Trevethlan Volume I Part 8

They were not halcyon days in England that succeeded the termination of the long struggle for liberty and existence, which, during more than twenty years, had taxed to the uttermost all the resources of the country; and which, as a whole, must always be regarded by Britons with pride and exultation. We had given peace to the world; but we were unable to preserve tranquillity at home. War is, at the best, a bad education, if sometimes a necessary one, for a young people; and a mature nation will find that its costs are not only money and men. It is a lottery on the grandest scale, both of fortune and life, inducing waste of the one, and recklessness of the other; removing, therefore, in a great measure, the vulgar motives of action, and importing a general laxity of principle. In various ways a long war produces an intestinal feverishness, aggravating any incidental disorder, and favourable to the designs of incendiaries.

The peace was followed by a general fall in wages. It was a result beyond the control of legislation; and it would probably have been unfelt, if prices also had fallen, as naturally they should have done.

But the legislature was able in part to prevent this decline, and exercised its power in favour of agricultural produce. Flaming homesteads and shattered machinery soon proclaimed the discontent of the labouring population.

Political agitators sought to turn this discontent into disaffection.

Parliamentary reform was demanded with a considerable show of violence. There was much fierce speaking; numbers of clubs started into existence; individuals disfigured themselves with strange costumes; mobs collected in great mult.i.tudes. Presently budding Lafayettes discussed the most convenient length for pikes, and would-be Buonapartes mustered their platoons by moonlight.

There was a good deal that was wicked, and not a little that was grotesque, in these proceedings. One party persisted in seeing only the white side of the shield, and declared they were merely ridiculous; another had eyes only for the black, and exaggerated their danger. Nothing is so fatal to the cause of civil liberty as the abuse of the privileges which it confers. The nation consents to wear chains, to control a rebellious member. Having the gout in its great toe, the body politic restricts its indulgences. It was so at the period of which we are treating. The real amount of danger is a question which the candour of posterity will admit could hardly be discussed with tranquillity at the time. Certain it is, that alarm was very great and very general, and under its pressure the nation resigned for a season some of its dearest birth-rights. Personal liberty was endangered by the suspension of the Habeas Corpus Act; the press was shackled; the right of meeting was limited. Arrests were made far and wide. A north-country squire, trotting quietly along upon his hack to meet the hounds, was swept off to jail, instead of sweeping after the fox, suspected of a design to raise the shepherds.

It was a mistake, and it is probable that such were not rare. The practice of receiving information from spies, and still more the air of mystery a.s.sumed by those in authority, multiplied the apprehensions which might justly be excited by any tumultuous proceedings.

Cornelius Peach was one of those who were willing to believe the alarm to be in the main unfounded, and he used good-humouredly to quiz his sister for the timidity with which she adopted every rumour of the day. The worthy clerk was clearly in some matters a follower of the philosopher of Abdera. He very much preferred laughter to tears; regarded public affairs with a lofty disdain, so long as his roast, boiled, or hashed was ready at the right time; lived in a Utopia of his own, and was more likely to die of seeing an a.s.s eating figs than of any ordinary calamity. He could not understand why an individual should fret himself concerning parliamentary corruption, tyranny of government, abuse of patronage, or any other stalking-horse of sedition. No one had attempted to bribe him; he felt indifferently free; he was a candidate for no place; he had no vote for anything, and rejoiced that he had not. His even cheerfulness was wont to make his friends declare, that their Peach was all sunny side; there were no signs of shade about him.

His lodger was of a less contented mood: the symptoms of effervescence had a.s.sumed a somewhat menacing aspect around his home. For some time much disquiet had prevailed among the miners of Somersetshire, and the same was now rapidly spreading among their Cornish brethren, from Redruth to St. Ives. Minor outrages were of no uncommon occurrence.

The dread which Miss Peach seemed to entertain of seeing a modern Jack Straw encamped on Hampstead Heath, was felt on better grounds in the far-west, and caused trepidation among the tea-sipping gossips of Kerrier and Penwith. So the orphans learnt from the letters of Polydore Riches. And they were made rather anxious by perceiving, that the good chaplain seemed in writing, to disguise the real amount of his apprehensions. Often in reading his missives, did Randolph and Helen turn their thoughts fondly towards Trevethlan, and wish they had never left the towers by the sea.

And in the brother such yearnings were quickened by an ever-increasing discontent with his position. This feeling had soon driven him from Winter's chambers, and he was now reading with Mr. Travers, an eminent special pleader. But dissatisfaction was again creeping over him. It was true he did not neglect his studies, and he had duly eaten his dinners to keep Michaelmas Term. Surely there is no fear that any of our old inst.i.tutions to which a dinner is attached will wholly die.

