On that morrow, which she so much dreaded, Tremenhere was away from Paris, and hurrying onward towards Marseilles. Once arrived there, his task was an easy one; there were tongues enough to speak to him of the toiling little ouvriÈre, so frail, so persevering, and of the child which came to solace her hours; even her beauty had not unstrung one malevolent tongue against her fame—all was toil, gentleness, and worth. As he drank down each bitter draught, his soul grew sterner—there was not a tear in it to quench the fire of remorse. All, too, had one tale to tell: she always said, when she had saved enough to pay her journey, she should follow her husband, who was an artist at Florence. To fill up the measure of all, he waited upon the lady, whose daughter, Minnie had accompanied on board the fated "Hirondelle." He presented himself as a relative of her husband; he durst not trust his feelings to say, "I am the man," lest all should shrink from him in horror. He spoke of an unhappy quarrel, their separation, and consequent ignorance of where she was. Here he heard of her with tears from the childless mother, of the affection her daughter bore Minnie, whom she had employed as a workwoman at first, but won by her gentleness, piety, and goodness, had besought her to accompany her to Malta, as nurse to her child—of Minnie's love and devotion for her little "Miles," for thus she had called him there—her firm refusal to wean him, for any sum, from her breast, and her eventually consenting to go to Malta, on their promise to send her, in six months, to Florence—the one dream of her loving wife's heart! 'Tis wonderful Miles could command his feelings enough to listen calmly to all this; but there is a calm far beyond that of perfect peace—'tis that of despair. His face changed not—'twas as though it had been chiseled in marble, by some cunning artificer, to imitate life, for none was there—not a muscle moved—not a shade crossed it; it was the tombstone of hope, whose ashes lay beneath. One thing he did: he sought the room where she had resided in her sorrow—the room where her child's first accents struck upon her ear; it had not been let since, so he sat down alone there for hours, and his wandering eyes looked on every spot on that dingy wall; nothing he left unregarded where her eyes had dwelt, and he saw, as in a vision, all the many thoughts she had left behind her to people the place. He rejoiced no one had ever inhabited the same room since. Seeking the landlord, he rented it for a year, and, paying in advance, carefully locked, and put his seal on it, lest any one should desecrate it.

"No voice in joy shall ever fill that place where she has wept so many silent tears—there, where she loved me still, our spirits have met again. Minnie, forgive me!" And the man knelt in that desolate abode, and prayed fervently. "If," he said, "I should ever be tempted to forget her sorrow, I will return hither, and fill my heart with memory, and hatred of myself!"

And in this mood he returned to Paris: and a week had elapsed since the ball. It will not seem strange if, on his arrival, he shut himself up in his studio, away from the world, for days. How commune with that?—or those who had known her, and now smiled over her grave?

Every moment his feelings became more vindictive towards Lady Dora: it was the only passion surviving in his heart—all the others were wrecked, and had gone down with the "Hirondelle."

Perhaps it was well that Marmaduke Burton had gone, no one knew whither, or a worse one than vindictiveness might have revived. Assuredly he might have been driven to murder, had he once given way to his prompting fiend.

It will seem almost strange to many, perhaps, that with this anguish raging in his heart, he never once thought even of suicide. Tremenhere was a brave man—an essentially courageous one; he feared nothing in this world. But he had a strong religious sense, implanted by his mother: he feared the suicide's unfailing hell, when madness comes not to plead for the act before Heaven. He was preparing himself, in the solitude of his chamber, for a pilgrimage of suffering and repentance, before he should meet her spirit, doomed in its other state to throw off the garb of mercy and forgiveness she would ever have worn, and before Heaven accuse, perhaps condemn, him. He was preparing to face the world, and veil his suffering—to toil on; and then he asked himself, "For what?" Here his mother arose before him.

"Yes," he said, "I have deserted, forgotten, reviled her; it shall be my task to place her high in brightness and purity. And if, in my passage, one lip breathes Minnie's name in shadow before me, then will I bare all my own heavy sorrow, and, condemning myself, clear her! Now, it would but sully a fame like hers, to drag her forth uncalled for. I must watch my opportunity; and the day I debase her enemies—her enemy, her heartless cousin—I will elevate her where none shall dare attaint her again!"

