Trevethlan: A Cornish Story. Volume 1 (of 3)

Campbell.

The Trevethlans, it has already been remarked, were a crotchetty race. One of their peculiarities was displayed in the disposition of their property. No portion had been entailed within the memory of man, and the whole had very frequently descended simply by inheritance. Wills were of rare occurrence among the family muniments, and marked the existence of disagreement. And now that cause was active, and produced its effect. A few days after Mr. Trevethlan's funeral, his children were summoned by the chaplain to hear the last desires of their parent, Mr. Griffith being also present with his account books.

The will which Polydore produced was very short and simple. The testator merely appointed the Rev. Polydore Riches and Mr. Edward Griffith, to be the guardians of his children, in case he died before they were of age, leaving his property to descend by inheritance. A short silence ensued when the chaplain finished reading the document: it was first broken by the steward.

"It is but a small patrimony," he said, "Mr. Trevethlan, that you inherit. A very small patrimony for the owner of this castle. And a sad trust is this for me, who can remember, when from the top of the watch-tower, we saw little that was not ours."

"Mr. Griffith," Randolph said, "we must think of the present and the future, not of the past. But if the trust is unwelcome, do not undertake it."

"The trust is not unwelcome, Randolph," observed the chaplain, with a slight accent of reproof. "The sadness of which our friend speaks is caused by the lightness, not the oppressiveness, of our duty. We promised to undertake it, and we shall feel pleasure in fulfilling it, so as most effectually to promote your welfare in every respect."

"I know it," said the heir. "I am sure of it; I did not mean to doubt Mr. Griffith's good will."

"Here," the steward said, opening one of his books, "here are the accounts of the last few years: and here is an abstract or estimate, which I have prepared from them, showing the probable receipts and the necessary expenses for the future."

Randolph took the paper from Mr. Griffith's hands, and perused it attentively, his sister also looking over him.

"From this," he said at length, "I perceive that our total income is something under seven hundred pounds a year, and the needful outgoings something more than two; leaving us a clear revenue of four hundred. Why, Helen, we are rich!"

"They are young," the steward observed aside to Polydore.

The brother and sister conferred together for a few minutes in an under tone. Then Randolph spoke aloud:—

"Mr. Riches, the expenditure of the castle household, as here set down, is very small. Surely it does not include—" He stopped.

"I know what you would say, Randolph," the chaplain remarked. "The services of Mr. Griffith and myself have already been remunerated far in advance. There is nothing due on our account, nor will there be for a long time."

Metaphorically, this might be true. Randolph looked incredulous.

"Mr. Trevethlan," said the steward, "I hope you will not press us into a difficulty. That statement is made up strictly from my books; and unless you desire to alter the establishment——"

"Oh, no, certainly not," Randolph exclaimed. "I wish everything to go on as hitherto."

"And have you formed any plan for the future?" the chaplain asked. "Do you propose to live here in retirement, or to go into the world?"

This question was not answered immediately. Randolph's heart was full. He rose from his seat and walked to a window of the apartment, where he leant his forehead against the glass, and gazed upon the sea. A mist clouded his eyes. Helen came softly to his side, and laid her hand on his shoulder, but he turned not towards her, for it was of her loneliness that he was thinking.

"'Tis a hard question for him, Mr. Riches," said Griffith.

"He will answer it as he ought," observed the chaplain.

"Randolph," Helen whispered in the mean time, "is this our firmness? Who said, 'we will not fail?' See, it is my turn now."

He turned and looked at her, meeting a smile so full of hope, that his momentary irresolution vanished at once. The castle rose again in the air, firm and substantial. He led his sister back to her seat, and resuming his own, said:—

"You, Mr. Riches, and you, my good sir, will not smile at a scheme which has been often discussed by my sister and myself, and to which our poor father assented almost with his parting words. If we are visionaries, you will be gentle in removing the illusion. This then is our plan."

And at some length, Randolph unfolded the design with which the reader is already acquainted. Both the chaplain and the steward listened with great interest, although the latter could not avoid smiling to himself, as he perceived the little artifices by which the speaker blinded his eyes to the difficulties of his proposition. Polydore was willing to be also blind to them.

"And now, my friends," Randolph concluded, having talked himself into cheerfulness, "we will leave you to deliberate on our romance. Helen and I will go to the flower-garden, and await the reply of the oracle. Let it be at least decisive."

So saying, he took Helen's arm upon his, and led her from the room. Griffith looked at the chaplain, and repeated his previous observation, "they are young."

"Youth and imprudence are not necessarily connected, Mr. Griffith," answered Polydore.

"And are you disposed to sanction this scheme?" the steward asked. "Do not you see its difficulties? Are fortunes to be found now as in nursery tales? And at the bar, of all ways? Even in my narrow experience, what failures have I known! and with fairer prospects than Mr. Randolph's. It is a lottery, Mr. Riches; a mere lottery."

"It is not the chance of a prize," said the chaplain, "upon which I reckon. I hate lotteries. It is the price which must in this instance be paid for a chance, and which I believe Randolph is prepared to pay, that reconciles me to the speculation."

"You mean the labour bestowed and the knowledge acquired," observed Griffith. "Is it of the best kind? Might not better be obtained here?"

"You interpret my meaning rightly but not completely, Mr. Griffith," the chaplain said. "I include in the term knowledge, knowledge of the world; that knowledge, without which we cannot love the world. A recluse may fancy that he loves his race, but it is not until he has actually felt their kindness, ay, and their unkindness, that he can realize the affection. A man is worthless until he has experienced some of the buffeting of the world."

"And do you think Mr. Randolph qualified to withstand it to advantage?" the steward inquired.

