_Don Pedro._ Officers, what offence have these men done?
_Dogberry._ Marry, sir, they have committed false report;
moreover, they have spoken untruths; secondarily, they are
slanders; sixth, and lastly, they have belied a lady; thirdly,
they have verified unjust things; and, to conclude, they are
lying knaves.
Shakspeare.
The answers which the returning fugitives received to their letters
during their journey back to London, were ill calculated to restore them
to serenity. Helen acknowledged her brother's account of his marriage in
a letter, which all her affection could not prevent from betraying her
grief; and Polydore Riches, in another, did not attempt to conceal his
disapproval and regret. And he communicated to Randolph the information
he had received from Mr. Winter that proceedings were already begun to
deprive him and his sister of the little personal property which they
might fancy was still their own, and that so far the lawyer saw no hope
of resisting the attempt with success. On the other hand, Gertrude,
seriously alarmed at the state of depression into which Mrs. Pendarrel
had fallen, could not help pointing out to her sister the consequences
of her imprudence. "Why did you not come to me?" she wrote; "why did you
not rely upon the support which I always promised? It might have been
only a temporary succour, but time might have done everything. You
little think, perhaps, how much distress you have occasioned by your
haste."
These letters led to a painful scene between the travellers. It was true
that in what they said self-reproach predominated, and they did not
accuse each other. But that which wears the appearance of confession,
must also show like repentance. And so when Randolph, with much
bitterness, charged himself with having brought his wife to misery, his
words seemed to imply a desire to undo what was irrevocable. And when
Mildred blamed herself for her mother's anguish, her husband might think
she regretted her devotion to him. Each tacitly acknowledged the
futility of the arguments by which they had before justified their step;
and each, while pretending to accept the fault, was jealous of the
manner in which the other claimed it.
Yet they loved one another passionately and devotedly; but they found
that passion was not happiness, and that devotedness was not esteem.
Tell them they must part, and they would rush to one another, and vow it
should only be in death. Remind them how they met, and they would shrink
from one another, and hang their heads in sorrow. When they thought only
of themselves, their hearts beat together with a tenderness that seemed
inexhaustible. When they remembered those who ought to be their friends,
they turned away from each other with a sadness that chilled their
blood. Now there are twenty-four hours between two risings of the sun,
and even newly-married lovers cannot be looking into one another's eyes
the whole of the time. Let Randolph and his bride hasten to town before
they are weary of the day.
There, friends are still assiduous in their behalf. Hopeless, at
present, or imprudent, it may be to try to soothe the wounded heart of a
mother; better, perhaps, to wait until the first irritation has
subsided. But this new piece of chicane may stimulate our zeal in
unravelling what we believe to have been a foul plot. Surely some clue
must be discoverable to the intricacies of this curious law-story. It is
what Rereworth thinks; consoling himself for the loss of those pleasant
hours when he disentangled skeins of silk. For Helen is sad, and sees no
company now. Nay, Mrs. Winston thinks her residence at her house is
growing a questionable point, and her husband, the philosopher, owns
that it may become awkward. Yet she shall sojourn a little longer,
although an apartment is vacant for her at the peachery, and Polydore
Riches is there alone, and would be glad of his old pupil's society.
At length there arises a gleam of hope. Fortune may have swung the
orphans' lot past the lowermost point of her wheel. Rereworth found a
note on his breakfast-table at chambers one morning, containing an
invitation which almost banished his appetite, although it promised no
support for the body.
The rendezvous was appointed at an obscure locality in Lambeth. Seymour
took a boat at the Temple-stairs, told the waterman his destination, and
desired to be landed as near it as possible.
"Ask your pardon, sir," said red jacket, tossing his sculls into the
rowlocks, "that's a queer place for a gentleman to want."
"Pull away, friend," answered the fare, who was not in a colloquial
humour, and discouraged the talkativeness of Dogget's prizeman.
