It was not, however, for some time that Minnie allowed Mary to write
even this; for she still hoped at times, in her heart, that Miles would
return. But when months passed, and she ascertained, beyond a doubt,
from a visit Mary made to his artist friend, that he had quitted for
Florence, then she hoped no more, and nothing remained but to act.
Dorcas was most uneasy at her silence, and then Mary wrote, and
afterwards she summoned courage to do so herself, though every word
written was penned in the bitterness of worse than death; for we may die
happy in hope, and the love of those dear ones around us, smoothing the
pillow as we depart in peace and faith to happy shores, beyond life's
troubled sea. Minnie's grief had nothing of this. She was on a wreck in
a dark stormy night--a wild sea foaming over her head--a dark sky, and
impenetrable darkness above and around; but nevertheless she spoke of
contentment, and a wish to be left in quiet. "We deemed it better to
part than live in estrangement of heart," she wrote, "and I am resigned.
If you love me, let the subject drop; nothing can change our fate.
Leave me in quiet awhile, I shall remain some time longer abroad."
But this letter did not tranquillize Dorcas, to whom it was written. She
carefully abstained from speaking of its contents to any one but Mr.
Skaife, and he, like herself, was too deeply interested in Minnie, not
to be the confidant of all. Dorcas wrote most anxiously to her, and
Skaife promised, as soon as his duties would admit of it, to go to
Paris, and endeavour to reconcile them. He guessed a portion of the
truth; but, alas, nor he, nor Dorcas knew a tithe of it!
Minnie, we have said, resolutely refused to touch her husband's
allowance. He had gone to Florence (as far he might be, in his
spirit-broken state,) contented in the thought that she was provided
for, and in following his art, now a toil undertaken to banish care--he
strove to obliterate her memory. Minnie's pride forbade her accepting
existence at the expense of Mary; when all her means had become
exhausted--the slender ones her purse and jewels afforded, her pride
arose in proportion to her poverty. It was not false pride, but the
honest, upright determination, to burthen no one. "I will leave Paris,"
she said to herself, "and go where no one may hear of me."
This could not be accomplished without some difficulty; nevertheless, at
last she succeeded, and one day, when Mary sought her in the humble room
she had been residing in, she was gone. A letter reached her faithful
friend, telling her that cares such as hers were better borne alone;
even _her_ sympathy pained her. She would go where only her own heart
should know her sorrow, and breathe it to her. She bade her not fear for
her; she was safe, and would shortly give her proof of it by letter; but
she implored her to breathe to no one that she had fled. Mary, however,
in kindness of heart, wrote immediately to Mr. Skaife; the secret was
too a heavy a one for her own conscience to support in peace. This
intelligence caused the most bitter sorrow to him and Dorcas, to whom
alone it was told; and he hastened to seek some one to take charge of
his parish duties awhile, at her earnest prayer, and his own heart's
promptings, to follow Minnie whithersoever she might be gone.
It sometimes, but rarely happens in life, that where we only expected to
find a merely common acquaintance, we meet a warm and sincere
friend--one who, through years of sorrow, never forsakes us--one who
forgets self, to help us onward on life's weary track with our
burthens--who, when all have forsaken save himself, clings to us still,
and whose best, and only reward sought, is, when a gleam of sunshine
flits across our dreary way. To such a one, honour and blessing--gifts,
which his own good conscience will bring him, when, at the end of life's
journey, he makes up his account, and reckons with his Creator. Such a
copy of an original, was Skaife. But there was a machine working which
he could not stay or controul; it would spin its wool, and weave its
woof, before man might overcome it.
Tremenhere was in Florence; but yet he heard of Minnie whilst she was
in Paris. So blinded was he by his passions, that even her poverty--her
refusal tacitly to touch his allowance, were snares in his eyes, to lure
him back to deception. Again, if at times his heart softened, 'twas but
for a moment--he grew cold again, and pitiless. Living too, as he lived,
steeled his heart to gentler scenes or thoughts; he avoided all society,
and, shut up in his studio, labouring to banish the bosom's emotions,
became sullen, morose, and vindictive.
