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 me
One 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.
That evening Polydore smoked a pipe with Mr. Peach in a more contented mood than he had enjoyed for some time. He hoped that the sun of Trevethlan was at last emerging from the clouds. The old clerk edified Clotilda, who sat with them rather later than usual, by divers narratives of remarkable elopements, but agreed with the chaplain that marriage in the regular way was a much better thing. And when Miss Peach had retired, the old bachelors fell into their usual humour, and sighed forth the praises of their Rose and Mabel.
"Better, methinks it is," said Polydore in conclusion, "to imagine my beloved Rose smiling upon me from the sky, than to have won her at the expense of another's peace of mind. Better to remember the patience and resignation with which she learnt to watch the stealthy approach of the destroyer, than to reflect upon the rashness which precipitated an unhallowed union. Better to cherish the love which death could not divide, and to look forward to its everlasting reward, than to rush to present enjoyment, and expiate it in future remorse."
The bridegroom invited Rereworth to attend the wedding, as his friend, and Seymour having of course agreed to do so, found an agreeable mode of employing the brief interval by renewing his visits in Cavendish-square. Many a time he went there with the full intention of appearing in his true character as a lover, should an opportunity offer, and as often he departed without having revealed his secret. The question which every man should ask once in his life, rose to his lips continually, and still remained unuttered. For Mrs. Winston saw plainly enough what was the state of affairs, and frequently contrived to leave Rereworth alone with the mistress of his heart. Why did he not avail himself of such an occasion? Was it from timidity, or doubt, or irresolution? No cause had he for fear, no reason for doubt, no wavering to disturb. But in the simple consciousness of being beloved, there was joy so calm and deep, it seemed a pity to ruffle it by any less tranquil emotion. Lie at hot noon under the trees which shade one of the "resting-places" of a great southern river, and you may gaze upon the level water until you cease to wish for the breeze which would cool your brow, because it would also ripple that placid expanse. And Rereworth, although confident of a favourable answer to his petition, yet delayed preferring it, because he was loth to flutter his present peaceful happiness, even by a declaration which would end in enhancing it. So the fond secret was still untold.
That smooth and unvarying affection offered a much fairer prospect of future felicity than the impetuous passion which had united Randolph and Mildred. Even now they felt they were far from serenity. The bridegroom could not overcome the constraint he experienced in the society of his father-in-law; he shrank with instinctive dislike from the Philip Pendarrel whom his own father had denounced in such bitter words; and the feeling was quickened by the cold and calculating prudence of the political manœuvrer. Randolph eagerly cut short all discussions about settlements, and other formalities, and escaped as soon as he could from a companionship which was full of disagreeable associations.
And Mildred was disquieted by the continuing change in her mother, who seemed to lose all care of the present in musing over the past. Yet this was a natural effect of the recent events, and it might reasonably be hoped that no great time would restore Mrs. Pendarrel to tranquillity and resignation.
But during the preparations for the new marriage, we must cast a rapid glance upon the hamlet of Trevethlan.
CHAPTER XVI
There be bright faces in the busy hall,
Bowls on the board, and banners on the wall;
Far checkering o'er the pictured window, plays
The unwonted faggot's hospitable blaze;
And gay retainers gather round the hearth,
With tongues all gladness, and with eyes all mirth.
Byron.
The news of the restoration of Randolph to his ancestral towers had already diffused joy through the homes of his tenantry; and the fulfilment of Dame Miniver's prediction respecting his marriage completed the exultation. There was not a heart in the village that was not made lighter by the account of the alliance between Pendarrel and Trevethlan. The castle was busy with the labours of upholsterers and all their tribe, actively employed under the superintendence of the steward and his wife, in renovating some of its ancient splendour; and the Trevethlan Arms rejoiced in their patronage at the close of the day. Old Jeffrey was half frantic with excitement and delight, practising the manœuvre of hoisting and striking a new flag often and often, until it was suggested to him that, by so doing, he deprived the ensign of its significance.
Great preparations were also being made for the reception of the bride and bridegroom. A triumphal arch at the entrance of the green, and another over the gate of the base-court, were ready to be decked with flowers and streamers, when the happy occasion should arrive; for the merry month of May was come, and nature was robing the land in its gayest attire. Mistress Miniver's good-humoured face beamed with delight from sunrise to sunset, and the joyousness of her looks was reflected in the countenances of her neighbours.
Yet this happiness was not unalloyed. There were still not a few absentees from the family hearth, lamenting their turbulence in captivity. Even with respect to them, however, anxiety was mitigated, for it was now understood that Mrs. Pendarrel was inclined to intercede in their behalf. And she had already contributed to the enlargement of Edward Owen. For, inquiring one day, in her languid manner, concerning the mode in which the missing Wyley had been discovered, Randolph mentioned Owen as instrumental in the matter, and she remembered how a man of that name had rescued herself and family from outrage on the night of the fire. And on her representations the young rustic was admitted to bail, with an intimation that his being called up for trial would depend upon his future conduct.
