O Primavera, gioventu del' anno,
Bella madre de' fiori,
D'erbe novelle, e di novelli amori,
Tu torni ben, ma teco
Non tornano i sereni
E fortunati di delle mie gioje:
Tu torni ben, tu torni,
Ma teco altro non torna,
Che del perduto mio caro tesoro
La rimembranza misera e dolente.
Guarini.
Spring and Favonius were rapidly loosening the bonds of winter, when
Randolph and his sister returned to their old quarters at Hampstead,
with feelings very different from those which had attended their first
arrival there. Six months had revolutionized their existence. And when
in the tumult of emotion which followed the trial at Bodmin, the
disinherited heir conceived the idea of seeking the roof which had
sheltered his brief studentship, it was rather in that mockery with
which despair often tries to delude itself, than with a serious purpose
of fulfilling the design. He cast a sneering and scornful glance upon
his sojourn in London, and thought of resuming it as a bitter jest. But
come what might, he was resolved to quit Trevethlan, and that instantly.
Where then could he go? Where find a home for Helen?--questions which
Randolph answered by accepting in earnest the plan which he had
conceived in irony. Let their old host and hostess enjoy a nine days'
wonder.
So to Hampstead the orphans went, making a more leisurely journey than
before, and arriving, free from fatigue, in the evening. They were
received with warm cordiality.
"What!" said Peach to Randolph, when Helen had retired, "you slept last
night at Basingstoke! Not disturbed, I hope, by any of the monk of
Croyland's adversaries. Hear Foelix concerning the foes of monastic
rest, as Camden reports his very middling hexameters--
'Sunt aliqui quibus est crinis rigidus, caput amplum,
Frons cornuta, gena distorta, pupilla coruscans,
Os patulum, labra turgentia, dens peracutus--
Nonnulli quibus est non horrida forma, sed ipse
Horror, cum non sint scelerati, sed scelus ipsum.'"
Cornelius loved to hear himself talk, and this was a favourite quotation
with him. Randolph assured him the inn at Basingstoke was quite free
from the plagues of Croyland Abbey. And then, in a few brief sentences
he acquainted Mr. Peach with his real quality. His landlord was amused
with the romance.
"Why," said he, "you are like my Lord Burleigh, wooing his peasant-love
under the guise of a painter."
A short time before, the remark would have occasioned a severe twinge,
but now there was no room for any. Randolph was surrounded by a sea of
troubles, and knew not in which direction to strike. And the full effect
of the verdict was as yet unperceived by him. He had not observed that
by dissolving all ties between himself and his father, it would deprive
him not merely of his real estate, the castle and its precincts, but
also of all the personal property which he possessed in the world. The
next of kin would follow the heir-at-law. In this case they were
combined in the same person. Would any mercy be shown? Would it be
accepted if it were? The orphans were literally beggars. Nay, they were
even in debt. For a rigorous account might be exacted of every farthing
of property, which the late Mr. Trevethlan left behind him at his death.
And thus opprobium, immediate and inevitable, was hanging over
Randolph's head.
The lawyers, of course, were well aware of this. But Mr. Truby, about
whom there was nothing of the pettifogger, was in no hurry to advise his
client to rush to extremities. He remembered the judge's observation at
the trial, that additional evidence would probably be forthcoming before
very long, and was not anxious to bear on the defeated party, in a
manner which might afterwards be termed oppressive. He always hated
sharp practice. He felt bound to mention the state of the case to Mr.
Pendarrel, and that gentleman of course communicated it to his wife.
Esther started at the news, but perceiving that every day would only
involve the orphans more deeply, she was contented to let her advantage
rest for a while.
On the other hand, Mr. Winter did not feel it on any account necessary
to point out his real position to Randolph. Being certain that injustice
had been done, although at present unable to see his way to its
reversal, he was loth to risk the disclosure to one of so passionate and
obstinate a temper as his client. And in truth the latter's condition
required no aggravation. Randolph was in the plight, most harassing to a
hot and impatient mood, when there is nothing immediately to be done,
and the spirit chafes and rages at its forced inertness.
He sought his friend and counsel, Rereworth, but without obtaining any
consolatory information. Seymour was endeavouring to trace the witness
whose testimony had overthrown his friend. But hitherto wholly without
success. Everope had disappeared entirely from all his former haunts.
His chambers were perpetually closed, and the old woman, who acted as
his laundress, knew nothing at all concerning her master's movements.
Yet this was the quest which Rereworth thought held out the best hope of
success; for if the spendthrift's evidence were bought, there were many
circumstances conceivable, under which he might be induced to confess.
Very few days had elapsed after the arrival of the orphans at Hampstead,
when they were joined by Polydore Riches. He brought them all the
details of the conflagration at Pendarrel. And with wrath and
indignation Randolph learned that it was pretty generally regarded in
the country as a reprisal for the verdict at Bodmin. Not such was the
retaliation he desired. The chaplain also grieved his old pupils with an
account of the numerous arrests which had been made among the dependents
of the castle. It seemed as though their own ruin involved that of many
besides.
There was another circumstance connected with this intelligence which
was of deep interest to Randolph. The Pendarrels had returned to London.