"Do I, Mr. Griffith?" exclaimed Polydore. "I should take shame to myself if I did not. He may not succeed at the bar. He may return to Trevethlan Castle as poor as he quits it. As poor, I mean, in worldly goods. But he will return to enjoy life: not to mope away a miserable time of idleness amongst these gray walls: not to pine for what is unattainable, and sicken with ever-increasing discontent: not to vanish from the stage an unprofitable supernumerary. No, the habits he will have acquired will accompany him in his retreat; in his solitude he will still be active; he will give his thoughts to the world; he will be a benefactor to his race. Let him go, Mr. Griffith. The very chivalry of the idea is charming in my eyes. Believe me, his portrait will one day be an honour to our gallery."

The steward was infected with Polydore's enthusiasm. He shook the chaplain's hand with great warmth.

"Mr. Riches," he said, "I know how much Trevethlan owes to you; and your words inspire me with hope. Yet, Miss Helen, is the scheme equally adapted for her?"

"And why not, my good sir?" answered the chaplain. "Where can she be better than with her brother? What can cheer his studies, no trifle, Mr. Griffith, like her company when they are over? What would not I have given for a sister to make my tea at college? She will be his comfort and his stay; his light and his hope; his joy and his pride. Let them go, my friend; we shall see a dance at Trevethlan yet."

Griffith, a quiet and thoughtful man, was entirely carried away by the increasing animation of the chaplain. In silence he assented to Polydore's conclusion. "Come," said the latter, "let us seek them in their garden;" and he took the steward's arm and led him thither. On their way prudential considerations again beset the man of business, and he stopped the man of letters to speak of their wards' inexperience.

"Inexperience!" echoed the divine; "and how shall they gain experience? Staying here, they will always be inexperienced. No fear, my friend; give them a good introduction to Winter, and they'll do. Winter's the very personification of prudence."

Randolph and his sister were watching the bees on a bed of mignionette, one of the pleasantest pastimes afforded by a garden in autumn. The eye is gratified by the unceasing flutter of the busy insects; the ear rejoices in the perpetual murmur accompanying their industry; a delicious fragrance arises from the gently agitated florets; and some observers may, perhaps, remember a moral they were taught to lisp in childhood, and cast a fond retrospect over their early years.

"Joy for you, Randolph Morton," cried the chaplain; "and for you, Helen Morton; joy for your old master, and for the towers of Trevethlan. You shall go forth like Fortunio, without needing his seven servants; like Fortunatus, without requiring his purse."

In his glee Polydore had quitted Mr. Griffith, and preceded him. The brother and sister turned at the sound of his voice, ran rather than walked to meet him, and each seizing a hand, as they used of old, looked into his face with sparkling eyes.

"Be still," he said, "be still, or Mr. Griffith will declare you must not be trusted alone."

"And may we go?" Randolph asked. "May I try to be useful upon earth?"

"Stay away, Mr. Griffith," cried the chaplain to the steward, who was now approaching; "stay away, or you will say that even I am a child. Yes," he continued, turning to Randolph, "yes, you shall have your wish, and we doubt not that with the blessing of God, you will prosper to your heart's content."

Warm and sincere were the acknowledgments paid by the orphans to their guardians for this acquiescence in their scheme; and by Polydore, at least, they were as warmly returned. Child-like, but not childish, was the good chaplain in his affections. And if the sanguine ardour of youth is a glorious thing, surely the tempered enthusiasm of mature age is as admirable, and less uncertain.

The preparations for departure were commenced immediately. Mrs. Griffith was saddened a little when Helen brought her the news; but she recovered her spirits under the influence of her old pupil's animation. And strange it would have been, if the anticipation of so great a change had not produced considerable excitement in those upon whom it was about to fall. They had never—as Mrs. Pendarrel remarked—spent a night away from the castle; they had seen no town larger than Penzance; they had been familiar with none save the household around them. Wonderful it would have been, if with a calm pulse they could contemplate abiding in mighty London, among a host of strangers, and competing in the great race of life. Yet upon their earnest tempers the prospect produced less effect than it would on dispositions less serious; and they watched and superintended the necessary arrangements with a foresight which delighted Polydore, and was satisfactory even to the steward.

At length, these were completed, and the eve of the journey arrived. The autumnal sun was setting in radiance over the opposite side of Mount's Bay, when the orphans, moved by a sympathetic impulse, took their way for a farewell visit to Merlin's Cave. A purple flush lay on the uplands above Gulvall and Ludgvan; there was scarce a ripple on the sea, and the fishermen of Newlyn were obliged to use their oars to gain the offing. The tranquillity of the evening sank into the hearts of the brother and sister, as they sat in silence, side by side, under their little canopy of rock. But at last, Helen interrupted the reverie. The sun had reached the crest of the hills; the tower of St. Paul's Church stood out dark against the sky, with its edges fringed by the level rays; the flush on the heather had grown deeper and warmer; when she suddenly began to sing, to an old Jacobite air, a ballad, composed by an ancestor who fled to Switzerland at the Restoration, and known in the family as "Trevethlan's Farewell:"—

The last note of Helen's song had some time died away, and the sun had sunk behind the hill; but the western sky was still ruddy, and the warm tint still lingered on the moorlands.

"Surely, my dear sister," Randolph said, with a gentle smile, "your song is not of good omen for our exile."

"Oh! yes," Helen answered quickly; "recollect that Reginald survived the Revolution, and ended his days happily at Trevethlan."

"'T was a long banishment, Helen," observed her brother. "But the sun has set. Let us return to the castle."

And, making not a few pauses, they pursued the path homewards.

CHAPTER V.

Coleridge.

