"One," he answered, "whom you cannot have known, at least I think not, for he had no daughter—only one child—a son."
"Do not hesitate; you may freely speak before me," cried Mary, anxiously; "you little know, perhaps, what your words may lead to. I am sure I have seen you—heard your voice."
"How can that be?" he asked, still doubting what it were prudent to do. "You would have forgotten me, you must have been so young, had we ever met. I should remember you, for I am an old man."
"Were you ever in Yorkshire?" asked Mary, with a trembling voice. Something stilled Minnie's tongue; she could not speak.
"Yorkshire!" he cried in almost terror. "Do you mean at an old manor-house?"
"Come here," whispered Minnie, scarcely audible. She felt something strange was surrounding her. "Come nearer—here, beside me. I am too weak to speak loud—there," and she clasped his hand. "Father, by the love you have shown me—to me, a poor orphan child, a deserted wife—tell me, who are you? My name is Tremenhere, and I know the manor-house well; it was my husband's father's!"
"Merciful heavens!" exclaimed Georges, in agitation. "Then how are you thus? and how have we met? Tell me—is your husband the son—the only son of the late Miles Tremenhere, of the manor-house? for you speak of the father as being no more."
Mary sat speechless, and yet she knew not what her hopes or fears were; she was in a stupor.
"Miles Tremenhere, the son, is my husband," answered Minnie; "but he has forsaken me—forsaken me!" and her tears gushed forth.
"I will tell you," said Mary, in a whisper, drawing near and clasping Minnie in her arms. "This poor lady has been the victim of a villain, Marmaduke Burton, who, when old Mr. Tremenhere died, put in a claim to the property, on the plea of the son's illegitimacy; and, having driven him forth, was not content without destroying his young wife's fame, to drive him to desperation."