path: root/old/mchcr10.txt

The Project Gutenberg EBook of Michael's Crag, by Grant Allen
#7 in our series by Grant Allen

Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the
copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing
this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook.

This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project
Gutenberg file.  Please do not remove it.  Do not change or edit the
header without written permission.

Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the
eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file.  Included is
important information about your specific rights and restrictions in
how the file may be used.  You can also find out about how to make a
donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved.


**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts**

**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971**

*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!*****


Title: Michael's Crag

Author: Grant Allen

Release Date: June, 2004 [EBook #5869]
[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
[This file was first posted on September 15, 2002]

Edition: 10

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MICHAEL'S CRAG ***




Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Charles Franks
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team





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 Illustrations
In 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 DELUSION
VI.    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 Neve
said, musingly, as he gazed in front of him with a comprehensive
glance at the long gray moor and the wide expanse of black and stormy
water.

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

"For my part," Tyrrel answered, clinching his hand hard as he spoke,
and knitting his brow despondently, "I simply hate it. If I wasn't the
landlord here, to be perfectly frank with you, I'd never come near
Penmorgan. I do it for conscience' sake, to be among my own people.
That's my only reason. I disapprove of absenteeism; and now the land's
mine, why, I must put up with it, I suppose, and live upon it in spite
of myself. But I do it against the grain. The whole place, if I tell
you the truth, is simply detestable to me."

He leaned on his stick as he spoke, and looked down gloomily at the
heather. A handsome young man, Walter Tyrrel, of the true Cornish
type--tall, dark, poetical-looking, with pensive eyes and a thick
black mustache, which gave dignity and character to his otherwise
almost too delicately feminine features. And he stood on the open moor
just a hundred yards outside his own front door at Penmorgan, on the
Lizard peninsula, looking westward down a great wedge-shaped gap in
the solid serpentine rock to a broad belt of sea beyond without a ship
or a sail on it. The view was indeed, as Eustace Le Neve admitted, a
somewhat bleak and dreary one. For miles, as far as the eye could
reach, on either side, nothing was to be seen but one vast heather-
clad upland, just varied at the dip by bare ledges of dark rock and a
single gray glimpse of tossing sea between them. A little farther on,
to be sure, winding round the cliff path, one could open up a glorious
prospect on either hand over the rocky islets of Kynance and Mullion
Cove, with Mounts Bay and Penzance and the Land's End in the distance.
That was a magnificent site--if only his ancestors had had the sense
to see it. But Penmorgan House, like most other Cornish landlords'
houses, had been carefully placed--for shelter's sake, no doubt--in a
seaward hollow where the view was most restricted; and the outlook one
got from it, over black moor and blacker rocks, was certainly by no
means of a cheerful character. Eustace Le Neve himself, most cheery
and sanguine of men, just home from his South American railway-laying,
and with the luxuriant vegetation of the Argentine still fresh in his
mind, was forced to admit, as he looked about him, that the position
of his friend's house on that rolling brown moor was far from a
smiling one.

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

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

"Yes--till I was twelve or thirteen," he said, slowly, as one who
grudges assent, "in my uncle's time, I liked it well enough, no doubt.
Boys don't realize the full terror of sea or cliff, you know, and are
perfectly happy swimming and climbing. I used to be amphibious in
those days, like a seal or an otter--in the water half my time; and I
scrambled over the rocks--great heavens, it makes me giddy now just to
THINK where I scrambled. But when I was about thirteen years old"--his
face grew graver still--"a change seemed to come over me, and I began
. . . well, I began to hate Penmorgan. I've hated it ever since. I
shall always hate it. I learned what it all meant, I suppose--rocks,
wrecks, and accidents. I saw how dull and gloomy it was, and I
couldn't bear coming down here. I came as seldom as I dared, till my
uncle died last year and left it to me. And then there was no help for
it. I HAD to come down. It's a landlord's business, I consider, to
live among his tenants and look after the welfare of the soil,
committed to his charge by his queen and country. He holds it in
trust, strictly speaking, for the nation. So I felt I must come and
live here. But I hate it, all the same. I hate it! I hate it!"

He said it so energetically, and with such strange earnestness in his
voice, that Eustace Le Neve, scanning his face as he spoke, felt sure
there must be some good reason for his friend's dislike of his
ancestral home, and forebore (like a man) to question him further.
Perhaps, he thought, it was connected in Tyrrel's mind with some
painful memory, some episode in his history he would gladly forget;
though, to be sure, when one comes to think of it, at thirteen such
episodes are rare and improbable. A man doesn't, as a rule, get
crossed in love at that early age; nor does he generally form lasting
and abiding antipathies. And indeed, for the matter of that, Penmorgan
was quite gloomy enough in itself, in all conscience, to account for
his dislike--a lonely and gaunt-looking granite-built house, standing
bare and square on the edge of a black moor, under shelter of a rocky
dip, in a treeless country. It must have been a terrible change for a
bachelor about town, like Walter Tyrrel, to come down at twenty-eight
from his luxurious club and his snug chambers in St. James' to the
isolation and desolation of that wild Cornish manor-house. But the
Tyrrels, he knew, were all built like that; Le Neve had been with
three of the family at Rugby; and conscience was their stumbling-
block. When once a Tyrrel was convinced his duty lay anywhere, no
consideration on earth would keep him from doing it.

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

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

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

"Our cliffs are fine," Walter Tyrrel answered, grudgingly, in the tone
of one who, against his will, admits an adverse point he sees no
chance 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 to
show a stranger in this part of Cornwall, so you'd better make the
most of them."

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

Eustace Le Neve was a little surprised at this unexpected course, for
he himself would naturally have made rather for the top of the
promontory, whence they were certain to obtain a much finer and more
extensive view; but he had only arrived at Penmorgan the evening
before, so he bowed at once to his companion's more mature experience
of Cornish scenery. They threaded their way through the gully, for it
was little more--a great water-worn rent in the dark serpentine rocks,
with the sea at its lower end--picking their path as they went along
huge granite boulders or across fallen stones, till they reached a
small beach of firm white sand, on whose even floor the waves were
rolling in and curling over magnificently. It was a curious place,
Eustace thought, rather dreary than beautiful. On either side rose
black cliffs, towering sheer into the air, and shutting out overhead
all but a narrow cleft of murky sky. Around, the sea dashed itself in
angry white foam against broken stacks and tiny weed-clad skerries. At
the end of the first point a solitary islet, just separated from the
mainland by a channel of seething water, jutted above into the waves,
with hanging tresses of blue and yellow seaweed. Tyrrel pointed to it
with one hand. "That's Michael's Crag," he said, laconically. "You've
seen it before, no doubt, in half a dozen pictures. It's shaped
exactly like St. Michael's Mount in miniature. A marine painter fellow
down here's forever taking its portrait."

Le Neve gazed around him with a certain slight shudder of unspoken
disapprobation. This place didn't suit his sunny nature. It was even
blacker and more dismal than the brown moorland above it. Tyrrel
caught the dissatisfaction in his companion's eye before Le Neve had
time to frame it in words.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why not?" Le Neve cried.

Tyrrel shrugged his shoulders and shook himself impatiently. "I don't
know." he answered, in a testy sort of voice. "I don't like the cliff
top... It's so dangerous, don't you know? So unsafe. So unstable. The
rocks go off so sheer, and stones topple over so easily."

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

"I'm not afraid of tumbling over, for myself," Tyrrel answered, a
little nettled by his friend's frank tone of amusement. "I don't feel
myself so useful to my queen and country that I rate my own life at
too high a figure. It's the people below I'm chiefly concerned about.
There's always someone wandering and scrambling about these cliffs,
don't you see?--fishermen, tourists, geologists. If you let a loose
stone 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 one
strong hand on the rock and one sure foot in the first convenient
cranny. "If we're not to climb cliffs for fear of showering down
stones on those who stand below, we won't dare to walk or ride or
drive or put to sea for fear of running over or colliding against
somebody. We shall have to stop all our trains and keep all our
steamers in harbor. There's nothing in this world quite free from
risk. We've got to take it and lump it. You know the old joke about
those dangerous beds--so many people die in them. Won't you break your
rule just for once, and come up on top here to see the view with me?"

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

Le Neve had now made good his foothold up the first four or five
steps. "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 a
veto on your friends here, do you?"

"Oh, not the least objection," Tyrrel answered, hurriedly, watching
him climb, none the less, with nervous interest. "It's...it's a purely
personal and individual feeling. Besides," he added, after a pause," I
can 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's
safest. Once you get to the top you'd better walk along the whole
cliff 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, mind
about 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. I
can see round the corner to St. Michael's Mount; and the point at the
end 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 he
reached it, Eustace Le Neve gazed about him, enchanted at the outlook.
He was not in love with Cornwall, as far as he'd seen it yet; and to
say the truth, except in a few broken seaward glens, that high and
barren inland plateau has little in it to attract or interest anyone,
least of all a traveler fresh from the rich luxuriance of South
American vegetation. But the view that burst suddenly upon Eustace Le
Neve's eye as he gained the summit of that precipitous serpentine
bluff fairly took his breath away. It was a rich and varied one. To
the north and west loomed headland after headland, walled in by steep
crags, and stretching away in purple perspective toward Marazion, St.
Michael's Mount, and the Penzance district. To the south and east huge
masses of fallen rock lay tossed in wild confusion over Kynance Cove
and the neighboring bays, with the bare boss of the Rill and the
Rearing Horse in the foreground. Le Neve stood and looked with open
eyes of delight. It was the first beautiful view he had seen since he
came to Cornwall; but this at least was beautiful, almost enough so to
compensate for his first acute disappointment at the barrenness and
gloom of the Lizard scenery.

For some minutes he could only stand with open eyes and gaze delighted
at the glorious prospect. Cliffs, sea, and rocks all blended with one
another in solemn harmony. Even the blackness of the great crags and
the scorched air of the brown and water-logged moorland in the rear
now ceased to oppress him. They fell into their proper place in one
consistent and well-blended picture. But, after awhile, impelled by a
desire to look down upon the next little bay beyond--for the coast is
indented with endless coves and headlands--the engineer walked on
along the top by a coastguard's path that threaded its way, marked by
whitened stones, round the points and gullies. As he did so, he
happened to notice on the very crest of the ridge that overlooked the
rock they called St. Michael's Crag a tall figure of a man silhouetted
in dark outline against the pale gray skyline. From the very first
moment Eustace Le Neve set eyes upon that striking figure this man
exerted upon him some nameless attraction. Even at this distance the
engineer could see he had a certain indefinite air of dignity and
distinction; and he poised himself lightly on the very edge of the
cliff in a way that would no doubt have made Walter Tyrrel shudder
with fear and alarm. Yet there was something about that poise quite
unearthly and uncanny; the man stood so airily on his high rocky perch
that he reminded Le Neve at once of nothing so much as of Giovanni da
Bologna's Mercury in the Bargello at Florence; he seemed to spurn the
earth as if about to spring from it with a bound; his feet were as if
freed from the common bond of gravity.

