I see thy glory, like a shooting star,
Fall to the base earth from the firmament.
Thy sun sets weeping in the lowly west,
Witnessing storms to come, war, and unrest;
Thy friends are fled to wait upon thy foes,
And crossly to thy good all fortune goes.
Randolph Trevethlan never stirred from his seat during the suspension of the proceedings. When they were resumed, his counsel argued at some length, that even if the tale which they had heard were true, the marriage so contracted would be valid, and that therefore the plaintiff had failed in making out his case. The other side were stopped in their reply by the judge, who said, that while the court would listen with patience to any argument intended to save an innocent woman from the effect of a fraudulent marriage, that could not be considered the point in question here; the imputed object being to interfere with the rights of the heir presumptive by securing a family; and that, therefore, without expressing any opinion upon what might be considered an undecided point, he should not stop the case. So Rereworth's leader proceeded to address the jury for the defence.
He began by a skilful and minute analysis of Everope's narrative, in which he exhibited its incredibility in a strong light, and heightened it by a continual reference to the worthlessness of the witness's character as exposed by himself. He pointed out his connection with Michael Sinson, a person in the employment of the claimant's family, and a nephew of the late Mrs. Trevethlan. From him, therefore, Everope could have obtained all the particulars which he pretended to know of his own experience. He would be called before the court, and the jury would judge whether the tale had not been concocted between the two. Sinson had motives of his own for hostility to the family of Trevethlan, which would be heard from his own lips. He did not impute to the claimant any cognizance of the fraud, by which he maintained the claim had been attempted to be established. Departing from this point, he said he should show, by indisputable evidence, that the late Mr. Trevethlan never contemplated the baseness which had been attributed to him, could not possibly have suspected any flaw in his marriage, and always treated Margaret as his lawful wife, and his children as lawfully born; for, first, he strongly desired that his own chaplain would perform the ceremony, as they would hear from that gentleman himself; secondly, if, as suggested by the plaintiff, his object had been to make sure of barring the present claim, he would have caused the marriage to be repeated before the birth of his first child; and thirdly, if he had had any suspicion that his children would not inherit by descent, he would have assuredly provided for them by will. But although his estates belonged to him in fee, he had bequeathed them nothing, dying, as it might be said, intestate; he had always treated Margaret as his wife, and had never expressed the slightest doubt of the perfect formality of his marriage. By his own conduct he had thus defeated the very design which was imputed to him, and his own alleged proceedings would have brought about that result which he was said to have sought to avoid, the succession, namely, of the present claimant. In the face of so much incoherency, was it possible, for one moment, to entertain so incredible a tale as that which had been heard from a witness of so very disreputable a character? If such testimony could prevail, no household would be safe.
Now, he should produce the licence under which the marriage took place; he should—despite the incident which Everope had stated as occurring, and which he had probably learned from Michael Sinson—call before them Maud Basset, the mother of Margaret, the only known surviving witness of the ceremony, and she would tell them—they had heard her exclamation in court—that it was a good marriage; he should also call several members of the household of Trevethlan Castle, who would swear they always regarded it as such; and he should show that the children had been christened as the lawful offspring of Henry and Margaret Trevethlan; and again he repeated, that if the unsupported and monstrous testimony of a single individual of bad reputation were permitted to countervail so strong a chain of presumption no union could be secure, and any of his hearers would be liable to have his children disinherited and their names stigmatized by any villain who would forswear himself for hire.
Let the jury consider the story they had heard. That a gentleman of high character and station, under circumstances entirely different from those in Goldsmith's famous story, wishing to form a marriage which he might either affirm or repudiate subsequently, should dare to apply to a stranger, a clergyman of the church, to assist him in so nefarious a design,—that this clergyman, far from expressing any indignation, should merely suggest a little difficulty,—that, by a coincidence sufficiently remarkable, this Everope, discarded by his family, living by his wits, should at that very time encounter his old college acquaintance,—that to him Ashton should immediately relate the business, and invite his co-operation,—that this precocious villain should at once accept the mission,—that Mr. Trevethlan should receive him without question or surprise,—that he should perform the impious mockery he had described,—that, needy and profligate, he should keep so valuable a secret for so long a time,—that at length, by another singular coincidence, he should fall in with a dependent of the family to whom it was so important; should tell the story apparently as an excellent joke; should for the first time become aware of its worth, and should sell himself to give the evidence they had heard to-day—Yes: indignation had diverted him from the picture he was drawing to the real motive under which the witness acted.
