But we are antic.i.p.ating a little. Randolph remained unaware of this new device to drive him to utter ruin. One evening, after a day spent in the fruitless wanderings which occupied so much of his time, he was sitting with Polydore Riches, silent and languid, thinking moodily of abandoning all hope, and at once proceeding to some distant land in quest of enterprise--South America seemed to offer a field--when the post brought him a letter. He saw it was from Helen, and opened it slowly and without much curiosity. But it contained an enclosure, addressed to himself, in a lady's writing with which he was unacquainted. That he unfolded with more despatch, and read:--

"Randolph--I am yours. I must see you. Meet me to-morrow afternoon, at three, near the keeper's lodge, in Kensington-gardens.--Your----

"M. P."

The blood rushed into the reader's pallid cheeks. The very encounter which he had at times dreaded, while threading his way through the crowded streets, was here pressed upon him in a manner which he could not elude. Would he wish, then, to avoid it? Perhaps not. But in the first confusion of his feelings, joy had only a small share. Again all his plans were frustrated. He seemed to be a mere plaything in the hands of destiny.

It wanted yet some time of the appointed hour when the lover sought the rendezvous. Backwards and forwards, with uneven steps, he paced the gra.s.s between the cottage and the Serpentine-river. The thought of avenging the desolation around him again presented itself to his fancy: again he resisted it, and vowed that no such selfish impulse should sully his affection for Mildred. But the idea recalled the death-bed injunctions of his father, and reminded him that he had been on the point of entirely submitting to his adversary's triumph. He began to think that the task which had been imposed upon him was beyond his strength. His dreamy and lonely youth had ill prepared him for the storms of riper years. He was infirm of purpose and irresolute of heart.

The approach of a female form fluttered his pulse, and in a moment he was at Mildred's side. The greeting was incoherent and abrupt.

"Randolph," the lady said, "I have sought you, because I have no other succour left. Do you know, have they told you, that my bridal is at hand?"

Her lover started, and remembered, as in a flash of lightning, what he had heard from old Jeffrey.

"It was false," he said. "Dearest, I knew it was false."

"Ay," she continued. "But it has become very like truth. Do you know that everybody believes it? that everybody looks upon Mildred Pendarrel.... Oh, my mother, my mother, why have you driven me to this?"

She spoke with pa.s.sionate sorrowfulness of accent. Well might Randolph say there was no happiness in love like theirs.

"Yes, the day is fixed. I am a prisoner till it comes. I am here only by stealth. I do not know what will become of me. I can bear it no longer."

The words followed one another in rapid succession. Mildred was trying to forget herself in the quickness of her utterance.

"The day will never dawn," Randolph exclaimed. "Are we not vowed to each other? Are we not pledged for ever? Let us fly, dearest. Let us be united before the world, as we are in our hearts. But, no, no," he suddenly e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, with a burst of anguish. "Do you know who I am? An outcast, without house or name. Dishonoured and infamous. What can I offer you? How can you share my lot? It must not be, dearest Mildred, it can never be."

"I know it all," she answered. "It was my mother that pressed it on me.

What then? Was it not the very reason that determined me? Oh, Randolph, do not think so lightly of me, as to suppose such things would turn me from my vow. Do not think I would recall what is my only hope, my last-remaining joy. I have nothing left but you. Do not fancy I regret what is gone."

Brief, but earnest and decided, was the conversation that ensued.

Pa.s.sion carried all before it. Mildred thought that, with the help of her faithful Rhoda, she could escape the same evening. Randolph would arrange everything for their flight. The north road would conduct them, if not to happiness, at least to security. A few rapid sentences settled all preliminary details; and the lovers parted, to meet again before many hours were over.

There was now no time for reflection. Randolph had not a minute to spare. There were letters to write for Helen and for Mr. Riches, short as possible, giving, after all, no information. There were funds to provide, little requisites to collect. When Randolph stood by his carriage under the trees of Grosvenor-square, he seemed scarcely to have rested a moment from the time he left Kensington-gardens.

Late in the evening it was. Mildred had retired for the night. Rhoda showed her young mistress, in a slight disguise, to Mrs. Pendarrel's door, as a visitor, and speedily slipped out, unseen, herself. They reached the carriage in safety. The elopement was complete. Scandal laughed in the wind that swept through the trees, as the fugitives were whirled from the square.

CHAPTER VII.

The father was steel, and the mother was stone; They lifted the latch, and they bid him begone.

But loud on the morrow their wail and their cry!

He had laughed on the la.s.s with his bonny black eye, And she fled to the forest to hear a love-tale, And the youth it was told by was Allen-a-Dale.

Scott.

