Ande Trembath: A Tale of Old Cornwall England

CHAPTER VII

The Captain was moulded more like his mother's side of the house. Clear grey eyes lighted up a countenance that was rugged and weather-beaten, while the family nose was absent and in its place was the straight, plain variety characteristic of his mother's family. Over his forehead was a long, livid scar that ran from the centre of the forehead, obliquely, to the right ear, a cavalry slash of the battle of Waterloo. Mistress Betty always persisted in having this covered by the Captain's waving grey hair, but the Captain would just as persistently throw his hair up and to one side, revealing the full extent of his old wound. What Mistress Betty was ashamed of was the Captain's glory. Captain Tom lived in tolerable contentment on a government pension, and of all the family, none were upon such intimate terms with the squire as himself.

"Ah, Captain Tom, what cheer?" said the Squire as he cordially shook the hand of the veteran. "And Master Richard, you are quite a man and every inch like your father. And Mistress Betty, I hope I see you well," and the squire made a profound bow that would shame an old-time knight, at the same time grasping her small hand delicately with his own.

The salutations were returned and then, seated around the tea-table that was placed near the immense bow-window, the master of Lanyan requested his guest to pronounce the blessing. The squire, who was seated beside Mistress Betty, perhaps designedly, who knows, for that lady had not given up the custom of angling, proceeded according to his usual custom.

"We thank thee——Oh! zounds and the devil!"

The latter part was like the explosion of a battery of artillery, and with reason. Mistress Betty's lap-dog, an unsightly brute, deeming himself insulted by the proximity of the squire, or perhaps jealous of his mistress' attentions to another—like many a human rejected suitor filled with vengeful spleen, or perhaps—kept waiting for his dinner—and seeing a fat limb much larger than the usual chicken leg near him, he decided to forage for himself. Whatever reason he had within him, the results were the same, for he fastened his teeth most vindictively in the squire's nankeen trowsers. Human nature was not proof against such an assault, and the victim gave vent to the above startling and most unseemly expression. He leaped up from the table, slapping and rubbing the affected part to relieve the pain.

The young Etonian had a grin on his generally calm countenance. Captain Tom with more zeal than wisdom grasped the poker and shoved it through the bars of the grate, saying that they had best have the wound cauterised at once. Sir James was profuse in apologies and Mistress Betty, much vexed, hurried the snarling brute into the library.

"This is out—outrageous," faltered the squire, in the midst of his pain; "such a savage brute, I wonder why you don't have him killed, Sir James."

"Cruel man, to abuse poor Cæsar so," said Mistress Betty, with a flash of the eye.

"Zounds, madam," replied the squire, but he went no further. His inherent courtesy to ladies, and the ap pearance of Captain Tom with the hot poker, caused him to beat a hasty retreat to the table.

With a smile of anguish he sat down, saying, "It is nothing, madam, nothing, Captain Tom—I do assure you—no need of cauterising—the pain has already gone."

Captain Tom very reluctantly replaced the poker, and soon they were all seated, chatting merrily, as if nothing had happened. The squire, occasionally slipping his hand beneath the table and giving the smarting limb a soothing rub, talked as cheerfully as the rest.

"And you won't stand for re-election," said the squire to Sir James.

"Not at present; the times are not yet ripe for reform and we must have a more extended suffrage before I can stand with success," said Sir James, helping himself to another lump of sugar and dropping it carefully into his cup with the air of a sage.

"Fudge," said Captain Tom, "the country doesn't need extended suffrage. Why, brother James, if your ideas go into effect the landed estates will be ruined. We have seen enough of those things over there in France. The people got extended suffrage and the king and the gentlemen got the suffering. Bah!" said Captain Tom in some disdain, "the landed estates must rule, pass out of existence, or give place to a Napoleon," and the Captain thumped the table emphatically with the sugar tongs.

"What a sage student of history you are, Captain Tom, and yet there are some things yet to learn. The revolution in France was not caused by their obtaining the suffrage, but by the retention of suffrage from them until they arose in revolt. A fortunate thing is it for the government that yields to the demands of the people and is not compelled to yield. When the proper form of government is in vogue, then there will be no occasion for the people demanding or of the government yielding. Government should stand halfway between the highest pinnacle and the broadest base of the populace."

"Why, Sir James, you surprise me!" ejaculated the squire; "you may as well turn American with those ideas! Tut—tut!" followed by a disapproving shake of the head.

