Ande Trembath: A Tale of Old Cornwall England
by Matthew Stanley Kemp · English · Gutenberg #39606 · 561,161 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Ande Trembath: A Tale of Old Cornwall England
Author: Matthew Stanley Kemp
Release date: May 3, 2012 [eBook #39606]
Language: English
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ANDE TREMBATH
To My Friend
THE RIGHT REV. CORTLANDT WHITEHEAD, S.T.D.
_Bishop of Pittsburgh_
In memory of pleasant hours spent together
at "Burgtown."
[Illustration: ANDE TREMBATH]
ANDE TREMBATH
A Tale of Old Cornwall England
by
MATT. STAN. KEMP
Author of
"Boss Tom"
[Illustration]
C. M. Clark Publishing Co., Inc.
Boston, Mass., U.S.A.
1905
Copyright, 1905, by
C. M. CLARK PUBLISHING CO., Inc.
Boston, Mass., U.S.A.
Entered at
Stationer's Hall, London
Foreign Copyrights Secured
All Rights Reserved
Contents
_CHAPTERS_ PAGE
I A Calamity at the Manor 1
II The Son of a Traitor 16
III The Runaway 26
IV The Primrose Cottage and Tom Glaze 31
V "The Big Ha' Bible Ance His Father's Pride" 41
VI Squire and Parliamentarian 46
VII Tea-table Politics 55
VIII "Off With His Head" 66
IX The Village Stocks 73
X Reparation 77
XI Defeat of Bully Bob Sloan 87
XII Christmas and Christmas Play 98
XIII The Cornish Droll-teller 113
XIV St. George and Fair Sabra 123
XV The Helston Grammar School 135
XVI The Hurling Match 146
XVII The Smugglers' Battle 160
XVIII The Duck Cave Adventure 173
XIX Creakle's Revenge 185
XX Adrift On the Deep 197
XXI Around the Tavern's Flaming Grate 214
XXII The Lycamahoning 240
XXIII The Raft Pilot's Home 253
XXIV The Hunter of the Loop 261
XXV Eureka! The Eldorado! 266
XXVI The Rising 285
XXVII The Secret of the Snuff Box 293
XXVIII Misfortunes 313
XXIX Tom Glaze to the Rescue 327
XXX The Major's Home-Coming 334
XXXI Ande's Revenge 355
XXXII Christmas In the Old Hall 375
Illustrations
Frontispiece _Ande Trembath_
PAGE
"There was a vision of a flying, athletic, youthful
form--clinging with the grip of a vice--" 27
"It's a compact, said the former" 54
"Yes, give three hoots for the red-'eaded Deane and all his
traitor hancestors" 89
"I am that Knight, said Ande, warmly" 128
"They say you are the son of a traitor" 189
"The old hunter straightened up as if shot, and gazed at them" 250
"Sweet bird of the wilderness, sweet is thy song" 302
"The door was opened, and the gleam of candle light shot
over all concerned" 332
"He opened his speech in clear, ringing tones" 364
ANDE TREMBATH
CHAPTER I
A CALAMITY AT THE MANOR
"Never before in the history of the Manor have deeds like these been
perpetrated," said the squire, his genial, rubicund countenance turning
pale with anger.
"Prithee, prithee, cool thyself; look at the affair calmly and you will
speedily discover the rogue," replied the parson.
"Cool myself!" replied the squire, in some heat; "it is easy enough to
talk, but this is the third offence in a week. Last Monday the tulip
beds and shrubbery were trampled and ruined; Wednesday, the fish-pond
drained and the best fish secured; and last night, the unknown miscreant
killed poor, faithful Borlase. It is becoming unbearable,"--and the
squire, with angry features and the semblance of a tear in his eye,
knelt down by the body of the English mastiff to convince himself again
that the life of his canine friend was extinct.
The scene was in a remote corner of the gardens of an old Cornish manor
estate. Some distance away, looming up above the nodding heads of trees,
were the gables and chimney pots of the squire's residence. Near a clump
of shrubbery was the kneeling form of the squire, with flushed face and
unsteady hand, for his soul was trembling with indignation, examining
the head of his slain, four-footed friend. The parson, with dignified
step, was closely scrutinising the ground between the squire and the
road-side hedge.
"Ah! Here, do you see? Here is where the missile struck him." It was the
squire who spoke, for he had found a long deep gash near the right ear.
"From what I can see," said the parson, who was a keen observer, "the
rogue was making for the hedge, the most natural deduction, the hedge
being the nighest escape from the dog. Then," he continued, with
homiletical precision as if outlining a pulpit theme, "since the dog
followed him, he must have hurled some missile at him. What more natural
missile than a stone, and what more natural place to secure it than from
the hedge? Now the missile must be around here somewhere. Ah! Here it
is," and Parson Trant picked up a good sized stone from amidst the
shrubbery. "There is blood upon it; proof, number one; now let us
discover its place in the hedge."
The squire arose and accompanied the parson to the hedge and, after a
minute examination, the stone's former location was discovered.
"So far, good," ejaculated the parson. "Now what servants would be most
likely around the gardens last evening?"
"Tut, tut, you would never make a barrister, parson. To suspect any of
my servants! You are well versed in theology, and no one knows better
how to preach a sermon, but in matters of law and trespass we,
magistrates, must take the precedence."
Now at times Squire Vivian could be as genial and pleasant as the sun on
a June-tide morning. Kind-hearted, generous, frank, bluff, with a rough
veneer of the old-time courtesy was the old squire, and yet with a
choleric spirit underneath all, that would sometimes burst forth into
passionate invective, to the scandal of his friends and to his own
aftertime regret. Add to this a dignified opinion of his position as a
landed magistrate and the squire of Trembath Manor is evident. He had a
goodly amount of hard English sense and in managing his estates and
finances had been tolerably successful, but in sharp penetration of
character and shrewd judgment in other affairs, he was lamentably
deficient. His frank and open nature had not given him much chance to
develop these talents, even had he ever possessed them, and, like many
persons whose positions require talents in which they are lacking, or at
best but meagrely gifted, the squire felt vexed when his little
magisterial keenness was surpassed.
"Tut, tut, parson, you are losing your judgment if you suspect the
servants. There's old George Sloan, the hostler, and Ned Pengilly, the
gardener, the only two persons likely to be on the grounds at that time,
and they loved old Borlase,--ay,--even better than they love his master.
No, no, parson, you are at fault there."
Parson Trant smiled, for he knew one of the chief failings in the
squire's character.
"No, I did not suspect them, but they, being on the grounds, can no
doubt enlighten us and bring to view more evidence. The most learned and
keen-sighted judge, at times, profits by the evidence of common
labourers and country parsons, who are far beneath him in the knowledge
of law and criminal investigation."
"To be sure, to be sure," said the squire, somewhat mollified, "but here
comes Sloan."
An old man, whose erect form and sturdy step belied his grey hair and
wrinkled brows, was seen approaching from the direction of the stables.
"Canst tell us anything more about this outrage, Sloan?"
The hostler was now close at hand and had removed his cap in deference
to the gentlemen near him.
"A bad job, beant it, squire, as I was a-telling nephe Bob this marning.
No, sir, I can't say as Hi knaws much. I 'eard Borlase barking
savage-like last night, and I ups and slips quiet-like down from my room
o'er the stables, and run through the paddock just in time to see the
rogue on the other side of the 'edge. It was dark, squire, and I 'aven't
the heye-sight I used to 'ave, and so I couldn't make un out who 'e was.
This marning I looked around and found poor Borlase a-lying there and
brought you word. That's all I knaws, only I 'opes the villain will be
caught and 'anged."
"And did you see no person around the grounds late in the afternoon,
George?" asked the parson.
"None, sir, except my nephe Bob, who comes hover to the stables to 'elp
me in my work, now and then, but 'e always leaves afore evening. Now--as
I think of it, Bob was a-telling me 'e 'ad seen Ande Trembath nigh the
Prospidnic road gate, as 'e was going 'ome last night; 'e may 'ave seen
the rogue and could tell you summat."
Blackness as of a thunder-cloud rolled across the old squire's features,
and a purple stream of blood mounted and flushed his temples.
"Spawn of the traitor! He shall smart for it!"
"What a horrible oath! Squire, you are beside yourself," said the
parson, with gentle, chiding reproof.
"Well, damme, parson, what's a man to do? Here's all these outrages, and
it's perfectly clear to my mind, now, that that traitorous son of----"
"Tut, tut, fie, squire!"
"That that traitorous son of a traitor, knowing that I have the
possession of the manor of his ancestors, which the King--God bless
him--took from their family on account of their treason, that boy--don't
interrupt me, Parson Trant--that boy is the culprit, and damme--I'll
have him arrested for malicious mischief and trespass."
"Not so fast, squire. What evidence do you have except your own
suspicions and the fact that the lad was seen nigh the Prospidnic road
gate? If I know aught of law there's not sufficient evidence."
"There, there, you talk of law--as if a magistrate didn't know the law."
"Well, the evidence is lacking," said the parson, gently, though firmly,
for he would not allow the squire to shake his confidence in his best
pupil. "The lad has a good reputation, is a bright scholar in my parish
school, and----"
"Well, well, we'll get more evidence," interrupted the squire, a little
testily. "George, see that the dog is buried, and--here, hitch up the
black mare for Mistress Alice; she's going out this morning."
The hostler paused, fingering his cap.
"I'm feared, squire, Queeny is a little huntrusty; she's been standing
in the stall some time."
"What!----"
The presence of the parson restrained the squire from saying more, but
his flushed countenance spoke volumes. George saw it and, touching his
cap, hastened off to obey.
"Here's a pretty pass things are coming to! Outrages committed daily,
and my own servants in open rebellion, disputing my word."
"Come now," said the parson, gently, "he meant no harm and no
disrespect, I'm sure. Suppose we go down to the lodge and see Pengilly."
Squire and parson wended their way across the gardens to the broad
carriage-way and thence down to the main entrance of the manor estate,
the latter talking and the former keeping down his temper as best he
could in silence, until he became of a more quiescent frame of mind. In
truth, the squire was inwardly regretting his outburst of temper, and
the violent language he had used in the presence of his friend, the
parson.
"Such a thing is possible but not probable. Ande has been the best
scholar in the parish school and a model boy, so the master assures me.
We must not condemn him too hastily and without being heard. His mother
is a noble woman and has inculcated high principles in her training of
the lad."
There was silence for a moment unbroken save by the crunch, crunch of
the gravel underfoot and the twitter of bird overhead. Then the squire,
sufficiently calmed, spoke.
"All very true, but envy and malice crop out even in the very best of
characters; especially is it true in those who, having been deprived of
high position, see others occupying that which was formerly theirs. They
are apt to allow their feelings to bias their judgment."
"And are you sure that you, my old friend, are not doing the same
thing?" said the parson, with a winning smile, referring to the last
remark of the squire.
Squire Vivian flushed at this rejoinder.
"Well, we'll give the lad a fair chance; perhaps I was a trifle too
hasty, but you well know, parson, that next to my Alice and you, I was
extremely fond of Borlase, and naturally feel angry at his loss. I
secured him when a puppy from an old friend, one of the Borlases of
Borlase at St. Just. You know, to be sure, Dr. William Borlase, the
scholar and antiquarian?"
"Aye, I have studied his works with interest."
"Well, I named the mastiff after him; the intelligence of that dog,
parson, was phenomenal. Ah, here we are at the lodge."
The drive-way terminated at the entrance gate, a large affair of massive
iron bars, fancifully and artistically wrought at the top into intricate
curves and flourishes. Huge square pillars of Cornish moor-stone
surmounted at the top with the Trembath arms--a Lyonnesse warrior
galloping amidst ocean waves--flanked the gate on either side and gave
it desired support. Why the squire, or his father, had not removed the
arms of his predecessor, replacing them with his own, is hard to tell.
The whole gateway stood out like fret-work upon the background of the
squire's woods beyond the highway, woods and trees of ancient standing,
as scrupulously cared for as the members of the squire's own household.
Within the gate and close on one side, lovingly environed by beds of
blooming gilli-flowers and marigolds, and almost concealed by enveloping
masses of English ivy that affectionately embraced its walls, was a
small, neat, stone cottage that bore the dignified name of "the Lodge."
A man, still in the prime of life, was labouring assiduously over some
strawberry beds in the rear.
"Ned, this way, please," shouted the squire, and Ned Pengilly, who acted
in the double capacity of gardener and porter, dropping his hoe,
hastened to comply. There was independence and respect for his master
admirably blended in the demeanour of the gardener, as he stood before
parson and squire.
"Ned, did you see Ande Trembath nigh the place of late? We want you to
freshen up your memory and tell us when and how often you have seen him
about the place of late."
"Well, I seed him going through the Manor woods--yesterday; 'e was
whistling a tune, bright and cheery-like, and bid me the time of day as
'e passed the gate. We all likes young Squire Ande, as we calls 'im--no
offence, squire, I 'opes;--we all calls 'im 'young squire' 'cause 'is
grandfather was squire 'ere years ago, afore 'e turned for the
French--which the lad can't 'elp."
"Which the lad can't help!" fairly thundered the squire, his wrath
getting the better of him once more, no doubt fired at the term of young
squire. "I suppose he couldn't help draining the fish pond? I suppose he
couldn't help trampling the shrubbery? I suppose he couldn't help
killing Borlase last night? Couldn't help----"
The latter part of this ebullition of passion died away in a hoarse
growl of something like "blood will tell."
The effect upon the porter of this news of the killing of Borlase was
most striking.
"Bless m' well, squire! What! Borlase dead--killed! Good hold Borlase!
'ow fond we were of 'im! Dead!"
There was a curious working of the gardener's features and he hastily
rubbed the sleeve of his rough shirt across his eyes.
"You must excuse me, squire--to blubber 'ere like a babby--but then you
knaw 'ow I brought un, nigh ten year ago, from St. Just--a puppy 'e was
then, and I loved un--ay--like--like--like a father. 'Ow 'e used to
bark--just like the roar of a lion--ah was--and 'ow sensible 'e was too
when 'e would come nigh me at work on the flower beds; 'e'd wag 'is tail
and look on like a gentleman, as if saying, 'thas all right, my man,'
and yet 'e'd ne'er put foot on a posy or stamp on my work. Dead! But
bless'ee, squire, you can't suspect Ande. Why, I knawed Ande when 'e was
only a hinfant, and I knawed him from then up, and a brighter, better,
honester lad ne'er breathed. Soul of 'onour, 'e ez, sir! Ande! Why 'e
wouldn't 'urt nothing, sir."
"I agree with you, Ned," said the parson. "Ande has too kind a heart to
hurt any of God's creatures. His character is above suspicion in the
matter."
"'Zactly so, so 'e ez," affirmed Ned.
"The principles and character of his father and grandfather were not
above reproach. He's a chip of the old block," growled the squire.
"But, I am afraid the commonwealth is against you in your judgment of
the lad. You know the old adage, 'a man's innocent until proved guilty,'
squire," rejoined the parson.
"Aye, but in this case it's the Irish verdict, 'guilty, but not proven.'
Ned, fix up the berry bushes and trim the shrubbery to-day. In the
meantime keep an ear open, and report to me any news you may hear of
last night's outrage."
The gardener touched his cap and returned to his labour, and squire and
parson, still conversing, sauntered away through the grounds.
"A man shouldn't allow his feelings to run away with his judgment," said
the latter, warmly championing the cause of his favourite.
"The days of the Stoics are past. You have a marvellous predilection for
that lad, Parson Trant. Now, I shall just send the steward down to the
village, this evening, and have him up here, not for a trial, but just
for a private examination, and he shall have fair play. But going to
other subjects, old friend,--what think you of young Master Lanyan?"
"Master Lanyan--um--a bright young man--bright beyond his years, I
think. He will certainly make his mark in life if he keeps to right
principles."
"Ah, exactly so," said the squire, rubbing his hands in the first
satisfaction he had had for the whole morning. "I wanted to get your
opinion and am glad you think so highly of him."
His companion shook his head.
"As to thinking highly of him--I don't know. He has a strong, subtile
mind,--culture,--and a determined will, but he plays cards and----"
"Pooh! Pooh! Pish! Physician, heal thyself; you know that you and I
engage in a social game at times."
"But we don't gamble."
"Only a few wild oats. That is natural to a high-spirited lad. He has
culture, a strong head--a genuine gentleman," stoutly maintained the
squire.
"Ah, but those things in my estimation are not the true requisites of a
gentleman. I consider the foundation principles of a man's life."
"Yes, but the English gentry are supposed to be dominated by the highest
principles," said the squire, earnestly.
"As a class, yes, but in reference to the individual, it is a
supposition without the fact, frequently; and, if your statement holds
good, how about my young friend, Ande Trembath?"
The squire flushed with angry impatience.
"Back again to that young villain! Well, parson, that family no longer
belongs to the English gentry class, as you can readily see. Attainder
of property and corruption of blood!"
It was the parson's time to "Pish! Pish! Pooh! Pooh!"
"Pshaw! Nothing of the kind. Does a plant cease to be the same when it
is transplanted to another soil, or the king of the jungle cease to be a
lion when surrounded by the bars of a cage?"
"Yes, to an extent. Environment has a large influence on life; at least
so our parson said in last Sabbath's discourse." The squire laughed
heartily, and thwacked the discomfited parson on the back with his
large, broad hand.
The parson smiled and resumed.
"I am beaten with my own stick, yet, notwithstanding that you quoted me
correctly, you are wrong. Environment is not a paramount influence. Man
can conquer. Tertullian and Origen----"
Afraid of starting his friend on some long-winded discourse on ancient
church worthies, the squire interrupted him.
"Your idea of a gentleman is----"
"My idea is that wealth, culture, position, etc., are the emoluments or
adjuncts, and that high, sound, moral principles, a righteous heart and
a noble soul, whether under the blouse of the peasant or under the silk
vest of the prince, are the only badges of gentility."
"Well, well,--little did I think that my old, conservative friend would
turn out such a radical."
"Not at all. My firm belief, that these, by training, education, blood,
descent, are embodied more fully in the gentry class of England than in
any other, has made me an extreme conservative. But, about young Master
Lanyan?"
"Young Richard? Young Richard in a year or so will attain his majority.
What think you of a match between the young Richard and my Alice? You
see," added the squire, as he linked his arm in that of the parson, "I
am getting old and I would like to see my only child well settled in
life before I leave the earth. The Lanyan estates are nigh to ours and
they will fall to Richard after his father's death. What better match
than Richard? My Alice is worthy of being called 'My Lady' and Richard
will be Baronet in time. Now, what think you, old friend?"
"You asked me two questions; let us consider one at a time. In reference
to young Richard. It is not the playing of cards that I object to; it is
the trait that his gambling reveals. You know of the schemes of his
grandfather, and of his great-grandfather; the rage for speculation, the
South Sea Bubble, and the hundred and one schemes that that family has
engaged in. Blood will tell. Richard's gambling reveals that. He will
either make or break his family. This mad rage for speculation is an
evil thing. Some day either Sir James or Richard will overreach himself
and should--but of that anon. He is determined and has a strong will,
but should his will be thwarted might not the young Richard be like his
grandfather, a man of no principle. I do not wish to misjudge the young
man, but I fear me that he is one who will allow nothing to come between
himself and his ends, and even to stoop to questionable and evil things
to accomplish those ends. God forgive me if I have judged wrongly. Then
he is proud and even supercilious at times, a disdainer of the commons.
Should he be brought to poverty, the lack of principle which I fear is
in him would hasten the degradation of his character. He may be
different than I have said, but whenever I see him I have an undefinable
suspicion of incipient evil within. Now in reference to Alice and this
projected alliance. Alice is a good child and has commendable traits. No
'My Lady' will enhance her worth any more than it is now. Her happiness
is no light consideration. I believe she can be happy with no man except
one of high and noble principles. Then, in event of this alliance being
consummated, there may be danger of Trembath Manor being involved in the
ruin that may come upon Lanyan Hall. Has she been consulted? Would she
offer no objection to this plan of yours?"
"Objection! No," said the squire, a little testily, for he had been
listening impatiently to this advice of his friend. "Alice is a good
child and will do as I say."
The parson had his own opinion, but said nothing.
The great gables and chimney-pots of the "great house," as it was
generally called by the peasantry around about, loomed up in the
distance and suggested to the parson that the hour was getting late.
Taking out his watch----
"I declare! I had no thought that the hour was so late, and Harriet
will be waiting for me, too. I must go and we'll talk about the matter
later on."
The squire tried to prevail upon his friend to stay for lunch, but,
finding that it was unavailing, cordially shook hands and they
separated, the former going on toward the Manor house, the latter
hastening down to the entrance gates.
CHAPTER II
THE SON OF A TRAITOR
"Blithe bird of the wilderness, sweet is thy song,
Blithe lark of the wildwood, O, all the day long,
A-singing so cheerily in the green tree,
Thy anthem dispels gloom and sorrow from me;
Thou sayest in thy song, 'What can sadness avail?
Injustice shall fall and the good shall prevail.'
