I had been beaten. I knew it, and the fact maddened me. The old hermit and the maid had divined the thoughts in my mind. In all probability the wine I had drunk was drugged. Thus while I was asleep, they had gone away, leaving me alone on the lonely rock. Which way had they gone? I knew not. They in the silence of the night had left me, leaving me in entire ignorance.
I looked from the chapel window, and saw a vast tract of country around me, for the moon had risen high in the heavens; then, yielding to the impulse of the moment, I climbed to the highest peak on the great mass of stone. From this point I could see far in all directions, but no signs of life were visible. I could see Roche church tower among the trees, I could see the little village near. For the rest, nothing was in sight save vast stretches of moorland. Here and there was a cultivated field, but mostly the country-side was barren and forsaken.
I listened, but all was silent. The night was very calm, save for a sighing wind which as it entered a valley near made a low moaning sound. For a moment a superstitious dread laid hold on me. I remembered the story I had been told years before. It was said that the last heir of the Tregarrick family, on whose lands the rock stood, became weary of life, built the chapel in which old Anthony had taken up his abode, and called it St. Michael's Chapel. Here he lived many years and died in sorrow. Rumour also had it that Tregeagle's spirit, that ogre of Cornish childhood, haunted the rock and the moors, and often breathed forth his sorrow in sighs and moans. But I mastered my fears by an effort. I remembered how I had been beaten, and anger drove all other feelings away. The last heir of the Tregarricks and the Spirit of Tregeagle was nothing to me, living or dead.
I looked at my watch, and by the light of the moon discovered that it was midnight. I had, therefore, been asleep for ten hours. Darkness came on about six o'clock, so that in all probability they had left me long hours before. I racked my brains sorely in order to divine the direction they had taken, but without avail. Then I remembered that they must need horses, and wondered how they managed. I felt sure, however, that Uncle Anthony would be too full of devices to remain long in difficulty about horseflesh. As he had said, many horses grazed among the moors; they were of no great value, but doubtless he could obtain a couple that would serve his purpose. One they had already, on which Amelia Lanteglos had ridden, a useful animal which Benet Killigrew had taken from his father's stables. This set me thinking again, and without more ado I cautiously crept down to the moors. Giving a long shrill whistle which I had taught Chestnut to obey, I awaited results. In a few seconds I heard the sound of horse's hoofs; then in a short space of time the animal I had learnt to love came up to me, and with a whinny of gladness began to lick my hand.
"Ah, Chestnut, old boy," I laughed, "at any rate they could not steal you from me. Which way are they gone, my lad?"
As though he understood me, he turned his head southward.
"Well, Chestnut," I said, "I want to find them badly. You know which way they went. I leave everything to you."
Whereupon, I went to the hollow place under the rock into which I had thrown my saddle, and to my delight I found that Uncle Anthony had left both saddle and bridle untouched. A few seconds later I was on Chestnut's back.
"Follow them, Chestnut," I said; "I leave everything to you," and as though he understood me, he carefully picked his way among the rocks till he reached the highway, then without hesitation went westward towards the church. Presently we came to some cross-ways, where he hesitated, but only for a second. Putting his nose to the ground he sniffed uneasily around and then started on a brisk trot southward.
When I had gone perhaps three miles, all my hopes had departed. If the truth must be told, too, I felt more and more like giving up what seemed a useless quest. In spite of Chestnut choosing the southward road in preference to any other, I was very probably riding away from the maid Nancy and her companions, and even if I were not, what should I gain by following them?
"Let her go," I cried bitterly. "It has been an ill game I have been playing—an ill game. Let Uncle Anthony take her whither he will."
But this feeling did not long possess me. For the first time since I had seen the maid, the promise I had made to Peter Trevisa became really binding; moreover, I hated the thought of being beaten. If I gave up at this point, I should never cease to reproach myself with being outwitted by a girl, and it was not my nature to accept defeat easily. Besides, I was curious to see what the end of the business would be. In spite of myself I was interested in the maid. I admired her coolness and her far-sightedness. Even though I was angry with her for calling me a traitor, her very feeling of distrust of me made me sure she was no ordinary schoolgirl. Nay, I carried my conclusions further. The intuition that warned her against deceit, the power by which she made me stammer like a boy, and hang my head like a thief, convinced me that here was a pure-hearted maid, and one who might be trusted.
A little later I came to St. Denis, but, as Chestnut showed no inclination to halt, I rode straight on. I did not guide him in the least, and although I felt myself foolish in allowing him to take the St. Stephen's road, I laid no weight on the bridle rein.
While passing through a little hamlet called Trethosa, the morning began to dawn, and by the time I had reached St. Stephen's it was broad daylight. I found a little inn in the village close by the churchyard gates, called the King's Arms. Here, in spite of the fact that Chestnut seemed as if he would go on, I stopped. The truth was, I felt hungry and faint, and I knew that my horse would be all the better for a gallon or two of oats and a good grooming. The landlord's name I discovered to be Bill Best, and I found him very communicative, which is not a common trait among Cornishmen. He told me his history with great freedom, also that of his wife. He related to me the circumstances of his courtship, and mentioned the amount of his wife's dowry.
"'Tis a grand thing to have a good wife," I remarked.
"'Tes, and ted'n," was his reply.
I asked him to explain.
"Well I be a man that do like my slaip, I be. When I caan't slaip ov a night, I be oal dazey droo the day. Why now I be as dazey as can be. Ordnarly I be a very cute man, avin a oncommon amount of sense. Ax our passon. Why, 'ee'll tell 'ee that as a boy I cud leck off catechism like bread'n trycle. But since I've bin married I caan't slaip."
"Why, does your wife keep you awake?"
"No, ted'n that. Tes the cheldern. But my Betsey cud slaip through a earthquake, and zo tes, that all droo the night there's a passel of cheldern squallin, keepin' me wake. Laast night, now, I 'ardly slaiped for the night."
"Indeed," I replied, "and was it your children last night?"
"Paartly," he replied, "paartly the cheldern, and paartly summin else. Be you a gover'ment man?"
"No."
"Nothin' toal of a passon nuther, I spects?"
"No, why?"
