Miles Tremenhere: A Novel. Vol. 2 of 2

by Annette Marie Maillard

Months passed since their separation, and in the delicate, frail woman, living in almost privation in Marseilles, toiling at her needle for her daily bread, who might have known Minnie Dalzell? With the little money remaining to her, she crossed to England, to prevent discovery and pursuit; here remaining hidden a short time, she then returned on her footsteps, and hastened to Marseilles. She knew Miles was in Italy, and her yearning heart led her to the port, whence she might some day, perhaps, be called upon to follow his path. Bowed and saddened she was by sorrow, still her heart's conscious uprightness, and honest pride, upheld her; if she suffered, no one knew it; if sometimes she ate her bread in tears, and only that, for a day's nourishment, who saw her? No mere person, but One who sees and reckons to us our patience and confidence in him however he may try us, and Him, Minnie never forgot. Even as the trembling fingers, pale and attenuated, broke the hardened crust, the eyes, once violet in their depth and richness, now paler, clearer, more serene in their sadness, looked up and blessed the Giver of it in their tearful gratitude. In all this patient sorrow came an almost overwhelming, unhoped-for joy; she held a living child on her bosom, small, frail little creature; its tones were as a bird's, so soft and sad, and through the little thin fingers the light shone, as you held them up, and only then did a ruddy colour, like pale ruby, show in them, proving they were not merely wax, an imitation of life. "I shall not have you long to comfort me, my boy," she whispered, when the sobered first joy gave place to reason; "but you will go to a better place, and plead for your mother, darling, and oh! do not forget him—your father. I would you might have seen him here, my child, to know him in heaven; but I trust in spirit meetings, spirit sight will show him to you, and we may all three rejoice, reconciled in peace and everlasting joy, which nothing human can attain to!"

He was christened Miles, and though the pale, fair mother grew paler each day, and toiled more, as the embroidery, in which she excelled, became more sought after, still the boy thrived, and as she laid him upon her lap, like a model of rare beauty, her lip smiled in placid thankfulness and joy, as she counted the dimples which day by day seemed to deepen in the now rosy cheeks and fingers. Hers was not a heart to keep its joy to itself; she wrote to Mary. True she did not give her address, but she wrote to bid her rejoice with her; her child was born and lived. A deep hope sustained her for some time. If Miles ever had truly loved her, he must think of the expected tie which bound them closer than ever. He would remember how he had spoken with almost boyish delight of the hoped-for period, and he would seek her, and come. Alas! he did remember it; but in bitterness of spirit, and laughed in scorn over those boyish hopes, of which he had been the dupe.

Mary replied, in haste and deep anxiety, to the Post-Office, as directed; she spoke of Dorcas's trouble, Skaife's arrival and anxious search for her, but not one word of Miles! and then her heart sunk in utter despondency. "Not even now!" she uttered, as the big tears fell on her boy's sleeping face; "oh, he must hate me much!" Then succeeded a fear lest Mary should seek her, or Skaife, or Dorcas; she would fly again.

Among her employers was one lady who had taken a deep interest in her; she had a daughter about Minnie's age, and married to a Maltese merchant; she was about to become a mother herself, and, being called upon to join her husband in Malta, her mother implored Minnie, who was thought a young widow, to accompany her as nurse to the expected child. The offer was a tempting one; thus she could fly, fly all, and in change of scene, more than place, still, busy thought. A large offer was proposed to her to wean her own child when another should claim her care, but this she resolutely refused. "You will be too delicate to nurse both!" exclaimed the lady.

"I shall gain strength for all, Madame," she replied, with confidence. "I am stronger than I seem," and she thought of all she had mentally borne and wrestled successfully with, and mere physical labour could not daunt her strong heart.

She waited upon the lady, and, disdaining all deceit, at the risk of losing possibly the situation which she much desired to obtain, told all her story. She had truly said, when asked, that she had no husband, and others concluded he was dead. At all events, as we have said, assuredly on the Continent people more charitably judge a sister woman by present good conduct, than they seek, by diving from curiosity into the past, to discover, perhaps, some deep sorrow, or more deeply repented error. We deny that our Continental neighbours are less virtuous than Englishwomen, in general; but they are less severe, more charitable, less censorious. Minnie's candour raised her high in the opinion of those, now doubly bound to her, from pity. All her energies were called into play, to meet the emergency of outfit—money was required. The lady advanced her some, still she required more.

We are not relating a mere tale of romance, where fairy and unexpected gifts come to help the toiling and virtuous, but a story of everyday life, where the good and conscientious, by undeserved misfortunes, are thrown in much trouble, degradation, poverty, and often want; where the fingers once destined to be jewelled, must learn to toil, that the lip which had been born to command a host of servants, may eat its daily bread.

Minnie had been guilty of but one imprudent act, and this was the penalty due to it, and unmurmuringly she was prepared to pay it to the last farthing. Her hours of sleep became shortened; the earliest morning light saw her working, while her boy slept. Oh, woman—fellow-woman! when some pale mother places in your gemmed hand the work you have commanded her to do for you, pause, and think that she may be in all things superior to yourselves. Pause and reflect, grow humble and grateful, where all your gratitude is due. Turn not away in pride, do not bid her seek some insolent menial for payment, who will grudge the hardly-earned sum, and insult, while giving it. Pay her yourselves—pay well, and in conscience, and above all, pay kindly; for how know you but that, in another place, this woman may plead for, or condemn you?

Time hastened on; the day shone fair and bright; it was in October, and the quay was thronged with gallant vessels coming and going, and friends were receiving in joy those who returned, and others weeping over the departing; but none were there to press Minnie to their heart in sorrow or fear, as, clasping her child to her bosom, she stepped on board the steamer "Hirondelle," for Malta. Once she looked back, and scanned the crowd, every face—it was a last hope, but it faded in the sigh which heaved her heart, where little Miles slept in peace. She turned away, nor looking again, went below. The anchor weighed, the steam gushed upwards in a cloud, the paddles commenced sending the spray around, and the port faded insensibly from view.

"Don't cry, madame," said Minnie, whose eyes were overflowing for another's grief. A mother had just seen her daughter for the last time. "Don't cry, dear madame," and she knelt and clasped her hands in both her own (her boy was sleeping in her berth.) "We shall soon be at Malta, and then you will see your husband, who so anxiously expects you." Here she may be pardoned if a tear fell for herself; this chord jarred on her heart, but she checked the vain dream, and awoke to comfort another.