MILES TREMENHERE.

"For such a love, O Rachel! years are few, and
life is short!"—Lopez de Vega.

BY ANNETTE MARIE MAILLARD.

AUTHORESS OF "THE COMPULSORY MARRIAGE," "ZINGRA THE GIPSY," ETC., ETC.

IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.

LONDON:
G. ROUTLEDGE & CO., FARRINGDON STREET.
1853.

M'CORQUODALE AND CO., PRINTERS, LONDON.
WORKS—NEWTON.

TO
ERASMUS WILSON, ESQ., F.R.S.
IT IS ONE OF THE HIGHEST PRIVILEGES OF AUTHORSHIP,
TO BE ENABLED TO OFFER A PUBLIC TRIBUTE,
HOWEVER HUMBLE,
TO THOSE WHO CLAIM OUR RESPECT:
THIS BOOK
IS DEDICATED TO ONE—THE PATRON OF STRUGGLING TALENT,
THE FRIEND OF THE POOR—
ONE, WHOSE FRIENDSHIP IS AN ESTEEMED HONOUR.
THE AUTHORESS.

Departure of Tremenhere

MILES TREMENHERE.

CHAPTER I.

"Tick tack, tick tack, tick tack—for ever goes the large hall clock, until my heart (imitative thing!) plays at pendulum with it! Seventeen long years that clock has been the monitor of Time in this old house. It commenced its career the day I came into this world, and, faithful to its trust, not for one hour can I remember its pausing. They say it ceased its vigilance one day; I do not remember it, but Aunt Dorcas once told me—only once, for she cried so bitterly that I never liked asking more about it. It was the one in which I became an orphan! My poor mother died, and they stopped it because its ticking reminded them of the day of my birth, when she bade them open her door to let her hear the friend whose career commenced with my life—the friend who was to lead me to be good and happy, warning me of every passing hour! Poor, dear mamma! I wish I had known her—oh, how I wish that now!—for though my aunts and uncle Juvenal are very kind and loving, yet 'tis not like a mother's love, I feel that—I feel so much yearning for that unknown thing; it must be so beautiful, but one step below divinity in its hallowing power; and I, wicked girl, have been chiding the old hall clock, which she had a fanciful thought to make my twin!" Here the girl (for such was the speaker) paused awhile in her soliloquy; after a few moments, she continued:—"But 'tis wearisome to sit for days and days, with only the same routine of events which you have known for years; even the variety of the past six months offers no amusement. The lawyer, the parson, and the squire—the squire, the lawyer, and the parson—with my aunts Dorcas, Sylvia, and uncle Juvenal, each one chanting the praises of his or her pet. I daresay it is very wrong of me to think all this; but I don't love them less, my dear aunts, my kind uncle. Oh! especially him and aunt Dorcas; but I cannot like—rather I should say love—the squire and the young clergyman, even for their sakes. I didn't want to think of love yet; but they have set me thinking, and now I am always dreaming of the sort of man I should like. If there be heroes in the world I should like to find one—such a one as I could love, tall, handsome, dark, dark! Yes, dark raven hair, and Spanish eyes, pale and thoughtful, especially"——Here the soliloquy was disturbed by a shrill voice beneath the window, calling upwards from the garden, "Minnie, Minnie, child!"

"That's aunt Sylvia," said the soliloquist quietly. "I will not answer, for if I do, I know she will want to go for a ramble somewhere, and we shall assuredly meet the lawyer."

The voice below continued its summons, but in the distance; the caller evidently was seeking through the garden.

"I wonder when my cousin Dora will come," said the Minnie of Sylvia's seeking again. "And I wonder if she is very handsome; they say so:—though only three years older than myself, I was always afraid of her, even as a child. She was so tall and commanding, though but a girl of fifteen then—now she's twenty; and she looked so stern, with her proud curling lip which never smiled; even at play, her play was queenly and condescending. I see her now, when she was at her gymnastic exercises; how graceful she looked flinging upwards the hoop, which always returned unerringly to the stick, as if it durst not disobey her will. Mine often rebelled, and fell yards off; and, whilst I put myself in a fever to catch it, she was calm and pale, and if she involuntarily sprang upwards to meet it, with what a calm grace she lighted on the toe of one of her tiny feet with the obedient toy in her keeping! There was pride even in that action, for her foot seemed to disdain the earth. It was the only thing I disliked in Dora, her pride as a child; it awed me. I hope it will not do so now. I want to love her. We cannot love where we fear, and I hope she will love me whenever she comes; and yet I feel so nervous at the thought of seeing her, though"——Here another voice arose on the ear; this, too, came from the garden. "Minnie, Minnie; where are you, Minnie?" it said.

"That's my uncle Juvenal," whispered the girl, peeping through the window, with its antique panes and narrow casement, "and he's not alone. I guessed as much. How he can like Marmaduke Burton, the squire, I cannot imagine."

"Minnie," cried a soft voice, evidently in the direction of the great hall clock, "are you up-stairs, dear?"

"Dear aunt Dorcas," whispered the girl softly; "shall I go to her?" She moved towards the door of her chamber. At that moment, from beneath her window, arose a hum of voices, and Sylvia's shrilly tones called, "Minnie;" then a man's, but a very weak one, and rougher accents, syllabled her name; these latter ones not calling, but in conversation, and they said, "Miss Dalzell." The one so anxiously sought sat down, and laughed gently to herself. "My aunt and uncle, and their pets! Which shall be mine? Whom shall I marry? Fate, direct me!" and, with a playful air, she took up a bracelet of large coral from her table, and commenced counting. "The last must be my choice, I suppose: let's see, coral! Whom will you favour?" And thus she ran on, a bead for each name: "The squire, the lawyer, the parson; the squire, the lawyer, the"—here the string broke, and her lovers rolled in confusion on the floor! "Alas! and alas!" she cried, with much gravity, surveying the scattered beads, "none of them? Well, when I have a lover, I'll string him on the chords of my heart; and when they fail and let him down to earth, why, I shall be there too, in my grave, my heart's strings broken: that's how I understand love!"

"My dear child, why did you not answer me?" asked a quiet-looking, elderly woman, entering her room. "I have been seeking you every where."

"Dear aunt Dorcas," said Minnie, throwing her arms tenderly round her neck; "I was afraid to reply, for my uncle and aunt Sylvia are in the garden—not alone either—and they would have heard me."

"Who is there with them at this early hour, dear?" As she spoke she released the girl's arms, and seated her beside herself on a couch, affectionately holding both her little white hands.

"Oh!" rejoined Minnie, "that horrid Marmaduke Burton, and Mr. Dalby, the lawyer; and I dislike them both so much, as they appear now."

"How do you mean, child?"

"Oh! why—as—as—lovers. No, not lovers—suitors."

"Where's the distinction, Minnie?" asked her aunt, smiling.

