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A STRANGE WORLD
A Novel
BY THE AUTHOR OF
‘LADY AUDLEY’S SECRET’
ETC. ETC. ETC.
IN THREE VOLUMES
VOL. III.
[Illustration: Publisher’s Logo]
LONDON
JOHN MAXWELL AND CO.
4, SHOE LANE, FLEET STREET
1875
[All rights reserved.]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS TO VOL. III.
-------
CHAP. PAGE
I. ‘LOST TO HER PLACE AND NAME’ 1
II. ‘THOU HAST ALL SEASONS FOR 53
THINE OWN, O DEATH!’
III. FIRE THAT IS CLOSEST KEPT 66
BURNS MOST OF ALL
IV. FOR THERE’S NO SAFETY IN THE 78
REALM FOR ME
V. ‘FOR THOU WERT STILL THE POOR 94
MAN’S STAY’
VI. I FOUND HIM GARROUSLY GIVEN 104
VII. ‘FULL COLD MY GREETING WAS AND 122
DRY’
VIII. ‘WHEN TIME SHALL SERVE, BE 129
THOU NOT SLACK’
IX. ‘THE DAYS HAVE VANISHED, TONE 152
AND TINT’
X. ‘THE SADDEST LOVE HAS SOME 183
SWEET MEMORY’
XI. ‘STABB’D THROUGH THE HEART’S 193
AFFECTIONS TO THE HEART’
XII. ‘IT IS TIME, O PASSIONATE 215
HEART,’ SAID I
XIII. ‘NOT AS A CHILD SHALL WE AGAIN 227
BEHOLD HER’
XIV. ‘A SOUL AS WHITE AS HEAVEN’ 236
XV. ENID, THE PILOT, STAR OF MY 259
LONE LIFE
XVI. ‘FOR ALL IS DARK WHERE THOU 282
ART NOT’
XVII. ‘BUT IN SOME WISE ALL THINGS 289
WEAR ROUND BETIMES’
------------------------------------------------------------------------
A STRANGE WORLD
CHAPTER I
‘LOST TO HER PLACE AND NAME.’
Having come to Borcel End to perform a certain duty, Maurice Clissold
gave himself up heart and soul to the task in hand. Pleasant as it might
have been to him to spend the greater part of his time in the agreeable
society of Mrs. Penwyn and her guests—playing croquet on sunny
afternoons, or joining in a match of billiards in the old hall, meeting
the best people to be met in that part of the world, and living that
smooth, smiling life, in which care seems to have no part—pleasant as
this might have been, he gave it up without a sigh, and spent his days
and nights strolling about the farm, or sitting by the hearth where the
sick woman’s presence maintained an unchanging gloom.
Every day showed the swift progress of disease. The malady, which had
made its first approaches with insidious slowness, was now advancing
upon the sufferer with appalling rapidity. Every day the hectic of the
dying woman’s cheek took a more feverish brightness, the glassy eye a
more awful light. Maurice felt that there was no time to be lost. His
eyes, less accustomed to the aspect of the invalid than the eyes of
kindred who had seen her daily throughout the progress of decline,
clearly perceived that the end was not far off. Whatever secrets were
hidden in that proud heart must be speedily revealed, or would remain
buried there till the end of time. Yet how was he, almost a stranger, to
win confidence which had been refused to a son?
He tried his uttermost to conciliate Mrs. Trevanard by small attentions.
He adjusted the window-curtains, so as to temper the light for those
weary eyes. He arranged the invalid’s pillow as tenderly as Martin could
have done. He read to her—sometimes reading passages of Scripture which
she herself selected, and which were frequently of an awful and
denunciatory character, the cry of prophets and holy men against the
iniquities of their age.
Those portions of Holy Writ which he himself chose were of a widely
different tone. He read all that is most consoling, most tender in the
Gospel. The words he chose were verily messengers of peace. And even
that stubborn heart was touched—the woman who had prided herself on her
own righteousness felt that she was a sinner.
One afternoon when Maurice and Mrs. Trevanard were alone by the
fireside—Martin and his father being both at Seacomb market, and old
Mrs. Trevanard being confined to her own room with a sharp attack of
rheumatism—the invalid appeared struck by the young man’s kindness in
remaining with her.
‘I should be dull company for you at the best of times,’ she said, ‘and
it’s worse for you now that I’m so ill. Why don’t you go for a ride or a
drive, and enjoy the country, instead of sitting in this dismal room
with me?’
‘I am very glad to keep you company, Mrs. Trevanard,’ he answered,
kindly. ‘You must find time heavy on market days, when there’s no one
here.’
‘Yes, the hours seem very long. I make one of the girls sit here at her
needlework. But that’s almost worse than loneliness, to hear the click,
click, click of the needle, and see the girl sitting there, with no more
sense in her than a statue, or not so much, for a statue does no harm.
And then one gets thinking of the past, and the things we have done
which we ought not to have done, and the things left undone which we
ought to have done. It’s a dreary thought. When I was well and strong,
and able to bustle about the house, I used to think I had done my duty
in that state of life to which it had pleased God to call me. I knew
that I had never spared myself, or given myself up to the lusts of the
flesh, such as eating, and drinking, and slothfulness. The hardest crust
or the poorest bit off the joint was always good enough for me. I was
always the first up of a morning, summer and winter, and my hands were
never idle. But since I’ve been ill, and sitting here all day, I’ve come
to think myself a sinner. That’s a hard thought, Mr. Clissold, after a
life of care and labour.’
‘Perhaps it is the best thought any of us can have,’ he answered, ‘the
natural conclusion of every Christian who considers how far his highest
endeavours fall short of his Master’s divine example. Remember the story
of the publican.’
And then he read that sublimely simple record of the two men who went up
into the temple to pray.
He had hardly finished when Mrs. Trevanard burst into tears, the first
he had ever seen her shed. The sight shocked him, and yet inspired hope.
‘I have been like the Pharisee, I have trusted in my own righteousness,’
she said at last, drying her tears.
