The Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy this night,
Without fire, without bed--
I must weep awhile, and then be silent.
The Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy this night,
Without fire, without candle--
Except God doth, who will endue me with patience?
Llywarch Hen, _by Owen_.
The destruction of Pendarrel Hall was the crowning outrage of the
riotous. It was a crime for which a severe retribution was certain to be
exacted. On information, given partly by the prisoners taken at the
fire, partly by volunteers who hoped to screen themselves, the civil and
military authorities swept the country far and wide, and arrested
numbers of suspected individuals. The hamlet of Trevethlan felt the
visitation, and among its accused was the unfortunate Edward Owen. Many
people, shuddering at the consciousness of guilt, fled for shelter to
the wild moors and desolate carns, or lurked in the caverns of the
sea-shore, obtaining a scanty and precarious nourishment from venturous
friends or kindred. The prime mover of all the mischief, Gabriel Denis,
had been captured on the spot; and there was scarcely a cottage between
the two seas, which did not miss from the family circle some son or
brother now lying in prison or lurking in the waste.
On the night of the disaster, the Pendarrels were at last persuaded to
seek repose in such accommodation as was afforded by the lodge; but
sleep was out of the question. Jaded and sad, they met in the morning,
and went forth to survey the ruins of their home. Melancholy enough was
the mere destruction of the edifice, yet that was the least among their
sorrows. Wealth might restore the house to all its former splendour, but
other losses were irreparable. All the relics of bygone days; the
pledges of friendship and of love, the trinkets associated with old
personal reminiscences, the memorials of travel and adventure, the
rarities collected with their own hands, the family heir-looms, the toys
of one childhood laid by to amuse another, the books of early lessons
and early leisure, the sketches and drawings, the portraits and
miniatures of the dead,--all of these had perished, and could never be
replaced; for Pendarrel was their home, their old familiar
dwelling-place, the storehouse of all things dear,--their cradle and
their grave. Other houses they had, but none like Pendarrel.
Even the stern pride of Esther might bend a little under so great a
calamity. Only the morning before she had been exulting over the
humiliation of Trevethlan, and now her own hearth was desolate. In the
terror of the night she had been surprised into an unusual display of
tenderness towards her daughter. But any such feelings were merely
transitory. Tale-bearers soon brought to her ear the shouts of "Hurrah
for Trevethlan," which had been heard among the rioters. She thought of
the scornful silence with which her invitation of yesterday had been
received at the Castle, and permitted herself to suspect that the
night's outrage might have had more than empty sympathy from its
inmates.
She perceived also, with impatience, that the event would necessarily
postpone the marriage of her daughter, and require it to be celebrated
in London. Both the delay and the place was obnoxious, because the
watchful mother still feared that Mildred's outward docility covered a
strong resolve, and she was sorry to restore her to the protecting
influence of Mrs. Winston. Such were the cold and harsh thoughts, which
in Mrs. Pendarrel succeeded to the first depression occasioned by the
calamity. But coming so suddenly on her triumph, it would be strange
indeed if it were wholly unfelt, and the sequel may show that its
effects were more considerable than Esther suspected at the time.
The exiles selected one from a host of offers of hospitality, but only
availed themselves of the shelter for a single night; setting out the
following morning on their way to town, and arriving in May Fair in due
course. Mrs. Winston awaited their coming. She had her full share of the
recent catastrophe. True it was she had made another home for herself,
but much of her heart remained at Pendarrel. Even in a lately-written
letter Mildred had mentioned their partnership in books. In fact, the
fire might long be remembered in the annals of the family, becoming an
epoch to date from, like that commemorated among the Jews by the spot
left bare in the decoration of their walls, "the memory of desolation."
In the first _tete-a-tete_ between the sisters, they turned from their
own misfortunes to that which had befallen their cousins of Trevethlan,
and when Gertrude had mentioned the invitation which she had already
despatched to Helen, Mildred suffered herself to be drawn into a
confession of all that had passed under the hawthorns on the cliff.
"Ah, Mildred," her sister said, shaking her head in gentle reproof,
"remember that while I will do anything to save you from a union you
dislike, I will do nothing to promote one which our parents disapprove.
And that I fear will be the case as regards this gentleman. Count
nothing, my dear, from my invitation to his sister. I should, perhaps,
have hesitated to give it, had I known the state of the case."
But Mildred heard this little lecture without much heeding its warning.
She was meditating on designs of her own, which she had no intention of
confiding even to her sister. Her mother was not at all unlikely to find
that she had raised a devil which she would be unable to lay.
