CHAPTER XV
"Regretter ce qu'on aime est un bien, en comparaison de vivre avec ce que l'on haît."
La Bruyère.
Mildred's trial was not destined to last long. Her suitor was more impatient than Mrs. Winston predicted. He would, indeed, as she suggested, have willingly continued to accept a vicarious consent, until things had gone so far that his intended bride should be unable to recede. Hitherto he had given her no opportunity for resistance, and now with all his assurance he dreaded to begin. Mildred's indifference was so chilling that his spirits deserted him in her presence. He would have left her free, but for the fear of ridicule, and the need, the pressing need, of her fortune. The time came to make the plunge.
"Miss Pendarrel," Melcomb said, as they sat together in a small drawing-room, "dear Miss Pendarrel, you must be aware how long I have been the most devoted of your servants."
Mildred had acquired the habit of receiving Melcomb's compliments in silence. She said nothing.
"It is true no service could make any man worthy of Miss Pendarrel," the suitor continued; "yet I have been led to hope, unworthy as I am, that mine might not be doomed to be endless. Is it not so, dear Miss Pendarrel?"
"You have been led to hope nothing by me, Mr. Melcomb," Mildred answered, agitated by the unusual embarrassment in his manner.
"Nay," urged the coxcomb, "may I not hope from the position which Miss Pendarrel has permitted me to assume...."
"You have had no permission from me, Mr. Melcomb," said Mildred, interrupting him. She had well prepared herself for the scene, and preserved her spirit, though very much distressed.
"Surely," he continued, "I am not presumptuous in considering it implied."
Mildred was silent. Hers was no case for argument.
"Not presumptuous," Melcomb went on, speaking more rapidly, "in aspiring to the happiness which that permission seemed to promise. Not presumptuous in imploring dear Miss Pendarrel to appoint the time, when anxiety and fidelity may be rewarded with joy, and I may become the most fortunate of men."
"Mr. Melcomb," Mildred said, rising from her chair, and trembling, "I am above pretending to misunderstand you. Have you my mother's … Does she...."
"It is by Mrs. Pendarrel's leave that I venture," said the coxcomb in his softest manner. "And an early day, dearest Mildred,–"
He made a step as if to take her hand, but she recoiled, and said, in a tone of determination, which Melcomb probably never forgot, "The day will never come."
She turned towards the door, but stopped as though she wished to say something more. Melcomb had anticipated a refusal, but not one so decisive.
"Miss Pendarrel will pardon my expressing surprise...." he began to say. Mildred hastily interrupted him, with faltering words.
"Sir, sir, perhaps it is I should ask your pardon—but you have never—it is the first time—I have had no opportunity—in pity to me, sir, urge these addresses no farther."
She could no longer restrain her tears, and quitted the room, Melcomb making no attempt to detain her.
He was neither surprised, nor mortified, nor even discomposed. It was a check by discovery, long expected and prepared for, by no means check-mate. And he had not lost his queen. The game was by no means desperate. But he wished for time to consider his next move, and left the house without seeing Mrs. Pendarrel.
That lady immediately conjectured what had occurred, and only feared that Mildred might have affronted her suitor to such a degree as to make him abandon his intentions. He had not been very long gone before she sought an explanation from her daughter.
"Mildred, my dear child," she said, "what is the meaning of this? How happens it, that the politest of mankind leaves my house without kissing my hand?"
There was a covert irony in Mrs. Pendarrel's manner, which, against her will, betrayed her own contempt for Melcomb, and at the same time showed her ruthless resolution.
"Mamma," Mildred answered, fixing her reddened eyes on her mother's, "you know."
"Nay, child, I am not a divine. I hope you were not rude to Mr. Melcomb? To your intended husband?"
"I refused him, mamma."
"And why did you not refuse him long ago?" Mrs. Pendarrel asked abruptly.
"He never asked me, mother," answered Mildred, swinging her hand to and fro. "He never asked me. Till just now I have heard nothing from him that I could take as a proposal. How anxiously I have waited for one, God knows."
Mrs. Pendarrel bit her lip.
"It is of no consequence," she said, "you cannot recede without disgrace and shame. If you are prepared to submit to them, I am not. This marriage must proceed. Always, that is, if you have not affronted Mr. Melcomb irrevocably. But you dared not."
A flash in Mildred's eye at the word might show Esther more daring than she would like.
"Mother," she said, "I prayed Mr. Melcomb, in pity, to urge his suit no more. I make a similar prayer to you. And, mother, there is one thing I dare not do. I dare not wed this man."
"I fancy you will find heart," said Mrs. Pendarrel, with a sneer on the word. "And since you are so agitated, you had better stay at home till you do."