Months passed since their separation, and in the delicate, frail woman,
living in almost privation in Marseilles, toiling at her needle for her
daily bread, who might have known Minnie Dalzell? With the little money
remaining to her, she crossed to England, to prevent discovery and
pursuit; here remaining hidden a short time, she then returned on her
footsteps, and hastened to Marseilles. She knew Miles was in Italy, and
her yearning heart led her to the port, whence she might some day,
perhaps, be called upon to follow his path. Bowed and saddened she was
by sorrow, still her heart's conscious uprightness, and honest pride,
upheld her; if she suffered, no one knew it; if sometimes she ate her
bread in tears, and only _that_, for a day's nourishment, who saw her?
No mere _person_, but One who sees and reckons to us our patience and
confidence in him however he may try us, and Him, Minnie never forgot.
Even as the trembling fingers, pale and attenuated, broke the hardened
crust, the eyes, once violet in their depth and richness, now paler,
clearer, more serene in their sadness, looked up and blessed the Giver
of it in their tearful gratitude. In all this patient sorrow came an
almost overwhelming, unhoped-for joy; she held a living child on her
bosom, small, frail little creature; its tones were as a bird's, so soft
and sad, and through the little thin fingers the light shone, as you
held them up, and only then did a ruddy colour, like pale ruby, show in
them, proving they were not merely wax, an imitation of life. "I shall
not have you long to comfort me, my boy," she whispered, when the
sobered first joy gave place to reason; "but you will go to a better
place, and plead for your mother, darling, and oh! do not forget
him--your father. I would you might have seen him _here_, my child, to
know him in heaven; but I trust in spirit meetings, spirit sight will
show him to you, and we may all three rejoice, reconciled in peace and
everlasting joy, which nothing human can attain to!"
He was christened Miles, and though the pale, fair mother grew paler
each day, and toiled more, as the embroidery, in which she excelled,
became more sought after, still the boy thrived, and as she laid him
upon her lap, like a model of rare beauty, her lip smiled in placid
thankfulness and joy, as she counted the dimples which day by day seemed
to deepen in the now rosy cheeks and fingers. Hers was not a heart to
keep its joy to itself; she wrote to Mary. True she did not give her
address, but she wrote to bid her rejoice with her; her child was born
and lived. A deep hope sustained her for some time. If Miles ever had
truly loved her, he must think of the expected tie which bound them
closer than ever. He would remember how he had spoken with almost
boyish delight of the hoped-for period, and he would seek her, and
come. Alas! he did remember it; but in bitterness of spirit, and laughed
in scorn over those boyish hopes, of which he had been the dupe.
Mary replied, in haste and deep anxiety, to the Post-Office, as
directed; she spoke of Dorcas's trouble, Skaife's arrival and anxious
search for her, but not one word of Miles! and then her heart sunk in
utter despondency. "Not even now!" she uttered, as the big tears fell on
her boy's sleeping face; "oh, he must hate me much!" Then succeeded a
fear lest Mary should seek her, or Skaife, or Dorcas; she would fly
again.
Among her employers was one lady who had taken a deep interest in her;
she had a daughter about Minnie's age, and married to a Maltese
merchant; she was about to become a mother herself, and, being called
upon to join her husband in Malta, her mother implored Minnie, who was
thought a young widow, to accompany her as nurse to the expected child.
The offer was a tempting one; thus she could fly, fly all, and in change
of scene, more than place, still, busy thought. A large offer was
proposed to her to wean her own child when another should claim her
care, but this she resolutely refused. "You will be too delicate to
nurse both!" exclaimed the lady.
"I shall gain strength for all, Madame," she replied, with confidence.
"I am stronger than I seem," and she thought of all she had mentally
borne and wrestled successfully with, and mere physical labour could not
daunt her strong heart.
She waited upon the lady, and, disdaining all deceit, at the risk of
losing possibly the situation which she much desired to obtain, told all
her story. She had truly said, when asked, that she had no husband, and
others concluded he was dead. At all events, as we have said, assuredly
on the Continent people more charitably judge a sister woman by present
good conduct, than they seek, by diving from _curiosity_ into the past,
to discover, perhaps, some deep sorrow, or more deeply repented error.
