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Miles Tremenhere: A Novel. Vol. 2 of 2

by Annette Marie Maillard · English · Gutenberg #41276 · 410,057 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Miles Tremenhere: A Novel. Vol. 2 of 2

Author: Annette Marie Maillard


        
Release date: November 3, 2012 [eBook #41276]
                Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MILES TREMENHERE: A NOVEL. VOL. 2 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. II.

    LONDON:
    G. ROUTLEDGE & CO., FARRINGDON STREET.
    1853.

    M'CORQUODALE AND CO., PRINTERS, LONDON.
    WORKS--NEWTON.




[Illustration: Minnie parting with Lord Randolph]




MILES TREMENHERE.




CHAPTER I.


Tremenhere did not return to dinner at six, as usual. He was not one of
those careless husbands, who dine out unexpectedly with a friend, and
leave their wives to wait in ignorance of their movements; so he sent a
messenger immediately after Lady Dora had quitted the villa, and Minnie
felt as if his absence _for the first time_ gave her pleasure. It
afforded her time to collect her resolution for meeting him with this
concealment in her heart. The long hours passed sadly enough, for every
thing around her seemed distasteful; the sunny noon of her heart was
growing into twilight. Tremenhere generally returned early from his
occasional parties. Ten o'clock came--a late hour for their quiet
cottage--then half-past. Minnie grew restless--her conscience was not at
rest; moreover, she was quite alone. The servant and the boy they
kept--all their household, had retired. Miles always had his key, when
late. Minnie watched a short time longer, and then, going up-stairs to
her dressing-room, partially undressed, enfolding herself in a long
loose wrapper, of pale pink cashmere, in which she looked even more
beautiful than when richly attired. Next, she unbound her long, fair
hair, and, unweaving it, flung the rich mantle over her shoulders, which
it completely covered; and thus, at perfect ease, she sat down in a
large chair before the fire. She had been unused to much deep thought of
late, and the events of the past two days had wearied her brain.
Gradually the head fell listlessly back, a little on one side--the
clasped hands, so perfect in form, supported it, an elbow resting on the
arm of the chair--the lips were slightly parted, and a warm glow, like a
sleeping infant's, ruddied her cheek, while the fair hair literally
swept the ground. So soundly she slept, that Tremenhere entered the room
unheard; he, too, had passed a day of deep meditation. Matter-of-fact
persons may laugh at the idea; but to sensitive minds, coming events
have often, as _avant courier_, presentiment. He had been thoroughly
wretched all day; so much so, that without knowing any tangible cause of
fear, he entered his home with a beating heart, as if he should find it
vacant! How can we account for such sensations? They are purely
spiritual. A deep sigh of joy trembled his lip, when he saw all he loved
so well, so exclusively in safety, and sleeping calm as an angel might,
rocked in a sailing cloud,--if angels ever sleep. He crept on tiptoe
nearer; involuntarily his hands clasped as in prayer, as he gazed upon
her, then, fearful lest that magnetic influence of an eye watching over
us, which makes us start up affrighted, with throbbing hearts, from our
sleep, should awake her rudely, he bent slowly downwards on his knee,
and looked upon her as on a saint, so pure, so unearthly was his love at
that moment. Some moments he knelt thus, then, unclasping his hands, he
raised the mass of sweeping hair gently, and pressed it to his lips; it
was slightly perfumed, like new-mown grass. Insensibly his hands
commenced turning fold over fold, tress over tress, till it grew to a
rope of brightness in his hands, which they could just clasp; smiling,
he twisted it, wondering at her prolonged sleep--suddenly a thought
flashed through his brain, a demon's thought--jealousy; his fears of the
day were parent to it. If she _ever_ should love another! if those
dreaming thoughts, which he then felt were his, should wander to
another! What temptation had she yet known?--none. What men had she ever
seen, to make her what so many were, even if only in idea--faithless? He
should care but little for actual virtue, if the soul of it were gone;
and as these maddening fancies crept through his mind, tighter and
tighter he twisted the fair hair in his grasp.

"I could still her life with this," he muttered; "once round that small,
fair infant neck, and I should save her from ever having a sinful wish.
She is pure as one of those little things, whose faces are not veiled
even by their own wings, as they say other angels are in heaven. O
Minnie! so much I love you thus, that I could find in my heart almost
to kill you now, and bear the weight of that heavy sin, to save you from
even knowing remorse." And in the agony of that moment of demoniacal
temptation, he rose to his full height, while the livid face and brow
were studded by agonized sweat-drops, his temples throbbed, he felt his
mental power of reflection every moment becoming more condensed, and
almost lost in impulse--impulse to commit murder, and, damning himself,
save her! At that supreme moment a deep sigh struggled through her
parted lips, the brow knit in mental pain, and Minnie awoke. Like a tree
blasted at the roots, Tremenhere dropped on his knees, which gave way
beneath his weight, and, burying his face in the terrified girl's lap,
he sobbed convulsively--it was not weeping, but his heart's bursting,
coming sorrow.

"Miles--dearest Miles--my own love!" cried she in terror, trying to
raise his head--"What has occurred? Are you ill? Speak to me, Miles."
She lifted up the face at last; it was pale as death, and on the fringes
of the closed eyes hung unfalling tears: they were as the heat drops
from the clouds before they burst asunder, sending forth sheet upon
sheet of flame.

"Minnie!" he cried wildly, looking up at last, "I have dreamed a horrid
waking dream while you slept: I was mad; for I thought if a day should
ever come wherein you would not love me, but another----"

"Miles--Miles!" cried the trembling girl. "Do not think of so fearful a
thing; 'tis tempting some demon to try you."

"_Try_ me, Minnie! How so?" There was almost madness in his look.

"By giving you _real_ trouble for this unchecked vision of impossible
things."

"You are right, dearest," he said, rising more calmly, yet he shivered
with emotion. "Heaven keep me from _real_ doubt! I could not support it.
Come, let us leave this room; it chills my heart, Minnie;" and he placed
his arm around her--as he did so, and it came in contact with the living
rope he had so madly twisted, a cold shudder passed over him.

"You are not well, dear Miles," she said, tenderly. "Let us leave this
room; it seems filled with fancies and spirits--I grow superstitious."
She tried to smile up in his face as usual, but the dimpling peace had
left her--she was tacitly deceiving him.

The next day came with a bright sunshine, which imparted its light to
Tremenhere's heart. He looked back upon his mad thoughts of the past
night, half in laughter, half in horror, fully resolving for the future
to check those wild, jealous, unfounded fears. Minnie could not rally,
as he had done; she crept about that cottage like a troubled spirit,
from one room to another, restless and unhappy. She was counting the
moments until Lady Dora should arrive, and she could fling her arms
round Miles's neck, and, telling him all, make him promise to be as ever
towards Lord Randolph, who had in truth not insulted her in any way. The
more she reflected, the less cause could she see for this secresy; and
but for her hasty promise to her cousin, certainly would have told him
at once.

"Minnie, dearest," cried her husband, laughing; "what are you creeping
about in that miserable manner for? Poor child! I startled you out of
your sleep last night--you are quite pale."

She would have looked doubly so had she known his mad thoughts while she
slept; as it was, she blushed painfully when he noticed her.

"I declare," he said, bending over her fondly, "you have been crying,
dear child. What is grieving you?--have I unintentionally pained you?"
And he kissed the bent brow.

"No, dearest Miles," she answered with quivering lips--she felt so
nervous. "You are all kindness, all love. I----" and she was choking
with her efforts to subdue her tears.

"My darling child--my own wife!" he said tenderly, raising her to his
bosom, "do not give way to nervous depression--you can have no cause--I
will not leave you so much alone; but you know, dearest, why it is--not
choice, as heaven hears me--but necessity. Where will be our
long-projected voyage to Gibraltar, for our good object, if I do not
work? Every hour away from you is one of regret; and, as I am painting
some grim portrait, I long to carry my model, easel, and all, to my
quiet painting-room here, with my Minnie to hang over my shoulder."

She was silently weeping most bitter tears; they were standing near the
table in the centre of the room. "Come, come," he said, cheeringly,
"you shall not give way to this--come into my studio; I want you to mix
my colours. Silly child--silly child! to cry so much for nothing."

She was on the point of telling him all, and imploring pardon, when he
turned his head aside, and the eye caught sight of a sheet of paper on
the table. "Since when has Minnie," he said laughingly, as he took it in
his hand, "turned copyist, and whose writing is this she has been
imitating? I have seen it somewhere before--where have I seen it?" She
was almost sinking to earth. It was a note which Lord Randolph had
commenced; yet, in her speechless agony, she clung to his arm. There
were only a few words--they ran thus:--

"Dear Tremenhere,--I am much annoyed at not finding you at home----"

"What does it mean, Minnie?" he cried, still smiling, and yet a strange,
uncertain light bursting over him. "Surely this is not your writing? has
any one been here? I will ring, and ask Bruce." He had his hand on the
bell: she had slid from his arm unperceived to a seat. Before the bell
sounded, the servant boy entered the room with a letter, which he handed
to Tremenhere.

"Has any one called during my----"

Tremenhere said no more, his eye fell on the letter--one glance
sufficed; for in his other hand he held the slip of paper.

"You may go," he said hastily to the boy. Without uttering another word
he tore open the letter, and read, (we have said Lord Randolph had not
much variety of thought; this note was a copy, in the past tense, of
the other one commenced.)

    "Dear Tremenhere,--I was much annoyed at not finding you at home
    when I called to-day," (it had been posted the previous evening,)
    "as I particularly wished to see you. I know, under the emergency of
    the case, you will pardon my intrusion at your villa, the fair
    inhabitant of which did me the great honour of mistaking me for you,
    and, rushing in to meet you, brought me acquainted with the fairest
    face and form I ever beheld. 'Pon my life, Tremenhere, you are a
    lucky fellow, and a selfish one too, for possessing so fair an
    original. Surely you might bestow the copy on a friend, to create
    the loveliest Aurora ever seen! I am off to Uplands. As I _most_
    particularly wish to see you, come down without delay; I shall
    expect you to-morrow night, and you must stop a few days. Make my
    best compliments to your fair companion, and believe me to be, ever
    yours truly,

    "RANDOLPH GRAY."

Miles read the letter through without a word uttered; it was only on his
face his soul broke forth, and there it became, step by step, as he read
on--surprise, grief, cold desolation--a man waking from a dream of home
and love, to the rigid reality of a field of blood and battle. All these
emotions, one by one, passed like shadows over his face, which grew
paler with each. When he looked up, all had given place to a stern
resolution, which sat on his troubled brow as he turned towards his
wife. She, poor child, had covered her face with both hands, and was
weeping bitterly. He laid a cold unearthly hand on her arm--"You have
deceived me," he uttered; and, with that almost inarticulate sound, his
soul seemed to pass, so great was his agony. "Whom can we trust?" he
whispered almost, as though speaking to himself. "She has deceived me!"
and a sigh, almost a sob, burst from his bosom.

Our readers must picture to themselves the jealous temperament of this
man--his intense, all-absorbing love for his wife--and then they may
form some idea of his present agony; for this it was. His heart-strings
seemed tightened as if a breath would snap them, like a lute too finely
strung, over which we pass the fingers in dread.

"Miles!" she cried, clasping his arm, "hear me--hear all! I--I--I was
afraid to tell you!" and the tears gushed from her eyes anew.

He released her grasp, and quietly reseating her, but as some one he
touched with repulsion, said, with his cold, stern eyes bent on her,
"Afraid to tell me! Am I then so much an object of terror to you? I
who----" The tone was unnatural, for his heart was bursting. "I," he
continued, gradually raising his voice till it trembled with various
emotions, "who have been gentle as a woman with you. I thought you so
loving, so timid in your love, I feared to startle you by a rough
tone--and you are afraid of me! All my love for you has only brought
forth this--fear! Oh! when I said my heart was too old for yours, I was
indeed right. I am not old--young still--but old at heart; and there,
where I have given all, I meet only fear!" He passed his hand over his
brow, as if his brain were burning within. "Only fear--only fear!" he
muttered; "and I, fool, thought she loved me!"

"So I do, Miles, my own dear husband," she cried, dropping on her knees,
and holding her trembling hands up to him in supplication, while the
tears rolled heavily down her upturned face; "I do love you, Miles--on
my soul, I do, more than all the world beside; but I feared to tell you,
for Dora frightened me so much about this man's visit."

"Lady Dora!" he cried--"when was she here?"

"Yesterday, Miles," sobbed she. "In my trouble, I forgot to tell you;"
and, rising, she dropped on a seat.

"There was a time, Minnie," he said bitterly, looking at the girl as he
stood with crossed arms before her, where she sat trembling, "you never
_forgot_ or _concealed_ any thing from me. Times are sadly changed; or,
perhaps, 'tis I who have been self-deceived all this long time, and read
you as I hoped, not as you really are. In good truth, we know no one
till we try them. 'Tis your nature, perhaps, child. You tried your young
wings at home, and now you are giving me the advantage of your perfected
flight. I have walked with you against others on this crooked road: I
deserve to meet with a path where you turn round upon--myself!"

"Miles! for pity's sake," she articulated, almost suffocated by emotion,
"have mercy on me; you are unjust and cruel!"

He strode the room with clenched hands, endeavouring to subdue the many
passions in his breast. She rose like a spirit so noiselessly, and,
gliding beside him, grasped his arm again. "Forgive me, Miles," she
whispered with quivering lips. Her touch roused all the indignation he
was endeavouring to subdue.

"Forgive you!" he exclaimed, flinging her hand from him as if it burned
him with its contact. "Forgive you!" and he stood before her with a wild
look of passion. "You, who have so bitterly wounded and deceived me--and
for whom? A man--the stranger of a day! Yet how do I know this? Perhaps
you have met often; and now I think of it, he does not name in his note
having been presented to you by your cousin. Fools!" he laughed--"poor
fools! you have ill-managed your duplicity. I read you all--all--and so
you will discover." So saying, he rushed from the room; and in a few
minutes afterwards quitted the house. Poor Minnie could not stay
him--she had fainted.

It would be difficult to say to what extremities he might not
have proceeded, but a gentler thought came over the Parque who
had raised this first sorrow. As Tremenhere strode onwards towards
town, not looking to the right or left, but in deep thought,
scarcely knowing whither to go, or what to do, a brougham passed
rapidly--stopped--turned, and Lady Dora's voice said, "Mr. Tremenhere,
may I speak one word to you?" Hers trembled--it ever did when addressing
him: there was much warring in that girl's mind. She would have given
worlds never to see his face again, as, by a concatenation of strange
circumstances, she was forced to seek, or meet him. Her voice burst on
his deep reverie, and startled him.

We have shewn that he had quitted home without any actual explanation
from Minnie. As he bowed to Lady Dora, there was more than the ordinary
constraint which marked his manner towards her on all occasions, she at
once remarked it, and a gleam of truth passed through her mind. "May I
speak to you?" she said, opening the door; for in these visits to
Minnie, she only brought her groom with her, on whose discretion, as an
old servant, she knew she could rely--not that she would condescend to
ask silence of any one; but in this man she had confidence.

"If not of immediate moment, Lady Dora," he said bluntly, "I will beg to
be excused the honour you propose to me, of a seat beside you. I have
business of the utmost importance in town--meeting you on this road, I
presume your drive will be extended to Chiswick; Mrs. Tremenhere is at
home." He was moving away, having coldly raised his hat.

Lady Dora was sincerely pained at the trouble she read in those eyes, on
that brow. "I must speak to you!" she cried hastily; "and, if you will
not step in, permit me to accompany you in your walk a short
distance--'tis of poor Minnie I would speak."

The "poor Minnie" touched a chord in his heart which was strung to
harmony; it had been vibrating to the desire of his soul, to prove her
innocent. He stopped:--

"I will not trouble your ladyship so much," he said, stepping in and
closing the door. "Where shall I bid the man drive?" "Any where," she
answered in some confusion, leaning back in the corner. "I will not
detain you very long--let it be slowly towards town; you were going
there."

But he did not continue that route above half a mile. Lady Dora had a
good heart, she really loved Minnie, and once you could, by her better
sentiments, penetrate through her pride, she was a kind, gentle girl.
Unhesitatingly she told Miles how every thing had occurred, every word
his little wife had uttered, her horror at deceiving him, even tacitly;
and _the fear_ explained, was so kindly a one, lest he should fly into
trouble, that his heart expanded with joy, and, involuntarily seizing
Lady Dora's hand, he pressed it to his lips. "You are a messenger of
peace and joy," he cried, looking in her face, which was very pale.
Something like a tear dimmed his eye as the thought of his poor little
wife--it was half love, and half regret.

How very slowly the horse, even at a good long trot, seemed to go, as
the brougham turned once more towards his home! Lady Dora told him, that
having vainly expected Lord Randolph the previous evening, that morning
she sent to his residence, and learned he had gone off to Uplands. What
she had to tell him about Minnie, she could not write, and when Miles
met her, she was coming down to see him, and consult on what had best be
done. It was decided in their short drive, that he should accept Lord
Randolph's invitation, and start for Uplands at once, and himself
explain all. Lady Dora stopped the brougham before arriving at the
villa; nothing could have induced her to be present at the meeting
between the husband and wife: it was a scene she felt it would have
pained her to witness, much as she desired their re-union. Miles did not
urge it upon her, and as the carriage, with its pale occupant, turned
away, he hastily entered his own home. Poor Minnie was lying on her
couch, scarcely recovered from her swoon; when she heard his step, she
started up in terror, and with eyes distended and trembling frame,
awaited his coming.

The door opened, and, before she could articulate, his arms were about
her, and we are not quite certain the tears which fell were all from her
eyes, there is something so soothing, so heavenly in reconciliation--it
is indeed the halcyon from above, descending with peaceful, unfluttering
wings!




CHAPTER II.


As Minnie lay nestled to his heart, and once more, as of yore, smiling
in his face, he told her of his intention of going to Uplands without
delay, resolved upon confiding all to Lord Randolph, to prevent further
mistakes. Minnie fully concurred in his opinion; and yet, she could not
name this latter without a painful blush. It was the recollection of
Miles's suspicion which called up this evidence against him.

"I will not have you even blush at his name," he whispered fondly;
"though not in love, I shall be perhaps envious of the emotion which
creates it. I am a jealous wretch, darling; I would have every flutter
of your heart for myself alone." Much more he said in the sweet
half-hour he gave to reconciliation, and sincere regret for his cruelty;
and then, with a heart free from every cloud of doubt, he took an
affectionate leave of her; twice, indeed, he returned, as though it were
impossible to quit her, and at last, with a rude effort, tore himself
away, determining to remain as short a time as possible. His carpet-bag
was in a fly at the door--Minnie watching him step in from the window,
when a gentleman's cab drew hastily up, and Mr. Vellumy's voice
exclaimed "Hallo, Tremenhere!"

Miles was leaning forward, to kiss his hand once more to his wife. The
appellation startled him not a little. He turned hastily round. A frown
crossed over his brow.

"G_w_ay told me last night," said the other, in reply to his cool "How
d'ye do," "that you would be coming down to-day, and, as I am returning,
I thought we might go down together. I see you have your carpet-bag, so
of course you are off there--lucky I just caught you--here, step into my
cab, and send away your fellow; I'll spin you to the railroad in no
time."

All this looked fair and above board. It was not written on Vellumy's
brow, that he had a correct list of all the trains in his pocket; he had
been for half an hour watching on the road, expecting what had happened,
namely--the departure from home of Tremenhere.

"You're very good," answered he, still distantly; "but it is scarcely
worth while changing for so short a distance."

"Pa_w_don me," lisped Vellumy. "'Tis a long way; come, do be sociable, I
hate t_w_a_w_elling alone."

"He's a good-natured fool," thought Miles; "why refuse? conciliation is
my object, so here goes;" and, making some sort of apology for his
abruptness at first, he stepped out of the fly into the cab, and casting
a long look at the curtain, behind which he saw Minnie's face, they
drove away, and arrived without accident at London bridge station--just
caught the train--and started for Uplands. We should mention that
Vellumy stopped for an instant at his club--threw the reins to
Tremenhere--and in less than five minutes was again by his side.

Tremenhere was in unusually good spirits; he felt almost mirthful. He
was going to place his beloved wife on a pedestal whence no slander
could shake her; henceforth he was resolved openly to speak of her; he
had learned the evil attending concealment. His heart was full of sweet
thoughts of her; he determined, however, to speak first to Lord
Randolph, and then let him present him, in his new character of
Benedick, to his friends.

"Do you know," he asked, starting from a reverie, "why Lord Randolph
desires my company so especially at Uplands?"

"Cannot say," answered Vellumy, smiling, "unless it be to call your
palette into requisition, to pourt_w_ay the beauties of his ladye-love."

"Lady Dora Vaughan?" asked the other in surprise. "I thought she had
quitted Up--. Indeed, I _know_ she has," he added hastily; "I saw her
to-day."

"Not Lady Do_w_a," answered Vellumy, with a knowing smile. "Some one else
he is ve_w_y much in love with, a----" Up to the present moment he had
been talking at random, just to divert Tremenhere's ideas from any thing
singular in the summons the other had received. Some thread from the
Parque's weaving surely, tangled round his shallow mind at this
juncture, and drew him on, without thinking on his part, to add, by way
of "fun:" "I don't know that I ought to tell you"--this was said
confidentially--"but G_w_ay is deucedly in love with some married woman,
q_w_ite a beauty, I hear."

