Miles Tremenhere: A Novel. Vol. 1 of 2
by Annette Marie Maillard · English · Gutenberg #41275 · 470,233 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Miles Tremenhere: A Novel. Vol. 1 of 2
Author: Annette Marie Maillard
Release date: November 3, 2012 [eBook #41275]
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Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MILES TREMENHERE: A NOVEL. VOL. 1 OF 2 ***
MILES TREMENHERE.
"For such a love, O Rachel! years are few,
and life is short!"--LOPEZ DE VEGA.
BY ANNETTE MARIE MAILLARD.
AUTHORESS OF "THE COMPULSORY MARRIAGE," "ZINGRA THE GIPSY," ETC., ETC.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
G. ROUTLEDGE & CO., FARRINGDON STREET.
1853.
M'CORQUODALE AND CO., PRINTERS, LONDON.
WORKS--NEWTON.
TO
ERASMUS WILSON, ESQ., F.R.S.
IT IS ONE OF THE HIGHEST PRIVILEGES OF AUTHORSHIP,
TO BE ENABLED TO OFFER A PUBLIC TRIBUTE,
HOWEVER HUMBLE,
TO THOSE WHO CLAIM OUR RESPECT:
THIS BOOK
IS DEDICATED TO ONE--THE PATRON OF STRUGGLING TALENT,
THE FRIEND OF THE POOR--
ONE, WHOSE FRIENDSHIP IS AN ESTEEMED HONOUR.
THE AUTHORESS.
[Illustration: Departure of Tremenhere]
MILES TREMENHERE.
CHAPTER I.
"Tick tack, tick tack, tick tack--for ever goes the large hall clock,
until my heart (imitative thing!) plays at pendulum with it! Seventeen
long years that clock has been the monitor of Time in this old house. It
commenced its career the day I came into this world, and, faithful to
its trust, not for one hour can I remember its pausing. They say it
ceased its vigilance one day; I do not remember it, but Aunt Dorcas once
told me--only once, for she cried so bitterly that I never liked asking
more about it. It was the one in which I became an orphan! My poor
mother died, and they stopped it because its ticking reminded them of
the day of my birth, when she bade them open her door to let her hear
the friend whose career commenced with my life--the friend who was to
lead me to be good and happy, warning me of every passing hour! Poor,
dear mamma! I wish I had known her--oh, how I wish that _now_!--for
though my aunts and uncle Juvenal are very kind and loving, yet 'tis not
like a mother's love, I feel that--I feel so much yearning for that
unknown thing; it must be so beautiful, but one step below divinity in
its hallowing power; and I, wicked girl, have been chiding the old hall
clock, which she had a fanciful thought to make my twin!" Here the girl
(for such was the speaker) paused awhile in her soliloquy; after a few
moments, she continued:--"But _'tis_ wearisome to sit for days and days,
with only the same routine of events which you have known for years;
even the variety of the past six months offers no amusement. The lawyer,
the parson, and the squire--the squire, the lawyer, and the parson--with
my aunts Dorcas, Sylvia, and uncle Juvenal, each one chanting the
praises of his or her pet. I daresay it is very wrong of me to think all
this; but I don't love them less, my dear aunts, my kind uncle. Oh!
especially him and aunt Dorcas; but I cannot like--rather I should say
_love_--the squire and the young clergyman, even for their sakes. I
didn't want to think of love yet; but they have set me thinking, and now
I am always dreaming of the sort of man I should like. If there be
heroes in the world I should like to find one--such a one as I _could_
love, tall, handsome, dark, dark! Yes, dark raven hair, and Spanish
eyes, pale and thoughtful, especially"----Here the soliloquy was
disturbed by a shrill voice beneath the window, calling upwards from the
garden, "Minnie, Minnie, child!"
"That's aunt Sylvia," said the soliloquist quietly. "I will not answer,
for if I do, I know she will want to go for a ramble somewhere, and we
shall assuredly meet the lawyer."
The voice below continued its summons, but in the distance; the caller
evidently was seeking through the garden.
"I wonder when my cousin Dora will come," said the Minnie of Sylvia's
seeking again. "And I wonder if she is _very_ handsome; they say
so:--though only three years older than myself, I was always afraid of
her, even as a child. She was so tall and commanding, though but a girl
of fifteen then--now she's twenty; and she looked so stern, with her
proud curling lip which never smiled; even at play, her play was queenly
and condescending. I see her now, when she was at her gymnastic
exercises; how graceful she looked flinging upwards the hoop, which
always returned unerringly to the stick, as if it durst not disobey her
will. _Mine_ often rebelled, and fell yards off; and, whilst I put
myself in a fever to catch it, _she_ was calm and pale, and if she
involuntarily sprang upwards to meet it, with what a calm grace she
lighted on the toe of one of her tiny feet with the obedient toy in her
keeping! There was pride even in that action, for her foot seemed to
disdain the earth. It was the only thing I disliked in Dora, her pride
as a child; it awed me. I hope it will not do so now. I want to love
her. We cannot love where we fear, and I hope she will love me whenever
she comes; and yet I feel so nervous at the thought of seeing her,
though"----Here another voice arose on the ear; this, too, came from
the garden. "Minnie, Minnie; where are you, Minnie?" it said.
"That's my uncle Juvenal," whispered the girl, peeping through the
window, with its antique panes and narrow casement, "and he's not alone.
I guessed as much. How he _can_ like Marmaduke Burton, _the_ squire, I
cannot imagine."
"Minnie," cried a soft voice, evidently in the direction of the great
hall clock, "are you up-stairs, dear?"
"Dear aunt Dorcas," whispered the girl softly; "shall I go to her?" She
moved towards the door of her chamber. At that moment, from beneath her
window, arose a hum of voices, and Sylvia's shrilly tones called,
"Minnie;" then a man's, but a very weak one, and rougher accents,
syllabled her name; these latter ones not calling, but in conversation,
and they said, "Miss Dalzell." The one so anxiously sought sat down, and
laughed gently to herself. "My aunt and uncle, and their pets! Which
shall be mine? Whom shall I marry? Fate, direct me!" and, with a playful
air, she took up a bracelet of large coral from her table, and commenced
counting. "The last must be my choice, I suppose: let's see, coral! Whom
will you favour?" And thus she ran on, a bead for each name: "The
squire, the lawyer, the parson; the squire, the lawyer, the"--here the
string broke, and her lovers rolled in confusion on the floor! "Alas!
and alas!" she cried, with much gravity, surveying the scattered beads,
"none of them? Well, when I _have_ a lover, I'll string him on the
chords of my heart; and when they fail and let him down to earth, why,
_I_ shall be there too, in my grave, my heart's strings broken: that's
how _I_ understand love!"
"My dear child, why did you not answer me?" asked a quiet-looking,
elderly woman, entering her room. "I have been seeking you every where."
"Dear aunt Dorcas," said Minnie, throwing her arms tenderly round her
neck; "I was afraid to reply, for my uncle and aunt Sylvia are in the
garden--_not_ alone either--and they would have heard me."
"Who is there with them at this early hour, dear?" As she spoke she
released the girl's arms, and seated her beside herself on a couch,
affectionately holding both her little white hands.
"Oh!" rejoined Minnie, "that horrid Marmaduke Burton, and Mr. Dalby, the
lawyer; and I dislike them both so much, _as they appear now_."
"How do you mean, child?"
"Oh! why--as--as--lovers. No, not lovers--suitors."
"Where's the distinction, Minnie?" asked her aunt, smiling.
Minnie looked down and blushed; then, looking up half timidly in the
other's face, replied, "I think a man may take it into his head to pay
you attention, wishing to marry you, but he does not love you for all
that; and I think, if a man _really_ loved you, he wouldn't talk so much
about it. Mr. Burton says he's dying for love,"--here she smiled
roguishly, and peeped up in her aunt's face; "and he certainly has
nothing of death from grief about him!"
"Well, the lawyer--what is your objection there?"
"Oh, he's ten thousand times more objectionable! Mr. Burton is only a
commonplace squire, looking like one in his top-boots, talking like one,
and with a loud voice proclaiming himself lord of the manor, rooks,
hounds, horses, and whippers-in! I don't think he's a bad man, yet there
is something unreadable too about him, which debars confidence in his
goodness; but he's a very disagreeable person, always reminding me of
aunt Sylvia's glass of bark in the morning--an amiable invention, but
most unpleasant to the palate. But Mr. Dalby,--oh! he's quite another
thing!--_thing_ he is; too finical to be a man, too useless to be a
woman, he is a compound of mock sentiment and unamiability; he drawls
out his words, looking you sideways in the face, never giving you a
bold, earnest look; he treats you like a sugar-plumb, and seems afraid
of melting you by the fervour of a full-face regard, and he never has a
kind or charitable word for any one; he's an insinuating creature, but
not _in my case_, as he endeavours to be."
"Hush, Minnie, you must not judge hastily or harshly."
"I don't, dear aunt," and she loosed one gentle hand, and put her arm
round the other's neck; "but I have noticed so many unamiable traits in
his character--but aunt Sylvia thinks him perfection."
"I suppose I must not now speak of my protegé--our young clergyman?"
Minnie looked embarrassed. "Dearest aunty," she said at last, "I don't
want to marry; I'm very happy: why so earnestly seek for one to take me
away from you all? Mr. Skaife is sincere, I believe, in saying, he
likes me; I like him as an acquaintance, but I shouldn't like to marry
him. He's very good, kind, and charitable, I daresay; but I think he
wants that sacred fire which, in his sacred calling, makes the chilly
approach, to cheer themselves by the glowing warmth."
"Oh, my dear child! your heart has not spoken, this is the truth; when
it speaks, may it be for a worthy object--that's all I pray. _I_ like
Mr. Skaife: for my sake, dear, try and do so likewise."
Before a reply could be given, the bedroom door opened with fracas, and
aunt Sylvia suddenly appeared. She was totally different in appearance
to her sister. Dorcas was plump, good-tempered, meek-looking, about
forty-five years of age. Sylvia was some five years her senior; a
little, thin, sharp-faced woman--one whose very dress looked meagre; not
the richest brocade could appear rich on so shapeless an anatomy; it
would trail on the ground, limp, and disheartened from any attempt to
look well. She had the strangest eyes in the world--a dark, dingy,
chestnut brown, of which the pupil was certainly not larger than a pin's
head; thin nose, thin lips, thin hair, hands, and voice, completed aunt
Sylvia--with the addition of the very thinnest mind in the world. It was
like a screw-press; put any thing bulky within it, it was compressed
_instanter_ to a mummy, and thence doled out in such small particles,
that it was inevitably lost in the general mass of which aunt Sylvia was
formed.
"I declare, Minnie," she whistled forth in her shrilly tone, "you would
provoke a saint; here have I been calling you at the top of my voice
this hour, and you must have heard me! Really, Dorcas, it is too bad;
you always encourage the child--you, too, must have heard me."
"I have only been here a few moments," placidly answered her sister.
"Then your conversation must have been most engrossing, for such
deafness to have fallen upon you!" and she looked suspiciously from one
to the other.
"We were speaking of----"
Before Minnie could complete her sentence, her door opened a third time,
and admitted uncle Juvenal. We will only say of him, that he was the
bond of union between the two sisters; not stout, not thin, not cross,
not quiet; older by three years than Dorcas, younger by two than Sylvia,
being forty-eight; prim, snuff-coloured, and contented, having but one
desire in the world--the one common to the three, to see Minnie a wife.
A warm discussion ensued between him and Sylvia, relative to some words
which had passed between the squire and doctor, fostered by their mutual
hopes of gaining Minnie, which hope was encouraged--nay, the niece
promised to each--by his patron and patroness. Now, Juvenal came to seek
the cause, and chide her propensity for loneliness; and while he and
Sylvia were warmly debating their disputed points, Dorcas and Minnie
crept out of the room, and the former gained the day this time, for she
and her niece, this latter with only her garden hat on, left the hall by
a side door, accompanied by Mr. Skaife, who had been quietly waiting--it
might have been by Dorcas's cognizance--in a shrubbery through which
they passed on a visit of benevolence. Juvenal and Sylvia, finding the
birds escaped, descended to the garden, when they discovered that the
same thing had occurred respecting the squire and lawyer; both had
disappeared. So the brother and sister sat down to talk it quietly over,
which terminated as all previous talkings on the same subject had done
before--by their completely disagreeing in their respective views, and
consequently falling out; in other words, having a violent quarrel. And
poor little Minnie--the subject of all these commotions--was quietly
walking towards the village with her aunt Dorcas, and _her_ selection of
a suitor, Mr. Skaife, who, to do him justice, was the most sincere lover
of the three; he cared but little whether Minnie were rich or poor,
provided she could be brought by any means to look smilingly upon him.
He was only a poor curate, 'twas true; but then some day he hoped to be,
perhaps, a bishop--Who might say? And in either or any case, he would
have chosen her to share all with him. Perhaps she had been correct in
saying he did not possess the sacred fire necessary for his calling; but
that fault lay to the account of his parents, who had possibly brought
him up to the church as a mere profession, when it should be a voluntary
choice. If, as she supposed, he did not possess the fire necessary for
martyrdom, if summoned to that glory, he certainly _did_ the fire of
love for the fair girl beside him; and while she wished he were any
thing but a lover, both for the sake of a certain pleasure she felt in
his company, and for her aunt's sake, he was wondering whether he ever
should win her?--when?--and how?--and in this mood they walked on. Many
long years before our tale commenced, a certain country gentleman named
Formby and his wife were the residents at Gatestone Hall, the fine
old-fashioned place we have just quitted; they were homely and
primitive, and withal majestic as the oak-panelled walls of the
hospitable home which gave a welcome to many a guest in that portion of
her Majesty's domains called Yorkshire, where the "canniness" of its
inhabitants consists most in the almost unparalleled method they
possess, of winning the way to the heart by kindness and genuine homely
hospitality, of which Mr. and Mrs. Formby were well-chosen
representatives. They had five children--four daughters and one son.
They never troubled themselves as to whether these would marry--that was
an affair of nature, and nature was handmaiden at Gatestone Hall.
However, art--or some adverse god or goddess--crept in, and marred her
course. Of five, only two obeyed her law. Juliana, the eldest, a fine
dashing girl, attracted the attention of the Earl of Ripley at a race
ball; and, six weeks afterwards, became his Countess. The youngest of
all, Baby, as they called her (Jenny was her name, to the amazement of
her family, which appeared impressed with the idea, that baby she was,
and ever would remain), married, at seventeen, a poor half-pay officer
for love; and true love it was. The little god likes poverty best, after
all; he generally nestles there, though the song says otherwise. The
only change this marriage made at the Hall was, the addition of another
inmate to its cheerful circle. Lieutenant Dalzell became located there
for seven months--very short ones they were, too--with his sweet, loving
wife; and there, poor fellow! he died of an old wound won in India,
which shattered an arm, and obliged him to quit the service. Poor Baby
cried like one; nothing could console her, not even the birth of Minnie
some months afterwards: so she cried herself into the pretty green
churchyard, beneath a yew-tree, beside Dalzell; for, poor girl!--almost
a child still when he died--begged so earnestly that they wouldn't shut
up her William in the cold stone family vault, but put him where the sun
might shine upon him, and the green grass grow, that he had a grave
under the bright canopy of heaven, and there, beside him, Baby lay; and
only that day, and the one of his death, did the old hall clock cease
its rounds by her desire. Then Mr. Formby soon followed, and his wife,
leaving three unmarried children, and these three we have seen as
bachelor and spinsters still. Whatever the two sisters may have thought
of matrimony, assuredly Juvenal had given it no part of his dreams by
day or night. _Their_ spinsterhood might have been involuntary of their
inclinations, but there was no law to prevent his asking; and, had he
done so, assuredly he might have had some one at all events, for, though
not a rich man, he was Lord of Gatestone, which would only pass away
from the grasp of himself or heirs should he die childless, of which
there seemed now every chance. Caps of every possible colour, like
fly-traps, were set to catch him, by all the spinsters and widows of
the neighbourhood; carriages of every description drove up to the Hall,
with inmates perfectly free, able, and willing; but when they left, the
only impression behind them was of their carriage-wheels on the
gravelled drive. Now all these attacks had become considerably
diminished, as time had shown their inefficacy. Strange to say, though
Juvenal had evinced no desire to marry on his own part, all his energies
(they were not legion) were called into play to effect an union for his
much-loved niece; and still stranger, that the three, loving her as they
did love her, should have one only thought in common, and be all equally
bent on the same scheme, which might probably separate her from them for
ever. But it is the course of a Christopher Columbian current in our
blood, to be always desirous of exploring some unknown territory. Such
was matrimonial ground to them, and they felt curious to watch its
effect upon others, personal experience being denied, or not desired by
themselves. Minnie was sadly perplexed among them;--they forced her to
think of marriage, when she otherwise would have been much more
innocently employed; and, unfortunately for them, she had not the
slightest idea of condensing all her thoughts on any one of those whom
they had chosen. The lawyer pressed her hand--the squire conferred the
same honour on her toe, as she stepped on his hand to mount her horse;
and the most sincere, as it is ever the case, stood half awkwardly
aloof, and sighed as he whispered to the winds, which blew it heaven
knows where--"Pretty Minnie Dalzell! I shall never win her; she's too
fair for a poor curate's home!"
Pretty she certainly was, and fair--fair as the brightest lily tinged by
a sunbeam dancing across, but not staining, its purity. Such was the
tint that flew over her cheek, every moment new and changing; the
prettiest lip, such a short upper one that the mouth scarcely closed
upon teeth of shining whiteness, like a mother-of-pearl shell wet from
the spray, so fresh they looked. Her eyes were of dark violet, with
lashes and brows darker than the hair, the former so long and thick they
were like a setting round a gem; beautiful eyes, which you lost yourself
in looking into, wondering whence came the pure, clear light, which lent
them so much chaste fire--yet they were full of soul too. In the
forehead, the blue veins wandered like silvery streams through a daisied
meadow, giving life to all;--there was the bloom, grace, and poetry of
the rarest and brightest bouquet of flowers ever collected together, in
that noble brow, and in the ever-changing expression of her sweet face;
and above all, her coronet of magnificent hair clustered in rare
brightness;--it was not golden, yet it shone like it; nor flaxen--it had
too much _expression_ in it for that. It was such hair as only a
creature like Minnie could have. It seemed as if an angel had spun it in
the sun, and waved it by moonlight. 'Twas fair, chaste-looking hair, fit
for dew spirit's gems to hang upon. You took it in your hand, and it was
flossy as unspun silk, and this unbound fell to Minnie's heel, and yet
so pliant and soft, that her little hand could bind the mass round the
beautiful head with ease and grace. She was not tall, but about middle
height, perhaps a trifle more; slight, a mere fairy in figure, and the
springing foot scorned the earth like a flying gazelle. Talk of her
marrying a mere mortal--she should have lived when angels are said to
have loved the sons of men. The curate thought of this; so no wonder he
sighed, even encouraged as he was by----Aunt Dorcas.
CHAPTER II.
It was in the month of June, the early part, when May-flowers still
bloom, and the blossoming trees are not yet in full matronly beauty, but
in their bridal robes, with wreaths of flowers, like robes of dazzling
whiteness, that Minnie and her two companions walked on (for she loved
one and liked the other), her heart giving the rein to all her wild
Arab-colt thoughts of nobility and liberty. _She_ had nothing to
conceal; all was pure and beautiful in her mind, sunny and hopeful. They
were going to visit one of Aunt Dorcas's pensioners, and on Minnie's
pretty arm hung a basket of charitable gifts, truly such, for they were
appropriate to the wants of those for whom they were destined. Gifts of
thought and consideration, not merely donations from a full purse or
plentiful larder. On they journeyed, until a lane appeared before them;
the girl turned down it.
