People may laugh and say, "'Tis very well for fiction," but there are many circumstances in everyday life far more extraordinary, far more fatally organized by a genius of good or evil, than any things the mind could conjure up. Are they sent as trials? as punishments? or the mighty Hand directing all, though through pain and suffering, for our ultimate benefit? or is it, that there are moments in every one's life, wherein the spirit of evil has permitted sway? Who may divine this?
As Tremenhere turned again through the gardens, near the centre alley, half hidden by the trees, he saw two persons; they were shaking hands and parting: these were Minnie and Lord Randolph! She had quitted herfiacreon the Quay, and was hastening home across the gardens, when she most unexpectedly met this, to her, fatal man. Only a few words passed, and they parted, he in indifference and calm, she in almost terror at the meeting—but it was enough Tremenhere saw not hearts, but acts. He turned back again; a cold bolt of iron entered his soul; no anger was there, no passionate desire for revenge—nothing but calm resolution, which only became more intense, when he reflected on Minnie's position. At one instant he thought of returning to London, and suing for a divorce; then a bitterer feeling crossed his heart. "No!" he cried, "she has branded me for ever with infamy;sheshall never become his wife, northeirchild legitimate; this shall be my revenge—let her bear my name, blast it, degrade it, what care I? Name!" he exclaimed after a moment's pause, "I have no name; what am I? the castaway offspring of Helena Nunoz! All women are false; I believe in none, I am the blasted child of an impure woman—Nunoz—Nunoz—only this, and Marmaduke Burton has right, to carry him onward!" and the wretched man laughed aloud—laughed in the bitterness of a holy thought of childhood, and dream of manhood, desecrated—his mother. His last hope was gone; he could believe none pure, proving Minnie false. He was not a man to sit down, and pine, and regret over his fate; but one to act vigorously, a resolution once taken. His heart had turned to stone, there was no "if" in it—not for an instant did he pause to think, or hope, but sped away to act. He was determined to inquire into nothing, in this last hopeless affair; he felt some demoniacal artifice would be employed to persuade him against all reason; he would not degrade his reason farther by listening—guilty she must be. Her presence at the prefecture had something in it in connection with Lord Randolph, he scarcely cared to inquire how, for assuredly she must, before that day, have been privy to his residence under the same roof with herself; Mary, too, was a party to it! What a web had been, and was around him!—he shuddered as he thought of his deceived heart, for so long a time. When his mind had compassed all coolly and deliberately, he proceeded to the apartment of a friend, a brother artist, unfortunately not a Skaife, to breathe justice or patience to him, but a man to whom woman had ever been a merely beautiful creation for art to copy, soulless, and unworthy a higher place in man's thought. To him Tremenhere told all, coolly, dispassionately from the first, not to seek counsel, but to act for, and with him. His listener shrugged his shoulder and smiled.
"Well," he said, "'tis better thus, perhaps; for with your genius, you will rise to high thingsalone. Hampered with a wife and children, you would possibly have remained stationary, a good father of a family, fit only to paint abonne mèreand herbambins!—leave such positions to others—soar,mon ami—soar!"
Alas! he overlooked the fact, that to every one possessing real heart and soul—soaring is sorry work when there is no loving eye to mark our flight.
"Now, what can I do for you? command me," said his friend.
"See her!" answered Tremenhere sternly. "I would not leave that woman unprovided for; arrange how and where she will receive it; you will have tears and prayers—Ihave had them; disregard them, be firm, tell herwe never meet again; do not say where I am; remove all my paintings—all—I will give you written authority to do so. Arrange every thing; and then I have other work for you. Stay, I will write one line to her; and that will be a warrant for all you may do."
And with a calmness, amazing to himself, he sat down and wrote coldly, dispassionately, to her; merely saying he knew all. He did not condescend even to tell her his accusations, adding, "of course, what Iknow, will reach you from another quarter. 'Tis vain to seek an interview; nothing shall induce me to see you—throw off all disguise, 'twill suit you better than this audacious duplicity. Farewell."
Minnie read this letter, and it did not kill her! yet her life seemed awhile to stand still. There was but one idea in her mind, that by that fatality which seemed to hang over her, Miles had witnessed her accidental meeting with Lord Randolph. A more than mortal fear oppressed her. There arose in her mind a belief in spiritual agency—spirits of evil around her. She became almost lifeless with this strange fear. She sat like a statue; and saw one after another, the paintings, depart, which had been commenced beneath her eye, her caresses, her love. She was totally speechless, thoughtless; all stood still, even to her very blood, for she was cold as marble. At last the easel was taken past her; then the man stood still, as if awaiting some questioning from her; but though she had watched every action of his with intense gaze, idea of what was passing—she had none. So he went forth, and closed the door of the outer apartment, mentally ejaculating, "What a cold, heartless creature! Evidently she is glad to be released from Tremenhere, for thisfreluquet de milord! What a blessing for her husband to lose such a woman!" And this man, so talented in portraying the human face, was powerlesson itto read the breaking heart! When the door closed, Minnie fell back on the ottoman, not fainting; but the lifeless blood was insufficient to bid the heart beat above mere existence. She was living, but lifeless to the touch, or memory—and thus she lay for hours alone!
"She did not speak, or expostulate?" asked Tremenhere.
"No," answered his friend; "she was too much taken by surprise, but I never saw a woman look more confounded in her guilt."
Miles did not speak for some time. Strange, how wrongs, supposed or real, darken the heart to every gleam of pity! It was not his vanity which was wounded—not any feeling of false pride, which urged him to so much apparent heartlessness; it was a disgust pervading his noble nature, at so much infamy in one so young and fair. Had he deemed her reclaimable, he would have nobly, generously, endeavoured to do so; but, believing what he did, he felt that any further contact with her would irretrievably sully his own honour, and plunge her still deeper into duplicity and sin.Ifshe ever could repent, their separation—his utter contempt for her—might, through shame, open that channel to her. There was uprightness and conscience in his every thought; he even felt then, that, if he could be convinced she would be true and faithful to his rival, he would seek by the law that release which should enable him (Lord Randolph) to do her justice. With these thoughts in his mind, after a calm survey of all remaining in the ruined temple of his heart, he wrote to this latter, and despatched his friend with the missive, which contained little of accusation, beyond a quiet, cool detail of facts, as he believed them, and giving him a choice of two things, either a solemn assurance to marry Minnie if he divorced her—he, thereby, submitting to the reprehension of the world at large—wherein many might blame him for the calmness of the act, so little in consonance with his real feelings, in preference to the more manly one of first demanding retribution at his hands in a struggle for life, or to meet him muzzle to muzzle, where often the luckier aim carries it above the more skilful. But we are wrong, for the luckier aim would carry undying remorse with it, in any noble heart, however wronged. "Live, and let live," and leave vengeance to Heaven.
It would be vain to attempt portraying Lord Randolph's amazement on receipt of this note; he was preparing to leave his apartment to dine with some friends when it reached him. He read, and re-read it; and then, with an air of wonder which would have convinced any unprejudiced person, asked whether really Mr. Tremenhere resided in that hotel?
"Apparently," was the laconic reply, sarcastically delivered.
"He must be mad, then, and deserving onlyle Bicêtre," answered Lord Randolph; "where may he be found?"
"By letter or message through me," was the reply.
"You are abrupt, monsieur," said the other, sitting down to write; "nevertheless, pray be seated."
"I prefer standing,milord," and he folded his arms doggedly.
It will be seen this was the last person who could successfully conciliate persons in so painful a position.
