Minnie had been so severely lectured by all, about her too frequent visits to the cottage of Mary Burns, and other rambles in thoughtful loneliness, that she felt embarrassed how to act. We have seen Dora was not yet wholly in her confidence; there was as yet a barrier of three years' width between them, which she hesitated at overleaping at once—it was one separating girlhood from womanhood. She had no one to consult but herself, and in her great anxiety to know what had been decided upon for this poor girl, in whom she felt so much interest, as Mr. Skaife had informed her, that assuredly Tremenhere would decide immediately something about her, she resolved to rise with the early bird of morn, which rose to song and heaven beneath her windows, and seek Mary's cottage. Only the gardener was at work, as she brushed the dew off the smoothly turfed lawn, at six the morning, after Tremenhere's meeting with his cousin, and bidding the man a kind good-morning, she hastened through the shrubbery, then light as a fawn skimmed over the path-fields, and reached Mary's cottage. The shutters were closed, and all in stillness; but the hour was so early, that she hesitated about awakening the inmates. For some moments she stood irresolute, and walked round the spot. There is something in internal desolation, which always leaves an outward trace on the features, as on an abode. Something of this she felt; and at last gently rapped at the door—all was silent; then she repeated it—and each time with the like result. There was a latch, so she raised it, looked in, and then the cold truth became apparent; the place was tenantless!—all gone, and not a vestige left. Minnie stood in mute astonishment. How should she be enabled to discover the girl's fate?—from Mr. Skaife, perhaps; and then a chill came over her warm heart. Had this girl, whom she had so befriended, quitted without one word to express gratitude, or resolution of well-doing? and then, a something crossed her mind of regret. She should have liked to see Miles Tremenhere once more; he was so manly under his persecution by Marmaduke Burton. It is painful in our path through life to have that path crossed by a vision which flits away, only leaving a trace, and never again seen—such things often leave a memory for years. Minnie walked sadly home. It is something very undeceiving to the young heart—it's first lesson in worldly selfishness and ingratitude. She felt Mary must be an ungrateful girl so to depart; and, thinking all this, she walked up to her own room. No one had discovered her departure; and an hour afterwards she descended to the breakfast parlour, which looked over the beautiful lawn and flower-garden, and there she found all the family waiting, except Lady Ripley, who always breakfasted in her own room. The day passed in busy occupations to all, yet amidst all she felt a chill at heart—the chill of disappointed confidence. Many neighbouring families called to pay homage to Lady Ripley; and the report was brought by more than one, that Mr. Burton was seriously indisposed, and hints were thrown out of a hostile meeting having taken place between the cousins, as it was known that desperate character, (alas! for those no longer Fortune's favourites,) Miles Tremenhere, had been seen in the neighbourhood.
"It must have been late yesterday, then, if they met," said Juvenal, "for Burton was here in the afternoon."
"It is not known when it took place, but he has been confined to his bed all day, and his lawyer, Dalby, sent for. Though Mr. Burton denies it himself, there is every reason to suppose 'tis true," rejoined the visiter.
"Some means of ascertaining the fact should be resorted to, and such a character banished the neighbourhood," said Sylvia, acrimoniously; "it is a natural consequence of an ill-conducted mother, that the child should be infamous."
"Oh, aunt!" cried Minnie, "don't say such a wicked thing; for all say Mrs. Tremenhere was good, and mild!"
"Besides," said the peacemaker, Dorcas, "you should give her the benefit of the doubt; many believe her to have been married, though proof was wanting."
"Always my good, charitable aunt," whispered Minnie, taking her hand affectionately.
"Ah! Lady Dora," exclaimed the visiter, rising as the other entered, "I am charmed to see you here once more, and looking so lovely; and her ladyship, too," continued the old dame, as Lady Ripley sailed into the room after her daughter, "you are really as a sister, in appearance, to your beautiful child!"
This is one of the most pleasing compliments in the world to a mamma with a grown-up daughter,—it deadens the sound of Time's wheels, as he hurries his chariot onwards,—it is like laying down tan over that rugged road of matronism, which has an ugly stage beyond, beginning with "grand,"—Lady Ripley graciously received the compliment, and, smiling blandly, slid into a corner of the sofa whereon the visiter sat. "There always has been considered a great likeness existing between us," said the Countess; "we were painted in full length in one picture at Florence, and the likeness has been considered remarkable, by all visiting Loughton Castle, whither I sent it. By the way, Dora, what was the name of the artist, a very promising young man, whom I patronised at the request of Lord Randolph Gray, who had taken him by the hand? I always forget names."
"Mamma, you should remember that," answered Lady Dora, and a slight colour passed over her cheek; yet soon fled abashed before the stern, proud eye, it was only momentary; "for we had a neighbour here, near my aunt's, of the same name—Tremenhere."
"Tremenhere!" cried several simultaneously; but Minnie's struck most forcibly on Lady Dora's ear; she turned towards her, and, looking fixedly upon her, said, "Doyouknow Mr. Tremenhere, Minnie?"
"Only since yesterday," answered she; "but before then I had learned to pity him, but we cannot mean the same person: I do not think Mr. Tremenhere is an artist."
"How can you tell what he may, or may not be?" said Juvenal, crossly; "I'm sure, after his unnatural conduct towards his cousin, you should wonder at nothing."
"Of course," said Lady Dora, quite composedly, "they cannot be the same person; but I assure you, the Mr. Tremenhere we knew, was a distinguished young artist, much sought after, though only an artist. Of his family, we never inquired."
"This is, in my opinion," said Lady Ripley, "the great error of society abroad; and I fear it is creeping into English habits—the mixed nature of society. This Mr. Tremenhere was received unquestioned, nay, sought after every where, for his talents.
"It is only the good old English families which know how to keep up proper distinctions," chimed in Sylvia, to the accompaniment of an approving "Assuredly," from the visiter.
"I thinkrealtalent should always be upheld—'tis a noble gift, to which we owe homage," said the gentle Dorcas.
Minnie smiled "yes," but did not like to utter her opinion too decidedly before a stranger; besides, she was thinking.
"What are you thinking of, Minnie?" whispered her cousin.
"Of the narrow-mindedness of the world," she answered boldly. "I'd rather see a man ennoble his name by good deeds or talents, than bear a merely empty title—would you not, Dora?"
"I think position should be upheld and respected," rejoined the other, "or else we should become republican at once. I respect, revere genius; but even that has, in my opinion, no right to overstep certain barriers." Lady Dora Vaughan had been nurtured on family pride, which digests badly, and chokes up many good things with its prejudice.
Here the conversation took a different turn. Other persons called, and the Tremenheres—one, or different individuals—were no more alluded to. Even her cousin's presence, failed entirely to remove the weight from Minnie's heart, she was so saddened by disappointment, and none came to cheer or possibly explain—for Mr. Skaife even had not appeared. The shades of evening set in, and she and her cousin were strolling together in the various alleys and walks of the beautiful gardens round Gatestone, and in that same half hour Mrs. Gillett sat in her housekeeper's room, inhaling the odour of the garden into which it looked. She had been trimming a cap—something had come over her mind—a question of whether she should put a bow on the said cap, as Mademoiselle Julie, the countess's French maid, had suggested, or leave it alone. The war within herself, between the accustomed snowy lace and a pink ribbon, had ended in a prostration of the nervous system, and consequent sleep ensued. She was sitting opposite the window with the cap in one hand, the ribbon in the other, when Morpheus seized upon her, and she slept, and dreamed that she was a Maypole bedizened with many-coloured ribbons, and the village girls dancing round her. "What curious things one dreams!" to be sure, she exclaimed waking up at last; and putting both articles on the table beside her, and she rubbed her eyes, not yet half cleared from sleep. "How them peas do grow!" she continued, gazing dizzily out of the window in the evening duskiness and her own dreamy state. "Why, it seems only yesterday I was saying to John Gardener that they never would pod; and now they darkens up this window, there's no seeing out! Lauks-a-marcy!" she exclaimed, shrinking back in her chair in terror, as a cluster of them, sticks and all, appeared to her half-awakened sight to advance nearer, taking a human form as they did so. "Lauks-a-marcy! what's a going to happen to us?" Her fears were certainly not groundless, for the humanized peas drew close to the window, stooped, and stepped in. The window of this room was on a level with the walk outside; and through this, Minnie as a child, and even Dora, had been in the habit of entering as by a door, for a chair generally stood at it, which answered the purpose of a mere step to enter by.
