Peace, brother, be not over-exquisite
To cast the fashion of uncertain evils;
For grant they be so, while they rest unknown,
What need a man forestall his date of grief,
And run to meet what he would most avoid?
Milton.
The summonses referred to in the last chapter had been very widely
distributed among all those of the tenantry of Trevethian, who had been
cotemporaries of poor Margaret Basset. They were, in fact, issued almost
at random, in order that the defendant in the trial might have at hand
every possible means of rebutting his adversary's case. But they were
not confined to the dependents of the castle: old Maud Basset and her
daughter, Cecily, also received subpoenas, and Michael Sinson was
greatly startled by being served with one himself.
Mr. Winter had offered some early opposition to Randolph's desire to
hurry on the matter without delay. His experience taught him to look
with hope to the discovery of a clue to the plaintiff's intentions, and
he would gladly have avoided the risk even of a temporary defeat. There
was, too, ample reason for postponement, in the chance, however slight
it might be, of finding the missing witness, Wyley; and in the short
space, there would otherwise intervene, for ascertaining as much as
possible of the clergyman, Mr. Ashton. All these considerations,
however, gave way to the urgency with which Randolph insisted on
despatch. And as there is a way, even in law, where there is a will, and
the other side were at least as anxious for an issue, the cause was
brought to a condition, for trying at the assizes which were now
commencing.
It may not be uninteresting to the reader, to see the exact position,
stripped of technicalities, in which the parties stood at going into
court. The question between them was one of inheritance merely, and of a
very simple kind. Randolph's great grandfather left two sons by
different marriages, Arthur, the eldest, and Philip, the present
claimant of the property at stake. Arthur was the father of only one
son, Henry. It will be seen, therefore, that in default of any will, and
of Henry's dying without family, the estates would revert to Philip.
There was no will to interfere, for Henry, in his, merely appointed
guardians of his children, and made no bequests. He considered it a
matter of course that the children would inherit. And so they would, if
the marriage of which they were the offspring, were legal. But if this
marriage were not duly performed, or the children supposititious, Philip
would become heir to the property.
It was, therefore, almost self-evident, that the claimant's case would
rest upon the insufficiency of Randolph's father's marriage. So to this
point was directed the main attention of his legal advisers. But every
presumption was in favour of its perfect legality. All the dark
suggestions which subtilty could imagine, vanished one after another, in
the light thrown upon them by Henry Trevethlan's own conduct. If there
were a fraud, it must have been without his cognizance, for it would
have defeated his supposed object. But if he were not privy, what motive
could be ascribed to any other party? It was impossible, for obvious
reasons, to impute anything of the kind to the friends of the bride.
Baffled in every conjecture, Mr. Winter could only take means for
procuring the presence of everybody, who, by any remote contingency,
might be able to contribute to the overthrow of the claimant's case.
For in this sort of action the parties meet at the trial totally
ignorant of each other's intentions. For instance, in this case the
claim might be made, either under an alleged will, or a sale and
conveyance of the property, or on the ground that the holder was not the
legitimate heir. And supposing the first case, the defendant might say,
either that the will was forged, or was made when the testator was of
unsound mind, or was revoked by a later. So wide is the field for
surprise. And consequently it frequently happens, that the title to a
disputed estate is very far from established by a single verdict; but
that in a series of trials, the parties alternately upset one another's
successive positions, until the ground is exhausted, and the matter
finally set at rest.
We have seen that the approach of the contest caused great excitement in
the hamlet of Trevethlan. It was an agitation not unmixed with shadowy
dread. The presentiments and forebodings which had long afforded a theme
for the village guidance, were discussed more anxiously than ever. The
old people recollected every little coincidence attending a death in the
family, or the severance of an estate, and detected something parallel
at the present time. Some aged folks listened at night for the wailing
cries which ought to echo around the old grey towers on the eve of a
calamity; and when none such mingled with the gentle sighing of the west
wind, they interpreted this very softness into a sign, declared the
unnatural warmth of the season was a certain token of ill, and
remembered some similar year when disaster visited the castle. Of
course, this state of feeling reacted within its walls, and revived the
terrors of the domestics. In spite of Helen's contradiction to Mercy
Page, the wiseacres of the hamlet insisted on peopling the gloomy
galleries with visitors from another world, and some of the more eager
occasionally watched the windows at night, in the hope of being
terrified and having a story to tell.
