Anne magis Siculi gemuerunt aera juvenci,
Aut magis auratis pendens laquearibus ensis
Purpureas subter cervices terruit, _Imus_;
_Imus praecipites_, quam si sibi dicat, intus
Palleat infelix, quod proxima nesciat uxor?
Persius.
_Down, headlong, down_--Say could that bull of fire,
Or thread-suspended sword such fear inspire,
As his, whose thoughts, to bosom-wife unknown,
Ring in his livid heart--_Down, headlong, down_?
That same evening the fugitive couple arrived in the metropolis, and
took up their abode in apartments engaged for them by Mr. Riches at a
hotel. It was time. Already they were beginning to long for other
company than their own; a few days more might make their own
companionship intolerable. One quarter of the moon had nearly taught
them the vanity of the lover's chimera, that they were all-sufficient
for one another. There was so much anxiety about their path, so much
gloom around the present, so much dismay in the future, that their
spirits drooped, and even love seemed to grow cold in their hearts. Let
them beware, for they were united for ever. In the preservation of their
mutual regard lay their only chance of peace; should that vanish, there
was nothing but misery before them. The day might then come when Mildred
would be qualified to receive succour from her mother, on the terms
which Esther, in the fierceness of her first indignation, had not
scrupled to prescribe.
The sense of the fault they had committed lay at the bottom of their
discontent. Mildred repented with bitter sorrow her rupture of all
filial ties, and exaggerated her sister's account of the distress it had
occasioned, thinking sometimes that she might even have broken her
mother's heart. She forgot the severity with which she had lately been
treated, and remembered only the tenderness which she had not seldom
experienced. She often recollected how she had been pressed to her
mother's bosom on the night of the fire, and she trembled to dwell upon
the affection which one moment had cast away.
Randolph read some portion of her thoughts; and he perceived that the
maternal sorrow to which he had once looked forward with perverse
eagerness, afforded him none of the satisfaction he had expected. It was
not so he ought to avenge his own or his father's wrongs. The scheme
recoiled upon himself. There was no happiness for him while his bride
was unhappy, and nothing but wretchednes for her until she had made her
peace at home. And so Randolph saw that his stolen marriage had actually
contributed to Esther's triumph. She had now not only his worldly
wealth, but himself beneath her foot. He had placed himself in a
position where he must either sue for mercy or behold his wife pining
away before his eyes.
Amidst such gloomy speculations, one bright spot sometimes appeared to
his mental vision. "I have thought," his father said, in those well
remembered words, "she was not so indifferent to me as she chose to
pretend. If it were so, she has avenged me on herself, and has my
forgiveness." Would that Randolph had dwelt oftener upon the hope
contained in this qualification, and more seldom upon the stern
injunction! Would that he had not suffered the early affront to himself
to take so firm a hold of him! That he had not fomented his personal
quarrel, until now he could see no avenue to reconciliation! That he had
listened with more humility to the remonstrances of Polydore Riches!
These wishes were idle now. It was a sad evening of the honeymoon when
Randolph and his bride sat together in their hired and temporary abode,
having none of their own, and hardly daring to consider what would
become of them. In slow and broken sentences they discussed their future
prospects, and strove to cheer one another with hopes in which neither
put any trust.
At an early hour in the morning, Randolph escorted Mildred to her
sister's, and left her there, he himself proceeding to Hampstead.
Gertrude had no consolation to offer the young wife. Indeed, she was
obliged to own that Mrs. Pendarrel was in a condition to cause
considerable alarm. She said it would be dangerous for Mildred to
present herself, and would only permit her to call in the carriage at
the house in May Fair and remain at the door, while she herself
ascertained their mother's state. It was not satisfactory; and Gertrude
resumed her watch; while Mildred returned in increased solicitude to
such distraction as could be supplied by her attendant. Sorely puzzled
was Rhoda at so woeful a termination to an elopement.
