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Michael's crag. 



Mr. Grant Allen's^ 

New Story 

'MICHAEL'S CRAG" 



with 

three-hundred and fifty 

marginal illustrations 

in silhouette 

by 

Frartcis Carruthers Gould 

and 
Alec Carruthers Gould. 



K| 

sis 



1893 , 

PUBLISHED BV 
The LeadenKall Prefs, Ltd: 50, LeaderAKall Street, London. E. 

Simpkin, Marshall, Hamilton, Kent 6- Co., Ltd. 



UNIVERSITY OF VICTORS 

LIBRARY 

Victoria, B C 



r 



PS i4-^'l 




THE LEAnKNHAI.I. I'KESS, LTD. 

LDNDON. 

(1. 4,6t9.) 



Cof>yright, 1893. 

In the United States of Antcrka, 

By Rand, McNali.v & Co.. Chicago. 



=F 



1 ^ 



MICHAELS CRAG 



■:4 




CONTENTS. 



— ♦'G"«»*yTN»^ 



CHAPTER I. 



A Cornish Landlord 



I'AUK 
I 



CHAPTER II. 



Trevennack 



• • 



i6 



CHAPTER III. 



Fack to Face . 



• • 



33 



CHAPTER IV. 
Tvrrel's Remorse .... 



IX 



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47 



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CHAI'TKR VI. 

I'l'RK ACCIDKNT. 



■ 67 



t!' 



CHAPTER VII. 
Pkkif, my Land . 



Sake ai Last 



CHAPTER VIII. 



81 



93 



. 



CHAPTER IX. 



1^* AI. OfINION . 






CHAPTER X. 



A Hold Aitempt 



Vs ■ ♦. . ♦■ 



• 103 



117 



•ji 



CHAPTER XL 

Business is Business 



. 128 



CHAPTER XIL 



A Hard Bargain 



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59 



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Ani;i.i. \mi 1)1, VII 



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CHAPIFK XV 
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\\\ (IRANI' AI.I.KN. 



CHAPTER 






A COKN/S// LANDLORD. 

" TnKN you tlon't care for the place yourself, 
Tyrrel ?" Kustace Le Neve said musingly, 
as he gazed in fnjnt of him with a compre- 
hensive glance at the long grey moor and 
the wide expanse of black and stormy water. 
'• It's bleak, of course ; bleak and cold, I 
grant you ; all this upland plateau about the 
Lizard promontory seems bleak and cold 
everywhere ; but to my mi id it has a certain 
wild and weird picturesquer\ess of its own for 
all that. It aims at gloominess. I confess 
in its own way I don't dislike it." 

" For my part," Tyrrel answered, clench- 
ing his hand hard as he spoke, and knitting 



^ 



ST 



' I 





his brow cles[)onclently, " I simply hate it. 
If I wasn't the landlord here, to be perfectly 
frank with you, I'd never come near Pen- 
morgan. I do it for conscience' sake, to be 
among my own people. That's my only 
reason. I disapprove of absenteeism ; and 
now the land's mine, why, I must put up 
with it, I suppose, and live upon it in spite 
of myself. But I do it against the grain. 
The whole place, if I tell you the truth, is 
simply detestable to me." 

He leant on his stick as he spoke, and 
looked down gloomily at the heather. A 
handsome young man, Walter Tyrrel, of the 
true Cornish type — tall, dark, poetical-look- 
ing, with pensive eyes and a thick black 
moustache, which gave dignity and character 
to his otherwise almost too delicately femi- 
nine features. And he stood on the open 
moor just a hundred yards outside his own 
front door at Penmorgan, on the Lizard 
peninsula, looking westward down a great 
wedge-shaped gap in the solid serpentine 
rock to a broad belt of sea beyond without a 
ship or a sail on it. The view was indeed, 
as Eustace Le Neve admitted, a somewhat 



bleak and dreary one. For miles, as far as 
the eye could reach, on either side, nothing 
was to be seen but one vast heathef-clad 
upland, just varied at the dip by bare ledges 
of dark rock and a single grey glimpse of 
tossing sea between them. A little further 
on, to be sure, winding round the cliff path, 
one could open up a glorious prospect on 
either hand over the rocky islets of Kynance 
and Mullion Cove, with Mount's Bay and 
Penzance and the Land's End in the dis- 
tance. That was a magnificent site — if only 
his ancestors had had the sense to see it. 
But Penmorgan House itself, like most other 
Cornish landlords' houses, had been carefully 
placed — for shelter's sake, no doubt — in a 
seaward hollow where the view was most 
restricted ; and the outlook one got from it, 
over black moor and blacker rocks, was cer- 
tainly by no means of a cheerful character. 
Eustace Le Neve himself, most cheery and 
sanguine of men, just home from his South 
American railway-laying, and with the luxu- 
riant vegetation of the Argentine still fresh 
in his mind, was forced to admit, as he looked 
about him, that the position of his friend's 





r' 




■' « 



^'l 




house on that rolling brown moor was far 
from a smiling one. 

" You used to come here when you were 
a boy, though," he objected, after a pause, 
with a glance at the great breakers that 
curled in upon the cove; "and you must 
surely have found it pleasant enough then, 
what with the bathing and the fishing and 
the shooting and the boating, and all the 
delights of the sea and the country." 

Walter Tyrrel nodded his head. It was 
clear the subject was extremely distasteful to 
him. " Yes — till I was twelve or thirteen," 
he said slowly, as one who grudges assent ; 
*' in my uncle's time, I liked it well enough, 
no doubt. Boys don't realize the full terror 
of sea or cliff, you know, and are perfectly 
happy swimming and climbing. I used to 
be amphibious in those days, like a seal or 
an otter — in the water half my time ; and I 
scrambled over the rocks — great heavens, it 
makes me giddy now just to ^/iink where I 
scrambled. But when I was about thirteen 
years old," — his face grew graver still, — '* a 
change seemed to come over me, and I began 
. , . well, I began to hate Penmorgan. I've 



ri 



hated it ever since. I shall always hate it. 
I learnt what it all meant. I suppose — rocks, 
wrecks, and accidents. I saw how dull and 
gloomy it was, and I couldn't bear cominj^ 
down here. I came as seldom as I dared, 
till my uncle died last year and left it to me. 
And then there was no help for it. I had to 
come down. It's a landlord's business, I 
consider, to live among his tenants and look 
after the welfare of the soil committed to his 
charge by his Queen and country. He holds 
it in trust, stricdy speaking, for the nation. 
So I felt I must come and live here. But I 
hate it, all the same. I hate it ! I hate 
it!" 

He said it so energetically, and with such 
strange earnestness in his voice, that Eustace 
Le Neve, scannirig his face as he spoke, felt 
sure there must be some good reason for his 
friend's dislike of his ancestral home, and 
forebore (like a man) to question him further. 
Perhaps, he thought, it was connected in 
Tyrrel's mind with some painful memory, 
some episode in his history he would gladly 
forget ; though, to be sure, when one comes 
to think of it, at thirteen, such episodes 






* .■ 




arc rare and improbable. A man doesn't, 
as a rule, get crossed in love at that early 
age ; nor does he generally form lasting 
and abiding antipathies. And indeed, for 
the matter of that, Pen morgan was quite 
gloomy enough in itself, in all conscience, to 
account for his dislike — a lonely and gaunt- 
looking granite-buiic house, standing bare 
and square on the edge of a black moor, 
under shelter of a rocky dip, in a treeless 
country. It must have been a terrible change 
for a bachelor about town, like Walter 
Tyrrel, to come down at twenty-eight from 
his luxurious club and his snug chambers in 
St. James's to the isolation and desolation of 
that wild Cornish manor-house. But the 
Tyrrels, he knew, were all built like that ; 
Le Neve had been with three of the family 
at Rugby ; and conscience was their stum- 
bling-block. When once a Tyrrel was 
convinced his duty lay anywhere, no con- 
sideration on earth would keep him from 
doing it. 

" Let's take a stroll down by the shore," 
Le Neve suggested carelessly, after a short 
pause, slipping his arm through his friend's. 



"Your cliffs, at least, must hv. tint; ; they look 
grand and massive ; and after three years 
of broiling on a South American line, this 
fresh sou'-wester's just the thing, to my mind, 
to blow the cobwebs out of one. " 

He was a breezy- looking young man, this 
new-comer from beyond the sea — a son of 
the Vikings, Tyrrel's contemporary in age, 
but very unlike him in form and features. 
For Eustace Le Neve was fair and big-built, 
a llorid young giant, with tawny beard, 
moustache, and whiskers, which he cut in a 
becoming Vandyke point of artistic careless- 
ness. There was more of the artist than of 
the engineer, indeed, about his frank and 
engaging English face — a face which made 
one like him as soon as one looked at him. 
It was impossible to do otherwise. E!xu- 
berant vitality was the keynote of the man's 
being. And he was candidly open too. He 
impressed one at first sight by some nameless 
instinct with a certain well-founded friendly 
confidence. A lovable soul, if ever there 
was one, equally liked at once by men and 
women. ■,, 

" Our cliffs are fine," Walter Tyrrel an- 



8 



If 





swered grudgingly, in the tone of one who, 
against his will, admits an adverse point he 
sees no chance of gainsaying. '* They're 
black, and repellent, and iron-bound, and 
dangerous ; but they're certainly magnificent. 
1 don't deny it. Come and see them, by all 
means. They're the only lions we have to 
show a stranger in this part of Cornwall, so 
you'd better make the most of them." 

And he took, as if mechanically, ttie wind- 
ing path that led (}lo7wi the gap towards the 
frowning cove in the wall of cliff before 
them. 

Eustace Le Neve was a little surprised at 
this unexpected course, for he himself would 
naturally have made rather for the top of the 
promontory, whence they were certain to 
obtain a much finer and more extensive view; 
but he had only arrived at Penmorgan the 
evening before, so he bowed at once to 
his companion's more mature experience of 
Cornish scenery. They threaded their way 
through the gully, for it was little more — a 
great water-worn rent in the dark serpentine 
rocks, with the sea at its lower end — picking 
their path as they went among huge granite 



, 



boulders or across fallen stones, till they 
reached a small beach of firm white sand, on 
whose even Hoor the waves were rolling in 
and curling over magnificently, it was a 
curious place, Kustace thought, rather dreary 
than beautiful. On either side rose black 
cliffs, towering sheer into the air, and shutting 
out overhead all but a narrow cleft of murky 
sky. Around, the sea dashed itself in angry 
white foam against broken stacks and tiny 
weed-clad skerries. At the end of the first 
point, a solitary islet, just separated from the 
mainland by a channel of seething water, 
jutted above into the waves, with hanging 
tresses of brown and yellow seaweed. 
Tyrrel pointed to it with one hand. "That's 
Michael's Crag," he said laconically. 
" You've seen it before, no doubt, in half a 
dozen pictures. It's shaped exactly like St. 
Michael's Mount in miniature. A marine 
painter fellow down here's for ever taking 
its portrait." 

Le Neve gazed around him with a certain 
slight shudder of unspoken disapprobation. 
This place didn't suit his sunny nature. It 
was even blacker and more dismal than the 








lO 





l)r()wn mcjorland above it. Tyrrel caught the 
dissatisfaction in his companion's eye before 
Le Neve had time to frame it in words. 

"Well, you don't think much of it.-*" he 
said inquiringly. 

" I can't say I do," Le Neve answered, 
with apologetic frankness. *' I suppose South 
America has spoilt me for this sort of thing. 
But it's not to my taste. I call it gloomy, 
without being even impressive." 

"Gloomy," Tyrrel answered; "oh, yes, 
gloomy, certainly. But impressive ; well, 
yes. For myself, I think so. To me, it's 
all terribly, unspeakably, ineffably impressive. 
I come here every day, and sit close on the 
sands, and look out upon the sea by the 
edge of the breakers. It's the only place 
on this awful coast one feels perfectly safe 
in. You can't tumble over here, or . . 
roll anything down to do harm to anybody." 

A steep cliff path led up the sheer face 
of the rock to southward. It was a difficult 
path, a mere foothold on the ledges ; but its 
difficulty at once attracted the engineer's 
attention. "Let's go up that way!" he 
said, waving his hand towards it carelessly. 



II 



" The view from on top there must be 
infinitely finer." 

*• I believe it is," Tyrrel rcplietl, in an un- 
concerned voice, like one who retails va^iie 
hearsay evidence. " 1 haven't seen it my- 
self since I was a boy of thirteen. I nt^ver 
go along the top of the cliffs on any account." 

Le Neve gazed down on him, astonish(;d. 
" You believe it is ! " he exclaimed, unable 
to conceal his surprise and wonder. " You 
never go up there ! Why, Walter, how odd 
of you ! I was reading up the Guide-book 
this morning before breakfast, and it says 
the walk from this point on the Penmorgan 
estate to Kynance Cove is the most magni- 
ficent bit of wild cliff scenery anywhere in 
Cornwall." 

" So I'm told," Tyrrel answered, unmoved. 
** And I remember, as a boy, I thought it 
very fine. But that was long since. I never 
go by it." 

"Why not.'*" Le Neve cried. 

Tyrrel shrugged his shoulders and shook 
himself impatiently. " I don't know," he 
answered, in a testy sort of voice. " I don't 
like the cliff top. . . . It's so dangerous, 




12 





don't you know ? So unsafe. So unstJible. 
'I'hc rocks go off so shi:cr, and stoiurs topple 
over so easily." 

Le Neve laughed a littl(^ laugh of half- 
disguised contempt. Wv was moving over 
toward the path up the cliff side as they 
spoke. "Why, you used to be a first-rate 
climber at school," he said, attempting it. 
•• especially when you were a little chap. 1 
remember you could scramble up trees like 
a monkey. What fun we had once in the 
doctor's orchard ! And as to the cliffs, you 
needn't go so near you have to tumble over 
them. It seems ridiculous for a landowner 
not to know a bit of scenery on his own 
estate that's celebrated and talked about all 
over England." 

•' I'm not afraid of tumbling over, for 
myself," Tyrrel answered, a little nettled by 
his friend's frank tone of amusement. " I 
don't feel myself so useful to my Queen and 
country that I rate my own life at too high 
a figure. It's the people below I'm chiefly 
concerned about. There's always some one 
wandering and scrambling about these cliffs, 
don't you see .'* — fishermen, tourists, geo- 



13 



Insists. If you let a loose stone go, it may 
fall uj)on them and crush them. " 

The engineer looked back upt)n him with 
a somewhat pu/zled expression. " W<ll. 
that's carrying conscienct; a point too far, " 
he said, with one strong hand on th(? rock 
and one sure foot in the first convenient 
cranny. " If wv.'nt not to climb cliffs for 
fear of showering down stones on thost! who 
stand below, we won't dare to walk or ridt; or 
drive or put to sea, for fear of running over or 
colliding against somebody. We shall have 
to stop all our trains and keep all our steamers 
in harbour. There's nothing in this world 
quite free from risk. We've got to take it 
and lump it. You know the old joke about 
those dangenxis beds — so many people die 
in them. Won't you break your rule just for 
once, and come up on top here to see the 
view with me ? " 

Tyrrel shocjk his head firmly. *' Not to- 
day," he answered, with a quiet smile. " Not 
by that path, at any rate. It's too risky for 
my taste. The stones are so loose. And 
it overhangs the road the quarrymen go to 
the cave by." 





»4 




Lc Ni!Ve had now inadt; j^ood his foothold 
U|) the first four or five steps. " Well, 
you've no ol)j(!ction to my i^oinjr, at any 
rate?" hv. said, with a wave of imv. hand, in 
his cheerful j>^ood -humour. "You don't put 
p. veto on your friends here, do you ?'* 

*' Oh, not th(! least objection," Tyrrel 
answered hurrit^dly, watching; him climb 
none the less with lu^rvous interest. ** It's 
it's a purely personal and individual 
feeling. Hesides," he added, after a pause, 
•' 1 can stop below h(.'re, if need b(,', and 
warn the quarrymen." , 

" I'll be back in ten minutes," Le Neve 
shouted from the cliff 

" No, don't hurry," his host shouted back. 
" Take your own time. It's safest. Once 
you get to the top, you'd better walk along 
the whole cliff path to Ky nance. They tell 
me it's splendid ; the view's so wide ; and 
you can easily get back across the moor by 
lunch-time. Only, mind about the edge, and 
whatever you do, let no stones roll over." 

" All right," Le Neve made answer, ding- 
ing close to a point of rock. *' I'll do no 
damage. It's opening out beautifully on 



'5 /: 

every sidy; now. I can sec round the corner 
to St. Michael's Mount ; and the |)()int at 
the end there must be Tul-l*edn-l*en\vith." 



i ! 




-^E*. 









I 



CHAPTER II. 



TREVENNACK. 




It was a stiff, hot climb to the top of the 
cliff; but as soon as he reached it, Eustace 
Le Neve gazed about him, enchanted at the 
outlook. He was not in love with Cornwall, 
as far as he'd seen it yet : and to say the 
truth, except in a few broken seaward glens, 
that high and barren inland plateau has little 
in it to attract or interest any one, least of 
all a traveller fresh from the rich luxuriance 
of South American vegetation. But the 
view that burst suddenly upon Eustace Le 
Neve's eye, as he gained the summit of that 
precipitous serpentine bluff, fairly took his 
breath away. It was a rich and varied one. 
To the north and west loomed headland 
after headland, walled in by steep crags, 
and stretching away in purple perspective 
towards Marazion, St. Michael's Mount, and 
the Penzance district. To the south and 

i6 



17 



east, huge masses of fallen rock lay tossed in 
wild confusion over Kynance Cove and the 
neighbouring bays, with the bare boss of the 
Rill and the Rearing Horse in the fore- 
ground. Le Neve stood and looked with 
open eyes of delijL^ht. It was the first beau- 
tiful view he had seen since he came to 
Cornwall ; but this at least was beautiful, 
almost enouLi^h so to compensate for his first 
acute disappointment at the barrenness and 
gloom of the Lizard scenery. 

For some minutes he could only stand 
with open eyes and gaze delighted at the 
glorious prospect. Cliffs, sea, and rocks all 
blended with one another in solemn har- 
mony. Even the blackness of the great 
crags and the scorched air of the brown and 
water-logged moorland in the rear now 
ceased to oppress him. They fell into their 
proper place in one consistent and well- 
blended picture. But, after a while, impelled 
by a desire to look down upon the next little 
bay beyond — for the coast is indented with 
endless coves and headlands — the engineer 
walked on along the top by a coastguard's 
path that threaded its way, marked by 





1 8 





whitened stones, round the points and gullies. 
As he did so, he happened to notice on the 
very crest of the ridge that overlooked the 
rock they called St. Michael's Crag — a tall 
figure of a man silhouetted in dark outline 
against the pale grey skyline. I'rom the 
very first moment P^ustace Le Neve set eyes 
upon that striking figure, this man exerted 
u|)on him some nameless attraction. Even 
at this distance the engineer could see he 
had a certain indefinite air of dignity and 
distinction ; and he poised himself lightly on 
the very edge of the cliff in a way that would 
no doubt have made Walter Tyrrel shudder 
with fear and alarm. Yet there was some- 
thing about that poise quite unearthly and 
uncanny ; the man stood so airily on his high 
rocky perch that he reminded Le Neve at 
once of nothing so much as of Giovanni da 
Bologna's Mercury in the Bargello at 
Florence ; he seemed to spirn the earth as 
if about to spring from it with a bound ; his 
feet were as if freed from the common bond 
of gravity. 

It was a figure that belonged naturally to 
the Cornish moorland. 



19 



.• 



Wins. 
the 
the 
tall 

tline 
the 



i 



I 



yi : 



•■ 



Le Neve advanced along the path till he 
nearly reached the summit where the man 
was standing. The point itself w;is a rugged 
tor or little group of bare and weather-worn 
rocks, overlooking the sea and St. Michael's 
Crag below it. As the engineer drew near 
he saw the stranger was not alone. Under 
shelter of the rocks, a girl lay stretched at 
length on a loose camel's hair rug ; her head 
was hatless ; in her hand she held, half open, 
a volume of poetry. She looked up as 
Eustace [)assed, and he noted at a glance 
that she was dark and pretty. The Cornish 
type once more ; bright black eyes, glossy 
brown hair, a rich complexion, a soft and 
rounded beauty. 

" Cleer," the father said warningly in a 
modulated voice as the young man ap- 
proached ; "don't let your hat blow av/ay, 
dear ; it's close by the path there." 

The girl he called Cleer darted forward 
and picked it up with a litde blush of confu- 
sion. Eustace Le Neve raised his hat, by 
way of excuse for disturbing her, and was 
about to pass on. But the view down into 
the bay below, with the jagged and pointed 




r 





20 

crag islanded in white foam, held him spell- 
bound for a moment. He paused, and jj^azed 
at it. " This is a lovely look-out, sir," he 
said, after a second's silence, as if to apolo- 
gize for his intrusion, turning round to the 
stranger who still stood poised like a statue 
on the natural pedestal of lichen-covered 
rock beside him. " A lovely look-out, and a 
wonderful bit of wild coast scenery." 

** Yes," the stranger answered, in a voice 
as full of dignity as his presence and his 
mien. "It's the grandest spot along the 
Cornish coast. From here you can see in 
one view St. Michael's Mount, St. Michael's 
Crag, St. Michael's Church, and St. Michael's 
Promontory. The whole of this country, 
indeed, just teems with St. Michael." 

"Which is St. Michaels Promontory?" 
the young man asked, with a side glance at 
Cleer — as they called the daughter. He 
wasn't sorry indeed for the chance of having 
a second look at her. 

" Why Land's End, of course," the digni- 
fied stranger answered at once, descending 
from his perch as he spoke, with a light 
spring more like a boy's than a mature man's. 



21 



h 



" You must surely know those famous lint.'s 
in * Lycidas ' about 

' The fable of Bellerus old, 
Where the (Ireat Vision of the guarded mount 
Looks towards Namancos and Bayona's hold ; 
Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth,' " 

" Yes, I htow them, of course," Eustace 
answered, with ingenuous shyness; "but as 
so often happens with poetry, to say the 
truth, I'm afraid I attached no very definite 
idea to them. The music so easily obscures 
the sense ; though the moment you suggest 
it, I see they can't possibly mean any one but 
St. Michael." 

" My father's very much interested in the 
antiquities of Cornwall," the girl Cleer put in, 
looking up at him somewhat timidly ; " so he 
naturally knows all these things, and perhaps 
he expects others to know them unreason- 
ably." 

"We've every ground for knowing them," 
the father went on, glancing down at her 
with tender affection. " We're Cornish to 
the backbone — Cornish born and bred, if 
ever there were Cornishmen. Every man of 
my ancestors was a Tre, Pol, or Pen, to the 




3t 





tentli generation backward ; and I'm de- 
scended from the Bassets, too — the Bassets 
of Tehidy. You must have heard of the 
Bassets in Cornish history. They owned 
St. Michael's Mount before these new-fangled 
St. Aubyn people. 

" It's Lord St. Levan's now, isn't it ?" Le 
Neve put in, anxious to show off his know- 
ledge of the local aristocracy. 

"Yes, they've made him Lord St. Levan," 
the dignified stranger answered, with an 
almost imperceptible curl of his delicate lower 
lip. " They've made him Lord St. Levan. 
The queen can make one anything. He was 
plain Sir John St. Aubyn before that, you 
know ; his family bought the Mount from 
my ancestors — the Bassets of Tehidy. 
They're new people at Marazion — new 
people altogether. They've only been there 
since 1660." 

Le Neve smiled a quiet smile. That 
seemed to him in his innocence a fairly 
decent antiquity as things go nowadays. 
But the dignified stranger appeared to think 
so little of it that his new acquaintance ab- 
stained from making note or comment on it. 



