"I believe," continued Lord Randolph, "that the masques in olden times—at court and elsewhere—were made the medium of intrigues, state and others; but surely nothing could be more innocent than the one the other night!" Lord Randolph was rather primitive in his ideas as regards abal masqué a l'opera, even in our days—Lady Dora did not internally agree with him, but she said nothing.
"Have you secured one box for theFrançaisthis evening?" asked Lady Ripley, changing the subject. "I quite forgot it," answered Lord Randolph; "come along, Tremenhere, we will go and look for it, and you shall bring it back to the ladies, for I am unavoidably engaged till dinner; of course, you will be of the party?"
"I fear not," he answered; "I have much occupation on hand."
"Nonsense, man! you shut yourself up with your mysterious portrait, till you become perfectly gloomy; it must have a deep interest for you."
"You mistake; 'tis an altar-piece which I am completing to order—a Madonna and child."
"Then, why cover it up so mysteriously?"
"We artists are jealous of our unfinished works being criticised; 'tis, however, notthatwhich would detain me to-night, but another claim."
"Pray, set it aside, and accompany us, Mr. Tremenhere," said Lady Ripley, graciously; Lord Randolph's evident friendship for him, stamped him above what he was before, in her eyes—he still hesitated, when Lady Dora looked up, as if glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece, and almost imperceptibly, 'twas so quickly done, her glance crossed his.
"Then I will do as youcommand," he said, bowing to Lady Ripley; but her daughter felt his eye was upon her, and thecommand, accentuated for her ear alone.
"We can perhaps spare you the trouble of going to the theatre, if you are engaged," cried Lady Ripley. "Dora, we may as well drive there ourselves."
"I shall not leave home to-day, mamma," was the reply.
"But you know, my dear, Imustcall upon the Montagus at four."
"Lady Lysson will willingly accompany you; I know she too purposes a visit to them."
"But your resolution is sudden, Dora; to-day you promised to go with me at four."
"My head aches," she answered coldly; "pray excuse me."
"Oh! if that be the case," replied her ladyship, "I can urge no more; you had better lie down, my dear child, and prepare yourself for the evening's fatigue."
"No, thank you, mamma; with your permission I shall remain here—I have a letter to write."
She never once looked up, but a man the least vain might have fancied, as Tremenhere did, that "the morrow" of thebal masqué, was presented to his view, especially after what Lord Randolph had said about his returning with the ticket for the theatre. Making their adieux, the gentlemen left with the understanding that one or both should return, after calling at theFrançaisto secure the box.
For a moment Tremenhere hesitated how to act. He asked himself whether his conduct was right towards his friend—the title he gave him in his heart decided him. "She is unworthy of him," he said; "'tis an act of kindness to break off this marriage."
And, consequently at four, he called with the ticket. Lady Dora had been schooling her heart, and received him with perfect composure, much regretting all the trouble he had taken; and she sat with an unfinished letter before her, and the pen between her fingers, as though expecting him to take leave. He read her as an open leaf in a book; and the want of all candour in her disposition made him more than ever resolved to bend her. Every day she had become more warped since he had first seen her; even when he and Minnie had been residing at Chiswick, she could be capable of a generous action; now, not one—she was the world's child!
"Is letter-writing advisable for a headache?" he asked, after the first salutations were over.
"Possibly not," was the cold reply; "but it is one of neglected duty, and I was resolved to finish it to-day."
"Then I will take my leave; a visiter is never more unfortunate than when he cuts the thread of some pleasant narrative by pen or lip," and he was going towards the door. "I have forgotten half my message!" he cried, returning. "Lord Randolph desired me to say, that he had taken upon himself the pleasant task of choosing your ladyship's bouquet for this evening, which will arrive in due season," and he moved towards the door.
"If you see him, Mr. Tremenhere," she said hastily, at the same time throwing down her pen and closing her letter-book, "pray prevent his lordship from giving himself so much trouble; I dislike bouquets in the hand."
"Indeed! permit me to wonder, flowers are kindred to the beautiful—you should not be so unnatural, as to disclaim your own."
"I presume I am expected to bow; but I seldom—neverdo, to compliments; they are so vapid, made up, like these said bouquets, to suit every occasion, every taste, and thus doled out alike to all. Could we listen to half a dozen conversations at once, on the average they would be nearly word for word alike, between an idle man, and a silly woman."
"Why silly?" he asked smiling, still standing, hat in hand, near the door.
"Because all must be, to listen to them," and she pushed away her chair, and rising, dropped down amid the cushions of the ottomans. Without another word, he crossed the room, laid his hat on the table, and, drawing off the one glove remaining on his hand, flung the two into his hat; and then, quietly seating himself beside her, asked with gentle interest,—
"How is your headache—is it better? You look pale!" and he took her hand. For an instant it struggled, then lay still. This was her first false step of bad generalship. His action was so natural, considering their relationship, though only by marriage, that what else had been freedom passed as a right; her struggle to release it denoted a thought of wrong, and he was not slow to take advantage of it.
"Do not deny me even the privilege of a friend—I once possessed that, Lady Dora."
She made no reply.
"You have not answered my question. Is your headache better, or gone? You would do well to banish that, like all other hurtful things."
"Hurtfulthings?" she uttered in echo. "You are right."
"About what? Do we understand one another at last?"
"Tell me," she cried hurriedly, looking up, "whilst we are alone and uninterrupted, where have you been, Mr. Tremenhere?"