"Well now I'll tell 'ee. But law, ere be your 'am rashers and eggs. Haive to em now. They rashers ded cum from a pig thirty-score wight, the beggest in this parish. Look top the graavy too; they'll make yore uzzle like a trumpet fer sweetness. Ait em and I'll tell 'ee while you be feedin'. But law, ther's nuff fer boath ov us, I can allays craake better wen I'm aitin'."
Accordingly he sat down by my side and helped himself liberally.
"Well, naow, as I woz a-zayin'," he continued, "I ded'n go to bed till laate laast night. I was avin a bit of tolk weth the 'ow'll Martin ovver to Kernick. Do you know Martin?"
"No."
"Doan't 'ee fer sure, then? He's a purty booy, 'ee es. Years agone 'ee used to stail sheep in a coffin. Stoal scores an scores that way. Ave 'ee 'eerd ow 'ee nacked ovver the exciseman, then?"
"No."
"Ded'n 'ee? law, that wos a purty taale, that wos. 'Twud maake 'ee scat yer zides weth laffin. But there, you genlemen waan't care to do that. Wot wos us talkin' bout, then?"
"You said you couldn't sleep last night."
"To be zure I ded. I'll tell 'ee. Old Martin do do a bit ov smugglin', and do dail weth the smugglers, and as you be'ant a gover'ment man I may tell 'ee that he brought me a vew ankers of things laast night laate. He ded'n laive me till after twelve o'clock. Well, when 'ee wos gone off I went to bed, and wos just going off to slaip when our Tryphena beginned a squall. That zet off Casteena, and Casteena off Tamzin, and in a vew minutes the 'ouse wos like Bedlam. You be'ant married, be 'ee, sur?"
"No."
"Then you doan knaw nothin bout life, you doan't. Gor jay! ow they cheldern ded screech for sure. But they ded'n waake mauther, not they. She slaiped through et oal, and snored like a tomcat into the bargain. Aw she's a gefted wumman, my wife es. But owsummever, I got em off again arter a bit and got into bed again. I wos just gittin braave'n slaipy when I 'eerd the sound of osses comin from Kernick way. 'Gor jay!' ses I, 'tes the exciseman! He've bin fer ould Martin and now he's comin fer me.'"
At this I became interested. "The sound of horses," I said; "were they coming fast?"
"Aw iss, braave coose, but not gallopin'. Well I lied luff and wos oal ov a sweat, but twadd'n no excisemen t'oal, fer just as they got by the church gates they stopped for a minit."
"What time was this?"
"Aw 'bout haaf-past two or dree o'clock. Well, I 'eerd 'em talkin', and arter a bit I 'eerd a wumman spaik, so you may be sure I pricked up my ears like a greyhound when he do 'ear a spaniel yelp among the vuss bushes. So up I gits and looks out."
"Well, and what did you see?"
"A man and two wimmen."
"Ah!" I cried.
"Well, they ded'n stay long, for one of the wimmen zaid they wos vollied. She must a 'ad sharp ears, for I ded'n 'ear nothin'."
"Which way did they go?"
"They zeemed unaisy, when I 'eerd the man zay they wud go on to Scacewater, an' then turn back to Penhale."
"Well?" I cried eagerly, "go on."
"Aw, I thot I cud maake 'ee hark. Well, I 'eerd em go up by Sentry, and then go on Terras way, purty coose."
"Is that all?"
"Well, after that I cudden slaip, and I jist lied and lied for long time, and then I'eerd sum more osses comin'. 'Gor jay!' ses I, 'wot's the mainen ov this?' I got out abed again, mauther slaipin' oal the time, and arkened with oal the ears I 'ad."
"And what happened?"
"Why, I zeed three hossmen ride long, and they galloped arter the others as ef they'd knawed which way they went."
"And is that all?"
"Ed'n that nuff? I cudden slaip a wink arterwards. Fust, I thot they might be the French, then I thot they might be ghoasts, but I tell 'ee it maade me oal luny, and 'eer I be this mornin', weth not aaf my sharpness. Wy I tell 'ee, sur, I be a uncommon man ordnarly."
I asked the landlord many other questions, but although he informed me many things about the roads, he could tell me nothing more about the midnight travellers. However, I had heard enough to assure me that I had come on the track of my late companions, and I was also assured that the maid Nancy was being pursued by the Killigrews.
"Where and what is Penhale?" I asked presently.
"Penhale, sur, is one of the five manor 'ouses in the parish. Maaster Trewint es the oaner ov et. It 'ave bin in the family for scores a years."
"I wonder if that will be one of Uncle Anthony's hiding-places?" I mused, "if it is, he hath doubtless taken Mistress Nancy there, and is probably there now, unless the Killigrews have relieved him of his charge."
"Is Trewint the squire of your parish?" I asked Bill Best.
"Well, sur, ther eden no squire so to spaik. But 'ees a well-connected man, sur. Why, he do belong to the Tregarrick family, which ded once own oal Roche."
This set me thinking again. Uncle Anthony had told me that he was a gentleman; he had hinted that his family was as good as my own Why had he taken up his abode at Roche Rock, which had belonged to the Tregarricks? Was there any meaning in his going to Mr. Trewint, who was related to the Tregarricks? These and many other questions troubled me for a long time.
After considering the whole situation for an hour or more, I determined to find my way to Penhale and there make inquiries. I thought it better to go there afoot, first because the distance was scarcely two miles, and second because I desired to attract no attention. Leaving the Manor House of Resugga on my left, I walked on until I came to a little wooded dell in which two houses were built. Here I stayed awhile, arrested by the beauty of the scene. The place was called Terras, and was very fair to look upon. A little stream purled its way down the valley, under giant trees, and filled as my mind was with many things, I could but stop and listen to the music of the water as it mingled with the sound of rustling leaves overhead. As I passed on, I saw the miners working in the moors. They were tin-streamers, and were, so I was told, making riches rapidly. After this I stopped at a farm called Trelyon, from whence I could see Trelyon Downs. Here legend had it giants lived, and streamed the moors for minerals, and made bargains with the devil in order that success might attend their labours. After leaving Trelyon I was not long in reaching Penhale, a house of considerable size and importance, and here I stopped and looked about me. The house was comparatively new and very substantial, while signs of prosperity were everywhere to be seen. Fine trees grew all around, and the gardens were well planted. Evidently a well-to-do yeoman lived here.
