"Era gia l'ora che volge 'l disio
A' naviganti, e'ntenerisce il cuore,
Lo di ch'han detto a' dolci amici addio,
E che lo nuovo peregrin d' amore
Punge, se ode squilla di lontano,
Che paja 'l giorno pianger che si muore."
Dante.
Mercy Page was an old acquaintance of Helen's, and was wont to bring her
all the gossip of the village, intermingled with her own little
adventures. And so she told Miss Helen the story of her pilgrimage to
Madron Well, and the fierce denunciations of Dame Gudhan. And the young
lady, after smilingly chiding her for her simple proceeding, taught her
to smile also at the ill words of the pythoness. But now Mercy thought
she had the laugh on her side, for she had heard the twilight tales
about the castle, and availed herself of the familiarity which Helen
allowed her, to inquire concerning them at head-quarters.
"D' ye know, Miss Helen," she asked, "what they're saying about the
green yonder? How there's a pale lady all in white, that walks through
the castle by night, and fleers you and Mr. Randolph sadly?"
"All I can say, Mercy," Helen answered, with a smile, "is that I have
met no lady answering that description, either by night or by day."
"They tell it so in whispers," the fair rustic continued; "I cannot well
say what is the story. It's something about somebody that some one
murdered a very long while ago."
"Ah, Mercy, people are always fond of a ghost story," Helen said. "And
so I hear Michael was in the game the other day. You had a merry dance
at last, I expect."
"Then, Miss Helen," said the girl, "I don't well know what's come over
Michael. He's very different from before he went to London."
Helen sighed, thinking Michael was not the only one who had been so
altered. And in truth, Mercy was quite right. If her old lover pretended
to court her now, it was in a spirit very opposite to that which
animated him before his employment by Mrs. Pendarrel. His object was
twofold; to make use of the unsuspecting maiden as a spy within the
castle, and to achieve one of those conquests which he had heard boasted
of as great exploits in the society he frequented in town. But love is
frequently as blind to the qualities of its object as the attachment of
animals, and Mercy was as ignorant of Michael's intentions, as the
faithful dog in the story, that his master was a murderer.
In truth, Sinson was exceedingly anxious to know what was passing in
Trevethlan Castle. He felt a feverish curiosity to discover what was
there thought of the law-suit which was just commenced. Certain himself,
that the case which he had submitted to Mr. Truby was unassailable, he
was still nervously desirous to learn in what manner his opponents
prepared to resist it. What did they guess? What did they suspect? What
line of investigation did they pursue? The proceedings were like a duel
in the dark. Neither party knew anything of his adversary's moves. A
stab in the back was perfectly legitimate. And so Sinson, naturally
imputing to others the conduct from which he would not shrink himself,
trembled lest he might be over-reached after all, and find his artifices
recoil upon their deviser.
And upon this cast he had set all his desires. Upon the result of this
trial depended the issue of all his weary manoeuvring. It would either
place him in a position to demand his own terms, or it would leave him
unable to obtain any. His victory would be complete, or his ruin total.
But so far, although he was eager for news of his opponents, he
entertained no doubt whatsoever of his own triumph.
Meantime, he trusted chiefly to Mercy for intelligence of what passed at
the castle, and she told him all she knew, with the most innocent
frankness. Trembling at shadows, he had been really alarmed at the tale
of poor Margaret's apparition. Aware of what was in contemplation, and
like all his race prone to superstition, he did not conceive there was
anything so very improbable in such a visitation, and he felt that it
would not be for the orphans that its warning was intended. He was glad
to hear from Mercy that the story was unfounded.
Sinson was also much perturbed by the conduct of his grandmother. She
had not forgotten the hint he threw out respecting her favourite's
marriage. It was true, she only referred to it to excuse what he had
said, but the wild language and fierce predictions in which she
indulged, continually troubled him. And, besides, she was the only
witness now to be found who was present at the wedding; and although her
opposition could in no degree frustrate his scheme, her concurrence
would have gone some way to promote it.
