The night passed—then succeeded morning—noon—and evening. Juvenal had been very busy all day. Nobody but Dalby, who was closeted with him, and the trusty Thomas, knew wherefore. The two first worthies had it all to themselves; for Sylvia felt piqued with her recreant protÉgÉ for preferring interest to love. Dorcas disliked him much. It therefore was not a very sociable dinner party that day at six, when the four sat down together. We will leave them in their monosyllabic conversation, spiced with occasional words of secret meaning between Juvenal and his guest, and go up-stairs with Mrs. Gillett, to Minnie's room, when she entered with the prisoner's dinner. The latter was sitting at a table; before her was a casket, out of which all the little treasures of her young life were taken, and spread on the table, and as she eyed them, her eyes were swimming in tears; yet she looked flushed, and nervous. When Gillett entered, she involuntarily sprang up, and turned pale, as in terror.

"Dear heart alive!" exclaimed the woman, "how very nervous you are, poor child! And so I told master to-day, and he has promised you shall soon be at liberty; so cheer up, there's a dear." She spoke very kindly; but Minnie looked fixedly at her, to read if she too were plotting against her. She was beginning that worst pain—suspicion of all. But poor Gillett was white as snow in this affair; and thus Minnie read her clear, kind look, and she stretched out her hand and clasped her's; and with the act, tears rolled down her cheek. Juvenal, by Dalby's advice, trusted no woman. This man had an instinctive dread and knowledge, that the female heart is generally too kind to unite in a wrong act, unless the possessor be unworthy her sex. Man acts without thought often, and consents without reflection, to a crooked deed of seeming uprightness. Perhaps woman's natural love of diving into mysteries makes her fathom all, and then judge for herself.

"Now, don't—there's a dear!" cried Mrs. Gillett, dropping on one knee, and taking Minnie's hand in both of her's; "don't cry. I hate to see you cry, Miss, indeed, I do; it always reminds me of your poor dear mamma; she used to sit and cry, so silent like, till she went after the captain."

"Don't talk of her now, Gillett—my good Gillett!" whispered the girl, shuddering; "I've been looking at her picture—see, here it is." She took a miniature from the table, "And—and—don't you think she looks frowningly upon me? I have thought so all day."

"Lauk, dear! how can the picture change? There it is; and it can't look sweeter, nor crosser—poor, dear lady!—she never looked cross on any one."

"Don't speak of her!" cried Minnie, in agony, dropping her head on the woman's shoulder, and sobbing.

"I told your uncle how it would be," said the other, trying to soothe Minnie, as she would have done a child, by patting her back; "but come, look up, it will all go right soon, you'll get out; and now, Master Miles is gone (and I'm sure I'm glad of it) all will be as before, and——"

Minnie rose hastily, and stood looking at the woman, as if uncertain how to act; her tears were burning on her cheeks—her lips opened to speak. Then Miles's cautions came over her, and she turned away with a sigh. Mrs. Gillett rose, and, smoothing down her apron, began laying the table with perfect composure, and confidence that all would soon be well. Suddenly Minnie approached, and, grasping her arm, said, so wildly that the other herself stood transfixed, "Remember, Gillett—my good Gillett—whatever may happen, they drove me to it. Do not let them say all unchecked against me;—remind them how they locked me up—remind Aunt Dorcas how she left me, and did not insist upon seeing, to comfort me—remind them, that I only met Mr. Tremenhere once, wilfully, and that he had known me as a little child—do not forget all this, Gillett, but remind them often of it." And she burst into a passionate flood of tears, and turned away.

"Poor darling!" said the housekeeper, "they have been cruel; but it was not their faults—Master listens to them as he shouldn't listen to—Come, eat a bit of chicken—just a bit: I watched it cooking for you myself—do, there's a dear!" But all her coaxing was vain. "I'll come and sleep on the sofa in her room to-night," said Gillett to herself; "she's low and narvous, poor child!"

"What's that?" cried Minnie, stopping in her hurried walk round the room.

"Only the time, dear, striking; it's half-past six!"

"The old hall clock!" whispered the girl—"my mother's clock—I wonder if I shall ever hear it again after to-night! I hope I may—I hope to Heaven I may!" And she slid gently on her knees, and raised her hands upwards. Gillett stood looking on in amazement, not unmixed with deep emotion.

"Miss Minnie, dear, shall I stay, or go?" she whispered, touching her arm. Minnie started up.

"Go," she said, hurriedly, looking towards the door—"go, and don't tell any one I have been agitated, or crying. Let me be quiet a short time, and—and—Heaven bless you, dear Gillett, for all your kindness—I never shall forget it!"

