Oh, days of youth and joy, long clouded,
Why thus for ever haunt my view?
When in the grave your light lay shrouded,
Why did not memory die there too?
Vainly doth hope her strain now sing me,
Whispering of joys that yet remain--
No, never more can this life bring me
One joy that equals youth's sweet pain.
Moore.
All this time Mildred Trevethlan remained in strict retirement. The only
visits which interrupted her solitude were those she occasionally
received from Mrs. Winston and from Helen. Gertrude brought intelligence
of Mrs. Pendarrel, which was unhappily not of a kind to comfort the
repenting fugitive, and her calls were rendered of brief duration by her
anxiety to return to the invalid. She could not pretend to assign any
other cause than Mildred's flight to their mother's dejection, and her
sister trembled to think of the effects of her disobedience. In the many
hours when she was necessarily alone, or attended only by Rhoda, she was
haunted by fears of the most alarming kind, and whenever Randolph came
home after an absence as short as he could make it, he always fancied
that his wife's sadness had increased since he left her.
Yet her despondency was lightened for a time when Helen came to see her.
For she, gentle and hopeful, dwelt always on the theme to which Gertrude
dared not allude. She always promised, or rather predicted, that a
reconciliation could not be distant. She bid Mildred to fix her eyes
upon that prospect, and to overlook the trouble immediately around her.
And upon her brother she urged the duty of obeying the chaplain's
injunctions, in their full spirit, and without delay. But Randolph
listened to such remonstrances with impatience, and still postponed the
day when he would make any advances.
"Let us, at least, be fully restored to our rights," he would say. "Let
my father's honour be re-established; let me have a name to bestow upon
my bride; and then, when we have exposed the wretched plot by which we
were overthrown, we may have the satisfaction of forgiving those who
wronged us, and may, if they choose, in turn, accept their forgiveness."
Helen grieved, but could prevail no farther. And, fortunately, the
period marked by her brother was fast approaching. Mr. Winter had been
already in communication with the friends of Ashton, the clergyman. By
good hap, they were able to identify the ring which was found among the
buried clothes. This confirmation of the smuggler's story lent it the
credit which his character could not give. Everope's confession,
attested by Rereworth, had, at least, overthrown the credibility of his
previous testimony. And thus the whole case on which the plaintiff in
the action had rested his title broke down, and the obscurity which hung
around the late Mr. Trevethlan's marriage was finally dissipated.
We need not trouble our readers with the technical proceedings which
would terminate in a formal and public reversal of the verdict at
Bodmin. Randolph had enjoyed the pleasure of communicating to his wife
the approaching result, and, in more kindly temper, was revolving the
mode by which they might be reconciled to her friends, when Gertrude
came with the message of peace. It was much more than the husband had
conceived possible, or than the wife had dared to hope. It left no room
for further perverseness. Randolph saw the flush of joy with which
Mildred received the offer, and accepted it with eagerness. Mrs. Winston
proposed to take them at once to May Fair; and they went without delay.
Without pausing, she conducted them into the presence of Mrs. Pendarrel.
And Randolph had taken the mother's offered hand, and Mildred had been
pressed to her heart, before either of them well knew what they were
about.
Some little awkwardness supervened. Mrs. Winston, with her usual tact,
led her sister from the room. Randolph was alone with his father's
Esther.
"Mr. Trevethlan," the lady said, after a short silence, and with a faint
sigh upon the name, "we have much to forgive each other."
"I have forgiven," Randolph answered. "Let the past be forgotten."
"You have forgiven!" Esther exclaimed mournfully. "Do you know in what
you have been wronged?"
"All that is personal to myself has passed from my mind," he replied.
"Ay," said Mrs. Pendarrel, "but there is much that is not personal to
yourself. Where is your sister? You are happy in the possession of such
a one. Do you know that even to her I have been unkind and unjust?"
"Oh, madam," Randolph said, "do not recall these things. Helen has
differed widely from me. Would that I had been guided by her advice!"
"Yet you were right, and she was wrong," observed Esther, who seemed to
feel a relief in unburdening her mind. "That letter was intended to try
you, and you interpreted it correctly. Helen was more charitable than I
deserved."
"Madam," said Randolph, moved by compassion for the humiliation before
him, "there had probably been great provocation."
"I do not know," was the meditative answer. "I have tried to persuade
myself there was. For if there were not, how shall I ever be justified?
Did she tell you, Randolph--did your sister tell you--that I robbed her?
See. Do you know this miniature?"
And she showed him the picture of herself. The sight of it reminded her
hearer of those dying imprecations which had been so fatal to all his
happiness. A dark cloud overspread his brow.
"Ay," said Esther, perceiving the change in his countenance. "You
remember, now, that it is not only your peace which I have broken. There
is another's for which I have to answer."
"Oh," Randolph exclaimed, "heavy was the task laid upon me, and bitterly
indeed have I judged!"
"Listen," Mrs. Pendarrel continued, speaking in tremulous accents. "You
know this portrait, but you know not its history. You know not how it
once hung from the neck of a wayward and wilful girl. It had often been
begged and prayed for, by one who loved her faithfully, fondly--ay, as
she believes now--till death. It was taken, or given, in a moment of
overpowering tenderness. The vows were plighted, and each had promised
to live only for the other. And then she--she, forsooth, idol and
votary, worshipped and worshipping--must snap the link, in her petulance
and pride, break the heart which adored her, and seek to console her own
misery by trampling upon her victim. Oh, Randolph Trevethlan, your
father has been deeply avenged. I never forgot that early dream. But I
strove to persuade myself that I was forgotten, and excused my own
arrogance with the thought. And now this image, which he wore upon his
heart--it tells me that he loved me to the last."