Minnie looked down and blushed; then, looking up half timidly in the other's face, replied, "I think a man may take it into his head to pay you attention, wishing to marry you, but he does not love you for all that; and I think, if a man really loved you, he wouldn't talk so much about it. Mr. Burton says he's dying for love,"—here she smiled roguishly, and peeped up in her aunt's face; "and he certainly has nothing of death from grief about him!"

"Well, the lawyer—what is your objection there?"

"Oh, he's ten thousand times more objectionable! Mr. Burton is only a commonplace squire, looking like one in his top-boots, talking like one, and with a loud voice proclaiming himself lord of the manor, rooks, hounds, horses, and whippers-in! I don't think he's a bad man, yet there is something unreadable too about him, which debars confidence in his goodness; but he's a very disagreeable person, always reminding me of aunt Sylvia's glass of bark in the morning—an amiable invention, but most unpleasant to the palate. But Mr. Dalby,—oh! he's quite another thing!—thing he is; too finical to be a man, too useless to be a woman, he is a compound of mock sentiment and unamiability; he drawls out his words, looking you sideways in the face, never giving you a bold, earnest look; he treats you like a sugar-plumb, and seems afraid of melting you by the fervour of a full-face regard, and he never has a kind or charitable word for any one; he's an insinuating creature, but not in my case, as he endeavours to be."

"Hush, Minnie, you must not judge hastily or harshly."

"I don't, dear aunt," and she loosed one gentle hand, and put her arm round the other's neck; "but I have noticed so many unamiable traits in his character—but aunt Sylvia thinks him perfection."

"I suppose I must not now speak of my protegé—our young clergyman?"

Minnie looked embarrassed. "Dearest aunty," she said at last, "I don't want to marry; I'm very happy: why so earnestly seek for one to take me away from you all? Mr. Skaife is sincere, I believe, in saying, he likes me; I like him as an acquaintance, but I shouldn't like to marry him. He's very good, kind, and charitable, I daresay; but I think he wants that sacred fire which, in his sacred calling, makes the chilly approach, to cheer themselves by the glowing warmth."

"Oh, my dear child! your heart has not spoken, this is the truth; when it speaks, may it be for a worthy object—that's all I pray. I like Mr. Skaife: for my sake, dear, try and do so likewise."

Before a reply could be given, the bedroom door opened with fracas, and aunt Sylvia suddenly appeared. She was totally different in appearance to her sister. Dorcas was plump, good-tempered, meek-looking, about forty-five years of age. Sylvia was some five years her senior; a little, thin, sharp-faced woman—one whose very dress looked meagre; not the richest brocade could appear rich on so shapeless an anatomy; it would trail on the ground, limp, and disheartened from any attempt to look well. She had the strangest eyes in the world—a dark, dingy, chestnut brown, of which the pupil was certainly not larger than a pin's head; thin nose, thin lips, thin hair, hands, and voice, completed aunt Sylvia—with the addition of the very thinnest mind in the world. It was like a screw-press; put any thing bulky within it, it was compressed instanter to a mummy, and thence doled out in such small particles, that it was inevitably lost in the general mass of which aunt Sylvia was formed.

"I declare, Minnie," she whistled forth in her shrilly tone, "you would provoke a saint; here have I been calling you at the top of my voice this hour, and you must have heard me! Really, Dorcas, it is too bad; you always encourage the child—you, too, must have heard me."

"I have only been here a few moments," placidly answered her sister.

"Then your conversation must have been most engrossing, for such deafness to have fallen upon you!" and she looked suspiciously from one to the other.

"We were speaking of——"

Before Minnie could complete her sentence, her door opened a third time, and admitted uncle Juvenal. We will only say of him, that he was the bond of union between the two sisters; not stout, not thin, not cross, not quiet; older by three years than Dorcas, younger by two than Sylvia, being forty-eight; prim, snuff-coloured, and contented, having but one desire in the world—the one common to the three, to see Minnie a wife. A warm discussion ensued between him and Sylvia, relative to some words which had passed between the squire and doctor, fostered by their mutual hopes of gaining Minnie, which hope was encouraged—nay, the niece promised to each—by his patron and patroness. Now, Juvenal came to seek the cause, and chide her propensity for loneliness; and while he and Sylvia were warmly debating their disputed points, Dorcas and Minnie crept out of the room, and the former gained the day this time, for she and her niece, this latter with only her garden hat on, left the hall by a side door, accompanied by Mr. Skaife, who had been quietly waiting—it might have been by Dorcas's cognizance—in a shrubbery through which they passed on a visit of benevolence. Juvenal and Sylvia, finding the birds escaped, descended to the garden, when they discovered that the same thing had occurred respecting the squire and lawyer; both had disappeared. So the brother and sister sat down to talk it quietly over, which terminated as all previous talkings on the same subject had done before—by their completely disagreeing in their respective views, and consequently falling out; in other words, having a violent quarrel. And poor little Minnie—the subject of all these commotions—was quietly walking towards the village with her aunt Dorcas, and her selection of a suitor, Mr. Skaife, who, to do him justice, was the most sincere lover of the three; he cared but little whether Minnie were rich or poor, provided she could be brought by any means to look smilingly upon him. He was only a poor curate, 'twas true; but then some day he hoped to be, perhaps, a bishop—Who might say? And in either or any case, he would have chosen her to share all with him. Perhaps she had been correct in saying he did not possess the sacred fire necessary for his calling; but that fault lay to the account of his parents, who had possibly brought him up to the church as a mere profession, when it should be a voluntary choice. If, as she supposed, he did not possess the fire necessary for martyrdom, if summoned to that glory, he certainly did the fire of love for the fair girl beside him; and while she wished he were any thing but a lover, both for the sake of a certain pleasure she felt in his company, and for her aunt's sake, he was wondering whether he ever should win her?—when?—and how?—and in this mood they walked on. Many long years before our tale commenced, a certain country gentleman named Formby and his wife were the residents at Gatestone Hall, the fine old-fashioned place we have just quitted; they were homely and primitive, and withal majestic as the oak-panelled walls of the hospitable home which gave a welcome to many a guest in that portion of her Majesty's domains called Yorkshire, where the "canniness" of its inhabitants consists most in the almost unparalleled method they possess, of winning the way to the heart by kindness and genuine homely hospitality, of which Mr. and Mrs. Formby were well-chosen representatives. They had five children—four daughters and one son. They never troubled themselves as to whether these would marry—that was an affair of nature, and nature was handmaiden at Gatestone Hall. However, art—or some adverse god or goddess—crept in, and marred her course. Of five, only two obeyed her law. Juliana, the eldest, a fine dashing girl, attracted the attention of the Earl of Ripley at a race ball; and, six weeks afterwards, became his Countess. The youngest of all, Baby, as they called her (Jenny was her name, to the amazement of her family, which appeared impressed with the idea, that baby she was, and ever would remain), married, at seventeen, a poor half-pay officer for love; and true love it was. The little god likes poverty best, after all; he generally nestles there, though the song says otherwise. The only change this marriage made at the Hall was, the addition of another inmate to its cheerful circle. Lieutenant Dalzell became located there for seven months—very short ones they were, too—with his sweet, loving wife; and there, poor fellow! he died of an old wound won in India, which shattered an arm, and obliged him to quit the service. Poor Baby cried like one; nothing could console her, not even the birth of Minnie some months afterwards: so she cried herself into the pretty green churchyard, beneath a yew-tree, beside Dalzell; for, poor girl!—almost a child still when he died—begged so earnestly that they wouldn't shut up her William in the cold stone family vault, but put him where the sun might shine upon him, and the green grass grow, that he had a grave under the bright canopy of heaven, and there, beside him, Baby lay; and only that day, and the one of his death, did the old hall clock cease its rounds by her desire. Then Mr. Formby soon followed, and his wife, leaving three unmarried children, and these three we have seen as bachelor and spinsters still. Whatever the two sisters may have thought of matrimony, assuredly Juvenal had given it no part of his dreams by day or night. Their spinsterhood might have been involuntary of their inclinations, but there was no law to prevent his asking; and, had he done so, assuredly he might have had some one at all events, for, though not a rich man, he was Lord of Gatestone, which would only pass away from the grasp of himself or heirs should he die childless, of which there seemed now every chance. Caps of every possible colour, like fly-traps, were set to catch him, by all the spinsters and widows of the neighbourhood; carriages of every description drove up to the Hall, with inmates perfectly free, able, and willing; but when they left, the only impression behind them was of their carriage-wheels on the gravelled drive. Now all these attacks had become considerably diminished, as time had shown their inefficacy. Strange to say, though Juvenal had evinced no desire to marry on his own part, all his energies (they were not legion) were called into play to effect an union for his much-loved niece; and still stranger, that the three, loving her as they did love her, should have one only thought in common, and be all equally bent on the same scheme, which might probably separate her from them for ever. But it is the course of a Christopher Columbian current in our blood, to be always desirous of exploring some unknown territory. Such was matrimonial ground to them, and they felt curious to watch its effect upon others, personal experience being denied, or not desired by themselves. Minnie was sadly perplexed among them;—they forced her to think of marriage, when she otherwise would have been much more innocently employed; and, unfortunately for them, she had not the slightest idea of condensing all her thoughts on any one of those whom they had chosen. The lawyer pressed her hand—the squire conferred the same honour on her toe, as she stepped on his hand to mount her horse; and the most sincere, as it is ever the case, stood half awkwardly aloof, and sighed as he whispered to the winds, which blew it heaven knows where—"Pretty Minnie Dalzell! I shall never win her; she's too fair for a poor curate's home!"