"Stop, Miss Dalzell," cried Skaife hastily; "we had better cross the
path-field."
"'Tis longer round," she rejoined; "aunt Dorcas will be tired, and this
is a favourite walk of mine," and she moved on.
"You should obey your pastors and masters," he answered, smiling, and
yet he seemed embarrassed; "and, as one of the former, I don't
_command_, but may I ask you to cross the path-field, it looks so
inviting with its tall grass; and see, there's a pet of yours--a lark
rising upwards to allure you."
"Aunty, will it be too far for you? No? then we will oblige our pastor."
Skaife looked delighted as he assisted Aunt Dorcas over the stile.
Minnie was over like a sportive thistledown blown by roving breeze;
scarcely had she stepped on the other side of the stile when a little
girl followed her, passed, and stopped beside Mr. Skaife.
"Oh, if you please, good sir," she said, "my mother saw you passing at
the end of the lane, and bade me run after you with this book; you left
it at poor sick Mary Burns's," and the child tendered a book. Both Aunt
Dorcas and Minnie stopped, Mr. Skaife was colouring and confused. "Thank
you," he answered, hurriedly taking it; "that will do." He endeavoured
to pass on.
"And if you please, sir," continued the child, "mother bid me say, that
after you left Mary Burns at three this morning, she was so much
comforted by your kind words and reading, that she slept for hours, and
when she awoke promised mother never to try and kill herself again."
"What is this, dear?" asked Minnie, placing a hand on the child's
shoulder.
"Nothing, never mind, Miss Dalzell," said he; "let us continue our
walk."
"No," answered she; "I am curious, I wish to know. What was it, dear?"
"If you please, miss, poor Mary Burns tried to drown herself yesterday,
and Mr. Skaife jumped into the water and saved her, and he sat by her
all the day yesterday, and came again in the evening, and remained until
three this morning, comforting and praying to her, and----"
"It was only my duty," he replied, now perfectly calm, and in a cold
tone.
"_Now_ I understand," said Aunt Dorcas, "why you declined dining with us
yesterday;" she felt how much he self-sacrificed in not spending the
privileged hours of dinner near her niece, especially as he was seldom
invited by her brother.
"Oh, Mr. Skaife!" cried Minnie, her eyes swimming, as she held out her
ungloved hand and grasped his; "forgive me. I have been a wicked,
wrong-judging girl. I said you did not possess the sacred fire necessary
for your calling; forgive me, you are following an example in meekness,
not arrogantly dictating one--forgive me!"
Skaife could scarcely speak as he pressed her hand.
"Now," she said almost gaily, to remove his embarrassment, "let me
follow up this wholesome lesson to myself by an exercise of charity: we
will go and see Mary Burns; come, dear aunt;" and once more she was at
the other side of the stile, and half-way down the lane with the child,
before they overtook her. Minnie and her aunt entered the humble bedroom
of poverty, alone. Mr. Skaife left them at the door of the cottage to
pay a visit in the neighbourhood. From a neighbour sitting there, to
take care of the paralytic mother of Mary Burns, they learned that the
unfortunate girl had been driven to attempt the dreadful act of the
previous day, on account of the cruel desertion of one who had led her
from the path of right; he led her into darkness, and left her there to
fight her way through shadows to the end of a dreary maze, without a
word to cheer, or a thread to guide her footsteps. There was no one to
tell her of a far off light, which with much seeking and sorrow she
assuredly would find. Nothing but despair around her, she flew to death,
a sad thing to meet in our unrepented sin! It was to this poor wounded
heart that Mr. Skaife brought life and balm. Though humbled and
sorrowing, the girl was hopeful now; she did not, however, allude to the
one whose desertion had maddened her. Aunt Dorcas forbore questioning
her too closely, seeing her evident desire to withhold her seducer's
name; and poor Minnie sat and wept. She had learned two lessons that
day: not to judge too hastily from a calm exterior, as in the case of
Mr. Skaife's warm heart, and that there are sorrows in this world
leading often to suicide or madness, hybrids of opposite
things--confidence and deceit. They quitted the cottage, promising to
see the unhappy girl shortly, and as Minnie bade her cheer up and not
despond, she leaned over the low pallet of misery, leaving a better gift
in the sight of Heaven than the purse she hid beneath the pillow--a
sister's tear over a fallen sister; for are we not all one large family?
and of children, too, ever learning something new--Earth our school,
Heaven our home--with glad faces to rejoice over our coming thither,
when our weary lessons here shall be over! Mr. Skaife joined them
outside, and, by mutual consent, none alluded to poor Mary Burns; but
Minnie turned smilingly to the young curate, and spoke more kindly than
she had ever done before, as he walked beside her, her aunt leaning upon
his arm. However, they parted from him before arriving at Gatestone, and
the aunt and niece entered the old hall together, to receive a double
fire of indignant reproaches from Sylvia and Juvenal, though the latter
was one who appeared ever more inclined to weep than scold; he became
whining and lacrymose when injured in any way; he did not stand up
boldly to fight his enemy; there was something decidedly currish in his
disposition. "I do think," he began, "that I am hardly treated as master
here; no one obeys or consults me; Dorcas goes out without saying where
she's going, taking Minnie with her; and Sylvia blames me for
supineness;--how can I help it?--and Marmaduke Burton blames me too, and
threatens never to come again."
"Well, that wouldn't much signify," said Sylvia, bluntly. "I don't like
Mr. Burton; he's cunning and sarcastic; you would do much better to
attach yourself to Mr. Dalby, he _is_ a charming man."
"I don't like Dalby," hazarded the wretched man in his thin voice; "he
has a significant manner of talking which makes me quite uncomfortable;
I always fancy some one is going to law with me, or that I shall be
forced into an unavoidable lawsuit."
"Talking of that," said Dorcas, hoping to change the current a little,
as all was more or less directed against herself and niece for their
escapade, "does Mr. Burton say any thing more about his threatened suit
with his cousin, Miles Tremenhere?"
"Dear me, no!" answered Sylvia; "Mr. Dalby says that affair is quite at
an end; this illegitimate cousin has wisely left the country; they never
hear even of him."
"I sincerely pity him," replied Dorcas; "it was a sad affair, and his
father was much to blame, leaving him so long in ignorance of the truth;
it was most painful."
"What's that, aunty?" asked Minnie.
"Well, dear! the manor-house belonged some eight years since to a Mr.
Tremenhere, a cousin of the squire's, as they call him; this Tremenhere
had an only son, a very fine, noble-hearted young man, beloved indeed by
almost all, though very haughty to those he disliked. He attained his
twenty-first year; the rejoicings were great at the manor-house; you
were at school at the time; a month passed, and the father died;
scarcely was he in his grave, when Marmaduke Burton arrived, a distant
cousin of Miles's (the son), and disputed the property with him. After a
tedious and painful investigation and suit, as no proof could be
produced of Mr. Tremenhere's marriage with Miles's mother, whom he was
said to have married at Gibraltar, Miles lost the fortune, manor, all,
and quitted the country."
"Poor Mr. Tremenhere!" said Minnie, much affected; "what a dreadful
thing for him! and where is he, aunt?"
"No one knows, I believe, except it may be one or two persons, tenants
of his father's, who have boldly opposed Mr. Burton in every way for his
treachery, and upheld Miles Tremenhere."
"Oh, that was nobly done!" cried the girl enthusiastically.
"What do you mean by treachery?" exclaimed Juvenal and Sylvia in a
breath; both joined together in one common cause against Dorcas, who
indeed was only kin by name.
"Well, I call it treacherous, mean, and wicked," she answered decidedly,
"his having been Miles's companion and playfellow from youth, and indeed
in the house but a few weeks before old Mr. Tremenhere's death; and
scarcely was the breath out of his body, when he put forth a legal claim
to the property as next heir, which claim had been prepared, as it was
proved, months before the old man's death." Minnie sat thoughtfully
listening, but her colour came and went, like the sun passing over a
landscape on a showery day.
"It is very evident," said Sylvia sarcastically, "why you mention this
_now_ before the child--to disgust her with Marmaduke Burton; it is kind
and sisterly towards your brother, who desires the match." Sylvia gained
two things in this speech--she never spoke unadvisedly. She pointed out
the squire's position more forcibly to her niece; and also, by a
counter-stroke, enlisted her unseeing brother on her side.
"Exactly so," whined he; "but that's always the way with Dorcas; she's
very cunning."
"I'm sure dear aunt is not that," cried Minnie, starting up, her face
glowing, and putting an arm round her neck.
"What business have you interfering?" exclaimed Sylvia; "you should
listen, and say nothing."
"Aunt Sylvia," said the girl, calmly reseating herself, "as it seems all
this discussion is about me, I am forced to speak, and say, too, that
I'd die rather than ever marry Mr. Burton!"
"That's your doing," rejoined Sylvia, nodding at her sister. "I'm sure
Juvenal has reason to be obliged to you; and as regards you, Minnie, I
sincerely wish you were married, for you are the cause of discussion and
dissension every day, not here alone, but between friends. There's
Marmaduke Burton and Mr. Dalby, who were inseparables until you returned
six months ago from school, and now they scarce speak civilly to one
another!"
"Were they friends?" asked Minnie, opening her eyes, "Oh, then--" she
did not finish the sentence, but the curling lip spoke what she meant.
"Can the child help that?" said Dorcas, deprecatingly. Sylvia felt as if
she had been an indiscreet general, and was on the point of retorting
with acrimony, when a step was heard on the gravel outside the window,
and one of the subjects of the recent debate walked in--the squire.
"Here I am again," he said, familiarly leaning on the window-sill; "came
round through the shrubbery. Oh! Miss Dalzell," and he moved his hat,
"this is indeed a pleasure; one seldom sees you."
Had love called up the blood from her heart to her cheek, a lover might
indeed have rejoiced in the glow; as it was, the bright flush, coloured
brow, cheek, all, and the lip curled, and eye fixed cold and stern,
shedding an icy hand of scorn over that young face, as she merely bowed
her head in reply. Marmaduke bit his lip, then turning to Dorcas, said,
blandly smiling, "And you too, Miss Dorcas, are a stranger; I trust I
see you well?"
"Quite so, I thank you," she quietly rejoined, "Minnie and I have been
strolling out together."
"Did you call upon Mrs. Lilly?" asked Sylvia. "I promised to do so: she
will think it unkind."
"No," replied her sister; "we did not go near the village."
"We went," said Minnie, raising her head boldly, "with Mr. Skaife, to
see a poor girl he saved from drowning herself yesterday." As she spoke,
somehow her eye fixed itself on the squire; her thought in doing so was,
to show him, at all events, no distaste on her part to the society of
another, however she might avoid _him_. Was it annoyance at this
decision of manner which made him turn so pale, and his voice tremble
slightly, as he inquired, "May I ask where?"
"It was poor Widow Burns's daughter," answered Dorcas; "it is a sad
affair, but, thank Heaven, Mr. Skaife saved the poor girl's life!"
"Shot! Shot!" called Burton, quitting the window on which he had been
leaning, and turning to seek his dog; "here, sir; come here; lie there!"
and the animal howled beneath the lash of his master's whip. When he
returned to the window he was calm as usual, cold and sinister in
appearance.
"Won't you come in, Burton?" asked Juvenal, going to the window, which
looked over the wide-spreading lawn, with its old, majestic trees in
clusters, and the cattle browsing beneath them; "won't you come in?"
"No, I thank you," he replied carelessly. "I merely strolled this way to
inquire about Miss Dalzell's health in person, as I have so seldom the
pleasure of finding her at home. Charity, that cold dame, has much to
answer for, in depriving us, as she does, of her society."
"You would scarcely term her _cold_," answered Minnie, "had you
witnessed the gratitude of Mary Burns to-day, towards Mr. Skaife."
"'Pon my word!" rejoined he, in a cold, cynical tone, "your parson,
Formby (he addressed himself to Juvenal), is a _preux chevalier_;
something new in the colour of his cloth!"
"Is humanity new?--or his act unbecoming his calling?" quietly asked
Dorcas.
"I am scarcely competent to answer you. _I_ have a great dislike to
display: things quietly done, in my opinion, look most meritorious."
"Oh!----" Minnie began.
"Pray, let us change the subject," said Sylvia angrily. "I'm tired of
your charities and drowned persons. It always happens that the one who
saves, manages most cleverly for his deed to be known where he thinks it
will benefit him."
"For shame, Sylvia!" said Dorcas.
"Of course," rejoined Burton, with an uncertain, uneasy glance, "you had
a pathetic account of the cause; the poverty, the----"
"It was not _poverty_ alone," answered Dorcas; "but, with your
permission, we will drop the subject."
"'Tis best," he replied carelessly; "these people are tenants of mine,
and, I fear, bearing no very good name: we must get rid of them."
"Talking of that," asked Juvenal, "have you succeeded in ejecting that
fellow Weld?"
"No; I fear it will be impossible. His lease is good, and was only just
renewed for twenty-one years when----"
He paused: something withheld him from uttering the name of Tremenhere
that day: Minnie's speaking eyes were fixed upon him.
"Ah! yes; I see," rejoined Juvenal; "it is very annoying."
"The impertinence of a low fellow like that, must be galling," suggested
Sylvia.
"What is he guilty of?" asked Dorcas, who was nearly as much in the dark
about many things as Minnie herself, associating as little as possible
with the squire or Mr. Dalby.
"Why," answered her brother, "fancy the insolence of one of Burton's
tenants, whose grounds adjoin his own, who presumes to pass him without
even touching his hat; and had the audacity to try and raise a
subscription, to which he offered to give largely (for him--being only a
small farmer), to find out the impostor, Miles Tremenhere, and support
his claims in another suit to recover the manor-house!"
"Such audacity, indeed," chimed in Sylvia, "in a low farmer!"
"I wonder," said Minnie, looking up in seeming calmness, but the warm
heart beat, "whether the smooth-barked poplar has more sap in it than
the rough gnarled oak?"
"Good gracious, child!" answered Sylvia tartly; "what do _you_ know
about trees?"
"I was not thinking of _trees_, but _men_," rejoined the girl quietly.
"Then what did you say 'trees' for?" asked Juvenal, surprised.
"Because, uncle, they represented men to my thought. We know that
education and associations refine; but I wonder, whether the rougher
class of men was created nearer the slave or brute than the poplar of my
thought; whether men are slaves by birth, or to a superior force which
makes them such, and makes them bow even their free opinions in
subjection to a mightier, not better power."
"Minnie, dear!" cried Dorcas taking her hand, startled by her unusual
warmth.
"I see Miss Dalzell is rather ruffled to-day," said Burton, taking off
his hat; "so I will say adieu. Ladies, your servant; Miss Dalzell, I
kiss your hand, even though it smite me: Formby, will you give me a call
to-morrow?" and, without awaiting a reply, he whistled his dog, and
hurried away. It would be vain to attempt portraying all the
indignation lavished by Juvenal and Sylvia on their niece, who sat,
however, tolerably calm beneath the fire. She was used to these
discussions, and these perhaps, and the necessity of upholding her right
against being forced into an unhappy marriage, had made her more
thoughtful, and less girlish, with them than her age warranted; with
Dorcas, she was an innocent child, and this was her nature. With those
where she felt the necessity of calling her firmness into play, she
became almost a thoughtful woman; and while they discussed, Marmaduke
Burton's thin, tall, spare figure walked thoughtfully homewards, and the
narrow brow contracted still more over the small grey eye, which, with
the high Roman nose, gave him the appearance of a bird of prey. He was
only thirty, but looking some years older; he had assumed the dress of a
country squire with the assumption of that title, and one was as illegal
as the other, and sat as uneasily upon him. The top-boots seemed ashamed
of his thin legs, and shrunk from them. Those things generally grace the
jovial country gentleman, yeoman, or farmer; on Marmaduke Burton they
were as misplaced, as ringing a swine with gems, to give a homely
metaphor to a homely subject. There is one person at Gatestone to whom
we have not yet introduced our readers; let us hasten to repair the
omission. This personage is Mrs. Gillett, the housekeeper. All three,
Juvenal, Sylvia, and Dorcas, involuntarily bowed down to her opinion.
Why, it would be rather difficult to define, except, perhaps, that as a
matron she acted powerfully and sustainingly on these spinster and
bachelor minds. Whatever occurred to any of them, was immediately laid
before Mrs. Gillett to decide upon; she was the repository of all their
secrets, and, strange to say, never betrayed one to the other; she heard
all, kept all, and _agreed_ with all--consequently her position was both
difficult and dangerous. Sometimes she met with an unforeseen rock, one
of those we not unfrequently may have been called upon to pass over on
the beach going to or from a boat at low tide, covered with seaweed,
wet, slippery, and full of holes, in which the sea water has lodged.
Well, over one like this Mrs. Gillett often had to pass; she slid right
and left, sometimes her shoes filled with water as she stepped into a
hole; at one moment she was _nearly_ falling into the sea, but somehow
Mrs. Gillett got safe to the end of the rock, dripping and uncomfortable
'tis true; but she gained her boat, and put out to sea, the oars at full
play, and the sail at the prow, like snow in the sun, all 'taut,' as
sailors say, and 'bellying out' gallantly before the wind. To sum up her
character in a few words, she was the essence of a thousand weathercocks
infused into one. Even Minnie owned a sort of deference for this busily
employed dame; but this was scarcely to be wondered at, it had grown up
with her, and been originally engrafted on her childish mind by means
common and pleasant to childhood--namely, sweetmeats and sugarplums.
Mrs. Gillett had the very snuggest housekeeper's room in the world,
looking into the extensive kitchen-gardens at the back of the hall, and
thither flocked her votaries. She was a woman of nearly sixty, but
robust and active; no modern fashion had disturbed her style of dress;
her 'gownd,' as she still termed it, was three-quarters high, the
gathers behind were set out by what old-fashioned ladies term 'a pad,'
that is, a thing like a quarter of a yard cut off a sand-bag at the
bottom of a door; the whitest muslin handkerchief in the world was
pinned across her well-conditioned bust, confined close to the throat by
a brooch set round with pearls, containing a lock of the defunct Mr.
Gillett's hair; her cap was of lace like snow, high-crowned, ribbonless,
but with broad lace strings pinned _exactly_ in the centre by another
brooch smaller than the first--a sort of a hoop, the first, as she told
every one, that she had ever possessed. Storr and Mortimer might not
admire it, but she did. A white apron completed this attire, not a
Frenchified thing with pockets, but a genuine old English one, gored and
sloped, perfectly tight all round. As she sat in her high-backed chair
giving audience to her visiters, she was a picture. She was the only
person who had advocated the cause of matrimony to Juvenal--it was
dreadful to her the idea of the old place passing away to another branch
of the family. When her bones had been more capable of locomotion, she
had visited all the neighbouring housekeepers for miles, on some pretext
or another, to find a wife for Juvenal--but in vain. His bent was not
matrimony for himself, and he cared but little who should inhabit
Gatestone after his death. His sisters were strangely indifferent, too;
they did not like the place especially, and, should they survive him,
proposed residing on a small property of their own near Scarborough.
Thus all their united energies were directed towards the settlement of
their niece. She was their plaything, just as her poor mother had been
eighteen years before. Mrs. Gillett's advice was perfectly conscientious
when given; she only thought of the immediate case before her, without
reference to any other prior claim which might have been made on her
attention. Unlike Lot's wife, she never looked back; consequently, had
all followed her counsel, a strange confusion would necessarily have
ensued, where _all_ were bent on the same thing--to marry Minnie, and
each to his or her favourite. She sat in state, her hands crossed over
her portly figure as she leaned back in her chair, and before her sat
Juvenal.
CHAPTER III.
"Just so, Mrs. Gillett," he said; "just as you say. I am _not_ treated
like the master in my own house; no one consults or obeys me. As for my
niece, she opposes me in every possible way!"
