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

As Mr. Winston's suggestion to his wife, that she should ask Miss Trevethlan to their house, seemed suddenly to improve their mutual understanding, so did Helen's acceptance of the invitation make them still better known to each other. Among the commonest and worst features of unions like theirs, is a prejudice on one side or the other that happiness is impossible, which closes every avenue to amelioration. The discontented parties have eyes only for defects. The heart which accepted the match with ill-disguised repugnance, is subsequently too proud to admit it was in error. It will not resign the privilege of complaint. It insists on continually galling itself with what it calls its chains. It hugs the satisfaction of considering itself ill-used. For the world, it would not allow itself, even in reverie, to be at ease. Yet, when there is no real deficiency either in character or temper, a hopeful spirit will probably soon find grounds for esteem, and esteem will be likely to ripen into affection. And then the very contrasts of disposition which at first appeared to preclude sympathy, will really promote it, by furnishing opportunities for good-humoured mirth, instead of objects for silent peevishness.

Gertrude Winston had never thought it worth her while to understand her husband. She married him as a pure negation, preferring King Log to King Stork. He was neither sulky, nor mean, nor selfish; he was not meddlesome, nor fidgety, nor exacting. His wife never heard a sharp word from his lips. Surely she might have taken the trouble to go a little below the surface, and see if his pedantry and apathy concealed no qualities which she might first admire, and then love. But no; she had determined to be a "victim," and resolutely closed both heart and mind against any appreciation of whatever might be endearing in his disposition. And for him,—indolent and even-tempered, having married because people usually married, in the same way as they were born and buried,—he certainly took no pains to display his merits, and allowed his wife to do exactly as she pleased, without let or hinderance.

And Gertrude did not abuse the licence. She would not have asked Helen to her house without consulting her husband. In his ready though measured proposal to that effect, Mrs. Winston felt there was a kindness which she had failed to perceive in all his previous demeanour towards her. And when their guest arrived, he surprised her still more by rousing himself from his monotonous pursuits to find sources of interest and amusement for Miss Trevethlan. Gertrude was far above jealousy, and attributed his attentions to their true motive,—a desire to alleviate the anxiety of their new friend.

Yet was Helen one who might well awaken the domestic fiend. Rather under the average height of woman, but of a full and luxurious form, she moved with that soft and undulating mien which fascinates even from afar; and if, allured by the figure, you permitted yourself to advance and look upon the face, you would find it was worthy of the shape. You would see a forehead of the purest white, not very high, but broad and serene, shaded by long dark ringlets, and supported by eyebrows of the same colour, rather far apart, and very slightly arched. Under these you would look into eyes also as dark as night, so gentle and so fond, that well would it be for you if they did not haunt your slumbers for many a night to come. Their long lashes drooped over cheeks perhaps a thought too pale, but so transparently fair that they flushed with every transient emotion, and then almost rivalled the full and tempting lips, which lost themselves in dimples at each corner, and showed that the pensiveness usually characterizing the countenance was not unwilling to give place to any gaiety of the hour.

At the present time, however, pensiveness prevailed, and increased the contrast which Helen's beauty always presented to the attractions of her cousins. She might trace in Mrs. Winston a strong resemblance to the features of the miniature found upon her father's heart, which she had since worn upon hers, and whose original she detected at that eventful visit to the opera. There were the same inscrutable dark eyes, like those in which Charles Lamb said lurked the depth of Jael; there were the same haughty will, and the same decision of purpose; but there was, Helen thought, something more of tenderness and less of disdain.

She had been but a very short time in Cavendish-square when she made the acquaintance of Mildred. Having informed her sister of her invitation, Mrs. Winston could scarcely avoid the introduction, although she was cognizant of a certain secret. Helen possessed no corresponding knowledge, yet a gentle confidence grew up between the maidens, and Mildred perhaps regarded her cousin as not unlikely to be more nearly related to her. Naturally also, and unavoidably, she heard not a little concerning Randolph, and listened to such intelligence with no untroubled heart.

Indeed she had begun to think of him more than was prudent; forced into the recollection by her situation at home. She saw that Mrs. Pendarrel was daily proceeding in the same course she had adopted in Cornwall, and that she herself was becoming more and more involved in conduct which she loathed. She found it very difficult to procure an explanation with her mother, for since the short colloquy in which she attempted to remonstrate the morning after the country party, Mrs. Pendarrel had abruptly checked all further efforts of the same sort. At length, half in despair, Mildred thought of appealing, perhaps for the first time in her life, to her father.

