There's a dark spirit walking in our house,
And swiftly will the Destiny close on us.
It drove me hither from my calm asylum,
It mocks my soul with charming witchery,
It lures me forward in a seraph's shape.
I see it near, I see it nearer floating,
It draws, it pulls me with a godlike power--
And lo, the abyss.
COLERIDGE. _Piccolomini._
It would be difficult adequately to portray the conflict of emotions
which now agitated our hero. His life at Trevethlan Castle might be
described as a long childhood, and the boy became a man at one bound,
instead of by insensible degrees. Hence he had not learned to control
his sensations. He was driven about by every wind. His will was
almost passive. No master-feeling yet called it into action. We have
seen how keenly alive he was to the want of that deference which he
considered his due; how his pride revolted from the familiarity of
those around him; how his feigned name continually irritated him. And
all these feelings were embittered by the visit to the opera. Often
afterwards he remembered the dark presentiment which oppressed him
during the gloomy ride, and which returned while he gazed, rapt in
ecstasy, on that fair vision near him, on Mildred Pendarrel. In her he
recognised the image which of late years haunted his dreams by the
sea; the heroine of the romances which his fancy created; the mistress
of his enchanted castle. She was the object for which he had been
secretly yearning; the being destined to fill a void which had opened
in his existence; the woman for whom he would live and die. In the
first few moments he looked at her, his eyes drank in a deep draught
of love, and he was hers for ever.
He revelled in the new passion. In those few moments he lived an age.
What face was that which intervened between him and his love? Where
had he seen those proud lineaments? He required no hint from Helen to
remind him of the miniature. He recognised his father's Esther at a
glance; he sprang to the conclusion that it was her daughter he
adored; and he remembered the vow that lay upon his soul. What wonder
that he should feel a presentiment of ill?
There are those who smile when they hear of "love at first sight." But
he who drew Romeo was better versed in the heart of man. Such love is
a more turbulent and consuming passion than the happier affection
which grows up by gentle steps. Swift as the lightning, it is also as
desolating. Hope cherishes the softer emotion; hopelessness often
seems to fan the more sudden fire.
The first effect of his new passion upon Randolph was to give tenfold
vigour to his hatred of his assumed name. Of right, he was Mildred's
equal. Even studying for his profession as Randolph Trevethlan, he
would still be her equal. But as the obscure pretender, Morton, he was
degraded far beneath her. In his proper person, he could surmount all
obstacles to obtain her. Could he? What, then, became of his vow?
That very pledge he had given in exchange for permission to wear the
detested mask. What a web he had spun around himself! And should he
break it at once? Should he dash boldly into the world in his own
name, sweep impediments from before him, woo Mildred in spite of
everything, and bear her off to his ancestral towers, ay, in defiance
of her haughty mother? Would it not be a revenge acceptable to the
shade of his broken-hearted father?
His wavering irresolution made him fretful, and almost morose. It
caused also a strange craving for excitement. He became impatient of
his quiet evenings at Hampstead. It was ungrateful, but he could not
help it. Helen saw his irritation with sorrow, but without complaint.
Rereworth saw it, and tried vainly to soothe it. He had frequently
pressed Randolph to accompany him into society; he prevailed on him to
acquire the accomplishments of life, and thereby provided a
considerable source of amusement for Mr. Peach, who frequently
inquired concerning his lodger's progress in the airs and graces.
"My dancing!" Randolph might exclaim in answer to such queries; "it
prospers marvellously. Yet methinks it is a ridiculous occupation."
"By no means, my dear sir," would be the reply. "Hath not the
'Spectator' observed, that 'no one was ever a good dancer that had not
a good understanding?' Ah! I see why you smile; but that's not the
meaning."
But hitherto Rereworth had been unable to persuade his friend to avail
himself of his new acquirements. Trevethlan's secret held him back. It
met him at every turn. But now, in his eagerness to forget himself, he
at last consented to go with Seymour to an assembly at the house of a
near relation, where, Rereworth said, his friends were always
welcome. The evening arrived, and Randolph joined his introducer at
his chambers.
"You may call yourself a happy man, Morton," cried Rereworth gaily.
"You shall be the envy of all our sex, for my fair cousin's sister is
the loveliest girl in London, and I have made her promise to be
disengaged to dance with you. I told her you were a very good-looking
fellow."
"That is not a good introduction," Randolph said, with a faint smile.
"But you sacrifice yourself."
