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

Coleridge. Piccolomini.

It would be difficult adequately to portray the conflict of emotions which now agitated our hero. His life at Trevethlan Castle might be described as a long childhood, and the boy became a man at one bound, instead of by insensible degrees. Hence he had not learned to control his sensations. He was driven about by every wind. His will was almost passive. No master-feeling yet called it into action. We have seen how keenly alive he was to the want of that deference which he considered his due; how his pride revolted from the familiarity of those around him; how his feigned name continually irritated him. And all these feelings were embittered by the visit to the opera. Often afterwards he remembered the dark presentiment which oppressed him during the gloomy ride, and which returned while he gazed, rapt in ecstasy, on that fair vision near him, on Mildred Pendarrel. In her he recognised the image which of late years haunted his dreams by the sea; the heroine of the romances which his fancy created; the mistress of his enchanted castle. She was the object for which he had been secretly yearning; the being destined to fill a void which had opened in his existence; the woman for whom he would live and die. In the first few moments he looked at her, his eyes drank in a deep draught of love, and he was hers for ever.

He revelled in the new passion. In those few moments he lived an age. What face was that which intervened between him and his love? Where had he seen those proud lineaments? He required no hint from Helen to remind him of the miniature. He recognised his father's Esther at a glance; he sprang to the conclusion that it was her daughter he adored; and he remembered the vow that lay upon his soul. What wonder that he should feel a presentiment of ill?

There are those who smile when they hear of "love at first sight." But he who drew Romeo was better versed in the heart of man. Such love is a more turbulent and consuming passion than the happier affection which grows up by gentle steps. Swift as the lightning, it is also as desolating. Hope cherishes the softer emotion; hopelessness often seems to fan the more sudden fire.

The first effect of his new passion upon Randolph was to give tenfold vigour to his hatred of his assumed name. Of right, he was Mildred's equal. Even studying for his profession as Randolph Trevethlan, he would still be her equal. But as the obscure pretender, Morton, he was degraded far beneath her. In his proper person, he could surmount all obstacles to obtain her. Could he? What, then, became of his vow?

That very pledge he had given in exchange for permission to wear the detested mask. What a web he had spun around himself! And should he break it at once? Should he dash boldly into the world in his own name, sweep impediments from before him, woo Mildred in spite of everything, and bear her off to his ancestral towers, ay, in defiance of her haughty mother? Would it not be a revenge acceptable to the shade of his broken-hearted father?

His wavering irresolution made him fretful, and almost morose. It caused also a strange craving for excitement. He became impatient of his quiet evenings at Hampstead. It was ungrateful, but he could not help it. Helen saw his irritation with sorrow, but without complaint. Rereworth saw it, and tried vainly to soothe it. He had frequently pressed Randolph to accompany him into society; he prevailed on him to acquire the accomplishments of life, and thereby provided a considerable source of amusement for Mr. Peach, who frequently inquired concerning his lodger's progress in the airs and graces.

"My dancing!" Randolph might exclaim in answer to such queries; "it prospers marvellously. Yet methinks it is a ridiculous occupation."

"By no means, my dear sir," would be the reply. "Hath not the 'Spectator' observed, that 'no one was ever a good dancer that had not a good understanding?' Ah! I see why you smile; but that's not the meaning."

But hitherto Rereworth had been unable to persuade his friend to avail himself of his new acquirements. Trevethlan's secret held him back. It met him at every turn. But now, in his eagerness to forget himself, he at last consented to go with Seymour to an assembly at the house of a near relation, where, Rereworth said, his friends were always welcome. The evening arrived, and Randolph joined his introducer at his chambers.

"You may call yourself a happy man, Morton," cried Rereworth gaily. "You shall be the envy of all our sex, for my fair cousin's sister is the loveliest girl in London, and I have made her promise to be disengaged to dance with you. I told her you were a very good-looking fellow."

"That is not a good introduction," Randolph said, with a faint smile. "But you sacrifice yourself."

"Never fear, you won't disappoint her," Seymour continued. "And as for me, I have romped with her this many a day. She waltzes with me in the morning, and teazes me in the evening. I shall really be glad to inflict her upon you."

"Then I accept the doom," said Randolph.

"Dance with her after supper," added his friend. "That's the time when 'beauty like the midnight flower—'" and Rereworth whistled "Fly not yet."

His companion's spirits rose under the influence of his own.

"Another glass to her health, Morton, and let us away."

It was quaffed, and they departed. A lumbering hackney-coach conveyed them to Cavendish-square. "Mr. Rereworth." ... "Mr. Rereworth." And Randolph had made his bow to Mrs. Winston.

It is not easy for one who went down his first country-dance when seven years old, at a children's ball, and has since practised the festive science until he is too old to obtain any but children for partners, to imagine the sensations of a novice like Randolph. Leaning on Rereworth's arm, he looked confusedly at the fluctuating scene around him, stationary himself among a universal motion, silent amidst an all-pervading voice. His friend in the meantime was surveying the company as it flowed tranquilly by him, recognising acquaintances, now and then exchanging a few sentences. Randolph heeded him not, being engaged in a fanciful comparison of the assembly to the sea, and blending the faces of the company into waves, instead of distinguishing individuals. He did not even observe that one quitted the stream and ranged itself on the other side of Rereworth. He did not observe it, until that gentleman, pressing his arm, said, "Morton, my cousin-in-law, Miss Pendarrel."

It was a little sudden. Schoolboys tell stories about home and relations; "men" at college become more reserved; in the world such confidences cease. One sometimes knows nothing even of an intimate friend's family. Thus Rereworth had not mentioned other names in his invitation to Randolph, and Winston brought no associations to his mind at its first announcement. But the case was very different when he heard that of Pendarrel, and recognised its fair owner.

