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.

"Night and day—night and day," he murmured, "have I passed to complete my thought, my dream—for I dreamed I saw her thus; and how like it is! What is wanting? the spark of life to make it move and speak to me. Speak to me! No, she would turn away, either in indifference, and love for another, or horror of me! Perhaps I have murdered her!" and the man's voice sank to a hollow whisper—"her, and her infant! Oh, if I have!" and the cold dew stood on his brow at the thought. "What a bitter reckoning there will be against me when they stand before heaven to condemn! Not only here, but hereafter! Never to find peace again, nor rest, nor happy thought? Oh! life is indeed a burthen; and death a terror!" He sank for some time in silent thought before her; then brushing away the dew from his brow, and hastily drawing the curtain before the statue, he turned away. "Poor, weak fool!" he cried contemptuously, "I am not fit to be alone. She was false—false to them, the nurses of her childhood—false to me, her loving husband—false to heaven! I will destroy all memory of her." He tore back the curtain, and raised his arm to do so—but the arm fell. "No," he said, turning away, "'tis a work of art—only that; only these have I to spur me over the mountains of sorrow, before I meet death—art and occupation, inactivity would be madness. And she, her cousin!" and he laughed aloud in scorn, "thinks I love her. That having loved Minnie, I could give even the memory of that affection so base a counterfeit! Heartless, worldly, proud earth-worm!—only this! to place herself beside——But I will not dream of her! If that other had held in her veins one drop of human blood, she would have shielded, upheld, watched over her, and she had not been lost. I was too rude a guardian; I loved her with a lion's love, and the shrinking thing, in terror, sought refuge where words were soft, and the hand gentler; but the heart—the heart, his did not love like mine! Mine would have poured out its every drop of life's current, to spare one hair of her fair head from suffering.——I am growing weak—weak—womanly weak," and he moved feverishly about the room, whispering to himself, "I must shake this off, I have a part to play; I must avoid solitude, seek excitement; time may do much, bring oblivion, as it darkens the mental vision. She will be here to-day—she who loves to entangle—to wanton with the insect awhile, and then crush it with her heel. Crush me!—me!!" and he laughed aloud. "I will bring her down, in her subdued pride, to acknowledge that she envies even the place in hatred, which her once despised cousin holds in my heart. I will bring her to marry another in hate, and love me in unloved bitterness, and be false to him—if I will. I will revenge Minnie, even though I cast her from me—only I had a right to condemn and blast her." A bell sounded in the outer chamber. "'Tis she!" he cried. "Not here yet; there is a spirit in the place—I have evoked it." And, hastily closing the door, he passed into a salon luxuriantly furnished.

In a moment more, Lady Dora entered in all the pride of her glowing, majestic beauty, set off to greater advantage by her mourning robes, which floated in mockery of woe around her—Lady Ripley accompanied her. How false some positions are, in what's called society! Here were three persons, nearly allied, meeting as mere strangers, almost in coldness, without an allusion even to the past. Lady Ripley was gracious; her daughter strove by an unconstrained cordiality, where pride towered in majestic condescension, to seem perfectly indifferent, though Tremenhere smiled in his heart, as he read her well—his manner was so free from any significance of tone or look, so calm and unembarrassed, that Lady Dora asked herself involuntarily, "Have I dreamed the past of yesterday?" and she felt humbled on reflecting how weary an hour she had passed that morning, in schooling her looks and heart to meet, without betraying herself to him.

"You will scarcely pardon me, I fear," he said, "when I tell you, Lady Dora, that I had totally forgotten this engagement this morning, and was going to pass a morning at the Louvre."

"Oh, pray, do not let us detain you, Mr. Tremenhere!" she exclaimed haughtily. "I, too, had other engagements, but mamma wished me to come, having promised."

"You cannot doubt, Lady Dora," he gallantly said—but it was mere gallantry; no hidden tone of meaning could be detected by the nicest ear—"the great pleasure this remembrance gives me. I was blaming my own wretched memory, and anxious to convey to you the forgotten happiness, which was driving me for a morning's amusement among the dead beauties in the Spanish gallery, instead of immortalizing my pencil, by endeavouring to pourtray your living loveliness."

She bowed, and, biting her lip, accepted this overstrained compliment at its full value—empty as the wind; and in this mood she sat down to lend herself to his pencil. Lady Ripley had not noticed the by-play of all this, indeed how could she, ignorant as she was of the previous scene, and totally incapable of comprehending the possibility of her daughter, even condescending to the slightest approach to flirtation even with an artist, whatever his pretensions to birth might be? She was unusually gracious this day, which removed much of the embarrassment the others could not otherwise have failed to feel. As some little revenge for his cool impertinence when they entered, Lady Dora suddenly inquired—

"Mr. Tremenhere, how many days' journey do you reckon it from Paris to Florence? I mean," she added, fearful that her meaning might be misunderstood, "from Florence to Paris, supposing a person to travel as expeditiously as possible?"

"As many," he answered, smiling blandly in her face, and with perfect sincerity of tone, "as it would take a person to go from Paris to Florence."

"Is he a fool?" she thought, "or only insensible? Thank you," she added aloud. "I presume they would be the same, but my question remains unanswered."

"True," he replied, smiling; "I am very rude, but my attention was so engrossed by this most lovely Diana. I will endeavour to answer you: were I a happy man, whom one so fair as yourself, Lady Dora, expected impatiently, I should not choose the commonplace mode of transporting myself; but, borrowing the wings of the wind (that is, supposing them disengaged,) flutter to her feet."

"Mr. Tremenhere is pleased to be facetious," answered Lady Dora, pettishly.

