RICHARD BURNS HIS BOATS.
It was strange enough that day after day and week after week went by
without John Trevethick making any reference to the application his
guest had made for his daughter's hand. His silence certainly seemed to
favor it; and the more so since, notwithstanding what he knew, he put no
obstacles in the way of the young people's meeting and enjoying each
other's society as heretofore. Perhaps he had too strong a confidence in
Harry's sense of duty, or in the somewhat more than filial fear in which
she stood of him. Perhaps Richard's prudent and undemonstrative behavior
toward the girl in the presence of others deceived him. But, at all
events, the summer came and still found Richard under the same roof with
Harry, and more like one of the family than ever. Tourists of the young
man's own position in life, and even of the same profession, began to
visit Gethin, and of course "put up" at the _Castle_, but he found
nothing so attractive in their company as to withdraw him from that
homely coterie in the bar parlor for a single evening. He was always
made welcome there by both his host and Solomon; and without doubt, so
far as the former was concerned, a less sanguine man than the young
landscape-painter might have considered that his suit was tacitly
acceded to.
Even Harry herself--to whom her father's conduct was surprising
enough--had come at last to this conclusion. Only one thing militated
against this pleasant view of affairs--it was certain that the old man
had not yet opened his lips to "Sol" upon the matter. It was clear that
the miner still considered himself in the light of Harry's accepted
suitor. As a lover, he was fortunately phlegmatic, and did not demand
those little tributes of affection in the shape of smiles and whispers,
secret glances, silent pressures, which his position might have exacted;
but he would now and then pay her a blundering compliment in a manner
that could not be misinterpreted, or even make some direct allusion to
their future settlement in life, which embarrassed her still more. The
young girl, as we have hinted, was by no means incapable of
dissimulation, but she naturally revolted against having to support such
a _rôle_ as this, and would have even run the risk of precipitating what
might have been a catastrophe by undeceiving him. But Richard bade her
have patience. He had strong reasons, if they were not good ones, for
being well satisfied with the present state of affairs. In love,
notwithstanding much savage writing to the contrary, it is the woman who
suffers; it is she who is the small trader, who can least afford to
wait, while man is the capitalist. Richard saw no immediate necessity
for pressing the matter of his marriage, upon which his heart was,
nevertheless, as deeply set as ever. He would not (to do him justice)
have been parted from his Harry now for all the wealth of Carew. But he
was not parted from her, and he did not wish to risk even a temporary
separation by any act of impetuosity. Living was cheap as well as
pleasant at the _Gethin Castle_, and it was of importance to husband his
funds--to reserve as much of his resources as he could for the expenses
of his honey-moon. So far, and no farther, went his plans for the
future. He knew that his mother would not refuse to offer them a home,
even if his wife should come to him empty-handed; and the more he
humored the old man, and abstained from demanding a decision, when it
was clear the other preferred to procrastinate, the better favor he
would have with him, and consequently the better chance of gaining a
dowry with his daughter. Even if he should press matters, it was
probable, he reasoned, that Trevethick had no decisive reply to give
him. He had doubtless written to Mr. Whymper, and learned all that
Richard had already divulged to him--and no more; that is to say, that
he was, though an unacknowledged offspring of the Squire, in a very
different position, at all events, toward him than that of a mere
natural son. Trevethick could not have heard less--that is, less to his
advantage--or he certainly would not have kept silence for so long.
Such was the state of affairs at Gethin. Harry with her two suitors; her
father with his two expectant sons-in-law, each of whom had more or less
of reason for his expectation. Though Richard might be satisfied with
it, it was clear it could not last forever--nor for long. The day on
which the change took place, though it was in no wise remarkable in
other respects, he never forgot: every incident connected with it,
though disregarded at the time, impressed itself upon his mind, to be
subsequently dwelt upon a thousand times. It might have been marked in
the hitherto sunny calendar of his life as the "Last day of Thoughtless
Gayety. Here Love and Pleasure end."