Mechanically, intuitively, he offered Mildred his arm. She laid her hand lightly within it, and they moved onward with the crowd. They made the tour of the saloon before the cavalier uttered a syllable. "Seymour has brought me an oddity," thought Mildred. Randolph was overwhelmed with a flood of rapid emotions, sombre as the canopy which hung above his father's deathbed. His heart beat quick, and he pressed his lips together, struggling hard to obtain a mastery over the tumult within him. One moment he wished he could vanish away, the next he thrilled with rapture at the light touch upon his arm. Mildred was perplexed. She knew she might esteem any one of whom Rereworth spoke well. She had been prepared to see, and to excuse, a little confusion. But there was more here than the confusion of a novice.

"Pardon me, Miss Pendarrel," at length Randolph said, in a voice of tremulous tenderness: "I am new and strange to society. I have relied too lightly on my friend's promises. I walk in a dream."

There is a sort of seeming egotism which is very profitable in love. Few men will fail to excite interest by the true account of their own emotions. To a woman the confidence is always flattering. Randolph's speech was strangely at variance with the usual persiflage. But, perhaps, if he had intended to make love, he could not have spoken better. Mildred was struck by his accent, and interested by his manner. But she was experienced.

"A pleasant dream, Mr. Morton, I hope," she said.

He quivered at the sound of the name.

"Pleasant!" he exclaimed; and then recovering himself partly—"I think it is pleasant.... They are forming quadrilles. Shall we dance, Miss Pendarrel?"

"If you please," answered Mildred, partly puzzled and partly provoked. "Mr. Melcomb," she added to that gentleman, as he passed with a lady, "you will be my vis-à-vis."

Melcomb bowed, looked at Mildred's partner, and raised his eyebrows slightly. Randolph recollected the man he had seen at the opera, disliked what he fancied was a singular familiarity, and wondered what was the coxcomb's position in the family. As he warmed in the dance, however, his moodiness and taciturnity gave way. He flung himself into the humour of the moment, retrieved his character with his partner, and obtained another engagement. "Let destiny decide," he said to himself.

Melcomb was Mildred's partner in the next set.

"Who is your unknown knight?" he asked.

"My partner!" said the lady. "A friend of Mr. Rereworth's."

"He is in love with you," remarked the coxcomb.

"I hope he is," Mildred laughed.

"Cruel! He will languish and die."

"That is as I please. I am to dance with him again."

"Is Mrs. Pendarrel here?"

It was a taunt, and Mildred felt it.

Turn the kaleidoscope. "I consider," wrote Sir Richard Steele, "woman as a beautiful romantic animal, that may be adorned with furs and feathers, pearls and diamonds, ores and silks. The lynx shall cast its skin at her feet to make her a tippet; the peacock, parrot, and swan shall pay contributions to her muff; the sea shall be searched for shells, and the rocks for gems; and every part of nature shall furnish out its share towards the embellishment of a creature that is the most consummate work of it." The numerous fair forms in Mrs. Winston's saloons, on which such adornments were lavished in profusion, might easily remind a spectator of the toy which we have named. Randolph, after resigning his partner, wandered rather desolately through the brilliant throng, unobservant and little observed. Finding a vacant and remote corner, he ensconced himself there as an absentee. The gay crowd glimmered before his eyes with the changing hues of the opal, the music sounded from afar like the waves on the sea-shore. Why did that association continually intrude? Why did the muser's thoughts ever turn to Trevethlan? Why did he wish, so earnestly, ever and anon, that he had never quitted the home of his fathers?

Solitude in a crowd has been the theme of much moralizing. In Randolph's case it was peculiarly striking, for it was due, not merely to absence of mind, but also to an absolute want of acquaintance. Except Rereworth and his late partner, the muser might be said to know no one in the whole of the gay assembly. And even Seymour was ignorant of his real situation. Randolph felt oppressed by his loneliness, yet at the same time unwilling to accept any companionship.

In such mood he was, when a voice pierced through the cloud which surrounded him. Rereworth came to seek his friend.

"Morton," he cried, laughing, "'awake, arise, or be for ever fallen.' Winston desires me to present you. Winston, Mr. Morton—Morton, Mr. Winston. Pray find my friend a partner, most philosophical sir."

But Randolph begged to be excused. He escaped from the metaphysician, found his way to an uncurtained window, and looked forth upon the midnight sky. The stars were shining, and he thought of the science which pretended to connect their aspects with the fate of the wanderers upon earth. Which was his? The planet of the queen of love was there, bright in the deep blue canopy. Was she his friend? It was a soothing idea. He forgot his doubts and presentiments, and allowed himself to indulge in the most delicious dreams. His fancy became exalted to the highest pitch. He felt supremely happy.

In this disposition he sought Mildred to claim her engagement. She could complain of no want of devotion now. Her partner was romantic, without sentimentalism; serious, and yet full of imagination. He was pleased, and he exerted himself to please. He allowed his natural enthusiasm to take its course. Mildred wondered no longer at the praises which Rereworth had bestowed upon his friend.

A quadrille affords but scanty and inconvenient opportunity for conversation. But Randolph managed to protract the subsequent promenade. He even drew Mildred apart to that deserted window from which he had been gazing on the sky, and rehearsed some of the marvels of the astrologers, pointing out the planet which had attracted his attention. But he was suddenly awakened from his entrancement. Mrs. Pendarrel, leaning on Melcomb's arm, came to seek her daughter.

"Mildred, my dear," she said, "I have sent to call our carriage." And she held her arm to the young lady, and bowed very loftily to Randolph.

