Trevethlan: A Cornish Story. Volume 2
In the meanwhile his sister and he renewed their former acquaintance with the good folks of the hamlet, and to external appearance resumed the way in which they had lived before the late Mr. Trevethlan's death. It was a quiet, dreamy sort of life, of which a faint sketch was given in the outset of this narrative. They were born in a land of romance; the whole region was classic ground. From King Arthur's castle of Tintagel in the north-east, to Merlin's stone in Mount's Bay, respecting which an old prophecy—
"There shall land on the stone MerlynThose shall burn Paul's, Penzance, and Newlyn,"was said to be fulfilled by some stragglers from the Spanish Armada, every field might be supposed the scene of some chivalrous exploit, or magical enchantment, or superstitious sacrifice. There dwelt the last of the British druids: their strange monuments were still standing on the wild moors and in the cultivated domains, on the desolate carns and among the crags of the sea-shore. Such was the oracular stone at Castle Trereen,—at that time not forced from its resting-place by sacrilegious hands, and requiring no chain to keep it from logging too far. Such was Lanyon Quoit, a cromlech on the moorland beyond Madron, and not very far from the battle-field, where the Saxon Athelstan finally defeated the Britons, and drove them to perish of hunger in the caves of Pendeen. The curious stranger still marks their strong fortresses, Castle Chun and Castle Dinas, occupying the highest ground between Mount's Bay and the Irish Sea; he may read the name of their chieftain, Rialobran, on his tombstone, Mên Skryfa, now prostrate among the herbage; and he may note the sanguinary nature of the struggle, in the title which it gained for the Land's End, of Penvonlas, or the Headland of Blood.
And, again, the customs of the country still kept alive some faint memorials of those heathen times, and of the accommodating spirit of the earliest Christian missionaries. To such an origin is ascribed the salutation of the orchards at Christmas, already referred to: the mistletoe of the apple was not so sacred as that of the oak, but neither was it despicable. And the bonfires of St. John's Eve were said to tell of the days when the cromlechs of Cam Brey were surrounded by a mystic grove, and the officiating priests hurried their human victims through purifying flames to the blood-stained altar.
Nor was the land less indebted for romantic associations to those fabulous historians, who peopled Britain with royalty, beauty, chivalry, and faery, and assigned to Cornwall the honour of producing the renowned Sir Tristan. Not a few hours were whiled away at Trevethlan Castle in discoursing of their marvellous adventures, their strange wandering towns of Camelot and Caerleon, and the general phantasmagoric character of their narratives. They plotted out the kingdom in an imaginary map, and whatever scenery they required, they regarded as existing and well known. Did they want a lake, from whence should issue a hand bearing a magic sword, they troubled not themselves with any mention of its landmarks: a forest perilous arose wherever they willed: a bridge to be defended, and therefore a stream, was always ready in the champion's path: you were introduced to a fountain as if you had drunk at it all your life. Undoubting faith in their own story was one of their most powerful fascinations: it transferred itself to their hearers, and a tale, which modern exactness would make incoherent and incredible, became credible from its very indistinctness. The Round Table romances present us with a fantastic Britain, which we may conceive to be still in being, like the paradise of Irem in the desert of Aden, and which the second-sight of imagination may yet conjure up in all its pristine glory.
Many of those old tomes, quartos and folios, whose florid binding attested their high estimation by early possessors, enriched the shelves of the castle library; and few of its proprietors were deterred from exploring their contents, by the mystic black-letter and antiquated French in which the stories were told. Under Polydore's guidance, Randolph and Helen had become acquainted with much of this legendary lore; and even their father sometimes deigned to take part in a conversation arising out of it.
But it was in vain now that Helen, in the hope of chasing away the cloud which hung continually upon her brother's brow, strove to recall his attention to these studies of the old time. The down had been brushed from the butterfly's wing. She strolled with him along the beach, and she sat with him in Merlin's Cave, in spite of the wintry weather; but it was impossible to bring back the mood in which he listened to "Trevethlan's farewell," on the eve of their departure for London. He was fond of roaming through the desolate state rooms, rapt in deep meditation, and only roused when the wind, rushing through some crevice, waved the tapestry of the walls with a rustling sound, and made the dim figures portrayed upon it seem for a moment endued with life. Sometimes he would be found in the picture-gallery, gazing earnestly on the portrait of his father, and seeming, by the expression of his countenance, eager to evoke from the mimic lips an answer to some question which was struggling in his breast. His old teacher noted his moodiness with anxiety, but in silence, and made no attempt to forestall the explanation, which he felt sure must come of itself before long.