It was a very poor prospect. The scheming younger brother had long sunk into the intriguing political hack. Obsequious, cold, worldly-minded, and correct, was Mr. Trevethlan Pendarrel. He would as soon have thought of absenting himself from a division, as of interfering with his wife's domestic rule. He dared not even object to her lavish expenditure, although he was fonder of money than of anything else; and he was too dull a plodder in official harness to understand the jests sometimes made at his expense. He was greatly surprised when his daughter intercepted him one day on his return home, and led him into a parlour.

"Papa," Mildred said, "I am sure you love me."

"Of course, of course," he answered. "But your mamma takes care of all that." He thought she was going to ask for money.

"But pray do hear me, papa. They say ... This marriage...."

"Of course, my dear. Your mamma has arranged it all. Very agreeable man, Mr. Melcomb. Calls me Petruchio. Marriage! Why, you'll be the envy of half the ladies in London!"

"But, papa, it cannot be. I have told him so."

"Cannot! I don't understand. You must speak to mamma. She manages it all. There—there—"

So saying, he kissed her cheek hastily and departed. Mildred knew not where to turn. Her mother's tactics defeated the support which she had expected from Mrs. Winston, for although the latter threw all the discredit she could upon the rumours of the approaching marriage, no pretence was afforded for any interference of a more active kind. But Mildred, becoming more and more restless, at length seized an opportunity of telling her mother suddenly, that she would go no more into society until the report of her engagement was positively contradicted. Mrs. Pendarrel flew into a violent rage. All her plans were very far advanced. Almost every particular was definitely settled. She was flushed with her triumph at Bodmin. Was everything to be undone by the whim of a foolish girl?

"What!" Esther exclaimed, with fury sparkling in her eyes, "have you courage to be openly disobedient? Will you dare to fly in my face? Do you think to make me wanting to my pledged word? Do you imagine I will bear the scoffs and taunts bestowed upon a beaten match-maker? No, Miss Pendarrel. You will marry as I bid you, or—but there is no alternative."

In the heat of her anger, Esther almost gasped for breath. She had for some time observed her daughter's manner with smouldering wrath, and now Mildred's avowal produced a fierce burst of flame. It deprived Mrs. Pendarrel of her prudence.

"And hark!" she cried. "Do you suppose that I am blind? Do you fancy I know nothing about what you call your heart? Have I forgotten who trembled on my arm, when that upstart pretender dared to intrude into society which he could not have entered honestly, and laid claim to a name to which he had no right? Do I not remember whose cheeks were reddened, and whose voice said 'my cousin?'"

Mildred's cheeks were red enough now, and she trembled from head to foot, and opened her lips to speak, but her mother continued with increasing vehemence.

"And suppose he had been Randolph Trevethlan, as he falsely called himself; suppose that he had been a true descendant of that ancient house, and lawful owner of Trevethlan Castle, do you dream, girl, that I would suffer his alliance with a daughter of mine? Do you not know that I hate him? Do you not know that he hates me? Did I not hunt his father to death? Have I not pursued him, the son of that base peasant-woman, with a hatred which can only be extinguished in the grave? Have I not even now consummated his ruin? Has he a house to hide his head? Is he not a beggar on the earth?"

Again Mrs. Pendarrel paused for breath. Mildred's colour came and went with agitation, and she panted as if her heart would break. She had not in the least expected to arouse such a storm.

"And this is the miserable person you have dared to love? Yes; I ask you again, do you think I am blind, or that there are no eyes but mine? Did I not hear of that meeting on the cliff? Of folding arms, and hands clasped, and lips——? Ay, girl, do you quiver and blush? Cousin, indeed! A creature that has no right to any name at all; homeless, houseless, penniless! Do you know that he is at this moment in my hands? that I can throw him into prison, to languish till he dies? And where is he? where is he hiding? Do you know that his people are charged with the burning of Pendarrel, that he may be implicated himself? Fie, girl! Shall the lion love the jackal? Shall the eagle love the owl?"

"Mother," Mildred ejaculated, taking advantage of another break in Esther's fierce harangue, "I love Randolph Trevethlan! I have vowed to be his wife; and I will."

She was leaving the room, but Mrs. Pendarrel caught her by the wrist and detained her, looking full in her face, and almost choking with the rage which she was unable to express.

