With her memory and return to life, came a strange desire over Minnie's heart. She learned by the inquiries of the fisherman, that almost all on board the ill-fated Hirondelle had been lost. Only one or two of the passengers, and a few of the crew, had been picked up. Her sorrow was keen and heart-rending, on hearing that the lady whom she had vainly endeavoured to save, was amongst the lost—all were reported so, except the few we have named; and one of the men returning from Marseilles one day, brought her a paper containing a list of those lost, or supposed to be; and almost the first name she read there was, "Madame Tremenhere, and child." Her first feeling was a shudder, as she thought of what might have been. Then an idea rushed through her brain of, "What would Miles's feelings be should he read this? Would he regret her?—still hate her? Or, his once strong love reviving, would he remember her only through that medium, and sorrow over her fate?"

"Should he," she mentally said, "what heartfelt joy it would be to seek him, and, casting myself at his feet, pray him to take me once again to his arms and heart!"

This thought gave rise to the earnest desire of proving him. This task did not seem difficult or impossible. Her humble friends were not of that class to carry the news of her existence far and wide; her name, too, was unknown to them. More than thanks she had little to give, reserving to herself in some hereafter, to reward them amply. Her object was to gain Paris once again, and then ponder upon the best means of carrying out her project; it seemed to her as a last hope. The only articles of value she possessed were a watch and chain, which her ill-fated mistress had given her the day before they sailed. On these, her late friends, the fishermen, had raised her a sum of money in Marseilles; a small sum she forced upon them, and with the remainder, after purchasing a few absolute necessaries, the still hoping woman left, unrecognized, for Paris. She had confided to her friends a wish to be unknown, until she reached her relatives, and thus a passport was obtained in the name of Deval. With her she took the paper containing the list of passengers supposed to be lost, and thus she started for Paris.

Minnie had not calculated all in doing this; she overlooked, in her haste to put a last hope of reconciliation in practice, the grief many might feel. But it was done, and thought came afterwards. She knew that, by sending the paper to Tremenhere's artist-friend, in Paris, it assuredly would reach him, directed to himself; consequently, on her arrival, her first act was to seek the box of one of those curiously occupied persons in that large city, who sit at the corners of some streets, and, for a trifle, write letters for the illiterate or mysterious. Here she got her paper addressed to Tremenhere, to his friend's care, in a strange hand, and sent it by a porter, with an order to leave it in the loge de conciÈrge, without answering any questions, merely inquiring if they knew the address of the gentleman. The man returned to her, and said—

"The person to whom it was addressed, was daily expected in Paris, and it should be given to him." Her heart bounded with a joy, long a stranger to it, at this information; all seemed to favour her scheme. Then, however, for the first time she sat down to reflect, and thought of Mary's certain grief—Dorcas—Skaife—all, perhaps; but she consoled herself with the reflection—"It will not be for long: Miles will come to Paris—when he receives the paper, he will go to Mary. I will watch for him near her house, and his friend's; and when I see his fine head bowed in sorrow, I will bid it raise itself up, rejoicing!"

And with this idea she took a small, almost garret, within view of his friend's residence, and through the conciÈrge, and at shops obtained some work, whereby to support life, and her dearer than own—that of Tremenhere's child's.

Miles had remained at Florence, in retirement and bitterness, until his feelings outwore themselves. He wanted fuel to feed his thoughts against Minnie. He was tormented in soul; for sometimes a till then silent monitor awoke, and said—

"You were perhaps too hasty—you had no proof, but presumptive evidence—the most deceiving of any: return to Paris." And his fate took him by the hand, and led him thither.

Before Minnie brought the newspaper to Paris, the journals, both there and in England, were teeming with accounts of the loss of the "Hirondelle," and a list given of the passengers' names. Who may depict the heavy gloom which fell upon her family at Gatestone, when her name, coupled with her infant's, appeared amongst those lost! Dorcas was almost broken-hearted. If Minnie could have seen her, she would indeed have regretted the ruse of a moment, which could cause so much bitter anguish to one she loved—she would no longer accuse her aunt of coldness, but rather have pitied that want of energy, which made her seem what she was not. On Juvenal and Sylvia, too, it fell heavily, but in a different manner. On him, it awakened remorse and gloom for unjust severity, and a consequent hatred towards those who had urged him to it. He would not listen to the name of Burton, or Dalby, without violent passion, followed by almost tears; and this feeling was constantly awakened by Sylvia, who became more acrimonious in proportion as her conscience told her she had taken a good part in the oppression of her poor niece; and her greatest satisfaction was in torturing others.