We deny that our Continental neighbours are less virtuous than
Englishwomen, _in general_; but they are less severe, more charitable,
less censorious. Minnie's candour raised her high in the opinion of
those, now doubly bound to her, from pity. All her energies were called
into play, to meet the emergency of outfit--money was required. The lady
advanced her some, still she required more.
We are not relating a mere tale of romance, where fairy and unexpected
gifts come to help the toiling and virtuous, but a story of everyday
life, where the good and conscientious, by undeserved misfortunes, are
thrown in much trouble, degradation, poverty, and _often_ want; where
the fingers once destined to be jewelled, must learn to toil, that the
lip which had been born to command a host of servants, may eat its daily
bread.
Minnie had been guilty of but one imprudent act, and this was the
penalty due to it, and unmurmuringly she was prepared to pay it to the
last farthing. Her hours of sleep became shortened; the earliest morning
light saw her working, while her boy slept. Oh, woman--fellow-woman!
when some pale mother places in your gemmed hand the work you have
commanded her to do for you, pause, and think that she may be in _all_
things superior to yourselves. Pause and reflect, grow humble and
grateful, where all your gratitude is due. Turn not away in pride, do
not bid her seek some insolent menial for payment, who will grudge the
hardly-earned sum, and insult, while giving it. Pay her yourselves--pay
well, and in conscience, and above all, pay kindly; for how know you but
that, in another place, this woman may plead for, or condemn you?
Time hastened on; the day shone fair and bright; it was in October, and
the quay was thronged with gallant vessels coming and going, and friends
were receiving in joy those who returned, and others weeping over the
departing; but none were there to press Minnie to their heart in sorrow
or fear, as, clasping her child to her bosom, she stepped on board the
steamer "Hirondelle," for Malta. Once she looked back, and scanned the
crowd, every face--it was a last hope, but it faded in the sigh which
heaved her heart, where little Miles slept in peace. She turned away,
nor looking again, went below. The anchor weighed, the steam gushed
upwards in a cloud, the paddles commenced sending the spray around, and
the port faded insensibly from view.
"Don't cry, madame," said Minnie, whose eyes were overflowing for
another's grief. A mother had just seen her daughter for the last time.
"Don't cry, dear madame," and she knelt and clasped her hands in both
her own (her boy was sleeping in her berth.) "We shall soon be at
Malta, and then you will see your husband, who so anxiously expects
you." Here she may be pardoned if a tear fell for herself; this chord
jarred on her heart, but she checked the vain dream, and awoke to
comfort another.
On--on they sailed with wind and tide, until night set in, and then the
former suddenly changed, and a high sea arose. Minnie had lain down
dressed beside her boy; her mistress slept in a berth above her.
Suddenly there arose a noise more than usual over-head, footsteps, and
voices calling fore and aft. She sat up and listened. Some of the ladies
slept, others were partially awakened by the noise, and murmuringly
called the attendant. Some sat up, the better to listen. Minnie was very
pale, but spoke not. At this moment a man appeared at the cabin door; he
was in a sailor's heaviest dress, for weathering rough weather. He
whispered the attendant, who grew paler; then he crept almost
noiselessly in, and commenced putting in and securing, what are called
the dead-lights. Then he stole away as he had entered; but, as he
mounted the companion ladder, he closed and fastened the door. Minnie
did not shriek, but she arose, and, though scarcely able to keep her
footing, held on to the side of the berth, and whispered her mistress,
"Madame, madame, awake and dress!" The lady started up; just at that
moment something crashed on deck, and went over the side. A simultaneous
scream burst from all in that cabin; then for an instant, which seemed
as an age in duration, there were breathless silence and watching for
the expected signal again, of disaster; but nothing was heard save
hurrying footsteps over-head, and the heavy ploughing of the steamer
through the waves, which broke with a monotonous sound against the
vessel, which seemed like some poor, breathing, overwhelmed animal,
struggling for its life. After this moment's suspense, wherein every ear
expected to be startled by some fierce cry of despair, all in that cabin
looked from one to another in terror. This lasted another minute--then
one, endowed with a sudden desire to fly the gloomy silence of that
almost dark cabin, where only one small lamp flickered to and fro in the
centre, sprang up the ladder and endeavoured to open the door; but it
