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CHAPTER XIII

 
From house to house, from street to street,
The rapid rumour flies;
Incredulous ears it finds, and hands
Are lifted in surprise;
And tongues through all the astonished town
Are busier now than eyes.
 

Southey.

"So, Mistress Miniver, the old house is like to wear a new sign before many days. There'll be a change in the arms, methinks."

"Not while my name's Miniver, Master Colan," answered the plump hostess of the Trevethlan Arms.

"Maybe you'd not object to change that, dame," suggested the farmer.

Mrs. Miniver played with a well-sized bunch of keys that hung from her girdle.

"Ay, ay," said Colan—

 
"'The key of the locker the good-wife keeps,
The good-wife's busy, the good-man sleeps.'
 

"I fancy you sat in St. Michael's chair the day you were married, Mistress Miniver."

"I'll tell you one who did, farmer," said the hostess, laughing merrily; "and that's the lady of Pendar'l. God forbid I should ever say of Trevethlan! And d'ye mind what I said, Master Colan? Didn't I foretell what would happen if ever Squire Randolph and Miss Mildred came together? And you see they're wooed and married and all."

"There's not much good like to come of it for Trevethlan," observed the farmer. "They say the mother's as cold as stone."

"Mayhap some folks wouldn't care if she were," said Germoe the tailor, who had come up during the last few words.

"Oh, neighbours," cried the light-hearted hostess, thrusting her hands into the pockets of her white apron, "take my word, it'll all come right in the end. It's natural to fret and fume a little, but it all blows over. The squire'll bring home his bride by furry-time, I warrant."

"'Twill be time he did," quoth Germoe; "for the castle's getting awful lonesome and dismal. How Mr. Griffith and his dame can bide there, is more than I can tell; and, as for old Jeffrey, he's as dumb as any of the ghosts they say walk there."

"Tales to quiet babes, friend Germoe," said Mrs. Miniver. "Old Jeffrey'll run up our flag again before the oak's in leaf."

"You were always so comfortable, dame," remarked Colan. "But how'll they get over the trial at Bodmin yonder? There's an uncommon mystery about that marriage, Mistress Miniver."

"Tell you what, farmer," quoth the hostess more gravely, "I care a deal more for our poor folks that are in the jail at Bodmin. Do you know, they say it's a hanging matter?"

"And our Mercy's sweetheart among them, dame," said Germoe.

"If our Mercy's sweetheart is there," Mrs. Miniver said, "it is to bring them to ruin. And I heard he did come down here a little ago. It's young Sinson, I mean, Master Germoe."

"They say his old grandame takes on quite fearful-like," said Breage the general merchant, who now joined the little party under the shade of the old chestnut. "She sits all day, moaning, and rocking herself, and breaks out with something about her daughter, our late squire's lady, and then brings herself up quite short."

"Her Michael's plenty on his mind, neighbours," quoth Mrs. Miniver; "you may take your oath of that. I don't wonder old Maud's a bit uneasy. But, hey-day! who comes here?"

For a horseman rode rapidly on to the far end of the green, crossed it straight without drawing rein, and proceeded up the ascent of the base-court.

"What's in the wind now?" asked farmer Colan.

But curiosity tied the tongues of the circle. They watched the stranger while he held a short parley with Jeffrey, and at last dismounted with apparent impatience, and attached his bridle to a ring in the wall. The old porter opened the gate and conducted him within, soon emerging again himself, and seeming to examine the panting quadruped at the porch.

Several of the villagers came and joined the group beneath the chestnut. They soon began to discuss this visit in low voices. Whether fear or hope predominated in their explanations, it might not be easy to determine. But the freshness of a sunny April morning might seem likely to inspire the latter feeling, even as it had been evident in Mrs. Miniver's share of the dialogue recorded above.

Presently Griffith was seen to come forth from the castle-gate, and after exchanging a few words with Jeffrey, to descend the hill with the stranger, who took his reins upon his arm. The excitement of the villagers increased. As the steward drew near, a similar expression might be read in his own face. He came up and told Mrs. Miniver he wanted the one chaise which she still kept, got ready immediately. A dozen voices demanded the news.

"I hardly know what to say, my friends," Griffith answered. "But if the tidings are well founded, they are good news for all who love Trevethlan."

