Minnie had been so severely lectured by all, about her too frequent
visits to the cottage of Mary Burns, and other rambles in thoughtful
loneliness, that she felt embarrassed how to act. We have seen Dora was
not yet wholly in her confidence; there was as yet a barrier of three
years' width between them, which she hesitated at overleaping at
once--it was one separating girlhood from womanhood. She had no one to
consult but herself, and in her great anxiety to know what had been
decided upon for this poor girl, in whom she felt so much interest, as
Mr. Skaife had informed her, that assuredly Tremenhere would decide
immediately something about her, she resolved to rise with the early
bird of morn, which rose to song and heaven beneath her windows, and
seek Mary's cottage. Only the gardener was at work, as she brushed the
dew off the smoothly turfed lawn, at six the morning, after Tremenhere's
meeting with his cousin, and bidding the man a kind good-morning, she
hastened through the shrubbery, then light as a fawn skimmed over the
path-fields, and reached Mary's cottage. The shutters were closed, and
all in stillness; but the hour was so early, that she hesitated about
awakening the inmates. For some moments she stood irresolute, and
walked round the spot. There is something in internal desolation, which
always leaves an outward trace on the features, as on an abode.
Something of this she felt; and at last gently rapped at the door--all
was silent; then she repeated it--and each time with the like result.
There was a latch, so she raised it, looked in, and then the cold truth
became apparent; the place was tenantless!--all gone, and not a vestige
left. Minnie stood in mute astonishment. How should she be enabled to
discover the girl's fate?--from Mr. Skaife, perhaps; and then a chill
came over her warm heart. Had this girl, whom she had so befriended,
quitted without one word to express gratitude, or resolution of
well-doing? and then, a something crossed her mind of regret. She should
have liked to see Miles Tremenhere once more; he was so manly under his
persecution by Marmaduke Burton. It is painful in our path through life
to have that path crossed by a vision which flits away, only leaving a
trace, and never again seen--such things often leave a memory for years.
Minnie walked sadly home. It is something very undeceiving to the young
heart--it's first lesson in worldly selfishness and ingratitude. She
felt Mary must be an ungrateful girl so to depart; and, thinking all
this, she walked up to her own room. No one had discovered her
departure; and an hour afterwards she descended to the breakfast
parlour, which looked over the beautiful lawn and flower-garden, and
there she found all the family waiting, except Lady Ripley, who always
breakfasted in her own room. The day passed in busy occupations to all,
yet amidst all she felt a chill at heart--the chill of disappointed
confidence. Many neighbouring families called to pay homage to Lady
Ripley; and the report was brought by more than one, that Mr. Burton was
seriously indisposed, and hints were thrown out of a hostile meeting
having taken place between the cousins, as it was known that desperate
character, (alas! for those no longer Fortune's favourites,) Miles
Tremenhere, had been seen in the neighbourhood.
"It must have been late yesterday, then, if they met," said Juvenal,
"for Burton was here in the afternoon."
"It is not known when it took place, but he has been confined to his bed
all day, and his lawyer, Dalby, sent for. Though Mr. Burton denies it
himself, there is every reason to suppose 'tis true," rejoined the
visiter.
"Some means of ascertaining the fact should be resorted to, and such a
character banished the neighbourhood," said Sylvia, acrimoniously; "it
is a natural consequence of an ill-conducted mother, that the child
should be infamous."
"Oh, aunt!" cried Minnie, "don't say such a wicked thing; for all say
Mrs. Tremenhere was good, and mild!"
"Besides," said the peacemaker, Dorcas, "you should give her the benefit
of the doubt; many believe her to have been married, though proof was
wanting."
"Always my good, charitable aunt," whispered Minnie, taking her hand
affectionately.
"Ah! Lady Dora," exclaimed the visiter, rising as the other entered, "I
am charmed to see you here once more, and looking so lovely; and her
ladyship, too," continued the old dame, as Lady Ripley sailed into the
room after her daughter, "you are really as a sister, in appearance, to
your beautiful child!"