"Never fear, you won't disappoint her," Seymour continued. "And as for
me, I have romped with her this many a day. She waltzes with me in the
morning, and teazes me in the evening. I shall really be glad to
inflict her upon you."
"Then I accept the doom," said Randolph.
"Dance with her after supper," added his friend. "That's the time when
'beauty like the midnight flower--'" and Rereworth whistled "Fly not
yet."
His companion's spirits rose under the influence of his own.
"Another glass to her health, Morton, and let us away."
It was quaffed, and they departed. A lumbering hackney-coach conveyed
them to Cavendish-square. "Mr. Rereworth." ... "Mr. Rereworth." And
Randolph had made his bow to Mrs. Winston.
It is not easy for one who went down his first country-dance when
seven years old, at a children's ball, and has since practised the
festive science until he is too old to obtain any but children for
partners, to imagine the sensations of a novice like Randolph.
Leaning on Rereworth's arm, he looked confusedly at the fluctuating
scene around him, stationary himself among a universal motion, silent
amidst an all-pervading voice. His friend in the meantime was
surveying the company as it flowed tranquilly by him, recognising
acquaintances, now and then exchanging a few sentences. Randolph
heeded him not, being engaged in a fanciful comparison of the assembly
to the sea, and blending the faces of the company into waves, instead
of distinguishing individuals. He did not even observe that one
quitted the stream and ranged itself on the other side of Rereworth.
He did not observe it, until that gentleman, pressing his arm, said,
"Morton, my cousin-_in-law_, Miss Pendarrel."
It was a little sudden. Schoolboys tell stories about home and
relations; "men" at college become more reserved; in the world such
confidences cease. One sometimes knows nothing even of an intimate
friend's family. Thus Rereworth had not mentioned other names in his
invitation to Randolph, and Winston brought no associations to his
mind at its first announcement. But the case was very different when
he heard that of Pendarrel, and recognised its fair owner.
Mechanically, intuitively, he offered Mildred his arm. She laid her
hand lightly within it, and they moved onward with the crowd. They
made the tour of the saloon before the cavalier uttered a syllable.
"Seymour has brought me an oddity," thought Mildred. Randolph was
overwhelmed with a flood of rapid emotions, sombre as the canopy which
hung above his father's deathbed. His heart beat quick, and he
pressed his lips together, struggling hard to obtain a mastery over
the tumult within him. One moment he wished he could vanish away, the
next he thrilled with rapture at the light touch upon his arm. Mildred
was perplexed. She knew she might esteem any one of whom Rereworth
spoke well. She had been prepared to see, and to excuse, a little
confusion. But there was more here than the confusion of a novice.
"Pardon me, Miss Pendarrel," at length Randolph said, in a voice of
tremulous tenderness: "I am new and strange to society. I have relied
too lightly on my friend's promises. I walk in a dream."
There is a sort of seeming egotism which is very profitable in love.
Few men will fail to excite interest by the true account of their own
emotions. To a woman the confidence is always flattering. Randolph's
speech was strangely at variance with the usual persiflage. But,
perhaps, if he had intended to make love, he could not have spoken
better. Mildred was struck by his accent, and interested by his
manner. But she was experienced.
"A pleasant dream, Mr. Morton, I hope," she said.
He quivered at the sound of the name.
"Pleasant!" he exclaimed; and then recovering himself partly--"I think
it is pleasant.... They are forming quadrilles. Shall we dance, Miss
Pendarrel?"
"If you please," answered Mildred, partly puzzled and partly provoked.
"Mr. Melcomb," she added to that gentleman, as he passed with a lady,
"you will be my _vis-a-vis_."
Melcomb bowed, looked at Mildred's partner, and raised his eyebrows
slightly. Randolph recollected the man he had seen at the opera,
disliked what he fancied was a singular familiarity, and wondered what
was the coxcomb's position in the family. As he warmed in the dance,
however, his moodiness and taciturnity gave way. He flung himself into
the humour of the moment, retrieved his character with his partner,
and obtained another engagement. "Let destiny decide," he said to
himself.
Melcomb was Mildred's partner in the next set.
"Who is your unknown knight?" he asked.
"My partner!" said the lady. "A friend of Mr. Rereworth's."
"He is in love with you," remarked the coxcomb.
"I hope he is," Mildred laughed.
"Cruel! He will languish and die."
"That is as I please. I am to dance with him again."
"Is Mrs. Pendarrel here?"
