Amelia did not immediately answer my question, but continued to laugh like one in high spirits. "He wa'ant come fur!" she repeated; and after we had gone on, it may have been a mile or two, I stopped and listened again, and this time there were no following footsteps.
"Now we must ride quick," said the maid.
"How! what use will it be?" I asked almost angrily. "Clement's horse will be as good as either of yours."
"Iss, but his hoss is drunk!" laughed Amelia.
"Drunk?" I cried.
"Iss, drunk. When I zeed you go into the kitchen, and tried to git into a row weth Maaster Clement, I minded a trick I once seed at Endellion Church town. So I tould the chap that took your 'osses to draw me a gallon of beer. He axed me questions 'bout et, but I knawed 'ow to git over 'ee."
"And did the horse drink it?"
"Drink et! I shud think he ded. He wos thusty and sooped up every drap. Aw I shud like to see un now;" and the maid laughed again.
In spite of everything I joined her. It was purely a village girl's trick, and well carried out. A thirsty horse will drink a quantity of beer, and generally a few minutes after becomes light-headed and unable to walk straight.
"You are a clever girl, Amelia," I said again, "and you are right in saying we must ride quickly. Clement will find out the trick, and will follow us on foot."
"We've got the wind in our back," she replied, "zo ef we git a mile or so ahead, the sound of our 'osses wa'ant reach he."
So we rode hard until we came to Summercourt. Here there were several branch roads, and so far as I could see no one was stirring. Even although Clement followed on foot, he would have great difficulty in finding which way we had gone.
"Which way shall we go?" I asked of Mistress Nancy.
"Do you think it will be safe for us to go to Polperro?" she asked hesitatingly.
"I think so," I replied, although my heart was sore at saying this. "These Killigrews will know your whereabouts, and as a consequence there will be no watchers at Polperro."
"And you will take me there safely?—that is," she continued, as though she were correcting herself, "you think you can?"
"Oh yes, I can," I replied; "and I will take you whither you will."
"Then perhaps we had better go there—I know of no other place."
She spoke plaintively, and as I thought hesitatingly. I longed to offer her a home at Trevanion, but I dared not.
"It is well," I replied, as cheerfully as I could; "there is just another matter we may as well settle, however. Shall we ride there on our horses, or shall we go by water?"
"What do you mean?" she asked anxiously.
"Polperro's house is close to the sea, is it not?" I asked.
"Yes—that is, I believe so."
"Well, if we were to ride to Veryan Bay, we could get a boat and sail from there."
"And is that a better way?"
"You shall decide, if you please," was my reply. "From here to Veryan is, perchance, twelve miles. I do not imagine that the Killigrews would suspect us of going there; so even if Clement should try and follow us with another horse, I do not think he would take that course. He would rather imagine that we should make for Polperro by road."
She was silent for a few seconds, then she told Amelia to ride behind us out of earshot. At this my heart fluttered wildly, for I thought she had something of importance to say to me. For a few minutes we rode side by side without either speaking a word. The moon had risen high in the heavens, and many of the clouds had passed away, so I could see her every feature plainly.
"Do you wonder," she said presently, "that, in spite of the vow you took some time ago, I cannot feel as friendly towards you as I would."
"No," I replied almost sullenly.
"Perhaps you know that my liberty, my happiness, my fortune, the whole future of my life is at stake."
"Yes."
"It is only a few months since I returned from a convent school in France. My father, I suppose, was a rich man; and I have heard vaguely that I legally inherit a large property when I am twenty-one. That time will soon come now. That is why the Killigrews are anxious to marry me at once. All I have would then become theirs. I have heard, too, that my property is strictly entailed. But I have been told nothing definite; it would seem as though all have been in a league to keep the truth from me. Ever since I returned from school I have been practically a prisoner. But I am determined to be free!"
"You shall be free if it is in my power to make it possible," I replied.
She gave a sharp, searching look, and then went on.
"I am, as you see, entirely dependent on you."
I was silent.
"As far as I know there is but one man in whom I can trust. He—he has asked me to be his wife. He does not know that I have taken this step." She said this in a constrained, hesitating way, as though she were afraid to utter the words.
"Do you wish to be John Polperro's wife?" I stammered awkwardly. "That is, would you under ordinary circumstances choose him for your husband? Is he to you the man above all others?"
"You are a stranger to me," she went on, as though I had not spoken. "Until that night when you climbed to the housetop at Endellion I had never seen you, never heard of you. I have no claim on you save the claim that any gentlewoman who is in trouble has upon a man of honour."
"Be that as it may," I replied, "all I have and am are at your service. I will take you whither you will." This I said, I am afraid, with a sigh, for I realized that after I had taken her to Polperro my work would be done. I must leave her, perchance never to see her again.
"I may trust you fully then?"
"Fully."
"Then," she said, and her voice became hard and unsympathetic, I thought, "will you tell me why you came to Endellion? why you tried to deceive me the first time you spoke to me? why you did not answer me frankly when we were together with that old man on Roche Rock?"
Her questions came quickly, and I saw by the way she grasped the bridle rein that she was much wrought upon. In a second I realized what they meant. I saw that the moment I told her the truth, even although she might perforce trust me to take her to Polperro, all possibility of respect for me would be gone. She would think of me as one who for gain would have betrayed a woman's confidence, one who was the tool of men who had bought me for a price. I had given up all idea of taking her to Treviscoe, but the fact that I had consented to such a bargain must stamp me in her eyes as a knave. I tried to open my mouth to speak, but for the moment I could not, and I sat staring into vacancy as though I were a born fool.
"Forgive me," she said coldly, "I will not trouble you to answer me. I have no right to know your secrets or your plans. You have promised to take me to Polperro, and your name is Trevanion; I will trust to one bearing your name to do as you have promised. I am sorry to trouble you, but I am obliged to take advantage of a gentlewoman's claim on a gentleman, and to ask you to take me to the house of my only friend."
