Desdichada fue la hora,
Desdichado fue aquel dia
En que naci y herede
La tau grande senoria;
Pues lo habia de perder
Todo junto y en un dia.
Roman. Espan.
Late in the night, or early in the morning that followed the trial at
Bodmin, any watcher at Trevethlan would be startled by the gallop of
horses and the rattle of wheels, as the chaise which bore Randolph to
his lost home dashed round the green of the hamlet. The bell rung loud
at the castle-gate, and old Jeffrey roused himself from his slumbers,
and having looked to the state of his blunderbus, descended leisurely to
learn who sought admission at that untimely hour. His master's voice
impatiently ordered him to open the gate; and, with a wonder that
impeded his duty, he obeyed. Delay again occurred before Randolph
obtained entrance to the great hall; and when he did, the white face
upon which fell the glare of the trembling handmaiden's lamp, might
remind her of those sheeted spectres which were said to glide at that
hour through the desolate corridors. He bade her leave him a light, and
she fled, scared, back to the couch from which she had unwillingly
risen.
Randolph strode with irregular steps up and down the vaulted hall.
Perhaps, had Griffith been there, the worthy steward would have
remembered the day when his late master paced it in the like manner,
after his furious ride from Pendarrel. He might recollect the same
fierce passion in his eye--the same dark scowl upon his forehead, as
those which now burnt and loured in the face of his son. Nor were it
very easy to say which had sustained the greatest provocation: the
father, led on and enchained in a deep attachment, only to feel himself
the sport of a wayward girl's vanity; or the son, who found the same
girl, now a woman, triumphing in that father's dishonour, and exulting
over the ruin of his house. And that was not all, for the disgrace
descended: the good name, which had been handed down from generation to
generation, almost from beyond the memory of man, with him,
Randolph--what?--was changed into an inheritance of shame. And he too
loved. He loved the child of his destroyer. He had sometimes rejoiced in
the idea of wreaking the vengeance bequeathed to him, by stealing her
from her mother. For she also loved him, and had vowed to be his. And
now;--what was to happen now? Ruin, privation, poverty, he might have
invited her to share, while honour was unstained. But could he ask her
to join the fortunes of one who had not even a name to offer her? The
reputed offspring of fraud and sin? Never, while there remained a shadow
in which calumny might wrap itself--never, while there was a suspicion
upon which envy might pretend to believe the tale related that
day--could he accept the fulfilment of his beloved one's promise.
And what hope was there? Had he not swept the dark horizon again and
again in search of the faintest ray of light, and failed to discover
any? And if his vision, sharpened by despair, could discover none, whose
could? Had he not listened to every syllable of the foul tale, with the
ears of one who sought a flaw in his death-warrant? And had he been able
to discover any? Then if he were deaf, who could hear?
And this was the story with which he must greet his sister in the
morning. For delay, dalliance with chance was out of the question. As he
had told Polydore Riches, not another night should the castle find him
beneath its roof. Speedy possession! It had been refused, but they might
take it. He would not remain where his very name seemed to mock him.
Therefore he and Helen were in fact houseless. Well, they would again
seek their old quarters near the metropolis. They still possessed a few
months' maintenance. Afterwards, let what would happen, it would not
much matter.
These bitter thoughts occupied Randolph when the grey light of day-break
stole through the lofty casements, and reminded him of the necessity of
repose. He sought his own chamber. The sea lay beneath him, calm and
still, but without its usual tranquillising influence. Dressed as he was
he flung himself upon his bed, and sheer exhaustion brought some fitful
slumber.
The sun was shining bright into the room, when he finally awoke. His
morning orisons, never neglected, inspired him with something like
resignation. He would not, indeed, remain a day at the castle, but he
would only go to London to be near head-quarters, and avail himself of
the best assistance in unveiling the iniquity by which for a season he
had been defeated. And, animated by this determination, he met his
sister at breakfast with a countenance which told plainly enough what
had happened, but at the same time was not utterly devoid of hope; one,
"wherein appeared, obscure, some glimpse of joy."