"A vast discrepancy between Americanism and my ideal. Government in America stands upon a broad base, but is not as truly representative as our own government will become in a few years."

"You speak in riddles, Sir James," replied the squire.

"Well, let me explain. Strictly speaking, there is no real representative government. Even in America, women, negroes and Indians are not represented; neither among those that are represented is there any fair proportion of representation. Jefferson, their great sage, wrote the most foolish thing imaginable when he said 'all men are created free and equal.' It is evident that the opposite is the case. All men are different, different in physical strength, mental power, culture, attainments. Even in infanthood they are different. Equal ity is nowhere on earth, neither in the vegetable nor animal kingdom. It is a manifest injustice then to alter the plan of the Creator."

"Aye, aye, now you are coming around to our opinion," said Captain Tom.

"Not at all. Our present conservative system is wrong and unsafe. Government is resting on the highest pinnacle of the populace, from which position it may easily be deposed."

"Pshaw," said the squire, "I can't understand you; I thought you said our government was more representative than the American."

"No. I said it will be in a few years. In America the Church is not represented, neither are the institutions of learning—although they ought to have some special representation as well as the States. Now mark me well. In a few years, a decade at the most, the franchise will be extended to the humblest shop owner, house owner and tenant, and only the criminals and the utterly uneducated will have no voice in the government. Then we will have a more representative government and a more stable one than our American cousins. More representative, because colleges, universities, the clergy, and large and small property owners will have their respective portion of power; more safe because the roughest and lowest element of society will not have a controlling and dominating influence. How is it now, however? The landed proprietors and men of influence pack our House of Commons as they please. Everyone knows of Old Sarum—that it hasn't a single inhabitant, and yet it sends a member to the Commons, while Manchester, Leeds and Birmingham have no voice whatever in the affairs of the nation. We must have an extended suffrage. The people want it," and Sir James silenced his batteries.

"Well, so far as I can see," said Captain Tom, doggedly returning to the charge "the people are not demanding anything. Our people are comfortable and happy. Corn has arisen in price and our farmers are growing rich."

"Aye," said the squire, "so far as I can see, things are pretty prosperous. Corn has risen to fifty shillings per quarter."

"Ah," said Sir James, contemptuously, "what benefit is it for Cousin Jack in Cornwall to have a full stomach, and Tom in York and Devon to have an empty one? Fine national prosperity, that. Squire, you are interested in your own section, Captain Tom reads nothing but war news, and so both of you are blind to the signs of the times. The memory of the Blanketeers is still before the public and the pulse of the middle classes is mounting higher and higher. What signify the riots of last year and the affair of Peterloo?"

"A set of rebellious knaves, that need the hand of the Iron Duke to teach them their manners," replied Captain Tom, who was indignant to be accused of ignorance on national affairs. "A set of rebellious knaves, but where do you find gentlemen marching side by side in a cause with such a rabble."

"William Cobbet, the journalist," rejoined Sir James.

"Aye, a ploughman," sniffed Captain Tom, in some disdain.

"Aye, and more than a ploughman," added young Master Richard. "There's Sir Francis Burdette, Lord Brougham, the great Canning, Lord John Russell, Grenville, and Earl Grey—and Canning and Grey were Etonians." The last part was uttered with a little triumph in the tone.

"Ah, the young cock is beginning to crow," said Captain Tom, who knew not what else to reply.

Sir James looked pleased at this heavy broadside from his son and then again took up the reform cudgel, saying: "Very true, and even the younger Pitt over twenty years ago agitated the subject."

Here the squire thought it time to assist his friend, Captain Tom, and also show that he was not destitute of knowledge on national affairs.

"Tut, tut, that is a bad argument; Pitt abandoned his position as untenable, and——"

"Aye, he knew he couldn't hold the position and retreated as a sensible general should," interrupted Tom.

"Because of the excesses of the French revolution," replied Sir James.

The spirited debate went on with varying success to either party, Mistress Betty participating, sometimes on one side, and at times on the other, always sympathising with the weaker party, as women generally do. Toward the close, Captain Tom and the squire being hopelessly put to rout by the combined wisdom of Etonian and parliamentarian, she faithfully adhered to the former side, until even Captain Tom was forced to admit that, though a woman was of no service in a battle, yet they made pretty fair tongue-soldiers.

