No answer.

"Family unfriendly," continued the intruder.

"Family!" shouted Everope, springing to his feet with an oath, "what d'ye mean, sir?" He clenched his fist, but it fell to his side. "Ha!"

said he, "I am feeble--

'Some undone widow sits upon my arm, And takes away the use o't; and my sword, Glued to my scabbard with wronged orphans' tears, Will not be drawn.'

Kean, sir, Kean----" He sank into his chair, and burst into tears.

This paroxysm restored him to some degree of recollection. When it pa.s.sed away, Sinson drew his chair near him, and laid his hand on his arm. The spendthrift shrank from the touch. Michael quietly took out his purse, and allowed some pieces of gold to roll on the table.

"Mr. Everope," said he, in the oiliest tones possible, "I ask your pardon for my impertinent intrusion. It was meant all in good will. I was sorry to see the scurvy tricks fortune played you to-night. I came to ask if this petty sum would be any accommodation."

"Sir," Everope answered, while his fingers twitched convulsively, "I do not take such accommodation from strangers."

"We need not be strangers," said Sinson. "And if you are so delicate, you can give me your note of hand. I a.s.sure you I do not want the trifle."

Everope looked about the room.

"By the way," continued the tempter, "there's a fellow in the Temple called Morton. Pupil of a Mr. Travers. Know him?"

"I may have seen him at Travers's," the spendthrift answered, sullenly.

"I wish you could find out who he is," Sinson said, "and what he's doing. I have a sort of interest in him."

Everope only continued searching about the apartment.

"Was it paper you were looking for?" Sinson asked, and tore a leaf from his pocket-book.

I O U wrote Everope.

It requires no parchment and blood now-a-days to sign a compact with the fiend.

"Good-night, Everope," said Michael, folding the note in his book.

"Recollect what I said about Morton."

The spendthrift closed his door, and returned to the table, and sat down and played mechanically with the golden counters. Embarra.s.sed as he had often been, he had not yet learnt the ways and means of raising money, and this was his initiation. Miserable man! Better for him had it been to submit to any usury than, with his weak temper, to become the debtor of Michael Sinson.

His vacillation was remarkably shown the following day. He rose at a late hour, nervous and feverish, strangely troubled with an idea that he had sold himself to be the instrument of some villany. He knew nothing of the man who had furnished him with money. He could not even tell where to find him. What were his designs with regard to Morton?

The little Everope had seen of the young student had won his respect.

Ought he not to tell him what had occurred? If he knew where to find this Sinson, he would return the money.

It was dusk of the evening. He remembered that Morton would be keeping Hilary Term. He did not belong to the Temple, but he lived there. He went down into the cloisters and paced to and fro, waiting till hall should be over. At length Randolph came out alone, and Everope joined him abruptly.

"Morton," the spendthrift asked, in a low, husky voice, "were you ever in want?"

The owner of Trevethlan Castle was amazed and affronted, but he said nothing. Since the visit to the opera, every hour made him more impatient of his disguise.

"I ask you were you ever in want?" repeated Everope, with some fierceness. "I do not mean did you ever need a meal, or lack a coat; but were you ever embarra.s.sed? Were you ever afraid, or ashamed to show your face? Did you ever tremble to think, not perhaps of to-morrow, but of to-morrow month? Did you ever shudder at the thought of disgrace? Have you any relatives whom you esteem and love? Whose memory has been to some extent your guardian angel? who have begun to pity and ceased to regard you? To whom you have done injustice? Ay, hark in your ear,--did you ever think that to them your death would be a relief?"

"Is the man mad?" Randolph asked himself, but said nothing aloud.

"I see," continued Everope, gloomily; "I see you are more fortunate.

You have no sympathy with a vaurien. My confidence is made in vain: for if you cannot answer these questions, I can. You do not know the circ.u.mstances which give force to temptation. Pity those who do. Pity me, Morton. Lay up my words, and have a pardon ready when the day comes."

They had reached Fleet-street. The spendthrift turned suddenly and hurried away, before Randolph could fulfil an intention he had conceived of offering a.s.sistance. His own mind was at this time so disturbed, that the episode scarcely increased his agitation.

Nevertheless, he went the next morning to make the offer, which Everope's abrupt departure had prevented in the evening. The spendthrift lived in garrets looking down from a great height on a narrow dingy lane. The visitor found the outer door closed, "the oak sported," in the language of college. But he had learnt that this by no means proved the absence of the occupant, and he supposed that in Everope's case there might be good reason for the precaution. So he rapped long and loud at the ma.s.sive door. There was no answer: no sound indicated the presence of any living creature. "Mr. Everope,"

Randolph shouted through the narrow aperture intended to receive letters. He repeated the call several times. At length a slight shuffling noise came along the pa.s.sage inside, and paused at the door.

"Is it you, Morton?" the spendthrift asked.

"Yes. I wish to speak with you."

"Excuse me," said Everope; "I am not well. I cannot see you now. My head aches."

"Nay," Randolph urged, in a low tone. "Only for a moment. Can I be of service to you? I am not rich, but perhaps----From what you said, I thought----"

A sigh, so profound that it might be termed a groan, escaped from Everope's breast. But he lashed himself into a spasm of anger.

"You mistook me, sir," he said, savagely, "and you trouble me. I can hear no more."

And he went back from the door with a quick and heavy tread. He had been to the rooms again the night before, had lost all he borrowed, and accepted a fresh loan from Sinson. It is but the first step that costs.

Randolph betook himself to chambers with a notion that he did not engross all the misery of the world.

CHAPTER XI.

There's a dark spirit walking in our house, And swiftly will the Destiny close on us.

It drove me hither from my calm asylum, It mocks my soul with charming witchery, It lures me forward in a seraph's shape.

I see it near, I see it nearer floating, It draws, it pulls me with a G.o.dlike power-- And lo, the abyss.

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 pa.s.sive. 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 pa.s.sion. 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 pa.s.sion 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 pa.s.sion upon Randolph was to give tenfold vigour to his hatred of his a.s.sumed 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.