ON THE BRINK.
For four more days, Richard Yorke continued at the _Gethin Castle_--to
outward appearance, in the same relation with the landlord and his
family as before, but in reality on a totally different footing.
Trevethick had not found it practicable to exclude his late guest from
the bar parlor; he could not do so without entering into an explanation
with its other tenants, which he was not prepared for, or without
devising some excuse far beyond his powers. Notwithstanding his bluff
ways, he could tell a lie without moving a muscle; but he was incapable
of any such ambitious flight of deceit as the present state of affairs
demanded. He had, indeed, no aptitude for social diplomacy of any kind,
and suffered his change of feeling toward the young landscape-painter to
appear so plainly that even the phlegmatic Solomon observed it. He was
rather pleased than otherwise to do so. He had acquiesced in the
hospitality with which Richard had been treated, but without the
slightest sympathy with it; and, in fact, he had no sympathies save
those which were connected with his personal interests. It was evident
enough that his father-in-law elect had had some reasons of his
own--probably in relation to the property he held under Carew--for
conciliating this young gentleman; and "Sol" had taken it for granted
they were good, that is, substantial, ones. If these reasons no longer
existed, the sooner this young gentleman was got rid of the better. It
was true he had behaved himself very civilly; but his presence among
them had been, on the whole, oppressive. "Sol" rather chafed at
Richard's social superiority, though it was certainly never intruded,
and, at all events, he preferred the society of his own class, among
whom he felt himself qualified to take the lead. But the idea of
jealousy had never entered into his mind. In his eyes Richard was a mere
boy, whose years, as well as his position in life, precluded him from
any serious intentions with respect to Harry, whom, moreover, Solomon
regarded as his betrothed. If he had been married to her, he would
certainly have forbidden her "gadding about" so much with this young
fellow; but at present she was under her father's rule, and the old man
knew very well what he was about. He was glad that there now seemed a
prospect, to judge from the latter's manner, that the lad's intimacy
with Harry, and the family generally, was about to end; but it might
have lasted six months longer without "Sol's" opening his mouth about
it, so prudently had Richard played his cards--so irreproachably behaved
"before folk."
Solomon went, as usual, daily to look after affairs at Dunloppel, but
Trevethick remained within doors, under pretense that the influx of
guests, which was in fact considerable, demanded his presence. He took
care that Richard and Harry should have no opportunity of meeting alone
throughout the day; while in the evening he sat in almost total silence,
sucking his pipe, and frowning gloomily--a wet blanket upon the little
company, and the source of well-grounded terror to his daughter Harry.
Richard had told her how the matter stood; protested that he could get
the money; and argued that when that was done, her father could have no
excuse for forbidding his suit. But she knew the old man better than he,
and trembled.
On the fifth day Richard received a letter, inclosing a check for two
thousand pounds upon a London bank, from his mother, and, with an air of
quiet triumph, showed it to his host.
"That is worth nothing here," observed Trevethick, coldly; "for all I
know, the bank may not exist, or she may have no account there." But it
was plain he was surprised, and disappointed.
"Notice has been sent to Plymouth, as I am here informed," said Richard;
"so that I can get the check changed there, if you are still
dissatisfied; which, you must pardon me for saying, I do not think you
really are. Come, take my hand, and allow that you have behaved
ungenerously. You're a man of your word, I know. This proves to you I am
at least no pauper. I claim the right which you agreed to grant on that
condition, to ask your daughter's hand, and demand of you to leave her,
at all events, to grant it if she pleases. I affirm, once more, the
truth of all that I have told you as regards myself. I am Carew's only
son, begotten in lawful wedlock. He will acknowledge as much himself
some day, even though he should delay it to his dying hour. If ever I
come to possess it (and I think I shall), Wheal Danes shall be yours,
without the payment of a shilling. Even now, I do not offer myself
empty-handed. This is the sum that you yourself agreed I should show
myself possessed of; but there is more where this comes from. I ask
again, then, give me my fair chance with Harry: let her choose between
me and this man Coe."
