ST. MICHAEL DOES BATTLE.
The wedding breakfast went off pleasantly, without a hitch of any sort.
Trevennack, always dignified and always a grand seigneur, rose to the
occasion with his happiest spirit. The silver-haired wife, gazing up at
him, felt proud of him as of old, and was for once quite at her ease.
For all was over now, thank heaven, and dear Cleer was married!
That same afternoon the bride and bridegroom started off for their
honeymoon to the Tyrol and Italy. When Mrs. Trevennack was left alone
with her husband it was with a thankful heart. She turned to him,
flowing over in soul with joy. "Oh, Michael," she cried, melting, "I'm
so happy, so happy, so happy."
Trevennack stooped down and kissed her forehead tenderly. He had always
been a good husband, and he loved her with all his heart. "That's well,
Lucy," he answered. "Thank God, it's all over. For I can't hold out
much longer. The strain's too much for me." He paused a moment, and
looked at her. "Lucy," he said, once more, clasping his forehead with
one hand, "I've fought against it hard. I'm fighting against it still.
But at times it almost gets the better of me. Do you know who I saw in
the church this morning, skulking behind a pillar?--that man Walter
Tyrrel."
Mrs. Trevennack gazed at him all aghast. This was surely a delusion, a
fixed idea, an insane hallucination. "Oh, no, dear," she cried, prying
deep into his eyes. "It couldn't be he, it couldn't. You must be
mistaken, Michael. I'm sure he's not in London."
"No more mistaken than I am this minute," Trevennack answered, rushing
over to the window, and pointing with one hand eagerly. "See, see!
there he is, Lucy--the man that killed our poor, dear Michael!"
Mrs. Trevennack uttered a little cry, half sob, half wail, as she
looked out of the window and, under the gas-lamps opposite, recognized
through the mist the form of Walter Tyrrel.
But Trevennack didn't rush out at him as she feared and believed he
would. He only stood still in his place and glared at his enemy. "Not
now," he said, slowly; "not now, on Cleer's wedding day. But some other
time--more suitable. I hear it in my ears; I hear the voice still
ringing: 'Go, Michael, of celestial armies prince!' I can't disobey. I
shall go in due time. I shall fight the enemy."
And he sank back in his chair, with his eyes staring wildly.
For the next week or two, while Cleer wrote home happy letters from
Paris, Innsbruck, Milan, Venice, Florence, poor Mrs. Trevennack was
tortured inwardly with another terrible doubt; had Michael's state
become so dangerous at last that he must be put under restraint as a
measure of public security? For Walter Tyrrel's sake, ought she to make
his condition known to the world at large--and spoil Cleer's honeymoon?
She shrank from that final necessity with a deadly shrinking. Day after
day she put the discovery off, and solaced her soul with the best
intentions--as what true woman would not?
But we know where good intentions go. On the morning of the
twenty-ninth, which is Michaelmas Day, the poor mother rose in fear and
trembling. Michael, to all outward appearance, was as sane as usual. He
breakfasted and went down to the office, as was his wont.
When he arrived there, however, he found letters from Falmouth awaiting
him with bad news. His presence was needed at once. He must miss his
projected visit to St. Michael's, Cornhill. He must go down to Cornwall.
Hailing a cab at the door he hastened back to Paddington just in time
for the Cornish express. This was surely a call. The words rang in his
ears louder and clearer than ever, "Go, Michael, of celestial armies
prince!" He would go and obey them. He would trample under foot this
foul fiend that masqueraded in human shape as his dear boy's murderer.
He would wield once more that huge two-handed sword, brandished aloft,
wide-wasting, in unearthly warfare. He would come out in his true shape
before heaven and earth as the chief of the archangels.
Stepping into a first-class compartment he found himself, unluckily for
his present mood, alone. All the way down to Exeter the fit was on him.
He stood up in the carriage, swaying his unseen blade, celestial temper
fine, and rolling forth in a loud voice Miltonic verses of his old
encounters in heaven with the powers of darkness.