It was a delightful April morning, and the trim wherry sped steadily and
swiftly over the bright water, unmolested by those floating omnibusses
which of late years have increased the utility and diminished the
pleasantness of London's noble river. Past the grey fortress, founded by
Archbishop Baldwin, as a refuge from the indignity of personal conflicts
with his monks at Canterbury, swept the boat, and drew up alongside some
stairs not very far beyond. Rereworth bade the waterman await his
return, and accepted the offer of "Jack" to conduct him to the place he
sought.
So guided, Seymour proceeded up a narrow and unpaved lane, between high
and irregular palisades; beyond which, on either hand, kilns were at
work, emitting fumes far from agreeable. This passage led to a winding
street, scarcely wider than itself, from which lofty windowless walls
nearly excluded the light of day, and bespoke industry busy within. The
dwelling-houses were mostly dingy and dismal in appearance, but at
intervals might be seen one neater than usual, in whose casements a few
unfortunate flowers--luxuries wherewith we have lately been surprised to
learn the children of labour have no concern--lamented the absence of
the sun. Rereworth's guide pointed along this uninviting thoroughfare to
a sign at no great distance, and told him that was the place for which
he had inquired. It was a public-house of disreputable aspect.
Seymour set his foot in the vile tavern with some repugnance, and had
not replied to the question--what he would please to take--when it was
answered for him by the voice of the man who had invited him to the
rendezvous.
"Brandy," Everope said, and beckoned Rereworth into the parlour from
which he had emerged. Seymour obeyed the signal, marvelling and
sorrowing at the changed appearance of the spendthrift. It was not
improved since his meeting with Michael Sinson in the park. Then he was
miserable, now he was desperate. The recklessness was upon him which
follows the loss of hope. With an eager but trembling hand he lifted a
glass of the fire-water to his scarlet lips, and seemed to drink with
the thirst of Tantalus. His visitor, shocked and distressed, could not
utter a word.
"Seymour Rereworth," then said Everope, as one who had meditated on what
he was going to tell; "you see a lost and desperate man. I care for
nothing. Nothing cares for me. I hardly know what has prompted me to
this step. But this man endeavoured once to do me a service. And I
returned it by entering the service of his deadly foe. But Michael
Sinson has the devil's craft as well as his malice. His net was round me
before I was aware. I struggled in the meshes, but they were too strong.
One by one my feelings went to sleep. I was a slave, and did my work,
and earned my wages. Ay, sir, till only the other day. Till that day
when I asked him for a pittance, and he struck me to the ground. That
was to be my payment for the future. The blow snapped all the cords of
his net. Said he, that I was worthless? No offer he could make would buy
my silence now.
"You of course remember the late trial at Bodmin. You should have had me
at your elbow, when you examined Michael Sinson. It was indeed he, who
got up, or concocted the case for the plaintiff. I only know my own
share in it. Can you imagine the temptation required to induce one who
has been like me, to come and be sworn to tell the truth, with a
falsehood ready framed upon his lips? You foresee what is coming. My
story was learned by rote, well prepared, often rehearsed. I was armed
at all points, furnished with answers to all questions. You know how I
went through the ordeal.
"Yet I was nearly overthrown. I never dreamed of the defendant as being
in any manner known to me. Who was Randolph Trevethlan? What did I care
about the stranger? What was his ruin to me, so I won my hire? After
what I have said, you will not credit the emotion, with which, in answer
to the question suggested by yourself, I saw Morton rise and confront
me, and remembered that he had once offered me assistance, which might
have saved me from the position I then occupied.
"I quailed for a moment under his eye, but rallied immediately. I was
not yet ready to avow my shame. But the memory of that moment has
haunted me ever since. The idea that I had ruined him who might have
averted my own fall, has rankled in my heart. I have stifled it in riot
and delirium. But I had no longer the means. Sinson, my employer,
reduced his scanty dole, and urged me to hide myself in a foreign land.
