"Love! when we last night, embracing,Sigh'd farewell—who saw us part?Was it night? or sly Aurora?Or the stars? or the moon who heard?""A star shot down and told the ocean—Ocean told a mariner;Then the mariner told his mistress;She—she told it every where!"
"Love! when we last night, embracing,Sigh'd farewell—who saw us part?Was it night? or sly Aurora?Or the stars? or the moon who heard?"
"A star shot down and told the ocean—Ocean told a mariner;Then the mariner told his mistress;She—she told it every where!"
"'Gad, that's how Madam Diana's escapade became known, I bet my life!" cried Lord Randolph.
She did not reply; she was dreaming over the tone in which "Love! when we last night, embracing," had dropped from his lips, and was lost in that tone's significance, which sent up the harmony to her eyes, with which her softened glance lit on Tremenhere's; and then faded into shade beneath her trembling lashes, consumed, Phœnix-like, by its own fire.
"Then Diana was cruel, too," continued Lord Randolph, hunting down the huntress. "Unsparing with her darts; the wound from which, like wound of hart, never heals!"
"Let her rest," said Lady Dora, fixing a full look of meaning on Tremenhere; "those skilled in venery say, thereisa balm for wound of hart."
"Yes, from the animal which has inflicted it," answered Tremenhere.
"Let us have a canter!" cried Lady Dora, starting off down an avenue of theBois de Boulogne, where the sand deadened the sound of their flying horses' feet. It was a lovely day, and there were groups of equestrians. They had ridden some time, when they met three or four gentlemen together. After bowingen passant, Lord Randolph suddenly stopped—
"That's Gillingham!" he exclaimed; "and riding the very horse he wants me to buy. Lady Dora, may I leave you five minutes,Ã regret, however, on my own account, under Tremenhere's care. I will rejoin you near the pond."
She merely bowed.
"Beware of the 'Mare au Diable!'" cried Tremenhere to him, as he cantered off. "Have you read George Sand's tale of that name?" asked he of Lady Dora.
"No; that is, I am not certain of having done so—what is the plot?"
"Oh! one full of intense interest; simply told, and of simple persons. It may not interest you."
"I like simplicity," she replied.
"Do you? I am glad to hear that. True feeling isalwayssimple, meek, and confiding."
"But the tale?" she asked, to change his tone. She wanted time to prepare herself for atête-à -tête. She began to fear her own sudden impulses.
"Well," he said, "the plot is told in a few words; 'tis the working out of various feelings which is so perfect:—A man loves a girl whom he should not love——
"Why?" and she stilled her heart, and looked calmly at him.
"Becausehewas rich, andsheonly a poor, simple, peasant girl. Could Ireversethe case, I might find tongue to speak more eloquently on the subject; as it is, I can only tell your ladyship facts."
"And what were these facts?"
"They journeyed together, on horseback—notasweare doing, but in more primitive style, she on a pillion behind him.He was a young widower"—(these words were each distinctly articulated)—"and his boy rode before him, on his knee: 'tis a pretty scene! Night, however, comes on, and they lose their way, and at last find themselves beside the'Mare au Diable,' noted as fatal to all approaching it; and beside this they pass the night."
"And?" she asked, deeply interested.
"The placewasfatal; for Love was the spirit there. Probably," he added, laughing, "asLe Diableis often said to 'émporte l'amour,' he might have brought him to that spot. Certain it is, there he was, and he prompted two, to know their own hearts who had never known them before."
"I am all impatience for the conclusion."
"I am a bad story-teller; besides, the case is socompletelyagainstmyposition, that I cannot fully, soulfully, enter into it; however, I will satisfy your ladyship's impatience. Heartswillspeak at last—theirs did; and he, for her sake, relinquished a rich marriage, station, all—and married the simple girl."
"And was happy?"
"Blest—so the tale has it; and never looked back to the 'Mare au Diable' without a feeling of gratitude. Here we are at the pond, Lady Dora. I wonder where Lord Randolph is!"
"I cannot think love so hastily created," she said, not attending to his other words; "'tis of slower growth."
"Growth!yes; but I tried to give you the author's idea. They, unacknowledged, loved one another a long time, and a word opened their eyes to the truth."
"There are few who make sacrifices for love," she replied, "and such, when made, are seldom appreciated."
"Pardon me, we differ. Whentrulymade, from sincere affection, we bow down in almost adoration of the giver—'tis so sweet to give! The heart feels so light when it has yielded all its store; buoyant and healthful, it only grieves at its own poverty and ungathering powers; for it would fain, like a bee, renew the sweet store, to carry all home to one hive."
"How may we know such a gift would be prized?"
"By reading in a never closed page, by the eyes writ; but some do not love making sacrifices,—they cost dear."
She felt, if this subject were continued in this strain, her courage would fail her. "Not yet!" she thought; "he shall suffer for all I felt the day he quitted me so abruptly."
"Sacrifices are foolish things," she said aloud; "good for boys and girls—men do not value them; they are like water poured on the ground."
"Which brings forth flowers," he added; "but I quite agree with you, theyarefoolish; but then the mere human heart cannot boast of unerring wisdom. How stupid it is," he said, changing his tone, "to be walking round thismare! This is no god ordiablethere; let us pursue that avenue before us; we will return hither. Now," he continued, when they were side by side in a quiet alley, "tell mehowone may school the heart not to offer itself up in sacrifice?"
"There is no such thing as an appreciated sacrifice," she said proudly, "for a woman; to offer one, there must be a not desecrated altar—man's heart nevercouldbe such; they are all deceitful, and profaned—on the like, I should trample as on a reptile!"