The promise of the red evening described in the last chapter was faithfully kept, and a splendid day witnessed the departure of the heir of Trevethlan and his sister from their ancestral home. At their earnest request, Polydore Riches accompanied them as far as Falmouth, from whence places had been secured for London by the mail. The chaplain thought that the more sudden the change, the better it would be borne; and would gladly at once have cast the orphans upon their own resources; but he succumbed to their entreaties. And if a tear glistened in Polydore's eye when the mail had disappeared round the first corner, it surely will not be thought to bring discredit upon his head.

In subdued sadness the chaplain returned to the castle. There it was generally understood that Mr. Randolph and Miss Helen were going to travel abroad for some years. And this impression was confirmed by the following announcement, which appeared in the local journals, and was copied into some of the metropolitan:—"We are informed that Mr. and Miss Trevethlan have left Trevethlan Castle, to make a sojourn of some duration in the South of Europe." The paragraph flavoured many a cup of tea at Helston and Penzance, and attracted attention at one house in May Fair.

But the mail is rattling along, to the music of the guard's horn and the quadrupedant sound of the horses, heedless alike of local verjuice and of London pride. Not yet had it been polished into the dashing Quicksilver, but it rattled along very respectably, contented with itself, and despising the heavy Subscription. Poor thing!—its vanity has been severely punished. Needless it is to dwell on the incidents of the journey. Long and wearisome it was, and glad were the orphans when the wheels had made their last turn, and they alighted about daybreak in the yard of the old Bull and Mouth, St. Martin's-le-Grand. Slumber soon brought oblivion both of care and fatigue.

When Randolph, leaving his chamber near noon, was shown into a sitting-room, he found Helen already there. She was looking out of the old-fashioned window, the heavy wood-work of which might remind her of farm-houses in her own country. Traffic was in full vigour in the street below, and the noise and hurry so confused her, that she was not aware of her brother's approach until he stood by her side.

"Welcome to London, Miss Helen Morton," he said, becoming in turn amazed at the scene beneath his eyes.

They breakfasted with considerable gaiety in the excitement of their new situation; and then Randolph started to discover Mr. Winter's offices in Lincoln's Inn; while his sister sat down to write Polydore an account of their safe arrival at their journey's end.

Griffith had already written to the attorney, requesting his services on behalf of the son of an old friend, recently deceased. Mr. Morton, he said, possessed a small competence, and was desirous of proceeding to the bar. He would be in town with his only sister in a few days, and any kindness which Mr. Winter could show them would confer a great favour upon his correspondent.

Winter has been spoken of by the chaplain as an impersonation of prudence. The description was just; but it was a prudence untainted by the slightest selfishness. He was a man of a large, liberal, and honourable nature, without a trace of the narrow-mindedness so often and so erroneously thought inseparable from his profession; he was so genial, withal, in his temper, that his friends used to quote him as a notable example of the rule, that surnames go by contraries. Spring, they would say, was the proper season for Winter, and Winter was proper for all seasons. Happy were they, privileged in July to sip his claret in the arbour of his garden at Hampstead—there was a touch of the Cockney about him—and in December to quaff his old port in his sanctum within-doors: hours never grudged by Mrs. Winter, who was as cheerful as her spouse.

For several generations the legal business of the Trevethlan family had been managed in the office over which Mr. Winter now presided; and it was with a sad heart that the worthy attorney effected the alienations ordered by the late owner of the castle. He entertained a high regard for the steward, and was quite prepared to extend it to the son of his friend. No time elapsed after Randolph had sent in his name, before he was ushered into Mr. Winter's private room.

"Welcome, my young friend," the lawyer cried, extending his hand, and looking with satisfaction on Randolph's open countenance, "welcome to town. I have been expecting you: it is a pleasure to know a friend of Griffith's. How is the worthy steward? He has had his trials, poor man! Trevethlan is not what it was—Ah me! The young squire going abroad, I understand. No use. He should marry, Mr. Morton. There's many a girl would jump at the castle, even yet.—So you are for the bar. A fashionable profession just now, Mr. Morton. Red coats are cheap. Cornets from Waterloo—midshipmen of Trafalgar—all rushing to the law. Uncommonly martial it is just now. N'importe: there's room for all. But this by-and-by.—Miss Morton came with you—Where have you left her?—Not over-fatigued, I hope?"

The attorney's volubility was meant to give his new acquaintance time to overcome his first diffidence, and effected its object. Randolph thanked him, and gave the information asked for.

"Lodgings," said Winter, "that's what you want, I suppose? There is a friend of mine on Hampstead Heath, who might perhaps suit you. An old clerk in one of the great city houses, and a sterling fellow; with an amiable old maiden sister. Would you like to try it?"

"Surely, my dear sir," Randolph answered.

"I thought so," Winter said. "Then just observe: here is the precise address. A porter of the inn will put you and Miss Morton into a coach, which will drop you at Peach's door. Tell Clotilda, Miss Peach, I mean, you are from me. If you like it, well. Let Miss Morton take possession then and there. You come back for the luggage. If it does not suit, ask Miss Peach the way to my house—I live at Hampstead—leave your sister there, and equally come back for the traps. I shall he home by six. So, you understand. And now excuse me. There is no time to lose. There never is. Good morning."

Randolph left the gloomy chambers with much the same feelings, that a patient experiences, when after long suffering on a sick bed, he is at last bid "throw physic to the dogs," and begone to the sea. He seemed to be already at work, and enjoyed the exhilarating effect. With light feet and as light a heart, he hurried back to the Bull and Mouth. Helen had finished her letter, and gave it him to read: she looked over his shoulder while he wrote a postscript, saying in hyperbolical terms, how delighted he was with Mr. Winter. A porter guided the young pair to a Hampstead coach, in which they were the third part of a half dozen, and in no long time the vehicle rumbled over the stones towards Camden Town.

