Miles Tremenhere Volume I Part 12

"Hush!" she cried in alarm, looking round; "I heard a footstep." Her voice trembled with many emotions.

"There's no one here," he answered, scarcely glancing round. "It was perhaps my heart you heard beat; there are footfalls in that--those of remorse for my weakness--those of my mother's spirit deserting me; for I have sworn _only_ to think of her. And yet, Minnie, do you know, amidst all this wild pa.s.sion to-day, which your word, your utterance of my name, has called forth, I am not _sure_ I truly love you! Were I certain of that, nothing could ever reconcile me to a separation from you. I would strain every nerve of my soul to make you love me; and, loving thus, ask you to be mine--in toil and poverty perhaps--a.s.sured that _nothing_ could surpa.s.s in misery, separation from each other."

"Is your heart more difficult for you to read, than mine is for myself?"

she asked, looking up in child-like confidence. "Mine is an open page, I _know_----"

"Do not speak what you _think_ you read there, Minnie; hearts are deceitful things, like words in dead tongues: we must search well, to define the real signification of things written there. Love has a counterfeit--pa.s.sion. If I knew mine, purely, truly yours, worthy of you--or if I knew you truly loved me--there is not that power on earth which should part us!"

"Surely," she whispered, in terror grasping his arm, "there is some one in that archway, yonder--I heard a step!"

"No, 'tis fancy," he replied, looking round; "my earnestness has startled you, poor child--poor child, indeed, if you loved me!--an outcast, a wanderer. Forget all we have been saying, Minnie," he added, sorrowfully; "for be sure of this, if we _really_ love, or are to love, some great event will call that affection to light--prove and hallow it; for it will be based on esteem, else you had not trusted me so far, nor I, been so confident towards you. Come, let us leave this old ruin; you are terrified to-day. I will see you outside of its huge walls, and then we must part; once on your black mare, with old Thomas beside you, you will forget this. Let us go, child; why, you tremble still!" and, more with fatherly care than aught else, he drew her arm beneath his own, and they silently quitted the ruin.

"Now, will you doubt my perspicacity again, Formby?" cried Marmaduke Burton, stepping from beneath the dark archway, and dragging the half alive Juvenal after him. "I told you they met in secret. I wish we could have heard all they said."

"I'm horror-stricken!" shivered Juvenal, with genuine truthfulness.

"What is to be done with her?"

"Lock her up! we'll soon hunt him out of this neighbourhood. Come out through this side-pa.s.sage, my buggy's there; they must not know we heard them yet!"

CHAPTER XII.

Minnie returned home at a quick gallop. She felt as if pursued by some visionary being. Not once did she pause or look back, after the one gentle wave of her hand to Miles, who stood statue-like, watching her, beside the old ruin, as she pa.s.sed. Even poor, old Thomas could not extract a word from her, she flew so quickly homewards. On alighting from "Jet," she hastened to her own room, and, throwing off the hat which bound her brows, sat down to think, and thus she sat some silent moments; then rising gently, as though she had held communing with some spirit, she crept quietly about, as she changed her riding-suit for her ordinary one. When this was accomplished, she opened her door, and stealing down the pa.s.sage, rapped at her aunt Dorcas's room. "Come in,"

answered the quiet voice which ever fell soothingly on her ear, and Minnie was in an instant beside her. A few desultory remarks pa.s.sed about her ride, where she had been, etc.; to these Minnie replied with evident constraint. Dorcas at last noticed her manner, and, looking up from a purse she was knitting, exclaimed, "My child, are you not well?

Why do you seem so much oppressed?"

This was all the young heart required to unburthen itself. She flung her arms round her aunt's neck, and burst into tears. "Dear, dear aunt!" she sobbed; "forgive me--forgive Minnie--for deceiving you, though not for long, dear aunt."

"My child, what do you mean? Good heavens! what has occurred?" and she folded her arms around her.

"Aunt, I have wickedly deceived you," sobbed the girl still; "I--I----."

She was unable to continue for her tears.

"Tell me, Minnie, my own dear child; I forgive you before knowing,"

exclaimed the gentle woman. "I am sure you exaggerate some slight fault; be calm, tell me all: what do you mean?"

For some moments Minnie could not summon courage to reply; then at last, by a supreme effort, she confessed her many accidental meetings with Miles Tremenhere at first, and this one by appointment.

"Dear Aunty," she whispered, "I know now how very wrong it has been; but I feared telling you, lest you should betray me to the others. And though I know you will be just, they would not perhaps, but by coercion, endeavour to force me to their wills; they have spoken of such things, and I couldn't bear that!"