"The carriage is at the door, my dear," said a little man, bustling up with some officiousness. Randolph had retired a few paces, but not so far as to avoid hearing the first of the following words. It was Esther that spoke.

"Mr. Trevethlan Pendarrel, I should be glad if you would ascertain who that gentleman is. A Mr. Morton, I understand. Hark, sir," she whispered, "do you see no likeness?"

"Yes, my dear, certainly I do," said the obsequious husband. "To whom?"

Randolph advanced at the same moment.

"Spare your pains, sir," he said; "I am Randolph Trevethlan."

Face to face, only two steps apart, with their eyes fixed on each other, stood the son and the lover of Henry Trevethlan. Esther's countenance was inscrutable. Her daughter clung to her arm, with cheeks and forehead flushed crimson, and glanced involuntarily at her late partner. Mr. Pendarrel had shrunk a little behind. Melcomb showed a nonchalant dislike to a scene. Randolph faced them, pale as death, his head thrown back, his breast heaving, his eyes flashing fire. But he recovered himself in an instant, bent one look of ineffable tenderness on Mildred, and rushed from the house.

CHAPTER XII.

Shakspeare.

There was no sleep for Randolph that night. One moment had dissipated all the dreams of his youth. One word had dissolved the airy castle. Henceforth he was Trevethlan. So sudden a change, brought about in such a manner, could not but cause great agitation, yet in the midst of all his tumultuous reflections Randolph felt a secret satisfaction. He exulted in the resumption of his name; he felt an energy developing itself within him, very opposite in character to the irresolution which for some time had paralyzed his will. Yet he was saddened by the thought of the sister who had cheered his way, and encouraged his progress. Happy, say we with the good chaplain of Trevethlan Castle, happy is the man who, in the days of his apprenticeship to the world, after he has quitted the home of his youth, and before he has founded a home of his own, has a sister to share his dwelling, and save him from the miserable existence of a young bachelor. Happy is he who has a smile ever ready to welcome him to his fireside, to cheer his evening, and protect him from himself. What talents had not been squandered, what evil had been averted, what ruin prevented, by such companionship! No one cause, perhaps, has wrecked so many fair hopes and promises as the want of a home.

Helen saw a marked change in her brother's countenance when they met for breakfast. The anxiety she had long noticed with regret had vanished, and was succeeded by an air of grave determination. She asked him a few questions concerning the party, but finding him absent and taciturn, soon desisted. Pleasure gleamed in her eyes, however, when, in answer to Mr. Peach, who put his head in at the door to inquire if Randolph would accompany him to town, the latter thanked him, and declined.

"And quite right, my good sir," said Cornelius, advancing into the room. "What saith Marsilius Ficinus, one of old Burton's quaint physicians? 'Other men look to their tools; a painter will wash his pencils, a smith take heed to his forge, and a husband-man to his plough; a falconer and a huntsman care for their hawks and hounds; only scholars neglect that instrument—their brain and spirits, I mean—which they daily use, and by which they range over all the world, but which by much study is consumed.' But I protest—I beg pardon—and hark! there's the stage. Good-morning, Miss Morton—good-morning."

And with several bows he bustled out of the little parlour.

"A kind-hearted creature," observed Randolph, "as ever breathed. I should like to bring him and our Polydore together. They would quite love one another."

Helen had smiled at her brother's idea, before she noticed the gravity with which he spoke. She then looked somewhat disturbed. In spite of all Randolph's care, she had partly suspected the cause of his solicitude, and had consulted Mr. Riches on the subject, suggesting also that it might be well if they could visit Trevethlan in the spring. The chaplain's answer had only arrived the preceding day. There was a certain quaintness about it characteristic of the writer.

"My dear Helen," Polydore said—"your letter has warmed the heart of your old master. I am proud that you should seek my advice, and prouder that you so little need it. The disguise wrong? Surely I think not. By what shall our actions be judged but by our motives? Always provided that we do not evil that good may come. Of the worthiness of your motive there can be no question. Is there anything unworthy in the means? Surely, I say, I think not. When the daw dresses himself in the peacock's plumage, we laugh and despise him, if it is from vanity; we frown and strip him, if it is for deceit. So the wolf cannot assume the sheep's clothing without treachery, nor can the ass wear the lion's skin without contempt. So, again, I prefer Alfred neglecting the neatherd's cakes, to Alfred harping in the camp of the Danes. A king may work with honour in a shipwright's yard, but a king should not condescend to become a spy. "Yet is disguise always an awkward thing. Concealment is repugnant to a candid mind. I like it not myself, and I appreciate the scruples you attribute to Randolph. I had rather you were Trevethlans to the world, as to me. But he thinks himself precluded. We will not dwell upon that. He must be idle, or he must labour under a veil. What abstract harm is there in the metamorphosis? Whom does it wrong? Ah, my dear Helen, I fear I am becoming entangled in sophisms: the path which appeared so direct when I began to write, already seems devious and difficult. To your own conscience, and to Him who directs it, I must leave you, confident that under His guidance you can never go astray. "But I am warranted in cautioning you against a rash judgment. You have delighted me, and not only me, but also our friend Griffith, and his good helpmate, with the proposal, if it be feasible, of a vernal visit. Thereanent have we held a council; and we decide that it can be done, and saving respect, shall be done. Oh! how I long for the day! But that is not what I was about to say. Oh! yes. Postpone until then our deliberations. Let Randolph become versed in the mysteries of his craft. And when you are here, we will plead the cause in form, to rejoinder and sur-rejoinder, rebutter and sur-rebutter. Above all, we will have dilatory pleas in favour of remaining at Trevethlan. You see I have been taking lessons—ahem! "Little news at Trevethlan: not good that little. The miners still disturbed: troops located here and there: rumours very frequent. Our Jeffrey has strengthened the defences of the castle, and sleeps, or wakes, with a loaded blunderbuss. He has consulted me as to whether the cannon on the battlements are safe to fire. And worse, Edward Owen, of our own village, is said to be much with the disaffected. The gossips report, he frets for Mercy Page. And the pretty Mercy frets too, for she has lost her sweetheart. I wish she would not discompose Owen. In the castle we are all quite well, and every one commends himself or herself to you. "May Heaven bless you, and so farewell!