Dorcas and Skaife were the two who, in almost silence, bore the heaviest burthen; they spoke of her to one another, but beyond this, they were silent. Dorcas crept about her home in quiet grief; every little object which had belonged to Minnie was gradually taken from public gaze, to be treasured up in her own saddened room, and there she would sit for hours, looking upon them, and recalling when and how Minnie employed them.

The old hall clock ticked no more: this was Juvenal's act—it awakened such painful feelings whenever its tongue proclaimed the hour; so one day, unknown to any one, he sent early for a carpenter, and the friend of years was consigned to a lumber-room!—À propos, this is too often the fate of old, tried friends, who would recall us to thought and duty by reminding us of wasted hours!

Mrs. Gillett had but one phrase in her sorrow to cut Juvenal to the soul; and this was—

"I told you something bad would come of all your severity! Poor darling!—only for your cruelty she might be smiling amongst us now, and her blessed, crowing babby!" She spoke of it as if it had been a young game-cock. "And to think," she continued, "that that pretty creatur', long hair and all, has become food for fishes! There—never don't send no more into this house; for, as long as I'm in it, none sha'n't be cooked, I can tell you!"

And the poor woman, having thus energetically delivered herself of her opinions, would creep away, and, shutting the door of her pleasant-looking room, sit rocking to and fro, crying, as she would fancy she again beheld Minnie and her handsome Tremenhere there, side by side.

The authorities at Marseilles were written to, and all confirmed the sad news; some few had been rescued, but nothing had been heard of Minnie, except that the boat in which she and others had escaped from the wreck, was found keel uppermost by a steamer. The fishermen far on the coast, had little intercourse with the town; and then Minnie had implored secresy at their hands, and her wishes were obeyed. Mary, too, wrote to Skaife in broken-heartedness. Nothing was wanting to confirm it; and, just when all else were in their sorrow, Tremenhere arrived in Paris. While at Florence, he had heard that Lord Randolph was cruising in a yacht in the Mediterranean. This partially urged his return to France—a fear of meeting them. He felt he should not be master of himself were such to take place; so strong on his mind was the idea of their being together. Yet, too, sometimes a doubt arose; and, to clear up all, he returned to France—he could not rest. His first idea was to go direct to Mary's, and inquire about her in seeming indifference; then he changed his intention, and went hastily to his friend's. This man was from home when Miles arrived, so he went to his studio and awaited his return. Miles was one of those whose busy mind ever found employment for the fingers; he could not sit down patiently and wait, doing nothing—the busy thoughts when the mind is in trouble, become too acute then. Thus he looked round the studio—to read was impossible—taking a blank sheet of pasteboard, he placed it on an easel, and commenced sketching. He was not thinking willingly of Minnie; but somehow she was the spirit of the man's innermost soul. Beneath his pencil grew two figures—a Madonna and child, lightly sketched. Something passed over his heart like a footstep in a deserted hall, and echoed. He laid down the pencil, and brushing back his hair with a hasty hand, resumed the pencil, but reversed the sketch, and commenced another—as he did so, a step sounded without. He started up; it was his friend—friend to him, and a worthy man, which made him the more severe towards Minnie, supposing her so faithless. The cordial grasp of friendship given, his friend said,—

"Oh! I've got some letters and papers for you, which have come recently," and he hastened to seek them. Miles's heart beat high. They most probably, in some manner, related to the overflowing thought of his heart. He took them with trembling hands from the other, and scrutinized them all; a cold feeling of disappointment filled his heart—not a line in her handwriting!—then she was truly lost, and indifferent to him! All this time the other was gazing at him with an embarrassed look, not knowing when or how to commence—something he had to give utterance to; this look had come over him immediately after their first salutation. Miles tore open the Marseilles paper, and flung it down with a "pshaw." The name caught his friend's eye, and he took it up. As he did so, Miles, to conceal his disappointed look, hastily seated himself at the easel, and commenced finishing his sketch. "Look," he said, "Duplin, this is the model of the sweet villa where I have been sojourning often, in Florence—I must return—already I grow weary in France!" In good truth, he looked so; he was pale, care-worn, and his smile passed like a breath on glass, leaving a dark, dim vapour behind.

