"If," said Juvenal, in his shrillest tenor; "I tell you he is, and a scamp into the bargain!"
"Pardon me, Mr. Formby," said the other, mildly, "if I ask your authority? I have made diligent inquiry before undertaking this mediation between you; which, let me add, is not from any solicitation of his. I say, I have made diligent inquiry; and Mr. Tremenhere, as son and master, bore the highest character in the neighbourhood, and is now spoken of by many with tears of regret."
"If he were a respectable man," said the irate Juvenal, "why did he go so often from home, and live many months together abroad?"
"By his parents' wish, and with their full consent. He is an artist of great and rising fame; his studio, until destroyed at the manor-house, attested that, I understand."
"This proves what I say!" cried theliberal-minded Juvenal; "no gentleman would have turned painter; and it also proves he knew of his illegitimacy, and was providing against his fall from a false position."
Skaife bit his lip to keep down the angry reply. He came to conciliate. He said at last,—
"I cannot agree with you, Mr. Formby, but will not reply. I come now on a mission of peace, and for, I conscientiously believe, the benefit of all. Mr. Tremenhere is attached to Miss Dalzell—his affection is quite returned," (his voice trembled as he said this;) "it is for you to consider, as one loving her so well, how far you are acting kindly in blighting those affections. I should not think Miss Dalzell one to love lightly or unworthily. Think, too, to what extremities you may drive them?"
"I defy them—I defy them!" squealed the other; "I have her in safety—she shall marry Marmaduke Burton; and in proof, I purpose sending her to his aunt's care in Lancashire, where he is now staying."
Juvenal unwittingly let this escape him. Skaife started in amazement and agitation.
"Surely!" he cried, unable to control his emotion, "you do not seriously intend doing this? Pause awhile, and reflect, Mr. Formby, on your niece's sufferings so undeserved; for she was, at most, guilty only of a little pardonable imprudence. Mr. Tremenhere had known her as a child."
"I thought," replied Juvenal coarsely, "thatyouhad been a suitor yourself? All this seems very strange to me, and not at all clear. What do you hope for by giving her to another?" and he glanced suspiciously at him.
Skaife coloured deeply; and, taking his hat from the table, said with dignity, "I hope, Mr. Formby, for the approval of my own heart, in a cause which I, as a clergyman, condemn, one of unjust oppression—pardon me this intrusion!" He bowed quietly and quitted the room, leaving Juvenal abashed, angry, and more resolved, from sheer annoyance and petty spite, than ever. Skaife quitted in deep thought. He deemed it better not to inform Tremenhere of what had escaped Juvenal—namely, his intention of sending Minnie to Lancashire. It might not be true; it would perhaps urge him to some act of desperation. Even Skaife was ignorant of how the delinquents had met, which naturally made him more cautious, suspecting, and truly, that Tremenhere's honour was a safer barrier against his elopement with Minnie, than all her uncle's locks and keys. On the evening of these events, Miles, as we have said, sought Mrs. Gillett, whom, strange to say, no one suspected of being an accessory, favourable to Tremenhere and Minnie. The clock struck eleven, as the latter on tiptoe crept down the long passage after the trembling Mrs. Gillett, who was completely bewildered between the enormity of the deed she was committing, its responsibility, and her fear of being caught. However, they reached her room in safety, and not even her presence prevented Miles from clasping Minnie in his arms, as he called her by his favourite appellation, "My darling child!"
"Ay—child, child!" muttered Mrs. Gillett, shaking her head. "It's all very well, calling her that; but if you only loved her as one, we shouldn't be all of us in a peck of trouble!"
"Forgive me, dear Mrs. Gillett," said Minnie, holding out one hand to her, the other was clasped in Miles's, who looked down, all love and devotion, on her lovely, smiling face, which, child-like, was lit up with the present joy, forgetful of past or future care.
"Mrs. Gillett," he said, "you will be the first to laugh and rejoice, when you come with us to the Old Place yonder"—thus he always spoke of the manor-house; "for I tell you again,we shall return there in gladness!"
"Ah! well may it be so, Master Miles; but I cannot just see how that is to take place. He as is there, won't be so soon got out, and I shouldn't speak against him neither; he's been civil enough to me, and master wishes it; but there, Miss, don't; and there's been so much said one way and the t'other lately, that I'm conglomerated, and don't know what to say."
"Gillett, you're a good soul!" exclaimed the happy Miles.
"It's very well calling me so, but I don't know that I'm doing quite right; but there, Master Miles, I cannot forget when you were a boy, and used to come in at the window and steal my preserves, and laugh in my face when you'd done so; and I don't think you're as bad as they say; and though I do let you see her—poor, dear child!—don't go and steal her as you did my——Lauks-a-marcy! what's that?" she cried alarmed, changing her tone. The others started up in alarm. "Marciful luck! if it a'n't master's voice and step a-comin' here!" and she flitted about, wringing her hands in terror. There was a sofa in the room, and a large housekeeper's cupboard; this was whence Miles had often pilfered in olden times—well he knew it; it was the act of a moment, to draw Minnie in, and close the door. Mrs. Gillett dropped, more dead than alive, on the sofa as the door opened, and Juvenal cautiously peeped in, in his dressing-gown, and, with only his head to be seen, scanned every corner of the room.
"Hist, Gillett," he whispered, as the terrified woman stared at him, "it's only I. I've heard the strangest noises in the house—come, and search with me;" and he walked cautiously in. "I always take a strong cup of green tea the last thing going to bed," he whispered; "Mr. Burton said it was a good thing to make one wakeful, and so I find it; one cannot be too much so while that horrid man's in the neighbourhood. (Minnie clasped Miles's hand.) But there's one blessing—my niece won't be here much longer; I'll take her to Lancashire, to Miss Burton's, next week; I've decided upon that! How scared you look, Mrs. Gillett! Have you been disturbed, too? Good, faithful creature, that's why you are up so late! Come, and help me search!"
Mrs. Gillett was destined to be placed in embarrassing circumstances in her own room, as on a former occasion, so she was now afraid to move; the window was open—what if she went out with Juvenal, and Minnie should run away! Her blood ran cold at the thought. No, stay she must, and risk any thing her master might say. She looked up, the key was in the cupboard where the two were hidden—should Juvenal go there! Her agony shewed itself on her countenance, which the other at last noticed. "I have alarmed you," he said; "come, compose yourself; there is nothing wrong, I trust; only I assuredly heard footsteps passing by my door, then noises in the house."
"Lauk, Sir!" exclaimed the woman, though still trembling; "it was that green tea—it always gives one strange fancies."
"Well, maybe so, Gillett, but it will do no harm to search; but first let us shut down this window—it is not prudent to have it open so late, and that man in the neighbourhood."
"Marcy upon us!" she cried, impatiently, "one would really think, from all the fuss made, that Mr. Tremenhere was an evil spirit, master, and not a young man we all liked once."
Juvenal stopped suddenly, and stared at her; then, turning round, walked silently to the window and fastened it. His hand was stretched towards the cupboard door, when a sharp clanging sound on the floor startled him—he was any thing but brave; and the hour, the half-lighted room, and assuredly not least, the cup of green tea, made him nervous. He sprang round, "What was that?" he cried.
"I heard nothing," she responded sulkily; now her first alarm had a little subsided, a sort of dogged restlessness succeeded. Juvenal looked on the floor, but so superficially that he did not notice a key which had fallen from his pocket. "Come along!" he said, forgetting the cupboard, "let us search the house—stop," he cried, putting his hand in his pocket; "what have I done with the key of Miss Minnie's room? Oh! here it is," and he took one from the table. "I just peeped in as I came down—all was quite silent and secure there."
"That's my key, master!" exclaimed Mrs. Gillett.
"I beg your pardon, Gillett, I put it out of my hand when I came in," and he pocketed it; and, a little better than the last one, which had hung in the orifice, and thus fell out—Mrs. Gillett felt more reconciled now the window was fastened; so leaving her light, and following Juvenal, she quitted the room, locking the door carefully after her, and withdrawing the key. As she did so, the cupboard door opened, and Miles and his terrified companion stepped out.