Pretty she certainly was, and fair—fair as the brightest lily tinged by a sunbeam dancing across, but not staining, its purity. Such was the tint that flew over her cheek, every moment new and changing; the prettiest lip, such a short upper one that the mouth scarcely closed upon teeth of shining whiteness, like a mother-of-pearl shell wet from the spray, so fresh they looked. Her eyes were of dark violet, with lashes and brows darker than the hair, the former so long and thick they were like a setting round a gem; beautiful eyes, which you lost yourself in looking into, wondering whence came the pure, clear light, which lent them so much chaste fire—yet they were full of soul too. In the forehead, the blue veins wandered like silvery streams through a daisied meadow, giving life to all;—there was the bloom, grace, and poetry of the rarest and brightest bouquet of flowers ever collected together, in that noble brow, and in the ever-changing expression of her sweet face; and above all, her coronet of magnificent hair clustered in rare brightness;—it was not golden, yet it shone like it; nor flaxen—it had too much expression in it for that. It was such hair as only a creature like Minnie could have. It seemed as if an angel had spun it in the sun, and waved it by moonlight. 'Twas fair, chaste-looking hair, fit for dew spirit's gems to hang upon. You took it in your hand, and it was flossy as unspun silk, and this unbound fell to Minnie's heel, and yet so pliant and soft, that her little hand could bind the mass round the beautiful head with ease and grace. She was not tall, but about middle height, perhaps a trifle more; slight, a mere fairy in figure, and the springing foot scorned the earth like a flying gazelle. Talk of her marrying a mere mortal—she should have lived when angels are said to have loved the sons of men. The curate thought of this; so no wonder he sighed, even encouraged as he was by——Aunt Dorcas.

CHAPTER II.

It was in the month of June, the early part, when May-flowers still bloom, and the blossoming trees are not yet in full matronly beauty, but in their bridal robes, with wreaths of flowers, like robes of dazzling whiteness, that Minnie and her two companions walked on (for she loved one and liked the other), her heart giving the rein to all her wild Arab-colt thoughts of nobility and liberty. She had nothing to conceal; all was pure and beautiful in her mind, sunny and hopeful. They were going to visit one of Aunt Dorcas's pensioners, and on Minnie's pretty arm hung a basket of charitable gifts, truly such, for they were appropriate to the wants of those for whom they were destined. Gifts of thought and consideration, not merely donations from a full purse or plentiful larder. On they journeyed, until a lane appeared before them; the girl turned down it.

"Stop, Miss Dalzell," cried Skaife hastily; "we had better cross the path-field."

"'Tis longer round," she rejoined; "aunt Dorcas will be tired, and this is a favourite walk of mine," and she moved on.

"You should obey your pastors and masters," he answered, smiling, and yet he seemed embarrassed; "and, as one of the former, I don't command, but may I ask you to cross the path-field, it looks so inviting with its tall grass; and see, there's a pet of yours—a lark rising upwards to allure you."

"Aunty, will it be too far for you? No? then we will oblige our pastor."

Skaife looked delighted as he assisted Aunt Dorcas over the stile. Minnie was over like a sportive thistledown blown by roving breeze; scarcely had she stepped on the other side of the stile when a little girl followed her, passed, and stopped beside Mr. Skaife.

"Oh, if you please, good sir," she said, "my mother saw you passing at the end of the lane, and bade me run after you with this book; you left it at poor sick Mary Burns's," and the child tendered a book. Both Aunt Dorcas and Minnie stopped, Mr. Skaife was colouring and confused. "Thank you," he answered, hurriedly taking it; "that will do." He endeavoured to pass on.

"And if you please, sir," continued the child, "mother bid me say, that after you left Mary Burns at three this morning, she was so much comforted by your kind words and reading, that she slept for hours, and when she awoke promised mother never to try and kill herself again."

"What is this, dear?" asked Minnie, placing a hand on the child's shoulder.

"Nothing, never mind, Miss Dalzell," said he; "let us continue our walk."

"No," answered she; "I am curious, I wish to know. What was it, dear?"

"If you please, miss, poor Mary Burns tried to drown herself yesterday, and Mr. Skaife jumped into the water and saved her, and he sat by her all the day yesterday, and came again in the evening, and remained until three this morning, comforting and praying to her, and——"

"It was only my duty," he replied, now perfectly calm, and in a cold tone.

"Now I understand," said Aunt Dorcas, "why you declined dining with us yesterday;" she felt how much he self-sacrificed in not spending the privileged hours of dinner near her niece, especially as he was seldom invited by her brother.