"Yes, mother," Mildred said, faltering as she spoke, "in that meeting, which was watched by some miserable spy—that meeting, which I shall remember for ever, which brings no shame to my cheek—in that meeting Randolph won the pledge which nothing but death can break. Did I love him when first I called him my cousin? Did I love him at that meeting on the cliff? Mother, I love him now a thousandfold. Is he houseless, homeless, an outcast, and a beggar? The more need has he of my love. Tell me not of dishonour: there is none with him. Speak to me not of shame: I know it not with him. Is his fate in your hands? So is mine. They cannot be divided. He is mine, and I am his."

As her daughter spoke, Mrs. Pendarrel tightened her hold upon her wrist, and when she flung it loose at the close of Mildred's words, it was discoloured by the pressure. She flung it scornfully from her, and said, in tones whose concentrated but cold indignation was remarkably at variance with her previous vehemence:—

"Go to your chamber, girl. We must see a quick end to this folly. And as for him, you have sealed his doom."

Mildred obeyed, and retired to her own apartment. There she threw herself on a couch, and wept long and passionately. But one thought at last seized her, and restored her to herself.

"His doom sealed!" she murmured. "Did my mother say his doom was sealed? And through me? No, no: it must not be. And is he, indeed, in such danger and distress, and I here, far away, instead of sharing his sorrows, as is my right and my duty? Oh, mother! mother! you little know what you have done."

And she rose, and dried her eyes, and wrote two notes, inclosing one within the other, and directing the outer one to Helen Trevethlan. She had never been one of those dramatic heroines who, in every little trouble, seek consolation from their maids. With regard to them, one might be inclined to avail oneself of the qualification attached to the Highgate oath. Mildred had never asked Rhoda to do her any secret service before. But when she summoned her now, and requested her to convey the note she had just written to its destination at Mrs. Winston's, the natural quickness of a soubrette at once perceived, from the mere selection of the messenger, that the errand was confidential, and it was with gratified self-esteem that Rhoda accepted the mission, and delivered the billet into Miss Trevethlan's own hands. Rhoda advanced very rapidly in the confidence of her young mistress that evening.

Mrs. Pendarrel had been thunderstruck by the attitude assumed by her daughter. She had wrapped herself securely in reliance upon her own power, and so bold a defiance almost stunned her. She bitterly regretted the sarcasms into which she had been betrayed by passion. She readily perceived the effect they would have upon a temper like Mildred's, a temper in some respects like her own. And should all her schemes, all the plans which she built up with so much care and labour, be frustrated by the obstinacy of a love-sick girl? Should Esther Pendarrel confess herself defeated? There was little hope of that. But she felt dim fears and doubts besetting her. She experienced anew some of the despondency caused by the destruction of her house; she looked to the future with some foreboding of evil. But activity must subdue all such misgivings. This insolent suitor must be crushed at once. Her daughter must be schooled into instant submission. Nearly cotemporaneously with Mildred's letter-writing, her mother also indited two epistles. The one she despatched the same evening, by a trusty hand, to Tolpeden Park; the other she sent immediately to Messrs. Truby's offices in Lincoln's Inn.

There would apparently be some searing of hearts, before the war which was that day proclaimed arrived at a peaceful termination.

It was a notable fact at this time that Seymour Rereworth, the recluse law-student, whom Mrs. Winston used to rally for his devotion to so crabbed a mistress, became a frequent haunter of the house in Cavendish Square. His acquaintance with the Trevethlans, and his relationship to Gertrude, opened the door, closed to all besides, of that little boudoir where she and Helen used to sit together, when they were unengaged; precisely the same room from which Randolph pointed out to Mildred the star which he fancifully chose as the arbiter of his destiny. There Rereworth, forsaking the tangled intricacies of Astræa, learned to disentangle skeins of silk; there, instead of threading the mazes of some perplexing quibble, he could, on occasion, thread a needle; there, instead of reading of the wars of the alphabet, A against B, and C against D, he would read aloud the newest poem of Byron, or the latest novel of Scott; and Seymour was a good reader, and did not object to hear himself read, particularly when Helen Trevethlan listened. And the expression one can throw into such poetry and such prose is very convenient. So Rereworth was now the Corsair, with—

Then Selim, with—

And again he played the romantic with Flora Mac Ivor, or sang serenades with Henry Bertram. It is, we say, a convenient way of making love, which was something very like Seymour's present occupation, when—

Pleasant it is to contrast the even and tranquil affection which was thus ripening between Rereworth and Miss Trevethlan, with the turbulent and rebellious passion which linked together Mildred and Randolph. Helen had soon learned to like her brother's friend in his winter visits to Mr. Peach's cottage: her heart thanked him for the zeal which he now displayed in investigating the fraud practised at the recent trial; and she listened to these readings in a mood prepared readily to acquiesce in the emotions they were calculated to excite. Although it must be confessed that the wild passions of Lord Byron's heroes had more in common with the angry humour of Randolph than with her own gentle disposition. Perhaps her pleasure was derived from the voice of the reader rather than the poetry which he read.

