"I am now no more a 'child,'And there's a gulf 'twixt thee and me!"
"I am now no more a 'child,'And there's a gulf 'twixt thee and me!"
And in making that discovery, she also awoke to the fact in her case—a most unhappy one—that as a woman, she loved. To whom could she tell that love? there was but one, Dora, and her secresy had engendered coldness. In the candour of her heart she had asked Miles why Dora had sought him that morning? but he merely attributed it to accident, and Dora's silence, made her convinced some other motive had induced her to seek him. Of his love towards herself she had no assurance—no promise—no pledge. She met him this day because he asked her to do so, to sketch with, and talk to him. More than once she had been on the point of telling "dear aunt Dorcas" all—her heart abhorred deceit; but then, when next she met Miles, he implored her so earnestly not to do so, that her lips became sealed; besides, until this day the meetings had been accidental—though hoped for, by her, watched for, by him.
"Minnie Dalzell," he said, "think what I should be here, were I prevented from seeing you; here I must remain a while. I have some business which forces my stay, and none to speak with but Farmer Weld's family; though good, excellent people, yet think how lost I should be without 'Baby Minnie' and her sketch-book to superintend and correct?"
And "Baby Minnie" feeling no harm to herself, certainly no wrong to another—held her peace "for pity's sake." "Should he ever say any thing more—more tender," she added, after a pause in her soliloquy, "then I'll tell aunt Dorcas!" Was it policy on his part not to startle, till he had secured, his timid bird? or was it that he really did not love her, that kept him silent? A little of both. He was notquitesure of his own heart; it had been so bound up in the one great object of his life, that he feared lest he were incapable of loving Minnie as she should be loved; he was perfectly unselfish. Accustomed to deep suffering, he would rather have gone, leaving his love untold, and bearing even the charge, on her part, of being a mere trifler, than give her only a half affection. It was true his heart bounded when they met, and every moment in her absence was a thought of love for her. He walked alone, and conversed alone, to the spirit at his side, ever present with him; but he knew man's nature so completely under the control of his passions, that for her sake he resolved to prove his own heart before he offered it to her. If he felt heevercould change, or love another, then would he leave without awakening her to the knowledge of her own affection, which he saw, but looked upon as a fledgling, which, by some accident, might never take wing.
"Again here!" she said, on the day we have spoken of, in the old ruin. "Do you know this must terminate soon? Dora will return, and Mr. Skaife; and when he is here, Aunt Dorcas generally accompanies me, with him to escort us."
"But not riding. She is not a horsewoman, you say?"
"True; but Mr. Skaife, at her request, becomes my companion, then Dora will be with me every day."
"Do you mean, Miss Dalzell, that I am never to see you?" and something like a sigh escaped him.
"Oh! I hope not, indeed. I should feel grieved at so sad a termination to our many pleasant hours together; but what can be done to smooth our rugged path, for we cannot disguise from ourselves that a very rugged one lies between us?"
"I never forget that! Would to heaven I could remove it! Time may—will, I should say," he cried, with energy; "but, to accomplish that glorious end, I must toil—toil—toil, and far away from this place, and——" he was going to say "you," he substituted "Yorkshire."
"'Tis very hard that, when we have known one another from childhood——"
"You forget I was a mantheneven."
"Well, then," she continued, "frommychildhood, that we should be debarred from meeting freely; but why do you always correct me when I sayourchildhood? why are you so very anxious to make me remember that you are so much older than myself?"
"I say it, lestIshould forget it."
"How do you mean? Where would be the harm?"
He looked at her so deeply, that her eyes fell beneath his glance, and she blushed.
"Where is your sketch-book?" he hastily said, looking away from her glowing face; but his eyes went lingeringly to other things.
"You have it in your hand! What are you thinking of, Mi—, Mr. Tremenhere?" she hastily substituted.
The sketch-book fell from his hand, and he grasped hers involuntarily, and the deep, dark eye grew full of passion, as it fixed itself on her face. "Call me," he whispered, "by that half-uttered name, and I will tell you why I always recall to my memory our difference of age."
But she was silent, trembling, and incapable of speech.
"Dosay it; pray, utter it this once, and I will dare to believe you will not forget me—a poor, lonely man—when I go."
"I shall never forget you, Miles Tremenhere," she answered, gravely looking up. There was no blush or hesitation: there was only truth, and its ever accompanying fearlessness.
"Do you know, child," he exclaimed almost painfully, as he clasped her hand convulsively, "what you are doing this day? You are bending a strong, stern man, to womanly weakness; you are tearing every other thought from my heart, to engraft yourself there. Minnie, I have dreaded this moment; yet I had not the courage to fly you. I have said every day, 'To-morrow;' and that morrow has never come in which I could quit this neighbourhood."
"Hush!" she cried in alarm, looking round; "I heard a footstep." Her voice trembled with many emotions.
"There's no one here," he answered, scarcely glancing round. "It was perhaps my heart you heard beat; there are footfalls in that—those of remorse for my weakness—those of my mother's spirit deserting me; for I have swornonlyto think of her. And yet, Minnie, do you know, amidst all this wild passion to-day, which your word, your utterance of my name, has called forth, I am notsureI truly love you! Were I certain of that, nothing could ever reconcile me to a separation from you. I would strain every nerve of my soul to make you love me; and, loving thus, ask you to be mine—in toil and poverty perhaps—assured thatnothingcould surpass in misery, separation from each other."
"Is your heart more difficult for you to read, than mine is for myself?" she asked, looking up in child-like confidence. "Mine is an open page, Iknow——"
"Do not speak what youthinkyou read there, Minnie; hearts are deceitful things, like words in dead tongues: we must search well, to define the real signification of things written there. Love has a counterfeit—passion. If I knew mine, purely, truly yours, worthy of you—or if I knew you truly loved me—there is not that power on earth which should part us!"
"Surely," she whispered, in terror grasping his arm, "there is some one in that archway, yonder—I heard a step!"
"No, 'tis fancy," he replied, looking round; "my earnestness has startled you, poor child—poor child, indeed, if you loved me!—an outcast, a wanderer. Forget all we have been saying, Minnie," he added, sorrowfully; "for be sure of this, if wereallylove, or are to love, some great event will call that affection to light—prove and hallow it; for it will be based on esteem, else you had not trusted me so far, nor I, been so confident towards you. Come, let us leave this old ruin; you are terrified to-day. I will see you outside of its huge walls, and then we must part; once on your black mare, with old Thomas beside you, you will forget this. Let us go, child; why, you tremble still!" and, more with fatherly care than aught else, he drew her arm beneath his own, and they silently quitted the ruin.
"Now, will you doubt my perspicacity again, Formby?" cried Marmaduke Burton, stepping from beneath the dark archway, and dragging the half alive Juvenal after him. "I told you they met in secret. I wish we could have heard all they said."
"I'm horror-stricken!" shivered Juvenal, with genuine truthfulness. "What is to be done with her?"
"Lock her up! we'll soon hunt him out of this neighbourhood. Come out through this side-passage, my buggy's there; they must not know we heard them yet!"
Minnie returned home at a quick gallop. She felt as if pursued by some visionary being. Not once did she pause or look back, after the one gentle wave of her hand to Miles, who stood statue-like, watching her, beside the old ruin, as she passed. Even poor, old Thomas could not extract a word from her, she flew so quickly homewards. On alighting from "Jet," she hastened to her own room, and, throwing off the hat which bound her brows, sat down to think, and thus she sat some silent moments; then rising gently, as though she had held communing with some spirit, she crept quietly about, as she changed her riding-suit for her ordinary one. When this was accomplished, she opened her door, and stealing down the passage, rapped at her aunt Dorcas's room. "Come in," answered the quiet voice which ever fell soothingly on her ear, and Minnie was in an instant beside her. A few desultory remarks passed about her ride, where she had been, etc.; to these Minnie replied with evident constraint. Dorcas at last noticed her manner, and, looking up from a purse she was knitting, exclaimed, "My child, are you not well? Why do you seem so much oppressed?"
This was all the young heart required to unburthen itself. She flung her arms round her aunt's neck, and burst into tears. "Dear, dear aunt!" she sobbed; "forgive me—forgive Minnie—for deceiving you, though not for long, dear aunt."
"My child, what do you mean? Good heavens! what has occurred?" and she folded her arms around her.
