"Write, dearest, to Polydore," he continued. "The news will make him sad. You will soften it better than I. Say, we will be at home immediately after the letter. For myself, I have much to do."
Helen obeyed, with many a thought of the surprise which her letter would occasion, coming so close upon that communication of the chaplain's, which the reader has just perused. And Randolph drew up a memorial to the benchers of his Inn, in which he very briefly stated the case, and petitioned for the removal of his name from their books, a matter of course. With this he proceeded to town, and delivered it at the proper office. He then called upon Rereworth. His friend had not yet heard of the scene at Mrs. Winston's.
"Rereworth," he said, "I have a tale to tell you, and an apology to make. Let it be done in the fresh air. Come with me into the gardens."
So they went down into those pleasant grounds, rife with historical recollections, and not long previously the field of exercise for that regiment of legal volunteers, which ambiguous wit designated "the devil's own." May we never see a year like eighteen hundred and eleven!
"You little thought," said Randolph, as they paced the terrace by the Thames, "that in presenting me to Mrs. Winston last night, you introduced a relation."
Rereworth turned and looked at the speaker with unfeigned surprise.
"Under the name of Winston," the latter continued, "I did not recognize a Pendarrel. I am Randolph Trevethlan. Yes, you may well show astonishment. But bear with me a moment. No mean purpose lurked under my masquerade.
"You know that the last owner of Trevethlan Castle had long lost the means of maintaining his house. I inherited a ruin and a name. To restore the one, without degrading the other, was the hope of my life. Doubtless the supposed retreat to the continent, of my sister and myself, was attributed to motives of economy. But we had a very different object in view. Reared in that lonely castle by the sea, ignorant of society, enthusiasts perhaps by nature, we taught ourselves to look forward to a renovation of our old splendour, and to my success in a profession as the means. We read of such things in our library. But there was one obstacle. My poor father—a man of much sorrow, Rereworth—had the feelings which—which men often have. With his dying breath he forbade me to risk the fame of his race in such an enterprise. It was then I mentioned the plan I had devised with my sister. The world might suppose us to be sojourning in a strange land, while in fact we stayed here, and I toiled under a feigned name in an honourable profession. With a struggle my father consented to the scheme. Our steward introduced me as Morton to Mr. Winter, and that gentleman procured me admission to the Temple. But the dream has vanished away."
So far Randolph spoke firmly and quickly. But his voice trembled, and his words came more slowly as he proceeded.
"You may know the terms—but it matters not. Mrs. Pendarrel was once acquainted with my father. I suppose she detected a likeness in me. I heard her inquire about me last night. To be Morton in her presence! It was what I could not bear. I avowed my name.—You will yourself excuse the imposition. You will excuse it for me to Mrs. Winston as best you may."