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 25. c'H? 
 
 
 
 THE LIBRARY OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 
 NORTH CAROLINA 
 
 ENDOWED BY THE 
 
 DIALECTIC AND PHILANTHROPIC 
 
 SOCIETIES 
 
 PRl+06l 
 .A5 
 
 G3 
 1888 
 
UNIVERSITY OF N.C. AT CHAPEL HILL 
 
 00014380895 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY OF 
 
 NORTH CAROLINA 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 PRESENTED BY THE 
 
 WILLIAM A. WHITAKER 
 
 FOUNDATION 
 

 tL 
 
 XM. 
 
THE GAVEROCKS 
 
BY THE SAM»E AUTHOR. 
 
 ♦ 
 
 Fcp. 8vo. Pictorial boards, 2s. each ; or limp red 
 cloth, 2s. 6d. each. 
 
 MEHALAH : a Story op the Salt Marshes. 
 
 JOHN HERRING: a West of England Romance^ 
 
 COURT ROYAL. 
 
 Also in 3 vols, post Svo. 
 RICHARD CABLE: the Lightshtpman. 
 
 London : SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 Waterloo Place. 
 
THE GAVEKOCKS 
 
 A TALE OF THE CORNISH COAST 
 
 BY THE 
 AUTHOR OF 'JOHN HERRING ' 'MEHALAH' &c. 
 
 NEW EDITION 
 
 LONDON 
 SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 WATERLOO PLACE 
 
 1888 
 
 {Alt rights reserved] 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2012 with funding from 
 
 University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill 
 
 http://archive.org/details/gaverockstaleofcOObari 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 I. THE BROTHERS . 
 
 II. ROSE TREWHELLA . 
 
 III. PORTH-IERNE 
 
 IV. BROTHER AND SISTER 
 V. MOTHER AND SON 
 
 VI. RED FEATHERSTONE 
 
 VII. A RACE FOR LIFE 
 
 VIII. THE SHADOW OF DEATH 
 
 IX. THE UNSPOKEN TONGUE 
 
 X. A WOMAN'S SOUL . 
 
 XI. A STUDY IN DRAWING 
 
 XII. NANTSILLAN . 
 
 XIII. A QUIET EVENING 
 
 XIV. THE GOOSE FAIR . 
 XV. THE PEDLAR'S PACK . 
 
 XVI. ' PAS DE CHANCE ' . 
 
 XVII. THE FEATHERSTONES 
 
 XVIII. MARSLAND 
 
 XIX. STANBURY . 
 
 XX. A TEMPTATION 
 
 XXI. SPRINGTIME 
 
 XXII. RETURN . 
 
 XXIII. FIVE-AND-TWENTY POUNDS 
 
 XXIV. A FOUR-LEAVED SHAMROCK 
 
 XXV. A LOVEYS' VISITATION 
 
 XXVI. IN THE DUSK. 
 
 XXVII. THE MOSS-ROSE . 
 
 XXVIII. BROKEN RESOLUTIONS . 
 
 PAGE 
 1 
 
 10 
 17 
 26 
 82 
 39 
 50 
 58 
 64 
 71 
 78 
 
 97 
 103 
 110 
 116 
 123 
 129 
 136 
 140 
 147 
 153 
 161 
 169 
 176 
 184 
 191 
 
VI 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 XXX. 
 
 XXXI. 
 
 XXXII. 
 
 XXXIII. 
 
 XXXIV. 
 
 XXXV. 
 
 XXXVI. 
 
 XXXVII. 
 
 XXXVIII. 
 
 XXXIX. 
 
 XL. 
 
 XLI. 
 
 XLII. 
 
 XLIII. 
 
 XLIV. 
 
 XLV. 
 
 XLVI. 
 
 XL VII. 
 
 XLVIII. 
 
 XLIX. 
 
 L. 
 
 LI. 
 
 LII. 
 
 LIII. 
 
 LIV. 
 
 LV. 
 
 LVI. 
 
 LVII. 
 
 I.VIII. 
 
 LIX. 
 
 LX. 
 
 A SENTENCE OF EXILE 
 
 SAMPHIRE 
 
 THE DEER'S WELL 
 
 ANTHONY'S WOOING 
 
 FAREWELL . 
 
 ' P. F.' . 
 
 ENGAGED .... 
 THE THRESHOLD OF A SORROW 
 IN THE HAY-FIELD . 
 AT THE GATE 
 THE WOOF 
 
 THE WARP .... 
 ANOTHER NOTICE TO QUIT 
 ON A BENCH .... 
 BETWEEN TWO HEAVENS . 
 
 FLED 
 
 FEATHERSTONE'S KITCHEN . 
 
 RICHARD CARWITHEN . . 
 
 DISCOVERED 
 
 A STROKE .... 
 
 THE LAST CORD 
 
 AN APPARITION 
 
 WANTED : MONEY ! 
 
 ON THE TURF 
 
 A THOUSAND POUNDS 
 
 THE SPOTTED DOG . 
 
 AWAY ! . . . . 
 
 A SHOT .... 
 
 ANOTHER SHOT . 
 
 ON FOUR OARS 
 
 RECONCILIATION 
 
 A BED OF VIOLETS 
 
THE GAVEEOGKS. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE BROTHERS. 
 
 The road was bad. To speak with accuracy, the road wa8 
 not a road, but a track. To be more accurate still, it was 
 not a track, but a series of tracks cut by cart and carriage 
 and gig wheels in the turf, and through it to the sparry 
 stone beneath, that worked up in lumps like sugar, but 
 which were so hard that the wheel of a laden wain would 
 not crush them. 
 
 Along this course — this tangled skein of wheel tracks, 
 over a moor, bounced and pitched and lurched and dived a 
 tax-cart with two men in it, one very much older than thV 
 other, for in fact he was the father. 
 
 The father drove, whilst the son sat holding to the back 
 of the seat with one hand, to the side with the other, and 
 with his eyes fixed on the horse's ears. The driver was 
 more accustomed to the motions of the cart, was able to 
 balance himself without holding a rail. 
 
 Hardly a tree was visible. The down was covered 
 with short grass, dotted over, with dark-green clumps of 
 gorse, spotted with gold where stray flowers bloomed, but 
 covered with bursting seed-pods. Here and there a hedge 
 appeared with thorns on the top, curling over away from 
 the west, and leafing only on the nether surface. 
 
 Beyond, where the sun was setting in a bed of quivering 
 fire, lay the Atlantic, with the horizon half-way up the sky. 
 
 The horse or the driver, or the horse and driver together, 
 
 B 
 
2 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 groped among the ruts for the least profound and the least 
 knobby at bottom — groped with the wheels of the tax-cart ; 
 did not like one rut, tried another, then a third, after that 
 went recklessly at any rut that offered, found that did not 
 succeed, once more went through the course of selection, 
 and finally abandoned the exercise of intelligence and 
 reason for happy-go-lucky, like many a man at the outstart 
 of life who tries one line, then another, and finally allows 
 himself to jolt on in whatever rut receives him. In vain 
 did horse, or driver, or horse and driver together, endeavour 
 to find ruts to the gauge of the cart ; all the conveyances 
 that had ever gone before and cut for themselves grooves 
 had been just too broad or just too narrow, so that the tax- 
 cart always went with one wheel deep in a furrow and the 
 other high on the turf. 
 
 Between the driver and the setting sun and sea, fused 
 into one sheet of flame, stood a house — a long, low house, 
 all roof, except on the side that was approached by the 
 cart, the side that looked inland. As the road was not a 
 road, but a skein of tracks, so the side was not a side, but 
 an irregular face. It was formed of a front with doorway 
 and low, wide windows and two uneven projecting gables, 
 one at each extremity. About this house clustered some 
 miserable trees — beech, that had died at their heads, and 
 lived a sickly, apologetic life in the lower branches, where 
 a few shrivelled leaves aj>peared. The trunks of these trees 
 were inclined inland, at an angle so acute that anyone 
 unaccustomed to the habits of trees on the coast would 
 have expected them to fall at the first puff of wind. 
 
 This house was Towan. It belonged at the beginning 
 of the century which we honour with living in it to Header 
 Gaverock (the name pronounced Gav'r-ock), a man of some 
 property — in fact, a small country squire. 
 
 Towan was situated in the parish of St. Kevin, on the 
 north coast of Cornwall, about four miles from Padstow 
 and twelve from Wadebridge. 
 
 The cart in which the two men rode belonged to 
 Hender Gaverock, and contained him and his younger sen 
 Constantine, a fine young man with hair auburn — a warm 
 chestnut, and with blue eyes. There was a certain resem- 
 blance between the two men, but also a striking dissimilarity. 
 The same features and colour of hair, but the young man 
 
THE BROTHERS. 3 
 
 was smooth and refined, and the old one was rugged and 
 uncouth. There was in the father a hardness, a headstrong 
 look in the eyes, a selfwill in the modelling of the lips, a 
 domineer in the cut of the nose. As for the son, Constan- 
 tine, his mouth expressed much weakness. It lacked 
 brightness and was overcast with discontent. His skin 
 was clearer than that of his father ; it was plain at a 
 glance that it had not been exposed of late to the elements. 
 
 ' There, boy, is mother standing in the doorway expect- 
 ing us ! ' exclaimed old Hender, who was driving, and he 
 pointed before him with his whip. 
 
 ' Us! ' repeated Constantine : ' me, you mean, father ; 
 I have been absent for a twelvemonth in ISTankivel's fusty 
 office — I hate it.' 
 
 ' Oh, Con ! you will become a great lawyer in time.' 
 
 Constantine shrugged his shoulders and made no answer 
 to this remark. Presently, after a moment of brooding, he 
 said : 
 
 ' It is a hard thing that I should be moped up in a 
 lawyer's office, whilst Gerans, because he is the eldest son, 
 should be obliged to do nothing. Why is he not now at 
 the door with my mother, looking out for me ? ' 
 
 ' Because, you fool, he is out hunting.' 
 
 ' He can go hunting, boating, shooting, but I must use 
 the pen and have no horse, or boat, or gun. I am nothing 
 and he is everything. He is the first-born and the heir, 
 born with a silver spoon in his mouth. He has all the 
 love and ambition of the house fixed on him, and poor I 
 am driven into a far country to eat husks with the swine — 
 I mean into a dirty stye of a lawyer's office.' 
 
 'You will see, Con, the fatted calf will be killed for 
 you.' 
 
 ' Oh, I want no extraordinary festivity made in honour 
 of my return, as if I were a prodigal son. I am not that, 
 but most respectable, steady, dusty, and dry. A lawyer's 
 clerk must be all that. It is part of the business.' 
 
 ' No, Con, you are no prodigal son, and Gerans is not 
 like the elder brother in the parable. He doesn't grumble 
 and begrudge you anything ; no one is more delighted than 
 lie at your return. You are the younger, and must accept 
 the position.' 
 
 The old man was red in the face and sulky. He was 
 
 b2 
 
4 THE GAVEEOCKS. 
 
 irritated at the mood of his son, who returned after a long 
 absence grumbling and discontented because he had not the 
 place and advantages of his elder brother. 
 
 ' There'll be something for you after all, Con,' said the 
 squire. ' But wait and see what it is. You will in the end 
 settle near Towan. I reckon it is a place you would like to 
 spend your days near.' 
 
 ' I don't know,' observed the young man with a shrug ; 
 ' I like civilisation. You wouldn't, I reckon, like to be 
 taken by the scruff of the neck and pitched out of this 
 century into the barbarism of a hundred years ago. I feel 
 like that, when returning from a town, with its polish and 
 enlightenment and good roads, to this wild moor — rough, 
 gloomy, roadless.' 
 
 The trap drew up in front of the house, and Hender 
 Gaverock slowly dismounted. He was a strange old man. 
 He wore high boots and a waterman's jersey under a rough, 
 long- tailed coat, weather-beaten and discoloured. On ordi- 
 nary occasions he wore no cap or hat, but a surprising head 
 of reddish-grey hair, harsh and coarse, that blew about in 
 the wind and looked more like a mass of frowsy heather. 
 He never wore a hat except on Sundays and when he went 
 into a town, or to pay a call ; then he covered his head 
 with a shaggy white beaver, almost as rough and tangled 
 as his natural head of hair. This day, as he had been to 
 Padstow, he did wear his hat, at the back of his head. 
 1 Hats blow off and blow away,' said old Gaverock, 'but it 
 would take such a gale as would uproot our Cornish cliffs 
 to carry the natural cover off my crown.' 
 
 A crimson kerchief was knotted round his neck, the 
 ends depended over his breast. In very stormy and wet 
 weather the utmost protection he allowed himself was to 
 take this kerchief from his neck, tie it over his head, and 
 knot it under his chin. 
 
 In front of the windows and main door of the house 
 ran a slated walk the full length of the face. Here Hen- 
 der Gaverock was wont to pace with great strides in his 
 water-boots. The slate slabs at each extremity of the walk 
 were marked with concentric circles. For, when standing 
 there, Hender turned on his heels when he reached the last 
 slate, and scored the rings when he revolved on his iron- 
 shod heels. 
 
THE BROTHERS. 5 
 
 As the squire dismounted he shouted for a groom, but 
 none appeared. Then he shouted again, and swore. 
 
 ' By Golly ! ' he said, ' where are the men 1 What has 
 become of them ? I want my horse to be taken.' 
 
 He addressed his wife, who stood in the porch, a delicate- 
 faced, sweet, faded lady, wearing a white frilled cap. Al- 
 though the words were spoken to her, Gaverock did not 
 turn his face towards her, but roared his words into the 
 wide space before the door, leaving the echoes to repeat 
 them in her ear. 
 
 ' Golly ! he does look curious, I protest,' exclaimed 
 Hender, standing with his legs apart, and his hands in his 
 pockets, looking at Con as he dismounted. 
 
 Then Mrs. Gaverock came down the steps of the porch, 
 ran forward, put out both her hands to clasp Constantine 
 as he leaped to the ground, her timid face fluttering with 
 smiles and suffused with tears — tears and smiles, the com- 
 mon progeny of joy. 
 
 ' Out of the way, wife ! ' shouted Hender ; ' don't molly- 
 coddle the boy. Stand back, Con ; let your mother loo> 
 at you. Lord ! what sort of a coat do you call that 1 ' 
 The father caught his younger son by the shoulder, twirled 
 him about roughly, forward, backward, from side to side, 
 and laughed. ' Town fashions, eh 1 my word as a gentle- 
 man ! What jackanapes you young men make of your- 
 selves, and think to set up as bucks and dandies. Where 
 is Mathews 1 I want the horse and trap to be taken.' 
 
 ' I believe, husband,' said the old lady, ' the hounds 
 and hunters are in Nantsillan Grove, and all the men have 
 run after them and the fox. You were not expected so 
 soon.' 
 
 ' Yery well,' said the squire, ' Con and I can take the 
 trap round and unharness. Come, sir, buck and dandy 
 though you think yourself, jackanapes though you seem in 
 my eyes, let me see that you are true Cornish Gaverock to 
 the core still. Off with your coat, Constantine ! ' 
 
 { What do you want me to do, father 1 ' 
 
 ' The men have run after the hounds, of course. I 
 don't blame them. Let me see that you are not a town 
 fop. Come round to the yard and unharness and rub the 
 mare's ears.' 
 
 ' I am not an ostler,' answered Constantine, sulkily. 
 
t> THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 He folded his arms over his breast and looked down, his 
 brows knitted, his lips puffed out. 
 
 ■ Well,' exclaimed old Hender, ' here's a twelvemonth 
 you've been away, sitting on a stool like a broody hen, 
 hatching nothing but legal mischief. Has that taken the 
 manhood out of you 1 If so, I'll none of you. I'll disown 
 a milksop. Take this trap round and unharness. What ! 
 have you forgotten how to unrig a horse 1 ' 
 
 ' Hender, the boy is tired,' pleaded Mrs. Gaverock. 
 
 ' Tired 1 What with ? Sitting is natural with him, 
 and he has been but sitting outside a coach a few hours, 
 and a little longer in the gig. Old woman, do not interfere. 
 What I choose I will have. What I order must be done. 
 What I set my head on must be carried out. Come, take 
 the mare out and groom her.' 
 
 The tone of command his father assumed angered Con- 
 stantine. The hectoring, domineering ways of the old man 
 had been endured when he was a boy, but he was a man 
 now, and he was determined to resist. 
 
 ' I will not,' answered Constantine, surlily. 
 
 The old man looked at his son angrily. His face was 
 effervescing with life. 
 
 ' Lord ! ' he exclaimed, ' you've not unlearnt country 
 ways in Exeter, I hope. You were always a bit of a milk- 
 sop and your mother's darling. I bore with it when you 
 were a boy, but thought it unnatural. It is twice as un- 
 natural in a man. You should wear petticoats and a 
 bonnet. But — what have we got on 1 ' 
 
 He took Constantine by the shoulders once more, and 
 again spun him round. 
 
 ' Mercy on us ! what a dandy we are ! — a green coat 
 with brass buttons, like a buttercup meadow ! a pair of 
 waistcoats, one figured satin underneath and the other 
 above it of nankin ! ' He stood back, placed his hands on 
 his hips and roared with laughter. ' Come, you damned 
 dandified fool ! ' he shouted, 'off with the coat at once, I 
 order, and unharness and groom the mare.' 
 
 Constantine did not stir. His dogged look intensified. 
 All at once, his father went to him, tripped up his heels, 
 and cast him sprawling on his back. 
 
 Then Hender burst out laughing, and as his wife started 
 forward to the aid of her prostrate son he restrained her 
 
THE BROTHERS. 7 
 
 with his arm, and said, ' A sulky ill-conditioned hound ! 
 torn his city coat, has he ! so much the better. The rent 
 will serve to let the wild wind in to blow his sour humours 
 away.' Then, without another word, he went towards the 
 stable -yard, leading the horse and cart, to clo himself what 
 his town-spoiled son refused to soil his hands with doing. 
 
 ' Never heed this, Con,' said his mother. ' You know 
 what a delight father takes in showing his masterhood. 
 You must put up with his ways — they mean kindness, 
 though roughly expressed. To any one who knows him it 
 is an outbreak of affection, quite as much as my kisses.' 
 
 ' I wish I had not returned to Towan,' answered Con- 
 stantine, rising with the help of his mother's hand. ' I 
 cannot, I will not, endure this treatment.' 
 
 ' My dear, dear Con ! ' said his mother, ' you have come 
 home to gladden my heart with the sight of you. There, 
 forget the cast. Ycu must not take it amiss. It is the 
 way in which ycur father shows his paternal love and 
 delight at seeing you home.' 
 
 ' I have been away for a twelvemonth, and this is my 
 first salutation when I come home. He will kick me down- 
 stairs next, and you will affirm it is to clo me honour ; pitch 
 me out of the window, and be comforted to know it is 
 evidence of his predilection. I do not like these ebullitions 
 of fatherly love — they may do among Choctaws and Otaheite 
 Indians ; or even ' 
 
 ' Hush ! hush ! Con ! Remember that he is your father ; 
 you must not judge his conduct and disparage his manners.' 
 She put her hand over his lips as he muttered something 
 about ' Ourang-outangs and kangaroos.' 
 
 Constantine kissed the hand, then his mother clasped 
 him to her heart and burst into tears. 
 
 At that moment the clatter of horses' hoofs and the 
 ring of many voices were echoed by the grey walls. Old 
 Squire Gaverock ran out from the stable-yard, and called, 
 ' Back, Rose ! Got the brush, eh ? ' 
 
 ' No, Guarcly ! no brush when cub-hunting,' came the 
 answer to the question. 
 
 A party of returning huntsmen swept up ; with them, 
 on a white horse, a graceful girl in hat and riding habit. 
 
 ' Come in ! come in all of you ! Hunters always, pro- 
 verbially, are hungry. Had a good run ? Scent lie well % 
 
8 THE GAVEEOCKS. 
 
 No necks, no knees broken ? Necks of men and knees of 
 horses ? ' 
 
 ' Gerans, take my rein,' said the girl, calling to the elder 
 son, who rode behind her, and casting the reins towards 
 him as she leaped from her horse. Gerans had caught sight 
 of his brother, and ran to him with sparkling eyes and 
 extended hand, and so neglected to attend to Rose. When 
 he turned to assist her to dismount, she was on her feet 
 already. 
 
 ' Late — sluggish and sleepy as usual, Cousin Gerans ! * 
 she said ; ' and now, mind that Phoebus be well cared for 
 — he is very hot and tired. Where is my cousin Con- 
 stantine ? I want an introduction, and hope to find him 
 more on the alert than you.' 
 
 She looked about her. 'What ! that gentleman in 
 
 tatters ! 
 
 Hush ! hark, the dogs do bark, 
 The beggars are coming to Towan, 
 Some in rags, and some in jags ' 
 
 Constantine coloured at the reference to his torn coat. 
 1 1 apologise for appearing before you in this figure,' he 
 said ; but she interrupted him with — ' Why ! bless me, 
 Gerans 1 Are you twins 1 You are so much alike that you 
 must mistake each other for self at times.' 
 
 Strangely alike the brothers were — the same hair, the 
 same features, the same build, the same tricks of move- 
 ment ; only in expression were they unlike — Gerans frank 
 and good-humoured, Constantine moody and dissatisfied. 
 
 Rose did not wait for an answer to her question. Her 
 quick blue eye had caught sight of a young man turning his 
 horse to ride away. ' Here ! ' she exclaimed, catching up 
 her habit with one hand, and waving the whip imperiously 
 with the other, ' No skulking off, Mr. Penhalligan. I have 
 just caught you in the act of executing a retreat, when the 
 general sounded a summons to table. Stay ! ' 
 
 ' Miss Trewhella, one must be driven from your presence 
 — one is not disposed to skulk from it,' answered the young 
 man, a dark handsome man, seated on a rough cob. 
 
 ' Well said, Mr. Penhalligan,' laughed the girl. ' There 
 is a polish of politeness about you which is so rare an element 
 at Towan that we prize it when it is found. I doubt not 
 
THE BROTHERS. 9 
 
 but that in proper hands something may be made out of 
 you.' 
 
 ' Anything may be made out of me, if you, Miss Tre- 
 whella, will put your hand to the moulding.' 
 
 ' I have neither the patience nor the skill,' said Rose 
 Trewhella, laughing ; ' I am doing my best to civilise Uncle 
 Hender, but the result does not reward the pains.' Then, 
 suddenly, in an altered tone, ' Why is not your sister Love- 
 day out with us to-day 1 ' 
 
 ' Because I have no second horse on which she can 
 ride.' 
 
 'Oh, you bad brother — like all men, selfish. You 
 should have stayed at home, and sent her out.' 
 
 ' Then, consider, there was no groom to look after her.' 
 
 'I have none to-day but my cousin, Gerans. If it were 
 possible for me to ride without a groom, surely it was 
 possible also for Loveday.' 
 
 ' Every gentleman in the field, Miss Trewhella, is your 
 dutiful servant.' 
 
 ' And the same to Loveday. Have you noticed how I 
 have pouted all day ? It has been because your sister was 
 not with us.' 
 
 ' How do you do, Dennis 1 ' said Gerans, coming up 
 beside the dark young man, and patting the neck of his cob. 
 ' What sort of a run have you had 1 How did this mare 
 keep up 1 ' 
 
 Penhalligan shook his head. ' Only a cob ; I can't keep 
 hunters.' 
 
 ' How is your sister ? ' asked Gerans, passing over the 
 reply without notice. ' Look ! here is Constantine. Do 
 you see him ? He has returned home for a change.' 
 
 Constantine came up, awkwardly, with his eyes on the 
 ground ; but that may have been due to disgust at appearing 
 in a torn coat. He held out his hand. 
 
 Dennis Penhalligan did not meet the extended fingers ; 
 he pretended to overlook the proffered hand. ' Constantine 
 and I must have a talk,' he said ; then he turned the head 
 of his horse and rode away to the stable-yard to hitch up 
 his beast. 
 
10 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 BOSE TREWHELLA. 
 
 The party of huntsmen were assembled in the hall of 
 To wan House. The hall was low, lighted by a long five- 
 light granite window looking to the east. It had an im- 
 mense open granite fireplace, in which a log was smoulder- 
 ing upon a pair of andirons, banked up with peat, that 
 diffused an agreeable odour through the room. The hall 
 was panelled with oak and ornamented with stags' horns. 
 Towan in past times was said to have had a deer-park, but 
 the park had consisted merely of a walled paddock of some 
 ten acres, in which was a spring of pure water, with some 
 gnarled, crouching thorns above it. 
 
 The wall of the deer paddock remained in places, but 
 the greater portion was broken down ; of the deer, all that 
 remained were the few horns on the wall, poor and stunted 
 as the trees that grew on that coast. The horns were fitted 
 into very rudely cut heads of oak, shaped by a village 
 carpenter in past times. 
 
 The Gaverocks were an old Cornish family, untainted 
 by intermixture with Saxon or Norman blood. They had 
 married and intermarried with ancient families of extrac- 
 tion as pure, and of name as Keltic, as their own : the 
 Killiowes, the Bodrugans, the Mennynnicks, the ISTans- 
 pians, the Rosvargus, and the Chynoweths. It cannot be 
 said that they had fallen from their high estate, for they 
 had lost none of their land, but they had remained station- 
 ary, while other families had mounted and others had de- 
 clined. Two hundred — nay, even a hundred — years ago 
 there was scarcely a parish in the West of England without 
 two, three, or more resident gentry in it, owning good es- 
 tates, dividing the parish between them, marrying in and 
 out with each other, and leaving yeomen to flourish in the 
 interstices between their estates. Most have disappeared. 
 Here and there one remains, who has bought up his failing 
 neighbours, and established himself as sole squire in the 
 place. Among these petty gentry the lord of the manor 
 exercised pre-eminence. He had certain rights over the 
 
EOSE TREWHELLA. 11 
 
 lands of his neighbours, which they were unable to resist, 
 and he unwilling to resign. Sometimes there were two 
 manors in the same parish, and then he whose manor in- 
 cluded the church-town was accorded the pre-eminence. 
 A silent and mysterious revolution had taken place in the 
 social conditions. The small gentry and most of the 
 yeomanry have disappeared — how is not so easy to estab- 
 lish as the fact of their disappearance. 1 
 
 The old country gentlemen of small estate, but of 
 splendid pedigree, farmed their own lands, and were not 
 ashamed to have their mansions surrounded by stacks and 
 barns. 2 Indeed, in many instances the grand entrance was 
 through the farmyard by a paved way, between heaps 
 and pits of dung, to the manorhouse, which formed one 
 side whilst outhouses, stables, and barns enclosed the 
 quadrangle. 
 
 Devon and Cornwall are strewn with these old man- 
 sions, like empty snail-shells. The gentry have left them, 
 died or disappeared, and they are converted into farm- 
 houses or cottages. The advance of civilisation had so far 
 affected the Gaverocks that they had swept away their 
 quadrangle and rebuilt their farm outhouses behind instead 
 of in front of the house. Turf now grew where the stable- 
 yard had been for centuries, and a few eschalonia grew be- 
 fore the windows, defied the winds and flowered like alpine 
 roses. But if the face of the house had gained in respecta- 
 bility by the removal of the yard, it had lost in shelter, 
 The east wind now rushed unbroken against it, and drove 
 in at the porch, slamming doors throughout the house 
 whenever any one entered or quitted the mansion by the 
 main entrance. The characteristic feature of all these old 
 dwelling-houses had been that they never looked out upon 
 
 1 The parish of Bratton Clovelly, in Devon, covers an area of little 
 over 8,000 acres. Down to 1750 there were eight gentle families resident 
 in it : landowners, with right to bear arms. The Willoughbies, an elder 
 branch of the family of Lord Willoughby d'Eresby, the Coryndons, 
 Langesfords, Calmadys, Burnebys, the Parkers, ancestors of Lord Morley, 
 the Incledons, and the Luxmores, all have vanished from it. 
 
 2 The old house of the Parkers in Bratton Clovelly, Eilacott, inherited 
 from the heiress of Eilacott, but of more recent date than the marriage, 
 has the house forming one side, and ' cob ' barns, and stables, and cowsheds 
 enclosing a quadrangle and opening into it. All the dwelling-house win- 
 dows looked into this farmyard. A pair of handsome gates — now destroyed 
 —admitted to farmvard and dwelling-house alike. 
 
12 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 the world ; they were screened behind walls, and every 
 window blinked into a court or an enclosed garden. The 
 courts were sometimes many — cells into which the sun 
 entered and where it was caught as in a trap, but out of 
 which the rude winds were excluded. Now that this 
 feature of Towan was effaced, Towan was a draughty place 
 — battered by storm, piped through, screamed into, swashed 
 about by wind and rain. 
 
 Miss Rose Trewhella, who called Squire Gaverock her 
 uncle and his sons her cousins, was no relation by blood, 
 though a connexion by marriage. Her father had married 
 a lady who was somehow related to some lady who had at 
 some time married a Gaverock. Her father was dead, and 
 had left his daughter to the care of his friend of many 
 years — Hender Gaverock, of Towan. Trewhella (his 
 Christian name was Roseclear) had lived in another part 
 of the country, but he had visited his friend annually for a 
 month at Towan, and Gaverock had annually returned the 
 visit for the same length of time. Till the death of Mr. 
 Trewhella, the young Gaverock s had seen nothing of Rose. 
 He had not brought her with him when he came to Towan, 
 because Hender had no daughter with whom she might 
 associate when there. 
 