Meantime, Randolph continued on his way to the dwelling which had
sheltered himself and Helen in the first enthusiasm of their arrival in
the metropolis. Little had they then deemed how soon that enthusiasm was
to be chilled; little they thought how soon they would return to their
home by the sea with all their hopes extinguished. And still less could
they know, that even that brief absence would be pregnant with events to
influence their whole lives; and that whereas when they quitted their
birth-place they were heart-whole and fancy-free, one of them, at least,
would return to it the slave of passion and unable to hope.
They had lost that home since then. They had bidden farewell, and, as
they might at times fear, for ever, to the scenes endeared by a thousand
recollections. Thenceforth they could only lean upon one another. And
suddenly they were separated. The brother, rashly and wrongfully, had
taken another partner in misfortune, and abandoned the former sharer of
his affections. And now, with such feelings, they once more met. Yet,
amidst all these mournful reminiscences, Randolph felt some relief from
his trouble in Helen's greeting. She inquired very warmly for her
sister, and he was delighted at hearing the word.
She told him of her interview with Mrs. Pendarrel the morning before,
and he listened with a degree of interest which surprised her. He
questioned her eagerly respecting every word that was uttered, and his
cheeks flushed with anger when he extorted from the narrator an account
of Mrs. Pendarrel's insults. But this expression seemed to pass away,
when Helen described the emotion displayed by Esther at the sight of her
own likeness, and the whispered exclamation--"He loved me to the last!"
"There is hope for us, Helen," the brother said, "in your words. If I am
right in interpreting them, there is hope I may find peace for my
Mildred. I have a key to them which you know not of. But, alas! we must
first re-establish ourselves."
"And of that, too, there is hope," said Helen. "Go to Mr. Riches: let
him have the pleasure of telling you the news. It only came last night.
From your friend,--but our dear chaplain will tell you all the story."
So to Polydore, Randolph went, and learned the discovery which Rereworth
had made. It certainly gave him great joy, although it was communicated
very gravely. The chaplain did not affect to conceal his mortification
at his old pupil's dereliction of the right path. He urged the necessity
of sacrificing every personal feeling in order to procure a
reconciliation with Mildred's family.
"It is not so very long," he said, "since you spoke to me of an
inherited quarrel and injunctions of revenge. Such thoughts must be laid
aside now. They were before uncharitable and wrong, but now they are
actively pernicious. I shall have no comfort till I know that peace has
been made."
Randolph subdued some rising impatience, and answered that he had
conceived some hopes of so desirable a result.
"And, my dear sir," he continued, "we desire, Mildred and I, that you
would hallow our union. As soon as possible we shall be re-married, and
we hope for your blessing."
"Then the bride's parents must be present to sanction it," Polydore
answered. "With that condition, nothing could afford me so great a
pleasure."
Randolph sighed, and departed on his return to town. But his heart was
much lighter than when he went. He had also much to do, and the
necessary activity diverted his melancholy. First, he must call upon
Rereworth, and learn the details of this confession of Everope's, which
afforded hope of recovering his rights, and restoring his father's
honour. For this purpose he bent his way straight to the Temple.
Seymour met him with congratulatory rebukes, uttered between jest and
earnest, and declared that he would never have presented Mr. Morton at
Mr. Winston's, had he been at all aware of his wicked ways. He also
indulged in some facetiousness respecting the defendant's running off
with the plaintiff's daughter, and remarked that a wife was scarcely a
desirable commodity where there was no property at all either to give or
receive. His tone showed his confidence in the approach of a happy
denouement. Randolph forced a smile, and turned the conversation to the
story of Everope.
"Ah," Seymour said, becoming grave in his turn, "that's a bad business.
He was to have sworn to his tale this morning, and when I went to see
after him, he was no more. He died by his own hand. In the night. I have
reproached myself ever since I parted from him yesterday, for allowing
him to be alone. And now his death puts us in a little difficulty. I
must become a witness. But there. You can read the narrative, as I took
it down from his lips. And then we will go and talk over the affair at
Winter's. I understand Everope's accomplice is now down in the country."
Randolph read the confession with eager eyes. He saw that Everope's
remorse had perhaps originated in his recognition of himself at the
trial, as having once offered to do him some trifling service. He wished
he had arrived in time to repeat the offer, and possibly to save the
spendthrift from destruction. When he had finished the perusal, he and
Rereworth set forth on their way to Mr. Winter's offices.
