MILES TREMENHERE.

"For such a love, O Rachel! years are few, and
life is short!"—Lopez de Vega.

BY ANNETTE MARIE MAILLARD.

AUTHORESS OF "THE COMPULSORY MARRIAGE," "ZINGRA THE GIPSY," ETC., ETC.

IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. II.

LONDON:
G. ROUTLEDGE & CO., FARRINGDON STREET.
1853.

M'CORQUODALE AND CO., PRINTERS, LONDON.
WORKS—NEWTON.

Minnie parting with Lord Randolph

MILES TREMENHERE.

CHAPTER I.

Tremenhere did not return to dinner at six, as usual. He was not one of those careless husbands, who dine out unexpectedly with a friend, and leave their wives to wait in ignorance of their movements; so he sent a messenger immediately after Lady Dora had quitted the villa, and Minnie felt as if his absence for the first time gave her pleasure. It afforded her time to collect her resolution for meeting him with this concealment in her heart. The long hours passed sadly enough, for every thing around her seemed distasteful; the sunny noon of her heart was growing into twilight. Tremenhere generally returned early from his occasional parties. Ten o'clock came—a late hour for their quiet cottage—then half-past. Minnie grew restless—her conscience was not at rest; moreover, she was quite alone. The servant and the boy they kept—all their household, had retired. Miles always had his key, when late. Minnie watched a short time longer, and then, going up-stairs to her dressing-room, partially undressed, enfolding herself in a long loose wrapper, of pale pink cashmere, in which she looked even more beautiful than when richly attired. Next, she unbound her long, fair hair, and, unweaving it, flung the rich mantle over her shoulders, which it completely covered; and thus, at perfect ease, she sat down in a large chair before the fire. She had been unused to much deep thought of late, and the events of the past two days had wearied her brain. Gradually the head fell listlessly back, a little on one side—the clasped hands, so perfect in form, supported it, an elbow resting on the arm of the chair—the lips were slightly parted, and a warm glow, like a sleeping infant's, ruddied her cheek, while the fair hair literally swept the ground. So soundly she slept, that Tremenhere entered the room unheard; he, too, had passed a day of deep meditation. Matter-of-fact persons may laugh at the idea; but to sensitive minds, coming events have often, as avant courier, presentiment. He had been thoroughly wretched all day; so much so, that without knowing any tangible cause of fear, he entered his home with a beating heart, as if he should find it vacant! How can we account for such sensations? They are purely spiritual. A deep sigh of joy trembled his lip, when he saw all he loved so well, so exclusively in safety, and sleeping calm as an angel might, rocked in a sailing cloud,—if angels ever sleep. He crept on tiptoe nearer; involuntarily his hands clasped as in prayer, as he gazed upon her, then, fearful lest that magnetic influence of an eye watching over us, which makes us start up affrighted, with throbbing hearts, from our sleep, should awake her rudely, he bent slowly downwards on his knee, and looked upon her as on a saint, so pure, so unearthly was his love at that moment. Some moments he knelt thus, then, unclasping his hands, he raised the mass of sweeping hair gently, and pressed it to his lips; it was slightly perfumed, like new-mown grass. Insensibly his hands commenced turning fold over fold, tress over tress, till it grew to a rope of brightness in his hands, which they could just clasp; smiling, he twisted it, wondering at her prolonged sleep—suddenly a thought flashed through his brain, a demon's thought—jealousy; his fears of the day were parent to it. If she ever should love another! if those dreaming thoughts, which he then felt were his, should wander to another! What temptation had she yet known?—none. What men had she ever seen, to make her what so many were, even if only in idea—faithless? He should care but little for actual virtue, if the soul of it were gone; and as these maddening fancies crept through his mind, tighter and tighter he twisted the fair hair in his grasp.

"I could still her life with this," he muttered; "once round that small, fair infant neck, and I should save her from ever having a sinful wish. She is pure as one of those little things, whose faces are not veiled even by their own wings, as they say other angels are in heaven. O Minnie! so much I love you thus, that I could find in my heart almost to kill you now, and bear the weight of that heavy sin, to save you from even knowing remorse." And in the agony of that moment of demoniacal temptation, he rose to his full height, while the livid face and brow were studded by agonized sweat-drops, his temples throbbed, he felt his mental power of reflection every moment becoming more condensed, and almost lost in impulse—impulse to commit murder, and, damning himself, save her! At that supreme moment a deep sigh struggled through her parted lips, the brow knit in mental pain, and Minnie awoke. Like a tree blasted at the roots, Tremenhere dropped on his knees, which gave way beneath his weight, and, burying his face in the terrified girl's lap, he sobbed convulsively—it was not weeping, but his heart's bursting, coming sorrow.

"Miles—dearest Miles—my own love!" cried she in terror, trying to raise his head—"What has occurred? Are you ill? Speak to me, Miles." She lifted up the face at last; it was pale as death, and on the fringes of the closed eyes hung unfalling tears: they were as the heat drops from the clouds before they burst asunder, sending forth sheet upon sheet of flame.

"Minnie!" he cried wildly, looking up at last, "I have dreamed a horrid waking dream while you slept: I was mad; for I thought if a day should ever come wherein you would not love me, but another——"

"Miles—Miles!" cried the trembling girl. "Do not think of so fearful a thing; 'tis tempting some demon to try you."

"Try me, Minnie! How so?" There was almost madness in his look.

"By giving you real trouble for this unchecked vision of impossible things."

"You are right, dearest," he said, rising more calmly, yet he shivered with emotion. "Heaven keep me from real doubt! I could not support it. Come, let us leave this room; it chills my heart, Minnie;" and he placed his arm around her—as he did so, and it came in contact with the living rope he had so madly twisted, a cold shudder passed over him.

"You are not well, dear Miles," she said, tenderly. "Let us leave this room; it seems filled with fancies and spirits—I grow superstitious." She tried to smile up in his face as usual, but the dimpling peace had left her—she was tacitly deceiving him.

The next day came with a bright sunshine, which imparted its light to Tremenhere's heart. He looked back upon his mad thoughts of the past night, half in laughter, half in horror, fully resolving for the future to check those wild, jealous, unfounded fears. Minnie could not rally, as he had done; she crept about that cottage like a troubled spirit, from one room to another, restless and unhappy. She was counting the moments until Lady Dora should arrive, and she could fling her arms round Miles's neck, and, telling him all, make him promise to be as ever towards Lord Randolph, who had in truth not insulted her in any way. The more she reflected, the less cause could she see for this secresy; and but for her hasty promise to her cousin, certainly would have told him at once.

"Minnie, dearest," cried her husband, laughing; "what are you creeping about in that miserable manner for? Poor child! I startled you out of your sleep last night—you are quite pale."

She would have looked doubly so had she known his mad thoughts while she slept; as it was, she blushed painfully when he noticed her.

"I declare," he said, bending over her fondly, "you have been crying, dear child. What is grieving you?—have I unintentionally pained you?" And he kissed the bent brow.

"No, dearest Miles," she answered with quivering lips—she felt so nervous. "You are all kindness, all love. I——" and she was choking with her efforts to subdue her tears.

"My darling child—my own wife!" he said tenderly, raising her to his bosom, "do not give way to nervous depression—you can have no cause—I will not leave you so much alone; but you know, dearest, why it is—not choice, as heaven hears me—but necessity. Where will be our long-projected voyage to Gibraltar, for our good object, if I do not work? Every hour away from you is one of regret; and, as I am painting some grim portrait, I long to carry my model, easel, and all, to my quiet painting-room here, with my Minnie to hang over my shoulder."

She was silently weeping most bitter tears; they were standing near the table in the centre of the room. "Come, come," he said, cheeringly, "you shall not give way to this—come into my studio; I want you to mix my colours. Silly child—silly child! to cry so much for nothing."

She was on the point of telling him all, and imploring pardon, when he turned his head aside, and the eye caught sight of a sheet of paper on the table. "Since when has Minnie," he said laughingly, as he took it in his hand, "turned copyist, and whose writing is this she has been imitating? I have seen it somewhere before—where have I seen it?" She was almost sinking to earth. It was a note which Lord Randolph had commenced; yet, in her speechless agony, she clung to his arm. There were only a few words—they ran thus:—

"Dear Tremenhere,—I am much annoyed at not finding you at home——"

"What does it mean, Minnie?" he cried, still smiling, and yet a strange, uncertain light bursting over him. "Surely this is not your writing? has any one been here? I will ring, and ask Bruce." He had his hand on the bell: she had slid from his arm unperceived to a seat. Before the bell sounded, the servant boy entered the room with a letter, which he handed to Tremenhere.

"Has any one called during my——"

Tremenhere said no more, his eye fell on the letter—one glance sufficed; for in his other hand he held the slip of paper.

"You may go," he said hastily to the boy. Without uttering another word he tore open the letter, and read, (we have said Lord Randolph had not much variety of thought; this note was a copy, in the past tense, of the other one commenced.)

"Dear Tremenhere,—I was much annoyed at not finding you at home when I called to-day," (it had been posted the previous evening,) "as I particularly wished to see you. I know, under the emergency of the case, you will pardon my intrusion at your villa, the fair inhabitant of which did me the great honour of mistaking me for you, and, rushing in to meet you, brought me acquainted with the fairest face and form I ever beheld. 'Pon my life, Tremenhere, you are a lucky fellow, and a selfish one too, for possessing so fair an original. Surely you might bestow the copy on a friend, to create the loveliest Aurora ever seen! I am off to Uplands. As I most particularly wish to see you, come down without delay; I shall expect you to-morrow night, and you must stop a few days. Make my best compliments to your fair companion, and believe me to be, ever yours truly,

"Randolph Gray."