"Minnie," he said "reckon to me to-night all the degradation I have felt; obliged to hide, for your sake, and that good woman's, like a thief. I am indeed thankful to Heaven that he did not find me—it would have crushed my heart."
"I will weigh it against my affection, dear Miles," she said, "and you will forget it."
"What could he mean," he asked, suddenly, "by speaking of your journey to Lancashire? Surely no such project is in view?"
"I have not heard of it, Miles; it must be one of my uncle's sudden fancies. He is always starting some unformed idea—oh! that could never be intended!" and involuntarily she clung to him with dread.
"May his good angel keep him from such thoughts, Minnie, dearest; for if he should seriously intend, then I will answer for no good resolution of mine resisting against so much wrong."
"What do you mean, Miles? Don't look so stern—you terrify me."
"Poor child!" he said tenderly, drawing her to a seat, "how you tremble. In truth, Minnie, our love has been set in sorrow—grown in care; well, it will be the stronger for it. Flowers are soon uprooted, weeds tenacious, and difficult to tear from the earth. Minnie, have you thought what we should do, if all gentle measures failed?"
"I have not dared to do so," she whispered.
"Neither have I until the last half-hour. Those words of your uncle distract my mind, and excite thoughts. What, Minnie, if they should thus seek to part us—what if force and tyranny be used? There would not always be a Mrs. Gillett, perhaps, to help us—what should we do?"
"Do not let us think of it, dear Miles, they never—my uncle would never act so towards me."
"Not of himself, perhaps; but he is in the hands of as dark-hearted a man as ever lived, Marmaduke Burton. Promise me one thing to-night, dear child—swear to me, that no power shall ever make you marry another."
"Miles, it needs no oath; even the thought is as little tangible as falling snow, which melts in the outstretched hand. I cannot even imagine the possibility of losing you."
"Thanks, darling—thanks, dear Minnie, for that assurance. Now will I wait patiently; work heart and soul to win the favour of your friends; defy fate and my worthless enemy; and, above all, be patient, and wait."
How often do we make excellent resolutions, which we think nothing can overthrow, and some mocking devil has already crumbled the rock on which we built them, to sand! A step was heard in the passage; they rose hastily, when Mrs. Gillett coughed, in signal of safety, as she turned the key outside. As Miles arose, his foot struck against something on the floor; he stooped, 'twas a key. A sudden thought, an impulse, urged him to conceal it, unseen even by Minnie. At that moment the housekeeper entered alone, and closing the door cautiously, locked it.
"Now," she cried, as she did so, "never again—no, never, will I have any thing to do with this affair; there's twice I have been nearly caught. No, never again!" and she dropped, really exhausted from emotion, into a chair.
"My dear Gillett," coaxed Minnie, putting a hand on her shoulder, "don't be angry; was it our fault that uncle came down? What shall we do without you?"
"You do not mean it—do you, Mrs. Gillett?" asked Miles, drawing a chair near her, and trying to catch the hand she drew pettishly away.
"Yes, but I do, though," she crossly answered; "and as for you, I really don't think you have behaved so well to me; you deceived me about Lady Dora, you——"
"You deceived yourself, dear Mrs. Gillett. Come, be just."
"Well, you didn't contradict me? No; I've been deceived, and nobody cares for me. Who would have thought of master coming sneaking down at this hour? drat his green tea!" and, as she spoke, she rose and began searching every where, in her pockets, and on the table, chairs, sofa—every place. Poor Minnie, half in despair, whispered Miles—"Don't say any more to-night; she is cross: I know her humour. Leave her to herself; it will be all right to-morrow."
"What are you whispering about, Miss Minnie?" cried the crabbed woman, turning towards where they stood, his hand clasping both hers. "Ugh!" she continued, twisting away again, "it's all very pleasant, love-making, I daresay. You don't care for me, or any thing else. I want to know where's the key?"
"What key?" asked the really innocent Minnie.
"What key? why, the one of your door, to be sure. Musn't I lock you up? and how are you to get in without the key?"
Miles bit his lip to conceal a smile; he was quite resolved, unless in a case of absolute necessity, to keep it—why? he had not asked himself. Neither he nor Minnie felt the least alarm; they were again like two children their trouble over, all smiles.
"Can't you help me to search for it?" cried the almost crying Mrs. Gillett; "it must be here somewheres."
A silent search commenced; Miles enjoyed it, scarcely answering to himself wherefore he felt so light-hearted. We often feel thus before care and grief. All at once Mrs. Gillett uttered a cry between a groan and a scream. "I have it—I have it!" she exclaimed, in agony. "It was mine master took off the table! Oh, marciful! what am I to do now? You're lost, Miss Minnie, if they find out that you have left your room; they'll send you off before next week to Lancashire! We're all lost—all of us! How are you to get in? you can't creep through the keyhole," and she flung herself on the sofa in complete prostration of all power of thought.
"Tell me," said Miles, pale as death, and now the serious, anxious man again, "is what you say true? Are they really going to send Minnie awaythere?"
"Well, there's no use disguising it. I thought I wouldn't tell you yet; sorrow comes soon enough. Yes it is all settled," and Mrs. Gillett was again her kind self. Poor Minnie began crying bitterly. Miles had been on the point of giving up the key; when he heard this, he again restored it to his pocket. He felt he might find friendly aid through it. "Minnie, dearest," he said, enclosing the crying girl in his arms, "don't weepyet, we have time before us. Trust to me, and my love neither will desert nor fail you. You shall never go there. This is a timenowto act, to meet force with the strength my great love for you gives me. Come, Minnie, cheer up; don't let me leave you in tears."
"Don't leave me!" she cried, clinging to him. "I have so strong a fear upon me."
He was trembling himself, and nearly overcome. By a great effort he recovered himself; for, had he followed his heart's promptings, she would have quitted all for him that night. He knew, he felt his power over her, and trembled for his own resolution.
"Oblige me, darling," he whispered, with quivering lips. "Return to your room, confide in my unsleeping watchfulness over you;you never shall go to Lancashire. In the last extremity, rely upon my being there to save—nowI cannot,willnot; I should say, to do so, I should have to reproach myself." She looked up, not knowing his meaning, in answer to what her prayer had seemed to implore, namely, flight. She did not know what she uttered, in her terror at the idea of separation.
"It is all very well bidding her go to her room," chimed in Mrs. Gillett; "but tell me how is it to be done?"
"Search," he answered, now perfectly calm, though pale. "You must have many keys—search, you will find one."
In a moment, the woman shook bunch after bunch out of basket, pocket, and cupboard. After a long and anxious examination, she selected three as "likely ones," and, armed with these, crept up-stairs alone, to try them first.
"Dearest," whispered he hurriedly, after she left the room, "there are things we must trust no one with—never name my visit to your room. I might, possibly, come again thus, but I will not; I would not have your fame endangered—oh, not even if by those visits I could win you! But do this: look from your window at eleven to-morrow night, and I will devise some means of communicating safely with you. I fear Gillett will serve us no more; the poor woman is alarmed at possible consequences."
"Hush! here she comes," ejaculated Minnie; and, as she spoke, the woman came hastily in: there was joy on her countenance.
"Come," she said, in a low tone, "I've found one; and, if they catch me at these tricks again, they may leave me in the lurch!" She was evidently addressing her thoughts to some invisible Fates. No entreaties could move her obdurate determination—she was firm.
Embarrassments chill the old heart, and quicken the young. The two parted, as such a parting would naturally be, in the uncertainty of soon meeting. Miles was turned out unceremoniously, first; and then the tearful Minnie was taken up to her prison; and Mrs. Gillett promised "to think it over, and see what could be done." And thus she left her to her reflections, which were any thing but cheering. Poor girl! had her mother lived, and been a good, sensible woman, the child would have been like a lovely parterre, rich in beautiful flowers, from among which the weeds had been judiciously eradicated. As it was, full of warm and generous affections, they had been badly directed by contrary interests. Her aunts and uncle all conceived, and justly, that they had an equal right to her regard, duty, and obedience. Most unfortunately, all pulled different ways. Juvenal and Sylvia wore her spirit by bad, peevish tempers; only Dorcas could have supplied a mother's place, and her power was almost neutralized by the other two. Thus, Minnie had grown up with an independence of mind not often met with at her age. She loved Dorcas dearly; but her keen perception made her perfectly alive to all the absurdity of Juvenal and Sylvia. Her heart had nursed up almost all its warmth of love, to cast the whole of it on one die—Tremenhere's faith and love. She had, fortunately, chosen a worthy object, and yet one unfitting herself in many ways.
