Miles Tremenhere Volume Ii Part 23

These few words were volumes from him, and the other felt them so. As they moved on, not another word pa.s.sed on the subject, and shortly afterwards the two met Lady Dora and Burton; and Tremenhere's countenance was free and unclouded, as he stopped and reminded her of a prior engagement for the following dance. Burton looked cowed and uneasy: her rage almost broke through the bounds of politeness, for in her heart she despised Burton, and now doubly so when her revenge had failed, and she saw herself abased in the abas.e.m.e.nt of her _protege_.

She was almost rude in speech as she acknowledged the engagement, and appointed where he might find her, this _valse_ concluded.

And during these heavy hours poor Minnie sat at home in her sorrow. She had refused to leave the house since the day she met Lady Dora and Tremenhere; nothing could persuade her but that he loved her cousin: he might regret _her_ sad fate, but he loved Dora. She urged Skaife to give him the proof of his mother's fame--of his own legitimacy; but Skaife had resolved that she alone should lay this treasure, in reconciliation, at her husband's feet. Moreover, Skaife was a man of the world, and though he knew Tremenhere _now_ loved only Minnie, he had justly read her cousin and Lady Ripley; and he knew man as he too generally is, easily led by his vanity and a woman's love, even against his better reason and judgment. He saw Lady Dora loved Tremenhere, and felt a.s.sured only the "poor artist" stood between her love and pride. Once master of the manor-house he would answer for nothing, and like a wise man, resolved to spare him the temptation, and Minnie the pain, of seeing a fruitless effort to forget her, in an impossible marriage.

We left Lady Dora dancing with Marmaduke Burton; she did so, but it was spiritless. She had played a game unpleasing to herself, and the success had not been all she hoped for. Tremenhere seemed perfectly indifferent; and when she rejoined Lady Lysson, a freezing manner towards herself, and complete ignorance of Marmaduke Burton's existence, were the things which they met, as she approached, leaning on his arm. To make her still more uncomfortable, she saw Tremenhere and Lord Randolph, as she pa.s.sed through an inner saloon, laughing and talking with several ladies in the most unconcerned manner possible. At last the dance was proclaimed for which she was engaged to the former. Had she been behind him and his friend, as they stood un.o.bserved by her in a doorway, watching her, she would not have felt perfectly comfortable. Lord Randolph's face was severe, but in nowise sad, as he said to the other--

"Tremenhere, that woman does not love me--better said, she rather dislikes me. Look at her now. What she has done this night, has opened my eyes to a fact some time suspected, that another motive than even indifferent liking has induced her to accept me. She has some hidden thought, or hidden affection in her heart, and she is struggling with it, for whom I know not; but to me she is indifferent."

"Perhaps you judge hastily," answered Tremenhere. "She has her oddity of temper, doubtless, like all women. Let time, he is my greatest ally, decide every thing; he has means of bringing hidden thought to light, of which our puny imaginings can form no idea. I must leave you; I am engaged this _Schottische_ to her ladys.h.i.+p," and, loosening his arm, he crossed over to where she stood with Burton. "May I claim my promised _Schottische_?" he asked, offering an arm.

It was an immense relief for her to leave Burton. She felt many had looked coldly upon her that night. A man is not publicly branded slanderer and coward without the t.i.tles clinging to him, more especially among an English set, acquainted with most of the persons implicated in the affair. She expected, made up her mind to a few bitter words, or implied doubts of her motives in having chosen Burton for her cavalier; but though Tremenhere read her perfectly, he was a sealed book to her, without an effort, or any thing to make her say, "He is playing a part."

He was perfectly unembarra.s.sed in his manner--attentive, without being gallant--gentle, without any thing overstrained--full of that quiet, unostentatious wit which charms so much. She had never seen him to more advantage; and every moment she felt his superiority over her own narrow thoughts and mind; and she felt disgusted with the part she had been playing. A word would have made her express all her overtaxed feelings to him, but he gave her no opportunity; she was as an agreeable partner and stranger to him--nothing more. The dance was over; he evinced no desire to leave her, no particular wish to retain her near him; he was the impersonation of a thoroughly idle, indifferent man. As they pa.s.sed near Lady Lysson, a fan gently touched his arm.