It was fine weather, and there were more tourists at the inn than could
be accommodated, so Richard had given up his private sitting-room to
their temporary use. This, however, did not throw him more in Harry's
society than usual, since their presence naturally much occupied her
time. He had not, indeed, seen her since the mid-day meal which he had
taken in the bar parlor; but she had promised, if she could get away, to
call for him at a certain spot where he had gone to sketch--the
church-yard on the hill. The attraction of the castled rock was such
that few visitors sought the former spot, notwithstanding its
picturesque and wild position. How the church maintained itself on that
elevated and unsheltered hill, despite such winds as swept it in the
winter, was almost a miracle: but there it stood--as it had done for
centuries--gray, solitary, sublime. It was of considerable size, but
small in comparison with its God's-acre, which was of vast extent, and
only sparsely occupied by graves. The bare and rocky moor was almost
valueless; it is as easy for one duly qualified to consecrate a square
mile as an acre; and the materials of the low stone wall that marked its
limits had been close at hand. In one or two spots only did the dead lie
thickly; where shipwrecked mariners--the very names of whom were unknown
to those who buried them--were interred; and where the victims of the
Plague reposed by scores. Even Gethin had not escaped the ravages of
that fell scourge; and, what was very singular, had suffered from it
twice over; for, on the occasion of an ordinary burial having taken
place many generations after the first calamity, in the same spot, the
disease had broken forth afresh, and scattered broadcast in the little
hamlet ancient death. The particulars of the catastrophe, so
characteristic of this home of antique legend and hoary ruin, were
engraven on a stone above the spot, which had never since been
disturbed.
In a lone corner, as though seeking in its humility to be as distant
from the sacred edifice as possible, was a quaint old cross. It was
probably not so old by half a dozen centuries as the grave-mounds on the
rock where the ruined castle stood, but it seemed even older, because
there were words cut in its stone in a tongue that was no longer known
to man. Seated on the low wall beside it, Richard was transferring to
his sketch-book this relic of the past in his usual intermittent
manner--now gazing out upon the far-stretching sea, here blue and
bright, there shadowed by a passing cloud; now down into the village,
which stood on a lower hill, with a ravine between. He had seen the
post-cart come and go--for it came in and went out simultaneously at
that out-of-the-way hamlet, where there was no one to write
complainingly to the papers concerning the inefficiency of the mail
service--and it was almost time for Harry to come and fetch him, as she
had appointed. But presently the reason for her absence made itself
apparent in the person of her father. It was not unusual for old
Trevethick, at the close of the day, to call at the cottage in the
ravine, which the guide to the ruin inhabited in the summer months, and
see how business was doing in that quarter. If he had no eye for the
picturesque, he had a very sharp one for the shillings which were made
out of it; and Richard was not surprised to see the landlord descending
the opposite hill. "This will keep Harry at home; confound him!"
muttered the young man to himself, and then resumed his occupation. As
there was now no one to watch for, he worked with more assiduity, and
with such engrossment in his subject that he was first made conscious
that he was not alone by the sudden presence of a shadow on his
sketch-book. He looked up, not a little startled, and there was John
Trevethick standing beside him, his huge form black against the sun.
"You may well be frightened, young gentleman," were his first ominous
words; "it is only a guilty conscience that starts at a shadow."
Richard _had_ a guilty conscience; and yet the remark that was thus
addressed to him, unconciliatory, if not directly hostile, as it was,
rather reassured him than otherwise.
Trevethick's presence there, for he had never made pretense of seeking
Richard's society for its own sake--was of evil augury; his tone and
manner were morose and threatening; his swarthy face was full of pent-up
wrath; and yet it was obvious to the other that the secret was yet safe,
the divulging of which he had most cause to fear. Had it been otherwise
there would have been no mere thunder-cloud, but a tornado. "The post
has brought some ill news from Crompton," was what flashed across the
young man's brain; and the thought, though sufficiently uncomfortable,
was a relief compared with that he had first entertained, and which had
driven the color from his cheeks.