Miles read the letter through without a word uttered; it was only on his face his soul broke forth, and there it became, step by step, as he read on—surprise, grief, cold desolation—a man waking from a dream of home and love, to the rigid reality of a field of blood and battle. All these emotions, one by one, passed like shadows over his face, which grew paler with each. When he looked up, all had given place to a stern resolution, which sat on his troubled brow as he turned towards his wife. She, poor child, had covered her face with both hands, and was weeping bitterly. He laid a cold unearthly hand on her arm—"You have deceived me," he uttered; and, with that almost inarticulate sound, his soul seemed to pass, so great was his agony. "Whom can we trust?" he whispered almost, as though speaking to himself. "She has deceived me!" and a sigh, almost a sob, burst from his bosom.

Our readers must picture to themselves the jealous temperament of this man—his intense, all-absorbing love for his wife—and then they may form some idea of his present agony; for this it was. His heart-strings seemed tightened as if a breath would snap them, like a lute too finely strung, over which we pass the fingers in dread.

"Miles!" she cried, clasping his arm, "hear me—hear all! I—I—I was afraid to tell you!" and the tears gushed from her eyes anew.

He released her grasp, and quietly reseating her, but as some one he touched with repulsion, said, with his cold, stern eyes bent on her, "Afraid to tell me! Am I then so much an object of terror to you? I who——" The tone was unnatural, for his heart was bursting. "I," he continued, gradually raising his voice till it trembled with various emotions, "who have been gentle as a woman with you. I thought you so loving, so timid in your love, I feared to startle you by a rough tone—and you are afraid of me! All my love for you has only brought forth this—fear! Oh! when I said my heart was too old for yours, I was indeed right. I am not old—young still—but old at heart; and there, where I have given all, I meet only fear!" He passed his hand over his brow, as if his brain were burning within. "Only fear—only fear!" he muttered; "and I, fool, thought she loved me!"

"So I do, Miles, my own dear husband," she cried, dropping on her knees, and holding her trembling hands up to him in supplication, while the tears rolled heavily down her upturned face; "I do love you, Miles—on my soul, I do, more than all the world beside; but I feared to tell you, for Dora frightened me so much about this man's visit."

"Lady Dora!" he cried—"when was she here?"

"Yesterday, Miles," sobbed she. "In my trouble, I forgot to tell you;" and, rising, she dropped on a seat.

"There was a time, Minnie," he said bitterly, looking at the girl as he stood with crossed arms before her, where she sat trembling, "you never forgot or concealed any thing from me. Times are sadly changed; or, perhaps, 'tis I who have been self-deceived all this long time, and read you as I hoped, not as you really are. In good truth, we know no one till we try them. 'Tis your nature, perhaps, child. You tried your young wings at home, and now you are giving me the advantage of your perfected flight. I have walked with you against others on this crooked road: I deserve to meet with a path where you turn round upon—myself!"

"Miles! for pity's sake," she articulated, almost suffocated by emotion, "have mercy on me; you are unjust and cruel!"

He strode the room with clenched hands, endeavouring to subdue the many passions in his breast. She rose like a spirit so noiselessly, and, gliding beside him, grasped his arm again. "Forgive me, Miles," she whispered with quivering lips. Her touch roused all the indignation he was endeavouring to subdue.

"Forgive you!" he exclaimed, flinging her hand from him as if it burned him with its contact. "Forgive you!" and he stood before her with a wild look of passion. "You, who have so bitterly wounded and deceived me—and for whom? A man—the stranger of a day! Yet how do I know this? Perhaps you have met often; and now I think of it, he does not name in his note having been presented to you by your cousin. Fools!" he laughed—"poor fools! you have ill-managed your duplicity. I read you all—all—and so you will discover." So saying, he rushed from the room; and in a few minutes afterwards quitted the house. Poor Minnie could not stay him—she had fainted.

It would be difficult to say to what extremities he might not have proceeded, but a gentler thought came over the Parque who had raised this first sorrow. As Tremenhere strode onwards towards town, not looking to the right or left, but in deep thought, scarcely knowing whither to go, or what to do, a brougham passed rapidly—stopped—turned, and Lady Dora's voice said, "Mr. Tremenhere, may I speak one word to you?" Hers trembled—it ever did when addressing him: there was much warring in that girl's mind. She would have given worlds never to see his face again, as, by a concatenation of strange circumstances, she was forced to seek, or meet him. Her voice burst on his deep reverie, and startled him.

We have shewn that he had quitted home without any actual explanation from Minnie. As he bowed to Lady Dora, there was more than the ordinary constraint which marked his manner towards her on all occasions, she at once remarked it, and a gleam of truth passed through her mind. "May I speak to you?" she said, opening the door; for in these visits to Minnie, she only brought her groom with her, on whose discretion, as an old servant, she knew she could rely—not that she would condescend to ask silence of any one; but in this man she had confidence.

"If not of immediate moment, Lady Dora," he said bluntly, "I will beg to be excused the honour you propose to me, of a seat beside you. I have business of the utmost importance in town—meeting you on this road, I presume your drive will be extended to Chiswick; Mrs. Tremenhere is at home." He was moving away, having coldly raised his hat.

Lady Dora was sincerely pained at the trouble she read in those eyes, on that brow. "I must speak to you!" she cried hastily; "and, if you will not step in, permit me to accompany you in your walk a short distance—'tis of poor Minnie I would speak."

The "poor Minnie" touched a chord in his heart which was strung to harmony; it had been vibrating to the desire of his soul, to prove her innocent. He stopped:—

"I will not trouble your ladyship so much," he said, stepping in and closing the door. "Where shall I bid the man drive?" "Any where," she answered in some confusion, leaning back in the corner. "I will not detain you very long—let it be slowly towards town; you were going there."

But he did not continue that route above half a mile. Lady Dora had a good heart, she really loved Minnie, and once you could, by her better sentiments, penetrate through her pride, she was a kind, gentle girl. Unhesitatingly she told Miles how every thing had occurred, every word his little wife had uttered, her horror at deceiving him, even tacitly; and the fear explained, was so kindly a one, lest he should fly into trouble, that his heart expanded with joy, and, involuntarily seizing Lady Dora's hand, he pressed it to his lips. "You are a messenger of peace and joy," he cried, looking in her face, which was very pale. Something like a tear dimmed his eye as the thought of his poor little wife—it was half love, and half regret.

How very slowly the horse, even at a good long trot, seemed to go, as the brougham turned once more towards his home! Lady Dora told him, that having vainly expected Lord Randolph the previous evening, that morning she sent to his residence, and learned he had gone off to Uplands. What she had to tell him about Minnie, she could not write, and when Miles met her, she was coming down to see him, and consult on what had best be done. It was decided in their short drive, that he should accept Lord Randolph's invitation, and start for Uplands at once, and himself explain all. Lady Dora stopped the brougham before arriving at the villa; nothing could have induced her to be present at the meeting between the husband and wife: it was a scene she felt it would have pained her to witness, much as she desired their re-union. Miles did not urge it upon her, and as the carriage, with its pale occupant, turned away, he hastily entered his own home. Poor Minnie was lying on her couch, scarcely recovered from her swoon; when she heard his step, she started up in terror, and with eyes distended and trembling frame, awaited his coming.

The door opened, and, before she could articulate, his arms were about her, and we are not quite certain the tears which fell were all from her eyes, there is something so soothing, so heavenly in reconciliation—it is indeed the halcyon from above, descending with peaceful, unfluttering wings!

CHAPTER II.

As Minnie lay nestled to his heart, and once more, as of yore, smiling in his face, he told her of his intention of going to Uplands without delay, resolved upon confiding all to Lord Randolph, to prevent further mistakes. Minnie fully concurred in his opinion; and yet, she could not name this latter without a painful blush. It was the recollection of Miles's suspicion which called up this evidence against him.

"I will not have you even blush at his name," he whispered fondly; "though not in love, I shall be perhaps envious of the emotion which creates it. I am a jealous wretch, darling; I would have every flutter of your heart for myself alone." Much more he said in the sweet half-hour he gave to reconciliation, and sincere regret for his cruelty; and then, with a heart free from every cloud of doubt, he took an affectionate leave of her; twice, indeed, he returned, as though it were impossible to quit her, and at last, with a rude effort, tore himself away, determining to remain as short a time as possible. His carpet-bag was in a fly at the door—Minnie watching him step in from the window, when a gentleman's cab drew hastily up, and Mr. Vellumy's voice exclaimed "Hallo, Tremenhere!"

Miles was leaning forward, to kiss his hand once more to his wife. The appellation startled him not a little. He turned hastily round. A frown crossed over his brow.

"Gway told me last night," said the other, in reply to his cool "How d'ye do," "that you would be coming down to-day, and, as I am returning, I thought we might go down together. I see you have your carpet-bag, so of course you are off there—lucky I just caught you—here, step into my cab, and send away your fellow; I'll spin you to the railroad in no time."

All this looked fair and above board. It was not written on Vellumy's brow, that he had a correct list of all the trains in his pocket; he had been for half an hour watching on the road, expecting what had happened, namely—the departure from home of Tremenhere.

"You're very good," answered he, still distantly; "but it is scarcely worth while changing for so short a distance."

