"Yon bosky dingle still the rustics name;
'Twas there the blushing maid confessed her flame.
Down yon green lane they oft were seen to hie,
When evening slumbered on the western sky.
That blasted yew, that mouldering walnut bare,
Each bears mementos of the fated pair."
KIRKE WHITE.
Wilderness Gate was the most picturesque, although not the principal
entrance to the park of Pendarrel. The enclosing wall, formed of rough
gray stones, and coloured with mosses and ferns, there swept inwards
from the public road, leaving a space of turf, usually occupied by the
geese of the neighbouring cottagers. The gate was in the centre of the
recess, and opened on a long winding avenue of Scotch firs, the
branches of which met overhead, and made the path slippery with their
fallen spines. On either hand the eye might glance between their
straight stems to some open ground beyond, of uneven surface, mostly
covered with tall ferns, and chequered with birch-trees. A streamlet
might be heard, but not seen, rippling along not far from the walk.
Here and there the antlers of a stag would rise above the herbage, and
a hare or rabbit might be occasionally seen to bound across an exposed
plot of grass. The scene wore an air of neglect. The dead leaves were
not swept from the paths; the brambles extended their long shoots at
pleasure; the ruggedness of the ground was the work of nature. But the
avenue wound gently up an eminence; the wood on each side became
deeper, until, on arriving at the summit of a ridge, the visitor
emerged suddenly from the dark firs, and gazed down upon the trim
plantations and nicely-shorn lawns immediately surrounding the Hall.
The portion of the park through which he had passed was called the
Wilderness, and gave its name to the gate by which he entered.
Beside this gate, and close to the park-wall, was the lodge which Mrs.
Pendarrel assigned as a dwelling to Maud Basset and Michael Sinson.
They had previously resided at the farm-house occupied by the young
man's father, the brother-in-law of the hapless Margaret. But the
gloomy firs of Wilderness Lodge were more congenial to the disposition
of the old woman than the cheerful garden of the Priory Farm, and the
idle life of a gatekeeper suited Michael's habits better than the
activity of his father's employment. The instructions also, which he
received from Mrs. Pendarrel, raised vague ideas of future consequence
in the young man's mind, and revived the hopes which had originally
sprung from his connection with the family of Trevethlan. His new
mistress discovered that he possessed some education, the abiding
result of Polydore's teaching, and desired him to improve it, and to
attend to his appearance, hinting at the same time rather than saying,
that he might unobtrusively watch the proceedings at Trevethlan
Castle, and report any changes he detected. These orders gratified his
vanity, suited his meanness, and raised his expectations.
But the departure of the orphans seemed to deprive him of his
occupation; nothing transpired to contradict the newspaper account of
their intentions; and, indeed, these appeared so entirely natural,
that a suspicion of incorrectness could hardly arise. None, at least,
was likely to be suggested in the country. But only a brief space had
elapsed, when a summons from Mrs. Pendarrel, requiring young Sinson
to repair immediately to the metropolis, disturbed the serenity of
Wilderness Lodge. His grandmother exulted in the news. Her only
reading was in that fanatical literature, the study of which is apt
either to find men mad, or to leave them so; and she was, besides,
deeply versed in all the local superstitions of the district. Such
lore had given her mind a sombre hue, and inclined her to indulge in
the practice of vaticination. She had foretold a career of distinction
for her grandson, and she fancied that he was now about to enter upon
it. On the eve of his departure, his mother Cicely came to Wilderness
Lodge to bid him farewell. She did not share in Maud's gratification.
"So," she said, sitting under the thatched verandah, "Mercy Page may
suit herself now, I suppose; and Edward Owen need not fear another
fall?"
"Mercy should know her own mind better," said Michael. "She might have
had me long ago, if she pleased; 't is her own fault if it's too late
now. But I don't think Owen'll win her, if I never try a fall with him
again."
"Let her 'bide," muttered Maud; "let her 'bide. What want we with the
folks of Trevethlan?"
"And what seeks my lady with you in London, Michael?" Cicely asked.
"I shall know when I get there, I dare say," he answered. "My lady's
secrets are mine."
Cicely sighed.
"I thought you might let us know," she said.
"What I know not myself. Some office, my lady speaks of, I am to fit
myself for."
"Ah! my son," continued his mother, "I do hope you'll not forget the
country as well as Mercy Page. Life is wild in London, they say.
Think of the poor squire."
"Think of my winsome Margaret," Maud exclaimed fiercely. "Think of her
that the squire murdered! Wild! Na, na; he'll see the light."