 Rose was Roseclear Trewhella's only child. She was a 
 wayward, spoiled girl ; was very pretty, and conscious 
 both of her beauty and of the fact that she was an heiress. 
 She was delicately fair, with hair like gold, and eyes blue 
 as the summer sea, and a complexion so clear and bright 
 that no one could look on her and deny that she had been 
 given at her baptism the most appropriate name that could 
 have been selected to describe her. 
 
 On coming to Towan, Rose had settled herself into her 
 new quarters with perfect aptitude, had won her way to 
 the heart of Mrs. Gaverock, whom, however, she bewildered, 
 exercised a sort of daring authority over the squire, which 
 he endured because it was not worth his trouble to resist, 
 and treated Gerans as her groom and errand boy. She was 
 good-natured and lively as long as she had her own way ; 
 when — Avhich was rarely — she was crossed, she pouted, and 
 managed to make every one about her uncomfortable. 
 She was not in the smallest degree shy. Brought up in 
 the society of men, who flattered and made much of her, 
 
EOSE TEEWHELLA. 13 
 
 she preferred their company to that of women. But 
 though she liked to be with men, and be made much of hy- 
 men, she was dimly conscious of an inarticulate, undefined 
 craving for the companionship of a woman to whom she 
 could empty her mind, of whom she could exact nothing but 
 sympathy. Her mother had died too early for her to be 
 even a reminiscence. On arriving at Towan she had made 
 the acquaintance of Loveday Penhalligan, and had been 
 drawn to her as she had been attracted by no other woman. 
 
 Loveday was an orphan, like herself ; pretty, but of 
 quite another order of beauty, with olive skin, dark hair, 
 and large soft umber eyes. Loveday lived with her brother 
 Dennis in a cottage, called Nantsillan, rented of the squire. 
 
 Dennis Penhalligan was a surgeon, a young man, who 
 had come to the place about five years before, having 
 bought the practice. Dennis was a poor man ; his capital 
 had not permitted of his purchasing any other than a very 
 humble practice. He had spent his little fortune on his 
 own education and on thus establishing himself. The 
 neighbourhood was a three-sided one — one side being the 
 sea — and was but sparsely inhabited. 
 
 Dennis Penhalligan was a tall, well-built man, with 
 black hair, an olive complexion, and dark keen eyes. His 
 poverty, the hardships he had undergone in elbowing his 
 way in life, had taken the joy and elasticity from his spirits, 
 and had given a bitterness to his mood unusual to one of 
 his age. He was the intellectual superior of all his neigh- 
 bours, and he held himself aloof from association with 
 them, in cold and sour contempt of their narrowness of in- 
 terests and pettiness of aim. His patients complained of 
 callousness in his treatment of their sufferings. He did 
 not administer to them that sympathy which they desired 
 equally with medicine. A surgeon who has walked the hos- 
 pitals looks on his patients as cases, not persons. But 
 when he begins to practise for a fee, he finds that patients 
 insist on being considered persons and not cases. They 
 demand of their medical attendant that he shall have, or 
 simulate (it matters nothing which), an individual interest 
 in them. Every practitioner should place himself in the 
 hands of an actor to qualify him for success in his profes- 
 sional career. 
 
 Dennis was too haughtily truthful, too scornful of 
 
14 THE GAVEEOCKS. 
 
 weakness, to pretend to what be did not possess. When 
 called to the side of a hypochondriac, he treated the case 
 both lightly and contemptuously. When he saw that the 
 complaint was trifling, he did not make a second and a 
 third call, and this was resented. People are often ready 
 to pay to be esteemed sick. 
 
 The result was that Penhalligan was unpopular. The 
 people of the neighbourhood preferred sending ten miles to 
 fetch an inferior practitioner, who ministered to their 
 humours rather than physicked their disease, rather than 
 summon Dennis, who was at their door. 
 
 Dennis chafed at the non-recognition of his merits. He 
 despised the old, ignorant, drunken doctor who stole his 
 patients from under his nose, but he was too proud and too 
 conscientious to alter his conduct. 
 
 From the hour of his first interview with Rose Trewhella, 
 the fair, cheerful girl had exercised an extraordinary fas- 
 cination over Dennis. Her openness contrasted with his 
 reserve, her cheerfulness with his gravity, no less than her 
 clear complexion and golden locks contrasted with his 
 sallow face and black hair. 
 
 She was fully aware of the admiration she had aroused 
 in the heart of the village doctor, and she was perfectly 
 content to coquet with him, to repulse him, as the caprice 
 prompted and his devotion amused or wearied her. He 
 had made no deeper impression on her heart or fancy than 
 any other man among the many that fluttered around her. 
 If he was regardless of his patients' feelings, so also was 
 she ; in this one point alone were they alike. 
 
 The table in the hall was spread. Joints, pies, tarts, 
 cream, cakes, fruit, tea for those who liked, and, for those 
 who preferred, cider and wine. A merry party was assem- 
 bled about it, of whom not the least merry was Rose, who 
 had changed her habit for a pretty evening dress. Only 
 Constantine was troubled and silent. He could not forget 
 his fall. He had changed his coat, but not his humour. 
 Dennis affected cheerfulness. When in the society of Rose 
 he was happy as far as his morose nature was capable of 
 being galvanised into happiness. 
 
 A good many young men and half a dozen ladies were 
 present, laughing, joking each other about the events of the 
 day's ride, or about accidents and mistakes on past occasions. 
 
ROSE TREWHELLA. 15 
 
 Presently some one started the subject of the seashore 
 and the phosphorescence of the waves, which had been 
 unusually beautiful the night previous. 
 
 ' Let us go to the beach,' said one, ' and see whether the 
 waves are on fire this evening.' 
 
 The proposal was agreed to by acclamation. The meal 
 was rapidly concluded, and the merry, eager throng of young 
 people swept out of the hall and away, laughing, talking, 
 down a path to Nantsillan Cove. 
 
 Rose remained. She was somewhat tired with the 
 day's ride, and did not care for a scramble down the cliffs. 
 She stood in the window, with her hands behind her back, 
 looking after the party, till the last had passed round the 
 wing of the house and had disappeared. Then she turned, 
 and started to see Dennis Penhalligan still in the room. 
 
 ' Why are you not gone with the rest 1 ' she asked. 
 
 ' I had no inclination to go. May I not remain in the 
 sun if I am cold 1 ' 
 
 1 Of course. But I do not understand you ; the sun has 
 set.' 
 
 ' I was speaking metaphorically.' 
 
 She pursed up her lips. ' If you remain to enjoy my 
 society, you remain for woeful disappointment. The only 
 good things I had to say are all said ; my wit is wholly 
 flown. My conversation is like a pottle of market-woman's 
 strawberries, where the good fruit is at the top and under- 
 neath is utter squash. I have but a few notes of the 
 nightingale, and all the rest are twitters.' She took her 
 straw hat and swung it by the strings. ' It must be very 
 pleasant on the beach,' she said after a while. 
 
 'I can well believe it.' 
 
 ' Then why do you not go thither 1 ' 
 
 ' How can you ask the question when you remain ? ' 
 
 ' I prefer to be here.' 
 
 ' So do I.' 
 
 ' Why so 1 ' She turned towards him and thrust forth 
 her pretty pouting red lips. 
 
 ' Because the queen of the swarm is here.' 
 
 'I remain because I want to be alone.' 
 
 ' That is your reason, is it, Miss Bose 1 ' 
 
 'Yes ; but I am not alone.' 
 
 ' Very well,' said Dennis colouring. ' I will leave you 
 
16 THE GAVEEOCKS. 
 
 directly. It is not necessary to be so frank with me. "Will 
 you not sit down 1 — only for a moment, and then I will go.' 
 
 ' I can stand.' 
 
 'Yes ; but I want you to listen calmly to me.' 
 
 ' I cannot be calm. It is no more in my nature than it 
 is in that of the restless Atlantic' 
 
 ' I pray you, if you cannot be calm, be patient with me,' 
 said Dennis. ' 1 want to say two words to you. They are 
 soon said. I entreat you, be quiet and listen to me. "Will 
 you, Miss Rose, or will you not 1 ' He stepped up to her 
 and stood before her. 
 
 ' Yery well,' she said with a sigh and a shrug of her 
 pretty little shoulders. ' But pray be quick ; I am tired.' 
 
 'Miss Rose, you have behaved strangely to me. At 
 times you have drawn me towards you, as though you liked 
 my company ; at others you have scarcely noticed my 
 presence. To-day, although I was constantly at your side, 
 you barely deigned to observe me, to cast at me a look or a 
 word, till, hurt and sore, I was about to leave, when suddenly 
 you turned on me all smiles, called me to your side, forbade 
 my escape, and during supper singled me out for your 
 sallies. Have I offended you ? If so, tell me how. Have 
 I obtained your pardon 1 If so, tell me by what means. 
 Your behaviour towards me passes my comprehension ; you 
 are a swaying magnet, presenting alternately the positive 
 and the negative poles.' 
 
 ' Positive and negative poles ! Mr. Penhalligan,' said 
 Rose, swinging her hat vigorously and keeping him at a 
 distance with it. ' You asked for two words, and after a 
 long preface you have produced them. Positive and nega- 
 tive poles ! I protest, these words are vastly beyond my 
 poor comprehension.' 
 
 ' What has made you angry with me ? ' 
 
 ' Angry ! I am not angry. It takes something to make 
 me angry.' 
 
 ' Am not I something 1 ' 
 
 ' Oh, nothing, nothing.' 
 
 ' Miss Rose, do not be cruel ; you torture me.' 
 
 ' I torture no one. Certain people are like the Indian 
 fakirs, they skewer themselves. There,' she said, putting 
 forth her hand, ' strike palms ; we are hunting comrades. 
 Tally-ho ! ' 
 
EOSE TREWHELLA. 17 
 
 1 Comrades only ? Comrades in the field — nothing 
 more 1 ' 
 
 ' Certainly not. What more could you wish 1 ' 
 
 ' I could wish a great deal more. I do wish for more ! ' 
 
 ' Have you ever caught the phosphorescent flash in the 
 sea?' 
 
 ' Never.' 
 
 ' Have you ever wished to do so ? ' 
 
 'Never.' 
 
 ' Then do not desire to catch what eludes being caught. 
 Here come the maids to clear away tea. Good-night, Mr. 
 Penhalligan. You had better go to the beach and see the 
 waves break into lightning.' 
 
 ' Is this all you have to say to me ? ' 
 
 'All.' 
 
 He turned away, took up his hat, and went to the 
 poi'ch. When he reached the door he halted, looked into 
 his hat, and then turned his head inquiringly towards Rose. 
 She met his eyes, smiled, and screwed up her lips, and 
 whirled her hat round, making with it complete revolutions 
 in the air. Then he set his hat on his head and drew the 
 door after him. Hose stood considering for a moment, with 
 her slender finger to her lips ; then a pretty dimple came in 
 her cheeks, and she laughed, put on her straw hat, and 
 went out ; looked after the surgeon, and seeing that he was 
 on his way home, and had not taken the path to the Cove, 
 she threw a kerchief round her shoulders, and tripped 
 lightly down the path to the sea. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 PORTH-IERNE. 
 
 Dennis Penhalligan walked from Towan with his head 
 down. He was not disappointed with his rebuff, because 
 he had not expected encouragement ; because, moreover, he 
 was accustomed to meet with discouragement in all he un- 
 dertook and at every turn. Some men are never cast down, 
 never have the heart taken out of them : such men are either 
 
18 THE GAVEKOCKS. 
 
 endowed with extraordinary buoyancy or witli extraor- 
 dinary conceit. Dennis was not sanguine by nature, he 
 was not conceited, but he was not diffident. He knew his 
 own abilities, but he knew also that successes are for the 
 fools and knaves. The fools are endowed by Providence 
 with luck to counterbalance their folly, and the wise are 
 burdened with conscience, which prevents them profiting 
 by their wisdom. 
 
 The cottage inhabited by Dennis Penhalligan and his 
 sister was hardly five minutes' walk from Towan. It lay 
 in a coomb into which flowed the rill from the spring in the 
 old deer-park. This rill did not form the glen, it was 
 merely an affluent of the Nantsillan brook which traversed 
 the coomb. Under the brow of the hills grew some trees, 
 their tops tortured to death the moment they rose suffi- 
 ciently high to catch the wind, but forming shelter and giv- 
 ing shadow beneath them. Bedded among these stunted 
 and sloping trees was the cottage. 
 
 Dennis opened the door and walked in. 
 
 ' Please, sir,' said the servant-girl, a child of fifteen, 
 ' Miss Loveday be agone down to the Cove. The gentle- 
 folks corned after her from Towan and tooked her off.' 
 
 Dennis nodded, stood in the door, considered, and after 
 a slight hesitation moved down the coomb to the sea. 
 
 The cottage was on the way to the beach — that is, on 
 one way. A shorter path from Towan led down the face 
 of the cliff, but it was somewhat dangerous. Prudent 
 counsels had prevailed with the young people, and instead 
 of risking the steep descent they had taken the round by 
 Nantsillan, and in doing so had picked up Loveday. 
 
 Dennis was not in his best humour. He was vexed at 
 his sister's departure. He knew that no harm would befall 
 her, but he was unhappy himself, and he could ill brook 
 that she was merry-making whilst he was troubled. In 
 this he was selfish. But he had an excuse. He and his 
 sister were alone together in the world, and she was the 
 only person to whom he opened his heart, and from whom 
 he could endure sympathy. 
 
 He descended the coomb towards the shore. The even- 
 ing was rapidly closing in. A warm orange light hung 
 over the Atlantic to the west, where the sun had set two 
 hours ago. The sea itself was leaden grey. As he ap- 
 
PORTH-IEENE. 19 
 
 proached he heard the roar of the ever-restless ocean, and, 
 saw the breakers flashing over the reefs. 
 
 The slope declined rapidly. The glen was narrow, 
 wooded in laps and folds, heather-clad where exposed. The 
 stream worked its way through black peat lying under 
 sand, in little falls, till it reached the edge of the sea-fretted 
 cliff, where it danced over it in a small but pretty cascade 
 that gave its name to the coomb. Nant is the Cornish 
 word for a waterfall. At this point the path left the turf, 
 and descended a few feet over the broken edges of a shelf 
 of slate-rock. At this point also Dennis caught up Rose 
 Trewhella rapidly descending the cliff from Towan. 
 
 ' What ! ' exclaimed the young surgeon. ' You have 
 changed your mind ? ' 
 
 ' Oh dear, yes. I change like the weathercock.' 
 
 ' In everything 1 ' 
 
 ' Certainly — in all things ; it is not men only who are, 
 as the poet says, "To one thing constant never." Where 
 are the rest ? I came to Nantsillan Cove supposing you 
 would not be there.' 
 
 ' They are yonder. I will help you down the steps to 
 them.' 
 
 The steps consisted of the irregular natural projec- 
 tions of the slate rock, which here rose in strata almost 
 perpendicular. 
 
 ' Lend me your hand,' said Rose. ' Let us move more 
 quickly. I want to be with the others. See ! they are 
 surely going into Porth-Ierne.' 
 
 Penhalligan led the lively girl carefully down the descent, 
 from one jagged step to another. She leaped from the last 
 to the beach. The shore was not, however, a smooth sweep 
 of sand in a crescent between the projecting heads of Cardue 
 and Sillan Point. The sand was ribbed with sharp slate 
 ridges running up from the water to the cliffs, resembling 
 the dorsal fins of sharks that were buried under the sand. 
 Where the strata were soft the stone had been dissolved by 
 the waves, but between the clayey yellow beds were bands 
 of blue slate that rang to a hammer like a bell and cut like 
 razors. Dennis helped Rose over these ridges. Some were 
 three feet, some a foot high, all were fretted like saws. 
 Rose skipped lightly across them. 
 
 ' Why have they gone into Porth-Ierne 1 ' she asked 
 
20 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 and pointed to a cavern in the black promontory of Cardue 
 that formed the southern horn of the bay. The northern 
 promontory was Sillan Point. ' Surely they are not going 
 through it into Sandy-mouth, and so home 1 ' 
 
 1 No,' answered Penhalligan, ' they cannot do that. The 
 tide is rising and rolling in at the Sandy-mouth opening of 
 the tunnel. Our friends have entered because without 
 there is too much light for them to observe the phosphores- 
 cence of the water, or at all events to see it to perfection. 
 Within that natural gateway night dwells, and there they 
 can stand and see the liquid tire swirl past their feet.' 
 ' Do you often have the sea on fire here ? ' 
 ' No — occasionally, when the water is warm, and there 
 have been south-westerly winds. Sometimes before a great 
 storm.' 
 
 ' Is the sea phosphorescent this evening ? ' 
 ' I suspect so. Observe your feet on the sand.' 
 Rose looked down. She was treacling on sand that had 
 been just overwashed by a wave. As she trod, a flash of 
 pale white light surrounded her little foot, a flash as faint 
 as distant summer lightning. 
 
 ' How strange ! ' said Rose. ' The touch of my foot 
 seems to kindle a flame.' 
 
 ' Not the touch of your foot only,' said Dennis. 
 Rose tossed her head and withdrew her hand from his. 
 ' See ! when I remove my foot the fire ceases. I pro- 
 test, the flame is very transient, and very innocuous.' 
 
 Nantsillan Cove was a horseshoe bay gnawed by the 
 Atlantic surge out of the rocky coast, which rose from two 
 hundred to three hundred feet above the sand and sea. 
 The southern horn of the bay, Cardue Head, was pierced at 
 the neck by a tunnel worked through by the waves on both 
 sides acting on a loop in the contorted strata. This arch- 
 way was some twenty feet high. In time, peiliaps, it 
 would become larger, and the roof fall in, and finally 
 Cardue Head would become an island. This tunnel was 
 called Porth-Ierne, or the Iron Gate. At low tide, with 
 some picking of way among pools, and scrambling over 
 boulders, it was possible to pass completely through from 
 Nantsillan Cove into Sandy-mouth Bay. Even when the 
 tide was flowing, when the sea was calm, it could be 
 entered on a shelf of slate rock that ran in half the way, 
 
PORTH-IEHNE. 21 
 
 forming a ledge on the side, from which the water might be 
 watched as it raced in from the farther side, where the tide 
 flowed earlier than . in the Cove. The waves that swept 
 into the bay were reflexed by Sillan Point, whereas those 
 at the western entrance bowled in from the open ocean. 
 The party of young people was entering the tunnel as Rose 
 and the doctor reached the sands. Their merry voices 
 rang cheerily from the black rocks above the murmur of 
 the rhythmic waves. 
 
 ' Loveday is there 1 ' exclaimed Rose. ' I see her. My 
 cousin Constantine is lifting her now on to the ledge.' 
 
 ' Yes/ answered Dennis, ' Loveday is there. That is 
 why I have come on to the Cove.' 
 
 ' You did not calculate on finding me here 1 ' 
 
 1 There is no calculating on what is fickle.' 
 
 ' You are not complimentary.' 
 
 ' I attribute to you the quality you flatter yourself on 
 possessing.' 
 
 ' It is one thing to give oneself a bad character, another 
 to have it given one by a second person. Loveday ! ' called 
 Rose, and ran forward. 
 
 Dennis's sister was only a few yards in front ; she was 
 standing on the rocky ledge that stood draped with sea- 
 tangles three feet above the sand. The vast black cavern 
 was behind her. She was dressed in a simple white evening 
 ' sacque,' with a black ribbon round her waist and black 
 bows on her shoulders. The dress was quite plain, except 
 for a frill at the bottom. It was short, and showed her 
 pretty feet in sandalled shoes. On hearing her name 
 called she stopped and turned. Loveday was in complexion 
 like her brother, dark-haired, dark-eyed, olive-skinned, of 
 moderate height, and graceful. An expression of gentle, 
 patient sadness, mingled with great sweetness, never left 
 her face. Even when she smiled and laughed, it was there, 
 overlaid, not expunged. 
 
 ' So you have come, Rose,' said Loveday. ' I thought 
 that you were too tired to undertake a scramble.' 
 
 ' I changed my mind, which is a prerogative of ladies. 
 I am a magnet, positive and negative all in one. Your 
 brother said so. Always possessed of two minds running 
 in opposite directions. Your brother has been lecturing me 
 on caprice.' 
 
22 THE GAVEEOCKS. 
 
 ' Dennis could say nothing that was not for your good.' 
 
 ' I object to his medicines. I have not asked him to 
 prescribe for my malady. I am not his patient, but his 
 emphatic impatient. Come, Cousin Gerans, lend me your 
 hand. Mr. Penhalligan offers me no assistance, but ex- 
 pects me to bound like a squirrel on to that shelf which is 
 little lower than my chin. 5 
 
 The party moved cautiously and in single file along the 
 shelf into the bowels of the rock. 
 
 ' We can proceed no farther/ said Gerans. ' Darkness 
 palpable is to be found farther in, and here where we stand 
 is darkness sufficient for our purpose. See ! see ! — the tide 
 is running.' 
 
 A shout of satisfaction from all in the cave. A wave 
 had entered from the Atlantic on the open farther side, and 
 the foam, luminous like moonlight, was seen sweeping, 
 breaking, flashing among the broken strata and rolled 
 stones in the bottom. Then it ran on in fluid rills of light 
 below their feet. 
 
 ' How prodigiously fine ! ' exclaimed one after another. 
 ' I have never seen the like before.' 
 
 ' The water is warm,' said one of the young men stoop- 
 ing, and dipping his hand in the flood. 
 
 ' It is carried by a hot current from southern seas. It 
 brings light to-night and rain to-morrow,' said Gerans. 
 
 ' We must wait and watch some more waves,' said one 
 of the ladies. ' This is vastly entertaining.' 
 
 ' Not many,' answered Gerans ; ' we must not allow the 
 tide to cover the sands, and cut off our retreat, or we shall 
 not get home dry-shod.' 
 
 ' Listen to the selfishness of the men,' said Rose. ' They 
 would forbid us a little pleasure to save themselves the 
 labour of changing their stockings.' 
 
 ' Not at all. We are considering your skirts.' 
 
 ' Oh, do not care for them. We should expect you to 
 carry us dry-shod through the water, two gentlemen to a 
 lady, with plaited hands.' 
 
 ' There ! there ! another wave ! ' was the general ex- 
 clamation. A bar of palpitating white light was seen ; it 
 shot over a rocky rib, and covered it with a lambent, 
 silvery veil, then spread in a pool, through which the 
 flashes zigzagged like forked lightning ; then gathered in a 
 
PORTH-IEENE. 23 
 
 shining river of pure moonlight, and swirled past the ledge 
 where the young people were standing, and as it did so it 
 threw out sufficient light to illumine the faces bent down to 
 watch it. 
 
 ' We must return,' said Gerans. ' This may become not 
 a case of wet feet, but of broken necks, if we delay. The 
 beach is not easy to traverse in the twilight, cut across 
 with the slate ridges ; in the dark it is positively dangerous.' 
 
 ' Let us see one more,' begged Rose ; ' we will hold our- 
 selves responsible for all disasters.' 
 
 ' The next must be the last.' 
 
 It was, however, difficult to agree as to which was the 
 next. Small waves did not count, and there existed diver- 
 gence of opinion as to the larger waves — whether they were 
 entitled to be reckoned or not, when one flashing billow 
 roared in, lighting the cave with phosphorescent splendour, 
 and, by throwing its spray over those watching it, cut short 
 further dispute. 
 
 ' Go on, Loveday,' said Dennis ; ' follow Mr. Gerans.' 
 Then he grasped the arm of Constantine, and said, ' Stay 
 behind. I must have a word with you.' 
 
 ' What — here 1 ' asked the young man whom he held. 
 
 ' Yes ; here as well as anywhere else.' 
 
 ' I desire wet feet or a broken neck as little as the 
 others,' said Constantine in surly tones. 
 
 ' I shall not detain you long,' answered Dennis. ■ But 
 I have that to say to you which must be delayed no longer.' 
 
 He watched the figures of the others in the entrance of 
 the cave, against the silvery gray evening sky, as they 
 leaped in succession from the ledge to the shore. 
 
 ' We are now alone,' he said, and turned in the dark 
 towards Constantine, who put his hands behind his back 
 and leaned against the natural wall of the cave. 
 
 ' Well, say on.' He spoke in an uneasy, impatient tone. 
 
 ' I want to know — and know I will — what is the tie 
 between my sister and yourself. That there is some tie I 
 am well assured. When Loveday was in Exeter, in the 
 spring, where you were also, in a solicitor's office, what took 
 place 1 Something — but what, I do not know.' 
 
 'What says Loveday?' 
 
 ' Loveday will tell me nothing. She has put me off with 
 a promise of explanation on your return. She admits only 
 
24 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 what I already know — that something has occurred, but 
 she will say no more. She is under a promise, she tells 
 me.' 
 
 He waited. A wave roared in at the western entrance, 
 and filled the cavern with light and noise. 
 
 Constantine moved from foot to foot uneasily. 
 
 'Well,' said Dennis, 'I am expecting a reply. Are you 
 desirous of remaining here till the tide swells over this 
 ledge and washes us both away 1 Just now you deprecated 
 wet feet.' 
 
 ' I am awkwardly situated,' said Constantine, and then 
 he paused. Dennis waited. Nothing further followed. 
 
 ' You are very awkwardly situated,' said the young 
 doctor, putting forth his hand and touching Constantine's 
 shoulder. 'Yery awkwardly situated, face to face, in this 
 vault, with Loveday's brother, a natural defender, and the 
 revenger of any wrong done to her. Unless I get a satis- 
 factory answer, I shall fling you over into the water below.' 
 
 ' Two can play at that game,' answered Constantine 
 Gaverock doggedly. 'My arms are quite as strong as 
 yours.' 
 
 ' Possibly,' said Dennis, with constrained passion. 'But 
 not stronger. I can hold you here. I could fling you from 
 hence ; very possibly if I cast you down you would drag me 
 with you ; if you succeeded in that, you would not succeed in 
 disengaging yourself from my grip. Suppose we do go down 
 together ; there I will hold you till the thundering sea 
 envelopes and batters us against the boulders, and washes 
 us on the slate blades.' 
 
 'You need not become excited and angry,' said the 
 younger Gaverock. ' Why should we not be friends 1 ' 
 
 ' Exactly,' answered the surgeon. ' Why should we not 1 
 I ask you to give me the reason.' 
 
 ' Promise me secrecy.' 
 
 ' I will make no promise where my sister is concerned. 
 As there is a God above me,' said Dennis sternly, ' I know 
 that my sister is clear as this sea-water of anything that can 
 cloud her honour. The water is crystalline, and if we can- 
 not see to the profoundest depths it is not that the water is 
 impure, but that the depth is unfathomable by the eye. I 
 am not asking you because I doubt that— that I doubt as 
 little as that you are shuffling and evasive now.' 
 
POETH-IERNE. 25 
 
 ( For Heaven's sake, let us get away from this place,' said 
 Constantine. ' This last wave skimmed our ledge, and the 
 cavern is so dark ; we shall not find our way out readily.' 
 
 'You shall stay here till I have my answer.' Then 
 Dennis seized both the arms of Constantine and pinned him 
 to the wall. 
 
 ' Let me go ; I will not endure this,' cried Gaverock, 
 writhing under the grasp of Dennis. 
 
 ' I will not. Speak, or here we decide matters finally. 
 You have had one fling to-day, and a torn coat ; you shall 
 have another, not on a gravel walk, but on pointed rocks, 
 that will tear deeper than cloth, a fall from which you will 
 not rise. Listen to me, Constantine Gaverock,' he said in 
 slow, stern tones, articulating each word distinctly and with 
 emphasis. ' I swear before God in heaven, whose eye pierces 
 to the vault in which we now stand, that if an injury has 
 been done by you to my sister Loveday, this gloomy cave 
 shall receive your last sigh.' 
 
 Then a boom as the discharge of a gun, and a wall of 
 water swept in, flashing and twinkling, with a head of 
 shaggy light, illuminating the sides and roof ; it caught the 
 young men above the knee, and nearly swept them from the 
 ledge. 
 
 At that moment Constantine disengaged his right hand 
 and struck Dennis in the chest. 
 
 ' A coward blow ! ' exclaimed the latter. ' Is this your 
 answer 1 ' 
 
 He would have grappled with Constantine and cast him 
 over into the eddying brine, regardless whether he went over 
 as well, but that he saw before him, kindled by the mooney 
 gleam of the water — the face of Loveday. 
 
 The girl had clung to a rock till the force of the wave 
 was spent, and it had left the ledge. Then she stepped 
 forward. 
 
 ' Dennis ! Constantine ! Let me speak. Do not 
 
 touch each other. Do not strive about me ; there must be 
 no mysteries more. The one and only secret I have ever 
 had has burnt into and eaten out my heart. Dennis, 
 brother dear and true, know all — I am Constantine's 
 wife.' 
 
 Penhalligan let go his hold of the younger Gaverock. 
 
 He took but a moment to collect himself, then he said : 
 
26 THE GAVEEOCKS. 
 
 ' Loveday, this is no place for you ; take my hand. Come 
 out whilst you can.' 
 
 He led his sister from the Iron Gate, and landed her 
 safely on the beach. Constantine followed. 
 