"Aunt, I have wickedly deceived you," sobbed the girl still; "I—I——." She was unable to continue for her tears.
"Tell me, Minnie, my own dear child; I forgive you before knowing," exclaimed the gentle woman. "I am sure you exaggerate some slight fault; be calm, tell me all: what do you mean?"
For some moments Minnie could not summon courage to reply; then at last, by a supreme effort, she confessed her many accidental meetings with Miles Tremenhere at first, and this one by appointment.
"Dear Aunty," she whispered, "I know now how very wrong it has been; but I feared telling you, lest you should betray me to the others. And though I know you will be just, they would not perhaps, but by coercion, endeavour to force me to their wills; they have spoken of such things, and I couldn't bear that!"
Dorcas was pained beyond measure. Her surprise left her speechless; for the suspicions instilled into Juvenal's mind by Burton, were strangers to her. Sylvia, we have seen, was on a wrong road altogether; thus, she had been kept in complete ignorance. She durst scarcely question her niece: she feared lest some new sorrow might come to light—some positive engagement. In her alarm, she dreaded almost to hear that they were married. Minnie mistook her silence, and, clasping her again in her arms, besought her not to betray her. "I was so wretched in deceiving you," she cried; "but do not let my uncle, or aunt Sylvia, know; and oh, not Dora!" And she shuddered with a blind terror, not seeing the phantom of her fear: "They will lock me up, and be unkind, and harsh—I know they will; and then I will answer for nothing I may do!"
"Minnie, Minnie—my child—my own child, do not say such things—there," and she fondly kissed her; "be calm; you have done wrong, but no one shall know it, so you promise me never to meet him again without my knowledge."
"I promise all, aunt—my mother; for indeed you have been one to the motherless child. I never will conceal any thing again from you; and you won't tell Dora?"
"No one, Minnie; but why especially not Dora?"
Minnie looked down in thought. "It is not my secret," she said at last, looking in Dorcas's face; "but I will tell you, for I cannot understand it." And she related the morning's meeting between the two. Dorcas started! "Something of this Sylvia has hinted to me," she said; "how did she know it? I paid little attention to it, she fancies so many things."
"She must have been in the garden, too!" exclaimed Minnie. "It is a strange mystery; for Dora professes to hate him, and is always speaking against him to me."
"Beware, my child!" said her aunt, sadly; "men, they say, are deceitful. Take a lesson of what his father was; for we haveno proof, however we may believe his mother innocent. Then his cousin, Marmaduke Burton, is a wicked, bad man." She thought of Mary Burns. "Wickedness often takes root, as a canker in a family: this Miles Tremenhere——"
"Oh!" cried Minnie, with a glowing face, "do not say he is a bad man, dear aunt, for my sake;" and she grasped her hand, and the eye filled with the tears of a noble soul defending an oppressed person: "he is all goodness—worth. Think to what he has devoted himself; but you do not know all." And here the quick tongue depicted all his wrongs—his labour of duty and love, for his mother's sake.
Dorcas sighed deeply. "Minnie," she said, "you love this man. Oh! promise me to see him no more. If really he love you, he will struggle for a good purposealone. I will see him, and should he prove himself hereafter worthy of you, you are a mere child; well, you can wait for the proof of his affection, in his constancy."
Much more was said. Dorcas was lost in perplexity how to act for the best; she, the ignorant woman in all the affairs of the heart. One thing she promised, to see and calmly listen to Tremenhere; she was too truly just a woman to mar Minnie's happiness for any whim of her own. Much as she would have wished Skaife to be her niece's choice, she resolved to weigh all well; and if Tremenhere hereafter proved himself worthy of the girl, to support their affections in every way. Still she hoped it was a merely passing fancy, which would soon, in absence, be forgotten by both; for he must shortly leave—this Minnie had assured her—and for the present there was nothing to fear. In this mood she dismissed Minnie fondly; and, closing her door, sat down to ruminate on what was to be done. As a last resource, she determined to confide in the confidant of all, Mrs. Gillett, and ask her advice; she, as a matron, might be enabled to guide her more ignorant thoughts in such matters. But with the worthy housekeeper her comfort was small. We have said that this good woman made a point of never betraying the confidence of one person to another; nevertheless, she reserved to herself the satisfaction of casting forth on the troubled waters around her, her innuendoes, which, as an invariable rule, troubled them still more. Thus she left Dorcas in the most uncomfortable state of doubt and fear, above both of which feelings there predominated a dread that Miles Tremenhere was a villain, trifling, for some unworthy purpose, with the affections of both her nieces, whom, by strange chance, he had become acquainted with. While she sat with Mrs. Gillett, Minnie was above in her room, much happier and light-hearted for the confidence she had made to her "dear aunty," and full of love and faith in Tremenhere. Lady Ripley and her daughter returned from Ripon, and thus diversified many gloomy thoughts and fears, by their presence. Minnie and Dora warmly embraced. Minnie's first movement was all delight at seeing her cousin again; and Dora, the seemingly cold Dora, held her in her arms in one long embrace. But it was anawkwardkiss—in the midst of it Minnie thought of Tremenhere and her cousin! A kiss should be all self-absorbing; the moment you are sufficiently collected tothink, the embrace should cease, for the fire is extinct, and only ashes remain on the lip. Both girls simultaneously loosened their hold of one another, and turned away. Somehow, both actions arose from one cause—Miles. Dinner was over: Juvenal had been in a state of the greatest discomfort all the time; he ate little or nothing, snapped at every one. Dorcas was thoughtful; so was Minnie. Lady Ripley alone was in spirits; something had pleased her on her journey; she had learned that Lord Randolph Gray, whom she had mentally decided upon as Dora's husband, would shortly be in town. Dora was calm, though rather pensively disposed, when suddenly Sylvia awoke the bright blush in her cheek, and a displeased and amazed frown on her brow, by remarking, "Dora, you look paler than when you left us; I fear you have not taken your usually early walk before breakfast." And before any one could reply, asked, as if the previous sentence were allied to the latter question—"How far is it from Gatestone to Ripon?—I mean to——Court, where you were staying?"
"About ten miles, I think, are there not, Dora?" said Lady Ripley.
"A mere canter for a gentleman before breakfast," observed Sylvia, before the other could reply. Several looked embarrassed, for various reasons. Lady Dora was deeply confused, and evidently still more annoyed and amazed. Juvenal alone seemed a stranger to all conversation, only busy with his own thoughts. Now and then he looked at his watch, then at the door. At last, a horse's hoof sounded on the gravelled drive, outside the window; the bell rung, and, a few moments afterwards, Marmaduke Burton was ushered in. He looked paler than usual, and his hand trembled as he shook hands with all, but Minnie, who merely bowed; as she did so, he bit his lip, and a cold smile of triumph passed over his face. At that moment, the servant opened the door.
"If you please, sir," he said, addressing Burton, "the groom bade me say 'Viper' is not with your horse; and, as he always accompanies you, he thought you must have lost him."
"I have," answered the other, scowling malignantly; "he's dead!"
"Dead!" exclaimed Juvenal. "Why, you had him to-day!"
"True, Formby; never mind now—he's dead;" and he turned to Lady Dora, and made some commonplace remark.
Before we proceed further, we will step back to where Marmaduke Burton quitted the manor-house that evening, followed by his dog, in the good guardianship of which he had much faith. Juvenal had consulted with him on the best plan to be pursued as regarded Minnie; and it had been decided upon, that Marmaduke should drop in, as if accidentally, in the evening, and that then her uncle should, thus fortified, lecture her before "a friend of the family," on her great imprudence. This was the very worst plan which could have been adopted with a girl of her spirit. Any thing just, might have been accomplished by kindness; but bad management, and too many to order and control, had deteriorated the character of an else perfect creature. Minnie was a little headstrong and wilful, having too much good sense blindly to submit to injustice. Burton anticipated the results: he really loved her as much as he could love; he thought, by judiciously taking her part, to win her gratitude—a great step, when he saw her every feeling went against him; and, should she be resolute in her rejection, from want of affection, or even toleration of him, perhaps a feeling of shame to know, that he might blight her good name elsewhere, by speaking of her secret meetings with Miles, might weigh with her prudence. Any thing, so he gained her, now more than ever, for he no longer could doubt a mutual attachment, though, perhaps, not very firmly knit, between her and his cousin. Thus ruminating, he quitted home on a bright summer's evening. The manor-house was about three miles, by the road, from Gatestone. His horse's rein was on its neck, his dog at the animal's heels, when suddenly a man, in a turning in the road, stood before him. One glance was sufficient for Marmaduke. Had he dared, he would have turned hastily homewards again; something like shame withheld him.
