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

And then Sinson, in incoherent language, proceeded to contrast Randolph's circ.u.mstances 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 enc.u.mbrances 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 dest.i.tute of resources. And he had the chance of his lottery-ticket.

Such were the notions into which the tumult of Sinson's pa.s.sions 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 t.i.tle 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 pa.s.sions 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 pa.s.sed 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.

CHAPTER VIII.

Do you note, How much her Grace is altered on the sudden?

How long her face is drawn? How pale she looks, And of an earthly cold? Mark you her eyes?

Shakspeare.

The news of the elopement was of course at first allowed to transpire as little as possible. There was still a faint chance that the errant damsel might be overtaken before she was over the border, in which case the escapade might perhaps be hushed up, and scandal deprived of its prey. But it created anxiety and sorrow at other places besides the house in May-Fair. In Randolph's notes to Helen and to Polydore, he merely said that he was summoned suddenly from town for a few days, and would write again very shortly. He did not dare to entrust the secret of his flight to paper. His communications, therefore, caused great perplexity. It was something quite new for him to show any reserve, towards either the chaplain or his sister. But the mystery was solved by Mrs. Winston, who gently complained that Helen should have availed herself of her visit in Cavendish Square, to become a means of correspondence between the fugitives. She soon saw, however, that Helen's simplicity had alone been to blame, and withdrew her remonstrances.

Polydore was very much disturbed. Was this the end of his teaching? Was it his quiet and meditative pupil, the calm student of the library at Trevethlan, the contemplative muser by the sea, who had thus in one moment flung prudence aside, and fled to an irregular and unhallowed union? The simple-hearted chaplain could not understand it at all. He had sometimes antic.i.p.ated the pleasure of himself blessing the nuptials of his former pupils, according to the ritual of his church, and now Randolph had contracted a marriage devoid of any ecclesiastical sanction. Improper and ill-omened as had been the father's wedding, that of the son, Mr. Riches thought, was still more deplorable. Such matches were rarely a source of happiness. And here, in particular, the enmity between the families might lead to unusual misery. And poverty--stark, staring poverty--seemed to threaten the young couple. For Polydore had learned from Mr. Winter the last step taken by Mrs. Pendarrel, and saw nothing before the orphans but absolute and immediate want.

And the further letters which before long reached both Helen and the chaplain did not tend to allay their anxiety. Randolph wrote that he and his bride were returning, by easy and leisurely stages, to the metropolis. But there were few traces of happiness, or even of tranquillity in his missives. They contained no spontaneous effusion of joy, no expressions of triumph, no desire for congratulation. They were, on the contrary, cold and restrained. The writer seemed endeavouring to suppress any signs of emotion, to avoid causing uneasiness, to prevent sympathy. Even in speaking of Mildred, he was cautiously reserved. He mentioned her without any warmth of panegyric, and without any overflow of tenderness. Neither did he say a single word in justification of his flight. He seemed to write, rather because he felt bound to do so, than from any pleasure in the correspondence. In fact, Polydore remarked to himself with a sigh, that if Randolph had not wished on his arrival in town to find a temporary abode ready for him where he was not known, he would probably not have written at all. In all this the chaplain saw but slight prospect of future comfort.

Nor was an epistle which Mildred wrote to her sister, although different in tone, more re-a.s.suring. It was much more open and unrestrained, but it exhibited a mood quite as unsatisfactory. The bride strove at great length, and with much pa.s.sion, to justify her flight. She described in eager and bitter language the long solicitude she had endured, both at Pendarrel Hall and in London. During all that time, she said, she was made to act a lie. She had remonstrated, and implored, and wept. She had been derided, and threatened, and terrified. Her steps had been watched, and at last she had been bidden to consider herself a prisoner. But all this, and more than this, would not have tempted her to fly. It was not until she was told that a certain event was imminent,--it was not until she heard him who was now her husband shamed and calumniated, and declared to be in want and sorrow,--that the idea of consulting with him occurred to her. She had no one to advise her. Gertrude's own promises were too limited. She was distracted. She had no eyes for anything but one immediate and overwhelming danger. Was not _he_ on the point of coming from Cornwall? Yet still she did not mean to fly. It was the idea of a moment; hastily adopted, to be executed after an interval too brief to give time for reflection. Were it to be done over again, nothing would induce her to take such a step. She knew all she had forfeited.