 They could hear the voices of the rest of the party who 
 were ascending the steps towards the head of the waterfall 
 on their way to Towan. Gerans had prudently taken a 
 lanthorn with him, judging that the return would be in the 
 dark, and on leaving the cavern he had struck a light and 
 kindled it. Now the spot of yellow light travelled like a 
 dancing will-o'-the-wisp among the black shadows, up the 
 face of the inky rocks. . 
 
 ' I do not see why you should treat me as an enemy 
 instead of as a brother-in-law,' said Constantine. ' What 
 Loveday says is true.' 
 
 ' Then why was I not told at once 1 ' 
 
 1 1 was afraid of my father.' 
 
 ' Constantine,' said Dennis gravely, ' I give you three 
 days' grace. Tell your father within those days, or I will 
 do so myself.' 
 
 ' Shake hands, Dennis, and let us part good friends.' 
 
 ' When you have told your father I will give you my 
 hand, not before.' 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 BROTHER AND SISTER. 
 
 Dennis Peniialligan and his sister walked home without 
 exchanging many words. They were both drenched with 
 sea-water. Constantine did not accompany them ; he took 
 the shorter, riskful path up the cliff. There hung still a 
 soft light in the western sky, sufficient to enable him to 
 climb the rugged way, with which he was familiar from 
 childhood. 
 
 About an hour later, Dennis and his sister, dry-clothed, 
 were seated in their little room over a low smouldering fire 
 of wood. 
 
 On that bleak coast, where the atmosphere is always 
 moist, and everything is impregnated with salt, a fire is 
 
BROTHER AND SISTER. 27 
 
 acceptable even in summer, after the sun has set ; and this 
 was autumn. 
 
 Loveday sat on a stool by the fire, with bellows on her 
 knee, blowing up the embers. The red pulsations of light 
 played over her pale face. Tears hung on her long dark 
 lashes. Her face was oval, the mouth was small, and the 
 brow broad : her black hair was drawn back, and tied in a 
 knot behind her head, but high. She possessed a very 
 delicately beautiful nape of neck — a beauty more exceptional 
 than is supposed. As she bent her head over the bellows, 
 with her moist eyes on the fire, her pretty neck showed to 
 great advantage. 
 
 Dennis did not speak ; he was looking sadly at her, lost 
 in a dream. What would become of him if Loveday left his 
 house 1 He would be quite alone. He could not ask a 
 woman to come and share his poverty as his wife. Besides, 
 he cared only for one woman, Rose, and she was beyond his 
 reach. 
 
 ' I am glad you know all,' said Loveday, looking up at 
 him, resting the bellows on her knee, and her right hand on 
 the bellows and her face in her hand. ' I have been so un- 
 happy, dear Dennis, in having a secret to keep from you— 
 I felt burdened, as with a crime.' 
 
 ' I do not know all, sister,' answered the doctor ; ' I 
 know nothing but the bald fact.' 
 
 She put her finger into her bosom and drew forth a little 
 gold ring, suspended about her neck by a blue silk thread. 
 'Here, Dennis, is my wedding ring. I was married at 
 Exeter in the spring. I know it was very wrong of me not 
 to ask your leave beforehand, and wrong again of me not to 
 tell, you afterwards, but — but Constantine begged me so 
 earnestly to keep the secret, and I thought he intended to 
 write home and tell all. I could not refuse him, thinking 
 it was for a short while only. I know now that I ought to 
 have refused, but I did not, and it has made me miserable 
 ever since. You have no secrets that you keep from me, 
 Dennis, only one that you have not spoken of, but it is one 
 I have guessed for myself.' 
 
 He sighed and looked into the fire. 
 
 ' Only another hopeless dream,' he said, ' like so many 
 others that have preceded it, and burnt themselves away as 
 fire castles into dead ash.' 
 
28 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 ' Why should you be discouraged, Dennis ? ' asked the 
 girl, with her face full of sweet pity and love. ' There is 
 not a finer person of a man than you in all the country side, 
 none certainly with half your brains.' 
 
 ' Brains, Loveday,' said he with a faint sneer — ' brains 
 are of no account here. A certain amount of brain is 
 needed to appreciate brain. Never mind me, we are speak- 
 ing about yourself.' 
 
 ' I will tell you everything now. I would have told you 
 all when I came back from Exeter — but I might not. You 
 have seen that I was hiding something from you. You 
 know I have never hidden anything before ; and it gave 
 you trouble. Not more trouble, Dennis, than it gave me. 
 You little know the tears and heartaches my foolish pro- 
 mise occasioned. I wrote again and again to Con, to ask 
 him to release me, but he would not ; he always bade me 
 wait till his return. Now he is home it has come out.' 
 
 'Yes,' said Dennis, gloomily, 'most reluctantly.' 
 
 ' You must forgive him,' pleaded Loveday. ' Poor fellow, 
 he is so unhappily situated. You know well enough what 
 a rough, imperious old mail Hender Gaverock is. Both his 
 sons and his wife are afraid of him. Gerans and Con have 
 been brought up to dread his anger. Con is not, like 
 Gerans, the heir to the estate ; he is the younger son, and 
 must shift for himself, he is quite dependent on his father. 
 He is now in a solicitor's office, and in time will be able to 
 support himself, perhaps in another year. Till then he is 
 subject to the old squire, and — as you know, Dennis — there 
 is no telling what Mr. Gaverock might do if he knew that 
 his son had married without consulting him.' 
 
 ' This is all well enough,' said Penhalligan, ' but, Love- 
 day, it does not explain why Constantine married you on 
 the sly.' 
 
 ' We have loved each other for some years — let me see, 
 Dennis, it is six since you bought this practice — well, ever 
 since we knew each other we have been attached. You saw 
 it, you made no objection.' 
 
 'I did not suppose it meant anything serious, when 
 Constantine was without the means of living, and of sup- 
 porting a wife.' 
 
 ' Then he was in an office for a while at Padstow, learn- 
 ing his business, and after that he went to his uncle in 
 
BROTHER AND SISTER. 29 
 
 Exeter — his mother's brother. I do not suppose he will be 
 taken into partnership, because Mr. Nankivel has a son in 
 the office, but Con is sure that before long he will earn his 
 own livelihood ; in time he will set up for himself at Pad- 
 stow, and the family interest will bring him clients.' 
 
 ' Still,' said the young surgeon — ' still, I do not see the 
 reason why he persuaded you to marry him secretly.' 
 
 Loveday sighed. 'I know it was very wrong. But, 
 Dennis, we loved each other so dearly. Look here, brother 
 dear,' she said, brightening, and glancing into his eyes, 
 ' suppose you found that Rose loved you, and you had the 
 chance. Would you stop to ask old Squire Gaverock's con- 
 sent 1 Would you not marry her and defy the future ? ' 
 
 Dennis's dark complexion deepened. He turned his 
 face aside from his sister's scrutinising gaze. After a pause 
 he said slowly, ' Loveday, Gaverock is not my father, and — 
 Why has not Constantine done that very thing, confess his 
 act manfully, and defy the future 1 ' 
 
 ' He is going to — he promised you that he would tell 
 all.' 
 
 ' Excuse me, Loveday, he did not. I threatened him 
 that if he did not I would. I do not like his behaviour ; it 
 is neither open nor honourable.' 
 
 'You must not misjudge him. Remember what old 
 Squire Gaverock is. A man would think twice before he 
 told him anything, he is so violent, so wilful.' 
 
 ' That may be. Gaverock is all you say — but still the 
 question remains unanswered . Why did you marry ? ' 
 
 ' Because — because ' Loveday sank on her knees 
 
 before her brother, threw her arms round his neck, buried 
 her face in his breast, and said, ' We were so fond of each 
 other. He was alone in the world ' 
 
 ' How alone 1 He has father, and mother, and brother.' 
 
 ' Yes ; but his tastes, and his feelings, are so different 
 from theirs. He has a cultivated mind, which Gerans has 
 not ; and at Exeter he had no one. He was so delighted 
 to see me when I arrived there, and I — I was alone.' 
 
 ' How so ? You have me, your brother.' 
 
 ' Yes, darling Dennis ; a true, good, strong brother you 
 have been. But when I was at Exeter I felt very solitary. 
 My cousin was different in everything from me, and I was 
 so happy to meet Con again.' 
 
30 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 ' Well, Loveday.' 
 
 4 Well, Dennis ; we were young things, and both away 
 from our relations — I from you, and he from his parents — ■ 
 and when he proposed that we should take advantage of 
 the chance and get married, and spoke of his prospects, and 
 everything looked sunny before us, I was very unwise, I 
 consented. But from the moment I consented, and pro- 
 mised not to tell you, or any one, my peace of mind was 
 gone. I assure you, brother, when I undertook to be silent, 
 I had no idea that he meant me to keep the secret so long ; 
 I thought he intended me to hold my tongue only till he 
 had been home and told all himself. Perhaps he did mean 
 so — but he did not return to Towan till to-day, and I have 
 been home for six months. 
 
 ' He acted very wrongly,' said the young surgeon 
 gravely ; ' he placed you in a very false position. I can 
 never forgive him that, whatever he may do to relieve you 
 by an open declaration of the truth now. He acted in a 
 selfish, inconsiderate manner.' 
 
 'Forgive him, Dennis,' pleaded the girl, putting her 
 hands together. ' He loved me so very much . Do you 
 not understand, brother, that in love one may act very 
 foolishly and only find that out later 1 ' 
 
 ' Loveday,' said Dennis, after a moment's consideration, 
 ' 1 ought not to have been left in the dark, not for an hour. 
 Had I known, you should not have returned here without 
 your ring, and bearing your maiden name. I shall never 
 respect Constantine for having suffered this. A man 
 should not allow the chance of a breath to fall on and sully 
 the clear, bright surface of his wife's name. Constantine 
 has wilfully exposed it to a stain.' 
 
 ' Do not accuse him,' exclaimed his sister, again clasping 
 him in her arms, whilst her tears flowed. ' I cannot bear 
 it, Dennis. Remember what he is to me. We all make 
 mistakes and rue them afterwards. Our judgments are at 
 fault, not our hearts.' 
 
 Dennis stood up, folded his arms, and paced the room, 
 with his head on his breast. 
 
 ' We shall see what happens within three days,' said he. 
 
 'My mind misgives me. I do not trust him. But ' 
 
 He drew a long breath. ' Is not this of a piece with all 
 that comes on us 1 Everything, everything goes against 
 
BROTHER AND SISTER. 31 
 
 us. Why was I given talents, without a field in which to 
 exercise them 1 What profits my study, when the patients 
 turn to white witches, quack remedies, and ignorant pe- 
 dants ? What will come of this marriage, kept concealed 1 
 No good. No good has ever come to us from anything we 
 have taken in hand. Whatever we have set our hearts 
 upon, if we have succeeded in securing it, has turned to 
 mockery and misery. We have not a chance — you or I. 
 "Man is born to misery as the sparks that fly upward," 
 said Job. It is not true of all. It is terribly true of some. 
 Some men are born into the world with distorted legs or 
 spines, and some with distorted prospects. With them 
 everything goes perversely. Providence flouts and buffets 
 them through life. Such are we — such am I. I am like 
 a tortured, bullied clog, driven with a whip from corner to 
 corner, lashed from one hiding-place to another, never al- 
 lowed to lie down and bask in the sun without a cut of 
 the cruel whip across him. We see happiness all about us, 
 but it is not for us ; ease and plenty for others, not for us ; 
 success for mountebanks and swindlers, not for us, true and 
 sincere. For us, corroding care, disappointments every- 
 where ; thorns, not flowers ; bitterness, not honey ; shadow, 
 and no light. The light and joy of life is flowing all about 
 us, as the luminous waves to-night, but we cannot grasp 
 and retain any of it. Rose asked me if I had tried, and 
 she said, " Do not wish it — it is not for you." ' He sat 
 down by the table, and pulled a needle from his sister's 
 workbox, then rolled up his sleeve of shirt and coat. 
 Loveday did not notice him, she was looking into the fire. 
 
 ' There are some,' he went on, working with the needle, 
 ' to whom the world is full of blind lanes ; it is so to me ; 
 nowhere do I find an opening where I may push my way. 
 Everywhere am I brought up short against a dead wall. I 
 have spent everything I possessed on my education and in 
 buying this practice, and it scarce keeps us alive and re- 
 spectably dressed. What privations we have to endure, 
 you and I know. Is there any chance of getting away ? 
 None. Of a lightening in the horizon before us ? None. 
 Of our affairs becoming more easy, less of a strain ? None. 
 I know very well what will follow this disclosure. You, 
 dear Loveday, you are, in your blind love, leading to the 
 blank wall. Old Gaverock will blaze out in one of his 
 
32 THE GAVEEOCKS. 
 
 fury fits, turn Constantine adrift, and give us notice to quit 
 his cottage. Where to find another that will suit I do not 
 know. Never mind. It is all part of the writing of bitter 
 things in the scroll against us.' He stood up and took down 
 his powder-flask, took some of the powder, and rubbed it 
 into his arm. 
 
 ' What are you doing, Dennis 1 ' asked his sister. 
 
 ' Look ! ' laughed the young doctor, bitterly, and he 
 held his arm to her. He had tattooed on it : ' Pas de chance.' 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 MOTHER AND SON. 
 
 Constantine walked home in very troubled mood. He 
 knew that he must tell his father what he had done, and 
 he dreaded the result. Constantine had more refinement 
 of mind and polish of taste than his elder brother, but he 
 had not his frank and direct character. From childhood 
 he had experienced his father's boisterous imperiousness, 
 which had repelled and offended him. His mother, whose 
 favourite son he was, had made much of him, and by 
 humouring his fancies had endeavoured to compensate for 
 the roughness of his father's treatment. Constantine had 
 no liking for out-of-door pastimes, for hunting, shooting, 
 fishing, sailing, which all involved a good deal of exercise 
 and labour. He liked to saunter in the sun, watching the 
 workmen on the farm, or sit over the fire with a book. 
 His father had no patience with inertness, being himself a 
 man of effervescing energy, and he foiled Constantine to 
 accompany him with a gun after game, or with a net after 
 fish, when the young fellow would have preferred to pick 
 out a tune on the piano or count the sails on the horizon. 
 When Constantine was put into a lawyer's office, away 
 from home and its uncongenial atmosphere, he felt the re- 
 lief, but the relief was only partial. It would have been 
 full but that it was associated with work, and that work 
 was almost as repugnant to his taste as boating and hunt- 
 ing The young man was finely and firmly built, as his 
 brother Gerans, and would have been his match in athletic 
 sports but for that physical indolence which is so fre- 
 
MOTHER AND SON. 33 
 
 quently associated with superior mental culture. He pre- 
 ferred a book to a hunt, and a morning at the piano to a 
 morning with a gun. In music he was self-taught, and he 
 had made no proficiency, because too lazy to practise. He 
 liked music because it pleased without exacting anything 
 of him. In literature he read nothing that required close 
 attention. He read for amusement — not for profit. 
 
 His father's roughness and his mother's favouritism had 
 combined to destroy the moral fibre of his character — to 
 make him selfish, shifty, and insincere. Under different 
 circumstances he would have been other. Circumstances 
 with him, as with Dennis Penhalligan, had spoiled his life. 
 
 When Constantine entered the hall of Towan, he found 
 his father by the fire, with a bottle of rum, a jug of hot 
 water, a lemon, sugar, and glasses on the oak table. Gerans 
 was standing and talking to him. 
 
 ' I have been caught in a wave, and am drenched,' said 
 Constantine. ' Lend me a coat, Gerans ; my father tore 
 my bottle-green, and this one is sopped. I have but two 
 here.' 
 
 ' Come to the hearth,' called Hender Gaverock. ' A 
 souse of salt water seasons a man. Here is a hot fire to 
 dry you from without, and here is hot fire to warm you 
 within.' 
 
 ' I require a complete change,' said Constantine. ' I am 
 drenched to the marrow of my bones.' 
 
 ' Being made of sugar, you will melt. Get along with 
 you ! ' exclaimed the old man. ' Gerans, give him a dry 
 suit ; and then, Con, come back to us and join in a bowl of 
 punch to welcome your return.' 
 
 Half an hour later the young man returned, reluctantly, 
 but unable to disobey his father. He took his place by the 
 fire. 
 
 ' Well,' shouted old Gaverock, ' what have you learned 
 at Exeter 1 Can you indenture, indite, draw a mortgage, 
 and execute a conveyance 1 ' 
 
 ' I am learning my profession,' answered Constantine. 
 
 ' And unlearning what you have acquired here — how to 
 ride a horse and steer a boat. Eh 1 ' 
 
 ' No, father ; these things are never unlearnt, any more 
 than the art of swimming.' 
 
 'I hope not. How many honest people have you 
 
 D 
 
34 THE GAVEEOCKS. 
 
 cheated out of their estates ? How many have you squeezed 
 dry as I squeeze this lemon 1 ' 
 
 ' The profession of a lawyer is as honest as any other,' 
 said the young man. 
 
 ' May be. All rogues — the parsons, the doctors, the 
 gaugers, the lawyers. All rogues in their several ways. 
 What ! ' turning to his wife — ' no more rum ? Only three 
 drops in the bottle, eh ? Put the stone jars in the boat to- 
 morrow. I'll get more.' 
 
 ' "Whither are you going, father 1 ' asked Gerans. 
 
 ' Going to take Con out sealing, to keep his hand in. 
 You can't come, Gerans ; you must go to Wadebridge Fair 
 and buy a horse. Con and I will run to Featherstone's 
 and fill the jars.' 
 
 ' I had rather not go to-morrow, father,' began the 
 second son ; but he was cut short by the old man. 
 
 ' Golly ! ' he exclaimed. ' Are you come back to play 
 the piano and read poetry 1 Not so. You are returned to 
 Towan to be tuned up to the proper pitch of manhood. 
 You shall come with me to-morrow, and prove that you 
 have not forgotten the management of a boat. Mother 
 will want oil for the lamps, and Rose has been promised a 
 pelisse of sealskin against the winter. Do you think to win 
 your way to a girl's heart with tum-tum and books 1 If 
 you do you vastly mistake the sex. I am sixty-five and 
 know them thoroughly. Stand up, Con ! Stand up, 
 Gerans ! Back against the wall, my lady, out of my path.' 
 
 The old man hooked his arm through those of his sons, 
 taking one on each side, and strode with them up and down 
 the hall — he in his great boots, and his long coat buttoned 
 back behind, and with huge strides ; Gerans in his riding- 
 boots and breeches and short hunting-coat. 
 
 ' Ha ! ha ! ' shouted the Squire. ' About of a height, all 
 three, are we not, mother ? You won't see such strapping 
 fellows as we this side Bodmin. It is of me they draw 
 their size and muscle and bone, as of me they take their 
 name. There, sit down, boys, and drink. Mother, put 
 your lips to the glass, to Con's prosperity — and may he be 
 the man in heart that he is in figure. Ah, Con ! it will be 
 no fault of mine if I do not make as tough an old Cornish 
 bull-dog of you as your father is, your grandfather was, and 
 your brother promises to become.' 
 
MOTHEE, AND SON. 65 
 
 The evening was spent in drinking punch and talking. 
 Old Gaverock did more of both than his sons. He belonged 
 to an order of men passing away at the beginning of 
 this century — now completely gone. He was stifihecked, 
 and not to be turned from a purpose he had resolved on, 
 even though his reason was convinced that it was unwise. 
 Accustomed from youth to have his own way, finding no 
 one to oppose him, he was ungovernable in his self-will 
 Living in a corner of England, away from civilising influ- 
 ences, uni'eached by the rising tide of culture, among men 
 who drank and gambled, fought, wrestled, smuggled, and 
 were not above reaping a harvest out of a wreck, he had 
 little of the gentler elements of humanity in him. 
 
 As he drank, he became more noisy, boastful, and head- 
 strong. To Constantine his conduct was most repug- 
 nant. G-erans was accustomed to him, laughed, joked, took 
 his father's sallies good-humouredly, and was shocked at 
 nothing. 
 
 At last the old Squire rose, stamped, and said : 
 
 ' What, Con ! scarce emptied your glass 1 Don't you 
 appreciate the taste of smuggled rum punch in Exeter 1 
 Have you unlearned the liking for anything stronger than 
 sour cider 1 It is time for bed. To-morrow early be up, 
 and take with you Gerans' gun. We will go after the 
 seals.' 
 
 The Squire was not late to go to rest ; however much 
 he drank, however merry he was, he knew his time for 
 turning in between the blankets. He was an early riser. 
 He was up at daybreak in summer, and before daybreak in 
 winter, and therefore could not keep late hours at night. 
 
 Soon after he had gone, Constantine sought his room. 
 Gaverock was mistaken in supposing that he had not 
 drunk. He had taken more than was customary with him, 
 to drown the troubles that worried his mind, though not as 
 much as behoved a proper Gaverock. He undressed and 
 threw himself on his bed, and fell asleep, leaving his candle 
 unextinguished. 
 
 He had not been long asleep before the door was opened 
 timidly, and his mother's anxious face looked in. She alone 
 in the house was not asleep. She was wont to sit up last, 
 every night, to see that the fires and candles were extin- 
 guished. On her way to her room she observed the light 
 
36 THE GAVEEOCKS. 
 
 under Constantine's door, and she tapped. As there was 
 no answer, she gently entered. She seated herself at his 
 side, and stroked his disordered hair, then folded her hands 
 in her lap, with her back to the candle, and patiently 
 watched him. Tears were in her faded eyes, but she 
 watched him with her whole soul, with every fibre of her 
 heart, unable to satisfy the weary, hungry spirit of maternal 
 love with the sight of her best-loved son. 
 
 ' My boy, my dear, dear boy ! ' she whispered. She had 
 not seen him for a twelvemonth, and his reception at home 
 was not such as to make him desirous of a repetition of 
 visits. 
 
 Mrs. Gaverock had led a life of care and pain. Only 
 for a short moment had she known love, in the flowering of 
 the wheat, in the first glow of youth and passion, and then 
 her rough husband had thrust her on one side, that he 
 might follow his favourite pursuits, which occupied his 
 mind and filled his heart. Love is an episode in man's life, 
 it is the epic of woman's soul. 
 
 She — gentle, loving, patient — had nothing in common 
 with Hender Gaverock, whose interests were all external 
 to the house. She received from him many a hard word, 
 and much neglect, more intolerable than ill-usage. 
 
 Her youth passed without pleasure. Her fresh cheeks 
 faded, unkissed, and her hair grew grey, uncaressed by 
 loving hands. All her pride, all her love, her every hope, 
 were wrapped up in her children, especially in Constantine. 
 All that was sweet, and pure, and beautiful in her humble, 
 womanly soul had flowed together to form one strong stream 
 of motherly love. 
 
 With self-devotion, fervour, tears, she had seen her sons 
 grow up under her eyes ; she had watched them as the sea- 
 mew watches with fluttering wings and beating heart over 
 her young. By degrees Gerans was drawn from her, 
 led by his father along his way, into his pursuits. Gerans 
 was pliable, and an outdoor life congenial to him. For the 
 Squire he entertained the most profound admiration, and 
 gave him unquestioning obedience. The softer natured, 
 more domestic Constantine was the light of her eyes and 
 the signet on her heart. He was taken from her, and sent 
 to a solicitor in Padstow. Then she saw him only when he 
 returned on Saturday afternoon for the Sunday at home. 
 
MOTHER AND SON. 37 
 
 Whilst he was in this office her weeks were consumed in 
 longing for his return, and in mingled delight and dis- 
 appointment when he was at home — delight at noticing his 
 growth, his good looks ; disappointment at finding him less 
 reliant on her, his one and only friend. 
 
 After he had spent an apprenticeship at Pad stow, he 
 was sent, partly at her instance, to her brother, a solicitor, 
 in Exeter. From that time she, saw no more of him till his 
 return that day. Now, quietly, when no one was by to 
 observe her, and Hender was asleep unable to rebuke or 
 ridicule her, she was able undisturbed to sit and watch 
 with every pulsation of her heart the face of the boy she 
 loved. 
 
 The candle guttered into the socket and went out. She 
 could see Constantine's face no more. It mattered not, she 
 could watch where he lay, and listen to his breath drawn 
 evenly in sleep. His hand was outside the bedclothes. 
 She timidly took it between her own. 
 
 When he had arrived that day he had not shown great 
 eagerness to salute her ; but then his father interposed by 
 calling on him to unharness the horse, and this had dis- 
 turbed and annoyed him. For how many, many clays had 
 she counted on his return, and when he arrived it was to 
 disappoint her ! He had gone to bed without wishing her 
 good-night and kissing her as in olden clays. She excused 
 him again — his father had kept him drinking till bedtime, 
 and then had dismissed him fuddled and forgetful of his 
 filial duties. 
 
 ' Mother ! ' 
 
 With a start she heard him speak. He was awake and 
 looking at her. The night was not dark — a crescent moon 
 was in the sky — and sufficient light flowed in at the window 
 to allow of his distinguishing her, seated as she was between 
 him and the light. 
 
 ' I am here, Con ! dear Con ! ' she said, and pressed his 
 hand. ' I hope I have not roused you from your sleep.' 
 
 ' I do not know what awoke me,' he answered. ' Per- 
 haps it was your hand holding mine, perhaps it was disturb- 
 ing dreams.' 
 
 ' Con,' she said, ' you went to bed without giving me a 
 good-night and a kiss. Therefore I could not rest.' 
 
 ' Then, mother, stoop over me, and let me kiss you now,' 
 
38 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 he said ; and when she bent her head he put his arm round 
 her neck, and drew her wet cheek down on his lips. 
 ' Mother, you have been crying ! ' 
 
 ' Yes, Con ; crying with happiness to have you home 
 again. You young people have many pleasures and ambi- 
 tions, but an old woman has only one — the pleasure of 
 seeing her children, the ambition of seeing them happy and 
 prosperous.' 
 
 ' Not much chance of prosperity for me, the younger 
 son,' said Constantine. ' That is for Gerans. For me — as 
 the paradise to which I must aspire — a pettifogging lawyer's 
 office.' 
 
 ' Don't say that, Con ; it is not so,' said his mother, 
 hurt at the contemptuous allusion to her brother. 
 
 ' Whether I say it or not, it is true,' he answered. 
 
 ' You may be very happy and successful if you will,' she 
 said, speaking eagerly and pressing his hand. ' Your father 
 has not been careless of your welfare. On the contrary, he 
 has provided for your future, and that is one reason why 
 you were sent for home at present.' 
 
 ' How is that 1 ' asked Constantine sceptically. ' I 
 thought father had neither eyes nor thoughts for any but 
 his first-born.' 
 
 ' You wrong him, Con. He is just ; and he has formed 
 a beautiful scheme for your advancement.' 
 
 ' Tell it me, mother,' asked the young man sitting up in 
 bed. 
 
 ' You have seen Rose Trewhella 1 ' 
 
 « Yes.' 
 
 ' Is she not pretty ? Is she not altogether charming 1 ' 
 
 ' I don't know. I paid no particular attention to her 
 qualities of face or mind.' 
 
 ' But you must do so, dear Con. She is not only very 
 charming, sweet as her name implies, but also a bit of 
 living, dancing sunlight ; and, what is more to the purpose, 
 worth over four hundred pounds a year. Your father is 
 her guardian and trustee, and he has made up his mind 
 that you are to take her and her money, and so he will 
 provide for you splendidly.' 
 
 Mrs. Gaverock, in the delight of her heart at the pro- 
 spect, clapped her hands on that of her son. He took the 
 opportunity to withdraw his hand. 
 
MOTHER AND SON. 39 
 
 ' This is rank nonsense ! ' lie said. 
 
 ' It is not nonsense, Con/ she urged ; ' it is the best of 
 common sense. What an excellent wife she will make ! 
 And your father says that you can sell her property at 
 Kenwyn and Truro and buy Trevithick. By this means your 
 estatewill adjoin Towan, and we shall see you every day. 
 Oh, Con ! is not this purely beautiful 1 ' 
 
 1 Has the young lady been consulted 1 ' asked Con 
 stantine. 
 
 ' Oh no ; but she is sure to acquiesce in the arrange- 
 ment. Why, Con, any girl would be proud to have you/ 
 
 ' But I may not care for the girl. 5 
 
 ' You must like Rose. She is so pretty, so pleasant 
 Besides, it is your father's desire.' 
 
 Constantine threw himself down on the bed angrily. 
 
 ' I cannot ! I will not ! ' 
 
 ' But, Con, your father has resolved on it ; and what he 
 makes up his mind to must be carried out.' 
 
 ' I cannot ! I will not ! ' 
 
 ' Why 1 For Heaven's sake do not say " I cannot " to 
 him — it would make him furious. Oh, Con, reconsider ! 
 Do not stand in your own light.' 
 
 ' I have already done so,' answered Constantine. ' I 
 have stood in my own light so effectually that I am out in 
 the dark and cold. Curse it ! I can not take Miss Tre- 
 whella and her four hundred, because I am married already ; 
 and I will not, for the other good reason that bigamy is 
 punishable with transportation. I will tell you no more. 
 Leave me. I am tired and want sleep. The particulars 
 you shall know another time.' 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 RED FEATHERSTONE. 
 
 Squire Gaverock's boat, the ' Mermaid,' was one of which 
 he was justly proud, as the fastest sailer between Tintagel 
 and Trevose, that is for her size. She was a cutter, decked, 
 and with fixed bowsprit and mast, like a schooner. Hender 
 
40 THE GAVEEOCKS. 
 
 Gaverock was as much at home on the deck of a boat as 
 on the back of a horse. The only place where he was not 
 at home was — at home, where he found nothing to do and 
 nothing to interest him except the bottle. 
 