She threw her arms round the woman's neck, and kindly embraced her; then, opening the door, said hurriedly, "Now, go, dear Gillett, and leave me quiet awhile."

The simple woman, without the slightest suspicion of harm, quitted the room gently, and locked the door. Minnie stood one moment, with clasped hands, listening, then turning round, she seemed, by a great effort, to shake off all lethargy and doubt. Reverentially placing her mother's picture, and a gift of aunt Dorcas's, in her bosom, she drew from her pocket a key, and with hasty hands threw over her shoulders a shawl; then, putting on her bonnet, she stood one instant in deep thought—it was the final thought—one of war between resolution and doubt.

Near the old stile, in the holly-field, stood Miles Tremenhere. He was no longer the wild, excited man; a cold, stern resolution had replaced all other emotions. He stood there, resolved to do, even now, by force, should other means fail. It had been in vain he toiled with his brain to arrange things otherwise: all had seemed to go against him, trains, posters—all, and here he was, expecting Minnie at seven, knowing that at eight she would leave with her uncle, if his scheme failed.

"But it will not," he said between his teeth; "she has the key; they will be at table, and she can better escape down the stairs now than earlier. Should she not come, I will go up boldly and tear her from their power!"

He was desperate enough then to have attempted it. His face was cold and damp with the dew of suspense, his eyes strained with watching the way she should come; he had become so acutely wakeful, that he felt he could have heard her cry for help even there; and as moment after moment passed, and the heavy church clock in the distance chimed a quarter past seven, he groaned aloud. "Only three quarters more, and they will be there for her. Minnie! oh, Minnie! if they tore you from me now, I should smile on any deed to recover you! She does not come!"

He stood like a statue, only watching the way through the shrubbery. "I will go up and claim her," he cried at last, in desperation. "Hush! were those wheels? theirs, to complete their good work. Hush!" and he listened, while his heart audibly beat. A hand was on his arm, and a voice, weak and thrilling like a nestling bird's, whispered, "Miles, I am here—let us go—'tis late—I have been seen." With the first word and touch, a cry burst from him, and Minnie was in an embrace of iron. What force might tear her from it? Outside the hedge a chaise was waiting, and to this he almost carried the nearly fainting girl; they had not far to drive, but a few short miles at the pace of their good quadrupeds; and before the clock struck eight, Tremenhere's heart beat wildly with rejoicing, beside his run-away bride, flying at the rate of Gretna steam-power, and an express train, to the north. Eight o'clock struck, and with the last stroke wheels were heard creaking on the gravel at Gatestone.

"Now, Dalby," said Juvenal, "the time's come, mind you are resolute; no woman's work. I daresay she'll make a fuss, but it is for her ultimate benefit, and besides I will not have my authority questioned." Sylvia and Dorcas had retired, quite ignorant of all. "Tell Mrs. Gillett to come here, and accompany us to Miss Dalzell's room," said Juvenal to the footman.

"I don't think Miss Dalzell has returned," said the man, innocently. "She only went out a few minutes since!" Dalby started, but Juvenal was quite composed. "You must be mistaken, Willis," he said. "Miss Dalzell is in her room. You probably saw one of the other ladies. Send Mrs. Gillett at once."

"Oh, dear me! no, sir," responded the man. "I couldn't mistake my mississes for Miss Minnie; she passed me in the hall with her bonnet on, and said in her kind way, 'How d'ye do, Willis?' and I was so glad to see her about again, that I watched her through the gardens."

"Why the deuce didn't you mention this before?" exclaimed Dalby, alarmed. He was the first to recover himself.

"Well, sir," answered the man, trembling, "I thought master knew it. 'Twasn't for me to speak."

"There's something wrong," cried Juvenal, tumbling over Dalby's chair in his hurried rush towards the door. The other was half-way up-stairs, muttering a deep oath. If Minnie were lost to his master Marmaduke Burton, then would he be doubly a fool, having lost a good chance with the girl, backed as he had been by Sylvia; and of course he should be disgraced with the other.

By this time the house was alarmed—Dorcas stood very pale, clasping her cold hands together—Sylvia wouldn't believe it possible—and poor Mrs. Gillett was lamenting loudly, as Juvenal with trembling hands opened the door. There still was hope, for the door was well locked. All rushed in in a body: every thing was as we have seen it, but Minnie—the dinner untouched. How had she escaped? Not by the window, surely? No, that could not be. Willis had met her in the passage, and 'twas this unexpected meeting which had made her go round by the gardens instead of the shrubbery. This was the only hour in which Miles saw a chance for her escape, while all were at table. 'Twas a bold stroke; but it had succeeded, like many a daring deed.