He heard Lord Randolph had called; and here it was that his heart turned towards that man. He remembered the kindly, though unadvisedly done, act at Uplands; this man's kindness of manner; his respectfulness towards her. Now the veil of darkness had fallen, he saw all aright; and a love—a love almost of womanly weakness—arose in his heart towards him. He was the first person whom he received; and when the other started at his pale cheek, he simply answered, he had been ill; a sudden obligation to visit the country, where illness had seized upon him. He started, however, when Lord Randolph begged his congratulations on his approaching marriage with Lady Dora, who had accepted him the previous day. However, his start was not perceptible to his friend, and he spoke all the speeches of usage as warmly as such are generally spoken; and, taking his arm, they proceeded together to the Hotel Mirabeau.

Lady Dora and her mother sat alone when they entered. The former, despite her general self-possession, coloured painfully, and then became of marble whiteness, while the pale, curling lip alone spoke her internal battle to seem calm.

"I bring you an invalid friend," said Lord Randolph; "Tremenhere has been very ill."

She looked fixedly at him; his eyes were hollow, his cheeks white; but even these were not sufficient excuse, to that despotic heart. "He should have kept his appointment," she mentally said, "any way."

"Have you been at home?" asked Lady Ripley; "for Lord Randolph told us you were not there when he called."

A sudden thought seized Tremenhere; he would make this illness subservient to his plans. "I was forced to leave Paris—circumstances obliged me," he said, and for an instant his eye lighted on Lady Dora; "and something of a slow, nervous fever has overwhelmed me ever since."

"Egad, yes!" cried Lord Randolph; "I found him seated listlessly at his easel, attempting to paint; and when I entered sans ceremonie, the fellow mistook me for a rival artist, and hastily threw a covering over some chef d'oeuvre he was completing."

A faint colour crossed Miles's pale cheek, and unthinkingly his eye fell on Lady Dora, and theirs met in an instant; he read her thoughts, and saw where it might be made available to his purpose.

"I was painting from memory," he said—so he had been, but not Lady Dora, as she imagined. His look, his illness, all combined to make her believe herself the cause, or rather jealousy at Lord Randolph's return; and the exulting heart of the woman bounded with gratified pride; there was not one thought of sincere affection in it. Still she could not quite forgive his departure without seeking her. When a woman feels she has stepped rather too far, and in haste, and passes a sleepless night, collecting herself to undo the evil by apparent indifference, it is most provoking to find all thrown away, and that uttered words which we fancied were sunk deep into another's soul, generating loving thoughts and hopes, had passed over the surface like a meteor across the sky, leaving not the slightest trace of its passage.

"May I be permitted," he said, after a pause, in rather a low tone, for Lord Randolph was warmly discussing some political point with his mother-in-law elect, "to offer my congratulations on your approaching happiness? May you be so—I sincerely desire it."

"Thank you," she answered trembling, and biting her lip at his coolness.

"You appear to have held the happiness of more than his in your keeping—your own I mean, in suspense; and now, the battle over, the sun of joy bursts over all. Lord Randolph is perfectly happy, and I never saw your ladyship looking so well!"

"Then, taking you at your own judgment," she answered hastily, without thinking, and acrimoniously, "you are an exception to the general happiness, for you certainly do not look well; you should have placed——" She paused suddenly, and coloured, remembering what her words implied.

"You are right, Lady Dora. I ought to have placed my happiness in your keeping; would you have well guarded it?"

"I do not understand you, Mr. Tremenhere; and I fear you mistake my meaning," was the haughty reply.

"I fear I have mistaken much; forgive me, the error will have no mate—like myself, it will be lone—forgive me."

There was so much sadness in his voice, that her hand trembled with the emotion her pride even could not quell; she had accepted Lord Randolph in pique at Tremenhere's supposed trifling with her, and now those chains were already galling her; yet, how throw them off? how find courage to cast herself away on him—the man she had once so much despised? It was a fearful war within her. At this juncture Lord Randolph came to their aid in words, but every one was significant to their thoughts.