"Amidst more youthful engagements, don't forget you are engaged to me for a _contredanse_," she said. "When a man solicits a thing, I hold it as a point of conscience to make him accomplish it; you have urged me to this folly--I wish to fulfil my kismet."

"I have _not_ forgotten it, Lady Lysson; I am counting the moments by my stop-watch."

Lady Dora would have given worlds to hear him speak to her in such a tone. There was a total change in the intonation when he addressed Lady Lysson. From one to the other it seemed to say, "I know you, and you know me; there exists a freemasonry between us."

And when she stood in the same quadrille with Lord Randolph as partner, she felt it still more keenly. There was a freedom between Tremenhere and Lady Lysson to which she never had attained, though related to him--it was the familiarity of kindred spirits.

She and her mother quitted early. There was a reception at the emba.s.sy this same evening, to which they were going. Before doing so, however, they returned home, as it was close at hand, and Lady Dora entered her room to re-arrange her dress, nominally; but, in fact, to collect her shattered nerves by a few moments quiet. Accordingly, dismissing her maid, she sat alone. There was a large mirror opposite the chair where she sat. After surveying herself some time in the distance, she rose, and pacing the room with her proud, queenly air, stood before it, glowing in beauty. Never mirror gave back any thing more richly beautiful than her face; her eyes of dazzling fire--eyes to make a man bow down in wonder before their power--and then the long heavy ringlet of dark chestnut falling across the heaving bosom, to the waist. She surveyed her beauty, not in petty vanity, but in wonder herself, that so perfect a work of nature had not awed that man to love her, and confess his love--how could he resist her? and loving her, as a.s.suredly he _did_. With this thought a grim doubt arose, like a breath pa.s.sing over that mirror, to shade her beauty--almost unconsciously she dropped on a seat opposite the gla.s.s, which her eyes never quitted; and, as if involuntarily, her hands unclasped the ma.s.sive bracelets one by one, and laid them on a table beside her. Her maid had placed a bouquet of rich damask roses, looped round the stem with a string of gems, on the side of her beautiful head; for she was not simple in her dress, as Minnie--a more gorgeous style suited her best. Her fingers, though unused to tasks like these, unfastened them, and they dropped from her hand on the floor--all, save the rich dress of antique _moire_, lay around her; and then the girl, unladen by gems, unadorned but by nature, dispirited, broken-hearted, at that nature's bidding covered her face with her hands, and wept bitterly; she _felt_ he could not love her,--to have been so calm beneath her bitter insult in choosing his cousin's society, she felt how much, how madly she loved him; and the proud Lady Dora sobbed in her bitterness. "An artist's wife! the wife of a nameless, illegitimate man! I would be any thing he might become, if he but loved me! But he does!" she cried with sudden energy; "he must! His every word betokened it at once; this one fatal night cannot have made him hate me!

He does, and I will prove him! Less would be madness, a longer suspense, the working of that hollow pride which has made me what I am!" When her maid tapped to say, "Lady Ripley was waiting!" she found Lady Dora pale, and with the tears still on her cheek, incapable of aught but an essay at rest on her feverish couch. Her mother was not unused of late to her whims, though she never had carried them to so much excess. It was her own fault. Had she trained this fair plant otherwise, it would have reared itself in cultured beauty towards heaven; as it was rotten at the root, it would either decay from its own want of power, or trail worthless on the ground, only fit to be torn from its parent earth as a weed--nothing more.

CHAPTER XXI.

Nothing could adequately pourtray to our readers the unhappy state of all at Gatestone. Juvenal had sunk into a querulous old man; Sylvia's bile had spread itself over all: she silenced any qualms of conscience she might otherwise have felt, by keeping every one as uncomfortable as possible. If she beheld the faintest gleam of forgetfulness pa.s.sing across the horizon, she immediately drew down the blinds of despair, and threw every one into darkness again, and sorrow; they could not even for a moment lose sight of their loss. If the wind whistled she gave a s.h.i.+ver, and talked of storms at sea, and drowning persons; if the railway whistle, borne on the air for miles, came faintly over Gatestone, she put her handkerchief to a dry eye, and _snivelled_ over the recollection thus suddenly recalled to her aching memory, of Gretna Green and its consequences. She was an inexhaustible fund of woe; for when Juvenal had been lured by the kind-hearted Dorcas into some other train of thought, Sylvia would suddenly remind them that this was the anniversary of a day in which Minnie had said, done, worn, or completed something, and consequently she had the house in as miserable a state as she could desire; all crept about from pantry to garret in listen shoes, that they might not break in on the general woe; this was another happy invention of Sylvia's, which made the large house as silent as if death were abiding there. Dorcas was lost, indeed, when Mr. Skaife left his curacy for Paris; for, without naming Minnie often, they consoled one another by gentle words, and works of charity accomplished together.