My heart was heavy, for I saw what her words implied. She would regard me with less respect than she might regard a paid guide. Although she had said she would trust me, her heart would doubt me all the time. I knew by the tones of her voice that when the time of our parting came she would be glad. She had given me a chance of proving myself an honourable man, and I had been unable to take advantage of it. Therefore, although by all laws of chivalry I was bound to serve her, she would accept that service no longer than she absolutely needed me. Aye, she would loathe my presence and my service, even although she could not do without them.
This I knew was what my silence meant to her, but what would an explanation mean? The truth would be perhaps worse than the suspicion. Never did I despise myself as I did then, and I felt as though I dared not tell her the truth. But this was only for a second. Despise me though she must, I would tell her the whole story. I had at least repented; whatever my motives had been in the past, they were pure now.
"Mistress Nancy Molesworth," I said, "I will answer the questions you have asked."
"No, no," she interrupted. "I have no right to know. I was wrong in asking. Your secret life can be nothing to me."
"I must answer your questions nevertheless," I replied. "And you have a right to know something of the man in whom you trust so much. I shall probably lose what little confidence you have in me, and certainly all your respect, but still I must tell you."
She protested again, in chilling, indifferent tones, but I heeded her not.
"You said just now that I was a Trevanion," I said; "well, you spoke truly, I am a Trevanion." Then sparing myself in no degree, I told her the plain facts as I have told them here. It was painful to me, painful as pulling out my eyes, but I felt I would rather she should know all than that she trust me blindfolded, while all the time she hated to be obliged to speak to me. During the time I was speaking she made no response. Our horses walked slowly on (for by this time I imagined we were entirely away from the Killigrews), and so she heard every word I uttered. Sometimes I looked at her face, but it revealed nothing to me. It was as motionless as the face of a statue.
"That is all," I said when I had finished; "but believe me in this at least: I did not fully realize what my premise meant, and you cannot think worse of my conduct than I think myself. I know it was unworthy, but it shall not turn out to your ill. If it is in the power of man, I will take you to the place to which you would go."
"Shall we ride faster?" she said presently.
"Yes," I replied, "but which way? Will you go by road or water?"
"If we go to Veryan, we pass Tresillian, I think you said?"
"I do not remember saying so, but it is true."
"Then we will go that way."
For the next few miles we rode rapidly, neither speaking a word, but presently she slackened her horse's pace.
"How far is Tresillian from here?" she asked.
"About one mile."
"Thank you for being so frank," she said after a few seconds of silence.
"I know it must be unpleasant for me to be near you," I said bitterly; "but believe me, I will trouble you no longer than I can help."
"When you have taken me to my destination, what will you do?"
"I shall start for London."
"Why?"
"There can be nothing left for me in Cornwall. I shall join the King's standard, and honourably seek my way to fortune."
"You will lose your home, the home of your fathers?"
"It must be."
"You say that—that man gave you money."
"Yes, but he will be amply recouped. All the same, I shall send him the amount as soon as I have earned it."
"What kind of man is he? And what kind of man is—is his son?"
Again I did not spare myself, indeed I took a sort of savage delight in describing the two men I had promised to serve.
"And if you had taken me to Treviscoe, you would claim the deeds. You would have fulfilled your obligations to them, and the old homestead would be yours?"
"Forgive me," I cried, "I did not know I could have become so base," and indeed at that moment I felt unworthy to ride by her side.
"Can you think of Trevisa's purpose in wanting to get me there?" she asked, without seeming to notice my words.
"I think I told you," I replied bitterly.
"Yes, but he told you nothing of the means by which he hoped to carry out his purpose?"
"No, it was nothing to me. I was desperate, mad. Besides I thought not of that, and I—I loved adventure."
"But you give me your sacred promise that you will take me wherever I desire to go?"
"You know I do. I despise myself. Believe me, I am not at heart a base villain, and I am anxious to prove to you how bitterly I repent—what I bargained to do. I long to break my miserable promise; nay, I shall be glad to bear the consequences of failing to redeem my pledge to him. I—I will do anything, suffer anything to carry out your purposes." This I said hesitatingly, because it came to me that I was betraying the love for her which was burning in my heart.
"You mean, then, that you will take me wherever I ask you?"
"Yes, yes!" I said eagerly.
"Then take me to Treviscoe, to the home of these—these Trevisas."
I started back aghast. "No, no!" I cried.
"But you have promised me, promised me on your honour."
"But—but you do not understand."
"I understand perfectly."
"They are both miserable, sensual wretches."
"You told me that a little while ago. But please take me there."
"I am sure they have sinister, evil purposes in wishing to get you there."
"Most likely, nevertheless I rely on your promises."
"They will do their utmost to get you into their power. They have no conscience, no sense of honour."
"I should judge not. But I will go."
I looked into her face. Her eyes shone like live coals, her face was as pale as death, but I could see she was resolute.
"Very well," I said with a sigh. "I will do as you command me."
It was now midnight, and we were within two miles of Truro.
"It is well on to twenty miles from here to Trevisa's place," I said, "and the roads are bad. To say the least, it is a three hours' journey. There is a good inn at Truro, and I think you would be safe there. Which will you do—stay at Truro, or ride direct to Trevisa's?"
She hesitated a few seconds, then she decided to stay at Truro. I was glad of this, because I knew she must be very weary. Half an hour later our horses were in a comfortable stable, while Mistress Nancy Molesworth sat at the same table with me in one of the best inns in the county.
"You still wish me to take you to Treviscoe?" I said after we had partaken of refreshment.
"Yes. Good-night."
When I reached my room I pondered long over the events of the day, and wondered much at the maid Nancy's behaviour, but could not divine her motives. I determined to take her to Peter Trevisa as she had commanded, but I was strong in my resolve to watch over her as jealously as a young mother watches over her first-born child.