"Indeed!" was the thoughtful, half painful reply, yet he could not tell
where this information galled him.

"Oh yes!" continued the confidential Vellumy; "it is a recent
affair--G_w_ay is te_w_ibly in love," he glanced smilingly at the
thoughtful Tremenhere.

"Do you know her?" asked he.

"No, he's ne_w_er let me see her; it is quite a romantic affair, of
_w_ecent date."

"Married, you say?" inquired Tremenhere, trembling he scarcely knew why.
"Then of course the passion is a hopeless one?"

"What an innocent you would make me think you!" laughed Vellumy. "Her
husband, I hear, is a jealous cu_w_mudgeon; she's af_w_aid of her life
of him, but, f_w_om all I hear, I should certainly say she loved G_w_ay,
and not a little."

A cold chill passed through the other's frame, then suddenly recalling
his cruel suspicions of Minnie, which had been so completely obliterated
from his mind, he shook off the incubus hanging round his heart, and
said mentally, "I am again playing the madman! There are thousands of
married women with whom Lord Randolph is acquainted." And, resolved to
banish these thoughts, he started a totally different subject, and
conversing indifferently they arrived at the end of their journey. They
found their host absent, however; he and some friends were out shooting,
so a servant said, but would of course return for dinner. Tremenhere
took possession of the room awarded him, and afterwards he and Vellumy
amused themselves with billiards for an hour or two. Lord Randolph was
one of the most oblivious personages in the world; he totally forgot, in
the turmoil of other thoughts, that Marmaduke Burton had on a previous
occasion declined meeting Tremenhere; great, then, was the unpleasing
surprise of both, when Lord Randolph entered in shooting trim,
accompanied by the latter. Tremenhere's brow flushed with pride as Lord
Randolph said, slightly presenting them, "I suppose you two have met
before?"

Burton looked pale and uncomfortable; Tremenhere said boldly, "We have
met often."

Their host looked up at the tone, and, bursting into a reckless,
good-tempered laugh, said, turning round on one heel, "Egad, now I
recollect! Burton, you fought shy of Tremenhere last time he was here,
and shirked a meeting. Come, I'll be sworn you've quarrelled about some
woman; you must oblige _me_, and make it up: this I intend to be a day
of peace-making;" and he gave a peculiar look at Vellumy, who responded
to it in an equally significant manner. All this by-play was unnoticed
by Miles, who, in answer to Lord Randolph, said, "Your lordship is quite
right; that gentleman and I have quarrelled about a woman, yet not quite
as you suppose, possibly."

"'Pon my life," answered their host more seriously, "I'm a thoughtless,
forgetful fellow, or I ought to have called to mind, Burton, that when
you and Tremenhere were down here together the other day, you quitted to
avoid him. This should convince you, Tremenhere, that Burton bears no
animosity towards you; come, oblige me: be friends, forget old
grievances."

"Animosity! and forgetfulness!" cried Tremenhere. Then, lowering his
tone, he added coldly, "Lord Randolph, there are persons with whom
estrangement is more consonant to our feelings than friendship; but his
presence--I mean the presence of my worthy cousin----"

"Cousin!" exclaimed their host and Vellumy in a breath.

"I disclaim it!" cried Burton, trying to appear calm; "that is, except
indirectly--left-handed."

"Man!" said Tremenhere, energetically making an involuntary step towards
him. The other two made a movement to prevent any collision; but
Tremenhere stopped as Burton shrunk back. "I am a fool," he said, "to
forget my noble part--patience. Pardon me, Lord Randolph; whilst I am in
your house as guest, I will no more so offend--I will conduct myself as
if such a person as that man had never existed. When I proclaim our
relationship again, he shall tremble more than he does even now--look at
him!" And, turning contemptuously away, he quietly interrupted an
awkward apology which their host was commencing, by--"Has your lordship
had good sport to-day? We artists lose these more wholesome pleasures,
amidst our palettes and pencils."

Lord Randolph was well pleased at the turn affairs had taken: he had
not brains enough to carry out two things at once. All his ideas were
now fixed upon one great achievement, foreign to this. Burton seemed so
awkwardly ill at ease, that Tremenhere could almost have found it in his
heart to pity him. After the first feeling of annoyance occasioned by
his presence, he felt gratified, as he would be a witness of the public
justice he purposed doing Minnie; and, in this mood, he quickly
recovered his equanimity of temper; and, when he took his place at the
dinner-table, Lord Randolph was fain to admit, even with the then
prejudice against him, that certainly honest uprightness sat upon his
brow, and lightness of conscience in his easy gaiety; whereas Burton
looked pale, discontented, and gloomy. Tremenhere took not the slightest
notice of him; there was no sneer, no avoidance, but a quiet
obliviousness of his existence, especially annoying. Their host was in
high spirits, and, with the well-bred ease of a perfect gentleman, put
all his guests, as far as he could, on that pleasant footing. Several
peculiar looks passed between Vellumy and himself, more especially after
the former's return to table, whence he had been summoned by Lord
Randolph's valet.

"Vellumy," he cried, laughing, "you look as if you had seen a ghost;
'pon my life you're pale."

"Am I?" responded the other in the same tone; "I have, howe_w_er, seen
no ghost, but a spi_w_it of g_w_ace and beauty."

"Where?" asked the others, in a breath.

"Ask Randolph," said Vellumy; "I ne_w_er tell tales out of school."

"Pshaw!" answered the host, giving a half-frowning look at his friend,
"there's not a living woman here, that I ever see, now the women folk
and their maids have departed."

"Talking of that," said Burton, "when do you become one apart from us--a
respectable married man?"

"Probably never," was the decided reply. "Lady Dora frowns upon my suit;
and----"

"You have little pressed it of late," hazarded some one.

"I never saw two less like lovers than you were, down here the other
day."

"By George, no!" cried Burton; "you were always running up to
town--there must be some magnet there, I fear. Lady Dora should look to
it."

Vellumy laughed aloud.

"Oh, Vel is in the secret!" exclaimed the first speaker. "Tell us, is
she dark or fair?--fair for a guinea! for this morning at breakfast he
was raving about golden hair, and cheeks blushing like the inside of a
sea-shell, which the amorous sea bathes in tears."

"Poetically described," said Lord Randolph, colouring slightly; and
almost inadvertently his eye rested on Tremenhere, who was pale and
silent. "I shall, probably, _never_ marry," continued he; "that is, not
till I grow a cranky old bachelor."

"You have changed," said Tremenhere in rather a low tone, feeling it
necessary to say something; "and not for the better, I think. If people
must marry, why, let them do it in youth--that is, not extreme youth,
but not with too much disparity--a year or two on the man's side."

"Only _that_!" exclaimed Burton sarcastically, half addressing
Tremenhere, who looked him full in the face, but made no reply; the
blood, however, painfully rose to his brow. The remark was not lost
where he intended it to tell.

"The misfortune is," said one of the guests, "that we men do not gain
wisdom with age--our wise teeth are the first to decay and desert us. We
forget how many years have gone over our heads; and at sixty expect some
lovely girl of twenty to love us for ourselves alone."

"A grave error," answered Tremenhere, laughing. He was resolved, if
possible, to chase painful thought, and the cold, unfounded suspicions
gathering round his heart. "For an old man, marrying a young girl,
generally becomes like a hoop in a child's hands; which it trundles
before it whither it will, giving it hard knocks at every step!"

"Bravo!" cried several.

"It is not always thus," said their host, laughing. "Some old fellows
weary their young wives to death; these always remind me of a punishment
I have read of somewhere, where a living person was chained to a corpse
till death came--some old men are brutes."

"I'd poison such a one!" exclaimed one man, laughing.

"I know such a being now," responded Lord Randolph, "with his hair dyed
a purple black, idem whiskers, and one of our celebrated dentists is
guilty of affording him the means of mastication, and life."

"If I were his wife," said Tremenhere, "I'd take away his teeth, and
starve him! 'Twould be a decay of nature, nothing to affect the
conscience!"

Some more jests were passed on this subject; and when silence was a
little restored, Burton asked, "But Vellumy has not yet accounted for
the fair spirit he spoke of--where is she?"

"In the picture gallery," answered Lord Randolph, hastily. "Tremenhere,
you are such a deucedly lazy fellow, that, till you send me your
'Aurora,' I have gladdened my eyes with a Venus; you must give me your
opinion of her by candle-light. Vellumy loses himself in ecstasy before
her."

"By whom is she?" asked Tremenhere.

"Gad I forget! some young aspirant. I have a fancy of my own, to bring
forward unknown genius and beauty."

Here again he looked at Vellumy, and again a cloud passed over
Tremenhere's heart. Much more was said on various subjects. The cloth
was removed--the wine circulated freely. Vellumy whispered Tremenhere,
"Come along; leave those fellows drinking; let's go and have a quiet hit
at billiards."

Both rose. "Where are you off to?" exclaimed Lord Randolph; "I'll have
no shirking, Vel. You and Tremenhere remain--we'll all go shortly."

"You can join us," answered Vellumy; "we're going to see the Venus
first," and he moved to the door.

"I'll be shot if you do!" cried their host springing towards, and
locking it.

"That's right!" cried several; "keep them in! That's not fair to leave
so soon."

"Done, my boy!" exclaimed Vellumy, rushing to another--a side one. "Come
along, Tremenhere; we can find our way through this passage."

"Try, try!" shouted Lord Randolph after them; "the doors are locked that
way, you must come back."

"This way, Tremenhere," called Vellumy, running on before; "up this side
passage, and the private stair, to G_w_ay's own rooms; I know the way,
come along!"

They had both been drinking rather freely, and in the cup Tremenhere had
forgotten all annoyance.




CHAPTER III.


Up the narrow stair they hurried laughing, then down a passage, at the
further end of which was a door.

"G_w_ay forgot this," laughed the conductor; "this leads to the
g_w_allery."

Apparently Gray had not forgotten it; for, for some unexplained purpose,
it was fastened.

"Confound it!" exclaimed the speaker; "what can he have locked up all
these doors for? Try that one on your left; that leads to his own
apa_w_tments."

"Locked, too," said Tremenhere, after trying it.

"I won't be b_w_eaten!" cried Vellumy; "st_w_op a moment. I'll run down
the p_w_assage, and g_w_et the keys out of the other doors; they'll most
likely op_w_en this;" and back he ran. Tremenhere stood looking after
him.

"Here," he called out, though under his breath, from the end of the
passage; "here's a key--t_w_y it;" and he flung it down the carpeted
corridor. "I'll go look for m_w_ore."

Tremenhere raised the key and applied it to the lock, which yielded at
once; he entered unhesitatingly, with that freedom natural to a
bachelor-house, and found himself in a small antechamber leading to Lord
Randolph's own rooms; for an instant he stood irresolute. Which way
turn? the picture-gallery was the object of his search. There were two
doors in this room--one opposite the one by which he had entered;
towards this he moved, and, gently turning the handle, found himself at
the entrance of a small, but elegantly-furnished sitting-room. There
were no lights, except from the fire, which threw a wide, cheerful blaze
over all. A sofa was drawn close to it, and on this sat a lady, leaning
half over the arm of it; her back was turned to the door, which had
opened noiselessly. The light was not uncertain, and it threw its
fullest blaze on that fair form--and that fair form was Minnie's!

Tremenhere stood still--a statue-like stillness. Life seemed fading away
in horror. He felt drunk for a moment with suffering; then vision,
thought--all cleared away into perfect sobriety, and he strode silently
towards her. She started, and, dropping her book, uttered a cry of
surprise, and, by an involuntary feeling of sudden alarm, shrunk back;
then, seeing who it was, exclaimed in joy, if he could so have read
it,--

"Oh, Miles, is that you? but you startled me, indeed, standing like a
ghost, there. You look as if you did not expect me!"

"You here--you here!" he muttered with cold lips. "In these rooms! and
why here at all?" And he held his hands before him to keep her back.

"Miles," she cried, still advancing; and though the face grew pale with
some sudden fear of untimely birth, for it was so unexpected, yet the
brow was clear and pure to all but a jealous man. "You know wherefore I
am here; think--you must be mad!"

"Mad!" he echoed, staring wildly; "I must be mad, or dreaming!--you were
locked in, and in _these_ rooms."

"Where am I?" she cried, looking hurriedly round.

"Do you not know," he articulated beneath his breath, "or are you
deceiving me? These are Lord Randolph Gray's private apartments."

"His!" she whispered, dropping on a seat; "I thought they were yours."
Poor girl! her limbs tottered beneath her weight.

"You will drive me mad," he cried, seizing her trembling hands; "tell
me, in Heaven's name--tell me how you came here, and why?"

"I came," she ejaculated half in surprise and half in fear, "because you
sent for me; but why am I in these rooms, why not in yours?" She did not
yet understand his suspicions; her fears arose from his strange
excitement; she began to fear for his reason, thinking that he had sent
for her.

"Woman!" he cried in agony, wringing her cold hands, "I never called you
hither, and this you must know." She could not speak, but sat silently
staring at him, her eyes distended with terror. "Speak--speak truth, if
you _dare_--and tell me why you are here? and how? for I am nearly mad;
do you not see it, woman? I conjure you, speak."

"Speak you!" she whispered, "and tell me your hidden meaning; you
affright me with these spirit thoughts. Embody them, Miles; for I dare
not believe my heart's fear."

"Speak them!" he exclaimed, "do they need speech? No! your guilty soul
has uttered them to your terror-stricken frame; you have done, and now
you shudder at your own act. Woman, I am doubly deceived, deceived when
this day I took you to my loving heart, deceived when I was lured from
my home that you might come hither in secret, but I will have revenge,
where revenge may be taken." And casting her hands from him, which he
had held grasped in his, he sprung towards the door, but like lightning
she was before him, and placing her slight form, now nerved by
resolution against it, she said, "Miles, I bore much this day patiently,
for I had been guilty of concealment, though done for a worthy purpose;
but now, that my soul is clear of any wilful sin against you, in the
sight of Heaven, I _demand_ that you should hear me."

"Speak," he said coldly folding his arms, "my revenge can wait."

"When," she articulated faintly, for the nerve of a moment had passed
away--"when you left me to-day, an hour elapsed in thoughts of you, all
you Miles, and joy--that deep joy which reconciliation brings. I was
aroused from this dream of peace and rest, after my recent sorrow, by a
messenger who came, he said, with a letter from you, which you had given
him on starting, and this letter bade me at once come to Uplands to
rejoin you, placing myself under the care of this messenger; you had a
project in view for our mutual happiness, and my presence was necessary;
so, dear Miles, I did not delay a moment,"--here the long restrained
tears overflowed her eyes at the calling of that gentle word on her
lip--"but fearlessly quitted home, knowing your judgment must be best in
all things for my benefit, I could not err in following your guidance,"
her full eye looked all its love on him as she spoke.

"The letter," he said hoarsely, holding out a hand; he durst not take
her, as he longed to do, to his heart, without this proof.

"Are _you_ mad, or am _I_?" exclaimed the affrighted girl--his calmness
awed her. "I have burned that letter, you know you bade me do so."

"By heavens!" he laughed wildly, "your cold-hearted assurance proves you
the most consummate deceiver in the world. Girl--woman--demon! I _never_
bade you come--I never wrote to you; and you _know_ I did not, but your
paramour knew me safe here; and in safety lodged you here also. By
heaven it was a bold, daring game, worthy a better cause!" How often, in
our bitterest or most serious moments, some passage either ludicrous, or
irreverent, will cross our minds; through his flitted the words of
Iago,--

     "She did deceive her father, marrying you!"

"Yes," he continued, following the thought, "she deceived them all,
cleverly and calmly; and what wonder I should follow?"

"Oh!" cried Minnie, dropping on her knees and looking upwards; "if
spirits in pain may summon their kindred from heaven, oh! my own dear
mother, look on your orphan, and pity her; pray for her, mother
dear--pray for her!" and, covering her face with her hands, she wept
bitterly. There is not in the regions of darkness a blacker demon than
jealousy; it brands all--perverts all. There was a time when a tear from
Minnie would have torn his soul. Now he looked on, almost exultingly; he
thought she was sorrowing for another.

"Tremenhere, Tremenhere, open the door!" exclaimed Lord Randolph
without, agitatedly--he heard a woman in tears. "For heaven's sake open
the door, I will explain all!"

"Oh!" ejaculated Miles in a deep tone of satisfaction, yet it seemed as
a groan, "here is something tangible to deal with." And without casting
a look on his sobbing wife, who was bowed to earth, he hastily
unfastened the door, which she had locked to prevent Miles's egress.
"Come in, my lord," he said, perfectly calm, "and witness your day's
worthy occupation! Look up, woman; here is one for whom you have cast me
off! You, my lord, to-day, reign master of that fickle heart; and
another--and another--and another, to-morrow!" and he strode
contemptuously to the fireplace; but the hands were clenched in agony,
which he would let no one witness.

"Come in, Vellumy!" cried Lord Randolph, whose voice trembled. He had
created a storm which was mastering him.

"Let no one else in!" shouted Miles, turning round, all his forced calm
giving way to intense passion. "Or, yes," he added, springing to the
door and forcing it wide open from Vellumy's grasp, who strove to close
it. "Come in, one, all--all--Burton too--come, glory, triumph over the
proud man biting the bitter dust of betrayed trust."

"Are you mad?" exclaimed his host, pale with agitation. "Hear me,
Tremenhere; I will explain all. Vellumy knows all--we will explain."

As they entered Minnie crept to her feet, and silently dropping on the
sofa, sat watching all with a bewildered look of extreme terror; her
shaken mind could not comprehend it.

"I am ready to hear all you may have to say, gentlemen," Miles said
coldly, and sarcastically; "you will, however, permit me to hold my own
opinions, and act upon them, as a man so much injured should."

"Tell him, my lord," whispered Minnie, who had silently crept to Lord
Randolph's side, and grasped his arm--"tell him; for _you_ must know how
I came here, if, indeed, he is not mad, as I feared, but truly in
ignorance."

Tremenhere stood as one doubtful whether to drag her from the arm she
energetically grasped, or else kill her as she stood there; assuredly
there was murder in the thought of that ungoverned, erring, but most
devoted heart. He passed his hand over his brow, and dashed aside the
cold drops of suspense and doubt.

"Pray, calm yourself, madam," said Lord Randolph, gently laying his hand
on her trembling one; "I will explain all. Indeed, I never expected
matters to take so biased a turn as this." She shrunk back from the
touch of his hand. Her terror assumed so many forms, she scarcely knew
where to find the end of that tangled web to unravel it. Vellumy looked
even more alarmed than Lord Randolph; besides which, for the first time,
he looked upon Minnie, and perhaps she never had appeared more beautiful
than in that moment of anxiety and suffering. Instinctively he drew near
to the girl, who sat like one awakened from a fearful dream, gazing
wildly from one to the other, and incapable of the least exertion; her
very arms hung nerveless, yet essaying to grasp the sofa for support.

Vellumy whispered gently, "Don't c_w_y; we will make it all
_w_ight--G_w_ay has brought you here for that purpose." But she stared
wildly at him, not hearing or understanding his meaning. Meanwhile, Lord
Randolph, who really had done all with a good intention, gained energy
from the uprightness of his conscience, and said calmly--

"Now hear me, Tremenhere; I may possibly offend you by my interference,
but my object in bringing that most unfortunate, most injured girl here,
has been----"

"Stop, my lord!" cried Miles, recovering his dignity, and soothing down
his passion like a smouldering fire, more concentrated and intense in
that apparent calm. "Though lost to all shame--though lost to me and my
love, permit me still to claim a certain respect for the name she still
bears--you forget that _girl_ is my wife--Mrs. Tremenhere!"

"Your _wife_!" exclaimed both the other men in a voice. "Your wife! Good
heavens! can this be?"

"True!" answered Miles, coldly. "I forgot this was unknown to you--that
is, _through me_. I came hither to-day, to leave you no longer in
ignorance of my exact position, as you had done my wife the honour of a
visit."

"Merciful heavens!" cried Lord Randolph, agitatedly. "If this be indeed
the case, I have been led into a grievous, but not irretrievable, error.
Is this lady truly your wife?"

"As truly as a twice-told ceremony can make her," answered the other,
with a cold, doubting smile. "Is your lordship indeed in ignorance of
this fact? and does the responsibility of your crime alarm you? Fear
not--it is not by _law_ I shall seek redress when I demand it. There may
be honour--if you know that thing more than by name--but there will be
no laws to satisfy."

Lord Randolph was pacing the room, uncertain how to explain
himself;--Vellumy looked thunderstruck.

"What!" continued Miles, in the same tone of bitterness; "did you think
that was a frail creature, you were only making frailer still? that you
were only deceiving a deceiver? giving to the giver his own again? I
tell you, no; the creature was to me as the light of heaven--pure,
sunny, gladdening all!--a gift of God to cheer me on my pilgrimage! Do
you think I could look up to heaven, and bless it for its light, when I
had condemned a soul like hers to crime and darkness?--to walk with me
onward to the judgment-seat, and there kneel down and condemn me to
hell, for the wrong I had done her? I tell you no, my lord; she _was_
my own loved, virtuous _wife--once_!" And the stern man's voice
trembled with emotion.