"Oh! that's a pity, I'm sure," said the commiserating listener, shaking
her head; "that shouldn't be, you know: it's very wrong."
"So I tell her," continued he, "but she persists in it, and
unhesitatingly insults Marmaduke Burton before my face--something about
some trees; I don't exactly know what she meant, but _he_ did, and
walked away quite offended."
"Trees?" asked Gillett, musingly; "trees? Ay, that must be it! When
Squire Burton came to the property, he was much in debt, they said, and
he cut down a lot of fine old oaks about the place: don't you call it to
mind, sir?"
"To be sure I do," he answered, his hair almost on end at this solution
of Minnie's riddle--"What a wicked thing for a girl of her age to say,
on purpose to hurt his feelings, and I was so anxious for the match!"
"I've always remarked," rejoined his companion, dropping her words one
by one sententiously, "that the children of military men have more devil
in them than others, more quarrelsome-like; depend upon it, 'tis what
they're brought up with." She spoke as if they were young cannibals, fed
upon the trophies of war around a blazing fire; as, says an old song
there, "Where my forefathers feasted on the blood of Christians."
"Very likely!" ejaculated Juvenal, who was growing prosy and stultified
by her reasonings, and his own over-thinking.
"And yet her father was a poor, maimed, one-armed man after all, not at
all like a soldier. I often wondered how Baby, poor child, could love
him!"
Juvenal evidently thought that a son of Mars should, literally and of
necessity, be a man of _arms_. "But what's to be done with Minnie?" he
uttered thoughtfully. "It would be very dreadful were she to marry the
poor curate, or even the lawyer; for her own fortune is a mere trifle.
Almost all her mother's portion was spent in paying off Dalzell's debts.
I am living, and am obliged to live, quite up to my income; her aunts
can give her nothing until their death. What is to be done, Mrs.
Gillett? pray, advise me how to act?"
"I'd lock her up," whispered Gillett, "and not let her see any one
else."
"But myself?" he asked; "what good would that do?"
"No, not you--the squire. Don't let her go about with her aunts. One
wants the lawyer to have her; t'other, the parson. Lock her up; it's
just the way to tame a high spirit, and make her like the man!"
"Well, so I've thought too, Mrs. Gillett, but there would be a dreadful
outcry were I to attempt it. How is it to be done?"
"Well, give her, say a month, to decide; and if she don't say Yes, then
do it, and she'll soon come to. You are her guardian, and have a right
to know what's best for her."
"So I will! so I will! your reasoning is most excellent; but don't give
a hint to my sisters, or I shall have my scheme frustrated."
"Not for the world, sir; and I again beg of you not to name _my_ advice
to any one, or I shall lose all the confidence of the others."
"Rest perfectly satisfied, Mrs. Gillett; I have too sincere a respect
for your excellent counsels, to risk the loss of them owing to any fault
of mine;" and he whispered, rising, "Don't let any of them know I have
consulted you."
This the dame cheerfully promised, and she faithfully kept her word. To
do her justice, Mrs. Gillett meant no harm--far from it. If, in the
almost torpid indifference of her heart towards others, there arose
sometimes another feeling, it was certainly to do good, not evil; but
there was predominant above all else, the love, the ambition of
domination, that heaven to the narrow-minded--she held the reins of
government of all; this was her glory, not calculating, or indeed
caring, how obtained; she was an unconsciously dangerous woman--in her
heart meaning no harm, certainly. Juvenal quitted her, resolved to watch
for and seize the first excuse given, to coerce Minnie to his wishes;
and a more erring path a man never selected. Minnie would do any
thing--might have been induced to take any step (not faulty), by
kindness, or from affection; but her spirit was of that nature which
would make her stoutly rebel against oppression. Mrs. Gillett smoothed
her white apron, puckered up her mouth, folded one hand over the other,
and composed herself to take her afternoon's nap; and Juvenal walked
away, strengthened in mind by his counsellor's advice, and like a
galvanic battery, full charged, prepared to electrify poor Minnie the
first moment they came in contact. In this state of affairs days went
by: Juvenal watched in vain for open rebellion; his niece was too well
occupied elsewhere, to give herself the trouble of opposing any
attention the squire might choose to pay her. When our minds are fixed
upon one object, minor things (even if they, under other circumstances,
would be considered evils) pass us by almost unnoticed. However, the
squire had paid only hurried visits to Gatestone since the day we last
saw him there: he seemed pre-occupied about something, and this apparent
coolness on his part, agonized Juvenal, who revenged himself by
persecuting Minnie, and interrupting every conversation, with either the
lawyer or curate, which he fancied possibly agreeable to her. But she,
with perfect indifference, smiled on, unruffled and gay. Minnie had
something better at heart. We have said she was a little self-willed;
and not all the angry expostulations of Sylvia, who had discovered it,
could prevent her visiting the cottage of Mary Burns, who now was
enabled to quit her bed. Accompanied by Dorcas, she went thither almost
every day, to speak comfort to, and fortify that unhappy girl in her
good resolutions. Dorcas was one of those sensible women, who, though
they would not plunge a young, pure mind in impurity, or familiarize it
with crime, yet deem it right and healthful to teach it the beauty of
virtue by its comparison with error, guardedly, advisedly, but
practically shown. Moreover, in this case it was a duty, and that Dorcas
inculcated above all else, to succour and strengthen those in affliction
or temptation. Poor Mary forbore to name her seducer, neither did either
seek to unveil this hidden corner of her heart: the wrong had been
done--how could it alter the case to know his name? The poor girl said,
"Oh, when I knew he had deceived, and never meant to marry me--when he
told me so, coldly and scornfully, I became mad; for that I must have
been, to seek death in my sin!" Then she told Minnie how she had been
brought up, almost entirely, for years at the manor-house, while Madame
Tremenhere (so she called her) lived: but this seemed wrung from her
heart; for, with the words, the clenched hands stiffened, so bitterly
she wrung them, and her lip sternly compressed itself together, to keep
back her tears. She was a girl of manners and bearing far superior to
her station; not decidedly pretty, but quiet, well-looking, and far
above what is termed "genteel." She was ladylike in tone and manner,
showing evidence of gentle teaching and association. Her mother had
once kept the village school; and when she became paralyzed, years
before, Mary had supported her by her work, plain and fancy, which she
disposed of in the neighbouring town, Harrogate, some six miles distant.
She was, at the time our tale commences, in her twenty-fifth year.
Dorcas had taken a deep interest in this girl, and was endeavouring,
through some friends in London, to obtain a situation there for her,
whither she might remove with her poor old unconscious mother. Juvenal
could not lock up Minnie, as Mrs. Gillett had advised him to do, for
visiting this lonely cottage, however much against his wishes, because
Dorcas was a consenting party: he could but grumble, and consult with
his old crony, the housekeeper, who advised him to bide his time; and he
too felt, at her foretelling, that that would soon come. "The Countess
of Ripley and Lady Dora will shortly arrive," she said, "and then Miss
Minnie can't run about as she does." He felt this, too, and waited. But,
in the mean time, his refractory niece sped almost daily to the Burns's
cottage, where, not unfrequently, her young, fresh voice paused in its
gentle, though almost childish, counsellings, or readings, to salute Mr.
Skaife, who came also to visit his poor parishioner; and (truth must be
spoken) a little self-interest attached itself to his visits, for he was
almost certain of meeting the one he sought and loved there. One day
they met as usual: Minnie was alone, Dorcas had not accompanied her: he
had preceded her in his arrival. When she entered the cottage she found
much tribulation there. Evidently, Mr. Skaife was in the confidence of
Mary Burns; it was natural he should be, as the one who had rescued her
from so fearful a death, and also, as her spiritual master, one she was
bound to respect. Minnie found the unhappy girl in a state of the most
fearful excitement. Acting upon what he had said, of their being
improper characters, an order had been brought them that morning by the
squire's steward, to quit the cottage of which he was landlord as soon
as possible. It seemed almost beyond the power of Mr. Skaife to control
the girl's emotion to the standard of reason. When Minnie entered, Mary
stood before her pale and speechless: she stood--yet she seemed almost
incapable of supporting the weight of her body, and, still greater than
that, some heavy affliction. For some moments she could not reply to the
other's kind question of, "What had occurred?" Mr. Skaife hastened to
reply:--
"Oh!" he said hastily, fixing his eye on the girl to subdue her bursting
feelings, as if he dreaded her giving utterance to something; "Mr.
Burton deems it advisable another tenant should have this cottage, and
'tis best thus; Mary must leave; absence from this place is necessary,
for many reasons. I have seen Miss Dorcas this morning, and she tells me
she has succeeded in obtaining an employment for this poor girl in town,
where she can support her mother, and in more healthful scenes and
occupations redeem the past, and forget----"
"Forget!" she almost shrieked; "forget! and _now_ to-day, when I am
ordered away, and by----"
"Hush!" interrupted the curate sternly; "remember you are called upon to
suffer; you have purchased that right, however cruelly administered to
you; it is only by pain inflicted that physicians heal."
"Forgive me, Mr. Skaife," she cried, in a scarcely audible tone; "I have
merited all, but I am only human, and it is very hard to bring down the
spirit to subjection, more especially in my case, when----"
"Hush!" he said again; and Minnie felt that her presence silenced the
girl's speech.
"And must you leave this soon?" asked Minnie; "before my aunt has
arranged all for your departure?"
"Yes," uttered Mary, through her half-closed teeth; "we are ordered to
quit now--at once--to-day!" and, despite her efforts, the excitement of
her previous manner again overcame her. "I am very wicked," she said at
last, in deep affliction and humility, "for I have deserved all; but oh!
Miss Dalzell, may Heaven keep you from ever suffering--though innocent,
as you must be, with your strong, pure mind--what I am enduring; even
guilty as I am, it is almost more than mere human force can bear up
against."
"You have a kind, good friend here," answered Minnie, looking up in Mr.
Skaife's face; "one whose guidance has led you to better and surer hopes
than those you had relied upon. Think of this, and be comforted. You
will soon leave this, and meanwhile you shall not quit this cottage; _I_
will ask Mr. Burton to permit you to remain; surely his steward acts
without his concurrence, and when he knows this man's order, he
will----"
"He!" cried Mary; "he, Mar----, Mr. Burton, I mean!"
"Pray, Miss Dalzell," exclaimed Mr. Skaife hastily, "drop this painful
subject--oblige me; leave all to me; and if I may without rudeness ask
it, abridge your visit to-day. I will see you this evening, and inform
you where this poor girl is removed to, for leave this she must."
"Then I will go now," answered Minnie, moving towards the door. "May
I----"
Before she could conclude her sentence, the cottage door was hastily
pushed open, and a man entered. Mary uttered a wild scream of surprise,
and, springing forward, grasped his hand in both of hers. "Miles," she
cried, as if doubting her sense of vision. "Miles, you, you
here!--forgive me," she uttered, dropping his hand, as if it blistered
hers in the contact, and, stepping back, "I forget myself always _now_,
Mr. Tremenhere. Oh, Heavens!" And she covered her face with her hands,
and burst into tears.
"Miles--Miles still and ever--dear Mary!" exclaimed the man, putting his
arms around her fondly, and drawing her on his breast, quite unconscious
of, or indifferent to all observers. "Still, my girl, as when a better
than any now on earth sanctioned it." And his voice trembled, yet it was
a fine manly one too, and in keeping with the speaker's appearance. He
was tall, very tall, muscular in frame, but slight, dark-haired, with
dark earnest eyes; a rather projecting but perfect brow gave more depth
to them--it was shade above their intense fire; an aquiline nose of
chiselled outline, a mouth compressed and firm; all combined, made Miles
Tremenhere a portrait worthy the pencil of the most scrupulous of the
old masters. He was quite Spanish in style; for a complexion dark and
bronzed, gave colouring to that face of wild, half-savage beauty, from
its daring, haughty expression. A thick, dark moustache curled down
either side of the mouth, veiling, but not concealing, the line of its
speaking firmness, even in silence. He appeared quite unconscious of the
presence of any one but Mary, like a man accustomed to be alone and
friendless in a crowd. Minnie looked at him, in wonder at first at a
manly beauty she might have dreamed of, but never saw before; then a
sensation of bitter pain came over her, succeeded by the glow of maiden
shame when first brought in contact with guilt; for she fancied Mary's
seducer before her, and she felt shame for one of her sex who could thus
daringly avow it, as Mary's action seemed to do; she made an effort to
creep away, then turning her eyes towards Mr. Skaife, expecting to see
reprehension or anger on his countenance, she beheld a quiet, benevolent
smile cross his expressive, but not handsome, face. She stopped, feeling
in an instant that Mr. Tremenhere could not be the one who had wronged
the girl, for him to look thus. "Mary," continued Miles, still holding
her in his arms. "What dreadful thing is this I hear? I only arrived in
this neighbourhood yesterday night, and Weld, my ever true friend, told
me, to my horror, that you had been rescued from death by some one.
What, Mary, has your fine spirit become so daunted, that a little
poverty could grind it down to despair? Shame on you, my girl! You told
me, when things changed at the old place, that poverty should not quell
_you_; you bade me cheer up, and look to you for courage. Is this your
practice of that excellent theory, Mary?"
While he was speaking, her head gradually turned from his gaze; in vain
he tried to force her eyes to meet his; she held her face downwards,
and, shrinking from his arms, dropped on her knees, bowed to earth in
bitterness, worse than any death could have been; she had yet to teach
this noble heart to despise her. What could death be compared with that?
He tried to raise her. "Come," he said with the gentleness of a woman,
"I did not mean to scold you; never be cast down with a few rough words
from a rough fellow like myself."
A hand was on his arm; he started, so forgetful had he become of all
around, seeing only her, for her poor old mother sat in an arm-chair,
perfectly unconscious to all around in hearing, and stone blind--Miles
turned hastily--the smile had changed to a frown. "Mr. Tremenhere," said
Skaife, for 'twas his touch upon him, "do not let me startle or alarm
you," he hurriedly added, feeling the start.
"Sir!" exclaimed the other proudly, "I neither know fear nor timidity,"
and he shook his arm free from the clasp.
"You mistake me," answered Skaife calmly; "though a stranger to you,
from report I well know, that, but--" he hesitated a moment in
confusion, not well knowing how to continue.
The poor girl came to his aid, rising slowly, whilst her knees trembled
beneath her from emotion. She advanced a step; her first impulse of
rushing into Miles's arms was passed, and now she durst not touch even
his hand, but stood, and with a wave of her hand motioned to Skaife.
"Miles," she said, "that is our curate, good, kind Mr. Skaife. But for
him, my poor mother would now have been childless, and probably in the
workhouse--_he_ rescued me!" At the thought of her old mother,
paralyzed, deaf, and blind, in that spectre-house of misery, the tears
dropped from her eyes, which were strained wide open, to try and see
through that crowding flood of despair.
"I seldom offer my hand," exclaimed Tremenhere, at the same time
extending his towards Skaife, "it has been so often repulsed; but take
it now in warm thanks for what you have done for one, almost a sister."
All coldness and pride were banished from that fine noble face; his
every feature lit up with the rich, bland smile, which left you almost
speechless with admiration, so exalted the expression became. Two worthy
of each other in heart and mind clasped hands warmly, and looking in
Skaife's face, Miles, whose wrongs had made him a keen observer of
countenance, ever dreading an enemy, with his hand gave a feeling of
friendship which time well matured.
"Now, I remember," he added, "Weld spoke of your kindness; but my brain
was so bewildered I had forgotten it, and other harsh events to deal
with, prevented my coming over here last night, as I was assured of
Mary's safety by my good farmer friend where I am staying."
"And now," said Skaife looking expressively at him, "will you accompany
me a short distance, merely across a couple of fields, whilst I offer my
protection as far as her own grounds, to Miss Dalzell." And he turned to
where Minnie stood, almost concealed by the curtains of the humble bed.
"Miss Dalzell!" exclaimed Tremenhere; and again the first haughty
expression mantled his face with scorn. "Allow me to use the privilege
of my calling," said Skaife, "and take upon me what, as another, I might
not dare assume--the liberty of presenting you to one another,--Miss
Dalzell, Mr. Tremenhere."
The latter raised his hat coldly, but respectfully, yet he seemed
annoyed at the meeting.
"Honour Miss Dalzell, for _my_ sake," whispered poor Mary, well knowing
why he looked so troubled; "for she has come here day after day, as an
angel, to visit a suffering creature, and bring balm to a wretched
sinner." The last word was unheard by Miles; he stood beside Minnie,
whose face was covered by a deep blush.
"This," he said, "has been a day of much surprise, if of sorrow too; I
came, expecting every hand and heart against me--every hand cold, every
heart stone; I have met two generous ones, or faces are sad traitors.
Forgive me, Miss Dalzell, but in your home, the bitterest against me,
the almost dwelling-place of Marmaduke Burton, my _worthy_ cousin, I
scarcely expected to find a bosom with human blood in it; a thousand,
and a thousand thanks for Mary's sake."
"Mr. Tremenhere has been intimate with my thoughts for some time,"
answered Minnie more calmly, "and believe me as friend, not foe."
"Indeed!" and a bright glowing look was fixed in her face, "I never
dreamed of a personal friend at Gatestone, even in thought. This is
truly the prodigal's welcome home! May I accompany you and Mr. Skaife
across the two fields he named? I know them well! I may? Thank you;
Mary!"--He turned to the poor girl, and his face saddened as he
approached her, for she was weeping bitterly; the very floor seemed to
tremble with her emotion, as Skaife whispered lowly to her--"Mary, I
will return soon--soon, my girl; don't be so cast down, better times
will come for all. Hope, Mary; _I_ do to-day," and he grasped her
reluctant hand, "just a few moments, and I will return."
Skaife whispered, "Remember your solemn promise to me, to Heaven. He
_must_ know all; cheer up, poor girl, I am sure he will only feel _pity_
for you!" _Only_ pity where we were once loved and respected, is indeed
an icedrop on a burning surface, soon passed away, soon absorbed, and
not long even the memory of it left.
Minnie, Tremenhere, and Skaife, passed out.
CHAPTER IV.
Tremenhere had two distinct characters; with those he disliked, he had
more than the coldness ascribed to Englishmen in general; there was
something almost despotic in his manner. With those to whom his
affections kindled, he was not alone gentleness itself, but forbearing,
bending, loving, the almost habitual frown quitted his face, and left it
youthful, bland, and joyous in expression. Poor Miles! he had suffered,
and been made to endure, keenly; he had been forced to graft suspicion
on a noble nature, and this destroyed the bud of much good fruit. There
was so much wild nature about him, that not unfrequently the usages of
society suffered from his bluntness; what he thought, he spoke freely.
"Miss Dalzell knows, I presume," he said, as the three entered the
path-field, "my history--as I was--as I am?"
"But slightly," she answered, rather embarrassed.
"Well, 'tis best, perhaps, little known to one so young and pure as
yourself. It would show you a capability of vice in the human heart,
which you may never discover in your personal career--so better ignore
it; it might, too, tarnish your mind's purity, to see so dark a current
in a life's ocean; but what I wished to allude to, is this, when I
first saw you, and heard your name mentioned, it recalled you to me as
one whom I have recently heard of as the elected bride of my hopeful
cousin, Marmaduke Burton. My first thought of you was darker than
dislike--'twas contempt; no good, true heart could love that man for
himself."
"Stop, Mr. Tremenhere," cried Skaife hastily, and in evidently painful
emotion. "Do not judge harshly what woman's weakness or love may lead
her to forget, or forgive, for herself or another."
"Good heavens, Mr. Skaife!" cried Minnie, amazed and in almost horror;
"what do you suppose?"