"mi* 



23 






He waited half a moment to see whether 
Cleer would speak aj^ain ; he wanted to hear 
that pleasant voice once more : but as she 
held her peace, he merely^ raised his hat, and 
acceptini^ the dismissal, continued his walk 
round the cliffs alone. Yet, somehow, the 
rest of the way, the figurt! of that statuesque 
stranger haunted him. Hv. looked back onc(! 
or twice. The descendant of the Bassets of 
Tehidy had now resumed his high pedestal 
upon the airy tor, and was gazing away sea- 
ward, like the mystic Great Vision of his 
own Miltonic quotation, towards the Spanish 
coast, wrapped round in a loose cloak of most 
poetic dimensions. 

Le Neve wondered who he was, and what 
errand could have brought him there. 

At the point called the Rill, he diverged 
from the path a bit, to get that beautiful 
glimpse down into the rock-strewn cove and 
smooth white sands at Kynance. A coast- 
guard with brush and pail was busy as he 
passed by, renewing the whitewash on the 
landmark boulders that point the path on 
dark nights to the stumbling wayfarer. Le 
Neve paused and spoke to him. " That's a 







v,Vi,ra-ra*i-, 




finti-li)()king man, my friend, the gentleman 
on the tor there," he said, after a few 
commonplaces. " Do you happen to know 
his name? Is he spending the summer 
about here ? " 

I'he man stopped in his work and looked 
up. His eye lighted with pleasure on the 
dignified stranger. '* Yes ; he's one of the 



I right sort, sir," he answered, with a sort of 



proprietary pride in the distinguished figure. 
" A real old Cornish gentleman of the good 
old days, he is, if ever you see one. That's 
Trevennack of Trevennack ; and MissCleer's 
his daughter. Fine old crusted Cornish 
names, every one of them ; I'm a Cornish- 
man myself, and I know them well, the 
whole grand lot of them. The Trevennacks 
and the Bassets, they was all one, time gone 
by ; they owned St. Michael's Mount, and 
Penzance, and Marazion, and Mullion here. 
They owned Penmorgan, too, afore the 
Tyrrels bought it up. Michael Basset Tre- 
vennack, that's the gentleman's full name ; 
the eldest son of the eldest son is always a 
Michael, to keep up the memory of the times 
gone by, when they was Guardians of the 






«s 



Mount, and St. MichacTs Constables. .And 
the lady's Miss Cleer, after St. Cleer of 
Cornwall, — her that gives her name still to 
St. Cleer by Liskeard." 

"And do they live here ?" Le Neve asked, 
much interested in the intelligent local tone 
of the man's conversation. 

*' Lord bless you, no, sir. They don't live 
nowhere. They're in the service, don't you 
see : they lives in Malta or Gibraltar, or 
wherever the Admiralty sends him. He's 
an Admiralty man, he is, connected with the 
Vittling Yard. I was in the navy myself, 
on the good old Billy Ruffim, afore I was put 
into the Coastguards, and I knowed him well 
when we was both together on the Mediter- 
ranean Station. Always the same grand old 
Cornish gentleman, with them gracious 
manners, so haughty like, an' yet so con- 
descending, wherever they put him. A gen- 
tleman born. No gentleman on earth more 
the gentleman all round, than Trevennack of 
Trevennack." 

'* Then he's staying clown here on a visit .'*" 
Le Neve went on curiously, peering over the 
edge of the cliffs, as he spoke, to observe the 
cormorants. 





•6 




"Don't you ^o too nij^h, sir," the coast- 
j(Liarcl |)ut in warningly. *' She's slippc^ry 
just there. Yes, they're stayiiij^ down in 
C)liv('r's lodj^nngs at (iunwalloe. H(;s on 
K!ave, that's wh(!re it is. lu'ery thr(H! or f:)ur 
years he j^^ets leave from th(! Vittlin^ and 
comes home to Enj^dand ; and th(!n he; always 
u|)s and runs down to the Lizard, and wan- 
ders about on the cliffs by himscrlf like this, 
with Miss Cleer to keep him company. He's 
a chip of the old rock, he is -Cornish granite 
to the core, as the saying goes ; and h(* can't 
be happy away from it. You'll see him any 
day standing like that on the very edge of the 
cliff*, looking across over the water, as if he 
was a coastguard hisself, and always sort o' 
perched on the highest bit of rock he can 
come nigh anywhere." 

*' He looks an able man," Le Neve went 
on, still regarding the stranger, poised now as 
before, on the very summit of the tor, with 
his cloak wrapped round him. 

"Able? I believe you! Why, he's the 
very heart r.nd soul, the brains and senses of 
the Vittling Department. The navy *d starve 
if it wasn't for him. He's a Companion of 



27 



St. Mich;u!l jiiul St. Cnorgi-, Mr. 'rrcvciiiiack 
is. 'Taint every one as is a Companion of 
St. Michael and St. r,('<)rge. The (jiurtm 
made him that herself for his managcnKiU of 
the Vittling." 

•* It's a strange |)lace for a man in his 
position to spend his holitlay," Le Neve 
went on rellectively. " N'ou'd think, coming 
back so seldom, he'd want to svx'. som(!thing 
of London, Mrighton, Scarborough, Scot- 
land." 

The coastguard looked uj), and held his 
brush idle in one hand with a mysterious air. 
" Not when you come to know his history," 
he ans-vered, gazing hard at him. 

" Oh, there's a history to him, is there ? " 
Le Neve answered, not surprised. "Well, 
he certainly has the look of it." 

The coastguard nodd("d his head, and 
dropped his voice still lower. '* Yes, there's 
a history to him," he replied. " And that's 
why you'll always see Trevennack of Tre- 
vennack on the top of the cliff, and never at 
the bottom. — Thank'ee very kindly, sir : it 
ain't every day we gets a chance of a good 
cigar at Kynance.- -VV^ell, it must be fifteen 





28 



I 

1 




ii 







yviir now or inayho sixteen I don't niiiul 
th(! right timt! Tr(!V(!nn;ick came down in 
old S(|iiir(' lyrrd's days, him as is l)uri('d at 
iMuHion Church town, and stopjxnl at (iun- 
walloe, same as he might In; sto|)[)ing the-re 
in his lodgings nowadays. He hatl his only 
son with him, too, a fme-looking young 
gentleman, they say, for his age, for I wasn't 
here then — I was serving my time under Ad- 
miral I)e Horsey on tht* good old /////y 
Ruffiin — the very picture of Miss Cleer, and 
twelve year old or thereabouts ; and they 
called him Master Michael, the same as they 
always call the eldest boy of the Trevennacks 
of Trevennack. Aye, and ont; day they two, 
father and son, were a-strolling on the beach 
under the cliffs by Penmorgan — mind them 
stones on the edge, sir : they're powerful 
loose — don't you drop none over — when, just 
as you might loosen them pebbles there with 
your foot, over come a shower o' small bits 
from the cliff on top, and as sure as you're 
livin', hit the two on em right so, sir. Mr. 
Trevennack himself, he wasn't much hurt — 
just bruised a bit on the forehead, for he was 
wearing a Scotch cap ; but Master Michael, 



29 



well, it cau^'hi hlin rij^ht on the top of the 
head, ami afort! they kiiowrd what it was, it 
smashed his skull in. Ay, that it did, sir, 
just so ; it smashed the hoy's skull in. They 
carried him home, and cut the hone out. and 
tnrpanni'd him : but hk^ss you. it wa'n't no 
good ; he linj^ered on for a night, and then, 
afore morning, he; ilied, insensible." 

•'What a terril)le story!" Le Neve ex- 
claimed, with a fact; of horror, recoiling 
instinctively from the edge of the cliff that 
had wrought this evil. 

•' Aye, you may well say so : it was rough 
on him," the coastguard went on, with the 
calm criticism of his kind. '* His only son, 
— and all in a minute like, as you may ttTm 
it — such a promising y ang gentleman! It 
was rough, terrible rough on him. So from 
that day to this, whenever Trevennack has a 
holiday, down he comes here to Gunwalloe, 
and walks about the cliffs, and looks across 
upon the rocks by Penmorgan Point, or 
stands on the top of Michael's Crag, just over 
against the spot where his boy was hurted. 
An' he never wants to go nowhere else in all 
r'ngland, but just to stand like that on the 






30 





very edge* of the clifT, and look over from 
atop, and Ijrood, and think about it." 

As the man spoke, it flashed across Le 
Neve's mind at once that Trevennack's voice 
had ([uivered with a strange thrill of emotion 
as he uttered that line, no doubt pregnant 
with meaning for him, " Look homeward. 
Angel, now, and melt with ruth." He was 
thinking of his own boy, most likely, not of 
the poet's feigned Lycidas. 

" He'll stand like that for hours," the coast- 
guard went on confidentially, " musing like 
to himself, with Miss Cleer by his side, read- 
ing in her book or doing her knitting or some- 
thing. But you couldn't get him, for love or 
money, to go below the cliffs, no, not if you 
was to kill him. He's ^yr^2V/ of going below, 
— that's where it Is : he always thinks some- 
thing's sure to tumble from the top on him. 
Natural enough, too, after all that's been, He 
likes to get as high as ever he can in the a^'r, 
where he can see all round him, and be cer- 
tain there ain't anyone above to let anything 
drop as might hurt him. Michael's Crag's 
where he likes best to stand, on the top there 
by the Horse : he always chooses them spots. 



31 



In Malta, it was San Mickayly ; and in (lib- 
raltar, it was the summit of Europa Point, by 
the edge of the Twelve Apostles' battery." 

•' How curious ! ' Le Neve exclaimed. 
" It's just the other way on now, with my 
friend Mr. Tyrrel. I'm stopping at Pen- 
morgan : but Mr. Tyrrel won't go on top of 
the cliffs for anything. He says he's afraid 
he might let something drop by accident on 
the people below him." 

The coastguard grew suddenly jj^raver. 
" Like enough." he said, stroking his chin. 
" Like enough : — and right, too, for him sir. 
You see, he's a Tyrrel, and he's bound 
to be -"^lutious." 

"Why so?" Le Neve asked, somewhat 
puzzled. " AVhy i Tyrrel more than the rest 
of us ."* " 

The man hesitated and stared hard at him. 
" Well, it's like this, sir," he answered, at last, 
with the shamefaced air of the intelligent 
labouring man who confesses to a supersti- 
tion. " We Cornish are old-fashioned, and 
we has our ideas. The Tyrrels are new 
people like, in Cornwall, as we say ; they 
came in only with Cromwell's folk, when he 





m 




3^ 




fought the Grenvilles : but it's well beknown 
in the county, bad luck ^oes with them. You 
see, they're descended from that Sir WaUer 
Tyrrel you'll read about in the history books 
— him as killed King William Rufious in the 
New Forest. You'll hear all about it at 
Rufious's Stone, where the king was killed ; 
Sir Walter, he drew, and he aimed at a deer, 
and the king was standing by ; and the bullet, 
it glanced aside, — or maybe it was afore 
bullets, and then it'd be an arrow ; bui ri' ^'• 
how, one or t'other, it hit the king, and he 
fell, and died there. The stone's standing to 
this day, on the place where he fell, and I've 
seen it, and read o^ it, v. hen I was in hospital 
at Netley. But Sir Walter, he got clear 
away, and ran across to France : and ever 
since that time, they've called the rldest son 
of the Tyrrels, Walter, same as they've 
called the eldest son of the Trevennacks 
Michael. But they say every Walter Tyrrel 
that's born into the world is bound, sooner or 
later, to kill his man unintentional So he 
do right to avoid going too near the cliffs, I 
say. We shouldn't tempt Providence. And 
the Tyrrels is all a conscientious people." 



i? 



■■■. 

K 

J 



CHAPTER III 



FACE TO FACE. 



When Eustace Le Neve returned to lunch 
at Penmorgan that day, he was silent to his 
host about Trevennack of Trevennack. To 
say the truth, he was so much attracted by 
Miss Cleer's appearance that he didn't feel 
inclined to mention having met her. But he 
wanted to meet her again for all that, and 
hoped he would do so. Perhaps Tyrrel 
might know the family, and ask them round 
to dine some night. At any rate, society is 
rare at the Lizard. S ^oner or later, he felt 
sure, he'd knock up against the mysterious 
stranger somewhere. And that involved the 
probability of knocking up against the mys- 
terious stranger's beautiful daughter. 

Next morning after breakfast, however, 
he made a vigorous effort to induce Walter 
Tyrrel to mount the cliff and look at the 





33 





34 

view from Penmorgan Point towards the Rill 
and Kynancc. It was absurd, he said truly, 
for the proprietor of such an estate never to 
have seen the most beautiful spot in it. But 
Tyrrel was obdurate. On the point of 
actually mounting the cliff itself, he wouldn't 
yield one jot or tittle. Only, after much per- 
suasion, he consented at last to cross the 
headl vd by the fields at the back, and come 
out at ' .' tor above St. Michael's Cra<^, 
provided always Eustace would promise he'd 
neither go near the edge himself, nor try 
to induce his friend to approach it. 

Satisfied with this lame compromise — for 
he really wished his host to eiijoy that glor- 
ious view — Eustace Le Neve turned up the 
valley behind the house, with Walter Tyrrel 
by his side, and after traversing several 
fields, through gaps in the stone walls, led 
out his companion at last to the tor on the 
headland. « 

As they approached it from behind, the 
engineer observed, not without a faint thrill 
of pleasure, that Trevennack's stately figure 
stood upright as before upon the wind-swept 
pile of fissured rocks, and that Cleer sat read- 



I, 



35 



ing under its shelter to leeward. lUit by her 
side this morning sat also an elder lady. 
\vh(jm luistace instinctively rt;cognis(xl as 
her mother — a graceful, dignified lady, with 
silvery white hair and black Cornish eyes, 
and features not untinged by the mellowing, 
hallowing air of a great sorrow. 

Le Neve raised his hat as they drew near, 
with a pleased smile of welcome, and Tre- 
vennack and his daughter both bowed in 
return. " A glorious morning ! " the engineer 
said, drinking in to the full the lovely golden 
haze that flooded and half-obscured the 
Land's End district ; and Trevennack as- 
sented gravely. *'The crag stands up well 
in this sunshine against the dark water be- 
hind," he said, waving one gracious hand 
towards the island at his foot, and poising 
lighter than ever. 

" Oh, take care ! " Walter Tyrrel cried, 
looking up at him, on tenterhooks. " It's so 
dangerous up there ! You might tumble any 
minute." 

" / never tumble," Trevennack made 
answer with solemn gravity, spreading one 
hand on either side, as if to balance himself 



-.-" — . I . ■ ' . ''"T . • .-. 





36 




like an acrobat. But he descended as he 
spoke, and took his place beside them. 

Tyrrel looked at the view — and looked at 
the pretty girl. It was evident he was quite 
as much struck by the one as by the other. 
Indeed, of the two, Cleer seemed to attract 
the larger share of his attention. For some 
minutes they stood and talked, all five of 
them together, without further introduction 
than their common admiration for that ex- 
quisite bay, in which Trevennack appeared 
to take an almost proprietary interest. It 
gratified him, obviously, a Cornish man, that 
these strangers (as he thought them) should 
be so favourably impressed by his native 
county. But Tyrrel all the while looked ill 
at ease, though he sidled away as far ■^.z pos- 
sible from the edge of the cliff, and sat down 
near Cleer at a safe distance from the preci- 
pice. He was silent and preoccupied. That 
mattered but little, however, as the rest did 
all the talking, especially Trevennack, who 
turned out to be indeed a perfect treasure- 
house of Cornish antiquities and Cornish 
folk-lore. v . 

"I generally stand below, on top of 



r 



I 1 



he 



at 



Z7 

Michael's Crag," he said to Eustace, pointing 
it out, "when the tide allows it; but when 
it's high, as it is now, such a roaring' and 
seething scour sets through the channel 
between the rock and the mainland that no 
swimmer could stem it ; and then I come up 
here, and look down from above upon it. 
It's the finest point on all our Cornish coast, 
this point we stand on. It has the widest 
view, the purest air, the hardest rock, the 
highest and most fantastic tor of any of 
them." 

" My husband's quite an enthusiast for this 
particular place," Mrs. Trevennack inter- 
posed, watching his face as she spoke with 
a certain anxious and ill-disguised wifely 
solicitude. *' He's come here for years. It 
has many associations for us." 

** Some painful, and some happy," Cleer 
added, half aloud; and Tyrrel, nodding assent, 
looked at her as if expecting some marked 
recognition. 

" You should see it in the pilchard season," 
her father went on, turning suddenly to 
Eustace, with rr/ich animation in his voice. 
" That's the time for Cornwall — a month or 





II! 



^g^mm^^mmmmmmmmm 



3« 





SO later than now — you should sec it then, 
for picturescjueness and variety. * When the 
corn is in the shock,' says our Cornish rhyme, 
' Then the fish are off the rock ' — and the 
rock's St. Michael's. The /iner, as we call 
him, for he gives the hue and cry from the 
hill-top look-out when the fish are coming, 
he stands on Michael's Crag just below there, 
as I stand myself so ofttMi, and when he 
sights the shoals by the ripple on the water, 
he motions to the boats which way to g(j for 
the pilchards. Then the rowers in the 
lurkers, as we call our seine-boats, surround 
the shoal with a tuck-net, or drag the seine 
into Mullion Cove, ail alive with a mass of 
shimmering silver. The jowsters come down 
with their carts on to the beach,, and hawk 
them about round the neighbourhood I've 
seen them twelve a penny ; while in the 
curing-houses they're bulking them and 
pressing them as if for dear life, to send 
away to Genoa, Leghorn, and Naples. 
That's where all our fish go — to the Catholic 
south. ' The Pope and the Pilchards,' says 
our Cornish toast ; for it's the F'riday fast 
that makes our only market." 



^ 



39 

"You can sec them on St. (ieorj^e's 
Island in Loot; Harbour," Clecr put in (|uite 
innocently. "They're like a sea of sil\er 
then; — on St. Geor-^e's Island." 

" My clear," her father corrected with that 
grave, old-fashioned courtesy which the 
coastguard had noted and ilescribed as at 
once so haughty and yet so condesctMuling, 
•' Mow often I've begged of you not to call it 
St. George's Island ! It's St. Nicholas's antl 
St. Michael's one may as well be correct — 
and till a very recent date a chapel to St. 
Michael actually stood there upon the rocky 
top ; it was only destroyed, you remembe., 
at the time of the Reformation." 

*' Everybody calls it St. George's now," 
Cleer answered, with girlish persistence; and 
her father looked round at her sharply, with 
an impatient snap of the fingers, while Mrs. 
Trevennack's eye was fixed on him now more 
carefully and more earnestly, Tyrrel observed, 
than ever. 

" I wonder why it is," Eustace Le Neve 
interposed, to spare Cleer's feelings, " that so 
many high places, tops of mountains and so 
forth, seem always to be dedicated to St. 





40 




1 !. 




Michael in particular ? He seems to love 
such airy sites. There's St. Michael's Mount 
here, you know, and Mont St. Mich(.*l, in 
Normandy ; and at Le Puy, in Auvergne, 
there's a St. Michael's Rock, and at ever so 
many other places I can't remember this 
minute." 

Trevennack was in his element. The 
question just suited him. He smiled a curi- 
ous smile of superior knowledge. '• Vou've 
come to the right place for information," he 
said blandly, turning round to the engineer. 
*' I'm a Companion of St. Michael and St. 
George myself, and my family, as I told you, 
once owned St. Michael's Mount ; so, for that, 
and various other reasons, I've made a special 
study of St. Michael the Archangel, and all 
that pertains to him." And then he went on 
to give a long and learned disquisition, which 
Le Neve and Walter Tyrrel only partially 
followed, about the connection between St. 
Michael and the Celtic race, as well as about 
the archangel's peculiar love for high and 
airy situations. Most of the time, indeed, 
Le Neve was more concerned in watching 
Cleer Trevennack's eyes, as her father 












41 

spokt*. than in listtniii^^ to the civil st.Tvant's 
prufuiuul dissertation, ilc gathered, how- 
ever, from the part he caught, that St. Michael 
the Archangel had been from earh days a 
very important and j)o\verful Cornish pttrson- 
age, and that h<; clung to high places en th(! 
tors and rocks because he had to fight and 
subdue the Prince of the Air, whom he always 
destroytid at last on some pointed pinnacle. 
And now that he came to think of it, luistace 
vaguely recollected he had always seen St. 
Michael, in pictures or staint.'d glass windows, 
delineated just so — with drawn sword and 
warrior's mien — in the act of trium[)hing over 
his dragon-like enemy chi the a:, y summit of 
some tall jagged crag or rock-bound precii)ice. 

As for Mrs. Trevennack, she watched her 
husband every moment he spoke with a close 
and watchful care, which Le Neve hardly 
noticed, but which didn't for a minute escape 
Walter Tyrrel's more piercing and observant 
scrutiny. 

At last, as the amateur lecturer was begin- 
ning to grow somewhat prolix, a cormorant 
below created a slight diversion for a while, 
by setding in his flight on the very highest 








42 





point of Michael's Craj;, and proarcdin^ to 
preen his iL^ditterinj^ feathers in the full golden 
llood of that bright August sunh^ht. 

With irrepr(!ssibl«' boyish instinct, Le Neve 
to(jk up a stone, and was just on the point of 
aiming it ((pilte without reason) at thv. bird on 
the pinnacle. 

iUit before hv. could let it ;^o, the two other 
men, moved as if by a single impulse, had 
sprung forwanl with a bound, and in the self- 
same tone, and in the selfsame words, cried 
out with one accord, in a wildly excited voice^ 
•' I''or Ood's sake, don't throw ! You don't 
know how daui^erous it is ! " 

Le Neve let his hand drop flat, anci al- 
lowed the stone to fall from it. As he did so 
the two others stood back a pace, as if guard- 
ing him, but kept their hands still ready to 
seize the engineer's arm if he made the 
slightest attem[)t at motion. Eustace felt 
they were watching him as one might watch 
a madman. For a moment they were silent. 
Trevennack was the first to speak. His 
^ voice had an earnest and solemn ring in it, 
like a re[)roving angel's. " How can you tell 
what precious life may be passing below ?'* 



•3 



d so 

lard- 

y to 

the 

felt 

atch 

ent. 

His 

1 it. 

[ tell 



w r 



?•• 



he said, with stern emphasis, f\s\n^ Le Neve 
with his re|)r<)achful eye. *' The stone ini^ht 
fail short, it inij^ht drop out of sij,;ht. \'ou 
inij^ht kill whomsoever it struck, unseen. And 
then " -he drank in a deep breath, jyasj)in^, 
— "you would know you wer<* a murderer." 

Walter 'I'yrrel drew himsi^lf up at th(i 
words like one stung. " No, no ! not a mur- 
dertT ! " he cried; " not (|uite as bad as a 
murck^rer ! It wouldn't he murder, surely. 
It would be accidental homicide — uninten- 
tional, unwilled — a terrible result of most 
cul|)able carelessness, of course ; but it 
wouldn't be quite mur(U!r ; don't call it mur- 
der. I can't allow that. Not that name by 
any means. . . . Though to the end of 
your life, Eustace, if you were to kill a man 
so, you'd never ceast; to regret it and mouri. 
over it daily ; you'd never cease to repent 
your guilty carelessness in sackcloth and 
ashes." 

