Nothing could adequately pourtray to our readers the unhappy state of
all at Gatestone. Juvenal had sunk into a querulous old man; Sylvia's
bile had spread itself over all: she silenced any qualms of conscience
she might otherwise have felt, by keeping every one as uncomfortable as
possible. If she beheld the faintest gleam of forgetfulness passing
across the horizon, she immediately drew down the blinds of despair, and
threw every one into darkness again, and sorrow; they could not even for
a moment lose sight of their loss. If the wind whistled she gave a
shiver, and talked of storms at sea, and drowning persons; if the
railway whistle, borne on the air for miles, came faintly over
Gatestone, she put her handkerchief to a dry eye, and _snivelled_ over
the recollection thus suddenly recalled to her aching memory, of Gretna
Green and its consequences. She was an inexhaustible fund of woe; for
when Juvenal had been lured by the kind-hearted Dorcas into some other
train of thought, Sylvia would suddenly remind them that this was the
anniversary of a day in which Minnie had said, done, worn, or completed
something, and consequently she had the house in as miserable a state
as she could desire; all crept about from pantry to garret in listen
shoes, that they might not break in on the general woe; this was another
happy invention of Sylvia's, which made the large house as silent as if
death were abiding there. Dorcas was lost, indeed, when Mr. Skaife left
his curacy for Paris; for, without naming Minnie often, they consoled
one another by gentle words, and works of charity accomplished together.
Now Dorcas was fain to betake herself principally to her own room; for
her means of consoling Juvenal were hourly more severed from her grasp.
He became perfectly disconsolate, and rocked to and fro, like one
bordering on idiotcy. Of Marmaduke Burton's return he never would listen
to; he never should enter _his_ house, for his guidance had led him to
oppress Minnie, and drive her to desperation. Mrs. Gillett's woe was
beyond even the others; for she carried it even into sleep--she was
constantly dreaming some dreadful dream. Either she saw Minnie a corpse
or in bridal gear; both were bad--the first proved her spirit was
unquiet--the second, an unerring sign of death. Now, as Minnie _was_
dead, she couldn't die again; consequently, it must be the death of some
one at Gatestone--but whose? And she would seek the sympathizing Sylvia,
and break into loud prognostications of evil.
"Oh, my dear master! my dear master!" she would cry, wringing her hands;
"I know he's going, and then we shall all have to go, and leave the old
place; whereas, if any of you had married, and had a boy, or Miss
Minnie either, we might have remained; but her boy went along with her,
and I often see a beautiful baby in my sleep, all covered with long
hair, like Miss Minnie, sitting on a rock, wringing out the sea-water."
Her description of Minnie was not very correct, but she didn't exactly
and literally mean what she said. Poor Gillett certainly looked older by
many years; and in proof of how much her memory was affected, she had
been seen more than once sitting on the stile in the holly field,
without her pattens. The manor-house was desolate--only servants
inhabited it; Farmer Weld plodded over his fields in gloom, for now he
lost all hope of ever seeing good Madam Tremenhere's son back again.
Skaife had been so solemnly bound down not to betray Minnie's actual
existence, that he durst not do so; besides he felt assured that an
eventual day of brightness would shine over all, by Tremenhere's and
Minnie's reconciliation. He wisely felt that this was too serious an
act, after the fatal suspicions on his part, to be risked in its full
and perfect self-accomplishment by any interference of friends; when
both hearts should be firmly convinced of each other's worth, then they
might be safely brought together. But when he told Minnie all the bitter
grief her beloved aunt Dorcas felt, her gentle heart consented to a hope
which might be held out to alleviate her pain; and this was in the
accomplishment of a desire, she had so often expressed, that Minnie's
boy even, had been saved.
"Oh!" she often said to Skaife, "I could with time have become
reconciled to all. If only I had held her child in my arms, it would
have recalled her to me in all her childish love and kindness, but even
this is denied me!"
Skaife accordingly wrote to her, requesting that secresy which he knew
would be faithfully kept; and stating that through Mary Burns he had
strong hope of one day placing her Minnie's boy in her arms, as he had
reason to believe he had been saved from the wreck!
Minnie would indeed have rejoiced had she seen her aunt's joy; next to
seeing herself once more, this was the dearest blessing she could have
received. "Minnie's boy!" and as she sat, and hoped and prayed for his
coming, the step grew lighter, the eye less dim--even Sylvia's bolts
fell more harmlessly around her; and at last this amiable one had the
cruelty to accuse her of want of feeling, and "unnatural mirth," because
she once saw the ghost of a smile pass over her lip; but not all her
indignation could make poor Dorcas hopeless; she felt Skaife would not
lightly buoy her up with hopes, to destroy them.