But Rereworth did not allow his attentions to the sister to prevail over his exertions on behalf of the brother. And Randolph, being now more independent, seconded his friend's efforts with his own. But it was a vague and unsatisfactory pursuit. With no little difficulty they opened a correspondence with the family of Everope, but they were disappointed in its result; for nothing precise could be recollected respecting the spendthrift's movements in that eventful autumn. His connections were by no means anxious to revive their knowledge of his habits. And in London he seemed to have entirely abandoned all his former haunts. His chambers remained permanently closed; no one had seen him for a long time. Restless and impatient, Randolph roamed through the metropolis, scrutinizing the wayfarers, until his eyes became weary of the endless succession of unknown faces. Occasionally he visited places of questionable resort, having learned that such were much frequented by the object of his chase. Thus, once or twice, he went to the Argyll Rooms, and walked, care-worn and sad, among the giddy throng, where most especially, even in laughter, the heart was sorrowful, and the end of mirth was heaviness. And there one night he was mocked with a glimpse of the man he sought. He was watching, partly with interest, and partly with aversion, the proceedings at the hazard-table, when he noticed a player sitting opposite him, the quivering of whose fingers, as his forehead rested on them, showed how keen was his anxiety in the game. While Randolph was observing him, a showy woman laid her hand upon the gambler's shoulder, and made him look up with a start. At the same moment his eye met Randolph's; he saw he was recognised, rose and vanished; and though his pursuer hurried after him, his inexperience and want of acquaintance with the ways of the place enabled Everope to elude his search.

Meantime, at Trevethlan, Griffith was quietly following another trail. He took the proceedings at the inquest on the supposed Ashton as the basis of his hopes, and was eagerly inquiring among the country people what was remembered of the occurrences on the night of his suspected murder; for it might be presumed that they could not now feel any reluctance to tell all they knew, as the lapse of time would be sufficient to save them from harm. And, accordingly, the steward had little difficulty in ascertaining the particulars of the smuggling adventure of the night in question, and found that it was generally supposed the murderer had escaped in the lugger which came in with the illicit cargo. But there his researches were brought to an end. What had become of that lugger? In what seas she had sailed since, over what parts of the globe her crew were dispersed, were questions more easily asked than answered, with respect to a vessel of her character.

The hamlet was plunged in mourning. Already the note of preparation had been sounded for the formal taking possession of the castle by its new proprietor, and no rescue seemed probable. The old prediction was to be fulfilled at the expense of Trevethlan. The evil omen of the late squire's marriage was to be borne out by the event. And not a few families in the village were still bewailing the absence of some member now imprisoned on a charge of being concerned in the outrage at Pendarrel. The utmost rigour of the law was threatened against the guilty, and the offence was capital. The dark hour which old Maud Basset said was at hand for the house of Trevethlan had indeed arrived, and gloom hung around the towers on the cliff, and over the green of the hamlet.

The wrath of the villagers ran high against all who had in any way abetted the law-suit, and in particular against Michael Sinson. Upon his head many an imprecation was breathed, and against him many a threat was muttered. And the odium reflected upon his sweetheart. The people abused her for her rejection of Edward Owen. They said it was due to her that he was now lying in jail. They pointed at her, and flouted her. And poor Mercy often thought of the dismal denunciations of Dame Gudhan, and shuddered at the idea they might prove true.

Old Maud also shared in the unpopularity of her grandson. Over and over again the folks dinned into her ears that Margaret's marriage was broken, and that it was all her Michael's doing. That was the reason, they said, that the castle and lands passed away from Squire Randolph. It was her own favourite that had brought shame on the daughter of whom she was so proud. But Maud refused to understand. She sat, hour after hour, swaying herself to and fro in her rocking-chair, exulting in the ruin of the family which had wronged her Margaret, and, in a low voice, murmuring the hymns she had learned in childhood.

It would seem the fortunes of that family could hardly sink lower, but such was not the case. Griffith received a letter from Winter, informing him that Mr. Pendarrel's lawyer had intimated he was instructed to demand a rigid account of all the personal property left by his late master, and that, although he had replied the demand would be resisted, still the steward had better prepare for the worst. As yet no light appeared to brighten the condition in which they were left by the verdict in the ejectment. Griffith lifted up his hands in tribulation, and looked back through those five-and-thirty years.