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

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

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

The girl he called Cleer darted forward and picked it up, with a
little blush of confusion. Eustace Le Neve raised his hat, by way of
excuse for disturbing her, and was about to pass on, but the view down
into the bay below, with the jagged and pointed crag islanded in white
foam, 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, as
if to apologize for his intrusion, turning round to the stranger, who
still stood poised like a statue on the natural pedestal of lichen-
covered rock beside him. "A lovely lookout and a wonderful bit of wild
coast scenery."

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

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

"Why Land's End, of course," the dignified stranger answered at once,
descending from his perch as he spoke, with a light spring more like a
boy's than a mature man's. "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 ingenuous
shyness; "but as so often happens with poetry, to say the truth, I'm
afraid I attached no very definite idea to them. The music so easily
obscures the sense; though the moment you suggest it, I see they can't
possibly mean anyone but St. Michael."

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

"We've every ground for knowing them," the father went on, glancing
down at her with tender affection. "We're Cornish to the backbone--
Cornish born and bred, if ever there were Cornishmen. Every man of my
ancestors was a Tre, Pol, or Pen, to the tenth generation backward;
and I'm descended from the Bassets, too--the Bassets of Tehidy. You
must have heard of the Bassets in Cornish history. They owned St.
Michael's Mount before these new-fangled St. Aubyn people."

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

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

Le Neve smiled a quiet smile. That seemed to him in his innocence a
fairly decent antiquity as things go nowadays. But the dignified
stranger appeared to think so little of it that his new acquaintance
abstained from making note or comment on it. He waited half a moment
to see whether Cleer would speak again; he wanted to hear that
pleasant voice once more; but as she held her peace, he merely raised
his hat, and accepting the dismissal, continued his walk round the
cliffs alone. Yet, somehow, the rest of the way, the figure of that
statuesque stranger haunted him. He looked back once or twice. The
descendant of the Bassets of Tehidy had now resumed his high pedestal
upon the airy tor, and was gazing away seaward, like the mystic Great
Vision of his own Miltonic quotation, toward the Spanish coast,
wrapped round in a loose cloak of most poetic dimensions. Le Neve
wondered who he was, and what errand could have brought him there.

At the point called the Rill, he diverged from the path a bit, to get
that beautiful glimpse down into the rock-strewn cove and smooth white
sands at Kynance. A coastguard with brush and pail was busy as he
passed by renewing the whitewash on the landmark boulders that point
the path on dark nights to the stumbling wayfarer. Le Neve paused and
spoke to him. "That's a fine-looking man, my friend, the gentleman on
the tor there," he said, after a few commonplaces. "Do you happen to
know his name? Is he spending the summer about here?"

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

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

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

"Don't you go too nigh, sir," the coastguard put in, warningly. "She's
slippery just there. Yes, they're staying down in Oliver's lodgings at
Gunwalloe. He's on leave, that's where it is. Every three or four
years he gets leave from the Vittling and comes home to England; and
then he always ups and runs down to the Lizard, and wanders about on
the 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, as
the saying goes; and he can't be happy away from it. You'll see him
any day standing like that on the very edge of the cliff, looking
across over the water, as if he was a coastguard hisself, and always
sort o' perched on the highest bit of rock he can come nigh anywhere."

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

"Able? I believe you! Why, he's the very heart and soul, the brains
and senses of the Vittling Department. The navy'd starve if it wasn't
for 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 and
St. George. The queen made him that herself for his management of the
Vittling." "It's a strange place for a man in his position to spend
his holiday," Le Neve went on, reflectively. "You'd think, coming back
so 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 a
mysterious 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, not
surprised. "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'll
always see Trevennack of Trevennack on the top of the cliff, and never
at the bottom.--Thank'ee very kindly, sir; it ain't often we gets a
chance 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 down
in 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 his
lodgings nowadays. He had his only son with him, too, a fine-looking
young gentleman, they say, for his age, for I wasn't here then--I was
serving 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 the
eldest boy of the Trevennacks of Trevennack. Aye, and one day they
two, father and son, were a-strolling on the beach under the cliffs by
Penmorgan--mind them stones on the edge, sir; they're powerful loose--
don't you drop none over--when, just as you might loosen them pebbles
there with your foot, over came a shower o' small bits from the cliff
on top, and as sure as you're livin', hit the two on 'em right so,
sir. Mr. Trevennack himself, he wasn't much hurt--just bruised a bit
on the forehead, for he was wearing a Scotch cap; but Master Michael,
well, it caught him right on the top of the head, and afore they
knowed 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 cut
the bone out, and trepanned him; but bless you, it wa'n't no good; he
lingered 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 wrought
this evil. "Aye, you may well say so. It was rough on him," the
coastguard went on, with the calm criticism of his kind. "His only
son--and all in a minute like, as you may term it--such a promising
young gentleman! It was rough, terrible rough on him. So from that day
to this, whenever Trevennack has a holiday, down he comes here to
Gunwalloe, and walks about the cliffs, and looks across upon the rocks
by Penmorgan Point, or stands on the top of Michael's Crag, just over
against the spot where his boy was hurted. An' he never wants to go
nowhere else in all England, but just to stand like that on the very
edge of the cliff, and look over from atop, and brood, and think about
it."

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

"He'll stand like that for hours," the coastguard went on
confidentially, "musing like to himself, with Miss Cleer by his side,
reading in her book or doing her knitting or something. But you
couldn't get him, for love or money, to go BELOW the cliffs, no, not
if you was to kill him. He's AFRAID of going below--that's where it
is; 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 as
ever he can in the air, where he can see all around him, and be
certain there ain't anyone above to let anything drop as might hurt
him. Michael's Crag's where he likes best to stand, on the top there
by the Horse; he always chooses them spots. In Malta it was San
Mickayly; and in Gibraltar it was the summit of Europa Point, by the
edge of the Twelve Apostles' battery."

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

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

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

The man hesitated and stared hard at him.

"Well, it's like this, sir," he answered at last, with the shamefaced
air of the intelligent laboring man who confesses to a superstition.
"We Cornish are old-fashioned, and we has our ideas. The Tyrrels are
new people like, in Cornwall, as we say; they came in only with
Cromwell's folk, when he fought the Grenvilles; but it's well beknown
in the county bad luck goes with them. You see, they're descended from
that Sir Walter Tyrrel you'll read about in the history books, him as
killed King William Rufious in the New Forest. You'll hear all about
it at Rufious' Stone, where the king was killed; Sir Walter, he drew,
and he aimed at a deer, and the king was standing by; and the bullet,
it glanced aside--or maybe it was afore bullets, and then it'd be an
arrow; but anyhow, one or t'other, it hit the king, and he fell, and
died there. The stone's standing to this day on the place where he
fell, and I've seen it, and read of it when I was in hospital at
Netley. But Sir Walter, he got clear away, and ran across to France;
and ever since that time they've called the eldest son of the Tyrrels
Walter, same as they've called the eldest son of the Trevennacks
Michael. But they say every Walter Tyrrel that's born into the world
is bound, sooner or later, to kill his man unintentional. So he do
right to avoid going too near the cliffs, I say. We shouldn't tempt
Providence. And the Tyrrels is all a conscientious people."




CHAPTER III.

FACE TO FACE.


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

Next morning after breakfast, however, he made a vigorous effort to
induce Walter Tyrrel to mount the cliff and look at the view from
Penmorgan Point toward the Rill and Kynance. It was absurd, he said
truly, for the proprietor of such an estate never to have seen the
most beautiful spot in it. But Tyrrel was obdurate. On the point of
actually mounting the cliff itself he wouldn't yield one jot or
tittle. Only, after much persuasion, he consented at last to cross the
headland 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 go
near the edge himself nor try to induce his friend to approach it.

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

As they approached it from behind, the engineer observed, not without
a faint thrill of pleasure, that Trevennack's stately figure stood
upright as before upon the wind-swept pile of fissured rocks, and that
Cleer sat reading under its shelter to leeward. But by her side this
morning sat also an elder lady, whom Eustace instinctively recognized
as her mother--a graceful, dignified lady, with silvery white hair and
black Cornish eyes, and features not untinged by the mellowing,
hallowing air of a great sorrow.

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

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

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

Tyrrel looked at the view and looked at the pretty girl. It was
evident he was quite as much struck by the one as by the other.
Indeed, of the two, Cleer seemed to attract the larger share of his
attention. For some minutes they stood and talked, all five of them
together, without further introduction than their common admiration
for that exquisite bay, in which Trevennack appeared to take an almost
proprietary interest. It gratified him, obviously, a Cornish man, that
these strangers (as he thought them) should be so favorably impressed
by 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 was
silent and preoccupied. That mattered but little, however, as the rest
did all the talking, especially Trevennack, who turned out to be
indeed a perfect treasure-house of Cornish antiquities and Cornish
folk-lore.

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

"My husband's quite an enthusiast for this particular place," Mrs.
Trevennack interposed, watching his face as she spoke with a certain
anxious and ill-disguised wifely solicitude.

"He's come here for years. It has many associations for us."

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

"You should see it in the pilchard season," her father went on,
turning suddenly to Eustace with much animation in his voice. "That's
the time for Cornwall--a month or so later than now--you should see it
then, for picturesqueness and variety. 'When the corn is in the
shock,' says our Cornish rhyme, 'Then the fish are off the rock'--and
the rock's St. Michael's. The HUER, as we call him, for he gives the
hue and cry from the hill-top lookout when the fish are coming, he
stands 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 motions
to the boats which way to go for the pilchards. Then the rowers in the
lurkers, as we call our seine-boats, surround the shoal with a tuck-
net, or drag the seine into Mullion Cove, all alive with a mass of
shimmering silver. The jowsters come down with their carts on to the
beach, and hawk them about round the neighborhood--I've seen them
twelve a penny; while in the curing-houses they're bulking them and
pressing them as if for dear life, to send away to Genoa, Leghorn, and
Naples. That's where all our fish go--to the Catholic south. 'The Pope
and the Pilchards,' says our Cornish toast; for it's the Friday fast
that makes our only market."

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

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

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

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

Trevennack was in his element. The question just suited him. He smiled
a curious smile of superior knowledge. "You've come to the right place
for information," he said, blandly, turning round to the engineer.
"I'm a Companion of St. Michael and St. George myself, and my family,
as I told you, once owned St. Michael's Mount; so, for that and
various other reasons, I've made a special study of St. Michael the
Archangel, and all that pertains to him." And then he went on to give
a long and learned disquisition, which Le Neve and Walter Tyrrel only
partially followed, about the connection between St. Michael and the
Celtic race, as well as about the archangel's peculiar love for high
and airy situations. Most of the time, indeed, Le Neve was more
concerned in watching Cleer Trevennack's eyes, as her father spoke,
than in listening to the civil servant's profound dissertation. He
gathered, however, from the part he caught, that St. Michael the
Archangel had been from early days a very important and powerful
Cornish personage, and that he clung to high places on the tors and
rocks because he had to fight and subdue the Prince of the Air, whom
he always destroyed at last on some pointed pinnacle. And now that he
came to think of it, Eustace vaguely recollected he had always seen
St. Michael, in pictures or stained glass windows, delineated just so
--with drawn sword and warrior's mien--in the act of triumphing over
his dragon-like enemy on the airy summit of some tall jagged crag or
rock-bound precipice.