Skaife had indeed a difficult task in hand; he himself feared hurrying
events between Tremenhere and Minnie. He dreaded many things; he
trembled lest he should become captivated by Lady Dora; and then her
flirtation with his cousin Burton, the motive of which Skaife plainly
perceived, alarmed him--this, through revenge, might lead to infatuation
on Miles's part, and how _then_ ever pursuade Minnie that really he only
loved herself? and all her future happiness and contentment with him,
depended on her strong conviction on this point. He might easily have
effected a meeting, a most joyful one, and reconciliation; but he felt
that it must be even more than the first confidence of love--it must be
one which had been tried in the fire, proved and purified--and how
accomplish this? Her meeting him and Lady Dora in the Bois de Boulogne,
had thrown so heavy a doubt over her heart.
One only thing he could imagine, and this was privately to bring her to
the studio, and let her own ears hear Miles's words--something must be
done, and done quickly.
Some days had passed, and Tremenhere made no effort to see Lady Dora in
private; true he called there; it was urged upon him by Lord Randolph
and Lady Lysson, who most nobly spoke to him on the subject, without
knowing the relationship between them, only knowing of that between
Burton and himself.
"Lady Dora is capricious, like most beauties," she said, "my dear Mr.
Tremenhere, and, for some extraordinary reason, chooses to receive Mr.
Burton's visits contrary to my advice; it will not therefore do, for
your own dignity sake, for you to absent yourself from their circle; my
doors are open to you at all times; we are only too happy when we can
secure you within them; and I strongly advise your visiting Lady Ripley,
even more frequently than usual." He could but press the little soft
hand held out to him in gratitude to his lips.
Lady Ripley and her daughter had, however, another motive besides
pleasure or pique in seeking Marmaduke Burton. They feared him, dreading
what he might utter about Tremenhere's wife, as a relative of theirs.
By policy, and seeming kindness towards him, they bound him to silence;
for he read their hearts, and never alluded to the unpleasant subject.
It mattered little to him _how_ he secured their support, that he had
it, and as he believed, thus galled Tremenhere, was sufficient. Lady
Dora would gladly have cut Burton after the ball where they had met; but
crooked policy costs full many a bitter pang, spared to straightforward
candour: in concealing their relationship to Tremenhere's wife--they
took from her memory that, which might have shielded it from many a
cloud.
Lady Dora met Tremenhere. Her heart was now beyond her own controul, had
he spoken; but he was attentive, courteous--nothing more by word or
look. He had resolved now to let another open Lord Randolph's eyes, for
this had been a part of his motive lately; and he saw those eyes _were_
extending their power of vision through his cousin, so he left all in
other hands. This maddened her. A man may not _speak_ his love for many
reasons; but he cannot but _look_ it, if he love; it is the soul which
finds tongue through the eyes. If we might govern or quite controul
this, what perfect creatures we should be, _with good intentions_.
Skaife had obtained permission from Miles to visit his studio whenever
he pleased, even during his absence, as the latter had a well-chosen
library, in which Skaife delighted. He had asked leave so to do, for a
half-formed plan in his mind.
One day he brought this to perfection, as far as he could foresee.
Tremenhere was going to pass some early hours in the morning at the
Louvre. At two o'clock Lady Dora had requested a sitting, and so
arranged it that Lord Randolph should accompany her to Tremenhere's, and
leave her there for awhile, as he too had an engagement. Lady Dora was
independent in all she did, and this day was resolved finally to know if
she were beloved or not by Tremenhere. Skaife knew all the latter's
appointments, and hours of them. He had made himself master of these
facts, and, in accordance with his plan, deemed it better Lady Dora
should come in almost immediately after the meeting and re-union of the
husband and wife, that no proof further need be wanting to convince her
of their mutual love; he dreaded this cold-hearted girl.
All this was very nicely planned; but it had to be as well accomplished.
It occupied him and Mary Burns for days, in preparing poor Minnie for
her visit to Tremenhere's rooms, and when the day arrived her limbs
almost refused to support her. With much difficulty he reached her
husband's abode with her, and, leaving her in a fiacre, entered the
_loge de concièrge_, and inquired whether Tremenhere was within, as a
precautionary measure. The man answered in the negative, and handed him
the key of the apartment, saying--
"Perhaps, monsieur would like to walk up?"
