Sir James' proposer had called him a foreigner in little touch with English ideals. He proved the contrary. He called vividly to mind the days spent as a school lad among them, the exciting days of the hurling match
when Breage was defeated, and men nodded their heads and smiled as they remembered. Then sweeping into the closing address, he said:

"We need a strong and experienced hand at the helm in these perilous times, it is true, but far more do we need honesty, virtue, and manliness. Is youth, though inexperienced, yet with average intelligence, to be despised and condemned by the very fact of youth? Ask the rector or parish minister the names of the two most prominent lights in the expansion of religion, and he will say young Saul and youthful Timothy. Gray at thirty-four finished the most beautiful elegy in the English tongue. Milton began his career at a tender age. Shakespeare was but twenty-seven when his name became an authority on the drama. Napoleon, in his meteoric career, astonished and convulsed the world, yet he was a young man. What name more brilliant in English annals for courage and success than that of the well-beloved Wolfe of Quebec fame—yet he perished on the field of battle at the age of thirty.

"Civil government has also her young heroes. Need I mention the great name of Burke, who, at the age of twenty-six, won for himself a reputation for statesman-like judgment and skill that has placed his name high on the imperishable roll of fame. Need I mention Fox, and that other character who still lives as a blessing in the minds of Englishmen—still lives as the greatest diplomatist of the age—still lives in the agitation for liberty and fair representation that so pervades the country to-day?"

"Pitt! Pitt! Pitt!" roared the crowd.

"Aye, you have named him. Ask any bookman for a life of William Pitt, and he will hand you down a history of England from 1781 to 1806, for from twenty-one years of age down to the day of his death, his life has been a history of the empire. Is youth and inexperience to be despised? No! No!"

"No! No!" shouted the crowd, taking up the words of the speaker. "Huzza for Andrew Trembath!" And for the space of a few minutes the crowd let out its pent-up enthusiasm in wild gesticulating of hands and roaring of voices.

The speaker concluded with a peroration that was eloquent and passionate. Pathetic passages at times hushed that great crowd into silence, moved it to tears, and then again swayed it to applause, and when it was finished, and the speaker resumed his seat, there was silence for a moment—then, like the roaring of great guns in battle action, the throng, Radical and Conservative, sent up shout after shout, that reverberated again and again o'er the town of Helston, and caused the birds in the neighbouring trees to take refuge in flight. Such a speech had never been delivered from the hustings before. Old men shook their heads sagely, and muttered to each other that in a short time another Pitt would astonish England and the world, and that one would be from Cornwall.

Suffice it to say, that Andrew Trembath was elected by an overwhelming vote as M. P. for Helston.

Old Parson Trant met him the next day near the Primrose Cottage, and congratulated him on his election and bright, future prospects.

"I had a purpose in view," said Ande. "It was not so much my desire to enter Parliament as my antagonism to Sir James. I have had my first revenge, and there are others to follow."

"Lad, lad," said the old parson, as he sadly shook his head, "I like not that revengeful spirit, though you have had much provocation. There is a better way of revenge."

"What way?"

"'If thy enemy hunger, feed him; if he thirst, give him drink.'"

Ande said nothing, and the conversation, after a time, passed to other themes.

After his defeat, Sir James Lanyan gave his attention to speculation, but the ventures turning out unprofitable, he was compelled to sell Trembath Manor, through his solicitors, to the agents of a wealthy American traveller. But this was but a drop in the bucket of his financial reverses, and Lanyan Hall followed suit. The purchaser of Lanyan Hall was Andrew Trembath, but the fact was unknown to any one but old Parson Trant, to whom Ande had confided the secret of his wealth. Subsequently the purchaser was revealed to Sir James, and the revelation seemed a crushing blow to him, for he sickened and began to sink rapidly.

"'Tis my second revenge," said Ande to old Parson Trant, and there was a grim, determined look on his features. "There are others to follow."

