Miles Tremenhere Volume Ii Part 4

Tremenhere was painting at the moment the other said this; he flushed deeply, then dropping a pencil, stooped to pick it up, and thus partly covered his confusion.

"I cannot be sufficiently grateful," he answered; "but--" there was an almost imperceptible tone of sarcasm in his voice; "but I never have been parted from my wife, Lord Randolph; and I do not think she would desire or like it--that is, I hope not." And he fixed his eye for a moment on the other's face, who saw nothing, and consequently more than once urged the subject upon Miles, who grew at last almost rude, beyond his power of control.

"Tremenhere's out of temper to-day," said the visitor to himself. "I'm sure it would be the best thing he could do, and a duty, to place that sweet wife of his, in her proper sphere; I'll be at him again."

All these groundless suspicions wore on his really n.o.ble nature, every thing giving way before them; even the sacred hope which once had been so dear to him, the re-establis.h.i.+ng his mother's fame, became a blank.

He cared for nothing, except to watch and verify his doubts; he became weary, feverish, ill, and an enigma to all! almost too--oh, worse than all--a terror to poor Minnie, who was lost in wonder and perplexity. If she quitted the room for a longer time than was pleasing to him, he stole from his easel, and listened; if he saw her writing, he could not rest till the letter was placed in his hands, even the book on which she had written it was examined, to trace whether the blotting-paper had kept the words confided to it; and, when all had been done with feverish haste, the man sat down, and hated himself for his meanness, and seeking out Minnie, drew her to his heart, as if he would keep her ever there, and almost wept over her in penitence and love; for never a man loved more madly or fatally for the peace of both.

He would start from some mad dream of desertion, and, stilling his very heart to listen, find her sleeping purely and calmly as an infant beside him. Such a state could not last; Minnie, every one noticed it, but few--or better said, none--guessed the cause, so well did he veil his thoughts.

We have spoken little of Minnie's late home, but there was little to interest the reader in that tranquil abode,--tranquil, except when Dorcas sought to recall Minnie there, and to their hearts; this might have been accomplished long before the present time of which we write, had there not been extraneous influence to keep alive the feeling against her. Marmaduke Burton was not only a visiter, but a constant correspondent, when absent, of Juvenal's; nothing was left undone which could widen the breach, and it was with the "deepest regret," he said, that he felt compelled, by a sacred duty, to inform Juvenal, as her uncle, that the once pure Minnie was deceiving her husband, as she had all of them.

Alas! the girl who flies her home, leaves an unanswerable argument against her, when the world afterwards adds sin, shame, or a levity to her charge; however innocent she may be, the "once" is a precedent for all.

Dorcas, and even poor Mrs. Gillett, loudly exclaimed against this; the former refused positively to meet or sit in company with Burton; Sylvia shook her head, and looked more sinister than ever, as she said, "It might very likely be; she never expected any thing better from her marriage with such a man; she had indeed raised a barrier between them,"

and chapters more to the same effect. Poor Dorcas cried bitterly, and reproached herself for her supineness in the first instant, in not vigorously opposing Minnie's incarceration. She knew the girl better than any, and knew nothing would have tempted her honest nature to duplicity, had she not been driven half frantic by wrong accusations, and suspicion of her truth. In her trouble, Dorcas sought her only comforter, Mr. Skaife, and urged him so anxiously to see her beloved niece, that he quitted Yorks.h.i.+re for town; before he arrived, sorrow was gathering fast over both those he felt so much interested about.

Our readers will recall to mind, that Mary Burns had obtained teaching, by which she princ.i.p.ally supported her mother; for she felt a delicacy in receiving succour from Tremenhere, however generously offered. Of late he seldom quitted home, never except when absolutely forced to do so, and generally he so arranged it, to be driven in by Lord Randolph; thus only could he feel secure. One thing we forgot to mention sooner, that nothing was wanting to urge a jealous man to madness; he was in the constant habit of receiving anonymous letters, those vile arms of coward strength; these were written, so bearing upon acts of actual occurrence, that, though he read and flung them into the fire, still they left an unerring shaft behind, piercing his heart with doubt, for in every one there was but the one name registered, which was eating into his soul--Lord Randolph's. He was truly a man fighting with shadows; he feared every thing, seeing nothing. It was a state of irritability which could not last much longer. He was borne to earth with the tortures of his mind; and Minnie crept, like the ghost of herself, through those almost silent rooms--once all light and happiness.