The next thing to be done was easy of accomplishment. This man, of that
most corruptible class, was open to a little quiet bribery, "Not to
tell Monsieur Tremenhere that a lady was in his rooms, as he (Skaife)
wished to surprise him."
"_Allez!_ monsieur," answered the man, "I see nothing."
And Skaife and Minnie passed in. How her heart and limbs trembled when
she entered those rooms where he had so lately been! where he sat and
talked, thought of, and _perhaps_ so deeply regretted her! She stood in
the centre of that studio, and turned round and round, and her pale face
and figure, which moved so mechanically, as if afraid of a natural
undulation, made her seem like a statue. Skaife had arranged all in his
mind before bringing her, and in the space behind the bed in the alcove
he concealed her. This room adjoined the studio by one door, and by an
opposite from this latter you entered the saloon.
Skaife's idea had been, immediately on Tremenhere's entrance to lead him
to speak of Minnie, and she, by creeping from her place of concealment,
would be enabled to listen to all--he reserving to himself the task of
keeping Miles at his easel, and thus preventing him from entering his
bedroom, without giving her sufficient time to conceal herself. All this
was admirably arranged; but in such plans there is always the
presumption that nothing untoward will occur to mar their perfect
completion. Miles entered at one o'clock, as appointed, and after
wandering through his apartment, passing close to the half lifeless
Minnie, he threw off his coat, and put on the artistic jacket of
scarlet, in which he was in the habit of painting. Minnie through the
curtains watched all this, and saw him stand in deep thought a moment,
then, passing a weary hand over a wearier brow, he entered his studio,
where Skaife stood very pale. He durst not follow him to his bedroom--it
would have looked extraordinary his doing so; and so he stood, almost
retaining his breath, expecting every moment to hear Minnie shriek forth
the other's name--but all passed quietly, and Miles came out, and sat
down to touch up Lady Dora's portrait before her arrival. The saloon, we
have said, was on the opposite side to the bedroom, and facing
Tremenhere's easel; from the saloon you passed into an antechamber, and
thence out of the apartment. Skaife had calculated upon having the
catastrophe over before Lady Dora's arrival, who would come in, and
share the surprise, with Lord Randolph, of finding the long lost wife in
her husband's fond arms. He knew that if Tremenhere could be led to
speak of her again, as he had done to him, Minnie would no longer doubt
the joy her coming would afford him, and at once rush forth. So it might
most probably have been all smooth and fair sailing; but they were
doomed to meet with some rocks yet, and one of these was the entrance,
before the hour appointed, of Lady Dora and Lord Randolph Gray! Skaife,
though a most patient man, would assuredly have sworn, but for the
colour of his cloth--as it was, he stamped, and coloured violently.
"Trem.," said Lord Randolph, using the abbreviation by which he
frequently addressed his friend, "I've brought Lady Dora before the
hour, because I have a particular engagement, and must leave her in
your care for half an hour."
Be it said, Lady Ripley imagined Lord Randolph was going to remain the
whole time during her sitting, else her ideas of propriety, most justly,
would have forbidden allowing her to stop alone in a painter's studio.
Lord Randolph had no thought of harm of his friend, when Lady Dora
said,--
"I am most anxious to get my sittings over for this Diana; so don't tell
mamma you are going to leave me there alone, or she will not allow me to
go."
English mothers, perhaps too freely, permit their daughters to walk out
_only_ accompanied by their intended husbands! French ones say, "The
marriage may never take place; 'tis better to avoid bringing a girl's
name in question."
Lord Randolph looked at "Diana," and at the fair original, and departed
fearless and confiding. Lady Dora trembled with annoyance. Every moment
was an hour. She was resolved to have an explanation; and how accomplish
this with Skaife present? However, there was a fate to turn all to its
will. This latter felt choking with impatience. He could not remain
there all the period of the sitting, for nothing could be done until
Lady Dora left. So he rose, and entering the bedroom, approached the
alcove, where he had placed a chair for Minnie to rest upon; in a low
whisper he told her the state of the case, and bade her be patient--all
would go well. Be it remembered that, whatever his suspicions of the
state of Lady Dora's heart, he had no proof, he knew nothing of the
scarcely ambiguous conversations which took place between them, whenever
they met. To collect his thoughts, he deemed it best to go out for a
walk; consequently he went, to Lady Dora's great joy, and, pulling the
outer door after him, _thought_ he closed it, but he did not--it
remained ajar.
