Days and days passed away, and Minnie lay almost in death's grasp, and
the old man sat beside her as a father might have done, nursing the poor
sick woman; his bitterest thought was his own poverty, and her great
need of every care. The little money she had by her, was fast
disappearing, sickness brings so many unaccustomed claims into a
sufferer's room; there was a doctor, too, but here again she learned the
charity still existing, despite all march of intellect, or railroad of
worldliness; there was this one hallowed thing standing still, since the
day of the good Samaritan. Nothing could induce this man to take a fee,
and assuredly he came with more interest, and oftener, to see the sick
woman, than if gold awaited his palm at every visit. The _concièrge_,
too, was all kindness; she kept poor little Miles, and thus the weary
days crept on, and nearly a fortnight passed, before Minnie returned to
a perfect recollection of the past. When she did so, her first idea was
to ask the length of time she had lain thus--two weeks! and in that
period what might not have occurred? She struggled to rise from her bed,
but her strength failed her; she had no one around in whom she might
confide, feeling her own total incapacity to act, and knowing how
necessary it was that some immediate steps should be taken, even though
in taking them, her existence would, of necessity, be betrayed. There
was but one person of whom she could think in her despair, and this was
Mary Burns. Summoning all her fortitude and strength, she in a few,
half-coherent words confided to Monsieur Georges that a mystery existed,
and imploring caution, and otherwise total silence on his part, she
besought him to seek Mary, and telling her a sick woman wished to see
her immediately, having something of importance to communicate, beg of
her to come, without delay. This he gladly promised to do; for, in his
perplexity, he knew not himself where to apply, how to act; in her
ravings she had said enough to convince him, some dreadful secret
oppressed her. Mary, who had been alone informed by the papers at first
of Minnie's supposed fate, and subsequently by Skaife, had mourned her
with the sincerity of an humble sister; for some time she had been
incapable of almost any exertion of mind or body; there was a blank
around her, a disheartenment--for well she knew the purity of the
unfortunate victim of Tremenhere's jealousy. When she received the
mysterious summons, delivered to her by Georges, not a thought of Minnie
crossed her mind; her deep, and truly mourning dress, bespoke her faith
in the report of her untimely fate, but, though much puzzled as to whom
the person could be desiring to see her, she was too sincere a Christian
to refuse the prayer of any one in trouble. Minnie had said to Monsieur
Georges, that she desired to see the person alone; consequently he
brought her to the room door, and there left her. The name Deval could
not possibly enlighten her at all, and the respectability of the house
removed any fear she might otherwise have felt, in following a stranger.
It would be impossible for any words adequately to describe her almost
supernatural terror, when entering the room alone, on the humble bed,
almost pallet, in the pale, worn ghastly face lying there, she beheld
Mrs. Tremenhere! Her first feeling was one of doubt, of her own perfect
sanity; she thought some extraordinary likeness deceived her, and
standing breathless, with clasped hands, she gazed in fear and wonder.
"Mary," whispered Minnie, turning her eyes, now hollow and wild, upon
her--"Mary, 'tis I! come to me!" And she stretched forth her thin hands
towards her. A shriek burst from the other: it was like an awakening
from some dreadful dream. Dropping on her knees beside that bed, she
clasped the wan hands in hers, and wept tears of so much heartfelt joy,
that years of misery were washed from her memory in that stream of
heaven-sent rapture.
In a few brief words, Minnie, raised up, and lying on her bosom, told
all, first binding her to solemn secresy about her existence, unless
released from it by herself. If Mary wept over her sufferings, her heart
became soothed as she wept, feeling that there must be a term to it now.
_She_ knew Miles even better than his poor wife could; she had known his
warm, generous, but hasty disposition, from boyhood; and even though
her heart trembled when the other related the conversation which she had
overheard at the opera, nothing could persuade her that he would so soon
forget one he had loved as he once had Minnie: and so much does the fond
heart of friendship soothe and cheer us, that Minnie too, became calm,
and impressed with the conviction of her humble friend.
