MICHAEL'S CRAG

BY

GRANT ALLEN

AUTHOR OF"WHAT'S BRED IN THE BONE, " "TENTS OP SHEM, ""IN ALL SHADES, " ETC. 

With over Three Hundred and Fifty IllustrationsIn Silhouette

BY

FRANCIS CARRUTHERS GOULD

AND

ALEC CARRUTHERS GOULD

CHICAGO AND NEW YORK:

1893

CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER. 

I. A CORNISH LANDLORD

II. TREVENNACK

III. FACE TO FACE

IV. TYRREL'S REMORSE

V. A STRANGE DELUSIONVI. PURE ACCIDENT

VII. PERIL BY LAND

VIII. SAFE AT LAST

IX. MEDICAL OPINION

X. A BOLD ATTEMPT

XI. BUSINESS IS BUSINESS

XII. A HARD BARGAIN

XIII. ANGEL AND DEVIL

XIV. AT ARM'S LENGTH

XV. ST. MICHAEL DOES BATTLE

CHAPTER I. 

A CORNISH LANDLORD. 

"Then you don't care for the place yourself, Tyrrel?" Eustace Le Nevesaid, musingly, as he gazed in front of him with a comprehensiveglance at the long gray moor and the wide expanse of black and stormywater. 

"It's bleak, of course; bleak and cold, I grant you; all this uplandplateau about the Lizard promontory seems bleak and cold everywhere;but to my mind it has a certain wild and weird picturesqueness of itsown for all that. It aims at gloominess. I confess in its own way Idon't dislike it. "

"For my part, " Tyrrel answered, clinching his hand hard as he spoke, and knitting his brow despondently, "I simply hate it. If I wasn't thelandlord here, to be perfectly frank with you, I'd never come nearPenmorgan. 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'smine, why, I must put up with it, I suppose, and live upon it in spiteof myself. But I do it against the grain. The whole place, if I tellyou the truth, is simply detestable to me. "

He leaned on his stick as he spoke, and looked down gloomily at theheather. A handsome young man, Walter Tyrrel, of the true Cornishtype--tall, dark, poetical-looking, with pensive eyes and a thickblack mustache, which gave dignity and character to his otherwisealmost too delicately feminine features. And he stood on the open moorjust a hundred yards outside his own front door at Penmorgan, on theLizard peninsula, looking westward down a great wedge-shaped gap inthe solid serpentine rock to a broad belt of sea beyond without a shipor a sail on it. The view was indeed, as Eustace Le Neve admitted, asomewhat bleak and dreary one. For miles, as far as the eye couldreach, on either side, nothing was to be seen but one vast heather-clad upland, just varied at the dip by bare ledges of dark rock and asingle gray glimpse of tossing sea between them. A little farther on, to be sure, winding round the cliff path, one could open up a gloriousprospect on either hand over the rocky islets of Kynance and MullionCove, with Mounts Bay and Penzance and the Land's End in the distance. That was a magnificent site--if only his ancestors had had the senseto see it. But Penmorgan House, like most other Cornish landlords'houses, had been carefully placed--for shelter's sake, no doubt--in aseaward hollow where the view was most restricted; and the outlook onegot from it, over black moor and blacker rocks, was certainly by nomeans of a cheerful character. Eustace Le Neve himself, most cheeryand sanguine of men, just home from his South American railway-laying, and with the luxuriant vegetation of the Argentine still fresh in hismind, was forced to admit, as he looked about him, that the positionof his friend's house on that rolling brown moor was far from asmiling 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 uponthe cove; "and you must surely have found it pleasant enough then, what with the bathing and the fishing and the shooting and theboating, and all the delights of the sea and the country. "

Walter Tyrrel nodded his head. It was clear the subject was extremelydistasteful to him. 

"Yes--till I was twelve or thirteen, " he said, slowly, as one whogrudges 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 areperfectly happy swimming and climbing. I used to be amphibious inthose days, like a seal or an otter--in the water half my time; and Iscrambled over the rocks--great heavens, it makes me giddy now just toTHINK where I scrambled. But when I was about thirteen years old"--hisface grew graver still--"a change seemed to come over me, and I began. . . Well, I began to hate Penmorgan. I've hated it ever since. Ishall always hate it. I learned what it all meant, I suppose--rocks, wrecks, and accidents. I saw how dull and gloomy it was, and Icouldn't bear coming down here. I came as seldom as I dared, till myuncle died last year and left it to me. And then there was no help forit. I HAD to come down. It's a landlord's business, I consider, tolive among his tenants and look after the welfare of the soil, committed to his charge by his queen and country. He holds it intrust, strictly speaking, for the nation. So I felt I must come andlive 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 hisvoice, that Eustace Le Neve, scanning his face as he spoke, felt surethere must be some good reason for his friend's dislike of hisancestral home, and forebore (like a man) to question him further. Perhaps, he thought, it was connected in Tyrrel's mind with somepainful memory, some episode in his history he would gladly forget;though, to be sure, when one comes to think of it, at thirteen suchepisodes are rare and improbable. A man doesn't, as a rule, getcrossed in love at that early age; nor does he generally form lastingand abiding antipathies. And indeed, for the matter of that, Penmorganwas quite gloomy enough in itself, in all conscience, to account forhis dislike--a lonely and gaunt-looking granite-built house, standingbare and square on the edge of a black moor, under shelter of a rockydip, in a treeless country. It must have been a terrible change for abachelor about town, like Walter Tyrrel, to come down at twenty-eightfrom his luxurious club and his snug chambers in St. James' to theisolation and desolation of that wild Cornish manor-house. But theTyrrels, he knew, were all built like that; Le Neve had been withthree of the family at Rugby; and conscience was their stumbling-block. When once a Tyrrel was convinced his duty lay anywhere, noconsideration 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 hisfriend's. 

"Your cliffs, at least, must be fine; they look grand and massive; andafter three years of broiling on a South American line, this freshsou'wester's just the thing, to my mind, to blow the cobwebs out ofone. "

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 unlikehim in form and features; for Eustace Le Neve was fair and big-built, a florid young giant, with tawny beard, mustache, and whiskers, whichhe cut in a becoming Vandyke point of artistic carelessness. There wasmore of the artist than of the engineer, indeed, about his frank andengaging English face--a face which made one like him as soon as onelooked at him. It was impossible to do otherwise. Exuberant vitalitywas the keynote of the man's being. And he was candidly open, too. Heimpressed one at first sight, by some nameless instinct, with acertain well-founded friendly confidence. A lovable soul, if everthere was one, equally liked at once by men and women. 

"Our cliffs are fine, " Walter Tyrrel answered, grudgingly, in the toneof one who, against his will, admits an adverse point he sees nochance of gainsaying. "They're black, and repellant, and iron-bound, and dangerous, but they're certainly magnificent. I don't deny it. Come and see them, by all means. They're the only lions we have toshow a stranger in this part of Cornwall, so you'd better make themost of them. "

And he took, as if mechanically, the winding path that led down thegap toward the frowning cove in the wall of cliff before them. 

Eustace Le Neve was a little surprised at this unexpected course, forhe himself would naturally have made rather for the top of thepromontory, whence they were certain to obtain a much finer and moreextensive view; but he had only arrived at Penmorgan the eveningbefore, so he bowed at once to his companion's more mature experienceof Cornish scenery. They threaded their way through the gully, for itwas 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 alonghuge granite boulders or across fallen stones, till they reached asmall beach of firm white sand, on whose even floor the waves wererolling in and curling over magnificently. It was a curious place, Eustace thought, rather dreary than beautiful. On either side roseblack cliffs, towering sheer into the air, and shutting out overheadall but a narrow cleft of murky sky. Around, the sea dashed itself inangry white foam against broken stacks and tiny weed-clad skerries. Atthe end of the first point a solitary islet, just separated from themainland by a channel of seething water, jutted above into the waves, with hanging tresses of blue and yellow seaweed. Tyrrel pointed to itwith one hand. "That's Michael's Crag, " he said, laconically. "You'veseen it before, no doubt, in half a dozen pictures. It's shapedexactly like St. Michael's Mount in miniature. A marine painter fellowdown here's forever taking its portrait. "

Le Neve gazed around him with a certain slight shudder of unspokendisapprobation. This place didn't suit his sunny nature. It was evenblacker and more dismal than the brown moorland above it. Tyrrelcaught the dissatisfaction in his companion's eye before Le Neve hadtime 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. "Isuppose South America has spoilt me for this sort of thing. But it'snot to my taste. I call it gloomy, without being even impressive. "

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

A steep cliff path led up the sheer face of the rock to southward. Itwas a difficult path, a mere foothold on the ledges; but itsdifficulty at once attracted the engineer's attention. "Let's go upthat way!" he said, waving his hand toward it carelessly. "The viewfrom on top there must be infinitely finer. "

"I believe it is, " Tyrrel replied, in an unconcerned voice, like onewho retails vague hearsay evidence. "I haven't seen it myself since Iwas a boy of thirteen. I never go along the top of the cliffs on anyaccount. "

Le Neve gazed down on him, astonished. "You BELIEVE it is!" heexclaimed, unable to conceal his surprise and wonder. "You never go upthere! Why, Walter, how odd of you! I was reading up the Guidebookthis morning before breakfast, and it says the walk from this point onthe Penmorgan estate to Kynance Cove is the most magnificent bit ofwild cliff scenery anywhere in Cornwall. "

"So I'm told, " Tyrrel answered, unmoved. "And I remember, as a boy, Ithought 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'tknow. " he answered, in a testy sort of voice. "I don't like the clifftop. . . It's so dangerous, don't you know? So unsafe. So unstable. Therocks go off so sheer, and stones topple over so easily. "

Le Neve laughed a little laugh of half-disguised contempt. He wasmoving over toward the path up the cliff side as they spoke. "Why, youused to be a first-class climber at school, " he said, attempting it, "especially when you were a little chap. I remember you could scrambleup 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 overthem. It seems ridiculous for a landowner not to know a bit of sceneryon his own estate that's celebrated and talked about all overEngland. "

"I'm not afraid of tumbling over, for myself, " Tyrrel answered, alittle nettled by his friend's frank tone of amusement. "I don't feelmyself so useful to my queen and country that I rate my own life attoo high a figure. It's the people below I'm chiefly concerned about. There's always someone wandering and scrambling about these cliffs, don't you see?--fishermen, tourists, geologists. If you let a loosestone go, it may fall upon them and crush them. "

The engineer looked back upon him with a somewhat puzzled expression. "Well, that's carrying conscience a point too far, " he said, with onestrong hand on the rock and one sure foot in the first convenientcranny. "If we're not to climb cliffs for fear of showering downstones on those who stand below, we won't dare to walk or ride ordrive or put to sea for fear of running over or colliding againstsomebody. We shall have to stop all our trains and keep all oursteamers in harbor. There's nothing in this world quite free fromrisk. We've got to take it and lump it. You know the old joke aboutthose dangerous beds--so many people die in them. Won't you break yourrule just for once, and come up on top here to see the view with me?"

Tyrrel shook his head firmly. "Not to-day, " he answered, with a quietsmile. "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 tothe cave by. "

Le Neve had now made good his foothold up the first four or fivesteps. "Well, you've no objection to my going, at any rate?" he said, with a wave of one hand, in his cheerful good-humor. "You don't put aveto on your friends here, do you?"

"Oh, not the least objection, " Tyrrel answered, hurriedly, watchinghim climb, none the less, with nervous interest. "It's. . . It's a purelypersonal and individual feeling. Besides, " he added, after a pause, " Ican stop below here, if need be, 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'ssafest. Once you get to the top you'd better walk along the wholecliff path to Kynance. They tell me its splendid; the view's so wide;and you can easily get back across the moor by lunch-time. Only, mindabout the edge, and whatever you do, let no stones roll over. "

"All right, " Le Neve made answer, clinging close to a point of rock. "I'll do no damage. It's opening out beautifully on every side now. Ican see round the corner to St. Michael's Mount; and the point at theend there must be Tol-Pedn-Penwith. "

CHAPTER II. 

TREVENNACK. 

It was a stiff, hot climb to the top of the cliff; but as soon as hereached 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 tosay the truth, except in a few broken seaward glens, that high andbarren inland plateau has little in it to attract or interest anyone, least of all a traveler fresh from the rich luxuriance of SouthAmerican vegetation. But the view that burst suddenly upon Eustace LeNeve's eye as he gained the summit of that precipitous serpentinebluff fairly took his breath away. It was a rich and varied one. Tothe north and west loomed headland after headland, walled in by steepcrags, and stretching away in purple perspective toward Marazion, St. Michael's Mount, and the Penzance district. To the south and east hugemasses of fallen rock lay tossed in wild confusion over Kynance Coveand the neighboring bays, with the bare boss of the Rill and theRearing Horse in the foreground. Le Neve stood and looked with openeyes of delight. It was the first beautiful view he had seen since hecame to Cornwall; but this at least was beautiful, almost enough so tocompensate for his first acute disappointment at the barrenness andgloom of the Lizard scenery. 

For some minutes he could only stand with open eyes and gaze delightedat the glorious prospect. Cliffs, sea, and rocks all blended with oneanother in solemn harmony. Even the blackness of the great crags andthe scorched air of the brown and water-logged moorland in the rearnow ceased to oppress him. They fell into their proper place in oneconsistent and well-blended picture. But, after awhile, impelled by adesire to look down upon the next little bay beyond--for the coast isindented with endless coves and headlands--the engineer walked onalong the top by a coastguard's path that threaded its way, marked bywhitened stones, round the points and gullies. As he did so, hehappened to notice on the very crest of the ridge that overlooked therock they called St. Michael's Crag a tall figure of a man silhouettedin dark outline against the pale gray skyline. From the very firstmoment Eustace Le Neve set eyes upon that striking figure this manexerted upon him some nameless attraction. Even at this distance theengineer could see he had a certain indefinite air of dignity anddistinction; and he poised himself lightly on the very edge of thecliff in a way that would no doubt have made Walter Tyrrel shudderwith fear and alarm. Yet there was something about that poise quiteunearthly and uncanny; the man stood so airily on his high rocky perchthat he reminded Le Neve at once of nothing so much as of Giovanni daBologna's Mercury in the Bargello at Florence; he seemed to spurn theearth as if about to spring from it with a bound; his feet were as iffreed from the common bond of gravity. 

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

Le Neve advanced along the path till he nearly reached the summitwhere the man was standing. The point itself was a rugged tor, orlittle group of bare and weather-worn rocks, overlooking the sea andSt. Michael's Crag below it. As the engineer drew near he saw thestranger was not alone. Under shelter of the rocks a girl laystretched 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 asEustace passed, and he noted at a glance that she was dark and pretty. The Cornish type once more; bright black eyes, glossy brown hair, arich complexion, a soft and rounded beauty. 

"Cleer, " the father said, warningly, in a modulated voice, as theyoung man approached, "don't let your hat blow away, dear; it's closeby the path there. "

The girl he called Cleer darted forward and picked it up, with alittle blush of confusion. Eustace Le Neve raised his hat, by way ofexcuse for disturbing her, and was about to pass on, but the view downinto the bay below, with the jagged and pointed crag islanded in whitefoam, held him spellbound for a moment. He paused and gazed at it. "This is a lovely lookout, sir, " he said, after a second's silence, asif to apologize for his intrusion, turning round to the stranger, whostill stood poised like a statue on the natural pedestal of lichen-covered rock beside him. "A lovely lookout and a wonderful bit of wildcoast scenery. "

"Yes, " the stranger answered, in a voice as full of dignity as hispresence and his mien. "It's the grandest spot along the Cornishcoast. 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. Michael's Promontory?" the young man asked, with a sideglance at Cleer, as they called the daughter. He wasn't sorry indeedfor the chance of having a second look at her. 

"Why Land's End, of course, " the dignified stranger answered at once, descending from his perch as he spoke, with a light spring more like aboy's than a mature man's. "You must surely know those famous lines in'Lycidas' about 'The fable of Bellerus old, Where the Great Vision of the guarded mount Looks towards Namancos and Bayona's hold; Look homeward, angel, now, and melt with ruth. '"

"Yes, I KNOW them, of course, " Eustace answered with ingenuousshyness; "but as so often happens with poetry, to say the truth, I'mafraid I attached no very definite idea to them. The music so easilyobscures the sense; though the moment you suggest it, I see they can'tpossibly mean anyone but St. Michael. "

"My father's very much interested in the antiquities of Cornwall, " thegirl Cleer put in, looking up at him somewhat timidly; "so henaturally knows all these things, and perhaps he expects others toknow them unreasonably. "

"We've every ground for knowing them, " the father went on, glancingdown at her with tender affection. "We're Cornish to the backbone--Cornish born and bred, if ever there were Cornishmen. Every man of myancestors was a Tre, Pol, or Pen, to the tenth generation backward;and I'm descended from the Bassets, too--the Bassets of Tehidy. Youmust 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 showoff his knowledge of the local aristocracy. 

"Yes, they've made him Lord St. Levan, " the dignified strangeranswered, with an almost imperceptible curl of his delicate lower lip. "They've made him Lord St. Levan. The queen can make one anything. Hewas plain Sir John St. Aubyn before that, you know; his family boughtthe Mount from my ancestors--the Bassets of Tehidy. They're new peopleat Marazion--new people altogether. They've only been there since1660. "

Le Neve smiled a quiet smile. That seemed to him in his innocence afairly decent antiquity as things go nowadays. But the dignifiedstranger appeared to think so little of it that his new acquaintanceabstained from making note or comment on it. He waited half a momentto see whether Cleer would speak again; he wanted to hear thatpleasant voice once more; but as she held her peace, he merely raisedhis hat, and accepting the dismissal, continued his walk round thecliffs alone. Yet, somehow, the rest of the way, the figure of thatstatuesque stranger haunted him. He looked back once or twice. Thedescendant of the Bassets of Tehidy had now resumed his high pedestalupon the airy tor, and was gazing away seaward, like the mystic GreatVision of his own Miltonic quotation, toward the Spanish coast, wrapped round in a loose cloak of most poetic dimensions. Le Nevewondered 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 getthat beautiful glimpse down into the rock-strewn cove and smooth whitesands at Kynance. A coastguard with brush and pail was busy as hepassed by renewing the whitewash on the landmark boulders that pointthe path on dark nights to the stumbling wayfarer. Le Neve paused andspoke to him. "That's a fine-looking man, my friend, the gentleman onthe tor there, " he said, after a few commonplaces. "Do you happen toknow his name? Is he spending the summer about here?"

