The night passed--then succeeded morning--noon--and evening. Juvenal had
been very busy all day. Nobody but Dalby, who was closeted with him, and
the trusty Thomas, knew wherefore. The two first worthies had it all to
themselves; for Sylvia felt piqued with her recreant _protégé_ for
preferring interest to love. Dorcas disliked him much. It therefore was
not a very sociable dinner party that day at six, when the four sat down
together. We will leave them in their monosyllabic conversation, spiced
with occasional words of secret meaning between Juvenal and his guest,
and go up-stairs with Mrs. Gillett, to Minnie's room, when she entered
with the prisoner's dinner. The latter was sitting at a table; before
her was a casket, out of which all the little treasures of her young
life were taken, and spread on the table, and as she eyed them, her eyes
were swimming in tears; yet she looked flushed, and nervous. When
Gillett entered, she involuntarily sprang up, and turned pale, as in
terror.
"Dear heart alive!" exclaimed the woman, "how very nervous you are, poor
child! And so I told master to-day, and he has promised you shall soon
be at liberty; so cheer up, there's a dear." She spoke very kindly; but
Minnie looked fixedly at her, to read if she too were plotting against
her. She was beginning that worst pain--suspicion of all. But poor
Gillett was white as snow in this affair; and thus Minnie read her
clear, kind look, and she stretched out her hand and clasped her's; and
with the act, tears rolled down her cheek. Juvenal, by Dalby's advice,
trusted no woman. This man had an instinctive dread and knowledge, that
the female heart is _generally_ too kind to unite in a wrong act, unless
the possessor be unworthy her sex. Man acts without thought often, and
consents without reflection, to a crooked deed of seeming uprightness.
Perhaps woman's natural love of diving into mysteries makes her fathom
all, and _then_ judge for herself.
"Now, don't--there's a dear!" cried Mrs. Gillett, dropping on one knee,
and taking Minnie's hand in both of her's; "don't cry. I hate to see you
cry, Miss, indeed, I do; it always reminds me of your poor dear mamma;
she used to sit and cry, so silent like, till she went after the
captain."
"Don't talk of her _now_, Gillett--my good Gillett!" whispered the girl,
shuddering; "I've been looking at her picture--see, here it is." She
took a miniature from the table, "And--and--don't you think she looks
frowningly upon me? I have thought so all day."
"Lauk, dear! how can the picture change? There it is; and it can't look
sweeter, nor crosser--poor, dear lady!--she never looked cross on any
one."
"Don't speak of her!" cried Minnie, in agony, dropping her head on the
woman's shoulder, and sobbing.
"I told your uncle how it would be," said the other, trying to soothe
Minnie, as she would have done a child, by patting her back; "but come,
look up, it will all go right soon, you'll get out; and now, Master
Miles is gone (and I'm sure I'm glad of it) all will be as before,
and----"
Minnie rose hastily, and stood looking at the woman, as if uncertain how
to act; her tears were burning on her cheeks--her lips opened to speak.
Then Miles's cautions came over her, and she turned away with a sigh.
Mrs. Gillett rose, and, smoothing down her apron, began laying the table
with perfect composure, and confidence that all would soon be well.
Suddenly Minnie approached, and, grasping her arm, said, so wildly that
the other herself stood transfixed, "Remember, Gillett--my good
Gillett--whatever may happen, they drove me to it. Do not let them say
all unchecked against me;--remind them how they locked me up--remind
Aunt Dorcas how she left me, and did not insist upon seeing, to comfort
me--remind them, that I only met Mr. Tremenhere once, wilfully, and that
he had known me as a little child--do not forget all this, Gillett, but
remind them often of it." And she burst into a passionate flood of
tears, and turned away.
"Poor darling!" said the housekeeper, "they have been cruel; but it was
not their faults--Master listens to them as he shouldn't listen
to--Come, eat a bit of chicken--just a bit: I watched it cooking for you
myself--do, there's a dear!" But all her coaxing was vain. "I'll come
and sleep on the sofa in her room to-night," said Gillett to herself;
"she's low and narvous, poor child!"
"What's that?" cried Minnie, stopping in her hurried walk round the
room.
"Only the time, dear, striking; it's half-past six!"
"The old hall clock!" whispered the girl--"my mother's clock--I wonder
if I shall ever hear it again after to-night! I hope I may--I hope to
Heaven I may!" And she slid gently on her knees, and raised her hands
upwards. Gillett stood looking on in amazement, not unmixed with deep
emotion.
"Miss Minnie, dear, shall I stay, or go?" she whispered, touching her
arm. Minnie started up.
"Go," she said, hurriedly, looking towards the door--"go, and don't tell
any one I have been agitated, or crying. Let me be quiet a short time,
and--and--Heaven bless you, dear Gillett, for all your kindness--I
_never_ shall forget it!"
