MISFORTUNES
"'Tis a downright shame," said bluff Captain Tom Lanyan, with some
warmth, as he flung his grey hair back from the livid scar along his
forehead, and stumped once or twice up and down the room in indignation.
"A shame rather to Miss Midget, herself, to refuse the alliance of a
house like ours," snapped Mistress Betty.
"Now the old squire is in ill health and the estate is entirely within
your power, brother James. I say it's a shame to pester the poor girl to
marry Richard, if she doesn't want to," continued the captain.
"Very well," said Sir James with the slightest trace of a scowl on his
placid features, "she shall not be pestered any longer, although many a
girl would jump at the chance. I have changed my plans."
"Bless you, brother, you are more generous than I thought," and the
captain's face actually lighted up with a smile, that was like the
sunshine on a beetling, ragged cliff.
"I have changed my plans," continued Sir James, "I have another plan for
Richard. Of what benefit is it to us to have an alliance with a fallen
family. It would be much better to seek the Godolphin family. There is
the daughter of Lady Godolphin, who will fall heir to the inheritance
that a prince might envy, and I do not think the earl would oppose my
purpose, for the fortunes of the Lanyans are ascending. With the
Godolphins back of me, securely tied in alliance, I could demand
anything from the government, and obtain it."
"I shall not marry the daughter of Godolphin," said young Mr. Richard,
and his thin lips, so like his father's, closed in a narrow, determined
line. "I shall marry Mistress Alice Vivian." Sir James's features
flashed with anger. Richard Lanyan continued unawed. "The squire is in
favour of it, and you were yourself some time ago. It remains only for
the girl to be won over."
"Yes, I was in favour of it, but that was when the Vivians were in good
circumstances. The old squire proposed it, himself, years ago, but times
have altered. There shall be no alliance with the Vivians. Godolphin is
friendly and is relying upon me for support in the House of Commons. For
the last two weeks things have looked most favourable toward an alliance
with the most distinguished and powerful family of Cornwall, and I am
not one to slight the opportunities presented." There was determination
in Sir James's tones.
"I shall marry Mistress Alice Vivian," said the son.
"You shall not," with a click of the jaws.
"I shall," with an answering, determined click. Richard Lanyan turned on
his heel and left the hall.
"It will be so much better, after all," said Mistress Betty, echoing her
brother's thoughts. "Our family might rival the Godolphins in time. Miss
Midget will be sorry the day she ever refused. I must set myself to win
Richard over from his infatuation, and I flatter myself I shall succeed.
When did a woman ever fail?" Mistress Betty tilted her heavy eagle nose
at an angle, as much as to say, you'll soon see how a woman's superior
wisdom will manage it.
The old captain slowly shook his head as if in doubt.
"You may manage it, and I hope you will, but I would as soon attack a
battery of artillery as try and turn a man away from the girl of his
choice. I hope you will succeed, for the girl doesn't want Richard, and
it is a shame to pester her and the poor old squire. I am glad the thing
is settled, though, in brother James's mind, for you'll let them stay,
brother James?"
"Squire Vivian must pay the mortgage within a week, when it comes due,
or leave the premises. I already have a tenant for the Manor should he
fail."
"But--Zounds! That's an outrage!" fumed Captain Tom.
"Nothing but a common procedure of law," asserted Sir James, coolly.
"Aye, it all sounds fine enough, and I suppose it must be so," said the
captain, angrily shaking his head, and stumping up and down; "but 'tis
an outrage all the same. The poor old squire will be driven out without
a home."
"Captain Tom, don't be unreasonable. You know that Squire Vivian will
not be homeless, for James intends to let him have the Primrose Cottage
at a nominal rent," said Mistress Betty, championing Sir James.
"Aye, and the poor widow, Trembath, has already been driven from the
Primrose Cottage, and whether she is in the Union Home, or elsewhere, no
one knows. Is that just, James?"
"The Trembaths were traitors to the government," said Sir James, wincing
a little under Tom's sharp shaft, "and beside I am not responsible for
her loss of money by investment. I offered to loan her the money, and
took a mortgage. How could I know that the investment would fail?"
"You advised her," said Captain Tom, bluntly.
