Some one else had also seen Lady Dora--this was Aunt Sylvia. This busy,
restless woman, had one decided affection--a love of gardening in all
its branches. Her greatest crony after Dame Gillett, was John Gardener,
as he had been surnamed, consequent upon his profession; for every thing
is a profession now,--the humble trade eschews its name to become such,
and professions, as they still are, are for the most part unmeaning
words and falsehoods. Sylvia loved a garden, every atom of it,--kitchen,
fruit, and flowers. She delighted in getting out _spudding_ in it, as
she termed it--a corruption of spading, we presume; but it was her own
coined word, and meant, digging, weeding, sowing, and planting, a
composite word of much meaning. This morning, like many others, she was
up, and busily inspecting some little green tips just bursting through
the earth, which she pronounced "loves of things;" when raising her
head, to push back the spectacles she had put on for a closer inspection
of her budding flowers, she saw Lady Dora pass through the little door
into the fields. Her niece had not perceived her; she was bent double
nearly, and in a grass-coloured muslin, which made her appear, in the
distance, like a heap of short, newly-mown turf on the lawn. Up she
jumped at this vision. "My niece, Lady Dora!" she exclaimed--even in
_thought_ she was "Lady Dora" to her--"where can she be going? I declare
the young ladies of the present day, have the oddest manner of creeping
about early in the morning; no good ever can come of it!" Thus
soliloquizing, she stole after her, and, to her amazement, saw a man in
the distance; who it was, she had not the slightest idea, not once
dreaming of Tremenhere. Startled at the responsibility of so great a
secret to herself alone, she hastened through the kitchen-garden to Mrs.
Gillett's window, and rapping hastily until she summoned that familiar
spirit to her aid, she imparted all her surprise to her no less
astonished ear. Mrs. Gillett was literally lost in wonder; for she at
once suspected that Tremenhere was the man, though she kept her
suspicions to herself. This, then, was his engagement to which he had
alluded; but how had it come about. She knew nothing about the portrait
and Florence, or all would have seemed clear as noonday. In deep
perplexity, with Sylvia's aid she mounted on a chair; and thus getting
into the garden, accompanied her to the end of it, where they might,
through the thick hedge on that side, see beyond. It was thus Minnie
escaped seeing them, or their observing her.
"Can you imagine who the creature is?" (_man_ she meant,) Sylvia asked.
"He's come a purpose!" ejaculated Gillett, pursuing her own private
thoughts, not heeding the other's question.
"Who has come on purpose?" asked Sylvia, impatiently.
"Why, he, miss--you know who I mean. Lauks-a-mercy me! here'll be a to
do! Lauks-a-mercy! and my lady, too!"
"Good gracious, Mrs. Gillett! will you tell me what you mean? Will you
tell me what you mean?--who's that man?"
"Why, Mr. Tremenhere, to be sure!" answered the other, amazed at the
question. Sylvia was silent. In the bottom of her heart she felt
something like pleasure; she hated all men, _pour cause_, as the French
so impressively say. She hoped some one would shoot this one for his
audacity--he deserved it; then, too, she even felt a something of
jealousy towards Lady Ripley, for marrying at all when she remained
single, and especially an earl. She had a sort of idea, that only a
certain quantum of mankind was by fate allotted to each family, and that
this one, by his exalted rank, had appropriated all, and bestowed it
upon only one--else, why were she and Dorcas single? In this mood of
mind, she rejoiced at any thing to lower Lady Ripley's pride, and
resolved silently to watch the course of events, and be guided by them
how to act. Accordingly she bound down Mrs. Gillett to profound secresy;
and, having watched the two separate at the garden gate, she entered the
house by the back-door, leaving her confidant more puzzled than ever
what to do, finding herself the repository of so many opposite secrets,
and fearing events, should they clash in any way. Sylvia noticed every
turn in Dora's countenance at breakfast, and, without surprise, listened
to a half-smothered sigh. All seemed as clear as day to her idea. There
was a private communication existing between Miles and Lady Dora; that
was why he had come so unexpectedly to the neighbourhood--she was the
magnet. She was in a mood to hate all--rejoice at any annoyance to
others; for it was a little wounding, after all the trouble she had
taken to bring about events, to see her pet, Mr. Dalby, quietly
resigning, as was the case, his pretensions to Minnie's hand. Dalby was
a prudent man, and, seeing the girl's evident repugnance towards
himself, wisely said, "I shall never succeed; if I pursue her, I shall
lose my friend--if I give her up at this stage of the affair, her
dislike is not so apparent to others, but that the squire should owe me
a debt of gratitude for withdrawing in his favour--I'll choose the
squire!" Accordingly he resigned, and was once more reinstated in
Marmaduke Burton's favour as one in whom he could trust. It was a
complete game of cross purposes with almost all, under cloak of which
the ones most interested passed comparatively unnoticed. One thing Lady
Dora had accomplished by her morning walk. Miles Tremenhere turned
thoughtfully away, and the result of his cogitations was a determination
to remain some short time longer at Farmer Weld's--he must do so--had he
not promised Minnie a sketch of Gatestone, and the surrounding scenery?
