There be bright faces in the busy hall,
Bowls on the board, and banners on the wall;
Far checkering o'er the pictured window, plays
The unwonted faggot's hospitable blaze;
And gay retainers gather round the hearth,
With tongues all gladness, and with eyes all mirth.
Byron.
The news of the restoration of Randolph to his ancestral towers had
already diffused joy through the homes of his tenantry; and the
fulfilment of Dame Miniver's prediction respecting his marriage
completed the exultation. There was not a heart in the village that was
not made lighter by the account of the alliance between Pendarrel and
Trevethlan. The castle was busy with the labours of upholsterers and all
their tribe, actively employed under the superintendence of the steward
and his wife, in renovating some of its ancient splendour; and the
Trevethlan Arms rejoiced in their patronage at the close of the day. Old
Jeffrey was half frantic with excitement and delight, practising the
manoeuvre of hoisting and striking a new flag often and often, until
it was suggested to him that, by so doing, he deprived the ensign of its
significance.
Great preparations were also being made for the reception of the bride
and bridegroom. A triumphal arch at the entrance of the green, and
another over the gate of the base-court, were ready to be decked with
flowers and streamers, when the happy occasion should arrive; for the
merry month of May was come, and nature was robing the land in its
gayest attire. Mistress Miniver's good-humoured face beamed with delight
from sunrise to sunset, and the joyousness of her looks was reflected in
the countenances of her neighbours.
Yet this happiness was not unalloyed. There were still not a few
absentees from the family hearth, lamenting their turbulence in
captivity. Even with respect to them, however, anxiety was mitigated,
for it was now understood that Mrs. Pendarrel was inclined to intercede
in their behalf. And she had already contributed to the enlargement of
Edward Owen. For, inquiring one day, in her languid manner, concerning
the mode in which the missing Wyley had been discovered, Randolph
mentioned Owen as instrumental in the matter, and she remembered how a
man of that name had rescued herself and family from outrage on the
night of the fire. And on her representations the young rustic was
admitted to bail, with an intimation that his being called up for trial
would depend upon his future conduct.
But if he had conceived any hope of finding favour in another quarter,
he was disappointed. Mercy Page was as coy as before. Perhaps the very
unpopularity of Michael Sinson had contributed to support his cause in
the maiden's heart; and certainly the taunts with which she was
sometimes assailed were not calculated to change her mind. She had
almost sequestered herself from the neighbouring villagers, and either
sat at home in her mother's cottage, or walked out late in the evening
by herself. On such occasions she was jealously watched, and well it
proved for her in the end that it was so.
But Edward was not one of the spies upon her steps. He began to feel
chilled by her enduring coldness, and listened more complacently than of
old to the words of those who said he might better himself, and
particularly to any hints of the kind which fell from the mirthful
landlady of the Trevethlan Arms. Farmer Colan once told her, she might
not object to change her name; and now a rumour to the same effect
became very current in the gossip of the hamlet.
And another topic furnished food to the village scandal-mongers. It was
said Michael Sinson had returned to his old country. And it was true. He
had left London, writhing under a manifold disappointment, baffled in
all his evil desires and devices. Moreover, he suspected that Mr. Truby
was strongly inclined to bring him to justice. But unlike his wretched
victim, Everope, he was unacquainted with shame, and unstung by remorse.
He regretted and resented his want of success; but he rather admired
than deplored the subtile villany of his schemes. Sulky and angry, he
fled from the metropolis to the dwelling of his grandmother, Wilderness
Lodge. Mrs. Pendarrel had not displaced the old gate-keeper. There
Michael brooded in silence and retirement for several days, during which
his ill-temper was continually fretted, and his evil passions stimulated
by the querulousness of the aged fanatic. Shrewd enough was old Maud to
see that her favourite had by no means achieved the success which she
had foretold for him. He was far away from qualification for that
angelic choir, which his mere name appeared to her to entitle him to
enter.