"Lad, lad, you must not go on in this way. Vengeance is of God. 'Vengeance is mine, I will repay.' There is a much better way, and you can do me, your old pastor, a favour, and render God a service at the same time." The old parson drew a pathetic picture of Sir James in his present condition, poor, helplessly sinking into the grave. To follow up any more of this revenge was hellish. It belied Ande's nature to continue thus, and if this revenge should continue, he, the parson, could not love him any more. There was one thing that would prolong Sir James' life, and that was the bringing back to him of his son, Richard, who was leading a wild, vicious life somewhere in London. This was the report of the physician. "He must be brought back to his father, who is calling for him. Who is better fitted for that mission than yourself, Master Ande? You are going to attend Parliament in a few weeks. Go a little before—aye, go at once to London, and take up this mission."

"I! I!" stammered Ande, in some astonishment and with a little of the old, angry feeling tingling in his veins. "You know what we have suffered—you——"

"But, Ande," interrupted the old rector, as he placed his arm around his shoulder in the same, affectionate manner as in the olden days, and with kind, loving tones resumed, "If Christ had felt that way to us, where would we be?" The old parson preached one of the most appealing sermons, then and there, that he had ever delivered. Concluding, he said, quoting the words of Scripture: "'Ye have heard that it hath been said an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth; but I say unto ye, resist not evil. Ye have heard that it hath been said, ye shall love thy neighbour and hate thine enemy; but I say unto you, love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you,—that ye may be the children of your Father in heaven.' 'Be not overcome of evil, but overcome evil with good.'"

"Would it not be hypocritical to show kindness, when you are bitter with revenge within?"

"No; by showing kindness, even though you do not feel it within, yet nevertheless it has a healthy action on the soul. Do a kindness and you grow kind. We become what we do, my lad. Do it now, not because of your feelings, but because the Lord commanded it. And by and by you will do kindness to an enemy because your own heart commands it."

"I will go in the morning."

"And God will bless you, my son," said the old rector, as he parted from him and wended his way home. There, the parson mentioned the matter to his wife, Harriet, with some doubt as to the issue.

"I fear me, Harriet, it is like sending a fire-brand to quench a fire-brand."

Andrew Trembath was true to his promise, for that week saw him in London, actively pushing the search. Hearing of a midnight brawl, in which Richard was engaged, and which was publicly published in the newspapers, he sought that quarter, but Richard, fearing perhaps the police, had fled. His father had also heard of the brawl. It was the last of a series of crushing disgraces on the part of his son that sent Sir James into the grave. Ande did not give up the search, but Parliament convening, he was forced to give more time to other affairs.

It was in the early hours of the morning when one of the night sessions of Parliament adjourned, and Andrew Trembath, tired of the stupid, blocking tactics of those opposed to reform, was wending his way home to his rented quarters in Portman Square. The streets were deserted and he hastened along absorbed in his thoughts. A figure stole out from the shadow of some buildings in his rear. There was a quick leap, the glitter of steel in the air, and then Ande felt a stinging sensation in his shoulder. Like a flash he turned and had his assailant pinioned in an iron grip. He struggled to release himself, but to no avail. The knife dropped with a clang to the pavement and Ande kicked it from him. The light of a street lamp flashed on the would-be assassin's features.

"Richard Lanyan! You! You! You, who broke your father's heart,—you, the Etonian scholar,—you, base as you are, stoop to be the assassin!"

"Yes, curse you!" gritted the answer from between the clenched teeth of the writhing assailant.

"And why?"

"Because you have been the ruin of father, and not I. You occupy his place in Parliament. You took away Lanyan Hall. You took away the only woman I ever loved, and it is—revenge."

"Lanyan, listen to me," sternly, and still keeping his grip. Ande related in brief epitome the injuries he and his and the Vivians had received at the hands of Richard and his father, closing with the question: "Who has been the injured party? Your father's place I occupy because the people put me there. Your father lost Lanyan Hall because of his foolish speculations. If I hadn't bought it, some one else would. His death was mainly brought on by your own sottish conduct."

The eyes of Lanyan flamed with sullen passion, as he muttered, "I'll not endure this from you," and again made an effort to escape.