"Now waved their fiery swords, and in the air
Made horrid circles; two broad suns their shields
Blazed opposite, while expectation stood
In horror."
He mouthed out the lines in a perfect ecstasy of madness. It was
delightful to be alone. He could give his soul full vent. He knew he
was mad. He knew he was an archangel.
And all the way down he repeated to himself, many times over, that he
would trample under foot that base fiend Walter Tyrrel. Satan has many
disguises; squat like a toad, close at the ear of Eve, he sat in
Paradise; for
"...spirits as they please
Can limb themselves, and color, or size assume
As likes them best, condense or rare."
If he himself, Michael, prince of celestial hosts, could fit his
angelic majesty to the likeness of a man, Trevennack--could not Satan
meet him on his own ground, and try to thwart him as of old in the
likeness of a man, Walter Tyrrel--his dear boy's murderer.
As far as Exeter this was his one train of thought. But from there to
Plymouth new passengers got in. They turned the current. Trevennack
changed his mind rapidly. Another mood came over him. His wife's words
struck him vaguely in some tenderer place. "Fight the devil WITHIN you,
Michael. Fight him there, and conquer him." That surely was fitter far
for an angelic nature. That foeman was worthier his celestial steel.
"Turn homeward, angel, now, and melt with ruth!" Not his to do
vengeance on the man Walter Tyrrel. Not his to play the divine part of
vindicator. In his madness even Trevennack was magnanimous. Leave the
creature to the torment of his own guilty soul. Do angels care for
thrusts of such as he? Tantaene animis coelestibus irae?
At Ivybridge station the train slowed, and then stopped. Trevennack,
accustomed to the Cornish express, noted the stoppage with surprise.
"We're not down to pull up here!" he said, quickly, to the guard.
"No sir," the guard answered, touching his hat with marked respect, for
he knew the Admiralty official well. "Signals are against us. Line's
blocked as far as Plymouth."
"I'll get out here, then," Trevennack said, in haste; and the guard
opened the door. A new idea had rushed suddenly into the madman's head.
This was St. Michael's Day--his own day; and there was St. Michael's
Tor--his own tor--full in sight before him. He would go up there this
very evening, and before the eyes of all the world, in his celestial
armor, taking Lucy's advice, do battle with and quell this fierce devil
within him.
No sooner thought than done. Fiery hot within, he turned out of the
gate, and as the shades of autumn evening began to fall, walked swiftly
up the moor toward the tor and the uplands.
As he walked his heart beat to a lilting rhythm within him. "Go,
Michael, of celestial armies prince!--Go, Michael!--Go, Michael! Go,
Michael, of celestial armies prince--Go, Michael!--Go, Michael!"
The moor was draped in fog. It was a still, damp evening. Swirling
clouds rose slowly up, and lifted at times and disclosed the peaty
hollows, the high tors, the dusky heather. But Trevennack stumbled on,
o'er bog or steep, through strait, rough, dense, or rare, as chance
might lead him, clambering ever toward his goal, now seen, now
invisible--the great stack of wild rock that crowned the gray
undulating moor to northward. Often he missed his way; often he
floundered for awhile in deep ochreous bottoms, up to his knees in soft
slush, but with some strange mad instinct he wandered on nevertheless,
and slowly drew near the high point he was aiming at.
By this time it was pitch dark. The sun had set and fog obscured the
starlight. But Trevennack, all on fire, wandered madly forward and
scaled the rocky tor by the well-known path, guided not by sight, but
by pure instinctive groping. In his present exalted state, indeed, he
had no need of eyes. What matters earthly darkness to angelic feet? He
could pick his own way through the gloom, though all the fiends from
hell in serried phalanx broke loose to thwart him. He would reach the
top at last; reach the top; reach the top, and there fight that old
serpent who lay in wait to destroy him. At last he gained the peak, and
stood with feet firmly planted on the little rocky platform. Now,
Satan, come on! Ha, traitor, come, if you dare! Your antagonist is
ready for you!