"Yet bird of the wilderness, sad is our lot,
Our home, confiscated, our name, a dark blot;
The Cornish chief, stricken at Prestonpan's fight,
Wounded at Culloden for King and the right,
And captured at Braddock's defeat in the glen,
Was branded at home by a sycophant's pen.
"Oh, bird of the wildwood, upon the green bough
Thy ancestor sang just as sweetly as thou,
He sang, as thou singest, that evil should fail,
Injustice should fall, and that good should prevail;
But surely the goddess of justice is blind,
When traitor is honoured and patriot maligned.
"Sing sweetly, O wild bird, upon the green tree,
And let me draw comfort and solace from thee,
Though home's confiscated, dishonoured our name,
And poverty adds a deep sting to our shame,
And father's departed,--yet, evil shall fail,--
Some day,--right shall triumph and good shall prevail."
Clear and sweet arose the melody, and yet with a plaintive element of
sadness in it. The parson paused in his steps to listen. On one side of
the highway stretched the woods of the Manor, their shadow etched darkly
by the slightly slanting sun-rays; on the other side were the fields,
yellow, ripe, all ready for the sickle of the reaper. A wood-lark, the
sweetest of all English birds, arose in the air from the Manor woods
and, still twittering, flew over hedge and field, no doubt seeking its
home and mate.
A smile of pleasure lit up the saintly old rector's face and then merged
into the thoughtful. He made a pleasing picture leaning on his
silver-headed cane, his long skirted coat slightly open at the neck,
revealing the white stock-cravat in its fluffy folds, his head slightly
inclined as if not willing to lose a single bar of the song. Not until
the song was ended did he venture forward.
"Most remarkable song and most remarkable sweet tenor voice--yes--a
great deal sweeter than Penjerrick's. I must have that voice for our
parish choir."
Arriving at the corner of the woods, the silence of the singer was
explained in a single, brief, cursory glance. There, seated on the hedge
that separated the woods from the road, sat the figure of a boy, tall,
sinewy and strong, yet still a boy. His cap had fallen to the ground and
the tangled masses of dark red hair lay deep on his brow. With
melancholy, abstracted air, he was gazing across the fields as if in
meditation.
"Why, Ande, you are quite a singer," said the parson, in a pleasant
voice.
The lad, startled from his reverie, leaped down from the hedge, picked
up his cap and coming forward gave his customary salutation,
"Good-morning, Parson Trant."
The parson returned the salutation and then there was silence for a
moment, during which the rector scrutinised him with his kindly, yet
keen grey eyes.
The lad's face was both attractive and strong. His slightly aquiline
nose revealed a sensitive nature; his prominent chin and firm lips, a
resolute will; his high, rolling forehead--swept by the tangled waves of
rollicking hair--intellectuality; the hue of his locks and the deep blue
eye, a soul that, though kind and affectionate, could be fired by strong
passions. At least so conjectured the parson, who thought he could read
character in human lineaments.
But these thoughts did not occupy the latter long. It was the manner of
the lad that disturbed him. With bright, cheery smile he had been
accustomed to greet him heretofore. Now the youth stood before him
almost with the air of a culprit. He shunned the rector's eyes, and
seemed as if wishing to avoid that calm scrutiny. A fleeting thought
possessed the mind of the pastor. Could the youth possibly be guilty of
the misdemeanours committed at the Manor? Was he wrong in his judgment
of his favourite pupil? The truth of the matter was that the youth had
been crying over petty vexations. At least there were tears in his eyes
and, like many of his age, he disliked to be seen thus.
"Well, Ande," said Parson Trant, breaking the silence, "you have a voice
that ought to be in our parish choir. Now what do you say about coming
in next Sabbath morning? Mr. Penjerrick will give you a little
preliminary training Saturday afternoon."
"I--I would rather not come, sir, if you could excuse me. I--I don't
sing in church."
"And why not?" asked the parson, kindly.
"Because I would be singing the praises of God when--when--I don't feel
like it," responded the lad a little slowly, and with some effort.
"Why, Ande, you are a Christian lad--true, you have not yet been
confirmed and united to the church--but still, you are a Christian lad.
Are you not?"
"I don't know, sir," said the lad, and again relapsed into silence.
"My poor lad," said the good old man, as he put one arm over the boy's
shoulder, affectionately, "there's something wrong with you to-day; you
are not yourself. Come now, confide in me. Tell me about it and let me
give you my advice in the matter. You have not done anything wrong, have
you?"
Thus questioned by the good old rector, Ande, who loved him for his
worth as a true man and a noble exponent of Christianity, could not help
but respond. Flinging up his head and pushing back the masses of hair
that would persist in falling over his eyes, he said:
"It is this way, Mr. Trant, I have made up my mind to leave the
country. There is room for me on the sea or in foreign parts. I can't
bear the taunts of some of the lads at the parish school. The master
doesn't know and you don't know how mean some of the boys act. There's
Bob Sloan, Dick Denny and some more of that stripe that are becoming
unbearable."
"Why, what do they say?" asked the parson, kindly.
"They call me the ugly Dane or Deane and cast slurs upon my father and
grandfather, saying they were traitors to the government."
"Ah, in reference to the first name, methinks, my lad, you are old
enough to know that that old story of the Danes seizing the wives of
Englishmen has no historical foundation; in reference to the second
matter, time itself must clear up the truth or falsity of the
accusation. It certainly shows a mean, petty spirit to vilify a son for
the reputed deeds of a father."
"Aye, there's just the point about my not singing in church. The Bible
says 'the sins of the fathers shall be visited upon the children,' and I
think that's unjust. Here," said the boy with a trace of angry passion
in his tones, "I am taunted, despised, looked down on, not only by the
lads, but by some of the grown people as well. I believe, just as you
say, that it shows a small spirit in lads, men and the Bible, to condemn
a lad for the faults of his father. How can I sing then?"
The parson was dumfounded and completely silenced for a moment. He was
grieved and dismayed to hear how his last remark was misapplied.
"And," continued the youth, rather bitterly, "I believe, and know you
believe, that neither father nor grandfather were guilty of any treason,
that there's a mistake somewhere. Yet--yet I have to stand all this.
Squire Vivian looks upon me with an angry look. Sir James Lanyan looks
upon me as if I was a dog. Master Richard called me a traitor's cub,
because I happened to be in his way this morning, and if he hadn't been
on horse-back I would have made him take it back--and--and--I hate them.
I hate them all!" The lad's face was marked with passion, his fists
clenched, and there was an angry tear in his eye that he could not
conceal. "Why does God allow all this? Why--and--and--but I'm not going
to stay here and bear it."
The parson looked grave and turned the conversation for a moment by
asking the name of the author of the song he had heard.
"The Song of the Lark, you mean? That was made by my father, and my
mother taught me to sing it when I could first finger the harp. The harp
is the only thing we have now that used to belong to the Manor." There
was a sad ring in the boy's voice that but indicated the feelings
within.
"Do you believe in the truth of that song?"
"Yes," responded the lad.
"Well, why don't you put in application the thought?" and Parson Trant
quoted the words:
"'What can sadness avail,
Injustice shall fall, and good shall prevail.'
Now, Ande," continued the parson, "I know the history of your family
almost as well as you. Your grandfather was a faithful subject of the
king. He fought with Gardner at Prestonpans, at Culloden, and also
against the French in the American colonies. He disappeared after
Braddock's defeat and was shot a year afterward by General Armstrong's
troops, by mistake, no doubt. Now consider,--at the time he had on a
tattered French uniform, with a commission as captain in the French army
in his pocket. These things were brought to England and, through the
instrumentality of Sir Richard Lanyan, father of Sir James, the
attention of the authorities was directed toward them and the Manor
confiscated. Under the circumstances was not the king justified in
suspicioning his loyalty? Consider, too, that England and the Hanover
dynasty had been threatened seriously, by the Pretender, with another
invasion of French troops. Culloden was still fresh in men's minds.
Cornwall was noted for her adherence to the Stuarts in the Cromwellian
wars, and even at the time of the young Pretender many noted Cornish
families sympathised with him and the Stuart claims. You know the story
of Burnuhall[1], and how young Prince Charles, the Pretender, spent
several nights there in concealment. Do you wonder at a ready ear being
given to suspicion coming from this quarter? Blame not the king or your
fellows, my lad. The suspicion was natural, although the friends of your
family believe that there was a mistake somewhere. Hope for the best and
bear up cheerfully, my lad. You misapplied my remark some moments ago
about God being unjust and that therefore you could not sing His praise.
My remark applied only to men and not to God. God is above our judgment.
He cannot be measured by our standards. You spoke about playing the
harp. It was hard work to learn, was it not?"
[1] Burnuhall--A fine old mansion near the English Channel in the
parish of Buryan, Cornwall, England. Sheltered the young Pretender
in 1746.
"Yes, sir, but mother kept me at it."
"Well, so God is trying to teach you some things. You heard my sermon
last Sabbath. Can you tell me the text?"
"Part of the eighteenth verse of the Hundred and Fifth Psalm, 'He was
laid in iron,'" responded the boy.
"I am glad you remember it. You remember how Joseph was treated, sold
into slavery, maligned, slandered, imprisoned. Yet he had done no wrong.
Now is your case any worse than his? No, not nearly so bad, yet he
didn't refuse to sing God's praise, although he knew God permitted him
to be slandered and to be unjustly imprisoned. Now, what was it for? You
remember the old Hebrew rendering that I quoted as the last thought,
'Barzel baah naphsho,' and its meaning iron entered his soul. You
remember I said his soul was strengthened as with iron, on account of
his suffering and dishonour, and that through that same discipline he
gained the courage, wisdom, resolution and position of a prince, and
became ruler o'er all Egypt. Now, Ande, God may be training you in the
same way. You know Cowper's hymn, no doubt, by heart.
"God moves in a mysterious way
His wonders to perform;
He plants His footsteps in the sea
And rides upon the storm.
Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take,
The clouds ye so much dread
Are full of mercy and will break
In blessings on your head.
Judge not the Lord by feeble sense
But trust Him for His grace,
Behind a frowning Providence
He hides a smiling face!"
The beautiful hymn was quoted to the very end, and the good old parson,
apparently filled with the glad, stirring thought, had a smile of
exalted hopefulness on his countenance. Ande gazed at him and it seemed
in that smile he read a happy augury of his own future. The parson had
preached a sermon without realising it, but yet he could not fail to see
the effects of his words on the youth at his side. There was a serenity
on the boy's features and a new, hopeful light in the eye as he grasped
the parson's hand with fervour, and said, "I'll not doubt God again,
Parson Trant, and I'll not refuse to sing."
"And not hate Squire Vivian, Sir James Lanyan, or the young Master
Richard?" asked the parson.
The parson had overreached himself. The youth's countenance flushed with
anger and the hands were slightly clenched. There was silence.
"Perhaps it is a little too much to ask that now. That will come. Don't
doubt God. Love Him and you will soon love men. In reference to the
slurs of the lads, pay no attention to them and they will soon cease
their annoyance. In reference to your name and the stain upon it,
resolve to make a new name for yourself and your family by your own
conduct. Can you think of anything more noble than to labour against
unfavourable circumstances, against slander, encumbered by a stained
name,--false though the accusation may be,--fighting against odds, and
yet finally coming forth from the struggle, a victor, having made a new
and honourable name for yourself and family? Can you, my lad?" Parson
Trant gave the lad an affectionate pat upon the back.
There was silence for a moment.
"Yes, I can."
The rector was taken aback, for he had expected a different answer.
"And what is more noble?" he asked.
"I think it is better to clean the old name; and I'll do it, if I can."
There was a steady light of purpose in the eye of the youth, as he
replied.
The parson said nothing for a time and they walked on in silence and
then----
"Perhaps you are right, lad. You are very much like your father. Those
were his words and sentiments. I trust you may be more successful,
though."
Parson Trant, while giving vent to these brief, epigrammatic sentences,
was thinking of another matter,--the depredations on the estate of the
Manor,--and had just decided to broach that unhappy subject. They were
standing near the village stocks and the parson, placing his arm again
in that of Ande, began the subject in an indirect manner.
CHAPTER III
THE RUNAWAY
"And as the chariot rolled along the plain,
Light from the ground he leaped, and seized the rein;
Thus hung in air, he still retain'd his hold,
The coursers frighted, and their course controlled."
--_Dryden's Virgil._
"Ande, my lad, if--"
His remarks were very unceremoniously cut short by a shout from the lad.
"Look out, Mr. Trant! A runaway!" and before he had finished speaking,
he caught the old parson by the shoulders and gave him a shove to one
side of the road. Now the action of the youth was so quick and with such
vigour, that the parson had no alternative but to go in a very
undignified manner. His shovel-shaped hat went into the hedge, and with
coat-tails flying like the pennants of a man-of-war, the parson was
following, but tripped on some obstacle and plunged very quickly and
involuntarily into a bunch of stinging nettles and thistles by the
road-side.
Nor was the action too quick, for down the road, galloping and plunging
as if mad, her eyes flashing and nostrils distended with terror, came
the squire's black mare, Queeny. A brief glance had sufficed for the
youth's quick eyes. The bit had broken in the mare's mouth. The
chaise in the rear rocked from side to side in a most frightful manner,
but the plucky driver, Mistress Alice, with resolute will, though pale
with fear, still held the lines, seeking in vain to restrain the
maddened creature. There was a quick thud, thud, thud; the creaking of
wrenched axle; a rolling cloud of dust; and through it all in the rear a
strained face, beautiful, yet fear-stricken, with wide, dark eyes and a
tumbling mass of curly hair as black as the clouds of a moonless night.
[Illustration: "There was a vision of a flying, athletic, youthful
form--clinging with the grip of a vice--"]
Then there was a leap and a vision of a flying, athletic, youthful form,
and Ande was clinging with the grip of a vise to the black, flowing
mane. With his right arm up over the animal's neck, supporting himself,
with the other hand he grasped the mare by the nostrils, completely
shutting off all air. Then there was a struggle for the mastery. The
infuriated creature reared, plunged, until there was imminent danger of
the shafts breaking, but the lad was too strong to be thus shaken off.
There was a cry, almost a shriek, like unto a scream of human agony,
from Queeny. On, on, on plunged the creature with its human burden, but
there was a slowness of speed until some hundred yards from the parson's
position, when the runaway was brought to a standstill, although
trembling in every limb with fright.
The squire's daughter, only too anxious to alight after that mad ride,
stepped from the chaise, and between her petting and speaking to Queeny
and Ande's grip, that he still maintained, the mare was pacified.
"Now," said the lad, speaking for the first time, "please unbuckle those
backing straps and unhook the traces."
The girl, though unaccustomed to be ordered in this manner, saw the
necessity of complying, since her rescuer did not dare to leave his
position at the mare's head.
"Now, let me have the halter in the chaise."
The girl produced it, and the animal thus secured was led out of the
half-ruined shafts.
Parson Trant, in the meantime, had disengaged himself from the unwelcome
embrace of the nettles and thistles. Picking up his shovel-shaped hat
and dusting it with his handkerchief, he placed it on his head after
first arranging his scattered locks, and then hurried forward to assist
the squire's daughter. That young lady had, however, finished the work
before his arrival.
"Well, well, well!" exclaimed the parson, as he came up, puffing with
over-exertion and mopping the perspiration from his brow. "That was a
narrow escape, Mistress Alice--thank God for it--also--this brave young
man. Mistress Alice, this is Master Ande Trembath."
The parson in the midst of his hurry had neither forgotten his religion
nor his courtesy that seemed inherent in his very nature, but he little
realised the ludicrous figure he presented in that scene. His
neckerchief was all awry; one coat-tail was sadly torn by the violence
of his fall and was now hanging in a most melancholy manner by a few
threads from his coat; his broadcloth trowsers were soiled and covered
with nettle stickers and thistle down; and his hat, in the hurry of
putting it on, was located on one side of his head in a most rakish and
disreputable manner.
A silvery peal of laughter from the girl, which was joined by a hastily
suppressed chuckle from Ande, caused the rector to notice his condition
and he was much chagrined in consequence. There was a flush on his
countenance that made both of the young parties regret their hasty
merriment.
"Parson Trant, you must pardon my rudeness in pushing you aside, but if
I hadn't done it we both might have been hurt."
"To be sure, to be sure--don't mention it, my brave lad. You did a noble
action and probably saved my life as well as that of Mistress Alice,"
said the parson kindly, as he patted the lad on the back.
"And as for me, dear Parson Trant, I must beg pardon for my rudeness in
laughing," said the girl with regret in her tone, and then turning to
Ande she thanked him for his brave conduct. "And now you must both come
up to the Manor for lunch, will you not? O do, please; father will be so
delighted."
Parson Trant cast a rueful glance at his clothes, saying he was hardly
presentable, and then his face relaxed into a smile that widened into a
good-humoured laugh as he pictured himself seated at the squire's table
in his present condition. As for the lad, the invitation would have been
acceptable, had he not thought of the squire's antipathy toward himself.
He declined also, but accompanied the squire's daughter to the Manor
gates, having first bid the kind-hearted parson adieu.
"I can't tell why it was that Queeny ran away. She never acted that way
before. I was so frightened. It was very brave of you to stop her."
The lad was a trifle confused under these glowing tributes to his
heroism and could make but little reply.
"Trembath--Trembath," continued the girl musingly, "why that's the name
of the former owner of the Manor--that is, before my grandfather. They
said he was killed in America, and you----"
"He was my grandfather," said the youth with a sensitive flush on his
face. "He was an honourable man."
The flush on the face of the youth was reflected on the countenance of
the girl, for she realised that she had committed an indiscretion in
referring to the death of his grandfather.
There was an embarrassed silence for a time and then the girl exclaimed,
"There's Ned Pengilly!"
It was indeed the worthy lodge-keeper who appeared at the gates. To him
Ande consigned the animal that he was still leading and, receiving the
thanks again of the girl, he turned and wended his way toward home.
Within a short distance he paused and turned, watching the retreating
forms of the girl and the lodge-keeper leading Queeny. Then, with a
feeling he knew not what, he once more continued his journey.
CHAPTER IV
THE PRIMROSE COTTAGE AND TOM GLAZE
"Ande, laddie, thou art late to-day. Here it is almost one
o'clock--and--why--what have you been doing? Hast been fighting? Why,
your jacket has a rent of fully five inches and your trowsers look as if
you had been rolling over in the dirt."
The scene was in the main living room of a little stone cottage. Indeed
the cottage could only boast of having two rooms and an attic--but this
room was the main living room. A primrose vine covered the house front
and several roses that still retained their position, though late in the
season, drooped on their stems over the small, diamond-shaped window
panes, as if anxious to catch a glimpse of the speaker within. A fire of
Cornish furze and sea coal was blazing brightly in a grate in the
chimney. A tea-kettle, suspended from a crane o'er the fire, had been
humming away for quite a time and mingling its tune with the steady
tick-tick-tick of a great-grandfather clock standing in the angle of the
stairs that led up to the attic. A harp, its gilded framework much
tarnished with age, stood in the opposite corner near the dresser, a
striking contrast to the humbleness of its surroundings. A few cheap
prints of country scenes, one a scene of Wellington at the battle of
Waterloo, and a picture in oils of a rugged soldier--an officer
evidently--who had a striking resemblance to Ande, adorned the plain
white-washed walls.
The room altogether presented a cosy appearance and just now was filled
with the odour of steeping tea, fresh biscuit and a scrowled
pilchard--most welcome indeed to a hungry boy.
A kind, motherly looking woman, who had not yet passed middle age, was
busy laying a cloth on a small centre table. She had a pleasant, refined
countenance, marred a little with care, a countenance classic with its
profile and grey eyes. Hair, dark, mingled with a few grey streaks, fell
down gracefully o'er the ears from a parting in the centre, lending a
sweet, motherly appearance to the classic features. Though clad in an
ordinary common house dress, a stranger gazing at her for the first time
would say she must have occupied a higher station in life in her earlier
years; and his estimate would be correct.
Mrs. Thomas Trembath, the mother of Ande, for it was she, was the
daughter of William Borlase, a younger son of a young branch of that
illustrious Cornish family. He had been a rising young barrister of
Bodman town, and would have won fame in his profession had not death
claimed the bright mind. His wife and child managed to live on a
thousand pounds that constituted the bulk of his little fortune. It was
to Bodman that Captain Thomas Trembath came, seven years after the war
with the American colonies terminated. He had never married, partly
because he had been engaged in the American war and had no time to think
of matrimony; partly because one great thought absorbed his attention,
the vindication of his family name; and partly, most potent reason of
all, no doubt, he had found no lady of his rank willing to take upon
herself a name so stained with treason as his own; and, as for marrying
beneath him, he gave it not a thought. He was then approaching middle
age and was thinking most seriously of the problem, when, meeting young
Mistress Elizabeth Borlase, he mentally decided the question. For three
years this soldier, who had the courage to face the American batteries
and the charge of Washington's horse, attended the Borlase home before
he had the courage to settle his doubts. The daughter accepted him, but
when the consent of the widow was asked there was a stormy scene. She
was much outspoken against it, alleging the difference in ages, the
Captain being fully fifteen years older than his affianced bride. The
truth of the matter was that the widow had resolved to secure the
handsome middle-aged Captain as a mate for herself and was mortified to
find it was the daughter and not herself he desired.