"Gillett, you know something of this!" cried Sylvia, turning towards her. Dorcas couldn't speak; she was crying bitterly; she guessed the truth. "No, as I hopes for marcy!" exclaimed the housekeeper; "I know nothing of it. I brought up her dinner, which you see, and she fell a-crying, and seemed quite down-hearted. Oh, dear! oh, dear! what was it she said, now?" and she tapped her forehead; "she told me to remind you all of such a many things, and to think I should forget every one on 'em!"

"Where could she have found a key?" asked Juvenal, suspiciously.

"I don't know, I'm sure," answered Gillett, "here's mine," and she turned the lock with it. Suddenly it flashed across her mind, the confusion of keys in her room the night Juvenal came down, and Minnie and Miles were concealed. She said nothing; but felt perfectly convinced that one of them had taken a key away. At last, some one suggested that she was perhaps in the gardens. No one save Dorcas guessed the whole truth. Juvenal and Sylvia felt certain she would be found. Dalby thought so, too. Where could she go? Gillett was too much puzzled to think. Only Dorcas knew in her heart, that Miles was the instigator and partner of her flight. All her thoughts now were, not to find her; she felt that with a man so determined to organize, she was off and gone, but to secure her happiness, and, if possible, bring all to a happy termination and reconciliation. Gardens were searched—the house—grounds—all; but not a trace remained—then the village. At last a lad was found who had stood gaping at the chaise and posters in the lane, till the gentleman and lady stepped in and "driv away;" so there was no longer room to doubt. Dalby, hot with rage and disappointment, traced them to the railroad, three miles distant, whence he and Juvenal started off in pursuit.

The chaise which was to have carried off their victim, helped them on their errand—a rather galling reflection; for both Tremenhere and his bride were away, and away, miles before them; they had neither of them time to reflect on plans, on the future, which lay before them coiled like a serpent, and perhaps as much to be dreaded. On they flew, and, as the train stopped at each station, Minnie's heart sunk within her, dreading somehow to see her uncle there, awaiting her; and in agony, she clung to Miles, whose gentlest tones soothed the fair thing beside him, with her already sorrowing, but not repenting head, hidden in his bosom. At length the term of their journey drew to a close, they passed the Border—with every moment now, her terror, and his anxiety, grew apace. She could scarcely articulate; and, when a sudden whistle or stoppage occurred, a scream involuntarily burst from her very soul; for the lip was but the channel of utterance. But the Border was passed—the train and its many alarms was left behind their flying steps, and they stood side by side in a small room, awaiting the professional officiator in such cases—clergyman, he cannot be called. Minnie looked round, and felt how little idea of so sacred a tie as marriage, that little, low room gave you. She turned timidly to Miles, who was gazing impatiently at the door—she drew near him.

"Miles—dearest," she whispered, laying a hand on his arm, "shall we not be married again? This place carries no hallowing thoughts to the heart."

"My Minnie, you have echoed my intention—the moment we arrive in town, we will doubly cement the sweet bonds of this day's forging!"

Here the officiator entered. He was a serious, matter-of-fact-looking man; he put on his spectacles, and scanned them closely; then, giving a sort of grunt, intimating some sort of feeling best understood by himself, he commenced—

"Stop!" cried Tremenhere; "I have forgotten a ring!"

Minnie was trembling violently—every thing startled her. He saw this, and, hastily glancing at his finger, said, "In such a cause, this will but sanctify it!" and he drew off the circle of gold. "Minnie," he whispered, "this was my mother's."

"Oh, not that!" she cried, shrinking back. "It has been so ill-fated!"

"You'd better not delay," suggested the man; "folks travel quickly now-a-days, and I have buzness, too."

"It will unite us the closer in our triumph over her enemies and ours, my Minnie."

She said no more, but a cold thrill passed over her as the ring made her Tremenhere's wife.

"Now ye're right," said the man, with a grim smile, which he intended to be jocular; "an' tak' care on her, for she's a sonsy leddy—puir young thing!"

"Minnie—my wife—my child—my all!" whispered Miles, drawing her on his heart. "Now we may defy them all, and fate—my own wife!" Even as he spoke, the heart at that moment chilled: another might have felt glad in the romance of their love and flight, Tremenhere choked down a sigh. He would have given all he ever hoped to gain, to be standing with Minnie in church, his licensed wife by friends, relatives, and, above all, the rules of prudence and right. It was not his fault, these stern ideas; circumstances had made him what he was.

They are once more in the train, and speeding away from the Border, towards town. Some twenty miles on their way, they stopped at a station where a down train was waiting. Minnie drew hastily back, and turned very pale: "My uncle," she whispered, "there—and Mr. Dalby!" She had many a dark storm to encounter before they met again.