The flight was not detected. So when Mrs. Pendarrel descended in the morning to the breakfast room, she was surprised at finding no Mildred there to receive her. She did not at first take much heed to the circumstance, but herself commenced what had usually been her daughter's duty. But when she had been some time joined by her husband, and there were still no signs of the young lady, she desired a servant to send Miss Pendarrel's maid to inquire whether her mistress was not ready for breakfast. Answer came in a few minutes, that Miss Pendarrel's maid was not to be found. Esther then felt some uneasiness; would herself look after the bird; found the cage empty; an incoherent note on the dressing-table:—

"Dearest mother," Mildred briefly wrote, "I can bear it no longer. Every day sinks me deeper in deceit. You do not know—you never can tell, how I have struggled. Why did you upbraid him? Oh, mother, why did you seem to rejoice in his sorrow? I feel that I can only be his. When you know all my despair, you will forgive your child."

"Never," Esther exclaimed, grinding her teeth. She crushed the billet in her hand, and returned to her husband.

"Mr. Trevethlan Pendarrel," said she, "your daughter has eloped."

The politician felt some excitement for once, and blushed like red tape.

"What!" he exclaimed. "What did you say, Esther?"

"Your daughter has eloped, sir," she repeated; "eloped with your pretended nephew. Come, sir; there must be a pursuit."

Roused at last to a sense of the emergency, the bereaved father bestirred himself, obtained some traces of the fugitives, and, within half an hour, was flying along the north road as fast as four horses could take him.

Did any girl ever know the anguish she would inflict by a step like Mildred's? Press to the uttermost the arguments urged by Milton and Johnson in defence of the right of children to choose for themselves in marriage, they will still never be found to countervail the natural sentiments of the heart. They will never subdue conscience, or stifle remorse. And so it has been often observed, that wedlock, in which the honour due to father and mother is forgotten, is rarely happy in its result. And, on the other hand, parents, who, without the most solid grounds, coerce their children's inclinations, will probably one day pay the penalty of their hard-heartedness.

Esther communicated the event in a short and savage note to Mrs. Winston, striving to flatter herself with the idea, that in spite of Mildred's words, she might have sought an asylum in Cavendish-square. Gertrude answered the missive in person, and with great sorrow. She bitterly deplored her sister's imprudence; but Mrs. Pendarrel received her with sharp and angry speech, said what had happened was owing to her teaching, was sorry she had no daughters to serve her in the same way, and, in short, treated her with a contumely which it required all Mrs. Winston's temper to endure in respectful silence.

Esther was almost prostrated by the blow. She had never been quite herself since the burning of Pendarrel. She had, it was true, maintained a bold and haughty front, but she had lost some of her old internal confidence. She had become more hasty, and found her self-control much weakened. She perceived the change in that scene with Mildred, which, as she confessed to herself, had probably hurried the catastrophe more than anything Mrs. Winston had done or said. But when she desired Mildred not to leave the house without her cognizance, she had no idea that the young lady was prepared to disobey.

She read the note of farewell over and over. She crumpled it, and smoothed it, again and again. With all its incoherence, it was sufficiently decided. And so the very same day in which she had fulminated her final decree against the heir of Trevethlan—a decree which she hoped would crush him to the ground—that very day her daughter had thrown herself into his arms. She was check-mated just when she thought the next move would give her the game. Henry Trevethlan was already well avenged.

In the midst of her agitation, word was brought her that Michael Sinson had begged the favour of an audience. She had seen very little of her protÉgÉ since her arrival in town. She fancied he might be of some service in her present strait, and granted the permission he sought. Ignorant of Miss Pendarrel's flight, he came cringing into the presence of his patroness, with the idea that Everope was safe, and that he might claim the reward of his treachery.

"Now, sir," his mistress said as he entered, "what is your business with me?"

The young man was embarrassed. He had well considered what he was about to say, yet, when the time came to speak, his words were not ready.

"You know, ma'am," he said, hesitating and confused, "the pains I have taken in exposing the person who had unlawful possession of Trevethlan Castle."

"Well, sir!"

"You know, ma'am, that I did not scruple to bring discredit on some of my own kindred, in order that right might be done."

"You have been well paid," Mrs. Pendarrel said.

"Excuse me, ma'am," Sinson proceeded. "I have been reproached and abused by my relations, and all the country people turn away from me. It is not easy for me to show my face in Kerrier or Penwith. But right is done at last. You have the castle firm and safe. Do you remember, ma'am, what I told you of the late owner and Miss Mildred?"