The man stopped in his work and looked up. His eye lighted withpleasure on the dignified stranger. "Yes; he's one of the right sort, sir, " he answered, with a sort of proprietary pride in thedistinguished figure. "A real old Cornish gentleman of the good olddays, he is, if ever you see one. That's Trevennack of Trevennack; andMiss Cleer's his daughter. Fine old crusted Cornish names, every oneof them; I'm a Cornishman myself, and I know them well, the wholegrand lot of them. The Trevennacks and the Bassets, they was all one, time gone by; they owned St. Michael's Mount, and Penzance, andMarazion, and Mullion here. They owned Penmorgan, too, afore theTyrrels bought it up. Michael Basset Trevennack, that's thegentleman's full name; the eldest son of the eldest son is always aMichael, to keep up the memory of the times gone by, when they wasGuardians of the Mount and St. Michael's Constables. And the lady'sMiss Cleer, after St. Cleer of Cornwall--her that gives her name stillto St. Cleer by Liskeard. "

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

"Lord bless you, no, sir. They don't live nowhere. They're in theservice, don't you see. They lives in Malta or Gibraltar, or whereverthe Admiralty sends him. He's an Admiralty man, he is, connected withthe Vittling Yard. I was in the navy myself, on the good old BillyRuffun, afore I was put in the Coastguards, and I knowed him well whenwe was both together on the Mediterranean Station. Always the samegrand old Cornish gentleman, with them gracious manners, so haughtylike, an' yet so condescending, wherever they put him. A gentlemanborn. No gentleman on earth more THE gentleman all round thanTrevennack of Trevennack. "

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

"Don't you go too nigh, sir, " the coastguard put in, warningly. "She'sslippery just there. Yes, they're staying down in Oliver's lodgings atGunwalloe. He's on leave, that's where it is. Every three or fouryears he gets leave from the Vittling and comes home to England; andthen he always ups and runs down to the Lizard, and wanders about onthe cliffs by himself like this, with Miss Cleer to keep him company. He's a chip of the old rock, he is--Cornish granite to the core, asthe saying goes; and he can't be happy away from it. You'll see himany day standing like that on the very edge of the cliff, lookingacross over the water, as if he was a coastguard hisself, and alwayssort 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 cloakwrapped around him. 

"Able? I believe you! Why, he's the very heart and soul, the brainsand senses of the Vittling Department. The navy'd starve if it wasn'tfor him. He's a Companion of St. Michael and St. George, Mr. Trevennack is. 'Tain't every one as is a Companion of St. Michael andSt. George. The queen made him that herself for his management of theVittling. " "It's a strange place for a man in his position to spendhis holiday, " Le Neve went on, reflectively. "You'd think, coming backso seldom, he'd want to see something of London, Brighton, Scarborough, Scotland. "

The coastguard looked up, and held his brush idle in one hand with amysterious air. "Not when you come to know his history, " he answered, gazing hard at him. 

"Oh, there's a history to him, is there?" Le Neve answered, notsurprised. "Well, he certainly has the look of it. "

The coastguard nodded his head and dropped his voice still lower. "Yes, there's a history to him, " he replied. "And that's why you'llalways see Trevennack of Trevennack on the top of the cliff, and neverat the bottom. --Thank'ee very kindly, sir; it ain't often we gets achance of a good cigar at Kynance. --Well, it must be fifteen year now--or maybe sixteen--I don't mind the right time--Trevennack came downin old Squire Tyrrel's days, him as is buried at Mullion Church town, and stopped at Gunwalloe, same as he might be stopping there in hislodgings nowadays. He had his only son with him, too, a fine-lookingyoung gentleman, they say, for his age, for I wasn't here then--I wasserving my time under Admiral De Horsey on the good old Billy Ruffun--the very picture of Miss Cleer, and twelve year old or thereabouts;and they called him Master Michael, the same as they always call theeldest boy of the Trevennacks of Trevennack. Aye, and one day theytwo, father and son, were a-strolling on the beach under the cliffs byPenmorgan--mind them stones on the edge, sir; they're powerful loose--don't you drop none over--when, just as you might loosen them pebblesthere with your foot, over came a shower o' small bits from the cliffon 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 biton the forehead, for he was wearing a Scotch cap; but Master Michael, well, it caught him right on the top of the head, and afore theyknowed what it was, it smashed his skull in. Aye, that it did, sir, just so; it smashed the boy's skull in. They carried him home, and cutthe bone out, and trepanned him; but bless you, it wa'n't no good; helingered on for a night, and then, afore morning, he died, insensible. "

"What a terrible story!" Le Neve exclaimed, with a face of horror, recoiling instinctively from the edge of the cliff that had wroughtthis evil. "Aye, you may well say so. It was rough on him, " thecoastguard went on, with the calm criticism of his kind. "His onlyson--and all in a minute like, as you may term it--such a promisingyoung gentleman! It was rough, terrible rough on him. So from that dayto this, whenever Trevennack has a holiday, down he comes here toGunwalloe, and walks about the cliffs, and looks across upon the rocksby Penmorgan Point, or stands on the top of Michael's Crag, just overagainst the spot where his boy was hurted. An' he never wants to gonowhere else in all England, but just to stand like that on the veryedge of the cliff, and look over from atop, and brood, and think aboutit. "

As the man spoke, it flashed across Le Neve's mind at once thatTrevennack's voice had quivered with a strange thrill of emotion as heuttered that line, no doubt pregnant with meaning for him. "Lookhomeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth. " He was thinking of his ownboy, most likely, not of the poet's feigned Lycidas. 

"He'll stand like that for hours, " the coastguard went onconfidentially, "musing like to himself, with Miss Cleer by his side, reading in her book or doing her knitting or something. But youcouldn't get him, for love or money, to go BELOW the cliffs, no, notif you was to kill him. He's AFRAID of going below--that's where itis; he always thinks something's sure to tumble from the top on him. Natural enough, too, after all that's been. He likes to get as high asever he can in the air, where he can see all around him, and becertain there ain't anyone above to let anything drop as might hurthim. Michael's Crag's where he likes best to stand, on the top thereby the Horse; he always chooses them spots. In Malta it was SanMickayly; and in Gibraltar it was the summit of Europa Point, by theedge 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 Penmorgan, but Mr. Tyrrelwon't go on TOP of the cliffs for anything. He says he's afraid hemight let something drop by accident on the people below him. "

The coastguard grew suddenly graver. "Like enough, " he said, strokinghis chin. "Like enough; and right, too, for him, sir. You see, he's aTyrrel, and he's bound to be cautious. '

"Why so?" Le Neve asked, somewhat puzzled. "Why a Tyrrel more than therest of us?"

The man hesitated and stared hard at him. 

"Well, it's like this, sir, " he answered at last, with the shamefacedair of the intelligent laboring man who confesses to a superstition. "We Cornish are old-fashioned, and we has our ideas. The Tyrrels arenew people like, in Cornwall, as we say; they came in only withCromwell's folk, when he fought the Grenvilles; but it's well beknownin the county bad luck goes with them. You see, they're descended fromthat Sir Walter Tyrrel you'll read about in the history books, him askilled King William Rufious in the New Forest. You'll hear all aboutit at Rufious' 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 anarrow; but anyhow, one or t'other, it hit the king, and he fell, anddied there. The stone's standing to this day on the place where hefell, and I've seen it, and read of it when I was in hospital atNetley. But Sir Walter, he got clear away, and ran across to France;and ever since that time they've called the eldest son of the TyrrelsWalter, same as they've called the eldest son of the TrevennacksMichael. But they say every Walter Tyrrel that's born into the worldis bound, sooner or later, to kill his man unintentional. So he doright to avoid going too near the cliffs, I say. We shouldn't temptProvidence. And the Tyrrels is all a conscientious people. "

CHAPTER III. 

FACE TO FACE. 

When Eustace Le Neve returned to lunch at Penmorgan that day he wassilent to his host about Trevennack of Trevennack. To say the truth, he was so much attracted by Miss Cleer's appearance that he didn'tfeel inclined to mention having met her. But he wanted to meet heragain for all that, and hoped he would do so. Perhaps Tyrrel mightknow the family, and ask them round to dine some night. At any rate, society is rare at the Lizard. Sooner or later, he felt sure, he'dknock up against the mysterious stranger somewhere. And that involvedthe probability of knocking up against the mysterious stranger'sbeautiful daughter. 

Next morning after breakfast, however, he made a vigorous effort toinduce Walter Tyrrel to mount the cliff and look at the view fromPenmorgan Point toward the Rill and Kynance. It was absurd, he saidtruly, for the proprietor of such an estate never to have seen themost beautiful spot in it. But Tyrrel was obdurate. On the point ofactually mounting the cliff itself he wouldn't yield one jot ortittle. Only, after much persuasion, he consented at last to cross theheadland by the fields at the back and come out at the tor above St. Michael's Crag, provided always Eustace would promise he'd neither gonear the edge himself nor try to induce his friend to approach it. 

Satisfied with this lame compromise--for he really wished his host toenjoy that glorious view--Eustace Le Neve turned up the valley behindthe house, with Walter Tyrrel by his side, and after traversingseveral fields, through gaps in the stone walls, led out his companionat last to the tor on the headland. 

As they approached it from behind, the engineer observed, not withouta faint thrill of pleasure, that Trevennack's stately figure stoodupright as before upon the wind-swept pile of fissured rocks, and thatCleer sat reading under its shelter to leeward. But by her side thismorning sat also an elder lady, whom Eustace instinctively recognizedas her mother--a graceful, dignified lady, with silvery white hair andblack 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 ofwelcome, and Trevennack and his daughter both bowed in return. "Aglorious morning!" the engineer said, drinking in to the full thelovely golden haze that flooded and half-obscured the Land's Enddistrict; and Trevennack assented gravely. "The crag stands up well inthis sunshine against the dark water behind, " he said, waving onegracious hand toward the island at his foot, and poising lighter thanever. 

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

"_I_ never tumble, " Trevennack made answer with solemn gravity, spreading one hand on either side as if to balance himself like anacrobat. But he descended as he spoke and took his place beside them. 

Tyrrel looked at the view and looked at the pretty girl. It wasevident 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 hisattention. For some minutes they stood and talked, all five of themtogether, without further introduction than their common admirationfor that exquisite bay, in which Trevennack appeared to take an almostproprietary interest. It gratified him, obviously, a Cornish man, thatthese strangers (as he thought them) should be so favorably impressedby his native county. But Tyrrel all the while looked ill at ease, though he sidled away as far as possible from the edge of the cliff, and sat down near Cleer at a safe distance from the precipice. He wassilent and preoccupied. That mattered but little, however, as the restdid all the talking, especially Trevennack, who turned out to beindeed a perfect treasure-house of Cornish antiquities and Cornishfolk-lore. 

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

"My husband's quite an enthusiast for this particular place, " Mrs. Trevennack interposed, watching his face as she spoke with a certainanxious 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 much animation in his voice. "That'sthe time for Cornwall--a month or so later than now--you should see itthen, for picturesqueness and variety. 'When the corn is in theshock, ' says our Cornish rhyme, 'Then the fish are off the rock'--andthe rock's St. Michael's. The HUER, as we call him, for he gives thehue and cry from the hill-top lookout when the fish are coming, hestands on Michael's Crag just below there, as I stand myself so often, and when he sights the shoals by the ripple on the water, he motionsto the boats which way to go for the pilchards. Then the rowers in thelurkers, as we call our seine-boats, surround the shoal with a tuck-net, or drag the seine into Mullion Cove, all alive with a mass ofshimmering silver. The jowsters come down with their carts on to thebeach, and hawk them about round the neighborhood--I've seen themtwelve a penny; while in the curing-houses they're bulking them andpressing them as if for dear life, to send away to Genoa, Leghorn, andNaples. That's where all our fish go--to the Catholic south. 'The Popeand the Pilchards, ' says our Cornish toast; for it's the Friday fastthat makes our only market. "

"You can see them on St. George's Island in Looe Harbor, " Cleer put inquite innocently. "They're like a sea of silver there--on St. George'sIsland. "

"My dear, " her father corrected with that grave, old-fashionedcourtesy which the coast-guard had noted and described as at once sohaughty and yet so condescending, "how often I've begged of you NOT tocall it St. George's Island! It's St. Nicholas' and St. Michael's--onemay as well be correct--and till a very recent date a chapel to St. Michael actually stood there upon the rocky top; it was onlydestroyed, you remember, at the time of the Reformation. "

"Everybody CALLS it St. George's now, " Cleer answered, with girlishpersistence. And her father looked round at her sharply, with animpatient snap of the fingers, while Mrs. Trevennack's eye was fixedon him now more carefully and more earnestly, Tyrrel observed, thanever. 

"I wonder why it is, " Eustace Le Neve interposed, to spare Cleer'sfeelings, "that so many high places, tops of mountains and so forth, seem always to be dedicated to St. Michael in particular? He seems tolove such airy sites. There's St. Michael's Mount here, you know, andMont St. Michel 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 thisminute. "

Trevennack was in his element. The question just suited him. He smileda curious smile of superior knowledge. "You've come to the right placefor 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 andvarious other reasons, I've made a special study of St. Michael theArchangel, and all that pertains to him. " And then he went on to givea long and learned disquisition, which Le Neve and Walter Tyrrel onlypartially followed, about the connection between St. Michael and theCeltic race, as well as about the archangel's peculiar love for highand airy situations. Most of the time, indeed, Le Neve was moreconcerned in watching Cleer Trevennack's eyes, as her father spoke, than in listening to the civil servant's profound dissertation. Hegathered, however, from the part he caught, that St. Michael theArchangel had been from early days a very important and powerfulCornish personage, and that he clung to high places on the tors androcks because he had to fight and subdue the Prince of the Air, whomhe always destroyed at last on some pointed pinnacle. And now that hecame to think of it, Eustace vaguely recollected he had always seenSt. Michael, in pictures or stained glass windows, delineated just so--with drawn sword and warrior's mien--in the act of triumphing overhis dragon-like enemy on the airy summit of some tall jagged crag orrock-bound precipice. 

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

At last, as the amateur lecturer was beginning to grow somewhatprolix, a cormorant below created a slight diversion for awhile bysettling in his flight on the very highest point of Michael's Crag, and proceeding to preen his glittering feathers in the full goldenflood of that bright August sunlight. 

With irrepressible boyish instinct Le Neve took up a stone, and wasjust on the point of aiming it (quite without reason) at the bird onthe pinnacle. 

But before he could let it go, the two other men, moved as if by asingle impulse, had sprung forward with a bound, and in the self-sametone and in the self-same words cried out with one accord, in a wildlyexcited voice, "For God's sake, don't throw! You don't know howdangerous it is!"

Le Neve let his hand drop flat, and allowed the stone to fall from it. As he did so the two others stood back a pace, as if guarding him, butkept their hands still ready to seize the engineer's arm if he madethe slightest attempt at motion. Eustace felt they were watching himas one might watch a madman. For a moment they were silent. Trevennackwas the first to speak. His voice had an earnest and solemn ring init, like a reproving angel's. "How can you tell what precious life maybe passing below?" he said, with stern emphasis, fixing Le Neve withhis reproachful eye. "The stone might fall short. It might drop out ofsight. You might kill whomsoever it struck, unseen. And then"--hedrank in a deep breath, gasping--"you would know you were a murderer. "

Walter Tyrrel drew himself up at the words like one stung. "No, no!not a murderer!" he cried; "not quite as bad as a murderer! Itwouldn't be murder, surely. It would be accidental homicide--unintentional, unwilled--a terrible result of most culpablecarelessness, of course; but it wouldn't be quite murder; don't callit murder. I can't allow that. Not that name by any means. . . . Thoughto the end of your life, Eustace, if you were to kill a man so, you'dnever cease to regret it and mourn over it daily; you'd never cease torepent your guilty carelessness in sackcloth and ashes. "

He spoke so seriously, so earnestly, with such depth of personalfeeling, that Trevennack, starting back, stood and gazed at him slowlywith those terrible eyes, like one who awakens by degrees from apainful dream to some awful reality. Tyrrel winced before hisscrutiny. For a moment the elder man just looked 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 verydear, 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'swords astonished them; for never before, during fifteen long years, had that unhappy father alluded in any way in overt words to his son'stragic end. He had brooded and mused over it in his crushed andwounded spirit; he had revisited the scene of his loss wheneveropportunity permitted him; he had made of his sorrow a cherished andpetted daily companion; but he had stored it up deep in his own inmostheart, never uttering a word of it even to his wife or daughter. Thetwo women knew Michael Trevennack must be profoundly moved, indeed, soto tear open the half-healed wound in his tortured bosom before twocasual strangers. 

But Tyrrel, too, gave a start as he spoke, and looked hard at thecareworn face of that unhappy man. "Then you're Mr. Trevennack!" heexclaimed, all aghast. "Mr. Trevennack of the Admiralty!"