"Tremenhere," said the other at last, "have you heard aught of madame, lately?"

The question made his hand tremble.

"No," he replied, continuing his sketch. "How should I? Have you?" and he looked up wistfully.

"Nor of ce milord?" asked Duplin, again interrogatively, without replying to his demand.

"He is in the Mediterranean," answered Miles bitterly, "cruising in a yacht."

"Then it was the case," fell from his friend's lip, as if in self-satisfaction, at a doubt solved.

"What?" cried Miles, looking up hastily; "speak out, I can bear it—I suspect all, from the reports I have heard."

"Well, then, after you left I resolved to discover all; I deemed it right towards you, and also a satisfaction, where madame would fain have seemed so wronged. I found out that milord went to Italy and the Mediterranean, and shortly afterwards madame quitted Paris for England; but this must have been a ruse to mislead, for she was recently in Marseilles with her child."

Tremenhere groaned aloud at the thoughts this communication awakened; there was something so bitter in the memory of all the happiness her supposed infamy had cost him, wife, child, home—all but a vain dream.

"And thence," continued Duplin, anxious, by fortifying his (Miles's) heart with contempt for her, to prepare him to receive calmly the intelligence he had gained through the public prints, "madame with her child, sailed the other day for the Mediterranean for Malta; in fact, where I last heard of milord's yacht."

"True!" ejaculated Miles through his closed teeth, as he bent over his sketch.

"And now, mon ami," added the other hurriedly, "I have something more to tell you. I do not think you need much courage to hear it; for after all, 'tis better, far better thus."

"What would you tell me, Duplin? speak?" and he looked up perfectly unconscious of the truth.

"Well then, Tremenhere, you are free; madame is dead!"

"Dead!" exclaimed Miles, starting up pale and rigid; and, strange contradiction of the thought which the other endeavoured to convey to his mind, the fair, living Minnie seemed to stand before him.

"Be a man!" said Duplin, soothingly; "think how false she was; think how painful a tie—of the disgrace!" and he grasped his arm.

"Where did she die?" asked Miles, passing his hand over his brow to collect his thoughts; for he was in a stupor, not understanding really what the other meant to convey to him.

"She was lost; the vessel was wrecked going to Malta," answered Duplin, who had unfolded the Marseilles paper, and, suspecting the contents sent by some unknown hand, placed the open sheet before the stupefied Tremenhere on the easel. Gradually the glazed eyes fell upon the page, and the names stood out bold and clear before him, "Madame Tremenhere (Anglaise) et son enfant," he dropped silently on the seat, and, shading his eyes, gazed on the sheet motionless and speechless.

"Be yourself—be a man!" said Duplin, once more touching his arm.

"I am!" cried Tremenhere, in a hoarse but steady voice, looking up. "I rejoice; better know her dead, than his!" and he rose and strode across the room. "I do rejoice, Duplin; see, my hand even does not tremble. Now I can bear my sorrow; now the world is one huge blank before me. I have lost that leper spot which was tainting all my flesh; I have no past, no present, no future—all is alike a blank. I can walk on in the darkness, nor fear to meet her form at every step!"

Duplin stood awed by his calmness, it seemed so terrific over those young graves. "Who can have sent that paper?" he asked, taking the journal in his hand.

"An enemy; but I guess him. I defy them all now! They can wound no more—my wound is cleansed, and healed; I defy them! the plague spot has left me! Rejoice Duplin, rejoice!"

When he went forth from that house, his step was exact, the brow stern and cold, but untroubled, the mouth compressed and calm, and the pale woman closely veiled, who was concealed in a gateway watching the exit of him whom she had seen enter Duplin's abode, felt her hopeful heart loosen all its chords, and wellnigh burst in its sorrow, as she failed to read one regret on that face of stone. She knew he must have received the paper which told him all, and now indeed she felt he had never loved her—all was lost. She had but three things to comfort her; first, her own upright conscience, her boy, and the morbid satisfaction of being indeed dead to all, lone, and uncomforted, and thus she crept back to her gloomy garret.

Once again she saw Miles; her dress touched him in the half-lighted street at night. He was cold, unmoved, as before. She stretched a hand to touch him; his name was on her lips; but he passed on, and the whispered word died away in a hysterical sob.

Next day he quitted for England, without seeking any communication with Mary, and Minnie remained to weep and toil.