"Believe me sincere, when I assure you, Mr. Tremenhere," rejoined the other, "that from all I have heard, and now seen, no one can more truly deplore your misfortunes than I do."
"Do you know them all?"
"I think, I believe I do," hesitated the curate; he feared uttering something painful.
"Do you know that for upwards of twenty-one years I was brought up at the manor-house, beloved by a father and mother, the best Heaven ever formed—oh! especially the latter; I can scarcely speak of her now." He paused, and seemed choking with emotion. "To be brief," he continued, after a pause, "in one year I lost all; she died first, my father soon followed her, and then, while my sorrow was still green, my cousin, Marmaduke Burton, put in a claim for the property, on the ground of my illegitimacy! I was stricken, I had not a word to offer, proof I had none to the contrary; my father's marriage had taken place, for marriage there was, at Gibraltar; my mother was Spanish, of not exalted parentage, I believe,—from thence sprung the great difficulty of proof. Only an obscure family to deal with, that ruffian Marmaduke gained all—the property was tied up until the event should be known; I had few wealthy friends—he, both friends and money. Most of my earlier days had passed in studies abroad; I came only at stated periods to my home—I was a stranger among my own countrymen;—he had secured himself allies (I will not call them friends, of these he could have none); he was assisted too, by a greater scamp than himself, a mean, cold-blooded villain of the name of Dalby. In my bewilderment, my horror, at her name—my pure, holy mother's name—being dragged forward for public scorn, I lost all nerve and power; then too, I was poor,—the result you know. Mr. Skaife, I am a wanderer—he, in my halls; but all is not lost yet. I may find my way to sunlight, even like the blind mole."
"And, Mr. Burton," asked the other, hesitatingly, "was he not a frequent visiter at the manor-house?"
"Why man, the reptile was there as my friend and brother; whenever I returned from my rambles, or school, in earlier days, 'twas 'Marmaduke' and 'Miles' with us from boyhood's youngest hours; he was with me soothing, when she, my mother, died—and there, too, when I put on my orphan state of master and lord of the manor-house. A week afterwards the long prepared claim was put in; the morning he left for that worthy purpose, he shook me by the hand, and said as usual, 'Good bye old fellow, we shall meet soon;' and we did—in court."
"And it was at the manor he knew Mary Burns?" asked Skaife, deeply affected.
"Ay, at the old place she had been as companion, almost child to my mother, from her childhood. Then when her old mother became paralyzed, and lost her school, Mary went to reside with her in that cottage; but it was comfortable then. My mother, and a little of her own industry in fancy work, kept them. Alas, poor Mary! I loved her dearly, as ever man loved a sister, she was so exemplary a girl under many trials."
"I fancied," said Skaife, "I scarcely know why, but I fancied there had been a warmer attachment." To his own surprise, he found himself conversing with this almost stranger as with an old friend, so certain is it, that kindred souls know no time, to limit their flight to meet their fellow spirits. Tremenhere coloured even through the bronze of his dark complexion; at the last words he was silent some moments, and then said hastily, but not haughtily: "Mary was a playfellow, as a sister to me—I never loved her," and he seemed desirous of changing the subject. This proud man appreciated the other's qualities and his goodness; with him he was no longer the cold, guarded person which circumstances had made him generally in his intercourse with all.
"It is a painful subject with you, I see," said Skaife, much embarrassed how to proceed; "but my mind is greatly relieved on one point—I feared you had loved this poor girl; that not having been the case, my duty is easier, for one it is, to consult with you what had best be done for her."