She looked, but could not read the anguish which crossed his brow; he made an effort, and subdued it before her.
"Been? shall I tell you truly?"
"Do, and quickly. I would know allnowat once."
"I fled, to prove many things—I fled, to live with a memory—I fled, to come back a slave!"
His tone was full of soul, for every word was truth; but she applied it wrongly to herself. He had withdrawn his hand, and passed it over his brow. As it fell listlessly on his knee, she laid hers upon it, and it trembled; it was the action of a moment, and as quickly withdrawn.
"What have you proved?" she asked, almost imploringly.
"That we must never trust our own false hearts—they lead us on to destruction; still less, anylivingwoman." His thoughts were with the dead, as he deemed.
"Do not look so pale—so afflicted: look as you did on that night."
"That night, which never knew a morrow! and yet it held the promise of one, Lady Dora."
"Who cast that promise from his memory, as worthless?"
"Not that, as dangerous, incapable of leading to happiness, as a snare—any thing you will, but a promise of that joy, which another has obtained."
"I will not misunderstand you. There is one thing we may give in pique, the hand, but the heart defies our power—'tis our master."
"Is yours?"
"Yes; I have in vain struggled with it—it daunts me."
"Mine is a slave," he answered, "chained, but not by me; and yours will become so too, and follow the manacled hand, and thus you will be calm and happy."
"I? never. Do you know—do you not see, that my position terrifies me? I have none to counsel—be my guide, and as an error led me to the steps I have taken, direct me how to escape its penalty."
"You mean your marriage with Lord Randolph?" he took her hand as he spoke, and, looking upon it, thought of the day he first held Minnie's thus!
"'Tis a fair hand," he said, regarding it. "Oh! pity this should break hearts, sever ties of love—this little tiny thing, which holds so much fearful power. Are you sure you do not love Lord Randolph?"
"Sure? I almost hate him, and should, were he my husband."
"Are you mad? You must have been to pledge yourself to him, such as you are—one to be loved, worshipped, adored, if with this hand you gave your heart."
"Thus I would have it—and only thus!" she uttered, her pride subdued in her feelings. He had urged her on by his manner; she had prepared herself against his prayers, but not against his ambiguous manner; for he looked as one fearful of speaking—of one on his guard. She fancied he durst not, and she dared all to prove him at last. For an instant he thought, "Shall I doom her to misery, such as she has not dreamed of, and, marrying her, tell her why I wooed her?" but a thought, even yet of pity, came over him; he knew the worse than death he could condemn her to, by making her his unloved, despised wife; then, too, Minnie stood between them, and forbade it. He felt henevercould place another, even in hate, or revenge, where her head alone, though but in memory might lie—on his heart.
"Can you love? Do you love?" he asked, in a low whisper; and the arm stole round her waist. "Could you for that love renounce all—give up rank, station, home—all?"
"Freely," she uttered; and at that moment she was sincere. "Freely—so I break this hated tie, and——"
"Forge another where you could love?—dolove; and, forgetting all false pride, know the only true one—that of the man your soul has elected?—the man equal to you in all things but an empty title?"
"You have taught me to know myself," she whispered; "teach me to read you aright; for my intellect cannot comprehend you, and I doubt, where I would have faith."
"Do not doubt me," he said, coldly releasing her waist, and taking her hand; "I will counsel you well—lead you aright, and for your happiness. Never love, Lady Dora—never love; but if they will you should marry, make Lord Randolph a good and faithful wife, nor cast away your affections on one scarcely worthy of them. He is my friend—if youmustlove, love him; butIcounsel all, never love, forIdread and eschew the passion!" And, dropping her hand, he rose calmly from the ottoman, and listlessly taking up his hat and gloves, scarcely looking at her, bowed, and quitted the room.
When he was gone she sprang from the ottoman, and, pacing the apartment like one bewildered by a sudden shock, ended by leaning her head on the table, and weeping the bitterest tears she had ever shed; for they were over her crushed pride—her abased heart, which he had probed to the quick, and then, as a worthless toy, cast from him. It was long before she could recall all the scene to her mind, and when she did it might have ended in almost madness had her unfailing pride and self-love not come hand in hand to say, "He loves, and dreads his love. Randolph is his friend—be patient—watchful, and your reward will be, in subduing all his feelings and resolutions."
And thus cheered, she rose, to own to herself that for his love she would brave any thing. She even hated Minnie's memory when she thought, that though it had proved evanescent, as she deemed it had, he certainlyonceloved that girl.
"I will bind him yet, and in iron bands," she cried, as her tall, proud figure strode the room; "not as she did—silk could never hold so bold a heart as his—they shall be iron, andIwill rivet them; there shall be no key lest another undo them—riveted, Tremenhere—riveted!" and the girl smiled already, in triumph over his defeat.
