Works of Grant Allen

by Grant Allen

  Tyrrel leaned back in agony as he spoke, and looked utterly crushed. It was an awful memory. Le Neve hardly knew what to say, the man’s remorse was so poignant. After all those years the boy’s thoughtless act seemed to weigh like a millstone round the grown man’s neck. Eustace held his peace, and felt for him. By and by Tyrrel went on again, rocking himself to and fro on his rough seat as he spoke. “For fifteen years,” he said, piteously, “I’ve borne this burden in my heart, and never told anybody. I tell it now first of all men to you. You’re the only soul on earth who shares my secret.”

  “Then your uncle didn’t suspect it?” Eustace asked, all breathless.

  Walter Tyrrel shook his head. “On the contrary,” he answered, “he said to me next day, ‘How glad I am Walter, my boy, I called you away from the cliff that moment! It was quite providential. For if you’d loosened a stone, and then this thing had happened, we’d both of us have believed it was YOU that did it?’ I was too frightened and appalled to tell him it WAS I. I thought they’d hang me. But from that day to this — Eustace, Eustace, believe me — I’ve never ceased to think of it! I’ve never forgiven myself!”

  “Yet it was an accident after all,” Le Neve said, trying to comfort him.

  “No, no; not quite. I should have been warned in time. I should have obeyed my uncle. But what would you have? It’s the luck of the Tyrrels.”

  He spoke plaintively. Le Neve pulled a piece of grass and began biting it to hide his confusion. How near he might have come to doing the same thing himself. He thanked his stars it wasn’t he. He thanked his stars he hadn’t let that stone drop from the cliff that morning.

  Tyrrel was the first to break the solemn silence. “You can understand now,” he said, with an impatient gesture, “why I hate Penmorgan. I’ve hated it ever since. I shall always hate it. It seems like a mute reminder of that awful day. In my uncle’s time I never came near it. But as soon as it was my own I felt I must live upon it; and now, this terror of meeting Trevennack some day has made life one long burden to me. Sooner or later I felt sure I should run against him. They told me how he came down here from time to time to see where his son died, and I knew I should meet him. Now you can understand, too, why I hate the top of the cliffs so much, and WILL walk at the bottom. I had two good reasons for that. One I’ve told you already; the other was the fear of coming across Trevennack.”

  Le Neve turned to him compassionately. “My dear fellow,” he said, “you take it too much to heart. It was so long ago, and you were only a child. The… the accident might happen to any boy any day.”

  “Yes, yes,” Tyrrel answered, passionately. “I know all that. I try, so, to console myself. But then I’ve wrecked that unhappy man’s life for him.”

  “He has his daughter still,” Le Neve put in, vaguely. It was all he could think of to say by way of consolation; and to him, Cleer Trevennack would have made up for anything.

  A strange shade passed over Tyrrel’s face. Eustace noted it instinctively. Something within seemed to move that Cornish heart. “Yes, he has his daughter still,” the Squire of Penmorgan answered, with a vacant air. “But for me, that only makes things still worse than before…. How can she pardon my act? What can she ever think of me?”

  Le Neve turned sharply round upon him. There was some undercurrent in the tone in which he spoke that suggested far more than the mere words themselves might perhaps have conveyed to him. “What do you mean?” he asked, all eager, in a quick, low voice. “You’ve met Miss Trevennack before? You’ve seen her? You’ve spoken to her?”

  For a second Tyrrel hesitated; then, with a burst, he spoke out. “I may as well tell you all,” he cried, “now I’ve told you so much. Yes, I’ve met her before, I’ve seen her, I’ve spoken to her.”

  “But she didn’t seem to recognize you,” Le Neve objected, taken aback.

  Tyrrel shook his head despondently. “That’s the worst of it all,” he answered, with a very sad sigh. “She didn’t even remember me…. She was so much to me; and to her — why, to HER, Eustace — I was less than nothing.”

  “And you knew who she was when you saw her just now?” Le Neve asked, greatly puzzled.

  “Yes and no. Not exactly. I knew she was the person I’d seen and talked with, but I’d never heard her name, nor connected her in any way with Michael Trevennack. If I had, things would be different. It’s a terrible Nemesis. I’ll tell you how it happened. I may as well tell all. But the worst point of the whole to me in this crushing blow is to learn that that girl is Michael Trevennack’s daughter.”

