Mervyn Hall. A story of incident

Front matter

H Stor^ of 3nci&ent BY FRANCIS R. RORERTS "The web ot our life is of mingled yarn, good ami ill together. LONDON DIGBY, LONG & CO., PUBLISHERS 1 8 BOUVERIE STREET, FLEET STREET, E.C, Uo /Ifcat CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAOK INTRODUCTION, ------- 0 I. — AN UNWELCOME LETTER, ----- 22 II. — ON BOARD THE "A.1AX," ----- 35 III — A STRANGE FRIENDSHIP, ----- 54 IV. — AT THE LANGTON HOTEL, 74 V. — UNCLE AND NEPHEW, ..... 8H VI. — LOVERS, - - 95 VII. — MAKING PREPARATIONS, ----- HI VIII. — A GAME OF POOL, - - - - - - 124 IX. — THE "CAT AND HEDGEHOG," - - - - 135 X. — ON THE THAMES EMBANKMENT, - 154 XI. — A FAINTING FIT, 104 XII. — THE STORY OF A LIFE, ----- 177 XIII. — 10LLY JOHN MEETS AN OLD FRIEND, - - 180 XIV. — A HIDDEN LISTENER, ----- 204 XV.— ON THE SEA-CLIFF, 221 xvi. — "the old fond dream," .... 234 XVII. — AN unwelcome PROPOSAL, - - - - 241 XVIII. — WHAT THE MOON SAW, 252 XIX. — "THE EYE THAT WATCHES CAIN," - - - 272 XX. — "VENGEANCE IS MINE," ----- 293 XXI. — FINALE, ----- - -

Introduction

. The month of October is not usually re garded as being the most suitable one' for a walking tour, but fate ordained that it should find me, a few years ago, tramping through the southern counties of England and seeking physical and mental recupera tion after a long period of hard work. I was not, truth to tell, at all inclined to grumble at the events which had caused my holiday to be postponed until late in the autumn. There is some charm in that season which has always had a peculiar fascination for me. It may lie that the wind rushes into your face occasionally in a somewhat boisterous manner, such as it is not wont to adopt during the summer. Rut there is something breezy and refreshing in its strong steady sweep, something that blows away the dust and the turmoil of the town more effectually than the gentle zephyrs of the hotter months, something that braces and invigorates rather than soothes and lulls.

I have always had a strange fancy, too, for watching the brown leaves falling from the trees, or swirling hither and thither on the ground at the mercy of every blast. Nature is preparing for her winter sleep; and all around there is a quiet mournful air of decay, melancholy though not depressing, which touches some sympathetic chord in my own heart, when I ponder with a curious vain longing on the misery and sin and sorrow of humanity, and the awfulness of "that over-tragic drama" -life. It was towards the end of my holiday that I one day came suddenly upon the sea coast in one of Cornwall's most romantic districts. The morning had been dull and cloudy, with every appearance of that heavy misty rain which is so frequent here, and I had been hurrying along towards the village where I was intending to stop for the night, It was therefore with no little annoyance that I saw a small bay before me, for it showed that I must have mistaken the road, which had I kept right would have brought me away from the coast.

To make matters worse the rain began to come down in good earnest, and in such fashion as to completely shut out the view, so that I could not tell in any way what my surroundings were like. To turn and go back was my first thought; but I remembered what a bleak road I had just travelled, and the remembrance was sufficient to make me resolve to go forward. So I kept steadily on for almost two miles more, as nearly as I could calculate it, and then at last was rewarded by coming to a large iron gate, evidently the entrance to some country seat. I determined to go up to the house and inquire my way; perhaps, if I were fortunate, get an opportunity of remaining until the storm ceased, which there now appeared some probability of its soon doing. The avenue proved to be nearly half a mile in length, and when I got to the end of it and saw the house before me I felt very dubious as to my wisdom in coming there at all.

It was a fine old mansion, built of red sandstone, and in the Tudor style, with an octagonal tower at each angle of the roof. Rut every window was closely shuttered, and when I glanced at the chim neys I could see no trace of smoke, as there would probably have been if inhabited. The whole place bore an appearance of desertion and decay, which was depressing in the extreme. Sick at heart, and cursing my folly in exploring such unknown regions, I was about to retrace my steps, when suddenly the welcome noise of a dog bark ing somewhere in the rear of the building came to my ears and gave me pause. " Where there is a dog there is probably a man," I thought, and at once started to see what the back of the old house was like. I soon found myself in a kind of stable-yard, in one corner of which was the dog, fortunately secured by a stout chain: for, had he been at liberty, his evident anxiety for a closer acquaintance might have proved inconvenient.

