Marmaduke Burton was gone abroad, no one knew whither, "on a tour." Dalby was a resident in town. Mary Burns was established in a small business for fancy work; her poor mother no longer burthened her—she slept in the quiet home, alike for rich and poor. And thus all stood on the day Minnie and Tremenhere started for Paris, where he had many friends to forward his views as an artist; moreover, he had orders from friends at home, and all seemed to smile on them as they quitted their native land.
"And now, Minnie," he said, tenderly embracing her, "no more care. I will banish all, and begin anew our life of love, and the labour of love I have sadly neglected, though not forgotten. My poor mother—I must toil for you both, darling, now, and for our child, my Minnie, for I should indeed wish it to see the light in my lawful home; I will try so to have it."
CHAPTER VIII.
Assuredly there is something very exhilarating in the air of Paris, when compared with our heavier, smoky atmosphere; this, and a complete removal from painful scenes, were all sufficient causes for the change in Tremenhere and Minnie. They seemed indeed to have commenced a new life; all annoyances had ceased, her colour had returned, the frown had quitted his brow, the past seemed like a dream, as his confidence was restored, and not unfrequently he laughed with her, over those reasonless fears which had once agonized him so much. Many of their mornings were passed in the Louvre together, he copying the old masters, or the glowing sunset pictures in the Spanish gallery; whilst she sat beside him, either talking, reading, or working, and thus two very happy months passed, and Christmas drew nigh. They were residing in an apartment, not far from the Louvre, in one of the principal streets, Au Troisième, where he found a room admirably adapted for him, having been used as a studio. Au Troisième seems a frightful height to English ears; nevertheless, to the many who are acquainted with Paris, it has nothing extraordinary.
All suspicion even seemed lulled to rest on his part; for frequently Minnie went alone to visit Mary, who was, at all events, peaceful, if not happy, in her present successful path. Tremenhere talked of being obliged, very shortly, to revisit England, consequent on some paintings he was completing to order. A shudder crept over Minnie at the thought; she had almost hoped never to see it again, except perhaps some day to revisit Gatestone, but certainly not London; however, the patient loving wife said nothing, she was contented to go whither he went. They had not received any communication from Lady Dora, in short from no one but Dorcas and Skaife—all else was in quiet oblivion around them; and they, not the less happy, though sometimes Minnie would sigh when she thought of her cousin's unkindness. Marmaduke Burton, too, was lost to them, almost in thought; the truth was, he had made a tour to Italy, and so bitter had been his disgrace, consequent upon Miles's discovery of his wickedness, that he resolved to leave them in peace, despairing of success in separating them. In good, as unfortunately often in bad, when all human power has failed, fate steps in, and accomplishes in an instant that which years might else not have matured. Poor Minnie was one of those kindly-disposed creatures, full of thoughtfulness to surprise those she loved by some great joy—nothing had changed, or could chill her heart; and frequently some little quiet secret of her's to please Miles, tortured him once again into dormant, but not eradicated suspicion, until the perfection of her plot enabled her to give it to the light, and thus remove a weight from his mind, which had oppressed it for days perhaps. She never saw this,—she was a very child at heart, forgetting in her present happiness her past bitter suffering. For some days she had been in a state of much excitement, and her visits had been more frequent than usual to Mary's. Other friends she had in Paris; but though there existed a certain constraint and distance between herself and this unfortunate girl, still we often cling more kindly to the person we have served, whatever their station, than to the one who has obliged ourselves,—a noble nature loves better giving, than receiving. Thus Minnie delighted in watching her protégée's progress towards honest prosperity, for Mary was so humble and grateful. Miles noticed her frequent visits to Mary, her distraction of manner, followed by sudden lightness of heart, as of hidden joy. Then, too, she often made a plea of laziness to remain at home, and he went alone to the Louvre. This worried him; nevertheless he said nothing, but he was not at ease. Suspicions arose; but he chid them down—he would be happy. Sometimes Minnie looked sad and disappointed, still she said nothing; and he forebore questioning, though not a glance of her's escaped him. The cause of all this was as follows:—One day Mary Burns drew Minnie into the little quiet back room adjoining the shop, and exclaimed, "Dear Mrs. Tremenhere! I have been so anxiously looking for your arrival the last two days; I did not like calling, or I should have done so."
"Why not, Mary? we should have been glad to see you."
"I know, dear madam, you are always so kind; but I wished to see you alone—my motive is this. You must have heard from Mr. Tremenhere, of his meeting me one night at his cousin's?" She looked down, and spoke with difficulty and pain. "I am forced to allude to this, to explain how I became possessed of what I now wish to speak of. Have you ever," she cried, changing her tone, "heard Mr. Tremenhere mention any one named d'Estrées?"
"Never," answered Minnie, after a moment's pause.
"On that evening in question," continued Mary, "there were several torn papers scattered about the floor,—a sudden impulse induced me, unseen, to secure one—and here it is. I found it only to-day; for I shame to say, in my own selfish troubles, I had forgotten it sooner," and she placed the torn piece of letter, which we have seen in the first volume, in Minnie's hand.