I tried to think of an excuse for entering, but presently gave up the idea. If Uncle Anthony and Mistress Nancy were there it would not be well for them to know my whereabouts; and yet if I were to fulfil my promise to Peter Trevisa, and thus retain Trevanion, I must know if they were behind the walls which looked as though they might hide mysteries.
Very soon I bethought me of the stables, and was just starting to find them, when I saw a well-fed, portly man come out of the front door.
"Jack," he shouted.
"Yes, sur," replied a voice.
"Bring my horse." On saying this he entered the house again.
The place was perfectly silent, save for the stamping of horses' hoofs and the bleat of sheep in the distance. From the spot on which I stood I could easily see and hear without being seen.
Presently the man, whom I took to be the owner of the place, came to the door again, and this time some one accompanied him, although whoever it was kept out of sight.
"Well, I must be going. You say I shall not be seeing you again."
I could not hear the murmured reply.
"Well, have your own way. I have heard of the old chapel and well in St. Mawgan, where it is said an old priest lives; but man, you are safer here."
After this I heard nothing, and a little later the owner of the place rode away. I waited until he was well out of hearing, when I found my way to the stables. In the stableyard I saw the man who had brought his master's horse to the door.
"Is your master at home?" I asked.
"No sur; missus es."
"Ah, well, she'll be of no use. She wouldn't know if Mr. Trewint has a horse for sale."
On this I entered the stable, and to my delight saw the animal Amelia Lanteglos had ridden from Endellion, with two others.
"Maaster 'aant got noan for sale," replied the man. "We're right in the tealin' time, and oal the hosses be in use."
"How's that?" I replied; "here are three doing nothing. One of these would suit me. I can call again when your master will be at home."
"It'll be no good, sur. Maaster waant be 'ome till laate to-night. He's gone to St. Austell market, and afore he do git back thaise hosses'll be gone. They'll be out of the staable by haalf-past nine this ev'nin'. I've got oaders to saddle 'em at that time."
I seemed to be in luck's way. By pure chance, so it seemed to me, I had found out the whereabouts of Mistress Nancy and her companions, and had also discovered their destination. So without asking more questions I left Penhale, and then walked back to St. Stephen's along a footpath which led by a farm called Tolgarrick, and the Manor House of Resugga.
I formed my plan of action. I would be even with Uncle Anthony for the trick he had played me, and I would take the maid Nancy to Peter Trevisa's house, for both had angered me. And yet even at this time my heart revolted against the course I had marked out.
By nine o'clock that night I stood outside Penhale with Chestnut by my side. I chose a sheltered position, and I felt sure that no one knew I was there. I waited anxiously, and watched the stable doors closely. Half-past nine came, and I grew anxious; ten o'clock passed, and all was silent as the grave. Had the groom deceived me? Had Uncle Anthony discovered my visit and formed new plans accordingly.
Bidding Chestnut stand still, I crept cautiously towards the stables. A few seconds later I saw to my chagrin that I had been outwitted. The horses I had seen in the morning had gone.
"Never mind," I said grimly, "I'll not give up yet."
I mounted Chestnut and rode westward in the direction in which I thought St. Mawgan lay; but I had not gone far when I again came to a standstill. If Uncle Anthony had suspected me, and changed the time of his departure, might he not also alter his plans completely? Besides, even though he intended going to the old chapel at St. Mawgan, it was impossible for me to find it that night. Clouds had obscured the sky, and I was ignorant of the country. At eleven o'clock, therefore, I drew up at an inn at a village called Summercourt, disappointed and angry. Here I decided to remain for the night.
I had fully intended to be up betimes on the morning following my arrival at Summercourt, and although I gave the landlord of the inn no instructions to call me, I had no doubt but that I should wake early. So tired was I, however, and so much had my rest been broken, that it was past midday before I was aroused from the deep sleep into which I had fallen. Consequently it was well on in the afternoon before I started for St. Mawgan. I knew that the parish was largely under Catholic influence. The Arundel family owned a house there, but I had no idea as to the whereabouts of the chapel. This could only be discovered by searching, and, impatient with myself for losing so much time, I rode rapidly past St. Columb, and reached St. Mawgan just as the shades of evening were descending. I should, doubtless, have accomplished the journey more quickly if I had not missed my way and wandered several miles out of my course. Arrived at the parish church, however, I found that my difficulties had only just begun. I was afraid to make too many inquiries concerning this chapel, for fear the Killigrews might hear of my questionings, for, although I had seen no traces of them, I felt sure they were following Mistress Nancy Molesworth. I found, moreover, that the few people in the parish were anything but intelligent, and could give no information of value. At length, after much searching and many roundabout inquiries, I heard of a haunted dell about a mile and a half from St. Mawgan, where the devil was said to reside.
An old farm labourer gave me the information, and with much earnestness besought me to keep away from it.
"The devil 'ave allays come there, sur," remarked the old man. "Tes a very low place. Tes a 'olla (hollow) between two 'oods. The papist priests ded kip un off while they was 'lowed to live there, but since the new religion tho'ull Sir Nick have jist done wot 'ee's a mind to."
"How did the papist priest keep him off?" I asked.
"Well, sur, they ded build a chapel here, and they ded turn the well ov water, where the devil made hell broth, into good clain watter. 'Twas a 'oly well when they wos there, sur, so I've been tould. But law, sence the priests be gone he've gone there to live again, and I've 'eerd as how ee've bin zid in the chapel."
"Have you seen him?"
"I wudden, sur, for worlds; but, Jimmy Jory zid un, sur."
"And what did he look like?"
"Jist like a wrinkled-up ould man, sur."
"And which is the way to this chapel?"
"'Tis down there, sur," replied the old man, pointing southward; "but doan't 'ee go nist the plaace, sur, doan't 'ee. 'Tis gittin' dark, an 'ee'l zoon be out now."
Unwittingly the old labourer had confirmed the words of Mr. Trewint at Penhale. Evidently a hermit did live at the ruined chapel. Probably he was one of the few remaining anchorites which were yet to be found in the county. One of those who, tired of the world, had sought solitude, even as the last heir of the Tregarricks had sought it, when he built St. Michael's Chapel on Roche Rock.
Unmindful, therefore, of the old man's warnings, I found my way down the valley. The wooded hills sloped up each side of me, which so obscured the evening light that I had difficulty in finding my way. The place seemed terribly lonely, I remember; no sound broke the stillness save the rippling of a little stream of water which ran towards the sea, and the occasional soughing of the wind among the trees.
