King of the Castle

Volume Three – Chapter Thirteen.

A Strange Wooing

Chris Lisle heard the news without showing the slightest emotion, and as soon as he was alone he sat down and wrote as follows: —

“I pray God that you may be happy.

“Chris Lisle.”

That was all, and he dropped it into the post-box himself, turned back to meet Trevithick on his way to the Fort, nodded to him and went straight to his room, where he stood for a few moments in silence.

“Yes,” he said slowly and solemnly, “I pray God that you may be happy.”

Then, after a pause:

“But,” he cried, with terrible earnestness, “if – ”

There was another pause in which he silently continued that which he might have said. Then, with a fierce light flashing from his eyes, he clenched his hands and said in a whisper more startling than the loudest words —

“I’ll kill him as I would some venomous beast.”

He threw himself into a chair and sat looking white and changed for quite an hour before he rose up and drew a long deep breath.

“Dead!” he said softly; “dead! Now, then, to bear it – like a man – and show no sign.”

There was a gentle tap at the door.

“May I come in, sir, please?”

“Eh? Oh yes, Mrs Sarson. What is it?”

“I was going to – Oh my dear, dear boy!”

The poor woman caught his hand in hers, and kissed it, as her tears fell fast.

“Why, Mrs Sarson,” he said, smiling, “what’s the matter?”

“Oh, my dear,” she said; “you haven’t lived here with me all these years from quite a boy as you were, without me feeling just like a mother to you. And you so alone in the world. I know what trouble you’re in, and what you must feel; and it hurts me too.”

“There, there. You’re a good soul,” he said. “But that’s all over. Why, I’ve had the aching tooth taken out, and I’m quite a new man now.”

“Oh, my dear – my dear!”

“I’m off for a few hours’ fishing, and I shall want a good meat tea about six. I sha’n’t be later.”

He nodded cheerfully, and took his creel and rod from the passage, Mrs Sarson hurrying to the window, and watching till he was out of sight, “Ah!” she said, shaking her head; “but it don’t deceive me. I’ve read of them as held their hands in the fire till they were burned away; and he’s a martyr, too, as would do it, without making a sign. But he can’t deceive me.”

Meanwhile Trevithick had gone up to the Fort to see Claude about certain business matters connected with the quarry, and with the full intent to ask her a few questions about the missing money in spite of her former words; but on his way that morning he had heard startling news, which made his face look peculiarly serious, and he said to himself —

“Well, it was her father’s wish, but if I don’t make the tightest marriage settlements ever drawn up I’m not an honest man.”

He was admitted by Sarah Woodham, and shown into the library, where, quite at home, he took his seat, unlocked his black bag, and began to arrange a number of endorsed papers, tied up with red tape.

“Mrs Woodham does not seem to approve of the wedding,” he said to himself. “Not a cheerful woman.”

Then he looked round the room, and in imagination searched Gartram’s safe and cash receptacles for the hundredth time.

“No,” he said, giving one ear a vicious rub, “I can’t get it that way. It was someone who knew him and his ways pretty well stole that money, or there would have been some record left. All those thousands short. He never omitted keeping account of even trifling sums.”

“And Miss Dillon does not approve of the wedding,” he said to himself as Mary entered, her eyes plainly showing that she had been weeping.

“Good-morning,” she said, taking the chair placed for her with heavy courtesy. “My cousin is unwell, Mr Trevithick, and cannot see you. Will you either come over again or state your business to me?”

“I shall be only too glad,” he said, smiling.

“I thought you would,” replied Mary. “Of course you will make a charge for this journey.”

Trevithick looked at her aghast; and then flushed and perspired.

“I said I should be only too glad to discuss the business with you, Miss Dillon,” he said stiffly.

“No, you did not, Mr Trevithick.”

“I beg pardon. That is what I meant.”

“Oh! then please go on.”

“Why will she always be so sharp with me?” thought the lawyer, as he looked across the table wistfully.

“Yes, Mr Trevithick? I am all attention.”

“Yes; of course,” he said, suddenly becoming very business-like, for he could deal with her then. “The little matters of business can wait, or perhaps you could take the papers up for Miss Gartram’s signature.”

“Yes; of course,” said Mary, sharply. “Where are they?”

“Here,” he said, quietly; “but there is one, I might say two things, I should like Miss Gartram’s opinion upon. Will you tell her, please?”

“Do speak a little faster, Mr Trevithick, I have a great deal to do this morning.”

“I beg your pardon. Will you please tell Miss Gartram that I am, in spite of her commands, much exercised in mind about that missing money. Tell her, please, that I have studied it from every point of view, and I am compelled to say that it is her duty to Mr Gartram deceased – that most exact of business men – to instruct me to make further inquiries into the matter.”