"Hurrah," shouted the assembly.

It was a work of some little time to prepare Mrs. Miniver's chaise, for the horses which were to draw it, were usually engaged in agricultural pursuits. But it was ready at last, and the steward drove off.

The stranger remained to give his animal rest, and was of course assailed with a host of questions. But all he could say was that an attorney at Bodmin had sent him with a letter to Mr. Griffith of Trevethlan Castle, and especially desired him to lose no time on the road. In about an hour he remounted, and rode away in a more leisurely manner than he had arrived.

In order to explain the occurrence which caused so much commotion in the hamlet, we must revert to the proceedings of Michael Sinson. Smarting under the discomfiture of all his long-cherished desires, driven ignominiously from the house of his patroness, and attributing his fall to the man against whom he had borne hatred even from childhood, Michael left London, with the intention of trying to implicate Randolph in the burning of Pendarrel. He imagined that he had a perfect hold upon his mistress in spite of her proud indifference, and turned his immediate attention to the overthrow of his successful rival. Restless and cunning, he was never happy now except when engaged in some intrigue, and his recent triumph at Bodmin had given him new zest for the work.

With such ideas he obtained admission to the prisoners charged with the incendiarism, and sought, as craftily as he could, to extract some information reflecting upon the disinherited owner of Trevethlan Castle. But he sought in vain: there were no tidings of the kind to give. Then Sinson went to his old grandmother, and bore her peevish humours for a short time, still seeking intelligence to further his designs. He met his too faithful Mercy, and endeavoured to find such in her knowledge of what passed within the castle walls. But again he was baffled. He had to deal with natures very different from his own.

Finally, he once more repaired to the congenial atmosphere of the gaol, and tried to gain the confidence of the ringleader of the mob, Gabriel Denis. Here he met his match. The old smuggler was as wary as himself. He bent an attentive ear to Michael's suggestions, how it was supposed the fire was the result of a long-devised plot, how a considerable reward would be paid, and a free pardon granted to any one who would furnish a true history of the affair. And Sinson insinuated dark hints concerning the late owner of Trevethlan, how he had a quarrel of many years' standing with the family of Pendarrel, how some people thought he was in the secret of the incendiaries, and how, if it were so, his impeachment would be the means of liberating a number of the inferior criminals. In short, Gabriel drew him on, until by degrees he had disclosed all his plan, and the smuggler was fully aware, that, true or false, a certain story would bring a certain price.

Now in prison, Denis had become rather intimate with Edward Owen. They both kept somewhat apart from their accused confederates. And Gabriel was full of wild adventure, in different quarters of the globe, which served to while away the dreary hours of confinement. So, among other things, the smuggler told Owen of the suggestions which were made to him by Sinson. The young peasant started.

"That's the villain that betrayed my master in the trial the other day," he said. "Have nought to say to him, Gabriel. He'd sell his best friend. I ought to know him well. He's driven the squire from the castle, and now he would bring him to shame. No, no; the squire knew nought about the fire, that I can warrant."

"Trust me, Edward," Denis answered; "I am too deep for him by a fathom and a half. But what's this ye say about the squire? Driven from the castle?"

"Did ye not hear then," said Owen. "This Michael brought a fellow to swear away the marriage of the last squire, and so they are going to turn the son out of the castle. It passes to them whose house was burned. And Michael is in their pay. Sorrow on the day when a Trevethlan took a bride from under the thatch."

"I ought to mind that day well," the smuggler said, musing.

"You!" Owen exclaimed.

"'T will be twenty-one-two-three, twenty-three years, next September. I mind it well. The parson was killed. What did folks say about it?"

"I was scarce born," Edward answered. "But I ha' heard it made a great noise in the country. Some said it was Will Watch's people, and some that the Squire knew more about it than he'd choose to tell."

"That was wrong," said Denis.

"What!" cried his companion.

"I mean 'twas none of his people at the time. And what's this ye say about the marriage?"

"Well, it was always thought to be made by this parson, whose body they found under the cliff. But now Michael brings a fellow to swear 'twas no such thing, but he married them himself, and, he not being a parson, the marriage falls to the ground, and the squire's son is put out of the castle. That's what it is."