  “Where and when did you meet her then?” Le Neve asked, growing curious.

  “Quite casually, once only, some time since, in a railway carnage. It must be two years ago now, and I was going from Bath to Bournemouth. She traveled with me in the same compartment as far as Temple Combe, and I talked all the way with her; I can remember every word of it…. Eustace, it’s foolish of me to acknowledge it, perhaps, but in those two short hours I fell madly in love with her. Her face has lived with me ever since; I’ve longed to meet her, But I was stupidly afraid to ask her name before she got out of the train; and I had no clue at all to her home or her relations. Yet, a thousand times since I’ve said to myself, ‘If ever I marry I’ll marry that girl who went in the carriage from Bath to Temple Combe with me.’ I’ve cherished her memory from that day to this. You mayn’t believe, I dare say, in love at first sight; but this I can swear to you was a genuine case of it.”

  “I can believe in it very well,” Le Neve answered, most truthfully, “now I’ve seen Miss Trevennack.”

  Tyrrel looked at him, and smiled sadly. “Well, when I saw her again this morning,” he went on, after a short pause, “my heart came up into my mouth. I said to myself, with a bound, ‘It’s she! It’s she! At last I’ve found her.’ And it dashed my best hopes to the ground at once to see she didn’t even remember having met me.”

  Le Neve looked at him shyly. “Walter,” he said, after a short struggle, “I’m not surprised you fell in love with her. And shall I tell you why? I fell in love with her myself, too, the moment I saw her.”

  Tyrrel turned to him without one word of reproach. “Well, we’re no rivals now,” he answered, generously. “Even if she would have me — even if she loved me well — how could I ask her to take — her brother’s murderer?”

  Le Neve drew a long breath. He hadn’t thought of that before. But had it been other wise, he couldn’t help feeling that the master of Penmorgan would have been a formidable rival for a penniless engineer just home from South America.

  For already Eustace Le Neve was dimly aware, in his own sanguine mind, that he meant to woo and win that beautiful Cleer Trevennack.

  CHAPTER V.

  A STRANGE DELUSION.

  Trevennack and his wife sat alone that night in their bare rooms at Gunwalloe. Cleer had gone out to see some girls of her acquaintance who were lodging close by in a fisherman’s house; and the husband and wife were left for a few hours by themselves together.

  “Michael,” Mrs. Trevennack began, as soon as they were alone, rising up from her chair and coming over toward him tenderly, “I was horribly afraid you were going to break out before those two young men on the cliff to-day. I saw you were just on the very brink of it. But you resisted bravely. Thank you so much for that. You’re a dear good fellow. I was so pleased with you and so proud of you.”

  “Break out about our poor boy?” Trevennack asked, with a dreamy air, passing his bronzed hand wearily across his high white forehead.

  His wife seated herself sideways upon the arm of his chair, and bent over him as he sat, with wifely confidence. “No, no, dear,” she said, taking his hand in hers and soothing it with her soft palm. “About — YOU know — well, of course, that other thing.”

  At the mere hint, Trevennack leaned back and drew himself up proudly to his full height, like a soldier. He looked majestic as he sat there — every inch a St. Michael. “Well, it’s hard to keep such a secr
et,” he answered, laying his free hand on his breast, “hard to keep such a secret; and I own, when they were talking about it, I longed to tell them. But for Cleer’s sake I refrained, Lucy. For Cleer’s sake I always refrain. You’re quite right about that. I know, of course, for Cleer’s sake I must keep it locked up in my own heart forever.”

  The silver-haired lady bent over him again, both caressingly and proudly. “Michael, dear Michael,” she said, with a soft thrill in her voice, “I love you and honor you for it. I can FEEL what it costs you. My darling, I know how hard you have to fight against it. I could see you fighting against it to-day; and I was proud of the way you struggled with it, single-handed, till you gained the victory.”

  Trevennack drew himself up still more haughtily than before. “And who should struggle against the devil,” he said, “single-handed as you say, and gain the victory at last, if not I, myself, Lucy?”

