A BOLD ATTEMPT.
During the next ten or eleven months poor Mrs. Trevennack had but one
abiding terror--that a sudden access of irrepressible insanity might
attack her husband before Cleer and Eustace could manage to get
married. Trevennack, however, with unvarying tenderness, did his best
in every way to calm her fears. Though no word on the subject passed
between them directly, he let her feel with singular tact that he meant
to keep himself under proper control. Whenever a dangerous topic
cropped up in conversation, he would look across at her affectionately,
with a reassuring smile. "For Cleer's sake," he murmured often, if she
was close by his side; "for Cleer's sake, dearest!" and his wife,
mutely grateful, knew at once what he meant, and smiled approval sadly.
Her heart was very full; her part was a hard one to play with fitting
cheerfulness; but in his very madness itself she couldn't help loving,
admiring, and respecting that strong, grave husband who fought so hard
against his own profound convictions.
Ten months passed away, however, and Eustace Le Neve didn't seem to get
much nearer any permanent appointment than ever. He began to tire at
last of applying unsuccessfully for every passing vacancy. Now and then
he got odd jobs, to be sure; but odd jobs won't do for a man to marry
upon; and serious work seemed always to elude him. Walter Tyrrel did
his best, no doubt, to hunt up all the directors of all the companies
he knew; but no posts fell vacant on any line they were connected with.
It grieved Walter to the heart, for he had always had the sincerest
friendship for Eustace Le Neve; and now that Eustace was going to marry
Cleer Trevennack, Walter felt himself doubly bound in honor to assist
him. It was HE who had ruined the Trevennacks' hopes in life by his
unintentional injury to their only son; the least he could do in
return, he thought, and felt, was to make things as easy as possible
for their daughter and her intended husband.
By July, however, things were looking so black for the engineer's
prospects that Tyrrel made up his mind to run up to town and talk
things over seriously with Eustace Le Neve himself in person. He hated
going up there, for he hardly knew how he could see much of Eustace
without running some risk of knocking up accidentally against Michael
Trevennack; and there was nothing on earth that sensitive young squire
dreaded so much as an unexpected meeting with the man he had so deeply,
though no doubt so unintentionally and unwittingly, injured. But he
went, all the same. He felt it was his duty. And duty to Walter Tyrrel
spoke in an imperative mood which he dared not disobey, however much he
might be minded to turn a deaf ear to it.
Le Neve had little to suggest of any practical value. It wasn't his
fault, Tyrrel knew; engineering was slack, and many good men were
looking out for appointments. In these crowded days, it's a foolish
mistake to suppose that energy, industry, ability, and integrity are
necessarily successful. To insure success you must have influence,
opportunity, and good luck as well, to back them. Without these, not
even the invaluable quality of unscrupulousness itself is secure from
failure.
If only Walter Tyrrel could have got his friend to accept such terms,
indeed, he would gladly, for Cleer's sake, have asked Le Neve to marry
on an allowance of half the Penmorgan rent-roll. But in this commercial
age, such quixotic arrangements are simply impossible. So Tyrrel set to
work with fiery zeal to find out what openings were just then to be
had; and first of all for that purpose he went to call on a
parliamentary friend of his, Sir Edward Jones, the fat and good-natured
chairman of the Great North Midland Railway. Tyrrel was a shareholder
whose vote was worth considering, and he supported the Board with
unwavering loyalty.
Sir Edward was therefore all attention, and listened with sympathy to
Tyrrel's glowing account of his friend's engineering energy and talent.
When he'd finished his eulogy, however, the practical railway magnate
crossed his fat hands and put in, with very common-sense dryness, "If
he's so clever as all that, why doesn't he have a shot at this
Wharfedale Viaduct?"
Walter Tyrrel drew back a little surprised. The Wharfedale Viaduct was
a question just then in everybody's mouth. But what a question! Why, it
was one of the great engineering works of the age; and it was
informally understood that the company were prepared to receive plans
and designs from any competent person. There came the rub, though.
Would Eustace have a chance in such a competition as that? Much as he
believed in his old school-fellow, Tyrrel hesitated and reflected. "My
friend's young, of course," he said, after a pause. "He's had very
little experience--comparatively, I mean--to the greatness of the
undertaking."
Sir Edward pursed his fat lips. It's a trick with your railway kings.
"Well, young men are often more inventive than old ones," he answered,
slowly. "Youth has ideas; middle age has experience. In a matter like
this, my own belief is, the ideas count for most. Yes, if I were you,
Tyrrel, I'd ask your friend to consider it."
"You would?" Walter cried, brightening up.