"Oh, Mr. Skaife!" cried Minnie, her eyes swimming, as she held out her ungloved hand and grasped his; "forgive me. I have been a wicked, wrong-judging girl. I said you did not possess the sacred fire necessary for your calling; forgive me, you are following an example in meekness, not arrogantly dictating one—forgive me!"

Skaife could scarcely speak as he pressed her hand.

"Now," she said almost gaily, to remove his embarrassment, "let me follow up this wholesome lesson to myself by an exercise of charity: we will go and see Mary Burns; come, dear aunt;" and once more she was at the other side of the stile, and half-way down the lane with the child, before they overtook her. Minnie and her aunt entered the humble bedroom of poverty, alone. Mr. Skaife left them at the door of the cottage to pay a visit in the neighbourhood. From a neighbour sitting there, to take care of the paralytic mother of Mary Burns, they learned that the unfortunate girl had been driven to attempt the dreadful act of the previous day, on account of the cruel desertion of one who had led her from the path of right; he led her into darkness, and left her there to fight her way through shadows to the end of a dreary maze, without a word to cheer, or a thread to guide her footsteps. There was no one to tell her of a far off light, which with much seeking and sorrow she assuredly would find. Nothing but despair around her, she flew to death, a sad thing to meet in our unrepented sin! It was to this poor wounded heart that Mr. Skaife brought life and balm. Though humbled and sorrowing, the girl was hopeful now; she did not, however, allude to the one whose desertion had maddened her. Aunt Dorcas forbore questioning her too closely, seeing her evident desire to withhold her seducer's name; and poor Minnie sat and wept. She had learned two lessons that day: not to judge too hastily from a calm exterior, as in the case of Mr. Skaife's warm heart, and that there are sorrows in this world leading often to suicide or madness, hybrids of opposite things—confidence and deceit. They quitted the cottage, promising to see the unhappy girl shortly, and as Minnie bade her cheer up and not despond, she leaned over the low pallet of misery, leaving a better gift in the sight of Heaven than the purse she hid beneath the pillow—a sister's tear over a fallen sister; for are we not all one large family? and of children, too, ever learning something new—Earth our school, Heaven our home—with glad faces to rejoice over our coming thither, when our weary lessons here shall be over! Mr. Skaife joined them outside, and, by mutual consent, none alluded to poor Mary Burns; but Minnie turned smilingly to the young curate, and spoke more kindly than she had ever done before, as he walked beside her, her aunt leaning upon his arm. However, they parted from him before arriving at Gatestone, and the aunt and niece entered the old hall together, to receive a double fire of indignant reproaches from Sylvia and Juvenal, though the latter was one who appeared ever more inclined to weep than scold; he became whining and lacrymose when injured in any way; he did not stand up boldly to fight his enemy; there was something decidedly currish in his disposition. "I do think," he began, "that I am hardly treated as master here; no one obeys or consults me; Dorcas goes out without saying where she's going, taking Minnie with her; and Sylvia blames me for supineness;—how can I help it?—and Marmaduke Burton blames me too, and threatens never to come again."

"Well, that wouldn't much signify," said Sylvia, bluntly. "I don't like Mr. Burton; he's cunning and sarcastic; you would do much better to attach yourself to Mr. Dalby, he is a charming man."

"I don't like Dalby," hazarded the wretched man in his thin voice; "he has a significant manner of talking which makes me quite uncomfortable; I always fancy some one is going to law with me, or that I shall be forced into an unavoidable lawsuit."

"Talking of that," said Dorcas, hoping to change the current a little, as all was more or less directed against herself and niece for their escapade, "does Mr. Burton say any thing more about his threatened suit with his cousin, Miles Tremenhere?"

"Dear me, no!" answered Sylvia; "Mr. Dalby says that affair is quite at an end; this illegitimate cousin has wisely left the country; they never hear even of him."

"I sincerely pity him," replied Dorcas; "it was a sad affair, and his father was much to blame, leaving him so long in ignorance of the truth; it was most painful."

"What's that, aunty?" asked Minnie.

"Well, dear! the manor-house belonged some eight years since to a Mr. Tremenhere, a cousin of the squire's, as they call him; this Tremenhere had an only son, a very fine, noble-hearted young man, beloved indeed by almost all, though very haughty to those he disliked. He attained his twenty-first year; the rejoicings were great at the manor-house; you were at school at the time; a month passed, and the father died; scarcely was he in his grave, when Marmaduke Burton arrived, a distant cousin of Miles's (the son), and disputed the property with him. After a tedious and painful investigation and suit, as no proof could be produced of Mr. Tremenhere's marriage with Miles's mother, whom he was said to have married at Gibraltar, Miles lost the fortune, manor, all, and quitted the country."

"Poor Mr. Tremenhere!" said Minnie, much affected; "what a dreadful thing for him! and where is he, aunt?"

"No one knows, I believe, except it may be one or two persons, tenants of his father's, who have boldly opposed Mr. Burton in every way for his treachery, and upheld Miles Tremenhere."

"Oh, that was nobly done!" cried the girl enthusiastically.

"What do you mean by treachery?" exclaimed Juvenal and Sylvia in a breath; both joined together in one common cause against Dorcas, who indeed was only kin by name.

"Well, I call it treacherous, mean, and wicked," she answered decidedly, "his having been Miles's companion and playfellow from youth, and indeed in the house but a few weeks before old Mr. Tremenhere's death; and scarcely was the breath out of his body, when he put forth a legal claim to the property as next heir, which claim had been prepared, as it was proved, months before the old man's death." Minnie sat thoughtfully listening, but her colour came and went, like the sun passing over a landscape on a showery day.

"It is very evident," said Sylvia sarcastically, "why you mention this now before the child—to disgust her with Marmaduke Burton; it is kind and sisterly towards your brother, who desires the match." Sylvia gained two things in this speech—she never spoke unadvisedly. She pointed out the squire's position more forcibly to her niece; and also, by a counter-stroke, enlisted her unseeing brother on her side.

"Exactly so," whined he; "but that's always the way with Dorcas; she's very cunning."

"I'm sure dear aunt is not that," cried Minnie, starting up, her face glowing, and putting an arm round her neck.

"What business have you interfering?" exclaimed Sylvia; "you should listen, and say nothing."

"Aunt Sylvia," said the girl, calmly reseating herself, "as it seems all this discussion is about me, I am forced to speak, and say, too, that I'd die rather than ever marry Mr. Burton!"

"That's your doing," rejoined Sylvia, nodding at her sister. "I'm sure Juvenal has reason to be obliged to you; and as regards you, Minnie, I sincerely wish you were married, for you are the cause of discussion and dissension every day, not here alone, but between friends. There's Marmaduke Burton and Mr. Dalby, who were inseparables until you returned six months ago from school, and now they scarce speak civilly to one another!"

"Were they friends?" asked Minnie, opening her eyes, "Oh, then—" she did not finish the sentence, but the curling lip spoke what she meant.