"Pawdon me," lisped Vellumy. "'Tis a long way; come, do be sociable, I hate twawelling alone."

"He's a good-natured fool," thought Miles; "why refuse? conciliation is my object, so here goes;" and, making some sort of apology for his abruptness at first, he stepped out of the fly into the cab, and casting a long look at the curtain, behind which he saw Minnie's face, they drove away, and arrived without accident at London bridge station—just caught the train—and started for Uplands. We should mention that Vellumy stopped for an instant at his club—threw the reins to Tremenhere—and in less than five minutes was again by his side.

Tremenhere was in unusually good spirits; he felt almost mirthful. He was going to place his beloved wife on a pedestal whence no slander could shake her; henceforth he was resolved openly to speak of her; he had learned the evil attending concealment. His heart was full of sweet thoughts of her; he determined, however, to speak first to Lord Randolph, and then let him present him, in his new character of Benedick, to his friends.

"Do you know," he asked, starting from a reverie, "why Lord Randolph desires my company so especially at Uplands?"

"Cannot say," answered Vellumy, smiling, "unless it be to call your palette into requisition, to pourtway the beauties of his ladye-love."

"Lady Dora Vaughan?" asked the other in surprise. "I thought she had quitted Up—. Indeed, I know she has," he added hastily; "I saw her to-day."

"Not Lady Dowa," answered Vellumy, with a knowing smile. "Some one else he is vewy much in love with, a——" Up to the present moment he had been talking at random, just to divert Tremenhere's ideas from any thing singular in the summons the other had received. Some thread from the Parque's weaving surely, tangled round his shallow mind at this juncture, and drew him on, without thinking on his part, to add, by way of "fun:" "I don't know that I ought to tell you"—this was said confidentially—"but Gway is deucedly in love with some married woman, qwite a beauty, I hear."

"Indeed!" was the thoughtful, half painful reply, yet he could not tell where this information galled him.

"Oh yes!" continued the confidential Vellumy; "it is a recent affair—Gway is tewibly in love," he glanced smilingly at the thoughtful Tremenhere.

"Do you know her?" asked he.

"No, he's newer let me see her; it is quite a romantic affair, of wecent date."

"Married, you say?" inquired Tremenhere, trembling he scarcely knew why. "Then of course the passion is a hopeless one?"

"What an innocent you would make me think you!" laughed Vellumy. "Her husband, I hear, is a jealous cuwmudgeon; she's afwaid of her life of him, but, fwom all I hear, I should certainly say she loved Gway, and not a little."

A cold chill passed through the other's frame, then suddenly recalling his cruel suspicions of Minnie, which had been so completely obliterated from his mind, he shook off the incubus hanging round his heart, and said mentally, "I am again playing the madman! There are thousands of married women with whom Lord Randolph is acquainted." And, resolved to banish these thoughts, he started a totally different subject, and conversing indifferently they arrived at the end of their journey. They found their host absent, however; he and some friends were out shooting, so a servant said, but would of course return for dinner. Tremenhere took possession of the room awarded him, and afterwards he and Vellumy amused themselves with billiards for an hour or two. Lord Randolph was one of the most oblivious personages in the world; he totally forgot, in the turmoil of other thoughts, that Marmaduke Burton had on a previous occasion declined meeting Tremenhere; great, then, was the unpleasing surprise of both, when Lord Randolph entered in shooting trim, accompanied by the latter. Tremenhere's brow flushed with pride as Lord Randolph said, slightly presenting them, "I suppose you two have met before?"

Burton looked pale and uncomfortable; Tremenhere said boldly, "We have met often."

Their host looked up at the tone, and, bursting into a reckless, good-tempered laugh, said, turning round on one heel, "Egad, now I recollect! Burton, you fought shy of Tremenhere last time he was here, and shirked a meeting. Come, I'll be sworn you've quarrelled about some woman; you must oblige me, and make it up: this I intend to be a day of peace-making;" and he gave a peculiar look at Vellumy, who responded to it in an equally significant manner. All this by-play was unnoticed by Miles, who, in answer to Lord Randolph, said, "Your lordship is quite right; that gentleman and I have quarrelled about a woman, yet not quite as you suppose, possibly."

"'Pon my life," answered their host more seriously, "I'm a thoughtless, forgetful fellow, or I ought to have called to mind, Burton, that when you and Tremenhere were down here together the other day, you quitted to avoid him. This should convince you, Tremenhere, that Burton bears no animosity towards you; come, oblige me: be friends, forget old grievances."

"Animosity! and forgetfulness!" cried Tremenhere. Then, lowering his tone, he added coldly, "Lord Randolph, there are persons with whom estrangement is more consonant to our feelings than friendship; but his presence—I mean the presence of my worthy cousin——"

"Cousin!" exclaimed their host and Vellumy in a breath.

"I disclaim it!" cried Burton, trying to appear calm; "that is, except indirectly—left-handed."

"Man!" said Tremenhere, energetically making an involuntary step towards him. The other two made a movement to prevent any collision; but Tremenhere stopped as Burton shrunk back. "I am a fool," he said, "to forget my noble part—patience. Pardon me, Lord Randolph; whilst I am in your house as guest, I will no more so offend—I will conduct myself as if such a person as that man had never existed. When I proclaim our relationship again, he shall tremble more than he does even now—look at him!" And, turning contemptuously away, he quietly interrupted an awkward apology which their host was commencing, by—"Has your lordship had good sport to-day? We artists lose these more wholesome pleasures, amidst our palettes and pencils."

Lord Randolph was well pleased at the turn affairs had taken: he had not brains enough to carry out two things at once. All his ideas were now fixed upon one great achievement, foreign to this. Burton seemed so awkwardly ill at ease, that Tremenhere could almost have found it in his heart to pity him. After the first feeling of annoyance occasioned by his presence, he felt gratified, as he would be a witness of the public justice he purposed doing Minnie; and, in this mood, he quickly recovered his equanimity of temper; and, when he took his place at the dinner-table, Lord Randolph was fain to admit, even with the then prejudice against him, that certainly honest uprightness sat upon his brow, and lightness of conscience in his easy gaiety; whereas Burton looked pale, discontented, and gloomy. Tremenhere took not the slightest notice of him; there was no sneer, no avoidance, but a quiet obliviousness of his existence, especially annoying. Their host was in high spirits, and, with the well-bred ease of a perfect gentleman, put all his guests, as far as he could, on that pleasant footing. Several peculiar looks passed between Vellumy and himself, more especially after the former's return to table, whence he had been summoned by Lord Randolph's valet.

"Vellumy," he cried, laughing, "you look as if you had seen a ghost; 'pon my life you're pale."

"Am I?" responded the other in the same tone; "I have, howewer, seen no ghost, but a spiwit of gwace and beauty."

"Where?" asked the others, in a breath.

"Ask Randolph," said Vellumy; "I newer tell tales out of school."

"Pshaw!" answered the host, giving a half-frowning look at his friend, "there's not a living woman here, that I ever see, now the women folk and their maids have departed."

"Talking of that," said Burton, "when do you become one apart from us—a respectable married man?"

"Probably never," was the decided reply. "Lady Dora frowns upon my suit; and——"

"You have little pressed it of late," hazarded some one.

"I never saw two less like lovers than you were, down here the other day."

"By George, no!" cried Burton; "you were always running up to town—there must be some magnet there, I fear. Lady Dora should look to it."

Vellumy laughed aloud.

"Oh, Vel is in the secret!" exclaimed the first speaker. "Tell us, is she dark or fair?—fair for a guinea! for this morning at breakfast he was raving about golden hair, and cheeks blushing like the inside of a sea-shell, which the amorous sea bathes in tears."

"Poetically described," said Lord Randolph, colouring slightly; and almost inadvertently his eye rested on Tremenhere, who was pale and silent. "I shall, probably, never marry," continued he; "that is, not till I grow a cranky old bachelor."

"You have changed," said Tremenhere in rather a low tone, feeling it necessary to say something; "and not for the better, I think. If people must marry, why, let them do it in youth—that is, not extreme youth, but not with too much disparity—a year or two on the man's side."

"Only that!" exclaimed Burton sarcastically, half addressing Tremenhere, who looked him full in the face, but made no reply; the blood, however, painfully rose to his brow. The remark was not lost where he intended it to tell.

"The misfortune is," said one of the guests, "that we men do not gain wisdom with age—our wise teeth are the first to decay and desert us. We forget how many years have gone over our heads; and at sixty expect some lovely girl of twenty to love us for ourselves alone."

"A grave error," answered Tremenhere, laughing. He was resolved, if possible, to chase painful thought, and the cold, unfounded suspicions gathering round his heart. "For an old man, marrying a young girl, generally becomes like a hoop in a child's hands; which it trundles before it whither it will, giving it hard knocks at every step!"

"Bravo!" cried several.

"It is not always thus," said their host, laughing. "Some old fellows weary their young wives to death; these always remind me of a punishment I have read of somewhere, where a living person was chained to a corpse till death came—some old men are brutes."

"I'd poison such a one!" exclaimed one man, laughing.

"I know such a being now," responded Lord Randolph, "with his hair dyed a purple black, idem whiskers, and one of our celebrated dentists is guilty of affording him the means of mastication, and life."

"If I were his wife," said Tremenhere, "I'd take away his teeth, and starve him! 'Twould be a decay of nature, nothing to affect the conscience!"