He was impassioned, impetuous, jealous: one to exact all from her; and even then, when her soul lay bare before him, suspect that a warmer affection might be found there, if he but knew the talisman which would unlock the secret recesses of it. He had a want of confidence in himself, which would cause him many a bitter hour. Had she loved and married Skaife, her life would have been one of the most complete happiness this earth could have afforded. As it was, her whole soul was given to Tremenhere—he absorbed all. In the confidence of her young, childish heart, she could conceal no part of it from him: she loved like a slave, ready to obey him blindly in all things, unquestioning, undoubting. He was her master, before whom she crouched in perfect contempt of self, and hugged her chains. And this was the man they threatened to separate her from! Though the mortal woman wept at her oppression, the immortal soul laughed them to scorn!—theycould notmake her forget him!
The day following these events, Miles had a long interview with Skaife, to whom he had become deeply indebted in gratitude for his efforts in his favour. A sincere friendship had sprung up between them, yet not without some bitterness to Skaife, who could not yet eradicate Minnie's thought from his heart. Though graven there in bitterness, he sincerely wished to make her happy, and felt she would, in all human probability, be so with Tremenhere—loving him, and so well beloved. But even this desire of promoting her happiness, made him conscientiously refuse to accede to a solicitation of Tremenhere's, namely, to perform a private marriage between them. It will be seen this latter's resolutions were fading away before the probable trouble before them—thus it occurred. On leaving Minnie the evening they met, as we have seen, he walked homeward in deep thought; the more he reflected upon her threatened removal, the more he trembled for the result. He did not know her sufficiently well—he deemed that, like most girls, though all affection then, once removed—persecuted, threatened, coerced—her spirit would give way, and she, perhaps, become the wife of his cousin—Minnie, his Minnie! It was a spiritualized madness the thought; for he felt it would haunt him even in the grave—that nothing could throw a veil of oblivion over it. He had never spokenhalfhis passionate love to her—he feared lest, in giving vent to it, it might master and carry him away to some deed he afterwards should bitterly regret—such, for instance, as eloping with her. His ideas of women, were more than ordinarily rigid, in young men. He had thought and suffered so much on his mother's account, in whose case, though he did not for an instant suspect her virtue, still, he feared there had been some imprudence—some laxity in necessary caution, to have created this long, and as yet unavailing, search for proof of her marriage. He fancied it had been private, or by some minister not of legal ordination—he scarcely knew what to imagine. And yet, in the face of all this—driven by the fear of losing Minnie, he implored Skaife to marry them privately.
"I have yet one more effort to make," he said, "to gain her uncle's consent—if that fail me, then there will only be ourselves to rely upon."
"Knowing you as I do, even in this short space of time," answered Skaife, "let me implore youneverto lead her, however slightly, from the path of duty. I know—I am sure—it would rise in your heart against her, some day."
"I would not dream of it, except in an extreme case," said Tremenhere; "but if they take her away, what will my position then be?Thereshe will be under the eye of one—my cousin—who has the devil's cunning. They will act upon her heart in every way. Poor child!—what would she be in their hands?"
"And what would your feelings then be, were she privately your wife? How could you endure in absence all she would be made to suffer?"
"I should have a security, Skaife. They could not force her; and we could but acknowledge our union, even though before the time I myself should wish to do so. I would be again master of the house yonder, before I claimed her."
"You are too sanguine, I fear, in your hopes. I do not for an instant suspect your rights; but I do your power of proving them. There have been too wily persons at work for you ever to discover the lost clue. Seven years have passed, and, were Miss Dalzell your wife, could you patiently wait and labour as many more—perhaps even then without success—and leave her your unacknowledged wife?"
"Pshaw!" replied Tremenhere impatiently, "you argue like a man—a clergyman, bound to give good advice—and one who has never loved!"
He was quite ignorant that the other had ever been a suitor of Minnie's. Skaife looked fixedly at him—then, turning aside, choked down a sigh, and answered with seeming calmness—
"Not as a mere clergyman by profession—bound to throw in his advice on every occasion where there is an opportunity, for form's sake; but as a sincere friend to both. Tremenhere, I beseech you, think well on all you do respecting Miss Dalzell.Ibelieve her to possess strong affections, and far more strength of mind than you give her credit for."
"It may be so. I am sure she loves me now; but she is very young, and ignorant of the world. How could she be certain of resisting the threats and importunities of my enemies?"
"If so weak, how would she be able to pass through the world, and its many devious paths? How never swerve from the straight one? You wrong her; believe me, she is stronger than you imagine in soul and mind."
"Well, perhaps so—I hope so; but, as my wife,Ishould ever be there to sustain her."
"Not always, perhaps. Depend upon it, a woman never shows her true strength, of either virtue or forbearance, until she has to rely upon herselfalone. Much as I wish to oblige you, Tremenhere, my anxiety toserveboth, is greater. I cannot be a party to any secret marriage. Iknowit would not be for the happiness of either."
"Thank you, Skaife," answered the other, offering his hand in all candour of heart. "I know whatever you do, is conscientiously done; so now for my last hope. In peace, adieu!" And they parted.
Juvenal sat in the library, concocting a letter to his counsellor and friend, Burton, when the servant threw open the door, and announced "Mr. Tremenhere." Juvenal was not a very courageous man, more especially unsupported; the pen slid from his fingers, and he staggered to his feet. "Stop!" he cried to the servant, but the voice was so faint that the man did not hear it; then he made a sort of rush towards the bell, but catching the other's calm, contemptuous smile, he stopped irresolute. "Pardon me, Mr. Formby," said Miles quietly; "but I think this interview were as well between ourselves: I see you are about summoning witnesses."
"Pray, sir," asked Juvenal, forcing an appearance of calmness most foreign to his real state, "may I ask the motive of this intrusion?"
"One," answered the other, "which I think scarcely merits so harsh a term, Mr. Formby. I came to save you the trouble of answering a letter I sent, presuming that, as a gentleman, you purpose doing so, even though probably time has not permitted you to accomplish that intention yet." Tremenhere's indignation overcame his prudence, when he found himself in the presence of Minnie's persecutor.
"Do you come here to insult me, sir?" asked Juvenal, amazed at this tone and manner.
"Pardon me, Mr. Formby; no. I was led away by an excusable surprise at your want of courtesy towards one, with whom you were once on terms, at all events, of harmony; one, myself, who has never, by any act, forfeited his right to your good opinion."
Juvenal was dreadfully embarrassed. He did not like summoning an attendant to listen to perhaps a few unpleasant truths against himself; he felt Tremenhere's cause was the just one.
"Pray, sir," he said at last, "what do you call your unjustifiable pursuit of my niece, Miss Dalzell?"
"That is a recent crime in your eyes. I was alluding to a prejudice againstpoorMiles Tremenhere, who, as master of the manor-house, was permitted to style himself your acquaintance at least; but it is not of wrongs—ofpastwrongs—I come to speak. I come, Mr. Formby, to you, as Miss Dalzell's uncle and guardian, seeking an answer to my solicited permission to address her as a suitor."
"Your audacity surpasses all I ever heard of," cried Juvenal, bounding from his chair, into which he had dropped. "It more than surpasses all I have been told you were capable of."
"By my worthy cousin, but you are wrong. I come in no insolence of tone or manner, however your dislike may so construe them; but as gentleman to gentleman—suitor,acceptedsuitor by the lady, to solicit her hand from her guardian." He stood calm and dignified as he spoke; he had evidently set himself a task in this visit—one to go through, before more decided steps, but with little hope of success.
"My answer," said Juvenal, decidedly, though his tone was querulous and weak, "is—that nothing shall ever induce me to consent to Miss Dalzell's marriage with yourself!"
"May I ask your reasons?"