A squalid part of the metropolis it was they traversed, but it was forgotten when the conveyance stopped, and the announcement "Mr. Peach's, if you please, sir," summoned Randolph and Helen to alight. Clotilda was at the parlour window, and came to meet her visitors. Mr. Winter had prepared the way for them, and Randolph had only to mention his name to gain a welcome.

"Walk in, my dear sir," said the spinster, "walk in, my dear young lady. I wish Cornelius was at home. Mr. Winter spoke of Cornelius, I suppose. The lodgings? yes, it is all the first floor. Two bed-rooms and sitting-room. Cornelius says——"

No matter what. Miss Peach had preceded her guests upstairs. Helen walked to the drawing-room window, and uttered an exclamation of surprise. Buried in that old six inside convenience, she had not observed that it had been ascending a considerable hill. The front of Mr. Peach's cottage looked on a sandy lane. But the drawing-room was at the back, and well might Helen be startled, for the window she stood at commanded a view of the rich landscape lying between the heath and Harrow. Five minutes afterwards the bargain was struck, and in five minutes more Randolph was on his way back into the city in quest of the boxes and bags, leaving Helen to become acquainted with their future hostess.

A quaint but genial pair of humourists were Cornelius and Clotilda Peach. Mr. Shandy would perhaps have attributed some of their oddity to the chance which gave them their names. A row of folio volumes in the parlour might afford some key to the brother's tastes, and would intimate that he was fond of old poems, old plays, and old divinity. Here and there a bit of paper peeping from the leaves, and written upon, betrayed some scribbling propensity on the part of the owner. Manly and kindly were all his favourite authors, and if the latter quality predominated in himself, it was only perhaps because the former had never been called into activity. Everyone who knew him loved Cornelius Peach.

And his sister loved him best. She looked up to him also, as something great. She never contradicted him, except at whist, a game in which they both rejoiced. In all other matters, when she had quoted the opinion of Cornelius, she considered the question at issue decided. A small garden was attached to the cottage, and Clotilda piqued herself on her pansies and carnations, but never grudged a flower for her brother's button-hole. Sometimes, but very rarely, her sisterly care was tried by the effect of a social party upon his uprightness, on which occasions Cornelius was apt to become sentimental about a certain Mabel whom he said he ought to have married, but whom his friends believed to be a mere phantom of his imagination. They never could learn her sirname.

Such were the worthy couple with whom the orphans of Trevethlan were now to be domesticated. When Randolph returned with the luggage, he found dinner ready for himself and Helen; and after the repast, he inquired his way to Mr. Winter's—the Elms—and left a message there, expressing his thanks, and saying how comfortably his sister and he were settled. Later in the evening a note invited them to dinner at the lawyer's the following day, which engagement they accepted with pleasure. And then, till bed-time, they were busied in arranging their goods and chattels. Mr. Peach, with thoughtful politeness, deferred an introduction till the morning.

When it came, Cornelius made his bow, and a very awkward one it was, to his new lodgers.

"Good morrow, Mr. Morton," he said, looking nowhere straight, but at Helen sideways; "good morning, Miss Morton. 'Pack clouds away, and welcome day,' I trust you have rested well. Some never can sleep in a strange bed. Yours I hope will not have that fault long."

Randolph thanked him: they had slept very well.

"Ah, Miss Morton," continued the landlord, "I would you had come earlier in the year. The fall is a sad season. Nothing in the garden but Michaelmas daisies, those miserable old bachelors of flowers; and a few chrysanthemums, the showy old maids. You will never be a chrysanthemum, Miss Morton."

The ponderous machine which called at the cottage every morning to convey Mr. Peach to the city, was now heard lumbering along the lane, and the jocund little man took his departure.

So far Randolph and Helen had scarcely found time to breathe, much less to think; but when they strolled out upon the heath in the course of the day, reflections came crowding upon their minds. The foundation of the aërial castle was fairly laid: did it promise as well, as when viewed from Merlin's Cave? Not quite perhaps. Something grated on their feelings; it might be they missed the sound of the sea; it might be the flurry through which they had passed; it might be such a trifle as the oddities of their host and hostess. The total disruption of all their old habits was more violent than they had expected. They experienced a vague uneasiness. They almost began to regret the calm of Trevethlan Castle. And when they gazed down upon the vast city, veiled by the clouds that roll continually from its myriad hearths, through which the dome of St. Paul's loomed in exaggerated dimensions, it must be confessed that their vision of the future wore a doubtful and variable hue. Their looks were downcast; gravity took the place of animation in their faces; and it was with some anxiety that they set forth on their way to the Elms.

This feeling was soon charmed away by the perfect quiet of their reception. Mr. Winter at Lincoln's Inn, and Mr. Winter at Hampstead, were very different men: there, he considered the moments as precious for work; here, they were only precious for enjoyment: there, he governed them; here, he yielded to them. A shade of impatience might be detected in his manner at chambers; nothing ruffled him at home. And Mrs. Winter, accustomed as she had always been to see only the sunny side of things, ministered admirably to the happiness of all around her, and particularly of her husband. They and their eldest daughter Emily, a blue-eyed girl with light hair, were in the drawing-room, when Randolph and Helen arrived. Before dinner was announced, the orphans had forgotten all their solicitude.

And except that they talked with rather too much preciseness, too much like a book as people say, they acquitted themselves very well in the gentle stream of conversation which their host kept tranquilly flowing. And by the time that Mrs. Winter rose to retire, they felt that they had been introduced to a new pleasure, that of agreeable society.