Skaife had forgotten her, he was thinking of another. Tremenhere stopped
suddenly, and flushed deeply, as he fixed his earnest eyes on her--
"Have I, can I have been mistaken? Has my own wary judgment in general,
deceived me this once? I thought," he almost uttered these last words to
himself, "no one could cheat my watchfulness now."
"Mr. Tremenhere," exclaimed she in much embarrassment, yet anxious to
cast from her a garment so hateful as the one which should cloak her as
Burton's wife in his or any eyes, "I may be speaking boldly for a girl,
and to you, a stranger too, but I would not have any one suppose, much
less you, an injured man, that I can ever become your cousin's wife. Mr.
Skaife, pray assure Mr. Tremenhere you did not allude to me!"
"Indeed," said Skaife, much puzzled by his own awkwardness, "I had
forgotten all present; I will explain my meaning to you," and he turned
to Miles.
"Oh!" answered this man again, reassured in confidence, and smiling his
own peculiar smile on Minnie. "I ill deserve this kindness, this haste
to soothe my wounds. Believe me, they are deep and cankering when I
think of Burton, not for myself, but another. You have been so Christian
in kindness to poor Mary, that I could not bear, Miss Dalzell, to
associate any one I respected in even my thoughts with that traitor.
Thought," he continued, musingly, "is a gift of the soul; you will
inhabit mine, linked with that unfortunate girl, whom I much love."
"Am I to understand," asked Skaife aside to him in surprise, "that you
know all?"
"All?" and the other stared, astonished at the question to himself.
"Could any know it better? what else has again brought me to this place?
what drove me from it?"
"Then, indeed, you are to be pitied, Mr. Tremenhere--deeply pitied; but
I feared something of this, from your emotion in the humble cottage we
have quitted."
Skaife was playing with shadows of his own creating. He fancied
Tremenhere loved Mary, with whom he had been brought up from childhood;
and he also thought he (Tremenhere) knew all her painful story. Skaife's
last words demanded an explanation. Before the other could ask it,
Minnie uttered an exclamation, and over the stile, the last one, near
which they stood, struggled Mrs. Gillett--for struggle it was--whether
she should overcome the stile, or the stile lay her in the ditch.
However, she arrived safely on the side where stood the three,
smoothed her dress, settled her apron, picked up a patten which she had
dropped (she always carried these, even in the finest weather, to cross
the brooks on,) and then she looked up over her spectacles, which were
on the tip of her nose, and stood transfixed. At a glance she knew Miles
Tremenhere. Mrs. Gillett had one excellent quality--she was no
talebearer; she kept circumstances to herself; they only oozed out in
imperceptible drops in her counsellings, making her seem an OEdipus
for soothsaying and guessing. Her hearers were amazed when truths came
to light which she had foretold, without any seeming foreknowledge of
them: herein lay her strength and power over all. "Mussiful powers!" she
mentally said; "here's a pretty business! What am I to do with _him_?"
She was thinking of all the lovers for Minnie she had already on hand,
with their leaders. Skaife was the first to recover self-possession.
"Perhaps, Miss Dalzell," he said, "you will allow me"--he did not say
"us," for Mrs. Gillett was, perhaps, ignorant who Tremenhere was; he
might seem as a stranger to Minnie in her eyes--"to hand over my escort,
however unwillingly done, to Mrs. Gillett; and I and my friend (he
glanced at Miles) will continue our walk of business."
But Tremenhere stepped boldly forward; something more than his usual
candour forbade disguise, even if practicable: "Mrs. Gillett," he said,
"you and I are old friends. Surely you remember the 'sweet youth,' as
you were used to call me when I visited Gatestone and your cosey room
there!"
Mrs. Gillett shrunk back--she was on her slippery rock: had they been
alone, she would gladly have spoken to Miles, before witnesses she durst
not. She looked down, and, affecting not to hear, stooped, resting on
one toe to support her knee, on which, placing a patten, she very
assiduously begun tying its string. Miles laughed aloud: it was a cold,
contemptuous, unpained laugh. "Miss Dalzell," he said, lowly bowing, and
changing his tone to one of feeling, "I do indeed thank you for to-day,
for all your gentle words. Whenever I revisit this spot, here shall I
pause to salute the shade of one whose kindness will be ever present
with me." He was turning sadly away: "Good bye, Mr. Tremenhere," she
cried, extending her hand; "and when we meet again, may you be very
differently circumstanced to what you are to-day."
He grasped her hand, and all the speeches ever formed could not have
been half so eloquent, as his tremulous "I thank you deeply and
sincerely, may your kind wish be heard;" and with a sigh, which we often
grant to sympathy, though refusing it to our own hardened feelings, he
turned away with Skaife, who shook Minnie kindly by the hand; it was a
parting of three very kindred spirits. As they walked off, Mrs. Gillett
rose from her occupation. "Your dear aunts sent me to meet you,
darling," she said, glancing round cautiously, "and I always like to
bring my pattens with me; I don't like damp grass, it don't agree with
my rheumatics." At that moment Tremenhere paused in his walk, and turned
round, as if irresolute whether to return, and perhaps say something
left unsaid. Mrs. Gillett saw it, and, once more stooping, she gave a
violent tug to her patten string; she had raised herself three inches
upon those kind of young stilts, which even yet old-fashioned country
folks wear. "Bless the tie!" she cried, bent nearly double, her back
curved like a boy at leap-frog; "bless the tie, it always comes undone,
or gets into a knot--I never see such strings!" Minnie saw nothing of
this; she could not have comprehended Mrs. Gillett's policy; then, too,
her thoughts were more knotted than even the patten tie;--who might
unweave and straighten them? Alas! a few moments will often entangle the
skein of our existence, knotting up hopes, fears, and cares, in one
unravelable mass. Tremenhere turned, and walked on; Minnie had seen the
action, and it troubled her, "What had he wished to say? would he tell
Skaife? could she serve him in any way? poor fellow--poor Miles
Tremenhere!" Every one knows the reputed relationship between friendship
and love; they have a family likeness, and are not unfrequently mistaken
for one another, till the latter pirouettes, and then we find the
arrowless quiver, (_they_ remain with us,) and the extended wings,--who
may clip them?
"Your aunts were very anxious about you," continued Minnie's companion,
peering over her spectacles to read if the other had read _her_; "poor,
dear ladies, I'm sure it's a great blessing for you to have such
relations in your orphan state; and then your kind uncle, too, he is
more sensible, and judges better what's good for you than any, as in
course he should--in course he should," here she paused, and peeped at
the thoughtful girl. "The lawyer Mr. Dalby's very well," ran on Mrs.
Gillett, "and so is Mr. Skaife--oh, he's a pious young man! and his
sermons are quite edifying; but then, I've always remarked, your very
pious young men don't make _very_ good husbands, or happy homes. A man
should only think of his wife, and how can the clargy do that when
they're the fathers of the whole parish? and I'm sure Mr. Skaife has
enough to do hereabouts, for they are an ill broughtened-up set as ever
I met with, and, as his housekeeper says, when he isn't writin' his
sermons, he's _astonishing_ some one," (_query_, admonishing?) "Now, as
to marrying him, with all his occupation, it might do very well for Miss
Sylvia, or Miss Dorcas, but for a fine young lady like you, why, you
should have horses, and carriages, and servants at command, and be the
grandest lady in the neighbourhood. Then, as for Mr. Dalby, why, what
with latty_cats_, _re_jectments, and briefs, it's but little time _he'd_
find to pay you proper attention."
"Mrs. Gillett!" exclaimed Minnie, so suddenly that she almost frightened
her off her pattens, "don't you know Mr. Tremenhere? didn't you know him
as a boy?"
"Bless me, Miss Minnie, what _are_ you talking of! don't speak of that
dreadful young man, Miss; it's unbecoming a modest young lady to know
there's such a person living."
"Mrs. Gillett!" and the girl stood still in amazement.
"To be sure," responded the woman, "he must be a bad character--wasn't
his mother? and how could he be good?--Don't a cat always have kittens?"
"Mrs. Gillett," cried Minnie, again grasping her arm, and her eyes
looked deepest violet with emotion. "You would be a very wicked woman to
think what you say; that was Miles Tremenhere with Mr. Skaife. I pitied
him before knowing him, and now, if I could by any means see him
righted, I'd lend my hand to the good work, and I do hope some day he
may be at the manor-house again!"
"That Mr. Tremenhere!" exclaimed the politic Gillett. "How boys _do_
alter, to be sure!" She evaded replying to the other things said; it
would not do, too decidedly, to take any side of the question; the womb
of Time is very prolific--we never know what offspring it may produce.
They were in the shrubberies of Gatestone by this time; a few moments'
silence ensued, interrupted only by the click-clack of Mrs. Gillett's
pattens.
"Mrs. Gillett, why will you wear those horrid things on the gravel
walks? you cut them up terribly," said a voice behind them. Minnie
turned, her companion stopped, and stooped to disencumber her feet of
their appendages, by which movement Juvenal nearly fell over her. She
was pitched forward on her hands and knees by the concussion, with a
scream; another picked her up--'twas the squire. Juvenal was evidently
cross, or he would not have spoken so disrespectfully to his matron
housekeeper.
"I hope I see Miss Dalzell well?" said Burton, offering his hand.
"Well, thank you," answered she, not appearing to notice it--he bit his
lip, and dropped beside her.
"I really should like to know where you go every day--where you have
been this morning, Minnie?" asked her uncle crossly.
"Shall I tell you, uncle?" she answered, and then, without giving
herself a moment to consider possible consequences to herself or others,
with the too hasty candour of a generous mind anxious to espouse the
weaker side, she continued, addressing herself this time to Marmaduke
Burton,--"I've been to Mary Burns's cottage, and there I met Mr. Skaife,
and your cousin, Mr. Burton, Mr. Tremenhere." Certainly she created an
effect; the squire tottered and became ghastly pale, Juvenal looked
amazed and annoyed. "What--together?" he cried. "How came that about?
Where is Mr. Tremenhere? and how dare you become acquainted with that
man?"
"Your surprise equals mine," said Burton, recovering himself partially,
then added ironically--"Our young curate might do better composing his
sermons, than becoming bear-leader to an impostor, and a man of Mr.
Tremenhere's character. As _cousin_, Miss Dalzell, allow me to disavow
him; he is none such by law, and I have no desire to outstep any bounds
to claim that enviable distinction."
"I only judge the law of humanity," she replied, in a slightly tremulous
tone; she began to be afraid of the storm of such passions as his face
bespoke working in his frame. "And no man should be condemned for the
faults--if faults there were--of his parents."
"If faults there were," said Burton, echoing her words. "Allow me, Miss
Dalzell, to reject, in all politeness, the right your speech offers me,
of standing in Mr. Tremenhere's position. He or I am an impostor, a
claimant to an unjust title of proprietorship; besides, there are more
personal faults appertaining to that gentleman, at variance with my
ideas of honour."
For an instant a doubt crossed her mind about Mary and Miles; could
Burton allude to this? But her heart repudiated the thought.
"Did he become suddenly so wicked?" she calmly asked. "As boys
together--as men, indeed--up to the period of his father's death, had he
the deep hypocrisy to conceal all this?"
"Miss Dalzell seems well informed of my history," he said, through his
half-closed teeth. "I cannot but feel flattered by the kind interest it
evinces in me." He bowed low.
"Really, Minnie," said her uncle, "you have chosen a strange subject;
pray, drop it. How could you have become acquainted with that man? This
comes of your running about alone--it must be seen to, and quickly: Mrs.
Gillett!" The woman stepped forward at his call; and now she blessed her
forethought and policy in having ignored Tremenhere's identity!
"Mrs. Gillett," said her master, while the other two walked on in
silence, "what do you know about this? You were with Miss Dalzell: where
did you find her, and how?" The woman was quite calm under this criminal
examination--she felt so sure of her innocence.
"I know nothing of it, master," she said decidedly: "I met Miss Dalzell,
dear child, in the holly field; just as I stepped over the stile, my
patten came undone; I was busy settling it; I saw Mr. Skaife and another
gentleman, but I'm sure I couldn't swear to him; I never looked in his
face--it isn't my custom so to do to them above me, 'specially
gentlemen!" and she smoothed her virginal-looking apron, tied over her
modest heart with wide tape strings.
Sylvia and Dorcas came out to meet the approaching group. "Where was the
child?" demanded the former at the top of her voice. Juvenal looked, and
was, much excited. "Mrs. Gillett found her," he replied, "with an
improper--a most improper--character!"
"What a dreadful thing!" screamed Sylvia; "who was it?"
Dorcas was by the girl's side, calmly speaking, and inquiring the cause
of her protracted stay, which had alarmed them. She knew, however, that
Minnie was not in any wilful harm, yet her affection made her fearful of
ill. We will leave them to their explanations, to which Mr. Burton was
not a witness, having taken his leave hastily of all. Poor Minnie had a
sad trial, and a severe lesson and lecture, the consequences of her warm
heart and candour--two things, bad guides in this world of brambles;
with these her garments would be, haplessly, frequently rent and
disfigured.
We will ask our readers to step into the holly field with us, to where
we left Skaife and Miles Tremenhere, both of them walking back in deep
thought.
CHAPTER V.
From some ambiguous words dropped by Miles in the cottage, and during
Minnie's stay with them, it will be remembered that Skaife was impressed
with the idea that Tremenhere had, as a boy probably, loved Mary Burns,
who had been a _protegée_ of his mother's at the manor-house; and the
curate also thought that the other was aware of her sad fate. For some
time the silence was unbroken, then Miles, suddenly turning towards his
companion, said, like one awakening from a dream, "Pardon me, Mr.
Skaife, but I am an uncouth man, much alone, little in humanized
society; my chief companions are stocks and stones, and the native
inhabitants of wild nature; forgive me again, I had forgotten to thank
you, which I do most sincerely, for your kindness to poor Mary Burns,
and also to myself personally; few, indeed, would have had the courage
to notice, and be thus publicly seen with one at so low a discount as I
am in this neighbourhood."
"Believe me sincere, when I assure you, Mr. Tremenhere," rejoined the
other, "that from all I have heard, and now seen, no one can more truly
deplore your misfortunes than I do."
"Do you know them all?"
"I think, I believe I do," hesitated the curate; he feared uttering
something painful.
"Do you know that for upwards of twenty-one years I was brought up at
the manor-house, beloved by a father and mother, the best Heaven ever
formed--oh! especially the latter; I can scarcely speak of her now." He
paused, and seemed choking with emotion. "To be brief," he continued,
after a pause, "in one year I lost all; she died first, my father soon
followed her, and then, while my sorrow was still green, my cousin,
Marmaduke Burton, put in a claim for the property, on the ground of my
illegitimacy! I was stricken, I had not a word to offer, proof I had
none to the contrary; my father's marriage had taken place, for
_marriage there was_, at Gibraltar; my mother was Spanish, of not
exalted parentage, I believe,--from thence sprung the great difficulty
of proof. Only an obscure family to deal with, that ruffian Marmaduke
gained all--the property was tied up until the event should be known; I
had few wealthy friends--he, both friends and money. Most of my earlier
days had passed in studies abroad; I came only at stated periods to my
home--I was a stranger among my own countrymen;--he had secured himself
allies (I will not call them friends, of these he could have none); he
was assisted too, by a greater scamp than himself, a mean, cold-blooded
villain of the name of Dalby. In my bewilderment, my horror, at _her_
name--my pure, holy mother's name--being dragged forward for public
scorn, I lost all nerve and power; then too, I was poor,--the result you
know. Mr. Skaife, I am a wanderer--_he_, in my halls; but all is not
lost yet. I may find my way to sunlight, even like the blind mole."
"And, Mr. Burton," asked the other, hesitatingly, "was he not a frequent
visiter at the manor-house?"
"Why man, the reptile was there as my friend and brother; whenever I
returned from my rambles, or school, in earlier days, 'twas 'Marmaduke'
and 'Miles' with us from boyhood's youngest hours; he was with me
_soothing_, when she, my mother, died--and there, too, when I put on my
orphan state of master and lord of the manor-house. A week afterwards
the long prepared claim was put in; the morning he left for that worthy
purpose, he shook me by the hand, and said as usual, 'Good bye old
fellow, we shall meet soon;' and we did--_in court_."
"And it was at the manor he knew Mary Burns?" asked Skaife, deeply
affected.
"Ay, at the old place she had been as companion, almost child to my
mother, from her childhood. Then when her old mother became paralyzed,
and lost her school, Mary went to reside with her in that cottage; but
it was comfortable then. My mother, and a little of her own industry in
fancy work, kept them. Alas, poor Mary! I loved her dearly, as ever man
loved a sister, she was so exemplary a girl under many trials."
"I fancied," said Skaife, "I scarcely know why, but I fancied there had
been a warmer attachment." To his own surprise, he found himself
conversing with this almost stranger as with an old friend, so certain
is it, that kindred souls know no time, to limit their flight to meet
their fellow spirits. Tremenhere coloured even through the bronze of his
dark complexion; at the last words he was silent some moments, and then
said hastily, but not haughtily: "Mary was a playfellow, as a sister to
me--I never loved her," and he seemed desirous of changing the subject.
This proud man appreciated the other's qualities and his goodness; with
him he was no longer the cold, guarded person which circumstances had
made him generally in his intercourse with all.
"It is a painful subject with you, I see," said Skaife, much embarrassed
how to proceed; "but my mind is greatly relieved on one point--I feared
you had loved this poor girl; that not having been the case, my duty is
easier, for one it is, to consult with you what had best be done for
her."
"Yes, poor girl! I had for a moment lost sight of her case in other
thoughts--selfish ones, too--we are such mere automatons to our ruling
passions. Poor girl! I hear that hopeful cousin of mine has ordered them
to quit the cottage; so I presume they must--but where go? that's the
question. I am so hampered myself by other cares, I scarcely know how to
help them; could he not be prevailed upon to allow them to remain
another six months--what do you think?"
Skaife's blood chilled within him; he felt like a disappointed man. Here
was the person who had known Mary from childhood, almost a brother, so
coolly wishing her to remain on the sufferance of Marmaduke Burton, as
he knew him, and believed the other too, equally enlightened on several
points.
"No," he coldly said, "I do not think she can, or ought to remain under
circumstances; think of the dreadful crime she has almost committed, Mr.
Tremenhere,--suicide!"
"True, but she has promised not to attempt that again. In our toiling
passage to the attainment of any object, we must drink many a bitter
draught. She must try and submit for a while, I fear, to a few
annoyances: poor Mary--what can I do?"
"Pardon me, Mr. Tremenhere," answered Skaife in a cold but decided tone;
"with _my_ consent, as curate of this parish, she shall not remain. She
might not commit suicide; but men are strange creatures, and the woman
they cast from them to-day, they might kneel to, to-morrow, were she to
appear indifferent; this girl shall never know the temptation such an
act on his part might be."
Tremenhere stopped as if transfixed by a bolt of iron, and stared in
speechless wonder in his companion's face. Skaife continued speaking,
mistaking the dark cloud of demoniacal expression crossing that handsome
face, for indignation towards himself for his free speech; for this he
little cared.
"Mr. Burton's ardent, but heartless, pursuit of the girl till her ruin
ensued, proves a deeper motive, I fear, than passion; the same revenge
towards you, may urge----" He said no more.
"Stop!" cried Miles, in a voice of thunder, and he grasped the other's
arm, and arrested his footsteps. His whole power of utterance above a
whisper seemed to have been expended in that one word; for his voice
became a mere breath like a dying man's, as he asked, while that strong,
robust frame tottered beneath his heart's weight in his agony, "Do I
understand you aright, that Mary Burns has been seduced, and by
Marmaduke Burton?"
"Alas, yes! I thought you understood so from your words in that
cottage." Poor Skaife was pale with emotion; the other had not changed,
his blood stood still, only the muscles had given way beneath the blow.