Days and days passed away, and Minnie lay almost in death's grasp, and the old man sat beside her as a father might have done, nursing the poor sick woman; his bitterest thought was his own poverty, and her great need of every care. The little money she had by her, was fast disappearing, sickness brings so many unaccustomed claims into a sufferer's room; there was a doctor, too, but here again she learned the charity still existing, despite all march of intellect, or railroad of worldliness; there was this one hallowed thing standing still, since the day of the good Samaritan. Nothing could induce this man to take a fee, and assuredly he came with more interest, and oftener, to see the sick woman, than if gold awaited his palm at every visit. Theconcièrge, too, was all kindness; she kept poor little Miles, and thus the weary days crept on, and nearly a fortnight passed, before Minnie returned to a perfect recollection of the past. When she did so, her first idea was to ask the length of time she had lain thus—two weeks! and in that period what might not have occurred? She struggled to rise from her bed, but her strength failed her; she had no one around in whom she might confide, feeling her own total incapacity to act, and knowing how necessary it was that some immediate steps should be taken, even though in taking them, her existence would, of necessity, be betrayed. There was but one person of whom she could think in her despair, and this was Mary Burns. Summoning all her fortitude and strength, she in a few, half-coherent words confided to Monsieur Georges that a mystery existed, and imploring caution, and otherwise total silence on his part, she besought him to seek Mary, and telling her a sick woman wished to see her immediately, having something of importance to communicate, beg of her to come, without delay. This he gladly promised to do; for, in his perplexity, he knew not himself where to apply, how to act; in her ravings she had said enough to convince him, some dreadful secret oppressed her. Mary, who had been alone informed by the papers at first of Minnie's supposed fate, and subsequently by Skaife, had mourned her with the sincerity of an humble sister; for some time she had been incapable of almost any exertion of mind or body; there was a blank around her, a disheartenment—for well she knew the purity of the unfortunate victim of Tremenhere's jealousy. When she received the mysterious summons, delivered to her by Georges, not a thought of Minnie crossed her mind; her deep, and truly mourning dress, bespoke her faith in the report of her untimely fate, but, though much puzzled as to whom the person could be desiring to see her, she was too sincere a Christian to refuse the prayer of any one in trouble. Minnie had said to Monsieur Georges, that she desired to see the person alone; consequently he brought her to the room door, and there left her. The name Deval could not possibly enlighten her at all, and the respectability of the house removed any fear she might otherwise have felt, in following a stranger. It would be impossible for any words adequately to describe her almost supernatural terror, when entering the room alone, on the humble bed, almost pallet, in the pale, worn ghastly face lying there, she beheld Mrs. Tremenhere! Her first feeling was one of doubt, of her own perfect sanity; she thought some extraordinary likeness deceived her, and standing breathless, with clasped hands, she gazed in fear and wonder.
"Mary," whispered Minnie, turning her eyes, now hollow and wild, upon her—"Mary, 'tis I! come to me!" And she stretched forth her thin hands towards her. A shriek burst from the other: it was like an awakening from some dreadful dream. Dropping on her knees beside that bed, she clasped the wan hands in hers, and wept tears of so much heartfelt joy, that years of misery were washed from her memory in that stream of heaven-sent rapture.
In a few brief words, Minnie, raised up, and lying on her bosom, told all, first binding her to solemn secresy about her existence, unless released from it by herself. If Mary wept over her sufferings, her heart became soothed as she wept, feeling that there must be a term to it now.Sheknew Miles even better than his poor wife could; she had known his warm, generous, but hasty disposition, from boyhood; and even though her heart trembled when the other related the conversation which she had overheard at the opera, nothing could persuade her that he would so soon forget one he had loved as he once had Minnie: and so much does the fond heart of friendship soothe and cheer us, that Minnie too, became calm, and impressed with the conviction of her humble friend.
While they were still conversing, theconcièrgerapped at the door, carrying little Miles in her arms; and, as Mary clasped the beautiful boy to her bosom, she felt how impossible it would be for Tremenhere to resist so strong an appeal to his heart as this woman and child, or the conviction of the latter's parentage, in whose young face his own every look breathed.
After cheering, again and again, the now calmed woman, Mary hastily quitted, on her search for positive information. This had to be guardedly done, but she thought it might be accomplished through the medium of the waiting-woman of Lady Dora. Accordingly, she hurried home, and, selecting some articles oflingèrie, carried them to the Hotel Mirabeau, under pretence that some one had ordered her to bring patterns for selection, for the approval of Lady Dora Vaughan.
It will be remembered that her person, her present position, both were equally unknown to this lady, who alone knew her by name. Her success was greater than she had at first ventured to hope.Lingèresand ladies'-maids soon open a conversation together, especially as Mary, having so much at stake, threw off all her usual reserve, and became a perfect Parisienne in manner. She came, she said, having heard Milady Vaughan was making up atrousseau, in hopes some of herlingèriemight be worthy of a place in it—taking care, however, to give a wrong name and address. After the usual preliminary of presenting the attendant with a handsome collar, to propitiate her good-will, she learned, with a tremor at first, which ended in amazement and joy, that Lady Dora was going very shortly to be married, but positively to Milord Randolph Gray, who was then in Paris; and thesoubrette, warmed by the handsome present she had received, threw off all reserve, and spoke in raptures—true Parisian raptures—of her lady's beauty, and the justice it was meeting at the hands of a celebrated painter, a Monsieur Tremenhere, who was pourtraying her as Diana, to please Milord Randolph.
Mary could scarcely contain herself in the bounds of moderation, at this, to her, delightful intelligence; she abridged the visit as much as possible, promising to call again in a few days with more patterns, as Lady Dora was then out. She flew almost to poor Minnie's abode, to whom every moment had been as days. When Mary entered the room, her eyes were wild and excited; one glance, however, sufficed. Minnie read so much real joy in the other's kind face, that she fell back on her pillow almost fainting, from her previously overwrought feelings.
