"Il y a dans un mariage malheureux une force qui depasse
toutes les autres peines de ce monde."
MADAME DE STAEL.
The summons which called Michael Sinson from the far-west to the
metropolis, was the result of impulse rather than of settled design on
the part of his patroness. Quick in reading the characters of all who
crossed her path, in her first brief colloquy with the rustic, Mrs.
Pendarrel detected his animosity towards Trevethlan; and in his sly
but fierce countenance, in his well-built but cringing form, she saw
the traits of one who would not be scrupulous in his mode of attacking
an enemy. From the very first, she suspected that the announced
continental tour of the orphans was a ruse, and the notion gained
strength whenever it recurred to her mind. But if they were still in
England, they were probably abiding in London. She caught at the idea,
and thought suddenly it would be well to have some one at hand who
knew them personally.
Suspiciousness is natural to tyranny: spies are the agents of despots.
Love of rule, said by the fairy to be the universal passion of the
sex, was undoubtedly dominant in Mrs. Pendarrel. But it is a desire
which, at least in youth, will find one powerful rival. And so she
proved. The haughty beauty kept her affection down with a strong hand,
but it stung her nevertheless. The wound rankled ever in her heart;
and many a time and oft she cast a rapid glance upon her life, and in
momentary weakness compared what was indeed a dark reality, with a
visionary possibility whose very glory made her sad.
But though such reflections might sadden, they were far from softening
her. They always terminated in the conviction that she had been ill
used. As years sped by, and each showed her more plainly the vacancy
of her existence, this feeling deepened into a quenchless thirst for
revenge. Was she to be the only victim? Man had a hundred means of
quelling or forgetting a hapless passion. Should he who had so lightly
forsaken her--should he triumph while her heart was broken?
He threw the game into her hands, and died. Towards his children she
entertained at the moment no very definite feeling. She had scarcely
thought of them. But she had long cherished the idea of becoming
mistress of Trevethlan Castle, and at last she deemed the hour was
arrived. Met according to her expectations, she would probably have
been kind to the orphans. Spurned, as she felt it, from their door,
hatred burnt again fiercely in her breast. And it was quickened by a
strange jealousy she conceived against their mother, whom she had only
despised before, but now bitterly envied as the wife of her lover.
Could domestic happiness be expected with such a parent? Alas, for the
answer which would come from Mrs. Pendarrel's children! The angry
passions which raged in her breast gave an unmotherly hardness to her
love of rule. And why were they daughters? _He_ had a son. _She_, the
wretched peasant, was the mother of a son. Thus did the effects of
Esther's blighted affection fall even upon her offspring. But Gertrude
rebelled from early childhood against the capricious rigour with which
she was treated. She succumbed at last, however, and that in the most
important event of her life. In obeying the maternal command to marry
Mr. Winston, she thought she stooped to conquer. Gertrude Winston
would be her own mistress. And so she was; but at what a price! Ay,
what an account must they render, who degrade marriage into a
convenience! who banish the household deities, so dear even to ancient
paganism, from their place beside the hearth, and fill it with furies
and fiends! who know not the meaning of our sweet English name of
home! Five years had not reconciled Gertrude to a union in which her
heart had no share. Her husband seemed to her cold, prudent, and dull.
She was enthusiastic, generous, and clever. He was easy and
good-natured, and his very submissiveness fretted her. He was, or
pretended to be, fond of metaphysics, and was always engaged upon some
terribly ponderous tome, while she participated in the popular fury
for Byron and Scott. He liked a level road, and a good inn: she
delighted in romantic scenery, and was half careless about the
accommodation. They continually pulled against each other; but the
husband was insensible to the chain which galled the wife to the
quick. Yet Mr. Winston possessed qualities, which only required to be
known to be beloved, and if Gertrude was ignorant of them, it was in
no small degree her own fault. And she had not, like Mrs. Pendarrel,
to contend with the memory of a previous attachment.
But, however bitter might be the feelings with which she contemplated
her own position, there was one dear affection which she cherished
with the utmost fondness. Nothing could exceed her solicitude to
preserve her sister from the snares into which she had fallen herself.
She kept a watchful eye upon all the society especially favoured by
her mother, and observed Mildred's feelings with the warmest
interest. And she was met in the same spirit. Sisterly love was the
one humanizing tie in that broken family.
Each sister possessed great personal attractions; but though their
features were strikingly alike, the character written on their faces
was by no means the same. Gertrude's showed haughty indifference,
Mildred's wishful thoughtfulness. The elder's smile was generally
sarcastic, the younger's sympathetic. Knowledge of her situation, and
consciousness that others knew it, flashed in defiance from the dark
eyes of Mrs. Winston, and lent a _hardiesse_ to her tongue, which
occasionally seemed unfeminine. Trust and hope beamed from beneath the
long lashes of Miss Pendarrel, and her speech was commonly soft and
gentle; but in society she was lively and witty, and there was a
spirit lurking in her heart, which might one day confound even her
mother.
Coming one day about this time to May Fair, Gertrude found a gentleman
of her acquaintance sitting with Mrs. Pendarrel and Mildred.
"Dear mamma," Mrs. Winston said, as she entered, "I am come to claim
Mildred for an hour's drive.--Delighted to see you, Mr. Melcomb. You
can settle a little dispute for me. 'Tis about the colour of the
Valdespini's eyes."
