Michael's Crag

Chapter 15

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.

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

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.

THE END.