"And, by heavens, Tremenhere! that _still_ for me, or any thought of
mine. Give me your hand: forgive me--I have been led to wrong you
deeply; I rejoice in being able once again to call you friend. I
respect--I pity you; for some, to me unknown, unhappy circumstances,
must have made you condemn a being like that to the shade of a
suspicion. Mrs. Tremenhere," he added, approaching her, as Miles drew
coldly back from the proffered hand, "forgive me the involuntary pain I
have caused you, but plead for me to Tremenhere; he cannot resist you!"

Minnie stared like one idiotic; she was wounded too deeply; her native
delicacy was sullied by these cruel suspicions.

"Tell Miles all," she articulated, in a low tone--"I cannot speak to
him; tell him all--pray, do!" And her voice was choked with tears.

"You _must_ hear me, Tremenhere!" he cried.

"_Must!_" laughed the other incredulously. "May I ask is this an
impromptu, or a part of a well-arranged whole? I ask a simple
question--favour me with a simple reply, my lord. How came Mrs.
Tremenhere in this apartment, where I by accident found her? Words will
not do--I ask proofs!"

"Will not my pledged and sacred honour suffice?"

"Some men deem it a duty, where a lady's reputation is concerned, to
clear her from suspicion at any price."

"By heavens! you are blunt, sir," answered Lord Randolph haughtily;
"and but that a well-meant act of mine, has caused this scene--this
mistake--I should leave you to seek your remedy where and how you would;
but I am resolved to state all, and then leave you to be just, if just
you can be in your present state."

He then proceeded to relate the scheme arranged between Vellumy and
himself, believing Minnie wronged by Tremenhere--a scheme to bring her
down, and call upon Miles's better feelings to do her justice. What she
had told her husband was perfectly true. When Vellumy entered the club,
on their way to the railroad, it was to despatch a trusty person, to
whom the letter had been confided, which lured Minnie unsuspecting from
home. We have seen how Vellumy's cab had been in waiting with its
master, to secure the positive departure of Miles. Vellumy had a great
talent--(for one it is, though dangerous in the extreme)--an
extraordinary power of copying handwriting. He wrote a letter so exactly
like Miles's, that even Minnie was deceived. It ran thus (they were
ignorant of her name, it will be remembered)--

    "Dearest Love--I have just received a letter at my club, on my way
    to the station, which contains something of so much importance to
    our future welfare, that I earnestly desire you should follow me to
    Uplands. Place yourself unfearing under the care of the trusty
    bearer, and he will bring you safe to your

    "MILES.

"Burn this; I will explain all when we meet."

This letter might have misled a more experienced person than poor
Minnie; what could she suspect? Miles's word was law, unquestioned;
without hesitating one moment, she quitted home with the messenger, who
was none other than Lord Randolph's valet, one he could securely confide
in. The plan for Tremenhere to discover her, was all arranged
beforehand; but, most unfortunately, the well-intentioned plotters were
quite ignorant of Miles's jealous disposition, as also of the scene of
that morning on his lordship's account; and, to crown all, there was no
letter forthcoming in proof. Vellumy, by the latter's desire, quitted
the room to keep the guests below in good temper; he was, like his
friend, a well-meaning man, but not a gifted one, by wisdom. Of all the
persons below, he selected Burton for his confident, to whom he might
unburthen his overcharged bosom. Secrets were of leaden weight with him.
This man listened with avidity and delight to the strange tale, but made
no like confidence himself. What he knew about it, remained in his own
breast; but he, who before chid his fate for bringing him in contact
with his cousin, now rejoiced in it: these revelations raised a host of
ideas in his mind, which he promised himself not to lose sight of.

All these circumstances, as we have related them, were laid before
Tremenhere, and though he allowed himself at last to be convinced of
Minnie's truth, yet there was a power within him stronger than his own
will. It was an offspring of nature--wild and ungovernable jealousy: it
ran like a muddy current through every vein, and though he took Minnie
once again in love and reconciliation to his heart, and shook Lord
Randolph's hand in sincerity of gratitude for the manly wish which
prompted this ill-advised act of kindness to Minnie, still the demon
shook his heart when he saw her, in the warmth of her generous,
guileless heart, shake Lord Randolph gratefully by the hand, and,
looking up in his face, bid "Heaven bless him;" for he felt no man could
forget that face, that look, and he dreaded lest what was not, might be
engendered by that beauty and grace of nature, which had driven even his
stern heart almost to madness; and the restless demon whispered, "I
would you had seen the letter," but letter, Vellumy, Burton, Lord
Randolph--all, were forgotten and forgiven, when he held his Minnie once
again to his heart, and their host descended to make some plausible
excuse for his non-appearance again.

Early next morning he and Minnie returned to town, and Burton, too,
quitted Uplands.

"That fool Dalby made a confounded mistake," said Lord Randolph to his
crony, Vellumy, next day; "but it has all turned out most fortunately.
What an exquisite creature Mrs. Tremenhere is! Ten thousand times
handsomer even than her cousin. Lady Dora," (for Miles had related all,
to leave no further doubt or suspicion about Minnie.)

"B_w_ootiful!" responded Vellumy, "and such a sweet l_w_oving woman! I
hope T_w_emenhere will t_w_eat her well, he's so d_w_eucedly jealous!"

And thus terminated a good intention. If it went where such too often
are said to go, it left its germ in earth to bud and blossom.




CHAPTER IV.


If Lord Randolph had possessed as good sense as he had kindness of
heart, even yet all might have passed into oblivion; but he was that
_rara avis_ of fashionable life--a moral man; that is, one too much so,
to attempt the seduction of a friend's wife. Minnie became sacred to him
from the moment he shook Tremenhere's hand in reconciliation; him, he
liked, and still more, his fair little wife. It was, then, not to be
wondered at if he claimed the privilege of an old friend, and made
frequent calls at the villa near Chiswick. It would have been much more
wisely done to have remained away; but, in conscious rectitude, we often
are guilty of very compromising acts, viewed by prejudiced or evil
minds. Tremenhere's pride forbade any observations to Minnie, who
received him with pleasure, looking upon him in two lights--both as her
husband's friend, and Lady Dora's suitor, for such he still was; and as
she occasionally, but not very frequently called, they met at the villa.
Still there was--burned as it were into Miles's brain--the memory of all
Vellumy had said that fatal day about his friend's love for a married
woman--fair, too; in all, answering Minnie's description. And, worse
than all, there was that unfortunate letter which Vellumy had written,
and, for self-security, bade her burn immediately. All these things
combined were ever floating before Tremenhere's brain; and, to complete
the impression, Lord Randolph was constantly urging him to finish the
"Aurora," by giving her a worthy representative in the face of his fair,
young, sylph-like wife.

In the most well-meaning manner, this man was ever doing something to
keep alive the other's suspicions. He was no longer in ignorance of
Tremenhere's position regarding Marmaduke Burton; and, as a sincere
friend and generous-hearted man, pressed his purse upon Miles, to
proceed at once to Gibraltar, and prosecute all possible research. It
need scarcely be said, that he had dropped all acquaintance with
Marmaduke, which created a double hatred and desire of revenge on his
part, towards his cousin and his young wife.

When Lord Randolph made the generous offer of his purse, he concluded by
saying, naturally and without thought of harm--

"You could leave Mrs. Tremenhere with her aunt, Lady Ripley; I will
undertake to arrange that. Or, I know my own good, kind one, Lady
Lysson, would most gladly offer her a home during your absence."

Tremenhere was painting at the moment the other said this; he flushed
deeply, then dropping a pencil, stooped to pick it up, and thus partly
covered his confusion.

"I cannot be sufficiently grateful," he answered; "but--" there was an
almost imperceptible tone of sarcasm in his voice; "but I never have
been parted from my wife, Lord Randolph; and I do not think she would
desire or like it--that is, I hope not." And he fixed his eye for a
moment on the other's face, who saw nothing, and consequently more than
once urged the subject upon Miles, who grew at last almost rude, beyond
his power of control.

"Tremenhere's out of temper to-day," said the visitor to himself. "I'm
sure it would be the best thing he could do, and a duty, to place that
sweet wife of his, in her proper sphere; I'll be at him again."

All these groundless suspicions wore on his really noble nature, every
thing giving way before them; even the sacred hope which once had been
so dear to him, the re-establishing his mother's fame, became a blank.
He cared for nothing, except to watch and verify his doubts; he became
weary, feverish, ill, and an enigma to all! almost too--oh, worse than
all--a terror to poor Minnie, who was lost in wonder and perplexity. If
she quitted the room for a longer time than was pleasing to him, he
stole from his easel, and listened; if he saw her writing, he could not
rest till the letter was placed in his hands, even the book on which she
had written it was examined, to trace whether the blotting-paper had
kept the words confided to it; and, when all had been done with feverish
haste, the man sat down, and hated himself for his meanness, and seeking
out Minnie, drew her to his heart, as if he would keep her ever there,
and almost wept over her in penitence and love; for never a man loved
more madly or fatally for the peace of both.

He would start from some mad dream of desertion, and, stilling his very
heart to listen, find her sleeping purely and calmly as an infant beside
him. Such a state could not last; Minnie, every one noticed it, but
few--or better said, none--guessed the cause, so well did he veil his
thoughts.

We have spoken little of Minnie's late home, but there was little to
interest the reader in that tranquil abode,--tranquil, except when
Dorcas sought to recall Minnie there, and to their hearts; this might
have been accomplished long before the present time of which we write,
had there not been extraneous influence to keep alive the feeling
against her. Marmaduke Burton was not only a visiter, but a constant
correspondent, when absent, of Juvenal's; nothing was left undone which
could widen the breach, and it was with the "deepest regret," he said,
that he felt compelled, by a sacred duty, to inform Juvenal, as her
uncle, that the once pure Minnie was deceiving her husband, as she had
all of them.

Alas! the girl who flies her home, leaves an unanswerable argument
against her, when the world afterwards adds sin, shame, or a levity to
her charge; however innocent she may be, the "once" is a precedent for
all.

Dorcas, and even poor Mrs. Gillett, loudly exclaimed against this; the
former refused positively to meet or sit in company with Burton; Sylvia
shook her head, and looked more sinister than ever, as she said, "It
might very likely be; she never expected any thing better from her
marriage with such a man; she had indeed raised a barrier between them,"
and chapters more to the same effect. Poor Dorcas cried bitterly, and
reproached herself for her supineness in the first instant, in not
vigorously opposing Minnie's incarceration. She knew the girl better
than any, and knew nothing would have tempted her honest nature to
duplicity, had she not been driven half frantic by wrong accusations,
and suspicion of her truth. In her trouble, Dorcas sought her only
comforter, Mr. Skaife, and urged him so anxiously to see her beloved
niece, that he quitted Yorkshire for town; before he arrived, sorrow was
gathering fast over both those he felt so much interested about.

Our readers will recall to mind, that Mary Burns had obtained teaching,
by which she principally supported her mother; for she felt a delicacy
in receiving succour from Tremenhere, however generously offered. Of
late he seldom quitted home, never except when absolutely forced to do
so, and generally he so arranged it, to be driven in by Lord Randolph;
thus only could he feel secure. One thing we forgot to mention sooner,
that nothing was wanting to urge a jealous man to madness; he was in the
constant habit of receiving anonymous letters, those vile arms of coward
strength; these were written, so bearing upon acts of actual occurrence,
that, though he read and flung them into the fire, still they left an
unerring shaft behind, piercing his heart with doubt, for in every one
there was but the one name registered, which was eating into his
soul--Lord Randolph's. He was truly a man fighting with shadows; he
feared every thing, seeing nothing. It was a state of irritability
which could not last much longer. He was borne to earth with the
tortures of his mind; and Minnie crept, like the ghost of herself,
through those almost silent rooms--once all light and happiness.

It must not be supposed that Marmaduke Burton, who was working
under-ground like some vermin, did it for mere revenge, or wanton
wickedness; no, he was impelled to it by fear; he knew in his heart that
Miles had _right_ on his side, and he saw that _might_, too, would
probably become his. Environed as he was by powerful friends, whom he
was daily gaining by his talents as an artist, he felt his only security
lay in driving Tremenhere to some act of desperation, which would make
him fly the country, either in despair or to conceal Minnie from all. He
had known his cousin's disposition from boyhood; he knew every turn of
his hasty, but noble heart; and all the harsher feelings of it had been
drawn forth, as stains by fire, in the wrongs of his mother and his own
Minnie. There are so many vile ones on earth, who know no law where
money is proffered in exchange for evil, that Burton found ready tools
to watch all--report all; even the household hearth was not sacred from
this pollution.

Some weeks had passed; Minnie had not seen Mary Burns for a considerable
time, when, one day, a note reached her from her, brought by a messenger
who said it required immediate attention. Tremenhere had left home about
half an hour, on business which would occupy him nearly the whole day.
His manner had been feverish and excited all the morning, and Minnie
would not have wondered had she read the contents of another of those
vile missives which he had received an hour before leaving. After
reading it, by an involuntary movement of disgust, he pushed her from
him, as she stooped her head over him while he sat motionless at his
easel, the uplifted brush awaiting the command of genius to call life on
the lifeless canvass; but his thoughts were more of death, than any
existing, glowing creation.

"Miles, dearest," and she bent down to embrace him, and her always
slight figure, looked now like a lithe graceful withey, so fragile its
outline; "what are you thinking of?"

He pushed her from him, and then, as the girl stood, pale and alarmed at
his violence, his haggard eye forgot its troubled glance, to soften into
tenderness, as he drew her passionately to his heart. And the trembling
voice said--

"Forgive me, again, Minnie--forgive me; I am a very wretched man, loving
you as I love you, and----" He paused.

"And what? my own husband."

"Never mind, Minnie--never mind! You will not, will you? Oh! promise me
you will not." He was speaking to his thoughts.

"Any thing, Miles!" she answered, old fears of his perfect sanity making
her shudder. "What is it you wish me to promise?"

"Never to forsake me, come what may; be your feelings towards me what
they may, hide them, Minnie; let me be deceived if you will, but never
let me see it; and oh! do not forsake me, or I shall go mad!"

She could not answer. Her tears were frozen by fear. She really thought
him deranged; and so he was--that worst madness--jealousy. For the
overwrought mind was not fighting with idle fancies, evanescent as vain;
but with a cold, tangible reality, built on many a doubt and distorted
act or word of hers, and still worse on the letters of his anonymous
correspondent, whose last letter, received that morning, ran thus--

    "If you wish to verify all, leave home early, professedly for the
    day, and watch your house; be in readiness to follow, and you will
    need no further proof or admonition to enable you to convince
    yourself. A hired brougham will be at the end of your lane. The
    driver, ignorant of all, will place himself at your disposal, on
    your giving the name of--'Gray,' as well as another--'twill keep him
    in your memory.

    "Your sincere, but unsuspected FRIEND."

And Miles was resolved at last to have proof, or else never again
suspect--never read another letter, but burn them unopened.

"You do not speak," he said, again drawing her, shrinking from terror,
close to his heart, by the arm which clasped her. "Poor child--poor
Minnie! I have frightened you; forget it, my child, I am unfitting for
so frail a thing as you. I should have mated with my own kind, something
lion-born, and you--you with----Minnie," he cried, changing his tone
suddenly, and looking full in her face with his dark, gloomy eyes, "you
should have married such a man as Lord Randolph Gray, and have led a
life of luxury and peace. He would never have terrified you, as _I_ do;
I think you would have been very happy--I think he loves you, Minnie."

The suddenness of the words, his change of manner, all combined to call
the warm blood to her cheek.

"Miles," she said in agitation, "do not say things like these; even in
jest, Lord Randolph's name should never be mingled with mine in a breath
of doubt, after that one painful scene at Uplands--you forget, too, he
is Dora's----"

"Oh!" laughed he hoarsely, "those things are soon broken off. Now,
Minnie, were you free, on your sacred soul, do you not think that man
would propose to marry you?"

"On my sacred soul, Miles," she answered solemnly, shrinking from his
arms, almost with a feeling of dislike towards him at the manner of his
speech,--"I do not think so; and this I _know_, were I free, fifty times
over, I would refuse his lordship."

"Forgive me, Minnie, forgive me--forget this!" and he once more folded
his arms around her, as he rose from his seat. "I am unworthy of you,
yet _indeed_ I love you." His smile was almost as of old, and once again
they were at peace; _he had forgotten the letter_, but it was only the
merciful oblivion of a moment; their peace was like a house built on a
blasted rock, through the caverns of which the wind whistles mournfully,
shewing the hollowness beneath.

Shortly afterwards he quitted the house for "nearly the whole day," he
said. He was gone; and she sat silently thinking, as now was her wont
when alone; there was nothing to restrain her feelings having full play.
Before him, she often forced a gaiety she did not feel; now she sat in
sorrow, and the once laughing face looked pale and care-worn.

"A letter, if you please, ma'am," said the footboy, presenting one. She
took it, the characters were familiar. "Poor Mary!" she said, refolding
it when read; "I have indeed much neglected you of late; and it was a
sacred duty to do otherwise, lest by that neglect your heart had once
again grown callous or reckless in the midst of troubles. We should
uphold a fallen sister who has risen, lest the weakened limbs totter
again, and sink, never to rise! I will go at once and see her; I am sure
my doing so must please Miles--poor Miles, my own dear husband! John,"
she asked, as the boy obeyed her summons to the room again, "who brought
this note?"

"I don't know, ma'am. A man; he said there was no answer required."

"Go," she said, "round to the stables, and order me a fly immediately,
without delay."

The letter said--

    "Dear Mrs. Tremenhere--I am sure you will pardon my writing to ask
    you, as a very great favour, to come here to-day. I am in much
    trouble, and have only you to comfort and support me in it, by your
    counsel and advice. Pray, forgive the trouble I am imposing upon
    you; and pray be here if possible by two o'clock.

    "Humbly and sincerely yours,

    "MARY BURNS."

The fly drove to the door in a quarter of an hour: it was one o'clock.

"Drive quickly!" cried Minnie, as she stepped in and gave Mary's
address; "I am late." The man touched his hat, and obeyed. There was a
lane leading to the road from their house; at the corner of this a
brougham appeared, coming towards the villa. "It is Dora!" exclaimed she
to herself. "If I stop, she will delay me; moreover, she does not see
all as I do; dear Dora is more coldly calculating, and lectures me for
visiting poor Mary; I will not stop now, but write and tell her
to-morrow; she will call again, and for worlds I would not forsake Mary
in her trouble." As she thought all this, with one hand she hastily drew
down the blinds, and leaned back in the carriage. She did not see Dora,
neither did she see the occupant of another brougham, with the blinds
half down, who was watching all, with a pale, anxious face.

"Follow that fly," he said, in a scarcely articulate voice, pointing
after Minnie's--"not too closely, but keep it in sight----She did not
even speak to her cousin," he whispered to his trembling heart, "but
drew down the blinds to avoid observation!" And he pressed his hands
over his strained and burning eyes.




CHAPTER V.


It was scarcely two when Minnie stopped at the door of Mary Burns's
cottage; alighting, she rapped. The servant of whom Dalby made mention,
opened the door. But, let us hasten to say, of all this he was ignorant;
the game was too deep a one to be entrusted even to him.

"Is Miss Burns at home?" asked Minnie.

"No, ma'am; she has been out some time, but I expect her very shortly.
Will you walk up-stairs, in the drawing-room?"

Minnie obeyed, desiring the fly to wait. Before going to this apartment,
however, she entered the parlour, and there found Mary's old mother
sitting, childish and insensible as ever to all around. She spoke a few
words to the deaf ear, and looked her sympathy in the unconscious face;
then turning, followed the servant up-stairs. Here she paced the room
impatiently some moments; then, sitting down, looked in the fire to seek
some associations for her thoughts in the "faces in the fire." She was
in deep meditation; she felt nervous, and full of thought.

Thought! What are our thoughts? They are like dissolving views passing
over the soul. One fades imperceptibly into another, brighter and
totally different; then this one in its turn yields place to others, and
so on, until at last the curtain falls over the last--and where are we?
In an immensity of tangled imaginings, wide and spreading like eternity!

A long time she sat thus, and then a rap at the street door startled
her; a step was on the stairs, light and bounding; it was not calm as
Mary's generally, nevertheless she rose to meet it; the door opened, and
she found herself face to face with Lord Randolph! She could not speak,
but shrunk silently back, gazing on him.

"I shame to see it," he cried, advancing with extended hands, "that you,
my dear Mrs. Tremenhere, have arrived first."

There was nothing libertine in his manner, nothing more than usual--glad
to see her, and most respectful. "You are annoyed," he continued, as she
involuntarily drew back; "but pray, pardon me: I was unavoidably
delayed, and prove your forgiveness by telling me how, in what manner, I
can serve or oblige you?"

"There is some strange mistake in this, some incomprehensible mystery,
my lord," she whispered in terror, though scarcely knowing of what. "I
never expected to see you here; why are you in this house?"

"Merciful heavens!" he cried in amazement, "did you not write,
requesting my presence here? Stay! I have the note about me: I came
unhesitatingly, knowing well that you were in the habit of calling here
occasionally."

"I never wrote, Lord Randolph; there is some extraordinary meaning in
this, coupled with the absence of her I came to see," and she seated
herself tremblingly on the couch.

"Here is the note," he cried, not less agitated; "is not this exactly
your handwriting?"

"Sufficiently like it to deceive an inexperienced eye; but I never wrote
it, believe me."

