"He that has light within his own clear breast,
May sit in the centre, and enjoy bright day;
But he that hides a dark soul and foul thoughts,
Benighted walks under the mid-day sun:
Himself is his own dungeon."
MILTON.
Extremely startled was Mrs. Pendarrel by the appearance of the orphans
of Trevethlan at the opera. Domestic affairs had temporarily diverted
her suspicions respecting them, and her intentions were in a manner
dormant. Great, therefore, was her surprise, when following a glance
of Mildred's in which she detected some slight emotion, her own eye
fell upon a face, like, yes the very image of Henry Trevethlan: the
very image of what he was that fatal day, when her hasty and haughty
speech drove him from her presence, for once and for ever. With a sort
of fascination she gazed upon the stranger, and saw that he returned
the regard with a curiosity or wonder, that changed while she looked
into hatred and defiance. "Can it be possible?" she asked herself.
Several times during the remainder of the performance, she turned
towards Mrs. Winter's box, and never failed to catch Randolph's eye.
And finally, in leaving the house, she noticed the manner in which
both he and Helen started at the announcement of her name, and again
met that proud resentment which she remembered so well in the lover of
her girlhood.
"Winter!" she mused when she lay down for rest, "Winter! Ay, that is
the name of their lawyer. I ought to know it well. And what do they
here? Why this apparent privacy? Why seek this veil for their
poverty? I must discover. They must be unmasked. Who knows but they
are involved? What plan are they devising to save those mouldering
towers?"
A long train of reflections passed through Esther's mind as she lay
awake that night. In the morning she summoned Michael Sinson to her
presence. The young man was already considerably improved in
appearance, had lost his rusticity, and acquired a manner "free and
easy," with a very excellent opinion of himself. The change might be
partly due to certain vague aspirations which pleased his vanity, and
at the same time sharpened his natural foresight and cunning. He was
abject in deference towards his patroness.
"Sinson," said she, when he came before her, "you know Mr. Trevethlan
well?"
"Certainly, ma'am; from his very cradle."
"They say, he is abroad."
He noted the words--they say. "Yes, ma'am."
"There is a Mr. Winter, a lawyer, living at Hampstead," Mrs. Pendarrel
continued. "He has some friend remarkably like what I should
expect...young Trevethlan to be. I desire to find out who this person
is, and what are his pursuits. Be so good as to inquire, if you can.
Good morning, Sinson."
But the peasant lingered.
"Did you ever hear, ma'am," he said, brushing his hat, and casting
down his eyes, "that the late Mr. Trevethlan's marriage was not
regular?"
Mrs. Pendarrel lost no word of the slow-spoken insinuation. Every
nerve of her body quivered, but she was silent.
"It was no blame to my unfortunate relation, ma'am," Sinson proceeded;
"but the report was very common, I have heard, at Trevethlan, soon
after the time."
"Pshaw! sir," Esther said, having now mastered her emotion; "common
fame is a common liar. Good-day to you."
And Michael departed, well aware that his patroness suspected this
friend of Mr. Winter to be no other than the heir of Trevethlan, and
believing also that he had sent a shaft home to her heart, which might
further the projects lurking dimly in his own. The more he advanced in
her confidence the greater became his own assurance, and he now
quitted the house in May Fair, with a certain exultation gleaming in
his dark sinister eyes.
He had already supposed that he might find a subordinate instrument of
use to him, and had even selected his man. He mingled now and then in
the promiscuous assembly of vice and folly which met at the Argyll
Rooms. There he had occasionally thrown away a guinea--he was
liberally supplied with money--at hazard and had played at the same
table with Melcomb. There also he met a man, in the smallness of whose
stakes and the desperation of his play, Sinson read ruin. He paid the
gambler assiduous court.
Lewis Everope had inherited a moderate patrimony, and lived as if it
were inexhaustible. He had been to a university, only to squander his
money, and to obtain no distinction. Confident in his abilities, he
never gave them fair play. He seemed to think that intuition could
supply the place of information. He rarely finished a book--did he not
know what the author was about to say? Thus his knowledge was of
little value, because it was never complete. Every hour a new Cynthia
attracted his attention. He did almost everything by halfs, and
therefore few things well. Desultory men are not often men of
principle, and he was not one of the exceptions. He was fond of
society, and too careless to avoid its temptations. Very soon he
learned the difficulty of saying "No."
His career was much the same, when he quitted the university with a
very ignoble degree, and entered an inn of court and a pleader's
chambers, in the idea of being admitted to the forum. He became
immersed in gay company; enjoyed, like Alfieri when an ensign in the
Asti militia, the greatest possible liberty of doing nothing, which
was precisely the one thing he was determined to do; in spite of the
remonstrances of his friends, continually postponed his call to the
bar; and in point of fact never was called.
