Thou hast it now, King, Cawdor, Glamis, all;
As the weird women promised; and I fear
Thou play'dst most foully for't: yet it was said,
It should not stand in thy posterity;
But that myself should be the root, and father
Of many kings.
Shakspeare.
That there was much talk, and not a little difference of opinion in the
various coteries of Bodmin that night, respecting the issue of the day's
proceedings, needs hardly be told. In such cases the crowd can hardly be
said to follow fortune and hate the fallen. The jury comes from among
it; there is plenty of food for vanity in running down the verdict, and
showing how much more rationally matters would have gone if _I_ had been
one of the twelve. The first gush of popular feeling is generally
against the decision in a doubtful case. So here, if there were plenty
of suspicion attaching to Henry Trevethlan's marriage, there were also
good grounds for discrediting the testimony of Everope. If, on the one
hand, scandalized gossips expressed their horror at such clandestine
unions, on the other, there was a general cry of indignation at the
witness's effrontery. If some people dwelt upon Maud Basset's hints that
her daughter was ill-used, others maintained that the mother could not
have been deceived at the wedding. If the popular rumours were cited in
support of the verdict, they were met by the authority of Polydore
Riches. In short, "there was a great deal to be said on both sides."
People had an opportunity of showing their discernment, and the majority
were apt to flatter their own shrewdness by dissenting from the jury.
He whom it most concerned, was already far from their councils. Randolph
left the court immediately on hearing the judgment, with the idea that
what had happened was exactly what he had expected, walked hurriedly to
his hotel, and ordered out his chaise. Polydore came up to him, and took
his hand, and besought him to stay, without extracting a single word in
reply. When the chaise drove up, his old pupil merely ejaculated--"I
must take the news to Helen. This is the last night either of us sleeps
in Trevethlan castle,"--sprang into the vehicle, desired to be driven
very fast, and was whirled away, leaving the good chaplain in a state of
utter dismay.
Mr. Riches had, however, to rouse himself subsequently, to attend a
conference which Winter had arranged for rather a late hour, and at
which the counsel for the defendant and Griffith were to assist. The
result of the meeting was unsatisfactory. The only practical suggestion
was to track Everope's career as closely as possible. It was just within
the bounds of probability that they might be able to overthrow that
remarkable pedestrian tour; or they might light on other facts tending
to elucidate his connection with Michael Sinson; or at least might
further damnify his general character. But it was admitted that to
chance they must look as their best friend. Time or fortune might bring
to knowledge the fate of Mr. Ashton, supposing that he had not been
murdered; or again, the missing Wyley might be discovered. Yet of what
avail could this last contingency prove, since the witness might have
been deceived in the same way as the mother? For the present, there
appeared to be no clue to the maze. If the parties would only quarrel,
there might indeed be an exposure; but they seemed to be too deeply
involved in one another's safety for this event to be at all likely.
Sinson took very good care, in the disquietude of his suspicious temper,
that his bondman should not be left in the way of temptation. He started
with Everope for London, within a few hours of the termination of the
trial. In that wretched man remorse seemed for a time to be dead.
Hitherto, in the midst of his lowest depravity, he had always
experienced compunctious visitings; he had been always haunted by a
sense of forfeited respectability; and had frequently felt a feeble
desire to reform. But now, although startled for a moment by the
identity of Morton with the defendant, he gladly accepted his position
as irremediable, and was looking eagerly for the reward which should
furnish him with the means of forgetting it.
But it behoved Michael to keep a strong hold on him for a short time. A
very short time, Sinson thought, in the first flush of his triumph,
would be sufficient. A few days might put him in possession of all his
desires: after that, what became of Everope, or what disclosures he
might choose to make, would be a matter of second-rate consequence.
Michael felt a kind of admiration for his victim, when he remembered how
successfully he had encountered that searching cross-examination. But he
could not allow so much ability to run too loose, and resolved to hold
him in by drawing his purse-strings very tight, until his own game was
perfectly secure.
That it would soon be so, he did not feel the least doubt. He had been
playing for weeks and weeks; he had kept his eye steadily fixed upon one
event; all his calculations terminated in one result; he had taught
himself completely to ignore all unfavourable chances; supposing he had
any confidants, he would have regarded their suggestion of difficulty as
an insult; he might be thought to fancy that the book of fate lay open
before him, and all he read was his own triumph.
And his patroness, she who, in the halls of Pendarrel, was pursuing a
line of policy totally at variance with that of her protege, little
dreaming that what seemed to be her victory was intended to be his,
utterly unconscious of the price about to be demanded for it--how would
she receive the news? Her husband, engaged all day in hearing the
details of petty felonies, was discharged with the rest of his
colleagues at its close, and retired to recreate himself in their
company at a well-served board. There he received the intelligence of
the verdict, and accepted the felicitations of his friends. Thence,
knowing the penalty which would otherwise await him at home, he withdrew
for a little space to indite a despatch for his wife; and then, having
entrusted the missive to a trusty rider, with injunctions to lose no
time on the road, he was able to rejoin his friends before the decanters
had completed their first round.
So the news was ready for the mistress of Pendarrel by breakfast-time.
In the first flush of exultation she made her daughter a partner in it.
"Mildred, my love, I give you joy. You are heiress of Trevethlan
Castle."
But the young lady regarded her mother with a countenance in which there
were no signs of joy, and the for once imprudent parent bit her lip.
"And my cousins," Mildred said, "are ruined."
"They are no cousins of yours, child," said her mother, not yet having
regained perfect presence of mind; "nor of any one else. Nor are they
ruined. I shall take good care of that."
