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?

He endeavoured to repel such considerations, and to devote himself to the comforting of his companion. But his efforts were of little avail. He became gloomy and abstracted. So soon did repentance mingle with the feelings of the fugitives. But still they hurried forwards. Retreat, for Randolph at least, was out of the question; and to be overtaken would be defeat. He could afford no such triumph to Philip or Esther Pendarrel. And the father's pursuit was fruitless. He gained upon the chase at every stage; but he came up too late. They were united, never to be put asunder.

They heard of his arrival, and Mildred would have thrown herself at his feet. But her husband would not suffer it. It was rather early for a matrimonial dispute, and a sad occasion of difference. Dark forebodings crowded on the heart of the young wife. It was far from being so that she was bidden to leave father and mother and cleave to her husband. But Randolph would join her in a letter. No; he would not even permit her to write on his behalf. She must strictly confine her apologies to herself. For him, he would make none, and would ask for no forgiveness. It was his part to forgive.

In the sorrow and dismay occasioned by these injunctions, Mildred wrote the letter to her sister which we have sketched above. She gave it to her husband to read. He observed the anguish expressed in every line, and melted into a flood of tenderness, blaming the moodiness of his temper, and praying pardon of his bride. But he said no word which might encourage her to insert a single sentence in his name; and she remembered how, at that meeting on the cliff, Randolph spoke of the hate which was between her mother and himself, and how there could be little of happiness in his love; and the words appeared to be true with a force to bring despair.

With a misgiving heart, Mrs. Winston took her sister's letter to their mother. Esther read it, and gave no sign. She observed that Mildred's entreaties and excuses were confined to herself. There was no mention of her partner in the affront; and Mrs. Pendarrel resented it too fiercely as yet to show any commiseration. Yet she was greatly changed. The successive shocks she had sustained had tamed her haughty resolution. The destruction of her home had caused her many a bitter pang. It was followed by the anxiety and exasperation produced by her daughter's demeanour. These were converted into despondency and fury by the elopement. And then came her miserable agent with a proposal which insulted her, and with menacing hints which were at once a cause of perplexity and alarm. Under such an accumulation of cares, it was no wonder that her old spirit deserted her, and that her usual energy was prostrated.

But no gentle thoughts yet mingled with her dejection. Anger, cold and stern, over-powered every other sentiment. She forgive! She pardon the rebellion which had shattered the hopes of many months! She extend her hand to the man whom she had just driven to ruin! Forego the vengeance which she had meditated for years! Furnish Henry Trevethlan cause to triumph in his grave! Take the child again to her bosom who had wedded a nameless outcast! One whom she, Esther Pendarrel, had just before succeeded in degrading, and whom she could not, if she would, restore! Was it not a fair jest for the world to laugh at? She had disinherited and beggared her foe, only to prepare him to become her daughter's husband. And even now he gave no sign. He was exulting over the check he had put upon her. After all, it was he who had won the game. And should she then forgive?—should she make the victory more complete? No: let them starve;—let them see how poverty and love agreed together. She could at least enjoy that spectacle. And when love grew cold in daily bickerings, when life became a long scene of mutual recrimination, when strife made it happiness to be apart, or guilt brought about an actual separation, then she might think her daughter's penance sufficiently severe, and furnish her with the means of prolonging her miserable existence.

In this dejected and sullen temper Mr. Pendarrel found his wife upon his return from his unsuccessful journey to the north. And he was surprised to discover that he had become of sudden consequence in the household. Esther seemed to have abdicated her rule. She let things take their course with a strange sort of apathy. Her activity vanished, or only showed itself in petty things. She often sat unemployed, and absent of mind for a long time together. She took her husband's advice. But the slightest allusion to the elopement, or any kindred topic, made her eyes gleam in a way to scare the unwary suggester of such a theme. Mr. Pendarrel ventured to hint, soon after his return, at the desirableness of some arrangement, and the reception of the experiment fairly frightened him from repeating it.

It will be remembered that, after the stormy scene with Mildred, Esther despatched a missive to Tolpeden Park. It was to summon its proprietor immediately to town. Melcomb obeyed; and arrived only to learn that his intended bride belonged to another. His career was soon at an end. Embarrassments thickened around him. For some time he played at hide-and-seek with the minions of the sheriff; but at length they triumphed, and Melcomb became an inmate of the King's Bench.

And now he may disappear from these pages. After a while he obtained "the rules;" occupied decent apartments near the Obelisk; joined a club of gentlemen in his own plight, and mimicked on a small scale the habits of a more fortunate time. One evening he was missed from his accustomed tavern. They inquired at his lodgings. He was very ill; and he never rallied. Some of his companions in misfortune consoled his declining hours; and in a few days his heir took joyful possession of Tolpeden.