“It would be of no use, Mr Trevithick. I am sure your cousin would not allow it. Is that all?”

“Will you not appeal to her from me?”

“No. I am sure she would not listen to any such suggestion. Now, is that all?”

Mary spoke in a quick, excited way, as if she wanted to get out of the room, and yet wished to stay.

“Well – no,” he answered softly, as he kept on taking up and laying down his papers in different order.

“Mr Trevithick!”

“Pray, give me time, Miss Dillon,” he protested. “The fact is I have heard very important news this morning.”

“Of course you have. You mean about my cousin’s approaching marriage.”

“Then it is true?”

“Of course it is.”

Trevithick sighed.

“Well, Mr Trevithick, is that all?”

“No, madam, I may say that I am very sorry.”

“Well, is that all?” cried Mary, impatiently.

“No. As the late Mr Gartram’s trusted, confidential adviser, I was aware that this was his wish, but, all the same, I am deeply grieved.”

“Of course, and so is everybody else,” said Mary passionately. “I mean,” she said, checking herself, “it seems sad for it to be so soon. That is all, I suppose.”

“No, Miss Dillon; this being so I should have liked to discuss with Miss Gartram the question of the settlements. I presume, as she has continued to trust me as her father trusted me, that she would wish me to see to all the legal matters connected with her fortune.”

“What a stupid question. Why, of course.”

“Well, forgive me; hardly a stupid question. Perhaps too retiring – for a lawyer.”

“Mr Trevithick, you are not half decided and prompt enough. Well, then; my cousin anticipated all this, and said, ‘tell Mr Trevithick to do what is right and just, and that I leave myself entirely in his hands. Tell him to do what he would have done had my father been alive.’”

“Ah!” said the lawyer slowly. “Yes; then I will proceed at once. It is a great responsibility, as Miss Gartram has neither relative nor executor to whom she could appeal. A very great responsibility, but I will do what is just and right in her interest, tying down her property as under the circumstances should be done.”

“Do – do Mr Trevithick – dear Mr Trevithick, pray do,” cried Mary, starting from her seat, and advancing to the table – her old, sharp manner gone, and an intense desire to hasten the lawyer’s proposals flashing from her eyes.

“I will,” he said firmly; and he held out his hand. “You will trust me, Mary Dillon, as your cousin trusts me?”

“Indeed, I will,” she said eagerly, and she placed her thin little white hand in his.

“Hah!” he ejaculated with a long expiration of the breath; and his great hand closed and prisoned the little one laid therein. “You told me just now that I was not decided and prompt enough.”

“Yes, I did. But you are holding my hand very tightly, Mr Trevithick.”

“Yes,” he said quietly, “I am. That is because you are wrong. I am very decided and prompt sometimes, and I am going to be now. Mary Dillon, will you be my wife?”

“What!” she cried, flushing scarlet, and struggling to release her hand, as her eyes flashed and seemed to be reading him through and through. “Absurd!”

“No – no,” he said gravely; “don’t say that, even if my way and manner are absurd.”

“I did not mean that,” she cried quickly. “I meant to – Oh, it is absurd!” she said again, though her heart was throbbing violently, and she struggled vainly to withdraw her hand. “Look at me – weak, misshapen, pitiful. Mr Trevithick, you are mad.”

“Don’t try to take your hand away,” he said slowly; it makes me afraid of hurting you; and don’t speak again like that – you hurt me very – very much.

“But, Mr Trevithick! It is too dreadful. I cannot – I must not listen to you.”

“Why? You are quite free; and you are not an heiress.”

“I!” she cried bitterly. “No; I have nothing but a pitiful few hundred pounds. Now you know the truth. Do you hear me? I am a pauper, dependent on my cousin’s charity.”

“I am very glad,” he said, gazing at her thoughtfully, and still speaking in his slow and deliberate way. “I was afraid that perhaps you had money of which I did not know. But you will say ‘yes’?”

“No; impossible. Are you blind? Look at me.”

“I might say, ‘Look at me,’” he retorted, with a frank, honest laugh, which lit up his countenance pleasantly. “I wish you could look at me as I do at you, and see there something that you could love. Yes,” he said, his genuine passion making him speak fluently and well; “for all these long, long months, Mary, I have always had your sweet, earnest eyes before me, and your clever, bright face. I have seemed to listen to your voice, and sometimes I have been sad as I have asked myself what a woman could find in me to love.”

“Ah!” ejaculated the trembling girl.