"Can the child help that?" said Dorcas, deprecatingly. Sylvia felt as if she had been an indiscreet general, and was on the point of retorting with acrimony, when a step was heard on the gravel outside the window, and one of the subjects of the recent debate walked in—the squire.

"Here I am again," he said, familiarly leaning on the window-sill; "came round through the shrubbery. Oh! Miss Dalzell," and he moved his hat, "this is indeed a pleasure; one seldom sees you."

Had love called up the blood from her heart to her cheek, a lover might indeed have rejoiced in the glow; as it was, the bright flush, coloured brow, cheek, all, and the lip curled, and eye fixed cold and stern, shedding an icy hand of scorn over that young face, as she merely bowed her head in reply. Marmaduke bit his lip, then turning to Dorcas, said, blandly smiling, "And you too, Miss Dorcas, are a stranger; I trust I see you well?"

"Quite so, I thank you," she quietly rejoined, "Minnie and I have been strolling out together."

"Did you call upon Mrs. Lilly?" asked Sylvia. "I promised to do so: she will think it unkind."

"No," replied her sister; "we did not go near the village."

"We went," said Minnie, raising her head boldly, "with Mr. Skaife, to see a poor girl he saved from drowning herself yesterday." As she spoke, somehow her eye fixed itself on the squire; her thought in doing so was, to show him, at all events, no distaste on her part to the society of another, however she might avoid him. Was it annoyance at this decision of manner which made him turn so pale, and his voice tremble slightly, as he inquired, "May I ask where?"

"It was poor Widow Burns's daughter," answered Dorcas; "it is a sad affair, but, thank Heaven, Mr. Skaife saved the poor girl's life!"

"Shot! Shot!" called Burton, quitting the window on which he had been leaning, and turning to seek his dog; "here, sir; come here; lie there!" and the animal howled beneath the lash of his master's whip. When he returned to the window he was calm as usual, cold and sinister in appearance.

"Won't you come in, Burton?" asked Juvenal, going to the window, which looked over the wide-spreading lawn, with its old, majestic trees in clusters, and the cattle browsing beneath them; "won't you come in?"

"No, I thank you," he replied carelessly. "I merely strolled this way to inquire about Miss Dalzell's health in person, as I have so seldom the pleasure of finding her at home. Charity, that cold dame, has much to answer for, in depriving us, as she does, of her society."

"You would scarcely term her cold," answered Minnie, "had you witnessed the gratitude of Mary Burns to-day, towards Mr. Skaife."

"'Pon my word!" rejoined he, in a cold, cynical tone, "your parson, Formby (he addressed himself to Juvenal), is a preux chevalier; something new in the colour of his cloth!"

"Is humanity new?—or his act unbecoming his calling?" quietly asked Dorcas.

"I am scarcely competent to answer you. I have a great dislike to display: things quietly done, in my opinion, look most meritorious."

"Oh!—--" Minnie began.

"Pray, let us change the subject," said Sylvia angrily. "I'm tired of your charities and drowned persons. It always happens that the one who saves, manages most cleverly for his deed to be known where he thinks it will benefit him."

"For shame, Sylvia!" said Dorcas.

"Of course," rejoined Burton, with an uncertain, uneasy glance, "you had a pathetic account of the cause; the poverty, the——"

"It was not poverty alone," answered Dorcas; "but, with your permission, we will drop the subject."

"'Tis best," he replied carelessly; "these people are tenants of mine, and, I fear, bearing no very good name: we must get rid of them."

"Talking of that," asked Juvenal, "have you succeeded in ejecting that fellow Weld?"

"No; I fear it will be impossible. His lease is good, and was only just renewed for twenty-one years when——"

He paused: something withheld him from uttering the name of Tremenhere that day: Minnie's speaking eyes were fixed upon him.

"Ah! yes; I see," rejoined Juvenal; "it is very annoying."

"The impertinence of a low fellow like that, must be galling," suggested Sylvia.

"What is he guilty of?" asked Dorcas, who was nearly as much in the dark about many things as Minnie herself, associating as little as possible with the squire or Mr. Dalby.

"Why," answered her brother, "fancy the insolence of one of Burton's tenants, whose grounds adjoin his own, who presumes to pass him without even touching his hat; and had the audacity to try and raise a subscription, to which he offered to give largely (for him—being only a small farmer), to find out the impostor, Miles Tremenhere, and support his claims in another suit to recover the manor-house!"

"Such audacity, indeed," chimed in Sylvia, "in a low farmer!"

"I wonder," said Minnie, looking up in seeming calmness, but the warm heart beat, "whether the smooth-barked poplar has more sap in it than the rough gnarled oak?"

"Good gracious, child!" answered Sylvia tartly; "what do you know about trees?"

"I was not thinking of trees, but men," rejoined the girl quietly.

"Then what did you say 'trees' for?" asked Juvenal, surprised.

"Because, uncle, they represented men to my thought. We know that education and associations refine; but I wonder, whether the rougher class of men was created nearer the slave or brute than the poplar of my thought; whether men are slaves by birth, or to a superior force which makes them such, and makes them bow even their free opinions in subjection to a mightier, not better power."

"Minnie, dear!" cried Dorcas taking her hand, startled by her unusual warmth.