But that home was to be changed. Immediately after this conversation, Mrs. Pendarrel determined to carry her daughter down into Cornwall, and finish the matter with a high hand. She had another motive for the journey, having heard from Sinson that the Trevethlans had gone home, and feeling, she scarcely knew why, desirous to be near them. But, before she could execute her design, she had to undergo a remonstrance from Mrs. Winston.
"And can the news I hear be true, dear mamma?" the latter asked.
"What news, Gertrude?"
"That Mildred is to be Mrs. Melcomb?"
"That is no news to you, Gertrude. You have known Mr. Melcomb's position here from the first."
"I knew he was idling about Mildred, as he has done about fifty other girls. But I did not know that she was to be sacrificed without her consent."
"Sacrificed, indeed!" exclaimed Mrs. Pendarrel. "Why, she has encouraged him!"
"No, mother," said Mrs. Winston; "never. She may lately have seemed to do so, owing to my advice. And she shall not suffer for taking it."
"Shall!" Esther repeated. "Upon my word, Gertrude, I could fancy you were practising the settlement of a daughter of your own."
"My dear mamma!" Mrs. Winston answered, in a tone which fully returned the sarcasm. "And you think Mr. Melcomb calculated to make Mildred happy?"
"Surely," replied the mother. "Is he not a highly agreeable and honourable man?"
"Agreeable, because he is a roué: honourable, because he does not cheat at cards. Is it not so, dear mamma?"
Mrs. Pendarrel smiled.
"You have been studying philosophy, my dear," she said; "taking a lesson from your own good husband. You know that scandal calls every handsome fellow a rake, and every generous one a gambler."
"I know nothing of the sort, but I know that Melcomb is both," said Mrs. Winston, very bitterly. "And I will do everything in my power to save my sister from the misery of such a union."
"You are a dutiful and grateful daughter, in good truth," cried Mrs. Pendarrel, with suppressed rage. "And, pray, what will you do?"
"I will at least offer Mildred a shelter in my house."
"'T will avail her nothing; the law is against you," the mother exclaimed furiously. "And for this I toiled and toiled, and placed my child in a position envied of a hundred rivals! For this I plotted, and manœuvred, and wasted hours and hours on that obdurate simpleton; and mined and countermined, and contended with dissension at home, and ill-dissembled malice abroad!"
"You might at least be respectful to your dupe, dear mamma, in my presence."
"Ungrateful! But why do I argue with you?"
Gertrude rose, and leant upon the back of her mother's chair.
"Because," she said, "you know that I am right. Mother, I have no reason to thank you for my marriage. You know it very well. It is true I have no such wretchedness to encounter as would befall Mildred in a match like this. The world thinks me a happy woman. I do not complain. I wear my chains as lightly and gracefully as I can. But they are chains, nevertheless. And you know it, mother. Yet I would fain think you meant me kindly, and it is therefore I remonstrate in poor Mildred's behalf. May we not discuss the affair as friends?"
"It is too late," said Mrs. Pendarrel.
"Too late!" Gertrude exclaimed.
"My word is absolutely pledged to Mr. Melcomb. It is impossible to recede."
"And Mildred only asked yesterday!" said Mrs. Winston, quitting her position, and walking away. "Sold, positively sold, for the contiguity of a few acres!"
But little more passed, before the mother and daughter parted with a very ceremonious salute.
Did Mrs. Pendarrel flinch under the remonstrances of her child? Did she waver a moment in her course? Reproached as the cause of Gertrude's unhappiness, did she hesitate to consummate the sacrifice of Mildred? If she had, she would not have been Esther Pendarrel. She had a quarrel with the world of five-and-thirty years' standing. Love! Folly! What had love been to her? Reason! She had married against it. Convenience! Ay, she wedded the heir presumptive of Trevethlan. So let her children. Had not Gertrude a house in Cavendish-square, and Winston Park, and a philosophical fool not ten years older than herself? Companionship—Ridiculous: there was plenty in the world. Home—Rococo: one lived abroad. With some soliloquy of this nature, did a withered heart excuse itself for spreading desolation like its own, conscious all the while that its pretences were false, saying, not thinking, the thing that was not.
Gertrude sought her sister on leaving Mrs. Pendarrel, and found her in a humour very different from what she had expected.
"So, Mildred, dear," she said, "we part. They take you to the enchanted castle, and where is the knight to wind the magic horn? Seriously, my poor sister, what will you do at Pendarrel?"
"Do, Gertrude!" exclaimed the younger sister, who might have been dreaming of the knight. "My despondency is gone. I am ready for the worst."
"And prepared...."
"Not to marry Mr. Melcomb, I assure you. You may lead a horse to the water, but who shall make him drink? All the vixen rises in my bosom, Gertrude. Mamma said something about my daring. I believe she has put me fairly upon my mettle, and will find I inherit it from her. So! Mildred!"