CHAPTER III
The heart, surrendered to the ruling powerOf some ungoverned passion every hour,Finds, by degrees, the truths that once bore swayAnd all their deep impression wear away:So coin grows smooth in traffic current passed,Till Cæsar's image is effaced at last.Cowper.The mistress of Pendarrel Hall never visited it without experiencing a renewal of many an ancient spring of grief. There were not a few spots in the park, sequestered from the more frequented paths, which she could not look upon without bitter regret, yet which she was always sure to explore within a few days of her arrival, so much of pensive pleasure mingled with the pain. But the influence of such reminiscences was of short duration, and the temporary weakness was soon succeeded by that permanent animosity to the owners of Trevethlan Castle, which had become the ruling passion of her life. She would climb an eminence in the neighbourhood, from which the old gray towers were visible, and think, with fresh exasperation, of the obstinacy or the pride which still detained them from her grasp.
But now she came to her home, with a fond belief that the enemy was at last delivered into her hand. Previously, there seemed no limit to the contention. Now, a few weeks must decide it. Michael Sinson had returned to town before the departure of his patroness, had matured his plans, had obtained her sanction to carrying them out, and had been introduced by her husband to his highly-respected solicitor, Mr. Truby. That gentleman could only assure his client, after a careful perusal of Sinson's statement, that, if it did not break down in court, there could be no doubt whatever that Mr. Randolph Trevethlan would be held to be an intruder upon the castle property, and that immediate possession would be given to him, Mr. Trevethlan Pendarrel. And, as Michael vouched for the perfect soundness of his evidence, Mr. Truby received directions to commence proceedings forthwith. "Let the suit be pressed forward," Mrs. Pendarrel said, "with the utmost possible despatch."
That matter settled, she left London with her daughter; her husband gladly making his official duties a plea for remaining in May Fair. Yet Esther was not altogether at her ease. Plain and straightforward as was Sinson's story, and completely as it destroyed the validity of the late Mr. Trevethlan's marriage, she still suspected there was some unseen flaw. She often thought of Mr. Truby's qualification—if the case did not break down in court. Who was this very important witness that Sinson had so opportunely discovered? And then, as the notion of fraud stole into her mind, she asked herself, what would be the motive; with what object could Sinson have devised his scheme? And again she questioned herself, with some alarm, as to the extent to which she had authorized the proceedings of her protégé. She had communicated with him once or twice by letter. And the uneasiness expressed in these reflections was somewhat increased by Michael's recent demeanour. He wore a look of intelligence, and assumed an air of importance, seeming to discover a consciousness of some hidden power. A sense of superiority appeared to mingle with his fawning subserviency, such as might mark the carriage of Luke in Massinger's play. But Mrs. Pendarrel soon wrapped herself in her pride, and forgot all her suspicions.
To be sure, that pride rather revolted from the mode of proceeding. An action-at-law was but a bad substitute for a raid of the olden time. The bailiff with a slip of parchment was an indifferent representative of a "plump of spears." The court was but a poor arena, compared to the lists. But for this there was no help. The inconvenient civilization of modern times precluded a resort to that picturesque method of settling the question. And Mrs. Pendarrel owned to herself that her husband was but ill-qualified to head a foray. She recollected the pretences by which he had obtained her hand, and confessed that he would cut a bitter figure in "Doe on the demise of Pendarrel against Trevethlan," than in a cartel of mortal defiance.
Yet had she good cause to tremble. She had only discerned one-half of Sinson's character, his malice against the Trevethlans. She employed him in a manner which gratified that feeling, and she supposed her pecuniary favours were sufficient to make him her own. But he was far from being a slave, like an eastern mute, or a messenger of the Vehm-Gericht, who would answer in humble submission, "to hear is to obey:" he had his own game to play beside that of his mistress, and well would it be for her if she did not lose more than she won by his cunning finesse.