Lady Dora sat some moments listening, then her impatience began to
manifest itself by a movement of the foot. Tremenhere's calmness and
cheerful ease drove her mad.
"Mr. Tremenhere," she said at last, "were you not surprised to see me
dancing with your----with Mr. Burton, the other evening?"
"Who--I, Lady Dora?" he asked in extreme surprise, but most placidly;
"not in the least--why should I be?"
"Because--because, it was strange my doing so."
"Strange! Lady Dora--you use a wrong term, I think; there is nothing
strange in a natural action. Mr. Burton, to do him justice, is tall,
gentlemanly in appearance, can converse on general topics most agreeable
to ladies, dances very well--and what more does a lady require?"
"True--for all this you speak freely and truthfully; but you forget the
character of the man--you forget----"
"And pray, my dear Lady Dora, what _has_ character to do with a
schottische or a polka? Even if a man be a slanderer, a liar, (pardon me
the harsh, but truthful word,) and coward, the two first will not
prevent his paying just compliments to your beauty, nor the last make
him fail in keeping the time of a _deux temps_, though it _might_ that
of a hostile meeting, to answer for the two first."
"You are bitter, Mr. Tremenhere."
"Bitter! and towards him?" and he laughed. "No; pardon me, I feel too
thorough a contempt for the man to waste bitterness upon him; I reserve
that for those who may yet be saved by a little wholesome bark, or
quinine, medicinally speaking."
"Expend it then on me. You _must_ despise, or condemn me; you cannot
approve."
"I do not judge you, Lady Dora; I do but try to hand down to posterity
those perfect features of yours, and you sadly distort them," and he
laid down his palette. "You are grieved, vexed; has any thing annoyed
you? Can I serve you? Pray, command me!"
Minnie had crept from behind the bed. An irresistible impulse impelled
her to do so when she found herself alone, and knew Lady Dora to be
unaccompanied by any one, with Tremenhere. And pale, almost lifeless,
she leaned against the door, and--oh! most scrupulous reader, forgive
the fault!--listened.
"Mr. Tremenhere!" Lady Dora cried, rising hastily in reply to his
question, and standing pale, erect, but trembling; "I would ask
you,--I--I am in a position of much suffering." She clasped her hands
together as if to still her nervous pain. "I would ask you," she
uttered, "whether your memory is perfect?"
"In all things, Lady Dora," was the calm reply.
"Do you remember when first we met in Florence?"
"Well--well. I was then a man, comparatively speaking, full of hope;
now----"
"And you loved _then_. You (better said) loved me, and I treated your
half-avowed affection with scorn; that was pride!" She spoke in hurried
confusion.
"True--most true!" he uttered.
"You quitted, believing me a cold, heartless flirt. You met, and married
my cousin; was this love, or--pique?"
"I cannot answer, lady, till I know why you ask."
"Since her death" (the words fell in cold awe from her lips) "we have
met often, and on each occasion words of implied tenderness fell from
your tongue."
Neither heard the almost groan from the sinking woman, leaning against
the half-closed door to the bedroom.
"All these I was deaf to, and I accepted Lord Randolph as my future
husband. This, too, was pride."
Tremenhere stood looking earnestly at her, as one of her hands nervously
played on the back of a chair; but he did not utter a word, though the
deep, speaking eye was fixed upon her.
"Man!" she cried at last, stamping her foot with energy; "do you not see
how I suffer? Pride--woman's delicacy--all are forgotten. Tremenhere, I
love you! For this love I accepted your cousin's attention, hateful as
he was to me, to urge you to say the last words; for all but those have
been said between us. Tremenhere, for mercy's sake," she cried
impetuously, "do not stand looking on me thus; but say those words at
last!"
"Lady Dora," he said, as a deep sigh of heartfelt joy struggled upwards,
but his tone was calm and low, and he approached and clasped her hand,
"_now_ I will answer you. When we met in Florence I could have loved
you; I thought I did, till I measured the error afterwards by the
intensity of my love for Minnie. When I brought her, a child almost, to
my artist's home, who came and upheld that child? who came, and by her
presence gave countenance to our love? Did you--did any? True, after a
while, a few tardy visits were paid! But when I, fiendlike, drove her by
my passions to become a wanderer--who sought her out to cheer and
uphold? I blamed you less even then than now; for now you have shewn me
how despotic your will can be, when it pleases you to be so! Love you!"
he cried, striding across the room and dragging back the curtain before
the statue of his wife--"love you, Lady Dora! the cold, heartless woman
of the world; with this too looked upon--the marble dream of my adored,
my murdered Minnie! Oh no, no!" he added, almost weeping. "By the long,
long nights I watched, creating this memory--by her purity, which I now
know too late--I scorn you, Lady Dora; and, unmanly as it may seem, have
trifled with your semblance of heart, your vanity in short, to open the
eyes of a worthy man, too worthy for you--Lord Randolph."
