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.”