"I do, Mrs. Tremenhere, most truly; but believe also that I obeyed the
summons without one wronging thought of one I respect so sincerely as I
do yourself."

"Alas! alas!" she said in a tone of despondency, "I have felt some time
past that there was a web weaving around me, I knew not where; my
husband is changed, and I--oh! I am so far from happy," and she burst
into tears, covering her face with her hands.

"Do not weep thus; pray, do not weep," he said with much feeling,
leaning one hand on the back of the couch on which she sat. "I will sift
this to the bottom; there must be treachery somewhere--but where? and
why?" He read Mary Burns's letter to Minnie carefully over. "Where is
this girl?" he asked; "can she be false, for some demoniacal motive?"

"I do not think so: I would she were returned. Pray, let me hear the
contents of the letter you received--I cannot read it." Lord Randolph
hastened to obey; it merely contained a few hurried lines, as if written
in trouble, imploring him to meet the writer at the place indicated, at
a friend of hers, as she had something of importance to communicate, and
begging secresy to all. It was signed "M. T., Chiswick," adding in a
N.B.--"Inquire for me; you know my name. Should I not have arrived, ask
to be shewn to the drawing-room, and wait."

Minnie's tears fell thick and fast, her terror was so great. She felt
she must be surrounded by enemies, and the worst, hidden ones--he was
leaning forward, endeavouring to soothe, to guide, and counsel, where he
himself felt so much in the dark: as he sat beside the weeping woman,
the door opened quietly, and the servant looked in. "There was a
gentleman there," she said, "wanting to look at the apartments which
were to let, might she show them? Her mistress left orders for her to do
so, when she was out." As she spoke, with an apparently innocent manner
she flung open the door to the person, who stood behind her. A wolf
driven to despair for food dares all--so will a coward for revenge.

Marmaduke Burton stepped into the room--Lord Randolph sprang from the
sofa, and Minnie in alarm, without reflection, lowered her veil.

"I beg ten thousand pardons, Mrs. Tremenhere," he cried, starting back
as if in surprise. "I was little aware I should meet you here! I beg ten
thousand pardons," and he drew back.

"Sir!" exclaimed Lord Randolph with _hauteur_, "your presence here
solves the enigma of the forged letters, which have brought Mrs.
Tremenhere and myself hither, but it is not here you must answer for
it."

"I do not comprehend you, Lord Randolph," he answered, advancing; "we
mistake each other, doubtless. I have known the lady of this house from
childhood; and, being commissioned by a friend to seek apartments for
him, I deemed it an act of kindness to benefit her, if possible, knowing
how circumscribed her means are; and her troubles, I grieve to say,
occasioned by an unworthy relative of my own."

He said this, not feeling positive that Minnie might not be shaken
enough to doubt her husband's veracity about his (Burton's) seduction of
the girl; it might do good any way, and materially change Lord
Randolph's opinion of, and consequent interest in, Tremenhere.

"Oh, it is untrue!" cried Minnie, starting up, forgeting every thing but
the slander of her husband. "Do not believe that man, my lord--ask Mary
herself. Miles has been as a brother to her; and shame--oh! shame on the
base tongue which proclaims the wrongs of his victim!"

"I see, madam," answered Burton, "that your old and natural prejudice
against me has nothing abated; and I make no doubt, even my truly good
motive in visiting this house will be misconstrued by you."

"There can be no further occasion, then, for prolonging your stay here,
I presume," said Lord Randolph coldly; and here be it said, the
indifferent, or rather neutral portion of his lordship's character
appeared as the active and better had shone forth in his desire, however
awkwardly executed, of making Tremenhere from shame do Minnie justice,
when he supposed her an injured woman. Had he now taken up the intrusion
differently, and alarmed Burton's coward heart, by his resolution of
sifting the mystery thoroughly, and in the presence of Mary Burns, who
was momentarily expected, as the servant had told Minnie, Burton could
not have refused, under the accusation of a knowledge of the
mystification which had been practised upon the other two, to await
Mary's coming; and thus have exonerated himself, if possible. Under any
circumstances, fear of Lord Randolph would have silenced him elsewhere.
On this subject, as it was, the other's supineness and policy emboldened
him, and left a fearful arm in his hands to injure Minnie. Lord Randolph
said to himself, "I have a very great regard for Mrs. Tremenhere; I like
her husband, too; there is some mystery here; if I involve myself to
unravel it, or punish Burton, whom I firmly believe to be at the bottom,
I shall bring my name into question; and as Lady Dora, who, most
probably, some day will become my wife, is Mrs. Tremenhere's cousin, all
these unpleasant circumstances had better be left to die away; nothing
will come of it; I shall withdraw from the acquaintance."

And so poor Minnie was sacrificed for the want of a resolute, sterling,
English heart, to bring the darkness of the affair to light. Poor woman!
all her strength of mind seemed to have deserted her, after those few
words uttered in defence of Miles; and she sat like one bewildered by
passing events, intoxicating from their combination.

"I have no wish to intrude further," said Burton, as he turned round. "I
have only to apologize sincerely for the alarm my inopportune visit has
occasioned this lady and your lordship."

"I trust, sir," exclaimed this latter, "that you do not mean to
insinuate aught against Mrs. Tremenhere? Our meeting here remains an
unsolved mystery, which we can only leave to time."

"Far be it from me to wrong the purity of one so fair," answered the
other, bowing lowly, with as much sarcasm in his manner as he durst
shew. "Mrs. Tremenhere has a husband to judge her--I leave all to him."

And with this last bitter phrase of doubtful meaning, he quitted the
room. Poor Minnie could not speak; she was thunderstruck, and crushed
with presentiment and fear.

"This has been a most inexplicable affair," said Lord Randolph, as the
door closed. "Can you devise any means for discovering the authors, dear
Mrs. Tremenhere? I am, indeed, truly distressed at your annoyance; but,
believe me, there will be, there can be, no unpleasant results--it has
been some foolish jest."

"Jest!" she exclaimed, looking up; she was very pale. "It is more than
that; there is some villainy in it, and that man is the author."

There was a garden attached to the back of the house, through the door
of which, leading into a lane, Burton passed out as he had entered,
conducted by the servant, whose physiognomy had not deceived the acute
Dalby. At the same moment Mary Burns rapped at the front; and our
readers will not fail to remember the occupant of the hired brougham who
had followed, and was witness to the arrival of all except Burton.

Mary Burns went up immediately to the drawing-room, when her servant
told her Mrs. Tremenhere was there. In an instant this latter was at her
side--the presence of that girl seemed so great a protection--her
coming, the only means of elucidating this painful mystery. Lord
Randolph bowed rather uneasily as Minnie presented him. He wished much
that he had sooner quitted the house. Yet, when he looked at her, he
could not but feel deep commiseration for her, she was so agitated; in a
few brief words she explained all to Mary, it would be impossible to
describe her anxious state. Without the slightest hesitation she
pronounced that Marmaduke Burton was the author of it for some vile
purpose. It was not alone fear which agitated Minnie. There was a sense
of degraded delicacy in it, that she should be drawn into even a
fictitious intrigue with any man. She blushed deeply when this feeling
came over her in all its force; especially when Lord Randolph said,
meaning well, but certainly not advising wisely, "I should seriously
counsel Mrs. Tremenhere not to name this affair to her husband, he has
shewn himself so prone to jealousy; and _I_ will take means to silence
the servant who admitted us--thus the affair will die away quietly."

"Not name it to Miles!" exclaimed Minnie. "Pardon me, my lord, he shall
instantly be made acquainted with it; and as one who, I trust, has too
much reliance on me to suspect me of wrong. Let him seek those who cast
so unworthy an imputation upon me."

Poor Minnie, in her earnest defence of her husband, forgot the past
unhappy scene to which Lord Randolph had been a witness, but he
remembered it; and, fixing an eye of deep pity upon her, said, "Think
well, Mrs. Tremenhere, before you act; your future happiness may be
wrecked by one false step."

"I think Mrs. Tremenhere is correct in her resolution," said Mary
timidly. "Candour is ever best; and if I may presume to suggest to your
lordship, I should assuredly beg that no bribe for secresy should be
given to my servant. Honest uprightness, like Mrs. Tremenhere's and your
own, needs no mask to hide its face."

"Perhaps you are right," he said; and, taking up his hat and gloves from
the table, added--"And now I think it would be more advisable for me to
take my leave; that is, unless I can in any way serve you," he said,
addressing Minnie.

"Not in any," she answered, offering her hand; "it is far better you
should leave. Most probably Miles will seek you to consult about
discovering this affair; may I tell him your lordship will willingly
lend any aid in your power?"

"Assuredly," he answered, taking her proffered hand; "and now farewell,
dear Mrs. Tremenhere. I sincerely trust this effort of your enemy,
whosoever he may be, will prove abortive in any way to annoy you."

"God grant it!" sighed she.

"I earnestly pray so, too," responded Mary, as the door closed on Lord
Randolph, who reached the street, entered his cab and drove off, without
noticing the brougham, drawn up some doors off, through the window, at
the back of which Tremenhere's pale face was watching him.

"It can only be the work of that wicked man, Mr. Burton," said the
agitated Mary; "and let me pray and entreat of you, dear Mrs.
Tremenhere, not to lose a moment in returning, and stating all to your
husband."

"Assuredly he shall know all," answered she earnestly. "Poor Miles, it
will grieve him deeply I know; but he will at once devise the best plan
to frustrate our enemy: and now Mary, before I go, tell me, are you
prospering in your teaching?"

Mary's face grew very pale; the corners of her mouth twinged, and vain
was the effort to repress her tears, she burst into sobs. "I have
learned a severe lesson of late," she said, "that though there may be
those in the world, in pure Christian charity, to take the fallen by the
hand, there are more who close their gates against her: may Heaven not
close the eternal ones to them!--I have had two shut against me since we
met; I have not dared tell you, dear madam; I knew how your kind heart
would suffer for me."

"Good heavens!" cried Minnie, "how has it happened?"

"Some enemy," answered the other with quivering lips, "or better said,
_my_ enemy--the one who seems to seek the misery of all, alone can have
done it. Past events have been by letter detailed; I was charged with
them, and would not deny that the accusation was true. I accepted the
shame as retribution."

"And have you then lost your pupils in consequence?"

"_All_," answered the unhappy woman; "for of the three families I
attended, two were acquainted. One lady spoke of 'regret,' but 'there
were worldly prejudices to be bowed down to.' I humbled myself, I
implored them, for my poor old mother's sake, but it mattered little. At
the other houses I was driven with insult from the place, and told that
my manners bespoke no contrition or humility. Oh! if they could but
witness the bowing down of my heart before Heaven for pardon, my
sincere, my earnest repentance, they would not have condemned me so
harshly."

"I fear," said Minnie taking her hand kindly between her own trembling
ones, on which the tears of sympathy fell, "that the world in general
judges only from outward seeming; the hypocrite may be pardoned and
believed, but the lowly penitent woman, walking before her God, and
seeking his will in all things, to gain pardon and peace, is rejected by
man, because her tears are silent, and hidden, save to the one to whom
all her thoughts are directed; and let this be your consolation, Mary,
that there is a limit to man's power, and then the tears of contrition
will shine like stars to light you on your road to where they will all
be wiped away."

"May a better than myself bless you!" cried the stricken woman
emphatically. "I did not intend saying so much to-day. May your
consolation to me descend upon your own head in peace and happiness; and
now, dear Mrs. Tremenhere, let me urge you to go, and tell your husband
all, for only openness and candour can defeat the demon warring against
us all."

"I will go," answered Minnie, pressing her hand warmly. "You are right,
Mary; but do not you despond. I will see you again in a few days--now I
will go at once."

And with a kind, gentle word to the sorrowing woman, she quitted the
cottage, and, entering the fly awaiting her, drove rapidly towards home;
and the brougham quitted its station too, and followed.




CHAPTER VI.


Minnie arrived at home, and, hastily taking off her walking-dress, sat
down to think, as calmly as might be, of the events of that day. Despite
all her efforts, a pang shot through her heart at the idea of seeing
Miles. His temper had of late been so uncertain, that she trembled lest
any fault should be imputed to herself; the more narrowly she examined
her heart, the less could she find any thing to blame herself for in
this affair. While she sat thus, Miles appeared at the outer gate. As he
traversed the front garden, she thought she had never seen him look so
pale; and, when he raised his eyes towards the windows, there was an
intense look in them, which made their hazel darkness seem like blackest
night--this was probably owing to the excessive pallor of his cheek and
brow. When he entered the room where she sat, a choking sensation arose
in his throat--he had paused, too, outside the door, to still the
bounding of his heart. She rose to meet him; there was a smile on her
lip, but it was forced, constrained--fear kept it from expanding into
cheerfulness.

"You are home earlier than you promised to be, dear Miles," she said.

His eyes were riveted on her face. "Yes," he answered in a deep, hollow
tone, which he endeavoured to render tranquil; "but I hope not less
welcome for that?"

"Ever welcome--ever the one to come too late, and leave too early," she
answered. "Where have you been, Miles?"

"In several places, Minnie,"--and he stifled almost a groan.

"Are you not well?" she inquired, delaying what she had to say in
terror, and really anxious too about him; his pallor struck her as so
unusual, but without one dawning thought of the truth.

"Quite well, Minnie; but I am weary--very weary," and he sunk exhausted
in a chair--it was the mind which had lost all nerve. She drew a
footstool close to his feet, and, in kneeling upon it, took both his
hands in hers; but, in so doing, she did not feel the thrill which
passed over them; it was horror--the horror of doubt--no, she did not
feel it; but holding them tightly, and leaning on his knees, she looked
up in the face, whose rigid, intense gaze was fixed upon her uplifted
countenance.

"Miles, I have something to tell you," she said at last; but her lip
quivered as she spoke.

"Something to tell me!" he uttered, repeating her words; and a shadow of
hope crossed over his face.

"Yes, dear Miles; but promise you will not fly in a passion: you do not
know how you terrify me in doing so. Hear all I have to say, and then
let us, as calmly as may be, consult what is to be done." He could not
speak; he was like one fluttering between life and death. She did not
wait, however, for him to do so, but hurriedly told him the events of
the morning; so anxious was she to say all, that she scarcely noticed
his extraordinary silence. When she paused, he quietly drew his hands
from hers, and still keeping his fixed gaze upon her, though the
countenance had changed with every word of hers, still the eye had not
one instant quitted her face. Withdrawing his hands, he placed them both
on her shoulders as she knelt before him, and said in a low, measured
tone, "Minnie, I know all you have told me; I followed you to-day. It
may seem mean, unmanly, my doing so; but I was resolved to prove you--I
knew all!"

"Knew all!" she ejaculated, shrinking back from his touch, as if it
pained her.

"Why do you shrink from me, Minnie?"

"Because," she said, rising slowly to her feet, "you then have done it
yourself, doubting, to prove me!"

"No, by heavens, I have not! Kneel down again, Minnie;" and he drew her
reluctantly before him again. "Look upon me, Minnie, for I am your judge
now, to hear, but not condemn. You have forced that character upon me; I
came, fully determined to say nothing, to close my heart to proof and
conviction, to bear all my wrongs, if such they were, and seek no
elucidation, leaving all to time to prove you whatever you might be!"

"Oh, Miles--Miles!" she cried, looking up trembling in his face; "and
can you suspect me still? And could you live with me a day, believing
me so false to you?"

"Listen--I have passed three hours of the bitterest anguish man ever
suffered--a thousand mad thoughts and resolutions passing through my
brain; and at last I came to the determination which you know, for I,
mere man, cannot fathom this affair. I would not for all the world
condemn you; for though not a man prone to superstitious thoughts, I
feel there must be some demoniacal power in all this, Minnie," and he
raised her face upwards in his hands. "You are either the falsest woman
that ever drew breath--and if so, the breath which gives you life must
be the vapour of hell, from whence you draw it; or else there is a power
around us which we cannot combat with, and 'tis best to still the
heart's beatings, to subdue ourselves to callousness, and wait for time!
I am resolved _to bear_ and wait. Now, sit beside me here," and he rose
and drew her to the ottoman calmly and composedly, "and shew me the
letter you received."

She was so lost in terror at his extraordinary manner, that it was in
vain she essayed to utter a word; in cold silence she placed the letter
in his hand; he opened, and silently read it through, and over again.

"One of three persons wrote this letter," he said--"I, or Mary Burns, or
Marmaduke Burton, for from childhood we had the same masters."

"'Tis Marmaduke Burton!" she cried with energy, seeing at last a path
through this tangled forest of brushwood. "'Tis Marmaduke; for, as you
must have seen, he came to Mary's cottage whilst Lord Randolph and I
were there?"

A cold shudder passed through Miles's heart, which had been awakening
from its stupor of sorrow and suspicion, to take his proved faithful
wife to it. This then, was the cause of her candour. Burton's most
unexpected arrival at Mary's had induced her, from fear of discovery, to
choose the wiser part, and tell him herself, lest another should! Oh,
what a demon jealousy is! how unsleeping, how grasping in intellect;
though all is perverted to harm!

"Tell me all that passed," he uttered, without replying to her question;
and, while she related, his mind formed all into the well-connected
reality of a diseased brain. The same person who had so often warned
him, none other than Marmaduke, had discovered this intrigue, and
followed it up. The letter was probably written by Mary Burns, as an arm
in Minnie's favour, should any thing be discovered by him; her absence,
etc. Mary, who had once fallen, had doubly done so again, by pandering
to the meetings of Lord Randolph and Minnie; he was a target for the
scorn and contempt of all, and all these maddening thoughts passed
through his soul, leaving him in outward seeming calm. There is
_nothing_ more fearful than this concentrated, chained passion--'tis
this which leads the best man to cold, deliberate murder. Silently he
thought all this, and then, when the mind had compassed all his misery,
it paused to deliberate on revenge. Then it was that mercy crept in,
like the last ray of sunshine to the eyes dimmed by death, and he said
to himself, "If she should be innocent still?"

And, lifting his eyes, they rested upon hers, troubled, but pure and
holy in their dove-like innocence of expression.

"Minnie," he said, placing his arms around her, "I have many bitter
thoughts in my heart. I am a very wretched man _now_--so happy once! But
I feel my greatest sorrow would be your loss; as I before said to you, I
_wish_ to think you innocent. I would rather know we were compassed by
fiends, and be ever waging war with them in darkness, than know, or
believe you false to me; _that_ would be my moral death, and make me the
most reckless man on earth! I _will_ believe you innocent."

"I am, Miles; believe me. I have not even a thought which has ever
wronged you."

"I will believe you, Minnie, against all evidence but proof," and he
took the trembling woman to his heart, so shaken, but so true.

It cannot be imagined, that with that pardon, or reconciliation,
Tremenhere became calm and happy; true it was, that Minnie never quitted
home without him, scarcely ever quitted his side, but the mad dream
which had been, left its trace on his every action; he was a
broken-spirited man. His profession was a toil of every instant--a
necessity, not a pleasure. He saw Minnie growing daily paler and sadder,
and, though his heart ached to see it, still he could not overcome his
sensations of doubt.

"She is perhaps fretting about Lord Randolph," he thought to himself,
"and after all I said, in condemnation of her, poor child! she perhaps
deserves more pity; for I took her almost one, from her home. She had
seen no one to fancy herself in love with, till I came. Unjust coercion
drove her into my arms; it was probably more from indignation than from
love, yet, too, I think she loved me once," and here he pondered on many
an unmistakeable proof of affection; her watchings for his return, the
lighting up of the whole countenance, which no art could imitate. "Yes,"
he continued, "she certainly loved me once, but then she is of a gentle,
loving nature; she knew not the vast difference between _affection_ and
_love_, until _he_, perhaps, taught her. Poor child--poor Minnie! what a
life of misery we have created for one another; but we must bear it, and
linger on!"

And so completely did the thought take possession of his soul that these
ideas were well founded, that for a while his feelings towards her
assumed a tone of almost fatherly pity, so worn and old his heart felt.
He had vainly endeavoured to trace who sent the brougham, the
letters--in short, to _prove_ it Marmaduke; but all failed.

The hire of the brougham, and order to send it to Chiswick, had been
brought to the stables by a boy, who was not known or detained; there
was nothing in the act to excite suspicion of wrong. He wrote to Lord
Randolph a calm, deliberate letter, requesting, but in all politeness,
that his visits might be discontinued. He was certain, he said, that
Lord Randolph would see the absolute necessity of such a thing, after
the many unaccountable circumstances which had taken place. And the
"Aurora" was taken, unfinished, from her easel, and placed aside, and
not a word on the subject passed between Minnie and her husband; it was
a state of coldness which could not last. The affair had been so painful
a one, that by mutual consent neither ever spoke of it, nor even named
it to Lady Dora, whose visits were not of very frequent occurrence. One
day, however, she called, having been absent a month at Brighton; she
was more excited than usually happened to her. After sitting some time
in evident uneasiness, she at last begged Minnie to let her speak with
her alone. Minnie rose to quit the drawing-room; she grew trembling;
every thing new, startled her.

"I will not trouble your ladyship to leave the room," said Miles, rising
coldly from his seat. "I am going to my studio; I should have remembered
that husbands are often _de trop_."

"Pray, stay, Miles!" exclaimed Minnie, seizing his arm, like the Minnie
of old. "There _can_ be nothing which you may not hear, that is, if it
only concerns me," and she looked at Dora inquiringly.

