Minnie was in deep thought, thinking and wondering what sort of person Miles loved: Was she dark?—fair? and, above all, did she love him very much? She thought—indeed, she was sure—that she should love such a man! In a very meditative mood, she entered the drawing-room.
Miles sped away across fields, once his, to the homely farmer's, (Weld,) where, we have said, he had taken up his abode. He, too, was in deep cogitation; his mind filled with thoughts of Minnie. With an artist's eye, he remembered every outline of her lovely face and form: there was something so seraphic in it: for a while it obliterated all bitterer memories—cousin, mother, all. Then, as he awoke from a day-dream of what might possibly have been, a double flood of indignation and hatred rushed through his heart towards Marmaduke. "I would have willingly shared all with him," he cried aloud, "so he had left me name, and her fame; with these I might perhaps have won——" He paused. "Lady Dora her cousin, too! strange I should never have thought of that! But, then, 'tis ever so; we sit down contentedly under a happy influence of sunlight, unquestioning whether it will last, or wherefore it shines, whence it comes. That would have been the maddest dream of any. Proud! oh, Juno herself fabled Juno not prouder! There were many things in that girl I could not fathom: Was she really so proud? or, Had her heart a softer feeling beneath that mantle? or, Was it merely woman's love of enchaining, which made her so gentle, yielding, almost loving, only to frown down upon the half-uttered hopes her manner gave birth to? I remember the day she was leaving; I am not a vain man, but assuredly there was a tear in her eye, and the hand, for the first time, touched mine—how cold her's was! That was vanity. Her manners piqued me, her beauty dazzled; but I forgot her a week afterwards, and worked at the statue for which she had been my model, as calmly as if no line of it were drawn in vain imitation of her matchless grace. But I forgot her!—could I forget Miss Dalzell?" He was silent for a long time, and walked onward in thought. "I will leave this place," he said at last, speaking aloud—that habit which denotes the lonely man—speaking aloud, not to forget the tone of a human voice. "I will leave this, and then forget that sweet, fair face; I cannot allow my heart the luxury even of that thought. I require all its energies—it must be vigorous, Miles, vigorous, for it's worldly encounter, not enervated by love! Pshaw! leave love to boys—I am a man—a sad, stricken man—what have I to do with love? Why, my hair will be silvering soon, and how might I mingle such, with those glorious wreaths of golden shade, as she lay on my bosom! Away, away!" he cried, groaning deeply. "This is a devil's vision, to tempt me aside, from duty to a saint! What a beautiful thing nature is!" he continued, after a pause. "What act of art, however gorgeous her colouring, could compete with that one—so beautiful—so pure—so perfect—when Minnie Dalzell put her two fair hands in childish confidence in mine!" Again he walked on in silence, and as he entered Farmer Weld's door, he muttered, "I will leave this place to-morrow!"
The morrow rose. Does she in rising lay in her lap, and survey all the deeds of the day? or is it an act at eve, when retiring? In either case, how she must sigh over those of omission and commission, and regret that she should be the involuntary parent of them all! She rose, and with her Lady Dora, earlier than usual; she looked thoughtful, pale, and irresolute. Were these caused by Minnie—who had spent two good hours the previous night in her dressing-room, confiding to her cousinly ear all about Miles Tremenhere? Dora had listened, and Minnie was too little accustomed herself to conceal her feelings, to note the painful struggle the other had, to be in seeming quite calm. Much she argued with Minnie—mere cold, worldly motives, for not seeing Miles, for refusing to do so peremptorily, should he seek her; as if Minnie could do any thing in a peremptory manner, especially a thing calculated to wound this fallen man! Dora found her resolute, however, in one way—not to do so, but leave all to chance. He was going—she pitied him—always had done so since she heard his story. She hated Marmaduke Burton—always had—and would now, more than ever—she would. In vain Dora spoke of position; he was rich, Minnie had nothing, and her aunts were resolved she should settle near them. "Well, they cannot force me to marry at all," answered she; "so I'll die an old maid, or rather live one first, with dear aunt Dorcas."