Now Dorcas was fain to betake herself princ.i.p.ally to her own room; for her means of consoling Juvenal were hourly more severed from her grasp.

He became perfectly disconsolate, and rocked to and fro, like one bordering on idiotcy. Of Marmaduke Burton's return he never would listen to; he never should enter _his_ house, for his guidance had led him to oppress Minnie, and drive her to desperation. Mrs. Gillett's woe was beyond even the others; for she carried it even into sleep--she was constantly dreaming some dreadful dream. Either she saw Minnie a corpse or in bridal gear; both were bad--the first proved her spirit was unquiet--the second, an unerring sign of death. Now, as Minnie _was_ dead, she couldn't die again; consequently, it must be the death of some one at Gatestone--but whose? And she would seek the sympathizing Sylvia, and break into loud prognostications of evil.

"Oh, my dear master! my dear master!" she would cry, wringing her hands; "I know he's going, and then we shall all have to go, and leave the old place; whereas, if any of you had married, and had a boy, or Miss Minnie either, we might have remained; but her boy went along with her, and I often see a beautiful baby in my sleep, all covered with long hair, like Miss Minnie, sitting on a rock, wringing out the sea-water."

Her description of Minnie was not very correct, but she didn't exactly and literally mean what she said. Poor Gillett certainly looked older by many years; and in proof of how much her memory was affected, she had been seen more than once sitting on the stile in the holly field, without her pattens. The manor-house was desolate--only servants inhabited it; Farmer Weld plodded over his fields in gloom, for now he lost all hope of ever seeing good Madam Tremenhere's son back again.

Skaife had been so solemnly bound down not to betray Minnie's actual existence, that he durst not do so; besides he felt a.s.sured that an eventual day of brightness would s.h.i.+ne over all, by Tremenhere's and Minnie's reconciliation. He wisely felt that this was too serious an act, after the fatal suspicions on his part, to be risked in its full and perfect self-accomplishment by any interference of friends; when both hearts should be firmly convinced of each other's worth, then they might be safely brought together. But when he told Minnie all the bitter grief her beloved aunt Dorcas felt, her gentle heart consented to a hope which might be held out to alleviate her pain; and this was in the accomplishment of a desire, she had so often expressed, that Minnie's boy even, had been saved.

"Oh!" she often said to Skaife, "I could with time have become reconciled to all. If only I had held her child in my arms, it would have recalled her to me in all her childish love and kindness, but even this is denied me!"

Skaife accordingly wrote to her, requesting that secresy which he knew would be faithfully kept; and stating that through Mary Burns he had strong hope of one day placing her Minnie's boy in her arms, as he had reason to believe he had been saved from the wreck!

Minnie would indeed have rejoiced had she seen her aunt's joy; next to seeing herself once more, this was the dearest blessing she could have received. "Minnie's boy!" and as she sat, and hoped and prayed for his coming, the step grew lighter, the eye less dim--even Sylvia's bolts fell more harmlessly around her; and at last this amiable one had the cruelty to accuse her of want of feeling, and "unnatural mirth," because she once saw the ghost of a smile pa.s.s over her lip; but not all her indignation could make poor Dorcas hopeless; she felt Skaife would not lightly buoy her up with hopes, to destroy them.

Skaife had indeed a difficult task in hand; he himself feared hurrying events between Tremenhere and Minnie. He dreaded many things; he trembled lest he should become captivated by Lady Dora; and then her flirtation with his cousin Burton, the motive of which Skaife plainly perceived, alarmed him--this, through revenge, might lead to infatuation on Miles's part, and how _then_ ever pursuade Minnie that really he only loved herself? and all her future happiness and contentment with him, depended on her strong conviction on this point. He might easily have effected a meeting, a most joyful one, and reconciliation; but he felt that it must be even more than the first confidence of love--it must be one which had been tried in the fire, proved and purified--and how accomplish this? Her meeting him and Lady Dora in the Bois de Boulogne, had thrown so heavy a doubt over her heart.