But he now endeavoured to hug himself in his security, and to pass the
interval before the trial as tranquilly as he might. He chose for
himself a pleasanter pastime than espionage upon Trevethlan Castle, and
watched with unwearying diligence the steps of Miss Pendarrel. Little
did Mildred think, as she pursued her meditative way among the
unfrequented thickets of the park, or strolled through the fields and
lanes beyond it, or wandered along the cliffs of the sea-shore, that her
path was always dogged by the stealthy foot, and her form watched by the
sinister eyes of Michael Sinson. Always at a convenient distance, ready
to slip behind a tree, or to skulk under a bank, if she chanced
accidentally to turn her head, the crafty observer lurked around her
course. Many a time he set out with the intention of coming forth at
some sequestered spot, and accosting the object of his chase, but he
always let the opportunity slip by. A kind of awe fettered his limbs,
and restrained his tongue, when he would have advanced and addressed the
unsuspecting maiden. There was a proud security about her which he felt
it impossible to invade, a serene confidence which he dared not ruffle.
He hated his timidity; he said, it should not be so next time; and when
the next time came, he again deferred his intended appearance.
It happened, one fine mild afternoon, that Mildred quitted the park by
Wilderness Gate, and bent her steps to that thorn-shaded portion of the
cliff which was the scene of Michael's interview with Mercy Page,
immediately before his first departure for the metropolis. Here she
paced backwards and forwards, amongst the leafless hawthorns, often
pausing to gaze over the sea, and musing rather sadly of her forlorn
situation at home, where she had no one to confide in, no one to share
her emotion, and where every day seemed to draw her nearer to a
precipice, which she was yet resolved to shun. Thus she was looking over
the water, whose transparency assumed the hue of the weeds growing at
the bottom, pink, blue, and green, and watching the vessels in the bay,
when a step sounded on the turf by her side, and she looked round, and
recognised her cousin, Randolph Trevethlan.
"Mildred," he said, in a voice which trembled with excitement, "do you
know me, Mildred?"
He might read the answer in the hot flush upon her cheeks and forehead.
"Will you acknowledge the impostor who sought you in disguise?" he
continued rapidly; "will you remember him who was shamed in your sight?
Me, the avowed enemy of your house, who should have met any belonging to
it in defiance and hate, yet came masked to your side to seek an
interest in your heart? For it was so. I loved you deeply, devotedly I
loved you, before that evening. So I love you now, and shall love you
for ever. From the first time my eyes met yours, in that echoing scene
of music and of light, I loved you, fervently as when I moved by your
side in those glittering saloons, fervently as I do now, and shall do,
till my heart has ceased to beat. And it was for me, Randolph
Trevethlan, to creep covertly to your presence, and woo you--for I did
woo you--woo you to be mine! And will you remember me now? Will you hear
me--not seek to palliate a deception which I loathe, not ask for
forgiveness which I despise--but will you hear me lay my love at your
feet, and, oh Mildred! at least not trample on it?"
The vehemence with which he had spoken at first softened into tenderness
in his last words. Mildred continued to walk slowly by his side, unable
to speak, scarcely knowing what she did, with her eyes bent down, and
her hands clasped before her.
"Hear me," Randolph said, in tones of passionate supplication. "Do you
know the life I have led? In yon lone castle by the sea, isolated from
the world, ignorant of my race, with nothing to love? Yet discontented,
pining, dreaming of love? Do you know how I came forth, madly
enthusiastic, to seek for fortune and fame? How still I felt my
desolation? Was not the world a blank to me? Was I not alone? Yet how
should you know it? I knew it not myself. Not till my eyes met yours
knew I the yearnings of my heart. The truth flashed upon me in an
instant. To see you and to love you, in your love to find the key to my
life, to vow for you to live and die--it was a moment's work. I knew not
who you were. Did I heed that? What acquaintance is needed for love?
Alas! I knew you too soon. The daughter of my father's destroyer, the
child of her whom I was pledged to hate, she it was I was destined to
love."
Mildred cast an imploring glance into his face.
"It is vain," he said. "It is hopeless. Even now, at this very hour, she
seeks to drive me from my home: from my name: my sister and me to be
outcasts on earth: shunned and despised: children without a father.
Think you there can be anything but hate between her and me?"
"My mother," Mildred faltered.
"It is our curse," said Randolph. "Did not my father imprecate the wrath
of Heaven upon me, if I held communion with her or hers? I love you,
Mildred, and the curse has fallen. And you love me," he cried in wild
rapture, flinging his arm around her, and folding her to his side, "you
love me, let the curse prevail."
She did not shrink from his embrace, and for some distance they
proceeded in silence. He pressed her to a seat on a bank of turf.
"Speak, dearest," he whispered, "let me hear that you love me. I feel it
in the beating of your heart. I read it in your face. Will you not let
me hear it from your lips?"
