Do you note,
How much her Grace is altered on the sudden?
How long her face is drawn? How pale she looks,
And of an earthly cold? Mark you her eyes?
Shakspeare.
The news of the elopement was of course at first allowed to transpire as
little as possible. There was still a faint chance that the errant
damsel might be overtaken before she was over the border, in which case
the escapade might perhaps be hushed up, and scandal deprived of its
prey. But it created anxiety and sorrow at other places besides the
house in May-Fair. In Randolph's notes to Helen and to Polydore, he
merely said that he was summoned suddenly from town for a few days, and
would write again very shortly. He did not dare to entrust the secret of
his flight to paper. His communications, therefore, caused great
perplexity. It was something quite new for him to show any reserve,
towards either the chaplain or his sister. But the mystery was solved by
Mrs. Winston, who gently complained that Helen should have availed
herself of her visit in Cavendish Square, to become a means of
correspondence between the fugitives. She soon saw, however, that
Helen's simplicity had alone been to blame, and withdrew her
remonstrances.
Polydore was very much disturbed. Was this the end of his teaching? Was
it his quiet and meditative pupil, the calm student of the library at
Trevethlan, the contemplative muser by the sea, who had thus in one
moment flung prudence aside, and fled to an irregular and unhallowed
union? The simple-hearted chaplain could not understand it at all. He
had sometimes anticipated the pleasure of himself blessing the nuptials
of his former pupils, according to the ritual of his church, and now
Randolph had contracted a marriage devoid of any ecclesiastical
sanction. Improper and ill-omened as had been the father's wedding, that
of the son, Mr. Riches thought, was still more deplorable. Such matches
were rarely a source of happiness. And here, in particular, the enmity
between the families might lead to unusual misery. And poverty--stark,
staring poverty--seemed to threaten the young couple. For Polydore had
learned from Mr. Winter the last step taken by Mrs. Pendarrel, and saw
nothing before the orphans but absolute and immediate want.
And the further letters which before long reached both Helen and the
chaplain did not tend to allay their anxiety. Randolph wrote that he and
his bride were returning, by easy and leisurely stages, to the
metropolis. But there were few traces of happiness, or even of
tranquillity in his missives. They contained no spontaneous effusion of
joy, no expressions of triumph, no desire for congratulation. They were,
on the contrary, cold and restrained. The writer seemed endeavouring to
suppress any signs of emotion, to avoid causing uneasiness, to prevent
sympathy. Even in speaking of Mildred, he was cautiously reserved. He
mentioned her without any warmth of panegyric, and without any overflow
of tenderness. Neither did he say a single word in justification of his
flight. He seemed to write, rather because he felt bound to do so, than
from any pleasure in the correspondence. In fact, Polydore remarked to
himself with a sigh, that if Randolph had not wished on his arrival in
town to find a temporary abode ready for him where he was not known, he
would probably not have written at all. In all this the chaplain saw but
slight prospect of future comfort.
Nor was an epistle which Mildred wrote to her sister, although different
in tone, more re-assuring. It was much more open and unrestrained, but
it exhibited a mood quite as unsatisfactory. The bride strove at great
length, and with much passion, to justify her flight. She described in
eager and bitter language the long solicitude she had endured, both at
Pendarrel Hall and in London. During all that time, she said, she was
made to act a lie. She had remonstrated, and implored, and wept. She had
been derided, and threatened, and terrified. Her steps had been watched,
and at last she had been bidden to consider herself a prisoner. But all
this, and more than this, would not have tempted her to fly. It was not
until she was told that a certain event was imminent,--it was not until
she heard him who was now her husband shamed and calumniated, and
declared to be in want and sorrow,--that the idea of consulting with him
occurred to her. She had no one to advise her. Gertrude's own promises
were too limited. She was distracted. She had no eyes for anything but
one immediate and overwhelming danger. Was not _he_ on the point of
coming from Cornwall? Yet still she did not mean to fly. It was the idea
of a moment; hastily adopted, to be executed after an interval too brief
to give time for reflection. Were it to be done over again, nothing
would induce her to take such a step. She knew all she had forfeited.
But she hoped her sister would not judge her too severely. And, finally,
she prayed Gertrude to intercede for her with her mother. She should
never enjoy a moment's repose until she had obtained her pardon. She
acknowledged her undutifulness in terms of the most earnest penitence.
Already, she said, her punishment had begun. If it lasted, it would be
more than she could bear. Better it would have been to have endured the
utmost extremity, than to have incurred her mother's just indignation.
With the arrival of these letters all secresy respecting the affair was
at an end. The news spread rapidly from mouth to mouth, that Miss
Pendarrel had made a stolen match. The scandal-mongers were gratified to
their heart's content. All the details of the flight were discussed with
ignorant curiosity; accidents were invented which had never occurred;
and the stratagems by which pursuit was evaded were described with exact
inaccuracy.
Border weddings will soon be as legendary as that of Lochinvar. The rail
has already destroyed the romance of the journey, and the law will
speedily put an end to its profit, by requiring a fortnight's residence
before a marriage will be valid. Let "victims," therefore, make haste.