"And he died," Randolph said, restraining his emotion, "with words of
love upon his lips. 'I mentioned'--it was spoken with his latest
breath--'I mentioned Esther Pendarrel. She was once very dear to me'--he
then referred to his disappointment--'but I have often thought I was not
indifferent to her. If so, she has my pardon.' Oh, madam, I repeat,
indeed, something like the words, but it were vain for me to express the
feeling with which they were uttered. Alas, I recked not of the promise
they contained. I only looked on the dark side of the picture. I chose
to make it impossible to ascertain the truth. Entrusted with what was
really a message of peace, I have perpetrated animosity. It is I, it is
I, who should implore pardon."
Silence followed this speech. Esther fell into a reverie on the past. It
was of a more tranquil character than those which of late had caused so
much anxiety to her friends. At length it was broken by the return of
her daughters. She called Mildred to her side.
"You have deprived me of the power," she said, with a mournful
expression strangely at variance with the words, "little rebel, to
perform a mother's part. Yet I fain would do it."
She placed Mildred's hand in that of Randolph.
"Take her," she said, "Randolph Trevethlan, and may you know a happiness
which has never been mine."
Mildred threw herself into her mother's arms.
"My children," Esther continued, "you will make your home here, till....
And where is Helen?"
Mrs. Winston said, that Helen would perhaps pay her another visit. And
in a short time Mrs. Pendarrel quitted the room. She left more of
anxiety than of comfort behind her.
"Oh, Gertrude," Mildred exclaimed, "how fearfully she is changed!"
The alteration was indeed too evident to escape notice.
"Do not fear now," Mrs. Winston said; "it has been a trying time, but it
is over now. All will be well, Mildred dear."
It was kindly said, and well it would be if the anticipation were
fulfilled. But the agitation through which Esther had gone was too
likely to leave its traces for many days to come.
In no long time, Randolph set forth on his way to Hampstead, to make his
sister and the chaplain partakers of the reconciliation. On his way, he
pondered over the train of events in which he had been involved, and
admitted the wisdom of Polydore's judgment regarding death-bed
injunctions and promises. He could not avoid reverting also to the fatal
misunderstanding which, five-and-thirty years before, had laid the seed
of so much bitter fruit. Was the harvest entirely gathered even now? It
was a question which rose involuntarily in his mind. And the
announcement which he made at Hampstead afforded his hearers a pleasure
more unalloyed, it is probable, than any he felt himself. He reminded
Mr. Riches of his promise to bestow the nuptial blessing, at the
ceremony which would be performed in a few days, and there is no need to
say that the chaplain undertook the duty with great delight. And to
Helen he delivered an invitation to officiate as bridesmaid, and, in the
interval, to occupy her old place at Mrs. Winston's. She accompanied him
back to town.
That evening Polydore smoked a pipe with Mr. Peach in a more contented
mood than he had enjoyed for some time. He hoped that the sun of
Trevethlan was at last emerging from the clouds. The old clerk edified
Clotilda, who sat with them rather later than usual, by divers
narratives of remarkable elopements, but agreed with the chaplain that
marriage in the regular way was a much better thing. And when Miss Peach
had retired, the old bachelors fell into their usual humour, and sighed
forth the praises of their Rose and Mabel.
"Better, methinks it is," said Polydore in conclusion, "to imagine my
beloved Rose smiling upon me from the sky, than to have won her at the
expense of another's peace of mind. Better to remember the patience and
resignation with which she learnt to watch the stealthy approach of the
destroyer, than to reflect upon the rashness which precipitated an
unhallowed union. Better to cherish the love which death could not
divide, and to look forward to its everlasting reward, than to rush to
present enjoyment, and expiate it in future remorse."
The bridegroom invited Rereworth to attend the wedding, as his friend,
and Seymour having of course agreed to do so, found an agreeable mode of
employing the brief interval by renewing his visits in Cavendish-square.
Many a time he went there with the full intention of appearing in his
true character as a lover, should an opportunity offer, and as often he
departed without having revealed his secret. The question which every
man should ask once in his life, rose to his lips continually, and still
remained unuttered. For Mrs. Winston saw plainly enough what was the
state of affairs, and frequently contrived to leave Rereworth alone with
the mistress of his heart. Why did he not avail himself of such an
occasion? Was it from timidity, or doubt, or irresolution? No cause had
he for fear, no reason for doubt, no wavering to disturb. But in the
simple consciousness of being beloved, there was joy so calm and deep,
it seemed a pity to ruffle it by any less tranquil emotion. Lie at hot
noon under the trees which shade one of the "resting-places" of a great
southern river, and you may gaze upon the level water until you cease to
wish for the breeze which would cool your brow, because it would also
ripple that placid expanse. And Rereworth, although confident of a
favourable answer to his petition, yet delayed preferring it, because he
was loth to flutter his present peaceful happiness, even by a
declaration which would end in enhancing it. So the fond secret was
still untold.
That smooth and unvarying affection offered a much fairer prospect of
future felicity than the impetuous passion which had united Randolph and
Mildred. Even now they felt they were far from serenity. The bridegroom
could not overcome the constraint he experienced in the society of his
father-in-law; he shrank with instinctive dislike from the Philip
Pendarrel whom his own father had denounced in such bitter words; and
the feeling was quickened by the cold and calculating prudence of the
political manoeuvrer. Randolph eagerly cut short all discussions about
settlements, and other formalities, and escaped as soon as he could from
a companionship which was full of disagreeable associations.
And Mildred was disquieted by the continuing change in her mother, who
seemed to lose all care of the present in musing over the past. Yet this
was a natural effect of the recent events, and it might reasonably be
hoped that no great time would restore Mrs. Pendarrel to tranquillity
and resignation.
But during the preparations for the new marriage, we must cast a rapid
glance upon the hamlet of Trevethlan.