It had been well if these night-fancies were all that disturbed the
people. But not a few of them were speculating already on what should be
done, in case the forebodings were verified by the result. And here, had
it been known, was a veritable cause for alarm. Randolph himself would,
perhaps, have trembled, if he had been aware what his dependents were
meditating, as they supposed for his advantage, but at all events for
their own satisfaction.
For some time after his interview with Mildred, the gloom and moroseness
which beset him previously, had vanished. Strong in the hope and trust
inspired by that meeting, he became frank and unreserved in his
intercourse with the villagers, lively and agreeable in his circle at
home. Helen and Polydore rejoiced at the change, without knowing its
origin. It showed itself in the smile with which he heard Jeffrey's
announcement of Miss Pendarrel's approaching marriage. "Simple people!"
he might think, "how little you know on the subject!" But as the day of
trial came quite near, some of his former agitation naturally returned:
he shunned the conversation of the peasants, and became once more
abstracted and silent at home. Again did the rustics note the gloom upon
his brow, and whisper among their other prognostications that their
master's doom was written in his face; but he should not fall unavenged.
Nor was Michael Sinson more at his ease. He had gone to London before
the party at Pendarrel, to consult Mr. Truby, and to see his bondman,
Everope. It was essential that he should maintain his influence over the
latter unbroken, and keep him well prepared for the part he was to play.
He was greatly startled himself by being summoned as a witness for the
defendant. He had intended, indeed, to go down to the assizes, but he
did not mean to appear. He should remain in the background, while his
creature did his work. He trembled to think of the confessions into
which he might be driven or led by the searching questions of counsel;
but still more he alarmed himself by imagining that his opponents had
obtained some clue to his design, and that some strange exposure awaited
him in court. He was, however, now so deeply involved, that he could
only strengthen himself with his old hopes, and abide the issue in
patience.
His aged grandmother was at least as much perplexed as himself. Ever
since her favourite Michael had dropped his dark hint in her ear
respecting the marriage, she had harped upon the subject in her muttered
soliloquies, and ruminated upon it as she swung to and fro in her
rocking-chair. And in the confusion of her ideas she fancied, on
receiving her summons, that there was a plot on foot by which the
Trevethlans desired to free themselves from the connection with her
family, and willingly transferred to Randolph the passing reproaches
with which at times she upbraided Michael Sinson. It was idle to reason
with her.
"Ay, Squire Trevethlan," she cried to him one day, as he was strolling
in the neighbourhood of her lodge, in the vain hope of quieting his
renewed anxiety by another meeting with Mildred. "The son steps worthily
in the path of the father! And so thou wouldst be quit of the peasant
blood, wouldst thou? Wouldst disown thy kindred? But na, na,--the ties
are too strong. It's none so easy to break a mother's memory. My
Margaret was fit for the wife of a king, and more than fit to be the
mother of such as thee."
"Who has been talking to you now, dame?" Randolph asked. "Who has been
putting these notions in your head? Did I ever wish to disown her? Would
I not give anything to bring her back? Would I not love her and honour
her? And did I not tell you I had seen her, and she smiled upon me? She
has come often since, and always with the same sweet smile."
He fancied the old woman had been tampered with, and wished to know the
particulars.
"I dinna believe thee," Maud answered; "I dinna believe it at all: and
they say she has walked in the castle indeed, but no with a smiling
face. She came to warn thee, grandson Randolph. And well she might. Well
she might wander there, where she was let to pine and pine, and no one
of all her own people let to come nigh her. And most of all now, when
her own son would put her out of her rightful place. Shame upon him!"
"'Tis because I am her son," Randolph expostulated, "that you should not
believe these tales, Dame Basset. What! do you not know that if she were
not my father's wife, the castle and everything we have pass away from
my sister and me? And have we not asked you to come to the trial to
speak for us, and prove the marriage? Who is it has put these stories in
your head?"
"I cannot understand it at all," the old woman answered. "Why should I
speak yon for thy side? Why shouldst thou come to me? Have not thy
people put me and mine out from among them? I cannot understand it at
all."
"But at least, dame," Randolph urged, "you will say it was a good
marriage?"
"Every one knows that," she said. "Let me see the one that denies it.