The flight was not detected. So when Mrs. Pendarrel descended in the morning to the breakfast room, she was surprised at finding no Mildred there to receive her. She did not at first take much heed to the circ.u.mstance, but herself commenced what had usually been her daughter's duty. But when she had been some time joined by her husband, and there were still no signs of the young lady, she desired a servant to send Miss Pendarrel's maid to inquire whether her mistress was not ready for breakfast. Answer came in a few minutes, that Miss Pendarrel's maid was not to be found. Esther then felt some uneasiness; would herself look after the bird; found the cage empty; an incoherent note on the dressing-table:--

"Dearest mother," Mildred briefly wrote, "I can bear it no longer. Every day sinks me deeper in deceit. You do not know--you never can tell, how I have struggled. Why did you upbraid him? Oh, mother, why did you seem to rejoice in his sorrow? I feel that I can only be his. When you know all my despair, you will forgive your child."

"Never," Esther exclaimed, grinding her teeth. She crushed the billet in her hand, and returned to her husband.

"Mr. Trevethlan Pendarrel," said she, "your daughter has eloped."

The politician felt some excitement for once, and blushed like red tape.

"What!" he exclaimed. "What did you say, Esther?"

"Your daughter has eloped, sir," she repeated; "eloped with your pretended nephew. Come, sir; there must be a pursuit."

Roused at last to a sense of the emergency, the bereaved father bestirred himself, obtained some traces of the fugitives, and, within half an hour, was flying along the north road as fast as four horses could take him.

Did any girl ever know the anguish she would inflict by a step like Mildred's? Press to the uttermost the arguments urged by Milton and Johnson in defence of the right of children to choose for themselves in marriage, they will still never be found to countervail the natural sentiments of the heart. They will never subdue conscience, or stifle remorse. And so it has been often observed, that wedlock, in which the honour due to father and mother is forgotten, is rarely happy in its result. And, on the other hand, parents, who, without the most solid grounds, coerce their children's inclinations, will probably one day pay the penalty of their hard-heartedness.

Esther communicated the event in a short and savage note to Mrs.

Winston, striving to flatter herself with the idea, that in spite of Mildred's words, she might have sought an asylum in Cavendish-square.

Gertrude answered the missive in person, and with great sorrow. She bitterly deplored her sister's imprudence; but Mrs. Pendarrel received her with sharp and angry speech, said what had happened was owing to her teaching, was sorry she had no daughters to serve her in the same way, and, in short, treated her with a contumely which it required all Mrs.

Winston's temper to endure in respectful silence.

Esther was almost prostrated by the blow. She had never been quite herself since the burning of Pendarrel. She had, it was true, maintained a bold and haughty front, but she had lost some of her old internal confidence. She had become more hasty, and found her self-control much weakened. She perceived the change in that scene with Mildred, which, as she confessed to herself, had probably hurried the catastrophe more than anything Mrs. Winston had done or said. But when she desired Mildred not to leave the house without her cognizance, she had no idea that the young lady was prepared to disobey.

She read the note of farewell over and over. She crumpled it, and smoothed it, again and again. With all its incoherence, it was sufficiently decided. And so the very same day in which she had fulminated her final decree against the heir of Trevethlan--a decree which she hoped would crush him to the ground--that very day her daughter had thrown herself into his arms. She was check-mated just when she thought the next move would give her the game. Henry Trevethlan was already well avenged.

In the midst of her agitation, word was brought her that Michael Sinson had begged the favour of an audience. She had seen very little of her protege since her arrival in town. She fancied he might be of some service in her present strait, and granted the permission he sought.

Ignorant of Miss Pendarrel's flight, he came cringing into the presence of his patroness, with the idea that Everope was safe, and that he might claim the reward of his treachery.

"Now, sir," his mistress said as he entered, "what is your business with me?"

The young man was embarra.s.sed. He had well considered what he was about to say, yet, when the time came to speak, his words were not ready.

"You know, ma'am," he said, hesitating and confused, "the pains I have taken in exposing the person who had unlawful possession of Trevethlan Castle."

"Well, sir!"

"You know, ma'am, that I did not scruple to bring discredit on some of my own kindred, in order that right might be done."

"You have been well paid," Mrs. Pendarrel said.

"Excuse me, ma'am," Sinson proceeded. "I have been reproached and abused by my relations, and all the country people turn away from me. It is not easy for me to show my face in Kerrier or Penwith. But right is done at last. You have the castle firm and safe. Do you remember, ma'am, what I told you of the late owner and Miss Mildred?"

Esther started, supposing the speaker was going to give her some intelligence respecting the elopement.

"In a week or a fortnight," Michael continued, "there will be no trace of the old family at Trevethlan. The steward is now preparing to quit.

Mr. Randolph is wandering somewhere in poverty and want. Do you suppose, ma'am, that he has forgotten that walk on the cliff, with--with your daughter?"

Mrs. Pendarrel was surprised. She could not imagine to what end so strange an introduction was tending. She listened in silence.