"Then hope grew round me like the twining vine,
And fruits and foliage, not my own, seemed mine."
COLERIDGE.
The promise of the red evening described in the last chapter was
faithfully kept, and a splendid day witnessed the departure of the
heir of Trevethlan and his sister from their ancestral home. At their
earnest request, Polydore Riches accompanied them as far as Falmouth,
from whence places had been secured for London by the mail. The
chaplain thought that the more sudden the change, the better it would
be borne; and would gladly at once have cast the orphans upon their
own resources; but he succumbed to their entreaties. And if a tear
glistened in Polydore's eye when the mail had disappeared round the
first corner, it surely will not be thought to bring discredit upon
his head.
In subdued sadness the chaplain returned to the castle. There it was
generally understood that Mr. Randolph and Miss Helen were going to
travel abroad for some years. And this impression was confirmed by the
following announcement, which appeared in the local journals, and was
copied into some of the metropolitan:--"We are informed that Mr. and
Miss Trevethlan have left Trevethlan Castle, to make a sojourn of some
duration in the South of Europe." The paragraph flavoured many a cup
of tea at Helston and Penzance, and attracted attention at one house
in May Fair.
But the mail is rattling along, to the music of the guard's horn and
the quadrupedant sound of the horses, heedless alike of local verjuice
and of London pride. Not yet had it been polished into the dashing
Quicksilver, but it rattled along very respectably, contented with
itself, and despising the heavy Subscription. Poor thing!--its vanity
has been severely punished. Needless it is to dwell on the incidents
of the journey. Long and wearisome it was, and glad were the orphans
when the wheels had made their last turn, and they alighted about
daybreak in the yard of the old Bull and Mouth, St. Martin's-le-Grand.
Slumber soon brought oblivion both of care and fatigue.
When Randolph, leaving his chamber near noon, was shown into a
sitting-room, he found Helen already there. She was looking out of the
old-fashioned window, the heavy wood-work of which might remind her of
farm-houses in her own country. Traffic was in full vigour in the
street below, and the noise and hurry so confused her, that she was
not aware of her brother's approach until he stood by her side.
"Welcome to London, Miss Helen Morton," he said, becoming in turn
amazed at the scene beneath his eyes.
They breakfasted with considerable gaiety in the excitement of their
new situation; and then Randolph started to discover Mr. Winter's
offices in Lincoln's Inn; while his sister sat down to write Polydore
an account of their safe arrival at their journey's end.
Griffith had already written to the attorney, requesting his services
on behalf of the son of an old friend, recently deceased. Mr. Morton,
he said, possessed a small competence, and was desirous of proceeding
to the bar. He would be in town with his only sister in a few days,
and any kindness which Mr. Winter could show them would confer a great
favour upon his correspondent.
Winter has been spoken of by the chaplain as an impersonation of
prudence. The description was just; but it was a prudence untainted
by the slightest selfishness. He was a man of a large, liberal, and
honourable nature, without a trace of the narrow-mindedness so often
and so erroneously thought inseparable from his profession; he was so
genial, withal, in his temper, that his friends used to quote him as a
notable example of the rule, that surnames go by contraries. Spring,
they would say, was the proper season for Winter, and Winter was
proper for all seasons. Happy were they, privileged in July to sip his
claret in the arbour of his garden at Hampstead--there was a touch of
the Cockney about him--and in December to quaff his old port in his
sanctum within-doors: hours never grudged by Mrs. Winter, who was as
cheerful as her spouse.
For several generations the legal business of the Trevethlan family
had been managed in the office over which Mr. Winter now presided; and
it was with a sad heart that the worthy attorney effected the
alienations ordered by the late owner of the castle. He entertained a
high regard for the steward, and was quite prepared to extend it to
the son of his friend. No time elapsed after Randolph had sent in his
name, before he was ushered into Mr. Winter's private room.
"Welcome, my young friend," the lawyer cried, extending his hand, and
looking with satisfaction on Randolph's open countenance, "welcome to
town. I have been expecting you: it is a pleasure to know a friend of
Griffith's. How is the worthy steward? He has had his trials, poor
man! Trevethlan is not what it was--Ah me! The young squire going
abroad, I understand. No use. He should marry, Mr. Morton. There's
many a girl would jump at the castle, even yet.--So you are for the
bar. A fashionable profession just now, Mr. Morton. Red coats are
cheap. Cornets from Waterloo--midshipmen of Trafalgar--all rushing to
the law. Uncommonly martial it is just now. _N'importe_: there's room
for all. But this by-and-by.--Miss Morton came with you--Where have
you left her?--Not over-fatigued, I hope?"
