Trevethlan: A Cornish Story. Volume 2

This conversation was little adapted to restore Polydore Riches to his old equanimity. Gentle and simple-hearted, he was ill-calculated to wrestle with the stormy passions which had desolated his late patron's life, and now threatened shipwreck to the happiness of his pupil. He mourned for the day when, in pride and confidence, neglecting the worldly-wisdom of the more prudent steward, he enthusiastically bade the brother and sister go forth on their way, and foretold for them a prosperous career, and a joyful return. He almost blamed himself for not having given them more adequate preparation for the struggle of life, and attributed their failure to his own deficiency. Yet surely never did teacher better answer the desire of those ancients, lauded by the Roman poet in the lines which head this chapter. Polydore had nothing wherewith to reproach himself.

But the discourse had also revived his own particular griefs, recalling, as it did, the days when he paid his first vows of love to Rose Griffith, and won her timid consent, only to see her wither away. A pensive melancholy was visible upon his countenance when he returned with Randolph through the gloomy galleries to the apartments over the little flower-garden.

CHAPTER VI

"Guare wheag, yw guare teag."Cornish Proverb."Fair play is good play."Polwhele.

Many of the villagers of Trevethlan were desirous of celebrating the return of their young master by some kind of holiday. They remembered how in the old time there were several festivals in the course of the year, kept with high revelry on the green of the hamlet, countenanced by the presence of the lords, and graced by that of the ladies, of its ancient castle. But when ruin fell upon the late possessor, and desolation encompassed his dwelling, the sports diminished in spirit, and the peasantry sought in the neighbouring villages the merriment which no longer enlivened their own. The succession of a young heir, however, seemed to warrant an attempt to revive the much-regretted pastimes, and the idea, when once started, found a staunch supporter in the laughter-loving landlady of the "Trevethlan Arms." Indeed she undertook to roast a sheep, and broach a hogshead of cider, as the foundation of a free feast; and the liberality being met with similar offers from other quarters, the hamlet was in a position to offer tolerably profuse hospitality to all comers.

Valentine's day was fixed upon for the revel; and several evenings before it came, some of the villagers met at Dame Miniver's, to arrange the programme of the sports. And it was finally decided to revive the old game of hurling, by challenging Pendarrel to play them home and home across the country, as the principal event of the frolic. The determination, however, was not unopposed.

"Are ye sure, neighbours," said our acquaintance Germoe, the tailor, "that this challenge will be agreeable on the hill? Ye know what we spoke of only the other night. There's no love lost between the hall and the castle."

"The very cause for why to play out the quarrel," said Edward Owen. "And as to the castle, I warrant the young squire'll be none displeased to hear we've given Pendar'l a beating. I say play."

"But in such case," urged farmer Colan, "playing often turns to fighting."

"And what then?" Owen asked again, who took great interest in the meditated match, from a vague hope of encountering his rival in the hostile ranks,—"what then, I say? Have we not thrashed them before? 'Tis ill nursing a quarrel."

"Ay, ay, lad," said Mrs. Miniver aside to the last speaker, "I know where thy cap's set. She's a proud minx, and an' I were thee–. But, neighbours, how long has Trevethlan been afraid of Pendar'l?"

A true woman's question, and one which settled the matter off-hand. There was no further hesitation as to despatching the challenge. The tailor's hint concerning the castle had, however, more foundation than was supposed; for Randolph much regretted the resolution of his dependents. But he did not learn it until the invitation had been sent and accepted, and it was then impossible to retreat.

On the other side, the match received the formal sanction of Mrs. Pendarrel, who had been at the park a day or two when the proposal arrived. Remembering that her retainers far outnumbered those of Trevethlan, she rather rejoiced at the prospect of humiliating her adversary, and graciously promised to provide the silver-plated ball with which the game should be played.

