Trevethlan: A Cornish Story. Volume 3

"Hurrah for Trevethlan!" shouted Colan, in a conclave held at Dame Miniver's that night, "and a health to our squire and our bonny young mistress!"

Loud acclamations and deep draughts gave a welcome to the toast.

"'Tis a strange thing," said the general merchant, "that this matter should have been so long quiet. The times that I've walked by that rift in the cliff yonder, and never seen anything."

"Why?" asked the hostess; "and what would ye expect to see, neighbour Breage? Every winter as passed only packed the sand higher and higher."

"But there might have been a sign, dame, there might have been a sign."

"It shows there was no murder done, at any rate," observed another of the company.

"Still," persisted Breage, "I wonder there was no dream came to point to the place; and especially seeing how hard it has gone with the squire."

"It's like to go hard enough with this Denis or Wyley," Colan remarked. "The fire of Pendar'l was black enough against him, and this story won't tell any way for him."

"But it will for our Edward Owen," said Germoe. "It will turn to his good, and I am glad of it."

"Ay," exclaimed Dame Miniver, "and besides that, I hear talk how he fought for the lady of Pendar'l that night, and beat off some that would harm her."

"We shall have him among us again afore long," said farmer Colan. "And Gabriel will be like to confess all the rights of it before he dies."

"Well," said the pertinacious Breage, "if he confesses to murder, I shall never believe in any sign or token again."

The suspicion here indicated that the smuggler had told only half the truth, prevailed very generally in the hamlet, and many of the villagers thought that he had wilfully thrown the clergyman over the cliff. But we are willing to ascribe the popular feeling to the common love of the worst in criminal matters, and to believe that Wyley was sincere. He was probably prepared for robbery, but not for murder. The revelry at the Trevethlan Arms was protracted till a late hour.

CHAPTER XIV

Decline all this, and see what now thou art.For one being sued to, one that humbly sues;For queen, a very caitiff crowned with care;For one that scorned at me, now scorned of me;For one being feared of all, now fearing one;For one commanding all, obeyed of none.Thus hath the course of justice wheeled about,And left thee but a very prey to time;Having no more but thought of what thou wert,To torture thee the more, being what thou art.Shakspeare.

Meanwhile scandal and gossip were still busy with the stolen marriage and its consequences. Mysterious paragraphs had appeared in some of the public prints. If newspapers at that time had been illustrated, there might have been portraits of the bride and bridegroom, or at least of Rhoda, and of the travelling carriage. But the kindred of Asmodeus, who in these days haunt town and country with the implements of Daguerre, and embellish our journals with their woodcuts, had not yet acquired those pictorial aids, and were obliged to content themselves with old-fashioned letterpress. What their descendants may arrive at, especially in alliance with the disciples of Mesmer, to whom distance is no object, and brick and mortar no impediment, it is hard to anticipate. The electric telegraph is likely to be regarded as a slow concern; everybody will know his neighbour's thoughts; the old fable of transparent bosoms will be realized; and the gift of speech will cease to be of any use.

This consummation seems, however, at present rather remote. If we were of a misanthropic turn, and familiar with any good-humoured demon, lame or otherwise, we should trouble him to take us to and fro between the home and haunts of some well-seeming family, and the gloomy chambers where Astræa holds her revels. We should be present one day at the dinner or the ball, and the next day we should go among crumbling papers and musty parchments. We should follow the unconscious prey to the levee or drawing-room, and then we should repair to the dark den, where the spoiler was quietly and assiduously preparing the pit-fall. Often when we look up to the lofty buildings inhabited especially by the servants of Themis, we are led to think of the devices which may there be silently undermining the stability of some well-to-do house, now standing fair and seemly in the eyes of the world. Far away back, in some ancient record, the lynx-eyed practitioner has lighted upon the trail: step by step he advances, fortifying himself at every pause, until the prize is full in view, and the filing of a bill or the service of a writ informs the unsuspecting victim that his all is at stake; destroying in one moment the whole security of his life, and entangling him in a maze of litigation, to endure possibly for years, and too probably to leave him, even if successful, an impoverished and broken-hearted man. In these days of iron and steam, there is nothing romantic but the law.