For ten years no children were born of this union. In the year 1805,
however, a male child was born.
"We will call him Borlase Trembath," said the mother, "for he has the
Borlase mouth; those lips are like his grandfather's. He will be a
speaker and a good singer."
As if in testimony of his mother's opinion the babe set up a lusty
wail, sometimes crescendo, sometimes staccato, then babbling recitando,
flourishing his fists and kicking his limbs in animal spirit.
"Oratory enough to oppose a Pitt," said the Captain, with a grimace, and
putting his fingers in his ears. "He will be a parliamentarian some day,
no doubt. See, he is already beginning to gesture." Then, changing his
bantering tone, "He has the nose, the forehead, the blue eyes, the hair
of his grandfather, Squire Andrew Trembath, my father, and why not the
name."
The wife saw the desire of her husband and acquiesced in the name. "He
shall be called Andrew," she said.
The Captain, though much pleased with the comforts of home and the
presence of his wife and child, still retained the passion for war and
battlefields. He came of a long line of Cornish soldiers and the war
spirit had become intensified in himself. Was there any truth in the old
legend of the blood of the Danish freebooters mingled in his ancestors?
He knew not and gave it not a thought. War called him, and he joined the
Iron Duke in the Peninsular campaign. When the War of 1812 with America
began, fired with the same old passion to redeem his family name from
the stain of treason, he secured his discharge, with the rank of major,
and was soon on his way to participate in that struggle. Here he
disappeared after the defeat of Proctor, and his wife and son, Ande,
were succoured from dire distress and want, into which this event
plunged them, by the death of the widow Borlase. Her fortune of a
thousand pounds, depleted somewhat, was by regular process of law
conferred upon Mrs. Thomas Trembath. Such was the condition of affairs
at the time our tale opened.
"Ande, laddie, hast been fighting?"
"Well, I had a bit of a fight with Bob Sloan--a great hulking bully 'e
is--but the master parted us. He called father and grandfather names and
said I was a coward, and I beant a coward."
"Laddie, why are you always picking up the insults of the lads, and how
often have I told you about language. 'Beant' isn't good English."
Now before the parson and other dignitaries Ande was accustomed to use
good language, but before the boys and at times before his mother, he
drifted into a little of the vernacular.
"Well, I forget sometimes, mother dear, but my torn clothes are due to
another affair and not the fight."
The lad recited the incidents of the runaway, while engaged in eating
the lunch that had been so long delayed. The mother listened with bright
eyes, attending occasionally to the wants of the table, and when the
tale was fully narrated, she leaned over the back of his chair, kissed
his forehead, and called him her "brave laddie."
"But, laddie, how rudely you must have treated Parson Trant! Was he not
angry at his fall?"
"No, mother, parson saw that I did not mean to push him down, but only
tried to get him out of danger, and he laughed afterward, too."
The lunch was ended and Mrs. Trembath was bustling around, clearing the
table. Ande had a project in view that afternoon. It was a half-holiday
and he had purposed going to the Loe Pool with some of his fellows to
gather shells, and a swim in the lake or in the sea adjoining was a
pleasure to his athletic nature. The Loe Pool had other fascinations for
him also. What wonderful tales were related about it! A little sheet of
water below Helston, kept full by the little River Cober, having no
outlet to the sea except by percolating through the sandbar which Mother
Ocean, inhospitably, threw up between herself and her child; yet was it
not the remnant of the old harbour of Helston. He had heard of it from
the old Droll Tellers, and loved to lie on the sandbar meditating,
dreaming of the things that had happened there centuries before. He knew
the Phoenicians had sailed over that sandbar with their ships and the
Danish freebooters in later times. It was a pleasure highly anticipated.
"Well, laddie, I suppose you must hurry back soon to school."
"No, there's no school. The master gave us a half-holiday to-day; that
is the reason I loitered some on the way home."
"Then thou canst cut the furze in the croft."
Submissive to his mother, not even mentioning his disappointment, with
furze cutter o'er his shoulder, the youth sallied forth and was soon
busy in the furze croft, a sort of high, rough land in which the furze
grew. The prickly, shrubby plant grew around him in great abundance,
some of them reaching the height of three feet. He paused for a moment
during which he viewed with delight the abundance of its golden flowers,
dappling the whole field with its starlike disks. It was a pity to cut
them down, thought the lad, but then we must have something to burn, and
what is equal to furze in a grate on a cold evening? With this thought
he again wielded the cutter with a will, and the desired amount was soon
bound in bundles, ready to carry to the cottage.
"Well, young squire, and how dost like the work?"
The remark emanated from a tall, muscular man, in shirt-sleeves, who,
leaning on the hedge, calmly smoked a "bob" or short Cornish pipe. He
was a little over the medium height but looked short because of the
heavy shoulders and thick, muscular arms and limbs which nature and hard
work had given him. The face was kindly, good-humoured, honest and open.
By his general outline he was neither a hard eater or drinker. There was
a suppleness and ease in this young man of twenty-six that made him
admired by the whole country around, a suppleness demonstrated by the
ease with which he placed one hand on the hedge and leaped lightly over.
"Pretty well, thank 'ee, Tom Glaze," responded Ande.
"I 'eard that thou and Bob Sloan 'ad a bit of a scrimmage this marning
and that 'e was a bit too much for 'ee. Is that so?"
The welcome look died out of the lad's face and he flushed, angrily.
"There's no truth in that at all," he said, curtly.
Glaze laughed heartily and then, seeing he had offended his young
friend, sought to soothe his spirit.
"Come now, no offence, I 'opes. There's no dishonour in your being
licked by Bob, seeing as how 'e is both bigger and older. He 'as beaten
you when 'ee were smaller, 'asn't 'e?"
"Yes, 'e has, but I would like to know why you are throwing the defeats
at my 'ead, when you say they were no dishonour."
Tom Glaze laughed again and then seated himself boy-fashion on the turf,
embracing one knee with his great arms.
"Let me tell 'ee a tale. There was once a great rogue elephant that
lived in the jungles of Africey. He was a very bad 'un, 'e was, I can
tell 'ee. He 'ad great long tusks and a great trunk and everybody was
afeared of 'im because 'e was so large. He was mean, too. The other
elephants banded together and drove 'im from the herd, and in spite 'e
began to abuse all the other animals of the jungle. There was also a
young lion that come that way one day. He 'adn't been long away from 'is
mother's 'ome in the jungle, but he thought 'e was big enough to go
forth to seek 'is fortune in the world. He was a-lying asleep in the
path when Mr. Elephant come by. 'Out of my way,' bellowed the elephant.
Young Lion reared up and says he wasn't going to move a step. With that
Mr. Bad Elephant seized 'im with 'is trunk and flung 'im pretty 'ard
into the bush and walked on. What did Young Lion do? He went straight
'ome to 'is father and told 'im all about it and 'is father was pretty
mad, but 'e didn't say much. He thought a bit and then 'e said: 'My son,
'ee need a few tricks of the lion trade.' And then he began to teach 'im
some of the tricks, 'ow to spring and where to land. The next time Young
Lion met Mr. Bad Elephant, 'e 'ad all the tricks of the trade and 'e
just beat the elephant all around, clawed 'im up so that 'is best
friends wouldn't know 'im. The animals of the jungle all come together
and gave a public feast in honour of Young Lion and they thought 'e was
a public hero."
Tom Glaze ceased speaking, and smiled again.
The lad said nothing.
Now this Tom Glaze had always inspired Ande Trembath with admiration.
Tom had been a tin miner for years, but he also had another calling.
Cornwall was and always will be noted for her wrestlers and boxers, and,
though Glaze was not a champion, he was on the highway to that
distinction. There were only three or four wrestlers in the whole
country that he could not defeat. In addition to this he was an
all-round athlete. Many a time Ande had seen him break the head of his
opponent at the contest of quarter-staff at the county fairs.
"Now why do I tell 'ee about thy defeats? Why? 'Cause I've sized 'ee up,
many a time, and says I to myself, that with summat of a training thee
could do wonders. All 'ee needs is the tricks and the training."
"And could I beat Bob?" asked Ande, eagerly.
"Bob? Aye, and two like 'im, and I would like to see 'ee do it. Now
thee art about through with furze cutting let me give 'ee a lesson or
two."
Ande sprang nimbly to his feet and Tom having arisen, they set to work.
What tugging there was in the scrimmages! What dodging! At first it was
slow work, but as the lad learned point after point he speedily put them
into practice. With all his heart, with the remembrance of Bob's insults
strong within him, with the consciousness of his strength yet
undeveloped, and with the burning desire to avenge some of those insults
to his family honour, Trembath was resolved to profit by the instruction
of his teacher.
"Bravo! Bravo! That was finely done," exclaimed Tom, when the youth,
having learned a new dodge and counter, put the same into practice in a
way that delighted the wrestler.
"Now, I suppose we 'ad better go 'ome, as thy mother may be looking for
'ee. But, mind 'ee, my lad, doant'ee go a-telling of this. Doant'ee go
a-telling. Why? 'Cause you want to take Bully Bob by surprise. Thee meet
me 'ere every evening, and thee will soon knack Bob off 'is pins."
The good-humoured wrestler vaulted the hedge and strode lightly and
rapidly away, while Ande shouldered his burden of furze and started
toward the Primrose Cottage.
CHAPTER V
"THE BIG HA' BIBLE, ANCE HIS FATHER'S PRIDE."[2]
[2] Burns' "Cotter's Saturday Night."
Burns has beautifully described the cotter's Saturday night, but that
was the cotter of Scotland. Cornwall, too, has that beautiful and
appropriate custom, not only of closing the week but also the day with
the worship of God.
Supper is over in the Primrose Cottage. The sun is slowly sinking to
rest in the watery bed of the western sea, flecking and streaking the
distant blue into a variegated coverlet for its nightly repose. In a few
hours twilight will come and then night with its darkening mantle. The
main living room of the cottage is gilded by the slanting sunbeams that
glisten through the small, diamond window panes and the open doorway.
The floor of stone has been freshly sanded with white sea sand and raked
and marked in neat figures. Ande Trembath is interested in a new tale
that seems fascinating to him. It is Scott's "Lady of The Lake." Mrs.
Trembath is seated in a comfortable rocking chair, knitting, for Ande
must have warm stockings for the coming cold weather. The hour of
worship peals out from the great clock in the corner of the stairs.
Without a word, the lad places away the tale he has been perusing and
picks up the worn gilded volume of God's word. The mother places her
knitting on the small side table and prepares to listen, while her
laddie opens the book with care at the One Hundred and Fifth Psalm. The
reading of God's providence revealed there seemed to have additional
interest for the lad, and he paused for a moment over the eighteenth
verse and thought over the parson's morning talk. The Scripture ended,
the mother and son kneel in prayer, using not only the prayer of
ordinary evening worship, but that other prayer for the safety of those
astray on sea or land, and as the mother reads reverently the latter
prayer, the thoughts of both are concentrated on the dear one lost
amidst the American wilds eight long years ago. Then followed the Lord's
prayer, repeated in concert, until the part "forgive us our trespasses
as we forgive those who trespass against us," where the lad's voice
faltered, and ceased for a moment, resuming the prayer in concert with
his mother when the phrase was passed.
The prayers were ended and the harp was brought forth with loving care.
The lad handled it with reverence, for it was his father's, and his
grandfather's, and he knew not how far it had dwelt in the annals of his
family. Then came the strains of Bishop Ken's Evening Hymn,
"Glory to Thee, my God, this night,
For all the blessings of the light;
Keep me, O keep me, King of kings,
Under Thine own almighty wings."
The worship was finished and the Word, the prayer book, and the harp
replaced in their usual positions; Ande had returned to his "Lady of
The Lake," the mother to her knitting. There was no sound for a time
save the monotonous click, click of the knitting needles, keeping up a
sort of recitative duet with the tick, tick of the clock.
"Ande, laddie, why is it that thou dost not repeat the whole of the
Lord's prayer with me? I have noticed the last few times and have
wondered."
The lad was silent for a moment and his face flushed.
"I cannot, mother dear," he said simply.
"Why, laddie?"
"Because there are some I cannot forgive, it seems. There's Sir James
Lanyan and Richard, his son, Squire Vivian, and Bob Sloan,
and--and--they treat a person mean. When I think of the Lanyans and
Squire Vivian and how they or their people treated ours and took away
the estate, and--and when I think to-day how they treat father's and
grandfather's memory, I cannot feel like forgiving them and I can't say
'forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us,'
for that would be asking God not to forgive me."
As Ande Trembath referred to the Lanyans there was an angry light in his
eyes, which softened into gloom as he spoke of the Lord's prayer.
"Ande, laddie, we must pray to God to help us to forgive. 'If ye forgive
not men their trespasses, neither will your heavenly Father forgive your
trespasses.'"
The widow was silent. She felt as keenly as her 'laddie' the injustice
done the Trembath family and there was a half-inaudible sigh from her
lips. She had not that bitter, unforgiving spirit, but she knew the
temper and spirit of her laddie. Will time ever remove the sting of an
unjust act? she thought. It was of no use to urge the point now with her
boy. She must think.
There was a clicking of the garden gate; a step was heard on the stone
garden walk, and a figure appeared at the door. It was that of a man
clad in livery dress--knee-breeches of nankeen, long stockings, and low
shoes with immense silver buckles, and a coat of velveteen. In short, he
was clad very much like a gentleman of the period fifteen years before,
but inasmuch as the majority of the gentry had adopted the new costume
of trowsers, the knee-breeches, low shoes, and long stockings generally
indicated the servant. And such he was--Master Stephen Blunt, Squire
Vivian's steward. Master Blunt doffed his cap and hesitated a moment.
Mrs. Trembath paled a little, for the steward was scarcely ever the
bearer of good news. He was a general factotum of the squire. He rented
farms, collected the dues, was an officer of justice, the terror of
small boys, and, in short, was a kind of constable, sheriff, and prime
minister of the squire's little domain.
Concerning the rent there was nothing to fear, for the Trembath's had
owned in fee simple as it was called, for many years, the Primrose
cottage and the few fields adjoining.
Master Blunt was a silent man, not wasting many words.
"The squire wanted to see Ande a bit," he stated.
A new thought flashed across the mother's mind. It was her laddie's
bravery in stopping the runaway in the morning. Yes, the squire was
going to reward her laddie and a more favourable understanding was going
to be established between the squire's people and theirs. She
communicated her opinion to her boy in a whisper as she assisted in
getting him ready. There was a smile of happiness on her countenance
which Master Blunt, seated on the garden settle outside, did not
observe.
Ande Trembath, however, was not so happy to go. Honour heaped upon him
for an act that he considered only an ordinary matter-of-fact affair,
and especially by one whom he considered in the light of an enemy, to be
hated and to be hated in return, was distasteful to him; but he knew the
necessity of going, as one did not dare disobey the squire.
CHAPTER VI
SQUIRE AND PARLIAMENTARIAN
Thud, thud, thud, thud.
Squire Vivian was riding at a smart pace on the solid roads. He was fond
of horse-back riding, but long ago, having given up riding after the
hounds, he was constrained to solace himself by daily trips over the
turnpike. This was not exercise, however. He must see his old friend,
Sir James Lanyan, about one or two things, and so, after a hasty lunch
and a word of instruction to the steward, he mounted his fast-pacing cob
and was off. His thoughts were not very pleasant as he started forth. He
was thinking of the conversation he had had with Parson Trant just a
short time before.
"The lad is guilty," he muttered, and then there was silence save for
the rapid hoof strokes.
"He shall smart for it. The traitor's cub!"
The squire compressed his lips and the frown on his ruddy features boded
ill to Ande Trembath. Then pleasant thoughts gained the upper hand. He
had reached the confines of his estate and the fields and woods of
Lanyan Hall stretched on either side of the highway. There were round
hillocks nodding like Indian chieftains with their proud headgear, downs
alive with cattle and sheep, farmhouses of stone--as short and thick-set
in appearance as the sturdy farmers that occupied them. Yes, thought
Squire Vivian, with a smile, these shall belong to Alice when she
marries young Richard. My Lady Alice sounds as good as any other name
with a Lady attached to it. The pleasant expression passed and a worried
look came in its place. He was thinking of the Parson's disapprobation
of young Richard. The vale was passed and Lanyan moor, as wild and
uninviting as his thoughts--Lanyan moor, a high rough land of a few
miles in extent, covered with a rank, rough grass, extended on either
side. Under the influence of his surroundings and pressed by his
thoughts, the squire spurred the cob into a gallop and after a few
minutes the gables and tower of Lanyan Hall greeted his vision. It was a
stately mansion, built partly in the Queen Anne style and partly in the
style of previous times, one side being built during the Crusades, of
Cornish moor-stone that lent a heavy warrior-like appearance to the
whole structure.
The owner, Sir James Lanyan, a son of that Lanyan whose agitation in
certain quarters of the government had produced the confiscation of the
Trembath estates, like his grandfather, had devoted considerable time to
politics and had been twice in Parliament; but failing of re-election he
had turned the strength of his ambitious mind to the rebuilding of his
fortunes, which were sadly shattered by the schemes and speculations of
his grandfather.
His grandfather, in cooperation with Sunderland, the Premier of that
time, had been unduly interested in the South Sea Bubble; but though
Sunderland cleared his skirts in the gigantic swindle, Sir James, Sr.,
was entrapped. His estates were heavily mortgaged and his private
fortune ruined. He died of a broken heart, bequeathing to Sir Richard,
Sr., his son, the ancestral hall and its liabilities.
Sir Richard, Sr., was a rogue, with very little ability. Casting about
by hook or crook to retrieve his father's reverses, he thought he saw an
opportunity in the reputed treason of Squire Andrew Trembath. His
covetous eye surveyed the rich farms and woods adjoining his own, and
so, with the outward reason of loyalty to King George, and the inward
hope of profit, he turned the keen eyes of government authorities upon
the matter.
The name of the Stuart and France were still to be dreaded. The first
tendency in that direction must be crushed and an example made. The fiat
went forth, the estates were confiscated, but Sir Richard, Sr., instead
of receiving them or even a money reward, received a flattering letter
from London, a ribbon of honour and a star. With a muttered oath he
flung the bauble from him and ground the letter under his heel. He knew
what all men were to know in time, that neither Newcastle nor Pitt were
as free-handed as Walpole.
The present Sir James, a son of Sir Richard, Sr., had inherited the
bold, daring, scheming ambition of his grandfather, and was in every way
superior to his father, Richard. At first, a great Parliament man, he
gradually lost power with the electors, or rather they lost interest in
him; then he turned his attention to the task in which both his father
and grandfather had laboured in vain.
On the day mentioned, the squire rode up the drive-way and with a sigh,
for the gallop had wearied him. He slipped from the saddle, gave the cob
into the hands of a servant, and mounting the veranda, raised the rapper
and sent a peal through the old house that speedily brought to the door
a footman, clad in green livery. By him he was ushered into the main
living room--a large hall, its walls curiously and artistically panelled
in wood. Here he reposed himself in a large armchair by the open
fireplace and awaited, musingly, the coming of Sir James.
Yes, thought the squire, a fine old place--a fine old place--and my
Allie will be one of the first of Cornwall. Then he mused on.
There was a sound of a soft tread on the floor behind him, and a smooth,
liquid baritone voice broke the reverie.
"Well, my old friend, so you have decided to return my call."
The squire almost leaped to his feet, for, lost in his thoughts, the
voice startled him.
"Zounds! Sir James, you come in like a spirit."
Perhaps there were not two men in the whole kingdom of such a contrast
as Sir James and the squire of Trembath Manor. The latter was a perfect
picture of the gentleman of the olden school. His hair, silvery white,
curled in ringlets over his forehead. His face was a sturdy English
one, smooth, round, rubicund and pleasant, and yet with a dignity
peculiarly its own. He was stoutly built and as he stood switching his
Wellington boots with his riding whip, a close student would say, "Here
is a man easily imposed upon, but when that imposture stood revealed
what a hot, indignant enemy he would make!"
Honesty, frankness, integrity, were stamped all over the old squire's
frame.
Sir James was just the opposite in many respects. He was tall, dark, and
sallow of countenance. A hooked nose, like the beak of an eagle,
overhung a mouth that was firm and thin-lipped. His eyes, that were the
strangest feature about him, were dark and had an unsteady, shifting
light in them. He was clad in the conventional broadcloth tail-coat and
trowsers of the same material. A man of the world, having felt the pulse
of national life, he was generally cool, calm, and self-possessed.
With the remark above mentioned, he came forward and his own pale, slim
hand was grasped by the strong, brown one of the squire.
"Welcome to Lanyan Hall. It is not often we have the pleasure of
entertaining such an old friend of the family; and how are all things at
the Manor? Mistress Alice, is she well?"
"My Allie is tolerable well, but of her--more anon. It is of other
matters, not so well, in which I want your advice."
"Ah--and what is wrong? The rents not paid, failure of your tin mine,
or has Midnight Jack been making some depredations on your hen roosts or
sheep-folds?"