But Dora could gain no promise about Miles Tremenhere.
"I may never seek him," said Minnie. "I'm not in love—oh! not at all; but, if we do meet, I will hold out my hand if the squire and all the household are by to see! Has he not known me since I was seven years of age? and do you think I am going to turn away from a friend because he is poor? No, cousin dear, I wish I were a man, I'd fight for Miles Tremenhere—poor fellow!"
It is questionable whether, had she been one, she would have blushed so deeply, and spoken so enthusiastically, though her generous nature would have made her uphold the wronged. A handsome man is very dry fuel near a young lady's warm heart—her enthusiasm soon glows into a blaze.
CHAPTER X.
Our readers must not suppose that Lady Dora Vaughan was in love with Miles Tremenhere. The outcast of society could never find a cherished home in a heart so proud as her's. True, we cannot always command our feelings; but we can check them. Her's towards him were, more bordering on hate than love—And why? because she had nearly loved, and her pride revolted so much against her weakness, that dislike towards the object had followed; still, her sensations were far from agreeable. Do as she might, she could not despise the man; she was bound to admire, and even while doing so, feel that it would be worse than any marriage with age or decrepitude (rank and wealth of course accompanying them,) to love this noble-hearted man, simply because the laws of society condemned him as an outcast, for his mother's supposed error. And this frightful fault of pride, was the bane of a host of good qualities and virtues in Lady Dora. It marred them all; making her seem worldly, cold, and heartless, whereas a good, simple-minded mother would have created a jewel of price in this girl. She had met Miles in Florence—met him merely as an artist, whose rising talent entitled him to portray her fine features for the admiration of posterity. As a very young man, when wealth and position were his, Miles had studied painting as an art to which inspiration called him. Sculpturing, too, he practised, but less than the other. Perhaps it was, next to his mother's wrongs, the severest blow of his unhappy fate, when he found himself driven from his studio at the manor-house, where his happiest hours had been spent. He had passed years of his life at different periods, since boyhood, in Italy, and studied with the best masters. When his troubles seemed to have quite overwhelmed him, after flinging back with scorn the hundred a year his base cousin dared offer him—as indeed he would have done thousands, from his, or any hand in charity—he had recourse to his talents for support. He returned to Italy; and now every energy of his genius was directed towards the acquirement of wealth, for the purpose we have shown. This was the man Lady Dora had sat to; and, though she did not admit the fact at Gatestone, she, but not her mother, had been perfectly aware that he was the once master of the manor-house. Even while under his pencil at Florence she had, struck by the name, sought his confidence, which he freely gave her—only from her mother was it withheld. Lady Dora never spoke of herself; imagining that every one must know her rank and family, she merely spoke of having been at Gatestone, and he inquired no farther. Under the mask with which pride concealed the working of her features and heart, Lady Dora had warm affections. Though she did not fully enter into the merits of Tremenhere's case, neither did she believe that, had his mother been innocent, he could be so much wronged; still she felt much sympathy for one brought up in ignorance, so many years, and driven to the bitter extremity, as she deemed it, of earning his existence; not knowing, that the bread we honestly earn, is made sweeter to the palate, than that which comes to us from parents and kindred—the cold household bread, baked from our birth for us! The depth of thought, intelligence, and something above any one she had ever met, made her involuntarily bow before the commanding nature of this man. Of his plans or purposes she knew nothing; merely supposing that, like hundreds of other artists, he was earning his living. It was not to a girl like this one, that the sacred motive of all his acts would be confided. Still it was impossible to be thrown into the society of Lady Dora, and not admire her deeply, especially a man like this; for he was too keen an observer—a scrutinizer of all—not to perceive that under her pride lay feeling and depth of soul. Insensibly this cold man began to watch for the days of his visits at the Palazzo Nuovo, whither he went to complete the portraits of herself, and the countess; but it was to his studio Lady Dora came, accompanied by a waiting-woman, and sometimes her mother, to mark the progress of her marble statue; and here, in his own home, his household gods around him, Miles