"I should prefer speaking to you alone," answered the other coldly. "It
is something which distresses me much, yet almost too painful, I hope,
to be true."

"May I ask," said he, pausing on the threshold of the door, "if it be
any thing relating to Lord Randolph Gray?"

"It is!" answered she, with a look of surprise.

"And--my wife?" he asked, after a moment's hesitation.

"Then you are not in ignorance of it?" she inquired, with an amazed
look, mingled with one of contempt. "And you and Minnie are----"

"Friends, as you see," he said, turning back and reseating himself, and
by a movement of generous feeling, taking his wife's trembling hand in
his. "Now, Lady Dora," he continued, "you may tell all you have heard,
and we may be able in a measure, to correct any inaccuracies."

"How do you mean, Mr. Tremenhere?" she said haughtily. "Do you accuse me
of possible untruth?"

"Not you, Lady Dora, but your informant, whoever he may be."

"It was a lady," she replied. "The conversation turned one evening, in
Brighton, on paintings; your name was mentioned flatteringly as an
artist of genius," and then she paused. The remainder was embarrassing
to tell.

"Go on, Lady Dora," he said, in outward seeming calm.

"I had better tell you," she hastily rejoined; "for, if untrue, you may
find means of silencing the slander."

"_If_," he uttered; "then your ladyship gives credit to the world's vile
attack upon this poor girl; for I guess all you would say." Whatever his
own fears at times might be in the warring of his spirit, he was
resolved to uphold Minnie before all.

Lady Dora related all she had heard. In short, the whole affair of
Minnie's discovery at Uplands, and her subsequent meeting with Lord
Randolph at Mary's. It had been told with severe animadversions on the
meanness of Mr. Tremenhere, whose marriage had been kept a secret from
the world until this affair brought it to light, and who could receive
his wife again, and even Lord Randolph, knowing, to say the least, of
great imprudence on his wife's part. Much of this Lady Dora allowed to
escape her, as having been freely discussed at the club to which Miles
belonged.

"Oh, Dora!" cried the agitated Minnie, "how could you, for one moment,
believe so wicked a thing against me!--To think I could love any one but
Miles! And I must be doubly base, to even listen to common flattery or
gallantry from Lord Randolph, to whom you are engaged!"

"Pardon me, Minnie," answered her cousin decidedly. "I am _not_ engaged
to that gentleman, and never shall be; for, if you are innocent, as I
will believe even without knowing all, _he_ assuredly must have been
connected in some manner with the affair."

Minnie then related all from the first, and though her cousin acquitted
her of all blame, except linking herself, as she termed it, "with an
improper woman--that Mary Burns," still she could not divest her mind of
the idea that Lord Randolph was quite innocent. She begged Tremenhere's
pardon for the wrong she had done him in her mind, and, whatever her
feelings might be to Minnie, her heart rejoiced in not knowing him base,
who had once been more than a passing thought. Tremenhere received her
apologies with cold reserve, and, stifling feelings which were
distracting him, he inquired from whom all this information had
emanated. Lady Dora, however, could give no exact account. She had heard
it openly spoken of by those who were not aware that she was in any way
allied to either party. With some difficulty--for he was obliged to veil
his intentions from observation--Miles ascertained that the affair had
been spoken of at his club by more than one person. This satisfied him;
he knew then how to act; so he changed the subject, and affected a
cheerfulness he was far from feeling, which continued even after Lady
Dora had quitted the house. He did not allude to the reports; but there
was something so noble in the heart of that man, that he banished all
his own suffering from the surface, that evening, to soothe and cheer
Minnie, who was low and depressed, beyond her own power to control the
feeling.

The following day Miles rose more cheerfully than he had done of late;
and, as soon as breakfast was over, he started for town. He really felt
lighter at heart, for he had something tangible--not a mere shadow--to
deal with. He had, without appearing anxious on the subject, elicited
from Lady Dora the names of one or two persons who had spoken of this
affair--and now it was to their houses he went. After a long research,
he found one of them was still in Brighton; so sitting down at a
friend's, for he avoided his club, he wrote a kind note to Minnie,
telling her not to alarm herself, but possibly he might not return that
evening. His manner had so completely thrown her off her guard, that
she did not dream of the possible business occupying him.

He arrived in Brighton, and in perfect composure proceeded to the hotel
of the gentleman who had mentioned the affair. The meeting was at first
one of extreme frigidity on the part of both, especially the
gentleman's. Miles was determined and calm, having right on his side;
the other hem'd and haw'd, evading a direct answer, when the former
demanded from whom he had heard the reports in question.

"It will only then, sir, remain for me to treat you as the author," said
Miles coldly, turning to quit the room.

"What do you mean?" cried the other, advancing.

"Simply what I say. If a gentleman propagates a vile, calumnious report
of a virtuous woman, and then refuses to state the author, that he may
be made publicly retract his slander, and re-establish the lady's fame,
there is but one path possible, and that is, through the only known
medium. I hold you, sir, responsible."

His cool determination alarmed the other. It is not a very pleasant
thing to have a hole made through one's body, by either sword or bullet,
because one possesses a talkative friend. A parley ensued; and then at
last Miles went forth with another name--this was a lady's, rather more
difficult to deal with. The only way, then, is to find out the lady's
nearest household tie; and, in case of refusal on her part, appeal to
him. They say men have an easy time of it; but assuredly such would not
be the case, were some less pacific than they are in demanding reason
and authority from ladies for all they utter; and were their fathers,
husbands, brothers, etc., looked upon as responsible agents to act for
them. In such a case, were I a man, I would marry a woman who always
wore a respirator. She would talk but little, if compelled to whistle
her phrases through layers of wires. Assuredly, these things were
invented by some clever man with a Xantippe for wife.

But to return to Tremenhere. The lady he waited upon was one of those
beings whose milk of human kindness had, at her birth, been turned to
vinegar and gall. She never said a kind thing, except from some motive,
and to those even she professed, or was bound to like; she delighted in
uttering the most galling innuendoes; and she looked her character.

When Tremenhere was announced, she received him, though almost a
stranger, with an air of pity, perfectly dreadful--that kind of air
which inclines one to exclaim at once, "Don't pity me, for there's
nothing in my case to excite that feeling--I won't be pitied!"

Here he had little difficulty at first, for no sooner did he name the
motive of his visit, than the old lady commenced a string of
well-arranged untruths, which amazed Tremenhere, and clearly showing how
wisely he had acted in sifting the affair thoroughly. When she
concluded--for the _historiette_ was delivered as crudely to his ears,
as if he were a perfectly indifferent personage in it--he could not but
bite his lip; but seeing at a glance the nature of his informant, he
deprived her by his coolness of half her satisfaction. Verily, dame
Nature has three tubs at hand, in which she dips her children when she
creates them, according to the caprice of the moment--one containing
honey and milk, one vinegar and gall, and the other an amalgamation of
spices.

When this abluted thing in the second tub had told her tale, she
paused--this was not what Tremenhere intended, so he simply inquired her
informant's name. Oh! this she never could give! It had been related to
her under a promise never to divulge the name; she never could!

"And so, madam," he said contemptuously, "though you feel bound in
honour to conceal the name, no such feeling prevents your blasting the
fame of a pure, innocent woman, by promulgating infamous falsehoods,
which I am resolved to silence; since, then, you decline giving me the
vile author's name, it is to your son I must apply!"

This was a lesson the lady had never learned, and it would be well if it
were more frequently taught to those who only exist with satisfaction to
themselves, by ruining the fame of the innocent, whom they detest, and
cannot comprehend. A loud shriek burst from the terrified woman; for, if
she did love any thing but herself on earth, it was her tall rawbone
son, in the Grenadiers--but not all her entreaties could avail,
Tremenhere was resolute, he was on the track, one footprint lost, his
game might elude his grasp. With many sighs, and beatings of her chest,
for heart she had none, the name burst forth of Mr. Marmaduke Burton,
and with its utterance a deep groan struggled from Miles's bosom, but it
was one of satisfaction; for not only did he hold his bitter enemy, but
the union of events for the moment convinced him of Minnie's innocence,
and the other's authorship of the plot to destroy his peace. With a
lightened heart, he quitted the bewailing woman, who allowed it to
escape her, that it had been confided to her, on a solemn promise given
_not to name him_; and Burton, in doing so, imagined she would not, for
a fellowship of feeling and mind made him an especial favourite of hers,
and he well knew, in telling her, the facts would lose nothing, and
Miles be irretrievably lost in all respectable society; he did not
calculate upon its arriving so quickly at his ears, neither of his
determined conduct should it do so. He did not yet know his cousin.




CHAPTER VII.


Tremenhere lost no time now in following up his intentions; he inquired
every where, and at last discovered that Burton was in town. Late that
same evening, he returned home, and great was his satisfaction to find
Skaife domiciled there. He, we have said, was the only man in the world,
perhaps, of whom he could not feel jealous; where lay the germ of
extraordinary confidence, 'tis impossible to say, but with open-hearted
confidence he wrung Skaife's hand, which cheered poor Minnie's heart,
for she was terrified at the fancies her mind had been conjuring up
about Miles's return; and when he said to the other, "I am delighted to
see you," there was no mistaking the truth of the feeling: Miles could
not feign a cordiality he did not feel. The union of these three gave
rise to one of the few happy evenings, or even tranquil ones, Minnie had
passed of late. Skaife came laden with letters and love from Dorcas, and
even poor Mrs. Gillett. Of the many painful things they had heard at
Gatestone, he said nothing before Minnie; he spoke cheeringly, and did
not even utter what he thought, of her being unhappy, when he gazed with
a stifled sigh on her altered face. It was in good truth Minnie
spiritualized; for she seemed scarcely mortal, so thin, pale, and
heavenly patient she looked.

When she had retired, then Tremenhere, no longer under any restraint,
spoke of all his care, his wretchedness, which he strove to conceal from
her; but though he mentioned the reports which had reached him through
Lady Dora, he passed them over lightly. There was no man to whom he
would sooner have applied, as a friend in such a case, than to Skaife,
but his calling forbade it; he could not act with Tremenhere, and this
was what he now required in a friend; neither durst he confide in the
other all his plans; they might be betrayed in kindness to Minnie, or,
even more seriously, to authorities which would frustrate them. He spoke
painedly of them, but yet, rather to Skaife's surprise, also added, that
time alone must clear them up.

"I am a wretched man!" he said. "There is a weight on my heart nothing,
I fear, can remove."

"Surely," cried the other, "you cannot, for an instant, suspect your
wife? You must see, and know, that the deep villainy of one man alone,
has produced all these sad events? Let me conjure you, do not give him
the triumph of seeing that he has succeeded in estranging your heart
from one so good and pure."

"Skaife, I never shall love any one as I love her; 'tis that love which
makes my existence one of torture, for my base nature is fighting
against my better judgment, and at times it gains the mastery. There are
moments," and his voice trembled as he uttered these last words, "that I
wish she were dead; for then I could alone, bear my crushing sorrow;
but the fear that she may ever love another, or even survive myself, is
worse than the bitterest death could be!"

"Do not utter such things!" exclaimed Skaife, with a cold shudder.
"Place all your faith and reliance on her: _she_ will never deceive you,
but your own heart may, and prove your basest traitor."

"Well, let us not speak more of it now. A day of retribution must come
for that villain, Burton; leave him to fate--she has long arms and
clutching hands." His apparent coolness disappointed the other; for he
felt, without thinking of a hostile meeting, that Tremenhere might, and
ought to seek means of silencing these slanders, and he resolved on a
future occasion to suggest as much to him.

Before returning to Chiswick from Brighton, Tremenhere had sought a
friend on whom he could rely; and, placing the affair in his hands,
requested that no time might be lost in seeking Burton, to solicit the
name of a friend who would act for him, in a meeting with Tremenhere. No
apology would suffice, unless he consented to publish to the world, in
terms not to be misunderstood, the whole part he had taken in the
affair, from first to last; and this it was scarcely likely he would do.
Having arranged this, he returned, in the more tranquil mood in which we
have seen him, to his home.

Early the following morning his friend came to the villa. He had called
upon Burton, who essayed with white lips to deny any participation in
the affair, from first to last. The evidence of the persons whom
Tremenhere had seen in Brighton, he treated with perfect contempt, as
inventions to screen some other person; and finally refused most
positively to meet his cousin. He had a prejudice against duelling, he
said, especially with one whom he had known from boyhood; he sincerely
pitied him for his turbulent, ungovernable temper, and great hatred
towards himself. In short, he summed up all by hypocritically drawling
forth, that could he serve him in any way, he too gladly would do so;
and assuredly, to injure him, was farthest from his thoughts; and
concluded with much deceitful, mawkish sentiment.

When his friend related this, Tremenhere paced the room, at first in
indignant, contemptuous rage; then an unwonted calm came over him, and
he smiled as he said, stepping before his visiter--"This man has taught
me a talent I never might have possessed without him: that of watching,
unseen, the movements of others. I will return to town with you; I have
paved the way for doing so without exciting suspicion. I must act
decidedly and secretly, for that coward else, will seek the protection
of the law, and defeat my object. Let us be off."

And, quitting the studio where they were, he entered the drawing-room
where sat Minnie and Skaife, she looking so much happier than of late
had been the case. Tremenhere, too, seemed light at heart. He was a man
so generous by nature, that the greater the sacrifice he made for a
person, the better he loved them. He was ready to offer up his life for
Minnie, for in his moments of energetic feeling he _knew_ her innocent.
'Twas only when the muscular power relaxed with thought and care, that
he doubted her; it had removed a load of suspicion from his heart, the
knowing who really, beyond mistake, was his enemy, he knew so well all
he was capable of. As he took his hat to quit the room, his full, deep
glance fell on his wife, who was looking timidly at him. Skaife saw the
look. It spoke so much wretchedness, that his heart ached bitterly for
her. Coming towards her, Miles stooped, and, unheeding the presence of
the other two, warmly embraced her. "Be a good girl, Minnie," he said
cheerfully, "and amuse our good friend, Skaife, and I'll bring you--a
fairing," he added laughing, "from town." His glance crossed his
friend's as he spoke.

"Bring yourself soon," she said, smiling in his face; "'twill be my best
present."

He pressed her hand warmly in reply. There was so much renewal of love,
that she felt her heart full of hope--long foreign to it.

Tremenhere and his friend drove quickly to town; the former's object
was, to watch Burton to his club, whither he went about twelve every
day--and his, was Miles's. It is probable, that had this latter been in
the habit of going himself every day, Burton would have quitted the
field; as it was, Tremenhere had, by his absence, left him master of it;
and here, as Tremenhere had ascertained, was the spot where he
circulated his scandals freely to his own set. The two friends drove to
the top of the street where Burton's hotel was, and stopping the cab
where it would not attract notice, they resolved to watch for awhile,
before inquiring for him of the hall porter. Fortune favoured them this
time, for in less than half an hour, Burton came forth on foot; and
glancing carelessly up the street, walked on, and the cab followed. As
they hoped, he proceeded to his club, within a few doors of which the
others alighted, and walked quickly towards it. Burton entered the
reading-room, where sat some dozen or more men, poring over their
papers; thence he stepped into another, nor noticed his cousin, who
followed at a distance, keeping him in view.

Tremenhere's aim was attained: in the reading-room he met several
friends,--acquaintances were better said; hastily addressing each,
without appearing to notice the chilling looks of some, he said, calling
each by name, "Leave your papers awhile, and follow me; I will give you
something better worth seeing than aught you may meet with there."

And most did so, for curiosity is a spirit fluttering over the heads of
the many, few indeed are those eschewing her worship. On walked
Tremenhere, accompanied by his friend, and in his wake came the others.
At last he stood silently, surveying all in the room, where dozens were
collected, some in knots talking, others at breakfast, others reading.
In a glance Tremenhere took in all this, and the faces of friend and
foe. He advanced a step. Burton stood with his back towards him,
conversing with two or three persons. Was it instinct which made him
suddenly turn, and grow white as the snowiest cloth on those tables,
when he saw Tremenhere _erect_, smiling, and towering in height and
manly beauty, as lie gave him a glance of scorn? He stopped suddenly in
what he was uttering, and made a movement to quit the room by a
side-door. There is a power, an irresistible spell, in dignity and right
combined, (indeed the former cannot exist without the latter,) which
make the meaner mind bow down before them.

"Stop, Marmaduke Burton!" cried Tremenhere with his full, rich voice of
command. Burton made an involuntary pause, and then, with a quick
shuffling gait, attempted to seem dignified as he moved towards the
door. "Stop him!" cried Tremenhere again, calmly waving his hand, "that
he may at least have the satisfaction of hearing me, face to face,
proclaim him slanderer, liar, and coward!"

Burton was forced to turn. At these words a movement passed over the
whole room--no one, however, spoke.

"Look at him!" said Tremenhere, contemptuously. "He dare not face what
he has done; were it not from inability to move--for no shame withholds
him--he would fly!"

"These are harsh words," said an officer, advancing; "are you prepared
to prove them?"

"That I am," answered the other; and in words as brief as possible he
told the tale, and his visit to Brighton--the evidence there--summing up
all with the refusal on Burton's part to meet him.

"It pains me deeply," continued Tremenhere, with much emotion, "to drag
the name of my wife before this assembly; but her accusations have been
openly spoken, or whispered in every select circle where my humble name
is known. 'Tis true I might have sought my remedy by law; but I leave
such to colder hearts and heads than mine. I forgot," he added, looking
round upon all, "to present myself to many who may not know me. I
am Miles Tremenhere, now an humble artist, once heir of the
manor-house, ----, Yorkshire; that, my worthy cousin, who from childhood
had been my companion, has for a while--_only for a while_--deprived me
of----but let that rest. I came to-day to proclaim him what you have all
heard, and he _dare_ not deny it. Once I have horsewhipped him for his
base seduction of an innocent girl,--flogging is thrown away on callous
skins like his; so I brand him--liar and coward!"

"Sir," said Burton, endeavouring to seem calm, "you shall answer for
this, and bitterly rue it."

"Answer it!" laughed the other, "when and where you will; this is all I
ask at your hands."

"Ah, T_w_emenhere!" exclaimed a voice, as the speaker just entered the
room, amazed at the _fracas_, but ignorant of the cause, "is that
you?--what a st_w_anger you are," and he held out a hand. Tremenhere's
trembled as he warmly shook it: he was all woman in gentler emotions,
and never was there a more grateful heart than his; he felt Vellumy's
act deeply. This act seemed the signal which many had been awaiting, not
from wavering indifference, but for want of the electric spark, which
moves Englishmen more slowly than others, but surer, when its propelling
force comes, than all the very warm and sudden impulses in the world.
In an instant Tremenhere was surrounded. Those who a day before had
condemned him, perhaps too hastily, on the whispered calumnies of
Burton, now pressed forward to press his hand. Some few, whose
dislocated nerves can never be strengthened to any thing warmer than
zero, grumbled at the disturbance, and talked of secretaries, rules,
etc., etc.; but the majority rejoiced as over a lost brother restored,
for Miles had been a favourite with all.

In the midst of this, Burton had slunk away; he could not bully, nor
defy; Tremenhere had proof in the evidence of his (Burton's) kindred
spirit, and betraying confidant, at Brighton. And certainly there was no
table so merry as the one at which Tremenhere sat, surrounded by his
friends, to repair a scarcely touched breakfast at home. He would have
preferred leaving at once, to return to Minnie and Skaife, especially to
remove from the latter's brow that not-to-be-mistaken cloud of
disappointment, which he had seen gathered there, at his own supposed
coolness and indifference about his wife's fame. But policy dictated
another course; there was much he had not explained, and he took this
opportunity of doing so. It is indeed to be regretted, that the finest
natures admit of passions dark and overwhelming, and the strongest minds
are, in some things, the weakest. To see Tremenhere amidst his friends,
glowing with joy at having restored Minnie to fame, who could imagine
that he ever again would be led down the bitter path of doubt and
suspicion, or that these two poisons were only awhile dormant in his
breast?

When he entered his home, for some moments he could scarcely speak,
then, grasping Skaife's hand, he said--

"Give me a grasp from your heart, my friend--to-day you could not, I saw
that--now you may, for I have done what a man should."

"You do not mean!" exclaimed the man of peace, with a feeling akin to
alarm, "that you----"

"No, no," laughed Miles; "the coward would not fight; I tried him, but
he refused. 'Tis better, done as it is."

Poor Minnie had crept tremblingly to his side. In her fear she almost
forgot he was safe before her.

"I _do_ congratulate you," cried Skaife warmly; "for it was not a thing
to be passed quietly over."

"Poor Minnie--poor child!" said her husband, placing his arms round her,
and bending his deep, loving eyes upon her; "how you tremble! Think,
darling, I have silenced all who calumniated you--justice, like truth,
will eventually win in any fight. The devil deserts his children in the
utmost need; we deal with brighter spirits, dear, and will triumph over
all!"

"Heaven grant it, dearest Miles! You have indeed been good and kind to
me to-day--and always," she added hastily. "You have been tried
severely; we shall be _so_ happy now. Dear Mr. Skaife, you have been
indeed a messenger of peace. I feel as if all would turn to me now,
even my uncle Juvenal, and aunt Sylvia."

It was a day of deep rejoicing--each heart was light and glad.