It was a taunt, and Mildred felt it.
Turn the kaleidoscope. "I consider," wrote Sir Richard Steele, "woman
as a beautiful romantic animal, that may be adorned with furs and
feathers, pearls and diamonds, ores and silks. The lynx shall cast its
skin at her feet to make her a tippet; the peacock, parrot, and swan
shall pay contributions to her muff; the sea shall be searched for
shells, and the rocks for gems; and every part of nature shall furnish
out its share towards the embellishment of a creature that is the most
consummate work of it." The numerous fair forms in Mrs. Winston's
saloons, on which such adornments were lavished in profusion, might
easily remind a spectator of the toy which we have named. Randolph,
after resigning his partner, wandered rather desolately through the
brilliant throng, unobservant and little observed. Finding a vacant
and remote corner, he ensconced himself there as an absentee. The gay
crowd glimmered before his eyes with the changing hues of the opal,
the music sounded from afar like the waves on the sea-shore. Why did
that association continually intrude? Why did the muser's thoughts
ever turn to Trevethlan? Why did he wish, so earnestly, ever and anon,
that he had never quitted the home of his fathers?
Solitude in a crowd has been the theme of much moralizing. In
Randolph's case it was peculiarly striking, for it was due, not
merely to absence of mind, but also to an absolute want of
acquaintance. Except Rereworth and his late partner, the muser might
be said to know no one in the whole of the gay assembly. And even
Seymour was ignorant of his real situation. Randolph felt oppressed by
his loneliness, yet at the same time unwilling to accept any
companionship.
In such mood he was, when a voice pierced through the cloud which
surrounded him. Rereworth came to seek his friend.
"Morton," he cried, laughing, "'awake, arise, or be for ever fallen.'
Winston desires me to present you. Winston, Mr. Morton--Morton, Mr.
Winston. Pray find my friend a partner, most philosophical sir."
But Randolph begged to be excused. He escaped from the metaphysician,
found his way to an uncurtained window, and looked forth upon the
midnight sky. The stars were shining, and he thought of the science
which pretended to connect their aspects with the fate of the
wanderers upon earth. Which was his? The planet of the queen of love
was there, bright in the deep blue canopy. Was she his friend? It was
a soothing idea. He forgot his doubts and presentiments, and allowed
himself to indulge in the most delicious dreams. His fancy became
exalted to the highest pitch. He felt supremely happy.
In this disposition he sought Mildred to claim her engagement. She
could complain of no want of devotion now. Her partner was romantic,
without sentimentalism; serious, and yet full of imagination. He was
pleased, and he exerted himself to please. He allowed his natural
enthusiasm to take its course. Mildred wondered no longer at the
praises which Rereworth had bestowed upon his friend.
A quadrille affords but scanty and inconvenient opportunity for
conversation. But Randolph managed to protract the subsequent
promenade. He even drew Mildred apart to that deserted window from
which he had been gazing on the sky, and rehearsed some of the marvels
of the astrologers, pointing out the planet which had attracted his
attention. But he was suddenly awakened from his entrancement. Mrs.
Pendarrel, leaning on Melcomb's arm, came to seek her daughter.
"Mildred, my dear," she said, "I have sent to call our carriage." And
she held her arm to the young lady, and bowed very loftily to
Randolph.
"The carriage is at the door, my dear," said a little man, bustling
up with some officiousness. Randolph had retired a few paces, but not
so far as to avoid hearing the first of the following words. It was
Esther that spoke.
"Mr. Trevethlan Pendarrel, I should be glad if you would ascertain who
that gentleman is. A Mr. Morton, I understand. Hark, sir," she
whispered, "do you see no likeness?"
"Yes, my dear, certainly I do," said the obsequious husband. "To
whom?"
Randolph advanced at the same moment.
"Spare your pains, sir," he said; "I am Randolph Trevethlan."
Face to face, only two steps apart, with their eyes fixed on each
other, stood the son and the lover of Henry Trevethlan. Esther's
countenance was inscrutable. Her daughter clung to her arm, with
cheeks and forehead flushed crimson, and glanced involuntarily at her
late partner. Mr. Pendarrel had shrunk a little behind. Melcomb showed
a nonchalant dislike to a scene. Randolph faced them, pale as death,
his head thrown back, his breast heaving, his eyes flashing fire. But
he recovered himself in an instant, bent one look of ineffable
tenderness on Mildred, and rushed from the house.