But let the jurors turn from this view of the subject to the one he should now present to them. Let them see Mr. Trevethlan, when, for reasons entirely beside the question at issue, he had decided on marrying a person of inferior station, applying to his chaplain, as a matter of course, to perform the ceremony. Let them see him, on that gentleman's declining, preferring the same desire to this Mr. Ashton, then resident in the neighbourhood. Let them suppose the ceremony to have been really and duly performed by him, as it appears recorded in the register of baptisms. Let them recollect the disappearance of Ashton, and of Wyley, the witness. Let them see how two children were borne by Mrs. Trevethlan, and duly christened by the chaplain of the castle. Let them then turn to the conduct of her relations. Let them imagine the hopes raised, the desires excited by their great connection. Let them note one of these relatives permitted to hang about the castle as a sort of companion to the young heir. Let them suppose certain presumption to grow up, and to be suddenly checked by the expulsion of all the race. Let them conceive the consequent exasperation, and heighten it by an unfounded suspicion that the exalted peasant-woman was ill-used. Let them consider such feelings as still rankling when Michael Sinson enters the service of the claimant in this action. Let them think of him as actuated both by hope of reward and desire of revenge, devising this subtile scheme, and seeking only an agent to accomplish it. Let them find him meeting the ruined scoundrel, whom they had heard that day, and he thought they would have little difficulty in unravelling the dark plot, which was now, for the first time, publicly developed against the well-being, the happiness, and the good fame of an old and distinguished and honourable family.
At the close of this address, Michael Sinson was called into the witness-box, and examined by Rereworth.
"You are a relation, I believe, of the late Mrs. Trevethlan?"
"A nephew of the late Margaret Basset."
The witness was then led on, by further questions, to describe the hopes excited in his family by the marriage now in dispute; the manner in which he was allowed to hang about Trevethlan Castle; the offence which his demeanour gave to its owner, and the expulsion of his relations from their farm. Fencing with his examiner, he at first affected to treat this circumstance with indifference, but was forced by degrees into a confession of his bitter and rankling mortification.
"And so, sir," Rereworth suddenly asked, "all your family considered this marriage to be perfectly good?"
"It was for their interest," Sinson said, stammering.
"For their interest, sir!" Seymour exclaimed indignantly. "Why, sir, was not Mrs. Trevethlan's good name at stake?"
"My poor relative has been dead for a long time," the witness answered.
"And it is her nephew who comes forward to shame her in her grave! You are now in the service of Mr. Pendarrel, the real claimant in this action?"
"Of Mrs. Pendarrel."
The answer produced a slight titter in the court.
"What does Mrs. Pendarrel pay you for getting up her case?"
Sinson hesitated for some time, and made no answer.
"Do you hear, sir?" Rereworth continued. "What is to be your hire for slandering your mother's sister?"
The plaintiff's counsel interposed, and protested against his learned friend's so discrediting his own witness.
"I consider," the witness said, having recovered himself, "that my unfortunate relative was deceived in the business. It was no fault of hers."
Rereworth now turned to Michael's connection with Everope. Asked how the acquaintance began; how long it had lasted; how the spendthrift came to communicate the story which he told in court; what Sinson knew of his habits and associates; whether he provided him with a maintenance? Then he reverted to the journey into Cornwall, of which Everope had given so frank an explanation; and concluded by again questioning the witness respecting any expectation of reward which he entertained or had held forth as the consequence of success in this action.
"Do you expect any reward at all, sir?" Michael was asked, in cross-examination. "Have any promises been made to you?"
"No," he answered, "I have been only doing my duty, and expect nothing."
"And have you, in fact, held out any expectations to the witness Everope?"
"None whatever."
"Well, sir, is it not matter of notoriety that there was great doubt about this pretended marriage?"
"Certainly. It has been thrown in my teeth a hundred times."
Little profit had this witness brought to the defendant. Maud Basset, who had been detained out of court since her interruption of the proceedings, was now summoned into the box.
"You are the mother of the late Mrs. Trevethlan, madam?"
"Sure and I am. Of my own Margaret. But I dinna understand it at all."
"You recollect your daughter's marriage, Mrs. Basset?"
"And a proud day was that for me," the old woman replied, "when the squire asked for her to be his wife. But my Margaret was fit to be a queen. Woe's me that he beguiled me, that she should be married only to be murdered."
"You were present at the marriage, I believe, madam?"
"Of course I was. Where else should her mother be? And he all so cold and stately like, and she weeping and crying so. I might have known what would come of it. I saw it all with my own eyes."