"Well," said the squire, as he was preparing to go, "your remarks, Sir James, have convinced me of one thing, and that is your sincere disinterestedness in self and your love for old England and her welfare. You are a statesman, sir, and we shall soon see if we can't place you in Parliament; aye, Tory or Liberal,—what matter—so long as the man is honest and capable."

Now this was exactly what Sir James had expected, and he shook hands cordially.

"Hold on, squire, we must have James there as a Tory. I don't believe he is as much a Liberal at heart as he pretends. Don't surrender the standard, squire," said Captain Tom.

A servant was holding in readiness the squire's cob, and assisted him to mount. Raising his hat, gallantly, to Mistress Betty, and waving an adieu to the others he paced briskly down the drive and out on the highway.

"What a courteous gentleman, and young, though he is a widower," murmured Mistress Betty. "Did you notice how, out of respect for my feelings for Cæsar, he didn't utter any complaint."

"Fudge," said Captain Tom, "that was due to his brave spirit in enduring pain. What a soldier he would make!"

"Pshaw!" exclaimed young Master Richard, "the old gentleman thought more of the hot poker than he did of courage or courtesy."

"It was courtesy," reaffirmed Mistress Betty.

"It was courage," exclaimed Tom.

"It was hot poker," reiterated the Etonian again and again, until under a score of reproaches from Mistress Betty and Captain Tom,—the former emphasising the courtesy, the latter the courage of the squire,—he found safety in speedy retreat.

Sir James said nothing until after Master Richard's exit, and then he broached the squire's desire of an alliance between the families.

"It seems we'll get the estates of the Manor in our family after all, and by a much more honourable method than father tried. That deed always did make me half ashamed of our name."

"Captain Tom," said Sir James, with a little of asperity in his voice, "the plan that exposed a traitor was perfectly honourable."

"I have always had my doubts whether my old comrade, Major Tommy Trembath, was a traitor, or his father either. They were both too honest to be guilty of treason. Why, look at the record of old Captain Ande at Culloden and Prestonpans. He was a hero. There he stood with Gardner at Prestonpans, fighting gallantly until stricken down with overwhelming numbers, and there was Major Tommy in the Peninsular campaigns. Aye, the more I think of it the more am I inclined to disbelieve the report of their treason,—but circumstances were against them," and the old soldier sighed, and with a halting step, due to a wound—a relic of the Napoleonic wars,—he tramped once or twice up and down the veranda. When he ceased, the look of sadness was gone and a humorous twinkle was in his eye. Around his weather-beaten countenance there was the faint trace of a smile of merriment.

"However, it is a good plan,—this marriage—and—if Cousin Betty can catch the squire we'll have a double claim on the Manor."

"Why, Captain Tom, how absurd!" exclaimed Mistress Betty, blushing confusedly.

"A tell-tale blush! I'll have to tell my old friend, the squire, of his opportunities to capture the stronghold of ages, that has remained unconquered for——"

"How absurd!" exclaimed Mistress Betty, in mingled anger and confusion, as she beat a hasty retreat to her apartments.

CHAPTER VIII

"OFF WITH HIS HEAD."[3]

It was still twilight when the squire reached the Manor. Hastily giving the cob into the hand of Sloan, he hurried into the hall and seated himself by a large window, where was stationed a large oaken table littered with a motley array of books and papers. This was the squire's position when any petty case was brought before him. Whether the books were kept for show or use no one knew. The only time the squire was known to look at them was during a trial, and this he did with the air of a Lord Chief Justice, which air had a very perceptible effect upon the trembling culprit.

If the truth were told, the squire had a more intimate knowledge of fishing, hunting, farm and mine management, the origin of ancient village plays and customs, than about law. Law always was a perplexing study to him. But as a compensation for his lack in this respect, he more than made it up in the learned dignity of his demeanour.

There were approaching steps heard on the veranda, and then the opening of a door, and in a moment more Stephen Blunt and Ande Trembath stood before him.

The steward took the chair that he was accustomed to occupy, ushered to such position by a wave of the squire's hand, and sharpened his quill pen preparatory to writing. Ande, neither invited to sit down nor stand, remained near at hand. His mother in her fond delight, thinking that he was to be rewarded for his morning heroism, had determined that he should be dressed in a manner suitable for the occasion. He presented a very creditable appearance in his snow-white trowsers, neckerchief, and neat blue jacket. His feelings were not as pleasant as his garments. Since he was evidently going to be rewarded for his services in saving the life of Mistress Alice, he felt exceedingly out of place. He rested his weight on one foot, fidgeted with the other, and fumbled his cap in a nervous manner. He grew restless under the steady eye of the master of Trembath Manor, and his restlessness increased the suspicions in the mind of the latter.