Lord Randolph wrote:—"You must be mad. I most solemnly assure you, until this moment, I knew not you were in this hotel. True, I met Mrs. Tremenhere to-day by accident; but she never named her address, nor I mine. You are at liberty to appeal to law, if it so please you to cast fresh ridicule on yourself; but though I most highly esteem Mrs. Tremenhere, enough to deem myself a most fortunate man could I call her lawfully mine; still, I have too much self-respect and vanity, under any circumstances, to seek a certain refusal, by proposing to her. For the rest, your good sense, and I hope, heart, will guide you aright, and make you see the folly of your conduct."
His lordship was ignorant of the manner in which Minnie had been treated, or he would have written more forcibly in her favour. Thus he dismissed his visiter, and departed to dinner. This letter almost shook Tremenhere's calmness to an outburst of rage; he only saw in it cool audacity, and that feeling of honour which makes a man oftentimes perjure himself to redeem a wrong act, and save a woman's reputation.
"Let us seek him," he said, moving towards the door. "I will await you in the street; you can enter and inquire for him." And, with a resolution he did not think himself capable of, well as he knew his own stern nature in wrong, he stood almost on the threshold of his once happy home, whilst his friend entered to inquire where Lord Randolph might be found. This was easily ascertained, and thither the two men followed; he was dining with some friends at therestaurantof great renown, "Les Trois Frères," and was in the act of detailing his most extraordinary and unpleasant affair, when a card was handed to him, and on it was "Miles Tremenhere!"
"Show the gentleman into another room," said his lordship with perfect composure, for not one spark of cowardice was in his composition. The waiter obeyed, and in a few minutes he stood before Miles and his companion.
"Your lordship will pardon this unusual method of proceeding," said Tremenhere, with dignity; "but the unsatisfactory nature of your reply to my letter obliges me to call in person, and demand another."
"Demand!" exclaimed the other. "What if I refuse?"
"Then it will but remain with me to attach to your lordship's name, one I should regret being forced to call into requisition."
Lord Randolph bit his lip to restrain an angry retort. After a moment's pause, to collect his coolness, he said, "Mr. Tremenhere, I do not deal with you as I should with another, for I look upon you as a lunatic; but for the sake of your most innocent, injured wife, I implore you consider well what you are doing!"
"My lord," answered his opponent, "I have not come to listen to idle words, still less to be again a dupe. I come to demand, unless your heart fail you too much to meet me, to give me the name ofyourfriend, to whomminemay apply; the rest will then regard them."
"Think well, sir," said Lord Randolph again, as calmly as he could be under so much aggravation. "You may some day rue this. I would, for an innocent woman's sake, save you from remorse, and her from ruin."
"By heavens!" exclaimed Miles, turning sarcastically towards his friend, "this man would have me take his mistress to my arms again, and receive him, perchance, as friend! My lord," and he turned wildly in rage upon him, "if there be a coward here, 'tis not Miles Tremenhere, or his friend."
"Oh!" ejaculated Lord Randolph, drawing a long breath, then keeping silence a moment to subdue himself, he replied, holding out a hand to Miles's friend, "Your card, monsieur, and I will immediately place it in the hands of my friend. I think now, sir," and he bowed to Tremenhere, "our interview may terminate; and may you never regret the day's work which will follow this."
And, holding the card given by the other in his hand, he quietly quitted the apartment. "After all," he said to himself as he moved to the room where his friends were awaiting him, "this fellow requires a severe lesson; it will cure his jealousy." And none was gayer that evening at table than Lord Randolph Gray. Tremenhere was otherwise. There was a monitor in his breast, not silent, for it was full of questionings. Yet to all he replied, "It is justice and retribution,"—and then he sat down with perfect composure, and drew a rough copy of his will, which he purposed having legally executed on the morrow. "I will not leave her unprovided for," he whispered to himself; "this shall be my revenge on her."
The next day but one, Lord Randolph and his adversary met; and Tremenhere was carried from the spot severely, though not dangerously, wounded—a bullet having traversed his side, without, however, touching any vital part, though he became insensible from loss of blood. His opponent, with the manly self-possession which had characterised him throughout, remained until well assured there existed no danger from the actual wound, and then quitted the Bois de Bologne, where they met, and next day Paris, for Italy. Tremenhere was transported to the nearest house, and there he lay unconscious for many days.
Minnie recovered from her stupor, to find herself in the arms of her attendant, who was too much terrified to quit her and summon assistance. This woman had not entered the apartment where her mistress was for some hours; and her absence at the moment of her master's friend's arrival, prevented her knowing what had occurred. As Minnie returned to the warmth of life, and something of its consciousness, she inquired whether Mr. Tremenhere had returned. A reply in the negative being given, she for a moment was lost in wonder; then thought after thought crowded through her brain, and she found amidst them, one to lead her partially to light. Tremenhere was gone—but where, or wherefore, she could not remember for hours. She wandered hastily from room to room, touching every thing there which had been his—her manner was flighty, half idiotic; the suddenness of the blow found her unprepared. At last the terrified servant beheld a cold, grey look steal over her face, the hectic flush disappeared, memory had returned, and desolation sat triumphant above all; and nothing could equal that desolation of heart—she did not imagine, for an instant, that Miles believed her guilty. It will be remembered that she was unconscious of Lord Randolph's residence in their hotel; she had hurried home, trembling, it is true, to inform Tremenhere of her meeting with him, and this was the only clue she had to his cruel conduct and desertion. She read his letter over and over; her first supernatural fears passed away, and she felt convinced either that he was mad, or changed in heart, so changed that the parting was pleasurably done by him. After viewing all his recent conduct, she dismissed the idea of madness, his coldness, and absence of manner for some time, since, in fact, her own mysterious search after D'Estrées, which had given him fresh cause for suspicion, arose before her, and her eyes seemed to open on the truth. She looked back to many things; his meetings with Lady Dora, first in the holly field at home, that had puzzled her, then at Uplands, so sedulously concealed from her—all arose, and without jealousy of her cousin, she felt, and more firmly in that it was an unworn, up-springing thought of an instant, that Mileshadonce loved Dora, and possibly marrying her for pique, subsequent disgust had ensued. "Oh! if he really loved me, he could not have sought to prove me false so often," she said, "neither now have left me for so slight a cause, without even seeking an explanation, as my accidental meeting with Lord Randolph. He never truly loved me." And with this fixed thought, a cold desolation crept over her soul. Minnie had yet to learn all the madness of jealousy, therefore she was incompetent to judge him. She was not long left in any uncertainty about her desertion; her servant informed her that Mr. Tremenhere's friend had authorized the landlord to apply to him for all expenses, when madame quitted the hotel, as some unfortunate differences had occasioned a separation. This had been gratuitous pain inflicted in total indifference to her feelings on this man's part. Tremenhere had bid him say that he had quitted Paris.
Minnie, in all her keen suffering, had but one friend, Mary; our good deeds seldom are lost in the waves of life's ocean—they return again, to break at our feet. Minnie felt all this girl's kindness, but she had grown so cold at heart in a few days, that all failed to warm her to life. Of the duel they heard nothing; those kind of things are of more ordinary occurrence in France than among ourselves, and from whom could they hear it? Mary had written several letters to Miles's friend, their only clue, to beseech Tremenhere to listen to reason. After some days deep anxiety, they were returned, with a request in his name, that none more might be sent; he was leaving France, search after him would be useless. At length a letter arrived from himself; the characters were trembling, for he was scarcely able to write them. In this he spoke little of wrongs, merely by the tone of it, implying Mary to be as guilty as his own wife. There was no regret, nothing to excite hope. He spoke deliberately of never again seeing her; he was resolved; he had no desire to do so; he had long been unhappy; now the tie was severed, he felt content. Of her pecuniary wants he had taken care,however she might be circumstanced. He named a banker in whose hands a sufficiency for her support would be placed quarterly, and then all care for her ended. With this letter Minnie's last hope died; it was indeed a hopeless one. Had she seen him, pale, haggard, and suffering, as he sat up in the bed to write it, she would have felt that he was less to blame than she deemed him. He scarcely knew what he wrote, still he felt anxious to settle all for her comfort, in case Lord Randolph should forsake her; for the idea was a fixed one in his mind, that though they might not meet publicly for a while, eventually, finding him no longer to be duped, they would fly together.