Mrs. Pendarrel would very gladly have recalled the remark which had
excited her daughter's sympathy, in order to convey the information in a
tone of less unqualified satisfaction. But she forgot her wariness in
the pride occasioned by the success of all her long machinations.
"Pendar'l and Trevethlan would own one name."
And that name would be Pendarrel. Nay, more; the name of Trevethlan
would vanish from the earth. The family would sink into oblivion. If he
who had slighted her could rise from his grave, and see the ruin which
had followed his scorn; could see how his towers had passed into the
hands of his foe; how his fame was blighted, and his children
dishonoured; were there not ample satisfaction for all the long misery
his contempt had inflicted? "No!" Esther was compelled to answer, as
that eternal spring of bitter waters burst forth amidst the sweet flood
of revenge. "No, nothing can compensate me for the sorrow which
conscience whispers has been due to my own arrogance; nothing can atone
for the wreck of that happiness, which, but for my own presumption,
might have been mine."
Reflections like these, however, were soon crushed, and Mrs. Pendarrel
had quite sufficient employment on her hands. Since the night of her
great party, she had been assiduously pressing forward the preparations
for Mildred's marriage. Perfectly heedless of the attitude assumed by
the young lady, she was arranging all the details of the affair with
maternal diligence, and had gone so far as to select the persons who
were to be present at the ceremony. Mr. Truby had been himself to the
Hall to receive final instructions respecting the settlements. Melcomb
was an assiduous visitor, but by no means solicitous for _tete-a-tetes_
with his intended bride. To him the marriage was become nearly a matter
of life and death. It was true the gossips at Mrs. Pendarrel's party had
somewhat exaggerated his embarrassments; but his creditors were growing
very importunate, and impatiently awaiting the day when the possession
of his wife's fortune would enable him to satisfy their most pressing
demands: a purpose to which he had undertaken it should be devoted. Let
it be rumoured that the match was broken off, and it might not be very
long before Tolpeden Park suffered the outrages alluded to by Mr.
Quitch. So Melcomb disguised whatever inward anxiety he might feel,
under a smooth brow and a smiling face, and evaded his mistress's
repugnance as best he might.
Mildred's remonstrances had subsided into passive resistance. She was
generally silent and calm. The irksomeness of her situation was greatly
aggravated; but, at the same time, her spirit was sustained by the
memory which she cherished in her heart of the scene under the hawthorns
of the cliff. Trusting that some accident might even yet frustrate her
mother's intentions, she allowed her to proceed without protest, acting
on her sister's advice, to postpone eclat to the latest possible period.
She felt that she had deceived no one, and, if scandal came, it would be
no fault of hers.
But had Esther been fully aware of all that was fermenting in the young
lady's mind, she would, indeed, have bit her lips hard, rather than let
slip that intimation respecting Trevethlan Castle. The idea of flight
had occurred to the reluctant maiden more than once; coming, however,
only to be dismissed. But if her lover were really ruined, if he to whom
she had plighted herself were an exile from house and home, forlorn and
outcast, then it was not unlikely Mildred might think that her vow as
well as her affection bade her seek him, at once to share and to console
his sorrow.
So Mrs. Pendarrel's hasty exclamation brought distress and anxiety to
her daughter, and imparted a certain consistency to a notion which had
previously been shadowy as a dream. Mildred wrote a long letter to her
sister, partly lifting the veil from the emotions which agitated her,
and dwelling more strongly than she had ever done before, upon the
disquietude she felt at the mode in which the match was being hurried
forward.
But it was not from this communication that Mrs. Winston would learn the
result of the law-suit. She was at a party, when she overheard an
allusion to it from a bystander. He was a barrister, who had been
present at the trial, and who, having finished his business at the
assizes, had returned with speed to London. She knew the person he was
conversing with, joined them, and learned all the particulars. She had
before talked the affair over, and was fully aware of the consequences
to the orphans of Trevethlan. She immediately quitted the assembly, went
home, and interrupted her husband in his studies. A brilliant creature
she was, glowing in all the lustre and maturity of thirty summers, and
now adorned with everything that could be imagined to enhance her
beauty. So she swept to Mr. Winston's side, and laid her hand lightly
upon his shoulder. And, with all his love of ease and philosophy, his
indolence and affected apathy, he was really proud of his wife, and
gratified whenever she came to him with a request. So, if there were a
little impatience in his mind, when he looked up from his book into her
face, it vanished immediately in admiration, and was succeeded by
pleasure when he found she had come to consult him.
"So soon home, Gertrude," he said. "And why? I trust nothing is the
matter."
She related what she had heard respecting the law-suit.
"And now," she concluded, "what will become of my unhappy cousins?"
"I think, my dear," her husband said, after some reflection,--"I think
there could be no harm, considering all the circumstances, there could
be no harm, I imagine, in begging Miss Trevethlan to make our house her
home. I do not believe this verdict will stand. But, at all events, we
might invite Miss Trevethlan to stay with us; at any rate for a time.
She might be as private as she pleased. What do you say, my dear? You
might write to her...."
He had laid his open volume upon his knee. What he suggested was
precisely what Mrs. Winston desired. So much coldness had attended all
her intercourse with her mother, since their last discussion about
Mildred's marriage, that she took no heed of any objection from that
quarter. She answered her husband by bending down and touching his cheek
with her lips. He thought she had never looked so beautiful before, and
threw away his book.
That evening was the beginning of a new era in Gertrude's life.