_Don John._ Grow this to what adverse issue it can, I
will put it in practice. Be cunning in the working this,
and thy fee is a thousand ducats.
_Borachio_. Be you constant in the accusation, and my
cunning shall not shame me.
SHAKSPEARE.
Already the engagement of Squire Melcomb and Miss Mildred had been a
subject of discussion among the underlings of the establishment in May
Fair, and Michael Sinson, at least, had watched the signs of its
progress with no little interest. The announcement of Mrs. Pendarrel's
immediate departure for Cornwall, and the rumours which circulated
that there the marriage would be hurried forward as fast as possible,
struck him with new apprehension, as he feared that the great prize
for which he was playing might slip through his hands, merely from
want of time to develop his game. At all events, the move prevented
him from indulging in the finesse which at once advanced his object
and gratified his vanity. Forward play was his only chance, and he
determined not to be defeated for want of boldness.
Sinson had fastened his clutches firmly upon the spendthrift, Everope.
It is so sadly easy to seduce, where the victim is prepared by need
and unfortified by principle. It was in vain that Everope, as often as
the tempter forced a new obligation upon him, vowed that he would only
use it to support himself until he could obtain some employment, and
would then, by extreme parsimony, save enough to repay his insidious
creditor. The idea always came, and was always chased away by the
superior fascinations of the light pack and rattling main. He could
not be unlucky for ever. The first time fortune favoured him, he would
satisfy Sinson's claim, break off the acquaintance, and abjure gaming
for once and for all.
Fortune, however, frowned upon her votary with great perseverance. One
morning, after a turn of ill luck, when, in desponding apathy,
wringing his hands and calling upon Hercules, he was thinking of
breaking with Sinson, cost what it might, that individual crossed his
path, and accosted him.
"What! is the goddess always blind, Everope? Nothing to be done at the
Rooms?"
"I shall go there no more," said the spendthrift sullenly. "I have
done with them, and play, and the world, and everything."
"Which means," Sinson observed maliciously, "that you have lost your
money. Perhaps I can put you in the way of getting some. There's corn
in Egypt."
"What can you do?" asked Everope. "Pick the lock of the granary,
perchance? But I am desperate. Let me hear."
"Pooh!" said Michael. "I want a companion for a pretty long trip into
the country. One not troubled with over-nice scruples; do you note
me?"
"Then you may go somewhere else," cried Everope, who felt that he was
selling his soul past redemption.
"And you will go into the Fleet," added the tempter, "to lie there
till you die. Remember I have a considerable memorandum against you
in my pocket-book; and I shall find a friend to serve me all the same.
There's nothing that money won't buy; and there's plenty of it to be
won here. I offer it to you in kindness, as a friend."
And he jingled some gold in his pocket to give emphasis to his words.
Woe for Everope! He had made the step which costs: the rest were
comparatively easy. "True," thought he, "if I hold back, another will
be found. Already I am entangled with this scoundrel. And, after all,
there may be nothing bad in the business. Pish!
'Returning is as tedious as go o'er.'"
That same night Sinson started with his victim for Cornwall. He found
Everope quarters in a village at some little distance from Pendarrel,
while he himself went to Wilderness Gate, where his aged grandmother
received him with doting partiality. But he did not wish to attract
more attention than he could help. He showed Everope about the
neighbourhood of Trevethlan, pointed out the chief features of the
locality, and in particular made him notice the approach to the
castle.
There was no harm so far, and Everope rather marvelled that for this
trivial survey he should have been brought such a distance. From
Trevethlan Michael conducted his slave two or three miles along the
coast to a cottage which stood somewhat retired.
"By the bye," he said, as they approached the modest dwelling, "I
think you were at college, Everope. How long ago?"
"About twenty years," answered the spendthrift with a deep sigh.
"Was there any one there of the name of Ashton in your time?"
"I seem to remember the name," the spendthrift said, musing. "Ashton?
yes, a rowing man, I think--yes, went into the church afterwards. I
recollect now. But he was a good deal my senior. I knew but little of
him."
"Did you ever hear what became of him?"
"Well, it was something strange," Everope continued. "Let me see. His
family quarrelled with him. There was some story about his being
murdered."
"Exactly so," said Sinson. "And we are now close to the scene. It was
in this cottage that he lodged--just observe it--and some half mile
from here along the cliff his body was found, nearly knocked to pieces
on the beach."
