CHAPTER XXVIII.--_Shall it be Forever?_
Everett followed Clarence and got into the phaeton with him.
"My dear brother," said Clarence, in a hoarse voice that soundedunnatural, as if coming from a great depth, "I would like to have yourcompany, but as I am not coming back, I can't take you with me."
"No matter; drive off. I'll go with you a little ways, and will walkback," said Everett. Clarence turned his horses and drove away throughthe middle drive in the front lawn, and was out of the gate before hefully realized that he himself was driven away from the paternal roof.
"Retty, you did not tell me that my father had insulted my darling sogrossly. I wish you had, for I would not have gone inside the house,"Clarence said, with a sigh.
"It was so horrible, I couldn't. Forgive me, dear Clary."
"Certainly; I can't blame you."
"Are you going to Don Mariano's?"
"Yes. I will ask Tano to give me a place to sleep; that is, if DonaJosefa is not too disgusted to tolerate a Darrell under her roof."
"I am sure they feel nothing but kindness for you."
"I hope so; but should she wish to break the engagement, I will notstay. I'll drive to town to-night and take the boat for San Francisco,which is not to leave until to-morrow at daylight. I'll have time, Ithink."
"Don't do that. Wait for the Don, if he is not in now."
"I may, but I don't know. I dread to see Mercedes. I feel so humiliated,so ashamed. What can I say to her?"
At the foot of the hill Clarence stopped his horses to send to hismother and sisters--especially to Alice--loving messages. He also saidif he should miss seeing Don Mariano, Everett would say that he wouldwrite from San Francisco, and would return at any moment, if Mercedescalled him.
"But you will see her yourself," Everett said.
"I hope so," said the disheartened Clarence, driving up toward the housein which he felt his fate would be decided. Victoriano had heard thephaeton's wheels and came out to meet it.
"I am so glad to see you, old fellow," said he to Clarence; "it seems anage since sundown."
"I was detained in town about that business of Don Gabriel, but it isall arranged. He can take his place at the bank now, whenever he wishes,or wait until the 1st of October; it will be kept for him. Then I had myown business about the mine. That is all right, too. I only wish thatthings had gone on as well at home."
"So do I, but it has been awful. Retty told you."
"Yes, I know it all now."
"Unfortunately I did not tell him father's insulting remarks about MissMercedes," sadly observed Everett.
"Yes, had I known that, I would not have gone into the house. But Iwent, and father had the satisfaction of saying it to me himself; and onmy telling him what I thought about it, he expressed himself willingthat I should take myself off. So here I am, driven from home, and Icame to ask you for a bed to-night, as I am very tired."
"And hungry, too. Father spoiled his supper with his courteous remarks,"added Everett.
"Come, my dear boy; no one is more welcome to this whole house,"Victoriano said, with true Spanish hospitality, much intensified bypresent circumstances. "Come; father will soon be here. At present,Mercedes, Madame Halier Milord and myself only are at home. Mother andthe rest are at the Mechlins. Come in; come, Retty."
"No. I'll say good-by to Clary now and walk home."
"But this is awful," Victoriano said, as if beginning to realize thesituation. "For Heaven's sake, where are you going? And why must yougo?"
"I will not if Mercedes does not send me away. If she does, I shall gofirst to San Francisco, and thence God only knows where," was Clarence'sreply.
"She won't send you away; she shan't. If you only knew how the poorlittle thing cried, so that this morning literally she could not see outof her eyes, you would then know how she feels. She told me that if shelost all hope of being your wife she would lie down and die. She feltbetter this morning when father left, as he told her he would arrangeeverything with you so that the wedding should not be postponed. Thenshe was comforted and went to sleep. But--" And Victoriano stopped.
"But what? Better tell me all, dear Tano," said Clarence.
"Well, I was going to say that she is again unhappy because Lotte andRosy told her what your father said. She had not heard that part of thetrouble before."
Clarence stood silent with one foot upon the first step. He wascalculating the chances against him. He turned to Victoriano, and, witha sickly smile that was truly painful to see, said:
"My heart misgives me, dear Tano; I cannot blame her if she considers myfather's words unpardonable."