His disposition had been nourished by his whole life. His early years were spent in the most abject servility. He fawned upon his young cousin, the heir of Trevethlan, like a spaniel. To obtain his partiality, and to be admitted to his society, he was ready to lick the dust under his feet. And at the same time he thought, or was persuaded by his grandmother, that the ties of blood made such distinction a matter of right rather than of favour. So very early in life he acquired ideas much above his real station, and pined for a position for which he was not born.
When Randolph's father ejected the young rustic from the castle, this aspiring ambition seemed to be nipped in the bud. The disappointment was very severe, and his fanatical grandmother changed it into hatred. Having been urgent in inducing her daughter to accept the offered elevation, she heard of the treatment portrayed in poor Margaret's fading cheek with wrath, and regarded her death as a murder to be avenged. So she trained Michael as the instrument of retribution, and made his personal spite the basis of a deep-rooted animosity against all the house of Trevethlan.
With such feelings he presented himself to Mrs. Pendarrel, and was received into her service. And well pleased he was to find that his first duties implied more or less of hostility towards his former playmate. He entered upon the task with a zeal inspired by hatred. The departure of the orphans from their home seemed to deprive him of his occupation, but in fact widened its sphere. The summons to London extended the bounds of the young peasant's ambition. He had profited well by the early instructions of Polydore Riches; he was of good figure, with a handsome, if unprepossessing face; a short residence in the metropolis changed his rusticity into assurance; and his natural abilities qualified him to play many parts, and in some degree to seem a gentleman.
His progress was quickened by the glimpse he caught of Miss Pendarrel at his first arrival in town. It developed a series of sensations in his mind, only partially excited before by the rural charms of Mercy Page, and made him feel the inferiority of his station with tenfold bitterness. He thought vaguely of Sir Richard Whittington and Sir Ralph Osborne, and longed for the opportunity of making a rapid fortune. With this idea, he bought a ticket in the lottery.
And as he advanced in the confidence of his patroness, a new prospect opened before him. He fancied he saw the means of obtaining a control over her, by which he could bend her to his will, whenever the time came. So that he reached his end, he cared not for the road. And in this case every passion of his heart concurred in urging him forward. Circumstances favoured his desires even beyond his expectations, and the period was approaching to strike the final blow.
Sinson's connection with the wretched spendthrift, Everope, has already been traced. He destined that individual to play an important part in his plot. The miserable man hung back at every step, and ended by clearing it. Michael's money supplied him with dissipation, and in dissipation he drowned remorse. But the trip into the country nearly rescued him from his betrayer's clutches; it had given him time for reflection such as he had not had for many a day; and when on their return, Sinson laid open his further demands, he encountered a resistance so obstinate that he almost thought his previous labour had been thrown away. But threats and temptations did their work, and Everope finally agreed to take the step, which Sinson promised should be the last required of him. And now Michael remained in town, instead of at once accompanying his patroness to Pendarrel, in order to furnish Mr. Truby with information, and to take heed that his reluctant dupe did not slip through his fingers.
The second week in February had scarcely begun, when Esther arrived in Cornwall. Well might Gertrude warn Mildred that she underrated the difficulties of her position. Mrs. Pendarrel treated her with the most tender consideration, but with great art made her constantly feel that the marriage was a settled thing, without ever affording her an opportunity of protesting. Her assent was continually implied, yet in such a way that she could not contradict the inference. Her situation became embarrassing and irksome. It was ungenerous, she thought, to take such an advantage of maidenly scruples. She felt that a web was being spun round her, reducing her to a sort of chrysalis, from which it was every day harder to escape, but from which she was resolved a fly should issue, by no means like what was expected.
For she entertained no fear about the final result. If her mother chose to go on, wilfully blind, from day to day, without permitting her eyes to be opened, on her must rest the blame of any éclat. The remembrance of her cousin was deeply imprinted on her heart, and sustained its courage. Night after night, before retiring to rest, she drew aside the curtains of her window to look for the bright planet which he had associated with his destiny, saddened when it was hidden by clouds or dimmed by mist, happy when its rays beamed pure and clear into her chamber.