This is one of the most pleasing compliments in the world to a mamma
with a grown-up daughter,--it deadens the sound of Time's wheels, as he
hurries his chariot onwards,--it is like laying down tan over that
rugged road of matronism, which has an ugly stage beyond, beginning with
"grand,"--Lady Ripley graciously received the compliment, and, smiling
blandly, slid into a corner of the sofa whereon the visiter sat. "There
always has been considered a great likeness existing between us," said
the Countess; "we were painted in full length in one picture at
Florence, and the likeness has been considered remarkable, by all
visiting Loughton Castle, whither I sent it. By the way, Dora, what was
the name of the artist, a very promising young man, whom I patronised at
the request of Lord Randolph Gray, who had taken him by the hand? I
always forget names."
"Mamma, you should remember that," answered Lady Dora, and a slight
colour passed over her cheek; yet soon fled abashed before the stern,
proud eye, it was only momentary; "for we had a neighbour here, near my
aunt's, of the same name--Tremenhere."
"Tremenhere!" cried several simultaneously; but Minnie's struck most
forcibly on Lady Dora's ear; she turned towards her, and, looking
fixedly upon her, said, "Do _you_ know Mr. Tremenhere, Minnie?"
"Only since yesterday," answered she; "but before then I had learned to
pity him, but we cannot mean the same person: I do not think Mr.
Tremenhere is an artist."
"How can you tell what he may, or may not be?" said Juvenal, crossly;
"I'm sure, after his unnatural conduct towards his cousin, you should
wonder at nothing."
"Of course," said Lady Dora, quite composedly, "they cannot be the same
person; but I assure 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 "Assuredly," from the visiter.
"I think _real_ talent should always be upheld--'tis a noble 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 ennoble his name by good deeds or talents, than bear a
merely empty title--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 trimming 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 cluster 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----"
"Hush!" 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 washing 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 passing 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 embarrassing 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 passan, 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 assure 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 ejaculated, 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.
"Why, you see, Master Miles--and lauk, if I a'n't forgettin' too,
calling you Master--well, never mind, it's more homely: Miss Minnie will
be only seventeen come next month, and eight years have gone by
since----"
"True, true!" he hastily answered, interrupting her, "and Miss Dalzell
was then but a little child"--he sighed, that man of eight-and-twenty
felt so old.
"And Miss Minnie was seldom at home then. She lived almost entirely with
Lady Ripley, for her ladyship's child's sake; but you must have seen
her, too, Master Miles."
"Yes," he said thoughtfully; "I now recall, at times, a pretty little
fairy thing flitting about the grounds and gardens when I came home; for
_then_ my first visit was ever here, to see you Mrs. Gillett, and good,
kind Miss Dorcas, and to teaze your master and Miss Sylvia with my
wilful spirits."
"Lauk, yes!" said she sadly; and the memory of all brought the joyous
boy in so much bitter comparison with the outcast, saddened man, that
Mrs. Gillett, kind at heart, began to cry.
"Come, come!" he said kindly taking her hand; "don't be sorrowful. I
thank you for those evidences that I am not forgotten by all."
"Oh, not by me, Master Miles; but I've a hard card to play here amongst
'em all, and that hardens the heart--for they all want the same thing.
They all wish Miss Minnie to marry some one of their own choosing, and,
as I say, she can't be a bigamy, and marry all, so there's no use
wurrittin' her about it so."
"And does she not love any one?"
"Law bless you, no--not one more than t'other; my belief is, she likes
her black mare 'Jet' better nor any of them."
Miles felt glad to hear this, for he had heard of none worthy of the
fair girl who had been poor Mary's Christian support in her trouble.
Even Skaife he did not deem fitting for that beautiful gem; she merited
a more gorgeous setting than a homely curate's home could be. She was no
longer as a stranger to his thought; he forgot the past eight bitter
years of his life, and remembered himself a boy again, looking on a
rosy, lovely child. Mrs. Gillett's doubts were all cleared away, and an
open path before her. Age, and the prejudices of others, had made her
regard Miles with fear, and almost aversion. Now the better influence of
woman's nature prevailed, and she remembered him only as the comely
youth she had once liked so much. Cranky people make others cross and
disagreeable. She was accustomed to nothing but complaints from Juvenal
and Sylvia, with a milder portion, in the way of advice required, by
Dorcas; and thus she had had all the juices of her nature drying up
beneath this fire of unhappy prognostications from all. With Miles she
became almost young again, and fearlessly promised to procure him the
desired interview, provided _no one knew it_, which he faithfully
promised they should not, from him; and, while they were consulting how
it should be accomplished, the girl herself advanced to the window with
her cousin. Miles drew back in a corner, and his heart beat for more
reasons than one.
