CHAPTER XIII
Revenged!
How should I be revenged? If this be true,
As I have such a heart, that both mine ears
Must not in haste abuse—if it be true,
How should I be revenged?
Shakspeare.
The emotion experienced by Esther Pendarrel, when the heir of Trevethlan confronted her with the avowal of his name, was by no means of unmitigated animosity. Many a tender recollection arose in her mind, as she gazed, fascinated, upon features so strongly recalling those which, in days long gone, she had stored up in her heart of hearts. The remembrance of her affection prevailed for a moment over her sense of wrong and desire for retribution. But it was only for a moment. She saw the flushed face of her daughter, and the shrinking demeanour of her husband. The first she noted with alarm, the second with disgust. Her feelings recoiled upon the son of her discarded suitor. That he should be an object of interest to her child, and of fear or reproach to her lord, made him the more odious to herself.
"Morton," she might have said in the solitude of her chamber at night—"Randolph Morton! Seeking the fortune so recklessly thrown away! Hoping that the successful advocate would repair the ruin of Trevethlan Castle! And such things are possible. Many a new family dates its origin from the forum. Might not an old one, in like manner, retrieve its fall? But why the feigned name? Was it the old pride? Oh, Henry, Henry Trevethlan! that pride has brought desolation to thee and to me—to thine, and, perhaps, to mine. Was there not passion in those burning cheeks, and in that quivering arm?
"And so we are face to face. Foes, irreconcileable, to war to the death. What was the dark hint which flashed across my mind? Who said there was no marriage?"
When Michael Sinson first let fall the insinuation which here rose to the mind of his patroness, the natural generosity of her disposition revolted from the suggestion. But it recurred again and again. There was strong temptation in the idea which it excited. Were it true, at one swoop that peasant woman, whom Mrs. Pendarrel had learned to hate, would be shamed, her son and daughter would be fatherless in an odious sense, their inheritance would be forfeited, and would fall to Esther's family. The children of her lover would be outcasts upon earth. Retribution so full and complete was more than she had ever deemed possible, and continually presented itself to her thoughts, whether she would or no. Sometimes she asked herself, was it not her duty to investigate the matter? did not justice to her own children require it? might she not be charged with allowing them to be defrauded? Besides, supposing the tale was well founded, and her husband's title maintained, and possession had of the castle, there would then be ample opportunity for generosity. But justice should come first. Such were the ideas which had forced themselves upon Mrs. Pendarrel's notice, and been less and less unwelcome, before the meeting at Mrs. Winston's party. The discovery there made gave them a new colouring. If the orphans had chosen to fling aside their name, a name to which they might have no right, need she be scrupulous in scrutinizing their title, and overthrowing it if she could? No, no. Let them be Mortons, or Bassets, or what they would: if they cared so little for the name of Trevethlan who were its natural upholders, surely neither need she who was pledged for its extinction.
The next day Mrs. Pendarrel desired the presence of her protégé. The interview which ensued was long. By dexterous questions, flung out with great apparent nonchalance, and exhibiting a scornful disbelief in the things inquired of, the lady extracted from Michael Sinson all the popular rumours upon which he had founded his insinuation. But if she supposed that her manner blinded him to her real interest, she deceived herself. He was subtile enough to see that the affected indifference was only a disguise. And although, in truth, very willing to unfold his story, he amused himself at times by feigning reluctance, and obliging his patroness to speak more plainly than she desired. The following pages embody the substance of his information, derived, he said, from rumours current in Trevethlan and its neighbourhood when he was a boy, but now nearly forgotten.
Margaret Basset was one of the prettiest girls to be met with between the Lizard and Marazion. Her song was the merriest in the hay-field; her foot was the lightest at Sithney fair. Many a well-to-do young man would have gladly made her his wife, but Margaret was hard to please. And her fastidiousness was not displeasing to her mother, Maud, who was vain of her handsome child, and read a high fortune for her by the Sortes Apocalypticæ, to which she had recourse in all matters, both great and small. It was true, that one day, when a strolling gipsy was tempting Margaret to learn her destiny, and Maud rushed out of the house to put the witch to flight, declaring that her girl's fortune required no help from the like of her, the dark woman answered, wrathfully, that what was thought bliss might prove to be bane. But the angry prediction was unheeded at the time, and only remembered when it seemed to be fulfilled by Margaret's premature death.