"But they were not _your_ words," Everett interposed. "You are not toblame if your father forgets _himself_ and makes a brute of _himself_. Ialmost hate him. Courage, dear Clary."
"Yes, remember, 'Faint heart never won fair lady,'" Victoriano added,and the quotation brought such sweet recollections to poor Clarence'stroubled mind, that he staggered as he went up the steps. But, with arenewed effort over himself, he managed to stand firmly, and to say toEverett:
"I suppose we must part now, dear brother."
Everett threw his arms around him, and for a few moments both brothersheld each other in close, silent embrace.
"Cheer up, boys. Don't think you are to part," said Victoriano, withassumed cheerfulness. "You must come to breakfast with us to-morrowRetty. When father comes he and Clary will concoct some plan so as notto postpone the wedding. Come, I'll take you home. I'll let Mercedesknow first that Clarence is here." So saying he walked into the house.Returning in a few moments, he said:
"Walk in, Clary. Mercedes will be in the parlor in a minute. Now, Retty,I'll take you home."
While both drove to the Darrells, Clarence went in the parlor to waitwith beating heart Mercedes' coming. He walked about the room looking atevery object in it without seeing anything. When he heard the rustle ofher dress, he stood by the piano with his arms crossed over his breastas if trying to compress the wild throbbing of his heart. He was pale tothe lips and his eyes had an expression of longing, of beseechingtenderness, that was far more sad and eloquent than tears would havebeen. Mercedes came in, followed by her faithful Milord, who, seeingthat Clarence paid no attention to him, turned up his nose in mildresentment and went to lie down upon the rug in front of the fire-place.She offered to Clarence her hand in silence. In silence he took it,kissed it and led her to a sofa, sitting down by her side. She was thefirst to speak. Looking into his eyes, she said:
"Clarence, must we part? I have such, faith in your truth that I believeyou will candidly tell me your opinion, even if it kills both of us. AmI right?"
"My darling, what is it? Do not put me to a test that may be too hard,for I tell you frankly I can give up my life, but not my love. Not you!my own! Oh, no; anything but that. Not that." So saying, he took bothher hands--the beauty of which he so loved--and kissed them warmly, allthe time fearing that if she said to him that she must break off theirengagement, he must submit, as he could not blame her if she consideredhim beneath her love. "What is it you wish to ask me? Oh, my angel! bemerciful!"
"I wish to ask you what must I do when your father has said suchfrightful things to my papa? Am I obliged and in duty bound to decline atie which will create any relationship with him?"
Clarence was silent, still holding the dear little hands. His faceflushed with shame, but became pale again as he replied:
"It would have been more difficult to solve that problem if my fatherhimself had not done so by driving me off. I am exiled now--driven awayfrom home. I doubt whether he would consider you related to him by beingmy wife now."
"I am glad of that," said she, quickly, but then checking herself, and alittle abashed by what she thought the hasty expression of a selfishfeeling, she said: "Forgive me; I don't mean I am glad he should driveyou away, but that since he has cut you off--and yet--he cannot do that.How can he?"
"He has done so. That proves he can, doesn't it?"
r /> "No, Clarence. No matter what he does he is still your father."
Clarence leaned his head back on the sofa and looked at the chandelierin silence for some moments, then said:
"Yes, he is my father, but not the father he used to be. There aredifferent kinds of fathers. Some are kind and good, others are mostunnatural and cruel. Are they entitled to the same love and respect?"
"But was he ever cruel to you before?"
"Never. He has been always most kind and indulgent to all his children,but especially so to Alice and myself."
"Then, Clarence, for this one fault, all his life of kindness anddevotion must not be forgotten."
"Oh, my darling! are you going to plead for him and forget my misery? Myheart is bleeding yet with the pain of leaving home, and if yourindulgence to him means that I must bear the burden of his fault, _Ithen--I must suffer alone_!"
"I do not wish you to suffer at all. If there is to be any suffering, Ishall share it with you. No. All I say is that if Mr. Darrell is soangry at my papa and myself, we had better postpone our wedding until--"
Clarence sprang to his feet, and with hands pressed to his forehead,began pacing the room, greatly agitated, but without speaking a word.