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

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

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

But before he could let it go, the two other men, moved as if by a
single impulse, had sprung forward with a bound, and in the self-same
tone and in the self-same words cried out with one accord, in a wildly
excited voice, "For God's sake, don't throw! You don't know how
dangerous 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, but
kept their hands still ready to seize the engineer's arm if he made
the slightest attempt at motion. Eustace felt they were watching him
as one might watch a madman. For a moment they were silent. Trevennack
was the first to speak. His voice had an earnest and solemn ring in
it, like a reproving angel's. "How can you tell what precious life may
be passing below?" he said, with stern emphasis, fixing Le Neve with
his reproachful eye. "The stone might fall short. It might drop out of
sight. You might kill whomsoever it struck, unseen. And then"--he
drank 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! It
wouldn't be murder, surely. It would be accidental homicide--
unintentional, unwilled--a terrible result of most culpable
carelessness, of course; but it wouldn't be quite murder; don't call
it murder. I can't allow that. Not that name by any means. . . .Though
to the end of your life, Eustace, if you were to kill a man so, you'd
never cease to regret it and mourn over it daily; you'd never cease to
repent your guilty carelessness in sackcloth and ashes."

He spoke so seriously, so earnestly, with such depth of personal
feeling, that Trevennack, starting back, stood and gazed at him slowly
with those terrible eyes, like one who awakens by degrees from a
painful dream to some awful reality. Tyrrel winced before his
scrutiny. 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 very
dear, dear son. He was killed by such an ACCIDENT on this very spot.
No wonder I remember it."

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

But Tyrrel, too, gave a start as he spoke, and looked hard at the
careworn face of that unhappy man. "Then you're Mr. Trevennack!" he
exclaimed, 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 away
from the spot. "I must go now," he muttered faintly, looking at his
watch with some feigned surprise, as a feeble excuse. "I've an
appointment at home." He hadn't the courage to stay. His heart misgave
him. Once fairly round the corner he fled like a wounded creature, too
deeply hurt even to cry. Eustace Le Neve, raising his hat, hastened
after him, all mute wonder. For several hundred yards they walked on
side by side across the open heathy moor. Then, as they passed the
first wall, Tyrrel paused for a moment and spoke. "NOT a murderer!" he
cried 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 it
tight in his iron grip, murmured low in a voice of supreme conviction,
"Do you see what that means, Lucy? I can read it all now. It was HE
who rolled down that cursed stone. It was HE who killed our boy. And I
can guess who he is. He must be Tyrrel of Penmorgan."

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




CHAPTER IV.

TYRREL'S REMORSE.


The two young men walked back, without interchanging another word, to
the gate of the manor-house. Tyrrel opened it with a swing. Then, once
within his own grounds, and free from prying eyes, he sat down
forthwith 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 the
Cornish nature. Eustace Le Neve sat by his side, not daring to speak,
but in mute sympathy with his sorrow. For many minutes neither uttered
a sound. At last Tyrrel looked up, and in an agony of remorse, turned
round to his companion. "Of course you understand," he said.

And Eustace answered reverently, "Yes, I think I understand. Having
come so near doing the same thing myself, I sympathize with you."

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

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

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

"Nearly sixteen years ago I was staying down here at Penmorgan with my
uncle. The Trevennacks, as I learned afterward, were in lodgings at
Gunwalloe. But, so far as I can remember at present, I never even saw
them. To the best of my belief I never set eyes on Michael Trevennack
himself before this very morning. If I'd known who he was, you may be
pretty sure I'd have cut off my right hand before I'd allowed myself
to speak to him.

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

"At last, when he saw it was no good warning me that way any longer,
he turned round to me rather sharply--he was a Tyrrel, you see, and
conscientious, as we all of us are--it runs in the blood somehow--'If
you don't mind for yourself, at least mind for others. Who can say who
may be walking underneath those rocks? If you let a loose stone fall
you may commit manslaughter.'

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

"My uncle wasn't looking. He walked on and left me behind. He didn't
see me push them. He didn't see them fall. He didn't hear them rattle.
But as they reached the bottom I heard myself--or thought I heard--a
vague cry below. A cry as of some one wounded. I was frightened at
that; I didn't dare to look down, but ran on to my uncle. Not till
some hours after did I know the whole truth, for we walked along the
cliffs all the way to Kynance, and then returned inland by the road to
the Lizard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER V.

A STRANGE DELUSION.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not even Cleer herself for a moment suspected it.

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




CHAPTER VI.

PURE ACCIDENT.


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

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

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

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

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

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

A bright red spot rose deep on Cleer's cheek through the dark olive-
brown skin. "How kind of you to say so," she answered, looking down.
"I'm sure mamma'll be very pleased, indeed, if you'll take the trouble
to call." Then, to hide her confusion, she went on hastily, "And are
YOU going to be in England, too? I thought I understood the other day
from your friend you had something to do with a railway in South
America."

"Oh, that's all over now," Le Neve answered, with a wave, well pleased
she should ask him about his whereabouts so cordially. "I was only
employed in the construction of the line, you know; I've nothing at
all 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's
quite another thing. An engineer's, you know, is a roving life. He's
here to-day and there to-morrow. I must go, I suppose, wherever work
may take me. And there isn't much stirring in the markets just now in
the way of engineering."

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

"Thank you," he said, somewhat timidly, for her bashfulness made him a
trifle bashful in return. "I should like to very much--for more
reasons than one;" and he looked at her meaningly. "I'm getting tired,
in some ways, of life abroad. I'd much prefer to come back now and
settle 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 for
them 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! But
perhaps it would be better to go and hunt up papa. "I think I ought to
be moving now," she said, with a delicious little flush on her smooth,
dark cheek. "My father'll be waiting for me." And she set her face
across the moor in the opposite direction from the gate of Penmorgan.

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

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

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

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

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

The face of the crag was wet with spray in places; but Cleer didn't
mind spray; she was accustomed to the sea in all its moods and
tempers. She clambered up the steep side--a sheer wall of bare rock,
lightly clad here and there with sparse drapery of green sapphire, or
clumps of purple sea-aster, rooted firm in the crannies. Its front was
yellow with great patches of lichen, and on the peaks, overhead, the
gulls perched, chattering, or launched themselves in long curves upon
the evening air. Cleer paused half way up to draw breath and admire
the familiar scene. Often as she had gone there before, she could
never help gazing with enchanted eyes on those brilliantly colored
pinnacles, on that deep green sea, on those angry white breakers that
dashed in ceaseless assault against the solid black wall of rock all
round her. Then she started once more on her climb up the uncertain
path, a mere foothold in the crannies, clinging close with her tiny
hands as she went to every jutting corner or weather-worn rock, and
every woody stem of weather-beaten sea plants.

At last, panting and hot, she reached the sharp top, expecting to find
Trevennack at his accustomed post on the very tallest pinnacle of the
craggy little islet. But, to her immense surprise, her father wasn't
there. His absence disquieted her. Cleer stood up on the fissured mass
of orange-lichened rock that crowned the very summit, dispossessing
the gulls who flapped round her as she mounted it; then, shading her
eyes with her hand, she looked down in every direction to see if she
could descry that missing figure in some nook of the crag. He was
nowhere visible. "Father!" she cried aloud, at the top of her voice;
"father! father! father!" But the only answer to her cry was the sound
of the sea on the base, and the loud noise of the gulls, as they
screamed and fluttered in angry surprise over their accustomed
breeding-grounds.

Alarmed and irresolute, Cleer sat down on the rock, and facing
landwards for awhile, waved her handkerchief to and fro to attract, if
possible, her father's attention. Then she scanned the opposite
cliffs, beyond the gap or chasm that separated her from the mainland;
but she could nowhere see him. He must have forgotten her and gone
home to dinner alone, she fancied now, for it was nearly seven
o'clock. Nothing remained but to climb down again and follow him. It
was getting full late to be out by herself on the island. And tide was
coming in, and the surf was getting strong--Atlantic swell from the
gale at sea yesterday.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER VII.

PERIL BY LAND.


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

It's half an hour's walk from Gunwalloe to Michael's Crag; and by the
time Trevennack reached the mouth of the gully the sands were almost
covered; so for the first time in fifteen years he was forced to take
the path right under the cliff to the now comparatively distant
island, 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 for
the missing young lady. When they got opposite Michael's Crag, a wide
belt of black water, all encumbered with broken masses of sharp rock,
some above and some below the surface, now separated them by fifty
yards or more from the island. It was growing dark fast, for these
were the closing days of August twilight; and dense fog had drifted
in, half obliterating everything. They could barely descry the dim
outline of the pyramidal rock in its lower half; its upper part was
wholly shrouded in thick mist and drizzle.

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

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

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

For a second Mrs. Trevennack doubted whether he was really right, or
whether this was only one of poor Michael's hallucinations. But the
next 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 the
channel.

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

Trevennack tried to break from them, but the men held him hard. Their
resistance angered him. He chafed under their restraint. How dare
these rough fellows lay hands like that on the Prince of the
Archangels and a superior officer in Her Majesty's Civil Service? But
with the self-restraint that was habitual to him, he managed to
refrain, even so, from disclosing his identity. He only struggled
ineffectually, instead of blasting them with his hot breath, or
clutching his strong arms round their bare throats and choking them.
As he stood there and hesitated, half undecided how to act, of a
sudden a sharp cry arose from behind. Trevennack turned and looked.
Through the dark and the fog he could just dimly descry two men
hurrying up, with ropes and life buoys. As they neared him, he started
in unspeakable horror. For one of them, indeed, was only Eustace Le
Neve; but the other--the other was that devil Walter Tyrrel, who, he
felt sure in his own heart, had killed their dear Michael. And it was
his task in life to fight and conquer devils.

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

But true to her trust, the silver-haired lady clutched his arm with
tender watchfulness. "For Cleer's sake, dear Michael!" she whispered
low 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 I
cared to go on the cliff and just spread my wings, I could fly across
and save her--so instantly, so easily!"

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

Reassured by her calm confidence, Trevennack fell back yet another
step on the sands, and watched the men aloof. Walter Tyrrel turned to
him. His heart was in his mouth. He spoke in short, sharp sentences.
"The coastguard's wife told us," he said. "We've come down to get her
off. I've sent word direct to the Lizard lifeboat. But I'm afraid it
won't come. They daren't venture out. Sea runs too high, and these
rocks are too dangerous."