She flourished an imaginary whip. Her sister was perplexed, and a little troubled at her manner. She changed it suddenly.
"Oh, Gertrude!" she said, "do not think this levity comes from a light heart. I do know how hard a part I have to play. I do contemplate with sorrow this visit to Pendarrel,—so different from those in the old time, when we loved the country so much. With sorrow, but without fear."
"Ah, my sister!" said Mrs. Winston, "you are braver than I. See, you will be alone. Even Mr. Melcomb will not be there. You will be led on, and on, till you are completely entangled."
"No, no," answered Mildred. "And for him, I shall rejoice if he is away. He has had one chance of being generous, he will never have another. Who is so base as the man who would take a young girl's hand against her will?"
The sisters continued for some time in consultation, and parted with an oft-repeated embrace, and many promises of correspondence.
When Mrs. Pendarrel desired Mildred, on learning her attempted refusal of her suitor, to prepare for an immediate journey to Pendarrel, the one idea which arose in the young lady's mind was, that she should be near Trevethlan Castle. Many a train of thought developed itself from that suggestion, all ending in some vision of Randolph. And it was probably from such anticipations that she derived the seeming animation which perplexed her sister at this parting interview.
CHAPTER XVI
Don John. Grow this to what adverse issue it can, I
will put it in practice. Be cunning in the working this,
and thy fee is a thousand ducats.
Borachio. Be you constant in the accusation, and my
cunning shall not shame me.
Shakspeare.
Already the engagement of Squire Melcomb and Miss Mildred had been a subject of discussion among the underlings of the establishment in May Fair, and Michael Sinson, at least, had watched the signs of its progress with no little interest. The announcement of Mrs. Pendarrel's immediate departure for Cornwall, and the rumours which circulated that there the marriage would be hurried forward as fast as possible, struck him with new apprehension, as he feared that the great prize for which he was playing might slip through his hands, merely from want of time to develop his game. At all events, the move prevented him from indulging in the finesse which at once advanced his object and gratified his vanity. Forward play was his only chance, and he determined not to be defeated for want of boldness.
Sinson had fastened his clutches firmly upon the spendthrift, Everope. It is so sadly easy to seduce, where the victim is prepared by need and unfortified by principle. It was in vain that Everope, as often as the tempter forced a new obligation upon him, vowed that he would only use it to support himself until he could obtain some employment, and would then, by extreme parsimony, save enough to repay his insidious creditor. The idea always came, and was always chased away by the superior fascinations of the light pack and rattling main. He could not be unlucky for ever. The first time fortune favoured him, he would satisfy Sinson's claim, break off the acquaintance, and abjure gaming for once and for all.
Fortune, however, frowned upon her votary with great perseverance. One morning, after a turn of ill luck, when, in desponding apathy, wringing his hands and calling upon Hercules, he was thinking of breaking with Sinson, cost what it might, that individual crossed his path, and accosted him.
"What! is the goddess always blind, Everope? Nothing to be done at the Rooms?"
"I shall go there no more," said the spendthrift sullenly. "I have done with them, and play, and the world, and everything."
"Which means," Sinson observed maliciously, "that you have lost your money. Perhaps I can put you in the way of getting some. There's corn in Egypt."
"What can you do?" asked Everope. "Pick the lock of the granary, perchance? But I am desperate. Let me hear."
"Pooh!" said Michael. "I want a companion for a pretty long trip into the country. One not troubled with over-nice scruples; do you note me?"
"Then you may go somewhere else," cried Everope, who felt that he was selling his soul past redemption.
"And you will go into the Fleet," added the tempter, "to lie there till you die. Remember I have a considerable memorandum against you in my pocket-book; and I shall find a friend to serve me all the same. There's nothing that money won't buy; and there's plenty of it to be won here. I offer it to you in kindness, as a friend."
And he jingled some gold in his pocket to give emphasis to his words. Woe for Everope! He had made the step which costs: the rest were comparatively easy. "True," thought he, "if I hold back, another will be found. Already I am entangled with this scoundrel. And, after all, there may be nothing bad in the business. Pish!
'Returning is as tedious as go o'er.'"
That same night Sinson started with his victim for Cornwall. He found Everope quarters in a village at some little distance from Pendarrel, while he himself went to Wilderness Gate, where his aged grandmother received him with doting partiality. But he did not wish to attract more attention than he could help. He showed Everope about the neighbourhood of Trevethlan, pointed out the chief features of the locality, and in particular made him notice the approach to the castle.
There was no harm so far, and Everope rather marvelled that for this trivial survey he should have been brought such a distance. From Trevethlan Michael conducted his slave two or three miles along the coast to a cottage which stood somewhat retired.