"Cheer up, madam—dear madam, I bring you joyful news!" exclaimed the other; and she hurriedly related all she had heard.
Minnie could not utter a word for many moments; then, as memory of those words crossed her mind, she could but torture herself with a solution of them, by supposing that Lady Dora's pride had stood between them. Not all Mary could urge against it, could banish the idea; and all she could do was to promise secresy, and employ means to discover the truth. She left, but only to make some necessary arrangements, and then return. One thing she resolved upon doing, and this she put into immediate practice—namely, to write to Mr. Skaife without hinting a word of the truth, but implored him to lose not a day in coming to Paris, asking secresy to all on the subject of her request—a hint of Minnie she durst not give; she only spoke of the absolute necessity there existed for his immediate arrival. This done, she felt at ease; and returning to Minnie's, after providing many little comforts until then unknown there, she took up her abode beside that sick-bed, and watched with delight the change a few hours had made in that sick woman, whose mind diseased had defied all medicine. Our good deeds, not unfrequently even in this world, bring home their ripe fruits! Here was the girl whom she had taken from error to her bosom, from poverty to be almost her friend, now in this extreme moment, soothing, consoling, and returning to her all she had herself given her; and Mary's eye filled with honest joy as she felt this. Could she have laid down her life she would freely have done it, to prove all her gratitude. It was, in truth, a day when Minnie was made to feel that our good gifts often return tenfold to us. She did not in her peace forget him, who had watched over her in sickness and delirium. She had explained to Mary all she knew of Monsieur Georges; and, as the shades of evening were closing in, Minnie heard the stealthy step plodding up and down his solitary room. He feared to intrude now, knowing she had a friend to watch and guard her.
"Oh!" cried she, "I have forgotten poor Monsieur Georges in all my selfish happiness. Mary, open that door, and say I would speak with him—will you? He has been indeed both father and friend to me!" Mary rose hastily to obey, and re-entered, almost dragging in the poor, solitary old man, from his own cold, comfortless chamber; for he was poorer than ever, having spent everysouhe could command on the sick woman who had befriended him.
"Come in—pray, come in!" cried Minnie, stretching out a hand to him. "Come, and see how much better I am to-night; and your little boy, too, see how calmly he is sleeping beside me. You must not forget him; he has more than once slept in your arms when mine were powerless to retain him."
Georges stooped over the bed, and a tear fell on her cheek, as the shivering man pressed his lips to her forehead.
"My child," he said, "I never can forget you or him; you seem as something belonging to me, and yet I must lose you soon. I know you will recover, and go among friends. I felt from the first, your being as you were must have a cruel mystery attached to it—all will clear away for you, you are so good, and then you will go, and I shall remain!" and the desolate old man's voice trembled.
"I will never forsake you!" exclaimed Minnie. "I could not; you have been with me in too much sorrow, for me ever to forget you! The friends of those hours we may not banish, like the ones who pass with our laughter."
"I cannot account for it, Monsieur Georges," said Mary; "but from the first moment I saw you, your face seemed to me like one I had known, though altered by time, in some far away days of childhood; and yet it cannot be, for I am not a native of France."
"They say," he replied, "that not two persons in the world resemble one another; yet there are likenesses so strong, you may have seen some one like me. The impressions of childhood, on thoughtful minds, come across us, like dreams in after years."
"Oh!" she answered, "it is not alone your face and figure, but something in the tone of your voice is, and was from the first, most familiar, though dreamy."
She gazed earnestly, as she spoke, at the dignified, though bent figure of the old man, as he sat beside the stove, where the light of the lamp fell on his venerable head and silvered hair.
"There is something," he said, "I have intended asking, when our poor invalid should be better. I do not want to pry into, perhaps painful family secrets, for few are exempt from these," he sighed deeply; "but there can be no indiscretion in my inquiring, I hope, whether the name of 'Tremenhere,' which she uttered so frequently in her ravings, is one of family connection, or merely of acquaintanceship."
"Tremenhere!" exclaimed Minnie, and the truth hung on her lip, yet something of fear of betrayal withheld her from uttering it. "Do you know the name?" she inquired, changing her original thought, and supporting herself on her arm, she looked anxiously at him.
"I did," he answered, "long ago."
"Where?" asked Mary, fixing a surprised look on his face.
"Far from hence," he replied. "Abroad, and in England."
"For mercy's sake!" exclaimed Minnie, "tell me, my good father (for such indeed you have been to me,) what Tremenhere did you know—the name is so uncommon?"
"One," he answered, "whom you cannot have known, at least I think not, for he had no daughter—only one child—a son."
"Do not hesitate; you may freely speak before me," cried Mary, anxiously; "you little know, perhaps, what your words may lead to.I am sureI have seen you—heard your voice."
"How can that be?" he asked, still doubting what it were prudent to do. "You would have forgotten me, you must have been so young, had we ever met. I should remember you, for I am an old man."
"Were you ever in Yorkshire?" asked Mary, with a trembling voice. Something stilled Minnie's tongue; she could not speak.
"Yorkshire!" he cried in almost terror. "Do you mean at an old manor-house?"
"Come here," whispered Minnie, scarcely audible. She felt something strange was surrounding her. "Come nearer—here, beside me. I am too weak to speak loud—there," and she clasped his hand. "Father, by the love you have shown me—to me, a poor orphan child, a deserted wife—tell me, who are you? My name is Tremenhere, and I know the manor-house well; itwasmy husband's father's!"
