Miles Tremenhere Volume I Part 6

"Oh! I never forget those whom I have loved; I often have wished you with me in Italy;" and her fine face, lit up with warmth and sincerity, became perfectly beautiful. The girls sat down side by side, and hand in hand, conversing, after Dora had duly embraced all. Lady Ripley was different to the other members of her family. She appeared more like a composition of all, with a cloak of pride over the whole, in which she completely wrapped herself up; only now and then, when the cloak opened, some of her realities slipped out. She had less of Dorcas than of either of the others,--silly as Juvenal, worldly like Sylvia, and a little bit of Dorcas's good-nature composed the whole. She had married, most unexpectedly, one far above herself in rank and station. Not having had time to familiarize herself with the position before entering upon it, she plunged in, and became for awhile overwhelmed. The country gentleman's daughter forgot the real dignity of the ladylike person, who may pa.s.s without comment any where in the rank of countess, so suddenly forced upon her; then, too, the Earl was one of the coldest, proudest men in the world, and lived long enough to engraft a sufficient quant.i.ty of the _vice_ of pride (when attached to mere station) upon his only child's really n.o.ble nature, for a dozen scions of n.o.bility. Lady Dora's keen perception, as she grew up, readily detected the real from the a.s.sumed; and having much loved, respected, and looked up to her father, his vice became a virtue in her eyes,--a natural one; whereas her mother's a.s.sumption of it, made her, without becoming undutiful, still look upon her as a merely bad copy; consequently, her aunts and uncle became sharers of her species of contempt. Indeed, she had carried that impression away with her when she quitted them and England, three years before, for Italy; and the knowledge of the world acquired since then, had rather strengthened the feeling. Since that period she had lost her father, and this keenly-felt loss hardened the girl's softer emotions.

She seemed incapable of any thing like warmth of affection; for, the first ebullition of joy over on seeing Minnie, whom she really liked better than any person almost in the world, she sat like a beautiful statue, just warmed enough to life to speak and listen;--the face had become colourless again, the smile cold and proud, and the haughty eyes and haughtier brow, seemed to glance or bend with equal indifference on all around her. She was perfect in her beauty as Minnie--one, was the damask rose for richness, the other, the chaste lily; for when Dora's colour rose, nothing could surpa.s.s that ripe sunset glow,--it was magnificent from its eastern brightness and depth; whereas Minnie's never became more than a beautiful blush, flitting and returning like a swallow over a wave. Dora's hair was the very darkest chestnut, yet this it was, a colour seldom seen, nothing resembling black nor brown, but the exact colour of the nut itself, rich and mellow. Her eyes--there was her charm of face, they were so dark and l.u.s.trous--_velvet eyes_, with the sun s.h.i.+ning on them; extravagant, too, for they expended their glances right and left on all, not from a desire to slay her thousands, but, like the donation of the rich and proud to the beggar, she flung her gold away, not caring who might gather it up; it was flung from an inexhaustible source of wealth--it was the natural love of expenditure, inherent in the generous mind giving of its profusion. No one had ever seen her move quickly, scarcely even as a child; when she rose from her seat, she seemed to rise by some quiet galvanism, majestically, gracefully, but without energy or effort; so it was with all; grace presided over all--cold natural grace. Where her mother used violent force to seem dignified, and often thus destroyed the lady, Dora without a thought, so to seem, was an empress in majesty. Minnie was slight and girlish, her cousin matured in form, though not too much so for her height and bearing, with a waist the hand might almost have circled; one curl on either side of her oval face fell quite to that slender waist in unrestrained perfection, heavy and glossy, veiling, but not concealing the beautiful, but strongly marked eyebrow.

The cousins escaped as soon as possible to Minnie's room; there is a natural restraint ever felt by the least checked before their elders--girls have a language apart of their own. Alas! for the wintry day, when the falling snow of worldly care chills the ideality of thought, and brings to the lip only the sterner realities of life. The two sat and talked of old days, even to them. Dora spoke of Italy, of her father's death soon after she and Minnie parted, and the proud eyes forgot their pride when nature bade them weep--how Minnie loved her then! there was so much softness in _her_ nature. She folded her gentle arms round Dora, and soothed her so lovingly, that the eyes looked up upon her in grat.i.tude and affection. Then, to divert her attention, Minnie told her all her troubles--squire, parson, and lawyer; but she did not breathe the name of Miles Tremenhere. He had so completely won upon her sympathy, that she dreaded to hear Dora speak of him, either in contempt, or else mere worldly policy; so they sat and talked, until Lady Ripley summoned her daughter, by the voice of a French maid, "to dress for dinner."

