"Do not doubt me," he said, coldly releasing her waist, and taking her hand; "I will counsel you well—lead you aright, and for your happiness. Never love, Lady Dora—never love; but if they will you should marry, make Lord Randolph a good and faithful wife, nor cast away your affections on one scarcely worthy of them. He is my friend—if you must love, love him; but I counsel all, never love, for I dread and eschew the passion!" And, dropping her hand, he rose calmly from the ottoman, and listlessly taking up his hat and gloves, scarcely looking at her, bowed, and quitted the room.
When he was gone she sprang from the ottoman, and, pacing the apartment like one bewildered by a sudden shock, ended by leaning her head on the table, and weeping the bitterest tears she had ever shed; for they were over her crushed pride—her abased heart, which he had probed to the quick, and then, as a worthless toy, cast from him. It was long before she could recall all the scene to her mind, and when she did it might have ended in almost madness had her unfailing pride and self-love not come hand in hand to say, "He loves, and dreads his love. Randolph is his friend—be patient—watchful, and your reward will be, in subduing all his feelings and resolutions."
And thus cheered, she rose, to own to herself that for his love she would brave any thing. She even hated Minnie's memory when she thought, that though it had proved evanescent, as she deemed it had, he certainly once loved that girl.
"I will bind him yet, and in iron bands," she cried, as her tall, proud figure strode the room; "not as she did—silk could never hold so bold a heart as his—they shall be iron, and I will rivet them; there shall be no key lest another undo them—riveted, Tremenhere—riveted!" and the girl smiled already, in triumph over his defeat.
CHAPTER XVII.
Days and days passed away, and Minnie lay almost in death's grasp, and the old man sat beside her as a father might have done, nursing the poor sick woman; his bitterest thought was his own poverty, and her great need of every care. The little money she had by her, was fast disappearing, sickness brings so many unaccustomed claims into a sufferer's room; there was a doctor, too, but here again she learned the charity still existing, despite all march of intellect, or railroad of worldliness; there was this one hallowed thing standing still, since the day of the good Samaritan. Nothing could induce this man to take a fee, and assuredly he came with more interest, and oftener, to see the sick woman, than if gold awaited his palm at every visit. The concièrge, too, was all kindness; she kept poor little Miles, and thus the weary days crept on, and nearly a fortnight passed, before Minnie returned to a perfect recollection of the past. When she did so, her first idea was to ask the length of time she had lain thus—two weeks! and in that period what might not have occurred? She struggled to rise from her bed, but her strength failed her; she had no one around in whom she might confide, feeling her own total incapacity to act, and knowing how necessary it was that some immediate steps should be taken, even though in taking them, her existence would, of necessity, be betrayed. There was but one person of whom she could think in her despair, and this was Mary Burns. Summoning all her fortitude and strength, she in a few, half-coherent words confided to Monsieur Georges that a mystery existed, and imploring caution, and otherwise total silence on his part, she besought him to seek Mary, and telling her a sick woman wished to see her immediately, having something of importance to communicate, beg of her to come, without delay. This he gladly promised to do; for, in his perplexity, he knew not himself where to apply, how to act; in her ravings she had said enough to convince him, some dreadful secret oppressed her. Mary, who had been alone informed by the papers at first of Minnie's supposed fate, and subsequently by Skaife, had mourned her with the sincerity of an humble sister; for some time she had been incapable of almost any exertion of mind or body; there was a blank around her, a disheartenment—for well she knew the purity of the unfortunate victim of Tremenhere's jealousy. When she received the mysterious summons, delivered to her by Georges, not a thought of Minnie crossed her mind; her deep, and truly mourning dress, bespoke her faith in the report of her untimely fate, but, though much puzzled as to whom the person could be desiring to see her, she was too sincere a Christian to refuse the prayer of any one in trouble. Minnie had said to Monsieur Georges, that she desired to see the person alone; consequently he brought her to the room door, and there left her. The name Deval could not possibly enlighten her at all, and the respectability of the house removed any fear she might otherwise have felt, in following a stranger. It would be impossible for any words adequately to describe her almost supernatural terror, when entering the room alone, on the humble bed, almost pallet, in the pale, worn ghastly face lying there, she beheld Mrs. Tremenhere! Her first feeling was one of doubt, of her own perfect sanity; she thought some extraordinary likeness deceived her, and standing breathless, with clasped hands, she gazed in fear and wonder.
"Mary," whispered Minnie, turning her eyes, now hollow and wild, upon her—"Mary, 'tis I! come to me!" And she stretched forth her thin hands towards her. A shriek burst from the other: it was like an awakening from some dreadful dream. Dropping on her knees beside that bed, she clasped the wan hands in hers, and wept tears of so much heartfelt joy, that years of misery were washed from her memory in that stream of heaven-sent rapture.
In a few brief words, Minnie, raised up, and lying on her bosom, told all, first binding her to solemn secresy about her existence, unless released from it by herself. If Mary wept over her sufferings, her heart became soothed as she wept, feeling that there must be a term to it now. She knew Miles even better than his poor wife could; she had known his warm, generous, but hasty disposition, from boyhood; and even though her heart trembled when the other related the conversation which she had overheard at the opera, nothing could persuade her that he would so soon forget one he had loved as he once had Minnie: and so much does the fond heart of friendship soothe and cheer us, that Minnie too, became calm, and impressed with the conviction of her humble friend.
While they were still conversing, the concièrge rapped at the door, carrying little Miles in her arms; and, as Mary clasped the beautiful boy to her bosom, she felt how impossible it would be for Tremenhere to resist so strong an appeal to his heart as this woman and child, or the conviction of the latter's parentage, in whose young face his own every look breathed.