resisted all her efforts. With a wild cry she shook it madly; then,
struggling in her fear, fell headlong downwards, and lay on the floor,
terrifying the inmates of that prison-house by her shrieks of wild,
hysterical agony. Some rose, some kneeled and prayed, with trembling
upraised hands. Others were too lifeless to think, but leaned stupefied
against the side of the cabin. One woman lay still--perfectly still, and
beside her were two beautiful sleeping children; her pale lips alone
breathed a prayer for mercy, as she clasped both to her bosom. Minnie
had awakened her mistress, whose personal attendant was too much alarmed
to think except of herself; and Tremenhere's deserted wife, with her boy
clasped in one arm to her heart, yet found courage with the other to
enfold the almost paralyzed lady, and breathe words of hope; and thus
the vessel toiled on with its death-expecting cargo. For nearly an hour,
it seemed as if for one plunge she took despairingly forward, she was
driven double the distance back again; assuredly she made no way in that
heavy sea. At length there was a pause, as though she had some
impossible wave to cut through; every heart stood still; then her sides
creaked and heaved; the timbers seemed like complaining spirits. She had
had both wind and tide against her; in an instant, as if by magic, she
appeared to swing round, with her head to the wind, and onward she flew,
like a soul loosened from bondage, and seeking its haven of rest. She
was returning to Marseilles. It was a race for life; but, like many an
overwrought gallant steed, her strength failed where her spirit upheld.
Onward she dashed, and one wild shriek mingled with the severing crash,
as "L'Hirondelle" broke upon the rocks, her crew was powerless to keep
her off, and went to pieces in that dark, dreary night.
It is not our province, even though we portray a true scene, to speak of
all in that doomed steamer; it is with Minnie we have to buffet over the
waves of that dark sea, in a small boat, into which many--far too many,
had crowded. Her child was clasped in a grasp like death, (for only that
could have parted them,) to her shivering breast powerless to warm it,
while its faint cry broke in agony on her stricken heart. Still she
hoped; she knew something more than human force would be requisite to
separate her from her infant, strained as it was to her bosom. So the
shivering mother sat still, uncomplaining in her anguish, and thus they
drifted on in that laden boat. Morning broke, and the boat was keel
uppermost, riding on a calm sea; to that keel clung two living beings,
the mother and child, yet the latter scarcely lived. The tone of that
little voice was a faint murmur of expiring nature, which echoed in a
heavy sob from the mother's heart, as she clung to the keel in almost
despairing hope, and thus they drifted to and fro, a mockery of life, so
nigh death they seemed on that calm sea, until her benumbed hand, for
one grasped her child, could scarcely cling on, and insensibility was
stealing over both, slowly and gradually, so much so that it seemed as a
dream, two rough, but friendly arms, lifting her into a boat, where she
was gently laid at the bottom on sails and coats, and covered up
carefully from the spray, which dashed over her, as in playfulness. What
means of restoration they had at hand, were supplied by those rough
nurses, two fishermen on the Marseilles coast, who, quitting their toil
for that day, sailed in, as quickly as possible, to their humble
village-home, of a few poor cottages up the coast. A long, insensible
sleep was Minnie's, when she was laid in the cotter's bed. Her long,
fair hair hung in heavy, damp masses on the coverlet, and on her bosom
lay the living thing she still clasped in her straining arms, loving
almost unto death. It was nearly two long days before she awoke to
perfect consciousness, to find herself tended with care and every
kindness their poverty could afford, by the two men who had rescued her,
and who, calling in a woman from a neighbouring hut, placed the mother
and child under her care. Her first awakening was a loud cry of terror,
as in a horrid dream she saw the past, and her first thought was her
boy. Startled by her cry, the woman ceased a low monotonous song she was
singing, to lull an infant to sleep with by the fire. Minnie sprang from
the bed towards her, and in an instant memory gave her back all; for one
doubting moment she held her child at arm's length to recall the
features, then folding those arms in gentle, but strong hold around it,
she sunk tremblingly on her knees, and the fair veil of hair sweeping
the ground, made her seem a spirit from another world, in purity and
holiness, as, raising her streaming eyes upwards, her lips murmured in
deep, heartfelt gratitude--"Oh, I am not worthy of so much mercy! so
great a blessing! teach me to deserve it!"
And her tears baptized anew her child, spared from death.