Passing him by with a look of calm contempt — the chain was a very strong one — I made for the door of a small outhouse, through one of the windows of which I could see a bright fire burning. Never was there a more welcome sight, and I quickly gave a couple of vigorous raps at the door. It was opened by an old man, white-haired and stooped, whose surprised and bewildered looks showed clearly that visitors there were few. " Good morning, sir," he said in a weak voice, the distinct articulation of which showed, however, that he was no Cornish man. " What may be your business up here ?" " What a question to ask, my good man," I retorted. " Why, self-preservation, of course — the first law of Nature. Can you not give me shelter for a time until this rain has ceased, which may be soon now, as I see it is clearing a little?" 6 "You're very welcome to a seat by the fireside, I am sure, sir, and to any little refreshment I can give you," he answered, closing the door, and leading the way into an inner room.

Here also a bright fire threw its warm, ruddy light around, and everything wore an aspect of comfort and cheerfulness, which was doubly pleasing when contrasted with the view outside. A woman of about the same age as the old man who ushered me in, rose from her seat by the fireside on my entering, and welcomed me with a curtsey, which, feeble as she was, still retained some youthful grace, Met vyn Hall. 16 I sat down by the fire and chatted away to the old couple for some time, enjoying the mulled ale which they gave me, and listening with interest to their quaint remarks and out-of-date sayings, such as those who rarely come in contact with the outer world con tract a habit of uttering. They told me that the name of the old mansion was Mervyn Hall, and that it had been deserted for many years by all save themselves, who were left as caretakers.

It had been the residence of the Trevelyans, an ancient and wealthy family, who were now almost ex tinct. " Almost . " I queried when the old man told me this. " Are there then some mem bers still alive ? One would fancy that if there were the place would not be allowed to go to ruin as it is doing." " Our mistress, sir," he replied, " once a Miss Violet Trevelyan, is the last of the race, and even she does not bear the family name, for she is married, and lives far away from England." " Why did she desert the old place so completely ? " I asked, feeling certain that there must be some romance attached to this mysterious house. " Ah ! it's an old story, sir, and a sad, shameful one, too," was the reply — this time from the woman. " It's a bad day when a noble old family dies out ; but it's a worse one when the last of the race meets a disgraceful end.

Rut perhaps the gentleman would like to look over the house, Tim," she said, turning to her husband. In reply to his inquiring glance, I said that nothing would please me better ; and, accordingly, after lighting a lamp which he said would be necessary in going through B the darkened rooms, he prepared to show me over Mervyn Hall. A grand old place it must have been in its day, but that day was now past and gone. On every side were to be seen traces of ruin and decay. The rooms were covered with dust, the furniture falling in pieces through the dampness of the sea air, and the pictures separating from their frames. The rich ornamentation of the ceilings and walls had mostly found its way to the floor, and every thing was gradually mouldering and rotting away into rubbish. I asked if the present owner knew of this state of affairs, and if she had given no orders to prevent it.

" No, sir," answered my guide ; " she said that everything was to be left exactly as it was, to rot and decay as it pleased. Her father had the guilt of murder on his soul through Mervyn Hall, and it turned her against her old home. She will never come here again." My suspicions that there was some tragedy connected with this gloomy yet grand old building were strengthened by these words ; but I determined to curb my curiosity, and refrain from asking for particulars until a more convenient time and place presented itself. We gradually made our way to the very top of the building, and here the old man put down his lamp, for it was no longer wanted. The last place we visited was one of the four octagonal towers, placed at each eornei' of the roof, and with windows opening upon it. There was a balcony running the whole way round, and, pushing open a small door, I stepped out and walked over to it.

The view from here was a remarkable one. The rain had now ceased, and the sun was making a few attempts to peep through the clouds, though only occasionally succeed ing. Nearly a mile away the sea was visible, surging up in big white breakers round the rocky shore, while further off the black rain-cloud could be plainly seen moving slowly down the channel, now and again lit up by a gleam of the fitful sunshine, which showed in bold relief against its dark back ground. The neighbouring country appeared to be wild and uncultivated, save near the house itself, where a lawn studded with rare evergreens, a plot devoted to roses, and three flower gardens, each laid out in a different style, showed how the art of man can be employed to assist Nature, though too often it spoils instead of improving her.