And we are not thinking of the mere lovers of chicane, who occasionally disgrace the profession, but of what may happen in the career of the most honourable of its votaries. It was thus that the downfall of Trevethlan was prepared in one office, and that its restoration was now being achieved in another. Little had Randolph dreamed of the plot that was devising against him, and in which the lawyers were but unwitting agents: little did Esther imagine the counter-stroke which was now impending, and to which double weight was to be given by the conduct of her late protégé.

Michael Sinson, baffled in his new attempt against Randolph, had returned sulkily to London. Among the first intelligence which met his eyes in the daily journals was the suicide of his miserable slave. He gnashed his teeth as he read it, and perceived that Rereworth had been in communication with the deceased. Had Everope been a double traitor? Sinson could not free himself from the idea. The ground seemed to be shaking under his feet. After hours of irritating uncertainty, he sought an interview with Mr. Truby, in hope of discovering whether anything had transpired. But he met a very cold reception, and obtained no solution of his anxiety. The lawyer, however, demanded his address, and he, after giving it, went immediately and moved to other quarters.

He mused of coming forward himself as an informant to the other side, but if they were already in possession of the truth, to do so would be merely to place himself in their power. Then he made a futile attempt to gain admission to his former patroness; but being turned from the door with contumely, he thought of his supposed power over her, and fancied that it might yield him both security and profit. With this idea he made his way to Mr. Pendarrel at his office. Here he acquired the knowledge which he had vainly sought from Mr. Truby.

"Do you know, sir," Mr. Pendarrel asked him, "that it is rumoured the evidence at the trial is upset? That they have found relics of the clergyman who really performed that marriage, and that steps are already taken to reverse the judgment?"

Sinson, although he almost expected something of the kind, was staggered by the announcement.

"Now, if this be so," continued Mr. Pendarrel, "it will be strange if you, sir, were not a party to the fraud that will have been perpetrated. Do you mark me?"

He spoke in the cold and deliberate manner which characterized his demeanour whenever he was independent of his wife. Sinson recovered from his first surprise, and assumed an attitude of confidence.

"Whatever I have done," he said, "I have done by the orders of Mrs. Pendarrel. I am now come to receive my recompense."

"You have been well paid, sir," answered Mr. Pendarrel; "there is nothing due to you."

"Perhaps not, for what is past," Sinson said; "but there is for what is to come. You tell me there are rumours of fraud: and I say that Mrs. Pendarrel has authorized whatever has been done. I have her letters. They may be valuable."

"You are a cool scoundrel," said Mr. Pendarrel, "upon my word. But you do not gull me with so simple a device. What hinders me, sirrah, but that I should instantly give you into custody?"

"Nothing, perhaps," was the answer, "but the disagreeable consequences. If you would only be so good as consult my lady, it might change your mind."

"Pooh, sir!" said Esther's husband, "you have overshot your mark. Go now about your business, and don't dare to come here again, or you know the result."

He rang his bell, and ordered the disconcerted intruder to be shown out. Sinson went into the neighbouring park and read over the documents on which he had so fondly relied. And, regarded in the light thrown upon them by Mr. Pendarrel's contempt, they presented him with no consolation in his fall. On the other hand, he had again unwittingly advanced the interests of his detested rival.

Mr. Truby, it may have been observed, frequently in matters of business communicated directly with the wife of his nominal client. When Mr. Pendarrel went from home that day, he found Esther in a state of even unusual depression. She had received a letter from the lawyer, acquainting her there were strong grounds for believing that the main facts on which they had relied at the trial were fabricated for the occasion, and that, as his own character might be implicated by any concealment, he was resolved to probe the matter to the bottom.

"Oh, Gertrude!" said Esther to her constant attendant, "what will become of me? Among them, they are breaking my heart."

She was in this dejected condition when her husband came home. Everything concurred to make him exceedingly desirous to bring about at least a formal reconciliation with the fugitive couple. He read Mr. Truby's letter, and told his wife of the visit he had received that morning.

"And, my dear," said he, "this person would make us accomplices in whatever fraud has been perpetrated."