"I see Miss Dalzell is rather ruffled to-day," said Burton, taking off his hat; "so I will say adieu. Ladies, your servant; Miss Dalzell, I kiss your hand, even though it smite me: Formby, will you give me a call to-morrow?" and, without awaiting a reply, he whistled his dog, and hurried away. It would be vain to attempt portraying all the indignation lavished by Juvenal and Sylvia on their niece, who sat, however, tolerably calm beneath the fire. She was used to these discussions, and these perhaps, and the necessity of upholding her right against being forced into an unhappy marriage, had made her more thoughtful, and less girlish, with them than her age warranted; with Dorcas, she was an innocent child, and this was her nature. With those where she felt the necessity of calling her firmness into play, she became almost a thoughtful woman; and while they discussed, Marmaduke Burton's thin, tall, spare figure walked thoughtfully homewards, and the narrow brow contracted still more over the small grey eye, which, with the high Roman nose, gave him the appearance of a bird of prey. He was only thirty, but looking some years older; he had assumed the dress of a country squire with the assumption of that title, and one was as illegal as the other, and sat as uneasily upon him. The top-boots seemed ashamed of his thin legs, and shrunk from them. Those things generally grace the jovial country gentleman, yeoman, or farmer; on Marmaduke Burton they were as misplaced, as ringing a swine with gems, to give a homely metaphor to a homely subject. There is one person at Gatestone to whom we have not yet introduced our readers; let us hasten to repair the omission. This personage is Mrs. Gillett, the housekeeper. All three, Juvenal, Sylvia, and Dorcas, involuntarily bowed down to her opinion. Why, it would be rather difficult to define, except, perhaps, that as a matron she acted powerfully and sustainingly on these spinster and bachelor minds. Whatever occurred to any of them, was immediately laid before Mrs. Gillett to decide upon; she was the repository of all their secrets, and, strange to say, never betrayed one to the other; she heard all, kept all, and agreed with all—consequently her position was both difficult and dangerous. Sometimes she met with an unforeseen rock, one of those we not unfrequently may have been called upon to pass over on the beach going to or from a boat at low tide, covered with seaweed, wet, slippery, and full of holes, in which the sea water has lodged. Well, over one like this Mrs. Gillett often had to pass; she slid right and left, sometimes her shoes filled with water as she stepped into a hole; at one moment she was nearly falling into the sea, but somehow Mrs. Gillett got safe to the end of the rock, dripping and uncomfortable 'tis true; but she gained her boat, and put out to sea, the oars at full play, and the sail at the prow, like snow in the sun, all 'taut,' as sailors say, and 'bellying out' gallantly before the wind. To sum up her character in a few words, she was the essence of a thousand weathercocks infused into one. Even Minnie owned a sort of deference for this busily employed dame; but this was scarcely to be wondered at, it had grown up with her, and been originally engrafted on her childish mind by means common and pleasant to childhood—namely, sweetmeats and sugarplums. Mrs. Gillett had the very snuggest housekeeper's room in the world, looking into the extensive kitchen-gardens at the back of the hall, and thither flocked her votaries. She was a woman of nearly sixty, but robust and active; no modern fashion had disturbed her style of dress; her 'gownd,' as she still termed it, was three-quarters high, the gathers behind were set out by what old-fashioned ladies term 'a pad,' that is, a thing like a quarter of a yard cut off a sand-bag at the bottom of a door; the whitest muslin handkerchief in the world was pinned across her well-conditioned bust, confined close to the throat by a brooch set round with pearls, containing a lock of the defunct Mr. Gillett's hair; her cap was of lace like snow, high-crowned, ribbonless, but with broad lace strings pinned exactly in the centre by another brooch smaller than the first—a sort of a hoop, the first, as she told every one, that she had ever possessed. Storr and Mortimer might not admire it, but she did. A white apron completed this attire, not a Frenchified thing with pockets, but a genuine old English one, gored and sloped, perfectly tight all round. As she sat in her high-backed chair giving audience to her visiters, she was a picture. She was the only person who had advocated the cause of matrimony to Juvenal—it was dreadful to her the idea of the old place passing away to another branch of the family. When her bones had been more capable of locomotion, she had visited all the neighbouring housekeepers for miles, on some pretext or another, to find a wife for Juvenal—but in vain. His bent was not matrimony for himself, and he cared but little who should inhabit Gatestone after his death. His sisters were strangely indifferent, too; they did not like the place especially, and, should they survive him, proposed residing on a small property of their own near Scarborough. Thus all their united energies were directed towards the settlement of their niece. She was their plaything, just as her poor mother had been eighteen years before. Mrs. Gillett's advice was perfectly conscientious when given; she only thought of the immediate case before her, without reference to any other prior claim which might have been made on her attention. Unlike Lot's wife, she never looked back; consequently, had all followed her counsel, a strange confusion would necessarily have ensued, where all were bent on the same thing—to marry Minnie, and each to his or her favourite. She sat in state, her hands crossed over her portly figure as she leaned back in her chair, and before her sat Juvenal.

CHAPTER III.

"Just so, Mrs. Gillett," he said; "just as you say. I am not treated like the master in my own house; no one consults or obeys me. As for my niece, she opposes me in every possible way!"

"Oh! that's a pity, I'm sure," said the commiserating listener, shaking her head; "that shouldn't be, you know: it's very wrong."

"So I tell her," continued he, "but she persists in it, and unhesitatingly insults Marmaduke Burton before my face—something about some trees; I don't exactly know what she meant, but he did, and walked away quite offended."

"Trees?" asked Gillett, musingly; "trees? Ay, that must be it! When Squire Burton came to the property, he was much in debt, they said, and he cut down a lot of fine old oaks about the place: don't you call it to mind, sir?"

"To be sure I do," he answered, his hair almost on end at this solution of Minnie's riddle—"What a wicked thing for a girl of her age to say, on purpose to hurt his feelings, and I was so anxious for the match!"

"I've always remarked," rejoined his companion, dropping her words one by one sententiously, "that the children of military men have more devil in them than others, more quarrelsome-like; depend upon it, 'tis what they're brought up with." She spoke as if they were young cannibals, fed upon the trophies of war around a blazing fire; as, says an old song there, "Where my forefathers feasted on the blood of Christians."

"Very likely!" ejaculated Juvenal, who was growing prosy and stultified by her reasonings, and his own over-thinking.

"And yet her father was a poor, maimed, one-armed man after all, not at all like a soldier. I often wondered how Baby, poor child, could love him!"

Juvenal evidently thought that a son of Mars should, literally and of necessity, be a man of arms. "But what's to be done with Minnie?" he uttered thoughtfully. "It would be very dreadful were she to marry the poor curate, or even the lawyer; for her own fortune is a mere trifle. Almost all her mother's portion was spent in paying off Dalzell's debts. I am living, and am obliged to live, quite up to my income; her aunts can give her nothing until their death. What is to be done, Mrs. Gillett? pray, advise me how to act?"

"I'd lock her up," whispered Gillett, "and not let her see any one else."

"But myself?" he asked; "what good would that do?"

"No, not you—the squire. Don't let her go about with her aunts. One wants the lawyer to have her; t'other, the parson. Lock her up; it's just the way to tame a high spirit, and make her like the man!"

"Well, so I've thought too, Mrs. Gillett, but there would be a dreadful outcry were I to attempt it. How is it to be done?"

"Well, give her, say a month, to decide; and if she don't say Yes, then do it, and she'll soon come to. You are her guardian, and have a right to know what's best for her."

"So I will! so I will! your reasoning is most excellent; but don't give a hint to my sisters, or I shall have my scheme frustrated."

"Not for the world, sir; and I again beg of you not to name my advice to any one, or I shall lose all the confidence of the others."

"Rest perfectly satisfied, Mrs. Gillett; I have too sincere a respect for your excellent counsels, to risk the loss of them owing to any fault of mine;" and he whispered, rising, "Don't let any of them know I have consulted you."