The smuggler mused for some time.

"Edward," then he said, "'tis a long time since that night, and little I deemed to have it brought back like this. I have sailed many a league since then, and half of it has been forgotten. And why should I recollect it to-day? Will it do me good or harm? But there's nought left me to care for now; nought but the little lass that the revenue thieves carried off when they had shot my poor Felipa. And then this fire; one can hardly be worse off than one is. And I should like to put a check on this sneaking knave, that wanted to draw me into a lie. So sit thee down, lad, and listen to the rights of all this story:—

"'Tis twenty-three years ago, I was much such another as ye are now. But, to say the truth, fonder of the wrestling-ring than of the plough, and better pleased at a wake than at a sermon. Moreover, I knew the country well, and when I set a snare at night you may rely it was not empty in the morning. Well, it was that spring or summer, there came to lodge at Madam Sennor's—a little house on the cliff, not over far from Trevethlan Castle—one Mr. Ashton, that was a clergyman. Somehow or other he fell in with me, and used to get me to guide him, as it were, about the country,—a thing that suited my idle ways very well. Now I soon found that Mr. Ashton was not over much like a parson, but did not care to go to a wake himself, and could read the glance of a girl's eye as well as another. So he and I grew to be in a way more companionable than suited my station perhaps; but I don't know it, for he was often very ill off for money. Be it as it will, we got on very well together.

"So, while we were on this footing, says Mr. Ashton to me one day,—Wyley, he says, here's Mr. Trevethlan, of the Castle, wants me to marry him specially, or something, he called it, and I am to take a witness with me. Will you come? says he. And he told me the particulars; as how it was a young peasant girl, and there would be money to be had for the business, and so I agreed to go. Well, he took me with him to the castle, and Mr. Trevethlan met us himself on the outside, and brought us just into the great hall without our seeing a single soul. And there were a young woman, and also an old one, that I understood was her mother. So Mr. Trevethlan gave Mr. Ashton a prayer-book, and he read the office between the parties, and I was put to give the bride—Margaret something was her name—away. And I recollect that Ashton, being somewhat nervous, dropped the ring, and the mother muttered it was no good sign.

"When it was over, Mr. Trevethlan put a purse into Ashton's hand, and we went our way. But I thought there must be something wrong in the business, and therefore I chose to consider that Ashton did not give me my fair share of the price. However, it was not a thing to talk over in the high road, and I knew well where to find him. He used to walk along the cliff every evening; and there, just as it was getting dusk, I went to meet him. We had some high words, and as I came towards him he stepped backwards, not recollecting how near he was to the edge, and he went over.

"I was terribly frightened,—nothing, I knew, could go over there and live. I thought I was charged with the murder. I lay down, trembling, and put my head beyond the edge. I fancied I could see him just move. I lurked thereabout, on and off, not knowing what to do, till it came to be quite dark. Then I saw lights at one or two points, and began to think the people were already on the search. But it was not so; and the truth was all in my favour.

"The lights were the country folk's signals to Will Watch's lugger, that was then running in. Luckily for me, as I thought, she took up a berth a good way off the spot where Ashton lay. All the country turned out to run the cargo. And I crept down by myself to the beach, and came to where he had fallen, and there I found him stone-dead. I don't know what it was moved me, but I fancied that if the body were not owned nothing could be done. And, in that thought, I took off the clothes, and buried them in a nook of the cliff, which I could show to this day. For himself, I could see, by the light from the water, he was so much hurt that no one would know him. I should say, that I got the money which had been the cause of our difference. Well, when this was all over, my fears grew worse and worse. I thought it would have been better to have left him alone. At last I went among the throng of folks that were busy running the kegs, and got on board the lugger. She took me over to Holland, and from there I shipped myself for the Spanish Indies, and lived a roving life.

"But I tired of it at length, and had got a wife—my poor Felipa—and a little girl. So I came home. Lived quiet a while, until I was sure that no one knew me by my old name, and that the tale of Ashton's death was nigh forgotten, and then took to the cabin on the hill. The rest you know."

Owen listened to this narrative with wonder and joy, for he saw it would be likely to restore his squire, as he called him, to all his rights.

"But why," said he after a silence, "why then did you not come forward to claim the reward they offered?"