She had stood transfixed by horror, crushed in her pride, and bending
to earth. As he spoke the last words, a heavy fall in the bedroom
resounded in their ears. She turned hastily, and in terror gazing at the
door, through which he passed in haste. Not a thought of the truth burst
upon him as he raised the closely enveloped and veiled figure, fainting
on the ground. Placing her on a couch, he hurriedly tore off the bonnet
to give her air; as he did so, the long fair hair rolled heavily to the
ground, which it swept. He uttered a cry; it was one of pain and
fear--for one hurried moment something supernatural crept through his
blood and stilled it--then drawing near the couch, as if a spirit lay
there, he gently lifted back the fallen hair, and gliding on one knee,
gazed with distended eyes on the pale, unconscious face, then, placing
his lips near hers, he held his own breath to feel if she breathed. A
gentle sigh came over his cheek--with that sigh the truth rushed almost
in maddening power over his mind. One loud cry came from his soul; and
clasping her in his arms he strained her to his breast, and wild,
hysteric sobs burst from his lips, but the eyes were burning and
tearless.
"Minnie--Minnie!" he sobbed; "speak to me--my wife--my Minnie, speak to
me!"
But though the blue eyes opened, and tried to comprehend all, they were
haggard and without speculation. By degrees memory returned; and the
first look of terror passing, the languid arms raised above the head on
her bosom, and grew in a circle round his neck, and strained him to her
heart.
"Miles!" she whispered, "it would have killed me if----" she glanced
towards the door. "Let us together thank that unfailing power," she
uttered, "which has kept us from sin, and through so much sorrow, in
faith and love," and the trembling knees clung to the ground beside
where he knelt supporting her; and the eyes, pure as an angel's, looked
upwards in prayer, while his arms clasped her, and the speechless lips
were pressed on the upraised hands which pleaded for both.
Lady Dora had stood unnoticed in the doorway, when he rushed in. No
words can convey an idea of her mingled sensations. At a glance she
guessed the truth--'twas Minnie in life. As she stood, a hand touched
her arm.
"Lady Dora," said a grave voice, "I was there." He pointed to the
saloon. "An open door permitted me to enter, and hear all. I meant not
to listen--your words arrested me. Come, let me take you to Lady
Ripley's; _this_ is no place for you."
She started--gazed on him--then, all her pride coming to her aid, she
cried haughtily--
"My lord, I need no counsellor; I can act alone!"
And, hastily throwing on her bonnet and shawl, she quitted the studio.
Lord Randolph stood an instant, then, taking up a pencil, wrote on a
card, and placed it on the easel:--
"Heaven bless you both! Tremenhere, when you call me to your joy, I
shall rejoice with you, indeed!
"RANDOLPH."
Skaife returned, and let himself in with the key which he had taken; but
he was not alone. When he quitted the apartment, he hurried off (as men
very often do) to a woman for advice; and now he entered with Mary and
little Miles, resolved to tell all boldly. But when he arrived all had
been said, and, creeping to the bedroom door, he saw Minnie's head on
Tremenhere's beating heart, and his other arm clasped round her, as
though he still dreaded some power might separate them again. Her face
was upturned to his, whose deep, dark eyes were riveted on every look,
as she told him all. Skaife moved aside, and Mary crept in. Miles looked
up; but he could not for an instant loose his grasp, or move. Mary came
quietly on, and round the mother's neck were clasped the arms of her
child. Miles started. One glance told him all the truth. Something
thrilled through him. It was what he once expressed--"Minnie, I should
be jealous of my own child;" but the momentary gleam of that fatal
passion left, ere matured, and, folding both in one clasp, his tears
unrestrained baptized their re-union of love.
"_You_ did this!" he cried, grasping the hands of Skaife and Mary, as he
pointed to his boy's portrait in his mother's arms. "Thank you; it was
nobly done, and oh, a lovely thought!"
Tremenhere had married Minnie dowerless; but what a rich fortune she
laid before him in the proofs of his mother's fame! It was only by
degrees Minnie told him all she had suffered--all her vain search for
d'Estrées, until aided from on high, whence comes all for good, though
our little minds cannot always see it thus. For without these trials he
would never have overcome his jealousy--never have been truly happy.