"I have no cause to be frightened, that I know of, either of you or any
other man, Mr. Trevethick," observed Richard, haughtily.
"I hear you say so," was the other's grim reply; "but I shall be better
pleased to hear you prove it."
"Prove what?"
"Two things--that you are not a bastard, nor a pauper."
Richard leaped down from the wall with a fierce oath; and for a moment
it really seemed that he would have flung himself against his gigantic
opponent, like a fretful wave against a rock of granite.
Trevethick uttered an exclamation of contempt. "Pick up your
sketch-book, young man, or one of those pretty pictures will be spoiled
by which you gain your bread. You've acted the fine gentleman at Gethin
very well, but the play is over now."
"I don't understand you, Mr. Trevethick. If you must needs be insolent,
at all events, be explicit. You have miscalled me by two names--Bastard
and Pauper. Who has put those lies into your mouth, the taste of which
you seem to relish so?"
Trevethick reached forth his huge hand, and seized the other's shoulder
with a gripe of steel. It seemed to compress bone and sinew as in a
vice; the arm between them was as a bar of iron. Richard felt powerless
as a child, and could have cried like a child--not from pain, though he
was in great pain, but from vexation and rage. It was maddening to find
himself thus physically subjugated by one whom he so utterly despised.
"Keep a civil tongue in your head, cock-sparrow," growled the giant,
"lest I wring your neck. You're a nice one to talk of lying; you, with
your tales of son and heirship to the Squire, and your offers of
copper-mines for the asking! Who told me how I had been fooled? Why,
Carew himself! You thought I should write to the parson, eh?"
Richard certainly had thought that he would have written to the parson,
but he strove to look as calm and free from disappointment as he could,
as he replied: "It was quite indifferent to me to whom you wrote, Mr.
Trevethick. There was only one account to give of my affairs; and it was
the same I had already given to you. I told you that my father did not
choose to acknowledge me for the present, and I have no doubt that your
questioning him upon the matter has made him very bitter against me; the
more so because he is well aware that he is fighting against the truth;
he knows that he was married to my mother in a lawful way, and that I am
the issue of that marriage. It is true that technical objections have
been raised against it, but his own conscience warns him that they are
worthless. Mr. Whymper will tell you the same."
"Never you mind Mr. Whymper," said the landlord, gruffly, but at the
same time relaxing his grasp upon the young man's shoulder; "the parson
needs all his cleverness to take care of himself in this matter, and
will have no helping hand to spare for you. The Squire is in a pretty
temper with you both, I promise you. Here's his letter, if you'd like to
see what he says of you in black and white; not that there's much white
in it, egad!"
It was a custom of the Squire of Crompton, unconsciously plagiarized
from the Great Napoleon, to let all letters addressed to him in an
unfamiliar hand answer themselves. They were not destroyed, but lay for
weeks or months unopened, until the fancy seized him to examine their
contents. He made, it was true, a gallant exception in the case of those
whose superscription seemed to promise a lady correspondent; but that
had not been the case with the communication from Trevethick, and hence
the long interval that had elapsed before it was attended to.
Trevethick's business letters had hitherto, as was the case with all
tenants of Crompton estate, been addressed to the chaplain only, so that
he was unaware of this peculiarity of Carew, and had naturally construed
his silence into a tacit admission of the truth of Richard's statement.
If force of language and bitterness of tone could have made up for his
previous neglect, the Squire's letter was an apology in itself. It was
short, but sharp and decisive. "The grain of truth," he wrote, "among
the bushel of lies that this young gentleman has told you is, that he
was once a guest under my roof--I forget whether for two nights or
three. He will never be there again--neither now nor after I am in my
box" (this was the Squire's playful way of alluding to the rites of
sepulture). "He has no more claim upon me than any other of my
bastards--of whom I have more than I know of--and in fact less, for I
may have deceived their mothers, whereas his played a trick on me. As to
his expectations from me, I can only tell you this much, that I expect
he will come to be hanged; as for interest, whatever he may have with my
son of a she-dog of a chaplain, he has none with me; and as for money,
so far as I know, he is a pauper, and likely to remain so as long as he
lives." There were other sentences spurted from the volcano of the
Squire's wrath, but to the same effect.
