"It will only then, sir, remain for me to treat you as the author," said Miles coldly, turning to quit the room.
"What do you mean?" cried the other, advancing.
"Simply what I say. If a gentleman propagates a vile, calumnious report of a virtuous woman, and then refuses to state the author, that he may be made publicly retract his slander, and re-establish the lady's fame, there is but one path possible, and that is, through the only known medium. I hold you, sir, responsible."
His cool determination alarmed the other. It is not a very pleasant thing to have a hole made through one's body, by either sword or bullet, because one possesses a talkative friend. A parley ensued; and then at last Miles went forth with another name—this was a lady's, rather more difficult to deal with. The only way, then, is to find out the lady's nearest household tie; and, in case of refusal on her part, appeal to him. They say men have an easy time of it; but assuredly such would not be the case, were some less pacific than they are in demanding reason and authority from ladies for all they utter; and were their fathers, husbands, brothers, etc., looked upon as responsible agents to act for them. In such a case, were I a man, I would marry a woman who always wore a respirator. She would talk but little, if compelled to whistle her phrases through layers of wires. Assuredly, these things were invented by some clever man with a Xantippe for wife.
But to return to Tremenhere. The lady he waited upon was one of those beings whose milk of human kindness had, at her birth, been turned to vinegar and gall. She never said a kind thing, except from some motive, and to those even she professed, or was bound to like; she delighted in uttering the most galling innuendoes; and she looked her character.
When Tremenhere was announced, she received him, though almost a stranger, with an air of pity, perfectly dreadful—that kind of air which inclines one to exclaim at once, "Don't pity me, for there's nothing in my case to excite that feeling—I won't be pitied!"
Here he had little difficulty at first, for no sooner did he name the motive of his visit, than the old lady commenced a string of well-arranged untruths, which amazed Tremenhere, and clearly showing how wisely he had acted in sifting the affair thoroughly. When she concluded—for the historiette was delivered as crudely to his ears, as if he were a perfectly indifferent personage in it—he could not but bite his lip; but seeing at a glance the nature of his informant, he deprived her by his coolness of half her satisfaction. Verily, dame Nature has three tubs at hand, in which she dips her children when she creates them, according to the caprice of the moment—one containing honey and milk, one vinegar and gall, and the other an amalgamation of spices.
When this abluted thing in the second tub had told her tale, she paused—this was not what Tremenhere intended, so he simply inquired her informant's name. Oh! this she never could give! It had been related to her under a promise never to divulge the name; she never could!
"And so, madam," he said contemptuously, "though you feel bound in honour to conceal the name, no such feeling prevents your blasting the fame of a pure, innocent woman, by promulgating infamous falsehoods, which I am resolved to silence; since, then, you decline giving me the vile author's name, it is to your son I must apply!"
This was a lesson the lady had never learned, and it would be well if it were more frequently taught to those who only exist with satisfaction to themselves, by ruining the fame of the innocent, whom they detest, and cannot comprehend. A loud shriek burst from the terrified woman; for, if she did love any thing but herself on earth, it was her tall rawbone son, in the Grenadiers—but not all her entreaties could avail, Tremenhere was resolute, he was on the track, one footprint lost, his game might elude his grasp. With many sighs, and beatings of her chest, for heart she had none, the name burst forth of Mr. Marmaduke Burton, and with its utterance a deep groan struggled from Miles's bosom, but it was one of satisfaction; for not only did he hold his bitter enemy, but the union of events for the moment convinced him of Minnie's innocence, and the other's authorship of the plot to destroy his peace. With a lightened heart, he quitted the bewailing woman, who allowed it to escape her, that it had been confided to her, on a solemn promise given not to name him; and Burton, in doing so, imagined she would not, for a fellowship of feeling and mind made him an especial favourite of hers, and he well knew, in telling her, the facts would lose nothing, and Miles be irretrievably lost in all respectable society; he did not calculate upon its arriving so quickly at his ears, neither of his determined conduct should it do so. He did not yet know his cousin.