"Tremenhere!" he cried, "I appeal to you," and he turned to where the two sat, a little apart; she was knitting a purse. "Do you think a bal masquÉ, as we went the other night, a place where no man should take his wife?"

"That depends much on the lady," was the reply.

"I said," answered Lady Ripley, "that in my opinion, from the description given me by Lady Lysson (for I thank goodness I was not there,) that scenes so totally at variance with decorum as men in female attire, and vice versÂ, and the heterogeneous mass of persons collected there—their freedom of speech, want of all ceremony and obedience to the commonest rules of society, must leave an unfavourable trace on the mind—I declare, even Dora savours of it; for ever since she went there has been a restlessness of spirit, an unquietness of manner, I never noticed before. I should scarcely have wondered at any absurdity she might have committed."

"Oh, mamma!" exclaimed that lady, in painful confusion.

"On my life," laughed Lord Randolph, "Lady Ripley, you are epigrammatic in your speech. Has Lady Dora been guilty of any absurdity since?"

"You mistake me," hastily answered she, remembering the engagement contracted within a few days; "of any serious fault I trust my daughter will never be guilty; but I mean, were she not perfect, as I may, I believe, call her, in strict propriety of thought and action, I should indeed dread what such influence might effect."

"Lady Dora could never forget what is due to her rank and station," said Tremenhere. "There may be a certain excitement in the scene, especially to a person visiting it for the first time; but we will leave all casualties of this kind to your unsophisticated girl, believing in such an absurdity as love different to what the world has viewed it, and thrown with one she fancied destined to call into being that feeling, there is really no saying whether such a one might not be led away by the atmosphere around her to give love for love, and speak her heart freely where the generous mask concealed her blushes from the eye envious to behold that record of her sincerity; but you will all perceive, I am depicting an imaginary scene, and persons. We are all too sage and old in fashion's ways to commit the like follies."

"Oh, of course!" answered the unseeing mother; but every word had echoed in Lady Dora's heart, or its facsimile; for the thing itself she did not possess—it had long been choked by pride.

"I believe," continued Lord Randolph, "that the masques in olden times—at court and elsewhere—were made the medium of intrigues, state and others; but surely nothing could be more innocent than the one the other night!" Lord Randolph was rather primitive in his ideas as regards a bal masquÉ a l'opera, even in our days—Lady Dora did not internally agree with him, but she said nothing.

"Have you secured one box for the FranÇais this evening?" asked Lady Ripley, changing the subject. "I quite forgot it," answered Lord Randolph; "come along, Tremenhere, we will go and look for it, and you shall bring it back to the ladies, for I am unavoidably engaged till dinner; of course, you will be of the party?"

"I fear not," he answered; "I have much occupation on hand."

"Nonsense, man! you shut yourself up with your mysterious portrait, till you become perfectly gloomy; it must have a deep interest for you."

"You mistake; 'tis an altar-piece which I am completing to order—a Madonna and child."

"Then, why cover it up so mysteriously?"

"We artists are jealous of our unfinished works being criticised; 'tis, however, not that which would detain me to-night, but another claim."

"Pray, set it aside, and accompany us, Mr. Tremenhere," said Lady Ripley, graciously; Lord Randolph's evident friendship for him, stamped him above what he was before, in her eyes—he still hesitated, when Lady Dora looked up, as if glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece, and almost imperceptibly, 'twas so quickly done, her glance crossed his.

"Then I will do as you command," he said, bowing to Lady Ripley; but her daughter felt his eye was upon her, and the command, accentuated for her ear alone.

"We can perhaps spare you the trouble of going to the theatre, if you are engaged," cried Lady Ripley. "Dora, we may as well drive there ourselves."

"I shall not leave home to-day, mamma," was the reply.

"But you know, my dear, I must call upon the Montagus at four."

"Lady Lysson will willingly accompany you; I know she too purposes a visit to them."

"But your resolution is sudden, Dora; to-day you promised to go with me at four."

"My head aches," she answered coldly; "pray excuse me."

