It may not be uninteresting to the reader, to see the exact position, stripped of technicalities, in which the parties stood at going into court. The question between them was one of inheritance merely, and of a very simple kind. Randolph's great grandfather left two sons by different marriages, Arthur, the eldest, and Philip, the present claimant of the property at stake. Arthur was the father of only one son, Henry. It will be seen, therefore, that in default of any will, and of Henry's dying without family, the estates would revert to Philip. There was no will to interfere, for Henry, in his, merely appointed guardians of his children, and made no bequests. He considered it a matter of course that the children would inherit. And so they would, if the marriage of which they were the offspring, were legal. But if this marriage were not duly performed, or the children supposititious, Philip would become heir to the property.
It was, therefore, almost self-evident, that the claimant's case would rest upon the insufficiency of Randolph's father's marriage. So to this point was directed the main attention of his legal advisers. But every presumption was in favour of its perfect legality. All the dark suggestions which subtilty could imagine, vanished one after another, in the light thrown upon them by Henry Trevethlan's own conduct. If there were a fraud, it must have been without his cognizance, for it would have defeated his supposed object. But if he were not privy, what motive could be ascribed to any other party? It was impossible, for obvious reasons, to impute anything of the kind to the friends of the bride. Baffled in every conjecture, Mr. Winter could only take means for procuring the presence of everybody, who, by any remote contingency, might be able to contribute to the overthrow of the claimant's case.
For in this sort of action the parties meet at the trial totally ignorant of each other's intentions. For instance, in this case the claim might be made, either under an alleged will, or a sale and conveyance of the property, or on the ground that the holder was not the legitimate heir. And supposing the first case, the defendant might say, either that the will was forged, or was made when the testator was of unsound mind, or was revoked by a later. So wide is the field for surprise. And consequently it frequently happens, that the title to a disputed estate is very far from established by a single verdict; but that in a series of trials, the parties alternately upset one another's successive positions, until the ground is exhausted, and the matter finally set at rest.
We have seen that the approach of the contest caused great excitement in the hamlet of Trevethlan. It was an agitation not unmixed with shadowy dread. The presentiments and forebodings which had long afforded a theme for the village guidance, were discussed more anxiously than ever. The old people recollected every little coincidence attending a death in the family, or the severance of an estate, and detected something parallel at the present time. Some aged folks listened at night for the wailing cries which ought to echo around the old grey towers on the eve of a calamity; and when none such mingled with the gentle sighing of the west wind, they interpreted this very softness into a sign, declared the unnatural warmth of the season was a certain token of ill, and remembered some similar year when disaster visited the castle. Of course, this state of feeling reacted within its walls, and revived the terrors of the domestics. In spite of Helen's contradiction to Mercy Page, the wiseacres of the hamlet insisted on peopling the gloomy galleries with visitors from another world, and some of the more eager occasionally watched the windows at night, in the hope of being terrified and having a story to tell.
It had been well if these night-fancies were all that disturbed the people. But not a few of them were speculating already on what should be done, in case the forebodings were verified by the result. And here, had it been known, was a veritable cause for alarm. Randolph himself would, perhaps, have trembled, if he had been aware what his dependents were meditating, as they supposed for his advantage, but at all events for their own satisfaction.
For some time after his interview with Mildred, the gloom and moroseness which beset him previously, had vanished. Strong in the hope and trust inspired by that meeting, he became frank and unreserved in his intercourse with the villagers, lively and agreeable in his circle at home. Helen and Polydore rejoiced at the change, without knowing its origin. It showed itself in the smile with which he heard Jeffrey's announcement of Miss Pendarrel's approaching marriage. "Simple people!" he might think, "how little you know on the subject!" But as the day of trial came quite near, some of his former agitation naturally returned: he shunned the conversation of the peasants, and became once more abstracted and silent at home. Again did the rustics note the gloom upon his brow, and whisper among their other prognostications that their master's doom was written in his face; but he should not fall unavenged.
Nor was Michael Sinson more at his ease. He had gone to London before the party at Pendarrel, to consult Mr. Truby, and to see his bondman, Everope. It was essential that he should maintain his influence over the latter unbroken, and keep him well prepared for the part he was to play. He was greatly startled himself by being summoned as a witness for the defendant. He had intended, indeed, to go down to the assizes, but he did not mean to appear. He should remain in the background, while his creature did his work. He trembled to think of the confessions into which he might be driven or led by the searching questions of counsel; but still more he alarmed himself by imagining that his opponents had obtained some clue to his design, and that some strange exposure awaited him in court. He was, however, now so deeply involved, that he could only strengthen himself with his old hopes, and abide the issue in patience.
His aged grandmother was at least as much perplexed as himself. Ever since her favourite Michael had dropped his dark hint in her ear respecting the marriage, she had harped upon the subject in her muttered soliloquies, and ruminated upon it as she swung to and fro in her rocking-chair. And in the confusion of her ideas she fancied, on receiving her summons, that there was a plot on foot by which the Trevethlans desired to free themselves from the connection with her family, and willingly transferred to Randolph the passing reproaches with which at times she upbraided Michael Sinson. It was idle to reason with her.
"Ay, Squire Trevethlan," she cried to him one day, as he was strolling in the neighbourhood of her lodge, in the vain hope of quieting his renewed anxiety by another meeting with Mildred. "The son steps worthily in the path of the father! And so thou wouldst be quit of the peasant blood, wouldst thou? Wouldst disown thy kindred? But na, na,—the ties are too strong. It's none so easy to break a mother's memory. My Margaret was fit for the wife of a king, and more than fit to be the mother of such as thee."
"Who has been talking to you now, dame?" Randolph asked. "Who has been putting these notions in your head? Did I ever wish to disown her? Would I not give anything to bring her back? Would I not love her and honour her? And did I not tell you I had seen her, and she smiled upon me? She has come often since, and always with the same sweet smile."