CHAPTER VIII
"Era già l'ora che volge 'l disio
A' naviganti, e'ntenerisce il cuore,
Lo di ch'han detto a' dolci amici addio,
E che lo nuovo peregrin d' amore
Punge, se ode squilla di lontano,
Che paja 'l giorno pianger che si muore."
Dante.
Mercy Page was an old acquaintance of Helen's, and was wont to bring her all the gossip of the village, intermingled with her own little adventures. And so she told Miss Helen the story of her pilgrimage to Madron Well, and the fierce denunciations of Dame Gudhan. And the young lady, after smilingly chiding her for her simple proceeding, taught her to smile also at the ill words of the pythoness. But now Mercy thought she had the laugh on her side, for she had heard the twilight tales about the castle, and availed herself of the familiarity which Helen allowed her, to inquire concerning them at head-quarters.
"D' ye know, Miss Helen," she asked, "what they're saying about the green yonder? How there's a pale lady all in white, that walks through the castle by night, and fleers you and Mr. Randolph sadly?"
"All I can say, Mercy," Helen answered, with a smile, "is that I have met no lady answering that description, either by night or by day."
"They tell it so in whispers," the fair rustic continued; "I cannot well say what is the story. It's something about somebody that some one murdered a very long while ago."
"Ah, Mercy, people are always fond of a ghost story," Helen said. "And so I hear Michael was in the game the other day. You had a merry dance at last, I expect."
"Then, Miss Helen," said the girl, "I don't well know what's come over Michael. He's very different from before he went to London."
Helen sighed, thinking Michael was not the only one who had been so altered. And in truth, Mercy was quite right. If her old lover pretended to court her now, it was in a spirit very opposite to that which animated him before his employment by Mrs. Pendarrel. His object was twofold; to make use of the unsuspecting maiden as a spy within the castle, and to achieve one of those conquests which he had heard boasted of as great exploits in the society he frequented in town. But love is frequently as blind to the qualities of its object as the attachment of animals, and Mercy was as ignorant of Michael's intentions, as the faithful dog in the story, that his master was a murderer.
In truth, Sinson was exceedingly anxious to know what was passing in Trevethlan Castle. He felt a feverish curiosity to discover what was there thought of the law-suit which was just commenced. Certain himself, that the case which he had submitted to Mr. Truby was unassailable, he was still nervously desirous to learn in what manner his opponents prepared to resist it. What did they guess? What did they suspect? What line of investigation did they pursue? The proceedings were like a duel in the dark. Neither party knew anything of his adversary's moves. A stab in the back was perfectly legitimate. And so Sinson, naturally imputing to others the conduct from which he would not shrink himself, trembled lest he might be over-reached after all, and find his artifices recoil upon their deviser.
And upon this cast he had set all his desires. Upon the result of this trial depended the issue of all his weary manœuvring. It would either place him in a position to demand his own terms, or it would leave him unable to obtain any. His victory would be complete, or his ruin total. But so far, although he was eager for news of his opponents, he entertained no doubt whatsoever of his own triumph.
Meantime, he trusted chiefly to Mercy for intelligence of what passed at the castle, and she told him all she knew, with the most innocent frankness. Trembling at shadows, he had been really alarmed at the tale of poor Margaret's apparition. Aware of what was in contemplation, and like all his race prone to superstition, he did not conceive there was anything so very improbable in such a visitation, and he felt that it would not be for the orphans that its warning was intended. He was glad to hear from Mercy that the story was unfounded.
Sinson was also much perturbed by the conduct of his grandmother. She had not forgotten the hint he threw out respecting her favourite's marriage. It was true, she only referred to it to excuse what he had said, but the wild language and fierce predictions in which she indulged, continually troubled him. And, besides, she was the only witness now to be found who was present at the wedding; and although her opposition could in no degree frustrate his scheme, her concurrence would have gone some way to promote it.
