BY MOONLIGHT.
Richard sat over the fire, revolving his late conversation with
Trevethick in his mind, and picturing to himself what would probably
come of it. Although the declaration of his love for Harry had been thus
suddenly made, it had not been made unadvisedly. Though he had not
expected the opportunity for stating it would have offered itself so
soon, he had planned his whole argument out beforehand, with Wheal Danes
for its pivot. And, upon the whole, he felt satisfied with its effect
upon his host. The latter had not surprised him (except by his
frankness) in his disclosure respecting the rich promise of the mine.
Richard's own observation, aided by the clew which Parson Whymper's few
chance sentences had given him, had convinced him that Wheal Danes was a
most coveted object in the landlord's eyes; and had it happened to have
fallen into his own hands, he did really suspect enough to have had it
searched for ore from top to bottom. Trevethick had therefore lost
nothing by his revelation (as his sagacity had doubtless foreseen),
while he had made a very favorable impression upon Richard by his
candor. Cornish giants, thought the latter, might be rude and brutal,
but duplicity was foreign to their character; it was not Blunderbore,
but Jack the Giant-killer, who dug pitfalls, and pretended to swallow
what he only put in a bag.
Trevethick had certainly shown strong disfavor to the young man's suit,
backed though it was by such great pretensions; and it was evident that
but for his hold upon him with respect to the mine, Richard would not
have been listened to so patiently. However, his mouth had not been
peremptorily closed at once (as he had expected it would have been),
which was a great point gained, and the longer the old man took to think
about the matter the more likely was self-interest to gain the day with
him. Supposing Richard's representations to have been correct, he was
certainly "a better match" for Harry than Solomon was; and he had no
apprehension of their being refuted. Trevethick would in all probability
write to Mr. Whymper to inquire into the truth of them--but what then?
He would certainly make no reference to the mine; and as to Richard
being Carew's lawful son, had not the chaplain himself (whom he could
count on as a friend to say all that was to his advantage besides)
admitted that, in his eyes, he was born in honest wedlock? At all
events, there would be ample excuse for his having taken such a view of
the case; while, as to his prospects, he had frankly confessed that he
was, for the present, unacknowledged by the Squire. So long, in fact, as
he could keep up the pretense of influence, either present or
contingent, at Crompton, he felt his position with Trevethick tolerably
secure. In all this scheme of dark deceit his love for Harry was
interwoven like a golden thread, and amidst all his plots and plans her
glorious face would suddenly rise unbidden, and charm him from them. He
had long since resolved to win her, but the late avowal of her love for
him, and now his partial success to gain her father's favor, seemed to
have made her his own already. How beautiful she had looked that day
upon the tower, with the sunlight on her hair! How fresh and guileless
were her ways! Her very weaknesses were lovable, and the cause of love.
How touching was her simple faith in omens, and how pleasant to combat
it, his arm about her dainty waist, as though to protect her from the
shadow of harm! How pitiful her fear of her gruff father, and of this
Cornish Solomon; and how sweet to calm it, kissing her tears away! Once
more his loving arms embraced her--once more his lips touched her warm
cheeks--when a sudden noise awakened him from his dream of bliss.
The parlor fire had long gone out. It was warm for the time of year; but
had it been otherwise he would not have replenished it. The candles,
too, had burned out, and the moon-beams were streaming through the
window; but had it been dark he would scarce have been aware of it. The
house had long ago been hushed in repose, and yet Richard felt certain
that he had heard a movement in the passage.
A stealthy step, yet not that of thief or burglar; a fairy footfall,
rather, which was music to his ear. His heart leaped up to tell him that
on the other side of the door was Harry Trevethick. He held his breath,
and trembled--not for fear. Was it possible that, knowing he was sitting
there alone, she had come down of her own choice to bear him company?
