Miles Tremenhere Volume I Part 13

The horse made a mad effort to escape; then, finding the strong grasp on his rein, stood still, trembling with fear.

"Poor brute!" said Miles, putting back his pistol and looking at the dead dog; "but 'tis better so, he might have been made to do some bad deed some day, in bad hands. I thought he would be made your protector again, so I came prepared. Now we are two--man to man--hear me."

Burton could scarcely keep his seat from a coward fear, thus quite alone with the man he had so much injured.

"To-day," continued Miles, "you were in the old ruin by the river's side--you and her uncle: I saw you, but she did not--for this, I abridged her stay. I did not know your companion, till I watched you creep forth, like a base hound as you are, ever working in secret and darkness; and now, hear me--I love that girl--love her, as _I_ love and hate, with all my soul, if all the powers of earth stood between us, she shall be mine, or none other's. She does not yet know all my feeling towards herself. I would not expend all the force of that affection in one interview. I garner it up, like my hatred for you; and now I tell you, that unsleeping as my hatred is, so is my love undying, and I will accomplish both! What I have to say to you is, do not come between her and me; you will not prevent, but you may cause her pain; and every hair of her fair head is counted in my heart to hang loving thoughts upon, and woe betide if the weight of one of these be lost to her in peace, through you. Now I have said all I wished to say, you may go; but stay,"

he added, again grasping the loosening rein, "remember, not by counsellings of others, darken one moment of her life, neither watch, report, nor seek her; yours she never will be, and I am here to avenge any grief to her; I have more friends at Gatestone, perhaps, than you think--now, go; and if you advise, let it be wisely done!" He dropped the rein, and Marmaduke, who had vainly looked about, stealthily, hoping for some friendly face, some one to witness against Miles for violence, but all was silent, putting spurs to his horse, reached Gatestone. No wonder, then, he looked pale with his cousin's words ringing in his ears; especially those, "I have more friends at Gatestone, perhaps, than you think." He was in a mood to utter every syllable in fear and trembling before the person he had started from home with the intention of confounding--namely, poor little Minnie. As he seated himself, he caught Juvenal's eye, and made a sign which he intended for one imploring silence. He was afraid of his shadow just then; but Juvenal was not one of very vivid intellect--he saw the sign--he had been awaiting the other's coming to speak. Thinking this the right moment, he commenced. Marmaduke coughed--all went as encouragement into Juvenal's ear; so, fixing his eyes on the thoughtful Minnie, he began in his peculiarly nasal tw.a.n.g to give utterance to a speech he had been conning over an hour before.

"We are all friends here, Marmaduke Burton. I look upon you _already_ as almost one of the family; therefore I choose you to be witness of my just resentment, and firm resolution to have things amended. I see you approve me," he added, catching Burton's grimace, and mistaking its meaning. "You have blamed me, my friend, for supineness; you shall see how resolute I can be!"

All looked up in amazement; Sylvia fixed her eyes on Dora, who began, even she, to feel uncomfortable. Such prefaces are like bats flying round a room in some old house; every one fears them, not knowing on whom they may alight. Minnie was most unconcerned of all, until her uncle, pitching his voice in its most tenor and unpleasant key, exclaimed--"Minnie Dalzell, I am addressing myself to you. This day I, and my worthy friend Burton, were in the old ruin, when you, forgetting all maiden modesty, left your horse and old Thomas, the coachman, to sit upon a heap of ruins with----"

"For mercy's sake, uncle, not before him!" almost shrieked Minnie, springing up in terror of something, she scarcely knew what, and glancing at Burton.

"Brother, brother!" cried Dorcas, grasping his arm, herself pale with anguish for her beloved niece; she knew Minnie better than any one else did, and dreaded the consequences of this ill-advised exposure, which would only harden a resolute mind, where reasoning and love might have soothed, and turned away from its will.

"But I will speak, Dorcas!" cried he. "I am advised to do so, and publicly, to show her what people will think of her. Minnie, I say, was sitting alone on a heap of ruins with that scoundrel, Miles Tremenhere, this worthy man's base-born cousin."

"Not base-born, uncle," cried Minnie, starting up again; she had dropped on her chair. At these words she forgot all but Miles's sacred love for his mother, who, by this slander of him, was doubly calumniated. "Not base-born, uncle, though that man say it. His mother was as pure as my own, or she had never given birth to so worthy a son!" then a sense of her shame, before so many, coming over her, she sank on her chair, and, covering her face, sobbed aloud. Dorcas clasped her in her arms; Dora, too, though trembling, pressed her hands, as she drew them from the face, which turned in maiden shame into Dorcas's neck.

