CHAPTER VIII.
Do you note,
How much her Grace is altered on the sudden?
How long her face is drawn? How pale she looks,
And of an earthly cold? Mark you her eyes?
Shakspeare.
The news of the elopement was of course at first allowed to transpire as little as possible. There was still a faint chance that the errant damsel might be overtaken before she was over the border, in which case the escapade might perhaps be hushed up, and scandal deprived of its prey. But it created anxiety and sorrow at other places besides the house in May-Fair. In Randolph's notes to Helen and to Polydore, he merely said that he was summoned suddenly from town for a few days, and would write again very shortly. He did not dare to entrust the secret of his flight to paper. His communications, therefore, caused great perplexity. It was something quite new for him to show any reserve, towards either the chaplain or his sister. But the mystery was solved by Mrs. Winston, who gently complained that Helen should have availed herself of her visit in Cavendish Square, to become a means of correspondence between the fugitives. She soon saw, however, that Helen's simplicity had alone been to blame, and withdrew her remonstrances.
Polydore was very much disturbed. Was this the end of his teaching? Was it his quiet and meditative pupil, the calm student of the library at Trevethlan, the contemplative muser by the sea, who had thus in one moment flung prudence aside, and fled to an irregular and unhallowed union? The simple-hearted chaplain could not understand it at all. He had sometimes anticipated the pleasure of himself blessing the nuptials of his former pupils, according to the ritual of his church, and now Randolph had contracted a marriage devoid of any ecclesiastical sanction. Improper and ill-omened as had been the father's wedding, that of the son, Mr. Riches thought, was still more deplorable. Such matches were rarely a source of happiness. And here, in particular, the enmity between the families might lead to unusual misery. And poverty—stark, staring poverty—seemed to threaten the young couple. For Polydore had learned from Mr. Winter the last step taken by Mrs. Pendarrel, and saw nothing before the orphans but absolute and immediate want.
And the further letters which before long reached both Helen and the chaplain did not tend to allay their anxiety. Randolph wrote that he and his bride were returning, by easy and leisurely stages, to the metropolis. But there were few traces of happiness, or even of tranquillity in his missives. They contained no spontaneous effusion of joy, no expressions of triumph, no desire for congratulation. They were, on the contrary, cold and restrained. The writer seemed endeavouring to suppress any signs of emotion, to avoid causing uneasiness, to prevent sympathy. Even in speaking of Mildred, he was cautiously reserved. He mentioned her without any warmth of panegyric, and without any overflow of tenderness. Neither did he say a single word in justification of his flight. He seemed to write, rather because he felt bound to do so, than from any pleasure in the correspondence. In fact, Polydore remarked to himself with a sigh, that if Randolph had not wished on his arrival in town to find a temporary abode ready for him where he was not known, he would probably not have written at all. In all this the chaplain saw but slight prospect of future comfort.
Nor was an epistle which Mildred wrote to her sister, although different in tone, more re-assuring. It was much more open and unrestrained, but it exhibited a mood quite as unsatisfactory. The bride strove at great length, and with much passion, to justify her flight. She described in eager and bitter language the long solicitude she had endured, both at Pendarrel Hall and in London. During all that time, she said, she was made to act a lie. She had remonstrated, and implored, and wept. She had been derided, and threatened, and terrified. Her steps had been watched, and at last she had been bidden to consider herself a prisoner. But all this, and more than this, would not have tempted her to fly. It was not until she was told that a certain event was imminent,—it was not until she heard him who was now her husband shamed and calumniated, and declared to be in want and sorrow,—that the idea of consulting with him occurred to her. She had no one to advise her. Gertrude's own promises were too limited. She was distracted. She had no eyes for anything but one immediate and overwhelming danger. Was not he on the point of coming from Cornwall? Yet still she did not mean to fly. It was the idea of a moment; hastily adopted, to be executed after an interval too brief to give time for reflection. Were it to be done over again, nothing would induce her to take such a step. She knew all she had forfeited. But she hoped her sister would not judge her too severely. And, finally, she prayed Gertrude to intercede for her with her mother. She should never enjoy a moment's repose until she had obtained her pardon. She acknowledged her undutifulness in terms of the most earnest penitence. Already, she said, her punishment had begun. If it lasted, it would be more than she could bear. Better it would have been to have endured the utmost extremity, than to have incurred her mother's just indignation.
With the arrival of these letters all secresy respecting the affair was at an end. The news spread rapidly from mouth to mouth, that Miss Pendarrel had made a stolen match. The scandal-mongers were gratified to their heart's content. All the details of the flight were discussed with ignorant curiosity; accidents were invented which had never occurred; and the stratagems by which pursuit was evaded were described with exact inaccuracy.
Border weddings will soon be as legendary as that of Lochinvar. The rail has already destroyed the romance of the journey, and the law will speedily put an end to its profit, by requiring a fortnight's residence before a marriage will be valid. Let "victims," therefore, make haste. It was rather different when Randolph carried off his bride from Grosvenor Square. He had engaged a carriage for the journey, but he wanted time and experience to arrange an express, and was consequently much delayed during the night. The travellers had not accomplished more than fifty miles, when day broke upon them. It had been a silent, though sleepless ride, and morning showed Randolph the traces of tears on Mildred's cheeks. They called to his mind in an instant the extent of the sacrifice she had made; for he would be no party to any suit for reconciliation. He had torn his bride from her station and her friends, and held himself precluded from all attempt to restore her to their love. His father's spirit seemed to whisper in his ear, that for him there could be no communion with those whom Mildred was bound to honour, and whom he had persuaded her to desert. And for what? What lay before himself?