Nothing could induce Minnie to touch a farthing of the money Miles had allotted her; forsaken by him, he was as a stranger to her. Had she known he still loved her—had she known all, she would have followed to the farthest end of the earth, to find and plead to him. As it was, her heart sickened; she had been deceiving herself—deceived by him. Her pride arose, and, enwraping herself in it, she sat down, and forbore even to name him. One thing she wrung from Mary in sacred promise: this was—that neither Dorcas nor Skaife should be informed of the whole truth.
"Let me bear my misery alone," she said. "Tell them, for I cannot write now, that he and I have parted: that there was incompatibility of temper—any thing you will; but do not—pray, do not, say he has forsaken me! Let them think it has been mutual consent, but do not blame him; they all hate him enough already," and the heart whispered even still, "poor Miles!"
It was not, however, for some time that Minnie allowed Mary to write even this; for she still hoped at times, in her heart, that Miles would return. But when months passed, and she ascertained, beyond a doubt, from a visit Mary made to his artist friend, that he had quitted for Florence, then she hoped no more, and nothing remained but to act.
Dorcas was most uneasy at her silence, and then Mary wrote, and afterwards she summoned courage to do so herself, though every word written was penned in the bitterness of worse than death; for we may die happy in hope, and the love of those dear ones around us, smoothing the pillow as we depart in peace and faith to happy shores, beyond life's troubled sea. Minnie's grief had nothing of this. She was on a wreck in a dark stormy night—a wild sea foaming over her head—a dark sky, and impenetrable darkness above and around; but nevertheless she spoke of contentment, and a wish to be left in quiet. "We deemed it better to part than live in estrangement of heart," she wrote, "and I am resigned. If you love me, let the subject drop; nothing can change our fate. Leave me in quiet awhile, I shall remain some time longer abroad."
But this letter did not tranquillize Dorcas, to whom it was written. She carefully abstained from speaking of its contents to any one but Mr. Skaife, and he, like herself, was too deeply interested in Minnie, not to be the confidant of all. Dorcas wrote most anxiously to her, and Skaife promised, as soon as his duties would admit of it, to go to Paris, and endeavour to reconcile them. He guessed a portion of the truth; but, alas, nor he, nor Dorcas knew a tithe of it!
Minnie, we have said, resolutely refused to touch her husband's allowance. He had gone to Florence (as far he might be, in his spirit-broken state,) contented in the thought that she was provided for, and in following his art, now a toil undertaken to banish care—he strove to obliterate her memory. Minnie's pride forbade her accepting existence at the expense of Mary; when all her means had become exhausted—the slender ones her purse and jewels afforded, her pride arose in proportion to her poverty. It was not false pride, but the honest, upright determination, to burthen no one. "I will leave Paris," she said to herself, "and go where no one may hear of me."
This could not be accomplished without some difficulty; nevertheless, at last she succeeded, and one day, when Mary sought her in the humble room she had been residing in, she was gone. A letter reached her faithful friend, telling her that cares such as hers were better borne alone; evenhersympathy pained her. She would go where only her own heart should know her sorrow, and breathe it to her. She bade her not fear for her; she was safe, and would shortly give her proof of it by letter; but she implored her to breathe to no one that she had fled. Mary, however, in kindness of heart, wrote immediately to Mr. Skaife; the secret was too a heavy a one for her own conscience to support in peace. This intelligence caused the most bitter sorrow to him and Dorcas, to whom alone it was told; and he hastened to seek some one to take charge of his parish duties awhile, at her earnest prayer, and his own heart's promptings, to follow Minnie whithersoever she might be gone.
It sometimes, but rarely happens in life, that where we only expected to find a merely common acquaintance, we meet a warm and sincere friend—one who, through years of sorrow, never forsakes us—one who forgets self, to help us onward on life's weary track with our burthens—who, when all have forsaken save himself, clings to us still, and whose best, and only reward sought, is, when a gleam of sunshine flits across our dreary way. To such a one, honour and blessing—gifts, which his own good conscience will bring him, when, at the end of life's journey, he makes up his account, and reckons with his Creator. Such a copy of an original, was Skaife. But there was a machine working which he could not stay or controul; it would spin its wool, and weave its woof, before man might overcome it.
Tremenhere was in Florence; but yet he heard of Minnie whilst she was in Paris. So blinded was he by his passions, that even her poverty—her refusal tacitly to touch his allowance, were snares in his eyes, to lure him back to deception. Again, if at times his heart softened, 'twas but for a moment—he grew cold again, and pitiless. Living too, as he lived, steeled his heart to gentler scenes or thoughts; he avoided all society, and, shut up in his studio, labouring to banish the bosom's emotions, became sullen, morose, and vindictive.
Months passed since their separation, and in the delicate, frail woman, living in almost privation in Marseilles, toiling at her needle for her daily bread, who might have known Minnie Dalzell? With the little money remaining to her, she crossed to England, to prevent discovery and pursuit; here remaining hidden a short time, she then returned on her footsteps, and hastened to Marseilles. She knew Miles was in Italy, and her yearning heart led her to the port, whence she might some day, perhaps, be called upon to follow his path. Bowed and saddened she was by sorrow, still her heart's conscious uprightness, and honest pride, upheld her; if she suffered, no one knew it; if sometimes she ate her bread in tears, and onlythat, for a day's nourishment, who saw her? No mereperson, but One who sees and reckons to us our patience and confidence in him however he may try us, and Him, Minnie never forgot. Even as the trembling fingers, pale and attenuated, broke the hardened crust, the eyes, once violet in their depth and richness, now paler, clearer, more serene in their sadness, looked up and blessed the Giver of it in their tearful gratitude. In all this patient sorrow came an almost overwhelming, unhoped-for joy; she held a living child on her bosom, small, frail little creature; its tones were as a bird's, so soft and sad, and through the little thin fingers the light shone, as you held them up, and only then did a ruddy colour, like pale ruby, show in them, proving they were not merely wax, an imitation of life. "I shall not have you long to comfort me, my boy," she whispered, when the sobered first joy gave place to reason; "but you will go to a better place, and plead for your mother, darling, and oh! do not forget him—your father. I would you might have seen himhere, my child, to know him in heaven; but I trust in spirit meetings, spirit sight will show him to you, and we may all three rejoice, reconciled in peace and everlasting joy, which nothing human can attain to!"
He was christened Miles, and though the pale, fair mother grew paler each day, and toiled more, as the embroidery, in which she excelled, became more sought after, still the boy thrived, and as she laid him upon her lap, like a model of rare beauty, her lip smiled in placid thankfulness and joy, as she counted the dimples which day by day seemed to deepen in the now rosy cheeks and fingers. Hers was not a heart to keep its joy to itself; she wrote to Mary. True she did not give her address, but she wrote to bid her rejoice with her; her child was born and lived. A deep hope sustained her for some time. If Miles ever had truly loved her, he must think of the expected tie which bound them closer than ever. He would remember how he had spoken with almost boyish delight of the hoped-for period, and he would seek her, and come. Alas! he did remember it; but in bitterness of spirit, and laughed in scorn over those boyish hopes, of which he had been the dupe.
Mary replied, in haste and deep anxiety, to the Post-Office, as directed; she spoke of Dorcas's trouble, Skaife's arrival and anxious search for her, but not one word of Miles! and then her heart sunk in utter despondency. "Not even now!" she uttered, as the big tears fell on her boy's sleeping face; "oh, he must hate me much!" Then succeeded a fear lest Mary should seek her, or Skaife, or Dorcas; she would fly again.