There was a long silence; Miles still grasped his arm till it fell from
that clasp at last, powerless to hold it--they were near the stile
leading into the lane where Mary's cottage was situated.
"Does Miss Dalzell know this?" inquired Miles, as if one thought,
rushing with the many through his brain, found an outlet.
"The ruin, but not the man," answered Skaife.
"God bless her, then!" burst from the suffering man's lips, and with
that blessing the blood flowed once more through his frame. It was as a
gush of molten lead, forcing its way outwards, burning as it rushed; his
face became dark and lurid, and his flashing eyes looked wildly forward.
"I have not words to thank you with, for all you have done," he cried in
a hoarse, unnatural voice, grasping Skaife's hand. "We shall soon, very
soon, meet again;" and with one bound he cleared the stile, and almost
like thought stood before the terrified Mary Burns, who had sunk in a
chair when they departed, almost fainting, from fear of the result of
their conversation; and now she felt how well grounded that terror had
been when Miles strode into the cottage. She knew his ungovernable
passion when excited by injury or villainy in another--in her terror she
rose before him: "Miles!" she almost screamed.
"Not Miles!" he cried, "but the spirit of his mother returned to condemn
you; an angel who breathed on you from her own pure lip, who strove to
instil her purity into your polluted soul--Devil's child!" and he
grasped her trembling arm--he was pitiless, scarcely human, in his rage
then--as he continued, "to hear such counsels, to breathe the atmosphere
of such a presence, and turn to your hell again! Could not even her
dying blessing, which fell united on both of us, cleanse you? Could you
find no fitter object for your impure love than him, the man who has
branded her memory with so foul a stain, who has driven her son, almost
your brother, forth, a beggar, and nameless! If there's one drop of
human blood in you, woman, shed it in tears for your baseness! Oh,
heavens!" and he looked fixedly forward like a man in a trance, "give me
power to call down on this creature the reward of her foul work!"
"Do not curse me, Miles," she shrieked, dropping on her knees and
clasping them, "have mercy on me--have mercy on me!"
It was a fearful picture on which the curate at that moment looked
unseen through the open door; _they_, in their agony, and the poor old
mother totally unconscious of all, some happy thoughts evidently
crossing her mind, for she was smiling, and endeavouring to rub her
paralyzed hands together at the joyous dream. Skaife involuntarily drew
back, and leaned against the door-post to keep away other witnesses,
should the voices within attract notice in the adjoining cottages.
Miles's hand was passed painfully over his face and brow--he had flung
his hat aside.
"Have pity, Miles!" she cried, her eyes streaming with tears which
nearly choked her, as she clasped her hands, and kneeling, looked up to
where he stood, for he had shaken her off as she clung to him. "But if
you knew what dreadful struggles of nearly maddening power ground my
heart down to bitterness, and _revenge_," (she almost whispered the last
word,) "before I committed this fearful sin against myself, _you_, and,
far more than all, the memory of your sainted mother, you might find
some excuse. You cannot forget how my presumptuous heart, forgetting all
but her more than woman's kindness, dared to lose sight, from her
gentleness, of the distance between us, and loved you. You cannot forget
the day I dreamed you returned it, and boldly confessed mine; you were
calm, dignified, manly, and generous, when you said you never could
return it--that I had mistaken you, and you hoped myself, and when you
drew me to your heart with a _brother's_ love--Oh, may you never know
such humiliation as _I_ felt then, which turned to a blacker feeling
afterwards, fostered by him; for when you, for my sake, absented
yourself from home for months, you cannot know how this weak heart was
worked upon by _him_. He had seen all, guessed all; and, unsuspecting
his motives, I one day confessed the truth to him. From that hour he
became the friend, the comforter; he alone spoke hope to me--a hope his
every action discredited faith in. Then your mother died; events were
drawing to a close; you returned, no thought of love in your heart; I
repressed my mad affection for you, but I was weighed to earth by the
effort. I was but a girl of eighteen in a villain's hands, when the
downfall of all came; your father's death, your banishment----"
"And did not all these sad events, Mary," and his voice was low and
trembling as he looked down upon the cowering woman, "soften your heart
to pity, not revenge? Our affections are not our own; we are not masters
of these but by many a hard struggle. I never could have loved you more
than as a sister: it was not pride, Mary; we have none of that with
those we love. I loved you very truly for your own sake, for the sake of
our happy days of childhood together, and for my mother's sake." As the
last words fell from him, the man, for a moment spirit-broken and
agonized, sunk down on a chair, and, leaning his head on his arm across
the table, wept like any woman over the ruin before him, and his memory
of another. He had not one selfish thought; he was iron for
himself,--for others, as a child at heart in love and gentleness. She
rose, and, creeping to his side, took the hand which, clenched in its
agony, rested on his knee, and, dropping on hers, she covered it with
tears and kisses. "Forgive me, Miles," she sobbed, "for you know not
all I endured of trial before I fell. He told me you had scoffed at my
love--to him. It was not the work of a day or hour; it is nearly eight
long years since you quitted this place; for more than four we have not
met; for less than that space I have been the guilty creature I now am!"
Insensibly his hand unclenched and clasped her's; she continued sobbing
between each scarcely-articulate word, "When, by every artifice man
could employ, he led me to error; and, ever since, this most bitter
repentance. 'Twas done under the promise of making me his wife, to show
_you_ that _he_ appreciated my worth. And when he said you not only had
repulsed my love, but scorned it----"
"He lied, Mary, he lied!" articulated the sorrowing man, looking up;
"from _me_ he never heard of our love; he must have divined it."
"God help me!" she uttered, kissing his clasping hand, "for I have
suffered much; and it was my refusal (for years now) to continue in my
error, which has made him persecute me so of late. I told him last time
we met, that _I loved you still, and ever should_." These last words
were scarcely breathed.
"Heaven help you, my poor girl!" cried Miles, looking at her as he
placed a hand gently on her head; "for what can that love bring
you?--Sorrow and disheartenment in every effort for existence; a log to
hamper every step of your pathway to independence! Rise up, Mary," and
he drew her on his heart; "come what may, my girl, these arms will
shelter you still from the cold, heartless world. I am richer now,
Mary, and to-morrow you and that poor old woman shall leave this place;
and once away, oh, then!----" He spoke the last words with a stern
resolution.
"What, Miles?" and she clasped his clenched hand in her's, and gazed
terrified in his flashing eyes.
"I'll return to my home abroad," he uttered, dropping them to conceal
_their_ speech, lest she should read aright.
CHAPTER VI.
"I'm sure," said Sylvia Formby, rocking herself backwards and forwards
in her chair, about an hour after Minnie's return, "I don't know what
_can_ be done with this girl; she certainly is a dreadful cause of
anxiety to all, and especially to poor me!" She was one of those who
delighted in being miserable. One would really have imagined, from her
manner and conversation about her, that Minnie was one of the very worst
girls in existence--an unruly, impossible-to-govern creature. Aunt
Sylvia was in her own room; and opposite to her, shaking her head in
sorrowing sympathy, perched on the edge of a chair, sat Mrs. Gillett.
"Young ladies is a dreadful responsibility," ejaculated the latter
guardedly, (it was safe speaking in general terms;) "all ar'n't as you
was, Miss Sylvia!"
"I'm sure I don't know what _is_ to be done with my niece," continued
the other, unnoticing the compliment. "I feel some harm will happen to
her, if she be not married out of the way. What with your master's
obstinacy, and Miss Dorcas's dulness of comprehension, the girl will
assuredly be lost unless I exert myself."
"In coorse, Miss," ventured the listener.
"She never will marry the squire; that she positively asserts, and her
manner proves it. Then, Mr. Skaife--what is he? Only a poor curate, who
has just bread enough for himself, and nothing to spare; and she don't
like him. Now, Mr. Dalby has the whole patronage of the neighbourhood,
except Mr. Burton's, and he's a very charming man: what more can she
desire?"
"And he'll have Squire Burton's business again, Miss; that's for
sartain, for they were seen walking together yesterday."
"I don't exactly know how he lost it," said Sylvia. "Do you?"
"All along _of_ Miss Minnie," was the response. "Mr. Dalby, when the old
squire died, Mr. Tremenhere, conducted the business for Mr. Burton;
indeed he had known the facts long before, they say--that is, the
servants say; howsomdever, since they both have been coming a-coortin'
Miss, they haven't been such friends. But I'll tell you what I think,
Miss Sylvia," here the sybil lowered her voice to a whisper--"and mind
I'm seldom wrong, and I wouldn't say this to any one but yourself--I
believe, if Miss isn't looked after, just for contrariness sake, if he
stays hereabouts, she'll get a-coortin' with that young Mr. Tremenhere!"
"An illegitimate child!" shrieked the virtuous Sylvia, in horror.
"Yes, Miss Sylvia, with him; and, as you say, it's dreadful, for he
hasn't a name in the world to call his own, except Miles, and what sort
of a _cognation_, as master calls it, is that for her to marry? He
hasn't his father's nor his mother's; he's a outlaw, and any one that
pleased might shoot him like a dog, I hear."
Sylvia had only heard a portion of this sentence, the prophecy about
Miles and Minnie. She had extraordinary faith in the worldly
perceptiveness of Mrs. Gillett. She anxiously inquired the foundation
for the other's suspicion; but the good generalship of the matron
forbade any undue confidence respecting her reasons, merely contenting
herself with alarming her listener to the fullest extent of her powers,
by persisting in her belief, as arising _principally_, she laid a stress
on this word, thereby implying that she held back more cogent articles
for her belief, from the fact of Miss Minnie's own statement, that she
had been walking with this Miles Tremenhere, for to no one would this
very politic woman confess, that she had recognised him herself at a
glance. Mrs. Gillett was a very cautious person indeed, one of those
whose opinions would never choke them from a too hasty formation of
them, nor her words leave a bitterness in her mouth from an
inconsiderate utterance of them. She was a perfect reflector, throwing
her light upon others, and not suffering thereby herself. Minnie had a
sorry day of it; first, Sylvia had lectured her, then Juvenal, and
lastly, Dorcas commenced questioning, but this latter did it, as she
ever acted with her beloved niece, in kindness. As for the others, they
would fain have bent her to their separate wills; but Minnie had learned
to judge for herself coolly and dispassionately, else where would she
have been, occurring as it did, that all three had fixed upon a
different object for her husband? To Dorcas she was all affection,
rendering full justice to that aunt's interest in her, and correct
judgment; but it so happens that in affairs of the heart, our very
dearest and best friends are too frequently incapable of judging what
would be most conducive to our real happiness, though, in a mere worldly
point of view, they may be right. A little counsel, a little guidance,
and much sincere interest in our welfare, are the best methods after
all; _certainly not_ coercion, that makes us infallibly look with
premature dislike on the one for whom we are persecuted.
"I do wonder, dear aunt," said Minnie to the one she loved so well, "why
you are so anxious to make me marry, never having done so yourself--how
is it?"
The truth never crossed Minnie's mind. Dorcas looked down, and a pale
blush of something resembling shame crossed her cheek; then she looked
up with candour and affection. "My dear child," she said, "Sylvia would
not perhaps like my telling the exact truth, which is this, that in fact
no one ever asked either of us!"
"Is it possible!" exclaimed her niece, amazed beyond measure. How could
she, worried as she was by an excess of suitors, guess the extraordinary
position of a woman who never had one? and aunt Dorcas had been
assuredly pretty, and still was very comely. "My dear aunt," she cried
again, after a silence of thought on both sides. "It must have been your
own fault. Oh! pray, endeavour to induce Sylvia to seek a husband for
herself, and leave me alone; or do make her busy herself for uncle, and
then you and I shall be at peace. I shouldn't like _you_ to marry. I'm
very selfish, dear aunt; but I should be so much afraid of losing your
love," and she fondly kissed her cheek.
"I never shall now, dear Minnie; but when you marry, you will love
another better than me--I shall only be your aunt, and so it should be."
"Do you know," answered her niece, fixing her sweet eyes upon her, "I
often think I never shall marry; I have heard so much about it, that the
subject has become quite distasteful to me."
"Oh! you will change your mind, Minnie, when the one you can, and
_should_ love, comes."
"What do you mean, aunt, by should love?"
"There are those in the world we ought to guard our affections against;
their loss might bring misery."
"Whom are they? would--would, now, supposing an impossible case--would
Mr. Tremenhere, if he loved me, be such a one?"
"Why do you think of him, child?" and her aunt looked scrutinizingly in
her face.
"Oh, because," answered the blushing Minnie, "he is the first stranger I
have met likely to enter into my ideas of such a case: all the constant
visitors here have the consent of some one of my relatives,--the mere
acquaintances I meet when we go any where, have nothing against them,--I
daresay, if I liked one of them, every one of you would, though perhaps
reluctantly, say 'yes;' but Mr. Tremenhere--he is different, poor
fellow! How I pity him! I do indeed, aunt, and he is so agreeable."
The aunt, unworldly wise as she was, had fallen into a reverie; before
she aroused herself to reply, the sound of carriage-wheels without drew
her attention to the window. Minnie was the first there,--"Whom have we
here? two ladies!" Her aunt was beside her.
"Why Minnie, these are your aunts, Lady Ripley and Dora!" exclaimed she.
"That Dora!" cried her niece, as a tall handsome girl stepped from the
carriage; "how altered she is,--I wonder if she will know me?" and
though something like a chill had fallen on her heart at sight of her
cousin, she sprang across the room to meet her. It was not Dora's beauty
which had pained Minnie--she did not know what jealousy was then,
certainly, of mere personal charms--but it was the chilling influence of
pride which spoke in every movement of her cousin; even in the act of
stepping from her carriage, she looked like a priestess of that spirit,
following in her footsteps. As she entered the hall, Minnie--simple and
beautiful Minnie--stood half abashed before her. Dora's fine eyes were
wandering over the group, as she coldly returned the embraces of her
aunt Sylvia and Juvenal; at last they rested on Minnie, who had just
appeared,--the cold smile warmed, and the cousins were in each other's
arms.
"Dear Minnie!" said Dora, "I have longed so much to see you," and she
embraced her tenderly.
"I was afraid you would have forgotten me," answered the delighted girl.
"Oh! I never forget those whom I have loved; I often have wished you
with me in Italy;" and her fine face, lit up with warmth and sincerity,
became perfectly beautiful. The girls sat down side by side, and hand in
hand, conversing, after Dora had duly embraced all. Lady Ripley was
different to the other members of her family. She appeared more like a
composition of all, with a cloak of pride over the whole, in which she
completely wrapped herself up; only now and then, when the cloak opened,
some of her realities slipped out. She had less of Dorcas than of either
of the others,--silly as Juvenal, worldly like Sylvia, and a little bit
of Dorcas's good-nature composed the whole. She had married, most
unexpectedly, one far above herself in rank and station. Not having had
time to familiarize herself with the position before entering upon it,
she plunged in, and became for awhile overwhelmed. The country
gentleman's daughter forgot the real dignity of the ladylike person, who
may pass without comment any where in the rank of countess, so suddenly
forced upon her; then, too, the Earl was one of the coldest, proudest
men in the world, and lived long enough to engraft a sufficient quantity
of the _vice_ of pride (when attached to mere station) upon his only
child's really noble nature, for a dozen scions of nobility. Lady Dora's
keen perception, as she grew up, readily detected the real from the
assumed; and having much loved, respected, and looked up to her father,
his vice became a virtue in her eyes,--a natural one; whereas her
mother's assumption of it, made her, without becoming undutiful, still
look upon her as a merely bad copy; consequently, her aunts and uncle
became sharers of her species of contempt. Indeed, she had carried that
impression away with her when she quitted them and England, three years
before, for Italy; and the knowledge of the world acquired since then,
had rather strengthened the feeling. Since that period she had lost her
father, and this keenly-felt loss hardened the girl's softer emotions.
She seemed incapable of any thing like warmth of affection; for, the
first ebullition of joy over on seeing Minnie, whom she really liked
better than any person almost in the world, she sat like a beautiful
statue, just warmed enough to life to speak and listen;--the face had
become colourless again, the smile cold and proud, and the haughty eyes
and haughtier brow, seemed to glance or bend with equal indifference on
all around her. She was perfect in her beauty as Minnie--one, was the
damask rose for richness, the other, the chaste lily; for when Dora's
colour rose, nothing could surpass that ripe sunset glow,--it was
magnificent from its eastern brightness and depth; whereas Minnie's
never became more than a beautiful blush, flitting and returning like a
swallow over a wave. Dora's hair was the very darkest chestnut, yet this
it was, a colour seldom seen, nothing resembling black nor brown, but
the exact colour of the nut itself, rich and mellow. Her eyes--there was
her charm of face, they were so dark and lustrous--_velvet eyes_, with
the sun shining on them; extravagant, too, for they expended their
glances right and left on all, not from a desire to slay her thousands,
but, like the donation of the rich and proud to the beggar, she flung
her gold away, not caring who might gather it up; it was flung from an
inexhaustible source of wealth--it was the natural love of expenditure,
inherent in the generous mind giving of its profusion. No one had ever
seen her move quickly, scarcely even as a child; when she rose from her
seat, she seemed to rise by some quiet galvanism, majestically,
gracefully, but without energy or effort; so it was with all; grace
presided over all--cold natural grace. Where her mother used violent
force to seem dignified, and often thus destroyed the lady, Dora without
a thought, so to seem, was an empress in majesty. Minnie was slight and
girlish, her cousin matured in form, though not too much so for her
height and bearing, with a waist the hand might almost have circled; one
curl on either side of her oval face fell quite to that slender waist in
unrestrained perfection, heavy and glossy, veiling, but not concealing
the beautiful, but strongly marked eyebrow.
The cousins escaped as soon as possible to Minnie's room; there is a
natural restraint ever felt by the least checked before their
elders--girls have a language apart of their own. Alas! for the wintry
day, when the falling snow of worldly care chills the ideality of
thought, and brings to the lip only the sterner realities of life. The
two sat and talked of old days, even to them. Dora spoke of Italy, of
her father's death soon after she and Minnie parted, and the proud eyes
forgot their pride when nature bade them weep--how Minnie loved her
then! there was so much softness in _her_ nature. She folded her gentle
arms round Dora, and soothed her so lovingly, that the eyes looked up
upon her in gratitude and affection. Then, to divert her attention,
Minnie told her all her troubles--squire, parson, and lawyer; but she
did not breathe the name of Miles Tremenhere. He had so completely won
upon her sympathy, that she dreaded to hear Dora speak of him, either in
contempt, or else mere worldly policy; so they sat and talked, until
Lady Ripley summoned her daughter, by the voice of a French maid, "to
dress for dinner."
"I am sure," whispered Aunt Sylvia to Mrs. Gillett on the stairs, when
she was retiring to bed that night, "I and Lady Ripley shall not agree
long, if she prolongs her stay; for 'tis quite absurd, Gillett, the idea
of her dressing in such a style for our quiet dinner, only ourselves,
and her annoyance because my niece, Lady Dora, refused to do the same!
It is putting notions of dress into Miss Minnie's head, which will make
her look down on every one here. I shall tell her so to-morrow; I always
like to give my candid opinion, though she mightn't like it!"
"So I would, Miss," answered her agreeing listener. "For no one can be a
better judge of every thing than yourself; for I'm sure, as I say to
every body, 'just look at our Miss Sylvia, why, she's like a busy bee!
she's a pattern--that she is!'"
Mrs. Gillett walked down the corridor, and, coming from her daughter's
room, she met Lady Ripley.
"Ah, Gillett!" said that lady, patronisingly; "I'm glad to see you
looking so well."