It was past midday when I awoke, and so I hurriedly dressed, wondering what the woman I had learnt to love would think of me, but when I went down-stairs I discovered that she had not yet risen. I went to the stables and examined the horses. They were well fed and groomed, and as far as I could gather, no one had been there making inquiries concerning us. This put me at my ease, and when presently Mistress Nancy appeared, I assured her of her safety.
About an hour before dark we left Truro, and during our ride she asked me many questions, the meaning of which I could not understand. One thing she insisted on, for which in my heart I thanked her. It was that we should take my attorney, Mr. Hendy, with us to Treviscoe, for I knew that Peter Trevisa had a great terror of the law. Accordingly we called at the old lawyer's house, and asked him to accompany us. He seemed much surprised at seeing us, and the more was his astonishment when he discovered that Mistress Nancy went to Treviscoe against my will, for this he soon discovered. He said but little, however, and rode quietly with us like a man in a dream.
"What do you wish me to say to these men, Mistress Molesworth?" I said to her, when Treviscoe appeared in sight.
"Nothing," she replied absently.
"Nothing!"
"No. That is, say just what you would have said if you had carried out the purpose with which you started out."
Her words pierced me like a dagger-thrust, but I said nothing. A few minutes later we came up to the hall door.
Was Mr. Trevisa at home?
"Yes," the servant replied; "old Mr. Trevisa is, but not young Mr. Peter."
At this I was glad, but on looking at the maid Nancy's face I saw that she seemed perfectly indifferent. All the same she held tightly by her serving-maid's arm.
Old Peter seemed overjoyed at our appearance.
"What, Roger, lad!" he cried; "welcome, welcome! I see you've brought a guest for us too. Ah, she is doubly, trebly welcome. You've come for a long stay, I trust, Mistress Molesworth. Ah, but you must be tired; I will order refreshments. Here, Pollizock, you knave, take refreshments into the dining-hall without delay. I am sorry my Peter is away, but he will be back to-morrow. I have many things I want to speak to you about, Mistress Molesworth. You will not desire much company to-night, and doubtless both Roger and my friend Hendy will want to be jogging as soon as they've had a bite. Mary Tolgarrick will have many knick-knacks, such as ladies need, won't you, eh, Mary?"
"Thank you," replied the maid, her face still set and stern, "but I bought all that I need in Truro to-day; my maid Amelia will bring them to me."
"It is well," sniggered old Peter. "Be at home, my lady. Ah, I wish my Peter were here! He is always witty and gay. But he is away in your interest, Mistress Molesworth; he will have many things to tell you—many things he hath discovered. But my son Peter is wise, very wise."
The ladies went out of the room, leaving Lawyer Hendy and myself with old Peter.
"Ah, Roger lad," cried the old man, "you are a man. Smart and clever. You have saved Trevanion for yourself. When my Peter comes back we will settle the matter legally. Did you have much trouble, my lad? Ah, you must have played a deep game with the Killigrews."
I did not reply. I could not. I was too much ashamed. To think that I had planned to bring a well-born maid into such company, to remember that forever the woman I loved must think of me as doing this, was to fill my cup of degradation and misery.
And yet she had come here of her own free will—aye, she had insisted on coming after I had told her all. This I could not understand.
"Have the Killigrews any idea where you have taken their ward, Roger Trevanion?" asked old Peter presently.
"No."
"No? That is well. Tell me about it, lad?"
"I cannot to-night; I am not in the humour."
"Still surly, Roger? Ha, I know you hate to have aught to do with women. But you will be paid. You have brought her here as you said, and you shall be well paid, well paid."
My arms ached to throttle the old wretch. I longed to place my hands around his skinny neck and choke him, but I did nothing. Then old Peter began talking to Lawyer Hendy, and I fell to wondering what the end of the business was to be. That the maid Nancy would fall in with old Peter's plans, I could not believe; and yet she evidently intended to stay there. Would she desire me to be near as her protector? What were her purposes? But the maid's mind was a sealed book to me.
Presently she appeared again, her face still set, and her eyes burning with the light of purpose. Old Peter led the way into the dining-hall, and although I could not eat, I took my seat at the table.
"We shall not need you," said old Peter to the servants; "leave us. We can talk more freely now," he whined, turning towards us. "Is there anything I can do for you, Mistress Molesworth?"
"Yes," she replied steadily; "I wish you to fulfil your obligations to Master Roger Trevanion, and give him the deeds of his estates."
"When my son Peter comes home everything shall be settled, my dear lady."
"They can be settled now, can they not?"
"It will be difficult. I do not suppose our friend Hendy hath the papers at hand."
"Yes, I have them here," replied the lawyer.
At this I knew not what to say. My mind was torn with conflicting thoughts.
Peter Trevisa seemed much chagrined at the course events were taking. Doubtless he would twist and turn like a fox before fulfilling his promises; but the maid stood expectant by as the attorney took some papers from a receptacle and laid them on the table.
"Everything is in order here," said the old man quietly. "Of course, certain formalities will have to be complied with, but——"
"I will have none of it!" I cried; "none of it." So saying, I rose to leave the room.
"Do you wish me to render you any further service, Mistress Molesworth?" I continued hastily, "Have you any commands for me?"
"Do you mean to say," she asked quietly, "that you will not use to your advantage the means you have obtained in order to——"
I interrupted her rudely, for truly I was sore distraught.
"Think not too badly of me," I cried. "I am mean enough, God knows; but being in the company of a good woman has taught me what a man ought to be. No, no. I am a beggar—a beggar I will remain until I win my fortune honourably. Tell me what I can do to serve you?"
"Nothing," she replied, coldly, I thought.
"You will stay here, then?"
"Yes," she replied slowly; "seeing that Mr. Trevisa is so hospitably inclined, I will remain during the night."
