The conversation diverged to family affairs, and gloomy enough seemed the fortunes of the house of Trevethlan. At length Randolph took his leave, having informed the lawyer of his immediate departure for Cornwall.
The activity and vigour with which he fulfilled his resolution diverted his thoughts from the flame which burned hotly within him and indeed inspired his energy. But, in fact, although he did not know it, he was nearly desperate. He might have felt his own impatience while Winter was speaking to him. And as he walked alone through the fields, on his way back to Hampstead, the consciousness of his passion revived.
"She is mine," he almost muttered aloud—"mine by every right. Family ties, family feuds, parent's commands, social conventionalities, they are cobwebs under my hand. She has robbed me of my life; she must give me herself in exchange. I would die for her; she must live for me. I go to my home to feel myself a Trevethlan. I shall breathe the air of my native halls; I shall catch the inspiration of my race; I shall come forth to trample on form and rule, and to bear off my bride in defiance of the world. Look to your house, Esther Pendarrel. The bars are unbroken, the locks are unforced. Where is your child? In the castle by the sea. Weep, proud woman—weep and rend your hair for her who shall never return! Was it not enough to destroy the father, but the son also must be crushed? But I am made of sterner stuff. The heel will be bruised that tramples me. I will not play the game of my foe. Look to your house. Did the watchman slumber? Who shall watch love? The wind of midnight bore her the message, and she fled. The bird sang on the house-top, and she heard the song. The stars of heaven, ay, that star we looked upon last night, summoned her away. Fasten your windows, muster your guards, note her downsitting and her uprising. What! is her place empty? Search highest and lowest. Gone? Yes, she is mine! she is mine!"
There was a softening influence in the conviction, wildly as it was expressed. Randolph's exaltation subsided as he became intimately persuaded that his passion must have a happy issue, in spite of the difficulties which seemed to threaten its course, and he was calm and collected when he arrived at his dwelling and joined his sister. But he was anxious for action, motion—anything but repose—and it was agreed that they should depart the very next day.
Rereworth came to them, according to his engagement, some time before sun-set, and, as it was a fine genial evening, they strolled to the fields above West End, and looked on the pleasant landscape, so agreeably described by the author of the 'Sketch Book,' "with its soft bosom of green pasturage lying open to the south, and dotted with cattle; the steeple of Hampstead rising among rich groves on the brow of the hill; and the learned height of Harrow in the distance." Even at this dull season, though the trees were leafless and the hedges bare, the prospect was not without its beauties; and Rereworth discoursed of them to Helen in a manner which, to him at least, was particularly interesting.
For some time they had the conversation—rather serious it was—to themselves; Randolph taking no part. But when it diverged to the opera, and from thence to the preternatural drama, and from thence to what Madame de Staël termed the côté nocturne de la nature, he suddenly exclaimed:
"There is a strange fascination in these things. Presentiments seem to be so often fulfilled."
"Because," Rereworth said, "they are generally felt where the result is probable. What was more likely than that Henri Quatre should die by the dagger of an assassin? These pretended second-sights, of all kinds, must, in fact, be revelations. And to admit their truth, is to depreciate the value of Revelation. I explain the whole thing with four lines from Wordsworth:
'What strange and wayward thoughts will slide
Into a lover's head!
Ah, mercy! to myself I cried,
If Lucy should be dead!'"
"And suppose Lucy's wraith flitted by at the moment," said Helen, smiling.