‘Dear Mrs. Trevanard,’ Maurice began, earnestly, ‘there are few of us
altogether blameless—there are few lives in which some wrong has not
been done to others—some mistake made which, perhaps, has gone far to
wreck the happiness of others. The uttermost we can do, the uttermost
God will demand from us, is repentance and atonement—such poor
atonement, at least, as we may be able to offer for the wrong we have
done. But it is a bitter thing to outstand God’s hour, and hold by our
wrong-doing, to appear before Him as obstinate sinners who know their
sin, yet cleave to it.’
The words moved her, for she turned her face away from him, and buried
it on her pillow. He could see the feeble frame shaken by stifled sobs.
‘If you have wronged any one, and seek to atone for that wrong now in
this eleventh hour——’ said Maurice.
Mrs. Trevanard turned quickly round, interrupting him. ‘Eleventh hour,’
she repeated. ‘Then they have all made up their minds that I am to die?’
‘Indeed, no! Your husband and son, and all about you, most earnestly
desire your recovery. But you have been so long suffering from this
trying disease, without improvement, that a natural fear has arisen——’
‘They are right,’ she said, with a gloomy look. ‘I feel that my doom is
upon me.’
‘It will not shorten your days, or lessen your chances of recovery, if
you prepare for the worst, Mrs. Trevanard,’ said Maurice, determined to
push the question to its ultimate issue. ‘Many a man defers making his
will, from a dim notion that to make it is to bring death nearer to him;
and then some day death approaches him unawares, and his wishes remain
unfulfilled. We must all die; so why should we not live prepared for
death?’
‘I thought I was prepared,’ replied Mrs. Trevanard, ‘because I have
clung to the Scriptures.’
‘The Gospel imposes certain duties upon us, and if those duties are
unfulfilled our holding by the Bible will avail us very little. It isn’t
reading the Bible, but living according to its teaching, that will make
us Christians.’
‘You talk to me boldly,’ said the sick woman, ‘as if you knew I was a
sinner.’
‘I know nothing about you, Mrs. Trevanard—except that you seem to have
been a good wife and a good mother.’
At that word mother, Bridget Trevanard winced, as if an old wound had
been touched.
‘But I believe that you have some heavy burden on your mind,’ continued
Maurice, ‘and that you will know neither rest nor peace until that load
has been lightened.’
‘You are a shrewd judge,’ said Mrs. Trevanard, bitterly. ‘And pray how
came you to think this of me?’
‘The conviction has grown out of various circumstances, which I need not
trouble you with. I am a student of mankind, Mrs. Trevanard, a close
observer by habit. Pray do not suppose that I have watched you, or
played the spy at your fireside. Be assured that I have no feeling but
friendship towards you, that my sympathy is ready for your sorrows. And
if you can be induced to trust me——’
‘If I could trust you!’ repeated Mrs. Trevanard. ‘If there was any one
on earth I dared trust, in whose honest friendship I could believe, in
whose word I dare confide the honour of a most unhappy household, heaven
knows I would turn to him gladly enough. My husband is weak and
helpless, a man who would blab a bitter secret to every acquaintance he
has, who would look to others to drag him out of every difficulty, and
make his trouble town-talk. My son is hot-headed and impulsive, would
take trouble too deeply to heart, and would be betrayed into some act of
folly before I was cold in my grave. No, there are none of my own
household I dare trust.’
‘Trust me, Mrs. Trevanard.’
She looked at him earnestly with her melancholy eyes—looked as if she
would fain have pierced the secrets of his heart.
‘You are a man of the world,’ she said, ‘and therefore might be able to
give help and counsel in a difficult matter. You are a gentleman, and
therefore would not betray a family secret. But what reason can you have
for interesting yourself in my affairs? Why should you take any trouble
about me or mine?’
‘First, because I am honestly attached to your son; and secondly,
because I have felt a profound interest in your afflicted daughter.’
At that word the mother started up from her reclining position, and
looked at the speaker fixedly.
‘Muriel!’ she exclaimed, ‘I did not know you had ever seen her.’
‘I have seen her and spoken to her. I met her one evening in the copse
at the bottom of the garden, and talked to her.’
‘What did she talk about?’
‘You—and—her child.’
This was a random shot, but it hit the mark.
‘Great heaven! she spoke to you of that? A secret of years gone by,
which it has been the business of my life to hide; which I have thought
of through many a wakeful night upon my weary pillow. And she told you—a
stranger?’
‘I spoke to her about you, but at the word mother she shrank from me
with a look of horror. “Do not speak to me of my mother,” she cried,
“what has she done with my child?” That speech made a profound
impression upon me, as you may imagine. The remembrance of that speech
emboldens me to ask for your confidence to-day.’
‘I saved that unhappy girl’s good name,’ said Mrs. Trevanard.
‘There you doubtless did a mother’s duty. But was it the maintenance of
her character which occasioned the loss of her reason?’
‘I don’t know. It is a miserable story from first to last. But since you
know so much I may as well trust you with the rest; and if, when you
have heard all, you think there has been a wrong done that needs
redress, you will perhaps help me to bring about that redress.’
‘Be assured of my uttermost help, if you will but trust me fully.’
‘You shall hear all,’ said Mrs. Trevanard, decisively. She took a little
of some cooling drink which always stood ready for her on the table by
her easy chair, and then began the story of a family sorrow.
‘You have seen Muriel,’ she said, ‘and you have perceived in her wasted
countenance some faint traces of former beauty. At eighteen years of age
she was a noble creature. She had a face which pleased and attracted
every one who saw her. Her schoolmistress wrote me letters about the
admiration she had excited on the breaking-up day, when the gentry,
whose daughters attended the school, met to witness the distribution of
prizes. I was weak enough to shed tears of joy over those letters—weak
enough to be proud of gifts which were destined to become a snare of the
evil one. Muriel was clever as well as beautiful. She was always at the
top of her class, always the winner of prizes. Her father and I used to
read her letters again and again, and I think we both worked all the
harder, looking forward to the day when Muriel would marry some
gentleman farmer, and would require a handsome portion. We were quite
content with our own position as simple working people, but we had given
Muriel the education of a lady, and we counted upon her marrying above
her station.’
