"Speak, Mr. Riches," said Randolph, with some impatience; "let me hear all the truth of the history."

"You know not what you ask," Polydore answered sadly. "Margaret Ba.s.set could not resist the influence which made her the seeming mistress of this castle. I could not approve--I went away. The marriage was strictly private. The people were very jealous. Some said--be patient--that it was not duly performed. I know that it was. I had some slight acquaintance with Mr. Ashton the clergyman; he was murdered shortly after the ceremony, and the witness disappeared. The rumours spread; but they died away when you were born. You can imagine the details."

"How did she die?" Randolph asked again.

"You know your father, Randolph," the chaplain replied. "Cannot you conceive the position was too much for her? And her kindred were imprudent. She pined away. But she was an angel. We all loved her. If the devotion of those around her could have made up for the affection which should hallow her situation, surely she were living now."

His hearer mused again for some time in silence, thinking of his dream; and it produced its usual effect of soothing his excitement, and tranquillizing his spirits.

"Come, Mr. Riches," he said, "let us seek my sister. We must not leave her desolate too long."

But the chaplain laid his hand on his old pupil's arm, saying:

"One moment, Randolph; let me detain you one moment. Let me play the master again. What we have been discoursing of will be best forgotten.

And oh! let it not be remembered in one fatal sense! Let not these sad events be the foundation of evils yet to come! You spoke of a vow. Such are often wrongly demanded and rashly given. Pride lingers on the bed of death, and bequeaths itself to its successors. Vengeance, unappeased, requires satisfaction by the hands of its heir. So hatred is handed down for ever, and rancour and strife made perpetual. Pray Heaven the vow you speak of requires none of these things! Pray Heaven, that if haply it do, it will be revoked and forgotten!"

"A parent's curse," said Randolph in a hollow voice, "is a terrible thing."

"To him!" the chaplain exclaimed. "To him it is, indeed, a terrible thing, and to his children, if it impels them into wrong-doing. There is no power in man to curse, my dear pupil, and surely Heaven is deaf to all such imprecations."

Alas! Polydore might as well have reasoned with the foaming waves beneath him. Randolph listened in respectful silence, but entirely unconvinced. As law is silent amid the din of arms, so is reason in the conflict of pa.s.sions. Few sources have been more fruitful of evil than the pledges extorted by the dying. The giver succ.u.mbs absolutely to an obligation he ought never to have undertaken, allows himself no discretionary power, yields nothing to the alteration of circ.u.mstances, and acts as if the behest were imposed by certain foreknowlege and unerring wisdom. There is no absolution from a death-bed promise, and no chancery to qualify its mischievous engagements.

This conversation was little adapted to restore Polydore Riches to his old equanimity. Gentle and simple-hearted, he was ill-calculated to wrestle with the stormy pa.s.sions which had desolated his late patron's life, and now threatened shipwreck to the happiness of his pupil. He mourned for the day when, in pride and confidence, neglecting the worldly-wisdom of the more prudent steward, he enthusiastically bade the brother and sister go forth on their way, and foretold for them a prosperous career, and a joyful return. He almost blamed himself for not having given them more adequate preparation for the struggle of life, and attributed their failure to his own deficiency. Yet surely never did teacher better answer the desire of those ancients, lauded by the Roman poet in the lines which head this chapter. Polydore had nothing wherewith to reproach himself.

But the discourse had also revived his own particular griefs, recalling, as it did, the days when he paid his first vows of love to Rose Griffith, and won her timid consent, only to see her wither away. A pensive melancholy was visible upon his countenance when he returned with Randolph through the gloomy galleries to the apartments over the little flower-garden.

CHAPTER VI.

"Guare wheag, yw guare teag."

_Cornish Proverb._

"Fair play is good play."

Polwhele.

Many of the villagers of Trevethlan were desirous of celebrating the return of their young master by some kind of holiday. They remembered how in the old time there were several festivals in the course of the year, kept with high revelry on the green of the hamlet, countenanced by the presence of the lords, and graced by that of the ladies, of its ancient castle. But when ruin fell upon the late possessor, and desolation encompa.s.sed his dwelling, the sports diminished in spirit, and the peasantry sought in the neighbouring villages the merriment which no longer enlivened their own. The succession of a young heir, however, seemed to warrant an attempt to revive the much-regretted pastimes, and the idea, when once started, found a staunch supporter in the laughter-loving landlady of the "Trevethlan Arms." Indeed she undertook to roast a sheep, and broach a hogshead of cider, as the foundation of a free feast; and the liberality being met with similar offers from other quarters, the hamlet was in a position to offer tolerably profuse hospitality to all comers.

Valentine's day was fixed upon for the revel; and several evenings before it came, some of the villagers met at Dame Miniver's, to arrange the programme of the sports. And it was finally decided to revive the old game of hurling, by challenging Pendarrel to play them home and home across the country, as the princ.i.p.al event of the frolic. The determination, however, was not unopposed.