"Good-evening, Mrs. Gillett," said Lady Dora, in an affable tone. "You
really improve in good looks every time we meet." Poor Mrs. Gillett was
red as a peony with agitation, and could only utter, "Your ladyship's
very good to notice _me_!"
"Gillett, dear," cried Minnie, in her girlish, ringing tone, "we are
coming in to have a chat with you; put a chair for us to step on!"
"Not for the world, miss," almost shrieked the alarmed woman. "Oh dear!
no; maybe you'll hurt yourself."
"Good gracious--no, Gillett! you know I always come in this way," and
she stooped as if to enter.
"No, miss--oh dear, no!" continued the other, dragging away the chair in
her terror. "I never will consent; it mustn't be."
"Are you mad?" exclaimed the amazed girl. The woman caught Miles's face;
he was smiling. Altogether her position was so critical, she became
doubly confused, and said something incoherent about "Lady Dora's
dignity."
"I see what it is," said that lady. "Mrs. Gillett has forgotten the girl
she used to scold once; so, Minnie, we will sit outside here, and I will
make her better acquaintance as a woman," and the cousins, suiting the
action to the word, sat down each on a garden-chair, which they drew
close to the window. This was a thousand times worse than any position
she ever had been in; no blindness, no pattens, could save her here.
She was not a free agent--What would they say? what do? and besides, the
door was locked--should any one rap! It was the hour when the servants
generally required her advice or presence to prepare for supper; her
agony was intense. She durst not move lest Minnie should step in, using
her own chair for that purpose. Every possible thought crossed her mind
to terrify her--should Miles sneeze? and, in the midst of all this,
Minnie began--
"Now," she said, "Gillett, I've come to scold you for your cruelty
yesterday to poor Mr. Tremenhere."
Mrs. Gillett was seized with a violent fit of coughing; could _any_
subject more terrible under circumstances have been selected? Miles was
all attention.
"You've a bad cough," said Lady Dora, kindly, for her; but she wanted
Minnie's homely warmth of speech.
"Th-an-k you-r la-dy-ship, I ha-ve," coughed the woman.
"You should be careful at your age," continued the other. "Colds are the
forerunners of all disease, they say."
"So o-ur doc-tor tel-ls me," uttered the housekeeper, perplexed how to
keep up the cough; "and he sa-ys I sh-ou-l-d avoid dr-aughts!"
"And here we are," cried the feeling Minnie, "keeping you in one." She
rose hastily. Mrs. Gillett began in all gratitude, thanking her lucky
star for taking them away, as she supposed that luminary so intended to
do; when, lo! at that instant, a hand tried the lock, then
rap--rap--rap, succeeded--then Sylvia's voice! The housekeeper was
nearly frantic. She hurried half-way to the door, then returned. Miles
stood perfectly still and composed.
"I'll go round by the garden, Minnie," said Lady Dora, rising. "Don't
remain long with Mrs. Gillett," and she turned away with her slow,
majestic walk. Minnie put her chair in at the window, stepping in like a
cat upon it. Gillett indistinctly saw all this; she wrung her hands,
hurried to the assailed door, opened it, slipping through a crevice she
would have dreamed an impossible feat of performance an hour before, and
speaking loudly as she did so.
"Oh! Miss Sylvia, I'm so flusterated I don't know what I'm a-doing of;
there's a strange cat come into my room, and gone into a fit--don't go
in!" she screamed, as the courageous Sylvia attempted to do so. "It will
bite, maybe! I'll lock it in; the window is open--it will go as it
comed, I daresay!" and, suiting the action to the word, she tremblingly
turned the key, which she had taken outside with her. Presence of mind
is woman's greatest gift.