But he now endeavoured to hug himself in his security, and to pass the interval before the trial as tranquilly as he might. He chose for himself a pleasanter pastime than espionage upon Trevethlan Castle, and watched with unwearying diligence the steps of Miss Pendarrel. Little did Mildred think, as she pursued her meditative way among the unfrequented thickets of the park, or strolled through the fields and lanes beyond it, or wandered along the cliffs of the sea-shore, that her path was always dogged by the stealthy foot, and her form watched by the sinister eyes of Michael Sinson. Always at a convenient distance, ready to slip behind a tree, or to skulk under a bank, if she chanced accidentally to turn her head, the crafty observer lurked around her course. Many a time he set out with the intention of coming forth at some sequestered spot, and accosting the object of his chase, but he always let the opportunity slip by. A kind of awe fettered his limbs, and restrained his tongue, when he would have advanced and addressed the unsuspecting maiden. There was a proud security about her which he felt it impossible to invade, a serene confidence which he dared not ruffle. He hated his timidity; he said, it should not be so next time; and when the next time came, he again deferred his intended appearance.
It happened, one fine mild afternoon, that Mildred quitted the park by Wilderness Gate, and bent her steps to that thorn-shaded portion of the cliff which was the scene of Michael's interview with Mercy Page, immediately before his first departure for the metropolis. Here she paced backwards and forwards, amongst the leafless hawthorns, often pausing to gaze over the sea, and musing rather sadly of her forlorn situation at home, where she had no one to confide in, no one to share her emotion, and where every day seemed to draw her nearer to a precipice, which she was yet resolved to shun. Thus she was looking over the water, whose transparency assumed the hue of the weeds growing at the bottom, pink, blue, and green, and watching the vessels in the bay, when a step sounded on the turf by her side, and she looked round, and recognised her cousin, Randolph Trevethlan.
"Mildred," he said, in a voice which trembled with excitement, "do you know me, Mildred?"
He might read the answer in the hot flush upon her cheeks and forehead.
"Will you acknowledge the impostor who sought you in disguise?" he continued rapidly; "will you remember him who was shamed in your sight? Me, the avowed enemy of your house, who should have met any belonging to it in defiance and hate, yet came masked to your side to seek an interest in your heart? For it was so. I loved you deeply, devotedly I loved you, before that evening. So I love you now, and shall love you for ever. From the first time my eyes met yours, in that echoing scene of music and of light, I loved you, fervently as when I moved by your side in those glittering saloons, fervently as I do now, and shall do, till my heart has ceased to beat. And it was for me, Randolph Trevethlan, to creep covertly to your presence, and woo you—for I did woo you—woo you to be mine! And will you remember me now? Will you hear me—not seek to palliate a deception which I loathe, not ask for forgiveness which I despise—but will you hear me lay my love at your feet, and, oh Mildred! at least not trample on it?"
The vehemence with which he had spoken at first softened into tenderness in his last words. Mildred continued to walk slowly by his side, unable to speak, scarcely knowing what she did, with her eyes bent down, and her hands clasped before her.
"Hear me," Randolph said, in tones of passionate supplication. "Do you know the life I have led? In yon lone castle by the sea, isolated from the world, ignorant of my race, with nothing to love? Yet discontented, pining, dreaming of love? Do you know how I came forth, madly enthusiastic, to seek for fortune and fame? How still I felt my desolation? Was not the world a blank to me? Was I not alone? Yet how should you know it? I knew it not myself. Not till my eyes met yours knew I the yearnings of my heart. The truth flashed upon me in an instant. To see you and to love you, in your love to find the key to my life, to vow for you to live and die—it was a moment's work. I knew not who you were. Did I heed that? What acquaintance is needed for love? Alas! I knew you too soon. The daughter of my father's destroyer, the child of her whom I was pledged to hate, she it was I was destined to love."
Mildred cast an imploring glance into his face.
"It is vain," he said. "It is hopeless. Even now, at this very hour, she seeks to drive me from my home: from my name: my sister and me to be outcasts on earth: shunned and despised: children without a father. Think you there can be anything but hate between her and me?"
"My mother," Mildred faltered.
"It is our curse," said Randolph. "Did not my father imprecate the wrath of Heaven upon me, if I held communion with her or hers? I love you, Mildred, and the curse has fallen. And you love me," he cried in wild rapture, flinging his arm around her, and folding her to his side, "you love me, let the curse prevail."
She did not shrink from his embrace, and for some distance they proceeded in silence. He pressed her to a seat on a bank of turf.
"Speak, dearest," he whispered, "let me hear that you love me. I feel it in the beating of your heart. I read it in your face. Will you not let me hear it from your lips?"