Among her employers was one lady who had taken a deep interest in her; she had a daughter about Minnie's age, and married to a Maltese merchant; she was about to become a mother herself, and, being called upon to join her husband in Malta, her mother implored Minnie, who was thought a young widow, to accompany her as nurse to the expected child. The offer was a tempting one; thus she could fly, fly all, and in change of scene, more than place, still, busy thought. A large offer was proposed to her to wean her own child when another should claim her care, but this she resolutely refused. "You will be too delicate to nurse both!" exclaimed the lady.
"I shall gain strength for all, Madame," she replied, with confidence. "I am stronger than I seem," and she thought of all she had mentally borne and wrestled successfully with, and mere physical labour could not daunt her strong heart.
She waited upon the lady, and, disdaining all deceit, at the risk of losing possibly the situation which she much desired to obtain, told all her story. She had truly said, when asked, that she had no husband, and others concluded he was dead. At all events, as we have said, assuredly on the Continent people more charitably judge a sister woman by present good conduct, than they seek, by diving fromcuriosityinto the past, to discover, perhaps, some deep sorrow, or more deeply repented error. We deny that our Continental neighbours are less virtuous than Englishwomen,in general; but they are less severe, more charitable, less censorious. Minnie's candour raised her high in the opinion of those, now doubly bound to her, from pity. All her energies were called into play, to meet the emergency of outfit—money was required. The lady advanced her some, still she required more.
We are not relating a mere tale of romance, where fairy and unexpected gifts come to help the toiling and virtuous, but a story of everyday life, where the good and conscientious, by undeserved misfortunes, are thrown in much trouble, degradation, poverty, andoftenwant; where the fingers once destined to be jewelled, must learn to toil, that the lip which had been born to command a host of servants, may eat its daily bread.
Minnie had been guilty of but one imprudent act, and this was the penalty due to it, and unmurmuringly she was prepared to pay it to the last farthing. Her hours of sleep became shortened; the earliest morning light saw her working, while her boy slept. Oh, woman—fellow-woman! when some pale mother places in your gemmed hand the work you have commanded her to do for you, pause, and think that she may be inallthings superior to yourselves. Pause and reflect, grow humble and grateful, where all your gratitude is due. Turn not away in pride, do not bid her seek some insolent menial for payment, who will grudge the hardly-earned sum, and insult, while giving it. Pay her yourselves—pay well, and in conscience, and above all, pay kindly; for how know you but that, in another place, this woman may plead for, or condemn you?
Time hastened on; the day shone fair and bright; it was in October, and the quay was thronged with gallant vessels coming and going, and friends were receiving in joy those who returned, and others weeping over the departing; but none were there to press Minnie to their heart in sorrow or fear, as, clasping her child to her bosom, she stepped on board the steamer "Hirondelle," for Malta. Once she looked back, and scanned the crowd, every face—it was a last hope, but it faded in the sigh which heaved her heart, where little Miles slept in peace. She turned away, nor looking again, went below. The anchor weighed, the steam gushed upwards in a cloud, the paddles commenced sending the spray around, and the port faded insensibly from view.
"Don't cry, madame," said Minnie, whose eyes were overflowing for another's grief. A mother had just seen her daughter for the last time. "Don't cry, dear madame," and she knelt and clasped her hands in both her own (her boy was sleeping in her berth.) "We shall soon be at Malta, and then you will see your husband, who so anxiously expects you." Here she may be pardoned if a tear fell for herself; this chord jarred on her heart, but she checked the vain dream, and awoke to comfort another.
On—on they sailed with wind and tide, until night set in, and then the former suddenly changed, and a high sea arose. Minnie had lain down dressed beside her boy; her mistress slept in a berth above her. Suddenly there arose a noise more than usual over-head, footsteps, and voices calling fore and aft. She sat up and listened. Some of the ladies slept, others were partially awakened by the noise, and murmuringly called the attendant. Some sat up, the better to listen. Minnie was very pale, but spoke not. At this moment a man appeared at the cabin door; he was in a sailor's heaviest dress, for weathering rough weather. He whispered the attendant, who grew paler; then he crept almost noiselessly in, and commenced putting in and securing, what are called the dead-lights. Then he stole away as he had entered; but, as he mounted the companion ladder, he closed and fastened the door. Minnie did not shriek, but she arose, and, though scarcely able to keep her footing, held on to the side of the berth, and whispered her mistress, "Madame, madame, awake and dress!" The lady started up; just at that moment something crashed on deck, and went over the side. A simultaneous scream burst from all in that cabin; then for an instant, which seemed as an age in duration, there were breathless silence and watching for the expected signal again, of disaster; but nothing was heard save hurrying footsteps over-head, and the heavy ploughing of the steamer through the waves, which broke with a monotonous sound against the vessel, which seemed like some poor, breathing, overwhelmed animal, struggling for its life. After this moment's suspense, wherein every ear expected to be startled by some fierce cry of despair, all in that cabin looked from one to another in terror. This lasted another minute—then one, endowed with a sudden desire to fly the gloomy silence of that almost dark cabin, where only one small lamp flickered to and fro in the centre, sprang up the ladder and endeavoured to open the door; but it resisted all her efforts. With a wild cry she shook it madly; then, struggling in her fear, fell headlong downwards, and lay on the floor, terrifying the inmates of that prison-house by her shrieks of wild, hysterical agony. Some rose, some kneeled and prayed, with trembling upraised hands. Others were too lifeless to think, but leaned stupefied against the side of the cabin. One woman lay still—perfectly still, and beside her were two beautiful sleeping children; her pale lips alone breathed a prayer for mercy, as she clasped both to her bosom. Minnie had awakened her mistress, whose personal attendant was too much alarmed to think except of herself; and Tremenhere's deserted wife, with her boy clasped in one arm to her heart, yet found courage with the other to enfold the almost paralyzed lady, and breathe words of hope; and thus the vessel toiled on with its death-expecting cargo. For nearly an hour, it seemed as if for one plunge she took despairingly forward, she was driven double the distance back again; assuredly she made no way in that heavy sea. At length there was a pause, as though she had some impossible wave to cut through; every heart stood still; then her sides creaked and heaved; the timbers seemed like complaining spirits. She had had both wind and tide against her; in an instant, as if by magic, she appeared to swing round, with her head to the wind, and onward she flew, like a soul loosened from bondage, and seeking its haven of rest. She was returning to Marseilles. It was a race for life; but, like many an overwrought gallant steed, her strength failed where her spirit upheld. Onward she dashed, and one wild shriek mingled with the severing crash, as "L'Hirondelle" broke upon the rocks, her crew was powerless to keep her off, and went to pieces in that dark, dreary night.