"Well," rejoined the squire, as he once more seated himself beside the
fire, his friend having done likewise, "as to Wheal Whimble tin mine,
things are moving steadily, but the new shaft is costing a heap of
money. The rockmen dull six or seven jumpers before they can make much
of an impression in drilling a hole, and though they receive ten pounds
a foot, yet say they can't make a living. I don't see how I am going to
come out of it. As to rents, they have all been paid but Farmer
Samson's, but quite a few of his sheep were taken with the murrain, and
one must give a man a chance when he's honest."
"And about Midnight Jack?"
"As sturdy a knave as ever lived, but he and his gipsy band have left
the neighbourhood some time ago. I suspected him of stealing a sheep and
threatened to have him hanged if he showed nigh the place. He knows well
enough not to fool with me. I don't think we shall ever be annoyed with
him again. There has been, though, some unknown miscreant lurking around
the estate. I do not mind so much when a sheep is stolen, I can
reprimand a man and threaten him as I did Midnight Jack, but when
property is wilfully destroyed and faithful retainers killed--it is too
much," and the squire flushed, angrily.
"Why, there has been no murder?" said Sir James, startled out of his
ordinary self-possession.
"Aye, as good as a murder," rejoined the squire, and he related with
flushed countenance and angry voice the incidents of the morning.
The master of Lanyan Hall interrupted him midway by asking him to the
study, where they could talk at their leisure. They arose and passed
from the main hall to a side apartment fitted up in elaborate style.
There, surrounded by tomes of learning and every mark of ease and
comfort, the squire and his friend were soon discussing the former's
grievances and suspicions.
"Now, what I want to know is this, what does the law allow a man to do
in such circumstances? You, Sir James, are well versed in law, have been
to Parliament and can advise me. I confess I cannot find anything about
it in the statutes."
"Well, the only thing you can do, having nothing but suspicion, is to
have a private interview with the lad and worm a confession out of him,"
said Sir James, and there was a scarcely perceptible little smile of
amusement that lingered around the lips of Lanyan.
"I am pleased to find out that I have acted wisely, for that was exactly
my plan," said the squire, flushing with gratified vanity to think that
his views and the learned parliamentarian's coincided. "And now what are
your plans for reelection to Parliament?"
"Reelection. Plans--none at all, friend Vivian."
"Why, you are certainly going to stand for the section, are you not?"
"No, I think not; my interest is not strong enough with the classes. To
tell the truth, squire, I am heartily disgusted with Tory principles,
and were it not for the name I would become a Liberal."
"What! what!" said the squire aghast; "you jest, Sir James!"
"Jest! Not at all. It is this way. It matters not what talents a person
may possess, he must stand in with a few of one's brother notables
before election is possible. Our elections are nothing but a humbug. We
have no representative house; the House of Commons does not represent
the nation."
"Why, Sir James, you did not talk this way formerly, and I am
exceedingly sorry to see one of our most distinguished parliamentarians
so inveterately opposed to the system."
The master of Lanyan Hall said nothing in reply. Indeed he was inwardly
debating with himself how far he should trust his honest friend with his
own plans and schemes. The fact was that Sir James had lost his
influence with the electors and saw no hope but in an extended
franchise; he was politician enough to see that the times were getting
riper and riper for reform. There was more hope of election for him in
the future than at the present; he must bide his time. Now it was not
any great affection for the people that induced him to take this stand.
His political creed was James Lanyan--how can he become great and
powerful, a creed dominant among politicians of all times.
"Well, we must talk of that more anon. There is another matter pressing
on my mind," said the squire, and with a little reluctance he began the
topic. "Young Master Richard has been paying some attentions to my
Allie, and it is a matter that we fathers ought to talk about. There is
nothing dearer to my life than my Allie, and I am anxious to see her
settled in life before I leave the earth; but then you, Sir James, and I
ought to have some understanding before matters go any farther. Our
estates lie adjoining. What better thing than that they should be united
after you and I pass away. I thought it better, though, to speak to you,
so that we might have a clear understanding." The old squire fastened
his clear, honest eyes on the master of Lanyan. The latter was silent
and there was a gleam in the shifty light of his eyes as he thought.
Then he spoke.
"A good thing, no doubt, if there are no objections on your part."
The master of Lanyan stretched out his hand which was grasped heartily
by the squire.
"It's a compact," said the former.
"Aye, a compact," affirmed the latter.
There was a tap at the door and a servant entered to announce tea in the
hall. Squire and parliamentarian adjourned their informal meeting and
emerged from the study.
[Illustration: "It's a compact," said the former.]
CHAPTER VII
TEA-TABLE AND POLITICS
There were three parties assembled around the tea-table, bluff Captain
Thomas Lanyan, a brother of Sir James, a sturdy old widower; Mistress
Betty Lanyan--a spinster and a distant relative of the family, and
Master Richard--a young man in his last year in Eton and the perfect
counterpart of his father, only much younger.
Mistress Betty was tall and angular, like Sir James, yet with a good
supply of feminine sweetness in her features. The sole drawback to her
countenance was her nose, that was neither a thing of beauty nor grace.
It was of the large hooked variety, so common to the family. Yet so
strange are the freaks of Madam Nature, that the eagle nose of Sir James
was universally commended as giving him the commanding and dignified
appearance of a statesman; while one of the same variety on the
countenance of Mistress Betty was considered exceedingly derogatory and
shrewish. Notwithstanding this detractive feature, Mistress Betty was a
good-hearted soul. She always had, at least in company, that mellow
smile on her face that gave a vivid reality to the stanza,
"Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its fragrance on the desert air."
The Captain was moulded more like his mother's side of the house. Clear
grey eyes lighted up a countenance that was rugged and weather-beaten,
while the family nose was absent and in its place was the straight,
plain variety characteristic of his mother's family. Over his forehead
was a long, livid scar that ran from the centre of the forehead,
obliquely, to the right ear, a cavalry slash of the battle of Waterloo.
Mistress Betty always persisted in having this covered by the Captain's
waving grey hair, but the Captain would just as persistently throw his
hair up and to one side, revealing the full extent of his old wound.
What Mistress Betty was ashamed of was the Captain's glory. Captain Tom
lived in tolerable contentment on a government pension, and of all the
family, none were upon such intimate terms with the squire as himself.
"Ah, Captain Tom, what cheer?" said the Squire as he cordially shook the
hand of the veteran. "And Master Richard, you are quite a man and every
inch like your father. And Mistress Betty, I hope I see you well," and
the squire made a profound bow that would shame an old-time knight, at
the same time grasping her small hand delicately with his own.
The salutations were returned and then, seated around the tea-table that
was placed near the immense bow-window, the master of Lanyan requested
his guest to pronounce the blessing. The squire, who was seated beside
Mistress Betty, perhaps designedly, who knows, for that lady had not
given up the custom of angling, proceeded according to his usual custom.
"We thank thee----Oh! zounds and the devil!"
The latter part was like the explosion of a battery of artillery, and
with reason. Mistress Betty's lap-dog, an unsightly brute, deeming
himself insulted by the proximity of the squire, or perhaps jealous of
his mistress' attentions to another--like many a human rejected suitor
filled with vengeful spleen, or perhaps--kept waiting for his
dinner--and seeing a fat limb much larger than the usual chicken leg
near him, he decided to forage for himself. Whatever reason he had
within him, the results were the same, for he fastened his teeth most
vindictively in the squire's nankeen trowsers. Human nature was not
proof against such an assault, and the victim gave vent to the above
startling and most unseemly expression. He leaped up from the table,
slapping and rubbing the affected part to relieve the pain.
The young Etonian had a grin on his generally calm countenance. Captain
Tom with more zeal than wisdom grasped the poker and shoved it through
the bars of the grate, saying that they had best have the wound
cauterised at once. Sir James was profuse in apologies and Mistress
Betty, much vexed, hurried the snarling brute into the library.
"This is out--outrageous," faltered the squire, in the midst of his
pain; "such a savage brute, I wonder why you don't have him killed, Sir
James."
"Cruel man, to abuse poor Caesar so," said Mistress Betty, with a flash
of the eye.
"Zounds, madam," replied the squire, but he went no further. His
inherent courtesy to ladies, and the appearance of Captain Tom with the
hot poker, caused him to beat a hasty retreat to the table.
With a smile of anguish he sat down, saying, "It is nothing, madam,
nothing, Captain Tom--I do assure you--no need of cauterising--the pain
has already gone."
Captain Tom very reluctantly replaced the poker, and soon they were all
seated, chatting merrily, as if nothing had happened. The squire,
occasionally slipping his hand beneath the table and giving the smarting
limb a soothing rub, talked as cheerfully as the rest.
"And you won't stand for re-election," said the squire to Sir James.
"Not at present; the times are not yet ripe for reform and we must have
a more extended suffrage before I can stand with success," said Sir
James, helping himself to another lump of sugar and dropping it
carefully into his cup with the air of a sage.
"Fudge," said Captain Tom, "the country doesn't need extended suffrage.
Why, brother James, if your ideas go into effect the landed estates will
be ruined. We have seen enough of those things over there in France. The
people got extended suffrage and the king and the gentlemen got the
suffering. Bah!" said Captain Tom in some disdain, "the landed estates
must rule, pass out of existence, or give place to a Napoleon," and the
Captain thumped the table emphatically with the sugar tongs.
"What a sage student of history you are, Captain Tom, and yet there are
some things yet to learn. The revolution in France was not caused by
their obtaining the suffrage, but by the retention of suffrage from them
until they arose in revolt. A fortunate thing is it for the government
that yields to the demands of the people and is not compelled to yield.
When the proper form of government is in vogue, then there will be no
occasion for the people demanding or of the government yielding.
Government should stand halfway between the highest pinnacle and the
broadest base of the populace."
"Why, Sir James, you surprise me!" ejaculated the squire; "you may as
well turn American with those ideas! Tut--tut!" followed by a
disapproving shake of the head.
"A vast discrepancy between Americanism and my ideal. Government in
America stands upon a broad base, but is not as truly representative as
our own government will become in a few years."
"You speak in riddles, Sir James," replied the squire.
"Well, let me explain. Strictly speaking, there is no real
representative government. Even in America, women, negroes and Indians
are not represented; neither among those that are represented is there
any fair proportion of representation. Jefferson, their great sage,
wrote the most foolish thing imaginable when he said 'all men are
created free and equal.' It is evident that the opposite is the case.
All men are different, different in physical strength, mental power,
culture, attainments. Even in infanthood they are different. Equality
is nowhere on earth, neither in the vegetable nor animal kingdom. It is
a manifest injustice then to alter the plan of the Creator."
"Aye, aye, now you are coming around to our opinion," said Captain Tom.
"Not at all. Our present conservative system is wrong and unsafe.
Government is resting on the highest pinnacle of the populace, from
which position it may easily be deposed."
"Pshaw," said the squire, "I can't understand you; I thought you said
our government was more representative than the American."
"No. I said it will be in a few years. In America the Church is not
represented, neither are the institutions of learning--although they
ought to have some special representation as well as the States. Now
mark me well. In a few years, a decade at the most, the franchise will
be extended to the humblest shop owner, house owner and tenant, and only
the criminals and the utterly uneducated will have no voice in the
government. Then we will have a more representative government and a
more stable one than our American cousins. More representative, because
colleges, universities, the clergy, and large and small property owners
will have their respective portion of power; more safe because the
roughest and lowest element of society will not have a controlling and
dominating influence. How is it now, however? The landed proprietors and
men of influence pack our House of Commons as they please. Everyone
knows of Old Sarum--that it hasn't a single inhabitant, and yet it
sends a member to the Commons, while Manchester, Leeds and Birmingham
have no voice whatever in the affairs of the nation. We must have an
extended suffrage. The people want it," and Sir James silenced his
batteries.
"Well, so far as I can see," said Captain Tom, doggedly returning to the
charge "the people are not demanding anything. Our people are
comfortable and happy. Corn has arisen in price and our farmers are
growing rich."
"Aye," said the squire, "so far as I can see, things are pretty
prosperous. Corn has risen to fifty shillings per quarter."
"Ah," said Sir James, contemptuously, "what benefit is it for Cousin
Jack in Cornwall to have a full stomach, and Tom in York and Devon to
have an empty one? Fine national prosperity, that. Squire, you are
interested in your own section, Captain Tom reads nothing but war news,
and so both of you are blind to the signs of the times. The memory of
the Blanketeers is still before the public and the pulse of the middle
classes is mounting higher and higher. What signify the riots of last
year and the affair of Peterloo?"
"A set of rebellious knaves, that need the hand of the Iron Duke to
teach them their manners," replied Captain Tom, who was indignant to be
accused of ignorance on national affairs. "A set of rebellious knaves,
but where do you find gentlemen marching side by side in a cause with
such a rabble."
"William Cobbet, the journalist," rejoined Sir James.
"Aye, a ploughman," sniffed Captain Tom, in some disdain.
"Aye, and more than a ploughman," added young Master Richard. "There's
Sir Francis Burdette, Lord Brougham, the great Canning, Lord John
Russell, Grenville, and Earl Grey--and Canning and Grey were Etonians."
The last part was uttered with a little triumph in the tone.
"Ah, the young cock is beginning to crow," said Captain Tom, who knew
not what else to reply.
Sir James looked pleased at this heavy broadside from his son and then
again took up the reform cudgel, saying: "Very true, and even the
younger Pitt over twenty years ago agitated the subject."
Here the squire thought it time to assist his friend, Captain Tom, and
also show that he was not destitute of knowledge on national affairs.
"Tut, tut, that is a bad argument; Pitt abandoned his position as
untenable, and----"
"Aye, he knew he couldn't hold the position and retreated as a sensible
general should," interrupted Tom.
"Because of the excesses of the French revolution," replied Sir James.
The spirited debate went on with varying success to either party,
Mistress Betty participating, sometimes on one side, and at times on the
other, always sympathising with the weaker party, as women generally do.
Toward the close, Captain Tom and the squire being hopelessly put to
rout by the combined wisdom of Etonian and parliamentarian, she
faithfully adhered to the former side, until even Captain Tom was forced
to admit that, though a woman was of no service in a battle, yet they
made pretty fair tongue-soldiers.
"Well," said the squire, as he was preparing to go, "your remarks, Sir
James, have convinced me of one thing, and that is your sincere
disinterestedness in self and your love for old England and her welfare.
You are a statesman, sir, and we shall soon see if we can't place you in
Parliament; aye, Tory or Liberal,--what matter--so long as the man is
honest and capable."
Now this was exactly what Sir James had expected, and he shook hands
cordially.
"Hold on, squire, we must have James there as a Tory. I don't believe he
is as much a Liberal at heart as he pretends. Don't surrender the
standard, squire," said Captain Tom.
A servant was holding in readiness the squire's cob, and assisted him to
mount. Raising his hat, gallantly, to Mistress Betty, and waving an
adieu to the others he paced briskly down the drive and out on the
highway.
"What a courteous gentleman, and young, though he is a widower,"
murmured Mistress Betty. "Did you notice how, out of respect for my
feelings for Caesar, he didn't utter any complaint."
"Fudge," said Captain Tom, "that was due to his brave spirit in enduring
pain. What a soldier he would make!"
"Pshaw!" exclaimed young Master Richard, "the old gentleman thought
more of the hot poker than he did of courage or courtesy."
"It was courtesy," reaffirmed Mistress Betty.
"It was courage," exclaimed Tom.
"It was hot poker," reiterated the Etonian again and again, until under
a score of reproaches from Mistress Betty and Captain Tom,--the former
emphasising the courtesy, the latter the courage of the squire,--he
found safety in speedy retreat.
Sir James said nothing until after Master Richard's exit, and then he
broached the squire's desire of an alliance between the families.
"It seems we'll get the estates of the Manor in our family after all,
and by a much more honourable method than father tried. That deed always
did make me half ashamed of our name."
"Captain Tom," said Sir James, with a little of asperity in his voice,
"the plan that exposed a traitor was perfectly honourable."
"I have always had my doubts whether my old comrade, Major Tommy
Trembath, was a traitor, or his father either. They were both too honest
to be guilty of treason. Why, look at the record of old Captain Ande at
Culloden and Prestonpans. He was a hero. There he stood with Gardner at
Prestonpans, fighting gallantly until stricken down with overwhelming
numbers, and there was Major Tommy in the Peninsular campaigns. Aye, the
more I think of it the more am I inclined to disbelieve the report of
their treason,--but circumstances were against them," and the old
soldier sighed, and with a halting step, due to a wound--a relic of the
Napoleonic wars,--he tramped once or twice up and down the veranda. When
he ceased, the look of sadness was gone and a humorous twinkle was in
his eye. Around his weather-beaten countenance there was the faint trace
of a smile of merriment.
"However, it is a good plan,--this marriage--and--if Cousin Betty can
catch the squire we'll have a double claim on the Manor."
"Why, Captain Tom, how absurd!" exclaimed Mistress Betty, blushing
confusedly.
"A tell-tale blush! I'll have to tell my old friend, the squire, of his
opportunities to capture the stronghold of ages, that has remained
unconquered for----"
"How absurd!" exclaimed Mistress Betty, in mingled anger and confusion,
as she beat a hasty retreat to her apartments.
CHAPTER VIII
"OFF WITH HIS HEAD."[3]
[3] "King Richard III."
It was still twilight when the squire reached the Manor. Hastily giving
the cob into the hand of Sloan, he hurried into the hall and seated
himself by a large window, where was stationed a large oaken table
littered with a motley array of books and papers. This was the squire's
position when any petty case was brought before him. Whether the books
were kept for show or use no one knew. The only time the squire was
known to look at them was during a trial, and this he did with the air
of a Lord Chief Justice, which air had a very perceptible effect upon
the trembling culprit.
If the truth were told, the squire had a more intimate knowledge of
fishing, hunting, farm and mine management, the origin of ancient
village plays and customs, than about law. Law always was a perplexing
study to him. But as a compensation for his lack in this respect, he
more than made it up in the learned dignity of his demeanour.
There were approaching steps heard on the veranda, and then the opening
of a door, and in a moment more Stephen Blunt and Ande Trembath stood
before him.
The steward took the chair that he was accustomed to occupy, ushered to
such position by a wave of the squire's hand, and sharpened his quill
pen preparatory to writing. Ande, neither invited to sit down nor stand,
remained near at hand. His mother in her fond delight, thinking that he
was to be rewarded for his morning heroism, had determined that he
should be dressed in a manner suitable for the occasion. He presented a
very creditable appearance in his snow-white trowsers, neckerchief, and
neat blue jacket. His feelings were not as pleasant as his garments.
Since he was evidently going to be rewarded for his services in saving
the life of Mistress Alice, he felt exceedingly out of place. He rested
his weight on one foot, fidgeted with the other, and fumbled his cap in
a nervous manner. He grew restless under the steady eye of the master of
Trembath Manor, and his restlessness increased the suspicions in the
mind of the latter.
"Master Trembath."
The lad felt relieved that the silence was at length broken.
"Master Trembath, you were nigh the estate of late?"
"Yes--s, sir. I frequently go through the Manor woods, sir."
"Note that down, Master Blunt."
A bewildered look passed over the lad's face.
"You were nigh the estate last evening, and will you now tell us what
you were doing in that place at that time?"
Ande grew more amazed and confused; amazed because he knew not what the
squire was trying to ascertain, confused because he had been there and
even in the gardens, but for a purpose he did not wish to divulge. A
wave of crimson swept over his countenance, rivalling the sanguine hue
of his locks.
"Take notice of his confusion, Master Blunt," and then in a stern voice
to the lad, "You may as well out with it, we know all the facts of the
affair."
Ande tried to answer, but his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth. His
heart seemed to sink lower and lower in his chest.
"Sir, sir,--I--I----"
"You were in the gardens last evening," thundered the squire, his wrath
getting the better of him. "You were in the gardens, were you not?
Answer on your honour?"
"I was," falteringly.
"And for what purpose?"
"That I cannot tell."
"And why not?"
The youth was silent. He had the appearance of a culprit, and felt
wretched and miserable. The squire continued to question and
cross-question, but of no avail, and at length, growing nettled and
peevish, he said, "I will state the case plainly to you, Master
Trembath. You were in the gardens last evening, last Wednesday night and
last Monday night. On Monday night you drained the fish-pond and stole
the best fish; on Wednesday you ruined the shrubbery beds; last evening
you took a stone from the hedge and killed my faithful mastiff,
Borlase. What answer do you make to these accusations? Make a clean
breast of it and it will be better for you, my lad."
The accusation, thus plainly stated, had a directly opposite effect upon
the crestfallen lad. All his diffidence and confusion fell away from him
like a garment. He flung up his head like a young lion cub, his blue
eyes scintillated, and his red locks shook like the mane of a savage
beast under rising passion. Blunt was alarmed and the squire was awed.
"What have I to say to these accusations? I say they are lies! They are
false! I was not here on Monday or Wednesday. I never stole your fish or
drained the pond, or trampled the shrubbery, or killed the dog. Who
accuses me? Who, I say?" The lad advanced to the table, boldly, all his
confusion gone, and the wild soldier blood of his ancestors coursing
like molten fire through his veins. "Why am I brought here in the home
of my fathers to be insulted? Have not you, Squire Vivian, and the
Lanyans, done enough evil to our family but that you must charge me with
being a thief, and----"
"Silence!" thundered the squire, who had been stirred up by the lad's
charge of injustice. Ande stood silent, with heaving breast. The squire
mastered himself before he continued.