"Polydore Riches."

There was an indecision in this letter, which made Helen unwilling to show it to her brother immediately. She was very far from imagining how completely all its intentions were already superseded. She now anxiously awaited an explanation of the grave expression of Randolph's countenance.

"Sister," he said, "my own sister, it is all over. The bubble has burst. We return immediately to Trevethlan."

"Home!" Helen exclaimed, displaying, both in voice and mien, the most lively astonishment, "What change is this, Randolph?"

"You remember the lady we saw at the opera," the brother said rapidly. "The miniature—the wife of Philip Pendarrel. I encountered her last night, heard her desire her husband to learn who I was, saved him the trouble, confronting her, and announcing my name—Randolph Trevethlan."

There was a short silence. Then the speaker resumed.

"Thank Heaven! I am free. Free from that double-faced servitude. I can look men in the face without fear or shame. I am firm on my feet, let the tempest howl round me as it will. Dearest," he continued folding his sister to his bosom, "pardon me for thus sudden rupture of all our hopes. We will forget them, or think of them as a chapter of romance."

"Is it inevitable?" Helen asked in a low tone.

"Ay," Randolph answered. "The disguise has led me to the brink of an abyss. Even now I know not whether I have recoiled in time. Forgive me, I am scarcely calm. One day I may tell you more. But let us for ever shake off this degrading masquerade. We will go home to Trevethlan. Will you not like to see the sea beating at our feet? It is vain to regret. Ah, me! It is hopeless to forget."

Peremptoriness and fondness mingled both in his word and manner. He kissed his sister's cheek.

"Write, dearest, to Polydore," he continued. "The news will make him sad. You will soften it better than I. Say, we will be at home immediately after the letter. For myself, I have much to do."

Helen obeyed, with many a thought of the surprise which her letter would occasion, coming so close upon that communication of the chaplain's, which the reader has just perused. And Randolph drew up a memorial to the benchers of his Inn, in which he very briefly stated the case, and petitioned for the removal of his name from their books, a matter of course. With this he proceeded to town, and delivered it at the proper office. He then called upon Rereworth. His friend had not yet heard of the scene at Mrs. Winston's.

"Rereworth," he said, "I have a tale to tell you, and an apology to make. Let it be done in the fresh air. Come with me into the gardens."

So they went down into those pleasant grounds, rife with historical recollections, and not long previously the field of exercise for that regiment of legal volunteers, which ambiguous wit designated "the devil's own." May we never see a year like eighteen hundred and eleven!

"You little thought," said Randolph, as they paced the terrace by the Thames, "that in presenting me to Mrs. Winston last night, you introduced a relation."

Rereworth turned and looked at the speaker with unfeigned surprise.

"Under the name of Winston," the latter continued, "I did not recognize a Pendarrel. I am Randolph Trevethlan. Yes, you may well show astonishment. But bear with me a moment. No mean purpose lurked under my masquerade.

"You know that the last owner of Trevethlan Castle had long lost the means of maintaining his house. I inherited a ruin and a name. To restore the one, without degrading the other, was the hope of my life. Doubtless the supposed retreat to the continent, of my sister and myself, was attributed to motives of economy. But we had a very different object in view. Reared in that lonely castle by the sea, ignorant of society, enthusiasts perhaps by nature, we taught ourselves to look forward to a renovation of our old splendour, and to my success in a profession as the means. We read of such things in our library. But there was one obstacle. My poor father—a man of much sorrow, Rereworth—had the feelings which—which men often have. With his dying breath he forbade me to risk the fame of his race in such an enterprise. It was then I mentioned the plan I had devised with my sister. The world might suppose us to be sojourning in a strange land, while in fact we stayed here, and I toiled under a feigned name in an honourable profession. With a struggle my father consented to the scheme. Our steward introduced me as Morton to Mr. Winter, and that gentleman procured me admission to the Temple. But the dream has vanished away."

So far Randolph spoke firmly and quickly. But his voice trembled, and his words came more slowly as he proceeded.

"You may know the terms—but it matters not. Mrs. Pendarrel was once acquainted with my father. I suppose she detected a likeness in me. I heard her inquire about me last night. To be Morton in her presence! It was what I could not bear. I avowed my name.—You will yourself excuse the imposition. You will excuse it for me to Mrs. Winston as best you may."

Rereworth's wonder had increased with every word he heard. It was so strange an encroachment on the ordinary monotony of life. He was aware of the quarrel between the late Mr. Trevethlan and Mrs. Pendarrel. He understood the feelings which had prompted Randolph. He regretted the termination of his career. It was the last sentiment that he expressed in his answer.

"Trevethlan," he said, "no apology will be necessary. Forgive me, if I grieve that your intentions should be defeated. For you may know that this makes your admission here void. But believe me, my regard was not for your name, and will be unaltered."

"I care for nothing else," said Randolph. "Already I have petitioned the bench. My sister and I return to Cornwall directly. Since you are so kind, perhaps you will spend the evening with us."