There were no guests staying at the hall, but numbers of casual visitors called to pay their respects, and hoped perhaps for an invitation to the wedding. And notes, of all shapes and sizes, requested the honour … at dinner and at dance. And a gay life would Mildred's have been, but that she was so pre-occupied. For her mother accepted nearly all the proffered hospitality, and returned it with liberal profusion. And at every one of these festive meetings, Mildred could see that in the compliments Mrs. Pendarrel received, and in her furtive and complacent answers, she had no small portion.
One source of comfort she had, that Melcomb was not in the country. She had not to endure his odious addresses. But her mother had issued cards for a grand entertainment at rather a distant date, when she hoped to crowd her house with everybody who was the least presentable in all West Kerrier, and to that high festival Mildred feared he would come, an undesired guest, and be in some way exhibited as her accepted suitor to the assembled multitude. But the day was yet far off.
And it was with pleasure she learnt that Randolph and his sister had returned to their ancestral home. Much speculation was afloat concerning them; and though people generally knew the family disagreement, and refrained from alluding to them in Mrs. Pendarrel's presence, slight hints fell inadvertently at times; and some mean minds, little knowing the nature of her they addressed, uttered a passing sarcasm upon their poverty, with the notion that it would be agreeable. But to Mildred the mere mention of their name was a source of interest; and in her rural walks she would sometimes inquire concerning them of the country folk, and speculate on the possibility of meeting Randolph on her way.
To her mother their presence was not equally agreeable. She was far from anxious for any such rencontre. She too well remembered the emotion displayed by Mildred at Mrs. Winston's. She learnt, with regret, that the orphans did not lead so absolutely sequestered a life as before their father's death; but availed themselves of the removal of the restriction which then confined their walks to the precincts of the castle and the sea coast, and made themselves in some measure acquainted with the wild scenery surrounding their native bay. She did not like the idea of being so near them, just at the time when Sinson's machinations were about to explode. And with a different interest she heard of the state of feeling manifested pretty openly by the tenantry of Trevethlan, and desired her protégé to come to Pendarrel as soon as he should be released from attendance on Mr. Truby. She wished to have more precise information of what passed in the castle and its dependent hamlet, and summoned her retainer to resume his original occupation.
CHAPTER IV
Tu ne quæsieris, scire nefas, quem mihi, quem tibiFinem Di dederint, Leuconoc; nec BabyloniosTentaris numeros. Ut melius, quidquid erit, pati!Hor.Seek not to know, it is not given,The end for us ordained by Heaven;Nor be by fortune-tellers lured:What can't be cured, is best endured.Madron church-town, the mother of the thriving port of Penzance, is a small irregular hamlet, situated on an eminence overlooking its well-grown offspring, and the salt marshes which skirt the coast in the direction of Marazion. It is approached by a steep and winding road, but the prospect from the churchyard will well repay the labour of the way. And many a pilgrim, when he turns from the landscape spread beneath to the memorials at his feet, and feels the breeze from the sea breathe lightly over his cheek, will be mournfully reminded how many have sought a refuge on that genial shore from our English destroyer, beguiling themselves and those dear to them, with the hope of eluding his pursuit, but sinking, nevertheless, under his ruthless embrace; for on the tombstones round him the stranger will read of other strangers, from far distant places, with names unknown to Cornwall, once graced, he may imagine, with youth and beauty, of whose history it is there written that they "came to Penzance for the benefit of their health." Those simple words, repeated on every side, tell the melancholy end of many a romance.
Up the hill, on an early day in February, a trim country girl was climbing with a step that betokened some indecision of purpose. She was dressed in a dark blue frock, short and full in the skirt, and a red cloak of scanty dimensions, which hung over one shoulder and under the other arm. She was hot, and carried her bonnet, decked with some of the first primroses of the year, in her hand, while her black hair hung round a pair of bright eyes of the same colour, and cheeks always red, and now redder than usual. A very pretty rustic was Mercy Page.
