[image]"'HALT, IN THE KING'S NAME!' CRIED MR. MILDMAY""I'll halt if 'ee bid me in the King's name," said the fisher, recognising the revenue officer, whom he, like the population of Polkerran generally, held in detestation mingled with unwilling respect, "but I bean't doin' nowt agen the law, I tell 'ee, carr'in' a genel'um's traps for a groat.""A gentleman, is it?" said Mr. Mildmay, turning to the traveller. "I must ask you to tell me your business.""And you shall have an answer. I come from Newquay, and am going to seek a night's lodging at the Five Pilchards, if you have no objection, captain."Mr. Mildmay looked suspiciously at the speaker, whose accent was that of an educated man. He was not the type of person to meet afoot with his trunk on the high road. Old Penwarden's single eye also was fixed on the stranger's swarthy, bearded face."No more objection, my dear sir, than you will have to my taking a look at the inside of that trunk of yours. In the King's name!""With all the pleasure in life. Amos, or whatever your name is, set down the trunk for the inspection of this exceedingly zealous officer of His Majesty's."The trunk was opened, and Penwarden turned over its contents, Mr. Mildmay looking on. He found articles of apparel, a sword, some bundles of papers, a bag of money, a large leather-bound book, a brace of pistols, and sundry insignificant articles, none of which was chargeable with duty."Thank you, sir," said Mr. Mildmay, when the inspection was concluded. "I am sorry to have detained you, but in these times——""Quite so, captain," interrupted the other. "In these times one cannot be too particular. I bid you good-night, and better luck at your next examination."Mr. Mildmay hurried on with Penwarden, and was soon lost to sight."Who's that popinjay?" said the traveller, when the lieutenant was out of hearing."That be Maister Mildmay, the preventive officer, and a dratted furriner," replied the fisher. "He've been in these parts two years now, and a meddlesome feller he be too. Hee! hee! He got nowt for his pains this time, maister, and if there's one thing I do like to see, 'tis the preventives fooled. Hee! hee!""Old Penwarden looks the same as ever, except for the shade over his eye.""Do 'ee know him, maister?""I used to, years ago.""Iss, old Joe be a decent good soul of his trade, and we was vexed, trewly, when 'a got his eye put out in a fight by Lunnan Cove. But there, he shouldn' meddle with honest free-traders. Lawk-a-massy! I be speakin' free.""Oh, you're quite safe with me. I'm a bit of a free-trader myself, in my way."They went on, and in a few minutes came to an inn at the lower end of the village near the beach. This was the Five Pilchards. The village boasted another inn, a hundred yards away, called the Three Jolly Mariners; but it belied its name, being frequented mainly by farm labourers.The traveller paid and dismissed the fisher, and rapped at the closed door. It was opened by the innkeeper himself, a podgy, red-nosed, blear-eyed fellow, with an underhung lip, and a chin like a dewlap. A small candle-lamp hung above in the doorway, showing a dim yellow ray upon the smiling face of the visitor. The innkeeper started back."I startled you, eh?" said the visitor. "Yes, it is I myself—John Trevanion come home again. I am getting on in years, Doubledick, and I felt I should like to die among my friends.""Ha, ha! Ho, ho!" laughed the innkeeper. "'Tis Maister John, for sure, come home with his little jokes. Come along in, maister, come in; daze me if I bean't as pleased as pigs to see 'ee.""Take me to a room, Doubledick, and get some clean sheets, will you? And send me up something passable to eat and drink; I'll sup alone.""Iss, sure. I'll give 'ee the best I've got in the house. What do 'ee say, now, to collops and fried taties, or a nice bit o' bass, or a dish o' pickled pilchurs, and some real old—you know what, Maister John? Hee, hee!""Whatever you like, Doubledick, only be quick about it."The innkeeper led his visitor along a passage past the open door of the bar-parlour. John Trevanion glanced in as he went by. A number of rough fishermen in various garments sat drinking on settles along the wall. The most noticeable among them was a man of vast breadth, brawny and muscular, his strong features tanned copper-colour by years of sea-faring, his thick hair and beard the hue of ebony. The sleeves of his scarlet jersey were turned up, revealing brown and hairy forearms that would have befitted a Hercules."Tonkin is still flourishing, I see," said Trevanion in an undertone to the innkeeper as he passed."Iss, Zacky Tonkin be as great a man as ever he wer, and a tarrible plague o' life to the preventives. Mr. Curgenven—ye mind of him, Maister John?—died two year back, and they sent a furrin feller, Mildmay by name, to look arter us mortals—hee! hee! He be a good feller at his job, a sight better than Curgenven, who loved an easy life, as 'ee could remember; but Zacky do know how to deal wi' un, he do so. Oh, 'tis a rare deceivin' game he plays wi' un. He's up-along and down-along, and this Mildmay feller atraipsin' arter un, by sea and land, 'tis all one to Zacky. Here's yer room, Maister John. Do 'ee set yerself down and I'll bring 'ee up a supper fit for a lord in no time."He looked at his visitor doubtfully for a moment."I'd axe 'ee one thing," he said. "Be I to let 'em know down below as you be in house?""To be sure, Doubledick, there's nothing to conceal. You might remember to say that I've come from London—no, hang me, I am forgetting; from Newquay directly, from London ultimately. You understand?""Iss, I understand. No matter where 'ee come from, if 'twere from old Nick hisself, they'll be glad to see 'ee, that they will."John Trevanion kept to his room until the morning. At nine o'clock he left the inn and made his way through the village by back lanes, to escape the notice of such fishermen as might remember him, and proceeded at a quick pace along the road to the Towers. He was dressed this morning in a black hat turned up at one side with a rosette, a bottle-green frock coat, white kerseymere breeches, and long boots. "He looks summat older and nearer graveyard, as must we all," remarked Doubledick to a crony as he watched him depart, "but he's a fine figure of a man still."Arriving at the Towers, John Trevanion lifted the latch of the door leading to the inhabited portion, and entered with the freedom of one of the family. The Squire was at breakfast with his wife and son."Come in," he shouted, in answer to a tap on the door, and rose from his chair as the well-dressed visitor entered, thinking, as might have been gathered from his manner, that it was one of the few friends who had the freedom of the house. But at a second glance his demeanour altered."You have made a mistake, I think," he said stiffly, resting both hands on the table. His fine face was flushed, and Dick, looking on in wonderment, noticed that the riband that bound his queue of grey hair was quivering."Surely, Cousin Roger, you'll let bygones be bygones," said John Trevanion suavely. "'Tis now—I don't know how many years ago.""When I last saw you, sir, I bade you never enter my door again. I do not call back my words, and see no reason to do so. You will oblige me by relieving me of your presence."The words came sternly from his trembling lips. Dick felt himself go hot and cold."Is there no word repentance in your dictionary, Roger Trevanion?" said his cousin bitterly. "You're a good Christian, I suppose—go to church and say the Commandments, 'love your neighbour,' and all that; but you'll harden your heart against one of your own kin that had the ill-luck to offend you——""Stop!" thundered the Squire. "The offence to me I make nothing of; you have shamed your name and put yourself beyond the pale of honest men. 'Ill-luck,' you call it! 'Twas no ill-luck—though we Trevanions have enough of that, God knows!—but the act and nature of a scoundrel. I am ashamed you bear my name. I disown you. Take yourself out of my sight."His wife laid a gentle hand on his arm."A pretty welcome, on my soul, for a man who has lived down the faults of his youth," said John Trevanion. "I tell you, Roger Trevanion, I will not put up with such usage—I will not! I don't want your forgiveness; a fig for your friendship! But I demand decent treatment from you, and——""By the Lord that made me," cried the Squire, "if you do not instantly remove yourself from this house I will have you thrown out. Do you hear me, sir?"John Trevanion's eyes glittered as he returned his cousin's wrathful look. He half opened his mouth, closed it with a snap; then an inscrutable smile stole upon his face. He shrugged, turned on his heel, and went silently from the room.The Squire sank into his chair. The flush had vanished from his face, leaving it ashy pale. His hands trembled with excess of indignation."My dear, calm yourself," said his wife soothingly. "He is gone."He made no reply. Dick sat silent, every nerve tingling with excitement. In a minute his father rose, leaving his coffee half finished, and strode heavily from the room."Mother, what does it mean?" asked Dick breathlessly. "Was that cousin John?""Yes, my dear. Do not name him to your father. I will go to him; I fear he will be ill. Finish your breakfast, Dick, and go to the Parsonage. You had better stay there all day; Mr. Carlyon will give you some dinner."She followed her husband, leaving Dick to his breakfast and his wondering thoughts. He faintly remembered his cousin John Trevanion, who ten years before had lived in the now empty Dower House, between the Towers and the village, as his father had done before him. John Trevanion had then been a gay, careless, happy-go-lucky young man of thirty, who lived on the Squire's bounty, riding his horse among the county yeomanry, hunting with his neighbours, roistering it with the most rakish young blades of the adjacent manors, joining in daredevil escapades with the smugglers. His antics and riotings became a byword in the country-side, and Dick remembered how, when a young boy, he had witnessed several violent scenes between his father and John after some particularly outrageous exploit. Old Pollex had told him that the Squire had threatened many times that unless John reformed he would no longer be allowed to occupy the Dower House, and had forgiven him over and over again. At last a day came when John disappeared. Dick had never learnt the true reason; the Squire never mentioned his cousin; Pollex, when questioned, shook his head and pursed up his lips, and said that John Trevanion was a villain; and Dick had formed the conclusion from stray hints that the ne'er-do-well cousin had been driven out of the country by some criminal act. For ten years he had not been heard of, and he had wholly slipped from Dick's thoughts.Having finished his breakfast, Dick took his cap and set off for his two-mile walk to the Parsonage, where he went daily to receive lessons in classics and literature from Mr. Carlyon, the vicar. He had never been to school, his father's resources being incapable of bearing the expense. A few years before this time the Squire had been seriously disturbed about his son's education. He was himself a sufficiently competent tutor in mathematics, but what classics he ever had had wholly left him, and he was miserable in the thought that the boy was growing up without the elements of the education of a gentleman. At this point the vicar stepped in with a proposal. He was a liberal-minded, genial man, a fellow of his college, a student of his county's antiquities, and in his 'varsity days had been a notable athlete. Now, though well on in years, he would often, on a Sunday afternoon after church, lend his countenance to wrestling bouts and games of baseball among the village youths. He rode to hounds, and judged at coursing matches, these and similar avocations probably accounting for the fact that a history of the parish, which he had commenced twenty years before, was still unfinished. One day he suggested to the Squire that he should give Dick lessons in Latin and Greek, to keep himself from rusting, as the worthy man delicately put it, but really to make good the deficiency due to his friend's straitened means. Mr. Trevanion gladly accepted the offer, and Dick had now been for five years under the parson's capable tuition.When Dick returned home in the evening he was met by Sam Pollex in a state of considerable excitement."I say, Maister Dick," he said, "this be a fine mossel o' news. Yer cousin John—a rare bad 'un he be—have come home-along.""I know," replied Dick. "I've seen him.""Have 'ee, for sure? I hain't seed un, but I heerd tell on un in village. Ike Pendry were goin' along road last night when up comes my genel'um and axed un to carr' his bundle for a groat. He wer traipsin' along from St. Cuby's Cove way, about an hour, it do seem, arter we come up from fishin'.""Where had he come from?""Newquay, 'a said; but 'tis my belief he come out o' the smack we seed, and clomb the cliff, same as we.""That's nonsense. He wouldn't come in a smack, and if he did he wouldn't land at the Cove. He has made no secret of his return, and there's no reason why he shouldn't land at the jetty.""Ah, well, things be as they be; but I reckon he come in the smack, all the same.""What is he doing in the village?""He bean't there no longer. This arternoon he packed up his traps and rid off on one of Doubledick's hosses to Trura. Feyther seed un go. 