"Do you remember the name of the clergyman, Mrs. Basset?"
"Ashton it was—Theodore Ashton. The same as I saw it written at the christening of her child. Woe's me! 'twas the last time almost I saw her."
"And you believe it was a good marriage?"
"Where's he that says it was not? My Michael? Na, na; 'tis some of them that murdered her. But they cannot get quit of the blood. The young squire would break the connection, would he? Na, na; it was a good marriage, and the ties are too strong."
"Pray, madam," the plaintiff's leader now asked, "did anything particular happen on this occasion?"
"I dinna understand it at all."
"Did you not notice something ... about the ring?"
"Well, the minister was nervous-like, and dropped it, and I said it was no a sign of luck. But I dinna understand it at all."
"Did you know the person whom you call minister, madam?"
"Know him! he was living like at Dame Sennor's, away on the cliff. So they told me."
"Where is Mrs. Sennor now? Is she here?"
"Why, sir, Dame Sennor's been dead and gone this many a year."
"Had you ever seen the minister before the ceremony?"
"I canna say that I had. But he married my Margaret, and that I am well certain."
"How long did your daughter survive afterwards, madam?"
"A little better than three years. But it was a long time sin' I had seen her."
"You used the word 'murdered.' What did you mean, ma'am?"
"Her bliss was made her bane," Maud answered fiercely. "The squire broke her heart, and none of hers were let to come nigh her."
Neither side, it may be observed, chose to confront the old woman with Everope, and inquire concerning her recognition of him. But the judge now desired him to stand forward.
"Look at that person, madam," said his lordship. "Can you say whether that is the man who performed this marriage?"
"Well, I canna tell at all," was the reply. "It's three-and-twenty years agone, and my eyes grow dimly like. I canna tell at all."
Polydore Riches was the next witness. He proved Mr. Trevethlan's urgent request to him to perform the ceremony, and his refusal; that Margaret had always been treated as the mistress of the castle; and that her children had been by him duly christened as the offspring of Henry and Margaret Trevethlan. He also deposed to the behaviour of her relations; to the anger it produced in Mr. Trevethlan; to their banishment from the castle, and their undisguised mortification. In cross-examination he stated, as his reason for refusing to celebrate the union, that he disapproved both of itself and of its manner.
"I must ask you, Mr. Riches, were there not rumours very prevalent soon after the alleged marriage, that it had not been duly performed?"
The question was objected to, but allowed, and the chaplain acknowledged that it was so.
"Did you know this Theodore Ashton, Mr. Riches?"
"Very slightly indeed."
"Are you aware of anything in his character which might make the conduct imputed to him to-day not improbable?"
This question was also objected to, and not pressed.
"Would you have remained an hour in the castle, Mr. Riches," Rereworth then asked; "had you suspected there was anything fraudulent in the marriage?"
"Most certainly I would not."
Griffith and his wife corroborated the evidence of the chaplain, but were also obliged to admit the popular rumours. The licence for the marriage, and also Mr. Trevethlan's will were put in evidence, and then with some other testimony of less consequence, the case for the defence closed. The plaintiff's counsel rose to reply.
In the first place, he begged the jury to disabuse their minds of the imputations which his learned friend had dexterously cast upon some of the evidence in the case. It was rather strange that he should have to defend a witness on the other side, but he was sure they would agree with him, that any indignation on the part of young Sinson would be more than justified, by conduct such as had been vaguely hinted at by his grandmother; and would be properly uncontrollable if the family participated in the popular idea, that the marriage was fraudulent. Their reasons for concealing such suspicions from the pretended bride's mother were evident enough. Her strong feeling was alone an explanation. Then as to Everope, not the least portion of his learned friend's insinuations had been borne out. Whatever might be that person's circumstances, he maintained that no slur had been thrown upon the honesty of his testimony. Now let them look at the presumptions raised for the defence, and see how easily they could be made to tally with the truth of the plaintiff's case. First, there was Mr. Trevethlan's request to his chaplain; why, he would know beforehand, from that gentleman's character, that he would refuse to perform the ceremony. He ran no risk in making the demand, and had it been acceded to, it might have been evaded. Then as to the establishment of Margaret as his wife, it was a mere matter of course, even if it were but temporary. And with regard to his recognition of her children, that was the object of the entire scheme. But it was urged, that he had himself defeated this object. So men often did. Mr. Trevethlan might have feared to expose his conduct at the pretended marriage; he might suppose that the disappearance of Ashton and Wyley would prevent the fraud from being discovered; or he might even, as had been done here to-day, attempt to prove that the mock-marriage was valid. The penalty which hung over the real performer of the ceremony would prevent that person from coming forward. As to the omission in the will, it was probably the effect of long tranquillity and habit. True, the inmates of the castle declared their positive belief in the absence of any deceit; but the jury, and he did not mean it offensively, would recollect their prejudices, and also that even they were compelled to allow that the same feeling did not exist outside the castle walls. Admitting everything that had been proved for the defence, there was nothing inconsistent with the story related by Everope, and confirmed they would recollect by Maud Basset's statement with respect to the ring. And he confidently looked to the jury, not to allow the mere opinions and presumptions of interested parties to outweigh the clear and positive declaration of an indifferent stranger.
