"My darling child—my own wife!" he said tenderly, raising her to his bosom, "do not give way to nervous depression—you can have no cause—I will not leave you so much alone; but you know, dearest, why it is—not choice, as heaven hears me—but necessity. Where will be our long-projected voyage to Gibraltar, for our good object, if I do not work? Every hour away from you is one of regret; and, as I am painting some grim portrait, I long to carry my model, easel, and all, to my quiet painting-room here, with my Minnie to hang over my shoulder."
She was silently weeping most bitter tears; they were standing near the table in the centre of the room. "Come, come," he said, cheeringly, "you shall not give way to this—come into my studio; I want you to mix my colours. Silly child—silly child! to cry so much for nothing."
She was on the point of telling him all, and imploring pardon, when he turned his head aside, and the eye caught sight of a sheet of paper on the table. "Since when has Minnie," he said laughingly, as he took it in his hand, "turned copyist, and whose writing is this she has been imitating? I have seen it somewhere before—where have I seen it?" She was almost sinking to earth. It was a note which Lord Randolph had commenced; yet, in her speechless agony, she clung to his arm. There were only a few words—they ran thus:—
"Dear Tremenhere,—I am much annoyed at not finding you at home——"
"What does it mean, Minnie?" he cried, still smiling, and yet a strange, uncertain light bursting over him. "Surely this is not your writing? has any one been here? I will ring, and ask Bruce." He had his hand on the bell: she had slid from his arm unperceived to a seat. Before the bell sounded, the servant boy entered the room with a letter, which he handed to Tremenhere.
"Has any one called during my——"
Tremenhere said no more, his eye fell on the letter—one glance sufficed; for in his other hand he held the slip of paper.
"You may go," he said hastily to the boy. Without uttering another word he tore open the letter, and read, (we have said Lord Randolph had not much variety of thought; this note was a copy, in the past tense, of the other one commenced.)
"Dear Tremenhere,—I was much annoyed at not finding you at home when I called to-day," (it had been posted the previous evening,) "as I particularly wished to see you. I know, under the emergency of the case, you will pardon my intrusion at your villa, the fair inhabitant of which did me the great honour of mistaking me for you, and, rushing in to meet you, brought me acquainted with the fairest face and form I ever beheld. 'Pon my life, Tremenhere, you are a lucky fellow, and a selfish one too, for possessing so fair an original. Surely you might bestow the copy on a friend, to create the loveliest Aurora ever seen! I am off to Uplands. As I most particularly wish to see you, come down without delay; I shall expect you to-morrow night, and you must stop a few days. Make my best compliments to your fair companion, and believe me to be, ever yours truly,
"Randolph Gray."
Miles read the letter through without a word uttered; it was only on his face his soul broke forth, and there it became, step by step, as he read on—surprise, grief, cold desolation—a man waking from a dream of home and love, to the rigid reality of a field of blood and battle. All these emotions, one by one, passed like shadows over his face, which grew paler with each. When he looked up, all had given place to a stern resolution, which sat on his troubled brow as he turned towards his wife. She, poor child, had covered her face with both hands, and was weeping bitterly. He laid a cold unearthly hand on her arm—"You have deceived me," he uttered; and, with that almost inarticulate sound, his soul seemed to pass, so great was his agony. "Whom can we trust?" he whispered almost, as though speaking to himself. "She has deceived me!" and a sigh, almost a sob, burst from his bosom.