"Are ye sure, neighbours," said our acquaintance Germoe, the tailor, "that this challenge will be agreeable on the hill? Ye know what we spoke of only the other night. There's no love lost between the hall and the castle."

"The very cause for why to play out the quarrel," said Edward Owen. "And as to the castle, I warrant the young squire'll be none displeased to hear we've given Pendar'l a beating. I say play."

"But in such case," urged farmer Colan, "playing often turns to fighting."

"And what then?" Owen asked again, who took great interest in the meditated match, from a vague hope of encountering his rival in the hostile ranks,--"what then, I say? Have we not thrashed them before?

'Tis ill nursing a quarrel."

"Ay, ay, lad," said Mrs. Miniver aside to the last speaker, "I know where thy cap's set. She's a proud minx, and an' I were thee----. But, neighbours, how long has Trevethlan been afraid of Pendar'l?"

A true woman's question, and one which settled the matter off-hand.

There was no further hesitation as to despatching the challenge. The tailor's hint concerning the castle had, however, more foundation than was supposed; for Randolph much regretted the resolution of his dependents. But he did not learn it until the invitation had been sent and accepted, and it was then impossible to retreat.

On the other side, the match received the formal sanction of Mrs.

Pendarrel, who had been at the park a day or two when the proposal arrived. Remembering that her retainers far outnumbered those of Trevethlan, she rather rejoiced at the prospect of humiliating her adversary, and graciously promised to provide the silver-plated ball with which the game should be played.

The village green was "home" for the players of Trevethlan. Early in the appointed holiday it was thronged with busy, noisy groups, and presented an extremely lively aspect, strikingly at variance with its recent tranquillity, and with the sombre gravity of the castle, where there were no symptoms of partic.i.p.ation in the frolics of the day. Reverend elders occupied the bench round the old chestnut in front of the inn, and discoursed of the matches of their youth, before the harmony of Trevethlan and Pendarrel was interrupted, and when the open doors of the castle proffered unbounded hospitality. Stalwart youths, girded for the sport, strolled about in knots, plotting devices for carrying off the ball, arranging plans for watching the enemy's home, cracking jests with the maidens who idled in the throng, in their Sunday frocks and smartest ribbands, and extorting half promises of reward in the evening for prowess displayed in the day. Dame Miniver had ample cause for satisfaction with the result of her liberality.

Mrs. Pendarrel permitted her side to make the lawn before her house their home. Refreshments of all kinds were distributed among the crowd there collected with a bounteous hand. The lady herself descended among her tenants, leaning on the arm of her daughter, speaking to old acquaintance, everywhere bestowing encouragement. Even Mildred was excited by the liveliness of the scene. It was a fine genial day, with a warm breeze blowing, which kept the trees in constant motion, and gave life to the company beneath their leafless branches.

Michael Sinson, only just arrived from London, was to lead the forces of Pendarrel. So his patroness, aware of his former reputation, desired; so his vanity, as well as his duty, prompted. He was active in the throng, a.s.signing their stations to his mates, providing for all the chances of the struggle, but glancing ever and anon on the fair young form that glided through the rustic a.s.sembly like a being from another sphere.

Little thought he that morning of the rosy-cheeked girl whom he had once pretended to love, and who now walked among the maidens of Trevethlan, with a sympathy divided between her sweetheart and her home.

The goals were not much more than two miles apart, a short distance in a match "to the country;" but this circ.u.mstance prevented the interference of hors.e.m.e.n, diminished the opportunities for artifice, and made the contest depend more on the personal skill and prowess of the players. In a longer game the ball might be thrown into the hands of a mounted partizan, who would trust to the speed of his horse to carry it home in triumph; or again into the keeping of a rustic, selected for his simple appearance, who would trudge tranquilly along the high road seemingly unconscious of his valuable charge, while the hurlers on both sides sought the prize with great animation; until the news of the crafty bearer's arrival at his destination told the victory of his friends, and both parties repaired to the winning quarters to laugh over the trick, and fight the battle anew, in a high jollification.

There was a meadow situated on an eminence about midway between Trevethlan and Pendarrel, between which and either goal no obstacle intervened to turn aside the play. Here it was arranged the ball should be thrown up, and hither Mrs. Pendarrel and Mildred repaired to behold the commencement of the game. The players chosen to begin stood in an irregular ring on the hill, and amongst them Sinson and Owen, the opposing generals, the latter of whom regarded the former with looks which indicated more ill-will than befitted the occasion, but which Michael observed with contemptuous indifference.

And now Mildred has tossed the new apple of discord, a wooden ball, some three inches in diameter, covered with silver, and bearing the motto which heads this chapter, as the trophy, to remain in the possession of the victors of the day, into the middle of the ring, and a dozen men are on the ground, struggling to obtain a hold of the prize. Rolling over and over, twisting, tangled like a coil of snakes, they writhe and struggle in intricate confusion. Where is the ball? Who shall discern it in so close a conflict? See, a combatant shakes himself clear of compet.i.tors, rises in the midst, springs over them, and bounds away in the direction of Pendarrel, cheered by the partizans of the hall. Not long shall the cheering endure: an opponent bars his career: him the holder of the ball thrusts aside, "b.u.t.ts" with his closed fist. Reprisal in like fashion is against the rules. But there is another, and another, one at a time, for so it is ordained. Nor are the holder's friends inactive: they screen him round, and strive to keep off his adversaries.