It was rather different when Randolph carried off his bride from
Grosvenor Square. He had engaged a carriage for the journey, but he
wanted time and experience to arrange an express, and was consequently
much delayed during the night. The travellers had not accomplished more
than fifty miles, when day broke upon them. It had been a silent, though
sleepless ride, and morning showed Randolph the traces of tears on
Mildred's cheeks. They called to his mind in an instant the extent of
the sacrifice she had made; for he would be no party to any suit for
reconciliation. He had torn his bride from her station and her friends,
and held himself precluded from all attempt to restore her to their
love. His father's spirit seemed to whisper in his ear, that for him
there could be no communion with those whom Mildred was bound to honour,
and whom he had persuaded her to desert. And for what? What lay before
himself?
He endeavoured to repel such considerations, and to devote himself to
the comforting of his companion. But his efforts were of little avail.
He became gloomy and abstracted. So soon did repentance mingle with the
feelings of the fugitives. But still they hurried forwards. Retreat, for
Randolph at least, was out of the question; and to be overtaken would be
defeat. He could afford no such triumph to Philip or Esther Pendarrel.
And the father's pursuit was fruitless. He gained upon the chase at
every stage; but he came up too late. They were united, never to be put
asunder.
They heard of his arrival, and Mildred would have thrown herself at his
feet. But her husband would not suffer it. It was rather early for a
matrimonial dispute, and a sad occasion of difference. Dark forebodings
crowded on the heart of the young wife. It was far from being so that
she was bidden to leave father and mother and cleave to her husband. But
Randolph would join her in a letter. No; he would not even permit her to
write on his behalf. She must strictly confine her apologies to herself.
For him, he would make none, and would ask for no forgiveness. It was
his part to forgive.
In the sorrow and dismay occasioned by these injunctions, Mildred wrote
the letter to her sister which we have sketched above. She gave it to
her husband to read. He observed the anguish expressed in every line,
and melted into a flood of tenderness, blaming the moodiness of his
temper, and praying pardon of his bride. But he said no word which might
encourage her to insert a single sentence in his name; and she
remembered how, at that meeting on the cliff, Randolph spoke of the hate
which was between her mother and himself, and how there could be little
of happiness in his love; and the words appeared to be true with a force
to bring despair.
With a misgiving heart, Mrs. Winston took her sister's letter to their
mother. Esther read it, and gave no sign. She observed that Mildred's
entreaties and excuses were confined to herself. There was no mention of
her partner in the affront; and Mrs. Pendarrel resented it too fiercely
as yet to show any commiseration. Yet she was greatly changed. The
successive shocks she had sustained had tamed her haughty resolution.
The destruction of her home had caused her many a bitter pang. It was
followed by the anxiety and exasperation produced by her daughter's
demeanour. These were converted into despondency and fury by the
elopement. And then came her miserable agent with a proposal which
insulted her, and with menacing hints which were at once a cause of
perplexity and alarm. Under such an accumulation of cares, it was no
wonder that her old spirit deserted her, and that her usual energy was
prostrated.
But no gentle thoughts yet mingled with her dejection. Anger, cold and
stern, over-powered every other sentiment. She forgive! She pardon the
rebellion which had shattered the hopes of many months! She extend her
hand to the man whom she had just driven to ruin! Forego the vengeance
which she had meditated for years! Furnish Henry Trevethlan cause to
triumph in his grave! Take the child again to her bosom who had wedded a
nameless outcast! One whom she, Esther Pendarrel, had just before
succeeded in degrading, and whom she could not, if she would, restore!
Was it not a fair jest for the world to laugh at? She had disinherited
and beggared her foe, only to prepare him to become her daughter's
husband. And even now he gave no sign. He was exulting over the check he
had put upon her. After all, it was he who had won the game. And should
she then forgive?--should she make the victory more complete? No: let
them starve;--let them see how poverty and love agreed together. She
could at least enjoy that spectacle. And when love grew cold in daily
bickerings, when life became a long scene of mutual recrimination, when
strife made it happiness to be apart, or guilt brought about an actual
separation, then she might think her daughter's penance sufficiently
severe, and furnish her with the means of prolonging her miserable
existence.
In this dejected and sullen temper Mr. Pendarrel found his wife upon his
return from his unsuccessful journey to the north. And he was surprised
to discover that he had become of sudden consequence in the household.
Esther seemed to have abdicated her rule. She let things take their
course with a strange sort of apathy. Her activity vanished, or only
showed itself in petty things. She often sat unemployed, and absent of
mind for a long time together. She took her husband's advice. But the
slightest allusion to the elopement, or any kindred topic, made her eyes
gleam in a way to scare the unwary suggester of such a theme. Mr.
Pendarrel ventured to hint, soon after his return, at the desirableness
of some arrangement, and the reception of the experiment fairly
frightened him from repeating it.
It will be remembered that, after the stormy scene with Mildred, Esther
despatched a missive to Tolpeden Park. It was to summon its proprietor
immediately to town. Melcomb obeyed; and arrived only to learn that his
intended bride belonged to another. His career was soon at an end.
Embarrassments thickened around him. For some time he played at
hide-and-seek with the minions of the sheriff; but at length they
triumphed, and Melcomb became an inmate of the King's Bench.
And now he may disappear from these pages. After a while he obtained
"the rules;" occupied decent apartments near the Obelisk; joined a club
of gentlemen in his own plight, and mimicked on a small scale the habits
of a more fortunate time. One evening he was missed from his accustomed
tavern. They inquired at his lodgings. He was very ill; and he never
rallied. Some of his companions in misfortune consoled his declining
hours; and in a few days his heir took joyful possession of Tolpeden.