Miles Tremenhere Volume Ii Part 24

"Strange! Lady Dora--you use a wrong term, I think; there is nothing strange in a natural action. Mr. Burton, to do him justice, is tall, gentlemanly in appearance, can converse on general topics most agreeable to ladies, dances very well--and what more does a lady require?"

"True--for all this you speak freely and truthfully; but you forget the character of the man--you forget----"

"And pray, my dear Lady Dora, what _has_ character to do with a schottische or a polka? Even if a man be a slanderer, a liar, (pardon me the harsh, but truthful word,) and coward, the two first will not prevent his paying just compliments to your beauty, nor the last make him fail in keeping the time of a _deux temps_, though it _might_ that of a hostile meeting, to answer for the two first."

"You are bitter, Mr. Tremenhere."

"Bitter! and towards him?" and he laughed. "No; pardon me, I feel too thorough a contempt for the man to waste bitterness upon him; I reserve that for those who may yet be saved by a little wholesome bark, or quinine, medicinally speaking."

"Expend it then on me. You _must_ despise, or condemn me; you cannot approve."

"I do not judge you, Lady Dora; I do but try to hand down to posterity those perfect features of yours, and you sadly distort them," and he laid down his palette. "You are grieved, vexed; has any thing annoyed you? Can I serve you? Pray, command me!"

Minnie had crept from behind the bed. An irresistible impulse impelled her to do so when she found herself alone, and knew Lady Dora to be unaccompanied by any one, with Tremenhere. And pale, almost lifeless, she leaned against the door, and--oh! most scrupulous reader, forgive the fault!--listened.

"Mr. Tremenhere!" Lady Dora cried, rising hastily in reply to his question, and standing pale, erect, but trembling; "I would ask you,--I--I am in a position of much suffering." She clasped her hands together as if to still her nervous pain. "I would ask you," she uttered, "whether your memory is perfect?"

"In all things, Lady Dora," was the calm reply.

"Do you remember when first we met in Florence?"

"Well--well. I was then a man, comparatively speaking, full of hope; now----"

"And you loved _then_. You (better said) loved me, and I treated your half-avowed affection with scorn; that was pride!" She spoke in hurried confusion.

"True--most true!" he uttered.

"You quitted, believing me a cold, heartless flirt. You met, and married my cousin; was this love, or--pique?"

"I cannot answer, lady, till I know why you ask."

"Since her death" (the words fell in cold awe from her lips) "we have met often, and on each occasion words of implied tenderness fell from your tongue."

Neither heard the almost groan from the sinking woman, leaning against the half-closed door to the bedroom.

"All these I was deaf to, and I accepted Lord Randolph as my future husband. This, too, was pride."

Tremenhere stood looking earnestly at her, as one of her hands nervously played on the back of a chair; but he did not utter a word, though the deep, speaking eye was fixed upon her.

"Man!" she cried at last, stamping her foot with energy; "do you not see how I suffer? Pride--woman's delicacy--all are forgotten. Tremenhere, I love you! For this love I accepted your cousin's attention, hateful as he was to me, to urge you to say the last words; for all but those have been said between us. Tremenhere, for mercy's sake," she cried impetuously, "do not stand looking on me thus; but say those words at last!"

"Lady Dora," he said, as a deep sigh of heartfelt joy struggled upwards, but his tone was calm and low, and he approached and clasped her hand, "_now_ I will answer you. When we met in Florence I could have loved you; I thought I did, till I measured the error afterwards by the intensity of my love for Minnie. When I brought her, a child almost, to my artist's home, who came and upheld that child? who came, and by her presence gave countenance to our love? Did you--did any? True, after a while, a few tardy visits were paid! But when I, fiendlike, drove her by my pa.s.sions to become a wanderer--who sought her out to cheer and uphold? I blamed you less even then than now; for now you have shewn me how despotic your will can be, when it pleases you to be so! Love you!"

he cried, striding across the room and dragging back the curtain before the statue of his wife--"love you, Lady Dora! the cold, heartless woman of the world; with this too looked upon--the marble dream of my adored, my murdered Minnie! Oh no, no!" he added, almost weeping. "By the long, long nights I watched, creating this memory--by her purity, which I now know too late--I scorn you, Lady Dora; and, unmanly as it may seem, have trifled with your semblance of heart, your vanity in short, to open the eyes of a worthy man, too worthy for you--Lord Randolph."

