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 manœuvrer. 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.
The news of the restoration of Randolph to his ancestral towers had already diffused joy through the homes of his tenantry; and the fulfilment of Dame Miniver's prediction respecting his marriage completed the exultation. There was not a heart in the village that was not made lighter by the account of the alliance between Pendarrel and Trevethlan. The castle was busy with the labours of upholsterers and all their tribe, actively employed under the superintendence of the steward and his wife, in renovating some of its ancient splendour; and the Trevethlan Arms rejoiced in their patronage at the close of the day. Old Jeffrey was half frantic with excitement and delight, practising the manœuvre of hoisting and striking a new flag often and often, until it was suggested to him that, by so doing, he deprived the ensign of its significance.
Great preparations were also being made for the reception of the bride and bridegroom. A triumphal arch at the entrance of the green, and another over the gate of the base-court, were ready to be decked with flowers and streamers, when the happy occasion should arrive; for the merry month of May was come, and nature was robing the land in its gayest attire. Mistress Miniver's good-humoured face beamed with delight from sunrise to sunset, and the joyousness of her looks was reflected in the countenances of her neighbours.
Yet this happiness was not unalloyed. There were still not a few absentees from the family hearth, lamenting their turbulence in captivity. Even with respect to them, however, anxiety was mitigated, for it was now understood that Mrs. Pendarrel was inclined to intercede in their behalf. And she had already contributed to the enlargement of Edward Owen. For, inquiring one day, in her languid manner, concerning the mode in which the missing Wyley had been discovered, Randolph mentioned Owen as instrumental in the matter, and she remembered how a man of that name had rescued herself and family from outrage on the night of the fire. And on her representations the young rustic was admitted to bail, with an intimation that his being called up for trial would depend upon his future conduct.
But if he had conceived any hope of finding favour in another quarter, he was disappointed. Mercy Page was as coy as before. Perhaps the very unpopularity of Michael Sinson had contributed to support his cause in the maiden's heart; and certainly the taunts with which she was sometimes assailed were not calculated to change her mind. She had almost sequestered herself from the neighbouring villagers, and either sat at home in her mother's cottage, or walked out late in the evening by herself. On such occasions she was jealously watched, and well it proved for her in the end that it was so.
But Edward was not one of the spies upon her steps. He began to feel chilled by her enduring coldness, and listened more complacently than of old to the words of those who said he might better himself, and particularly to any hints of the kind which fell from the mirthful landlady of the Trevethlan Arms. Farmer Colan once told her, she might not object to change her name; and now a rumour to the same effect became very current in the gossip of the hamlet.
And another topic furnished food to the village scandal-mongers. It was said Michael Sinson had returned to his old country. And it was true. He had left London, writhing under a manifold disappointment, baffled in all his evil desires and devices. Moreover, he suspected that Mr. Truby was strongly inclined to bring him to justice. But unlike his wretched victim, Everope, he was unacquainted with shame, and unstung by remorse. He regretted and resented his want of success; but he rather admired than deplored the subtile villany of his schemes. Sulky and angry, he fled from the metropolis to the dwelling of his grandmother, Wilderness Lodge. Mrs. Pendarrel had not displaced the old gate-keeper. There Michael brooded in silence and retirement for several days, during which his ill-temper was continually fretted, and his evil passions stimulated by the querulousness of the aged fanatic. Shrewd enough was old Maud to see that her favourite had by no means achieved the success which she had foretold for him. He was far away from qualification for that angelic choir, which his mere name appeared to her to entitle him to enter.
The news of his arrival reached the ears of his old flame, probably in some sarcastic shape; and Mercy threw herself in his way. But he thrust her rudely aside, and with so dark a scowl upon his brow that she thought involuntarily of Dame Gudhan's predictions, and shuddered at the recollection. The account of the meeting was soon circulated round the green of Trevethlan, and gave new force to the ill looks which were cast upon the luckless maiden. But it did not lull the activity, half hopeful and half fearful, with which her steps were dogged.