"It might turn, and leave an unerring sting."
"How? I do not understand you!"
"In bruising a weed, we may trample on a flower; and our own heart never arise to vigour or life again." As he spoke, he leaned almost over her saddle-bow, and looked in her face.
"I do not fear that, but we were speaking of the thing wedarenot love. Such a love I would look upon, in all its phases, till my eye grew tired, and my heart sunk to rest."
"What constitutes that which wedarenot love?"
"The thing we should sacrifice too much in loving, and, so doing, lose our own weight in the balance, and—"
"And," he interrupted, "be slighted by the person wefearto love, not being certain of gaining love for love, and gratitude, everlasting gratitude, for the word which raised us from despair to generous hope!"
Her hand trembled on the bridle-rein, his eyes were fixed upon her downcast lid, and her lip was quivering with its effort not to speak. At that moment a close carriage passed them, in which was an invalid, a lady, and child. It was going very slowly—the invalid was Minnie, the child and woman, little Miles and Mary. This latter endeavoured to veil the vision before them by leaning across, but Minnie had seen all; his look, air, their closely-drawn figures, and grasping Mary's hand she became pale as death. Mary had been urging, and she had almost consented to Skaife's telling Tremenhere that she lived!
"Oh, I have done well to refuse!" she cried. "Mere sufferance from him would kill me! Oh, would that I were dead!—would that he were free! Then he might marry her! Poor Miles—poor Miles, he never will be happy! Were I gone, her proud heart would not perhaps reject him at last; I know her well, and how difficult his task must be; is he not deserving all pity? Hethoughthe loved me, to awaken and know another held his heart in bondage! He loves her well! no wonder he looks so sad and ill: poor Miles!" and the generous heart bled more for him than for its own breaking sorrow!
A few moments afterwards, Lady Dora and her two attendant suitors passed the quiet carriage in a hand-canter.
Days passed after the events related in the last chapter, and Tremenhere did not make his appearance in Lady Ripley's apartments, at l'Hotel Mirabeau; to a person of Lady Dora's despotic temper, his conduct was maddening. He never lost an opportunity of uttering words leading her to believe his affections entangled beyond remedy; no one could look at him without seeing that he suffered keenly from some mental cause, and something of recent occurrence; therefore, it was not Minnie's loss—but this she would not permit herself to think for a moment—no, 'twas herself; consequently his manner of acting was the more inexplicable. He never sought her, but when they met; he seemed unable to controul his feelings, his avowal of love; but this was not all she would have. She would have him throw himself, a slave enchained before her, beseeching her love, to loosen his bonds, or rivet them for ever. In her impatient rage she hated all, even Lord Randolph at last, for the very friendship he had for Tremenhere. It was this, she thought, which, acting on an overstrained (to her) idea of honour, prevented his admitting all, and claiming a return. Her every thought became bitterness. Nothing is nearer love than hate; they are two extremes a child's tiny hand might unite. Thus, then, she fostered in absence a bitter hatred towards Tremenhere, which melted like a waxen flower in the sun when he approached, and became quite as impressionable, capable of any feeling he might stamp there in its place. In her rage she looked around for some one wherewith to wound him, and the thought after appeared in the person of Marmaduke Burton, who returned to Paris from a long tour in Italy and elsewhere. Coward-like, he had fled at first, then, not finding himself pursued, he stopped, and, looking around, thought he had deserted the field too soon.
It was at a ball Lady Dora met him, nearly a week after the events of the past chapter. He stood for a moment uncertain how to act. She knew Tremenhere was there; they had just spoken, and he had passed on. In an instant she saw her advantage—for so she deemed it; and, holding out a hand, cordially welcomed Burton's return amongst them. Her mother, among others, had almost dropped the acquaintance, in consequence of the coward slur attached to his name; but so completely was Lady Dora mistress of all around her, that her mother, though still doubting the policy of it, remembering how decidedly Lord Randolph had cut him, was fain to receive him politely when Lady Dora came up, leaning on his arm.
"I will bend him now!" she thought, as she reflected upon the only one occupying her mind. As she moved through the rooms, she met Lord Randolph, who was seeking her.
He started: Marmaduke looked embarrassed, and then attempted to smile; but the other was one of those to whom wealth was as dross, compared with honour. All the weaker parts of his character were sinking to the bottom, and the more sterling ones rising to the surface. Possibly it was from constant association with so noble a mind as Tremenhere's—and Lady Lysson's, too. Be it as it may, the struggling artist was more to him than the wealthy but dishonourable Burton. Without glancing at him, he held out an arm to Lady Dora, saying—
"Will you take my arm? I have been seeking you; Lady Lysson is anxious to speak to you."
"Thank you," she replied withhauteur; "but you must see I am otherwise engaged—I am going to dance with Mr. Burton. Allow me to recall to your memory, an old friend."
Lord Randolph took not the slightest notice. This cool reprehension of her conduct, the unworthy motive of which she was thus doubly made to feel, drove her frantic, and she turned aside with a—
"Come, Mr. Burton—we shall be late for thisdeux temps!"
Lord Randolph moved another way, and looked anxiously about him. He soon perceived the object of his search, as Tremenhere's tall figure rose before him.
"Come along, Tremenhere," he said, familiarly linking his arm in his—"I want to show you somebody."
"Any one I know?" asked the other unsuspectingly.
"A very pretty girl," replied Lord Randolph.
"Indeed! But where is Lady Dora?"
