‘QUI PEUT SOUS LE SOLEIL TROMPER SA DESTINEE?’
CHURCHILL was waiting at the inn door to receive his wife. He had ridden
across on his favourite horse Tarpan—a long-necked, raking bay, over
sixteen hands, and a great jumper—a horse with a tremendous stride, just
such a brute as Lenore’s lover might have bestridden in that awful
nightride.
‘Is the man here, Churchill?’ Madge asked, anxiously.
‘Yes, love. There is nothing to be uneasy about,’ answered her husband,
replying to her looks rather than to her words.
‘Yet you seem anxious, Churchill.’
‘Only in my magisterial capacity. Tresillian is here. We shall commit
this fellow in no time. It will only need a few words from Viola and Sir
Lewis.’
Not a syllable about the diamond necklace had Mr. Penwyn said to his
wife. He had replaced the gems in her dressing-case while she slept
peacefully in the adjoining room, and no one but himself and the burglar
knew how far the attempted robbery had gone.
They all went up the narrow little staircase, Mr. Penwyn leading his
wife up the steep stairs, Viola and Sir Lewis following. The
justice-room was full of people—or at least that end of it devoted to
the public. The other end of it was fenced off, and here at a table sat
Mr. Tresillian, J. P., and his clerk—ready for action.
‘Look, Churchill,’ whispered Madge, as her husband put her hand through
his arm and led her towards this end of the room, ‘there is the woman at
the lodge. What can have brought her here?’
Mr. Penwyn’s glance followed his wife’s for a moment. Yes, there stood
Rebecca, of the North Lodge, sullen, even threatening of aspect, or
seeming so to the eye that looked at her now. What a horrible likeness
she bore to that ruffian he had dealt with last night!
Mr. Tresillian shook hands with the two ladies. He was a tall, stout
man, with a florid countenance, who rode to hounds all the season, and
devoted himself to the pleasures of the table for the rest of the year.
It was something awful to the crowd to see him shake hands, and smile,
and talk about the weather, just like a common mortal; to see him
pretend to be so good-natured too, when it was his function—the very
rule of his being—to inflict summary punishment upon his fellow-men, to
have no compassion for pleasant social vices, and to be as hard on a
drunkard as upon a thief.
There was only one case to be heard this morning, and the thrilling
interest of that one case held the spectators breathless. Women stood on
tiptoe peering over the shoulders of the men—women who ought to have
been at their washtubs, or baking homely satisfying pasties for the
family supper.
The ruffian was brought in closely guarded by a couple of rural
policemen, and looking considerably the worse for last night’s
recapture. He had fought like a wild cat for his freedom, had given and
taken a couple of black eyes, had furthermore received a formidable cut
across his forehead, and had had his clothes torn in the scuffle.
The two Tyrrels, father and son, also in a damaged condition, were there
to relate proudly how they had pounced upon the offender just as he was
clambering over a fence. They had told their story already so many
times, in an informal manner, to curious friends and acquaintances, that
they were prepared to give it with effect presently when they should be
put upon oath.
Mr. Tresillian, who went to work in a very slow and ponderous way, was
still conferring with his clerk in a bass undertone, which sounded like
distant organ music, when Rebecca Mason pushed her way through the
crowd, and came to that privileged portion of the room where Mr. Penwyn
and his wife were sitting.
‘I want to know if you’re going to press this charge, Mr. Penwyn,’ she
asked, quietly enough, but hardily.
‘Of course he is,’ answered Madge, with a flash of anger. ‘Do you
suppose we are going to overlook such an attempt—a man breaking into our
house after midnight, and frightening my sister nearly out of her wits?
We should never feel secure at the Manor if this man were not made an
example of. Pray what interest have you in pleading for him?’
‘I’ll tell you that by and by, ma’am. I did not ask the question of you,
but of my master.’
‘Your master and I have but one thought in the matter.’
‘Do you mean to prosecute that man, Mr. Penwyn,’ asked Rebecca, looking
steadfastly at the Squire. Even while addressing Madge she had kept her
eyes on Churchill’s face. The brief dialogue had been carried on in an
undertone, while Mr. Tresillian and the clerk were still muttering to
each other.
‘The case is out of my hands. I have no power to prevent the man’s
committal.’
‘Yes, you have,’ answered Rebecca, doggedly. ‘You have power to do
anything here. What is law or justice against a great landowner, in a
place like this? You are lord and master here.’
‘Why do you bother me about this burglar?’
‘He is my son.’
‘I am sorry any servant of mine should be related to such a scoundrel.’
‘I am not proud of the relationship,’ answered the lodge-keeper, coolly.
‘Yet there are men capable of worse crimes than entering another man’s
house—criminals who wear smooth faces and fine broadcloth—and stand high
in the world. I’d rather have that vagabond for my son than some of
them.’