He spoke so seriously, so earnestly, with 
such depth of personal feeling, that Treven- 
nack, starting back, stood and gazed at him 
slowly with those terrible eyes, like one who 
awakens by degrees from a painful dream to 




44 



\l 








some awful reality. Tyrrel winced before his 
scrutiny. For a moment the elder man just 
lool'ed at him and stared. Then he took one 
step forward. " Sir," he said, in a very low 
voice, half broken with emotion, " I had a 
dear son of my own once ; a very dear, dear 
son. He was killed by such an accident on 
this very spot. No wonder I remember it.'' 

Mrs. Trevennack and Cleer both gave a 
start of surprise. The man's words astonished 
them , for never before, during fifteen long 
years, had that unhappy father alluded in any 
way in overt words to his son's tragic end. 
He had brooded and mused over it in his 
crushed and wounded spirit ; he had revisited 
the scene of his loss whenever opportunity 
permitted him ; he had made of his sorrow a 
cherished and petted daily companion ; but 
he had stored it up deep in his own inmost 
heart, never uttering a word of it even to his 
wife or daughter. The two women knew 
Michael Trevennack must be profoundly 
moved, indeed, so to tear open the half-healed 
wound in his tortured bo. n before two 
casual strangers. * 

But Tyrrel, too, gave a start as he spoke. 



45 



'. 



, 



and looked haid at the careworn face of that 
unhappy man. " Then you're Mr. Treven- 
nack!" he exclaimed, all aghast. "Mr. 
Trevennack of the Admiralty ! " 

And the dignified stranger answered, bow- 
ing his head very low, " Yes, you've guessed 
me right. I'm Michael Trevennack." 

With scarcely a word of reply, Walter 
Tyrrel turned, and strode away from the spot. 
*• I must go now," he muttered faintly, look- 
ing at his watch with some feigned surprise, 
as a feeble excuse. " I've an c.ppointment 
at home." He hadn't the courage to stay. 
His heart misgave him. Once fairly round 
the corner, he fled like a wounded creature, 
too deeply hurt even to cry. Eustace Le 
Neve, raising his hat, hastened after him, all 
mute wonder. For several hundred yards 
they walked on side by side across the open 
heathy moor. Then, as they passed the first 
wall, Tyrrel paused for a moment and spoke. 
''A/'ol a murderer!" he cried, in his anguish; 
'* oh no, noc quite so bad as a murderer, surely, 
Eustace ; but still, a culpable homicide. Oh, 
God, how terrible." 

And even as he disappeared across the 








46 





moor to eastward, Trevennack, far behind, 
seized his wife's arm spasmodically, and 
clutching it tight in his iron grip, murmured 
low, in a voice of supreme conviction, ** Do 
you see what that means, Lucy ? I can read 
it all now. It was he who rolled down that 
cursed stone. It was he who killed our boy. 
And I can guess who he is. He must be 
Tyrrel of Penmorgan." 

Cleer didn't hear the words. She was 
below, gazing after them. 



h 



i 



CHAPTER IV. 



TYRRELS REMORSE. 



The two young men walked back, without 
interchanging another word, to the gate of 
the manor-house. Tyrrel opened it with a 
swing. Then, once within his own grounds, 
and free from prying eyes, he sat down forth- 
with upon a Httle craggy cliff that overhung 
the carriage-drive, buried his face in his 
hands, and to Le Neve's intense astonish- 
ment, cried long and silently. He let him- 
self go with a rush ; that's tlir Cornish nature. 
Eustace Le Neve sat by his side, not daring 
to speak, but in mute sympathy with his 
sorrow. For many minutes, neither uttered 
a sound. At last, Tyrrel looked up, and in 
an agony of rem.orse, turned round to his 
companion. " Of course you understand " 
he said. 

And Eustace answered reverently, "Yes, 





'i 



i i 

i I 

ll 
fi 

"if 



47 



48 






I think I unck.Tstancl. Having come so near 
doing the same thing myself, I sympathize 
with you." 

Tyrrel paused a moment again. His face 
was like marble. Then he added, in a tone 
of the profoundest anguish, " Till this minute, 
Eustace, I've never told anybody. And if it 
hadn't been forced out of me by that poor 
man's tortured and broken-hearted face, I 
wouldn't have told y3u now. But could I 
look at him to-day, and not break down 
before him } " 

" How did it all happen } " Le Neve asked, 
leaning forward, and clasping his friend's arm 
with a brotherly gesture. 

Tyrrel answered with a deep sigh, *' Like 
this. I'll make a clean breast of it all at last. 
I've bottled it up too long. I'll tell you now, 
Eustace. 

'* Nearly sixteen years ago I was staying 
down here at Penmorgan with my uncle. 
The Trevennacks, as I learned afterwards, 
were in lodgings at Gunwalloe. But, so far 
as I can remember at present, I never even 
saw them. To the best of my belief, I never 
set eyes on Michael Trevennack himself 



I 






lying 
incle. 
lards, 
far 



49 

before this very morning. If I'd known who 
he was, you may be pretty sure I'd have cut 
off my right hand before I allowed myself to 
speak to him. 

" Well, one day that year I was strolling 
along the top of the c^iff by Michael's Crag, 
with my uncle beside me, who owned Pen- 
m^fgan. I was but a boy then, and I walked 
by the edge more than once, very carelessly. 
My uncle knew the cliffs, though, and how 
dangerous they were ; he knew men might 
any time be walking below, digging launces in 
the sand, or getting lobworms for their lines, - 
or hunting serpentine to polish, or looking 
for sea-birds' eggs among the half-way ledges. 
Time after time he called out to me, * Walter, 
my boy, take care ; don't go so near the edge. 
You'll tumble over presently.' And time 
after time, I answered him back, like a boy 
that I was, ' Oh, I'm all right, uncle. No 
fear about me. I can take care of myself. 
These cliffs don't crumble. They're a deal 
too solid.' 

" At last, when he saw it was no good 
warning me that way any longer, he turned 
round to me rather sharply — he was a Tyrrel, 

E 




1 





1 



50 





y^ou see, and conscientious, as we all of us 
are — it runs in the blood somehow — 'If 
you don't mind for yourself, at least mind 
for others. Who can say who may be 
walking underneath those rocks? If you 
let a loose stone fall, you may commit man- 
slaughter.' 

*' 1 laughed, and thought ill of him. He 
was such a fidget ! I was only a boy. I 
considered him absurdly and unnecessarily 
particular. He had stalked on a yard or two 
in front. I loitered behind, and out of pure 
boyish devilry, as I was just above Michael's 
Crag, I loosened some stones with my foot, 
and showered them over deliberately. Oh, 
heavens, I feel it yet ; how they rattled and 
rumbled ! 

*' My uncle wasn't looking. He walked on, 
and left me behind. He didn't see me push 
them. He didn't see them fall. He didn't 
hear them rattle. But as they reached the 
bottom. I heard myself — or thought I heard 
— a vague cry below. A cry as of some one 
wounded. I was frightened at that ; I didn't 
dare to look down, but ran on to my uncle. 
Not till some hours after did I know the 



5' 



r us 

-Mf 

iiind 

be 

you 

iian- 

He 

sarily 

ir two 

pure 

hael's 

foot, 

Oh, 

and 

id on, 
push 
[didn't 
Id the 
heard 
le one 
Ididn't 
I uncle. 
iw the 



whole truth ; for we walked along the cliffs 
all the way to Kynance, and then returned 
inland by the road to the Lizard. 

*' That afternoon, late, there was commo- 
tion at Penmorgan. The servants brought 
us word how a bit of the cliff near Michael's 
Crag had foundered unawares, and struck 
two people who were walking below — a Mr. 
Trevennack, in lodgings at Gunwalloe, and 
his boy Michael. The father wasn't much 
hurt, they said ; but the son — oh, Eustace ! 
the son was d.mgerously wounded . 
I listened in terror . . . He lived out 
the night, and died next morning." 

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 [)eace, 
and felt for him. By-and-by, Tyrrel went 

imself to and fro on his 



^g' 



'g 



rough seat as he spoke. " For fifteen ] 
he said piteously, " I've borne this burde 
my heart, and never told anybody. I tell it 



irs, 



n m 






•-■-7-. 



'\"' / 




' 'I 

i 



\r 





52 

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 



53 



only 
It ? 

\ the 
next 

oy, I 
nent ! 
you'd 
y liad 
ved it 
itened 
ought 
o this, 
never 
rgiven 

." Le 

have 
)beyed 
It's 

lied a 
ide his 
i come 



M 



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 7vt7/ 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 





'- \ 



I 




54 

wt,*re only a child. The . 

might happen to any boy any day. 



ihti accident 



cs. 



y 



cs. 



Tyrrel 



answe 



rod 



)assi()n 



iitcly. 




•• 1 know all that. I try, so, to console my- 
self. lUit 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 any- 
thing. 

A strange shade passed over Tyrrel's face. 
Eustace noted it instinctively. Something 
within seemed to move that Cornish h(;art. 
'* 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 



A 



I I 



55 



voia?. "You've met Miss Trcvcnnack 
before ? You've seen her ? You've spoken 
to her ? " 

For a secoiul Tyrrel hesitated ; then, with 
a burst, he spokc! 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." 

" Hut she tlidn't seem to recognise you," 
Le Neve objected, taken aback. 

Tyrrel shook his head despondently. 
" That's the worst of it all," he answen.'d, 
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 y(3U 
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 




is 



I 




[. i 




56 

the wliolt! to inc in this crushing blow, is to 
learn that that girl is Michael Trevonnack's 
daughter." 

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

" (juite casually, once only, some time 
since, in a railway carriage, it must be two 
years ago now, and I was going from i^ath 
to Bournemouth. She travelled 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 Temj)le Combe 
with me.' I've cherished her memory from 
that day to this. You mayn't believe, I 
daresay, in love at first sight ; but this I can 
swear to you was a genuine case of it." 












57 

" I can bt!lit!V<! in it very well." I.e Ntive 
answered most truthfully — "now I've seen 
Miss Trcvennack." 

Tyrrel lookeil at him, ami 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 sh(! ! 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 mur- 
derer ? " 

Le Neve drew a long breath. He hadn't 
thought of that before. But had it been 
otherwise, he couldn't help feelinj^ himself, 
the master of Penmorgan would have been 





f 







58 

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. 



\- 



chaptp:r 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 towards 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?" Tre- 
vennack asked, with a dream^ 




1 



li 



ly air, passmg 




:.l 



59 



I 




I 



it 
i 



i! 



\ 




60 

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 sooth- 
ing 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 secret," 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 for ever." 

The silver-haired lady bent over him 
once more, both caressingly and proudly. 
" Michael, dear Michael," she said, with a 
soft thrill in her voice, *' I love you and 
honour you for it. I can^^^/ what it costs 



6i 



you. My darling, I know how hard you 
have to tight 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 v/ife 
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 any one : 
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. 




:,n 



.« 




f 



■.n 



M 




Dft 




62 

I'll never tell rinybody. And yet, it's h.ird 
to keep it in ; very hard inde<'id. 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 cluno- 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 em- 
bodied self-restraint. His back was rigrid. 
" 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 dear Cleer's future prospects. 



I 



63 



People vvoiikl think you were out of your 
mind ; ihid you know how chary younj^ 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 nic\ 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 7ne 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 ro::e, 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 



W 




m 



M 




I 

;■ 

I 
I 




64 

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, draw- 
ing 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 M^as 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. " Re- 
member, we all may fall. Lucifer did — and 



ht: was once an archanj^el. T'ight hini clown 
in your own heart when he suggests hat(;ful 
thoughts to you. For I know what you felt 
when it came over you instinctively that that 
young man had done it. You wantetl to lly 
straight at his throat, dear Michael — you 
wanted to tly at his throat, and tling him 
over the precipice." 

"I did," Trevennack answered, making 
no pretence 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 dim in her 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 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 ! " 








< ■ ■'. 



4 



:i 



f 



I 

I 




^i 





66 

For only that silver-headed woman of all 
people on (;arth knew the terrible truth, that 
Michael Trt^vennack's was a hopeless cas(! of 
su[)press(!cl insanity. Well suppressed, indeed, 
and kept firmly in check, for his daughter's 
sake, and by his brave wife's aid ; but in- 
sanity 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 glimp '. 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 sus- 
pected it. 

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



ing 






CHAP V R R V I . 



pc/za/': AccinE\'i\ 



DuRiNo 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 abrupt- 
ness of Tyrrel's departure on that unfortu- 
nate occasion. So she had no such objection 
to meeting the two young men as Treven- 
nack 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 

67 






OS 

int(.'llij;ciu yoiiii^ men — the* squire (jI the: 
village', ami a tVii.Mul on a visit to him, In- 
(1<'(;(1, to l)(; (jiiitc confidential, it was the ■ 
visitor who ocnipit'd the larger share of 
Cleer's att(!ntion. I le was so gootl looking, 
and so nice. Mis o|)en face, and pink and 
white complexion, had attractetl her fancy 
from the very first ; and th(^ more: she saw of 
him the more she liked him. 

They met often — (juite by accident, of 
course — on the moor, and elsewhere. Tyrrel, 
for his [)art, shrank somewhat timidly from 
the sister of the boy fo. his share in whose 
death he so bitterly reproached himself ; yet 
he couldn't quite drag himself off whenever 
he found 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 bud- 
ding girl in the man who takes her pure 



69 



maiden fancy. Tyrn-I alluwcd with a si^rh 
that this was w<ll iiuhcil ; lor how could 
he ever (h'cam. now he knew who she was, 
oi marr)in^ yoiiii^^ Michael Trcvcnnack's 
sist(*r ? 

One afternoon llu' two friends were re- 
turning from a lonj^ raniMe across the ojmii 
moor, wh(;n, near i little knoll of bare and 
weathered rock that rose from a circlinj^ Ixli 
of Cornish heath, they saw Cleer by herself, 
propped against the huge boulders, with her 
eyes fixed intently on a paper-covered noscl. 
She looktrd up and smiled as they ap|)roached ; 
and the young men, turning asid(! from their 
ill-marked path, came over and st< od by her. 
They talked for awhile about the ordinary 
nothings of society small-talk, till by degrees 
Cleer chanced accidentally to bring the con- 
versation round to something that had hap- 
pened 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 alread)- impressed her 



imaire on his susce 



ptibl 



e nature. 



And when do you go back there ? " he 





» '! 






i 



i . 



70 





~—'^*jti 



ask(;(l somewhat anxiously. • " I suppose 
your lather's leave is lor a week or two 
only." 

"Oh, dear, no; we don't ]^o back at all, 
thank ht^aven," CIih.t answered, with a sunny 
smile. " I can't bear exile, Mr. i.e Neve, 
and 1 nt.'ver cared one bit for livinj; in Malta. 
Hut this year, fortunatt^ly, papa's ^oing to be 
transferred for a permantMice to ICngland ; 
he's to have charge of a department that has 
something or other to do with provisioning 
the Channel Squadron ; I tlon't cjuite under- 
stand what ; but anyhow, he'll have to be 
runninj4 about between I*ortsmouth and Ply- 
mouth, and I don't know where else ; and 
mamma and I will have to take a house for 
ourselves in London." 

Le Neve's face showed his pleasure. 
•'That's well," he answered briskly. " Then 
you won't be quite lost ! I mean, there'll be 
some chance at least when you go away from 
here of one's seeing you sometimes." 

A bright red spot rose deep on Cleer's 
cheek through the dark olive- brown skin. 
"How kind of you to say so," she answered, 
looking down. " Tm sure mamma 11 be very 



I 






7« 

|)1(MS<'(I, indeed, if you'll i.ikc ihr iroiihlc i<» 
call. Then to hidi; lu!r coiifusiim, she wriu 
on hiistily. "And arc you K^oinj^ to !)«• in 
England, too ? I thought I understood tht! 
other day fnjm yourtritMul you h.ul something 
to do with a railway in South AiniTica." 

*' Oh, that's all over now," Le Neve 
answered, with a waive, we'll |)leased sht; 
should ask him about his wherctabouis so 
cordially. " I was only employed in the con- 
struction of the line, you know ; I've nothing 
at all to do with its maintenance! and work- 
ing, and now the track's laid my work there's 
finished. Ikit as to stopping in England, — 
ah— that's quite another thing. An engin- 
eer's, you know, is a roving life. He's hen; 
to-day, and there to-morrow. I must go, I 
suppose, wherever work may take me. Antl 
there isn't much stirring in the markets just 
now in the way of engineering. " 

" 1 hope you'll get something at home, " 
Cleer said simply, with a blush, antl th<Mi 
blamed herself for saying it. She blushed 
again at the thought. She looked prettiest 
when she blushed. Walter Tyrrel, a little 
behind, stood and admired her all the whih^. 




' H 




%. 



72 




But luistacc was flattered she should think 
of wanting him to remain iii England. 

" Thank you," he said, somewhat tiniidly, 
for her bashfulness made him a trifle bashful 
in return. " I should like to very much — for 
more reasons than one;" and he looked at 
her meaningly. "I'm getting tired, in some 
ways, cf life abroad. I'd much prefer to 
come back now and settle down in Flngland." 

Cleer rose as he spoke. His frank admir- 
ation made her feel self-conscious. She 
thought this conversation had gone quite far 
enough for them both for the present. After 
all, she knew so Httle of him, though he was 
really very nice, and he looked at her so 
kindly ! Hut perhaps it would be better to 
go and hunt up papa. " I think I ought to 
be moving now," she said, with a delicious 
little flush on her smooth, dark cheek. " My 
father '11 be waiting for me." And she set her 
face across the moor m the opposite direction 
from the gate of Penmorgan. 

"We may come with you, mayn't we.-*" 
Eustace asked, with just an undertone of 
wistfulness. • 

But Tyrrel darted a warning glance at 



72> 



him. He, at least, couldn't go to confront 
once more that poor dead boy's father. 

" I must hurry home," he said fetrbly, con- 
sulting his watch with an abstracted air. " It's 
getting so late. But don't let me prevent 
yojt from accompanying Miss Trexcnnack. " 

Cleer shrank away, a little alarmed. She 
wasn't quite sure whe^i^^er it would be [)er- 
fectly right for her to walk about alone on 
the moorland with only one young man, 
though she wouldn't have minded the two, 
for there is safety in numbers. " Oh, no," 
she said, half frightened, in that com[)osite 
tone which is at once an entreaty and a posi- 
tive command. " Don't mind me, Mr. Le 
Neve. I'm quite accustomed to strolling by 
myself round the cliff. I wouldn't make you 
miss your dinner for worlds. And besides, 
papa's not far off. He went away from me, 
rambling." 

The two young men, accepting their dis- 
miaeal in the sense in which it was intended, 
saluted her deferentially, and turned away on 
their own road. But Cleer took the |)ath to 
Michael''- Crag, by the gully. 

From the foot of the crag you can't see the 





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V t 






.( 



i 



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1 





74 

summit. Its own shoulders and the loose 
rocks of the foreground hide it. Hut Cleer 
was pretty certain her father must be there ; 
for he was mostly to be found, when tide 
permitted it, perched up on the highest pin- 
nacle of his namesake skerry, looking out 
upon the waters with a pre-occupied glance 
from that airy citadel. The waves in the 
narrow channel that separate the crag from 
the opposite mainland were running high and 
boisterous ; but Cleer had a sure foot, and 
could leap, light as a gazelle, from rock to 
rock. Not for nothing was she. Michael Tre- 
vennack's daughter, well trained from her 
babyhood to high and airy climbs. She 
chose an easy spot where it was possible to 
spring across by a series of boulders, ar- 
ranged accidentally like stepping-stones ; ana 
in a minute she was standing on the main 
crag itself, a huge beetling mass of detached 
serpentine pushed boldly out as the advance- 
guard of the land into the assailing waves, 
and tapering at its top into a pyramidal 
steeple. 

The face of the crag was wet with spray in 
places ; but Cleer didn't mind spray ; she was 



/D 



accustomed to the sea in all its moods and 
tempers. She clambered up the steej) side 
— a sheer wall of bare rock, lightly clad here! 
and there with sparse drapery of green sam- 
phire, or clumps of purple sea-aster, rootiid 
firm in the crannies. Its front was yellow 
with great patches of lichen, and on the 
peaks, overhead, the gulls perched, chatter- 
ing, or launched themselves in long curves 
upon the evening air. Cleer paused half 
way up to draw breath and admire the fami- 
liar scene. Often as she had gone there 
before, she could never help gazing with en- 
chanted eyes on those brilliantly-coloured 
pinnacles, on that deep green sea, on those 
angry white breakers that dashed in cease- 
less assault against the solid black wall of 
rock all round her. Then she started once 
more on her climb up the uncertain path, a 
mere foothold in the crannies, clinging close 
with her tiny hands as she went to every jut- 
ing corner or weather-worn rock, and every 
woody stem of weather beaten sea plants. 

Aflast, panting and hot, she reached the 
sharp top, expecting to find Trevennack at 
his accustomed post on the very tallest pin- 




'<\ 




, ?': 





76 

riricle of the craggy little islet. But to her 
immense surprise, her father wasn't there. 
His absence disquieted her. Cleer stood up 
on the fissured mass of orange-lichened rock 
that crowned the very summit, dispossessing 
the i^ulls who llajiped round her as she 
mounted it ; then, shading- her eyes with her 
hand, she looked down in every direction to 
see if she could descry that missini^" figure in 
some nook of the crag. He was nowhere 
visible. " Father ! " she cried aloud, at the 
top of her voice ; " Father ! father ! father ! " 
But the only answer to her cry was the 
sound of the sea on the base, and the loud 
noise of the gulls as they screamed and flut- 
tered in angry surprise over their accustomed 
breeding-grounds. 

Alarmed and irresolute, Cleer sat down on 
the rock, and facing landwards for a while, 
waved her handkerchief to and fro to attract, 
if possible, her father's attention. Then she 
scanned the opposite cliffs, beyond the gap 
or chasm that separated her from the main- 
land ; but she could nowhere see him. He 
must have forgotten her and gone home to 
dinner alone, she fancied now, for it was 



n 



nearly seven o'clock. NothinL; remained but 
to climb clown a'>ain and follow him. It was 
getting full late to be out by hersc^lf on th(! 
island. And tide was coming in, and the 
surf was getting strong Atlantic swell from 
the gale at sea yesterday. 

Painfully and toilsomely she clambered 
down the steep path, making her foothold 
good, ste}^ by step, in the slippery crarmies, 
rendered still more dangerous in places by 
the sticky spray and the brine that dashed 
over them from the seething channel. It 
was harder coming down, a good deal, than 
going up, and she was accustomed to her 
father's hand to guide her — to fit her light 
toot on the little ledges by the way, or to lift 
her down over the steepest bits with unfail- 
ing tenderness. So she found it rather 
difficult to descend by herself — both difficult 
and tedious. At last, however, after one or 
two nasty slips, and a false step or so on the 
way that ended in her grazing the tender skin 
on those white little fingers, Cleer reached the 
base of the crag, and stood face to face with 
the final problem of crossing ihe chasm that 
divided the islet from the opposite mainland. 








p 




-8 

Then for the first time the truth was borne 
in upon her with a sudden rush that she 
couldn't get back — she was imj)risoned on 
the island. She had crossed over at almost 
the last moment possible. The sea now 
quite covered two or three of her stepping- 
stones ; fierce surf broke over the rest with 
each advancing billow, and rendered the task 
of jumping from one to the other impractic- 
able even for a strong and sure-footed man, 
far more for a slight girl of Cleer's height 
and figure. • 

In a moment the little prisoner took in the 
full horror of the situation. It was now 
about half tide, and seven o'clock in the 
evening. H'nj-h water would therefore fall 
between ten and eleven ; and it must be 
nearly two in the morning, she calculated 
hastily, before the sea had gone down enough 
to let her cross over in safety. Even then, 
in the dark, she dared hardly face those 
treacherous stepping-stones. She must stop 
there till day broke, if she meant to get 
ashore again without unnecessary hazard. 

