Miles Tremenhere Volume I Part 5

Tremenhere stopped as if transfixed by a bolt of iron, and stared in speechless wonder in his companion's face. Skaife continued speaking, mistaking the dark cloud of demoniacal expression crossing that handsome face, for indignation towards himself for his free speech; for this he little cared.

"Mr. Burton's ardent, but heartless, pursuit of the girl till her ruin ensued, proves a deeper motive, I fear, than pa.s.sion; the same revenge towards you, may urge----" He said no more.

"Stop!" cried Miles, in a voice of thunder, and he grasped the other's arm, and arrested his footsteps. His whole power of utterance above a whisper seemed to have been expended in that one word; for his voice became a mere breath like a dying man's, as he asked, while that strong, robust frame tottered beneath his heart's weight in his agony, "Do I understand you aright, that Mary Burns has been seduced, and by Marmaduke Burton?"

"Alas, yes! I thought you understood so from your words in that cottage." Poor Skaife was pale with emotion; the other had not changed, his blood stood still, only the muscles had given way beneath the blow.

There was a long silence; Miles still grasped his arm till it fell from that clasp at last, powerless to hold it--they were near the stile leading into the lane where Mary's cottage was situated.

"Does Miss Dalzell know this?" inquired Miles, as if one thought, rushing with the many through his brain, found an outlet.

"The ruin, but not the man," answered Skaife.

"G.o.d bless her, then!" burst from the suffering man's lips, and with that blessing the blood flowed once more through his frame. It was as a gush of molten lead, forcing its way outwards, burning as it rushed; his face became dark and lurid, and his flashing eyes looked wildly forward.

"I have not words to thank you with, for all you have done," he cried in a hoa.r.s.e, unnatural voice, grasping Skaife's hand. "We shall soon, very soon, meet again;" and with one bound he cleared the stile, and almost like thought stood before the terrified Mary Burns, who had sunk in a chair when they departed, almost fainting, from fear of the result of their conversation; and now she felt how well grounded that terror had been when Miles strode into the cottage. She knew his ungovernable pa.s.sion when excited by injury or villainy in another--in her terror she rose before him: "Miles!" she almost screamed.

"Not Miles!" he cried, "but the spirit of his mother returned to condemn you; an angel who breathed on you from her own pure lip, who strove to instil her purity into your polluted soul--Devil's child!" and he grasped her trembling arm--he was pitiless, scarcely human, in his rage then--as he continued, "to hear such counsels, to breathe the atmosphere of such a presence, and turn to your h.e.l.l again! Could not even her dying blessing, which fell united on both of us, cleanse you? Could you find no fitter object for your impure love than him, the man who has branded her memory with so foul a stain, who has driven her son, almost your brother, forth, a beggar, and nameless! If there's one drop of human blood in you, woman, shed it in tears for your baseness! Oh, heavens!" and he looked fixedly forward like a man in a trance, "give me power to call down on this creature the reward of her foul work!"

"Do not curse me, Miles," she shrieked, dropping on her knees and clasping them, "have mercy on me--have mercy on me!"

It was a fearful picture on which the curate at that moment looked unseen through the open door; _they_, in their agony, and the poor old mother totally unconscious of all, some happy thoughts evidently crossing her mind, for she was smiling, and endeavouring to rub her paralyzed hands together at the joyous dream. Skaife involuntarily drew back, and leaned against the door-post to keep away other witnesses, should the voices within attract notice in the adjoining cottages.

Miles's hand was pa.s.sed painfully over his face and brow--he had flung his hat aside.

"Have pity, Miles!" she cried, her eyes streaming with tears which nearly choked her, as she clasped her hands, and kneeling, looked up to where he stood, for he had shaken her off as she clung to him. "But if you knew what dreadful struggles of nearly maddening power ground my heart down to bitterness, and _revenge_," (she almost whispered the last word,) "before I committed this fearful sin against myself, _you_, and, far more than all, the memory of your sainted mother, you might find some excuse. You cannot forget how my presumptuous heart, forgetting all but her more than woman's kindness, dared to lose sight, from her gentleness, of the distance between us, and loved you. You cannot forget the day I dreamed you returned it, and boldly confessed mine; you were calm, dignified, manly, and generous, when you said you never could return it--that I had mistaken you, and you hoped myself, and when you drew me to your heart with a _brother's_ love--Oh, may you never know such humiliation as _I_ felt then, which turned to a blacker feeling afterwards, fostered by him; for when you, for my sake, absented yourself from home for months, you cannot know how this weak heart was worked upon by _him_. He had seen all, guessed all; and, unsuspecting his motives, I one day confessed the truth to him. From that hour he became the friend, the comforter; he alone spoke hope to me--a hope his every action discredited faith in. Then your mother died; events were drawing to a close; you returned, no thought of love in your heart; I repressed my mad affection for you, but I was weighed to earth by the effort. I was but a girl of eighteen in a villain's hands, when the downfall of all came; your father's death, your banishment----"

