Tremenhere lost no time now in following up his intentions; he inquired every where, and at last discovered that Burton was in town. Late that same evening, he returned home, and great was his satisfaction to find Skaife domiciled there. He, we have said, was the only man in the world, perhaps, of whom he could not feel jealous; where lay the germ of extraordinary confidence, 'tis impossible to say, but with open-hearted confidence he wrung Skaife's hand, which cheered poor Minnie's heart, for she was terrified at the fancies her mind had been conjuring up about Miles's return; and when he said to the other, "I am delighted to see you," there was no mistaking the truth of the feeling: Miles could not feign a cordiality he did not feel. The union of these three gave rise to one of the few happy evenings, or even tranquil ones, Minnie had passed of late. Skaife came laden with letters and love from Dorcas, and even poor Mrs. Gillett. Of the many painful things they had heard at Gatestone, he said nothing before Minnie; he spoke cheeringly, and did not even utter what he thought, of her being unhappy, when he gazed with a stifled sigh on her altered face. It was in good truth Minnie spiritualized; for she seemed scarcely mortal, so thin, pale, and heavenly patient she looked.

When she had retired, then Tremenhere, no longer under any restraint, spoke of all his care, his wretchedness, which he strove to conceal from her; but though he mentioned the reports which had reached him through Lady Dora, he passed them over lightly. There was no man to whom he would sooner have applied, as a friend in such a case, than to Skaife, but his calling forbade it; he could not act with Tremenhere, and this was what he now required in a friend; neither durst he confide in the other all his plans; they might be betrayed in kindness to Minnie, or, even more seriously, to authorities which would frustrate them. He spoke painedly of them, but yet, rather to Skaife's surprise, also added, that time alone must clear them up.

"I am a wretched man!" he said. "There is a weight on my heart nothing, I fear, can remove."

"Surely," cried the other, "you cannot, for an instant, suspect your wife? You must see, and know, that the deep villainy of one man alone, has produced all these sad events? Let me conjure you, do not give him the triumph of seeing that he has succeeded in estranging your heart from one so good and pure."

"Skaife, I never shall love any one as I love her; 'tis that love which makes my existence one of torture, for my base nature is fighting against my better judgment, and at times it gains the mastery. There are moments," and his voice trembled as he uttered these last words, "that I wish she were dead; for then I could alone, bear my crushing sorrow; but the fear that she may ever love another, or even survive myself, is worse than the bitterest death could be!"

"Do not utter such things!" exclaimed Skaife, with a cold shudder. "Place all your faith and reliance on her: she will never deceive you, but your own heart may, and prove your basest traitor."

"Well, let us not speak more of it now. A day of retribution must come for that villain, Burton; leave him to fate—she has long arms and clutching hands." His apparent coolness disappointed the other; for he felt, without thinking of a hostile meeting, that Tremenhere might, and ought to seek means of silencing these slanders, and he resolved on a future occasion to suggest as much to him.

Before returning to Chiswick from Brighton, Tremenhere had sought a friend on whom he could rely; and, placing the affair in his hands, requested that no time might be lost in seeking Burton, to solicit the name of a friend who would act for him, in a meeting with Tremenhere. No apology would suffice, unless he consented to publish to the world, in terms not to be misunderstood, the whole part he had taken in the affair, from first to last; and this it was scarcely likely he would do. Having arranged this, he returned, in the more tranquil mood in which we have seen him, to his home.

Early the following morning his friend came to the villa. He had called upon Burton, who essayed with white lips to deny any participation in the affair, from first to last. The evidence of the persons whom Tremenhere had seen in Brighton, he treated with perfect contempt, as inventions to screen some other person; and finally refused most positively to meet his cousin. He had a prejudice against duelling, he said, especially with one whom he had known from boyhood; he sincerely pitied him for his turbulent, ungovernable temper, and great hatred towards himself. In short, he summed up all by hypocritically drawling forth, that could he serve him in any way, he too gladly would do so; and assuredly, to injure him, was farthest from his thoughts; and concluded with much deceitful, mawkish sentiment.

When his friend related this, Tremenhere paced the room, at first in indignant, contemptuous rage; then an unwonted calm came over him, and he smiled as he said, stepping before his visiter—"This man has taught me a talent I never might have possessed without him: that of watching, unseen, the movements of others. I will return to town with you; I have paved the way for doing so without exciting suspicion. I must act decidedly and secretly, for that coward else, will seek the protection of the law, and defeat my object. Let us be off."