It is some four miles from Marazion to Madron, and further still from Trevethlan; but that is not much for a Cornish maiden. Mercy had walked all the way. But she had not walked with the free quick step usual to her, nor did their wonted open smile play round her provoking lips. Her look was anxious, and her pace uncertain. And now that she was toiling up the hill, and perhaps approaching her destination, she not unfrequently stopped, and with her finger in the corner of her mouth, tried to scrutinize herself, while she seemed to be regarding the prospect. For Mercy had a kind of idea that she was on her way to do what was at least foolish, if not wrong, and she had always been a very good girl.
But with all this hesitation, she still advanced. She crossed Madron churchyard, and went out of her way to drop a flower on the grave of a cousin who lay there, making a longer pause on the occasion than any which had previously interrupted her walk. However, she proceeded at last, and soon turned aside from the main road by a tiny streamlet. She followed the rivulet's course, as it wound along beneath a bank covered in the summer with broom, gorse, and heather, from amidst which, here and there, a graceful silver birch flung its long tresses on the breeze, until she arrived at a sort of bay or inlet, where the trees grew more thickly, and in the very depth of which lay, still, silent, and dark, encircled by rude stone-work, a well of water, the source of the streamlet which had guided the maiden's steps—St. Madron's Well.
Mercy cast a sharp glance before her, and was glad to see that there was no person near the fountain. She went up to it herself, and bent over the mirror-like surface, and might see her image rising dimly to meet the salute. Could that limpid water tell a maiden's fortune? Was it conscious of the reflection of her features? Could it read their gentle lines, and foreshow by any ripple of its own, the destiny of her who looked upon it? And was such inquiry sanctioned by the saint who had blessed the fountain? Was it not profane so to forestall futurity? Such questions flitted vaguely through Mercy's bosom while she gazed into the tranquil well. An expression of awe stole over her face; and when, as she changed her position, a straggling briar which had caught her cloak twitched it, she started like a guilty thing, and turned suddenly with a flush on her cheeks and forehead, deeper even than that called forth by exercise. She did not smile on discovering the source of her alarm, but began to search among the pebbles of the brook for some smoother and rounder than common. Having collected two or three of this description, she returned to the fountain, and from trembling fingers, and with eyes half afraid to watch the result, dropped one of the stones into the water. There was a little splash, and then the circling wavelets grew larger and larger, and broke against the sides of the well, and a new ripple arose from each point of contact, and the undulations crossed one another in every direction, and became fainter and fainter, until the surface once more motionless, again presented the maiden with the semblance of her own pretty features, just as she saw them before the disturbance.
Was Mercy any the wiser? She drew a long breath, and murmured to herself, "he is not–" She had heard that if the well were unruffled, the oracle pronounced the person inquired of to be dead. The oracle, it may be presumed, was generally favourable to hope. But Mercy wished to learn much more than this; and those changing and intermingling ripples had to her been as hieroglyphics to the eyes of the profane. She dropped another of her pebbles into the well. Again the same sight, and the same disappointment. Vainly did Mercy try to shape the little waves into words, or letters, or symbols. She could not make out even a "yes" or a "no." Once more she tried the experiment, and becoming more enthusiastic, pressed the pebble to her lips before she let it fall.
Still it was all the same. The oracle was dumb. Mercy was inclined to revile St. Madron. She had grown excited; felt reconciled to the practice of the black art, and ventured on a step, which, when she started from home, she vowed to herself nothing should induce her to take.
There was a cottage, or rather a hovel, which the maiden had passed on her way to the well, and which she had shunned. The bank formed one of its sides, and it was hard to say where the ground ended and the dwelling began. The walls were built of rough stones, the interstices between them being filled with moss, which had accepted the employment willingly, and grown and flourished. The roof also was of turf, and thus the abode had a vegetable aspect, and looked like an unusually large clump of green, such as one sees often on a moist common, tempting one's foot to press it, or suggesting the idea of an unpleasantly soft pillow. This was the nest of Dame Gudhan, the self-constituted priestess of St. Madron's Well. She was a toothless, deformed, ugly old woman, who lived with her cat, which she had succeeded in training to poach, and bring the game it killed home to be cooked, instead of wasting it raw in the open field. Friend she had none but pussy, but she enjoyed a high reputation as a witch; and many a girl travelled many a mile to ascertain from Dame Gudhan the colour of her future's hair and eyes, and all his other good qualities.