The following one Mr. Skaife visited Mary Burns; but there he had little
joy to see--the unerring hand of deep malice had done its worst. She had
been dismissed from every house, some less coldly than others; but even
the kindest said, only in excuse, that, though they would gladly, _if
possible_, serve her, yet it would be a thing unexampled for them to fly
in the face of society's laws, as by the world laid down; quite
overlooking the fact, that there _will be_ a world where they might be
called to severe account for uncharitableness and harsh judgment of a
repentant sinner; but this is worldly wisdom, and worldly virtue, which
dictate all. Few are virtuous from truly religious motives--we speak of
the world _en masse_. It is either from a sense of innate delicacy,
morality, and fear of the public reprehension, should discovery take
place; few indeed, in comparison, place first on the list, the condemned
sin which makes the devils rejoice, and angels weep. So Mary was left to
starve, beg, or return to evil, that society might be kept untainted.
She had assuredly found forgiveness, where it is too joyfully given, and
with rejoicing; but with man--that is, on these cold, unforgetting
shores--to fallen woman, she found none with the mass; so Minnie and
Skaife both advised her to quit England. 'Tis sad, but true. Much as we
love our native land, we are obliged to own that our neighbours look
more to the present than past; and if a woman evince an earnest desire
to become honest, there will indeed be _few_ to point and say, "Avoid
her, she has sinned;" and _many_ to hold a hand forth to a tottering
mortal. It was with difficulty Mary could be persuaded to strive once
more. She felt sad enough to lie down and die; but when those two, whose
hearts were such sterling gold, upheld her, comforted, encouraged, and
commanded in her mother's name, she once more arose, and with her
knowledge of French quitted England for Paris, under the escort of
Skaife, who was empowered by Tremenhere to settle her in some suitable
business.

"I would not have my poor mother look down and see I had neglected one
she loved almost as a child," he said; "and possibly we may all meet
soon on those shores. I hate England."

And so strange is it, that great events of our lives are the offspring
of some momentary inspiration, or thoughtlessly uttered word, that,
until that instant, Tremenhere had not dreamed of quitting England; and,
from that hour, an insurmountable desire seized upon him to leave
London, the villa--all which had become hateful to him. His wishes were
laws to Minnie. She would gladly have seen her aunts again--have been
friends with her uncle before leaving; consequently she wrote, imploring
pardon of the two hearts in rebellion against her, and begging aunt
Dorcas to come and see her. But even this was denied her. Dorcas had
been made to suffer so severely by the other two on the occasion of the
former visit, that she deemed it better not to enrage them further by
coming; but to remain, and patiently work for Minnie's future pardon.
She wrote most affectionately, and completely repudiated every thought
of her niece's impropriety of conduct, which had been imparted to
Juvenal by his friend, Marmaduke Burton. On this subject, too,
Tremenhere wrote to Minnie's uncle, and detailed the whole affair as it
had occurred, not forgetting the last discomfiture of his enemy in the
exposure at the club. Whatever Juvenal's opinions might have been, had
he permitted them full play, is uncertain; for he was one of those
narrow-minded, prejudiced persons, who, having espoused an idea, find it
completely out of the pale of their governing law to divorce it from
their belief. Minnie was guilty--she must be guilty; Burton said she
was. She had been imprudent once, and consequently, assuredly, would be
again; in short, prejudice, with its narrow ideas and venomed breath,
stood between poor Minnie and her home. Juvenal might have forgiven, if
left to himself, for sometimes a memory would come over him of her
gentle tones, her loving, girlish heart; besides which, he could not
refuse to believe all Tremenhere wrote--there was evidence and proof;
though he left the letter unanswered, it influenced his mind in his
niece's favour. Gillett too spoke, and at last decidedly, in the
rejected one's favour; but to counteract these healthful influences,
came the soured heart, and acrid tongue, of one who hated Minnie for
entering that state without her permission, which, in the whole course
of her own life, no one had ever held open the door to, though but a
little ajar, for her to peep into--matrimony. Not a soul had once said a
civil, or even word of doubtful meaning, for her to build a hope or an
hour's dream upon, and she felt a double pleasure in stamping Minnie
with her reprehension and condemnation. So she, poor girl, bade adieu to
their pretty villa and England, to seek peace and happiness in a
stranger land, with the one whom she loved as freshly and well as on the
day she vowed to leave all for his sake. Skaife had returned, after a
few weeks' absence, to his duties, near Minnie's childhood's home; but
his heart was heavy. The man foresaw clouds in the horizon, over one he
now loved as a dear sister; for, with all Tremenhere's worth, no one
could be blind to his unconquered passion--jealousy, which only lay
still to gain strength, and rise, like a giant refreshed from slumber,
to overwhelm all.

Marmaduke Burton was gone abroad, no one knew whither, "on a tour."
Dalby was a resident in town. Mary Burns was established in a small
business for fancy work; her poor mother no longer burthened her--she
slept in the quiet home, alike for rich and poor. And thus all stood on
the day Minnie and Tremenhere started for Paris, where he had many
friends to forward his views as an artist; moreover, he had orders from
friends at home, and all seemed to smile on them as they quitted their
native land.

"And now, Minnie," he said, tenderly embracing her, "no more care. I
will banish all, and begin anew our life of love, and the labour of love
I have sadly neglected, though not forgotten. My poor mother--I must
toil for you both, darling, now, and for _our child_, my Minnie, for I
should indeed wish it to see the light in my lawful home; I will try so
to have it."




CHAPTER VIII.


Assuredly there is something very exhilarating in the air of Paris, when
compared with our heavier, smoky atmosphere; this, and a complete
removal from painful scenes, were all sufficient causes for the change
in Tremenhere and Minnie. They seemed indeed to have commenced a new
life; all annoyances had ceased, her colour had returned, the frown had
quitted his brow, the past seemed like a dream, as his confidence was
restored, and not unfrequently he laughed with her, over those
reasonless fears which had once agonized him so much. Many of their
mornings were passed in the Louvre together, he copying the old masters,
or the glowing sunset pictures in the Spanish gallery; whilst she sat
beside him, either talking, reading, or working, and thus two very happy
months passed, and Christmas drew nigh. They were residing in an
apartment, not far from the Louvre, in one of the principal streets, _Au
Troisième_, where he found a room admirably adapted for him, having been
used as a studio. _Au Troisième_ seems a frightful height to English
ears; nevertheless, to the many who are acquainted with Paris, it has
nothing extraordinary.

All suspicion even seemed lulled to rest on his part; for frequently
Minnie went alone to visit Mary, who was, at all events, peaceful, if
not happy, in her present successful path. Tremenhere talked of being
obliged, very shortly, to revisit England, consequent on some paintings
he was completing to order. A shudder crept over Minnie at the thought;
she had almost hoped never to see it again, except perhaps some day to
revisit Gatestone, but certainly not London; however, the patient loving
wife said nothing, she was contented to go whither he went. They had not
received any communication from Lady Dora, in short from no one but
Dorcas and Skaife--all else was in quiet oblivion around them; and they,
not the less happy, though sometimes Minnie would sigh when she thought
of her cousin's unkindness. Marmaduke Burton, too, was lost to them,
almost in thought; the truth was, he had made a tour to Italy, and so
bitter had been his disgrace, consequent upon Miles's discovery of his
wickedness, that he resolved to leave them in peace, despairing of
success in separating them. In good, as unfortunately often in bad, when
all human power has failed, fate steps in, and accomplishes in an
instant that which years might else not have matured. Poor Minnie was
one of those kindly-disposed creatures, full of thoughtfulness to
surprise those she loved by some great joy--nothing had changed, or
could chill her heart; and frequently some little quiet secret of her's
to please Miles, tortured him once again into dormant, but not
eradicated suspicion, until the perfection of her plot enabled her to
give it to the light, and thus remove a weight from his mind, which had
oppressed it for days perhaps. She never saw this,--she was a very child
at heart, forgetting in her present happiness her past bitter suffering.
For some days she had been in a state of much excitement, and her visits
had been more frequent than usual to Mary's. Other friends she had in
Paris; but though there existed a certain constraint and distance
between herself and this unfortunate girl, still we often cling more
kindly to the person we have served, whatever their station, than to the
one who has obliged ourselves,--a noble nature loves better giving, than
receiving. Thus Minnie delighted in watching her _protégée's_ progress
towards honest prosperity, for Mary was so humble and grateful. Miles
noticed her frequent visits to Mary, her distraction of manner, followed
by sudden lightness of heart, as of hidden joy. Then, too, she often
made a plea of laziness to remain at home, and he went alone to the
Louvre. This worried him; nevertheless he said nothing, but he was not
at ease. Suspicions arose; but he chid them down--he _would_ be happy.
Sometimes Minnie looked sad and disappointed, still she said nothing;
and he forebore questioning, though not a glance of her's escaped him.
The cause of all this was as follows:--One day Mary Burns drew Minnie
into the little quiet back room adjoining the shop, and exclaimed, "Dear
Mrs. Tremenhere! I have been so anxiously looking for your arrival the
last two days; I did not like calling, or I should have done so."

"Why not, Mary? we should have been glad to see you."

"I know, dear madam, you are always so kind; but I wished to see you
alone--my motive is this. You must have heard from Mr. Tremenhere, of
his meeting me one night at his cousin's?" She looked down, and spoke
with difficulty and pain. "I am forced to allude to this, to explain how
I became possessed of what I now wish to speak of. Have you ever," she
cried, changing her tone, "heard Mr. Tremenhere mention any one named
d'Estrées?"

"Never," answered Minnie, after a moment's pause.

"On that evening in question," continued Mary, "there were several torn
papers scattered about the floor,--a sudden impulse induced me, unseen,
to secure one--and here it is. I found it only to-day; for I shame to
say, in my own selfish troubles, I had forgotten it sooner," and she
placed the torn piece of letter, which we have seen in the first volume,
in Minnie's hand.

"Oh!" exclaimed she, after carefully perusing it, "this must have been
written by Miles's father, before his birth. Oh, Mary! how may we
discover this man? he must have been the person who married them," and
the delighted wife almost danced with joy, to think of Miles's
rejoicing. "Shall we tell him yet?" asked she after a pause, "or
wait--search every thing ourselves? Poor dear Miles will suffer so
keenly should he be disappointed; and then, too, he is seriously
occupied now with a painting which engages all his attention. Let us
work unknown to him, Mary; and, oh! think of our joy if we can, some
day, place the proof in his hands!"

"I think your idea will be the better one to pursue," said Mary
quietly, after a moment's thought--she was less sanguine, and more
cautious than warm-hearted Minnie; "but we must not too soon reckon upon
success, we may not succeed--he may be dead. Oh! how I wish I had
secured the remainder of the letter! we might then have told Mr.
Tremenhere, and he could have directed us how to act, we are so
powerless alone."

"Do not say that; we will inquire how we had better commence our
research. I do not like telling dear Miles yet; it would be so happy a
surprise!"

And this it was which caused a mystery in Minnie's manner, which raised
the demon suspicion once more in Tremenhere. All her energies were
exerted in this anxious search, and in consequence she became thoughtful
and pre-occupied. Mary had some acquaintances, from whom she inquired
which would be the better way of discovering a lost address, and she was
told to search the passport-office at the _Prefecture_.

The most timid woman will find energy and resolution for all, when the
happiness of one she loves is at stake. In the first instance, the two
women employed a man to go to the office for them; but this did not
satisfy Minnie when he proclaimed his want of success.

"How can we be quite certain he went, or searched as we should have
done?" asked she. "I will go myself."

"You cannot do so alone!" cried Mary, "and I am unable to leave my
shop."

"Why not? Oh, but I can! Miles will be all day to-morrow at the Louvre;
I will not accompany him, and putting on a close bonnet and veil, lest
I should meet any one, take a _fiacre_ and go."

Mary tried to dissuade her for some short time, and then she
relinquished the task herself, convinced that it would be the most
secure and satisfactory thing to do. Minnie had no one to advise or
assist her, and on Mary she almost looked as upon a sister, from the
circumstances of her childhood passed with Miles and his mother; then
again, they were mutually interested in this affair, and Mary was so
humble and contrite in manner, it would have been impossible for the
other not to love her. All this intimacy, however, did not pass without
censure on Miles's part, not that he doubted Mary then; but he deemed,
in worldly wisdom, that where Minnie's name had been in question,
however innocent she had proved, too much caution could not be observed;
then, too, the one dark spot in his happiness ever arose before him--her
imprudence in flying with himself, which would ever leave one place in
her fame open to animadversion; but he spoke to the least worldly woman
ever created, and then at this moment she had so strong a motive in
seeking Mary, that all his arguments terminated in a tacit consent on
his part, however unwillingly given, when Minnie's arms encircled his
neck, and her smiling cheek pressed itself like a child's to his, as she
coaxed him into good temper; then, too, there was a fonder hope in his
heart than any he had ever yet known, whatever he had once said of being
even jealous of his own child.

Thus weeks crept on, and as disappointment followed disappointment in
their search, Minnie grew saddened and uneasy; still, every day she
rejoiced that she bore her trouble alone, and that Miles was exempt.
Poor creature! she did not perceive that her unexplained, altered
manner, was making him once again most unhappy. Doubts, fears,
suspicions of all, arose in his mind, and he began to ask himself,
"Could Burton be in Paris, and at some fiendish plot?" He resolved to
verify this doubt by inquiry. He went to several of the principal
hotels, without success. No such name was on their books; then, as a man
perfectly acquainted with Paris and its habits, he went to the passport
office, and searched; he was on the point of leaving, perfectly assured
no Burton was in Paris, consequently it must be something else preying
upon her mind and directing her actions, when a woman's figure flitted
through the office, closely enveloped and veiled. But it was Minnie, and
none other; for the second time, she had come to the prefecture to seek
d'Estrées. Miles stood transfixed with surprise. Whom could she be
seeking? Quietly he stole after her; without turning, she entered a
_fiacre_ and drove away. This was a day on which he was supposed to be
engaged at the Louvre. He stood irresolute a moment, then, walking
composedly back again, commenced a search after another passport and
name--the act was the offspring of a moment's thought. "Yes, monsieur,"
answered the functionary, rather more civilly than these men generally
speak in all public offices in France; "the gentleman, _ce milord_, is
in Paris, I know--I remember the name--ah! here's the passport, and
address, _Rue Castiglione_ 7," and he gave the shuddering Tremenhere
_his own address_.

This method of seeking persons is most common in France, where, within
twenty-four hours of your arrival, your passport and address have to be
left at the prefecture's, under the penalty of a fine, should it not be
done. It is needless to say that Minnie had not been inquiring for Lord
Randolph, but following up what she had hoped might prove a trace of her
all-absorbing thought, d'Estrées. Tremenhere said nothing; but, calmly
thanking the official, walked forth. There was no cloud on his
brow--nothing of anger or sorrow--but a cold, stern, desolation, far
more dreadful to behold. At last the blow had fallen; there could be no
longer any doubt, still less hope, of reclaiming her. She must be
wickedly, wilfully bad, and false as the falsest thing that ever
breathed. His brain, nevertheless, was in a chaos of perplexity. For
whom could she have been inquiring? No one, perhaps; but why there? The
residence of Lord Randolph, even in his own hotel, in nowise astonished
him after a moment's thought,--it was a part of her unparalleled
audacity. Those who have resided in France will know, how easily
families may live for months in the same hotel or house, and never meet.
Lord Randolph had come to Paris for a short time, and, disliking a
regular hotel, had taken an _entresol_ in this most popular and
fashionable street, without having an idea of meeting with the
Tremenheres in any way. And thus an event, the most likely and
commonplace, did more for Marmaduke Burton's revenge, than all his own
plotting and scheming. Tremenhere returned home--he stopped carelessly
in the _loge de concièrge_, and inquired, "If Lord Randolph Gray resided
there?"

"Yes," answered the man, "_milord_ has been here several days; but he
does not go out much--he is not in good health, I think."

"Thank you," was the calm reply, and Tremenhere turned from his door,
and entered the gardens of the Tuileries. Here he proceeded to the
loneliest part, and, relaxing his quick pace, reviewed all the events of
this fatal day. Not for an instant did he doubt Minnie's perfect
knowledge of Lord Randolph's being in their hotel. Here was no
Burton--no Dalby to entangle their victims in a snare. How he laughed
aloud at his own folly and blindness, in having been so long deceived.
"In the very house with me!" he cried--"O, fool!--mad, blind fool! And
O, woman!--falsest, basest! what a shrine, too, hath the devil chosen
for his abode! so much seeming candour and lovely purity--even in the
look. I could find it in my heart to shed tears of blood for this
perverted creature, on whom I have lavished my soul's love, for I can
never love again."

People may laugh and say, "'Tis very well for fiction," but there are
many circumstances in everyday life far more extraordinary, far more
fatally organized by a genius of good or evil, than any things the mind
could conjure up. Are they sent as trials? as punishments? or the mighty
Hand directing all, though through pain and suffering, for our ultimate
benefit? or is it, that there are moments in every one's life, wherein
the spirit of evil has permitted sway? Who may divine this?

As Tremenhere turned again through the gardens, near the centre alley,
half hidden by the trees, he saw two persons; they were shaking hands
and parting: these were Minnie and Lord Randolph! She had quitted her
_fiacre_ on the Quay, and was hastening home across the gardens, when
she most unexpectedly met this, to her, fatal man. Only a few words
passed, and they parted, he in indifference and calm, she in almost
terror at the meeting--but it was enough Tremenhere saw not hearts, but
acts. He turned back again; a cold bolt of iron entered his soul; no
anger was there, no passionate desire for revenge--nothing but calm
resolution, which only became more intense, when he reflected on
Minnie's position. At one instant he thought of returning to London, and
suing for a divorce; then a bitterer feeling crossed his heart. "No!" he
cried, "she has branded me for ever with infamy; _she_ shall never
become his wife, nor _their_ child legitimate; this shall be my
revenge--let her bear my name, blast it, degrade it, what care I? Name!"
he exclaimed after a moment's pause, "I have no name; what am I? the
castaway offspring of Helena Nunoz! All women are false; I believe in
none, I am the blasted child of an impure woman--Nunoz--Nunoz--only
this, and Marmaduke Burton has right, to carry him onward!" and the
wretched man laughed aloud--laughed in the bitterness of a holy thought
of childhood, and dream of manhood, desecrated--his mother. His last
hope was gone; he could believe none pure, proving Minnie false. He was
not a man to sit down, and pine, and regret over his fate; but one to
act vigorously, a resolution once taken. His heart had turned to stone,
there was no "if" in it--not for an instant did he pause to think, or
hope, but sped away to act. He was determined to inquire into nothing,
in this last hopeless affair; he felt some demoniacal artifice would be
employed to persuade him against all reason; he would not degrade his
reason farther by listening--guilty she must be. Her presence at the
prefecture had something in it in connection with Lord Randolph, he
scarcely cared to inquire how, for assuredly she must, before that day,
have been privy to his residence under the same roof with herself; Mary,
too, was a party to it! What a web had been, and was around him!--he
shuddered as he thought of his deceived heart, for so long a time. When
his mind had compassed all coolly and deliberately, he proceeded to the
apartment of a friend, a brother artist, unfortunately not a Skaife, to
breathe justice or patience to him, but a man to whom woman had ever
been a merely beautiful creation for art to copy, soulless, and unworthy
a higher place in man's thought. To him Tremenhere told all, coolly,
dispassionately from the first, not to seek counsel, but to act for, and
with him. His listener shrugged his shoulder and smiled.

"Well," he said, "'tis better thus, perhaps; for with your genius, you
will rise to high things _alone_. Hampered with a wife and children, you
would possibly have remained stationary, a good father of a family, fit
only to paint a _bonne mère_ and her _bambins_!--leave such positions
to others--soar, _mon ami_--soar!"

Alas! he overlooked the fact, that to every one possessing real heart
and soul--soaring is sorry work when there is no loving eye to mark our
flight.

"Now, what can I do for you? command me," said his friend.

"See her!" answered Tremenhere sternly. "I would not leave that woman
unprovided for; arrange how and where she will receive it; you will have
tears and prayers--_I_ have had them; disregard them, be firm, tell her
_we never meet again_; do not say where I am; remove all my
paintings--all--I will give you written authority to do so. Arrange
every thing; and then I have other work for you. Stay, I will write one
line to her; and that will be a warrant for all you may do."

And with a calmness, amazing to himself, he sat down and wrote coldly,
dispassionately, to her; merely saying he knew all. He did not
condescend even to tell her his accusations, adding, "of course, what I
_know_, will reach you from another quarter. 'Tis vain to seek an
interview; nothing shall induce me to see you--throw off all disguise,
'twill suit you better than this audacious duplicity. Farewell."

Minnie read this letter, and it did not kill her! yet her life seemed
awhile to stand still. There was but one idea in her mind, that by that
fatality which seemed to hang over her, Miles had witnessed her
accidental meeting with Lord Randolph. A more than mortal fear oppressed
her. There arose in her mind a belief in spiritual agency--spirits of
evil around her. She became almost lifeless with this strange fear. She
sat like a statue; and saw one after another, the paintings, depart,
which had been commenced beneath her eye, her caresses, her love. She
was totally speechless, thoughtless; all stood still, even to her very
blood, for she was cold as marble. At last the easel was taken past her;
then the man stood still, as if awaiting some questioning from her; but
though she had watched every action of his with intense gaze, idea of
what was passing--she had none. So he went forth, and closed the door of
the outer apartment, mentally ejaculating, "What a cold, heartless
creature! Evidently she is glad to be released from Tremenhere, for this
_freluquet de milord_! What a blessing for her husband to lose such a
woman!" And this man, so talented in portraying the human face, was
powerless _on it_ to read the breaking heart! When the door closed,
Minnie fell back on the ottoman, not fainting; but the lifeless blood
was insufficient to bid the heart beat above mere existence. She was
living, but lifeless to the touch, or memory--and thus she lay for hours
alone!