This the dame cheerfully promised, and she faithfully kept her word. To do her justice, Mrs. Gillett meant no harm—far from it. If, in the almost torpid indifference of her heart towards others, there arose sometimes another feeling, it was certainly to do good, not evil; but there was predominant above all else, the love, the ambition of domination, that heaven to the narrow-minded—she held the reins of government of all; this was her glory, not calculating, or indeed caring, how obtained; she was an unconsciously dangerous woman—in her heart meaning no harm, certainly. Juvenal quitted her, resolved to watch for and seize the first excuse given, to coerce Minnie to his wishes; and a more erring path a man never selected. Minnie would do any thing—might have been induced to take any step (not faulty), by kindness, or from affection; but her spirit was of that nature which would make her stoutly rebel against oppression. Mrs. Gillett smoothed her white apron, puckered up her mouth, folded one hand over the other, and composed herself to take her afternoon's nap; and Juvenal walked away, strengthened in mind by his counsellor's advice, and like a galvanic battery, full charged, prepared to electrify poor Minnie the first moment they came in contact. In this state of affairs days went by: Juvenal watched in vain for open rebellion; his niece was too well occupied elsewhere, to give herself the trouble of opposing any attention the squire might choose to pay her. When our minds are fixed upon one object, minor things (even if they, under other circumstances, would be considered evils) pass us by almost unnoticed. However, the squire had paid only hurried visits to Gatestone since the day we last saw him there: he seemed pre-occupied about something, and this apparent coolness on his part, agonized Juvenal, who revenged himself by persecuting Minnie, and interrupting every conversation, with either the lawyer or curate, which he fancied possibly agreeable to her. But she, with perfect indifference, smiled on, unruffled and gay. Minnie had something better at heart. We have said she was a little self-willed; and not all the angry expostulations of Sylvia, who had discovered it, could prevent her visiting the cottage of Mary Burns, who now was enabled to quit her bed. Accompanied by Dorcas, she went thither almost every day, to speak comfort to, and fortify that unhappy girl in her good resolutions. Dorcas was one of those sensible women, who, though they would not plunge a young, pure mind in impurity, or familiarize it with crime, yet deem it right and healthful to teach it the beauty of virtue by its comparison with error, guardedly, advisedly, but practically shown. Moreover, in this case it was a duty, and that Dorcas inculcated above all else, to succour and strengthen those in affliction or temptation. Poor Mary forbore to name her seducer, neither did either seek to unveil this hidden corner of her heart: the wrong had been done—how could it alter the case to know his name? The poor girl said, "Oh, when I knew he had deceived, and never meant to marry me—when he told me so, coldly and scornfully, I became mad; for that I must have been, to seek death in my sin!" Then she told Minnie how she had been brought up, almost entirely, for years at the manor-house, while Madame Tremenhere (so she called her) lived: but this seemed wrung from her heart; for, with the words, the clenched hands stiffened, so bitterly she wrung them, and her lip sternly compressed itself together, to keep back her tears. She was a girl of manners and bearing far superior to her station; not decidedly pretty, but quiet, well-looking, and far above what is termed "genteel." She was ladylike in tone and manner, showing evidence of gentle teaching and association. Her mother had once kept the village school; and when she became paralyzed, years before, Mary had supported her by her work, plain and fancy, which she disposed of in the neighbouring town, Harrogate, some six miles distant. She was, at the time our tale commences, in her twenty-fifth year. Dorcas had taken a deep interest in this girl, and was endeavouring, through some friends in London, to obtain a situation there for her, whither she might remove with her poor old unconscious mother. Juvenal could not lock up Minnie, as Mrs. Gillett had advised him to do, for visiting this lonely cottage, however much against his wishes, because Dorcas was a consenting party: he could but grumble, and consult with his old crony, the housekeeper, who advised him to bide his time; and he too felt, at her foretelling, that that would soon come. "The Countess of Ripley and Lady Dora will shortly arrive," she said, "and then Miss Minnie can't run about as she does." He felt this, too, and waited. But, in the mean time, his refractory niece sped almost daily to the Burns's cottage, where, not unfrequently, her young, fresh voice paused in its gentle, though almost childish, counsellings, or readings, to salute Mr. Skaife, who came also to visit his poor parishioner; and (truth must be spoken) a little self-interest attached itself to his visits, for he was almost certain of meeting the one he sought and loved there. One day they met as usual: Minnie was alone, Dorcas had not accompanied her: he had preceded her in his arrival. When she entered the cottage she found much tribulation there. Evidently, Mr. Skaife was in the confidence of Mary Burns; it was natural he should be, as the one who had rescued her from so fearful a death, and also, as her spiritual master, one she was bound to respect. Minnie found the unhappy girl in a state of the most fearful excitement. Acting upon what he had said, of their being improper characters, an order had been brought them that morning by the squire's steward, to quit the cottage of which he was landlord as soon as possible. It seemed almost beyond the power of Mr. Skaife to control the girl's emotion to the standard of reason. When Minnie entered, Mary stood before her pale and speechless: she stood—yet she seemed almost incapable of supporting the weight of her body, and, still greater than that, some heavy affliction. For some moments she could not reply to the other's kind question of, "What had occurred?" Mr. Skaife hastened to reply:—

"Oh!" he said hastily, fixing his eye on the girl to subdue her bursting feelings, as if he dreaded her giving utterance to something; "Mr. Burton deems it advisable another tenant should have this cottage, and 'tis best thus; Mary must leave; absence from this place is necessary, for many reasons. I have seen Miss Dorcas this morning, and she tells me she has succeeded in obtaining an employment for this poor girl in town, where she can support her mother, and in more healthful scenes and occupations redeem the past, and forget——"

"Forget!" she almost shrieked; "forget! and now to-day, when I am ordered away, and by——"

"Hush!" interrupted the curate sternly; "remember you are called upon to suffer; you have purchased that right, however cruelly administered to you; it is only by pain inflicted that physicians heal."

"Forgive me, Mr. Skaife," she cried, in a scarcely audible tone; "I have merited all, but I am only human, and it is very hard to bring down the spirit to subjection, more especially in my case, when——"

"Hush!" he said again; and Minnie felt that her presence silenced the girl's speech.

"And must you leave this soon?" asked Minnie; "before my aunt has arranged all for your departure?"

"Yes," uttered Mary, through her half-closed teeth; "we are ordered to quit now—at once—to-day!" and, despite her efforts, the excitement of her previous manner again overcame her. "I am very wicked," she said at last, in deep affliction and humility, "for I have deserved all; but oh! Miss Dalzell, may Heaven keep you from ever suffering—though innocent, as you must be, with your strong, pure mind—what I am enduring; even guilty as I am, it is almost more than mere human force can bear up against."

"You have a kind, good friend here," answered Minnie, looking up in Mr. Skaife's face; "one whose guidance has led you to better and surer hopes than those you had relied upon. Think of this, and be comforted. You will soon leave this, and meanwhile you shall not quit this cottage; I will ask Mr. Burton to permit you to remain; surely his steward acts without his concurrence, and when he knows this man's order, he will——"

"He!" cried Mary; "he, Mar——, Mr. Burton, I mean!"

"Pray, Miss Dalzell," exclaimed Mr. Skaife hastily, "drop this painful subject—oblige me; leave all to me; and if I may without rudeness ask it, abridge your visit to-day. I will see you this evening, and inform you where this poor girl is removed to, for leave this she must."

"Then I will go now," answered Minnie, moving towards the door. "May I——"

Before she could conclude her sentence, the cottage door was hastily pushed open, and a man entered. Mary uttered a wild scream of surprise, and, springing forward, grasped his hand in both of hers. "Miles," she cried, as if doubting her sense of vision. "Miles, you, you here!—forgive me," she uttered, dropping his hand, as if it blistered hers in the contact, and, stepping back, "I forget myself always now, Mr. Tremenhere. Oh, Heavens!" And she covered her face with her hands, and burst into tears.