She had stood transfixed by horror, crushed in her pride, and bending to earth. As he spoke the last words, a heavy fall in the bedroom resounded in their ears. She turned hastily, and in terror gazing at the door, through which he pa.s.sed in haste. Not a thought of the truth burst upon him as he raised the closely enveloped and veiled figure, fainting on the ground. Placing her on a couch, he hurriedly tore off the bonnet to give her air; as he did so, the long fair hair rolled heavily to the ground, which it swept. He uttered a cry; it was one of pain and fear--for one hurried moment something supernatural crept through his blood and stilled it--then drawing near the couch, as if a spirit lay there, he gently lifted back the fallen hair, and gliding on one knee, gazed with distended eyes on the pale, unconscious face, then, placing his lips near hers, he held his own breath to feel if she breathed. A gentle sigh came over his cheek--with that sigh the truth rushed almost in maddening power over his mind. One loud cry came from his soul; and clasping her in his arms he strained her to his breast, and wild, hysteric sobs burst from his lips, but the eyes were burning and tearless.

"Minnie--Minnie!" he sobbed; "speak to me--my wife--my Minnie, speak to me!"

But though the blue eyes opened, and tried to comprehend all, they were haggard and without speculation. By degrees memory returned; and the first look of terror pa.s.sing, the languid arms raised above the head on her bosom, and grew in a circle round his neck, and strained him to her heart.

"Miles!" she whispered, "it would have killed me if----" she glanced towards the door. "Let us together thank that unfailing power," she uttered, "which has kept us from sin, and through so much sorrow, in faith and love," and the trembling knees clung to the ground beside where he knelt supporting her; and the eyes, pure as an angel's, looked upwards in prayer, while his arms clasped her, and the speechless lips were pressed on the upraised hands which pleaded for both.

Lady Dora had stood unnoticed in the doorway, when he rushed in. No words can convey an idea of her mingled sensations. At a glance she guessed the truth--'twas Minnie in life. As she stood, a hand touched her arm.

"Lady Dora," said a grave voice, "I was there." He pointed to the saloon. "An open door permitted me to enter, and hear all. I meant not to listen--your words arrested me. Come, let me take you to Lady Ripley's; _this_ is no place for you."

She started--gazed on him--then, all her pride coming to her aid, she cried haughtily--

"My lord, I need no counsellor; I can act alone!"

And, hastily throwing on her bonnet and shawl, she quitted the studio.

Lord Randolph stood an instant, then, taking up a pencil, wrote on a card, and placed it on the easel:--

"Heaven bless you both! Tremenhere, when you call me to your joy, I shall rejoice with you, indeed!

"RANDOLPH."

Skaife returned, and let himself in with the key which he had taken; but he was not alone. When he quitted the apartment, he hurried off (as men very often do) to a woman for advice; and now he entered with Mary and little Miles, resolved to tell all boldly. But when he arrived all had been said, and, creeping to the bedroom door, he saw Minnie's head on Tremenhere's beating heart, and his other arm clasped round her, as though he still dreaded some power might separate them again. Her face was upturned to his, whose deep, dark eyes were riveted on every look, as she told him all. Skaife moved aside, and Mary crept in. Miles looked up; but he could not for an instant loose his grasp, or move. Mary came quietly on, and round the mother's neck were clasped the arms of her child. Miles started. One glance told him all the truth. Something thrilled through him. It was what he once expressed--"Minnie, I should be jealous of my own child;" but the momentary gleam of that fatal pa.s.sion left, ere matured, and, folding both in one clasp, his tears unrestrained baptized their re-union of love.

"_You_ did this!" he cried, grasping the hands of Skaife and Mary, as he pointed to his boy's portrait in his mother's arms. "Thank you; it was n.o.bly done, and oh, a lovely thought!"

Tremenhere had married Minnie dowerless; but what a rich fortune she laid before him in the proofs of his mother's fame! It was only by degrees Minnie told him all she had suffered--all her vain search for d'Estrees, until aided from on high, whence comes all for good, though our little minds cannot always see it thus. For without these trials he would never have overcome his jealousy--never have been truly happy.