While they were still conversing, the _concièrge_ rapped at the door,
carrying little Miles in her arms; and, as Mary clasped the beautiful
boy to her bosom, she felt how impossible it would be for Tremenhere to
resist so strong an appeal to his heart as this woman and child, or the
conviction of the latter's parentage, in whose young face his own every
look breathed.
After cheering, again and again, the now calmed woman, Mary hastily
quitted, on her search for positive information. This had to be
guardedly done, but she thought it might be accomplished through the
medium of the waiting-woman of Lady Dora. Accordingly, she hurried home,
and, selecting some articles of _lingèrie_, carried them to the Hotel
Mirabeau, under pretence that some one had ordered her to bring patterns
for selection, for the approval of Lady Dora Vaughan.
It will be remembered that her person, her present position, both were
equally unknown to this lady, who alone knew her by name. Her success
was greater than she had at first ventured to hope. _Lingères_ and
ladies'-maids soon open a conversation together, especially as Mary,
having so much at stake, threw off all her usual reserve, and became a
perfect Parisienne in manner. She came, she said, having heard Milady
Vaughan was making up a _trousseau_, in hopes some of her _lingèrie_
might be worthy of a place in it--taking care, however, to give a wrong
name and address. After the usual preliminary of presenting the
attendant with a handsome collar, to propitiate her good-will, she
learned, with a tremor at first, which ended in amazement and joy, that
Lady Dora was going very shortly to be married, but positively to Milord
Randolph Gray, who was then in Paris; and the _soubrette_, warmed by the
handsome present she had received, threw off all reserve, and spoke in
raptures--true Parisian raptures--of her lady's beauty, and the justice
it was meeting at the hands of a celebrated painter, a Monsieur
Tremenhere, who was pourtraying her as Diana, to please Milord Randolph.
Mary could scarcely contain herself in the bounds of moderation, at
this, to her, delightful intelligence; she abridged the visit as much as
possible, promising to call again in a few days with more patterns, as
Lady Dora was then out. She flew almost to poor Minnie's abode, to whom
every moment had been as days. When Mary entered the room, her eyes were
wild and excited; one glance, however, sufficed. Minnie read so much
real joy in the other's kind face, that she fell back on her pillow
almost fainting, from her previously overwrought feelings.
"Cheer up, madam--dear madam, I bring you joyful news!" exclaimed the
other; and she hurriedly related all she had heard.
Minnie could not utter a word for many moments; then, as memory of those
words crossed her mind, she could but torture herself with a solution of
them, by supposing that Lady Dora's pride had stood between them. Not
all Mary could urge against it, could banish the idea; and all she could
do was to promise secresy, and employ means to discover the truth. She
left, but only to make some necessary arrangements, and then return. One
thing she resolved upon doing, and this she put into immediate
practice--namely, to write to Mr. Skaife without hinting a word of the
truth, but implored him to lose not a day in coming to Paris, asking
secresy to all on the subject of her request--a hint of Minnie she durst
not give; she only spoke of the absolute necessity there existed for his
immediate arrival. This done, she felt at ease; and returning to
Minnie's, after providing many little comforts until then unknown there,
she took up her abode beside that sick-bed, and watched with delight the
change a few hours had made in that sick woman, whose mind diseased had
defied all medicine. Our good deeds, not unfrequently even in this
world, bring home their ripe fruits! Here was the girl whom she had
taken from error to her bosom, from poverty to be almost her friend, now
in this extreme moment, soothing, consoling, and returning to her all
she had herself given her; and Mary's eye filled with honest joy as she
felt this. Could she have laid down her life she would freely have done
it, to prove all her gratitude. It was, in truth, a day when Minnie was
made to feel that our good gifts often return tenfold to us. She did not
in her peace forget him, who had watched over her in sickness and
delirium. She had explained to Mary all she knew of Monsieur Georges;
and, as the shades of evening were closing in, Minnie heard the stealthy
step plodding up and down his solitary room. He feared to intrude now,
knowing she had a friend to watch and guard her.