"Clarence, hear me. It will only be for a little while."
He shook his head, and continued his walk--his mind a prey to thewildest despair.
"Would it not be very unbecoming for us to marry now, and your familynot be present at the wedding?"
"Why shouldn't they be present? All would be but father, and in thefurious state of his feelings he had better be away--a great dealbetter--far, far away."
"Since he is so furious, I don't think he would like his wife andchildren to be at our wedding."
"Mercedes, tell me frankly," said he, resuming his place at her side:"tell me, has my father's outrageous conduct made me lose caste in yourestimation? If so, I shall not blame you, because when a man acts soungentlemanly, so ruffianly, it is fair to suppose that his sons mightdo the same."
"Never! Such an idea never entered my mind. How could it?" saidMercedes, with great earnestness.
"If it did not, it is because you are good and generous. Still, perhaps,it is selfish in me to keep you to your engagement with the son of sucha rough. I release you, Mercedes. You are free," he said, and he closedhis eyes and leaned his head again on the back of the sofa. A sensationof icy coldness came over him, and he thought that death must come likethat. But for all that mental agony, he still thought Mercedes would beright in rejecting him.
The whole scene as described to him by Everett, when his father wasuttering those low insults to Don Mariano, came vividly before him, andhe thought it would be impossible for Mercedes not to feel a sense ofhumiliation in uniting herself to him--he, the son of that brutishfellow--that rough. He arose, and his pallor was so great that Mercedesthought he must be ill.
"Mercedes, we part now. Heaven bless you."
"Clarence, you are ill. What do you mean? Will you not wait for papa?"
"No. I had better go now."
"You misunderstood me, I think, else how could you think of going?"
"Did you not say that our wedding had better be postponed? And does thatnot mean that it may never, _never_ be?"
"Why should it mean that?"
"Because, how can we measure the duration of an anger so senseless? Itmight last years. No, Mercedes, I feel that you have the right to rejectme. I shall be so very wretched without you, that I would beg andentreat, but--"
"Clarence, I do not reject you, and I have no right, no wish, to do so.Please do not say that."
"Will you be mine--my wife--after all the ruffianly words my father hassaid?"
"Certainly. Why should I blame you?"
"My own, my sweet wife. Oh! how dearly I love you! The strength of mylove makes my heart ache. Will you call me when you think you canconsent to our wedding?"
"What do you mean by asking if I will _call_ you?"
"I mean that if our marriage is to be postponed, I shall leave you, butshall be ready to obey your call, and I pray I may not wait for it along time. And I say this, also, that if upon reflection you decide tocast me off, I shall not complain, because--because my father haslowered me. I am not the same Clarence I was two days ago. You cannotfeel proud of me now."
"But I do. Please do not say those dreadful things. Why should you goaway?"
"Because it is best, as long as our marriage is to be postponed. Mypresence here will be a cause of irritation to my father, and goodnessknows what he might not do in his angry mood. If you would not feelhumiliated by marrying me, the best thing would be to have a quietwedding immediately, with only the members of your family present, andnot invite guests at all, and then we would take the steamer to SanFrancisco, and go to our home there."
"I don't think mamma would consent to that."
"Then, my darling, I must leave you now. I will return to town, and takethe steamer which leaves at daylight, I shall abide implicitly by whatyou decide. Make known your wishes, and I shall obey."
"You are offended, Clarence, and I do not know how I have incurred yourdispleasure," she said in those tones of her voice which were the mostthrilling to him--most sure of going straight to his heart.
Silently he approached her, and kneeling at her feet, he put his armsaround the slender and graceful form he idolized so fervently. He restedhis head on her shoulder for a few moments, then with a sigh, thatseemed to come from his very soul, he said:
"I am not offended, my sweet rosebud, but I am very miserable. Pity me.You see, on my knees I beg you to marry me now--immediately--in twodays. If not, I must go now--to-night. Say, will you marry me, as I_beg_ of you?"
"Oh, Clarence, why do you ask me? How can I tell? You will have to askpapa and mamma."