"Oh! if that be the case," replied her ladyship, "I can urge no more; you had better lie down, my dear child, and prepare yourself for the evening's fatigue."

"No, thank you, mamma; with your permission I shall remain here—I have a letter to write."

She never once looked up, but a man the least vain might have fancied, as Tremenhere did, that "the morrow" of the bal masquÉ, was presented to his view, especially after what Lord Randolph had said about his returning with the ticket for the theatre. Making their adieux, the gentlemen left with the understanding that one or both should return, after calling at the FranÇais to secure the box.

For a moment Tremenhere hesitated how to act. He asked himself whether his conduct was right towards his friend—the title he gave him in his heart decided him. "She is unworthy of him," he said; "'tis an act of kindness to break off this marriage."

And, consequently at four, he called with the ticket. Lady Dora had been schooling her heart, and received him with perfect composure, much regretting all the trouble he had taken; and she sat with an unfinished letter before her, and the pen between her fingers, as though expecting him to take leave. He read her as an open leaf in a book; and the want of all candour in her disposition made him more than ever resolved to bend her. Every day she had become more warped since he had first seen her; even when he and Minnie had been residing at Chiswick, she could be capable of a generous action; now, not one—she was the world's child!

"Is letter-writing advisable for a headache?" he asked, after the first salutations were over.

"Possibly not," was the cold reply; "but it is one of neglected duty, and I was resolved to finish it to-day."

"Then I will take my leave; a visiter is never more unfortunate than when he cuts the thread of some pleasant narrative by pen or lip," and he was going towards the door. "I have forgotten half my message!" he cried, returning. "Lord Randolph desired me to say, that he had taken upon himself the pleasant task of choosing your ladyship's bouquet for this evening, which will arrive in due season," and he moved towards the door.

"If you see him, Mr. Tremenhere," she said hastily, at the same time throwing down her pen and closing her letter-book, "pray prevent his lordship from giving himself so much trouble; I dislike bouquets in the hand."

"Indeed! permit me to wonder, flowers are kindred to the beautiful—you should not be so unnatural, as to disclaim your own."

"I presume I am expected to bow; but I seldom—never do, to compliments; they are so vapid, made up, like these said bouquets, to suit every occasion, every taste, and thus doled out alike to all. Could we listen to half a dozen conversations at once, on the average they would be nearly word for word alike, between an idle man, and a silly woman."

"Why silly?" he asked smiling, still standing, hat in hand, near the door.

"Because all must be, to listen to them," and she pushed away her chair, and rising, dropped down amid the cushions of the ottomans. Without another word, he crossed the room, laid his hat on the table, and, drawing off the one glove remaining on his hand, flung the two into his hat; and then, quietly seating himself beside her, asked with gentle interest,—

"How is your headache—is it better? You look pale!" and he took her hand. For an instant it struggled, then lay still. This was her first false step of bad generalship. His action was so natural, considering their relationship, though only by marriage, that what else had been freedom passed as a right; her struggle to release it denoted a thought of wrong, and he was not slow to take advantage of it.

"Do not deny me even the privilege of a friend—I once possessed that, Lady Dora."

She made no reply.

"You have not answered my question. Is your headache better, or gone? You would do well to banish that, like all other hurtful things."

"Hurtful things?" she uttered in echo. "You are right."

"About what? Do we understand one another at last?"

"Tell me," she cried hurriedly, looking up, "whilst we are alone and uninterrupted, where have you been, Mr. Tremenhere?"

She looked, but could not read the anguish which crossed his brow; he made an effort, and subdued it before her.

"Been? shall I tell you truly?"

"Do, and quickly. I would know all now at once."

"I fled, to prove many things—I fled, to live with a memory—I fled, to come back a slave!"

His tone was full of soul, for every word was truth; but she applied it wrongly to herself. He had withdrawn his hand, and passed it over his brow. As it fell listlessly on his knee, she laid hers upon it, and it trembled; it was the action of a moment, and as quickly withdrawn.

"What have you proved?" she asked, almost imploringly.

"That we must never trust our own false hearts—they lead us on to destruction; still less, any living woman." His thoughts were with the dead, as he deemed.