'A called to un as he rid by. 'Hoy, Reuben!' says he, ''tis a cold country, this!' That just 'mazed Feyther, 'cos it was a frizzlin' day. 'Spect he've been in furrin parts, wheer what's bilin' to we is nawthin' but chill-off to they. So 'tis, to be sure."At this piece of news Dick felt much relieved. He hoped that Polkerran had seen the last of John Trevanion. But it turned out that the return of the native was only the first scene in a series of strange happenings that were to be long remembered in the village, and were vitally to affect the fortunes of the family at the Towers.CHAPTER THE THIRDThe Blow FallsFor some days after the event just related, life at Polkerran and the neighbourhood flowed on its customary sluggish tide. The fishermen were idle, waiting for pilchards to appear off the coast. The harvest had been gathered in from the fields. There was little for the village folk to do except to gossip. Men gathered in knots on the jetty and at the inn-doors, chatting about the return of John Trevanion, the strange vessels that had been seen, and the revenue cutter's failure to catch them, the appearance of a ghost at St. Cuby's Well, the prospects of the fishing season, the chances of making good "runs," and besting Mr. Mildmay and the excisemen. At the Towers there was nothing to show that anything had happened to disturb the placid surface of existence, except that the Squire was more silent than usual, and went about with a pale face and a preoccupied and troubled look.One afternoon, after the lapse of about a week, Dick, leaving the Parsonage after his daily lessons, was surprised to see his father approaching across the glebe. The Squire was on foot: his last horse had been sold long ago."Ha, Dick!" he said, as he met his son, "you have finished with Greeks and Romans for the day, then. I have come for a word with the parson. Shall be home to supper."Dick went on, and his father entered the house."Ah, Trevanion, I am glad to see you," said Mr. Carlyon, cordially, his keen eyes not failing to note a certain gravity in his old friend's expression."I want your advice, Carlyon," said Mr. Trevanion abruptly."And you shall have the best I can give, as you know well. Come into the garden and smoke a pipe with me. Good, honest tobacco, even if 'tis contraband—and I can't swear to that—will do no harm to you or me."When they were seated side by side in wide wicker chairs beneath the shade of an elm-tree, the Squire drew from his pocket a folded paper which had been sealed at the edges."Read that," he said, handing it to the vicar.Mr. Carlyon carefully rubbed his spectacles, set them on his nose with deliberation, and slowly opened the paper."H'm! God bless my soul! Poor old Trevanion!" he murmured, as he read, unconscious that his words were audible. "This is bad news, Trevanion," he said, aloud, looking over the rims of his spectacles with grave concern."It is. It is the very worst," said the Squire, gloomily. "It is the end of things for me.""No, no; don't say that. Every cloud has a silver lining.""A musty proverb, Carlyon. You don't see the silver lining in a thunderstorm, and it doesn't keep your skin dry. This spells ruin, ruin irretrievable."The parson pressed his lips together, and read the document again. It was a brief intimation from a Truro attorney of his client's intention to foreclose on the mortgages he held upon certain parcels of land, if the sums advanced on them were not repaid within a month from that date."This is not your own man?" said the parson."No. I never heard of him before.""What is the extent of the obligation?""Two thousand pounds. I can't muster as many shillings. I am in arrear with the interest. Within a month we shall be in the poor-house—a noble end for Trevanion of the Towers!""Tut, tut! You take too black a view of things. 'I have been young, and now am old; yet have I not seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread.'""But I have, and so have you, Carlyon. I see things as they are. 'Tis no surprise to me; these many months I have felt the blow might fall at any moment; but the condemned man hopes to the last for a reprieve, and I have gone from day to day, like a weakling and simpleton, refusing to face the facts. Not that I could have done anything; I am bankrupt; there's no way out of it.""Who holds the mortgages?""Sir Bevil Portharvan. I have nothing to say against him. He has been very patient. A man of business would have foreclosed long ago, though he would have got little by it, for the mines are worked out, the Towers is a ruin, and the land will grow next to nothing but thistles and burdock. 'Twas to be.""But he can't take the Towers from you. Do you not hold fast to that?""I did till a year ago, but there's a small bond on that now—a paltry hundred pounds; I could raise no more on it and the cliff. Sir Bevil does not hold that, however; 'tis my own lawyer."The parson sawed the air with his hand, a trick of his when perplexed."Well, old friend," he said, "I am sorry for you, from the bottom of my heart. If I had the money, I would gladly lend it you, but 'passing rich on forty pound a year,' you know——""I know well. 'Tis not for that I come to you. Give me your advice. What can I do? I must leave the Towers; what can I do for a livelihood? Like the man in the Book, 'I cannot dig; to beg I am ashamed.' What a miserable fool I was to throw up the sea when I came into the property! And yet I don't know. Look at Mildmay; a year or two younger, 'tis true, but still a lieutenant, and thought fit for nothing better than to chase luggers and circumvent the trade. I've no interest with the Admiralty; they've enough to do to provide for the seamen invalided from the wars. What can an old fool past fifty do to earn his salt? Years ago I had my dreams of paying off the burdens and reviving the Trevanion fortunes; but they have long since vanished into thin air; the task needed a better head than mine. And what little chance I might have had was doomed by the misdeeds of that scoundrel cousin of mine——""I heard that he reappeared the other day. I hoped it was not true.""'Twas true. He had the boldness, the effrontery, to come to me with his 'let bygones be bygones,' and sneering at my Christianity. You know the facts, Carlyon. You know how, but that I impoverished myself, he would to this day be in the hulks or slaving in the plantations. I was too tender, I was indeed. I ought to have let the law take its course, and put my pride in my pocket. 'Twas a weakness, I own it; and now 'tis time to take my payment.""No, my good friend, you did right to keep your name unstained. But I wonder, indeed I do, that John Trevanion has dared to show his face here again.""Oh, 'tis no wonder," said the Squire bitterly. "No one knew of his crime but three, you and I and John Hammond; only Hammond had proof of it, and he is dead. My worthless cousin learnt of his death, I warrant you; the Devil has quick couriers for such as he; and he comes back, relying on my weakness and your holiness. But I'll speak no more of him; he is gone, and I hope I shall never see him again. There's my boy Dick: what is to become of him? He is seventeen; he ought to be making his way in the world. I can't put him to a profession; I keep him at home drudging for us; and but for your kindness, Carlyon, he would be as ignorant and raw as the meanest farm-hind. 'Tis not right; 'tis cruelty to the lad; and he will live to curse the day he was born a Trevanion.""Come, come, this is not like you, Squire," said Mr. Carlyon warmly. "The lad is doing very well. He lives an open, honest life, and a useful one. What if his hands are horny? He makes good progress with his books, too, and will be fit in a year or two to win a sizarship at Oxford, and he will do well there, take orders, or maybe become secretary to some great person. You need fear nothing for Dick. No; 'tis for yourself and your good wife we must think. And now let us put our heads together. What say you to visiting Sir Bevil, and seeking further grace? I will myself undertake the office.""Never!" cried the Squire firmly. "I will have no man supplicating and beseeching on my behalf. No; let what must come, come; never will I whine and grovel for mercy.""You are an obstinate old fool, Roger Trevanion," said the parson, laying a friendly hand on the other's arm. "But I own I sympathise with your feeling. Well, then, my counsel is—and you may scorn it—do nothing.""Nothing!""Simply wait. The foreclosure must come, I see that; but the other mortgagee has not moved; you will still have a roof above you; you make no profit of the mortgaged lands, and so will be not a whit worse off than you are now, save in the one point of pride. That pride of yours has been your snare, Trevanion.""Well I know it!""I don't preach, except on Sundays, but I believe in my heart that this trouble will turn out for your good. Hold fast your rock, old friend; 'twas sound advice, even though it came from a witch. No man can give you better, and I am superstitious enough to believe that while you follow it the Trevanions will not come to beggary."The two friends sat talking for some time longer. When the Squire rose to go away, he said—"I thank you, Carlyon. You have done me good. I see nothing but darkness ahead, but I'll take your advice; I'll stick to the ship, and keep my colours flying, and who knows?—perhaps I shall weather it out after all."They shook hands and parted, and the parson returned to his study to read over an ode of Horace in readiness for Dick's lesson next day.After his conversation with Mr. Carlyon the Squire recovered his wonted serenity. So cheerful was he when he told his wife and son what was going to happen, that they refrained from giving utterance in his presence to their own feelings on the matter, for fear of bringing back his gloom. He rode over one day in the carrier's cart to Truro to pay the interest on the Towers mortgage with the proceeds of a fine litter of pigs, and showed his lawyer the letter he had received from his professional brother."An excellent practitioner, sharp as a needle," said the lawyer. "He came to me a while ago wanting to purchase the little bond I myself hold; but I refused him point-blank, and went so far as to express my surprise at Sir Bevil. He grinned at me, Mr. Trevanion—yes, grinned at me in the most unseemly way. 