‘“After all, she’s a Trevanard,” her father used to say, “and the
Trevanards come of as good a stock as any in Cornwall—not even barring
the Penwyns.”
‘Well, the time came for Muriel to come home for good. She had not spent
much of her holidays at home, for there’d almost always been some of her
favourite fellow-pupils that wanted her company, and when she was
invited to stay at gentlefolks’ houses I didn’t like to say no, and her
father said it was a good thing for her to make friends among the
gentry. So most of her holiday time had been spent out visiting, in
spite of old Mrs. Trevanard, who was always grumbling about it, and
saying that no good ever came of people forgetting their position. But
now the time had come for Muriel to take her place beside the family
hearth, and share our plain quiet life.’
The mother paused, with a bitter sigh, vividly recalling that bygone
day, and her daughter’s vanished beauty—the fair young face which had
smiled at her from the other side of the hearth, the happy girlish
laugh, the glad young voice, the atmosphere of youth and brightness
which Muriel’s return had brought to the grave old homestead.
‘Her grandmother had declared that Muriel would be dull and discontented
at home, that we had made a great mistake in having her educated and
brought up among her superiors in station, spoiling her by putting false
notions in her head, and a good deal more of the same kind. But there
was no discontent about Muriel when she came among us. She took her
place as naturally as possible, wanted to help me with the dairy, or
about the house, or to do anything she could to make herself useful. But
I was too proud of her beauty and her cleverness to allow that. “No,
Muriel,” I said, “you’ve been educated as a lady, and you shall not be
the less a lady because you’ve come home. Your life here may be very
dull, there’s no help for that, but it shall be the life of a lady. You
may play the piano, and read your books, and do fancy work, and no one
shall ever call upon you to soil your fingers in dairy work or house
work.” So when she found I was determined, she gave way and lived like a
lady. Her father bought her a piano, which still stands in the best
parlour. Her gave her money to buy all the books she wanted. Indeed,
there’s nothing she could have asked of him that he would have denied
her, he was so proud and fond of his only daughter.’
‘She brought you happiness, then, in the beginning?’ said Maurice.
‘Yes, there couldn’t have been a better girl than Muriel was for the
first year after she left school.
‘She was always the same sweet smiling creature, full of life, never
finding the old house dull, amusing herself day after day with her books
and piano, roaming about the fields, and along the beach for hours
together, sometimes alone, sometimes with her little brother to keep her
company.’
‘She was very fond of her brother, I understand?’
‘Yes, she doted upon Martin. She taught him to read, and write, and
cipher, and used to tell him fairy tales of an evening, between the
lights, sitting in a low chair by the hearth. She sang him to sleep many
a night. In fact, she took all the trouble of him off my hands. She and
her grandmother got on very well together, too, and the old lady having
nothing to do, Muriel and she were often companions. Mrs. Trevanard was
not blind at that time, but her sight was weak, and she was glad to get
Muriel to read to her. Altogether our home seemed brighter and happier
after Muriel came back to us. Perhaps we were not humble enough, or
thankful enough for our happiness. Anyhow, trouble soon came.’
‘How did the evil begin?’
‘As it almost always does. It stole upon us unawares, like a thief in
the night. The Squire’s eldest son, Captain Penwyn, came home on leave,
before going on foreign service with his regiment, and spent a good deal
of his leisure time fly-fishing in the streams about here. It was
splendid summer weather, and we weren’t surprised at his being about the
place so much, especially as folks said that he and his father didn’t
get on well together. Now and again he would come in on a warm afternoon
and take a draught of milk, and sit and talk for half an hour or so. He
was a perfect gentleman, or had the seeming of one. He was grave and
thoughtful in his ways, yet full of kindness and pleasantness. He was
just the last kind of man that any father and mother would have thought
of shutting their door against. His manner to Muriel was as respectful
as if she had been the greatest lady in the land, but he and she
naturally found a good deal to say to each other, she having been
educated as a lady, and being able to understand and appreciate all he
said.’
Mrs. Trevanard paused. She was approaching the painful part of her
story, and had need to nerve herself for the effort.
‘Heaven knows, I had neither fear nor thought of fear at the time our
sorrow came upon us. I had complete confidence in Muriel. If I had seen
her surrounded by a score of admirers I should have felt no anxiety. She
was a Trevanard, and the Trevanards had always been noted for beauty and
pride. No female of the Trevanard family had ever been known to lower
herself, or to forfeit her good name. And she came of as good a race on
her mother’s side. The last thing I should have thought of was that my
daughter would degrade herself by listening to a dishonourable proposal.
Well, time went on, and one day Muriel brought me a letter she had
received from her late schoolmistress, asking her to go and stay at the
school for a week or two at Michaelmas. The school was just outside
Seacomb, a handsome house, standing in its own gardens, and there were
very few of the pupils that were not gentlemen’s daughters, or at any
rate daughters of the richest farmers in the neighbourhood. Altogether,
Miss Barlow’s school stood very high in people’s estimation, and I felt
flattered by Miss Barlow’s asking my daughter to visit her, now that
Muriel’s schooling days were over, and there was no more money to be
expected from us.’
Again a pause and a sigh, and a few minutes of thoughtful silence,
before Mrs. Trevanard resumed.
‘Muriel was very much excited about the invitation. I remember the
bright flush upon her cheeks as she showed me the letter, and her
curious, half-breathless way when she asked if I would let her go, and
if I thought her father would consent to her going. “Why, you’re very
anxious to run away from us, Muriel,” I said, “but that’s only to be
expected: Borcel End must be dull for you.” “No, indeed, mother,” she
answered quickly, “Borcel End is a dear old place, and I’ve been very
happy here; but I should like to accept Miss Barlow’s invitation.”’
‘You consented, I suppose?’ said Maurice.
