"Regretter ce qu'on aime est un bien, en comparaison de vivre avec ce que l'on haÎt."

La BruyÈre.

Mildred's trial was not destined to last long. Her suitor was more impatient than Mrs. Winston predicted. He would, indeed, as she suggested, have willingly continued to accept a vicarious consent, until things had gone so far that his intended bride should be unable to recede. Hitherto he had given her no opportunity for resistance, and now with all his assurance he dreaded to begin. Mildred's indifference was so chilling that his spirits deserted him in her presence. He would have left her free, but for the fear of ridicule, and the need, the pressing need, of her fortune. The time came to make the plunge.

"Miss Pendarrel," Melcomb said, as they sat together in a small drawing-room, "dear Miss Pendarrel, you must be aware how long I have been the most devoted of your servants."

Mildred had acquired the habit of receiving Melcomb's compliments in silence. She said nothing.

"It is true no service could make any man worthy of Miss Pendarrel," the suitor continued; "yet I have been led to hope, unworthy as I am, that mine might not be doomed to be endless. Is it not so, dear Miss Pendarrel?"

"You have been led to hope nothing by me, Mr. Melcomb," Mildred answered, agitated by the unusual embarrassment in his manner.

"Nay," urged the coxcomb, "may I not hope from the position which Miss Pendarrel has permitted me to assume...."

"You have had no permission from me, Mr. Melcomb," said Mildred, interrupting him. She had well prepared herself for the scene, and preserved her spirit, though very much distressed.

"Surely," he continued, "I am not presumptuous in considering it implied."

Mildred was silent. Hers was no case for argument.

"Not presumptuous," Melcomb went on, speaking more rapidly, "in aspiring to the happiness which that permission seemed to promise. Not presumptuous in imploring dear Miss Pendarrel to appoint the time, when anxiety and fidelity may be rewarded with joy, and I may become the most fortunate of men."

"Mr. Melcomb," Mildred said, rising from her chair, and trembling, "I am above pretending to misunderstand you. Have you my mother's ... Does she...."

"It is by Mrs. Pendarrel's leave that I venture," said the coxcomb in his softest manner. "And an early day, dearest Mildred,——"

He made a step as if to take her hand, but she recoiled, and said, in a tone of determination, which Melcomb probably never forgot, "The day will never come."

She turned towards the door, but stopped as though she wished to say something more. Melcomb had anticipated a refusal, but not one so decisive.

"Miss Pendarrel will pardon my expressing surprise...." he began to say. Mildred hastily interrupted him, with faltering words.

"Sir, sir, perhaps it is I should ask your pardon—but you have never—it is the first time—I have had no opportunity—in pity to me, sir, urge these addresses no farther."

She could no longer restrain her tears, and quitted the room, Melcomb making no attempt to detain her.

He was neither surprised, nor mortified, nor even discomposed. It was a check by discovery, long expected and prepared for, by no means check-mate. And he had not lost his queen. The game was by no means desperate. But he wished for time to consider his next move, and left the house without seeing Mrs. Pendarrel.

That lady immediately conjectured what had occurred, and only feared that Mildred might have affronted her suitor to such a degree as to make him abandon his intentions. He had not been very long gone before she sought an explanation from her daughter.

"Mildred, my dear child," she said, "what is the meaning of this? How happens it, that the politest of mankind leaves my house without kissing my hand?"

There was a covert irony in Mrs. Pendarrel's manner, which, against her will, betrayed her own contempt for Melcomb, and at the same time showed her ruthless resolution.

"Mamma," Mildred answered, fixing her reddened eyes on her mother's, "you know."

"Nay, child, I am not a divine. I hope you were not rude to Mr. Melcomb? To your intended husband?"

"I refused him, mamma."

"And why did you not refuse him long ago?" Mrs. Pendarrel asked abruptly.

"He never asked me, mother," answered Mildred, swinging her hand to and fro. "He never asked me. Till just now I have heard nothing from him that I could take as a proposal. How anxiously I have waited for one, God knows."

Mrs. Pendarrel bit her lip.

"It is of no consequence," she said, "you cannot recede without disgrace and shame. If you are prepared to submit to them, I am not. This marriage must proceed. Always, that is, if you have not affronted Mr. Melcomb irrevocably. But you dared not."

A flash in Mildred's eye at the word might show Esther more daring than she would like.

"Mother," she said, "I prayed Mr. Melcomb, in pity, to urge his suit no more. I make a similar prayer to you. And, mother, there is one thing I dare not do. I dare not wed this man."

"I fancy you will find heart," said Mrs. Pendarrel, with a sneer on the word. "And since you are so agitated, you had better stay at home till you do."

But that home was to be changed. Immediately after this conversation, Mrs. Pendarrel determined to carry her daughter down into Cornwall, and finish the matter with a high hand. She had another motive for the journey, having heard from Sinson that the Trevethlans had gone home, and feeling, she scarcely knew why, desirous to be near them. But, before she could execute her design, she had to undergo a remonstrance from Mrs. Winston.

"And can the news I hear be true, dear mamma?" the latter asked.

"What news, Gertrude?"

"That Mildred is to be Mrs. Melcomb?"

"That is no news to you, Gertrude. You have known Mr. Melcomb's position here from the first."

"I knew he was idling about Mildred, as he has done about fifty other girls. But I did not know that she was to be sacrificed without her consent."

