Byron.
It is a misfortune for the historian that he is unable to present events as they really happened, simultaneously, but must be content to relate them one after another, thereby unavoidably impressing his reader with a false idea of the lapse of time. The same morning that Rereworth made his expedition to Lambeth, Mrs. Pendarrel paid a visit to her daughter in Cavendish Square. Restless, but languid; dejected, but unforgiving, she came to vent her querulousness on Mrs. Winston, in complaint and reproach. She wished also to learn, without showing the desire, what news had reached town respecting the fugitives. She could not close her heart entirely against the memory of her child. She liked to hear her mentioned, even when she answered the intelligence with anger and contempt. And so she came to Gertrude almost daily, to listen and to abuse.
She now entered the house, as usual, without ceremony, and proceeded to the room where she commonly found Mrs. Winston; but on this occasion Gertrude was not there. Her mother looked listlessly at two or three of the books upon the table, and wandered into the adjoining apartment, absent in mind, but disappointed at not seeing her she sought. Here she lingered a few minutes more, and then passed on into the smaller room, where, as she well recollected, she had encountered Randolph Trevethlan. A young lady, sitting with her back to the door, turned as it opened, and Mrs. Pendarrel immediately recognized Randolph's companion at the opera, his sister. Helen also remembered the original of her miniature, and rose from her chair as Esther advanced.
"What!" the last-named lady exclaimed, fixing her keen eyes upon Helen. "Have I been mocked? Have I been the sport of a paltry conspiracy? Has my daughter been nursing the thief, and condoling with me upon the robbery? Fawning upon me with hypocritical lamentations, and sheltering those who wronged me? For I see it all. It was here the plot was hatched; here the correspondence was managed; here the flight was arranged. Did not Gertrude always boast that she would thwart my schemes? Yet I hardly thought she would go so far as this."
"Madam," Helen ejaculated in great confusion, "madam, you do Mrs. Winston wrong. She knew nothing of my brother's design. Neither did I. But let your blame only fall on me, for I was the unconscious means of its execution."
"Do you dare to answer me, Miss Trevethlan?" Esther asked angrily. "And what do you here? What does one of your name in the house of one of mine? Name! What is your name? You have none. What business has one like you to be here?"
"I am an intruder, madam," Helen answered, the tears rising in her soft eyes—"I have felt it, and know it. But I came here before this unhappy matter. The invitation was very kind. We were very poor. I would relieve my brother."
"Poor! did you say, Miss Trevethlan?" exclaimed Esther. "Yes; and you will be still poorer before many days are gone! Unhappy? No, no; you did not think so. The beggar does not call it unhappy when he inveigles away a rich heiress. But it is a mistake. She has nothing. You will be no richer for the stolen marriage; neither you nor your brother, Miss Trevethlan."
"Oh, madam," said Helen in much distress, "I wish you could read in my heart. You would spare me these reproaches. You do not know how I deplore what has occurred. The loss of our home, the poverty and sorrow you speak of, everything I would have endured, rather than my brother had done this. We want nothing of you, madam, nothing but forgiveness; and you may spare sarcasms which are undeserved."