CHAPTER IX
None but an author knows an author's cares,
Or fancy's fondness for the child she bears:
Committed once into the public arms,
The baby seems to smile with added charms:
Like something precious ventured far from shore,
'Tis valued for the danger's sake the more.
Cowper.
Polydore Riches, as we have said, was much disturbed by the matrimonial escapade of his old pupil. But his profession, his own experience, and his age, had taught him resignation. It was his favourite theory that things seemed evil only because they were but half seen. Could man discern the whole train of events of which an apparent calamity was part, he would find that what was thought a misfortune was really a blessing. But the eye of reason was as short-sighted as that of the body. There were many things beyond its ken. And, as the most powerful telescopes failed to penetrate beyond a certain distance, and served but to make the vastness of the universe more incomprehensible, so the severest logic only availed to show the limits of the human understanding, and to inspire it with reverent humility for things beyond its bounds. This true and grateful optimism enabled the chaplain to overcome the sharpness of sorrow, and to maintain that unruffled quietude of mind which is the happy mean between apathy and over-susceptibility. Yet, as has been more than once hinted, he was not unacquainted with grief.
He had been into London one day to visit Helen, and also to try to find some of his old college companions, when he met with what was for him a little adventure. It probably led his thoughts into the course shown in a conversation which he held with Mr. Peach the same evening.
"You have several old friends of mine here, Mr. Peach," Polydore said, surveying the row of tall folios which formed his host's library. "Now this is one to whom I was always very partial." And he took down Sir Thomas Browne. "Open this worthy knight where you will, you will be pretty sure to find some intellectual pabulum."
"I love his genial and warm-hearted humour," said the old clerk.
"I have turned to the Physician's Faith," continued Riches. "I light upon the section beginning—'I never could divide myself from any man upon the difference of an opinion, or be angry with his judgment for not agreeing with me in that, from which within a few days I should dissent myself.'"
"The whole passage overflows with charity and good sense," said Peach, rubbing his hands.
"And a few leaves further on—there is a paper at the place—is the remark,—'It is we that are blind, not fortune: because our eye is too dim to discover the mystery of her effects, we foolishly paint her blind, and hoodwink the providence of the Almighty.'"
Cornelius became rather fidgety, for he saw that the paper which Mr. Riches had mentioned lay upon the open page, and was covered with writing.
"You write yourself, my friend," observed Mr. Riches. "Will you allow me…?"
"No," answered his host, casting down his eyes. "That is, I do not write. I may sometimes jot down a thought, if a bit of paper is at hand. I cannot bear to defile the margins of my books."
"Mischievous vanity of readers," said the chaplain. "But, Mr. Peach, I like these remarks very much. Did you never print? Confess. You have caught Sir Thomas's spirit exactly." Cornelius coloured a little.
"No," said he. "Never. I have nothing to confess."
Polydore lighted his pipe, and sat down by the side of the chimney, just out of the glare of the fire. Miss Peach had retired, and the old bachelors were alone. They smoked in silence for a considerable time.
"There was a time," at length the host murmured, "when I thought I should like to print. It was when I was courting my Mabel. I fancied it would be so pleasant to present her with a volume of my own inditing. She would be proud of me. She would hear me spoken of, and would say in her heart—he belongs to me. But there was another side to the medal, something whispered me, and I had not the courage. The early ambition passed away."
"Well," said Polydore, "I was this morning singularly reminded that I had been one of the irritable race."
The old clerk's face beamed radiant among the circumambient fumes.
"You, my dear sir!" he exclaimed, and then begged pardon for the expression of surprise.
"'Tis many years ago," the chaplain said. "I had not left my university at the time. I had nearly forgotten it. Yet it was a delightful dream."
"What was your offspring?" Cornelius asked.
"A tale," was the answer. "A little story. Simple enough, but intended to promote some opinions, of which, in my youth, I was a zealous advocate. I fear I had not then learned the lesson of those first words of Sir Thomas Browne."
"I own," said Peach, "that I do not relish argumentative fiction."