became so perfectly himself—at ease, graceful, and courteous in manner, such as few could be, none surpass, that insensibly Lady Dora felt her heart question her pride as to the possibility of reconciliation; for with her they were two enemies at open war—still she was not in love. Surrounded by admirers—sought every where—chidden by her mother for her coldness—it was a bitter pang to her, the discovery that this painter-sculptor, for such he was, should give her heart an awakening start. At first she gave herself up to the enjoyment of a new sensation; then, when she discovered how dangerous the feeling might become, she drew back into her shell, which lay outwardly cold and empty; whereas within beat a warm heart. Tremenhere, however, guessed a part of the whole. There is a look, not to be mistaken, in the downcast lid which lowers over the traitor glance—there is the young blood, which will rush up rejoicing to the cheek. No caution can check this tide, no dam limit its flow. More than once her blush had made his heart question itself; and though that heart acknowledged a warmer feeling than towards a mere acquaintance, still it's joy was not full, the cup was not filled to overflowing, nor any thing resembling it. Lady Dora had passed a sleepless night after the conversation with Minnie. Minnie she had loved as a child—loved her now as a girl; moreover, she was a part of herself, her flesh and blood—degradation to one, would necessarily fall upon the other; and knowing, as she knew the fascination of Miles, even acting upon herself—the girl accustomed to society and adulation—she doubly dreaded it in the case of an unsophisticated girl like her cousin. Lady Dora, we have said, arose, it was about seven o'clock, a thing most unusual for her to do. She dressed herself without the attendance of her maid, and after a moment's thoughtful pause, put on a close straw-bonnet and shawl, and, opening her door gently, crept down-stairs. It will be remembered that Lady Dora had often been, as a child, a resident at Gatestone; consequently, under the unavoidable influence of Mrs. Gillett, the presiding goddess of the house. To her room, through the gardens, Lady Dora resolved to go, as if accidentally in an early walk, and implore her not to countenance in any way the inter-communication of Minnie and Tremenhere. Poor Lady Dora quite forgot, or disbelieved, that there is a communion of kindred spirits on earth, and that vain is all earthly power to separate them. Thinking on various things in deep cogitation, she skirted the gardens, passed through the shrubbery, and was on the point of entering the fruit-gardens leading to Mrs. Gillett's window, when she suddenly paused. Through an opening of the majestic trees in the long walk called the shrubbery, she saw in the distance a man's figure. He was slowly walking in the holly-field before alluded to. She drew near the hedge separating the grounds from this last named, and looked earnestly through the interstices of the hedge; he was evidently strolling about, on nothing especial bent. She paused in thought. "Was he, could he, be expecting any one? if so——Surely not Minnie? oh, no! she was too candid and retiring to deceive, or be guilty of such an act on so slight an acquaintance." These questions answered, her decision was soon made; it was far better to speak to him candidly, than through any servant attain her object. Her pride made her sufficiently self-relying, and placed her on too high a pedestal to fear, as a merely ordinary girl of her age might have done. Thus resolved, she returned on her footsteps, and walking hastily through the grounds, opened a small door leading to the fields, and without further hesitation proceeded straight towards the man, as matinal as herself; whom, at a glance, she had recognized, as Tremenhere. He, too, had passed a restless night—a thing to him of frequent occurrence; poor Miles had much to banish sleep from his pillow, at all times. He never stayed to woo Morpheus, but rose at once, however early it might be, in Aurora's reign. He had been up nearly two hours, and something impelled him to visit this path, remembering that one day's hour of waking, generally is succeeded by a parallel act, next morning. Minnie had been across these fields at six the previous day, and might she not do the like this? So much worth was his resolution to quit the spot, and see her no more. His back was however, now turned from Gatestone, and he sat upon a stile watching busy nature; he was too sad to sing, or he would have united his voice with the tone of the lark, and busy bee, as they rose above, or flew past him. No! he sat in thought. Lady Dora's light step was unheard; it might have been a flying hare's, 'twas so gently placed on the grass; a cough, however, startled him, and then a cold untrembling.
"Mr. Tremenhere, pardon my interruption of your reverie, but may I speak to you?"