Once, as I stood still and listened, it seemed to me that the very silence made a noise, and a feeling of terror came over me, for the old labourer's stories became real. My mission, too, seemed to be more foolish at each step I took, and in the stillness I seemed to hear voices bidding me return. Nature had given me strong nerves, however, and presently the spirit of adventure got hold of me again, and then I pushed on merrily. I had gone perhaps a mile from St. Mawgan when I saw, in spite of the gathering darkness, a distinct footpath leading southward. This I followed, although the valley became darker and darker. By and by, however, it ended in a little green amphitheatre. This I judged to be about ten yards across, and the only outlet was the pathway by which I had just come. The little open space, however, was a relief to me, because the evening light was not altogether shut out, and I looked eagerly around me in the hope that I had arrived at the spot for which I had been searching.
Twice did I wander around the green spot, but the trees which grew around were so thick that I could discover nothing beyond them.
"It must be all an idle tale," I mused bitterly, "and I've been a dupe to silly stories. Why should I trouble more? I'll go back to the inn at St. Mawgan, get Chestnut saddled, and start for London to-morrow"; but even as the thought passed through my mind, I saw a dark bent form creep along the grass, and then was hidden from me by the thick undergrowth.
Without hesitation I made my way to the spot where the dark object had disappeared, and then saw a slight clearage in the bushes, which had before escaped my attention. A few seconds later I had entered another open place, but it was smaller than the other, and situated at the foot of the rising ground. I again looked around me, but could see nothing, and was musing as to the course I should take, when I heard a slight groan. I hurried to the spot from whence the sound came, drawing my sword as I did so. I did not go far, however, for I saw, almost hidden by the trees, a dark building.
"Hallo!" I cried aloud.
But there was no answering voice.
"There is some one here," I said; "speak, or I fire."
"What would you, Roger Trevanion?" said a strange voice.
I must confess that my heart gave a bound as I heard my own name in this lonely place, but I quickly mastered myself.
"I would see you," I replied.
"You cannot see spirits of just men made perfect," was the reply. "They can see you while they remain invisible."
"We will see," I replied. "I have flint and steel here. I will light up this place, then perchance I shall find that the living as well as the dead inhabit the place."
I heard a low murmuring, then the voice replied: "Trouble not yourself, Roger Trevanion, there shall be light," and in a few seconds, as if by magic, a small lamp shone out in the darkness, revealing several objects, which at first I could not understand. As my eyes became accustomed to the darkness, I discovered a rude table on which stood a crucifix; on the walls too, rough and unplastered as they were, I saw pictures of a religious order. But my attention was drawn from other objects by a pallet bed which lay in the corner of the room, on which a human body lay.
"Uncle Anthony," I cried, not that I recognized him, but the name came involuntarily to my lips.
"Why are you here, Roger Trevanion?" asked a voice which I detected as Uncle Anthony's.
"Nay, rather, why are you here?" I cried; "and where is Mistress Nancy Molesworth?"
"She is where you will never reach her," he replied, bitterly I thought, and yet in a feeble tone of voice.
"What mean you?" I cried, and then I saw that his head was bandaged.
"I mean that through your faithlessness"—he hesitated as though he knew not how to proceed.
"The Killigrews!" I cried.
"Ay."
"They overtook you?"
"Nay, they came here. I did my best, but what was I against three? Once I thought we should have beaten them, for Mistress Nancy wounded one of them sorely."
"But where are they gone? Which way did they take her?"
"Doubtless to Endellion. Why I tell you this I know not. Had you been faithful this need not have been."
"Tell me the whole story," I said at length.
"Why should I? But it doth not matter now. You can do her no harm, neither can you save her from the Killigrews. Well, perchance it is God's will. They are of the true faith, and—and you know most of the story, Roger Trevanion. You followed us to Penhale; the maid saw you, and so we left the house earlier than we had intended, and by a road through the fields. We reached this spot in safety, but they found us. Otho was with them, and, well, I am no fighter,—I did my best, but they took her. I—I am wounded in the head—a sword cut."
Why I knew not, but my heart seemed a hot fire.
"And is Mistress Nancy gone with these three Killigrews—alone?"
"Her serving-maid, Amelia, cried out to go with her, and they took her."
"Ah!" I cried, relieved.
He gave me details of the struggle, which I need not write down here, and which I thought, in spite of the fact that he seemed to hide the truth, told that he had fought well.
"And did not this hermit help you?"
"Michael is weaker than a child," replied Anthony, "he did nothing but pray."
"And how long since this took place?"
"Four hours ago."
"Four hours!—only?"
"That is all."
"They can be followed, she can be delivered!"
"No, no," murmured Uncle Anthony; "tell me, Roger Trevanion, why would you deliver her?"
"Because, because!——" then I stopped, I could not formulate the thought in my mind. "Did she go willingly?" I asked.
"Nay," cried the old man bitterly, "I—I think they gagged her; they bound her to her horse. She cried out sorely while she could, she struggled—and I—I could do nothing."
My blood ran through my veins like streams of fire; there were many questions I wanted to ask, but there was no time. I seemed to see her struggling with the Killigrews. I pictured her look of loathing as she talked with them.
"Trevanion or no Trevanion," I cried, as I hurried up the valley, "I'll strike another blow for the maid's liberty. I know she doth not trust me; but I'll free her from Otho Killigrew. Some one must have seen her—I'll follow them. They cannot well get beyond Padstow to-night!"
A little later I had taken the road which the landlord of the inn at St. Mawgan had told me led to Padstow. I rode hard till I came to a roadside inn. It was the first house I had noticed since I had left Mawgan. A light was shining from one of the windows, and I decided to stop.
"If they have passed here some one will have seen them," I mused, "and I must not go farther without inquiry."
I accordingly dismounted, and called for the landlord. An elderly man appeared, and in the light of the moon, which had just risen, I saw that his shoulders were bent, and that he craned his neck forward while he scanned my face.
"What'll 'ee plaise to 'ave, sur?" he asked in a wheedling tone of voice.
"A bottle of wine," I replied.
"Iss, to be sure, I'll tell 'em, sur. Your hoss do look flighty, sur. You wa'ant caare to laive un."