Churchill glanced at his wife, as if to consult her feelings. But Madge,
so tender and pitying to the destitute and afflicted, had an inflexible
look just now. Rebecca was her particular antipathy, a blot upon the
fair face of Penwyn manor, which she was most anxious to see removed;
and now this Rebecca appeared in a new and still more disagreeable light
as the mother of a burglar. It was hardly strange, therefore, that Mrs.
Penwyn should be indisposed to see the law outraged in the cause of
mercy.
‘I regret that my wish to serve you will not allow me to condone a
felony on behalf of your son, said Churchill, with slow distinctness,
and meeting that piercing gaze of the gipsy’s with as steady a look in
his own grey eyes. ‘The attempt was too daring to be overlooked. A man
breaks into my house at midnight, naturally with some evil intent.’
Still not a word about the diamonds which he had recovered from the
burglar’s person.
‘He did not break into your house,’ argued Rebecca, ‘you left your
windows open, and he walked in. He had been drinking, I know, and hardly
knew where he was going, or what he was doing. If he had had his wits
about him, he wouldn’t have allowed himself to be caught by a girl,’ she
added, contemptuously.
‘He may have been drunk,’ said Churchill, with a thoughtful look, ‘but
that hardly mends the matter. It isn’t pleasant to have a drunken
vagabond prowling about one’s house. What do you say, my queen?’ he
asked, turning to Madge, with a smile, but not quite the smile which was
wont to brighten his face when he looked at her. ‘Will you exercise your
prerogative of mercy? Shall I try what I can do to get this vagabond off
with a few days in Penwyn lock-up, instead of having him committed for
trial?’
‘I have no compassion for a man who lifted his hand against my sister,’
answered Madge, warmly. ‘Sir Lewis told me all about it, Churchill. He
saw that villain raise his clenched fist to strike Viola’s face. He
would have disfigured her for life, or killed her perhaps, if Sir Lewis
had not caught his arm. So you suppose I am going to plead for such a
scoundrel as that?’
‘Come, Mrs. Penwyn, you are a woman and a mother,’ pleaded Rebecca, ‘you
ought to be merciful.’
‘Not at the expense of society. Justice and order would, indeed, be
outraged if the law were stretched in favour of such a ruffian as your
son.’
‘You’re hard, lady,’ said the gipsy, ‘but I think I can say a word that
will soften you. Let me speak to you in the next room,’ looking towards
a half-open door that communicated with a small parlour adjoining. ‘Let
me speak with you alone for five minutes—you’d better not say no, for
his sake,’ she urged, with a glance at Churchill.
Mr. Penwyn rose suddenly with darkening brow, and seized Madge by the
arm, as if he would hold her away from the woman.
‘I will not suffer any communication between you and my wife,’ he
exclaimed. ‘You have said your say and have been answered. I will do
anything I can for you, grant anything you choose to ask for yourself,’
with emphasis, ‘but your son must take his chance.—Tresillian, we are
ready.’
‘Lady, you’d better hear me,’ pleaded the gipsy.
That plea weighed lightly enough with Madge Penwyn. She was watching her
husband’s face, and it was a look in that which alone influenced her
decision.
‘I will hear you,’ she said to the gipsy. ‘Ask Mr. Tresillian to wait
for a few minutes, Churchill.’
‘Madge, what are you thinking of?’ cried her husband. ‘She can have
nothing to say that has not been said already. She has had her answer.’
‘I will hear her, Churchill, and alone.’
That ‘I will’ was accompanied by an imperious look not often seen in
Madge Penwyn’s face—never before seen by him she looked at now.
‘As you will, love,’ he answered, very quietly, and made way for her to
pass into the adjoining room.
Rebecca followed, and shut the door between the two rooms. There was a
faint stir, and then the low hum of the little crowd sank into silence.
Every eye turned to that closed door; every mind was curious to know
what those two women were saying on the other side of it.
There was a pause of about ten minutes. Churchill sat by the official
table, silent and thoughtful. Mr. Tresillian fidgeted with the
stationery, and yawned once or twice. The ruffian stood in his place,
dogged and imperturbable, looking as if he were the individual least
concerned in the day’s proceedings.
At last the door opened, and Madge appeared. She came slowly into the
room,—slowly, and like a person who only walked steadily by an effort.
So white and wan was the face turned appealingly towards Churchill, that
she looked like one newly risen from some sickness unto death. Churchill
rose to go to her, but hesitatingly, as if he were doubtful whether to
approach her—almost as if they had been strangers.
‘Churchill,’ she said faintly, looking at him with pathetic eyes—a gaze
in which deepest love and despair were mingled. At that look and word he
went to her, put his arm round her, and led her gently back to her seat.
‘You must get this man off, Churchill,’ she whispered faintly. ‘You
must.’