This announcement was the result of Mrs. Pendarrel's interview with Mr. Truby. She insisted on the lawyer pressing all the legal consequences of the verdict to the utmost, and without delay. She even inquired whether the so-called Mr. Trevethlan might not be arrested. But Truby coldly answered, that though perhaps he might, yet he could not be detained, and that such a procedure would be at variance with the common courtesy. Common courtesy! Mrs. Pendarrel might think, what courtesy is there between me and him? She did not, however, venture to urge her proposition further.

But we are anticipating a little. Randolph remained unaware of this new device to drive him to utter ruin. One evening, after a day spent in the fruitless wanderings which occupied so much of his time, he was sitting with Polydore Riches, silent and languid, thinking moodily of abandoning all hope, and at once proceeding to some distant land in quest of enterprise—South America seemed to offer a field—when the post brought him a letter. He saw it was from Helen, and opened it slowly and without much curiosity. But it contained an enclosure, addressed to himself, in a lady's writing with which he was unacquainted. That he unfolded with more despatch, and read:—

"Randolph—I am yours. I must see you. Meet me to-morrow afternoon, at three, near the keeper's lodge, in Kensington-gardens.—Your——

"M. P."

The blood rushed into the reader's pallid cheeks. The very encounter which he had at times dreaded, while threading his way through the crowded streets, was here pressed upon him in a manner which he could not elude. Would he wish, then, to avoid it? Perhaps not. But in the first confusion of his feelings, joy had only a small share. Again all his plans were frustrated. He seemed to be a mere plaything in the hands of destiny.

It wanted yet some time of the appointed hour when the lover sought the rendezvous. Backwards and forwards, with uneven steps, he paced the grass between the cottage and the Serpentine-river. The thought of avenging the desolation around him again presented itself to his fancy: again he resisted it, and vowed that no such selfish impulse should sully his affection for Mildred. But the idea recalled the death-bed injunctions of his father, and reminded him that he had been on the point of entirely submitting to his adversary's triumph. He began to think that the task which had been imposed upon him was beyond his strength. His dreamy and lonely youth had ill prepared him for the storms of riper years. He was infirm of purpose and irresolute of heart.

The approach of a female form fluttered his pulse, and in a moment he was at Mildred's side. The greeting was incoherent and abrupt.

"Randolph," the lady said, "I have sought you, because I have no other succour left. Do you know, have they told you, that my bridal is at hand?"

Her lover started, and remembered, as in a flash of lightning, what he had heard from old Jeffrey.

"It was false," he said. "Dearest, I knew it was false."

"Ay," she continued. "But it has become very like truth. Do you know that everybody believes it? that everybody looks upon Mildred Pendarrel.... Oh, my mother, my mother, why have you driven me to this?"

She spoke with passionate sorrowfulness of accent. Well might Randolph say there was no happiness in love like theirs.

"Yes, the day is fixed. I am a prisoner till it comes. I am here only by stealth. I do not know what will become of me. I can bear it no longer."

The words followed one another in rapid succession. Mildred was trying to forget herself in the quickness of her utterance.

"The day will never dawn," Randolph exclaimed. "Are we not vowed to each other? Are we not pledged for ever? Let us fly, dearest. Let us be united before the world, as we are in our hearts. But, no, no," he suddenly ejaculated, with a burst of anguish. "Do you know who I am? An outcast, without house or name. Dishonoured and infamous. What can I offer you? How can you share my lot? It must not be, dearest Mildred, it can never be."

"I know it all," she answered. "It was my mother that pressed it on me. What then? Was it not the very reason that determined me? Oh, Randolph, do not think so lightly of me, as to suppose such things would turn me from my vow. Do not think I would recall what is my only hope, my last-remaining joy. I have nothing left but you. Do not fancy I regret what is gone."

Brief, but earnest and decided, was the conversation that ensued. Passion carried all before it. Mildred thought that, with the help of her faithful Rhoda, she could escape the same evening. Randolph would arrange everything for their flight. The north road would conduct them, if not to happiness, at least to security. A few rapid sentences settled all preliminary details; and the lovers parted, to meet again before many hours were over.

There was now no time for reflection. Randolph had not a minute to spare. There were letters to write for Helen and for Mr. Riches, short as possible, giving, after all, no information. There were funds to provide, little requisites to collect. When Randolph stood by his carriage under the trees of Grosvenor-square, he seemed scarcely to have rested a moment from the time he left Kensington-gardens.