"Miles—Miles still and ever—dear Mary!" exclaimed the man, putting his arms around her fondly, and drawing her on his breast, quite unconscious of, or indifferent to all observers. "Still, my girl, as when a better than any now on earth sanctioned it." And his voice trembled, yet it was a fine manly one too, and in keeping with the speaker's appearance. He was tall, very tall, muscular in frame, but slight, dark-haired, with dark earnest eyes; a rather projecting but perfect brow gave more depth to them—it was shade above their intense fire; an aquiline nose of chiselled outline, a mouth compressed and firm; all combined, made Miles Tremenhere a portrait worthy the pencil of the most scrupulous of the old masters. He was quite Spanish in style; for a complexion dark and bronzed, gave colouring to that face of wild, half-savage beauty, from its daring, haughty expression. A thick, dark moustache curled down either side of the mouth, veiling, but not concealing, the line of its speaking firmness, even in silence. He appeared quite unconscious of the presence of any one but Mary, like a man accustomed to be alone and friendless in a crowd. Minnie looked at him, in wonder at first at a manly beauty she might have dreamed of, but never saw before; then a sensation of bitter pain came over her, succeeded by the glow of maiden shame when first brought in contact with guilt; for she fancied Mary's seducer before her, and she felt shame for one of her sex who could thus daringly avow it, as Mary's action seemed to do; she made an effort to creep away, then turning her eyes towards Mr. Skaife, expecting to see reprehension or anger on his countenance, she beheld a quiet, benevolent smile cross his expressive, but not handsome, face. She stopped, feeling in an instant that Mr. Tremenhere could not be the one who had wronged the girl, for him to look thus. "Mary," continued Miles, still holding her in his arms. "What dreadful thing is this I hear? I only arrived in this neighbourhood yesterday night, and Weld, my ever true friend, told me, to my horror, that you had been rescued from death by some one. What, Mary, has your fine spirit become so daunted, that a little poverty could grind it down to despair? Shame on you, my girl! You told me, when things changed at the old place, that poverty should not quell you; you bade me cheer up, and look to you for courage. Is this your practice of that excellent theory, Mary?"

While he was speaking, her head gradually turned from his gaze; in vain he tried to force her eyes to meet his; she held her face downwards, and, shrinking from his arms, dropped on her knees, bowed to earth in bitterness, worse than any death could have been; she had yet to teach this noble heart to despise her. What could death be compared with that? He tried to raise her. "Come," he said with the gentleness of a woman, "I did not mean to scold you; never be cast down with a few rough words from a rough fellow like myself."

A hand was on his arm; he started, so forgetful had he become of all around, seeing only her, for her poor old mother sat in an arm-chair, perfectly unconscious to all around in hearing, and stone blind—Miles turned hastily—the smile had changed to a frown. "Mr. Tremenhere," said Skaife, for 'twas his touch upon him, "do not let me startle or alarm you," he hurriedly added, feeling the start.

"Sir!" exclaimed the other proudly, "I neither know fear nor timidity," and he shook his arm free from the clasp.

"You mistake me," answered Skaife calmly; "though a stranger to you, from report I well know, that, but—" he hesitated a moment in confusion, not well knowing how to continue.

The poor girl came to his aid, rising slowly, whilst her knees trembled beneath her from emotion. She advanced a step; her first impulse of rushing into Miles's arms was passed, and now she durst not touch even his hand, but stood, and with a wave of her hand motioned to Skaife.

"Miles," she said, "that is our curate, good, kind Mr. Skaife. But for him, my poor mother would now have been childless, and probably in the workhouse—he rescued me!" At the thought of her old mother, paralyzed, deaf, and blind, in that spectre-house of misery, the tears dropped from her eyes, which were strained wide open, to try and see through that crowding flood of despair.

"I seldom offer my hand," exclaimed Tremenhere, at the same time extending his towards Skaife, "it has been so often repulsed; but take it now in warm thanks for what you have done for one, almost a sister."

All coldness and pride were banished from that fine noble face; his every feature lit up with the rich, bland smile, which left you almost speechless with admiration, so exalted the expression became. Two worthy of each other in heart and mind clasped hands warmly, and looking in Skaife's face, Miles, whose wrongs had made him a keen observer of countenance, ever dreading an enemy, with his hand gave a feeling of friendship which time well matured.

"Now, I remember," he added, "Weld spoke of your kindness; but my brain was so bewildered I had forgotten it, and other harsh events to deal with, prevented my coming over here last night, as I was assured of Mary's safety by my good farmer friend where I am staying."

"And now," said Skaife looking expressively at him, "will you accompany me a short distance, merely across a couple of fields, whilst I offer my protection as far as her own grounds, to Miss Dalzell." And he turned to where Minnie stood, almost concealed by the curtains of the humble bed.

"Miss Dalzell!" exclaimed Tremenhere; and again the first haughty expression mantled his face with scorn. "Allow me to use the privilege of my calling," said Skaife, "and take upon me what, as another, I might not dare assume—the liberty of presenting you to one another,—Miss Dalzell, Mr. Tremenhere."

The latter raised his hat coldly, but respectfully, yet he seemed annoyed at the meeting.

"Honour Miss Dalzell, for my sake," whispered poor Mary, well knowing why he looked so troubled; "for she has come here day after day, as an angel, to visit a suffering creature, and bring balm to a wretched sinner." The last word was unheard by Miles; he stood beside Minnie, whose face was covered by a deep blush.

"This," he said, "has been a day of much surprise, if of sorrow too; I came, expecting every hand and heart against me—every hand cold, every heart stone; I have met two generous ones, or faces are sad traitors. Forgive me, Miss Dalzell, but in your home, the bitterest against me, the almost dwelling-place of Marmaduke Burton, my worthy cousin, I scarcely expected to find a bosom with human blood in it; a thousand, and a thousand thanks for Mary's sake."

"Mr. Tremenhere has been intimate with my thoughts for some time," answered Minnie more calmly, "and believe me as friend, not foe."

"Indeed!" and a bright glowing look was fixed in her face, "I never dreamed of a personal friend at Gatestone, even in thought. This is truly the prodigal's welcome home! May I accompany you and Mr. Skaife across the two fields he named? I know them well! I may? Thank you; Mary!"—He turned to the poor girl, and his face saddened as he approached her, for she was weeping bitterly; the very floor seemed to tremble with her emotion, as Skaife whispered lowly to her—"Mary, I will return soon—soon, my girl; don't be so cast down, better times will come for all. Hope, Mary; I do to-day," and he grasped her reluctant hand, "just a few moments, and I will return."

Skaife whispered, "Remember your solemn promise to me, to Heaven. He must know all; cheer up, poor girl, I am sure he will only feel pity for you!" Only pity where we were once loved and respected, is indeed an icedrop on a burning surface, soon passed away, soon absorbed, and not long even the memory of it left.

Minnie, Tremenhere, and Skaife, passed out.