Some more jests were passed on this subject; and when silence was a little restored, Burton asked, "But Vellumy has not yet accounted for the fair spirit he spoke of—where is she?"

"In the picture gallery," answered Lord Randolph, hastily. "Tremenhere, you are such a deucedly lazy fellow, that, till you send me your 'Aurora,' I have gladdened my eyes with a Venus; you must give me your opinion of her by candle-light. Vellumy loses himself in ecstasy before her."

"By whom is she?" asked Tremenhere.

"Gad I forget! some young aspirant. I have a fancy of my own, to bring forward unknown genius and beauty."

Here again he looked at Vellumy, and again a cloud passed over Tremenhere's heart. Much more was said on various subjects. The cloth was removed—the wine circulated freely. Vellumy whispered Tremenhere, "Come along; leave those fellows drinking; let's go and have a quiet hit at billiards."

Both rose. "Where are you off to?" exclaimed Lord Randolph; "I'll have no shirking, Vel. You and Tremenhere remain—we'll all go shortly."

"You can join us," answered Vellumy; "we're going to see the Venus first," and he moved to the door.

"I'll be shot if you do!" cried their host springing towards, and locking it.

"That's right!" cried several; "keep them in! That's not fair to leave so soon."

"Done, my boy!" exclaimed Vellumy, rushing to another—a side one. "Come along, Tremenhere; we can find our way through this passage."

"Try, try!" shouted Lord Randolph after them; "the doors are locked that way, you must come back."

"This way, Tremenhere," called Vellumy, running on before; "up this side passage, and the private stair, to Gway's own rooms; I know the way, come along!"

They had both been drinking rather freely, and in the cup Tremenhere had forgotten all annoyance.

CHAPTER III.

Up the narrow stair they hurried laughing, then down a passage, at the further end of which was a door.

"Gway forgot this," laughed the conductor; "this leads to the gwallery."

Apparently Gray had not forgotten it; for, for some unexplained purpose, it was fastened.

"Confound it!" exclaimed the speaker; "what can he have locked up all these doors for? Try that one on your left; that leads to his own apawtments."

"Locked, too," said Tremenhere, after trying it.

"I won't be bweaten!" cried Vellumy; "stwop a moment. I'll run down the pwassage, and gwet the keys out of the other doors; they'll most likely opwen this;" and back he ran. Tremenhere stood looking after him.

"Here," he called out, though under his breath, from the end of the passage; "here's a key—twy it;" and he flung it down the carpeted corridor. "I'll go look for mwore."

Tremenhere raised the key and applied it to the lock, which yielded at once; he entered unhesitatingly, with that freedom natural to a bachelor-house, and found himself in a small antechamber leading to Lord Randolph's own rooms; for an instant he stood irresolute. Which way turn? the picture-gallery was the object of his search. There were two doors in this room—one opposite the one by which he had entered; towards this he moved, and, gently turning the handle, found himself at the entrance of a small, but elegantly-furnished sitting-room. There were no lights, except from the fire, which threw a wide, cheerful blaze over all. A sofa was drawn close to it, and on this sat a lady, leaning half over the arm of it; her back was turned to the door, which had opened noiselessly. The light was not uncertain, and it threw its fullest blaze on that fair form—and that fair form was Minnie's!

Tremenhere stood still—a statue-like stillness. Life seemed fading away in horror. He felt drunk for a moment with suffering; then vision, thought—all cleared away into perfect sobriety, and he strode silently towards her. She started, and, dropping her book, uttered a cry of surprise, and, by an involuntary feeling of sudden alarm, shrunk back; then, seeing who it was, exclaimed in joy, if he could so have read it,—

"Oh, Miles, is that you? but you startled me, indeed, standing like a ghost, there. You look as if you did not expect me!"

"You here—you here!" he muttered with cold lips. "In these rooms! and why here at all?" And he held his hands before him to keep her back.

"Miles," she cried, still advancing; and though the face grew pale with some sudden fear of untimely birth, for it was so unexpected, yet the brow was clear and pure to all but a jealous man. "You know wherefore I am here; think—you must be mad!"

"Mad!" he echoed, staring wildly; "I must be mad, or dreaming!—you were locked in, and in these rooms."

"Where am I?" she cried, looking hurriedly round.

"Do you not know," he articulated beneath his breath, "or are you deceiving me? These are Lord Randolph Gray's private apartments."

"His!" she whispered, dropping on a seat; "I thought they were yours." Poor girl! her limbs tottered beneath her weight.

"You will drive me mad," he cried, seizing her trembling hands; "tell me, in Heaven's name—tell me how you came here, and why?"

"I came," she ejaculated half in surprise and half in fear, "because you sent for me; but why am I in these rooms, why not in yours?" She did not yet understand his suspicions; her fears arose from his strange excitement; she began to fear for his reason, thinking that he had sent for her.

"Woman!" he cried in agony, wringing her cold hands, "I never called you hither, and this you must know." She could not speak, but sat silently staring at him, her eyes distended with terror. "Speak—speak truth, if you dare—and tell me why you are here? and how? for I am nearly mad; do you not see it, woman? I conjure you, speak."

"Speak you!" she whispered, "and tell me your hidden meaning; you affright me with these spirit thoughts. Embody them, Miles; for I dare not believe my heart's fear."

"Speak them!" he exclaimed, "do they need speech? No! your guilty soul has uttered them to your terror-stricken frame; you have done, and now you shudder at your own act. Woman, I am doubly deceived, deceived when this day I took you to my loving heart, deceived when I was lured from my home that you might come hither in secret, but I will have revenge, where revenge may be taken." And casting her hands from him, which he had held grasped in his, he sprung towards the door, but like lightning she was before him, and placing her slight form, now nerved by resolution against it, she said, "Miles, I bore much this day patiently, for I had been guilty of concealment, though done for a worthy purpose; but now, that my soul is clear of any wilful sin against you, in the sight of Heaven, I demand that you should hear me."

"Speak," he said coldly folding his arms, "my revenge can wait."

"When," she articulated faintly, for the nerve of a moment had passed away—"when you left me to-day, an hour elapsed in thoughts of you, all you Miles, and joy—that deep joy which reconciliation brings. I was aroused from this dream of peace and rest, after my recent sorrow, by a messenger who came, he said, with a letter from you, which you had given him on starting, and this letter bade me at once come to Uplands to rejoin you, placing myself under the care of this messenger; you had a project in view for our mutual happiness, and my presence was necessary; so, dear Miles, I did not delay a moment,"—here the long restrained tears overflowed her eyes at the calling of that gentle word on her lip—"but fearlessly quitted home, knowing your judgment must be best in all things for my benefit, I could not err in following your guidance," her full eye looked all its love on him as she spoke.

"The letter," he said hoarsely, holding out a hand; he durst not take her, as he longed to do, to his heart, without this proof.

"Are you mad, or am I?" exclaimed the affrighted girl—his calmness awed her. "I have burned that letter, you know you bade me do so."

"By heavens!" he laughed wildly, "your cold-hearted assurance proves you the most consummate deceiver in the world. Girl—woman—demon! I never bade you come—I never wrote to you; and you know I did not, but your paramour knew me safe here; and in safety lodged you here also. By heaven it was a bold, daring game, worthy a better cause!" How often, in our bitterest or most serious moments, some passage either ludicrous, or irreverent, will cross our minds; through his flitted the words of Iago,—

"She did deceive her father, marrying you!"

"Yes," he continued, following the thought, "she deceived them all, cleverly and calmly; and what wonder I should follow?"

"Oh!" cried Minnie, dropping on her knees and looking upwards; "if spirits in pain may summon their kindred from heaven, oh! my own dear mother, look on your orphan, and pity her; pray for her, mother dear—pray for her!" and, covering her face with her hands, she wept bitterly. There is not in the regions of darkness a blacker demon than jealousy; it brands all—perverts all. There was a time when a tear from Minnie would have torn his soul. Now he looked on, almost exultingly; he thought she was sorrowing for another.

"Tremenhere, Tremenhere, open the door!" exclaimed Lord Randolph without, agitatedly—he heard a woman in tears. "For heaven's sake open the door, I will explain all!"

"Oh!" ejaculated Miles in a deep tone of satisfaction, yet it seemed as a groan, "here is something tangible to deal with." And without casting a look on his sobbing wife, who was bowed to earth, he hastily unfastened the door, which she had locked to prevent Miles's egress. "Come in, my lord," he said, perfectly calm, "and witness your day's worthy occupation! Look up, woman; here is one for whom you have cast me off! You, my lord, to-day, reign master of that fickle heart; and another—and another—and another, to-morrow!" and he strode contemptuously to the fireplace; but the hands were clenched in agony, which he would let no one witness.

"Come in, Vellumy!" cried Lord Randolph, whose voice trembled. He had created a storm which was mastering him.

"Let no one else in!" shouted Miles, turning round, all his forced calm giving way to intense passion. "Or, yes," he added, springing to the door and forcing it wide open from Vellumy's grasp, who strove to close it. "Come in, one, all—all—Burton too—come, glory, triumph over the proud man biting the bitter dust of betrayed trust."

"Are you mad?" exclaimed his host, pale with agitation. "Hear me, Tremenhere; I will explain all. Vellumy knows all—we will explain."

As they entered Minnie crept to her feet, and silently dropping on the sofa, sat watching all with a bewildered look of extreme terror; her shaken mind could not comprehend it.