The attorney's volubility was meant to give his new acquaintance time
to overcome his first diffidence, and effected its object. Randolph
thanked him, and gave the information asked for.
"Lodgings," said Winter, "that's what you want, I suppose? There is a
friend of mine on Hampstead Heath, who might perhaps suit you. An old
clerk in one of the great city houses, and a sterling fellow; with an
amiable old maiden sister. Would you like to try it?"
"Surely, my dear sir," Randolph answered.
"I thought so," Winter said. "Then just observe: here is the precise
address. A porter of the inn will put you and Miss Morton into a
coach, which will drop you at Peach's door. Tell Clotilda, Miss
Peach, I mean, you are from me. If you like it, well. Let Miss Morton
take possession then and there. You come back for the luggage. If it
does not suit, ask Miss Peach the way to my house--I live at
Hampstead--leave your sister there, and equally come back for the
traps. I shall he home by six. So, you understand. And now excuse me.
There is no time to lose. There never is. Good morning."
Randolph left the gloomy chambers with much the same feelings, that a
patient experiences, when after long suffering on a sick bed, he is at
last bid "throw physic to the dogs," and begone to the sea. He seemed
to be already at work, and enjoyed the exhilarating effect. With light
feet and as light a heart, he hurried back to the Bull and Mouth.
Helen had finished her letter, and gave it him to read: she looked
over his shoulder while he wrote a postscript, saying in hyperbolical
terms, how delighted he was with Mr. Winter. A porter guided the
young pair to a Hampstead coach, in which they were the third part of
a half dozen, and in no long time the vehicle rumbled over the stones
towards Camden Town.
A squalid part of the metropolis it was they traversed, but it was
forgotten when the conveyance stopped, and the announcement "Mr.
Peach's, if you please, sir," summoned Randolph and Helen to alight.
Clotilda was at the parlour window, and came to meet her visitors. Mr.
Winter had prepared the way for them, and Randolph had only to mention
his name to gain a welcome.
"Walk in, my dear sir," said the spinster, "walk in, my dear young
lady. I wish Cornelius was at home. Mr. Winter spoke of Cornelius, I
suppose. The lodgings? yes, it is all the first floor. Two bed-rooms
and sitting-room. Cornelius says----"
No matter what. Miss Peach had preceded her guests upstairs. Helen
walked to the drawing-room window, and uttered an exclamation of
surprise. Buried in that old six inside convenience, she had not
observed that it had been ascending a considerable hill. The front of
Mr. Peach's cottage looked on a sandy lane. But the drawing-room was
at the back, and well might Helen be startled, for the window she
stood at commanded a view of the rich landscape lying between the
heath and Harrow. Five minutes afterwards the bargain was struck, and
in five minutes more Randolph was on his way back into the city in
quest of the boxes and bags, leaving Helen to become acquainted with
their future hostess.
A quaint but genial pair of humourists were Cornelius and Clotilda
Peach. Mr. Shandy would perhaps have attributed some of their oddity
to the chance which gave them their names. A row of folio volumes in
the parlour might afford some key to the brother's tastes, and would
intimate that he was fond of old poems, old plays, and old divinity.
Here and there a bit of paper peeping from the leaves, and written
upon, betrayed some scribbling propensity on the part of the owner.
Manly and kindly were all his favourite authors, and if the latter
quality predominated in himself, it was only perhaps because the
former had never been called into activity. Everyone who knew him
loved Cornelius Peach.
And his sister loved him best. She looked up to him also, as something
great. She never contradicted him, except at whist, a game in which
they both rejoiced. In all other matters, when she had quoted the
opinion of Cornelius, she considered the question at issue decided. A
small garden was attached to the cottage, and Clotilda piqued herself
on her pansies and carnations, but never grudged a flower for her
brother's button-hole. Sometimes, but very rarely, her sisterly care
was tried by the effect of a social party upon his uprightness, on
which occasions Cornelius was apt to become sentimental about a
certain Mabel whom he said he ought to have married, but whom his
friends believed to be a mere phantom of his imagination. They never
could learn her sirname.