Dorcas was pained beyond measure. Her surprise left her speechless; for the suspicions instilled into Juvenal's mind by Burton, were strangers to her. Sylvia, we have seen, was on a wrong road altogether; thus, she had been kept in complete ignorance. She durst scarcely question her niece: she feared lest some new sorrow might come to light--some positive engagement. In her alarm, she dreaded almost to hear that they were married. Minnie mistook her silence, and, clasping her again in her arms, besought her not to betray her. "I was so wretched in deceiving you," she cried; "but do not let my uncle, or aunt Sylvia, know; and oh, not Dora!" And she shuddered with a blind terror, not seeing the phantom of her fear: "They will lock me up, and be unkind, and harsh--I know they will; and then I will answer for nothing I may do!"

"Minnie, Minnie--my child--my own child, do not say such things--there,"

and she fondly kissed her; "be calm; you have done wrong, but no one shall know it, so you promise me never to meet him again without my knowledge."

"I promise all, aunt--my mother; for indeed you have been one to the motherless child. I never will conceal any thing again from you; and you won't tell Dora?"

"No one, Minnie; but why especially not Dora?"

Minnie looked down in thought. "It is not my secret," she said at last, looking in Dorcas's face; "but I will tell you, for I cannot understand it." And she related the morning's meeting between the two. Dorcas started! "Something of this Sylvia has hinted to me," she said; "how did she know it? I paid little attention to it, she fancies so many things."

"She must have been in the garden, too!" exclaimed Minnie. "It is a strange mystery; for Dora professes to hate him, and is always speaking against him to me."

"Beware, my child!" said her aunt, sadly; "men, they say, are deceitful.

Take a lesson of what his father was; for we have _no proof_, however we may believe his mother innocent. Then his cousin, Marmaduke Burton, is a wicked, bad man." She thought of Mary Burns. "Wickedness often takes root, as a canker in a family: this Miles Tremenhere----"

"Oh!" cried Minnie, with a glowing face, "do not say he is a bad man, dear aunt, for my sake;" and she grasped her hand, and the eye filled with the tears of a n.o.ble soul defending an oppressed person: "he is all goodness--worth. Think to what he has devoted himself; but you do not know all." And here the quick tongue depicted all his wrongs--his labour of duty and love, for his mother's sake.

Dorcas sighed deeply. "Minnie," she said, "you love this man. Oh!

promise me to see him no more. If really he love you, he will struggle for a good purpose _alone_. I will see him, and should he prove himself hereafter worthy of you, you are a mere child; well, you can wait for the proof of his affection, in his constancy."

Much more was said. Dorcas was lost in perplexity how to act for the best; she, the ignorant woman in all the affairs of the heart. One thing she promised, to see and calmly listen to Tremenhere; she was too truly just a woman to mar Minnie's happiness for any whim of her own. Much as she would have wished Skaife to be her niece's choice, she resolved to weigh all well; and if Tremenhere hereafter proved himself worthy of the girl, to support their affections in every way. Still she hoped it was a merely pa.s.sing fancy, which would soon, in absence, be forgotten by both; for he must shortly leave--this Minnie had a.s.sured her--and for the present there was nothing to fear. In this mood she dismissed Minnie fondly; and, closing her door, sat down to ruminate on what was to be done. As a last resource, she determined to confide in the confidant of all, Mrs. Gillett, and ask her advice; she, as a matron, might be enabled to guide her more ignorant thoughts in such matters. But with the worthy housekeeper her comfort was small. We have said that this good woman made a point of never betraying the confidence of one person to another; nevertheless, she reserved to herself the satisfaction of casting forth on the troubled waters around her, her innuendoes, which, as an invariable rule, troubled them still more. Thus she left Dorcas in the most uncomfortable state of doubt and fear, above both of which feelings there predominated a dread that Miles Tremenhere was a villain, trifling, for some unworthy purpose, with the affections of both her nieces, whom, by strange chance, he had become acquainted with. While she sat with Mrs. Gillett, Minnie was above in her room, much happier and light-hearted for the confidence she had made to her "dear aunty,"

and full of love and faith in Tremenhere. Lady Ripley and her daughter returned from Ripon, and thus diversified many gloomy thoughts and fears, by their presence. Minnie and Dora warmly embraced. Minnie's first movement was all delight at seeing her cousin again; and Dora, the seemingly cold Dora, held her in her arms in one long embrace. But it was an _awkward_ kiss--in the midst of it Minnie thought of Tremenhere and her cousin! A kiss should be all self-absorbing; the moment you are sufficiently collected to _think_, the embrace should cease, for the fire is extinct, and only ashes remain on the lip. Both girls simultaneously loosened their hold of one another, and turned away. Somehow, both actions arose from one cause--Miles. Dinner was over: Juvenal had been in a state of the greatest discomfort all the time; he ate little or nothing, snapped at every one. Dorcas was thoughtful; so was Minnie. Lady Ripley alone was in spirits; something had pleased her on her journey; she had learned that Lord Randolph Gray, whom she had mentally decided upon as Dora's husband, would shortly be in town. Dora was calm, though rather pensively disposed, when suddenly Sylvia awoke the bright blush in her cheek, and a displeased and amazed frown on her brow, by remarking, "Dora, you look paler than when you left us; I fear you have not taken your usually early walk before breakfast." And before any one could reply, asked, as if the previous sentence were allied to the latter question--"How far is it from Gatestone to Ripon?--I mean to----Court, where you were staying?"