"Many nights, my fair lady," cried old Peter gaily. "Treviscoe is very fair demesne, and when my son comes back to-morrow he will make it very pleasant for you. Ah! Roger knows that it is our joy to help all those who are sorrowful or oppressed."
"And is it your desire that I should leave you here?" I asked almost bitterly.
"You are sure you will not claim what is your right?" she asked. "Sure you will not allow Mr. Hendy to establish you at your old home?"
"I have no home," I cried. "If you do not wish me to stay and serve you, I will ride back to the old place, and, having discharged the servants, I will leave it forever."
"Nay, nay, Roger," cried old Peter, yet I saw that his eyes gleamed with avarice.
Taking no notice of him I waited for the maid Nancy's answer. "Do you wish me to remain near you?" I repeated.
"No," she answered; "but I should like Mr. Hendy to stay for an hour or so if he will."
"Then I am dismissed?" I said rudely, for my heart was very sore; but she made no answer, whereupon I turned on my heel, and a few minutes later was riding towards my old home.
Old Daniel welcomed me with tearful eyes. I might have been away years instead of a few days. And yet, as I considered what had happened since I bade him good-bye, years seemed to have elapsed.
"Is all well, Daniel?" I asked, after many protestations of joy and affection on his part.
"All well, Master Roger; all well. The attorney hath been here much, but I have no complaints to make. The serving-maids will be rejoiced to see 'ee, sur. They say the 'ouse is so lonely as a church when you be out ov et. Aw, sur, I be glad to see 'ee."
I had meant to tell the old man of my plans, but his joy at seeing me tied my tongue. I did not think the servants cared so much for me, and this revelation of their affection made it hard for me to tell them that on the morrow they would have to leave my service and the house which some of them had learnt to love. As a consequence, I determined to delay the news until the following morning.
This set me thinking again upon all that had happened, and, as well as I could, I tried to understand the whole bearing of the case. I had successfully completed the work I had undertaken, but in so doing I had changed the whole tenor of my life. I had gone to Endellion a woman hater; on returning I knew that I had willingly laid my heart at a woman's feet. I had, on discovering this, abandoned the idea of taking the maid Nancy to Treviscoe, and she had insisted on going. Why? I formed many surmises concerning this, but could think of nothing which satisfied me. The great question, however, was what would become of her? That she had a purpose in going to Trevisa's I did not doubt; but I knew, too, that old Peter would not lightly let her leave his house. Doubtless, also, young Peter had devised many plans for the purpose of fulfilling his heart's desire. I knew he would seek to forge claims whereby he would try and bind Nancy to him. And I had left her at Treviscoe, unprotected and alone. True, I was confident that she could hold her own against both father and son, nevertheless it was dangerous for her to be there.
Then what purpose had she in speaking with the attorney? Why was she anxious for me to leave her? For she was anxious. I called to mind the conversation which took place at Treviscoe, and which I have but meagrely described, and I was certain that she was relieved when I left her. Did she loathe my presence? Did she scorn me for playing so unmanly a part? Badly as I acted, I was less to be blamed than the men who had employed me. Besides, I had refused to benefit by what I had done. After much thinking, I determined not to leave the neighbourhood. I would watch over her, I would be near to protect her in case of danger.
This was the last thought in my mind before I fell asleep, and all through the night I dreamed I was defending her from powerful enemies, and rescuing her from dire perils.
I was awoke by Daniel knocking at my door.
"You be wanted down-stairs, sur."
"Wanted by whom, Daniel?"
"Some gen'lemen; I doan't knaw who they be. But they say tes very important, sur."
I hastily dressed, and made my way into the library where Daniel at my request had shown my visitors. The moment I entered the room a tall man came towards me, and placing his hand on my shoulder said quietly:
"Roger Trevanion, you are a prisoner."
"A prisoner!" I cried; "for what?"
"Treason."
"Treason! You must be mad!"
"That remains to be proved."
"But at least you can state in something like detail what you mean. What have I done? Wherein have I acted wrongly?"
"It is not for me to answer. I have simply to do my duty. I am instructed to arrest you, and that is my purpose in being here. Doubtless you will be allowed every opportunity of defending yourself—but with that I have nothing to do. My commands are to take you to Viscount Falmouth in a way befitting your station. Consequently, if you give me your word that you will offer no resistance, you may accompany us to Tregothnan as though you were simply going there on some private business."
I looked around the room, and saw three other men. Evidently the spokesman had brought them for the purpose of taking me by force in case of necessity.
As may be imagined, I was for a few minutes stunned by the course events had taken. I had never dreamed that I was in the slightest danger; I had no idea that I had by any action placed myself under suspicion.
Presently, however, I thought I saw Otho Killigrew's hands at work; I imagined I saw evidence of his busy brain; I became more self-possessed after this, and although I was in sore straits at the thought of leaving Nancy at Treviscoe, I tried to regard the whole matter as a joke.
"Gentlemen," I said, "what grounds there are for apprehending me I have not the ghost of an idea. I, as all my fathers were, am a true supporter of both crown and church. But, of course, you have done right in obeying orders, and I will be ready to go with you in a few minutes. In the mean time I hope you will join me at breakfast."
They willingly fell in with this proposal, but although I tried hard, I could get no information from them beyond what I have here set down. An hour later I was on my way to Tregothnan, where I was presently informed Hugh Boscawen (Viscount Falmouth) awaited me.
Perhaps there is no lovelier spot anywhere between the Tamar and Land's-end than Tregothnan. It overlooks the Truro River, and all that vast stretch of woodland which surrounds it. Around the house, which is an ancient pile, are rare gardens and parks, where old trees grow, the like of which is not to be found in the fairest county in England. The house was in many parts becoming decayed, and I had heard reports that Hugh Boscawen hoped one day to replace it by a more commodious dwelling. But I suspect that, like his father, he was too busy with political schemes to care much for a place justly renowned for many miles around.