But go, go. Said I not there was a dark hour at hand for thy house? It
is near, near. I said it was written in thy face. It is clearer and
plainer now. Thou beguiled me with that tale of her smile, but I heard
the rights o't since. There'll never be peace 'twixt thine and mine."
And so saying, she retreated into the lodge, and left Randolph, puzzled,
but not annoyed by her unfounded suspicions. Her words were so far
satisfactory, that they showed how strong was her confidence in the
validity of the marriage.
At the opening of the assizes, Polydore Riches and the steward went to
Bodmin to be in constant communication with Winter and his counsel. The
worthy lawyer had himself already made a flying visit to Trevethlan, for
the purpose of investigating the evidence a little more closely. He was
rather dismayed on finding at every turn that the rumours current at the
time of the marriage were still so fresh in the memory of the people.
"Faith!" said he to himself, "we have wasted our subpoenas pretty
freely! Why, there's scarcely a person out of the castle I shall dare to
call!" Moreover, he had been disheartened somewhat by the intelligence
he had gained respecting Mr. Ashton, as it seemed to show that there
were but few qualities in his character to prevent him from being a
party to a trick, provided it were profitable to himself. The placards
offering a reward for news of Wyley had called forth no information.
Randolph persisted, against the advice of the chaplain, in attending the
trial himself. He was resolved to hear the case against him from the
lips of the witnesses. Polydore was grieved, thinking that if the issue
was favourable the trifling delay in communicating it would be
unimportant, and if it were adverse, its effect might be softened.
Besides which, there might be incidents in the proceedings of a painful
nature, from which the defendant had better be away. But a wilful man
must have his way, and Randolph would not be overruled.
The evening before his departure he sat with Helen, feverish and
excited, in their favourite turret-room, overlooking the sea. The
delightful weather still continued, and they kept the window open long
after dark.
"Do you remember, Helen," the brother asked, "how we were sitting here,
side by side, as we are now, when there came that letter, insulting us
with the offer of alms?"
"Dear Randolph," Helen answered, "you know I would have thought
differently of that letter. But why should I remember it now?"
"Because, my sister, to-morrow's trial may place us in need of alms," he
replied. "I do not know why it is, but from the very first I have
thought we should be beaten in this suit. I have been haunted ever by
the idea that the pittance which I then disdained might become necessary
to us. It seems to me a natural consequence of the refusal. Are they so
proud? it was said--they shall be humbled."
"But we shall not, Randolph," his sister said. She was saddened by the
bitterness with which he spoke. "We shall not be humbled. Not in the
sense you mean. We shall not have to seek assistance. The schemes which
we plotted for the restoration of our house, may they not be revived to
minister to our necessities? See, when that letter came, you asked, why
have we desponded. And shall we despond now? Believe me, my brother, I
am prepared for the worst."
"If that were all," Randolph said, "if poverty and the loss of our dear
home were all, bitter as it would be, it might be borne. But our father
or our mother, the one or the other, will be defamed, and our name
dishonoured. Helen, if this suit goes against us, and I survive the day,
it will only be to brand our opponents with the villany by which they
win, not with any notion of supporting a life I shall abhor."
He disengaged himself from her arm as he finished speaking, and leant
against a division of the open window. But she followed him, and laid
her hand upon his shoulder.
"And me, Randolph," she said; "you are a man; but what will become of
me?"
"Of you, dearest!" he exclaimed. "Did you ever think, my sister, of her
I mentioned but now? She died before you had left your cradle. Scarcely
as a baby even could you know her. But I was nearly three years old. And
the memory has dwelt secretly in my breast, and it has come back to me
of late. I have seen her face in my dreams, sometimes smiling and
sometimes sorrowful, but always full of love. I have thought she came to
implore me to protect what was her only dowry, her good name, or to
console me and make me hopeful under a passing misfortune. And then,
when I remember the attack which is to be made to-morrow, my heart
burns, and I say what I do not mean. But you, dearest! I shall live to
be with you, whatever may befall."
And so saying, he bent down and kissed his sister.
"Do you see that bright planet?" he continued. "I have called it my
star. It has shone on some of the happiest moments of my life. A
childish fancy, sister, but it pleases me. The sight of it, clear and
unclouded as it is now, breathes promise of joy to my heart. Trust me,
sister, whatever may happen in this cause, there is comfort in store for
us yet."