"Us, Mr. Pendarrel!" Esther ejaculated. "You are jesting, sir, and in a very sorry manner."

But she recollected Michael's threats, and could not help trembling.

"Not I, madam," her husband protested, adopting for a moment her own formal mode of address, "not I, upon my life. Sinson declares that he has letters authorizing all he did, which he pretty plainly admitted to have been more than was honest. And these letters he threatened to use, unless I would purchase them."

"You did not!" Mrs. Pendarrel exclaimed.

"Of course I did not, my dear," was the reply. "I turned his absurd threats upon himself. But it is unpleasant to have these things said. And you see Truby's letter bears out the rumours."

"Ah, me!" Esther sighed, almost wringing her hands, "to what am I fallen?"

"My dear," her husband ventured to urge, "it is time this unhappy matter were settled. After the wrong which will have been done to Mr. Trevethlan"—he started when the name had passed his lips—"after that, I say, we must overlook what has occurred since."

"Do what you will," muttered his wife, "my part in the affair is over. But are you sure they will accept forgiveness? Has he asked for it?"

"Oh yes, dear mother," said Gertrude. "Let me intercede. My poor sister has no peace till she has thrown herself at your feet, and Randolph has none while she is unhappy."

"Well, well," Esther murmured, "I have no more to say. Bring them here, if you will, Gertrude. And since it must be so, the sooner the better."

"And really, my dear Esther," said the husband, "the match is not so disadvantageous after all. You see it will unite the properties, and if Trevethlan is now but a small estate, it is at least unencumbered, which is more than we could say of Tolpeden; and I remember that Mildred was telling me once—"

"Never mind now, papa," said Mrs. Winston, who saw that every word he uttered was a dagger in her mother's heart. "Let me go and prepare my sister to come home."

Indeed, Esther's humiliation required no aggravating circumstances. She was deeply wounded in the tenderest parts of her character. Pride, ambition, and love of rule had all been mortified and abused. And now she succumbed. She resigned any further struggle, and yielded to her victorious foe. Her spirit and mind were alike brought down. After the above conversation she retired to her own room, and drew her miniature from her bosom, and looked long and stedfastly on the tranquil lineaments. Again she reviewed her whole life, and again she fell upon the ever-recurring question—Did he then love me? And she scarcely knew whether an answer in the affirmative would give her most of joy or of regret.

The man who had so long ministered to her will, was in his humbler sphere as completely overthrown. But his feelings were bitter and fierce, and no trace of compunction or repentance was to be found among them. On reconsidering his threats, he clearly saw their futility. When he partly disclosed his story to a scandal-mongering individual with a view to extortion, he was only laughed at for his pains. And he very clearly perceived, that for himself there was nothing in prospect but the penalty of perjury. On every hand he felt that he had been thwarted and defeated. The man whom he knew that he hated had wedded the lady whom Michael fancied he loved, and he foresaw the reconciliation that would make them happy. While he himself, instead of being on the high road to fortune, was an outcast from society, disgraced and infamous.

Yet did one matter detain him in London. One hope remained to save him from absolute despair. By one chance he might even yet retrieve himself, and aspire to a certain position in the world. Wealth, he fancied, would cover a multitude of sins. Cunning had failed him, luck might stand his friend. Day by day he sought the ancient hall, where the wheel of fortune, no longer a mere symbol, dispensed blanks and prizes to a host of care-worn worshippers. And of all that feverish crowd, no votary watched the numbers as they turned up, with more desperate eyes than the peasant of Cornwall. Reckless alike of the jests of the indifferent, of the boisterous glee of the fortunate, and of the execrations of the ruined, he awaited his turn with intense excitement. The great prizes were still in the wheel. He might have realised a very handsome profit on his ticket. But he would scarcely have parted with it for anything short of the highest amount in the list. Little he cared when the revolving cylinder threw out a paltry thousand; no such trifle was an object to him. But he ground his teeth when a number which was not his, appeared in connection with a prize of twenty thousand pounds, and when the very next turn of the wheel declared his ticket—blank—he crushed his hat over his eyes, and slunk out of the hall. He slunk away from town: it was his final leave-taking of the metropolis.