Cleer was a Trevennack, and therefore 
brave ; but the notion of stopping alone on 



79 



th;it desohite ishuicl. thronged witli ^^ulls and 
a^rmorants, in the npvn air, through all those 
long dark hours till morning dawned, fair!)' 
frightened and aj)i)alled her. I'Or a minute 
or two she crouched and cowttretl in silence. 
Then, overcome by terror, she climb<;d uj) 
once m(jre to the first i)latform of rock, above; 
the reach of the spray, and shoutetl with all 
her might, *' F'ather ! father ! father ! " 

Hut 'tis a lonely coast, that wild stretch by 
the Lizard. Not a soul was within ear-shot. 
Cleer sat there still, or stood on top of the 
crag, for many minutes tt)gether, shouting 
and waving her handkerchief for dear life 
itself ; but not a soul heard her. She might 
have died there unnoticed ; not a creature 
came near to help or deliver her. The gulls 
and the cormorants alone stared at her and 
wondered. 

Meanwhile, tide kept flowing with incred- 
ible rapidity. The gale in the Atlantic had 
raised an unwonted sw^ll ; and though there 
was now little wind, the breakers kept thun- 
dering in upon the firm, sandy beach with a 
deafening roar that drowned Cleer's poor 
voice completely. To add to her misfortunes, 





' A 






ij 



m 




So 

fo^r began to drift slowly with the breeze from 
seaward. It was ^^etting dark, too, and the 
rocks were damp. Overhead the gulls 
screamed loud as they Happed and circled 
above h(.:r. 

In an agony of despair, Cleer sat down all 
unnerved on the topmost crag. She began 
to cry to herself. It was all up now. She 
knew she must stoj) there alone till morning. 



I' 



I. 



CHAPTER VII 



Pf:/\'//. nv LAND. 



Thk TrcveniiJicks dined in their lodgings at 
Gunwalloe at half-past seven. Hut in the 
rough open-air life of summer visitors on the 
Cornish coast, meals as a rule are very mov- 
able feasts ; and Michael Trevennack wasn't 
particularly alarmed when he reached home 
that evening to find Cleer hadn't returned 
before him. They had missed one another, 
somehow, among the tangled paths that led 
down the gully ; an easy enough thing to do 
between those big boulders and bramble- 
bushes ; and it was a quarter to eight before 
Trevennack began to feel alarmed at Cleer's 
prolonged absence. By that time, however, 
he grew thoroughly frightened ; and, re- 
proaching himself bitterly for having let his 
daughter stray out of his sight in the first 
place, he hurried back, with his wife, at the 




'^ -vW^i 







ir 



8i 



i.) 




8t 

loj) of his s|H!(h1 aloiij^ the cliff path to the 
l^'iimor^an hcaillaiul. 

It's half an hour's walk from Giinvvalloc to 
MichaL'I's Crag ; and by th(! tiint; Tre'vcnnack 
reached the mouth of th(! foully, the sands 
were almost covered ; so for the first tim(^ in 
fifteen yc^ars, hit was forced to take the |)ath 
rij^ht under the cliff to the ntjw com|)arativ(!ly 
tlistant island, round whose bast! a wholt; 
waste of angry sea surged sullenly. On thi; 
way they met a few workmen who, in answer 
to their enquiries, could give them no news, 
but who turned back to aid in the search for 
the missing young lady. W'hc^n they got 
opposite Michael's Crag, a wide belt of black 
water, all encumbered with broken masses of 
sharp rock, some above and some below the 
surface, now separated them by fifty yards or 
more from the island. It was growing dark 
fast, for these were the closing days of 
August twilight ; and dense fog had drifted 
in, half obliterating everything. They could 
barely descry the dim outline of the pyra- 
midal rock in its lower half; its upper part 
was wholly shrouded in thick mist and drizzle. 

With a wild cry of despair, Trevennack 






( 



k: 



«3 

raisrd his voire, aiul shoutt.'d .iloud, " Clcor, 
Clc(;r ! W'hcrr anr you ?" 

That clarion voict*, as of his namt;sakc 
aii^cl, thou^'h raised a<^aiiist ih<' wind, could 
he h<'ard ahovt! (!V(;ii the thud of the ticrct! 
bri:ak(;rs that |w)undcd tht; saiul. On the 
hijj;h('st pviik above, whertr she sat, cold and 
shivering, CUht ht.'ard it, ami jumped up. 
"Here;! her(! ! father!" she cried out with 
a terrible! i^ffort, dt.'sccndinj^ at the sam(! time 
down the sheer face of the cliff as far as th(! 
dashing spray and fierce wild waves would 
allow her. 

No ()th(-T ear caught the sound of that 
answt;ring cry; but Trevennack's keen senses, 
preternaturally awakened by the gravity of 
the crisis, detected the faint ring of her 
girlish voice through the thunder of the surf. 
" She's there ! " he cried frantically, waving 
his hands above his head. " She's tht-re ! 
Shti's there ! W(; must get across and save 
her." 

For a second, Mrs. Trevennack doubted 
whether he was really right, or whether this 
was only one of poor Michael's hallucinations, 
hi I nc xt moment, with another cry, Cleer 




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Sciences 
Corporation 



23 WEST MAIN STREET 

WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580 

(716) 872-4503 




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II 




waved her handkerchief in return, and let 
it fall from her hand. It came, carried on 
the light breeze, and dropped in the water 
before their very eyes, half way across the 
channel. 

Frenzied at the sight, Trevennack tore off 
his coat, and would have plunged into the 
sea, then and there, to rescue her. But the 
workmen held him back. " No, no, sir ; you 
mustn't," they said. ** No harm can't come 
to the young lady if she stops there. She've 
only got to sit on them rocks there till morn- 
ing, and the tide'll leave her high and dry 
right enough, as it always do. But nobody 
couldn't live in such a sea as that — not Tim 
o' Truro. The waves 'ud dash him up afore 
he knowed where he was, and smash him all 
to pieces on the side o' the island." 

Trevennack tried to break from them, but 
the men held him hard. Their resistance 
angered him. He chafed under their 
restraint. How dare these rough fellows 
lay hands like that on the Prince of the 
Archangels, and a superior officer in Her 
Majesty's Civil Service ? But with the self- 
restraint that was habitual to him, he 



M, 



85 



manaj^cd to refrain, even so, from disclosing 
his identity. He only struji^gled ineffectually, 
instead of blastiiig them with his hot breath, 
or clutching his strong arms round their bare 
throats and choking them. 

As he stood there and hesitated, half 
undecided how to act, of a sudden a sharp 
cry arose from behind. Trevennack turned 
and looked. Through the dark and the fog, 
he could just dimly descry two men hurry- 
ing up, with ropes and life buoys. As they 
neared him, he started in unspeakable horror. 
For one of them, indeed, was only Eustace 
Le Neve ; but the other — the other was that 
devil Walter Tyrrel, who, he felt sure in his 
own heart, had killed their dear Michael. 
And it was his task in life to fight and 
conquer devils. 

For a minute, he longed to leap upon him 
iwd trample him under foot, as long ago he 
had trampled his c^d enemy, Satan. What 
was the fellow doing here now ? What 
business had he with Cleer ? Was he always 
to be in at the death of a Trevennack ? 

But true to her trust, the silver-haired lady 
clutched his arm with tender watchfulness. 





I 



;i 



iM 



86 




" For Cleers sake, clear Michael !" she whis- 
pered low in his ear ; " For Cleer's sake — 
say nothing ; don't speak to him, don't notice 
him ! " 

The dis-tracted father drew back a step, 
out of reach of the spray. *' But, Lucy," he 
cried low to her, "only think! only remem- 
ber! If I cared to go on the cliff and just 
spread my wings, I could fly across and save 
her — so instantly, so easily ! " 

His wife held his hand hard. That touch 
always soothed him. " If you did, Michael," 
she said gently, with her feminine tact, 
"they'd all declare you were mad, and had 
no wings to fly with. And Cleer's in no 
immediate danger just now, I feel sure. 
Don't try, there's a dear man. That's right ! 
Oh, thank you." 

Reassured by her calm confidence, Tre- 
vennack fell back yet another step on the 
sands, and watched the men aloof. Walter 
Tyrrel turned to him. His heart was in his 
mouth. He spoke in short, sharp sentences. 
" The coastguard's wife told us," he said. 
"We've come down to get her off. I've 
sent word direct to the Lizard lifeboat. But 



« * 



h 



m 



i 



«7 

I'm afraid it won't come. They daren't 
venture out. Sea runs too high, and these 
rocks are too dangerous." 

As he spoke, he tore off his coat, tied a 
rope round his waist, flung his boots on the 
sand, and girded himself rapidly with an 
inflated life-buoy. Then, before the men 
could seize him or prevent the rash attempt, 
he had dashed into the great waves that 
curled and thundered on the beach, and was 
struggling hard with the sea in a life and 
death contest. 

Eustace Le Neve held the rope, and tried 
to aid him in his endeavours. He had meant 
to plunge in himself, but Walter Tyrrel was 
beforehand with him. He was no match, in a 
race against time, for the fiery and impetuous 
Cornish temperament. It wasn't long, how- 
ever, before the breakers proved themselves 
more than equal foes for Walter Tyrrel. In 
another minute he was pounded and pum- 
melled on the unseen rocks under water by 
the great curling billows. They seized him 
resistlessly on their crests, tumbled him over 
like a child, and dashed him, bruised and 
bleeding, one limp bundle of flesh, against 



' 




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88 




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the jciggccl and 'pointed summits of the sub- 
menged boulders^ • • 

With all his might, Eustace Lc Nevj held 
on to the rope ; then, in coat and boots as he 
stood, he plunged into the wayes, and lifted 
Walter Tyrrel in his strong arms landward. 
He was a bigger built ancl more powerful 
man than his host, and his huge limbJi battled 
harder with the gigantic Wfives. But even 
so, in that swirling flood, it was touch and 
go with him. The breakers lifted him off 
his feet, tossed him to and fro in their trough, 
flung him. down again forcibly against the 
sharp-edged rocks, and tried to float off his 
half unconscious burden. But Le Neve 
persevered in spite of them, scrambling and 
tottering as he went, over wet and slippery 
reefs, with Tyrrel still clasped in his arms, 
and pressed tight to his breast, till he landed 
him safe at last on the firm sand beside him. 

The squire was far too beaten and bruised 
by the rocks to make a second attempt 
against those resistless breakers. Indeed, 
Le Neve brought him ashore more dead 
than alive, bleeding from a dozen wounds 
on the face and hands, and with the breath 



89 



* 

almost failing in his battered body. They 
laid him down on the beach, while the fisher- 
men crowded round him,' admiring his pluck, 
though they deprecated his foolhardiness, for 
they " knowed the squire couldn't never live 
agin it." But Le -Neve, still full of the 
reckless courage, of youth, and health, and 
strength, and manhood, keenly alive now to 
the peril of Cleer's lonely situation, never 
heeded their forebodings. He dashed in 
once more, just,.as he stood, clothes and all, 
in the wild and desperate attempt to stem 
that fierce flood and swim across to the 
island. 

In such a sea as then raged, indeed, and 
among such broken rocks, swimming, in the 
strict sense, was utterly impossible. By some 
mere miracle of dashing about, however — 
here, battered against the sharp rocks ; there, 
flung over them by the breakers ; and yonder, 
again, sucked down, like a straw in an eddy, 
by the fierce strength of the undertow — 
Eustace found himself at last, half un- 
conscious and half choked, carried round 
by the swirling scour that set through the 
channel to the south front of the island. 





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i 



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90 





Next instant he felt he was cast against the 
dead wall of rock like an india-rubber ball. 
He rebounded into the trough. The sea 
caught him a second time, and flung him 
cnce more, helpless, against the dripjiing 
precipice. With what life was left in him, 
he clutched with both hands the bare serpen- 
tine edge. Good luck befriended him. The 
great wave had lifted him up on its towering 
crest to the level of vegetation, beyond the 
debateable zone. He clung to a hard root 
of woody sea-aster in the clefts. The waves 
dashed back in tumultuous little cataracts, 
and left him there hanging. 

Like a mountain goat, Eustace clambered 
up the side, on hands, knees, feet, elbows, 
glad to escape with his life from that irresis- 
tible turmoil. The treacherous herbs on the 
slope of the crag were kind to him. He 
scrambled ahead, like some mad, wild thing. 
He went onward, upward, cutting his hands 
at each stage, tearing the skin from his 
fingers. It was impossible ; but he did it. 
Next minute, he found himself high and dry 
on the island. 

His clothes were clinging wet, of course, 



91 



and his limbs bruised antl battered. But he 
was safe on the firm plateau of the rock at 
last ; and he had rescued Cleer Trevennack ! 

In the first joy and excitement of the 
moment, he forgot altoj^ether the cramping 
conventionalities of our every day life ; and, 
repeating the cry he had heard Michael 
Trevennack raise from the beach below, he 
shouted aloud, at the top of his voice, 
" Cleer ! Cleer ! Where are you ?" 

'* Here ! " came an answering voice from 
the depths of the gloom overhead. And 
following the direction whence the sound 
seemed to come, Eustace Le Neve clambered 
up to her. 

As he seized her hand and wrung it, Cleer 
crying the while with delight and relief, it 
struck him all at once for the very first time — 
he had done no good by coming, save to give 
her companionship. It would be hopeless 
to try carrying her through those intricate 
rock-channels, and that implacable surf, 
whence he himself had emerged, alone and 
unburdened, only by a miracle. They two 
must stop alone there on the rock till 
morning. 




I 







ill 



98 




As for ClctT, too innocent and too much 
of a mere woman in her deadly [)eril to think 
of anything but the delightful sense of con- 
fidence in a strong man at her side to guard 
and protect her, she sat and held his hand 
still, in a perfect trans[)ort of gratitude. 
" Oh, how ]L(0()d of you to come! " she cried 
again and aj^ain, bending over it in her relief 
and half tempted to kiss it. " How good of 
you to come across like that to save me." 



m 



CHAPTER VIII. 



^AFE A T LAST. 



TiiK night was long. The night was dark. 
Slowly the fog closed them in. It grew 
rainier and more dismal. But on the summit 
of the crag, Eustace Le Neve stood aloft, 
and waved his arms, and shouted. He lit a 
match and shaded it. The dull glare of it 
through the mist just faintly reached the 
eyes of the anxious watchers on the beach 
below. From a dozen lips there rose an 
answering shout. The pair on the crag half 
heard its last echoes. Eustace put his hands 
to his mouth, and cried aloud once more in 
stentorian tones, '* All right. Cleer's here. 
We can hold out till morning." 

Trevennack alone heard the words. But 
he repeated them so instantly that his wife 
felt sure it was true hearing, not insane 
hallucination. The sea was gaining on them 
now. It had risen almost up to the face of 





93 



94 




the cliffs. Kcliictaiuly they turned along the 
path by the K^-'^^V* '^^^^^ inoiiiuing the preci- 
pice waited and watchtnl till morning on the 
tor that overlooks Michaiil's Crag from the 
Penmorgan h(!adland. 

livery now and again, through that live- 
long night, Trevennack whispered in his 
wife's ear, " if only i chose to spread my 
wings and launch myself, I could tly across 
and carry her." And each time, that brave 
woman, holding his hand in her own and 
smoothing it gently, answered, in her soft 
voice, * But then the secret would be out ; 
and Cleer's life would be spoiled ; and they'd 
call you a madman. Wait till morning, dear 
Michael ; do, do, wait till morning." 

And Trevennack, struggling hard with the 
mad impulse in his heart, replied with all his 
soul, " 1 will ; I will ; for Cleer's sake and 
yours, I'll try to keep it down. I'll not be 
mad. I'll be strong and restrain it." 

For he knew he was insane, in his inmost 
soul, almost as well as he knew his name 
was Michael the Archangel. 

On the island, meanwhile, Eustace Le 
Neve and Cleer Trevennack sat watching 



95 



out the weary nighi, aiul lon^nnj^ for the 
dawn to makt; the way l)ack possible. At 
least, Cleer did ; for as to luistace, in spite 
of rain and fo^ and cold and tlarkness, he 
was by no means ins(;nsil)le to the unwonted 
pleasure of so lon^ a tctc-a-trtc, in such 
romantic circumstance's, with the beautiful 
Cornish girl. 'I'o Ik; sure ♦^he waves roared, 
and the drizzle dripped, and the: s(!abirds 
flapped all round theni. But many waters 
will not quench love. Cleer was by his side, 
holding his hand in hers in the dark, for 
pure company's sake, because she was so 
frightened ; and as the night wore on they 
talked at last of many things. They were 
prisoners there for five mortal hours or so, 
alone, together ; and they might as well 
make the best of it by being sociable with 
one another. 

There could be no denying, however, that 
it was cold and damp and dark and uncom- 
fortable. The rain came beating down upon 
them, as they sat there side by side on that 
exposed rock : the spray from the breakers 
blew in with the night wind ; the light 
breeze struck chill on their wet clothes and 




H 




96 



\ 



! 





fa' es. After a while, Eustace began a slow 
tour of inspection over the crag, seeking 
some cave or rock shelter, some projecting 
ledge of stone on the leeward side, that 
might screen their backs at least from the 
driving showers. Cleer couldn*t be left 
alone : she clung to his hand as he felt his 
way about the islet, with uncertain steps, 
through the gloom and fog. Once he 
steadied himself on a jutting piece of the 
rock as he supposed ; when to his immense 
surprise, — wh'r'r'r — it rose from under his 
hand, with a shrill cry of alarm, and fluttered 
wildly seaward. It was some sleeping gull, 
no doubt, disturbed unexpectedly in its ac- 
customed resting-place. Eustace staggered 
and almost fell ; Cleer supported him with 
her arm. He accepted her aid gratefully. 
They stumbled on in the dark once more, 
lighting now and again for a minute or two 
one of his six precious matches — he had no 
more n his case — and exploring as well as 
they might the whole broken surface of that 
fissured pinnacle. *' I'm so glad you smoke, 
Mr. Le Neve," Cleer said simply as he lit 
one. ** For if you didn't, you know, we'd 






., 



I 

t 



97 ^ 

have been left here all night in utter dark- 
ness." 

At last, in a nook formed by the weathered 
joints, Eustace found a rugged niche, some- 
what drier than the rest, and laid Cleer 
gently down in it, on a natural spring seat 
of tufted rock-plants. Then he settled down 
beside her, with what cheerfulness he could 
muster up, and taking off his wet coat, 
spread it on top across the cleft, like a tent 
roof, to shelter them. It was no time, 
indeed, to stand upon ceremony. Cleer 
recognised as much, and nestled close to his 
side, like a sensible girl as she was, so as to 
keep warm by mere company ; while Eustace, 
still holding her hand, just to assure her of 
his presence, placed himself in such an 
attitude, leaning before her and above her, 
as to protect her as far as possible from the 
drizzling rainfall through the gap in front of 
them. There they sat till morning, talking 
gradually of many things, and growing more 
and more confidential, in spite of cold and 
wet, as they learnt more and more, with each 
passing hour, of each other's standpoint. 
There are some situations where you get to 

H 







Hiim 




98 





know people better in a few half-hours to- 
gether than you could get to know them in 
months upon months of mere drawing-room 
acquaintance. And this was one of them. 
Before morning dawned, Eustace Le Neve 
and Cleer Trevennack felt just as if they had 
known one another quite well for years. 
They were old and trusted friends already. 
Old friends — and even something more than 
that. Though no word of love was spoken 
between them, each knew in his own heart 
what the other was thinking. Eustace felt 
Cleer loved him ; Cleer felt Eustace loved 
her. And in spite of rain, and cold, and fog, 
and darkness, they were almost happy, — 
before dawn came to interrupt their strange 
ttte-a-tete on the islet. 

As soon as day broke, Eustace looked out 
from their eyrie on the fissured peak, and 
down upon the troubled belt of water below. 
The sea was now ebbing, and the passage 
between the rock and the mainland though 
still full (for it was never dry even at spring- 
tide low water) was fairly passable by this 
time over the natural bridge of stepping- 
stones. He clambered down the side, 



99 



giving his hand to Cleer from ledge to 
ledge as he went. The fog had lifted a 
little, and on the opposite headland, they 
could just dimly descry the weary watchers 
looking eagerly out for them. Eustace put 
his hands to his mouth, and gave a loud 
halloo. The sound of the breakers was less 
deafening now ; his voice carried to the 
mainland. Trevennack, who had sat under 
a tarpaulin through the livelong night, watch- 
ing and waiting with anxious heart for the 
morning, raised an answering shout, and 
waved his hat in his hand frantically. St. 
Michael's Crag had not betrayed its trust. 
That was the motto of the Trevennacks — 
" Stand fast, St. Michael's ! " — under the crest 
of the rocky islet, castled and mured, flam- 
boyant. Eustace reached the bottom of the 
rock, and, wading in the water himself, or 
jumping into the deepest parts, helped Cleer 
across the stepping-stones. Meanwhile, the 
party on the cliff had hurried down by the 
gully path ; and a minute later, Cleer was 
in her mother's arms, while Trevennack held 
her hand, inarticulate with joy, and bent 
over her eagerly. 




k 



^BK ^Ht... 



.5 





lOO 

•' Oh, mother," Cleer cried, in her simple 
girlish naivete, •' Mr. Le Neve's been so 
kind to me ! I don't know how I should 
ever have got through the night without 
him. It was so good of him to come. He's 
been such a help to me." 

The father and mother both looked into 
her eyes, — a single searching glance, — and 
understood perfectly. They grasped Le 
Neve's hand. Tears rolled down their 
cheeks. Not a word was spoken, but in a 
certain silent way, all four understood one 
another. 

" Where's Tyrrel ?" Eustace asked. 

And Mrs. Trevennack answered, " Carried 
home, severely hurt. He was bruised on 
the rocks. But we hope not dangerously. 
The doctor's been to see him, we hear, and 
finds no bones broken. Still, he's terribly 
battered about, in those fearful waves, and it 
must be weeks, ,they tell us, before he can 
quite recover." 

But Cleer, as was natural, thought more 
of the man who had struggled through and 
reached her than of the man who had failed 
in the attempt, though he suffered all the 



UNIVERSITY OF ViaORIA 

LIBRARY 

Victoria, 8 C. 



lOI 



more for it. This is a world of the success- 
ful. In it, as in most other planets I have 
visited, people make a deal more fuss over 
the smallest success than over the noblest 
failure. 

It was no moment for delay. Eustace 
turned on his way at once, and ran up to 
Penmorgan. And the Trevennacks re- 
turned, very wet and cold in the dim grey 
dawn, to their rooms at Gunwalloe. 

As soon as they were alone — Cleer put 
safely to bed — Trevennack looked at his 
wife. " Lucy," he said slowly, in a dis- 
appointed tone, " after this, of course, come 
what may, they must marry." 

** They must," his wife answered. ** There's 
no other way left. And fortunately, dear, I 
could see from the very first, Cleer likes 
him, and he likes her." 