But if he had conceived any hope of finding favour in another quarter, he was disappointed. Mercy Page was as coy as before. Perhaps the very unpopularity of Michael Sinson had contributed to support his cause in the maiden's heart; and certainly the taunts with which she was sometimes assailed were not calculated to change her mind. She had almost sequestered herself from the neighbouring villagers, and either sat at home in her mother's cottage, or walked out late in the evening by herself. On such occasions she was jealously watched, and well it proved for her in the end that it was so.
But Edward was not one of the spies upon her steps. He began to feel chilled by her enduring coldness, and listened more complacently than of old to the words of those who said he might better himself, and particularly to any hints of the kind which fell from the mirthful landlady of the Trevethlan Arms. Farmer Colan once told her, she might not object to change her name; and now a rumour to the same effect became very current in the gossip of the hamlet.
And another topic furnished food to the village scandal-mongers. It was said Michael Sinson had returned to his old country. And it was true. He had left London, writhing under a manifold disappointment, baffled in all his evil desires and devices. Moreover, he suspected that Mr. Truby was strongly inclined to bring him to justice. But unlike his wretched victim, Everope, he was unacquainted with shame, and unstung by remorse. He regretted and resented his want of success; but he rather admired than deplored the subtile villany of his schemes. Sulky and angry, he fled from the metropolis to the dwelling of his grandmother, Wilderness Lodge. Mrs. Pendarrel had not displaced the old gate-keeper. There Michael brooded in silence and retirement for several days, during which his ill-temper was continually fretted, and his evil passions stimulated by the querulousness of the aged fanatic. Shrewd enough was old Maud to see that her favourite had by no means achieved the success which she had foretold for him. He was far away from qualification for that angelic choir, which his mere name appeared to her to entitle him to enter.
The news of his arrival reached the ears of his old flame, probably in some sarcastic shape; and Mercy threw herself in his way. But he thrust her rudely aside, and with so dark a scowl upon his brow that she thought involuntarily of Dame Gudhan's predictions, and shuddered at the recollection. The account of the meeting was soon circulated round the green of Trevethlan, and gave new force to the ill looks which were cast upon the luckless maiden. But it did not lull the activity, half hopeful and half fearful, with which her steps were dogged.
Meanwhile old Maud harped perpetually on her grandson's failure, and on the attempt to disturb her Margaret's marriage. She was for ever lamenting the injustice done to Michael, and calumniating the house of Trevethlan for its treatment of her favourite daughter. Neither topic was agreeable to Sinson; and at length, irritated at home beyond control, he showed himself among the rural habitations. But he went only to meet with fresh mortification. Every one seemed to know his history. People turned their backs upon the traitor. Children mocked and flouted him. Scorn surrounded him on all sides, and in every shape. Daring to present himself at the Trevethlan Arms, he was ejected with violence and derision, and was hooted and pelted from the village green. And among the foremost of his assailants he recognised his ancient rival. There was nothing for it but to endure the petulance of his fanatical grandmother.
Woe for the "ministering angel!" One hand in Trevethlan had no share in the insults showered that day upon the traitor. One heart in the village refused to believe in the infamy of him it had loved. One voice was heard in sorrow amidst the general execration. One pair of eyes were clouded with tears, where all others flashed with anger. Mercy Page wept for Michael Sinson.
At dusk, the same evening, the village maiden left her mother's cottage, and bent her steps along the quiet lanes to Wilderness Lodge. Now, she thought, was the time to show her devotion, and, if Michael really had gone astray, to call him back to the right path. Now, when all men spoke ill of him, was the time for her to sustain him against their evil report. Hearing of him as prosperous and rising, she had been, comparatively, indifferent. Seeing him abased and insulted, all her early tenderness revived.
She rattled the latch of the gate, and Sinson came out of the lodge. He was astonished at perceiving the visitor, who looked at him with her face half bent down. He returned her glance with a sullen stare, and rudely bade her "begone."
"Michael," she said, "will you not hear me, Michael? Not hear Mercy?"
The soft voice turned the current of the young man's thoughts.
"Know you not what they say of me?" he asked. "Saw you not how I was hunted from among them?"
"I know it all, Michael; but I believe it not. I saw it, and it made me weep."
"Speak not to her," shrieked old Maud, who had come forth to see what her grandson was doing; "speak not to the accursed thing from Trevethlan. Better fortune is in store for my boy. Bid the Armageddon depart."
"And will you walk with me, Mercy, as of old?" the young man asked, without heeding Maud's interruption.
The maiden answered by placing her hand in Michael's arm, and so, side by side, they quitted Wilderness Gate.
Old Maud tottered after them into the road, and gazed in the direction they had taken. She shook the thin locks that hung about her temples, and wrung her hands, and looked up into the sky. The first stars were beginning to twinkle in the gray transparency of twilight.
"Woe's me!" muttered the old crone. "Woe's me! She is leading him to his doom."
