"Which means," Sinson observed maliciously, "that you have lost your money. Perhaps I can put you in the way of getting some. There's corn in Egypt."

"What can you do?" asked Everope. "Pick the lock of the granary, perchance? But I am desperate. Let me hear."

"Pooh!" said Michael. "I want a companion for a pretty long trip into the country. One not troubled with over-nice scruples; do you note me?"

"Then you may go somewhere else," cried Everope, who felt that he was selling his soul past redemption.

"And you will go into the Fleet," added the tempter, "to lie there till you die. Remember I have a considerable memorandum against you in my pocket-book; and I shall find a friend to serve me all the same.

There's nothing that money won't buy; and there's plenty of it to be won here. I offer it to you in kindness, as a friend."

And he jingled some gold in his pocket to give emphasis to his words.

Woe for Everope! He had made the step which costs: the rest were comparatively easy. "True," thought he, "if I hold back, another will be found. Already I am entangled with this scoundrel. And, after all, there may be nothing bad in the business. Pish!

'Returning is as tedious as go o'er.'"

That same night Sinson started with his victim for Cornwall. He found Everope quarters in a village at some little distance from Pendarrel, while he himself went to Wilderness Gate, where his aged grandmother received him with doting partiality. But he did not wish to attract more attention than he could help. He showed Everope about the neighbourhood of Trevethlan, pointed out the chief features of the locality, and in particular made him notice the approach to the castle.

There was no harm so far, and Everope rather marvelled that for this trivial survey he should have been brought such a distance. From Trevethlan Michael conducted his slave two or three miles along the coast to a cottage which stood somewhat retired.

"By the bye," he said, as they approached the modest dwelling, "I think you were at college, Everope. How long ago?"

"About twenty years," answered the spendthrift with a deep sigh.

"Was there any one there of the name of Ashton in your time?"

"I seem to remember the name," the spendthrift said, musing. "Ashton?

yes, a rowing man, I think--yes, went into the church afterwards. I recollect now. But he was a good deal my senior. I knew but little of him."

"Did you ever hear what became of him?"

"Well, it was something strange," Everope continued. "Let me see. His family quarrelled with him. There was some story about his being murdered."

"Exactly so," said Sinson. "And we are now close to the scene. It was in this cottage that he lodged--just observe it--and some half mile from here along the cliff his body was found, nearly knocked to pieces on the beach."

The spendthrift's attention was excited by the tale, which also recalled those early days at college, when precocious dissipation and riot laid the seed of future ruin. Towards what abyss had he been travelling ever since? He seemed to turn round, and gaze backwards up a long slope, from the extremity of which his childhood looked down upon him still smiling and hopeful, but whereon at every pause in the descent he saw countenances more and more louring, and forms toiling upwards with averted faces. And now before him at a little distance, the incline was lost in darkness and clouds, and thitherward he was incessantly impelled, and there was nothing to stay his descent.

Sinson left him at his country quarters, merely saying, that they would return to London the following day, and that there Everope should learn the object of the journey. He himself repaired to the habitation of his grandmother.

The old woman was sitting in a rocking chair beside the fire, swinging herself backwards and forwards, and murmuring a hymn. She was little sensible to emotion now-a-days, but she rejoiced to behold her Michael again, and to perceive, what was evident even to her eyes, that he was a much finer person than when he went away. As he entered the lodge in the dusk of the evening, she ceased singing, and settled herself on her chair steadily, in order to look at him.

"Hither to me, my boy," said the old crone, stretching her shrivelled arm to reach a low stool and set it by her side; "come thee here to me. 'Tis dimly like, and my eyes get something old."

Michael, who had his reasons for humouring her, lighted a candle, and seated himself on the floor at her feet. She drew his head to her lap, and pa.s.sed her hand lightly over his face, and then looked at him with eyes that were still bright and black, however she might complain of their decaying power.

"Ay," she said, with a smile, "he's just the same always, my Michael.

And hast been to show thyself to Cecily, my boy?"

"No, grandame," he replied; "not just now. I have not the time."

"Not time to see thy mother, child? Cecily will fret when I tell her."

"That's just it, grandame," said Michael, "and so ye'd better not tell her at all. 'Tis a little errand for my mistress that I'm here for; and she don't wish it talked about."

"Well, well," mumbled Maud; "and Cecily was never like my Margaret.

Dost mind Margaret, my boy?"

"Aunt Margaret was a fine lady, wasn't she, grandame?"

"Ay," muttered the old woman, recommencing to rock herself, "she was fit to be a queen. Didn't I read of her glory? But they took her away, and kept her all apart. 'T was long months I hadn't seen her, when I saw the dust thrown into her grave."

"And did you love Mr. Trevethlan, grandame?"

"Did I love the murderer of my girl?" Maud exclaimed, stopping her chair, and springing to her feet. "Should I love the murderer of his own wife? And didst not go with me when he was borne out in his turn?

Was it tears we poured into his grave? Was it comfort we carried to his young son? Na, na. There's little love between Maud Ba.s.set and anything that bears the name of Trevethlan."

"Are you sure they were married?" Michael asked.

"Didn't I see it with my own eyes? Didn't I see how my angel blushed and trembled when he put on the ring, and he all so cold and stately like? Cursed be the gipsy babbler that bewitched his heart!"

"Folks say there was great doubt about it," observed Michael.

"They lie," said the old woman, again seating herself. "My Margaret _was_ the lady of Trevethlan Castle, and cursed be they that turned her bliss to bane."

"Well, grandame," urged the young man, "would it not be a sweet revenge, to show that Henry Trevethlan deceived my poor aunt, and was himself deceived in turn, and so the children have no right to the name, and the lands pa.s.s away to strangers?"

"Is it her kinsman that speaks?" exclaimed Maud. "Is it the son of her sister would bring shame upon her memory? Is it a grandson of mine would defame my Margaret? Na, na. Thou'rt no Michael of mine. Out of my sight, viper, before I call the curse of Heaven upon thy head. Na, na. Let me go. Let me go."

And she quitted the room. But she came back again almost immediately.

"Ye did na mean it, Michael," she said. "Ye did na mean it. Good night to ye, my own boy. Good night."

"Good night, grandame," Michael answered, sulkily.

The next day he and Everope started on their return to London.

END OF VOL. I.