"Your charge against me is not to the point. If you do not know, I will
tell you that this estate was bought from the government by services
rendered, which had no connection with your family. Your family affair,
neither my father nor myself had anything to do with; that is between
the Lanyans and yours."
Ande Trembath had heard for the first time that the Vivians had had no
hand in the confiscation of the Manor, and there was a revulsion of
feeling within him. The squire nor his family, then, were enemies of
his. He felt, notwithstanding the accusation against him, a better
feeling, and even a little gladness within his heart. Why, he did not
know.
"I beg your pardon, your honour. I had never heard it put that way."
"That is neither here nor there," said the squire, sternly, "and has no
connection with the case. You were seen nigh the grounds. You confess to
being on the grounds a short time before last evening's outrage, yet you
say you are innocent of the charge."
"I am innocent."
"Well, why were you on the grounds?"
Again the lad flushed painfully and was silent.
"Now," said the squire, "since there is no direct evidence, but only
circumstantial, I shall dismiss you with a reprimand, and a caution to
be careful in the future and amend your ways, or Newgate will have you
yet, and"--here the squire pushed his countenance into a large law-book,
as if consulting reference--"and as to punishment, I will let you off
lightly. Master Blunt, call Sloan."
The steward dropped his writing and left the hall, returning soon with
the stout, old hostler.
"George, take Master Trembath out and put him in the stocks for one
hour."
The old hostler opened his mouth slightly in amazement, as if to say
something, but the frown on his master's brow checked him. Without a
word, George Sloan and Stephen Blunt took the dazed lad out of the hall,
down the garden avenue, and out through the gates to the very scene of
his morning exploit, where was situated the village stocks. Resistance
was out of the question, and so he submitted, as if his spirit was
crushed.
"I am sorry for 'ee, my lad," said old George, "but us has to hobey
horders. To think that the grandson of old squire shud be shut in th'
stocks," and old George shook his head, for he felt the disgrace as
keenly as the lad.
Stephen Blunt, who was not a native of the section, but had come in with
the squire's father from the East, said nothing. The Trembaths were
nothing to him, having never known them intimately. But old George
Sloan, Ned Pengilly and others native to the soil, who had served with
their fathers under the Trembaths, took great umbrage at the shabby
treatment of the "young squire."
Ande thought of the misery of the disgrace; he, the best scholar in the
parish school, condemned and punished as a common thief. He thought of
his father and his grandfather. They were of the bravest gentry in
Cornwall. None could show a better record in the annals of the county.
They had taken their part in every prominent movement in the nation.
The last of the line, branded as a thief, and, like a common vagrant,
imprisoned in the stocks! He thought of his mother and her pride in him.
He gave an impatient wrench to free his imprisoned ankles, but the
framework was too heavy to be opened in his position. He thought of the
parson's sermon of the previous Sabbath. Yes, he was like Joseph. The
iron was entering his soul. He gave vent to his pent up feelings in
tears.
CHAPTER IX
THE VILLAGE STOCKS
"'Allo! What 'as us 'ere?"
It was a coarse voice, half boy's and half man's.
Ande looked up and perceived, coming through the gloom, a long-legged,
stout lad, about three years older than himself. He had just emerged
from the Manor woods and was engaged in what he thought a manly
occupation, smoking a short pipe--or Cornish bob. The prisoner did not
recognise him at first, for the twilight had begun to darken into night,
but as the newcomer advanced he saw the most unwelcome sight of his
bitterest school enemy,--Bully Bob Sloan.
The recognition was almost simultaneous and the newcomer allowed his
freckled face to relax into a grin of delight.
"'Allo, can't 'ee speak? What has tha done, boy, to git in they wooden
leggins?"
"The squire did it, Bob, but I 'adn't done anything. Squire said I 'ad
drained the fish-pond, but I didn't. Now, let me out of here, do, Bob."
This was said in a propitiating tone, for, thought the lad, Bob might
help him. But he had not estimated Bob aright.
"Um," with a sage air and a shake of the head, "can't go against the
squire's horders; and then I 'alf suspect 'ee'rt guilty, my lad, for I
seed 'ee myself and told squire, or rather caused 'e to hear it, that I
had seed 'ee a-lurking nigh the grounds. Ah, my lad, think what a fall
ah be for 'ee, the best scholard in the school,--a criminal, a-sitting
in the stocks; and by and by 'ee will be hung for more thieving and
willainry. What a karacter! What a disgrace!" and Bob shook his head, in
mock sadness. "And when I tell the master and the lads at school, 'cause
I got to tell them to save they from associating with a thief, 'ow
shocked they will feel. I expect, too, I 'ad better clear out myself, as
my repertation might be a-hinjured a-talking 'ere with a criminal."
"Don't lad me," said Ande, in some wrath, "you're no more of a man than
I am, and as for reputation, you've none to spare."
"Softly, softly, little lad; 'ow pretty 'e looks, a-dressed in 'is
Sunday clothes, a-sitting in the stocks, and as I do live, the little
lad 'as been a-crying. Aren't 'ee afeared 'ee'll spoil your pretty new
jacket?"
Bob advanced a step or two, and placing the pipe again in his mouth at a
dangerous angle, and grinning with Satanic pleasure, shoved his freckled
countenance almost into Ande's face.
Now the stocks was an instrument of confinement in which the ankles were
held securely, while the arms and hands were free. Bob had evidently
forgotten the latter fact, but was made aware of it by a stinging
left-hander, that sent the pipe flying and Bob likewise into the dust.
"Now, damme, for a traitor's cub, I'll eat 'ee up," exclaimed Bob in
his wrath, as he arose from the dust, with bloody lip and vengeful eye.
And he doubtlessly would have made some attempt to carry out his dire
vengeance had not the sound of approaching footsteps and a cheery
whistling in the distance been heard. Dreading some encounter with the
Hall people, and with a threat of vengeance at some future time, he made
off for the village.
The whistling came nearer and nearer. A tall, dark figure emerged from
the gloom, walking with a quick, jaunty step.
"What ho, my Bob Cuffins, scragged in wooden leggins!" The white
trousers and blue jacket caught his eye. "Well, a gentry cove." Dropping
all dialect, his language became more respectful.
"And what hast done, lad, to be trussed up like this?"
Ande looked at the stranger, doubtingly. He was clad in a long rough
coat, the skirts of which were slightly torn. His countenance was dark,
but with a healthy bloom on it.
"Come, my lad, I look rather unprepossessing and rough, but mayhap I am
better than I appear."
Ande, reassured, told his story briefly.
"And you're Squire Trembath's grandson, and you were accused of the
mischief at the Manor?" said the fellow, and then softly whistled to
himself. "I think I had better let you out for two reasons. First,
because you couldn't have done the things said, since one of my partners
did that. I don't mind telling you, as you can't prove your innocence
otherwise, and as long as you don't tell the squire before a day or so,
it won't hurt us. Then, in the second place, I like to pay my debts to
friends. If you ever see your father, tell him that Midnight Jack
returned his favour of over sixteen years ago."
With a quick movement, the tall gipsy chief leaned down, wrenched open
the clasp of the stocks, and the imprisoned lad was free. He was gone
even before the lad could thank him.
Burning with indignation at his disgrace, Ande hastened home with flying
feet. His mother had already retired. In anguish of soul, he quietly
stole up the little attic stairs to retire, but not to sleep.
CHAPTER X
REPARATION
Some days elapsed before Ande went near the village or the Manor. With a
boyish burst of confidence, he related the whole affair to his mother,
who was not only shocked, but highly indignant at the treatment accorded
her "laddie." The lad refused to attend school and lost some of his old
buoyant spirit. In these days, he spent most of his time working around
the home place, meeting frequently Tom Glaze, in the furze croft, and
profiting much by his training. Tom had heard of Ande's shameful
treatment, and had given him much advice, that seemed phenomenal, coming
from such a pugilistic character.
"See 'ere, my lad, doan't 'ee go a-moping around, looking as ghastly as
a death's head on a mopstick. Thee might as well knaw there's no use
a-fighting sarcumstances that way. The squire will discover his mistake
some day, and will maake all right. When the lads tease 'ee a bit about
the stocks, doan't 'ee take any offence. Doan't 'ee fight o'er little
things."
"Aye, but the world treats a man pretty hard once when he is down, and
what's a fellow to do?"
"Why, above all things, doan't 'ee be a great chuckle-head, but have
some judgment," said Tom, at which Ande flushed angrily. "Now doan't
'ee take no offence. What I means is this. Did 'ee ever see a kicking
donkey? Treat un kindly and 'e won't kick. Smile and duck your 'ead to
the world and say, 'What cheer,' or ''Ow do 'ee do,' and the world will
smile and bow or duck back and say, 'Pretty well, thank 'ee,' or 'Brave,
thank 'ee.' Frown, and give the world the cold shoulder, and you gets
the same. They say the Golden Rule is 'Do unto others as 'ee would be
done by,' but the practical rule is 'Others do to 'ee as 'ee do by
they.'"
"Well, Master Glaze, that doesn't 'old good in my case. Here I did good
to Squire Vivian and received evil in return."
"Exceptions prove the rule. Anyhow, try my hadvice."
Ande did try Tom's advice, and was gratified to see that, with the
exception of Bully Bob Sloan, all the village lads improved in their
conduct toward him. The rescue of Mistress Alice was soon noised abroad,
and he was considered almost in the light of a hero by the juvenile
element.
One evening, as the lad was returning from the furze croft, he noticed a
chaise and pony at his mother's door. It was the chaise of Mistress
Alice, who had, since the affair with Queeny, betaken herself to the
pony and chaise when desiring an airing. His mother had received her
with a certain amount of cold dignity which her feelings would scarcely
allow her to conceal.
There was a variety of emotions in the lad's breast as he approached.
There was anger at Squire Vivian's indignity to him, a feeling of shame
at the report of his depredations, and an emotion that had lived in his
soul for quite a time, but which he had never fully analysed. From early
childhood he had remembered the squire's daughter. He remembered, with
all a youth's tenacity, how he was led to church by the tall, soldierly
man, his father, and how rapidly he had to move his infantile feet to
keep up with the soldier's tread. In the family pew he would sometimes
turn his head to a nice dark-haired little miss of a few summers' age,
seated in Squire Vivian's pew. Once she had shyly and demurely returned
his look, then quickly turned away, as if displeased. He had asked his
father afterward whether he didn't think the squire's girl a "pretty
little maid," and he remembered the hearty roar of laughter with which
his father responded. Since he had been attending the parish school, he
had not seen her much. Indeed, he had never become acquainted with her
before the affair of the runaway. He had always admired those dark elfin
locks, and in church he had thought if he had one of them how he would
cherish it, and then he had flushed crimson at what he thought almost a
profanation. He had always admired her, but the feeling he had had for
quite a time past could neither be admiration nor friendship. He had not
analysed it. It was this strange sentiment that had led him frequently
into the vicinity of the Manor, before the regrettable affair of the
stocks. His appearance there on the evening of the killing of the
mastiff was an incident of that kind. He had conceived a passion for
flowers, and especially for the flowers of a garden plot, watered and
attended by the hand of Mistress Alice. Could he secure one of those
blossoms? Now, Ande was the perfect soul of honour, but he had had a
hard fight with himself to keep from appropriating what was not his own.
The slightness of the offence, the intensity of his feelings, the
heritage of his ancestors, all urged the harmlessness of the deed. He
might have secured one by request, but he would have died before
exposing his feelings to ridicule.
Ande stood near the threshold with a tumult of feelings within him, that
made him look more like an awkward, country lout than the grandson of a
squire.
"Master Trembath, I have come to beg your pardon for the hasty act of
father."
Ande could not help noticing the slight colouring of her features,
enhanced by the wealth of dark locks overhead. There was a sincerity and
earnestness in her tone that made her a hundred times more attractive
than he had ever seen her before. He mastered himself with a great
effort.
"The apology comes from the wrong person, Mistress Vivian, and the deed
being done, cannot be undone."
"It was a cruel injustice," said Mrs. Trembath, with some little warmth
in her tone, "and I wondered how the squire could have done it, seeing
how bravely my laddie acted in the runaway."
The young girl flushed at the charge of injustice.
"Indeed, father was not aware of Master Trembath's brave conduct; he was
away all afternoon, and I was not aware of the judgment on Master
Trembath until the following day. I was very much vexed over the whole
affair, and when I told father, he, too, was chagrined, yet he said the
circumstances were so much against Master Trembath that he didn't see
how he could amend matters. I want you to accept these flowers, Master
Trembath, as a token of my high esteem, and I trust that you will
neither consider my father nor myself in any hard light."
She placed the large bouquet of flowers on the settle and turned to
depart. Mrs. Trembath placed her hand on the dark, raven locks of the
squire's daughter as she stood on the portico step.
"And may God's blessing attend you, Mistress Vivian, for your kind and
charitable spirit, and may your father be imbued with the same!"
Ande accompanied her to the pony chaise. His righteous indignation
against the squire was mitigated by this unexpected visit and by the
flowers. He had coveted only a single blossom; here was a gorgeous bunch
from her very hand.
They made a pretty picture, standing without the gate, in the rays of
the setting sun. The pony stood patiently waiting near the hedge,
occasionally nibbling a choice bit of herbage that seemed to seek safety
from his investigating jaws in the rough rock crevices.
"I thank you very much; the flowers are very beautiful."
"And you will not think hard of my father."
The youth was silent and bit his lip; then avoiding the question, he
answered:
"It was not the stocks, but the accusation and the condemnation, that
has made all people look down on me."
"Oh, Master Trembath----"
"Call me Ande; it's more natural to me; you were going to say----"
"I was going to ask whether you could not clear yourself from being on
the grounds at that time."
"No. I was there."
"After your having saved my life. I shudder to think of it----"
"You shudder to think of my saving your life," said the youth, a little
stiffly.
"Oh, no. How you misunderstand me!"
"You mean you are pleased," said Ande, brightening.
"Stupid!" said the girl, a little indignant. "Why don't you let me
finish my sentence."
Ande was abashed at this rebuff.
"I shuddered at the accident that might have been, and I want to see you
justified. Now if you could tell me why you were there I could inform
father, and he, being the soul of honour, would make all right."
"No, I cannot tell my reason," said the youth, flushing painfully.
"And not even tell me, when you know I am so interested in having you
brought out from under this cloud."
"If you knew you would not tell him either," said the youth, doggedly.
She gazed at him quickly. Somehow in her young woman soul she seemed to
read his reason. Yes, in a moment, with that keen intuition, developed
earlier in woman than in man, she read through this hesitation, this
confusion. She knew.
"I can tell who did the deed, though," said the lad, for he thought of
the information of the gipsy chief, and that now he was at perfect
liberty to tell.
"Who?" asked the girl, eagerly. This youth that had so bravely saved her
life should be justified.
Ande related the events of his rescue from the stocks and the tale of
the gypsy chief. The girl listened with brightening eye and kindling
cheeks.
"It must be so, for how could you have gotten forth from the stocks? No
one would have dared to let you out but a person like that. I know how
we all wondered when Stephen Blunt came in and told my father that the
stocks were empty. But why did you not tell this before?"
"Because Midnight Jack told me it would not hurt them if it wasn't told
for a day or so."
"I shall see that you are justified. You have been shamefully treated."
The squire's daughter mounted into the pony chaise, grasped the lines
with her slender, gloved hands, and with a smile was gone.
"Poor lad! He has been shamefully treated and he shall be justified,"
she thought to herself. "How foolish I was not to see before. He loves
me," she said softly. "He is good looking and tall and man-like for his
age." Then there was a pause in her soliloquy, unbroken save by the pony
hoofs. Then she drew her brows down with a slight frown. "Pshaw!" Then
the scowl left her features and she broke into a slight, nervous laugh.
"Absurd!"
The remainder of the drive was spent in silence, but there was
heightened colour in her cheeks and a soft, pellucid light in her eyes.
Old Sloan took the pony and chaise at the entrance of the great house,
and Mistress Alice tripped up the steps and into the hall. The old
squire was seated by the hall fire, meditating apparently, for his chin
was resting on his hand and he had his eyes fixed upon the flaming
coals. His daughter bent over his chair, and lightly kissed his
forehead; then drawing a stool near him she seated herself, leaning her
head against him and waiting for him to speak.
But the old squire did not speak for a time; he placed his big, brown
hand upon his daughter's dark locks, and still gazed into the fire. It
was the daughter that broke the silence.
"Father, I have news to tell you."
"Well, Allie?"
"It was not Master Trembath that killed Borlase, or drained the pond; it
was one of the gipsies." Then she poured forth the whole story of Ande's
escape from the stocks, while the old squire listened, as he gazed into
the fire. When she had finished he gazed at her.
"I know it, Allie. I had my eyes opened, and even saw the rogue, this
afternoon, at Sir James Lanyan's. Sir James had him up for some offence
and he confessed all, the rogue."
"And about Master Trembath?"
"Aye, that's what troubles me. I can't see what I can do to justify him.
True, I can exonerate him, but to make reparation for the injustice of
putting the lad into the stocks--I can't see what I can do. The lad is
better than I thought, if he does have treasonable blood."
"We must exonerate him by announcing it in the parish school and at the
church. We ought to reward him, too, for stopping the runaway. It ought
not to be said that a Vivian received a favour of such kind, from any
one, without doing something in return."
"Reparation shall be made!" exclaimed the squire, emphatically. Alice
had touched him in his pride. She had also touched him on the side of
his honesty and uprightness.
"We will have it announced in the parish school and church, as you say;
the whole parish knew it when he was placed in the stocks, and the whole
parish shall know of it--that he is not guilty--that--that----But we
must do something else. That will be only common justice. We must reward
the lad,--but how?"
The eyes of Mistress Alice became luminous; she was winning her case.
With deftness she proceeded.
"He doesn't like to attend school, so Parson Trant says, and I was
thinking how nice it would be to send him to the Helston Grammar School.
Now, father, if you could make the offer?"
The squire brightened. He had found a way out of his difficulties. He
kissed his daughter and called her a wise, little prime minister. He
hastened away that very evening to the parson's house, and the old
rector was delighted to be the means of Ande's reinstatement in popular
favour.
After the departure of Mistress Alice from the Primrose Cottage, Ande
had better thoughts of the squire and his people. Somehow or other he
felt lighter of heart, but his mind was strangely confused. During the
evening hymn instead of the sweet strains of Ken's Evening Hymn he was
guilty of fearful, musical blunders.
As he lay awake under the eaves that night, his imagination still
carried him back to the garden-gate scene. Yes, she stood before him
just as attractive in memory as she did then. In impatience he tried to
banish her face.
"Fudge," said he "I'll get Glaze to give me a skevern in the chacks that
will knock some sense into my addled head."
He dreamed that night that he was under the walls of the great house,
near Mistress Alice's window, and that he was playing on the harp of his
fathers. Once he thought he saw her face--then it changed to the
features of the squire--and, wonder to relate, a smile upon his rugged
features--then over the squire's shoulders appeared the sardonic
countenance of Sir James Lanyan. He changed the strains to the Hymn of
the Lark, and Sir James paled and fled.
CHAPTER XI
DEFEAT OF BULLY BOB SLOAN
"I am the Valiant Cornishman
Who slew the giant Cormoran."
--_Cor. Ballad._
"Ande, my lad, I have been thinking about you and your unfortunate
experience, and have been pondering in my mind, for quite a time, what
to do. Your education, already so advanced, must not be slighted. You do
not feel like continuing school here?"
It was the parson who was speaking. Parson Trant with Ande was seated in
the study room of the rectory, a pretty, half stone, half brick edifice,
nearly concealed from the public road by masses of ivy and foliage. It
was built for the express use of the parson, and, according to his
desires, was as retiring from public notice as a mother bird ensconced
in her nest amidst enveloping leaves.
"No, Parson Trant, I think not."
"I thought so; but your education shall not be neglected. Squire Vivian
has come to me and realising how bravely you acted in the runaway, and
how unjustly you were treated, proposed that you should go to the
Helston Grammar School."
Ande's countenance flushed. The parson perceived it and continued.
"Now, Ande, lad, the ill feeling between the squire and you ought to
cease. He is good-hearted in the main. He has made ample reparation for
the offence of the stocks and he wishes to show his good will and
thankfulness for the rescue of his daughter. It is a creditable action
of his, and you are not receiving any favour, but a just due. I have
talked to your mother of the matter and she is willing for you to go. I
have written to the head and he will make room for you. You must not
allow any hard feeling on your part to mar the happiness of your mother
and the hopes of your best friends. Besides, it is not courteous to
refuse to meet the overtures of friendship from one whom you have always
esteemed an enemy, especially when that person meets you more than
halfway. Your father would not have scorned to do so, and you desire to
be as much of a gentleman as your father was."
The youth was won over by the earnest manner and words of his friend,
the parson. There was quite a conversation as to the time of entrance,
the necessary preparations, and the conclusion of it all was that Ande
should go after the Christmas holidays.
