Everett followed Clarence and got into the phaeton with him.
"My dear brother," said Clarence, in a hoarse voice that sounded
unnatural, as if coming from a great depth, "I would like to have your
company, but as I am not coming back, I can't take you with me."
"No matter; drive off. I'll go with you a little ways, and will walk
back," said Everett. Clarence turned his horses and drove away through
the middle drive in the front lawn, and was out of the gate before he
fully realized that he himself was driven away from the paternal roof.
"Retty, you did not tell me that my father had insulted my darling so
grossly. I wish you had, for I would not have gone inside the house,"
Clarence said, with a sigh.
"It was so horrible, I couldn't. Forgive me, dear Clary."
"Certainly; I can't blame you."
"Are you going to Don Mariano's?"
"Yes. I will ask Tano to give me a place to sleep; that is, if Dona
Josefa is not too disgusted to tolerate a Darrell under her roof."
"I am sure they feel nothing but kindness for you."
"I hope so; but should she wish to break the engagement, I will not
stay. I'll drive to town to-night and take the boat for San Francisco,
which is not to leave until to-morrow at daylight. I'll have time, I
think."
"Don't do that. Wait for the Don, if he is not in now."
"I may, but I don't know. I dread to see Mercedes. I feel so humiliated,
so ashamed. What can I say to her?"
At the foot of the hill Clarence stopped his horses to send to his
mother and sisters--especially to Alice--loving messages. He also said
if he should miss seeing Don Mariano, Everett would say that he would
write from San Francisco, and would return at any moment, if Mercedes
called him.
"But you will see her yourself," Everett said.
"I hope so," said the disheartened Clarence, driving up toward the house
in which he felt his fate would be decided. Victoriano had heard the
phaeton's wheels and came out to meet it.
"I am so glad to see you, old fellow," said he to Clarence; "it seems an
age since sundown."
"I was detained in town about that business of Don Gabriel, but it is
all arranged. He can take his place at the bank now, whenever he wishes,
or wait until the 1st of October; it will be kept for him. Then I had my
own business about the mine. That is all right, too. I only wish that
things had gone on as well at home."
"So do I, but it has been awful. Retty told you."
"Yes, I know it all now."
"Unfortunately I did not tell him father's insulting remarks about Miss
Mercedes," sadly observed Everett.
"Yes, had I known that, I would not have gone into the house. But I
went, and father had the satisfaction of saying it to me himself; and on
my telling him what I thought about it, he expressed himself willing
that I should take myself off. So here I am, driven from home, and I
came to ask you for a bed to-night, as I am very tired."
"And hungry, too. Father spoiled his supper with his courteous remarks,"
added Everett.
"Come, my dear boy; no one is more welcome to this whole house,"
Victoriano said, with true Spanish hospitality, much intensified by
present circumstances. "Come; father will soon be here. At present,
Mercedes, Madame Halier Milord and myself only are at home. Mother and
the rest are at the Mechlins. Come in; come, Retty."
"No. I'll say good-by to Clary now and walk home."
"But this is awful," Victoriano said, as if beginning to realize the
situation. "For Heaven's sake, where are you going? And why must you
go?"
"I will not if Mercedes does not send me away. If she does, I shall go
first to San Francisco, and thence God only knows where," was Clarence's
reply.
"She won't send you away; she shan't. If you only knew how the poor
little thing cried, so that this morning literally she could not see out
of her eyes, you would then know how she feels. She told me that if she
lost all hope of being your wife she would lie down and die. She felt
better this morning when father left, as he told her he would arrange
everything with you so that the wedding should not be postponed. Then
she was comforted and went to sleep. But--" And Victoriano stopped.
"But what? Better tell me all, dear Tano," said Clarence.
"Well, I was going to say that she is again unhappy because Lotte and
Rosy told her what your father said. She had not heard that part of the
trouble before."
Clarence stood silent with one foot upon the first step. He was
calculating the chances against him. He turned to Victoriano, and, with
a sickly smile that was truly painful to see, said:
"My heart misgives me, dear Tano; I cannot blame her if she considers my
father's words unpardonable."