But she hoped her sister would not judge her too severely. And, finally, she prayed Gertrude to intercede for her with her mother. She should never enjoy a moment's repose until she had obtained her pardon. She acknowledged her undutifulness in terms of the most earnest penitence.

Already, she said, her punishment had begun. If it lasted, it would be more than she could bear. Better it would have been to have endured the utmost extremity, than to have incurred her mother's just indignation.

With the arrival of these letters all secresy respecting the affair was at an end. The news spread rapidly from mouth to mouth, that Miss Pendarrel had made a stolen match. The scandal-mongers were gratified to their heart's content. All the details of the flight were discussed with ignorant curiosity; accidents were invented which had never occurred; and the stratagems by which pursuit was evaded were described with exact inaccuracy.

Border weddings will soon be as legendary as that of Lochinvar. The rail has already destroyed the romance of the journey, and the law will speedily put an end to its profit, by requiring a fortnight's residence before a marriage will be valid. Let "victims," therefore, make haste.

It was rather different when Randolph carried off his bride from Grosvenor Square. He had engaged a carriage for the journey, but he wanted time and experience to arrange an express, and was consequently much delayed during the night. The travellers had not accomplished more than fifty miles, when day broke upon them. It had been a silent, though sleepless ride, and morning showed Randolph the traces of tears on Mildred's cheeks. They called to his mind in an instant the extent of the sacrifice she had made; for he would be no party to any suit for reconciliation. He had torn his bride from her station and her friends, and held himself precluded from all attempt to restore her to their love. His father's spirit seemed to whisper in his ear, that for him there could be no communion with those whom Mildred was bound to honour, and whom he had persuaded her to desert. And for what? What lay before himself?

He endeavoured to repel such considerations, and to devote himself to the comforting of his companion. But his efforts were of little avail.

He became gloomy and abstracted. So soon did repentance mingle with the feelings of the fugitives. But still they hurried forwards. Retreat, for Randolph at least, was out of the question; and to be overtaken would be defeat. He could afford no such triumph to Philip or Esther Pendarrel.

And the father's pursuit was fruitless. He gained upon the chase at every stage; but he came up too late. They were united, never to be put asunder.

They heard of his arrival, and Mildred would have thrown herself at his feet. But her husband would not suffer it. It was rather early for a matrimonial dispute, and a sad occasion of difference. Dark forebodings crowded on the heart of the young wife. It was far from being so that she was bidden to leave father and mother and cleave to her husband. But Randolph would join her in a letter. No; he would not even permit her to write on his behalf. She must strictly confine her apologies to herself.

For him, he would make none, and would ask for no forgiveness. It was his part to forgive.

In the sorrow and dismay occasioned by these injunctions, Mildred wrote the letter to her sister which we have sketched above. She gave it to her husband to read. He observed the anguish expressed in every line, and melted into a flood of tenderness, blaming the moodiness of his temper, and praying pardon of his bride. But he said no word which might encourage her to insert a single sentence in his name; and she remembered how, at that meeting on the cliff, Randolph spoke of the hate which was between her mother and himself, and how there could be little of happiness in his love; and the words appeared to be true with a force to bring despair.

With a misgiving heart, Mrs. Winston took her sister's letter to their mother. Esther read it, and gave no sign. She observed that Mildred's entreaties and excuses were confined to herself. There was no mention of her partner in the affront; and Mrs. Pendarrel resented it too fiercely as yet to show any commiseration. Yet she was greatly changed. The successive shocks she had sustained had tamed her haughty resolution.