"Master Trembath."

The lad felt relieved that the silence was at length broken.

"Master Trembath, you were nigh the estate of late?"

"Yes—s, sir. I frequently go through the Manor woods, sir."

"Note that down, Master Blunt."

A bewildered look passed over the lad's face.

"You were nigh the estate last evening, and will you now tell us what you were doing in that place at that time?"

Ande grew more amazed and confused; amazed because he knew not what the squire was trying to ascertain, confused because he had been there and even in the gardens, but for a purpose he did not wish to divulge. A wave of crimson swept over his countenance, rivalling the sanguine hue of his locks.

"Take notice of his confusion, Master Blunt," and then in a stern voice to the lad, "You may as well out with it, we know all the facts of the affair."

Ande tried to answer, but his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth. His heart seemed to sink lower and lower in his chest.

"Sir, sir,—I—I——"

"You were in the gardens last evening," thundered the squire, his wrath getting the better of him. "You were in the gardens, were you not? Answer on your honour?"

"I was," falteringly.

"And for what purpose?"

"That I cannot tell."

"And why not?"

The youth was silent. He had the appearance of a culprit, and felt wretched and miserable. The squire continued to question and cross-question, but of no avail, and at length, growing nettled and peevish, he said, "I will state the case plainly to you, Master Trembath. You were in the gardens last evening, last Wednesday night and last Monday night. On Monday night you drained the fish-pond and stole the best fish; on Wednesday you ruined the shrubbery beds; last evening you took a stone from the hedge and killed my faithful mastiff, Borlase. What answer do you make to these accusations? Make a clean breast of it and it will be better for you, my lad."

The accusation, thus plainly stated, had a directly opposite effect upon the crestfallen lad. All his diffidence and confusion fell away from him like a garment. He flung up his head like a young lion cub, his blue eyes scintillated, and his red locks shook like the mane of a savage beast under rising passion. Blunt was alarmed and the squire was awed.

"What have I to say to these accusations? I say they are lies! They are false! I was not here on Monday or Wednesday. I never stole your fish or drained the pond, or trampled the shrubbery, or killed the dog. Who accuses me? Who, I say?" The lad advanced to the table, boldly, all his confusion gone, and the wild soldier blood of his ancestors coursing like molten fire through his veins. "Why am I brought here in the home of my fathers to be insulted? Have not you, Squire Vivian, and the Lanyans, done enough evil to our family but that you must charge me with being a thief, and——"

"Silence!" thundered the squire, who had been stirred up by the lad's charge of injustice. Ande stood silent, with heaving breast. The squire mastered himself before he continued.

"Your charge against me is not to the point. If you do not know, I will tell you that this estate was bought from the government by services rendered, which had no connection with your family. Your family affair, neither my father nor myself had anything to do with; that is between the Lanyans and yours."

Ande Trembath had heard for the first time that the Vivians had had no hand in the confiscation of the Manor, and there was a revulsion of feeling within him. The squire nor his family, then, were enemies of his. He felt, notwithstanding the accusation against him, a better feeling, and even a little gladness within his heart. Why, he did not know.

"I beg your pardon, your honour. I had never heard it put that way."

"That is neither here nor there," said the squire, sternly, "and has no connection with the case. You were seen nigh the grounds. You confess to being on the grounds a short time before last evening's outrage, yet you say you are innocent of the charge."

"I am innocent."

"Well, why were you on the grounds?"

Again the lad flushed painfully and was silent.

"Now," said the squire, "since there is no direct evidence, but only circumstantial, I shall dismiss you with a reprimand, and a caution to be careful in the future and amend your ways, or Newgate will have you yet, and"—here the squire pushed his countenance into a large law-book, as if consulting reference—"and as to punishment, I will let you off lightly. Master Blunt, call Sloan."

The steward dropped his writing and left the hall, returning soon with the stout, old hostler.

"George, take Master Trembath out and put him in the stocks for one hour."

The old hostler opened his mouth slightly in amazement, as if to say something, but the frown on his master's brow checked him. Without a word, George Sloan and Stephen Blunt took the dazed lad out of the hall, down the garden avenue, and out through the gates to the very scene of his morning exploit, where was situated the village stocks. Resistance was out of the question, and so he submitted, as if his spirit was crushed.