Cr'r'r'k! as he stood there, waiting, a terrible shock brought him to
himself all at once with startling suddenness. Trevennack drew back
aghast and appalled. Even in his mad exaltation this strange assault
astonished him. He had expected a struggle, indeed; he had expected a
conflict, but with a spiritual foe; to meet his adversary in so bodily
a form as this, wholly startled and surprised him. For it was a fierce
earthly shock he received upon his right leg as he mounted the rocky
platform. Satan had been lying in wait for him then, expecting him,
waylaying him, and in corporeal presence too. For this was a spear of
good steel! This was a solid Thing that assaulted him as he
rose--assaulted him with frantic rage and uncontrollable fury!
For a moment Trevennack was stunned--the sharpness of the pain and the
suddenness of the attack took both breath and sense away from him. He
stood there one instant, irresolute, before he knew how to comport
himself. But before he could make up his mind--cr'r'k, a second
time--the Presence had assailed him again, fighting with deadly force,
and in a white heat of frenzy. Trevennack had no leisure to think what
this portent might mean. Man or fiend, it was a life-and-death struggle
now between them. He stood face to face at last in mortal conflict with
his materialized enemy. What form the Evil Thing had assumed to suit
his present purpose Trevennack knew not, nor did he even care. Stung
with pain and terror he rushed forward blindly upon his enraged
assailant, and closed with him at once, tooth and nail, in a deadly
grapple.
A more terrible battle man and brute never fought. Trevennack had no
sword, no celestial panoply. But he could wrestle like a Cornishman. He
must trample his foe under foot, then, in this final struggle, by sheer
force of strong thews and strained muscles alone. He fought the
Creature as it stood, flinging his arms round it wildly. The Thing
seemed to rear itself as if on cloven hoofs. Trevennack seized it round
the waist, and grasping it hard in an iron grip, clung to it with all
the wild energy of madness. Yield, Satan, yield! But still the Creature
eluded him. Once more it drew back a pace--he felt its hot breath, he
smelt its hateful smell--and prepared to rush again at him. Trevennack
bent down to receive its attack, crouching. The Creature burst full
tilt on him--it almost threw him over. Trevennack caught it in his
horror and awe--caught it bodily by the horns--for horned it seemed to
be, as well as cloven-footed--and by sheer force of arm held it off
from him an elbow's length one minute. The Thing struggled and reared
again. Yes, yes, it was Satan--he felt him all over now--a devil
undisguised--but Satan rather in medieval than in Miltonic fashion. His
skin was rough and hairy as a satyr's; his odor was foul; his feet were
cleft; his horns sharp and terrible. He flung him from him horrified.
Quick as lightning the demon rose again, and tilted fiercely at him
once more. It was a death fight between those two for that rocky
platform. Should Satan thus usurp St. Michael's Tor? Ten thousand
times, no! Yield, yield! No surrender! Each knew the ground well, and
even in the dark and in the mad heat of the conflict, each carefully
avoided the steep edge of the precipice. But the fiend knew it best,
apparently. He had been lying in a snug nook, under lee of a big rock,
sharpening his sword on its side, before Trevennack came up there.
Against this rock he took his stand, firm as a rock himself, and seemed
to defy his enemy's arms to dislodge him from his position.
Trevennack's hands and legs were streaming now with blood. His left arm
was sorely wounded. His thumb hung useless. But with the strange energy
of madness he continued the desperate conflict against his unseen foe.
Never should Michael turn and yield to the deadly assaults of the Evil
One! He rushed on blindly once more, and the Adversary stooped to
oppose him. Again, a terrible shock, it almost broke both his knees;
but by sheer strength of nerve he withstood it, still struggling. Then
they closed in a final grapple. It was a tooth-and-nail conflict. They
fought one another with every weapon they possessed; each hugged each
in their fury; they tilted, and tore, and wrestled, and bit, and butted.