"So, Mr. Morton," the lawyer then said, "you wish to prepare yourself for our English forum: as honourable an arena as the Roman, although our advocates do accept of fees. Are you acquainted with the mysteries of initiation?"

Randolph referred to the old editions of Blackstone and Burn. Mr. Winter apprehended, but did not say, that there might be something to unlearn.

"Faith," said he, "the process has more to do with beef than with Blackstone; you eat your way, rather than read it. True, the sign-posts and mile-stones are not to be neglected, but you may arrive at the full dignity of wig and gown, without having turned a leaf. I don't say that is the way to turn a penny."

"It is with the last purpose that I aspire to the dignity," Randolph said, "and very much obliged to you shall I be for any advice which may further it."

"And happy I shall be to give the best I can, Mr. Morton," observed Winter. "The first step is to enter at an Inn of Court. There are four. Divers bits of doggerel describe their respective merits. Have you any predilection?"

"No, Mr. Winter," Randolph answered, "none: I am ignorant of their distinguishing peculiarities."

"Lincoln's Inn is the largest, Gray's the smallest of the societies," said Winter. "The Temples are intermediate. The Middle famous for its fine hall, the Inner for its fine garden. No well-defined professional advantages attaching to any one. It is a matter of whim. What say you?"

"One of the Temples," replied Randolph, "and I prefer the garden to the hall."

"So be it," the lawyer said. "Anything but indecision. The Inner Temple wins. Come down to town with me in the morning, and I will introduce you. And after that you must, in the first place, work; and in the second place, work; and in the third place, work. Fill your glass, Mr. Morton."

"The work should be directed, I suppose," Randolph observed, obeying the invitation.

"Certainly," said Winter. "But I'll tell you what. Let me direct you for two months or so. Take the run of my office. See a little of the actual practice of the law. And then you will go into a pleader's chambers, with a sense of the reality of your business, which increases at once both its interest and its profit."

In accepting the offer thus made, Randolph little thought how short lived its fruits were destined to be. Man proposes, Heaven disposes. There was a certain poetry in the visions of Trevethlan Castle, which veiled the real prosiness of the orphans' scheme. They knew nothing of the world. And as they walked home that evening under the stars, and thought that so they were shining upon their native towers, the doubts of the morning again beset them, and they retired to rest with foreboding hearts.

The next day Mr. Winter drove Randolph to Lincoln's Inn. "Now," said the lawyer, when they alighted in Chancery Lane, "that is the way to the Temple. Prowl about; look at the garden, and the dingy buildings around it. Ask for the treasurer's office. There say you wish to enter as a student for the bar. They'll give you a paper. Bring it to me. But take your time. Be here again at one."

Obeying these instructions, the neophyte traversed the hurrying throng of Fleet Street, and passed under the ancient arch that forms the portal of Inner Temple Lane, not without a momentary recollection of Dante's famous "All hope abandon, you who enter here." He felt immediately that he was in the toils; law stationers on each hand showed their red tape, and quills, and parchment, polite slips of the latter presenting King George's greeting to his sheriff of what county you will; dapper clerks were bustling along with bundles of paper; every door-post was crowded with a host of names, among which Randolph might recognize some he had been used to read in the newspaper. He passed under the porch of the church, recalling the days when the sword was more powerful than the pen; read the inscription recording the fire and rebuilding of the cloister; and looked with respect on the powdered wigs in the hairdresser's window. He felt benumbed by the high, dismal, worm-eaten buildings, but was relieved when the sound of falling water attracted his eye to the fountain, flinging its column of silver into the air amidst elms and sycamores. Hastening towards this green spot, he saw the hall of which Mr. Winter had spoken, and proceeded to the stairs leading to the quiet little garden, one of the pleasantest retreats in all London. Randolph gazed some time on this oasis in the legal desert, and then turned to fulfil the rest of his mission. And now he marked the many singular dials, fixed aloft against the buildings, so that one or other was always available, reminding the denizens of the value of the minutes by their dry mottos, "Time and tide tarry for no man," "Pereunt et imputantur," they perish and are laid to charge. Retracing his steps, he surveyed with pleasure the more spacious garden which had decided his choice of a society for his studentship.

The office which he sought was close at hand. On making his application he was provided with a printed form, and instructed to fill up the blanks and return it. With this he obtained admission to the garden, and sat down in one of the alcoves by the river-side to examine the document. Perplexity fell upon him as he read. Two barristers were to certify that they knew him, and believed him to be a gentleman. The expression awoke all the pride of a Trevethlan.

"Was my father, then, right?" he thought, gazing moodily on the water. "Is this a course meet for one of our name? To skulk among men in disguise? To beg certificates of honour? Believed to be a gentleman! Already my dream is fading away. Oh! my own sister, would we were back at Trevethlan! Yet shall I vex you too with my doubts?... Know me? Who knows me? Who in London knows Randolph Morton?"

Irresolute and half desponding, Randolph returned to Mr. Winter's. That gentleman soon solved the difficulty implied in the conclusion of the above reverie. "Come with me," he said; conducted the neophyte to some neighbouring chambers, presented him to Mr. Flotsam, and told his errand. "Happy to oblige a friend of yours, Winter," said the conveyancer, signing the paper; "hope Mr. Morton will prosper." The second signature was still more a matter of form, Mr. Winter merely sending the paper to Mr. Jetsam, with his compliments. "There," said he to Randolph, "now take it back to the Temple; refer to Mr. Flotsam as your acquaintance; and in a week or so you will hear of your admission."

It was as the lawyer said. But the new student received the announcement with feelings very different from those he had so long cherished in his home by the sea.

CHAPTER VI.

Kirke White.

