If Lord Randolph had possessed as good sense as he had kindness of
heart, even yet all might have passed into oblivion; but he was that
_rara avis_ of fashionable life--a moral man; that is, one too much so,
to attempt the seduction of a friend's wife. Minnie became sacred to him
from the moment he shook Tremenhere's hand in reconciliation; him, he
liked, and still more, his fair little wife. It was, then, not to be
wondered at if he claimed the privilege of an old friend, and made
frequent calls at the villa near Chiswick. It would have been much more
wisely done to have remained away; but, in conscious rectitude, we often
are guilty of very compromising acts, viewed by prejudiced or evil
minds. Tremenhere's pride forbade any observations to Minnie, who
received him with pleasure, looking upon him in two lights--both as her
husband's friend, and Lady Dora's suitor, for such he still was; and as
she occasionally, but not very frequently called, they met at the villa.
Still there was--burned as it were into Miles's brain--the memory of all
Vellumy had said that fatal day about his friend's love for a married
woman--fair, too; in all, answering Minnie's description. And, worse
than all, there was that unfortunate letter which Vellumy had written,
and, for self-security, bade her burn immediately. All these things
combined were ever floating before Tremenhere's brain; and, to complete
the impression, Lord Randolph was constantly urging him to finish the
"Aurora," by giving her a worthy representative in the face of his fair,
young, sylph-like wife.
In the most well-meaning manner, this man was ever doing something to
keep alive the other's suspicions. He was no longer in ignorance of
Tremenhere's position regarding Marmaduke Burton; and, as a sincere
friend and generous-hearted man, pressed his purse upon Miles, to
proceed at once to Gibraltar, and prosecute all possible research. It
need scarcely be said, that he had dropped all acquaintance with
Marmaduke, which created a double hatred and desire of revenge on his
part, towards his cousin and his young wife.
When Lord Randolph made the generous offer of his purse, he concluded by
saying, naturally and without thought of harm--
"You could leave Mrs. Tremenhere with her aunt, Lady Ripley; I will
undertake to arrange that. Or, I know my own good, kind one, Lady
Lysson, would most gladly offer her a home during your absence."
Tremenhere was painting at the moment the other said this; he flushed
deeply, then dropping a pencil, stooped to pick it up, and thus partly
covered his confusion.
"I cannot be sufficiently grateful," he answered; "but--" there was an
almost imperceptible tone of sarcasm in his voice; "but I never have
been parted from my wife, Lord Randolph; and I do not think she would
desire or like it--that is, I hope not." And he fixed his eye for a
moment on the other's face, who saw nothing, and consequently more than
once urged the subject upon Miles, who grew at last almost rude, beyond
his power of control.
"Tremenhere's out of temper to-day," said the visitor to himself. "I'm
sure it would be the best thing he could do, and a duty, to place that
sweet wife of his, in her proper sphere; I'll be at him again."
All these groundless suspicions wore on his really noble nature, every
thing giving way before them; even the sacred hope which once had been
so dear to him, the re-establishing his mother's fame, became a blank.
He cared for nothing, except to watch and verify his doubts; he became
weary, feverish, ill, and an enigma to all! almost too--oh, worse than
all--a terror to poor Minnie, who was lost in wonder and perplexity. If
she quitted the room for a longer time than was pleasing to him, he
stole from his easel, and listened; if he saw her writing, he could not
rest till the letter was placed in his hands, even the book on which she
had written it was examined, to trace whether the blotting-paper had
kept the words confided to it; and, when all had been done with feverish
haste, the man sat down, and hated himself for his meanness, and seeking
out Minnie, drew her to his heart, as if he would keep her ever there,
and almost wept over her in penitence and love; for never a man loved
more madly or fatally for the peace of both.
He would start from some mad dream of desertion, and, stilling his very
heart to listen, find her sleeping purely and calmly as an infant beside
him. Such a state could not last; Minnie, every one noticed it, but
few--or better said, none--guessed the cause, so well did he veil his
thoughts.
We have spoken little of Minnie's late home, but there was little to
interest the reader in that tranquil abode,--tranquil, except when
Dorcas sought to recall Minnie there, and to their hearts; this might
have been accomplished long before the present time of which we write,
had there not been extraneous influence to keep alive the feeling
against her. Marmaduke Burton was not only a visiter, but a constant
correspondent, when absent, of Juvenal's; nothing was left undone which
could widen the breach, and it was with the "deepest regret," he said,
that he felt compelled, by a sacred duty, to inform Juvenal, as her
uncle, that the once pure Minnie was deceiving her husband, as she had
all of them.
Alas! the girl who flies her home, leaves an unanswerable argument
against her, when the world afterwards adds sin, shame, or a levity to
her charge; however innocent she may be, the "once" is a precedent for
all.