It must not be supposed that Marmaduke Burton, who was working under-ground like some vermin, did it for mere revenge, or wanton wickedness; no, he was impelled to it by fear; he knew in his heart that Miles had _right_ on his side, and he saw that _might_, too, would probably become his. Environed as he was by powerful friends, whom he was daily gaining by his talents as an artist, he felt his only security lay in driving Tremenhere to some act of desperation, which would make him fly the country, either in despair or to conceal Minnie from all. He had known his cousin's disposition from boyhood; he knew every turn of his hasty, but n.o.ble heart; and all the harsher feelings of it had been drawn forth, as stains by fire, in the wrongs of his mother and his own Minnie. There are so many vile ones on earth, who know no law where money is proffered in exchange for evil, that Burton found ready tools to watch all--report all; even the household hearth was not sacred from this pollution.

Some weeks had pa.s.sed; Minnie had not seen Mary Burns for a considerable time, when, one day, a note reached her from her, brought by a messenger who said it required immediate attention. Tremenhere had left home about half an hour, on business which would occupy him nearly the whole day.

His manner had been feverish and excited all the morning, and Minnie would not have wondered had she read the contents of another of those vile missives which he had received an hour before leaving. After reading it, by an involuntary movement of disgust, he pushed her from him, as she stooped her head over him while he sat motionless at his easel, the uplifted brush awaiting the command of genius to call life on the lifeless canva.s.s; but his thoughts were more of death, than any existing, glowing creation.

"Miles, dearest," and she bent down to embrace him, and her always slight figure, looked now like a lithe graceful withey, so fragile its outline; "what are you thinking of?"

He pushed her from him, and then, as the girl stood, pale and alarmed at his violence, his haggard eye forgot its troubled glance, to soften into tenderness, as he drew her pa.s.sionately to his heart. And the trembling voice said--

"Forgive me, again, Minnie--forgive me; I am a very wretched man, loving you as I love you, and----" He paused.

"And what? my own husband."

"Never mind, Minnie--never mind! You will not, will you? Oh! promise me you will not." He was speaking to his thoughts.

"Any thing, Miles!" she answered, old fears of his perfect sanity making her shudder. "What is it you wish me to promise?"

"Never to forsake me, come what may; be your feelings towards me what they may, hide them, Minnie; let me be deceived if you will, but never let me see it; and oh! do not forsake me, or I shall go mad!"

She could not answer. Her tears were frozen by fear. She really thought him deranged; and so he was--that worst madness--jealousy. For the overwrought mind was not fighting with idle fancies, evanescent as vain; but with a cold, tangible reality, built on many a doubt and distorted act or word of hers, and still worse on the letters of his anonymous correspondent, whose last letter, received that morning, ran thus--

"If you wish to verify all, leave home early, professedly for the day, and watch your house; be in readiness to follow, and you will need no further proof or admonition to enable you to convince yourself. A hired brougham will be at the end of your lane. The driver, ignorant of all, will place himself at your disposal, on your giving the name of--'Gray,' as well as another--'twill keep him in your memory.

"Your sincere, but unsuspected FRIEND."

And Miles was resolved at last to have proof, or else never again suspect--never read another letter, but burn them unopened.

"You do not speak," he said, again drawing her, shrinking from terror, close to his heart, by the arm which clasped her. "Poor child--poor Minnie! I have frightened you; forget it, my child, I am unfitting for so frail a thing as you. I should have mated with my own kind, something lion-born, and you--you with----Minnie," he cried, changing his tone suddenly, and looking full in her face with his dark, gloomy eyes, "you should have married such a man as Lord Randolph Gray, and have led a life of luxury and peace. He would never have terrified you, as _I_ do; I think you would have been very happy--I think he loves you, Minnie."

The suddenness of the words, his change of manner, all combined to call the warm blood to her cheek.

"Miles," she said in agitation, "do not say things like these; even in jest, Lord Randolph's name should never be mingled with mine in a breath of doubt, after that one painful scene at Uplands--you forget, too, he is Dora's----"

"Oh!" laughed he hoa.r.s.ely, "those things are soon broken off. Now, Minnie, were you free, on your sacred soul, do you not think that man would propose to marry you?"