Wilderness Gate was the most picturesque, although not the principal entrance to the park of Pendarrel. The enclosing wall, formed of rough gray stones, and coloured with mosses and ferns, there swept inwards from the public road, leaving a space of turf, usually occupied by the geese of the neighbouring cottagers. The gate was in the centre of the recess, and opened on a long winding avenue of Scotch firs, the branches of which met overhead, and made the path slippery with their fallen spines. On either hand the eye might glance between their straight stems to some open ground beyond, of uneven surface, mostly covered with tall ferns, and chequered with birch-trees. A streamlet might be heard, but not seen, rippling along not far from the walk. Here and there the antlers of a stag would rise above the herbage, and a hare or rabbit might be occasionally seen to bound across an exposed plot of grass. The scene wore an air of neglect. The dead leaves were not swept from the paths; the brambles extended their long shoots at pleasure; the ruggedness of the ground was the work of nature. But the avenue wound gently up an eminence; the wood on each side became deeper, until, on arriving at the summit of a ridge, the visitor emerged suddenly from the dark firs, and gazed down upon the trim plantations and nicely-shorn lawns immediately surrounding the Hall. The portion of the park through which he had passed was called the Wilderness, and gave its name to the gate by which he entered.

Beside this gate, and close to the park-wall, was the lodge which Mrs. Pendarrel assigned as a dwelling to Maud Basset and Michael Sinson. They had previously resided at the farm-house occupied by the young man's father, the brother-in-law of the hapless Margaret. But the gloomy firs of Wilderness Lodge were more congenial to the disposition of the old woman than the cheerful garden of the Priory Farm, and the idle life of a gatekeeper suited Michael's habits better than the activity of his father's employment. The instructions also, which he received from Mrs. Pendarrel, raised vague ideas of future consequence in the young man's mind, and revived the hopes which had originally sprung from his connection with the family of Trevethlan. His new mistress discovered that he possessed some education, the abiding result of Polydore's teaching, and desired him to improve it, and to attend to his appearance, hinting at the same time rather than saying, that he might unobtrusively watch the proceedings at Trevethlan Castle, and report any changes he detected. These orders gratified his vanity, suited his meanness, and raised his expectations.

But the departure of the orphans seemed to deprive him of his occupation; nothing transpired to contradict the newspaper account of their intentions; and, indeed, these appeared so entirely natural, that a suspicion of incorrectness could hardly arise. None, at least, was likely to be suggested in the country. But only a brief space had elapsed, when a summons from Mrs. Pendarrel, requiring young Sinson to repair immediately to the metropolis, disturbed the serenity of Wilderness Lodge. His grandmother exulted in the news. Her only reading was in that fanatical literature, the study of which is apt either to find men mad, or to leave them so; and she was, besides, deeply versed in all the local superstitions of the district. Such lore had given her mind a sombre hue, and inclined her to indulge in the practice of vaticination. She had foretold a career of distinction for her grandson, and she fancied that he was now about to enter upon it. On the eve of his departure, his mother Cicely came to Wilderness Lodge to bid him farewell. She did not share in Maud's gratification.

"So," she said, sitting under the thatched verandah, "Mercy Page may suit herself now, I suppose; and Edward Owen need not fear another fall?"

"Mercy should know her own mind better," said Michael. "She might have had me long ago, if she pleased; 't is her own fault if it's too late now. But I don't think Owen'll win her, if I never try a fall with him again."

"Let her 'bide," muttered Maud; "let her 'bide. What want we with the folks of Trevethlan?"

"And what seeks my lady with you in London, Michael?" Cicely asked.

"I shall know when I get there, I dare say," he answered. "My lady's secrets are mine."

Cicely sighed.

"I thought you might let us know," she said.

"What I know not myself. Some office, my lady speaks of, I am to fit myself for."

"Ah! my son," continued his mother, "I do hope you'll not forget the country as well as Mercy Page. Life is wild in London, they say. Think of the poor squire."

"Think of my winsome Margaret," Maud exclaimed fiercely. "Think of her that the squire murdered! Wild! Na, na; he'll see the light."

Cicely was the only one of the family exempt from that hatred of the Trevethlans, which darkened the hue of the old woman's otherwise harmless enthusiasm, and burnt sullenly in her grandson. She had not long said her parting words, when Michael threw on his hat, shook himself free from the detaining grasp of old Maud, and walked briskly away in the direction of Trevethlan. About a mile from the castle, a rugged strip of waste land skirted the edge of the cliff over the beach, and supported a number of aged thorns, stunted and bent by the sea-breezes. It was to this spot that Michael turned his steps. The landscape was growing gray when he reached it, but there was yet sufficient light to discover the object he sought. A few strides placed him by the side of a young girl.

"Mercy," he said, in a low voice, "the first at a tryst! It is something new."

"The days are short," replied the girl, with affected indifference: "I should not have waited. Besides, you are going away, so one does not care."

"Is that your farewell, Mercy?" Michael asked.

"And why not?" she said, tossing her head. "You are a fine gentleman: going to London: to forget Mercy Page."

"Yes," answered Michael—his companion started at the word—"to forget the Mercy of to-night, but to remember another—the Mercy of old days; to forget her conceited and wilful, to remember her kind and winsome. You would not wish me remember the first—would you, Mercy?"

The maiden said nothing in reply; and Sinson, encouraged by her silence, drew her with gentle force to a seat on a bank of turf.