And the dignified stranger answered, bowing 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 awayfrom the spot. "I must go now, " he muttered faintly, looking at hiswatch with some feigned surprise, as a feeble excuse. "I've anappointment at home. " He hadn't the courage to stay. His heart misgavehim. Once fairly round the corner he fled like a wounded creature, toodeeply hurt even to cry. Eustace Le Neve, raising his hat, hastenedafter him, all mute wonder. For several hundred yards they walked onside by side across the open heathy moor. Then, as they passed thefirst wall, Tyrrel paused for a moment and spoke. "NOT a murderer!" hecried in his anguish; "oh, no, not quite as bad as a murderer, surely, Eustace; but still, a culpable homicide. Oh, God, how terrible. "

And even as he disappeared across the moor to eastward, Trevennack, far behind, seized his wife's arm spasmodically, and clutching ittight 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 HEwho rolled down that cursed stone. It was HE who killed our boy. And Ican guess who he is. He must be Tyrrel of Penmorgan. "

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

CHAPTER IV. 

TYRREL'S REMORSE. 

The two young men walked back, without interchanging another word, tothe gate of the manor-house. Tyrrel opened it with a swing. Then, oncewithin his own grounds, and free from prying eyes, he sat downforthwith upon a little craggy cliff that overhung the carriage-drive, buried his face in his hands, and, to Le Neve's intense astonishment, cried long and silently. He let himself go with a rush; that's theCornish nature. Eustace Le Neve sat by his side, not daring to speak, but in mute sympathy with his sorrow. For many minutes neither uttereda sound. At last Tyrrel looked up, and in an agony of remorse, turnedround to his companion. "Of course you understand, " he said. 

And Eustace answered reverently, "Yes, I think I understand. Havingcome 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'venever told anybody. And if it hadn't been forced out of me by thatpoor man's tortured and broken-hearted face, I wouldn't have told younow. 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 claspinghis friend's arm with a brotherly gesture. 

Tyrrel answered with a deep sigh, "Like this. I'll make a clean breastof 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 myuncle. The Trevennacks, as I learned afterward, were in lodgings atGunwalloe. But, so far as I can remember at present, I never even sawthem. To the best of my belief I never set eyes on Michael Trevennackhimself before this very morning. If I'd known who he was, you may bepretty sure I'd have cut off my right hand before I'd allowed myselfto speak to him. 

"Well, one day that year I was strolling along the top of the cliff byMichael's Crag, with my uncle beside me, who owned Penmorgan. I wasbut a boy then, and I walked by the edge more than once, verycarelessly. My uncle knew the cliffs, though, and how dangerous theywere; he knew men might any time be walking below, digging launces inthe sand, or getting lobworms for their lines, or hunting serpentineto polish, or looking for sea-bird's eggs among the half-way ledges. Time after time he called out to me, 'Walter, my boy, take care; don'tgo so near the edge, you'll tumble over presently. ' And time aftertime 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'tcrumble. 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, you see, andconscientious, as we all of us are--it runs in the blood somehow--'Ifyou don't mind for yourself, at least mind for others. Who can say whomay be walking underneath those rocks? If you let a loose stone fallyou may commit manslaughter. '

"I laughed, and thought ill of him. He was such a fidget! I was only aboy. I considered him absurdly and unnecessarily particular. He hadstalked on a yard or two in front. I loitered behind, and out of pureboyish deviltry, as I was just above Michael's Crag, I loosened somestones 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'tsee 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--avague cry below. A cry as of some one wounded. I was frightened atthat; I didn't dare to look down, but ran on to my uncle. Not tillsome hours after did I know the whole truth, for we walked along thecliffs all the way to Kynance, and then returned inland by the road tothe Lizard. 

"That afternoon, late, there was commotion at Penmorgan. The servantsbrought us word how a bit of the cliff near Michael's Crag hadfoundered unawares, and struck two people who were walking below--aMr. Trevennack, in lodgings at Gunwalloe, and his boy Michael. Thefather wasn't much hurt, they said; but the son--oh, Eustace! the sonwas dangerously wounded. . . . I listened in terror. . . . He lived out thenight, 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'sremorse was so poignant. After all those years the boy's thoughtlessact seemed to weigh like a millstone round the grown man's neck. Eustace held his peace, and felt for him. By and by Tyrrel went onagain, rocking himself to and fro on his rough seat as he spoke. "Forfifteen years, " he said, piteously, "I've borne this burden in myheart, and never told anybody. I tell it now first of all men to you. You're the only soul on earth who shares my secret. "

"Then your uncle didn't suspect it?" Eustace asked, all breathless. 

Walter Tyrrel shook his head. "On the contrary, " he answered, "he saidto me next day, 'How glad I am Walter, my boy, I called you away fromthe cliff that moment! It was quite providential. For if you'dloosened a stone, and then this thing had happened, we'd both of ushave believed it was YOU that did it?' I was too frightened andappalled to tell him it WAS I. I thought they'd hang me. But from thatday to this--Eustace, Eustace, believe me--I've never ceased to thinkof it! I've never forgiven myself!"

"Yet it was an accident after all, " Le Neve said, trying to comforthim. 

"No, no; not quite. I should have been warned in time. I should haveobeyed my uncle. But what would you have? It's the luck of theTyrrels. "

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

Tyrrel was the first to break the solemn silence. "You can understandnow, " he said, with an impatient gesture, "why I hate Penmorgan. I'vehated it ever since. I shall always hate it. It seems like a mutereminder 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, thisterror of meeting Trevennack some day has made life one long burden tome. Sooner or later I felt sure I should run against him. They told mehow he came down here from time to time to see where his son died, andI knew I should meet him. Now you can understand, too, why I hate thetop of the cliffs so much, and WILL walk at the bottom. I had two goodreasons for that. One I've told you already; the other was the fear ofcoming across Trevennack. "

Le Neve turned to him compassionately. "My dear fellow, " he said, "youtake it too much to heart. It was so long ago, and you were only achild. The. . . The accident might happen to any boy any day. "

"Yes, yes, " Tyrrel answered, passionately. I know all that. I try, so, to console myself. But then I've wrecked that unhappy man's life forhim. "

"He has his daughter still, " Le Neve put in, vaguely. It was all hecould think of to say by way of consolation; and to him, CleerTrevennack would have made up for anything. 

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

Le Neve turned sharply round upon him. There was some undercurrent inthe tone in which he spoke that suggested far more than the mere wordsthemselves might perhaps have conveyed to him. "What do you mean?" heasked, all eager, in a quick, low voice. "You've met Miss Trevennackbefore? You've seen her? You've spoken to her?"

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

"But she didn't seem to recognize you, " Le Neve objected, taken aback. 

Tyrrel shook his head despondently. "That's the worst of it all, " heanswered, with a very sad sigh. "She didn't even remember me. . . . Shewas so much to me; and to her--why, to HER, Eustace--I was less thannothing. "

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

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

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

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

"I can believe in it very well, " Le Neve answered, most truthfully, "now I've seen Miss Trevennack. "

Tyrrel looked at him, and smiled sadly. "Well, when I saw her againthis morning, " he went on, after a short pause, "my heart came up intomy mouth. I said to myself, with a bound, 'It's she! It's she! At lastI've found her. ' And it dashed my best hopes to the ground at once tosee she didn't even remember having met me. "

Le Neve looked at him shyly. "Walter, " he said, after a shortstruggle, "I'm not surprised you fell in love with her. And shall Itell you why? I fell in love with her myself, too, the moment I sawher. "

Tyrrel turned to him without one word of reproach. "Well, we're norivals now, " he answered, generously. "Even if she would have me--evenif she loved me well--how could I ask her to take--her brother'smurderer?"

Le Neve drew a long breath. He hadn't thought of that before. But hadit been other wise, he couldn't help feeling that the master ofPenmorgan would have been a formidable rival for a penniless engineerjust home from South America. 

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

CHAPTER V. 

A STRANGE DELUSION. 

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

"Michael, " Mrs. Trevennack began, as soon as they were alone, risingup from her chair and coming over toward him tenderly, "I was horriblyafraid you were going to break out before those two young men on thecliff to-day. I saw you were just on the very brink of it. But youresisted bravely. Thank you so much for that. You're a dear goodfellow. I was so pleased with you and so proud of you. "

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

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

At the mere hint, Trevennack leaned back and drew himself up proudlyto his full height, like a soldier. He looked majestic as he satthere--every inch a St. Michael. "Well, it's hard to keep such asecret, " he answered, laying his free hand on his breast, "hard tokeep such a secret; and I own, when they were talking about it, Ilonged to tell them. But for Cleer's sake I refrained, Lucy. ForCleer'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 heartforever. "

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

Trevennack drew himself up still more haughtily than before. "And whoshould struggle against the devil, " he said, "single-handed as yousay, and gain the victory at last, if not I, myself, Lucy?"

He said it like some great one. His wife soothed his hand again andrepressed a sigh. She was a great-hearted lady, that brave wife andmother, who bore her own trouble without a word spoken to anyone; butshe must sigh, at least, sometimes; it was such a relief to her pent-up feelings. "Who indeed?" she said, acquiescent. "Who indeed, if notyou? And I love you best when you conquer so, Michael. "

Trevennack looked down upon her with a strange tender look on hisface, in which gentleness and condescension were curiously mingled. "Yes, " he answered, musing; "for dear Cleer's sake I will always keepmy peace about it. I'll say not a word. I'll never tell anybody. Andyet it's hard to keep it in; very hard, indeed. I have to bind myselfround, as it were, with bonds of iron. The secret will almost out ofitself at times. As this morning, for example, when that young fellowwanted to know why St. Michael always clung to such airy pinnacles. How jauntily he talked about it, as if the reason for the selectionwere a matter of no moment! How little he seemed to think of thePrince 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 youwill; now won't you?"

Trevennack looked the picture of embodied self-restraint. His back wasrigid. "For Cleer's sake I'll keep it in, " he said, firmly. "I knowhow important it is for her. Never in this world have I breathed aword 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 thatwould be so bad for Cleer's future prospects. People would think youwere out of your mind; and you know how chary young men are nowadaysof marrying a girl when they believe or even suspect there's insanityin the family. You can talk of it as much and as often as you like toME, 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 toolong, and brooding over it, and worrying yourself. I like you to talkto ME of it whenever you feel inclined. But for heaven's sake, darling, to nobody else. Not a hint of it for worlds. The consequencesmight be terrible. "

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

The beautiful lady with the silvery hair sat and gazed on himadmiringly. She knew she could trust him; she knew he would keep itin. But she knew at the same time how desperate a struggle the effortcost him; and visionary though he was, she loved and admired him forit. 

There was an eloquent silence. Then, after a while, Trevennack spokeagain, more tenderly and regretfully. "That man did it!" he said, withslow emphasis. "I saw by his face at once he did it. He killed ourpoor boy. I could read it in his look. I'm sure it was he. Andbesides, I have news of it, certain news--from elsewhere, " and helooked up significantly. 

"Michael!" Mrs. Trevennack said, drawing close to him with anappealing gesture, and gazing hard into his eyes; "it's a long timesince. He was a boy at the time. He did it carelessly, no doubt; butnot guiltily, culpably. For Cleer's sake, there, too--oh, forgive him, forgive him!" She clasped her hands tight; she looked up at himtearfully. 

"It was the devil's work, " her husband answered, with a faint frown onhis high forehead, "and my task in life, Lucy, is to fight down thedevil. "

"Fight him down in your own heart, then, dear, " Mrs. Trevennack said, gently. "Remember, we all may fall. Lucifer did--and he was once anarchangel. Fight him down in your own heart when he suggests hatefulthoughts to you. For I know what you felt when it came over youinstinctively that that young man had done it. You wanted to flystraight at his throat, dear Michael--you wanted to fly at his throat, and fling him over the precipice. "

"I did, " Trevennack answered, making no pretense of denial. "But forCleer's sake I refrained. And for Cleer's sake, if you wish it, I'lltry to forgive him. "

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

For only that silver-headed woman of all people on earth knew theterrible truth, that Michael Trevennack's was a hopeless case ofsuppressed insanity. Well suppressed, indeed, and kept firmly in checkfor his daughter's sake, and by his brave wife's aid; but insanity, none the less, of the profoundest monomaniacal pattern, for all that. All day long, and every day, in his dealings with the outer world, hekept down his monomania. An able and trusted government servant, henever allowed it for one moment to interfere with his public duties. To his wife alone he let out what he thought the inmost and deepestsecret of his real existence--that he was the Archangel Michael. To noone else did he ever allow a glimpse of the truth, as he thought it, to appear. He knew the world would call it madness; and he didn't wishthe stigma of inherited insanity to cling to his Cleer. 

Not even Cleer herself for a moment suspected it. 

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

CHAPTER VI. 

PURE ACCIDENT. 

During the next week or so, as chance would have it, Cleer Trevennackfell in more than once on her walks with Eustace Le Neve and WalterTyrrel. They had picked up acquaintance in an irregular way, to besure; but Cleer hadn't happened to be close by when her father utteredthose strange words to his wife, "It was he who did it; it was he whokilled our boy"; nor did she notice particularly the marked abruptnessof Tyrrel's departure on that unfortunate occasion. So she had no suchobjection to meeting the two young men as Trevennack himself notunnaturally displayed; she regarded his evident avoidance of WalterTyrrel as merely one of "Papa's fancies. " To Cleer, Papa's fancieswere mysterious but very familiar entities; and Tyrrel and Le Nevewere simply two interesting and intelligent young men--the squire ofthe village and a friend on a visit to him. Indeed, to be quiteconfidential, it was the visitor who occupied the larger share ofCleer's attention. He was so good-looking and so nice. His open faceand pink and white complexion had attracted her fancy from the veryfirst; and the more she saw of him the more she liked him. 

They met often--quite by accident, of course--on the moor andelsewhere. Tyrrel, for his part, shrank somewhat timidly from thesister of the boy, for his share in whose death he so bitterlyreproached himself; yet he couldn't quite drag himself off whenever hefound himself in Cleer's presence. She bound him as by a spell. He wasprofoundly attracted to her. There was something about the prettyCornish girl so frank, so confiding, in one word, so magnetic, thatwhen once he came near her he couldn't tear himself away as he felt heought to. Yet he could see very well, none the less, it was forEustace Le Neve that she watched most eagerly, with the naturalinterest of a budding girl in the man who takes her pure maiden fancy. Tyrrel allowed with a sigh that this was well indeed; for how could heever dream, now he knew who she was, of marrying young MichaelTrevennack's sister?

One afternoon the two friends were returning from a long ramble acrossthe open moor, when, near a little knoll of bare and weathered rockthat rose from a circling belt of Cornish heath, they saw Cleer byherself, propped against the huge boulders, with her eyes fixedintently on a paper-covered novel. She looked up and smiled as theyapproached; and the young men, turning aside from their ill-markedpath, came over and stood by her. They talked for awhile about theordinary nothings of society small-talk, till by degrees Cleer chancedaccidentally to bring the conversation round to something that hadhappened to her mother and herself a year or two since in Malta. LeNeve snatched at the word; for he was eager to learn all he couldabout the Trevennacks' movements, so deeply had Cleer alreadyimpressed her image on his susceptible nature. 

"And when do you go back there?" he asked, somewhat anxiously. "Isuppose your father's leave is for a week or two only. "

"Oh, dear, no; we don't go back at all, thank heaven, " Cleer answered, with a sunny smile. "I can't bear exile, Mr. Le Neve, and I nevercared one bit for living in Malta. But this year, fortunately, papa'sgoing to be transferred for a permanence to England; he's to havecharge of a department that has something or other to do withprovisioning the Channel Squadron; I don't quite understand what; butanyhow, he'll have to be running about between Portsmouth andPlymouth, and I don't know where else; and mamma and I will have totake 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 somechance at least when you go away from here of one's seeing yousometimes. "

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. "I'm sure mamma'll be very pleased, indeed, if you'll take the troubleto call. " Then, to hide her confusion, she went on hastily, "And areYOU going to be in England, too? I thought I understood the other dayfrom your friend you had something to do with a railway in SouthAmerica. "

"Oh, that's all over now, " Le Neve answered, with a wave, well pleasedshe should ask him about his whereabouts so cordially. "I was onlyemployed in the construction of the line, you know; I've nothing atall to do with its maintenance and working, and now the track's laid, my work there's finished. But as to stopping in England, --ah--that'squite another thing. An engineer's, you know, is a roving life. He'shere to-day and there to-morrow. I must go, I suppose, wherever workmay take me. And there isn't much stirring in the markets just now inthe way of engineering. "

"I hope you'll get something at home, " Cleer said, simply, with ablush, and then blamed herself for saying it. She blushed again at thethought. She looked prettiest when she blushed. Walter Tyrrel, alittle behind, stood and admired her all the while. But Eustace wasflattered she should think of wanting him to remain in England. 

"Thank you, " he said, somewhat timidly, for her bashfulness made him atrifle bashful in return. "I should like to very much--for morereasons than one;" and he looked at her meaningly. "I'm getting tired, in some ways, of life abroad. I'd much prefer to come back now andsettle down in England. "

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

"We may come with you, mayn't we?" Eustace asked, with just anundertone of wistfulness. 

But Tyrrel darted a warning glance at him. He, at least, couldn't goto confront once more that poor dead boy's father. 

"I must hurry home, " he said, feebly, consulting his watch with anabstracted air. "It's getting so late. But don't let me prevent YOUfrom accompanying Miss Trevennack. "

Cleer shrank away, a little alarmed. She wasn't quite sure whether itwould be perfectly right for her to walk about alone on the moorlandwith only ONE young man, though she wouldn't have minded the two, forthere is safety in numbers. "Oh, no, " she said, half frightened, inthat composite tone which is at once an entreaty and a positivecommand. "Don't mind me, Mr. Le Neve. I'm quite accustomed tostrolling by myself round the cliff. I wouldn't make you miss yourdinner for worlds. And besides, papa's not far off. He went away fromme, rambling. "

The two young men, accepting their dismissal in the sense in which itwas intended, saluted her deferentially, and turned away on their ownroad. But Cleer took the path to Michael's Crag, by the gully. 