 About seventy years ago seals were tolerably numerous 
 on the north-west Cornish coast. There are a good many 
 to be found there still, but their numbers have of late been 
 greatly diminished. Seventy years ago they abounded in 
 the caves, where they reared their young, and in the bays 
 they were frequently encountered — their black heads rising 
 out of the sea, with strangely human eyes in them, rising 
 and falling w T ith the swell of the sea. 
 
 Gaverock took with him his boatman, David Tregellas. 
 If he and Constantine were going to shoot seals, one of the 
 party must be at the helm, another at the jib, and one must 
 be ready with the gun for the sport. 
 
 ' Got the stone jars there, David 1 ' 
 
 ' Aye, aye, sir ! Strapped together for easy car- 
 riage/ 
 
 ' That is right. I'll run the " Mermaid " to Feather- 
 stone's Kitchen — Gwen's shop. We have drunk ourselves 
 out of rum.' 
 
 ' I reckon us had better not go so far as that,' said 
 Tregellas, shaking his head. ' The birds be all flying in- 
 wards, and the water was on fire last night.' 
 
 ' Glad to hear it,' said Gaverock. ' Here is Constantine 
 with his brains full of city fashions, and his nerves as slack 
 as trade in bullocks. Do him good to have a blow, to clear 
 his head and brace his tendons ; and if he gets a splash of 
 brine in his face it will wash out the milk and raspberry, 
 and make his face less like a girl's.' 
 
 ' What is right for you, Squire, is right for me,' an- 
 swered Tregellas. ' You've more to lose than I.' 
 
 'You mind the jib, David ; I'll tend the main-sheet and 
 steer. Now then, Con, hold the gun, and keep your eyes 
 open. Take heed of the boom when I say "Luff"; and 
 don't let it knock you overboard as if you were a lout who 
 had never tasted salt water.' 
 
 ' I reckon us'll see no seals to-day, Squire,' said Tre- 
 gellas. ' What sends the birds inland sends the seals to 
 security — which proves that humans be bigger fools nor 
 qirds and beasts.' 
 
RED FEATHERSTONE. 41 
 
 ' I£ they don't show on the water we'll follow them 
 into their caves,' answered Gaverock angrily. 
 
 'You must have a row-boat for doing that,' argued 
 Tregellas. 
 
 The Squire growled. He disliked contradiction. He 
 specially resented it when he knew he was in the wrong. 
 He had made up his mind for sport, and sport he would 
 have in spite of wind and weather. 
 
 ' Wind sou'-sou' west,' he said. ' Con, been to Feather- 
 stone's Kitchen before ? ' 
 
 ' No, father.' 
 
 c You shall see the Kitchen whence we get our supplies 
 of spirits— spirits that pay no duty.' 
 
 The day was pleasant. The sun shone, and the sea 
 rolled, but was not rough. The cutter skimmed like a bird. 
 In vain did Constantine and his father look for seals. Not 
 a seal was to be seen. They ran into the little coves, but 
 the creatures were not there, neither basking on the reefs 
 nor floating on the waves. 
 
 Nothing can be conceived more magnificent than that 
 coast, with its crags of trap, or contorted slate and gneiss, 
 here and there strangely barred with white spar. In the 
 bays the gulls and kittiwakes were flashing and screaming ; 
 and now and then a red-shanked, scarlet-beaked chough 
 went by with a call of warning. The birds were in excite- 
 ment, shrieking to each other, and answering in equally 
 high-pitched tones. The morning passed wasted in hunting 
 after seals that would not show. 
 
 ' There they are, in yonder cave,' said old Gaverock, 
 indicating with his chin the torn face of cliff, in which were 
 many fissures and vaults. ' If we had only a row-boat, we 
 could go in, and we should find them far away in the dark, 
 lying on ledges, looking at us, or, if we threatened them, 
 flapping pebbles at us with their fins. Golly ! I've been 
 hit afore this, and had my head cut open, as surely as if 
 the creatures had taken aim at me with hands. At times 
 I'm fain to believe the seals are human and have souls. I 
 dare say they have about as much as a woman. I was out 
 sealing — it was a day much like this — when I killed 
 Featherstone. Have you ever heard the tale, Con 1 Well, 
 I dare be bound you've heard tell something about it, and 
 all wrong. None know the real rights but David Tregellas 
 
42 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 and myself. Red Featherstone was a rover as well as a 
 smuggler. If he had been only the latter, it would have 
 given me a sour soul to have killed him, though we were 
 rivals. Featherstone was a proper bad man. He carried 
 off whatever his hands laid hold of. He had a boat, the 
 like of which was not seen then, but the " Mermaid " would 
 be her match now. Golly ! I'd like to have the chance of 
 racing Featherstone's cutter ! She was built something the 
 same as this. Featherstone had a large vessel, a schooner, and 
 with her he went to France, or Spain, no one knows whither. 
 He came back to these coasts laden with things — stolen 
 mostly ; I don't believe he paid for his goods with money. 
 Here and there along the coast he had his kitchens — that 
 is, store places — whither folks might go and where they 
 might buy what they wanted, spirits and wines and tobacco, 
 and silks and laces and china ; I can't tell you what things 
 he did not hide there, and I know he did a fine trade. The 
 kitchens were vaults scooped out of the rocks, and cottages 
 were built over them with secret entrances, and secret exits 
 to the water. Yery useful those kitchens were, and mighty 
 convenient they are still. We are bound now for one, 
 where I shall fill these jars with rum. But Featherstone 
 no longer plies the trade. It has fallen prodigiously since 
 his time. I spiked him. Luff ! mind your head, you 
 fool ! ' 
 
 He altered the course of the ' Mermaid.' ' It is an old 
 story; it happened before you were born or thought of, 
 before I married your mother. Indeed, I doubt if I should 
 have had your mother if Featherstone had not first been 
 put out of the way. The folks call him Red Featherstone, 
 because he was fond of wearing a scarlet waistcoat laced 
 with gold ; but over it he wore a long oilskin shiny black 
 coat. In all weathers it was the same, and he looked like 
 a porpoise in his shiny suit buttoned over his red waistcoat. 
 But when he came a-courting he left off the oilskin and 
 showed his waistcoat. He was vastly attached to your 
 mother, and I had a fancy towards her too. Of course I 
 had, or I would not have married her. Well, Feathei'stone 
 and I could not abide each other, as was natural, for we 
 were rivals for your mother, and by the Lord ! he threatened 
 to carry her off in his schooner if she were not given to him, 
 so her father and brothers were armed and watched night 
 
RED FEATHERSTONE. 43 
 
 and day when Featherstone's boat was about. One day, 
 just such a day as this — how well I remember it, and so 
 does David yonder ! The sun was darting, a beam (bank 
 of cloud) was over the West, lying on the sea. I was out 
 spearing seals. Guns weren't so plenty or so good as now, 
 and nothing like so sure of aim as a spear. I used to take 
 one of the old weapons from the hall, a halbert with a 
 jagged feather-like barb. I was partial to this weapon, 
 because, if the head went in far enough, the seal could not 
 slip away ; the barb held it. Well, as I came shooting 
 round that headland yonder, I was close on the Watcher, 
 which is a shelf of rock leaning with the rough broken edge 
 landwards, and sloping towards the sea. It is only covered 
 in a heavy sea. David and I could not see the Watcher 
 till we were close upon it, and then, there I saw Red 
 Featherstone seated on the sloping shelf priming his pistols. 
 He had on his oilskin coat and oilskin leggings and long 
 boots, and shone in the sun like a porpoise. You couldn't 
 see a scrap of red about him. If he had his scarlet waist- 
 coat on, it was buttoned over. But wait ! you shall hear.' 
 The old man chuckled. ' I didn't see all his waistcoat that 
 day, but I saw some of it, as you shall hear. 5 
 
 He paused, wiped his brow with his sleeve, and went on. 
 ' When Featherstone saw me he sprang to his feet and 
 swore, and Tregellas stayed his oars — he was that struck with 
 astonishment he didn't know what to do. Then Feather- 
 stone shouted to me that now God or the Devil had brought 
 us face to face, and we would have it out, and settle, that 
 hour, who should have Lydia — that's your mother. He 
 held a pistol in each hand : one was a great brass-mounted 
 horse-pistol, and the other was quite a toy tool, silver 
 mounted. He held the horse-pistol in his right and the 
 other in his left. I had no other arms with me but the old 
 halbert ; but I was not afraid. Afraid ! ' The old man 
 laughed. ' I afraid ! I snorted like a walrus, and called 
 to David to pull up to the rock. I stood up in the boat 
 and held the spear above my head ready to cast ; but 
 Featherstone was beforehand with me, and he fired the 
 horse-pistol. He missed, for the boat was rocking, but the 
 bullet whizzed past my head, and before ever he could 
 discharge the second at me I flung the speai% and it went 
 through the air straight as a cormorant after a fish, and 
 
44 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 struck him in the chest and went right through. I saw 
 the end poking out behind, thrusting out his oilskin. That 
 was a grand fling, that was, and I flung with such force 
 that I levered the boat away and she shot back under my 
 feet and brought me down. That was well for me, as at 
 the same moment the second pistol went oft* — and they say 
 Featherstone was a better aim with his left hand than with 
 his right. When I picked myself up, I saw Featherstone 
 wrenching at the shaft of spear to lug it out of him, but he 
 could not, for, as I told you, it was barbed ; then it was that 
 I saw some of the red waistcoat, for as he pulled at the spear he 
 pulled the frayed, ragged edges of the red cloth out through 
 the hole in the oilskin where the spear had entered. He could 
 do nothing with it, and he grasped his silver-mounted pistol 
 again, and tried to load it and prime it ; but it was all no 
 use — down he fell, and as he fell he threatened me with his 
 little pistol, but couldn't hurt me, it was unloaded. Just 
 then a black boat shot out from the bay : Featherstone's 
 men were in it. They had been to the Kitchen with stores, 
 and they heard the shot and hurried to their oars, and came 
 after me. David and I made off then as best we might. 
 Well, I was somewhat curdled in mind after that, I allow ; 
 but it was a fair fight. Nay, it was fair on my side and 
 unfair on his, for a halbert was no match for two pistols. 
 Red Featherstone had been outlawed for his malpractices, 
 so no harm could come to me for having spiked him.' 
 
 ' What countryman was he 1 ' asked Constantine. 
 
 c Featherstone ? He was of these parts, and yet he was 
 not. That is to say, his family lived somewhere up the 
 coast just over the border in Devon. The family is respect- 
 able enough ; and I reckon Red Featherstone took to roving 
 more for sport than for what it brought him. He was a 
 wild, wicked, restless spirit. I don't fancy the taste con- 
 tinued in the family. I've heard nothing of them ever 
 since. Indeed, I do not know if the race still exists.' 
 
 ' Was no inquiry made after his death 1 ' 
 
 1 No,' answered old Gaverock. ' He had been outlawed 
 for his misdeeds. I will say that for Featherstone, he 
 never stole anything from the people on this coast ; but he 
 was not so particular elsewhere, and I've heard he com- 
 mitted all sorts of depredations on the coasts of Ireland 
 and Wales, and South Devon and Dorset, besides what he 
 
RED FEATHERSTONE. 45 
 
 did in France. No, nothing was ever done about his 
 death. The news got all over the country that I had spiked 
 him, and some one said it was a good job and others did 
 not think so. And some again said that the last of Feather- 
 stone had not been seen.' 
 
 ' If the man was dead,' said Constantine, ' of course the 
 last of him had been seen.' 
 
 ' Luff ! Look out for your head. I don't know but 
 that I'll tell you the reason why I say this. About a year 
 after I had killed Featherstone, I was out on a dark night, 
 and the summer lightning was flashing in the sky. Well, 
 I had vaj eye on the lighthouse of Trevose. The light was 
 steady enough, but what was queer to me was that every 
 now and then something dark came between me and it, and 
 when it did I heard a click and saw some sparks. I couldn't 
 make it out at all till a flash came out of the West, and, 
 then, for an instant, I saw a black boat shoot past me, and 
 in it stood Featherstone with the pistol in his left hand, 
 and he clicked the trigger, and the flint flashed sparks, but 
 the pistol would not go off. Ever since then I hear con- 
 stantly the click of the pistol and see the sparks fly out, 
 but I laugh at Featherstone. He can do nothing to me. 
 The pistol must be in mortal hands to be loaded and primed 
 to do me or mine any hurt. Then, again, one day I was in 
 my boat after seals. Tregellas wasn't with me, I was 
 alone, and I rowed into one of the caves near the Watcher. 
 I got a long way in, but the seals were not there ; at last I 
 turned to come back, and as I did so, I saw a dark figure 
 in the mouth of the cave, dressed in an oilskin long coat 
 and high boots, standing, I fancied, on a rock that stood 
 out of the water, and yet I knew there was no rock there, 
 and he turned about, and I saw something like a hump on 
 the back. I had a lantern in the bottom of the boat and I 
 held it up, and then I had a good look forward, and I saw 
 a pair of flashing eyes and white teeth. The shining sea 
 was behind him, and he seemed to go up and down on the 
 waves that rolled in, so then I knew he did not stand on a 
 rock. He was busy with his pistol and snapped it, and the 
 sparks flew out. Then I laughed so loud that the cave 
 rang with the roar of my voice, and I cried, " No good ! no 
 good, Featherstone ! you can't hurt me till mortal hand has 
 hold of that pistol." I've not seen him since.' 
 
46 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 ' But how did you get out of the seal cave, father ? 
 
 ' I rowed right forward and right through him.' 
 
 ' How do you mean 1 ' 
 
 ' I was not afraid. I dipped my oars and went towards 
 the entrance, and I looked over my shoulder and saw him 
 still there, and I struck where he stood with the prow, and 
 then I saw sparks flying all about me ; and, what was most 
 curious of all, a spotted dog all at once appeared, and ran 
 from the bows to the stern past me and leaped into the 
 water again, and I saw it no more.' 
 
 ' Dog ! What dog can that have been 1 ' 
 
 1 Featherstone's dog. He always had such a dog. "When 
 I spiked him, the dog stood on the Watcher barking at me. 
 He kept barking as I rowed away. Now look out, Con ! 
 Mind yourself ! There is the Watcher. That was the 
 last I saw of Featherstone — last but once, and that was in 
 a dream the same night. I reckon I was a bit flurried and 
 fanciful with what had happened, and I thought at night I 
 saw Featherstone standing by my bedside and leaning over 
 me. I saw the red threads of the waistcoat sticking out 
 through the oilcloth coat where the staff of the spear had 
 made a hole, and there ran out, drop by drop, some blood. 
 Tick, tick, tick ! — I heard my watch go — then a drop. 
 Tick, tick, tick ! — then another drop. Featherstone's eyes 
 seemed to glare into mine and through my head, and he said 
 " You I cannot, but yours." Then tick, tick, tick ! — another 
 drop — and he had vanished. Now, the curious thing is that 
 when I woke in the morning, I saw three — just three drops 
 of blood on my sheet : so he had been with me just nine 
 seconds. Since then I have not been threatened by him. 
 W'hat he meant when he said " Not you, but yours," is more 
 than I can make out. However, I'm glad I'm rid of him. 
 I know very well he could do me no harm. But he was a 
 nuisance — yes, he was a nuisance.' 
 
 The old man paused a moment, then laughed and 
 said : 
 
 ' After all I do not care. Let him come again if he 
 will. Let him try his worst. He can do nothing. Keep 
 a good heart, and renounce the devil and all his works, and 
 no Featherstone can hurt me nor mine. Look at the 
 Watcher ! Here we ai'e, Con, running into the bay where 
 many a keg has been unshipped for Featherstone's Kitchen.' 
 
RED FEATHERSTONE. 47 
 
 The little vessel had her prow turned into a small bay- 
 surrounded by sand-hills, and with a good beach in the lap. 
 Here the rocks were of yellow clay-slate in thin layers : 
 very friable and of inferior height. The ' Mermaid ' ran 
 ashore, and Gaverock and his son leaped out on the sand. 
 
 ' Bide with her, Tregellas ! ' shouted the old Squire ; 
 then turning to his son, he said, ' Con, where are the stone 
 jars ? Sling them over your shoulders and carry them after 
 me to the Kitchen.' 
 
 ' Don't y' be away long, now, maister,' said David Tre- 
 gellas. ' Cast yonr eye to wind'ard ; there's a gale in thicky 
 (yonder) black beam, and us'll have to tack terrible to get 
 home.' 
 
 ' I see as well as you that wind is coming,' answered 
 Gaverock. 'With bread and cheese and two jars of rum 
 we shan't suffer even if we reach home late and with wet 
 skins. I like the smell of a gale. Follow me, Con ! ' 
 
 Then the old man strode up the shore, and in a 
 few minutes reached a miserable low cottage that cowered 
 under a sand-hill thickly overgrown with coarse grass. A 
 few tamarisks, with their pale pink flowers now blooming, 
 grew beside the cottage on a wall that held back the sand 
 from overflowing and burying the entrance. 
 
 The cottage was one story high, thatched with reed, 
 built of the yellow stone dug out of the rock which the 
 sand covered. It had a single window — very small — and 
 a low door. Outside the door, on a bench, knitting a 
 stocking, sat a woman with tanned face and coarse grey 
 hair that blew about her head. She looked up as Gaverock 
 approached and nodded. 
 
 ' We have come for a supply, Gwen,' said the old man. 
 
 'You'm come right enough, Squire,' answered she, 'but 
 you'm none going home 'zacklie as you came.' Then she 
 pointed with one of her knitting-pins at the sky. 
 
 'Well, Gwen, I don't object to a capful of wind and the 
 backs of the white horses.' 
 
 ' Better return by land, Squire. The white horses are 
 going mad to-night, and may kick you out of your saddle.' 
 
 ' By land ! Not I, Gwen, when I have the " Mermaid " 
 to carry me. Be quick, fill me the jars.' 
 
 She took the stone bottles without another word and 
 went indoors. She was absent for some time. Gaverock 
 
48 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 stood and looked at the sea. The day was rapidly changing. 
 The wind sobbed among the sea grass, and tossed the tama- 
 risks as if trying to tear them up. It carried the sand in 
 little puffs into Gaverock's face. A haze had overspread 
 the sky, and the sun was shorn of its brightness. Rays of 
 vapour struck across the vault of heaven, radiating from 
 the west, straight as sun rays, but dark ; a mass of white 
 curd-like cloud was drifting below the upper canopy. The 
 sea on the horizon was like indigo, near land it was the 
 colour of olive. 
 
 ' There is no time to be lost. We shall have a rough 
 passage back to Towan,' said the old man. 
 
 'Leave the "Mermaid" here,' advised the woman, coming 
 out with the bottles. ' Stay the night in this place. There 
 be plenty of room, though the house don't look to have ac- 
 commodation ; and when the storm be overpast, go home in 
 the morning. Or, if you prefer, go back by land.' 
 
 ' No, no,' answered Gaverock. ' I said I'd be home in 
 the " Mermaid " ; and as I came so I return, and that — to- 
 night.' 
 
 ' Ah, Squire,' said the woman, ' you always was as un- 
 turnable as a rusty jack.' 
 
 ' Take up the rum, Con ! ' ordered the old man. 
 
 ' Here is the money for you, Gwen.' 
 
 Then he and his son went back to the boat, the latter 
 laden with the jars of rum. 
 
 ' I was not born to be drowned,' said Hender Gaverock 
 as he slung himself on board, in reply to a question of 
 Tregellas whether he would risk running into the storm. 
 ' Con, take charge of the bottles ; don't let them be washed 
 overboard. Mind, as soon as we catch the gale we shall 
 have to reef. We must keep up some sail, as we have to 
 tack to get home, but we shall have to reef pretty short if 
 the wind be violent.' 
 
 1 We shan't pass the Watcher without reefing,' said 
 David. 
 
 ' You tend the jib,' said old Gaverock. He looked up 
 again at the sky. The sun was behind the vapour, that 
 was like the garment of Deianira, through the rents of 
 which fire and venom were spurting. He untied his red 
 kerchief from his throat, and fastened it over his rough 
 
RED FEATHERSTONE. 49 
 
 shock of hair. That was the Squire's confession that he 
 recognised the gravity of the storm he was about to face. 
 
 ' David/ said he, ' we shall have a dirty night.' 
 
 ' Dirt, sir, ain't the word for it. Say " offal " (awful).' 
 
 ' David, if the wind shifts a point north, we shall do. 
 We shall make a quick run after all, and be back at Towan 
 to-night.' 
 
 ' The night is falling already,' said Constantine. 
 
 ' You mistake cloud for night, boy,' shouted the Squire. 
 
 ' We had better not risk it,' urged the young man. 
 
 ' To which I say Amen,' said Tregellas. 
 
 ' What ! afraid of a wetting as of a spill 1 ' laughed 
 Gaverock ; and the ' Mermaid ' shot out, as David, who 
 had shoved her off, leaped on board and went forward. 
 
 Hender Gaverock had no fear. He was constitutionally 
 incapable of fear ; always in a fume with excess of energy, 
 ever sanguine, delighting in peril, as hardy as any pilot, he 
 despised the caution of Tregellas and the fear of Constan- 
 tine. He knew his boat and could manage her as he 
 could manage his horse. She obeyed every turn of his 
 wrist with docility. Her timbers were sound. He knew 
 what he had to do. He must tack to windward into the 
 eye of the gale for a sufficient distance, and then reach 
 away to Sandymouth, past Cardue. In Sandymouth was 
 his harbour. 
 
 So long as he could keep up sufficient canvas there 
 was no danger, but the gale, if it greatly increased, would 
 not allow him to carry much sail. He must, moreover, 
 beat outward the proper distance, or he would be swept in 
 on cliffs where his boat would go to pieces like match- 
 wood. 
 
 As the ' Mermaid ' leaped into the open sea beyond the 
 Watcher, which was now enveloped in boiling foam, the 
 wind came down on her, together with a heavy sea. A 
 shadow like night — or like a presentiment of great disaster 
 —fell over the boat. 
 
 ' Reef away ! ' shouted Gaverock. ' David ! ' 
 
 ' A ye, aye, sir.' 
 
 ' What boat is that to starboard 1 Can you make her 
 out 1 ' 
 
 After a pause, Tregellas replied, ' Don't know her at 
 
 E 
 
50 THE GAVEEOCKS. 
 
 all, maister. Her looks a'most like the living black 
 shadow of the " Mermaid." ' 
 
 ' By Heaven ! ' shouted Gaverock, almost springing to 
 his feet, but not relaxing his grasp on the tiller, ' I'm 
 damned if that be not Red Featherstone's boat ! I know 
 her cut. I've not clapt eyes on her these thirty years, but 
 I know her again. What has brought her out to-night ? 
 I said I'd be glad to race the " Mermaid " against her, and 
 though she be the devil's own boat, and sail in the devil's 
 own weather — golly ! I'll race her ! ' 1 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A RACE FOR LIFE. 
 
 'Hold the sheet, Con,' ordered Hender Gaverock, 'and 
 throw yourself to wind'ard as ballast. Whatever you do, 
 but one turn round the cleet. Many a score of boats have 
 been lost by a double turn.' 
 
 The wind rose to a hurricane, the waves piled themselves 
 up, and their foaming crests broke against each other. The 
 day was declining, but the dense clouds made it dark 
 before its time. All colour was gone out of the sea. 
 
 Now the little ' Mermaid ' proved how good a vessel 
 she was ; she skimmed the waves like a seabird, she danced 
 on their crests like the mermaid that she was. A grim 
 smile lighted the face of old Gaverock. He was proud of 
 his boat, and happy to be able to prove her powers. She 
 was scantily provided with ballast for such a gale — only 
 with Constantine, laden with the stone jars. 
 
 ' Have the bottles with you, lad. Take them over 
 from side to side,' said his father. ' We must keep on all 
 sail we can.' 
 
 For some time he saw no more of the mysterious boat, 
 but as he tacked he again obtained a glimpse of her ; she 
 also, like the ' Mermaid,' was standing out to sea. The 
 
 1 I have worked into this and the following chapter a tradition of the 
 North Cornish coast akin to that of the Flying Dutchman, which is found 
 in various forms alone; the coast from Land's End to Orkney and, indeed, 
 in Faroe, Norway and Denmark. 
 
A EACE FOR LIFE. 51 
 
 little cutter leaned over with the force of the wind, the 
 water rushed up before her bows and at times swept her 
 deck. 
 
 For a moment the sunlight flared out a parting ray 
 from the west, and, as the ' Mermaid ' swung up a great 
 billow, the three men saw, to port, the strange boat, as if 
 made of red-hot metal, glowing, glaring, the sail a sheet of 
 flame, the men on board as men of fire. 
 
 This was only for a moment. Then the black cloud 
 descended on the sea, and night fell ; but still for a while 
 in the west a bloody streak marked the division between sea 
 and sky. Rain began to fall heavily, driving before the 
 wind, drops that struck as hard as hail • it fell so thick 
 that it cut off all sight of the land and of the horizon. 
 
 The sea rose higher. The gale lashed at the sea, like a 
 savage groom lashing a horse into a frenzy of fear and fury. 
 The wind shrieked in the rigging, the water hissed and 
 gulped about the boat, the whole air was ful] of roar, in 
 which, now and again, came the thunder and crash of a 
 plunging billow distinct from the general noise. Already 
 had they been swept by two or three seas, and were 
 drenched to the skin. The water foamed over old Tregellas, 
 who sat forward, and, pouring over the deck, rushed out 
 behind over the Squire. The other boat was near them — 
 so near that they could have hailed one another had they 
 been so minded. Another reef ought to have been taken 
 in, but Gaverock did not like to confess himself beaten in a 
 race — which was a race for life. 
 
 Presently, however, when a furious blast sent them over 
 so that the water wet half the sail, he was constrained to 
 take in the second reef, and then, next time he caught 
 sight of the phantom boat, he saw that those on board her 
 had done the same. 
 
 ' Rum, Con ! rum ! ' shouted Gaverock, and passed the 
 tin cup to his son, who removed the cork from one of the 
 jars, poured out with shaking hand, and passed a jorum to 
 his father, then drank himself, and finally handed the can 
 to Tregellas. The spirit was needed ; the three men were 
 numb with cold, and wet to the bone. 
 
 When the rushing rain held up, the light on Trevose 
 Head was visible ; but Gaverock saw that it was now 
 impossible for him to make Sandymouth that night. The 
 
52 THE GAVEKOCKS. 
 
 wind was on shore and he must run out to sea, and keep 
 well out till break of day. This could only be done by 
 constant tacking. He did not tell Constantine or David. 
 There was no need for him to do so ; both knew it as well 
 as he. Unless he could work • out to open sea, the wind 
 would carry him ashore between the horns of Hartland and 
 Trevose. If he could manage to run under Lundy, he could 
 lie there all night, ready for return next day. Fortunately 
 the gale was not from the north-west, nor was it due west, 
 but with a point or two to the south-west. 
 
 The phosphorescent light on the black billows seemed 
 to the Squire to break into lambent flame about the 
 mysterious boat that shot by out of darkness and into 
 darkness again at intervals. By this light he thought he 
 could distinguish the men on board, with their sou'-westers 
 on their heads ; but as they were all to windward, and the 
 boat heeled over steeply, he could see no faces. Their 
 backs were towards him, but he fancied that he saw the 
 man at the helm with a spot of red glimmering through his 
 dark coat and drops of fire falling from it. That may have 
 been fancy only. In the uncertain light, with the irregular 
 motion of the boats, with glimpses caught casually between 
 boiling seas, in the excited, strained condition of his mind, 
 Gaverock was liable to be deceived. 
 
 Not for a moment did the old man's heart fail him. His 
 spirits rose to the occasion. He had expressed a wish to 
 race Featherstone's cutter. Featherstone had taken him 
 at his word ; the phantom ship was there, come at his 
 challenge, at one moment fiery, as if the dead man and his 
 boat had sprung to the challenge from the flames of Tartarus, 
 black for the most part, as though drawn from the blackest 
 abyss of hell. 
 
 Presently he saw a mighty wall of water, as of ink, 
 rolling on, with the blear light of the squally western sky 
 behind it, showing its ragged tossing, threatening crown, 
 sharply cut against the light. Gaverock prepared to meet 
 it, with firm grasp of the helm and set teeth. For a 
 moment it seemed as though the ' Mermaid ' were about to 
 cleave it — only for a moment, and then she swung up, all 
 her planks straining, as making a desperate effort ; then a 
 rush of whirling foam swept the deck and streamed out of 
 the lee scuppers, as the boat lay over alvuost on her side. 
 
A RACE FOR LIFE. 53 
 
 For a moment she staggered, as though hesitating what to 
 do next, righted herself, and then went headlong down into 
 the sea-trough, as though diving like a cormorant after a 
 fish ; and the walls of black water stood about her, enclosing 
 her as the waves of the Red Sea above the chariots of 
 Pharaoh. 
 
 Whilst this happened, Gaverock fancied he heard a 
 shout from the phantom boat, which he could not see, 
 hidden behind the liquid mounds. Was it a cry of mockery, 
 or was it a threat ? He waited till the ' Mermaid ' had 
 mounted a roller, and then he replied with a roar of 
 defiance. 
 