"I am sorry for 'ee, my lad," said old George, "but us has to hobey horders. To think that the grandson of old squire shud be shut in th' stocks," and old George shook his head, for he felt the disgrace as keenly as the lad.

Stephen Blunt, who was not a native of the section, but had come in with the squire's father from the East, said nothing. The Trembaths were nothing to him, having never known them intimately. But old George Sloan, Ned Pengilly and others native to the soil, who had served with their fathers under the Trembaths, took great umbrage at the shabby treatment of the "young squire."

Ande thought of the misery of the disgrace; he, the best scholar in the parish school, condemned and punished as a common thief. He thought of his father and his grandfather. They were of the bravest gentry in Cornwall. None could show a better record in the annals of the county. They had taken their part in every prominent movement in the nation. The last of the line, branded as a thief, and, like a common vagrant, imprisoned in the stocks! He thought of his mother and her pride in him. He gave an impatient wrench to free his imprisoned ankles, but the framework was too heavy to be opened in his position. He thought of the parson's sermon of the previous Sabbath. Yes, he was like Joseph. The iron was entering his soul. He gave vent to his pent up feelings in tears.

CHAPTER IX

THE VILLAGE STOCKS

"'Allo! What 'as us 'ere?"

It was a coarse voice, half boy's and half man's.

Ande looked up and perceived, coming through the gloom, a long-legged, stout lad, about three years older than himself. He had just emerged from the Manor woods and was engaged in what he thought a manly occupation, smoking a short pipe—or Cornish bob. The prisoner did not recognise him at first, for the twilight had begun to darken into night, but as the newcomer advanced he saw the most unwelcome sight of his bitterest school enemy,—Bully Bob Sloan.

The recognition was almost simultaneous and the newcomer allowed his freckled face to relax into a grin of delight.

"'Allo, can't 'ee speak? What has tha done, boy, to git in they wooden leggins?"

"The squire did it, Bob, but I 'adn't done anything. Squire said I 'ad drained the fish-pond, but I didn't. Now, let me out of here, do, Bob."

This was said in a propitiating tone, for, thought the lad, Bob might help him. But he had not estimated Bob aright.

"Um," with a sage air and a shake of the head, "can't go against the squire's horders; and then I 'alf suspect 'ee'rt guilty, my lad, for I seed 'ee myself and told squire, or rather caused 'e to hear it, that I had seed 'ee a-lurking nigh the grounds. Ah, my lad, think what a fall ah be for 'ee, the best scholard in the school,—a criminal, a-sitting in the stocks; and by and by 'ee will be hung for more thieving and willainry. What a karacter! What a disgrace!" and Bob shook his head, in mock sadness. "And when I tell the master and the lads at school, 'cause I got to tell them to save they from associating with a thief, 'ow shocked they will feel. I expect, too, I 'ad better clear out myself, as my repertation might be a-hinjured a-talking 'ere with a criminal."

"Don't lad me," said Ande, in some wrath, "you're no more of a man than I am, and as for reputation, you've none to spare."

"Softly, softly, little lad; 'ow pretty 'e looks, a-dressed in 'is Sunday clothes, a-sitting in the stocks, and as I do live, the little lad 'as been a-crying. Aren't 'ee afeared 'ee'll spoil your pretty new jacket?"

Bob advanced a step or two, and placing the pipe again in his mouth at a dangerous angle, and grinning with Satanic pleasure, shoved his freckled countenance almost into Ande's face.

Now the stocks was an instrument of confinement in which the ankles were held securely, while the arms and hands were free. Bob had evidently forgotten the latter fact, but was made aware of it by a stinging left-hander, that sent the pipe flying and Bob likewise into the dust.

"Now, damme, for a traitor's cub, I'll eat 'ee up," exclaimed Bob in his wrath, as he arose from the dust, with bloody lip and vengeful eye. And he doubtlessly would have made some attempt to carry out his dire vengeance had not the sound of approaching footsteps and a cheery whistling in the distance been heard. Dreading some encounter with the Hall people, and with a threat of vengeance at some future time, he made off for the village.

The whistling came nearer and nearer. A tall, dark figure emerged from the gloom, walking with a quick, jaunty step.

