"Just so, Mrs. Gillett," he said; "just as you say. I am _not_ treated
like the master in my own house; no one consults or obeys me. As for my
niece, she opposes me in every possible way!"
"Oh! that's a pity, I'm sure," said the commiserating listener, shaking
her head; "that shouldn't be, you know: it's very wrong."
"So I tell her," continued he, "but she persists in it, and
unhesitatingly insults Marmaduke Burton before my face--something about
some trees; I don't exactly know what she meant, but _he_ did, and
walked away quite offended."
"Trees?" asked Gillett, musingly; "trees? Ay, that must be it! When
Squire Burton came to the property, he was much in debt, they said, and
he cut down a lot of fine old oaks about the place: don't you call it to
mind, sir?"
"To be sure I do," he answered, his hair almost on end at this solution
of Minnie's riddle--"What a wicked thing for a girl of her age to say,
on purpose to hurt his feelings, and I was so anxious for the match!"
"I've always remarked," rejoined his companion, dropping her words one
by one sententiously, "that the children of military men have more devil
in them than others, more quarrelsome-like; depend upon it, 'tis what
they're brought up with." She spoke as if they were young cannibals, fed
upon the trophies of war around a blazing fire; as, says an old song
there, "Where my forefathers feasted on the blood of Christians."
"Very likely!" ejaculated Juvenal, who was growing prosy and stultified
by her reasonings, and his own over-thinking.
"And yet her father was a poor, maimed, one-armed man after all, not at
all like a soldier. I often wondered how Baby, poor child, could love
him!"
Juvenal evidently thought that a son of Mars should, literally and of
necessity, be a man of _arms_. "But what's to be done with Minnie?" he
uttered thoughtfully. "It would be very dreadful were she to marry the
poor curate, or even the lawyer; for her own fortune is a mere trifle.
Almost all her mother's portion was spent in paying off Dalzell's debts.
I am living, and am obliged to live, quite up to my income; her aunts
can give her nothing until their death. What is to be done, Mrs.
Gillett? pray, advise me how to act?"
"I'd lock her up," whispered Gillett, "and not let her see any one
else."
"But myself?" he asked; "what good would that do?"
"No, not you--the squire. Don't let her go about with her aunts. One
wants the lawyer to have her; t'other, the parson. Lock her up; it's
just the way to tame a high spirit, and make her like the man!"
"Well, so I've thought too, Mrs. Gillett, but there would be a dreadful
outcry were I to attempt it. How is it to be done?"
"Well, give her, say a month, to decide; and if she don't say Yes, then
do it, and she'll soon come to. You are her guardian, and have a right
to know what's best for her."
"So I will! so I will! your reasoning is most excellent; but don't give
a hint to my sisters, or I shall have my scheme frustrated."
"Not for the world, sir; and I again beg of you not to name _my_ advice
to any one, or I shall lose all the confidence of the others."
"Rest perfectly satisfied, Mrs. Gillett; I have too sincere a respect
for your excellent counsels, to risk the loss of them owing to any fault
of mine;" and he whispered, rising, "Don't let any of them know I have
consulted you."
This the dame cheerfully promised, and she faithfully kept her word. To
do her justice, Mrs. Gillett meant no harm--far from it. If, in the
almost torpid indifference of her heart towards others, there arose
sometimes another feeling, it was certainly to do good, not evil; but
there was predominant above all else, the love, the ambition of
domination, that heaven to the narrow-minded--she held the reins of
government of all; this was her glory, not calculating, or indeed
caring, how obtained; she was an unconsciously dangerous woman--in her
heart meaning no harm, certainly. Juvenal quitted her, resolved to watch
for and seize the first excuse given, to coerce Minnie to his wishes;
and a more erring path a man never selected. Minnie would do any
thing--might have been induced to take any step (not faulty), by
kindness, or from affection; but her spirit was of that nature which
would make her stoutly rebel against oppression. Mrs. Gillett smoothed
her white apron, puckered up her mouth, folded one hand over the other,
and composed herself to take her afternoon's nap; and Juvenal walked
away, strengthened in mind by his counsellor's advice, and like a
galvanic battery, full charged, prepared to electrify poor Minnie the
first moment they came in contact. In this state of affairs days went
by: Juvenal watched in vain for open rebellion; his niece was too well
occupied elsewhere, to give herself the trouble of opposing any
attention the squire might choose to pay her. When our minds are fixed
upon one object, minor things (even if they, under other circumstances,
would be considered evils) pass us by almost unnoticed. However, the
squire had paid only hurried visits to Gatestone since the day we last
saw him there: he seemed pre-occupied about something, and this apparent
coolness on his part, agonized Juvenal, who revenged himself by
persecuting Minnie, and interrupting every conversation, with either the