"And did not all these sad events, Mary," and his voice was low and trembling as he looked down upon the cowering woman, "soften your heart to pity, not revenge? Our affections are not our own; we are not masters of these but by many a hard struggle. I never could have loved you more than as a sister: it was not pride, Mary; we have none of that with those we love. I loved you very truly for your own sake, for the sake of our happy days of childhood together, and for my mother's sake." As the last words fell from him, the man, for a moment spirit-broken and agonized, sunk down on a chair, and, leaning his head on his arm across the table, wept like any woman over the ruin before him, and his memory of another. He had not one selfish thought; he was iron for himself,--for others, as a child at heart in love and gentleness. She rose, and, creeping to his side, took the hand which, clenched in its agony, rested on his knee, and, dropping on hers, she covered it with tears and kisses. "Forgive me, Miles," she sobbed, "for you know not all I endured of trial before I fell. He told me you had scoffed at my love--to him. It was not the work of a day or hour; it is nearly eight long years since you quitted this place; for more than four we have not met; for less than that s.p.a.ce I have been the guilty creature I now am!"

Insensibly his hand unclenched and clasped her's; she continued sobbing between each scarcely-articulate word, "When, by every artifice man could employ, he led me to error; and, ever since, this most bitter repentance. 'Twas done under the promise of making me his wife, to show _you_ that _he_ appreciated my worth. And when he said you not only had repulsed my love, but scorned it----"

"He lied, Mary, he lied!" articulated the sorrowing man, looking up; "from _me_ he never heard of our love; he must have divined it."

"G.o.d help me!" she uttered, kissing his clasping hand, "for I have suffered much; and it was my refusal (for years now) to continue in my error, which has made him persecute me so of late. I told him last time we met, that _I loved you still, and ever should_." These last words were scarcely breathed.

"Heaven help you, my poor girl!" cried Miles, looking at her as he placed a hand gently on her head; "for what can that love bring you?--Sorrow and disheartenment in every effort for existence; a log to hamper every step of your pathway to independence! Rise up, Mary," and he drew her on his heart; "come what may, my girl, these arms will shelter you still from the cold, heartless world. I am richer now, Mary, and to-morrow you and that poor old woman shall leave this place; and once away, oh, then!----" He spoke the last words with a stern resolution.

"What, Miles?" and she clasped his clenched hand in her's, and gazed terrified in his flashing eyes.

"I'll return to my home abroad," he uttered, dropping them to conceal _their_ speech, lest she should read aright.

CHAPTER VI.

"I'm sure," said Sylvia Formby, rocking herself backwards and forwards in her chair, about an hour after Minnie's return, "I don't know what _can_ be done with this girl; she certainly is a dreadful cause of anxiety to all, and especially to poor me!" She was one of those who delighted in being miserable. One would really have imagined, from her manner and conversation about her, that Minnie was one of the very worst girls in existence--an unruly, impossible-to-govern creature. Aunt Sylvia was in her own room; and opposite to her, shaking her head in sorrowing sympathy, perched on the edge of a chair, sat Mrs. Gillett.

"Young ladies is a dreadful responsibility," e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the latter guardedly, (it was safe speaking in general terms;) "all ar'n't as you was, Miss Sylvia!"

"I'm sure I don't know what _is_ to be done with my niece," continued the other, unnoticing the compliment. "I feel some harm will happen to her, if she be not married out of the way. What with your master's obstinacy, and Miss Dorcas's dulness of comprehension, the girl will a.s.suredly be lost unless I exert myself."

"In coorse, Miss," ventured the listener.

"She never will marry the squire; that she positively a.s.serts, and her manner proves it. Then, Mr. Skaife--what is he? Only a poor curate, who has just bread enough for himself, and nothing to spare; and she don't like him. Now, Mr. Dalby has the whole patronage of the neighbourhood, except Mr. Burton's, and he's a very charming man: what more can she desire?"

"And he'll have Squire Burton's business again, Miss; that's for sartain, for they were seen walking together yesterday."

"I don't exactly know how he lost it," said Sylvia. "Do you?"

"All along _of_ Miss Minnie," was the response. "Mr. Dalby, when the old squire died, Mr. Tremenhere, conducted the business for Mr. Burton; indeed he had known the facts long before, they say--that is, the servants say; howsomdever, since they both have been coming a-coortin'

Miss, they haven't been such friends. But I'll tell you what I think, Miss Sylvia," here the sybil lowered her voice to a whisper--"and mind I'm seldom wrong, and I wouldn't say this to any one but yourself--I believe, if Miss isn't looked after, just for contrariness sake, if he stays hereabouts, she'll get a-coortin' with that young Mr. Tremenhere!"

"An illegitimate child!" shrieked the virtuous Sylvia, in horror.

"Yes, Miss Sylvia, with him; and, as you say, it's dreadful, for he hasn't a name in the world to call his own, except Miles, and what sort of a _cognation_, as master calls it, is that for her to marry? He hasn't his father's nor his mother's; he's a outlaw, and any one that pleased might shoot him like a dog, I hear."