I was shown into the library where Hugh Boscawen and three other gentlemen sat. Two of these I knew slightly. One was Sir John Grenville and another John Rosecorroch, the forefathers of both of whom fought against Cromwell nearly a century before. My attention, however, was more particularly drawn to Hugh Boscawen, before whom I was especially brought. As I looked at his face I was somewhat reminded of his father, who had died eleven years before, and whom I had twice seen. It called to my mind, also, the stories I had heard about the first viscount. So great was the old man's political zeal that he had caused the arrest of many who held high monarchical principles. Even Sir Richard Vyvian or Trelowaren, and Mr. Tremain, two of the most renowned and highly respected gentlemen for miles around, did not escape his vigilance. They were friends of his too, but, as he declared, "friendship had nought to do with principles."
The son, however, was not so great a man as his father. He had not the same commanding countenance, neither did his eyes flash forth the same light. On the other hand, the man before whom I stood seemed to be aware that he did not possess a keen, penetrating intellect, and as a consequence was suspicious and very cautious. Report had it, too, that he was very zealous in his service for the King, and would leave no stone unturned in order to carry out his designs. In proof of this, he had, as I have already stated, been engaged in raising an army to resist any forces which the Young Pretender might be able to command.
"Roger Trevanion," he said slowly, "I am sorry to see you here."
"Then it is a pity I should have been brought here, my lord," I said a little hotly, for it went sore against the grain to be brought a prisoner before a man whose family was no nobler than my own.
"Neither would you have been brought here," he replied, "had not the country been threatened by danger, and some, about whose loyalty there should be no doubt, have become renegades."
"You may have received information which has no foundation in fact, my lord," was my reply. "Nevertheless I should like to ask two questions. First, what right have you to have me brought here a prisoner? and second (providing you can prove your right to arrest whom you please), what are the charges laid against me?"
"Although you have asked your questions with but little respect for my position," he replied hotly, and I saw that his vanity was touched, "I may inform you that by the gracious commands of His Majesty, King George II., it is my duty not only to raise an army in Cornwall wherewith to fight any rebels who may take up arms on the side of the young Pretender, but also to arrest any who give evidence of plotting against the peace of the country, or who in any way favor the claims of the descendants of the Stuarts."
"Admitting that you are commissioned to arrest traitors," I said, "I wish to know why I am included in such a category. This is the first time a Trevanion was ever degraded in such a way, and if I speak hotly, I think there is but little wonder."
"I have treated you leniently, Roger Trevanion," he replied. "Remembering the house to which you belong, I ordered that your arrest should not be made public, and that every consideration should be shown you. Have not my commands been obeyed?"
"As to that," I replied, "I have no complaints to offer. My grievance is that I have been brought here at all; for truly I know of nothing in the nature of treason that can be laid to my charge."
In reply to this Sir John Grenville handed Hugh Boscawen papers which he had been scanning, and on which I gathered the charge against me had been written.
"You shall yourself be the judge whether I, holding the commission I do, have not acted rightly in bringing you here; and I here repeat that nothing but respect for your name has kept me from making the matter public and treating you as others, acting as you have acted, have been treated all over the country. Indeed, I doubt whether I have done right in using the discretionary powers invested in me in such a way as to shield you from public calumny. If your conduct were bruited abroad, the brave fellows who have voluntarily armed themselves to fight for the King all up and down the country would without hesitation throw you into the deepest dungeon beneath Pendennis Castle, even if they did not at once kill you." This he said with, I thought, a sort of peacock pride, which made me, short of temper as I was, itch to make him swallow his words.
"It ill becomes one possessing your powers to condemn a man unheard," I cried hotly. "What is written on that paper I know not; this I know, if there is anything alleged against my loyalty, I will proclaim the man who wrote it a liar."
Hugh Boscawen seemed about to lose his temper, but he was restrained by Sir John Grenville, who seemed to regard me more favorably.
"Very well," he said at length, "I will relate the charges made against you. If you can clear yourself, well and good; if not, you must prepare for the consequences."
Knowing not what might be written, and fearing Otho Killigrew's cunning (for I felt sure I saw his hand in all this), I foolishly called out for a public trial.
"There is no need at present for a public trial," said Hugh Boscawen, who I could see was prejudged against me. "I am especially commissioned to deal with such as you."
"Up to about fourteen days ago," he continued, "you were known to live a useless and dissolute life. Instead of taking your part in the service of the country, your time was spent in gaming, drinking, and such like foolish pursuits. Do you deny this?"
"I do not," I replied. "I acted as many others are acting. Perchance some of the many sons of your late father behave little differently even to-day. But is there aught that smacks of treason in this?"
"No; but even while living this life, you often let hints drop concerning the danger of our gracious King, and the coming of the young Pretender."
"But never to favour his coming," I replied.
"This taken by itself would have but little meaning," he went on; "but subsequent events cause your words to have grave import."
"What subsequent events, my lord?" I asked hotly.
"About fourteen days ago you left your home, and rode away alone. Will you tell me the object of your journey?"
I was silent, for in truth I cared not to tell this man about the flight of the maid Nancy.
"You are silent. If your journey was honourable, what need is there for seeking to hide it?"
"My lord," I said, "most of us have our secrets. They may be innocent enough, but still we do not care to have them made public property."
"Ordinarily that may be true," he replied; "but remembering the charge against you, I shall require you to state why you left Trevanion."
"For no traitorous purpose, my lord, that I will swear. My reason for leaving home had nothing whatever to do with the coming of the Pretender."
"Out of your own mouth I will convict you," he replied. "Did you not tell Colman Killigrew, of Endellion, that you came to see him for the very purpose of seeking to help the enemy of the King?"
The words came upon me like a thunderbolt. I saw now that my position was more dangerous than I had conceived.
"Believe me, my lord," I cried, "I had another purpose in going to Endellion. I, hearing that Killigrew favored Charles Stuart, used that as a means whereby I might enter his house."
"You told him a lie."