Meanwhile old Maud harped perpetually on her grandson's failure, and on the attempt to disturb her Margaret's marriage. She was for ever lamenting the injustice done to Michael, and calumniating the house of Trevethlan for its treatment of her favourite daughter. Neither topic was agreeable to Sinson; and at length, irritated at home beyond control, he showed himself among the rural habitations. But he went only to meet with fresh mortification. Every one seemed to know his history. People turned their backs upon the traitor. Children mocked and flouted him. Scorn surrounded him on all sides, and in every shape. Daring to present himself at the Trevethlan Arms, he was ejected with violence and derision, and was hooted and pelted from the village green. And among the foremost of his assailants he recognised his ancient rival. There was nothing for it but to endure the petulance of his fanatical grandmother.
Woe for the "ministering angel!" One hand in Trevethlan had no share in the insults showered that day upon the traitor. One heart in the village refused to believe in the infamy of him it had loved. One voice was heard in sorrow amidst the general execration. One pair of eyes were clouded with tears, where all others flashed with anger. Mercy Page wept for Michael Sinson.
At dusk, the same evening, the village maiden left her mother's cottage, and bent her steps along the quiet lanes to Wilderness Lodge. Now, she thought, was the time to show her devotion, and, if Michael really had gone astray, to call him back to the right path. Now, when all men spoke ill of him, was the time for her to sustain him against their evil report. Hearing of him as prosperous and rising, she had been, comparatively, indifferent. Seeing him abased and insulted, all her early tenderness revived.
She rattled the latch of the gate, and Sinson came out of the lodge. He was astonished at perceiving the visitor, who looked at him with her face half bent down. He returned her glance with a sullen stare, and rudely bade her "begone."
"Michael," she said, "will you not hear me, Michael? Not hear Mercy?"
The soft voice turned the current of the young man's thoughts.
"Know you not what they say of me?" he asked. "Saw you not how I was hunted from among them?"
"I know it all, Michael; but I believe it not. I saw it, and it made me weep."
"Speak not to her," shrieked old Maud, who had come forth to see what her grandson was doing; "speak not to the accursed thing from Trevethlan. Better fortune is in store for my boy. Bid the Armageddon depart."
"And will you walk with me, Mercy, as of old?" the young man asked, without heeding Maud's interruption.
The maiden answered by placing her hand in Michael's arm, and so, side by side, they quitted Wilderness Gate.
Old Maud tottered after them into the road, and gazed in the direction they had taken. She shook the thin locks that hung about her temples, and wrung her hands, and looked up into the sky. The first stars were beginning to twinkle in the gray transparency of twilight.
"Woe's me!" muttered the old crone. "Woe's me! She is leading him to his doom."
And her wild look quite scared a little girl who waited on her, when she returned into the lodge.
We do not care to follow minutely the young couple's evening walk. There is little pleasure in watching the companionship of villany and innocence, even where the latter is triumphant. Fortunately for Mercy, she was well observed that evening. There was a narrow and secluded dell about a mile from Wilderness Lodge, made obscure in the day-time by over-shadowing trees; doubly gloomy, therefore, in the twilight. The brook from Pendarrel Park murmured along it, and a footpath, devious and unfrequented, followed the wanderings of the streamlet. To that sequestered spot, which might seem almost designed for the rambles of lovers, did Sinson guide the steps of her who trusted him with such unsuspecting fidelity. There in her own simple and homely manner she sought to persuade him to be at peace with the world, and to make atonement for any wrong he might have done. But she spoke to an angry and unrepenting nature, and the only answer to her remonstrances made her acquainted with the worthlessness of him in whom she had confided so long.