Cicely was the only one of the family exempt from that hatred of the
Trevethlans, which darkened the hue of the old woman's otherwise
harmless enthusiasm, and burnt sullenly in her grandson. She had not
long said her parting words, when Michael threw on his hat, shook
himself free from the detaining grasp of old Maud, and walked briskly
away in the direction of Trevethlan. About a mile from the castle, a
rugged strip of waste land skirted the edge of the cliff over the
beach, and supported a number of aged thorns, stunted and bent by the
sea-breezes. It was to this spot that Michael turned his steps. The
landscape was growing gray when he reached it, but there was yet
sufficient light to discover the object he sought. A few strides
placed him by the side of a young girl.
"Mercy," he said, in a low voice, "the first at a tryst! It is
something new."
"The days are short," replied the girl, with affected indifference: "I
should not have waited. Besides, you are going away, so one does not
care."
"Is that your farewell, Mercy?" Michael asked.
"And why not?" she said, tossing her head. "You are a fine gentleman:
going to London: to forget Mercy Page."
"Yes," answered Michael--his companion started at the word--"to forget
the Mercy of to-night, but to remember another--the Mercy of old days;
to forget her conceited and wilful, to remember her kind and winsome.
You would not wish me remember the first--would you, Mercy?"
The maiden said nothing in reply; and Sinson, encouraged by her
silence, drew her with gentle force to a seat on a bank of turf.
"Do you smell the wild thyme, Mercy?" he continued. "They call it a
figure of love, rewarding with sweetness even what bruises it. It is
so I have answered all your coldness. Mind you not the St. John's Eve,
when the folks had caught you in the rope? Who fought his way to your
help? And then you sat by my side on this very bank under the
hawthorn; and when I asked, might I woo you?--you know what you said.
And have I ever failed in my suit? Did I ever court another? When you
were cross, and would not dance with me, did I seek any one else?
Whose colours did I wear when I threw, one after another, all the best
of Penwith? Yet, from that first evening, never could I win a civil
word. And now I am called far away, Mercy will give me no hope. When
I come back, she will be another's."
"No," said the maiden, and stopped short.
"Then why will she not be mine now?" asked Michael. "Why will she not
go with me to London; there to be wed, and live together in happiness?
Shall it not be so, dear Mercy? Alone in the great town, I shall
always be thinking of Mercy--be thinking that she may be listening to
Edward Owen, whom he has often thrown for her sake----"
"And shalt throw him again," interrupted a manly voice. "Shalt throw
him again, or take a fall thyself."
The individual whom Michael had named stood before the astonished
pair. Sinson sprang to his feet. Was it the duskiness of the evening,
or passion, that made his face so dark?
"Owen," he said, in a fierce whisper, "thou wert best stand off now,
or mayst get more than a fall."
"Come on!" cried his antagonist, without attempting to disguise his
anger. "Come on, villain! I'm ready for you."
Fortunately perhaps for Michael, who was not in a mood to fight or
wrestle fairly, Mercy interposed.
"Hoity-toity!" she cried; "pray, Master Edward, where did you learn to
give such names to your betters? And where did you learn to follow
honest people's steps, and watch them? And think you, my--do you
hear?--my Michael is to fight with such as you? Go home, and learn
manners."
"Oh, Mercy!" cried Owen, "you know not what you say. You know not what
he means. But my part is done. Remember, Edward Owen's is not the only
heart you'll break. And so, good-night."
He turned and walked steadily away. Michael endeavoured to resume the
thread of his previous discourse. But his listener's mood was entirely
changed.
"Saucy fellow!" she cried, laughing and looking after Owen; "he's a
rare one to come and rate me. But do you know, Mr. Michael, I believe
he's a better man than you. There, that will do. To London to be
married! No, Mr. Michael, not quite so far, if you please. Oh, yes, of
course. D'ye think I like fighting? There. Good-night, Mr. Michael.
No. If you follow me, I shall call him back."
She disengaged herself from her suitor, and tripped lightly through
the gloom in the footsteps of Owen.
Michael watched her retreating form with a scowl darker even than that
with which he rose to meet the intruder upon his courtship. "Shalt rue
the day"--he muttered, "shalt rue the day that saw thee cross my
wooing. A better man than me, did she say? Look to thyself, Master
Edward Owen."
With a heaving breast and an irregular gait, Sinson paced to and fro
for some time along the edge of the cliff, and then turned moodily to
Wilderness Lodge. The next day he departed on his way to London.