Sinson took very good care, in the disquietude of his suspicious temper, that his bondman should not be left in the way of temptation. He started with Everope for London, within a few hours of the termination of the trial. In that wretched man remorse seemed for a time to be dead.

Hitherto, in the midst of his lowest depravity, he had always experienced compunctious visitings; he had been always haunted by a sense of forfeited respectability; and had frequently felt a feeble desire to reform. But now, although startled for a moment by the ident.i.ty of Morton with the defendant, he gladly accepted his position as irremediable, and was looking eagerly for the reward which should furnish him with the means of forgetting it.

But it behoved Michael to keep a strong hold on him for a short time. A very short time, Sinson thought, in the first flush of his triumph, would be sufficient. A few days might put him in possession of all his desires: after that, what became of Everope, or what disclosures he might choose to make, would be a matter of second-rate consequence.

Michael felt a kind of admiration for his victim, when he remembered how successfully he had encountered that searching cross-examination. But he could not allow so much ability to run too loose, and resolved to hold him in by drawing his purse-strings very tight, until his own game was perfectly secure.

That it would soon be so, he did not feel the least doubt. He had been playing for weeks and weeks; he had kept his eye steadily fixed upon one event; all his calculations terminated in one result; he had taught himself completely to ignore all unfavourable chances; supposing he had any confidants, he would have regarded their suggestion of difficulty as an insult; he might be thought to fancy that the book of fate lay open before him, and all he read was his own triumph.

And his patroness, she who, in the halls of Pendarrel, was pursuing a line of policy totally at variance with that of her protege, little dreaming that what seemed to be her victory was intended to be his, utterly unconscious of the price about to be demanded for it--how would she receive the news? Her husband, engaged all day in hearing the details of petty felonies, was discharged with the rest of his colleagues at its close, and retired to recreate himself in their company at a well-served board. There he received the intelligence of the verdict, and accepted the felicitations of his friends. Thence, knowing the penalty which would otherwise await him at home, he withdrew for a little s.p.a.ce to indite a despatch for his wife; and then, having entrusted the missive to a trusty rider, with injunctions to lose no time on the road, he was able to rejoin his friends before the decanters had completed their first round.

So the news was ready for the mistress of Pendarrel by breakfast-time.

In the first flush of exultation she made her daughter a partner in it.

"Mildred, my love, I give you joy. You are heiress of Trevethlan Castle."

But the young lady regarded her mother with a countenance in which there were no signs of joy, and the for once imprudent parent bit her lip.

"And my cousins," Mildred said, "are ruined."

"They are no cousins of yours, child," said her mother, not yet having regained perfect presence of mind; "nor of any one else. Nor are they ruined. I shall take good care of that."

Mrs. Pendarrel would very gladly have recalled the remark which had excited her daughter's sympathy, in order to convey the information in a tone of less unqualified satisfaction. But she forgot her wariness in the pride occasioned by the success of all her long machinations.

"Pendar'l and Trevethlan would own one name."

And that name would be Pendarrel. Nay, more; the name of Trevethlan would vanish from the earth. The family would sink into oblivion. If he who had slighted her could rise from his grave, and see the ruin which had followed his scorn; could see how his towers had pa.s.sed into the hands of his foe; how his fame was blighted, and his children dishonoured; were there not ample satisfaction for all the long misery his contempt had inflicted? "No!" Esther was compelled to answer, as that eternal spring of bitter waters burst forth amidst the sweet flood of revenge. "No, nothing can compensate me for the sorrow which conscience whispers has been due to my own arrogance; nothing can atone for the wreck of that happiness, which, but for my own presumption, might have been mine."

Reflections like these, however, were soon crushed, and Mrs. Pendarrel had quite sufficient employment on her hands. Since the night of her great party, she had been a.s.siduously pressing forward the preparations for Mildred's marriage. Perfectly heedless of the att.i.tude a.s.sumed by the young lady, she was arranging all the details of the affair with maternal diligence, and had gone so far as to select the persons who were to be present at the ceremony. Mr. Truby had been himself to the Hall to receive final instructions respecting the settlements. Melcomb was an a.s.siduous visitor, but by no means solicitous for _tete-a-tetes_ with his intended bride. To him the marriage was become nearly a matter of life and death. It was true the gossips at Mrs. Pendarrel's party had somewhat exaggerated his embarra.s.sments; but his creditors were growing very importunate, and impatiently awaiting the day when the possession of his wife's fortune would enable him to satisfy their most pressing demands: a purpose to which he had undertaken it should be devoted. Let it be rumoured that the match was broken off, and it might not be very long before Tolpeden Park suffered the outrages alluded to by Mr.

Quitch. So Melcomb disguised whatever inward anxiety he might feel, under a smooth brow and a smiling face, and evaded his mistress's repugnance as best he might.