"Pardon me, I never was more serious. I am trying to convey to your mind how great my impatience would be; but you have interrupted, without hearing all I had to say. If fate and inclination together, had cast me upon the waters—we will say, for example, in a yacht—why, I would summon to my aid some fairy spell, and, like the peterel, run over the surface of the waters, from the blue Mediterranean to the dusky Seine, till I found myself, web-footed, and incapable of running thence, on the polished floors of your hotel!"

There is nothing more disagreeable than to have taken up a weapon to wound, and suddenly to find the point in your own bosom. She felt he was laughing at her.

"Mamma," she cried, "did Lady Lysson show you a letter she received to-day?"

"My love?" asked her mother, looking up from a book she had been perusing. Lady Dora repeated the question.

"Yes, his lordship wrote much pleased with his cruise."

"I trust Lord Randolph Gray is quite well?" inquired Tremenhere, with perfect composure. "Lady Lysson mentioned, in my presence, that he was shortly expected from Malta."

"Quite well!" ejaculated Lady Dora, amazed at his coolness; "but you are mistaken about his locality, Mr. Tremenhere; he was at Florence when she last heard from him."

"Indeed! Then," he continued, laughing, "I will sketch him as the peterel of my idea; shall I?"

"He will feel flattered, doubtless, at any notice from your pencil, Mr. Tremenhere," was her cold reply. Her mother was again deep in her book.

"I have an ornithological thought in my brain, hatching, Lady Dora; I propose sketching all my friends, À la plume."

"What will you make me?" she asked, hoping to change the style of their previous conversation.

"You!" and he lowered his tone, and looked fixedly at her. She could not withdraw her gaze, he was sketching her brow—"You!—you shall be the fabled weevil, and I, the sick man, fit to die, turning my face to you to implore for life. Do not turn your head away, and thus bid that sickness be to death; but, extracting my heart's disease, with your sweet breath, fly upwards to heaven, and burn it out by the sun that we may so live together!"

"You must be mad!" she involuntarily cried, turning her eyes hastily to where her mother sat. But she had heard nothing; they were at some distance from her, and he spoke so low.

"Yes, perhaps I am; but madmen have happy dreams sometimes, we cannot refuse them these, where their reality is so hopeless and sad. But you have not answered me; may I place you among my ornithological specimens, as the milkwhite weevil of my thoughts?"

"And if not the sick man," she asked, and the voice trembled, though she endeavoured to smile as in jesting, "what will you depict yourself?"

"A goose!" he answered, laughing; "and I will lend your ladyship my quills to write to Florence! Am I not a bon enfant?"

This term in French, so completely in keeping with the character of the bird he chose as his representative, provoked a laugh even from Lady Dora, beneath which she covered, at least she fancied she covered, her confusion.

"How very lively you are, Dora!" said her mother approaching. "What has occurred?"

"A most absurd error on my part," he answered. "Only fancy, Lady Ripley: I was to-day forgetting sex, character—all, and (the quiver of arrows misled me) was going to transform Lady Dora into Cupid! Ye gods! who could withstand arrows from such a bow?"

"How could you imagine so absurd a thing, Mr. Tremenhere?" asked the not very imaginative Lady Ripley, not certain whether to feel offended or no.

"I really cannot conceive! Altogether it would have been out of place; for love, they say, flies out of the window when poverty enters at the door. This never could be applicable to Lady Dora," and he bowed in seeming excuse before her. So much did his heart war against her, that, even desirous as he was to gain his point, he could not restrain his tongue from words of bitterness; yet she felt it impossible to think he meant them: she looked upon it as a natural sarcasm of character, which made a gentle word doubly dangerous.

"You are going in a huge body to see a Parisian wonder to English eyes, to-night, I understand, Lady Ripley," he said, turning the conversation.

"Yes, truly; I am curious to see a Bal MasquÉ À l'Opera, never having witnessed one."

"Indeed! shall you go early?"

"I really do not know. I was averse to going, and especially taking Lady Dora; but Lady Lysson has made up her party, and, closely concealed by dominoes, I presume we shall pass unnoticed."

"You accompany us, I believe?" hazarded Lady Dora, addressing him.

"I hope to meet you there," was the reply; "accompany, that I shall not be able to accomplish. Lady Lysson spoke of a signal by which her party should know one another; a rose on the left breast, I think?"

"Yes; but it seems unnecessary to me," replied Lady Ripley; "for, of course, we shall none of us separate."

"But in mercy to those forced to come late and rejoin the party, it is done," he answered.

"A propos, Mr. Tremenhere!" cried Lady Dora. "I have not yet chosen my domino; until this moment I had forgotten it. Madame —— had promised to have two or three for my choice, completed this afternoon. We will, if you please, leave 'Diane' for to-day," and she rose.

"With regret, then, Lady Dora; but where so grave an occupation calls you, I must submit;" and with a few constrained words they parted. Parting is very awkward, where two persons have been trying their wings together in a flight of love; one or the other is sure to lose some feathers in endeavouring to smooth them down into sober propriety at the last moment. Tremenhere was perfectly calm, and all a mamma like Lady Ripley might wish to see him. Lady Dora blushed—half held out her hand—half withdrew it.

"Permit me to fasten your glove, Lady Dora," he said quietly; "I see it embarrasses you."

She held it towards him, colouring deeply. Scarcely touching the hand, he buttoned it; and, bowing with perfect ease, he led the way to the outer door.

"Has the workwoman sent in those dominoes?" asked Madame ——, of her forewoman, that afternoon.

"No."

"Then send directly, and say they must come in at once; for cette belle Anglaise Milady Dora Vaughan, is coming to select one of them, and Milady Lysson, and several others, who are going en cachette to a bal de l'opera, this evening."

This message was given to the workwoman; and Minnie's pale fingers trembled violently as she finished off the last hood, for she was the workwoman, in her little, sad garret!