“And I’ve felt that, when you have said all those many sharp, hard things to me, that they were not quite real, and when your words have been most cruel, I’ve dared to fancy that your eyes seemed to be sorry that your tongue could be so bitter.”

“Mr Trevithick, pray!”

“And then I’ve hoped and waited, and thought of what you were.”

“Yes,” said Mary bitterly, as she made a gesture with one hand.

“Bah!” he cried, “what of that? An accident when you were a child. I would not have you different for worlds. I want those two dear eyes to look into mine, true and trustful and clever. You, to whom I can come home from my work for help and counsel, to be everything to me – my wife. Mary dear, in my slow and clumsy way I love you very dearly, and your cousin’s wedding has brought it all out. I didn’t think I could make love like that.”

He took her other hand, and gazed at her very fondly as she stood by his side, with the tears streaming down her cheeks.

“You are not angry with me, dear?”

“No,” she said gently; “I am sorry.”

“Why?”

“For you. See how the world will sneer.”

“What!” he cried eagerly. “Then you will?”

She looked at him searchingly, as if a lingering doubt were there, and a shadow of suspicion were making her try to see if he was truly in earnest.

“No, no,” she said, as a sob burst from her lips; “it is impossible.” And she struggled hard to get away.

“Impossible!” he said, as he tightened his grasp. “Tell me one thing, Mary. You knew I loved you?”

She nodded quickly.

“And – you don’t think me ridiculous?”

“I think you the truest, most honest gentleman I ever saw,” she sobbed; “but – ”

“Ah!” he said, with a pleasant little satisfied laugh, “that settles it, then. The impossibility has gone like smoke. Mary dear, I never hoped to be so happy as you have made me now.”

His great arms enfolded her for a moment, during which she lay panting on his breast, then, struggling to free herself, she caught and kissed one of his hands.

“Hah!” he ejaculated, “now we must think of some one else.”

He led her gently back to her chair, and bent down to kiss her forehead. Then, returning to his seat as calmly as if nothing had happened —

“I can talk freely to you now, Mary,” he said. “Is not this a great mistake?”

“Yes,” she said, with an arch look, full of her newly-found joy.

“No, no; you know what I mean. We must be very serious now. I don’t like this Mr Glyddyr.”

“I hate him,” cried Mary.

“Well, that’s honest,” he said, smiling. “But it was her father’s wish, and I suppose it is to be.”

“Yes; it is to be. Nothing would turn her now.”

John Trevithick did not say, “And is this to be soon?” but he thought it, and set the idea aside.

“No,” he said to himself; “we must wait.” And soon after, calm, quiet and business-like, he went away to draw up the marriage settlements tightly on Claude’s behalf, and wandered whether he could ever manage to trace that missing cash.

He took out a pocket-book, and turned to a certain page covered with figures, and ran it down.

“Only a few of these notes have reached the bank. Well, some day I may come upon a clue in a way I least expect.

“Impossible, eh?” he said, with a smile of content. “Bless her sweet eyes! I won’t believe in the impossible now.”

Volume Three – Chapter Fourteen.

“And this is being Married.”

“You are sure you don’t mind me talking about it, sir?”

“Mind! Oh, no, Mrs Sarson, say what you like.”

“Well, you see, sir, even if one is a widow and growing old, one can’t help feeling interested in weddings. I suppose it’s being a woman. Everybody’s dreadfully disappointed.”

“Indeed,” said Chris coldly.

“And, yes, indeed, sir. No big party; no wedding breakfast and cake; no going away in chaises and fours. If poor Mr Gartram had been alive, it wouldn’t have been like this. Why, do you know, sir, the quarry folk were getting ready powder and going to fire guns, and make a big bonfire on the cliffs; but Mr Trevithick, the lawyer, went to them with a message from Miss Claude, sir, asking for them to do nothing; and they’re just going to the church and back to the big house, and not even going away.”

“Indeed!”

“Oh, yes, sir, and I did hear that Miss Claude actually wanted to be married in black, but Miss Mary Dillon persuaded her not. I heard it on the best of authority, sir.”

Chris made no reply, and, finding no encouragement, Mrs Sarson cleared her lodger’s breakfast things away, and left the room.

The moment he was alone, Chris started from his chair to stand with his back to the light; his teeth set hard and fists clenched as a spasm of mental agony for the moment mastered him.

“No,” he said, after a few moments, with a bitter laugh, “this won’t do. What is it to me? I can bear it now like a man. She shall see how indifferent I am.”

For it was the morning of the ill-starred wedding – a morning in which Nature seemed to be in the mood to make everything depressing, for the wind blew hard, bringing from the Atlantic a drenching shower, through which, with Gellow for his best man, Glyddyr would have to drive to the little church. Meanwhile, he was having so severe a shivering fit at the hotel where he had been staying, that his companion had become alarmed, and suggested calling in the doctor.