The village green was "home" for the players of Trevethlan. Early in the appointed holiday it was thronged with busy, noisy groups, and presented an extremely lively aspect, strikingly at variance with its recent tranquillity, and with the sombre gravity of the castle, where there were no symptoms of participation in the frolics of the day. Reverend elders occupied the bench round the old chestnut in front of the inn, and discoursed of the matches of their youth, before the harmony of Trevethlan and Pendarrel was interrupted, and when the open doors of the castle proffered unbounded hospitality. Stalwart youths, girded for the sport, strolled about in knots, plotting devices for carrying off the ball, arranging plans for watching the enemy's home, cracking jests with the maidens who idled in the throng, in their Sunday frocks and smartest ribbands, and extorting half promises of reward in the evening for prowess displayed in the day. Dame Miniver had ample cause for satisfaction with the result of her liberality.

Mrs. Pendarrel permitted her side to make the lawn before her house their home. Refreshments of all kinds were distributed among the crowd there collected with a bounteous hand. The lady herself descended among her tenants, leaning on the arm of her daughter, speaking to old acquaintance, everywhere bestowing encouragement. Even Mildred was excited by the liveliness of the scene. It was a fine genial day, with a warm breeze blowing, which kept the trees in constant motion, and gave life to the company beneath their leafless branches.

Michael Sinson, only just arrived from London, was to lead the forces of Pendarrel. So his patroness, aware of his former reputation, desired; so his vanity, as well as his duty, prompted. He was active in the throng, assigning their stations to his mates, providing for all the chances of the struggle, but glancing ever and anon on the fair young form that glided through the rustic assembly like a being from another sphere. Little thought he that morning of the rosy-cheeked girl whom he had once pretended to love, and who now walked among the maidens of Trevethlan, with a sympathy divided between her sweetheart and her home.

The goals were not much more than two miles apart, a short distance in a match "to the country;" but this circumstance prevented the interference of horsemen, diminished the opportunities for artifice, and made the contest depend more on the personal skill and prowess of the players. In a longer game the ball might be thrown into the hands of a mounted partizan, who would trust to the speed of his horse to carry it home in triumph; or again into the keeping of a rustic, selected for his simple appearance, who would trudge tranquilly along the high road seemingly unconscious of his valuable charge, while the hurlers on both sides sought the prize with great animation; until the news of the crafty bearer's arrival at his destination told the victory of his friends, and both parties repaired to the winning quarters to laugh over the trick, and fight the battle anew, in a high jollification.

There was a meadow situated on an eminence about midway between Trevethlan and Pendarrel, between which and either goal no obstacle intervened to turn aside the play. Here it was arranged the ball should be thrown up, and hither Mrs. Pendarrel and Mildred repaired to behold the commencement of the game. The players chosen to begin stood in an irregular ring on the hill, and amongst them Sinson and Owen, the opposing generals, the latter of whom regarded the former with looks which indicated more ill-will than befitted the occasion, but which Michael observed with contemptuous indifference.

And now Mildred has tossed the new apple of discord, a wooden ball, some three inches in diameter, covered with silver, and bearing the motto which heads this chapter, as the trophy, to remain in the possession of the victors of the day, into the middle of the ring, and a dozen men are on the ground, struggling to obtain a hold of the prize. Rolling over and over, twisting, tangled like a coil of snakes, they writhe and struggle in intricate confusion. Where is the ball? Who shall discern it in so close a conflict? See, a combatant shakes himself clear of competitors, rises in the midst, springs over them, and bounds away in the direction of Pendarrel, cheered by the partizans of the hall. Not long shall the cheering endure: an opponent bars his career: him the holder of the ball thrusts aside, "butts" with his closed fist. Reprisal in like fashion is against the rules. But there is another, and another, one at a time, for so it is ordained. Nor are the holder's friends inactive: they screen him round, and strive to keep off his adversaries. And thus he makes some way, but may not even clear the field. His vigour fails at last under repeated attacks; he has no longer strength to butt; "hold," he must cry, in token of surrender, and deal the ball to be seized by fresher hands: a stouter heart, he thinks, 't were hard to find.

Again the first struggle is renewed, but the crowd is not so great, nor does it last so long. This time the ball is borne swiftly back in the direction of Trevethlan. Light of foot is the holder, but his speed shall not avail him long. At the very hedge of the field he is encountered; he may not pass the barrier; he tries another point, again to be defeated; he, too, must shout the word of submission, and recover breath for a renewed onset.