Sylvia had only heard a portion of this sentence, the prophecy about Miles and Minnie. She had extraordinary faith in the worldly perceptiveness of Mrs. Gillett. She anxiously inquired the foundation for the other's suspicion; but the good generalship of the matron forbade any undue confidence respecting her reasons, merely contenting herself with alarming her listener to the fullest extent of her powers, by persisting in her belief, as arising _princ.i.p.ally_, she laid a stress on this word, thereby implying that she held back more cogent articles for her belief, from the fact of Miss Minnie's own statement, that she had been walking with this Miles Tremenhere, for to no one would this very politic woman confess, that she had recognised him herself at a glance. Mrs. Gillett was a very cautious person indeed, one of those whose opinions would never choke them from a too hasty formation of them, nor her words leave a bitterness in her mouth from an inconsiderate utterance of them. She was a perfect reflector, throwing her light upon others, and not suffering thereby herself. Minnie had a sorry day of it; first, Sylvia had lectured her, then Juvenal, and lastly, Dorcas commenced questioning, but this latter did it, as she ever acted with her beloved niece, in kindness. As for the others, they would fain have bent her to their separate wills; but Minnie had learned to judge for herself coolly and dispa.s.sionately, else where would she have been, occurring as it did, that all three had fixed upon a different object for her husband? To Dorcas she was all affection, rendering full justice to that aunt's interest in her, and correct judgment; but it so happens that in affairs of the heart, our very dearest and best friends are too frequently incapable of judging what would be most conducive to our real happiness, though, in a mere worldly point of view, they may be right. A little counsel, a little guidance, and much sincere interest in our welfare, are the best methods after all; _certainly not_ coercion, that makes us infallibly look with premature dislike on the one for whom we are persecuted.

"I do wonder, dear aunt," said Minnie to the one she loved so well, "why you are so anxious to make me marry, never having done so yourself--how is it?"

The truth never crossed Minnie's mind. Dorcas looked down, and a pale blush of something resembling shame crossed her cheek; then she looked up with candour and affection. "My dear child," she said, "Sylvia would not perhaps like my telling the exact truth, which is this, that in fact no one ever asked either of us!"

"Is it possible!" exclaimed her niece, amazed beyond measure. How could she, worried as she was by an excess of suitors, guess the extraordinary position of a woman who never had one? and aunt Dorcas had been a.s.suredly pretty, and still was very comely. "My dear aunt," she cried again, after a silence of thought on both sides. "It must have been your own fault. Oh! pray, endeavour to induce Sylvia to seek a husband for herself, and leave me alone; or do make her busy herself for uncle, and then you and I shall be at peace. I shouldn't like _you_ to marry. I'm very selfish, dear aunt; but I should be so much afraid of losing your love," and she fondly kissed her cheek.

"I never shall now, dear Minnie; but when you marry, you will love another better than me--I shall only be your aunt, and so it should be."

"Do you know," answered her niece, fixing her sweet eyes upon her, "I often think I never shall marry; I have heard so much about it, that the subject has become quite distasteful to me."

"Oh! you will change your mind, Minnie, when the one you can, and _should_ love, comes."

"What do you mean, aunt, by should love?"

"There are those in the world we ought to guard our affections against; their loss might bring misery."

"Whom are they? would--would, now, supposing an impossible case--would Mr. Tremenhere, if he loved me, be such a one?"

"Why do you think of him, child?" and her aunt looked scrutinizingly in her face.

"Oh, because," answered the blushing Minnie, "he is the first stranger I have met likely to enter into my ideas of such a case: all the constant visitors here have the consent of some one of my relatives,--the mere acquaintances I meet when we go any where, have nothing against them,--I daresay, if I liked one of them, every one of you would, though perhaps reluctantly, say 'yes;' but Mr. Tremenhere--he is different, poor fellow! How I pity him! I do indeed, aunt, and he is so agreeable."

The aunt, unworldly wise as she was, had fallen into a reverie; before she aroused herself to reply, the sound of carriage-wheels without drew her attention to the window. Minnie was the first there,--"Whom have we here? two ladies!" Her aunt was beside her.

"Why Minnie, these are your aunts, Lady Ripley and Dora!" exclaimed she.

"That Dora!" cried her niece, as a tall handsome girl stepped from the carriage; "how altered she is,--I wonder if she will know me?" and though something like a chill had fallen on her heart at sight of her cousin, she sprang across the room to meet her. It was not Dora's beauty which had pained Minnie--she did not know what jealousy was then, certainly, of mere personal charms--but it was the chilling influence of pride which spoke in every movement of her cousin; even in the act of stepping from her carriage, she looked like a priestess of that spirit, following in her footsteps. As she entered the hall, Minnie--simple and beautiful Minnie--stood half abashed before her. Dora's fine eyes were wandering over the group, as she coldly returned the embraces of her aunt Sylvia and Juvenal; at last they rested on Minnie, who had just appeared,--the cold smile warmed, and the cousins were in each other's arms.

"Dear Minnie!" said Dora, "I have longed so much to see you," and she embraced her tenderly.

"I was afraid you would have forgotten me," answered the delighted girl.