"Brother," cried Sylvia, with self-satisfied scorn, "you always are discovering some wonder. You are wrong--quite wrong--as usual. _If_ Minnie were there, 'twas wrong; but others are more to blame than she, and, I make no doubt, _could_ explain, _if they would_." She glanced angrily at Dora, who certainly was colouring, though without noticing Sylvia's personality. Lady Ripley looked amazement on all. Juvenal was completely thrown out; he had made up a complete discourse, questions, answers, prayers, confessions, and final forgiveness--for he loved Minnie dearly, in his little way. Marmaduke almost would have preferred the lane and Miles's society, to this scene. There, he knew in his heart, he had no actual violence to fear, for every day was not one of retributive justice, as when his cousin avenged poor Mary Burns's case; but here he dreaded some unseen trap, to draw him into something which would bring Miles in revenge down upon him.

"I ask you, Burton," cried the perplexed Juvenal, at length, "whether we did not discover Minnie and your worthless cousin together? and whether you did not suggest our following her, on the a.s.surance that they frequently met in secret? Come, speak out, Burton--they won't believe me," whined the wretched man. Dora raised her fine eyes, and fixed them intently upon the traitor. Lady Ripley rose. "Why--why," stammered Burton, "this is a most unpleasant affair--a family one--I have no right to be here. I would rather not reply," and he too rose.

"Stay!" cried Lady Dora, looking very pale, but with much dignity, placing herself in his way. "Mr. Burton has been chosen, or been selected, most unadvisedly by my uncle, to hear accusations against my dear cousin Minnie, who is, I am certain, innocent of all wrong. I am called upon to confess the truth, now--that _I_ have sought, met, and walked, early in the morning with Mr. Tremenhere. My motive for so doing I will answer to my mother, and I _know_ him to be incapable of wrong towards Minnie!"

"But, pardon me, Lady Dora!" exclaimed the amazed Burton, gaining courage from surprise. "You were a.s.suredly not the person who met Mr.

Tremenhere to-day."

"She wasn't here--she wasn't here!" cried the perplexed and heated Juvenal, almost in a fit from anxiety. "She only returned home before dinner."

Minnie tried to speak. "Hus.h.!.+" exclaimed Dora, taking her hand. "Do not compromise yourself for me. You met him on my business. _I_ will explain that satisfactorily, when I am bound so to do."

"I knew it--I knew it!" cried the delighted Sylvia, rejoicing in her own perspicacity.

"She is taking my fault on herself," sobbed Minnie, with streaming eyes.

"I alone am to blame!"

"Can any one understand this, or them?" asked Juvenal, almost whining.

"Come, Lady Dora," said the mother, haughtily. "This requires explanation elsewhere," and she sailed away, followed by Dora, who stopped, however, first, and whispered softly to her cousin, as she embraced her. "Do not betray yourself. _I_ have saved you this time--_save yourself_ before it be too late." Poor Minnie was too weak with weeping to reply; she could only press her hand. Dorcas too arose, and, taking her niece fondly round the waist, led her away, and the door closed on Marmaduke, Sylvia, and Juvenal, and these three decided that it would be well if Lady Dora left. There was a mystery no one could fathom. Sylvia then related Dora's morning walk, which certainly still further obscured the affair, and then she too left the room, to consult with Mrs. Gillett; and, when quite alone with Juvenal, no longer fearing traitors, Marmaduke related his meeting with his cousin--the threats--the acknowledgment of his love for Minnie, and thereupon these two worthies decided; one, that it would be best to prevent any more meetings by a little gentle coercion, and Juvenal at once resolved that she should be locked up!

CHAPTER XIII.

"Hus.h.!.+" said Dora, soothingly, some hours later, as she sat in Minnie's room beside her, holding a hand in her own. "All will be fair and bright soon, dear Minnie. Mr. Burton has been the mover in all this, to win you; I think that man loves you, in truth I do."

"And would _you_ counsel me," cried the sobbing girl, "to marry so unworthy a creature?--this prying, mean, wicked man?"

Dora was silent a moment, in embarra.s.sed thought; then she looked up and answered, though not at ease, evidently, "Why, he may seem many harsh things now; jealous of his cousin, he knows scarcely which way to act. I think you might be happy with him."

"With Marmaduke Burton!" she exclaimed, and her tears dried up in her starting eyes with wonder. "Marry him! I'd die sooner than even harbour the thought a moment! Oh, Dora! can _you_ counsel me to so terrible a thing?"

"I do it, Minnie, to save you," her cousin replied, looking on the ground, and half-sighing as she spoke. "I dread your being led into some entanglement with--with--Mr. Tremenhere."