The news of his arrival reached the ears of his old flame, probably in
some sarcastic shape; and Mercy threw herself in his way. But he thrust
her rudely aside, and with so dark a scowl upon his brow that she
thought involuntarily of Dame Gudhan's predictions, and shuddered at the
recollection. The account of the meeting was soon circulated round the
green of Trevethlan, and gave new force to the ill looks which were cast
upon the luckless maiden. But it did not lull the activity, half hopeful
and half fearful, with which her steps were dogged.
Meanwhile old Maud harped perpetually on her grandson's failure, and on
the attempt to disturb her Margaret's marriage. She was for ever
lamenting the injustice done to Michael, and calumniating the house of
Trevethlan for its treatment of her favourite daughter. Neither topic
was agreeable to Sinson; and at length, irritated at home beyond
control, he showed himself among the rural habitations. But he went only
to meet with fresh mortification. Every one seemed to know his history.
People turned their backs upon the traitor. Children mocked and flouted
him. Scorn surrounded him on all sides, and in every shape. Daring to
present himself at the Trevethlan Arms, he was ejected with violence and
derision, and was hooted and pelted from the village green. And among
the foremost of his assailants he recognised his ancient rival. There
was nothing for it but to endure the petulance of his fanatical
grandmother.
Woe for the "ministering angel!" One hand in Trevethlan had no share in
the insults showered that day upon the traitor. One heart in the village
refused to believe in the infamy of him it had loved. One voice was
heard in sorrow amidst the general execration. One pair of eyes were
clouded with tears, where all others flashed with anger. Mercy Page wept
for Michael Sinson.
At dusk, the same evening, the village maiden left her mother's cottage,
and bent her steps along the quiet lanes to Wilderness Lodge. Now, she
thought, was the time to show her devotion, and, if Michael really had
gone astray, to call him back to the right path. Now, when all men spoke
ill of him, was the time for her to sustain him against their evil
report. Hearing of him as prosperous and rising, she had been,
comparatively, indifferent. Seeing him abased and insulted, all her
early tenderness revived.
She rattled the latch of the gate, and Sinson came out of the lodge. He
was astonished at perceiving the visitor, who looked at him with her
face half bent down. He returned her glance with a sullen stare, and
rudely bade her "begone."
"Michael," she said, "will you not hear me, Michael? Not hear Mercy?"
The soft voice turned the current of the young man's thoughts.
"Know you not what they say of me?" he asked. "Saw you not how I was
hunted from among them?"
"I know it all, Michael; but I believe it not. I saw it, and it made me
weep."
"Speak not to her," shrieked old Maud, who had come forth to see what
her grandson was doing; "speak not to the accursed thing from
Trevethlan. Better fortune is in store for my boy. Bid the Armageddon
depart."
"And will you walk with me, Mercy, as of old?" the young man asked,
without heeding Maud's interruption.
The maiden answered by placing her hand in Michael's arm, and so, side
by side, they quitted Wilderness Gate.
Old Maud tottered after them into the road, and gazed in the direction
they had taken. She shook the thin locks that hung about her temples,
and wrung her hands, and looked up into the sky. The first stars were
beginning to twinkle in the gray transparency of twilight.
"Woe's me!" muttered the old crone. "Woe's me! She is leading him to his
doom."
And her wild look quite scared a little girl who waited on her, when she
returned into the lodge.
We do not care to follow minutely the young couple's evening walk. There
is little pleasure in watching the companionship of villany and
innocence, even where the latter is triumphant. Fortunately for Mercy,
she was well observed that evening. There was a narrow and secluded dell
about a mile from Wilderness Lodge, made obscure in the day-time by
over-shadowing trees; doubly gloomy, therefore, in the twilight. The
brook from Pendarrel Park murmured along it, and a footpath, devious and
unfrequented, followed the wanderings of the streamlet. To that
sequestered spot, which might seem almost designed for the rambles of
lovers, did Sinson guide the steps of her who trusted him with such
unsuspecting fidelity. There in her own simple and homely manner she
sought to persuade him to be at peace with the world, and to make
atonement for any wrong he might have done. But she spoke to an angry
and unrepenting nature, and the only answer to her remonstrances made
her acquainted with the worthlessness of him in whom she had confided so
long.