"What ho, my Bob Cuffins, scragged in wooden leggins!" The white trousers and blue jacket caught his eye. "Well, a gentry cove." Dropping all dialect, his language became more respectful.

"And what hast done, lad, to be trussed up like this?"

Ande looked at the stranger, doubtingly. He was clad in a long rough coat, the skirts of which were slightly torn. His countenance was dark, but with a healthy bloom on it.

"Come, my lad, I look rather unprepossessing and rough, but mayhap I am better than I appear."

Ande, reassured, told his story briefly.

"And you're Squire Trembath's grandson, and you were accused of the mischief at the Manor?" said the fellow, and then softly whistled to himself. "I think I had better let you out for two reasons. First, because you couldn't have done the things said, since one of my partners did that. I don't mind telling you, as you can't prove your innocence otherwise, and as long as you don't tell the squire before a day or so, it won't hurt us. Then, in the second place, I like to pay my debts to friends. If you ever see your father, tell him that Midnight Jack returned his favour of over sixteen years ago."

With a quick movement, the tall gipsy chief leaned down, wrenched open the clasp of the stocks, and the imprisoned lad was free. He was gone even before the lad could thank him.

Burning with indignation at his disgrace, Ande hastened home with flying feet. His mother had already retired. In anguish of soul, he quietly stole up the little attic stairs to retire, but not to sleep.

CHAPTER X

REPARATION

Some days elapsed before Ande went near the village or the Manor. With a boyish burst of confidence, he related the whole affair to his mother, who was not only shocked, but highly indignant at the treatment accorded her "laddie." The lad refused to attend school and lost some of his old buoyant spirit. In these days, he spent most of his time working around the home place, meeting frequently Tom Glaze, in the furze croft, and profiting much by his training. Tom had heard of Ande's shameful treatment, and had given him much advice, that seemed phenomenal, coming from such a pugilistic character.

"See 'ere, my lad, doan't 'ee go a-moping around, looking as ghastly as a death's head on a mopstick. Thee might as well knaw there's no use a-fighting sarcumstances that way. The squire will discover his mistake some day, and will maake all right. When the lads tease 'ee a bit about the stocks, doan't 'ee take any offence. Doan't 'ee fight o'er little things."

"Aye, but the world treats a man pretty hard once when he is down, and what's a fellow to do?"

"Why, above all things, doan't 'ee be a great chuckle-head, but have some judgment," said Tom, at which Ande flushed angrily. "Now doan't 'ee take no offence. What I means is this. Did 'ee ever see a kicking donkey? Treat un kindly and 'e won't kick. Smile and duck your 'ead to the world and say, 'What cheer,' or ''Ow do 'ee do,' and the world will smile and bow or duck back and say, 'Pretty well, thank 'ee,' or 'Brave, thank 'ee.' Frown, and give the world the cold shoulder, and you gets the same. They say the Golden Rule is 'Do unto others as 'ee would be done by,' but the practical rule is 'Others do to 'ee as 'ee do by they.'"

"Well, Master Glaze, that doesn't 'old good in my case. Here I did good to Squire Vivian and received evil in return."

"Exceptions prove the rule. Anyhow, try my hadvice."

Ande did try Tom's advice, and was gratified to see that, with the exception of Bully Bob Sloan, all the village lads improved in their conduct toward him. The rescue of Mistress Alice was soon noised abroad, and he was considered almost in the light of a hero by the juvenile element.

One evening, as the lad was returning from the furze croft, he noticed a chaise and pony at his mother's door. It was the chaise of Mistress Alice, who had, since the affair with Queeny, betaken herself to the pony and chaise when desiring an airing. His mother had received her with a certain amount of cold dignity which her feelings would scarcely allow her to conceal.