Rereworth consented, and his friend left him musing in the gardens. This then was the romance which surrounded the brother and sister, and the solution of the peculiarities upon which he had often meditated. The form of Helen Trevethlan stole gently into his reverie, not unwelcome. He was sorry to think she was going away, but at the same time glad that he was to see her again before she left. He pondered on the family feud, which was nothing to him—his relationship being with the Winstons—and gratified himself with the idea that he might possibly have prepared the way to a reconciliation. So ignorant was he of the true state of the case. But his thoughts continually reverted to the dark eyes of Randolph's sister. He was himself on the point of being called to the bar, having completed his course of preparation, and he asked himself whether a house and a wife would not be agreeable possessions.

Meantime his friend went and discovered himself to Mr. Winter. The lawyer was much annoyed, and looked very grave.

"I will not conceal from you, Mr. Trevethlan, since so I must call you," he said, after some reflection, "that your story gives me great dissatisfaction. It is only a blunder, but I wish my old friend Griffith had consulted me before sanctioning this scheme, and implicating me in it."

Randolph protested that the blame was imputable solely to himself.

"I know," said the lawyer, "I know all you would say. I am not attributing any fault to anybody. But I am vexed. I thought Griffith was more a man of the world. As for the worthy chaplain, parsons are seldom men of business. But I wish my old friend had confided in me."

"It was my fault he did not," said Randolph.

"In truth," Winter observed, "now I know all this, I am surprised I did not suspect it before, for you have the family countenance perfectly, Mr. Trevethlan. I know it well. And so has your sister. It is wonderful I did not think of it."

The conversation diverged to family affairs, and gloomy enough seemed the fortunes of the house of Trevethlan. At length Randolph took his leave, having informed the lawyer of his immediate departure for Cornwall.

The activity and vigour with which he fulfilled his resolution diverted his thoughts from the flame which burned hotly within him and indeed inspired his energy. But, in fact, although he did not know it, he was nearly desperate. He might have felt his own impatience while Winter was speaking to him. And as he walked alone through the fields, on his way back to Hampstead, the consciousness of his passion revived.

"She is mine," he almost muttered aloud—"mine by every right. Family ties, family feuds, parent's commands, social conventionalities, they are cobwebs under my hand. She has robbed me of my life; she must give me herself in exchange. I would die for her; she must live for me. I go to my home to feel myself a Trevethlan. I shall breathe the air of my native halls; I shall catch the inspiration of my race; I shall come forth to trample on form and rule, and to bear off my bride in defiance of the world. Look to your house, Esther Pendarrel. The bars are unbroken, the locks are unforced. Where is your child? In the castle by the sea. Weep, proud woman—weep and rend your hair for her who shall never return! Was it not enough to destroy the father, but the son also must be crushed? But I am made of sterner stuff. The heel will be bruised that tramples me. I will not play the game of my foe. Look to your house. Did the watchman slumber? Who shall watch love? The wind of midnight bore her the message, and she fled. The bird sang on the house-top, and she heard the song. The stars of heaven, ay, that star we looked upon last night, summoned her away. Fasten your windows, muster your guards, note her downsitting and her uprising. What! is her place empty? Search highest and lowest. Gone? Yes, she is mine! she is mine!"

There was a softening influence in the conviction, wildly as it was expressed. Randolph's exaltation subsided as he became intimately persuaded that his passion must have a happy issue, in spite of the difficulties which seemed to threaten its course, and he was calm and collected when he arrived at his dwelling and joined his sister. But he was anxious for action, motion—anything but repose—and it was agreed that they should depart the very next day.

Rereworth came to them, according to his engagement, some time before sun-set, and, as it was a fine genial evening, they strolled to the fields above West End, and looked on the pleasant landscape, so agreeably described by the author of the 'Sketch Book,' "with its soft bosom of green pasturage lying open to the south, and dotted with cattle; the steeple of Hampstead rising among rich groves on the brow of the hill; and the learned height of Harrow in the distance." Even at this dull season, though the trees were leafless and the hedges bare, the prospect was not without its beauties; and Rereworth discoursed of them to Helen in a manner which, to him at least, was particularly interesting.

For some time they had the conversation—rather serious it was—to themselves; Randolph taking no part. But when it diverged to the opera, and from thence to the preternatural drama, and from thence to what Madame de Staël termed the côté nocturne de la nature, he suddenly exclaimed:

"There is a strange fascination in these things. Presentiments seem to be so often fulfilled."

"Because," Rereworth said, "they are generally felt where the result is probable. What was more likely than that Henri Quatre should die by the dagger of an assassin? These pretended second-sights, of all kinds, must, in fact, be revelations. And to admit their truth, is to depreciate the value of Revelation. I explain the whole thing with four lines from Wordsworth:

"And suppose Lucy's wraith flitted by at the moment," said Helen, smiling.

"All in white, uncommonly like a shred of mist," added Rereworth.

"Yet," Randolph urged, "there is something very picturesque in these superstitions, if such they must be called."

"Certainly," said his friend. "I enjoy them, but I do not believe them. I enjoy them more than those who believe and tremble. I love a good legend, or even a well-invented modern tale of gramarye."

"We shall all be mystified by the author of 'Waverley,'" Helen said. "Already we have had Fergus's strange monitor, and the fortune told for Henry Bertram, and the Ravenswood prophecy, every one of them verified in the event."

"The constant return to such machinery," remarked Randolph, "shows how readily it finds belief."

"It is continually supported by coincidences," Rereworth answered. "Under striking circumstances, a man dreams of his absent friend. On the same night the latter dies. Granted in all the fulness of mystery. Now how many people were in the same relative position at the same time? How many dreamt or fancied the same thing? Hundreds? Thousands? Ay,—tens of thousands. Out of myriads of dreams one is verified. It proves the baselessness of the fabric."