"I do not consider myself obliged to give any; one, however, I will accord you—the lady is engaged."
"Of that I am fully aware—irrevocably engaged."
"If you mean to yourself," cried Juvenal, his anger mastering his fear, "I tell you, I defy you—I forbid it. She shall never marry a nameless, unprincipled man like yourself—one who could attack my friend, Marmaduke Burton, in the ruffianly manner you have done."
"Hush!" said the other, advancing with a soft, calm step; "not a breath even against the dead. You term me a nameless man; that will be proved incorrect some day soon, I hope."
Juvenal shrunk back alarmed. "Keep back!" he cried, "or I will summon aid."
"Do not alarm yourself, Mr. Formby," said Tremenhere, retreating contemptuously. "I would not touch, still less harm, any one dear to, or allied to Miss Dalzell—rest well assured of that; for all I have done to Marmaduke Burton, I would do it again in my just indignation. Did he tell you all? Did he tell you of our first meeting in his apartment, when I chastised the cowardly cur for his base seduction of one almost a sister to me?"
"Hisseduction?" exclaimed Juvenal—"your's, you mean?"
"Mine!" ejaculated Miles, under his breath from surprise at this infamous charge. "Mine!—did he tell you this?"
"Tell me?—yes! and you know it to be true; he spoke of it with regret, and of your infatuation in guilt, in having taken the girl away to town, where she awaits your coming—and it is to your base arms you would take my innocent niece!"
"'Tis false—false as his own black heart!" thundered Miles, and the red blood mantled in his face, the eyes shot fire. "If this alone be the cause of yourjustdislike to me—believing this—if Iproveit false, may I then hope to win Miss Dalzell at your hands?"
In his heart, Juvenal did not believe this of Miles; he cared little who had been the seducer of Mary Burns, but it suited his purpose to think Miles guilty.
"You cannot prove your innocence," he said; but his uncertain glance shrank from the other's bold, steadfast one.
"I can, and will, if that be the only barrier!" exclaimed the hopeful man. "By the girl herself, Mr. Skaife, your sister Miss Dorcas Formby—by many."
"It could not alter my determination," stammered Juvenal. "I care little about proving, or disproving it, as either way, I should never consent to your marriage with my niece."
Miles's foot beat impatient time on the floor, on which his gaze was fixed, with the knitted brow above it. By an immense effort over himself, he at last looked up, in appearance composed. "I came resolved," he said, "to bear all, suffer any insult for her sake—I came to conciliate ifpossible; and now, once and again, Mr. Formby, I ask you to consent, or, if not that, give her her liberty; give me hope, and I will make a name to win her with, better than any mere birth could bring me; butthattoo, I feel, I shall regain, and triumph over my enemy. I will win wealth—all—only give me hope; you see I implore now, for both our sakes."
"Hope to you—liberty to her?" laughed Juvenal, ironically, encouraged by Miles's softened tone. "I tell you she shall regain her liberty as Marmaduke Burton's wife—only then."
"You are resolved?—take time to consider." Miles's voice was low and emphatic.
"I need no consideration," answered the excited man; "my mind is made-up, and my word pledged!" He felt in himself that Miles was too noble for him to have personal violence to dread at his hands—he spoke undauntedly.
"Then, hear me!" said Miles, striding close to him, and whispering hoarsely from intense feeling; "I, too, pledge you my word, that if you and all the powers of earth leagued against it, Minnie Dalzell shall be mine! Now, look to it. I have nothing now to restrain my impulse. I have offered you every honourable proposition that man could offer; she loves me—this I know; and war let it be between us, and the victory and Minnie mine! So, look to it! You have driven me to my own resources—do not hereafter blame either her or me!"
"I defy you!—you can do nothing!" shouted Juvenal, rushing to the bell, intending to order him out by a servant. Miles made no further reply, but, striding to the door, went forth as if the meeting had been one in all good fellowship. As he quitted the house, Juvenal stood petrified, gazing after him. But the tall figure strode on, and never once turned or hesitated.
"He cannot—he cannot approach her!" said Juvenal confidently. "I'll watch—Gillett shall watch; and next week I'll take her to Lancashire. No one but Burton shall know the day, or my plans: andthenwe can indeed defy him!" And the self-confident man sat down to finish his letter to Burton, resolved to mention Tremenhere's visit to no one else, unless questioned about it. Days passed, and nothing had occurred to arouse a suspicion in his mind that Miles was at work. He was not a man to suspect the under-current of a stream, smooth on the surface. He was planning, and another was watching. Even yet, Miles could not find resolution to urge Minnie to an extreme step; they had not met since the night in Mrs. Gillett's room, but they hadseeneach other. The age of romance will never quite expire, even in this one of matter-of-fact: while Love exists, he will summon his own regal court around him, where pure hearts are in his keeping, and their love-knots not gilded. Juvenal never dreamed of watchings and wooings in those later hours of the night, when even his green tea failed to keep him wakeful; and, in those hours, Tremenhere stood beneath Minnie's window, and a cord from a trembling hand was their telegraphic wire to speed their communications from one to another. No one had seen Tremenhere since the day he quitted Juvenal, who became impressed with the idea that he had quitted in despair; but the cleverer general was quietly watching events from Farmer Weld's, who was too true to him to betray his concealment to any one. Even Mrs. Gillett thought he had left, and blessed her stars, and every thing else of lucky influence, which had induced him to quit, for now her mind was at rest. Only Burton suspected the truth; he knew Miles's disposition too well, and, consequently, strongly urged Juvenal to bring Minnie off, at a moment's notice,at night; and this the other resolved to do. Dorcas had a long interview with Skaife, and a certain want of energy in her character was gently censured by him, for her leaving Minnie so long without even a line: "What can I do?" she asked, irresolute; "my brother will not let me see her; I am waiting quietly till his strange humour pass away."
"And meanwhile you leave Miss Dalzell under, I must say, an unwarrantable oppression, which will prey on her proud spirit, unsupported, uncomforted. She will unquestionably think herself deserted by all, and the consequences may be fatal."
Skaife would not say more, or betray Miles even by a hint. Dorcas, acting upon this advice, wrote to Minnie, and Mrs. Gillett bore it—but the missive came too late. The girl's heart had brooded so long in silence, and supposed neglect, which, as far as Dorcas was concerned, had been want of decision, and that energy which might have brought Juvenal to reason, for her every thought had been her niece's; but she resigned herself too quietly to her brother's prohibition of visits. Dorcas said to herself, "I'll wait patiently—his humour will change—Minnie knows I love her." When, however, we are in trouble, a littleassuranceof affectionate watching is very comforting—silence often breeds doubt—it did in Minnie's case. She was on one hand persecuted by Juvenal and Sylvia, and unsupported on the other; 'tis then not to be wondered at, if she threw all her confidence and affection on the one who so well returned her love—Tremenhere; and her aunt's letter fell cold, uncared for, from her hand, and the resolution to act for herself grew only stronger. While she was in this state, Tremenhere was silently watching all. When men are very much in love, they are very like the fabled bucket, through which every drop of water passed again as soon as drawn from the well. Juvenal had a pet groom—his right-hand man in all things—his factotum, and he certainly merited his master's confidence; but—he fell in love! and a sort of Montague and Capulet affair it was with a dairymaid at, and poor relation of, Farmer Weld's. This stout wench was in the confidence of her master, and a firm adherent of Tremenhere's, so she listened to the wooing of her lover, not from any persuasion of the little blind god, but simply to know all that was passing at Gatestone. It is not from evil propensities that servants always speak of their master's affairs, but because persons not gifted with imagination, speak everyday facts; thus groom Thomas, like the bucket in question, drew all from the well of his master's heart, to moisten the greedy clay of woman's curiosity; and, in return, he got chaff which blew away before the winds, of service to no one. Thomas, too, was very wise in his own conceit, and said to himself, "Poor gal, she's so much in love with me, she can't keep nothing to herself!" and he posted off to his master with accounts of letters received from Tremenhere from town, and, while he carried off his winnowings, Sally trudged home with many a good oat-cake at his expense. This continued about a week; and every night, owl-like, Miles crept forth, and Minnie's soft voice whispered "Good-night, dearest!" as she let down, and drew up their respective letters.