He again breathed the same air with Mildred. Now he had almost rejoiced
in the idea that this would not be the case. He was glad that in the
dreary interval devoted to the recovery of his rights, during which he
had vowed to see her no more, distance would remove any temptation to
break the resolution. But she was again within his reach. Any day, in
walking through the streets of the metropolis, she might cross his path.
He would be in continual expectation of such a meeting. An instant might
overthrow all his determination. It was another element to mingle in the
turbulence of his emotions.
And the chaplain bore a missive also, which was a source of considerable
discussion; namely, Mrs. Winston's letter to Helen, containing the
invitation to her house. Gertrude had written with great tact, and with
a full consciousness of the delicacy which might revolt from accepting
an obligation from the daughter of Esther Pendarrel. She went so far as
to say that her offer would probably be disagreeable to her mother if it
were known, but she hoped to prevent that, until some fortunate
discovery had re-instated her cousins in their just rights. And she
infused into her whole letter a warmth of kindness and sympathy which
she trusted would not be without its effect. For in truth she wrote from
her heart.
But the proposal led to great demur. Randolph abhorred the idea of
accepting anything like favour from any of his enemy's house; and was
not disposed to admit Mrs. Winston's view of her independence. Yet,
being married, she might be considered as no longer involved in the
quarrel. And Randolph was very anxious to find his sister a home. She
was in his way. He felt it with no want of affection. But whenever in
his reveries he looked forward to the career he should adopt, as soon as
he had re-established the good fame of his family, his sister always
recurred to his mind as an obstacle in his path. Sketching for himself
an adventurous course in some far-distant land, he was always recalled
from the vision by the thought of her he should in such case be
compelled to leave unprotected, behind. A very short glimpse into the
future would have spared him much fruitless speculation.
Helen, with that gentle longing for a reconciliation which she showed in
the very opening of this narrative, read Mrs. Winston's letter with
pleasure, and desired to accept the invitation. In answer to her
brother's peevish dissatisfaction, she urged that her visit might be
very short, but that it would be ungrateful, uncharitable, every way
perverse, to reject what was offered with such true kindness. She should
be entirely private,--should, of course, hold no intercourse with Mr. or
Mrs. Pendarrel, and could see Randolph as often and as freely as he
pleased.
The chaplain supported Helen's argument with all his power. And in the
end the brother yielded, little thinking to what a train of
circumstances the visit would give rise. And so Miss Trevethlan removed
to Cavendish-square, where Gertrude's winning demeanour soon put her
completely at her ease, and where she walked through those same rooms,
in which she might remember that Randolph encountered Mrs. Pendarrel
face to face, and made the avowal which cut short his career as a
student of the law.
He himself escorted her, and quivered a little as he stood in the
well-remembered drawing-room. But he only staid a few minutes before
returning to Hampstead, through the long and squalid suburb which then
lay at the foot of the hill. The stuccoed terraces of the Regent's-park
were still in the brain or the portfolio of the architect. The
realization of Darwin's prophecy,
"Soon shall thy arm, unconquered Steam, afar
Drag the slow barge, or drive the rapid car,"
although it had taken place on one element, seemed as far distant on
shore as when the poet wrote. What wonders have been wrought in these
thirty years of peace! And is it possible to think, that once more our
progress may be arrested by war, and that the energies which have so
long been devoted to the cause of civilization--that great cause of the
whole human race, in which nations may fraternize without reciprocal
encroachment, which is identical with the advance of true liberty, and
of the only equality which mortals can attain, that of virtue--is it
possible that these energies can once more be required for self-defence,
that the death-drum may again summon us to repel a foreign foe, or that
symbols and watchwords may divide ourselves, and our ancient flag find a
rival standard unfurled by the sons of those who fought the battle of
freedom? Rather let us hope that the convulsions around us may be found
to have cleared the air, and brought the day more near,
"When the drum shall throb no longer, and the battle-flag be furled,
In the parliament of man, the federation of the world."
The coming of Polydore Riches was an event of some interest to the
worthy couple of the peachery. Clotilda, in common with most spinsters
of her age, was much in the habit of criticising the mien and aspect of
clergymen, and formed her own idea of the appearance of the chaplain
from the respect and affection with which Helen always spoke of him. And
it must be owned she was a little disappointed. She had expected rather
a portly man, with white hair, and a commanding presence. She
encountered a slight figure and a pale face, the habitual pensiveness of
which was now deepened by anxiety, and which was shaded by locks wherein
silver had as yet but little share. Miss Peach allowed that Polydore was
"interesting," but she had expected something more.
But Randolph was quite right in predicting that the chaplain and
Cornelius would agree together admirably. The two old bachelors speedily
conceived a high mutual esteem. Their tastes were very similar. In each
there was the same simplicity of character. Polydore was more refined
and enthusiastic; Cornelius more humorous and practical. The worthy host
soon prevailed on his new friend to join him in a pipe, a luxury in
which the chaplain had scarcely indulged since he quitted the classic
shades of Granta. And they exhaled the fragrant fumes, due to Peach's
ancient friend Sir Walter, so long, that the old clerk fell into a
rhapsody on the perfections of that creature of his dreams, Mabel; and
actually extracted from Polydore a murmured panegyric on that treasure
of his memory, Rose Griffith. And then might a spectator have been
amused to observe how the names of Mabel and Rose alternated with the
puffs of smoke, and were often sighed forth in concert, with a pathos
that might have done honour to the unworthily-used Malvolio.