"I did not know of any such," Gabriel answered. "If I had, I should not have heeded it till they drove me from my cottage. It matters not now. Do what you will with the tale."

The young peasant gazed on the swarthy features which had been bronzed by near a score of year's exposure to a tropical sun, and did not marvel that the sea-faring wanderer had escaped unrecognised. He was in communication with an attorney of the town for the purposes of his own defence, and to him, with Gabriel's permission, he told the strange tale. Its importance was at once perceived and acknowledged. And the lawyer in question immediately despatched the news to Griffith by the messenger whose arrival had excited the curiosity described in the opening of this chapter. Thus Michael Sinson's artifices again recoiled upon himself; by his attempted perversion of Gabriel Denis, he cut the ground from under his own feet. He acquired some inkling of what had transpired, and hurried back to London; more vexed than before at his quarrel with Everope, of whose melancholy end he had as yet received no information.

Denis, or Wyley, was nothing loth to repeat his story. Griffith, having the knowledge which Owen was too young to possess, was able to confirm him on several points. The narrative was verified in every possible manner, and a copy transmitted to Winter, while the steward returned to Trevethlan, to confirm it still further, by disinterring the buried clothes.

In the flush of his exultation, he did not attempt to conceal the purpose of his journey, and the greater part of the villagers turned out spontaneously to assist in the quest which he undertook without loss of time. Gabriel had described with great exactitude the spot to be searched, for he remembered it very well. And indeed there were many people still living who could point out the place where the body was found. Near at hand, a long narrow rift ran into the face of the precipice, and at its extreme end, where the billows of every winter increased the depth of superincumbent sand, Wyley stated he had deposited the garments which would identify the wearer. The cleft was too narrow for more than one man to dig at a time, and the excitement of the crowd behind him increased with every stroke of his spade. The smuggler appeared to have told the truth. A quantity of half-destroyed garments were discovered, and among them a pocket-book containing a pencil-case and a ring. The clothes were worthless for any object; but of these last-mentioned articles Griffith took possession, and forwarded them to London, in order that they might be submitted to Mr. Ashton's friends for recognition.

"Hurrah for Trevethlan!" shouted Colan, in a conclave held at Dame Miniver's that night, "and a health to our squire and our bonny young mistress!"

Loud acclamations and deep draughts gave a welcome to the toast.

"'Tis a strange thing," said the general merchant, "that this matter should have been so long quiet. The times that I've walked by that rift in the cliff yonder, and never seen anything."

"Why?" asked the hostess; "and what would ye expect to see, neighbour Breage? Every winter as passed only packed the sand higher and higher."

"But there might have been a sign, dame, there might have been a sign."

"It shows there was no murder done, at any rate," observed another of the company.

"Still," persisted Breage, "I wonder there was no dream came to point to the place; and especially seeing how hard it has gone with the squire."

"It's like to go hard enough with this Denis or Wyley," Colan remarked. "The fire of Pendar'l was black enough against him, and this story won't tell any way for him."

"But it will for our Edward Owen," said Germoe. "It will turn to his good, and I am glad of it."

"Ay," exclaimed Dame Miniver, "and besides that, I hear talk how he fought for the lady of Pendar'l that night, and beat off some that would harm her."

"We shall have him among us again afore long," said farmer Colan. "And Gabriel will be like to confess all the rights of it before he dies."

"Well," said the pertinacious Breage, "if he confesses to murder, I shall never believe in any sign or token again."

The suspicion here indicated that the smuggler had told only half the truth, prevailed very generally in the hamlet, and many of the villagers thought that he had wilfully thrown the clergyman over the cliff. But we are willing to ascribe the popular feeling to the common love of the worst in criminal matters, and to believe that Wyley was sincere. He was probably prepared for robbery, but not for murder. The revelry at the Trevethlan Arms was protracted till a late hour.

CHAPTER XIV

 
Decline all this, and see what now thou art.
For one being sued to, one that humbly sues;
For queen, a very caitiff crowned with care;
For one that scorned at me, now scorned of me;
For one being feared of all, now fearing one;
For one commanding all, obeyed of none.
Thus hath the course of justice wheeled about,
And left thee but a very prey to time;
Having no more but thought of what thou wert,
To torture thee the more, being what thou art.
 