One day Sally returned from an evening walk with Thomas, in a state of much agitation; she learned from him that Mr. Dalby, the lawyer, was always now closeted with his master, and that Thomas had been sent in solemn secresy to Harrogate, to order a chaise and posters for the following evening at eight; and his master had told him to be sure and say nothing toanybodyabout it, especially not to Miss Formby, or Miss Dorcas, as he was going to take off Miss Dalzell to Lancashire at a minute's notice; so all must be prepared, and he, Thomas, ready to go with them—that a word in the house would ruin all!
"Lor'!" ejaculated the really astonished Sally.
"Ain't it fine?" said the man; "and won't Miss be taken by surprise? as master says it's very wrong of her to fly in his face, as she does—in coorse, he must know best what's good for her; and nobody sha'n't know it from me, I'll take precious care of that!" and he rubbed his hands, and winked knowingly.
"And don't Miss Minnie suspect, think ye?"
"Not she, nor nobody; it's all been done main clever, I can tell you; and as the shay drives round to the front door, Master and Mr. Dalby goes up and brings her down, and we postesses two posts, that there mayn't be no row in this part, 'cause she might kick up a to-do at the station, and Mr. Dalby goes part ways on the dicky with me!"
"Does he?" said Sally, colouring at this treachery. "He's quite given up young Miss himself, then?"
"Oh, yes! from all I hears, and I'm pretty 'cute, he and the squire be all in all; it's to Miss Burton's young miss be goin'." This latter speech was uttered in a whisper.
"Ah!" ejaculated Sally, in thought.
"What be 'e thinkin' on?" asked Thomas, pressing the arm which reposed on his own. "I guess you be thinkin' there won't be all this fuss when we marries," etc., etc., etc. Here the amorous swain rushed off into a maze of love's intricacies, little interesting to the reader, or indeed to Sally, who took the earliest opportunity of finding the silken cord, and getting out of it, leaving the cautious Thomas watching, in the twilight, her buxom figure as she sped homewards. Red and excited she entered the farm kitchen, and, flying up the stairs, tapped at a door, and then bounced in. Tremenhere sat there, and not less than her own, was his agitation, when she unloaded her budget; he thanked his faithful messenger for her vigilance, and after a consultation with the homely farmer, who was summoned to the room, this latter started off for Harrogate, to discover if really the chaise had been ordered, as reported. With some little manœuvring he found out, beyond a doubt, that it was a fact. What he then did—what they had mutually decided upon—will be shortly seen. To have carried off Minnie at that late hour would have been impracticable—How succeed? this was their first thought, but no posters could be obtained as relays; there would be no train to assist them so advanced in the night, for he could not see Minnie to convey the intelligence until nearly midnight. To fly, and be overtaken, were worse than all. Poor Miles paced his room in an agony of mind nothing can paint; until that supreme moment he did not know how dear Minnie was, all his energy seemed for a while crushed; he clenched his hands, and the thick, knotted veins swelled in his forehead, as the heaving breast sent the boiling blood to his brain. He cursed his own folly, his scruples for waiting so long, now all these had disappeared; present fears, future reflections on imprudence, all were cast aside: he only saw Minnie separated from himself, in Marmaduke's and her uncle's power, with Dalby to back them in villainy. He cared for nothing which might be said, he forgot all his mother's wrongs, from perhaps a want of strict prudence, (of error he never dreamed,) which had so long upheld him in a resolution to only winhiswife before all the world, and by all its most rigid laws of prudence and right. He sat down at last, with his watch clutched in his hand, counting the weary moments till he could visit Gatestone. A cold sweat hung on his brow, as he thought some unforeseen event, impossible to conquer, might mar all, and thus he sat, in the bitter agony of a lone heart, which, though it may find kind, sympathizing friends, finds not one to comprehend all its suffering—not one to speak as it would. As the weary hours crept by, he was worn almost to woman's weakness; for at a moment when he needed all to support himself in calmness, Farmer Weld, or perhaps Sally, would enter his room, or the farmer's good dame, and by their well-meant, but quiet reasoning, nearly drive his warm temperament frantic; it was not only one fear he had, but dozens came crowding around him, for all was cast on one chance. He could not say—"If this fail—well, to-morrow."
No, there was no morrow for him if the project crumbled to earth. She would be away under coercion and watchings, and these doubled, if they discovered any attempt of his, even though it should prove abortive. In this fearful state, he at last quitted the farm. The night air revived him, and he felt calm as he stopped under Minnie's window; more especially when her little white hand drew aside the curtain, and she looked forth.
The night passed—then succeeded morning—noon—and evening. Juvenal had been very busy all day. Nobody but Dalby, who was closeted with him, and the trusty Thomas, knew wherefore. The two first worthies had it all to themselves; for Sylvia felt piqued with her recreantprotégéfor preferring interest to love. Dorcas disliked him much. It therefore was not a very sociable dinner party that day at six, when the four sat down together. We will leave them in their monosyllabic conversation, spiced with occasional words of secret meaning between Juvenal and his guest, and go up-stairs with Mrs. Gillett, to Minnie's room, when she entered with the prisoner's dinner. The latter was sitting at a table; before her was a casket, out of which all the little treasures of her young life were taken, and spread on the table, and as she eyed them, her eyes were swimming in tears; yet she looked flushed, and nervous. When Gillett entered, she involuntarily sprang up, and turned pale, as in terror.
"Dear heart alive!" exclaimed the woman, "how very nervous you are, poor child! And so I told master to-day, and he has promised you shall soon be at liberty; so cheer up, there's a dear." She spoke very kindly; but Minnie looked fixedly at her, to read if she too were plotting against her. She was beginning that worst pain—suspicion of all. But poor Gillett was white as snow in this affair; and thus Minnie read her clear, kind look, and she stretched out her hand and clasped her's; and with the act, tears rolled down her cheek. Juvenal, by Dalby's advice, trusted no woman. This man had an instinctive dread and knowledge, that the female heart isgenerallytoo kind to unite in a wrong act, unless the possessor be unworthy her sex. Man acts without thought often, and consents without reflection, to a crooked deed of seeming uprightness. Perhaps woman's natural love of diving into mysteries makes her fathom all, andthenjudge for herself.
"Now, don't—there's a dear!" cried Mrs. Gillett, dropping on one knee, and taking Minnie's hand in both of her's; "don't cry. I hate to see you cry, Miss, indeed, I do; it always reminds me of your poor dear mamma; she used to sit and cry, so silent like, till she went after the captain."
"Don't talk of hernow, Gillett—my good Gillett!" whispered the girl, shuddering; "I've been looking at her picture—see, here it is." She took a miniature from the table, "And—and—don't you think she looks frowningly upon me? I have thought so all day."
"Lauk, dear! how can the picture change? There it is; and it can't look sweeter, nor crosser—poor, dear lady!—she never looked cross on any one."
"Don't speak of her!" cried Minnie, in agony, dropping her head on the woman's shoulder, and sobbing.
"I told your uncle how it would be," said the other, trying to soothe Minnie, as she would have done a child, by patting her back; "but come, look up, it will all go right soon, you'll get out; and now, Master Miles is gone (and I'm sure I'm glad of it) all will be as before, and——"
Minnie rose hastily, and stood looking at the woman, as if uncertain how to act; her tears were burning on her cheeks—her lips opened to speak. Then Miles's cautions came over her, and she turned away with a sigh. Mrs. Gillett rose, and, smoothing down her apron, began laying the table with perfect composure, and confidence that all would soon be well. Suddenly Minnie approached, and, grasping her arm, said, so wildly that the other herself stood transfixed, "Remember, Gillett—my good Gillett—whatever may happen, they drove me to it. Do not let them say all unchecked against me;—remind them how they locked me up—remind Aunt Dorcas how she left me, and did not insist upon seeing, to comfort me—remind them, that I only met Mr. Tremenhere once, wilfully, and that he had known me as a little child—do not forget all this, Gillett, but remind them often of it." And she burst into a passionate flood of tears, and turned away.