CHAPTER XV

Oh, days of youth and joy, long clouded,Why thus for ever haunt my view?When in the grave your light lay shrouded,Why did not memory die there too?Vainly doth hope her strain now sing me,Whispering of joys that yet remain—No, never more can this life bring meOne joy that equals youth's sweet pain.Moore.

All this time Mildred Trevethlan remained in strict retirement. The only visits which interrupted her solitude were those she occasionally received from Mrs. Winston and from Helen. Gertrude brought intelligence of Mrs. Pendarrel, which was unhappily not of a kind to comfort the repenting fugitive, and her calls were rendered of brief duration by her anxiety to return to the invalid. She could not pretend to assign any other cause than Mildred's flight to their mother's dejection, and her sister trembled to think of the effects of her disobedience. In the many hours when she was necessarily alone, or attended only by Rhoda, she was haunted by fears of the most alarming kind, and whenever Randolph came home after an absence as short as he could make it, he always fancied that his wife's sadness had increased since he left her.

Yet her despondency was lightened for a time when Helen came to see her. For she, gentle and hopeful, dwelt always on the theme to which Gertrude dared not allude. She always promised, or rather predicted, that a reconciliation could not be distant. She bid Mildred to fix her eyes upon that prospect, and to overlook the trouble immediately around her. And upon her brother she urged the duty of obeying the chaplain's injunctions, in their full spirit, and without delay. But Randolph listened to such remonstrances with impatience, and still postponed the day when he would make any advances.

"Let us, at least, be fully restored to our rights," he would say. "Let my father's honour be re-established; let me have a name to bestow upon my bride; and then, when we have exposed the wretched plot by which we were overthrown, we may have the satisfaction of forgiving those who wronged us, and may, if they choose, in turn, accept their forgiveness."

Helen grieved, but could prevail no farther. And, fortunately, the period marked by her brother was fast approaching. Mr. Winter had been already in communication with the friends of Ashton, the clergyman. By good hap, they were able to identify the ring which was found among the buried clothes. This confirmation of the smuggler's story lent it the credit which his character could not give. Everope's confession, attested by Rereworth, had, at least, overthrown the credibility of his previous testimony. And thus the whole case on which the plaintiff in the action had rested his title broke down, and the obscurity which hung around the late Mr. Trevethlan's marriage was finally dissipated.

We need not trouble our readers with the technical proceedings which would terminate in a formal and public reversal of the verdict at Bodmin. Randolph had enjoyed the pleasure of communicating to his wife the approaching result, and, in more kindly temper, was revolving the mode by which they might be reconciled to her friends, when Gertrude came with the message of peace. It was much more than the husband had conceived possible, or than the wife had dared to hope. It left no room for further perverseness. Randolph saw the flush of joy with which Mildred received the offer, and accepted it with eagerness. Mrs. Winston proposed to take them at once to May Fair; and they went without delay.

Without pausing, she conducted them into the presence of Mrs. Pendarrel. And Randolph had taken the mother's offered hand, and Mildred had been pressed to her heart, before either of them well knew what they were about.

Some little awkwardness supervened. Mrs. Winston, with her usual tact, led her sister from the room. Randolph was alone with his father's Esther.

"Mr. Trevethlan," the lady said, after a short silence, and with a faint sigh upon the name, "we have much to forgive each other."

"I have forgiven," Randolph answered. "Let the past be forgotten."

"You have forgiven!" Esther exclaimed mournfully. "Do you know in what you have been wronged?"

"All that is personal to myself has passed from my mind," he replied.

"Ay," said Mrs. Pendarrel, "but there is much that is not personal to yourself. Where is your sister? You are happy in the possession of such a one. Do you know that even to her I have been unkind and unjust?"

"Oh, madam," Randolph said, "do not recall these things. Helen has differed widely from me. Would that I had been guided by her advice!"

"Yet you were right, and she was wrong," observed Esther, who seemed to feel a relief in unburdening her mind. "That letter was intended to try you, and you interpreted it correctly. Helen was more charitable than I deserved."

"Madam," said Randolph, moved by compassion for the humiliation before him, "there had probably been great provocation."