"It was her own doing," said Sir James, sharply, "and besides it has all
turned out favourably to us. We can't all be on top of the heap, Captain
Tom; some must be up and some must be down to make room for those who
get up. It's a law of nature, the survival of the fittest, and through
it all the circumstances of the Lanyans are better now than they have
been for a hundred years." So saying, Sir James turned on his heel and
wended his way into the library, where he was soon absorbed in his
London mail. Captain Tom called for his horse and rode off to Helston,
and Mistress Betty retired to her own private apartments.
Such were the scenes that happened two years previous to the discovery
of Major Thomas Trembath by his son Ande at the Loop. At Trembath Manor
was a far different scene.
"Ally, dear, draw the curtains and let me look out once more on the
park," said the querulous voice of the old squire. A tall, young lady,
with a sweet, though pallid countenance, arose to do his bidding. The
curtains were withdrawn, and the bright afternoon sunshine flooded the
sick man's bed chamber, and cast a halo of brightness o'er his features.
But what a countenance! Time and sickness had wrought great changes. The
old, hale, hearty, rubicund look was replaced by the pale, pained
expression of suffering.
"Come hither, dear."
Alice approached the bedside, and the old squire, taking her hand,
looked at her earnestly for a moment.
"I have fallen into the hands of a cruel master, my child. He who was my
friend is partly responsible for my position. After all I did for him,
working for his election to Parliament some years ago; for you must
understand, dear, that had it not been for old Squire Vivian and some of
his friends, Sir James Lanyan would not now represent our section. And
how has he repaid it?" continued the old man bitterly, and angrily.
"Father," laying her cool hand on his throbbing temples, "you know the
doctor says you must not excite yourself."
"Aye, I know. I know, Allie, but I can't help speaking of it. He
inveigled me into schemes of his own making, purposely, I believe now,
to ruin me, and get the estate and the mine into his own hands. A
dastard! A selfish villain! And now he is going to foreclose the
mortgage, and in a week, my poor Allie, your old sick father and
yourself will be without a roof to shelter them. An ungenerous rogue!"
said the old man with another burst of anger.
"Never mind, father, you have me, your Allie, left, and I'll take care
of you," and she smoothed down his scattered locks and laid her cheek
close to his. The action and words seemed to quiet the old squire for a
time, and he kissed the pale cheek of his daughter.
"You are a good daughter. Has Mr. Richard Lanyan been here to-day?"
"No, father."
"Has his man--Bob Sloan--as untrustworthy as the villain, Sir James--has
he been here?"
"No, father," endeavouring to soothe him.
"Aye, he is giving me time to think; you know his proposition, child,"
said the old man gently. "I shall not live long, and it distresses me to
think of my child homeless when I am gone." He laid his hand, that once
stout, brown hand, now pale and thin, upon the bowed head of the girl,
who was silently weeping. "It may prolong my life if you accept Richard,
and our home will be yours. Long ago, before I knew of the villainy of
Sir James, I purposed in my heart your marriage to Richard. Now, though
I know the father and his trickery, yet I think I know the son, Richard,
and I believe him free from his father's faults. He seems a good young
man and talented, and loves you, child, sincerely, and he may make up in
kindness to you for the injustice done to me. Years ago, in my strength,
I thought it must be so, but now I have learned many things by sickness,
and I would not urge you against your will."
"Father," said the girl, raising her tear-stained face, "if it will
make you live longer I will not oppose; I will freely and gladly
consent. I will do anything to add to your life. Have you not been both
a kind, loving father and mother to me?"
"Bless you, my dear Allie," said the squire as he sank back exhausted,
and then, in a whisper, "'Tis better than doctor's medicine. Call
Stephen Blunt--and write an answer to James Lanyan's letter that you
will find in yon desk."
Alice gave the order and sat herself down at the desk to answer as
briefly as possibly the epistle of Lanyan. It was soon written, and the
next moment Stephen Blunt appeared. He came in looking more bent and
decrepit than usual, for the sickness of his master was weighing heavy
upon him.
"Stephen," said the squire faintly, "send one of the servants with that
to Lanyan Hall and await a reply."