Late in the evening it was. Mildred had retired for the night. Rhoda showed her young mistress, in a slight disguise, to Mrs. Pendarrel's door, as a visitor, and speedily slipped out, unseen, herself. They reached the carriage in safety. The elopement was complete. Scandal laughed in the wind that swept through the trees, as the fugitives were whirled from the square.

The flight was not detected. So when Mrs. Pendarrel descended in the morning to the breakfast room, she was surprised at finding no Mildred there to receive her. She did not at first take much heed to the circumstance, but herself commenced what had usually been her daughter's duty. But when she had been some time joined by her husband, and there were still no signs of the young lady, she desired a servant to send Miss Pendarrel's maid to inquire whether her mistress was not ready for breakfast. Answer came in a few minutes, that Miss Pendarrel's maid was not to be found. Esther then felt some uneasiness; would herself look after the bird; found the cage empty; an incoherent note on the dressing-table:—

"Dearest mother," Mildred briefly wrote, "I can bear it no longer. Every day sinks me deeper in deceit. You do not know—you never can tell, how I have struggled. Why did you upbraid him? Oh, mother, why did you seem to rejoice in his sorrow? I feel that I can only be his. When you know all my despair, you will forgive your child."

"Never," Esther exclaimed, grinding her teeth. She crushed the billet in her hand, and returned to her husband.

"Mr. Trevethlan Pendarrel," said she, "your daughter has eloped."

The politician felt some excitement for once, and blushed like red tape.

"What!" he exclaimed. "What did you say, Esther?"

"Your daughter has eloped, sir," she repeated; "eloped with your pretended nephew. Come, sir; there must be a pursuit."

Roused at last to a sense of the emergency, the bereaved father bestirred himself, obtained some traces of the fugitives, and, within half an hour, was flying along the north road as fast as four horses could take him.

Did any girl ever know the anguish she would inflict by a step like Mildred's? Press to the uttermost the arguments urged by Milton and Johnson in defence of the right of children to choose for themselves in marriage, they will still never be found to countervail the natural sentiments of the heart. They will never subdue conscience, or stifle remorse. And so it has been often observed, that wedlock, in which the honour due to father and mother is forgotten, is rarely happy in its result. And, on the other hand, parents, who, without the most solid grounds, coerce their children's inclinations, will probably one day pay the penalty of their hard-heartedness.

Esther communicated the event in a short and savage note to Mrs. Winston, striving to flatter herself with the idea, that in spite of Mildred's words, she might have sought an asylum in Cavendish-square. Gertrude answered the missive in person, and with great sorrow. She bitterly deplored her sister's imprudence; but Mrs. Pendarrel received her with sharp and angry speech, said what had happened was owing to her teaching, was sorry she had no daughters to serve her in the same way, and, in short, treated her with a contumely which it required all Mrs. Winston's temper to endure in respectful silence.

Esther was almost prostrated by the blow. She had never been quite herself since the burning of Pendarrel. She had, it was true, maintained a bold and haughty front, but she had lost some of her old internal confidence. She had become more hasty, and found her self-control much weakened. She perceived the change in that scene with Mildred, which, as she confessed to herself, had probably hurried the catastrophe more than anything Mrs. Winston had done or said. But when she desired Mildred not to leave the house without her cognizance, she had no idea that the young lady was prepared to disobey.

She read the note of farewell over and over. She crumpled it, and smoothed it, again and again. With all its incoherence, it was sufficiently decided. And so the very same day in which she had fulminated her final decree against the heir of Trevethlan—a decree which she hoped would crush him to the ground—that very day her daughter had thrown herself into his arms. She was check-mated just when she thought the next move would give her the game. Henry Trevethlan was already well avenged.

In the midst of her agitation, word was brought her that Michael Sinson had begged the favour of an audience. She had seen very little of her protégé since her arrival in town. She fancied he might be of some service in her present strait, and granted the permission he sought. Ignorant of Miss Pendarrel's flight, he came cringing into the presence of his patroness, with the idea that Everope was safe, and that he might claim the reward of his treachery.

"Now, sir," his mistress said as he entered, "what is your business with me?"

The young man was embarrassed. He had well considered what he was about to say, yet, when the time came to speak, his words were not ready.

"You know, ma'am," he said, hesitating and confused, "the pains I have taken in exposing the person who had unlawful possession of Trevethlan Castle."

"Well, sir!"