I looked round for my guide, but found that he was still in the tower, so I retraced my steps, and asked why he had not ventured forth. " I could not do it, sir," he replied, mourn fully, and with something like tears in his eyes. " It was there that my master, the last of his race who bore the name of Trevelyan, met with his death ; and though he was a bad man, I could never bear to look at the place since then." I expressed a wish to hear the tale which evidently lay behind this, and after some persuasion the old caretaker consented to tell it to me. Descending once more, we regained the outhouse in which he lived, and gathered again round the comfortable fire. There I listened to the story — which I have expanded in the following pages — of the last inmates of Mervyn Hall.

Chapter I. An Unwelcome Letter

It was a beautiful morning in the beginning of summer. Rain had fallen during the night, and now the sun glittered over the damp grass and shone on the drops of moisture hanging from the green leaves. All nature was fresh, pure, and sweet. The breakfast - room in Mervyn Hall presented a very cosy picture on this bright, sunny morning. Although the weather was by no means cold, a cheerful fire was burning in the grate, and in front of it, on the rug, a very handsome tortoiseshell cat was drowsily winking and blinking, doubtless wondering when the family would arrive — the family consisting of two. A large clock on the mantelpiece ticked away sleepily, and the hands indicated the near approach of the hour of nine. ( )n the table a very nice breakfast had been arranged, and only wanted the presence of the master and mistress to eat it.

Just as the first stroke of nine chimed forth from the clock the mistress of the household entered the room. She was a young girl, not yet out of her teens, and very fair and sweet to look upon — in fact she seemed an appropriate deity to worship on such a morning. Rather taller than the majority of her sex, she had a beautifully slim and willowy figure; but her face was her chief charm. Without having any single feature which might serve as a model for an artist or a sculptor, unless perhaps her teeth, which were small and regular, the effect of all combined was singularly winning and fascinating. No more ex pressive countenance was ever given to a woman. It was absolutely impossible for her to hide her feelings or emotions, so very transparently were they reflected in her looks. She was one whom all men admired and all women disparaged.

" What can any one see in that Violet Trevelyan, I wonder," one of her own sex would say ; " why, she has not got a good feature in her face." Yet men evidently saw much in her, for with them she was a great favourite and a reigning toast, and this without ever incurring the suspicion of being a flirt. After first crossing, like a true woman, to glance at herself in the glass, Violet turned her attention to the breakfast-table. The morning post and the local paper lay on one corner of it, and she first looked through the letters. They were all for her lather, so she took no particular notice of them until she came to the last one. It bore an American stamp, and she regarded it for a minute or two with some curiosity. " I wonder who is papa's American correspondent. I never heard him mention any friends out in the States," she thought.

Then she threw it down with the others, and glanced carelessly through the columns of the newspaper. Seeing nothing to interest or amuse her, she was just about to fling it aside when her father entered the room. He was a tall, fine-looking man, with a certain military bearing which accorded well with the firm lines of his mouth and the determined mould of his chin. Though nearer fifty than forty, he was in the prime of life, and still presented a youthful and vigorous appearance, notwithstanding the fact that his hair was fast beginning to turn grey. Rut his face would not impress an observer favourably at first sight. There was something harsh and unscrupulous about it. It was the face of one who hated to be thwarted, and who might become very nasty if opposed in any scheme on which he had set his heart.

When he entered the room Violet went over to meet him, and he stooped and kissed her affectionately on the forehead. " Any news this morning, Vi ." he asked, gaily. "I see you have been looking over the paper already." " Nothing strange that I could see, papa, except that there is an opera company coming to Exeter next week." " Ahem ! I suppose that is a gentle hint that you expect me to take you to see it, my dear," said Mr. Trevelyan, turning over Mervy)i Hall. 27 his letters and glancing at the writing on each. Violet laughed, and poured out her father a cup of tea which she passed over to him, and then turned her attention to her own requirements. She did not look in his direction again for a couple of minutes, but when she did so to see if he required anything further, she was terribly startled at the change which had come over his appearance.

A letter was lying open on the table in front of him, but he was not looking at it. His eyes were staring with a fixed, hard glance straight out on the lawn before the house, while his left hand was pressed over his heart as though in pain, and his open mouth seemed to gasp for breath. " Violet ! " he whispered, " brandy quick ! " The now thoroughly frightened girl ran quickly to a sideboard where spirits were kept, and pouring out a glass of brandy, handed it to her father, who drank it off neat. The powerful spirit seemed to revive him, for he removed his hand from his side, and smiled faintly. Then he noticed the letter before him, and hastily folded it up and put it in his pocket, not, however, until his daughter had seen that it was the mysterious epistle from America. "Are you better now, dear father?" asked Violet, bending over him anxiously.