"I would prefer to leave it to Mr. Winston," answered Melcomb. "He has
some strange theory about colours, that they are in the eyes of the
seer and not in the seen. It is dangerous to speak after such an
authority. Your best referee is at home, Mrs. Winston."
"Not so," said the lady, "for he is one of the disputants. One said
blue, another grey. None agreed. Some one suggested a reference to
you, and it was voted unanimously. 'He knows the colour of all the
eyes at the opera,' they said."
"No one can mistake that of Mrs. Winston's," Melcomb said, rising and
bowing. "My dear Mrs. Pendarrel, suffer me to take my leave."
"Now, Mildred dear, away and make ready," said Gertrude, smiling, and
her sister immediately complied with the wish.
"Mrs. Winston!" exclaimed the mother.
"Yes, dear mamma," Gertrude answered.
"Am I the mistress of my own house?"
"I presume so, dear mamma."
"Then note me. My visitors shall not be affronted here by you."
"Surely, mamma, Mr. Melcomb would thank me for a compliment. Every one
knows he is proud of his reputation."
"Every one knows your sarcasm," said Mrs. Pendarrel, "and I, at least,
perfectly understand your meaning. Once for all, Mrs. Winston, I will
suffer no interference with my intentions for Mildred. Why, I almost
think you would not have her settled at all. Very sisterly indeed,
Gertrude. Yet in your situation----"
"Mother," exclaimed Mrs. Winston, "not another word. But listen.
Rather than see Mildred settled even as I am, without offence, as
without affection, I know not to what I would not doom her! Rather
than see her wedded to one like Melcomb, would she might die in my
sight! You know me, mother. She is here."
"There's no danger, Gertrude," said Mrs. Pendarrel, as Mildred
entered; "au revoir."
The sisters then descended the stairs. As they passed through the
hall, they might have observed the presence of a young man, not in
livery, plainly dressed, having an appearance of _mauvaise honte_ not
often imputable to the denizens of London. They might have noticed
that after the first glimpse he caught of Mildred, his gaze was
rivetted upon her face, and the colour deepened in his cheeks as she
approached and swept by him, almost brushing him with the trimming of
her mantle. But in fact, they saw nothing of the kind, passing along
in polite indifference to Mrs. Winston's carriage.
"And so, Mildred," that lady said, as they drove away, "another
admirer! You are growing quite a coquette."
"Not exactly," answered the younger sister. "But I like to amuse
myself with the vanity of men. After all, I wish I were married."
Mrs. Winston sighed. "At another time, Mildred dear," she said, "I
might rally you for the avowal. But beware. Marriage is a sad
lottery."
"You are happy, Gertrude," said Mildred with some surprise.
Mrs. Winston looked out of her window.
"Melcomb will never make a woman happy," she said, after a pause.
"He will certainly never make me happy," exclaimed Mildred, half
laughing. "But really, Gertrude, how silly I am! What does Mr. Melcomb
care about me!"
"Very little, I dare say, not to flatter you, dear. Very little about
Mildred: a good deal about Mildred's money. And perhaps mamma would
not care to add Tolpeden to Pendarrel. You know they join. There's
something for your cogitation."
For a while the sisters were silent. Then the younger spoke.
"Dearest Gertrude," she said, "believe me I will never marry
without--believe me, I have not yet seen anyone whom I would marry.
When I spoke just now, I hardly knew what I meant."
Poor Gertrude knew her sister's meaning perfectly well. She
recollected the weight of the chain from which she had recklessly made
her escape, without calculating the cost.
"Mildred," said she, "let me ever be your confidante as now."
And so in a less serious mood, the sisters pursued their way round the
November dreariness of Hyde Park, at the season when:--
"Remote, unfriended, solitary, slow,
Scarce one lone horseman paces Rotten Row."
The stranger they had passed in Mrs. Pendarrel's vestibule was Michael
Sinson, newly arrived in London, and come with proper diligence to pay
his respects to his patroness. The young countryman was completely
overwhelmed by the vision of the two fine ladies who swept by him. But
his wonder was not indiscriminating, and it was Mildred who fixed his
gaze. He had seen her at Pendarrel, but not with the same impression.
In kind and familiar intercourse with the tenantry, she was a very
different person. Here she seemed almost a creature of another sphere.
With her mien, so quiet and yet so proud; her step, scarcely touching
the ground, yet appearing to spurn it; her repose, exhibiting a
security which it was impossible to disturb. Michael followed her with
his eyes until she had entered the carriage, and continued looking
vacantly in the same direction, even after the hall-door was closed. A
tap on the shoulder roused him from his abstraction, and he followed a
servant into the presence of Mrs. Pendarrel.
The interview was of no great duration. Sinson's patroness was pleased
to notice with praise that he was improved in appearance and address;
and asked him a few questions respecting the country, which he
answered to her satisfaction. She made no allusion to the peculiar
services she expected from him, but referred him to her husband at his
office for information respecting his promised employment. It was
necessary to know a little more of his temper and disposition before
making him her confidential agent.
The new Cymon, as in one sense the young rustic might be called,
quitted the house in May Fair, filled with vague admiration and
ambition. In the fascinations surrounding Miss Pendarrel, he
recognised a power superior to anything within his experience; and he
framed fantastic expectations from the career he supposed opening
before him. But the lover of Iphigenia had concealed a noble heart
under a rugged exterior, and his passion developed its high qualities.
Michael Sinson was a very different character from Boccaccio's hero.
And was Mercy Page already forgotten?--Happy, perchance, for the too
faithful maiden, if so it were.