"He will stand quietly," I replied; "but I'll fasten him to your crook here. I should not advise you to go near him."
"You be'ant comin' in, sur, be 'ee?"
"Just a minute," I replied.
"Ah iss, to be sure," he answered, leading the way into a dark room.
"But you have a room with a light here," I objected, as he pushed a candle into a smouldering fire.
"Iss, sur, but tes used, sur. To tell the truth, sur, for I can zee you be a gen'leman, my wife's sister is there. She's terble bad weth small-pox, sur."
"Small-pox!" I cried aghast.
"Aw, iss, sur. I doan't go ther' myself, and tes makin' terble 'ard agin my custom."
All the while he was pulling out the cork from a bottle of wine.
"I don't think I'll stay to drink," I said, thinking of the man's statement about his wife's sister. "Of course I'll pay for it," I added, noting the look of chagrin on his face.
"You be a rail gen'leman," he remarked, as I threw down a guinea.
"Have you been away from the house to-day?" I asked.
"No, sur."
"Have you noticed a party on horseback ride by this afternoon?"
"What time would it be, sur?"
"About four o'clock, I should imagine."
"No, sur, there ain't no party of no sort gone long 'ere."
"You are quite sure?"
"Iss, sur. Be you lookin' out for a party, sur?"
"Yes," I replied, "but I must have been misinformed."
"How many was in the party, sur?"
"Why?"
"Well, Bill Bennetto, Maaster Veryan's hind, was over here little while ago, and he zaid as ow 'ee'd zeed a party of five ride through St. Eval. Ther' wos three gentlemen and two laadies, sur. They wos ridin' 'ard for Padstow, 'ee zaid."
"What time was this?"
"'Bout fower a clock, sur. Praps that was the lot you was wantin'."
"How far is it from here to Padstow."
"Oa ten or twelve mile, I shud think."
"A straight road?"
"Aw, iss, you can't miss et."
Glad to get out of the house infected with small-pox, I contented myself with this information, and a few seconds later I was on Chestnut's back again, riding northward. I had gone only a short distance, however, when I came to a junction of roads. Here a difficulty presented itself, for I knew not which way to take.
"What did the fellow mean by telling me it was a straight road?" I grumbled angrily, and then it struck me suddenly that he seemed very anxious for me to leave his house. I looked eagerly around me in the hope of getting out of my difficulty, but it was a lonely place, and no houses were in sight. Presently, however, I saw a light shining, and making my way towards it, discovered a cottage.
"Which is the way to Padstow?" I asked of a man who held a lantern in his hand, and who evidently lived at the cottage.
"Dunnaw, sur, I be sure. I speck the best way will be for 'ee to go to Little Petherick and inquire."
"Is it a straight road?"
"Lor bless 'ee, sur, no. 'Tes as crooked as a dog's hind leg."
I wondered at this, and asked the man if he knew the landlord of the Farmer's Rest.
"Aw, iss I do knaw un, sur."
"What kind of a man is he?"
"A littlish man, with a long neck like a gander, and sharp eyes like a rat."
"Yes, I know, but is he a respectable man!"
"Iss, 'ee've saved a braavish bit of money. I do 'ear as how 'ee've got vour hundred in Tura Bank."
"His wife's sister has small-pox, hasn't she?"
"What do 'ee main, sur?"
I repeated my question.
"Why, bless 'ee, sur, his wife aan't got no sister. She's Jenny Johnses onnly darter. As fur small-pox, I never 'eerd tell o' noan."
Giving the man a piece of money, I rode back towards the Farmer's Rest again. Evidently the landlord had been purposely deceiving me. Why? My heart thumped loudly against my ribs, for I had grave suspicion that he desired to hide something from me. I made my way very quietly to the house. If he had reasons for deceiving me, it behoved me to be careful. I saw that the light still shone from the window of the room in which the landlord said his wife's sister lay. Telling Chestnut to stand still, I crept silently towards the house. I saw that the door was closed, and although I listened intently I could hear no sound. Placing my hand on the door handle, I was about to try and open it, when I saw a woman come from a building close by which was evidently used as a washhouse. She did not see me, neither did she come to the front door at which I stood. As far as I could judge, she was making her way to the yard at the back of the inn.
"Surely," I thought, "that is Amelia Lanteglos."
I started to follow her, when, the girl hearing my step turned around, and I saw that I was right.
"Amelia," I whispered.
"Good Lord, sur, is that you?" was her answer.
"Yes, where is your mistress?"
"Aw, I be glad, I be glad," she sobbed, "we've 'ad a terble time, sur—a terble time."
"Is your mistress ill?" I asked.
"She'll go mazed zoon."
"Why?"
She looked anxiously around, and then turned towards me again.
"Ther's nobody harkenin', nobody do knaw you be 'ere, sur, do mun?"
"No one. I called here less than an hour ago, and the landlord told me that his wife's sister had small-pox. So I rode away, but I found out that he told me false. That's why I've come back again. No one has seen me but you."
"And you be my young missus' friend, be'ant 'ee, sur? You doan't main she no 'arm."
"No."
"Then I'll tell 'ee, sur. She's inside there weth Master Otho."
I suspected this, so waited for her to proceed.
"Colman es in the 'ouse too, sur; but 'ee's in bed. Mistress Nancy ded fire a pistol at un, and 'urt 'es arm. That was when Uncle Anthony was weth us."
"But there were three."
"Iss, sur. Maaster Clement es gone to Padstow."
"What for."
"Gone to fetch the priest, sur."
"Why? To marry Otho to your mistress?"
The maid sobbed. "She'll go mazed, sur. She's in ther weth Maaster Otho. You do knaw his way, sur. I believe he'll jist frighten her till she do marry un."
"But why did they stop here?"
"'Twas on account of Mistress Nancy, sur. She made out to faint an like that, sur, thinkin to gain time. But Maaster Otho can't be aisy bait. He brought her here, and ded send Clement off for the priest. Besides, Maaster Colman could hardly sit on the hoss."
I saw the danger. In the then condition of the marriage laws, the maid Nancy was practically helpless. If the priest went through a form of service, even without the maid's assent, Otho could, by means of the testimony of the landlord of the inn, claim that a legal marriage had taken place. What was to be done, therefore, would have to be done quickly.
