"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 noble 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 assured 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 passage, and rapped gently at Aunt Dorcas's room-door; first assuring 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 gratitude. 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 embarrassment, 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 anticipated 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.
"No, stay; pray, remain, Mr. Skaife," cried Dorcas. "I am glad you are here: you may perhaps exert your influence as a clergyman, as well as a friend, with Mr. Tremenhere."