"About ten miles, I think, are there not, Dora?" said Lady Ripley.

"A mere canter for a gentleman before breakfast," observed Sylvia, before the other could reply. Several looked embarra.s.sed, for various reasons. Lady Dora was deeply confused, and evidently still more annoyed and amazed. Juvenal alone seemed a stranger to all conversation, only busy with his own thoughts. Now and then he looked at his watch, then at the door. At last, a horse's hoof sounded on the gravelled drive, outside the window; the bell rung, and, a few moments afterwards, Marmaduke Burton was ushered in. He looked paler than usual, and his hand trembled as he shook hands with all, but Minnie, who merely bowed; as she did so, he bit his lip, and a cold smile of triumph pa.s.sed over his face. At that moment, the servant opened the door.

"If you please, sir," he said, addressing Burton, "the groom bade me say 'Viper' is not with your horse; and, as he always accompanies you, he thought you must have lost him."

"I have," answered the other, scowling malignantly; "he's dead!"

"Dead!" exclaimed Juvenal. "Why, you had him to-day!"

"True, Formby; never mind now--he's dead;" and he turned to Lady Dora, and made some commonplace remark.

Before we proceed further, we will step back to where Marmaduke Burton quitted the manor-house that evening, followed by his dog, in the good guardianship of which he had much faith. Juvenal had consulted with him on the best plan to be pursued as regarded Minnie; and it had been decided upon, that Marmaduke should drop in, as if accidentally, in the evening, and that then her uncle should, thus fortified, lecture her before "a friend of the family," on her great imprudence. This was the very worst plan which could have been adopted with a girl of her spirit.

Any thing just, might have been accomplished by kindness; but bad management, and too many to order and control, had deteriorated the character of an else perfect creature. Minnie was a little headstrong and wilful, having too much good sense blindly to submit to injustice.

Burton antic.i.p.ated the results: he really loved her as much as he could love; he thought, by judiciously taking her part, to win her grat.i.tude--a great step, when he saw her every feeling went against him; and, should she be resolute in her rejection, from want of affection, or even toleration of him, perhaps a feeling of shame to know, that he might blight her good name elsewhere, by speaking of her secret meetings with Miles, might weigh with her prudence. Any thing, so he gained her, now more than ever, for he no longer could doubt a mutual attachment, though, perhaps, not very firmly knit, between her and his cousin. Thus ruminating, he quitted home on a bright summer's evening. The manor-house was about three miles, by the road, from Gatestone. His horse's rein was on its neck, his dog at the animal's heels, when suddenly a man, in a turning in the road, stood before him. One glance was sufficient for Marmaduke. Had he dared, he would have turned hastily homewards again; something like shame withheld him.

"Stop!" cried Miles, calmly standing before his horse's head, and grasping the rein. "One word, cousin Marmaduke!"

"Unhand the rein!" exclaimed the other, "or I will spur the animal over you, fellow!"

"Pshaw!" said Miles, contemptuously, "you'll but unhorse yourself; I wish not to detain you long--a few brief words will suffice; do not be alarmed, I have come without a cudgel to-night, so hear me quietly."

"I swear to you!" cried Burton, though his voice slightly trembled with an alarm Miles ever inspired him with. "Unless you loosen your hold, and let me pa.s.s, I will do as I said--one p.r.i.c.k of my rowel in his flank, and this good servant of mine will pa.s.s over you; but I do not wish to harm you."

"No; or else you would bid your familiar there at your side, attack me!"

Burton in his terror had forgotten Viper, who stood at his side, shewing his range of huge tusks, ready at a word to spring upon Miles, whom he knew for an enemy. Burton raised his hand in signal.

"Stop him!" cried Miles, still grasping the horse firmly. "I would not kill the brave brute, but I tell you I am prepared to do so--for hear me you shall. I mean no violence, I have never interfered with you, save when your coward acts obliged me; leave me in peace, and I will not war with you, except on our day of retribution, _for it will come_--but I have something to say to you to-day----"

Before he could complete the sentence, at a quiet signal from his master, Viper flew at his throat; at the same moment, Marmaduke gave the rowel into the horse's flank, which sprang forward. This spring threw Viper back, or else the day had been Burton's in flight, for the dog aimed at the other's throat. Miles was firm, and on his guard against treachery. The dog reeled with a blow from the horse's shoulder; Miles drew the rein with a jerk, which almost brought the animal on his haunches, and Marmaduke from his saddle. Quick as thought Miles drew a small pocket-pistol from his bosom, and just as Viper was making a second rush towards him, he shot him dead. Burton groaned with terror.