lawyer or curate, which he fancied possibly agreeable to her. But she,
with perfect indifference, smiled on, unruffled and gay. Minnie had
something better at heart. We have said she was a little self-willed;
and not all the angry expostulations of Sylvia, who had discovered it,
could prevent her visiting the cottage of Mary Burns, who now was
enabled to quit her bed. Accompanied by Dorcas, she went thither almost
every day, to speak comfort to, and fortify that unhappy girl in her
good resolutions. Dorcas was one of those sensible women, who, though
they would not plunge a young, pure mind in impurity, or familiarize it
with crime, yet deem it right and healthful to teach it the beauty of
virtue by its comparison with error, guardedly, advisedly, but
practically shown. Moreover, in this case it was a duty, and that Dorcas
inculcated above all else, to succour and strengthen those in affliction
or temptation. Poor Mary forbore to name her seducer, neither did either
seek to unveil this hidden corner of her heart: the wrong had been
done--how could it alter the case to know his name? The poor girl said,
"Oh, when I knew he had deceived, and never meant to marry me--when he
told me so, coldly and scornfully, I became mad; for that I must have
been, to seek death in my sin!" Then she told Minnie how she had been
brought up, almost entirely, for years at the manor-house, while Madame
Tremenhere (so she called her) lived: but this seemed wrung from her
heart; for, with the words, the clenched hands stiffened, so bitterly
she wrung them, and her lip sternly compressed itself together, to keep
back her tears. She was a girl of manners and bearing far superior to
her station; not decidedly pretty, but quiet, well-looking, and far
above what is termed "genteel." She was ladylike in tone and manner,
showing evidence of gentle teaching and association. Her mother had
once kept the village school; and when she became paralyzed, years
before, Mary had supported her by her work, plain and fancy, which she
disposed of in the neighbouring town, Harrogate, some six miles distant.
She was, at the time our tale commences, in her twenty-fifth year.
Dorcas had taken a deep interest in this girl, and was endeavouring,
through some friends in London, to obtain a situation there for her,
whither she might remove with her poor old unconscious mother. Juvenal
could not lock up Minnie, as Mrs. Gillett had advised him to do, for
visiting this lonely cottage, however much against his wishes, because
Dorcas was a consenting party: he could but grumble, and consult with
his old crony, the housekeeper, who advised him to bide his time; and he
too felt, at her foretelling, that that would soon come. "The Countess
of Ripley and Lady Dora will shortly arrive," she said, "and then Miss
Minnie can't run about as she does." He felt this, too, and waited. But,
in the mean time, his refractory niece sped almost daily to the Burns's
cottage, where, not unfrequently, her young, fresh voice paused in its
gentle, though almost childish, counsellings, or readings, to salute Mr.
Skaife, who came also to visit his poor parishioner; and (truth must be
spoken) a little self-interest attached itself to his visits, for he was
almost certain of meeting the one he sought and loved there. One day
they met as usual: Minnie was alone, Dorcas had not accompanied her: he
had preceded her in his arrival. When she entered the cottage she found
much tribulation there. Evidently, Mr. Skaife was in the confidence of
Mary Burns; it was natural he should be, as the one who had rescued her
from so fearful a death, and also, as her spiritual master, one she was
bound to respect. Minnie found the unhappy girl in a state of the most
fearful excitement. Acting upon what he had said, of their being
improper characters, an order had been brought them that morning by the
squire's steward, to quit the cottage of which he was landlord as soon
as possible. It seemed almost beyond the power of Mr. Skaife to control
the girl's emotion to the standard of reason. When Minnie entered, Mary
stood before her pale and speechless: she stood--yet she seemed almost
incapable of supporting the weight of her body, and, still greater than
that, some heavy affliction. For some moments she could not reply to the
other's kind question of, "What had occurred?" Mr. Skaife hastened to
reply:--
"Oh!" he said hastily, fixing his eye on the girl to subdue her bursting
feelings, as if he dreaded her giving utterance to something; "Mr.
Burton deems it advisable another tenant should have this cottage, and
'tis best thus; Mary must leave; absence from this place is necessary,
for many reasons. I have seen Miss Dorcas this morning, and she tells me
she has succeeded in obtaining an employment for this poor girl in town,
where she can support her mother, and in more healthful scenes and
occupations redeem the past, and forget----"
"Forget!" she almost shrieked; "forget! and _now_ to-day, when I am
ordered away, and by----"
"Hush!" interrupted the curate sternly; "remember you are called upon to
suffer; you have purchased that right, however cruelly administered to
you; it is only by pain inflicted that physicians heal."
