



Produced by Robert Cicconetti, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)









                              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.




[Illustration: 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