CHAPTER IX.


"She did not speak, or expostulate?" asked Tremenhere.

"No," answered his friend; "she was too much taken by surprise, but I
never saw a woman look more confounded in her guilt."

Miles did not speak for some time. Strange, how wrongs, supposed or
real, darken the heart to every gleam of pity! It was not his vanity
which was wounded--not any feeling of false pride, which urged him to so
much apparent heartlessness; it was a disgust pervading his noble
nature, at so much infamy in one so young and fair. Had he deemed her
reclaimable, he would have nobly, generously, endeavoured to do so; but,
believing what he did, he felt that any further contact with her would
irretrievably sully his own honour, and plunge her still deeper into
duplicity and sin. _If_ she ever could repent, their separation--his
utter contempt for her--might, through shame, open that channel to her.
There was uprightness and conscience in his every thought; he even felt
then, that, if he could be convinced she would be true and faithful to
his rival, he would seek by the law that release which should enable
him (Lord Randolph) to do her justice. With these thoughts in his mind,
after a calm survey of all remaining in the ruined temple of his heart,
he wrote to this latter, and despatched his friend with the missive,
which contained little of accusation, beyond a quiet, cool detail of
facts, as he believed them, and giving him a choice of two things,
either a solemn assurance to marry Minnie if he divorced her--he,
thereby, submitting to the reprehension of the world at large--wherein
many might blame him for the calmness of the act, so little in
consonance with his real feelings, in preference to the more manly one
of first demanding retribution at his hands in a struggle for life, or
to meet him muzzle to muzzle, where often the luckier aim carries it
above the more skilful. But we are wrong, for the luckier aim would
carry undying remorse with it, in any noble heart, however wronged.
"Live, and let live," and leave vengeance to Heaven.

It would be vain to attempt portraying Lord Randolph's amazement on
receipt of this note; he was preparing to leave his apartment to dine
with some friends when it reached him. He read, and re-read it; and
then, with an air of wonder which would have convinced any unprejudiced
person, asked whether really Mr. Tremenhere resided in that hotel?

"Apparently," was the laconic reply, sarcastically delivered.

"He must be mad, then, and deserving only _le Bicêtre_," answered Lord
Randolph; "where may he be found?"

"By letter or message through me," was the reply.

"You are abrupt, monsieur," said the other, sitting down to write;
"nevertheless, pray be seated."

"I prefer standing, _milord_," and he folded his arms doggedly.

It will be seen this was the last person who could successfully
conciliate persons in so painful a position.

Lord Randolph wrote:--"You must be mad. I most solemnly assure you,
until this moment, I knew not you were in this hotel. True, I met Mrs.
Tremenhere to-day by accident; but she never named her address, nor I
mine. You are at liberty to appeal to law, if it so please you to cast
fresh ridicule on yourself; but though I most highly esteem Mrs.
Tremenhere, enough to deem myself a most fortunate man could I call her
lawfully mine; still, I have too much self-respect and vanity, under any
circumstances, to seek a certain refusal, by proposing to her. For the
rest, your good sense, and I hope, heart, will guide you aright, and
make you see the folly of your conduct."

His lordship was ignorant of the manner in which Minnie had been
treated, or he would have written more forcibly in her favour. Thus he
dismissed his visiter, and departed to dinner. This letter almost shook
Tremenhere's calmness to an outburst of rage; he only saw in it cool
audacity, and that feeling of honour which makes a man oftentimes
perjure himself to redeem a wrong act, and save a woman's reputation.

"Let us seek him," he said, moving towards the door. "I will await you
in the street; you can enter and inquire for him." And, with a
resolution he did not think himself capable of, well as he knew his own
stern nature in wrong, he stood almost on the threshold of his once
happy home, whilst his friend entered to inquire where Lord Randolph
might be found. This was easily ascertained, and thither the two men
followed; he was dining with some friends at the _restaurant_ of great
renown, "_Les Trois Frères_," and was in the act of detailing his most
extraordinary and unpleasant affair, when a card was handed to him, and
on it was "Miles Tremenhere!"

"Show the gentleman into another room," said his lordship with perfect
composure, for not one spark of cowardice was in his composition. The
waiter obeyed, and in a few minutes he stood before Miles and his
companion.

"Your lordship will pardon this unusual method of proceeding," said
Tremenhere, with dignity; "but the unsatisfactory nature of your reply
to my letter obliges me to call in person, and demand another."

"_Demand!_" exclaimed the other. "What if I refuse?"

"Then it will but remain with me to attach to your lordship's name, one
I should regret being forced to call into requisition."

Lord Randolph bit his lip to restrain an angry retort. After a moment's
pause, to collect his coolness, he said, "Mr. Tremenhere, I do not deal
with you as I should with another, for I look upon you as a lunatic; but
for the sake of your most innocent, injured wife, I implore you consider
well what you are doing!"

"My lord," answered his opponent, "I have not come to listen to idle
words, still less to be again a dupe. I come to demand, unless your
heart fail you too much to meet me, to give me the name of _your_
friend, to whom _mine_ may apply; the rest will then regard them."

"Think well, sir," said Lord Randolph again, as calmly as he could be
under so much aggravation. "You may some day rue this. I would, for an
innocent woman's sake, save you from remorse, and her from ruin."

"By heavens!" exclaimed Miles, turning sarcastically towards his friend,
"this man would have me take his mistress to my arms again, and receive
him, perchance, as friend! My lord," and he turned wildly in rage upon
him, "if there be a coward here, 'tis not Miles Tremenhere, or his
friend."

"Oh!" ejaculated Lord Randolph, drawing a long breath, then keeping
silence a moment to subdue himself, he replied, holding out a hand to
Miles's friend, "Your card, monsieur, and I will immediately place it in
the hands of my friend. I think now, sir," and he bowed to Tremenhere,
"our interview may terminate; and may you never regret the day's work
which will follow this."

And, holding the card given by the other in his hand, he quietly quitted
the apartment. "After all," he said to himself as he moved to the room
where his friends were awaiting him, "this fellow requires a severe
lesson; it will cure his jealousy." And none was gayer that evening at
table than Lord Randolph Gray. Tremenhere was otherwise. There was a
monitor in his breast, not silent, for it was full of questionings. Yet
to all he replied, "It is justice and retribution,"--and then he sat
down with perfect composure, and drew a rough copy of his will, which he
purposed having legally executed on the morrow. "I will not leave her
unprovided for," he whispered to himself; "this shall be my revenge on
her."

The next day but one, Lord Randolph and his adversary met; and
Tremenhere was carried from the spot severely, though not dangerously,
wounded--a bullet having traversed his side, without, however, touching
any vital part, though he became insensible from loss of blood. His
opponent, with the manly self-possession which had characterised him
throughout, remained until well assured there existed no danger from the
actual wound, and then quitted the Bois de Bologne, where they met, and
next day Paris, for Italy. Tremenhere was transported to the nearest
house, and there he lay unconscious for many days.

Minnie recovered from her stupor, to find herself in the arms of her
attendant, who was too much terrified to quit her and summon assistance.
This woman had not entered the apartment where her mistress was for some
hours; and her absence at the moment of her master's friend's arrival,
prevented her knowing what had occurred. As Minnie returned to the
warmth of life, and something of its consciousness, she inquired whether
Mr. Tremenhere had returned. A reply in the negative being given, she
for a moment was lost in wonder; then thought after thought crowded
through her brain, and she found amidst them, one to lead her partially
to light. Tremenhere was gone--but where, or wherefore, she could not
remember for hours. She wandered hastily from room to room, touching
every thing there which had been his--her manner was flighty, half
idiotic; the suddenness of the blow found her unprepared. At last the
terrified servant beheld a cold, grey look steal over her face, the
hectic flush disappeared, memory had returned, and desolation sat
triumphant above all; and nothing could equal that desolation of
heart--she did not imagine, for an instant, that Miles believed her
guilty. It will be remembered that she was unconscious of Lord
Randolph's residence in their hotel; she had hurried home, trembling, it
is true, to inform Tremenhere of her meeting with him, and this was the
only clue she had to his cruel conduct and desertion. She read his
letter over and over; her first supernatural fears passed away, and she
felt convinced either that he was mad, or changed in heart, so changed
that the parting was pleasurably done by him. After viewing all his
recent conduct, she dismissed the idea of madness, his coldness, and
absence of manner for some time, since, in fact, her own mysterious
search after D'Estrées, which had given him fresh cause for suspicion,
arose before her, and her eyes seemed to open on the truth. She looked
back to many things; his meetings with Lady Dora, first in the holly
field at home, that had puzzled her, then at Uplands, so sedulously
concealed from her--all arose, and without jealousy of her cousin, she
felt, and more firmly in that it was an unworn, up-springing thought of
an instant, that Miles _had_ once loved Dora, and possibly marrying her
for pique, subsequent disgust had ensued. "Oh! if he really loved me, he
could not have sought to prove me false so often," she said, "neither
now have left me for so slight a cause, without even seeking an
explanation, as my accidental meeting with Lord Randolph. He never truly
loved me." And with this fixed thought, a cold desolation crept over her
soul. Minnie had yet to learn all the madness of jealousy, therefore she
was incompetent to judge him. She was not long left in any uncertainty
about her desertion; her servant informed her that Mr. Tremenhere's
friend had authorized the landlord to apply to him for all expenses,
when madame quitted the hotel, as some unfortunate differences had
occasioned a separation. This had been gratuitous pain inflicted in
total indifference to her feelings on this man's part. Tremenhere had
bid him say that he had quitted Paris.

Minnie, in all her keen suffering, had but one friend, Mary; our good
deeds seldom are lost in the waves of life's ocean--they return again,
to break at our feet. Minnie felt all this girl's kindness, but she had
grown so cold at heart in a few days, that all failed to warm her to
life. Of the duel they heard nothing; those kind of things are of more
ordinary occurrence in France than among ourselves, and from whom could
they hear it? Mary had written several letters to Miles's friend, their
only clue, to beseech Tremenhere to listen to reason. After some days
deep anxiety, they were returned, with a request in his name, that none
more might be sent; he was leaving France, search after him would be
useless. At length a letter arrived from himself; the characters were
trembling, for he was scarcely able to write them. In this he spoke
little of wrongs, merely by the tone of it, implying Mary to be as
guilty as his own wife. There was no regret, nothing to excite hope. He
spoke deliberately of never again seeing her; he was resolved; he had no
desire to do so; he had long been unhappy; now the tie was severed, he
felt content. Of her pecuniary wants he had taken care, _however she
might be circumstanced_. He named a banker in whose hands a sufficiency
for her support would be placed quarterly, and then all care for her
ended. With this letter Minnie's last hope died; it was indeed a
hopeless one. Had she seen him, pale, haggard, and suffering, as he sat
up in the bed to write it, she would have felt that he was less to blame
than she deemed him. He scarcely knew what he wrote, still he felt
anxious to settle all for her comfort, in case Lord Randolph should
forsake her; for the idea was a fixed one in his mind, that though they
might not meet publicly for a while, eventually, finding him no longer
to be duped, they would fly together.

Nothing could induce Minnie to touch a farthing of the money Miles had
allotted her; forsaken by him, he was as a stranger to her. Had she
known he still loved her--had she known all, she would have followed to
the farthest end of the earth, to find and plead to him. As it was, her
heart sickened; she had been deceiving herself--deceived by him. Her
pride arose, and, enwraping herself in it, she sat down, and forbore
even to name him. One thing she wrung from Mary in sacred promise: this
was--that neither Dorcas nor Skaife should be informed of the whole
truth.

"Let me bear my misery alone," she said. "Tell them, for I cannot write
now, that he and I have parted: that there was incompatibility of
temper--any thing you will; but do not--pray, do not, say he has
forsaken me! Let them think it has been mutual consent, but do not blame
him; they all hate him enough already," and the heart whispered even
still, "poor Miles!"




CHAPTER X.


It was not, however, for some time that Minnie allowed Mary to write
even this; for she still hoped at times, in her heart, that Miles would
return. But when months passed, and she ascertained, beyond a doubt,
from a visit Mary made to his artist friend, that he had quitted for
Florence, then she hoped no more, and nothing remained but to act.

Dorcas was most uneasy at her silence, and then Mary wrote, and
afterwards she summoned courage to do so herself, though every word
written was penned in the bitterness of worse than death; for we may die
happy in hope, and the love of those dear ones around us, smoothing the
pillow as we depart in peace and faith to happy shores, beyond life's
troubled sea. Minnie's grief had nothing of this. She was on a wreck in
a dark stormy night--a wild sea foaming over her head--a dark sky, and
impenetrable darkness above and around; but nevertheless she spoke of
contentment, and a wish to be left in quiet. "We deemed it better to
part than live in estrangement of heart," she wrote, "and I am resigned.
If you love me, let the subject drop; nothing can change our fate.
Leave me in quiet awhile, I shall remain some time longer abroad."

But this letter did not tranquillize Dorcas, to whom it was written. She
carefully abstained from speaking of its contents to any one but Mr.
Skaife, and he, like herself, was too deeply interested in Minnie, not
to be the confidant of all. Dorcas wrote most anxiously to her, and
Skaife promised, as soon as his duties would admit of it, to go to
Paris, and endeavour to reconcile them. He guessed a portion of the
truth; but, alas, nor he, nor Dorcas knew a tithe of it!

Minnie, we have said, resolutely refused to touch her husband's
allowance. He had gone to Florence (as far he might be, in his
spirit-broken state,) contented in the thought that she was provided
for, and in following his art, now a toil undertaken to banish care--he
strove to obliterate her memory. Minnie's pride forbade her accepting
existence at the expense of Mary; when all her means had become
exhausted--the slender ones her purse and jewels afforded, her pride
arose in proportion to her poverty. It was not false pride, but the
honest, upright determination, to burthen no one. "I will leave Paris,"
she said to herself, "and go where no one may hear of me."

This could not be accomplished without some difficulty; nevertheless, at
last she succeeded, and one day, when Mary sought her in the humble room
she had been residing in, she was gone. A letter reached her faithful
friend, telling her that cares such as hers were better borne alone;
even _her_ sympathy pained her. She would go where only her own heart
should know her sorrow, and breathe it to her. She bade her not fear for
her; she was safe, and would shortly give her proof of it by letter; but
she implored her to breathe to no one that she had fled. Mary, however,
in kindness of heart, wrote immediately to Mr. Skaife; the secret was
too a heavy a one for her own conscience to support in peace. This
intelligence caused the most bitter sorrow to him and Dorcas, to whom
alone it was told; and he hastened to seek some one to take charge of
his parish duties awhile, at her earnest prayer, and his own heart's
promptings, to follow Minnie whithersoever she might be gone.

It sometimes, but rarely happens in life, that where we only expected to
find a merely common acquaintance, we meet a warm and sincere
friend--one who, through years of sorrow, never forsakes us--one who
forgets self, to help us onward on life's weary track with our
burthens--who, when all have forsaken save himself, clings to us still,
and whose best, and only reward sought, is, when a gleam of sunshine
flits across our dreary way. To such a one, honour and blessing--gifts,
which his own good conscience will bring him, when, at the end of life's
journey, he makes up his account, and reckons with his Creator. Such a
copy of an original, was Skaife. But there was a machine working which
he could not stay or controul; it would spin its wool, and weave its
woof, before man might overcome it.

Tremenhere was in Florence; but yet he heard of Minnie whilst she was
in Paris. So blinded was he by his passions, that even her poverty--her
refusal tacitly to touch his allowance, were snares in his eyes, to lure
him back to deception. Again, if at times his heart softened, 'twas but
for a moment--he grew cold again, and pitiless. Living too, as he lived,
steeled his heart to gentler scenes or thoughts; he avoided all society,
and, shut up in his studio, labouring to banish the bosom's emotions,
became sullen, morose, and vindictive.

Months passed since their separation, and in the delicate, frail woman,
living in almost privation in Marseilles, toiling at her needle for her
daily bread, who might have known Minnie Dalzell? With the little money
remaining to her, she crossed to England, to prevent discovery and
pursuit; here remaining hidden a short time, she then returned on her
footsteps, and hastened to Marseilles. She knew Miles was in Italy, and
her yearning heart led her to the port, whence she might some day,
perhaps, be called upon to follow his path. Bowed and saddened she was
by sorrow, still her heart's conscious uprightness, and honest pride,
upheld her; if she suffered, no one knew it; if sometimes she ate her
bread in tears, and only _that_, for a day's nourishment, who saw her?
No mere _person_, but One who sees and reckons to us our patience and
confidence in him however he may try us, and Him, Minnie never forgot.
Even as the trembling fingers, pale and attenuated, broke the hardened
crust, the eyes, once violet in their depth and richness, now paler,
clearer, more serene in their sadness, looked up and blessed the Giver
of it in their tearful gratitude. In all this patient sorrow came an
almost overwhelming, unhoped-for joy; she held a living child on her
bosom, small, frail little creature; its tones were as a bird's, so soft
and sad, and through the little thin fingers the light shone, as you
held them up, and only then did a ruddy colour, like pale ruby, show in
them, proving they were not merely wax, an imitation of life. "I shall
not have you long to comfort me, my boy," she whispered, when the
sobered first joy gave place to reason; "but you will go to a better
place, and plead for your mother, darling, and oh! do not forget
him--your father. I would you might have seen him _here_, my child, to
know him in heaven; but I trust in spirit meetings, spirit sight will
show him to you, and we may all three rejoice, reconciled in peace and
everlasting joy, which nothing human can attain to!"

He was christened Miles, and though the pale, fair mother grew paler
each day, and toiled more, as the embroidery, in which she excelled,
became more sought after, still the boy thrived, and as she laid him
upon her lap, like a model of rare beauty, her lip smiled in placid
thankfulness and joy, as she counted the dimples which day by day seemed
to deepen in the now rosy cheeks and fingers. Hers was not a heart to
keep its joy to itself; she wrote to Mary. True she did not give her
address, but she wrote to bid her rejoice with her; her child was born
and lived. A deep hope sustained her for some time. If Miles ever had
truly loved her, he must think of the expected tie which bound them
closer than ever. He would remember how he had spoken with almost
boyish delight of the hoped-for period, and he would seek her, and
come. Alas! he did remember it; but in bitterness of spirit, and laughed
in scorn over those boyish hopes, of which he had been the dupe.

Mary replied, in haste and deep anxiety, to the Post-Office, as
directed; she spoke of Dorcas's trouble, Skaife's arrival and anxious
search for her, but not one word of Miles! and then her heart sunk in
utter despondency. "Not even now!" she uttered, as the big tears fell on
her boy's sleeping face; "oh, he must hate me much!" Then succeeded a
fear lest Mary should seek her, or Skaife, or Dorcas; she would fly
again.

Among her employers was one lady who had taken a deep interest in her;
she had a daughter about Minnie's age, and married to a Maltese
merchant; she was about to become a mother herself, and, being called
upon to join her husband in Malta, her mother implored Minnie, who was
thought a young widow, to accompany her as nurse to the expected child.
The offer was a tempting one; thus she could fly, fly all, and in change
of scene, more than place, still, busy thought. A large offer was
proposed to her to wean her own child when another should claim her
care, but this she resolutely refused. "You will be too delicate to
nurse both!" exclaimed the lady.

"I shall gain strength for all, Madame," she replied, with confidence.
"I am stronger than I seem," and she thought of all she had mentally
borne and wrestled successfully with, and mere physical labour could not
daunt her strong heart.

She waited upon the lady, and, disdaining all deceit, at the risk of
losing possibly the situation which she much desired to obtain, told all
her story. She had truly said, when asked, that she had no husband, and
others concluded he was dead. At all events, as we have said, assuredly
on the Continent people more charitably judge a sister woman by present
good conduct, than they seek, by diving from _curiosity_ into the past,
to discover, perhaps, some deep sorrow, or more deeply repented error.
We deny that our Continental neighbours are less virtuous than
Englishwomen, _in general_; but they are less severe, more charitable,
less censorious. Minnie's candour raised her high in the opinion of
those, now doubly bound to her, from pity. All her energies were called
into play, to meet the emergency of outfit--money was required. The lady
advanced her some, still she required more.

We are not relating a mere tale of romance, where fairy and unexpected
gifts come to help the toiling and virtuous, but a story of everyday
life, where the good and conscientious, by undeserved misfortunes, are
thrown in much trouble, degradation, poverty, and _often_ want; where
the fingers once destined to be jewelled, must learn to toil, that the
lip which had been born to command a host of servants, may eat its daily
bread.

Minnie had been guilty of but one imprudent act, and this was the
penalty due to it, and unmurmuringly she was prepared to pay it to the
last farthing. Her hours of sleep became shortened; the earliest morning
light saw her working, while her boy slept. Oh, woman--fellow-woman!
when some pale mother places in your gemmed hand the work you have
commanded her to do for you, pause, and think that she may be in _all_
things superior to yourselves. Pause and reflect, grow humble and
grateful, where all your gratitude is due. Turn not away in pride, do
not bid her seek some insolent menial for payment, who will grudge the
hardly-earned sum, and insult, while giving it. Pay her yourselves--pay
well, and in conscience, and above all, pay kindly; for how know you but
that, in another place, this woman may plead for, or condemn you?