And thus, with varied fortune, the game proceeds, continually growing wider in its scene. The ball is borne in succession towards either goal, far away from the field where the game began. It seems the lady of Pendarrel reckoned without her host, for there are many volunteers in the play, and they, with proper heroism, have chosen the weaker side. She and her daughter have retired to the hall, but the country is still alive with the excitement of the game, and the woods and the sky are vocal with the cries of the rival partizans, as they mark the course of the ball with shouts of "Ware east," "Ware west."

An old writer compares the ball used in this game to an evil demon; for, says he, no sooner does a player become possessed of it than he acts as if he were possessed of a devil; flying like a madman over the country, bursting through hedges, bounding over ditches, rushing furiously against all opponents, heedless of everything but his progress towards home. When suddenly, having been obliged at last to surrender, he becomes once more tranquil and peaceable, as though the evil spirit had then left him, and entered his successor, who instantly commences a like impetuous career.

Many a possession of this kind was witnessed in the match between Pendarrel and Trevethlan. Once the former hamlet seemed almost on the point of victory. The holder had disencumbered himself of all who had been active in the field, and was dashing triumphantly homewards, when he met the reserve especially stationed to prevent a surprise. At the same moment Owen bounded up to rally his forces. The game was rescued, and renewed with increased vigour on both hands. Step by step the path of the holder, now on this side and now on that, was contested in every way permitted by the laws of the game. Passion grew hotter, and ever and anon rose cries of "foul." The leaders, who had hitherto rather directed the fray than engaged in it personally, now rushed into the thick of the fight. The partizans of Trevethlan gained ground in their turn. The chestnut on their green was already in sight. Owen himself held the ball. The road, for the fight had descended from the fields into the highway, was thronged with the combatants. The maidens of the village, approached the end of the green, and joined in the animating cries. Owen had repelled many an antagonist, when Michael Sinson met him face to face. It was what he had long wished for, and he was delighted when, as he always affirmed and as was sturdily maintained by all his partizans, his opponent butted him unfairly. The excitement of the game and personal exasperation united to give force to the blow which sent his rival staggering away. The next moment Owen stood on the grass of the hamlet, and flung the ball high into the air, while loud and reiterated shouts proclaimed the victory of Trevethlan, and were heard, perhaps not without some satisfaction, within the walls of the castle.

Whatever ill-blood might have been generated in the heat of the engagement, rapidly subsided when it was over. It had been gallantly fought, and discomfiture was only less honourable than success. Victor and vanquished met in friendly groups on the green, formed parties for the athletic sports of the country, or sought partners for the dance which would terminate the amusements of the day, while the landlady of the Trevethlan Arms was finishing her preparations for the feast, and the children were continually increasing a pile of combustibles in front of the inn, destined to blaze after nightfall in celebration of the holiday.

There was, however, one breast in which disappointed rage still rankled. Michael Sinson rose after the fall he received from Owen, to hear the acclamations hailing his conqueror, and to feel an aggravation of his animosity, not so much against his rival, as against Trevethlan, its master, and its inhabitants. He looked angrily at the jocund doings on the green, and then turned to bear the tidings of his defeat to his patroness. But he had not proceeded many steps, when a light hand was laid upon his arm, and a sharp glance round showed him the rosy cheeks and black eyes of Mercy Page.

"Why, Michael," said the maiden, "is this the welcome ye learn to give in London? Is this the way ye would leave Mercy to seek for a partner at a village revel? What if we have won the match, is it a cause for shame?"

"Pish!" Sinson said, sulkily. "Go to your Edward Owen. He is the hero of the day. Let him be your partner."

"Then it's not heroes, nor none such I care for," pursued the wilful girl. "I'm no sure I'm glad that our side's won. Come now, Michael, what's to fret for?"

Sinson cast his sinister eyes upon Mercy's face. It was very pretty, even in reproach, and besides, he thought she might be of use to him.

"May-be," said he, "I shall be back in the evening. But now I must take the news to Pendarrel."