"On my sacred soul, Miles," she answered solemnly, shrinking from his arms, almost with a feeling of dislike towards him at the manner of his speech,--"I do not think so; and this I _know_, were I free, fifty times over, I would refuse his lords.h.i.+p."

"Forgive me, Minnie, forgive me--forget this!" and he once more folded his arms around her, as he rose from his seat. "I am unworthy of you, yet _indeed_ I love you." His smile was almost as of old, and once again they were at peace; _he had forgotten the letter_, but it was only the merciful oblivion of a moment; their peace was like a house built on a blasted rock, through the caverns of which the wind whistles mournfully, shewing the hollowness beneath.

Shortly afterwards he quitted the house for "nearly the whole day," he said. He was gone; and she sat silently thinking, as now was her wont when alone; there was nothing to restrain her feelings having full play.

Before him, she often forced a gaiety she did not feel; now she sat in sorrow, and the once laughing face looked pale and care-worn.

"A letter, if you please, ma'am," said the footboy, presenting one. She took it, the characters were familiar. "Poor Mary!" she said, refolding it when read; "I have indeed much neglected you of late; and it was a sacred duty to do otherwise, lest by that neglect your heart had once again grown callous or reckless in the midst of troubles. We should uphold a fallen sister who has risen, lest the weakened limbs totter again, and sink, never to rise! I will go at once and see her; I am sure my doing so must please Miles--poor Miles, my own dear husband! John,"

she asked, as the boy obeyed her summons to the room again, "who brought this note?"

"I don't know, ma'am. A man; he said there was no answer required."

"Go," she said, "round to the stables, and order me a fly immediately, without delay."

The letter said--

"Dear Mrs. Tremenhere--I am sure you will pardon my writing to ask you, as a very great favour, to come here to-day. I am in much trouble, and have only you to comfort and support me in it, by your counsel and advice. Pray, forgive the trouble I am imposing upon you; and pray be here if possible by two o'clock.

"Humbly and sincerely yours,

"MARY BURNS."

The fly drove to the door in a quarter of an hour: it was one o'clock.

"Drive quickly!" cried Minnie, as she stepped in and gave Mary's address; "I am late." The man touched his hat, and obeyed. There was a lane leading to the road from their house; at the corner of this a brougham appeared, coming towards the villa. "It is Dora!" exclaimed she to herself. "If I stop, she will delay me; moreover, she does not see all as I do; dear Dora is more coldly calculating, and lectures me for visiting poor Mary; I will not stop now, but write and tell her to-morrow; she will call again, and for worlds I would not forsake Mary in her trouble." As she thought all this, with one hand she hastily drew down the blinds, and leaned back in the carriage. She did not see Dora, neither did she see the occupant of another brougham, with the blinds half down, who was watching all, with a pale, anxious face.

"Follow that fly," he said, in a scarcely articulate voice, pointing after Minnie's--"not too closely, but keep it in sight----She did not even speak to her cousin," he whispered to his trembling heart, "but drew down the blinds to avoid observation!" And he pressed his hands over his strained and burning eyes.

CHAPTER V.

It was scarcely two when Minnie stopped at the door of Mary Burns's cottage; alighting, she rapped. The servant of whom Dalby made mention, opened the door. But, let us hasten to say, of all this he was ignorant; the game was too deep a one to be entrusted even to him.

"Is Miss Burns at home?" asked Minnie.

"No, ma'am; she has been out some time, but I expect her very shortly.

Will you walk up-stairs, in the drawing-room?"

Minnie obeyed, desiring the fly to wait. Before going to this apartment, however, she entered the parlour, and there found Mary's old mother sitting, childish and insensible as ever to all around. She spoke a few words to the deaf ear, and looked her sympathy in the unconscious face; then turning, followed the servant up-stairs. Here she paced the room impatiently some moments; then, sitting down, looked in the fire to seek some a.s.sociations for her thoughts in the "faces in the fire." She was in deep meditation; she felt nervous, and full of thought.

Thought! What are our thoughts? They are like dissolving views pa.s.sing over the soul. One fades imperceptibly into another, brighter and totally different; then this one in its turn yields place to others, and so on, until at last the curtain falls over the last--and where are we?