"Good-evening, Mrs. Gillett," said Miles Tremenhere, as he did so with perfect composure. "You would not speak to me last time we met; so I have come to my old haunt, and as I was used to do when a boy, to have some conversation with you." By an involuntary movement, without uttering a word, she staggered to her feet, grasped her cap and ribbons in her hand, and was making towards the door, but Tremenhere intercepted her quietly before she was half-way there. "Stop," he said gently, smiling as he spoke, "I don't mean to harm, or alarm you; listen quietly to me, good Mrs. Gillett. Come, you cannot have quite forgotten the sweet youth who has so often sat in this room with you; and i'faith, too, I remember those hospitable cupboards" (and he glanced around) "wherein I discovered many a treasure hidden for 'good Madame Tremenhere's son,' as you were used to call me." A sigh half choked the lighter tone as he spoke. Gillett stood still, and looked at him. She was not a bad woman—far from it; but only a very politic one. She would gladly have pleased all parties; but the peculiarity of the case sometimes, as in Minnie's for instance—forbad it.
"Lock the door," she whispered, pointing behind him; "then speak low, and tell me what you want." Her commands were soon obeyed; and, like two conspirators, they sat down in a corner and began talking.
"You see, Master Miles," she whispered, "times is sadly changed, and I am obliged to be friends with my betters; and, then you know that I don't want to hurt your feelin's—but there have been queer tales about your——"
"Hush!" he said emphatically, grasping her hands, "not a word againsther. Mrs. Gillett, you know what she was to all—you know that the day she died, this village had but one voice to bewail her—but one sentence to mourn her with. 'Heaven gave her for awhile to shew what angels may walk the earth'—this you know, Mrs. Gillett; and youknow, too, that she has been cruelly maligned. No," he cried, rising energetically, forgetful of all necessity for secrecy, "as Heaven hears me, I do not care for the loss of all, save that, in losing that, a mother's sacred fame has been trampled upon."
"There," cried Mrs. Gillett, following and taking his hand, not without emotion; "sit down, I know it has been a sad cut-up for you; but times will change, maybe, and you be better off, and all forgot."
"Never!" he emphatically exclaimed. "A mothers wrongs should never be forgotten by a son until washed away."
"Talking of washing away," said his attentive listener; "there be a rumour to-day, that summut happened up at the house last night; you haven't done nothing of that sort to the squire, have you, Master Miles?"
"No," he replied, thoughtfully; "my great debt remains yet unpaid."
"Well, I'm sure it's a pity," she added, "that all parties can't agree; there be plenty for both on 'e up at the manor-house; and such friends as you were as boys!"
"Why didn't you speak to me yesterday, Mrs. Gillett?" he asked. "Were you afraid of Miss Dalzell, or Mr. Skaife? Both seem to my judgment good, excellent creatures, apart from the generality of the world, for they did not fear the contact with a fallen man; but I suppose I must not ask you——" He appeared to be seeking time or courage to speak his more earnest motive in seeking her.
"Well," said she at last, hesitatingly, "I must speak it out, though you bid me not; so don't go to be offended, for I wouldn't hurt your feelings for the world; but them as does wrong, brings much on their children. You have been cruelly treated by your parents, to be left so long in——"
"Mrs. Gillett!" he cried, rising in agitation, "even from you, my old friend, I cannot hear this. Do not let others lead your kind heart to do wrong, even in thought; some dayallshall know my mother as I do, or I will die in the struggle with her enemies."
"Oh! don't do nothing of that sort," cried she, mistaking his meaning; "getting killed a'n't the way to right her; and this I will say, that a better lady never lived—and in the hearts of the poor; the best home to have, after all. But it a'n't a thing I'm component to judge, Master Miles; for foreigners, they say, don't see them things as we do."
"Well," he replied, reseating himself, and passing his hand over his brow; "let's change the subject, it always pains me; butherday of retribution will come—my sainted mother!" and involuntarily he raised his hat, in reverential awe, as if an angel were looking down upon him.
"Don't be cast down, Master Miles," said the woman, "and don't talk on them miserable subjecs, all in the dark here, as one may say; it makes one oncomfortable and queer. Now, tell me, what do you want with me?"
"I want to see Miss Dalzell. Can you manage that for me?"
"Mussiful powers! no," she exclaimed, in surprise and horror.
"It must be accomplished somehow, Mrs. Gillett; see her Imust."
"Well, if I didn't think so!" she said, thinking aloud of what she had previously hinted to Sylvia.
"Think what—what do you mean?"
"Oh nothink, nothink—there,dogo; pray, do'e go!" she energetically cried, alarmed at the phantom her imagination had conjured up. "It won't do, depend upon it;theywould stir up the whole earth to find and punish you, if you did it; for she's the darling of all, and they'd alligniteagainst you—lawyer, parson, squire, master, mississes, and all!"
"In the name of patience, my good Mrs. Gillett, whatdoyou mean?" he asked laughing.
"Why, I saw it—I said it—I knew it—though I ain't a Dippibus, as master calls fortune-tellers; but don't go any farther—leave off where you are!" and she crunched up her cap in her energy.
"Are you mad?" he exclaimed, securing her reckless hands. "I tell you Imustsee Miss Dalzell, if only for a moment. I have a message for her."
Mrs. Gillett was rocking in her chair in agony; her position exceeded any thing embarrassing she had ever conceived. What could she do? Here she was locked in with a desperate man, who only said "must." How could she ever reconcile this difficulty to practicable action? how bind this wild horse to her daily care of every body's necessities? their calls upon her to bear their burthens—her carrier's cart of packages—she was in fearful perplexity.
"Is there any thing so dreadful in my demand?" he asked. "Let it be here, for five minutes. We met yesterday—you know we did, though you would not recognise me. She will not refuse, I know."
"Can't you say what you have to say through the passan, Master Miles," she uttered at last, struggling for a straw.
"No; I must see herself. Why do you fear me so much? Do you suppose I would insult, or injure one, whom report says so good and kind—a woman, too? Fie Mrs. Gillett—fie! to wrong me so much, the man you've known from boyhood."
"Oh! Master Miles, it ain't that—it ain't, indeed; but we oftentimes harms without meaning it," and she looked meaningly at him. He seemed to awaken as from a dream.
"You cannot suppose," he cried, "that I, a poor outcast now, come here to woo any woman; still less Miss Dalzell, whose whole family are my bitterest enemies. I tell you no, Mrs. Gillett; I have no such thought. From all I have heard—the little I saw of her yesterday, for the first time—I respect, admire, and reverence Miss Dalzell, but more I never shall now—I have another at heart." He alluded to his self-imposed task of duty and love, to re-establish his mother's fame.
"You a'n't deceiving me, Master Miles," she said looking up, mistaking his meaning.
"I solemnly assure you I am not."