"Stop!" cried Miles, calmly standing before his horse's head, and grasping the rein. "One word, cousin Marmaduke!"
"Unhand the rein!" exclaimed the other, "or I will spur the animal over you, fellow!"
"Pshaw!" said Miles, contemptuously, "you'll but unhorse yourself; I wish not to detain you long—a few brief words will suffice; do not be alarmed, I have come without a cudgel to-night, so hear me quietly."
"I swear to you!" cried Burton, though his voice slightly trembled with an alarm Miles ever inspired him with. "Unless you loosen your hold, and let me pass, I will do as I said—one prick of my rowel in his flank, and this good servant of mine will pass over you; but I do not wish to harm you."
"No; or else you would bid your familiar there at your side, attack me!"
Burton in his terror had forgotten Viper, who stood at his side, shewing his range of huge tusks, ready at a word to spring upon Miles, whom he knew for an enemy. Burton raised his hand in signal.
"Stop him!" cried Miles, still grasping the horse firmly. "I would not kill the brave brute, but I tell you I am prepared to do so—for hear me you shall. I mean no violence, I have never interfered with you, save when your coward acts obliged me; leave me in peace, and I will not war with you, except on our day of retribution,for it will come—but I have something to say to you to-day——"
Before he could complete the sentence, at a quiet signal from his master, Viper flew at his throat; at the same moment, Marmaduke gave the rowel into the horse's flank, which sprang forward. This spring threw Viper back, or else the day had been Burton's in flight, for the dog aimed at the other's throat. Miles was firm, and on his guard against treachery. The dog reeled with a blow from the horse's shoulder; Miles drew the rein with a jerk, which almost brought the animal on his haunches, and Marmaduke from his saddle. Quick as thought Miles drew a small pocket-pistol from his bosom, and just as Viper was making a second rush towards him, he shot him dead. Burton groaned with terror. The horse made a mad effort to escape; then, finding the strong grasp on his rein, stood still, trembling with fear.
"Poor brute!" said Miles, putting back his pistol and looking at the dead dog; "but 'tis better so, he might have been made to do some bad deed some day, in bad hands. I thought he would be made your protector again, so I came prepared. Now we are two—man to man—hear me."
Burton could scarcely keep his seat from a coward fear, thus quite alone with the man he had so much injured.
"To-day," continued Miles, "you were in the old ruin by the river's side—you and her uncle: I saw you, but she did not—for this, I abridged her stay. I did not know your companion, till I watched you creep forth, like a base hound as you are, ever working in secret and darkness; and now, hear me—I love that girl—love her, asIlove and hate, with all my soul, if all the powers of earth stood between us, she shall be mine, or none other's. She does not yet know all my feeling towards herself. I would not expend all the force of that affection in one interview. I garner it up, like my hatred for you; and now I tell you, that unsleeping as my hatred is, so is my love undying, and I will accomplish both! What I have to say to you is, do not come between her and me; you will not prevent, but you may cause her pain; and every hair of her fair head is counted in my heart to hang loving thoughts upon, and woe betide if the weight of one of these be lost to her in peace, through you. Now I have said all I wished to say, you may go; but stay," he added, again grasping the loosening rein, "remember, not by counsellings of others, darken one moment of her life, neither watch, report, nor seek her; yours she never will be, and I am here to avenge any grief to her; I have more friends at Gatestone, perhaps, than you think—now, go; and if you advise, let it be wisely done!" He dropped the rein, and Marmaduke, who had vainly looked about, stealthily, hoping for some friendly face, some one to witness against Miles for violence, but all was silent, putting spurs to his horse, reached Gatestone. No wonder, then, he looked pale with his cousin's words ringing in his ears; especially those, "I have more friends at Gatestone, perhaps, than you think." He was in a mood to utter every syllable in fear and trembling before the person he had started from home with the intention of confounding—namely, poor little Minnie. As he seated himself, he caught Juvenal's eye, and made a sign which he intended for one imploring silence. He was afraid of his shadow just then; but Juvenal was not one of very vivid intellect—he saw the sign—he had been awaiting the other's coming to speak. Thinking this the right moment, he commenced. Marmaduke coughed—all went as encouragement into Juvenal's ear; so, fixing his eyes on the thoughtful Minnie, he began in his peculiarly nasal twang to give utterance to a speech he had been conning over an hour before.
"We are all friends here, Marmaduke Burton. I look upon youalreadyas almost one of the family; therefore I choose you to be witness of my just resentment, and firm resolution to have things amended. I see you approve me," he added, catching Burton's grimace, and mistaking its meaning. "You have blamed me, my friend, for supineness; you shall see how resolute I can be!"
All looked up in amazement; Sylvia fixed her eyes on Dora, who began, even she, to feel uncomfortable. Such prefaces are like bats flying round a room in some old house; every one fears them, not knowing on whom they may alight. Minnie was most unconcerned of all, until her uncle, pitching his voice in its most tenor and unpleasant key, exclaimed—"Minnie Dalzell, I am addressing myself to you. This day I, and my worthy friend Burton, were in the old ruin, when you, forgetting all maiden modesty, left your horse and old Thomas, the coachman, to sit upon a heap of ruins with——"
"For mercy's sake, uncle, not before him!" almost shrieked Minnie, springing up in terror of something, she scarcely knew what, and glancing at Burton.
"Brother, brother!" cried Dorcas, grasping his arm, herself pale with anguish for her beloved niece; she knew Minnie better than any one else did, and dreaded the consequences of this ill-advised exposure, which would only harden a resolute mind, where reasoning and love might have soothed, and turned away from its will.
"But I will speak, Dorcas!" cried he. "I am advised to do so, and publicly, to show her what people will think of her. Minnie, I say, was sitting alone on a heap of ruins with that scoundrel, Miles Tremenhere, this worthy man's base-born cousin."
"Not base-born, uncle," cried Minnie, starting up again; she had dropped on her chair. At these words she forgot all but Miles's sacred love for his mother, who, by this slander of him, was doubly calumniated. "Not base-born, uncle, though that man say it. His mother was as pure as my own, or she had never given birth to so worthy a son!" then a sense of her shame, before so many, coming over her, she sank on her chair, and, covering her face, sobbed aloud. Dorcas clasped her in her arms; Dora, too, though trembling, pressed her hands, as she drew them from the face, which turned in maiden shame into Dorcas's neck.
"Brother," cried Sylvia, with self-satisfied scorn, "you always are discovering some wonder. You are wrong—quite wrong—as usual.IfMinnie were there, 'twas wrong; but others are more to blame than she, and, I make no doubt,couldexplain,if they would." She glanced angrily at Dora, who certainly was colouring, though without noticing Sylvia's personality. Lady Ripley looked amazement on all. Juvenal was completely thrown out; he had made up a complete discourse, questions, answers, prayers, confessions, and final forgiveness—for he loved Minnie dearly, in his little way. Marmaduke almost would have preferred the lane and Miles's society, to this scene. There, he knew in his heart, he had no actual violence to fear, for every day was not one of retributive justice, as when his cousin avenged poor Mary Burns's case; but here he dreaded some unseen trap, to draw him into something which would bring Miles in revenge down upon him.
"I ask you, Burton," cried the perplexed Juvenal, at length, "whether we did not discover Minnie and your worthless cousin together? and whether you did not suggest our following her, on the assurance that they frequently met in secret? Come, speak out, Burton—they won't believe me," whined the wretched man. Dora raised her fine eyes, and fixed them intently upon the traitor. Lady Ripley rose. "Why—why," stammered Burton, "this is a most unpleasant affair—a family one—I have no right to be here. I would rather not reply," and he too rose.
"Stay!" cried Lady Dora, looking very pale, but with much dignity, placing herself in his way. "Mr. Burton has been chosen, or been selected, most unadvisedly by my uncle, to hear accusations against my dear cousin Minnie, who is, I am certain, innocent of all wrong. I am called upon to confess the truth, now—thatIhave sought, met, and walked, early in the morning with Mr. Tremenhere. My motive for so doing I will answer to my mother, and Iknowhim to be incapable of wrong towards Minnie!"