  He said it like some great one. His wife soothed his hand again and repressed a sigh. She was a great-hearted lady, that brave wife and mother, who bore her own trouble without a word spoken to anyone; but she must sigh, at least, sometimes; it was such a relief to her pent-up feelings. “Who indeed?” she said, acquiescent. “Who indeed, if not you? And I love you best when you conquer so, Michael.”

  Trevennack looked down upon her with a strange tender look on his face, in which gentleness and condescension were curiously mingled. “Yes,” he answered, musing; “for dear Cleer’s sake I will always keep my peace about it. I’ll say not a word. I’ll never tell anybody. And yet it’s hard to keep it in; very hard, indeed. I have to bind myself round, as it were, with bonds of iron. The secret will almost out of itself at times. As this morning, for example, when that young fellow wanted to know why St. Michael always clung to such airy pinnacles. How jauntily he talked about it, as if the reason for the selection were a matter of no moment! How little he seemed to think of the Prince of the Archangels!”

  “But for Cleer’s sake, darling, you kept it in,” Mrs. Trevennack said, coaxingly; “and for Cleer’s sake you’ll keep it in still — I know you will; now won’t you?”

  Trevennack looked the picture of embodied self-restraint. His back was rigid. “For Cleer’s sake I’ll keep it in,” he said, firmly. “I know how important it is for her. Never in this world have I breathed a word of it to any living soul but you; and never in this world I will. The rest wouldn’t understand. They’d say it was madness.”

  “They would,” his wife assented very gravely and earnestly. “And that would be so bad for Cleer’s future prospects. People would think you were out of your mind; and you know how chary young men are nowadays of marrying a girl when they believe or even suspect there’s insanity in the family. You can talk of it as much and as often as you like to ME, dear Michael. I think that does you good. It acts as a safety-valve. It keeps you from bottling your secret up in your own heart too long, and brooding over it, and worrying yourself. I like you to talk to ME of it whenever you feel inclined. But for heaven’s sake, darling, to nobody else. Not a hint of it for worlds. The consequences might be terrible.”

  Trevennack rose and stood at his full height, with his heels on the edge of the low cottage fender. “You can trust me, Lucy,” he said, in a very soft tone, with grave and conscious dignity. “You can trust me to hold my tongue. I know how much depends upon it.”

  The beautiful lady with the silvery hair sat and gazed on him admiringly. She knew she could trust him; she knew he would keep it in. But she knew at the same time how desperate a struggle the effort cost him; and visionary though he was, she loved and admired him for it.

  There was an eloquent silence. Then, after a while, Trevennack spoke again, more tenderly and regretfully. “That man did it!” he said, with slow emphasis. “I saw by his face at once he did it. He killed our poor boy. I could read it in his look. I’m sure it was he. And besides, I have news of it, certain news — from elsewhere,” and he looked up significantly.

  “Michael!” Mrs. Trevennack said, drawing close to him with an appealing gesture, and gazing hard into his eyes; “it’s a long time since. He was a boy at the time. He did it carelessly, no doubt; but not guiltily, culpably. For Cleer’s sake, there, too — oh, forgive him, forgive him!” She clasped her hands tight; she looked up at him tearfully.

  “It was the devil’s work,” her husband answered, with a faint frown on his high forehead, “and my task in life, Lucy, is to fight down the devil.”

  “Fight him down in your own heart, then, dear,” Mrs. Trevennack said, gently. “Remember, we all may fall. Lucifer did — and he was once an archangel. Fight him down in your own heart when he suggests hateful thoughts to you. For I know what you felt when it came over you instinctively that that young man had done it. You wanted to fly straight at his throat, dear Michael — you wanted to fly at his throat, and fling him over the precipice.”

  “I did,” Trevennack answered, making no pretense of denial. “But for Cleer’s sake I refrained. And for Cleer’s sake, if you wish it, I’ll try to forgive him.”

  Mrs. Trevennack pressed his hand. Tears stood in her dim eyes. She, too, had a terrible battle to fight all the days of her life, and she fought it valiantly. “Michael,” she said, with an effort, “try to avoid that young man. Try to avoid him, I implore you. Don’t go near him in the future. If you see him too often, I’m afraid what the result for you both may be. You control yourself wonderfully, dear; you control yourself, I know; and I’m grateful to you for it. But if you see too much of him, I dread an outbreak. It may get the better of you. And then — think of Cleer! Avoid him! Avoid him!”