"Oh, then, there can be no harm, that I see!" she cried confidently. Alas! poor Mrs. Gillett, she had but skin-deep knowledge of the human heart. Not seeing that what we should avoid, we fly to—what hate, generally love, if cast in our path—ties, vows, resolutions—all are things created, but to be immolated on love's altar.
"There she just is!" she exclaimed, looking from the window; "she's come round by the shrubbery into the fruit-garden, and Lady Dora's with her."
"Lady Dora!" he ejaculated, looking surprised, and going to the window.
"Come back, Master Miles, do, come back," she cried; "I wouldn't have Miss Minnie's cousin see you for the world, in here."
"Is that Miss Dalzell's cousin?" he again asked, gazing from his corner at the two wandering together at the end of a long walk. "Lady Dora Vaughan, Lady Ripley's daughter,—true," he added after a pause, talking aloud, "I have a faint memory of the name here; but boys do not recollect these things as in after years; the name seemed familiar to me in Italy."
"Lauks!" exclaimed Mrs. Gillett, "have you met Lady Dora before?"
"Yes," he answered hesitatingly; "but how is it, Mrs. Gillett, that I never met her or Miss Dalzell here before?" Alas! the man was in old familiar scenes, forgetting that eight long dreary years of exile had been his.
"Why, you see, Master Miles—and lauk, if I a'n't forgettin' too, calling you Master—well, never mind, it's more homely: Miss Minnie will be only seventeen come next month, and eight years have gone by since——"
"True, true!" he hastily answered, interrupting her, "and Miss Dalzell was then but a little child"—he sighed, that man of eight-and-twenty felt so old.
"And Miss Minnie was seldom at home then. She lived almost entirely with Lady Ripley, for her ladyship's child's sake; but you must have seen her, too, Master Miles."
"Yes," he said thoughtfully; "I now recall, at times, a pretty little fairy thing flitting about the grounds and gardens when I came home; forthenmy first visit was ever here, to see you Mrs. Gillett, and good, kind Miss Dorcas, and to teaze your master and Miss Sylvia with my wilful spirits."
"Lauk, yes!" said she sadly; and the memory of all brought the joyous boy in so much bitter comparison with the outcast, saddened man, that Mrs. Gillett, kind at heart, began to cry.
"Come, come!" he said kindly taking her hand; "don't be sorrowful. I thank you for those evidences that I am not forgotten by all."
"Oh, not by me, Master Miles; but I've a hard card to play here amongst 'em all, and that hardens the heart—for they all want the same thing. They all wish Miss Minnie to marry some one of their own choosing, and, as I say, she can't be a bigamy, and marry all, so there's no use wurrittin' her about it so."
"And does she not love any one?"
"Law bless you, no—not one more than t'other; my belief is, she likes her black mare 'Jet' better nor any of them."
Miles felt glad to hear this, for he had heard of none worthy of the fair girl who had been poor Mary's Christian support in her trouble. Even Skaife he did not deem fitting for that beautiful gem; she merited a more gorgeous setting than a homely curate's home could be. She was no longer as a stranger to his thought; he forgot the past eight bitter years of his life, and remembered himself a boy again, looking on a rosy, lovely child. Mrs. Gillett's doubts were all cleared away, and an open path before her. Age, and the prejudices of others, had made her regard Miles with fear, and almost aversion. Now the better influence of woman's nature prevailed, and she remembered him only as the comely youth she had once liked so much. Cranky people make others cross and disagreeable. She was accustomed to nothing but complaints from Juvenal and Sylvia, with a milder portion, in the way of advice required, by Dorcas; and thus she had had all the juices of her nature drying up beneath this fire of unhappy prognostications from all. With Miles she became almost young again, and fearlessly promised to procure him the desired interview, providedno one knew it, which he faithfully promised they should not, from him; and, while they were consulting how it should be accomplished, the girl herself advanced to the window with her cousin. Miles drew back in a corner, and his heart beat for more reasons than one.
"Good-evening, Mrs. Gillett," said Lady Dora, in an affable tone. "You really improve in good looks every time we meet." Poor Mrs. Gillett was red as a peony with agitation, and could only utter, "Your ladyship's very good to noticeme!"
"Gillett, dear," cried Minnie, in her girlish, ringing tone, "we are coming in to have a chat with you; put a chair for us to step on!"
"Not for the world, miss," almost shrieked the alarmed woman. "Oh dear! no; maybe you'll hurt yourself."
"Good gracious—no, Gillett! you know I always come in this way," and she stooped as if to enter.
"No, miss—oh dear, no!" continued the other, dragging away the chair in her terror. "I never will consent; it mustn't be."
"Are you mad?" exclaimed the amazed girl. The woman caught Miles's face; he was smiling. Altogether her position was so critical, she became doubly confused, and said something incoherent about "Lady Dora's dignity."
"I see what it is," said that lady. "Mrs. Gillett has forgotten the girl she used to scold once; so, Minnie, we will sit outside here, and I will make her better acquaintance as a woman," and the cousins, suiting the action to the word, sat down each on a garden-chair, which they drew close to the window. This was a thousand times worse than any position she ever had been in; no blindness, no pattens, could save her here. She was not a free agent—What would they say? what do? and besides, the door was locked—should any one rap! It was the hour when the servants generally required her advice or presence to prepare for supper; her agony was intense. She durst not move lest Minnie should step in, using her own chair for that purpose. Every possible thought crossed her mind to terrify her—should Miles sneeze? and, in the midst of all this, Minnie began—
"Now," she said, "Gillett, I've come to scold you for your cruelty yesterday to poor Mr. Tremenhere."
Mrs. Gillett was seized with a violent fit of coughing; couldanysubject more terrible under circumstances have been selected? Miles was all attention.
"You've a bad cough," said Lady Dora, kindly, for her; but she wanted Minnie's homely warmth of speech.
"Th-an-k you-r la-dy-ship, I ha-ve," coughed the woman.
"You should be careful at your age," continued the other. "Colds are the forerunners of all disease, they say."
"So o-ur doc-tor tel-ls me," uttered the housekeeper, perplexed how to keep up the cough; "and he sa-ys I sh-ou-l-d avoid dr-aughts!"
"And here we are," cried the feeling Minnie, "keeping you in one." She rose hastily. Mrs. Gillett began in all gratitude, thanking her lucky star for taking them away, as she supposed that luminary so intended to do; when, lo! at that instant, a hand tried the lock, then rap—rap—rap, succeeded—then Sylvia's voice! The housekeeper was nearly frantic. She hurried half-way to the door, then returned. Miles stood perfectly still and composed.
"I'll go round by the garden, Minnie," said Lady Dora, rising. "Don't remain long with Mrs. Gillett," and she turned away with her slow, majestic walk. Minnie put her chair in at the window, stepping in like a cat upon it. Gillett indistinctly saw all this; she wrung her hands, hurried to the assailed door, opened it, slipping through a crevice she would have dreamed an impossible feat of performance an hour before, and speaking loudly as she did so.
"Oh! Miss Sylvia, I'm so flusterated I don't know what I'm a-doing of; there's a strange cat come into my room, and gone into a fit—don't go in!" she screamed, as the courageous Sylvia attempted to do so. "It will bite, maybe! I'll lock it in; the window is open—it will go as it comed, I daresay!" and, suiting the action to the word, she tremblingly turned the key, which she had taken outside with her. Presence of mind is woman's greatest gift.
"They must settle it between them," she muttered to herself as she did so. "After what he told me, I ain't afeard of him! And very fortunate it is, to be sure, that he should be thinking of another, or else he'd be sartain to fall in love with Miss Minnie, andthatwouldn't do!" And, consoling herself in her error, she trotted down the passage after Sylvia.
