"Yes, mother," Mildred said, faltering as she spoke, "in that meeting, which was watched by some miserable spy—that meeting, which I shall remember for ever, which brings no shame to my cheek—in that meeting Randolph won the pledge which nothing but death can break. Did I love him when first I called him my cousin? Did I love him at that meeting on the cliff? Mother, I love him now a thousandfold. Is he houseless, homeless, an outcast, and a beggar? The more need has he of my love. Tell me not of dishonour: there is none with him. Speak to me not of shame: I know it not with him. Is his fate in your hands? So is mine. They cannot be divided. He is mine, and I am his."
As her daughter spoke, Mrs. Pendarrel tightened her hold upon her wrist, and when she flung it loose at the close of Mildred's words, it was discoloured by the pressure. She flung it scornfully from her, and said, in tones whose concentrated but cold indignation was remarkably at variance with her previous vehemence:—
"Go to your chamber, girl. We must see a quick end to this folly. And as for him, you have sealed his doom."
Mildred obeyed, and retired to her own apartment. There she threw herself on a couch, and wept long and passionately. But one thought at last seized her, and restored her to herself.
"His doom sealed!" she murmured. "Did my mother say his doom was sealed? And through me? No, no: it must not be. And is he, indeed, in such danger and distress, and I here, far away, instead of sharing his sorrows, as is my right and my duty? Oh, mother! mother! you little know what you have done."
And she rose, and dried her eyes, and wrote two notes, inclosing one within the other, and directing the outer one to Helen Trevethlan. She had never been one of those dramatic heroines who, in every little trouble, seek consolation from their maids. With regard to them, one might be inclined to avail oneself of the qualification attached to the Highgate oath. Mildred had never asked Rhoda to do her any secret service before. But when she summoned her now, and requested her to convey the note she had just written to its destination at Mrs. Winston's, the natural quickness of a soubrette at once perceived, from the mere selection of the messenger, that the errand was confidential, and it was with gratified self-esteem that Rhoda accepted the mission, and delivered the billet into Miss Trevethlan's own hands. Rhoda advanced very rapidly in the confidence of her young mistress that evening.
Mrs. Pendarrel had been thunderstruck by the attitude assumed by her daughter. She had wrapped herself securely in reliance upon her own power, and so bold a defiance almost stunned her. She bitterly regretted the sarcasms into which she had been betrayed by passion. She readily perceived the effect they would have upon a temper like Mildred's, a temper in some respects like her own. And should all her schemes, all the plans which she built up with so much care and labour, be frustrated by the obstinacy of a love-sick girl? Should Esther Pendarrel confess herself defeated? There was little hope of that. But she felt dim fears and doubts besetting her. She experienced anew some of the despondency caused by the destruction of her house; she looked to the future with some foreboding of evil. But activity must subdue all such misgivings. This insolent suitor must be crushed at once. Her daughter must be schooled into instant submission. Nearly cotemporaneously with Mildred's letter-writing, her mother also indited two epistles. The one she despatched the same evening, by a trusty hand, to Tolpeden Park; the other she sent immediately to Messrs. Truby's offices in Lincoln's Inn.
There would apparently be some searing of hearts, before the war which was that day proclaimed arrived at a peaceful termination.