There was a variety of emotions in the lad's breast as he approached. There was anger at Squire Vivian's indignity to him, a feeling of shame at the report of his depredations, and an emotion that had lived in his soul for quite a time, but which he had never fully analysed. From early childhood he had remembered the squire's daughter. He remembered, with all a youth's tenacity, how he was led to church by the tall, soldierly man, his father, and how rapidly he had to move his infantile feet to keep up with the soldier's tread. In the family pew he would sometimes turn his head to a nice dark-haired little miss of a few summers' age, seated in Squire Vivian's pew. Once she had shyly and demurely returned his look, then quickly turned away, as if displeased. He had asked his father afterward whether he didn't think the squire's girl a "pretty little maid," and he remembered the hearty roar of laughter with which his father responded. Since he had been attending the parish school, he had not seen her much. Indeed, he had never become acquainted with her before the affair of the runaway. He had always admired those dark elfin locks, and in church he had thought if he had one of them how he would cherish it, and then he had flushed crimson at what he thought almost a profanation. He had always admired her, but the feeling he had had for quite a time past could neither be admiration nor friendship. He had not analysed it. It was this strange sentiment that had led him frequently into the vicinity of the Manor, before the regrettable affair of the stocks. His appearance there on the evening of the killing of the mastiff was an incident of that kind. He had conceived a passion for flowers, and especially for the flow ers of a garden plot, watered and attended by the hand of Mistress Alice. Could he secure one of those blossoms? Now, Ande was the perfect soul of honour, but he had had a hard fight with himself to keep from appropriating what was not his own. The slightness of the offence, the intensity of his feelings, the heritage of his ancestors, all urged the harmlessness of the deed. He might have secured one by request, but he would have died before exposing his feelings to ridicule.

Ande stood near the threshold with a tumult of feelings within him, that made him look more like an awkward, country lout than the grandson of a squire.

"Master Trembath, I have come to beg your pardon for the hasty act of father."

Ande could not help noticing the slight colouring of her features, enhanced by the wealth of dark locks overhead. There was a sincerity and earnestness in her tone that made her a hundred times more attractive than he had ever seen her before. He mastered himself with a great effort.

"The apology comes from the wrong person, Mistress Vivian, and the deed being done, cannot be undone."

"It was a cruel injustice," said Mrs. Trembath, with some little warmth in her tone, "and I wondered how the squire could have done it, seeing how bravely my laddie acted in the runaway."

The young girl flushed at the charge of injustice.

"Indeed, father was not aware of Master Trembath's brave conduct; he was away all afternoon, and I was not aware of the judgment on Master Trembath until the following day. I was very much vexed over the whole affair, and when I told father, he, too, was chagrined, yet he said the circumstances were so much against Master Trembath that he didn't see how he could amend matters. I want you to accept these flowers, Master Trembath, as a token of my high esteem, and I trust that you will neither consider my father nor myself in any hard light."

She placed the large bouquet of flowers on the settle and turned to depart. Mrs. Trembath placed her hand on the dark, raven locks of the squire's daughter as she stood on the portico step.

"And may God's blessing attend you, Mistress Vivian, for your kind and charitable spirit, and may your father be imbued with the same!"

Ande accompanied her to the pony chaise. His righteous indignation against the squire was mitigated by this unexpected visit and by the flowers. He had coveted only a single blossom; here was a gorgeous bunch from her very hand.

They made a pretty picture, standing without the gate, in the rays of the setting sun. The pony stood patiently waiting near the hedge, occasionally nibbling a choice bit of herbage that seemed to seek safety from his investigating jaws in the rough rock crevices.

"I thank you very much; the flowers are very beautiful."

"And you will not think hard of my father."

The youth was silent and bit his lip; then avoiding the question, he answered:

"It was not the stocks, but the accusation and the condemnation, that has made all people look down on me."

"Oh, Master Trembath——"

"Call me Ande; it's more natural to me; you were going to say——"

"I was going to ask whether you could not clear yourself from being on the grounds at that time."

"No. I was there."

"After your having saved my life. I shudder to think of it——"

"You shudder to think of my saving your life," said the youth, a little stiffly.

"Oh, no. How you misunderstand me!"

"You mean you are pleased," said Ande, brightening.

"Stupid!" said the girl, a little indignant. "Why don't you let me finish my sentence."

Ande was abashed at this rebuff.

"I shuddered at the accident that might have been, and I want to see you justified. Now if you could tell me why you were there I could inform father, and he, being the soul of honour, would make all right."

"No, I cannot tell my reason," said the youth, flushing painfully.

"And not even tell me, when you know I am so interested in having you brought out from under this cloud."

"If you knew you would not tell him either," said the youth, doggedly.

She gazed at him quickly. Somehow in her young woman soul she seemed to read his reason. Yes, in a moment, with that keen intuition, developed earlier in woman than in man, she read through this hesitation, this confusion. She knew.

"I can tell who did the deed, though," said the lad, for he thought of the information of the gipsy chief, and that now he was at perfect liberty to tell.

"Who?" asked the girl, eagerly. This youth that had so bravely saved her life should be justified.