"Make another effort to escape and I hand you over to the watchman, or perhaps better still I could kill you where you are. What would the law and opinion say if I should? They would say it was good riddance of a rough character and in self-defence, and you see I have the strength to carry it out."

Lanyan paled a little, notwithstanding the brave heart he had, for he realised that he was but feeble in the hands of this man, his captor. He ceased his struggles and listened sullenly.

"But I have other plans," said Ande, gently. "I believe the fellow who won a prize at Eton is capable of better things. I place the best construction on your past actions. It was the ungovernable love for Mistress Alice Vivian that caused much of your past action."

There was no answer.

"I know that was the cause, and also the cause of your whole life being spent thus, and also of this last attempted deed. And I had been searching for you for months before your father's death, plunging into every slum and dive of London. I promised to bring you back to your father, and thus prolong his days. Your name was the last he called upon in his delirium. I tried to find you, but failed."

Ande released his grasp, for it was unnecessary. Lanyan was weeping in an agony of remorse and wretchedness.

"But still the hour is not too late now to begin again in right paths, and rear up your family name to its former, ancestral honour. You can do it."

"I cannot," groaned Lanyan, all hatred and vengeance apparently gone from him. "I cannot; I have no money, and to live honestly in a poor position——No—No."

"I will help you. Come now, Lanyan, let us forget the past evils between our families. Oh, think how good God is to prevent you in the commission of a great crime, this night, that would blast your name irretrievably. God is better to us both than we deserve. He bestowed upon us these minds, these souls, and placed us in a beautiful world, and yet we abuse His gifts. Think, Lanyan, that you and I have souls to present upright and pure before the great God, the Father. It is a terrible thing to think that these passions, if we allow them to rule us here, by God's judgment, they shall rule us in the future. I confess that my hatred for you and yours has mastered me heretofore, but Parson Trant preached me a special sermon privately, when he asked me to seek you, and I have revolved it over and over again in my mind, and, with God's help, which I prayed for and received, my hatred is gone. If I had found you before, I should not have spoken to you in this way. I should have probably mentioned your father's desire to see you and left. Now it is different. Let the past be past, and here is my hand."

Lanyan grasped the hand extended to him and there was a wavering in his voice as he said:

"Trembath, you have a much better nature than I have. I must go."

"No, no," said Ande, detaining him, and he poured forth his plan, then and there, for the turning over of Lanyan Hall to Richard. This was conditioned on his reform.

Richard was to have possession of the ancestral place at a nominal rent, and when the rent would total the sum Ande had paid for it, the deed of complete ownership was to pass over to Richard.

There was silence for a moment.

"Come," said Ande, as he placed one arm over his shoulder, "don't on account of past ill feeling refuse this chance of making a man of yourself and uplifting, once again, your ancient family."

There was a period of inward conflict in the breast of the man beside him, and then, in resolute tones, he answered, simply: "I'll try. Forgive me, Trembath, for to-night's action, and for the injustice done by our family."

The two men shook hands firmly, and separated, Ande to seek a surgeon to have his wound dressed. But the wound gave him little pain, and what pain there was was wonderfully alleviated by the gladness of soul within. He knew that the best vengeance was forgiveness, as the old rector had said.

CHAPTER XXXII

"The drive-way is in better shape than it was in the days of Squire Vivian," said Ande, as the gravel crunched under their advancing steps.

"A careful and neat owner; it will do me good to meet him," said the Major.

Forth through the trees ahead gleamed the twinkling lights of many windows, only obstructed by the passing of forms within and the figures of many great holly wreaths. The great lantern in front of the double doors was gleaming brilliantly through its festoons of evergreen, and from the hall could be heard the sound of ringing festivity and jollification. The door was opened widely at the sound of the great knocker, and the butler footman, bowing low, ushered them into the great hall. Groups of elderly people were engaged at their favourite game, whist, at different tables, and down the long room were others engaged in sundry amusements. The panelled walls had been rewaxed and were glistening with holly and mistletoe. The large picture of Squire Vivian's father still smiled friendly at the picture of King George II on the other wall, and in the great open fireplace roared, cracked, leaped, danced and shouted with all the ecstacy of Christmas jollity the flames of the great yule log.

