"Let me bear my misery alone," she said. "Tell them, for I cannot write now, that he and I have parted: that there was incompatibility of temper—any thing you will; but do not—pray, do not, say he has forsaken me! Let them think it has been mutual consent, but do not blame him; they all hate him enough already," and the heart whispered even still, "poor Miles!"
CHAPTER X.
It was not, however, for some time that Minnie allowed Mary to write even this; for she still hoped at times, in her heart, that Miles would return. But when months passed, and she ascertained, beyond a doubt, from a visit Mary made to his artist friend, that he had quitted for Florence, then she hoped no more, and nothing remained but to act.
Dorcas was most uneasy at her silence, and then Mary wrote, and afterwards she summoned courage to do so herself, though every word written was penned in the bitterness of worse than death; for we may die happy in hope, and the love of those dear ones around us, smoothing the pillow as we depart in peace and faith to happy shores, beyond life's troubled sea. Minnie's grief had nothing of this. She was on a wreck in a dark stormy night—a wild sea foaming over her head—a dark sky, and impenetrable darkness above and around; but nevertheless she spoke of contentment, and a wish to be left in quiet. "We deemed it better to part than live in estrangement of heart," she wrote, "and I am resigned. If you love me, let the subject drop; nothing can change our fate. Leave me in quiet awhile, I shall remain some time longer abroad."
But this letter did not tranquillize Dorcas, to whom it was written. She carefully abstained from speaking of its contents to any one but Mr. Skaife, and he, like herself, was too deeply interested in Minnie, not to be the confidant of all. Dorcas wrote most anxiously to her, and Skaife promised, as soon as his duties would admit of it, to go to Paris, and endeavour to reconcile them. He guessed a portion of the truth; but, alas, nor he, nor Dorcas knew a tithe of it!
Minnie, we have said, resolutely refused to touch her husband's allowance. He had gone to Florence (as far he might be, in his spirit-broken state,) contented in the thought that she was provided for, and in following his art, now a toil undertaken to banish care—he strove to obliterate her memory. Minnie's pride forbade her accepting existence at the expense of Mary; when all her means had become exhausted—the slender ones her purse and jewels afforded, her pride arose in proportion to her poverty. It was not false pride, but the honest, upright determination, to burthen no one. "I will leave Paris," she said to herself, "and go where no one may hear of me."
This could not be accomplished without some difficulty; nevertheless, at last she succeeded, and one day, when Mary sought her in the humble room she had been residing in, she was gone. A letter reached her faithful friend, telling her that cares such as hers were better borne alone; even her sympathy pained her. She would go where only her own heart should know her sorrow, and breathe it to her. She bade her not fear for her; she was safe, and would shortly give her proof of it by letter; but she implored her to breathe to no one that she had fled. Mary, however, in kindness of heart, wrote immediately to Mr. Skaife; the secret was too a heavy a one for her own conscience to support in peace. This intelligence caused the most bitter sorrow to him and Dorcas, to whom alone it was told; and he hastened to seek some one to take charge of his parish duties awhile, at her earnest prayer, and his own heart's promptings, to follow Minnie whithersoever she might be gone.
It sometimes, but rarely happens in life, that where we only expected to find a merely common acquaintance, we meet a warm and sincere friend—one who, through years of sorrow, never forsakes us—one who forgets self, to help us onward on life's weary track with our burthens—who, when all have forsaken save himself, clings to us still, and whose best, and only reward sought, is, when a gleam of sunshine flits across our dreary way. To such a one, honour and blessing—gifts, which his own good conscience will bring him, when, at the end of life's journey, he makes up his account, and reckons with his Creator. Such a copy of an original, was Skaife. But there was a machine working which he could not stay or controul; it would spin its wool, and weave its woof, before man might overcome it.
Tremenhere was in Florence; but yet he heard of Minnie whilst she was in Paris. So blinded was he by his passions, that even her poverty—her refusal tacitly to touch his allowance, were snares in his eyes, to lure him back to deception. Again, if at times his heart softened, 'twas but for a moment—he grew cold again, and pitiless. Living too, as he lived, steeled his heart to gentler scenes or thoughts; he avoided all society, and, shut up in his studio, labouring to banish the bosom's emotions, became sullen, morose, and vindictive.