Had her father told her something--some glad tidings which she could not
keep from her lover even for a night? Or, filled with sweet dreams of
him, as he of her, had she risen in her sleep, and been drawn
involuntarily toward him by the loadstone of love? But--hark! The bolt
that fastened the house-door was softly drawn, and the latch gently
lifted. What _could_ that mean? Why was she thus going forth alone, and
clandestinely, at midnight? His heart beat faster than ever. For an
instant all that he had read or heard from his wild companions, and what
he had himself believed until he came to Gethin, of the wiles and
inconstancy of woman, flashed upon his mind. Had he, bred in the town,
and familiar with all the ways of vice, been flattered and hoodwinked by
a country wanton? Impossible. For, though there were no virtue in the
world, he felt assured that Harry loved him, and him alone. She must be
walking in her sleep. Softly, but very swiftly, he left the parlor, and
hurried to the front-door. It was closed, but unfastened. He opened it,
and looked out. All was as light as day, and yet so different. Every
object in the street, every stone in the cottage opposite, stood out
distinct and clear, but bathed in a pale and ghostly atmosphere. The
distant murmur of the sea came to him like the sigh of one just freed
from pain. Nothing else was to be heard; no human tread disturbed the
midnight stillness; but along the winding road that led to Turlock he
caught the far-off flutter of a woman's dress. She was going at rapid
speed, and the next moment had turned the corner, but not before he had
recognized his Harry; and, closing the inn door softly behind him, he
started after her like an arrow from the bow.
The scene of this pursuit was strange and weird enough, had Richard
possessed eyes for any thing but the object of it. The sky was without a
cloud, and the sea--which showed on its cold blue surface a broad and
shining path where the moon-beams lay--without a ripple. On shore there
was even less of motion. The bramble that threw its slender shadow on
the road moved not a twig. Nature, green and pale, seemed to be cast in
an enchanted sleep, and even to suspend her breathing. From the point
Richard had reached he could see the road stretching for a full mile,
like a white ribbon, save in the middle, where it dipped between high
banks. It led to Turlock only, but at this place a foot-path struck
across the fields to the Fairies' Bower. To his astonishment, though
indeed he had scarcely capacity enough for further wonder, Harry took
this path; he saw her climb the stile, and then for the first time look
round; he sank under the hedge, to hide himself; and when he cautiously
looked forth again the girl had vanished. But he knew whither she was
going now. He had assisted her across that very stile but a few days
ago; he had walked with her through the hazel copse, and skirted the
clear trout-stream by her side; and he could follow her now at utmost
speed, and with less caution, for the path was green and noiseless. He
could hear his heart beat--not from want of breath--as though in accord
with the silver treble of the stream, as he sped along. Through the
scanty foliage of the dell he saw her light dress gleam across the
wooden bridge, but he himself stopped beside it, peering through the
lattice of the branches upon her as she stood on the green bank of the
Wishing-Well.
Never had moon-beams shone upon a sight more fair. Harry was attired as
she had been on the previous evening, except that she wore a shawl,
which also served her as head-gear, like a hood. This she now
unfastened, and taking out the pin that had joined it together, held it
above the well, which showed, as in a mirror, her leaning face and
curving form, her wealth of hair, her frightened yet hopeful eyes, and
the rise and fall of her bosom, filled with anxiety and superstitious
awe. She had come to test her future--to foresee her fate--at Gethin
Wishing-Well. For an instant she poised the pin, her lips at the same
time murmuring some simple charm--then dropped it into the well's clear
depths, and watched it fall. As she did so, another figure seemed to
glide upon the liquid mirror, at the sight of which she clasped her
hands and trembled. Superstitious as she was, Harry had only half
expected that her foolish curiosity would be actually gratified. Moved
by the avowal of Richard's love that morning, the obstacles to which
seemed to her so formidable, she had wished to see her future husband,
to know how fate would decide between him she loved and him whom her
father had chosen for her, and yet she was terrified now that that
which she had desired was vouchsafed her. She scarcely dared to look
upon yonder shadowy form, although its presence seemed to assure her of
the fulfillment of her dearest wish. It was the counterfeit presentment
of Richard Yorke himself; bareheaded, just as she had seen him last in
the bar parlor, but with heightened color, an eager smile, and a loving
gratitude in his eyes, which seemed to thank her for having thus
summoned him before her. The figure was at right angles from her own,
but the face was turned toward her. She gazed upon it intently, looking
for it to faint and fade, since its mission had been accomplished. She
even drew back a little, as though to express content, yet there was the
vision still, a glorious picture in its fair round frame of moss and
greenery. Supposing it should remain there (her pale face flushed at the
thought) indelibly and forever, to tell the secret of her heart to all
the world! Then a whisper, that seemed to tremble beneath its freight of
love, whispered, "Harry! Harry!" and she looked up, and saw the
substance of the shadow, her lover, standing upon the little wooden
bridge!