"But, pardon me, Lady Dora!" exclaimed the amazed Burton, gaining courage from surprise. "You were assuredly not the person who met Mr. Tremenhere to-day."
"She wasn't here—she wasn't here!" cried the perplexed and heated Juvenal, almost in a fit from anxiety. "She only returned home before dinner."
Minnie tried to speak. "Hush!" exclaimed Dora, taking her hand. "Do not compromise yourself for me. You met him on my business.Iwill explain that satisfactorily, when I am bound so to do."
"I knew it—I knew it!" cried the delighted Sylvia, rejoicing in her own perspicacity.
"She is taking my fault on herself," sobbed Minnie, with streaming eyes. "I alone am to blame!"
"Can any one understand this, or them?" asked Juvenal, almost whining.
"Come, Lady Dora," said the mother, haughtily. "This requires explanation elsewhere," and she sailed away, followed by Dora, who stopped, however, first, and whispered softly to her cousin, as she embraced her. "Do not betray yourself.Ihave saved you this time—save yourselfbefore it be too late." Poor Minnie was too weak with weeping to reply; she could only press her hand. Dorcas too arose, and, taking her niece fondly round the waist, led her away, and the door closed on Marmaduke, Sylvia, and Juvenal, and these three decided that it would be well if Lady Dora left. There was a mystery no one could fathom. Sylvia then related Dora's morning walk, which certainly still further obscured the affair, and then she too left the room, to consult with Mrs. Gillett; and, when quite alone with Juvenal, no longer fearing traitors, Marmaduke related his meeting with his cousin—the threats—the acknowledgment of his love for Minnie, and thereupon these two worthies decided; one, that it would be best to prevent any more meetings by a little gentle coercion, and Juvenal at once resolved that she should be locked up!
"Hush!" said Dora, soothingly, some hours later, as she sat in Minnie's room beside her, holding a hand in her own. "All will be fair and bright soon, dear Minnie. Mr. Burton has been the mover in all this, to win you; I think that man loves you, in truth I do."
"And wouldyoucounsel me," cried the sobbing girl, "to marry so unworthy a creature?—this prying, mean, wicked man?"
Dora was silent a moment, in embarrassed thought; then she looked up and answered, though not at ease, evidently, "Why, he may seem many harsh things now; jealous of his cousin, he knows scarcely which way to act. I think you might be happy with him."
"With Marmaduke Burton!" she exclaimed, and her tears dried up in her starting eyes with wonder. "Marry him! I'd die sooner than even harbour the thought a moment! Oh, Dora! canyoucounsel me to so terrible a thing?"
"I do it, Minnie, to save you," her cousin replied, looking on the ground, and half-sighing as she spoke. "I dread your being led into some entanglement with—with—Mr. Tremenhere."
"And if I loved him, Dora, what then?"
"Oh, 'twould be a disgrace—an irretrievable, false step!" cried the other in agitation. "Think what he is! A man without name, position, character, perhaps—what do you know of him?"
"And what do you knowagainsthim, Dora?" asked Minnie, no longer sobbing, but in a low, firm voice.
"This—that, in my opinion, no honourable family should forget its dignity, and become allied to a blighted name, a name with the stain of——"
"Do not say that!" exclaimed her cousin, rising with energy, and pacing the room for an instant; then, as suddenly stopping before Dora, she continued, "Do not so harshly, and I am sure unjustly, judge a fellow-sister. 'Tis only in the hand of Time, the fate which may await ourselves; perhaps, calumnies we may suffer from—innocent now, innocent then, too. Dora, I love that man; I never knew how well, until I weighed it by my tears. I love him the deeper for every one I have shed this day for him!"
Dora was very pale, and did not reply.
Minnie continued: "Why do you hate him so much? Why did you seek him? Dora, dear Dora, tell me that!" She knelt before her cousin, on a stool at her feet, and, taking both hands, looked up in her face.
For some moments Dora was painfully silent. "No," she thought, "I will not tell her how weak I once was, in nearly loving him." This was the war within her. "I met him," she said at last, aloud, evading the first question, "because I feared you might love him. He bore the character, in Florence, of a reckless man—such a man as you, my innocent cousin, should not marry; I sought and begged him to quit this place and you!"
"Oh!" cried Minnie, blushing at the picture before her mind's eye, "he must have fancied I had spoken of him with love, and we had scarcely met then, except as strangers. I hope he does not think this now. How could you have sought him for such a motive as that?—how touch on so delicate a subject?"
"I feared nothing," answered Dora haughtily; "my own dignity prevented a false construction being placed upon what I said or did. You are a child in the ways of the world, and, in your innocence, might compromise yourself, family, all, with this nameless man. I do not say any thing personally against him, butourname has ever been without stain; do not you, Minnie, by a base alliance, stamp it with a reproach."
"Dora," and the girl spoke low and impressively, "I may never, perhaps, meet Miles Tremenhere again; I feel certain, if I do, that only trouble will arise from it, for all seem against him, poor fellow; but this believe, that, if I truly know myself—if that man love me, unless I become his wife, I never will marry another; for he is so surrounded in my heart by every noble sentiment, from his wrongs, and the holy mission he has taken upon himself, that none other could hold the place in my esteem which he does. Do you know, Dora, I thought you loved him, and for that reason I dreaded my own heart's inclination towards him; now I am assured you do not, I seek no longer to check my affections; for though I may never be his wife, there can be no error in my love, for I never shall marry another."
Dora could not reply. The brow contracted—the cheek slightly flushed as in scorn—and then she grew pale and calm. "It is useless speaking to you," she said, after a thoughtful pause; "not now, at least—to-morrow we will resume our conversation. I will leave you now, Minnie; I do not wish my mother to know I have been here—she would question me, and I wish this conversation unknown to her." She rose hastily, as if some newly-formed plan impelled her to do so. "Good-night, dear cousin, and pray, think of all I have said; 'tis fondly meant."
"I know that well, Dora," answered Minnie, tenderly embracing her. Dora seemed impatient to leave. Taking her taper in her hand, she hurried down the passage, and rapped gently at Aunt Dorcas's room-door; first assuring herself that Minnie's was closed. She remained for some time with Aunt Dorcas, and, briefly relating her unsuccessful suit with her cousin, implored Dorcas to act for her. Surely some motive more than deep interest in Minnie guided her, though possibly unknown to herself; for this anxiety and fear for consequences were far beyond the usual forethought of a young girl. Such, generally, see allcouleur de rosewhere two love, especially if young and handsome: futurity, interest, etc., they leave to older hearts, to cause heart-ache and care. The results were various next day, of all these plottings and consultations. The first was, Lady Ripley, to her daughter's surprise, sent her word early in the morning, by her maid, to prepare for their departure for town. Truth to say, Lady Ripley was delighted to find a good excuse for leaving Gatestone, where she had promised to remain a month longer. She was anxious to return to town on Lord Randolph Gray's account, as we have seen; and she made poor Minnie's imprudence the excuse. In vain Lady Dora endeavoured to make her change her determination, urging the necessity of some one to watch over Minnie. She felt terrified, agitated, beyond expression, at the thought of leaving; but all her efforts to remain were fruitless. Lady Ripleywouldgo; and she told Juvenal, that Minnie's misconduct obliged her to remove her innocent daughter from her influence, lesthername should become in any way compromised. This more than ever decided him on secluding Minnie in her room, to mark his disapprobation. And, as this conversation took place late the previous evening—in fact, while Dora was with Minnie—the latter was not a little overwhelmed with shame and indignation, when ordered next morning to "remain in her own room, until something should be decided about her." Sylvia was furious—all her jealousy of Lady Ripley broke forth in invectives against her intriguing daughter, as she termed Dora. Dora implored for Minnie; Dorcas argued the imprudence, not to say injustice, of so erroneous a step as thus degrading the girl in all eyes; it would make her lose all self-respect, and only engender recklessness. But Juvenal was like all fools—obstinate. Moreover, he was backed by Marmaduke Burton, himself too short-sighted to foresee the consequences which might ensue. He hoped by hypocritically expressing his regret in some manner, by letter or personally, as Juvenal promisedheshould see her, to win at least a kind feeling through gratitude. Narrow-minded persons reckon only naturally, to the extent of their powers of reasoning. Minnie read him as she would an open page, and despised him tenfold more, if possible, for his narrow policy. Dora, in consternation and regret, took leave of the weeping Minnie. Alas! those tears would soon be dried by the wrong course pursued with her, and only give birth to silent resolution and suspicion of all, even for awhile of her dearly loved aunt, Dorcas. Dora was gone; Sylvia in earnest consultation with Mrs. Gillett, both agreeing that the master of the house, and Minnie's guardian, to do as he willed with her—was an idiot; for had not Lady Dora acknowledged that she alone was in fault; and had they not both witnessed the lovers meeting? Poor Minnie had been selected by them as a go-between. It was dreadful; but Mrs. Gillett, with her usual caution, said but half what she really thought, and in an after scene with Juvenal, though she pleaded for Minnie's liberty, at the same time so impressed him with the idea of her condemnation of all but himself—and this without any great deceit on her part, for the last speaker always had most reason in Mrs. Gillett's mind—that he fearlessly gave her free permission to visit Minnie, how and when she pleased; indeed, the key of the rooms (for there was a small music one where she was in the habit of practising, adjoining her bedroom) was intrusted to the housekeeper's safe keeping. "I tell you, Mrs. Gillett," he said, "it will do her good—one excellent lesson like this will save the girl—she has grown very headstrong of late."