This was a wily speech; for Richard was recapitulating the very
arguments which were presenting themselves to the old man's mind. True,
he had promised his daughter to Solomon, and would much rather have had
him for a son-in-law; but there were unquestionably great advantages in
the position of this other claimant. Trevethick was not quite the slave
to gratitude which he had professed himself to be, with respect to Coe's
father. He did feel sincerely grateful; but he had himself exaggerated
the feeling, with the very intention of making Harry understand that her
fate was fixed. He had not been blind to the fact, that from the first
she had never regarded "Sol" with favor as a suitor, and it was still
possible to break off the match without disgrace, upon the ground of her
disinclination to it. Above all, perhaps, he was actuated by the
apprehension that Richard, if refused a hearing, would disclose the
secret of Wheal Danes, and wreck the scheme upon which his heart had
been set for near half a century. One word from him would divert the
unsuspected wealth, over which he had so long gloated in anticipation,
into another's hand. But he did not like the young man better for the
precious knowledge which he alone shared with him; far otherwise; he
hated him for it, and, without being a murderer in his heart, would have
gladly welcomed the news that his mouth was closed forever by death.
"I wish such or such a one was in heaven," is a common expression, the
meaning of which is of still more general acceptation. The idea, in
fact, has doubtless flitted across the minds of most of us, though few,
let us hope, would help to realize it; for, notwithstanding its
agreeable form, it is not a benevolent aspiration. The reception of the
individual in question into the realms of bliss has less interest with
us than his removal from the earth's surface, and, consequently, from
our path upon it. We may be very civil toward this person, and we often
are; but we seldom desire him for a son-in-law. John Trevethick did not.
But still less did he desire his open enmity; the longer, at all events,
the declaration of war could be deferred the better.
"Come," urged Richard; "I am only demanding the redemption of your
promise--one," added he, precipitately, "that it lies in your own power
to redeem."
"The conditions, Mr. Yorke, have not yet been fulfilled," said
Trevethick, pointing to the check. "I must see that money in
bank-notes."
He had not the least doubt of the genuineness of the document; but his
objection would at least give him the respite of another day or two, and
a respite seemed almost a reprieve.
"As you will," answered Richard, with a faint smile. "It is a matter of
perfect indifference to me, and only costs me a journey to Plymouth. If
you will be so good as to let me have some vehicle to take me as far as
Turlock, I will pack my carpet-bag and start at once."
The landlord nodded, and withdrew without a word.
Left to himself, the smile faded from Richard's face, and was succeeded
by a look of the utmost dejection and disappointment. All had been going
so well up to that very last moment, and now all remained to be done,
just as though nothing had been done at all. The dangerous path that he
had marked out for himself had to be trodden from first to last, at the
very moment when he had seemed to have reached his journey's end by a
safe short-cut. He knew that it was the smallest grain of suspicion, if
not the mere desire to procrastinate, that had turned the scale in
Trevethick's mind, and imposed this task upon him. The genuineness of
the check had been _almost_ taken for granted--entire success had been
missed, as it were, by a hair's-breadth. And now he was as far from it
as ever. Had he been but a little more earnest, or a little more
careless in his own manner, all might have been well. The obstacle that
intervened between him and his desire still stood there, though only by
an accident, as though, after he had fairly blown it into the air, it
had resettled itself precisely in the same spot.
Richard felt like some offender against the law who had been foiled in
an ingenious scheme by the stupidity rather than the sagacity of him he
would have defrauded; or, rather, like one who has been brought to
justice by misadventure--through some blunder which Fate itself had
suggested to his prosecutor. He was filled with bitterness and
mortification, and also with fear. This miscarriage now imposed a
necessity upon him, which he had contemplated, indeed, but never looked
fairly in the face; he had always hoped it might be evaded. The only
alternative that presented itself was to give up his Harry; this swept
across his mind for a single instant--a black shadow that seemed to
plunge his whole being in night--then left it firmly set upon its
perilous purpose.
He did not seek to see her before he left; he could not trust himself so
far even as to turn his head and wave her a good-by, as he started from
the inn door, although he felt that she was watching him from an upper
window. He was afraid of the anxiety that consumed him being visible to
those loving eyes. She knew upon what errand he was going, but not the
dangers of it. But he spoke cheerfully to Trevethick, who stood beneath
the porch with moody brow, and testily found fault with horse and
harness.