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

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

The squire was far too beaten and bruised by the rocks to make a
second attempt against those resistless breakers. Indeed, Le Neve
brought him ashore more dead than alive, bleeding from a dozen wounds
on the face and hands, and with the breath almost failing in his
battered body. They laid him down on the beach, while the fishermen
crowded round him, admiring his pluck, though they deprecated his
foolhardiness, for they "knowed the squire couldn't never live ag'in
it." But Le Neve, still full of the reckless courage of youth, and
health, and strength, and manhood, keenly alive now to the peril of
Cleer's lonely situation, never heeded their forebodings. He dashed in
once more, just as he stood, clothes and all, in the wild and
desperate attempt to stem that fierce flood and swim across to the
island.

In such a sea as then raged, indeed, and among such broken rocks,
swimming, in the strict sense, was utterly impossible. By some mere
miracle of dashing about, however--here, battered against the sharp
rocks; there, flung over them by the breakers; and yonder, again,
sucked down, like a straw in an eddy, by the fierce strength of the
undertow--Eustace found himself at last, half unconscious and half
choked, carried round by the swirling scour that set through the
channel to the south front of the island. Next instant he felt he was
cast against the dead wall of rock like an india rubber ball. He
rebounded into the trough. The sea caught him a second time, and flung
him once more, helpless, against the dripping precipice. With what
life was left in him, he clutched with both hands the bare serpentine
edge. Good luck befriended him. The great wave had lifted him up on
its towering crest to the level of vegetation, beyond the debatable
zone. He clung to the hard root of woody sea-aster in the clefts. The
waves dashed back in tumultuous little cataracts, and left him there
hanging.

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

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

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

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

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

As for Cleer, too innocent and too much of a mere woman in her deadly
peril to think of anything but the delightful sense of confidence in a
strong man at her side to guard and protect her, she sat and held his
hand still, in a perfect transport of gratitude. "Oh, how good of you
to 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 that
to 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 Eustace
Le Neve stood aloft, and waved his arms, and shouted. He lit a match
and shaded it. The dull glare of it through the mist just faintly
reached the eyes of the anxious watchers on the beach below. From a
dozen lips there rose an answering shout. The pair on the crag half
heard its last echoes. Eustace put his hands to his mouth and cried
aloud once more, in stentorian tones, "All right. Cleer's here. We can
hold out till morning."

Trevennack alone heard the words. But he repeated them so instantly
that his wife felt sure it was true hearing, not insane hallucination.
The sea was gaining on them now. It had risen almost up to the face of
the cliffs. Reluctantly they turned along the path by the gully, and
mounting the precipice waited and watched till morning on the tor that
overlooks Michael's Crag from the Penmorgan headland.

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

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

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

On the island, meanwhile, Eustace Le Neve and Cleer Trevennack sat
watching out the weary night, and longing for the dawn to make the way
back possible. At least, Cleer did, for as to Eustace, in spite of
rain and fog and cold and darkness, he was by no means insensible to
the unwonted pleasure of so long a tete-a-tete, in such romantic
circumstances, with the beautiful Cornish girl. To be sure the waves
roared, and the drizzle dripped, and the seabirds flapped all round
them. But many waters will not quench love. Cleer was by his side,
holding his hand in hers in the dark for pure company's sake, because
she was so frightened; and as the night wore on they talked at last of
many things. They were prisoners there for five mortal hours or so,
alone, together; and they might as well make the best of it by being
sociable with one another.

There could be no denying, however, that it was cold and damp and dark
and uncomfortable. The rain came beating down upon them, as they sat
there side by side on that exposed rock. The spray from the breakers
blew in with the night wind; the light breeze struck chill on their
wet clothes and faces. After awhile Eustace began a slow tour of
inspection over the crag, seeking some cave or rock shelter, some
projecting ledge of stone on the leeward side that might screen their
backs at least from the driving showers. Cleer couldn't be left alone;
she clung to his hand as he felt his way about the islet, with
uncertain steps, through the gloom and fog. Once he steadied himself
on a jutting piece of the rock as he supposed, when to his immense
surprise--wh'r'r'r--it rose from under his hand, with a shrill cry of
alarm, and fluttered wildly seaward. It was some sleeping gull, no
doubt, disturbed unexpectedly in its accustomed resting-place. Eustace
staggered and almost fell. Cleer supported him with her arm. He
accepted her aid gratefully. They stumbled on in the dark once more,
lighting now and again for a minute or two one of his six precious
matches--he had no more in his case--and exploring as well as they
might the whole broken surface of that fissured pinnacle. "I'm so glad
you smoke, Mr. Le Neve," Cleer said, simply, as he lit one. "For if
you didn't, you know, we'd have been left here all night in utter
darkness."

At last, in a nook formed by the weathered joints, Eustace found a
rugged niche, somewhat dryer than the rest, and laid Cleer gently down
in it, on a natural spring seat of tufted rock-plants. Then he settled
down beside her, with what cheerfulness he could muster up, and taking
off his wet coat, spread it on top across the cleft, like a tent roof,
to shelter them. It was no time, indeed, to stand upon ceremony. Cleer
recognized as much, and nestled close to his side, like a sensible
girl as she was, so as to keep warm by mere company; while Eustace,
still holding her hand, just to assure her of his presence, placed
himself in such an attitude, leaning before her and above her, as to
protect her as far as possible from the drizzling rainfall through the
gap in front of them. There they sat till morning, talking gradually
of many things, and growing more and more confidential, in spite of
cold and wet, as they learnt more and more, with each passing hour, of
each other's standpoint. There are some situations where you get to
know people better in a few half-hours together than you could get to
know them in months upon months of mere drawing-room acquaintance. And
this was one of them. Before morning dawned, Eustace Le Neve and Cleer
Trevennack felt just as if they had known one another quite well for
years. They were old and trusted friends already. Old friends--and
even something more than that. Though no word of love was spoken
between them, each knew of what the other was thinking. Eustace felt
Cleer loved him; Cleer felt Eustace loved her. And in spite of rain
and cold and fog and darkness they were almost happy--before dawn came
to interrupt their strange tete-a-tete on the islet.

As soon as day broke Eustace looked out from their eyrie on the
fissured peak, and down upon the troubled belt of water below. The sea
was now ebbing, and the passage between the rock and the mainland
though still full (for it was never dry even at spring-tide low water)
was fairly passable by this time over the natural bridge of stepping-
stones. He clambered down the side, giving his hand to Cleer from
ledge to ledge as he went. The fog had lifted a little, and on the
opposite headland they could just dimly descry the weary watchers
looking eagerly out for them. Eustace put his hands to his mouth, and
gave a loud halloo. The sound of the breakers was less deafening now;
his voice carried to the mainland. Trevennack, who had sat under a
tarpaulin through the livelong night, watching and waiting with
anxious heart for the morning, raised an answering shout, and waved
his hat in his hand frantically. St. Michael's Crag had not betrayed
its trust. That was the motto of the Trevennacks--"Stand fast, St.
Michael's!"--under the crest of the rocky islet, castled and mured,
flamboyant. Eustace reached the bottom of the rock, and, wading in the
water himself, or jumping into the deepest parts, helped Cleer across
the stepping-stones. Meanwhile, the party on the cliff had hurried
down by the gully path; and a minute later Cleer was in her mother's
arms, while Trevennack held her hand, inarticulate with joy, and bent
over her eagerly.

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

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

"Where's Tyrrel?" Eustace asked.

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

But Cleer, as was natural, thought more of the man who had struggled
through and reached her than of the man who had failed in the attempt,
though he suffered all the more for it. This is a world of the
successful. In it, as in most other planets I have visited, people
make a deal more fuss over the smallest success than over the noblest
failure.

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

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

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

The father paused a moment. It wasn't quite the match he had hoped for
a Trevennack of Trevennack. Then he added, very fervently, "Thank God
it was HIM--not that other man, Tyrrel! Thank God, the first one fell
in the water and was hurt. What should we ever have done--oh, what
should we have done, Lucy, if she'd been cut off all night long on
that lonely crag face to face with the man who murdered our dear boy
Michael?"

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

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




CHAPTER IX.

MEDICAL OPINION.


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

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

The holidays passed away, and Walter Tyrrel recovered, and the
Trevennacks returned to town for the head of the house to take up his
new position in the Admiralty service; but Eustace Le Neve heard of no
opening anywhere for an energetic young man with South American
experience. Those three years he had passed out of England, indeed,
had made him lose touch with other members of his craft. People
shrugged their shoulders when they heard of him, and opined, with a
chilly smile, he was the sort of young man who ought to go to the
colonies. That's the easiest way of shelving all similar questions.
The colonies are popularly regarded in England as the predestined
dumping-ground for all the fools and failures of the mother-country.
So Eustace settled down in lodgings in London, not far from the
Trevennacks, and spent more of his time, it must be confessed, in
going round to see Cleer than in perfecting himself in the knowledge
of his chosen art. Not that he failed to try every chance that lay
open to him--he had far too much energy to sit idle in his chair and
let the stream of promotion flow by unattempted; but chances were few
and applicants were many, and month after month passed away to his
chagrin without the clever young engineer finding an appointment
anywhere. Meanwhile, his little nest-egg of South-American savings was
rapidly disappearing; and though Tyrrel, who had influence with
railway men, exerted himself to the utmost on his friend's behalf--
partly for Cleer's sake, and partly for Eustace's own--Le Neve saw his
balance growing daily smaller, and began to be seriously alarmed at
last, not merely for his future prospects of employment and marriage,
but even for his immediate chance of a modest livelihood.

Nor was Mrs. Trevennack, for her part, entirely free from sundry
qualms of conscience as to her husband's condition and the
rightfulness of concealing it altogether from Cleer's accepted lover.
Trevennack himself was so perfectly sane in every ordinary relation of
life, so able a business head, so dignified and courtly an English
gentleman, that Eustace never even for a moment suspected any
undercurrent of madness in that sound practical intelligence. Indeed,
no man could talk with more absolute common sense about his daughter's
future, or the duties and functions of an Admiralty official, than
Michael Trevennack. It was only to his wife in his most confidential
moments that he ever admitted the truth as to his archangelic
character; to all others whom he met he was simply a distinguished
English civil servant of blameless life and very solid judgment. The
heads of his department placed the most implicit trust in Trevennack's
opinion; there was no man about the place who could decide a knotty
point of detail off-hand like Michael Trevennack. What was his poor
wife to do, then? Was it her place to warn Eustace that Cleer's father
might at any moment unexpectedly develop symptoms of dangerous
insanity? Was she bound thus to wreck her own daughter's happiness?
Was she bound to speak out the very secret of her heart which she had
spent her whole life in inducing Trevennack himself to bottle up with
ceaseless care in his distracted bosom?

And yet ... she saw the other point of view as well--alas, all too
plainly. 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 was
really a madman's daughter? This hateful question was up before her
often in the dead dark night, as she lay awake on her bed, tossing and
turning feverishly; it tortured her in addition to her one lifelong
trouble. For the silver-haired lady had borne the burden of that
unknown sorrow locked up in her own bosom for fifteen years; and it
had left on her face such a beauty of holiness as a great trouble
often leaves indelibly stamped on women of the same brave, loving
temperament.