There is a strength in the British appet.i.te, against which utilitarianism may struggle in vain, till hunger and thirst are no more. So at the Inns of Court. The exercises, and moots, and even the revels have vanished, but the dinners remain. Attendance on the former has been commuted into fines to maintain the latter. And long may they endure, those social meetings, where many a lasting friendship is formed, and the bonds of brotherhood cemented, which in England unite an order, declared by D'Aguesseau, _aussi ancien que la magistrature, aussi n.o.ble que la vertu, aussi necessaire que la justice_.

As a novice, Randolph was partly interested and partly disconcerted on his introduction to these a.s.semblies. He felt a reverence for the old hall, standing on the site of that of the knights whose dust reposed in the neighbouring church. He looked with respect on the coats of arms of the successive treasurers, emblazoned on the oak panelling of the walls, and subscribed with many a name of high distinction. On the dais, beneath the portraits of Littleton and c.o.ke, sat some of the leading advocates of the day, partaking a more luxurious repast than that allotted to the occupants of the floor below. And on the opposite side to the young student were the juniors of the bar, men who had risen, were rising, had not begun to rise, and never would rise.

It was all curious and new. The very gown in which Randolph dined, rustled on his shoulders with a forensic feeling. The repast was apportioned to messes of four, all of which had precisely the same fare. The attendants were called _paniers_; because--an enemy has suggested--supported by donkeys. The platters were of Peter Piper's metal, and the cups were earthenware. As at the table of Prior's pococurante couple--

"Their ale was strong, their wine was port, Their meal was large, their grace was short."

Trifles all these: forgotten perhaps by the fortunate lawyer, whose clerk groans under the weight of his brief-bag; ridiculed by the disappointed man, whose early clients have long disappeared; but interesting and entertaining to the neophyte, whose ambition foresees the career of the first, whose self-reliance is too strong to fear the fate of the second.

These last were the feelings which had inspired Randolph in the solitude of Trevethlan Castle, and conjured up those airy visions which seemed so fair in the sight of himself and his sister. The very first encounter with the world had dimmed the prospect for a moment, and the brother's subsequent intercourse with it confirmed rather than diminished his disappointment. It was not that he was disheartened by perceiving how very inadequate an idea he had formed of the labour necessary to attain his object. The long rows of law-calf on Mr. Travers's shelves had no terrors for him. Nor was it that he felt as yet any decided uneasiness at living under a feigned name. He had never for an instant imagined it was wrong, and it had his father's sanction. Yet this circ.u.mstance might be a chief source of his discontent. He had not known the levelling tendency of a public school, nor the freedom of college. From those early lessons in the picture-gallery at Trevethlan, he had silently grown up in the consciousness that he should be the head of an ancient race, and perhaps, in building his castle in the air, he regarded himself as an architect in the midst of masons. He never thought of himself as Morton, humble and unknown, but as the representative of a high family, recognized and honoured.

So Mr. Griffith was right, and Polydore Riches wrong. But the worthy chaplain was in no fault. No education could have prevailed against the circ.u.mstances of the case. A youth spent in isolation and reverie, is almost certain to lead to a manhood of irresolution. The habit of thinking becomes a curse, when it is developed too early. Such precociousness is apt to result in a purely negative character. This was the misfortune of Randolph. And although he carefully pursued his studies, and concealed his disquietude from Helen, he often sighed for the peace of his home, and sometimes even thought of abandoning his scheme, and returning thither.

The same feelings made him distant and reserved in his intercourse with the men in Hall and at Mr. Travers's chambers. He had no sympathy with their buoyancy, and he disliked their familiarity. There was, however, one of the latter, with whom he grew gradually intimate, having been introduced to him by Mr. Winter. Seymour Rereworth was a man of calm but decided opinions, of quiet and diligent habits, of polished manners, and of great attainments. He possessed also the advantages which Randolph missed so much, having been educated at Eton, and having obtained high honours at college. Looking to his profession for distinction more than actual maintenance, he earnestly and steadily pursued his aim, never revolting from the weary drudgery, never disheartened by the th.o.r.n.y intricacies, through which the lawyer is doomed to plod in his way to eminence. Very particular in his choice of friends, he was interested by the mixture of enthusiasm and embarra.s.sment which he detected in Randolph, and sought his friendship. Where Rereworth sought, he won. And he was of great service to his companion, supplying his want of knowledge of the world with his own, which was of the best kind; not consisting in a familiarity with knavery and vice, but able to foil the one and repel the other; and excelling in all those qualities which are comprised in the word, tact. He had a large acquaintance in society; was himself very well connected; was always a welcome guest, and, when he chose to throw away an evening, had always an invitation available.