"Merciful heavens!" exclaimed Georges, in agitation. "Then how are you thus? and how have we met? Tell me—is your husband the son—the only son of thelateMiles Tremenhere, of the manor-house? for you speak of the father as being no more."
Mary sat speechless, and yet she knew not what her hopes or fears were; she was in a stupor.
"Miles Tremenhere, the son, is my husband," answered Minnie; "but he has forsaken me—forsaken me!" and her tears gushed forth.
"I will tell you," said Mary, in a whisper, drawing near and clasping Minnie in her arms. "This poor lady has been the victim of a villain, Marmaduke Burton, who, when old Mr. Tremenhere died, put in a claim to the property, on the plea of the son's illegitimacy; and, having driven him forth, was not content without destroying his young wife's fame, to drive him to desperation."
"Illegitimacy!" exclaimed Georges, like one in a dream. "That was false; forImarried his parents—baptized him!"
"Oh!" shrieked Minnie, starting from Mary's arms, and grasping his arm; "your name then is not Georges—'tis d'Estrées!"
"I will tell you all, my poor child," he said, when his overflowing tears had subsided; and he leaned over the pillow, where lay the pale and exhausted Minnie from over-excitement. "I was chaplain in Gibraltar to Lord Dillon, who was governor there, and I knew, and became most intimate with Tremenhere, who was quartered there. For family reasons he did not wish his marriage with Helena Nunoz, with whom he had become acquainted, known to any one, on account of the obscurity of her family, during his father's lifetime. I married them privately: shortly afterwards they left for England: here, in Paris, they were re-married on account of her religion, she insisted upon it, by a catholic priest: all was legally, correctly done. Mr. Tremenhere was too good a man to have it otherwise. When his wife, than whom a better creature never existed, was near her confinement, he felt desirous the child should be baptized by me; and for that purpose I obtained permission of Lord Dillon, who had quitted Gibraltar, to go to Yorkshire, and there the ceremony was performed, and registered, in the parish church.
"True," answered Mary, "but no one could discover whither Mr. d'Estrées who officiated had gone; besides, 'twas the marriage which was disputed, not baptism."
"I have now," he continued sighing, "to touch upon a passage of agony in my own life, which will account for my concealment. Shortly afterwards I quitted Lord Dillon, sufficiently provided for, for all moderate wants; I had a son of my own, a fine youth of fourteen. After leaving his lordship, at Mr. Tremenhere's prayer I repaired to Yorkshire with my son, who was to be as companion and friend to his son, then a boy of ten; all was happiness and peace for nearly a year. There was something in my child I could never fully understand—a disposition difficult to govern; something not open and candid—but I hoped time might make him otherwise, and the society of those around him. A year passed—I will but touch upon this; it is too painful," the poor father trembled as he spoke. "The manor-house was robbed one night; after a long, painful investigation, you may guess my horror at the discovery, my son was implicated in it. A sum to a considerable amount had been abstracted from Mr. Tremenhere's old cabinet; he, in mercy to me, hushed up the affair; my son fled, and I became a broken-hearted man. To stay was impossible; Mr. Tremenhere felt this too, so I left, to the deep regret of himself and his angel wife. Little more remains to be said—after awhile, all communication ceased between us, my unhappy boy discovered me, with him I shared the little I had, and he went to America, promising me to reform. I have never heard from him, and I became as Monsieur Georges what you see!"
"Do you not remember me?" asked Mary, pale with emotion and memory. "I was Mary Burns, the child whom you have often caressed; I knew I had seen you in days of youth!"
Let us pass over the remainder of this scene; Mary told him all that which was strange to him, but what our readers already know. Minnie could but weep in joy, in hope; for now, indeed, she had a rich present to lay at Miles's feet—a mother's fame!
"Think, my dear child," he said, when all was told, "that the night your kind heart (for I read it truly) called the shivering old man to your fire, your guardian angel led him in to bring you a blessing. And you will be blessed; doubt it not—here with your husband's love, hereafter with a better than even that, for our good deeds come home to roost far more than our bad ones; there is much mercy around us, poor, weak, mortal children, that we are."
Skaife arrived in Paris, and, after a lengthened interview with Mary, he quitted her abode. If he was very pale, it was the pallor of sudden, and almost deemed impossible, joy. Minnie lived! and he was wending his way to a now scarcely sad chamber, where Hope sat beside the still pale, but recovering woman, reclining near a cheerful wood blaze, in a more comfortable, though still very humble, room. This is all she would consent to at Mary's expense; for personal resources she had none. Skaife found himself incapable of much speech; he could but press Minnie's hand between his own with the affection of a brother, to whom a loved sister was suddenly restored from death. He, however, endeavoured to persuade her to return at once to Gatestone, promising her a joyful welcome from all, who mourned her loss severely. To this she was deaf; nothing could induce her to quit Paris, and leave Tremenhere's vicinity. Skaife had bound himself, by a solemn promise, not to reveal her existence without her permission, unless he saw the absolute necessity for so doing, to prevent the marriage of Tremenhere with Lady Dora. After vainly endeavouring to urge her to another course, he quitted the house to visit Miles, and, if possible, discover what his real feelings were; for a certain pride prevented Minnie from throwing herself at his feet, until she knew whether his heart still remembered her.