"Gillett—Mrs. Gillett!" cried Minnie, flying across the room to the closing door; "let me out!"
But the door was locked in an instant. Sylvia had turned away, and Gillett followed, blessing herself for the clever manner in which she met poor Miles's wishes (for she really liked him,) without actually compromising herself by arranging a meeting. Minnie turned, and was going out by the window, as she had entered, wondering much at the housekeeper's strange behaviour, when, in turning, she beheld Miles. She started back, uttering a half scream.
"Pray, do not be alarmed, Miss Dalzell," he said, advancing courteously—"'tis I, Miles Tremenhere, here, and with Mrs. Gillett's consent; may I speak a word to you?"
"Youhere, Mr. Tremenhere—and with Mrs. Gillett's connivance?"
"I here, Miss Dalzell—you may indeed be amazed; but pray, pardon my audacity, but I have something to tell you, for which reason I am here. May I act most unceremoniously in your own house, and offer you a chair?"
She bowed as he did so, and seated herself, though in much perplexity of thought.
"I would speak to you," he said seriously, standing beside her, "of one you take an interest in."
"Mary Burns!" she cried. "Oh! pray be seated, and tell me of her. I went to the cottage at six this morning, but it was vacant."
"Did you, indeed!" he exclaimed, gazing in deep admiration upon the lovely face raised to his in confidence and innocence. "I wish I had divined that; how very good you are, Miss Dalzell!—this will much gratify poor Mary, she is so crushed and bowed down."
"Oh! do not say I am good; 'tis a sacred duty we owe a distressed fellow creature. We should not trample upon the fallen, lest they rise against us, and themselves in bitterness: where is she, Mr. Tremenhere?"
But Tremenhere's thoughts had changed their current; might he not be pardoned for seeking a motive to interest in his fate that young heart? Within the last half hour he had been searching the haunts of memory, and she had given him back a sunny day, ten long years gone by.
"It is a great tax on a memory so young as yours, Miss Dalzell," he said, without having even heard her question, "to ask it to look back ten years; can you recall the time when you were seven years of age?"
"Oh, well!" she answered unhesitatingly, as if she had known him all the intervening space between that, and the present. "I had never quitted home then, since when, I have been much at Loughton, with my cousin Dora; but I remember that happy time well. I was a very, very joyous child. They say, those kind of children know much and early trouble; but I don't believe that—do you?"
"Heaven keep you from it!" he energetically said, "Iwas averyhappy boy."
Minnie looked up in his handsome face, and her bright blue eyes clouded over—"Poor Miles Tremenhere!" she thought.
"You used to ride," he continued, "on a pretty grey pony, and a large dog always followed it."
"Yes!" she answered amazed; "and old Thomas, my uncle's coachman, walked beside me; but how do you know this, Mr. Tremenhere?"
"One day," he replied, "a young man's horse ran away with him, in the long lane skirting your grounds at Gatestone, and upset the grey pony and its pretty burthen. As soon as he recovered the command of his horse, he returned and found the little girl, not hurt, but very much frightened; so he dismounted and took the pretty child on his knee, and her little arms clung round his neck, as she assured him she was not hurt. He often thought of that sweet girl, and her long flaxen curls; but somehow, he lost her recollection, amidst the waves of the troubled life he afterwards was doomed to. He only found it again, half an hour ago; then he again saw, as now he sees in Memory's magic glass, that sweet infant face, the little arms so confidently round his neck, and the kiss she gave him on both cheeks.Iwas that young man—maneven then,—you, that pretty loving child, Miss Dalzell."
Minnie was rosy red to her very brow as he spoke of that kiss; then with a native grace, all her own, she held out both her tiny hands, and all smiles as he grasped them, said—"Oh, Mr. Tremenhere! Ido rememberit; I am so delighted we have met before this sad time to you; it gives me a right to defend, and think well of you."
What would Mrs. Gillett have said, had she seen Miles's dark moustache pressed upon Minnie's lovely hands, in speechless gratitude?
"I don't know how it happened," he said, after a moment's silence; "but there was but little intimacy between our families.Icame frequently here, but then I rambled every where; moreover, I had, and have, a passion for my pencil, and strolled about the grounds, sketching every thing, I had so many favourite old trees and sites here."
"And do you sketch now? have you any of these? I should much like to see them."
"Yes, I sketch still, and, more than that, I paint, chisel my thoughts in marble—all."
"What a delicious pastime!" she cried, enthusiastically.
"'Tis more than that to me," he answered, and a cloud passed over his brow; "it isnowa profession to me—one ardently pursued, for a motive hallows it!"
"Your mother!" she uttered.
"Thank you, for that good, sympathetic thought, Miss Dalzell. I may freely speak to you—we are not strangers in soul—I feelthat. Yes; my mother—my good, pure, calumniated mother! I have vowed every energy of my life to one cause—the re-establishment of her fame. Only money can do it: I am poor: I have powerful and rich enemies to fight against; but patience, if wealth is to be gained, I will win it; and then there is not a corner of the wide world I will leave unsearched, till I prove her to all, what I know her to be. Every thought of my soul is in this good work."
"Oh, may Heaven prosper so pure a wish!" she cried. "Would that I were rich! I would say, Mr. Tremenhere, for the sake of a sister woman's fame, let me join you in this holy deed."
Minnie spoke in all the enthusiasm of her gentle, but energetic nature; and as she desired, so would she have done, had fortune willed it. Tremenhere's outcast heart was in fearful danger; had she sought through all Cupid's quiver for an arrow the most deadly, she could not have found one better, than this interest in his mother, to win Miles's affections. For some moments they did not speak; he felt that the weakness creeping over him must be checked. His cause was too sacred a one to be relinquished, like a second Marc Anthony's, for woman's love. And what Cleopatra could ever have ranked in power with Minnie Dalzell? He felt this, and changed the subject, telling her that Mary and her mother had that day quitted Yorkshire for London, to avoid persecution. It was a delicate subject to touch upon to Minnie, therefore he did so as lightly as possible; but not so much so but that she discovered, to her increased horror of him, that Marmaduke Burton had been Mary's betrayer. But time flew—it flies ever when we require its stay—it flies, carrying with it our joys and smiles; and oh, how it lingers over our tears! Bathed in them, its wings know no vigour or volition. Minnie would gladly have remained longer; but she knew her absence would shortly cause inquiry and search. Miles durst not solicit another meeting; for how excuse the request? What interests had they in common, now Mary was gone? Alas! none, which either might avow. Little as they were acquainted, it was a moment of regret to each, when, without a word asked of future hope, or promise given, Miles stepped through the window, in the now deepened shades of evening—almost night. He could but thank and bless her gentle heart, and say, how truly! that he never should forget her kindness and confidence,—that he probably, on the following day, should be far from Gatestone; but, at her request, he would send some sketches to Mrs. Gillett for her, in memory of their meeting; and one should be of their first one. Twice he turned to say good-bye; and the last time he lingered, and lingered, over the little white hand, on which the lip, though half in fear, fell at last; and he bade Heaven bless her, for his mother's sake. She watched his tall figure as he strode through the garden—then the night concealed him from her view—she crept to the window and listened, but the footsteps were lost on the turf; and here Mrs. Gillett turned the key in the door, and entered. Minnie turned hastily round.
"Is he gone?" asked the woman, in a whisper.
"Yes," uttered Minnie sadly. "Poor man—poor creature! Oh, Gillett, what a wicked man Marmaduke Burton is!"
"Is he? Oh! may be not—he thinks he's right; may be he is, may be he isn't—who can say?" Policy had stepped in again, her handmaiden. "One thing I'm very glad of, Miss Minnie, that Mr. Miles is an engaged man."