"The master's in a queer temper to-day, Sir," was the driver's remark,
as they slowly climbed the hill out of the village.
"So it seems," answered Richard, absently.
The road they traveled was the same on which he had pursued Harry on
that eventful night, now months ago; every object recalled her to
him--the ruined tower on the promontory, the Fairies' Bower in the glen;
but they suggested less of love than of the peril that, for love's sake,
he was about to undergo. When they reached the point where he had met
her first, on the margin of the moor, now bright with gorse and heather,
and with its gray rocks sparkling in the sun, an overwhelming melancholy
seized him. Was it possible that the omen which had alarmed her simple
mind was really in the course of fulfillment? Was he, indeed, fated to
be the cause of misfortune to her he loved so well? If evil should
befall him, it was only too certain that it would include her in its
consequences.
"You seem a cup too low, Mr. Yorke," said the driver, wondering at the
young man's unusual silence; for his habit was to be brisk and lively
with every body.
"We'll remedy that when we get to Turlock," answered Richard,
good-naturedly, "by taking a glass of what you will together."
Accordingly, when they reached the little town, and while the
post-horses were getting ready which were to take him on the next stage
of his journey, Richard called for some liquor.
"Here's your good health, Sir," said the man, and added, in a roguish
whisper, "and our young missus's too, Sir."
"By all means," said Richard, coolly. "But why couple hers with mine?"
"Well, Sir, it do come natural like, somehow," said the man, becoming
suddenly stolid, on perceiving that his remark was by no means relished.
"I suppose it's seeing you so much about together; but I meant no
offense."
"I am sure of that," said Richard. It was on the tip of his tongue to
pursue the subject, but he restrained himself. If he had already given
occasion for gossip, he did not wish to provide fresh fuel for it in his
absence from Gethin.
When a mile or two away from Turlock he produced the check which was the
apparent cause of his irksome journey, and tearing it into minute
fragments, scattered them out of the window.
Upon the second day he arrived at Plymouth, but too late for
banking-hours, and drove to an hotel. He had had little to eat upon his
journey, yet he now sent his dinner away almost untasted; on the other
hand, though it was unusual with him to take much wine, he drank a
bottle of Champagne and some sherry, then lit a cigar, and strolled out
of doors. It was a beautiful evening; and he sauntered on the Hoe,
gazing upon that glorious prospect of sea and shore which it affords,
without paying regard to any thing, although all was as new as fair. His
mind, however, took in every object mechanically, and often presented
them to him again in after-years, just as it did that summer scene upon
the ruined tower. Was it laying in provision for itself against the
time, now drawing so nigh, when his physical eyes should have no more of
such fair sights to feed upon? Or was the circumstance only such as
attends all great changes and crises of our lives; for is not every
feature of the face of Nature, upon the eve of any vital event, thus
engraven on our recollection? Do we not note the daisies on the lawn
forever, when for one instant we look out upon it from the darkened room
wherein our loved one lies a-dying?
It presently grew too late for the ordinary signs and tokens of life;
but Richard still paced to and fro, and gazed upon the darkening waters;
he saw the light leap out upon them from the distant Eddystone, and from
the craft in harbor, and from the houses that were built upon its
margin: blue and red, and white and yellow.
There was one large vessel a great way off that he had not hitherto
observed, but which now became conspicuous by its green light. Richard,
vaguely interested in this exceptional beacon, inquired of a
miserable-looking man, who had in vain been offering his services as
cicerone, what it signified.
"Well, Sir, them colors as the ships show all mean something different;
the red is from the floating powder-magazine, and the yellow is--"
"I said the _green_ light," broke in Richard, with his usual impatience
of prolixity. "What is that vessel _there_, I say?"
"Oh, that's the convict ship, Sir; they say she is waiting until after
the 'sizes, to take the drab-jackets to Portland."
Richard nodded, and threw the man a shilling; then walked hastily away
into the town. The night was mild, but his teeth chattered, and he shook
in every limb.