One only thing he could imagine, and this was privately to bring her to the studio, and let her own ears hear Miles's words--something must be done, and done quickly.

Some days had pa.s.sed, and Tremenhere made no effort to see Lady Dora in private; true he called there; it was urged upon him by Lord Randolph and Lady Lysson, who most n.o.bly spoke to him on the subject, without knowing the relations.h.i.+p between them, only knowing of that between Burton and himself.

"Lady Dora is capricious, like most beauties," she said, "my dear Mr.

Tremenhere, and, for some extraordinary reason, chooses to receive Mr.

Burton's visits contrary to my advice; it will not therefore do, for your own dignity sake, for you to absent yourself from their circle; my doors are open to you at all times; we are only too happy when we can secure you within them; and I strongly advise your visiting Lady Ripley, even more frequently than usual." He could but press the little soft hand held out to him in grat.i.tude to his lips.

Lady Ripley and her daughter had, however, another motive besides pleasure or pique in seeking Marmaduke Burton. They feared him, dreading what he might utter about Tremenhere's wife, as a relative of theirs.

By policy, and seeming kindness towards him, they bound him to silence; for he read their hearts, and never alluded to the unpleasant subject.

It mattered little to him _how_ he secured their support, that he had it, and as he believed, thus galled Tremenhere, was sufficient. Lady Dora would gladly have cut Burton after the ball where they had met; but crooked policy costs full many a bitter pang, spared to straightforward candour: in concealing their relations.h.i.+p to Tremenhere's wife--they took from her memory that, which might have s.h.i.+elded it from many a cloud.

Lady Dora met Tremenhere. Her heart was now beyond her own controul, had he spoken; but he was attentive, courteous--nothing more by word or look. He had resolved now to let another open Lord Randolph's eyes, for this had been a part of his motive lately; and he saw those eyes _were_ extending their power of vision through his cousin, so he left all in other hands. This maddened her. A man may not _speak_ his love for many reasons; but he cannot but _look_ it, if he love; it is the soul which finds tongue through the eyes. If we might govern or quite controul this, what perfect creatures we should be, _with good intentions_.

Skaife had obtained permission from Miles to visit his studio whenever he pleased, even during his absence, as the latter had a well-chosen library, in which Skaife delighted. He had asked leave so to do, for a half-formed plan in his mind.

One day he brought this to perfection, as far as he could foresee.

Tremenhere was going to pa.s.s some early hours in the morning at the Louvre. At two o'clock Lady Dora had requested a sitting, and so arranged it that Lord Randolph should accompany her to Tremenhere's, and leave her there for awhile, as he too had an engagement. Lady Dora was independent in all she did, and this day was resolved finally to know if she were beloved or not by Tremenhere. Skaife knew all the latter's appointments, and hours of them. He had made himself master of these facts, and, in accordance with his plan, deemed it better Lady Dora should come in almost immediately after the meeting and re-union of the husband and wife, that no proof further need be wanting to convince her of their mutual love; he dreaded this cold-hearted girl.

All this was very nicely planned; but it had to be as well accomplished.

It occupied him and Mary Burns for days, in preparing poor Minnie for her visit to Tremenhere's rooms, and when the day arrived her limbs almost refused to support her. With much difficulty he reached her husband's abode with her, and, leaving her in a fiacre, entered the _loge de concierge_, and inquired whether Tremenhere was within, as a precautionary measure. The man answered in the negative, and handed him the key of the apartment, saying--

"Perhaps, monsieur would like to walk up?"

The next thing to be done was easy of accomplishment. This man, of that most corruptible cla.s.s, was open to a little quiet bribery, "Not to tell Monsieur Tremenhere that a lady was in his rooms, as he (Skaife) wished to surprise him."

"_Allez!_ monsieur," answered the man, "I see nothing."