Dorcas, and even poor Mrs. Gillett, loudly exclaimed against this; the
former refused positively to meet or sit in company with Burton; Sylvia
shook her head, and looked more sinister than ever, as she said, "It
might very likely be; she never expected any thing better from her
marriage with such a man; she had indeed raised a barrier between them,"
and chapters more to the same effect. Poor Dorcas cried bitterly, and
reproached herself for her supineness in the first instant, in not
vigorously opposing Minnie's incarceration. She knew the girl better
than any, and knew nothing would have tempted her honest nature to
duplicity, had she not been driven half frantic by wrong accusations,
and suspicion of her truth. In her trouble, Dorcas sought her only
comforter, Mr. Skaife, and urged him so anxiously to see her beloved
niece, that he quitted Yorkshire for town; before he arrived, sorrow was
gathering fast over both those he felt so much interested about.
Our readers will recall to mind, that Mary Burns had obtained teaching,
by which she principally supported her mother; for she felt a delicacy
in receiving succour from Tremenhere, however generously offered. Of
late he seldom quitted home, never except when absolutely forced to do
so, and generally he so arranged it, to be driven in by Lord Randolph;
thus only could he feel secure. One thing we forgot to mention sooner,
that nothing was wanting to urge a jealous man to madness; he was in the
constant habit of receiving anonymous letters, those vile arms of coward
strength; these were written, so bearing upon acts of actual occurrence,
that, though he read and flung them into the fire, still they left an
unerring shaft behind, piercing his heart with doubt, for in every one
there was but the one name registered, which was eating into his
soul--Lord Randolph's. He was truly a man fighting with shadows; he
feared every thing, seeing nothing. It was a state of irritability
which could not last much longer. He was borne to earth with the
tortures of his mind; and Minnie crept, like the ghost of herself,
through those almost silent rooms--once all light and happiness.
It must not be supposed that Marmaduke Burton, who was working
under-ground like some vermin, did it for mere revenge, or wanton
wickedness; no, he was impelled to it by fear; he knew in his heart that
Miles had _right_ on his side, and he saw that _might_, too, would
probably become his. Environed as he was by powerful friends, whom he
was daily gaining by his talents as an artist, he felt his only security
lay in driving Tremenhere to some act of desperation, which would make
him fly the country, either in despair or to conceal Minnie from all. He
had known his cousin's disposition from boyhood; he knew every turn of
his hasty, but noble heart; and all the harsher feelings of it had been
drawn forth, as stains by fire, in the wrongs of his mother and his own
Minnie. There are so many vile ones on earth, who know no law where
money is proffered in exchange for evil, that Burton found ready tools
to watch all--report all; even the household hearth was not sacred from
this pollution.
Some weeks had passed; Minnie had not seen Mary Burns for a considerable
time, when, one day, a note reached her from her, brought by a messenger
who said it required immediate attention. Tremenhere had left home about
half an hour, on business which would occupy him nearly the whole day.
His manner had been feverish and excited all the morning, and Minnie
would not have wondered had she read the contents of another of those
vile missives which he had received an hour before leaving. After
reading it, by an involuntary movement of disgust, he pushed her from
him, as she stooped her head over him while he sat motionless at his
easel, the uplifted brush awaiting the command of genius to call life on
the lifeless canvass; but his thoughts were more of death, than any
existing, glowing creation.
"Miles, dearest," and she bent down to embrace him, and her always
slight figure, looked now like a lithe graceful withey, so fragile its
outline; "what are you thinking of?"
He pushed her from him, and then, as the girl stood, pale and alarmed at
his violence, his haggard eye forgot its troubled glance, to soften into
tenderness, as he drew her passionately to his heart. And the trembling
voice said--
"Forgive me, again, Minnie--forgive me; I am a very wretched man, loving
you as I love you, and----" He paused.
"And what? my own husband."
"Never mind, Minnie--never mind! You will not, will you? Oh! promise me
you will not." He was speaking to his thoughts.
"Any thing, Miles!" she answered, old fears of his perfect sanity making
her shudder. "What is it you wish me to promise?"
"Never to forsake me, come what may; be your feelings towards me what
they may, hide them, Minnie; let me be deceived if you will, but never
let me see it; and oh! do not forsake me, or I shall go mad!"