What a room that saloon was of overflowing joy, as Tremenhere, Minnie,
Mary, Skaife, and d'Estrées, sat and talked of the past and future! Nor
must we forget the child, sleeping on its mother's knee, beneath the
loving eyes which watched him!
Lady Dora and her mother quitted Paris hastily for Switzerland; the
former, whose wishes were law, broke off all engagement, as the latter
believed, with Lord Randolph, without assigning any cause, and insisted
upon leaving France; but the rupture was by mutual consent. Nothing
would have induced him to marry her, after the conversation he
overheard.
Lady Lysson and himself were the first to call upon and congratulate
Tremenhere and his wife. Lord Randolph confided all to her, except, as a
feeling of honour, Lady Dora's confession; and, beneath the patronage of
Lady Lysson, the young couple became the lions of the place, which they
were shortly quitting, to solace those who still mourned Minnie, and
whom she wished to surprise so joyfully. And who may depict that
happiness? 'Twas like the throwing off of some horrid nightmare, which
had oppressed all in a long, heavy sleep. Skaife went before, to prepare
them for it.
Dorcas, who had hoped to see the child, held once more to her heart the
living mother. Juvenal wept in childish mirth, as he clasped her in his
arms, and sued for pardon. Sylvia, even _then_, could not forbear her
old habits, but called to Minnie's mind, again and again, all she had
suffered through Miles's treachery, (as she termed it)--imploring her to
be cautious for the future, for of course it was in him, and would break
out somewhere. She never could expect to be a perfectly happy woman;
there were things she _always_ must remember, and would do well to do
so! She could _never really_ love him again, but _perhaps_ a re-union
was wiser than a separation!
However, despite all, Minnie _did_ look happy, for Miles was beside her;
and Juvenal shook hands warmly with him, too, and Farmer Weld and buxom
Sally.
Marmaduke Burton followed Lady Dora to Switzerland, and both, in utter
ignorance of D'Estrée's revelations, from the same motive--revenge
towards Tremenhere--entered into a hasty marriage, the bell of which had
scarcely rung, when a trumpet resounded, summoning him to yield up the
manor-house to the incontestable proof of Miles's legitimacy.
Minnie would fain, if it might have been, have spared her cousin so
severe a blow; but the honour of her husband was more to her than all.
And when the day of triumph came, and the bells rang out in praise of
"good Madam Tremenhere's son"--and the carriage, though plain and
unostentatious, drove up with him, his fair smiling wife, and child, one
loud shout rang through the air; and, turning from the many,
Tremenhere, with a warm clasp, grasped the hand of Farmer Weld, and
presented him to Minnie as the truest friend of his day of shadow.
And Skaife, d'Estrées, all were there; the latter became the tutor
nominally of little Miles, and friend of both his doating parents. Mrs.
Gillett!--who may speak of her? How she cried, and laughed, and dreamed
all sorts of _couleur de rose_ dreams; and how she appeared for the
first time in her life with a profusion of white satin ribbons in her
cap! Mary remained in Paris, happy in the joy of others, which she had
helped to create anew; prospering, content, and more, grateful for the
peace Heaven had sent to repentance. Spring passed, Summer came, then
Autumn, then Christmas; and despite Sylvia's prognostications, "that
little Miles was a doomed child, for he looked it!"--the boy throve, and
lisped papa and mamma to a large circle of friends round the Christmas
fire at the manor-house. Among others were the faces of Lord Randolph,
Lady Lysson, Skaife, Juvenal, now rosy and himself again, Dorcas, _not_
Sylvia, she had a toothache which did not improve her temper, and
therefore stayed at home alone; for Mrs. Gillett presided over some
luxuries of her own handiwork, for the table. All were smiling and
happy, and in the gallery of family paintings hung "Aurora chasing the
Shades of Night," in which Minnie's lovely face shone; for she had
indeed brought light to Tremenhere's heart and home. None might have
known him; he was as we have never seen him; for, in the midst of the
gaiety of those now joyous halls, he looked up, and beheld his mother's
picture smiling on the son who had loved, and suffered so much for her.
And when the ringing laughter or falling footsteps were stilled, on the
quiet ear sounded the tick-tack, tick-tack, tick-tack, of the old hall
clock, now transferred to the manor-house.
* * * * *
Let us end with a moral we have tried to carry out in these pages. If
curses like chickens come home to roost, assuredly our good deeds bring
nestling joys to our bosom, nor is a cup of cold water cast on the
earth.
THE END.