Gillett curtsied to the ground. "I'm sure, my lady," she replied, "it's
only the reflections of your ladyship's presence which make me look so;
for, as I've just been saying below, it is a pleasure to see a lady look
as you do, younger by years than you were, years ago, and know too,
what's due to herself, and dress every day as if she was going to court!
Ah! it's a pity the dear ladies, Miss Sylvia and Miss Dorcas, is so
plain in their ways; it's quite spoiling sweet Miss Minnie, who cares no
more for dress or state than if she had been born, if I may be so bold
as to say it of your ladyship's niece, in a poor cottage of a mother
always knitting woolly stockings!"
"I must see what's to be done, Gillett," answered her ladyship in a
queenly tone; "I will have some serious conversation with my brother
about her to-morrow."
"If your ladyship will please not to say I said any thing," whispered
the politic housekeeper.
"I never quote other's opinions, my good woman," was the haughty reply,
as she sailed into her room, with a majestic "Good-night to you."
"To think," soliloquized Gillett, as she toiled up a second flight of
stairs, "she should be so amazing proud now, when I remember her setting
herself off to the best advantage to attract the notice of our passan
then, the late recumbent!" There in an hour in every one's life, when he
or she is candid and natural; generally it falls between locking the
bedroom door at night, and snuffing out the candle--'tis an hour of
thoughtful soliloquy!
CHAPTER VII.
People are early in the country--"early to bed, early to rise." It was
just ten by Minnie's hall clock as Mrs. Gillett became confidential to
herself, and at that hour another person, some distance from Gatestone,
was struggling with the voices of nature and truth united, which rung
the word "shame" in his ears--this was the squire. He sat alone. All the
servants had retired; his own man even dismissed. He sat in a small
study adjoining his bedroom--not that he studied much, but the room had
so been planned and arranged, and so he left it. A few additions of his
own had been made, such as a brace of favourite pistols, a gun or two,
spurs, whips, fishing-rods, and their accompaniments; the books on their
neglected shelves were as silent memory. They spoke to no one; no one
sought or conversed with them; their thoughts were sealed within their
own breasts--like glowing eyes gazing on the sightless, no looks lit up
to meet their glances. Beautiful, cheering things, among which we might
live alone for ever, nor feel our loneliness. _Man_ would perhaps sink
off into drowsy rest; but the _soul_ creeping forth, cheered by the
stillness, could seek its companions in those leaves clinging together
with the damp of years, and live with them in long ages gone by, when
they were permitted to speak above the mere practical spirits of the
present day. Poetry was there in sorrowing maidenhood, as she glanced
upwards at an old mandolin with chords, suspended against the wall, the
loving once, now dumb suitor, who has sung her praises, and wooed her to
smile! It was strange that old mandolin should be still there: it was
the one on which Miles's mother had often played and sung to him in
infancy and boyhood! It was strange, then, that Marmaduke Burton should
sit, as he sat on that evening, facing it. While he turned over piles of
gloomy-looking papers and parchments, his brow was scowling, more so
than usual; his face, that cold, livid colour, which the warm heart
never avows as its index. At his feet lay an uncouth-looking bulldog; he
seldom was seen without this companion. Somehow, if the dog were absent,
Marmaduke became uneasy; cowards seldom rely upon themselves alone.
Every paper, as it passed through his hands, was carefully examined, and
then as carefully folded up and placed within a large drawer by his
side, evidently one of some old cabinet. "Nothing," he whispered to
himself. "Dalby said there was nothing--no proof; for, after all, I
would not have it on my conscience to say, I _knew_ there was proof, and
withheld it. 'Tis not for me to _search_ for writings or witnesses
_against_ myself," this was added after a thoughtful pause. After awhile
he continued, "Besides, it is scarcely probable that old Tremenhere ever
married that poor Spanish girl; those girls at Gibraltar are not of
very noted virtue. I should have been a fool indeed, to sit down quietly
and allow another to enjoy mine by right, from a mere idea of honour.
Had he succeeded, he would not have shared with me. I _did_ offer him a
competency," all this time he had been assorting the papers. "Nothing
here," he continued. "What's this? oh! a letter from old Tremenhere,
written after his mar--after his connection" (he corrected himself)
"with that woman Helene Nunoz, he, evidently being here, and she still
abroad, in Paris--eh? not Gibraltar. What says he?" For some moments he
attentively read. "I have seen two or three of his letters," he said
thoughtfully, "among old papers, and in all he speaks of one 'Estree.'
Who can he be? here it is again." He read aloud a passage, accentuating
every word, and dwelling on his own final comment thoughtfully for some
moments. "'Do you see D'Estree often? Is he kind as ever to my Helena?
his child, as he calls her. I should much like _ours_ to be christened
by him; might he not be induced to return with us?' This must have been
some clergyman or priest," was the thoughtful comment. At that moment
his dog arose uneasily from the carpet at his feet, and walked towards
the door. "What's the matter, Viper?" asked his master, starting
timidly. "Look to it, dog--good dog;" but the dog returned quietly to
its former place, and Marmaduke concluded the letter, which only spoke
of love, and regret at absence. In the concluding lines again Viper
moved to the door, and snuffed the air beneath the crevice. His master
grew uneasy; he watched the dog, and, while doing so, tore up the
letter he held, and flung it into a basket beneath the table. Viper
moved about whining, not in anger, but more in satisfaction and
impatience of restraint. The squire arose, and somewhat nervously
approached the door. These letters had unnerved him; his hand was on the
lock, the dog sprung up with pleasure; another hand turned the handle
from the outside, it opened, and Mary Burns entered. As she did so, the
dog fawned upon her.
"I might have guessed it!" ejaculated Marmaduke, falling back and
scowling upon her. "Only you would Viper meet in such a manner; the
dog's faithful to old acquaintance, I see." She stood quite still,
silent, and very pale. "Down, poor animal, down!" she whispered at last
to the dog, which was jumping up to caress her hand.
"I have yet to learn why you are here?" asked Marmaduke, sullenly, "and
how?"
"I came to restore you this," she uttered, holding up a key in her hand;
"this will explain how I am here."
"Oh, true! I had forgotten you came through the quiet gate leading by
the shrubbery; I trust the reminiscence of the past, which such a walk
must inevitably have awakened, procured you pleasure?"
"Sneer on, Marmaduke Burton! I came prepared to suffer all to-night. I
came to restore you this, and also to implore a favour at your hands?"
"At mine! what can I do for you? I thought the hour of solicitation had
passed between us--will you not be seated?" He offered her a chair; she
appeared choking with emotion; and yet, though almost powerless to
stand, waved her hand in token of dissent, as he pushed a seat towards
her, and merely laid one hand upon the back of it for support.
"As you will," he said coldly, noticing the action; "and perhaps you
will pardon my asking you as much as possible to abridge this visit; you
see I am engaged." He pointed to the table of papers.
"I come," she said at last with great effort, "to implore one favour at
your hands, as some mitigation of the deep remorse I feel. Miles
Tremenhere is here--I do beseech you," here she clasped her hands, "not
to make my burthen heavier to bear, by seeking to injure him farther."
"Woman!" he cried, standing erect before her, "do you remember to whom
you are speaking? How have I injured him? Am I not heir--lawful
heir--here? I wish to hear no more; go, you have chosen to place a
barrier yourself between us--henceforth, 'tis as you have willed it. I
offered you independence and oblivion of all, away from this, and you
have refused, so you must take the consequences."
"I beseech you!" she exclaimed again, not heeding his words, "to have
pity on that man, for the sake of his mother, who was one to me."
"That is perceptible," he said scornfully, "in the good fruit of her
cultivation--vice seldom produces----"
"Hold!" she cried, springing towards him, and grasping his arm; "revile
me as you will, but not her--she was pure as an angel, and you know it!
And I adjure you by the wrong you have done her son--to spare him now;
let him go in peace."
"Woman, I bid you go," he cried, shaking her touch from him, "before my
patience becomes exhausted; what am I doing, or going to do to that man?
Let him go as he will, I shall not molest him unless he cross my path;
then woe betide him, whatever may be done, I'll do, nor ask whether he
be relative or stranger."
"I only pray you," she continued, "should he seek you, as I fear he may,
to be temperate, remembering what you were to each other, what you are
in blood." She tried to soothe; had that not been the case, she would
have fearlessly spoken all her thought of his treachery.
"Why do you think he will seek me?" he asked, and the eye, ever
uncertain in its glance, shrunk from her's. He began to dread a possible
meeting.
"Because, because!" she hesitated a moment; then, by an effort over her
emotion, added more resolutely, "because he knows _all_, and Miles is
not one silently to pass over wrong to one he once loved and respected."
"Oh, that's it--is it?" Rising, he advanced a step towards the trembling
woman; but suddenly paused, and hastily turned round. "What was that?"
he exclaimed, looking fixedly at a door behind him, at which Viper had
sprung growling.
The study had two doors in it, one leading through the corridor--the one
by which Mary had entered; the other leading to a dressing-room,
adjoining Marmaduke's bedroom--it was at this one the dog lay growling.
"Curse that dog!" he cried angrily, "he makes one fanciful and nervous.
Did you hear any thing?"
"Nothing," she rejoined, trembling with a strange tremor.
Marmaduke turned paler too than even he generally was--it was a coward
pallor. Reaching a book from the table, he flung it at Viper, who
startled, but not cowed, sprung under the table, upsetting the basket as
he did so, which contained the torn papers; and then, as his master
turned away, he returned again to his post at the door, and commenced
scratching and growling at it. Marmaduke uttered a deep oath, and,
seizing the animal by the throat, hastily opened the door leading
towards the corridor, and flung him out. As he turned his back, a
sudden, uncontrollable impulse seized Mary to stoop, and, unseen by him,
grasp and conceal a paper which had fallen from the basket as Viper
upset it. She felt that any thing written by that man might be of value
to Miles; moreover, she saw how he (Marmaduke) had been employed with
old papers and parchments, which made the one she held possibly more
valuable.
"Now," he said, closing the door, "let us have a few final words, and
then leave me; and if we meet again at your seeking, it will be a day of
sorrow to you. I wish to do you no injury, for I liked you once--do not
mistake," he hastily added, seeing she was about to speak; "I never
_loved_ you--no, that was man's right of speech when I said so; we are
bound to employ the same weapons others use against ourselves."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean lying and deceit. You never loved _me_--_I_ never had that
feeling for you; you have this evening shown me why you became mine. He
had loved you, and then forsook--revenge dictated the act which made you
give me a claim to call you mine; dislike to every thing fostering
affection for that impostor and base-born hound, made me resolve to win
you, and well have I succeeded! False to his affection for you, which
you have confessed, and thereby made me doubly glad in having ruined
you! false to me, if he so please it, I doubt not. Take back that garden
key, woman, how do you know but that this impostor may some day be
master here, and you require it for your secret visits to the
manor-house? Verily, you love the place! feline in your affections, 'tis
the place, not person, you care for!" As he concluded, he drew the
deep-drawn breath of a man suffocating with overwhelming thoughts,
bursting like deadly missiles from a shell, scattering death around;
for, as he discharged them forth, the woman, stricken with shame and
sorrow, cowered down, and buried her face in her hands. Marmaduke's deep
sigh, as he concluded, was echoed by one still deeper--it was a groan,
and came from the doorway leading into the dressing-room; he had but
time to turn half round, when a heavy hand was on his arm.
"Unsay those words, 'impostor' and 'base-born hound,'" said Miles
Tremenhere ('twas he) beneath his breath; "or the world shall add the
other to them, and a _true_ one, 'avenger;'--as I am a living man this
night, unless you do, or you, or I shall not quit this room alive!"
The presence even of that trembling woman imparted a feeling of
protection to Marmaduke's coward heart. By a sudden jerk he disengaged
his arm, and with one stride reached the opposite door. To think and do
had been the work of an instant, the coward's self-shield through
another. With a trembling hand he opened the door, and called "Viper,"
and the dog sprang in. No word was needed; the brave brute knew all
enemies to his master, and a second spring would have brought him to
Miles's throat, had that man not, foreseeing treachery, been on his
guard. With one blow of his small, but muscular fist, he felled the
animal, and, before it could recover itself, his hand grasped its
throat; the woman shrieked--a true woman's heart is tender to every
living thing. "Spare it, Miles!" she cried. "Poor, faithful brute!"
But Miles had no thought otherwise; while Marmaduke stood in a species
of panic, which rendered further effort for an instant vain, the other
strode to the door near which he stood, and, flinging the dog forth,
calmly turned the key, and placed it in his pocket. This act alarmed
Marmaduke; there is something to the cowardly man fearful in the calm of
a resolute one. He turned hastily to fly, his hand was on the lock of
the door leading to the corridor, but another's reached his before he
turned it, and, without one uttered word, he felt his nerveless grasp
withdrawn. The key grated in the lock beneath Miles's fingers; he saw
him, too, with perfect composure, look around, and then, a feat of
child's play to him, tear down the bell-rope, to prevent the possibility
of Marmaduke's summoning assistance; this done, Miles turned calmly
round to where his cousin stood. Mary had dropped, powerless to stand,
in a chair, and, with eyes distended by terror, watched every movement
of the quiet desperation Miles portrayed.
"Now," he said, in untrembling resolution, as he fixed his eyes on his
cousin, the stern brow knit over their intense gaze, "retraction full,
and immediate!"
"Of what?" asked the other, endeavouring to seem calm and unconscious.
"Of 'impostor,' and 'base-born hound!'"
"Do you call it a noble act, to enter, as you have done this evening
here, with the connivance of that traitress, and play eavesdropper?"
cried Marmaduke, endeavouring to evade the demand of _retraction_ of his
tongue's hasty aspersion.
"Tis false, that too!" answered Miles. "I followed this girl, 'tis true;
I feared she might be again led to attempt suicide,--I saw her enter by
the shrubbery gate,--strangely enough, I, too, had purposed visiting you
this night by that entrance, to which I also have a key," (he held one
up as he spoke,) "mine, since when we often entered thereby together,
cousin Marmaduke. But I had intended my visit to have been made some
hours later, deeming that possibly the hospitable lord of the
manor-house might keep open house for his numerous friends, whose
pleasures I would not have interrupted for worlds. My business is of a
private nature; but, as she entered, I followed, and, knowing all the
intricacies of the old place, why, I came by the private stair to the
adjoining rooms; these rooms were mine!"
The man's voice slightly trembled as he uttered these words; for, in
looking round, his eye rested on the old mandolin; it awakened a chord
in his heart, not like its own--broken. Marmaduke perceived this
emotion, and deemed it an advantage gained, not having seen whence arose
that softened tone; but Mary had seen, and her eye following his, the
tears gathered in a heavy cloud over her vision, as she looked up to the
thing to which she had often danced, a light-hearted child; for her
heart was now as powerless of joy as the mandolin of tone; error and
death had worked their will in stilling both.
"I should like much to know why you are here? why you purposed coming?"
inquired Marmaduke, gaining courage.
"Before I reply to that," answered Miles, himself once more, "I must
have retraction. I tell you so; so let it be quickly done, for she heard
it,--to her you shall unsay it, and then our interview must be alone."
"I will not leave you, Miles," uttered the girl, clasping his hand,
which hung down, as she crept beside him; but he neither heard nor saw
her.
"When I came to this neighbourhood again," said Miles, "it was not to
seek you; it was for one reason only--to visit in peace some old haunts,
old friends. I yet have a few left--on all, I found _your_ hand. He who
knew me from childhood, my father's respected tenant, you have striven
to drive forth--and, look there," he pointed to Mary; "this is your work
too, cowardly villain, to war with a woman, and urge her to destruction
by goading her to madness with falsehood and calumny; but this must pass
awhile. First you shall clear from your lip by retraction the words you
have said of my sainted mother; your act has, _for awhile_--mind I say
only _for awhile_--cast a slur upon her fame; but the lion only
slumbers, cousin Marmaduke--he will awake soon. But this night was the
first time you ever, in my hearing, uttered the words to blast her;
indeed, until to-night you have kept hidden from my vengeance. When you
commenced your worthy suit against me, after the first day you left
others to complete it, and fled, hidden like a reptile in sunlight,--you
came forth at night to spread your venom around; but for all that, a day
of retribution will come, only for to-night, I demand retraction."
Marmaduke felt chilled: there was something fearful in Miles's resolute
calmness.
"If," he said, yet not daring to look up, "you will go and take that
woman in peace (for I would not have it known, for many reasons, that
_she_ had been here,) I will say this, that I ought perhaps not to have
spoken before her of family affairs."
"Man!" cried Miles, in a voice of thunder, "say all was a lie, an
invention; it will not take your devil-bought position here from you,
but retract every word _you shall_!"
"Hush!" whispered Marmaduke, as the other strode towards him, putting up
his hands to ward off his coming; "hush! some one may hear us, and
report this visit."
"Whom does he fear?" asked Miles, turning to Mary.
"He fears lest Miss Dalzell should be informed, probably," uttered the
shrinking woman.
"Miss Dalzell!" cried Miles, awakening as from a dream; "she will
_never_ become the wife of this man; it would be profaning a creature
stainless as the created day, before man made it blush for his sin; or
looks and words only rank as liars."
Marmaduke glared on him, but durst not speak; he was awed by his
cousin's sternness.
"Speak!" commanded Miles again impatiently; "I have yet a task to
perform before we part, so hasten this; she must not see the rest. Come,
man!" he uttered contemptuously, as the other visibly trembled, "speak
the words: I promise you, reckless as _I_ am of life, I have no purpose
of taking yours, _if you speak_." There was that about him which
terrified the other; it was the first time they had met out of court
since the suit.
"I spoke hastily, angrily," stammered Marmaduke at last, his eyes bent
on the ground, one of his hands nervously turning a letter on the table,
the other in his bosom; "but this woman goaded me to it."
"'Tis well," uttered Miles scornfully, "well done, to accuse another to
shield our own fault. You know my mother to have been pure as ever woman
was, only the _law_ wanted proof."
"I believe she was a good woman," ejaculated the other, fearing some
snare before witnesses.
"Fellow," cried Miles, seeing his hesitation, "I am not here to catch
you in your words: you have calumniated, you shall restore; you have
lied, you shall unlie. Do you not know in your heart that, though proof
be wanting, my mother was a wife?" He made a movement towards where his
cousin stood.
"I believe it," fell from the lips of the awed coward; "but you know the
law will have----"
"Enough!" exclaimed Miles, waving his hand contemptuously. "I have
devoted my life, with all its energies, to prove her to have been such,
not for the sake of the land and tenements around us, but to rebuild in
splendour an angel's darkened fame. Now, Mary, you have heard his
retraction, leave us awhile, I will rejoin you before you have quitted
the grounds."
"Let me stay, I beseech you, Miles," she whispered, her frame trembling
with fear as he approached to put her forth.
"There can be no secrets she may not hear," hazarded Marmaduke, in
terror himself at the idea of being alone with Miles. All the fear he
had experienced as a boy of the other, when as children they quarrelled,
stood before him, for Miles was of strong build, and great stature; he
seemed to tower above his cousin, though actually less in height. A
strange expression passed over Miles's face, as he looked from the one
to the other.
"Well," he said, and a grim smile stole across his lip, and then
disappeared--a mere phantom--"perhaps it is just it should be so. The
man who honourably offends us, we meet in honourable fight; the cur
which, coward like, yelps at and tears our heels, what does it deserve?
A cur's chastisement," he added, not waiting for a reply. Before
Marmaduke had time to think, or the woman had time to rush between them,
Miles seized him by the collar, and at the same moment, drawing a
thickly knotted whip from his pocket, with all the force of his vigorous
arm, he applied the lash over the other's shoulders. Mary shrieked in
terror, and sunk fainting on her chair.
"Howl like a hound in your craven fear!" shouted Miles, as his cousin
groaned and writhed beneath the lash, helpless in that strong hand.