"Oh!" cried she, "I have forgotten poor Monsieur Georges in all my
selfish happiness. Mary, open that door, and say I would speak with
him--will you? He has been indeed both father and friend to me!" Mary
rose hastily to obey, and re-entered, almost dragging in the poor,
solitary old man, from his own cold, comfortless chamber; for he was
poorer than ever, having spent every _sou_ he could command on the sick
woman who had befriended him.
"Come in--pray, come in!" cried Minnie, stretching out a hand to him.
"Come, and see how much better I am to-night; and your little boy, too,
see how calmly he is sleeping beside me. You must not forget him; he has
more than once slept in your arms when mine were powerless to retain
him."
Georges stooped over the bed, and a tear fell on her cheek, as the
shivering man pressed his lips to her forehead.
"My child," he said, "I never can forget you or him; you seem as
something belonging to me, and yet I must lose you soon. I know you will
recover, and go among friends. I felt from the first, your being as you
were must have a cruel mystery attached to it--all will clear away for
you, you are so good, and then you will go, and I shall remain!" and the
desolate old man's voice trembled.
"I will never forsake you!" exclaimed Minnie. "I could not; you have
been with me in too much sorrow, for me ever to forget you! The friends
of those hours we may not banish, like the ones who pass with our
laughter."
"I cannot account for it, Monsieur Georges," said Mary; "but from the
first moment I saw you, your face seemed to me like one I had known,
though altered by time, in some far away days of childhood; and yet it
cannot be, for I am not a native of France."
"They say," he replied, "that not two persons in the world resemble one
another; yet there are likenesses so strong, you may have seen some one
like me. The impressions of childhood, on thoughtful minds, come across
us, like dreams in after years."
"Oh!" she answered, "it is not alone your face and figure, but something
in the tone of your voice is, and was from the first, most familiar,
though dreamy."
She gazed earnestly, as she spoke, at the dignified, though bent figure
of the old man, as he sat beside the stove, where the light of the lamp
fell on his venerable head and silvered hair.
"There is something," he said, "I have intended asking, when our poor
invalid should be better. I do not want to pry into, perhaps painful
family secrets, for few are exempt from these," he sighed deeply; "but
there can be no indiscretion in my inquiring, I hope, whether the name
of 'Tremenhere,' which she uttered so frequently in her ravings, is one
of family connection, or merely of acquaintanceship."
"Tremenhere!" exclaimed Minnie, and the truth hung on her lip, yet
something of fear of betrayal withheld her from uttering it. "Do you
know the name?" she inquired, changing her original thought, and
supporting herself on her arm, she looked anxiously at him.
"I did," he answered, "long ago."
"Where?" asked Mary, fixing a surprised look on his face.
"Far from hence," he replied. "Abroad, and in England."
"For mercy's sake!" exclaimed Minnie, "tell me, my good father (for such
indeed you have been to me,) what Tremenhere did you know--the name is
so uncommon?"
"One," he answered, "whom you cannot have known, at least I think not,
for he had no daughter--only one child--a son."
"Do not hesitate; you may freely speak before me," cried Mary,
anxiously; "you little know, perhaps, what your words may lead to. _I am
sure_ I have seen you--heard your voice."
"How can that be?" he asked, still doubting what it were prudent to do.
"You would have forgotten me, you must have been so young, had we ever
met. I should remember you, for I am an old man."
"Were you ever in Yorkshire?" asked Mary, with a trembling voice.
Something stilled Minnie's tongue; she could not speak.
"Yorkshire!" he cried in almost terror. "Do you mean at an old
manor-house?"
"Come here," whispered Minnie, scarcely audible. She felt something
strange was surrounding her. "Come nearer--here, beside me. I am too
weak to speak loud--there," and she clasped his hand. "Father, by the
love you have shown me--to me, a poor orphan child, a deserted
wife--tell me, who are you? My name is Tremenhere, and I know the
manor-house well; it _was_ my husband's father's!"
"Merciful heavens!" exclaimed Georges, in agitation. "Then how are you
thus? and how have we met? Tell me--is your husband the son--the only
son of the _late_ Miles Tremenhere, of the manor-house? for you speak of
the father as being no more."