Poor, blind Juvenal; his excellent lesson was as a stepping-stone to many sorrows—a finger-post down a long dark lane hedged with care, like thorns! Dorcas, as usual, did the most sensible thing of any of them. She walked over quietly, and in a spirit of conciliation, to Farmer Weld's, where Tremenhere was staying, and, requesting an interview, was shown into the room where he sat, but not alone—to her great surprise Mr. Skaife was his companion. Tremenhere rose in surprise, and some slight confusion. Had the farmer himself been there, the entrance might have been accomplished with more difficulty; as it was, only a servant was in the outer hall (a sort of large, homely, perfect old English farm kitchen) as she entered, and, innocent of wrong, shewed her in to where the two sat. After the momentary movement of embarrassment, Tremenhere offered her a chair, and in his own quiet gentlemanly manner, expressed his pleasure, whatever the cause, at her visit. He knew she was Minnie's almost mother, and he regarded her accordingly. Skaife rose, and coming forward said, "You are doubtless surprised to meet me here, and especially before visiting Gatestone. But I returned late last night, and this morning called to see Mr. Tremenhere—whom I may call my friend, I believe—in an affair interesting to both of us."
"Do you mean Miss Dalzell?" exclaimed Dorcas in astonishment.
"Oh, no!" answered Skaife, looking equally amazed at this abrupt question—being, as he was, totally ignorant of the recent events; "I allude to that poor girl, Mary Burns, whom I have placed in safety from further insult, at the request of Mr. Tremenhere, as business prevented his leaving this neighbourhood himself."
"It is kindly and rightly done by both," said Dorcas, scarcely knowing what she should next say—then added, without farther consideration of how far it might be prudent to inform Tremenhere of all—"But I may be pardoned for regretting that Mr. Tremenhere should not have been occupied elsewhere, as the events of the past few days threaten more painful results, I fear, than he anticipated when engaging in them."
"Good heavens! what do you mean, madam?" he asked, starting up aghast. Skaife sat like one petrified; something painful was paralyzing his faculties; he could not speak at first. Tremenhere glanced at him, after the first exclamation had escaped him. "I beg pardon," he said, in agitation. "I should, perhaps, be an importunate witness. I will go," and he prepared to do so.
"No, stay; pray, remain, Mr. Skaife," cried Dorcas. "I am glad you are here: you may perhaps exert your influence as a clergyman, as well as a friend, with Mr. Tremenhere."
Women who have never loved overlook and ignore many penalties attached to such chains round the heart; they are like a felon's irons, resounding with every step we take, and galling somewhere, especially when but little hope is linked with them. Such was poor Skaife's case, and something now whispered him, that thatlittlewould soon be lost. Her next words confirmed this fear; for, neither of them answering her last speech, she continued hastily, as if resolved to utter all the worst at once, addressing herself to Miles—"You are perhaps not aware, Mr. Tremenhere, that your most imprudent—most unfortunate meetings of late, with Miss Dalzell, have been discovered, and reported to all, but first to her uncle and guardian—my brother."
"I am aware of that," he articulated through his set teeth.
Skaife felt cold at heart, and he felt, too, the blood deserting his cheek. For an instant a movement of indignation arose against Miles, as if he had deceived him; then the justice of the man triumphed, and bitter as his regret, his awakening regret, was—for he felt some painful revelation was about taking place—he exonerated the other from all wrong towards himself, ignorant as he was of his affection for Minnie, and, even if he had been acquainted with it, bound by no friendship or honour to him, to act otherwise than his inclinations dictated.
"All is known," continued Dorcas, in a sad tone; "and my heaviest grief is, that her uncle should have taken, I fear, so ill-advised a step as the one of coercion with Minnie."
"Coercion!" exclaimed both Miles and Skaife in a breath.
"Yes; he has determined upon keeping her confined to her room, until you, Mr. Tremenhere, shall have quitted the neighbourhood, as the only means of separating you; but I fear he has done a rash thing with a girl of Minnie's high spirit."
Tremenhere rose hastily from his seat, and grasped the arm of his chair, as if to subdue his feelings; he only ejaculated "Oh!" but there were volumes of thought in that one word, and the resolute compression of his stern lip, as he half-smiled. Dorcas was looking thoughtfully on the ground. Skaife's eyes were fixed upon Tremenhere's face; he read his fate there, if her affection equalled his, in intensity and firmness. Tremenhere caught his eye, and, smiling in friendly confidence, as seeming to say, "You shall know all," dropped silently into his chair.
"I have come," said Dorcas, more composedly, "to ask, to implore you, Mr. Tremenhere, by the friendship which no unfortunate circumstance has banished from my thoughts—to leave this place, and forget any foolish words which may have passed between you and Minnie. Believe me, all pursuit will be vain—her uncleneverwill consent."
Skaife looked anxiously for the reply. Tremenhere rose impetuously:—"Madam," he cried, "in what light am I to regard this visit, with which you have honoured me?—as a friendly one, or as one dictated by Mr. Formby?"
"I come at my own heart's dictating," she answered meekly, "to one whom I liked, even though a wayward, impetuous boy—to one whom I sincerely pity; but whom, nevertheless, I cannot countenance as a suitor to my niece."
"As all these I gladly welcome you, except when bearing the last prohibition," Tremenhere replied, as he took her hand gently, and pressed his lip upon it with deep respect. "And, as Miss Dalzell's much-loved aunt, I reverence you, dear madam; nevertheless, in all candour, I must not deceive you. If Miss Dalzell love me, as I now believe her to do, not all the uncles or guardians in the world, could keep her so carefully but that my love and perseverance should reach, to confirm her in her affection, by the assurance of mine, unalterably hers!"
"Unless I am in great error," said Skaife, after a moment's intense thought, "the acquaintance between yourself and Miss Dalzell is of very recent date?"
"It cannot be of many weeks," answered Dorcas, clinging to the hope that Skaife's words implied, of its being little matured.
"What signifies date in love?" cried Tremenhere. "The heart rejects all such. The brightest flowers are those blushing to light in half an hour's sunshine!"
"And they fade as soon!" ejaculated Dorcas. "Oh, pray, Mr. Tremenhere! relinquish this mad thought; or leave here for awhile: let time decide upon the durability of your affections."
"And leave her," he cried, with a scornful laugh, "to the tender mercies of a guardian, who, for so slight a seeming fault as half an hour passed in an old ruin, with one she knew from childhood, can dare to use violence towards her? Oh, no! Had you, dear madam, unadvisedly done so, I would plead to your good sense and justice; but with men I war as a man should. What I may do, I know not; but whilst Miss Dalzell is confined on my account, and unjustly treated, I am bound by honour, as well as love, to stay and defend her."
"Then you knew one another long since?" said Skaife, sadly. With this admission from Miles, he saw every hope fade for himself.