It was a rude and bitter lesson. "Better he were dead!" has been the exclamation of many a heart deceived like hers. Mercy could no longer hope that the imputations of the villagers were the offspring of rustic jealousy. She hardly knew what happened in the first pain of her discovery. She turned to leave him, for she could do no more. He had followed her, but the watchers interposed. They closed upon the spot in an instant. The maiden was rescued, and the betrayer fled. He glared savagely for one moment upon those who came to save, counted their number, and took to precipitate flight. And the rustics, who had followed the ill-matched maiden with, at least, as much spite as pity, now showed more of the better feeling, and brought her safe, though trembling, home to her mother's cottage.
A warm pursuit was then commenced in the track of her assailant. Summary justice the country-folk thought they would inflict upon the culprit, although he might escape the more regular doom of the law. Many an old ground of exasperation gave vigour to the chase. Many a motive of fear lent wings to its object. He fled over the moors, from carn to carn, and from cave to cave. They drove him at last to the precipices of the Lizard. He retained his strength and activity, and turned them to good account in baffling his pursuers among those beetling cliffs. But, after numerous disappointments, they at length hunted him to bay. They hemmed him in on a ledge from which the rock descended sheer into the sea. Certain that he could not escape, they were, perhaps, negligent in observing his movements. But no one could tell what had become of him, when it was suddenly found that he had disappeared. They looked eagerly into the waves which were dashing against the cliff below; but there they could see no sign. The steepness and height of the rock above utterly precluded the possibility of his having scaled it. Yet there was an unwillingness to believe that he had simply been drowned, and the folks told strange stories of his having been picked up by some boat, and got away to sea. All that was certain was, that he was never heard of again.
The night on which he was lost, his grandmother sat beside the hearth in Wilderness Lodge, swaying herself to and fro in her rocking-chair, and moaning to herself in an under tone. The little girl who attended her was seated opposite on a low stool, and watched her with a feeling of awe, frightened, yet unable to withdraw her eyes from those of her employer, which were fixed and unusually bright.
"Where's my boy?" old Maud might have been heard to mutter. "Where's my own Michael? What is it they tell me of shame? What is it they say he told of my winsome Margaret? Did I hear that the marriage was broken? Na, na, Randolph Trevethlan, thou canst not so sever the ties. Has she not come to claim her own? Let them cross her path that dare. Smiling, did he say? A sweet smiling face? That was my Margaret indeed, but she never smiled at Trevethlan. And would they tell me she went there to shame? Did my Michael speak against her? Na; 't was they that brought her to death; they that will not let her rest in her grave. And why has she woke from her sleep? What comes she back to seek? Why will she not come to me? I was afar when she died. Was it of my own choice? Were we not driven away? Me, and my Michael, and all? Was there one of her kindred left with her? But they are fallen. The dark hour of Trevethlan came. And will they still make us their sport? Where's my own Michael? She came for him the night: the white-faced thing from Trevethlan. What cries did I hear in the sky? What tale did they whisper in my ear?"
Her voice, which had risen occasionally while she spoke, now sank into an inarticulate murmur, and her head dropped, and the rocking of her chair nearly ceased. The little girl looked at her with increasing wonder and dread. Suddenly Maud raised her head, and after seeming to listen for a moment, cried, "Michael," in one wild and dissonant shriek.
"What voice was that on the wind?" she continued, rising abruptly from the chair. "Who hailed that name?—Michael," she called again, in the same unearthly tone—"didst hear? 'T was his own. Didst hear how it wailed on the wind?—Michael—The waters are sounding in my ears. Didst hear the name, girl?—Drowning.—Ay, it was he—it was he."
Her voice had declined to a hoarse whisper, and her limbs relaxed, and she sank, rather then fell, to the ground. The little girl ran terrified from the lodge to seek for help. When the neighbours whom she summoned returned thither, they found the old woman huddled together in a heap upon the floor. They raised her up, but life had departed: she had rejoined her daughter, Margaret Trevethlan.
