Miles Tremenhere Volume I Part 8

"Of course," said Lady Dora, quite composedly, "they cannot be the same person; but I a.s.sure you, the Mr. Tremenhere we knew, was a distinguished young artist, much sought after, though only an artist. Of his family, we never inquired."

"This is, in my opinion," said Lady Ripley, "the great error of society abroad; and I fear it is creeping into English habits--the mixed nature of society. This Mr. Tremenhere was received unquestioned, nay, sought after every where, for his talents.

"It is only the good old English families which know how to keep up proper distinctions," chimed in Sylvia, to the accompaniment of an approving "a.s.suredly," from the visiter.

"I think _real_ talent should always be upheld--'tis a n.o.ble gift, to which we owe homage," said the gentle Dorcas.

Minnie smiled "yes," but did not like to utter her opinion too decidedly before a stranger; besides, she was thinking.

"What are you thinking of, Minnie?" whispered her cousin.

"Of the narrow-mindedness of the world," she answered boldly. "I'd rather see a man enn.o.ble his name by good deeds or talents, than bear a merely empty t.i.tle--would you not, Dora?"

"I think position should be upheld and respected," rejoined the other, "or else we should become republican at once. I respect, revere genius; but even that has, in my opinion, no right to overstep certain barriers." Lady Dora Vaughan had been nurtured on family pride, which digests badly, and chokes up many good things with its prejudice.

Here the conversation took a different turn. Other persons called, and the Tremenheres--one, or different individuals--were no more alluded to.

Even her cousin's presence, failed entirely to remove the weight from Minnie's heart, she was so saddened by disappointment, and none came to cheer or possibly explain--for Mr. Skaife even had not appeared. The shades of evening set in, and she and her cousin were strolling together in the various alleys and walks of the beautiful gardens round Gatestone, and in that same half hour Mrs. Gillett sat in her housekeeper's room, inhaling the odour of the garden into which it looked. She had been tr.i.m.m.i.n.g a cap--something had come over her mind--a question of whether she should put a bow on the said cap, as Mademoiselle Julie, the countess's French maid, had suggested, or leave it alone. The war within herself, between the accustomed snowy lace and a pink ribbon, had ended in a prostration of the nervous system, and consequent sleep ensued. She was sitting opposite the window with the cap in one hand, the ribbon in the other, when Morpheus seized upon her, and she slept, and dreamed that she was a Maypole bedizened with many-coloured ribbons, and the village girls dancing round her. "What curious things one dreams!" to be sure, she exclaimed waking up at last; and putting both articles on the table beside her, and she rubbed her eyes, not yet half cleared from sleep. "How them peas do grow!" she continued, gazing dizzily out of the window in the evening duskiness and her own dreamy state. "Why, it seems only yesterday I was saying to John Gardener that they never would pod; and now they darkens up this window, there's no seeing out! Lauks-a-marcy!" she exclaimed, shrinking back in her chair in terror, as a cl.u.s.ter of them, sticks and all, appeared to her half-awakened sight to advance nearer, taking a human form as they did so. "Lauks-a-marcy! what's a going to happen to us?" Her fears were certainly not groundless, for the humanized peas drew close to the window, stooped, and stepped in. The window of this room was on a level with the walk outside; and through this, Minnie as a child, and even Dora, had been in the habit of entering as by a door, for a chair generally stood at it, which answered the purpose of a mere step to enter by.