"Lady Dora?—oh, there!" And he pointed her out, where she stood with Burton. A thrill passed through Tremenhere's frame, and the other felt it: the former felt all the delicacy and thought which had made Lord Randolph take him thus boldly by the arm, to publish his feelings towards him to his cousin; and also leading him, as a jockey takes his horse up and shows him what he has to overleap, lest he should shy at the difficulties suddenly placed before him.
"Gray!" exclaimed he—using a term hitherto never uttered in his proud humility—"you are a good, generous, noble fellow; I thank you!" And he grasped his hand.
These few words were volumes from him, and the other felt them so. As they moved on, not another word passed on the subject, and shortly afterwards the two met Lady Dora and Burton; and Tremenhere's countenance was free and unclouded, as he stopped and reminded her of a prior engagement for the following dance. Burton looked cowed and uneasy: her rage almost broke through the bounds of politeness, for in her heart she despised Burton, and now doubly so when her revenge had failed, and she saw herself abased in the abasement of herprotegé. She was almost rude in speech as she acknowledged the engagement, and appointed where he might find her, thisvalseconcluded.
And during these heavy hours poor Minnie sat at home in her sorrow. She had refused to leave the house since the day she met Lady Dora and Tremenhere; nothing could persuade her but that he loved her cousin: he might regrethersad fate, but he loved Dora. She urged Skaife to give him the proof of his mother's fame—of his own legitimacy; but Skaife had resolved that she alone should lay this treasure, in reconciliation, at her husband's feet. Moreover, Skaife was a man of the world, and though he knew Tremenherenowloved only Minnie, he had justly read her cousin and Lady Ripley; and he knew man as he too generally is, easily led by his vanity and a woman's love, even against his better reason and judgment. He saw Lady Dora loved Tremenhere, and felt assured only the "poor artist" stood between her love and pride. Once master of the manor-house he would answer for nothing, and like a wise man, resolved to spare him the temptation, and Minnie the pain, of seeing a fruitless effort to forget her, in an impossible marriage.
We left Lady Dora dancing with Marmaduke Burton; she did so, but it was spiritless. She had played a game unpleasing to herself, and the success had not been all she hoped for. Tremenhere seemed perfectly indifferent; and when she rejoined Lady Lysson, a freezing manner towards herself, and complete ignorance of Marmaduke Burton's existence, were the things which they met, as she approached, leaning on his arm. To make her still more uncomfortable, she saw Tremenhere and Lord Randolph, as she passed through an inner saloon, laughing and talking with several ladies in the most unconcerned manner possible. At last the dance was proclaimed for which she was engaged to the former. Had she been behind him and his friend, as they stood unobserved by her in a doorway, watching her, she would not have felt perfectly comfortable. Lord Randolph's face was severe, but in nowise sad, as he said to the other—
"Tremenhere, that woman does not love me—better said, she rather dislikes me. Look at her now. What she has done this night, has opened my eyes to a fact some time suspected, that another motive than even indifferent liking has induced her to accept me. She has some hidden thought, or hidden affection in her heart, and she is struggling with it, for whom I know not; but to me she is indifferent."
"Perhaps you judge hastily," answered Tremenhere. "She has her oddity of temper, doubtless, like all women. Let time, he is my greatest ally, decide every thing; he has means of bringing hidden thought to light, of which our puny imaginings can form no idea. I must leave you; I am engaged thisSchottischeto her ladyship," and, loosening his arm, he crossed over to where she stood with Burton. "May I claim my promisedSchottische?" he asked, offering an arm.
It was an immense relief for her to leave Burton. She felt many had looked coldly upon her that night. A man is not publicly branded slanderer and coward without the titles clinging to him, more especially among an English set, acquainted with most of the persons implicated in the affair. She expected, made up her mind to a few bitter words, or implied doubts of her motives in having chosen Burton for her cavalier; but though Tremenhere read her perfectly, he was a sealed book to her, without an effort, or any thing to make her say, "He is playing a part." He was perfectly unembarrassed in his manner—attentive, without being gallant—gentle, without any thing overstrained—full of that quiet, unostentatious wit which charms so much. She had never seen him to more advantage; and every moment she felt his superiority over her own narrow thoughts and mind; and she felt disgusted with the part she had been playing. A word would have made her express all her overtaxed feelings to him, but he gave her no opportunity; she was as an agreeable partner and stranger to him—nothing more. The dance was over; he evinced no desire to leave her, no particular wish to retain her near him; he was the impersonation of a thoroughly idle, indifferent man. As they passed near Lady Lysson, a fan gently touched his arm.
"Amidst more youthful engagements, don't forget you are engaged to me for acontredanse," she said. "When a man solicits a thing, I hold it as a point of conscience to make him accomplish it; you have urged me to this folly—I wish to fulfil my kismet."
"I havenotforgotten it, Lady Lysson; I am counting the moments by my stop-watch."
Lady Dora would have given worlds to hear him speak to her in such a tone. There was a total change in the intonation when he addressed Lady Lysson. From one to the other it seemed to say, "I know you, and you know me; there exists a freemasonry between us."
And when she stood in the same quadrille with Lord Randolph as partner, she felt it still more keenly. There was a freedom between Tremenhere and Lady Lysson to which she never had attained, though related to him—it was the familiarity of kindred spirits.