And thus he makes some way, but may not even clear the field. His vigour fails at last under repeated attacks; he has no longer strength to b.u.t.t; "hold," he must cry, in token of surrender, and deal the ball to be seized by fresher hands: a stouter heart, he thinks, 't were hard to find.

Again the first struggle is renewed, but the crowd is not so great, nor does it last so long. This time the ball is borne swiftly back in the direction of Trevethlan. Light of foot is the holder, but his speed shall not avail him long. At the very hedge of the field he is encountered; he may not pa.s.s the barrier; he tries another point, again to be defeated; he, too, must shout the word of submission, and recover breath for a renewed onset.

And thus, with varied fortune, the game proceeds, continually growing wider in its scene. The ball is borne in succession towards either goal, far away from the field where the game began. It seems the lady of Pendarrel reckoned without her host, for there are many volunteers in the play, and they, with proper heroism, have chosen the weaker side.

She and her daughter have retired to the hall, but the country is still alive with the excitement of the game, and the woods and the sky are vocal with the cries of the rival partizans, as they mark the course of the ball with shouts of "Ware east," "Ware west."

An old writer compares the ball used in this game to an evil demon; for, says he, no sooner does a player become possessed of it than he acts as if he were possessed of a devil; flying like a madman over the country, bursting through hedges, bounding over ditches, rushing furiously against all opponents, heedless of everything but his progress towards home. When suddenly, having been obliged at last to surrender, he becomes once more tranquil and peaceable, as though the evil spirit had then left him, and entered his successor, who instantly commences a like impetuous career.

Many a possession of this kind was witnessed in the match between Pendarrel and Trevethlan. Once the former hamlet seemed almost on the point of victory. The holder had disenc.u.mbered himself of all who had been active in the field, and was dashing triumphantly homewards, when he met the reserve especially stationed to prevent a surprise. At the same moment Owen bounded up to rally his forces. The game was rescued, and renewed with increased vigour on both hands. Step by step the path of the holder, now on this side and now on that, was contested in every way permitted by the laws of the game. Pa.s.sion grew hotter, and ever and anon rose cries of "foul." The leaders, who had hitherto rather directed the fray than engaged in it personally, now rushed into the thick of the fight. The partizans of Trevethlan gained ground in their turn. The chestnut on their green was already in sight. Owen himself held the ball. The road, for the fight had descended from the fields into the highway, was thronged with the combatants. The maidens of the village, approached the end of the green, and joined in the animating cries. Owen had repelled many an antagonist, when Michael Sinson met him face to face. It was what he had long wished for, and he was delighted when, as he always affirmed and as was st.u.r.dily maintained by all his partizans, his opponent b.u.t.ted him unfairly. The excitement of the game and personal exasperation united to give force to the blow which sent his rival staggering away. The next moment Owen stood on the gra.s.s of the hamlet, and flung the ball high into the air, while loud and reiterated shouts proclaimed the victory of Trevethlan, and were heard, perhaps not without some satisfaction, within the walls of the castle.

Whatever ill-blood might have been generated in the heat of the engagement, rapidly subsided when it was over. It had been gallantly fought, and discomfiture was only less honourable than success. Victor and vanquished met in friendly groups on the green, formed parties for the athletic sports of the country, or sought partners for the dance which would terminate the amus.e.m.e.nts of the day, while the landlady of the Trevethlan Arms was finishing her preparations for the feast, and the children were continually increasing a pile of combustibles in front of the inn, destined to blaze after nightfall in celebration of the holiday.

There was, however, one breast in which disappointed rage still rankled.

Michael Sinson rose after the fall he received from Owen, to hear the acclamations hailing his conqueror, and to feel an aggravation of his animosity, not so much against his rival, as against Trevethlan, its master, and its inhabitants. He looked angrily at the jocund doings on the green, and then turned to bear the tidings of his defeat to his patroness. But he had not proceeded many steps, when a light hand was laid upon his arm, and a sharp glance round showed him the rosy cheeks and black eyes of Mercy Page.

"Why, Michael," said the maiden, "is this the welcome ye learn to give in London? Is this the way ye would leave Mercy to seek for a partner at a village revel? What if we have won the match, is it a cause for shame?"

"Pish!" Sinson said, sulkily. "Go to your Edward Owen. He is the hero of the day. Let him be your partner."

"Then it's not heroes, nor none such I care for," pursued the wilful girl. "I'm no sure I'm glad that our side's won. Come now, Michael, what's to fret for?"

Sinson cast his sinister eyes upon Mercy's face. It was very pretty, even in reproach, and besides, he thought she might be of use to him.