 It was no longer possible to carry so much sail, and he 
 reefed again — but with reluctance. The fury of the storm 
 seemed to grow. He dared not reef further, lest he should 
 lose all command over the boat. 
 
 The spray cut and cross-cut the old Squire's face, as 
 though he were being lashed with a horse-whip. The water 
 poured off his shaggy eyebrows, blinding him. He dared 
 not let go his hold of the tiller even with one hand to wipe 
 his face, and he bent his head, and smeared the brine and 
 rain away on his sleeve. 
 
 The rum was called for, and passed frequently. Con- 
 stantine suffered more than his father. His hands were 
 numb and shook with cold. He was less accustomed to 
 exposure than Hender Gaverock and David Tregellas. For a 
 twelvemonth, at least, he had not been to sea. He was 
 angry and bitter at heart with his father for exposing him 
 to discomfort and danger. He firmly resolved never to go 
 out with the old man again. It would be best for him to 
 keep away altogether from home, where he was tripped up, 
 mocked, thrust into peril of his Life by the inconsiderate, 
 self-willed old man. Now he was afraid of losing the jars 
 of spirits ; afraid of a wave washing them away. Therefore 
 he took off his kerchief and tied the handles together with 
 it. They were already bound together with a piece of cord ; 
 that cord he passed behind his back, and the kerchief by 
 this means crossed his breast, holding a jar in place under 
 each arm. Thus, when he passed from port to starboard 
 he carried them without inconvenience. That was his first 
 idea in thus attaching them about him, but his second -was 
 
54 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 that they might form a protection for himself in the event 
 of his being washed overboard or of the vessel foundering. 
 
 Featherstone's boat — or that which Gaverock took for 
 it — had been unseen for some while. All at once it shot 
 by. Then the old Squire thought he could distinguish the 
 faces of the men on board, lit by the upward flare of the 
 phosphorescent foam. They were white as the faces of the 
 dead. Not a word was spoken as they went by, though the 
 wind lulled for a minute. 
 
 The lull was but for a minute. A little way ahead 
 through the darkness loomed on them a mountain of water, 
 with a curling, hoary, spluttering fringe on its head. Gave- 
 rock steered direct at the billow, and the sail was eased as 
 much as possible to help the little ' Mermaid ' over the 
 watery heap. The wave came on as if on wheels, rushed 
 down on them, shivering into specks of foam in all parts, 
 on its side, as sparks blink out here and there in tinder ; 
 with a roar and a blow, it engulfed the vessel and her crew. 
 For a moment the ' Mermaid ' lay on her lee side, as about 
 to heel over, then gathered herself together and righted 
 once more. Gaverock heard a cry from the water. Tregellas 
 was overboard. 
 
 ' Goodbye to you, David ! ' cried the old Squire, and said 
 no more. Help was not to be thought of. Then he im- 
 agined that he heard a loud triumphant shout come to him 
 over the water. He could not see Featherstone's boat, but 
 the sound came — or he fancied it came — from the quarter 
 where she must be. Constantine was now alone in the ves- 
 sel with his father. They had to manage her between 
 them. The old man could not leave the tiller. He held it 
 with iron hand, though numbed with the cold, and with the 
 fingers stiff, without feeling, and contracted. Soon aftei-, 
 again he caught a glimpse, but only a glimpse, of the 
 phantom boat. The clouds had parted momentarily before 
 the crescent moon, and a ray had touched this mysterious 
 vessel. For an instant, an instant only, it shone out 
 against the night and storm, ghost-like, as if cut out of 
 white paper and stuck against the soot-black background. 
 Gaverock's pulses smote his ribs like hammers. He was 
 very angry. Featherstone, the Rover, had revisited the 
 world and the scene of his exploits, to have his revenge 
 on the race that had compassed his murder. He was 
 
A KACE FOR LIFE. 55 
 
 following the ' Mermaid,' to watch and track to death the 
 man and the son of the man who had killed him. Gaverock 
 looked about for, and with his hand groped after Constan- 
 tine's gun. A foolish desire for revenge came over him. 
 He would have liked, next time the strange boat appeared, 
 to discharge the gun at the helmsman. But he abandoned 
 the idea almost as soon as it was formed. He dare not 
 desert the tiller, and the gun was doubtless rendered useless 
 by the water. 
 
 As the night wore on, Gaverock lost all sense of time. 
 Hour after hour had passed, but the night became no 
 darker ; the storm, if it did not abate, grew no worse. 
 Sometimes the clouds aloft were torn apart, and the Squire 
 could look up at the stars and see tattered fragments of 
 vapour being whirled across the gap, which then closed 
 again. At times driving storms of rain came on, and when 
 rain did not fall the air was full of spondrift. 
 
 Gaverock guessed pretty well where he was, and he 
 altered somewhat the course of his boat. He was now, 
 according to his reckoning, driving towards the Channel. 
 He could see Lundy light at intervals, far away to leeward, 
 but he had lost sight of that on Trevose Head. 
 
 Gaverock's heart did not fail him, but he was less con- 
 fident than he had been of reaching home alive. He took 
 the peril without much concern ; it was what must be 
 expected by those who went out boating in dirty weather. 
 If he were drowned, well — it could not be helped. All 
 must die. But he was vexed that he had not been able to 
 keep his word, and run home to Towan in spite of the 
 gale. Strange to say, the feeling that prevailed in him, and 
 nerved him to battle with the tempest, was rage against 
 Featherstone. He had dared Featherstone to race him, and 
 Featherstone he saw would beat him, and be able to exult 
 over the wreck of the ' Mermaid.' Not a thought did he 
 give to his wife, to Gera.ns, to Rose ; his one absorbing 
 consideration was — how to disappoint Featherstone ; his 
 one consuming ambition was — to come off with life and 
 with an unwrecked boat, not for his own sake, but to defeat 
 and disappoint Featherstone. 
 
 Between three and four in the morning, as the dawn 
 was beginning to lighten, Gaverock saw again a mountain 
 of foam before him, so white, so broken, that he feared he 
 
56 THE GAVEKOCKS. 
 
 was fallen among the breakers ; next moment he recognised 
 his mistake. No rocks were there, no sandbank. What 
 he saw was a mountain of seething foam, the clash and 
 churn of angry waves that had beaten against each other 
 in a cross sea, and had resolved themselves into a heap of 
 milky brine, that worked and hissed throughout its sub- 
 stance and over its face. The 'Mermaid' went in, and for 
 a moment or two Gaverock and his son were holding their 
 breath, submerged in sea-water. When the 'Mermaid' 
 came out, she lay keel uppermost, and the old man and 
 Constantine were clinging to her tackling and floating in 
 the sea. Gaverock was prepared for this. He had not 
 lost his presence of mind. He hacked through the shrouds 
 on the side, so as to allow the mast to float, instead of 
 working underneath her. Then, using great exertion, he 
 scrambled upon the keel, and Constantine did the same. 
 
 There they sat, in cold and wet, gripping the bottom of 
 the boat with hands and knees, covered every few minutes 
 with the waves. 
 
 Constantine found that his powers were failing. He 
 could hold on but very little longer. There was only just 
 sufficient light for them to know that the night was chang- 
 ing to clay. Constantine pulled the corks out of the jars, 
 one after the other, and poured foi'th their contents, then 
 he corked them tightly again. Would it not be well for 
 him to pass one of the jars to his father 1 To do that, he 
 must unknot both his kerchief and the cord, and his hands 
 were too numb for this. Besides, it was doubtful whether 
 a single jar would suffice to float a man. He looked at his 
 father. The old man had strength and endurance in him 
 yet, and Constantine had neither. Besides, the father had 
 run him into this great peril, not he the father. In com- 
 mon justice, therefore, the risk should fall heaviest on the 
 old man. 
 
 ' Father ! ' he called, ' I can hold on no longer.' 
 ' Then let go. I'll give your respects to mother.' 
 At that moment a great roller swept over both. As 
 the boat came out, Gaverock saw the strange vessel, with 
 the dark figures in it, shoot by. Then he looked along the 
 keel — Constantine was gone. 
 
 The old man's heart beat, not with sorrow for his son, 
 nor with fear for himself, but with anger that Featherstone 
 
A RACE FOE LIFE. 57 
 
 should have witnessed, and be exulting over, the loss of his 
 servant and his son. 
 
 ' I will not drown. Golly ! I'll spoil his sport yet,' 
 shouted Gaverock ; and he took the great knife wherewith 
 he had cut through the cordage, and with it he worked 
 holes between the wood and the lead of the keel, into 
 which he could fit his fingers, dead and frozen though they 
 were, but still with the cling in them, set as claws. 
 
 Gaverock could no longer sit up ; he lay his length on 
 the keel, with his red face on one side, and the crimson 
 kerchief dripping, hanging loose round his neck — it had 
 been washed off his head — draggling behind him. 
 
 The day was lightening. Gulls laughed and fluttered 
 over the wreck, then plunged and shook their wings about 
 the clinging man, regardless of him, knowing his inability 
 to injure them. The wind was certainly abating, but the 
 waves still tumbled, and bounded, and shook themselves 
 into froth, and filled his ears with a sound as of a roar out 
 of infinite space, a roar that would never end, a roar in- 
 articulate and all-pervading. And a sense came over him 
 of cold and weai'iness — of cold that no heat could ever 
 thaw, but which was so cold as to chill and put out all fire 
 — of weariness that would never grow less, and that no 
 rest would ever refresh, but which also would continue the 
 same, never becoming more acute, a dead weariness, with a 
 thread of eternity penetrating through it. But withal, in 
 spite of cold and weariness and noise, his will never failed 
 — that remained unflagging, nervous, iron. Overhead, 
 pink flashes appeared among the clouds, like the flowers of 
 tamarisks scattered about the sky. His eyes saw neither 
 the colour nor the light. He had no power to observe 
 anything, he had no thought for anything, no wish but one. 
 ' Featherstone ! Featherstone ! I'm not done yet, and I 
 won't give way.' 
 
 Then indistinctly, out of another world, he heard voices, 
 then he became conscious of something not cold and 
 watery touching him. Gradually he came out of his far-off 
 realm of cold and weariness and numbness to the meeting- 
 place of a world of warmth and action and life. He heard 
 human voices, he felt himself caught by hands. But he 
 clung the more fiercely, tenaciously, to the keel. For a 
 
58 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 moment his senses went, then came again, brought back by 
 the force of his dominant will. 
 
 The ' Mermaid ' was washed ashore in Bude Haven, and 
 he was in the arms of living men. 
 
 He looked round, and saw sand-hills. He tried to cry 
 out triumphantly, ' Featherstone ! not beaten ! ' but his 
 voice and his consciousness failed him. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 
 
 Ox the third day after his interview with Constantine in 
 the Iron Gate, Dennis Penhalligan walked up the coomb 
 and over the bill to Towan. He had heard that Gaverock 
 and his younger son had gone to sea in the ' Mermaid ' on 
 the morning of the storm and had not returned. His 
 sister was white, red-eyed, and trembling with excitement 
 and fear. She entreated him to get the last news for her, 
 and relieve her alarm or confirm her worst anticipations. 
 
 On reaching Towan he saw a shaggy horse in broken 
 harness patched with rope and string attached to a gig 
 with torn splashboard, and wheels without paint on the 
 tires and paintless half way up the spokes, standing before 
 the door, with a rough boy, almost as wild as the horse, and 
 in clothes as torn and rudely mended as the harness, seated 
 in the gig, nicking the horse with the whip for diversion, 
 without allowing him to leave the door. 
 
 Dennis went by into the hall. There he saw Gerans, 
 who held out his hand to him without speaking. 
 
 The doctor heard a sound from the adjoining parlour 
 like the Availing of the wind, then words followed, which he 
 could not hear, though he knew the voice to be that of 
 Rose, and then again a fresh burst of wails. Gerans held 
 his face averted. 
 
 ' Look at that, Dennis,' he said, pointing to a letter on 
 the table. ' Poor Con is lost.' 
 
 Dennis took up the letter and read it. It was in the 
 scrawling hand of the Squire : — 
 
 ' Gerans, — I've sent a boy with a trap for you from 
 
THE SHADOW OP DEATH. 59 
 
 Bude ; he is to change horses at Camelforcl. You are to 
 come back with him, and bring along with you two fresh 
 jars, empty, for rum. The others are lost. I'll fill them on 
 my way home. Very sorry to say that Tregellas and Con 
 were drowned, poor fellows, but the " Mermaid " is all 
 right — came ashore into Bude Haven, keel up, and I as- 
 tride thereon ; so the "Mermaid" was no derelict, and, I'm 
 thankful to add, no wreck neither. Very little wants do- 
 ing to her, and you and I will bring her back to Sandy - 
 mouth. By the time you are here I reckon she'll be ready 
 for sea again. So am I. Sorry, terribly sorry, about Con. 
 Tell your mother not to be a fool, and cheer up.' 
 
 Dennis laid the letter on the table. 
 
 ' This is all : you know no more 1 ' 
 
 ' Nothing but what the boy has told us. My father 
 came into Bude Harbour yesterday morning on the " Mer- 
 maid " clinging to the keel, unconscious, or nearly so, and 
 
 poor Con ' Gerans' voice broke down, and he went to 
 
 the window and leaned his elbows on it, looking out, and 
 putting his hand to his eyes, and pretended that something 
 was tickling them. 
 
 ' Poor Con,' he said, after a while, ' was washed off far 
 out to sea. He told father he could hold on no longer — he 
 was overcome with cold and exhaustion. Tregellas had 
 been carried off the deck earlier. My mother ! — my poor 
 mother ! ' 
 
 Dennis respected his sorrow, and was silent for some 
 time. At last he said, in a low tone : 
 
 ' I am very grieved for your mother and you — very. 
 You have my warmest sympathy. You are going to Bude 
 now, I suppose 1 ' 
 
 Gerans nodded. 
 
 ' I want to know one thing before you leave. Did your 
 brother say anything particular to you or your father before 
 starting on this disastrous expedition 1 ' 
 
 ' Say anything ! What do you mean ? He said " Good- 
 bye " — nothing more. He had no idea that the cruise 
 would be dangerous.' 
 
 'I do not mean that — I mean about Loveday.' 
 
 1 About Loveday ! ' repeated Gerans with unfeigned 
 surprise. ' No ; what had he to say 1 ' 
 
 ' I must tell you now, Gerans. If this had not hap- 
 
60 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 pened, you would have heard it from his own lips before 
 to-day. I had his promise to reveal it.' 
 
 Young Gaverock turned and looked at him with a 
 puzzled expression. 
 
 'It can be nothing of consequence, now, Dennis,' he 
 said. ' You can tell me some other time. I must be off to 
 Bude to meet my father.' 
 
 ' No, Gerans. I should wish you to know all at once, 
 before you see him. You are regretting the loss of a 
 brother — I of a brother-in-law.' 
 
 The young Squire stared stupidly in Dennis's face. He 
 could not take in the meaning of his words. 
 
 ' Do you not understand me 1 ' said the surgeon. ' Con- 
 stantine had married my sister.' 
 
 ' Nonsense ! ' Gerans blurted forth. ' You are dreaming.' 
 
 ' It is true. When Loveday was in Exeter, last spring, 
 Constantine wrongly persuaded her, and she weakly allowed 
 herself to be persuaded. They were married, but I did not 
 know it till three days ago.' 
 
 • Impossible ! My father was not asked.' 
 
 ' No ; your father was not consulted, nor was I. The 
 thing was done secretly. Your brother acted in a most 
 dishonourable ' 
 
 ' He is dead,' said Gerans, holding up his hand. 
 
 ' True ; but when I think of this my blood boils. No 
 one's consent was asked. They were married, and parted. 
 She returned to me ; he remained at Exeter. Months 
 passed, and the secret did not leak out, though I suspected 
 something was being kept from me. I read it in Loveday's 
 face. I saw it lurking in her once so honest eyes. I taxed 
 her with concealment, but she Avould confess nothing till 
 the return of Constantine. Then all came out.' 
 
 < When 1 ' 
 
 ' When ! Why, in Porth-Ierne.' 
 
 Gerans said no more. He looked clown, greatly troubled. 
 
 ' Now,' Penhalligan went on, ' I ask whether Constan- 
 tine had told your father before he started on this unhappy 
 sail V 
 
 1 1 am sure he did not. My father would have been so 
 disconcerted, he would have spoken about it to every one. 
 My father gives utterance before all the world to whatever 
 passes through his mind.' 
 
THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 61 
 
 ' You will ascertain, when you see the Squire, whether 
 he was told this on the cruise ? ' 
 
 ' I do not think Con would tell him then, with old 
 Tregellas in the boat.' 
 
 ' Then you must tell him as you return with him.' 
 
 Gerans shook his head. ' Don't force me to do that — at 
 least, not now, Avith this trouble on us. Father will launch 
 out in angry words against — against poor Con ; and I 
 cannot bear that — not now, at least. He never cared for 
 Con as did my mother and I. Con was my brother, with 
 only a year between us, and we grew up together ; we 
 were daily companions and the best of friends. My father 
 never understood Con's superiority — he had far more brains 
 than I have. No, Dennis ; let this lie quiet for a few days. 
 It would heighten my mother's grief.' 
 
 ' It must be known speedily.' 
 
 'Why so?' 
 
 ' Because I will not have it remain hid.' 
 
 1 What good will it do 1 ' 
 
 ' It must come out,' said Dennis firmly. 
 
 Gerans sighed, and held out his hand to him. ' Well, 
 old fellow, you think of a sister — I of a brother. Of 
 course you are right, but give us time.' 
 
 Penhalligan saw Gerans drive off, and then he stood 
 hesitating. Should he go directly home and tell his sister 
 what he had heard, or should he first try to see and speak 
 to Rose ? The spell on him was too strong for him to be 
 able to break away. Being at Towan, he must have a 
 glimpse of her face. He knew that she could not be his, 
 because the happiness would be too great for such as he, 
 born under a fatal star, without a chance ; yet he could 
 not muster up the moral courage to keep away from her. 
 He craved to see her, as an opium-eater craves for the 
 drug ; but the sight of her, instead of soothing, tortured 
 him. He lingered at the door, with one foot on the step, 
 his eyes on the ground. He had a walking-stick in his 
 hand, and he scratched signs with the ferrule in the earth. 
 ' Why should I see her 1 ' he asked. ' The sight of her will 
 make me miserable. But I shall be miserable if I do not 
 see her. Why can I not tear myself away from this place 
 and go to the other end of England 1 I cannot. My sister 
 is dependent on me. All I had is sunk here and here I 
 
02 THE GAVEKOCKS. 
 
 must sink also.' He raised his dark eyes, full of threaten- 
 ing light, towards heaven, and muttered, ' Thou writest 
 bitter things against me.' 
 
 Then, at the door, appeared Rose, looking pale and 
 frightened, the laughter and light washed from her eyes, 
 but beautiful, more beautiful than ever, in her pallor. 
 
 ' Mr. Penhalligan,' she said, ' come, come quickly, and 
 see Mrs. Gaverock.' 
 
 In her eagerness she caught him by the arm, and drew 
 him after her through the hall into the little parlour 
 beyond, that opened out of it — the one room that had a 
 window with a southern aspect. Mrs. Gaverock was there, 
 crouched on the floor against the window-frame, her grey 
 hair dishevelled and falling doAvn her back. She put her 
 hand over her face and forehead and through her hair with 
 a curious mechanical motion, and with the other hand 
 pointed to the window-frame, on which were little scratches 
 and dates. 
 
 ' Con ! ' said the old woman, ' little Con ! so high. Pour 
 years old to-day. Little Con ! so high, five years old to- 
 day ! ' and she pointed to another notch or scratch. ' My 
 Con, my pretty boy, my pet, my darling, so high, six years 
 old — that is — how long ago 1 ' She put her trembling left 
 hand to her brow and shook her head, and brushed her 
 forehead, and, unable to solve the question, went on : 
 ' What a brave, pretty fellow, so tall for eight — no — where 
 was I ? I must begin again, with the first score that was 
 drawn to-day when he is three. Con ! little Con ! four 
 years, or three years 1 ' She put her hand to her head. 
 ' Help me ! which is it 1 Little Con, pretty boy, four years 
 old to-day, and so high.' She turned round, pointing, and 
 looked at Dennis. Her eyes were dazed. 
 
 ' Miss Trewhella,' said the young doctor, ' go at once 
 for assistance. You must take Mrs. Gaverock to bed and 
 she must be bled.' That was the panacea for all ills at the 
 time of which we write. ' Miss Rose, I will go home im- 
 mediately, and return with my instruments and a composing 
 draught. The shock has been too much for head and 
 heart.' 
 
 When he had seen the broken-minded and broken- 
 hearted mother taken to her room, Dennis hastened home. 
 
 At his garden gate, before he reached the house, he saw 
 
THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 63 
 
 the figure of his sister standing looking up the path expec- 
 tantly. 
 
 She was able to read nothing in his face as he came up ; 
 she took his arm, and looked questioningly into his dark 
 lowering eyes. 
 
 'Pas de chance,' he said, 'for us and for all with whom 
 we are brought in contact, evil fortune hangs over us still, 
 and blasts us. Mrs. Gaverock is ill ; I must return at once 
 to Towan and bleed her.' 
 
 Loveday's lips quivered and her eyes became dim. She 
 feared the worst. Had her brother good news he would 
 not have tantalised her. He would have communicated it 
 at once. . 
 
 'Mrs. Gaverock has had bad news, and it has crushed 
 her, mentally and physically. I doubt if she will rally from 
 it. Her heart was set on one object, and — of course,' he 
 said these words with concentrated bitterness, ' that object 
 is taken from her. Loveday, there is but one lesson life 
 teaches, care for no person and nothing. Be without a 
 noble hope, without a great ambition — be as a beast, and 
 rollick through life, and then life opens and laughs in 
 response. Demand of it anything but what is common 
 and base and you curse yourself with a career of misery.' 
 
 Loveday's quivering hand was in his, her swimming 
 eyes on his. 
 
 ' Sister,' he said, ' I have been told that the vulgar oyster 
 when born has got eyes, and a faculty of seeing through 
 them the world, and light and colour and beauty. But the 
 silt gets in and frets them away, and little by little it loses 
 its eyes, and light and colour and beauty are no more for 
 it, only a base, mud-life under water. The eyes were only 
 given it that they might be taken away, and the remem- 
 brance of light be to it a lifelong repining. Every faculty 
 we have is given us as a vehicle for suffering. Let us love, 
 desire, cling to anything, and that thing is taken from us ! 
 There ; go to your room and cry. The blight is on you. 
 Constantine is dead.' 
 
 But she did not go. She grasped his hand tighter, and 
 said, ' I have steeled my heart to hear this, Dennis. I 
 acted very wrongly and Constantine very foolishly. That 
 is over. Let the past be past. Let the whole secret remain 
 
64 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 a secret. Now it need be known to none but ourselves. I 
 can weep for him in my own chamber ; I do not care that 
 the world should know why.' 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE UNSPOKEN TONGUE. 
 
 Dennis Penhalligan and Rose Trewhella were standing 
 together in the hall by the window. The light struck in 
 on his dark face, and Rose could not fail to notice how 
 handsome it was. He had asked her to follow him down- 
 stairs from the sick-room of Mrs. Gaverock. In spite of 
 her playful and flippant manner with him, Rose stood in 
 awe of the young surgeon. To one thoughtless, without a 
 trouble, full of exuberant spirit there is something im- 
 pressive in the character of a man who is intellectual, 
 strong of purpose or in passion, and weather- buffeted and 
 braced by adversity. 
 
 ' Miss Rose,' he said, leaning his elbow on the sill of 
 the window, and crossing his feet, which he lashed with 
 his riding whip, ' I should like to send Loveday to take 
 your place beside Mrs. Gaverock.' 
 
 ' Why so ? ' asked the girl with a flush of hurt feeling, 
 and with eyebrows . lifted in surprise. ' Do not I care for 
 her to the best of my power ? ' 
 
 ' To the best of your power — yes,' answered Dennis. 
 He did not look in her face, his dark eyes were fixed on his 
 boots. ' But you have not in you that which the patient 
 requires.' 
 
 ' What is that ? ' 
 
 ' Sympathy.' 
 
 ' There you are out of your reckoning, Mr. Penhalligan; 
 I am full of love and tenderness to dear aunt. She can 
 never say of me that I neglect her.' 
 
 ' You do not neglect her,' answered Dennis, ' but you 
 do not understand what the aching heart requires. You 
 endeavour to cheer her, to interest her with descriptions of 
 this, that, and another, lively and entertaining, but unsuit- 
 able. You fret her much as she might lie fretted by a 
 pretty moth that fluttered over her face, or by the flicker of 
 
THE UNSPOKEN TONGUE. 65 
 
 shining water in her weary eyes. She does not ask to be 
 entertained, she does not want distraction. What she 
 needs is companionship cooling as evening dew, soft as 
 silver moonlight. You have never known sorrow, you 
 have had no experience of the anguish of losing that about 
 which all your heart fibres have been laced. You are 
 incapable of helping her. The will is not wanting, what 
 lacks is the faculty. Do not grieve that you have not got 
 it. The faculty grows, like the blossom on the apple-tree 
 which is beaten to make it bloom. Every bruise produces 
 a flower, and every flower a fruit. 5 
 
 Rose's clear blue eyes were on him, watching his 
 expressive face. Her pretty lips half pouted, half inclined 
 downwards at the corners. 
 
 ' How has Loveday gained the experience that is de- 
 nied me ? ' 
 
 ' I cannot tell you how,' answered Dennis ; ' it suffices 
 that she has. You will see that the poor old lady will 
 cling to her, but without turning from you. You tease 
 her. You are restless, eager to be doing something for 
 her, to stir up her mind to foreign interests. She de- 
 sires to be let alone, to be wept with, to have no word 
 spoken to her ear, but to feel the pity of a true, loving 
 heart, speaking to her in a voiceless, altogether mysterious 
 way.' 
 
 ' You think very badly of me, Doctor.' 
 
 ' Not at all.' He looked up suddenly. ' Heavens knows 
 how highly I think of you, too highly for my own happiness. 
 But let that pass. No, Miss Rose. It is not so. Can you 
 talk Hindustani ? ' 
 
 ' I— Hindustani ? No.' 
 
 'Why not?' 
 
 ' Because, for a very simple reason, I have never 
 learned it.' 
 
 ' Why have you not learned it ? ' 
 
 1 1 have no occasion for it,' answered Rose impatiently, 
 and colour came in two bright spots into her cheeks. She 
 stamped her little foot, ' What do you mean by this, Mr. 
 Penhalligan ? ' 
 
 'This is my meaning, Miss Trewhella. Hearts have 
 their languages as well as lips. You cannot converse with a 
 Hindu, because you cannot speak Hindustani ; so you cannot 
 
 F 
 
66 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 commune with a sorrowful soul, because you do not know 
 sorrow. Can you comprehend how a Hindu in England 
 must yearn to hear his own tongue ? In like way the 
 sorrowful, sick heart longs to have converse with another 
 that can speak and understand the language of which every 
 word is a tear.' 
 
 Rose looked on the ground, and now the earnest eyes of 
 Dennis were on her. His lips were curling. 
 
 Presently, with a flush of triumph in her bright face, 
 she glanced up, and said impetuously : 
 
 ' I have taken you in your own toils, sir 1 You, you, 
 who lecture me on lack of sympathy, how is it that it is 
 precisely of you — of you that patients complain because 
 you are unsympathetic 1 Answer me that, thou Man of 
 Feeling.' 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders and considered. Then, with 
 a scornful smile playing about his mouth, he replied, ' Miss 
 Trewhella, thou Lady sans Feeling, I will explain the 
 riddle : for the same reason that you make a bad nurse. I 
 am, perhaps, unsympathetic towards the sick, because I 
 have never had a day's illness— no aches have racked my 
 bones or nerves. I have not even had a catarrh to make 
 me snuffle in sympathy with him who has a cold in his 
 head. My trials and troubles have not been of that sort, 
 they have gone under another category.' 
 
 ' In what category, tell me 1 ' The question was im- 
 pertinent, and Rose looked at him timidly, uncertain how 
 he would take it. 
 
 ' It is useless my telling you. You would not under- 
 stand me. Your life is one of unclouded happiness. You 
 have never been in life's battle, never have received bullets 
 and barbs of iron in your flesh which lie there unextracted, 
 festering, and making existence an agony.' 
 
 ' No, I have not had that experience, and I have no 
 desire of acquiring it.' 
 
 ' I hope you never may have it.' 
 
 ' I should be afraid to send for you, were I sick,' said 
 Rose ; ' you would dissect my fibres as callously as if you 
 were unripping a rush mat, and cut into my poor flesh as 
 coldly as if you were slicing a melon. I should look up 
 into your face in vain for pity.' 
 
 ' Indeed, indeed no 1 If you were in suffering, I would 
 
THE UNSPOKEN TONGUE. 67 
 
 be unable to touch you, not from callousness, but from 
 emotion. And you know that, and you speak thus because 
 you know it will set all the threads of my soul quivering/ 
 He passed his hand over his face. Rose saw she had gone 
 too far ; she rapidly changed the subject. 
 
 ' Loveday,' she said, ' is full of tenderness to the sick. 
 You are quite right in wishing to send her here to be with 
 dear Aunt Gaverock.' 
 