Shakspeare.

Meanwhile scandal and gossip were still busy with the stolen marriage and its consequences. Mysterious paragraphs had appeared in some of the public prints. If newspapers at that time had been illustrated, there might have been portraits of the bride and bridegroom, or at least of Rhoda, and of the travelling carriage. But the kindred of Asmodeus, who in these days haunt town and country with the implements of Daguerre, and embellish our journals with their woodcuts, had not yet acquired those pictorial aids, and were obliged to content themselves with old-fashioned letterpress. What their descendants may arrive at, especially in alliance with the disciples of Mesmer, to whom distance is no object, and brick and mortar no impediment, it is hard to anticipate. The electric telegraph is likely to be regarded as a slow concern; everybody will know his neighbour's thoughts; the old fable of transparent bosoms will be realized; and the gift of speech will cease to be of any use.

This consummation seems, however, at present rather remote. If we were of a misanthropic turn, and familiar with any good-humoured demon, lame or otherwise, we should trouble him to take us to and fro between the home and haunts of some well-seeming family, and the gloomy chambers where Astræa holds her revels. We should be present one day at the dinner or the ball, and the next day we should go among crumbling papers and musty parchments. We should follow the unconscious prey to the levee or drawing-room, and then we should repair to the dark den, where the spoiler was quietly and assiduously preparing the pit-fall. Often when we look up to the lofty buildings inhabited especially by the servants of Themis, we are led to think of the devices which may there be silently undermining the stability of some well-to-do house, now standing fair and seemly in the eyes of the world. Far away back, in some ancient record, the lynx-eyed practitioner has lighted upon the trail: step by step he advances, fortifying himself at every pause, until the prize is full in view, and the filing of a bill or the service of a writ informs the unsuspecting victim that his all is at stake; destroying in one moment the whole security of his life, and entangling him in a maze of litigation, to endure possibly for years, and too probably to leave him, even if successful, an impoverished and broken-hearted man. In these days of iron and steam, there is nothing romantic but the law.

And we are not thinking of the mere lovers of chicane, who occasionally disgrace the profession, but of what may happen in the career of the most honourable of its votaries. It was thus that the downfall of Trevethlan was prepared in one office, and that its restoration was now being achieved in another. Little had Randolph dreamed of the plot that was devising against him, and in which the lawyers were but unwitting agents: little did Esther imagine the counter-stroke which was now impending, and to which double weight was to be given by the conduct of her late protégé.

Michael Sinson, baffled in his new attempt against Randolph, had returned sulkily to London. Among the first intelligence which met his eyes in the daily journals was the suicide of his miserable slave. He gnashed his teeth as he read it, and perceived that Rereworth had been in communication with the deceased. Had Everope been a double traitor? Sinson could not free himself from the idea. The ground seemed to be shaking under his feet. After hours of irritating uncertainty, he sought an interview with Mr. Truby, in hope of discovering whether anything had transpired. But he met a very cold reception, and obtained no solution of his anxiety. The lawyer, however, demanded his address, and he, after giving it, went immediately and moved to other quarters.

He mused of coming forward himself as an informant to the other side, but if they were already in possession of the truth, to do so would be merely to place himself in their power. Then he made a futile attempt to gain admission to his former patroness; but being turned from the door with contumely, he thought of his supposed power over her, and fancied that it might yield him both security and profit. With this idea he made his way to Mr. Pendarrel at his office. Here he acquired the knowledge which he had vainly sought from Mr. Truby.

"Do you know, sir," Mr. Pendarrel asked him, "that it is rumoured the evidence at the trial is upset? That they have found relics of the clergyman who really performed that marriage, and that steps are already taken to reverse the judgment?"

Sinson, although he almost expected something of the kind, was staggered by the announcement.

"Now, if this be so," continued Mr. Pendarrel, "it will be strange if you, sir, were not a party to the fraud that will have been perpetrated. Do you mark me?"

He spoke in the cold and deliberate manner which characterized his demeanour whenever he was independent of his wife. Sinson recovered from his first surprise, and assumed an attitude of confidence.

"Whatever I have done," he said, "I have done by the orders of Mrs. Pendarrel. I am now come to receive my recompense."