The father paused a moment. It wasn't 
quite the match he had hoped for a Treven- 
nack of Trevennack. Then he added very 
fervently, *' Thank God it was him, — not 
that other man, Tyrrel ! Thank God, the 
first one fell in the water and was hurt. 
What should we ever have done — oh, what 




Hi I 
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Tif 



pipp 



mm 



102 





should we have done, Lucy, if she'd been 
cut off all night long on that lonely crag, 
face to face with the man that murdered our 
dear boy Michael ! " 

Mrs. Trevennack drew a long breath. 
Then she spoke earnestly once more. 
" Dear heart ! " she said, looking deep into 
his clear biown eyes, "now remember, more 
than ever ; Cleer's future is at s^ake. For 
Cleer's sake, more than ever, keep a guard 
on yourself, Michael ; watch word and deed ! 
do nothing foolish ! ' 

** You can trust me ! " Trevennack an- 
swered, drawing himself up to his full height, 
and looking proudly before him. " Cleer's 
future is at stake. Cleer has a lover now. 
Till Cleer is married, I'll give you my sacred 
promise no living soul shall ever know in 
any way she's an archangel's daughter." 






\ 



CHAPTER IX. 



MEDICAL OPINION, 



From that day forth, by some unspoken com- 
pact, it was "Eustace" and " Cleer," wher- 
ever they met, between them. Le Neve 
began it, by coming round in the afternoon 
of that self-same day, as soon as he'd slept 
off the first effects of his fatigue and chill, to 
enquire of Mrs. Trevennack " how Cleer was 
getting on " after her night's exposure. And 
Mrs. Trevennack accepted the frank usurpa- 
tion in very good part, as indeed was no 
wonder, for Cleer had wanted to know half 
an hour before whether *' Eustace " had yet 
been round to ask after her. The form of 
speech told all. There was no formal en- 
gagement, and none of the party knew ex- 
actly how or when they began to take it for 
granted ; but from that evening on Michael's 
Crag it was a tacitly accepted fact between 




li 




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.' • • 








• " .' • , . 104 . 

■ I • 

Le.Neve and the Trcvennacks, that Eustace 
was to marry Cleer as soon as he could get 
a permanent appointment anywhere. 

Engineering, however, is an overstocked 
profession. In that particular it closely re- 
sembles most other callings. The holidays 
passed away, and Walter Tyrrel recovered, 
and the Trevennacks returned to town, for 
the head of the house to take up his new 
position in the Admiralty service; but Eustace 
Le Neve heard of no opening anywhere for 
an energetic young man with South American 
experience. Those three years he had passed 
out of England, indeed, had made him 
lose touch with other members of his craft. 
People shrugged their shoulders when they 
heard of him, and opined, with a chilly smile, 
he was the sort of young man who ought to 
go to the colonies. That's the easiest way of 
shelving all similar questions. The colonies 
are popularly regarded in England as the 
predestined dumping-ground for all the fools 
and failures of the mother-country. So 
Eustace settled down in lodgings in London, 
not far from the Trevennacks, and spent 
more of his time, it must be confessed, in 



• 



»o5 • v .. 

'• ■ • '. . 

^^oing round to see Cleer than in pcrfectin)^ 
himself in the knowledj^e of his chosen art. 
Not that he failed to try every chance that 
lay open to him he had far too much energy, 
to sit idle in his chair and let the stream of 
promotion flow by unattempted ; but chances 
were few, and applicants were many, and 
month after month passed away to his chagrin 
without the clever young engineer finding an 
appointment anywhere. Meanwhile, his little 
nest-egg of South-American savings was 
rapidly disappearing ; and though Tyrrel, 
who had influence with railway men, exerted 
himself to the utmost on his friend's behalf 
— partly for Cleer's sake, and partly for 
Eustace's own — Le Neve saw his balance 
growing daily smaller, and began to be seri- 
ously alarmed at last, not merely for his future 
prospects of employment and marriage, but 
even for his immediate chance of a modest 
livelihood. 

Nor was Mrs. Trevennack, for her part, en- 
tirely free from sundry qualms of conscience 
as to her husband's condition and the right- 
fulness of concealing it altogether from Cleer's 
accepted lover. Trevennack himself was so 



.t « 




Ill 

I 

ii 



ii 



i! 





1 06 



|K!rfcctly s.'iiK' in cvory ordinary relation of life, 
so able a business head, so dij^mified and courtly 
an English gentleman, that luistace never 
even for a moment suspected any undercurrent 
of madness in that sound practical intelligence. 
Indeed, no man could talk with more absolute 
common sense about his daughter's future, or 
the duties and functions of an Admiralty 
official, than Michael Trevennack. It was 
only to his wife in his most confidential mo- 
ments that he ever admitted the truth as to 
his archangelic character ; to all others whom 
he met, he was simply a distinguished English 
civil servant of blameless life and very solid 
judgment. The heads of his department 
placed the most implicit trust i.i Trevennack's 
opinion : there was no man about the place 
who could decide a knotty point of detail off- 
hand like Michael Trevennack. What was 
his poor wife to do, then ? Was it her place 
to warn Eustace that Cleer s father might at 
any moment unexpectedly develop symptoms 
of dangerous insanity ? Was she bound thus 
to wreck her own daughter's happiness ? 
Was she bound to speak out the very secret 
of her heart which she had spent her whole 



lo: 



lift; in iiulucing Trcvonnack hiinsrlf to bDttlc 
up with ceaseless care in his ch'stractcd 
bosom ? 

And y(!t . . . she saw the other point 
of view as well -alas, all too ()lainly. She 
was a martyr to conscience, like Walter 
Tyrrel himself; was it right of her, then, to 
tie I^ustace for life to a girl who was really a 
madman's daughter ? This hateful question 
rose up before her often in the dead dark 
night, as she lay awake on her bed, tossing 
and turning feverishly ; it tortured her in 
addition to her one life-long trouble. For the 
silver-haired lady had borne the burden of 
that unknown sorrow locked up in her own 
bosom for fifteen years ; and it had left on 
her face such a beauty of holiness as a great 
trouble often leaves indelibly stamped on 
women of the same brave, loving tempera- 
ment. 

One day, about three months later, in their 
drawing-room at Bayswater, Eustace Le 
Neve happened to let drop a casual remark 
which cut poor Mrs. Trevennack to the quick, 
like a knife at her heart. He was talking of 
some friend of his who had lately got en- 



^^\ 



^r^Aif'' , 







' 



( 



ill 



io8 







j^'a^cd. " It's a t(!rril)l<' thiii^, " lu* said seri- 
ously. *• There's insanity in the family. I 
wouldn't marry into such a family as that — no, 
not if 1 lovetl a ^'\r\ to distraction. Mrs. Tre- 
vennack. The father's in a mad-housf.', you 
know ; and the girl's very nice now, but one 
never can tell when the tendency may break 
out. And then — ^just think ! what an inheri- 
tance to hand on to one's innocent children!' 

Trevennack took no open notice of what 
he said. But Mrs. Trevennack winced, grew 
sutldenly pale, and stammered out some con- 
ventional non-committing platitude. His 
words entered her very soul. They stung 
and galled her. That night she lay awake 
and thought more bitterly to herself about 
the matter than ever. Next morning early, 
as soon as Trevennack had set off to catch 
the fast train from Waterloo to Portsmouth 
direct (he was frequently down there on Ad- 
miralty business), she put on her cloak and 
bonnet, without a word to Cleer, and set out 
in a hansom all alone to Harley Street. 

The house to which she drove was serious- 
looking and professional — in point of fact, it 
was Dr. Yate - Westbury's, the well known 



1 



ing 



109 

specialist on inciUal tlist^ascs. She sent up 
no card and gave no name. i)\\ the contrary, 
she kept her veil down — and it was a very 
thick one. lUit Dr. Yate-W'estbury niad<' no 
commirnt on this reticence ; it was a familiar 
occurrence with him people are often 
ashamed to have it known they consult a 
mad doctor. 

" I want to ask you about my husbaiul's 
case," Mrs. Trevennack began, tr^'mbling. 
And the great specialist, all attention, leaned 
forward and listened to her. 

Mrs. Trevennack summoned up courage, 
and started from the very beginning. She 
described how her husband, who was a 
Government servant, had been walking be- 
low a cliff on the sea-shore, with their only 
son, some fifteen years earlier, and how a 
shower of stones from the top had fallen on 
their heads, and killed their poor boy, whose 
injuries were the more serious. She could 
mention it all now with comparatively little 
emotion ; great sorrows since had half obliter- 
af.ed that first and greatest one. But she laid 
stress upon the point that her husband had 
been struck, too, and was very grav ely hurt — 





' * 



U 







I .' 




no 

so gravely, indeed, that it was weeks before 
he recovered physically. 

" On what part of the head ? " Yate-West- 
bury asked, with quick medical insight. 

And Mrs. Trevennack answered, "Here," 
laying her small gloved hand on the centre of 
the left temple. 

I'he great specialist nodded. "Go on," he 
said quietly. " Fourth frontal convolution ! 
And it was a month or two, I suppose, before 
you noticed any serious symptoms super- 
vmmg .'* 

" Exactly," Mrs. Trevennack answered, 
much relieved. " It was quite a month or 
two. But from that day forth — from the very 
beginning, I mean — h^ had a natural horror 
of going beneath a cliff, and he liked to get 
as high up as he could so as to be perfectly 
sure there was nobody at all anywhere above 
to hurt him." And then she went on to 
describe, in short but graphic phrase, how he 
loved to return to the place of his son's acci- 
dent, and to stand for hours on lonely sites 
overlooking the spot, and especially on a crag 
which was dedicated to St. Michael. y 

The specialist caught at what was coming 



■ 



I II 



with the quickness, she thought, of long 
experience. ** Till he fancied himself the 
archangel ?" he said, promptly and curiously. 

Mrs. Trevennack drew a deep breath of 
satisfaction and relief. " Yes," she answjied, 
flushing hot. " Till he fancied himself the 
archangel. There — there were extenuating 
circumstances, you see. His own name's 
Michael ; and his family — well, his family 
have a special connection with St. Michael's 
Mount ; their crest's a castled crag with 
' Stand fast, St. Michael's ! ' and he knew 
he had to fight against this mad impulse of 
his own- -which he felt was like a devil within 
him — for his daughter's sake ; and he was 
always standing alone on these rocky high 
places, dedicated to St. Michael, till the fancy 
took full hold upon him ; and now, though he 
knows in a sort of a way he's mad, he be- 
lieves quite firmly he's St. Michael the Arch- 
angel." 

Yate-Westbury nodded once more. '* Pre- 
r.isely the development I should expect to 
occur," he said, "after such an accident. * 

Mrs. Trevennack almost bounded from 
her seat in her relief, " Then you attribute 






it 



; ' 1 



■'J 



IH 



1 




■ \ 

112 

it to the accident first of all ? " she asked 
eagerly. 

" Not a doubt about it," the specialist 
answered. " The region you indicate is just 
the one where similar illusory ideas are apt to 
arise from external injuries. The bruise 
gave the cause, and circumstances the form. 
Besides, the case is normal — quite normal 
altogether. Does he have frequent out- 
breaks ? " 

Mrs. Trevennack explained that he never 
had any. Except to herself, and that but 
seldom, he never alluded to the subject in 
any way to anybody. 

Yate-Westbury bit his lip. ** He must 
have great self-control," he answered, less 
confidently. ** In a case like that, I'm bound 
to admit, my prognosis — for the final result — 
would be most unfavourable. The longer he 
bottles it up, the more terrible is the outburst 
likely to be when it arrives. You must ex- 
pect that some day he will break out irre- 
pressibly." 

Mrs. Trevennack bowed her head with the 
solemn placidity of despair. '* I'm quite pre- 
pared for that," she said quietly ; " though I 



113 



try hard to delay it, for a specific reason. 
That wasn't the question I came to consult 
you about to-day. I feel sure my poor hus- 
band's case is perfectly hopeless, as far as 
any possibility of cure is concerned ; what I 
want to know is about another aspect of the 
case." She leaned forward appeal ingly. 
" Oh, doctor," she cried, claspin^r her hands, 
*' I have a dear daughter at home — the one 
thing yet left me. She's engaged to be 
married to a young man whom she loves — a 
young man who loves her. Am I bound to 
tell him she's a madman's child ? Is there 
any chance of its affecting her ? Is the taint 
hereditary ?" 

She spoke with deep earnestness. She 
rushed out with it without reserve. Yate- 
Westbury gazed at her compassionately. 
He was a kind-hearted man. " No; certainly 
not," he answered, with emphasis. "Not the 
very slightest reason in any way to fear it. 
The sanest man, coming from the very sanest 
and healthiest stock on earth, would almost 
certainly be subject to delusions under such 
circumstances. This is accident, not dis- 
ease — circumstance, not temperament. The 





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114 

injury to the brain is the result of a special 
blow. Grief for the loss of his son, and. 
brooding over the event, no doubt contri- 
buted to the particular shape the delusion has 
assumed. But the injury's the main thing. 
I don't doubt there's a clot of blood formed 
just here on the brain, obstructing its func- 
tions in part, and disturbing its due relations. 
I n every other way, you say, he's a good man 
of business. The very apparent rationality 
of the delusion — the way it's been led up to 
by his habit of standing on cliffs, his name, 
his associations, his family, everything — is 
itself a good sign that the partial insanity is 
due to a local and purely accidental cause. 
It simulates reason as closely as possible. 
Dismiss the question altogether from your 
mind, as far as your daughter's future is con- 
cerned. It's no more likely to be inherited 
than a broken leg or an amputated arm is." 

Mrs. Trevennack burst into a flood of 
joyous tears. " Then all I have to do," 
she sobbed out, "is to keep him from an 
outbreak, at least till after my daughter's 
married." , 

Yate-Westbury nodded. " That's all you 



1^5 



of 
lo, 

an 
ter's 

you 



have to do," he answered sympathetically. 
*' And I'm sure Miss Trevennack — " he 
paused with a start, and checked himself. 

" Why, how do you know my name ? " the 
astonished mother cried, drawmg back with a 
little shudder of half superstitious alarm at 
such surprising prescience. 

Yate-Westbury made a clean breast of it. 
" Well, to tell you the truth," he said, '* Mr. 
Trevennack himself called round here yes- 
terday afternoon, and stated the whole case 
to me from his own point of view, giving his 
name in full, — as a man would naturally do — 
but never describing to me the nature of his 
delusion. He said it was too sacred a thing 
for him to so much as touch upon ; that he 
knew he wasn't mad, but that the world 
would think him so ; and he wanted to know, 
from something he'd heard said, whether 
madness caused by an injury of the sort 
would or would not be considered by medical 
men as inheritable. And I told him at once, 
as I've told you to-day, there was not the 
faintest danger of it. But I never made such 
a slip in my life before as blurting out the 
name. I could only have done it to you. 










Trust me, your secret is safe in my keeping. 
I have hundreds in my head." He took her 
hand in his own as he spoke. ** Dear 
madam," he said gently, " I understand ; I 
feel for you." 

*' Thank you," Mrs. Trevennack answered 
low, with tears standing in her eyes. *' I'm — 
I'm so glad you've seen him. It makes your 
opinion so much more valuable to me. But 
you thought his delusion wholly due to the 
accident then ?" 

" Wholly due to the accident, dear lady. 
Yes, wholly, wholly due to it. You may go 
home quite relieved. Your doubts and fears 
are groundless. Miss Trevennack may 
marry with a clear conscience." 



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CHAPTER X. 



A BOLD ATTEMPT. 



During the next ten or eleven months, |)oor 
Mrs. Trevennack had but one abiding terror 
— that a sudden access of irrepressible in- 
sanity might attack her husband before Cleer 
and Eustace could manage to get married. 
Trevennack, however, with unvarying tender- 
ness, did his best in every way to calm her 
fears. Though no word on the subject 
passed between them directly, he let her feel 
with singular tact that he meant to keep 
himself under proper control. Whenever a 
dangerous topic cropped up in conversation, 
he would look across at her affectionately, with 
a reassuring smile. " For Cleer's sake," he 
murmured often, if she was close by his side ; 
'* for Cleer's sake, dearest ! " and his wife, 
mutely grateful, knew at once what he meant, 
and smiled approval sadly. Her heart was 
very full ; her part was a hard one to play 





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with fitting cheerfulness ; but in his very 
madness itself, she couldn't help loving, 
admiring, and respecting that strong, grave 
husband who fought so hard against his own 
profound convictions. 

Ten months passed away, however, and 
Eustace Le Neve didn't seem to get much 
nearer any [)ermanent appointment than ever. 
He began to tire at last of applying un- 
successfully for every passing vacancy. Now 
and then he got odd jobs, to be sure ; but odd 
jobs won't do for a man to marry upon ; and 
serious work seemed always to elude him. 
Walter Tyrrel did his best, no doubt, to hunt 
up all the directors of all the companies he 
knew ; but no posts fell vacant on any line 
they were connected with. It grieved 
Walter to the heart, for he had always had 
the sincerest friendship for Eustace Le Neve; 
and now that Eustace was going to marry 
Cleer Trevennack, Walter felt himself doubly 
bound in honour to assist him. It was /ie 
who had ruined the Trevennacks' hopes in 
life, by his unintentional injury to their only 
son ; the least he could do in return, he 
thought, and felt, was to make things as easy 



119 



S': 



as possible for their daughter and her in- 
tended husband. 

By July, however, things were looking so 
black for the engineer's prospects that Tyrrel 
made up his mind to run up to town, and talk 
things over seriously with Eustace Le Neve 
himself in person. He hated going up there, 
for he hardly knew how he could see much of 
lilustace without running some risk of knock- 
ing up accidentally against Michael Treven- 
nack ; and there was nothing on earth that 
sensitive young squire dreaded so much as an 
unexpected meeting wath the man he had so 
deeply, though no doubt so unintentionally 
and unwittingly, injured. But he went, all 
the same. He felt it was his duty. And 
duty to Walter Tyrrel spoke in an imperative 
mood which he dared not disobey, however 
much he might be minded to turn a deaf ear 
to it. 

Le Neve had little to suggest of any prac- 
tical value. It wasn't his fault, Tyrrel knew ; 
engineering was slack, and many good men 
were looking out for appointments. In these 
crowded days, it's a foolish mistake to sup- 
pose that energy, industry, ability, and in- 




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tegrity arc necessarily successful. To insure 
success you must have; influence, op[)()rtunity, 
and good luck as well, to back them. With- 
out these, not even the invaluable (juality of 
unscrui)ulousness itself is secure from failure. 
If only Walter Tyrrel could have got his 
friend to accept such terms, indeed, he would 
gladly, for Cleer's sake, have asked Le Neve 
to marry on an allowance of half the Pen- 
morgan rent-roll. But in this commercial 
age, such quixotic arrangements are simply 
impossible. So Tyrrel set to work with fiery 
zeal to find out what openings were just then 
to be had ; and first of all for that purpose he 
went to call on a parliamentary friend of his. 
Sir Edward Jones, the fat and good-natured 
chairman of the Great North Midland Rail- 
way. Tyrrel was a shareholder whose vote 
was worth considering, and he supported the 
Board with unwavering loyalty. 

Sir Edward was therefore all attention, 
and listened with sympathy to Tyrrel's glow- 
ing account" of his friend's engineering energy 
and talent. When he'd finished his eulogy, 
however, the practical railway magnate 
crossed his fat hands, and put in, with very 



121 



common-sense dryness, " If he's so clever as 
all that, why doesn't he have a shot at this 
Wharfedale Viaduct?" 

Walter Tyrrt;! drew hack a littht surpristtd. 
The Wharfedale Viaduct was a (juestion just 
then in everybody's mouth. Hut what a 
(question ! Why, it was one of thi! great 
engineering works of the age ; and it was in- 
formally understood that the company were 
prepared to receive plans and designs from 
any competent |)erson. There came the rub, 
though. Would Eustace have a chance in 
such a comi)etition as that ? Much as he 
believf^d in his old schoolfellow, Tyrrel hesi- 
tated and reflected. ** My friend's young, of 
course," he said, after a pause. ** He's had 
very little experience — comparatively, I 
mean — to the greatness of the undertaking." 

Sir Edward pursed his fat lips. It's a 
trick with your railway kings. '* Well, young 
men are often more inventive than old ones," 
he answered slowly. ** Youth has ideas ; 
middle age has experience. In a matter like 
this, my own belief is, the ideas count for 
most. Ye-es, if I were you, Tyrrel, I'd ask 
your friend to consider it." 





11 

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122 




" You would ? " Walter cried, brightening 
up. 

•• Aye, I would, " the j^reat railway-man 
answered, still more confidently than before, 
rubbing his fat hands reflectively. " It's a 
capital opening. Erasmus Walker '11 be in for 
it, of course ; and T'rasmus VValkitr'll get it. 
Hut don't you tell your fellow that. It '11 only 
discourage him. You just send him down to 
Yorkshire to reconnoitre the ground ; and if 
he's good for anything, when he's seen the 
spot, he'll make a plan of his own, a great 
deal better than Walker's. Not that that'll 
matter, don't you know, as far as this viaduct 
goes. The company '11 take Walker's, no 
matter how good any other fellow's may be, 
and how bad Walker's - because Walker 
has a great name, and because they think 
they can't go far wrong if they follow 
Walker. Hut still, if your friend's design is 
a good one, it'll attract attention — which is 
always something ; and after they've accepted 
Walker's, and flaws begin to be found in it, — 
as experts can always find flaws in anything, 
no matter how well planned — your friend can 
come forward, and make a fuss in the papers 



(or, what* 
and make 
strikingly 
scientific 
your frien 
be the .sa 
same intei 
ing them, 
about in tl 
better, anj 
nothing in 

"Hesh 
•'I'll take 
lulward, 1 
pounds dc 
away from 

"Got c 
Sir Edwa 
small eyes 

'' Oh, n. 
was not I 
strong rea; 
for wishing 
this busint 

And he 
soul on th( 



123 

(or, what's lu'tttT still, yoit can conn* forwartl 
and make it for him) to say these llaws were 
strikingly absent from /lis very superior and 
scientific concttption. There'll be llaws in 
your friend's as well, of course, but they won't 
be the same ones, and nobody 11 have the 
same interest in finding them out and expos- 
ing them. And that'll ^et your man talked 
about in the |)apers and the profession. It's 
better, anyhow, than wasting his time doing 
nothing in London here. " 

'* He shall do it! " Walter cried, all on fire. 
•* I'll take care he shall do it. And Sir 
lulward, I tell you, I'd give five thousand 
pounds down if only he could get the job 
away from Walker." 

"Got a grudge against Walker, then.'*" 
Sir Edward cried quickly, puckering up his 
small eyes. 

'• Oh, no," Tyrrel answered, smiling ; that 
was not much in his line. " But I've got 
strong reasons of my own, on the other hand, 
for wishing to do a good turn to Le Neve in 
this business." 

And he went home, reflecting in his own 
soul on the way that many thousands would 




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124 

be as dross in the pan to him, if only he 
could trsake Cleer Trevennack happy. 

But that very same evening, Trevennack 
came home from the Admiralty in a most 
excited condition. 

" Lucy ! " he cried to his wife, as soon as 
he was alone in the room with her, " who do 
you think I sav/ to-day — there, alive in the 
flesh, standing smiling on the steps of Sir 
Edward Jones's house ? — that brute Walter 
Tyrrel, who killed our poor boy for us ! " 

*' Hush ! hush, Michael ! " his wife cried in 
answer. " It's so long ago now, and he was 
such a boy at the time ; and he repents it 
bitterly — I'm sure he repents it. You 
promised you'd try to forgive him. For 
Cleer's sake, dear heart, ycu must keep your 
promise." 

Trevennack knit his brows. " What does 
he mean, then, by dogging my steps ? " he 
cried. " What does he mean by coming 
after me up to London like this :' What does 
he mean by tempting me .'* I can't stand the 
sight of him. I won't be challenged, Lucy ; I 
don't know whether it's the devil or not, but 
when I saw the fellow to-day, I had hard work 



125 



to keep my hands off him. I vviinted to spring 
at his throat. I would have liked to throttle 
him ! " 

The silver-haired lady drew still closer to 
the excited creature, and held his hands with 
a gentle pressure. " Michael," she said 
earnestly, " this is the devil. This is the 
greatest temptation of all. This is what I 
dread most for you. Remember, it's Satan 
himself that suggests such thoughts to you. 
Fight the devil ivithin, dearest. Fight him 
within, like a man. That's the surest place, 
after all, to conquer him." 