The taciturn, old steward took the missive handed him by Alice, bowed
and withdrew. A great load seemed to be removed from the old squire's
mind, and he slept peacefully for three hours. By that time the servant
had returned with the answer. Alice would have rather read it herself
first, but the querulous voice of the squire must not be resisted, and
so she passed it unopened to him. He unfolded it with trembling, eager
hands, and devoured the few lines written there. His countenance grew
paler, and then flushed an angry hue, until the great veins on his brow
stood forth like whipcords.
"What! What! It can't be so!" he shrieked. He crushed the letter in
his hands with rage and was about to fling it from him, but the
motion and passion was too much for him, and with a gasp he fell
backward--unconscious. The crushed letter dropped from his relaxed
hand and fell to the floor, where it remained unnoticed for the time.
"To the doctor, quick!" said Stephen Blunt to the servant that was in
the room. The servant was down and out in a moment. The same horse that
carried him to the Lanyans' was near at hand, and he vaulted into the
saddle, and went tearing down the carriage drive.
With a shriek of "My father!" Alice fell to the floor in a faint.
"Carry her to her rooms! He is not dead! I will not believe it until the
doctor comes," said old Stephen Blunt. The servants carried their young
mistress to her apartments, while Stephen, murmuring many things to
himself, bathed the squire's forehead until the physician came. In a few
minutes there was the sound of clattering hoofs on the gravel of the
drive-way, then a rapid step on the stairs, and the physician was in the
sick man's room. A look and a touch sufficed.
"He is past help. It is as I feared--a sudden stroke of apoplexy
produced by some shock." He picked up the crumpled letter from the
floor, opened it, read it with compressed lips, and placed it in his
pocket.
The news spread o'er the whole village with the rapidity of wildfire,
and by night every man, woman and child knew and sympathised with the
bereavement at the Manor, for Squire Vivian was generally liked.
The funeral was held in the parish church, and old Parson Trant preached
the sermon. With his eyes wet with the flood of sympathy and sorrow, and
his voice unsteady and quivering, he delivered to the hushed multitudes
an address upon "How are the mighty fallen." He called to their minds
the deeds of the squire and his open, frank, generous life in such a
tender manner that many of the audience wept in sorrow as acute as his
own. There was possibly one of that audience who felt more keenly than
others, and he bowed his head down as if ashamed to meet the gaze of the
people around him. It was Captain Tom Lanyan. His sorrow was increased
with the thought that it was some action of his brother that caused the
squire's death. None of the other Lanyans were present. Sir James had to
leave to attend to some business in Plymouth, and, informing his lawyer
to foreclose the mortgage on the estate and tin mine and secure a tenant
for the Manor, he embarked on the first vessel from Falmouth. Mistress
Betty was ill of same fancied ailment, and Richard was, no one knew
where.
After the funeral there was much condolence offered to Mistress Alice
Vivian, but no personal help, no one being aware that the Manor and even
the home furniture had passed out of the hands of the Vivian family. But
Alice knew, and with a sickening sense of loneliness and helplessness
she passed out of the gates of the Manor on the evening of the same day
of the funeral. She had packed up her little personal belongings and had
forwarded them that afternoon to Penzance, where she intended following
on the morrow. With a heart full of unuttered grief she wended her way
to the old parish church and churchyard to pay a last visit to her
father's tomb. The sun had long since disappeared beneath the horizon,
and the pale, glimmering moon flooded hill and dale with ghostly, limpid
light, whitening the cornices of the old church tower in the distance,
deepening the shadows 'neath the trees, and bringing into gleaming
prominence the white monuments of the departed. The gates of the
cemetery were passed at length, but there was no fear or terror in her
heart. Why should she fear? The dead could not hurt her, and it was less
lonely here than in the great, empty Manor house. The church door was
not locked, and opening it she passed down the long aisle, the tile work
underneath echoing hollowly to her faint tread. Near the altar was the
tomb of her father. The moonbeams, penetrating the coloured windows,
illuminated it with a soft warm radiance, so clear, that the lettering
could be easily discerned. She contemplated the inscription with
tearful, stony gaze and then read softly to herself:
RICHARD VIVIAN, ESQ.
Trembath Manor
"How are the mighty fallen."