"It was necessary in order to accomplish that on which I had set my mind."
"You admit telling a lie to him. How do I know you would not tell a lie to me?"
"But it is well known that the Killigrews are enemies of George II.," I cried.
Hugh Boscawen smiled scornfully. Not great of intellect, he nevertheless sought to impress me with his erudition.
"I know that the Killigrews pretend this," he replied, "but only for the purpose of serving the King. It is true that the family hath nearly died out, and beyond this one branch there are no representatives; but they have always supported king and crown."
"Tom Killigrew was Master of Revels of Charles II.," I replied hotly, "and the family have always sworn allegiance to the Stuart race."
"I am not here to bandy words with you, Roger Trevanion," he said; "the question is, Did you or did you not offer your services to Colman Killigrew? Did you not offer to help to raise an army against the king? Did you not say that the people called Methodists were papists in disguise, and desired to bring back the Catholic religion, and again establish high monarchical powers?"
Again I was silent, for in truth I had no answer to give.
"I am waiting for you to speak," he continued presently.
"I have no answer to make beyond again saying that this was a mere subterfuge on my part to establish a footing in the house."
"Why wished you to establish a footing in the house?"
"This also must remain my secret for the present," was my answer.
"I tell you you are making a rope for your own neck," said Sir John Grenville. "Tell the truth, lad; we are not thine enemies."
"I will give you one more chance," said Hugh Boscawen. "You have refused to answer the other questions I have asked, will you answer this? There is a man known to hate the house of Hanover, who wanders up and down the country in many disguises. Yesterday he was a priest of the Catholic order, to-day he is a hermit living in cells, to-morrow he will be a wandering minstrel and tale-teller; the day after he will meet with men of high degree and converse with them as with equals. He is known as Uncle Anthony, as Father Anthony, as Sir Anthony Tregarrick. Ah! I see your lips tremble! Well, this man is one of the most dangerous men in the country; he has gone to France, and has had secret converse with him who is desirous of leading the rebels to battle; he is commissioned to arouse a rebellious feeling in Cornwall, and he hath been doing this by many underhanded means. Answer me this: Have you met this man disguised as a traveling tale-teller? Have you allowed him to ride on your horse? Have you had secret converse with him in one of his many hiding-places?"
"For no seditious purpose, my lord."
"But you have had converse with him?"
"Yes, but my conversation hath had naught to do with the coming of Charles."
"That may be proved. For a week past I have used many means to discover this man's whereabouts. If he is taken he will assuredly die. You were in his company not many days ago. Do you know where he is now?"
It seemed as though the fates were against me. Truth was, I had, in spite of everything, learned to love this lonely old man. If I told all the truth I should be the means of his death, so I again held my peace.
"You know where he is," said Sir John Grenville, who had several times advised Hugh Boscawen as to the questions he should ask me. "Tell us where you saw him last and it shall be well for you."
"Never have I spoken one word with the travelling droll about the affairs of the nation," I replied; "and I defy any man to prove that I have used any endeavours to injure my king."
"But we have witnesses!"
"Then let your witnesses appear!" I cried hotly, for I thought I was safe in saying this.
"They shall appear, Roger Trevanion," said Hugh Boscawen; "they shall appear," whereupon he signaled for a serving-man to attend him. When the man came, Hugh Boscawen spoke to him in low tones, and immediately after we were left alone again.
"You say no man hath heard you proclaim against our gracious king?" said Hugh Boscawen to me.
"No man," I replied.
No sooner had I spoken than the door opened, and Otho Killigrew and his brother Clement entered the room. Upon this my heart fluttered much, for I knew Otho to be as cunning as the devil, and as merciless. All the same I met his gaze boldly, for I determined now we had met in this way that it should go hard with him. But I did not know then the man with whom I had to deal.
Both Otho Killigrew and his brother Clement bowed courteously to Hugh Boscawen. Both, too, appeared perfectly at ease in his presence.
"I have asked you to come here," said Viscount Falmouth to them blandly, "in order to substantiate the charge you made last night against Roger Trevanion."
"I should have been glad to have escaped the duty," replied Otho, speaking slowly as was his wont, "but as a loyal subject of our gracious Majesty, George II., whom may God preserve, I could do no other."
"You could not if your charges are true," was Falmouth's rejoinder. "The name of Killigrew hath long been associated with the best life of the county. I remember that the coat-of-arms of Falmouth, with which town I am so closely associated by name and interest, is taken from that of the Killigrews. Let me see, your arms are those of the Devonshire Killigrews, and are gules, three mascles or. It pleases me much that your branch of that ancient and honourable family remain loyal, especially as evil reports have been rife concerning you."
"My father hath allowed reports to go forth uncontradicted," replied Otho; "he found that by so doing he could best serve his king. And as a further proof of the loyalty of our family, we have at the first opportunity laid information before you concerning this man, Roger Trevanion."
"Will you be good enough to repeat here what you stated last night concerning him, so that he may have every opportunity of defending himself?"
I cannot here put down in exact words the story which Otho Killigrew told, for in truth I cannot do justice to the subtlety of his mind, nor describe his power of twisting actions and statements which were most innocent into what seemed definite proof that I was a most determined enemy of the king. As I listened my power of speech seemed for a time to be gone, and I could do nothing but stare first at him, and then at Hugh Boscawen as though I was a born fool. I saw, too, on consideration, that my actions had laid me open to such an accusation. I had pretended to be a papist; I had declared myself to be in favor of the return of Charles the Pretender; I had promised old Colman Killigrew to obtain recruits to fight against the King. Moreover, if I defended myself I must tell the whole miserable story of my bargain with Peter Trevisa, and then drag in the name of the maid who became constantly dearer to me. Thus when Hugh Boscawen asked me if I had aught to say, I was for a few moments stupidly silent.
