The Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy this night,
Without fire, without bed—
I must weep awhile, and then be silent.
The Hall of Cynddylan is gloomy this night,
Without fire, without candle—
Except God doth, who will endue me with patience?
Llywarch Hen, by Owen.
The destruction of Pendarrel Hall was the crowning outrage of the riotous. It was a crime for which a severe retribution was certain to be exacted. On information, given partly by the prisoners taken at the fire, partly by volunteers who hoped to screen themselves, the civil and military authorities swept the country far and wide, and arrested numbers of suspected individuals. The hamlet of Trevethlan felt the visitation, and among its accused was the unfortunate Edward Owen. Many people, shuddering at the consciousness of guilt, fled for shelter to the wild moors and desolate carns, or lurked in the caverns of the sea-shore, obtaining a scanty and precarious nourishment from venturous friends or kindred. The prime mover of all the mischief, Gabriel Denis, had been captured on the spot; and there was scarcely a cottage between the two seas, which did not miss from the family circle some son or brother now lying in prison or lurking in the waste.
On the night of the disaster, the Pendarrels were at last persuaded to seek repose in such accommodation as was afforded by the lodge; but sleep was out of the question. Jaded and sad, they met in the morning, and went forth to survey the ruins of their home. Melancholy enough was the mere destruction of the edifice, yet that was the least among their sorrows. Wealth might restore the house to all its former splendour, but other losses were irreparable. All the relics of bygone days; the pledges of friendship and of love, the trinkets associated with old personal reminiscences, the memorials of travel and adventure, the rarities collected with their own hands, the family heir-looms, the toys of one childhood laid by to amuse another, the books of early lessons and early leisure, the sketches and drawings, the portraits and miniatures of the dead,—all of these had perished, and could never be replaced; for Pendarrel was their home, their old familiar dwelling-place, the storehouse of all things dear,—their cradle and their grave. Other houses they had, but none like Pendarrel.
Even the stern pride of Esther might bend a little under so great a calamity. Only the morning before she had been exulting over the humiliation of Trevethlan, and now her own hearth was desolate. In the terror of the night she had been surprised into an unusual display of tenderness towards her daughter. But any such feelings were merely transitory. Tale-bearers soon brought to her ear the shouts of "Hurrah for Trevethlan," which had been heard among the rioters. She thought of the scornful silence with which her invitation of yesterday had been received at the Castle, and permitted herself to suspect that the night's outrage might have had more than empty sympathy from its inmates.
She perceived also, with impatience, that the event would necessarily postpone the marriage of her daughter, and require it to be celebrated in London. Both the delay and the place was obnoxious, because the watchful mother still feared that Mildred's outward docility covered a strong resolve, and she was sorry to restore her to the protecting influence of Mrs. Winston. Such were the cold and harsh thoughts, which in Mrs. Pendarrel succeeded to the first depression occasioned by the calamity. But coming so suddenly on her triumph, it would be strange indeed if it were wholly unfelt, and the sequel may show that its effects were more considerable than Esther suspected at the time.
The exiles selected one from a host of offers of hospitality, but only availed themselves of the shelter for a single night; setting out the following morning on their way to town, and arriving in May Fair in due course. Mrs. Winston awaited their coming. She had her full share of the recent catastrophe. True it was she had made another home for herself, but much of her heart remained at Pendarrel. Even in a lately-written letter Mildred had mentioned their partnership in books. In fact, the fire might long be remembered in the annals of the family, becoming an epoch to date from, like that commemorated among the Jews by the spot left bare in the decoration of their walls, "the memory of desolation."
In the first tête-à-tête between the sisters, they turned from their own misfortunes to that which had befallen their cousins of Trevethlan, and when Gertrude had mentioned the invitation which she had already despatched to Helen, Mildred suffered herself to be drawn into a confession of all that had passed under the hawthorns on the cliff.