Such were the worthy couple with whom the orphans of Trevethlan were
now to be domesticated. When Randolph returned with the luggage, he
found dinner ready for himself and Helen; and after the repast, he
inquired his way to Mr. Winter's--the Elms--and left a message there,
expressing his thanks, and saying how comfortably his sister and he
were settled. Later in the evening a note invited them to dinner at
the lawyer's the following day, which engagement they accepted with
pleasure. And then, till bed-time, they were busied in arranging their
goods and chattels. Mr. Peach, with thoughtful politeness, deferred
an introduction till the morning.
When it came, Cornelius made his bow, and a very awkward one it was,
to his new lodgers.
"Good morrow, Mr. Morton," he said, looking nowhere straight, but at
Helen sideways; "good morning, Miss Morton. 'Pack clouds away, and
welcome day,' I trust you have rested well. Some never can sleep in a
strange bed. Yours I hope will not have that fault long."
Randolph thanked him: they had slept very well.
"Ah, Miss Morton," continued the landlord, "I would you had come
earlier in the year. The fall is a sad season. Nothing in the garden
but Michaelmas daisies, those miserable old bachelors of flowers; and
a few chrysanthemums, the showy old maids. You will never be a
chrysanthemum, Miss Morton."
The ponderous machine which called at the cottage every morning to
convey Mr. Peach to the city, was now heard lumbering along the lane,
and the jocund little man took his departure.
So far Randolph and Helen had scarcely found time to breathe, much
less to think; but when they strolled out upon the heath in the course
of the day, reflections came crowding upon their minds. The foundation
of the aerial castle was fairly laid: did it promise as well, as when
viewed from Merlin's Cave? Not quite perhaps. Something grated on
their feelings; it might be they missed the sound of the sea; it might
be the flurry through which they had passed; it might be such a trifle
as the oddities of their host and hostess. The total disruption of all
their old habits was more violent than they had expected. They
experienced a vague uneasiness. They almost began to regret the calm
of Trevethlan Castle. And when they gazed down upon the vast city,
veiled by the clouds that roll continually from its myriad hearths,
through which the dome of St. Paul's loomed in exaggerated dimensions,
it must be confessed that their vision of the future wore a doubtful
and variable hue. Their looks were downcast; gravity took the place of
animation in their faces; and it was with some anxiety that they set
forth on their way to the Elms.
This feeling was soon charmed away by the perfect quiet of their
reception. Mr. Winter at Lincoln's Inn, and Mr. Winter at Hampstead,
were very different men: there, he considered the moments as precious
for work; here, they were only precious for enjoyment: there, he
governed them; here, he yielded to them. A shade of impatience might
be detected in his manner at chambers; nothing ruffled him at home.
And Mrs. Winter, accustomed as she had always been to see only the
sunny side of things, ministered admirably to the happiness of all
around her, and particularly of her husband. They and their eldest
daughter Emily, a blue-eyed girl with light hair, were in the
drawing-room, when Randolph and Helen arrived. Before dinner was
announced, the orphans had forgotten all their solicitude.
And except that they talked with rather too much preciseness, too much
like a book as people say, they acquitted themselves very well in the
gentle stream of conversation which their host kept tranquilly
flowing. And by the time that Mrs. Winter rose to retire, they felt
that they had been introduced to a new pleasure, that of agreeable
society.
"So, Mr. Morton," the lawyer then said, "you wish to prepare yourself
for our English forum: as honourable an arena as the Roman, although
our advocates do accept of fees. Are you acquainted with the mysteries
of initiation?"
Randolph referred to the old editions of Blackstone and Burn. Mr.
Winter apprehended, but did not say, that there might be something to
unlearn.
"Faith," said he, "the process has more to do with beef than with
Blackstone; you eat your way, rather than read it. True, the
sign-posts and mile-stones are not to be neglected, but you may arrive
at the full dignity of wig and gown, without having turned a leaf. I
don't say that is the way to turn a penny."
"It is with the last purpose that I aspire to the dignity," Randolph
said, "and very much obliged to you shall I be for any advice which
may further it."
"And happy I shall be to give the best I can, Mr. Morton," observed
Winter. "The first step is to enter at an Inn of Court. There are
four. Divers bits of doggerel describe their respective merits. Have
you any predilection?"
"No, Mr. Winter," Randolph answered, "none: I am ignorant of their
distinguishing peculiarities."
"Lincoln's Inn is the largest, Gray's the smallest of the societies,"
said Winter. "The Temples are intermediate. The Middle famous for its
fine hall, the Inner for its fine garden. No well-defined professional
advantages attaching to any one. It is a matter of whim. What say
you?"
"One of the Temples," replied Randolph, "and I prefer the garden to
the hall."