Trevennack drew himself up proudly, and 
held his peace for a time. Then he went on 
in another tone: 'T shall get leave," he said, 
quietly, becoming pure human once more. 
" I shall get leave of absence. I can't stop 
in town while this creature's about. I'd have 
to spring at him, if I saw him again. I can't 
keep my hands off him. I'll fly from tempta- 
tion I must go down into the country." 

" Not to Cornwall ! " Mrs. Trevennack 
cried, in deep distress ; for she dreaded the 
effect of those harrowing associations for 
him. 




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Trev^ennack shook his head gravely. " No, 
not to Cornwall," he answered. " I've 
another plan this time. I want to go to 
Dartmoor. It's lonely enough there. Not 
a soul to distract me. You know, Lucy, 
when one means to fight the devil, there's 
nothing for it like the wilderness. And Dart- 
moor 's wilderness enough for me. I shall go 
to Ivybridge, for the tors and the beacons." 

Mrs. Trevennack assented gladly. If he 
wanted to fight the devil, it was best zi' n- / 
ra^uC he should be out of reach of Walter* 
Tyrrel while he did it. And it was a good 
thing to get him away, too, from S:. Michael's 
Mount, and St. Michael's Crag, and St. 
Michael's Chair, and all the other reminders 
of his archangelic dignity in the Penzance 
neighbourhood. Why, she remembered with 
a wan smile — the dead ghost of a smile rather 
— he couldn't even pass the Angel Inn at 
Helston without explaining to his companions 
that the parish church was dedicated to St. 
Michael, and that the swinging sicrn of the 
old coaching house once bore a picture of the 
winged saint himself in mortal conflict with 
his Satanic enemy. It was something, at any 



127 

rate, to get Trevennack away from a district 
so replete with memories of his past great- 
ness, to say nothing of the spot where their 
poor boy had died. But Mrs. Trevennack 
didn't know that one thing which led her 
husband to select Dartmoor this time for his 
summer holiday was the existence, on the 
wild hills a little behind Ivybridge, of a clatter- 
crowned peak, known to all the country-side 
as St. Michael's Tor, and crowned in earlier 
days by a mediaeval chapel. It was on this 
sacred site of his antique cult that Treven- 
nack wished to fight the internal devil. And 
he would fight it with a will, on that he was 
resolved ; fight and, as became his angelic 
reputation, conquer. 








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CHAPTER XI. 

BUSLVESS /S Bl/S/NESS. 

t 

It reconciled Cleer to leaving London for a 

while en she learnt that Eustace le Neve 

was going north to Yorkshire, with Walter 

Tyrrel, to inspect the site of the proposed 

Wharfedale Viaduct. Not that she ever 

mentioned his companion's name in her 

father's presence. Mrs. Ticvennack had 

warned her many times over, with tears in 

her eyes, but without cause assigned, never 

to allude to Tyrrel's existence before her 

father's face ; and Cleer, though she never 

for one moment suspected the need for such 

reticence, obeyed her mother's injunction 

with implicit honesty. So they parted two 

ways, Eustace and Tyrrel for the north, the 

Trevennacks for Devonshire. Cleer needed 

a change indeed ; she'd spent the best part 

of a year in London. \" 



1 



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129 

And for Cleer, that was a wild and delight- 
ful holiday. Though Eustace wasn't there, 
to be sure, he wrote hopefully from the 
north ; he was maturing his ideas ; he was 
evolving a plan ; the sense of the magnitude 
of his stake in this attempt had given him an 
unwonted outburst of inspiration. As she 
wandered with her father among those boggy 
uplands, or stood on the rocky tors that so 
strangely crest the low flat hill-tops of the 
great Devonian moor, she felt a marvellous 
exhilaration stir her blood — the old Cornish 
freedom, making itself felt through all the 
restrictions of our modern civilization. She 
was to the manner born, and she loved the 
Celtic West Country. 

But to Michael Trevennack it was life, 
health, vigour. He hated London. He 
hated officialdom. He hated the bonds of 
red tape that enveloped him. It's hard to 
know yourself an archangel — 

" One of the seven who nearest to the throne 
Stand ready at command, and are as eyes 
That run through all the heavens, or down to the earth," 

and yet to have to sit at a desk all day long, 
with a pen in your hand, in obedience to the 





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orders of the First Lord of the Admiralty ! 
It's hard to know you caq 

" Bear swift errands over moist and dry, 
O'er sea and land," 

as his laureate Milton puts it, and yet be 
doomed to keep still hour after hour in a 
stuffy office, or to haggle over details of pork 
and cheese in a malodorous victualling yard. 
Trevennack knew his "Paradise Lost" by 
heart — it was there, indeed, that he had 
formed his main ideas of the archangelic 
character ; and he repeated the sonorous 
lines to himself, over and over again, in a 
ringing, loud voice, as he roamed the free 
moor or poised light on the craggy pinnacles. 
This wb.6 the world that he loved, these wild 
rolling uplands, these tall peaks of rock, these 
great granite boulders ; he had loved them 
always from the very beginning of things ; 
had he not poised so of old, ages and ages 
gone by, on that famous crag 

" Of alabaster, piled up to the rlouds, 
Conspicuous far, winding with one ascent 
Accessible from earth, one entrance high 
The rest was craggy cliff that overhung \ 

Still as it rose, impossible to climb." 



i^ 



131 



So he had poised in old days ; so he poised 
himself now, with Cleer by his side, an angel 
confessed, on those high tors of Dartmoor. 

Hut amid all the undulations of that great 
stony ocean, one |)eak there was that de- 
lighted Trevennack's soul more than any of 
the rest — a bold russet crest, bursting sud- 
denly through the heathery waste in abrupt 
ascent, and scarcely to be scaled, save on one 
difficult side, like its Miltonic prototype. 
Even Cleer, who accompanied her father 
everywhere on his rambles, clad in stout 
shoes and coarse blue serge gown — for 
Dartmoor is by no means a place to be ap- 
proached by those who, like Agag, " walk 
delicately" — even Cleer didn't know that this 
craggy peak, jagged and pointed like some 
Alpine or dolomitic aiguille, was known to 
all the neighbouring shepherds around as St. 
Michael's Tor, from its now forgotten chapel. 
A few wild moorland sheep grazed now and 
again on the short herbage at its base ; but 
for the most part father and daughter found 
themselves alone amid that gorse-clad soli- 
tude. There M'chael Trevennack would 
stand erect, with head bare and brows knit. 





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in the full eye of the sun, for hour after hour 
at a time, fightings the devil within him. And 
vvhen he came back at night, tired out with 
his long tramp across the moor, and his in- 
ternal struggle, he would murmur to his wife, 
*' I've conquered him to-day. It was a hard, 
hard fight ! But I conquered ! I conquered 
him ! " 

Up in the North, meanwhile, Eustace Le 
Neve worked away with a will at the idea for 
his viaduct. As he rightly wrote to Cleer, 
the need itself inspired him. Love is a great 
engineer, and Eustace learnt fast from him. 
He was full of the fresh originality of youth ; 
and the place took his fancy and impressed 
itself upon him. Gazing at it each day, there 
rose up slowly by degrees in his mind like a 
dream the picture of a great work on a new 
and startling principle — a modification of the 
cantilever to the necessities of the situation. 
Bit by bit he worked it out, and reduced his 
first floating conception to paper ; then he 
explained it to Walter Tyrrel, who listened 
hard to his explanations, and tried his best to 
understand the force of the technical argu- 
ments. Enthusiasm is catching ; and Le 



i33 



Neve was enthusiastic about his imaginary 
viaduct, till Walter Tyrrel in turn grew al- 
most as enthusiastic as the designer himself 
over its beauty and utility. So charmed was 
he with the idea, indeed, that when Le Neve 
had at last committed it all to paper, he 
couldn't resist the temptation of asking leave 
to show it to Sir Edward Jones, whom he 
had already consulted as to Eustace's pros- 
pects. 

Eustace permitted him, somewhat reluc- 
tantly, to carry the design to the- great rail- 
way king, and on the very first day of their 
return to London, in the beginning of Octo- 
ber, Tyrrel took the papers round to Sir 
Edward's house in Onslow Gardens. 

The millionaire inspected it at first with 
cautious reserve. He was a good business 
man, and he hated enthusiasm — except in 
money matters. But gradual!;^, as Walter 
Tyrrel explained to him the various points in 
favour of the design, Sir Edward thawed. 
He looked into it carefully. Then he went 
over the calculations of lijaterial and expense 
with a critical eye. At the end he leant back 
in his study chair, with one finger on the 





I 



»34 




elevation, and one eye on the ligures, while 
h(! observed, with slow emphasis, — 

'* This is a very good design. Why, man, 
it's just about twenty times better than Eras- 
mus Walker's." 

" Then you think it may succeed ?'' Tyr- 
rel cried, with keen delight, as anxious fur 
Cleer's sake as if the design were his own. 
" You think they may take it ?'* 

*• Oh dear, no," Sir lulward answered 
confidently, with a superior smile. *' Not 
the slightest chance in the world of that. 
They'd never even dream of it. It's novel, 
you see, novel, while Walker's is conven- 
tional. And they'll take the conventional 
one. But it's a first rate design for all that, 
I can tell you. I never saw a better one." 

'• Well, but how do you know what 
Walker's is like.'*" Tyrrell asked, somewhat 
dismayed at the practical man's coolness. 

" Oh, he showed it me last night," Sir 
Edward answered calmly. "A verydectnt 
design, on the familiar lines, but not fit to 
hold a candle to Le Neve's, of course ; any 
journeyman could have drafted it. Still it 
has Walker's name to it, don't you see — it 



I 



•35 

has Walker's name to it ; that means every- 
thing." 

"Is it ch(!ap(!r than this would be?" Tyr- 
rel asked, for Iai Neve had laid stress on dit: 
point that for economy of material, combined 
with strength of weight- resisting power, his 
own plan was remarkable. 

"Cheaper!" Sir Edward echoed. "Oh 
dear, no. By no means. Nothing could 
very well be cheaper than this. There's 
genius in its construction, don't you see ? 
It's a new idea, intelligently applied to the 
peculiarities and difficulties of a very unusual 
position, taking advantage most ingeniously 
of the natural support affordeu by the rock 
and the inequalities of the situation ; I should 
say your friend is well within the mark in the 
estimate he gives." He drummed his finger 
and calculated mentally. "It'd save the 
company from a hundred and fifty to two 
hundred thousand pounds, I fancy," he said 
ruminating, after a minute. 

" And do you mean to tell me," Tyrrel 
exclaimed, taken aback, ** men of business 
like the directors of the Great North Midland 
will fling away two hundred thousand pounds 



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136 





of the shar('h<)l(l(;rs' money as if it were dirt, 
by accepting WalkcT's plan wIkmi tlu^y might 
acc(!pt this one ?" 

Sir lulvvarcl optMiecl his pahns, lik(! a 
I'renchman, in front of him. It was a trick 
he had [)icked up on foreign i)()urses. 

•' My dear ft^llow," hv. answered comj)as- 
sionately, "directors are men, and to err is 
human. 'I'h(^sc (ireat North Midland people 
are mere tlesh and blood, and none of them 
very brilliant. They know Walker, and 
they'll be largely guided by Walker's advice 
in the matter. If he saw his way to nr ^ 
more out of contracting for carrying v-^t 
somebody else's design, no doubt he'd do it. 
Hut failing that, he'll palm his own off upon 
them, and Stillingfleet'll accept it. You see 
with how little wisdom the railways of the 
world are governed ! People think, if they 
get Walker to do a thing for them, they shift 
the responsibility upon Walker's shoulders. 
And knowing nothing themselves, they feel 
that's a great point ; it saves them trouble 
and salves their consciences." 

A new idea seemed to cross Tyrrel's mind. 
He leant forward suddenly. 



M7 ■ . s • 

" hut as to safety, ' he asked, with soinc 
anxi(!ty, " vic.'wcd as a mattc^r of \\(v and 
death, I m(!an ? Which of these two via- 
ducts is hkely to last loii^fst, to be freest 
from danger, to gjve rise in the entl to least 
and fewest accidents ?" 

"Why, your friend Le Neve's, of course;,'* 
the milhonaire answered, without a moment's 
hesitation. 

•'You think so ?" 

" I don't think so at all, my dear fellow, I 
know it. I'm sure of it. Look here," and 
he i)ulled out a design from a pigeon-hoK; in 
his desk ; "this is in confidence, you under- 
stand. I oughtn't to show it to you ; but I 
can trust your honour. Here's Walker's 
idea. It isn't an idea at all, in fact : it's juy*^ 
the ordinary old stone viaduct, with the ordi- 
nary dangers, and the ordinary iron girders 
— nothing in any way new or original. It's 
respectable mediocrity. On an affair like 
that, and with this awkward curve, too, just 
behind taking-off point, the liability to acci- 
dent is considerably greater than in a con- 
struction like Le Neve's, where nothing's 
left to chance, and where every source of evil. 








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such as land-springs or freshets or weaken- 
ing or concussion, is considered beforehand 
and successfully provided against. If a com- 
pany only thought of the lives and limbs of 
its passengers, — which it never does, of 
course — and had a head on its shoulders, 
which it seldom possesses, Le Neve's is un- 
doubtedly the design it would adopt in the 
interests of security." 

Tyrrel, drew a long breath. "And you 
know all this," he said, " and yet you won't 
say a word for Le Neve to the directors. 
A recommendation from you, you see — " 

Sir Edward shrugged his shoulders. "Im- 
possible ! " he answered at once. "It would 
be a breach of confidence. Remember, Wal- 
ker showed me his design as a friend ; and 
after having looked at it, I couldn't go right 
off and say to Stillingflr:et, ' I've seen Wal- 
ker's plans, and also another fellow's, and I 
advise you, for my part, not to take my 
friend's.' It wouldn't be gentlemanly." 

Tyrrel paused and reflected. He saw the 
dilemma. And yet, what w-'s the breach of 
confidence or of etiquette cO the deadly 
peril to life and limb involved in choosing 



139 



,-H| 



the worst design instead of the better one ? 
It was a hard nut to crack. He could see no 
way out of it. 

" Besides," Sir Edward went on musingly, 
" even if I told them, they wouldn't believe 
me. Whatever Walker sends in they're sure 
to accept it. They've more confidence, I 
feel sure, in Walker than in anybody." 

A light broke in on Walter Tyrrel's mind. 

" Then the only way," he said, looking up, 
" would be ... to work upon Walker : 
induce him 7iot to send in, if that can be 
managed." 

*' But it can't be," Sir Edward answered, 
with brisk promptitude. " Walker's a money- 
grubbing chap. If he sees a chance of mak- 
ing a few thousands more anywhere, depend 
upon it he'll make 'em. He's a martyr to 
money, he is. He toils and slaves for £ s. d. 
all his life. He has no other interests." 

"What can he want with it.'*" Tyrrel ex- 
claimed. " He's a bachelor, isn't he, without 
wife or child .^ What can a man like that 
want to pile up filthy lucre for ? " 

" Can't say, I'm sure," Sir Edward an- 
swered good-humouredly. ** I have my 





»■• i 



'h 



140 





quiver full o* them, myself ; and every guinea 
I get, I find three of my children are quar- 
relling among themselves for ten and six- 
pence apiece of it. But what Walker can 
want with money, he^aven only knows. If / 
were a bachelor, now, and had an estate of 
my own in Cornwall, say, or Devonshire, 
I'm sure I don't know what I'd do with my 
income." 

Tyrrel rose abruptly. The chance words 
had put an idea into his head. 

"What's Walker's address.'*" he asked, in 
a very curt tone. 

Sir Edward gave it him. 

'* You'll find him a tough nut, though," he 
added with a smile, as he followed the en- 
thusiastic young Cornishman to the door. 
** But I see you're in earnest. Good luck go 
with you ! " , 



i) 



CHAPTER XII. 



A HARD BARGAIN. 



Tyrrel took a hansom, and tore round in 
hot haste to Erasmus Walker's house. He 
sent in his card. The famous engineer was 
-happily at home. Tyrrel, all on fire, found 
himself ushered into the great man's study. 
Mr. Walker sat writing at a luxurious desk in 
a most luxurious room — writing, as if for dear 
life, in breathless haste and eagerness. He 
just pausec! for a second in the midst of a 
sentence, and looked up im tiently at the 
intruder on his desperate hurr) . Then he 
motioned Tyrrel into a chair with an imperious 
waive of his ivory penholder. After that, he 
went on writing for some moments in solemn 
silence. Only the sound of his steel nib, 
travelling fast as it could go over the foolscap 
sheet, broke for several seconds the embar 
rassing stillness. ' 

The young squire had ample time mean- 








MI 



142 



II 








while to consider his host and to take in his 
peculiarities before Walker had come to the 
end of his paragraph. The great enij^ineer 
was c\ big-built, bull-necked, bullet-headed 
sort of person, with the self-satisfied air of 
monetary success, but with that ominous 
hardness about the corners of the mouth 
which constantly betrays the lucky mcr of 
business. His abundant long hair was iron 
grey and wiry — Erasmus Walker had seldom 
time to waste in getting it cut — his eyes were 
small and shrewd ; his hand was firm, and 
gripped the pen in its grasp like a ponderous 
crowbar. His writing, Tyrrel could see, was 
thick, black, and decisive. Altogether the 
kind of man on whose brow it was written in 
legible characters that it's dogged as does it. 
The delicately-orfr-^nized Cornishman felt an 
instinctive dislike at once for this great, coarse 
mountain of a bullying Teuton. Yet for 
Cleer's sake he knt w he mu?tn'i rub him the 
wrong way. He must put up with Erasmus 
Walker and all his faults, and try to approach 
him by the most accessible side — if indeed 
any side were accessible at all, save the 
waistcoat pocket. 



143 



At last the engineer paused a moment in 
his headlong course through sentence after 
sentence, held his pen half irresolute ^ ver a 
new blank sheet, and lurning round to Tyrrel 
without one word of apology, said, in a quick 
decisive voice, " This h business, I suppose, 
business? for if not, I've no time. I'm very 
pref ^ed this mornino-. Very pressed indeed. 
Very pressed and occupied." 

*' Yes, it's business," Tyrrel answered 
promptly, taking his cue with Celtic quick- 
ness. ** Business that may be worth you a 
good deal of money." Erasmus Walker 
pricked up his ears at that welcome sound, 
and let the pen drop quietly into the rack by 
his side. " Only I'm afraid I must ask for a 
quarter of an hour or so of your valuable 
cime. You won't find it thrown away. You 
can name your own price for it." 

" My dear sir," the engineer replied, taking 
up his visitor's card again and gazing at it 
hard with a certain enquiring scrutiny, " if it's 
business, and business of an important char- 
racter, of course I need hardly say I'm very 
glad to attend to you. There are so many 
people who come bothering me for nothing, 








'44 






!l 





don't you know — charitabk; appeals or what 
not — that I'm obliged to make a hard and 
fast rule about interviews. But if it's business 
you mean, I'm your man at once. I live for 
public works. Go ahead. I'm all attention. " 

He wheeled round his revolving chair, and 
faced Tyrrel in an attitude of sharp practical 
eagerness. His eye was all alert. It was 
clear the man was keen on every passinj^- 
chance of a stray hundred or two extra. His 
keenness disconcerted the conscientious and 
idealistic Cornishman. For a second or two 
Tyrrel debated how to open fire upon so un- 
wonted an enemy. At last he began, stam- 
mering, " I've a friend who has made a 
design for the Wharfedale Viaduct." 

** Exactly," Erasmus Walker answered, 
pouncing down upon him like a hawk. 
" And I've made one too. x\nd as mine's in 
the field, why, your friend's is waste paper." 

His sharpness half silenced Tyrrel. But 
with an effort the younger man went on, in 
spite of interruption. " That's precisely what 
I've come about," he said; " I know that al- 
ready. If only you'll have patience and hear 
me out while I unfold my plan, you'll find 



'45 



what I have to propose is all to your own 
interest. I'm prepared to pay well for the 
arrangement I ask. Will you name your own 
price for half an hour's conversation, and then 
listen to me straight on end without further 
interruption ? " 

Erasmus Walker glanced back at him with 
those keen ferret-like eyes of his. '* Why, 
certainly," he answered ; " I'll listen if you 
wish. We'll treat it as a consultation. My 
fees for consultation depend, of course, upon 
the nature of the subject on which advice 
is asked. But you'll pay '.e.ll, you say, for 
the scheme you propose. Now, this is busi- 
ness. Therefore, we must be business-like. 
So first, what guarantee have I of your 
means and solvency ? I don't deal with 
men of straw. Are you known in the City? " 
He jerked out his sentences as if words 
were extorted from him at so much per 
thousand. 

"I am not," Tyrrel answered quietly; ''but 
I gave you my card, and you can see from it 
who I am — Walter Tyrrel, of Penmorgan 
Manor. I'm a landed proprietor, with a good 
estate in Cornwall. And I'm prepared to 

L 














146 





risk — well, a large part of my property, in 
the business I propose to you, without any 
corresponding risk on your i)art. In plain 
words, I'm prepared to pay you money 
down, if you will accede to my wish, on a 
pure matter of sentiment." 

*' Sentiment?" Mr. Walker replied, bring- 
ing his jaw down like a rat-trap, and gazing 
across at him dubiously. " I don't deal in 
sentiment." • - 

" No ; probably not," Tyrrel answered. 
"But I said sentiment, Mr. Walker, and I'm 
willing to pay for it. 1 know very well it's 
an article at a discount in the City. Still, to 
me, it means money's worth, and I'm pre- 
pared to give money down to a good tune to 
humour it. Let me explam the situation. 
I'll do so as briefly and as simply as I 
can, if only you'll listen to me. A friend of 
mine, as I said, one Eustace Le Neve, who 
has been constructing engineer of the Rosario 
and Santa ¥e, in the Argentine Confederacy, 
has made a design for the Wharfedale Via- 
duct. It's a very good design, and a practical 
design ; and Sir Edward Jones, who has seen 
it, entirely approves of it." 



147 



"Jones is a good man," Mr. Walker mur- 
mured, nodding his head in acquiescence. 
" No dashed nonsense about Jones. Head 
screwed on the right way. Jones is a good 
man, and knows what he's talking about." 

" Well, Jones says it's a good design," 
Tyrrel went on, breathing freer as he gauged 
his man more completely. " And the facts 
ar'i just these : My friend's engaged to a 
young lady up in town here, in whom I take 
a deep interest" — Mr. Walker whistled low 
to himself, but didn't interrupt him — "a deep 
friendly interest," Tyrrel correcte^d, growing 
hot in the face at the man's evident insolent 
misconstruction of his motives; **and the 
long and the short of it is, his chance of 
marrying her depends very much upon 
whether or not he can get this design of his 
accepted by the directors." 

" He can't," Mr. Walker said promptly, 
" unless he buys me out. That's pat and 
Hat. He can't, for mine's in ; and mine's 
sure to be taken." 

