Juliet. Is there no pity sitting in the clouds,
That sees into the bottom of my grief?
O, sweet my mother, cast me not away!
Delay this marriage for a month—a week—
Or if you do not, make the bridal bed
In that dim monument where Tybalt lies.
Lady Capulet. Talk not to me, for I'll not speak a word:
Do as thou wilt, for I have done with thee.
Shakspeare.
Randolph had amply compensated, in his second dance with Mildred, for any awkwardness which might have attended his first. Even in this he had ultimately succeeded in interesting his partner, and in the other he excited her enthusiasm. Carried away himself by the fatality which seemed to have brought them together, he discoursed in fervent and glowing language of the mystic science which supposed the destinies of mortals to be written in the sky, and pointed to the planet which he had just before imagined might rule his own. It was not as a believer, not as a votary that he spoke, however, but as a lover. Were it not pleasant, he asked, to fancy that friends far apart might look up to those rolling fires, fancy one another's situation, and thus hold a sympathetic communion,—no matter what distance lay between them? And certain it is, that extravagant and romantic as the idea might seem, Mildred never saw the stars afterwards without remembering the question, gazing round for the bright planet which Randolph showed her, and wondering was he also regarding it.
No marvel if she was more than excited by the scene which followed. To find a relation in him whose rich tones still lingered on her ear, whose burning words were still thrilling in her heart; to see in him the cousin of whom she had scarcely heard, but was prepared to love; the dweller of those desolate towers by the sea which she had so often admired in the rambles of her childhood; to think that all she had heard of him concerned the feud which divided them; to read that feud in the flashing eyes which were fixed upon her mother, and to feel the overwhelming tenderness with which they then bent upon herself,—no marvel surely it was that the warm blood rushed to her cheeks, and she trembled in every nerve, and her lips breathed a recognition of her newfound kinsman.
Nor was it an impression likely to be weakened by reflection. All the associations would rather tend to deepen it. The seclusion from which he must have emerged, the mystery which appeared to surround him now, the consequences of his self-betrayal, combined to the same end. Then, too, he had a sister. Was she like him? Where was she abiding? What were her pursuits? Mere curiosity would have found ample employment for reverie, even if no deeper and fonder interest were at hand to protract it.
In such meditations was Mildred absorbed when her mother came to inform her, with stately calmness, that Mr. Melcomb had made a formal demand of her hand; that the offer was highly acceptable to herself and to Mr. Pendarrel, and that her suitor would pay his respects to her the next day. As soon as Mildred had recovered some composure, after the short scene which followed, she threw on her bonnet,—at least she was not yet a prisoner in the house,—and walked to Cavendish-square. Mrs. Winston read the anxiety of her mind at one glance.
"Mildred, dearest," she exclaimed, "what is the matter?—what has happened?"
"Do you recollect," her sister inquired in turn, with a short scornful laugh which Gertrude did not like, "what we said of Mr. Melcomb some time ago? Well, it seems I am to marry him:—that is what's the matter."
"Marry Melcomb! Not while I have a home to offer you," Mrs. Winston said, hastily. "That is, not against your wishes, dear. You may learn to like the man. He is said to have very winning ways."
"Gertrude, Gertrude! do not jest. But we may be interrupted...."