"Forgive me, Mr. Skaife," she cried, in a scarcely audible tone; "I have
merited all, but I am only human, and it is very hard to bring down the
spirit to subjection, more especially in my case, when----"
"Hush!" he said again; and Minnie felt that her presence silenced the
girl's speech.
"And must you leave this soon?" asked Minnie; "before my aunt has
arranged all for your departure?"
"Yes," uttered Mary, through her half-closed teeth; "we are ordered to
quit now--at once--to-day!" and, despite her efforts, the excitement of
her previous manner again overcame her. "I am very wicked," she said at
last, in deep affliction and humility, "for I have deserved all; but oh!
Miss Dalzell, may Heaven keep you from ever suffering--though innocent,
as you must be, with your strong, pure mind--what I am enduring; even
guilty as I am, it is almost more than mere human force can bear up
against."
"You have a kind, good friend here," answered Minnie, looking up in Mr.
Skaife's face; "one whose guidance has led you to better and surer hopes
than those you had relied upon. Think of this, and be comforted. You
will soon leave this, and meanwhile you shall not quit this cottage; _I_
will ask Mr. Burton to permit you to remain; surely his steward acts
without his concurrence, and when he knows this man's order, he
will----"
"He!" cried Mary; "he, Mar----, Mr. Burton, I mean!"
"Pray, Miss Dalzell," exclaimed Mr. Skaife hastily, "drop this painful
subject--oblige me; leave all to me; and if I may without rudeness ask
it, abridge your visit to-day. I will see you this evening, and inform
you where this poor girl is removed to, for leave this she must."
"Then I will go now," answered Minnie, moving towards the door. "May
I----"
Before she could conclude her sentence, the cottage door was hastily
pushed open, and a man entered. Mary uttered a wild scream of surprise,
and, springing forward, grasped his hand in both of hers. "Miles," she
cried, as if doubting her sense of vision. "Miles, you, you
here!--forgive me," she uttered, dropping his hand, as if it blistered
hers in the contact, and, stepping back, "I forget myself always _now_,
Mr. Tremenhere. Oh, Heavens!" And she covered her face with her hands,
and burst into tears.
"Miles--Miles still and ever--dear Mary!" exclaimed the man, putting his
arms around her fondly, and drawing her on his breast, quite unconscious
of, or indifferent to all observers. "Still, my girl, as when a better
than any now on earth sanctioned it." And his voice trembled, yet it was
a fine manly one too, and in keeping with the speaker's appearance. He
was tall, very tall, muscular in frame, but slight, dark-haired, with
dark earnest eyes; a rather projecting but perfect brow gave more depth
to them--it was shade above their intense fire; an aquiline nose of
chiselled outline, a mouth compressed and firm; all combined, made Miles
Tremenhere a portrait worthy the pencil of the most scrupulous of the
old masters. He was quite Spanish in style; for a complexion dark and
bronzed, gave colouring to that face of wild, half-savage beauty, from
its daring, haughty expression. A thick, dark moustache curled down
either side of the mouth, veiling, but not concealing, the line of its
speaking firmness, even in silence. He appeared quite unconscious of the
presence of any one but Mary, like a man accustomed to be alone and
friendless in a crowd. Minnie looked at him, in wonder at first at a
manly beauty she might have dreamed of, but never saw before; then a
sensation of bitter pain came over her, succeeded by the glow of maiden
shame when first brought in contact with guilt; for she fancied Mary's
seducer before her, and she felt shame for one of her sex who could thus
daringly avow it, as Mary's action seemed to do; she made an effort to
creep away, then turning her eyes towards Mr. Skaife, expecting to see
reprehension or anger on his countenance, she beheld a quiet, benevolent
smile cross his expressive, but not handsome, face. She stopped, feeling
in an instant that Mr. Tremenhere could not be the one who had wronged
the girl, for him to look thus. "Mary," continued Miles, still holding
her in his arms. "What dreadful thing is this I hear? I only arrived in
this neighbourhood yesterday night, and Weld, my ever true friend, told
me, to my horror, that you had been rescued from death by some one.
What, Mary, has your fine spirit become so daunted, that a little
poverty could grind it down to despair? Shame on you, my girl! You told
me, when things changed at the old place, that poverty should not quell
_you_; you bade me cheer up, and look to you for courage. Is this your
practice of that excellent theory, Mary?"
While he was speaking, her head gradually turned from his gaze; in vain
he tried to force her eyes to meet his; she held her face downwards,
and, shrinking from his arms, dropped on her knees, bowed to earth in
bitterness, worse than any death could have been; she had yet to teach
this noble heart to despise her. What could death be compared with that?
He tried to raise her. "Come," he said with the gentleness of a woman,
"I did not mean to scold you; never be cast down with a few rough words
from a rough fellow like myself."