"By the bye," he said, as they approached the modest dwelling, "I think you were at college, Everope. How long ago?"
"About twenty years," answered the spendthrift with a deep sigh.
"Was there any one there of the name of Ashton in your time?"
"I seem to remember the name," the spendthrift said, musing. "Ashton? yes, a rowing man, I think—yes, went into the church afterwards. I recollect now. But he was a good deal my senior. I knew but little of him."
"Did you ever hear what became of him?"
"Well, it was something strange," Everope continued. "Let me see. His family quarrelled with him. There was some story about his being murdered."
"Exactly so," said Sinson. "And we are now close to the scene. It was in this cottage that he lodged—just observe it—and some half mile from here along the cliff his body was found, nearly knocked to pieces on the beach."
The spendthrift's attention was excited by the tale, which also recalled those early days at college, when precocious dissipation and riot laid the seed of future ruin. Towards what abyss had he been travelling ever since? He seemed to turn round, and gaze backwards up a long slope, from the extremity of which his childhood looked down upon him still smiling and hopeful, but whereon at every pause in the descent he saw countenances more and more louring, and forms toiling upwards with averted faces. And now before him at a little distance, the incline was lost in darkness and clouds, and thitherward he was incessantly impelled, and there was nothing to stay his descent.
Sinson left him at his country quarters, merely saying, that they would return to London the following day, and that there Everope should learn the object of the journey. He himself repaired to the habitation of his grandmother.
The old woman was sitting in a rocking chair beside the fire, swinging herself backwards and forwards, and murmuring a hymn. She was little sensible to emotion now-a-days, but she rejoiced to behold her Michael again, and to perceive, what was evident even to her eyes, that he was a much finer person than when he went away. As he entered the lodge in the dusk of the evening, she ceased singing, and settled herself on her chair steadily, in order to look at him.
"Hither to me, my boy," said the old crone, stretching her shrivelled arm to reach a low stool and set it by her side; "come thee here to me. 'Tis dimly like, and my eyes get something old."
Michael, who had his reasons for humouring her, lighted a candle, and seated himself on the floor at her feet. She drew his head to her lap, and passed her hand lightly over his face, and then looked at him with eyes that were still bright and black, however she might complain of their decaying power.
"Ay," she said, with a smile, "he's just the same always, my Michael. And hast been to show thyself to Cecily, my boy?"
"No, grandame," he replied; "not just now. I have not the time."
"Not time to see thy mother, child? Cecily will fret when I tell her."
"That's just it, grandame," said Michael, "and so ye'd better not tell her at all. 'Tis a little errand for my mistress that I'm here for; and she don't wish it talked about."
"Well, well," mumbled Maud; "and Cecily was never like my Margaret. Dost mind Margaret, my boy?"
"Aunt Margaret was a fine lady, wasn't she, grandame?"
"Ay," muttered the old woman, recommencing to rock herself, "she was fit to be a queen. Didn't I read of her glory? But they took her away, and kept her all apart. 'T was long months I hadn't seen her, when I saw the dust thrown into her grave."
"And did you love Mr. Trevethlan, grandame?"
"Did I love the murderer of my girl?" Maud exclaimed, stopping her chair, and springing to her feet. "Should I love the murderer of his own wife? And didst not go with me when he was borne out in his turn? Was it tears we poured into his grave? Was it comfort we carried to his young son? Na, na. There's little love between Maud Basset and anything that bears the name of Trevethlan."
"Are you sure they were married?" Michael asked.
"Didn't I see it with my own eyes? Didn't I see how my angel blushed and trembled when he put on the ring, and he all so cold and stately like? Cursed be the gipsy babbler that bewitched his heart!"
"Folks say there was great doubt about it," observed Michael.
"They lie," said the old woman, again seating herself. "My Margaret was the lady of Trevethlan Castle, and cursed be they that turned her bliss to bane."
"Well, grandame," urged the young man, "would it not be a sweet revenge, to show that Henry Trevethlan deceived my poor aunt, and was himself deceived in turn, and so the children have no right to the name, and the lands pass away to strangers?"
"Is it her kinsman that speaks?" exclaimed Maud. "Is it the son of her sister would bring shame upon her memory? Is it a grandson of mine would defame my Margaret? Na, na. Thou'rt no Michael of mine. Out of my sight, viper, before I call the curse of Heaven upon thy head. Na, na. Let me go. Let me go."
And she quitted the room. But she came back again almost immediately.
"Ye did na mean it, Michael," she said. "Ye did na mean it. Good night to ye, my own boy. Good night."
"Good night, grandame," Michael answered, sulkily.
The next day he and Everope started on their return to London.