"You know, ma'am, that I did not scruple to bring discredit on some of my own kindred, in order that right might be done."

"You have been well paid," Mrs. Pendarrel said.

"Excuse me, ma'am," Sinson proceeded. "I have been reproached and abused by my relations, and all the country people turn away from me. It is not easy for me to show my face in Kerrier or Penwith. But right is done at last. You have the castle firm and safe. Do you remember, ma'am, what I told you of the late owner and Miss Mildred?"

Esther started, supposing the speaker was going to give her some intelligence respecting the elopement.

"In a week or a fortnight," Michael continued, "there will be no trace of the old family at Trevethlan. The steward is now preparing to quit. Mr. Randolph is wandering somewhere in poverty and want. Do you suppose, ma'am, that he has forgotten that walk on the cliff, with—with your daughter?"

Mrs. Pendarrel was surprised. She could not imagine to what end so strange an introduction was tending. She listened in silence.

"No, ma'am," said her protégé. "Love will not grow cold in ruin."

And then Sinson, in incoherent language, proceeded to contrast Randolph's circumstances with his own. It was a speech which he had often meditated, and spoken in soliloquy, yet he now felt almost unable to deliver it. A sense of the hollowness of his reasoning choked the words which should have flowed from his lips. He was too conscious of his own sophistry to be eloquent. Yet he struggled on through sentence after sentence, without observing the increasing astonishment of Mrs. Pendarrel, who wondered more and more to what he was coming. Like Fear, Michael recoiled from the sound of his own voice, when he had heard his concluding demand.

"Why, then, if this Mr. Randolph is fascinated by—your daughter—why should I be blind to the same attractions?"

By this time Esther had risen from her seat, and stood, mute with amazement. Had Michael been less excited, he could not have failed to notice the scorn and indignation in her face. But he had become absorbed in his subject, and proceeded hurriedly.

"And what obstacle is there? The world's prejudice? That I sweep aside. You can give me what station you please. Her engagement? You have good cause to break it. Why does Melcomb pursue her? To pay off the encumbrances on Tolpeden? No, no: to pay his own debts. Tolpeden will be mortgaged as now. Will she object? Not if she have any regard for Mr. Randolph. I can implicate him in the burning of Pendarrel. His life will be in danger. She will consent, in order to save him. What hinderance is there then?"

Mrs. Pendarrel approached the bell-rope, but before she could pull it, Michael boldly interposed. He had now regained his audacity.

"Hark! ma'am," he said. "Before you venture to scorn this offer, remember what you owe me. I am not to be paid with money. Well paid, did you say? No, ma'am. The triumph you have gained hangs upon my word. A breath from me will blow it to the winds. There is shame in store for you, ma'am, worse than any that has befallen Mr. Randolph. I have letters of yours, ma'am. You are in my power. I have named my terms. Beware, ma'am, of rejecting them."

"You do not seem to be aware, sir," Esther said, with cold and bitter sarcasm, "that the honour you would confer upon my family, it is not in my power to accept. My daughter fled from my house last night, and, as I believe, in company with the person to whom you allude."

"Fled!" Sinson exclaimed in a whisper. "Fled!"

Before he recovered from his astonishment, Mrs. Pendarrel had rung the bell. A servant speedily answered the summons. Michael heard an order which banished him from the house for ever, and stamped fiercely on the floor, while his patroness retired into an adjoining apartment.

"Did you hear, sir?" said the servant tapping Sinson smartly on the shoulder.

An execration rose to the young man's lips, but he repressed it, and followed the attendant. The door of the house closed behind him, and its jar seemed finally to shiver to atoms the fabric he had been constructing so long and so laboriously. He stood on the pavement of the street, once more the vile Cornish peasant. His devices had recoiled upon his own head. One step of a simple girl had disconcerted all his schemes. And he had tied his own hands. But then with a sort of savage glee he thought of the plight of the young lovers. At least he had brought ruin on the house from which he had been driven with disdain. And he retained his hold on Mrs. Pendarrel. He was not lost in loss itself. He must obtain the funds which he had affected to despise. Should he not follow up the idea which he had mentioned of charging Randolph with instigating those incendiaries? There was motive sufficient to make the accusation credible. He could at least tamper with some of those who were in custody. The hope of pardon, the promise of reward would be tempting inducements. He was not yet destitute of resources. And he had the chance of his lottery-ticket.

Such were the notions into which the tumult of Sinson's passions at length subsided. He had gone into the Green Park, and he walked rapidly to and fro, under the trees by Rosamond's Pond. Some people watched him, thinking that he meditated suicide. But his pace became gradually slower and steadier, and the flaneurs went on their way, wondering what might have caused so much agitation.