"So be it," the lawyer said. "Anything but indecision. The Inner
Temple wins. Come down to town with me in the morning, and I will
introduce you. And after that you must, in the first place, work; and
in the second place, work; and in the third place, work. Fill your
glass, Mr. Morton."
"The work should be directed, I suppose," Randolph observed, obeying
the invitation.
"Certainly," said Winter. "But I'll tell you what. Let me direct you
for two months or so. Take the run of my office. See a little of the
actual practice of the law. And then you will go into a pleader's
chambers, with a sense of the reality of your business, which
increases at once both its interest and its profit."
In accepting the offer thus made, Randolph little thought how short
lived its fruits were destined to be. Man proposes, Heaven disposes.
There was a certain poetry in the visions of Trevethlan Castle, which
veiled the real prosiness of the orphans' scheme. They knew nothing of
the world. And as they walked home that evening under the stars, and
thought that so they were shining upon their native towers, the doubts
of the morning again beset them, and they retired to rest with
foreboding hearts.
The next day Mr. Winter drove Randolph to Lincoln's Inn. "Now," said
the lawyer, when they alighted in Chancery Lane, "that is the way to
the Temple. Prowl about; look at the garden, and the dingy buildings
around it. Ask for the treasurer's office. There say you wish to enter
as a student for the bar. They'll give you a paper. Bring it to me.
But take your time. Be here again at one."
Obeying these instructions, the neophyte traversed the hurrying throng
of Fleet Street, and passed under the ancient arch that forms the
portal of Inner Temple Lane, not without a momentary recollection of
Dante's famous "All hope abandon, you who enter here." He felt
immediately that he was in the toils; law stationers on each hand
showed their red tape, and quills, and parchment, polite slips of the
latter presenting King George's greeting to his sheriff of what county
you will; dapper clerks were bustling along with bundles of paper;
every door-post was crowded with a host of names, among which Randolph
might recognize some he had been used to read in the newspaper. He
passed under the porch of the church, recalling the days when the
sword was more powerful than the pen; read the inscription recording
the fire and rebuilding of the cloister; and looked with respect on
the powdered wigs in the hairdresser's window. He felt benumbed by the
high, dismal, worm-eaten buildings, but was relieved when the sound of
falling water attracted his eye to the fountain, flinging its column
of silver into the air amidst elms and sycamores. Hastening towards
this green spot, he saw the hall of which Mr. Winter had spoken, and
proceeded to the stairs leading to the quiet little garden, one of the
pleasantest retreats in all London. Randolph gazed some time on this
oasis in the legal desert, and then turned to fulfil the rest of his
mission. And now he marked the many singular dials, fixed aloft
against the buildings, so that one or other was always available,
reminding the denizens of the value of the minutes by their dry
mottos, "Time and tide tarry for no man," "Pereunt et imputantur,"
they perish and are laid to charge. Retracing his steps, he surveyed
with pleasure the more spacious garden which had decided his choice of
a society for his studentship.
The office which he sought was close at hand. On making his
application he was provided with a printed form, and instructed to
fill up the blanks and return it. With this he obtained admission to
the garden, and sat down in one of the alcoves by the river-side to
examine the document. Perplexity fell upon him as he read. Two
barristers were to certify that they knew him, and believed him to be
a gentleman. The expression awoke all the pride of a Trevethlan.
"Was my father, then, right?" he thought, gazing moodily on the water.
"Is this a course meet for one of our name? To skulk among men in
disguise? To beg certificates of honour? Believed to be a gentleman!
Already my dream is fading away. Oh! my own sister, would we were back
at Trevethlan! Yet shall I vex you too with my doubts?... Know me? Who
knows me? Who in London knows Randolph Morton?"
Irresolute and half desponding, Randolph returned to Mr. Winter's.
That gentleman soon solved the difficulty implied in the conclusion of
the above reverie. "Come with me," he said; conducted the neophyte to
some neighbouring chambers, presented him to Mr. Flotsam, and told his
errand. "Happy to oblige a friend of yours, Winter," said the
conveyancer, signing the paper; "hope Mr. Morton will prosper." The
second signature was still more a matter of form, Mr. Winter merely
sending the paper to Mr. Jetsam, with his compliments. "There," said
he to Randolph, "now take it back to the Temple; refer to Mr. Flotsam
as your acquaintance; and in a week or so you will hear of your
admission."
It was as the lawyer said. But the new student received the
announcement with feelings very different from those he had so long
cherished in his home by the sea.