Such is a brief narrative of the arguments and evidence adduced on each side, in a trial which in fact occupied many hours. The judge now proceeded to sum up the whole for the consideration of the jury. The court had been densely crowded all day, and the excitement of the audience ran very high.
Whatever difficulty, his lordship gravely remarked, there might be in this case, arose from the deplorable manner in which the late Mr. Trevethlan had caused his marriage to be solemnised, supposing for a moment that it was a marriage. He fully agreed with the reverend witness, Mr. Riches, in entirely condemning such a mode of celebration. Marriages should be performed in public. But the plaintiff denied that there had been any marriage at all, and produced an individual, who swore that not being in holy orders, he took upon himself to read the matrimonial service from the Prayer-book, and falsely and illegally to pronounce Henry Trevethlan and Margaret Basset to be man and wife. If the jury believed that witness, they must return a verdict for the plaintiff, for it was not pretended that there had been any other performance of the rite, than that to which this account would apply. On the other hand, they had heard the evidence adduced to show, that Mr. Trevethlan had always considered his marriage as valid, and that it had been likewise so regarded by all who were connected with his family. But then, again, it would seem that in the neighbourhood a very different opinion had prevailed. Unquestionably the circumstances were mysterious, and he could not but imagine that further evidence would be discovered before very long. With that, however, they had nothing to do. They had to compare a plain and positive story with a strong presumption, and if they were unable to disbelieve the former, to return a verdict, as he had said before, for the plaintiff.
His lordship then went minutely through the evidence on both sides, not sparing the character of Everope, who, he remarked, would certainly have been transported if he had been discovered to have really acted as he confessed, within a certain time now unfortunately elapsed; and, finally, he desired the jury to consider their verdict.
They requested permission to retire; and while they were absent, the excitement of the audience rose to the highest pitch. There was a general buzz of conversation. Every one was speculating on the result. Bets were offered and taken freely. The bar were discussing the judge's charge, and its tendency. Not a few people moved from their places to try to obtain another sight of the defendant. None of the claimant's family were in court. Randolph, perfectly unconscious of the attention he attracted, sat like a statue. His leading counsel looked anxious, and Rereworth lent his forehead on his hands, and seemed to pore over his brief.
"Silence! order!" proclaimed the return of the jury; and the demand did not require to be repeated.
"For the plaintiff," the foreman said, in answer to the question of the clerk of assize.
"May we have immediate possession, my lord?" counsel asked.
The judge shook his head.
There was a rush from the court. It was all over.
CHAPTER XIV.
As the weird women promised; and I fear
Thou play'dst most foully for't: yet it was said,
It should not stand in thy posterity;
But that myself should be the root, and father
Of many kings.
That there was much talk, and not a little difference of opinion in the various coteries of Bodmin that night, respecting the issue of the day's proceedings, needs hardly be told. In such cases the crowd can hardly be said to follow fortune and hate the fallen. The jury comes from among it; there is plenty of food for vanity in running down the verdict, and showing how much more rationally matters would have gone if I had been one of the twelve. The first gush of popular feeling is generally against the decision in a doubtful case. So here, if there were plenty of suspicion attaching to Henry Trevethlan's marriage, there were also good grounds for discrediting the testimony of Everope. If, on the one hand, scandalized gossips expressed their horror at such clandestine unions, on the other, there was a general cry of indignation at the witness's effrontery. If some people dwelt upon Maud Basset's hints that her daughter was ill-used, others maintained that the mother could not have been deceived at the wedding. If the popular rumours were cited in support of the verdict, they were met by the authority of Polydore Riches. In short, "there was a great deal to be said on both sides." People had an opportunity of showing their discernment, and the majority were apt to flatter their own shrewdness by dissenting from the jury.