"I am ready to hear all you may have to say, gentlemen," Miles said coldly, and sarcastically; "you will, however, permit me to hold my own opinions, and act upon them, as a man so much injured should."

"Tell him, my lord," whispered Minnie, who had silently crept to Lord Randolph's side, and grasped his arm—"tell him; for you must know how I came here, if, indeed, he is not mad, as I feared, but truly in ignorance."

Tremenhere stood as one doubtful whether to drag her from the arm she energetically grasped, or else kill her as she stood there; assuredly there was murder in the thought of that ungoverned, erring, but most devoted heart. He passed his hand over his brow, and dashed aside the cold drops of suspense and doubt.

"Pray, calm yourself, madam," said Lord Randolph, gently laying his hand on her trembling one; "I will explain all. Indeed, I never expected matters to take so biased a turn as this." She shrunk back from the touch of his hand. Her terror assumed so many forms, she scarcely knew where to find the end of that tangled web to unravel it. Vellumy looked even more alarmed than Lord Randolph; besides which, for the first time, he looked upon Minnie, and perhaps she never had appeared more beautiful than in that moment of anxiety and suffering. Instinctively he drew near to the girl, who sat like one awakened from a fearful dream, gazing wildly from one to the other, and incapable of the least exertion; her very arms hung nerveless, yet essaying to grasp the sofa for support.

Vellumy whispered gently, "Don't cwy; we will make it all wight—Gway has brought you here for that purpose." But she stared wildly at him, not hearing or understanding his meaning. Meanwhile, Lord Randolph, who really had done all with a good intention, gained energy from the uprightness of his conscience, and said calmly—

"Now hear me, Tremenhere; I may possibly offend you by my interference, but my object in bringing that most unfortunate, most injured girl here, has been——"

"Stop, my lord!" cried Miles, recovering his dignity, and soothing down his passion like a smouldering fire, more concentrated and intense in that apparent calm. "Though lost to all shame—though lost to me and my love, permit me still to claim a certain respect for the name she still bears—you forget that girl is my wife—Mrs. Tremenhere!"

"Your wife!" exclaimed both the other men in a voice. "Your wife! Good heavens! can this be?"

"True!" answered Miles, coldly. "I forgot this was unknown to you—that is, through me. I came hither to-day, to leave you no longer in ignorance of my exact position, as you had done my wife the honour of a visit."

"Merciful heavens!" cried Lord Randolph, agitatedly. "If this be indeed the case, I have been led into a grievous, but not irretrievable, error. Is this lady truly your wife?"

"As truly as a twice-told ceremony can make her," answered the other, with a cold, doubting smile. "Is your lordship indeed in ignorance of this fact? and does the responsibility of your crime alarm you? Fear not—it is not by law I shall seek redress when I demand it. There may be honour—if you know that thing more than by name—but there will be no laws to satisfy."

Lord Randolph was pacing the room, uncertain how to explain himself;—Vellumy looked thunderstruck.

"What!" continued Miles, in the same tone of bitterness; "did you think that was a frail creature, you were only making frailer still? that you were only deceiving a deceiver? giving to the giver his own again? I tell you, no; the creature was to me as the light of heaven—pure, sunny, gladdening all!—a gift of God to cheer me on my pilgrimage! Do you think I could look up to heaven, and bless it for its light, when I had condemned a soul like hers to crime and darkness?—to walk with me onward to the judgment-seat, and there kneel down and condemn me to hell, for the wrong I had done her? I tell you no, my lord; she was my own loved, virtuous wife—once!" And the stern man's voice trembled with emotion.

"And, by heavens, Tremenhere! that still for me, or any thought of mine. Give me your hand: forgive me—I have been led to wrong you deeply; I rejoice in being able once again to call you friend. I respect—I pity you; for some, to me unknown, unhappy circumstances, must have made you condemn a being like that to the shade of a suspicion. Mrs. Tremenhere," he added, approaching her, as Miles drew coldly back from the proffered hand, "forgive me the involuntary pain I have caused you, but plead for me to Tremenhere; he cannot resist you!"

Minnie stared like one idiotic; she was wounded too deeply; her native delicacy was sullied by these cruel suspicions.

"Tell Miles all," she articulated, in a low tone—"I cannot speak to him; tell him all—pray, do!" And her voice was choked with tears.

"You must hear me, Tremenhere!" he cried.

"Must!" laughed the other incredulously. "May I ask is this an impromptu, or a part of a well-arranged whole? I ask a simple question—favour me with a simple reply, my lord. How came Mrs. Tremenhere in this apartment, where I by accident found her? Words will not do—I ask proofs!"

"Will not my pledged and sacred honour suffice?"

"Some men deem it a duty, where a lady's reputation is concerned, to clear her from suspicion at any price."

"By heavens! you are blunt, sir," answered Lord Randolph haughtily; "and but that a well-meant act of mine, has caused this scene—this mistake—I should leave you to seek your remedy where and how you would; but I am resolved to state all, and then leave you to be just, if just you can be in your present state."

He then proceeded to relate the scheme arranged between Vellumy and himself, believing Minnie wronged by Tremenhere—a scheme to bring her down, and call upon Miles's better feelings to do her justice. What she had told her husband was perfectly true. When Vellumy entered the club, on their way to the railroad, it was to despatch a trusty person, to whom the letter had been confided, which lured Minnie unsuspecting from home. We have seen how Vellumy's cab had been in waiting with its master, to secure the positive departure of Miles. Vellumy had a great talent—(for one it is, though dangerous in the extreme)—an extraordinary power of copying handwriting. He wrote a letter so exactly like Miles's, that even Minnie was deceived. It ran thus (they were ignorant of her name, it will be remembered)—

"Dearest Love—I have just received a letter at my club, on my way to the station, which contains something of so much importance to our future welfare, that I earnestly desire you should follow me to Uplands. Place yourself unfearing under the care of the trusty bearer, and he will bring you safe to your

"Miles.

"Burn this; I will explain all when we meet."

This letter might have misled a more experienced person than poor Minnie; what could she suspect? Miles's word was law, unquestioned; without hesitating one moment, she quitted home with the messenger, who was none other than Lord Randolph's valet, one he could securely confide in. The plan for Tremenhere to discover her, was all arranged beforehand; but, most unfortunately, the well-intentioned plotters were quite ignorant of Miles's jealous disposition, as also of the scene of that morning on his lordship's account; and, to crown all, there was no letter forthcoming in proof. Vellumy, by the latter's desire, quitted the room to keep the guests below in good temper; he was, like his friend, a well-meaning man, but not a gifted one, by wisdom. Of all the persons below, he selected Burton for his confident, to whom he might unburthen his overcharged bosom. Secrets were of leaden weight with him. This man listened with avidity and delight to the strange tale, but made no like confidence himself. What he knew about it, remained in his own breast; but he, who before chid his fate for bringing him in contact with his cousin, now rejoiced in it: these revelations raised a host of ideas in his mind, which he promised himself not to lose sight of.

All these circumstances, as we have related them, were laid before Tremenhere, and though he allowed himself at last to be convinced of Minnie's truth, yet there was a power within him stronger than his own will. It was an offspring of nature—wild and ungovernable jealousy: it ran like a muddy current through every vein, and though he took Minnie once again in love and reconciliation to his heart, and shook Lord Randolph's hand in sincerity of gratitude for the manly wish which prompted this ill-advised act of kindness to Minnie, still the demon shook his heart when he saw her, in the warmth of her generous, guileless heart, shake Lord Randolph gratefully by the hand, and, looking up in his face, bid "Heaven bless him;" for he felt no man could forget that face, that look, and he dreaded lest what was not, might be engendered by that beauty and grace of nature, which had driven even his stern heart almost to madness; and the restless demon whispered, "I would you had seen the letter," but letter, Vellumy, Burton, Lord Randolph—all, were forgotten and forgiven, when he held his Minnie once again to his heart, and their host descended to make some plausible excuse for his non-appearance again.

Early next morning he and Minnie returned to town, and Burton, too, quitted Uplands.

"That fool Dalby made a confounded mistake," said Lord Randolph to his crony, Vellumy, next day; "but it has all turned out most fortunately. What an exquisite creature Mrs. Tremenhere is! Ten thousand times handsomer even than her cousin. Lady Dora," (for Miles had related all, to leave no further doubt or suspicion about Minnie.)

"Bwootiful!" responded Vellumy, "and such a sweet lwoving woman! I hope Twemenhere will tweat her well, he's so dweucedly jealous!"

And thus terminated a good intention. If it went where such too often are said to go, it left its germ in earth to bud and blossom.

CHAPTER IV.

If Lord Randolph had possessed as good sense as he had kindness of heart, even yet all might have passed into oblivion; but he was that rara avis of fashionable life—a moral man; that is, one too much so, to attempt the seduction of a friend's wife. Minnie became sacred to him from the moment he shook Tremenhere's hand in reconciliation; him, he liked, and still more, his fair little wife. It was, then, not to be wondered at if he claimed the privilege of an old friend, and made frequent calls at the villa near Chiswick. It would have been much more wisely done to have remained away; but, in conscious rectitude, we often are guilty of very compromising acts, viewed by prejudiced or evil minds. Tremenhere's pride forbade any observations to Minnie, who received him with pleasure, looking upon him in two lights—both as her husband's friend, and Lady Dora's suitor, for such he still was; and as she occasionally, but not very frequently called, they met at the villa. Still there was—burned as it were into Miles's brain—the memory of all Vellumy had said that fatal day about his friend's love for a married woman—fair, too; in all, answering Minnie's description. And, worse than all, there was that unfortunate letter which Vellumy had written, and, for self-security, bade her burn immediately. All these things combined were ever floating before Tremenhere's brain; and, to complete the impression, Lord Randolph was constantly urging him to finish the "Aurora," by giving her a worthy representative in the face of his fair, young, sylph-like wife.