"I do not know," was the meditative answer. "I have tried to persuade myself there was. For if there were not, how shall I ever be justified? Did she tell you, Randolph—did your sister tell you—that I robbed her? See. Do you know this miniature?"

And she showed him the picture of herself. The sight of it reminded her hearer of those dying imprecations which had been so fatal to all his happiness. A dark cloud overspread his brow.

"Ay," said Esther, perceiving the change in his countenance. "You remember, now, that it is not only your peace which I have broken. There is another's for which I have to answer."

"Oh," Randolph exclaimed, "heavy was the task laid upon me, and bitterly indeed have I judged!"

"Listen," Mrs. Pendarrel continued, speaking in tremulous accents. "You know this portrait, but you know not its history. You know not how it once hung from the neck of a wayward and wilful girl. It had often been begged and prayed for, by one who loved her faithfully, fondly—ay, as she believes now—till death. It was taken, or given, in a moment of overpowering tenderness. The vows were plighted, and each had promised to live only for the other. And then she—she, forsooth, idol and votary, worshipped and worshipping—must snap the link, in her petulance and pride, break the heart which adored her, and seek to console her own misery by trampling upon her victim. Oh, Randolph Trevethlan, your father has been deeply avenged. I never forgot that early dream. But I strove to persuade myself that I was forgotten, and excused my own arrogance with the thought. And now this image, which he wore upon his heart—it tells me that he loved me to the last."

"And he died," Randolph said, restraining his emotion, "with words of love upon his lips. 'I mentioned'—it was spoken with his latest breath—'I mentioned Esther Pendarrel. She was once very dear to me'—he then referred to his disappointment—'but I have often thought I was not indifferent to her. If so, she has my pardon.' Oh, madam, I repeat, indeed, something like the words, but it were vain for me to express the feeling with which they were uttered. Alas, I recked not of the promise they contained. I only looked on the dark side of the picture. I chose to make it impossible to ascertain the truth. Entrusted with what was really a message of peace, I have perpetrated animosity. It is I, it is I, who should implore pardon."

Silence followed this speech. Esther fell into a reverie on the past. It was of a more tranquil character than those which of late had caused so much anxiety to her friends. At length it was broken by the return of her daughters. She called Mildred to her side.

"You have deprived me of the power," she said, with a mournful expression strangely at variance with the words, "little rebel, to perform a mother's part. Yet I fain would do it."

She placed Mildred's hand in that of Randolph.

"Take her," she said, "Randolph Trevethlan, and may you know a happiness which has never been mine."

Mildred threw herself into her mother's arms.

"My children," Esther continued, "you will make your home here, till.... And where is Helen?"

Mrs. Winston said, that Helen would perhaps pay her another visit. And in a short time Mrs. Pendarrel quitted the room. She left more of anxiety than of comfort behind her.

"Oh, Gertrude," Mildred exclaimed, "how fearfully she is changed!"

The alteration was indeed too evident to escape notice.

"Do not fear now," Mrs. Winston said; "it has been a trying time, but it is over now. All will be well, Mildred dear."

It was kindly said, and well it would be if the anticipation were fulfilled. But the agitation through which Esther had gone was too likely to leave its traces for many days to come.

In no long time, Randolph set forth on his way to Hampstead, to make his sister and the chaplain partakers of the reconciliation. On his way, he pondered over the train of events in which he had been involved, and admitted the wisdom of Polydore's judgment regarding death-bed injunctions and promises. He could not avoid reverting also to the fatal misunderstanding which, five-and-thirty years before, had laid the seed of so much bitter fruit. Was the harvest entirely gathered even now? It was a question which rose involuntarily in his mind. And the announcement which he made at Hampstead afforded his hearers a pleasure more unalloyed, it is probable, than any he felt himself. He reminded Mr. Riches of his promise to bestow the nuptial blessing, at the ceremony which would be performed in a few days, and there is no need to say that the chaplain undertook the duty with great delight. And to Helen he delivered an invitation to officiate as bridesmaid, and, in the interval, to occupy her old place at Mrs. Winston's. She accompanied him back to town.