"Engaged!" cried the girl, surprised; "to whom?"
"I don't know, but he solemnly assured me he was, or else be sure I wouldn't have consented to his seeing you alone. People soon fall in love—I knowIdid with poor, dear Gillett; but I never knew it till he fell out of the apple-tree, and dessicated his shoulder. And I'm sure, when they strapped him down in the chair, to pull it back again, (it was sadly put out,) I felt in such an agonized state, as if vultures were feedin' on my vitals! Ah! that's true love, Miss Minnie—I hope you may never know how sharp its tooth is, for it gnaws through every barricade, as one may say."
Minnie was in deep thought, thinking and wondering what sort of person Miles loved: Was she dark?—fair? and, above all, did she love himvery much? She thought—indeed, she was sure—that she should love such a man! In a very meditative mood, she entered the drawing-room.
Miles sped away across fields, once his, to the homely farmer's, (Weld,) where, we have said, he had taken up his abode. He, too, was in deep cogitation; his mind filled with thoughts of Minnie. With an artist's eye, he remembered every outline of her lovely face and form: there was something so seraphic in it: for a while it obliterated all bitterer memories—cousin, mother, all. Then, as he awoke from a day-dream of what mightpossiblyhave been, a double flood of indignation and hatred rushed through his heart towards Marmaduke. "I would have willingly shared all with him," he cried aloud, "so he had left me name, andherfame; with these I mightperhapshave won——" He paused. "Lady Dora her cousin, too! strange I should never have thought ofthat! But, then, 'tis ever so; we sit down contentedly under a happy influence of sunlight, unquestioning whether it will last, or wherefore it shines, whence it comes.Thatwould have been the maddest dream of any. Proud! oh, Juno herself fabled Juno not prouder! There were many things in that girl I could not fathom: Was she really so proud? or, Had her heart a softer feeling beneath that mantle? or, Was it merely woman's love of enchaining, which made her so gentle, yielding,almostloving, only to frown down upon the half-uttered hopes her manner gave birth to? I remember the day she was leaving; I am not a vain man, but assuredly there was a tear in her eye, and the hand, for the first time, touched mine—how cold her's was!Thatwas vanity. Her manners piqued me, her beauty dazzled; but I forgot her a week afterwards, and worked at the statue for which she had been my model, as calmly as if no line of it were drawn in vain imitation of her matchless grace. But I forgother!—could I forget Miss Dalzell?" He was silent for a long time, and walked onward in thought. "I will leave this place," he said at last, speaking aloud—that habit which denotes the lonely man—speaking aloud, not to forget thetoneof a human voice. "I will leave this, and then forget that sweet, fair face; I cannot allow my heart the luxury even of that thought. I require all its energies—it must be vigorous, Miles, vigorous, for it's worldly encounter, not enervated by love! Pshaw! leave love to boys—I am a man—a sad, stricken man—what have I to do with love? Why, my hair will be silvering soon, and how might I mingle such, with those glorious wreaths of golden shade, as she lay on my bosom! Away, away!" he cried, groaning deeply. "This is a devil's vision, to tempt me aside, from duty to a saint! What a beautiful thing nature is!" he continued, after a pause. "What act of art, however gorgeous her colouring, could compete with that one—so beautiful—so pure—so perfect—when Minnie Dalzell put her two fair hands in childish confidence in mine!" Again he walked on in silence, and as he entered Farmer Weld's door, he muttered, "I will leave this place to-morrow!"
The morrow rose. Does she in rising lay in her lap, and survey all the deeds of the day? or is it an act at eve, when retiring? In either case, how she must sigh over those of omission and commission, and regret that she should be the involuntary parent of them all! She rose, and with her Lady Dora, earlier than usual; she looked thoughtful, pale, and irresolute. Were these caused by Minnie—who had spent two good hours the previous night in her dressing-room, confiding to her cousinly ear all about Miles Tremenhere? Dora had listened, and Minnie was too little accustomed herself to conceal her feelings, to note the painful struggle the other had, to be in seeming quite calm. Much she argued with Minnie—mere cold, worldly motives, for not seeing Miles, for refusing to do soperemptorily, should he seek her; as if Minnie could do any thing in a peremptory manner, especially a thing calculated to wound this fallen man! Dora found her resolute, however, in one way—not to do so, but leave all to chance. He was going—she pitied him—always had done so since she heard his story. She hated Marmaduke Burton—always had—and would now, more than ever—she would. In vain Dora spoke of position; he was rich, Minnie had nothing, and her aunts were resolved she should settle near them. "Well, they cannot force me to marry at all," answered she; "so I'll die an old maid, or rather live one first, with dear aunt Dorcas."
But Dora could gain no promise about Miles Tremenhere.
"I may never seek him," said Minnie. "I'm not in love—oh! not at all; but, if wedomeet, I will hold out my hand if the squire and all the household are by to see! Has he not known me since I was seven years of age? and do you think I am going to turn away from a friend because he is poor? No, cousin dear, I wish I were a man, I'd fight for Miles Tremenhere—poor fellow!"
It is questionable whether, had she been one, she would have blushed so deeply, and spoken so enthusiastically, though her generous nature would have made her uphold the wronged. A handsome man is very dry fuel near a young lady's warm heart—her enthusiasm soon glows into a blaze.
Our readers must not suppose that Lady Dora Vaughan was in love with Miles Tremenhere. The outcast of society could never find a cherished home in a heart so proud as her's. True, we cannot always command our feelings; but we can check them. Her's towards him were, more bordering on hate than love—And why? because she hadnearlyloved, and her pride revolted so much against her weakness, that dislike towards the object had followed; still, her sensations were far from agreeable. Do as she might, she could not despise the man; she was bound to admire, and even while doing so, feel that it would be worse than any marriage with age or decrepitude (rank and wealth of course accompanying them,) to love this noble-hearted man, simply because the laws of society condemned him as an outcast, for his mother's supposed error. And this frightful fault of pride, was the bane of a host of good qualities and virtues in Lady Dora. It marred them all; making her seem worldly, cold, and heartless, whereas a good, simple-minded mother would have created a jewel of price in this girl. She had met Miles in Florence—met him merely as an artist, whose rising talent entitled him to portray her fine features for the admiration of posterity. As a very young man, when wealth and position were his, Miles had studied painting as an art to which inspiration called him. Sculpturing, too, he practised, but less than the other. Perhaps it was, next to his mother's wrongs, the severest blow of his unhappy fate, when he found himself driven from his studio at the manor-house, where his happiest hours had been spent. He had passed years of his life at different periods, since boyhood, in Italy, and studied with the best masters. When his troubles seemed to have quite overwhelmed him, after flinging back with scorn the hundred a year his base cousin dared offer him—as indeed he would have done thousands, from his, or any hand in charity—he had recourse to his talents for support. He returned to Italy; and now every energy of his genius was directed towards the acquirement of wealth, for the purpose we have shown. This was the man Lady Dora had sat to; and, though she did not admit the fact at Gatestone, she, but not her mother, had been perfectly aware that he was the once master of the manor-house. Even while under his pencil at Florence she had, struck by the name, sought his confidence, which he freely gave her—only from her mother was it withheld. Lady Dora never spoke of herself; imagining that every one must know her rank and family, she merely spoke of having been at Gatestone, and he inquired no farther. Under the mask with which pride concealed the working of her features and heart, Lady Dora had warm affections. Though she did not fully enter into the merits of Tremenhere's case, neither did she believe that, had his mother been innocent, he could be so much wronged; still she felt much sympathy for one brought up in ignorance, so many years, and driven to the bitter extremity, as she deemed it, of earning his existence; not knowing, that the bread we honestly earn, is made