"Aye, that I would," the great railway-man answered, still more
confidently than before, rubbing his fat hands reflectively. "It's a
capital opening. Erasmus Walker'll be in for it, of course; and Erasmus
Walker'll get it. But don't you tell your fellow that. It'll only
discourage him. You just send him down to Yorkshire to reconnoiter the
ground; and if he's good for anything, when he's seen the spot he'll
make a plan of his own, a great deal better than Walker's. Not that
that'll matter, don't you know, as far as this viaduct goes. The
company'll take Walker's, no matter how good any other fellow's may be,
and how bad Walker's--because Walker has a great name, and because they
think they can't go far wrong if they follow Walker. But still, if your
friend's design is a good one, it'll attract attention--which is always
something; and after they've accepted Walker's, and flaws begin to be
found in it--as experts can always find flaws in anything, no matter
how well planned--your friend can come forward and make a fuss in the
papers (or what's better still, YOU can come forward and make it for
him) to say these flaws were strikingly absent from HIS very superior
and scientific conception. There'll be flaws in your friend's as well,
of course, but they won't be the same ones, and nobody'll have the same
interest in finding them out and exposing them. And that'll get your
man talked about in the papers and the profession. It's better, anyhow,
than wasting his time doing nothing in London here."
"He shall do it!" Walter cried, all on fire. "I'll take care he shall
do it. And Sir Edward, I tell you, I'd give five thousand pounds down
if only he could get the job away from Walker."
"Got a grudge against Walker, then?" Sir Edward cried quickly,
puckering up his small eyes.
"Oh, no," Tyrrel answered, smiling; that was not much in his line. "But
I've got strong reasons of my own, on the other hand, for wishing to do
a good turn to Le Neve in this business."
And he went home, reflecting in his own soul on the way that many
thousands would be as dross in the pan to him if only he could make
Cleer Trevennack happy.
But that very same evening Trevennack came home from the Admiralty in a
most excited condition.
"Lucy!" he cried to his wife, as soon as he was alone in the room with
her, "who do you think I saw to-day--there, alive in the flesh,
standing smiling on the steps of Sir Edward Jones' house?--that brute
Walter Tyrrel, who killed our poor boy for us!" "Hush! hush, Michael!"
his wife cried in answer. "It's so long ago now, and he was such a boy
at the time; and he repents it bitterly--I'm sure he repents it. You
promised you'd try to forgive him. For Cleer's sake, dear heart, you
must keep your promise."
Trevennack knit his brows. "What does he mean, then, by dogging my
steps?" he cried. "What does he mean by coming after me up to London
like this? What does he mean by tempting me? I can't stand the sight of
him. I won't be challenged, Lucy; I don't know whether it's the devil
or not, but when I saw the fellow to-day I had hard work to keep my
hands off him. I wanted to spring at his throat. I would have liked to
throttle him!"
The silver-haired lady drew still closer to the excited creature, and
held his hands with a gentle pressure. "Michael," she said, earnestly,
"this IS the devil. This is the greatest temptation of all. This is
what I dread most for you. Remember, it's Satan himself that suggests
such thoughts to you. Fight the devil WITHIN, dearest. Fight him
within, like a man. That's the surest place, after all, to conquer him."
Trevennack drew himself up proudly, and held his peace for a time. Then
he went on in another tone: "I shall get leave," said he quietly,
becoming pure human once more. "I shall get leave of absence. I can't
stop in town while this creature's about. I'd HAVE to spring at him if
I saw him again. I can't keep my hands off him. I'll fly from
temptation. I must go down into the country."
"Not to Cornwall!" Mrs. Trevennack cried, in deep distress; for she
dreaded the effect of those harrowing associations for him.
Trevennack shook his head gravely. "No, not to Cornwall," he answered.
"I've another plan this time. I want to go to Dartmoor. It's lonely
enough there. Not a soul to distract me. You know, Lucy, when one means
to fight the devil, there's nothing for it like the wilderness; and
Dartmoor's wilderness enough for me. I shall go to Ivybridge, for the
tors and the beacons."
Mrs. Trevennack assented gladly. If he wanted to fight the devil, it
was best at any rate he should be out of reach of Walter Tyrrel while
he did it. And it was a good thing to get him away, too, from St.
Michael's Mount, and St. Michael's Crag, and St. Michael's Chair, and
all the other reminders of his archangelic dignity in the Penzance
neighborhood. Why, she remembered with a wan smile--the dead ghost of a
smile rather--he couldn't even pass the Angel Inn at Helston without
explaining to his companions that the parish church was dedicated to
St. Michael, and that the swinging sign of the old coaching house once
bore a picture of the winged saint himself in mortal conflict with his
Satanic enemy. It was something, at any rate, to get Trevennack away
from a district so replete with memories of his past greatness, to say
nothing of the spot where their poor boy had died. But Mrs. Trevennack
didn't know that one thing which led her husband to select Dartmoor
this time for his summer holiday was the existence, on the wild hills a
little behind Ivybridge, of a clatter-crowned peak, known to all the
country-side as St. Michael's Tor, and crowned in earlier days by a
medieval chapel. It was on this sacred site of his antique cult that
Trevennack wished to fight the internal devil. And he would fight it
with a will, on that he was resolved; fight and, as became his angelic
reputation, conquer.