And Skaife and Minnie pa.s.sed in. How her heart and limbs trembled when she entered those rooms where he had so lately been! where he sat and talked, thought of, and _perhaps_ so deeply regretted her! She stood in the centre of that studio, and turned round and round, and her pale face and figure, which moved so mechanically, as if afraid of a natural undulation, made her seem like a statue. Skaife had arranged all in his mind before bringing her, and in the s.p.a.ce behind the bed in the alcove he concealed her. This room adjoined the studio by one door, and by an opposite from this latter you entered the saloon.

Skaife's idea had been, immediately on Tremenhere's entrance to lead him to speak of Minnie, and she, by creeping from her place of concealment, would be enabled to listen to all--he reserving to himself the task of keeping Miles at his easel, and thus preventing him from entering his bedroom, without giving her sufficient time to conceal herself. All this was admirably arranged; but in such plans there is always the presumption that nothing untoward will occur to mar their perfect completion. Miles entered at one o'clock, as appointed, and after wandering through his apartment, pa.s.sing close to the half lifeless Minnie, he threw off his coat, and put on the artistic jacket of scarlet, in which he was in the habit of painting. Minnie through the curtains watched all this, and saw him stand in deep thought a moment, then, pa.s.sing a weary hand over a wearier brow, he entered his studio, where Skaife stood very pale. He durst not follow him to his bedroom--it would have looked extraordinary his doing so; and so he stood, almost retaining his breath, expecting every moment to hear Minnie shriek forth the other's name--but all pa.s.sed quietly, and Miles came out, and sat down to touch up Lady Dora's portrait before her arrival. The saloon, we have said, was on the opposite side to the bedroom, and facing Tremenhere's easel; from the saloon you pa.s.sed into an antechamber, and thence out of the apartment. Skaife had calculated upon having the catastrophe over before Lady Dora's arrival, who would come in, and share the surprise, with Lord Randolph, of finding the long lost wife in her husband's fond arms. He knew that if Tremenhere could be led to speak of her again, as he had done to him, Minnie would no longer doubt the joy her coming would afford him, and at once rush forth. So it might most probably have been all smooth and fair sailing; but they were doomed to meet with some rocks yet, and one of these was the entrance, before the hour appointed, of Lady Dora and Lord Randolph Gray! Skaife, though a most patient man, would a.s.suredly have sworn, but for the colour of his cloth--as it was, he stamped, and coloured violently.

"Trem.," said Lord Randolph, using the abbreviation by which he frequently addressed his friend, "I've brought Lady Dora before the hour, because I have a particular engagement, and must leave her in your care for half an hour."

Be it said, Lady Ripley imagined Lord Randolph was going to remain the whole time during her sitting, else her ideas of propriety, most justly, would have forbidden allowing her to stop alone in a painter's studio.

Lord Randolph had no thought of harm of his friend, when Lady Dora said,--

"I am most anxious to get my sittings over for this Diana; so don't tell mamma you are going to leave me there alone, or she will not allow me to go."

English mothers, perhaps too freely, permit their daughters to walk out _only_ accompanied by their intended husbands! French ones say, "The marriage may never take place; 'tis better to avoid bringing a girl's name in question."

Lord Randolph looked at "Diana," and at the fair original, and departed fearless and confiding. Lady Dora trembled with annoyance. Every moment was an hour. She was resolved to have an explanation; and how accomplish this with Skaife present? However, there was a fate to turn all to its will. This latter felt choking with impatience. He could not remain there all the period of the sitting, for nothing could be done until Lady Dora left. So he rose, and entering the bedroom, approached the alcove, where he had placed a chair for Minnie to rest upon; in a low whisper he told her the state of the case, and bade her be patient--all would go well. Be it remembered that, whatever his suspicions of the state of Lady Dora's heart, he had no proof, he knew nothing of the scarcely ambiguous conversations which took place between them, whenever they met. To collect his thoughts, he deemed it best to go out for a walk; consequently he went, to Lady Dora's great joy, and, pulling the outer door after him, _thought_ he closed it, but he did not--it remained ajar.

Lady Dora sat some moments listening, then her impatience began to manifest itself by a movement of the foot. Tremenhere's calmness and cheerful ease drove her mad.

"Mr. Tremenhere," she said at last, "were you not surprised to see me dancing with your----with Mr. Burton, the other evening?"

"Who--I, Lady Dora?" he asked in extreme surprise, but most placidly; "not in the least--why should I be?"

"Because--because, it was strange my doing so."