'Twas not Sir Bevil's doing: that is one comfort.""Who bought up the bonds, then?""That I cannot tell you: I do not know. No doubt a stranger, who has more money than judgment. I am sorry for this; I am indeed; and if there were any chance of getting metal out of the earth I could have transferred your mortgages with the greatest ease. As it is—but there, I won't talk of it. As for my own little bond on the Towers, that may remain till Doomsday so far as I am concerned. It would cut me to the heart to see the old place in the hands of any one but a Trevanion.""You're a good fellow, Trevenick," said the Squire, "and I'm grateful to you.""Not at all, not at all, my dear sir. I am perfectly satisfied with my investment."And the Squire returned home more cheerful than ever, convinced that lawyers were not all as dry as their parchments.The allotted month sped away. One afternoon, when Dick was at the parson's, Sam Pollex ran at headlong speed up the road from the village, dashed into the house, and forgetting his manners, burst into the Squire's room without knocking or wiping his boots, as he had been strictly enjoined always to do."If 'ee please, sir," he panted, "there be a wagon full of females pulled up at the door o' the Dower House yonder.""Indeed!" said the Squire. "Have you never seen females before, Sam?""Iss I have, sometimes, in the village; but these be furriners, sir.""Well, maybe they'll buy your eggs, and that'll save you three-quarters of your walk to the village."Sam went out, looking very much puzzled. What had brought foreign females to his master's house, he wondered? Within half an hour he was back again, this time a little less eager, though equally excited. He rapped on the door, and being bidden to enter, said, less breathlessly than before:"If 'ee please, sir, I seed a man on a hoss ride up to Dower House, and he went inside, sir, and 'twas Maister John.""Who? John who?" The questions came like pistol-shots."His other name be Trevanion, it do seem," said the boy.The Squire got up in great agitation."Are you sure, boy?" he asked."No, sir, I bean't sure, 'cos I never seed un afore; but I axed Tom Penny, who was standing by, who 'twas, and he said, 'Why, ninny-watch, doan't 'ee know yer own maister's born cousin? 'Tis the same fine genel'um that give Ike Pendry a groat for carr'n his portmantel.'"Then something happened that scared Sam out of his wits and sent him scampering to the kitchen for his father."Feyther, Feyther," he cried, "come quick! Squire's took bad. 'A went all gashly white and wambled about, sighin' and groanin' that terrible! He's dyin', I b'lieve."Old Reuben was lame, but he caught up a jug of water and hobbled with it as fast as he could to the Squire's room, sending Sam to fetch the mistress. He found the Squire seated in his chair, with a stony look upon his ashen face."What ails thee, maister?" cried the terrified servant."Nothing, nothing, Reuben," replied Mr. Trevanion. "Don't be afraid, and don't alarm your mistress."Here Mrs. Trevanion came hastily in, Sam hanging behind as if afraid to approach too near."I am sorry they called you, my dear," said the Squire. "There is nothing wrong. Leave us, Reuben."The old man hobbled away. Mrs. Trevanion stood by her husband's chair."I was overcome for a moment, but it has passed," said the Squire. "John Trevanion is the master of my lands.""It cannot be, Roger!""It is, it is. Sam saw a party of servants drive to the Dower House, and John himself ride up a while after.""But, Roger, I do not understand.""'Tis very simple. He has bought up the mortgages from Sir Bevil's attorney—'twas hard to believe that the foreclosure was Sir Bevil's doing—and has come to mock me and flout me at my own doors; ay, and to drive me away, if he can!""A penniless man, Roger! You told me he left here a beggar.""Yes, a beggar, and worse—a thousand times worse. But that was ten years ago, and in ten years beggars may become rich, and scoundrels may tread down many an honest man. But he shall not tread me down. He may own my land, and fence me in, and do what he will; but the Towers is mine, and by heaven I will hold it!"Discretion was one of Mrs. Trevanion's qualities. Being relieved to find that Sam's alarming report of the Squire's illness was exaggerated, if not wholly imaginary, she sought with her wonted tact to divert her husband's thoughts into a calmer channel, and soon had him interested in purely domestic matters.The re-opening of the Dower House was already the all-engrossing topic of conversation among the old wives and young wives, fishers, farmers, tradesmen, loafers and small fry of Polkerran and the neighbourhood. The "wagon-full of females" of Sam's kindling eye turned out to be one plump woman of forty and one slim maid of half that age, the cook and housemaid whom John Trevanion had engaged, as afterwards appeared, in a Devonshire village. On the same day two heavy wagons, each drawn by four enormous horses, arrived from Truro with furniture, kitchen utensils, and other things needed in setting up house, and on the next appeared a couple of riding-horses in charge of a lively young groom.These important events were retailed and freely commented on in the tap-room of the Five Pilchards."We shall see brave doings up at the old house, neighbours," said Doubledick, the innkeeper, to the group of fishermen idling there. "Maister John is a fine feller, that he be. He were allers the chap for a randy, and 'twill be a rare change for we to have some one as will have feastings and merry-makings arter the miserable cold time we've had wi' Squire.""'A must have a heap o' gold and silver in his purse to pay for all they fine-lookin' things we seed goin' in," said one of the men. "Wheer 'd he get it all from, can 'ee tell us that, neighbour Doubledick?""I might if I put my mind to it," said Doubledick sententiously. "But it don't matter a mossel wheer it do come from; there 'tis, and we shall have the good o't. The lord-lieutenant 'll make un a magistrate, if I know the ways o' providence, and I do know summat about 'em, neighbours all; and if any of 'ee are brought up afore un for a innocent bit o' free-tradin', he'll not be the man to stretch the law against 'ee, not he.""'Tis a terrible affliction for Squire, to be sure," said another. "There be no loving-kindness 'twixt 'em, if all's true as folks tell, and a dog can't abide seein' another run off with his bone, that bein' my simple way of speech.""Squire be goin' down, that's the truth o't," said Doubledick. "Well, some goes up and some goes down, and all gets level in churchyard."Sam Pollex lost no time in making acquaintance with the new household. On the day after their arrival he carried a basket of eggs to the back-door of the Dower House, and blushed to the roots of his hair when it was opened by a pretty Devonshire lass, who smiled sweetly on him, asked him the price, and said she would speak to Cook."She will take them," said the girl on her return, "and bids me say you must come to-morrow and she'll let 'ee know if any is addled. What be the name of 'ee, boy?""Sam Pollex, ma'am," said Sam sheepishly."And where do 'ee live?""Up at Towers, yonder.""Well I never! Bean't that where Maister's cousin the Squire lives?""Iss, him and me lives there, and the mistress, and Feyther, and Maister Dick.""Only think of it, now! Squire selling eggs like a common dairyman!""Squire don't sell 'em; 'tis me, and I take Mistress the money. Sometimes it come to two or three shilling a week, but the hens don't lay in winter, and then I sell sides o' pork and chitterlings.""Well, run away now, boy—Sam Pollex, did you say? What a funny name! And mind you don't lose the money."Sam went away all aglow with admiration of the sweet looks of the maid-servant, and told Mrs. Trevanion how kindly she had spoken to him. He was seized with a terrible depression of spirits when he left his mistress's presence."Never go there again to sell eggs, or anything else, Sam," she said firmly. "Your master will be very angry with you if he hears of it. Here is the money. Take it to your father, and mind you never do such a thing again."Sam, with a rueful face, told Dick what had happened."I should think not, indeed," said Dick indignantly. "If I catch you going inside the gates of the Dower House grounds again I'll break your head, young Sam; you remember it."For several days the Squire scarcely left the house. Then he happened to meet John Trevanion riding along the road. The supplanter swept off his hat with a mocking salutation, but the Squire passed him without a sign of recognition.A day or two later Sir Bevil Portharvan, owner of an estate some miles distant, rode over to the Towers."Ah, Trevanion," he said to the Squire, "how d'ye do? 'Tis only yesterday I heard that your cousin was the purchaser of the bonds I held. It must be a great comfort to you that the property has not gone out of the family.""Let me tell you, once for all, Sir Bevil," cried the Squire, his cheeks red with anger, "that the owner of the Dower House is a stranger to me. I will not speak to him, nor look at him, and I don't care who knows it.""Dear me, I am sorry," said the astonished visitor. "I had no idea of it, or, believe me, Trevanion, I would never——""Enough, Sir Bevil. I have no grudge against you. You have been very long-suffering; I thank you for it; but I would have given you my property rather than it should fall into the hands of its present owner. I say no more."And Sir Bevil told his friends that old Trevanion was growing very crusty, and it was a pity to see such paltry envy in a man of his years.CHAPTER THE FOURTHThe Cave of SealsSome few days afterwards, Mr. Mildmay, visiting the Towers once more, chanced to mention that as he passed St. Cuby's Cove in his cutter he had seen a couple of seals disporting themselves in the shallow water under the cliff. The conversation passed at once to other matters, but next morning Dick told Sam what the lieutenant had said, and suggested that they should go seal-hunting. Sam was nothing loth, and promised to accompany his young master as soon as he had fed the poultry and cleaned out the sties.Seals were not often seen on the coast; indeed, Dick had only once before heard of their appearance, so that the proposed expedition had all the charm of novelty. While waiting for Sam, he went to the kitchen, where Reuben Pollex was washing the dishes, and asked him if he could tell him how to tackle a seal."That's more than I can do, Maister Dick," said the old man. "I never caught nawthin' but fish and rabbits, and maybe a stoat now and again; never seed a seal in my life.""They're valuable, Reuben," said Dick. "The skins are worth a good deal. They are made into coats and tippets and such things for ladies, you know.""The mistress wants a new coat, so 'twould come handy, and I wish 'ee luck. I've heerd tell that the critters sometimes hide in the cave yonder, though as no man, 's far 's I know, ever did see 'em there, it may be only guesswork."The cave mentioned was at the head of St. Cuby's Cove. Its entrance was exposed only at low tide, and Dick had more than once visited it at such times, exploring its recesses by the light of a torch or one of the house lanterns. He had never made any interesting discovery there, and had for some years ceased to visit it."Didn't you tell me once that there is an entrance to the cave from the land side, Reuben?" he asked."Ay, folks used to say so when I was a boy, but I don't know as there be any truth in it. Once upon a time, long afore my day, there was a mine thereabouts, and maybe one of the adits ran down to the cave; but 'tis sixty year or more since the mine give out—in yer grandfer's time—and not a soul have been down in the workings ever since, 's far 's I know."Here Sam appeared and announced that he was ready. The two lads, provided with a gun, a cutlass, a lantern, and a few candle-ends, proceeded to the spot on the beach of Trevanion Bay where their boat was moored, launched her, and rowed round the promontory to St. Cuby's Cove. The tide was running out, and as the interval during which the cave was free from water was very short, Dick and his companion worked the boat through the entrance with their hands as soon as there was room for them to pass between the roof and the surface of the sea.The opening was at first a narrow tunnel in the cliff, but after some yards it began to widen gradually, and at length enlarged itself into a spacious vault, in which there was a continuous murmur, such as is heard on putting a shell to one's ear. By the time the boys reached it the tide had completely left the cave, and the boat stranded on a sandy beach, littered with rocks of all shapes and sizes, which had apparently fallen at various times from the roof. They lit their