A hand was on his arm; he started, so forgetful had he become of all
around, seeing only her, for her poor old mother sat in an arm-chair,
perfectly unconscious to all around in hearing, and stone blind--Miles
turned hastily--the smile had changed to a frown. "Mr. Tremenhere," said
Skaife, for 'twas his touch upon him, "do not let me startle or alarm
you," he hurriedly added, feeling the start.
"Sir!" exclaimed the other proudly, "I neither know fear nor timidity,"
and he shook his arm free from the clasp.
"You mistake me," answered Skaife calmly; "though a stranger to you,
from report I well know, that, but--" he hesitated a moment in
confusion, not well knowing how to continue.
The poor girl came to his aid, rising slowly, whilst her knees trembled
beneath her from emotion. She advanced a step; her first impulse of
rushing into Miles's arms was passed, and now she durst not touch even
his hand, but stood, and with a wave of her hand motioned to Skaife.
"Miles," she said, "that is our curate, good, kind Mr. Skaife. But for
him, my poor mother would now have been childless, and probably in the
workhouse--_he_ rescued me!" At the thought of her old mother,
paralyzed, deaf, and blind, in that spectre-house of misery, the tears
dropped from her eyes, which were strained wide open, to try and see
through that crowding flood of despair.
"I seldom offer my hand," exclaimed Tremenhere, at the same time
extending his towards Skaife, "it has been so often repulsed; but take
it now in warm thanks for what you have done for one, almost a sister."
All coldness and pride were banished from that fine noble face; his
every feature lit up with the rich, bland smile, which left you almost
speechless with admiration, so exalted the expression became. Two worthy
of each other in heart and mind clasped hands warmly, and looking in
Skaife's face, Miles, whose wrongs had made him a keen observer of
countenance, ever dreading an enemy, with his hand gave a feeling of
friendship which time well matured.
"Now, I remember," he added, "Weld spoke of your kindness; but my brain
was so bewildered I had forgotten it, and other harsh events to deal
with, prevented my coming over here last night, as I was assured of
Mary's safety by my good farmer friend where I am staying."
"And now," said Skaife looking expressively at him, "will you accompany
me a short distance, merely across a couple of fields, whilst I offer my
protection as far as her own grounds, to Miss Dalzell." And he turned to
where Minnie stood, almost concealed by the curtains of the humble bed.
"Miss Dalzell!" exclaimed Tremenhere; and again the first haughty
expression mantled his face with scorn. "Allow me to use the privilege
of my calling," said Skaife, "and take upon me what, as another, I might
not dare assume--the liberty of presenting you to one another,--Miss
Dalzell, Mr. Tremenhere."
The latter raised his hat coldly, but respectfully, yet he seemed
annoyed at the meeting.
"Honour Miss Dalzell, for _my_ sake," whispered poor Mary, well knowing
why he looked so troubled; "for she has come here day after day, as an
angel, to visit a suffering creature, and bring balm to a wretched
sinner." The last word was unheard by Miles; he stood beside Minnie,
whose face was covered by a deep blush.
"This," he said, "has been a day of much surprise, if of sorrow too; I
came, expecting every hand and heart against me--every hand cold, every
heart stone; I have met two generous ones, or faces are sad traitors.
Forgive me, Miss Dalzell, but in your home, the bitterest against me,
the almost dwelling-place of Marmaduke Burton, my _worthy_ cousin, I
scarcely expected to find a bosom with human blood in it; a thousand,
and a thousand thanks for Mary's sake."
"Mr. Tremenhere has been intimate with my thoughts for some time,"
answered Minnie more calmly, "and believe me as friend, not foe."
"Indeed!" and a bright glowing look was fixed in her face, "I never
dreamed of a personal friend at Gatestone, even in thought. This is
truly the prodigal's welcome home! May I accompany you and Mr. Skaife
across the two fields he named? I know them well! I may? Thank you;
Mary!"--He turned to the poor girl, and his face saddened as he
approached her, for she was weeping bitterly; the very floor seemed to
tremble with her emotion, as Skaife whispered lowly to her--"Mary, I
will return soon--soon, my girl; don't be so cast down, better times
will come for all. Hope, Mary; _I_ do to-day," and he grasped her
reluctant hand, "just a few moments, and I will return."
Skaife whispered, "Remember your solemn promise to me, to Heaven. He
_must_ know all; cheer up, poor girl, I am sure he will only feel _pity_
for you!" _Only_ pity where we were once loved and respected, is indeed
an icedrop on a burning surface, soon passed away, soon absorbed, and
not long even the memory of it left.
Minnie, Tremenhere, and Skaife, passed out.