At that time, Henry Trevethlan was by no means popular among his dependents. He had lately returned to the castle, after a long absence, a ruined man. For a great time the hamlet had derived none of the usual benefits from the residence of its proprietor, and he came home too poor to confer any. The people were very jealous at the alienation of the family estates, which had so much divided the tenantry. It seemed not unlikely that the prophecy, respecting the union of Trevethlan and Pendarrel, would be verified in a sense far from flattering to the inhabitants of the former, and even without the match.
So, when it was whispered that Mr. Trevethlan was, in fact, seeking a bride from among themselves, they were irritated rather than conciliated. They wanted a lady of fortune and rank, who might make the castle a scene of hospitality, and be generous to the villagers, as the ladies of Trevethlan had always been wont. The prophecy was quoted with more alarm. Any girl, who was said to have attracted their landlord's notice, was regarded with jealousy and dislike. And some old crones indulged in darker sayings: how there could be but one object in such wedlock, and if there were no olive-branches the vine would be found to wither. Either the marriage would be broken, or the bride would die.
Such was the state of feeling in the hamlet, when Mr. Trevethlan demanded the hand of Margaret Basset. Alone, perhaps, among her neighbours, the maiden's mother received the announcement with joy and pride. She accepted it as the fulfilling of her own prediction. Margaret trembled as she thought of the gipsy's. But, whatever were her feelings, she could not resist the desires of her parent, and the authority of the castle. Her sister, Cecily, was her only confidante. The marriage was settled.
But then came the difficulty as to the performance of the ceremony. Mr. Trevethlan respected the pride of his chaplain, but he resolved to meet no other check of the kind. There was a clergyman, a very young man, seeking to repair his shattered health by a residence on that genial coast, and evidently in no very flourishing circumstances. Him did Mr. Trevethlan induce to celebrate the rite, under a special license, within the walls of the castle. Maud, and a young rustic, named Wyley, were the only witnesses; and the country-folk might well conjecture that a marriage, contracted in so singular, and, to them, in so revolting a manner, was irregular, and might be dissolved. Moreover, it was not entered in the parish register until after the birth of Randolph, and then not in the usual form.
So these circumstances provoked much popular indignation. When Mr. Trevethlan took home his bride all the doors in the hamlet were closed, and no individual was visible on the green. Even Jeffrey's face was shaded with discontent when he threw open the gates; and Mr. and Mrs. Griffith could not avoid displaying a little humiliation in receiving their new mistress. Polydore Riches, alone of the household, met her with a sincere welcome, in which kindness was enforced by pity. Some folks wondered that he remained at the castle. But the chaplain had satisfied his conscience by his protest, and stayed to mitigate a misfortune which he was unable to avert.
The day after the marriage the hamlet was startled by an occurrence, which gave fresh force to the suspicions of the villagers. Mr. Ashton, the clergyman, was missed from his lodgings. He went out the evening of the wedding, as was his habit, to stroll along the cliffs, and he never returned. In much excitement the people made a diligent and immediate search, and on the beach below his haunt they found the body of a man, stripped, and so disfigured, that identification was impossible. It was soon discovered that Wyley, the witness, was also missing from his home, and the comments made on the coincidence were loud and strong.
Advertisements brought forward Mr. Ashton's relations. From them Polydore Riches learnt that his health had been ruined by self-indulgence, and that he was allowed a small stipend on condition of residing in perfect retirement. There seemed to be no very particular concern felt about his fate. The gentleman who came down was unable to recognise the body, so great were the injuries it had received, apparently in falling from the cliff. The coroner's inquest returned an open verdict.
There the matter rested. The mystery had not been explained. There were, however, low whispers, that Will Watch's lugger had run along the shore the night Mr. Ashton was missed, and that the country lanes were alive with active traffic. But if it were so, those who could be explicit on the matter if they chose, found it more expedient to hold their tongues.
For a time the event gave, as has been said, new vigour to the suspicions concerning poor Margaret's marriage. Her mother was the only witness remaining. But when a son and heir was born to Mr. Trevethlan, and there came no formal impeachment of the union, the rumours gradually died away. The peasant-lady, by her meekness and modesty, won the regard of all the inmates of the castle, except—her husband. He exacted, indeed, the utmost deference towards her from others, but treated her himself with cold indifference, and seemed jealous of her influence with her children, even in their cradle. She foresaw what would come, pined away, and died. Her bliss had been her bane.
Michael Sinson said nothing to his patroness of the mode in which Mr. Trevethlan behaved to his wife's relations. He did not tell how bitterly old Maud resented the death of her daughter, nor how his own expulsion from the castle rankled even yet in his heart. But he dwelt with much craft on the singular circumstances of the marriage, and the mysterious disappearance of the evidence; hinted at times, that the rite would have been pronounced a mockery, if its purpose had not been achieved, and suggested, not very indistinctly, that it might yet be proved to have been so in reality.