In common politeness he must remain; so "common politeness," like many
other things, bore the burthen which of right belonged to
another--"inclination." Some days passed away. Lady Ripley spoke of
shortly leaving for town. Dora had never spoken of her walk to Minnie,
and she, grieved and wounded at this reserve, firmly resisted all
manoeuvring on the other's part to discover her thoughts about
Tremenhere. Marmaduke Burton was a constant visitor: he paid court to
Lady Dora, in order (he thought) to pique Minnie. The fact was, Lady
Dora's species of hatred towards Tremenhere made her, even though he
could not see it, rejoice in showing favour to his rival cousin. This
gave a zest--a sort of dreamy hope to his attentions; though in reality
liking Minnie better, he would have preferred her proud, titled cousin:
this was the man's meanness. Juvenal rejoiced, for both were his nieces,
and, either way, his pet squire would be happily mated. Mr. Skaife was
absent from the village for a while; so Dorcas looked on, in happy
ignorance of much; whilst Sylvia, in the greatest error of any, held
consultations with Mrs. Gillett, whose mind was nearly distracted by
many confidences, and whose only consolation amidst all was, that, "most
fortunately, Master Tremenhere didn't love Miss Minnie, so she was safe;
and no blame could ever attach to her (Mrs. Gillett) for connivance in
their meetings!"
Nearly two weeks passed thus, and Minnie sat alone in her own little
room, where we first saw her; but the door is bolted, and she is sitting
at the table in the centre of that room, on which several sketches in
crayon are displayed. One little white hand supports her head, which is
bent over these, and these represent, with a bold master-stroke,
"Gatestone," seen from north, south, east, and west. Then there are
sites and majestic trees, ruins and ivy-covered walls; all the most
beautiful views on the banks of the Nidd are spread before her, over
which her eyes wander; but the little white fingers close on one, and
she raises it up, and looks almost tenderly upon it. 'Tis the sketch of
a little girl on a pony, a large dog beside her, and leaning on the neck
of the former animal is a tall young man. "Very like him even now,"
whispered she; "but what a little thing I was then! and to think he
should have remembered it! Poor, dear Miles Tremenhere!" and she pressed
the card-board to her lip. Was it the little girl's effigy she kissed?
in truth, we fear it must be owned such was not the case. Moreover, our
readers will perceive that Pity had strengthened her cause--he was
"dear" as well as "poor" now. Lady Dora had much suffered from the
various annoyances of her position: afraid to speak to Minnie, watching
all, dreading all, and enraged with herself for a contradiction of
feeling which would arise within her, despite every effort, when she
thought of Miles. His pride had conquered her's: she had been foiled,
and, in her discomfiture, she knew not where to seek comfort. Somehow,
she could not banish him from her thoughts. She and her mother had left
for a few days, on a visit near Ripon, and Gatestone had sunk into
seeming peace. No one watched Minnie, she was in outward appearance as
usual; but, while others planned for her, or permitted all care for the
present to rest, she was weaving her own fate, and not as a child
weaves, flowers: there were many thorns set within that band, which
would bind her, perhaps. Minnie, unwatched, walked and rode as usual; in
the latter case, with the fat old coachman as attendant, who had
followed her even in the time of the grey pony. Poor, old, half-blind
Thomas!--what knew he of love, or love's various ways? And when, one
day, Minnie left him in charge of her black mare at a wayside house,
after first dropping her at the ruins of an old castle, where she was
going to wander a while and sketch, some four miles from home--how could
he possibly guess that she would scarcely be seated on a moss-covered
stone, before another human being would be beside her, her hand gently
pressed in his? All this was very wrong, but the grey pony commenced it
years before. Early associations accomplish more in half an hour than
recent acquaintances in months: the childish heart takes an impression
freely. Minnie had become the little, fair baby thing again, whilst
conversing with Miles; and how or when they had met again, after the
evening in Mrs. Gillett's room, matters little; they met accidentally
_on her part_, and, like a child, she held out her hands rejoicing; and
it was not till more than one of these meetings had taken place, that
she discovered
"I am now no more a 'child,'
And there's a gulf 'twixt thee and me!"