So the years sped by in idleness, and Everope's resources dwindled and
dwindled. At little over forty he was without means, and without a
profession. He still hung about the inns of court, pitied by the
charitable, despised by the worldly wise. His naturally sanguine
temper lent him a certain gaiety of heart, which made him popular with
some; and as he never plagued people with his embarrassments, he was
still able to find companions. He had been one of Travers's early
pupils, and he occasionally looked in at his chambers even yet,
although it must be owned very far from a welcome guest.
But he had reached the end of his tether. One might fancy him going
wistfully round and round, straining his chain to nibble at some
distasteful weed, eagerly pursuing any waif or stray wafted within his
circle by the wind, not yet showing his straits by the poorness of his
coat, still able to raise a laugh by some eccentricity, but with the
lustre of his eyes sadly dimmed, and the confidence of his bearing
wofully abated. "When things come to the worst, they must mend," he
had been wont to say, forgetting that things never do come to the
worst on this side the grave. And now, sanguine still, he clung to
hope in the midst of despair, and trusted to chance to retrieve his
ruin. It is one of the evils of a course like his, that by the time it
is run, the energy which might have shaped a new one is lost, and the
self-deluded victim falls, too probably never again to rise. And then
is such a course most miserable, when its slave is aware of his own
degradation, repents and sins on, always harassed by self-contempt,
never safe in self-reliance, always thinking of what he might have
been, never remembering what he yet may be.
Men in Everope's condition have but little option in selecting their
acquaintance, and often find the embarrassments they cannot uniformly
conceal, embolden intrusion, which they would gladly avoid, but are
unable to repel. So when Sinson made some advances towards him, the
spendthrift intuitively hated, yet silently endured them. And now
Michael determined, if possible, to make Everope his bondman.
He had lost no time in fulfilling Mrs. Pendarrel's behest, and found
little difficulty in tracing _Morton_ to the pleader's chambers. He
had not obtained an opportunity of seeing him, but felt certain that
the student was no other than Trevethlan. He recollected that Everope
had some connection with the law, and might be of service in the
schemes which fluctuated indistinctly in his mind. He sought the
gambler at the Argyll Rooms.
And he was not disappointed. He saw the wretched man's last guinea
swept away by the ruthless rake, and met him as he rose from the
table, pale and desperate. "Fortune's a jade, sir," Sinson said, "come
and drink a glass of champagne." Everope, scarcely knowing what he
did, accepted the invitation, and quaffed glass after glass of the
fluid which promised him a temporary oblivion of his plight. He
undoubtedly achieved this object, and was unable to resist when his
entertainer undertook to see him home. He was, however, sensible
enough to be surprised when Sinson followed him into his chambers.
"You are a cool fellow," he stammered. "This is not exactly a palace.
I'll get a light, that is if there's a match, and then you can spy the
nakedness of the land. Hang me, if you don't look like a spy."
Michael answered by producing a flask. The spendthrift's eyes
glistened, and with some trouble he discovered a couple of glasses.
"It is reversing the order of things," he muttered, "reversing the
order of things. But no matter. Sufficient for the day--"
As they continued to converse, Everope's contempt for his companion,
slid gradually into familiarity. At length the latter, after glancing
round the room, exclaimed:--
"Egad! Everope, I guess you're not in arrears for rent?"
"Why so, sir?" asked the spendthrift, with a return of his distant
manner.
"Why, there's nothing to levy."
Everope laughed, and dismal it was to hear.
"Clients are few," suggested Sinson, ignorantly.
No answer.
"Family unfriendly," continued the intruder.
"Family!" shouted Everope, springing to his feet with an oath, "what
d'ye mean, sir?" He clenched his fist, but it fell to his side. "Ha!"
said he, "I am feeble--
'Some undone widow sits upon my arm,
And takes away the use o't; and my sword,
Glued to my scabbard with wronged orphans' tears,
Will not be drawn.'
Kean, sir, Kean----" He sank into his chair, and burst into tears.
This paroxysm restored him to some degree of recollection. When it
passed away, Sinson drew his chair near him, and laid his hand on his
arm. The spendthrift shrank from the touch. Michael quietly took out
his purse, and allowed some pieces of gold to roll on the table.
"Mr. Everope," said he, in the oiliest tones possible, "I ask your
pardon for my impertinent intrusion. It was meant all in good will. I
was sorry to see the scurvy tricks fortune played you to-night. I came
to ask if this petty sum would be any accommodation."
"Sir," Everope answered, while his fingers twitched convulsively, "I
do not take such accommodation from strangers."