" Yes, I am much better, thank you, Vi," was the answer. " It Mas merely a passing weakness, and it is quite gone now. Rut I will not take any breakfast just yet; I think I shall go into the library for a while and rest myself." So saying, Ralph Trevelyan rose and slowly left the room. Arrived at the library, he flung himself into an easy-chair, having first carefully locked the door. Then he took forth the letter which had spoiled his morning meal, and read it through carefully for the second time. It was as follows: — "29 Seventy-third Street, New York, 10th May, 1880. " My Dear Uncle, — I have no doubt you will be con siderably surprised to get a letter from this part of the world, and still more when you see that it comes from a nephew of whose existence you have doubtless never heard.

I may as well at once introduce myself as your elder brother Harold's only son and heir. My poor father died last month, and on his deathbed he told me the story of his life. Then for the first time I knew that he was the heir of a wealthy Cornish squire, or would have been had he not quarrelled with his father and turned voluntary exile. He told me that from the day he left his father's roof he had never held the slightest communication with any one of his family, and that was twenty-eight years ago. And he made me promise that 1 would cross the ocean and endeavour to find out if his father had ever forgiven him. He said that it was possible I was the rightful possessor of one of the finest properties in Cornwall, and if so, I was to establish my rights. In doing so, my dear uncle, I pray your assistance.

I will be in London about the same time as you receive this letter, and will put up at the Langton Hotel. Perhaps you would be kind enough to direct a note there giving me some advice as to my future movements. — Believe me, my dear uncle, your affectionate nephew, " Harold Trevelyan." Ralph Trevelyan stared king and fixedly at the letter. It was evidently not a pleasing one to him. " Twenty-eight years ago," he muttered gloomily. " Ah ! how well I remember the time, how the quarrel came about, and how I plotted and schemed to widen the breach until I succeeded. I was only twenty then, but I remember it all as if it were but yester day. And now retribution has come. I will have to give up everything — money, lands, power, all that makes life worth living, and commence to fight the world — at fifty.

This young pup, judging from his letter, would have very little mercy ; there seems to be a covert sneer running through every line. He prays my assistance, forsooth ; I am to lend him a helping hand in his efforts to ruin myself." Over the fireplace there hung the coun terfeit presentment of one of the old Tre velyans, a bold, determined man, to judge by his face, which in some respects was not unlike that of the present head of the house. Ralph gazed up at his ancestor, who glared down at him in return, until the living seemed to hold communion with, and to receive ideas from, the dead. The portrait was that of one who had lived in the troublous times of Charles the First, who had joined in the pleasures of that monarch's court during his prosperity, and who in his adversity had not deserted him.

When the long struggle had come to an end, and Roland Trevelyan saw his king a prisoner in the hands of the detested Roundheads, he could have secured his own safety by a timely flight to France. Rut the haughty old cavalier scorned life at the price of losing Mervyn Castle, the ancient home of his race. With a few companions who re mained true to him he shut himself up there, and for long defied the Puritans to oust him from his stronghold. Starvation at length succeeded where more active force had failed. Roland was beheaded, scowling fierce defiance at his enemies to the last ; and the old castle so completely razed to the ground that barely its foundations remained. Many remembrances of this struggle to the death returned to Ralph's memory as he sat and looked at the old portrait. Then he began to picture what 'the original would have done had he now occupied his own position.

Now, again, the owner of Mervyn was threatened by its loss. Would not that owner be found ready to defend it, even to the death, as the former one had done ? Gradually but surely, by a confused pro cess of analogy, Ralph began to fancy that the two cases were almost parallel, and that any steps which he might choose to take in defending his home would be justifiable. He sat thinking long and deeply over the situation, and as the time went by his face came to wear a very ugly and determined look — such a look as that with which his ancestor might have defiantly faced the Puritan mob when on the scaffold. At length he rose and crossed over to an escritoire, at which he sat down and commenced to write a letter. It was not a long communication, for in a few minutes he had finished it and enclosed it in an envelope, which he addressed to — Mr. James Henderson, 72a Little Duck Street, London.