"It is against us, my brother," Helen said, when the repast was over.
"Ay, Helen," he answered. "We are outcasts upon earth, from our home,
and from our name. There is nothing left us but to say farewell. We may
as well say it immediately. Can you be ready to depart this very day?"
He saw that his sister's eyes were filled with tears.
"It is sudden, dearest," he said; "but it is better so. I cannot stay
here, while a taint rests upon my name. We can travel to-day, and what
we want may follow us. And it will not be 'a farewell for ever.'"
He smiled as he spoke, but he could win no corresponding glance from
Helen. They separated to make the necessary preparations for departure.
It was not much past noon, when the friends arrived whom Randolph had
left at Bodmin. They united in protesting against the projected journey.
But argument was vain. Randolph had completed his plan. He should go
straight to his old quarters at Hampstead; that is, if he found them
unoccupied; should put himself in close communication with Winter and
his friend Rereworth; and follow up an inquiry into the evidence given
at the trial with untiring energy. If such investigation were
fruitless--but he was not inclined to accept that alternative--he need
hardly say, that not for an hour would he waive his claim to the name of
Trevethlan, and that therefore he had no notion of resuming his old
disguise. He had no objection to Griffith remaining at the castle as
long as the law would permit, but he earnestly pressed the chaplain to
follow him to the metropolis.
"You will be such a support to my sister, Mr. Riches," he urged. "I
shall be much away from her. Engaged in business; unable to sustain her
in this great change. Do come, my dear sir, and help your old pupils in
their extremity."
Polydore was not one to resist such an entreaty, and assented. Yet,
perhaps, Randolph might have been prevailed upon at least to defer his
departure, but for an invitation to do so from another quarter. A note
reached the castle from Mrs. Pendarrel, in which that lady expressed her
hope that its present occupants would put themselves to no
inconvenience; that the demand for immediate possession was
unauthorized, and that every accommodation would be granted with
pleasure. This polite missive, it may be presumed, was in partial
fulfilment of the intention Esther expressed to her daughter, of
assisting her adversaries in their fall. But it was too much like that
which she caused her husband to write in the opening of this narrative,
to be received as a favour, and only served to provoke Randolph into a
fresh burst of rage, and make him eager for the vehicle which should
bear them away from all such insults.
Before it came, however, he could not resist guiding his sister to a
last visit to the haunt of their childhood, Merlin's Cave. And there for
no little space they sat in silence, thinking over the happiness of
by-gone days. The day was even warmer than those which had preceded it,
but it was close and heavy. The sea lay before the orphans, perfectly
smooth, sleeping in its might; and there was no breath of air to waft
aside the lightest bubble it might leave upon the rock; but some round
massive clouds were rising one behind another in the south-western
horizon, which might indicate the coming of a storm.
"Farewell to Trevethlan!" Randolph said. "Let me hear our old song once
more."
And Helen sang the ancestral ditty, but with an accent very different
from that she gave it on the eve of their previous journey to the
metropolis.
"Farewell to Trevethlan! A farewell for ever!
Farewell to the towers that stand by the sea!"
"Remember, Helen," her brother said, "how you checked me when I told you
your song was of ill omen. And believe me now, when I say that, like
Reginald, we shall live to see a joyful revolution."
Ill news flies fast. The intelligence of the verdict had spread in the
hamlet, and its immediate effect was exaggerated by the villagers. The
coming departure of their young master and mistress also travelled from
the castle to the green, and added to the excitement. Groups collected
both of sorrowing women and of threatening men. The lapse of time only
increased the numbers and the exasperation of the tenantry. The people
speedily forgot all those rumours concerning their late lord's marriage,
which of old gratified their envy, and which had probably contributed in
no small degree to the result of the trial. They only considered the
event of the day; that the last representative of the family with which
they had been connected for centuries was now to be driven from his
home, by a deserter who had sold himself to a rival house; and many
among them resolved, that if they could prevent it, by right or wrong,
it should not be so that "Pendar'l and Trevethlan should own one name."
