"Welcome, my young friend," the lawyer cried, extending his hand, and looking with satisfaction on Randolph's open countenance, "welcome to town. I have been expecting you: it is a pleasure to know a friend of Griffith's. How is the worthy steward? He has had his trials, poor man! Trevethlan is not what it was—Ah me! The young squire going abroad, I understand. No use. He should marry, Mr. Morton. There's many a girl would jump at the castle, even yet.—So you are for the bar. A fashionable profession just now, Mr. Morton. Red coats are cheap. Cornets from Waterloo—midshipmen of Trafalgar—all rushing to the law. Uncommonly martial it is just now. N'importe: there's room for all. But this by-and-by.—Miss Morton came with you—Where have you left her?—Not over-fatigued, I hope?"
The attorney's volubility was meant to give his new acquaintance time to overcome his first diffidence, and effected its object. Randolph thanked him, and gave the information asked for.
"Lodgings," said Winter, "that's what you want, I suppose? There is a friend of mine on Hampstead Heath, who might perhaps suit you. An old clerk in one of the great city houses, and a sterling fellow; with an amiable old maiden sister. Would you like to try it?"
"Surely, my dear sir," Randolph answered.
"I thought so," Winter said. "Then just observe: here is the precise address. A porter of the inn will put you and Miss Morton into a coach, which will drop you at Peach's door. Tell Clotilda, Miss Peach, I mean, you are from me. If you like it, well. Let Miss Morton take possession then and there. You come back for the luggage. If it does not suit, ask Miss Peach the way to my house—I live at Hampstead—leave your sister there, and equally come back for the traps. I shall he home by six. So, you understand. And now excuse me. There is no time to lose. There never is. Good morning."
Randolph left the gloomy chambers with much the same feelings, that a patient experiences, when after long suffering on a sick bed, he is at last bid "throw physic to the dogs," and begone to the sea. He seemed to be already at work, and enjoyed the exhilarating effect. With light feet and as light a heart, he hurried back to the Bull and Mouth. Helen had finished her letter, and gave it him to read: she looked over his shoulder while he wrote a postscript, saying in hyperbolical terms, how delighted he was with Mr. Winter. A porter guided the young pair to a Hampstead coach, in which they were the third part of a half dozen, and in no long time the vehicle rumbled over the stones towards Camden Town.
A squalid part of the metropolis it was they traversed, but it was forgotten when the conveyance stopped, and the announcement "Mr. Peach's, if you please, sir," summoned Randolph and Helen to alight. Clotilda was at the parlour window, and came to meet her visitors. Mr. Winter had prepared the way for them, and Randolph had only to mention his name to gain a welcome.
"Walk in, my dear sir," said the spinster, "walk in, my dear young lady. I wish Cornelius was at home. Mr. Winter spoke of Cornelius, I suppose. The lodgings? yes, it is all the first floor. Two bed-rooms and sitting-room. Cornelius says——"
No matter what. Miss Peach had preceded her guests upstairs. Helen walked to the drawing-room window, and uttered an exclamation of surprise. Buried in that old six inside convenience, she had not observed that it had been ascending a considerable hill. The front of Mr. Peach's cottage looked on a sandy lane. But the drawing-room was at the back, and well might Helen be startled, for the window she stood at commanded a view of the rich landscape lying between the heath and Harrow. Five minutes afterwards the bargain was struck, and in five minutes more Randolph was on his way back into the city in quest of the boxes and bags, leaving Helen to become acquainted with their future hostess.
A quaint but genial pair of humourists were Cornelius and Clotilda Peach. Mr. Shandy would perhaps have attributed some of their oddity to the chance which gave them their names. A row of folio volumes in the parlour might afford some key to the brother's tastes, and would intimate that he was fond of old poems, old plays, and old divinity. Here and there a bit of paper peeping from the leaves, and written upon, betrayed some scribbling propensity on the part of the owner. Manly and kindly were all his favourite authors, and if the latter quality predominated in himself, it was only perhaps because the former had never been called into activity. Everyone who knew him loved Cornelius Peach.