"One never hears of the dreams which do not come true," observed Helen.

"No, Miss Trevethlan," Seymour said. "These visions and the sayings of fortune-tellers are tentative; like those famous miracles, the stoppage of which occasioned the well-known epigram—

"There is an old dame, not far from us in the country," said Helen, "who I have heard, has threatened a violent death to half Penwith."

"Dismal individual!" exclaimed Rereworth.

"Our host complains," Helen continued, "of the decay of these old wonders. There's not a child in Hampstead, he says, but will cross the churchyard by night."

"Ay," said Randolph, "the age is incredulous. For my part, I should like to be a visionary."

Helen perceived that her brother spoke rather moodily.

"The sun is setting," she said. "If we stay much longer, we shall have it dark enough to encounter some spectre ourselves. Let us go home."

So they went. Rereworth lingered with them as long as he could, thinking of the distance which would soon divide him from Helen. Should they ever meet again? He felt that it only rested with himself to strengthen the favourable impression he had already made. But would not absence efface it? It was a question which must be left to time. He was not certain of his own feelings. He had arranged a correspondence with Randolph. He should therefore at least hear of Helen. He fancied there was an unusual gloominess in his chambers that night. The fire was out; and when he lighted his lamp, the dark wainscotting of the walls, which he used to admire, wore a sombre appearance. He retired to rest and dreamt of Trevethlan Castle.

The orphans thought it unnecessary to reveal themselves to their good host and hostess. They merely said that circumstances called them suddenly home. They had but few adieus to make, trifling matters to settle, little baggage to pack. Cornelius and his sister had become attached to their lodgers, and parted with them with more than ordinary regret. Mr. Peach expressed his grief that they had come to Hampstead late in the fall and quitted it before the Spring. They knew not the beauties of his favourite suburb. His even cheerfulness was shaded for a moment; he was reminded that he had a side to the wall. He insisted on accompanying his young friends to the ancient inn from which they were to start. And strange humours thronged upon his fancy, while he stood in the court of the old-fashioned hostelry, when the rattling mail had departed, looked up at the fantastic open galleries, and peopled them with the guests of by-gone days. He went up to Hampstead in a mood more serious than his wont; smoked his pipe tranquilly a long time, while Clotilda sat knitting him a comforter, and finished the evening with a desultory discourse on the beauties and merits of his never-forgotten Mabel.

CHAPTER XIII.

Shakspeare.

The emotion experienced by Esther Pendarrel, when the heir of Trevethlan confronted her with the avowal of his name, was by no means of unmitigated animosity. Many a tender recollection arose in her mind, as she gazed, fascinated, upon features so strongly recalling those which, in days long gone, she had stored up in her heart of hearts. The remembrance of her affection prevailed for a moment over her sense of wrong and desire for retribution. But it was only for a moment. She saw the flushed face of her daughter, and the shrinking demeanour of her husband. The first she noted with alarm, the second with disgust. Her feelings recoiled upon the son of her discarded suitor. That he should be an object of interest to her child, and of fear or reproach to her lord, made him the more odious to herself.

"Morton," she might have said in the solitude of her chamber at night—"Randolph Morton! Seeking the fortune so recklessly thrown away! Hoping that the successful advocate would repair the ruin of Trevethlan Castle! And such things are possible. Many a new family dates its origin from the forum. Might not an old one, in like manner, retrieve its fall? But why the feigned name? Was it the old pride? Oh, Henry, Henry Trevethlan! that pride has brought desolation to thee and to me—to thine, and, perhaps, to mine. Was there not passion in those burning cheeks, and in that quivering arm?

"And so we are face to face. Foes, irreconcileable, to war to the death. What was the dark hint which flashed across my mind? Who said there was no marriage?"

When Michael Sinson first let fall the insinuation which here rose to the mind of his patroness, the natural generosity of her disposition revolted from the suggestion. But it recurred again and again. There was strong temptation in the idea which it excited. Were it true, at one swoop that peasant woman, whom Mrs. Pendarrel had learned to hate, would be shamed, her son and daughter would be fatherless in an odious sense, their inheritance would be forfeited, and would fall to Esther's family. The children of her lover would be outcasts upon earth. Retribution so full and complete was more than she had ever deemed possible, and continually presented itself to her thoughts, whether she would or no. Sometimes she asked herself, was it not her duty to investigate the matter? did not justice to her own children require it? might she not be charged with allowing them to be defrauded? Besides, supposing the tale was well founded, and her husband's title maintained, and possession had of the castle, there would then be ample opportunity for generosity. But justice should come first. Such were the ideas which had forced themselves upon Mrs. Pendarrel's notice, and been less and less unwelcome, before the meeting at Mrs. Winston's party. The discovery there made gave them a new colouring. If the orphans had chosen to fling aside their name, a name to which they might have no right, need she be scrupulous in scrutinizing their title, and overthrowing it if she could? No, no. Let them be Mortons, or Bassets, or what they would: if they cared so little for the name of Trevethlan who were its natural upholders, surely neither need she who was pledged for its extinction.

The next day Mrs. Pendarrel desired the presence of her protégé. The interview which ensued was long. By dexterous questions, flung out with great apparent nonchalance, and exhibiting a scornful disbelief in the things inquired of, the lady extracted from Michael Sinson all the popular rumours upon which he had founded his insinuation. But if she supposed that her manner blinded him to her real interest, she deceived herself. He was subtile enough to see that the affected indifference was only a disguise. And although, in truth, very willing to unfold his story, he amused himself at times by feigning reluctance, and obliging his patroness to speak more plainly than she desired. The following pages embody the substance of his information, derived, he said, from rumours current in Trevethlan and its neighbourhood when he was a boy, but now nearly forgotten.