"And so ye were right after all, dame," said farmer Colan to the
landlady of the Trevethlan Arms. "The old saying's come true with a
vengeance. But there's no Miss Mildred in the case."
"And Madam Pendarrel's not come to Trevethlan yet, farmer," was the
answer. "And there's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip."
"There's like to be a slip here," cried a voice in the crowd, "such as
she little knows."
"It's a curious sort of day for the season," said Breage. "So warm and
heavy. I should say there was some prognostication in the air."
"Ay, there'll be a storm before long, I reckon, neighbours," said
Germoe.
"Faith, then, there will," muttered another speaker; "and a storm some
people don't expect."
"There always is a storm," observed the general merchant, "along with
misfortune at the castle. It comes as a token."
"Then it comes too late," quoth Mrs. Miniver. "It is after the
misfortune this time. Who knows what came of Michael Sinson?"
A low groan ran through the throng, and filled the eyes of Mercy Page
with tears.
"What'll his old grandame say," asked farmer Colan, "when she
understands the rights of the matter?"
"She never will understand," answered the hostess. "She'll close her
ears, and say it is all along of squire Randolph. Don't ye mind how she
met him at the late master's burying? And how she says that her Margaret
was murdered?"
"'T is a strange thing," remarked the village tailor, "that nothing ever
turned up about the parson's murder."
"He never was murdered," said Breage; "if he had, there'd have been a
sign. I don't believe as he was murdered."
The appearance of an empty carriage, winding its way round the green,
put an end to these gossiping speculations, and concentrated the
scattered groups of rustics into one compact crowd about the gate
leading into the base-court of the castle. A moody silence succeeded to
the previous animation, and all eyes followed the vehicle up the ascent,
until it vanished from sight through the arched portal. Even the
mirthful Mrs. Miniver then became serious for once, and waited among her
neighbours in rueful anxiety for the re-appearance of the carriage.
We pass lightly over the adieux within the inner court. Polydore Riches,
having resigned himself to what was inevitable, made them as brief as
possible. Randolph had steeled his heart against any display of feeling,
and Helen endeavoured to imitate her brother's fortitude. The steward
found comfort in hope; but his wife could not restrain her sorrow at
such a parting, and retired to the picture-gallery to try to forget the
present disaster, in calling to mind the past glories of the family to
which she was so deeply attached. Old Jeffrey flung open the gates, and
dashed a tear surlily from his eye as the carriage passed under the
arch. But when the family flag was seen slowly and lingeringly to
descend from its high place, a wailing cry arose from the crowd upon the
green, which made Randolph's heart swell in his breast, and brought the
tears she had resolved not to shed into Helen's eyes.
The carriage soon reached the bottom of the descent. The people thronged
to the gate, and pressed against it, and loudly declared that it should
not be opened. Not so would they allow their young master and mistress
to be taken from them. There was considerable confusion, and cries were
uttered expressive of the villagers' determination. The driver,
perplexed, looked round for instructions. The situation was becoming
embarrassing.
"We will bid our friends farewell on foot, Helen," her brother
whispered, "and thank them for their good-will."
And, so saying, he threw open his door of the carriage, sprang out,
lowered the steps himself, and assisted his sister to alight. She leant
upon his arm, and they advanced to meet the crowd, which divided before
them with great respect. Shaking hands very cordially with those who
were nearest them, and expressing confident hopes that their absence
would not be long, they made their way across the green, while the
carriage proceeded by the road. But the people soon divined their
intention, and closed upon their path, and endeavoured to delay their
progress, clasping their hands, and pouring benedictions upon their
heads. It was a more trying leave-taking than that within the castle.
But at length, after many and many a salute, they reached the end of the
village, re-ascended their carriage amid renewed effusions of
attachment, and were borne rapidly from the sight of their sorrowing
adherents.
Sorrow, however, was not the only emotion excited by their departure.
Not a few imprecations, fiercely directed against the house that had
disinherited them, arose among their dependents as the carriage finally
disappeared.
END OF VOLUME II.
End of Project Gutenberg's Trevethlan: (Vol 2 of 3), by William Davy Watson