Ande related the events of his rescue from the stocks and the tale of the gypsy chief. The girl listened with brightening eye and kindling cheeks.

"It must be so, for how could you have gotten forth from the stocks? No one would have dared to let you out but a person like that. I know how we all wondered when Stephen Blunt came in and told my father that the stocks were empty. But why did you not tell this before?"

"Because Midnight Jack told me it would not hurt them if it wasn't told for a day or so."

"I shall see that you are justified. You have been shamefully treated."

The squire's daughter mounted into the pony chaise, grasped the lines with her slender, gloved hands, and with a smile was gone.

"Poor lad! He has been shamefully treated and he shall be justified," she thought to herself. "How foolish I was not to see before. He loves me," she said softly. "He is good looking and tall and man-like for his age." Then there was a pause in her soliloquy, unbroken save by the pony hoofs. Then she drew her brows down with a slight frown. "Pshaw!" Then the scowl left her features and she broke into a slight, nervous laugh. "Absurd!"

The remainder of the drive was spent in silence, but there was heightened colour in her cheeks and a soft, pellucid light in her eyes.

Old Sloan took the pony and chaise at the entrance of the great house, and Mistress Alice tripped up the steps and into the hall. The old squire was seated by the hall fire, meditating apparently, for his chin was resting on his hand and he had his eyes fixed upon the flaming coals. His daughter bent over his chair, and lightly kissed his forehead; then drawing a stool near him she seated herself, leaning her head against him and waiting for him to speak.

But the old squire did not speak for a time; he placed his big, brown hand upon his daughter's dark locks, and still gazed into the fire. It was the daughter that broke the silence.

"Father, I have news to tell you."

"Well, Allie?"

"It was not Master Trembath that killed Borlase, or drained the pond; it was one of the gipsies." Then she poured forth the whole story of Ande's escape from the stocks, while the old squire listened, as he gazed into the fire. When she had finished he gazed at her.

"I know it, Allie. I had my eyes opened, and even saw the rogue, this afternoon, at Sir James Lanyan's. Sir James had him up for some offence and he confessed all, the rogue."

"And about Master Trembath?"

"Aye, that's what troubles me. I can't see what I can do to justify him. True, I can exonerate him, but to make reparation for the injustice of putting the lad into the stocks—I can't see what I can do. The lad is better than I thought, if he does have treasonable blood."

"We must exonerate him by announcing it in the parish school and at the church. We ought to reward him, too, for stopping the runaway. It ought not to be said that a Vivian received a favour of such kind, from any one, without doing something in return."

"Reparation shall be made!" exclaimed the squire, emphatically. Alice had touched him in his pride. She had also touched him on the side of his honesty and uprightness.

"We will have it announced in the parish school and church, as you say; the whole parish knew it when he was placed in the stocks, and the whole parish shall know of it—that he is not guilty—that—that——But we must do something else. That will be only common justice. We must reward the lad,—but how?"

The eyes of Mistress Alice became luminous; she was winning her case. With deftness she proceeded.

"He doesn't like to attend school, so Parson Trant says, and I was thinking how nice it would be to send him to the Helston Grammar School. Now, father, if you could make the offer?"

The squire brightened. He had found a way out of his difficulties. He kissed his daughter and called her a wise, little prime minister. He hastened away that very evening to the parson's house, and the old rector was delighted to be the means of Ande's reinstatement in popular favour.

After the departure of Mistress Alice from the Primrose Cottage, Ande had better thoughts of the squire and his people. Somehow or other he felt lighter of heart, but his mind was strangely confused. During the evening hymn instead of the sweet strains of Ken's Evening Hymn he was guilty of fearful, musical blunders.

As he lay awake under the eaves that night, his imagination still carried him back to the garden-gate scene. Yes, she stood before him just as attractive in memory as she did then. In impatience he tried to banish her face.

"Fudge," said he "I'll get Glaze to give me a skevern in the chacks that will knock some sense into my addled head."

He dreamed that night that he was under the walls of the great house, near Mistress Alice's window, and that he was playing on the harp of his fathers. Once he thought he saw her face—then it changed to the features of the squire—and, wonder to relate, a smile upon his rugged features—then over the squire's shoulders appeared the sardonic countenance of Sir James Lanyan. He changed the strains to the Hymn of the Lark, and Sir James paled and fled.

CHAPTER XI