It was the text of the funeral sermon that was inscribed below. There
was nothing more save the dates of birth and death. Suddenly a keener
sense of her loss and loneliness came upon her, and she bowed herself to
the floor, giving vent to the first outpouring of grief--a grief that
she had restrained until then. Sobs and cries, low, yet full of grief,
shook and convulsed her frame.
"Oh, father! father! do you know how lonely I am? I am your daughter,
your Allie, and you always wanted me near you. I am here near you,
father, and yet I cannot feel your presence, for you are gone and I am
alone." A great sob checked her utterance, and for a long time she
struggled with her grief, murmuring incoherently, and, then arising, she
dried her eyes.
"Perhaps he sees still, and pities my grief and solitude. Parson Trant
said that the dead are more alive than the living--'I am the God of
Abraham, Isaac and Jacob; God is not the God of the dead, but of the
living.'" She quoted the Scripture passage softly to herself, and it
seemed to give some comfort. "Yes, he must see and hear." A noise near
the distant tower door startled her. She gazed that way, though not in
fear. Who could be in these sacred precincts at night beside herself?
she asked mentally. The noise was not repeated. It was some owl or bat,
or perhaps it was a slight breeze that had moved the slightly opened
door, she thought, and then turning to the altar she knelt down in
prayer.
"O God, I have now no father, no friend, no helper but Thee. I am
friendless, homeless, poor and lonely. Be my helper and give me
strength. Be my father, O Thou who art above, and hold me in Thy
protecting arms. Thou art the defence of the widow and the fatherless;
be Thou the defence of the fatherless now and hold me in the hollow of
Thy hand. O God, all Thy waves and Thy billows have gone over my soul.
At one blow I lose all. Supported by a father's love, it is taken from
me; reared in comfort, I am reduced to bitter poverty; surrounded by
friends--yet to-day alone and helpless, and yet,--Thou wilt not forsake
me, for Thou dost mark the sparrow's fall. I go a stranger among
strangers in a strange land, yet Thou wilt not forsake me. Oh, be a
light to my feet, a guide to my way, and a stay in my helplessness."
Some time more she spent at the altar in silent prayer, and then arising
and casting a long lingering look at the silent tomb near her, she
slowly wended her way down the silent and deserted church, and thence on
and out of the cemetery.
Without she walked rapidly along the highway, when the figure of a man
emerged from the shadow of the cemetery gate and followed and overtook
her.
"Mistress Alice," he said, laying a detaining hand on her arm. She
started and would have fled, but he restrained her. "You are out late;
let me attend you."
"I asked not your escort, Mr. Richard Lanyan."
"Ah, but I choose to give it," said the young man, in a determined tone,
and then added: "Mistress Alice, why will you not listen to reason? You
know that you are friendless and poor and I would help you,--yes, lay
down my life for you. I----"
"I do not require your aid. Why do you push your attentions upon me when
you know they are unwelcome, and especially at this sad time?"
"Ah, but Mistress Alice, my love for you----"
She gave an impatient gesture.
"Have I not often said that it is vain and useless. I do not wish it,
and your father----"
"Does not wish it, either," interjected Lanyan with an unpleasant scowl,
"but that matters not; I wish it."
"But I do not, and I must not encourage you. I cannot give you what I
have bestowed upon another." Her face flushed and then resumed its
pallid expression.
Mr. Richard Lanyan was silent, but his facial muscles twitched with
emotion, and his dark eyes gleamed with hidden fire.
"I say that no one shall take you from me. My father nor no one else
shall stand as a bar in the way."
"I stand in the way, myself. My own heart is the strongest bar."
"If you will neither listen to reason or affection, there are other
means," he said, threateningly.
"You are a coward and a miscreant, sir, to use such words to me."
"There are other means and----"
The words were scarcely uttered when she was seized from the rear and a
cloak flung o'er her head.
"The coach, Bob," said Richard.
"'Tis coming, sir."
There was the rattle of wheels and a coach stopped near them. The door
was wrenched open and as he placed her within he finished the sentence,
"There are other means, and he, whoever he is, will never get you,
except over the dead body of Richard Lanyan."
The deed was done so quickly that the dazed girl had but time to utter a
muffled shriek as the door slammed, and her subsequent cries were
drowned by the rattling wheels and trotting horses.
Mr. Richard Lanyan, angry with repeated rejections, had made his master
movement.