What a room that saloon was of overflowing joy, as Tremenhere, Minnie, Mary, Skaife, and d'Estrees, sat and talked of the past and future! Nor must we forget the child, sleeping on its mother's knee, beneath the loving eyes which watched him!

Lady Dora and her mother quitted Paris hastily for Switzerland; the former, whose wishes were law, broke off all engagement, as the latter believed, with Lord Randolph, without a.s.signing any cause, and insisted upon leaving France; but the rupture was by mutual consent. Nothing would have induced him to marry her, after the conversation he overheard.

Lady Lysson and himself were the first to call upon and congratulate Tremenhere and his wife. Lord Randolph confided all to her, except, as a feeling of honour, Lady Dora's confession; and, beneath the patronage of Lady Lysson, the young couple became the lions of the place, which they were shortly quitting, to solace those who still mourned Minnie, and whom she wished to surprise so joyfully. And who may depict that happiness? 'Twas like the throwing off of some horrid nightmare, which had oppressed all in a long, heavy sleep. Skaife went before, to prepare them for it.

Dorcas, who had hoped to see the child, held once more to her heart the living mother. Juvenal wept in childish mirth, as he clasped her in his arms, and sued for pardon. Sylvia, even _then_, could not forbear her old habits, but called to Minnie's mind, again and again, all she had suffered through Miles's treachery, (as she termed it)--imploring her to be cautious for the future, for of course it was in him, and would break out somewhere. She never could expect to be a perfectly happy woman; there were things she _always_ must remember, and would do well to do so! She could _never really_ love him again, but _perhaps_ a re-union was wiser than a separation!

However, despite all, Minnie _did_ look happy, for Miles was beside her; and Juvenal shook hands warmly with him, too, and Farmer Weld and buxom Sally.

Marmaduke Burton followed Lady Dora to Switzerland, and both, in utter ignorance of D'Estree's revelations, from the same motive--revenge towards Tremenhere--entered into a hasty marriage, the bell of which had scarcely rung, when a trumpet resounded, summoning him to yield up the manor-house to the incontestable proof of Miles's legitimacy.

Minnie would fain, if it might have been, have spared her cousin so severe a blow; but the honour of her husband was more to her than all.

And when the day of triumph came, and the bells rang out in praise of "good Madam Tremenhere's son"--and the carriage, though plain and unostentatious, drove up with him, his fair smiling wife, and child, one loud shout rang through the air; and, turning from the many, Tremenhere, with a warm clasp, grasped the hand of Farmer Weld, and presented him to Minnie as the truest friend of his day of shadow.

And Skaife, d'Estrees, all were there; the latter became the tutor nominally of little Miles, and friend of both his doating parents. Mrs.

Gillett!--who may speak of her? How she cried, and laughed, and dreamed all sorts of _couleur de rose_ dreams; and how she appeared for the first time in her life with a profusion of white satin ribbons in her cap! Mary remained in Paris, happy in the joy of others, which she had helped to create anew; prospering, content, and more, grateful for the peace Heaven had sent to repentance. Spring pa.s.sed, Summer came, then Autumn, then Christmas; and despite Sylvia's prognostications, "that little Miles was a doomed child, for he looked it!"--the boy throve, and lisped papa and mamma to a large circle of friends round the Christmas fire at the manor-house. Among others were the faces of Lord Randolph, Lady Lysson, Skaife, Juvenal, now rosy and himself again, Dorcas, _not_ Sylvia, she had a toothache which did not improve her temper, and therefore stayed at home alone; for Mrs. Gillett presided over some luxuries of her own handiwork, for the table. All were smiling and happy, and in the gallery of family paintings hung "Aurora chasing the Shades of Night," in which Minnie's lovely face shone; for she had indeed brought light to Tremenhere's heart and home. None might have known him; he was as we have never seen him; for, in the midst of the gaiety of those now joyous halls, he looked up, and beheld his mother's picture smiling on the son who had loved, and suffered so much for her.

And when the ringing laughter or falling footsteps were stilled, on the quiet ear sounded the tick-tack, tick-tack, tick-tack, of the old hall clock, now transferred to the manor-house.

Let us end with a moral we have tried to carry out in these pages. If curses like chickens come home to roost, a.s.suredly our good deeds bring nestling joys to our bosom, nor is a cup of cold water cast on the earth.

THE END.