And, quitting the studio where they were, he entered the drawing-room where sat Minnie and Skaife, she looking so much happier than of late had been the case. Tremenhere, too, seemed light at heart. He was a man so generous by nature, that the greater the sacrifice he made for a person, the better he loved them. He was ready to offer up his life for Minnie, for in his moments of energetic feeling he knew her innocent. 'Twas only when the muscular power relaxed with thought and care, that he doubted her; it had removed a load of suspicion from his heart, the knowing who really, beyond mistake, was his enemy, he knew so well all he was capable of. As he took his hat to quit the room, his full, deep glance fell on his wife, who was looking timidly at him. Skaife saw the look. It spoke so much wretchedness, that his heart ached bitterly for her. Coming towards her, Miles stooped, and, unheeding the presence of the other two, warmly embraced her. "Be a good girl, Minnie," he said cheerfully, "and amuse our good friend, Skaife, and I'll bring you—a fairing," he added laughing, "from town." His glance crossed his friend's as he spoke.

"Bring yourself soon," she said, smiling in his face; "'twill be my best present."

He pressed her hand warmly in reply. There was so much renewal of love, that she felt her heart full of hope—long foreign to it.

Tremenhere and his friend drove quickly to town; the former's object was, to watch Burton to his club, whither he went about twelve every day—and his, was Miles's. It is probable, that had this latter been in the habit of going himself every day, Burton would have quitted the field; as it was, Tremenhere had, by his absence, left him master of it; and here, as Tremenhere had ascertained, was the spot where he circulated his scandals freely to his own set. The two friends drove to the top of the street where Burton's hotel was, and stopping the cab where it would not attract notice, they resolved to watch for awhile, before inquiring for him of the hall porter. Fortune favoured them this time, for in less than half an hour, Burton came forth on foot; and glancing carelessly up the street, walked on, and the cab followed. As they hoped, he proceeded to his club, within a few doors of which the others alighted, and walked quickly towards it. Burton entered the reading-room, where sat some dozen or more men, poring over their papers; thence he stepped into another, nor noticed his cousin, who followed at a distance, keeping him in view.

Tremenhere's aim was attained: in the reading-room he met several friends,—acquaintances were better said; hastily addressing each, without appearing to notice the chilling looks of some, he said, calling each by name, "Leave your papers awhile, and follow me; I will give you something better worth seeing than aught you may meet with there."

And most did so, for curiosity is a spirit fluttering over the heads of the many, few indeed are those eschewing her worship. On walked Tremenhere, accompanied by his friend, and in his wake came the others. At last he stood silently, surveying all in the room, where dozens were collected, some in knots talking, others at breakfast, others reading. In a glance Tremenhere took in all this, and the faces of friend and foe. He advanced a step. Burton stood with his back towards him, conversing with two or three persons. Was it instinct which made him suddenly turn, and grow white as the snowiest cloth on those tables, when he saw Tremenhere erect, smiling, and towering in height and manly beauty, as lie gave him a glance of scorn? He stopped suddenly in what he was uttering, and made a movement to quit the room by a side-door. There is a power, an irresistible spell, in dignity and right combined, (indeed the former cannot exist without the latter,) which make the meaner mind bow down before them.

"Stop, Marmaduke Burton!" cried Tremenhere with his full, rich voice of command. Burton made an involuntary pause, and then, with a quick shuffling gait, attempted to seem dignified as he moved towards the door. "Stop him!" cried Tremenhere again, calmly waving his hand, "that he may at least have the satisfaction of hearing me, face to face, proclaim him slanderer, liar, and coward!"

Burton was forced to turn. At these words a movement passed over the whole room—no one, however, spoke.

"Look at him!" said Tremenhere, contemptuously. "He dare not face what he has done; were it not from inability to move—for no shame withholds him—he would fly!"

"These are harsh words," said an officer, advancing; "are you prepared to prove them?"

"That I am," answered the other; and in words as brief as possible he told the tale, and his visit to Brighton—the evidence there—summing up all with the refusal on Burton's part to meet him.

"It pains me deeply," continued Tremenhere, with much emotion, "to drag the name of my wife before this assembly; but her accusations have been openly spoken, or whispered in every select circle where my humble name is known. 'Tis true I might have sought my remedy by law; but I leave such to colder hearts and heads than mine. I forgot," he added, looking round upon all, "to present myself to many who may not know me. I am Miles Tremenhere, now an humble artist, once heir of the manor-house, ——, Yorkshire; that, my worthy cousin, who from childhood had been my companion, has for a while—only for a while—deprived me of——but let that rest. I came to-day to proclaim him what you have all heard, and he dare not deny it. Once I have horsewhipped him for his base seduction of an innocent girl,—flogging is thrown away on callous skins like his; so I brand him—liar and coward!"