She and her mother quitted early. There was a reception at the embassy this same evening, to which they were going. Before doing so, however, they returned home, as it was close at hand, and Lady Dora entered her room to re-arrange her dress, nominally; but, in fact, to collect her shattered nerves by a few moments quiet. Accordingly, dismissing her maid, she sat alone. There was a large mirror opposite the chair where she sat. After surveying herself some time in the distance, she rose, and pacing the room with her proud, queenly air, stood before it, glowing in beauty. Never mirror gave back any thing more richly beautiful than her face; her eyes of dazzling fire—eyes to make a man bow down in wonder before their power—and then the long heavy ringlet of dark chestnut falling across the heaving bosom, to the waist. She surveyed her beauty, not in petty vanity, but in wonder herself, that so perfect a work of nature had not awed that man to love her, and confess his love—how could he resist her? and loving her, as assuredly hedid. With this thought a grim doubt arose, like a breath passing over that mirror, to shade her beauty—almost unconsciously she dropped on a seat opposite the glass, which her eyes never quitted; and, as if involuntarily, her hands unclasped the massive bracelets one by one, and laid them on a table beside her. Her maid had placed a bouquet of rich damask roses, looped round the stem with a string of gems, on the side of her beautiful head; for she was not simple in her dress, as Minnie—a more gorgeous style suited her best. Her fingers, though unused to tasks like these, unfastened them, and they dropped from her hand on the floor—all, save the rich dress of antiquemoire, lay around her; and then the girl, unladen by gems, unadorned but by nature, dispirited, broken-hearted, at that nature's bidding covered her face with her hands, and wept bitterly; shefelthe could not love her,—to have been so calm beneath her bitter insult in choosing his cousin's society, she felt how much, how madly she loved him; and the proud Lady Dora sobbed in her bitterness. "An artist's wife! the wife of a nameless, illegitimate man! I would be any thing he might become, if he but loved me! But he does!" she cried with sudden energy; "he must! His every word betokened it at once; this one fatal night cannot have made him hate me! He does, and I will prove him! Less would be madness, a longer suspense, the working of that hollow pride which has made me what I am!" When her maid tapped to say, "Lady Ripley was waiting!" she found Lady Dora pale, and with the tears still on her cheek, incapable of aught but an essay at rest on her feverish couch. Her mother was not unused of late to her whims, though she never had carried them to so much excess. It was her own fault. Had she trained this fair plant otherwise, it would have reared itself in cultured beauty towards heaven; as it was rotten at the root, it would either decay from its own want of power, or trail worthless on the ground, only fit to be torn from its parent earth as a weed—nothing more.
Nothing could adequately pourtray to our readers the unhappy state of all at Gatestone. Juvenal had sunk into a querulous old man; Sylvia's bile had spread itself over all: she silenced any qualms of conscience she might otherwise have felt, by keeping every one as uncomfortable as possible. If she beheld the faintest gleam of forgetfulness passing across the horizon, she immediately drew down the blinds of despair, and threw every one into darkness again, and sorrow; they could not even for a moment lose sight of their loss. If the wind whistled she gave a shiver, and talked of storms at sea, and drowning persons; if the railway whistle, borne on the air for miles, came faintly over Gatestone, she put her handkerchief to a dry eye, andsnivelledover the recollection thus suddenly recalled to her aching memory, of Gretna Green and its consequences. She was an inexhaustible fund of woe; for when Juvenal had been lured by the kind-hearted Dorcas into some other train of thought, Sylvia would suddenly remind them that this was the anniversary of a day in which Minnie had said, done, worn, or completed something, and consequently she had the house in as miserable a state as she could desire; all crept about from pantry to garret in listen shoes, that they might not break in on the general woe; this was another happy invention of Sylvia's, which made the large house as silent as if death were abiding there. Dorcas was lost, indeed, when Mr. Skaife left his curacy for Paris; for, without naming Minnie often, they consoled one another by gentle words, and works of charity accomplished together. Now Dorcas was fain to betake herself principally to her own room; for her means of consoling Juvenal were hourly more severed from her grasp. He became perfectly disconsolate, and rocked to and fro, like one bordering on idiotcy. Of Marmaduke Burton's return he never would listen to; he never should enterhishouse, for his guidance had led him to oppress Minnie, and drive her to desperation. Mrs. Gillett's woe was beyond even the others; for she carried it even into sleep—she was constantly dreaming some dreadful dream. Either she saw Minnie a corpse or in bridal gear; both were bad—the first proved her spirit was unquiet—the second, an unerring sign of death. Now, as Minniewasdead, she couldn't die again; consequently, it must be the death of some one at Gatestone—but whose? And she would seek the sympathizing Sylvia, and break into loud prognostications of evil.
"Oh, my dear master! my dear master!" she would cry, wringing her hands; "I know he's going, and then we shall all have to go, and leave the old place; whereas, if any of you had married, and had a boy, or Miss Minnie either, we might have remained; but her boy went along with her, and I often see a beautiful baby in my sleep, all covered with long hair, like Miss Minnie, sitting on a rock, wringing out the sea-water."
Her description of Minnie was not very correct, but she didn't exactly and literally mean what she said. Poor Gillett certainly looked older by many years; and in proof of how much her memory was affected, she had been seen more than once sitting on the stile in the holly field, without her pattens. The manor-house was desolate—only servants inhabited it; Farmer Weld plodded over his fields in gloom, for now he lost all hope of ever seeing good Madam Tremenhere's son back again.
Skaife had been so solemnly bound down not to betray Minnie's actual existence, that he durst not do so; besides he felt assured that an eventual day of brightness would shine over all, by Tremenhere's and Minnie's reconciliation. He wisely felt that this was too serious an act, after the fatal suspicions on his part, to be risked in its full and perfect self-accomplishment by any interference of friends; when both hearts should be firmly convinced of each other's worth, then they might be safely brought together. But when he told Minnie all the bitter grief her beloved aunt Dorcas felt, her gentle heart consented to a hope which might be held out to alleviate her pain; and this was in the accomplishment of a desire, she had so often expressed, that Minnie's boy even, had been saved.