She hid her face against his breast. There was another long silence.
"Dearest," at length Randolph murmured, "there can be little of joy for our love except in itself. Shall we not have faith in each other to support us? Will you not be mine, whatever betide,—will you not be mine, dearest Mildred?"
"I am yours, Randolph," she said, "yours for ever, and only yours."
He pressed a kiss upon her lips.
"I must go home," she whispered, "I must go home."
"Yes, we must part," the lover answered; "I know it. See," he continued, "it is my star. Smiling on us, Mildred, as that evening. Believe me, dearest, we shall not be parted for ever."
And in a calmer mood, with more of hope and less of agitation, Randolph rose, and supporting Mildred on his arm, accompanied her a short distance on her way. They parted with a silent pressure of hands.
The lovers were scarcely out of sight when Michael Sinson emerged from a lair he had made himself near the spot where they rested, glared fiercely in the direction they had gone, and advanced to the edge of the cliff. The evening was mild enough for May; twilight was stealing slowly over the tranquil sea; in the west, the star of love, alone in the sky, was following the sun to sink behind the waves. It was, indeed, the soft hour so sweetly described by the poet of the divine drama, reminding the mariner of his latest farewell, and soothing the pilgrim of love with the knell of parting day. But none of this tender influence was felt by the man who stood, panting, on the cliff that overhung the waters. Fury, envy, and malice, contended within him. Why could not he do this? Why, in the many times he had followed her steps, had he never dared to approach her? What spell had been upon him? Had she shrunk at all from the arm which enfolded her? Had she recoiled from the embrace? Might it not have been the same with him? The same blood was in his veins as in Randolph's. Whence came the accursed timidity which held him back? And what did they say? Why could he not hear as well as see? Was there any fascination in Trevethlan's tongue?
And it was he, whom he had learned to hate from his boyhood, his mother's sister's son, whose father cast aside the peasant relatives with contempt; he it was who, in one moment, in a first interview it might be, had achieved a triumph which Michael, with all his opportunities, had never ventured to attempt. But let him look to it. Ruin and shame were impending over his head. It would soon be seen which of them was the better born. The emptiness of his rival's happiness would speedily be discovered. Poverty-stricken and dishonoured, Margaret Basset's son might not be so successful a suitor as the heir of Trevethlan.
Successful! Had he been successful? Had she listened to him with favour? Michael felt that she had. But she would not long exult in her love. She little thought of the chain that was preparing for her. Melcomb, indeed! She need not fear the shallow coxcomb. There was another sort of wooer behind. But for the present her mother must know the liberties taken by the bird. The door of the cage would probably be fastened.
Some such train of ideas flew rapidly through Sinson's perturbed fancy, as he stood a few minutes on the verge of the cliff. He soon turned hastily, and hurried straight across the country to Pendarrel Hall, where he arrived before the young lady who had excited his emotion. He sought its mistress without much ceremony.
"Pray, sir," said she, on seeing him, "what rudeness is this? Did I desire your attendance?"
"No, ma'am," he answered, cringing and trembling. "I beg pardon, ma'am; but I thought you might like to know that Miss Mildred has just met Mr. Trevethlan."
"Well, sir!" Esther said, preserving a composure which bewildered the informant.
"It may be nothing, ma'am, of course," Sinson continued. "But clasping arms, and hands pressed, and lips meeting...."
"Be silent, sir!" exclaimed Mrs. Pendarrel, "and leave the room. I want no tales about Mr. Trevethlan."
In increased astonishment, Michael obeyed. Mildred entered the apartment not very long after.
"My dear Mildred," her mother said, "you should not stay out so late. These February evenings are damp and unhealthy; and besides, dear, you take too long walks. I should be glad if you would confine yourself to the garden. Take a carriage, my love, if you wish for a longer excursion."
Mildred understood her mother well, and knew that this was a command. But amid the rapturous, though confused sensations, with which her heart was thrilling, she did not even notice the coincidence of the injunction with the scene through which she had passed not an hour before. She thought she should be happy at last. She had found a stay to uphold her in the times which she feared were at hand. She had pledged her word, plighted her troth. There was a home ready for her, if her own were made desolate—a haven to receive her, if the storm rose higher than she could bear.