"Neither, perhaps, should I now," continued Polydore. "But youth is ardent in proselytism. I dreamt over my manuscript for nights and nights. It was so true, and so interesting. I was certain it could not fail; and others thought so too. The little book would be ushered into the world in a manner more favourable than I had dared to hope. Imagine, my dear sir, the sort of intoxication with which I revised the proofs. What Gibbon calls 'the awful interval of printing' was to me a season of impatient delight. I was rushing into celebrity. And so the book appeared—by Polydore Riches. I was not yet in orders. Moreover, it was noticed by critics, on the whole, kindly. I took for granted it was selling rapidly, and prepared my emendations for a second edition. Judge then of my feelings, when, at the end of a twelvemonth, I learned that I might have spared my pains."
"What was the reason?" said Cornelius.
"I can tell you best by this," Polydore replied. "After a little idle repining, and some tacit abuse of the public mind, I laid my poor child by. I read it again in a dozen years, and I discovered a hundred defects of which I was ignorant before. No doubt the public discerned them at the first glance. I did not wonder at my disappointment."
Here again silence reigned for some time in the cosy parlour. It was broken by Mr. Peach.
"You said, my dear sir, that you were reminded of those days this morning."
"Yes," answered the chaplain. "I never could pass an open book-stall without scrutinizing the wares. It has always been one of my habits. If I were in a hurry, I should make a circuit through the side streets, instead of proceeding direct along Holborn, so irresistible is the temptation. Well, this morning I was wending my way by that great thoroughfare, and duly pausing at each successive treasure-house, when at one of them I detected an old friend. With trembling fingers, I drew the volume from between an 'Entick's Dictionary' and a 'Peregrine Pickle,' and opened it. 'By Polydore Riches.' A kind of mist came over me as I read."
"Indeed," said Mr. Peach, "it was an interesting meeting. You found yourself, as one may say, face to face with your youth."
"Exactly so. It was like shaking hands with the Riches of twenty-two. Well, the whim seized me to purchase the book, and also to ascertain the lowest value put upon it. So I went into the shop, and inquired the price. The owner ran the leaves backwards and forwards through his fingers, looked at the outside, and—but I need not trouble you with our bargaining. I bought it."
"Ah," exclaimed Cornelius, "might I beg leave to become acquainted with it?"
"You shall see the little book, if you wish, my dear sir," answered Polydore. "But listen. I do not now quite concur in the judgment of the public. I look at my offspring with parental partiality, and am fond to believe it was hardly used. And, besides, I hug the memory of my publishing days. I revel in the recollection of that one enthusiasm. And I have it all to myself. My book is forgotten. No one knows it now but myself. Would you desire to read it, my dear sir?"
Cornelius never repeated his wish. But, some time afterwards, when he had a day of leisure, he repaired to the Reading-room of the British Museum, and took down the volume of the Catalogue containing the letter R. His conscience pricked him as he did so, and if any one had then touched his elbow, or twitched his coat, he would have blushed like poor Mercy Page at Madron Well. Glancing furtively from side to side, he turned over the leaves to the page he wanted, and drew his finger down the column of names. But there was no Riches rejoicing in the Christian name of Polydore. Mr. Peach closed the tome with a feeling of relief, saying to himself,—"So, my excellent friend's book did not even find its way into this great repository. Well, I am glad I have not trespassed upon his secret."
The self-criticism in which the chaplain indulged was, perhaps, affected by the circumstances of his own history. He had strung his argument upon a story of requited but unfortunate love, and had found the tale nearly realized in his attachment to Rose Griffith. Before he was acquainted with the passion, he thought the public were right: when he had lost the mistress of his affections, he thought they were wrong. He confounded his fiction with his fact, and wove them together into a retrospective romance, the scenery of which he was reluctant to divulge.
The incident of finding his half-forgotten volume, diverted Polydore's attention from the anxieties of the moment: and we have thought the reader might not be displeased with a similar interval of repose. We must now return to the other personages of our history.
CHAPTER X
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.