" So I understand," Tyrrel v. ^nt on. " Your 
name, I'm told, carries everything before it. 
But what I want to suggest now is simply 





•li 



II 



148 





this — How much will you tako, money 
down on the nail, this minute, to withdraw 
your own design from the informal com- 
petition ? " 

r>asmus Walker gasped hard, drew a long 
breath, and stared at him. ** How much will 
1 take," he repeated slowly ; " how — much — 
will — I — take — to withdraw my design? 
Well, that 7s remarkable ! " 

" I mean it," Tyrrel repeated, with a very 
serious face. " This is to me, I will confess, 
a matter of life and death. I want to see my 
friend Le Neve in a good position in the 
world, such as his talents entitle him to. I 
don't care how much I spend in order to en- 
sure it. So what I want to know 's just this 
and nothing else — how much will you take to 
withdraw from the competition ? " 

Erasmus Walker laid his two hands on his 
fat knees, with his legs wide open, and 
stared long and hard at his incomprehen- 
sible visitor. So strange a request stunned 
for a moment even that sound business head. 
A minute or two he paused. Then, with a 
violent effort, he pulled himself together. 
" Come, come," he said, ** Mr. Tyrrel ; 



149 



let's be practical and abovc-hoard. I 
don't want to rob you. I don't want to 
plunder you. I sv.v. you mean busintiss. 
But how do you know, sui)pose even you 
buy me out, this young fellow's design has 
any chance of being acctq)ted ? What reason 
have you to think the Great North Midland 
people are likely to give such a job to an 
unknown beginner ? " 

" Sir Kdward Jones says it's admirable," 
Tyrrel adventured dubiously. 

"Sir Edward Jones says its admirable! 
Well, that's good, as far as it goes. Jones 
knows what he's talking about. Head's 
screwed on the right way. But has your 
friend any interest with the directors — that's 
the question ? Have you reason to think, 
if he sends it in, and I hold back mine, 
his is the plan they'd be likely to pitch 
upon ? " 

" I go upon its merits," Walter Tyrrel 
said quietly. 

*• The very worst thing on earth any man 
can ever possibly go upon," the man of 
business retorted, with cynical confidence. 
•* If that's all you've got to say, my dear sir, 







i 



rJl 




1 1 
I 



ISO 





it woultln't l)c; fair of me to make money 
terms with you. I won't discuss my price in 
the matter till I've sonu; reason to belictve 
this idea of yours is workable." 

" I have the dcsij^ns here; all ready." 
Walter Tyrrel replied, holding them out. 
" Plans, elevations, specifications, estimates, 
sections, figures, everything. Will you do 
me the favour to look at them ? Then, 
perha[)s, you'll be able to see whether or not 
this offer's genuine." 

The great engineer took the roll with a 
smile. He opened it hastily, in a most 
sceptical humour. Walter Tyrrel leant over 
him, and tried just at first to put in a word 
or two of explanation, such as Le Neve 
had made to himself ; but an occasional testy 
*' Yes, yes ; I see," was all the thanks he got 
for his pains and trouble. After a minute or 
two, he found out it was better to let the 
engineer alone. That practised eye picked 
out in a moment the strong and weak points 
of the whole conception. Gradually, how- 
ever, as Walker went on, Walter Tyrrel 
could see he paid more and more attention 
to every tiny detail. His whole manner 



"51 



I 



I 



ahorcd. 'I'hc scoptica! smilr faded away 
little by little, from those thick, sensuous lips, 
and a look of keen iiU«*r(?st took its place 
by de^^rees on the man's eajjjer features. 
"That's jrood ! * he inunnured more than 
once, as he examined mori; closely somt! 
section or (tnlarj^ement. "That's ^ood ! 
very good ! knows what he's about, this 
Eustace Le Neve man ! " Now and again 
he turned back, to re-examine some special 
point. " Clever dodge ! " he murmured half 
to himself. " Clever dodge, undoubtedly. 
Make an engineer in time no doubt at all 
about that — if only they'll give him his head, 
and not try to thwart him." 

Tyrrel waited till he'd finished. Then he 
leant forward once more. " Well, what do 
you think of it now ? " he asked, flushing 
hot. " Is this business — or otherwise ? " 

*' Oh, business, business," the great engi- 
neer murmured musically, regarding the 
papers before him with a certain professional 
affection. " It's a devilish clever plan, — I 
won't deny that — and it's devilish well 
carried out in every detail." 

Tyrrel seized his opportunity. " And if 




w 



I 





you were to withdraw your own design," he 
asked, somewhat nervously, hardly knowing 
how best to frame his delicate question, " do 
you think . . . the directors . . . 
would be likely to accept this one ?" 

Erasmus Walker hummed and hawed. 
He twirled his fat thumbs round one 
another in doubt. Then he answered ora- 
cularly, '• They might, of course ; and yet, 
again, they mightn't." 

" Upon whom would the decision rest ? " 
Tyrrel enquired, looking hard at him. 

*' Upon me, almost entirely," the great 
engineer responded at once, with cheerful 
frankness. " To say the plain truth, they've 
no minds of their own, these men. They'd 
ask my advice and accept it implicitly." 

" So Jones told me," Tyrrel answered. 

" So Jones told you — quite right," the 
engineer echoed, with a complacent nod. 
*' They've no minds of their own, you see. 
They'll do just as I tell them." 

** And you think this design of Le Neve's 
a good one ! both mechanically and financi- 
ally, and also exceptionally safe as regards 
the lives and limbs of passengers and em- 









/• 



'53 



% 



ployes?" Tyrrel enquired once more, with 
anxious particularity. His tender conscience 
made him afraid to do anything in the 
matter unless he was quite sure in his own 
mind he was doing no wrong in any way 
either to shareholders, competitors, or the 
public generally. 

" My dear sir," Mr. Walker replied, finger- 
ing the papers lovingly, " It's an admirable 
design — sound, cheap, and practical. It's as 
good as it can be. T'o tell you the truth I 
admire it immensely." 

•' Well, then," Tyrrel said at last, all his 
scruples removed, ** let's come to business. 
I put it plainly. How much will you take to 
withdraw your own design, and to throw 
your weight into the scale in favour of my 
friend's here ? " 

Erasmus Walker closed one eye, and re- 
garded his visitor fixedly out of the other for 
a minute or two in silence, as if taking his 
bearings. It was a trick he had acquired 
from frequent use of a theodolite. Then he 
answered at last, after a long, deep pause, 
*' It's your deal, Mr. Tyrrel. Make me an 
offer, won't you ?" 





i 



m, 



'ill 



i 



154 





'• Five thousand pounds ?" Walter Tyrrel 
suggested, trembling. 

Erasmus Walker opened his eye slowly, 
and never allowed his surprise to be visible 
on his face. Why, to him, a job like that, 
entailing loss of time in personal supervision, 
was hardly worth three. The plans were 
perfunctory, and as far as there was anything 
in them, could be used again elsewhere. 
He could employ his precious days mean- 
while to better purpose in some more showy 
and profitable work than this half-hatched 
viaduct. But this was an upset price. 
" Not enough," he murmured slowly, shak- 
ing his bullet head. "Its a fortune to the 
young man. You must make a better 
offer." 

Walter Tyrrel's lip quivered. " Six 
thousand," he said promptly. 

The engineer judged from the promptitude 
of the reply that the Cornish landlord must 
still be well squeezable. He shook his head 
again. " No, no ; not enough," he answered 
short. '* Not enough — by a long way." 

*' Eight," Tyrrel suggested, drawing a 
deep breath of suspense. It was a big 



155 



ideed for a modest estate like Pe 



n- 



sum 
morgan. 

The engineer shook his head once more. 
That rush up two thousand at once was a 
very good feature. The man who coukl 
mount by two thousand at a time might 
surely be squeezed to the even figure. 

" I'm afraid," Walter said, quivering, after 
a brief mental calculation — mortgage at four 
per cent — and agricultural depression run- 
ning down the current value of land in the 
market — " I couldn't by any possibility go 
beyond ten thousand. But to save my 
friend — and to get the young lady married — 
I wouldn't mind going as far as that to meet 
you." 

The engineer saw at once, with true busi- 
ness instinct, his man had reached the end of 
his tether. He struck while the iron was 
hot and clenched the bargain. "Well, — as 
there's a lady in the case " — he said gallantly, 
— "and to serve a young man of undoubted 
talent, who'll do honour to the profession, I 
don't mind closing with you. I'll take ten 
thousand, money down, to back out of it 
myself, and I'll say what I can — honestly 







f1 



Ml 




•56 





— to the Midland i3oard in your friend's 
favour." 

"Very good," Tyrrel answered, drawing a 
deep breath of relief. " I ask no more than 
that. Say what you can honestly. The 
money shall be paid you before the end of a 
fortnight." 

" Only, mind," Mr. Walker added, in an 
impressive after-thought, " I can't of course 
engage that the Great North Midland people 
will take my advice. You mustn't come 
down upon me for restitution and all that 
if your friend don't succeed and they take 
some other fellow. All I guarantee for 
certain is to withdraw my own plans — not 
to send in anything myself for the com- 
petition." 

'* I fully understand," Tyrrel answered. 
" And I'm content to risk it. But. mind, if 
any other design is submitted of superior 
excellence to Le Neve's, I wouldn't wish 
you on any account to — to do or say any- 
thing that goes against your conscience." 

Erasmus Walker stared at him. ** What 
— after paying ten thousand pounds.'*" he 
said, " to secure the job } " 



al 
al 

al 



* <, 



157 V. 

Tyrrel nodded a solemn nod. "Especi- 
ally," he added, "if you think it safejr to life 
and limb. I should never forgive myself if 
an accident were to occur on Eustace Le 
Neve's viaduct." . 






\. 



I 





CHAPTER XIII. 



ANGEL AND DEViL. 



TvRKEL left Erasmus Walker's house that 

morning in a turmoil of mingled exultation 

and fear. At least he had done his best to 

atone for the awful results of his boyish act 

of criminal thoughtlessness. He had tried 

to make it possible for Cleer to marry 

Eustace, and thereby to render the Treven- 

nacks happier in their sonless old age ; and, 

what was more satisfactory still, he had 

crippled himself in doing it. There was 

comfort ev^en in that. Expiation, reparation ! 

H _ wouldn't have cared for the sacrifice so 

much if it had cost him less. But it would 

cost him dear indeed. He must set to work 

at once now and raise the needful sum by 

mortgaging Penmorgan up to the hilt to 

do it. % 

After all, of course, the directors might 

158 



'59 



choose some other design thjin luistace's. 
Hut he had done what he could. And he 
would hope for the best, at any rate. Tor 
Cleer's sake, if the worst came, he would 
have risked and lost m.ich. While if Cleer's 
life was made happy, he would be happy in 
the thought of it. 

He hailed another hansom, and drove off, 
still on fire, to his lawyer's, in Victoria Street. 
On the way, he had to go near Paddington 
Station. He didn't observe, as he did so, a 
four-wheel cab that passed him with luggage 
on top, from Ivybridge to London. It was 
the Trevennacks, just returned from their 
holiday on Dartmoor. But Michael Treven- 
nack had seen him ; and his brow grew 
suddenly dark. He pinched his nails into 
his palm at sight of that hateful creature, 
though not a sound escaped him ; for Cleer 
was in the carriage, and the man was 
Eustace's friend. Trevennack accepted 
Eustace perforce, after that night on 
Michael's Crag ; for he knew it was politic ; 
and indeed, he liked the young man himself 
well enough — there was nothing against him 
after all, beyond his friendship with Tyrrel ; 




;! 




i6o 




— but had it not been for the need for avoid- 
ing scandal after the adventure on the rock, 
he would never have allowed Cleer to speak 
one word to any friend or acquaintance of 
her brother's murderer. 

As it was, however, he never alluded to 
Tyrrel in any way before Cleer. He had 
learnt to hold his tongue. Madman though 
he was, he knew when to be silent. 

That evening at home, Cleer had a visit 
from Eustace, who came round to tell her 
how Tyrrel had been to see the great 
engineer, Erasmus Walker ; and how it was 
all a mistake that Walker was going to send 
in plans for the Wharfedale Viaduct — nay, 
how the big man had approved of his own 
design, and promised to give it all the 
suppo»*t in his power. For Tyrrel was really 
an awfully kind friend, who had pushed 
things for him like a brick, and deserved the 
very best they could both of them h'ay about 
him. 

But of course Eustace hadn't the faintest 
idea himself by what manner of persuasion 
Walter Tyrrel had commended his friend's 
designs to Erasmus Walker. If he had, 



i6i 



needltss to say, he would never have accepted 
the strange arrangement. 

" And now, Cleer," Eustace cried, jubilant 
and radiant with the easy confidence of youth 
and love, •* I do believe I shall carry the 
field at last, and spring at a bound into a 
first-rate position among engineers in 
England." 

"And then?" Cleer asked, nestling close 
to his side. 

•'And then," Eustace went on, smiling 
tacitly at her native simplicity, " as it would 
mean permanent work in superintending and 
so forth, I see no reason why — we shouldn't 
get married immediately." 

They were alone in the breakfast room, 
where Mrs. Trevennack had left them. 
They were alone, like lovers. But in the 
drawing-room hard by, Trevennack himself 
was saying to his wife, with a face of sup- 
pressed excitement, " I saw him again to-day, 
Lucy. I saw him again, that devil — in a 
hansom near Paddington. If he stops in 
town, I'm sure I don't know what I'm ever 
to do. I came back from Devonshire, having 
fought the devil hard, as I thought, and 

M 





l62 



I 





conquered him. I felt I'd got him undt^r. 
I felt he was IK) match for me. liut when I 
see that man's face, the devil springs up at 
me again in full force, and grapples with me. 
is he Satan himself.'^ I believe he must be. 
I^'or 1 feel 1 must rush at him and trample 
him under foot, as I trampled him long ago 
on the summit of Niphates." 

In a tremor of alarm Mrs. Trevennack 
held his hand. Oh, what would she ever 
do if the outbreak came . . . before Cleer 
was married ! Shr could see the constant 
strain of holding himself back was growing 
daily more and more difficult for her unhappy 
husband. Indeed, she couldn't bear it her- 
self much longer. If Cleer didn't marry 
soon, Michael would break out openly — 
perhaps would try to murder that poor man 
Tyrrel — and then Eustace would be afraid, 
and all would be up with them. 

By-and-by, Eustace came in to tell them 
the good news. He said nothing about 
Tyrrel, at least by name, lest he should hurt 
Trevennack ; he merely mentioned that a 
friend of his had seen Erasmus Walker that 
day, and that Walker had held out great 






c 
1 

V 
V 



A 



•'"'3 



lem 

)OUt 

lurt 
Lt a 
Ithat 

reat 



hopes of success for him in this \\'harft;tlale 
Viaduct business. Trevennack h'stened with 
a strange mixture of interest and contempt. 
Me was glad the young man was likely to 
get on in his chosen profession— r for Cleer s 
sake, if it would enable them to marry. 
Hut, oh, what a fuss it seemed to him to 
make about such a tritle as a mere bit of a 
valley that one could Hy across in a second — • 
to him who could become 

'* . . . to his proper shape rt'turnt'd 

A seraph winged : six wings he wore, to shade 

His lineaments divine ; the pair that clad 

Each shoulder broad, came mantling o'er his breast 

With regal ornament ; the middle pair 

(iirt like a starry zone his waist, and round 

Skirted his loins and thighs, the third his feet 

Shadowed from either heel with feathered mail." 

And then they talked to ///;;/ about the 
difficulties of building a few hundred yards of 
iron bridge across a miserable valley! Why, 
was it not he and his kind of whom it was 
written that they came 

*' (Hiding through the even 
On a sunbeam, swift as a shooting star 
In autumn thwarts the night? " 

A viaduct, indeed ! A paltry human viaduct ! 




164 





What iicimI, with such as Mm, to talk of 
bridges or viaducts ? 

As Eustace* left that ovcniiij;. Mrs. 
Trcvcnnack followed him out, and beckoned 
him mysteriously itUo the dininjj;-room at the 
side for a minute's conversation. Thi! younj^^ 
man followed her, much wondering what this 
strange move could mean. Mrs. Trevennack 
fell back, half faint, into a chair, and gazed 
at him with a frightened look very rare on 
that brave face of hers. "Oh, Hustace," 
she said hurriedly, "do you know what's 
happened.'* Mr. Tyrrel's in town. Michael 
saw him to-day. He was driving near 
Paddington. Now do you think . 
you could do anything to keep him out of 
Michael's way.'* I dread their meeting. I 
don't know whether you know it, but Michael 
has some grudge against him. For Cleer's 
sake and for yours, do kee[) them apart, I 
beg of you. If they meet, I can't answer for 
what harm may come of it." 

P^ustace was taken aback at her unexpected 
words. Not even to Cleer had he ever 
hinted in any way at the strange disclosure 
Walter Tyrrel made to him that first day at 






•65 



Pciiinorgan. lie hcsitaUnl how to answrr 
her without bctrayinji; his friciul's secret. At 
last h(! said, as cahnly as he could, " 1 guessed, 
to tell you the truth, there was some cause 
of (juarrel. I'll do my very best to keep 
Tyrrel out of th(! way, Mrs. Trevennack, as 
you wish it. Hut I'm afraid h(! won't be 
going down from town for some time to 
come, for hr. told me only to-ilay hv. had 
business at his lawyer's, in Victoria Strt-et, 
Westminster, which might keep him h(;re a 
fortnight. Indeed, I rather doubt whether 
he'll care to go down again until he knows 
for certain, one way or the other, about the 
VVharfedale Viaduct." 

Mrs. Trevennack sank back in her chair, 
very pale and wan. " Oh, what shall we do 
if they meet ? " she cried, wringing her hands 
in despair. " What shall we do if they meet ? 
This is more than I can endure. Eustace, 
Eustace, I shall break down. My burden's 
too heavy for me !" 

The young man leant over her like a son. 
*' Mrs. Trevennack," he said gently, smooth- 
ing her silvery white hair with sympathetic 
fingers, " I think I can keep them apart. I'll 





I 



i66 




I 



I 




speak seriously to Tyrrel about it. He's a 
very good fellow, and he'll do anything I 
ask of him. I'm sure he'll try to avoid falling 
in with your husband. He's my kindest of 
friends ; and he'd cut off his hand to serve 
me. 

One word of sympathy brought tears into 
Mrs. Trevennack's eyes. She looked up 
through them, and took the young man's 
hand in hers. *' It was /le who spoke to 
Erasmus Walker, I suppose," she murmured 
slowly. 

And Eustace, nodding assent, answered, in 
a low voice, "It was he, Mrs. Trevennack. 
He's a dear, good fellow." 

The orphaned mother clasped her hands. 
This was too, too much. And Michael, if 
the fit came upon him, would strangle that 
young man, who was doing his best after all 
for Cleer and Eustace ! 

But that night in his bed Trevennack lay 
awake, chuckling grimly to himself in an 
access of mad triumph. He fancied he was 
fighting his familiar foe, on a tall Cornish 
peak, in archangelic fashion ; and he had van- 
quished his enemy, and was trampling on 



16; 

him furiously. But the face of the fallen 
seraph was not the face of Michael An^elo's 
Satan, as he oftenest figured it — for Michael 
Angelo, his namesake, was one of Treven- 
nack's very chiefest admirations ; — it was the 
face of Walter Tyrrel, who killed his dear 
boy, writhing horribly in the dust, and crying 
for mercy beneath him. 




CHAPTER XIV. 



A T ARM'S LENGTH. 



I 




For three or four weeks Walter Tyrrel re- 
mained in town, awaiting the resuh of the 
Wbarfedale Viaduct competition. With some 
difficulty he raised and paid over meanwhile 
to Firasmus Walker the ten thousand pounds 
of black-mail — for it was little else — agreed 
upon between them. The great engineer 
accepted the money with as little compunc- 
tion as men who earn large incomes always 
display in taking payment for doing nothing. 
It is an enviable state of mind, unattainable 
by most of us who work hard for our living. 
He pocketed his cheque with a smile, as if 
it were quite in the nature of things that 
ten thousand pounds should drop upon him 
from the clouds without rhyme or reason. 
To Tyrrel, on the other hand, with his 
sensitive conscience, the man's greed and 
callousness seemed simply incomprehensible. 



i68 



169 



He stood aghast at such sharp practice. 
But for Cleer's sake, and to ease his own 
soul, he paid it all over without a single 
murmur. 

And then the question came up in his 
mind, " Would it be effectual after all ? 
Would Walker play him false ? Would he 
throw the weight of his influence into some- 
body else's scale ? W^ould the directors sub- 
mit as tamely as he thought to his direc- 
tion or dictation?" It would be hard on 
Tyrrel if, after his spending ten thousand 
pounds without security of any sort, Plustace 
were to miss the chance, and Cleer to go 
unmarried. 

At the end of a month, however, as Tyrrel 
sat one morning in his own room at the 
Metropole, which he mostly frequented, 
Eusta':e le Neve rushed in, full of intense 
excitement. Tyrrel's heart rose in his 
mouth. He grew pale with agitation. The 
question had been decided one way or the 
other he saw. 

" Well ; which is it ? " he gasped out. 
" Hit or miss. Have you got it ? " 

"Yes; I've got it!" Eustace answered, 







170 

half beside himself with delight. ** I've jj^oL 
it ! I've got it ! The chairman and Walker 
have just been round to call on me, and 
congratulate me on my success. Walker 
says my fortune's made. It's a magnificent 
design. And in any case it'll mean work 
for me for the next four years ; after which 
I'll not want for occupation elsewhere. 
So now, of course, I can marry almost 
immediately." 

'• Thank God ! " Tyrrel murmured, falling 
back into his chair as he spoke, and turning 
deadly white. 

He was glad of it, oh, so glad ; and yet, in 
his own heart, it would cost him many pangs 
to see Cleer really married in good earnest 
to Eustace. 

He had worked for it with all his might to 
be sure ; he had worked for it and paid for 
it ; and now he saw his wishes on the very 
eve of fulfilment, the natural man within him 
rose up in revolt against the complete success 
of his own unselfish action. 

As for Mrs. Trevennack, when she heard 
the good news, she almost fainted with joy. 
It might yet be in time. Cleer might be 



171 



married now before poor Micljael broke forth 
in that inevitable paroxysm. 

For inevitable she felt it was at last. As 
each day went by, it grew harder and harder 
for the man to contain himself. Fighting 
desperately against it every hour, immersing 
himself as much as he could in the petty 
fiddling details of the office and the Victual- 
ling Y?.rd so as to keep the fierce impulse 
under due control, Michael Trevennack yet 
found the mad mood within him more and 
more ungovernable with each week that went 
by. As he put it to his own mind he could 
feel his wings growing as if they must burst 
through the skin ; he could feel it harder and 
ever harder as time went on to conceal the 
truth, to pretend he was a mere man, when 
he knew himself to be really the Prince of 
the Archangels, to busy himself about con- 
tracts for pork, and cheese, and biscuits, 
when he could wing his way boldly over 
sea and land, or stand forth before the 
world in gorgeous gear, armed us of yore 
in the adamant and gold of his cekstial 
panoply ! 

So Michael TrevennacR thought in his 










172 

own seething' soul. But that strong, brave 
woman, his wife, bearing her burden unaided, 
and watching him closely day and night with 
a keen eye of mingled love and fear, could 
see that the madness was gaining on him 
gradually. Oftener and oftener now did he 
lose himself in his imagined world ; less and 
less did he tread the solid earth beneath us. 
Mrs. Trevennack had by this time but one 
anxious care left in life — to push on as fast 
as possible Cleer and Eustace's marriage. 