  For only that silver-headed woman of all people on earth knew the terrible truth, that Michael Trevennack’s was a hopeless case of suppressed insanity. Well suppressed, indeed, and kept firmly in check for his daughter’s sake, and by his brave wife’s aid; but insanity, none the less, of the profoundest monomaniacal pattern, for all that. All day long, and every day, in his dealings with the outer world, he kept down his monomania. An able and trusted government servant, he never allowed it for one moment to interfere with his public duties. To his wife alone he let out what he thought the inmost and deepest secret of his real existence — that he was the Archangel Michael. To no one else did he ever allow a glimpse of the truth, as he thought it, to appear. He knew the world would call it madness; and he didn’t wish the stigma of inherited insanity to cling to his Cleer.

  Not even Cleer herself for a moment suspected it.

  Trevennack was wise enough and cunning enough, as madmen often are, to keep his own counsel, for good and sufficient reason.

  CHAPTER VI.

  PURE ACCIDENT.

  During the next week or so, as chance would have it, Cleer Trevennack fell in more than once on her walks with Eustace Le Neve and Walter Tyrrel. They had picked up acquaintance in an irregular way, to be sure; but Cleer hadn’t happened to be close by when her father uttered those strange words to his wife, “It was he who did it; it was he who killed our boy”; nor did she notice particularly the marked abruptness of Tyrrel’s departure on that unfortunate occasion. So she had no such objection to meeting the two young men as Trevennack himself not unnaturally displayed; she regarded his evident avoidance of Walter Tyrrel as merely one of “Papa’s fancies.” To Cleer, Papa’s fancies were mysterious but very familiar entities; and Tyrrel and Le Neve were simply two interesting and intelligent young men — the squire of the village and a friend on a visit to him. Indeed, to be quite confidential, it was the visitor who occupied the larger share of Cleer’s attention. He was so good-looking and so nice. His open face and pink and white complexion had attracted her fancy from the very first; and the more she saw of him the more she liked him.

  They met often — quite by accident, of course — on the moor and elsewhere. Tyrrel, for his part, shrank somewhat timidly from the sister of the boy, for his share in whose death he so bitterly reproached himself; yet he couldn’t quite drag himself off whenever he foun
d himself in Cleer’s presence. She bound him as by a spell. He was profoundly attracted to her. There was something about the pretty Cornish girl so frank, so confiding, in one word, so magnetic, that when once he came near her he couldn’t tear himself away as he felt he ought to. Yet he could see very well, none the less, it was for Eustace Le Neve that she watched most eagerly, with the natural interest of a budding girl in the man who takes her pure maiden fancy. Tyrrel allowed with a sigh that this was well indeed; for how could he ever dream, now he knew who she was, of marrying young Michael Trevennack’s sister?

  One afternoon the two friends were returning from a long ramble across the open moor, when, near a little knoll of bare and weathered rock that rose from a circling belt of Cornish heath, they saw Cleer by herself, propped against the huge boulders, with her eyes fixed intently on a paper-covered novel. She looked up and smiled as they approached; and the young men, turning aside from their ill-marked path, came over and stood by her. They talked for awhile about the ordinary nothings of society small-talk, till by degrees Cleer chanced accidentally to bring the conversation round to something that had happened to her mother and herself a year or two since in Malta. Le Neve snatched at the word; for he was eager to learn all he could about the Trevennacks’ movements, so deeply had Cleer already impressed her image on his susceptible nature.

  “And when do you go back there?” he asked, somewhat anxiously. “I suppose your father’s leave is for a week or two only.”

  “Oh, dear, no; we don’t go back at all, thank heaven,” Cleer answered, with a sunny smile. “I can’t bear exile, Mr. Le Neve, and I never cared one bit for living in Malta. But this year, fortunately, papa’s going to be transferred for a permanence to England; he’s to have charge of a department that has something or other to do with provisioning the Channel Squadron; I don’t quite understand what; but anyhow, he’ll have to be running about between Portsmouth and Plymouth, and I don’t know where else; and mamma and I will have to take a house for ourselves in London.”