"Good-evening, Mrs. Gillett," said Miles Tremenhere, as he did so with perfect composure. "You would not speak to me last time we met; so I have come to my old haunt, and as I was used to do when a boy, to have some conversation with you." By an involuntary movement, without uttering a word, she staggered to her feet, grasped her cap and ribbons in her hand, and was making towards the door, but Tremenhere intercepted her quietly before she was half-way there. "Stop," he said gently, smiling as he spoke, "I don't mean to harm, or alarm you; listen quietly to me, good Mrs. Gillett. Come, you cannot have quite forgotten the sweet youth who has so often sat in this room with you; and i'faith, too, I remember those hospitable cupboards" (and he glanced around) "wherein I discovered many a treasure hidden for 'good Madame Tremenhere's son,' as you were used to call me." A sigh half choked the lighter tone as he spoke. Gillett stood still, and looked at him. She was not a bad woman--far from it; but only a very politic one. She would gladly have pleased all parties; but the peculiarity of the case sometimes, as in Minnie's for instance--forbad it.

"Lock the door," she whispered, pointing behind him; "then speak low, and tell me what you want." Her commands were soon obeyed; and, like two conspirators, they sat down in a corner and began talking.

"You see, Master Miles," she whispered, "times is sadly changed, and I am obliged to be friends with my betters; and, then you know that I don't want to hurt your feelin's--but there have been queer tales about your----"

"Hus.h.!.+" he said emphatically, grasping her hands, "not a word against _her_. Mrs. Gillett, you know what she was to all--you know that the day she died, this village had but one voice to bewail her--but one sentence to mourn her with. 'Heaven gave her for awhile to shew what angels may walk the earth'--this you know, Mrs. Gillett; and you _know_, too, that she has been cruelly maligned. No," he cried, rising energetically, forgetful of all necessity for secrecy, "as Heaven hears me, I do not care for the loss of all, save that, in losing that, a mother's sacred fame has been trampled upon."

"There," cried Mrs. Gillett, following and taking his hand, not without emotion; "sit down, I know it has been a sad cut-up for you; but times will change, maybe, and you be better off, and all forgot."

"Never!" he emphatically exclaimed. "A mothers wrongs should never be forgotten by a son until washed away."

"Talking of was.h.i.+ng away," said his attentive listener; "there be a rumour to-day, that summut happened up at the house last night; you haven't done nothing of that sort to the squire, have you, Master Miles?"

"No," he replied, thoughtfully; "my great debt remains yet unpaid."

"Well, I'm sure it's a pity," she added, "that all parties can't agree; there be plenty for both on 'e up at the manor-house; and such friends as you were as boys!"

"Why didn't you speak to me yesterday, Mrs. Gillett?" he asked. "Were you afraid of Miss Dalzell, or Mr. Skaife? Both seem to my judgment good, excellent creatures, apart from the generality of the world, for they did not fear the contact with a fallen man; but I suppose I must not ask you----" He appeared to be seeking time or courage to speak his more earnest motive in seeking her.

"Well," said she at last, hesitatingly, "I must speak it out, though you bid me not; so don't go to be offended, for I wouldn't hurt your feelings for the world; but them as does wrong, brings much on their children. You have been cruelly treated by your parents, to be left so long in----"

"Mrs. Gillett!" he cried, rising in agitation, "even from you, my old friend, I cannot hear this. Do not let others lead your kind heart to do wrong, even in thought; some day _all_ shall know my mother as I do, or I will die in the struggle with her enemies."

"Oh! don't do nothing of that sort," cried she, mistaking his meaning; "getting killed a'n't the way to right her; and this I will say, that a better lady never lived--and in the hearts of the poor; the best home to have, after all. But it a'n't a thing I'm component to judge, Master Miles; for foreigners, they say, don't see them things as we do."

"Well," he replied, reseating himself, and pa.s.sing his hand over his brow; "let's change the subject, it always pains me; but _her_ day of retribution will come--my sainted mother!" and involuntarily he raised his hat, in reverential awe, as if an angel were looking down upon him.

"Don't be cast down, Master Miles," said the woman, "and don't talk on them miserable subj_ecs_, all in the dark here, as one may say; it makes one oncomfortable and queer. Now, tell me, what do you want with me?"

"I want to see Miss Dalzell. Can you manage that for me?"

"Mussiful powers! no," she exclaimed, in surprise and horror.

