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 protege. 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 Apocalypticae_, 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 protege. 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.