"No," Michael might have muttered between his teeth; "at least he shall not enjoy any tranquillity. Infamy shall follow poverty. He shall never be happy with her, nor she with him. Let him pay for his father's scornfulness; let her atone for her mother's disdain. Ha! What did I say? What did I betray? But no; I mentioned nothing tangible. No names. No particulars. The secret is safe. Let Mrs. Pendarrel take possession of Trevethlan Castle: she will hold it for me. Let her refuse me my demands, and I blow her title to the winds, and shame her in the sight of the world. And I am safe. There would be nothing against me but what I chose to confess. Ay, the game is not up yet. I shall not have played for nothing. Was I expelled from the castle? Am I driven from the hall? Long shall the heir of the one, and the mistress of the other, rue the contumely they cast upon Michael Sinson."

The muser started, for a hand grasped his arm, and shook him. He looked up, and encountered Everope.

"Do you hear, Sinson?" cried the spendthrift. "Five times I have said your name! What is the matter with you?"

"It's plain enough what is the matter with you," Michael answered moodily. "And why have you not left London? For what are you lingering here? Do you wish to be transported?"

"If I am, you will be also," said Everope. "I must have some money."

Slovenly and jaded, the unhappy man presented obvious signs of recent dissipation. His eyes were bloodshot, and his hand trembled.

"That you may squander it in riot," Sinson said. "Tush! you have had too much already. You think you are worth more than you are. You can only harm yourself. Go abroad, or I shall throw you into the Fleet. Let's see who'll believe your stories there."

"Villain!" exclaimed the spendthrift.

All the fierce and disappointed passions which were struggling in Michael's breast, concurred in giving strength to the blow that sent Everope staggering several paces to fall upon the turf, almost before the word had passed his lips. Sinson turned and walked away.

His bondman rose from the ground in a fury not to be described. All the few traces of the gentleman which still lingered about him, rebelled with hot resentment against the insult he had received. Such are the contradictions of our nature. Mean, profligate, and perjured, Everope yet revolted from a blow. And from whom received? From the tempter to whom he sold himself for a few paltry pieces of gold. From one whom he, even in his own degradation, despised and loathed; who had betrayed him into guilt at which his soul grew sick. And directed against the man who had come to offer him kindness. Yes; how well he remembered that repulsed visit to his chambers in the Temple! With what horror he had recognised his benefactor at the trial! The man whom his testimony had undone had attempted to rescue him from ruin. "Too late it was, too late," Everope cried with his inward voice—"it has always been too late with me. But need it still be so? Was opportunity of retrieval finally gone? Had even the eleventh hour elapsed? Could he not break his chains? It was but to speak one word. The Fleet! There, or worse then there, he must end! Why should he struggle for a few days' respite? What was the wretched timidity which disabled him from facing his position?"

Such was the reverie of him whom want of principle and a sanguine temper had reduced by degrees to the degraded state in which the reader finds him. Always hoping to retrieve the effects of past extravagance, and intending to repair the mischief of former faults, he allowed himself to be led into fresh wastefulness, and to be involved in further guilt. Was his present penitence to be more efficient? The question will soon be answered. He hurried away from the scene of his interview with Sinson, and quitted the park by Buckingham-gate.

Meantime, Michael had not gone very far before a thought seemed to strike him, and he retraced his steps to Rosamond's Pond. After all, it might be prudent not to quarrel with the spendthrift at present. But he was too late. Everope had disappeared. "It is no matter," Sinson muttered; "I can find him at any time." The next day he went down into Cornwall.

"The understanding of a man naturally sanguine"—it is Dr. Johnson who speaks—"may be easily vitiated by the luxurious indulgence of hope, however necessary to the production of everything great or excellent; as some plants are destroyed by too open exposure to that sun which gives life and beauty to the vegetable world."

In Everope is seen the extremity to which the vitiation here mentioned by the great moralist may sometimes be carried. Yet surely a sanguine temperament ought to be a blessing. A willingness to see the bright side of things should not be converted into a misfortune. But it is frequently at once compliant and obstinate, yielding readily to seduction and resisting advice. And it is too often treated in the spirit of the maxim, that wilful men must have their way. That is to say, it is considered to be always in the wrong. A common idea is, that difficulty will cure its faults. But the difficulty must not amount to ruin. The step from the sublime to the ridiculous is not more easy than that from sanguineness to despair.