And in making that discovery, she also awoke to the fact in her case--a
most unhappy one--that as a woman, she loved. To whom could she tell
that love? there was but one, Dora, and her secresy had engendered
coldness. In the candour of her heart she had asked Miles why Dora had
sought him that morning? but he merely attributed it to accident, and
Dora's silence, made her convinced some other motive had induced her to
seek him. Of his love towards herself she had no assurance--no
promise--no pledge. She met him this day because he asked her to do so,
to sketch with, and talk to him. More than once she had been on the
point of telling "dear aunt Dorcas" all--her heart abhorred deceit; but
then, when next she met Miles, he implored her so earnestly not to do
so, that her lips became sealed; besides, until this day the meetings
had been accidental--though hoped for, by her, watched for, by him.
"Minnie Dalzell," he said, "think what I should be here, were I
prevented from seeing you; here I must remain a while. I have some
business which forces my stay, and none to speak with but Farmer Weld's
family; though good, excellent people, yet think how lost I should be
without 'Baby Minnie' and her sketch-book to superintend and correct?"
And "Baby Minnie" feeling no harm to herself, certainly no wrong to
another--held her peace "for pity's sake." "Should he ever say any thing
more--more tender," she added, after a pause in her soliloquy, "then
I'll tell aunt Dorcas!" Was it policy on his part not to startle, till
he had secured, his timid bird? or was it that he really did not love
her, that kept him silent? A little of both. He was not _quite_ sure of
his own heart; it had been so bound up in the one great object of his
life, that he feared lest he were incapable of loving Minnie as she
should be loved; he was perfectly unselfish. Accustomed to deep
suffering, he would rather have gone, leaving his love untold, and
bearing even the charge, on her part, of being a mere trifler, than give
her only a half affection. It was true his heart bounded when they met,
and every moment in her absence was a thought of love for her. He walked
alone, and conversed alone, to the spirit at his side, ever present with
him; but he knew man's nature so completely under the control of his
passions, that for her sake he resolved to prove his own heart before he
offered it to her. If he felt he _ever_ could change, or love another,
then would he leave without awakening her to the knowledge of her own
affection, which he saw, but looked upon as a fledgling, which, by some
accident, might never take wing.
"Again here!" she said, on the day we have spoken of, in the old ruin.
"Do you know this must terminate soon? Dora will return, and Mr. Skaife;
and when he is here, Aunt Dorcas generally accompanies me, with him to
escort us."
"But not riding. She is not a horsewoman, you say?"
"True; but Mr. Skaife, at her request, becomes my companion, then Dora
will be with me every day."
"Do you mean, Miss Dalzell, that I am never to see you?" and something
like a sigh escaped him.
"Oh! I hope not, indeed. I should feel grieved at so sad a termination
to our many pleasant hours together; but what can be done to smooth our
rugged path, for we cannot disguise from ourselves that a very rugged
one lies between us?"
"I never forget that! Would to heaven I could remove it! Time
may--_will_, I should say," he cried, with energy; "but, to accomplish
that glorious end, I must toil--toil--toil, and far away from this
place, and----" he was going to say "you," he substituted "Yorkshire."
"'Tis very hard that, when we have known one another from childhood----"
"You forget I was a man _then_ even."
"Well, then," she continued, "from _my_ childhood, that we should be
debarred from meeting freely; but why do you always correct me when I
say _our_ childhood? why are you so very anxious to make me remember
that you are so much older than myself?"
"I say it, lest _I_ should forget it."
"How do you mean? Where would be the harm?"
He looked at her so deeply, that her eyes fell beneath his glance, and
she blushed.
"Where is your sketch-book?" he hastily said, looking away from her
glowing face; but his eyes went lingeringly to other things.
"You have it in your hand! What are you thinking of, Mi--, Mr.
Tremenhere?" she hastily substituted.
The sketch-book fell from his hand, and he grasped hers involuntarily,
and the deep, dark eye grew full of passion, as it fixed itself on her
face. "Call me," he whispered, "by that half-uttered name, and I will
tell you why I always recall to my memory our difference of age."
But she was silent, trembling, and incapable of speech.
"_Do_ say it; pray, utter it this once, and I will dare to believe you
will not forget me--a poor, lonely man--when I go."
"I shall never forget you, Miles Tremenhere," she answered, gravely
looking up. There was no blush or hesitation: there was only truth, and
its ever accompanying fearlessness.
"Do you know, child," he exclaimed almost painfully, as he clasped her
hand convulsively, "what you are doing this day? You are bending a
strong, stern man, to womanly weakness; you are tearing every other
thought from my heart, to engraft yourself there. Minnie, I have dreaded
this moment; yet I had not the courage to fly you. I have said every
day, 'To-morrow;' and that morrow has never come in which I could quit
this neighbourhood."
"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 passion 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--assured that
_nothing_ could surpass 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--passion. 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-passage, my buggy's there; they must not know we heard
them yet!"