"Where's the new squire?" whispered the old Major to his son. He had hardly asked the question, before he started back in amazement at a sight he saw over the great, panelled fireplace. Two great oil-paintings, heavy in their rich framings, riveted his attention. He stared at them and then at the crowd of Christmas revellers, who, though now thoroughly quieted, yet had gleams of suppressed merriment on their countenances. What could it mean? Those pictures? Where had they obtained them? Was his mind affected? He knew that he was growing old, and as he dazedly thought of this, he hurriedly passed his hand through his whitened hair, a gnarled, brown bough in the midst of a snowdrift. The folding doors, separating the servants' hall from the apartment they were in, were thrown open, revealing the merry faces of group after group of servants. It was a tableau of suppressed excitement, broken at length by the voice of Parson Trant.

"My friends, we have gathered here not only for Christmas festivity, but to do honour to the dead and to the living." Pointing to the picture on the right, he continued: "Behold the picture of Captain Andrew Trembath. You are all aware of the terrible injustice done his memory. He was the most patriotic and loyal of Cornish gentlemen. His long war record amply testifies the fact. He was wounded at Prestonpans, and at Culloden, and did worthy service under Braddock in America. After that deplorable battle, he was captured by the Indians, escaped from them, slew a French officer, garbed himself in his uniform and for greater security in the enemy's country inserted his name in the dead officer's commission papers. He was accidentally shot by the troops of General Armstrong, the thought of treason penetrated the public mind and the estate of Trembath was confiscated. Yet, after all these years truth prevails. An old snuff-box, found in the wilds of America, reveals the secret, and though dead, Captain Andrew Trembath is once more honoured by the people as a faithful soldier and loyal subject of the King." Then, turning to the other picture, he continued:

"Behold the picture of Major Thomas Trembath, who served the King nobly in the Peninsular campaign, in the War of the American Colonies and in the Canadian War. He disappeared, due to an impression conveyed to him that his family was dead, and for many long years was an exile in the wilds of America. Then as a hunter he lived by the pursuit of game. To the place of his abode came his son, Andrew Trembath, and after a time became known to him, and through the finding of the records of the snuff-box, already mentioned, he is restored to his former honours,—friends and country. His life formerly was sad, now we trust his declining years will be full of sunshine, and I greet and welcome him as Squire Trembath, the rightful master of Trembath Manor."

"Welcome to your own, again, comrade," said old Captain Tom Lanyan, as he heartily shook the squire's hand.

Others crowded around the old squire, among them Dick Thomas, Tom Glaze, and numerous of the parish gentry.

The old squire and his wife were so dazed that they could not speak, and so they were escorted to the great armchairs in readiness for them near the great yule log, and one by one the Christmas guests came near and gave their greetings. When it was all finished, the new squire found his voice.

"I am glad, my friends, to be with you here in the hall of my fathers, but all this seems too wonderful to me to be true; yet I cannot help but believe what has been told me—but how has all this come about? Has the government——"

"There has not been anything wonderful about it but the kindness of Providence," said Ande Trembath, arising to speak. "Years ago, when a lad, I resolved to remove the stain of treason from our name. My life here and at school is familiar to you all. By a strange series of adventures my classmate, Dick Thomas, and myself found ourselves adrift on a bit of wreckage in the English channel. We were picked up by a Brazilian ship and after a weary journey were landed at Rio de Janeiro. For some time we laboured in the fields of planters, and then betook our way inland to the ridges of Sierro Do Frio. It was here that we laboured under a brazen sun for the space of three years. I cannot tell of all the various vicissitudes that overtook us there. At one time I was down with fever and, but for the help of Dick, would have succumbed to its ravages. At another time I repaid the debt by nursing Dick through a serious illness. Gentlemen, you have all seen him wrestle with Tom Glaze, but he was not the hardest opponent he met. He had the hardihood to win championship honours in a struggle with an immense Brazilian puma, or mountain lion. I do not remember whether Dick sprang at the lion or the lion at him. All I remember was seeing man and beast in a hideous mix-up, worse than any wrestling match I had ever seen. I ran to our cabin for a gun, but it was unnecessary, for when I returned, there were Dick and the lion stretched beside each other. He had choked it to death, but was so lacerated himself that it was months before he became well. In the midst of our work we were successful, both in diamonds and gold, and quitted the regions wealthy men. I deposited my wealth in the banks of New Orleans, and the charm of the hunting life still being on me, and being anxious to visit the place of my grandfather's death, we journeyed to the Kittanning region. The result of that Kittanning trip is now known to all England. I heard that the Manor was for sale, and secretly, through agents, purchased it. And now, father and mother, I hand over to you the title deeds of Trembath Manor and the Wheal Whimble tin mine as a Christmas present. I wish also to add this check on the Bank of England for the sum of fifty thousand pounds. A merry Christmas, and may you have many, happy years in the home of our people."