Odious are town-weddings. To our fancy there is something appalling in the splendour with which the ceremony is invested. And it seems to defeat its object; for the festivities which follow the departure of the new-married pair are proverbially dull. But the train of carriages, the cloud of bride-maids, and all the rest of the pomp and parade, appear to us more fitted to gratify the taste of the mob on the pavement, than to show the refinement of the nineteenth century. A solemn rite is converted into a theatrical entertainment. What should be a scene of deep and heart-felt joy becomes a laborious piece of acting. The bridal wreath is sullied by the incense which rises round it. To be sure if there is no heart in the business, if the gist of the union is to be found in the settlements, and the promise to love, honour, and obey is made as a matter of form, then the scenic character of the accessaries is perhaps in keeping, and may serve to throw a decorous veil over the sacrifice. But the village-church is the proper shrine for matrimony. The rustics who make a holiday of the occasion, and come in their Sunday raiment to take respectful leave of their squire's daughter, form a much more seemly retinue, than the gamins and idlers who throng the portico of the London church, staring with rude wonder, and eager for vulgar satire. And is it a childish desire that would fain invest the spot where our fondest hopes were crowned, with a little romance? May we not look forward to future pilgrimages to the altar where we were made the happiest of men? And who could dream of so revisiting St. George's? Nay, even the bells, inaudible in the metropolis, but in the country proclaiming our happiness, will thereby require a new charm in our ears, and their music will awake a new sympathy amidst its many dear and holy associations.
There would, however, as the reader will readily suppose, be little or no display at the re-marriage of Randolph and Mildred. It was fixed to take place at the church belonging to the district in which Mrs. Pendarrel resided. There at the appointed hour, the little party met; and the union, which was before furtive and irregular, received the sanction of Heaven at the hands of Polydore Riches. The ceremony was, perhaps, more impressive than usual, for more serious emotions accompanied its celebration. When it was over, the company returned through a gaping crowd to their carriages, and were driven home to May Fair. And from thence in no great time the bride and bridegroom, after many fond leave-takings, departed to travel by a circuitous route to Trevethlan Castle.
For it had been arranged that Helen, under the chaplain's safe-conduct, should precede them, and be ready to welcome her new sister to the old gray towers. And she carried with her a certain tender reminiscence; for when the time to part approached, Rereworth's love at last over-flowed. A select circle of friends was assembled at Mrs. Pendarrel's to celebrate the event of the day. They were all strangers to Helen, and thus Seymour was able to appropriate her to himself. Even this little party was a novelty to her, and served to prolong the excitement caused by the ceremony of the morning. In the midst of a rapid and animated conversation, some allusion to the happiness of the married couple, which reached Seymour's ear, threw him completely off his guard.
"Happy!" he exclaimed. "Oh, dearest Miss Trevethlan, may not a like happiness be mine? May not I also—"
His voice sunk into a whisper, but his prayer was heard. And the ice being thus broken, Rereworth told hurriedly of all he desired, and he might read in Helen's flushed cheeks and downcast eyes, that he need not fear. He had accepted an invitation from Randolph to spend a portion of the ensuing long vacation at the castle, and then he flattered himself he might appear as Helen's recognised suitor.
In the afternoon Mr. Riches returned to his quarters at Hampstead, to spend his last night at the metropolis. Long was the session, which he held there with the old clerk. A hint had made Cornelius and his sister acquainted with the scene of the marriage, and they had been unobserved, but not unobservant, spectators of the ceremony. And for many a day after Polydore's departure, the two old bachelors maintained a constant correspondence, in which they discussed the merits of old essayists, and criticised the beauties of old plays. Sister Clotilda and her brother never seemed to grow older than they were when Randolph and Helen dwelt beneath their roof. Sometimes their old lodger invited them through the chaplain to make a tour to Trevethlan Castle, promising to shew them all the wonders of the land. But Cornelius, though he did not appear to age, grew more and more fond of the flags of the metropolis, and could not be prevailed upon to attempt so long an excursion. "I am no traveller," he once wrote to Mr. Riches. "Twenty or twenty-five miles of nice quiet road, with green hedges and comfortable inns, a cow or two here and there, and now and then a pig, that is all the country I like. London is my pleasure. I affect a bit of enthusiasm to strangers about this village of Hampstead, but I should like it better without the hill." And so peace and farewell to the peachery.