With which ungracious saying, Mercy was forced to content herself, and return, pouting, to her mirthful companions, while Michael pursued his way to Wilderness Lodge.

His old grandmother asked him concerning the game, and on being surlily informed of its result, muttered something about a judgment on such sacrilegious doings, which her dutiful grandson did not hear, and if he had, would have laughed at. His patroness learned the news with an air of indifference, which to him appeared at variance with her previous interest in the match; and as he left her presence, he could not help saying, that Trevethlan should yet pay dearly for the morning's victory.

Meantime the feast was spread in a low, long barn at the Trevethlan Arms, and the board was crowded by adherents of both parties with right west-country appetites. Lads and lasses ate to their heart's content. Dame Miniver's sheep was declared to make very excellent mutton, and no one quarrelled with the quality of her cider. The guests from Pendarrel honoured the health of the squire of Trevethlan, and the company who were at home paid due respect to the lord and lady of the strangers. So "all went merry as a marriage bell." The relics of dinner were reserved to furnish forth a supper, and the company resumed their morning sports, exhilarating themselves with copious libations of the juice of the apple, and occasionally with a dram of whisky or Hollands, which was, probably, still indebted to his Majesty's customs.

On the whole, the frolic proceeded in perfect good-humour; but occasionally a dispute arose respecting the final contest between Owen and Sinson, which threatened for a moment or more to interrupt the general harmony. No serious quarrel had arisen, however, before daylight died away, and the shadow of night called for the lighting of the bonfire. But when the crackling logs flung a ruddy glow over the green, and the white smoke went circling away on the breeze, and the village musicians, a fiddle and clarionet, who on Sunday led the choir in church, became more energetic in their strains, then the fun began to grow fast and furious, and practical jokes continually endangered the peace of the green. As the boys and girls danced wild country measures around the blazing pile, a few of their comrades distributed at each end of a long and stout cord, would single a couple from the throng, catch them in the snare, and running adroitly round and round in opposite directions, bind the unlucky pair in a noose to which they would not have objected, perhaps, in a gentler and quieter assembly, but which here exposed them to many a shout of rustic laughter. Or, again, running rapidly along the green with the cord trailing loose between them, the same confederates would trip up the heels of all in their way—a jest not always accepted with perfect equanimity.

In the midst of these rough gambols, and when no small portion of the folks had somewhat exceeded the bounds of sobriety, Michael Sinson made his appearance on the green, himself flushed with festive doings at Pendarrel. He spoke and laughed with some of his acquaintance, and sought his neglected flame, Mercy Page. She sat on a stool at her mother's cottage-gate, having steadily refused every invitation to take an active part in the dance, relying on the half-promise she had received from Michael. As for her rejected lover, the hero of the day, he seemed to challenge her jealousy by dancing vigorously with half the girls on the green, and ostentatiously parading his partners in Mercy's sight; without, however, succeeding in his object, by awaking her indignation.

Sinson soon discovered his too faithful beauty, and led her, willing enough, for a romping dance around the bonfire. But they had tripped together for a very short time, when the rope was swept round them, and in a twinkling they were fast enveloped in its coils. Michael grew furious with rage. He recollected having once boasted to Mercy of rescuing her from a similar disaster. His wrath was far from diminished when he perceived Owen active in endeavouring to procure his release. When those efforts succeeded, he fixed a quarrel upon his rescuer, on the old ground of the foul play at the hurling-match. Mischief was meant, and mischief came. In a very few minutes the whole green was the scene of a furious conflict; the parties which had met in the morning in friendly rivalry, and broken bread together cheerfully in the afternoon, now proceeding to break one another's heads without the slightest reserve. The girls ran crying to their homes; the bonfire was trodden under foot; and so, in confusion and uproar, terminated the sports at Trevethlan.

The battle might be considered in its end as drawn. But it was said that individual cries were heard in the fray, to the effect that the heir of the castle was about to claim his own, and that they would have tidings of him at Pendarrel before many weeks had gone by. If the bonfire at Trevethlan was extinguished in tumult, some of the hamlet would dance by the light of a greater. No one seemed to know what such words meant, but some folks remembered them when the heat of the struggle was past.