"Merry Christmas! 'Tis the merriest Christmas I have had in years," said the old squire with emotion, as he wiped the tears away, that would persist in gathering in his eyes.

Mrs. Elizabeth Trembath said nothing, but her bright shining eyes revealed her happiness as she gently pulled her son's head down and kissed him.

Here the thrumming of a harp was heard and a curtain was drawn from an alcove near by, revealing Uncle Billy, the droll, with an orchestra at his back. In the meantime Ande withdrew. The droll and his orchestra paused not a moment, but plunged, with voices and instruments combined, into the Hymn of the Lark.

The song was sung to its very end, and the old squire, as he nodded, said, "Yes, yes, it's true; evil fails at last and right prevails."

He had hardly finished speaking when the orchestra burst into strains of Mendelssohn, and down the great, hall stairway came a procession such as it had never witnessed before. First came a troop of little girls bearing flowers and scattering them profusely in the way. Then followed ladies. "Ah, the bridesmaids," whispered some one, and then followed by their respective attendants, in regular procession, came Ande Trembath and his affianced bride, Mistress Alice Vivian. Slowly they proceeded up the hall and took their respective positions before old Parson Trant. The orchestra gave one clashing peal of music and then was silent, and then arose the mellow voice of the rector in the marriage ceremony of the Church of England. At the words, "Can any man say aught why these two should not be joined together in holy wedlock," the voice of the squire was heard.

"There have been so many things happening on this Christmas eve, that I hesitate to interrupt the service, but have the laws of England changed in my absence. I mean that law that states that no marriages are lawful except those performed in a parish church?"

"The laws of England are the same," said Parson Trant, "but we have a special dispensation from the archbishop, dispensing with the banns, and allowing, in consideration of the return of Squire Trembath and the happiness of this occasion, the ceremony to be performed in the Manor of Trembath."

"Ah, that is different; my blessing and heartiest well wishes," said the squire, as he sank back in his armchair.

After the ceremony all adjourned to the dining hall, where an elaborate wedding dinner awaited them. During the wedding feast the old squire told of his many adventures, to which Dick and Ande added some of their own.

"It tells like a story-book," said Tom Glaze, in admiration.

"Or rather like a drama," said bluff Captain Tom Lanyan. "Wouldn't I have liked to have been in the Shawnee fight," and the tough, old, Wellington veteran rubbed his hands in delight.

"I have a bit of news," said Ande, as he drew a letter from his pocket. "Here is a letter from Hugh Lark in America, just received." He scanned it rapidly and replaced it, and then turned with a smile to his father and the company. "He says that he has given up the idea of the silver mine, that Professor Bill Banks has been elected to Congress, and that old Burke still thinks Bill is high larndt."

The voices of carol singers were heard without, and the wedding dinner being ended, they again returned to the main hall to enjoy the singing. The "curl" singers were followed by the old play of St. George and the Turk, performed by village lads. Then, in the closing scenes of the evening's festivities, Parson Trant pro posed his favourite hymn, and out on the evening air, echoing even far beyond the walls of Trembath Manor, the mellow voices of the trained singers, the piping of childish voices, the worn voices of the older parties, and the music of the droll's orchestra mingling all together, pealed the strains of Cowper's hymn:

THE END