"Sir," said Burton, endeavouring to seem calm, "you shall answer for this, and bitterly rue it."

"Answer it!" laughed the other, "when and where you will; this is all I ask at your hands."

"Ah, Twemenhere!" exclaimed a voice, as the speaker just entered the room, amazed at the fracas, but ignorant of the cause, "is that you?—what a stwanger you are," and he held out a hand. Tremenhere's trembled as he warmly shook it: he was all woman in gentler emotions, and never was there a more grateful heart than his; he felt Vellumy's act deeply. This act seemed the signal which many had been awaiting, not from wavering indifference, but for want of the electric spark, which moves Englishmen more slowly than others, but surer, when its propelling force comes, than all the very warm and sudden impulses in the world. In an instant Tremenhere was surrounded. Those who a day before had condemned him, perhaps too hastily, on the whispered calumnies of Burton, now pressed forward to press his hand. Some few, whose dislocated nerves can never be strengthened to any thing warmer than zero, grumbled at the disturbance, and talked of secretaries, rules, etc., etc.; but the majority rejoiced as over a lost brother restored, for Miles had been a favourite with all.

In the midst of this, Burton had slunk away; he could not bully, nor defy; Tremenhere had proof in the evidence of his (Burton's) kindred spirit, and betraying confidant, at Brighton. And certainly there was no table so merry as the one at which Tremenhere sat, surrounded by his friends, to repair a scarcely touched breakfast at home. He would have preferred leaving at once, to return to Minnie and Skaife, especially to remove from the latter's brow that not-to-be-mistaken cloud of disappointment, which he had seen gathered there, at his own supposed coolness and indifference about his wife's fame. But policy dictated another course; there was much he had not explained, and he took this opportunity of doing so. It is indeed to be regretted, that the finest natures admit of passions dark and overwhelming, and the strongest minds are, in some things, the weakest. To see Tremenhere amidst his friends, glowing with joy at having restored Minnie to fame, who could imagine that he ever again would be led down the bitter path of doubt and suspicion, or that these two poisons were only awhile dormant in his breast?

When he entered his home, for some moments he could scarcely speak, then, grasping Skaife's hand, he said—

"Give me a grasp from your heart, my friend—to-day you could not, I saw that—now you may, for I have done what a man should."

"You do not mean!" exclaimed the man of peace, with a feeling akin to alarm, "that you——"

"No, no," laughed Miles; "the coward would not fight; I tried him, but he refused. 'Tis better, done as it is."

Poor Minnie had crept tremblingly to his side. In her fear she almost forgot he was safe before her.

"I do congratulate you," cried Skaife warmly; "for it was not a thing to be passed quietly over."

"Poor Minnie—poor child!" said her husband, placing his arms round her, and bending his deep, loving eyes upon her; "how you tremble! Think, darling, I have silenced all who calumniated you—justice, like truth, will eventually win in any fight. The devil deserts his children in the utmost need; we deal with brighter spirits, dear, and will triumph over all!"

"Heaven grant it, dearest Miles! You have indeed been good and kind to me to-day—and always," she added hastily. "You have been tried severely; we shall be so happy now. Dear Mr. Skaife, you have been indeed a messenger of peace. I feel as if all would turn to me now, even my uncle Juvenal, and aunt Sylvia."

It was a day of deep rejoicing—each heart was light and glad.