"Come Mary, girl, look up; this is for your wrong, a coward's act--a
cur's punishment. There," he continued, flinging him almost lifeless
from him at last, and panting himself with the effort. "You'll remember
the first meeting with Miles Tremenhere;--one thing more," he took down
his mother's mandolin from its place. "Poor, senseless thing," he said,
"yet speaking words of love to me, you have been made to look on
desecrating words, deeds, and thoughts, in this man's presence. You have
lost your purity, like all of us, since _she_ left you!" In his
bitterness he forgot the suffering woman, who was weeping bitterly
beside him. "Desecrated no more, speechless henceforth, and mute to all
of the ruin around you!" he put the thing, which seemed as a breathing
creature to him, beneath his foot, and with one stamp of his heel it
flew into pieces. Crash after crash succeeded, until only a mass lay
without shape on the floor. Marmaduke was speechless with terror and
pain.
"Come Mary, my girl, look up now!" said Miles, kindly taking her hand.
"I have avenged you as well as I can; he will not forget us--come!"
And, almost carrying the terror-stricken girl, he passed out by the
corridor, carefully locking the door on the other side, to avoid
interruption, and so he quitted his own halls.
CHAPTER VIII.
Minnie had been so severely lectured by all, about her too frequent
visits to the cottage of Mary Burns, and other rambles in thoughtful
loneliness, that she felt embarrassed how to act. We have seen Dora was
not yet wholly in her confidence; there was as yet a barrier of three
years' width between them, which she hesitated at overleaping at
once--it was one separating girlhood from womanhood. She had no one to
consult but herself, and in her great anxiety to know what had been
decided upon for this poor girl, in whom she felt so much interest, as
Mr. Skaife had informed her, that assuredly Tremenhere would decide
immediately something about her, she resolved to rise with the early
bird of morn, which rose to song and heaven beneath her windows, and
seek Mary's cottage. Only the gardener was at work, as she brushed the
dew off the smoothly turfed lawn, at six the morning, after Tremenhere's
meeting with his cousin, and bidding the man a kind good-morning, she
hastened through the shrubbery, then light as a fawn skimmed over the
path-fields, and reached Mary's cottage. The shutters were closed, and
all in stillness; but the hour was so early, that she hesitated about
awakening the inmates. For some moments she stood irresolute, and
walked round the spot. There is something in internal desolation, which
always leaves an outward trace on the features, as on an abode.
Something of this she felt; and at last gently rapped at the door--all
was silent; then she repeated it--and each time with the like result.
There was a latch, so she raised it, looked in, and then the cold truth
became apparent; the place was tenantless!--all gone, and not a vestige
left. Minnie stood in mute astonishment. How should she be enabled to
discover the girl's fate?--from Mr. Skaife, perhaps; and then a chill
came over her warm heart. Had this girl, whom she had so befriended,
quitted without one word to express gratitude, or resolution of
well-doing? and then, a something crossed her mind of regret. She should
have liked to see Miles Tremenhere once more; he was so manly under his
persecution by Marmaduke Burton. It is painful in our path through life
to have that path crossed by a vision which flits away, only leaving a
trace, and never again seen--such things often leave a memory for years.
Minnie walked sadly home. It is something very undeceiving to the young
heart--it's first lesson in worldly selfishness and ingratitude. She
felt Mary must be an ungrateful girl so to depart; and, thinking all
this, she walked up to her own room. No one had discovered her
departure; and an hour afterwards she descended to the breakfast
parlour, which looked over the beautiful lawn and flower-garden, and
there she found all the family waiting, except Lady Ripley, who always
breakfasted in her own room. The day passed in busy occupations to all,
yet amidst all she felt a chill at heart--the chill of disappointed
confidence. Many neighbouring families called to pay homage to Lady
Ripley; and the report was brought by more than one, that Mr. Burton was
seriously indisposed, and hints were thrown out of a hostile meeting
having taken place between the cousins, as it was known that desperate
character, (alas! for those no longer Fortune's favourites,) Miles
Tremenhere, had been seen in the neighbourhood.
"It must have been late yesterday, then, if they met," said Juvenal,
"for Burton was here in the afternoon."
"It is not known when it took place, but he has been confined to his bed
all day, and his lawyer, Dalby, sent for. Though Mr. Burton denies it
himself, there is every reason to suppose 'tis true," rejoined the
visiter.
"Some means of ascertaining the fact should be resorted to, and such a
character banished the neighbourhood," said Sylvia, acrimoniously; "it
is a natural consequence of an ill-conducted mother, that the child
should be infamous."
"Oh, aunt!" cried Minnie, "don't say such a wicked thing; for all say
Mrs. Tremenhere was good, and mild!"
"Besides," said the peacemaker, Dorcas, "you should give her the benefit
of the doubt; many believe her to have been married, though proof was
wanting."
"Always my good, charitable aunt," whispered Minnie, taking her hand
affectionately.
"Ah! Lady Dora," exclaimed the visiter, rising as the other entered, "I
am charmed to see you here once more, and looking so lovely; and her
ladyship, too," continued the old dame, as Lady Ripley sailed into the
room after her daughter, "you are really as a sister, in appearance, to
your beautiful child!"
This is one of the most pleasing compliments in the world to a mamma
with a grown-up daughter,--it deadens the sound of Time's wheels, as he
hurries his chariot onwards,--it is like laying down tan over that
rugged road of matronism, which has an ugly stage beyond, beginning with
"grand,"--Lady Ripley graciously received the compliment, and, smiling
blandly, slid into a corner of the sofa whereon the visiter sat. "There
always has been considered a great likeness existing between us," said
the Countess; "we were painted in full length in one picture at
Florence, and the likeness has been considered remarkable, by all
visiting Loughton Castle, whither I sent it. By the way, Dora, what was
the name of the artist, a very promising young man, whom I patronised at
the request of Lord Randolph Gray, who had taken him by the hand? I
always forget names."
"Mamma, you should remember that," answered Lady Dora, and a slight
colour passed over her cheek; yet soon fled abashed before the stern,
proud eye, it was only momentary; "for we had a neighbour here, near my
aunt's, of the same name--Tremenhere."
"Tremenhere!" cried several simultaneously; but Minnie's struck most
forcibly on Lady Dora's ear; she turned towards her, and, looking
fixedly upon her, said, "Do _you_ know Mr. Tremenhere, Minnie?"
"Only since yesterday," answered she; "but before then I had learned to
pity him, but we cannot mean the same person: I do not think Mr.
Tremenhere is an artist."
"How can you tell what he may, or may not be?" said Juvenal, crossly;
"I'm sure, after his unnatural conduct towards his cousin, you should
wonder at nothing."
"Of course," said Lady Dora, quite composedly, "they cannot be the same
person; but I assure you, the Mr. Tremenhere we knew, was a
distinguished young artist, much sought after, though only an artist. Of
his family, we never inquired."
"This is, in my opinion," said Lady Ripley, "the great error of society
abroad; and I fear it is creeping into English habits--the mixed nature
of society. This Mr. Tremenhere was received unquestioned, nay, sought
after every where, for his talents.
"It is only the good old English families which know how to keep up
proper distinctions," chimed in Sylvia, to the accompaniment of an
approving "Assuredly," from the visiter.
"I think _real_ talent should always be upheld--'tis a noble gift, to
which we owe homage," said the gentle Dorcas.
Minnie smiled "yes," but did not like to utter her opinion too decidedly
before a stranger; besides, she was thinking.
"What are you thinking of, Minnie?" whispered her cousin.
"Of the narrow-mindedness of the world," she answered boldly. "I'd
rather see a man ennoble his name by good deeds or talents, than bear a
merely empty title--would you not, Dora?"
"I think position should be upheld and respected," rejoined the other,
"or else we should become republican at once. I respect, revere genius;
but even that has, in my opinion, no right to overstep certain
barriers." Lady Dora Vaughan had been nurtured on family pride, which
digests badly, and chokes up many good things with its prejudice.
Here the conversation took a different turn. Other persons called, and
the Tremenheres--one, or different individuals--were no more alluded to.
Even her cousin's presence, failed entirely to remove the weight from
Minnie's heart, she was so saddened by disappointment, and none came to
cheer or possibly explain--for Mr. Skaife even had not appeared. The
shades of evening set in, and she and her cousin were strolling together
in the various alleys and walks of the beautiful gardens round
Gatestone, and in that same half hour Mrs. Gillett sat in her
housekeeper's room, inhaling the odour of the garden into which it
looked. She had been trimming a cap--something had come over her mind--a
question of whether she should put a bow on the said cap, as
Mademoiselle Julie, the countess's French maid, had suggested, or leave
it alone. The war within herself, between the accustomed snowy lace and
a pink ribbon, had ended in a prostration of the nervous system, and
consequent sleep ensued. She was sitting opposite the window with the
cap in one hand, the ribbon in the other, when Morpheus seized upon her,
and she slept, and dreamed that she was a Maypole bedizened with
many-coloured ribbons, and the village girls dancing round her. "What
curious things one dreams!" to be sure, she exclaimed waking up at last;
and putting both articles on the table beside her, and she rubbed her
eyes, not yet half cleared from sleep. "How them peas do grow!" she
continued, gazing dizzily out of the window in the evening duskiness and
her own dreamy state. "Why, it seems only yesterday I was saying to John
Gardener that they never would pod; and now they darkens up this window,
there's no seeing out! Lauks-a-marcy!" she exclaimed, shrinking back in
her chair in terror, as a cluster of them, sticks and all, appeared to
her half-awakened sight to advance nearer, taking a human form as they
did so. "Lauks-a-marcy! what's a going to happen to us?" Her fears were
certainly not groundless, for the humanized peas drew close to the
window, stooped, and stepped in. The window of this room was on a level
with the walk outside; and through this, Minnie as a child, and even
Dora, had been in the habit of entering as by a door, for a chair
generally stood at it, which answered the purpose of a mere step to
enter by.
"Good-evening, Mrs. Gillett," said Miles Tremenhere, as he did so with
perfect composure. "You would not speak to me last time we met; so I
have come to my old haunt, and as I was used to do when a boy, to have
some conversation with you." By an involuntary movement, without
uttering a word, she staggered to her feet, grasped her cap and ribbons
in her hand, and was making towards the door, but Tremenhere intercepted
her quietly before she was half-way there. "Stop," he said gently,
smiling as he spoke, "I don't mean to harm, or alarm you; listen quietly
to me, good Mrs. Gillett. Come, you cannot have quite forgotten the
sweet youth who has so often sat in this room with you; and i'faith,
too, I remember those hospitable cupboards" (and he glanced around)
"wherein I discovered many a treasure hidden for 'good Madame
Tremenhere's son,' as you were used to call me." A sigh half choked the
lighter tone as he spoke. Gillett stood still, and looked at him. She
was not a bad woman--far from it; but only a very politic one. She would
gladly have pleased all parties; but the peculiarity of the case
sometimes, as in Minnie's for instance--forbad it.
"Lock the door," she whispered, pointing behind him; "then speak low,
and tell me what you want." Her commands were soon obeyed; and, like two
conspirators, they sat down in a corner and began talking.
"You see, Master Miles," she whispered, "times is sadly changed, and I
am obliged to be friends with my betters; and, then you know that I
don't want to hurt your feelin's--but there have been queer tales about
your----"
"Hush!" he said emphatically, grasping her hands, "not a word against
_her_. Mrs. Gillett, you know what she was to all--you know that the day
she died, this village had but one voice to bewail her--but one sentence
to mourn her with. 'Heaven gave her for awhile to shew what angels may
walk the earth'--this you know, Mrs. Gillett; and you _know_, too, that
she has been cruelly maligned. No," he cried, rising energetically,
forgetful of all necessity for secrecy, "as Heaven hears me, I do not
care for the loss of all, save that, in losing that, a mother's sacred
fame has been trampled upon."
"There," cried Mrs. Gillett, following and taking his hand, not without
emotion; "sit down, I know it has been a sad cut-up for you; but times
will change, maybe, and you be better off, and all forgot."
"Never!" he emphatically exclaimed. "A mothers wrongs should never be
forgotten by a son until washed away."
"Talking of washing away," said his attentive listener; "there be a
rumour to-day, that summut happened up at the house last night; you
haven't done nothing of that sort to the squire, have you, Master
Miles?"
"No," he replied, thoughtfully; "my great debt remains yet unpaid."
"Well, I'm sure it's a pity," she added, "that all parties can't agree;
there be plenty for both on 'e up at the manor-house; and such friends
as you were as boys!"
"Why didn't you speak to me yesterday, Mrs. Gillett?" he asked. "Were
you afraid of Miss Dalzell, or Mr. Skaife? Both seem to my judgment
good, excellent creatures, apart from the generality of the world, for
they did not fear the contact with a fallen man; but I suppose I must
not ask you----" He appeared to be seeking time or courage to speak his
more earnest motive in seeking her.
"Well," said she at last, hesitatingly, "I must speak it out, though you
bid me not; so don't go to be offended, for I wouldn't hurt your
feelings for the world; but them as does wrong, brings much on their
children. You have been cruelly treated by your parents, to be left so
long in----"
"Mrs. Gillett!" he cried, rising in agitation, "even from you, my old
friend, I cannot hear this. Do not let others lead your kind heart to do
wrong, even in thought; some day _all_ shall know my mother as I do, or
I will die in the struggle with her enemies."
"Oh! don't do nothing of that sort," cried she, mistaking his meaning;
"getting killed a'n't the way to right her; and this I will say, that a
better lady never lived--and in the hearts of the poor; the best home to
have, after all. But it a'n't a thing I'm component to judge, Master
Miles; for foreigners, they say, don't see them things as we do."
"Well," he replied, reseating himself, and passing his hand over his
brow; "let's change the subject, it always pains me; but _her_ day of
retribution will come--my sainted mother!" and involuntarily he raised
his hat, in reverential awe, as if an angel were looking down upon him.
"Don't be cast down, Master Miles," said the woman, "and don't talk on
them miserable subj_ecs_, all in the dark here, as one may say; it makes
one oncomfortable and queer. Now, tell me, what do you want with me?"
"I want to see Miss Dalzell. Can you manage that for me?"
"Mussiful powers! no," she exclaimed, in surprise and horror.
"It must be accomplished somehow, Mrs. Gillett; see her I _must_."
"Well, if I didn't think so!" she said, thinking aloud of what she had
previously hinted to Sylvia.
"Think what--what do you mean?"
"Oh nothink, nothink--there, _do_ go; pray, do'e go!" she energetically
cried, alarmed at the phantom her imagination had conjured up. "It won't
do, depend upon it; _they_ would stir up the whole earth to find and
punish you, if you did it; for she's the darling of all, and they'd all
_ignite_ against you--lawyer, parson, squire, master, mississes, and
all!"
"In the name of patience, my good Mrs. Gillett, what _do_ you mean?" he
asked laughing.
"Why, I saw it--I said it--I knew it--though I ain't a Dippibus, as
master calls fortune-tellers; but don't go any farther--leave off where
you are!" and she crunched up her cap in her energy.
"Are you mad?" he exclaimed, securing her reckless hands. "I tell you I
_must_ see Miss Dalzell, if only for a moment. I have a message for
her."
Mrs. Gillett was rocking in her chair in agony; her position exceeded
any thing embarrassing she had ever conceived. What could she do? Here
she was locked in with a desperate man, who only said "must." How could
she ever reconcile this difficulty to practicable action? how bind this
wild horse to her daily care of every body's necessities? their calls
upon her to bear their burthens--her carrier's cart of packages--she was
in fearful perplexity.
"Is there any thing so dreadful in my demand?" he asked. "Let it be
here, for five minutes. We met yesterday--you know we did, though you
would not recognise me. She will not refuse, I know."
"Can't you say what you have to say through the passan, Master Miles,"
she uttered at last, struggling for a straw.
"No; I must see herself. Why do you fear me so much? Do you suppose I
would insult, or injure one, whom report says so good and kind--a woman,
too? Fie Mrs. Gillett--fie! to wrong me so much, the man you've known
from boyhood."
"Oh! Master Miles, it ain't that--it ain't, indeed; but we oftentimes
harms without meaning it," and she looked meaningly at him. He seemed to
awaken as from a dream.
"You cannot suppose," he cried, "that I, a poor outcast now, come here
to woo any woman; still less Miss Dalzell, whose whole family are my
bitterest enemies. I tell you no, Mrs. Gillett; I have no such thought.
From all I have heard--the little I saw of her yesterday, for the first
time--I respect, admire, and reverence Miss Dalzell, but more I never
shall now--I have another at heart." He alluded to his self-imposed task
of duty and love, to re-establish his mother's fame.
"You a'n't deceiving me, Master Miles," she said looking up, mistaking
his meaning.
"I solemnly assure you I am not."
"Oh, then, there can be no harm, that I see!" she cried confidently.
Alas! poor Mrs. Gillett, she had but skin-deep knowledge of the human
heart. Not seeing that what we should avoid, we fly to--what hate,
generally love, if cast in our path--ties, vows, resolutions--all are
things created, but to be immolated on love's altar.
"There she just is!" she exclaimed, looking from the window; "she's come
round by the shrubbery into the fruit-garden, and Lady Dora's with her."
"Lady Dora!" he ejaculated, looking surprised, and going to the window.
"Come back, Master Miles, do, come back," she cried; "I wouldn't have
Miss Minnie's cousin see you for the world, in here."
"Is that Miss Dalzell's cousin?" he again asked, gazing from his corner
at the two wandering together at the end of a long walk. "Lady Dora
Vaughan, Lady Ripley's daughter,--true," he added after a pause, talking
aloud, "I have a faint memory of the name here; but boys do not
recollect these things as in after years; the name seemed familiar to me
in Italy."
"Lauks!" exclaimed Mrs. Gillett, "have you met Lady Dora before?"
"Yes," he answered hesitatingly; "but how is it, Mrs. Gillett, that I
never met her or Miss Dalzell here before?" Alas! the man was in old
familiar scenes, forgetting that eight long dreary years of exile had
been his.
"Why, you see, Master Miles--and lauk, if I a'n't forgettin' too,
calling you Master--well, never mind, it's more homely: Miss Minnie will
be only seventeen come next month, and eight years have gone by
since----"
"True, true!" he hastily answered, interrupting her, "and Miss Dalzell
was then but a little child"--he sighed, that man of eight-and-twenty
felt so old.
"And Miss Minnie was seldom at home then. She lived almost entirely with
Lady Ripley, for her ladyship's child's sake; but you must have seen
her, too, Master Miles."
"Yes," he said thoughtfully; "I now recall, at times, a pretty little
fairy thing flitting about the grounds and gardens when I came home; for
_then_ my first visit was ever here, to see you Mrs. Gillett, and good,
kind Miss Dorcas, and to teaze your master and Miss Sylvia with my
wilful spirits."
"Lauk, yes!" said she sadly; and the memory of all brought the joyous
boy in so much bitter comparison with the outcast, saddened man, that
Mrs. Gillett, kind at heart, began to cry.
"Come, come!" he said kindly taking her hand; "don't be sorrowful. I
thank you for those evidences that I am not forgotten by all."
"Oh, not by me, Master Miles; but I've a hard card to play here amongst
'em all, and that hardens the heart--for they all want the same thing.
They all wish Miss Minnie to marry some one of their own choosing, and,
as I say, she can't be a bigamy, and marry all, so there's no use
wurrittin' her about it so."
"And does she not love any one?"
"Law bless you, no--not one more than t'other; my belief is, she likes
her black mare 'Jet' better nor any of them."
Miles felt glad to hear this, for he had heard of none worthy of the
fair girl who had been poor Mary's Christian support in her trouble.