"Do not look so pale—so afflicted: look as you did on that night."

"That night, which never knew a morrow! and yet it held the promise of one, Lady Dora."

"Who cast that promise from his memory, as worthless?"

"Not that, as dangerous, incapable of leading to happiness, as a snare—any thing you will, but a promise of that joy, which another has obtained."

"I will not misunderstand you. There is one thing we may give in pique, the hand, but the heart defies our power—'tis our master."

"Is yours?"

"Yes; I have in vain struggled with it—it daunts me."

"Mine is a slave," he answered, "chained, but not by me; and yours will become so too, and follow the manacled hand, and thus you will be calm and happy."

"I? never. Do you know—do you not see, that my position terrifies me? I have none to counsel—be my guide, and as an error led me to the steps I have taken, direct me how to escape its penalty."

"You mean your marriage with Lord Randolph?" he took her hand as he spoke, and, looking upon it, thought of the day he first held Minnie's thus!

"'Tis a fair hand," he said, regarding it. "Oh! pity this should break hearts, sever ties of love—this little tiny thing, which holds so much fearful power. Are you sure you do not love Lord Randolph?"

"Sure? I almost hate him, and should, were he my husband."

"Are you mad? You must have been to pledge yourself to him, such as you are—one to be loved, worshipped, adored, if with this hand you gave your heart."

"Thus I would have it—and only thus!" she uttered, her pride subdued in her feelings. He had urged her on by his manner; she had prepared herself against his prayers, but not against his ambiguous manner; for he looked as one fearful of speaking—of one on his guard. She fancied he durst not, and she dared all to prove him at last. For an instant he thought, "Shall I doom her to misery, such as she has not dreamed of, and, marrying her, tell her why I wooed her?" but a thought, even yet of pity, came over him; he knew the worse than death he could condemn her to, by making her his unloved, despised wife; then, too, Minnie stood between them, and forbade it. He felt he never could place another, even in hate, or revenge, where her head alone, though but in memory might lie—on his heart.

"Can you love? Do you love?" he asked, in a low whisper; and the arm stole round her waist. "Could you for that love renounce all—give up rank, station, home—all?"

"Freely," she uttered; and at that moment she was sincere. "Freely—so I break this hated tie, and——"

"Forge another where you could love?—do love; and, forgetting all false pride, know the only true one—that of the man your soul has elected?—the man equal to you in all things but an empty title?"

"You have taught me to know myself," she whispered; "teach me to read you aright; for my intellect cannot comprehend you, and I doubt, where I would have faith."

"Do not doubt me," he said, coldly releasing her waist, and taking her hand; "I will counsel you well—lead you aright, and for your happiness. Never love, Lady Dora—never love; but if they will you should marry, make Lord Randolph a good and faithful wife, nor cast away your affections on one scarcely worthy of them. He is my friend—if you must love, love him; but I counsel all, never love, for I dread and eschew the passion!" And, dropping her hand, he rose calmly from the ottoman, and listlessly taking up his hat and gloves, scarcely looking at her, bowed, and quitted the room.

When he was gone she sprang from the ottoman, and, pacing the apartment like one bewildered by a sudden shock, ended by leaning her head on the table, and weeping the bitterest tears she had ever shed; for they were over her crushed pride—her abased heart, which he had probed to the quick, and then, as a worthless toy, cast from him. It was long before she could recall all the scene to her mind, and when she did it might have ended in almost madness had her unfailing pride and self-love not come hand in hand to say, "He loves, and dreads his love. Randolph is his friend—be patient—watchful, and your reward will be, in subduing all his feelings and resolutions."

And thus cheered, she rose, to own to herself that for his love she would brave any thing. She even hated Minnie's memory when she thought, that though it had proved evanescent, as she deemed it had, he certainly once loved that girl.

"I will bind him yet, and in iron bands," she cried, as her tall, proud figure strode the room; "not as she did—silk could never hold so bold a heart as his—they shall be iron, and I will rivet them; there shall be no key lest another undo them—riveted, Tremenhere—riveted!" and the girl smiled already, in triumph over his defeat.