From the foot of the crag you can't see the summit. Its own shouldersand the loose rocks of the foreground hide it. But Cleer was prettycertain her father must be there; for he was mostly to be found, whentide permitted it, perched up on the highest pinnacle of his namesakeskerry, looking out upon the waters with a pre-occupied glance fromthat airy citadel. The waves in the narrow channel that separate thecrag from the opposite mainland were running high and boisterous, butCleer had a sure foot, and could leap, light as a gazelle, from rockto rock. Not for nothing was she Michael Trevennack's daughter, welltrained from her babyhood to high and airy climbs. She chose an easyspot where it was possible to spring across by a series of boulders, arranged accidentally like stepping-stones; and in a minute she wasstanding on the main crag itself, a huge beetling mass of detachedserpentine pushed boldly out as the advance-guard of the land into theassailing waves, and tapering at its top into a pyramidal steeple. 

The face of the crag was wet with spray in places; but Cleer didn'tmind spray; she was accustomed to the sea in all its moods andtempers. She clambered up the steep side--a sheer wall of bare rock, lightly clad here and there with sparse drapery of green sapphire, orclumps of purple sea-aster, rooted firm in the crannies. Its front wasyellow with great patches of lichen, and on the peaks, overhead, thegulls perched, chattering, or launched themselves in long curves uponthe evening air. Cleer paused half way up to draw breath and admirethe familiar scene. Often as she had gone there before, she couldnever help gazing with enchanted eyes on those brilliantly coloredpinnacles, on that deep green sea, on those angry white breakers thatdashed in ceaseless assault against the solid black wall of rock allround her. Then she started once more on her climb up the uncertainpath, a mere foothold in the crannies, clinging close with her tinyhands as she went to every jutting corner or weather-worn rock, andevery woody stem of weather-beaten sea plants. 

At last, panting and hot, she reached the sharp top, expecting to findTrevennack at his accustomed post on the very tallest pinnacle of thecraggy little islet. But, to her immense surprise, her father wasn'tthere. His absence disquieted her. Cleer stood up on the fissured massof orange-lichened rock that crowned the very summit, dispossessingthe gulls who flapped round her as she mounted it; then, shading hereyes with her hand, she looked down in every direction to see if shecould descry that missing figure in some nook of the crag. He wasnowhere visible. "Father!" she cried aloud, at the top of her voice;"father! father! father!" But the only answer to her cry was the soundof the sea on the base, and the loud noise of the gulls, as theyscreamed and fluttered in angry surprise over their accustomedbreeding-grounds. 

Alarmed and irresolute, Cleer sat down on the rock, and facinglandwards for awhile, waved her handkerchief to and fro to attract, ifpossible, her father's attention. Then she scanned the oppositecliffs, beyond the gap or chasm that separated her from the mainland;but she could nowhere see him. He must have forgotten her and gonehome to dinner alone, she fancied now, for it was nearly seveno'clock. Nothing remained but to climb down again and follow him. Itwas getting full late to be out by herself on the island. And tide wascoming in, and the surf was getting strong--Atlantic swell from thegale at sea yesterday. 

Painfully and toilsomely she clambered down the steep path, making herfoothold good, step by step, in the slippery crannies, rendered stillmore dangerous in places by the sticky spray and the brine that dashedover them from the seething channel. It was harder coming down, a gooddeal, than going up, and she was accustomed to her father's hand toguide her--to fit her light foot on the little ledges by the way, orto lift her down over the steepest bits with unfailing tenderness. Soshe found it rather difficult to descend by herself--both difficultand tedious. At last, however, after one or two nasty slips, and afalse step or so on the way that ended in her grazing the tender skinon those white little fingers, Cleer reached the base of the crag, andstood face to face with the final problem of crossing the chasm thatdivided the islet from the opposite mainland. 

Then for the first time the truth was borne in upon her with a suddenrush that she couldn't get back--she was imprisoned on the island. Shehad crossed over at almost the last moment possible. The sea now quitecovered two or three of her stepping-stones; fierce surf broke overthe rest with each advancing billow, and rendered the task of jumpingfrom one to the other impracticable even for a strong and sure-footedman, far more for a slight girl of Cleer's height and figure. 

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

Cleer was a Trevennack, and therefore brave; but the notion ofstopping alone on that desolate island, thronged with gulls andcormorants, in the open air, through all those long dark hours tillmorning dawned, fairly frightened and appalled her. For a minute ortwo she crouched and cowered in silence. Then, overcome by terror, sheclimbed up once more to the first platform of rock, above the reach ofthe spray, and shouted with all her might, "Father! father! father!"

But 'tis a lonely coast, that wild stretch by the Lizard. Not a soulwas within earshot. Cleer sat there still, or stood on top of thecrag, for many minutes together, shouting and waving her handkerchieffor dear life itself; but not a soul heard her. She might have diedthere unnoticed; not a creature came near to help or deliver her. Thegulls and the cormorants alone stared at her and wondered. 

Meanwhile, tide kept flowing with incredible rapidity. The gale in theAtlantic had raised an unwonted swell; and though there was now littlewind, the breakers kept thundering in upon the firm, sandy beach witha deafening roar that drowned Cleer's poor voice completely. To add toher misfortunes, fog began to drift slowly with the breeze fromseaward. It was getting dark too, and the rocks were damp. Overheadthe gulls screamed loud as they flapped and circled above her. 

In an agony of despair, Cleer sat down all unnerved on the topmostcrag. She began to cry to herself. It was all up now. She knew shemust stop there alone till morning. 

CHAPTER VII. 

PERIL BY LAND. 

The Trevennacks dined in their lodgings at Gunwalloe at half-pastseven. But in the rough open-air life of summer visitors on theCornish coast, meals as a rule are very movable feasts; and MichaelTrevennack wasn't particularly alarmed when he reached home thatevening to find Cleer hadn't returned before him. They had missed oneanother, somehow, among the tangled paths that led down the gully; aneasy enough thing to do between those big boulders and bramble-bushes;and it was a quarter to eight before Trevennack began to feel alarmedat Cleer's prolonged absence. By that time, however, he grewthoroughly frightened; and, reproaching himself bitterly for havinglet his daughter stray out of his sight in the first place, he hurriedback, with his wife, at the top of his speed along the cliff path tothe Penmorgan headland. 

It's half an hour's walk from Gunwalloe to Michael's Crag; and by thetime Trevennack reached the mouth of the gully the sands were almostcovered; so for the first time in fifteen years he was forced to takethe path right under the cliff to the now comparatively distantisland, round whose base a whole waste of angry sea surged sullenly. On the way they met a few workmen who, in answer to their inquiries, could give them no news, but who turned back to aid in the search forthe missing young lady. When they got opposite Michael's Crag, a widebelt of black water, all encumbered with broken masses of sharp rock, some above and some below the surface, now separated them by fiftyyards or more from the island. It was growing dark fast, for thesewere the closing days of August twilight; and dense fog had driftedin, half obliterating everything. They could barely descry the dimoutline of the pyramidal rock in its lower half; its upper part waswholly shrouded in thick mist and drizzle. 

With a wild cry of despair, Trevennack raised his voice, and shoutedaloud, "Cleer, Cleer! where are you?"

That clarion voice, as of his namesake angel, though raised againstthe wind, could be heard above even the thud of the fierce breakersthat pounded the sand. On the highest peak above, where she sat, coldand shivering, Cleer heard it, and jumped up. "Here! here! father!"she cried out, with a terrible effort, descending at the same timedown the sheer face of the cliff as far as the dashing spray andfierce wild waves would allow her. 

No other ear caught the sound of that answering cry; but Trevennack'skeen senses, preternaturally awakened by the gravity of the crisis, detected the faint ring of her girlish voice through the thunder ofthe surf. "She's there!" he cried, frantically, waving his hands abovehis head. "She's there! She's there! We must get across and save her. "

For a second Mrs. Trevennack doubted whether he was really right, orwhether this was only one of poor Michael's hallucinations. But thenext moment, with another cry, Cleer 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 thechannel. 

Frenzied at the sight, Trevennack tore off his coat, and would haveplunged into the sea, then and there, to rescue her. But the workmenheld him back. "No, no, sir; you mustn't, " they said. "No harm can'tcome to the young lady if she stops there. She've only got to sit onthem rocks there till morning, and the tide'll leave her high and dryright enough, as it always do. But nobody couldn't live in such a seaas that--not Tim o' Truro. The waves 'u'd dash him up afore he knowedwhere 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. Theirresistance angered him. He chafed under their restraint. How darethese rough fellows lay hands like that on the Prince of theArchangels and a superior officer in Her Majesty's Civil Service? Butwith the self-restraint that was habitual to him, he managed torefrain, even so, from disclosing his identity. He only struggledineffectually, instead of blasting them with his hot breath, orclutching his strong arms round their bare throats and choking them. As he stood there and hesitated, half undecided how to act, of asudden a sharp cry arose from behind. Trevennack turned and looked. Through the dark and the fog he could just dimly descry two menhurrying up, with ropes and life buoys. As they neared him, he startedin unspeakable horror. For one of them, indeed, was only Eustace LeNeve; but the other--the other was that devil Walter Tyrrel, who, hefelt sure in his own heart, had killed their dear Michael. And it washis task in life to fight and conquer devils. 

For a minute he longed to leap upon him and trample him under foot, aslong ago he had trampled his old enemy, Satan. What was the fellowdoing here now? What business had he with Cleer? Was he always to bein at the death of a Trevennack?

But true to her trust, the silver-haired lady clutched his arm withtender watchfulness. "For Cleer's sake, dear Michael!" she whisperedlow in his ear; "for Cleer's sake--say nothing; don't speak to him, don't notice him!"

The distracted father drew back a step, out of reach of the spray. "But Lucy, " he cried low to her, "only think! only remember! If Icared to go on the cliff and just spread my wings, I could fly acrossand save her--so instantly, so easily!"

His wife held his hand hard. That touch always soothed him. "If youdid, Michael, " she said gently, with her feminine tact, "they'd alldeclare you were mad, and had no wings to fly with. And Cleer's in noimmediate 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, Trevennack fell back yet anotherstep on the sands, and watched the men aloof. Walter Tyrrel turned tohim. 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 heroff. I've sent word direct to the Lizard lifeboat. But I'm afraid itwon't come. They daren't venture out. Sea runs too high, and theserocks are too dangerous. "

As he spoke, he tore off his coat, tied a rope round his waist, flunghis boots on the sand, and girded himself rapidly with an inflatedlife-buoy. Then, before the men could seize him or prevent the rashattempt, he had dashed into the great waves that curled and thunderedon the beach, and was struggling hard with the sea in a life and deathcontest. Eustace Le Neve held the rope, and tried to aid him in hisendeavors. He had meant to plunge in himself, but Walter Tyrrel wasbeforehand with him. He was no match in a race against time for thefiery and impetuous Cornish temperament. It wasn't long, however, before the breakers proved themselves more than equal foes for WalterTyrrel. In another minute he was pounded and pummeled on the unseenrocks under water by the great curling billows. They seized himresistlessly on their crests, tumbled him over like a child, anddashed him, bruised and bleeding, one limp bundle of flesh, againstthe jagged and pointed summits of the submerged boulders. 

With all his might, Eustace Le Neve held on to the rope; then, in coatand boots as he stood, he plunged into the waves and lifted WalterTyrrel in his strong arms landward. He was a bigger built and morepowerful man than his host, and his huge limbs battled harder with thegigantic waves. But even so, in that swirling flood, it was touch andgo with him. The breakers lifted him off his feet, tossed him to andfro in their trough, flung him down again forcibly against the sharp-edged rocks, and tried to float off his half unconscious burden. ButLe Neve persevered in spite of them, scrambling and tottering as hewent, over wet and slippery reefs, with Tyrrel still clasped in hisarms, and pressed tight to his breast, till he landed him safe at laston the firm sand beside him. 

The squire was far too beaten and bruised by the rocks to make asecond attempt against those resistless breakers. Indeed, Le Nevebrought him ashore more dead than alive, bleeding from a dozen woundson the face and hands, and with the breath almost failing in hisbattered body. They laid him down on the beach, while the fishermencrowded round him, admiring his pluck, though they deprecated hisfoolhardiness, for they "knowed the squire couldn't never live ag'init. " But Le Neve, still full of the reckless courage of youth, andhealth, and strength, and manhood, keenly alive now to the peril ofCleer's lonely situation, never heeded their forebodings. He dashed inonce more, just as he stood, clothes and all, in the wild anddesperate attempt to stem that fierce flood and swim across to theisland. 

In such a sea as then raged, indeed, and among such broken rocks, swimming, in the strict sense, was utterly impossible. By some meremiracle of dashing about, however--here, battered against the sharprocks; there, flung over them by the breakers; and yonder, again, sucked down, like a straw in an eddy, by the fierce strength of theundertow--Eustace found himself at last, half unconscious and halfchoked, carried round by the swirling scour that set through thechannel to the south front of the island. Next instant he felt he wascast against the dead wall of rock like an india rubber ball. Herebounded into the trough. The sea caught him a second time, and flunghim once more, helpless, against the dripping precipice. With whatlife was left in him, he clutched with both hands the bare serpentineedge. Good luck befriended him. The great wave had lifted him up onits towering crest to the level of vegetation, beyond the debatablezone. He clung to the hard root of woody sea-aster in the clefts. Thewaves dashed back in tumultuous little cataracts, and left him therehanging. 

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

His clothes were clinging wet, of course, and his limbs bruised andbattered. But he was safe on the firm plateau of the rock at last; andhe had rescued Cleer Trevennack!

In the first joy and excitement of the moment he forgot altogether thecramping conventionalities of our every-day life; and, repeating thecry he had heard Michael Trevennack raise from the beach below, heshouted 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, EustaceLe Neve clambered up to her. 

As he seized her hand and wrung it, Cleer crying the while withdelight and relief, it struck him all at once, for the very firsttime, 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 alonethere on the rock till morning. 

As for Cleer, too innocent and too much of a mere woman in her deadlyperil to think of anything but the delightful sense of confidence in astrong man at her side to guard and protect her, she sat and held hishand still, in a perfect transport of gratitude. "Oh, how good of youto come!" she cried again and again, bending over it in her relief, and half tempted to kiss it. "How good of you to come across like thatto save me. "

CHAPTER VIII. 

SAFE AT LAST. 

The 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 EustaceLe Neve stood aloft, and waved his arms, and shouted. He lit a matchand shaded it. The dull glare of it through the mist just faintlyreached the eyes of the anxious watchers on the beach below. From adozen lips there rose an answering shout. The pair on the crag halfheard its last echoes. Eustace put his hands to his mouth and criedaloud once more, in stentorian tones, "All right. Cleer's here. We canhold out till morning. "

Trevennack alone heard the words. But he repeated them so instantlythat 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 ofthe cliffs. Reluctantly they turned along the path by the gully, andmounting the precipice waited and watched till morning on the tor thatoverlooks Michael's Crag from the Penmorgan headland. 

Every now and again, through that livelong night, Trevennack whisperedin his wife's ear, "If only I chose to spread my wings, and launchmyself, I could fly across and carry her. " And each time that bravewoman, holding his hand in her own and smoothing it gently, answeredin her soft voice, "But then the secret would be out, and Cleer's lifewould 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, "I will; I will; for Cleer's sake andyours, I'll try to keep it down. I'll not be mad. I'll be strong andrestrain it. "

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

On the island, meanwhile, Eustace Le Neve and Cleer Trevennack satwatching out the weary night, and longing for the dawn to make the wayback possible. At least, Cleer did, for as to Eustace, in spite ofrain and fog and cold and darkness, he was by no means insensible tothe unwonted pleasure of so long a tete-a-tete, in such romanticcircumstances, with the beautiful Cornish girl. To be sure the wavesroared, and the drizzle dripped, and the seabirds flapped all roundthem. 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, becauseshe was so frightened; and as the night wore on they talked at last ofmany things. They were prisoners there for five mortal hours or so, alone, together; and they might as well make the best of it by beingsociable with one another. 

There could be no denying, however, that it was cold and damp and darkand uncomfortable. The rain came beating down upon them, as they satthere side by side on that exposed rock. The spray from the breakersblew in with the night wind; the light breeze struck chill on theirwet clothes and faces. After awhile Eustace began a slow tour ofinspection over the crag, seeking some cave or rock shelter, someprojecting ledge of stone on the leeward side that might screen theirbacks 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, withuncertain steps, through the gloom and fog. Once he steadied himselfon a jutting piece of the rock as he supposed, when to his immensesurprise--wh'r'r'r--it rose from under his hand, with a shrill cry ofalarm, and fluttered wildly seaward. It was some sleeping gull, nodoubt, disturbed unexpectedly in its accustomed resting-place. Eustacestaggered and almost fell. Cleer supported him with her arm. Heaccepted her aid gratefully. They stumbled on in the dark once more, lighting now and again for a minute or two one of his six preciousmatches--he had no more in his case--and exploring as well as theymight the whole broken surface of that fissured pinnacle. "I'm so gladyou smoke, Mr. Le Neve, " Cleer said, simply, as he lit one. "For ifyou didn't, you know, we'd have been left here all night in utterdarkness. "

At last, in a nook formed by the weathered joints, Eustace found arugged niche, somewhat dryer than the rest, and laid Cleer gently downin it, on a natural spring seat of tufted rock-plants. Then he settleddown beside her, with what cheerfulness he could muster up, and takingoff 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. Cleerrecognized as much, and nestled close to his side, like a sensiblegirl as she was, so as to keep warm by mere company; while Eustace, still holding her hand, just to assure her of his presence, placedhimself in such an attitude, leaning before her and above her, as toprotect her as far as possible from the drizzling rainfall through thegap in front of them. There they sat till morning, talking graduallyof many things, and growing more and more confidential, in spite ofcold and wet, as they learnt more and more, with each passing hour, ofeach other's standpoint. There are some situations where you get toknow people better in a few half-hours together than you could get toknow them in months upon months of mere drawing-room acquaintance. Andthis was one of them. Before morning dawned, Eustace Le Neve and CleerTrevennack felt just as if they had known one another quite well foryears. They were old and trusted friends already. Old friends--andeven something more than that. Though no word of love was spokenbetween them, each knew of what the other was thinking. Eustace feltCleer loved him; Cleer felt Eustace loved her. And in spite of rainand cold and fog and darkness they were almost happy--before dawn cameto interrupt their strange tete-a-tete on the islet. 