These hints and inuendos were the main novelties of the story to Mrs. Pendarrel. Of her own knowledge, she recollected the leading facts of the case, and was well aware that, whatever might be the prejudices of the vulgar, there was not the slightest public ground to doubt the perfect formality of the marriage. Moreover, she felt certain, from her acquaintance with Henry Trevethlan's character, that he would never be a party to an artifice like that suggested by Sinson. If there were anything irregular, she was sure it was no fault of his. But there was a confidence in her informant's manner which seemed to intimate that he spoke on no light grounds.
"Sinson," she said, after some consideration, and with an air of the most unreserved frankness, "you know, of course, perfectly well, that if the marriage you have been speaking of were not lawfully contracted, the small estate of Trevethlan would fall, by inheritance, to Mr. Pendarrel. And though I am sure he would be disposed to show every kindness to those who in that case would, by no fault of their own, be holding a false position, still justice to his family would compel him to enforce his claim. And any party contributing by proper means to the establishment of the title would, of course, be liberally rewarded. But an attempt which should simply cause annoyance to Mr. Trevethlan without profiting ourselves, would be equally disagreeable to us. And we should be very far, indeed, from speculating on a mere chance, or using any unfair means. Now, from your manner, you appear to possess, or to fancy you do, some information which may be valuable. For myself, I am no judge of such matters; but Mr. Pendarrel will give you an introduction to our lawyer. He will consider the worth of your intelligence, and you may rely on an adequate remuneration."
But this suggestion in no way squared with Michael's designs. It was not exactly a pecuniary recompense that he desired. The calm and level manner in which Mrs. Pendarrel spoke failed to conceal the strong interest she really felt; and since she alluded with such nonchalant openness to consequences, he would be somewhat more explicit as to means.
"I beg pardon, ma'am," he observed. "I supposed you would think it more important. Certainly, ma'am, it is not for me to meddle. To be sure, I know something; but it may be all wrong, and then, ma'am, it would only annoy Mr. Trevethlan to bring it forward. Besides, would I wish to disturb the good name of my poor relation, although it would be no blame to her? So, ma'am, I might pursue a train I have laid, with your leave; and if it leads to anything, then I could have the introduction. If it comes to nothing, there will be no harm done."
After some fencing, Michael obtained from his patroness a vague authority to continue the researches at which he hinted, and he subsequently extracted a further sanction in letters, by writing to her for instructions. He was playing rather a deep game for a very distant object. In this interview he imagined he gained a point or two, and Mrs. Pendarrel might have detected a gleam of exultation in his sinister eyes, when he quitted her presence at its close. And when he met her daughter in his way through the hall, he glanced at her with an expression which might have amused the young lady, but that she always regarded him with an instinctive antipathy.
The conversation disappointed Mrs. Pendarrel. She had hoped for intelligence of a more definite kind, and placed very little reliance on the expectations held out by her protégé. But now another solicitude engaged her attention. In spite of her own excitement when Randolph confronted her with his name, she had not omitted to notice the agitation of Mildred. She saw the scarlet of her face, and felt the pressure of her trembling arm. She fancied she heard the exclamation—my cousin—escape from her lips. Cousin indeed! she thought. Well it will be if that is all.
She had wielded her rod of iron so long, was so accustomed to entire submission from all connected with her, and so firmly persuaded of the power of her will, that in preparing to settle Mildred—pleasing is the ambiguity of the word—as she had succeeded in doing Gertrude, she forgot or undervalued the point of support, which Mrs. Winston's position enabled her to afford her sister. Right well did the clear-sighted mother know, how bitterly Gertrude repented the day when she exchanged captivity with a heart for liberty without. She knew also that Mrs. Winston would certainly take Mildred's part in resisting an unacceptable match. But the knowledge rather stimulated her love of triumph than occasioned her any dread. Parents seem often apt to visit upon their children their own hardships or misfortunes. The parvenu father thinks he has fully excused narrow-mindedness towards his son by saying—the lad is better off than ever I was. And the mother, whose own marriage, was unhappy, will not seldom be careless of her daughters' comfort in theirs.