"I am sure," whispered Aunt Sylvia to Mrs. Gillett on the stairs, when she was retiring to bed that night, "I and Lady Ripley shall not agree long, if she prolongs her stay; for 'tis quite absurd, Gillett, the idea of her dressing in such a style for our quiet dinner, only ourselves, and her annoyance because my niece, Lady Dora, refused to do the same!

It is putting notions of dress into Miss Minnie's head, which will make her look down on every one here. I shall tell her so to-morrow; I always like to give my candid opinion, though she mightn't like it!"

"So I would, Miss," answered her agreeing listener. "For no one can be a better judge of every thing than yourself; for I'm sure, as I say to every body, 'just look at our Miss Sylvia, why, she's like a busy bee!

she's a pattern--that she is!'"

Mrs. Gillett walked down the corridor, and, coming from her daughter's room, she met Lady Ripley.

"Ah, Gillett!" said that lady, patronisingly; "I'm glad to see you looking so well."

Gillett curtsied to the ground. "I'm sure, my lady," she replied, "it's only the reflections of your ladys.h.i.+p's presence which make me look so; for, as I've just been saying below, it is a pleasure to see a lady look as you do, younger by years than you were, years ago, and know too, what's due to herself, and dress every day as if she was going to court!

Ah! it's a pity the dear ladies, Miss Sylvia and Miss Dorcas, is so plain in their ways; it's quite spoiling sweet Miss Minnie, who cares no more for dress or state than if she had been born, if I may be so bold as to say it of your ladys.h.i.+p's niece, in a poor cottage of a mother always knitting woolly stockings!"

"I must see what's to be done, Gillett," answered her ladys.h.i.+p in a queenly tone; "I will have some serious conversation with my brother about her to-morrow."

"If your ladys.h.i.+p will please not to say I said any thing," whispered the politic housekeeper.

"I never quote other's opinions, my good woman," was the haughty reply, as she sailed into her room, with a majestic "Good-night to you."

"To think," soliloquized Gillett, as she toiled up a second flight of stairs, "she should be so amazing proud now, when I remember her setting herself off to the best advantage to attract the notice of our pa.s.san then, the late rec.u.mbent!" There in an hour in every one's life, when he or she is candid and natural; generally it falls between locking the bedroom door at night, and snuffing out the candle--'tis an hour of thoughtful soliloquy!

CHAPTER VII.

People are early in the country--"early to bed, early to rise." It was just ten by Minnie's hall clock as Mrs. Gillett became confidential to herself, and at that hour another person, some distance from Gatestone, was struggling with the voices of nature and truth united, which rung the word "shame" in his ears--this was the squire. He sat alone. All the servants had retired; his own man even dismissed. He sat in a small study adjoining his bedroom--not that he studied much, but the room had so been planned and arranged, and so he left it. A few additions of his own had been made, such as a brace of favourite pistols, a gun or two, spurs, whips, fis.h.i.+ng-rods, and their accompaniments; the books on their neglected shelves were as silent memory. They spoke to no one; no one sought or conversed with them; their thoughts were sealed within their own b.r.e.a.s.t.s--like glowing eyes gazing on the sightless, no looks lit up to meet their glances. Beautiful, cheering things, among which we might live alone for ever, nor feel our loneliness. _Man_ would perhaps sink off into drowsy rest; but the _soul_ creeping forth, cheered by the stillness, could seek its companions in those leaves clinging together with the damp of years, and live with them in long ages gone by, when they were permitted to speak above the mere practical spirits of the present day. Poetry was there in sorrowing maidenhood, as she glanced upwards at an old mandolin with chords, suspended against the wall, the loving once, now dumb suitor, who has sung her praises, and wooed her to smile! It was strange that old mandolin should be still there: it was the one on which Miles's mother had often played and sung to him in infancy and boyhood! It was strange, then, that Marmaduke Burton should sit, as he sat on that evening, facing it. While he turned over piles of gloomy-looking papers and parchments, his brow was scowling, more so than usual; his face, that cold, livid colour, which the warm heart never avows as its index. At his feet lay an uncouth-looking bulldog; he seldom was seen without this companion. Somehow, if the dog were absent, Marmaduke became uneasy; cowards seldom rely upon themselves alone.

Every paper, as it pa.s.sed through his hands, was carefully examined, and then as carefully folded up and placed within a large drawer by his side, evidently one of some old cabinet. "Nothing," he whispered to himself. "Dalby said there was nothing--no proof; for, after all, I would not have it on my conscience to say, I _knew_ there was proof, and withheld it. 'Tis not for me to _search_ for writings or witnesses _against_ myself," this was added after a thoughtful pause. After awhile he continued, "Besides, it is scarcely probable that old Tremenhere ever married that poor Spanish girl; those girls at Gibraltar are not of very noted virtue. I should have been a fool indeed, to sit down quietly and allow another to enjoy mine by right, from a mere idea of honour.