She hid her face against his breast. There was another long silence.
"Dearest," at length Randolph murmured, "there can be little of joy for
our love except in itself. Shall we not have faith in each other to
support us? Will you not be mine, whatever betide,--will you not be
mine, dearest Mildred?"
"I am yours, Randolph," she said, "yours for ever, and only yours."
He pressed a kiss upon her lips.
"I must go home," she whispered, "I must go home."
"Yes, we must part," the lover answered; "I know it. See," he continued,
"it is my star. Smiling on us, Mildred, as that evening. Believe me,
dearest, we shall not be parted for ever."
And in a calmer mood, with more of hope and less of agitation, Randolph
rose, and supporting Mildred on his arm, accompanied her a short
distance on her way. They parted with a silent pressure of hands.
The lovers were scarcely out of sight when Michael Sinson emerged from a
lair he had made himself near the spot where they rested, glared
fiercely in the direction they had gone, and advanced to the edge of the
cliff. The evening was mild enough for May; twilight was stealing slowly
over the tranquil sea; in the west, the star of love, alone in the sky,
was following the sun to sink behind the waves. It was, indeed, the soft
hour so sweetly described by the poet of the divine drama, reminding the
mariner of his latest farewell, and soothing the pilgrim of love with
the knell of parting day. But none of this tender influence was felt by
the man who stood, panting, on the cliff that overhung the waters. Fury,
envy, and malice, contended within him. Why could not he do this? Why,
in the many times he had followed her steps, had he never dared to
approach her? What spell had been upon him? Had she shrunk at all from
the arm which enfolded her? Had she recoiled from the embrace? Might it
not have been the same with him? The same blood was in his veins as in
Randolph's. Whence came the accursed timidity which held him back? And
what did they say? Why could he not hear as well as see? Was there any
fascination in Trevethlan's tongue?
And it was he, whom he had learned to hate from his boyhood, his
mother's sister's son, whose father cast aside the peasant relatives
with contempt; he it was who, in one moment, in a first interview it
might be, had achieved a triumph which Michael, with all his
opportunities, had never ventured to attempt. But let him look to it.
Ruin and shame were impending over his head. It would soon be seen which
of them was the better born. The emptiness of his rival's happiness
would speedily be discovered. Poverty-stricken and dishonoured, Margaret
Basset's son might not be so successful a suitor as the heir of
Trevethlan.
Successful! Had he been successful? Had she listened to him with favour?
Michael felt that she had. But she would not long exult in her love. She
little thought of the chain that was preparing for her. Melcomb, indeed!
She need not fear the shallow coxcomb. There was another sort of wooer
behind. But for the present her mother must know the liberties taken by
the bird. The door of the cage would probably be fastened.
Some such train of ideas flew rapidly through Sinson's perturbed fancy,
as he stood a few minutes on the verge of the cliff. He soon turned
hastily, and hurried straight across the country to Pendarrel Hall,
where he arrived before the young lady who had excited his emotion. He
sought its mistress without much ceremony.
"Pray, sir," said she, on seeing him, "what rudeness is this? Did I
desire your attendance?"
"No, ma'am," he answered, cringing and trembling. "I beg pardon, ma'am;
but I thought you might like to know that Miss Mildred has just met Mr.
Trevethlan."
"Well, sir!" Esther said, preserving a composure which bewildered the
informant.
"It may be nothing, ma'am, of course," Sinson continued. "But clasping
arms, and hands pressed, and lips meeting...."
"Be silent, sir!" exclaimed Mrs. Pendarrel, "and leave the room. I want
no tales about Mr. Trevethlan."
In increased astonishment, Michael obeyed. Mildred entered the apartment
not very long after.
"My dear Mildred," her mother said, "you should not stay out so late.
These February evenings are damp and unhealthy; and besides, dear, you
take too long walks. I should be glad if you would confine yourself to
the garden. Take a carriage, my love, if you wish for a longer
excursion."
Mildred understood her mother well, and knew that this was a command.
But amid the rapturous, though confused sensations, with which her heart
was thrilling, she did not even notice the coincidence of the injunction
with the scene through which she had passed not an hour before. She
thought she should be happy at last. She had found a stay to uphold her
in the times which she feared were at hand. She had pledged her word,
plighted her troth. There was a home ready for her, if her own were made
desolate--a haven to receive her, if the storm rose higher than she
could bear.