CHAPTER IX
Quand on est honnête homme, ou ne veut rien devoir
A ce que des parens ont sur nous du pouvoir.
On répugne à se faire immoler ce qu'on aime,
Et l'on veut n'obtenir un cœur que de lui-même.
Ne poussez pas ma mère à vouloir, par son choix,
Exercer sur mes vœux la rigueur de ses droits.
Otez-moi votre amour, et portez à quelqu'autre
Les hommages d'un cœur aussi cher que le votre.
Moliere.
So the days passed on; and in due course arrived the one fixed by Mrs. Pendarrel for her great entertainment. March was coming in like a lamb when the appointed morning dawned, the festival having been postponed to nearly the time of the county assizes, for the convenience of Mr. Pendarrel, who was always summoned on the grand jury. Mildred no longer contemplated it with her old alarm, but rather hoped it might afford her an opportunity of coming to an explanation with her suitor of Tolpeden, and so relieve her at once and for ever from his unwelcome addresses. As for Michael Sinson, he had gone to London again.
A very busy day was that at the Hall. Not only the suite of saloons, opening by French windows on a terrace, whence a few steps descended to a lawn diversified by clumps of flowering shrubs, but also, under favour of the genial season, the lawn itself and the neighbouring alleys were prepared for the entertainment of the company. Coloured lamps were dispersed among the bushes, and festoons of the same were hung from branch to branch of the trees which in summer shaded the gravel walks. Arrangements were made also for a display of fireworks. In short, the hostess provided amusement for a very miscellaneous assembly, looking beyond the gaiety of the evening to the maintenance of political influence, and having swept with her invitations half the hundred of West Kerrier.
Her obsequious consort arrived in the course of the day, quitting the cares of office to show civility to his adherents. Unwillingly, indeed, he came, for he hated the country, and would gladly have deferred his visit until the assizes. But his wife required his presence, perhaps, for ulterior views. There was another guest for whom Mildred might hope in vain: no Gertrude was there to gladden her with sisterly affection.
Twilight had scarcely deepened into night when the earliest of the company made their appearance. A worthy civic dignitary from a neighbouring borough, with his wife, and his sons and his daughters, walked in dismay through the splendour of the drawing-rooms to pay his respects to his excellent representative. Alas! that free and independent elector, if, indeed, he survived the shock, has now wept long for his dearly-beloved franchise. As Napoleon has been imagined in shadowy pomp reviewing a spectral army on the plain of Waterloo, may we not fancy that the latest burgesses of Grampound or Old Sarum are summoned from their tombs by the dissolution of a Parliament, meet again in the ruined town-hall, or on the desolate mound, stretch their skeleton hands for the well-remembered compliment, elect a truly British member, partake of an unsubstantial feast, and sink again into their last sleep, in the manner recorded of Bibo, with the honest conviction that, as men and as Englishmen, they have that day done their duty? The mockery would be no greater than of old.
Let not the worthy alderman be disconcerted. Some one must be first at a party, but the intervals between that arrival, and the next, and the next, are always brief, and they become shorter and shorter, until the stream is continuous, and the scattered groups which had been scrutinizing each other are blended together in one great crowd. So it was now: a host of people speedily followed the Pentreaths. There was Sir Simon Rogers, portly and pompous, whose history might be read in the colour of his nose. He was still seeking a successor to the dairy-maid. There was Mr. Hitchins, who had made his fortune by a lucky boring for tin, with his scientific daughter, who, having been down her father's mine, inflicted the descent upon all her partners. To dance with her was almost literally to fall into a pit. There were the Misses Eildon, antiquarian and antiquated. There were sea-board parsons of the old school, who might have called on their congregations to give them a fair start for the wreck. Tres, Rosses, and Pols, Lans, Caers, and Pens, abounded. There was plenty of beauty and plenty of sense. And the throng was illustrated by a few uniforms from the troops on duty in the neighbourhood, still flushed with the glory of the war.
Music lent its inspiration to the throng, and the crowded saloons were all animation. Country dances and quadrilles followed each other in endless succession; and the non-dancing community sauntered to and fro, seeking friends and acquaintance, exchanging compliments and sarcasms, making engagements, indulging in scandal, eternally talking and contributing to the buzz which at a little distance almost overpowered the orchestra. But the prevailing confusion of tongues was slightly stilled when an attendant announced "Mr. Melcomb."