sweeter to the palate, than that which comes to us from parents and kindred—the cold household bread, baked from our birth for us! The depth of thought, intelligence, and something above any one she had ever met, made her involuntarily bow before the commanding nature of this man. Of his plans or purposes she knew nothing; merely supposing that, like hundreds of other artists, he was earning his living. It was not to a girl like this one, that the sacred motive of all his acts would be confided. Still it was impossible to be thrown into the society of Lady Dora, and not admire her deeply, especially a man like this; for he was too keen an observer—a scrutinizer of all—not to perceive that under her pride lay feeling and depth of soul. Insensibly this cold man began to watch for the days of his visits at the Palazzo Nuovo, whither he went to complete the portraits of herself, and the countess; but it was to his studio Lady Dora came, accompanied by a waiting-woman, and sometimes her mother, to mark the progress of her marble statue; and here, in his own home, his household gods around him, Miles became so perfectly himself—at ease, graceful, and courteous in manner, such as few could be, none surpass, that insensibly Lady Dora felt her heart question her pride as to the possibility of reconciliation; for with her they were two enemies at open war—still she was not in love. Surrounded by admirers—sought every where—chidden by her mother for her coldness—it was a bitter pang to her, the discovery that this painter-sculptor, for such he was, should give her heart an awakening start. At first she gave herself up to the enjoyment of a new sensation; then, when she discovered how dangerous the feeling might become, she drew back into her shell, which lay outwardly cold and empty; whereas within beat a warm heart. Tremenhere, however, guessed a part of the whole. There is a look, not to be mistaken, in the downcast lid which lowers over the traitor glance—there is the young blood, which will rush up rejoicing to the cheek. No caution can check this tide, no dam limit its flow. More than once her blush had made his heart question itself; and though that heart acknowledged a warmer feeling than towards a mere acquaintance, still it's joy was not full, the cup was not filled to overflowing, nor any thing resembling it. Lady Dora had passed a sleepless night after the conversation with Minnie. Minnie she had loved as a child—loved her now as a girl; moreover, she was a part of herself, her flesh and blood—degradation to one, would necessarily fall upon the other; and knowing, as she knew the fascination of Miles, even acting upon herself—the girl accustomed to society and adulation—she doubly dreaded it in the case of an unsophisticated girl like her cousin. Lady Dora, we have said, arose, it was about seven o'clock, a thing most unusual for her to do. She dressed herself without the attendance of her maid, and after a moment's thoughtful pause, put on a close straw-bonnet and shawl, and, opening her door gently, crept down-stairs. It will be remembered that Lady Dora had often been, as a child, a resident at Gatestone; consequently, under the unavoidable influence of Mrs. Gillett, the presiding goddess of the house. To her room, through the gardens, Lady Dora resolved to go, as if accidentally in an early walk, and implore her not to countenance in any way the inter-communication of Minnie and Tremenhere. Poor Lady Dora quite forgot, or disbelieved, that there is a communion of kindred spirits on earth, and that vain is all earthly power to separate them. Thinking on various things in deep cogitation, she skirted the gardens, passed through the shrubbery, and was on the point of entering the fruit-gardens leading to Mrs. Gillett's window, when she suddenly paused. Through an opening of the majestic trees in the long walk called the shrubbery, she saw in the distance a man's figure. He was slowly walking in the holly-field before alluded to. She drew near the hedge separating the grounds from this last named, and looked earnestly through the interstices of the hedge; he was evidently strolling about, on nothing especial bent. She paused in thought. "Was he, could he, be expecting any one? if so——Surely not Minnie? oh, no! she was too candid and retiring to deceive, or be guilty of such an act on so slight an acquaintance." These questions answered, her decision was soon made; it was far better to speak to him candidly, than through any servant attain her object. Her pride made her sufficiently self-relying, and placed her on too high a pedestal to fear, as a merely ordinary girl of her age might have done. Thus resolved, she returned on her footsteps, and walking hastily through the grounds, opened a small door leading to the fields, and without further hesitation proceeded straight towards the man, as matinal as herself; whom, at a glance, she had recognized, as Tremenhere. He, too, had passed a restless night—a thing to him of frequent occurrence; poor Miles had much to banish sleep from his pillow, at all times. He never stayed to woo Morpheus, but rose at once, however early it might be, in Aurora's reign. He had been up nearly two hours, and something impelled him to visit this path, remembering that one day's hour of waking, generally is succeeded by a parallel act, next morning. Minnie had been across these fields at six the previous day, and might she not do the like this? So much worth was his resolution to quit the spot, and see her no more. His back was however, now turned from Gatestone, and he sat upon a stile watching busy nature; he was too sad to sing, or he would have united his voice with the tone of the lark, and busy bee, as they rose above, or flew past him. No! he sat in thought. Lady Dora's light step was unheard; it might have been a flying hare's, 'twas so gently placed on the grass; a cough, however, startled him, and then a cold untrembling.
"Mr. Tremenhere, pardon my interruption of your reverie, but may I speak to you?"
"Good heavens! Lady Dora Vaughan!" and he was beside her.
"You naturally feel astonished at my being here, Mr. Tremenhere," she coldly said, after an obeisance of the body which placed a barrier like the Jura mountains between them—"precipitately steep." "But I was walking in the gardens, and perceiving you, have come without hesitation, well assured that you can place no false construction on the otherwise hazardous act."
"Lady Dora must be fully aware that presumption, or self-appreciationabovewhat I deserve, is not a fault of mine; what I am, I know—more, I never shall seek to be."
He was to the full as proud as herself in word and look; she felt his meaning, and thought they stoodequalin mental strength; but his was the real, sterling pride, grounded on uprightness of cause—hers, the worldly thing, born by accident of birth; but, like many unreal things, it looked as pure as the other to the eye.
"Believe me, Mr. Tremenhere, I do full justice to you in all things. I feel so much sympathy for a position so painful as yours, especially as it must be here, in this neighbourhood."
He merely bowed. She scarcely knew well how to enter upon the subject of Minnie; even to her undaunted mind, it was a most difficult one. "May I ask," she said at last, "without a seeming impertinence, foreign to my thought, whether your stay will be greatly prolonged here?"
He stood surprised; but, fixing his gaze upon her cold, impassive face, he read nothing to point a suspicion of any personal interest on her part.
"May I inquire your ladyship's motive for the question? I shall then, possibly, be better enabled to reply with brevity and decision to it, as I presume the dew still lying on the grass, induces you naturally, to abridge this visit, as much as possible, once its motive explained. I regret I cannot offer a more agreeable place of rest, than the grassy turf."
"Thank you, Mr. Tremenhere. I like the country—its walks and associations."
"Indeed! I thought I remembered other opinions in Florence; but we all are liable to change. Let us hope it may ever be for the better, as your decision for the sweet country and rural nature decidedly is."
"We will walk, if you please," she coldly replied, moving onwards. They had been standing near the stile: there was another awkward pause.
"Mr. Tremenhere," she said at length, hastily, "I was made acquainted last evening by my cousin, Miss Dalzell, with her extraordinary meeting with yourself. 'Tis of that I would speak."
"Extraordinary! Lady Dora—why extraordinary? I naturally wished to see an old acquaintance of boyhood, Mrs. Gillett. I have bad taste; but the humble have often charms for me beyond many more sought after. Then I had a message to give, which only Mrs. Gillett might be charged with; then—I confess my audacity towardsyourcousin, I had an earnest desire once more to behold Miss Dalzell, and thank her for her candidly expressed and warm sympathy with anowdisregarded man—one drooping, but notcrushed, Lady Dora."
