"Nay, sir, she is none of those, I'll warrant," replied the porter, very little edified; "and I give no such messages here."
"Thou art a fool, old man," said Sir Simeon of Roydon. "Will she come back hither?"
"Doubtless she will," answered the other, "for better comfort than you can give."
"Pshaw! art thou a preacher?", demanded the knight, with a sneer. "The comfort that I have to give is gold, by the King's command. So tell her to come to Burwash House, close by the Temple gate, up the lane to the left, and ask for Simeon of Roydon. If I be not within, I will leave the money with a servant; but bid her come quickly, for I must tell the King as soon as his bounty is bestowed. When will she be here?"
"That I know not," answered the old man; "the prioress bade me give her admission to the parlour whenever she came, for the ladies the sisters have taken her case much to heart. But the young woman did not say when she would return. Perhaps it would be better for you to leave the money with the lady prioress herself, who would render it to her when she sees her."
"Give advice to those who ask it, my friend," replied Roydon. "I know best what are the King's commands and my duty; so tell her what I say on the part of his Highness, and let her come as speedily as may be."
The knight then turned, and, with a haughty step, took his way back to Burwash House, the London mansion of a distant kinsman, who, in reverence of his newly acquired wealth, permitted the heir of poor Catherine Beauchamp to inhabit it during his own absence from the capital.
Sir Simeon of Roydon was now enjoying to the full that which he had long earnestly desired--the prosperity of riches, which he had never before known; for his own estate had originally been small, and had soon been encumbered, under the influence of expensive tastes and vain ostentation. Unchastened by adversity, unreclaimed by experience, he was now living as much beyond his present, as he had previously lived beyond his former, fortune; and grooms and attendants of all kinds waited him at his dwelling, chosen from the scum of a great city, which always affords a multitude of serviceable knaves, ready to aid an heir to spend his inheritance, and, by obsequious compliance with all rash or vicious desires, to secure themselves a participation in the plunder, during the term of its existence. To some of these worthies, whom he found in the court, he gave orders for the immediate admission of poor Ella Brune as soon as she appeared; and then, betaking himself to a chamber on the first floor, he occupied himself for somewhat more than an hour in thinking over future plans, no inconsiderable portion of which referred to the gratification of many of the pleasant little passions, that, like strong drink, by turns stimulate and allay the thirst of a depraved mind. Revenge--or, rather, the gratification of hate, for revenge presupposes injury--was predominant, though ambition had a goodly share also.
To become that for which he thought himself well fitted, but towards which he had never hitherto been able to take one step--a great and prominent man--was one principal object:--to take a share in the mightier deeds of life, to rule and influence others, to command, to be looked up to, to receive authority and wield it at will. Oh, how often does that desire to become a great man render one a little man!--how often is it the source of littleness in those who might otherwise be great indeed! When the greatest philosopher that modern ages has produced declared, that "to rise to dignities we must submit to indignities," how powerful, to debase the mightiest mind, did that longing to become a great man show itself! How constantly, through his whole career, do we see it producing all that made him other than great! It was, and is ever, the result of the one grand fundamental error, the misappreciation of real greatness. And thus we desire to become great in the eyes of other men, not in our own--to win the applause of worms, not merit the approbation of God.
Such pitiful elevation was the only greatness coveted by him of whom we speak; but that was not the only desire which moved him--he longed for indulgence of every kind, from which straitened circumstances had long debarred him--he thought of pleasures with the eagerness of a Tantalus, who had for years beheld them close to his lip, without the power of bringing them within his taste; and, like a famished beast, he was ready to fall upon the food of appetite wherever it could be found. But still cunning--both natural and that acquired from the ready teacher of all evil to inferior minds, poverty--was at hand to bring certain restraints, which wisdom and virtue were not there to enforce. There was a consciousness in his breast, that too great eagerness often disappoints its own desires, and that he was too eager; and, therefore, he resolved that he would be cautious too. But such resolutions usually fail somewhere; for cautiousness is a guardian who does not always watch, when she is without the companionship of rectitude.