Margaret Basset was one of the prettiest girls to be met with between the Lizard and Marazion. Her song was the merriest in the hay-field; her foot was the lightest at Sithney fair. Many a well-to-do young man would have gladly made her his wife, but Margaret was hard to please. And her fastidiousness was not displeasing to her mother, Maud, who was vain of her handsome child, and read a high fortune for her by the Sortes Apocalypticæ, to which she had recourse in all matters, both great and small. It was true, that one day, when a strolling gipsy was tempting Margaret to learn her destiny, and Maud rushed out of the house to put the witch to flight, declaring that her girl's fortune required no help from the like of her, the dark woman answered, wrathfully, that what was thought bliss might prove to be bane. But the angry prediction was unheeded at the time, and only remembered when it seemed to be fulfilled by Margaret's premature death.

At that time, Henry Trevethlan was by no means popular among his dependents. He had lately returned to the castle, after a long absence, a ruined man. For a great time the hamlet had derived none of the usual benefits from the residence of its proprietor, and he came home too poor to confer any. The people were very jealous at the alienation of the family estates, which had so much divided the tenantry. It seemed not unlikely that the prophecy, respecting the union of Trevethlan and Pendarrel, would be verified in a sense far from flattering to the inhabitants of the former, and even without the match.

So, when it was whispered that Mr. Trevethlan was, in fact, seeking a bride from among themselves, they were irritated rather than conciliated. They wanted a lady of fortune and rank, who might make the castle a scene of hospitality, and be generous to the villagers, as the ladies of Trevethlan had always been wont. The prophecy was quoted with more alarm. Any girl, who was said to have attracted their landlord's notice, was regarded with jealousy and dislike. And some old crones indulged in darker sayings: how there could be but one object in such wedlock, and if there were no olive-branches the vine would be found to wither. Either the marriage would be broken, or the bride would die.

Such was the state of feeling in the hamlet, when Mr. Trevethlan demanded the hand of Margaret Basset. Alone, perhaps, among her neighbours, the maiden's mother received the announcement with joy and pride. She accepted it as the fulfilling of her own prediction. Margaret trembled as she thought of the gipsy's. But, whatever were her feelings, she could not resist the desires of her parent, and the authority of the castle. Her sister, Cecily, was her only confidante. The marriage was settled.

But then came the difficulty as to the performance of the ceremony. Mr. Trevethlan respected the pride of his chaplain, but he resolved to meet no other check of the kind. There was a clergyman, a very young man, seeking to repair his shattered health by a residence on that genial coast, and evidently in no very flourishing circumstances. Him did Mr. Trevethlan induce to celebrate the rite, under a special license, within the walls of the castle. Maud, and a young rustic, named Wyley, were the only witnesses; and the country-folk might well conjecture that a marriage, contracted in so singular, and, to them, in so revolting a manner, was irregular, and might be dissolved. Moreover, it was not entered in the parish register until after the birth of Randolph, and then not in the usual form.

So these circumstances provoked much popular indignation. When Mr. Trevethlan took home his bride all the doors in the hamlet were closed, and no individual was visible on the green. Even Jeffrey's face was shaded with discontent when he threw open the gates; and Mr. and Mrs. Griffith could not avoid displaying a little humiliation in receiving their new mistress. Polydore Riches, alone of the household, met her with a sincere welcome, in which kindness was enforced by pity. Some folks wondered that he remained at the castle. But the chaplain had satisfied his conscience by his protest, and stayed to mitigate a misfortune which he was unable to avert.

The day after the marriage the hamlet was startled by an occurrence, which gave fresh force to the suspicions of the villagers. Mr. Ashton, the clergyman, was missed from his lodgings. He went out the evening of the wedding, as was his habit, to stroll along the cliffs, and he never returned. In much excitement the people made a diligent and immediate search, and on the beach below his haunt they found the body of a man, stripped, and so disfigured, that identification was impossible. It was soon discovered that Wyley, the witness, was also missing from his home, and the comments made on the coincidence were loud and strong.

Advertisements brought forward Mr. Ashton's relations. From them Polydore Riches learnt that his health had been ruined by self-indulgence, and that he was allowed a small stipend on condition of residing in perfect retirement. There seemed to be no very particular concern felt about his fate. The gentleman who came down was unable to recognise the body, so great were the injuries it had received, apparently in falling from the cliff. The coroner's inquest returned an open verdict.

There the matter rested. The mystery had not been explained. There were, however, low whispers, that Will Watch's lugger had run along the shore the night Mr. Ashton was missed, and that the country lanes were alive with active traffic. But if it were so, those who could be explicit on the matter if they chose, found it more expedient to hold their tongues.

For a time the event gave, as has been said, new vigour to the suspicions concerning poor Margaret's marriage. Her mother was the only witness remaining. But when a son and heir was born to Mr. Trevethlan, and there came no formal impeachment of the union, the rumours gradually died away. The peasant-lady, by her meekness and modesty, won the regard of all the inmates of the castle, except—her husband. He exacted, indeed, the utmost deference towards her from others, but treated her himself with cold indifference, and seemed jealous of her influence with her children, even in their cradle. She foresaw what would come, pined away, and died. Her bliss had been her bane.

Michael Sinson said nothing to his patroness of the mode in which Mr. Trevethlan behaved to his wife's relations. He did not tell how bitterly old Maud resented the death of her daughter, nor how his own expulsion from the castle rankled even yet in his heart. But he dwelt with much craft on the singular circumstances of the marriage, and the mysterious disappearance of the evidence; hinted at times, that the rite would have been pronounced a mockery, if its purpose had not been achieved, and suggested, not very indistinctly, that it might yet be proved to have been so in reality.

