Miles Tremenhere Volume Ii Part 19

"Are you mad? You must have been to pledge yourself to him, such as you are--one to be loved, wors.h.i.+pped, 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 he _never_ could 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?--_do_ love; 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 t.i.tle?"

"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 you _must_ love, love him; but _I_ counsel all, never love, for _I_ dread and eschew the pa.s.sion!" 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 certainly _once_ loved 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, and _I_ will rivet them; there shall be no key lest another undo them--riveted, Tremenhere--riveted!" and the girl smiled already, in triumph over his defeat.

CHAPTER XVII.

Days and days pa.s.sed 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 a.s.suredly he came with more interest, and oftener, to see the sick woman, than if gold awaited his palm at every visit. The _concierge_, too, was all kindness; she kept poor little Miles, and thus the weary days crept on, and nearly a fortnight pa.s.sed, 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 fort.i.tude 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.

_She_ knew 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 friends.h.i.+p soothe and cheer us, that Minnie too, became calm, and impressed with the conviction of her humble friend.

While they were still conversing, the _concierge_ rapped 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 of _lingerie_, 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. _Lingeres_ and 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 a _trousseau_, in hopes some of her _lingerie_ might 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 the _soubrette_, 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 grat.i.tude. 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 every _sou_ he 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 s.h.i.+vering 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 pa.s.s 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 acquaintances.h.i.+p."

"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 sure_ I 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 Yorks.h.i.+re?" asked Mary, with a trembling voice.

Something stilled Minnie's tongue; she could not speak.

"Yorks.h.i.+re!" 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; it _was_ my 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 the _late_ Miles 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."