“Bah! nonsense! Ring for some brandy.”

“And I’ll take a flask to the church,” said Gellow to himself, “or the brute will breakdown. We’re going to have a jolly wedding seemingly. Only wants that confounded Frenchwoman to get scent of it, and come down, and then we should be perfect.”

“That’s better,” said Gellow, after the brandy had been brought. “But what a day! What a cheerful lookout! I say, Glyddyr, am I dreaming? Is it a wedding this morning or a funeral?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it looks more like the latter. I say: Young Lisle won’t come and have a pop at you in the church?”

Glyddyr turned ghastly.

“You – you don’t think – ”

“Bah! My chaff. You are out of sorts; on your wedding-day, too. Hold hard with that brandy, or it will pop you off, and not Lisle. Steady, man, steady.”

“Gellow, it’s all over,” gasped the miserable man. “I shall never be able to go through with it.”

“Oh, if I can only get this morning over,” said Gellow to himself; and then aloud —

“Nonsense, my dear boy, you’re a bit nervous, that’s all. I suppose a man is when he’s going to be married. You’re all right. Come, have a devilled kidney or a snack of something. You don’t eat enough.”

“Eat?” said Glyddyr, with a shudder. “No; I seem to have no appetite now.”

“Come on, and let’s get it over. Here’s the carriage waiting. Steady, man, steady. No; not a drop more.”

“The carriage is at the door, sir,” said the waiter; and striving hard to be firm, and to master a tremulous sensation about his knees, Glyddyr walked out into the hall, where a buzzing sound that was heard suddenly ceased till the pair were in the carriage, from whose roof the rain was streaming. Then, after banging too the door, the waiter dashed back under shelter, the dripping horses started off, and the carriage disappeared in the misty rain.

“Looks as if he was going to execution,” said the man, with a laugh, as he dabbed the top of his head with his napkin. “Well, it do rain to-day.”

At the Fort everything had gone on that morning in a calm, subdued way that seemed to betoken no change. Claude came down to breakfast as usual, and sat looking dreamily before her, while Mary, red-eyed and sorrowful, had not the heart to speak.

Trevithick had slept there the previous night, and was the only guest, for Doctor Asher had declined to be present, on the score of professional calls.

“I’m afraid there is very little chance of its holding up,” said Trevithick, when they rose from the scarcely-touched breakfast.

“No, Mr Trevithick,” said Claude quietly. “I think we shall have a very wet day. Mary, dear, we must take our waterproofs. It is fifty yards from the lych-gate to the church door. Isn’t it time we went up to dress?”

She moved towards the door, but came back, and held out her hand to the lawyer.

“Forgive me for being so absent and strange with you,” she said, with a faint smile. “You have been very good and kind to me, but I dare say you think all this odd and unnatural.”

“Oh, no; not at all,” said Trevithick, colouring like a girl.

“It was the only thing in which I asked to have my way – to let the wedding be perfectly quiet. Don’t be long, Mary.”

Trevithick looked at his little betrothed as the door closed, and she looked up at him.

“I say, Mary, dear,” he said, “is she quite – you know what I mean. I feel almost as if I ought to interfere.”

“Oh, John, John,” cried the little thing, bursting into a passionate fit of weeping; “if we could only stop it even now!”

She sobbed on his breast for a few seconds, and then hastily wiped her eyes.

“There, I’m better now,” she said. “I’ve talked to her till I’m tired, but it’s of no use. ‘It’s my duty’ is all she will say. Oh! why did people ever invent the horrid word. Don’t say anything, John, dear. Let’s get it over, and hope for the best; but if there’s any chance of our wedding being like this, let’s shake hands like Christians, forgive one another, and say good-bye.”

She ran out of the room, and Trevithick sat watching the rain trickle down the window-panes, and tried to follow the course of a big ship struggling up Channel, its storm topsails dimly seen through the mist of rain.

“I wouldn’t be on that ship for all I’ve saved,” he said, shaking his head. “Looks as if there was going to be a wreck.

“So there is,” he said, after a pause, “a social wreck, and I’m going to assist. No, I’m not. I’m looking after the salvage. Poor girl! Gartram must have been mad.”

His meditations were broken in upon by the sound of wheels. Half-an-hour later the door was thrown open.

“Now, Mr Trevithick, please,” said Mary; and he hurried into the hall to find Claude ready and looking very calm and composed.

“Good-bye,” she was saying to first one and then another of the maids, who, catching the contagion, burst into tears.