"Poor darling!" said the housekeeper, "they have been cruel; but it was not their faults—Master listens to them as he shouldn't listen to—Come, eat a bit of chicken—just a bit: I watched it cooking for you myself—do, there's a dear!" But all her coaxing was vain. "I'll come and sleep on the sofa in her room to-night," said Gillett to herself; "she's low and narvous, poor child!"
"What's that?" cried Minnie, stopping in her hurried walk round the room.
"Only the time, dear, striking; it's half-past six!"
"The old hall clock!" whispered the girl—"my mother's clock—I wonder if I shall ever hear it again after to-night! I hope I may—I hope to Heaven I may!" And she slid gently on her knees, and raised her hands upwards. Gillett stood looking on in amazement, not unmixed with deep emotion.
"Miss Minnie, dear, shall I stay, or go?" she whispered, touching her arm. Minnie started up.
"Go," she said, hurriedly, looking towards the door—"go, and don't tell any one I have been agitated, or crying. Let me be quiet a short time, and—and—Heaven bless you, dear Gillett, for all your kindness—Inevershall forget it!"
She threw her arms round the woman's neck, and kindly embraced her; then, opening the door, said hurriedly, "Now, go, dear Gillett, and leave me quiet awhile."
The simple woman, without the slightest suspicion of harm, quitted the room gently, and locked the door. Minnie stood one moment, with clasped hands, listening, then turning round, she seemed, by a great effort, to shake off all lethargy and doubt. Reverentially placing her mother's picture, and a gift of aunt Dorcas's, in her bosom, she drew from her pocket a key, and with hasty hands threw over her shoulders a shawl; then, putting on her bonnet, she stood one instant in deep thought—it was the final thought—one of war between resolution and doubt.
Near the old stile, in the holly-field, stood Miles Tremenhere. He was no longer the wild, excited man; a cold, stern resolution had replaced all other emotions. He stood there, resolvedto do, even now, by force, should other means fail. It had been in vain he toiled with his brain to arrange things otherwise: all had seemed to go against him, trains, posters—all, and here he was, expecting Minnie at seven, knowing that at eight she would leave with her uncle, if his scheme failed.
"But it will not," he said between his teeth; "she has the key; they will be at table, and she can better escape down the stairs now than earlier. Should shenotcome, I will go up boldly and tear her from their power!"
He was desperate enough then to have attempted it. His face was cold and damp with the dew of suspense, his eyes strained with watching the way she should come; he had become so acutely wakeful, that he felt he could have heard her cry for help even there; and as moment after moment passed, and the heavy church clock in the distance chimed a quarter past seven, he groaned aloud. "Only three quarters more, andtheywill be there for her. Minnie! oh, Minnie! if they tore you from me now, I should smile onanydeed to recover you! She does not come!"
He stood like a statue, only watching the way through the shrubbery. "I will go up and claim her," he cried at last, in desperation. "Hush! were those wheels?theirs, to complete their good work. Hush!" and he listened, while his heart audibly beat. A hand was on his arm, and a voice, weak and thrilling like a nestling bird's, whispered, "Miles, I am here—let us go—'tis late—I have been seen." With the first word and touch, a cry burst from him, and Minnie was in an embrace of iron. What force might tear her from it? Outside the hedge a chaise was waiting, and to this he almost carried the nearly fainting girl; they had not far to drive, but a few short miles at the pace of their good quadrupeds; and before the clock struck eight, Tremenhere's heart beat wildly with rejoicing, beside his run-away bride, flying at the rate of Gretna steam-power, and an express train, to the north. Eight o'clock struck, and with the last stroke wheels were heard creaking on the gravel at Gatestone.
"Now, Dalby," said Juvenal, "the time's come, mind you are resolute; no woman's work. I daresay she'll make a fuss, but it is for her ultimate benefit, and besides I will not have my authority questioned." Sylvia and Dorcas had retired, quite ignorant of all. "Tell Mrs. Gillett to come here, and accompany us to Miss Dalzell's room," said Juvenal to the footman.
"I don't think Miss Dalzell has returned," said the man, innocently. "She only went out a few minutes since!" Dalby started, but Juvenal was quite composed. "You must be mistaken, Willis," he said. "Miss Dalzell is in her room. You probably saw one of the other ladies. Send Mrs. Gillett at once."
"Oh, dear me! no, sir," responded the man. "I couldn't mistake my mississes for Miss Minnie; she passed me in the hall with her bonnet on, and said in her kind way, 'How d'ye do, Willis?' and I was so glad to see her about again, that I watched her through the gardens."
"Why the deuce didn't you mention this before?" exclaimed Dalby, alarmed. He was the first to recover himself.
"Well, sir," answered the man, trembling, "I thought master knew it. 'Twasn't for me to speak."
"There's something wrong," cried Juvenal, tumbling over Dalby's chair in his hurried rush towards the door. The other was half-way up-stairs, muttering a deep oath. If Minnie were lost to his master Marmaduke Burton, then would he be doubly a fool, having lost a good chance with the girl, backed as he had been by Sylvia; and of course he should be disgraced with the other.
By this time the house was alarmed—Dorcas stood very pale, clasping her cold hands together—Sylvia wouldn't believe it possible—and poor Mrs. Gillett was lamenting loudly, as Juvenal with trembling hands opened the door. There still was hope, for the door was well locked. All rushed in in a body: every thing was as we have seen it, but Minnie—the dinner untouched. How had she escaped? Not by the window, surely? No, that could not be. Willis had met her in the passage, and 'twas this unexpected meeting which had made her go round by the gardens instead of the shrubbery. This was the only hour in which Miles saw a chance for her escape, while all were at table. 'Twas a bold stroke; but it had succeeded, like many a daring deed.
"Gillett, you know something of this!" cried Sylvia, turning towards her. Dorcas couldn't speak; she was crying bitterly; she guessed the truth. "No, as I hopes for marcy!" exclaimed the housekeeper; "I know nothing of it. I brought up her dinner, which you see, and she fell a-crying, and seemed quite down-hearted. Oh, dear! oh, dear! what was it she said, now?" and she tapped her forehead; "she told me to remind you all of such a many things, and to think I should forget every one on 'em!"
"Where could she have found a key?" asked Juvenal, suspiciously.
"I don't know, I'm sure," answered Gillett, "here's mine," and she turned the lock with it. Suddenly it flashed across her mind, the confusion of keys in her room the night Juvenal came down, and Minnie and Miles were concealed. She said nothing; but felt perfectly convinced that one of them had taken a key away. At last, some one suggested that she was perhaps in the gardens.No onesave Dorcas guessed the whole truth. Juvenal and Sylvia felt certain she would be found. Dalby thought so, too. Where could she go? Gillett was too much puzzled to think. Only Dorcasknewin her heart, that Miles was the instigator and partner of her flight. All her thoughts now were, not to find her; she felt that with a man so determined to organize, she was off and gone, but to secure her happiness, and, if possible, bring all to a happy termination and reconciliation. Gardens were searched—the house—grounds—all; but not a trace remained—then the village. At last a lad was found who had stood gaping at the chaise and posters in the lane, till the gentleman and lady stepped in and "driv away;" so there was no longer room to doubt. Dalby, hot with rage and disappointment, traced them to the railroad, three miles distant, whence he and Juvenal started off in pursuit.
The chaise which was to have carried off their victim, helped them on their errand—a rather galling reflection; for both Tremenhere and his bride were away, and away, miles before them; they had neither of them time to reflect on plans, on the future, which lay before them coiled like a serpent, and perhaps as much to be dreaded. On they flew, and, as the train stopped at each station, Minnie's heart sunk within her, dreading somehow to see her uncle there, awaiting her; and in agony, she clung to Miles, whose gentlest tones soothed the fair thing beside him, with her already sorrowing, but not repenting head, hidden in his bosom. At length the term of their journey drew to a close, they passed the Border—with every moment now, her terror, and his anxiety, grew apace. She could scarcely articulate; and, when a sudden whistle or stoppage occurred, a scream involuntarily burst from her very soul; for the lip was but the channel of utterance. But the Border was passed—the train and its many alarms was left behind their flying steps, and they stood side by side in a small room, awaiting the professional officiator in such cases—clergyman, he cannot be called. Minnie looked round, and felt how little idea of so sacred a tie as marriage, that little, low room gave you. She turned timidly to Miles, who was gazing impatiently at the door—she drew near him.