As soon as day broke Eustace looked out from their eyrie on thefissured peak, and down upon the troubled belt of water below. The seawas now ebbing, and the passage between the rock and the mainlandthough 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, giving his hand to Cleer fromledge to ledge as he went. The fog had lifted a little, and on theopposite headland they could just dimly descry the weary watcherslooking eagerly out for them. Eustace put his hands to his mouth, andgave a loud halloo. The sound of the breakers was less deafening now;his voice carried to the mainland. Trevennack, who had sat under atarpaulin through the livelong night, watching and waiting withanxious heart for the morning, raised an answering shout, and wavedhis hat in his hand frantically. St. Michael's Crag had not betrayedits trust. That was the motto of the Trevennacks--"Stand fast, St. Michael's!"--under the crest of the rocky islet, castled and mured, flamboyant. Eustace reached the bottom of the rock, and, wading in thewater himself, or jumping into the deepest parts, helped Cleer acrossthe stepping-stones. Meanwhile, the party on the cliff had hurrieddown by the gully path; and a minute later Cleer was in her mother'sarms, while Trevennack held her hand, inarticulate with joy, and bentover her eagerly. 

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

The father and mother both looked into her eyes--a single searchingglance--and understood perfectly. They grasped Le Neve's hand. Tearsrolled down their cheeks. Not a word was spoken, but in a certainsilent way all four understood one another. 

"Where's Tyrrel?" Eustace asked. 

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

But Cleer, as was natural, thought more of the man who had struggledthrough and reached her than of the man who had failed in the attempt, though he suffered all the more for it. This is a world of thesuccessful. In it, as in most other planets I have visited, peoplemake a deal more fuss over the smallest success than over the noblestfailure. 

It was no moment for delay. Eustace turned on his way at once, and ranup to Penmorgan. And the Trevennacks returned, very wet and cold, inthe dim gray dawn to their rooms at Gunwalloe. 

As soon as they were alone--Cleer put safely to bed--Trevennack lookedat his wife. "Lucy, " he said, slowly, in a disappointed tone, "afterthis, of course, come what may, they must marry. "

"They must, " his wife answered. "There's no other way left. Andfortunately, 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 fora Trevennack of Trevennack. Then he added, very fervently, "Thank Godit was HIM--not that other man, Tyrrel! Thank God, the first one fellin the water and was hurt. What should we ever have done--oh, whatshould we have done, Lucy, if she'd been cut off all night long onthat lonely crag face to face with the man who murdered our dear boyMichael?"

Mrs. Trevennack drew a long breath. Then she spoke earnestly oncemore. "Dear heart, " she said, looking deep into his clear brown eyes, "now remember, more than ever, Cleer's future is at stake. For Cleer'ssake, more than ever, keep a guard on yourself, Michael; watch wordand deed, do nothing foolish. "

"You can trust me!" Trevennack answered, drawing himself up to hisfull height, and looking proudly before him. "Cleer's future is atstake. Cleer has a lover now. Till Cleer is married, I'll give you mysacred promise no living soul shall ever know in any way she's anarchangel's daughter. "

CHAPTER IX. 

MEDICAL OPINION. 

From that day forth, by some unspoken compact, it was "Eustace" and"Cleer, " wherever they met, between them. Le Neve began it, by cominground in the afternoon of that self-same day, as soon as he'd sleptoff the first effects of his fatigue and chill, to inquire of Mrs. Trevennack "how Cleer was getting on" after her night's exposure. AndMrs. Trevennack accepted the frank usurpation in very good part, asindeed was no wonder, for Cleer had wanted to know half an hour beforewhether "Eustace" had yet been round to ask after her. The form ofspeech told all. There was no formal engagement, and none of the partyknew exactly how or when they began to take it for granted; but fromthat evening on Michael's Crag it was a tacitly accepted fact betweenLe Neve and the Trevennacks that Eustace was to marry Cleer as soon ashe could get a permanent appointment anywhere. 

Engineering, however, is an overstocked profession. In that particularit closely resembles most other callings. 

The holidays passed away, and Walter Tyrrel recovered, and theTrevennacks returned to town for the head of the house to take up hisnew position in the Admiralty service; but Eustace Le Neve heard of noopening anywhere for an energetic young man with South Americanexperience. Those three years he had passed out of England, indeed, had made him lose touch with other members of his craft. Peopleshrugged their shoulders when they heard of him, and opined, with achilly smile, he was the sort of young man who ought to go to thecolonies. That's the easiest way of shelving all similar questions. The colonies are popularly regarded in England as the predestineddumping-ground for all the fools and failures of the mother-country. So Eustace settled down in lodgings in London, not far from theTrevennacks, and spent more of his time, it must be confessed, ingoing round to see Cleer than in perfecting himself in the knowledgeof his chosen art. Not that he failed to try every chance that layopen to him--he had far too much energy to sit idle in his chair andlet the stream of promotion flow by unattempted; but chances were fewand applicants were many, and month after month passed away to hischagrin without the clever young engineer finding an appointmentanywhere. Meanwhile, his little nest-egg of South-American savings wasrapidly disappearing; and though Tyrrel, who had influence withrailway 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 hisbalance growing daily smaller, and began to be seriously alarmed atlast, 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, entirely free from sundryqualms of conscience as to her husband's condition and therightfulness of concealing it altogether from Cleer's accepted lover. Trevennack himself was so perfectly sane in every ordinary relation oflife, so able a business head, so dignified and courtly an Englishgentleman, that Eustace never even for a moment suspected anyundercurrent of madness in that sound practical intelligence. Indeed, no man could talk with more absolute common sense about his daughter'sfuture, or the duties and functions of an Admiralty official, thanMichael Trevennack. It was only to his wife in his most confidentialmoments that he ever admitted the truth as to his archangeliccharacter; to all others whom he met he was simply a distinguishedEnglish civil servant of blameless life and very solid judgment. Theheads of his department placed the most implicit trust in Trevennack'sopinion; there was no man about the place who could decide a knottypoint of detail off-hand like Michael Trevennack. What was his poorwife to do, then? Was it her place to warn Eustace that Cleer's fathermight at any moment unexpectedly develop symptoms of dangerousinsanity? 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 hadspent her whole life in inducing Trevennack himself to bottle up withceaseless care in his distracted bosom?

And yet . . . She saw the other point of view as well--alas, all tooplainly. She was a martyr to conscience, like Walter Tyrrel himself;was it right of her, then, to tie Eustace for life to a girl who wasreally a madman's daughter? This hateful question was up before heroften in the dead dark night, as she lay awake on her bed, tossing andturning feverishly; it tortured her in addition to her one lifelongtrouble. For the silver-haired lady had borne the burden of thatunknown sorrow locked up in her own bosom for fifteen years; and ithad left on her face such a beauty of holiness as a great troubleoften leaves indelibly stamped on women of the same brave, lovingtemperament. 

One day, about three months later, in their drawing-room at Bayswater, Eustace Le Neve happened to let drop a casual remark which cut poorMrs. Trevennack to the quick, like a knife at her heart. He wastalking of some friend of his who had lately got engaged. "It's aterrible thing, " he said, seriously. "There's insanity in the family. I wouldn't marry into such a family as that--no, not if I loved a girlto distraction, Mrs. Trevennack. The father's in a mad-house, youknow; and the girl's very nice now, but one never can tell when thetendency may break out. And then--just think! what an inheritance tohand on to one's innocent children!"

Trevennack took no open notice of what he said. But Mrs. Trevennackwinced, grew suddenly pale, and stammered out some conventional none-committing platitude. His words entered her very soul. They stung andgalled her. That night she lay awake and thought more bitterly toherself about the matter than ever. Next morning early, as soon asTrevennack had set off to catch the fast train from Waterloo toPortsmouth direct (he was frequently down there on Admiraltybusiness), 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--inpoint of fact, it was Dr. Yate-Westbury's, the well-known specialiston mental diseases. She sent up no card and gave no name. On thecontrary, she kept her veil down--and it was a very thick one. But Dr. Yate-Westbury made no comment on this reticence; it was a familiaroccurrence with him--people are often ashamed to have it known theyconsult a mad-doctor. 

"I want to ask you about my husband's case, " Mrs. Trevennack began, trembling. And the great specialist, all attention, leaned forward andlistened to her. 

Mrs. Trevennack summoned up courage, and started from the verybeginning. She described how her husband, who was a governmentservant, had been walking below a cliff on the seashore with theironly son, some fifteen years earlier, and how a shower of stones fromthe top had fallen on their heads and killed their poor boy, whoseinjuries were the more serious. She could mention it all now withcomparatively little emotion; great sorrows since had half obliteratedthat first and greatest one. But she laid stress upon the point thather husband had been struck, too, and was very gravely hurt--sogravely, indeed, that it was weeks before he recovered physically. 

"On what part of the head?" Yate-Westbury asked, with quick medicalinsight. 

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

The great specialist nodded. "Go on, " he said, quietly. "Fourthfrontal convolution! And it was a month or two, I have no doubt, before you noticed any serious symptoms supervening?"

"Exactly so, " Mrs. Trevennack made answer, very much relieved. "It wasall of a month or two. But from that day forth--from the verybeginning, I mean--he 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 surethere was nobody at all anywhere above to hurt him. " And then she wenton to describe in short but graphic phrase how he loved to return tothe place of his son's accident, and to stand for hours on lonelysites overlooking the spot, and especially on a crag which wasdedicated to St. Michael. 

The specialist caught at what was coming with the quickness, shethought, 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 answered, flushing hot. "Till he fancied himself the archangel. There--there were extenuating circumstances, you see. His own name'sMichael; and his family--well, his family have a special connectionwith St. Michael's Mount; their crest's a castled crag with 'Standfast, St. Michael's!' and he knew he had to fight against this madimpulse of his own--which he felt was like a devil within him--for hisdaughter's sake; and he was always standing alone on these rocky highplaces, dedicated to St. Michael, till the fancy took full hold uponhim; and now, though he knows in a sort of a way he's mad, he believesquite firmly he's St. Michael the Archangel. "

Yate-Westbury nodded once more. "Precisely the development I shouldexpect to occur, " he said, "after such an accident. "

Mrs. Trevennack almost bounded from her seat in her relief. "Then youattribute it to the accident first of all?" she asked, eagerly. 

"Not a doubt about it, " the specialist answered. "The region youindicate is just the one where similar illusory ideas are apt to arisefrom external injuries. The bruise gave the cause, and circumstancesthe form. Besides, the case is normal--quite normal altogether. Doeshe have frequent outbreaks?"

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

Yate-Westbury bit his lip. "He must have great self-control, " heanswered, less confidently. "In a case like that, I'm bound to admit, my prognosis--for the final result--would be most unfavorable. Thelonger he bottles it up the more terrible is the outburst likely to bewhen it arrives. You must expect that some day he will break outirrepressibly. "

Mrs. Trevennack bowed her head with the solemn placidity of despair. "I'm quite prepared for that, " she said, quietly; "though I try hardto delay it, for a specific reason. That wasn't the question I came toconsult you about to-day. I feel sure my poor husband's case isperfectly hopeless, as far as any possibility of cure is concerned;what I want to know is about another aspect of the case. " She leanedforward appealingly. "Oh, doctor, " she cried, clasping her hands, "Ihave a dear daughter at home--the one thing yet left me. She's engagedto be married to a young man whom she loves--a young man who lovesher. Am I bound to tell him she's a madman's child? Is there anychance of its affecting her? Is the taint hereditary?"

She spoke with deep earnestness. She rushed out with it withoutreserve. Yate-Westbury gazed at her compassionately. He was a kind-hearted man. "No; certainly not, " he answered, with emphasis. "Not thevery slightest reason in any way to fear it. The sanest man, comingfrom the very sanest and healthiest stock on earth, would almostcertainly be subject to delusions under such circumstances. This isaccident, not disease--circumstance, not temperament. The injury tothe brain is the result of a special blow. Grief for the loss of hisson, and brooding over the event, no doubt contributed to theparticular shape the delusion has assumed. But the injury's the mainthing. I don't doubt there's a clot of blood formed just here on thebrain, obstructing its functions in part, and disturbing its duerelations. In every other way, you say, he's a good man of business. The very apparent rationality of the delusion--the way it's been ledup to by his habit of standing on cliffs, his name, his associations, his family, everything--is itself a good sign that the partialinsanity is due to a local and purely accidental cause. It simulatesreason as closely as possible. Dismiss the question altogether fromyour mind, as far as your daughter's future is concerned. Its no morelikely to be inherited than a broken leg or an amputated arm is. "

Mrs. Trevennack burst into a flood of joyous tears. "Then all I haveto do, " she sobbed out, "is to keep him from an outbreak until aftermy daughter's married. "

Dr. Yate-Westbury nodded. "That's all you have to do, " he answered, sympathetically. "And I'm sure Mrs. Trevennack---" he paused with astart and checked himself. 

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

Dr. Yate-Westbury made a clean breast of it. "Well, to tell thetruth, " he said, "Mr. Trevennack himself called round here yesterday, in the afternoon, and stated the whole case to me from his own pointof view, giving his name in full--as a man would naturally do--butnever describing to me the nature of his delusion. He said it was toosacred a thing for him to so much as touch upon; that he knew hewasn't mad, but that the world would think him so; and he wanted toknow, from something he'd heard said, whether madness caused by aninjury of the sort would or would not be considered by medical men asinheritable. And I told him at once, as I've told you to-day, there was notthe faintest danger of it. But I never made such a slip in my life beforeas 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. " Hetook 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 hereyes. "I'm--I'm so glad you've SEEN him. It makes your opinion so muchmore valuable to me. But you thought his delusion wholly due to theaccident, 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. "

CHAPTER X. 

A BOLD ATTEMPT. 

During the next ten or eleven months poor Mrs. Trevennack had but oneabiding terror--that a sudden access of irrepressible insanity mightattack her husband before Cleer and Eustace could manage to getmarried. Trevennack, however, with unvarying tenderness, did his bestin every way to calm her fears. Though no word on the subject passedbetween them directly, he let her feel with singular tact that hemeant to keep himself under proper control. Whenever a dangerous topiccropped up in conversation, he would look across at heraffectionately, with a reassuring smile. "For Cleer's sake, " hemurmured 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 with fittingcheerfulness; but in his very madness itself she couldn't help loving, admiring, and respecting that strong, grave husband who fought so hardagainst his own profound convictions. 

Ten months passed away, however, and Eustace Le Neve didn't seem toget much nearer any permanent appointment than ever. He began to tireat last of applying unsuccessfully for every passing vacancy. Now andthen he got odd jobs, to be sure; but odd jobs won't do for a man tomarry upon; and serious work seemed always to elude him. Walter Tyrreldid his best, no doubt, to hunt up all the directors of all thecompanies he knew; but no posts fell vacant on any line they wereconnected with. It grieved Walter to the heart, for he had always hadthe sincerest friendship for Eustace Le Neve; and now that Eustace wasgoing to marry Cleer Trevennack, Walter felt himself doubly bound inhonor to assist him. It was HE who had ruined the Trevennacks' hopesin life by his unintentional injury to their only son; the least hecould do in return, he thought, and felt, was to make things as easyas possible for their daughter and her intended husband. 

By July, however, things were looking so black for the engineer'sprospects that Tyrrel made up his mind to run up to town and talkthings over seriously with Eustace Le Neve himself in person. He hatedgoing up there, for he hardly knew how he could see much of Eustacewithout running some risk of knocking up accidentally against MichaelTrevennack; and there was nothing on earth that sensitive young squiredreaded so much as an unexpected meeting with the man he had sodeeply, though no doubt so unintentionally and unwittingly, injured. But he went, all the same. He felt it was his duty. And duty to WalterTyrrel spoke in an imperative mood which he dared not disobey, howevermuch he might be minded to turn a deaf ear to it. 

Le Neve had little to suggest of any practical value. It wasn't hisfault, Tyrrel knew; engineering was slack, and many good men werelooking out for appointments. In these crowded days, it's a foolishmistake to suppose that energy, industry, ability, and integrity arenecessarily successful. To insure success you must have influence, opportunity, and good luck as well, to back them. Without these, noteven the invaluable quality of unscrupulousness itself is secure fromfailure. 

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 marryon an allowance of half the Penmorgan rent-roll. But in thiscommercial age, such quixotic arrangements are simply impossible. SoTyrrel set to work with fiery zeal to find out what openings were justthen to be had; and first of all for that purpose he went to call on aparliamentary friend of his, Sir Edward Jones, the fat and good-natured chairman of the Great North Midland Railway. Tyrrel was ashareholder whose vote was worth considering, and he supported theBoard with unwavering loyalty. 

Sir Edward was therefore all attention, and listened with sympathy toTyrrel's glowing account of his friend's engineering energy andtalent. When he'd finished his eulogy, however, the practical railwaymagnate crossed his fat hands and put in, with very common-sensedryness, "If he's so clever as all that, why doesn't he have a shot atthis Wharfedale Viaduct?"