Mildred had remained by her mother's side. She thought there had been something a little peculiar in the observation bestowed upon herself. In the lull which for a moment followed Melcomb's appearance, she supposed she detected its origin. She might read it perhaps more plainly in the faces of two or three worthy dames near her, who, as soon as they heard the name, looked at her with all their might. She passed through the ordeal triumphantly.
Meantime, Melcomb made his way through the press with much show of good-humour and condescension, until he reached the family group. He shook hands warmly with Mrs. Pendarrel, and inflicted a tender pressure on the passive fingers which Mildred extended to receive his salute. Then he fell into what appeared to be a very entertaining conversation with the mother and daughter, and at last led Mildred away to mix in the mazes of the dance.
But although she sustained her part with great spirit, there were not a few quidnuncs, both male and female, who set the young lady down as having anything but her heart in it. Shrewd matrons, thanking their stars that none of their daughters were likely to fall in love with a rake, doubted very much whether Miss Pendarrel was quite pleased with the parental choice. Knowing fathers, congratulating themselves that none of their sons were gamblers, speculated on the grounds of selection.
"They say he's totally ruined," said Mr. Langorel the surgeon, to Mr. Quitch the lawyer.
"Quite, my dear sir. Never heard of anything so complete in all my experience. Know nothing about it professionally, of course. Break off this match, and in a week there would not be a rag left in Tolpeden House, nor a stick in the park."
"What can make them fix on such a fellow?" asked the man of nostrums.
"Well, there's the land to add to the domain," answered the man of deeds. "Extraordinary woman, my dear sir. Covets her neighbour's land like the czar of Russia. The owner goes with it, and diminishes the value, and therefore the cost. And have you not heard what's even now in the wind? Trevethlan Castle–" And mysteriously whispering, the professionals passed on.
"Don't tell me, my dear Mrs. Bonfoy," mumbled the ancient Mrs. Memoirs, "I am old enough—I never disguise the fact, Mrs. Bonfoy—old enough to recollect the mother's marriage. She married in spite, and she spites her children."
"Is he so very bad?" asked Mrs. Bonfoy. "I only believe half what the world says."
"Believe only a hundredth, my dear madam," answered Mrs. Memoirs, "of what it says of him, and you will believe enough to—but no matter."
"Then what can be the reason–?"
"Ah, my dear madam! Tolpeden Park."
"Poor Mrs. Melcomb!"
"Ah!"
Such were the comments, and such the sighs, with which the expected marriage was canvassed in the drawing-rooms of Pendarrel. Its mistress had taken care that the intelligence should be widely diffused, and in all Kerrier there was probably no one who was not cognizant that the match was a settled thing, except the lady whom it chiefly concerned, and the inmates of Trevethlan Castle. Mildred read the news in the faces and the demeanour of the company. Experience enabled her to control her emotion, and she met her destined lord in a manner fully satisfactory both to him and to her mother. The curious of the guests were surprised and disappointed. No scene occurred to gratify their love of scandal. But Mildred's calm deportment concealed a strong resolution. That very night she would have an explanation with Melcomb, and repeat her determination never to be his wife.
She danced with him, and walked with him, and answered his lively badinage with cold civility, continually watching for an opportunity to explain herself. She long watched in vain. As the rooms grew warm, the guests gradually resorted to the lawn and shrubberies, now lighted by the coloured rays of myriad lamps. Thither Melcomb also directed the steps of his partner, who went with pleasure, in the hope that in those less crowded scenes she might obtain the chance which she desired. She even permitted her cavalier to lead her into one of the more sequestered walks, always with the same design. But still she was always foiled. Melcomb maintained such an uninterrupted flow of small-talk, that she could hardly insert a word. It seemed as if he almost divined her intention. Whenever she began a sentence, he stopped her at the first word, assenting beforehand to what he chose to assume she was about to say. And some of the company, observing what seemed the close intimacy of the unhappy couple, were inclined to throw aside their previous suspicions, and to conclude that, after all, the marriage might be one of inclination. Some of the dowagers complimented Mrs. Pendarrel on the cordial affection of her daughter and intended son-in-law, and the wily mother stored up those expressions of sympathy for future use.