Him did Randolph once or twice, during the winter, persuade to come and spend an evening at Hampstead. And it must be confessed that Seymour paid his second visit at least as willingly as his first. If he liked the brother, he no less admired the sister. He mused sometimes on the circ.u.mstances of so singular, he might say so romantic, a pair. Helen's dark and gentle eyes, and soft and pleasant tones, haunted him occasionally in his studies, and kept his pen suspended in the midst of many a tedious draught. But Rereworth was not a man to fall in love in a hurry.

For Helen, she was always glad to see him. In spite of all her brother's precautions, she sometimes detected the gloom and discontent which hung upon his brow, and she saw that Rereworth's society always charmed them away. Her own life was so tranquil and uniform that she had soon ceased to regret the quiet of Trevethlan, and she roamed about the vicinity of Hampstead, seeking a spot she might liken to Merlin's Cave, and only occasionally disturbed by the letters of Polydore Riches.

CHAPTER IX.

_Romeo_.--What lady's that, which doth enrich the hand Of yonder Knight?

_Servant_.-- I know not, sir.

_Romeo_.--O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!

Her beauty hangs upon the cheek of night, Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear: Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear!

SHAKSPEARE.

So the winter pa.s.sed on. Christmas might remind the orphans of a custom which prevailed in the Cornwall of old times, and which may possibly still survive in some localities, when the family of each homestead bore a bowl of cider in jocund procession to their orchard, and, selecting the most respectable apple-tree, splashed his trunk with the bright liquor, and wished him good luck in the coming season. "Would," exclaimed Cornelius Peach, with great unction, when Helen told him the story, "would that I had been born in some strange, half-barbarous land! These great towns kill all good customs. Even what little carol-singing there is, is a mere trade."

Christmas pa.s.sed, and the new year was destined to introduce Helen to another order of singing. Thirty years ago the London season began earlier than at present. January was not over, when a note from Mrs.

Winter invited the brother and sister to accompany her to the opera. A vague excitement rose in Helen's breast, and sparkled in her eyes, as she gave the note to Randolph. She felt that she should like to go, but a certain shyness made her timid. She watched her brother's face while he glanced over the invitation, and saw with some regret that he did not partake her antic.i.p.ations. But he said that it was very kind of Mrs. Winter, and that of course they would go.

On the appointed evening the lawyer's carriage called for the orphans, and they joined him and his wife. It was a gloomy ride. The night was foggy and dark. The mist condensed on the windows, and permitted nothing to be seen but the general glare of the lamps. This sort of isolation, and the continuous rumble of the carriage, suited Randolph's mood. He was haunted by forebodings of evil. He was angry with himself for accepting the invitation. He felt an indefinite fear of the crowd with which he was about to mingle. It was not as Morton that he ought to appear in public. Yet should his selfish pride debar Helen of the offered amus.e.m.e.nt? He leant back in his corner of the carriage, abstracted and silent.

His sister on the other hand was gay and excited. She kept up a lively conversation with Mr. and Mrs. Winter, and peered through the window at what was to her an unknown world. So it was until the carriage turned a corner, and entered a broader and better-lighted thoroughfare than those it had traversed previously. Its speed abated: it even stopped--were they there? No, it moves again: papers are pressed against the gla.s.ses: another pause, and another advance: and now Mr. Winter has lowered his window, the door is opened, the steps let down, and before Helen has time to think, she finds herself leaning upon his arm, and ascending a s.p.a.cious staircase. She looks round, and sees her brother and Mrs. Winter close behind.

A few minutes more, and she stood in the front of a box, and gazed on a vast area, dimly lighted by a circle of small l.u.s.tres immediately beneath her, and an immense chandelier far above. They were very early; but few boxes were occupied, the foot-lights were not raised, and the orchestra was nearly empty. The dark green of the great curtain seemed almost black in the gloom. Helen asked Mrs. Winter if it were not very dark.

"Ah! wait a moment," said that lady.

And in fact, even as she spoke, a row of bright lamps rose in front of the curtain, and a flood of splendour from the central chandelier irradiated the whole house, displaying the occupants of the boxes, as portraits set in frames of rich crimson. A rustle of conversation murmured from the pit, but was soon lost in the confused sounds which came from the orchestra, now rapidly filling. With a wild kind of surprise Helen listened to those discordant tones, and noted how by degrees they melted into harmony with the leader's long-drawn note. At length there was silence; a gentleman with a small wand took his place at a desk in front of the musicians, talking and laughing with those near him; a little bell rang behind the curtain; and after three taps of the wand, the orchestra whirled away into the overture to an opera then new to a London audience, never to become antiquated.