Walter Tyrrel drew back a little surprised. The Wharfedale Viaduct wasa question just then in everybody's mouth. But what a question! Why, it was one of the great engineering works of the age; and it wasinformally understood that the company were prepared to receive plansand designs from any competent person. There came the rub, though. Would Eustace have a chance in such a competition as that? Much as hebelieved in his old school-fellow, Tyrrel hesitated and reflected. "Myfriend's young, of course, " he said, after a pause. "He's had verylittle experience--comparatively, I mean--to the greatness of theundertaking. "

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 likethis, my own belief is, the ideas count for most. Yes, if I were you, Tyrrel, I'd ask your friend to consider it. "

"You would?" Walter cried, brightening up. 

"Aye, that I would, " the great railway-man answered, still moreconfidently than before, rubbing his fat hands reflectively. "It's acapital opening. Erasmus Walker'll be in for it, of course; andErasmus Walker'll get it. But don't you tell your fellow that. It'llonly discourage him. You just send him down to Yorkshire toreconnoiter the ground; and if he's good for anything, when he's seenthe spot he'll make a plan of his own, a great deal better thanWalker's. Not that that'll matter, don't you know, as far as thisviaduct goes. The company'll take Walker's, no matter how good anyother fellow's may be, and how bad Walker's--because Walker has agreat name, and because they think they can't go far wrong if theyfollow Walker. But still, if your friend's design is a good one, it'llattract attention--which is always something; and after they'veaccepted Walker's, and flaws begin to be found in it--as experts canalways find flaws in anything, no matter how well planned--your friendcan come forward and make a fuss in the papers (or what's betterstill, YOU can come forward and make it for him) to say these flawswere strikingly absent from HIS very superior and scientificconception. There'll be flaws in your friend's as well, of course, butthey won't be the same ones, and nobody'll have the same interest infinding them out and exposing them. And that'll get your man talkedabout in the papers and the profession. It's better, anyhow, thanwasting his time doing nothing in London here. "

"He shall do it!" Walter cried, all on fire. "I'll take care he shalldo it. And Sir Edward, I tell you, I'd give five thousand pounds downif 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 wishingto do a good turn to Le Neve in this business. "

And he went home, reflecting in his own soul on the way that manythousands would be as dross in the pan to him if only he could makeCleer Trevennack happy. 

But that very same evening Trevennack came home from the Admiralty ina most excited condition. 

"Lucy!" he cried to his wife, as soon as he was alone in the room withher, "who do you think I saw to-day--there, alive in the flesh, standing smiling on the steps of Sir Edward Jones' house?--that bruteWalter 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 boyat the time; and he repents it bitterly--I'm sure he repents it. Youpromised you'd try to forgive him. For Cleer's sake, dear heart, youmust keep your promise. "

Trevennack knit his brows. "What does he mean, then, by dogging mysteps?" he cried. "What does he mean by coming after me up to Londonlike this? What does he mean by tempting me? I can't stand the sightof him. I won't be challenged, Lucy; I don't know whether it's thedevil or not, but when I saw the fellow to-day I had hard work to keepmy hands off him. I wanted to spring at his throat. I would have likedto throttle him!"

The silver-haired lady drew still closer to the excited creature, andheld his hands with a gentle pressure. "Michael, " she said, earnestly, "this IS the devil. This is the greatest temptation of all. This iswhat I dread most for you. Remember, it's Satan himself that suggestssuch thoughts to you. Fight the devil WITHIN, dearest. Fight himwithin, like a man. That's the surest place, after all, to conquerhim. "

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

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

Trevennack shook his head gravely. "No, not to Cornwall, " he answered. "I've another plan this time. I want to go to Dartmoor. It's lonelyenough there. Not a soul to distract me. You know, Lucy, when onemeans to fight the devil, there's nothing for it like the wilderness;and Dartmoor's wilderness enough for me. I shall go to Ivybridge, forthe tors and the beacons. "

Mrs. Trevennack assented gladly. If he wanted to fight the devil, itwas best at any rate he should be out of reach of Walter Tyrrel whilehe did it. And it was a good thing to get him away, too, from St. Michael's Mount, and St. Michael's Crag, and St. Michael's Chair, andall the other reminders of his archangelic dignity in the Penzanceneighborhood. Why, she remembered with a wan smile--the dead ghost ofa smile rather--he couldn't even pass the Angel Inn at Helston withoutexplaining to his companions that the parish church was dedicated toSt. Michael, and that the swinging sign of the old coaching house oncebore a picture of the winged saint himself in mortal conflict with hisSatanic enemy. It was something, at any rate, to get Trevennack awayfrom a district so replete with memories of his past greatness, to saynothing of the spot where their poor boy had died. But Mrs. Trevennackdidn't know that one thing which led her husband to select Dartmoorthis time for his summer holiday was the existence, on the wild hillsa little behind Ivybridge, of a clatter-crowned peak, known to all thecountry-side as St. Michael's Tor, and crowned in earlier days by amedieval chapel. It was on this sacred site of his antique cult thatTrevennack wished to fight the internal devil. And he would fight itwith a will, on that he was resolved; fight and, as became his angelicreputation, conquer. 

CHAPTER XI. 

BUSINESS IS BUSINESS. 

It reconciled Cleer to leaving London for awhile when she learnt thatEustace Le Neve was going north to Yorkshire, with Walter Tyrrel, toinspect the site of the proposed Wharfedale viaduct. Not that she evermentioned his companion's name in her father's presence. Mrs. Trevennack had warned her many times over, with tears in her eyes, butwithout cause assigned, never to allude to Tyrrel's existence beforeher father's face; and Cleer, though she never for one momentsuspected the need for such reticence, obeyed her mother's injunctionwith implicit honesty. So they parted two ways, Eustace and Tyrrel forthe north, the Trevennacks for Devonshire. Cleer needed a changeindeed; she'd spent the best part of a year in London. And for Cleer, that was a wild and delightful holiday. Though Eustace wasn't there, to be sure, he wrote hopefully from the north; he was maturing hisideas; he was evolving a plan; the sense of the magnitude of his stakein this attempt had given him an unwonted outburst of inspiration. Asshe wandered with her father among those boggy uplands, or stood onthe rocky tors that so strangely crest the low flat hill-tops of thegreat Devonian moor. She felt a marvelous exhilaration stir her blood--the old Cornish freedom making itself felt through all therestrictions 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, vigor. He hated London. He hated officialdom. He hated the bonds of red tape that envelopedhim. 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 yourhand, in obedience to the orders of the First Lord of the Admiralty!It's hard to know you can

 "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 hourafter hour in a stuffy office, or to haggle over details of pork andcheese in a malodorous victualing yard. Trevennack knew his "ParadiseLost" by heart--it was there, indeed, that he had formed his mainideas of the archangelic character; and he repeated the sonorous linesto himself, over and over again, in a ringing, loud voice, as heroamed the free moor or poised light on the craggy pinnacles. This wasthe world that he loved, these wild rolling uplands, these tall peaksof rock, these great granite boulders; he had loved them always, fromthe very beginning of things; had he not poised so of old, ages andages gone by, on that famous crag

 "Of alabaster, piled up to the clouds, 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. "

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

But amid all the undulations of that great stony ocean, one peak therewas that delighted Trevennack's soul more than any of the rest--a boldrusset crest, bursting suddenly through the heathery waste in abruptascent, and scarcely to be scaled, save on one difficult side, likeits Miltonic prototype. Even Cleer, who accompanied her fathereverywhere on his rambles, clad in stout shoes and coarse blue sergegown--. For Dartmoor is by no means a place to be approached by thosewho, like Agag, "walk delicately"--even Cleer didn't know that thiscraggy peak, jagged and pointed like some Alpine or dolomiticaiguille, was known to all the neighboring shepherds around as St. Michael's Tor, from its now forgotten chapel. A few wild Moorlandsheep grazed now and again on the short herbage at its base; but forthe most part father and daughter found themselves alone amid thatgorse-clad solitude. There Michael Trevennack would stand erect, withhead bare and brows knit, in the full eye of the sun, for hour afterhour at a time, fighting the devil within him. And when he came backat night, tired out with his long tramp across the moor and hisinternal struggle, he would murmur to his wife, "I've conquered himto-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 atthe idea for his viaduct. As he rightly wrote to Cleer, the needitself inspired him. Love is a great engineer, and Eustace learnedfast from him. He was full of the fresh originality of youth; and theplace took his fancy and impressed itself upon him. Gazing at it eachday, there rose up slowly by degrees in his mind, like a dream, thepicture of a great work on a new and startling principle--amodification of the cantilever to the necessities of the situation. Bit by bit he worked it out, and reduced his first floating conceptionto paper; then he explained it to Walter Tyrrel, who listened hard tohis explanations, and tried his best to understand the force of thetechnical arguments. Enthusiasm is catching; and Le Neve wasenthusiastic about his imaginary viaduct, till Walter Tyrrel in turngrew almost as enthusiastic as the designer himself over its beautyand utility. So charmed was he with the idea, indeed, that when LeNeve had at last committed it all to paper, he couldn't resist thetemptation of asking leave to show it to Sir Edward Jones, whom he hadalready consulted as to Eustace's prospects. 

Eustace permitted him, somewhat reluctantly, to carry the design tothe great railway king, and on the very first day of their return toLondon, in the beginning of October, Tyrrel took the papers round toSir Edward's house in Onslow Gardens. The millionaire inspected it atfirst with cautious reserve. He was a good business man, and he hatedenthusiasm--except in money matters. But gradually, as Walter Tyrrelexplained to him the various points in favor of the design, Sir Edwardthawed. He looked into it carefully. Then he went over thecalculations of material and expense with a critical eye. At the endhe leant back in his study chair, with one finger on the elevation andone eye on the figures, while he observed with slow emphasis: "This isa very good design. Why, man, its just about twenty times better thanErasmus Walker's. "

"Then you think it may succeed?" Tyrrel cried, with keen delight, asanxious for Cleer's sake as if the design were his own. "You thinkthey may take it?"

"Oh dear, no, " Sir Edward answered, confidently, with a superiorsmile. "Not the slightest chance in the world of that. They'd nevereven dream of it. It's novel, you see, novel, while Walker's isconventional. And they'll take the conventional one. But its a firstrate 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?" Tyrrel asked, somewhat dismayed at the practical man's coolness. 

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

"Is it cheaper than this would be, " Tyrrel asked, for Le Neve had laidstress on the point that for economy of material, combined withstrength of weight-resisting power, his own plan was remarkable. 

"Cheaper!" Sir Edward echoed. "Oh dear, no. By no means. Nothing couldvery well be cheaper than this. There's genius in its construction, don't you see? It's a new idea, intelligently applied to thepeculiarities and difficulties of a very unusual position, takingadvantage most ingeniously of the natural support afforded by the rockand the inequalities of the situation; I should say your friend iswell within the mark in the estimate he gives. " He drummed his fingerand calculated mentally. "It'd save the company from a hundred andfifty 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 ofbusiness like the directors of the Great North Midland will fling awaytwo hundred thousand pounds of the shareholder's money as if it weredirt, by accepting Walker's plan when they might accept this one?"

Sir Edward opened his palms, like a Frenchman, in front of him. It wasa trick he had picked up on foreign bourses. 

"My dear fellow, " he answered, compassionately, "directors are men, and to err is human. These great North Midland people are mere fleshand blood, and none of them very brilliant. They know Walker, andthey'll be largely guided by Walker's advice in the matter. If he sawhis way to make more out of contracting for carrying out somebodyelse's design, no doubt he'd do it. But failing that, he'll palm hisown off upon them, and Stillingfleet'll accept it. You see with howlittle wisdom the railways of the world are governed! People think, ifthey get Walker to do a thing for them, they shift the responsibilityupon Walker's shoulders. And knowing nothing themselves, they feelthat's a great point; it saves them trouble and salves theirconsciences. "

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

"But as to safety, " he asked, with some anxiety, "viewed as a matterof life and death, I mean? Which of these two viaducts is likely tolast longest, to be freest from danger, to give rise in the end toleast and fewest accidents?"

"Why, your friend Le Neve's, of course, " the millionaire 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 pulled out a design from a pigeon-hole in his desk;"this is in confidence, you understand. I oughtn't to show it to you;but I can trust your honor. Here's Walker's idea. It isn't an idea atall, in fact, it's just the ordinary old stone viaduct, with theordinary dangers, and the ordinary iron girders--nothing in any waynew or original. It's respectable mediocrity. On an affair like that, and with this awkward curve, too, just behind taking-off point, theliability to accident is considerably greater than in a constructionlike Le Neve's, where nothing's left to chance, and where every sourceof evil, such as land-springs, or freshets, or weakening, orconcussion, is considered beforehand and successfully providedagainst. If a company only thought of the lives and limbs of itspassengers--which it never does, of course--and had a head on itsshoulders, which it seldom possesses, Le Neve's is undoubtedly thedesign it would adopt in the interests of security. "

Tyrrel drew a long breath. "And you know all this, " he said, "and yetyou won't say a word for Le Neve to the directors. A recommendationfrom YOU, you see--"

Sir Edward shrugged his shoulders. "Impossible!" he answered, at once. "It would be a great breach of confidence. Remember, Walker showed mehis design as a friend, and after having looked at it I couldn't goright off and say to Stillingfleet, 'I've seen Walker's plans, andalso another fellow's, and I advise you, for my part, not to take myfriend's. ' It wouldn't be gentlemanly. "

Tyrrel paused and reflected. He saw the dilemma. And yet, what was thebreach of confidence or of etiquette to the deadly peril to life andlimb involved in choosing 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 theywouldn't believe me. Whatever Walker sends in they're sure to acceptit. 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 uponWalker; induce him NOT 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 making a fewthousands more anywhere, depend upon it he'll make 'em. He's a martyrto money, he is. He toils and slaves for L. S. D. {money} all hislife. He has no other interests. "

"What can he want with it?" Tyrrel exclaimed. "He's a bachelor, isn'the, without wife or child? What can a man like that want to pile upfilthy lucre for?"

"Can't say, I'm sure, " Sir Edward answered, good humoredly. "I have myquiver full of them myself, and every guinea I get I find three of mychildren are quarreling among themselves for ten and sixpence apieceof it. But what Walker can want with money heaven only knows. If _I_were a bachelor, now, and had an estate of my own in Cornwall, say, orDevonshire, 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 hefollowed the enthusiastic young Cornishman to the door. "But I seeyou're in earnest. Good luck go with you!"

CHAPTER XII. 

A HARD BARGAIN. 

Tyrrel took a hansom, and tore round in hot haste to Erasmus Walker'shouse. 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. Hesimply paused for a second in the midst of a sentence, and looked upimpatiently at the intruder on his desperate hurry. Then he motionedTyrrel into a chair with an imperious wave of his ivory penholder. After that, he went on writing for some moments in solemn silence. Only the sound of his steel nib, traveling fast as it could go overthe foolscap sheet, broke for several seconds the embarrassingstillness. 

Walter Tyrrel, therefore, had ample time meanwhile to consider hishost and to take in his peculiarities before Walker had come to theend of his paragraph. The great engineer was a big-built, bull-necked, bullet-headed sort of person, with the self-satisfied air of monetarysuccess, but with that ominous hardness about the corners of the mouthwhich constantly betrays the lucky man of business. His abundant longhair was iron-gray and wiry--Erasmus Walker had seldom time to wastein getting it cut--his eyes were small and shrewd; his hand was firm, and gripped the pen in its grasp like a ponderous crowbar. Hiswriting, Tyrrel could see, was thick, black, and decisive. Altogetherthe kind of man on whose brow it was written in legible charactersthat it's dogged as does it. The delicately organized Cornishman feltan instinctive dislike at once for this great coarse mountain of abullying Teuton. Yet for Cleer's sake he knew he mustn't rub him thewrong way. He must put up with Erasmus Walker and all his faults, andtry to approach him by the most accessible side--if indeed any sidewere accessible at all, save the waistcoat pocket. 

At last, however, the engineer paused a moment in his headlong coursethrough sentence after sentence, held his pen half irresolute over anew blank sheet, and turning round to Tyrrel, without one word ofapology, said, in a quick, decisive voice, "This is business, Isuppose, business? for if not, I've no time. I'm very pressed thismorning. Very pressed, indeed. Very pressed and occupied. "

"Yes, it is business, " Tyrrel answered, promptly, taking his cue withCeltic quickness. "Business that may be worth a good deal of money. "Erasmus Walker pricked up his ears at that welcome sound, and let thepen drop quietly into the rack by his side. "Only I'm afraid I mustask for a quarter of an hour or so of your valuable time. You will notfind it thrown away. You can name your own price for it. "

"My dear sir, " the engineer replied, taking up his visitor's cardagain and gazing at it hard with a certain inquiring scrutiny, "ifit's business, and business of an important character, of course Ineed hardly say I'm very glad to attend to you. There are so manypeople who come bothering me for nothing, don't you know--charitableappeals or what not--that I'm obliged to make a hard and fast ruleabout 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 in his revolving chair, and faced Tyrrel in anattitude of sharp practical eagerness. His eye was all alert. It wasclear, the man was keen on every passing chance of a stray hundred ortwo extra. His keenness disconcerted the conscientious and idealisticCornishman. For a second or two Tyrrel debated how to open fire uponso unwonted an enemy. At last he began, stammering, "I've a friend whohas made a design for the Wharfedale Viaduct. "

"Exactly, " Erasmus Walker answered, pouncing down upon him like ahawk. "And I've made one too. And as mine's in the field, why, yourfriend's is waste paper. "

His sharpness half silenced Tyrrel. But with an effort the younger manwent on, in spite of interruption. "That's precisely what I've comeabout, " he said; "I know that already. If only you'll have patienceand hear me out while I unfold my plan, you'll find what I have topropose is all to your own interest. I'm prepared to pay well for thearrangement I ask. Will you name your own price for half an hour'sconversation, and then listen to me straight on and without furtherinterruption?"