"It must be accomplished somehow, Mrs. Gillett; see her I _must_."

"Well, if I didn't think so!" she said, thinking aloud of what she had previously hinted to Sylvia.

"Think what--what do you mean?"

"Oh nothink, nothink--there, _do_ go; pray, do'e go!" she energetically cried, alarmed at the phantom her imagination had conjured up. "It won't do, depend upon it; _they_ would stir up the whole earth to find and punish you, if you did it; for she's the darling of all, and they'd all _ignite_ against you--lawyer, parson, squire, master, mississes, and all!"

"In the name of patience, my good Mrs. Gillett, what _do_ you mean?" he asked laughing.

"Why, I saw it--I said it--I knew it--though I ain't a Dippibus, as master calls fortune-tellers; but don't go any farther--leave off where you are!" and she crunched up her cap in her energy.

"Are you mad?" he exclaimed, securing her reckless hands. "I tell you I _must_ see Miss Dalzell, if only for a moment. I have a message for her."

Mrs. Gillett was rocking in her chair in agony; her position exceeded any thing embarra.s.sing she had ever conceived. What could she do? Here she was locked in with a desperate man, who only said "must." How could she ever reconcile this difficulty to practicable action? how bind this wild horse to her daily care of every body's necessities? their calls upon her to bear their burthens--her carrier's cart of packages--she was in fearful perplexity.

"Is there any thing so dreadful in my demand?" he asked. "Let it be here, for five minutes. We met yesterday--you know we did, though you would not recognise me. She will not refuse, I know."

"Can't you say what you have to say through the pa.s.san, Master Miles,"

she uttered at last, struggling for a straw.

"No; I must see herself. Why do you fear me so much? Do you suppose I would insult, or injure one, whom report says so good and kind--a woman, too? Fie Mrs. Gillett--fie! to wrong me so much, the man you've known from boyhood."

"Oh! Master Miles, it ain't that--it ain't, indeed; but we oftentimes harms without meaning it," and she looked meaningly at him. He seemed to awaken as from a dream.

"You cannot suppose," he cried, "that I, a poor outcast now, come here to woo any woman; still less Miss Dalzell, whose whole family are my bitterest enemies. I tell you no, Mrs. Gillett; I have no such thought.

From all I have heard--the little I saw of her yesterday, for the first time--I respect, admire, and reverence Miss Dalzell, but more I never shall now--I have another at heart." He alluded to his self-imposed task of duty and love, to re-establish his mother's fame.

"You a'n't deceiving me, Master Miles," she said looking up, mistaking his meaning.

"I solemnly a.s.sure you I am not."

"Oh, then, there can be no harm, that I see!" she cried confidently.

Alas! poor Mrs. Gillett, she had but skin-deep knowledge of the human heart. Not seeing that what we should avoid, we fly to--what hate, generally love, if cast in our path--ties, vows, resolutions--all are things created, but to be immolated on love's altar.

"There she just is!" she exclaimed, looking from the window; "she's come round by the shrubbery into the fruit-garden, and Lady Dora's with her."

"Lady Dora!" he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, looking surprised, and going to the window.

"Come back, Master Miles, do, come back," she cried; "I wouldn't have Miss Minnie's cousin see you for the world, in here."

"Is that Miss Dalzell's cousin?" he again asked, gazing from his corner at the two wandering together at the end of a long walk. "Lady Dora Vaughan, Lady Ripley's daughter,--true," he added after a pause, talking aloud, "I have a faint memory of the name here; but boys do not recollect these things as in after years; the name seemed familiar to me in Italy."

"Lauks!" exclaimed Mrs. Gillett, "have you met Lady Dora before?"

"Yes," he answered hesitatingly; "but how is it, Mrs. Gillett, that I never met her or Miss Dalzell here before?" Alas! the man was in old familiar scenes, forgetting that eight long dreary years of exile had been his.