They had to pass the foot of Everope's staircase. A group of persons,
laundresses and porters, such as may often be seen gossiping in the inns
of court, was congregated at the entrance, conversing earnestly, but in
low tones. Rereworth made his companion acquainted with the few details
he had been able to collect, or to conjecture, concerning the unhappy
suicide.
He had gone to Everope's rooms in good time, to prepare him to attest
his confession, and had even then been detained by a crowd like that
which was still there. He made his way without much heed, being in fact
preoccupied, and rapped at the spendthrift's door. The old laundress
answered the knock, seemed greatly surprised when he inquired for her
master, and raised the corner of her apron to her eyes.
"What is the matter, ma'am?" Rereworth asked. "What has happened?" And
he remembered the groups below with some alarm.
A few broken words made him acquainted with the catastrophe.
Everope, it seemed, had come home late in the night. He had obtained a
light, and had been engaged in looking over a quantity of correspondence
and other papers, for such were found strewn about the floor of his
room. Letters of old date, some written when he must have been quite a
youth, lay open on the table. Were the recollections they aroused more
than his shattered, perhaps delirious, senses could bear? Such Rereworth
fancied must have been the case.
He had glanced slightly at some of the scattered papers, and then
recoiled from prying into matters which concerned him not. One scrap,
however, freshly written upon, caught his eye, and he found it to
contain a few stanzas of verse, evidently penned long ago, and some
incoherent attempts to continue them, which must have been made that
very night. He took possession of this document, in order to produce it,
if necessary; and he now showed it to his friend. And Randolph, in
reading the following melancholy lines, the older portion of the
writing, thought with shuddering pity of the whisper, once addressed by
Everope to himself, which had called forth his offer of assistance.
'Tis sad to think of hopes destroyed,
Of prospects lost that once seemed fair,
Of hours in waste or vice employed,
Of talents as _that_ fig-tree bare.
Where ruin watches the closed door,
And crouches on the cold hearth-stone,
Where home's a word of love no more,
And friends or kindred there are none;
What though the door exclude the wind?
What though the roof may shield from rain?
No winds like those that tear the mind,
No storms like those that rend the brain.
While stern remorse unfolds her scroll,
And points to every damning word,
Showing the late-repenting soul
All it has thought, done, seen, or heard--
Ay, press thy hands upon thine eyes,
Ay, hear not, feel not, if thou wilt!
Still memory to conscience cries,
Still every heart-quake throbs of guilt.
Think over all thou might'st have been,
Contrast it then with all thou art:
A retrospect so dark and keen
May well appal thy shuddering heart.
Woe for the days when childhood knelt
At night and morn its prayer to say;
Breathed worship such as childhood felt,
And loved the vows it learned to pay!
But now--but now--can phrenzy pray?
To Heaven shall desperation cry?
Madness prepares destruction's way--
Escape is none--despair, and die!
"That," said Rereworth, when Randolph gave him back the paper, "is the
superficial penitence, which never does any good. It is regret for the
effects of the fault, not for the fault itself. In true repentance there
is always hope, but in such feelings as are here portrayed there is
little else than despair. Hence this miserable end."
"Yet," Randolph urged, with some discontent at the moralizing of his
friend, "he seems to have been meant for better things."
"Few men are not," answered Rereworth. "Few men are not meant for better
things than they achieve. Short-coming is the rule, and fulfilling the
exception. But a truce with what sounds misanthropical. Here we are at
Winter's."
The lawyer heard of the suicide with much commiseration.
"But," said he, "our feelings must not interfere with business. This
confession, verified by you, Mr. Rereworth, ought to carry us to the
bottom of the matter. I wish we could get at the true circumstances of
the marriage. You see the real insinuation is, that the late Mr.
Trevethlan was privy to the death of Ashton, and the spiriting away of
the witness. I wish, with all my heart, we could clear up the mystery."
And Randolph felt that there could be no rest for him until the entire
groundlessness of so dark an impeachment was made clear to all the
world.