These hints and inuendos were the main novelties of the story to Mrs. Pendarrel. Of her own knowledge, she recollected the leading facts of the case, and was well aware that, whatever might be the prejudices of the vulgar, there was not the slightest public ground to doubt the perfect formality of the marriage. Moreover, she felt certain, from her acquaintance with Henry Trevethlan's character, that he would never be a party to an artifice like that suggested by Sinson. If there were anything irregular, she was sure it was no fault of his. But there was a confidence in her informant's manner which seemed to intimate that he spoke on no light grounds.

"Sinson," she said, after some consideration, and with an air of the most unreserved frankness, "you know, of course, perfectly well, that if the marriage you have been speaking of were not lawfully contracted, the small estate of Trevethlan would fall, by inheritance, to Mr. Pendarrel. And though I am sure he would be disposed to show every kindness to those who in that case would, by no fault of their own, be holding a false position, still justice to his family would compel him to enforce his claim. And any party contributing by proper means to the establishment of the title would, of course, be liberally rewarded. But an attempt which should simply cause annoyance to Mr. Trevethlan without profiting ourselves, would be equally disagreeable to us. And we should be very far, indeed, from speculating on a mere chance, or using any unfair means. Now, from your manner, you appear to possess, or to fancy you do, some information which may be valuable. For myself, I am no judge of such matters; but Mr. Pendarrel will give you an introduction to our lawyer. He will consider the worth of your intelligence, and you may rely on an adequate remuneration."

But this suggestion in no way squared with Michael's designs. It was not exactly a pecuniary recompense that he desired. The calm and level manner in which Mrs. Pendarrel spoke failed to conceal the strong interest she really felt; and since she alluded with such nonchalant openness to consequences, he would be somewhat more explicit as to means.

"I beg pardon, ma'am," he observed. "I supposed you would think it more important. Certainly, ma'am, it is not for me to meddle. To be sure, I know something; but it may be all wrong, and then, ma'am, it would only annoy Mr. Trevethlan to bring it forward. Besides, would I wish to disturb the good name of my poor relation, although it would be no blame to her? So, ma'am, I might pursue a train I have laid, with your leave; and if it leads to anything, then I could have the introduction. If it comes to nothing, there will be no harm done."

After some fencing, Michael obtained from his patroness a vague authority to continue the researches at which he hinted, and he subsequently extracted a further sanction in letters, by writing to her for instructions. He was playing rather a deep game for a very distant object. In this interview he imagined he gained a point or two, and Mrs. Pendarrel might have detected a gleam of exultation in his sinister eyes, when he quitted her presence at its close. And when he met her daughter in his way through the hall, he glanced at her with an expression which might have amused the young lady, but that she always regarded him with an instinctive antipathy.

The conversation disappointed Mrs. Pendarrel. She had hoped for intelligence of a more definite kind, and placed very little reliance on the expectations held out by her protégé. But now another solicitude engaged her attention. In spite of her own excitement when Randolph confronted her with his name, she had not omitted to notice the agitation of Mildred. She saw the scarlet of her face, and felt the pressure of her trembling arm. She fancied she heard the exclamation—my cousin—escape from her lips. Cousin indeed! she thought. Well it will be if that is all.

She had wielded her rod of iron so long, was so accustomed to entire submission from all connected with her, and so firmly persuaded of the power of her will, that in preparing to settle Mildred—pleasing is the ambiguity of the word—as she had succeeded in doing Gertrude, she forgot or undervalued the point of support, which Mrs. Winston's position enabled her to afford her sister. Right well did the clear-sighted mother know, how bitterly Gertrude repented the day when she exchanged captivity with a heart for liberty without. She knew also that Mrs. Winston would certainly take Mildred's part in resisting an unacceptable match. But the knowledge rather stimulated her love of triumph than occasioned her any dread. Parents seem often apt to visit upon their children their own hardships or misfortunes. The parvenu father thinks he has fully excused narrow-mindedness towards his son by saying—the lad is better off than ever I was. And the mother, whose own marriage, was unhappy, will not seldom be careless of her daughters' comfort in theirs.

Now, Mrs. Pendarrel had for some time decided upon Mildred's lot. Mr. Melcomb was to be the happy man. It was true, he was a gambler and a rake; but it was also true that he was the owner of Tolpeden Park and a large estate thereto appended. It was equally true that he was pretty deeply embarrassed; but the extent of his liabilities had not yet transpired, and the prudent mother supposed that her daughter's fortune would pay off the encumbrances upon the land, and that by stringent settlements it might be kept free in future, and secured for the children. And so her descendants would unite Tolpeden and Pendarrel. But Melcomb was desultory in his addresses, haunted by that fear of a refusal already mentioned. Now, however, that Mrs. Pendarrel felt some uneasiness lest Mildred should fall into other chains, she became anxious to bind her at once in a positive engagement.

The coxcomb was nearly a daily visitor at her house, and always admitted. She took an early opportunity of sounding him more closely than before as to his intentions, and hinted hopes of favour. He replied with a proposal in form. Should esteem himself the happiest of men. Feared he might not be acceptable to Miss Pendarrel. That alone had prevented him from declaring himself long before. Sensible of his unworthiness: prepared to devote his life. To which the mother graciously answered, that she felt highly flattered. That her daughter had been educated too prudently to differ from her parents. He might consider the affair settled. No difficulty could arise in the necessary arrangements. Mildred would be ready to receive him on the following day.

CHAPTER XIV.