"Do you smell the wild thyme, Mercy?" he continued. "They call it a figure of love, rewarding with sweetness even what bruises it. It is so I have answered all your coldness. Mind you not the St. John's Eve, when the folks had caught you in the rope? Who fought his way to your help? And then you sat by my side on this very bank under the hawthorn; and when I asked, might I woo you?—you know what you said. And have I ever failed in my suit? Did I ever court another? When you were cross, and would not dance with me, did I seek any one else? Whose colours did I wear when I threw, one after another, all the best of Penwith? Yet, from that first evening, never could I win a civil word. And now I am called far away, Mercy will give me no hope. When I come back, she will be another's."

"No," said the maiden, and stopped short.

"Then why will she not be mine now?" asked Michael. "Why will she not go with me to London; there to be wed, and live together in happiness? Shall it not be so, dear Mercy? Alone in the great town, I shall always be thinking of Mercy—be thinking that she may be listening to Edward Owen, whom he has often thrown for her sake——"

"And shalt throw him again," interrupted a manly voice. "Shalt throw him again, or take a fall thyself."

The individual whom Michael had named stood before the astonished pair. Sinson sprang to his feet. Was it the duskiness of the evening, or passion, that made his face so dark?

"Owen," he said, in a fierce whisper, "thou wert best stand off now, or mayst get more than a fall."

"Come on!" cried his antagonist, without attempting to disguise his anger. "Come on, villain! I'm ready for you."

Fortunately perhaps for Michael, who was not in a mood to fight or wrestle fairly, Mercy interposed.

"Hoity-toity!" she cried; "pray, Master Edward, where did you learn to give such names to your betters? And where did you learn to follow honest people's steps, and watch them? And think you, my—do you hear?—my Michael is to fight with such as you? Go home, and learn manners."

"Oh, Mercy!" cried Owen, "you know not what you say. You know not what he means. But my part is done. Remember, Edward Owen's is not the only heart you'll break. And so, good-night."

He turned and walked steadily away. Michael endeavoured to resume the thread of his previous discourse. But his listener's mood was entirely changed.

"Saucy fellow!" she cried, laughing and looking after Owen; "he's a rare one to come and rate me. But do you know, Mr. Michael, I believe he's a better man than you. There, that will do. To London to be married! No, Mr. Michael, not quite so far, if you please. Oh, yes, of course. D'ye think I like fighting? There. Good-night, Mr. Michael. No. If you follow me, I shall call him back."

She disengaged herself from her suitor, and tripped lightly through the gloom in the footsteps of Owen.

Michael watched her retreating form with a scowl darker even than that with which he rose to meet the intruder upon his courtship. "Shalt rue the day"—he muttered, "shalt rue the day that saw thee cross my wooing. A better man than me, did she say? Look to thyself, Master Edward Owen."

With a heaving breast and an irregular gait, Sinson paced to and fro for some time along the edge of the cliff, and then turned moodily to Wilderness Lodge. The next day he departed on his way to London.

CHAPTER VII.

"Il y a dans un mariage malheureux une force qui dépasse toutes les autres peines de ce monde."

Madame de Staël.

The summons which called Michael Sinson from the far-west to the metropolis, was the result of impulse rather than of settled design on the part of his patroness. Quick in reading the characters of all who crossed her path, in her first brief colloquy with the rustic, Mrs. Pendarrel detected his animosity towards Trevethlan; and in his sly but fierce countenance, in his well-built but cringing form, she saw the traits of one who would not be scrupulous in his mode of attacking an enemy. From the very first, she suspected that the announced continental tour of the orphans was a ruse, and the notion gained strength whenever it recurred to her mind. But if they were still in England, they were probably abiding in London. She caught at the idea, and thought suddenly it would be well to have some one at hand who knew them personally.

Suspiciousness is natural to tyranny: spies are the agents of despots. Love of rule, said by the fairy to be the universal passion of the sex, was undoubtedly dominant in Mrs. Pendarrel. But it is a desire which, at least in youth, will find one powerful rival. And so she proved. The haughty beauty kept her affection down with a strong hand, but it stung her nevertheless. The wound rankled ever in her heart; and many a time and oft she cast a rapid glance upon her life, and in momentary weakness compared what was indeed a dark reality, with a visionary possibility whose very glory made her sad.

But though such reflections might sadden, they were far from softening her. They always terminated in the conviction that she had been ill used. As years sped by, and each showed her more plainly the vacancy of her existence, this feeling deepened into a quenchless thirst for revenge. Was she to be the only victim? Man had a hundred means of quelling or forgetting a hapless passion. Should he who had so lightly forsaken her—should he triumph while her heart was broken?

He threw the game into her hands, and died. Towards his children she entertained at the moment no very definite feeling. She had scarcely thought of them. But she had long cherished the idea of becoming mistress of Trevethlan Castle, and at last she deemed the hour was arrived. Met according to her expectations, she would probably have been kind to the orphans. Spurned, as she felt it, from their door, hatred burnt again fiercely in her breast. And it was quickened by a strange jealousy she conceived against their mother, whom she had only despised before, but now bitterly envied as the wife of her lover.

Could domestic happiness be expected with such a parent? Alas, for the answer which would come from Mrs. Pendarrel's children! The angry passions which raged in her breast gave an unmotherly hardness to her love of rule. And why were they daughters? He had a son. She, the wretched peasant, was the mother of a son. Thus did the effects of Esther's blighted affection fall even upon her offspring. But Gertrude rebelled from early childhood against the capricious rigour with which she was treated. She succumbed at last, however, and that in the most important event of her life. In obeying the maternal command to marry Mr. Winston, she thought she stooped to conquer. Gertrude Winston would be her own mistress. And so she was; but at what a price! Ay, what an account must they render, who degrade marriage into a convenience! who banish the household deities, so dear even to ancient paganism, from their place beside the hearth, and fill it with furies and fiends! who know not the meaning of our sweet English name of home! Five years had not reconciled Gertrude to a union in which her heart had no share. Her husband seemed to her cold, prudent, and dull. She was enthusiastic, generous, and clever. He was easy and good-natured, and his very submissiveness fretted her. He was, or pretended to be, fond of metaphysics, and was always engaged upon some terribly ponderous tome, while she participated in the popular fury for Byron and Scott. He liked a level road, and a good inn: she delighted in romantic scenery, and was half careless about the accommodation. They continually pulled against each other; but the husband was insensible to the chain which galled the wife to the quick. Yet Mr. Winston possessed qualities, which only required to be known to be beloved, and if Gertrude was ignorant of them, it was in no small degree her own fault. And she had not, like Mrs. Pendarrel, to contend with the memory of a previous attachment.