"Look you," said Sir John Grenville, "you can at least answer plain questions. Did you, on going to Endellion, tell Master Colman Killigrew that you were a papist, and that hearing he was in the favour of the Pretender's return, you desired to offer him your service? Yes, or no?"
"That is true, Sir John," I blurted out; "but I only used this as a means whereby I might be able to enter the house."
"But why did you wish to enter the house?"
Again I was silent, for in truth I could not make up my mind to tell the whole truth. I knew that Otho Killigrew longed to know my real reason for coming to Endellion; longed to know what interest I had in the maid, Nancy Molesworth, and was doubtless using every means in his power to try and find out where I had taken her. I was sure, moreover, that did I once begin to tell my story, I should probably let words fall that might give him a knowledge of her whereabouts, and then she would be quickly in his power again. But besides all this, I had given my promise to Peter Trevisa, before undertaking the mission of which I had become so heartily ashamed, that I would tell no man concerning it. At the time I had made the promise I had seen no danger, and had any one told me two days before that any of the Killigrews of Endellion would dare to charge me with treason against the king, I would have laughed at him. Yet such was the case, and innocent as I was of all traitorous purposes, I could see no loophole for my escape.
"You are silent in relation to Sir John's query," said Hugh Boscawen, who did not seem to relish any one asking questions but himself. "Let me ask you one in Master Otho Killigrew's presence: Did you or did you not promise to try and get recruits to try and fight against the king?"
"What I said had no meaning in it," I replied. "The king hath no truer or more loyal subject than Roger Trevanion."
"If you are a true and loyal subject, you will be glad to give information whereby all traitors can be brought to book," replied Boscawen. "I mentioned just now the name of one who, when you were with him, was known as a traveling droll, by the name of Uncle Anthony. As I told you, he is the most dangerous man in the county. Will you tell us what you know of him?"
"I know Uncle Anthony as a welcome guest of Colman Killigrew," I replied. "When first I went to Endellion I was attacked by Otho Killigrew's brother, and they would perchance have done me harm but for the interference of the old man to whom you refer. As soon as they saw that he was my companion they received me kindly. When I entered the house I perceived that he was treated with great respect—almost as an honoured guest."
"I may say," replied Otho calmly, "that this is true. My father had doubts concerning him, but would do nothing against him until he was absolutely sure of his guilt. Knowing of the reports circulated about our family he came to our house and was received kindly, as we try to receive all visitors. It was during his last visit that my father's suspicions concerning him were confirmed."
"Then," cried I, "why did you not arrest him?"
"I may also say," went on Otho, without seeming to notice me, "that by some secret means unknown to us, he left on the same night he arrived with Roger Trevanion. But even had he stayed he would have been safe."
"Why?" asked Sir John Grenville.
"Because," replied Otho, "he entered our house as a guest,—as a humble one, it is true, but still as a guest, and therefore we could take no steps against him. When gone, however, and we had been able to verify our doubts concerning him, I deemed it right to mention the fact of his visit to my Lord Falmouth."
"But he hath long been known to me as a dangerous man," cried Hugh Boscawen.
"We live far away from centers of information at Endellion," replied Otho humbly.
"And you say that Roger Trevanion knows where this man can be found?"
"I know that he has been the companion of the man," replied Otho, "and that he can probably tell where he now resides."
"I do not know," I replied, thinking that he might have removed from the lonely chapel.
"When saw you him last, and where?" asked Hugh Boscawen.
Again I hesitated. Ought I to tell of the old man's whereabouts? I could not see into the depths of Otho Killigrew's mind, but I felt assured that he had some purpose in bringing in Uncle Anthony's name. Did he desire to punish him for assisting Mistress Nancy Molesworth's escape? Did he think I might be led to speak of him and thus tell of my purpose in coming to Endellion. I was sure that this puzzled him sorely. Was it to find out this that he had braved the danger of visiting Tregothnan, the home of the man whose joy it was to find out treason and punish it? I knew next to nothing of the old story-teller. He might or might not be a political meddler. I was sure, however, that he was shrewd beyond common, and would have friends unknown to me. He had many hiding-places too, and in spite of his wound it was not likely that he would stay at the hermit's chapel.
Then another thought struck me. If it was the purpose of Hugh Boscawen to arrest Uncle Anthony, the old man would surely be aware of it, and any information I might be able to give would effect but little. On the other hand, if he were told that Otho Killigrew had laid information concerning him, the keen old recluse would not hesitate to make out a bad case against the Killigrews, and, in spite of the part they were playing, would pull their mask aside, and show the Viscount their real sentiments. I therefore determined to speak freely.
"When I last saw Uncle Anthony," I replied, "he was lying in a lonely chapel in the parish of St. Mawgan. He had been wounded by Otho Killigrew for seeking to defeat his evil purposes."
"What evil purposes?"
"I will let the old droll answer that, when you have taken him," I replied; "but it had naught to do with treason against the king."
"Had it to do with the purpose for which you say you went to Endellion?" asked Sir John Grenville.
"It had, Sir John."
"Then let me tell you this," said the baronet, "it will be well for you if you will tell us the reason for which you took this journey and the event which led to this charge being made against you."
At that moment I turned and caught the eye of Otho Killigrew; and from the eagerness with which he looked at me, I knew that he longed for me to answer Sir John's question. Was there something lurking behind of which I had no knowledge? Had Peter Trevisa and his son told me everything when he asked me to bring the maid, Nancy Molesworth, to them? Had Otho Killigrew come to the conclusion that I might help him to find out some valuable secrets? During the time he had been accusing me of treason, he had never once hinted at the truth. Did he know where Mistress Nancy was? And more than this, might not one of his reasons for placing himself in danger in order to cause my arrest be that he feared me? I remembered now that I knew nothing of the maid Nancy's life prior to her coming to Endellion, and I reproached myself for not asking her.
All this flashed through my mind in a second, and determined me more than ever to let drop no hint as to the truth. Possibly I should be doing the maid I loved incalculable injury by so doing, for I knew that Otho Killigrew was merciless.