At length the discharge of a cannon summoned the admirers of pyrotechny to witness a display of their art. There was a platform and scaffolding erected for the exhibition at the extremity of the lawn. The company thronged around the front, and waited for the show. Nor was it long in commencing. Rockets rushed into the sky, leaving a fiery train behind them, and flinging showers of coloured stars from the highest point of their flight. Bengal lights cast a lurid glare on the trees, and the house, and the faces of the crowd. Wheels of endless variety, and devices of rare skill, excited the admiration, and demanded the applause of the gazers. And the former reached its height, and the latter became loudest, when the final emblem, a true lover's knot surrounded by similar symbols, became visible in lines of fire, beneath a bouquet of rockets and a salvo of cannon.
"Happy will be the day, dear Miss Pendarrel," said Melcomb, forgetting for an instant his prudence, "when that symbol shall become a reality."
"That day," Mildred said, "will never come."
The coxcomb bit his lips, but immediately relapsed into his former persiflage.
From the fireworks, the company went to supper; and after having duly honoured the viands and the wines, returned to the enjoyment of the dance with renewed spirits. Sir Roger de Coverley closed the night's entertainment; and day was already visible in the east before the latest of the party, among whom was Melcomb, arrived at their homes.
The fortitude, which had sustained Mildred during the evening, vanished with the last of the guests. She had designed to come to an explanation with her mother before she slept; but she now felt quite unequal to the task. Lassitude of body increased depression of mind. In sad, almost in solemn accents, she bade her mother and father good night, and retired to rest.
Mrs. Pendarrel, in her secret self, was by no means so well satisfied with her daughter's behaviour, as she pretended to her guests. She had already discovered in Mildred a firmness of character, resembling, if not equalling, her own; and she was rather afraid that this night's tranquillity foreboded a stormy morrow. However, she was not a woman to be easily daunted, and she did not suffer her anxiety to disturb her slumbers.
The day following a party is always dismal. One may remember the second scene in Hogarth's Marriage à la Mode. But the revelry of the night had not disordered the pleasant morning-room, where Mildred presided over the breakfast equipage. It was again a beautiful day. Light clouds were moving gently across the sky; the budding trees were waving in a soft west wind; there was that seeming exuberance of life in the appearance of nature, which is always so exhilarating.
Little influence, however, did it produce on either of the three personages who sat at breakfast. Mr. Pendarrel was engaged in a very prosaic and business-like attack on a dindon aux truffes, a relic of the past night. And he preferred the metropolitan parks to any country lawns and groves. As soon as he had appeased his appetite, or his gourmandism, he went to look to the economy of the establishment. His wife, who enjoyed a true relish for rural pleasures, noted her daughter's quivering eyelids, and trembling fingers, with the consciousness that a scene was coming, in which she might find her part more difficult than she had flattered herself. She had dismissed the breakfast things, and was herself about to leave the room, when Mildred, who was leaning against the side of the window, and gazing wistfully on the garden, turned and arrested her steps.
"Mother," she said, "I must speak with you."
"And what have you to say, Mildred," asked Mrs. Pendarrel, with a freezing smile, "which requires so formal an introduction?"
"I did not know, mother," Mildred replied, "that the party, last night, was to be dedicated, in any way, to my … my honour. If I had, I would not have been present."
"You will be present, Miss Pendarrel," Esther said, "wherever your father and I choose you to be present."
"Indeed, mother, sorry I am to say it," answered the daughter, mournfully, "I will not, except as a captive. The company shall see my bondage."
"Mildred, let me hear no more of this folly," exclaimed Mrs. Pendarrel. "Captive! Bondage! What romance have you been reading lately?"
"No romance, mother, but myself. Scarcely a month has passed since I told Mr. Melcomb, and you, mother, that I would never be his wife. Do you fancy that month has changed my mind?"
"Twelve hours have not passed, Mildred," said Esther, in the stern tone she could so well adopt, "since here, in the face of half Kerrier, you accepted Mr. Melcomb as your acknowledged suitor. Pshaw, child! Do you think words are the only way of making an engagement? Are you a baby? Why, a hundred people complimented me on the affair last night, and expressed their satisfaction at your evident happiness. And will you dare to tell me, now, that you were acting a lie all that time?"