"But they were not _your_ words," Everett interposed. "You are not to
blame if your father forgets _himself_ and makes a brute of _himself_. I
almost hate him. Courage, dear Clary."
"Yes, remember, 'Faint heart never won fair lady,'" Victoriano added,
and the quotation brought such sweet recollections to poor Clarence's
troubled mind, that he staggered as he went up the steps. But, with a
renewed effort over himself, he managed to stand firmly, and to say to
Everett:
"I suppose we must part now, dear brother."
Everett threw his arms around him, and for a few moments both brothers
held each other in close, silent embrace.
"Cheer up, boys. Don't think you are to part," said Victoriano, with
assumed cheerfulness. "You must come to breakfast with us to-morrow
Retty. When father comes he and Clary will concoct some plan so as not
to postpone the wedding. Come, I'll take you home. I'll let Mercedes
know first that Clarence is here." So saying he walked into the house.
Returning in a few moments, he said:
"Walk in, Clary. Mercedes will be in the parlor in a minute. Now, Retty,
I'll take you home."
While both drove to the Darrells, Clarence went in the parlor to wait
with beating heart Mercedes' coming. He walked about the room looking at
every object in it without seeing anything. When he heard the rustle of
her dress, he stood by the piano with his arms crossed over his breast
as if trying to compress the wild throbbing of his heart. He was pale to
the lips and his eyes had an expression of longing, of beseeching
tenderness, that was far more sad and eloquent than tears would have
been. Mercedes came in, followed by her faithful Milord, who, seeing
that Clarence paid no attention to him, turned up his nose in mild
resentment and went to lie down upon the rug in front of the fire-place.
She offered to Clarence her hand in silence. In silence he took it,
kissed it and led her to a sofa, sitting down by her side. She was the
first to speak. Looking into his eyes, she said:
"Clarence, must we part? I have such, faith in your truth that I believe
you will candidly tell me your opinion, even if it kills both of us. Am
I right?"
"My darling, what is it? Do not put me to a test that may be too hard,
for I tell you frankly I can give up my life, but not my love. Not you!
my own! Oh, no; anything but that. Not that." So saying, he took both
her hands--the beauty of which he so loved--and kissed them warmly, all
the time fearing that if she said to him that she must break off their
engagement, he must submit, as he could not blame her if she considered
him beneath her love. "What is it you wish to ask me? Oh, my angel! be
merciful!"
"I wish to ask you what must I do when your father has said such
frightful things to my papa? Am I obliged and in duty bound to decline a
tie which will create any relationship with him?"
Clarence was silent, still holding the dear little hands. His face
flushed with shame, but became pale again as he replied:
"It would have been more difficult to solve that problem if my father
himself had not done so by driving me off. I am exiled now--driven away
from home. I doubt whether he would consider you related to him by being
my wife now."
"I am glad of that," said she, quickly, but then checking herself, and a
little abashed by what she thought the hasty expression of a selfish
feeling, she said: "Forgive me; I don't mean I am glad he should drive
you away, but that since he has cut you off--and yet--he cannot do that.
How can he?"
"He has done so. That proves he can, doesn't it?"
"No, Clarence. No matter what he does he is still your father."
Clarence leaned his head back on the sofa and looked at the chandelier
in silence for some moments, then said:
"Yes, he is my father, but not the father he used to be. There are
different kinds of fathers. Some are kind and good, others are most
unnatural and cruel. Are they entitled to the same love and respect?"
"But was he ever cruel to you before?"
"Never. He has been always most kind and indulgent to all his children,
but especially so to Alice and myself."
"Then, Clarence, for this one fault, all his life of kindness and
devotion must not be forgotten."
"Oh, my darling! are you going to plead for him and forget my misery? My
heart is bleeding yet with the pain of leaving home, and if your
indulgence to him means that I must bear the burden of his fault, _I
then--I must suffer alone_!"
"I do not wish you to suffer at all. If there is to be any suffering, I
shall share it with you. No. All I say is that if Mr. Darrell is so
angry at my papa and myself, we had better postpone our wedding until--"
Clarence sprang to his feet, and with hands pressed to his forehead,
began pacing the room, greatly agitated, but without speaking a word.