One day, about three months later, in their drawing-room at Bayswater,
Eustace Le Neve happened to let drop a casual remark which cut poor
Mrs. Trevennack to the quick, like a knife at her heart. He was
talking of some friend of his who had lately got engaged. "It's a
terrible 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 girl
to distraction, Mrs. Trevennack. The father's in a mad-house, you
know; and the girl's very nice now, but one never can tell when the
tendency may break out. And then--just think! what an inheritance to
hand on to one's innocent children!"

Trevennack took no open notice of what he said. But Mrs. Trevennack
winced, grew suddenly pale, and stammered out some conventional none-
committing platitude. His words entered her very soul. They stung and
galled her. That night she lay awake and thought more bitterly to
herself about the matter than ever. Next morning early, as soon as
Trevennack had set off to catch the fast train from Waterloo to
Portsmouth direct (he was frequently down there on Admiralty
business), she put on her cloak and bonnet, without a word to Cleer,
and set out in a hansom all alone to Harley Street.

The house to which she drove was serious-looking and professional--in
point of fact, it was Dr. Yate-Westbury's, the well-known specialist
on mental diseases. She sent up no card and gave no name. On the
contrary, 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 familiar
occurrence with him--people are often ashamed to have it known they
consult 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 and
listened to her.

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

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

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

The great specialist nodded. "Go on," he said, quietly. "Fourth
frontal 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 was
all of a month or two. But from that day forth--from the very
beginning, 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 sure
there was nobody at all anywhere above to hurt him." And then she went
on to describe in short but graphic phrase how he loved to return to
the place of his son's accident, and to stand for hours on lonely
sites overlooking the spot, and especially on a crag which was
dedicated to St. Michael.

The specialist caught at what was coming with the quickness, she
thought, of long experience. "Till he fancied himself the archangel?"
he said, promptly and curiously.

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

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

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

"Not a doubt about it," the specialist answered. "The region you
indicate is just the one where similar illusory ideas are apt to arise
from external injuries. The bruise gave the cause, and circumstances
the form. Besides, the case is normal--quite normal altogether. Does
he have frequent 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," he
answered, less confidently. "In a case like that, I'm bound to admit,
my prognosis--for the final result--would be most unfavorable. The
longer he bottles it up the more terrible is the outburst likely to be
when it arrives. You must expect that some day he will break out
irrepressibly."

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

She spoke with deep earnestness. She rushed out with it without
reserve. Yate-Westbury gazed at her compassionately. He was a kind-
hearted man. "No; certainly not," he answered, with emphasis. "Not the
very slightest reason in any way to fear it. The sanest man, coming
from the very sanest and healthiest stock on earth, would almost
certainly be subject to delusions under such circumstances. This is
accident, not disease--circumstance, not temperament. The injury to
the brain is the result of a special blow. Grief for the loss of his
son, and brooding over the event, no doubt contributed to the
particular shape the delusion has assumed. But the injury's the main
thing. I don't doubt there's a clot of blood formed just here on the
brain, obstructing its functions in part, and disturbing its due
relations. 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 led
up to by his habit of standing on cliffs, his name, his associations,
his family, everything--is itself a good sign that the partial
insanity is due to a local and purely accidental cause. It simulates
reason as closely as possible. Dismiss the question altogether from
your mind, as far as your daughter's future is concerned. Its no more
likely to be inherited than a broken leg or an amputated arm is."

Mrs. Trevennack burst into a flood of joyous tears. "Then all I have
to do," she sobbed out, "is to keep him from an outbreak until after
my 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 a
start and checked himself.

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER X.

A BOLD ATTEMPT.


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

Her heart was very full; her part was a hard one to play with fitting
cheerfulness; but in his very madness itself she couldn't help loving,
admiring, and respecting that strong, grave husband who fought so hard
against his own profound convictions.

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

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

Le Neve had little to suggest of any practical value. It wasn't his
fault, Tyrrel knew; engineering was slack, and many good men were
looking out for appointments. In these crowded days, it's a foolish
mistake to suppose that energy, industry, ability, and integrity are
necessarily successful. To insure success you must have influence,
opportunity, and good luck as well, to back them. Without these, not
even the invaluable quality of unscrupulousness itself is secure from
failure.

If only Walter Tyrrel could have got his friend to accept such terms,
indeed, he would gladly, for Cleer's sake, have asked Le Neve to marry
on an allowance of half the Penmorgan rent-roll. But in this
commercial age, such quixotic arrangements are simply impossible. So
Tyrrel set to work with fiery zeal to find out what openings were just
then to be had; and first of all for that purpose he went to call on a
parliamentary friend of his, Sir Edward Jones, the fat and good-
natured chairman of the Great North Midland Railway. Tyrrel was a
shareholder whose vote was worth considering, and he supported the
Board with unwavering loyalty.

Sir Edward was therefore all attention, and listened with sympathy to
Tyrrel's glowing account of his friend's engineering energy and
talent. When he'd finished his eulogy, however, the practical railway
magnate crossed his fat hands and put in, with very common-sense
dryness, "If he's so clever as all that, why doesn't he have a shot at
this Wharfedale Viaduct?"

Walter Tyrrel drew back a little surprised. The Wharfedale Viaduct was
a 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 was
informally understood that the company were prepared to receive plans
and designs from any competent person. There came the rub, though.
Would Eustace have a chance in such a competition as that? Much as he
believed in his old school-fellow, Tyrrel hesitated and reflected. "My
friend's young, of course," he said, after a pause. "He's had very
little experience--comparatively, I mean--to the greatness of the
undertaking."

Sir Edward pursed his fat lips. It's a trick with your railway kings.
"Well, young men are often more inventive than old ones," he answered,
slowly. "Youth has ideas; middle age has experience. In a matter like
this, my own belief is, the ideas count for most. 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 more
confidently than before, rubbing his fat hands reflectively. "It's a
capital opening. Erasmus Walker'll be in for it, of course; and
Erasmus Walker'll get it. But don't you tell your fellow that. It'll
only discourage him. You just send him down to Yorkshire to
reconnoiter the ground; and if he's good for anything, when he's seen
the spot he'll make a plan of his own, a great deal better than
Walker's. Not that that'll matter, don't you know, as far as this
viaduct goes. The company'll take Walker's, no matter how good any
other fellow's may be, and how bad Walker's--because Walker has a
great name, and because they think they can't go far wrong if they
follow Walker. But still, if your friend's design is a good one, it'll
attract attention--which is always something; and after they've
accepted Walker's, and flaws begin to be found in it--as experts can
always find flaws in anything, no matter how well planned--your friend
can come forward and make a fuss in the papers (or what's better
still, YOU can come forward and make it for him) to say these flaws
were strikingly absent from HIS very superior and scientific
conception. There'll be flaws in your friend's as well, of course, but
they won't be the same ones, and nobody'll have the same interest in
finding them out and exposing them. And that'll get your man talked
about in the papers and the profession. It's better, anyhow, than
wasting his time doing nothing in London here."

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

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

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

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

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

"Lucy!" he cried to his wife, as soon as he was alone in the room with
her, "who do you think I saw to-day--there, alive in the flesh,
standing smiling on the steps of Sir Edward Jones' house?--that brute
Walter Tyrrel, who killed our poor boy for us!" "Hush! hush, Michael!"
his wife cried in answer. "It's so long ago now, and he was such a boy
at the time; and he repents it bitterly--I'm sure he repents it. You
promised you'd try to forgive him. For Cleer's sake, dear heart, you
must keep your promise."

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

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

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

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

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 lonely
enough there. Not a soul to distract me. You know, Lucy, when one
means to fight the devil, there's nothing for it like the wilderness;
and Dartmoor's wilderness enough for me. I shall go to Ivybridge, for
the tors and the beacons."

Mrs. Trevennack assented gladly. If he wanted to fight the devil, it
was best at any rate he should be out of reach of Walter Tyrrel while
he did it. And it was a good thing to get him away, too, from St.
Michael's Mount, and St. Michael's Crag, and St. Michael's Chair, and
all the other reminders of his archangelic dignity in the Penzance
neighborhood. Why, she remembered with a wan smile--the dead ghost of
a smile rather--he couldn't even pass the Angel Inn at Helston without
explaining to his companions that the parish church was dedicated to
St. Michael, and that the swinging sign of the old coaching house once
bore a picture of the winged saint himself in mortal conflict with his
Satanic enemy. It was something, at any rate, to get Trevennack away
from a district so replete with memories of his past greatness, to say
nothing of the spot where their poor boy had died. But Mrs. Trevennack
didn't know that one thing which led her husband to select Dartmoor
this time for his summer holiday was the existence, on the wild hills
a little behind Ivybridge, of a clatter-crowned peak, known to all the
country-side as St. Michael's Tor, and crowned in earlier days by a
medieval chapel. It was on this sacred site of his antique cult that
Trevennack wished to fight the internal devil. And he would fight it
with a will, on that he was resolved; fight and, as became his angelic
reputation, conquer.




CHAPTER XI.

BUSINESS IS BUSINESS.


It reconciled Cleer to leaving London for awhile when she learnt that
Eustace Le Neve was going north to Yorkshire, with Walter Tyrrel, to
inspect the site of the proposed Wharfedale viaduct. Not that she ever
mentioned his companion's name in her father's presence. Mrs.
Trevennack had warned her many times over, with tears in her eyes, but
without cause assigned, never to allude to Tyrrel's existence before
her father's face; and Cleer, though she never for one moment
suspected the need for such reticence, obeyed her mother's injunction
with implicit honesty. So they parted two ways, Eustace and Tyrrel for
the north, the Trevennacks for Devonshire. Cleer needed a change
indeed; she'd spent the best part of a year in London. 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 his
ideas; he was evolving a plan; the sense of the magnitude of his stake
in this attempt had given him an unwonted outburst of inspiration. As
she wandered with her father among those boggy uplands, or stood on
the rocky tors that so strangely crest the low flat hill-tops of the
great Devonian moor. She felt a marvelous exhilaration stir her blood
--the old Cornish freedom making itself felt through all the
restrictions of our modern civilization. She was to the manner born,
and she loved the Celtic West Country.

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

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

and yet to have to sit at a desk all day long, with a pen in your
hand, in obedience to the 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 hour
after hour in a stuffy office, or to haggle over details of pork and
cheese in a malodorous victualing yard. Trevennack knew his "Paradise
Lost" by heart--it was there, indeed, that he had formed his main
ideas of the archangelic character; and he repeated the sonorous lines
to himself, over and over again, in a ringing, loud voice, as he
roamed the free moor or poised light on the craggy pinnacles. This was
the world that he loved, these wild rolling uplands, these tall peaks
of rock, these great granite boulders; he had loved them always, from
the very beginning of things; had he not poised so of old, ages and
ages gone by, on that famous crag

  "Of alabaster, piled up to the 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 by
his side, an angel confessed, on those high tors of Dartmoor.