His mind delighted with the prospect of attending the Grammar School,
and with airy dreams of what that existence would be, he left the
rectory and wended his way with light steps down the walk and out on the
public road. The sun seemed to smile brighter upon him, the birds to
warble sweeter, and all nature seemed to be tinged with the bright hues
of his day dreams of the future. There were voices in the distance,
boyish voices, and with laugh and rude joke, a crowd of parish school
lads, bubbling with spirits, surged around a neck of woods. The master
had given them a half-holiday and they were bound to the Giant's Quoit,
a huge rock said to have been used as a plaything by the ancient Cyclops
of Cornwall.
[Illustration: "Yes, give three hoots for the red-'eaded Deane and all
his traitor hancestors"]
"'Allo, come along, Ande, will 'ee?" exclaimed Tommy Puckinharn.
"No, can't go," replied Ande, shaking his head. He must go home and talk
with his mother over the great prospects of attending the Grammar
School.
"Naw,--'e must ask 'is mawther fust," cried Bully Bob, with a great
coarse laugh. The laugh and the reference to his mother stung Ande, but
he pretended not to notice.
"'E's getting up too far now in society to 'sociate with we; 'e was
calling on squire some time ago, and squire give 'im the seat of
honour--fact," said Bob with a wink and a grin that seemed to bring
forth additional grins upon the countenances of several of his
satellites.
Ande stood for a moment, irresolute, then resumed his way.
"Les give three hoots for the red-'eaded Deane and all his traitor
hancestors."
The last was too much for the impatient spirit of the lad to brook.
Turning about and with a calm, steady voice, he cast his gauntlet at Bob
in the shape of a few words in the dialect, equivalent to a challenge to
battle the world over.
"Bob, thee'rt a great, ghastly coward, and thee knaw it."
A wave of redness swept over Bob's face, completely drowning the
freckles with which it was freely sprinkled.
"'Ow's that! I 'ave a good mind to scat thee in the chacks for thy
himpudence, m'lad." And then in a tantilising manner, as Ande
approached, he continued, "Thee art a traitor, for thy faather and
grandfaather were traitors. Everybody knaws they were traitors and
cowards hout in blooming hold America."
The words had hardly emanated from his lips when--smack!--went Ande's
hand on the mouth that had spoken this base libel. A thrill of
expectancy passed over all the crowd, a thrill of amazement, awe, vivid
interest.
"Damme," said Bob, as he spat his blood and froth from his lips, "I'll
make 'ee think Saint Michael's Cormoran had 'ee when I get done weth
'ee. Wilt fight or must I knack 'ee down?"
There was no occasion to ask, for Ande, boiling with rage, was coming at
him with a rush, when a deep voice from the side of the hedge cried,
"'Old hard, there a-bit."
Tom Glaze vaulted the neighbouring hedge and strode forward into their
midst.
"Now, I observed the quarrel and I suppose you 'ave got to fight un out,
but 'ee must follow the regular Cornish rules. Thee, Ande, get thy
second, and thee, Bob, get thine, wost tha, and I'll be timekeeper and
referee."
Glaze led the way over the hedge and the crowd of lads followed,
leaping the barrier like a flock of sheep. A circle was formed in true
British style. Bob chose one of his satellites, and Ande chose
Puckinharn to act as second. The crowd looked on with intense interest.
Was not this to be the greatest fight they had ever seen? Who had ever
dared to challenge redoubtable Bob before? And to make it additionally
interesting, Tom Glaze, one of the most expert wrestlers and boxers of
the Duchy, was to be the one in charge. It was of as much moment to them
as the battle of Waterloo to their fathers.
The coats of the contestants were cast aside and their sleeves were
deftly rolled up by the seconds.
"One, two, three," counted Glaze, and then the battle began.
With a roar, Bully Bob rushed as if to break every bone in his
antagonist's body, and truly had the blow fallen the battle would have
been a short one, for in age, height and weight Bob had the advantage.
Now did Ande feel grateful for the training in the furze croft.
Heretofore, it was stand up, take and give, but now, to Bob's intense
amazement and disgust, his blow landed on empty air, and as he swept by,
carried by his momentum, he received a fierce jab in the ribs that added
nothing to his good humour. Observing, after one or two encounters like
this, that he had no ordinary battle to fight, he began to be more
cautious and his usual confident, sneering face assumed a doubtful air,
but he still pressed the conflict. With his sledge-hammer fists he shot
out blows that would have felled a much larger opponent, but they were
either parried or fell on air. With the litheness and agility of a
leopard his opponent was here, there, everywhere, side-stepping and
putting in heavy body blows that made Bob gasp with something more than
astonishment.
But Ande was growing too confident. Pushing his antagonist in turn, he
sought to reach Bob's freckled countenance, fell short, and, to use his
own expression, "received a skevern on the noase and eyes that made un
see fire."
A yell went up from Bob's satellites. Bob had drawn first blood, and he
now pressed the dazed Ande, showering on him a number of blows that he
with difficulty avoided.
The mute silence of the crowd was broken by Bob's success. Whooping,
yelling, they urged Bob on.
"Give it to the hugly Deane! Knack down the traitor! Hooray!
Braavo-o-o!"
Only Puckinharn shouted encouragement to his principal.
"'It un in the ribs, Ande! Thee cussent reach 'is faace. Braavo! Braavo,
now he's gurking."[4]
[4] Gurking--weakening.
The latter was said in response to a crashing left jab in the ribs that
made Bob lower his guard spasmodically. "At un, Ande; his faace now is
like that of a roasted herring on a gridiron. Up and at un, lad!"
Puckinharn's shouts were swelled by the voices of one or two others who
had been silent before.
Bob now sought to end the battle in close quarters, and rights and
lefts were freely exchanged. Ande wheeled and his friends were silent in
dread for a moment, but only for a moment. Bob staggered back with a
heavy elbow jolt in the small ribs, but not before he had given his
opponent a blow that sent him to the ground, dazed. Ande's pivot blow
had left a bad opening. Bob seeing his opponent down, was rushing in to
finish the contest on the ground, apparently, no rules having as yet
been devised against it, when Tom Glaze shoved himself between.
"Round's hup."
The boys began to cheer for Bob, thinking that the battle was over and
that Bob was a victor, but that worthy silenced them with a growl.
"Shut up, will 'ee; 'e edent licked yet."
His crestfallen adherents were silent. In the meantime some of the crowd
had brought water to bathe and refresh the youthful gladiators. An old
horse trough was used by Bob and a battered field kibbel[5] by Ande. The
first round was manifestly Bob's. He had drawn first blood and had
knocked his antagonist down. His face was untouched, while Ande's was a
bit drawn; but to judge by the many soft rubs that Bob gave his ribs, he
had not come out of the first round unscathed.
[5] Kibbel--bucket.
As Ande rested on Puckinharn's knee, that worthy gave him sundry pieces
of advice.
"Thee must keep on 'itting 'im in the ribs; 'e's taller than 'ee, and
thee cussent reach 'is faace; 'e's sore and weak there now; 'e's
gurking, I tell'ee."
"Time!" called Tom Glaze, and to the fray again they rushed.
Bully Bob, flattered by his adherents, had regained his confidence. He
would finish the battle in close quarters, and rushed again and again,
but his wily antagonist was as agile as an eel. Bob paused for breath
and glared.
"At un, Bob! Eat un up!"
"I will," said Bob, "as soon as I catch un."
The fighting continued, Ande playing his old tactics--hitting in the
ribs and getting away. Puckinharn grinned in delight. Round two was up
and honours were equally divided. Bob was filled with wrath.
"See 'ere," he said to Tom Glaze, "I want to knaw if that is fair, for
'e to go running and dodging around like that? Us aren't playing fox and
hounds. Why doan't 'e stand up and take and give like a man?"
He was reassured by Glaze, and Glaze's word was law.
"Thee didn't think it was unfair to crack to Ande when he was down, did
'ee,--thee great bucca," exclaimed Puckinharn.
A bucca was the highest title of reproach that Puckinharn had in his
vocabulary.
"Silence," said Glaze; "the rules are that all dodging is allowed."
"And wrastling, too," said Bob.
"Aye, and wrastling, too," affirmed Glaze with a peculiar smile.
And so the rounds went on until the seventh, when
Bob being unwary, Ande seized his left guard, gave his ankle a queer,
Cornish side kick, and sent in a blow on Bob's jaw that toppled the
redoubtable bully over on his back.
"Hooray! Braavo!" exclaimed Puckinharn, swinging his cap up in the air
in his delight.
Bob was up the next instant and began to fight in a cautious, crouching
attitude. His ribs, black and blue, he sought to shield by drawing his
body back and shoving his head and arms forward. There was a better
chance, too, for a wrestle, he thought. The small boys held their
breath. This was the attitude Bob always assumed when meeting hard
opponents. Rumour had credited him with throwing a sailor in this
manner. The bully was at bay and would fight hard. Now, Ande, you have
need of all your skill, so hardly earned in the practice bouts with Tom
Glaze. There was no further chance at Bob's ribs, and his head seemed
perfectly guarded. They circled warily around each other seeking for an
opening. Then, like a flash came Ande's chance, the opportunity that he
would not let slip. "If 'ee ever get that chance and take it, it will
put thy opponent down and hout sure," Glaze had told him time and time
again, in their practice bouts.
Bob made a slight pass with his left. The next instant his wrist was
grasped in an iron grip. Up over his neck Ande raised Bob's arm, then
bending his back he grasped with his other hand his opponent's right
knee, and putting forth all his strength, Bob went up in the air as if
hoisted with a derrick.
"A clinch! a clinch!" shouted some, and it was a clinch in which one did
all the clinching.
Bob struggled manfully, but the grip that had stopped the squire's
runaway mare could not be unloosened. Up, up, up, went Bob, and then
with a heave the form of the bully, like a comet, went over his
opponent's head and over the heads of the close-pressing ring-siders,
his foot kicking off the cap of one of the lads in his involuntary
flight. There was a thud and a cry. The battle was ended. Bully Bob had
a broken collar-bone, and his prestige was forever terminated.
Trembath was the hero of the hour. Tom Glaze was jubilant and slapped
the victor on the back.
"Thee did what I telled thee, and I couldn't do un better myself.
Thee'lt be champion of the county yet. Thee make off home now, for thy
mother will be looking for 'ee, and I'll see to the tother chap."
Ande started homeward. The boys still remained around the fallen bully,
or in little knots by themselves discussed the great battle. Then a
short distance away were seen the approaching figures of the squire and
parson, and the spectators melted away like magic, until only Tom Glaze
remained.
"Ah, Tom, a bad day's work, inciting the young to fight," said Parson
Trant, shaking his head disapprovingly.
"Well, lads will fight and sometimes it does them good," said the
squire, who loved the old British game of boxing, and felt like
supporting Glaze, who was a favourite of his.
"A bad thing, stirring up the worst passions," replied the parson.
"I doan't knaw about that," sturdily replied Glaze, encouraged by the
squire's words. "This was a thing that 'ad to come off, and seeing as
'ow the little one 'as given the big un a much needed dressing down,--I
think it proper, sir," and Glaze touched his cap.
"Another case of the valiant Cornishman and the giant Cormoran, eh,
Glaze?" said the squire, laughingly.
"Aye, sir, 'tez so," said Glaze, as they passed on.
CHAPTER XII
CHRISTMAS AND CHRISTMAS PLAY
"Come, bring with a noise,
My merrie, merrie boys,
The Christmas block to the firing;
While my good dame, she,
Bids ye all be free,
And drink to your heart's desiring."
--_Herrick._
There was bustle and activity in the parish. There was a chill in the
air, the presage of the rapidly approaching Christmas time. House
cleaning and baking occupied the time of the busy housewives. The small
boy's eyes glistened as he watched the huge cakes, loaded with citron,
currants, and coloured as yellow as gold with saffron, emerging from the
oven and consigned, still steaming hot, to some secure place of
retention. Then the bag-puddings--a most indigestible mass--yet sweet
and toothsome, the pastries, pies, and fuggans, passed in regular order
through the hands of the cook.
There is activity among the male population as well as among the
housewives. Small lads run hither and thither crying shrilly, "Pennorths
of Christmas," and exhibiting evergreen, holly and mistletoe for sale.
The farmers are preparing bands for saluting the apple trees. Youngsters
are planning schemes for watching the oxen kneel. Singers are
practising, night after night, the Christmas carols or "curls." Youths
are preparing for the Christmas play of St. George and the Turk.
Ande had been to Helston with the donkey and cart to purchase needed
supplies, and in returning along the "Red Revver" road was allowing the
animal to take his own gait.
"'Allo, Ande, we want 'ee for St. George in the Christmas play," said a
voice from the hedge. It was Puckinharn.
"How art tha, Tommy! Up with 'ee and 'ave a ride. Who's in the company?"
said Ande, all in one breath.
"We doant knaw as yet, but thee must be St. George, that's settled,"
said Tommy, as he clambered up into the cart.
"Well, if I'm to be St. George, we had better begin soon. Suppose we
meet in our furze croft and get down to business this afternoon."
"The very place," assented Tommy.
The donkey was hurried on, while both lads planned and talked. That
afternoon saw a crowd of the village boys assembled in the rough
highland, "the croft," and after much debate the parts were assigned and
practising begun.
Christmas eve came at length. The moon shone serenely from between
broken clouds. The air was clear, crisp and cold, and made great coats a
necessity to comfort. The trees had lost their leafy robe, and now
stood shivering or shaking in envy of their evergreen brethren, while
all the green hedges had aged into withered brown. There was a flash of
light from the parish church tower, and then the single pencil of light
was increased by another and another, until every window of the old
structure was ablaze with illumination in honour of the coming birthday
of the Nazarene. Light after light appeared in cottage of peasant and
mansion of gentleman, as if an answer to the summons of the old church
to do honour to Him who is the "light of the world." Then on the night
air came the song of choirs and carol of singers, mingled with the
strains of musical instruments. From cottage and hall sounded the merry
noise of revelry, the hearty laugh and general good cheer.
Forth through the night, bubbling with good spirit and anticipated
merriment, stalked the St. George Band of Christmas players, adorned in
such a brave manner as even to make the redoubtable British champion,
had he lived to see it, green with envy. What variable garments! What
coats adorned with tinsel, red, and gold, and striped! What shields of
brilliant paper or tin, spears of warlike hickory, and swords--not near
so sharp as the Saracen blade, but still as sharp as wood could be
whittled with a jack-knife; and caps of tall, many-hued tinsel; had the
real St. George worn one of them the terrible, ripping, snorting,
steam-breathing dragon would have bellowed in anguish, and have fallen
down in a dead faint. But they were good enough for the occasion and
their very form was sacred by ancestry.
House after house was visited and the fun grew fast and furious. At very
few places were they not given a ready entrance and hearty welcome.
"Now les to the squire's!" exclaimed one, and the proposition was hailed
with delight. The distance was not far, and the time was shortened by
conversation and by a little warlike practice between St. George and his
Mohammendan enemy, the Turk, in which practice the Turk received a
terrific, broad sword slash, that made him pucker up his face like the
picture of the Saracen's head at the village inn. The Turk was not
gifted in the Turkish language, but made up for it by giving vent in
broad Cornish dialect to his feelings.
"Damme, Ande, ef thee'rt going to cut my nose off my faace and scat my
brains out, I'll be a Turk no longer," and Tommy Puckinharn flung down
his sword in disgust, and stalked on ahead of the company. With one hand
nursing his injured olfactory and the other thrust in his breast, and
meekly followed by his fellows, he looked like Napoleon and army on the
retreat from Moscow. Some one picked up the Turk's weapon and
immediately a discussion arose. No one but a knight must carry a sword
in the company. Sword bearing was the special prerogative of a knight
and "tother chaps must carry spears." The sword bearer then pleaded to
be made a knight, and if Tommy wouldn't be the Turk to install him in
his place. But that was what Tommy didn't want. He had no desire of
being turned out of the second place in the company, even if he did
throw down his weapon, and so he returned and indignantly protested.
When a soldier loses his sword and another finds it, he ought to return
it, was the Turk's argument.
St. George settled the affair by raising the sword finder to the rank of
a squire. The bravery of the Turk in their late encounter, and his
heroic courage on other occasions, merited that he should have an armour
bearer, a squire, to be his constant attendant. The sword finder was
elated and, somehow or other, the pain in the Turk's nose was healed by
this new dignity that his valour had added to his reputation. There was
no more practice in the warlike arts, for the Manor gates were passed
and the great house was near.
The numerous chimney pots sent up various curling clouds of smoke that
glistened palely in the moonlight. The diamond-shaped window panes
gleamed and scintillated with the illumination within, except where a
dark shadow of holly wreath obstructed the light. The broad verandas
were festooned with ropes of evergreen. Up the broad steps strode the
players and, after a few mute looks and a little whispered colloquy, the
herald lifted the rapper and sent a peal through the old building that
would have been certainly heard at any other time but Christmas eve.
Within there was the noise of frolick. The servants were haw-hawing in
the kitchen department over some joke or amusement, and the occasional
thump, thump of feet in measured time indicated a dance, perhaps between
the cook and hostler. The squire's hall was replete with good cheer.
Wreaths of evergreen intertwined with sprigs of holly were hung at
regular spaces on the waxed, panelled walls. At one end was a large
life-sized painting of George the Second. Squire Vivian had a great
reverence for the king that had secured to his family the estate of
Trembath. His father had served King George faithfully in the east, and
there had ever been a strong friendship between the Vivians and the
Hapsburgs. At the other end of the hall hung the picture of the squire's
father and, although in warlike garb, yet had a friendly smile on his
features as if in greeting to His Majesty, the King, on the opposite
wall. In the centre of the side wall was the great open fireplace, the
grate having been removed to make room for the great yule block that was
kindled every Christmas eve with almost religious ceremonies, and near
its warm glow was the form of the squire, seated in his great armchair.
He looked the very impersonation of Father Christmas, minus the beard.
Near him were two or three of his friends from the east, men of his own
age, who seemed to enjoy his conversation and laughed as merrily as
himself. A whist party was in progress on the other side of the
fireplace, while down the long room, here and there, were scattered
various groups engaged in various Christmas games. The hall floor was
not carpeted, for the squire scorned such modern improvements as
innovations and desired nothing better than the old-fashioned waxed
floors. Neither did he see fit to remove any of the emblems of his
father's predecessors, for above the flaming firelog stretched the high
oak mantel, and carved in relief on its shiny surface was the figure of
a Lyonnese warrior galloping amidst devouring ocean waves.
The squire was just chuckling over a young lady's mishap in getting
under the mistletoe when the herald of the St. George company, tired of
raising the great knocker, pushed open the door and entered the hall.
There was a thump on the floor to demand attention, and then in as
authoritative voice as he could command came the heralding of the brave
gallants without.
"Room, a--a--room, brave gallants, room!
Within this court,
I do resort
To show some sport
And pastime;
Gentlemen and ladies, in the Christmas time."
There was silence in the hall for a moment and then the squire spoke out
with a cheery welcome, for he heartily appreciated the amusement.
"Bring in your gallant crew. Ho, there, children, move to one side and
give them room for fair play." This latter to various groups of
merrymakers in the hall.
The whist players dropped their cards, the hall occupants withdrew to
either side, and the elderly parties around the squire ceased their
conversation to give full attention to the antics of these new
merrymakers.
The herald bowed to the squire and company and waved his wand, and in
capered a queer, uncouth figure in mask and flowing wig and whiskers.
The young children burst into peals of laughter at his grotesque
movements, and he had to uphold his authority and gain silence for
himself by thumping the floor vigorously with his tall staff. He had a
right to demand attention, for he was Father Christmas; his round,
cheery face proclaimed it, even without his speech which he proceeded to
make.
"Here come I, old Father Christmas,
Welcome or welcome not,
I 'ope hold Father Christmas
Will never be forgot;
I bring the cold of winter time,
That kisses red the nose;
I bring the snow, the rain, the frost
That bites and stings the toes;
But, then, I'm welcome anyway
Because I am the seer
That brings the nuts, and cake, and pies
Of happy Yuletide cheer."
Father Christmas executed a few joyous capers, but was interrupted by
the herald who, with a little fear on his countenance, stated:
"Father Christmas, thee must stand aside a bit for I think I see an
enemy of thine and of our good Christmas cheer a-coming."
Father Christmas moved aside with a shake of his hoary locks and
muttered:
"Ah, 'tez the Saracen, I fear,
I would our bold St. George were near."
All eyes were fastened on the door through which the valorous Turk, in
his green turban, was entering, his face a little more ferocious by the
wound received from St. George's sword in the contest on the public
road. The Saracen has some difficulty in expressing himself in good
English, but that was to be attributed to his Turkish training.
Flourishing his sword he began:
"Bally, bully mally can
Hodak 'ee St. George ann,
Baresesh tally man,
Abdul caliph Hassan!"
"Pray, speak in English, brave Turk,
Let's 'ear what mischiefs in thee lurk."
