"All these I was deaf to, and I accepted Lord Randolph as my future husband. This, too, was pride."
Tremenhere stood looking earnestly at her, as one of her hands nervously played on the back of a chair; but he did not utter a word, though the deep, speaking eye was fixed upon her.
"Man!" she cried at last, stamping her foot with energy; "do you not see how I suffer? Pride—woman's delicacy—all are forgotten. Tremenhere, I love you! For this love I accepted your cousin's attention, hateful as he was to me, to urge you to say the last words; for all but those have been said between us. Tremenhere, for mercy's sake," she cried impetuously, "do not stand looking on me thus; but say those words at last!"
"Lady Dora," he said, as a deep sigh of heartfelt joy struggled upwards, but his tone was calm and low, and he approached and clasped her hand, "now I will answer you. When we met in Florence I could have loved you; I thought I did, till I measured the error afterwards by the intensity of my love for Minnie. When I brought her, a child almost, to my artist's home, who came and upheld that child? who came, and by her presence gave countenance to our love? Did you—did any? True, after a while, a few tardy visits were paid! But when I, fiendlike, drove her by my passions to become a wanderer—who sought her out to cheer and uphold? I blamed you less even then than now; for now you have shewn me how despotic your will can be, when it pleases you to be so! Love you!" he cried, striding across the room and dragging back the curtain before the statue of his wife—"love you, Lady Dora! the cold, heartless woman of the world; with this too looked upon—the marble dream of my adored, my murdered Minnie! Oh no, no!" he added, almost weeping. "By the long, long nights I watched, creating this memory—by her purity, which I now know too late—I scorn you, Lady Dora; and, unmanly as it may seem, have trifled with your semblance of heart, your vanity in short, to open the eyes of a worthy man, too worthy for you—Lord Randolph."
She had stood transfixed by horror, crushed in her pride, and bending to earth. As he spoke the last words, a heavy fall in the bedroom resounded in their ears. She turned hastily, and in terror gazing at the door, through which he passed in haste. Not a thought of the truth burst upon him as he raised the closely enveloped and veiled figure, fainting on the ground. Placing her on a couch, he hurriedly tore off the bonnet to give her air; as he did so, the long fair hair rolled heavily to the ground, which it swept. He uttered a cry; it was one of pain and fear—for one hurried moment something supernatural crept through his blood and stilled it—then drawing near the couch, as if a spirit lay there, he gently lifted back the fallen hair, and gliding on one knee, gazed with distended eyes on the pale, unconscious face, then, placing his lips near hers, he held his own breath to feel if she breathed. A gentle sigh came over his cheek—with that sigh the truth rushed almost in maddening power over his mind. One loud cry came from his soul; and clasping her in his arms he strained her to his breast, and wild, hysteric sobs burst from his lips, but the eyes were burning and tearless.
"Minnie—Minnie!" he sobbed; "speak to me—my wife—my Minnie, speak to me!"
But though the blue eyes opened, and tried to comprehend all, they were haggard and without speculation. By degrees memory returned; and the first look of terror passing, the languid arms raised above the head on her bosom, and grew in a circle round his neck, and strained him to her heart.
"Miles!" she whispered, "it would have killed me if——" she glanced towards the door. "Let us together thank that unfailing power," she uttered, "which has kept us from sin, and through so much sorrow, in faith and love," and the trembling knees clung to the ground beside where he knelt supporting her; and the eyes, pure as an angel's, looked upwards in prayer, while his arms clasped her, and the speechless lips were pressed on the upraised hands which pleaded for both.
Lady Dora had stood unnoticed in the doorway, when he rushed in. No words can convey an idea of her mingled sensations. At a glance she guessed the truth—'twas Minnie in life. As she stood, a hand touched her arm.
"Lady Dora," said a grave voice, "I was there." He pointed to the saloon. "An open door permitted me to enter, and hear all. I meant not to listen—your words arrested me. Come, let me take you to Lady Ripley's; this is no place for you."