He whom it most concerned, was already far from their councils. Randolph left the court immediately on hearing the judgment, with the idea that what had happened was exactly what he had expected, walked hurriedly to his hotel, and ordered out his chaise. Polydore came up to him, and took his hand, and besought him to stay, without extracting a single word in reply. When the chaise drove up, his old pupil merely ejaculated—"I must take the news to Helen. This is the last night either of us sleeps in Trevethlan castle,"—sprang into the vehicle, desired to be driven very fast, and was whirled away, leaving the good chaplain in a state of utter dismay.
Mr. Riches had, however, to rouse himself subsequently, to attend a conference which Winter had arranged for rather a late hour, and at which the counsel for the defendant and Griffith were to assist. The result of the meeting was unsatisfactory. The only practical suggestion was to track Everope's career as closely as possible. It was just within the bounds of probability that they might be able to overthrow that remarkable pedestrian tour; or they might light on other facts tending to elucidate his connection with Michael Sinson; or at least might further damnify his general character. But it was admitted that to chance they must look as their best friend. Time or fortune might bring to knowledge the fate of Mr. Ashton, supposing that he had not been murdered; or again, the missing Wyley might be discovered. Yet of what avail could this last contingency prove, since the witness might have been deceived in the same way as the mother? For the present, there appeared to be no clue to the maze. If the parties would only quarrel, there might indeed be an exposure; but they seemed to be too deeply involved in one another's safety for this event to be at all likely.
Sinson took very good care, in the disquietude of his suspicious temper, that his bondman should not be left in the way of temptation. He started with Everope for London, within a few hours of the termination of the trial. In that wretched man remorse seemed for a time to be dead. Hitherto, in the midst of his lowest depravity, he had always experienced compunctious visitings; he had been always haunted by a sense of forfeited respectability; and had frequently felt a feeble desire to reform. But now, although startled for a moment by the identity of Morton with the defendant, he gladly accepted his position as irremediable, and was looking eagerly for the reward which should furnish him with the means of forgetting it.
But it behoved Michael to keep a strong hold on him for a short time. A very short time, Sinson thought, in the first flush of his triumph, would be sufficient. A few days might put him in possession of all his desires: after that, what became of Everope, or what disclosures he might choose to make, would be a matter of second-rate consequence. Michael felt a kind of admiration for his victim, when he remembered how successfully he had encountered that searching cross-examination. But he could not allow so much ability to run too loose, and resolved to hold him in by drawing his purse-strings very tight, until his own game was perfectly secure.
That it would soon be so, he did not feel the least doubt. He had been playing for weeks and weeks; he had kept his eye steadily fixed upon one event; all his calculations terminated in one result; he had taught himself completely to ignore all unfavourable chances; supposing he had any confidants, he would have regarded their suggestion of difficulty as an insult; he might be thought to fancy that the book of fate lay open before him, and all he read was his own triumph.
And his patroness, she who, in the halls of Pendarrel, was pursuing a line of policy totally at variance with that of her protégé, little dreaming that what seemed to be her victory was intended to be his, utterly unconscious of the price about to be demanded for it—how would she receive the news? Her husband, engaged all day in hearing the details of petty felonies, was discharged with the rest of his colleagues at its close, and retired to recreate himself in their company at a well-served board. There he received the intelligence of the verdict, and accepted the felicitations of his friends. Thence, knowing the penalty which would otherwise await him at home, he withdrew for a little space to indite a despatch for his wife; and then, having entrusted the missive to a trusty rider, with injunctions to lose no time on the road, he was able to rejoin his friends before the decanters had completed their first round.
So the news was ready for the mistress of Pendarrel by breakfast-time. In the first flush of exultation she made her daughter a partner in it.
"Mildred, my love, I give you joy. You are heiress of Trevethlan Castle."
But the young lady regarded her mother with a countenance in which there were no signs of joy, and the for once imprudent parent bit her lip.
"And my cousins," Mildred said, "are ruined."
"They are no cousins of yours, child," said her mother, not yet having regained perfect presence of mind; "nor of any one else. Nor are they ruined. I shall take good care of that."
Mrs. Pendarrel would very gladly have recalled the remark which had excited her daughter's sympathy, in order to convey the information in a tone of less unqualified satisfaction. But she forgot her wariness in the pride occasioned by the success of all her long machinations.
"Pendar'l and Trevethlan would own one name."