Our readers will recollect, that she knew nothing of his visit to Marseilles—his conviction of her innocence. She only knew the fatal words, which, ringing in her ears, had driven her frantic—his avowed love for Lady Dora. Tremenhere was pained and surprised by Skaife's visit. He felt in himself so guilty towards Minnie, that one who had known all her worth seemed as an accusing spirit. Skaife's manner, too, after the first hasty meeting, was so embarrassed, that it added to the suffering his presence inflicted.
It would have been impossible for a friend to look upon Miles without reading all his deep care, however veiled to the world in general;—there was the clouded eye, without fire, full of soul and expression; but the changing fire was gone—'twas one settled, calm, uncomplaining trouble. Skaife spoke of his journey to Paris as one of mere pleasure; of course Minnie's family was never alluded to. Miles had been painting when the other entered, and drawing the cover, of which Lord Randolph had spoken, over the easel, he rose to welcome him with a start of pleasure, which, however, almost instantaneously settled into a look of pain and embarrassment. For some time they spoke on indifferent subjects, things most difficult to find for two so closely drawn together in one painful one. There was a moment's pause, when Tremenhere suddenly exclaimed—
"Skaife, I am surprised—much surprised, to see you here."
"How so?" the other asked, colouring, and amazed.
"Because, were I in your place, I should shun the atmosphere where breathed such another as myself, like that of a pest-house."
"Pardon me, Tremenhere, you would do as I do—feel sincere pity for a man, whose severest punishment must be his own bitter remorse and regret."
Tremenhere looked silently at him a moment.
"You have indeed said truly," he uttered at last, and turned away towards the covered picture before him.
"Tremenhere," said Skaife, laying a hand on his arm, "I rejoice to hear you speak as you do; for vain as it may be, 'twill solace you all the remaining years of your life to rememberher—as she was. You see I know to what you allude."
"Remember her, Skaife! What can that do for me? Remember that, but for the insane promptings of some demon, jealous of my happiness, I might now have her beside me, a living, breathing creature, instead of only this!" And he drew back the veil from his painting, and there, on the speaking canvass, was Minnie—oh, Minnie, as though she breathed before him! There is nothing so faithful as memory. It was an altar-piece, of which he had before spoken—a Madonna and child. The eyes looked forth serene and beautiful, patient, and with that predestined look which such a face should have—a look of future sorrow, future and immortal hope. Minnie's was all a face should be for so holy a purpose; and when Skaife remembered all she had suffered, he felt how well Tremenhere had chosen the subject, to call her features into life's seeming.
"It is like her, is it not?" asked the latter, fixing his deep, earnest gaze upon the face. "And I have tried to throw into the countenance something of the trouble Ihaveseen there—something of what must have been, when she was at Marseilles! Skaife, I went there a week since, and learned all; since my return, I have passed the heavy hours of day and night in pourtraying the look which I divined hers, in that sad room where my child was born!"
"Have you been there?" exclaimed the other, a joy almost beyond controul bursting his heart; for he had come to that room in fear, of what he might hear.
"Yes," answered Tremenhere, looking up, surprised at his tone; "but I do not think you quite understand me, by your tone. I have been in the humble house of the toiling woman and mother—of the one I lured from every luxury, to cast, with a blighted name, intowant!—want, Skaife—for this she has known!Nowdo you comprehend my utter wretchedness? Oh, believe that there can be no sorrow, no remorse like mine! I sit here for hours searching in my memory for every tone of her voice, every look of her sweet face! I tellyouthis, for self-abasement;you, at least shall know me as I am, though to the world I may be a mystery—to some, a monster!"
"From my soul I pity you, Tremenhere; but oh! I rejoice that her memory is now so sacred in your eyes from stain."
"Sacred and pure as an angel's, Skaife! Yet what can that avail now?"
"I feared," uttered the other, "that—I scarcely know how to speak my thought—that, in short, you might be—were, dazzled by Lady Dora Vaughan!"
"By her!" and he laughed in derision. "Have you, too, known the human heart so ill, to suppose that, having once loved Minnie, even though unjust, cruel, her murderer, I could ever place another, and such a one as Lady Dora, near her? No, no; be my feelings what they may, I never will dream even of so vain a thing as alleviating them by any union; still less with Lady Dora, than another!"
"I have, nevertheless, heard strange rumours."
"Have you? well, 'tis well. I would have it thus; 'tis——" He paused. "Let us change the subject," he said hastily; "time will prove all of us."
They were silent some moments.
"Do you know what grieves me most in this my task?" He pointed to the picture. "I cannot find in my mind a thought of whatourchild was like. I would I could thus complete my subject. But all is a blank!" He pointed to the infant, of which there was but an outline; indeed, all but the Madonna's face was this only, for he had not long commenced the picture, which had been one ordered some time previously.
A sudden thought struck Skaife.
"I was visiting in a house, yesterday," he said, "and there was struck by the unearthly beauty of a boy I saw in the arms of theconcièrge. I asked to whom it belonged, and was told, to a poor woman residing in the house. I make no doubt I could induce them to bring the child to you—it is the loveliest I ever saw."
"Thank you, Skaife," he answered sadly; "but I do not thinkanychild could give me the faintest idea of what hers must have been; it must have had a look of more than mortal sorrow on its young face, born in so much woe and care. I will try and dream what it could have been; nothing living can even pourtray it."