It was a rude and bitter lesson. "Better he were dead!" has been the
exclamation of many a heart deceived like hers. Mercy could no longer
hope that the imputations of the villagers were the offspring of rustic
jealousy. She hardly knew what happened in the first pain of her
discovery. She turned to leave him, for she could do no more. He had
followed her, but the watchers interposed. They closed upon the spot in
an instant. The maiden was rescued, and the betrayer fled. He glared
savagely for one moment upon those who came to save, counted their
number, and took to precipitate flight. And the rustics, who had
followed the ill-matched maiden with, at least, as much spite as pity,
now showed more of the better feeling, and brought her safe, though
trembling, home to her mother's cottage.
A warm pursuit was then commenced in the track of her assailant. Summary
justice the country-folk thought they would inflict upon the culprit,
although he might escape the more regular doom of the law. Many an old
ground of exasperation gave vigour to the chase. Many a motive of fear
lent wings to its object. He fled over the moors, from carn to carn, and
from cave to cave. They drove him at last to the precipices of the
Lizard. He retained his strength and activity, and turned them to good
account in baffling his pursuers among those beetling cliffs. But, after
numerous disappointments, they at length hunted him to bay. They hemmed
him in on a ledge from which the rock descended sheer into the sea.
Certain that he could not escape, they were, perhaps, negligent in
observing his movements. But no one could tell what had become of him,
when it was suddenly found that he had disappeared. They looked eagerly
into the waves which were dashing against the cliff below; but there
they could see no sign. The steepness and height of the rock above
utterly precluded the possibility of his having scaled it. Yet there was
an unwillingness to believe that he had simply been drowned, and the
folks told strange stories of his having been picked up by some boat,
and got away to sea. All that was certain was, that he was never heard
of again.
The night on which he was lost, his grandmother sat beside the hearth in
Wilderness Lodge, swaying herself to and fro in her rocking-chair, and
moaning to herself in an under tone. The little girl who attended her
was seated opposite on a low stool, and watched her with a feeling of
awe, frightened, yet unable to withdraw her eyes from those of her
employer, which were fixed and unusually bright.
"Where's my boy?" old Maud might have been heard to mutter. "Where's my
own Michael? What is it they tell me of shame? What is it they say he
told of my winsome Margaret? Did I hear that the marriage was broken?
Na, na, Randolph Trevethlan, thou canst not so sever the ties. Has she
not come to claim her own? Let them cross her path that dare. Smiling,
did he say? A sweet smiling face? That was my Margaret indeed, but she
never smiled at Trevethlan. And would they tell me she went there to
shame? Did my Michael speak against her? Na; 't was they that brought
her to death; they that will not let her rest in her grave. And why has
she woke from her sleep? What comes she back to seek? Why will she not
come to me? I was afar when she died. Was it of my own choice? Were we
not driven away? Me, and my Michael, and all? Was there one of her
kindred left with her? But they are fallen. The dark hour of Trevethlan
came. And will they still make us their sport? Where's my own Michael?
She came for him the night: the white-faced thing from Trevethlan. What
cries did I hear in the sky? What tale did they whisper in my ear?"
Her voice, which had risen occasionally while she spoke, now sank into
an inarticulate murmur, and her head dropped, and the rocking of her
chair nearly ceased. The little girl looked at her with increasing
wonder and dread. Suddenly Maud raised her head, and after seeming to
listen for a moment, cried, "Michael," in one wild and dissonant shriek.
"What voice was that on the wind?" she continued, rising abruptly from
the chair. "Who hailed that name?--Michael," she called again, in the
same unearthly tone--"didst hear? 'T was his own. Didst hear how it
wailed on the wind?--Michael--The waters are sounding in my ears. Didst
hear the name, girl?--Drowning.--Ay, it was he--it was he."
Her voice had declined to a hoarse whisper, and her limbs relaxed, and
she sank, rather then fell, to the ground. The little girl ran terrified
from the lodge to seek for help. When the neighbours whom she summoned
returned thither, they found the old woman huddled together in a heap
upon the floor. They raised her up, but life had departed: she had
rejoined her daughter, Margaret Trevethlan.