The destruction of her home had caused her many a bitter pang. It was followed by the anxiety and exasperation produced by her daughter's demeanour. These were converted into despondency and fury by the elopement. And then came her miserable agent with a proposal which insulted her, and with menacing hints which were at once a cause of perplexity and alarm. Under such an acc.u.mulation of cares, it was no wonder that her old spirit deserted her, and that her usual energy was prostrated.

But no gentle thoughts yet mingled with her dejection. Anger, cold and stern, over-powered every other sentiment. She forgive! She pardon the rebellion which had shattered the hopes of many months! She extend her hand to the man whom she had just driven to ruin! Forego the vengeance which she had meditated for years! Furnish Henry Trevethlan cause to triumph in his grave! Take the child again to her bosom who had wedded a nameless outcast! One whom she, Esther Pendarrel, had just before succeeded in degrading, and whom she could not, if she would, restore!

Was it not a fair jest for the world to laugh at? She had disinherited and beggared her foe, only to prepare him to become her daughter's husband. And even now he gave no sign. He was exulting over the check he had put upon her. After all, it was he who had won the game. And should she then forgive?--should she make the victory more complete? No: let them starve;--let them see how poverty and love agreed together. She could at least enjoy that spectacle. And when love grew cold in daily bickerings, when life became a long scene of mutual recrimination, when strife made it happiness to be apart, or guilt brought about an actual separation, then she might think her daughter's penance sufficiently severe, and furnish her with the means of prolonging her miserable existence.

In this dejected and sullen temper Mr. Pendarrel found his wife upon his return from his unsuccessful journey to the north. And he was surprised to discover that he had become of sudden consequence in the household.

Esther seemed to have abdicated her rule. She let things take their course with a strange sort of apathy. Her activity vanished, or only showed itself in petty things. She often sat unemployed, and absent of mind for a long time together. She took her husband's advice. But the slightest allusion to the elopement, or any kindred topic, made her eyes gleam in a way to scare the unwary suggester of such a theme. Mr.

Pendarrel ventured to hint, soon after his return, at the desirableness of some arrangement, and the reception of the experiment fairly frightened him from repeating it.

It will be remembered that, after the stormy scene with Mildred, Esther despatched a missive to Tolpeden Park. It was to summon its proprietor immediately to town. Melcomb obeyed; and arrived only to learn that his intended bride belonged to another. His career was soon at an end.

Embarra.s.sments thickened around him. For some time he played at hide-and-seek with the minions of the sheriff; but at length they triumphed, and Melcomb became an inmate of the King's Bench.

And now he may disappear from these pages. After a while he obtained "the rules;" occupied decent apartments near the Obelisk; joined a club of gentlemen in his own plight, and mimicked on a small scale the habits of a more fortunate time. One evening he was missed from his accustomed tavern. They inquired at his lodgings. He was very ill; and he never rallied. Some of his companions in misfortune consoled his declining hours; and in a few days his heir took joyful possession of Tolpeden.

CHAPTER IX.

None but an author knows an author's cares, Or fancy's fondness for the child she bears: Committed once into the public arms, The baby seems to smile with added charms: Like something precious ventured far from sh.o.r.e, 'Tis valued for the danger's sake the more.

Cowper.

Polydore Riches, as we have said, was much disturbed by the matrimonial escapade of his old pupil. But his profession, his own experience, and his age, had taught him resignation. It was his favourite theory that things seemed evil only because they were but half seen. Could man discern the whole train of events of which an apparent calamity was part, he would find that what was thought a misfortune was really a blessing. But the eye of reason was as short-sighted as that of the body. There were many things beyond its ken. And, as the most powerful telescopes failed to penetrate beyond a certain distance, and served but to make the vastness of the universe more incomprehensible, so the severest logic only availed to show the limits of the human understanding, and to inspire it with reverent humility for things beyond its bounds. This true and grateful optimism enabled the chaplain to overcome the sharpness of sorrow, and to maintain that unruffled quietude of mind which is the happy mean between apathy and over-susceptibility. Yet, as has been more than once hinted, he was not unacquainted with grief.

He had been into London one day to visit Helen, and also to try to find some of his old college companions, when he met with what was for him a little adventure. It probably led his thoughts into the course shown in a conversation which he held with Mr. Peach the same evening.

"You have several old friends of mine here, Mr. Peach," Polydore said, surveying the row of tall folios which formed his host's library. "Now this is one to whom I was always very partial." And he took down Sir Thomas Browne. "Open this worthy knight where you will, you will be pretty sure to find some intellectual pabulum."

"I love his genial and warm-hearted humour," said the old clerk.

"I have turned to the Physician's Faith," continued Riches. "I light upon the section beginning--'I never could divide myself from any man upon the difference of an opinion, or be angry with his judgment for not agreeing with me in that, from which within a few days I should dissent myself.'"

"The whole pa.s.sage overflows with charity and good sense," said Peach, rubbing his hands.

"And a few leaves further on--there is a paper at the place--is the remark,--'It is we that are blind, not fortune: because our eye is too dim to discover the mystery of her effects, we foolishly paint her blind, and hoodwink the providence of the Almighty.'"

Cornelius became rather fidgety, for he saw that the paper which Mr.

Riches had mentioned lay upon the open page, and was covered with writing.

"You write yourself, my friend," observed Mr. Riches. "Will you allow me...?"

"No," answered his host, casting down his eyes. "That is, I do not write. I may sometimes jot down a thought, if a bit of paper is at hand.

I cannot bear to defile the margins of my books."