Even Skaife he did not deem fitting for that beautiful gem; she merited
a more gorgeous setting than a homely curate's home could be. She was no
longer as a stranger to his thought; he forgot the past eight bitter
years of his life, and remembered himself a boy again, looking on a
rosy, lovely child. Mrs. Gillett's doubts were all cleared away, and an
open path before her. Age, and the prejudices of others, had made her
regard Miles with fear, and almost aversion. Now the better influence of
woman's nature prevailed, and she remembered him only as the comely
youth she had once liked so much. Cranky people make others cross and
disagreeable. She was accustomed to nothing but complaints from Juvenal
and Sylvia, with a milder portion, in the way of advice required, by
Dorcas; and thus she had had all the juices of her nature drying up
beneath this fire of unhappy prognostications from all. With Miles she
became almost young again, and fearlessly promised to procure him the
desired interview, provided _no one knew it_, which he faithfully
promised they should not, from him; and, while they were consulting how
it should be accomplished, the girl herself advanced to the window with
her cousin. Miles drew back in a corner, and his heart beat for more
reasons than one.
"Good-evening, Mrs. Gillett," said Lady Dora, in an affable tone. "You
really improve in good looks every time we meet." Poor Mrs. Gillett was
red as a peony with agitation, and could only utter, "Your ladyship's
very good to notice _me_!"
"Gillett, dear," cried Minnie, in her girlish, ringing tone, "we are
coming in to have a chat with you; put a chair for us to step on!"
"Not for the world, miss," almost shrieked the alarmed woman. "Oh dear!
no; maybe you'll hurt yourself."
"Good gracious--no, Gillett! you know I always come in this way," and
she stooped as if to enter.
"No, miss--oh dear, no!" continued the other, dragging away the chair in
her terror. "I never will consent; it mustn't be."
"Are you mad?" exclaimed the amazed girl. The woman caught Miles's face;
he was smiling. Altogether her position was so critical, she became
doubly confused, and said something incoherent about "Lady Dora's
dignity."
"I see what it is," said that lady. "Mrs. Gillett has forgotten the girl
she used to scold once; so, Minnie, we will sit outside here, and I will
make her better acquaintance as a woman," and the cousins, suiting the
action to the word, sat down each on a garden-chair, which they drew
close to the window. This was a thousand times worse than any position
she ever had been in; no blindness, no pattens, could save her here.
She was not a free agent--What would they say? what do? and besides, the
door was locked--should any one rap! It was the hour when the servants
generally required her advice or presence to prepare for supper; her
agony was intense. She durst not move lest Minnie should step in, using
her own chair for that purpose. Every possible thought crossed her mind
to terrify her--should Miles sneeze? and, in the midst of all this,
Minnie began--
"Now," she said, "Gillett, I've come to scold you for your cruelty
yesterday to poor Mr. Tremenhere."
Mrs. Gillett was seized with a violent fit of coughing; could _any_
subject more terrible under circumstances have been selected? Miles was
all attention.
"You've a bad cough," said Lady Dora, kindly, for her; but she wanted
Minnie's homely warmth of speech.
"Th-an-k you-r la-dy-ship, I ha-ve," coughed the woman.
"You should be careful at your age," continued the other. "Colds are the
forerunners of all disease, they say."
"So o-ur doc-tor tel-ls me," uttered the housekeeper, perplexed how to
keep up the cough; "and he sa-ys I sh-ou-l-d avoid dr-aughts!"
"And here we are," cried the feeling Minnie, "keeping you in one." She
rose hastily. Mrs. Gillett began in all gratitude, thanking her lucky
star for taking them away, as she supposed that luminary so intended to
do; when, lo! at that instant, a hand tried the lock, then
rap--rap--rap, succeeded--then Sylvia's voice! The housekeeper was
nearly frantic. She hurried half-way to the door, then returned. Miles
stood perfectly still and composed.
"I'll go round by the garden, Minnie," said Lady Dora, rising. "Don't
remain long with Mrs. Gillett," and she turned away with her slow,
majestic walk. Minnie put her chair in at the window, stepping in like a
cat upon it. Gillett indistinctly saw all this; she wrung her hands,
hurried to the assailed door, opened it, slipping through a crevice she
would have dreamed an impossible feat of performance an hour before, and
speaking loudly as she did so.
"Oh! Miss Sylvia, I'm so flusterated I don't know what I'm a-doing of;
there's a strange cat come into my room, and gone into a fit--don't go
in!" she screamed, as the courageous Sylvia attempted to do so. "It will
bite, maybe! I'll lock it in; the window is open--it will go as it
comed, I daresay!" and, suiting the action to the word, she tremblingly
turned the key, which she had taken outside with her. Presence of mind
is woman's greatest gift.
CHAPTER IX.
"They must settle it between them," she muttered to herself as she did
so. "After what he told me, I ain't afeard of him! And very fortunate it
is, to be sure, that he should be thinking of another, or else he'd be
sartain to fall in love with Miss Minnie, and _that_ wouldn't do!" And,
consoling herself in her error, she trotted down the passage after
Sylvia.
"Gillett--Mrs. Gillett!" cried Minnie, flying across the room to the
closing door; "let me out!"
But the door was locked in an instant. Sylvia had turned away, and
Gillett followed, blessing herself for the clever manner in which she
met poor Miles's wishes (for she really liked him,) without actually
compromising herself by arranging a meeting. Minnie turned, and was
going out by the window, as she had entered, wondering much at the
housekeeper's strange behaviour, when, in turning, she beheld Miles. She
started back, uttering a half scream.
"Pray, do not be alarmed, Miss Dalzell," he said, advancing
courteously--"'tis I, Miles Tremenhere, here, and with Mrs. Gillett's
consent; may I speak a word to you?"
"_You_ here, Mr. Tremenhere--and with Mrs. Gillett's connivance?"
"I here, Miss Dalzell--you may indeed be amazed; but pray, pardon my
audacity, but I have something to tell you, for which reason I am here.
May I act most unceremoniously in your own house, and offer you a
chair?"
She bowed as he did so, and seated herself, though in much perplexity of
thought.
"I would speak to you," he said seriously, standing beside her, "of one
you take an interest in."
"Mary Burns!" she cried. "Oh! pray be seated, and tell me of her. I went
to the cottage at six this morning, but it was vacant."
"Did you, indeed!" he exclaimed, gazing in deep admiration upon the
lovely face raised to his in confidence and innocence. "I wish I had
divined that; how very good you are, Miss Dalzell!--this will much
gratify poor Mary, she is so crushed and bowed down."
"Oh! do not say I am good; 'tis a sacred duty we owe a distressed fellow
creature. We should not trample upon the fallen, lest they rise against
us, and themselves in bitterness: where is she, Mr. Tremenhere?"
But Tremenhere's thoughts had changed their current; might he not be
pardoned for seeking a motive to interest in his fate that young heart?
Within the last half hour he had been searching the haunts of memory,
and she had given him back a sunny day, ten long years gone by.
"It is a great tax on a memory so young as yours, Miss Dalzell," he
said, without having even heard her question, "to ask it to look back
ten years; can you recall the time when you were seven years of age?"
"Oh, well!" she answered unhesitatingly, as if she had known him all the
intervening space between that, and the present. "I had never quitted
home then, since when, I have been much at Loughton, with my cousin
Dora; but I remember that happy time well. I was a very, very joyous
child. They say, those kind of children know much and early trouble; but
I don't believe that--do you?"
"Heaven keep you from it!" he energetically said, "_I_ was a _very_
happy boy."
Minnie looked up in his handsome face, and her bright blue eyes clouded
over--"Poor Miles Tremenhere!" she thought.
"You used to ride," he continued, "on a pretty grey pony, and a large
dog always followed it."
"Yes!" she answered amazed; "and old Thomas, my uncle's coachman, walked
beside me; but how do you know this, Mr. Tremenhere?"
"One day," he replied, "a young man's horse ran away with him, in the
long lane skirting your grounds at Gatestone, and upset the grey pony
and its pretty burthen. As soon as he recovered the command of his
horse, he returned and found the little girl, not hurt, but very much
frightened; so he dismounted and took the pretty child on his knee, and
her little arms clung round his neck, as she assured him she was not
hurt. He often thought of that sweet girl, and her long flaxen curls;
but somehow, he lost her recollection, amidst the waves of the troubled
life he afterwards was doomed to. He only found it again, half an hour
ago; then he again saw, as now he sees in Memory's magic glass, that
sweet infant face, the little arms so confidently round his neck, and
the kiss she gave him on both cheeks. _I_ was that young man--man _even
then_,--_you_, that pretty loving child, Miss Dalzell."
Minnie was rosy red to her very brow as he spoke of that kiss; then with
a native grace, all her own, she held out both her tiny hands, and all
smiles as he grasped them, said--"Oh, Mr. Tremenhere! I _do remember_
it; I am so delighted we have met before this sad time to you; it gives
me a right to defend, and think well of you."
What would Mrs. Gillett have said, had she seen Miles's dark moustache
pressed upon Minnie's lovely hands, in speechless gratitude?
"I don't know how it happened," he said, after a moment's silence; "but
there was but little intimacy between our families. _I_ came frequently
here, but then I rambled every where; moreover, I had, and have, a
passion for my pencil, and strolled about the grounds, sketching every
thing, I had so many favourite old trees and sites here."
"And do you sketch now? have you any of these? I should much like to see
them."
"Yes, I sketch still, and, more than that, I paint, chisel my thoughts
in marble--all."
"What a delicious pastime!" she cried, enthusiastically.
"'Tis more than that to me," he answered, and a cloud passed over his
brow; "it is _now_ a profession to me--one ardently pursued, for a
motive hallows it!"
"Your mother!" she uttered.
"Thank you, for that good, sympathetic thought, Miss Dalzell. I may
freely speak to you--we are not strangers in soul--I feel _that_. Yes;
my mother--my good, pure, calumniated mother! I have vowed every energy
of my life to one cause--the re-establishment of her fame. Only money
can do it: I am poor: I have powerful and rich enemies to fight against;
but patience, if wealth is to be gained, I will win it; and then there
is not a corner of the wide world I will leave unsearched, till I prove
her to all, what I know her to be. Every thought of my soul is in this
good work."
"Oh, may Heaven prosper so pure a wish!" she cried. "Would that I were
rich! I would say, Mr. Tremenhere, for the sake of a sister woman's
fame, let me join you in this holy deed."
Minnie spoke in all the enthusiasm of her gentle, but energetic nature;
and as she desired, so would she have done, had fortune willed it.
Tremenhere's outcast heart was in fearful danger; had she sought through
all Cupid's quiver for an arrow the most deadly, she could not have
found one better, than this interest in his mother, to win Miles's
affections. For some moments they did not speak; he felt that the
weakness creeping over him must be checked. His cause was too sacred a
one to be relinquished, like a second Marc Anthony's, for woman's love.
And what Cleopatra could ever have ranked in power with Minnie Dalzell?
He felt this, and changed the subject, telling her that Mary and her
mother had that day quitted Yorkshire for London, to avoid persecution.
It was a delicate subject to touch upon to Minnie, therefore he did so
as lightly as possible; but not so much so but that she discovered, to
her increased horror of him, that Marmaduke Burton had been Mary's
betrayer. But time flew--it flies ever when we require its stay--it
flies, carrying with it our joys and smiles; and oh, how it lingers over
our tears! Bathed in them, its wings know no vigour or volition. Minnie
would gladly have remained longer; but she knew her absence would
shortly cause inquiry and search. Miles durst not solicit another
meeting; for how excuse the request? What interests had they in common,
now Mary was gone? Alas! none, which either might avow. Little as they
were acquainted, it was a moment of regret to each, when, without a word
asked of future hope, or promise given, Miles stepped through the
window, in the now deepened shades of evening--almost night. He could
but thank and bless her gentle heart, and say, how truly! that he never
should forget her kindness and confidence,--that he probably, on the
following day, should be far from Gatestone; but, at her request, he
would send some sketches to Mrs. Gillett for her, in memory of their
meeting; and one should be of their first one. Twice he turned to say
good-bye; and the last time he lingered, and lingered, over the little
white hand, on which the lip, though half in fear, fell at last; and he
bade Heaven bless her, for his mother's sake. She watched his tall
figure as he strode through the garden--then the night concealed him
from her view--she crept to the window and listened, but the footsteps
were lost on the turf; and here Mrs. Gillett turned the key in the door,
and entered. Minnie turned hastily round.
"Is he gone?" asked the woman, in a whisper.
"Yes," uttered Minnie sadly. "Poor man--poor creature! Oh, Gillett, what
a wicked man Marmaduke Burton is!"
"Is he? Oh! may be not--he thinks he's right; may be he is, may be he
isn't--who can say?" Policy had stepped in again, her handmaiden. "One
thing I'm very glad of, Miss Minnie, that Mr. Miles is an engaged man."
"Engaged!" cried the girl, surprised; "to whom?"
"I don't know, but he solemnly assured me he was, or else be sure I
wouldn't have consented to his seeing you alone. People soon fall in
love--I know _I_ did with poor, dear Gillett; but I never knew it till
he fell out of the apple-tree, and dessicated his shoulder. And I'm
sure, when they strapped him down in the chair, to pull it back again,
(it was sadly put out,) I felt in such an agonized state, as if vultures
were feedin' on my vitals! Ah! that's true love, Miss Minnie--I hope you
may never know how sharp its tooth is, for it gnaws through every
barricade, as one may say."
Minnie was in deep thought, thinking and wondering what sort of person
Miles loved: Was she dark?--fair? and, above all, did she love him _very
much_? She thought--indeed, she was sure--that she should love such a
man! In a very meditative mood, she entered the drawing-room.
Miles sped away across fields, once his, to the homely farmer's, (Weld,)
where, we have said, he had taken up his abode. He, too, was in deep
cogitation; his mind filled with thoughts of Minnie. With an artist's
eye, he remembered every outline of her lovely face and form: there was
something so seraphic in it: for a while it obliterated all bitterer
memories--cousin, mother, all. Then, as he awoke from a day-dream of
what might _possibly_ have been, a double flood of indignation and
hatred rushed through his heart towards Marmaduke. "I would have
willingly shared all with him," he cried aloud, "so he had left me name,
and _her_ fame; with these I might _perhaps_ have won----" He paused.
"Lady Dora her cousin, too! strange I should never have thought of
_that_! But, then, 'tis ever so; we sit down contentedly under a happy
influence of sunlight, unquestioning whether it will last, or wherefore
it shines, whence it comes. _That_ would have been the maddest dream of
any. Proud! oh, Juno herself fabled Juno not prouder! There were many
things in that girl I could not fathom: Was she really so proud? or, Had
her heart a softer feeling beneath that mantle? or, Was it merely
woman's love of enchaining, which made her so gentle, yielding, _almost_
loving, only to frown down upon the half-uttered hopes her manner gave
birth to? I remember the day she was leaving; I am not a vain man, but
assuredly there was a tear in her eye, and the hand, for the first
time, touched mine--how cold her's was! _That_ was vanity. Her manners
piqued me, her beauty dazzled; but I forgot her a week afterwards, and
worked at the statue for which she had been my model, as calmly as if no
line of it were drawn in vain imitation of her matchless grace. But I
forgot _her_!--could I forget Miss Dalzell?" He was silent for a long
time, and walked onward in thought. "I will leave this place," he said
at last, speaking aloud--that habit which denotes the lonely
man--speaking aloud, not to forget the _tone_ of a human voice. "I will
leave this, and then forget that sweet, fair face; I cannot allow my
heart the luxury even of that thought. I require all its energies--it
must be vigorous, Miles, vigorous, for it's worldly encounter, not
enervated by love! Pshaw! leave love to boys--I am a man--a sad,
stricken man--what have I to do with love? Why, my hair will be
silvering soon, and how might I mingle such, with those glorious wreaths
of golden shade, as she lay on my bosom! Away, away!" he cried, groaning
deeply. "This is a devil's vision, to tempt me aside, from duty to a
saint! What a beautiful thing nature is!" he continued, after a pause.
"What act of art, however gorgeous her colouring, could compete with
that one--so beautiful--so pure--so perfect--when Minnie Dalzell put her
two fair hands in childish confidence in mine!" Again he walked on in
silence, and as he entered Farmer Weld's door, he muttered, "I will
leave this place to-morrow!"
The morrow rose. Does she in rising lay in her lap, and survey all the
deeds of the day? or is it an act at eve, when retiring? In either case,
how she must sigh over those of omission and commission, and regret that
she should be the involuntary parent of them all! She rose, and with her
Lady Dora, earlier than usual; she looked thoughtful, pale, and
irresolute. Were these caused by Minnie--who had spent two good hours
the previous night in her dressing-room, confiding to her cousinly ear
all about Miles Tremenhere? Dora had listened, and Minnie was too little
accustomed herself to conceal her feelings, to note the painful struggle
the other had, to be in seeming quite calm. Much she argued with
Minnie--mere cold, worldly motives, for not seeing Miles, for refusing
to do so _peremptorily_, should he seek her; as if Minnie could do any
thing in a peremptory manner, especially a thing calculated to wound
this fallen man! Dora found her resolute, however, in one way--not to do
so, but leave all to chance. He was going--she pitied him--always had
done so since she heard his story. She hated Marmaduke Burton--always
had--and would now, more than ever--_she would_. In vain Dora spoke of
position; he was rich, Minnie had nothing, and her aunts were resolved
she should settle near them. "Well, they cannot force me to marry at
all," answered she; "so I'll die an old maid, or rather live one first,
with dear aunt Dorcas."
But Dora could gain no promise about Miles Tremenhere.
"I may never seek him," said Minnie. "I'm not in love--oh! not at all;
but, if we _do_ meet, I will hold out my hand if the squire and all the
household are by to see! Has he not known me since I was seven years of
age? and do you think I am going to turn away from a friend because he
is poor? No, cousin dear, I wish I were a man, I'd fight for Miles
Tremenhere--poor fellow!"
It is questionable whether, had she been one, she would have blushed so
deeply, and spoken so enthusiastically, though her generous nature would
have made her uphold the wronged. A handsome man is very dry fuel near a
young lady's warm heart--her enthusiasm soon glows into a blaze.
CHAPTER X.
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.
CHAPTER XI.
Some one else had also seen Lady Dora--this was Aunt Sylvia. This busy,
restless woman, had one decided affection--a love of gardening in all
its branches. Her greatest crony after Dame Gillett, was John Gardener,
as he had been surnamed, consequent upon his profession; for every thing
is a profession now,--the humble trade eschews its name to become such,
and professions, as they still are, are for the most part unmeaning
words and falsehoods. Sylvia loved a garden, every atom of it,--kitchen,
fruit, and flowers. She delighted in getting out _spudding_ in it, as
she termed it--a corruption of spading, we presume; but it was her own
coined word, and meant, digging, weeding, sowing, and planting, a
composite word of much meaning. This morning, like many others, she was
up, and busily inspecting some little green tips just bursting through
the earth, which she pronounced "loves of things;" when raising her
head, to push back the spectacles she had put on for a closer inspection
of her budding flowers, she saw Lady Dora pass through the little door
into the fields. Her niece had not perceived her; she was bent double
nearly, and in a grass-coloured muslin, which made her appear, in the
distance, like a heap of short, newly-mown turf on the lawn. Up she
jumped at this vision. "My niece, Lady Dora!" she exclaimed--even in
_thought_ she was "Lady Dora" to her--"where can she be going? I declare
the young ladies of the present day, have the oddest manner of creeping
about early in the morning; no good ever can come of it!" Thus
soliloquizing, she stole after her, and, to her amazement, saw a man in
the distance; who it was, she had not the slightest idea, not once
dreaming of Tremenhere. Startled at the responsibility of so great a
secret to herself alone, she hastened through the kitchen-garden to Mrs.
Gillett's window, and rappi
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