Miles Tremenhere Volume Ii Part 16

"We are in truth playing our parts in the madness around us!" she said, in a voice which struggled to be calm.

"True; but we play our parts _con amore_, admit that; and the better, that we know two things--one is, _you cannot_ love--the other, _I_ dare not."

"I should have thought you a man to dare all things!"

"You give me credit for more than I deserve. There are many things I would not encounter willingly--one is----"

"What?"

Despite his self-command, a cloud crossed his brow.

"I will tell you some day," he hastily answered; "but if I met this spectre, _even_ as spectre, I would fly it."

"I would fly nothing; _there_ is the difference between us."

"What if your wayward heart--for all hearts are so--fixed itself upon some unworthy object, would you not fly them?"

"No; were I to do so, I should never conquer; it would pursue me ever--flight would be vain. I would live near it, seek it, familiarize myself with it, till the inconstant heart grew tired of its bauble, then I----" she paused.

"Would dash it to earth, and trample on it, reckless of its fragile nature. Believe me, vases of potter's clay are as fragile as the finest Sevres ever produced by fire."

"Perhaps so; but such should rest satisfied with draughts from water spring, nor seek to hold the ruby wine which a monarch sips; only degradation could ensue."

She was not actually thinking of him when she said this: it was only the overflowing of her cup of pride, which coloured her speech; but he remembered every word, and it strengthened his determination, if possible, to humble this spirit to the dust.

"What is it 'Ruy Blas' says so admirably, '_un ver de terre, amoureux d'une etoile_,' the star s.h.i.+nes on it, though it cannot abase itself, and sends its light to guide the poor worm of the earth to its home in a dark sod, where it may pine and die, rejected, despised, unloved, because it has been created only for that fate of grovelling insignificance!"

Neither heard the almost sob behind them; he was turned towards Lady Dora, and in the crowd stood the "Brown Domino," who had crept back unnoticed, to hear these last words.

"I have been a sceptic in love," she almost whispered.

"_Have_ been; are you not now? I should fancy so." She was perfectly silent.

"If you have _present_ faith, on what is it grounded?"

"Perhaps on the dream of an hour!" she e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, scarcely above her breath.

"Then watch its waking, and if it survive the glare of day, cherish it; if not in all freshness, banish it--'tis a temptation, not a rock to build upon. May I call to-morrow, and see if it be in existence? or pa.s.sed, leaving no sweet savour behind of truth and futurity of joy?

Here is Lady Lysson seeking you--may I call to-morrow?"

"Yes, but--but, come in forgetfulness of this night. I surely am spellbound. This is a part of some witchcraft in this giddy scene.

Remember, and forget this--and--me--other than this, were vain madness!"

"I will only remember what I read then in your eyes; let _them_ answer me--_not_ your lip; words are false, tears are recorded untruths, the eyes are scholars of the soul. They shall learn all its truth, and impart it to me in a glance. I will call to-morrow. And to-morrow,"

thought he, "I shall start for Ma.r.s.eilles; I _must_ go there and know all!"

"I thought we should find you in this corridor!" exclaimed Lord Randolph, without an idea of jealous fear. "Hollo! what is this bustle about? Oh! only a lady has fainted. I don't wonder--'tis deucedly warm!"

Some gentlemen were carrying a lady in a brown domino towards a private box. She was apparently lifeless in their arms. Unheeding, the party turned away laughing, and mounted the staircase to seek their box, and the remainder of their friends.

CHAPTER XV.

It would be a task of pain and sorrow to tell all the bitterness of a woman's life, thrown friendless, delicate, and poor, in any land, but especially a stranger one, for one who had been nurtured so gently.

Surely--surely, the wind is ever tempered to the shorn lamb!

As the cares of life increased, so grew Minnie's energy; even when a dry crust alone broke her fast of the long, toiling day, her spirits upheld her. "If I have lost _him_," she mentally said, "it has been for some wise purpose; even though my stubborn heart rebels, still I am not comfortless; have I not my boy?--all my own!--no one to tear his love from me--no one to prejudice him against me: so Heaven preserve him to me, I may yet be content, if not happy!" and the young mother knelt beside him, and prayed fervently for strength to bear all! Poor Minnie knew herself so innocent, she could pray in hope.

There are, unhappily, those who scoff at religion, and call it cant.

None are so cheerful and hopeful as those who place their reliance on it, in all afflictions; for they know 'tis a flower which will never fade, and 'tis in our sorrows we so truly discover all its worth, and weep for those who are in ignorance of its powers. Religion is indeed like an Arabian tree, shedding its odorous gums on those who lean against it for support!

Minnie found it so, and she discovered, too, that even in her wretchedness there were others more so. Her room was a poor garret, a _cinquieme_, for as yet she had little work, there are so many seeking life through the same channel--she had no friends--then, too, her child was a burthen to her efforts; she could not at all times leave him, and little Miles was now nearly five months old. Sometimes the _concierge_ of the house, who was better than most of that most mercenary cla.s.s, would take her child for her, while she sought work. There was ever a fear over her, in going out, lest she should meet Tremenhere. What her hopes were respecting him, who might say? Did she know them herself? or were they those inseparable clingings of the heart, which, like a limpet on a rock, adheres, inseparable from it, however rough the das.h.i.+ng waves? She had hope, else life would have fled. She still resided near Tremenhere's friend, Duplin, whither he often came, and thus, from her high window, she could see his tall figure pa.s.s. Ever closely, doubly veiled, and m.u.f.fled up, she had watched, and met him in the dusk--she had followed too, by day, and seen him, too frequently for her peace of mind, accompany Lady Dora in walks and rides. True, others were there; but he was ever by _her_ side, and she began to question how it might terminate. Of such an event as marriage she had not dreamed, when, allowing all to believe her death, she had become so chilled at heart from the belief of the indifference of all, even poor sorrowing Dorcas, that she had no courage to make a friend there in confidence. "No," she said, in her disheartenment, "not to any of them will I betray my existence; they deserted me living, let them believe me dead!" and a morbid satisfaction at the thought crept over her. But when so fearful a consequence as his marriage with another broke in upon her mind, she became feverish, restless, and incapable of guiding herself aright.