Now, Mrs. Pendarrel had for some time decided upon Mildred's lot. Mr. Melcomb was to be the happy man. It was true, he was a gambler and a rake; but it was also true that he was the owner of Tolpeden Park and a large estate thereto appended. It was equally true that he was pretty deeply embarrassed; but the extent of his liabilities had not yet transpired, and the prudent mother supposed that her daughter's fortune would pay off the encumbrances upon the land, and that by stringent settlements it might be kept free in future, and secured for the children. And so her descendants would unite Tolpeden and Pendarrel. But Melcomb was desultory in his addresses, haunted by that fear of a refusal already mentioned. Now, however, that Mrs. Pendarrel felt some uneasiness lest Mildred should fall into other chains, she became anxious to bind her at once in a positive engagement.
The coxcomb was nearly a daily visitor at her house, and always admitted. She took an early opportunity of sounding him more closely than before as to his intentions, and hinted hopes of favour. He replied with a proposal in form. Should esteem himself the happiest of men. Feared he might not be acceptable to Miss Pendarrel. That alone had prevented him from declaring himself long before. Sensible of his unworthiness: prepared to devote his life. To which the mother graciously answered, that she felt highly flattered. That her daughter had been educated too prudently to differ from her parents. He might consider the affair settled. No difficulty could arise in the necessary arrangements. Mildred would be ready to receive him on the following day.
CHAPTER XIV
Juliet. Is there no pity sitting in the clouds,
That sees into the bottom of my grief?
O, sweet my mother, cast me not away!
Delay this marriage for a month—a week—
Or if you do not, make the bridal bed
In that dim monument where Tybalt lies.
Lady Capulet. Talk not to me, for I'll not speak a word:
Do as thou wilt, for I have done with thee.
Shakspeare.
Randolph had amply compensated, in his second dance with Mildred, for any awkwardness which might have attended his first. Even in this he had ultimately succeeded in interesting his partner, and in the other he excited her enthusiasm. Carried away himself by the fatality which seemed to have brought them together, he discoursed in fervent and glowing language of the mystic science which supposed the destinies of mortals to be written in the sky, and pointed to the planet which he had just before imagined might rule his own. It was not as a believer, not as a votary that he spoke, however, but as a lover. Were it not pleasant, he asked, to fancy that friends far apart might look up to those rolling fires, fancy one another's situation, and thus hold a sympathetic communion,—no matter what distance lay between them? And certain it is, that extravagant and romantic as the idea might seem, Mildred never saw the stars afterwards without remembering the question, gazing round for the bright planet which Randolph showed her, and wondering was he also regarding it.
No marvel if she was more than excited by the scene which followed. To find a relation in him whose rich tones still lingered on her ear, whose burning words were still thrilling in her heart; to see in him the cousin of whom she had scarcely heard, but was prepared to love; the dweller of those desolate towers by the sea which she had so often admired in the rambles of her childhood; to think that all she had heard of him concerned the feud which divided them; to read that feud in the flashing eyes which were fixed upon her mother, and to feel the overwhelming tenderness with which they then bent upon herself,—no marvel surely it was that the warm blood rushed to her cheeks, and she trembled in every nerve, and her lips breathed a recognition of her newfound kinsman.
Nor was it an impression likely to be weakened by reflection. All the associations would rather tend to deepen it. The seclusion from which he must have emerged, the mystery which appeared to surround him now, the consequences of his self-betrayal, combined to the same end. Then, too, he had a sister. Was she like him? Where was she abiding? What were her pursuits? Mere curiosity would have found ample employment for reverie, even if no deeper and fonder interest were at hand to protract it.
In such meditations was Mildred absorbed when her mother came to inform her, with stately calmness, that Mr. Melcomb had made a formal demand of her hand; that the offer was highly acceptable to herself and to Mr. Pendarrel, and that her suitor would pay his respects to her the next day. As soon as Mildred had recovered some composure, after the short scene which followed, she threw on her bonnet,—at least she was not yet a prisoner in the house,—and walked to Cavendish-square. Mrs. Winston read the anxiety of her mind at one glance.
"Mildred, dearest," she exclaimed, "what is the matter?—what has happened?"
"Do you recollect," her sister inquired in turn, with a short scornful laugh which Gertrude did not like, "what we said of Mr. Melcomb some time ago? Well, it seems I am to marry him:—that is what's the matter."
"Marry Melcomb! Not while I have a home to offer you," Mrs. Winston said, hastily. "That is, not against your wishes, dear. You may learn to like the man. He is said to have very winning ways."
"Gertrude, Gertrude! do not jest. But we may be interrupted...."
"Come with me, little timidity. Fanchon shall tell them I am not at home." Mrs. Winston led her sister to her boudoir. "Now, dear, talk to me and the mice. You can sit with your back to me if you like."