It is not our province, even though we portray a true scene, to speak of all in that doomed steamer; it is with Minnie we have to buffet over the waves of that dark sea, in a small boat, into which many—far too many, had crowded. Her child was clasped in a grasp like death, (for only that could have parted them,) to her shivering breast powerless to warm it, while its faint cry broke in agony on her stricken heart. Still she hoped; she knew something more than human force would be requisite to separate her from her infant, strained as it was to her bosom. So the shivering mother sat still, uncomplaining in her anguish, and thus they drifted on in that laden boat. Morning broke, and the boat was keel uppermost, riding on a calm sea; to that keel clung two living beings, the mother and child, yet the latter scarcely lived. The tone of that little voice was a faint murmur of expiring nature, which echoed in a heavy sob from the mother's heart, as she clung to the keel in almost despairing hope, and thus they drifted to and fro, a mockery of life, so nigh death they seemed on that calm sea, until her benumbed hand, for one grasped her child, could scarcely cling on, and insensibility was stealing over both, slowly and gradually, so much so that it seemed as a dream, two rough, but friendly arms, lifting her into a boat, where she was gently laid at the bottom on sails and coats, and covered up carefully from the spray, which dashed over her, as in playfulness. What means of restoration they had at hand, were supplied by those rough nurses, two fishermen on the Marseilles coast, who, quitting their toil for that day, sailed in, as quickly as possible, to their humble village-home, of a few poor cottages up the coast. A long, insensible sleep was Minnie's, when she was laid in the cotter's bed. Her long, fair hair hung in heavy, damp masses on the coverlet, and on her bosom lay the living thing she still clasped in her straining arms, loving almost unto death. It was nearly two long days before she awoke to perfect consciousness, to find herself tended with care and every kindness their poverty could afford, by the two men who had rescued her, and who, calling in a woman from a neighbouring hut, placed the mother and child under her care. Her first awakening was a loud cry of terror, as in a horrid dream she saw the past, and her first thought was her boy. Startled by her cry, the woman ceased a low monotonous song she was singing, to lull an infant to sleep with by the fire. Minnie sprang from the bed towards her, and in an instant memory gave her back all; for one doubting moment she held her child at arm's length to recall the features, then folding those arms in gentle, but strong hold around it, she sunk tremblingly on her knees, and the fair veil of hair sweeping the ground, made her seem a spirit from another world, in purity and holiness, as, raising her streaming eyes upwards, her lips murmured in deep, heartfelt gratitude—"Oh, I am not worthy of so much mercy! so great a blessing! teach me to deserve it!"
And her tears baptized anew her child, spared from death.
With her memory and return to life, came a strange desire over Minnie's heart. She learned by the inquiries of the fisherman, that almost all on board the ill-fated Hirondelle had been lost. Only one or two of the passengers, and a few of the crew, had been picked up. Her sorrow was keen and heart-rending, on hearing that the lady whom she had vainly endeavoured to save, was amongst the lost—all were reported so, except the few we have named; and one of the men returning from Marseilles one day, brought her a paper containing a list of those lost, or supposed to be; and almost the first name she read there was, "Madame Tremenhere, and child." Her first feeling was a shudder, as she thought of what might have been. Then an idea rushed through her brain of, "What would Miles's feelings be should he read this? Would he regret her?—still hate her? Or, his once strong love reviving, would he remember her only through that medium, and sorrow over her fate?"
"Should he," she mentally said, "what heartfelt joy it would be to seek him, and, casting myself at his feet, pray him to take me once again to his arms and heart!"
This thought gave rise to the earnest desire of proving him. This task did not seem difficult or impossible. Her humble friends were not of that class to carry the news of her existence far and wide; her name, too, was unknown to them. More than thanks she had little to give, reserving to herself in some hereafter, to reward them amply. Her object was to gain Paris once again, and then ponder upon the best means of carrying out her project; it seemed to her as a last hope. The only articles of value she possessed were a watch and chain, which her ill-fated mistress had given her the day before they sailed. On these, her late friends, the fishermen, had raised her a sum of money in Marseilles; a small sum she forced upon them, and with the remainder, after purchasing a few absolute necessaries, the still hoping woman left, unrecognized, for Paris. She had confided to her friends a wish to be unknown, until she reached her relatives, and thus a passport was obtained in the name of Deval. With her she took the paper containing the list of passengers supposed to be lost, and thus she started for Paris.
Minnie had not calculated all in doing this; she overlooked, in her haste to put a last hope of reconciliation in practice, the grief many might feel. But it was done, and thought came afterwards. She knew that, by sending the paper to Tremenhere's artist-friend, in Paris, it assuredly would reach him, directed to himself; consequently, on her arrival, her first act was to seek the box of one of those curiously occupied persons in that large city, who sit at the corners of some streets, and, for a trifle, write letters for the illiterate or mysterious. Here she got her paper addressed to Tremenhere, to his friend's care, in a strange hand, and sent it by a porter, with an order to leave it in theloge de concièrge, without answering any questions, merely inquiring if they knew the address of the gentleman. The man returned to her, and said—
"The person to whom it was addressed, was daily expected in Paris, and it should be given to him." Her heart bounded with a joy, long a stranger to it, at this information; all seemed to favour her scheme. Then, however, for the first time she sat down to reflect, and thought of Mary's certain grief—Dorcas—Skaife—all, perhaps; but she consoled herself with the reflection—"It will not be for long: Miles will come to Paris—when he receives the paper, he will go to Mary. I will watch for him near her house, and his friend's; and when I see his fine head bowed in sorrow, I will bid it raise itself up, rejoicing!"
And with this idea she took a small, almost garret, within view of his friend's residence, and through theconcièrge, and at shops obtained some work, whereby to support life, and her dearer than own—that of Tremenhere's child's.
Miles had remained at Florence, in retirement and bitterness, until his feelings outwore themselves. He wanted fuel to feed his thoughts against Minnie. He was tormented in soul; for sometimes a till then silent monitor awoke, and said—
"You were perhaps too hasty—you had no proof, but presumptive evidence—the most deceiving of any: return to Paris." And his fate took him by the hand, and led him thither.
Before Minnie brought the newspaper to Paris, the journals, both there and in England, were teeming with accounts of the loss of the "Hirondelle," and a list given of the passengers' names. Who may depict the heavy gloom which fell upon her family at Gatestone, when her name, coupled with her infant's, appeared amongst those lost! Dorcas was almost broken-hearted. If Minnie could have seen her, she would indeed have regretted theruseof a moment, which could cause so much bitter anguish to one she loved—she would no longer accuse her aunt of coldness, but rather have pitied that want of energy, which made her seem what she was not. On Juvenal and Sylvia, too, it fell heavily, but in a different manner. On him, it awakened remorse and gloom for unjust severity, and a consequent hatred towards those who had urged him to it. He would not listen to the name of Burton, or Dalby, without violent passion, followed by almost tears; and this feeling was constantly awakened by Sylvia, who became more acrimonious in proportion as her conscience told her she had taken a good part in the oppression of her poor niece; and her greatest satisfaction was in torturing others.
Dorcas and Skaife were the two who, in almost silence, bore the heaviest burthen; they spoke of her to one another, but beyond this, they were silent. Dorcas crept about her home in quiet grief; every little object which had belonged to Minnie was gradually taken from public gaze, to be treasured up in her own saddened room, and there she would sit for hours, looking upon them, and recalling when and how Minnie employed them.
The old hall clock ticked no more: this was Juvenal's act—it awakened such painful feelings whenever its tongue proclaimed the hour; so one day, unknown to any one, he sent early for a carpenter, and the friend of years was consigned to a lumber-room!—à propos, this is too often the fate of old, tried friends, who would recall us to thought and duty by reminding us of wasted hours!
Mrs. Gillett had but one phrase in her sorrow to cut Juvenal to the soul; and this was—
"I told you something bad would come of all your severity! Poor darling!—only for your cruelty she might be smiling amongst us now, and her blessed, crowing babby!" She spoke of it as if it had been a young game-cock. "And to think," she continued, "that that pretty creatur', long hair and all, has become food for fishes! There—never don't send no more into this house; for, as long as I'm in it, none sha'n't be cooked, I can tell you!"
And the poor woman, having thus energetically delivered herself of her opinions, would creep away, and, shutting the door of her pleasant-looking room, sit rocking to and fro, crying, as she would fancy she again beheld Minnie and her handsome Tremenhere there, side by side.