lantern, whose yellow rays fell on jagged granite walls, glistening shells, and slimy seaweed covering the rocks on the floor. Here and there were small pools which the tide never left dry, and where the light of the lantern revealed innumerable little marine creatures darting this way and that with extraordinary rapidity.The boys made the boat fast by looping the painter round a jagged boulder. They moved warily, for the seal was a beast unknown to either of them, though Dick, in his total ignorance of these creatures of the deep, hardly expected to find them in the cave now that the sea had receded. Presently, however, they heard above the hollow murmur another sound, like the feeble bleat of a very young lamb. They peered about, moving the lantern to and fro, and at length discovered, lying on a rocky ledge at the inmost end of the cave, two small cream-coloured objects, scarcely more than a foot long, whose soft eyes blinked in the light, and from whose mouths issued plaintive cries of alarm."Bean't they proper little mites!" said Sam, putting out his hand to touch them."Don't do that!" cried Dick hastily; "the old ones may be about, and if they're like other beasts, they'll attack us if they think we'll hurt their young.""Shan't we take 'em, then?" asked Sam."Of course not; they're too young.""And shan't we look for the old uns?""No; the young ones would die if we killed the parents. We must come again later on, when they're old enough to take care of themselves. But our day shan't be wasted. We'll see if we can find the other entrance to the cave.""What other entrance?""Your father says 'tis thought that at one time there was a way in from an adit above.""I can't believe it. The free-traders would have found it long afore this if so 'twere.""I don't know. The adit wouldn't be an easy passage for them with their bales and kegs. But don't let us waste time; the tide will be running back soon."They followed the irregular circuit of the cave, thrusting the lantern into every recess and hollow, holding it high and low, but discovering nothing except the same rugged and apparently impenetrable wall."There bean't no opening," said Sam at length. "'Twas fiddle-faddle to say there be.""Perhaps it is high above us, out of reach," suggested Dick."Where's the sense o' that?" replied Sam, disappointed of the anticipated sport. "What mortal good would it be to any soul alive to make an opening where 'ee'd break yer neck if you come to it?"Dick did not answer, craning his neck to scan the heights above him. The light of the lantern failed to penetrate the overarching gloom. The roof of the cave was invisible, and the walls appeared to rise perpendicularly, with projections here and there that looked, in the spectral glimmer, like the grotesque gargoyles on a church-tower."I'd like to climb up there," said Dick at length."Lawk-a-massy, you'd break yer neck for sure. 'Tis a 'mazing hard job to climb the cliff arter gulls' eggs, but this be death and burial.""We could do it with a ladder.""Our ladder bean't long enough by half; the only ladders long enough be they in church-tower, and they be too heavy to lug here, and sexton wouldn't let us take 'em. Scrounch it all, Maister Dick, I do think 'ee be muddled in yer head to think o' sech daring doings. See now, tide's comin' in, and we don't want to be drownded.""That's the most sensible thing you've said for a while, Sam. We'll go now, but I won't give it up. We'll get a ladder, or make one, and come back another day. I'm determined to find out if there really is an opening.""Well, Feyther says most heads do have a magget in 'em, like turmits, and this be yours; 'tis indeed."They loosed the boat, and paddled out as they had come, Dick resolving, in spite of his follower's damping attitude, to return before long, and make a thorough exploration of the place.Later in the day, as he walked home from the Parsonage, he was struck with an idea of a contrivance for serving his purpose. He consulted old Reuben about it when he got home, and Sam, on returning from an errand in the village, found his father and Dick hard at work in an outhouse, splicing short lengths of rope, and fixing them at regular intervals between two thin but strong poles about six feet long."What be doin', Feyther?" asked Sam."Use yer eyes, sonny, and put a name to 't yerself," replied Reuben."Well, if I was to speak my thought, I'd say 'ee was makin' a ladder that 'ud let a man down as soon as he put a foot on it.""Then 'tis for you to make it stronger, my son, babe and sucklin' as 'ee be. T'ud be a sin to let so much cleverness run to seed. Strip off yer coat and lay into it, and keep yer tongue quiet, for if 'ee set all the organs of yer body goin' at once, you'll die young."This implied rebuke had the effect of making Sam enter zealously into the work, and before supper two light ladders were finished, each six feet long, which, together with a short ladder of the ordinary kind that Reuben used in his duties about the premises, provided Dick with a total length of eighteen or twenty feet. His notion was to carry these separate pieces down to the cave, and then lash them together to form one continuous whole.He fixed on the following afternoon for his second visit to the cave. The morning turned out very wet, the rain pouring down in quite unusual volume; but the sky cleared after dinner, and the two boys set off, timing themselves as before to reach the cave when the ebbing tide left the entrance free. Again the baby seals were alone, and much as Dick would have liked a tussle with their parents, his sporting bent was for the time subordinate to his wish to find the supposed landward entrance to the cave.The ladder perfectly answered its purpose, but it was disappointing to find that it was by no means long enough. Even when Dick, the taller of the two, stood on the topmost rung, Sam holding the ladder steady at the bottom, he saw that the walls still stretched for several feet above him. But the roof was now in sight, an irregular arch, consisting of knobs, wedges, and inverted pyramids of rock, and Dick felt the tantalising certainty that the opening, if opening there was, could not be far away.They went all round the cave, setting the ladder up at frequent intervals, Dick exploring every foot of the jagged wall with the aid of his lantern. There were plenty of recesses and depressions, ranging from a finger's breadth to the length of his arm; but he did not find one where he was unable to touch the back of it with his outstretched hand. It was clear that the opening, if it existed, must be above his head."We shall have to make another length of ladder, and come back again," he said to Sam. "I won't give it up."He was standing high on the ladder as he spoke, dangling the lantern by a ring at the top. The words were scarcely out of his mouth when there was a tremendous crash, which shook the place, and so much startled him that, in an instinctive movement to cling on to something, he let the lantern fall. It lighted fairly on the top of Sam's head, bounced off, and dropped with a thud to the sandy floor, where the candle was instantly extinguished."Are you hurt, Sam?" cried Dick, anxiously."Rabbit it all!" roared Sam, in high indignation. "Do 'ee think my head be wood then? Bean't I got feelings like any other common man? My skull have got a furrow in it a yard long, and I may rub it till I'm dead, I'll never straighten it out again.""I'm sorry, but I couldn't help it, Sam. Light the candle again, will you, so that we can see what has happened."Sam growled and grunted as he struck a light from his tinder-box. The rekindled candle revealed a strange catastrophe. A huge mass of the wall and roof of the cavern had collapsed, owing perhaps to the heavy rains in the morning, and the débris was lying in a heap against the opening of the tunnel leading to the exterior."If this bean't a pretty kettle of fish, never call me Sam again," said the boy in consternation. "'Tis closed up; we be shet in."Dick climbed down the ladder, and crossed the floor of the cave to see the extent of the mischief. It was as Sam had said. Their exit was barred by a mass of rock and loose soil that must weigh several tons."Quick, Sam!" cried Dick, "we must work hard to clear it away. The tide will be on the turn, and we don't want to be imprisoned here all night."They began to work with all haste, but soon found that the task would be a long one. The smaller pieces of rock were easily cast aside; but there were many large masses which, besides being heavy and cumbersome themselves, were very difficult to move by reason of the earth in which they were imbedded. The boys had made but little progress when the sea began to creep in."We'll be drownded alive!" said Sam, now in a state of terror."Work, then. Shove your hardest, Sam; we'll do it yet."They tugged and hauled and pushed with fierce energy, and by employing their united strength upon the largest masses, they succeeded in clearing a path wide enough to allow room for the boat. By this time the water was almost up to their knees, and they heard the boat graze the rocks as it floated on the incoming tide. Loosing the painter, they pushed the craft through the tunnel, only to find, when they approached the seaward opening, that but a small segment of the sky was visible, the gap being too shallow to afford a passage."We are trapped, Sam; there's no denying it," said Dick quietly. "But don't be alarmed. I don't suppose the water reaches the roof of the cave even at high tide, so that we can float in the boat quite safely. It only means a few hours' imprisonment.""If I've got to be jailed, I'd rather be in village lock-up; 'tis dry at any rate. Can't we swim out, Maister Dick?""Of course we can, but I doubt whether we had better do it. There's a dozen yards or more under water first, and then a good half-mile outside before we can land. We should get pretty well knocked about on the rocks if there's any swell on the sea. We had much better stay here."Sam gloomily assented to this course. They got into the boat, and sat there for some time watching it rise gradually as the tide grew higher."Hang me for a jackass!" cried Dick suddenly."What have 'ee been and done?" asked Sam with concern."Why, we haven't got gun, cutlass, or any other weapon.""'A b'lieve not," said Sam, "but we couldn't keep out the tide with un if we had forty guns and fifty cutlasses.""The seals! They'll come back with the tide, and be in a terrible rage with us, thinking we're after their babies.""Be-jowned if I thought of it! 'Twas a true word; you do be a great jackass, sure enough.""Mind what you say, Sam, or I'll throw you out.""'Twas your word, not mine. I wouldn't go so far as that. Ninnyhammer is the worst I'd call 'ee. But I told 'ee how 'twould be, with yer head itchin' with this magget of openin's and ladders and all that.""Be ready to use the boat-hook, or the anchor, if the seals attack us. I'll use one of the oars.""I don't believe we'll have to fight at all," cried Sam. "Look 'ee! There be they two young seals swimmin' out to find the old uns. They bean't so young as you thought if they can swim like that, and we med as well have took 'em yesterday as not.""Well, 'tis too late now. They're gone.""To get their supper, I reckon. I be mortal hungry, Maister Dick, arter all that work. Have 'ee got a morsel of bread in yer pocket?""Not a bit.""Not a apple or codling?""Not one.""I could eat a turmit or a raw tater. But don't name 'em to me, or I shall feel very bad for thinkin' of 'em. Best thing is to go to sleep when yer hungry, 'cos you don't feel it then.""Well, sleep. I'll wake you if anything happens."The boy curled himself up in the bottom of the boat, and soon filled the cavern with his snores.
[image]"'HALT, IN THE KING'S NAME!' CRIED MR. MILDMAY"
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"'HALT, IN THE KING'S NAME!' CRIED MR. MILDMAY"
"I'll halt if 'ee bid me in the King's name," said the fisher, recognising the revenue officer, whom he, like the population of Polkerran generally, held in detestation mingled with unwilling respect, "but I bean't doin' nowt agen the law, I tell 'ee, carr'in' a genel'um's traps for a groat."