Though Folly be near kin to Vice, she does not acknowledge the
relationship, and, to do Harry Trevethick justice, she would never have
made a midnight assignation with Richard in the Fairies' Bower. She was
more alarmed and shocked at the too literal fulfillment of her wish than
pleased to see him there. She shed tears for very shame. Whatever
reserve she had hitherto maintained, with respect to her affection for
him, had now, she perceived, been swept away by her own act. The scene
to which he had just been an unsuspected witness was more than
equivalent to a mere declaration of love: it was a leap-year offer of
her hand and heart. She had no strong-hold of Duty left to which to
betake herself, nor even a halting-place, such as coy maidens love to
linger at a little before they murmur, "I am yours."
There was nothing left her but revilings. She poured upon him a torrent
of contumely, reproaching him for his baseness, his cowardice, his
treachery in tracking her hither, like a spy, to overhear a confession
that should have been sacred with him of all men. Whatever that
confession might have been--and, to say truth, so utterly possessed had
she been by her passionate hopes, her loving yearnings, that she knew
not what she had merely felt, what uttered aloud--she now retracted it;
she had no tenderness for eaves-droppers, for deceivers, for--she did
not know what she was saying--for wicked young men. Above all things it
seemed necessary to be in a passion; to be as irritated and bitter
against him as possible. The copiousness of her vocabulary of abuse
surprised herself, and she did not shrink from tautology. She only
stopped at last for want of breath, and even then, as though she knew
how dangerous was silence, she bemoaned herself with sobs and sighs.
Then Richard, all tenderness and submission, explained his presence
there; showed how little he was to blame in the matter, and, indeed, how
there was neither blame nor shame to be attached to either of them;
spoke of his late interview with her father, gilding it with brightest
hopes, and cited the marvelous attributes of the Wishing-Well itself in
support of his position. He felt himself already her affianced husband;
the question of their union had become only one of time. She was
listening to him now, and had suffered him to kiss her tears away, when
suddenly she started from his embrace with a muffled cry of terror. Some
movement of beast or bird in the copse had made a rustling in the
underwood, but her fears gave it a human shape. What if Sol should have
followed them thither, as Richard had followed _her!_ What if her father
should have heard her leave his roof, as Richard had, or should miss her
from it--and--oh shame!--_miss him!_ "Home! home!" she cried. "Let me
go home." And she looked so wild with fright that he durst not hinder
her. Hardly could he keep pace with her along the winding path, with
such frantic speed she ran. At the stile she forbade him to accompany
her farther.
"What! leave you to walk alone, and at such an hour, my darling?" It was
nearly two o'clock.
"Why not?" she cried, turning upon him fiercely. "I am afraid of none
but you, and of those whom I should love, but of whom you make me
afraid." Then up the white road she glided like a ghost.
Richard watched her with anxious eyes as long as he could, then sat upon
the stile, a prey to apprehensions. To what dangers might he not have
already exposed her by his inconsiderate pursuit! Suppose some eye had
seen them on their way, or should meet her now on her return! Suppose
her own fears should prove true, and her father had already discovered
their absence! His thoughts were loyally occupied with Harry alone; but
the peril to himself was considerable. It was impossible that he could
satisfactorily explain his companionship with the inn-keeper's daughter
at such a place and hour. The truth would never be believed, even if it
could be related. She had got home by this time; but had she done so
unobserved? Otherwise, it was more than probable that he should find two
Cornish giants waiting, if not "to grind his bones to make their bread,"
at least to break them with their cudgels. In their eyes he would seem
to have been guilty of a deliberate seduction, the one of his daughter,
the other of his destined bride. Yet, not to return to Gethin in such a
case would be worse than cowardice, since his absence would be sure to
be associated with Harry's midnight expedition. He had hitherto only
despised this Trevethick and his friend, but now, since he feared them,
he began to hate them. Bodily discomfort combined with his mental
disquietude. For the first time he felt the keenness of the moonlit air,
and shivered in it, notwithstanding the hasty strides which he now was
taking homeward. Upon the hill-top he paused, and glanced about him. All
was as it had been when he set out; there was no sign of change nor
movement. The inn, with its drawn-down blinds, seemed itself asleep. The
front-door had been left ajar, doubtless by Harry; he pushed his way in,
and silently shut it to, and shot the bolt; then he took off his boots,
and walked softly up stairs in his stockinged feet. He knew that there
was at least one person in that house who was listening with beating
heart for every noise.
The ways of clandestine love have been justly described as "full of
cares and troubles, of fears and jealousies, of impatient waiting,
tediousness of delay, and sufferance of affronts, and amazements of
discovery;" and though Richard Yorke had never read those words of our
great English divine, he had already begun to exemplify them, and was
doomed to prove them to the uttermost.