And that name would be Pendarrel. Nay, more; the name of Trevethlan would vanish from the earth. The family would sink into oblivion. If he who had slighted her could rise from his grave, and see the ruin which had followed his scorn; could see how his towers had passed into the hands of his foe; how his fame was blighted, and his children dishonoured; were there not ample satisfaction for all the long misery his contempt had inflicted? "No!" Esther was compelled to answer, as that eternal spring of bitter waters burst forth amidst the sweet flood of revenge. "No, nothing can compensate me for the sorrow which conscience whispers has been due to my own arrogance; nothing can atone for the wreck of that happiness, which, but for my own presumption, might have been mine."
Reflections like these, however, were soon crushed, and Mrs. Pendarrel had quite sufficient employment on her hands. Since the night of her great party, she had been assiduously pressing forward the preparations for Mildred's marriage. Perfectly heedless of the attitude assumed by the young lady, she was arranging all the details of the affair with maternal diligence, and had gone so far as to select the persons who were to be present at the ceremony. Mr. Truby had been himself to the Hall to receive final instructions respecting the settlements. Melcomb was an assiduous visitor, but by no means solicitous for tête-à-têtes with his intended bride. To him the marriage was become nearly a matter of life and death. It was true the gossips at Mrs. Pendarrel's party had somewhat exaggerated his embarrassments; but his creditors were growing very importunate, and impatiently awaiting the day when the possession of his wife's fortune would enable him to satisfy their most pressing demands: a purpose to which he had undertaken it should be devoted. Let it be rumoured that the match was broken off, and it might not be very long before Tolpeden Park suffered the outrages alluded to by Mr. Quitch. So Melcomb disguised whatever inward anxiety he might feel, under a smooth brow and a smiling face, and evaded his mistress's repugnance as best he might.
Mildred's remonstrances had subsided into passive resistance. She was generally silent and calm. The irksomeness of her situation was greatly aggravated; but, at the same time, her spirit was sustained by the memory which she cherished in her heart of the scene under the hawthorns of the cliff. Trusting that some accident might even yet frustrate her mother's intentions, she allowed her to proceed without protest, acting on her sister's advice, to postpone éclat to the latest possible period. She felt that she had deceived no one, and, if scandal came, it would be no fault of hers.
But had Esther been fully aware of all that was fermenting in the young lady's mind, she would, indeed, have bit her lips hard, rather than let slip that intimation respecting Trevethlan Castle. The idea of flight had occurred to the reluctant maiden more than once; coming, however, only to be dismissed. But if her lover were really ruined, if he to whom she had plighted herself were an exile from house and home, forlorn and outcast, then it was not unlikely Mildred might think that her vow as well as her affection bade her seek him, at once to share and to console his sorrow.
So Mrs. Pendarrel's hasty exclamation brought distress and anxiety to her daughter, and imparted a certain consistency to a notion which had previously been shadowy as a dream. Mildred wrote a long letter to her sister, partly lifting the veil from the emotions which agitated her, and dwelling more strongly than she had ever done before, upon the disquietude she felt at the mode in which the match was being hurried forward.
But it was not from this communication that Mrs. Winston would learn the result of the law-suit. She was at a party, when she overheard an allusion to it from a bystander. He was a barrister, who had been present at the trial, and who, having finished his business at the assizes, had returned with speed to London. She knew the person he was conversing with, joined them, and learned all the particulars. She had before talked the affair over, and was fully aware of the consequences to the orphans of Trevethlan. She immediately quitted the assembly, went home, and interrupted her husband in his studies. A brilliant creature she was, glowing in all the lustre and maturity of thirty summers, and now adorned with everything that could be imagined to enhance her beauty. So she swept to Mr. Winston's side, and laid her hand lightly upon his shoulder. And, with all his love of ease and philosophy, his indolence and affected apathy, he was really proud of his wife, and gratified whenever she came to him with a request. So, if there were a little impatience in his mind, when he looked up from his book into her face, it vanished immediately in admiration, and was succeeded by pleasure when he found she had come to consult him.
"So soon home, Gertrude," he said. "And why? I trust nothing is the matter."
She related what she had heard respecting the law-suit.
"And now," she concluded, "what will become of my unhappy cousins?"
"I think, my dear," her husband said, after some reflection,—"I think there could be no harm, considering all the circumstances, there could be no harm, I imagine, in begging Miss Trevethlan to make our house her home. I do not believe this verdict will stand. But, at all events, we might invite Miss Trevethlan to stay with us; at any rate for a time. She might be as private as she pleased. What do you say, my dear? You might write to her...."