"A gentleman, is it?" said Mr. Mildmay, turning to the traveller. "I must ask you to tell me your business."
"And you shall have an answer. I come from Newquay, and am going to seek a night's lodging at the Five Pilchards, if you have no objection, captain."
Mr. Mildmay looked suspiciously at the speaker, whose accent was that of an educated man. He was not the type of person to meet afoot with his trunk on the high road. Old Penwarden's single eye also was fixed on the stranger's swarthy, bearded face.
"No more objection, my dear sir, than you will have to my taking a look at the inside of that trunk of yours. In the King's name!"
"With all the pleasure in life. Amos, or whatever your name is, set down the trunk for the inspection of this exceedingly zealous officer of His Majesty's."
The trunk was opened, and Penwarden turned over its contents, Mr. Mildmay looking on. He found articles of apparel, a sword, some bundles of papers, a bag of money, a large leather-bound book, a brace of pistols, and sundry insignificant articles, none of which was chargeable with duty.
"Thank you, sir," said Mr. Mildmay, when the inspection was concluded. "I am sorry to have detained you, but in these times——"
"Quite so, captain," interrupted the other. "In these times one cannot be too particular. I bid you good-night, and better luck at your next examination."
Mr. Mildmay hurried on with Penwarden, and was soon lost to sight.
"Who's that popinjay?" said the traveller, when the lieutenant was out of hearing.
"That be Maister Mildmay, the preventive officer, and a dratted furriner," replied the fisher. "He've been in these parts two years now, and a meddlesome feller he be too. Hee! hee! He got nowt for his pains this time, maister, and if there's one thing I do like to see, 'tis the preventives fooled. Hee! hee!"
"Old Penwarden looks the same as ever, except for the shade over his eye."
"Do 'ee know him, maister?"
"I used to, years ago."
"Iss, old Joe be a decent good soul of his trade, and we was vexed, trewly, when 'a got his eye put out in a fight by Lunnan Cove. But there, he shouldn' meddle with honest free-traders. Lawk-a-massy! I be speakin' free."
"Oh, you're quite safe with me. I'm a bit of a free-trader myself, in my way."
They went on, and in a few minutes came to an inn at the lower end of the village near the beach. This was the Five Pilchards. The village boasted another inn, a hundred yards away, called the Three Jolly Mariners; but it belied its name, being frequented mainly by farm labourers.
The traveller paid and dismissed the fisher, and rapped at the closed door. It was opened by the innkeeper himself, a podgy, red-nosed, blear-eyed fellow, with an underhung lip, and a chin like a dewlap. A small candle-lamp hung above in the doorway, showing a dim yellow ray upon the smiling face of the visitor. The innkeeper started back.
"I startled you, eh?" said the visitor. "Yes, it is I myself—John Trevanion come home again. I am getting on in years, Doubledick, and I felt I should like to die among my friends."
"Ha, ha! Ho, ho!" laughed the innkeeper. "'Tis Maister John, for sure, come home with his little jokes. Come along in, maister, come in; daze me if I bean't as pleased as pigs to see 'ee."
"Take me to a room, Doubledick, and get some clean sheets, will you? And send me up something passable to eat and drink; I'll sup alone."
"Iss, sure. I'll give 'ee the best I've got in the house. What do 'ee say, now, to collops and fried taties, or a nice bit o' bass, or a dish o' pickled pilchurs, and some real old—you know what, Maister John? Hee, hee!"
"Whatever you like, Doubledick, only be quick about it."
The innkeeper led his visitor along a passage past the open door of the bar-parlour. John Trevanion glanced in as he went by. A number of rough fishermen in various garments sat drinking on settles along the wall. The most noticeable among them was a man of vast breadth, brawny and muscular, his strong features tanned copper-colour by years of sea-faring, his thick hair and beard the hue of ebony. The sleeves of his scarlet jersey were turned up, revealing brown and hairy forearms that would have befitted a Hercules.
"Tonkin is still flourishing, I see," said Trevanion in an undertone to the innkeeper as he passed.
"Iss, Zacky Tonkin be as great a man as ever he wer, and a tarrible plague o' life to the preventives. Mr. Curgenven—ye mind of him, Maister John?—died two year back, and they sent a furrin feller, Mildmay by name, to look arter us mortals—hee! hee! He be a good feller at his job, a sight better than Curgenven, who loved an easy life, as 'ee could remember; but Zacky do know how to deal wi' un, he do so. Oh, 'tis a rare deceivin' game he plays wi' un. He's up-along and down-along, and this Mildmay feller atraipsin' arter un, by sea and land, 'tis all one to Zacky. Here's yer room, Maister John. Do 'ee set yerself down and I'll bring 'ee up a supper fit for a lord in no time."
He looked at his visitor doubtfully for a moment.
"I'd axe 'ee one thing," he said. "Be I to let 'em know down below as you be in house?"
"To be sure, Doubledick, there's nothing to conceal. You might remember to say that I've come from London—no, hang me, I am forgetting; from Newquay directly, from London ultimately. You understand?"
"Iss, I understand. No matter where 'ee come from, if 'twere from old Nick hisself, they'll be glad to see 'ee, that they will."
John Trevanion kept to his room until the morning. At nine o'clock he left the inn and made his way through the village by back lanes, to escape the notice of such fishermen as might remember him, and proceeded at a quick pace along the road to the Towers. He was dressed this morning in a black hat turned up at one side with a rosette, a bottle-green frock coat, white kerseymere breeches, and long boots. "He looks summat older and nearer graveyard, as must we all," remarked Doubledick to a crony as he watched him depart, "but he's a fine figure of a man still."
Arriving at the Towers, John Trevanion lifted the latch of the door leading to the inhabited portion, and entered with the freedom of one of the family. The Squire was at breakfast with his wife and son.
"Come in," he shouted, in answer to a tap on the door, and rose from his chair as the well-dressed visitor entered, thinking, as might have been gathered from his manner, that it was one of the few friends who had the freedom of the house. But at a second glance his demeanour altered.
"You have made a mistake, I think," he said stiffly, resting both hands on the table. His fine face was flushed, and Dick, looking on in wonderment, noticed that the riband that bound his queue of grey hair was quivering.
"Surely, Cousin Roger, you'll let bygones be bygones," said John Trevanion suavely. "'Tis now—I don't know how many years ago."
"When I last saw you, sir, I bade you never enter my door again. I do not call back my words, and see no reason to do so. You will oblige me by relieving me of your presence."
The words came sternly from his trembling lips. Dick felt himself go hot and cold.
"Is there no word repentance in your dictionary, Roger Trevanion?" said his cousin bitterly. "You're a good Christian, I suppose—go to church and say the Commandments, 'love your neighbour,' and all that; but you'll harden your heart against one of your own kin that had the ill-luck to offend you——"
"Stop!" thundered the Squire. "The offence to me I make nothing of; you have shamed your name and put yourself beyond the pale of honest men. 'Ill-luck,' you call it! 'Twas no ill-luck—though we Trevanions have enough of that, God knows!—but the act and nature of a scoundrel. I am ashamed you bear my name. I disown you. Take yourself out of my sight."
His wife laid a gentle hand on his arm.
"A pretty welcome, on my soul, for a man who has lived down the faults of his youth," said John Trevanion. "I tell you, Roger Trevanion, I will not put up with such usage—I will not! I don't want your forgiveness; a fig for your friendship! But I demand decent treatment from you, and——"
"By the Lord that made me," cried the Squire, "if you do not instantly remove yourself from this house I will have you thrown out. Do you hear me, sir?"
John Trevanion's eyes glittered as he returned his cousin's wrathful look. He half opened his mouth, closed it with a snap; then an inscrutable smile stole upon his face. He shrugged, turned on his heel, and went silently from the room.
The Squire sank into his chair. The flush had vanished from his face, leaving it ashy pale. His hands trembled with excess of indignation.
"My dear, calm yourself," said his wife soothingly. "He is gone."
He made no reply. Dick sat silent, every nerve tingling with excitement. In a minute his father rose, leaving his coffee half finished, and strode heavily from the room.
"Mother, what does it mean?" asked Dick breathlessly. "Was that cousin John?"
"Yes, my dear. Do not name him to your father. I will go to him; I fear he will be ill. Finish your breakfast, Dick, and go to the Parsonage. You had better stay there all day; Mr. Carlyon will give you some dinner."
She followed her husband, leaving Dick to his breakfast and his wondering thoughts. He faintly remembered his cousin John Trevanion, who ten years before had lived in the now empty Dower House, between the Towers and the village, as his father had done before him. John Trevanion had then been a gay, careless, happy-go-lucky young man of thirty, who lived on the Squire's bounty, riding his horse among the county yeomanry, hunting with his neighbours, roistering it with the most rakish young blades of the adjacent manors, joining in daredevil escapades with the smugglers. His antics and riotings became a byword in the country-side, and Dick remembered how, when a young boy, he had witnessed several violent scenes between his father and John after some particularly outrageous exploit. Old Pollex had told him that the Squire had threatened many times that unless John reformed he would no longer be allowed to occupy the Dower House, and had forgiven him over and over again. At last a day came when John disappeared. Dick had never learnt the true reason; the Squire never mentioned his cousin; Pollex, when questioned, shook his head and pursed up his lips, and said that John Trevanion was a villain; and Dick had formed the conclusion from stray hints that the ne'er-do-well cousin had been driven out of the country by some criminal act. For ten years he had not been heard of, and he had wholly slipped from Dick's thoughts.
Having finished his breakfast, Dick took his cap and set off for his two-mile walk to the Parsonage, where he went daily to receive lessons in classics and literature from Mr. Carlyon, the vicar. He had never been to school, his father's resources being incapable of bearing the expense. A few years before this time the Squire had been seriously disturbed about his son's education. He was himself a sufficiently competent tutor in mathematics, but what classics he ever had had wholly left him, and he was miserable in the thought that the boy was growing up without the elements of the education of a gentleman. At this point the vicar stepped in with a proposal. He was a liberal-minded, genial man, a fellow of his college, a student of his county's antiquities, and in his 'varsity days had been a notable athlete. Now, though well on in years, he would often, on a Sunday afternoon after church, lend his countenance to wrestling bouts and games of baseball among the village youths. He rode to hounds, and judged at coursing matches, these and similar avocations probably accounting for the fact that a history of the parish, which he had commenced twenty years before, was still unfinished. One day he suggested to the Squire that he should give Dick lessons in Latin and Greek, to keep himself from rusting, as the worthy man delicately put it, but really to make good the deficiency due to his friend's straitened means. Mr. Trevanion gladly accepted the offer, and Dick had now been for five years under the parson's capable tuition.