Mildred's remonstrances had subsided into pa.s.sive resistance. She was generally silent and calm. The irksomeness of her situation was greatly aggravated; but, at the same time, her spirit was sustained by the memory which she cherished in her heart of the scene under the hawthorns of the cliff. Trusting that some accident might even yet frustrate her mother's intentions, she allowed her to proceed without protest, acting on her sister's advice, to postpone eclat to the latest possible period.

She felt that she had deceived no one, and, if scandal came, it would be no fault of hers.

But had Esther been fully aware of all that was fermenting in the young lady's mind, she would, indeed, have bit her lips hard, rather than let slip that intimation respecting Trevethlan Castle. The idea of flight had occurred to the reluctant maiden more than once; coming, however, only to be dismissed. But if her lover were really ruined, if he to whom she had plighted herself were an exile from house and home, forlorn and outcast, then it was not unlikely Mildred might think that her vow as well as her affection bade her seek him, at once to share and to console his sorrow.

So Mrs. Pendarrel's hasty exclamation brought distress and anxiety to her daughter, and imparted a certain consistency to a notion which had previously been shadowy as a dream. Mildred wrote a long letter to her sister, partly lifting the veil from the emotions which agitated her, and dwelling more strongly than she had ever done before, upon the disquietude she felt at the mode in which the match was being hurried forward.

But it was not from this communication that Mrs. Winston would learn the result of the law-suit. She was at a party, when she overheard an allusion to it from a bystander. He was a barrister, who had been present at the trial, and who, having finished his business at the a.s.sizes, had returned with speed to London. She knew the person he was conversing with, joined them, and learned all the particulars. She had before talked the affair over, and was fully aware of the consequences to the orphans of Trevethlan. She immediately quitted the a.s.sembly, went home, and interrupted her husband in his studies. A brilliant creature she was, glowing in all the l.u.s.tre and maturity of thirty summers, and now adorned with everything that could be imagined to enhance her beauty. So she swept to Mr. Winston's side, and laid her hand lightly upon his shoulder. And, with all his love of ease and philosophy, his indolence and affected apathy, he was really proud of his wife, and gratified whenever she came to him with a request. So, if there were a little impatience in his mind, when he looked up from his book into her face, it vanished immediately in admiration, and was succeeded by pleasure when he found she had come to consult him.

"So soon home, Gertrude," he said. "And why? I trust nothing is the matter."

She related what she had heard respecting the law-suit.

"And now," she concluded, "what will become of my unhappy cousins?"

"I think, my dear," her husband said, after some reflection,--"I think there could be no harm, considering all the circ.u.mstances, there could be no harm, I imagine, in begging Miss Trevethlan to make our house her home. I do not believe this verdict will stand. But, at all events, we might invite Miss Trevethlan to stay with us; at any rate for a time.

She might be as private as she pleased. What do you say, my dear? You might write to her...."

He had laid his open volume upon his knee. What he suggested was precisely what Mrs. Winston desired. So much coldness had attended all her intercourse with her mother, since their last discussion about Mildred's marriage, that she took no heed of any objection from that quarter. She answered her husband by bending down and touching his cheek with her lips. He thought she had never looked so beautiful before, and threw away his book.

That evening was the beginning of a new era in Gertrude's life.

CHAPTER XV.

Desdichada fue la hora, Desdichado fue aquel dia En que naci y herede La tau grande senoria; Pues lo habia de perder Todo junto y en un dia.

Roman. Espan.

Late in the night, or early in the morning that followed the trial at Bodmin, any watcher at Trevethlan would be startled by the gallop of horses and the rattle of wheels, as the chaise which bore Randolph to his lost home dashed round the green of the hamlet. The bell rung loud at the castle-gate, and old Jeffrey roused himself from his slumbers, and having looked to the state of his blunderbus, descended leisurely to learn who sought admission at that untimely hour. His master's voice impatiently ordered him to open the gate; and, with a wonder that impeded his duty, he obeyed. Delay again occurred before Randolph obtained entrance to the great hall; and when he did, the white face upon which fell the glare of the trembling handmaiden's lamp, might remind her of those sheeted spectres which were said to glide at that hour through the desolate corridors. He bade her leave him a light, and she fled, scared, back to the couch from which she had unwillingly risen.

Randolph strode with irregular steps up and down the vaulted hall.

Perhaps, had Griffith been there, the worthy steward would have remembered the day when his late master paced it in the like manner, after his furious ride from Pendarrel. He might recollect the same fierce pa.s.sion in his eye--the same dark scowl upon his forehead, as those which now burnt and loured in the face of his son. Nor were it very easy to say which had sustained the greatest provocation: the father, led on and enchained in a deep attachment, only to feel himself the sport of a wayward girl's vanity; or the son, who found the same girl, now a woman, triumphing in that father's dishonour, and exulting over the ruin of his house. And that was not all, for the disgrace descended: the good name, which had been handed down from generation to generation, almost from beyond the memory of man, with him, Randolph--what?--was changed into an inheritance of shame. And he too loved. He loved the child of his destroyer. He had sometimes rejoiced in the idea of wreaking the vengeance bequeathed to him, by stealing her from her mother. For she also loved him, and had vowed to be his. And now;--what was to happen now? Ruin, privation, poverty, he might have invited her to share, while honour was unstained. But could he ask her to join the fortunes of one who had not even a name to offer her? The reputed offspring of fraud and sin? Never, while there remained a shadow in which calumny might wrap itself--never, while there was a suspicion upon which envy might pretend to believe the tale related that day--could he accept the fulfilment of his beloved one's promise.