"Oh!" she often said to Skaife, "I could with time have become reconciled to all. If only I had held her child in my arms, it would have recalled her to me in all her childish love and kindness, but even this is denied me!"
Skaife accordingly wrote to her, requesting that secresy which he knew would be faithfully kept; and stating that through Mary Burns he had strong hope of one day placing her Minnie's boy in her arms, as he had reason to believe he had been saved from the wreck!
Minnie would indeed have rejoiced had she seen her aunt's joy; next to seeing herself once more, this was the dearest blessing she could have received. "Minnie's boy!" and as she sat, and hoped and prayed for his coming, the step grew lighter, the eye less dim—even Sylvia's bolts fell more harmlessly around her; and at last this amiable one had the cruelty to accuse her of want of feeling, and "unnatural mirth," because she once saw the ghost of a smile pass over her lip; but not all her indignation could make poor Dorcas hopeless; she felt Skaife would not lightly buoy her up with hopes, to destroy them.
Skaife had indeed a difficult task in hand; he himself feared hurrying events between Tremenhere and Minnie. He dreaded many things; he trembled lest he should become captivated by Lady Dora; and then her flirtation with his cousin Burton, the motive of which Skaife plainly perceived, alarmed him—this, through revenge, might lead to infatuation on Miles's part, and howthenever pursuade Minnie that really he only loved herself? and all her future happiness and contentment with him, depended on her strong conviction on this point. He might easily have effected a meeting, a most joyful one, and reconciliation; but he felt that it must be even more than the first confidence of love—it must be one which had been tried in the fire, proved and purified—and how accomplish this? Her meeting him and Lady Dora in the Bois de Boulogne, had thrown so heavy a doubt over her heart.
One only thing he could imagine, and this was privately to bring her to the studio, and let her own ears hear Miles's words—something must be done, and done quickly.
Some days had passed, and Tremenhere made no effort to see Lady Dora in private; true he called there; it was urged upon him by Lord Randolph and Lady Lysson, who most nobly spoke to him on the subject, without knowing the relationship between them, only knowing of that between Burton and himself.
"Lady Dora is capricious, like most beauties," she said, "my dear Mr. Tremenhere, and, for some extraordinary reason, chooses to receive Mr. Burton's visits contrary to my advice; it will not therefore do, for your own dignity sake, for you to absent yourself from their circle; my doors are open to you at all times; we are only too happy when we can secure you within them; and I strongly advise your visiting Lady Ripley, even more frequently than usual." He could but press the little soft hand held out to him in gratitude to his lips.
Lady Ripley and her daughter had, however, another motive besides pleasure or pique in seeking Marmaduke Burton. They feared him, dreading what he might utter about Tremenhere's wife, as a relative of theirs. By policy, and seeming kindness towards him, they bound him to silence; for he read their hearts, and never alluded to the unpleasant subject. It mattered little to himhowhe secured their support, that he had it, and as he believed, thus galled Tremenhere, was sufficient. Lady Dora would gladly have cut Burton after the ball where they had met; but crooked policy costs full many a bitter pang, spared to straightforward candour: in concealing their relationship to Tremenhere's wife—they took from her memory that, which might have shielded it from many a cloud.
Lady Dora met Tremenhere. Her heart was now beyond her own controul, had he spoken; but he was attentive, courteous—nothing more by word or look. He had resolved now to let another open Lord Randolph's eyes, for this had been a part of his motive lately; and he saw those eyeswereextending their power of vision through his cousin, so he left all in other hands. This maddened her. A man may notspeakhis love for many reasons; but he cannot butlookit, if he love; it is the soul which finds tongue through the eyes. If we might govern or quite controul this, what perfect creatures we should be,with good intentions.
Skaife had obtained permission from Miles to visit his studio whenever he pleased, even during his absence, as the latter had a well-chosen library, in which Skaife delighted. He had asked leave so to do, for a half-formed plan in his mind.
One day he brought this to perfection, as far as he could foresee. Tremenhere was going to pass some early hours in the morning at the Louvre. At two o'clock Lady Dora had requested a sitting, and so arranged it that Lord Randolph should accompany her to Tremenhere's, and leave her there for awhile, as he too had an engagement. Lady Dora was independent in all she did, and this day was resolved finally to know if she were beloved or not by Tremenhere. Skaife knew all the latter's appointments, and hours of them. He had made himself master of these facts, and, in accordance with his plan, deemed it better Lady Dora should come in almost immediately after the meeting and re-union of the husband and wife, that no proof further need be wanting to convince her of their mutual love; he dreaded this cold-hearted girl.
All this was very nicely planned; but it had to be as well accomplished. It occupied him and Mary Burns for days, in preparing poor Minnie for her visit to Tremenhere's rooms, and when the day arrived her limbs almost refused to support her. With much difficulty he reached her husband's abode with her, and, leaving her in a fiacre, entered theloge de concièrge, and inquired whether Tremenhere was within, as a precautionary measure. The man answered in the negative, and handed him the key of the apartment, saying—
"Perhaps, monsieur would like to walk up?"
The next thing to be done was easy of accomplishment. This man, of that most corruptible class, was open to a little quiet bribery, "Not to tell Monsieur Tremenhere that a lady was in his rooms, as he (Skaife) wished to surprise him."
"Allez!monsieur," answered the man, "I see nothing."