"Sacrificed, indeed!" exclaimed Mrs. Pendarrel. "Why, she has encouraged him!"

"No, mother," said Mrs. Winston; "never. She may lately have seemed to do so, owing to my advice. And she shall not suffer for taking it."

"Shall!" Esther repeated. "Upon my word, Gertrude, I could fancy you were practising the settlement of a daughter of your own."

"My dear mamma!" Mrs. Winston answered, in a tone which fully returned the sarcasm. "And you think Mr. Melcomb calculated to make Mildred happy?"

"Surely," replied the mother. "Is he not a highly agreeable and honourable man?"

"Agreeable, because he is a rouÉ: honourable, because he does not cheat at cards. Is it not so, dear mamma?"

Mrs. Pendarrel smiled.

"You have been studying philosophy, my dear," she said; "taking a lesson from your own good husband. You know that scandal calls every handsome fellow a rake, and every generous one a gambler."

"I know nothing of the sort, but I know that Melcomb is both," said Mrs. Winston, very bitterly. "And I will do everything in my power to save my sister from the misery of such a union."

"You are a dutiful and grateful daughter, in good truth," cried Mrs. Pendarrel, with suppressed rage. "And, pray, what will you do?"

"I will at least offer Mildred a shelter in my house."

"'T will avail her nothing; the law is against you," the mother exclaimed furiously. "And for this I toiled and toiled, and placed my child in a position envied of a hundred rivals! For this I plotted, and manoeuvred, and wasted hours and hours on that obdurate simpleton; and mined and countermined, and contended with dissension at home, and ill-dissembled malice abroad!"

"You might at least be respectful to your dupe, dear mamma, in my presence."

"Ungrateful! But why do I argue with you?"

Gertrude rose, and leant upon the back of her mother's chair.

"Because," she said, "you know that I am right. Mother, I have no reason to thank you for my marriage. You know it very well. It is true I have no such wretchedness to encounter as would befall Mildred in a match like this. The world thinks me a happy woman. I do not complain. I wear my chains as lightly and gracefully as I can. But they are chains, nevertheless. And you know it, mother. Yet I would fain think you meant me kindly, and it is therefore I remonstrate in poor Mildred's behalf. May we not discuss the affair as friends?"

"It is too late," said Mrs. Pendarrel.

"Too late!" Gertrude exclaimed.

"My word is absolutely pledged to Mr. Melcomb. It is impossible to recede."

"And Mildred only asked yesterday!" said Mrs. Winston, quitting her position, and walking away. "Sold, positively sold, for the contiguity of a few acres!"

But little more passed, before the mother and daughter parted with a very ceremonious salute.

Did Mrs. Pendarrel flinch under the remonstrances of her child? Did she waver a moment in her course? Reproached as the cause of Gertrude's unhappiness, did she hesitate to consummate the sacrifice of Mildred? If she had, she would not have been Esther Pendarrel. She had a quarrel with the world of five-and-thirty years' standing. Love! Folly! What had love been to her? Reason! She had married against it. Convenience! Ay, she wedded the heir presumptive of Trevethlan. So let her children. Had not Gertrude a house in Cavendish-square, and Winston Park, and a philosophical fool not ten years older than herself? Companionship—Ridiculous: there was plenty in the world. Home—Rococo: one lived abroad. With some soliloquy of this nature, did a withered heart excuse itself for spreading desolation like its own, conscious all the while that its pretences were false, saying, not thinking, the thing that was not.

Gertrude sought her sister on leaving Mrs. Pendarrel, and found her in a humour very different from what she had expected.

"So, Mildred, dear," she said, "we part. They take you to the enchanted castle, and where is the knight to wind the magic horn? Seriously, my poor sister, what will you do at Pendarrel?"

"Do, Gertrude!" exclaimed the younger sister, who might have been dreaming of the knight. "My despondency is gone. I am ready for the worst."

"And prepared...."

"Not to marry Mr. Melcomb, I assure you. You may lead a horse to the water, but who shall make him drink? All the vixen rises in my bosom, Gertrude. Mamma said something about my daring. I believe she has put me fairly upon my mettle, and will find I inherit it from her. So! Mildred!"

She flourished an imaginary whip. Her sister was perplexed, and a little troubled at her manner. She changed it suddenly.

"Oh, Gertrude!" she said, "do not think this levity comes from a light heart. I do know how hard a part I have to play. I do contemplate with sorrow this visit to Pendarrel,—so different from those in the old time, when we loved the country so much. With sorrow, but without fear."

"Ah, my sister!" said Mrs. Winston, "you are braver than I. See, you will be alone. Even Mr. Melcomb will not be there. You will be led on, and on, till you are completely entangled."

"No, no," answered Mildred. "And for him, I shall rejoice if he is away. He has had one chance of being generous, he will never have another. Who is so base as the man who would take a young girl's hand against her will?"

The sisters continued for some time in consultation, and parted with an oft-repeated embrace, and many promises of correspondence.

When Mrs. Pendarrel desired Mildred, on learning her attempted refusal of her suitor, to prepare for an immediate journey to Pendarrel, the one idea which arose in the young lady's mind was, that she should be near Trevethlan Castle. Many a train of thought developed itself from that suggestion, all ending in some vision of Randolph. And it was probably from such anticipations that she derived the seeming animation which perplexed her sister at this parting interview.