"A nice letter of recommendation, truly, and from his own father, of the
young gentleman who asked me for my daughter's hand!" growled
Trevethick. "You ought to be thankful to get out of Gethin with whole
bones. If 'Sol' was to come to know of what you asked of me, I would not
answer for even so much as that, I promise you."
"'Sol' might have known of it had you not chosen to keep it from him,
for reasons best known to yourself," said Richard, quietly. "You have
taken some time to make up your mind between us."
Trevethick winced; for the promise of the young man's interest with
respect to Wheal Danes had, in fact, been the bait which had tempted him
to temporize so long. He had never meant to give his daughter to
Richard; but he had hoped to reap an advantage, present or future, out
of the implied intention; nor did he know even yet in what relation
Richard stood with Parson Whymper.
"At all events, it's made up now," answered the landlord, curtly.
"This letter has caused you to decide against me, then?"
"That letter? Well, of course it has. Not that there ain't a heap of
other reasons; but that one's enough, I should think, even for you."
"It is just such a letter as I should have expected Carew to pen,"
observed Richard, coolly, "and does not alter the facts of the case as I
stated them to you one whit. That my father is furious with me is clear
enough; that is, because he is in the wrong, and feels it. He is angry,
you see, even with Mr. Whymper, because he knows that his view of my
case is such as I described to you. I confessed from the first that my
interest at Crompton was a contingent one. You are treating me with
great injustice, Mr. Trevethick."
"What! Have you so much brass left as to say that? You, that have asked
my permission to pay court to my daughter, under the pretense that you
were a fine gentleman, independent at present, and the heir-presumptive
to one of the richest commoners in the kingdom! How durst you do it? You
vagabond! you scoundrel!"
"You will be sorry for having said those words some day," said Richard,
hoarsely; he was choking with rage, and yet it was necessary to restrain
himself. He felt that this man would presently forbid him his
house--would separate him from his Harry forever; and that would be like
tearing out his heart-strings. Always audacious, there was nothing that
he was not now prepared to say or do to avert this. "I tell you, Mr.
Trevethick, this letter is full of lies, or rather it is written by a
madman. I am not a bastard; I am not a pauper. I have an independence of
my own, though, indeed, it is small compared with my expectations. My
mother makes me a good allowance. I am a gentleman, and I have a right
to be listened to by any man, when I ask leave to be his daughter's
lover."
"Let us leave alone your gentility, Sir, and your mother's allowances,"
sneered the landlord, "since there is no means of gauging either the one
or the other. As for your independent property--I don't believe you have
a hundred pounds in the world; but it is easy enough to prove that I am
mistaken there. Let me see the money down. Show me your three or four
thousand pounds in gold, or notes that I know, for I must needs be
particular with so clever a young gentleman; notes of the Bank of
England, or of the Miners' Bank at Plymouth. Let me hold them in my
hand, and then I shall feel that you are speaking the truth. At present,
I tell you fairly, that if I saw a check of yours, I should look upon it
as so much waste paper until I also saw it honored."
"Three thousand pounds is a large sum, Mr. Trevethick," said Richard,
thoughtfully.
"Let us say two, then," returned the landlord, mockingly. "Sell out two
thousand pounds of this independent fortune of yours, that has been
invested in the Deep Sea Cockle Mine, or in debentures of the Railway in
the Air. Let me see but two thousand pounds, Mr. Richard Yorke, and
then--and not before--may you open your lips to me again respecting my
daughter Harry." He turned upon his heel with a bitter laugh; while
Richard, as white as the sketch-book he still held in his hand, remained
speechless. A perilous thought had taken possession of his mind--a
thought that it would have been better for him to have dropped down
there dead than to have entertained, but it grew and grew apace within
him like a foul weed. Had his life of selfish pleasure angered the
long-suffering gods, and, having resolved upon his ruin, were they
already making him mad? He ran after the old man, who did not so much as
turn to look behind him, though he could not but have heard his rapid
steps. "Mr. Trevethick, I will do it," he gasped out.