She could not answer. Her tears were frozen by fear. She really thought
him deranged; and so he was--that worst madness--jealousy. For the
overwrought mind was not fighting with idle fancies, evanescent as vain;
but with a cold, tangible reality, built on many a doubt and distorted
act or word of hers, and still worse on the letters of his anonymous
correspondent, whose last letter, received that morning, ran thus--
"If you wish to verify all, leave home early, professedly for the
day, and watch your house; be in readiness to follow, and you will
need no further proof or admonition to enable you to convince
yourself. A hired brougham will be at the end of your lane. The
driver, ignorant of all, will place himself at your disposal, on
your giving the name of--'Gray,' as well as another--'twill keep him
in your memory.
"Your sincere, but unsuspected FRIEND."
And Miles was resolved at last to have proof, or else never again
suspect--never read another letter, but burn them unopened.
"You do not speak," he said, again drawing her, shrinking from terror,
close to his heart, by the arm which clasped her. "Poor child--poor
Minnie! I have frightened you; forget it, my child, I am unfitting for
so frail a thing as you. I should have mated with my own kind, something
lion-born, and you--you with----Minnie," he cried, changing his tone
suddenly, and looking full in her face with his dark, gloomy eyes, "you
should have married such a man as Lord Randolph Gray, and have led a
life of luxury and peace. He would never have terrified you, as _I_ do;
I think you would have been very happy--I think he loves you, Minnie."
The suddenness of the words, his change of manner, all combined to call
the warm blood to her cheek.
"Miles," she said in agitation, "do not say things like these; even in
jest, Lord Randolph's name should never be mingled with mine in a breath
of doubt, after that one painful scene at Uplands--you forget, too, he
is Dora's----"
"Oh!" laughed he hoarsely, "those things are soon broken off. Now,
Minnie, were you free, on your sacred soul, do you not think that man
would propose to marry you?"
"On my sacred soul, Miles," she answered solemnly, shrinking from his
arms, almost with a feeling of dislike towards him at the manner of his
speech,--"I do not think so; and this I _know_, were I free, fifty times
over, I would refuse his lordship."
"Forgive me, Minnie, forgive me--forget this!" and he once more folded
his arms around her, as he rose from his seat. "I am unworthy of you,
yet _indeed_ I love you." His smile was almost as of old, and once again
they were at peace; _he had forgotten the letter_, but it was only the
merciful oblivion of a moment; their peace was like a house built on a
blasted rock, through the caverns of which the wind whistles mournfully,
shewing the hollowness beneath.
Shortly afterwards he quitted the house for "nearly the whole day," he
said. He was gone; and she sat silently thinking, as now was her wont
when alone; there was nothing to restrain her feelings having full play.
Before him, she often forced a gaiety she did not feel; now she sat in
sorrow, and the once laughing face looked pale and care-worn.
"A letter, if you please, ma'am," said the footboy, presenting one. She
took it, the characters were familiar. "Poor Mary!" she said, refolding
it when read; "I have indeed much neglected you of late; and it was a
sacred duty to do otherwise, lest by that neglect your heart had once
again grown callous or reckless in the midst of troubles. We should
uphold a fallen sister who has risen, lest the weakened limbs totter
again, and sink, never to rise! I will go at once and see her; I am sure
my doing so must please Miles--poor Miles, my own dear husband! John,"
she asked, as the boy obeyed her summons to the room again, "who brought
this note?"
"I don't know, ma'am. A man; he said there was no answer required."
"Go," she said, "round to the stables, and order me a fly immediately,
without delay."
The letter said--
"Dear Mrs. Tremenhere--I am sure you will pardon my writing to ask
you, as a very great favour, to come here to-day. I am in much
trouble, and have only you to comfort and support me in it, by your
counsel and advice. Pray, forgive the trouble I am imposing upon
you; and pray be here if possible by two o'clock.
"Humbly and sincerely yours,
"MARY BURNS."
The fly drove to the door in a quarter of an hour: it was one o'clock.
"Drive quickly!" cried Minnie, as she stepped in and gave Mary's
address; "I am late." The man touched his hat, and obeyed. There was a
lane leading to the road from their house; at the corner of this a
brougham appeared, coming towards the villa. "It is Dora!" exclaimed she
to herself. "If I stop, she will delay me; moreover, she does not see
all as I do; dear Dora is more coldly calculating, and lectures me for
visiting poor Mary; I will not stop now, but write and tell her
to-morrow; she will call again, and for worlds I would not forsake Mary
in her trouble." As she thought all this, with one hand she hastily drew
down the blinds, and leaned back in the carriage. She did not see Dora,
neither did she see the occupant of another brougham, with the blinds
half down, who was watching all, with a pale, anxious face.
"Follow that fly," he said, in a scarcely articulate voice, pointing
after Minnie's--"not too closely, but keep it in sight----She did not
even speak to her cousin," he whispered to his trembling heart, "but
drew down the blinds to avoid observation!" And he pressed his hands
over his strained and burning eyes.