"And if I loved him, Dora, what then?"

"Oh, 'twould be a disgrace--an irretrievable, false step!" cried the other in agitation. "Think what he is! A man without name, position, character, perhaps--what do you know of him?"

"And what do you know _against_ him, Dora?" asked Minnie, no longer sobbing, but in a low, firm voice.

"This--that, in my opinion, no honourable family should forget its dignity, and become allied to a blighted name, a name with the stain of----"

"Do not say that!" exclaimed her cousin, rising with energy, and pacing the room for an instant; then, as suddenly stopping before Dora, she continued, "Do not so harshly, and I am sure unjustly, judge a fellow-sister. 'Tis only in the hand of Time, the fate which may await ourselves; perhaps, calumnies we may suffer from--innocent now, innocent then, too. Dora, I love that man; I never knew how well, until I weighed it by my tears. I love him the deeper for every one I have shed this day for him!"

Dora was very pale, and did not reply.

Minnie continued: "Why do you hate him so much? Why did you seek him?

Dora, dear Dora, tell me that!" She knelt before her cousin, on a stool at her feet, and, taking both hands, looked up in her face.

For some moments Dora was painfully silent. "No," she thought, "I will not tell her how weak I once was, in nearly loving him." This was the war within her. "I met him," she said at last, aloud, evading the first question, "because I feared you might love him. He bore the character, in Florence, of a reckless man--such a man as you, my innocent cousin, should not marry; I sought and begged him to quit this place and you!"

"Oh!" cried Minnie, blus.h.i.+ng at the picture before her mind's eye, "he must have fancied I had spoken of him with love, and we had scarcely met then, except as strangers. I hope he does not think this now. How could you have sought him for such a motive as that?--how touch on so delicate a subject?"

"I feared nothing," answered Dora haughtily; "my own dignity prevented a false construction being placed upon what I said or did. You are a child in the ways of the world, and, in your innocence, might compromise yourself, family, all, with this nameless man. I do not say any thing personally against him, but _our_ name has ever been without stain; do not you, Minnie, by a base alliance, stamp it with a reproach."

"Dora," and the girl spoke low and impressively, "I may never, perhaps, meet Miles Tremenhere again; I feel certain, if I do, that only trouble will arise from it, for all seem against him, poor fellow; but this believe, that, if I truly know myself--if that man love me, unless I become his wife, I never will marry another; for he is so surrounded in my heart by every n.o.ble sentiment, from his wrongs, and the holy mission he has taken upon himself, that none other could hold the place in my esteem which he does. Do you know, Dora, I thought you loved him, and for that reason I dreaded my own heart's inclination towards him; now I am a.s.sured you do not, I seek no longer to check my affections; for though I may never be his wife, there can be no error in my love, for I never shall marry another."

Dora could not reply. The brow contracted--the cheek slightly flushed as in scorn--and then she grew pale and calm. "It is useless speaking to you," she said, after a thoughtful pause; "not now, at least--to-morrow we will resume our conversation. I will leave you now, Minnie; I do not wish my mother to know I have been here--she would question me, and I wish this conversation unknown to her." She rose hastily, as if some newly-formed plan impelled her to do so. "Good-night, dear cousin, and pray, think of all I have said; 'tis fondly meant."

"I know that well, Dora," answered Minnie, tenderly embracing her. Dora seemed impatient to leave. Taking her taper in her hand, she hurried down the pa.s.sage, and rapped gently at Aunt Dorcas's room-door; first a.s.suring herself that Minnie's was closed. She remained for some time with Aunt Dorcas, and, briefly relating her unsuccessful suit with her cousin, implored Dorcas to act for her. Surely some motive more than deep interest in Minnie guided her, though possibly unknown to herself; for this anxiety and fear for consequences were far beyond the usual forethought of a young girl. Such, generally, see all _couleur de rose_ where two love, especially if young and handsome: futurity, interest, etc., they leave to older hearts, to cause heart-ache and care. The results were various next day, of all these plottings and consultations.