But, however bitter might be the feelings with which she contemplated her own position, there was one dear affection which she cherished with the utmost fondness. Nothing could exceed her solicitude to preserve her sister from the snares into which she had fallen herself. She kept a watchful eye upon all the society especially favoured by her mother, and observed Mildred's feelings with the warmest interest. And she was met in the same spirit. Sisterly love was the one humanizing tie in that broken family.

Each sister possessed great personal attractions; but though their features were strikingly alike, the character written on their faces was by no means the same. Gertrude's showed haughty indifference, Mildred's wishful thoughtfulness. The elder's smile was generally sarcastic, the younger's sympathetic. Knowledge of her situation, and consciousness that others knew it, flashed in defiance from the dark eyes of Mrs. Winston, and lent a hardiesse to her tongue, which occasionally seemed unfeminine. Trust and hope beamed from beneath the long lashes of Miss Pendarrel, and her speech was commonly soft and gentle; but in society she was lively and witty, and there was a spirit lurking in her heart, which might one day confound even her mother.

Coming one day about this time to May Fair, Gertrude found a gentleman of her acquaintance sitting with Mrs. Pendarrel and Mildred.

"Dear mamma," Mrs. Winston said, as she entered, "I am come to claim Mildred for an hour's drive.—Delighted to see you, Mr. Melcomb. You can settle a little dispute for me. 'Tis about the colour of the Valdespini's eyes."

"I would prefer to leave it to Mr. Winston," answered Melcomb. "He has some strange theory about colours, that they are in the eyes of the seer and not in the seen. It is dangerous to speak after such an authority. Your best referee is at home, Mrs. Winston."

"Not so," said the lady, "for he is one of the disputants. One said blue, another grey. None agreed. Some one suggested a reference to you, and it was voted unanimously. 'He knows the colour of all the eyes at the opera,' they said."

"No one can mistake that of Mrs. Winston's," Melcomb said, rising and bowing. "My dear Mrs. Pendarrel, suffer me to take my leave."

"Now, Mildred dear, away and make ready," said Gertrude, smiling, and her sister immediately complied with the wish.

"Mrs. Winston!" exclaimed the mother.

"Yes, dear mamma," Gertrude answered.

"Am I the mistress of my own house?"

"I presume so, dear mamma."

"Then note me. My visitors shall not be affronted here by you."

"Surely, mamma, Mr. Melcomb would thank me for a compliment. Every one knows he is proud of his reputation."

"Every one knows your sarcasm," said Mrs. Pendarrel, "and I, at least, perfectly understand your meaning. Once for all, Mrs. Winston, I will suffer no interference with my intentions for Mildred. Why, I almost think you would not have her settled at all. Very sisterly indeed, Gertrude. Yet in your situation——"

"Mother," exclaimed Mrs. Winston, "not another word. But listen. Rather than see Mildred settled even as I am, without offence, as without affection, I know not to what I would not doom her! Rather than see her wedded to one like Melcomb, would she might die in my sight! You know me, mother. She is here."

"There's no danger, Gertrude," said Mrs. Pendarrel, as Mildred entered; "au revoir."

The sisters then descended the stairs. As they passed through the hall, they might have observed the presence of a young man, not in livery, plainly dressed, having an appearance of mauvaise honte not often imputable to the denizens of London. They might have noticed that after the first glimpse he caught of Mildred, his gaze was rivetted upon her face, and the colour deepened in his cheeks as she approached and swept by him, almost brushing him with the trimming of her mantle. But in fact, they saw nothing of the kind, passing along in polite indifference to Mrs. Winston's carriage.

"And so, Mildred," that lady said, as they drove away, "another admirer! You are growing quite a coquette."

"Not exactly," answered the younger sister. "But I like to amuse myself with the vanity of men. After all, I wish I were married."

Mrs. Winston sighed. "At another time, Mildred dear," she said, "I might rally you for the avowal. But beware. Marriage is a sad lottery."

"You are happy, Gertrude," said Mildred with some surprise.

Mrs. Winston looked out of her window.

"Melcomb will never make a woman happy," she said, after a pause.

"He will certainly never make me happy," exclaimed Mildred, half laughing. "But really, Gertrude, how silly I am! What does Mr. Melcomb care about me!"

"Very little, I dare say, not to flatter you, dear. Very little about Mildred: a good deal about Mildred's money. And perhaps mamma would not care to add Tolpeden to Pendarrel. You know they join. There's something for your cogitation."

For a while the sisters were silent. Then the younger spoke.

"Dearest Gertrude," she said, "believe me I will never marry without—believe me, I have not yet seen anyone whom I would marry. When I spoke just now, I hardly knew what I meant."

Poor Gertrude knew her sister's meaning perfectly well. She recollected the weight of the chain from which she had recklessly made her escape, without calculating the cost.

"Mildred," said she, "let me ever be your confidante as now."

And so in a less serious mood, the sisters pursued their way round the November dreariness of Hyde Park, at the season when:—