"Where are your horses, Amelia?"
She pointed to the house in which they were stabled.
"You can saddle them without any one knowing?"
"Aw, iss sur."
"Do, then."
With that I turned towards the front door of the inn again; and I must here confess that I hugely enjoyed the situation. The love of adventure was strong upon me, and I laughed at the thought of thwarting the Killigrews. I owed the landlord a debt for deceiving me. I therefore went to the spot where I had left Chestnut, and, having taken some stout cord from my saddlebag, came back, and, on trying to open the door, found it barred. Then I knocked sharply.
"Who's there?" It was Boundy, the landlord, who spoke.
"Come, Boundy," I cried, "open the door quick; there's no time to lose."
"Es that you, sur?" he responded, and immediately drew back the bolts. No sooner had he done so than I caught him and dragged him outside.
"Make a sound, and you are a dead man!" I said, in a whisper.
Something in my voice, I suppose, told him that I meant what I said, for he made no sound, neither did he struggle when I bound him hand and foot. He was no stronger than a lad of twelve, and very little heavier. I therefore took him to the stables, where Amelia Lanteglos had gone.
"Amelia," I said, "here's the landlord. You need not be afraid. He's bound. But if he makes a noise, stuff some hay in his mouth."
The girl grasped the situation in a second. "Oal right, sur," she said with a grin, and I knew I could trust her. Then I went back and entered the inn, closing the door after me, and silently bolting it. I heard the murmuring of women in the kitchen behind; evidently they knew nothing of what had taken place. After this I made my way to the room in which Otho Killigrew had taken Mistress Nancy Molesworth.
I was about to knock when I heard the sound of voices.
"And do you think," I heard a voice say, which I recognized as Mistress Nancy's, "that although you force me into this marriage, I shall really be your wife?"
"Ay, that you will." It was Otho who spoke in his low, mocking way.
"But I will not be your wife. I despise you, loathe you."
"That feeling will soon pass away when you are the wife of Otho Killigrew. You will love me all the more for being so determined to have you. And I—well, I would a thousand times rather have this than an ordinary wedding. Clement and Father O'Brien will soon be here. I thought I heard his voice a few seconds ago."
"But I will die sooner than wed you!"
"Ah, I like to see your eyes shine like that. It makes you more handsome than ever. With me as master, and you as mistress of Restormel, we shall be much sought after in the county."
"Is this the act of a gentleman, Otho Killigrew? The very gypsies will cry out against you as a mean knave."
"It is the act of a gentleman," replied Otho coolly. "You had every opportunity to wed me in a way befitting your station, but you would not have it so. You trusted to a trickster, and thereby sadly compromised your reputation. Now I must treat you as I am obliged. You should be thankful that I am willing to wed you after such conduct."
"I would I had trusted the man you call a trickster!" cried the maid bitterly, at which it flashed upon me that I was playing the part of an eavesdropper. True, I felt justified in listening, at the same time I felt uncomfortable, and was about to knock at the door when his words arrested me again.
"Come, Nancy, let us act reasonably. If you will promise to go to Endellion with me, and wed me there, we will have done with this method of going on. Let me have a kiss and we will be friends."
He evidently laid hands on her as he spoke, for the maid cried out. At this I was unable to control myself, and I pushed the door with so much vehemence that the rusty hinges gave way, and I entered the room.
Even at that time I noticed that the apartment was bare of all furniture, save for a few straight-back chairs and a rickety table. Mistress Nancy stood at one corner of the room, her eyes flashing fiercely and her face as pale as death. Otho was holding one of her hands, but on hearing the noise of my entrance had turned his face angrily towards me.
I knew I dared not give him time, for doubtless he carried dagger and pistols, and would use them without hesitation. I therefore leapt upon him, and in a second we were engaged in a mad struggle. As for the maid, she gave another cry which I thought told of her joy at my coming.
Maddened, desperate as he was, I soon discovered that I had not his brother Benet to deal with. He availed himself of all sorts of wrestler's tricks, and tried to use his knife, but it was no use. In a few seconds I had thrown him heavily on the floor. He lay stunned, but this I knew would not be for long.
"Mistress Nancy Molesworth," I said, turning panting to the maid, "will you trust me now?"
She looked piteously into my face. "Dare I?" she cried; "I am all alone, I have no one to help me. I would rather die than wed him," and she gave a look of loathing towards Otho. "May I trust you?"
"You may," I said eagerly, and at that moment I felt a joy in sacrificing Trevanion rather than carrying out Peter Trevisa's wishes. "As God is above us, I will take you wherever you wish to go, and I give my life to see that no harm happens to you!" and this I said like one compelled, for my words seemed to be dragged from me by some wondrous power which the maid possessed.
She caught my hand eagerly. Her eyes seemed to burn like live coals, and as I thought she looked into the very depth of my life.
"Yes, I will trust you," she cried, "and I will bless you forever. But can you take me away. These men seem to have friends everywhere."
"I can, and I will," I cried eagerly, for at that time my heart was hot, and I felt no weakness. "Come quickly," I continued, "I have prepared my plans." Then turning around I saw two women in the room, evidently the landlord's wife and a servant-maid.
"What do 'ee main? who be you?" screamed one of the women.
But I took no heed. Mistress Nancy caught some clothing which she had thrown on the table, and although the woman tried to bar the doorway, I led her out. All this time Otho had been lying on the floor like one dead.
I went to the door which I had bolted, and was about to open it, but I desisted, for I heard the clatter of horses' hoofs. For a moment my heart sank within me; I felt sure that Colman Killigrew had returned with the priest. If that were so, I should be one against many. The maid Nancy had also heard the noise, for her face was piteous to behold.
"'Tis they, 'tis they," she cried. "Oh, you will not let me fall into their hands, will you?"
It was then that I realized the secret of my heart. At that moment I knew that Mistress Nancy Molesworth was all the world to me, and that all my vows never to care for a woman again were no more than the chaff which the wind drives away. My blood was on fire, and I vowed that all the Killigrews on earth should not take her from me.
"No, by God, no!" I cried, "they shall not get you."
My words seemed to give her confidence, for she became calmer and steady again.
"Give me a pistol," she said, "I will help you."
At that moment there was a sound of knocking at the door.