Had he succeeded, he would not have shared with me. I _did_ offer him a competency," all this time he had been a.s.sorting the papers. "Nothing here," he continued. "What's this? oh! a letter from old Tremenhere, written after his mar--after his connection" (he corrected himself) "with that woman Helene Nunoz, he, evidently being here, and she still abroad, in Paris--eh? not Gibraltar. What says he?" For some moments he attentively read. "I have seen two or three of his letters," he said thoughtfully, "among old papers, and in all he speaks of one 'Estree.'

Who can he be? here it is again." He read aloud a pa.s.sage, accentuating every word, and dwelling on his own final comment thoughtfully for some moments. "'Do you see D'Estree often? Is he kind as ever to my Helena?

his child, as he calls her. I should much like _ours_ to be christened by him; might he not be induced to return with us?' This must have been some clergyman or priest," was the thoughtful comment. At that moment his dog arose uneasily from the carpet at his feet, and walked towards the door. "What's the matter, Viper?" asked his master, starting timidly. "Look to it, dog--good dog;" but the dog returned quietly to its former place, and Marmaduke concluded the letter, which only spoke of love, and regret at absence. In the concluding lines again Viper moved to the door, and snuffed the air beneath the crevice. His master grew uneasy; he watched the dog, and, while doing so, tore up the letter he held, and flung it into a basket beneath the table. Viper moved about whining, not in anger, but more in satisfaction and impatience of restraint. The squire arose, and somewhat nervously approached the door. These letters had unnerved him; his hand was on the lock, the dog sprung up with pleasure; another hand turned the handle from the outside, it opened, and Mary Burns entered. As she did so, the dog fawned upon her.

"I might have guessed it!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Marmaduke, falling back and scowling upon her. "Only you would Viper meet in such a manner; the dog's faithful to old acquaintance, I see." She stood quite still, silent, and very pale. "Down, poor animal, down!" she whispered at last to the dog, which was jumping up to caress her hand.

"I have yet to learn why you are here?" asked Marmaduke, sullenly, "and how?"

"I came to restore you this," she uttered, holding up a key in her hand; "this will explain how I am here."

"Oh, true! I had forgotten you came through the quiet gate leading by the shrubbery; I trust the reminiscence of the past, which such a walk must inevitably have awakened, procured you pleasure?"

"Sneer on, Marmaduke Burton! I came prepared to suffer all to-night. I came to restore you this, and also to implore a favour at your hands?"

"At mine! what can I do for you? I thought the hour of solicitation had pa.s.sed between us--will you not be seated?" He offered her a chair; she appeared choking with emotion; and yet, though almost powerless to stand, waved her hand in token of dissent, as he pushed a seat towards her, and merely laid one hand upon the back of it for support.

"As you will," he said coldly, noticing the action; "and perhaps you will pardon my asking you as much as possible to abridge this visit; you see I am engaged." He pointed to the table of papers.

"I come," she said at last with great effort, "to implore one favour at your hands, as some mitigation of the deep remorse I feel. Miles Tremenhere is here--I do beseech you," here she clasped her hands, "not to make my burthen heavier to bear, by seeking to injure him farther."

"Woman!" he cried, standing erect before her, "do you remember to whom you are speaking? How have I injured him? Am I not heir--lawful heir--here? I wish to hear no more; go, you have chosen to place a barrier yourself between us--henceforth, 'tis as you have willed it. I offered you independence and oblivion of all, away from this, and you have refused, so you must take the consequences."

"I beseech you!" she exclaimed again, not heeding his words, "to have pity on that man, for the sake of his mother, who was one to me."

"That is perceptible," he said scornfully, "in the good fruit of her cultivation--vice seldom produces----"

"Hold!" she cried, springing towards him, and grasping his arm; "revile me as you will, but not her--she was pure as an angel, and you know it!

And I adjure you by the wrong you have done her son--to spare him now; let him go in peace."

"Woman, I bid you go," he cried, shaking her touch from him, "before my patience becomes exhausted; what am I doing, or going to do to that man?

Let him go as he will, I shall not molest him unless he cross my path; then woe betide him, whatever may be done, I'll do, nor ask whether he be relative or stranger."

"I only pray you," she continued, "should he seek you, as I fear he may, to be temperate, remembering what you were to each other, what you are in blood." She tried to soothe; had that not been the case, she would have fearlessly spoken all her thought of his treachery.

"Why do you think he will seek me?" he asked, and the eye, ever uncertain in its glance, shrunk from her's. He began to dread a possible meeting.

"Because, because!" she hesitated a moment; then, by an effort over her emotion, added more resolutely, "because he knows _all_, and Miles is not one silently to pa.s.s over wrong to one he once loved and respected."