When Dick returned home in the evening he was met by Sam Pollex in a state of considerable excitement.
"I say, Maister Dick," he said, "this be a fine mossel o' news. Yer cousin John—a rare bad 'un he be—have come home-along."
"I know," replied Dick. "I've seen him."
"Have 'ee, for sure? I hain't seed un, but I heerd tell on un in village. Ike Pendry were goin' along road last night when up comes my genel'um and axed un to carr' his bundle for a groat. He wer traipsin' along from St. Cuby's Cove way, about an hour, it do seem, arter we come up from fishin'."
"Where had he come from?"
"Newquay, 'a said; but 'tis my belief he come out o' the smack we seed, and clomb the cliff, same as we."
"That's nonsense. He wouldn't come in a smack, and if he did he wouldn't land at the Cove. He has made no secret of his return, and there's no reason why he shouldn't land at the jetty."
"Ah, well, things be as they be; but I reckon he come in the smack, all the same."
"What is he doing in the village?"
"He bean't there no longer. This arternoon he packed up his traps and rid off on one of Doubledick's hosses to Trura. Feyther seed un go. 'A called to un as he rid by. 'Hoy, Reuben!' says he, ''tis a cold country, this!' That just 'mazed Feyther, 'cos it was a frizzlin' day. 'Spect he've been in furrin parts, wheer what's bilin' to we is nawthin' but chill-off to they. So 'tis, to be sure."
At this piece of news Dick felt much relieved. He hoped that Polkerran had seen the last of John Trevanion. But it turned out that the return of the native was only the first scene in a series of strange happenings that were to be long remembered in the village, and were vitally to affect the fortunes of the family at the Towers.
CHAPTER THE THIRD
The Blow Falls
For some days after the event just related, life at Polkerran and the neighbourhood flowed on its customary sluggish tide. The fishermen were idle, waiting for pilchards to appear off the coast. The harvest had been gathered in from the fields. There was little for the village folk to do except to gossip. Men gathered in knots on the jetty and at the inn-doors, chatting about the return of John Trevanion, the strange vessels that had been seen, and the revenue cutter's failure to catch them, the appearance of a ghost at St. Cuby's Well, the prospects of the fishing season, the chances of making good "runs," and besting Mr. Mildmay and the excisemen. At the Towers there was nothing to show that anything had happened to disturb the placid surface of existence, except that the Squire was more silent than usual, and went about with a pale face and a preoccupied and troubled look.
One afternoon, after the lapse of about a week, Dick, leaving the Parsonage after his daily lessons, was surprised to see his father approaching across the glebe. The Squire was on foot: his last horse had been sold long ago.
"Ha, Dick!" he said, as he met his son, "you have finished with Greeks and Romans for the day, then. I have come for a word with the parson. Shall be home to supper."
Dick went on, and his father entered the house.
"Ah, Trevanion, I am glad to see you," said Mr. Carlyon, cordially, his keen eyes not failing to note a certain gravity in his old friend's expression.
"I want your advice, Carlyon," said Mr. Trevanion abruptly.
"And you shall have the best I can give, as you know well. Come into the garden and smoke a pipe with me. Good, honest tobacco, even if 'tis contraband—and I can't swear to that—will do no harm to you or me."
When they were seated side by side in wide wicker chairs beneath the shade of an elm-tree, the Squire drew from his pocket a folded paper which had been sealed at the edges.
"Read that," he said, handing it to the vicar.
Mr. Carlyon carefully rubbed his spectacles, set them on his nose with deliberation, and slowly opened the paper.
"H'm! God bless my soul! Poor old Trevanion!" he murmured, as he read, unconscious that his words were audible. "This is bad news, Trevanion," he said, aloud, looking over the rims of his spectacles with grave concern.
"It is. It is the very worst," said the Squire, gloomily. "It is the end of things for me."
"No, no; don't say that. Every cloud has a silver lining."
"A musty proverb, Carlyon. You don't see the silver lining in a thunderstorm, and it doesn't keep your skin dry. This spells ruin, ruin irretrievable."
The parson pressed his lips together, and read the document again. It was a brief intimation from a Truro attorney of his client's intention to foreclose on the mortgages he held upon certain parcels of land, if the sums advanced on them were not repaid within a month from that date.
"This is not your own man?" said the parson.
"No. I never heard of him before."
"What is the extent of the obligation?"
"Two thousand pounds. I can't muster as many shillings. I am in arrear with the interest. Within a month we shall be in the poor-house—a noble end for Trevanion of the Towers!"
"Tut, tut! You take too black a view of things. 'I have been young, and now am old; yet have I not seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread.'"
"But I have, and so have you, Carlyon. I see things as they are. 'Tis no surprise to me; these many months I have felt the blow might fall at any moment; but the condemned man hopes to the last for a reprieve, and I have gone from day to day, like a weakling and simpleton, refusing to face the facts. Not that I could have done anything; I am bankrupt; there's no way out of it."
"Who holds the mortgages?"
"Sir Bevil Portharvan. I have nothing to say against him. He has been very patient. A man of business would have foreclosed long ago, though he would have got little by it, for the mines are worked out, the Towers is a ruin, and the land will grow next to nothing but thistles and burdock. 'Twas to be."
"But he can't take the Towers from you. Do you not hold fast to that?"
"I did till a year ago, but there's a small bond on that now—a paltry hundred pounds; I could raise no more on it and the cliff. Sir Bevil does not hold that, however; 'tis my own lawyer."
The parson sawed the air with his hand, a trick of his when perplexed.
"Well, old friend," he said, "I am sorry for you, from the bottom of my heart. If I had the money, I would gladly lend it you, but 'passing rich on forty pound a year,' you know——"
"I know well. 'Tis not for that I come to you. Give me your advice. What can I do? I must leave the Towers; what can I do for a livelihood? Like the man in the Book, 'I cannot dig; to beg I am ashamed.' What a miserable fool I was to throw up the sea when I came into the property! And yet I don't know. Look at Mildmay; a year or two younger, 'tis true, but still a lieutenant, and thought fit for nothing better than to chase luggers and circumvent the trade. I've no interest with the Admiralty; they've enough to do to provide for the seamen invalided from the wars. What can an old fool past fifty do to earn his salt? Years ago I had my dreams of paying off the burdens and reviving the Trevanion fortunes; but they have long since vanished into thin air; the task needed a better head than mine. And what little chance I might have had was doomed by the misdeeds of that scoundrel cousin of mine——"
"I heard that he reappeared the other day. I hoped it was not true."
"'Twas true. He had the boldness, the effrontery, to come to me with his 'let bygones be bygones,' and sneering at my Christianity. You know the facts, Carlyon. You know how, but that I impoverished myself, he would to this day be in the hulks or slaving in the plantations. I was too tender, I was indeed. I ought to have let the law take its course, and put my pride in my pocket. 'Twas a weakness, I own it; and now 'tis time to take my payment."
"No, my good friend, you did right to keep your name unstained. But I wonder, indeed I do, that John Trevanion has dared to show his face here again."
"Oh, 'tis no wonder," said the Squire bitterly. "No one knew of his crime but three, you and I and John Hammond; only Hammond had proof of it, and he is dead. My worthless cousin learnt of his death, I warrant you; the Devil has quick couriers for such as he; and he comes back, relying on my weakness and your holiness. But I'll speak no more of him; he is gone, and I hope I shall never see him again. There's my boy Dick: what is to become of him? He is seventeen; he ought to be making his way in the world. I can't put him to a profession; I keep him at home drudging for us; and but for your kindness, Carlyon, he would be as ignorant and raw as the meanest farm-hind. 'Tis not right; 'tis cruelty to the lad; and he will live to curse the day he was born a Trevanion."
"Come, come, this is not like you, Squire," said Mr. Carlyon warmly. "The lad is doing very well. He lives an open, honest life, and a useful one. What if his hands are horny? He makes good progress with his books, too, and will be fit in a year or two to win a sizarship at Oxford, and he will do well there, take orders, or maybe become secretary to some great person. You need fear nothing for Dick. No; 'tis for yourself and your good wife we must think. And now let us put our heads together. What say you to visiting Sir Bevil, and seeking further grace? I will myself undertake the office."
"Never!" cried the Squire firmly. "I will have no man supplicating and beseeching on my behalf. No; let what must come, come; never will I whine and grovel for mercy."
"You are an obstinate old fool, Roger Trevanion," said the parson, laying a friendly hand on the other's arm. "But I own I sympathise with your feeling. Well, then, my counsel is—and you may scorn it—do nothing."
"Nothing!"
"Simply wait. The foreclosure must come, I see that; but the other mortgagee has not moved; you will still have a roof above you; you make no profit of the mortgaged lands, and so will be not a whit worse off than you are now, save in the one point of pride. That pride of yours has been your snare, Trevanion."
"Well I know it!"
"I don't preach, except on Sundays, but I believe in my heart that this trouble will turn out for your good. Hold fast your rock, old friend; 'twas sound advice, even though it came from a witch. No man can give you better, and I am superstitious enough to believe that while you follow it the Trevanions will not come to beggary."
The two friends sat talking for some time longer. When the Squire rose to go away, he said—
"I thank you, Carlyon. You have done me good. I see nothing but darkness ahead, but I'll take your advice; I'll stick to the ship, and keep my colours flying, and who knows?—perhaps I shall weather it out after all."
They shook hands and parted, and the parson returned to his study to read over an ode of Horace in readiness for Dick's lesson next day.
After his conversation with Mr. Carlyon the Squire recovered his wonted serenity. So cheerful was he when he told his wife and son what was going to happen, that they refrained from giving utterance in his presence to their own feelings on the matter, for fear of bringing back his gloom. He rode over one day in the carrier's cart to Truro to pay the interest on the Towers mortgage with the proceeds of a fine litter of pigs, and showed his lawyer the letter he had received from his professional brother.
"An excellent practitioner, sharp as a needle," said the lawyer. "He came to me a while ago wanting to purchase the little bond I myself hold; but I refused him point-blank, and went so far as to express my surprise at Sir Bevil. He grinned at me, Mr. Trevanion—yes, grinned at me in the most unseemly way. 'Twas not Sir Bevil's doing: that is one comfort."
"Who bought up the bonds, then?"
"That I cannot tell you: I do not know. No doubt a stranger, who has more money than judgment. I am sorry for this; I am indeed; and if there were any chance of getting metal out of the earth I could have transferred your mortgages with the greatest ease. As it is—but there, I won't talk of it. As for my own little bond on the Towers, that may remain till Doomsday so far as I am concerned. It would cut me to the heart to see the old place in the hands of any one but a Trevanion."