But difficulties intervened, as they always 
will intervene in this work-a-day world of 
ours. First of all there were formalities 
about the appointment itself. Then, even 
when all was arranged, Eustace found he 
had to go north in person, shortly after 
Christmas, and set to work with a will at 
putting his plan into practical shape for con- 
tractor and workmen. And as soon as he 
got there he saw at once he must stick at 
it for six months at least before he could 
venture to take a short holiday for the sake 
of getting married. Engineering is a very 
absorbing trade ; it keeps a man day and 
night at the scene of his labours. Storm or 



^73 



flood at any moment may ruin everything. 
It would be prudent too, I'lustace thought, to 
have laid by a little more for household ex- 
penses, before |)lunging into the unknown 
sea of matrimony ; and though Mrs. Treven- 
nack, Hying full in the face of all matronly 
respect for foresight in young people, urged 
him constantly to marry, money or no money, 
• and never mind about a honeymoon, Eustace 
stuck to his point, and determined to take no 
decisive step till he saw how the work was 
turning out in Wharfedale. It was thus full 
August of the succeeding year before he 
could fix a date definitely ; and then, t(3 
Cleer's great joy, he named a day at last, 
about the beginning of September. 

It was an immense relief to Mrs. Treven- 
nack's mind when, after one or two altera- 
tions, she knew the third was finally fixed 
upon. She had good reasons of her own for 
wishing it to be early ; for the twenty- ninth 
is Michaelmas day, and it was always with 
difficulty that her husband could be pre 
vented from breaking out before the eyes of 
the world on that namesake feast of St. 
Michael and All Angels. For, on that 






«74 

sacred day, vvIilmi in every Church in Chris- 
tendom his importance as the generalissimo 
of the anj^^elic host was remembered and 
commemorated, it seemed hard indeed to 
the seraph in disguise that he must still 
guard his incognito, still go on as usual with 
his petty higgling over corned beef and bis- 
cuits, and the price of jute sacking. " There 
was war in heaven," said the gospel for the 
day — that sonorous gospel Mrs. Trevennack 
so cordially dreaded — for her husband would 
always go to church at morning service, and 
hold himself more erect than was his wont, 
to hear it — " There was war in heaven ; 
Michael and his angels fought against the 
dragon ; and the dragon fought and his 
angels, and prevailed not." And should 
he, who could thus battle against all the 
powers of evil, be held in check any 
longer, as with a leash of straw, by the 
Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty ? 
No, no, he would stand forth in his true 
angelic shape, and show these martinets 
what form they had ignorantly taken for 
mere Michael Trevennack of the Victualling 
Department ! 



*1 I 

1 



175 V 

One thing alone eased Mrs. Trevennack's 
mind through all those weary months of 
waiting and watching : Walter Tyrrel had 
long since gone back again to Penmorgan. 
Her husband had been free from that 
greatest of all temptations, to a mad par- 
oxysm of rage— the sight of the man who, 
as he truly believed, had killed their Michael. 
And now, if only Tyrrel would keep away 
from town till Cleer was married and all 
was settled, — Mrs. Trevennack sighed deep 
— she would almost count herself a happy 
woman ! 

On the day of Cleer's wedding, however, 
Walter Tyrrel came to town. He came on 
purpose. He couldn't resist the temptation 
of seeing with his own eyes the final success 
of his general plan, even though it cost him 
the pang of watching the marriage of the 
one girl he ever truly loved, to another man, 
by his own deliberate contrivance. But he 
didn't forget Eustace le Neve's earnest 
warning, that he should keep out of the 
way of Michael Trevennack. Even without 
Eustace, his own conscience would have 
urged that upon him. The constant burden 





.;6 





of his remorse for that Ijoyish criint! wcij^hed 
hard upon him every hour of every day that 
he lived. He didn't dare on such a morning 
to face the father of the boy he had unwit- 
tingly and half-innocently murdered. 

So. very early, as soon as the church was 
opened, he stole in unobserved, and took a 
J;^ place by himself in the furthest corner of the 
gallery. A pillar concealed him from view ; 
for further security he held his handkerchief 
constantly in front of his face, or shielded 
himself behind one of the big free-seat 
prayer-books. Cleer came in looking beau- 
tiful in her wedding dress ; Mrs. Treven- 
nack's pathetic face glowed radiant for once 
in this final realization of her dearest wishes. 
A single second only, near the end of the 
ceremony, Tyrrel leaned forward incau- 
tiously, anxious to see Cleer at an important 
point of the proceedings. At the very same 
instant Trevennack raised his face. Their 
eyes met in a Hash. Tyrrel drew back, 
horrorstruck, and penitent at his own intru- 
sion at such a critical moment. But, strange 
to say, Trevennack took no overt notice. 
Had his wife only known she would have 



•sunk in her scat in her ao;oi\y of f^Mr. Hut 
happily she ch'cln't know. Tn-vcmiack wciu 
through the CLTCMnony. all outwardly calm ; 
he gave no sign of what he had seen, even 
to his wife herself. He buried it deep in 
his own heart. That made it all the more 
dangerous. 



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CHAPTER XV. 



ST. MICHAEL DOES BATTLE. 




The wedding breakfast went off pleasantly, 
without a hitch of any sort. Trevennack, 
always dignified, and always 2i grand seigneur, 
rose to the occasion with his happiest spirit. 
The silver-haired wife, gazing up at him, felt 
proud of him as of old, and was for once 
quite at her ease. For all was over now, 
thank heaven, and dear Cleer was married ! 

That same afternoon the bride and bride- 
groom started off for their honeymoon to the 
Tyrol and Italy. When Mrs. Trevennack 
was left alone with her husband, it was with 
a thankful heart. She turned to him, flowing 
over in soul with joy. '* Oh, Michael," she 
cried, melting, ** I'm so happy, so happy, so 
happy." 

Trevennack stooped down and kissed her 
forehead tenderly. He had always been a 
good husband, and he loved her with all his 

178 



179 



)wing 
she 

^v, so 



d her 
leen a 
111 his 



heart. ** That's well, Lucy," he answered. 
" Thank God, it's all over. For I can't hold 
out much longer. The strain's too much for 
me." He paused a moment, and looked at 
her. " Lucy," he said once more, clasping 
his forehead with one hand, " I've fought 
against it hard. I'm fighting against it still. 
But at times it almost gets the better of me. 
Do you know who I saw in the church this 
morning, skulking behind a pillar ? — That 
man Walter Tyrrel." 

Mrs. Trevennack gazed at him all aghast. 
This was surely a delusion, a fixed idea, 
an insane hallucination. "Oh, no, dear," 
she cried, prying deep into his eyes. "It 
couldn't be he ; it couldn't. You must be 
mistaken, Michael. I'm sure he's not in 
London." 

" No more mistaken than I am this minute," 
Trevennack answered, rushing over to the 
window, and point ng with one hand eagerly. 
" See, see ! there he is, Lucy — the man that 
killed our poor, dear Michael ! " 

Mrs. Trevennack uttered a little cry, half 
sob, half wail, as she looked out of the win- 
dow, and, under the gas-lamps opposite, 





I 



' 



i8o 








recognised through the mist the form of 
Walter Tyrrel. 

But Trevennack didn't rush out at him, as 
she feared and beHeved he would. He only 
stood still in his place and glared at his 
enemy. " Not now," he said slowly ; " not 
now, on Cleer's wedding day. But some 
other time — more suitable. I hear it in my 
ears ; I hear the voice still ringing : ' Go, 
Michael, of celestial armies prince ! ' I can't 
disobey. I shall go in due time. I shall 
fight the enemy." 

And he sank back in his chair, with his 
eyes staring wildly. 

For the next week or two, while Cleer 
wrote home happy letters from Paris, Inns- 
briick, Milan, Venice, Florence, poor Mrs. 
Trevennack was tortured inwardly with an- 
other terrible doubt ; had Michael's state be- 
come so dangerous at last that he must be 
put under restraint as a measure of public 
security ? For Walter Tyrrel's sake, ought 
she to make his condition known to the world 
at large— and spoil Cleer's honeymoon ? She 
shrank from that final necessity with a deadly 
shrinking. Day after day she put the dis- 



i8i 



of 



covery off, and solaced her soul with the best 
intentions — as what true woman would not ? 

But we know where good intentions go. 
On the morning of the twenty-ninih. which is 
Michaelmas Day, the poor mother rose in 
fear and trembling. Michael, to all outward 
appearance, was as sane as usual. He 
breakfasted, and went down to the office, as 
was his wont. When he arrived there, how- 
ever, he found letters from F'almouth awaiting 
him with bad news. His presence was 
needed at once. He must miss his projected 
visit to St. Michael's, Cornhill. He must go 
down to Cornwall. 

Hailing a cab at the door he hastened back 
to Paddington, just in time for the Cornish 
express. This was surety a call. The words 
rang in his ears louder and clearer than ever, 
'* Go, Michael, of celestial armies prince ! " 
He would go and obey them. He would 
trample under foot this foul fiend that mas- 
queraded in human shape as his dear boy's 
murderer. He would wield once more that 
huge two-handed sword, brandished aloft, 
wide-wasting, in unearthly w-arfare. He 
would come out in his true shape before 




I 




182 

heaven and earth as the chief of the Arch- 
angels. 

Stepping into a first-class comT)artment, he 
found himself, unluckily for his present mood, 
alone. All the way down to Exeter the fit 
was on him. He stood up in the carriage, 
swaying his unseen blade, celestial temper 
fine, and rolling forth in a loud voice Miltonic 
verses of his old encounters in heaven with 
the powers of darkness. 

" Now waved their fiery swords, and in the air 
Made horrid circles ; two broad suns their shields 
Blazed opposite, while expectation stood 
In horror." 




He mouthed out the lines in a perfect ecstasy 
of madness. It was delightful to be alone. 
He could give his soul full vent. He knew 
he was mad. He knew he was an arch- 
angel. 

And all the way down he repeated to him- 
self many times over, that he would trample 
under foot that base fiend Walter Tyrrel. 
Satan has many disguises ; squat like a toad, 
close at the ear of Eve, he sat in Paradise ; 
for 



>83 



(( 



. . spirits as they please 
Can limb themselves, and colour, or size assume 
As likes them best, condense or rare."' 

If he himself, Michael, prince of celestial 
hosts, could fit his angelic majesty to the like- 
ness of a man, Trevennack — could not Satan 
meet him on his own ground, and try to 
thwart him as of old in the likeness of a 
man, Walter Tyrrel — his dear boy's mur- 
derer. 

As far as Exeter this was his one train of 
thought. But from there to Plymouth new 
passengers got in. They turned the current. 
Treveniack changed his mind rapidly. An- 
other mood came over him. His wife's 
words struck him Vciguely in some tenderer 
place. " Fight the devil within you, Michael. 
Fight him there, and conquer him." That 
surely was fitter far for an angelic nature. 
That foeman was worthier his celestial steel. 
" Turn homeward, Angel, now, and melt with 
ruth ! " Not his to do vengeance on the man 
Walter Tyrrel. Not his to play the divine 
part of vindicator. In his madness even 
Trevennack was magnanimous. Leave the 
creature to the torment of his own guilty soul. 








I 




1 




184 

Do angels care for thrusts of such as he ? 
Tautceiic auiuiis avlcstibus irce ? 

At IvybridL;e station the train slowed, and 
then stopped. Trevennack, accustomed to 
the Cornish express, noted the stoppage with 
surprise. "We're not down to pull up here! " 
he said quickly to the guard. 

" No, sir," the guard answered, touching 
his cap with marked respect, for he knew the 
Admiralty official well. " Signals are against 
us. Line's blocked as far as Plymouth." 

"I'll get out here, then," Trevennack said, 
in haste ; and the guard opened the door. A 
new idea had rushed suddenly into the mad- 
man's head. This was St. Michael's day — 
his own day ; and there was St. Michael's 
Tor — his own tor — full in sight before him. 
He would go up there this very evening, and 
before the eyes of all the world, in his celestial 
armour — taking Lucy's advice — do battle 
with and quell this fierce devil within him. 

No sooner thought than done. Fiery hot 
within, he turned out of the gate, and as the 
shades of autumn evening began to fall, 
walked swiftly up the moor towards the tor 
and the uplands. 



i8 



As he walked, his heart heat to a HltliiL^^ 
rhythm within him. "Go, Michael, of 
celestial armies prince! — Go, Michael! — Go, 
Michael! Go, Michael, of celestial armies 
prince !- Go, Michael ! — Go, Michael ! " 

The moor was draped in fog. It was a 
still, damp evening. Swirling clouds rolled 
slowly up, and lifted at times, and disclosed 
the peaty hollows, the high tors, the dusky 
heather. But Trevennack stumbled on. o'er 
i^og or steep, through strait, rough, dense, or 
rare, as chance might lead him, clambering 
ever towards his goal, now seen, now invisi- 
ble — the great stack of wild rock that crowned 
the grey undulating moor to northward. 
Often he missed his way ; often he floundered 
for a while in deep ochreous bottoms, up to 
his knees in soft slush ; but with some strange, 
mad instinct he wandered on nevertheless, 
and slowly drew near the high point he was 
aiming at. 

By this time it was pitch dark. The sun 
had set, and fog obscured the starlight. But 
Trevennack, all on fire, wandered madly for- 
ward, and scaled the rocky tor by the well- 
known path, guided not by sight, but by pure 




i 




iS6 




"■* 



•ih\*\\\\ 



' i,* 1 ,v^ S%' , < 



^ 



instinctive ^ropin^. In his |)r(.!S('nt exalted 
state, iiuleeil, lie had no need of eyes. What 
matters earthly darkness to ang(;Hc feet ? Hv. 
could pick his own way through the gloom, 
though all th(! fiends from he^ll in serried 
phalanx hrok*^ loose to thwart him. He 
would reach the top at last ; reach the top ; 
reach the top, and there fight that old ser- 
pent who lay in wait to destroy him. 

At last he gained the peak, and stood with 
feet firmly planted on the little rocky platform. 
Now, Satan, come on ! Ha, traitor, come, 
if you dare ! Your antagonist is ready fc^r 
you ! 

Cr'r'r'k ! as he stood there, waiting, a ter- 
rible shock brought him to himself all at once 
with startling suddenness. Trevennack drew 
back, aghast and appalled. Even in his mad 
exaltation, this strange assault astonished him. 
He had expected a struggle, indeed : he had 
expected a conflict ; but with a spiritual foe ; 
to meet his adversary in so bodily a form as 
this, wholly startled and surprised him. For 
it was a fierce earthly shock he received upon 
his right leg, as he mounted the rocky plat- 
form. Satan had been lying in wait for him. 



1 87 



th(Mi ! (^xpcctinpj him ! vvaylayiiifi; him ! and 
in corporeal prt.'scnct: too ! T'or this was a 
spear of good stcc.'l ! This was a solid Thiiij^ 
that assaulted him as he rose— assaulted him 
with frantic rage, and uncontrollable fury ! 

I^'or a moment Trevennack was stunned — 
the sharpness of the pain and the suddenness 
of the attack took both breath and sense 
away from him. He stood there, one instant, 
irresolute, before he knew how to comport 
himself. l^ut before he could make up his 
mind — cr'r'k, a second time — the Presence 
had assailed him again, fighting with deadly 
force, and in a white heat of frenzy. Tre- 
vennack had no leisure to think what this 
portent might mean. Man or fiend, it was 
a life-and-death struggle now between them. 
He stood face to face at last in mortal conflict 
with his materialised enemy. What form the 
Evil Thing had assumed to suit his present 
purpose Trevennack knew not, nor did he 
even care. Stung with pain and terror, he 
rushed forward blindly upon his enraged 
assailant, and closed with him at once, tooth 
and nail, in a deadly grapple. 

A more terrible battle man and brute never 





'i I 



I 



Hi 





iSS 

foiij^hl. Tn-'vcniiiu k had no sword, no celes- 
tial panoply. Hut he could wn'stlc like a 
Cornishnian. lie nnisi trample his foe under 
fool, then, in this (inal sirujj^^de, by sheer 
force of stroni^ thews and strained muscles 
alone. He fouj^ht the Criiatiire as it stood, 
liin^inj.; his arms round it wildly. The Thinj^ 
s(!emed to rear itself as if on cloven hoofs. 
Trc^vennack seized it round the waist, and 
^rasj)ing it hard in an iron s.;rip, clung to it 
with all thi! wiKl energy of madness. Yield, 
Satan, yield ! IVut still the Creature eluded 
him. Once more it drew back a pace - he felt 
its hot breath, he smelt its hateful smell — and 
prepart;d to rush again at him. Trevennack 
bent down to receive its onslaught, crouching. 
The Creature burst full tilt on him, — it almost 
threw him over. Trevennack caught it in 
his horror and awe — caught it bodily by the 
horns, — for horned it seemed to be, as well 
as cloven-footed — and by sheer force of arm 
held it off from him an elbow's length one 
mii.ute. The Thing struggled and reared 
again. Yes, yes, it was Satan — he felt him 
all over now — a devil undisguised — but 
Satan, rather in mediaeval than in Miltonic 



fashion. I lis skin was rou^h and hairy as a 
satyr's; his odour was foul; his fcrt were 
cleft; his horns sharu and tcrrilile. He 
{]un^ him from him horrified. 

Ouick as lightning tht; demon rose a^ain, 
and tilted fiercely at him once more, it was 
a death-fij^ht between thost; two for u. a 
rocky |)latform. Should Satan thus usurp St. 
Michael's Tor .'^ Ten thousand times, no! 
Yiekl, yield ! No surrender ! I''ach knew 
the ground well, and even in the dark and in 
the mad heat of the conflict, each carefully 
avoitled the steep edge of the j)reci|)ice. But 
the fiend knew it best, aj)parently. He had 
been lying in a snug nook, under lee of a big 
rock, sharpening his sword on its side, before 
Trevennack came up there. Against tiiis 
rock he took his stand, firm as a rock himself, 
and seemed to defy his enemy's arms to dis- 
lodge him from his position. 

Trevennack's hands and legs were stream- 
ing now with blood. His left arm was sorely 
wounded. His thumb hung useless. But 
with the strange energy of madness he con- 
tinued the desperate conHict against his 
unseen foe. Never should Michael turn and 




i 



^..■.•■V?" •^\t•*,.•U^*K^•^■,t:.^.fit.'»lkf•^l^K^.:f.■,^.y^tJu>ty.^..fJ^,Jt^ 




I90 





yield to the deadly assaults of the Evil One ! 
He rushed on blindly once more, and the 
Adversary stooped to oppose him. Again, a 
terrible shock : it almost broke both his knees ; 
but by sheer strength of nerve he withstood 
it, still struggling. Then they closed in a final 
grapple. It was a tooth-and-nail conflict. 
They fought one another with every weapon 
they possessed ; each hugged each in their 
fury ; they tilted, and tore, and wrestled, and 
bit, and butted. Trevennack's coat was in 
ribbons, his arm was ripped and bleeding ; 
but he grasped the Adversary still, he fought 
blindly to the end : Down, Satan ; I defy 
thee ! 

It was a lonqf, fierce fight ! At last, bit by 
bit, the Enemy began to yield. Trevennack 
had dashed him against the crag time after 
time, like a log, till he too was torn and hurt 
and bleeding. His flesh was like pulp. He 
could endure the unequal fight no longer. 
He staggered and gave way. A great joy 
ro e up tremulous in Trevennack's heart. 
Even without his celestial sword, then, he 
had vanquished his enemy. He seized the 
Creature round the middle, dragged it, a 



191 



dead weight, in his weary arms, to the edge 
of the precipice, and dropped it, feebly resist- 
ing, on to the bare rock beneath him. 

Victory ! Victory ! Once more, a great vic- 
tory ! 

He stood on the brink of the tor, and 
poised himself, as if for flight, in his accus- 
tomed attitude. But he was faint from loss 
of blood, and his limbs shook under him. A 
light seemed to break before his blinded eyes. 
Victory ! Victory ! It was the light from 
heaven ! He stared forward to welcome it. 
The brink of the precipice ? What was that 
to such as he ? He would spread his wings 
— for once — at last — thus ! thus ! and fly for- 
ward on full pinions to his expected triumph ! 

He raised both arms above his head, and 
spread them out as if for flight. His knees 
trembled fearfully. His fingers quivered. 
Then he launched himself on the air and fell. 
His eyes closed half-way. He lost conscious- 
ness. He fainted. Before he had reached 
the bottom, he was wholly insensible. 

Next day it was known before noon in 
London that a strange and inexplicable acci- 



■.•K.-f,.,!!:^,,!/.-)^,-: 





' 192 




N>^l^ 




'\. 







dent had befallen Mr. Michael Trevennack, 
C.M.G., the well-known Admiralty official, 
on the moor near Ivybridge. Mr. Treven- 
nack, it seemed, had started by the Cornish 
express for Falmouth, on official business ; 
but the line being blocked between Ivybridge 
and Plymouth, he had changed his plans, and 
set out to walk, as was conjectured, by a 
devious path across the moor to Tavistock. 
Deceased knew the neighbourhood well, and 
was an enthusiastic admirer of its tors and 
uplands. But fog coming on, the unfortunate 
ij^entleman, it was believed, had lost his way, 
and tried to shelter himself for a time behind 
a tall peak of rock which he used frequently 
to visit during his summer holidays. There 
he was apparently attacked by a savage moor- 
land ram — one of that wild breed of moun- 
tain sheep peculiar to Dartmoor, and famous 
for the strength and ferocity often displayed 
by the fathers of the flock. Mr. Trevennack 
was unarmed, and a terrible fight appeared 
to have taken place between these ill-matched 
antagonists on the summit of the rocks, full 
details of which, the telegram said, in its curt 
business-like way, were too ghastly for publi- 



^93 

cation. After a long and exhausting struggle, 
however, the combatants must either have 
slipped on the wet surface, and tumbled over 
the edge of the rocks together in a deadly 
grapple : or else, as seemed more probable 
from the positions in which the bodies were 
found, the unhappy gentleman had just suc- 
ceeded in flinging his assailant over, and then, 
faint from loss of blood, had missed his foot- 
ing, and fallen beside his dead antagonist. 
At any rate, when the corpse was discovered 
life had been extinct for several hours ; and 
it was the opinion of the medical authorities 
who conducted the post-mortem that death 
was due not so much to the injuries themselves 
as to asphyxiation in the act of falling. 

^ W W T\- 

The, jury found it " Death from accidental 
circumstances " Cleer never knew more than 
that her father had met his end by walking 
over the edge of a cliff on Dartmoor. 

# * # # 

But when the body came home for burial, 
Dr. Yate-Westbury looked in, by Mrs. Tre- 
vennack's special request, and performed an 

o 






^=5a^fe^^£a/ 



. 194 

informal and private examination of the brain 
and nervous system. At the close of the 
autopsy, he came down to the drawing-room, 
where the silver-haired lady sat pale and 
tearful, but courageous. "It is just as I 
thought," he said ; " a clot of blood, due to 
external injury, has pressed for years above 
the left frontal region, causing hallucinations, 
and irregularities of a functional character 
only. You needn't have the slightest fear of 
its proving hereditary. It's as pureb' acci- 
dental as a sprain or a wound. Your 
daughter, Mrs. Le Neve, couldn't possibly 
suffer for it' 

And neither Cleer nor Le Neve nor any one 
else ever shared that secret of Trevennack's 
delusions with his wife and the doctor. 



/^lOOO. A few thousand-pound 
^ Bank of England Notes cut in two and 
re-joined with Stickphast Paste will support a 
big and heavy man for the remainder of his 
natural life. 



'k 



I i 

% 1 



Maybe there's another good one overleaf. 



\l 



WHA'IV" 
" I nay that Ellen Terry " 

*' Yes, yes, yo i ve said that Ellen Terry uses 
nothing else for slicking papers together, but 
74'/ia/ docs she uso ? " 

" Why Stickhhast I'as'i k of course ! " 



i 



Did yon miss the one on the other side t 



^ 



t 



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