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

"I am not, " Tyrrel answered, quietly; "but I gave you my card, and youcan see from it who I am--Walter Tyrrel of Penmorgan Manor. I'm alanded proprietor, with a good estate in Cornwall. And I'm prepared torisk--well, a large part of my property in the business I propose toyou, without any corresponding risk on your part. In plain words, I'mprepared to pay you money down, if you will accede to my wish, on apure matter of sentiment. "

"Sentiment?" Mr. Walker replied, bringing his jaw down like a rat-trap, and gazing across at him, dubiously. "I don't deal insentiment. "

"No; probably not, " Tyrrel answered. "But I said sentiment, Mr. Walker, and I'm willing to pay for it. I know very well it's anarticle at a discount in the City. Still, to me, it means money'sworth, and I'm prepared to give money down to a good tune to humor it. Let me explain the situation. I'll do so as briefly and as simply as Ican, if only you'll listen to me. A friend of mine, as I said, oneEustace Le Neve, who has been constructing engineer of the Rosario andSanta Fe, in the Argentine Confederacy, has made a design for theWharfedale Viaduct. It's a very good design, and a practical design;and Sir Edward Jones, who has seen it, entirely approves of it. "

"Jones is a good man, " Mr. Walker murmured, nodding his head inacquiescence. "No dashed nonsense about Jones. Head screwed on theright 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 freeras he gauged his man more completely. "And the facts are just these:My friend's engaged to a young lady up in town here, in whom I take adeep interest--" Mr. Walker whistled low to himself, but didn'tinterrupt him--"a deep FRIENDLY interest, " Tyrrel corrected, growinghot in the face at the man's evident insolent misconstruction of hismotives; "and the long and the short of it is, his chance of marryingher depends very much upon whether or not he can get this design ofhis accepted by the directors. "

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

"So I understand, " Tyrrel went on. "Your name, I'm told, carrieseverything before it. But what I want to suggest now is simply this--How much will you take, money down on the nail, this minute, towithdraw your own design from the informal competition?"

Erasmus Walker gasped hard, drew a long breath, and stared at him. "How much will I take, " he repeated, slowly; "how--much--will--I--take--to withdraw my design? Well, that IS remarkable!"

"I mean it, " Tyrrel repeated, with a very serious face. "This is tome, I will confess, a matter of life and death. I want to see myfriend Le Neve in a good position in the world, such as his talentsentitle him to. I don't care how much I spend in order to insure it. So what I want to know is just this and nothing else--how much willyou take to withdraw from the competition?"

Erasmus Walker laid his two hands on his fat knees, with his legs wideopen, and stared long and hard at his incomprehensible visitor. Sostrange a request stunned for a moment even that sound business head. A minute or two he paused. Then, with a violent effort, he pulledhimself together. "Come, come, " he said, "Mr. Tyrrel; let's bepractical and above-board. I don't want to rob you. I don't want toplunder you. I see you mean business. But how do you know, supposeeven you buy me out, this young fellow's design has any chance ofbeing accepted? What reason have you to think the Great North Midlandpeople are likely to give such a job to an unknown beginner?"

"Sir Edward Jones says it's admirable, " Tyrrel ventured, dubiously. 

"Sir Edward Jones says it's admirable! Well, that's good, as far as itgoes. Jones knows what he's talking about. Head's screwed on the rightway. But has your friend any interest with the directors--that's thequestion? Have you reason to think, if he sends it in, and I hold backmine, 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, " theman of business retorted, with cynical confidence. "If that's allyou've got to say, my dear sir, it wouldn't be fair of me to makemoney terms with you. I won't discuss my price in the matter till I'vesome reason to believe this idea of yours is workable. "

"I have the designs here all ready, " Walter Tyrrel replied, holdingthem out. "Plans, elevations, specifications, estimates, sections, figures, everything. Will you do me the favor to look at them? Then, perhaps, you'll be able to see whether or not the offer's genuine. "

The great engineer took the roll with a smile. He opened it hastily, in a most skeptical humor. Walter Tyrrel leant over him, and triedjust at first to put in a word or two of explanation, such as Le Nevehad made to himself; but an occasionally testy "Yes, yes; I see, " wasall the thanks he got for his pains and trouble. After a minute or twohe found out it was better to let the engineer alone. That practicedeye picked out in a moment the strong and weak points of the wholeconception. Gradually, however, as Walker went on, Walter Tyrrel couldsee he paid more and more attention to every tiny detail. His wholemanner altered. The skeptical smile faded away, little by little, fromthose thick, sensuous lips, and a look of keen interest took its placeby degrees on the man's eager features. "That's good!" he murmuredmore than once, as he examined more closely some section orenlargement. "That's good! very good! knows what he's about, thisEustace Le Neve man!" Now and again he turned back, to re-examine somespecial point. "Clever dodge!" he murmured, half to himself. "Cleverdodge, undoubtedly. Make an engineer in time--no doubt at all aboutthat--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 thisbusiness--or otherwise?"

"Oh, business, business, " the great engineer 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 devilishwell carried out in every detail. "

Tyrrel seized his opportunity. "And if you were to withdraw your owndesign, " he asked, somewhat nervously, hardly knowing how best toframe his delicate question, "do you think . . . The directors . . . Wouldbe likely to accept this one?"

Erasmus Walker hummed and hawed. He twirled his fat thumbs round oneanother in doubt. Then he answered oracularly, "They might, of course;and yet, again, they mightn't. "

"Upon whom would the decision rest?" Tyrrel inquired, looking hard athim. 

"Upon me, almost entirely, " the great engineer responded at once, withcheerful frankness. "To say the plain truth, they've no minds of theirown, 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 acomplacent nod. "They've no minds of their own, you see. They'll dojust as I tell them. "

"And you think this design of Le Neve's a good one, both mechanicallyand financially, and also exceptionally safe as regards the lives andlimbs of passengers and employees?" Tyrrel inquired once more, withanxious particularity. His tender conscience made him afraid to doanything in the matter unless he was quite sure in his own mind he wasdoing no wrong in any way either to shareholders, competitors, or thepublic generally. 

"My dear sir, " Mr. Walker replied, fingering the papers lovingly, "it's an admirable design--sound, cheap, and practical. It's as goodas it can be. To tell you the truth, I admire it immensely. "

"Well, then, " Tyrrel said at last, all his scruples removed--"let'scome to business. I put it plainly. How much will you take to withdrawyour own design, and to throw your weight into the scale in favor ofmy friend's here?"

Erasmus Walker closed one eye, and rewarded his visitor fixedly out ofthe 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. Thenhe answered at last, after a long, deep pause, "It's YOUR deal, Mr. Tyrrel. Make me an offer, won't you?"

"Five thousand pounds?" tremblingly suggested Walter Tyrrel. 

Erasmus Walker opened his eye slowly, and never allowed his surpriseto be visible on his face. Why, to him, a job like that, entailingloss of time in personal supervision, was hardly worth three. Theplans were perfunctory, and as far as there was anything in them, could be used again elsewhere. He could employ his precious daysmeanwhile to better purpose in some more showy and profitable workthan this half-hatched viaduct. But this was an upset price. "Notenough, " he murmured, slowly, shaking his bullet head. "It's a fortuneto 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 Cornishlandlord must still be well squeezable. He shook his head gain. "No, no; not enough, " he answered short. "Not enough--by a long way. "

"Eight, " Tyrrel suggested, drawing a deep breath of suspense. It was abig sum, indeed, for a modest estate like Penmorgan. 

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

"I'm afraid, " Walter said, quivering, after a brief mentalcalculation--mortgage at four per cent--and agricultural depressionrunning down the current value of land in the market--"I couldn't byany possibility go beyond ten thousand. But to save my friend--and toget the young lady married--I wouldn't mind going as far as that tomeet you. "

The engineer saw at once, with true business instinct, his man hadreached the end of his tether. He struck while the iron was hot andclinched 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 dohonor to the profession, I don't mind closing with you. I'll take tenthousand, money down, to back out of it myself, and I'll say what Ican--honestly--to the Midland Board in your friend's favor. "

"Very good, " Tyrrel answered, drawing a deep breath of relief. "I askno more than that. Say what you can honestly. The money shall be paidyou before the end of a fortnight. "

"Only, mind, " Mr. Walker added in an impressive afterthought, "Ican't, of course, ENGAGE that the Great North Midland people will takemy advice. You mustn't come down upon me for restitution and all thatif your friend don't succeed and they take some other fellow. All Iguarantee for certain is to withdraw my own plans--not to send inanything myself for the competition. "

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

Erasmus Walker stared at him. "What--after paying ten thousandpounds?" he said, "to secure the job?"

Tyrrel nodded a solemn nod. "Especially, " he added, "if you think itsafer to life and limb. I should never forgive myself if an accidentwere to occur on Eustace Le Neve's viaduct. "

CHAPTER XIII. 

ANGEL AND DEVIL. 

Tyrrel left Erasmus Walker's house that morning in a turmoil ofmingled exultation and fear. At least he had done his best to atonefor the awful results of his boyish act of criminal thoughtlessness. He had tried to make it possible for Cleer to marry Eustace, andthereby to render the Trevennacks happier in their sonless old age;and what was more satisfactory still, he had crippled himself in doingit. There was comfort even in that. Expiation, reparation! He wouldn'thave cared for the sacrifice so much if it had cost him less. But itwould cost him dear indeed. He must set to work at once now and raisethe needful sum by mortgaging Penmorgan up to the hilt to do it. 

After all, of course, the directors might choose some other designthan Eustace's. But he had done what he could. And he would hope forthe best, at any rate. For Cleer's sake, if the worst came, he wouldhave risked and lost much. While if Cleer's life was made happy, hewould be happy in the thought of it. 

He hailed another hansom, and drove off, still on fire, to hislawyer's in Victoria Street. On the way, he had to go near PaddingtonStation. He didn't observe, as he did so, a four-wheel cab that passedhim with luggage on top, from Ivybridge to London. It was theTrevennacks, just returned from their holiday on Dartmoor. But MichaelTrevennack had seen him; and his brow grew suddenly dark. He pinchedhis nails into his palm at sight of that hateful creature, though nota sound escaped him; for Cleer was in the carriage, and the man wasEustace's friend. Trevennack accepted Eustace perforce, after thatnight on Michael's Crag; for he knew it was politic; and indeed, heliked the young man himself well enough--there was nothing against himafter all, beyond his friendship with Tyrrel; but had it not been forthe need for avoiding scandal after the adventure on the rock, hewould never have allowed Cleer to speak one word to any friend oracquaintance of her brother's murderer. 

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

That evening at home, Cleer had a visit from Eustace, who came roundto tell her how Tyrrel had been to see the great engineer, ErasmusWalker; and how it was all a mistake that Walker was going to send inplans for the Wharfedale Viaduct--nay, how the big man had approved ofhis own design, and promised to give it all the support in his power. For Tyrrel was really an awfully kind friend, who had pushed thingsfor him like a brick, and deserved the very best they could both ofthem say about him. 

But of course Eustace hadn't the faintest idea himself by what mannerof persuasion Walter Tyrrel had commended his friend's designs toErasmus Walker. If he had, needless to say, he would never haveaccepted the strange arrangement. 

"And now, Cleer, " Eustace cried, jubilant and radiant with the easyconfidence of youth and love, "I do believe I shall carry the field atlast, and spring at a bound into a first-rate position among engineersin 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 seeno reason why--we shouldn't get married immediately. "

They were alone in the breakfast room, where Mrs. Trevennack had leftthem. They were alone, like lovers. But in the drawing-room hard by, Trevennack himself was saying to his wife with a face of suppressedexcitement, "I saw him again to-day, Lucy. I saw him again, thatdevil--in a hansom near Paddington. If he stops in town, I'm sure Idon't know what I'm ever to do. I came back from Devonshire, havingfought the devil hard, as I thought, and conquered him. I felt I'd gothim under. I felt he was no match for me. But when I see that man'sface the devil springs up at me again in full force, and grapples withme. Is he Satan himself? I believe he must be. For I feel I must rushat him and trample him under foot, as I trampled him long ago on thesummit of Niphates. "

In a tremor of alarm Mrs. Trevennack held his hand. Oh, what would sheever do if the outbreak came . . . Before Cleer was married! She couldsee the constant strain of holding himself back was growing daily moreand more difficult for her unhappy husband. Indeed, she couldn't bearit herself much longer. If Cleer didn't marry soon, Michael wouldbreak 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 nothingabout Tyrrel, at least by name, lest he should hurt Trevennack; hemerely mentioned that a friend of his had seen Erasmus Walker thatday, and that Walker had held out great hopes of success for him inthis Wharfedale Viaduct business. Trevennack listened with a strangemixture of interest and contempt. He was glad the young man was likelyto get on in his chosen profession--for Cleer's sake, if it wouldenable them to marry. But, oh, what a fuss it seemed to him to makeabout such a trifle as a mere bit of a valley that one could flyacross in a second--to him who could become

 ". . . To his proper shape returned 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 Girt 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 HIM about the difficulties of building a fewhundred yards of iron bridge across a miserable valley! Why, was itnot he and his kind of whom it was written that they came

 "Gliding through the even On a sunbeam, swift as a shooting star In autumn thwarts the night?"

A viaduct indeed! a paltry human viaduct! What need, with such as him, to talk of bridges or viaducts?

As Eustace left that evening, Mrs. Trevennack followed him out, andbeckoned him mysteriously into the dining-room at the side for aminute's conversation. The young man followed her, much wondering whatthis strange move could mean. Mrs. Trevennack fell back, half faint, into a chair, and gazed at him with a frightened look very rare onthat brave face of hers. "Oh, Eustace, " she said, hurriedly, "do youknow what's happened? Mr. Tyrrel's in town. Michael saw him to-day. Hewas driving near Paddington. Now do you think. . . You could do anythingto keep him out of Michael's way? I dread their meeting. I don't knowwhether you know it, but Michael has some grudge against him. ForCleer's sake and for yours, do keep them apart, I beg of you. If theymeet, I can't answer for what harm may come of it. "

Eustace was taken aback at her unexpected words. Not even to Cleer hadhe ever hinted in any way at the strange disclosure Walter Tyrrel madeto him that first day at Penmorgan. He hesitated how to answer herwithout betraying his friend's secret. At last he said, as calmly ashe could, "I guessed, to tell you the truth, there was some cause ofquarrel. I'll do my very best to keep Tyrrel out of the way, Mrs. Trevennack, as you wish it. But I'm afraid he won't be going down fromtown for some time to come, for he told me only to-day he had businessat his lawyer's, in Victoria Street, Westminster, which might keep himhere a fortnight. Indeed, I rather doubt whether he'll care to go downagain until he knows for certain, one way or the other, about theWharfedale Viaduct. "

Mrs. Trevennack sank back in her chair, very pale and wan. "Oh, whatshall 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, smoothing her silvery white hair with sympathetic fingers, "Ithink I can keep them apart. I'll speak seriously to Tyrrel about it. He's a very good fellow, and he'll do anything I ask of him. I'm surehe'll try to avoid falling in with your husband. He's my kindest offriends; and he'd cut off his hand to serve me. "

One word of sympathy brought tears into Mrs. Trevennack's eyes. Shelooked up through them, and took the young man's hand in hers. "It wasHE 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. AndMichael, if the fit came upon him, would strangle that young man, whowas doing his best after all for Cleer and Eustace!

But that night in his bed Trevennack lay awake, chuckling grimly tohimself in an access of mad triumph. He fancied he was fighting hisfamiliar foe, on a tall Cornish peak, in archangelic fashion; and hehad vanquished his enemy, and was trampling on him furiously. But theface of the fallen seraph was not the face of Michael Angelo's Satan, as he oftenest figured it--for Michael Angelo, his namesake, was oneof Trevennack's very chiefest admirations;--it was the face of WalterTyrrel, who killed his dear boy, writhing horribly in the dust, andcrying for mercy beneath him. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

AT ARM'S LENGTH. 

For three or four weeks Walter Tyrrel remained in town, awaiting theresult of the Wharfedale Viaduct competition. With some difficulty heraised and paid over meanwhile to Erasmus Walker the ten thousandpounds of blackmail--for it was little else--agreed upon between them. The great engineer accepted the money with as little compunction asmen who earn large incomes always display in taking payment for doingnothing. It is an enviable state of mind, unattainable by most of uswho work hard for our living. He pocketed his check with a smile, asif it were quite in the nature of things that ten thousand poundsshould drop upon him from the clouds without rhyme or reason. ToTyrrel, on the other hand, with his sensitive conscience, the man'sgreed and callousness seemed simply incomprehensible. He stood aghastat such sharp practice. But for Cleer's sake, and to ease his ownsoul, he paid it all over without a single murmur. 

And then the question came up in his mind, "Would it be effectualafter all? Would Walker play him false? Would he throw the weight ofhis influence into somebody else's scale? Would the directors submitas tamely as he thought to his direction or dictation?" It would behard on Tyrrel if, after his spending ten thousand pounds withoutsecurity of any sort, Eustace were to miss the chance, and Cleer to gounmarried. 

At the end of a month, however, as Tyrrel sat one morning in his ownroom at the Metropole, which he mostly frequented, Eustace Le Neverushed in, full of intense excitement. Tyrrel's heart rose in hismouth. He grew pale with agitation. The question had been decided oneway 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, half beside himself withdelight. "I've got it! I've got it! The chairman and Walker have justbeen round to call on me, and congratulate me on my success. Walkersays my fortune's made. It's a magnificent design. And in any caseit'll mean work for me for the next four years; after which I'll notwant for occupation elsewhere. So now, of course, I can marry almostimmediately. "

"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 wouldcost him many pangs to see Cleer really married in good earnest toEustace. 

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

As for Mrs. Trevennack, when she heard the good news, she almostfainted with joy. It might yet be in time. Cleer might be married nowbefore poor Michael broke forth in that inevitable paroxysm. 