"Will they consent?"
"Papa, perhaps; but I fear mamma will not approve of such a hastymarriage."
"That is so. Perhaps I am unreasonable. Good-by, my beloved. Will youcall me back soon?"
"Clarence, you are not going? How can you?"
"I must. Do not ask me to remain, under the circumstances, unless it isto make you my wife. I cannot."
He pressed her to his heart in a long, tender embrace. He arose, andgazed at her sweet face so sadly, that she felt a pang of keen distressand apprehension.
"Clarence, do not look at me so sadly. Please remain until papa comes.Do not go. You might never see him."
"I must, or I will lose the steamer. Farewell, my own sweet love."
He clasped her to his heart, and wildly covered her face with kisses.Then, without daring to look back, hurried out of the room into thehall, across the piazza and down the garden-path to the gate, where hisphaeton had been left by Victoriano, after having taken Everett home.
"She must naturally hesitate to marry the son of a man who can act andhas acted as my father did. I cannot blame her. I ought to respect herfor it. Oh, pitying God! how wretched I am! Farewell, happiness for me."
Muttering this short soliloquy, Clarence drove quickly down the inclineleading to the main road.
When the last sound of his footsteps died away, a feeling of utterdesolation rushed upon Mercedes. The silence of the house was appalling.In that silence it seemed to her as if a life of lonely misery wassuddenly revealed. To lose Clarence, was to lose happiness forevermore.Shocked and terrified at her loneliness, with no hope of seeing himagain, she rushed out and ran to the gate, calling him. She saw that hewas driving fast, and would soon be crossing the dry bed of the brook totake the main road. Once there he would be too far to hear her voice.She ran out of the gate and turned to the right into a narrow path thatalso led to the main road, going across the hill through the low bushesand a few elder trees near the house, thus cutting off more than halfthe distance. Loudly she called his name, again and again, running inthe narrow path as fast as her strength allowed. She heard the sound ofthe phaeton's wheels as they grated harshly on the pebbles of the brook,and then all was sile
nt again.
"Oh, my darling is gone," said she, and the ground swelled and movedunder her feet, and the trees went round in mad circles, and she knew nomore. She had fallen down fainting, with no one near her but herfaithful Milord, who had followed her, and now nestled by her side.
Clarence had heard her voice call to him, and tried to turn his horsesimmediately, but they were going down the hill too fast to turn withoutdanger of upsetting; he saw he must first get to the foot of the hill,and turn when he reached the brook. He did so, and with heart-throbs ofrenewed hope, he re-ascended the hill and hurried to the house. At thedoor he met Madam Halier, who was blinking at the hall lamp as if justawakened from a sound sleep. Clarence asked for Miss Mercedes.
"I think madamoiselle has just gone down to Madame Mechlin's. I heardher calling Tano, and that woke me up. I had just dropped off into ashort nap of five minutes--_just_ five minutes."
"I thought I heard her voice in this direction," said Clarence, pointingto the opposite side.
"Oh, no. I think she was afraid to go to Mrs. Mechlin's alone, and shecalled her brother. But she has been anxious to see you all day. I willsend a servant to say you have come. Walk in. Had you a pleasant drivefrom town?"
"Madam, I have seen Miss Mercedes since my return from town. I had saidfarewell, and was driving away, when I thought I heard her voice callingme. Perhaps I was mistaken, but I think not. Where has she gone, Iwonder?"
"To Madam Mechlin's, monsieur."
"Be it so. Good-by, madam," said he, extending his hand.
"But will you not wait for madamoiselle?"
"No, madam; if she did not call me, I need not wait."
This time Clarence drove slowly down the hill, looking at both sides ofthe road, peering under the trees and bushes, still impressed with theidea that he might see her form or hear her voice. The moon was justrising, casting long shadows as it arose, but the shadow of thatbeloved, graceful form was nowhere to be seen. This added disappointmentwas added bitterness to his cup of misery, and he began to feel sick inbody and mind, and he saw in himself a most wretched outcast.
Tano and Dona Josefa now came and saw the phaeton ascending the hill onthe other side of the brook.