Esther started, supposing the speaker was going to give her some intelligence respecting the elopement.

"In a week or a fortnight," Michael continued, "there will be no trace of the old family at Trevethlan. The steward is now preparing to quit. Mr. Randolph is wandering somewhere in poverty and want. Do you suppose, ma'am, that he has forgotten that walk on the cliff, with—with your daughter?"

Mrs. Pendarrel was surprised. She could not imagine to what end so strange an introduction was tending. She listened in silence.

"No, ma'am," said her protÉgÉ. "Love will not grow cold in ruin."

And then Sinson, in incoherent language, proceeded to contrast Randolph's circumstances with his own. It was a speech which he had often meditated, and spoken in soliloquy, yet he now felt almost unable to deliver it. A sense of the hollowness of his reasoning choked the words which should have flowed from his lips. He was too conscious of his own sophistry to be eloquent. Yet he struggled on through sentence after sentence, without observing the increasing astonishment of Mrs. Pendarrel, who wondered more and more to what he was coming. Like Fear, Michael recoiled from the sound of his own voice, when he had heard his concluding demand.

"Why, then, if this Mr. Randolph is fascinated by—your daughter—why should I be blind to the same attractions?"

By this time Esther had risen from her seat, and stood, mute with amazement. Had Michael been less excited, he could not have failed to notice the scorn and indignation in her face. But he had become absorbed in his subject, and proceeded hurriedly.

"And what obstacle is there? The world's prejudice? That I sweep aside. You can give me what station you please. Her engagement? You have good cause to break it. Why does Melcomb pursue her? To pay off the encumbrances on Tolpeden? No, no: to pay his own debts. Tolpeden will be mortgaged as now. Will she object? Not if she have any regard for Mr. Randolph. I can implicate him in the burning of Pendarrel. His life will be in danger. She will consent, in order to save him. What hinderance is there then?"

Mrs. Pendarrel approached the bell-rope, but before she could pull it, Michael boldly interposed. He had now regained his audacity.

"Hark! ma'am," he said. "Before you venture to scorn this offer, remember what you owe me. I am not to be paid with money. Well paid, did you say? No, ma'am. The triumph you have gained hangs upon my word. A breath from me will blow it to the winds. There is shame in store for you, ma'am, worse than any that has befallen Mr. Randolph. I have letters of yours, ma'am. You are in my power. I have named my terms. Beware, ma'am, of rejecting them."

"You do not seem to be aware, sir," Esther said, with cold and bitter sarcasm, "that the honour you would confer upon my family, it is not in my power to accept. My daughter fled from my house last night, and, as I believe, in company with the person to whom you allude."

"Fled!" Sinson exclaimed in a whisper. "Fled!"

Before he recovered from his astonishment, Mrs. Pendarrel had rung the bell. A servant speedily answered the summons. Michael heard an order which banished him from the house for ever, and stamped fiercely on the floor, while his patroness retired into an adjoining apartment.

"Did you hear, sir?" said the servant tapping Sinson smartly on the shoulder.

An execration rose to the young man's lips, but he repressed it, and followed the attendant. The door of the house closed behind him, and its jar seemed finally to shiver to atoms the fabric he had been constructing so long and so laboriously. He stood on the pavement of the street, once more the vile Cornish peasant. His devices had recoiled upon his own head. One step of a simple girl had disconcerted all his schemes. And he had tied his own hands. But then with a sort of savage glee he thought of the plight of the young lovers. At least he had brought ruin on the house from which he had been driven with disdain. And he retained his hold on Mrs. Pendarrel. He was not lost in loss itself. He must obtain the funds which he had affected to despise. Should he not follow up the idea which he had mentioned of charging Randolph with instigating those incendiaries? There was motive sufficient to make the accusation credible. He could at least tamper with some of those who were in custody. The hope of pardon, the promise of reward would be tempting inducements. He was not yet destitute of resources. And he had the chance of his lottery-ticket.

Such were the notions into which the tumult of Sinson's passions at length subsided. He had gone into the Green Park, and he walked rapidly to and fro, under the trees by Rosamond's Pond. Some people watched him, thinking that he meditated suicide. But his pace became gradually slower and steadier, and the flaneurs went on their way, wondering what might have caused so much agitation.

