CHAPTER XV.
Desdichada fué la hora,
Desdichado fué aquel dia
En que naci y heredé
La tau grande senoria;
Pues lo habia de perder
Todo junto y en un dia.
Roman. Espan.
Late in the night, or early in the morning that followed the trial at Bodmin, any watcher at Trevethlan would be startled by the gallop of horses and the rattle of wheels, as the chaise which bore Randolph to his lost home dashed round the green of the hamlet. The bell rung loud at the castle-gate, and old Jeffrey roused himself from his slumbers, and having looked to the state of his blunderbus, descended leisurely to learn who sought admission at that untimely hour. His master's voice impatiently ordered him to open the gate; and, with a wonder that impeded his duty, he obeyed. Delay again occurred before Randolph obtained entrance to the great hall; and when he did, the white face upon which fell the glare of the trembling handmaiden's lamp, might remind her of those sheeted spectres which were said to glide at that hour through the desolate corridors. He bade her leave him a light, and she fled, scared, back to the couch from which she had unwillingly risen.
Randolph strode with irregular steps up and down the vaulted hall. Perhaps, had Griffith been there, the worthy steward would have remembered the day when his late master paced it in the like manner, after his furious ride from Pendarrel. He might recollect the same fierce passion in his eye—the same dark scowl upon his forehead, as those which now burnt and loured in the face of his son. Nor were it very easy to say which had sustained the greatest provocation: the father, led on and enchained in a deep attachment, only to feel himself the sport of a wayward girl's vanity; or the son, who found the same girl, now a woman, triumphing in that father's dishonour, and exulting over the ruin of his house. And that was not all, for the disgrace descended: the good name, which had been handed down from generation to generation, almost from beyond the memory of man, with him, Randolph—what?—was changed into an inheritance of shame. And he too loved. He loved the child of his destroyer. He had sometimes rejoiced in the idea of wreaking the vengeance bequeathed to him, by stealing her from her mother. For she also loved him, and had vowed to be his. And now;—what was to happen now? Ruin, privation, poverty, he might have invited her to share, while honour was unstained. But could he ask her to join the fortunes of one who had not even a name to offer her? The reputed offspring of fraud and sin? Never, while there remained a shadow in which calumny might wrap itself—never, while there was a suspicion upon which envy might pretend to believe the tale related that day—could he accept the fulfilment of his beloved one's promise.
And what hope was there? Had he not swept the dark horizon again and again in search of the faintest ray of light, and failed to discover any? And if his vision, sharpened by despair, could discover none, whose could? Had he not listened to every syllable of the foul tale, with the ears of one who sought a flaw in his death-warrant? And had he been able to discover any? Then if he were deaf, who could hear?
And this was the story with which he must greet his sister in the morning. For delay, dalliance with chance was out of the question. As he had told Polydore Riches, not another night should the castle find him beneath its roof. Speedy possession! It had been refused, but they might take it. He would not remain where his very name seemed to mock him.
Therefore he and Helen were in fact houseless. Well, they would again seek their old quarters near the metropolis. They still possessed a few months' maintenance. Afterwards, let what would happen, it would not much matter.