"Miles—dearest," she whispered, laying a hand on his arm, "shall we not be married again? This place carries no hallowing thoughts to the heart."
"My Minnie, you have echoed my intention—the moment we arrive in town, we will doubly cement the sweet bonds of this day's forging!"
Here the officiator entered. He was a serious, matter-of-fact-looking man; he put on his spectacles, and scanned them closely; then, giving a sort of grunt, intimating some sort of feeling best understood by himself, he commenced—
"Stop!" cried Tremenhere; "I have forgotten a ring!"
Minnie was trembling violently—every thing startled her. He saw this, and, hastily glancing at his finger, said, "In such a cause, this will but sanctify it!" and he drew off the circle of gold. "Minnie," he whispered, "this was my mother's."
"Oh, not that!" she cried, shrinking back. "It has been so ill-fated!"
"You'd better not delay," suggested the man; "folks travel quickly now-a-days, and I havebuzness, too."
"It will unite us the closer in our triumph over her enemies and ours, my Minnie."
She said no more, but a cold thrill passed over her as the ring made her Tremenhere's wife.
"Now ye're right," said the man, with a grim smile, which he intended to be jocular; "an' tak' care on her, for she's a sonsy leddy—puir young thing!"
"Minnie—my wife—my child—my all!" whispered Miles, drawing her on his heart. "Now we may defy them all, and fate—my own wife!" Even as he spoke, the heart at that moment chilled: another might have felt glad in the romance of their love and flight, Tremenhere choked down a sigh. He would have given all he ever hoped to gain, to be standing with Minnie in church, his licensed wife by friends, relatives, and, above all, the rules of prudence and right. It was not his fault, these stern ideas; circumstances had made him what he was.
They are once more in the train, and speeding away from the Border, towards town. Some twenty miles on their way, they stopped at a station where a down train was waiting. Minnie drew hastily back, and turned very pale: "My uncle," she whispered, "there—and Mr. Dalby!" She had many a dark storm to encounter before they met again.
Tremenhere had in nothing deceived Minnie. He told her that in marrying him she wedded herself to an artist's struggles for fame, wealth, and position: this home was all he had to offer her, cheered by his devoted love. He was considered as one rising rapidly in the profession, but he had much still to achieve before prosperity would crown his efforts. Hitherto, he had saved every possible farthing for the great object of his thoughts; now, he would have to toil with double energy, not to lose sight of that, and support his wife also. But Minnie was so simple in her tastes, so generous, thoughtful, and loving, that it seemed to her another Paradise, their quiet little cottage in the out-skirts of town, which Miles had succeeded in discovering, with a studio attached—or rather, a large room, which he converted into one. True, the gardens were not large and beautiful, like those at Gatestone; but then their very smallness made every flower as a friend. Each morning there was the matinal visit to be paid, the fresh buds on some favourite tree to be counted; and as she bent over their stem, a loving eye looked down upon her, a gentle hand clasped her small, snowy neck, and then she looked up smiling, and the two went in to work. Her's was not very laborious, yet she fancied it absolutely necessary to the performance of his task: she mixed his colours, sorted his pencils, but, more frequently, leaned over his shoulder, with one tiny hand buried among his raven curls, which clustered, thick and glossy, in the nape of his neck. Thus she would watch the progress of his "Aurora chasing the Shades of Night;" which Aurora was a figure of angel lightness, with outstretched arms and hands, skimming through the air, her long, wavy hair flying, in the freshness of the morning breeze, like a cloud behind her; whilst before her fled Shades, clad in dark robes spangled with fading stars, and supported upon the clouds. It was a beautiful group, which Miles was painting to order. We have said Minnie had most lovely hair, like floss silk; when she unwove the plaits, it fell almost to her heel, not heavily, but like a vapour; you passed your hand through it, and it separated and floated in the air like a gossamer web. It was this magnificent mass which Miles had copied for his Aurora. He loved to look upon it; to a painter's eye it had an appearance of something spiritual. In vain he endeavoured to do it justice; for more than once, in despair, he had set all aside, and clasping his little wife in his arms, exclaimed, as he embraced it and her, "My child, I never shall accomplish this! Surely some sprite wove this veil, and will not allow me to represent it with my poor pencil! Not the bestartiste en cheveuxever known, shall ever distort these fair locks with his vile grasp. I am almost jealous when the air plays with them! Minnie, 'tis dreadful to suffer from jealousy! I hope you never may be a mother, darling; I should almost hate my own child, lying on your breast!"
"Hush, Miles!" she whispered, laying her hand on his mouth. "Do not speak even of jealousy; 'tis so false a passion, ever leading astray, ever leading us down some crooked path."
"Why, my pretty reasoner, what do you know of jealousy?" and he drew her close to his side, and smiled up in her face.
"Oh! I guess it, dear, from all I have read of its influence, it leads to so much error and bitterness; and——and——I will confess, dear Miles," she added, looking down, "I felt a pang of it myself, when you were absent the other day, in Sussex. I was wondering all day with whom you were walking, talking, amusing yourself; and whether you once, even, saw my spirit flit before your path!"
Miles looked down thoughtfully, doubtingly, a moment, then, raising his eyes, said carelessly—"You know, darling, why I went to Uplands Park. Lord Randolph Gray wished me to come, whilst he was down there, to choose a good light for my 'Aurora' when I have completed it, and also to make some other artistic arrangements, which cannot but prove of great service to me. My Minnie knows I am only an artist, obliged to follow as a profession what was once only pleasure."
"Well, are we not happy, Miles?—Iam—oh! very—very happy—perfectly so, since my dear aunt Dorcas has been to see her naughty niece; and, now, tell me all the persons you met at Uplands, for I knew there were several there, and you have always found something else to talk of, when I asked you."
"Oh! I paid little attention, I was so much engaged; there were his aunt, and several ladies, and——"
"I wonder where Dora is?" cried Minnie, hastily, like a child flying from one subject to another. "She has not answered my letter, and I wrote as soon as we were married in town, and that is two months since—'tis very unkind!"
"What an old wife you are, Minnie!" he said fondly, not paying attention to the other portion of her speech.
"Never mind that, Miles; let us talk of Dora. Do you know, I was half jealous of her; I thought you admired her; I thought two such could not meet without loving."
Despite his self-control, he coloured slightly, and merely ejaculated, "Pshaw!"
"I do declare, Miles, you are colouring! Well, I fancied my aunt Lady Ripley, and Dora, were perhaps at Uplands."
"What could make you think so?" he asked, slightly embarrassed.
"Because I know my aunt wishes Dora to marry Lord Randolph Gray; and, as so many ladies were there, I thought it probable she might be one."
"Silly child!—silly little girl!" he said, evasively. "There—get such foolish thoughts out of your head, and give me one more sitting, darling, for this Aurorean veil of hair."