"Mischievous vanity of readers," said the chaplain. "But, Mr. Peach, I like these remarks very much. Did you never print? Confess. You have caught Sir Thomas's spirit exactly." Cornelius coloured a little.

"No," said he. "Never. I have nothing to confess."

Polydore lighted his pipe, and sat down by the side of the chimney, just out of the glare of the fire. Miss Peach had retired, and the old bachelors were alone. They smoked in silence for a considerable time.

"There was a time," at length the host murmured, "when I thought I should like to print. It was when I was courting my Mabel. I fancied it would be so pleasant to present her with a volume of my own inditing.

She would be proud of me. She would hear me spoken of, and would say in her heart--he belongs to me. But there was another side to the medal, something whispered me, and I had not the courage. The early ambition pa.s.sed away."

"Well," said Polydore, "I was this morning singularly reminded that I had been one of the irritable race."

The old clerk's face beamed radiant among the circ.u.mambient fumes.

"You, my dear sir!" he exclaimed, and then begged pardon for the expression of surprise.

"'Tis many years ago," the chaplain said. "I had not left my university at the time. I had nearly forgotten it. Yet it was a delightful dream."

"What was your offspring?" Cornelius asked.

"A tale," was the answer. "A little story. Simple enough, but intended to promote some opinions, of which, in my youth, I was a zealous advocate. I fear I had not then learned the lesson of those first words of Sir Thomas Browne."

"I own," said Peach, "that I do not relish argumentative fiction."

"Neither, perhaps, should I now," continued Polydore. "But youth is ardent in proselytism. I dreamt over my ma.n.u.script for nights and nights. It was so true, and so interesting. I was certain it could not fail; and others thought so too. The little book would be ushered into the world in a manner more favourable than I had dared to hope. Imagine, my dear sir, the sort of intoxication with which I revised the proofs.

What Gibbon calls 'the awful interval of printing' was to me a season of impatient delight. I was rushing into celebrity. And so the book appeared--by Polydore Riches. I was not yet in orders. Moreover, it was noticed by critics, on the whole, kindly. I took for granted it was selling rapidly, and prepared my emendations for a second edition. Judge then of my feelings, when, at the end of a twelvemonth, I learned that I might have spared my pains."

"What was the reason?" said Cornelius.

"I can tell you best by this," Polydore replied. "After a little idle repining, and some tacit abuse of the public mind, I laid my poor child by. I read it again in a dozen years, and I discovered a hundred defects of which I was ignorant before. No doubt the public discerned them at the first glance. I did not wonder at my disappointment."

Here again silence reigned for some time in the cosy parlour. It was broken by Mr. Peach.

"You said, my dear sir, that you were reminded of those days this morning."

"Yes," answered the chaplain. "I never could pa.s.s an open book-stall without scrutinizing the wares. It has always been one of my habits. If I were in a hurry, I should make a circuit through the side streets, instead of proceeding direct along Holborn, so irresistible is the temptation. Well, this morning I was wending my way by that great thoroughfare, and duly pausing at each successive treasure-house, when at one of them I detected an old friend. With trembling fingers, I drew the volume from between an 'Entick's Dictionary' and a 'Peregrine Pickle,' and opened it. 'By Polydore Riches.' A kind of mist came over me as I read."

"Indeed," said Mr. Peach, "it was an interesting meeting. You found yourself, as one may say, face to face with your youth."

"Exactly so. It was like shaking hands with the Riches of twenty-two.

Well, the whim seized me to purchase the book, and also to ascertain the lowest value put upon it. So I went into the shop, and inquired the price. The owner ran the leaves backwards and forwards through his fingers, looked at the outside, and--but I need not trouble you with our bargaining. I bought it."

"Ah," exclaimed Cornelius, "might I beg leave to become acquainted with it?"

"You shall see the little book, if you wish, my dear sir," answered Polydore. "But listen. I do not now quite concur in the judgment of the public. I look at my offspring with parental partiality, and am fond to believe it was hardly used. And, besides, I hug the memory of my publishing days. I revel in the recollection of that one enthusiasm. And I have it all to myself. My book is forgotten. No one knows it now but myself. Would you desire to read it, my dear sir?"

Cornelius never repeated his wish. But, some time afterwards, when he had a day of leisure, he repaired to the Reading-room of the British Museum, and took down the volume of the Catalogue containing the letter R. His conscience p.r.i.c.ked him as he did so, and if any one had then touched his elbow, or twitched his coat, he would have blushed like poor Mercy Page at Madron Well. Glancing furtively from side to side, he turned over the leaves to the page he wanted, and drew his finger down the column of names. But there was no Riches rejoicing in the Christian name of Polydore. Mr. Peach closed the tome with a feeling of relief, saying to himself,--"So, my excellent friend's book did not even find its way into this great repository. Well, I am glad I have not trespa.s.sed upon his secret."

The self-criticism in which the chaplain indulged was, perhaps, affected by the circ.u.mstances of his own history. He had strung his argument upon a story of requited but unfortunate love, and had found the tale nearly realized in his attachment to Rose Griffith. Before he was acquainted with the pa.s.sion, he thought the public were right: when he had lost the mistress of his affections, he thought they were wrong. He confounded his fiction with his fact, and wove them together into a retrospective romance, the scenery of which he was reluctant to divulge.

The incident of finding his half-forgotten volume, diverted Polydore's attention from the anxieties of the moment: and we have thought the reader might not be displeased with a similar interval of repose. We must now return to the other personages of our history.