The authorities at Marseilles were written to, and all confirmed the sad news; some few had been rescued, but nothing had been heard of Minnie, except that the boat in which she and others had escaped from the wreck, was found keel uppermost by a steamer. The fishermen far on the coast, had little intercourse with the town; and then Minnie had implored secresy at their hands, and her wishes were obeyed. Mary, too, wrote to Skaife in broken-heartedness. Nothing was wanting to confirm it; and, just when all else were in their sorrow, Tremenhere arrived in Paris. While at Florence, he had heard that Lord Randolph was cruising in a yacht in the Mediterranean. This partially urged his return to France—a fear of meetingthem. He felt he should not be master of himself were such to take place; so strong on his mind was the idea of their being together. Yet, too, sometimes a doubt arose; and, to clear up all, he returned to France—he could not rest. His first idea was to go direct to Mary's, and inquire about her in seeming indifference; then he changed his intention, and went hastily to his friend's. This man was from home when Miles arrived, so he went to his studio and awaited his return. Miles was one of those whose busy mind ever found employment for the fingers; he could not sit down patiently and wait, doing nothing—the busy thoughts when the mind is in trouble, become too acute then. Thus he looked round the studio—to read was impossible—taking a blank sheet of pasteboard, he placed it on an easel, and commenced sketching. He was not thinking willingly of Minnie; but somehow she was the spirit of the man's innermost soul. Beneath his pencil grew two figures—a Madonna and child, lightly sketched. Something passed over his heart like a footstep in a deserted hall, and echoed. He laid down the pencil, and brushing back his hair with a hasty hand, resumed the pencil, but reversed the sketch, and commenced another—as he did so, a step sounded without. He started up; it was his friend—friend to him, and a worthy man, which made him the more severe towards Minnie, supposing her so faithless. The cordial grasp of friendship given, his friend said,—
"Oh! I've got some letters and papers for you, which have come recently," and he hastened to seek them. Miles's heart beat high. They most probably, in some manner, related to the overflowing thought of his heart. He took them with trembling hands from the other, and scrutinized them all; a cold feeling of disappointment filled his heart—not a line in her handwriting!—then she was truly lost, and indifferent to him! All this time the other was gazing at him with an embarrassed look, not knowing when or how to commence—something he had to give utterance to; this look had come over him immediately after their first salutation. Miles tore open the Marseilles paper, and flung it down with a "pshaw." The name caught his friend's eye, and he took it up. As he did so, Miles, to conceal his disappointed look, hastily seated himself at the easel, and commenced finishing his sketch. "Look," he said, "Duplin, this is the model of the sweet villa where I have been sojourning often, in Florence—I must return—already I grow weary in France!" In good truth, he looked so; he was pale, care-worn, and his smile passed like a breath on glass, leaving a dark, dim vapour behind.
"Tremenhere," said the other at last, "have you heard aught of madame, lately?"
The question made his hand tremble.
"No," he replied, continuing his sketch. "How should I? Have you?" and he looked up wistfully.
"Nor ofce milord?" asked Duplin, again interrogatively, without replying to his demand.
"He is in the Mediterranean," answered Miles bitterly, "cruising in a yacht."
"Then itwasthe case," fell from his friend's lip, as if in self-satisfaction, at a doubt solved.
"What?" cried Miles, looking up hastily; "speak out, I can bear it—I suspect all, from the reports I have heard."
"Well, then, after you left I resolved to discover all; I deemed it right towards you, and also a satisfaction, where madame would fain have seemed so wronged. I found out that milord went to Italy and the Mediterranean, and shortly afterwards madame quitted Paris for England; but this must have been aruseto mislead, for she was recently in Marseilles with her child."
Tremenhere groaned aloud at the thoughts this communication awakened; there was something so bitter in the memory of all the happiness her supposed infamy had cost him, wife, child, home—all but a vain dream.
"And thence," continued Duplin, anxious, by fortifying his (Miles's) heart with contempt for her, to prepare him to receive calmly the intelligence he had gained through the public prints, "madame with her child, sailed the other day for theMediterraneanfor Malta; in fact, where I last heard of milord's yacht."
"True!" ejaculated Miles through his closed teeth, as he bent over his sketch.
"And now,mon ami," added the other hurriedly, "I have something more to tell you. I do not think you need much courage to hear it; for after all, 'tis better, far better thus."
"What would you tell me, Duplin? speak?" and he looked up perfectly unconscious of the truth.
"Well then, Tremenhere, you are free; madame is dead!"
"Dead!" exclaimed Miles, starting up pale and rigid; and, strange contradiction of the thought which the other endeavoured to convey to his mind, the fair, living Minnie seemed to stand before him.
"Be a man!" said Duplin, soothingly; "think how false she was; think how painful a tie—of the disgrace!" and he grasped his arm.
"Where did she die?" asked Miles, passing his hand over his brow to collect his thoughts; for he was in a stupor, not understanding really what the other meant to convey to him.
"She was lost; the vessel was wrecked going to Malta," answered Duplin, who had unfolded the Marseilles paper, and, suspecting the contents sent by some unknown hand, placed the open sheet before the stupefied Tremenhere on the easel. Gradually the glazed eyes fell upon the page, and the names stood out bold and clear before him, "Madame Tremenhere (Anglaise)et son enfant," he dropped silently on the seat, and, shading his eyes, gazed on the sheet motionless and speechless.
"Be yourself—be a man!" said Duplin, once more touching his arm.
"I am!" cried Tremenhere, in a hoarse but steady voice, looking up. "I rejoice; better know her dead, thanhis!" and he rose and strode across the room. "I do rejoice, Duplin; see, my hand even does not tremble. Now I can bear my sorrow; now the world is one huge blank before me. I have lost that leper spot which was tainting all my flesh; I have no past, no present, no future—all is alike a blank. I can walk on in the darkness, nor fear to meet her form at every step!"
Duplin stood awed by his calmness, it seemed so terrific over those young graves. "Who can have sent that paper?" he asked, taking the journal in his hand.
"An enemy; but I guess him. I defy them all now! They can wound no more—my wound is cleansed, and healed; I defy them! the plague spot has left me! Rejoice Duplin, rejoice!"
When he went forth from that house, his step was exact, the brow stern and cold, but untroubled, the mouth compressed and calm, and the pale woman closely veiled, who was concealed in a gateway watching the exit of him whom she had seen enter Duplin's abode, felt her hopeful heart loosen all its chords, and wellnigh burst in its sorrow, as she failed to read one regret on that face of stone. She knew he must have received the paper which told him all, and now indeed she felt he had never loved her—all was lost. She had but three things to comfort her; first, her own upright conscience, her boy, and the morbid satisfaction of being indeed dead to all, lone, and uncomforted, and thus she crept back to her gloomy garret.
Once again she saw Miles; her dress touched him in the half-lighted street at night. He was cold, unmoved, as before. She stretched a hand to touch him; his name was on her lips; but he passed on, and the whispered word died away in a hysterical sob.
Next day he quitted for England, without seeking any communication with Mary, and Minnie remained to weep and toil.
Four months passed away, and February, with its cold assumption of earliest spring, found a crowd of fashionables assembled in the French capital; and, amongst others, Lady Ripley, Lady Lysson, and Lady Dora.
It would be impossible to convey to many minds, or easily describe, the chilling effect which pride, and a luxuriously-indulged fashionable existence, throw over a heart which otherwise might have been warm, generous, and loving. Lady Dora was painfully shocked when she heard of Minnie's death; but then she had her mother's cold reasonings to soothe her grief.
"Minnie had disgraced her family; her name had, since her unfortunate marriage, been brought in question. Assuredly, though Mr. Tremenhere had hushed slander by resolution, yet Minnie must have given some room for it! It was very unfortunate that she had ever been known, by the publicity he had given at the club, as his wife; and perhaps some day, as a relative of their's—for people alwayswillinquire who's who? Therefore they must, of course, for decency sake, put on mourning. Perhaps it was better so to do; it would silence whisperings, as it was known to many that the husband and wife had been separated before her death. Something, too, was rumoured, of a duel having been fought; but as no public scandal had been given by a divorce, an assumption of sorrow would appear in favour of her memory, should the truth ever become known!"
