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. II.

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

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

Minnie parting with Lord Randolph

MILES TREMENHERE.

CHAPTER I.

Tremenhere did not return to dinner at six, as usual. He was not one of those careless husbands, who dine out unexpectedly with a friend, and leave their wives to wait in ignorance of their movements; so he sent a messenger immediately after Lady Dora had quitted the villa, and Minnie felt as if his absence for the first time gave her pleasure. It afforded her time to collect her resolution for meeting him with this concealment in her heart. The long hours passed sadly enough, for every thing around her seemed distasteful; the sunny noon of her heart was growing into twilight. Tremenhere generally returned early from his occasional parties. Ten o'clock came—a late hour for their quiet cottage—then half-past. Minnie grew restless—her conscience was not at rest; moreover, she was quite alone. The servant and the boy they kept—all their household, had retired. Miles always had his key, when late. Minnie watched a short time longer, and then, going up-stairs to her dressing-room, partially undressed, enfolding herself in a long loose wrapper, of pale pink cashmere, in which she looked even more beautiful than when richly attired. Next, she unbound her long, fair hair, and, unweaving it, flung the rich mantle over her shoulders, which it completely covered; and thus, at perfect ease, she sat down in a large chair before the fire. She had been unused to much deep thought of late, and the events of the past two days had wearied her brain. Gradually the head fell listlessly back, a little on one side—the clasped hands, so perfect in form, supported it, an elbow resting on the arm of the chair—the lips were slightly parted, and a warm glow, like a sleeping infant's, ruddied her cheek, while the fair hair literally swept the ground. So soundly she slept, that Tremenhere entered the room unheard; he, too, had passed a day of deep meditation. Matter-of-fact persons may laugh at the idea; but to sensitive minds, coming events have often, as avant courier, presentiment. He had been thoroughly wretched all day; so much so, that without knowing any tangible cause of fear, he entered his home with a beating heart, as if he should find it vacant! How can we account for such sensations? They are purely spiritual. A deep sigh of joy trembled his lip, when he saw all he loved so well, so exclusively in safety, and sleeping calm as an angel might, rocked in a sailing cloud,—if angels ever sleep. He crept on tiptoe nearer; involuntarily his hands clasped as in prayer, as he gazed upon her, then, fearful lest that magnetic influence of an eye watching over us, which makes us start up affrighted, with throbbing hearts, from our sleep, should awake her rudely, he bent slowly downwards on his knee, and looked upon her as on a saint, so pure, so unearthly was his love at that moment. Some moments he knelt thus, then, unclasping his hands, he raised the mass of sweeping hair gently, and pressed it to his lips; it was slightly perfumed, like new-mown grass. Insensibly his hands commenced turning fold over fold, tress over tress, till it grew to a rope of brightness in his hands, which they could just clasp; smiling, he twisted it, wondering at her prolonged sleep—suddenly a thought flashed through his brain, a demon's thought—jealousy; his fears of the day were parent to it. If she ever should love another! if those dreaming thoughts, which he then felt were his, should wander to another! What temptation had she yet known?—none. What men had she ever seen, to make her what so many were, even if only in idea—faithless? He should care but little for actual virtue, if the soul of it were gone; and as these maddening fancies crept through his mind, tighter and tighter he twisted the fair hair in his grasp.

"I could still her life with this," he muttered; "once round that small, fair infant neck, and I should save her from ever having a sinful wish. She is pure as one of those little things, whose faces are not veiled even by their own wings, as they say other angels are in heaven. O Minnie! so much I love you thus, that I could find in my heart almost to kill you now, and bear the weight of that heavy sin, to save you from even knowing remorse." And in the agony of that moment of demoniacal temptation, he rose to his full height, while the livid face and brow were studded by agonized sweat-drops, his temples throbbed, he felt his mental power of reflection every moment becoming more condensed, and almost lost in impulse—impulse to commit murder, and, damning himself, save her! At that supreme moment a deep sigh struggled through her parted lips, the brow knit in mental pain, and Minnie awoke. Like a tree blasted at the roots, Tremenhere dropped on his knees, which gave way beneath his weight, and, burying his face in the terrified girl's lap, he sobbed convulsively—it was not weeping, but his heart's bursting, coming sorrow.

"Miles—dearest Miles—my own love!" cried she in terror, trying to raise his head—"What has occurred? Are you ill? Speak to me, Miles." She lifted up the face at last; it was pale as death, and on the fringes of the closed eyes hung unfalling tears: they were as the heat drops from the clouds before they burst asunder, sending forth sheet upon sheet of flame.

"Minnie!" he cried wildly, looking up at last, "I have dreamed a horrid waking dream while you slept: I was mad; for I thought if a day should ever come wherein you would not love me, but another——"

"Miles—Miles!" cried the trembling girl. "Do not think of so fearful a thing; 'tis tempting some demon to try you."

"Try me, Minnie! How so?" There was almost madness in his look.

"By giving you real trouble for this unchecked vision of impossible things."

"You are right, dearest," he said, rising more calmly, yet he shivered with emotion. "Heaven keep me from real doubt! I could not support it. Come, let us leave this room; it chills my heart, Minnie;" and he placed his arm around her—as he did so, and it came in contact with the living rope he had so madly twisted, a cold shudder passed over him.

"You are not well, dear Miles," she said, tenderly. "Let us leave this room; it seems filled with fancies and spirits—I grow superstitious." She tried to smile up in his face as usual, but the dimpling peace had left her—she was tacitly deceiving him.

The next day came with a bright sunshine, which imparted its light to Tremenhere's heart. He looked back upon his mad thoughts of the past night, half in laughter, half in horror, fully resolving for the future to check those wild, jealous, unfounded fears. Minnie could not rally, as he had done; she crept about that cottage like a troubled spirit, from one room to another, restless and unhappy. She was counting the moments until Lady Dora should arrive, and she could fling her arms round Miles's neck, and, telling him all, make him promise to be as ever towards Lord Randolph, who had in truth not insulted her in any way. The more she reflected, the less cause could she see for this secresy; and but for her hasty promise to her cousin, certainly would have told him at once.

"Minnie, dearest," cried her husband,