Time hastened on; the day shone fair and bright; it was in October, and
the quay was thronged with gallant vessels coming and going, and friends
were receiving in joy those who returned, and others weeping over the
departing; but none were there to press Minnie to their heart in sorrow
or fear, as, clasping her child to her bosom, she stepped on board the
steamer "Hirondelle," for Malta. Once she looked back, and scanned the
crowd, every face--it was a last hope, but it faded in the sigh which
heaved her heart, where little Miles slept in peace. She turned away,
nor looking again, went below. The anchor weighed, the steam gushed
upwards in a cloud, the paddles commenced sending the spray around, and
the port faded insensibly from view.

"Don't cry, madame," said Minnie, whose eyes were overflowing for
another's grief. A mother had just seen her daughter for the last time.
"Don't cry, dear madame," and she knelt and clasped her hands in both
her own (her boy was sleeping in her berth.) "We shall soon be at
Malta, and then you will see your husband, who so anxiously expects
you." Here she may be pardoned if a tear fell for herself; this chord
jarred on her heart, but she checked the vain dream, and awoke to
comfort another.

On--on they sailed with wind and tide, until night set in, and then the
former suddenly changed, and a high sea arose. Minnie had lain down
dressed beside her boy; her mistress slept in a berth above her.
Suddenly there arose a noise more than usual over-head, footsteps, and
voices calling fore and aft. She sat up and listened. Some of the ladies
slept, others were partially awakened by the noise, and murmuringly
called the attendant. Some sat up, the better to listen. Minnie was very
pale, but spoke not. At this moment a man appeared at the cabin door; he
was in a sailor's heaviest dress, for weathering rough weather. He
whispered the attendant, who grew paler; then he crept almost
noiselessly in, and commenced putting in and securing, what are called
the dead-lights. Then he stole away as he had entered; but, as he
mounted the companion ladder, he closed and fastened the door. Minnie
did not shriek, but she arose, and, though scarcely able to keep her
footing, held on to the side of the berth, and whispered her mistress,
"Madame, madame, awake and dress!" The lady started up; just at that
moment something crashed on deck, and went over the side. A simultaneous
scream burst from all in that cabin; then for an instant, which seemed
as an age in duration, there were breathless silence and watching for
the expected signal again, of disaster; but nothing was heard save
hurrying footsteps over-head, and the heavy ploughing of the steamer
through the waves, which broke with a monotonous sound against the
vessel, which seemed like some poor, breathing, overwhelmed animal,
struggling for its life. After this moment's suspense, wherein every ear
expected to be startled by some fierce cry of despair, all in that cabin
looked from one to another in terror. This lasted another minute--then
one, endowed with a sudden desire to fly the gloomy silence of that
almost dark cabin, where only one small lamp flickered to and fro in the
centre, sprang up the ladder and endeavoured to open the door; but it
resisted all her efforts. With a wild cry she shook it madly; then,
struggling in her fear, fell headlong downwards, and lay on the floor,
terrifying the inmates of that prison-house by her shrieks of wild,
hysterical agony. Some rose, some kneeled and prayed, with trembling
upraised hands. Others were too lifeless to think, but leaned stupefied
against the side of the cabin. One woman lay still--perfectly still, and
beside her were two beautiful sleeping children; her pale lips alone
breathed a prayer for mercy, as she clasped both to her bosom. Minnie
had awakened her mistress, whose personal attendant was too much alarmed
to think except of herself; and Tremenhere's deserted wife, with her boy
clasped in one arm to her heart, yet found courage with the other to
enfold the almost paralyzed lady, and breathe words of hope; and thus
the vessel toiled on with its death-expecting cargo. For nearly an hour,
it seemed as if for one plunge she took despairingly forward, she was
driven double the distance back again; assuredly she made no way in that
heavy sea. At length there was a pause, as though she had some
impossible wave to cut through; every heart stood still; then her sides
creaked and heaved; the timbers seemed like complaining spirits. She had
had both wind and tide against her; in an instant, as if by magic, she
appeared to swing round, with her head to the wind, and onward she flew,
like a soul loosened from bondage, and seeking its haven of rest. She
was returning to Marseilles. It was a race for life; but, like many an
overwrought gallant steed, her strength failed where her spirit upheld.
Onward she dashed, and one wild shriek mingled with the severing crash,
as "L'Hirondelle" broke upon the rocks, her crew was powerless to keep
her off, and went to pieces in that dark, dreary night.

It is not our province, even though we portray a true scene, to speak of
all in that doomed steamer; it is with Minnie we have to buffet over the
waves of that dark sea, in a small boat, into which many--far too many,
had crowded. Her child was clasped in a grasp like death, (for only that
could have parted them,) to her shivering breast powerless to warm it,
while its faint cry broke in agony on her stricken heart. Still she
hoped; she knew something more than human force would be requisite to
separate her from her infant, strained as it was to her bosom. So the
shivering mother sat still, uncomplaining in her anguish, and thus they
drifted on in that laden boat. Morning broke, and the boat was keel
uppermost, riding on a calm sea; to that keel clung two living beings,
the mother and child, yet the latter scarcely lived. The tone of that
little voice was a faint murmur of expiring nature, which echoed in a
heavy sob from the mother's heart, as she clung to the keel in almost
despairing hope, and thus they drifted to and fro, a mockery of life, so
nigh death they seemed on that calm sea, until her benumbed hand, for
one grasped her child, could scarcely cling on, and insensibility was
stealing over both, slowly and gradually, so much so that it seemed as a
dream, two rough, but friendly arms, lifting her into a boat, where she
was gently laid at the bottom on sails and coats, and covered up
carefully from the spray, which dashed over her, as in playfulness. What
means of restoration they had at hand, were supplied by those rough
nurses, two fishermen on the Marseilles coast, who, quitting their toil
for that day, sailed in, as quickly as possible, to their humble
village-home, of a few poor cottages up the coast. A long, insensible
sleep was Minnie's, when she was laid in the cotter's bed. Her long,
fair hair hung in heavy, damp masses on the coverlet, and on her bosom
lay the living thing she still clasped in her straining arms, loving
almost unto death. It was nearly two long days before she awoke to
perfect consciousness, to find herself tended with care and every
kindness their poverty could afford, by the two men who had rescued her,
and who, calling in a woman from a neighbouring hut, placed the mother
and child under her care. Her first awakening was a loud cry of terror,
as in a horrid dream she saw the past, and her first thought was her
boy. Startled by her cry, the woman ceased a low monotonous song she was
singing, to lull an infant to sleep with by the fire. Minnie sprang from
the bed towards her, and in an instant memory gave her back all; for one
doubting moment she held her child at arm's length to recall the
features, then folding those arms in gentle, but strong hold around it,
she sunk tremblingly on her knees, and the fair veil of hair sweeping
the ground, made her seem a spirit from another world, in purity and
holiness, as, raising her streaming eyes upwards, her lips murmured in
deep, heartfelt gratitude--"Oh, I am not worthy of so much mercy! so
great a blessing! teach me to deserve it!"

And her tears baptized anew her child, spared from death.




CHAPTER XI.


With her memory and return to life, came a strange desire over Minnie's
heart. She learned by the inquiries of the fisherman, that almost all on
board the ill-fated Hirondelle had been lost. Only one or two of the
passengers, and a few of the crew, had been picked up. Her sorrow was
keen and heart-rending, on hearing that the lady whom she had vainly
endeavoured to save, was amongst the lost--all were reported so, except
the few we have named; and one of the men returning from Marseilles one
day, brought her a paper containing a list of those lost, or supposed to
be; and almost the first name she read there was, "Madame Tremenhere,
and child." Her first feeling was a shudder, as she thought of what
might have been. Then an idea rushed through her brain of, "What would
Miles's feelings be should he read this? Would he regret her?--still
hate her? Or, his once strong love reviving, would he remember her only
through that medium, and sorrow over her fate?"

"Should he," she mentally said, "what heartfelt joy it would be to seek
him, and, casting myself at his feet, pray him to take me once again to
his arms and heart!"

This thought gave rise to the earnest desire of proving him. This task
did not seem difficult or impossible. Her humble friends were not of
that class to carry the news of her existence far and wide; her name,
too, was unknown to them. More than thanks she had little to give,
reserving to herself in some hereafter, to reward them amply. Her object
was to gain Paris once again, and then ponder upon the best means of
carrying out her project; it seemed to her as a last hope. The only
articles of value she possessed were a watch and chain, which her
ill-fated mistress had given her the day before they sailed. On these,
her late friends, the fishermen, had raised her a sum of money in
Marseilles; a small sum she forced upon them, and with the remainder,
after purchasing a few absolute necessaries, the still hoping woman
left, unrecognized, for Paris. She had confided to her friends a wish to
be unknown, until she reached her relatives, and thus a passport was
obtained in the name of Deval. With her she took the paper containing
the list of passengers supposed to be lost, and thus she started for
Paris.

Minnie had not calculated all in doing this; she overlooked, in her
haste to put a last hope of reconciliation in practice, the grief many
might feel. But it was done, and thought came afterwards. She knew that,
by sending the paper to Tremenhere's artist-friend, in Paris, it
assuredly would reach him, directed to himself; consequently, on her
arrival, her first act was to seek the box of one of those curiously
occupied persons in that large city, who sit at the corners of some
streets, and, for a trifle, write letters for the illiterate or
mysterious. Here she got her paper addressed to Tremenhere, to his
friend's care, in a strange hand, and sent it by a porter, with an order
to leave it in the _loge de concièrge_, without answering any questions,
merely inquiring if they knew the address of the gentleman. The man
returned to her, and said--

"The person to whom it was addressed, was daily expected in Paris, and
it should be given to him." Her heart bounded with a joy, long a
stranger to it, at this information; all seemed to favour her scheme.
Then, however, for the first time she sat down to reflect, and thought
of Mary's certain grief--Dorcas--Skaife--all, perhaps; but she consoled
herself with the reflection--"It will not be for long: Miles will come
to Paris--when he receives the paper, he will go to Mary. I will watch
for him near her house, and his friend's; and when I see his fine head
bowed in sorrow, I will bid it raise itself up, rejoicing!"

And with this idea she took a small, almost garret, within view of his
friend's residence, and through the _concièrge_, and at shops obtained
some work, whereby to support life, and her dearer than own--that of
Tremenhere's child's.

Miles had remained at Florence, in retirement and bitterness, until his
feelings outwore themselves. He wanted fuel to feed his thoughts against
Minnie. He was tormented in soul; for sometimes a till then silent
monitor awoke, and said--

"You were perhaps too hasty--you had no proof, but presumptive
evidence--the most deceiving of any: return to Paris." And his fate took
him by the hand, and led him thither.

Before Minnie brought the newspaper to Paris, the journals, both there
and in England, were teeming with accounts of the loss of the
"Hirondelle," and a list given of the passengers' names. Who may depict
the heavy gloom which fell upon her family at Gatestone, when her name,
coupled with her infant's, appeared amongst those lost! Dorcas was
almost broken-hearted. If Minnie could have seen her, she would indeed
have regretted the _ruse_ of a moment, which could cause so much bitter
anguish to one she loved--she would no longer accuse her aunt of
coldness, but rather have pitied that want of energy, which made her
seem what she was not. On Juvenal and Sylvia, too, it fell heavily, but
in a different manner. On him, it awakened remorse and gloom for unjust
severity, and a consequent hatred towards those who had urged him to it.
He would not listen to the name of Burton, or Dalby, without violent
passion, followed by almost tears; and this feeling was constantly
awakened by Sylvia, who became more acrimonious in proportion as her
conscience told her she had taken a good part in the oppression of her
poor niece; and her greatest satisfaction was in torturing others.

Dorcas and Skaife were the two who, in almost silence, bore the heaviest
burthen; they spoke of her to one another, but beyond this, they were
silent. Dorcas crept about her home in quiet grief; every little object
which had belonged to Minnie was gradually taken from public gaze, to be
treasured up in her own saddened room, and there she would sit for
hours, looking upon them, and recalling when and how Minnie employed
them.

The old hall clock ticked no more: this was Juvenal's act--it awakened
such painful feelings whenever its tongue proclaimed the hour; so one
day, unknown to any one, he sent early for a carpenter, and the friend
of years was consigned to a lumber-room!--_à propos_, this is too often
the fate of old, tried friends, who would recall us to thought and duty
by reminding us of wasted hours!

Mrs. Gillett had but one phrase in her sorrow to cut Juvenal to the
soul; and this was--

"I told you something bad would come of all your severity! Poor
darling!--only for your cruelty she might be smiling amongst us now, and
her blessed, crowing babby!" She spoke of it as if it had been a young
game-cock. "And to think," she continued, "that that pretty creatur',
long hair and all, has become food for fishes! There--never don't send
no more into this house; for, as long as I'm in it, none sha'n't be
cooked, I can tell you!"

And the poor woman, having thus energetically delivered herself of her
opinions, would creep away, and, shutting the door of her
pleasant-looking room, sit rocking to and fro, crying, as she would
fancy she again beheld Minnie and her handsome Tremenhere there, side by
side.

The authorities at Marseilles were written to, and all confirmed the sad
news; some few had been rescued, but nothing had been heard of Minnie,
except that the boat in which she and others had escaped from the wreck,
was found keel uppermost by a steamer. The fishermen far on the coast,
had little intercourse with the town; and then Minnie had implored
secresy at their hands, and her wishes were obeyed. Mary, too, wrote to
Skaife in broken-heartedness. Nothing was wanting to confirm it; and,
just when all else were in their sorrow, Tremenhere arrived in Paris.
While at Florence, he had heard that Lord Randolph was cruising in a
yacht in the Mediterranean. This partially urged his return to France--a
fear of meeting _them_. He felt he should not be master of himself were
such to take place; so strong on his mind was the idea of their being
together. Yet, too, sometimes a doubt arose; and, to clear up all, he
returned to France--he could not rest. His first idea was to go direct
to Mary's, and inquire about her in seeming indifference; then he
changed his intention, and went hastily to his friend's. This man was
from home when Miles arrived, so he went to his studio and awaited his
return. Miles was one of those whose busy mind ever found employment for
the fingers; he could not sit down patiently and wait, doing
nothing--the busy thoughts when the mind is in trouble, become too acute
then. Thus he looked round the studio--to read was impossible--taking a
blank sheet of pasteboard, he placed it on an easel, and commenced
sketching. He was not thinking willingly of Minnie; but somehow she was
the spirit of the man's innermost soul. Beneath his pencil grew two
figures--a Madonna and child, lightly sketched. Something passed over
his heart like a footstep in a deserted hall, and echoed. He laid down
the pencil, and brushing back his hair with a hasty hand, resumed the
pencil, but reversed the sketch, and commenced another--as he did so, a
step sounded without. He started up; it was his friend--friend to him,
and a worthy man, which made him the more severe towards Minnie,
supposing her so faithless. The cordial grasp of friendship given, his
friend said,--

"Oh! I've got some letters and papers for you, which have come
recently," and he hastened to seek them. Miles's heart beat high. They
most probably, in some manner, related to the overflowing thought of his
heart. He took them with trembling hands from the other, and scrutinized
them all; a cold feeling of disappointment filled his heart--not a line
in her handwriting!--then she was truly lost, and indifferent to him!
All this time the other was gazing at him with an embarrassed look, not
knowing when or how to commence--something he had to give utterance to;
this look had come over him immediately after their first salutation.
Miles tore open the Marseilles paper, and flung it down with a "pshaw."
The name caught his friend's eye, and he took it up. As he did so,
Miles, to conceal his disappointed look, hastily seated himself at the
easel, and commenced finishing his sketch. "Look," he said, "Duplin,
this is the model of the sweet villa where I have been sojourning
often, in Florence--I must return--already I grow weary in France!" In
good truth, he looked so; he was pale, care-worn, and his smile passed
like a breath on glass, leaving a dark, dim vapour behind.

"Tremenhere," said the other at last, "have you heard aught of madame,
lately?"

The question made his hand tremble.

"No," he replied, continuing his sketch. "How should I? Have you?" and
he looked up wistfully.

"Nor of _ce milord_?" asked Duplin, again interrogatively, without
replying to his demand.

"He is in the Mediterranean," answered Miles bitterly, "cruising in a
yacht."

"Then it _was_ the case," fell from his friend's lip, as if in
self-satisfaction, at a doubt solved.

"What?" cried Miles, looking up hastily; "speak out, I can bear it--I
suspect all, from the reports I have heard."

"Well, then, after you left I resolved to discover all; I deemed it
right towards you, and also a satisfaction, where madame would fain have
seemed so wronged. I found out that milord went to Italy and the
Mediterranean, and shortly afterwards madame quitted Paris for England;
but this must have been a _ruse_ to mislead, for she was recently in
Marseilles with her child."

Tremenhere groaned aloud at the thoughts this communication awakened;
there was something so bitter in the memory of all the happiness her
supposed infamy had cost him, wife, child, home--all but a vain dream.

"And thence," continued Duplin, anxious, by fortifying his (Miles's)
heart with contempt for her, to prepare him to receive calmly the
intelligence he had gained through the public prints, "madame with her
child, sailed the other day for the _Mediterranean_ for Malta; in fact,
where I last heard of milord's yacht."

"True!" ejaculated Miles through his closed teeth, as he bent over his
sketch.

"And now, _mon ami_," added the other hurriedly, "I have something more
to tell you. I do not think you need much courage to hear it; for after
all, 'tis better, far better thus."

"What would you tell me, Duplin? speak?" and he looked up perfectly
unconscious of the truth.

"Well then, Tremenhere, you are free; madame is dead!"

"Dead!" exclaimed Miles, starting up pale and rigid; and, strange
contradiction of the thought which the other endeavoured to convey to
his mind, the fair, living Minnie seemed to stand before him.

"Be a man!" said Duplin, soothingly; "think how false she was; think how
painful a tie--of the disgrace!" and he grasped his arm.

"Where did she die?" asked Miles, passing his hand over his brow to
collect his thoughts; for he was in a stupor, not understanding really
what the other meant to convey to him.

"She was lost; the vessel was wrecked going to Malta," answered Duplin,
who had unfolded the Marseilles paper, and, suspecting the contents sent
by some unknown hand, placed the open sheet before the stupefied
Tremenhere on the easel. Gradually the glazed eyes fell upon the page,
and the names stood out bold and clear before him, "Madame Tremenhere
(_Anglaise_) _et son enfant_," he dropped silently on the seat, and,
shading his eyes, gazed on the sheet motionless and speechless.

"Be yourself--be a man!" said Duplin, once more touching his arm.

"I am!" cried Tremenhere, in a hoarse but steady voice, looking up. "I
rejoice; better know her dead, than _his_!" and he rose and strode
across the room. "I do rejoice, Duplin; see, my hand even does not
tremble. Now I can bear my sorrow; now the world is one huge blank
before me. I have lost that leper spot which was tainting all my flesh;
I have no past, no present, no future--all is alike a blank. I can walk
on in the darkness, nor fear to meet her form at every step!"

Duplin stood awed by his calmness, it seemed so terrific over those
young graves. "Who can have sent that paper?" he asked, taking the
journal in his hand.

"An enemy; but I guess him. I defy them all now! They can wound no
more--my wound is cleansed, and healed; I defy them! the plague spot has
left me! Rejoice Duplin, rejoice!"

When he went forth from that house, his step was exact, the brow stern
and cold, but untroubled, the mouth compressed and calm, and the pale
woman closely veiled, who was concealed in a gateway watching the exit
of him whom she had seen enter Duplin's abode, felt her hopeful heart
loosen all its chords, and wellnigh burst in its sorrow, as she failed
to read one regret on that face of stone. She knew he must have received
the paper which told him all, and now indeed she felt he had never loved
her--all was lost. She had but three things to comfort her; first, her
own upright conscience, her boy, and the morbid satisfaction of being
indeed dead to all, lone, and uncomforted, and thus she crept back to
her gloomy garret.

Once again she saw Miles; her dress touched him in the half-lighted
street at night. He was cold, unmoved, as before. She stretched a hand
to touch him; his name was on her lips; but he passed on, and the
whispered word died away in a hysterical sob.

Next day he quitted for England, without seeking any communication with
Mary, and Minnie remained to weep and toil.




CHAPTER XII.


Four months passed away, and February, with its cold assumption of
earliest spring, found a crowd of fashionables assembled in the French
capital; and, amongst others, Lady Ripley, Lady Lysson, and Lady Dora.

It would be impossible to convey to many minds, or easily describe, the
chilling effect which pride, and a luxuriously-indulged fashionable
existence, throw over a heart which otherwise might have been warm,
generous, and loving. Lady Dora was painfully shocked when she heard of
Minnie's death; but then she had her mother's cold reasonings to soothe
her grief.

"Minnie had disgraced her family; her name had, since her unfortunate
marriage, been brought in question. Assuredly, though Mr. Tremenhere had
hushed slander by resolution, yet Minnie must have given some room for
it! It was very unfortunate that she had ever been known, by the
publicity he had given at the club, as his wife; and perhaps 

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