‘Yes, it wouldn’t have been easy for us to refuse anything she asked, at
that time. And I think both her father and I were proud of her being
made a friend of by such a superior person as Miss Barlow. So one sunny
morning, at the beginning of the Michaelmas holidays, my husband drove
Muriel over to Seacomb in the trap, and left her with Miss Barlow. She
was to stay a fortnight, and her father was to fetch her at the end of
the visit; but before the fortnight was over we had a letter from
Muriel, asking to be allowed to extend her visit to three weeks, and
saying that her father needn’t trouble about fetching her, as Miss
Barlow would arrange for sending her home. This wounded Michael a
little, being so proud of his daughter. “I thought my girl would have
been glad to see her father after a fortnight’s separation,” he said.
“She always used to be glad when I went over to see her on market days;
and if I missed a week she used to call me unkind, and tell me how she
had fretted at not seeing me; but I suppose things are changed now she’s
a young woman.”’
‘Did she come back at the time promised?’
‘No, it was two or three days over the three weeks when she returned.
She came in a hired fly from Seacomb, and I had never seen her look more
beautiful or more a lady than she looked when she stepped out of the
carriage in front of the porch. “Ah,” I thought to myself, “she looks as
if she was born to hold a high position in the county;” and I thought of
Captain Penwyn, and what a match he would be for her. I did not think he
was a bit too good for her. “There’s no knowing what may happen,” I said
to myself. Well, from this time forward she had a strange fitful way
with her, sometimes all brightness and happiness, sometimes
low-spirited. Her grandmother noticed the change, and said it was the
consequence of over-education. “You’ve reared up your child to have all
kinds of wishes and fancies that you can’t understand or satisfy,” she
said, “and have made her unfit for her home.” I wouldn’t believe this;
yet, as time went on, I could see clearly enough that Muriel was not
happy.’
Again a heavy sigh, and a brief pause.
‘Captain Penwyn left Cornwall about this time, to join his regiment in
Canada, and after he had gone, I observed that Muriel’s low spirits,
which had been fitful before, became continual. She evidently struggled
with her grief, tried to amuse herself with her books and piano, tried
to interest herself in little Martin, but it was no use. I have often
gone into the best parlour where she sat, and found her in tears. I have
asked her the cause of her despondency, but she always put me off with
some answer: she had been reading a book that affected her, or she had
been playing a piece of music which always made her cry; and I noticed
that at this time she rarely played any music that was not melancholy.
If she began anything bright and gay, she always broke down in it, and
her father sometimes asked her what had become of all her lively tunes.
All at once it struck me that perhaps she had grown attached to Captain
Penwyn, little as they had seen of each other, and that she was fretting
at his absence. Yet I thought this would be too foolish for our Muriel.
Or perhaps she had been wounded by his indifference to her. A girl
accustomed to so much admiration as she had received might expect to
make conquests. I used to puzzle myself about the cause of her sadness
for hours together as I went about the house, but in all my thoughts of
Muriel, I never imagined anything near the horrible truth.’
She stopped, clasped her hands before her face, and then went on
hurriedly. ‘One night, when Muriel was sitting by this hearth, with her
brother in her arms, singing to him, she broke down suddenly, and began
to sob hysterically. Her father was frightened out of his wits, and came
fussing about her in a way to make her worse, but I put my arm round her
and led her to her own room. When we were together there she flung
herself upon my breast, and then the awful truth came out. A child was
to be born in this house—a child whose birth must be hidden, whose
father’s name was never to be spoken.’
‘Did she tell you all the truth?’
‘She told me nothing. There was a secret, she said—a secret she had
solemnly sworn to keep, come what might. She asked me to trust her, to
believe in her honour, in spite of all that seemed to condemn her. She
asked me to send her away somewhere, to some quiet corner of the earth
where no one need know her name or anything about her. But I told her
there was no corner of the earth so secret that slander and shame would
not follow her, and no hiding-place so safe as her father’s house. “If
you were to go away it would set people talking,” I said.’
‘There may have been a secret marriage,’ suggested Maurice.
‘I asked her that question, but she refused to answer. I cannot believe
that she would have kept back the truth from me, her mother, in that
hour of agony. I asked her if George Penwyn was the villain who had
brought this misery upon us, but this question also she refused to
answer. She had made a promise that sealed her lips, she said. I must
think the worst of her, if I could not trust her.’
‘Would it not have been better and wiser to believe in your daughter’s
honour, even in the face of circumstances that seemed to condemn?’ asked
Maurice, with a touch of reproach.
‘Who can be wise when they see all they have most loved and honoured
suddenly snatched away from them? The discovery of my daughter’s
dishonour was more bitter to me than her sudden death would have been.
When I left her that night my prayer was that she might die, and her
sorrow and her blighted name go down unknown to the grave. A wicked
prayer, you think, no doubt; but you have never passed through such an
agony as I felt that night. I lay awake thinking what was to be done. I
had no doubt in my own mind that George Penwyn was the man who had slain
my daughter’s soul. There was no one else I could suspect. When I rose
at daybreak next morning I had my plan, in some measure, settled.’
Maurice listened breathlessly; he felt that he was on the threshold of
the household mystery—the sacrifice that had been made to the family’s
good name.
‘Whenever any of us were ill, old Mrs. Trevanard used to doctor us. She
has all kinds of recipes for medicines to cure small ailments. It was
only when a case was very bad that we sent for a doctor. Now my first
precaution was to remove Muriel to the room above her grandmother’s, a
room cut off from the rest of the house, as you know, and to place her
under old Mrs. Trevanard’s care, in such a manner that the
house-servant—we had only one then—had no chance of approaching her. To
do this, of course I had to tell Mrs. Trevanard the secret. You may
suppose that went hard with me, but the old lady behaved well throughout
my trouble, and never spoke a reproachful word of Muriel. “Let her come
to me, poor lamb,” she said, “I’ll stand by her, come what may.” So we
moved Muriel to that out-of-the-way room, and I told her father that she
was ill with a slight attack of low fever, and that I thought it wisest
to place her in her grandmother’s care. He was very anxious and fidgety
about her, and a dreadful gloom seemed to fall upon the house. I know
that I went about my daily work with a heart that was ready to break.’
‘It must have been a hard time, indeed,’ said Maurice, compassionately.