And Skaife and Minnie passed in. How her heart and limbs trembled when she entered those rooms where he had so lately been! where he sat and talked, thought of, andperhapsso deeply regretted her! She stood in the centre of that studio, and turned round and round, and her pale face and figure, which moved so mechanically, as if afraid of a natural undulation, made her seem like a statue. Skaife had arranged all in his mind before bringing her, and in the space behind the bed in the alcove he concealed her. This room adjoined the studio by one door, and by an opposite from this latter you entered the saloon.
Skaife's idea had been, immediately on Tremenhere's entrance to lead him to speak of Minnie, and she, by creeping from her place of concealment, would be enabled to listen to all—he reserving to himself the task of keeping Miles at his easel, and thus preventing him from entering his bedroom, without giving her sufficient time to conceal herself. All this was admirably arranged; but in such plans there is always the presumption that nothing untoward will occur to mar their perfect completion. Miles entered at one o'clock, as appointed, and after wandering through his apartment, passing close to the half lifeless Minnie, he threw off his coat, and put on the artistic jacket of scarlet, in which he was in the habit of painting. Minnie through the curtains watched all this, and saw him stand in deep thought a moment, then, passing a weary hand over a wearier brow, he entered his studio, where Skaife stood very pale. He durst not follow him to his bedroom—it would have looked extraordinary his doing so; and so he stood, almost retaining his breath, expecting every moment to hear Minnie shriek forth the other's name—but all passed quietly, and Miles came out, and sat down to touch up Lady Dora's portrait before her arrival. The saloon, we have said, was on the opposite side to the bedroom, and facing Tremenhere's easel; from the saloon you passed into an antechamber, and thence out of the apartment. Skaife had calculated upon having the catastrophe over before Lady Dora's arrival, who would come in, and share the surprise, with Lord Randolph, of finding the long lost wife in her husband's fond arms. He knew that if Tremenhere could be led to speak of her again, as he had done to him, Minnie would no longer doubt the joy her coming would afford him, and at once rush forth. So it might most probably have been all smooth and fair sailing; but they were doomed to meet with some rocks yet, and one of these was the entrance, before the hour appointed, of Lady Dora and Lord Randolph Gray! Skaife, though a most patient man, would assuredly have sworn, but for the colour of his cloth—as it was, he stamped, and coloured violently.
"Trem.," said Lord Randolph, using the abbreviation by which he frequently addressed his friend, "I've brought Lady Dora before the hour, because I have a particular engagement, and must leave her in your care for half an hour."
Be it said, Lady Ripley imagined Lord Randolph was going to remain the whole time during her sitting, else her ideas of propriety, most justly, would have forbidden allowing her to stop alone in a painter's studio. Lord Randolph had no thought of harm of his friend, when Lady Dora said,—
"I am most anxious to get my sittings over for this Diana; so don't tell mamma you are going to leave me there alone, or she will not allow me to go."
English mothers, perhaps too freely, permit their daughters to walk outonlyaccompanied by their intended husbands! French ones say, "The marriage may never take place; 'tis better to avoid bringing a girl's name in question."
Lord Randolph looked at "Diana," and at the fair original, and departed fearless and confiding. Lady Dora trembled with annoyance. Every moment was an hour. She was resolved to have an explanation; and how accomplish this with Skaife present? However, there was a fate to turn all to its will. This latter felt choking with impatience. He could not remain there all the period of the sitting, for nothing could be done until Lady Dora left. So he rose, and entering the bedroom, approached the alcove, where he had placed a chair for Minnie to rest upon; in a low whisper he told her the state of the case, and bade her be patient—all would go well. Be it remembered that, whatever his suspicions of the state of Lady Dora's heart, he had no proof, he knew nothing of the scarcely ambiguous conversations which took place between them, whenever they met. To collect his thoughts, he deemed it best to go out for a walk; consequently he went, to Lady Dora's great joy, and, pulling the outer door after him,thoughthe closed it, but he did not—it remained ajar.
Lady Dora sat some moments listening, then her impatience began to manifest itself by a movement of the foot. Tremenhere's calmness and cheerful ease drove her mad.
"Mr. Tremenhere," she said at last, "were you not surprised to see me dancing with your——with Mr. Burton, the other evening?"
"Who—I, Lady Dora?" he asked in extreme surprise, but most placidly; "not in the least—why should I be?"
"Because—because, it was strange my doing so."
"Strange! Lady Dora—you use a wrong term, I think; there is nothing strange in a natural action. Mr. Burton, to do him justice, is tall, gentlemanly in appearance, can converse on general topics most agreeable to ladies, dances very well—and what more does a lady require?"
"True—for all this you speak freely and truthfully; but you forget the character of the man—you forget——"
"And pray, my dear Lady Dora, whathascharacter to do with a schottische or a polka? Even if a man be a slanderer, a liar, (pardon me the harsh, but truthful word,) and coward, the two first will not prevent his paying just compliments to your beauty, nor the last make him fail in keeping the time of adeux temps, though itmightthat of a hostile meeting, to answer for the two first."
"You are bitter, Mr. Tremenhere."
"Bitter! and towards him?" and he laughed. "No; pardon me, I feel too thorough a contempt for the man to waste bitterness upon him; I reserve that for those who may yet be saved by a little wholesome bark, or quinine, medicinally speaking."
"Expend it then on me. Youmustdespise, or condemn me; you cannot approve."
"I do not judge you, Lady Dora; I do but try to hand down to posterity those perfect features of yours, and you sadly distort them," and he laid down his palette. "You are grieved, vexed; has any thing annoyed you? Can I serve you? Pray, command me!"
Minnie had crept from behind the bed. An irresistible impulse impelled her to do so when she found herself alone, and knew Lady Dora to be unaccompanied by any one, with Tremenhere. And pale, almost lifeless, she leaned against the door, and—oh! most scrupulous reader, forgive the fault!—listened.