"Oh, yes!" answered the other, and the voice grew gentle with the thought of that fair child; "when yet she was but a baby girl—a fair, flaxen-haired little thing; and, as we talked of those days together, year after year like melting icebergs faded away, and we stood side by side again in confidence and affection, with the sun shining upon us!"
Skaife and Dorcas both simultaneously looked at each other; and the looks said, "All is over—'tis vain wrestling with fate!"
"Besides," continued Miles, as if reading their thoughts, "there is a fate in all things. Our meeting has been one; it was so pre-ordained."
"Do not let that urge you," said Skaife, in forlorn hope of influencing him. "All things are not ordained at our birth; we may turn many evils aside, though placed in our path, by decision; they are as temptations and stumbling-blocks—rush on heedlessly, and they overthrow us—avoid them, they will not follow, but, like daunted cowards, shrink back! This temptation may be to lure you from a noble thought!"
"By heavens! you do well to remind me of that; I had wellnigh overlooked it!" exclaimed Miles, standing up in all the majesty of his proud beauty. "This is a double incentive to win Miss Dalzell, to boldly stand on the ground her generosity has awarded me; in winning her, I shall struggle with redoubled energy toprovemyself what IknowI am! Thank you, Skaife—thank you; and you, dear madam, pray bear in mind, that whatever my acts may be, they shall be dictated in all true affection towards your niece, so that you, the generous, Christian woman towards myself, may approve me."
"'Tis vain urging you more, Mr. Tremenhere," she said, rising; "I can but now appeal to my niece's affection for me, and duty towards herself." She curtsied, and was turning away.
"Not thus," he cried, taking her hand. "Let the man be boy again, and take the hand in friendship once never refused him; think that all which may be done, will be done for Miss Dalzell's happiness. I do assure you I have never told her I loved her, nor has she confessed her's; but I am well-assured she has read mine, thoughmyhope may be too presumptuous. Let this comfort you, dear madam—Miss Dalzell holds the decision in her hands, it is not in mine!"
A faint hope rushed to Dorcas's heart. Skaife had none. He looked upon Miles, and felt shemustlove so noble-minded a man, whose soul sat upon his brow, to record its worth in open day.
The men shook hands, Skaife promising to return soon; and, escorted by him, Dorcas quitted the farm-house, leaving Tremenhere a prey to many wild thoughts and schemes.
This day, after a lengthened interview with Juvenal, to confirm him in his severity and watchfulness, Marmaduke Burton quitted the manor-house. Somehow he durst not remain after having told all to Juvenal. He remembered Miles's threats, and so he quitted for awhile, leaving Dalby to watch and report, as Juvenal also had promised to do; and, above all, keep the refractory Minnie under lock and key!
We have said that Minnie was in a state of the greatest consternation when made acquainted with her uncle's stern resolution of coercion. At first she was too much pained to think—all power of reasoning had given way before the shock; she felt overwhelmed with shame, shame of herself—that much to be dreaded feeling in a young girl's heart. In Minnie's, after the power of memory returned, it created a sense of deep degradation, followed by recklessness—two dangerous things with which to start in that new phase in existence—love; for the latter would make her care little for consequences, the former bid her oppressed heart cling with double affection to the bosom where her head might lie in peace, love, and a true appreciation of her worth, and indignation for her wrongs. She sat and reviewed all her conduct, and then her swelling heart revolted against her uncle's injustice; for, in point of fact, she had butoncemet Tremenhere by consent, on the fatal day in which they were discovered. We have seen their first acquaintance through Mr. Skaife; then in Mrs. Gillett's room; subsequently, Miles had watched for her, 'tis true: but she was innocent of all, except concealing these meetings—and to whom confide them, knowing well how unpopular he was? Once or twice he had met her even in her uncle's grounds, as she sat sketching; he took pleasure in directing her pencil. Then, when he proposed to sketch her favourite old ruin for her, if she would come, what harm could she see in the request? It was a fact, he ever seemed more, to her mind's eye, as a dear brother, friend, playfellow of childhood, than a man to be shunned for love's sake. Without a dream of harm, she went there; and it was that day, for the first time, that her heart awoke to its real state, and her own danger. We have seen how she flew, in confidence and love, to repose all in the bosom of her beloved aunt. We say all this, because we would plead Minnie's case with prudes and worldly-wise folks, who might shake their heads in grave reprehension, or accuse her of more error than, in honest truth, she was guilty of. All these scenes she reviewed in her quiet chamber; and then, the deep sense of wrong and degradation overwhelming her, she dropped on her knees, and, compressing her throbbing temples with her hands, wept long and bitterly. She was as a statue mourning over itself, as the base of its pedestal from which it had been rudely hurled in scorn and derision by some senseless mob. In this mood Dorcas visited her, and endeavoured to soothe, though even she blamed, her. Then Sylvia came, and inveighed against her brother's mad blindness; for, "Had not Dora confessed?—to be sure she had. Minnie was too good a girl to deceive any one, or compromise herself by meeting this Tremenhere!" Whereupon, Minnie, taking Dora's part, declared that she alone was to blame for all. Sylvia's anger arose at this "mock sentimentality," as she termed it. "It is positively absurd," she cried, "endeavouring to screen Dora! All, but my foolish brother, know that you are quite innocent in this affair. A pretty thing, indeed, to accuse yourself of so disgraceful, unpardonable, indelicate an act, as privately meeting any man!"
This certainly did not soothe her; but the crowning of all was when Juvenal entered, and, reproaching her as a disgrace to them all, declared she should not quit her room until she consented to marry Marmaduke! Oh! then Minnie's spirit rebelled; she paced the room when he was gone, and nothing scarcely could have been desperate enough to satisfy her exasperation at that moment, by way of revenge! Poor girl, revenge, like curses, sends its chickens home to roost! Thus passed the first day, and the second something like it, and then evening came. Juvenal, like other little bodies, was a great man in a brief temporary power; he was master of Gatestone, and resolved to show all that he was so. All this was Burton's counselling; consequently, when the second day came, and Minnie still was obdurate, and firmly refused even to see Marmaduke Burton, should he come, her uncle resolved to tighten her chains, and so he forbade even Dorcas or Sylvia to see her, only Dame Gillett and himself! Even the squire had confidence in the housekeeper, he had made her frequent presents, for which she had been very grateful; moreover, he knew she had favoured his suit with Minnie; he and Juvenal—indeed all were more or less ignorant of her great error about Miles's affections being placed on Lady Dora—and none knew that she had not quite cast from her regards the "comely boy" Tremenhere. She certainly urgedforMarmaduke, when she went to Minnie's room, and as certainly did she ignorantly add fresh fuel to feed her love for his cousin, by beguiling the time to the prisoner, relating how Master Miles had come last night again to her room, frightening her out of her wits for fear he should be seen, and how he was nearly mad himself to see Minnie—poor young man! "just to speak, of course, of Lady Dora; and she didn't think that lady had behaved well to him, and she pitied him from theverybottom of her heart," &c. &c. &c. Minnie was learning worldly caution; she saw Mrs. Gillett's error. All her protestations to her aunt Sylvia had been disregarded, in clearing her cousin of any imprudence, and Mrs. Gillett was Sylvia's echo in all. She at first, from sheer disheartenment, left this latter in her error, and then permitted her to remain in it, as she seemed resolved to do so. This, too, Tremenhere was doing, but with more active motives. Braving all risk the previous evening to see Mrs. Gillett, and speaking of his love, incline this woman to assist them to a meeting, provided Minnie would consent, he found, after five minutes' conversation, on what an erroneous path the housekeeper was walking, so he paused in his revelation of love. Might not this serve him better than confiding the truth? Men are generally less scrupulous than women in telling stories. Some rejoice in them; for nothing would Minnie utter one wilfully—she abhorred them as mean, and devil's snares too, ever leading somehow to sorrow; but Tremenhere only thought of how to accomplish a meeting with her. Mrs. Gillett's mistake might render it practicable; so he not only permitted her to think him in love, and beloved by Dora, but favoured the deception of judgment in every way! "Time will prove the real facts," he said to himself. "It cannot injure Lady Dora; Mrs. Gillett Iknowto be one to confide in fearlessly, so let it pass!—'tis a straw of hope."