The woman's heart softened at this tone; it was one of so much noble pride, and knowledge of his rights. Her voice was gentler as she said—
"Whatever your misfortunes may have been, or are at this moment, I most sincerely——"
He bowed, and interrupted her. "Your ladyship, I think, came here to speak on some subject more interesting than my wrongs, I believe; pardon me for reminding you of it."
She bit her lip. She saw that every word uttered in the pride of her heart at Florence, when he had almost dared to speak of love, was remembered against her.
"I thank you for recalling me to my immediate business in being here, Mr. Tremenhere. IknowI am speaking to a man of the highest honour."
"You only do me justice," he replied. "'Twas born with me frombothparents."
"I would speak to you of my cousin, Miss Dalzell, and implore you to quit this neighbourhood, or else avoid any further meeting with her." Lady Dora committed a grievous error. She should not have permitted such a thought to intrude upon her, as the possibility of her cousin degrading herself, as she deemed it would be, by any attachment to Tremenhere; still less should she have allowed him to imagine such a thing within the nature of probability, as Minnie ever returning any affection of his. She had opened a door in his heart, difficult to close again; certainlyshecould not accomplish it. Naturally he asked himself, "What had Miss Dalzell said of him, so much to alarm her cousin?" And through that open gate passed many sweet hopes into the lone man's heart.
"May I ask," he said hastily, "whether your ladyship comesfromMiss Dalzell thus requesting?"
"You cannot imagine, sir," and she drew her proud figure up, "that my cousin could be unwomanly enough to make so strange a request—implying fear of herself? No;Ifear for her, only because she is a warm-hearted girl. Her sympathies are awakened for you; her uncle and aunts have chosen otherwise for her; a marriage with you would be most distasteful to themon that account," she hastily added, to soften the real meaning of her heart, which she had nearly betrayed in her haste. She would not wilfully pain any one. "And by some unfortunate event you have met. It is paying you a compliment to say I fear for her."
"Payingmea compliment," he sternly replied, "at the expense of one whose memory I revere. Were I the acknowledged master of the manor-house, my visits as a suitor would not be less pleasing than those of my worthless cousin, Marmaduke Burton. As it is, Lady Dora Vaughan ought to know how little there is to be feared from myself in attaching any one; for, let my station be what it may, the heart knows of none, and for one worthy of its love, will fearlessly speak. Thus, then, there cannot really exist in your ladyship's mind the fear your words express. You haveprovedhow, in all confidence, I may be trusted near disengaged hearts; I will conclude some kinder motive impelled you to seek me to-day—some old scenes to recall to memory—togetherto speak some friendly word, which will bear repetition—something in short of the past; or a friend, to inquire about. All are well, I believe; were, when I left. Lord Randolph Gray perfectly recovered from his fall, though they say, from some hidden cause, sad at heart. Or it may be only an artistic visit this,—has your ladyship's portrait grown pale? Colours fade sometimes, however much we may have endeavoured to make them proof against so great sacrilege, to a lovely original. Shall I call, when in the neighbourhood of Loughton Castle, and retouch it? or will your ladyship send it to the artist's studio in town? I wait your commands."
All this was uttered in a tone ofbadinage, leaving her abashed and speechless. How she despised herself for having ever allowed a momentary weakness of heart at Florence, to leave a dream on that man's mind that she had almost loved him. How she hated him for having excited that affection, andnoweven forcing her to respect him. In her self-abasement, she would have rejoiced in provinghimbase, that she might banish him, as she then could, from her thoughts. And, as the last pain is ever keenest, she more than all else deplored her ill-advised morning walk. She felt she had injured her cause, and, resolving to abridge this meeting, also came to the decision of watching over Minnie, and imploring her Aunt Dorcas to reason with her. How people hurry on events by too much forethought, sometimes.
"I fear," she answered, after a moment's pause, stopping in her walk with a frigidity of manner which would have convinced many of their first error in supposing she had even dreamed of love. But Tremenhere was not a superficial observer. "I fear, Mr. Tremenhere, that you totally mistake my meaning and intention. Lest a greater error than the first should ensue, we will, if you please, stop here in our conversation. I trust I misjudge my cousin's warm heart, and that it will never lead her into an act which would deprive her of all her friend's sympathy. Nay, do not take any personal offence; but she is too unsophisticated to trust her own judgment in all things."
"May I without offence say," said he, completely changing the conversation, and smiling blandly, "that I regret much your ladyship's portrait should have been entrusted to my care under the influence of a more southern sky? Assuredly there can be nothing in nature to equal the beauty of the dazzling English complexion!" And he gazed respectfully, but admiringly on her glowing cheek. She certainly was beautiful at that moment; many emotions combined to heighten the colouring of the fresh morning air. Again she bit her lip. This man had beaten her; and not alone doing it, but he knew he had done so, and made her feel it. She merely bowed; and as they turned in their walk, finding herself near the door entering Gatestone shrubbery, stopped. Then for the first time her abased self-confidence made her dread lest any one should have seen her with him. What would be thought, said, reported? And in this unenviable state of mind, she took a cold, haughty leave of Tremenhere, who was smiling, and courteous in the extreme. As he replaced his hat, he turned away, and she hastily entered the grounds. Lady Dora almost forgot her dignity enough to hurry towards the house; perhaps she would quite have done so, had she seen Minnie concealed within the shrubs, with distended eyes, full of wonder, and a little regret, earnestly watching her. Poor girl! she did not know what to do or think. Her first movement had been to join Dora; then one of delicacy withheld her—the other evidently wished her visit unknown. Minnie had been matinal, too; and looking from her window before descending,notto seek Miles, but to walk in the fresh garden among dew and flowers, she saw Dora pass out. Deeming the other's motive like her own, she hastened her toilet, and just arrived in the shrubbery as Dora joined Miles at the stile. Him she knew at a glance; then her heart questioned, "What are they to each other?" She knew they had met. Had she been confiding her admiration of him to one who loved him? one perhaps beloved? She would ask Dora—no, she would wait till they were alone—Dora would surely speak of the morning's walk. So in this final decision Minnie paused, and, unseen by the other, followed her to the house, where they shortly after met at breakfast.
"Dora, you are late," said Minnie, as she entered the breakfast parlour.
"Yes," was the reply, "we sleep well in country air."
"She will tell me when we are alone," thought Minnie. And when that occurred, and the other kept silence of lip, and looked so thoughtful, Minnie felt sadly disappointed. Dora was not all candour, and her pure nature sickened at the worldly lesson. A first deception where we trusted,oftenmars a life; at all events, it taints life's current, and breeds suspicion—frequently, error, on our part.