‘It was so hard as to try my faith in God’s goodness. My heart rebelled
against His decrees; but just when my despair was deepest, Providence
seemed to come to my help in a most unlooked-for manner. It was winter
at this time, near the end of winter, and very severe weather. The moors
were covered with snow, and no one came near Borcel from one week’s end
to another. One evening about dusk I was leaving the dairy, which is
detached from the house, and crossing the yard to go back to the
kitchen, when I saw a man and woman looking over the yard gate, the snow
beating down upon them—two as miserable objects as you could see. My
heart was hardened against others by my own grief, so I called to them
to go away, I had nothing to give them.
‘“If we go away from here it will be to certain death,” answered the
man. “As you are a Christian, give us a night’s shelter. We left Seacomb
early this morning to walk to Penwyn Manor, having a letter recommending
us to the Squire’s charity; but the walk was longer and more difficult
than we knew, and here we are at dark, just halfway on our journey. I
don’t ask much from you,—only enough to save us from perishing—a night’s
lodging in one of your empty barns.”
‘This was an appeal I could not resist. There was room enough to have
sheltered twenty such wanderers. So I took these two up to a hayloft
that was seldom used, and gave them a truss of old hay for a bed; and I
carried them a loaf and a jug of milk with my own hands. I don’t know
what put it into my head to wait upon them myself, instead of sending
the servant to them, but I think it pleased me to do this humble office,
knowing how low my daughter had fallen, and feeling as if there were
some kind of atonement in my humility.
‘These people were not common wanderers. I soon discovered that they
were very different from the tramps who came prowling about the place in
summer, begging or stealing whenever they had a chance. The woman was a
pretty-looking, gentle creature, who seemed deeply grateful for small
kindnesses. She had not long recovered from a serious illness, the
husband told me, and her delicate looks confirmed his statement. The man
spoke well, if not exactly like a gentleman, and his clothes, though
worn almost to rags, were not the clothes of a working man. I fancied
that he was a lawyer’s clerk, or perhaps, from his fluency of speech, a
broken-down Methodist parson.’
‘He spoke like a man accustomed to speaking in public, then, I
conclude,’ said Maurice.
‘Yes, that was the impression he gave me,’ replied Mrs. Trevanard. ‘I
went back to the house after having made them tolerably comfortable in
the loft,’ she continued, ‘and all that night I lay awake thinking about
these two people. They seemed to have dropped from the skies, somehow,
so suddenly and unexpectedly had they come upon me in the winter dusk;
and it came into my head, in that weary night, that they were
instruments of Providence sent to help me in my trouble. I had no clear
thought of what they would do for me, but I felt that since I should be
compelled to trust some one, by and by, with some part of our fatal
secret, it would be easier and better to trust waifs and strays like
these, who might wander away and carry their knowledge with them, than
anybody else. Neighbour or friend I dared not trust. My sole hope lay
among strangers.’
‘Did none of the farm people know of these wanderers’ arrival?’ asked
Maurice.
‘No. The men were at their supper when I took these people to the loft.
It was a loft over an empty stable, and was only used at odd times for a
surplus supply of fodder. I knew it was safe enough as a hiding-place,
so long as the people kept tolerably quiet. I had warned them against
making their presence known, as my husband was a hard man—heaven forgive
me for so great a falsehood—and might object to their being about the
place. Well, the snow came down thicker than ever next morning, and to
try and find a path across the moor would have been madness. Those most
accustomed to the country round would have been helpless in such
weather. So I took the people in the loft a warm comfortable breakfast
of coffee and bread and bacon, and I told them that they might stay till
the weather changed.’
‘They were grateful, I suppose.’
‘They thanked and blessed me, with tears. I was ashamed to receive their
thanks, knowing my selfish thought had been only of my own trouble, and
how little I had cared for their distress. The man told me that his name
was Eden, and that he was a broken-down gentleman. I think he said he
had been in the army, and had wealthy relations, but they had discarded
him, and after trying to earn his living by the use of his talents, he
had fallen into extreme poverty. He and his wife had come to Cornwall,
having heard that living was cheap in the west of England. I gathered
from him that he had tried to pick up a living by teaching, but had
failed, and was at last compelled to leave his lodgings, and in his
extremity had determined to appeal to Squire Penwyn, whom he had heard
of as a wealthy man. For that purpose he had rashly attempted to walk
across the moor, the snow having held off for a little, with his weakly
wife. “Heaven help you if you had found your way to the old Squire!” I
told him. “He’s not the man to do much for you.” I told them both that
they might stay until the weather was better, or stay till Mrs. Eden had
picked up her strength by means of rest and good plain food, provided
they kept themselves quiet in the loft; and they blessed me again as if
I had been their good angel.’
‘It was a welcome boon, no doubt.’
‘In the course of that day it came out that Mrs. Eden had not long
before lost her first baby, and that she had fretted for it a good deal.
This confirmed my idea that these people were instruments sent me by
Providence, and I laid my plans, and arranged everything clearly in my
own mind. A fortnight went by, and the snow began to melt in the
valleys, and our men had hard work to keep the place from being flooded.
Michael was out all day helping to cut drains to carry the water off the
stackyard. As the weather brightened Mr. Eden seemed to get uneasy in
his mind. “You’ll be wanting to get rid of us, ma’am,” he said. “The
wayfarers must resume their journey through the wilderness of life.” But
I told him he could stay till the weather was milder, on account of his
sickly wife. I was not ready for them to leave yet awhile.’
‘And in all this time no one discovered them?’ asked Maurice.
‘No; that part of the premises lies out of every one’s way. You may go
and look at it to-morrow, if you like, and see what a deserted corner it
is. They had a fright once or twice—heard the men’s voices near, but no
one ever approached the loft. I took care to pay my visits to them at
meal-times, when there was no one about to see me. I always kept my
dairy under lock and key, and I used to put the supplies for my
pensioners in the dairy. It was easy to carry things from the dairy to
the loft without being observed. I fed them well, gave them a few old
books to read, and gave Mrs. Eden working materials, and a piece of
calico to make under-clothes for herself, and a useful gown or two into
the bargain. I had ample stores of all kinds hoarded up, and it was easy
enough for me to be charitable.’
‘Your pensioners did not grow tired of their retreat?’