But amid all the undulations of that great stony ocean, one peak there
was that delighted Trevennack's soul more than any of the rest--a bold
russet crest, bursting suddenly through the heathery waste in abrupt
ascent, and scarcely to be scaled, save on one difficult side, like
its Miltonic prototype. Even Cleer, who accompanied her father
everywhere on his rambles, clad in stout shoes and coarse blue serge
gown--. for Dartmoor is by no means a place to be approached by those
who, like Agag, "walk delicately"--even Cleer didn't know that this
craggy peak, jagged and pointed like some Alpine or dolomitic
aiguille, was known to all the neighboring shepherds around as St.
Michael's Tor, from its now forgotten chapel. A few wild Moorland
sheep grazed now and again on the short herbage at its base; but for
the most part father and daughter found themselves alone amid that
gorse-clad solitude. There Michael Trevennack would stand erect, with
head bare and brows knit, in the full eye of the sun, for hour after
hour at a time, fighting the devil within him. And when he came back
at night, tired out with his long tramp across the moor and his
internal struggle, he would murmur to his wife, "I've conquered him
to-day. It was a hard, hard fight! But I conquered! I conquered him!"

Up in the north, meanwhile, Eustace Le Neve worked away with a will at
the idea for his viaduct. As he rightly wrote to Cleer, the need
itself inspired him. Love is a great engineer, and Eustace learned
fast from him. He was full of the fresh originality of youth; and the
place took his fancy and impressed itself upon him. Gazing at it each
day, there rose up slowly by degrees in his mind, like a dream, the
picture of a great work on a new and startling principle--a
modification of the cantilever to the necessities of the situation.
Bit by bit he worked it out, and reduced his first floating conception
to paper; then he explained it to Walter Tyrrel, who listened hard to
his explanations, and tried his best to understand the force of the
technical arguments. Enthusiasm is catching; and Le Neve was
enthusiastic about his imaginary viaduct, till Walter Tyrrel in turn
grew almost as enthusiastic as the designer himself over its beauty
and utility. So charmed was he with the idea, indeed, that when Le
Neve had at last committed it all to paper, he couldn't resist the
temptation of asking leave to show it to Sir Edward Jones, whom he had
already consulted as to Eustace's prospects.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"And do you mean to tell me," Tyrrel exclaimed, taken aback, "men of
business like the directors of the Great North Midland will fling away
two hundred thousand pounds of the shareholder's money as if it were
dirt, by accepting Walker's plan when they might accept this one?"

Sir Edward opened his palms, like a Frenchman, in front of him. It was
a 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 flesh
and blood, and none of them very brilliant. They know Walker, and
they'll be largely guided by Walker's advice in the matter. If he saw
his way to make more out of contracting for carrying out somebody
else's design, no doubt he'd do it. But failing that, he'll palm his
own off upon them, and Stillingfleet'll accept it. You see with how
little wisdom the railways of the world are governed! People think, if
they get Walker to do a thing for them, they shift the responsibility
upon Walker's shoulders. And knowing nothing themselves, they feel
that's a great point; it saves them trouble and salves their
consciences."

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

"But as to safety," he asked, with some anxiety, "viewed as a matter
of life and death, I mean? Which of these two viaducts is likely to
last longest, to be freest from danger, to give rise in the end to
least 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 at
all, in fact, it's just the ordinary old stone viaduct, with the
ordinary dangers, and the ordinary iron girders--nothing in any way
new or original. It's respectable mediocrity. On an affair like that,
and with this awkward curve, too, just behind taking-off point, the
liability to accident is considerably greater than in a construction
like Le Neve's, where nothing's left to chance, and where every source
of evil, such as land-springs, or freshets, or weakening, or
concussion, is considered beforehand and successfully provided
against. If a company only thought of the lives and limbs of its
passengers--which it never does, of course--and had a head on its
shoulders, which it seldom possesses, Le Neve's is undoubtedly the
design it would adopt in the interests of security."

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

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

Tyrrel paused and reflected. He saw the dilemma. And yet, what was the
breach of confidence or of etiquette to the deadly peril to life and
limb 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 they
wouldn't believe me. Whatever Walker sends in they're sure to accept
it. They've more confidence, I feel sure, in Walker than in anybody."

A light broke in on Walter Tyrrel's mind.

"Then the only way," he said, looking up, "would be ... to work upon
Walker; induce him 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 few
thousands more anywhere, depend upon it he'll make 'em. He's a martyr
to money, he is. He toils and slaves for L. s. d. {money} all his
life. He has no other interests."

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

"Can't say, I'm sure," Sir Edward answered, good humoredly. "I have my
quiver full of them myself, and every guinea I get I find three of my
children are quarreling among themselves for ten and sixpence apiece
of 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, or
Devonshire, I'm sure I don't know what I'd do with my income."

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

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

Sir Edward gave it him.

"You'll find him a tough nut, though," he added, with a smile, as he
followed the enthusiastic young Cornishman to the door. "But I see
you'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's
house. He sent in his card. The famous engineer was happily at home.
Tyrrel, all on fire, found himself ushered into the great man's study.
Mr. Walker sat writing at a luxurious desk in a most luxurious room--
writing, as if for dear life, in breathless haste and eagerness. He
simply paused for a second in the midst of a sentence, and looked up
impatiently at the intruder on his desperate hurry. Then he motioned
Tyrrel 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 over
the foolscap sheet, broke for several seconds the embarrassing
stillness.

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

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

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

"My dear sir," the engineer replied, taking up his visitor's card
again and gazing at it hard with a certain inquiring scrutiny, "if
it's business, and business of an important character, of course I
need hardly say I'm very glad to attend to you. There are so many
people who come bothering me for nothing, don't you know--charitable
appeals or what not--that I'm obliged to make a hard and fast rule
about interviews. But if it's business you mean, I'm your man at once.
I live for public works. Go ahead. I'm all attention."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No; probably not," Tyrrel answered. "But I said sentiment, Mr.
Walker, and I'm willing to pay for it. I know very well it's an
article at a discount in the City. Still, to me, it means money's
worth, 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 I
can, if only you'll listen to me. A friend of mine, as I said, one
Eustace Le Neve, who has been constructing engineer of the Rosario and
Santa Fe, in the Argentine Confederacy, has made a design for the
Wharfedale 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 in
acquiescence. "No dashed nonsense about Jones. Head screwed on the
right way. Jones is a good man and knows what he's talking about."
"Well, Jones says it's a good design," Tyrrel went on, breathing freer
as he gauged his man more completely. "And the facts are just these:
My friend's engaged to a young lady up in town here, in whom I take a
deep interest--" Mr. Walker whistled low to himself, but didn't
interrupt him--"a deep FRIENDLY interest," Tyrrel corrected, growing
hot in the face at the man's evident insolent misconstruction of his
motives; "and the long and the short of it is, his chance of marrying
her depends very much upon whether or not he can get this design of
his accepted by the directors."

"He can't," Mr. Walker said, promptly, "unless he buys me out. That's
pat and 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, carries
everything before it. But what I want to suggest now is simply this--
How much will you take, money down on the nail, this minute, to
withdraw 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 to
me, I will confess, a matter of life and death. I want to see my
friend Le Neve in a good position in the world, such as his talents
entitle him to. I don't care how much I spend in order to insure it.
So what I want to know is just this and nothing else--how much will
you take to withdraw from the competition?"

Erasmus Walker laid his two hands on his fat knees, with his legs wide
open, and stared long and hard at his incomprehensible visitor. So
strange a request stunned for a moment even that sound business head.
A minute or two he paused. Then, with a violent effort, he pulled
himself together. "Come, come," he said, "Mr. Tyrrel; let's be
practical and above-board. I don't want to rob you. I don't want to
plunder you. I see you mean business. But how do you know, suppose
even you buy me out, this young fellow's design has any chance of
being accepted? What reason have you to think the Great North Midland
people 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 it
goes. Jones knows what he's talking about. Head's screwed on the right
way. But has your friend any interest with the directors--that's the
question? Have you reason to think, if he sends it in, and I hold back
mine, his is the plan they'd be likely to pitch upon?"

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

"The very worst thing on earth any man can ever possibly go upon," the
man of business retorted, with cynical confidence. "If that's all
you've got to say, my dear sir, it wouldn't be fair of me to make
money terms with you. I won't discuss my price in the matter till I've
some reason to believe this idea of yours is workable."

"I have the designs here all ready," Walter Tyrrel replied, holding
them 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 tried
just at first to put in a word or two of explanation, such as Le Neve
had made to himself; but an occasionally testy "Yes, yes; I see," was
all the thanks he got for his pains and trouble. After a minute or two
he found out it was better to let the engineer alone. That practiced
eye picked out in a moment the strong and weak points of the whole
conception. Gradually, however, as Walker went on, Walter Tyrrel could
see he paid more and more attention to every tiny detail. His whole
manner altered. The skeptical smile faded away, little by little, from
those thick, sensuous lips, and a look of keen interest took its place
by degrees on the man's eager features. "That's good!" he murmured
more than once, as he examined more closely some section or
enlargement. "That's good! very good! knows what he's about, this
Eustace Le Neve man!" Now and again he turned back, to re-examine some
special point. "Clever dodge!" he murmured, half to himself. "Clever
dodge, undoubtedly. Make an engineer in time--no doubt at all about
that--if only they'll give him his head, and not try to thwart him."

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

"Oh, business, business," the great 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 devilish
well carried out in every detail."

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

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

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

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

"So Jones told me," Tyrrel answered.

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

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

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

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

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

"Five thousand pounds?" tremblingly suggested Walter Tyrrel.

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

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

The engineer judged from the promptitude of the reply that the Cornish
landlord must still be well squeezable. He shook his head 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 a
big sum, indeed, for a modest estate like Penmorgan.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER XIII.

ANGEL AND DEVIL.


Tyrrel left Erasmus Walker's house that morning in a turmoil of
mingled exultation and fear. At least he had done his best to atone
for the awful results of his boyish act of criminal thoughtlessness.
He had tried to make it possible for Cleer to marry Eustace, and
thereby to render the Trevennacks happier in their sonless old age;
and what was more satisfactory still, he had crippled himself in doing
it. There was comfort even in that. Expiation, reparation! He wouldn't
have cared for the sacrifice so much if it had cost him less. But it
would cost him dear indeed. He must set to work at once now and raise
the needful sum by mortgaging Penmorgan up to the hilt to do it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

By and by, Eustace came in to tell them the good news. He said nothing
about Tyrrel, at least by name, lest he should hurt Trevennack; he
merely mentioned that a friend of his had seen Erasmus Walker that
day, and that Walker had held out great hopes of success for him in
this Wharfedale Viaduct business. Trevennack listened with a strange
mixture of interest and contempt. He was glad the young man was likely
to get on in his chosen profession--for Cleer's sake, if it would
enable them to marry. But, oh, what a fuss it seemed to him to make
about such a trifle as a mere bit of a valley that one could fly
across 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 few
hundred yards of iron bridge across a miserable valley! Why, was it
not he and his kind of whom it was written that they came

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

Eustace was taken aback at her unexpected words. Not even to Cleer had
he ever hinted in any way at the strange disclosure Walter Tyrrel made
to him that first day at Penmorgan. He hesitated how to answer her
without betraying his friend's secret. At last he said, as calmly as
he could, "I guessed, to tell you the truth, there was some cause of
quarrel. 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 from
town for some time to come, for he told me only to-day he had business
at his lawyer's, in Victoria Street, Westminster, which might keep him
here a fortnight. Indeed, I rather doubt whether he'll care to go down
again until he knows for certain, one way or the other, about the
Wharfedale Viaduct."