"You're a good fellow, Trevenick," said the Squire, "and I'm grateful to you."
"Not at all, not at all, my dear sir. I am perfectly satisfied with my investment."
And the Squire returned home more cheerful than ever, convinced that lawyers were not all as dry as their parchments.
The allotted month sped away. One afternoon, when Dick was at the parson's, Sam Pollex ran at headlong speed up the road from the village, dashed into the house, and forgetting his manners, burst into the Squire's room without knocking or wiping his boots, as he had been strictly enjoined always to do.
"If 'ee please, sir," he panted, "there be a wagon full of females pulled up at the door o' the Dower House yonder."
"Indeed!" said the Squire. "Have you never seen females before, Sam?"
"Iss I have, sometimes, in the village; but these be furriners, sir."
"Well, maybe they'll buy your eggs, and that'll save you three-quarters of your walk to the village."
Sam went out, looking very much puzzled. What had brought foreign females to his master's house, he wondered? Within half an hour he was back again, this time a little less eager, though equally excited. He rapped on the door, and being bidden to enter, said, less breathlessly than before:
"If 'ee please, sir, I seed a man on a hoss ride up to Dower House, and he went inside, sir, and 'twas Maister John."
"Who? John who?" The questions came like pistol-shots.
"His other name be Trevanion, it do seem," said the boy.
The Squire got up in great agitation.
"Are you sure, boy?" he asked.
"No, sir, I bean't sure, 'cos I never seed un afore; but I axed Tom Penny, who was standing by, who 'twas, and he said, 'Why, ninny-watch, doan't 'ee know yer own maister's born cousin? 'Tis the same fine genel'um that give Ike Pendry a groat for carr'n his portmantel.'"
Then something happened that scared Sam out of his wits and sent him scampering to the kitchen for his father.
"Feyther, Feyther," he cried, "come quick! Squire's took bad. 'A went all gashly white and wambled about, sighin' and groanin' that terrible! He's dyin', I b'lieve."
Old Reuben was lame, but he caught up a jug of water and hobbled with it as fast as he could to the Squire's room, sending Sam to fetch the mistress. He found the Squire seated in his chair, with a stony look upon his ashen face.
"What ails thee, maister?" cried the terrified servant.
"Nothing, nothing, Reuben," replied Mr. Trevanion. "Don't be afraid, and don't alarm your mistress."
Here Mrs. Trevanion came hastily in, Sam hanging behind as if afraid to approach too near.
"I am sorry they called you, my dear," said the Squire. "There is nothing wrong. Leave us, Reuben."
The old man hobbled away. Mrs. Trevanion stood by her husband's chair.
"I was overcome for a moment, but it has passed," said the Squire. "John Trevanion is the master of my lands."
"It cannot be, Roger!"
"It is, it is. Sam saw a party of servants drive to the Dower House, and John himself ride up a while after."
"But, Roger, I do not understand."
"'Tis very simple. He has bought up the mortgages from Sir Bevil's attorney—'twas hard to believe that the foreclosure was Sir Bevil's doing—and has come to mock me and flout me at my own doors; ay, and to drive me away, if he can!"
"A penniless man, Roger! You told me he left here a beggar."
"Yes, a beggar, and worse—a thousand times worse. But that was ten years ago, and in ten years beggars may become rich, and scoundrels may tread down many an honest man. But he shall not tread me down. He may own my land, and fence me in, and do what he will; but the Towers is mine, and by heaven I will hold it!"
Discretion was one of Mrs. Trevanion's qualities. Being relieved to find that Sam's alarming report of the Squire's illness was exaggerated, if not wholly imaginary, she sought with her wonted tact to divert her husband's thoughts into a calmer channel, and soon had him interested in purely domestic matters.
The re-opening of the Dower House was already the all-engrossing topic of conversation among the old wives and young wives, fishers, farmers, tradesmen, loafers and small fry of Polkerran and the neighbourhood. The "wagon-full of females" of Sam's kindling eye turned out to be one plump woman of forty and one slim maid of half that age, the cook and housemaid whom John Trevanion had engaged, as afterwards appeared, in a Devonshire village. On the same day two heavy wagons, each drawn by four enormous horses, arrived from Truro with furniture, kitchen utensils, and other things needed in setting up house, and on the next appeared a couple of riding-horses in charge of a lively young groom.
These important events were retailed and freely commented on in the tap-room of the Five Pilchards.
"We shall see brave doings up at the old house, neighbours," said Doubledick, the innkeeper, to the group of fishermen idling there. "Maister John is a fine feller, that he be. He were allers the chap for a randy, and 'twill be a rare change for we to have some one as will have feastings and merry-makings arter the miserable cold time we've had wi' Squire."
"'A must have a heap o' gold and silver in his purse to pay for all they fine-lookin' things we seed goin' in," said one of the men. "Wheer 'd he get it all from, can 'ee tell us that, neighbour Doubledick?"
"I might if I put my mind to it," said Doubledick sententiously. "But it don't matter a mossel wheer it do come from; there 'tis, and we shall have the good o't. The lord-lieutenant 'll make un a magistrate, if I know the ways o' providence, and I do know summat about 'em, neighbours all; and if any of 'ee are brought up afore un for a innocent bit o' free-tradin', he'll not be the man to stretch the law against 'ee, not he."
"'Tis a terrible affliction for Squire, to be sure," said another. "There be no loving-kindness 'twixt 'em, if all's true as folks tell, and a dog can't abide seein' another run off with his bone, that bein' my simple way of speech."
"Squire be goin' down, that's the truth o't," said Doubledick. "Well, some goes up and some goes down, and all gets level in churchyard."
Sam Pollex lost no time in making acquaintance with the new household. On the day after their arrival he carried a basket of eggs to the back-door of the Dower House, and blushed to the roots of his hair when it was opened by a pretty Devonshire lass, who smiled sweetly on him, asked him the price, and said she would speak to Cook.
"She will take them," said the girl on her return, "and bids me say you must come to-morrow and she'll let 'ee know if any is addled. What be the name of 'ee, boy?"
"Sam Pollex, ma'am," said Sam sheepishly.
"And where do 'ee live?"
"Up at Towers, yonder."
"Well I never! Bean't that where Maister's cousin the Squire lives?"
"Iss, him and me lives there, and the mistress, and Feyther, and Maister Dick."
"Only think of it, now! Squire selling eggs like a common dairyman!"
"Squire don't sell 'em; 'tis me, and I take Mistress the money. Sometimes it come to two or three shilling a week, but the hens don't lay in winter, and then I sell sides o' pork and chitterlings."
"Well, run away now, boy—Sam Pollex, did you say? What a funny name! And mind you don't lose the money."
Sam went away all aglow with admiration of the sweet looks of the maid-servant, and told Mrs. Trevanion how kindly she had spoken to him. He was seized with a terrible depression of spirits when he left his mistress's presence.
"Never go there again to sell eggs, or anything else, Sam," she said firmly. "Your master will be very angry with you if he hears of it. Here is the money. Take it to your father, and mind you never do such a thing again."
Sam, with a rueful face, told Dick what had happened.
"I should think not, indeed," said Dick indignantly. "If I catch you going inside the gates of the Dower House grounds again I'll break your head, young Sam; you remember it."
For several days the Squire scarcely left the house. Then he happened to meet John Trevanion riding along the road. The supplanter swept off his hat with a mocking salutation, but the Squire passed him without a sign of recognition.
A day or two later Sir Bevil Portharvan, owner of an estate some miles distant, rode over to the Towers.
"Ah, Trevanion," he said to the Squire, "how d'ye do? 'Tis only yesterday I heard that your cousin was the purchaser of the bonds I held. It must be a great comfort to you that the property has not gone out of the family."
"Let me tell you, once for all, Sir Bevil," cried the Squire, his cheeks red with anger, "that the owner of the Dower House is a stranger to me. I will not speak to him, nor look at him, and I don't care who knows it."
"Dear me, I am sorry," said the astonished visitor. "I had no idea of it, or, believe me, Trevanion, I would never——"
"Enough, Sir Bevil. I have no grudge against you. You have been very long-suffering; I thank you for it; but I would have given you my property rather than it should fall into the hands of its present owner. I say no more."
And Sir Bevil told his friends that old Trevanion was growing very crusty, and it was a pity to see such paltry envy in a man of his years.
CHAPTER THE FOURTH
The Cave of Seals
Some few days afterwards, Mr. Mildmay, visiting the Towers once more, chanced to mention that as he passed St. Cuby's Cove in his cutter he had seen a couple of seals disporting themselves in the shallow water under the cliff. The conversation passed at once to other matters, but next morning Dick told Sam what the lieutenant had said, and suggested that they should go seal-hunting. Sam was nothing loth, and promised to accompany his young master as soon as he had fed the poultry and cleaned out the sties.
Seals were not often seen on the coast; indeed, Dick had only once before heard of their appearance, so that the proposed expedition had all the charm of novelty. While waiting for Sam, he went to the kitchen, where Reuben Pollex was washing the dishes, and asked him if he could tell him how to tackle a seal.
"That's more than I can do, Maister Dick," said the old man. "I never caught nawthin' but fish and rabbits, and maybe a stoat now and again; never seed a seal in my life."
"They're valuable, Reuben," said Dick. "The skins are worth a good deal. They are made into coats and tippets and such things for ladies, you know."
"The mistress wants a new coat, so 'twould come handy, and I wish 'ee luck. I've heerd tell that the critters sometimes hide in the cave yonder, though as no man, 's far 's I know, ever did see 'em there, it may be only guesswork."
The cave mentioned was at the head of St. Cuby's Cove. Its entrance was exposed only at low tide, and Dick had more than once visited it at such times, exploring its recesses by the light of a torch or one of the house lanterns. He had never made any interesting discovery there, and had for some years ceased to visit it.
"Didn't you tell me once that there is an entrance to the cave from the land side, Reuben?" he asked.
"Ay, folks used to say so when I was a boy, but I don't know as there be any truth in it. Once upon a time, long afore my day, there was a mine thereabouts, and maybe one of the adits ran down to the cave; but 'tis sixty year or more since the mine give out—in yer grandfer's time—and not a soul have been down in the workings ever since, 's far 's I know."
Here Sam appeared and announced that he was ready. The two lads, provided with a gun, a cutlass, a lantern, and a few candle-ends, proceeded to the spot on the beach of Trevanion Bay where their boat was moored, launched her, and rowed round the promontory to St. Cuby's Cove. The tide was running out, and as the interval during which the cave was free from water was very short, Dick and his companion worked the boat through the entrance with their hands as soon as there was room for them to pass between the roof and the surface of the sea.