 Then she said no more. Nor did he. After an awkward 
 silence of a minute, she exclaimed brightly, as a thought 
 flashed up in her mind, ' Now, Mr. Penhalligan, I am not 
 going to let you off without chastisement. You have been 
 hard on me, fluttering all my shortcomings, like the linen 
 from the wash on lines on a Tuesday. I will not let you 
 go without a last word, which is woman's prerogative ; 
 Avithout a last touch, as in a game of prisoner's base.' 
 
 ' Very well, touch me.' 
 
 ' You will not be angry 1 ' 
 
 ' How can I, when you set me the example of bearing 
 sharp instruction with so sweet an air 1 ' 
 
 ' Then be lamb-like now, Mr. Dennis, and listen to 
 reproof. What I want to say is this. It does seem to my 
 stupid head that both you and Loveday have gone through 
 a rough school.' 
 
 ' Yes, it is so — she and I alike.' 
 
 ' And it seems to me that the same master, and the 
 same teaching, and the same rod, have sent you out very 
 diverse into the world.' 
 
 ' Go on,' he said, looking intently at her as she spoke. 
 
 ' She has been sweetened by her sorrows, and you — 
 soured.' 
 
 He made no reply. 
 
 ' I suppose the bruise does not always become a blossom 
 on the apple-tree — sometimes a canker,' she said. 
 
 Then the door burst open, and Hender Gaverock and 
 Gerans entered, the former stamping, shaking himself, and 
 diffusing a chill air, a smell of the sea, and a sense of salt. 
 
 ' Hullo ! Doctor ! you here 1 How is my lady 1 Got 
 over her hysterics yet ? Here am I back, pickled in brine, 
 and tough as tanned hide. I had a near touch this time, 
 though ; and if I hadn't made up my mind not to be 
 drowned I should have followed David and Con to Davy 
 
 f2 
 
68 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 Jones's locker. I held on to the keel with fingers and 
 toes and with every claw of my will, which can grip like a 
 crab. How is the mistress ? I am very sorry about poor 
 Con. Better, however, to have swallowed too much salt 
 water than to be smothered in law-dust. Poor fellow ! I'm 
 as sorry at his loss as a man can be. However, that which 
 can't be cured must be roasted and eaten, as the cook said 
 of the pork in summer, when the pig was killed. I am sure 
 I am as disturbed about Con as a father can be, but I don't 
 go into hysterics. This is the way of women. Humour 
 them, and they come round in time. I'll tell you what. If 
 poor Con's body had been recovered, and we could have had 
 a decent burial with cake and ale, and hatbands and scarves, 
 the old lady would have rather liked it, and have been 
 hopping about like a winged magpie. It is nothing but the 
 lack of a burial which makes her take to her bed. I am 
 sixty-five. I know women.' 
 
 ' Whither are you going, Mr. Gaverock 1 Not up to 
 your wife's room 1 ' exclaimed Penhalligan. 
 
 ' Yes, I am. What stands in the way 1 She'll be glad 
 to hear particulars. It will rouse her out of her fit of 
 hysterics.' 
 
 ' I must beg, my dear sir, that you do not disturb her 
 now. She must be soothed, not excited. This is not a 
 case of hysterics by any means.' 
 
 ' Don't you suppose she will be impatient to hear of 
 poor Con, how he managed the sheet ? He'd not forgotten 
 that. I was half afraid of trusting it into his hand, but 
 we were capsized through no fault of his. We went over 
 and the sail was full of water. There was no help for it. 
 Con and I fought a gallant fight ; he ought to be here now, 
 but is so much younger than me that he has not my 
 strength.' 
 
 ' You must not go to auntie,' said Rose. ' I am about 
 to run to Nantsillan myself for Loveday, as I only disturb 
 and irritate aunt. Loveday is the proper medicine and 
 nurse for her.' 
 
 ' Very well ! very well ! ' said the old man impatiently. 
 ' Pshaw ! the house smells of medicine bottles. Come out 
 into the fresh air, Gerans. Sickness makes a whole house 
 stuffy. Besides, I want to see the horse you bought at 
 Wadebridse Fair.' 
 
THE UNSPOKEN TONGUE. 69 
 
 When the Squire and his son had left the hall, Rose 
 said, ' Mr. Penhalligan, I think I understand what you 
 mean by the unspoken language. I do not think my uncle 
 and aunt have that speech in common.' 
 
 ' Mr. Gaverock,' answered Dennis, ' has so crushed out 
 all exhibition of sensibility in himself, and laughed and 
 scorned it out of others, that he dare not show his true 
 feelings. I have little doubt that he is more sensible of 
 his son's death than he allows others to see. As he has 
 checked in himself and in those about him every token 
 of feeling, he has lost the capacity to sympathise with 
 suffering.' 
 
 Half an hour later Loveday Penhalligan arrived. Rose 
 thought her looking very unwell, she was so pale, and her 
 eyes sunken. She asked her if she were ailing. Loveday 
 shook her head. She even tried to smile, but failed. 
 
 Loveday wore a dark navy-blue cloth gown and a white 
 kerchief about her neck crossed over her bosom and pinned 
 behind. Her hair was plain, drawn back into a knot, and 
 covered by a white cap. Her sleeves were to her elbows, 
 where they were frilled, and she wore long black mittens. 
 Her features were not regular and classical, and she had an 
 olive complexion ; but there was a sweetness in her expres- 
 sion which made every one say she was pretty — some de- 
 clared she was beautiful. Her eyes were, however, her 
 great charm, large, deep, soft, and full of feeling ; eyes into 
 which any one might look, and which spoke as eyes can 
 speak of a patient, loving, and meek soul. Dennis saw 
 that she did not assume a black gown, though she had one, 
 and he knew thereby that she was resolved to have her 
 secret kept. It would be more precious, more holy to her, 
 if hidden in the deeps of her faithful soul. She was not 
 one who cried out for sympathy. She was happiest in 
 keeping her joys and sorrows to herself, or sharing them only 
 with her brother. They were desecrated when made public. 
 She was reticent and retiring without being dull and shy. 
 She never pushed herself into, or in society. She had to 
 be sought out ; but when found, and brought into conver- 
 sation, her intelligence, her pleasant humour, and kindliness 
 made her very attractive. The men all liked her, and the 
 girls were not jealous. 
 
 Mrs. Gaverock's wan, troubled face kindled the moment 
 
70 THE GAVEEOCKS. 
 
 she entered her room. Loveday drew a chair by her bed- 
 side and took the old lady's hand in hers and kissed it 
 respectfully. 
 
 Mrs. Gaverock said nothing, but lay looking at her. 
 Her eyes were no longer mazed, her reason had returned ; 
 but she was very weak, and unable to speak above a whis- 
 per. But she was thinking, and thinking of one thing, her 
 great loss ; every now and then a tear trickled from her 
 eye, and she was too weak or unconscious to put up her 
 hand to wipe it away. Loveday saw this at once, and with 
 her handkerchief very gently dried each tear as it welled 
 out of the faded eyes. Towards sunset the girl was startled 
 by the old woman putting out her disengaged hand and try- 
 ing to draw herself up by the bedpost. 
 
 ' Can I help you 1 ' asked Loveday, putting her arms 
 round her and raising her. 
 
 ' Con said,' whispered Mrs. Gaverock — ' Con said he was 
 married. ' 
 
 Loveday's hand that held that of the patient involun- 
 tarily quivered. 
 
 ' I have been looking at you,' said the poor mother, 
 ' and I wished — oh, I have wished so much — that he had 
 married you.' 
 
 Loveday hesitated for a moment ; her face became paler 
 and her heart fluttered. Then she stooped, drew the old 
 lady up in her bed ; she seated herself on it, so that Mrs. 
 Gaverock could rest in her arms, and, putting her cheek 
 against that of the old woman, said, ' Your wish is fulfilled. 
 He did take me.' 
 
 Two hours later Dennis returned. He found the Squire 
 with Gerans and Rose at supper. The latter stood up, took 
 a candle, and said, ' I will go with you, Mr. Penhalligan, 
 and relieve Loveday.' 
 
 She and the doctor entered the sick-room. Twilight 
 had succeeded set of sun, and then came darkness. When 
 they entered with the light they found Mrs. Gaverock lying 
 in Loveday's arms, asleep. Tears sparkled on her eyelashes, 
 but her face was peaceful ; it had lost its despairing, dis- 
 tressed expression. 
 
 Loveday's eyes were also wet, and there were glistening 
 paths on her cheeks ; but she smiled gently at her brother 
 and Rose as they entered, and held up her finger to impose 
 
THE UNSPOKEN TONGUE. 71 
 
 on them silence. Dennis looked attentively at the sleeper, 
 and then at his sister. 
 
 ' Mrs. Gaverock is better,' he said in a low tone. ' She 
 has had better medicine than I could provide out of the 
 Pharmacopoeia.' Then he turned to Rose and said in a still 
 lower tone, audible only to her, ' Do you now understand 
 me when I refer to the unspoken, unwritten language ? ' 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 a woman's soul. 
 
 '' Gerans/ said the Squire, ' I'm sorry your mother takes on 
 so about Con. I can't see the sense of it. When a thing 
 has happened, and can't be undone, accept it. Why, the 
 Camelford and Padstow Bank failed two years ago, and I 
 had a score of their notes in my pocket-book. I did not 
 spread the notes out before me, and weep over them till I 
 had sopped them to pulp. No, I burnt them all and said 
 no more on the matter." We can't fish Con up, and, if we 
 did, what comfort would that be to a natural man 1 If 
 your mother sticks in bed we shall have to get a house- 
 keeper, or the maids will be up to jinks. That doctor comes 
 here every day to see her, but I know better than he how 
 to cure her. A stiff glass of rum and hot water, with a 
 lemon slice floating on top and a dust of nutmeg, and sugar 
 to taste. Lord ! Gerans, there's nothing like it, whether 
 you get the shivers, or a nip of rheumatism, or have a do- 
 mestic affliction, or get bad notes, or begin to think about 
 your soul. I was cut up, I can tell you, when I was at the 
 Palcon Inn at Bude. I was very sorry for Con, but I took 
 the stiffest glass I could brew, and I put a bit of cucumber 
 in it, and that relieved me wonderfully. I tumbled into 
 bed — no sheets — between blankets, and slept like a cat in 
 the ashes. Your mother wants rousing. I believe it's no- 
 thing but bile. I'd like to put her on horseback and send 
 her after the hounds ; get her liver well shaken, and, bless 
 my heart, she'd be as right as Greenwich time next day, 
 and mope no more over Con, I don't suppose Rose's habit 
 would fit her, and she couldn't go without one. What a 
 pity it is that the gun went to the bottom with Con ! 
 
72 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 Capital gun that was ; I'm only thankful that I didn't lend 
 Con mine, but made him take yours. Lord! if it had been 
 mine was drowned, I should have been angry. I know that 
 gun, and it knows my hand on it, as well as Phoebus knows 
 my touch on the reins. Gerans, what do you think of Rose, 
 ehV 
 
 ' Rose ! ' echoed the young man, startled by the abrupt 
 question. ' She is very nice.' 
 
 ' Nice — that is cool praise. Say something warm.' 
 
 'Well, father, I think her very bright, cheerful, and 
 pleasant in the house.' 
 
 'To be sure she is— full of fun, and no nonsense about 
 her. Can't do without her now, can we 1 ' 
 
 ' We shall have to some day, when she marries.' 
 
 ' What ! take four hundred a year away % Not so, my 
 good boy. I had intended her for Con, as you get Towan, 
 and there was no salt in the box for him ; but, as Con has 
 departed, she is at your disposal. Four hundred a year 
 in house property at Truro. I'll tell you my plan, Gerans. 
 We'll sell this property and buy Trevithick. That will be 
 for sale before long, and it will fit on to this estate as one 
 nutshell on to another, and as cream fits junket.' 
 
 ' But, my dear father ' 
 
 ' There must be no hesitation. Stay, I'll have in some 
 rum at once. Upon my word, I'm low this evening with 
 the smell of medicine, and the popping in and out of that 
 doctor. We'll have a bowl of punch and discuss it and 
 your marriage together. If you've objections we'll drown 
 them ; scruples, grate them up into the nutmeg and give 
 zest to the bowl. It is not against the law : she is not 
 your brother's widow.' 
 
 ' Con knew nothing of this, did he 1 ' 
 
 ' No, how could he 1 I had no time to arrange it with 
 him.' 
 
 ' Or Rose ? ' 
 
 ' No, I had not broached it to her. 
 
 ' But you are premature, father ' 
 
 ' Premature ! What a word to stop my mouth with. 
 I will it, and that is enough. If Con had lived, he should 
 have had Rose and her house property at Truro ; as he is 
 dead, you shall have her and buy Trevithick. That is 
 settled.' 
 
a woman's soul. 73 
 
 'But Rose may object.' 
 
 ' Golly ! I'd like to see her. She object to a strapping 
 boy like you ? If I choose it — full stop — the thing is 
 done.' 
 
 Gerans was so astonished that he could not speak. He 
 sipped his glass and stared at his father. 
 
 'Now you know what suit to lead,' said old Hender 
 Gaverock. ' Lead hearts and I'll trump. I suppose there 
 must be a little sentiment and moonshine and treacle and 
 nightingale's songs. Girls like that, but it is not business. 
 It is like the borage floating on top of cider cup ; it gives 
 a sort of a poetical flavour, and it is an ornament, but in 
 itself it is nothing. Give her the blossom, but you drink 
 the cup.' 
 
 ' I do not suppose Rose cares for me, and, as for 
 myself ' 
 
 ' You can't help liking her. Besides, what is the odds 1 
 "Women are women and gulls are gulls, they are all alike 
 — one a little whiter and one a little noisier than another ; 
 but if you must have a wife, I don't see — and I've lived 
 long enough to know— that it matters very much whom 
 you take. They are as much alike as herrings. Some 
 have soft roes and some have hard, and some begin with 
 very soft roes, which become gritty as gravel in old age. 
 You might go to Land's End and Lizard and not fare 
 better. That is settled. As soon as decency permits, after 
 the loss of Con, you take Rose and her four hundred, and 
 we'll manage Trevithick.' 
 
 Then Loveday Penhalligan came in. She had been 
 with Mrs. Gaverock, but was relieved for the night by 
 Rose Trewhella. The Squire and his son stood up on her 
 entry. 
 
 ' Come here, Miss Loveday,' said Hender Gaverock ; ' we 
 are discussing a bowl of rum-punch, and all it lacks to 
 make it perfect is that you should put your lips to it. 
 Come here ! ' he repeated in his dictatorial, domineering 
 manner ; ' I remember when in this very hall we drank 
 the ladies' healths out of vessels five inches long by one 
 inch deep, and they were made of satin — the ladies' own 
 shoes.' 
 
 ' My pattens are in the hall, Squire ; you may try to 
 drink my health out of them.' 
 
74 THE GAVEItOCES. 
 
 ' Bring them in, Gerans, and we'll fit finger glasses to 
 the rings and play forfeits who spills a drop in draining the 
 glass or breaks it. ' 
 
 ' No, Squire Gaverock, I will not lend my pattens for 
 that ; Mrs. Gaverock will hold me guilty of her broker 
 bowls.' 
 
 ' Take my chair, Miss Loveday,' said the old man, 
 pointing to a leather-covered arm-chair, high-backed, by 
 the fire. 
 
 ' For a moment only,' answered the girl. She took the 
 chair he had vacated for her, and laid her hands on the 
 arms ; the back of the chair and the protruding carved 
 sides were above her head. She was framed in old stamped 
 gilt leather, while the red firelight flickered over her pale 
 face, dark hair, and large soft eyes. 
 
 ' Now, Miss Penhalligan,' said the Squire, ' I am glad 
 I have cornered you, for I want a word. You are spoiling 
 Mrs. Gaverock. It is very kind of you to come, but don't 
 condole with her — it makes her worse. She wants stirring 
 up. I know women.' 
 
 ' Pardon me, you do not.' 
 
 ' I — I not know them ! '" laughed the old man. ' Golly ! 
 I have had sixty-five years' experience of them, and I ought 
 to understand them.' 
 
 'No, you have spent sixty-five years in their society, 
 and you understand them less now than you did sixty-five 
 years ago. Then you might have learned, now you are past 
 acquiring the knowledge.' 
 
 The old man stared at Loveday, amazed at her auda- 
 city. 
 
 ' You think,' pursued the girl, ' that a woman's soul is 
 to be tinkered with a slater's sax. 1 It is of too fine a nature 
 to be touched even with the thumb. When a particle of 
 dust enters your watch and stops the hands you hold your 
 breath as you examine the works, lest a breath should rust 
 them. A woman's heart is more delicate in its mechanism 
 than that, and a rough touch and a rude blast will spoil it 
 for ever. You know our Cornish proverb, " The earth is 
 strewn with potsherds." It means that everywhere, in 
 
 1 The sax is the short chopper used by slaters in cutting and shaping 
 slates. The word is the Saxon secuv, a short sword. It is in use in the 
 West of England. 
 
A WOMAN S SOUL. 7o 
 
 every village, almost in every house, are broken lives, lives 
 broken by rough usage and careless handling. You would 
 have used the finger-glasses for a jest and a forfeit, and 
 heeded nothing if they fell and were shattered. We poor 
 women are like these same finger-glasses, full of fresh and 
 pure water for you men to dip your soiled fingers into and 
 cleanse them, not for you to convert into bumpers to break 
 for a wager.' 
 
 ' Golly ! ' exclaimed old Gaverock. ' I called you in 
 here, Miss, that I might have a word with you, and you 
 are reading me a lecture. It will do you good, Gerans, I 
 hope. I am past learning, as Miss Loveday has graciously 
 informed us.' 
 
 There was nothing offensive in her manner ; she spoke 
 gently, almost pleadingly, and she looked delicate and pretty 
 in the high-backed chair with her elbows on the arms, and 
 the white frills trembling as she moved her long fingers as 
 though playing on a harpsichord, but really in nervous 
 fear, on the rounded ends of the chair-arm. As she spoke 
 a light dew came out on her pure brow, and her long dark 
 lashes were hung with molten frost drops. 
 
 ' You must not be angry with me, Squire,' she said, 
 looking timidly at him : ' if I am very bold with you it is 
 my love for Mrs. Gaverock which makes me speak. Leave 
 the dear old lady to Dennis and me ; we will do our utmost 
 for her, but you must not interfere and throw down the 
 stones we set up.' 
 
 ' And Rose — does she count for nothing 1 ' 
 
 ' No, I do not say that. Rose's part will come later. 
 The sunshine will cherish and brighten when the broken 
 flower is strong enough to bear the heat and light, but a 
 little shade and cool and silence are needed now.' 
 
 ' Very well. Have things purely your own way. It 
 is no pleasure to me to go into a sick-room. I'll keep away 
 altogether.' 
 
 ' Not that either,' said Loveday. ' Mrs. Gaverock will 
 like to see you. She will expect you, and be pained if you 
 do not visit her. "When you go, be gentle, not boisterous, 
 and not say much about Constantine. If you speak of him, 
 speak tenderly.' 
 
 The old man rubbed his chin, then turned thoughtfully 
 to Gerans. 
 
76 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 ' I understand her,' he said. ' Last time I went up 
 clattering in my water-boots ; I'm to go in pumps, that is 
 what she means.' He rubbed his chin again. ' I'll shave 
 before I kiss her. I dare say I scratched her last time. 
 But what a roundabout way she has of saying it.' 
 
 ' Comfort must be applied to a dulled soul,' said Love- 
 day, ' like gold leaf, that is so thin and tender that it may 
 not be touched. I have seen a gilder blow the flickering 
 sheet into the air and let it lightly, softly fail where it is 
 to rest, and it has fallen over the whole surface, and hidden 
 every blemish. But if you apply it with a finger you tear 
 it, with a brush you crease it, and leave a crinkled, ragged 
 surface full of rents and oozing size. Long experience is 
 needed to lay the golden leaf ; afterwards, another hand, 
 less experienced, may burnish it.' 
 
 Then Loveday stood up. 
 
 ' It is time for me to be at home,' she said. ' Dennis 
 will be expecting his supper on his return from his round.' 
 
 ' I will accompany you ! ' exclaimed Gerans, starting to 
 his feet. 
 
 ' I can return well by myself. There is no one and 
 nothing I need fear.' 
 
 ' Certainly not alone,' said Gerans, ' now that the night 
 has fallen. You are so surpassing kind in coming here 
 daily to see my dear mother, that I cannot suffer you to 
 return unaccompanied.' He took his hat, helped her into 
 her shawl, and gave her his arm. 
 
 When she was gone old Gaverock emptied his glass, 
 kicked the logs together on the hearth, and growled : ' She 
 is right so far, that I don't know women as they are in these 
 clays. Lord ! the impudence to address me as she has. 
 This is what comes of the French Revolution. We shall 
 have Charlotte Cordays here next.' 
 
 The night was not dark, the plovers were still about, 
 screaming, and from the cliff's could be heard the noise of 
 the gulls. High overhead a ilight of brent-geese went by, 
 barking like aerial dogs. 
 
 ' Loveday,' said Gerans, ' I have not seen you since I 
 heard of the relationship in which we stand — that is, I have 
 not seen you so as to speak to you in private. As you 
 heard my father address you as Miss Penhalligan and Miss 
 Loveday, you understand that he has not been made aware 
 
a woman's soul. 77 
 
 of that as yet. I have promised Dennis to tell my father, 
 but I have not had a favourable opportunity for doing so.' 
 
 ' I do not see occasion for it,' said Loveday. ' Let it be 
 buried in the past.' 
 
 ' Poor dear Con acted very wrongly by you. He ought 
 to have been more considerate of ' 
 
 ' Not a word against him ! ' interrupted the girl. ' As 
 you have not told Mr. Gaverock, let the story remain un- 
 told. I ask nothing from him ; I acted wrongly and I 
 must bear the consequence. I shall always have your 
 regard, I trust 1 ' 
 
 1 Always, always, dear Loveday ! ' 
 
 ' That suffices. Mrs. Gaverock knows, and is happy 
 in the knowledge. There is really no occasion why your 
 father should be troubled by being told what has taken 
 place. It is in the past. It can do no good to repeat it, 
 and I know he would be very indignant if he heard it.' 
 
 ' Well, sister, his anger would blow away in a week or 
 two.' 
 
 ' In that week he would say words which would hurt 
 your mother and me where our hearts are most tender, and 
 the wounds would not heal for years.' 
 
 ' It is but right, Loveday, that your connection with 
 the family should be known and acknowledged.' 
 
 ' If it were, reflections would be made on poor Con- 
 stantine for not having himself made it known and having 
 exacted acknowledgment months ago.' 
 
 ' That is true, but your honour is more to be considered 
 than my brother's memory. I cannot in conscience submit.' 
 
 ' You do not understand a woman's soul,' answered 
 Loveday quietly. ' It is of that nature that it will endure 
 anything rather than that the 'slightest injury should be 
 done, even to the memory of the man she loves. But do 
 not be troubled on that score. My secret is safe in the 
 hands of yourself and your dear mother. In such good 
 kind hands let it lie. Good-night, brother Gerans ; I am 
 at my gate. Think better of women and deal more tenderly 
 with their fluttering hearts than does your father with his 
 experience of sixty-five years.' 
 
78 THE GAVE ROCKS. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 A STUDY IN DRAWING. 
 
 Praxiteles is said to have sculptured an Eros which seemed 
 to laugh, but which, when the eyes of the figure were ban- 
 daged, seemed to be grave, even stern. Rose Trewhella's 
 eyes danced with the u.vrjpi6jxov -yeAacr/xa. of the sjmrkiing 
 summer sea, but there was sufficient decision in the lines of 
 her mouth and in the moulding of her nostrils to show that 
 there were the elements of a firm character in her, un- 
 developed — a potentiality and a promise. At present she 
 was frivolous, careless, pleasure-loving, without a perception 
 of the seriousness of life, without a thought of dangers that 
 might menace her unless watched against, of pitfalls among 
 which she might be drawn by her own thoughtlessness. 
 
 She had been spoiled as a young girl, and had grown to 
 be wayward and exacting. Her father had been careless 
 and good-natured. She had been petted by him, and 
 flattered by his fox-hunting friends. She had associated 
 very little with girls of her own age. Her governess had 
 been ruled by her, she had fixed her own hours of work and 
 studies. Her education had, therefore, been desultory. 
 
 But there was good, sterling good, in the mine of her 
 heart, overlaid with much worthless stuff. She had obtained 
 whatsoever she wanted from her father by coaxing or by 
 sulking ; and she supposed that these two recipes were in- 
 fallible, and would suffice her to get all she wanted out of 
 other men. 
 
 When Gerans returned from Nantsillan, he found Rose 
 in the hall with his father. She had left Mrs. Gaverock 
 when the old lady went to sleep. The Squire liked Rose ; 
 she joked with him, teased him, showed him a certain 
 amount of deference, and submitted to his authority. Rose 
 sat in the chair recently vacated by Loveday, and presented 
 the most marked contrast to her. Her hair was tossed 
 into a tangle about her head, like floss silk ; it was fair and 
 golden ; in it was a fine strip of white cambric, but whether 
 tying the hair or entangled in it, inextricably, could hardly 
 be told. It was like a ribbon we sometimes see woven into 
 
A STUDY IN DRAWING. 79 
 
 a bird's nest among the twigs. Her cheeks were bright 
 with colour, and her blue eyes sparkled with mischief. 
 
 Directly Gerans entered she attacked him. 
 
 ' You have had a very pleasant walk in the twilight, 
 Cousin, I am sure.' 
 
 ' I have seen Miss Loveday home.' 
 
 ' You need not tell me that. I got a glimpse of you 
 starting arm in arm, and thought you made a pretty pair.' 
 
 Gerans coloured. 
 
 ' It would have been unmannerly to have let her return 
 to Nantsillan unescorted.' 
 
 ' Gerans the gallant ! Gerans the courtly ! "What it 
 must be for a young damsel to have such a knight to attend 
 her ! You seemed to be in close conference I suppose 
 the subject was most interesting — to yourselves.' 
 
 Rose saw that Gerans was uncomfortable, and so she 
 went on mischievously. She was not jealous of Loveday, 
 but she liked tormenting Gerans, who was not agile of mind 
 to evade or parry her thrusts. 
 
 'Now,' said she, going up to him, and looking slyly into 
 his eyes, ' what was it all about 1 Tell me, if you can, the 
 topic of your talk.' 
 
 Gerans was confused, and stammered an incoherent 
 reply. Afterwards, when he was alone, he thought, ' How 
 stupid of me ! I should have answered that we were 
 speaking of poor Con. But that is the way with me ; I 
 never hit on the right thing to say till it is too late to 
 say it.' 
 
 The old father's suspicions were roused, and he looked 
 at his son with mistrust. When Rose had left the room he 
 said roughly, ' Gerans, I will have n© foolery with Miss 
 Loveday. I have told you my mind. You know what is 
 expected of you. As for Mistress Malapert, she is an im- 
 pudent hussy, and I dislike her. Prodigiously daring to 
 tell me that I know nothing of women ! What is her age ? 
 Twenty-one, I suppose. Been a woman three years, only a 
 girl before, and I have had sixty-five years of experience of 
 the sex. What was that she said of a woman's soul ? A 
 fine piece of mechanism not to be breathed on. That is 
 flam ! It is like a peacock's tail. Whirr ! spread to blaze 
 and dazzle you with its glitter and colour and eyes, then 
 draggled in the wet and mud, and dropping a dowdy feather 
 
80 THE GAVEKOCKS. 
 
 in the dank gi'ass. Pshaw ! It is a thing of show. I not 
 know women ! 
 
 A woman, a dog, and a walnut tree, 
 
 The more you whip 'em, the better they be. 
 
 Mind you this, Gerans, I will not allow you to think of 
 Loveday. As poor Con has gone to the bottom of the sea, 
 you must take Rose. That is a settled matter. As for 
 Mistress Loveday, God bless my soul ! we should fight if 
 she and I were in the house together a week. I cannot" 
 stand opposition, leastways from a woman.' 
 
 Next day Rose's mood was changed. She would not 
 speak at early dinner, and went into the parlour to sit by 
 herself, with her hands in her lap, looking out of the 
 window. Gerans followed her. 
 
 She did not turn her head when he opened the door, nor 
 when he came across the floor to her. He placed himself 
 in the window, with his back to the light, and looked at 
 her. Her lips were pouting, and her brows contracted. 
 
 ' Are you unwell, Rose ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, dear, no, Mr. Gerans Gaverock. But it does not 
 matter ; no one here cares how I am.' 
 
 ' Why do you say that 1 You surely know how highly 
 we all regard you.' 
 
 'You regard me so highly as the lark, that is so high 
 that it is altogether lost to sight, Master Gaverock.' 
 
 ' You used to call me Cousin Gerans.' 
 
 ' It was a mistake. You came to consider me as a 
 cousin, one on whom the common courtesies of life, when 
 expended, were wasted. Look on me rather as an acquain- 
 tance, and then I shall receive proper treatment.' 
 
 ' But what have I clone to offend you 1 ' 
 
 ' Oh, nothing,' said Rose, rising and settling her skirts 
 and sitting down again. ' That creeper should be cut ; it 
 is trailing over the window.' 
 
 ' I will see to the creeper another time. Why are you 
 cross with me 1 ' 
 
 1 Cross ! You are rude ; a lady is never cross. But this 
 is the way with you men — you charge us with having the 
 vapours, and do not consider the occasion, which is to be 
 found in yourselves.' 
 