In the most well-meaning manner, this man was ever doing something to keep alive the other's suspicions. He was no longer in ignorance of Tremenhere's position regarding Marmaduke Burton; and, as a sincere friend and generous-hearted man, pressed his purse upon Miles, to proceed at once to Gibraltar, and prosecute all possible research. It need scarcely be said, that he had dropped all acquaintance with Marmaduke, which created a double hatred and desire of revenge on his part, towards his cousin and his young wife.

When Lord Randolph made the generous offer of his purse, he concluded by saying, naturally and without thought of harm—

"You could leave Mrs. Tremenhere with her aunt, Lady Ripley; I will undertake to arrange that. Or, I know my own good, kind one, Lady Lysson, would most gladly offer her a home during your absence."

Tremenhere was painting at the moment the other said this; he flushed deeply, then dropping a pencil, stooped to pick it up, and thus partly covered his confusion.

"I cannot be sufficiently grateful," he answered; "but—" there was an almost imperceptible tone of sarcasm in his voice; "but I never have been parted from my wife, Lord Randolph; and I do not think she would desire or like it—that is, I hope not." And he fixed his eye for a moment on the other's face, who saw nothing, and consequently more than once urged the subject upon Miles, who grew at last almost rude, beyond his power of control.

"Tremenhere's out of temper to-day," said the visitor to himself. "I'm sure it would be the best thing he could do, and a duty, to place that sweet wife of his, in her proper sphere; I'll be at him again."

All these groundless suspicions wore on his really noble nature, every thing giving way before them; even the sacred hope which once had been so dear to him, the re-establishing his mother's fame, became a blank. He cared for nothing, except to watch and verify his doubts; he became weary, feverish, ill, and an enigma to all! almost too—oh, worse than all—a terror to poor Minnie, who was lost in wonder and perplexity. If she quitted the room for a longer time than was pleasing to him, he stole from his easel, and listened; if he saw her writing, he could not rest till the letter was placed in his hands, even the book on which she had written it was examined, to trace whether the blotting-paper had kept the words confided to it; and, when all had been done with feverish haste, the man sat down, and hated himself for his meanness, and seeking out Minnie, drew her to his heart, as if he would keep her ever there, and almost wept over her in penitence and love; for never a man loved more madly or fatally for the peace of both.

He would start from some mad dream of desertion, and, stilling his very heart to listen, find her sleeping purely and calmly as an infant beside him. Such a state could not last; Minnie, every one noticed it, but few—or better said, none—guessed the cause, so well did he veil his thoughts.

We have spoken little of Minnie's late home, but there was little to interest the reader in that tranquil abode,—tranquil, except when Dorcas sought to recall Minnie there, and to their hearts; this might have been accomplished long before the present time of which we write, had there not been extraneous influence to keep alive the feeling against her. Marmaduke Burton was not only a visiter, but a constant correspondent, when absent, of Juvenal's; nothing was left undone which could widen the breach, and it was with the "deepest regret," he said, that he felt compelled, by a sacred duty, to inform Juvenal, as her uncle, that the once pure Minnie was deceiving her husband, as she had all of them.

Alas! the girl who flies her home, leaves an unanswerable argument against her, when the world afterwards adds sin, shame, or a levity to her charge; however innocent she may be, the "once" is a precedent for all.

Dorcas, and even poor Mrs. Gillett, loudly exclaimed against this; the former refused positively to meet or sit in company with Burton; Sylvia shook her head, and looked more sinister than ever, as she said, "It might very likely be; she never expected any thing better from her marriage with such a man; she had indeed raised a barrier between them," and chapters more to the same effect. Poor Dorcas cried bitterly, and reproached herself for her supineness in the first instant, in not vigorously opposing Minnie's incarceration. She knew the girl better than any, and knew nothing would have tempted her honest nature to duplicity, had she not been driven half frantic by wrong accusations, and suspicion of her truth. In her trouble, Dorcas sought her only comforter, Mr. Skaife, and urged him so anxiously to see her beloved niece, that he quitted Yorkshire for town; before he arrived, sorrow was gathering fast over both those he felt so much interested about.

Our readers will recall to mind, that Mary Burns had obtained teaching, by which she principally supported her mother; for she felt a delicacy in receiving succour from Tremenhere, however generously offered. Of late he seldom quitted home, never except when absolutely forced to do so, and generally he so arranged it, to be driven in by Lord Randolph; thus only could he feel secure. One thing we forgot to mention sooner, that nothing was wanting to urge a jealous man to madness; he was in the constant habit of receiving anonymous letters, those vile arms of coward strength; these were written, so bearing upon acts of actual occurrence, that, though he read and flung them into the fire, still they left an unerring shaft behind, piercing his heart with doubt, for in every one there was but the one name registered, which was eating into his soul—Lord Randolph's. He was truly a man fighting with shadows; he feared every thing, seeing nothing. It was a state of irritability which could not last much longer. He was borne to earth with the tortures of his mind; and Minnie crept, like the ghost of herself, through those almost silent rooms—once all light and happiness.

It must not be supposed that Marmaduke Burton, who was working under-ground like some vermin, did it for mere revenge, or wanton wickedness; no, he was impelled to it by fear; he knew in his heart that Miles had right on his side, and he saw that might, too, would probably become his. Environed as he was by powerful friends, whom he was daily gaining by his talents as an artist, he felt his only security lay in driving Tremenhere to some act of desperation, which would make him fly the country, either in despair or to conceal Minnie from all. He had known his cousin's disposition from boyhood; he knew every turn of his hasty, but noble heart; and all the harsher feelings of it had been drawn forth, as stains by fire, in the wrongs of his mother and his own Minnie. There are so many vile ones on earth, who know no law where money is proffered in exchange for evil, that Burton found ready tools to watch all—report all; even the household hearth was not sacred from this pollution.

Some weeks had passed; Minnie had not seen Mary Burns for a considerable time, when, one day, a note reached her from her, brought by a messenger who said it required immediate attention. Tremenhere had left home about half an hour, on business which would occupy him nearly the whole day. His manner had been feverish and excited all the morning, and Minnie would not have wondered had she read the contents of another of those vile missives which he had received an hour before leaving. After reading it, by an involuntary movement of disgust, he pushed her from him, as she stooped her head over him while he sat motionless at his easel, the uplifted brush awaiting the command of genius to call life on the lifeless canvass; but his thoughts were more of death, than any existing, glowing creation.

"Miles, dearest," and she bent down to embrace him, and her always slight figure, looked now like a lithe graceful withey, so fragile its outline; "what are you thinking of?"

He pushed her from him, and then, as the girl stood, pale and alarmed at his violence, his haggard eye forgot its troubled glance, to soften into tenderness, as he drew her passionately to his heart. And the trembling voice said—

"Forgive me, again, Minnie—forgive me; I am a very wretched man, loving you as I love you, and——" He paused.

"And what? my own husband."

"Never mind, Minnie—never mind! You will not, will you? Oh! promise me you will not." He was speaking to his thoughts.

"Any thing, Miles!" she answered, old fears of his perfect sanity making her shudder. "What is it you wish me to promise?"

"Never to forsake me, come what may; be your feelings towards me what they may, hide them, Minnie; let me be deceived if you will, but never let me see it; and oh! do not forsake me, or I shall go mad!"

She could not answer. Her tears were frozen by fear. She really thought him deranged; and so he was—that worst madness—jealousy. For the overwrought mind was not fighting with idle fancies, evanescent as vain; but with a cold, tangible reality, built on many a doubt and distorted act or word of hers, and still worse on the letters of his anonymous correspondent, whose last letter, received that morning, ran thus—

"If you wish to verify all, leave home early, professedly for the day, and watch your house; be in readiness to follow, and you will need no further proof or admonition to enable you to convince yourself. A hired brougham will be at the end of your lane. The driver, ignorant of all, will place himself at your disposal, on your giving the name of—'Gray,' as well as another—'twill keep him in your memory.

"Your sincere, but unsuspected Friend."

And Miles was resolved at last to have proof, or else never again suspect—never read another letter, but burn them unopened.

"You do not speak," he said, again drawing her, shrinking from terror, close to his heart, by the arm which clasped her. "Poor child—poor Minnie! I have frightened you; forget it, my child, I am unfitting for so frail a thing as you. I should have mated with my own kind, something lion-born, and you—you with——Minnie," he cried, changing his tone suddenly, and looking full in her face with his dark, gloomy eyes, "you should have married such a man as Lord Randolph Gray, and have led a life of luxury and peace. He would never have terrified you, as I do; I think you would have been very happy—I think he loves you, Minnie."

The suddenness of the words, his change of manner, all combined to call the warm blood to her cheek.

"Miles," she said in agitation, "do not say things like these; even in jest, Lord Randolph's name should never be mingled with mine in a breath of doubt, after that one painful scene at Uplands—you forget, too, he is Dora's——"

"Oh!" laughed he hoarsely, "those things are soon broken off. Now, Minnie, were you free, on your sacred soul, do you not think that man would propose to marry you?"