He had laid his open volume upon his knee. What he suggested was precisely what Mrs. Winston desired. So much coldness had attended all her intercourse with her mother, since their last discussion about Mildred's marriage, that she took no heed of any objection from that quarter. She answered her husband by bending down and touching his cheek with her lips. He thought she had never looked so beautiful before, and threw away his book.
That evening was the beginning of a new era in Gertrude's life.
CHAPTER XV.
Desdichado fué aquel dia
En que naci y heredé
La tau grande senoria;
Pues lo habia de perder
Todo junto y en un dia.
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.
These bitter thoughts occupied Randolph when the grey light of day-break stole through the lofty casements, and reminded him of the necessity of repose. He sought his own chamber. The sea lay beneath him, calm and still, but without its usual tranquillising influence. Dressed as he was he flung himself upon his bed, and sheer exhaustion brought some fitful slumber.
The sun was shining bright into the room, when he finally awoke. His morning orisons, never neglected, inspired him with something like resignation. He would not, indeed, remain a day at the castle, but he would only go to London to be near head-quarters, and avail himself of the best assistance in unveiling the iniquity by which for a season he had been defeated. And, animated by this determination, he met his sister at breakfast with a countenance which told plainly enough what had happened, but at the same time was not utterly devoid of hope; one, "wherein appeared, obscure, some glimpse of joy."
"It is against us, my brother," Helen said, when the repast was over.
"Ay, Helen," he answered. "We are outcasts upon earth, from our home, and from our name. There is nothing left us but to say farewell. We may as well say it immediately. Can you be ready to depart this very day?"
He saw that his sister's eyes were filled with tears.
"It is sudden, dearest," he said; "but it is better so. I cannot stay here, while a taint rests upon my name. We can travel to-day, and what we want may follow us. And it will not be 'a farewell for ever.'"
He smiled as he spoke, but he could win no corresponding glance from Helen. They separated to make the necessary preparations for departure.
It was not much past noon, when the friends arrived whom Randolph had left at Bodmin. They united in protesting against the projected journey. But argument was vain. Randolph had completed his plan. He should go straight to his old quarters at Hampstead; that is, if he found them unoccupied; should put himself in close communication with Winter and his friend Rereworth; and follow up an inquiry into the evidence given at the trial with untiring energy. If such investigation were fruitless—but he was not inclined to accept that alternative—he need hardly say, that not for an hour would he waive his claim to the name of Trevethlan, and that therefore he had no notion of resuming his old disguise. He had no objection to Griffith remaining at the castle as long as the law would permit, but he earnestly pressed the chaplain to follow him to the metropolis.
"You will be such a support to my sister, Mr. Riches," he urged. "I shall be much away from her. Engaged in business; unable to sustain her in this great change. Do come, my dear sir, and help your old pupils in their extremity."
Polydore was not one to resist such an entreaty, and assented. Yet, perhaps, Randolph might have been prevailed upon at least to defer his departure, but for an invitation to do so from another quarter. A note reached the castle from Mrs. Pendarrel, in which that lady expressed her hope that its present occupants would put themselves to no inconvenience; that the demand for immediate possession was unauthorized, and that every accommodation would be granted with pleasure. This polite missive, it may be presumed, was in partial fulfilment of the intention Esther expressed to her daughter, of assisting her adversaries in their fall. But it was too much like that which she caused her husband to write in the opening of this narrative, to be received as a favour, and only served to provoke Randolph into a fresh burst of rage, and make him eager for the vehicle which should bear them away from all such insults.
Before it came, however, he could not resist guiding his sister to a last visit to the haunt of their childhood, Merlin's Cave. And there for no little space they sat in silence, thinking over the happiness of by-gone days. The day was even warmer than those which had preceded it, but it was close and heavy. The sea lay before the orphans, perfectly smooth, sleeping in its might; and there was no breath of air to waft aside the lightest bubble it might leave upon the rock; but some round massive clouds were rising one behind another in the south-western horizon, which might indicate the coming of a storm.
"Farewell to Trevethlan!" Randolph said. "Let me hear our old song once more."
And Helen sang the ancestral ditty, but with an accent very different from that she gave it on the eve of their previous journey to the metropolis.
Farewell to the towers that stand by the sea!"
"Remember, Helen," her brother said, "how you checked me when I told you your song was of ill omen. And believe me now, when I say that, like Reginald, we shall live to see a joyful revolution."