‘Far from it. They had suffered too much from actual want not to be
thankful for food and shelter which cost them nothing. Mr. Eden told me
that he had never been happier than in that loft. I had contrived to
take them over blankets, and a few old cushions to sit upon, and many
other comforts, by degrees. Mrs. Eden’s health had wonderfully improved.
One day, after she had been talking to me of the child she had lost, I
asked her if she could love and cherish a motherless infant confided to
her care. She said she could, indeed, with all her heart, and her whole
face softened at the thought. It was a kind and gentle face at all
times. I asked her no further questions upon the subject, but I felt
full confidence in her. A week after that I took her a new-born babe in
the dead of the night—a sweet little lily-faced creature dressed in the
baby clothes my own fingers had stitched for my own first born child,
Muriel. Heaven knows what I suffered that night when I laid the innocent
lamb in Mrs. Eden’s arms—she only half wakened, and scared by the
suddenness of my coming. I had meant to tell her that the infant was the
child of one of my servants; but when the time came I could not utter
the lie. I told her only that the child was motherless, and that I
confided it to her care from that hour, and that on consideration of Mr.
Eden and herself taking the babe into their keeping and bringing it up
as their own, I would give them a good sum of money to start them in a
respectable way of life. But before I did this they must pledge
themselves never again to appear at Borcel End, or anywhere in the
neighbourhood of Borcel End, and never to make any application to me on
account of the child. From the hour they left Borcel End the child would
belong wholly to them, and there would be no link to connect it with me.
I said all this hurriedly that night, but I repeated it again next day
in a formal manner, and made them take a solemn oath upon my Bible,
binding them to perform their part of the bond.’
‘Did they stay long at Borcel after the child’s birth?’
‘Only five days, for I dreaded lest the baby’s crying should be heard by
any one about the place. Mrs. Eden took great care of the helpless
little thing, and kept it wonderfully quiet, but the fear of its crying
haunted me day and night. I was always fancying I heard it. I used to
start up from my pillow in the dead of the night, with the sound of that
child’s crying in my ears, and used to wonder my husband was not
awakened by it, although it would not have been possible for the sound
to reach our bedroom if the child had cried its loudest. But though I
knew this, the sound haunted me all the same, and I determined that the
Edens should start directly it was reasonably safe for the infant to be
moved. The weather was now mild and dry, the mornings were light soon
after six o’clock.’
‘How did you get them away secretly?’
‘That was my great difficulty. There was no possibility of going away in
any vehicle. They must go on foot, and make their way back to Seacomb.
At Seacomb they would take the train and get out of the county. After
thinking it over a long time, I decided that the safest thing would be
for them to leave at half-past six o’clock in the morning, when the men
would be all in the fields. I knew exactly what was going forward upon
the farm, and could make my plans accordingly. It would be easy for me
to take care that the maid-servant was safely employed indoors, and
could see nothing of Mr. and Mrs. Eden’s departure.’
‘Did you give these people much money?’
‘All that I possessed in the world—my secret savings of years. Good as
my husband is, and well to do though we were from the beginning, it had
pleased me to save a little money that was quite my own, to dispose of
as I pleased, unquestioned by Michael. I had wronged no one in saving
this money, it was all the result of small economies, and of
self-denial. My husband had given me a five-pound note for a new gown,
and I put the money away, and turned my last silk gown instead of buying
a new one, or I had reared a brood of choice poultry, and sold them to a
neighbouring farmer. The money was honestly come by, and it amounted to
over two hundred pounds, in notes and gold. I gave it to the Edens in a
lump. “Now remember, that this is to start you in life,” I said to them,
finally, “and that on consideration of this you take the responsibility
of this child’s maintenance henceforward, and that she shall be called
by your name, and as you thrive she shall thrive.” This they pledged
themselves to, most solemnly. Mrs. Eden seemed honestly attached to the
desolate baby already, and I had no fear that it would be unkindly
treated. Desperate as my necessities were, I do not think I could have
entrusted that helpless infant to any one of whose kindness I had not
felt confident.’
‘Was the child christened when it left Borcel End?’ asked Maurice.
He had a reason for thinking this question of considerable importance.
‘No. I might have baptized it myself, had it been in danger of death.
But the child was well enough, and seemed in a fair way to live. I told
Mr. and Mrs. Eden to have it christened as soon as they had left
Cornwall, and settled themselves in a new neighbourhood.’
‘Did you tell them what name to call the infant?’
‘No. It was to be their child henceforward. It was their business to
choose its name.’
‘They got safely away, I suppose?’
‘Yes, they left secretly and safely, just as I had planned. I shall
never forget that grey morning, in the chilly spring weather, and the
last glimpse I had of those two wanderers—the woman with the child
nestled to her breast, wrapped in my Muriel’s blue cloak—the cloak it
had been such pleasure to me to quilt when I was a young woman.’
Mrs. Trevanard sighed bitterly.
‘I can remember sitting in this room at work at the beginning of my
married life,’ she said, dreamily, ‘thinking what a grand thing it was
to be married, and the mistress of a large house and a prosperous farm.
I look back upon my life now—nine-and-thirty years of wedded life—and
think how heavily the care of it weighs against the happiness, and what
a life of toil it has been. “Heaping up riches, and ye know not who
shall gather them.”’
‘Did you never hear any more of Mr. and Mrs. Eden, or the child?’ asked
Maurice, most anxious to hear all that was to be told by lips that must
ere long be silent.
‘From that day to this not a word. They have kept their promise. Whether
they prospered or failed, I know not. They were neither of them past the
prime of life, and there seemed to me no reason why they should not get
on pretty well in some small trade, such as I advised them to try,
beginning humbly with a part of their little capital. Heaven knows what
may have become of them. The child may be dead—dead, years ago, taking
that quiet rest which will soon be mine.’
‘Or she may be living. She may have grown up beautiful, good, and
clever; such a grandchild as you would be proud to own.’
‘I should never be proud of a nameless child,’ answered Mrs. Trevanard,
gloomily.