So Lady Ripley and her daughter swept the floors of their hotel in Paris (whither they had gone, to seek oblivion of sorrow in change of scene) in robes of sombre hue, craped and bugled with jet, and only in a very quiet soirée permitted themselves to be "at home" or "abroad."
Tremenhere had been a favourite in Florence before his marriage, with many a high dame; that event threw a partial veil over him: he grew domestic.
Now he came forth again in a new character. In the first state he had an absorbing idea—his mother's fame; this was his guiding star. With Minnie's supposed fall, this fell too; it "sought the sea," and was engulfed.
Tremenhere now was a thoroughly heartless, reckless man. Without hope, present or future, he lived for the moment. At first he hesitated, in the candour of his heart, even to wear mourning for Minnie; then a thought—a more generous one to the dead—arose; he forgave her, and would spare her memory from calumny, by any act of his, so glaring in disrespect. As the pale, interesting widower, one whose fate had been so mysterious—one ejected from his high estate by his parents' error—he became the fashionable rage, the pet artist, the sought-after guest; and the mansubmittingto all, courted nothing, for nothing moved him.
It will not be our province to betray beforehand Lady Dora's heart—let it work its own way, and shew itself. Lady Ripley could not close her doors against Tremenhere, without risking scandal to her relative's memory, should any busy tongue ever proclaim she had been such to them; besides, he was the fashion, and received every where, as more than an artist even of fame, as a man who ranked their equal by birth, though a cloud now obscured him. Burton had never been a favourite in society, and not a few hoped yet to see Tremenhere restored to his home. So Lady Ripley did the more prudent thing, received him with something approaching to cordiality. Moreover, he was every where; not to receive him, would be to shut fashion out of doors. No portrait was perfect unless he painted it, no bust a model unless he chiseled it; and the man walked among all like a soul in transmigration, seeking the one hidden thing, which should bid it back to the heaven it had lost, and was striving to regain.
"Come here, you dreadful man!" exclaimed Lady Lysson, as he entered her apartments one day in the Hotel Mirabeau, "and account for yourself. Here is Lady Dora complaining bitterly that her portrait, as 'Diane Chasseresse,' will never be completed! I shame to hear so bad an account of my protegé."
"Lady Lysson," he said, taking her cordially proffered hand, "I cannot plead guilty; the fault is Lady Dora Vaughan's. Three days have I placed it upon my easel, and, after impatiently awaiting her ladyship to give me a sitting, have been compelled to remove it for some other claimant."
"What have you to answer to this charge, Lady Dora?" asked the lively hostess with mock gravity, appealing to the lady, who was sitting at another table sketching when Tremenhere entered, and who had received him as usual with a constrained air, merely bowing.
"I reply," answered that lady, "that my mother, having been particularly engaged, it was impossible for me to wait upon Mr. Tremenhere; and indeed, dear Lady Lysson, you are well aware I have not complained of the delay. It is a matter of indifference to me, the completion of that portrait."
"I declare you are ungracious enough to induce Mr. Tremenhere to cast the care of it off his hands, and but that I have its perfecting at heart, before my truant nephew's return from afar, to gladden his eyes with, I should advise him to leave Dianeà la chassefor ever, and unfinished."
If the allusion to Lord Randolph made him wince, no eye saw it. As soon as the discussion between the ladies commenced, he had very coolly seated himself in a corner of the sofa; and with pencil and paper was silently sketching Lady Lysson's spaniel, which lay before the fire. Lady Ripley, too, had apartments in the Hotel Mirabeau—consequently, the ladies were as one family. We have seen before, the desire of the two families for an union between Lady Dora and Lord Randolph—a marriage now equally sought for by the gentleman. Though Minnie's death had affected him much, yet he knew not all the circumstances of the case; and, in truth, he was so innocent of any wrong towards her, that the memory soon passed away. On Tremenhere he looked as upon a sort of madman, really being incapable to dive into the recesses of a heart so filled with love, and itsever-accompanyingpang—jealousy; and he was now daily expected in Paris to plead his own cause with Lady Dora, who had, unpromising any thing, alone consented, at his aunt's request, to sit for "La Diane,"nominallyfor herself.
There was a feeling of deep repulsion in Lady Dora's heart towards Lord Randolph. Thinking, as she did, that he had at the very least sought to compromise her cousin—if in truth he had not done so—knowing, as she also did, that he and Tremenhere had met in a hostile manner, she felt any thing but easy at the inevitable meeting between them now, courted and sought after as the latter was every where, for his exalted talent, manners, wit, when he pleased, and a certain romance about him, which made him a hero—and what were his feelings at the prospect of seeing Lord Randolph? They were part of a whole of sorrow and suffering. He was resolved to fly nothing which might still more harden his heart; he would apply the iron to every part till he burned out and scarred the vitality still in it. He had but one desire—total callousness—that thus he might find peace; and before the world he had attained that wish—but in the privacy of his own room, unseen, unheard, who might tell the agony he endured? Something of this Lady Dora suspected; and beneath that pride-encased heart there was a woman's thought for him. She could not but respect him, and she dreaded him now more than ever—and this dread made her desire ardently the return of Lord Randolph, that she mightendeavourto meet the wishes of all, and, becoming his wife, place him in barrier between Tremenhere and herself; but her fortification would not be a very strong one where her own heart was more than half traitor. Lord Randolph, too, knew Tremenhere was in Paris; but, as nothing forced him to remain, he presumed the meeting would have nothing very painful for him. He looked upon it in this light: that in life, more than once, it has happened, that the law's divorcing power has made wives strangers to their husbands; and society, backed by the rules of etiquette and politeness, has brought these same husbands into almost daily intercourse, without collision—thus he felt it would be between Tremenhere and himself. There was something of a jealous pang, a memory of past insinuations, which made him wish to secure Lady Dora at once—all his love, asheknew that passion, had revived for her. Now we will resume our narrative, where we left Miles sketching the dog.
"Mr. Tremenhere," cried Lady Lysson, "why don't you speak, and assist me in fighting your battles?"
"Mine? Lady Lysson!" he exclaimed, looking up. "Pardon me; I am compelled, though in gratitude for the intention doubtless, on your part, to disavow them as such. It has not been to oblige me, however pleasant the task, that Lady Dora sat for her portrait."
"I am tired of the subject," uttered that lady, pettishly curling her haughty lip, and at the same time etching her sketch with a hasty pen.
"I am perfectly ashamed of the length of time I have expended in pourtraying your beauties, Tiney," said Tremenhere; gravely shaking his head, "when I am compelled to notice the energy with which Lady Dora sketches her——WhatisLady Dora sketching?" he asked, rising slowly from his quiet seat, and crossing towards her. As he did so, however, pausing an instant before Lady Lysson, and dropping her favourite's picture in her outstretched hand, with—
"An offering, Lady Lysson, though not by a Landseer. May I look at your labour?" he asked, gently leaning over Lady Dora's chair. She felt his warm breath on her bent neck, and her cheek coloured. She tried to persuade herself it was indignation at his cool audacity, and indifference to her haughtiness; but her heart rejected the excuse, for Tremenhere was her equal, and now received every where as one thrown by accident, or roguery, from his allotted sphere. Even the least liberal could not speak of him as one raised above his real position. She felt herself colouring, and felt also that his eyes were bent upon her; and, hastily tearing the etching in two, cast it aside, saying—
"Pshaw! Mr. Tremenhere; my child's play could never interest a person of your genius; and I am too proud to play second to any one!"
"Thatyou never could," he said, gallantly taking up the pieces, and rejoining them.