The first was, Lady Ripley, to her daughter's surprise, sent her word early in the morning, by her maid, to prepare for their departure for town. Truth to say, Lady Ripley was delighted to find a good excuse for leaving Gatestone, where she had promised to remain a month longer. She was anxious to return to town on Lord Randolph Gray's account, as we have seen; and she made poor Minnie's imprudence the excuse. In vain Lady Dora endeavoured to make her change her determination, urging the necessity of some one to watch over Minnie. She felt terrified, agitated, beyond expression, at the thought of leaving; but all her efforts to remain were fruitless. Lady Ripley _would_ go; and she told Juvenal, that Minnie's misconduct obliged her to remove her innocent daughter from her influence, lest _her_ name should become in any way compromised. This more than ever decided him on secluding Minnie in her room, to mark his disapprobation. And, as this conversation took place late the previous evening--in fact, while Dora was with Minnie--the latter was not a little overwhelmed with shame and indignation, when ordered next morning to "remain in her own room, until something should be decided about her." Sylvia was furious--all her jealousy of Lady Ripley broke forth in invectives against her intriguing daughter, as she termed Dora. Dora implored for Minnie; Dorcas argued the imprudence, not to say injustice, of so erroneous a step as thus degrading the girl in all eyes; it would make her lose all self-respect, and only engender recklessness. But Juvenal was like all fools--obstinate. Moreover, he was backed by Marmaduke Burton, himself too short-sighted to foresee the consequences which might ensue. He hoped by hypocritically expressing his regret in some manner, by letter or personally, as Juvenal promised _he_ should see her, to win at least a kind feeling through grat.i.tude. Narrow-minded persons reckon only naturally, to the extent of their powers of reasoning. Minnie read him as she would an open page, and despised him tenfold more, if possible, for his narrow policy. Dora, in consternation and regret, took leave of the weeping Minnie. Alas! those tears would soon be dried by the wrong course pursued with her, and only give birth to silent resolution and suspicion of all, even for awhile of her dearly loved aunt, Dorcas. Dora was gone; Sylvia in earnest consultation with Mrs. Gillett, both agreeing that the master of the house, and Minnie's guardian, to do as he willed with her--was an idiot; for had not Lady Dora acknowledged that she alone was in fault; and had they not both witnessed the lovers meeting? Poor Minnie had been selected by them as a go-between. It was dreadful; but Mrs. Gillett, with her usual caution, said but half what she really thought, and in an after scene with Juvenal, though she pleaded for Minnie's liberty, at the same time so impressed him with the idea of her condemnation of all but himself--and this without any great deceit on her part, for the last speaker always had most reason in Mrs. Gillett's mind--that he fearlessly gave her free permission to visit Minnie, how and when she pleased; indeed, the key of the rooms (for there was a small music one where she was in the habit of practising, adjoining her bedroom) was intrusted to the housekeeper's safe keeping. "I tell you, Mrs. Gillett," he said, "it will do her good--one excellent lesson like this will save the girl--she has grown very headstrong of late."

Poor, blind Juvenal; his excellent lesson was as a stepping-stone to many sorrows--a finger-post down a long dark lane hedged with care, like thorns! Dorcas, as usual, did the most sensible thing of any of them.

She walked over quietly, and in a spirit of conciliation, to Farmer Weld's, where Tremenhere was staying, and, requesting an interview, was shown into the room where he sat, but not alone--to her great surprise Mr. Skaife was his companion. Tremenhere rose in surprise, and some slight confusion. Had the farmer himself been there, the entrance might have been accomplished with more difficulty; as it was, only a servant was in the outer hall (a sort of large, homely, perfect old English farm kitchen) as she entered, and, innocent of wrong, shewed her in to where the two sat. After the momentary movement of embarra.s.sment, Tremenhere offered her a chair, and in his own quiet gentlemanly manner, expressed his pleasure, whatever the cause, at her visit. He knew she was Minnie's almost mother, and he regarded her accordingly. Skaife rose, and coming forward said, "You are doubtless surprised to meet me here, and especially before visiting Gatestone. But I returned late last night, and this morning called to see Mr. Tremenhere--whom I may call my friend, I believe--in an affair interesting to both of us."

"Do you mean Miss Dalzell?" exclaimed Dorcas in astonishment.

"Oh, no!" answered Skaife, looking equally amazed at this abrupt question--being, as he was, totally ignorant of the recent events; "I allude to that poor girl, Mary Burns, whom I have placed in safety from further insult, at the request of Mr. Tremenhere, as business prevented his leaving this neighbourhood himself."

"It is kindly and rightly done by both," said Dorcas, scarcely knowing what she should next say--then added, without farther consideration of how far it might be prudent to inform Tremenhere of all--"But I may be pardoned for regretting that Mr. Tremenhere should not have been occupied elsewhere, as the events of the past few days threaten more painful results, I fear, than he antic.i.p.ated when engaging in them."

"Good heavens! what do you mean, madam?" he asked, starting up aghast.

Skaife sat like one petrified; something painful was paralyzing his faculties; he could not speak at first. Tremenhere glanced at him, after the first exclamation had escaped him. "I beg pardon," he said, in agitation. "I should, perhaps, be an importunate witness. I will go,"

and he prepared to do so.