The spendthrift's attention was excited by the tale, which also
recalled those early days at college, when precocious dissipation and
riot laid the seed of future ruin. Towards what abyss had he been
travelling ever since? He seemed to turn round, and gaze backwards up
a long slope, from the extremity of which his childhood looked down
upon him still smiling and hopeful, but whereon at every pause in the
descent he saw countenances more and more louring, and forms toiling
upwards with averted faces. And now before him at a little distance,
the incline was lost in darkness and clouds, and thitherward he was
incessantly impelled, and there was nothing to stay his descent.
Sinson left him at his country quarters, merely saying, that they
would return to London the following day, and that there Everope
should learn the object of the journey. He himself repaired to the
habitation of his grandmother.
The old woman was sitting in a rocking chair beside the fire, swinging
herself backwards and forwards, and murmuring a hymn. She was little
sensible to emotion now-a-days, but she rejoiced to behold her Michael
again, and to perceive, what was evident even to her eyes, that he was
a much finer person than when he went away. As he entered the lodge in
the dusk of the evening, she ceased singing, and settled herself on
her chair steadily, in order to look at him.
"Hither to me, my boy," said the old crone, stretching her shrivelled
arm to reach a low stool and set it by her side; "come thee here to
me. 'Tis dimly like, and my eyes get something old."
Michael, who had his reasons for humouring her, lighted a candle, and
seated himself on the floor at her feet. She drew his head to her lap,
and passed her hand lightly over his face, and then looked at him
with eyes that were still bright and black, however she might complain
of their decaying power.
"Ay," she said, with a smile, "he's just the same always, my Michael.
And hast been to show thyself to Cecily, my boy?"
"No, grandame," he replied; "not just now. I have not the time."
"Not time to see thy mother, child? Cecily will fret when I tell her."
"That's just it, grandame," said Michael, "and so ye'd better not tell
her at all. 'Tis a little errand for my mistress that I'm here for;
and she don't wish it talked about."
"Well, well," mumbled Maud; "and Cecily was never like my Margaret.
Dost mind Margaret, my boy?"
"Aunt Margaret was a fine lady, wasn't she, grandame?"
"Ay," muttered the old woman, recommencing to rock herself, "she was
fit to be a queen. Didn't I read of her glory? But they took her away,
and kept her all apart. 'T was long months I hadn't seen her, when I
saw the dust thrown into her grave."
"And did you love Mr. Trevethlan, grandame?"
"Did I love the murderer of my girl?" Maud exclaimed, stopping her
chair, and springing to her feet. "Should I love the murderer of his
own wife? And didst not go with me when he was borne out in his turn?
Was it tears we poured into his grave? Was it comfort we carried to
his young son? Na, na. There's little love between Maud Basset and
anything that bears the name of Trevethlan."
"Are you sure they were married?" Michael asked.
"Didn't I see it with my own eyes? Didn't I see how my angel blushed
and trembled when he put on the ring, and he all so cold and stately
like? Cursed be the gipsy babbler that bewitched his heart!"
"Folks say there was great doubt about it," observed Michael.
"They lie," said the old woman, again seating herself. "My Margaret
_was_ the lady of Trevethlan Castle, and cursed be they that turned
her bliss to bane."
"Well, grandame," urged the young man, "would it not be a sweet
revenge, to show that Henry Trevethlan deceived my poor aunt, and was
himself deceived in turn, and so the children have no right to the
name, and the lands pass away to strangers?"
"Is it her kinsman that speaks?" exclaimed Maud. "Is it the son of her
sister would bring shame upon her memory? Is it a grandson of mine
would defame my Margaret? Na, na. Thou'rt no Michael of mine. Out of
my sight, viper, before I call the curse of Heaven upon thy head. Na,
na. Let me go. Let me go."
And she quitted the room. But she came back again almost immediately.
"Ye did na mean it, Michael," she said. "Ye did na mean it. Good night
to ye, my own boy. Good night."
"Good night, grandame," Michael answered, sulkily.
The next day he and Everope started on their return to London.
END OF VOL. I.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY STEWART AND MURRAY,
OLD BAILEY.
End of Project Gutenberg's Trevethlan: Volume 1, by William Davy Watson