The arrival of Helen and the chaplain occasioned much rejoicing in the hamlet of Trevethlan, but the main demonstration was of course reserved for the coming of the young squire and his bride. And a proud day it was for old Jeffrey, when their carriage dashed over the green amidst the cheers of the villagers, and he finally hoisted the family flag to the top of its staff.
There was firing and feasting, and dancing, in the hamlet and the castle; the great hall was thrown open to all comers, and the rivalry between Trevethlan and Pendarrel was drowned in flowing bowls, and forgotten in the unions of the mazy measure. And night had long hung her pall over the sea, before silence reigned in the towers on the cliff.
And here, perhaps, we might drop the curtain. But the reader will not be displeased at a rapid glance over some of the years which have elapsed since that happy day. The tranquillity which succeeded to the first exuberance of joyousness, was not unchequered with feelings of a more pensive cast.
The hamlet, indeed, throve under the renewed splendour of the castle. Mrs. Miniver removed the boards from the windows in the wings of the hostelry, and re-opened the rooms which had so long been closed. Nay, she was no longer Mrs. Miniver, having submitted to the change at which farmer Colan had hinted, and taken unto herself a husband. Edward Owen was the fortunate man. True, he was a dozen or fifteen years younger than his buxom bride, but she was more youthful in spirit than in age. The match seemed to turn out as comfortably as either party could desire. It is probable that the lady retained possession of her bunch of keys.
His old sweetheart, Mercy, was not to be tempted into wedlock. Helen renewed her confidence with the fair rustic, and introduced her to Mildred. But she never forgot her unworthy lover. She scarcely believed he was lost to her forever; but sometimes felt a transient fear that, in a foreign land, he might have found the fate predicted for him by the old sibyl of St. Madron's Well. But no intelligence ever arrived, either to confirm or to contradict the maiden's apprehensions.
Mildred had been only a very short time at the castle when she was introduced to Merlin's Cave. We cannot close our labours without reverting for a moment to the grotto, which possessed so many associations for Randolph and Helen. Few of our readers, we would believe, will not, at some period of their lives, have had a Merlin's Cave of their own. Seated under the little canopy of rock, the young bride learned the traditional ballad of her new home, and trusted that it might never again be applicable to the fortunes of the family. There too she became acquainted with the black-letter lore, which of old was the delight of her husband and sister; and there in long detail she heard the story of their early ambition. On Mid-summer eve they all repaired thither to witness the lighting of St. John's fires. Then as the shades of evening fell over the sea, long streams of radiance rose into the sky from all the numerous villages surrounding the beautiful bay. From Carn Dew over Lamorna Cove all round to Cudden Point, the landscape sparkled with the festive bonfires. The spectators might hear the sounds of distant revelry borne from afar over the waters, and echoed more loudly from the green of their own hamlet.
At the trial of the prisoners charged with the incendiarism at Pendarrel, it was suggested, in their defence, that the fire was occasioned by the lightning. Gabriel Denis kept his own counsel. And the doubt so raised, combined with certain powerful intercession, availed to mitigate the extreme penalties of the law. Of the criminals, some were transported for various terms, and others imprisoned. Gabriel's little girl was brought up at Trevethlan Castle, and caused no small trouble, with her hot Spanish blood. But it was endured, in remembrance of the confession of the witness, Wyley.