"On my sacred soul, Miles," she answered solemnly, shrinking from his arms, almost with a feeling of dislike towards him at the manner of his speech,—"I do not think so; and this I know, were I free, fifty times over, I would refuse his lordship."

"Forgive me, Minnie, forgive me—forget this!" and he once more folded his arms around her, as he rose from his seat. "I am unworthy of you, yet indeed I love you." His smile was almost as of old, and once again they were at peace; he had forgotten the letter, but it was only the merciful oblivion of a moment; their peace was like a house built on a blasted rock, through the caverns of which the wind whistles mournfully, shewing the hollowness beneath.

Shortly afterwards he quitted the house for "nearly the whole day," he said. He was gone; and she sat silently thinking, as now was her wont when alone; there was nothing to restrain her feelings having full play. Before him, she often forced a gaiety she did not feel; now she sat in sorrow, and the once laughing face looked pale and care-worn.

"A letter, if you please, ma'am," said the footboy, presenting one. She took it, the characters were familiar. "Poor Mary!" she said, refolding it when read; "I have indeed much neglected you of late; and it was a sacred duty to do otherwise, lest by that neglect your heart had once again grown callous or reckless in the midst of troubles. We should uphold a fallen sister who has risen, lest the weakened limbs totter again, and sink, never to rise! I will go at once and see her; I am sure my doing so must please Miles—poor Miles, my own dear husband! John," she asked, as the boy obeyed her summons to the room again, "who brought this note?"

"I don't know, ma'am. A man; he said there was no answer required."

"Go," she said, "round to the stables, and order me a fly immediately, without delay."

The letter said—

"Dear Mrs. Tremenhere—I am sure you will pardon my writing to ask you, as a very great favour, to come here to-day. I am in much trouble, and have only you to comfort and support me in it, by your counsel and advice. Pray, forgive the trouble I am imposing upon you; and pray be here if possible by two o'clock.

"Humbly and sincerely yours,

"Mary Burns."

The fly drove to the door in a quarter of an hour: it was one o'clock.

"Drive quickly!" cried Minnie, as she stepped in and gave Mary's address; "I am late." The man touched his hat, and obeyed. There was a lane leading to the road from their house; at the corner of this a brougham appeared, coming towards the villa. "It is Dora!" exclaimed she to herself. "If I stop, she will delay me; moreover, she does not see all as I do; dear Dora is more coldly calculating, and lectures me for visiting poor Mary; I will not stop now, but write and tell her to-morrow; she will call again, and for worlds I would not forsake Mary in her trouble." As she thought all this, with one hand she hastily drew down the blinds, and leaned back in the carriage. She did not see Dora, neither did she see the occupant of another brougham, with the blinds half down, who was watching all, with a pale, anxious face.

"Follow that fly," he said, in a scarcely articulate voice, pointing after Minnie's—"not too closely, but keep it in sight——She did not even speak to her cousin," he whispered to his trembling heart, "but drew down the blinds to avoid observation!" And he pressed his hands over his strained and burning eyes.

CHAPTER V.

It was scarcely two when Minnie stopped at the door of Mary Burns's cottage; alighting, she rapped. The servant of whom Dalby made mention, opened the door. But, let us hasten to say, of all this he was ignorant; the game was too deep a one to be entrusted even to him.

"Is Miss Burns at home?" asked Minnie.

"No, ma'am; she has been out some time, but I expect her very shortly. Will you walk up-stairs, in the drawing-room?"

Minnie obeyed, desiring the fly to wait. Before going to this apartment, however, she entered the parlour, and there found Mary's old mother sitting, childish and insensible as ever to all around. She spoke a few words to the deaf ear, and looked her sympathy in the unconscious face; then turning, followed the servant up-stairs. Here she paced the room impatiently some moments; then, sitting down, looked in the fire to seek some associations for her thoughts in the "faces in the fire." She was in deep meditation; she felt nervous, and full of thought.

Thought! What are our thoughts? They are like dissolving views passing over the soul. One fades imperceptibly into another, brighter and totally different; then this one in its turn yields place to others, and so on, until at last the curtain falls over the last—and where are we? In an immensity of tangled imaginings, wide and spreading like eternity!

A long time she sat thus, and then a rap at the street door startled her; a step was on the stairs, light and bounding; it was not calm as Mary's generally, nevertheless she rose to meet it; the door opened, and she found herself face to face with Lord Randolph! She could not speak, but shrunk silently back, gazing on him.

"I shame to see it," he cried, advancing with extended hands, "that you, my dear Mrs. Tremenhere, have arrived first."

There was nothing libertine in his manner, nothing more than usual—glad to see her, and most respectful. "You are annoyed," he continued, as she involuntarily drew back; "but pray, pardon me: I was unavoidably delayed, and prove your forgiveness by telling me how, in what manner, I can serve or oblige you?"

"There is some strange mistake in this, some incomprehensible mystery, my lord," she whispered in terror, though scarcely knowing of what. "I never expected to see you here; why are you in this house?"

"Merciful heavens!" he cried in amazement, "did you not write, requesting my presence here? Stay! I have the note about me: I came unhesitatingly, knowing well that you were in the habit of calling here occasionally."

"I never wrote, Lord Randolph; there is some extraordinary meaning in this, coupled with the absence of her I came to see," and she seated herself tremblingly on the couch.

"Here is the note," he cried, not less agitated; "is not this exactly your handwriting?"

"Sufficiently like it to deceive an inexperienced eye; but I never wrote it, believe me."

"I do, Mrs. Tremenhere, most truly; but believe also that I obeyed the summons without one wronging thought of one I respect so sincerely as I do yourself."

"Alas! alas!" she said in a tone of despondency, "I have felt some time past that there was a web weaving around me, I knew not where; my husband is changed, and I—oh! I am so far from happy," and she burst into tears, covering her face with her hands.

"Do not weep thus; pray, do not weep," he said with much feeling, leaning one hand on the back of the couch on which she sat. "I will sift this to the bottom; there must be treachery somewhere—but where? and why?" He read Mary Burns's letter to Minnie carefully over. "Where is this girl?" he asked; "can she be false, for some demoniacal motive?"

"I do not think so: I would she were returned. Pray, let me hear the contents of the letter you received—I cannot read it." Lord Randolph hastened to obey; it merely contained a few hurried lines, as if written in trouble, imploring him to meet the writer at the place indicated, at a friend of hers, as she had something of importance to communicate, and begging secresy to all. It was signed "M. T., Chiswick," adding in a N.B.—"Inquire for me; you know my name. Should I not have arrived, ask to be shewn to the drawing-room, and wait."

Minnie's tears fell thick and fast, her terror was so great. She felt she must be surrounded by enemies, and the worst, hidden ones—he was leaning forward, endeavouring to soothe, to guide, and counsel, where he himself felt so much in the dark: as he sat beside the weeping woman, the door opened quietly, and the servant looked in. "There was a gentleman there," she said, "wanting to look at the apartments which were to let, might she show them? Her mistress left orders for her to do so, when she was out." As she spoke, with an apparently innocent manner she flung open the door to the person, who stood behind her. A wolf driven to despair for food dares all—so will a coward for revenge.

Marmaduke Burton stepped into the room—Lord Randolph sprang from the sofa, and Minnie in alarm, without reflection, lowered her veil.

"I beg ten thousand pardons, Mrs. Tremenhere," he cried, starting back as if in surprise. "I was little aware I should meet you here! I beg ten thousand pardons," and he drew back.

"Sir!" exclaimed Lord Randolph with hauteur, "your presence here solves the enigma of the forged letters, which have brought Mrs. Tremenhere and myself hither, but it is not here you must answer for it."

"I do not comprehend you, Lord Randolph," he answered, advancing; "we mistake each other, doubtless. I have known the lady of this house from childhood; and, being commissioned by a friend to seek apartments for him, I deemed it an act of kindness to benefit her, if possible, knowing how circumscribed her means are; and her troubles, I grieve to say, occasioned by an unworthy relative of my own."

He said this, not feeling positive that Minnie might not be shaken enough to doubt her husband's veracity about his (Burton's) seduction of the girl; it might do good any way, and materially change Lord Randolph's opinion of, and consequent interest in, Tremenhere.

"Oh, it is untrue!" cried Minnie, starting up, forgeting every thing but the slander of her husband. "Do not believe that man, my lord—ask Mary herself. Miles has been as a brother to her; and shame—oh! shame on the base tongue which proclaims the wrongs of his victim!"

"I see, madam," answered Burton, "that your old and natural prejudice against me has nothing abated; and I make no doubt, even my truly good motive in visiting this house will be misconstrued by you."

"There can be no further occasion, then, for prolonging your stay here, I presume," said Lord Randolph coldly; and here be it said, the indifferent, or rather neutral portion of his lordship's character appeared as the active and better had shone forth in his desire, however awkwardly executed, of making Tremenhere from shame do Minnie justice, when he supposed her an injured woman. Had he now taken up the intrusion differently, and alarmed Burton's coward heart, by his resolution of sifting the mystery thoroughly, and in the presence of Mary Burns, who was momentarily expected, as the servant had told Minnie, Burton could not have refused, under the accusation of a knowledge of the mystification which had been practised upon the other two, to await Mary's coming; and thus have exonerated himself, if possible. Under any circumstances, fear of Lord Randolph would have silenced him elsewhere. On this subject, as it was, the other's supineness and policy emboldened him, and left a fearful arm in his hands to injure Minnie. Lord Randolph said to himself, "I have a very great regard for Mrs. Tremenhere; I like her husband, too; there is some mystery here; if I involve myself to unravel it, or punish Burton, whom I firmly believe to be at the bottom, I shall bring my name into question; and as Lady Dora, who, most probably, some day will become my wife, is Mrs. Tremenhere's cousin, all these unpleasant circumstances had better be left to die away; nothing will come of it; I shall withdraw from the acquaintance."