"We need not be strangers," said Sinson. "And if you are so delicate,
you can give me your note of hand. I assure you I do not want the
trifle."
Everope looked about the room.
"By the way," continued the tempter, "there's a fellow in the Temple
called Morton. Pupil of a Mr. Travers. Know him?"
"I may have seen him at Travers's," the spendthrift answered,
sullenly.
"I wish you could find out who he is," Sinson said, "and what he's
doing. I have a sort of interest in him."
Everope only continued searching about the apartment.
"Was it paper you were looking for?" Sinson asked, and tore a leaf
from his pocket-book.
I O U wrote Everope.
It requires no parchment and blood now-a-days to sign a compact with
the fiend.
"Good-night, Everope," said Michael, folding the note in his book.
"Recollect what I said about Morton."
The spendthrift closed his door, and returned to the table, and sat
down and played mechanically with the golden counters. Embarrassed as
he had often been, he had not yet learnt the ways and means of raising
money, and this was his initiation. Miserable man! Better for him had
it been to submit to any usury than, with his weak temper, to become
the debtor of Michael Sinson.
His vacillation was remarkably shown the following day. He rose at a
late hour, nervous and feverish, strangely troubled with an idea that
he had sold himself to be the instrument of some villany. He knew
nothing of the man who had furnished him with money. He could not even
tell where to find him. What were his designs with regard to Morton?
The little Everope had seen of the young student had won his respect.
Ought he not to tell him what had occurred? If he knew where to find
this Sinson, he would return the money.
It was dusk of the evening. He remembered that Morton would be
keeping Hilary Term. He did not belong to the Temple, but he lived
there. He went down into the cloisters and paced to and fro, waiting
till hall should be over. At length Randolph came out alone, and
Everope joined him abruptly.
"Morton," the spendthrift asked, in a low, husky voice, "were you ever
in want?"
The owner of Trevethlan Castle was amazed and affronted, but he said
nothing. Since the visit to the opera, every hour made him more
impatient of his disguise.
"I ask you were you ever in want?" repeated Everope, with some
fierceness. "I do not mean did you ever need a meal, or lack a coat;
but were you ever embarrassed? Were you ever afraid, or ashamed to
show your face? Did you ever tremble to think, not perhaps of
to-morrow, but of to-morrow month? Did you ever shudder at the thought
of disgrace? Have you any relatives whom you esteem and love? Whose
memory has been to some extent your guardian angel? who have begun to
pity and ceased to regard you? To whom you have done injustice? Ay,
hark in your ear,--did you ever think that to them your death would be
a relief?"
"Is the man mad?" Randolph asked himself, but said nothing aloud.
"I see," continued Everope, gloomily; "I see you are more fortunate.
You have no sympathy with a vaurien. My confidence is made in vain:
for if you cannot answer these questions, I can. You do not know the
circumstances which give force to temptation. Pity those who do. Pity
me, Morton. Lay up my words, and have a pardon ready when the day
comes."
They had reached Fleet-street. The spendthrift turned suddenly and
hurried away, before Randolph could fulfil an intention he had
conceived of offering assistance. His own mind was at this time so
disturbed, that the episode scarcely increased his agitation.
Nevertheless, he went the next morning to make the offer, which
Everope's abrupt departure had prevented in the evening. The
spendthrift lived in garrets looking down from a great height on a
narrow dingy lane. The visitor found the outer door closed, "the oak
sported," in the language of college. But he had learnt that this by
no means proved the absence of the occupant, and he supposed that in
Everope's case there might be good reason for the precaution. So he
rapped long and loud at the massive door. There was no answer: no
sound indicated the presence of any living creature. "Mr. Everope,"
Randolph shouted through the narrow aperture intended to receive
letters. He repeated the call several times. At length a slight
shuffling noise came along the passage inside, and paused at the
door.
"Is it you, Morton?" the spendthrift asked.
"Yes. I wish to speak with you."
"Excuse me," said Everope; "I am not well. I cannot see you now. My
head aches."
"Nay," Randolph urged, in a low tone. "Only for a moment. Can I be of
service to you? I am not rich, but perhaps----From what you said, I
thought----"
A sigh, so profound that it might be termed a groan, escaped from
Everope's breast. But he lashed himself into a spasm of anger.
"You mistook me, sir," he said, savagely, "and you trouble me. I can
hear no more."
And he went back from the door with a quick and heavy tread. He had
been to the rooms again the night before, had lost all he borrowed,
and accepted a fresh loan from Sinson. It is but the first step that
costs.
Randolph betook himself to chambers with a notion that he did not
engross all the misery of the world.