It was a notable fact at this time that Seymour Rereworth, the recluse law-student, whom Mrs. Winston used to rally for his devotion to so crabbed a mistress, became a frequent haunter of the house in Cavendish Square. His acquaintance with the Trevethlans, and his relationship to Gertrude, opened the door, closed to all besides, of that little boudoir where she and Helen used to sit together, when they were unengaged; precisely the same room from which Randolph pointed out to Mildred the star which he fancifully chose as the arbiter of his destiny. There Rereworth, forsaking the tangled intricacies of AstrÆa, learned to disentangle skeins of silk; there, instead of threading the mazes of some perplexing quibble, he could, on occasion, thread a needle; there, instead of reading of the wars of the alphabet, A against B, and C against D, he would read aloud the newest poem of Byron, or the latest novel of Scott; and Seymour was a good reader, and did not object to hear himself read, particularly when Helen Trevethlan listened. And the expression one can throw into such poetry and such prose is very convenient. So Rereworth was now the Corsair, with—

Then Selim, with—

And again he played the romantic with Flora Mac Ivor, or sang serenades with Henry Bertram. It is, we say, a convenient way of making love, which was something very like Seymour's present occupation, when—

Pleasant it is to contrast the even and tranquil affection which was thus ripening between Rereworth and Miss Trevethlan, with the turbulent and rebellious passion which linked together Mildred and Randolph. Helen had soon learned to like her brother's friend in his winter visits to Mr. Peach's cottage: her heart thanked him for the zeal which he now displayed in investigating the fraud practised at the recent trial; and she listened to these readings in a mood prepared readily to acquiesce in the emotions they were calculated to excite. Although it must be confessed that the wild passions of Lord Byron's heroes had more in common with the angry humour of Randolph than with her own gentle disposition. Perhaps her pleasure was derived from the voice of the reader rather than the poetry which he read.

But Rereworth did not allow his attentions to the sister to prevail over his exertions on behalf of the brother. And Randolph, being now more independent, seconded his friend's efforts with his own. But it was a vague and unsatisfactory pursuit. With no little difficulty they opened a correspondence with the family of Everope, but they were disappointed in its result; for nothing precise could be recollected respecting the spendthrift's movements in that eventful autumn. His connections were by no means anxious to revive their knowledge of his habits. And in London he seemed to have entirely abandoned all his former haunts. His chambers remained permanently closed; no one had seen him for a long time. Restless and impatient, Randolph roamed through the metropolis, scrutinizing the wayfarers, until his eyes became weary of the endless succession of unknown faces. Occasionally he visited places of questionable resort, having learned that such were much frequented by the object of his chase. Thus, once or twice, he went to the Argyll Rooms, and walked, care-worn and sad, among the giddy throng, where most especially, even in laughter, the heart was sorrowful, and the end of mirth was heaviness. And there one night he was mocked with a glimpse of the man he sought. He was watching, partly with interest, and partly with aversion, the proceedings at the hazard-table, when he noticed a player sitting opposite him, the quivering of whose fingers, as his forehead rested on them, showed how keen was his anxiety in the game. While Randolph was observing him, a showy woman laid her hand upon the gambler's shoulder, and made him look up with a start. At the same moment his eye met Randolph's; he saw he was recognised, rose and vanished; and though his pursuer hurried after him, his inexperience and want of acquaintance with the ways of the place enabled Everope to elude his search.

Meantime, at Trevethlan, Griffith was quietly following another trail. He took the proceedings at the inquest on the supposed Ashton as the basis of his hopes, and was eagerly inquiring among the country people what was remembered of the occurrences on the night of his suspected murder; for it might be presumed that they could not now feel any reluctance to tell all they knew, as the lapse of time would be sufficient to save them from harm. And, accordingly, the steward had little difficulty in ascertaining the particulars of the smuggling adventure of the night in question, and found that it was generally supposed the murderer had escaped in the lugger which came in with the illicit cargo. But there his researches were brought to an end. What had become of that lugger? In what seas she had sailed since, over what parts of the globe her crew were dispersed, were questions more easily asked than answered, with respect to a vessel of her character.

The hamlet was plunged in mourning. Already the note of preparation had been sounded for the formal taking possession of the castle by its new proprietor, and no rescue seemed probable. The old prediction was to be fulfilled at the expense of Trevethlan. The evil omen of the late squire's marriage was to be borne out by the event. And not a few families in the village were still bewailing the absence of some member now imprisoned on a charge of being concerned in the outrage at Pendarrel. The utmost rigour of the law was threatened against the guilty, and the offence was capital. The dark hour which old Maud Basset said was at hand for the house of Trevethlan had indeed arrived, and gloom hung around the towers on the cliff, and over the green of the hamlet.

The wrath of the villagers ran high against all who had in any way abetted the law-suit, and in particular against Michael Sinson. Upon his head many an imprecation was breathed, and against him many a threat was muttered. And the odium reflected upon his sweetheart. The people abused her for her rejection of Edward Owen. They said it was due to her that he was now lying in jail. They pointed at her, and flouted her. And poor Mercy often thought of the dismal denunciations of Dame Gudhan, and shuddered at the idea they might prove true.

Old Maud also shared in the unpopularity of her grandson. Over and over again the folks dinned into her ears that Margaret's marriage was broken, and that it was all her Michael's doing. That was the reason, they said, that the castle and lands passed away from Squire Randolph. It was her own favourite that had brought shame on the daughter of whom she was so proud. But Maud refused to understand. She sat, hour after hour, swaying herself to and fro in her rocking-chair, exulting in the ruin of the family which had wronged her Margaret, and, in a low voice, murmuring the hymns she had learned in childhood.