"Let us in!" cried a voice, which I recognized as Clement's, and the landlord's wife rushed towards the door. Ill as I like to touch a woman I felt I must not hesitate, and so with no gentle hand I threw her against the door, whereupon she went into violent hysterics. As for the servant, she went into the backyard screaming. Seeing a key in the door, I quickly turned it, and placed it in my pocket.
"Come, we can follow the servant-maid," I said to Mistress Nancy, but at that moment Otho Killigrew staggered towards us, with his knife uplifted. I struck him a cruel blow, but it could not be helped, and again he fell heavily. Seeing the barrel of a pistol gleaming from his belt, I took it from him and gave it to the maid. She took it without a word, and I knew by the light in her eyes that she meant to use it.
Meanwhile Clement Killigrew kept beating the door, and I knew that he would ere long succeed in breaking it down. It is true I had cocked my pistol, while Mistress Nancy held hers ready to shoot, but I knew not how many were outside, so I dared not wait. I therefore took the dear maid's hand and led her into the yard.
"Amelia," I cried.
"Here you be, sur."
I hurried towards her, and found two horses saddled.
"Mount, mount," I cried quickly, "they'll be after us."
"No, they waan't," retorted Amelia, "I've turned all the other horses out in the field."
"And where's Boundy?"
"Lyin' inside there, weth his mouth chucked vull of hay."
In spite of our danger, I could not help laughing aloud.
By this time they had both mounted, and as yet no one had followed us into the yard.
"There's another way down to the road," cried Amelia, "it'll bring us out furder down. Where's yore oss, sur?"
"He's all right. You are a clever girl, Amelia." This I said while we went silently down the cart track under the trees.
On reaching the road I gave a low whistle, and in a second I heard the clatter of hoofs, as Chestnut came towards me. He gave a whinney as he saw me, but before I could mount I heard a bullet whiz by me, and strike hazel bushes on the top of the hedge. Then I saw Clement Killigrew and the priest coming towards us. Great as was my longing to stop and meet these men, I deemed it prudent to get away as quickly as possible. A new fear had come into my life, a fear that they should harm the maid Nancy. I sprang to the stirrup therefore, and before I was fairly on Chestnut's back he started into a gallop. I checked him for fear I should leave my companions behind, but I need not have feared. Their horses kept neck to neck with mine. For a time I could hear no one following, but presently the sound of horses' hoofs rang out in the night air.
I stopped and listened. "There is only one horse," I said, and as I spoke the sound ceased. Again we rode on, and again I could hear the following horseman; a mile or so farther on we pulled up a second time, and as soon as we stopped our pursuer also stopped.
"What is the meaning of that, I wonder?" I said aloud. "We have been riding more slowly and he has not gained upon us. When we stop he follows our example. What does it mean?"
"It is Clement," said Mistress Nancy; "he will have got his orders from Otho."
"But why does he not seek to overtake us?"
"It would not suit his purpose," cried she; "he dare not come too close to us. He will be afraid. He knows you have pistols. His purpose will be to keep us in sight and mark where we go."
"But what good will that do him?"
"When he thinks we are safely housed, he will send for help."
"But how?"
"The Killigrews have followers all around in this part of the country," she said. "They have friends unknown to you."
"But we will ride right on to the west of the country, where Hugh Boscawen is raising men against the enemies of the King."
"Even there he will have friends. Clement is almost as cunning as Otho."
"I will go back and fight him," I said quietly. "We will soon be rid of him."
"He will know of your coming, and will ride away from you. If you follow him he will lead you into some trap."
"But we must be rid of him," I cried; "we shall not be safe while he follows."
Then the maid held her peace, but I knew she greatly feared Clement Killigrew. At this I became anxious, for, truth to tell, I felt awkward and helpless now. I dared not make other suggestions, because I believed that in spite of what she had said she still failed to trust me. Then I had cared little about her good opinion concerning me, now I would dare anything to win her smile. I determined that no harm should come to her, for my heart yearned for her, even as the heart of a mother must yearn for her first-born son. I looked at her as she rode by my side, and in the light of the moon I could discern every feature. Pale she was and anxious, but to me her face was glorious beyond compare. I saw resolution, foresight, a nobleness in her every movement, but all this made her further removed from me. In the light of my new-found love she became a new creature. All my being went out to her, all my life I was ready to lay at her feet. I remembered what I had said on Roche Rock—I had told her that I cared for no woman, that she was nothing to me but the veriest stranger. I would have given anything to have recalled those words, but it could not be. I thought of what I had promised Peter Trevisa, and I was filled with shame. I tried to drive the promise from my mind, but it had been made.
All this made me silent and awkward, and I rode by her side eager to save her from the Killigrews, yet distrusting myself sorely.
And yet with my love, painful as it was, came joys unknown to me before. Never till then had I realized what a gladness it was to live, to think, to act. The road on which I rode became a scene of beauty, the country air scented with the perfume of spring seemed to me like a breath from Paradise, the murmuring of the sea in the distance made heaven near. So much, indeed, did I live in the thought of my love, and of what she would think of me, that for the moment I forgot that Clement Killigrew was following us, as a sleuth-hound follows his prey. In my heart I called her my lady Nancy, and wondered what I could do to make her think better of me. For I could not help feeling that she had turned to me as a last resource, and that even now, should John Polperro appear, she would immediately dispense with my services. Although I hated this thought, I could not blame her for it, for who was I that she should trust me? I remembered, too, that since we left the inn her words to me had been cool and distant, as though she were ashamed of her emotion at the time when I found her in the room with Otho Killigrew.
I was recalled to myself at length by Amelia Lanteglos, who said with a laugh:
"Ours be good 'osses, be'ant 'em, sur?"
"Yes," I replied; "I did not think Uncle Anthony could find such good ones among the moors."
"Thaise be'ant Uncle Anthony's. These belong to the Killigrews. The one I do ride belonged to Maaster Otho, 't'other to Maaster Coleman."
"Good," I cried, thinking what a quick-witted girl she was. "You are a clever maid, Amelia."
"I ain't a-lived 'mong the Killigrews for nothin'!" she said; "besides I'd do anything for Mistress Nancy."
Her mistress did not speak, but I noted the look she gave her.
"He es still follin'," continued Amelia; "we shall 'ave to do summin zoon. What time es et, I wonder?"
