Miles Tremenhere Volume Ii Part 22

"Well," he said, "the plot is told in a few words; 'tis the working out of various feelings which is so perfect:--A man loves a girl whom he should not love----

"Why?" and she stilled her heart, and looked calmly at him.

"Because _he_ was rich, and _she_ only a poor, simple, peasant girl.

Could I _reverse_ the case, I might find tongue to speak more eloquently on the subject; as it is, I can only tell your ladys.h.i.+p facts."

"And what were these facts?"

"They journeyed together, on horseback--_not_ as _we_ are doing, but in more primitive style, she on a pillion behind him. _He was a young widower_"--(these words were each distinctly articulated)--"and his boy rode before him, on his knee: 'tis a pretty scene! Night, however, comes on, and they lose their way, and at last find themselves beside the _'Mare au Diable_,' noted as fatal to all approaching it; and beside this they pa.s.s the night."

"And?" she asked, deeply interested.

"The place _was_ fatal; for Love was the spirit there. Probably," he added, laughing, "as _Le Diable_ is often said to '_emporte l'amour_,'

he might have brought him to that spot. Certain it is, there he was, and he prompted two, to know their own hearts who had never known them before."

"I am all impatience for the conclusion."

"I am a bad story-teller; besides, the case is so _completely_ against _my_ position, that I cannot fully, soulfully, enter into it; however, I will satisfy your ladys.h.i.+p's impatience. Hearts _will_ speak at last--theirs did; and he, for her sake, relinquished a rich marriage, station, all--and married the simple girl."

"And was happy?"

"Blest--so the tale has it; and never looked back to the '_Mare au Diable_' without a feeling of grat.i.tude. Here we are at the pond, Lady Dora. I wonder where Lord Randolph is!"

"I cannot think love so hastily created," she said, not attending to his other words; "'tis of slower growth."

"_Growth!_ yes; but I tried to give you the author's idea. They, unacknowledged, loved one another a long time, and a word opened their eyes to the truth."

"There are few who make sacrifices for love," she replied, "and such, when made, are seldom appreciated."

"Pardon me, we differ. When _truly_ made, from sincere affection, we bow down in almost adoration of the giver--'tis so sweet to give! The heart feels so light when it has yielded all its store; buoyant and healthful, it only grieves at its own poverty and ungathering powers; for it would fain, like a bee, renew the sweet store, to carry all home to one hive."

"How may we know such a gift would be prized?"

"By reading in a never closed page, by the eyes writ; but some do not love making sacrifices,--they cost dear."

She felt, if this subject were continued in this strain, her courage would fail her. "Not yet!" she thought; "he shall suffer for all I felt the day he quitted me so abruptly."

"Sacrifices are foolish things," she said aloud; "good for boys and girls--men do not value them; they are like water poured on the ground."

"Which brings forth flowers," he added; "but I quite agree with you, they _are_ foolish; but then the mere human heart cannot boast of unerring wisdom. How stupid it is," he said, changing his tone, "to be walking round this _mare_! This is no G.o.d or _diable_ there; let us pursue that avenue before us; we will return hither. Now," he continued, when they were side by side in a quiet alley, "tell me _how_ one may school the heart not to offer itself up in sacrifice?"

"There is no such thing as an appreciated sacrifice," she said proudly, "for a woman; to offer one, there must be a not desecrated altar--man's heart never _could_ be such; they are all deceitful, and profaned--on the like, I should trample as on a reptile!"

"It might turn, and leave an unerring sting."

"How? I do not understand you!"

"In bruising a weed, we may trample on a flower; and our own heart never arise to vigour or life again." As he spoke, he leaned almost over her saddle-bow, and looked in her face.

"I do not fear that, but we were speaking of the thing we _dare_ not love. Such a love I would look upon, in all its phases, till my eye grew tired, and my heart sunk to rest."

"What const.i.tutes that which we _dare_ not love?"

"The thing we should sacrifice too much in loving, and, so doing, lose our own weight in the balance, and--"

"And," he interrupted, "be slighted by the person we _fear_ to love, not being certain of gaining love for love, and grat.i.tude, everlasting grat.i.tude, for the word which raised us from despair to generous hope!"

Her hand trembled on the bridle-rein, his eyes were fixed upon her downcast lid, and her lip was quivering with its effort not to speak. At that moment a close carriage pa.s.sed them, in which was an invalid, a lady, and child. It was going very slowly--the invalid was Minnie, the child and woman, little Miles and Mary. This latter endeavoured to veil the vision before them by leaning across, but Minnie had seen all; his look, air, their closely-drawn figures, and grasping Mary's hand she became pale as death. Mary had been urging, and she had almost consented to Skaife's telling Tremenhere that she lived!

"Oh, I have done well to refuse!" she cried. "Mere sufferance from him would kill me! Oh, would that I were dead!--would that he were free!

