"Has he no father?" asked the old man, caressing the boy, who now sat on his mother's knee; and he looked searchingly at her. But any thought of error fled when you gazed in Minnie's pure face: sin never could look thus.
"We are parted," she said sadly. "Some day, perhaps, monsieur, I may tell you all, and ask your advice; for indeed you seem as an old friend, and father to me. I hope we shall often meet."
And they did; and it seemed as if a blessing followed her good deed, for work came pouring in, and she found constant employment, as we have seen, even from the first dressmakers in Paris—thus she knew of Lady Lysson's party to the bal de l'opera; and her fingers made the domino in which Lady Dora leaned on Tremenhere and listened to his love—so strange a thing is fate! An impulse, impossible to resist, impelled her to visit that scene, whose gaiety harmonized so little with her feelings. She had the two dominoes to make; and in the black one we have seen how much she intrigued Tremenhere—the other she had left with the woman keeping the cloaks, and her foresight served her purpose well, of knowing all. Who may tell the agony of this woman, leaning once again on his arm, and listening to those accents which thrilled her inmost soul—words too of interest fell from his lips, and her bursting heart said, "Throw off your mask, and he will fly you in horror or hate;" but nothing could ever equal in agony that moment when, leaning against the pillar in her second dress, she heard the greater portion of his conversation with Lady Dora; and, worse than all, the promise of the morrow! How could she dive into his heart, and read its sorrow, remorse, and revenge, prompting it to the part he was playing with her cousin? She only saw facts—heard words. She saw him friendly and kind with Lord Randolph; and in his face, whose every look she knew full well, she read confidence and friendship towards that man; then all the hate was her own—it was not mere jealousy, but personal dislike, or he could not so soon have forgotten her! No wonder then she fainted; and, when recovered from her swoon, she declined—nay, peremptorily refused all assistance to take her home—that toiling home, now made doubly painful; she returned to it nearly mad. The concièrge, who had taken charge of her boy, was terrified at the paleness of that still face. Minnie said she had a motive for wishing much to go; and the good-natured woman, thinking it so natural, at once consented to keep the boy with her.
"Pauvre pétite," said the woman to herself, as she gave the almost silent Minnie her key and lamp. "She has seen her monsieur, I dare say. Ah! I always thought she was not married—but forsaken, and with her child, too! pauvre pétite! I will bring up Guillaume," she said aloud. "Tenez! you can scarcely support your own weight, much less his! I'll bring him up to you."
And Minnie thanked her in a whisper, and crept almost lifeless up the stairs.
As yet she had confided nothing of her history to her old neighbour, whom she only knew as a poor man named Georges, who had lost place and fortune. By persuading him that he was useful to her, she had succeeded in making him more frequently her guest, than his own solitary companion. She feared speaking of the past; yet, so much did she love the venerable old man, that she longed to dare confide all, and ask his advice. Now she felt her total inability to act for herself, and resolved to tell him not later than the following day. But there is a destiny ever above ruling, far superior to our puny wills. Next day she was too ill to speak, or see him; she was confined to her bed, where the intense anguish of her mind drove madness through her frame; and the following one she was delirious, and her shrieking voice could only utter one name—"Tremenhere!" It was no moment for false delicacy. The old man, whom she had befriended, stood by her in her need, and the trembling hands wiped the cold moisture from her brow, or held the cup of tizane to her lips. Little Miles was nursed below; and though her eye wandered, seeking something in her madness, she uttered but the one name, sometimes in accents of prayer, sometimes in shrieking horror, for the promised morrow was with her, even in her delirium!
CHAPTER XVI.
On that morrow, which she so much dreaded, Tremenhere was away from Paris, and hurrying onward towards Marseilles. Once arrived there, his task was an easy one; there were tongues enough to speak to him of the toiling little ouvrière, so frail, so persevering, and of the child which came to solace her hours; even her beauty had not unstrung one malevolent tongue against her fame—all was toil, gentleness, and worth. As he drank down each bitter draught, his soul grew sterner—there was not a tear in it to quench the fire of remorse. All, too, had one tale to tell: she always said, when she had saved enough to pay her journey, she should follow her husband, who was an artist at Florence. To fill up the measure of all, he waited upon the lady, whose daughter, Minnie had accompanied on board the fated "Hirondelle." He presented himself as a relative of her husband; he durst not trust his feelings to say, "I am the man," lest all should shrink from him in horror. He spoke of an unhappy quarrel, their separation, and consequent ignorance of where she was. Here he heard of her with tears from the childless mother, of the affection her daughter bore Minnie, whom she had employed as a workwoman at first, but won by her gentleness, piety, and goodness, had besought her to accompany her to Malta, as nurse to her child—of Minnie's love and devotion for her little "Miles," for thus she had called him there—her firm refusal to wean him, for any sum, from her breast, and her eventually consenting to go to Malta, on their promise to send her, in six months, to Florence—the one dream of her loving wife's heart! 'Tis wonderful Miles could command his feelings enough to listen calmly to all this; but there is a calm far beyond that of perfect peace—'tis that of despair. His face changed not—'twas as though it had been chiseled in marble, by some cunning artificer, to imitate life, for none was there—not a muscle moved—not a shade crossed it; it was the tombstone of hope, whose ashes lay beneath. One thing he did: he sought the room where she had resided in her sorrow—the room where her child's first accents struck upon her ear; it had not been let since, so he sat down alone there for hours, and his wandering eyes looked on every spot on that dingy wall; nothing he left unregarded where her eyes had dwelt, and he saw, as in a vision, all the many thoughts she had left behind her to people the place. He rejoiced no one had ever inhabited the same room since. Seeking the landlord, he rented it for a year, and, paying in advance, carefully locked, and put his seal on it, lest any one should desecrate it.
"No voice in joy shall ever fill that place where she has wept so many silent tears—there, where she loved me still, our spirits have met again. Minnie, forgive me!" And the man knelt in that desolate abode, and prayed fervently. "If," he said, "I should ever be tempted to forget her sorrow, I will return hither, and fill my heart with memory, and hatred of myself!"