The following one Mr. Skaife visited Mary Burns; but there he had little joy to see—the unerring hand of deep malice had done its worst. She had been dismissed from every house, some less coldly than others; but even the kindest said, only in excuse, that, though they would gladly, if possible, serve her, yet it would be a thing unexampled for them to fly in the face of society's laws, as by the world laid down; quite overlooking the fact, that there will be a world where they might be called to severe account for uncharitableness and harsh judgment of a repentant sinner; but this is worldly wisdom, and worldly virtue, which dictate all. Few are virtuous from truly religious motives—we speak of the world en masse. It is either from a sense of innate delicacy, morality, and fear of the public reprehension, should discovery take place; few indeed, in comparison, place first on the list, the condemned sin which makes the devils rejoice, and angels weep. So Mary was left to starve, beg, or return to evil, that society might be kept untainted. She had assuredly found forgiveness, where it is too joyfully given, and with rejoicing; but with man—that is, on these cold, unforgetting shores—to fallen woman, she found none with the mass; so Minnie and Skaife both advised her to quit England. 'Tis sad, but true. Much as we love our native land, we are obliged to own that our neighbours look more to the present than past; and if a woman evince an earnest desire to become honest, there will indeed be few to point and say, "Avoid her, she has sinned;" and many to hold a hand forth to a tottering mortal. It was with difficulty Mary could be persuaded to strive once more. She felt sad enough to lie down and die; but when those two, whose hearts were such sterling gold, upheld her, comforted, encouraged, and commanded in her mother's name, she once more arose, and with her knowledge of French quitted England for Paris, under the escort of Skaife, who was empowered by Tremenhere to settle her in some suitable business.

"I would not have my poor mother look down and see I had neglected one she loved almost as a child," he said; "and possibly we may all meet soon on those shores. I hate England."

And so strange is it, that great events of our lives are the offspring of some momentary inspiration, or thoughtlessly uttered word, that, until that instant, Tremenhere had not dreamed of quitting England; and, from that hour, an insurmountable desire seized upon him to leave London, the villa—all which had become hateful to him. His wishes were laws to Minnie. She would gladly have seen her aunts again—have been friends with her uncle before leaving; consequently she wrote, imploring pardon of the two hearts in rebellion against her, and begging aunt Dorcas to come and see her. But even this was denied her. Dorcas had been made to suffer so severely by the other two on the occasion of the former visit, that she deemed it better not to enrage them further by coming; but to remain, and patiently work for Minnie's future pardon. She wrote most affectionately, and completely repudiated every thought of her niece's impropriety of conduct, which had been imparted to Juvenal by his friend, Marmaduke Burton. On this subject, too, Tremenhere wrote to Minnie's uncle, and detailed the whole affair as it had occurred, not forgetting the last discomfiture of his enemy in the exposure at the club. Whatever Juvenal's opinions might have been, had he permitted them full play, is uncertain; for he was one of those narrow-minded, prejudiced persons, who, having espoused an idea, find it completely out of the pale of their governing law to divorce it from their belief. Minnie was guilty—she must be guilty; Burton said she was. She had been imprudent once, and consequently, assuredly, would be again; in short, prejudice, with its narrow ideas and venomed breath, stood between poor Minnie and her home. Juvenal might have forgiven, if left to himself, for sometimes a memory would come over him of her gentle tones, her loving, girlish heart; besides which, he could not refuse to believe all Tremenhere wrote—there was evidence and proof; though he left the letter unanswered, it influenced his mind in his niece's favour. Gillett too spoke, and at last decidedly, in the rejected one's favour; but to counteract these healthful influences, came the soured heart, and acrid tongue, of one who hated Minnie for entering that state without her permission, which, in the whole course of her own life, no one had ever held open the door to, though but a little ajar, for her to peep into—matrimony. Not a soul had once said a civil, or even word of doubtful meaning, for her to build a hope or an hour's dream upon, and she felt a double pleasure in stamping Minnie with her reprehension and condemnation. So she, poor girl, bade adieu to their pretty villa and England, to seek peace and happiness in a stranger land, with the one whom she loved as freshly and well as on the day she vowed to leave all for his sake. Skaife had returned, after a few weeks' absence, to his duties, near Minnie's childhood's home; but his heart was heavy. The man foresaw clouds in the horizon, over one he now loved as a dear sister; for, with all Tremenhere's worth, no one could be blind to his unconquered passion—jealousy, which only lay still to gain strength, and rise, like a giant refreshed from slumber, to overwhelm all.

Marmaduke Burton was gone abroad, no one knew whither, "on a tour." Dalby was a resident in town. Mary Burns was established in a small business for fancy work; her poor mother no longer burthened her—she slept in the quiet home, alike for rich and poor. And thus all stood on the day Minnie and Tremenhere started for Paris, where he had many friends to forward his views as an artist; moreover, he had orders from friends at home, and all seemed to smile on them as they quitted their native land.

"And now, Minnie," he said, tenderly embracing her, "no more care. I will banish all, and begin anew our life of love, and the labour of love I have sadly neglected, though not forgotten. My poor mother—I must toil for you both, darling, now, and for our child, my Minnie, for I should indeed wish it to see the light in my lawful home; I will try so to have it."