For inevitable she felt it was at last. As each day went by it grewharder and harder for the man to contain himself. Fighting desperatelyagainst it every hour, immersing himself as much as he could in thepetty fiddling details of the office and the Victualing Yard so as tokeep the fierce impulse under due control, Michael Trevennack yetfound the mad mood within him more and more ungovernable with eachweek that went by. As he put it to his own mind he could feel hiswings growing as if they must burst through the skin; he could feel itharder and ever harder as time went on to conceal the truth, topretend he was a mere man, when he knew himself to be really thePrince of the Archangels, to busy himself about contracts for pork, and cheese, and biscuits, when he could wing his way n boldly over seaand land, or stand forth before the world in gorgeous gear, armed asof yore in the adamant and gold of his celestial panoply!

So Michael Trevennack thought in his own seething soul. But thatstrong, brave woman, his wife, bearing her burden unaided, andwatching him closely day and night with a keen eye of mingled love andfear, could see that the madness was gaining on him gradually. Oftenerand oftener now did he lose himself in his imagined world; less andless did he tread the solid earth beneath us. Mrs. Trevennack had bythis time but one anxious care left in life--to push on as fast aspossible Cleer and Eustace's marriage. 

But difficulties intervened, as they always WILL intervene in thiswork-a-day world of ours. First of all there were formalities aboutthe appointment itself. Then, even when all was arranged, Eustacefound he had to go north in person, shortly after Christmas, and setto work with a will at putting his plan into practical shape forcontractor and workmen. And as soon as he got there he saw at once hemust stick at it for six months at least before he could venture totake a short holiday for the sake of getting married. Engineering is avery absorbing trade; it keeps a man day and night at the scene of hislabors. 

Storm or flood at any moment may ruin everything. It would be prudenttoo, Eustace thought, to have laid by a little more for householdexpenses, before plunging into the unknown sea of matrimony; andthough Mrs. Trevennack, flying full in the face of all matronlyrespect for foresight in young people, urged him constantly to marry, money or no money, and never mind about a honeymoon, Eustace stuck tohis point and determined to take no decisive step till he saw how thework was turning out in Wharfedale. It was thus full August of thesucceeding year before he could fix a date definitely; and then, toCleer's great joy, he named a day at last, about the beginning ofSeptember. 

It was an immense relief to Mrs. Trevennack's mind when, after one ortwo alterations, she knew the third was finally fixed upon. She hadgood reasons of her own for wishing it to be early; for the twenty-ninth is Michaelmas Day, and it was always with difficulty that herhusband could be prevented from breaking out before the eyes of theworld on that namesake feast of St. Michael and All Angels. For, onthat sacred day, when in every Church in Christendom his importance asthe generalissimo of the angelic host was remembered and commemorated, it seemed hard indeed to the seraph in disguise that he must stillguard his incognito, still go on as usual with his petty higgling overcorned beef and biscuits and the price of jute sacking. "There was warin heaven, " said the gospel for the day--that sonorous gospel Mrs. Trevennack so cordially dreaded--for her husband would always go tochurch at morning service, and hold himself more erect than was hiswont, to hear it--"There was war in heaven; Michael and his angelsfought against the dragon; and the dragon fought and his angels, andprevailed not. " And should he, who could thus battle against all thepowers 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 standforth in his true angelic shape, and show these martinets what formthey had ignorantly taken for mere Michael Trevennack of theVictualing Department!

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

On the day of Cleer's wedding, however, Walter Tyrrel came to town. Hecame on purpose. He couldn't resist the temptation of seeing with hisown eyes the final success of his general plan, even though it costhim the pang of watching the marriage of the one girl he ever trulyloved to another man by his own deliberate contrivance. But he didn'tforget Eustace Le Neve's earnest warning, that he should keep out ofthe way of Michael Trevennack. Even without Eustace, his ownconscience would have urged that upon him. The constant burden of hisremorse for that boyish crime weighed hard upon him every hour ofevery day that he lived. He didn't dare on such a morning to face thefather of the boy he had unwittingly and half-innocently murdered. 

So, very early, as soon as the church was opened, he stole inunobserved, and took a place by himself in the farthest corner of thegallery. A pillar concealed him from view; for further security heheld his handkerchief constantly in front of his face, or shieldedhimself behind one of the big free-seat prayer-books. Cleer came inlooking beautiful in her wedding dress; Mrs. Trevennack's patheticface glowed radiant for once in this final realization of her dearestwishes. A single second only, near the end of the ceremony, Tyrrelleaned forward incautiously, anxious to see Cleer at an importantpoint of the proceedings. At the very same instant Trevennack raisedhis face. Their eyes met in a flash. Tyrrel drew back, horrorstruck, and penitent at his own intrusion at such a critical moment. But, strange to say, Trevennack took no overt notice. Had his wife onlyknown she would have sunk in her seat in her agony of fear. Buthappily she didn't know. Trevennack went through the ceremony, alloutwardly calm; he gave no sign of what he had seen, even to his wifeherself. He buried it deep in his own heart. That made it all the moredangerous. 

CHAPTER XV. 

ST. MICHAEL DOES BATTLE. 

The wedding breakfast went off pleasantly, without a hitch of anysort. Trevennack, always dignified and always a grand seigneur, roseto 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 quiteat her ease. For all was over now, thank heaven, and dear Cleer wasmarried!

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

Trevennack stooped down and kissed her forehead tenderly. He hadalways been a good husband, and he loved her with all his heart. "That's well, Lucy, " he answered. "Thank God, it's all over. For Ican't hold out much longer. The strain's too much for me. " He paused amoment, and looked at her. "Lucy, " he said, once more, clasping hisforehead with one hand, "I've fought against it hard. I'm fightingagainst it still. But at times it almost gets the better of me. Do youknow 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, afixed idea, an insane hallucination. "Oh, no, dear, " she cried, pryingdeep into his eyes. "It couldn't be he, it couldn't. You must bemistaken, Michael. I'm sure he's not in London. "

"No more mistaken than I am this minute, " Trevennack answered, rushingover to the window, and pointing 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 shelooked out of the window and, under the gas-lamps opposite, recognizedthrough the mist the form of Walter Tyrrel. 

But Trevennack didn't rush out at him as she feared and believed hewould. He only stood still in his place and glared at his enemy. "Notnow, " he said, slowly; "not now, on Cleer's wedding day. But someother time--more suitable. I hear it in my ears; I hear the voicestill ringing: 'Go, Michael, of celestial armies prince!' I can'tdisobey. 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 fromParis, Innsbruck, Milan, Venice, Florence, poor Mrs. Trevennack wastortured inwardly with another terrible doubt; had Michael's statebecome so dangerous at last that he must be put under restraint as ameasure of public security? For Walter Tyrrel's sake, ought she tomake his condition known to the world at large--and spoil Cleer'shoneymoon? She shrank from that final necessity with a deadlyshrinking. Day after day she put the discovery off, and solaced hersoul with the best intentions--as what true woman would not?

But we know where good intentions go. On the morning of the twenty-ninth, which is Michaelmas Day, the poor mother rose in fear andtrembling. 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, however, he found letters from Falmouthawaiting him with bad news. His presence was needed at once. He mustmiss his projected visit to St. Michael's, Cornhill. He must go downto Cornwall. 

Hailing a cab at the door he hastened back to Paddington just in timefor the Cornish express. This was surely a call. The words rang in hisears louder and clearer than ever, "Go, Michael, of celestial armiesprince!" He would go and obey them. He would trample under foot thisfoul fiend that masqueraded 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 warfare. He would come out in his trueshape before heaven and earth as the chief of the archangels. 

Stepping into a first-class compartment he found himself, unluckilyfor his present mood, alone. All the way down to Exeter the fit was onhim. He stood up in the carriage, swaying his unseen blade, celestialtemper fine, and rolling forth in a loud voice Miltonic verses of hisold 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 wasdelightful to be alone. He could give his soul full vent. He knew hewas mad. He knew he was an archangel. 

And all the way down he repeated to himself, many times over, that hewould trample under foot that base fiend Walter Tyrrel. Satan has manydisguises; squat like a toad, close at the ear of Eve, he sat inParadise; for

 ". . . Spirits as they please Can limb themselves, and color, or size assume As likes them best, condense or rare. "

If he himself, Michael, prince of celestial hosts, could fit hisangelic majesty to the likeness of a man, Trevennack--could not Satanmeet him on his own ground, and try to thwart him as of old in thelikeness of a man, Walter Tyrrel--his dear boy's murderer. 

As far as Exeter this was his one train of thought. But from there toPlymouth new passengers got in. They turned the current. Trevennackchanged his mind rapidly. Another mood came over him. His wife's wordsstruck him vaguely in some tenderer place. "Fight the devil WITHINyou, Michael. Fight him there, and conquer him. " That surely wasfitter far for an angelic nature. That foeman was worthier hiscelestial steel. "Turn homeward, angel, now, and melt with ruth!" Nothis to do vengeance on the man Walter Tyrrel. Not his to play thedivine part of vindicator. In his madness even Trevennack wasmagnanimous. Leave the creature to the torment of his own guilty soul. Do angels care for thrusts of such as he? Tantaene animis coelestibusirae?

At Ivybridge 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 hat 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 guardopened the door. A new idea had rushed suddenly into the madman'shead. 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 upthere this very evening, and before the eyes of all the world, in hiscelestial armor, taking Lucy's advice, do battle with and quell thisfierce devil within him. 

No sooner thought than done. Fiery hot within, he turned out of thegate, and as the shades of autumn evening began to fall, walkedswiftly up the moor toward the tor and the uplands. 

As he walked his heart beat to a lilting 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. Swirlingclouds rose slowly up, and lifted at times and disclosed the peatyhollows, the high tors, the dusky heather. But Trevennack stumbled on, o'er bog or steep, through strait, rough, dense, or rare, as chancemight lead him, clambering ever toward his goal, now seen, nowinvisible--the great stack of wild rock that crowned the grayundulating moor to northward. Often he missed his way; often hefloundered for awhile in deep ochreous bottoms, up to his knees insoft slush, but with some strange mad instinct he wandered onnevertheless, 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 thestarlight. But Trevennack, all on fire, wandered madly forward andscaled the rocky tor by the well-known path, guided not by sight, butby pure instinctive groping. In his present exalted state, indeed, hehad no need of eyes. What matters earthly darkness to angelic feet? Hecould pick his own way through the gloom, though all the fiends fromhell in serried phalanx broke loose to thwart him. He would reach thetop at last; reach the top; reach the top, and there fight that oldserpent 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 isready for you!

Cr'r'r'k! as he stood there, waiting, a terrible shock brought him tohimself all at once with startling suddenness. Trevennack drew backaghast and appalled. Even in his mad exaltation this strange assaultastonished him. He had expected a struggle, indeed; he had expected aconflict, but with a spiritual foe; to meet his adversary in so bodilya form as this, wholly startled and surprised him. For it was a fierceearthly shock he received upon his right leg as he mounted the rockyplatform. Satan had been lying in wait for him then, expecting him, waylaying him, and in corporeal presence too. For this was a spear ofgood steel! This was a solid Thing that assaulted him as he rose--assaulted him with frantic rage and uncontrollable fury!

For a moment Trevennack was stunned--the sharpness of the pain and thesuddenness of the attack took both breath and sense away from him. Hestood there one instant, irresolute, before he knew how to comporthimself. But before he could make up his mind--cr'r'k, a second time--the Presence had assailed him again, fighting with deadly force, andin a white heat of frenzy. Trevennack had no leisure to think whatthis portent might mean. Man or fiend, it was a life-and-deathstruggle now between them. He stood face to face at last in mortalconflict with his materialized enemy. What form the Evil Thing hadassumed to suit his present purpose Trevennack knew not, nor did heeven care. Stung with pain and terror he rushed forward blindly uponhis enraged assailant, and closed with him at once, tooth and nail, ina deadly grapple. 

A more terrible battle man and brute never fought. Trevennack had nosword, no celestial panoply. But he could wrestle like a Cornishman. He must trample his foe under foot, then, in this final struggle, bysheer force of strong thews and strained muscles alone. He fought theCreature as it stood, flinging his arms round it wildly. The Thingseemed to rear itself as if on cloven hoofs. Trevennack seized itround the waist, and grasping it hard in an iron grip, clung to itwith all the wild energy of madness. Yield, Satan, yield! But stillthe Creature eluded him. Once more it drew back a pace--he felt itshot breath, he smelt its hateful smell--and prepared to rush again athim. Trevennack bent down to receive its attack, crouching. TheCreature burst full tilt on him--it almost threw him over. Trevennackcaught it in his horror and awe--caught it bodily by the horns--forhorned it seemed to be, as well as cloven-footed--and by sheer forceof arm held it off from him an elbow's length one minute. The Thingstruggled and reared again. Yes, yes, it was Satan--he felt him allover now--a devil undisguised--but Satan rather in medieval than inMiltonic fashion. His skin was rough and hairy as a satyr's; his odorwas foul; his feet were cleft; his horns sharp and terrible. He flunghim from him horrified. 

Quick as lightning the demon rose again, and tilted fiercely at himonce more. It was a death fight between those two for that rockyplatform. Should Satan thus usurp St. Michael's Tor? Ten thousandtimes, no! Yield, yield! No surrender! Each knew the ground well, andeven in the dark and in the mad heat of the conflict, each carefullyavoided the steep edge of the precipice. But the fiend knew it best, apparently. 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 this rock he took his stand, firm as a rock himself, andseemed to defy his enemy's arms to dislodge him from his position. 

Trevennack's hands and legs were streaming now with blood. His leftarm was sorely wounded. His thumb hung useless. But with the strangeenergy of madness he continued the desperate conflict against hisunseen foe. Never should Michael turn and yield to the deadly assaultsof the Evil One! He rushed on blindly once more, and the Adversarystooped to oppose him. Again, a terrible shock, it almost broke bothhis knees; but by sheer strength of nerve he withstood it, stillstruggling. Then they closed in a final grapple. It was a tooth-and-nail conflict. They fought one another with every weapon theypossessed; each hugged each in their fury; they tilted, and tore, andwrestled, and bit, and butted. 

Trevennack's coat was in ribbons, his arm was ripped and bleeding; buthe grasped the Adversary still, he fought blindly to the end. Down, Satan, I defy thee!

It was a long, fierce fight! At last, bit by bit, the Enemy began toyield. Trevennack had dashed him against the crag time after time likea log, till he too was torn and hurt and bleeding. His flesh was likepulp. He could endure the unequal fight no longer. He staggered andgave way. A great joy rose up tremulous in Trevennack's heart. Evenwithout his celestial sword, then, he had vanquished his enemy. Heseized the Creature round the middle, dragged it, a dead weight, inhis weary arms, to the edge of the precipice, and dropped it, feeblyresisting, on to the bare rock beneath him. 

Victory! Victory! Once more, a great victory!

He stood on the brink of the tor, and poised himself, as if forflight, in his accustomed attitude. But he was faint from loss ofblood, and his limbs shook under him. 

A light seemed to break before his blinded eyes. Victory! Victory! Itwas the light from heaven! He stared forward to welcome it. The brinkof the precipice? What was THAT to such as he? He would spread hiswings--for once--at last--thus! thus! and fly forward on full pinionsto his expected triumph!

He raised both arms above his head, and spread them out as if forflight. His knees trembled fearfully. His fingers quivered. Then helaunched himself on the air and fell. His eyes closed half-way. Helost consciousness. He fainted. Before he had reached the bottom hewas wholly insensible. 

Next day it was known before noon in London that a strange andinexplicable accident had befallen Mr. Michael Trevennack C. M. G. , thewell-known Admiralty official, on the moor near Ivybridge. Mr. Trevennack, it seemed, had started by the Cornish express forFalmouth, on official business; but the line being blocked betweenIvybridge 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 neighborhood well, and was an enthusiastic admirerof its tors and uplands. But fog coming on, the unfortunate gentleman, it was believed, had lost his way, and tried to shelter himself for atime behind a tall peak of rock which he used frequently to visitduring his summer holidays. There he was apparently attacked by asavage moorland ram--one of that wild breed of mountain sheep peculiarto Dartmoor, and famous for the strength and ferocity often displayedby the fathers of the flock. Mr. Trevennack was unarmed, and aterrible fight appeared to have taken place between these ill-matchedantagonists on the summit of the rocks, full details of which, theTelegram said in its curt business-like way, were too ghastly forpublication. After a long and exhausting struggle, however, thecombatants must either have slipped on the wet surface and tumbledover the edge of the rocks together in a deadly grapple, or else, asseemed more probable from the positions in which the bodies werefound, the unhappy gentleman had just succeeded in flinging hisassailant over, and then, faint from loss of blood, had missed hisfooting and fallen beside his dead antagonist. At any rate, when thecorpse was discovered life had been extinct for several hours; and itwas the opinion of the medical authorities who conducted the post-mortem that death was due not so much to the injuries themselves as toasphyxiation in the act of falling. 

* * *

The jury found it "Death from accidental circumstances. " Cleer neverknew more than that her father had met his end by walking over theedge of a cliff on Dartmoor. 

* * *

But when the body came home for burial, Dr. Yate-Westbury looked in byMrs. Trevennack's special request, and performed an informal andprivate examination of the brain and nervous system. At the close ofthe autopsy he came down to the drawing-room where the silver-hairedlady sat pale and tearful, but courageous. "It is just as I thought, "he said; "a clot of blood, due to external injury, has pressed foryears above the left frontal region, causing hallucinations andirregularities of a functional character only. You needn't have theslightest fear of its proving hereditary. It's as purely accidental asa sprain or a wound. Your daughter, Mrs. Le Neve, couldn't possiblysuffer for it. "

And neither Cleer nor Le Neve nor anyone else ever shared that secretof Trevennack's delusions with his wife and the doctor.