"Mr. Tremenhere!" Lady Dora cried, rising hastily in reply to his question, and standing pale, erect, but trembling; "I would ask you,—I—I am in a position of much suffering." She clasped her hands together as if to still her nervous pain. "I would ask you," she uttered, "whether your memory is perfect?"
"In all things, Lady Dora," was the calm reply.
"Do you remember when first we met in Florence?"
"Well—well. I was then a man, comparatively speaking, full of hope; now——"
"And you lovedthen. You (better said) loved me, and I treated your half-avowed affection with scorn; that was pride!" She spoke in hurried confusion.
"True—most true!" he uttered.
"You quitted, believing me a cold, heartless flirt. You met, and married my cousin; was this love, or—pique?"
"I cannot answer, lady, till I know why you ask."
"Since her death" (the words fell in cold awe from her lips) "we have met often, and on each occasion words of implied tenderness fell from your tongue."
Neither heard the almost groan from the sinking woman, leaning against the half-closed door to the bedroom.
"All these I was deaf to, and I accepted Lord Randolph as my future husband. This, too, was pride."
Tremenhere stood looking earnestly at her, as one of her hands nervously played on the back of a chair; but he did not utter a word, though the deep, speaking eye was fixed upon her.
"Man!" she cried at last, stamping her foot with energy; "do you not see how I suffer? Pride—woman's delicacy—all are forgotten. Tremenhere, I love you! For this love I accepted your cousin's attention, hateful as he was to me, to urge you to say the last words; for all but those have been said between us. Tremenhere, for mercy's sake," she cried impetuously, "do not stand looking on me thus; but say those words at last!"
"Lady Dora," he said, as a deep sigh of heartfelt joy struggled upwards, but his tone was calm and low, and he approached and clasped her hand, "nowI will answer you. When we met in Florence I could have loved you; I thought I did, till I measured the error afterwards by the intensity of my love for Minnie. When I brought her, a child almost, to my artist's home, who came and upheld that child? who came, and by her presence gave countenance to our love? Did you—did any? True, after a while, a few tardy visits were paid! But when I, fiendlike, drove her by my passions to become a wanderer—who sought her out to cheer and uphold? I blamed you less even then than now; for now you have shewn me how despotic your will can be, when it pleases you to be so! Love you!" he cried, striding across the room and dragging back the curtain before the statue of his wife—"love you, Lady Dora! the cold, heartless woman of the world; with this too looked upon—the marble dream of my adored, my murdered Minnie! Oh no, no!" he added, almost weeping. "By the long, long nights I watched, creating this memory—by her purity, which I now know too late—I scorn you, Lady Dora; and, unmanly as it may seem, have trifled with your semblance of heart, your vanity in short, to open the eyes of a worthy man, too worthy for you—Lord Randolph."
She had stood transfixed by horror, crushed in her pride, and bending to earth. As he spoke the last words, a heavy fall in the bedroom resounded in their ears. She turned hastily, and in terror gazing at the door, through which he passed in haste. Not a thought of the truth burst upon him as he raised the closely enveloped and veiled figure, fainting on the ground. Placing her on a couch, he hurriedly tore off the bonnet to give her air; as he did so, the long fair hair rolled heavily to the ground, which it swept. He uttered a cry; it was one of pain and fear—for one hurried moment something supernatural crept through his blood and stilled it—then drawing near the couch, as if a spirit lay there, he gently lifted back the fallen hair, and gliding on one knee, gazed with distended eyes on the pale, unconscious face, then, placing his lips near hers, he held his own breath to feel if she breathed. A gentle sigh came over his cheek—with that sigh the truth rushed almost in maddening power over his mind. One loud cry came from his soul; and clasping her in his arms he strained her to his breast, and wild, hysteric sobs burst from his lips, but the eyes were burning and tearless.
"Minnie—Minnie!" he sobbed; "speak to me—my wife—my Minnie, speak to me!"
But though the blue eyes opened, and tried to comprehend all, they were haggard and without speculation. By degrees memory returned; and the first look of terror passing, the languid arms raised above the head on her bosom, and grew in a circle round his neck, and strained him to her heart.
"Miles!" she whispered, "it would have killed me if——" she glanced towards the door. "Let us together thank that unfailing power," she uttered, "which has kept us from sin, and through so much sorrow, in faith and love," and the trembling knees clung to the ground beside where he knelt supporting her; and the eyes, pure as an angel's, looked upwards in prayer, while his arms clasped her, and the speechless lips were pressed on the upraised hands which pleaded for both.
Lady Dora had stood unnoticed in the doorway, when he rushed in. No words can convey an idea of her mingled sensations. At a glance she guessed the truth—'twas Minnie in life. As she stood, a hand touched her arm.
"Lady Dora," said a grave voice, "I was there." He pointed to the saloon. "An open door permitted me to enter, and hear all. I meant not to listen—your words arrested me. Come, let me take you to Lady Ripley's;thisis no place for you."
She started—gazed on him—then, all her pride coming to her aid, she cried haughtily—
"My lord, I need no counsellor; I can act alone!"
And, hastily throwing on her bonnet and shawl, she quitted the studio. Lord Randolph stood an instant, then, taking up a pencil, wrote on a card, and placed it on the easel:—
"Heaven bless you both! Tremenhere, when you call me to your joy, I shall rejoice with you, indeed!"Randolph."
"Heaven bless you both! Tremenhere, when you call me to your joy, I shall rejoice with you, indeed!
"Randolph."