She threw her arms round the woman's neck, and kindly embraced her;
then, opening the door, said hurriedly, "Now, go, dear Gillett, and
leave me quiet awhile."
The simple woman, without the slightest suspicion of harm, quitted the
room gently, and locked the door. Minnie stood one moment, with clasped
hands, listening, then turning round, she seemed, by a great effort, to
shake off all lethargy and doubt. Reverentially placing her mother's
picture, and a gift of aunt Dorcas's, in her bosom, she drew from her
pocket a key, and with hasty hands threw over her shoulders a shawl;
then, putting on her bonnet, she stood one instant in deep thought--it
was the final thought--one of war between resolution and doubt.
Near the old stile, in the holly-field, stood Miles Tremenhere. He was
no longer the wild, excited man; a cold, stern resolution had replaced
all other emotions. He stood there, resolved _to do_, even now, by
force, should other means fail. It had been in vain he toiled with his
brain to arrange things otherwise: all had seemed to go against him,
trains, posters--all, and here he was, expecting Minnie at seven,
knowing that at eight she would leave with her uncle, if his scheme
failed.
"But it will not," he said between his teeth; "she has the key; they
will be at table, and she can better escape down the stairs now than
earlier. Should she _not_ come, I will go up boldly and tear her from
their power!"
He was desperate enough then to have attempted it. His face was cold and
damp with the dew of suspense, his eyes strained with watching the way
she should come; he had become so acutely wakeful, that he felt he could
have heard her cry for help even there; and as moment after moment
passed, and the heavy church clock in the distance chimed a quarter past
seven, he groaned aloud. "Only three quarters more, and _they_ will be
there for her. Minnie! oh, Minnie! if they tore you from me now, I
should smile on _any_ deed to recover you! She does not come!"
He stood like a statue, only watching the way through the shrubbery. "I
will go up and claim her," he cried at last, in desperation. "Hush! were
those wheels? _theirs_, to complete their good work. Hush!" and he
listened, while his heart audibly beat. A hand was on his arm, and a
voice, weak and thrilling like a nestling bird's, whispered, "Miles, I
am here--let us go--'tis late--I have been seen." With the first word
and touch, a cry burst from him, and Minnie was in an embrace of iron.
What force might tear her from it? Outside the hedge a chaise was
waiting, and to this he almost carried the nearly fainting girl; they
had not far to drive, but a few short miles at the pace of their good
quadrupeds; and before the clock struck eight, Tremenhere's heart beat
wildly with rejoicing, beside his run-away bride, flying at the rate of
Gretna steam-power, and an express train, to the north. Eight o'clock
struck, and with the last stroke wheels were heard creaking on the
gravel at Gatestone.
"Now, Dalby," said Juvenal, "the time's come, mind you are resolute; no
woman's work. I daresay she'll make a fuss, but it is for her ultimate
benefit, and besides I will not have my authority questioned." Sylvia
and Dorcas had retired, quite ignorant of all. "Tell Mrs. Gillett to
come here, and accompany us to Miss Dalzell's room," said Juvenal to the
footman.
"I don't think Miss Dalzell has returned," said the man, innocently.
"She only went out a few minutes since!" Dalby started, but Juvenal was
quite composed. "You must be mistaken, Willis," he said. "Miss Dalzell
is in her room. You probably saw one of the other ladies. Send Mrs.
Gillett at once."
"Oh, dear me! no, sir," responded the man. "I couldn't mistake my
mississes for Miss Minnie; she passed me in the hall with her bonnet on,
and said in her kind way, 'How d'ye do, Willis?' and I was so glad to
see her about again, that I watched her through the gardens."
"Why the deuce didn't you mention this before?" exclaimed Dalby,
alarmed. He was the first to recover himself.
"Well, sir," answered the man, trembling, "I thought master knew it.
'Twasn't for me to speak."
"There's something wrong," cried Juvenal, tumbling over Dalby's chair in
his hurried rush towards the door. The other was half-way up-stairs,
muttering a deep oath. If Minnie were lost to his master Marmaduke
Burton, then would he be doubly a fool, having lost a good chance with
the girl, backed as he had been by Sylvia; and of course he should be
disgraced with the other.
By this time the house was alarmed--Dorcas stood very pale, clasping her
cold hands together--Sylvia wouldn't believe it possible--and poor Mrs.
Gillett was lamenting loudly, as Juvenal with trembling hands opened the
door. There still was hope, for the door was well locked. All rushed in
in a body: every thing was as we have seen it, but Minnie--the dinner
untouched. How had she escaped? Not by the window, surely? No, that
could not be. Willis had met her in the passage, and 'twas this
unexpected meeting which had made her go round by the gardens instead of
the shrubbery. This was the only hour in which Miles saw a chance for
her escape, while all were at table. 'Twas a bold stroke; but it had
succeeded, like many a daring deed.