Mildred rejoiced, however, at one circumstance: her unwelcome suitor did
not immediately follow her to London. He had not been present at the
fire; for although his domains joined those of Pendarrel, the houses
were very far apart; and there was sufficient uncertainty at Tolpeden
respecting the locality of the flames to excuse the indolent coxcomb
from proceeding to assist, an excuse of which he readily availed himself
in the midst of such a storm. He was greatly vexed when he heard the
truth in the morning, and he paid a visit of polite condolence to the
family, at which, however, he was not favoured with the company of
Mildred.
And he was far from impatient to accompany her to town. The gossips at
Mrs. Pendarrel's party had indeed exaggerated his embarrassments, but
they were sufficiently heavy. Returning unable to fulfil his undertaking
to his creditors, he should awaken a hundred sinister suspicions. The
fire would be but a bad excuse for the delay, where all excuses
prolonged the chapter of accidents. So Melcomb dreaded to make his
appearance until everything was definitively arranged, and he could meet
his foes with renewed promises of satisfaction.
To his unsuspected rival the fire was a godsend. It sent his patroness
to London, exactly when with a doubting heart, Sinson was preparing to
visit her in Cornwall, and thus enabled him to hold down his bondman
Everope, with one hand, while with the other he preferred his audacious
suit. Could Mrs. Pendarrel have read what was passing in her servant's
heart, when he came cringing before her with congratulations on the
result of the trial and condolence for the ruin of her house mingled in
equal proportions, she would have cursed the hour when she took the
fawning rustic into her service. He was now manoeuvring to induce the
wretched Everope to go abroad, in order that his last fears might be
laid to sleep. But the spendthrift was not at all willing to accede to
the proposition. And after all, Sinson thought, what did it matter? A
little space would disclose the whole of his plot. And when his
patroness was once implicated, there would be no danger of exposure.
Should circumstances make it necessary, the Trevethlans might be quietly
re-instated in their small patrimony, and Michael would be perfectly
contented with the domain of Pendarrel. Everope might do as he pleased.
And now Esther had the mortification--for such it was to her--of
receiving condolence from all the circle of her acquaintance. The
burning of her house made no little stir in the metropolis. In public it
was not unreasonably mentioned as affording a good ground for the
general alarm. It might figure considerably in the Parliamentary
debates--we need not specify the volume of Hansard--it might occupy some
space in the reports of secret committees; it might have a green bag all
to itself. It was the topic of the day, and became a source of so much
exasperation to the mistress of the ruined mansion, that she would
almost have rejoiced to sink Pendarrel in some fathomless pool off the
Lizard. It is so difficult to condole in a manner at all sufferable.
Rarely is it pleasant to be pitied. People are apt to lavish their
sorrow on what they think they would have most regretted themselves, and
to forget the real weight of the calamity, in considering some detail
which strikes their particular fancy. So Angelina might remember the
gold fish in the garden, and hope they were not killed when the water
was needed for the engines. Now as Esther really loved her home, and
deeply deplored its ruin, it sometimes cost her an effort to answer her
friends' sympathy with polite equanimity. For the condolers mean kindly,
and must be kindly met.
But she was gratified also at times. Some hardy spirit would venture to
approach her with a sarcasm. The town, that is to say such men as
Winesour, could recollect the late Mr. Trevethlan, at the time he was
squandering his fortune; when his companions called him a fool, and were
very fond of his society. Such people remembered him with a certain kind
of attachment, and heard of the final ruin of his supposed children with
a certain sort of regret. And some of them were half aware of the old
love-passages between the lord of the castle and the lady of the hall,
and guessed for themselves the cause of Henry Trevethlan's desperation.
And so with polished incivility, they contrived to compare the fire and
the law-suit, and to send a diamond-headed shaft home to Mrs.
Pendarrel's heart.
Now this Esther liked. It exasperated her, but it put her upon her
mettle; and enabled her to exhibit a wit, delicate and keen as any that
attacked her. And she wanted something of the kind. Disguise it as she
would, she was bitterly humiliated by the catastrophe of that terrible
night.
"Pendar'l and Trevethlan would own one name,"
when there was no place of the former appellation to claim its share in
the prediction. The prophecy itself seemed to mock her. The fretfulness
induced by these conflicting emotions, restrained abroad, vented itself
at home, and fell heavily upon poor Mildred.
And now London was very full. The brilliant froth was bubbling and
foaming over the edges of the cup. And so a perpetual round of gaiety
invited the votaries of fashion, like the whirling dance about the
funeral pyre of Arvalan. Into the fascinating circle Mrs. Pendarrel led
her daughter, and took pains to let every one know, that the fillet was
already bound round the victim's brow. But the latter was as little
likely to succumb in patience to the intended doom, as the German poet's
Bride of Corinth.
And was Esther at all mindful of her defeated adversaries? She heard of
their answering her trembling invitation by a precipitate abandonment of
their ancient home, and she took little heed of their further
proceedings. She did not yet know the full extent of her triumph, and
left the effects of the verdict to be developed in the dens of the
lawyers.