Skaife said no more on the subject; but, leaving shortly afterwards, hastened to Minnie, and with thankfulness of joy, watched the calm beam of hope in her eye, when he told her all that had passed between them. Skaife urged her to allow him, by degrees, to break the truth to her sorrowing husband; but there was still on her memory, unobliterated, the recollection of his words to her cousin, which nothing could efface, but proof to the contrary. One thing, however, they arranged, and Monsieur d'Estrées was the person chosen to carry out the scheme—namely, to take little Miles, or William as he was called, to his father's studio. The child had become so accustomed to the old man during Minnie's illness, that he would go any where unfearingly with him. We should vainly attempt to depict the mother's feelings, when she saw her boy next day departing under the care of her two sincere friends, to see his father for the first time. Thrice she called them back in mother's pride to arrange some curl on the noble brow, or again kiss the cheek, where perhaps his lip might be pressed. There was something hallowing in the thought to her beautiful mind, that their child should be the medium of communication between them, though to him unknown. Skaife had previously written to apprise Tremenhere, that at that hour he should call; and when he entered, and after a few moments, by way of prefacing the visit, mentioned he had asked a friend of the mother's, who often nursed the child in her absence, to call with him. Tremenhere coolly thanked him; at the same time expressing his firm conviction, that it could not answer his views or exalted ideas of what it should be. When d'Estrées entered as Monsieur Georges, and the boy with a quiet, contemplative air, most uncommon in one so young, looked in childish questioning at the tall, dark, strange man, Tremenhere stood transfixed. It was not that a look of the mother shook his heart—it was not the thought, that of such an age would his own be, were it living. No, it was the artist's realized dream—such a dream as inspiration might have given him. A child born in so much sorrow could not look as others would; every beautiful lineament was grave as of early woe, if so young a heart might feel it; but yet this was more—it was a soul's sorrow implanted by a mother's cares, watered by her tears, on the boy's countenance. Tremenhere looked at him, then at the old man—a memory crossed his imagination.
"Surely I have seen you before," he cried, gazing earnestly at d'Estrées.
"I think not, monsieur," said the other; but his voice trembled, for he, too, remembered him, and then he so ably recalled his father and d'Estrées's best friend to his mind; "for I am an old man, seldom leaving home." He spoke in French.
"Strange—strange!" he replied in thought; "you seem very familiar to me."
"And the boy?" asked Skaife; "is he not all I promised you?"
"He might have beenhers," was the reply, which spoke volumes. He approached, and the child used to many strange faces looked fearlessly upon him, but with the strange, grave look we have before noticed. Tremenhere opened his arms, and the little boy's were around his neck, and the eyes, so like his own, fixed upon him. Something for the first time passed through the father's heart; he thought of his own, and involuntarily passed his hand over the head, where the golden curls were springing up, thick and clustering. He turned up the little unsmiling face, and his stern lip pressed the baby cheek.
"Bless you, my boy!" he whispered.
Strange, he never asked his name, or any thing about him, but gazed, and gazed on the face in bitterness of thought. As he did so, he turned towards the picture. The child stared a moment—the eyes distended—and then the whole sad face lighted up with a smile of angel beauty, as he paid the highest compliment which could be offered to Miles's art, by stretching forth his arms towards it; and the little tongue tried to syllable a name. The boy knew his mother!
D'Estrées and Skaife turned pale, as a hasty glance passed between them: they deemed it impossible so strange a recognition could pass unsuspected: they trembled for the moment of avowal. But Miles's mind was obscured from all thought of the truth; he only saw a childish rapture on beholding a picture; and again kissing the boy and hastily passing him to d'Estrées, seated himself at the easel, and beneath his pencil placed the outline of his boy in its mother's arms.
Tremenhere had resolved upon one thing both as a duty—a sacred one—and secondly, if possible, to give some more healthy tone to his heart, by the necessity for activity of mind and body. This was, to labour for the means of proceeding to Gibraltar, to seek proof of his mother's marriage. With his conviction of Minnie's innocence, this thought had sprung up with renewed vigour; for this reason he remained more at home, working at the picture for which his own unknown child was daily sitting. For this, when completed, he expected a large sum, with which he purposed at once proceeding to Gibraltar. Moreover, it was a labour of love, though of deep sorrow; for Minnie lived again before him, and the hours passed, in contemplating the face and form perfecting beneath his hand.