"Gillett, you know something of this!" cried Sylvia, turning towards
her. Dorcas couldn't speak; she was crying bitterly; she guessed the
truth. "No, as I hopes for marcy!" exclaimed the housekeeper; "I know
nothing of it. I brought up her dinner, which you see, and she fell
a-crying, and seemed quite down-hearted. Oh, dear! oh, dear! what was it
she said, now?" and she tapped her forehead; "she told me to remind you
all of such a many things, and to think I should forget every one on
'em!"
"Where could she have found a key?" asked Juvenal, suspiciously.
"I don't know, I'm sure," answered Gillett, "here's mine," and she
turned the lock with it. Suddenly it flashed across her mind, the
confusion of keys in her room the night Juvenal came down, and Minnie
and Miles were concealed. She said nothing; but felt perfectly convinced
that one of them had taken a key away. At last, some one suggested that
she was perhaps in the gardens. _No one_ save Dorcas guessed the whole
truth. Juvenal and Sylvia felt certain she would be found. Dalby thought
so, too. Where could she go? Gillett was too much puzzled to think. Only
Dorcas _knew_ in her heart, that Miles was the instigator and partner of
her flight. All her thoughts now were, not to find her; she felt that
with a man so determined to organize, she was off and gone, but to
secure her happiness, and, if possible, bring all to a happy termination
and reconciliation. Gardens were searched--the house--grounds--all; but
not a trace remained--then the village. At last a lad was found who had
stood gaping at the chaise and posters in the lane, till the gentleman
and lady stepped in and "driv away;" so there was no longer room to
doubt. Dalby, hot with rage and disappointment, traced them to the
railroad, three miles distant, whence he and Juvenal started off in
pursuit.
The chaise which was to have carried off their victim, helped them on
their errand--a rather galling reflection; for both Tremenhere and his
bride were away, and away, miles before them; they had neither of them
time to reflect on plans, on the future, which lay before them coiled
like a serpent, and perhaps as much to be dreaded. On they flew, and, as
the train stopped at each station, Minnie's heart sunk within her,
dreading somehow to see her uncle there, awaiting her; and in agony, she
clung to Miles, whose gentlest tones soothed the fair thing beside him,
with her already sorrowing, but not repenting head, hidden in his bosom.
At length the term of their journey drew to a close, they passed the
Border--with every moment now, her terror, and his anxiety, grew apace.
She could scarcely articulate; and, when a sudden whistle or stoppage
occurred, a scream involuntarily burst from her very soul; for the lip
was but the channel of utterance. But the Border was passed--the train
and its many alarms was left behind their flying steps, and they stood
side by side in a small room, awaiting the professional officiator in
such cases--clergyman, he cannot be called. Minnie looked round, and
felt how little idea of so sacred a tie as marriage, that little, low
room gave you. She turned timidly to Miles, who was gazing impatiently
at the door--she drew near him.
"Miles--dearest," she whispered, laying a hand on his arm, "shall we not
be married again? This place carries no hallowing thoughts to the
heart."
"My Minnie, you have echoed my intention--the moment we arrive in town,
we will doubly cement the sweet bonds of this day's forging!"
Here the officiator entered. He was a serious, matter-of-fact-looking
man; he put on his spectacles, and scanned them closely; then, giving a
sort of grunt, intimating some sort of feeling best understood by
himself, he commenced--
"Stop!" cried Tremenhere; "I have forgotten a ring!"
Minnie was trembling violently--every thing startled her. He saw this,
and, hastily glancing at his finger, said, "In such a cause, this will
but sanctify it!" and he drew off the circle of gold. "Minnie," he
whispered, "this was my mother's."
"Oh, not that!" she cried, shrinking back. "It has been so ill-fated!"
"You'd better not delay," suggested the man; "folks travel quickly
now-a-days, and I have _buzness_, too."
"It will unite us the closer in our triumph over her enemies and ours,
my Minnie."
She said no more, but a cold thrill passed over her as the ring made her
Tremenhere's wife.
"Now ye're right," said the man, with a grim smile, which he intended to
be jocular; "an' tak' care on her, for she's a sonsy leddy--puir young
thing!"
"Minnie--my wife--my child--my all!" whispered Miles, drawing her on his
heart. "Now we may defy them all, and fate--my own wife!" Even as he
spoke, the heart at that moment chilled: another might have felt glad in
the romance of their love and flight, Tremenhere choked down a sigh. He
would have given all he ever hoped to gain, to be standing with Minnie
in church, his licensed wife by friends, relatives, and, above all, the
rules of prudence and right. It was not his fault, these stern ideas;
circumstances had made him what he was.
They are once more in the train, and speeding away from the Border,
towards town. Some twenty miles on their way, they stopped at a station
where a down train was waiting. Minnie drew hastily back, and turned
very pale: "My uncle," she whispered, "there--and Mr. Dalby!" She had
many a dark storm to encounter before they met again.