 'But what have I done to offend you 1 ' 
 
A STUDY IN DRAWING. 81 
 
 'Nothing,' answered Rose, looking him coldly in the 
 face. 
 
 ' Then why are you so dissatisfied ? ' 
 
 ' 1 am not dissatisfied, because I have expected nothing. 
 I am dissatisfied when taken to a waxwork, and see what 
 poor figures are within the booth, different from the painted 
 promise without, but I am not dissatisfied where nothing 
 has been promised and nothing performed.' 
 
 Gerans was perplexed. He looked at her with puzzle- 
 ment in his brain, and said, humbly, ' I don't know what 
 you want ; but I do know that we are all your dutiful 
 servants, waiting on your wishes.' 
 
 ' I have been wanting to wind a skein of wool for a 
 week, and no one has offered me his hands on which to 
 spread it.' 
 
 'But, surely, Miss Rose, you had only to express the 
 desire, and my father or I would have flown to offer you 
 help.' 
 
 ' "With the eagerness you flew yesterday to offer it to 
 Loveday. I warrant me she had not to ask for your arm. 
 You forestalled her wish ; you pressed your arm on her. 
 Was it not so 1 ' Gerans was confused. ' Whereas poor 
 I — I must wait a week, and ask outright for help, or a 
 hand is not held out to me.' 
 
 ' Surely, Miss Rose, this is unreasonable ' 
 
 She interrupted him with an assumption of anger, and 
 started back in her chair. ' Unreasonable, am I, and cross- 
 grained, crabbed, spiteful ; what next 1 Really, Mr. Gerans 
 Gaverock, the Master of Manners does not come round 
 these parts, or I would pay to send you to be schooled by 
 him.' 
 
 ' I did not know you wanted any wool winding, or 1 
 would have been proud and happy ' 
 
 ' You did not see that I was working a border of a 
 running scroll for the drawing-room fire-mat. You did not 
 give sufficient thought to consider that my little ball of red 
 wool was drawing to an end. You have no eyes for my 
 necessities. They are engrossed by Miss Penhalligan, I 
 take it.' 
 
 Gerans coloured. 
 
 'You deal very hardly with me,' he said, penitently. 
 
 G 
 
82 THE GAVEEOCKS. 
 
 ' I assure you I am not thinking of Miss Loveclay in the 
 way you suppose.' 
 
 Rose laughed merrily and mockingly. ' Mr. Gerans, I 
 do not want your assurances. I am too supremely indiffer- 
 ent to you to he made a confidant of your partialities.' 
 
 ' Where is the wool 1 ' asked Gerans, desperately. 
 
 ' Here. Are you going to be polite ? ' 
 
 Gerans held out his hands. 
 
 When a young and pretty girl has got a man fast with 
 a skein about his fingers, which she is winding in a ball, 
 she has him completely in her power. He is conscious that 
 he is in a position somewhat ludicrous and not manly. He 
 has to raise one hand and depress the other in obedience to 
 the beck of her finger. Whatever she may say he cannot 
 escape. He is her captive for a quarter of an hour. The 
 man may have splendid abilities, but he is unable to exer- 
 cise them : his mind must follow the run of the thread 
 forwards and backwards, and he cannot think of anything 
 else. At the same time the girl is winding mechanically, 
 and exercising all her wits to torment or coquet with the 
 victim. 
 
 Gerans, honest .hearted, slow of thought, spent a very 
 uncomfortable twenty minutes thus tied ; he was in con- 
 tinual fear of entangling the threads. They did catch 
 occasionally, and, when they caught, Rose was obliged to 
 come close to him, make him hold up his hands, whilst her 
 golden head turned and dipped about, very close to his, 
 and her delicate, fragrant hands passed in and out between 
 his palms, turning the ball this way, then that — he could 
 almost have thought she was purposely entangling the 
 wool, had he possessed sufficient guile to suppose it. 
 
 When a young girl holds the ball, and a man has the 
 skein, there is a link of connection established between 
 them, a wire of communication is drawn from one battery 
 to another. The days of which we write were not those of 
 the electric telegraph ; but a telegraph of some sort, con- 
 veying a series of messages, was set up whenever a young 
 lady asked a youg gentleman to hold the wool for her while 
 she unwound. A heart was at each end, a battery and a 
 registering table together. AVhat touches, what tremulous 
 quivers, what strange little tweaks the ball-spinner is able 
 to send aloncr the thread to the hands of the skein-holder ! 
 
A STUDY IN DRAWING. 83 
 
 It happens that the threads of the skein pass over the most 
 sensitive portion of the hand, between the forefinger and 
 the thumb, and this registers all the little defiances, and 
 trembling entreaties, and quivering appeals, and bold 
 assaults of the ball-winder, and delivers them all, sealed 
 from every eye, direct to the heart of the skein-holder, who 
 cannot refuse them, so engrossed is he in his mind on the 
 vibration of the thread over his hands. 
 
 When at length the end of the wool was drawn slowly, 
 almost reluctantly, off his left hand, and he recovered the 
 possession, first of the right, then of the left, Gerans was in 
 a bewildered condition, not very sure that he retained pos- 
 session of his heart — whether that had not also beeu wound 
 away at the tail of the worsted and secured by Miss Ptose. 
 
 ' Thank you so very much, Cousin Gerans,' said she, 
 raising her blue eyes and looking at him with an appeal for 
 mercy in them. ' I am sure I have been most exacting.' 
 
 'Not at all. I like it.' 
 
 'Do you now?' A roguish twinkle came into her eyes, 
 and dimples formed at the corners of her mouth. 'You like 
 being made to take the place of the backs of chairs. How 
 good of you to say so ; but you do not mean it 1 ?' 
 
 'I am always ready to do anything for you, R,ose.' 
 
 ' Then you Mall not be cross with me any more 1 ' 
 
 'I cross ! ' He was justly astonished. 
 
 ' I suppose that no one knows his own faults ; certainly 
 no man will confess his — leastways to a woman. Yet, you 
 have been very cross and peevish with me. I could scarcely 
 bear it.' Her voice shook, as the thread had shaken in her 
 fingers lately. 
 
 'You have been very much mistaken, Rose.' 
 
 'No, I have not. Trust a girl to read the moods of 
 those she is with. She opens in the sun, and shivers and 
 droops when there are clouds in the sky.' 
 
 ' I was unaware of it. I am sure you misunderstood ; I 
 could not be cross with you.' 
 
 'You want someone always at your side to tell you of 
 your faults, and bid you correct your blunders.' 
 
 ' Oh, Rose ! if you will execute that office for me, it will 
 be a delight to me to mend my ways.' 
 
 'You would not believe me when I told you you were 
 erring.' 
 
 g2 
 
84 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 'I would believe anything from those lips.' 
 
 ' Then you would have your faith sorely tried,' said Rose 
 with a laugh, 'for I say one thing this moment and another 
 thing that. Hark ! Mr. Gerans Gaverock, there comes 
 Dennis down from your mother's room.' 
 
 ' Dennis ! ' 
 
 'You did not hear him go up, you were so engrossed in 
 the skein. I did ; and now he returns. I must positively 
 see him ! ' Then she ran into the hall, and was followed by 
 Gerans with heightened colour. 
 
 'How do you do?' said the girl, stepping up to the doc- 
 tor. ' How is Mrs. Gaverock ? Why has not Loveday been 
 up to-day 1 Is it the drizzle that detains her ? What a day 
 it is ! ■ — rain squeezed through a hair sieve, neither falling 
 nor rising nor driving, but floating in the air.' 
 
 'I have found my patient slowly mending,' said Pen- 
 halligan. 'She must have the same treatment — must be 
 kept very quiet.' 
 
 ' And Loveday ? Is she coming here 1 ' 
 
 ' Not to-day. She is not very well, and there is no ne- 
 cessity.' 
 
 'Then I will go to her. Mr. Penhalligan, will you hold 
 an umbrella over me ? I have found this day more dull in 
 the house than it can possibly be outside, and so I will ven- 
 ture forth. Mr. Gerans has informed me that I have the 
 vapours. I will take my vapours out into the general fog. 
 May I ask you, Mr. Penhalligan, to wrap that cloak round 
 me 1 I am clumsy with my overshoes : is it asking too 
 much of you to desire that you would put your hand to help 
 to slip them over my feet 1 Thank you ; you are very kind. 
 I dare say I shall not find it quite as dismal when I am out 
 of Towan as the day has seemed to me looking forth from 
 the windows. You will lend me your arm, and be careful 
 that the drip of the umbrella does not go down my back — 
 will you not, Mr. Penhalligan 1 ' 
 
 When they were gone Gerans took up the bellows and 
 began to blow the log that was smouldering on the dogs in 
 the fireplace. 
 
 ' Well, Gerans,' said his father, ' how are you getting 
 on?' 
 
 'Middling,' answered the young man. 'The log is green, 
 and will not blaze.' 
 
A STUDY IN DRAWING. 85 
 
 Old Gaverock snatched the bellows from his hand, and 
 sent puffs from the nozzle on his son. 
 
 ' Oh, you green stock ! ' he shouted. ' It is you that do 
 not kindle. When I was a young man it was quite other. 
 You are slow and sleepy, without spark and crackle. What 
 do you mean by allowing Penhalligan to carry your mistress 
 off to Nantsillan ? You be on the alert, or he'll take her 
 away altogether— and then we shall lose Trevithick. Gerans, 
 I went all over Trevithick yesterday, and I'll take you there 
 to-morrow. We must have it. It comes alongside of Din- 
 nabol Farm, as if made to run with it. At Dinnabol the 
 sheep get the rot because of the wet clay ; let them have 
 the healthy moor of Trevithick to run on, and you can 
 fatten at Dinnabol. In the autumn the mischief is done in 
 the clay lands, and at Dinnabol we have no sound runs for 
 the sheep. Gerans, we must and we shall have Trevithick.' 
 
 ' I don't suppose Rose cares for me,' said Gerans in a 
 depressed mood, which showed itself by his tone of voice. 
 ' If she had any regard for me she would not tease me so 
 cruelly.' 
 
 ' You are a fool, Gerans. I know she likes you.' 
 
 The young man shook his head ; he was very red in the 
 face, annoyed with Rose, angry with Penhalligan. 
 
 ' I tell you she does,' pursued his father. ' That Mistress 
 Malapert dared to say I knew nothing of women — I with 
 my sixty-five years' experience. I can see through Rose as 
 if she were a tumbler of water dipped out of the Atlantic. 
 She is drawing you, Gerans. I know it because she teases 
 you.' The old man began to sing — 
 
 Phyllis is my only joy, 
 Sometimes forward, sometimes coy. 
 
 ' She was kind to Dennis Penhalligan and cruel to me,' 
 said Gerans. 
 
 ' My good fool ! ' exclaimed the old man, ' that is all 
 part of her play. Run after her. You are not going to let 
 that Doctor Sawbones walk with her to Nantsillan and 
 walk back with her as well ? ' 
 
 ' She might not like my pursuing her.' 
 ' Nonsense ! she wants you to run after her.' 
 He forced his son out of the house, then he reseated 
 himself in his armchair, and burst out laughing. ' And so 
 Mistress Malapert said I did not know women ! ' 
 
86 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 NANTSILLAN. 
 
 Rose Trewhella had hardly got out of sight of Towan 
 before she let go her hold of Dennis's arm, and said, ' Mr. 
 Penhalligan, I do not think that the umbrella is of the 
 slightest use against the mist. Moreover, there are so 
 many puddles which I must skip over or circumvent that I 
 can do better for myself if I walk unassisted. How long 
 have you known my cousin Gerans 1 Have you been 
 friends from boyhood ? You know he is not really my 
 cousin ; indeed, we are no relation whatever, but it would 
 sound too unfriendly to call him Mr. Gerans, and too 
 familiar to call him Gerans, so I split the difference and 
 designate him Cousin. I think him verv nice, do not 
 
 you 
 
 V 
 
 ' Whoever commends himself to you needs no praise 
 from me,' answered Dennis. 
 
 ' Now, Mr. Penhalligan, this is one of your stiff, set 
 phrases, fine sounding and evasive. I want your real 
 opinion of him.' 
 
 ' I think that he is truthful, sincere, and kind-hearted.' 
 
 ' I am glad you think that. But he is stupid and slow ; 
 you will allow that 1 ' 
 
 ' He will mend in time.' 
 
 'When?' 
 
 'When weaned.' 
 
 Rose looked round and laughed. ' What do you 
 mean 1 ' 
 
 ' At present he thinks, sees, hears, smells through his 
 father's organs, and acts as his members. When the old 
 Squire dies, or when Gerans marries, he will cut his teeth. 
 He has not his brother's quickness, but such docility and 
 honouring of a father must deserve him length of days in 
 the land — denied to the less submissive younger brother.' 
 
 Rose bit her lip, and looked out of the corners of her 
 eyes at Penhalligan. He was walking with his head down ; 
 his dark face was wet with the fog, his lips were set, and 
 his brow was gloomy. 
 
NANTSILLAtf. 87 
 
 1 1 am sony for Loveday,' said Rose. ' What is the 
 matter with her ? ' 
 
 He moved his shoulders uneasily. 'Nothing to signify. 
 She cannot go every day to Towan. There are home duties. 
 We do not keep a servant. This is our washing day.' He 
 coloured as he spoke. 
 
 'Why did you not say so, instead of pretending she was 
 ill? I shall be in the way. I shall go back.' She stood 
 still. 
 
 'No, no, Miss Trewhella,' he begged; 'do not return. 
 Pray come on. Loveday will be so delighted to see you — so 
 honoured by your crossing our mean threshold.' 
 
 'Why did you say she was ill when she was not?' 
 
 'Because,' he answered, 'I am a moral coward, and I 
 was ashamed to admit that she had the scrubbing and the 
 ironing to do. Poverty is dishonour.' 
 
 'Not at all ; poverty is honourable.' 
 
 'Then why are we ashamed to confess it?' 
 
 'We are ashamed to be thought religious and temperate 
 and thrifty ; and out of the same perversity we are ashamed 
 to be thought poor. How long have you known Gerans ? ' 
 
 'For five or six years — ever since I have been here.' 
 
 'Which did you like best — Gerans or his brother who is 
 dead, Constantine ? ' 
 
 'I preferred the society of the younger. He often- came 
 to us. He was musical, so am I, and I have a pianoforte 
 that belonged to my mother.' 
 
 ' You play ? How clever you are ! ' 
 
 ' A surgeon need be nimble of fingers ; and practice on 
 the keys is good schooling for delicacy of touch on the 
 human nerves. Here we are at my cottage.' 
 
 'You are sure I shall not be in the way? I will just 
 speak to Loveday and run away.' 
 
 'I will accompany you home if you. must return.' 
 
 'Not so. I can go back to Towan by myself. But per- 
 haps Gerans will come to fetch me. I am teaching him to 
 be polite to ladies.' 
 
 So she went in. 
 
 The cottage was small ; it consisted of a reception room 
 or hall, small, floored with slate, and low. Also of a tiny 
 parlour at the side, and a surgery. The parlour was unfur- 
 nished, and was used as a work-room. The brother and 
 
Ob THE GAVEEOCKS. 
 
 sister sat in the hall. This room had whitewashed walls; 
 against them were hung the surgeon's diploma, a sampler 
 worked by Loveday's mother when a girl, giving the letters 
 of the alphabet, the numerals, a tree, a flower, and a bird 
 all of the same size. 
 
 On the chimney-piece were two good old china vases, 
 relics of better days, and against the wall away from the 
 door was a piano, another relic of a time when the Penhalli- 
 gans were better off. Before the hearth was a rug made of 
 scraps of cloth woven into a piece of canvas — warm, but 
 plain. Muslin curtains hung over the window. Everything 
 in the room and about the house was very plain, but clean 
 and in excellent order. The garden beds within the wicket- 
 gate were carefully attended to and free from weeds. The 
 flowers in them were common, but bloomed freely, in grati- 
 tude for the care shown them. Against the walls of the 
 house were a jessamine and a monthly rose that was a free 
 bloomer. In the hall, although everything was plain, yet 
 an air of snugness and of beauty was afforded by the abun- 
 dance of flowers and leaves wherewith it was adorned. In 
 saucers were blackberry leaves of every shade between lemon 
 yellow and carmine, beech leaves of warm copper hue, pink 
 dog- wood leaves, and the transparent crimson berries of the 
 wild guelder rose, pale blue Michaelmas daisies, clusters of 
 rose-hips, feathery traveller's-joy, sprigs of crane's-bill still 
 flowering, blue borage, graceful rainbow-coloured carrot 
 leaves, delicate white- veined arrow-headed blades of ivy, 
 beautiful grasses — the table, the chimney-piece, the window, 
 the whatnot, were adorned with posies, each of which was a 
 study in colour, all picked, sorted, settled in their glasses by 
 the skilful fingers of Loveday. Bare of furniture, lacking 
 in ornament the room might be, but it was scrupulously 
 clean, and brightened by these charming clusters of autumn 
 leaves and flowers. 
 
 Rose had no time to look round before Loveday herself 
 came to her from the parlour, with colour glowing through 
 the olive skin of her cheeks, and her dark eyes shining with 
 love and pleasure. She held out both her hands to Rose, 
 and Rose saw that they were crinkled with immersion in 
 hot water. Loveday wore a thin cotton gown, and had 
 arms bare from the elbow, very white, streaked with pretty 
 blue veins. 
 
NANTSILLAN. 89 
 
 Rose caught Loveday almost boisterously in her arms, 
 and kissed her on both cheeks and on her lips. 
 
 ' That designing brother of yours pretended you were 
 seriously ill, and brought me here to nurse you. In reality 
 he desired the pleasure of my society ; he was tired of the 
 dull walk alone in the mist. Now you are busy, and I 
 suppose I shall be in the way. Yet I must detain you from 
 your work for three minutes. Oh ! it is insufferable in 
 Towan. Guardie says to his son, " Gerans, good boy, trot 
 into the parlour and talk to Rose," and in the tame fellow 
 trots. Presently the old gentleman puts in his head at the 
 door and says, " Gerans, good boy, that will do, come here ! " 
 Then the tame fellow goes pit-a-pat back to his place at 
 the old man's heel. Next the Squire says, " Curl yourself 
 up in a corner by the fire, and I give you leave to snore." 
 Then the docile creature curls up and snores. Presently 
 the father takes the bread and cuts it up, and says, 
 " Gerans, sit up prettily and beg," so up he sits on his hind 
 feet and holds his front pats before him — so ! ' She imitated 
 a clog begging. ' " Snap ! " says Mr. Gaverock, and snap 
 goes Gerans. It is really wonderful how well trained the 
 creature is. Is it not so, Mr. Penhalligan 1 ' asked Rose, 
 turning sharply round and confronting Dennis. 
 
 Loveday took Rose by the hand, and drew her into the 
 parlour and shut the door. 
 
 ' Do not say these sharp things, dear,' she said in a 
 gentle tone. ' Gerans is very good. Look for the excel- 
 lencies in people, not for their weaknesses, and you will be 
 the happier.' 
 
 ' I have not spoken half as sharply as your brother,' 
 said Rose, in self-defence. ' I give Gerans credit for being 
 a well-trained poodle ; Mr. Penhalligan said he was an 
 unweaned baby.' 
 
 ' I am sorry Dennis said that ; it is not true.' 
 
 ' Of course you take up the cudgels for Gerans Gaverock,' 
 Rose pouted as she spoke. ' He is so civil to you, and fore- 
 stalls all your wishes.' 
 
 Loveday's clear frank eyes rested on the twinkling blue 
 eyes of Rose, and the latter fell before the steady gaze. 
 ' Dear Rose,' said Loveday, ' Gerans is nothing more to me, 
 can be nothing more to me, than a kind and trusted — ■ 
 almost brother. I shall, I can, think of him in no other 
 
90 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 light, so give way to no romantic fancies. Gerans is 
 honourable, straightforward, and simple-hearted. We all 
 have our weaknesses, you as well as he — I most of all. 
 Two men look on the same face and draw it ; the one makes 
 a beautiful portrait, the other a caricature. The one leaves 
 out of sight all that is gross, and sordid, and common in 
 the face ; he paints the soul — as it might and may be — 
 shining through the features as through a figured globe. 
 The other knows nothing of soul, sees no ideal, believes in 
 none. He grasps everything that is ridiculous, mean, and 
 transitory in the face, and delineates that. You must look 
 at mankind as either the painter or the caricaturist. It is 
 best for us to take the higher platform.' After a short 
 pause : ' Will you help me, dear Rose ? ' 
 
 Rose looked round the parlour ; it was wholly unfur- 
 nished. The Penhalligans used only the hall. One room 
 sufficed them, and Loveday did her ironing in the parlour. 
 The long deal table was covered with linen, a fire was in 
 the grate, and irons stood around it, becoming heated. 
 
 ' Rose, I am ironing my brother's collars and shirt- 
 fronts. Will you goffer these frills for me 1 ' 
 
 ' My dear Loveday ! ' exclaimed Rose, ' I wish with all 
 my heart I could ; but I never did anything useful in all 
 my life, except wool-work.' 
 
 ' And that is very useful. I wish I had time to do 
 some.' 
 
 Rose's heart fluttered and her eyes danced. ' Loveday, 
 you darling ! Will you ? Oh, don't say me nay ! ' 
 
 ' How can I till I know what you want 1 ' said the 
 other, laughing. 
 
 ' I have begun a mat — that is, the border for a mat to 
 go before the fire. It is very pretty ; the ground olive- 
 green with a broad scroll over it of folded ribbon, shaded 
 from red to white. I began it three years ago, and I do a 
 little from time to time. Now I will attack it like a dragon 
 if you will accept it from me and use it for your parlour mat 
 when you fit up this room. Why have you not furnished 
 it?' 
 
 ' Wearewaiting for our ship to arrive, ' answered Love- 
 day, ' and Nantsillan Cove is so dangerous with reefs that 
 our ship has not yet ventured in.' 
 
NANTSILLAN. 91 
 
 ' But,' began Rose, looking round her with wonder, 
 'why does not your servant do this ? ' 
 
 ' Because our servant is a little girl of twelve, and she 
 would probably spoil the things.' 
 
 ' Does she cook your dinners and make the bread 1 ' 
 
 ' No ; I am cook and baker.' 
 
 ' She cleans the rooms and makes the beds 1 ' 
 
 1 No ; I am housemaid.' 
 
 ' And the garden 1 Who attends to that 1 ' 
 
 'I am gardener.' 
 
 ' But Mr. Penhalligan's horse 1 Surely you are not 
 groom also 1 ' 
 
 ' No, that I am not ; my brother is his own groom.' 
 
 ' This is very strange to me. And your dresses 1 And 
 the linen 1 Are you also dressmaker and scouring maid ? ' 
 
 'Yes, I am.' 
 
 ' Then,' said Rose, ' I am a very useless creature in the 
 world. I cannot understand you. You work like a common 
 woman, and yet you look always like a lady.' 
 
 ' Am I not a lady 1 ' asked Loveday, with a quiet 
 smile. 
 
 Rose in reply threw her arms round her and kissed her 
 again. 
 
 ' How good ! — how very good you are ! ' she said with a 
 gush of love and enthusiasm. ' I wish — oh ! I wish I were 
 like you ! ' 
 
 Loveday shook her head and went on with the ironing 
 whilst she talked, glad, perhaps, to be able to hide her face 
 by bending over her work. 
 
 ' No, dear, I am not good. I have committed grave 
 faults ; I have done things both foolish and wrong, for 
 which I shall grieve all my days, the shadow of which will 
 always hang over me. I have had more experience of life 
 than you, that is all, and I am oldened by it beyond my 
 years.' 
 
 ' There is Gerans ! ' interrupted Rose, starting, as she 
 saw his head pass the window. ' I thought he would come. 
 I suppose his father has sent him. I will charge him 
 with it.' 
 
 ' Prithee do not,' entreated Loveday, laying aside her 
 work and going up to her. ' You will wound him — that 
 will be the result ; and is that a result to be desired 1 ' 
 
92 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 ' He should come unprompted.' 
 
 ' Perhaps he has ; possibly not. Does it matter ? He 
 wanted to leave, and Mr. Gaverock suggested that he 
 should. Two hearts felt kindly towards you instead of 
 one. You should be pleased to have it so. Now, one 
 word with you before we go into the next room to them.' 
 Loveday's face became distressed, and her hand clasped 
 Rose's arm nervously. ' Do not play tricks with my brother. 
 I know you mean no harm, but Dennis is unable to bear 
 trifling. He takes everything seriously, too seriously. You 
 remember the fable of the frogs and the boys who threw 
 stones at them. " What is fun to you," said the frogs, " is 
 death to us." ' 
 
 Rose's tell-tale mouth twitched, the lips pouted, but 
 the corners went down ; she was half disposed at defiance, 
 half to cry. 
 
 ' We will detain both you and Mr. Gerans,' said Love- 
 day, ' and have tea ; then Dennis and I will do our best to 
 amuse you with music' 
 
 ' Oh, that will be prime ! exclaimed Rose, laughing. 
 ' But how about the ironing 1 Is Mr. Penhalligan to go 
 limp-collared to-morrow because we are here 1 ' 
 
 ' Leave that to me. We shall have a pleasant evening.' 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 A QUIET EVENING. 
 
 Loveday went out of the parlour at once to meet and 
 welcome Gerans, and invite him in to a dish of tea. ' You 
 will excuse me,' she said smiling, ' if I run away for a 
 few minutes and put off my work-a-day for my holiday 
 gown. It is a holiday indeed for us to entertain friends. 
 Dennis, make up the fire and draw the curtains. Mr. 
 Gerans, there is one corner of the hearth for you, and there 
 is a corner also for Rose, and to her I entrust the bellows.' 
 
 Gerans winced at the reference to the bellows, and 
 looked at Loveday. But he remembered that she could not 
 have heard his father's remark, and his colour, which had 
 flashed to his temples, disappeared again. 
 
 The little maid of twelve appeared, and laid the cloth, 
 
A QUIET EVENING. 93 
 
 standing on tiptoe and stretching over the table to smooth 
 out the creases. By the time it was laid evenly, Loveday 
 reappeared in a cloth gown, and helped the child to arrange 
 the table. A pretty Derby tea service appeared, inherited 
 by Loveday from her mother, a rabbit pie, cold, and pre- 
 serves of whortleberry, and blackberry, and strawberry, of 
 her own making. Then ensued a pause of a quarter of an 
 hour, during which the little maid ran to the nearest farm 
 for cream and butter. 
 
 Presently the tea-kettle came in, and was given a final 
 heating on the hall fire, to ensure that the water was really 
 on the boil when poured upon the Chinese leaves. The 
 curtains were drawn, the candles lighted, a faggot of dry 
 wood thrown on the fire, and the little party drew to the 
 table. 
 
 Then Hose uttered an exclamation of delight. On her 
 plate lay a little bunch of purple violets. ' Oh, Loveday ! 
 how sweet the flowers are ! and how sweet of you to give 
 me them ! ' 
 
 ' Our violets bloom here all the year round, the glen is 
 so warm and looe (sheltered).' 
 
 ' Like the pretty thoughts and fragrant virtues of your 
 dear heart,' said Rose eagerly — ' Of all flowers I love the 
 violet best.' 
 
 ' The violets of Nantsillan will not compare with the 
 rose of Towan,' said Dennis Penhalligan. 
 
 Rose tossed her head impatiently. ' Spare me your 
 formal compliments,' she said ; ' mine was a pretty speech 
 that sprang spontaneous from my heart, and yours is 
 laboured and artificial.' 
 
 Rose was, at first, less exuberant in her spirits than 
 usual. What Loveday had said to her in the parlour af- 
 fected her, but only for a while. She was too buoyant to 
 be long depressed, and by the time tea was over she had 
 regained complete elasticity. 
 
 Dennis shook off some of his gloom, and endeavoured to 
 be cheerful. He was very pleased to have Rose at his 
 table, yet at the same time he was ashamed of the bareness 
 of his room, its white walls, its common furniture. He 
 could never dispel the sense of his poverty. He was proud, 
 perhaps vain, not of his appearance, but of his abilities, 
 and the sense of bis being unworthily placed and hardly 
 
94 TIIE GAVEEOCKS. 
 
 treated never left him. He was ashamed of his table 
 because the cloth was coarse, of the forks because they 
 were of steel with black handles, of the preserves because 
 they were of ordinary wild fruit. His heart was so can- 
 kered with discontent that he could not see and rejoice 
 over the comforts and cleanliness that were his, provided 
 by the care of his sister. He never saw what advantages 
 he had, but he was keen-sighted towards the deficiencies. 
 There is no more dangerous mood than one that is dissatis- 
 fied, none more tormenting than that which is unthankful. 
 Loveday had a daily struggle with him to bring him to a 
 better mind, but was unsuccessful. 
 
 ' Dennis,' she said to him, ' the world is a mirror which 
 reflects our humours — laugh to it, and it laughs back to 
 you ; scowl at it, and it returns your defiance. It will 
 answer you as you address it, like an echo, just a note 
 lower.' 
 
 Dennis asked Rose during tea if she were fond of 
 music. 
 
 ' Music ! ' she answered, clapping her hands. ' Oh, I 
 love it ! I love nothing better.' 
 
 His dark face lightened as she said this. They had a 
 passion in common. 
 