Skaife returned, and let himself in with the key which he had taken; but he was not alone. When he quitted the apartment, he hurried off (as men very often do) to a woman for advice; and now he entered with Mary and little Miles, resolved to tell all boldly. But when he arrived all had been said, and, creeping to the bedroom door, he saw Minnie's head on Tremenhere's beating heart, and his other arm clasped round her, as though he still dreaded some power might separate them again. Her face was upturned to his, whose deep, dark eyes were riveted on every look, as she told him all. Skaife moved aside, and Mary crept in. Miles looked up; but he could not for an instant loose his grasp, or move. Mary came quietly on, and round the mother's neck were clasped the arms of her child. Miles started. One glance told him all the truth. Something thrilled through him. It was what he once expressed—"Minnie, I should be jealous of my own child;" but the momentary gleam of that fatal passion left, ere matured, and, folding both in one clasp, his tears unrestrained baptized their re-union of love.
"Youdid this!" he cried, grasping the hands of Skaife and Mary, as he pointed to his boy's portrait in his mother's arms. "Thank you; it was nobly done, and oh, a lovely thought!"
Tremenhere had married Minnie dowerless; but what a rich fortune she laid before him in the proofs of his mother's fame! It was only by degrees Minnie told him all she had suffered—all her vain search for d'Estrées, until aided from on high, whence comes all for good, though our little minds cannot always see it thus. For without these trials he would never have overcome his jealousy—never have been truly happy. What a room that saloon was of overflowing joy, as Tremenhere, Minnie, Mary, Skaife, and d'Estrées, sat and talked of the past and future! Nor must we forget the child, sleeping on its mother's knee, beneath the loving eyes which watched him!
Lady Dora and her mother quitted Paris hastily for Switzerland; the former, whose wishes were law, broke off all engagement, as the latter believed, with Lord Randolph, without assigning any cause, and insisted upon leaving France; but the rupture was by mutual consent. Nothing would have induced him to marry her, after the conversation he overheard.
Lady Lysson and himself were the first to call upon and congratulate Tremenhere and his wife. Lord Randolph confided all to her, except, as a feeling of honour, Lady Dora's confession; and, beneath the patronage of Lady Lysson, the young couple became the lions of the place, which they were shortly quitting, to solace those who still mourned Minnie, and whom she wished to surprise so joyfully. And who may depict that happiness? 'Twas like the throwing off of some horrid nightmare, which had oppressed all in a long, heavy sleep. Skaife went before, to prepare them for it.
Dorcas, who had hoped to see the child, held once more to her heart the living mother. Juvenal wept in childish mirth, as he clasped her in his arms, and sued for pardon. Sylvia, eventhen, could not forbear her old habits, but called to Minnie's mind, again and again, all she had suffered through Miles's treachery, (as she termed it)—imploring her to be cautious for the future, for of course it was in him, and would break out somewhere. She never could expect to be a perfectly happy woman; there were things shealwaysmust remember, and would do well to do so! She couldnever reallylove him again, butperhapsa re-union was wiser than a separation!
However, despite all, Minniedidlook happy, for Miles was beside her; and Juvenal shook hands warmly with him, too, and Farmer Weld and buxom Sally.
Marmaduke Burton followed Lady Dora to Switzerland, and both, in utter ignorance of D'Estrée's revelations, from the same motive—revenge towards Tremenhere—entered into a hasty marriage, the bell of which had scarcely rung, when a trumpet resounded, summoning him to yield up the manor-house to the incontestable proof of Miles's legitimacy.
Minnie would fain, if it might have been, have spared her cousin so severe a blow; but the honour of her husband was more to her than all. And when the day of triumph came, and the bells rang out in praise of "good Madam Tremenhere's son"—and the carriage, though plain and unostentatious, drove up with him, his fair smiling wife, and child, one loud shout rang through the air; and, turning from the many, Tremenhere, with a warm clasp, grasped the hand of Farmer Weld, and presented him to Minnie as the truest friend of his day of shadow.
And Skaife, d'Estrées, all were there; the latter became the tutor nominally of little Miles, and friend of both his doating parents. Mrs. Gillett!—who may speak of her? How she cried, and laughed, and dreamed all sorts ofcouleur de rosedreams; and how she appeared for the first time in her life with a profusion of white satin ribbons in her cap! Mary remained in Paris, happy in the joy of others, which she had helped to create anew; prospering, content, and more, grateful for the peace Heaven had sent to repentance. Spring passed, Summer came, then Autumn, then Christmas; and despite Sylvia's prognostications, "that little Miles was a doomed child, for he looked it!"—the boy throve, and lisped papa and mamma to a large circle of friends round the Christmas fire at the manor-house. Among others were the faces of Lord Randolph, Lady Lysson, Skaife, Juvenal, now rosy and himself again, Dorcas,notSylvia, she had a toothache which did not improve her temper, and therefore stayed at home alone; for Mrs. Gillett presided over some luxuries of her own handiwork, for the table. All were smiling and happy, and in the gallery of family paintings hung "Aurora chasing the Shades of Night," in which Minnie's lovely face shone; for she had indeed brought light to Tremenhere's heart and home. None might have known him; he was as we have never seen him; for, in the midst of the gaiety of those now joyous halls, he looked up, and beheld his mother's picture smiling on the son who had loved, and suffered so much for her. And when the ringing laughter or falling footsteps were stilled, on the quiet ear sounded the tick-tack, tick-tack, tick-tack, of the old hall clock, now transferred to the manor-house.
Let us end with a moral we have tried to carry out in these pages. If curses like chickens come home to roost, assuredly our good deeds bring nestling joys to our bosom, nor is a cup of cold water cast on the earth.