The herald had spoken in response to his heathen jargon, and the Saracen
scowled upon him hideously and answered:
"'Tis plain 'ee cannot understand
The language of the Turkey land
And so I'll tell as plain I can
In the words of the Englishman.
Here come I, a Turkey snipe,
Come from the Turkey land to fight,
And if St. George do meet me here
I'll try 'is courage without fear."
The Turk stalked around in brave manner, when a new arrival, the
redoubtable St. George, entered. A cheer went up from the younger
element of the squire's visitors, and even the whist players clapped
their hands, for the Turk was no favourite, and did they not love St.
George, the patron saint of England? St. George bows to the spectators,
and by his speech does not appear very modest over his great victories.
"Here come I, that St. George,
That worthy champion bold,
And with my sword and spear
I won three crowns of gold.
I fought the dragon old
And brought him to the slaughter,
By that I gained fair Sabra,
The king of Egypt's daughter."
The Turkish knight drew his sword and with a warlike pass at St. George,
hurled his defiance:
"St. George, I pray, be not too bold,
If thy blood is hot I'll soon make un cold."
The squire smiles, for there is a strong Cornish accent in the Turk's
tone, notwithstanding his efforts to conceal it. But now St. George also
has drawn his sword and with the threat,
"Thou, Turkish Knight, I pray, forbear,
I'll make thee dread my sword and spear,"
the contest begins.
The servants have opened the door leading to the kitchen department and
now stand crowding in the entrance. Little ones that had been taken to
bed by their nurses were brought down to see the fun. Fair play and a
clear field, the squire had said, and so the centre of the great room
was theirs. And how they did fight! Surely no earthly battle was like
it. In no battle was so much blood shed and so many hard blows
delivered, at least so thought the Turk in reference to the latter, for
he was battered from head to foot with side blows and over cuts, jabs,
and slashes, until he ardently wished for the time to come when he must
fall down dead.
The squire and the others applauded when a good blow was given or one
neatly parried. The Turk at length steadily gave way, to the delight of
the little ones among the spectators. One little maid in her exuberance
of joy danced up and down clapping her hands and saying, "The old Turk
is going to be whipped, and I'm glad." At length, under a shower of
blows, the Turk fell to the ground amid the plaudits of the onlookers.
St. George bends over him to see the extent of his wounds, and the Turk
whispers:
"Ande, I guess I 'ad better stay killed this time."
But St. George is inexorable. Standing erect he
speaks:
"He lives, he breathes, he speaks,
Now in the name of Elicompane
Let the man rise and fight again."
The Turk arises on one knee and continues the conflict, but not for
long, as he is again stricken down and becomes at once a suppliant.
"Oh, pardon me, St. George,
Pardon me I crave,
Pardon me this once,
And I will be thy slave."
Bold St. George had no idea of mercy toward the Turk, and so he spurs
him once more to the conflict.
"I'll never pardon a Turkish Knight,
Therefore arise and try thy might."
Again the contest raged, the Turk, seeking to save himself as much as
possible from the onslaughts of St. George, fights with a good bit of
desperate valour, but down he goes again. St. George shakes his head as
if it were all over and then cries:
"Is there a doctor to be found
To cure a deep and deadly wound?"
Why he should be so solicitous for the welfare of the Turk as to seek a
doctor can hardly be told, unless for the pleasure of fighting with him
again. The doctor is not long in appearing from the hall entrance. With
three-cornered hat perched above an enormous wig and painted face, there
was a professional air about him. With a leer and a funny grimace at the
crowd he began his doggerel speech.
"Oh, yes, there is a doctor to be found,
The best old doctor in the town,
On my back I carry my pack,
Of pills both white, and brown, and black."
St. George stalked toward him and asked, "What can you cure? Can you
cure this man?"
"Cure? I can cure the palsy, and gout,
If the devil's in him, I'll soon pull 'im out."
The spectators crowded forward. Could the doctor cure the slain Turk?
Oh, yes. How wisely he goes about his work! He tries one remedy after
another, but of no avail. The Turk had told St. George in their last
encounter that he was going to fight no more. He wasn't going to fight
again, but to sham being dead, and then they would have to bring on the
other players. He was shamming wonderfully well, until even the squire
thought he was possibly badly hurt. The doctor knew different, however,
for he had been posted by St. George, and so he drew from his pocket a
bottle of exceedingly strong smelling salts. He had purloined it from
his mother's bureau. This would make him well, he averred. St. George
had kindness enough to hold the Turk's head down, while the doctor was
administering the dose. Three great strong whiffs entered the Turk's
nostrils, and seemed to enter every part of his head like the stinging
of a million hornets. He would have gotten up then and there and fought
the whole crowd had not St. George held his head, and the doctor thought
he had better have the full dose.
"Achew! Achew! Achew!"
St. George let go the Turk's head, and the doctor nimbly stepped aside;
the Turk with all the wrath of his race in his face, grasped his sword
and fought like a demon for a few moments. His being killed three times
seemed to increase his power. Then the natural superiority of Ande in
the use of the sword began to assert itself, and the Turk thought that
the sooner he fell the better, and accordingly did so. The old doctor
slowly advanced and shook his head, as if all his skill was of no avail
to resuscitate the slain Saracen.
"Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust,
If man can't cure 'im, old Nick must."
The doctor waved his staff, and in capered the dragon, a sort of hobble
horse made of hoops under distended canvas, and worked by an inside
performer. The great snapping jaws and staring eyes scared the little
ones, but they laughed when they found it was only the slain Turk that
he wanted. The unfortunate Turk, grasped by those rigorous jaws, was
dragged from the hall.
The entertainment ended with the passing of the Christmas box, into
which each one threw an offering, and as if in thankfulness for the
amount the Christmas band, Turk, and dragon as well, mingled in a
ludicrous dance, after which the whole crew was regaled with hot egg-nogg
and cake.
In the midst of the conversation and laughter new sounds penetrated the
hall from without.
"Angels from the realms of glory,
Wing your flight o'er all the earth,
Ye who sang creation's story,
Now proclaim Messiah's birth."
Some of the hall occupants rushed to the hall windows to see the
singers. There in the pale moonlight were singers from the parish church
and neighbourhood. They were singing, accompanied with the music of
clarionet and serpent players. After the anthem the squire sent the old
steward out to bid the choristers enter. He did so by saying to the
choristers: "The squire wants hall hangels to come in." They entered and
continued singing.
In the midst of the singing the Turkish knight leaned over to St. George
and muttered:
"Ande, I'll be a Turkey snipe no more, when thee art St. George."
"Why?" said Ande, "and for goodness sake why do 'ee call it 'Turkey
snipe'? Did 'ee notice the squire smile? A Turkish knight, you mean."
"Aye, I forgits the name; but 'ee nearly beat my insides out with thy
old wooden sword, so 'ee did,'" growled Tommy Puckinharn, softly.
Ande gazed at the Turk's melancholy countenance, and chuckled in
amusement.
"It was all in the play, Tommy, and if 'ee didn't fight so hard and I
didn't cut and slash as I did, perhaps we wouldn't 'ave the cake and
good stuff that we are eating here now," said Ande, at which reply Tommy
seemed some mollified.
The "curl-singers" had finished their anthems and were regaled in the
same manner as the Christmas players, and there was a lull in the
amusements, when the great knocker on the hall door sounded the presence
of a new visitor.
CHAPTER XIII
THE CORNISH DROLL TELLER
"Seest thou not my harp?
Emblem of my peaceful calling."
--_Harper Ballad._
A servant opened the hall door and ushered in an old man, slightly bent
under the weight of a harp under its green covering. He was clad in the
ordinary garments of the time, except that he still clung to the long
stockings, knee breeches, and low silver buckled shoes that were now
generally being discarded by the gentry. From the hue of his hair, that
was of an iron-grey and thick and wavy like his beard, and the slight
stoop to his shoulders, he must have been in the neighbourhood of fifty
years of age. There was a trace of humour around the corners of his
mouth, and much fun-light in the gleam of his twinkling eyes that seemed
to belie the tragic nature of his heavy beetling brows.
"Uncle Billy! Uncle Billy!" shouted some of the younger ones, in glee.
"'Tis Uncle Billy, the droll teller," said the squire to one of his
eastern friends in a side tone, and then to the new arrival, "Welcome to
the Manor Hall, Uncle Billy, and to our Christmas cheer. Come nigh the
fire and get thy fingers loosened up, for we must have a tune to-night."
Uncle Billy, the droll, sat himself near the yule log and, while he
warmed up his cold hands, entered into conversation with the squire and
one or two of his elder friends.
The droll teller of Cornwall was a privileged character in the olden
times. Somewhat embodying the profession of the minstrel and the
story-teller, he was always assured of a ready welcome. For ages the
western part of Saxon England terminated at the River Tamar, and the
people west of that stream, girt with hills and wild moors, had little
communication with the outside world. Hence when the profession of the
minstrel began to decline in the days of Elizabeth, this section gave it
a ready welcome and asylum. The lack of railways and newspapers gave the
droll the profession of a news courier, and at any house he tarried he
was regarded with favour and reverence. How they stood around him in the
evening hours, in cottage or hall, and listened with eager interest to
the news of the great outside world, and how with awe upon their faces
they listened to the tales of Tregeagle, the giant Cormoran of St.
Michael's Mount! Many knew the tales, but none could tell them with the
vivid realism of the droll, and then how the eyes of the youths would
flash at the tales of King Arthur, the greatest king of the Cornish
line.
Of all droll tellers, Uncle Billy was the most loved and the most
famous. He could enter into the cottages of the common people and be one
of their midst, speaking in their own dialect, or could associate with
the gentry speaking in language as good as their own, and at times
better. He was not only gifted with oratorical and musical power, but
also had a fund of information in legendary lore and was as familiar
with the tales of Rome and Greece as a university scholar. Some even
went so far as to say that he was a scholar of Eton College when he was
a lad, had been disappointed in a love affair and had drifted away from
all who knew him in consequence. At times, after some legend told with
great power, some of his friends among the gentry would remonstrate with
him on his wandering life and offer to assist him into some greater
sphere of usefulness, in better keeping with his education.
"Sphere of usefulness," Billy would respond. "What profession is more
useful than that of the minstrel, or as people call me, the droll? I
have brought happiness into cottage and hall and wiped the tears from
sorrowing eyes with fun and laughter. I have made the youth's heart burn
with high purpose to emulate the heroic deeds of old, and I have
implanted thoughts of soberness in the giddy headed. What could be more
useful? And could I have a happier occupation were I in the position of
a servant? No, I prefer the old independent life of the droll; and as
for my high education," Billy would always stop here, and with a funny
twinkle in his eyes and dropping into the language of the country clout
say, "I beant much of a scholard."
"Well, Billy, give us a song," said the squire, seeing that the droll
teller had become sufficiently thawed out to finger the harp.
"Or a story," said a relative of the squire.
"Tell us of the oxen kneeling on Christmas night," piped in a young,
shrill, boyish voice.
"Les have Duffy and The Devil," said one of the "curl" singers.
"Or the Cornish Tale of King Arthur," said another.
"Well, well, one at a time. Suppose I sing ye one of the old Christmas
songs first," responded Uncle Billy, and tuning up his harp he swept
with rapid, light fingers the opening bars of "The First Good News That
Mary Had." This was followed by "I See Three Ships Come Sailing In," and
was greeted with great applause at the close.
The old butler brought in a steaming bowl of egg-nog punch which he
placed on the table near the harper's chair; after refreshing himself
the droll began the tale of Duffy and the Devil, telling it, as was his
custom, partly in verse to the accompaniment of the harp, and partly in
prose.
THE TALE OF DUFFY AND THE DEVIL.
An old bachelor squire of Cornubia's race
Was the master of old Lovell Hall;
He'd a jolly round face, and the fox he would trace
Over moor and through dale in a glorious chase,
But of women he would none at all.
Cider making was nigh and in Buryan church town
For more hands he was seeking one day;
Words and blows did resound, and with her swing-tail gown,
Old Janey was beating her stepdaughter around,
In her cottage, that was by his way.
"Hallo, what's the row," said the squire, as he dismounted and entered
the cottage. Being a magistrate, he thought it was his duty to settle
all quarrels, but he had scarcely got within when he was sorry he had
meddled. Old Janey had been using the skirt of her gown to carry out the
grate ashes, and beating Duffy, her stepdaughter, with the gown
afterward; there was such a dust in the air that the squire went into a
fit of coughing.
"'Tis Duffy," said old Janey. "She can't knit nor spin and does nothing
for her living. She's that lazy, your honour," and Janey, the dust
settling a bit, dropped a curtesy to the squire.
"'Tedn't so, your honour," said Duffy, as the tears gathered in her blue
eyes. "My knitting and spinning is of the very best."
Well, the upshot of the matter was that the squire took Duffy home with
him to Lovell Hall, and the hall housekeeper sent her into the attic to
spin. Old Janey was glad to get rid of her stepdaughter, and Duffy was
glad to get away and, though she had told an untruth to the squire, it
didn't bother her much, until she found herself surrounded by the wool
sacks in the upper part of Lovell Hall. There, casting herself down on
the wool sacks, she said: "The devil may spin for the squire, but I
can't and won't." Scarcely had she said this when a voice was heard:
"A bargain! A bargain!" said the voice loud and clear
Of a neat little man in garb black;
"But remember, my dear, since ye've called me here,
If ye can't guess my name, I'll have 'ee in a year,"
And he brought his tail down with a rap.
"All right," said Duffy undaunted, and tossed up her head in disdain,
and then fell to lolling on the wool sacks and idling and singing away
the whole day. In the evening the little man in black handed to her the
result of his day's spinning and she descended with it into the great
hall below.
"Zounds! What a liar old Janey was," said the squire, as he viewed the
fine amount of spun yarn, and casting a favouring glance on Duffy he
said she was the finest spinner in Cornwall.
The next day Duffy took the yarn with her to the attic to knit the
squire's hunting stockings, and the little man, true to his contract,
performed the work for her and soon,----
The stockings were finished, and knit strong as leather,
Squire Lovell was filled with delight;
With dogs all together, in all sorts of weather,
His old shanks were sound in furze, brambles or heather,
Whether hunting by day or by night.
But now came a worrying time for the old squire, for the lads from the
whole country around had heard of Duffy's fine spinning and were not
indifferent to Duffy's charms. The squire feared that she would marry
one of them and then he should lose his fine stockings, and so resolved
to forestall such a dire thing by marrying Duffy himself. They were
married in the old parish church before a great assemblage from far and
near. The old squire's heart was full of glee as he gazed at the young,
disappointed men around him. "Ha! Ha!" thought he, "she soon shall be
mine." But no sooner had he thought this than there was a terrible,
distinct voice echoing the same thoughts.
"Ha! Ha! She soon shall be mine!" blood curdling and dire,
Echoed a voice; the people were still,
And from window of choir gazed the black man in ire,
Yet knew that the end of his compact was nigh her,
When she must be subject to his will.
The people in the church heard the voice, but no one knew who had spoken
the words. The rector was indignant that the service should be
interrupted and would have had the party, then and there, up before the
gentlemen at the court if he could have found him. The supposition was
that some jealous suitor had spoken, and the thing was soon forgotten by
everyone but Duffy, or Lady Lovell, as we must now call her. She knew
and was nigh to fainting had not the squire supported her with his
sturdy arm. They were happy in their married life, for the squire loved
his wife and Duffy had always a secret regard for him, but there was a
dread in her mind that the words of the little man in black must soon
come true. The year was nigh up and she had tried all plans to discover
his name, but of little avail. She was nigh in despair when a person
whom she had befriended relieved her of much of her anxiety. That person
was old Betty of the mill, who was commonly supposed to be something of
a witch.
She carefully inquired of Lady Lovell when the squire went on his next
hunting trip, and having ascertained the time to the very hour, she
obtained from her a jack of the squire's best beer.
That day the squire went hunting far from home and even at nightfall
returned not to Lovell Hall. As the hours of nightfall came on, the
dogs, one by one, came back all lathered in foam, but no Squire Lovell.
At ten o'clock came the squire and he was visibly excited and seemed
bubbling over with laughter.
"Duffy," said he, "I have had as great a lark as I have ever had in my
life. I hunted all day over all the moors and downs, Trove, Trevider,
Lemorna and Brene, and didn't catch a thing. The mare was tired out and
so was I, when up jumped as fine a hare as I had ever seen, from a hedge
along the road-side. She was away and so were the dogs instantly, and I
followed. What a chase! This way and that way she doubled, and at length
entered the mouth of Fugoe's dark cave."
In went the dogs and in follow'd I, water dripping,
Mud flying, dogs yelping in full cry,
Owls wheeling, bats flapping, the place was nigh sick'ning
And black as the night, but the pace was now quickening,
When a singular sight caught my eye.
We had gone nigh a mile when the dogs turn'd to flight,
For Alack! On the farthermost shore
Of a lake was a light of a fire. What a sight!
There was old Nick a-dancing with all his might
With witches; there was more than a score.
"And there was old Bet of the mill a-thumping and a-beating her crowd,
giving music for the dance, and, as I live, by her side was my best jack
of beer, and each time old Nick would come around he would take a
drink. The old witches sang as they danced,
"Here's to the devil,
With wooden pick and shovel,
Digging tin by the bushel
With his tail cocked up."
The wild dance and frolic grew fast and furious,
Brighter blaz'd the fire-flames, blue and hot,
Then Nick in full chorus, with witches, uproarious,
Shouted and sang like the spirit of Boreas,
"My name is Terrytop, Terrytop."
"Aye, and he kept shouting it as if he had lost his head with the
drinking of too much of my beer. Then he jumped among the old witches,
and such a sight!"
He kicked the old witches and Bet the old dame,
'Till I laughed out aloud at the lark,
Then he whirl'd and he came, in a reel, through the flame,
"Go it, old Nick," said I, "you are worthy your name,"
And then--in a moment--'twas dark.
And away galloped I, with the mare at full speed;
With a din, the whole crowd followed fast;
With old Nick in the lead, over moor and o'er mead,
But I distanc'd them soon, for the mare knew my need,
And now here I am, Duffy, at last.
"Why doesn't 'ee laugh, Duffy?" said the squire. Duffy, who had turned
pale at the mentioning of the little man's name, now regained her good
spirits and laughed merrily and long, for she knew she was safe. The
squire stretched out his limbs in weariness, for he had hunted far and
wide and felt the need of sleep, so he soon retired. But not so Duffy,
for she knew that in an hour or so the little man in black would come to
claim his prize. First she said the Creed, and then she prayed, for she
had resolved to become an exemplary woman could she escape the
consequences of the rash vow she had made a year before. Then in the
midst of her devotions there was heard the wild neighing of a horse
without, and then the door, though shut with bolt and bar, opened, and
in stepped the little man in black, bowing low, and yet with a cunning
leer in his eyes.
"I 'ave come for 'ee, Duffy," said he, "unless"--and he paused,--"unless
ye can guess my name."
"Terrytop!" said Duffy, with a confident look on her features.
"Correct, m'lady," said Terrytop with a sigh of regret, and then with a
sweep of his tail he was gone.
* * * * *
The droll ceased his tale and was greeted by a round of applause, for it
was not only the story, but the manner of the harper, at one time frank,
ruddy and jovial like Squire Lovell, at another time with a cunning leer
like the man in black, at another time disdainful or tearful, fearful or
glad, according to the mood of Duffy, that drew forth the appreciation
of his auditors. He calmly sipped a bowl of punch, while the auditors
entered into conversation, though expecting more tales when the harper
had rested himself.
CHAPTER XIV
ST. GEORGE AND FAIR SABRA
Blest as Immortal Zeus is he,
The youth who fondly sits by thee,
And gazes at the witchery trace
Of gladsome laughter in thy face,
The music of thy voice to hear,
The incense of thy presence near.
During the recital of the droll's tale where was Ande? Generally, he was
interested in the tales of Uncle Billy, the droll, but this night he had
eyes and ears only for the squire's daughter.
The latter was in her element. She was young, but the death of her
mother had long made her the mistress of the great house. The presence
of the guests inspired her to do her utmost as hostess, and she was not
unequal to the task. The earlier part of the evening saw her flitting
about, a fairy figure in lace and ribbons. During the entertainment of
the droll she was at leisure, and sat on one side at a little distance,
entirely engrossed in the narrative. Here it was that Ande found her.
"And is St. George welcomed by fair Sabra, the King of Egypt's
daughter?" he said, as he sat himself near her.
In those weeks intervening between the squire's reparation and the
Christmas period, Ande had been a frequent visitor at the Manor. The
squire could not easily forget his prejudice against the name stained
with treason, but he was generous enough to smother it in the light of
the youth's brave conduct in the runaway, and wished also to make some
amends for the injustice of placing him in the stocks.
So the lad was found frequently in the neighbourhood of the Manor. The
Manor walks were familiar to him. He had often assisted Mistress Alice
in her garden work in her own favourite plot, and a warm and strong
attachment had grown up between them. The old squire occasionally nodded
to him and smiled, but beyond that there was little friendly
conversation between them.