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

The young man leant over her like a son. "Mrs. Trevennack," he said,
gently, smoothing her silvery white hair with sympathetic fingers, "I
think 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 sure
he'll try to avoid falling in with your husband. He's my kindest of
friends; and he'd cut off his hand to serve me."

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER XIV.

AT ARM'S LENGTH.


For three or four weeks Walter Tyrrel remained in town, awaiting the
result of the Wharfedale Viaduct competition. With some difficulty he
raised and paid over meanwhile to Erasmus Walker the ten thousand
pounds of blackmail--for it was little else--agreed upon between them.
The great engineer accepted the money with as little compunction as
men who earn large incomes always display in taking payment for doing
nothing. It is an enviable state of mind, unattainable by most of us
who work hard for our living. He pocketed his check with a smile, as
if it were quite in the nature of things that ten thousand pounds
should drop upon him from the clouds without rhyme or reason. To
Tyrrel, on the other hand, with his sensitive conscience, the man's
greed and callousness seemed simply incomprehensible. He stood aghast
at such sharp practice. But for Cleer's sake, and to ease his own
soul, he paid it all over without a single murmur.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was an immense relief to Mrs. Trevennack's mind when, after one or
two alterations, she knew the third was finally fixed upon. She had
good reasons of her own for wishing it to be early; for the twenty-
ninth is Michaelmas Day, and it was always with difficulty that her
husband could be prevented from breaking out before the eyes of the
world on that namesake feast of St. Michael and All Angels. For, on
that sacred day, when in every Church in Christendom his importance as
the generalissimo of the angelic host was remembered and commemorated,
it seemed hard indeed to the seraph in disguise that he must still
guard his incognito, still go on as usual with his petty higgling over
corned beef and biscuits and the price of jute sacking. "There was war
in heaven," said the gospel for the day--that sonorous gospel Mrs.
Trevennack so cordially dreaded--for her husband would always go to
church at morning service, and hold himself more erect than was his
wont, to hear it--"There was war in heaven; Michael and his angels
fought against the dragon; and the dragon fought and his angels, and
prevailed not." And should he, who could thus battle against all the
powers of evil, be held in check any longer, as with a leash of straw,
by the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty? No, no, he would stand
forth in his true angelic shape, and show these martinets what form
they had ignorantly taken for mere Michael Trevennack of the
Victualing Department!

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

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

So, very early, as soon as the church was opened, he stole in
unobserved, and took a place by himself in the farthest corner of the
gallery. A pillar concealed him from view; for further security he
held his handkerchief constantly in front of his face, or shielded
himself behind one of the big free-seat prayer-books. Cleer came in
looking beautiful in her wedding dress; Mrs. Trevennack's pathetic
face glowed radiant for once in this final realization of her dearest
wishes. A single second only, near the end of the ceremony, Tyrrel
leaned forward incautiously, anxious to see Cleer at an important
point of the proceedings. At the very same instant Trevennack raised
his face. Their eyes met in a 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 only
known she would have sunk in her seat in her agony of fear. But
happily she didn't know. Trevennack went through the ceremony, all
outwardly calm; he gave no sign of what he had seen, even to his wife
herself. He buried it deep in his own heart. That made it all the more
dangerous.




CHAPTER XV.

ST. MICHAEL DOES BATTLE.


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

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

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

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

"No more mistaken than I am this minute," Trevennack answered, rushing
over to the window, and 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 she
looked out of the window and, under the gas-lamps opposite, recognized
through the mist the form of Walter Tyrrel.

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

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

For the next week or two, while Cleer wrote home happy letters from
Paris, Innsbruck, Milan, Venice, Florence, poor Mrs. Trevennack was
tortured inwardly with another terrible doubt; had Michael's state
become so dangerous at last that he must be put under restraint as a
measure of public security? For Walter Tyrrel's sake, ought she to
make his condition known to the world at large--and spoil Cleer's
honeymoon? She shrank from that final necessity with a deadly
shrinking. Day after day she put the discovery off, and solaced her
soul with the best intentions--as what true woman would not?

But we know where good intentions go. On the morning of the twenty-
ninth, which is Michaelmas Day, the poor mother rose in fear and
trembling. Michael, to all outward appearance, was as sane as usual.
He breakfasted and went down to the office, as was his wont.

When he arrived there, however, he found letters from Falmouth
awaiting him with bad news. His presence was needed at once. He must
miss his projected visit to St. Michael's, Cornhill. He must go down
to Cornwall.

Hailing a cab at the door he hastened back to Paddington just in time
for the Cornish express. This was surely a call. The words rang in his
ears louder and clearer than ever, "Go, Michael, of celestial armies
prince!" He would go and obey them. He would trample under foot this
foul fiend that 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 true
shape before heaven and earth as the chief of the archangels.

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

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

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

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

    "...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 his
angelic majesty to the likeness of a man, Trevennack--could not Satan
meet him on his own ground, and try to thwart him as of old in the
likeness of a man, Walter Tyrrel--his dear boy's murderer.

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

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 guard
opened the door. A new idea had rushed suddenly into the madman's
head. This was St. Michael's Day--his own day; and there was St.
Michael's Tor--his own tor--full in sight before him. He would go up
there this very evening, and before the eyes of all the world, in his
celestial armor, taking Lucy's advice, do battle with and quell this
fierce devil within him.

No sooner thought than done. Fiery hot within, he turned out of the
gate, and as the shades of autumn evening began to fall, walked
swiftly up the moor 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. Swirling
clouds rose slowly up, and lifted at times and disclosed the peaty
hollows, the high tors, the dusky heather. But Trevennack stumbled on,
o'er bog or steep, through strait, rough, dense, or rare, as chance
might lead him, clambering ever toward his goal, now seen, now
invisible--the great stack of wild rock that crowned the gray
undulating moor to northward. Often he missed his way; often he
floundered for awhile in deep ochreous bottoms, up to his knees in
soft slush, but with some strange mad instinct he wandered on
nevertheless, and slowly drew near the high point he was aiming at.

By this time it was pitch dark. The sun had set and fog obscured the
starlight. But Trevennack, all on fire, wandered madly forward and
scaled the rocky tor by the well-known path, guided not by sight, but
by pure instinctive groping. In his present exalted state, indeed, he
had no need of eyes. What matters earthly darkness to angelic feet? He
could pick his own way through the gloom, though all the fiends from
hell in serried phalanx broke loose to thwart him. He would reach the
top at last; reach the top; reach the top, and there fight that old
serpent who lay in wait to destroy him. At last he gained the peak,
and stood with feet firmly planted on the little rocky platform. Now,
Satan, come on! Ha, traitor, come, if you dare! Your antagonist is
ready for you!

Cr'r'r'k! as he stood there, waiting, a terrible shock brought him to
himself all at once with startling suddenness. Trevennack drew back
aghast and appalled. Even in his mad exaltation this strange assault
astonished him. He had expected a struggle, indeed; he had expected a
conflict, but with a spiritual foe; to meet his adversary in so bodily
a form as this, wholly startled and surprised him. For it was a fierce
earthly shock he received upon his right leg as he mounted the rocky
platform. Satan had been lying in wait for him then, expecting him,
waylaying him, and in corporeal presence too. For this was a spear of
good 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 the
suddenness of the attack took both breath and sense away from him. He
stood there one instant, irresolute, before he knew how to comport
himself. But before he could make up his mind--cr'r'k, a second time--
the Presence had assailed him again, fighting with deadly force, and
in a white heat of frenzy. Trevennack had no leisure to think what
this portent might mean. Man or fiend, it was a life-and-death
struggle now between them. He stood face to face at last in mortal
conflict with his materialized enemy. What form the Evil Thing had
assumed to suit his present purpose Trevennack knew not, nor did he
even care. Stung with pain and terror he rushed forward blindly upon
his enraged assailant, and closed with him at once, tooth and nail, in
a deadly grapple.

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

Quick as lightning the demon rose again, and tilted fiercely at him
once more. It was a death fight between those two for that rocky
platform. Should Satan thus usurp St. Michael's Tor? Ten thousand
times, no! Yield, yield! No surrender! Each knew the ground well, and
even in the dark and in the mad heat of the conflict, each carefully
avoided 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, and
seemed to defy his enemy's arms to dislodge him from his position.

Trevennack's hands and legs were streaming now with blood. His left
arm was sorely wounded. His thumb hung useless. But with the strange
energy of madness he continued the desperate conflict against his
unseen foe. Never should Michael turn and yield to the deadly assaults
of the Evil One! He rushed on blindly once more, and the Adversary
stooped to oppose him. Again, a terrible shock, it almost broke both
his knees; but by sheer strength of nerve he withstood it, still
struggling. Then they closed in a final grapple. It was a tooth-and-
nail conflict. They fought one another with every weapon they
possessed; each hugged each in their fury; they tilted, and tore, and
wrestled, and bit, and butted.

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

It was a long, fierce fight! At last, bit by bit, the Enemy began to
yield. Trevennack had dashed him against the crag time after time like
a log, till he too was torn and hurt and bleeding. His flesh was like
pulp. He could endure the unequal fight no longer. He staggered and
gave way. A great joy rose up tremulous in Trevennack's heart. Even
without his celestial sword, then, he had vanquished his enemy. He
seized the Creature round the middle, dragged it, a dead weight, in
his weary arms, to the edge of the precipice, and dropped it, feebly
resisting, 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 for
flight, in his accustomed attitude. But he was faint from loss of
blood, and his limbs shook under him.

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

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

Next day it was known before noon in London that a strange and
inexplicable accident had befallen Mr. Michael Trevennack C.M.G., the
well-known Admiralty official, on the moor near Ivybridge. Mr.
Trevennack, it seemed, had started by the Cornish express for
Falmouth, on official business; but the line being blocked between
Ivybridge and Plymouth, he had changed his plans and set out to walk,
as was conjectured, by a devious path across the moor to Tavistock.
Deceased knew the neighborhood well, and was an enthusiastic admirer
of its tors and uplands. But fog coming on, the unfortunate gentleman,
it was believed, had lost his way, and tried to shelter himself for a
time behind a tall peak of rock which he used frequently to visit
during his summer holidays. There he was apparently attacked by a
savage moorland ram--one of that wild breed of mountain sheep peculiar
to Dartmoor, and famous for the strength and ferocity often displayed
by the fathers of the flock. Mr. Trevennack was unarmed, and a
terrible fight appeared to have taken place between these ill-matched
antagonists on the summit of the rocks, full details of which, the
Telegram said in its curt business-like way, were too ghastly for
publication. After a long and exhausting struggle, however, the
combatants must either have slipped on the wet surface and tumbled
over the edge of the rocks together in a deadly grapple, or else, as
seemed more probable from the positions in which the bodies were
found, the unhappy gentleman had just succeeded in flinging his
assailant over, and then, faint from loss of blood, had missed his
footing and fallen beside his dead antagonist. At any rate, when the
corpse was discovered life had been extinct for several hours; and it
was the opinion of the medical authorities who conducted the post-
mortem that death was due not so much to the injuries themselves as to
asphyxiation in the act of falling.