‘The child you banished may not have been without a name. Forgive me if
I speak plainly. Far be it from me to reproach you. I offer you sympathy
and help, if help be possible. But I think you acted precipitately
throughout this sad business. What if there were a secret marriage
between your daughter and Captain Penwyn? Such a marriage might easily
have taken place during the three weeks that your daughter was away from
home, ostensibly on a visit to her late schoolmistress. Did you never
question that lady?’
‘It was not possible for me to do so. Miss Barlow retired from business
very soon after Muriel’s visit, and her school passed into the hands of
strangers. She went abroad to live, and I could never find out where to
communicate with her. But even if I had known where to address her, I
should have feared to write, lest my letter should compromise Muriel. My
one all-absorbing desire was to hide the disgrace that Providence had
been pleased to inflict upon our family, doubtless as a chastisement for
our pride.’
‘What effect upon your daughter had the loss of her child?’
‘Ah, that was terrible! After the baby’s birth Muriel had a fever. It
arose from no want of care or good nursing, for old Mrs. Trevanard
nursed her with unceasing devotion, and there couldn’t be a more skilful
nurse than my mother-in-law. But Muriel missed the child, and the loss
of it preyed upon her mind; and then, in her feverish delirium, she
fancied I had taken the baby away and murdered it. We had a fearful time
with her, old Mrs. Trevanard and I, while that delusion lasted, but by
care we brought her through it all; and as the fever passed off she grew
more reasonable, and understood that I had sent away the child to save
her good name; but she was different in her manner to me from what she
had been. She never kissed me or asked me to kiss her, or seemed to care
to have me near her. I could see that my only daughter was estranged
from me for ever. She clung to her grandmother, and it was as much as I
could do by and by to get her to come downstairs and sit among us. I was
very anxious to do this, if it was only to pacify her father, for he had
been anxious and fidgety all the time she was away from us, and after
the Edens had taken the baby away, I had been obliged to call in a
doctor from Seacomb, just to satisfy Michael. The doctor listened to all
that Mrs. Trevanard told him about Muriel, and just echoed what she
said, and did neither good nor harm by his coming.’
‘And your daughter resumed her place in the family?’
‘She came among us, and sat by the fire, reading, or sometimes singing
to little Martin, but she seemed in all things like the ghost of her
former self, and it was heart-breaking to see her poor pale face. She
would sit, with her melancholy eyes fixed on the burning logs, for half
an hour at a time, lost in thought. You may judge how I felt towards the
wretch who had worked this evil, when I saw his victim sitting there
joyless and hopeless—she, who might have been so bright and glad but for
him. Her father was dreadfully cut up by the change in Muriel. He would
hang over her sometimes, calling her his poor faded child, and asking
her what he could do to make her happy, and to bring the roses back to
her cheeks; and sometimes, to please him, she would brighten up a
little, and pretend to be her old glad self. But any one could see how
hollow her smile was. I never said my prayers, night or morning, without
praying God to avenge my daughter’s great wrongs, and it never seemed to
me that such a prayer was sinful.’
‘Did your daughter ask you what had become of her child?’
‘I saved her the pain of asking that question. As soon as reason
returned, after the fever, I told her that the child was in safe hands,
with kind people, and would be well cared for, and that she need give
herself no anxiety about its fate. “Let that dark interval in your life
be forgotten, Muriel,” I said, “and may God forgive you as freely as I
do now.” She made no answer, except to bow her head gently, as if in
assent.’
‘How was it that her mind again gave way, after this recovery?’
‘I am coming to that presently. That was the heaviest blow of all. Just
when I was beginning to hope time would work her cure, just when I
fancied I could see a glimmer of the old smile brightening her pale face
now and then, the blow fell. We were sitting round this hearth one
evening, Muriel and her grandmother, and little Martin and I, when
Michael came in, looking very much agitated. We asked him what was the
matter. “The saddest thing I have heard of for many a year,” he
answered. “Well, we’ve all got our troubles! There’s been bad news for
the Squire up at Penwyn.” Muriel started up with a faint cry, but I
caught hold of her, and squeezed her hand tight, to warn her against
saying anything that might betray her. “Dreadful news,” Michael went on;
“Captain George, the eldest son, the one we know so well, has been
murdered by the savages. Lord only knows what those red devils did to
him. Scalped him, they say, tied him to a tree, and tortured him——”
Muriel gave one long piercing scream, and dropped upon the stone floor.
We lifted her up and carried her to bed, and the doctor was sent for
post haste. I was sore afraid she would let out her secret, in her
father’s hearing or the doctor’s, when she came round out of that
death-like swoon; but I need not have feared. Her mind was quite gone,
and all her talk was mere disjointed raving. From that day to this she
has been the helpless, hopeless creature you have seen her. We have kept
her out of a madhouse by keeping her close, under old Mrs. Trevanard’s
care. We have done all we could think of to soften the misery of her
state, but she has never, for the briefest interval, recovered her
reason. And now I have told you all, Mr. Clissold—without reserve,
confessing the wrong I have done as freely as when I acknowledge my sins
to my God.’
The sick woman sank back upon the pillows, pale to the lips. That
indomitable strength of will, which had been ever the distinguishing
mark of her character, had sustained her throughout this prolonged
effort. And deeply as he compassionated the sufferer’s state, Maurice
felt that it was vital to obtain from her at once, and without delay,
all the information she could give him.
‘I am grateful to you for having honoured me with your confidence, Mrs.
Trevanard,’ he said, kindly, ‘and now that you have so fully trusted me,
receive once more my solemn promise to do all that may lie in my power
to obtain justice for your daughter, and your daughter’s child. I am
inclined to think that Captain Penwyn may have been less base than you
believe him, and that his unhappy death alone may have prevented his
making some atonement, or revealing the fact of a secret marriage
between himself and your daughter. I can hardly think that a girl
brought up as your daughter was brought up could be so easy a victim as
you imagine her to have been. My endeavour shall be to ascertain the
truth upon this point of marriage or no marriage. A young London
clergyman, a friend of mine, has told me many a curious fact connected
with private marriages—stray leaves of family history,—and I see no
reason why this Captain Penwyn, who impressed you as an honourable and a
well-meaning man, should not have contracted such a union with your
daughter.’