"About nine o'clock, I expect," I replied. "Ah! yonder is light. I wonder if it is a kiddleywink?"
"Why?" asked Mistress Nancy.
"I hope it is," I replied, for at that moment a plan flashed through my mind.
A few minutes later we rode up to a little hamlet consisting of four houses, one of which was a public house.
"We will dismount here," I said.
"To what purpose?" asked Mistress Nancy.
"I have a plan in my mind," I replied.
"But if we stop here Clement will act."
"So will I."
She spoke no word but dismounted, while I called the landlord.
"Have you stabling for three horses?" I asked when he appeared.
"Jist," was his reply.
"And a room into which these ladies can go; a private room?"
"Aw, iss, sur. Ther's the pa'lor. They ca' go in theer."
"Very well." I quickly saw them in the room, and having ordered refreshments for them I left. I felt as though Mistress Nancy did not desire my company, and I determined not to force it upon her. Then I hurried to the stables, where the three horses had been put.
"Have you a lock to the stable door?" I asked of the man who had taken care of the horses.
"Law no, sur; we doan't want no locks. Ther's jist a hasp to kip the door from blawin' open."
"Are there no highwaymen or horse-stealers in these parts?"
"We ain't a 'ad a 'oss stailed for 'ears," was the reply.
"Well, keep your eye on that stable," I said sternly. "If anything happens to those horses, you'll be hanged."
"I'll mind, sur," replied the man; "nobody shall tich 'em. Nobody shall go into the stable but me;" and I knew by the look of dogged determination on his face that he meant what he said.
At this moment I heard the clatter of hoofs, and I hurried into the house. I saw the landlord go to the door, and heard him say to the horseman: "No sur, you can't stable yer 'oss. A party 'ave jist come, sur, and I've only room for dree 'osses."
"Well, all right," said Clement Killigrew in tones scarcely above a whisper, "fasten him here to the crook at the door, 'twill be just as well. I suppose I can have a bottle of wine. By the way, do not let the other party know I have come here."
"No, sur, I wa'ant let em knaw, but I a'ant got no wine. A jug of good ale, sur."
"All right, that will do;" then he said something in low tones to the landlord, which I did not hear.
"All right, sur," I heard the innkeeper say in reply. "I'll 'tend to et, sur; but you'll 'ave to go into the kitchen among the farmers-men, the palor is okkipied."
There was no reply to this, and then Clement Killigrew went into the kitchen.
Without hesitation I entered the room after him. All had happened as I expected. He had followed us to the inn, he had come in quietly, he had made arrangements with the landlord to take a message to some one near with whom he doubtless had influence, and now he would wait until help came. Then he would try and recapture Mistress Nancy and take her back to Endellion. Consequently, I determined to act at once. My purpose was to go into the room, and as soon as possible quarrel with him. I knew that the Killigrews never brooked an insult, and I thought that by careful management I should lead him to challenge me. This done, I hoped to disable him and then continue our journey before help could come. By so doing I should escape his espionage, and in a few hours be out of his reach.
He gave a start as I swaggeringly entered the room; but quickly appeared composed. Some half-dozen labourers were there, with their jugs of beer before them, and all seemed awed at the advent of two gentlemen with swords by their sides and pistols in their belts. Clement Killigrew was standing in front of the fire, for although the spring was upon us the nights were cold.
"Ill-mannered knave," I said, striding up to him, "what do you mean by standing in front of the fire?"
He looked at me angrily, and seemed about to answer back according to the manner of my address; but controlling his feelings he stood aside.
"I ask your pardon," he said politely, "it was very rude of me to keep the fire from the rest of the company."
"It was rude," I replied, "and none but a varlet would do it."
"I have expressed my apologies," was his response.
"Words are cheap," I said; "still, I suppose that is all you are able to give."
"Yes, I will give more than words," he replied, and on this I grasped the hilt of my sword, for I hoped that I had aroused him to fight, but my hopes were short-lived. "I will be glad to pay for a glass of brandy grog for each of these good fellows," he said blandly.
The men murmured their pleasure. "A rail gen'leman," they said, looking at him with admiration, while they regarded me with angry scowls.
So far he had the best of the encounter. Evidently he had determined to avoid a quarrel. Perhaps he was afraid of me, perhaps he thought it wise to refrain from fighting.
"This man seeks to buy your friendship," I said loudly. "I will tell you what he is—he is one of two things. Either a common highway robber, or a coward. If he be the first, let him fight—or I will take him to the nearest magistrate; if he is the second, you ought to drum him out of the house."
"I am not a highway robber," he replied blandly. "To prove it I am perfectly willing to go with you and these gentlemen to the nearest magistrate; put it down then that I am a coward."
"Yes," I said, "you are a coward, all the Killigrews are."
Again his eyes flashed, and this time he placed his hand on the butt end of his pistol. On looking at me, however, he again assumed a bland expression.
"You have given me a name, sir, and you have called me a coward. Well, have your own way. The truth is, although I am travelling in civilian's attire, I hope soon to be ordained a priest. For the present, therefore, I am under a vow not to fight."
"A rail gen'leman, a rail gen'leman," murmured the men.
"An arrant coward," I cried.
"I think," said Clement to the landlord, who had entered, "that your drink must be very strong here. This gentleman must be drunk."
This gave me my chance, and I was about to strike him in the face, when I heard Amelia's voice outside.
"Come, sir, quick."
I left the room, while the men gave a loud guffaw at my supposed discomfiture.
"Git the 'osses out quick, sir," cried the maid.
"Why?"
"Do as she tells you," said Mistress Nancy.
"He'll ride after us as before," I objected.
"No he wa'ant, not fur," cried Amelia.
I did as they suggested, and when I had paid the landlord I prepared to mount. I was still in the dark why Mistress Nancy had suggested this course of procedure, but it was for her to command and me to obey. I kept my eyes steadily on the front door while my two companions mounted. I thought I saw Clement Killigrew come out, but was not sure.
"Ride on quickly out of pistol range," I said to them, then I walked backward by Chestnut's side for twenty or thirty yards, all the time holding my pistol in my right hand. No one following, I placed my foot in the stirrup and was soon galloping down the road. We had not gone far when I heard the sound of hoofs behind us.
"He's again following us," I said bitterly.
"He wa'ant come fur!" said Amelia with a laugh; so I turned to her, asking what she meant.