The foot-lights sank, and the great green curtain rose. The stage was nearly dark. A droll-looking personage came stealthily forward, bowing in acknowledgment of the applause, or of the laughter, which greeted his appearance. Helen laughed, without knowing why. She had a book, but she was too much absorbed to consult it, and kept her eyes fixed on the stage. The droll-looking man sang a whimsical complaint, and retreated from approaching footsteps. There was a struggle between a gentleman and a lady, interrupted by an old man in a night-cap. The old man was killed. There was pa.s.sionate lamentation over his body.

There were scenes, of which Helen scarcely knew whether they were comic or serious. Then came a rural festival which raised her spirits; the gentleman she had seen at first, now courted one of the country girls; hand in hand they quitted the stage, amidst a hurricane of applause. But Helen was unconscious of the enthusiasm around her, so strongly was she impressed by the music. She had heard Ambrogetti and Fodor sing _La ci darem_.

The duet was repeated with nearly the same effect. And for the novices, for Randolph as well as Helen, this was the great stage sensation of the night. Other portions of the opera, Zerlina's touching remonstrance with her jealous lover, the prayer, the whirlwind of pa.s.sion in which the first act terminates, the semi-grotesque marvels of the second with their wonderful music, all excited more or less emotion; but none so fresh and absorbing as that induced by the immortal duet between the peasant-girl and the profligate.

And a particular circ.u.mstance distracted Randolph's attention during the second act. In the interval which followed the first, Mrs. Winter called her young friends' notice to the house, then very well filled, instructed them in its technicalities, and pointed out a few notable personages among the audience, whom she happened to know by sight.

While in this manner she was directing Randolph's eye along the tier of boxes level with her own, his regard fell upon a young lady of so remarkable an aspect, that after mechanically following Mrs. Winter's instruction, he turned hastily to look once more at his fair neighbour. Never in his life, he thought, had he seen so attractive an object. She was evidently engaged in an animated conversation with some one in the back of the box whom he could not see. Playfulness sparkled in her otherwise soft eyes, archness curved her brows, and Randolph almost imagined he could hear the silvery laugh which parted her lips. He tried to obtain a glimpse of the happy person to whom she was talking, but the attempt was vain. He could only discover that with her there was an elderly lady, whose back was turned towards him.

It was not to her that the sallies of the young one were addressed.

Randolph began to construct a romance, still gazing on the interesting box. Suddenly he caught his charmer's eye. It was but for a moment; he could not see that the expression of her face varied in the most trifling particular; yet he felt that he blushed like fire, and he perceived that the elder lady leant forward, and looked towards him.

What, thought he, lowering his eyes for an instant, and pursuing his romance, is she so quick in detecting a glance? It must be the mother.

The thought pa.s.sed, and he looked up. He encountered the supposed mother's gaze fixed full upon his face. Had he not seen those features before? Ideas raced through his mind with a dream-like rapidity. Some theorists say that the visions of a night are contained in the moment of falling asleep. Surely equally swift was the flight of that lady's thoughts; or why, after a look of a single second, did her countenance a.s.sume that expression of scorn or defiance? An expression quite apart from any which might have rebuked the intrusive stare of a stranger; which even attracted the notice of her companion, who glanced again at Randolph, and then at his sister.

From that time, Randolph's attention was almost entirely engrossed by his fascinating neighbour. He missed the statue's nod, and lost his share of the laugh at Naldi's comic terror. His sister observed the cause of his abstraction, and looked in the same direction, at a moment when the elder lady happened to turn towards her.

"Surely," Helen exclaimed, "I have seen that face before! Yet how can it be?"

Randolph knew right well, but he was silent.

"Do you know those ladies, Mrs. Winter?" Helen asked.

"No, Miss Morton. It is really a beautiful girl."

"Beautiful!" Randolph thought; "beautiful! Ay, she is more than beautiful."

And the presentiment he had felt before came gloomily back upon his heart.

But the fair stranger was not the only damsel who attracted admiration in the opera-house that night.

"Who is that, Melcomb?" asked a portly, good-humoured personage, leaning on the rail of the orchestra, and looking towards Mrs.

Winter's box. "A new face, is it not?"

"The girl with the bird of paradise in her hair?" answered Melcomb.

"Fie! Winesour. Have you forgotten Cressy?--Though, to be sure, the gentle Cressida may have a new face to-night, or any night."