Some one else had also seen Lady Dora—this was Aunt Sylvia. This busy, restless woman, had one decided affection—a love of gardening in all its branches. Her greatest crony after Dame Gillett, was John Gardener, as he had been surnamed, consequent upon his profession; for every thing is a profession now,—the humble trade eschews its name to become such, and professions, as they still are, are for the most part unmeaning words and falsehoods. Sylvia loved a garden, every atom of it,—kitchen, fruit, and flowers. She delighted in getting outspuddingin it, as she termed it—a corruption of spading, we presume; but it was her own coined word, and meant, digging, weeding, sowing, and planting, a composite word of much meaning. This morning, like many others, she was up, and busily inspecting some little green tips just bursting through the earth, which she pronounced "loves of things;" when raising her head, to push back the spectacles she had put on for a closer inspection of her budding flowers, she saw Lady Dora pass through the little door into the fields. Her niece had not perceived her; she was bent double nearly, and in a grass-coloured muslin, which made her appear, in the distance, like a heap of short, newly-mown turf on the lawn. Up she jumped at this vision. "My niece, Lady Dora!" she exclaimed—even inthoughtshe was "Lady Dora" to her—"where can she be going? I declare the young ladies of the present day, have the oddest manner of creeping about early in the morning; no good ever can come of it!" Thus soliloquizing, she stole after her, and, to her amazement, saw a man in the distance; who it was, she had not the slightest idea, not once dreaming of Tremenhere. Startled at the responsibility of so great a secret to herself alone, she hastened through the kitchen-garden to Mrs. Gillett's window, and rapping hastily until she summoned that familiar spirit to her aid, she imparted all her surprise to her no less astonished ear. Mrs. Gillett was literally lost in wonder; for she at once suspected that Tremenhere was the man, though she kept her suspicions to herself. This, then, was his engagement to which he had alluded; but how had it come about. She knew nothing about the portrait and Florence, or all would have seemed clear as noonday. In deep perplexity, with Sylvia's aid she mounted on a chair; and thus getting into the garden, accompanied her to the end of it, where they might, through the thick hedge on that side, see beyond. It was thus Minnie escaped seeing them, or their observing her.
"Can you imagine who the creature is?" (manshe meant,) Sylvia asked.
"He's come a purpose!" ejaculated Gillett, pursuing her own private thoughts, not heeding the other's question.
"Who has come on purpose?" asked Sylvia, impatiently.
"Why, he, miss—you know who I mean. Lauks-a-mercy me! here'll be a to do! Lauks-a-mercy! and my lady, too!"
"Good gracious, Mrs. Gillett! will you tell me what you mean? Will you tell me what you mean?—who's that man?"
"Why, Mr. Tremenhere, to be sure!" answered the other, amazed at the question. Sylvia was silent. In the bottom of her heart she felt something like pleasure; she hated all men,pour cause, as the French so impressively say. She hoped some one would shoot this one for his audacity—he deserved it; then, too, she even felt a something of jealousy towards Lady Ripley, for marrying at all when she remained single, and especially an earl. She had a sort of idea, that only a certain quantum of mankind was by fate allotted to each family, and that this one, by his exalted rank, had appropriated all, and bestowed it upon only one—else, why were she and Dorcas single? In this mood of mind, she rejoiced at any thing to lower Lady Ripley's pride, and resolved silently to watch the course of events, and be guided by them how to act. Accordingly she bound down Mrs. Gillett to profound secresy; and, having watched the two separate at the garden gate, she entered the house by the back-door, leaving her confidant more puzzled than ever what to do, finding herself the repository of so many opposite secrets, and fearing events, should they clash in any way. Sylvia noticed every turn in Dora's countenance at breakfast, and, without surprise, listened to a half-smothered sigh. All seemed as clear as day to her idea. There was a private communication existing between Miles and Lady Dora; that was why he had come so unexpectedly to the neighbourhood—she was the magnet. She was in a mood to hate all—rejoice at any annoyance to others; for it was a little wounding, after all the trouble she had taken to bring about events, to see her pet, Mr. Dalby, quietly resigning, as was the case, his pretensions to Minnie's hand. Dalby was a prudent man, and, seeing the girl's evident repugnance towards himself, wisely said, "I shall never succeed; if I pursue her, I shall lose my friend—if I give her up at this stage of the affair, her dislike is not so apparent to others, but that the squire should owe me a debt of gratitude for withdrawing in his favour—I'll choose the squire!" Accordingly he resigned, and was once more reinstated in Marmaduke Burton's favour as one in whom he could trust. It was a complete game of cross purposes with almost all, under cloak of which the ones most interested passed comparatively unnoticed. One thing Lady Dora had accomplished by her morning walk. Miles Tremenhere turned thoughtfully away, and the result of his cogitations was a determination to remain some short time longer at Farmer Weld's—he must do so—had he not promised Minnie a sketch of Gatestone, and the surrounding scenery? In common politeness he must remain; so "common politeness," like many other things, bore the burthen which of right belonged to another—"inclination." Some days passed away. Lady Ripley spoke of shortly leaving for town. Dora had never spoken of her walk to Minnie, and she, grieved and wounded at this reserve, firmly resisted all manœuvring on the other's part to discover her thoughts about Tremenhere. Marmaduke Burton was a constant visitor: he paid court to Lady Dora, in order (he thought) to pique Minnie. The fact was, Lady Dora's species of hatred towards Tremenhere made her, even though he could not see it, rejoice in showing favour to his rival cousin. This gave a zest—a sort of dreamy hope to his attentions; though in reality liking Minnie better, he would have preferred her proud, titled cousin: this was the man's meanness. Juvenal rejoiced, for both were his nieces, and, either way, his pet squire would be happily mated. Mr. Skaife was absent from the village for a while; so Dorcas looked on, in happy ignorance of much; whilst Sylvia, in the greatest error of any, held consultations with Mrs. Gillett, whose mind was nearly distracted by many confidences, and whose only consolation amidst all was, that, "most fortunately, Master Tremenhere didn't love Miss Minnie, so she was safe; and no blame could ever attach to her (Mrs. Gillett) for connivance in their meetings!"
Nearly two weeks passed thus, and Minnie sat alone in her own little room, where we first saw her; but the door is bolted, and she is sitting at the table in the centre of that room, on which several sketches in crayon are displayed. One little white hand supports her head, which is bent over these, and these represent, with a bold master-stroke, "Gatestone," seen from north, south, east, and west. Then there are sites and majestic trees, ruins and ivy-covered walls; all the most beautiful views on the banks of the Nidd are spread before her, over which her eyes wander; but the little white fingers close on one, and she raises it up, and looks almost tenderly upon it. 'Tis the sketch of a little girl on a pony, a large dog beside her, and leaning on the neck of the former animal is a tall young man. "Very like him even now," whispered she; "but what a little thing I was then! and to think he should have remembered it! Poor, dear Miles Tremenhere!" and she pressed the card-board to her lip. Was it the little girl's effigy she kissed? in truth, we fear it must be owned such was not the case. Moreover, our readers will perceive that Pity had strengthened her cause—he was "dear" as well as "poor" now. Lady Dora had much suffered from the various annoyances of her position: afraid to speak to Minnie, watching all, dreading all, and enraged with herself for a contradiction of feeling which would arise within her, despite every effort, when she thought of Miles. His pride had conquered her's: she had been foiled, and, in her discomfiture, she knew not where to seek comfort. Somehow, she could not banish him from her thoughts. She and her mother had left for a few days, on a visit near Ripon, and Gatestone had sunk into seeming peace. No one watched Minnie, she was in outward appearance as usual; but, while others planned for her, or permitted all care for the present to rest, she was weaving her own fate, and not as a child weaves, flowers: there were many thorns set within that band, which would bind her, perhaps. Minnie, unwatched, walked and rode as usual; in the latter case, with the fat old coachman as attendant, who had followed her even in the time of the grey pony. Poor, old, half-blind Thomas!—what knew he of love, or love's various ways? And when, one day, Minnie left him in charge of her black mare at a wayside house, after first dropping her at the ruins of an old castle, where she was going to wander a while and sketch, some four miles from home—how could he possibly guess that she would scarcely be seated on a moss-covered stone, before another human being would be beside her, her hand gently pressed in his? All this was very wrong, but the grey pony commenced it years before. Early associations accomplish more in half an hour than recent acquaintances in months: the childish heart takes an impression freely. Minnie had become the little, fair baby thing again, whilst conversing with Miles; and how or when they had met again, after the evening in Mrs. Gillett's room, matters little; they met accidentallyon her part, and, like a child, she held out her hands rejoicing; and it was not till more than one of these meetings had taken place, that she discovered