Minnie read this letter, and it did not kill her! yet her life seemed awhile to stand still. There was but one idea in her mind, that by that fatality which seemed to hang over her, Miles had witnessed her accidental meeting with Lord Randolph. A more than mortal fear oppressed her. There arose in her mind a belief in spiritual agency—spirits of evil around her. She became almost lifeless with this strange fear. She sat like a statue; and saw one after another, the paintings, depart, which had been commenced beneath her eye, her caresses, her love. She was totally speechless, thoughtless; all stood still, even to her very blood, for she was cold as marble. At last the easel was taken past her; then the man stood still, as if awaiting some questioning from her; but though she had watched every action of his with intense gaze, idea of what was passing—she had none. So he went forth, and closed the door of the outer apartment, mentally ejaculating, "What a cold, heartless creature! Evidently she is glad to be released from Tremenhere, for this freluquet de milord! What a blessing for her husband to lose such a woman!" And this man, so talented in portraying the human face, was powerless on it to read the breaking heart! When the door closed, Minnie fell back on the ottoman, not fainting; but the lifeless blood was insufficient to bid the heart beat above mere existence. She was living, but lifeless to the touch, or memory—and thus she lay for hours alone!
CHAPTER IX.
"She did not speak, or expostulate?" asked Tremenhere.
"No," answered his friend; "she was too much taken by surprise, but I never saw a woman look more confounded in her guilt."
Miles did not speak for some time. Strange, how wrongs, supposed or real, darken the heart to every gleam of pity! It was not his vanity which was wounded—not any feeling of false pride, which urged him to so much apparent heartlessness; it was a disgust pervading his noble nature, at so much infamy in one so young and fair. Had he deemed her reclaimable, he would have nobly, generously, endeavoured to do so; but, believing what he did, he felt that any further contact with her would irretrievably sully his own honour, and plunge her still deeper into duplicity and sin. If she ever could repent, their separation—his utter contempt for her—might, through shame, open that channel to her. There was uprightness and conscience in his every thought; he even felt then, that, if he could be convinced she would be true and faithful to his rival, he would seek by the law that release which should enable him (Lord Randolph) to do her justice. With these thoughts in his mind, after a calm survey of all remaining in the ruined temple of his heart, he wrote to this latter, and despatched his friend with the missive, which contained little of accusation, beyond a quiet, cool detail of facts, as he believed them, and giving him a choice of two things, either a solemn assurance to marry Minnie if he divorced her—he, thereby, submitting to the reprehension of the world at large—wherein many might blame him for the calmness of the act, so little in consonance with his real feelings, in preference to the more manly one of first demanding retribution at his hands in a struggle for life, or to meet him muzzle to muzzle, where often the luckier aim carries it above the more skilful. But we are wrong, for the luckier aim would carry undying remorse with it, in any noble heart, however wronged. "Live, and let live," and leave vengeance to Heaven.
It would be vain to attempt portraying Lord Randolph's amazement on receipt of this note; he was preparing to leave his apartment to dine with some friends when it reached him. He read, and re-read it; and then, with an air of wonder which would have convinced any unprejudiced person, asked whether really Mr. Tremenhere resided in that hotel?
"Apparently," was the laconic reply, sarcastically delivered.
"He must be mad, then, and deserving only le Bicêtre," answered Lord Randolph; "where may he be found?"
"By letter or message through me," was the reply.