Miles Tremenhere Volume Ii Part 1

Miles Tremenhere.

Vol 2.

by Annette Marie Maillard.

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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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 ma.s.s of sweeping hair gently, and pressed it to his lips; it was slightly perfumed, like new-mown gra.s.s. 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, d.a.m.ning 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 s.h.i.+vered 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 pa.s.sed 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 superst.i.tious."

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 suns.h.i.+ne, 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, rus.h.i.+ng 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, pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.s, 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 pa.s.s 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sions 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 pa.s.sion. "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 pa.s.sed 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 circ.u.mstances, 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 pa.s.sed 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 ladys.h.i.+p 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."