We are not, reader, painting arara avisin Tremenhere; but a noble-hearted, generous man—headstrong, full of wild passions—but honourable in every dictate of his soul. Still, a mere mortal man, driven to desperation by various causes; and resolved, however it might be done, toseeMinnie, and know his fate from her own lips. If she loved him—then all would be clear before him. Mrs. Gillett, however, was too much alarmed then, to second any interview, but she gave him leave to come again in the dusk; no one was near, and she pitied the poor fellow! Whatrealwoman is deaf to a tale of love and locksmiths? if she can give nothing more, she awards her sincere sympathy. Mr. Tremenhere left, and stealthily crept through the garden and shrubbery, gaining the fields beyond unperceived. Next evening he again sallied forth towards his confidant's. It must not be supposed that Mrs. Gillett felt annoyed at being thus sought—far from it; it increased her consequence, giving herpower, which no one totally despises. She felt sometimes as much embarrassed with all these various plots and plans in hand, as a charioteer in a ring, driving a dozen wild horses at once. The only thing to prevent concussion, was the keeping them well in hand, with perfect self-possession; and these things she always kept in view. Besides, she was not wronging her master's confidence in her: he was in error, and she felt she should rather be obliging him, by removing all fear about Miss Minnie, by favouring the loves of this man and Lady Dora. On this evening, Tremenhere, at ten o'clock, was to bring her a letter for Minnie, which she faithfully promised and purposed giving to her; all relating to lady Dora, of course, understood. At a quarter to ten, Miles stole through the shrubbery gate, of which she had given him a key. It was a lovely starlight night in June—no moon to betray his wandering—just light enough to lead him onward in safety. He closed the gate, and stood for a moment looking around—then a lover's thought—a perfect lover's one, arose in his mind, to go and look at Minnie's window. We always like to know the aspect of such things, in such cases. He had learned from Minnie herself, which were her's. In a few moments he stood before them, on the soft turf, looking upwards. There was a light within, but the window was open—'twas a lattice; for Gatestone was not a modern built structure, but a good old family seat, like so many we meet with in the north of England, especially in Yorkshire. It was the sort of lattice window from which one could have fancied a dame in the olden time, waving a snowy scarf to a departing warrior! Before this comfortable-looking, homely window, hung a curtain. This side of the house was facing the south, and a wide-spreading vine mingled with the ivy on the wall, creeping around it. There are many cruel temptations in life, thrown in our path. Now Tremenhere had merely, lover-like, stolen round to look upon his "ladye's" window; but whilst gazing upwards at it, something against the wall attracted his attention. He drew nearer, cautiously. This temptation was a ladder, which John Gardener had left, after nailing the vines. In an instant, a thought—a desire, crept into Miles's heart; this was naturally, to make use of this ladder! It was an impulse—an irresistible one. Cautiously he moved it nearer Minnie's window, and crept half-way upwards. A voice struck on his ear!—then another!—the first was Juvenal's, the last Minnie's. This latter seemed scarcely able to articulate distinctly from emotion. Some would have mounted higher, and listened. Miles's conscience forbade this. Though tricking's all fair in love, he felt it would not be strictly honourable; so down he crept again. The man's voice rose—the woman's seemed scarcely a breath—then a door closed violently, and all was for a moment still within that chamber, or rather, the little music-room; for this it was. Then the voice rose higher, and the girl was sobbing in her solitude and affliction. Juvenal closed the door, locked it, and put the key in his pocket, sagely shaking his head as he did so. "She shall never quit that room till she consents to marry Burton!" he soliloquized, as he dropped step by step ploddingly down stairs, nodding as he did so. "Burton was quite right," he continued; "I have been too lenient—I'll be master now—it is just a little obstinacy; of course, I must know better than she can what's for her ultimate benefit. Her spirit will soon give in, and, as Burton says," (Juvenal was like the assinine tribe, he wouldn't move without a goad—Burton was his,) "she'll soon surrender; and as for that Tremenhere, why he will tire in a short time, when he finds it impossible to see her, and leave the neighbourhood. This good key in my pocket," here he smiled and nodded in perfect contentment and peace, "I defy him!" Asheuttered these last words, Tremenhere, regardless of every thing but poor sobbing Minnie, pushed aside the curtain, and darkened the casement before stepping in. She uttered a faint scream of terror.
"There you may scream!" cried Juvenal, who heard her; "but I shall not let you out. Was there ever so obstinate a girl? Could any one have believed it?"
"Minnie, dear Minnie!" whispered Tremenhere, stepping in. "For Heaven's sake, hush! 'tis I, Miles," and he clasped the hand of the terrified girl.
"Go—go!" she cried, releasing her hand, and retreating in breathless alarm, she scarcely knew why. "Go! this is madness; it will ruin me should they discover you. Oh! Mr. Tremenhere, pray, pray, leave me!"
"Mr. Tremenhere!" he said sadly. "Is it indeed only this? Oh! then I have done wrong in coming, and doubly wrong in causing you so much suffering, which I am powerless to alleviate by my devotedness!"
"You wrong me—you do wrong me,Miles!" she exclaimed, much agitated; "but I am so overwhelmed with my uncle's cruelty, I scarcely know what I say."
As the word "Miles" fell from her lips, he was at her side, her hands in both of his again, and his deep, loving eyes bent down upon the trembling girl. "Do not speak again, if it should be to unsay that kind word, Minnie," he whispered; "but let me look at you silent, and watch the emotion on your face, whilst I tell you all I now can say.Thatemotion will be my best answer. Minnie dear—dearest, I love you. I would not say these words when last we met; I feared lest I had mistaken a wilder, more evanescent feeling for this all-absorbing one; but our separation has proved me. I know myself. Had passion alone guided me, I should not be here;that, with me, is fleeting as a star seeking the sea; but my love—oh! this is as the sea itself. It may seem for a while to roll outwards—lost in the world, as wave in wave; but it will flow back to break upon its own shores, and go wherever I may, my love will ever return to cast itself at your feet."
"And what can this love avail us, Miles?" she whispered timidly, fearful of saying too much. "We must part soon, and how may we ever hope to meet, with so many to oppose us?"
"Does this daunt you already?" he asked, smiling. "If you love me, I fear nothing; this assurance is all I ask. Think well, dear girl, before you reply; for I do not seek a mere confession of your heart's prompting affectionsnow. I ask you to ponder well, and say whether you are sure, Minnie, that above every man you ever may see, you can love me? whether, for my sake, you are willing, under all circumstances, to share my fate?"
"I have asked myself this, Miles," she said seriously, "before to-night; I need not pause to weigh my own affections; I never shall love any man as I love you."
"Minnie," he whispered, for he trembled with emotion as he drew her gently towards his supporting arm, "do not mistake your feelings, it would be destruction to me; for my every thought is united to you. Do not wreck them, as so many others have been wrecked in my sad fate. I am wrong," he added, more joyously. "If you love me truly, when our lives shall be one, O then, in that happiness I shall become another man, and doubly energetic in my appointed task, for your dear sake, to raise you where you should and shall be!"
"I don't know how it is, Miles," she said seriously, for it seemed as if the child had all departed, leaving a grave, thoughtful woman; "but I never thought of love, as they say most young girls do; it was rather distasteful to me, I heard so much about marriage until we met; and now, my love for you has so much of reverence with it, IknowI never could feel for another as I do for you."
"Darling," he whispered, smiling, "I don't half like that word 'reverence'—you must not feel too much of that, or I shall dread the disparity of our years as engendering fear, more than love: love, dear child, should be all-confiding, all-fearless, childish, and innocent."
"I do not fear you, Miles, believe me; but I love. I look upon you with so many combined feelings, as brother, father—allthose affections which I have never known, they seem to gather round you: how, then, can I do otherwise than reverence you?"
He was silent some moments; then, removing the arm which had clasped her waist, he took her hand in both of his, and said seriously—"My ideas, dearest, of what a wife should be, are perhaps more rigid than those of the many, and how that wife should be won. There was a time, long ago, I might perhaps, in the impetuosity of youth and prosperity, have urged you to fly with me.Now, I would not do so; for, Minnie, though loveat firstmay excuse all, there might come a time when the husband would reflect. I am a very jealous man; do not let this alarm you. You never would arouse it by act of yours, I feel assured; still, we are mortal. Some day I might remember how I had won you, if you outstepped the bounds of strict prudence, and this might raise the demon Suspicion in my mind. You see how candid I am!"