Then he might marry her! Poor Miles--poor Miles, he never will be happy! Were I gone, her proud heart would not perhaps reject him at last; I know her well, and how difficult his task must be; is he not deserving all pity? He _thought_ he loved me, to awaken and know another held his heart in bondage! He loves her well! no wonder he looks so sad and ill: poor Miles!" and the generous heart bled more for him than for its own breaking sorrow!

A few moments afterwards, Lady Dora and her two attendant suitors pa.s.sed the quiet carriage in a hand-canter.

CHAPTER XX.

Days pa.s.sed after the events related in the last chapter, and Tremenhere did not make his appearance in Lady Ripley's apartments, at l'Hotel Mirabeau; to a person of Lady Dora's despotic temper, his conduct was maddening. He never lost an opportunity of uttering words leading her to believe his affections entangled beyond remedy; no one could look at him without seeing that he suffered keenly from some mental cause, and something of recent occurrence; therefore, it was not Minnie's loss--but this she would not permit herself to think for a moment--no, 'twas herself; consequently his manner of acting was the more inexplicable. He never sought her, but when they met; he seemed unable to controul his feelings, his avowal of love; but this was not all she would have. She would have him throw himself, a slave enchained before her, beseeching her love, to loosen his bonds, or rivet them for ever. In her impatient rage she hated all, even Lord Randolph at last, for the very friends.h.i.+p he had for Tremenhere. It was this, she thought, which, acting on an overstrained (to her) idea of honour, prevented his admitting all, and claiming a return. Her every thought became bitterness. Nothing is nearer love than hate; they are two extremes a child's tiny hand might unite. Thus, then, she fostered in absence a bitter hatred towards Tremenhere, which melted like a waxen flower in the sun when he approached, and became quite as impressionable, capable of any feeling he might stamp there in its place. In her rage she looked around for some one wherewith to wound him, and the thought after appeared in the person of Marmaduke Burton, who returned to Paris from a long tour in Italy and elsewhere. Coward-like, he had fled at first, then, not finding himself pursued, he stopped, and, looking around, thought he had deserted the field too soon.

It was at a ball Lady Dora met him, nearly a week after the events of the past chapter. He stood for a moment uncertain how to act. She knew Tremenhere was there; they had just spoken, and he had pa.s.sed on. In an instant she saw her advantage--for so she deemed it; and, holding out a hand, cordially welcomed Burton's return amongst them. Her mother, among others, had almost dropped the acquaintance, in consequence of the coward slur attached to his name; but so completely was Lady Dora mistress of all around her, that her mother, though still doubting the policy of it, remembering how decidedly Lord Randolph had cut him, was fain to receive him politely when Lady Dora came up, leaning on his arm.

"I will bend him now!" she thought, as she reflected upon the only one occupying her mind. As she moved through the rooms, she met Lord Randolph, who was seeking her.

He started: Marmaduke looked embarra.s.sed, and then attempted to smile; but the other was one of those to whom wealth was as dross, compared with honour. All the weaker parts of his character were sinking to the bottom, and the more sterling ones rising to the surface. Possibly it was from constant a.s.sociation with so n.o.ble a mind as Tremenhere's--and Lady Lysson's, too. Be it as it may, the struggling artist was more to him than the wealthy but dishonourable Burton. Without glancing at him, he held out an arm to Lady Dora, saying--

"Will you take my arm? I have been seeking you; Lady Lysson is anxious to speak to you."

"Thank you," she replied with _hauteur_; "but you must see I am otherwise engaged--I am going to dance with Mr. Burton. Allow me to recall to your memory, an old friend."

Lord Randolph took not the slightest notice. This cool reprehension of her conduct, the unworthy motive of which she was thus doubly made to feel, drove her frantic, and she turned aside with a--

"Come, Mr. Burton--we shall be late for this _deux temps_!"

Lord Randolph moved another way, and looked anxiously about him. He soon perceived the object of his search, as Tremenhere's tall figure rose before him.

"Come along, Tremenhere," he said, familiarly linking his arm in his--"I want to show you somebody."

"Any one I know?" asked the other unsuspectingly.

"A very pretty girl," replied Lord Randolph.

"Indeed! But where is Lady Dora?"

"Lady Dora?--oh, there!" And he pointed her out, where she stood with Burton. A thrill pa.s.sed through Tremenhere's frame, and the other felt it: the former felt all the delicacy and thought which had made Lord Randolph take him thus boldly by the arm, to publish his feelings towards him to his cousin; and also leading him, as a jockey takes his horse up and shows him what he has to overleap, lest he should shy at the difficulties suddenly placed before him.

"Gray!" exclaimed he--using a term hitherto never uttered in his proud humility--"you are a good, generous, n.o.ble fellow; I thank you!" And he grasped his hand.