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."

He fixed his eyes on her, with the stern look of one judging her severely. She dropped her's carelessly on the figures of her fan. He rose, and moved a step towards the other group. A sudden impulse impelled her to exclaim hastily, "Mr. Tremenhere!" He stopped, and coldly turned towards her—"Can I oblige your ladyship in any thing?"

"Mr. Tremenhere," she continued hastily, beneath her breath, while her bosom swelled with her self-imposed task; "pray, be seated an instant, I have a word to say to you."

He bowed, and placing himself on the music-stool, awaited her next words in cold silence. She leaned towards him; then glancing at the others present, whose number was momentarily increasing, she whispered, moving to give him place beside her, and pointing to it with her fan, "I wish to speak confidentially to you."

"Of yourself?" he asked, surprised, seating himself where she pointed.

"No," she replied, drawing herself up in offended pride; "I should not presume to trouble you with my personal affairs, Mr. Tremenhere."

"You cannot wonder," he rejoined, "at my feeling the utmost surprise how mine can in any way interest your ladyship."

"I would speak of my cousin," she faltered.

"Oh!" and he smiled; "true—of my wife; it will scarcely astonish you if I say, I had totally forgotten the relationship for the moment."

"Let there be a truce of sarcasms," she said, hurriedly. "You judge me harshly, I make no doubt; but there are many things which make this union a most unfortunate, much to be regretted one."

"Pardon me, Lady Dora Vaughan, not to those most interested. I can boldly assert my happiness is a realized dream of paradise: my only sorrow, is in absence from the home Minnie makes such to me; and I think I may venture to declare, that no sigh of regret ever quivers on her lip. Those she justly prized have not forgotten her—Aunt Dorcas, for one."

"Yes, I am aware," she interrupted, with some confusion, "she has visited you. Come Mr. Tremenhere," and she looked up less coldly in his face, "make some allowances for my position; I am not quite my own mistress. I——"

"Lady Dora, my father was an old-fashioned man, and he had quaint notions, you will say; he taught me that it was ungentlemanly not to reply to a polite letter in all cases, and ungenerous in many."

"I see," she said, haughtily, "I have a prejudiced judge. I will only pursue this conversation sufficiently to ask a personal favour."

"Name it. You shall, if possible, be obeyed."

"'Tis—'tis;—in fact, no one here, except my mother, is aware of your marriage. May I ask you to preserve it a secret?"

He read her thought, and was resolved to bend her false pride to bare itself before him. "I cannot see," he said, "in what my celibacy interests any one here. There is no lady in love with me, or sighing for leap-year to declare herself!" he laughed carelessly.

"Mr. Tremenhere," she cried, "my meaning is this: I—my mother, too, is most anxious that your union with Miss Dalzell should not be published. These painful family secrets are best preserved ever thus." The blood-red spot of pride mantled on her cheek, and flashed from her eye. He was speechless a moment; but what various passions passed over that face then, all settled in one—utter contempt. These two persons were the offspring of pride; but his proud spirit was the legitimate creation of a noble mind, unjustly spurned and contemned; hers, that foul-named thing whose father disowns it, whose mother blushes in shame as she looks upon it. Tremenhere rose in all his soul's dignity, and stood before her; her glance could not cross his—it shrunk, the unreal before the real.

"Lady Dora," he said, in his deep emphatic voice, "I have yet to learn in how much I, the legitimate son of Tremenhere of the manor, am beneath Miss Dalzell of Gatestone, or those whom she calls kindred. True, she is now but an artist's wife; but that artist will make his name one to be respected by all;—he is working for a great end and purpose. Rely upon it, till that purpose be accomplished, his wife, the solace of all his best, happiest hours, will only keep her smiles to cheer his home, and support him in many trials; she will not, either from choice or necessity, lavish them on a cold, heartless society. There, his path of toil and bitterness, full often, shall be alone. As a flawless gem Minnie is to me; she needs no costly setting to prove her worth. It is not in a world like yours—like mine—she shall be named, to have one breath of slander dim her brightness now; but as surely as you and I stand face to face this day, so surely shall the day of her triumph come, and emanating from behind the cloud which now makes me so deep a shadow over your path." His face worked with the energy of his soul's anguish, at the thought even of his pure Minnie being dragged forth a target for the world's scorn, and for his sake, who would gladly shed his life's blood to save her one pang. He felt choking at the thought.

"So," he continued, with bitter irony, "you would have me as a tame lion in a cage, to caress through the bars in all security; but the moment it should dare dream of liberty, and, bursting its bonds, stand among you free, for every arm to be raised against it—every hand to hold a weapon to drive it back to slavery! I, Lady Dora, will be none such. I am proud as yourself—proud of my name, even as it is; and I will yet make it sound, with Fame's trumpet to herald it, unless the powers of hell combine against me, and then I will show Minnie to the world—not before!"

"Pardon me," she cried, looking very pale—her better genius had triumphed; "pray, pardon me, Mr. Tremenhere; I did not mean to pain you—I——" she was almost in tears.

"Lady Dora," he sternly said, "you and I understand each other. You have a noble heart; let not the blighting world profane it with its heartless wisdom. Your pride is the upas poison, withering all it touches: mine is spirit's right, riding on the winds which shall blast my enemies, and uproot them like trees in a whirlwind,—'tis the pride of love, too, which forbids my breathing the name of my beloved Minnie any where, until I can proclaim her with a voice no one can still, as Tremenhere's wife should be proclaimed! Rest satisfied," he contemptuously added; "your pride will not be shaken from its pedestal by the artist's wife!" He turned coldly away.

"Mr. Tremenhere—Miles Tremenhere!" she whispered anxiously, half rising; but he passed forward without hesitating, and joined the group at the fire.

"I saw you here discussing something with Lady Dora," cried the fair hostess; "was it music, painting, or—not love, I hope? 'Tis a subject best left unargued upon; it always reminds me of a game called 'cat's cradle,' which I played when a child with a cousin of my own, and through the loops of which, the fingers passed (for fingers, read arguments and reasonings, Mr. Tremenhere,) until at last he was certain to produce so incomprehensible a weaving of cord, that I could never unloose it, and I was fain to sit down conquered. Don't play at 'cat's cradle' with Lady Dora."

"Your ladyship need be under no apprehension for the result, were I to attempt it. Lady Dora's cleverness would undo any skein of mine."

"I don't know that. Lady Dora, my dear; where is she? She has left the room.——"

'Twas true; but she returned shortly with her mother, who received Miles with perfect good breeding as a mere acquaintance, which position he accepted, nor desired more.