"I love you for it the better, Miles. Our love is not an ordinary one. In wedding you, I espouse your sacred duty, to work hand in hand with you, and urge you on, should a momentary lethargy overtake you. Such an engagement should not be lightly accepted; for, in marrying you, I marry a man of care, and heavy obligation."
"Dearest Minnie, now I have no further fear; so let us speak of our plans. I came to-night—'twas an impulse done without consideration, or I should not have been here—for your fame's sake, lest a discovery might be made. I will not come again; you must meet me elsewhere."
"How, Miles?" she asked, smiling in his face; "you forget I am a prisoner!"
"I think I can arrange it, with the connivance of Dame Gillett. She——" He had commenced this speech smiling; something, however, crossed his mind. So pure was Minnie in his thought, so pure would he keep her, that the idea of making her a party to his own little ruse with the housekeeper, pained him. No; he preferred the risk of that woman discovering the truth, rather than make Minnie do one thing, not clear as noonday,even had she consented, which probably she would not. "She," he said, correcting his first thought "likes me; I saw her last evening; she permits me again to play the boy, and creep through that pretty window, by which Minnie, too, has learned the way; I will induce her to smuggle you down there."
"Will she, do you think?" she asked joyously.
"I hope so, and now for another point, my darling girl. My wife must be boldly—manfully sought; secure of your love, I will ask your hand from your uncle."
"My uncle!" she exclaimed in terror. "He never will consent; he will be doubly severe with me, urged on, I know, by Marmaduke Burton."
"Confide in me, Minnie; this must be done. Let them not say of me, that I came only in secret, afraid of the light. I have formed no plans; only this first necessary act must be put in practice: let time decide the rest. It was the assurance of your more than passing love, that I required, before appealing to your relations. I do not doubt you now, so my path is clear before me!"
For some time longer he argued with her, before, in her terror, she could see the necessity of this active measure; but when he showed her how soon he should be obliged, by engagements elsewhere, to quit this neighbourhood, and leave her, these circumstances, coupled with the absence of Marmaduke Burton, induced her to give a trembling consent, on condition that nothing should be hinted about their having met since her incarceration. Time, which always flies when we are happy, warned them to separate, and yet, with all his stoicism, when he turned towards the window, his courage to leave her failed him. "I am weaker than I thought, Minnie," he whispered, clasping her to his bosom, and kissing the fair open brow, which blushed beneath his embrace; "for I know not how to leave you in the great uncertainty of our meeting again soon. What if I lost you!" and, at the thought, his strong frame trembled. "I feelthatwould make me more than a desperate man—a perfectly reckless one! Child, how is it you have made me love you so well? how have you brought life where every feeling seemed dead? Remember, Minnie, when they urge, or, possibly, endeavour to coerce your will—remember what you hold in your keeping, and be firm!"
Minnie, in woman's weakness, wept, where he prayed. Weeping and prayers are bad sponsors for an affection—they baptize it in sorrow! One more embrace, and yet his dark eyes, clouding in trouble, could scarcely withdraw from her uplifted face; he turned again and again, and when his hand quitted hers, and his foot descended the ladder, he felt a desolationneverfelt before, not even when name and home were lost to him!
While Miles was thus pursuing the love which had sprung up in his heart, amid so many weeds, one sweet choice flower, scattered there by accident; his cousin Marmaduke was staying in Lancashire with an old maiden aunt. All, that such are represented, when sketched by an unloving pencil, and there he received daily reports from Juvenal, of the progress of his suit by proxy with Minnie. We have said fear made him quit the manor-house. People, when they scheme, trace out a suppositious line over which all their personages pass in succession; and they are sadly perplexed, when, by some most unforeseen circumstance, they step out of the road. 'Tis like a railway carriage running off the line; it frequently upsets all the others. It had never entered into the calculation of either Marmaduke or Juvenal, that Miles could in any manner hold converse or communication with Minnie, still less, have the audacityopenlyto seek her. Great then was the consternation of both—for one knew it nearly as soon as the other—when a letter arrived for Juvenal, written in manliness and dignity, before which, both, though unacknowledged, bowed in respect; stating, that well assured nothing could change either his love for Minnie, or her's for himself, he wrote, imploring Juvenal to consent to their union. He (Miles) had assured himself of her unalterable affection, the stronger for the coercion to which they endeavoured to subject it; and he could but implore her uncle and guardian, to consider how far he was acting in love towards her, to oppose this; that assured as he was of his own legitimacy, he only wanted time to prove it, until when he felt convinced Minnie would be happier as an artist's wife; for such was the profession he had made choice of, than as mistress of thousands, if they were separated. He then apologized for a seeming vanity in speaking thus positively; but he only quoted the words of lips incapable of speaking untruthfully—hers. He had not wealth to offer; but an unblemished name—and this he would prove—love unbounded, and the best wealth in the world—that earned by those talents which are spirits' gifts, etc., etc. We said, great was the consternation this letter aroused. Every line was an enigma. How had they met? How communicated with one another? Evidently they had done so, recently. Juvenal rushed off with the letter to Minnie's room. She grew very pale—then she thought of Miles, and her heart strengthened itself—it leaned on his love, and grew strong and fearless. Unhesitatingly she confirmed all the letter said, adding more, "That she never would marry another. She could not in honour; for all her affections were his." But she obstinately refused to hint even how they had communicated with one another. And Juvenal could only rail, and declare, that "Now sheshouldmarry Burton, and that right soon." Thus saying, he double-locked the door, and hurried off to Mrs. Gillett. Even with this evidence she would not believe that Minnie was therealobject—'twas some trick! And she shook her head, as if she knew a great deal more than she gave utterance to. All this drove Juvenal nearly mad; like all persons of little mind, he was extremely curious; and this feeling predominated over even his annoyance at her firm refusal to marry Burton. He could not imagine how they had met. A ladder was the last means of communication he should have dreamed of. From Mrs. Gillett he flew to Sylvia, who joined in one common cause with him in perplexing her brains. Between them, they settled the blame somehow on Dorcas; for neither loved her—she was too unlike them. Sylvia blessed her own prudence, which had never inclined her to the love of any man! How easily we can abuse the thing which has never been offered to our acceptance! And here Juvenal committed the two most grievous errors he had yet been guilty of, in Minnie's case; he allowed Sylvia to visit her, who, by her harshness and reviling of Miles, Dorcas, and all whom the other loved or liked, only strengthened her love and resolution. Dorcas, who might have led her, was forbidden to have access; for Juvenal could be a tyrant when he pleased. The other error he committed, was by Burton's advice, leaving Tremenhere's letter unanswered—a contemptuous silence, which would raise a storm over his own head. This evening Tremenhere did not wander under Minnie's window, but went straight towards Mrs. Gillett's room, and in the beaten path, which lay in an unbroken line before his mind's eye, without hesitation he confessed to her, that her own error had induced his acquiescence about Lady Dora, that now, by no crooked ways, would he win his wife—for wife she should be; and he begged her to think of her young days, and of those when he was a favoured guest at Gatestone, now, driven hence for no fault of his own; and, in consideration of all these things, to procure him an interview with Minnie. She could easily arrange it, by bringing her to her room when all were at rest—for, by eleven o'clock, Gatestone was generally in profound repose—quiet, at all events. Mrs. Gillett was aghast at this confession. At first anger moved her; then her woman's kinder nature arose triumphant, and she consented for once—only once, to "do her best"—which meant, complete success, for she had the entire confidence of Juvenal, and keys of the prisoner's room. Mrs. Gillett was but a mere woman, though the oracle of so many; and, as she looked upon the tall handsome man pleading so earnestly before her, she could not resist him. She was not a woman to be bribed by money; power and flattering of her talents did much, however! It had been a day of great excitement to all; for Dorcas had sought Skaife, in his double capacity as friend and curate of the parish, and implored him to speak to and reason with her brother—shefearedallfrom his ill-advised conduct towards his niece. Skaife was manliness itself; he felt much the loss of Minnie. Nevertheless, he never had permitted hope to lead him much astray as regarded her affection for himself. Miles he liked—their hearts kindled towards one another; and now, with every wish to serve him, even at his own expense, he sought Juvenal. In vain, however, he urged the injustice of condemning Tremenhere even if the law had rejected him as heir to the manor-house, it was his parent's error, if really he were illegitimate.