And her wild look quite scared a little girl who waited on her, when she returned into the lodge.
We do not care to follow minutely the young couple's evening walk. There is little pleasure in watching the companionship of villany and innocence, even where the latter is triumphant. Fortunately for Mercy, she was well observed that evening. There was a narrow and secluded dell about a mile from Wilderness Lodge, made obscure in the day-time by over-shadowing trees; doubly gloomy, therefore, in the twilight. The brook from Pendarrel Park murmured along it, and a footpath, devious and unfrequented, followed the wanderings of the streamlet. To that sequestered spot, which might seem almost designed for the rambles of lovers, did Sinson guide the steps of her who trusted him with such unsuspecting fidelity. There in her own simple and homely manner she sought to persuade him to be at peace with the world, and to make atonement for any wrong he might have done. But she spoke to an angry and unrepenting nature, and the only answer to her remonstrances made her acquainted with the worthlessness of him in whom she had confided so long.
It was a rude and bitter lesson. "Better he were dead!" has been the exclamation of many a heart deceived like hers. Mercy could no longer hope that the imputations of the villagers were the offspring of rustic jealousy. She hardly knew what happened in the first pain of her discovery. She turned to leave him, for she could do no more. He had followed her, but the watchers interposed. They closed upon the spot in an instant. The maiden was rescued, and the betrayer fled. He glared savagely for one moment upon those who came to save, counted their number, and took to precipitate flight. And the rustics, who had followed the ill-matched maiden with, at least, as much spite as pity, now showed more of the better feeling, and brought her safe, though trembling, home to her mother's cottage.
A warm pursuit was then commenced in the track of her assailant. Summary justice the country-folk thought they would inflict upon the culprit, although he might escape the more regular doom of the law. Many an old ground of exasperation gave vigour to the chase. Many a motive of fear lent wings to its object. He fled over the moors, from carn to carn, and from cave to cave. They drove him at last to the precipices of the Lizard. He retained his strength and activity, and turned them to good account in baffling his pursuers among those beetling cliffs. But, after numerous disappointments, they at length hunted him to bay. They hemmed him in on a ledge from which the rock descended sheer into the sea. Certain that he could not escape, they were, perhaps, negligent in observing his movements. But no one could tell what had become of him, when it was suddenly found that he had disappeared. They looked eagerly into the waves which were dashing against the cliff below; but there they could see no sign. The steepness and height of the rock above utterly precluded the possibility of his having scaled it. Yet there was an unwillingness to believe that he had simply been drowned, and the folks told strange stories of his having been picked up by some boat, and got away to sea. All that was certain was, that he was never heard of again.
The night on which he was lost, his grandmother sat beside the hearth in Wilderness Lodge, swaying herself to and fro in her rocking-chair, and moaning to herself in an under tone. The little girl who attended her was seated opposite on a low stool, and watched her with a feeling of awe, frightened, yet unable to withdraw her eyes from those of her employer, which were fixed and unusually bright.
"Where's my boy?" old Maud might have been heard to mutter. "Where's my own Michael? What is it they tell me of shame? What is it they say he told of my winsome Margaret? Did I hear that the marriage was broken? Na, na, Randolph Trevethlan, thou canst not so sever the ties. Has she not come to claim her own? Let them cross her path that dare. Smiling, did he say? A sweet smiling face? That was my Margaret indeed, but she never smiled at Trevethlan. And would they tell me she went there to shame? Did my Michael speak against her? Na; 't was they that brought her to death; they that will not let her rest in her grave. And why has she woke from her sleep? What comes she back to seek? Why will she not come to me? I was afar when she died. Was it of my own choice? Were we not driven away? Me, and my Michael, and all? Was there one of her kindred left with her? But they are fallen. The dark hour of Trevethlan came. And will they still make us their sport? Where's my own Michael? She came for him the night: the white-faced thing from Trevethlan. What cries did I hear in the sky? What tale did they whisper in my ear?"
Her voice, which had risen occasionally while she spoke, now sank into an inarticulate murmur, and her head dropped, and the rocking of her chair nearly ceased. The little girl looked at her with increasing wonder and dread. Suddenly Maud raised her head, and after seeming to listen for a moment, cried, "Michael," in one wild and dissonant shriek.
"What voice was that on the wind?" she continued, rising abruptly from the chair. "Who hailed that name?—Michael," she called again, in the same unearthly tone—"didst hear? 'T was his own. Didst hear how it wailed on the wind?—Michael—The waters are sounding in my ears. Didst hear the name, girl?—Drowning.—Ay, it was he—it was he."
Her voice had declined to a hoarse whisper, and her limbs relaxed, and she sank, rather then fell, to the ground. The little girl ran terrified from the lodge to seek for help. When the neighbours whom she summoned returned thither, they found the old woman huddled together in a heap upon the floor. They raised her up, but life had departed: she had rejoined her daughter, Margaret Trevethlan.