But to the squire's daughter how useful he became. Was there any work
that would soil her dainty fingers? Ande must perform it. Was there any
task that seemed too hard for her? Ande was in requisition. Once she had
hurt her finger over a rose bush. It was Ande who heard the faint
exclamation of pain and who flew instantly to her side, and how tenderly
and with what a vague thrill, as if he himself were hurt, did he proceed
to extract the jagged thorn. It was his own handkerchief that bound up
the wound, and with what gallantry he had requested her to keep it as a
remembrance of him. He knew not that that piece of linen was stored up
among Mistress Alice's special treasures. She knew that her womanly
intuition at the gate of the Primrose Cottage was true. This youth did
love her, and it was not displeasing to her; but she knew something
else. She was gradually knowing her own feelings, that she cherished a
deeper sentiment than friendship for this brave youth who had saved her
life. The thought of this sentiment would send the crimson waves o'er
her countenance when she dwelt upon it, for a moment, in her own pretty
rooms. She would not have him suspect such a thing--not for the world.
She knew her father's hatred for treason, his strong loyal sentiments.
No, she dare not think of it too often. Her father had revealed his
plans for her future--the marriage with young Richard Lanyan. But she
had neither acquiesced nor refused. Master Lanyan was a welcome visitor
to the Manor, and she treated him well as her father's guest.
Lanyan and Ande had met once in her presence at the Manor. There was a
gleam of hatred in each eye. This was the son of the hated family that
had deprived the Trembaths of their rightful possessions, and now Ande
could perceive the marked favour with which he was greeted by the old
squire, and had a dim consciousness of the squire's hopes. It was as
much as Mistress Alice could do to so conduct herself as to offend
neither. Lanyan, after the first quick, sharp glance at Trembath, paid
little heed to him. Calmly and tranquilly he ignored him and devoted his
attention to Mistress Alice, taking the conversation into such
scholarly, Etonian themes that Ande, finding himself out of his depths,
was constrained to silence and soon moved homeward with bitter feelings
within him.
He had not come near the Manor for a week after that, and somehow or
other Mistress Alice had a foreboding that something was wrong. Did it
pain her? She would not acknowledge that it did, even to herself. But
how graciously she treated him when he did return. So had affairs been
before the Christmastide, and on account of it there was not that
strangeness between them that existed at the first.
With the remark above mentioned, the Knight, St. George, seated himself
near Alice. She smiled pleasantly and responded:
"I am afraid fair Sabra and the King of Egypt are too far remote from
our locality and times to be mixed up with us. I must congratulate you,
Ande, for your able impersonation of St. George. By the way, who is that
Turk that so murders the king's English?"
"Thomas Puckinharn, one of the village lads. He is a good fighter, but a
blow or two harder than usual saps his courage. I had hard ado to make
him fight at all," and he related their practice upon the village road
and the strategy of allowing Tommy a squire as a balm to heal his
wounded feelings. She laughed at his droll manner of reciting it, and
her laugh seemed to be music to his soul and to quicken the beating of
his heart within.
"Why," she was saying, "did you beat the Turk so savagely? I must
confess I never saw a real battle, but I imagined I saw one all the time
you were fighting. You beat down his guard and struck him over the head
and shoulders, until I trembled. I believe you would make an excellent
knight, had you lived in their times," and she shook her elfin locks in
approbation of his fighting prowess.
"Well, I thought I was fighting for fair Sabra, and the reality of it
seemed to put greater strength into my arms. A knight always fights more
bravely in the presence of his lady."
"It must be nice to have such a brave knight. And who is the lady?"
"One surpassing fair and worthy of the crown of Egypt. One whom I have
served, as a knight always serves his lady."
"I suppose you mean me," said the maiden, with a flush, and yet with
some gaiety in her tones. "Well, be it so. You shall be my knight and
defender and shall wear a pledge of your valour as a remembrance," and
she plucked a hothouse blossom from the knot at her breast and presented
it to him. "Fight bravely in life, and you will be a true knight."
"That I will," said Ande, as he received the flower, "and I shall
remember this Christmas eve, throughout my life, as one of its best
days. I shall even remove the stain of treason from our name. Treason
that is so hateful to me!"
"I trust you may," said the girl, earnestly. "It has been a hard burden
to bear. And with the ideas of our times, it is hard to advance under it
to positions of honour and trust. But I believe you will succeed."
"You do not believe, then, in the current report, held true even by your
father, of the truth of the accusation that has always clung to our
name from my grandfather's times?"
"Knowing you as I do, no. If your father and your grandfather were at
all like you, they could not have done what current report states. No. I
do not believe it."
"I am glad that you do not believe it. It gives me courage to succeed."
There was a light in the eyes of St. George, a gleam of genuine
pleasure.
"The removal of that stain, which you have often told me of, will
remove, perhaps, many barriers of which you are ignorant. My knight must
do it."
"I am that knight," said Ande, warmly.
"The knight that I should admire would be one that will not despair at a
few difficulties."
"I am that knight," eagerly.
"He must be truthful and scorn a lie."
"I do, from the bottom of my heart."
"He must be a worker, and brave and courageous."
"My principles exactly."
"He must not be satisfied to be an ordinary knight. He must be a
leader."
"My ambition," emphatically.
"He must be an exceptional man, noble, upright, a defender of the weak,
and--and--and--must be my knight, and no one else's." Her eyes were
shining darkly with a happy gleam, and there was a glow on her cheeks
that made her a thousand times more attractive to the enthralled soul
before her. Her countenance was close to his. Ah! The magic of its
influence!
[Illustration: "I am that knight," said Ande, warmly]
His heart was beating so tumultuously he feared all heard it. He knew
then and there the reason of his interest in her. Those vague feelings,
which he had not taken the trouble to analyse, burst suddenly upon him
like a revelation. He loved, yes, he knew it. Heretofore he had gone on
blindly, driven by the subtile promptings within. Now he understood his
own heart. There was a pang as he thought of the stain on his name, and
then a joyous bound of his heart as he thought she believed in him, in
his ability to eradicate the blot. She had called him her knight. He
would be so. But then the thought of Master Lanyan emerged from the
depths of the past, the squire's favour, and that scene when he was so
contemptuously ignored by the haughty, young Etonian in the gardens. He
had thought then that his hatred for him was due to the injustice to his
family; now he knew. Her features, so close to his own, were the most
prominent thing in the world to him then. What cared he for the twanging
harp of Uncle Billy, the droll. He was ordinarily interested in the
tales of Billy, but not now. That last sentence of hers of being her
knight and a knight of no one else, sent a thrill through him. He longed
to kiss her, then to throw himself at her feet and pour out the
adoration of his soul. But he knew his situation and he simply said, "I
am your knight, and no one else's."
Then the thought of Lanyan again came to his mind, "And since I am your
knight and belong to no other, it is but fair to ask you to have no
other knight," half doubtingly.
"Queens and ladies of old always had many knights to do them service,"
in mischievous, jesting tones.
Ande's heart died within him and the light left his features.
"And you intend to have many knights?"
"Perhaps."
"At least not Master Lanyan," fiercely, in an undertone.
"My knight must not be a dictator."
"But I must know," persistently.
"You are impertinent," with some dignity.
"He and his are the enemies of my house," doggedly.
"And the friends of ours," quickly.
"But he is an enemy of your knight."
"I will not be catechised." There was the gleam of a tear of vexation in
her eyes and a quiver in her voice, that sent the militant spirit in the
breast of Ande headlong in defeat. She turned her face from him in an
effort to hide her feelings. An agony of remorse swept o'er his soul.
"I have hurt you," he said, timidly.
No answer.
"What have I done. I am a brute and a coward. I am not worthy to be
called your knight," exclaimed Ande, in remorseful self-reproach.
No answer.
"Look at me, please. Speak to me," pleadingly. "You will not. I am the
worst coward living--to hurt the feelings of the best of women," in
doleful misery.
"You are hateful and unjust." An answer at length from the hidden face
that made his countenance blanch and pierced even within, but he
answered humbly:
"I am. I have been hateful and unjust to you."
"No. Hateful and unjust to yourself." The face again came into view and,
could he believe it,--yes,--the tear was gone and the fun-light was
twinkling in merriment.
"How?" in bewildered discomfiture.
"When you called yourself a coward and the worst of ones, you were
unjust to yourself and hateful to yourself."
"I suppose you are right," humbly.
"Don't look so doleful; you may be noticed. I would have my knight
cheerful and happy."
"And you are not angry?"
"No," and she shook her elfish curls and smiled.
"And you will have no other knight but me?"
"You must not be presumptuous," seriously.
"Mistress Alice, it is not presumptuous for me to speak to you on a
subject that is dear to me," said with great earnestness, his eyes
devouring her face. "And specially so here in the hall of my ancestors.
Do you see the coat-of-arms o'er the mantelpiece, engraved in the oak?"
The girl was relieved by what she thought a change in the conversation.
She brightened into new interest.
"Yes, and I wondered ever since a child what was the meaning of the
horse with his rider surrounded by the waves of the sea. Oh, do tell me,
please!"
"That is the coat-of-arms of our family. The earliest records speak of
them as occupying the Lyonnesse country, which is now under the sea
beyond Land's End. Sir Trembath, the head of the family, was overtaken
by the flood, that happened about in the eighth century, and just had to
gallop and swim his horse to the hills for refuge. He was the only one
who escaped the inroads of the ocean. All the lands of his barony,
together with others, and a hundred and forty parish churches, are now
covered by the deep. My ancestry is as noble as any, and it is not
presumption for me to speak to you on a subject that is very important
to me. As my ancestry was then, so am I now. Mistress Alice, the last
heir of the Trembaths needs a star of hope to guide him." He was
speaking rapidly, although only loud enough for her to hear. The wild
tempest of feeling was at length breaking forth.
"Listen," said the girl, demurely, "Uncle Billy is speaking now of the
Lyonesse and Arthur."
The unruly tongue was silenced. Ande, though he listened, heard not. His
eyes were on the squire's daughter, but seeing that she kept her gaze
riveted on the harper, he grew moody and silent.
Whether she listened or not to the song of the droll is a question.
Certainly there was nothing in the narrative of the droll, just then, to
cause her cheek to glow with a damask hue.
The harper's song and tale was ended, and since the hour was late there
was bustle and confusion to be gone.
"I have been unjust in dictating to you," said Ande, humbly.
"And I can have whatever knights I please?" archly.
"You are the best judge. But I would rather not," said he, with slightly
woeful look.
"Then you choose to let me be my own judge?"
"To be sure."
"Then you are my knight. Master Lanyan is not and cannot be my knight. I
choose so freely. Be upright, noble, and good."
Is it any wonder that the Knight of St. George departed with light
footsteps. He was but a lad merging into manhood. Love was strong within
him and flourished in keeping with the vigour of his youth. He knew not
that she cared for him. Sometimes he thought so. He even dared to hope
so when the doubts did not becloud his vision. It was something, though,
to be her chosen knight. He knew by her last words that he was a closer
friend at least than Lanyan. The thought lightened his spirits.
The Christmas players were the first on the way to the village. There
was a chatter among them, some extolling the squire's generosity,
others--the ability of the droll. Ande was silent. He was busy with his
thoughts.
"Ah! The squire's maid gave 'ee as hard a drubbing as thee gave me.
Edent it so?" said Tom Puckinharn, and he gave Ande a nudge in the side,
as he whispered this in his ear.
"Ah! Get along, Tom, do!" replied Ande.
Tom was the only one who noticed the _tete-a-tete_ of St. George and
Sabra. Being a loyal friend of Ande, he prudently kept his own counsel.
The remoteness of their situation, the voice and sound of the harp, the
intense interest of the guests in the harper's entertainment, precluded
any from hearing the conversation of that period.
Ande's dreams that night were very much confused. Now he was with King
Arthur at Lyonnese; now against the dragon or the Turk; then on
horse-back riding through the roaring waves of ocean, bearing in front of
him the form of the fair Sabra, who appeared wonderfully like the
squire's daughter. Then casting his eyes behind, he caught a view of the
dragon, beating and lashing the waves into foam, in his rage, and
somehow the dragon's head was that of Master Lanyan.
CHAPTER XV
THE HELSTON GRAMMAR SCHOOL
Three weeks elapsed and Master Ande Trembath had entered upon a new
life. He was enrolled upon the list of the scholars of Helston Grammar
School.
For four centuries the school had been the centre of education for the
west of Cornwall. Gentlemen can point to it with pride this day, as they
could then, as the birthplace of their early efforts and the inspiration
of their ambitions. At the time of Ande's entrance it had emerged from
the obscurity of the past into the foremost school of Cornwall. This
result was due much to the energetic labours and talents of the head
master, Rev. Mr. Trewan, M. A., a scholar of Oxford. Stern, yet kind and
affectionate to the youths under his charge, he was universally beloved
by his pupils. In his dealings with his pupils of whatever age, he was
of the same opinion as Quintilian that "a child too disingenuous to be
corrected by reproof, like a slave, will only be hardened by continuous
blows."
Though the scholars loved and revered the head, yet the under-master, a
certain Mr. Sherwood, received little or no affection from them. He was
sharp-featured as a weasel, sarcastic in speech, a scholarly egotist,
with the garment of dignity and a predilection to the use of euphonious
words.
The new scholar, entering in the midst of the year, found himself sadly
handicapped. In age and size, he should have been enrolled among the
fifth form. His withdrawal from the parish school after the lamentable
affair of the stocks placed him in no higher position than near the head
of the fourth.
The head of the sixth, a certain William Jordan, a great scholar--almost
a demigod--in the estimation of the lesser forms, and one of the school
monitors, took Ande in charge after his examination, and courteously
showed him around the school. The schoolroom with its row of desks and
forms, the cloakroom, the dining hall, the library, the dormitory, all
were successively inspected.
"This will be your sleeping apartment," said Jordan, as he opened a
green baize door on the second floor. Within were several beds and other
bedroom furniture. A few windows that opened toward the playground gave
abundance of light.
The new scholar soon became accustomed with his new surroundings and set
in to study with a zeal that surprised masters and pupils. He won the
hearts of his fellows of the fourth by setting out a feast for them that
first night in the fourth form dormitory. Mrs. Trembath had not
forgotten a hamper of good things, among them several bottles of mild
herby beer. These she had sent in with his luggage. The feast was spread
on one of the beds, and his fellows, after it was terminated, promptly
voted him a trump and proclaimed him, then and there, "King of the
Fourth Form."
The king accepted his title by giving an entertainment that night in a
noiseless manner. With the aid of a little phosphorus he caused many
uncouth and laughable figures to appear upon the wall, to the great
wonder of the smaller fourth form boys.
Before he had been in the fourth a month he had made such progress that
Master Sherwood entertained seriously the thought of his promotion, and
indeed, did promote him at the opening of spring. There was great sorrow
among the fourth when the news became known, as he had been of great
assistance to them in difficult points in the various lessons. A fifth
form scholar was not so accessible as one in their own form.
The fifth were not near so desirable a set of fellows as those he had
left. There was a difference between being king of the fourth, both in
learning and strength, and occupying the lowest position in the fifth
form. There were two in the form that were prominent, but in a different
degree. One, a certain Albert Tenny, the head of the form, who made
particularly bright recitations; the other, Richard Thomas, the one who
was stationed next to him, the son of a well-to-do farmer of the Lizard
Point. Thomas was heavy set, elephantine in size and strength, and on
account of the latter and a dulness in study was named by the boys King
Dullhead, although they never mentioned the latter in his presence, or
dire would be his vengeance.
There was not much of a contest between Dick, as he was called, and
Ande, to see which should be the head of the tail end of the form. The
very first lesson Ande went above Dick.
"I see," said Mr. Sherwood, with a sarcastic smile on his sharp
features; "I see, Master Thomas, you are resolved to maintain your old
position."
There was a slight laugh on the part of the rest of the form. Dick
squirmed under the sarcasm and half audible laughter of his fellows, and
looked down in dogged silence, growling something under his breath.
Sarcasm and taunts had made him sullen and revengeful, and the laughter
at his mistakes had made him more stupid and awkward. He would sit at
his desk in an idle manner with his large flat feet sprawling over the
floor in different directions. Ambition had left his features, if,
indeed, he ever had any. How he ever made the fifth was a wonder. He had
tried year after year, but never succeeded in raising himself above the
foot of the fifth.
The crisis between Dick, Tenny, and Ande came about in this way. The
form had started in on the study of Virgil, and thought it exceedingly
hard after the simple, narrative discourse of Caesar's Commentaries.
Master Sherwood was not sparing in his assigning of lessons, and had
assigned a few lines in addition to the regular, allotted portion. There
was much secret dissatisfaction, and especially from Dullhead Dick. The
thing had occurred once before and they had universally decided not to
read more than the generally allotted portion. Ande had been the soul of
honour on that occasion, had refused to read, and the Master had passed
him over lightly as he was a new fifth form lad. To his surprise several
of the fifth arose when called upon and recited the extra portion. Now,
disgusted with the whole fifth, he refused to assemble with them to
consider their grievances. The secret conclave was called and the
decision made, but they stupidly said nothing to their absent member.
The eventful recitation came, and the close of the allotted portion read
by Ande himself. Then he paused.
"Proceed," said Sherwood.
"If you do," growled Dick, who was next in line, "you'll take a licking
after school."
The whispered threat exasperated the reader, and he proceeded resolutely
on. Dick gave him a sly kick under the bench in his rage.
"Aeolus, haec contra; Tuos, O regina, quid optes
Explorare labor; mihi jussa capessere fas est.'"
"Stop there," said the master. "You may begin, Richard Thomas."
"We haven't got any farther," blurted out Dick.
"Ah! I thought I assigned to the eightieth line."
"We only take thirty-five lines," persisted Dick.
"Master Thomas, will you recite?" sternly asked the master.
Dick made no movement, but sat in dogged and sullen silence.
"Very well," said Mr. Sherwood, "you may write out the next thirty lines
and commit them to memory."
"I'll pay you back," growled Dick to Ande, as he gave him a fierce
nudge.
"Tenny, you may scan and translate."
Tenny, the head, did not dare disobey, although he had promised with the
others not to read the extra portion, and even had not studied it. He,
however, trusting in his natural ability, thought he could weather
through. He began, but stumbled lamentably until Mr. Sherwood, incensed,
gave his lines to the next, who made as bad a failure of them; and so it
continued until Ande was again reached. Mr. Sherwood compressed his
lips.
"Well, Trembath, we'll try you again."
Ande arose and scanned and translated in a truly commendable manner.
"Master Trembath, you have done credit to those lines," said Mr.
Sherwood, well pleased. "You have saved the credit of the form; you may
take your place at the head of the fifth."
The lads above were furious with jealousy, and burly Dick vowed threats
of vengeance for his thirty lines.
The meeting was not long in appearing. Ande was on the Bowling Green
that same evening, when Dick and a crowd of the fifth met him. The
stupid and the bright had clasped hands against him; the bright ones out
of jealousy, the dull ones out of revenge.
"Here's the red 'eaded Deane," said Dick, insultingly.
"I would just as soon be a descendant of the red-headed Danes, as an
offspring of the Lizard[6] barbarians, who, if history is correct,
didn't know enough to walk upright, but travelled on all fours like a
donkey," said Ande, coolly surveying the crowd.
[6] Lizard Barbarians.--An old legend of the Lizard Point states
that its inhabitants were so ignorant in olden times that they
walked on hands and knees until some shipwrecked sailors taught them
the art of standing.
Dick was in a fury of rage. The legend had been frequently poked at him
and it always reached a sore part.
"Wilt fight," he roared, "and I'll show 'ee a donkey's heels." Dick,
before the masters, tried the best English he could use, for he had
tasted the scorn of Sherwood often, but in a rage, and before the lads,
the dialect was good enough for him. Now, I suppose he meant that he
would make Ande feel the weight of his shoes, but that worthy responded
in sarcastic vein.
"No need to fight for that, for I see them already," and he gazed
contemplatively at Dick's large feet.
Even the duller ones could not refrain from a grin of delight, but they
were determined to have Ande whipped, and so arrangements having been
made, they wandered out some distance from the Bowling Green to secure a
place. The news had been carried to the fourth form, and the whole form
came as his supporters. Now, the fifth were certain of Dick's victory,
for in size, age, and strength he seemed superior to Ande. The fourth
were exceedingly anxious, while Ande himself had no doubts of the
outcome. Dullhead, though heavier and larger than the redoubtable Bully
Bob Sloan, had nothing but brute strength, and even Bully Bob would have
made short work of him.
"Art ready?" said Dick, and an affirmative answer being given, "then
come on," and with a bellow, Dick lowered his great head and charged
like an enraged bull. His antagonist caught his head in a vice-like
chancery grip, and hitting him a playful tap, released him with a spin
that sent him some distance back. Dullhead shook his head, as if he
wondered what had happened, and then again charged. This time Ande
side-stepped, and tapping Dick with his right, and crooking his foot,
sent him head over heels.
"Dost see the donkey's heels, lads?"
The fourth roared, and shouted their applause.
Then was Dick's blood at fever heat. He must get the desired underhold
for a wrestle, of which he knew some tactics, and so again came the
charge, which was met with no love-taps this time. A straight, hard,
left-hander caught Dick full upon the nose, and then, crash
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