" I am not going to sit down tamely and allow you to rob me of Mervyn Hall, Mr. Harold Trevelyan," he muttered as he sealed the letter. " We will have a fight for it first, and in the end you may be sorry that you ever left New York." He then returned to the breakfast-room, where he found his daughter still sitting, a vague alarm at his sudden illness all too clearly written on her face. He laughingly assured her that it was a mere trifle, and in apparently gay spirits went away for a scamper on horseback across country. On the following day he left Mervyn Hall for London,

Chapter II. On Board The

" AJAX." The Royal Mail Steamer Ajax was ploughing its way with monotonous regularity through the waste of waters to which we have given the name of the Atlantic Ocean. The vessel was bound from New York to Liverpool, and after a very fair voyage was now about two days' journey from its destination. It had an average cargo, and a rather less than average number of passengers ; but amongst the latter was one who was destined to bring trouble to the owner of Mervyn Hall, and that one was his affectionate nephew, Harold Trevelyan. Not a very impressive or remarkable personality, you would say, if you saw him leisurely pacing the deck, enjoying the cool sea breeze and glorious sunshine. A big cigar was stuck in his mouth, and the odour of it would have at once told a connoisseur that it did not belong to a very choice brand.

He was rather under the ordinary height, and he certainly did not make up in beauty of feature for what he lacked in physique. A " common-place snub " would have best described his nose, his eyes were small and sooty-coloured, and the few hairs on his upper lip, the growth of which he was striving to encourage, did not yet form sufficient cover to conceal the size of his mouth, which was certainly not too small to prevent him making a hearty meal when in a hurry. If, however, Mr. Harold Trevelyan could lay no claim to any more flattering description than that of ordinary -looking, the man who strolled by his side along the deck most certainly could. Frederick Turner — for such was his name — was one who would attract notice in any company or in any crowd. He was tall and rather thin in figure, with a pair of deep black eyes, which could look very sad and sympathetic at times, but could also glitter in an exceedingly angry fashion when their owner wished.

Rut this did not often happen. Anger is rarely a winning card to play in the game of life, and Mr. Turner had found the truth of the pro position many years before. He never allowed his feelings to predominate for one moment over his policy, and the result was that he very seldom betrayed symptoms of wrath, unless when he fancied it would be to his own advantage. A long black moustache was a very prominent ornament to a face, which most women would at first sight pronounce handsome and most men dangerous. Dangerous Frederick Turner most de cidedly was, as many people who had met him could tell from experience. He was now returning to England after a sojourn of some years' duration in the United States. His career there had not been either a successful or an honourable one — most decidedly not the latter — and he was now going back to try his fortunes once again in the old country.

What he had been there originally nobody knew, though all who believed his own statements fancied that he was a scion of an ancient and respected county family, and had been a little wild in his youth, as many another good man had been before him. Only every one did not believe him, fortunately for themselves. His present companion, however, trusted all his assertions most implicitly, and this was the more remarkable, as the two had never met until fate threw them together on board the Ajax. Rut Turner soon read the sly, cunning nature of the other like an open book, and rapidly wormed out of him the object which he had in view in visiting England. The possible heir to an estate worth ten thousand a year was decidedly worth cul tivating ; and so Turner put forth his best and most plausible manner before Trevelyan, with the result that the latter was delighted with his new-found friend, and told him all his own private affairs with the greatest confidence.

The recipient of this informa tion smiled sweetly as he thought what an interesting chain of developments might possibly be forged out of such a case, and inwardly determined to watch over it with a view to future advantages for himself. Trevelyan imagined that his charming and amusing companion was a gentleman of large resources making a trip to Europe for pleasure. This was the story which the astute Turner took care should be known to all on board who liked to make any inquiries about him. On the particular day on which we meet the two the conversation between them had taken a most confidential turn. Turner was unusually interested in his companion's story, and seemed never tired of asking questions on the subject. Indeed, he apologised for his curiosity at one time, saying : " I am afraid, my dear Harold," (they were very familiar for acquaintances of less than a week's standing) — " I am afraid that you may consider the interest which I take in your strange story as more or less intrusive ; but it is not idle curiosity merely which prompts it.

I have always had a leaning towards the romantic element in life, and no stranger tale than the one you have narrated has ever come to my ears, although I have met with many extraordinary experiences in my day." This mode of speech flattered Trevelyan, who was rather pleased to imagine himself the hero of a romance in real life. He hastened to soothe the simulated fears of his friend. " My dear Fred, I feel highly compli mented, I can assure you, by what you tell me of the interest you feel in my case, which is, I rather reckon, something out of the common groove. It's not every day, as you say, that a man who has been slaving away for years on a small salary, hears that he has come in for ten thousand a year. Ry Jove, old man, you must let me know your address when you get up to the big village, so that I can find you out and let you hear the end of it."