And so poor Minnie was sacrificed for the want of a resolute, sterling, English heart, to bring the darkness of the affair to light. Poor woman! all her strength of mind seemed to have deserted her, after those few words uttered in defence of Miles; and she sat like one bewildered by passing events, intoxicating from their combination.

"I have no wish to intrude further," said Burton, as he turned round. "I have only to apologize sincerely for the alarm my inopportune visit has occasioned this lady and your lordship."

"I trust, sir," exclaimed this latter, "that you do not mean to insinuate aught against Mrs. Tremenhere? Our meeting here remains an unsolved mystery, which we can only leave to time."

"Far be it from me to wrong the purity of one so fair," answered the other, bowing lowly, with as much sarcasm in his manner as he durst shew. "Mrs. Tremenhere has a husband to judge her—I leave all to him."

And with this last bitter phrase of doubtful meaning, he quitted the room. Poor Minnie could not speak; she was thunderstruck, and crushed with presentiment and fear.

"This has been a most inexplicable affair," said Lord Randolph, as the door closed. "Can you devise any means for discovering the authors, dear Mrs. Tremenhere? I am, indeed, truly distressed at your annoyance; but, believe me, there will be, there can be, no unpleasant results—it has been some foolish jest."

"Jest!" she exclaimed, looking up; she was very pale. "It is more than that; there is some villainy in it, and that man is the author."

There was a garden attached to the back of the house, through the door of which, leading into a lane, Burton passed out as he had entered, conducted by the servant, whose physiognomy had not deceived the acute Dalby. At the same moment Mary Burns rapped at the front; and our readers will not fail to remember the occupant of the hired brougham who had followed, and was witness to the arrival of all except Burton.

Mary Burns went up immediately to the drawing-room, when her servant told her Mrs. Tremenhere was there. In an instant this latter was at her side—the presence of that girl seemed so great a protection—her coming, the only means of elucidating this painful mystery. Lord Randolph bowed rather uneasily as Minnie presented him. He wished much that he had sooner quitted the house. Yet, when he looked at her, he could not but feel deep commiseration for her, she was so agitated; in a few brief words she explained all to Mary, it would be impossible to describe her anxious state. Without the slightest hesitation she pronounced that Marmaduke Burton was the author of it for some vile purpose. It was not alone fear which agitated Minnie. There was a sense of degraded delicacy in it, that she should be drawn into even a fictitious intrigue with any man. She blushed deeply when this feeling came over her in all its force; especially when Lord Randolph said, meaning well, but certainly not advising wisely, "I should seriously counsel Mrs. Tremenhere not to name this affair to her husband, he has shewn himself so prone to jealousy; and I will take means to silence the servant who admitted us—thus the affair will die away quietly."

"Not name it to Miles!" exclaimed Minnie. "Pardon me, my lord, he shall instantly be made acquainted with it; and as one who, I trust, has too much reliance on me to suspect me of wrong. Let him seek those who cast so unworthy an imputation upon me."

Poor Minnie, in her earnest defence of her husband, forgot the past unhappy scene to which Lord Randolph had been a witness, but he remembered it; and, fixing an eye of deep pity upon her, said, "Think well, Mrs. Tremenhere, before you act; your future happiness may be wrecked by one false step."

"I think Mrs. Tremenhere is correct in her resolution," said Mary timidly. "Candour is ever best; and if I may presume to suggest to your lordship, I should assuredly beg that no bribe for secresy should be given to my servant. Honest uprightness, like Mrs. Tremenhere's and your own, needs no mask to hide its face."

"Perhaps you are right," he said; and, taking up his hat and gloves from the table, added—"And now I think it would be more advisable for me to take my leave; that is, unless I can in any way serve you," he said, addressing Minnie.

"Not in any," she answered, offering her hand; "it is far better you should leave. Most probably Miles will seek you to consult about discovering this affair; may I tell him your lordship will willingly lend any aid in your power?"

"Assuredly," he answered, taking her proffered hand; "and now farewell, dear Mrs. Tremenhere. I sincerely trust this effort of your enemy, whosoever he may be, will prove abortive in any way to annoy you."

"God grant it!" sighed she.

"I earnestly pray so, too," responded Mary, as the door closed on Lord Randolph, who reached the street, entered his cab and drove off, without noticing the brougham, drawn up some doors off, through the window, at the back of which Tremenhere's pale face was watching him.

"It can only be the work of that wicked man, Mr. Burton," said the agitated Mary; "and let me pray and entreat of you, dear Mrs. Tremenhere, not to lose a moment in returning, and stating all to your husband."

"Assuredly he shall know all," answered she earnestly. "Poor Miles, it will grieve him deeply I know; but he will at once devise the best plan to frustrate our enemy: and now Mary, before I go, tell me, are you prospering in your teaching?"

Mary's face grew very pale; the corners of her mouth twinged, and vain was the effort to repress her tears, she burst into sobs. "I have learned a severe lesson of late," she said, "that though there may be those in the world, in pure Christian charity, to take the fallen by the hand, there are more who close their gates against her: may Heaven not close the eternal ones to them!—I have had two shut against me since we met; I have not dared tell you, dear madam; I knew how your kind heart would suffer for me."

"Good heavens!" cried Minnie, "how has it happened?"

"Some enemy," answered the other with quivering lips, "or better said, my enemy—the one who seems to seek the misery of all, alone can have done it. Past events have been by letter detailed; I was charged with them, and would not deny that the accusation was true. I accepted the shame as retribution."

"And have you then lost your pupils in consequence?"

"All," answered the unhappy woman; "for of the three families I attended, two were acquainted. One lady spoke of 'regret,' but 'there were worldly prejudices to be bowed down to.' I humbled myself, I implored them, for my poor old mother's sake, but it mattered little. At the other houses I was driven with insult from the place, and told that my manners bespoke no contrition or humility. Oh! if they could but witness the bowing down of my heart before Heaven for pardon, my sincere, my earnest repentance, they would not have condemned me so harshly."

"I fear," said Minnie taking her hand kindly between her own trembling ones, on which the tears of sympathy fell, "that the world in general judges only from outward seeming; the hypocrite may be pardoned and believed, but the lowly penitent woman, walking before her God, and seeking his will in all things, to gain pardon and peace, is rejected by man, because her tears are silent, and hidden, save to the one to whom all her thoughts are directed; and let this be your consolation, Mary, that there is a limit to man's power, and then the tears of contrition will shine like stars to light you on your road to where they will all be wiped away."

"May a better than myself bless you!" cried the stricken woman emphatically. "I did not intend saying so much to-day. May your consolation to me descend upon your own head in peace and happiness; and now, dear Mrs. Tremenhere, let me urge you to go, and tell your husband all, for only openness and candour can defeat the demon warring against us all."

"I will go," answered Minnie, pressing her hand warmly. "You are right, Mary; but do not you despond. I will see you again in a few days—now I will go at once."

And with a kind, gentle word to the sorrowing woman, she quitted the cottage, and, entering the fly awaiting her, drove rapidly towards home; and the brougham quitted its station too, and followed.

CHAPTER VI.

Minnie arrived at home, and, hastily taking off her walking-dress, sat down to think, as calmly as might be, of the events of that day. Despite all her efforts, a pang shot through her heart at the idea of seeing Miles. His temper had of late been so uncertain, that she trembled lest any fault should be imputed to herself; the more narrowly she examined her heart, the less could she find any thing to blame herself for in this affair. While she sat thus, Miles appeared at the outer gate. As he traversed the front garden, she thought she had never seen him look so pale; and, when he raised his eyes towards the windows, there was an intense look in them, which made their hazel darkness seem like blackest night—this was probably owing to the excessive pallor of his cheek and brow. When he entered the room where she sat, a choking sensation arose in his throat—he had paused, too, outside the door, to still the bounding of his heart. She rose to meet him; there was a smile on her lip, but it was forced, constrained—fear kept it from expanding into cheerfulness.

"You are home earlier than you promised to be, dear Miles," she said.

His eyes were riveted on her face. "Yes," he answered in a deep, hollow tone, which he endeavoured to render tranquil; "but I hope not less welcome for that?"

"Ever welcome—ever the one to come too late, and leave too early," she answered. "Where have you been, Miles?"

"In several places, Minnie,"—and he stifled almost a groan.

"Are you not well?" she inquired, delaying what she had to say in terror, and really anxious too about him; his pallor struck her as so unusual, but without one dawning thought of the truth.

"Quite well, Minnie; but I am weary—very weary," and he sunk exhausted in a chair—it was the mind which had lost all nerve. She drew a footstool close to his feet, and, in kneeling upon it, took both his hands in hers; but, in so doing, she did not feel the thrill which passed over them; it was horror—the horror of doubt—no, she did not feel it; but holding them tightly, and leaning on his knees, she looked up in the face, whose rigid, intense gaze was fixed upon her uplifted countenance.

"Miles, I have something to tell you," she said at last; but her lip quivered as she spoke.

"Something to tell me!" he uttered, repeating her words; and a shadow of hope crossed over his face.