* * *

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

* * *

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

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






End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Michael's Crag, by Grant Allen

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MICHAEL'S CRAG ***

This file should be named mchcr10.txt or mchcr10.zip
Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, mchcr11.txt
VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, mchcr10a.txt

Produced by Charles Aldarondo, Charles Franks
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team

Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US
unless a copyright notice is included.  Thus, we usually do not
keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.

We are now trying to release all our eBooks one year in advance
of the official release dates, leaving time for better editing.
Please be encouraged to tell us about any error or corrections,
even years after the official publication date.

Please note neither this listing nor its contents are final til
midnight of the last day of the month of any such announcement.
The official release date of all Project Gutenberg eBooks is at
Midnight, Central Time, of the last day of the stated month.  A
preliminary version may often be posted for suggestion, comment
and editing by those who wish to do so.

Most people start at our Web sites at:
http://gutenberg.net or
http://promo.net/pg

These Web sites include award-winning information about Project
Gutenberg, including how to donate, how to help produce our new
eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter (free!).


Those of you who want to download any eBook before announcement
can get to them as follows, and just download by date.  This is
also a good way to get them instantly upon announcement, as the
indexes our cataloguers produce obviously take a while after an
announcement goes out in the Project Gutenberg Newsletter.

http://www.ibiblio.org/gutenberg/etext03 or
ftp://ftp.ibiblio.org/pub/docs/books/gutenberg/etext03

Or /etext02, 01, 00, 99, 98, 97, 96, 95, 94, 93, 92, 92, 91 or 90

Just search by the first five letters of the filename you want,
as it appears in our Newsletters.


Information about Project Gutenberg (one page)

We produce about two million dollars for each hour we work.  The
time it takes us, a rather conservative estimate, is fifty hours
to get any eBook selected, entered, proofread, edited, copyright
searched and analyzed, the copyright letters written, etc.   Our
projected audience is one hundred million readers.  If the value
per text is nominally estimated at one dollar then we produce $2
million dollars per hour in 2002 as we release over 100 new text
files per month:  1240 more eBooks in 2001 for a total of 4000+
We are already on our way to trying for 2000 more eBooks in 2002
If they reach just 1-2% of the world's population then the total
will reach over half a trillion eBooks given away by year's end.

The Goal of Project Gutenberg is to Give Away 1 Trillion eBooks!
This is ten thousand titles each to one hundred million readers,
which is only about 4% of the present number of computer users.

Here is the briefest record of our progress (* means estimated):

eBooks Year Month

    1  1971 July
   10  1991 January
  100  1994 January
 1000  1997 August
 1500  1998 October
 2000  1999 December
 2500  2000 December
 3000  2001 November
 4000  2001 October/November
 6000  2002 December*
 9000  2003 November*
10000  2004 January*


The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation has been created
to secure a future for Project Gutenberg into the next millennium.

We need your donations more than ever!

As of February, 2002, contributions are being solicited from people
and organizations in: Alabama, Alaska, Arkansas, Connecticut,
Delaware, District of Columbia, Florida, Georgia, Hawaii, Illinois,
Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky, Louisiana, Maine, Massachusetts,
Michigan, Mississippi, Missouri, Montana, Nebraska, Nevada, New
Hampshire, New Jersey, New Mexico, New York, North Carolina, Ohio,
Oklahoma, Oregon, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, South Carolina, South
Dakota, Tennessee, Texas, Utah, Vermont, Virginia, Washington, West
Virginia, Wisconsin, and Wyoming.

We have filed in all 50 states now, but these are the only ones
that have responded.

As the requirements for other states are met, additions to this list
will be made and fund raising will begin in the additional states.
Please feel free to ask to check the status of your state.

In answer to various questions we have received on this:

We are constantly working on finishing the paperwork to legally
request donations in all 50 states.  If your state is not listed and
you would like to know if we have added it since the list you have,
just ask.

While we cannot solicit donations from people in states where we are
not yet registered, we know of no prohibition against accepting
donations from donors in these states who approach us with an offer to
donate.

International donations are accepted, but we don't know ANYTHING about
how to make them tax-deductible, or even if they CAN be made
deductible, and don't have the staff to handle it even if there are
ways.

Donations by check or money order may be sent to:

Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation
PMB 113
1739 University Ave.
Oxford, MS 38655-4109

Contact us if you want to arrange for a wire transfer or payment
method other than by check or money order.

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation has been approved by
the US Internal Revenue Service as a 501(c)(3) organization with EIN
[Employee Identification Number] 64-622154.  Donations are
tax-deductible to the maximum extent permitted by law.  As fund-raising
requirements for other states are met, additions to this list will be
made and fund-raising will begin in the additional states.

We need your donations more than ever!

You can get up to date donation information online at:

http://www.gutenberg.net/donation.html


***

If you can't reach Project Gutenberg,
you can always email directly to:

Michael S. Hart <hart@pobox.com>

Prof. Hart will answer or forward your message.

We would prefer to send you information by email.


**The Legal Small Print**


(Three Pages)

***START**THE SMALL PRINT!**FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS**START***
Why is this "Small Print!" statement here? You know: lawyers.
They tell us you might sue us if there is something wrong with
your copy of this eBook, even if you got it for free from
someone other than us, and even if what's wrong is not our
fault. So, among other things, this "Small Print!" statement
disclaims most of our liability to you. It also tells you how
you may distribute copies of this eBook if you want to.

*BEFORE!* YOU USE OR READ THIS EBOOK
By using or reading any part of this PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm
eBook, you indicate that you understand, agree to and accept
this "Small Print!" statement. If you do not, you can receive
a refund of the money (if any) you paid for this eBook by
sending a request within 30 days of receiving it to the person
you got it from. If you received this eBook on a physical
medium (such as a disk), you must return it with your request.

ABOUT PROJECT GUTENBERG-TM EBOOKS
This PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBook, like most PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBooks,
is a "public domain" work distributed by Professor Michael S. Hart
through the Project Gutenberg Association (the "Project").
Among other things, this means that no one owns a United States copyright
on or for this work, so the Project (and you!) can copy and
distribute it in the United States without permission and
without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth
below, apply if you wish to copy and distribute this eBook
under the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark.

Please do not use the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark to market
any commercial products without permission.

To create these eBooks, the Project expends considerable
efforts to identify, transcribe and proofread public domain
works. Despite these efforts, the Project's eBooks and any
medium they may be on may contain "Defects". Among other
things, Defects may take the form of incomplete, inaccurate or
corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged
disk or other eBook medium, a computer virus, or computer
codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.

LIMITED WARRANTY; DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES
But for the "Right of Replacement or Refund" described below,
[1] Michael Hart and the Foundation (and any other party you may
receive this eBook from as a PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBook) disclaims
all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including
legal fees, and [2] YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE OR
UNDER STRICT LIABILITY, OR FOR BREACH OF WARRANTY OR CONTRACT,
INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE
OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES, EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE
POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGES.

If you discover a Defect in this eBook within 90 days of
receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any)
you paid for it by sending an explanatory note within that
time to the person you received it from. If you received it
on a physical medium, you must return it with your note, and
such person may choose to alternatively give you a replacement
copy. If you received it electronically, such person may
choose to alternatively give you a second opportunity to
receive it electronically.

THIS EBOOK IS OTHERWISE PROVIDED TO YOU "AS-IS". NO OTHER
WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, ARE MADE TO YOU AS
TO THE EBOOK OR ANY MEDIUM IT MAY BE ON, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR A
PARTICULAR PURPOSE.

Some states do not allow disclaimers of implied warranties or
the exclusion or limitation of consequential damages, so the
above disclaimers and exclusions may not apply to you, and you
may have other legal rights.

INDEMNITY
You will indemnify and hold Michael Hart, the Foundation,
and its trustees and agents, and any volunteers associated
with the production and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm
texts harmless, from all liability, cost and expense, including
legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the
following that you do or cause:  [1] distribution of this eBook,
[2] alteration, modification, or addition to the eBook,
or [3] any Defect.

DISTRIBUTION UNDER "PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm"
You may distribute copies of this eBook electronically, or by
disk, book or any other medium if you either delete this
"Small Print!" and all other references to Project Gutenberg,
or:

[1]  Only give exact copies of it.  Among other things, this
     requires that you do not remove, alter or modify the
     eBook or this "small print!" statement.  You may however,
     if you wish, distribute this eBook in machine readable
     binary, compressed, mark-up, or proprietary form,
     including any form resulting from conversion by word
     processing or hypertext software, but only so long as
     *EITHER*:

     [*]  The eBook, when displayed, is clearly readable, and
          does *not* contain characters other than those
          intended by the author of the work, although tilde
          (~), asterisk (*) and underline (_) characters may
          be used to convey punctuation intended by the
          author, and additional characters may be used to
          indicate hypertext links; OR

     [*]  The eBook may be readily converted by the reader at
          no expense into plain ASCII, EBCDIC or equivalent
          form by the program that displays the eBook (as is
          the case, for instance, with most word processors);
          OR

     [*]  You provide, or agree to also provide on request at
          no additional cost, fee or expense, a copy of the
          eBook in its original plain ASCII form (or in EBCDIC
          or other equivalent proprietary form).

[2]  Honor the eBook refund and replacement provisions of this
     "Small Print!" statement.

[3]  Pay a trademark license fee to the Foundation of 20% of the
     gross profits you derive calculated using the method you
     already use to calculate your applicable taxes.  If you
     don't derive profits, no royalty is due.  Royalties are
     payable to "Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation"
     the 60 days following each date you prepare (or were
     legally required to prepare) your annual (or equivalent
     periodic) tax return.  Please contact us beforehand to
     let us know your plans and to work out the details.

WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO?
Project Gutenberg is dedicated to increasing the number of
public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed
in machine readable form.

The Project gratefully accepts contributions of money, time,
public domain materials, or royalty free copyright licenses.
Money should be paid to the:
"Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation."

If you are interested in contributing scanning equipment or
software or other items, please contact Michael Hart at:
hart@pobox.com

[Portions of this eBook's header and trailer may be reprinted only
when distributed free of all fees.  Copyright (C) 2001, 2002 by
Michael S. Hart.  Project Gutenberg is a TradeMark and may not be
used in any sales of Project Gutenberg eBooks or other materials be
they hardware or software or any other related product without
express permission.]

*END THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS*Ver.02/11/02*END*