But, no; that was not to be the reward of service such as mine. If he
could extort the means of indulgence from those whom his treachery had
profited, so could I from him. It was on such an errand I was bent, when
he told me contemptuously I was of no use to him, and in answer to his
right name, struck me to the earth. The knaves fell out, and honest men
may get their own.
"You have heard my tale. I will verify it in detail in any way you
please. And that done, I retire from the scene. I do not suppose you
will desire to pursue me, nor do I care if you do. Would you know
wherefore I am here? I dare not look respectability in the face. Even
the haunts of the disreputable I have been forced to shun. Did I not
there, in the midst of hollow revelry, once meet the glance of my
victim? But all is over now. I am struck to the ground, and have neither
the power nor the wish to rise. I want no pity, and I merit no thanks. A
few shillings to keep me till my task is done, and then let me die.
There's none will shed a tear."
"Mr. Everope," Rereworth said, gravely and sadly, "what you have this
day done, shows that all is not lost for you. No man who lives is lost.
And I, sir, trust that this is your beginning of a new existence. Are
you not already in some measure comforted? Do you not feel some relief?
Trust me comfort and relief will come. And do not underrate your
service. It is not only Mr. Trevethlan you have benefited, but also his
gentle sister, living in the apprehension of want."
"Spare me," the spendthrift cried, covering his face with his hands, "I
once had sisters of my own."
"For their sake, then," Seymour said, "for the sake of everything that
was ever dear to you, and may be again, arise from this unmanly despair.
Will you not leave this miserable haunt? Will you not come with me?"
Everope shook his head, without raising it from his hands.
"Not now," he muttered, "not in the day-light. Wait till the darkness.
Then perhaps I may seek my old abode."
"Well, well," Rereworth continued; "I will not urge you now. But this
statement must be prepared for verification. You will give it me in
writing."
The spendthrift assented with a nod. Paper, pen, and ink, were procured.
Everope made an attempt to write, but his nerves failed him.
"Take the pen," he said; "I will dictate and sign."
Seymour complied, and took down the confession at considerable length.
His wretched informant traced the whole history of his connection with
Michael Sinson; the means by which he had been entrapped into the first
step; the journey to Cornwall; the concoction of the evidence; his
examination by Mr. Truby; his appearance at the trial. Thus, if his
present tale were believed, it would entirely reverse the effect of his
former testimony.
"That is all," he said, as he signed his name. "To-night I will return
to my old residence. That is, if I am still free; for this Sinson holds
notes of mine, on which he might cast me into the Fleet. It is what he
has often threatened."
"Fear not," Rereworth answered. "I will undertake all those obligations
shall be satisfied. To-morrow you must be prepared to attest your
statement."
He placed a small sum of money on the table beside the spendthrift, and,
having again entreated him to hope, and assured him of the means of
retrieving himself, returned in a very thoughtful mood to the stairs
where he had left his wherry.
Well, perhaps, it would have been, had Rereworth not parted with his
penitent, until he had placed him under some surveillance. He might have
been prompted to confession by transient compunction, and might want
courage to persevere; or the thought of public and inevitable disgrace
might drive him to despair. But Seymour was too much moved by the
unhappy man's condition to oppose his desire for the shelter of night to
come forth from his lair.
He made no delay at the Temple on his return, but proceeded straight to
Mr. Winter's office. The worthy lawyer's eyes sparkled as he read the
confession. Yet he observed it would be desirable to have it confirmed,
if possible. After all, it _was_ a confession, and the testimony of an
accomplice is always doubtful. There might be some question which story
should be believed, the first or the second. On the face of the
statement there appeared personal reasons for making it. The deponent
might be influenced by rancour against his late employer.
"Oh, never mind, my good sir," cried Rereworth; "have that statement put
into a shape for attestation, and, trust me, it will be maintained."
"Ay, ay," answered Winter; "and it will be a pleasant wedding present to
meet our friend on his return."
The suggestion was scarcely agreeable to Rereworth. He went back to his
chambers, and read carefully through his notes of the trial at Bodmin;
and he wrote Mr. Riches a short account of his discovery.