"Do what?" said the other, contemptuously, striding on. "Go hang
yourself, or jump off Gethin rock into the sea?"
"I will get you the money that you speak of--the two thousand pounds.
You shall have it in your hand, and keep it for that matter, if you
please."
"What?" Unutterable astonishment stared out from the landlord's face.
For the first time since the receipt of Carew's letter he began to
discredit its contents. If this young fellow had really the immediate
command of so large a sum, there was probably much more "behind him." He
must either have a fortune in his own right, or if Carew had settled
such a sum of money on him, he must have had a reason for it--the very
reason Richard had assigned. And if so, Wheal Danes might be his to
dispose of even yet. But Trevethick was not the man to hint a doubt of
his foregone conclusions. "You have not got this money in your pocket,
have you?" said he, with a short dry laugh.
"No, Sir; but I can get a check for it from my mother, in course of
post."
"A check!" cried the other, contemptuously, all his suspicions returning
with tenfold force. "I would not give one penny for such a check."
"I will get it changed myself, Mr. Trevethick, at Plymouth. The post has
gone, but I will write to-morrow, and within the week--"
"You shall not stay here a week, nor another twenty-four hours," roared
Trevethick. "I have been made a fool of long enough. I will not listen
to another word."
But he did listen, nevertheless. No longer hampered by vague fears and
difficulties, with which he knew not how to grapple, but with a distinct
plan of operations before him, Richard's eloquence was irresistible.
Deceit, if not habitual with him, had been practiced too often to lack
the gloss of truth from his ready tongue. He actually had a scheme for
procuring the sum in question, and when he possessed confidence himself,
it was rarely, indeed, that he failed to inspire it in others. For the
second time, the landlord of the _Gethin Castle_ found himself in doubt;
he was staggered by the positiveness of the young man's assertions, and
by the force and flow of his glowing words. In spite of himself, he
began once more to think that he might have been mistaken in condemning
him as an impostor, after all; as Richard had said, Carew _was_ scarcely
sane, and when excited by wrath, a downright madman. His resolves, too,
were as untrustworthy and fickle as the winds. Trevethick felt tolerably
convinced that the money would, at all events, be forthcoming; and the
sum--large in itself--seemed the earnest of much more. Last, but not
least, there were the possibilities in connection with the mine. If he
broke altogether with Richard, and turned him out of his house outright,
might not his first act be to reveal to Parson Whymper, in revenge, all
that he knew about Wheal Danes!
"Well, well, you shall stay at Gethin, then, till your check comes,
young gentleman," said he, in a tone that was meant to be conciliatory.
"I don't wish to be uncivil to any man, and certainly not to one who has
been my guest so long. But you will keep yourself _to_ yourself,
if you please, in the mean time. The bar parlor will no longer be open
to you, until you have proved your right to be there. And I don't mean
to promise any thing certain by that, neither; but what with your fast
talking and fine speaking I'm all in a buzz."
Honest John Trevethick did not, indeed, know What to think, what to
believe, or what to propose to himself for the future. His brain,
unaccustomed to much reflection, and dulled by pretty frequent
potations, was fairly muddled. Most heartily did he wish that this young
landscape-painter had never set foot in Gethin; but yet he could not
make up his mind to summarily eject him. Upon the whole, he was almost
as glad to temporize in the matter as Richard was himself.
In point of fact, Richard Yorke had won the battle, and was for the
present master of the field; but what a struggle it had been, and at
what a loss he had obtained the victory, you might have read in his
white face and haggard eyes. As to whether it would be possible to hold
the advantage he had gained was a problem he had yet to solve. He had
committed himself to a policy which might--nay, very probably
would--succeed; but if it should fail, there would be no escape from
utter ruin. He had burned his boats, and broken down the bridge behind
him.