The opening was at first a narrow tunnel in the cliff, but after some yards it began to widen gradually, and at length enlarged itself into a spacious vault, in which there was a continuous murmur, such as is heard on putting a shell to one's ear. By the time the boys reached it the tide had completely left the cave, and the boat stranded on a sandy beach, littered with rocks of all shapes and sizes, which had apparently fallen at various times from the roof. They lit their lantern, whose yellow rays fell on jagged granite walls, glistening shells, and slimy seaweed covering the rocks on the floor. Here and there were small pools which the tide never left dry, and where the light of the lantern revealed innumerable little marine creatures darting this way and that with extraordinary rapidity.
The boys made the boat fast by looping the painter round a jagged boulder. They moved warily, for the seal was a beast unknown to either of them, though Dick, in his total ignorance of these creatures of the deep, hardly expected to find them in the cave now that the sea had receded. Presently, however, they heard above the hollow murmur another sound, like the feeble bleat of a very young lamb. They peered about, moving the lantern to and fro, and at length discovered, lying on a rocky ledge at the inmost end of the cave, two small cream-coloured objects, scarcely more than a foot long, whose soft eyes blinked in the light, and from whose mouths issued plaintive cries of alarm.
"Bean't they proper little mites!" said Sam, putting out his hand to touch them.
"Don't do that!" cried Dick hastily; "the old ones may be about, and if they're like other beasts, they'll attack us if they think we'll hurt their young."
"Shan't we take 'em, then?" asked Sam.
"Of course not; they're too young."
"And shan't we look for the old uns?"
"No; the young ones would die if we killed the parents. We must come again later on, when they're old enough to take care of themselves. But our day shan't be wasted. We'll see if we can find the other entrance to the cave."
"What other entrance?"
"Your father says 'tis thought that at one time there was a way in from an adit above."
"I can't believe it. The free-traders would have found it long afore this if so 'twere."
"I don't know. The adit wouldn't be an easy passage for them with their bales and kegs. But don't let us waste time; the tide will be running back soon."
They followed the irregular circuit of the cave, thrusting the lantern into every recess and hollow, holding it high and low, but discovering nothing except the same rugged and apparently impenetrable wall.
"There bean't no opening," said Sam at length. "'Twas fiddle-faddle to say there be."
"Perhaps it is high above us, out of reach," suggested Dick.
"Where's the sense o' that?" replied Sam, disappointed of the anticipated sport. "What mortal good would it be to any soul alive to make an opening where 'ee'd break yer neck if you come to it?"
Dick did not answer, craning his neck to scan the heights above him. The light of the lantern failed to penetrate the overarching gloom. The roof of the cave was invisible, and the walls appeared to rise perpendicularly, with projections here and there that looked, in the spectral glimmer, like the grotesque gargoyles on a church-tower.
"I'd like to climb up there," said Dick at length.
"Lawk-a-massy, you'd break yer neck for sure. 'Tis a 'mazing hard job to climb the cliff arter gulls' eggs, but this be death and burial."
"We could do it with a ladder."
"Our ladder bean't long enough by half; the only ladders long enough be they in church-tower, and they be too heavy to lug here, and sexton wouldn't let us take 'em. Scrounch it all, Maister Dick, I do think 'ee be muddled in yer head to think o' sech daring doings. See now, tide's comin' in, and we don't want to be drownded."
"That's the most sensible thing you've said for a while, Sam. We'll go now, but I won't give it up. We'll get a ladder, or make one, and come back another day. I'm determined to find out if there really is an opening."
"Well, Feyther says most heads do have a magget in 'em, like turmits, and this be yours; 'tis indeed."
They loosed the boat, and paddled out as they had come, Dick resolving, in spite of his follower's damping attitude, to return before long, and make a thorough exploration of the place.
Later in the day, as he walked home from the Parsonage, he was struck with an idea of a contrivance for serving his purpose. He consulted old Reuben about it when he got home, and Sam, on returning from an errand in the village, found his father and Dick hard at work in an outhouse, splicing short lengths of rope, and fixing them at regular intervals between two thin but strong poles about six feet long.
"What be doin', Feyther?" asked Sam.
"Use yer eyes, sonny, and put a name to 't yerself," replied Reuben.
"Well, if I was to speak my thought, I'd say 'ee was makin' a ladder that 'ud let a man down as soon as he put a foot on it."
"Then 'tis for you to make it stronger, my son, babe and sucklin' as 'ee be. T'ud be a sin to let so much cleverness run to seed. Strip off yer coat and lay into it, and keep yer tongue quiet, for if 'ee set all the organs of yer body goin' at once, you'll die young."
This implied rebuke had the effect of making Sam enter zealously into the work, and before supper two light ladders were finished, each six feet long, which, together with a short ladder of the ordinary kind that Reuben used in his duties about the premises, provided Dick with a total length of eighteen or twenty feet. His notion was to carry these separate pieces down to the cave, and then lash them together to form one continuous whole.
He fixed on the following afternoon for his second visit to the cave. The morning turned out very wet, the rain pouring down in quite unusual volume; but the sky cleared after dinner, and the two boys set off, timing themselves as before to reach the cave when the ebbing tide left the entrance free. Again the baby seals were alone, and much as Dick would have liked a tussle with their parents, his sporting bent was for the time subordinate to his wish to find the supposed landward entrance to the cave.
The ladder perfectly answered its purpose, but it was disappointing to find that it was by no means long enough. Even when Dick, the taller of the two, stood on the topmost rung, Sam holding the ladder steady at the bottom, he saw that the walls still stretched for several feet above him. But the roof was now in sight, an irregular arch, consisting of knobs, wedges, and inverted pyramids of rock, and Dick felt the tantalising certainty that the opening, if opening there was, could not be far away.
They went all round the cave, setting the ladder up at frequent intervals, Dick exploring every foot of the jagged wall with the aid of his lantern. There were plenty of recesses and depressions, ranging from a finger's breadth to the length of his arm; but he did not find one where he was unable to touch the back of it with his outstretched hand. It was clear that the opening, if it existed, must be above his head.
"We shall have to make another length of ladder, and come back again," he said to Sam. "I won't give it up."
He was standing high on the ladder as he spoke, dangling the lantern by a ring at the top. The words were scarcely out of his mouth when there was a tremendous crash, which shook the place, and so much startled him that, in an instinctive movement to cling on to something, he let the lantern fall. It lighted fairly on the top of Sam's head, bounced off, and dropped with a thud to the sandy floor, where the candle was instantly extinguished.
"Are you hurt, Sam?" cried Dick, anxiously.
"Rabbit it all!" roared Sam, in high indignation. "Do 'ee think my head be wood then? Bean't I got feelings like any other common man? My skull have got a furrow in it a yard long, and I may rub it till I'm dead, I'll never straighten it out again."
"I'm sorry, but I couldn't help it, Sam. Light the candle again, will you, so that we can see what has happened."
Sam growled and grunted as he struck a light from his tinder-box. The rekindled candle revealed a strange catastrophe. A huge mass of the wall and roof of the cavern had collapsed, owing perhaps to the heavy rains in the morning, and the débris was lying in a heap against the opening of the tunnel leading to the exterior.
"If this bean't a pretty kettle of fish, never call me Sam again," said the boy in consternation. "'Tis closed up; we be shet in."
Dick climbed down the ladder, and crossed the floor of the cave to see the extent of the mischief. It was as Sam had said. Their exit was barred by a mass of rock and loose soil that must weigh several tons.
"Quick, Sam!" cried Dick, "we must work hard to clear it away. The tide will be on the turn, and we don't want to be imprisoned here all night."
They began to work with all haste, but soon found that the task would be a long one. The smaller pieces of rock were easily cast aside; but there were many large masses which, besides being heavy and cumbersome themselves, were very difficult to move by reason of the earth in which they were imbedded. The boys had made but little progress when the sea began to creep in.
"We'll be drownded alive!" said Sam, now in a state of terror.
"Work, then. Shove your hardest, Sam; we'll do it yet."
They tugged and hauled and pushed with fierce energy, and by employing their united strength upon the largest masses, they succeeded in clearing a path wide enough to allow room for the boat. By this time the water was almost up to their knees, and they heard the boat graze the rocks as it floated on the incoming tide. Loosing the painter, they pushed the craft through the tunnel, only to find, when they approached the seaward opening, that but a small segment of the sky was visible, the gap being too shallow to afford a passage.
"We are trapped, Sam; there's no denying it," said Dick quietly. "But don't be alarmed. I don't suppose the water reaches the roof of the cave even at high tide, so that we can float in the boat quite safely. It only means a few hours' imprisonment."
"If I've got to be jailed, I'd rather be in village lock-up; 'tis dry at any rate. Can't we swim out, Maister Dick?"
"Of course we can, but I doubt whether we had better do it. There's a dozen yards or more under water first, and then a good half-mile outside before we can land. We should get pretty well knocked about on the rocks if there's any swell on the sea. We had much better stay here."
Sam gloomily assented to this course. They got into the boat, and sat there for some time watching it rise gradually as the tide grew higher.
"Hang me for a jackass!" cried Dick suddenly.
"What have 'ee been and done?" asked Sam with concern.
"Why, we haven't got gun, cutlass, or any other weapon."
"'A b'lieve not," said Sam, "but we couldn't keep out the tide with un if we had forty guns and fifty cutlasses."
"The seals! They'll come back with the tide, and be in a terrible rage with us, thinking we're after their babies."
"Be-jowned if I thought of it! 'Twas a true word; you do be a great jackass, sure enough."
"Mind what you say, Sam, or I'll throw you out."
"'Twas your word, not mine. I wouldn't go so far as that. Ninnyhammer is the worst I'd call 'ee. But I told 'ee how 'twould be, with yer head itchin' with this magget of openin's and ladders and all that."
"Be ready to use the boat-hook, or the anchor, if the seals attack us. I'll use one of the oars."
"I don't believe we'll have to fight at all," cried Sam. "Look 'ee! There be they two young seals swimmin' out to find the old uns. They bean't so young as you thought if they can swim like that, and we med as well have took 'em yesterday as not."
"Well, 'tis too late now. They're gone."
"To get their supper, I reckon. I be mortal hungry, Maister Dick, arter all that work. Have 'ee got a morsel of bread in yer pocket?"
"Not a bit."
"Not a apple or codling?"
"Not one."
"I could eat a turmit or a raw tater. But don't name 'em to me, or I shall feel very bad for thinkin' of 'em. Best thing is to go to sleep when yer hungry, 'cos you don't feel it then."
"Well, sleep. I'll wake you if anything happens."
The boy curled himself up in the bottom of the boat, and soon filled the cavern with his snores.