"Oh, Gertrude, I think my heart will break!"
"Of course, dear. Quite correct."
"Nay, listen, sister," Mildred remonstrated. "I was sitting this morning, doing nothing, thinking, thinking of … when mamma came suddenly into my room. I was quite startled. Mamma was looking half merry and half solemn. You know, Gertrude?"
"I do, dear," said the elder sister, with some bitterness.
"So she began to flatter me in different ways, and said a great many little things that I could really hardly attend to, and something about the admiration … and then about obedience and duty, and the words seemed to pass over my mind without making any impression. Till at last mamma assumed a very grave look, and said I must be aware of the particular attentions which had been paid me for a great while. There were, indeed, some attentions that I had felt, but not for a great while.... I was confused, Gertrude, by the tone in which mamma spoke; she seemed to expect an answer. I do not know what I said."
And Mildred here made a pause in her story, after which she proceeded with more animation.
"Mamma did not keep me long in suspense. A gentleman—highly distinguished—neighbour in the country—general favourite—might have married so and so. Could I not guess? I had taken heart. Neighbour! I thought. I considered the geography of Pendarrel. Bounded on the east, I said to myself, by Mr. Peristyle, married. On the south, Sir Simon Rogers, who married his dairy-maid, and she is just dead. Dear mamma, I asked, am I to be the second Lady Rogers? She laughed, and bade me guess again. West, thought I, west, between us and the sea! And a romantic idea struck me, that I was to be a peace-offering, and with a wild kind of hope, I exclaimed, surely, mamma, it is not my cousin, Randolph? Gertrude, I wish you had seen our mother's face at that moment."
"I can imagine it," Mrs. Winston said.
"For my part," Mildred continued, "my eyes had filled with tears. After a moment's silence, mamma said, in a tone that froze my heart, 'You began at the wrong end. Mr. Melcomb is your suitor; will be your husband.' Sister, I did not believe it. I fancy I smiled. Mamma went on in the same voice—'Let me have no boarding-school nonsense, Mildred, if you please. Rely on your mother's experience, and imitate your sister's prudence. Mr. Melcomb will wait upon you to-morrow.' It was still some time before I understood. I begged for pity, for delay, for anything. Mamma was very, very stern!"
Mildred threw her arms round Gertrude, and bent her face upon her neck.
"Marry him!" she exclaimed in a whisper—"never!"
"Ay," thought Mrs. Winston, pressing her sister to her bosom, "I said the same. And yet.... But I had no refuge. I was unsupported, and helpless. It is a hard struggle. May it not be avoided? Can we not gain time? If Melcomb had a spark of generosity.... But he is too vain … and even then our mother.... There is nothing for it but time. Mildred, dearest," she continued aloud, "you need not tremble so. You will not have to accept Mr. Melcomb."
"What mean you?" her sister asked, raising her head.
"Listen: I understand this gentleman, and so, I think, do you. He will not dream of asking your consent. He will take it for granted. Let him—let him till the time comes. It will not be long, but we shall have a chance of avoiding éclat. Tell mamma, that though you are not now favourable to Mr. Melcomb, you cannot refuse to see him, and she will be satisfied. And then we shall have the chapter of accidents on our side."
"Must I do this, Gertrude?" Mildred exclaimed. "There was a time when I was amused with his compliments, Heaven forgive me! But to listen to them now! Encourage him, I never did. He knew I was laughing. Ah me! If I escape this time, I will never flirt again."
"Be not too sure," said Gertrude. "But take your sister's word, no harm will come. And remember, here is your home as a last resort. Come, come," she continued, in answer to a sigh from her sister, "let me take you a drive. You are as pale as Ophelia. But ah, ça ira, ça ira … do not repeat my revolutionary music to papa."
As the sisters rode along, Mrs. Winston turned the conversation to the scene which had occurred at her late party. She had not seen it, nor indeed had any one save those who were mentioned at the time. She brought the colour into Mildred's cheeks, by alluding with a smile, to her retirement with her partner to that unfrequented little room; and she made her heart beat quick by relating all the circumstances which she had learned from Rereworth, who had duly delivered Randolph's message, and taken the opportunity of extolling the merits of his friend. And Gertrude ended by expressing her deep regret at the continuance of the family disagreement, to which her attention had been specifically drawn for the first time, and her hope that it might be approaching its termination. Every word of the narrative increased the interest which was already warm in Mildred's heart, and made her feel a greater repugnance to receiving Melcomb in the equivocal manner recommended by her sister.