"No," Michael might have muttered between his teeth; "at least he shall not enjoy any tranquillity. Infamy shall follow poverty. He shall never be happy with her, nor she with him. Let him pay for his father's scornfulness; let her atone for her mother's disdain. Ha! What did I say? What did I betray? But no; I mentioned nothing tangible. No names. No particulars. The secret is safe. Let Mrs. Pendarrel take possession of Trevethlan Castle: she will hold it for me. Let her refuse me my demands, and I blow her title to the winds, and shame her in the sight of the world. And I am safe. There would be nothing against me but what I chose to confess. Ay, the game is not up yet. I shall not have played for nothing. Was I expelled from the castle? Am I driven from the hall? Long shall the heir of the one, and the mistress of the other, rue the contumely they cast upon Michael Sinson."

The muser started, for a hand grasped his arm, and shook him. He looked up, and encountered Everope.

"Do you hear, Sinson?" cried the spendthrift. "Five times I have said your name! What is the matter with you?"

"It's plain enough what is the matter with you," Michael answered moodily. "And why have you not left London? For what are you lingering here? Do you wish to be transported?"

"If I am, you will be also," said Everope. "I must have some money."

Slovenly and jaded, the unhappy man presented obvious signs of recent dissipation. His eyes were bloodshot, and his hand trembled.

"That you may squander it in riot," Sinson said. "Tush! you have had too much already. You think you are worth more than you are. You can only harm yourself. Go abroad, or I shall throw you into the Fleet. Let's see who'll believe your stories there."

"Villain!" exclaimed the spendthrift.

All the fierce and disappointed passions which were struggling in Michael's breast, concurred in giving strength to the blow that sent Everope staggering several paces to fall upon the turf, almost before the word had passed his lips. Sinson turned and walked away.

His bondman rose from the ground in a fury not to be described. All the few traces of the gentleman which still lingered about him, rebelled with hot resentment against the insult he had received. Such are the contradictions of our nature. Mean, profligate, and perjured, Everope yet revolted from a blow. And from whom received? From the tempter to whom he sold himself for a few paltry pieces of gold. From one whom he, even in his own degradation, despised and loathed; who had betrayed him into guilt at which his soul grew sick. And directed against the man who had come to offer him kindness. Yes; how well he remembered that repulsed visit to his chambers in the Temple! With what horror he had recognised his benefactor at the trial! The man whom his testimony had undone had attempted to rescue him from ruin. "Too late it was, too late," Everope cried with his inward voice—"it has always been too late with me. But need it still be so? Was opportunity of retrieval finally gone? Had even the eleventh hour elapsed? Could he not break his chains? It was but to speak one word. The Fleet! There, or worse then there, he must end! Why should he struggle for a few days' respite? What was the wretched timidity which disabled him from facing his position?"

Such was the reverie of him whom want of principle and a sanguine temper had reduced by degrees to the degraded state in which the reader finds him. Always hoping to retrieve the effects of past extravagance, and intending to repair the mischief of former faults, he allowed himself to be led into fresh wastefulness, and to be involved in further guilt. Was his present penitence to be more efficient? The question will soon be answered. He hurried away from the scene of his interview with Sinson, and quitted the park by Buckingham-gate.

Meantime, Michael had not gone very far before a thought seemed to strike him, and he retraced his steps to Rosamond's Pond. After all, it might be prudent not to quarrel with the spendthrift at present. But he was too late. Everope had disappeared. "It is no matter," Sinson muttered; "I can find him at any time." The next day he went down into Cornwall.

"The understanding of a man naturally sanguine"—it is Dr. Johnson who speaks—"may be easily vitiated by the luxurious indulgence of hope, however necessary to the production of everything great or excellent; as some plants are destroyed by too open exposure to that sun which gives life and beauty to the vegetable world."

In Everope is seen the extremity to which the vitiation here mentioned by the great moralist may sometimes be carried. Yet surely a sanguine temperament ought to be a blessing. A willingness to see the bright side of things should not be converted into a misfortune. But it is frequently at once compliant and obstinate, yielding readily to seduction and resisting advice. And it is too often treated in the spirit of the maxim, that wilful men must have their way. That is to say, it is considered to be always in the wrong. A common idea is, that difficulty will cure its faults. But the difficulty must not amount to ruin. The step from the sublime to the ridiculous is not more easy than that from sanguineness to despair.