All else was cast aside when Miles had to be pleased. She forgot Dora, and every thing, and stood before him with her hair streaming back from her fair, innocent face—that face was Miles's greatest torment in his task. It was the very one he could have desired for his picture; but for worlds he would not have laid it upon canvass for indifferent eyes to look upon; in vain model after model sat to him—some were very lovely; and when he thought his wish accomplished, and but a few finishing touches were required to complete the face—nothing but the working up, when no model was of further use, involuntarily—his pencil, faithful to the memory of his heart, moulded the unfinished face with an imperfect likeness of his beloved wife; and though he sighed whilst obliterating it, yet nothing would have tempted him to expose that to a stranger's gaze; perhaps, a questioning one, which would seek the original of so perfect a creation. No, she was his—only his. Could he have insisted upon such a thing without appearing absurd, she should never have quitted the house, unless closely veiled—his was true, all-absorbing affection. There was no selfish vain-glory in it; that feeling which makes a man parade the object of his idolatry before the multitude, to delight his ears with the hum of praise her beauty might elicit, and from the pedestal of his exclusive right, look down in pitying compassion on the multitude doing homage to her charms—nothing of this could move Tremenhere, except to feel contempt. His was too noble a nature to be gratified by the injury of others—he only asked to be left in peace and seclusion with this fair being he had so hardly won.He, for the cold heartless world, to toil for her, and with it—she, to solace his hours of peace and most unworldly love. We will leave them awhile, and step back to Gatestone. At the moment her successful flight was no longer a mystery—the only one was, how she had escaped—there were not wanting those to instil into Juvenal's mind an idea, that he had an enemy on his hearth; and poor Dorcas was the suspected person. She had favoured Minnie's escape, and not all her assurances to the contrary, could remove the impression; and, when she expressed her determination to visit Minnie, not the slightest shadow of doubt remained. Little-minded persons must have an imaginary trouble, if they do not possess a real one—they could not exist without something to worry them to death. Dorcas was the living source of sorrow to Juvenal and Sylvia; and, had she not been patience itself,theywould assuredly have driven her into her grave by their unceasing fire of innuendoes, when they actually abstained from open accusations. However, she bore all placidly, and finally started, to the deep indignation of both, for town, accompanied by Mr. Skaife. This latter had become perfectly reconciled to Minnie's marriage. His love had not been that of a Tremenhere, but a quiet, placid affection, much more like ahothousefriendship, than actual love, riper than an ordinary out-of-door feeling of that genus. The moment he heard that she was positively a wife, he choked down a little sigh, and from that instant she became the wife of one he called friend—only a being to be much respected, and served in every way in his power; and it was strange that Tremenhere, with all his jealousy, so thoroughly read and appreciated the other's character, that not the slightest feeling of that kind crossed his mind, on his and Minnie's account. They met as brother and sister might have done; and Tremenhere looked on and smiled, as Skaife clasped her hands—an action he could not have borne from any other; for he had the purest, warmest, Spanish blood in his veins, not one drop of his father's calm English—he was all his mother's child.
It would be impossible to give an adequate idea of the fury of Juvenal, when he discovered that he and Dalby had arrived just an hour too late to prevent Minnie's marriage. Dalby was bitterness itself, and in every way fostered the feeling against the delinquents. Thus he made himself agreeable to Juvenal, andsecureda footing at Gatestone; as he felt rather uncertain how Marmaduke Burton might receive him, on his being made acquainted with the discomfiture of himself and partisans, and the good generalship of Tremenhere. But Burton could not afford to lose such a man as Dalby; though he blamed him in no measured terms, still, in his heart, he knew how difficult it was to daunt or overthrow his cousin. He accused himself more than any one else, for leaving the spot, and thus losing so great a battery against the enemy as his own cunning would have proved. Now this battle was lost, there only remained one thing to him—revenge; and this pale-faced spectre haunted his every thought.
Great was Minnie's joy when she flung herself into her dear aunt's arms; all former annoyance was forgotten; she only saw one she loved as a mother, one whose face was wanting to cheer her home and hearth. As soon as Tremenhere could so arrange it after their return, they had been again, and more sacredly, married than in their Border marriage. Nothing was wanting, then, to Minnie's happiness, but forgiveness; and this Dorcas promised to lose no opportunity of obtaining. How happy the young wife was, in showing all the mysteries of her home, her excellence as a housekeeper, her garden, her fruits, all, to her aunt! Poor child! she was so inexperienced in all, yet withal so very anxious to save every possible expense, that the aim of Miles's life might not be lost sight of. "Only look, dear aunty!" she cried, raising in her pretty fingers the leaves which partially concealed some mellowing peach on the sunny wall,—"did you ever see such beauties? We had none so fine at Gatestone!" Poor child, once more! there was nothing good or fair but where Miles existed—nothing could prosper unless beneath his eye. Alas, for the days of sorrow! when the woman shall look back, after her weary pilgrimage through life, and remember the one sunny spot of childhood, where winter never came—all the year one summer in her memory, the fruits and flowers in the gardens of which, were riper, and blossomed fairer, than any elsewhere! It is the heart—the heart—the heart beneath which they grow!—the heart all lightness and purity!
Skaife, we have seen, accompanied Dorcas to town; and after the first lecture on her imprudence had, as a matter of course, been duly delivered by the latter, all settled down in perfect happiness; for even Skaife almost ceased to remember that, in the man before him, he saw a successful rival. Poor Dorcas would fain have remained longer than the fortnight she had awarded herself; but she received such fulminating letters from home, that the thing was impracticable; and so she left the abode of love and peace, perfectly assured of the continuance of Minnie's happiness, and promising to do all in her power to effect a reconciliation. This would have been easily accomplished, if she had only had Juvenal and Sylvia to deal with; but, unhappily, Dalby and the latter were friends again, and the former had Marmaduke Burton to back him up in all wickedness; though now, had the uncle and aunt reasoned—"How could the affair be improved by anger?" they might have acted differently. But there are some persons who never reason; decidedly, these were of that class.
We will now take our readers to Uplands Park, the day of Miles's expected visit there by Lord Randolph Gray. Business in town had detained this gentleman from that rendezvous of fashionable men, in the month of August—Scotland. It was near the end of the following month, and a select few were assembled for shooting, and its accompaniment of flirtation, in a country-house, where there exists so much morelaissez allerthan in town. Lord Randolph's aunt, the Countess of Lysson, took the head of the lady department at her bachelor nephew's. A word about this nephew: He was one whose mould had assuredly not been broken when he was born—there were hundreds like him; he was one in acornetof comfits, very nice, but very insipid—the filling up of the world between the good and bad. A good-natured man, in short, with plenty of money. Some one persuaded him that he was, or ought to be, passionately fond of pictures, because he was of yachting and other fashionable amusements. Now, what possible connection could exist between these two, except as far as mere fashion went, it would be difficult to define. However, he was very fond of handsome women, and these are more or less the subject of the pencil; consequently, on his return to town from Italy, where he had seen much of Miles in society, as a rising artist, he sought him out, and engaged his pencil on "The Aurora," before alluded to. Besides, he had liked the man, and discovering that even at home, men of talent were warmly received into society, he followed the reading of others (for he possessed not one single original idea,) and invited him cordially to his house. But the visit to Uplands was one more of business than pleasure, else Miles would never have quitted Minnie. No one was aware, of his mere acquaintances, that Tremenhere was a man who had lost the position he had lost; he was known as a man of good family and cultivated understanding—no one inquired beyond: married or single—who cared to inquire? He was an agreeable companion, and therefore many sought his society. When he arrived at Uplands, the first person almost he met was Lady Dora, who was there with her mother. Not all her self-possession checked the deep glow which over-spread her cheek. It was half the suddenness of the meeting, and half indignant pride, that he should have degraded her cousin, as she deemed it, to the level of a mere artist's wife. They met in the drawing-room before dinner. There were only two or three persons yet assembled, and these were dowagers, sitting cosily beside a cheering wood-blaze, before the lamps were lighted. It was a large comfortable room, and already the rich crimson curtains fell before the windows. It had been a chilly, rainy day; and Lady Dora, having passed some hours of it in the billiard-room, now sat before one of Erard's most brilliant pianos, playing desultory strains, as they occurred to her memory. Lady Lysson had not yet appeared, nor Lady Dora's mother. Tremenhere stood an instant in the doorway; he had been sitting in Lord Randolph's room with him, ever since quitting the one assigned to him, after changing his dress for dinner. His arrival had occurred, as those things do in country houses—a matter of no moment, or object of inquiry to any one. He came—sat in his host's room—dressed for dinner—descended to the drawing-room—and, until Lady Dora looked up from her own thoughts, and saw him at the door, no one knew an addition had taken place to the circle assembled at Uplands. As he entered, the two dowagers raised their eyes carelessly, and glanced over him. He was some gentleman, or he wouldn't be there,—one of the common mould, doubtless. People always take this for granted, till the lion slips out of the ass's skin in which their imaginations clothe him, and shows his fangs and claws; then folks either put themselves into a position of defence, or try to cut his claws; but this latter is rather a dangerous game, unless, like the picture of a celebrated artist, Monsieur Camille Roqueplan, the lion become "amoureux," and then any thing may be done with him by the one loved hand.