"Oh, that's it--is it?" Rising, he advanced a step towards the trembling woman; but suddenly paused, and hastily turned round. "What was that?"

he exclaimed, looking fixedly at a door behind him, at which Viper had sprung growling.

The study had two doors in it, one leading through the corridor--the one by which Mary had entered; the other leading to a dressing-room, adjoining Marmaduke's bedroom--it was at this one the dog lay growling.

"Curse that dog!" he cried angrily, "he makes one fanciful and nervous.

Did you hear any thing?"

"Nothing," she rejoined, trembling with a strange tremor.

Marmaduke turned paler too than even he generally was--it was a coward pallor. Reaching a book from the table, he flung it at Viper, who startled, but not cowed, sprung under the table, upsetting the basket as he did so, which contained the torn papers; and then, as his master turned away, he returned again to his post at the door, and commenced scratching and growling at it. Marmaduke uttered a deep oath, and, seizing the animal by the throat, hastily opened the door leading towards the corridor, and flung him out. As he turned his back, a sudden, uncontrollable impulse seized Mary to stoop, and, unseen by him, grasp and conceal a paper which had fallen from the basket as Viper upset it. She felt that any thing written by that man might be of value to Miles; moreover, she saw how he (Marmaduke) had been employed with old papers and parchments, which made the one she held possibly more valuable.

"Now," he said, closing the door, "let us have a few final words, and then leave me; and if we meet again at your seeking, it will be a day of sorrow to you. I wish to do you no injury, for I liked you once--do not mistake," he hastily added, seeing she was about to speak; "I never _loved_ you--no, that was man's right of speech when I said so; we are bound to employ the same weapons others use against ourselves."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean lying and deceit. You never loved _me_--_I_ never had that feeling for you; you have this evening shown me why you became mine. He had loved you, and then forsook--revenge dictated the act which made you give me a claim to call you mine; dislike to every thing fostering affection for that impostor and base-born hound, made me resolve to win you, and well have I succeeded! False to his affection for you, which you have confessed, and thereby made me doubly glad in having ruined you! false to me, if he so please it, I doubt not. Take back that garden key, woman, how do you know but that this impostor may some day be master here, and you require it for your secret visits to the manor-house? Verily, you love the place! feline in your affections, 'tis the place, not person, you care for!" As he concluded, he drew the deep-drawn breath of a man suffocating with overwhelming thoughts, bursting like deadly missiles from a sh.e.l.l, scattering death around; for, as he discharged them forth, the woman, stricken with shame and sorrow, cowered down, and buried her face in her hands. Marmaduke's deep sigh, as he concluded, was echoed by one still deeper--it was a groan, and came from the doorway leading into the dressing-room; he had but time to turn half round, when a heavy hand was on his arm.

"Unsay those words, 'impostor' and 'base-born hound,'" said Miles Tremenhere ('twas he) beneath his breath; "or the world shall add the other to them, and a _true_ one, 'avenger;'--as I am a living man this night, unless you do, or you, or I shall not quit this room alive!"

The presence even of that trembling woman imparted a feeling of protection to Marmaduke's coward heart. By a sudden jerk he disengaged his arm, and with one stride reached the opposite door. To think and do had been the work of an instant, the coward's self-s.h.i.+eld through another. With a trembling hand he opened the door, and called "Viper,"

and the dog sprang in. No word was needed; the brave brute knew all enemies to his master, and a second spring would have brought him to Miles's throat, had that man not, foreseeing treachery, been on his guard. With one blow of his small, but muscular fist, he felled the animal, and, before it could recover itself, his hand grasped its throat; the woman shrieked--a true woman's heart is tender to every living thing. "Spare it, Miles!" she cried. "Poor, faithful brute!"

But Miles had no thought otherwise; while Marmaduke stood in a species of panic, which rendered further effort for an instant vain, the other strode to the door near which he stood, and, flinging the dog forth, calmly turned the key, and placed it in his pocket. This act alarmed Marmaduke; there is something to the cowardly man fearful in the calm of a resolute one. He turned hastily to fly, his hand was on the lock of the door leading to the corridor, but another's reached his before he turned it, and, without one uttered word, he felt his nerveless grasp withdrawn. The key grated in the lock beneath Miles's fingers; he saw him, too, with perfect composure, look around, and then, a feat of child's play to him, tear down the bell-rope, to prevent the possibility of Marmaduke's summoning a.s.sistance; this done, Miles turned calmly round to where his cousin stood. Mary had dropped, powerless to stand, in a chair, and, with eyes distended by terror, watched every movement of the quiet desperation Miles portrayed.

"Now," he said, in untrembling resolution, as he fixed his eyes on his cousin, the stern brow knit over their intense gaze, "retraction full, and immediate!"

"Of what?" asked the other, endeavouring to seem calm and unconscious.