Trevennack's coat was in ribbons, his arm was ripped and bleeding; but
he grasped the Adversary still, he fought blindly to the end. Down,
Satan, I defy thee!
It was a long, fierce fight! At last, bit by bit, the Enemy began to
yield. Trevennack had dashed him against the crag time after time like
a log, till he too was torn and hurt and bleeding. His flesh was like
pulp. He could endure the unequal fight no longer. He staggered and
gave way. A great joy rose up tremulous in Trevennack's heart. Even
without his celestial sword, then, he had vanquished his enemy. He
seized the Creature round the middle, dragged it, a dead weight, in his
weary arms, to the edge of the precipice, and dropped it, feebly
resisting, on to the bare rock beneath him.
Victory! Victory! Once more, a great victory!
He stood on the brink of the tor, and poised himself, as if for flight,
in his accustomed attitude. But he was faint from loss of blood, and
his limbs shook under him.
A light seemed to break before his blinded eyes. Victory! Victory! It
was the light from heaven! He stared forward to welcome it. The brink
of the precipice? What was THAT to such as he? He would spread his
wings--for once--at last--thus! thus! and fly forward on full pinions
to his expected triumph!
He raised both arms above his head, and spread them out as if for
flight. His knees trembled fearfully. His fingers quivered. Then he
launched himself on the air and fell. His eyes closed half-way. He lost
consciousness. He fainted. Before he had reached the bottom he was
wholly insensible.
Next day it was known before noon in London that a strange and
inexplicable accident had befallen Mr. Michael Trevennack C.M.G., the
well-known Admiralty official, on the moor near Ivybridge. Mr.
Trevennack, it seemed, had started by the Cornish express for Falmouth,
on official business; but the line being blocked between Ivybridge and
Plymouth, he had changed his plans and set out to walk, as was
conjectured, by a devious path across the moor to Tavistock. Deceased
knew the neighborhood well, and was an enthusiastic admirer of its tors
and uplands. But fog coming on, the unfortunate gentleman, it was
believed, had lost his way, and tried to shelter himself for a time
behind a tall peak of rock which he used frequently to visit during his
summer holidays. There he was apparently attacked by a savage moorland
ram--one of that wild breed of mountain sheep peculiar to Dartmoor, and
famous for the strength and ferocity often displayed by the fathers of
the flock. Mr. Trevennack was unarmed, and a terrible fight appeared to
have taken place between these ill-matched antagonists on the summit of
the rocks, full details of which, the Telegram said in its curt
business-like way, were too ghastly for publication. After a long and
exhausting struggle, however, the combatants must either have slipped
on the wet surface and tumbled over the edge of the rocks together in a
deadly grapple, or else, as seemed more probable from the positions in
which the bodies were found, the unhappy gentleman had just succeeded
in flinging his assailant over, and then, faint from loss of blood, had
missed his footing and fallen beside his dead antagonist. At any rate,
when the corpse was discovered life had been extinct for several hours;
and it was the opinion of the medical authorities who conducted the
post-mortem that death was due not so much to the injuries themselves
as to asphyxiation in the act of falling.
* * *
The jury found it "Death from accidental circumstances." Cleer never
knew more than that her father had met his end by walking over the edge
of a cliff on Dartmoor.
* * *
But when the body came home for burial, Dr. Yate-Westbury looked in by
Mrs. Trevennack's special request, and performed an informal and
private examination of the brain and nervous system. At the close of
the autopsy he came down to the drawing-room where the silver-haired
lady sat pale and tearful, but courageous. "It is just as I thought,"
he said; "a clot of blood, due to external injury, has pressed for
years above the left frontal region, causing hallucinations and
irregularities of a functional character only. You needn't have the
slightest fear of its proving hereditary. It's as purely accidental as
a sprain or a wound. Your daughter, Mrs. Le Neve, couldn't possibly
suffer for it."
And neither Cleer nor Le Neve nor anyone else ever shared that secret
of Trevennack's delusions with his wife and the doctor.