"Clarence, hear me. It will only be for a little while."
He shook his head, and continued his walk--his mind a prey to the
wildest despair.
"Would it not be very unbecoming for us to marry now, and your family
not be present at the wedding?"
"Why shouldn't they be present? All would be but father, and in the
furious state of his feelings he had better be away--a great deal
better--far, far away."
"Since he is so furious, I don't think he would like his wife and
children to be at our wedding."
"Mercedes, tell me frankly," said he, resuming his place at her side:
"tell me, has my father's outrageous conduct made me lose caste in your
estimation? If so, I shall not blame you, because when a man acts so
ungentlemanly, so ruffianly, it is fair to suppose that his sons might
do the same."
"Never! Such an idea never entered my mind. How could it?" said
Mercedes, with great earnestness.
"If it did not, it is because you are good and generous. Still, perhaps,
it is selfish in me to keep you to your engagement with the son of such
a rough. I release you, Mercedes. You are free," he said, and he closed
his eyes and leaned his head again on the back of the sofa. A sensation
of icy coldness came over him, and he thought that death must come like
that. But for all that mental agony, he still thought Mercedes would be
right in rejecting him.
The whole scene as described to him by Everett, when his father was
uttering those low insults to Don Mariano, came vividly before him, and
he thought it would be impossible for Mercedes not to feel a sense of
humiliation in uniting herself to him--he, the son of that brutish
fellow--that rough. He arose, and his pallor was so great that Mercedes
thought he must be ill.
"Mercedes, we part now. Heaven bless you."
"Clarence, you are ill. What do you mean? Will you not wait for papa?"
"No. I had better go now."
"You misunderstood me, I think, else how could you think of going?"
"Did you not say that our wedding had better be postponed? And does that
not mean that it may never, _never_ be?"
"Why should it mean that?"
"Because, how can we measure the duration of an anger so senseless? It
might last years. No, Mercedes, I feel that you have the right to reject
me. I shall be so very wretched without you, that I would beg and
entreat, but--"
"Clarence, I do not reject you, and I have no right, no wish, to do so.
Please do not say that."
"Will you be mine--my wife--after all the ruffianly words my father has
said?"
"Certainly. Why should I blame you?"
"My own, my sweet wife. Oh! how dearly I love you! The strength of my
love makes my heart ache. Will you call me when you think you can
consent to our wedding?"
"What do you mean by asking if I will _call_ you?"
"I mean that if our marriage is to be postponed, I shall leave you, but
shall be ready to obey your call, and I pray I may not wait for it a
long time. And I say this, also, that if upon reflection you decide to
cast me off, I shall not complain, because--because my father has
lowered me. I am not the same Clarence I was two days ago. You cannot
feel proud of me now."
"But I do. Please do not say those dreadful things. Why should you go
away?"
"Because it is best, as long as our marriage is to be postponed. My
presence here will be a cause of irritation to my father, and goodness
knows what he might not do in his angry mood. If you would not feel
humiliated by marrying me, the best thing would be to have a quiet
wedding immediately, with only the members of your family present, and
not invite guests at all, and then we would take the steamer to San
Francisco, and go to our home there."
"I don't think mamma would consent to that."
"Then, my darling, I must leave you now. I will return to town, and take
the steamer which leaves at daylight, I shall abide implicitly by what
you decide. Make known your wishes, and I shall obey."
"You are offended, Clarence, and I do not know how I have incurred your
displeasure," she said in those tones of her voice which were the most
thrilling to him--most sure of going straight to his heart.
Silently he approached her, and kneeling at her feet, he put his arms
around the slender and graceful form he idolized so fervently. He rested
his head on her shoulder for a few moments, then with a sigh, that
seemed to come from his very soul, he said:
"I am not offended, my sweet rosebud, but I am very miserable. Pity me.
You see, on my knees I beg you to marry me now--immediately--in two
days. If not, I must go now--to-night. Say, will you marry me, as I
_beg_ of you?"
"Oh, Clarence, why do you ask me? How can I tell? You will have to ask
papa and mamma."