"You have been well paid, sir," answered Mr. Pendarrel; "there is nothing due to you."

"Perhaps not, for what is past," Sinson said; "but there is for what is to come. You tell me there are rumours of fraud: and I say that Mrs. Pendarrel has authorized whatever has been done. I have her letters. They may be valuable."

"You are a cool scoundrel," said Mr. Pendarrel, "upon my word. But you do not gull me with so simple a device. What hinders me, sirrah, but that I should instantly give you into custody?"

"Nothing, perhaps," was the answer, "but the disagreeable consequences. If you would only be so good as consult my lady, it might change your mind."

"Pooh, sir!" said Esther's husband, "you have overshot your mark. Go now about your business, and don't dare to come here again, or you know the result."

He rang his bell, and ordered the disconcerted intruder to be shown out. Sinson went into the neighbouring park and read over the documents on which he had so fondly relied. And, regarded in the light thrown upon them by Mr. Pendarrel's contempt, they presented him with no consolation in his fall. On the other hand, he had again unwittingly advanced the interests of his detested rival.

Mr. Truby, it may have been observed, frequently in matters of business communicated directly with the wife of his nominal client. When Mr. Pendarrel went from home that day, he found Esther in a state of even unusual depression. She had received a letter from the lawyer, acquainting her there were strong grounds for believing that the main facts on which they had relied at the trial were fabricated for the occasion, and that, as his own character might be implicated by any concealment, he was resolved to probe the matter to the bottom.

"Oh, Gertrude!" said Esther to her constant attendant, "what will become of me? Among them, they are breaking my heart."

She was in this dejected condition when her husband came home. Everything concurred to make him exceedingly desirous to bring about at least a formal reconciliation with the fugitive couple. He read Mr. Truby's letter, and told his wife of the visit he had received that morning.

"And, my dear," said he, "this person would make us accomplices in whatever fraud has been perpetrated."

"Us, Mr. Pendarrel!" Esther ejaculated. "You are jesting, sir, and in a very sorry manner."

But she recollected Michael's threats, and could not help trembling.

"Not I, madam," her husband protested, adopting for a moment her own formal mode of address, "not I, upon my life. Sinson declares that he has letters authorizing all he did, which he pretty plainly admitted to have been more than was honest. And these letters he threatened to use, unless I would purchase them."

"You did not!" Mrs. Pendarrel exclaimed.

"Of course I did not, my dear," was the reply. "I turned his absurd threats upon himself. But it is unpleasant to have these things said. And you see Truby's letter bears out the rumours."

"Ah, me!" Esther sighed, almost wringing her hands, "to what am I fallen?"

"My dear," her husband ventured to urge, "it is time this unhappy matter were settled. After the wrong which will have been done to Mr. Trevethlan"—he started when the name had passed his lips—"after that, I say, we must overlook what has occurred since."

"Do what you will," muttered his wife, "my part in the affair is over. But are you sure they will accept forgiveness? Has he asked for it?"

"Oh yes, dear mother," said Gertrude. "Let me intercede. My poor sister has no peace till she has thrown herself at your feet, and Randolph has none while she is unhappy."

"Well, well," Esther murmured, "I have no more to say. Bring them here, if you will, Gertrude. And since it must be so, the sooner the better."

"And really, my dear Esther," said the husband, "the match is not so disadvantageous after all. You see it will unite the properties, and if Trevethlan is now but a small estate, it is at least unencumbered, which is more than we could say of Tolpeden; and I remember that Mildred was telling me once—"

"Never mind now, papa," said Mrs. Winston, who saw that every word he uttered was a dagger in her mother's heart. "Let me go and prepare my sister to come home."

Indeed, Esther's humiliation required no aggravating circumstances. She was deeply wounded in the tenderest parts of her character. Pride, ambition, and love of rule had all been mortified and abused. And now she succumbed. She resigned any further struggle, and yielded to her victorious foe. Her spirit and mind were alike brought down. After the above conversation she retired to her own room, and drew her miniature from her bosom, and looked long and stedfastly on the tranquil lineaments. Again she reviewed her whole life, and again she fell upon the ever-recurring question—Did he then love me? And she scarcely knew whether an answer in the affirmative would give her most of joy or of regret.