The long vacation brought Rereworth to the castle, and few days had passed when he communicated to Randolph, Helen's sanction of his dearest aspirations. And the brother rejoiced at the news, and warmly congratulated both himself and his friend. Seymour thought himself fortunate in obtaining a house, with pleasant grounds attached, in the neighbourhood where he had first met the lady of his love; and thither, in the space of a few months, he had the joy of conducting her as his bride. And Helen cordially accepted her new abode, shared her husband's hopes, and encouraged his professional ambition. She might be unable to repress an occasional regret for the land of her infancy, childhood, and youth, but the feeling was never visible in the company of her friend, lover, and husband.
Some years elapsed before Mrs. Pendarrel revisited the country of her ancestors. She was content to see Mildred and Randolph, when they came to stay a while with the Winstons or Rereworths, which they did every spring. She had subsided into a moping kind of melancholy, which annoyed her husband and grieved her children. The only circumstance which ever seemed to dissipate it was the growing good understanding between Gertrude and Mr. Winston. This appeared to remove some of the weight which oppressed her mind. And it showed, that if those who are cast together by accident, or even against their will, will study one another's merits, instead of seeking for faults and dwelling on discomforts, happiness may be found in circumstances where least it might be expected beforehand. It was a lesson which Gertrude learned with a thankful heart.
The visits of the spring were returned in the autumnal holidays, when a joyous throng of young people met regularly, in the course of time, at Trevethlan Castle. Holidays they were indeed. The Rereworths were always there, and most often the Winstons. Then the base court resounded with the glee of children, with a confusion of tongues and of names worthy of Babel. Griffith, declining gently into the vale of years, presided over the gambols. Sometimes the ancient sport of archery, the loss of which is so much deplored by Cornwall's old surveyor, Carew, was revived, and all the neighbouring country met to try their skill at the butts; while the little ones, escaping from the mild dominion of Polydore Riches, who was now, in green old age, the teacher of a new generation, mimicked the proceedings of their seniors, with bows and arrows suited to their years.
Pendarrel Hall remained a ruin. The estate was settled upon Mildred and her husband, and it seemed unnecessary to maintain two large residences upon the united property. The flower-garden surrounding it was allowed to run to waste, and the blackened walls continued standing, mournful memorials of an outrage which had exiled several of its perpetrators from their native land. Ivy was planted around the foundations, and at some future day, the ruin might become a picturesque feature in the landscape.
It was the doom which its mistress, in the opening of this narrative, anticipated for the towers of Trevethlan. The menace or the desire had been deeply avenged. But Esther was not the only person upon whom the storm left traces of its passage. Mildred was often visited with feelings of compunction and remorse, and the cloud which they brought upon her brow called down a similar shadow upon Randolph's. And when her mother survived Mr. Pendarrel, and in her loneliness accepted the shelter of Trevethlan Castle, her aspect and demeanour were a constant source of self-reproach to her daughter. Without being actually imbecile, she required minute attention. She was very rigid and exacting in all the little business of life. Her temper was uncertain, and it was difficult to gratify her fleeting wishes. At times it might be thought that she remembered how she should have been mistress of the castle, and imagined for a brief space that she in fact occupied that position.
Frequently, too, she fell into long and silent reveries, and then it was that the melancholy which overspread her countenance, caused the greatest anxiety to her children. She always wore the miniature of herself, and used to gaze at it, with a vacant but mournful expression, for an hour at a time. But at length they found a means of diverting her attention. She attached herself particularly to her eldest grand-daughter; and whenever she sank into too prolonged a train of musing, the little girl crept softly to her knees, and took her hand. And then Esther awoke from her dream of the past, and smoothed the dark hair upon the child's forehead, and told many little stories, which delighted the young listener.
Rarely did it happen that this manner of relief failed of effect. But sometimes Esther's abstraction was too deep to yield. At such seasons she murmured to herself in low tones. And the little girl caused her mother a bitter pang, by unwittingly telling her that, on one of these occasions, grandmamma was only repeating, over and over again, and without intermission—
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