Ill news flies fast. The intelligence of the verdict had spread in the hamlet, and its immediate effect was exaggerated by the villagers. The coming departure of their young master and mistress also travelled from the castle to the green, and added to the excitement. Groups collected both of sorrowing women and of threatening men. The lapse of time only increased the numbers and the exasperation of the tenantry. The people speedily forgot all those rumours concerning their late lord's marriage, which of old gratified their envy, and which had probably contributed in no small degree to the result of the trial. They only considered the event of the day; that the last representative of the family with which they had been connected for centuries was now to be driven from his home, by a deserter who had sold himself to a rival house; and many among them resolved, that if they could prevent it, by right or wrong, it should not be so that "Pendar'l and Trevethlan should own one name."
"And so ye were right after all, dame," said farmer Colan to the landlady of the Trevethlan Arms. "The old saying's come true with a vengeance. But there's no Miss Mildred in the case."
"And Madam Pendarrel's not come to Trevethlan yet, farmer," was the answer. "And there's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip."
"There's like to be a slip here," cried a voice in the crowd, "such as she little knows."
"It's a curious sort of day for the season," said Breage. "So warm and heavy. I should say there was some prognostication in the air."
"Ay, there'll be a storm before long, I reckon, neighbours," said Germoe.
"Faith, then, there will," muttered another speaker; "and a storm some people don't expect."
"There always is a storm," observed the general merchant, "along with misfortune at the castle. It comes as a token."
"Then it comes too late," quoth Mrs. Miniver. "It is after the misfortune this time. Who knows what came of Michael Sinson?"
A low groan ran through the throng, and filled the eyes of Mercy Page with tears.
"What'll his old grandame say," asked farmer Colan, "when she understands the rights of the matter?"
"She never will understand," answered the hostess. "She'll close her ears, and say it is all along of squire Randolph. Don't ye mind how she met him at the late master's burying? And how she says that her Margaret was murdered?"
"'T is a strange thing," remarked the village tailor, "that nothing ever turned up about the parson's murder."
"He never was murdered," said Breage; "if he had, there'd have been a sign. I don't believe as he was murdered."
The appearance of an empty carriage, winding its way round the green, put an end to these gossiping speculations, and concentrated the scattered groups of rustics into one compact crowd about the gate leading into the base-court of the castle. A moody silence succeeded to the previous animation, and all eyes followed the vehicle up the ascent, until it vanished from sight through the arched portal. Even the mirthful Mrs. Miniver then became serious for once, and waited among her neighbours in rueful anxiety for the re-appearance of the carriage.
We pass lightly over the adieux within the inner court. Polydore Riches, having resigned himself to what was inevitable, made them as brief as possible. Randolph had steeled his heart against any display of feeling, and Helen endeavoured to imitate her brother's fortitude. The steward found comfort in hope; but his wife could not restrain her sorrow at such a parting, and retired to the picture-gallery to try to forget the present disaster, in calling to mind the past glories of the family to which she was so deeply attached. Old Jeffrey flung open the gates, and dashed a tear surlily from his eye as the carriage passed under the arch. But when the family flag was seen slowly and lingeringly to descend from its high place, a wailing cry arose from the crowd upon the green, which made Randolph's heart swell in his breast, and brought the tears she had resolved not to shed into Helen's eyes.
The carriage soon reached the bottom of the descent. The people thronged to the gate, and pressed against it, and loudly declared that it should not be opened. Not so would they allow their young master and mistress to be taken from them. There was considerable confusion, and cries were uttered expressive of the villagers' determination. The driver, perplexed, looked round for instructions. The situation was becoming embarrassing.
"We will bid our friends farewell on foot, Helen," her brother whispered, "and thank them for their good-will."
And, so saying, he threw open his door of the carriage, sprang out, lowered the steps himself, and assisted his sister to alight. She leant upon his arm, and they advanced to meet the crowd, which divided before them with great respect. Shaking hands very cordially with those who were nearest them, and expressing confident hopes that their absence would not be long, they made their way across the green, while the carriage proceeded by the road. But the people soon divined their intention, and closed upon their path, and endeavoured to delay their progress, clasping their hands, and pouring benedictions upon their heads. It was a more trying leave-taking than that within the castle. But at length, after many and many a salute, they reached the end of the village, re-ascended their carriage amid renewed effusions of attachment, and were borne rapidly from the sight of their sorrowing adherents.
Sorrow, however, was not the only emotion excited by their departure. Not a few imprecations, fiercely directed against the house that had disinherited them, arose among their dependents as the carriage finally disappeared.