"I declare, Lady Dora, I never saw you so cross in my life!" cried the gentle-tempered, lively Lady Lysson. "What has Mr. Tremenhere done to offend you? One would really take you for two——" She paused, suddenly and awkwardly—"children," she added, colouring.Bothfelt the word she had omitted.
"This looks like a sketch of an early scene of my boyhood," he said, not appearing to notice the pause which the other lady had made. "A holly field!—true, it is so: here is the quickset hedge, the old stile, and the hall in the distance. Lady Dora, you have a faithful memory—a clear vision—a skilful pen: may I keep this?" and he fixed his eye full upon her. Their eyes met, and in that schooled look, speaking only of the past in reference to herself—not a shade of bitter regret in it—who might have read that only one thought at that moment was gnawing at his heart—his lost Minnie? For it was on that stile he had sat full often, watching for her; 'twas there she came the night they fled. Lady Dora dropped her eyes, and a shudder passed over her; for she, too, saw Minnie before her, and her heart upbraided her for more than the weakness of the present moment, which was insensibly stealing over her. She felt that, in all her sorrow, she had not acted the part of one, almost a sister to that poor girl; and she asked herself, "What can this man's heart be, to forget so soon, and by so many ways lead me to suppose I am not an object of indifference to him? And what must I seem to him, even to cross a glance with him, engendering thoughtful dreaming?"
Then vanity, the ruling queen of earth, whispered, "He loved you before he saw her, or his half-uttered words were traitors; and, if she proved unworthy the love he gave herin pique, why should he regret her loss?"
"You are thoughtful, Lady Dora," he said gently, taking a seat beside her.
"I was going to make the same remark," cried Lady Lysson, who overheard the words, though the tone was so very low. "I declare English girls bring English hearts every where, and are always gloomy or sentimental."
"Do not accuse me of the latter!" exclaimed Lady Dora, starting up, and shaking off the incubus overwhelming her; "I beg to disclaim all acquaintance with so missy-ish a creation as mawkish sentiment."
"You are quite right, my dear," answered the other lady; "I know nothing more dreadful than a bread and butter miss. If a man but look at her, she drops her eyes and blushes; she disowns any thing so dreadful as a corn; consequently all accidental treadings on the toe, make her heart flutter, and become so many gentle avowals of love, oddly enough conveyed though they may be."
"I disagree with your ladyship," said Miles, "about the oddity of the act; 'tis wittily imagined, for, in doing so, a man stoops to conquer!"
"Oh, dreadful!" cried Lady Lysson; "but, to continue my sketch. If you speak to her of any one particular flower, even if it were the humble daisy itself, she would mow a field to obtain a sufficient quantity to convince you, you were most completely understood, and sympathized with; and as to colours—why, you could make a chameleon of her, every hour different in hue, if it so pleased you."
"What, if you played 'cat's cradle' with her, Lady Lysson? you once spoke feelingly to me on this same subject."
"What did I say? Oh, now I remember—I spoke of my poor Lysson, and myself, and——"
"You advised me not to play at the game with Lady Dora—now I likedaringall, Lady Dora; will you show me how you play 'cat's cradle?'" and he took a piece of twisted silk from the table.
"I don't know the game," she answered coldly.
"I daresay Lady Lysson will instruct us; will you not?" and he held the silk towards her.
"Willingly, beneath my own eye," she replied.
"Not beyond?"
"No! Lady Dora might use her feline qualities upon you."
"Oh! I should little care," he answered pointedly, "to alter slightly the words of a talented, most unfortunate, and I believe most innocent woman, Madame Laffarge, if Lady Dora scratch me like a cat, so she will but love me like a dog."
There was a dead silence of a moment—Lady Dora interrupted it by an allusion to the first portion of his speech, not seeming to have noticed the latter.
"Do you believe Madame Laffarge was innocent?"
"I believe all so, till proved otherwise. There was no proof but presumptive evidence against her; and she was surrounded by deceit and enemies."
"Too often the case with many an innocent woman who has been falsely condemned!" ejaculated Lady Lysson, partially ignorant of Tremenhere's history.
Lady Dora blushed painfully. The conversation had glided imperceptibly into this channel—how stop the current?
"Right," he said calmly; "but in some cases a demon, or guilt alone, can collect this evidence. If we condemn, we do so innocently in the former case; and assuredly full many a crown of martyrdom has been more lightly won, than a woman's, thus condemned, thus punished!"
Nothing seemed to touch him. Lady Dora had shuddered as this strange conversation commenced; for none there better than herself knew how much poor Minnie had suffered. She was lost in wonder at Tremenhere's sternness of heart; and yet, as a lioness loves her mate, so her proud, almost unwomanly nature, admired this man's, daily, more and more.
"We forget 'cat's cradle!'" he cried, almost boyishly. "Lady Lysson, behold my willing hands."
And, laughingly, that lady adjusted the silk on his fingers, and, drawing Lady Dora's trembling hand towards him, commenced the task of teaching them. Child's play is foolish for two who should not fall in love; for so much more is done in innocence, than the mature heart can calmly bear unmoved. People are thrown off their guard, and then some watchful sprite is sure to step in with his assistance. Lady Lysson taught them, and at last even Lady Dora laughingly joined in the caprice of a moment's childishness. Their fingers came in contact—(a thing much better avoided, where the woman's weakening heart needs every possible bulwark to keep out Love. He is very apt to glide into the citadel in a gentle pressure of thrilling joy; but if not accomplished thefirsttime, the besieged has nothing to fear; in these cases, "ce n'est que le premier pas qui coute")—and while puzzling unnecessarily over her silken entanglements, he found time to press her for another sitting forDianesoon.
"Let it be to-morrow—shall it, Lady Dora?" he asked, as Lady Lysson drew her attention elsewhere, to scold 'Tiney,' who was tearing the leaves of a book dropped on the floor.
"Well, yes; to-morrow," uttered Lady Dora gently, as he held her hands imprisoned by the silken cord. She did not withdraw them, so he stooped, with the quiet gentleness peculiar to himself, and touched the prisoners with his lip. She started, but did not utter a word.
"You are tired of our child's play," he said; "let me release your hands. Lady Lysson, a thousand thanks for your teaching; you did well in cautioning me against it with Lady Dora—I shall remember it!" And rising, a glance fell on her, and this was scarcely more than one of respect and interest: shaking Lady Lysson warmly by the hand, he bowed merely to the other, and said—"Then to-morrow, Lady Dora, I may expect you?"
She bowed, and he quitted the room.
"What an exceedingly awkward turn the conversation took!" cried Lady Lysson as he left. "It was a most painful thing that affair about his wife, which has ever appeared involved, to me, in some strange mystery. How was it, my dear? I asked Randolph about it before he quitted England, and he said Mr. Tremenhere was jealous of his own shadow; and this was all the satisfaction I received."
It will be seen Lady Lysson was totally ignorant of the relationship existing between Minnie and Lady Dora. Lord Randolph had, for his own sake, as a suitor to the latter, hushed it up as much as possible.
"There was something strange about it!" dropped from Lady Dora, with perfect self-possession; she was again herself.
"There must have been some indiscretion on her part," continued the other, even charitable as she was, "for they were separated some time before her unhappy death. I heard,"—here she lowered her voice—"that Randolph had flirted with her, and this excited Mr. Tremenhere's jealousy, and that subsequently he discovered a decided intrigue elsewhere, and shot, or dangerously wounded the lover. I admired him for it; for, though it may be wrong, 'tis more natural than a cold-blooded divorce and damages: it always seems to me like making a fortune of one's own dishonour!"
"I doubt whether Lord Randolph really were guilty of seeking the lady's dishonour," answered Lady Dora; though shethoughtit herself, she would not admit any thing to another, so galling to her vanity.