour."

"You only do me justice," he replied. "'Twas born with me from both parents."

"I would speak to you of my cousin, Miss Dalzell, and implore you to quit this neighbourhood, or else avoid any further meeting with her." Lady Dora committed a grievous error. She should not have permitted such a thought to intrude upon her, as the possibility of her cousin degrading herself, as she deemed it would be, by any attachment to Tremenhere; still less should she have allowed him to imagine such a thing within the nature of probability, as Minnie ever returning any affection of his. She had opened a door in his heart, difficult to close again; certainly she could not accomplish it. Naturally he asked himself, "What had Miss Dalzell said of him, so much to alarm her cousin?" And through that open gate passed many sweet hopes into the lone man's heart.

"May I ask," he said hastily, "whether your ladyship comes from Miss Dalzell thus requesting?"

"You cannot imagine, sir," and she drew her proud figure up, "that my cousin could be unwomanly enough to make so strange a request—implying fear of herself? No; I fear for her, only because she is a warm-hearted girl. Her sympathies are awakened for you; her uncle and aunts have chosen otherwise for her; a marriage with you would be most distasteful to them on that account," she hastily added, to soften the real meaning of her heart, which she had nearly betrayed in her haste. She would not wilfully pain any one. "And by some unfortunate event you have met. It is paying you a compliment to say I fear for her."

"Paying me a compliment," he sternly replied, "at the expense of one whose memory I revere. Were I the acknowledged master of the manor-house, my visits as a suitor would not be less pleasing than those of my worthless cousin, Marmaduke Burton. As it is, Lady Dora Vaughan ought to know how little there is to be feared from myself in attaching any one; for, let my station be what it may, the heart knows of none, and for one worthy of its love, will fearlessly speak. Thus, then, there cannot really exist in your ladyship's mind the fear your words express. You have proved how, in all confidence, I may be trusted near disengaged hearts; I will conclude some kinder motive impelled you to seek me to-day—some old scenes to recall to memory—together to speak some friendly word, which will bear repetition—something in short of the past; or a friend, to inquire about. All are well, I believe; were, when I left. Lord Randolph Gray perfectly recovered from his fall, though they say, from some hidden cause, sad at heart. Or it may be only an artistic visit this,—has your ladyship's portrait grown pale? Colours fade sometimes, however much we may have endeavoured to make them proof against so great sacrilege, to a lovely original. Shall I call, when in the neighbourhood of Loughton Castle, and retouch it? or will your ladyship send it to the artist's studio in town? I wait your commands."

All this was uttered in a tone of badinage, leaving her abashed and speechless. How she despised herself for having ever allowed a momentary weakness of heart at Florence, to leave a dream on that man's mind that she had almost loved him. How she hated him for having excited that affection, and now even forcing her to respect him. In her self-abasement, she would have rejoiced in proving him base, that she might banish him, as she then could, from her thoughts. And, as the last pain is ever keenest, she more than all else deplored her ill-advised morning walk. She felt she had injured her cause, and, resolving to abridge this meeting, also came to the decision of watching over Minnie, and imploring her Aunt Dorcas to reason with her. How people hurry on events by too much forethought, sometimes.

"I fear," she answered, after a moment's pause, stopping in her walk with a frigidity of manner which would have convinced many of their first error in supposing she had even dreamed of love. But Tremenhere was not a superficial observer. "I fear, Mr. Tremenhere, that you totally mistake my meaning and intention. Lest a greater error than the first should ensue, we will, if you please, stop here in our conversation. I trust I misjudge my cousin's warm heart, and that it will never lead her into an act which would deprive her of all her friend's sympathy. Nay, do not take any personal offence; but she is too unsophisticated to trust her own judgment in all things."

"May I without offence say," said he, completely changing the conversation, and smiling blandly, "that I regret much your ladyship's portrait should have been entrusted to my care under the influence of a more southern sky? Assuredly there can be nothing in nature to equal the beauty of the dazzling English complexion!" And he gazed respectfully, but admiringly on her glowing cheek. She certainly was beautiful at that moment; many emotions combined to heighten the colouring of the fresh morning air. Again she bit her lip. This man had beaten her; and not alone doing it, but he knew he had done so, and made her feel it. She merely bowed; and as they turned in their walk, finding herself near the door entering Gatestone shrubbery, stopped. Then for the first time her abased self-confidence made her dread lest any one should have seen her with him. What would be thought, said, reported? And in this unenviable state of mind, she took a cold, haughty leave of Tremenhere, who was smiling, and courteous in the extreme. As he replaced his hat, he turned away, and she hastily entered the grounds. Lady Dora almost forgot her dignity enough to hurry towards the house; perhaps she would quite have done so, had she seen Minnie concealed within the shrubs, with distended eyes, full of wonder, and a little regret, earnestly watching her. Poor girl! she did not know what to do or think. Her first movement had been to join Dora; then one of delicacy withheld her—the other evidently wished her visit unknown. Minnie had been matinal, too; and looking from her window before descending, not to seek Miles, but to walk in the fresh garden among dew and flowers, she saw Dora pass out. Deeming the other's motive like her own, she hastened her toilet, and just arrived in the shrubbery as Dora joined Miles at the stile. Him she knew at a glance; then her heart questioned, "What are they to each other?" She knew they had met. Had she been confiding her admiration of him to one who loved him? one perhaps beloved? She would ask Dora—no, she would wait till they were alone—Dora would surely speak of the morning's walk. So in this final decision Minnie paused, and, unseen by the other, followed her to the house, where they shortly after met at breakfast.

"Dora, you are late," said Minnie, as she entered the breakfast parlour.

"Yes," was the reply, "we sleep well in country air."

"She will tell me when we are alone," thought Minnie. And when that occurred, and the other kept silence of lip, and looked so thoughtful, Minnie felt sadly disappointed. Dora was not all candour, and her pure nature sickened at the worldly lesson. A first deception where we trusted, often mars a life; at all events, it taints life's current, and breeds suspicion—frequently, error, on our part.