CHAPTER VII

"Whether it beBestial oblivion, or some craven scrupleOf thinking too precisely on the event—A thought, which, quartered, hath but one part wisdom,And ever three parts coward—I do not knowWhy yet I live to say, This thing 's to do."Shakspeare.

Randolph had not renewed, on returning to the castle, the instructions he formerly gave to Jeffrey respecting the non-admission of strangers. But as yet there had been no visitors. The family had been so long isolated, that it was a matter of discussion among the neighbouring gentry to call or not to call; and no sheep had as yet chosen to head the flock. But the very morning of the sports described in the last chapter, word was brought that a gentleman wished to see Mr. Trevethlan. Randolph desired he might be shown into a parlour, and went to meet him.

"Have the honour to address Mr. Trevethlan, I presume," the stranger said. "My name, Stiles; in the employment of Messrs. Truby and Company, solicitors, Chancery-lane, London. Have the honour to deliver this declaration in ejectment. Will take the liberty to read the notice—'Mr. Randolph Trevethlan'"–

"It is unnecessary, sir," said Randolph, with an external calmness at which he afterwards marvelled. "I have been a student of the law, and understand the proceeding."

"Beg pardon, sir," said Mr. Stiles; "more regular to read it. Very short. 'Mr. Randolph Trevethlan'"–

And the clerk read the notice without further interruption. Randolph took the paper, rang the bell, desired the servant to provide Mr. Stiles with some refreshment, wished him good-morning, and withdrew.

He was, as he said, perfectly familiar with the nature of the law-suit which this visit commenced. And as the reader is doubtless acquainted with it through the medium of a very clever and popular story, it will be unnecessary to pursue its details here. As soon as Randolph was alone, he glanced down the document, and, with a kind of wild glee, perceived that his real opponent in the action was Philip Trevethlan Pendarrel. He rubbed his hands together, rumpling the paper between them, and almost exulting in the strife which was at hand.

"So," said he aloud, "there are two games begun to-day. One will be played out before night; the other will last sometime longer. But we'll make it as short as we can. And now to action. Our stake is a little higher than that of the villagers yonder. They play for broken heads, and we for broken hearts. Faites vos devoirs, preux chevaliers."

With these hasty words Randolph immediately sought the chaplain and steward, and begged them to come and assist at a council of war. Nor was Helen omitted, for after one moment's hesitation, her brother thought she had better know the worst at once. As soon as the little circle was completed, Randolph produced the hostile missive, requested that he might not be interrupted, and read it from end to end with a fierce gravity of accent. Helen was entirely bewildered, Polydore was rather perplexed, the steward was thunderstruck.

"What does it mean?" said Helen. "Roe, and Doe, and Mr. Pendarrel! What does it all mean?"

"It is some kind of law proceeding, is it not?" said the chaplain.

"It is the beginning of an action of ejectment," said Mr. Griffith. "That is, Mr. Pendarrel claims some portion of our estates. Methinks he has had enough already."

Randolph was silent.

"I imagined that all litigation had been closed long ago," Polydore remarked.

"Will it be a source of trouble?" Helen asked, looking anxiously at her brother.

"I cannot for the life of me understand what it means," said Griffith, who had been reflecting. "Is it possible that in all those numerous deeds, some bit of land has been included which has never been surrendered? But it cannot be—they're too sharp."

"Trouble yourself with no vain questions, Mr. Griffith," Randolph exclaimed abruptly. "This is brought for the castle, and hamlet, and all our property."

"To deprive us–," Helen began.

"Ay, Helen, to deprive us of everything," her brother continued. "Some personal trinkets, a few bits of old furniture, perhaps our wardrobes, may be spared—that is, if we can pay the expenses of the proceeding. But our home, and our lands, and our friends, from all those we are to be parted for ever."

Helen wept; more at her brother's manner than the fate announced in his words.

"Randolph," said the chaplain, with a sternness, which in him was extremely rare, "be calm. You are unkind to your sister, and unjust to us. You know that nothing but your own conduct can deprive you of your friends, and I apprehend that even the rest does not necessarily follow."