It would seem the fortunes of that family could hardly sink lower, but such was not the case. Griffith received a letter from Winter, informing him that Mr. Pendarrel's lawyer had intimated he was instructed to demand a rigid account of all the personal property left by his late master, and that, although he had replied the demand would be resisted, still the steward had better prepare for the worst. As yet no light appeared to brighten the condition in which they were left by the verdict in the ejectment. Griffith lifted up his hands in tribulation, and looked back through those five-and-thirty years.

This announcement was the result of Mrs. Pendarrel's interview with Mr. Truby. She insisted on the lawyer pressing all the legal consequences of the verdict to the utmost, and without delay. She even inquired whether the so-called Mr. Trevethlan might not be arrested. But Truby coldly answered, that though perhaps he might, yet he could not be detained, and that such a procedure would be at variance with the common courtesy. Common courtesy! Mrs. Pendarrel might think, what courtesy is there between me and him? She did not, however, venture to urge her proposition further.

But we are anticipating a little. Randolph remained unaware of this new device to drive him to utter ruin. One evening, after a day spent in the fruitless wanderings which occupied so much of his time, he was sitting with Polydore Riches, silent and languid, thinking moodily of abandoning all hope, and at once proceeding to some distant land in quest of enterprise—South America seemed to offer a field—when the post brought him a letter. He saw it was from Helen, and opened it slowly and without much curiosity. But it contained an enclosure, addressed to himself, in a lady's writing with which he was unacquainted. That he unfolded with more despatch, and read:—

"Randolph—I am yours. I must see you. Meet me to-morrow afternoon, at three, near the keeper's lodge, in Kensington-gardens.—Your——

"M. P."

The blood rushed into the reader's pallid cheeks. The very encounter which he had at times dreaded, while threading his way through the crowded streets, was here pressed upon him in a manner which he could not elude. Would he wish, then, to avoid it? Perhaps not. But in the first confusion of his feelings, joy had only a small share. Again all his plans were frustrated. He seemed to be a mere plaything in the hands of destiny.

It wanted yet some time of the appointed hour when the lover sought the rendezvous. Backwards and forwards, with uneven steps, he paced the grass between the cottage and the Serpentine-river. The thought of avenging the desolation around him again presented itself to his fancy: again he resisted it, and vowed that no such selfish impulse should sully his affection for Mildred. But the idea recalled the death-bed injunctions of his father, and reminded him that he had been on the point of entirely submitting to his adversary's triumph. He began to think that the task which had been imposed upon him was beyond his strength. His dreamy and lonely youth had ill prepared him for the storms of riper years. He was infirm of purpose and irresolute of heart.

The approach of a female form fluttered his pulse, and in a moment he was at Mildred's side. The greeting was incoherent and abrupt.

"Randolph," the lady said, "I have sought you, because I have no other succour left. Do you know, have they told you, that my bridal is at hand?"

Her lover started, and remembered, as in a flash of lightning, what he had heard from old Jeffrey.

"It was false," he said. "Dearest, I knew it was false."

"Ay," she continued. "But it has become very like truth. Do you know that everybody believes it? that everybody looks upon Mildred Pendarrel.... Oh, my mother, my mother, why have you driven me to this?"

She spoke with passionate sorrowfulness of accent. Well might Randolph say there was no happiness in love like theirs.

"Yes, the day is fixed. I am a prisoner till it comes. I am here only by stealth. I do not know what will become of me. I can bear it no longer."

The words followed one another in rapid succession. Mildred was trying to forget herself in the quickness of her utterance.

"The day will never dawn," Randolph exclaimed. "Are we not vowed to each other? Are we not pledged for ever? Let us fly, dearest. Let us be united before the world, as we are in our hearts. But, no, no," he suddenly ejaculated, with a burst of anguish. "Do you know who I am? An outcast, without house or name. Dishonoured and infamous. What can I offer you? How can you share my lot? It must not be, dearest Mildred, it can never be."

"I know it all," she answered. "It was my mother that pressed it on me. What then? Was it not the very reason that determined me? Oh, Randolph, do not think so lightly of me, as to suppose such things would turn me from my vow. Do not think I would recall what is my only hope, my last-remaining joy. I have nothing left but you. Do not fancy I regret what is gone."

Brief, but earnest and decided, was the conversation that ensued. Passion carried all before it. Mildred thought that, with the help of her faithful Rhoda, she could escape the same evening. Randolph would arrange everything for their flight. The north road would conduct them, if not to happiness, at least to security. A few rapid sentences settled all preliminary details; and the lovers parted, to meet again before many hours were over.

There was now no time for reflection. Randolph had not a minute to spare. There were letters to write for Helen and for Mr. Riches, short as possible, giving, after all, no information. There were funds to provide, little requisites to collect. When Randolph stood by his carriage under the trees of Grosvenor-square, he seemed scarcely to have rested a moment from the time he left Kensington-gardens.

Late in the evening it was. Mildred had retired for the night. Rhoda showed her young mistress, in a slight disguise, to Mrs. Pendarrel's door, as a visitor, and speedily slipped out, unseen, herself. They reached the carriage in safety. The elopement was complete. Scandal laughed in the wind that swept through the trees, as the fugitives were whirled from the square.