"There be certain things, Sir John, which a gentleman may not tell," I replied. "You will know as well as I that the Trevanions have more than once suffered rather than endanger the fair fame of a lady. I can only give you my word of honour that I never dreamed of treason, and that if it become necessary I am willing to take up arms for the king."
"Methinks he tries to make me out a liar," replied Otho Killigrew, speaking more quickly than was his wont; "I will be willing to withdraw my charges if he will make it clear that what he has just said is true. We be all gentlemen here, and not one of us would let the fair name of a lady suffer."
By speaking thus he confirmed my suspicions, and I still held my peace. Possibly Hugh Boscawen and Sir John Grenville, in their over-zeal for the king, their minds poisoned by the cunning of Otho Killigrew, might commit me for public trial, but I did not fear that. I feared rather that by speaking I should give Killigrew a power which he did not now possess, even though my knowledge was meager in extreme.
After this I was asked many more questions, some of them concerning Uncle Anthony, and others about matters which seemed to me trivial beyond measure; but I was not able to assure my judges of my innocence, and I was at length condemned to be imprisoned at Launceston Castle until such time as I could be publicly tried.
Now this was sore grief to me, for I should thus leave the maid Nancy in the hands of Peter Trevisa and his son, or, what would be worse, at the mercy of Otho Killigrew. It is true there seemed but little danger that Peter Trevisa would play into Otho's hands, but I had many doubts.
"My lord," I said, as soon as I was able to collect my thoughts "as you know, I have been away from Trevanion for many days. May I pray your clemency in so far that I may be allowed to return for a few hours in order to consult my attorney and make other simple arrangements concerning my servants?"
"This shall be granted," replied Hugh Boscawen. "It would ill beseem that one of your name should be treated with lack of due courtesy. You shall, therefore, ride to your house as a free man might; you shall also be allowed to see your attorney. Furthermore, there is no need that for the present the knowledge of the charges laid against you should become public."
At this I knew not what to think, for I felt myself as it were in a network of difficulties, and knew not whether Hugh Boscawen desired to be my friend or enemy. All the same I determined to make the most of my opportunities. I immediately sent a message to Lawyer Hendy, therefore, asking him to meet me at Trevanion, and tried to think of means whereby I could tell Mistress Nancy of the fate which had befallen me, or, better still, to see her. Nothing, however, occurred to me on my journey home; indeed I was kept busy talking with my guardsmen, who, although they treated me respectfully, watched me closely. Once I thought of attempting flight, but I reflected that such a course would be unwise, even if it were possible. Besides, being unarmed, I was very nearly helpless in such a matter.
I had not long returned to Trevanion when Lawyer Hendy came. He listened very attentively to my recital of my experiences, but made no comment thereon. Instead he sat quibbling the end of his riding-whip, like one in deep thought.
"What is the meaning of this?" I asked presently.
"I cannot tell—yet."
"You think Otho Killigrew has some deep-laid purpose?"
"Possibly. Possibly he is only inspired by a spirit of revenge. But enough of that for the present. What do you wish done while you are away at—that is, from home?"
"Before I deal with that," I cried, "I wish to know what happened at Treviscoe last night?"
"Last night? Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"No."
"But Mistress Nancy wished to speak with you, and you stayed with her. What had she to say?"
"It is not for me to tell you."
I ground my teeth with impatience. "Then she told you nothing of her history or purposes?" I asked.
"I did not say so," replied the attorney grimly.
"But she did not know of the danger in which I stood?"
"Yes."
"What!"
"Do not misunderstand. She knew that you were in danger, because she knew Otho Killigrew; but she knew nothing, suspected nothing of the course events would take."
"I should like her to know what has happened to me," I said, "otherwise she will think I am unwilling to render her further service. Would you take a letter to her? I am allowed to write letters."
"I would if I could, but I cannot."
"Cannot, why?"
"Because I do not know where she is."
"What do you mean, Hendy?" I cried. "You left her last night at Treviscoe!"
"I mean, Master Roger Trevanion," said the attorney slowly, but speaking every word plainly, "that I do not know where the lady Mistress Nancy Molesworth is."
"Then get to know through Peter Trevisa."
"He doth not know!"
"How?" I cried, now truly amazed.
"Because she is gone, and Peter Trevisa is as ignorant of her whereabouts as you are."
"Then she is in Otho Killigrew's hands."
"I do not think so."
"Your reason for that?" I cried.
"Because there are no evidences of it. She left Treviscoe last night, not many hours after I left, at least such is Peter Trevisa's opinion. He sent for me early this morning, and on my arrival I found him like one demented. The maid had crept out of the house with her servant, and had themselves saddled the horses and rode them away."
"And left no traces behind?"
"Not a trace."
"But did she hold any conversation with Peter Trevisa after you had left?"
The lawyer gave a start. "I had not thought of that," he said hastily.
"Look you, Hendy," I cried, for the time forgetting that in an hour or so I should be on my way to Launceston jail, "I have puzzled my brains sorely concerning this. Do you know the history of the business?"
"I think so; yes. Trevisa has been obliged to tell me."
"Has he told you why he wished the maid brought to Treviscoe?"
"No—that is, beyond what he told you."
"You mean that young Peter had fallen in love with her?"
"That is it."
"But that cannot be all; he would never wish her brought to Treviscoe unless he had some powerful reason to urge to the maid for the course he had taken."
"I think you are right."
"Have you any idea what the reason is?"
"No."
"Do you think he tried its effects last night?"
Mr. Hendy was silent.
"It might have miscarried, you know," I continued eagerly; but the old attorney spoke no word, instead he walked to and fro the room as though cogitating deeply.
An hour later I was on horseback again, and proceeded under the charge of four men towards Launceston, a town situated on the extreme borders of the county, where at that time one of the county jails was situated.