Mary sat speechless, and yet she knew not what her hopes or fears were;
she was in a stupor.
"Miles Tremenhere, the son, is my husband," answered Minnie; "but he has
forsaken me--forsaken me!" and her tears gushed forth.
"I will tell you," said Mary, in a whisper, drawing near and clasping
Minnie in her arms. "This poor lady has been the victim of a villain,
Marmaduke Burton, who, when old Mr. Tremenhere died, put in a claim to
the property, on the plea of the son's illegitimacy; and, having driven
him forth, was not content without destroying his young wife's fame, to
drive him to desperation."
"Illegitimacy!" exclaimed Georges, like one in a dream. "That was false;
for _I_ married his parents--baptized him!"
"Oh!" shrieked Minnie, starting from Mary's arms, and grasping his arm;
"your name then is not Georges--'tis d'Estrées!"
"I will tell you all, my poor child," he said, when his overflowing
tears had subsided; and he leaned over the pillow, where lay the pale
and exhausted Minnie from over-excitement. "I was chaplain in Gibraltar
to Lord Dillon, who was governor there, and I knew, and became most
intimate with Tremenhere, who was quartered there. For family reasons he
did not wish his marriage with Helena Nunoz, with whom he had become
acquainted, known to any one, on account of the obscurity of her family,
during his father's lifetime. I married them privately: shortly
afterwards they left for England: here, in Paris, they were re-married
on account of her religion, she insisted upon it, by a catholic priest:
all was legally, correctly done. Mr. Tremenhere was too good a man to
have it otherwise. When his wife, than whom a better creature never
existed, was near her confinement, he felt desirous the child should be
baptized by me; and for that purpose I obtained permission of Lord
Dillon, who had quitted Gibraltar, to go to Yorkshire, and there the
ceremony was performed, and registered, in the parish church.
"True," answered Mary, "but no one could discover whither Mr. d'Estrées
who officiated had gone; besides, 'twas the marriage which was disputed,
not baptism."
"I have now," he continued sighing, "to touch upon a passage of agony in
my own life, which will account for my concealment. Shortly afterwards I
quitted Lord Dillon, sufficiently provided for, for all moderate wants;
I had a son of my own, a fine youth of fourteen. After leaving his
lordship, at Mr. Tremenhere's prayer I repaired to Yorkshire with my
son, who was to be as companion and friend to his son, then a boy of
ten; all was happiness and peace for nearly a year. There was something
in my child I could never fully understand--a disposition difficult to
govern; something not open and candid--but I hoped time might make him
otherwise, and the society of those around him. A year passed--I will
but touch upon this; it is too painful," the poor father trembled as he
spoke. "The manor-house was robbed one night; after a long, painful
investigation, you may guess my horror at the discovery, my son was
implicated in it. A sum to a considerable amount had been abstracted
from Mr. Tremenhere's old cabinet; he, in mercy to me, hushed up the
affair; my son fled, and I became a broken-hearted man. To stay was
impossible; Mr. Tremenhere felt this too, so I left, to the deep regret
of himself and his angel wife. Little more remains to be said--after
awhile, all communication ceased between us, my unhappy boy discovered
me, with him I shared the little I had, and he went to America,
promising me to reform. I have never heard from him, and I became as
Monsieur Georges what you see!"
"Do you not remember me?" asked Mary, pale with emotion and memory. "I
was Mary Burns, the child whom you have often caressed; I knew I had
seen you in days of youth!"
Let us pass over the remainder of this scene; Mary told him all that
which was strange to him, but what our readers already know. Minnie
could but weep in joy, in hope; for now, indeed, she had a rich present
to lay at Miles's feet--a mother's fame!
"Think, my dear child," he said, when all was told, "that the night your
kind heart (for I read it truly) called the shivering old man to your
fire, your guardian angel led him in to bring you a blessing. And you
will be blessed; doubt it not--here with your husband's love, hereafter
with a better than even that, for our good deeds come home to roost far
more than our bad ones; there is much mercy around us, poor, weak,
mortal children, that we are."