He bent his head, but spoke not a word, only pressed her hand with a
grip strong as pain or death. And then he went to Mr. Tresillian, who
was growing tired of the whole business, and was at all times plastic as
wax in the hands of his brother magistrate, not being troubled with
ideas of his own in a general way. Indeed, he had expended so much
brain-power in the endeavour to out-manœuvre the manifold artifices of
certain veteran dog foxes in the district, that he could hardly be
supposed to have much intellectual force left for the Bench.
‘I find there has been a good deal of muddle in this business,’ said
Churchill to him confidentially. ‘The man is the son of my lodge-keeper,
and a decent hard-working fellow enough, it seems. He had been drinking,
and strayed into the Manor House in an obfuscated condition last
night—my servants are most to blame for leaving doors open—and Viola saw
him, and was frightened, and made a good deal of unnecessary fuss. And
then my keepers knocked the fellow about more than they need have done.
So I really think if you were to let him off with a day or two in the
lock-up, or even a severe reprimand——’
‘Yes—yes—yes—yes—yes,’ said Mr. Tresillian, keeping up a running fire of
muttered affirmatives throughout Churchill’s speech. ‘Certainly. Let the
fellow off, by all means, if he had no felonious intention, and Mrs.
Penwyn wishes it. Ladies are so compassionate. Yes, yes, yes, yes.’
Mr. Tresillian was thinking rather more about a certain fifteen-acre
wheat-field now ready for the sickle than of the business in hand.
Reapers were scarce in the land just now, and he was not clear in his
mind about getting in that corn.
So, instead of swearing in witnesses and holding a ceremonious
examination, Mr. Tresillian disappointed the assembled audience by
merely addressing a few sharpish words to the delinquent, and sending
him about his business, with a warning never more to create trouble in
that particular neighbourhood, lest it should be worse for him. The
offender was further enjoined to be grateful to Mr. and Mrs. Penwyn for
their kindness in not pressing the charge. And thus the business was
over, and the court rose. The crowd dispersed slowly, grumbling not a
little about Justice’s justice, and deeply disappointed at not having
seen the strange offender committed for trial.
‘If it had been one of us,’ a man remarked to a neighbour, ‘we shouldn’t
have got off so easy.’
‘No,’ growled another. ‘If it had been some poor devil had up for
licking his wife, he’d have got it hot.’
All was over. Viola and Sir Lewis Dallas, who had been indulging in a
little quiet flirtation by an open window, and not attending to the
progress of events, were beyond measure surprised at the abrupt close of
the proceedings, and not a little disappointed, for Viola had quite
looked forward to appearing in the witness-box at Bodmin Assize Court,
and being cross-examined by an impertinent barrister, and then
complimented upon her heroism by the judge, and perhaps cheered by the
multitude. Nothing could be flatter than this ending.
‘It’s just like Madge,’ exclaimed Viola. ‘She may make believe to be
angry for half an hour or so, but that soft heart of hers is melted at
the first piteous appeal. That horrid woman at the lodge has begged off
her horrid son.’
Madge, whiter than summer lilies, did not look in a condition to be
questioned just now.
‘See how ill she looks,’ said Viola to Sir Lewis. ‘They have worried her
into a nervous state with their goings on. Let us get her away.’
There was no need for Sir Lewis’s intervention. Churchill led his wife
out of the room. Erect, and facing the crowd firmly enough both of them,
but one pale as death.
‘Are you going to ride home, Churchill?’ asked Madge, as her husband
handed her into the carriage.
‘Yes, love, I may as well go back as I came on Tarpan.’
‘I had rather you came with us,’ she said, with an appealing look.
‘As you like, dear. Lewis, will you ride Tarpan?’
Sir Lewis looked at Viola and then at his boots. It was an honour to
ride Tarpan, but hardly a pleasant thing to ride him without straps; and
then Sir Lewis would have liked that homeward drive, with Viola for his
_vis-à-vis_.
‘By all means, if Mrs. Penwyn would rather you went back in the
carriage,’ he said good-naturedly, but with a look at Viola which meant
‘_You_ know what a sacrifice I am making.’
That drive home was a very silent one. Viola was suffering from reaction
after excitement, and leaned back with a listless air. Madge looked
straight before her, with grave fixed eyes, gazing into space. And still
there was not a cloud in the blue bright sky, and the reapers standing
amongst the tawny corn turned their swart faces towards the Squire’s
carriage, and pulled their moistened forelocks, and thought what a fine
thing it was for the gentry to be driving swiftly through the clear warm
air, lolling back upon soft cushions, and with no more exertion than was
involved in holding a silk umbrella.
‘But how white Madam Penwyn looks!’ said one of the men, a native of the
place, to his mate. ‘She doant look as if the good things of this life
agreed with her. She looks paler and more tired like than you nor me.’
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