"Will they consent?"
"Papa, perhaps; but I fear mamma will not approve of such a hasty
marriage."
"That is so. Perhaps I am unreasonable. Good-by, my beloved. Will you
call me back soon?"
"Clarence, you are not going? How can you?"
"I must. Do not ask me to remain, under the circumstances, unless it is
to make you my wife. I cannot."
He pressed her to his heart in a long, tender embrace. He arose, and
gazed at her sweet face so sadly, that she felt a pang of keen distress
and apprehension.
"Clarence, do not look at me so sadly. Please remain until papa comes.
Do not go. You might never see him."
"I must, or I will lose the steamer. Farewell, my own sweet love."
He clasped her to his heart, and wildly covered her face with kisses.
Then, without daring to look back, hurried out of the room into the
hall, across the piazza and down the garden-path to the gate, where his
phaeton had been left by Victoriano, after having taken Everett home.
"She must naturally hesitate to marry the son of a man who can act and
has acted as my father did. I cannot blame her. I ought to respect her
for it. Oh, pitying God! how wretched I am! Farewell, happiness for me."
Muttering this short soliloquy, Clarence drove quickly down the incline
leading to the main road.
When the last sound of his footsteps died away, a feeling of utter
desolation rushed upon Mercedes. The silence of the house was appalling.
In that silence it seemed to her as if a life of lonely misery was
suddenly revealed. To lose Clarence, was to lose happiness forevermore.
Shocked and terrified at her loneliness, with no hope of seeing him
again, she rushed out and ran to the gate, calling him. She saw that he
was driving fast, and would soon be crossing the dry bed of the brook to
take the main road. Once there he would be too far to hear her voice.
She ran out of the gate and turned to the right into a narrow path that
also led to the main road, going across the hill through the low bushes
and a few elder trees near the house, thus cutting off more than half
the distance. Loudly she called his name, again and again, running in
the narrow path as fast as her strength allowed. She heard the sound of
the phaeton's wheels as they grated harshly on the pebbles of the brook,
and then all was silent again.
"Oh, my darling is gone," said she, and the ground swelled and moved
under her feet, and the trees went round in mad circles, and she knew no
more. She had fallen down fainting, with no one near her but her
faithful Milord, who had followed her, and now nestled by her side.
Clarence had heard her voice call to him, and tried to turn his horses
immediately, but they were going down the hill too fast to turn without
danger of upsetting; he saw he must first get to the foot of the hill,
and turn when he reached the brook. He did so, and with heart-throbs of
renewed hope, he re-ascended the hill and hurried to the house. At the
door he met Madam Halier, who was blinking at the hall lamp as if just
awakened from a sound sleep. Clarence asked for Miss Mercedes.
"I think madamoiselle has just gone down to Madame Mechlin's. I heard
her calling Tano, and that woke me up. I had just dropped off into a
short nap of five minutes--_just_ five minutes."
"I thought I heard her voice in this direction," said Clarence, pointing
to the opposite side.
"Oh, no. I think she was afraid to go to Mrs. Mechlin's alone, and she
called her brother. But she has been anxious to see you all day. I will
send a servant to say you have come. Walk in. Had you a pleasant drive
from town?"
"Madam, I have seen Miss Mercedes since my return from town. I had said
farewell, and was driving away, when I thought I heard her voice calling
me. Perhaps I was mistaken, but I think not. Where has she gone, I
wonder?"
"To Madam Mechlin's, monsieur."
"Be it so. Good-by, madam," said he, extending his hand.
"But will you not wait for madamoiselle?"
"No, madam; if she did not call me, I need not wait."
This time Clarence drove slowly down the hill, looking at both sides of
the road, peering under the trees and bushes, still impressed with the
idea that he might see her form or hear her voice. The moon was just
rising, casting long shadows as it arose, but the shadow of that
beloved, graceful form was nowhere to be seen. This added disappointment
was added bitterness to his cup of misery, and he began to feel sick in
body and mind, and he saw in himself a most wretched outcast.
Tano and Dona Josefa now came and saw the phaeton ascending the hill on
the other side of the brook.