And what hope was there? Had he not swept the dark horizon again and again in search of the faintest ray of light, and failed to discover any? And if his vision, sharpened by despair, could discover none, whose could? Had he not listened to every syllable of the foul tale, with the ears of one who sought a flaw in his death-warrant? And had he been able to discover any? Then if he were deaf, who could hear?

And this was the story with which he must greet his sister in the morning. For delay, dalliance with chance was out of the question. As he had told Polydore Riches, not another night should the castle find him beneath its roof. Speedy possession! It had been refused, but they might take it. He would not remain where his very name seemed to mock him.

Therefore he and Helen were in fact houseless. Well, they would again seek their old quarters near the metropolis. They still possessed a few months' maintenance. Afterwards, let what would happen, it would not much matter.

These bitter thoughts occupied Randolph when the grey light of day-break stole through the lofty cas.e.m.e.nts, and reminded him of the necessity of repose. He sought his own chamber. The sea lay beneath him, calm and still, but without its usual tranquillising influence. Dressed as he was he flung himself upon his bed, and sheer exhaustion brought some fitful slumber.

The sun was shining bright into the room, when he finally awoke. His morning orisons, never neglected, inspired him with something like resignation. He would not, indeed, remain a day at the castle, but he would only go to London to be near head-quarters, and avail himself of the best a.s.sistance in unveiling the iniquity by which for a season he had been defeated. And, animated by this determination, he met his sister at breakfast with a countenance which told plainly enough what had happened, but at the same time was not utterly devoid of hope; one, "wherein appeared, obscure, some glimpse of joy."

"It is against us, my brother," Helen said, when the repast was over.

"Ay, Helen," he answered. "We are outcasts upon earth, from our home, and from our name. There is nothing left us but to say farewell. We may as well say it immediately. Can you be ready to depart this very day?"

He saw that his sister's eyes were filled with tears.

"It is sudden, dearest," he said; "but it is better so. I cannot stay here, while a taint rests upon my name. We can travel to-day, and what we want may follow us. And it will not be 'a farewell for ever.'"

He smiled as he spoke, but he could win no corresponding glance from Helen. They separated to make the necessary preparations for departure.

It was not much past noon, when the friends arrived whom Randolph had left at Bodmin. They united in protesting against the projected journey.

But argument was vain. Randolph had completed his plan. He should go straight to his old quarters at Hampstead; that is, if he found them unoccupied; should put himself in close communication with Winter and his friend Rereworth; and follow up an inquiry into the evidence given at the trial with untiring energy. If such investigation were fruitless--but he was not inclined to accept that alternative--he need hardly say, that not for an hour would he waive his claim to the name of Trevethlan, and that therefore he had no notion of resuming his old disguise. He had no objection to Griffith remaining at the castle as long as the law would permit, but he earnestly pressed the chaplain to follow him to the metropolis.

"You will be such a support to my sister, Mr. Riches," he urged. "I shall be much away from her. Engaged in business; unable to sustain her in this great change. Do come, my dear sir, and help your old pupils in their extremity."

Polydore was not one to resist such an entreaty, and a.s.sented. Yet, perhaps, Randolph might have been prevailed upon at least to defer his departure, but for an invitation to do so from another quarter. A note reached the castle from Mrs. Pendarrel, in which that lady expressed her hope that its present occupants would put themselves to no inconvenience; that the demand for immediate possession was unauthorized, and that every accommodation would be granted with pleasure. This polite missive, it may be presumed, was in partial fulfilment of the intention Esther expressed to her daughter, of a.s.sisting her adversaries in their fall. But it was too much like that which she caused her husband to write in the opening of this narrative, to be received as a favour, and only served to provoke Randolph into a fresh burst of rage, and make him eager for the vehicle which should bear them away from all such insults.

Before it came, however, he could not resist guiding his sister to a last visit to the haunt of their childhood, Merlin's Cave. And there for no little s.p.a.ce they sat in silence, thinking over the happiness of by-gone days. The day was even warmer than those which had preceded it, but it was close and heavy. The sea lay before the orphans, perfectly smooth, sleeping in its might; and there was no breath of air to waft aside the lightest bubble it might leave upon the rock; but some round ma.s.sive clouds were rising one behind another in the south-western horizon, which might indicate the coming of a storm.

"Farewell to Trevethlan!" Randolph said. "Let me hear our old song once more."

And Helen sang the ancestral ditty, but with an accent very different from that she gave it on the eve of their previous journey to the metropolis.