Before, however, this terror came to add to her sufferings, she used to toil cheerfully--her boy, lying perhaps on a pillow at her feet, crowing and laughing in her gentle face. Then he was so like his father--the same large brown eyes, and shading lashes, which tempered so much their fire--it was all Miles's face, but with her own light hair, in glossy curls, with a rich, sunny glow on the cheek; and with all the love she lavished on him, the little voice was seldom raised in tears, only laughter--laughter, which convulsed the bright face, as he hung, shrieking with it, round the fair mother's neck. We have said that, even in her wretchedness, Minnie had learned that there were others more so, in outward seeming. In the garret adjoining her own, she frequently heard, as the hours of the night crept on, and she was sitting up completing some work, a quiet, heavy step plodding up and down the room, in evident thought or pain. Often had she listened to this sad neighbour; and his sorrows and loneliness seemed to add to her own. A laugh beside her might have cheered; but this lonely watching wore on her already chastened heart. She asked the _concierge_ one day if she knew who it was.

"A poor old Frenchman," she replied; "very poor, I think, and all alone--but he seems proud in his necessity. And then, madame, you know I cannot do much for any one--I am not rich; and he never gives me an opportunity of speaking. He pays regularly; but I think, poor old man, that his means of existence are very small."

This decided kind-hearted Minnie. "We are never so poor," she said to herself, "but what we can a.s.sist one another, even if only by a kind word to lighten life's weary load. I will try and speak to this poor man."

Where a woman resolves upon doing a good action, she generally succeeds in some way. There was something about her, in her voice and manner, which at once inspired confidence and affection in the worthy; and when this pretty, delicate creature, with her little boy in her arms, tapped gently one evening at the next door, and asked for a light, if he had one, of the thin tenant, who was almost bent double by age, and still more, sorrow and poverty, the man's cold face brightened as he answered, while the poor lips trembled with cold, and possibly hunger, "My child, I have none; I am going--going out."

Alas, poor creature! he was going out in the bitterer cold, thinly clad, to endeavour to circulate the nearly frozen blood, before returning to creep into a half-covered bed, and there strive to practise the French proverb of "_qui dort dine_," for he was dinnerless. There was something in the accent not strictly Gallic, though he spoke French.

"Don't go out to-night, _mon voisin_," she said smiling; "it is wet and cold; you are alone, so am I save for _mon enfant_. Do you like children?"

"Yes," and he laid his thin hand on little Miles's head; "I love them well; I once had two of my own," and he stifled a sigh.

"Well, then, you shall come in, and do me a neighbourly kindness; I am a poor _ouvriere_, and must work hard to-night--come in, I am going to make a fire; you shall nurse my boy whilst I work--will you oblige me?"

"Willingly," he answered, "if I can serve you."

"That you greatly can. Stay in your room till I have made mine comfortable, and then I will call you, I am so much obliged to you, it will help me greatly, for a child is an _embarras_ sometimes, and I like working and talking--'tis very kind of you."

She had a talent for making the obliged seem her creditors, and thus placing them at perfect ease. So hurrying back to her room, Miles was laid on his accustomed place, a pillow on the floor; lest he should fall off, she seldom placed him on her bed. And then an Asmodeus might have seen Minnie--the fair and gentle--the one on whom the winds of heaven were once almost chidden, if they blew coldly--on her knees, lighting the stove in her room, for she soon found a match; the search for one was an excuse, and her face looked glad--that lip forgot its sadness--she was doing angels' work--charity. In an incredibly short s.p.a.ce of time the room looked cheerful--the door of the stove was left open--the wood crackled in it--the glare lighted the humble garret. She drew the old, but clean curtain before the window--lit her lamp--placed her second chair (she had but two) and then she summoned her s.h.i.+vering guest.

"Stay," she cried, as he seated himself, springing up herself; "I have forgotten my _bouillotte_;" (we cannot call it kettle--it had no resemblance to such a thing; neither can we translate the word, to give any idea of that queer, tin sort of jug, which rattles as if it had marbles in its head, and which is pushed into hot ashes to boil.) "I have forgotten my _bouillotte_," cried she; "and what should I do without a cup of tea? Do you like tea, monsieur?"

"Yes, madame," he answered, faintly smiling; "but I have not taken any for some time."

"Then we will have a cup together. Are you not English?" she asked, pausing in her arrangement of the _bouillotte_ in the stove; and as she knelt on one knee to do so, she rested the tips of her white fingers (even still) on the floor, to support herself, and looked up in his face like a child. She looked like a picture thus; for the pale face was glowing with pleasure at her good deed, and the close neat little _grisette_ cap concealing all that fair hair, except the braids on her forehead; she looked so innocent and pure, the old man bent his eyes upon that upturned face, and like a father, placing a hand on her shoulder, said in perfect English, though with a slightly foreign accent--

"I have lived much among English, and been in England; but that is long ago. I am a Swiss by birth."

"Oh!" she burst forth in English, "I am so happy to meet some one who speaks my own tongue, it has been a stranger to me so long a time; let us converse always in it: the sound has been lost to me. I have been teaching my child to speak his first word in my native tongue."

"What is your boy's name?" he asked, deeply interested in this fair young mother.