‘God grant that it was so,’ ejaculated Mrs. Trevanard. ‘I should go down
to my grave with an easier mind if I could believe George Penwyn
something less of a villain than I have considered him for the last
twenty years. When I heard of his dreadful death in the Canadian forest,
I said to myself, “The Almighty Avenger of all wrongs has heard my
prayer!”’
‘It shall also be my endeavour to find your granddaughter,’ said
Maurice. ‘I have a curious fancy upon that point, but perhaps a foolish
fancy, and therefore hardly worth speaking about.’
‘Pray tell me what it is.’
‘It is really too foolish, and might only mislead you. All I ask is that
you will give me any detail which may help me in my attempt to discover
the girl you entrusted to Mr. and Mrs. Eden. What kind of man was this
Mr. Eden, for instance?’
The sound of wheels rolling towards the door prevented this question
being answered. In another moment the dog-cart drew up before the porch,
father and son alighted, and came into the room, bringing a gust of
fresh moorland air along with them. The opportunity of obtaining further
detail from Mrs. Trevanard was gone for the time being; and it might be
long before Maurice again found himself alone with her, or found her
inclined to speak. He heartily wished that the attractions of Seacomb
market, or of the homely hostelry where the farmers eat their
substantial two o’clock dinner, had detained Michael Trevanard and his
son just a little longer.
The invalid was more cheerful that evening than she had been for a long
time, and something of the old air of domestic comfort seemed to return
to the homestead parlour, as Maurice and the family sat at tea. Both her
husband and son noticed the improvement.
‘You must be rare good company,’ said the farmer, ‘for Bridget looks
ever so much brighter for spending the afternoon with you.—Cheer up! old
lady, we may cheat the doctors after all,’ he added, bending over his
wife affectionately as he handed her a cup of tea, the only kind of
refreshment she now enjoyed.
‘The doctors may have their own way about me, Michael,’ answered Mrs.
Trevanard, ‘if I can only go down to my grave with my mind pretty easy.’
Her son drew his chair beside hers after tea, and sat with his hand in
hers, clinging to her with melancholy fondness, sadly expectant of the
coming day when there would be nothing on this earth more distant from
him than that motherly hand.
Maurice Clissold had pledged himself to spend the next day at Penwyn,
where there was to be a cottager’s flower show, in which Mrs. Penwyn and
Miss Bellingham were deeply interested. It was the Squire’s wife who had
organized the annual exhibition, and stimulated the love of floriculture
in the peasant mind by the offer of various useful and attractive
prizes—a silver watch, a handsome rosewood tea-caddy, a delf dinner
service, a copper tea-kettle—prizes which were dear to the tastes of the
competing floriculturists, and which were eagerly competed for. The most
gigantic yellow roses, the longest and greenest cucumbers, the finest
bunches of grapes, the most mathematically correct dahlias were produced
within a ten-mile radius of Penwyn; and by this simple means the cottage
gardens and flower-pots in latticed casements which Mrs. Penwyn beheld
in her walks and drives were things, of beauty, and a perennial source
of joy.
The show was held in a vast circular marquee erected in the grounds of
the Manor House. Lady Cheshunt was one of the lady adjudicators, and sat
in state, gorgeously attired in a tea-leaf coloured silk, fearfully and
wonderfully made, by a Regent Street dressmaker, who tyrannized over her
customers, and seemed to gratify a malicious disposition by inflicting
hideous combinations of form and colour upon her too submissive
patronesses.
‘I really can’t say I think it pretty, dear Lady Cheshunt,’ said Madge,
when her friend asked her opinion of this tea-leaf coloured abomination.
‘No more do I, my love,’ replied the dowager, calmly, ‘but it’s
strikingly ugly. All your county people will be blazing in what they
call pretty colours. This dirty greenish brown is _chic_!’
After the cottage flower-show came a German Tea for the gentlefolks, and
croquet, and archery, and the usual amount of indiscriminate flirtation
which accompanies those sports. Maurice found himself amongst pleasant
sunshiny people, and almost enjoyed himself, which seemed, in some-wise,
treason against Justina.
But even in those piney glades, while the click of the croquet balls was
sounding to an accompaniment of silvery laughter, his fancy went back to
the Bloomsbury parlour and the happy hours he had wasted there, and he
longed to sit in his old corner reading Victor Hugo, or sipping tea out
of the dragon china.
It was late when he drove back to Borcel in Michael Trevanard’s
dog-cart, which had been placed at his disposal for the day. When he
came down to breakfast next morning, Mrs. Trevanard’s chair was empty.
This startled him, for, ill as she was, she had been rigidly regular in
her habits, coming downstairs at eight o’clock every morning, and only
retiring when the rest of the family went to bed.
On questioning Mr. Trevanard, he heard that the invalid was much weaker
this morning. She had not been able to rise.
‘It’s a bad sign when Bridget gives way,’ added Michael, despondently.
‘She’s not one to knock under while she has strength to bear up against
her weakness.’
The next day and the next the chair remained empty. Maurice hung about
the farm, hardly knowing what to do with himself in this time of
trouble, yet nowise willing to desert his post. On the third day he was
summoned to Mrs. Trevanard’s room. Phœbe, the housemaid, came in quest
of him to an old orchard, where he was fond of smoking his cigar.
‘Missus is very bad, sir, and I believe she’s asked to see you,’ said
the girl, breathless.
Maurice hurried to the house, and to Mrs. Trevanard’s room. Husband and
son were standing near the bed, and the dying woman lay with her hand
elapsed in Martin’s, her eyes looking with a strangely eager expression
towards the door.
At the sight of Maurice her wan face brightened ever so little, and she
gave a faint choking cry.
‘Want—tell you—something,’ she gasped, half inarticulately.
He went close to the bed and leaned over her.
‘Dear Mrs. Trevanard, I am listening.’
‘A Bible—gave—family Bible.’
That was all. She spoke no more after this; and before nightfall the
windows were darkened at Borcel End, and the careful housewife had gone
to that land where there is no thought of sordid things.
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