Lady Dora was lost in vain conjectures as to the cause of his estrangement; though a momentary doubt might arise, yet her unfailing pride came in to soothe her—"he durst not trust himself!" Thus she thought, and with this conviction arose a determination to go to his studio; this was not difficult of accomplishment. By a cleverly turned hint to her mother about Lord Randolph's impatience respecting her picture, Lady Ripley wrote, expressing a desire for its completion, as soon as he conveniently might attend to it; and soliciting an hour when Lady Dora might give him a sitting. This lady so arranged it, that her mother asked from herself without naming any impatience on her part, but Tremenhere smiled in scorn and triumph; for he saw the whole affair, as though it had been planned beneath his eye. He wrote, regretting much occupation had obliged him to banish himself from her ladyship's circle; for the happy indolence which there crept over him, unfitted him for other less pleasing occupations, but fixing an hour in which he should be too happy to see Lady Dora. Every line of this had been guardedly penned; and each word had a signification in that lady's eyes, flattering to herself. Lord Randolph had seen him several times, and always reported something about the mysteriously veiled picture; she was convinced in her own mind, that this was some portrait of herself, and she resolved, if practicable, to verify the fact; however, when she arrived there with an appearance of calm dignity, accompanied by her mother, nothing was to be seen but herself as Diana on the easel, and as unfinished as when she had last seen it. This confirmed her impression of some strange mystery; and Tremenhere's suffering face, which nothing could disguise, made her heart bound high in triumphant pride—it was suffering on her account. His manner still further strengthened this deep error on her part,—her mother accompanied her, consequently their words, beyond mere general ones, were few; still, when she spoke of his absenting himself from all society, the significance with which he whispered, "Better live with a sad memory, than a vain and dangerous reality," lost nothing of the effect he intended it to convey. The real truth was, he felt too worn in spirit, even for revenge sake, just then to continue his comedy with herself—he had only courage to suffer; but his absenting himself was as politic a thing as he could have done; and she left the studio with a tremor in her heart, of which she had thought herself incapable—one which not a little startled her yet rebelling pride, and made her look every hour with deeper gloom, or nervous excitement, on the preparations which were progressing for her marriage with Lord Randolph, whom she almost hated, and yet had not the courage to come to an open rupture with, lest Tremenhere should quite read her heart. She was bent upon bringing him to her feet, and then permitting a hope to gleam over his doubts.
She was in this mood one day when he called, and found her in a tête-à-tête with Lord Randolph. She was dressedà l'Amazone, for her horse was awaiting its lovely mistress below.
"I have arrivedmal à propos," he said, after the salutations of meeting were over. "I see your ladyship is going out."
"Come with us," asked Lord Randolph, shaking his hand warmly. "A gallop will chase away the clouds of study from your brow. Lady Dora, did you ever behold so altered a face? Why, man, your studio will be the death of you."
"Notthat," he replied, looking gloomily downwards; then, as suddenly raising his head, he seemed to chase away shades and clouds, for the face became calm and smiling.
"Will you take meen croupe?" he asked, addressing Lord Randolph, in answer to his question. "I saw but two horses below—yours and Lady Dora's."
"Oh, no! I will send my groom away, if you will mount his. You must accompany us."
"Lady Dora says nothing; the lady may have too much excellent taste to admire a trio. In my opinion much pleasure is often lost in them, either in music or society."
"How so, Mr. Tremenhere?" she asked coldly.
"Why," he answered, laughing,—"there are the soprano, the contralto, and the mezzo; this last I have ever looked upon as an almost indistinct, useless sort of 'lend-its-aid' to support and show off the other two."
"Then I'll play mezzo," cried Lord Randolph good-humouredly, but with singular, though unconscious truth; "for I have a bad headache, and you two shall sing, and I will listen, occasionally throwing in a note."
"Don't let it be one of discord," cried Tremenhere, in the same tone as before. "We must have harmony; if Lady Dora consent to this, I will gladly take your groom's horse."
Her eyes said more than her lips, as she replied—"We shall be most happy of your company."
"Might I have chosen a character, in which to have handed Lady Dora down, by my humble skill, to posterity, I should have selected her present one. Lady, I never saw you so perfect as in your Amazonian costume; it suits your style far better than Diana even," and Tremenhere bent his eyes in well-schooled admiration upon her; still the effort was not an immense one, for, as an artist, he could not but have admired her perfection of beauty in this dress; then, too, she was grace personified in the management of a spirited horse, which seemed as a part of herself in pride of beauty.
"Why do you object to Diana?" she inquired, fixing her full gaze upon him undauntedly, in all its fire.
"Diana," said Lord Randolph, before the other could reply, "conveys to my mind the idea of a lady over fond of being out at night, not a loving bride or wife," and he laughed significantly at Lady Dora, who turned away towards Tremenhere.
"You have not answered my question," she said.
"Something of Lord Randolph's thought is mine," he replied. "Diana is cold, uncheered, uncheering; she sails onward in her dignity and splendour, surrounded by satellites, uncaring for them all, beautiful, but unloving."
"What do you say to Endymion?" she asked, and her glance crossed his.
"She loved him, and he slept!" was the calm reply.
"That washisfault; 'she could not wake his eye-lids with her kiss,'" fell from her lips.
"Because," answered Tremenhere, "it was too queenly, too cold; had Venus embraced him, he would have started into waking life and love!" Her eye fell beneath his glance.
"The 'Mezzo' must put in a note," said Lord Randolph.
At the word "Mezzo," a gentle, but involuntary laugh escaped from Lady Dora. Tremenhere was grave. He despised while he played with this girl; and, turning to the other, asked in a tone almost too serious and feeling for the occasion, "What is your thought?"
"I think Diana was an arrant, heartless flirt, and certainly deceitful. She assumed to herself a character not deserved—a strictly chaste goddess would never have come down o' night to embrace a shepherd on a hill. I think it is very fortunate hedidsleep; had he awakened, he would have had a very different opinion of the lady, and have been fully justified in nodding significantly when her name was mentioned. I only wonder she should have told of herself; for unless she did so—how was this midnight visit known?"
"Oh! she perhaps wanted the cleverness which some possess, of keeping her own counsel," answered Tremenhere.
"Most probably," hazarded Lady Dora, not liking to keep too painful a silence where the subject had become so strangely epigrammatic, "some star betrayed her mistress."
"True!" replied Tremenhere, "as in 'Love's Witnesses,'" and he repeated in a soft, impressive voice—