 ' Then,' said he, ' I will play you a sonata of Beet- 
 hoven's ; that in C minor. It is my favourite ; of others, 
 I have to ask what they mean, but this one tells its own 
 tale. I can play this better than another, not because I 
 have practised it oftener, but because I can speak it through 
 my fingers. Every note expresses a thought of my heart. 
 As I interpret this sonata, it is the utterance of titanic 
 defiance by one wounded in spirit ; like a tamed eagle that 
 longs to soar, but cannot, it beats its wings in frenzy and 
 scorn, and gnaws its own heart out, because condemned to 
 lie on earth when its proper sphere is above the clouds. It 
 feels itself cast down and banned by a dark and inexorable 
 power above which denies it light and air. In the maestoso 
 you hear the agony of the soul ; in the allegro, its defiance. 
 There is a battle in which the restive spirit submits, and 
 then revolts, cries out in fury against the iron fate which 
 holds it down, and then throws itself sullenly with face to 
 earth, in sob and moan. Here and there bright and melo- 
 dious passages flash, like summer lightning, or pass as fra- 
 
A QUIET EVENING. 95 
 
 grant airs, but they do not lessen the darkness nor alleviate 
 the pain.' 
 
 ' Do you mean to tell me, Mr. Penhalligan, that all this 
 is contained in a few pages of music 1 ' 
 
 'You shall judge for yourself. You have heard my 
 " Argument," now listen to the canto.' 
 
 He seated himself at the piano, and began to play. In 
 a moment his soul was caught by the music, and he was 
 carried away from his surroundings, as Elijah was caught 
 and borne upwards in the chariot of fire. After a while, 
 as he was playing, as perhaps he had never played before, 
 his nerves excited by the presence of Rose, he became 
 dimly conscious of something indistinct and irritating, a 
 something that drew him down from his heights, and 
 brought him into the vulgar presence of unworthy sur- 
 roundings. By degrees he became aware what it was that 
 marred his pleasure — it was a conversation carried on in a 
 low tone in the room. He thought at first that the tire- 
 some little maid was clearing away the tea things, and 
 asking her mistress's instructions ; but when he paused to 
 turn a leaf he heard Rose asking Gerans, 'But, really, 
 cousin, what is a goose fair 1 ' 
 
 He tried to play on, but his interest in the music was 
 gone. Loveday had watched his face, had seen his emo- 
 tions throughout the performance quiver in his face, and 
 now she read in it disappointment and anger. She went 
 close to his side and said, ' Dennis, this is caviar to her ; 
 play something lighter, the dance music in Lord Westmore- 
 land's " Bajazet." ' 
 
 Without answering, he allowed his fingers rapidly to 
 glide into the frivolous, worthless music of the noble 
 dilettante. 
 
 The talking ceased at once, and Rose's little feet beat 
 the dance time on the slate floor. 
 
 Presently Dennis ceased. Then Rose clapped her hands. 
 ' Thank you so much, Mr. Penhalligan. I have enjoyed 
 myself greatly. But really, I did not think Beethoven 
 could have written anything as fine. All the first part 
 struck me as poor stuff, but the scherzo at the end was 
 delicious.' 
 
 ' Come round the fire,' said Loveday quickly, stepping 
 between her brother and Rose, to hide from her the ex- 
 
96 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 pression of distress and disgust that passed over his face. 
 'I have got a lapful of chestnuts from our own tree. We 
 must toast them in the embers ; and little Ruth will bring 
 in the glasses. You must taste my metheglin brewed 
 from our own hives, and spicy with thyme from Towan 
 Down.' 
 
 ' Penhalligan,' said Gerans, ' are you going to the Goose 
 Fair at Camelford 1 ' 
 
 Dennis shook his head. ' "Why should I go 1 ' 
 
 ' Loveday might like to be there, and eat Michaelmas 
 goose.' 
 
 ' Loveday is quite content to be at home,' said Miss 
 Penhalligan. 
 
 ' You must come, Dennis, and you also, Miss Penhalli- 
 gan. The Goose Fair is an institution. My father goes, 
 of course. We pick up my aunt and uncle Loveys on the 
 way. It is settled that Rose is to go. I insist on your 
 being my guests. Do not refuse me. Let me count — that 
 makes seven. It takes four to a goose. We will have two. 
 I dare say Anthony Loveys will come with his father and 
 mother to make the eighth.' 
 
 Penhalligan looked at his sister doubtfully. Gerans 
 went on : ' A moonlight night to drive home in over the 
 moors. The Squire and the Loveyses can go in the chaise, 
 and you and I, Dennis, and the young ladies in the gigs. 
 There are our trap and yours available. If you will drive 
 Loveday, I will drive Rose.' 
 
 ' I shall not be able to go, I fear,' said Penhalligan, with 
 darkening brow and quivering lip. 
 
 ' Cousin Gerans,' exclaimed Rose, ' I should have sup- 
 posed that it lay with the ladies to choose their partners.' 
 
 'By all means,' answered Gerans; 'express your wishes, 
 and they shall be obeyed.' 
 
 ' Then I think you shall drive Loveday one way, and 
 me the other way. I shall have the pleasure of listening 
 to Mr. Penhalligan's compliments on one of the journeys, 
 and to endure your uncouthness on the other. Which it is 
 to be must be decided by lot. Here, Mr. Gerans, are my 
 hands. One contains a violet, and the other nothing. 
 Choose which you will have for the drive to Wadebridge. 
 If you pick the violet you have Loveday, if you choose the 
 other hand you elect simply me.' 
 
A QUIET EVENING. 97 
 
 ' I take your left,' said Gerans. She opened her hand 
 and showed her rosy palm. 
 
 ' There, Mr. Penhalligan, yours is the honour and 
 pleasure of driving me home by moonlight over the downs 
 to Towan, after the Goose Fair. Will not that induce you 
 to sacrifice your patients for a day 1 ' 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE GOOSE FAIR. 
 
 The Goose Fair in the West of England is not a fair at 
 which geese are sold, but is one at which geese are eaten. 
 It takes place about Michaelmas— Old Michaelmas — and 
 then all the country round the town at which it is held 
 makes holiday. The labourers cast aside their flails and 
 picks, put on their best clothes ; the servant-maids beg a 
 holiday with glowing cheeks and tears of entreaty ; the 
 farmers and their wives, and sons and daughters, and, till 
 not many years ago, the gentry and the parsons, rode or 
 drove to the market town with eagerness to eat goose. 
 Geese ran over the commons in every village, and drank 
 out of the ponds in every farm, and everywhere were eaten 
 at home ; nevertheless, a home-fed, home-roasted, home 
 served-up goose was by universal consent a base and in- 
 sipid dish when compared with Old Michaelmas goose ate 
 in common in the market-town on Goose Fair Day. Better 
 eat no mince pies at Christmas than omit to eat roast goose 
 at Old Michaelmas Fair. Goose eaten then meant plenty 
 throughout the ensuing twelvemonth. The way in which 
 this is expressed in the West Country vernacular is more 
 precise than elegant. To write it would make the page 
 blush the colour of the ' Globe.' Suffice it to say that he 
 who eats roast goose on Goose Fair Day is sure not to have 
 an empty stomach till next Michaelmas. 
 
 The Squire was a great stickler for old customs. Every 
 year he drove to Wadebridge and picked up his married 
 sister Barbara, and her husband Anthony Loveys, on the 
 way, and carried them with him to the ' Lion's Head ' at 
 Wadebridge, where they dined together — of course — on 
 goose ! When his own sons were old enough, and when 
 
 u 
 
98 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 young Anthony Loveys, his nephew, was of sufficient age 
 to dine abroad, they were included in the party. Mr. and 
 Mrs. Gaverock and Mr. and Mrs. Loveys sat down to one 
 goose at a table by themselves ; and Gerans, Constantine, 
 and Anthony junior, sat down to a second goose at another 
 table by themselves ; and being young, hearty, and hungry, 
 the three managed to demolish a goose between them, 
 though, according to orthodox custom, it takes four to eat 
 a goose. 
 
 On the fair day a smoke redolent of goose hung over 
 the little town of Wadebridge. The atmosphere in every 
 house was impregnated with it from cellar to attic. The 
 inn kitchens were unable to cook all the birds required, 
 and all the house kitchens in proximity to each inn lent 
 themselves to be utilised for the occasion. The inns had 
 not sitting-rooms to contain the guests, and beds were 
 pulled to pieces and stacked in the garrets, and washstands 
 piled one on another, that sleeping apartments might for 
 the nonce be converted into eating-rooms. The gardens 
 around Wadebridge had their sage reaped down, and their 
 onions torn up and wheelbarrowed into the town days 
 before, to stuff the geese that were to stuff the eaters at the 
 fair. Feathers which had been a shilling a pound all the 
 rest of the year dropped, as suddenly as the mercury before 
 a cyclone, to ninepence. Children turned up their noses 
 at butter, and enriched their bread with yellow goose fat. 
 Dogs, cats, despised mutton and beef bones through the 
 whole month of October, they were given such a surfeit of 
 goose intestines. 
 
 To ensure that every goose was well done, it was boiled 
 the day before, and then roasted on the day of the fair ; 
 and goose broth — the water in which the geese had been 
 boiled — was to be had for the asking by all the beggars, 
 and poor, and sick in and round Wadebridge, but was 
 despised and scouted by them, and so poured away for the 
 pigs by those who kept pigs, and down the gutters by those 
 who had none. 
 
 When the fair was over and the town relapsed into its 
 normal stillness, and the smoke of the fires and the fumes 
 of the roast lifted and were wafted away, then the Wade- 
 bridgians settled down to pies of gizzard and feet, and 
 hashes of neck and doctor's nose which lasted a week, and 
 
THE GOOSE FAIR. 99 
 
 soup of giblet and relics of stuffing becoming weaker and 
 less savoury day after day. 
 
 The reader may suppose that we are about to describe 
 to him the dinners themselves on Old Michaelmas Day to 
 revive in him the savoury recollections of many a sage-and- 
 oniony and unctuous moment in his past : spots in life's 
 pilgrimage on which it is a pleasure to look back, moments 
 which were greasy but guileless. We are not going to 
 do so. 
 
 At one table sat Squire Gaverock with his sister and 
 brother-in-law and young Anthony ; at the other the two 
 young ladies with Gerans and Dennis. Old Gaverock carved 
 his goose with experience, and helped himself to the flap of 
 fat skin that covered the stuffing. Gerans squirted the 
 gravy over the table, and in the faces of his companions, 
 in his clumsy attempts to find the joints of the wings and 
 legs. The old people had done their first helping before 
 the young had begun their hacked and shapeless morsels. 
 But time was made, like geese, to be killed. The after- 
 noon was before them in which, after a protracted, merry 
 meal, to stroll about the town and look at the shows and 
 shops. 
 
 Young Anthony Loveys was a tall, heavy young man, 
 into whose constitution goose seemed to have largely 
 entered. He spoke very little, ate hungrily, was blank 
 in face, red complexioned, and puffy, with a rough skin. 
 He could ride, and liked dogs ; he drank readily with his 
 father and uncle, but never became uproarious. By age 
 he belonged to the younger party, but that party was not 
 sorry to be without him at their table, where he would 
 have contributed nothing to their entertainment. 
 
 To the goose succeeded apple tart with clotted cream ; 
 then cheese and celery, and a bottle of port. After that, 
 the young people were at liberty to leave the table : but 
 their elders, and the heavy Anthony junior, remained at 
 theirs talking, arguing, eating apples, and drinking more 
 wine. Mrs. Loveys, indeed, protested that she had shop- 
 ping to do in the town, and during her absence a neighbour, 
 also dining that day on goose at the ' Lion's Head,' took 
 her place. 
 
 The morning had been bright and sunny, with a plea- 
 sant air from the sea. When the diners turned out 
 
 h2 
 
100 THE GAVEKOCES. 
 
 into the street and square, they saw that a change in the 
 weather had taken place. The wind had veered round to 
 the north-east, had risen, and was bitterly cold. Heavy 
 clouds were massed on the horizon and were rolling over 
 and obscuring the sky. Some persons in the market-place 
 said they had heard thunder ; others said they had seen 
 lightning, but had heard no thunder. 
 
 The delay in getting dinner, the insufficiency of waiters, 
 and the general reluctance to break up from table, had 
 brought the afternoon to half past three before the inn was 
 left for the sight-seeing and shopping. The fairing was 
 done with shivers. The owners of stalls were withdrawing 
 their wares under cover ; darkness was settling prematurely 
 over the town. Hark ! A distant moan and then roar. 
 In another minute down came snow in a blinding shower, 
 whirled over Wadebridge and the valley of the Camel by a 
 furious icy gale. 
 
 ' Come here ! Come in here ! ' exclaimed Dennis Pen- 
 halligan, drawing the ladies under a booth out of the snow 
 and wind. The booth was a hut of rough boards. 
 
 There were various wares exposed on the counter of the 
 booth where they stood, but the party did not regard them ; 
 they stood looking at the snow as it swept past. 
 
 The street was full of flying people, farmers and peasants 
 who had come in for the day to enjoy the fair and eat 
 goose, and buy at the stalls. Mothers had dolls, and little 
 windmills, and wooden horses for their children, and as 
 they ran they dropped some of these treasures. There rose 
 much laughing and many shouts. The storm increased the 
 merriment. 
 
 ' Do look there ! ' exclaimed Rose ; ' see that odd man ! ' 
 She pointed to the figure of a pedlar who passed carrying a 
 pack slung before him, a long basket covered with tar- 
 paulin. The man was fantastically dressed, with a feather 
 in his hair, and no cap on his head. He wore a long oil- 
 skin coat. As he passed the wind swirled the snow about 
 him, so that he seemed to walk in the midst of an eddy of 
 revolving flakes that half obscured him. 
 
 ' How odd ! ' said Rose. ' Do you see the fellow, 
 Gerans ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' answered the young man. ' But what amuses 
 me most is that old farmer with the packet of lemon drops ; 
 
 
THE GOOSE FAIE. 101 
 
 the snow has melted the paper, and he is trailing the sweet 
 things around him.' 
 
 ' Now the man is gone,' said Rose. 
 
 ' Come,' said Gerans, ' let us see whether there is any- 
 thing in this stall that can attract us till the storm blows 
 over.' 
 
 They turned and examined the wares. They consisted 
 of old iron ; there was nothing they could buy. 
 
 ' A pity we have not come where there were bonbons 
 and cakes,' said Gerans. ' I would treat you to the whole 
 contents.' 
 
 ' At all events,' said Loveday, ' we have got shelter from 
 the snow.' 
 
 Dennis was excited and irritable. The wine he had 
 drunk had heated his brain without warming his heart. 
 He was jealous of Gerans' attentions to Rose, which were 
 marked, and he resented being behoven to his rival for the 
 feast. He was angry with himself for having accepted the 
 invitation, and he was angry with Gerans for having in- 
 vited him. When he detected Gerans saying something to 
 Rose which made her laugh, he suspected that the joke was 
 about himself, his poverty, his want of professional success, 
 his ill-humour. The dark veins in his brow swelled, and 
 his lips quivered so that he was forced to bite them to 
 disguise his agitation. He could not quarrel with Gerans 
 over the cups for which the latter had paid, but he would 
 be glad of an occasion for a quarrel elsewhere than at the 
 table where Gerans was host. The observant eye of Love- 
 day was on him. He felt it, and resented that also. He 
 knew that she read his heart, and he was angry with her — 
 his best friend — for doing so. He would have hidden his 
 ill humour, his envy, his hate, but he could not do so. 
 
 They turned to look again at the weather. As they did 
 so, again the strange pedlar Rose had noticed came into 
 sight, walking slowly against the storm. As he came up 
 to the stall where the little party was clustered, he stood 
 and turned and looked at them. His lips moved and he 
 half opened his pack. They saw that he was deformed. 
 He had not an ordinary hunch, but a something that pro- 
 truded from the middle of his back in a strange peak. He 
 was a singular-looking man, with long ragged black hair. 
 A band was tied round his head, holding his hair in place, 
 
102 THE GAVEItOCKS. 
 
 and in this band were stuck a peacock's feather and a 
 Cornish crystal. His features were bold, an aquiline nose, 
 and arched, thick black brows. His complexion was 
 coppery, his eyes were deep-sunken, and from the hollow 
 sockets they gleamed with a mixture of appeal, provocation, 
 insolence, and deference. He wore a glazed oilskin suit, 
 very long, which he kept wrapping and flapping about him 
 with his arms ; beneath it the colour of a red waistcoat or 
 jacket, they could not distinguish which, was visible when 
 the waterproof fell apart. He wore long wading-boots. 
 
 He was followed by a white and liver-coloured dog. 
 As he stood looking at the little party an involuntary 
 shiver ran through them. 
 
 ' I am cold,' said Rose. ' Let us move away from here. 
 I do not mind the snow.' 
 
 ' Let us go,' said Loveday to her brother. ' I have done 
 all the fairing I care for.' 
 
 ' That is, you have done none ; for you have not had 
 money to spend.' 
 
 ' I have bought what little I need,' said Loveday, gently. 
 ' After all, Dennis, we do not want much, and what is the 
 use of buying what we can do without 1 ' 
 
 The pedlar was gone. A rush, blinding and dense, of 
 hail and snow mixed, went by, and with his head down 
 against it, followed by his dog, went the man. 
 
 ' Who is that queer man 1 ' asked Rose. 
 
 ' How can I tell 1 ' answered Gerans. ' He is quite a 
 stranger — some showman or mountebank.' 
 
 ' His eye rested on me and made me feel colder than if 
 I had been cut by a blast of east wind and snow.' 
 
 ' Well, you will never see him again.' 
 
 ' I wonder now,' said Rose, ' what he could have in that 
 pack, he carried before him. I have brought money in my 
 pocket and have bought nothing.' 
 
103 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE PEDLAR'S PACK. 
 
 ' Halloo ! You in here, Rose 1 Loveday 1 What ! the 
 lads and the maidens out in the storm ? ' 
 
 The voice was that of old Gaverock. 
 
 ' You here too, Anthony ? ' 
 
 The voice was that of old Loveys. 
 
 ' Come along, we have ordered coffee,' shouted old Gave- 
 rock. ' Here's myself and the rest of us old folks come to 
 look for you through the snow.' 
 
 Hender stood outside the booth. At the same moment 
 the pedlar was again seen, now standing beside him, and 
 his dog ran round the Squire. Old Gaverock turned and 
 looked at the dog, then he fixed his eyes with a wide stare 
 on the pedlar. He put his hand to his brow, drew it over 
 his eyes, which had in them a startled expression, and his 
 mouth fell open. 
 
 ' What is this 1 Who are you 1 What is here 1 ' he 
 asked. ' Come away, Rose ; come away, Miss Penhalligan. 
 Gerans, we must be driving home.' 
 
 ' Oh, uncle ! ' said Rose Trewhella, ' who is that strange 
 man 1 We have seen him pass several times. What has 
 he got in that pack he carries in front of him 1 Do go and 
 ask him, Gerans. You, Guardie ! ' 
 
 ' Come away,' said old Gaverock, with a tone full of 
 uneasiness. ' This is not fit weather for you girls. Come 
 away ; we must be returning home.' 
 
 He was manifestly ill at ease. He kept his eyes fixed 
 on the pedlar with something like alarm in them. Rose, 
 with her perversity of nature, now wanted to stay. A few 
 minutes before she had wished to leave. But old Gave- 
 rock would take no refusal ; he would allow of no delay. 
 He drew the girls away from the booth towards the inn. 
 
 Gerans remained behind and went up to the pedlar, who 
 had placed his pack on the snow at his feet. 
 
 ' Have you any wares in your pack,' he asked, ' wares 
 that would interest the ladies 1 You are a stranger here, 
 are you not 1 ' 
 
104 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 ' I have wares.' 
 
 ' Let me look at them.' 
 
 ' No ; the ladies must see, not you.' 
 
 'Then bring the pack to the inn. They will be there 
 some minutes before leaving Wadebridge.' 
 
 The pedlar, without more ado, stooped and took up the 
 box of wicker-work covered with black oilcloth. As he was 
 unable to carry his pack slung behind him, because of the 
 hump in his back, he carried it in front, slung round his 
 neck, as a hurdy-gurdy player carries his instrument. 
 
 ' I will show my pretty things,' he said, ' they are not 
 for you, sir, nor for any of the gentlemen — only for the 
 ladies.' Then he followed Gerans to the inn. 
 
 The party was all there in the long room, well lighted 
 and hot, waiting for the horses and traps to be brought 
 round. When the pedlar appeared with his basket and 
 raised the lid, every one crowded up to look in, expecting 
 to find needles, thimbles, thread, and tape. But what was 
 their surprise to find that it contained nothing but roses ! 
 Roses at that time of the year — just now when hail and snow 
 were driving about the house, when the winter storm was 
 tearing every leaf off the trees and every flower from its 
 stem ! It was true that the blossoms were mostly those of 
 monthly roses, that bloom up till Christmas ; still, the sight 
 of a basketful of them presented in a heated inn parlour 
 to men laden with wine and spirits, and inclined to be up- 
 roarious, was incongruous. The roses were done up in little 
 bunches : the pretty Bourbon, just introduced ; the Noi- 
 sette and the China roses ; buds with leaves, and single 
 flowers in full blow, with a little maiden- hair fern. 
 
 The men laughed ; some scoffed. The ladies were de- 
 lighted, and the young men eagerly bought bouquets for 
 them. Probably the pedlar did a better trade in these 
 perishable articles than he could have done with needles 
 and threads. 
 
 ' Guardie ! ' cried Rose, ' you must positively take home 
 a very large bunch for dear aunt. You could bring her no 
 fairing that would please her better.' 
 
 ' My love,' said Mr. Loveys to his wife, ' choose your 
 posy and command my purse.' 
 
 ' I must give one to you, Miss Rose, and another to you, 
 Miss Loveday,' said Gerans. 
 
THE PEDLAR'S PACK. 105 
 
 ' It is carrying coals to Newcastle to offer roses to the 
 Queen Rose — the Sanspareille,' said Dennis. 
 
 ' Really, Mr. Dennis,' exclaimed Rose, laughing, ' your 
 laboured compliments overwhelm me ! ' 
 
 ' You will allow me as well as Gerans to offer you a 
 posy 1 ' he asked. 
 
 ' I have two hands/ answered Rose gaily. ' I wish I 
 had four, to carry a bunch in each.' 
 
 ' Then pray choose.' 
 
 She thrust her hand into the basket, in among the 
 flowers, and uttered a startled cry as she sharply withdrew it. 
 
 ' What is the matter 1 ' asked Loveday, standing up. 
 
 ' Look ! look ! ' exclaimed Rose. ' There is a toad 
 among them, at the bottom, hidden by the flowers.' 
 
 ' A toad ! Impossible,' said Loveday, and put in her 
 hand. 
 
 Rose grasped her wrist and drew her fingers away. 
 
 ' Do not touch. I know there is ; I felt it. You cannot 
 see — the rose leaves hide it — but I had a glimpse of the 
 beast ; it spits — poison.' 
 
 Dennis laughed sarcastically, and shook the basket. 
 Then there emerged from under the sweet and delicate 
 flowers, a little round, glossy, brown object. 
 
 Rose cried out, and shrank back. Loveday recoiled 
 also. Those crowding round the table shook it, and again 
 the roses covered the object from their eyes. Whatever it 
 was, it lay at the very bottom of the box. 
 
 ' I know it is a toad 1 ' said Rose vehemently. ' I 
 touched its cold and clammy body, and it sent a shudder up 
 my arm and a chill to my heart. Look ! there — again.' 
 
 The pressure of hands on the table, the thrusting of men 
 against its side eager to see for themselves, gave movement 
 to the box ; and for an instant a round brown object ap- 
 peared above the rose leaves and then dipped under them 
 again. 
 
 ' What have you got there — in there, Hunchback ? ' 
 
 ' Where ? ' 
 
 ' There ; under the roses, at the bottom of your pack 1 ' 
 
 ' Crushed roses, bruised rose-leaves. Nothing else, gentle- 
 men, that I am aware of.' 
 
 ' But beneath the roses 1 ' asked Gerans. 
 
 • Nothing at all.' 
 
106 THE GAVEBOOES. 
 
 ' There ! See ! Peeping up again, above them.' 
 
 ' This is the best way to ascertain/ said Dennis, and he 
 turned the basket over on the table. 
 
 ' My posies ! — my flowers ! you will spoil them ! ' cried 
 the pedlar in dismay. 
 
 The heap of flowers lay strewn about, and among the 
 beautiful pink and white blossoms lay a small double- 
 barrelled pistol, with rusty barrels, but with a polished 
 curled handle of brown mottled wood ; so shaped that at 
 the first glance, as it peeped out from among the roses, in 
 the uncertain light of the candles, it might readily be taken 
 for a reptile. Dennis Penhalligan took up the pistol and 
 examined it. As he did so a black spider emerged from 
 the bore and ran over his hand. 
 
 The pedlar was uneasy, and wanted to have the weapon 
 returned to him. He put out his hand across the table, 
 with the oilskin sleeve on it, and tried to grasp the handle 
 and take it from Dennis, but the young man would 
 not give it up. He turned the pistol over, rubbed the 
 rust spots, and examined the lock ; then he handed it to 
 Squire Gaverock, who was clamouring to have a sight of 
 the weapon. 
 
 ' Pshaw ! ' exclaimed the old man. ' Do you call this a 
 pistol ? It is more fitted for ladies than men. It might 
 knock over a sparrow, nothing bigger.' He tossed the 
 pistol back. Another took it up and looked at it. So it 
 was passed round. 
 
 ' What do you want for it 1 ' asked Mr. Loveys. ' It is 
 worth the value of old iron, nothing more.' 
 
 ' It is not mine, sir ; it is not for sale. Give me my 
 little pistol back. If I had thought to sell it, I would never 
 have put it among flowers to rust.' 
 
 Dennis took hold of the weapon again. 
 
 1 Pray mind what you are about,' said Gerans. ' It may 
 be loaded ; and you are pointing the barrel at me.' 
 
 ' Will you sell it ? ' asked Penhalligan of the pedlar. 
 
 ' You do not want the ugly plaything,' said his sister. 
 ' What could you do with it 1 ' 
 
 ' Play with it, as it is a plaything,' answered the young 
 sui'geon. ' Practise with it on a rainy day ; that is pleasant 
 sport for an idle hour. I will have the pistol. What is 
 your price, Hunchback ? ' 
 
THE PEDLAR'S PACK. 107 
 
 ' Price ! ' repeated the pedlar. ' It is not for sale ; it is 
 worth nothing. To set it to rights will cost money ; but 
 the stock is good. I will take a guinea for the thing.' 
 
 Dennis opened his purse, then coloured to the roots of 
 his hair. He had not a guinea in his purse. 
 
 ' Loveday,' he said in a low tone, ' lend rne a few 
 shillings.' 
 
 ' My dear Dennis, I have nothing.' 
 
 ' Do you wish very much to have the pistol 1 ' asked 
 Rose. 
 
 Before he could reply, an ostler came in to say that 
 Squire Gaverock's carriage and the gigs were ready. 
 
 ' The storm has abated,' said Mrs. Loveys. 
 
 'Oh, look ! ' exclaimed Loveday, glancing through the 
 window, ' the moon is shining, and the street is white with 
 snow.' 
 
 ' Hail, hail ! ' corrected Gerans. ' The moors will be 
 glistening white as we drive home. I hope you have wraps, 
 Miss Loveday ; we shall meet the wind.' 
 
 In the bustle of preparation for the long drive home 
 the pedlar was forgotten. He took the opportunity to 
 refill his basket with the scattered flowers. 
 
 ' Are you ready, Miss Rose 1 ' asked the surgeon. ' My 
 horse is impatient to be off.' 
 
 ' Coming directly ; I have forgotten something.' 
 
 Gerans and Loveday started. The sky had cleared— a 
 few curdy clouds hung in it, like ice-floes in a dark cold 
 sea ; the ground everywhere was white and crackling under 
 the feet of men and horses. 
 
 The barouche with the Squire was shut, but he shouted 
 through the window for a drop of cordial all round to keep 
 out the cold. 
 
 'Now, Mr. Dennis, I am at your service,' said Rose, 
 coming out at the door ; 'it is my fate, I believe, to be 
 driven by you. Fortunate ! for if you upset the trap, and 
 dislocate my neck, you are at hand to set it again.' He 
 helped her into his gig, and in another moment they were 
 driving homewards in the wake of Gerans. 
 
 In a quarter of an hour they were out of the valley, on 
 the high road. On each side was moor, treeless, white, 
 shining in the moonlight ; rocks seemed like lumps of coal, 
 bushes as fibrous tufts black as soot. 
 
108 THE GAVEEOCKS. 
 
 ' Gerans is out of sight,' said Rose. 
 
 ' He has a better horse than mine. One such as myself 
 must put up with a cob.' 
 
 ' Do you know, Mr. Penhalligan, I shall not go to 
 another Goose Fair ; one is sufficient in a life's experience.' 
 
 ' Nor I,' said he. 
 
 ' I do not think it is quite an entertainment for a lady. 
 One generation becomes more particular than another, I 
 believe. Our successors will be too nice to sit at table in 
 an inn with men drinking, and go to a booth to do their 
 shopping. I felt all the time that dear Loveday was out 
 of place. But Mrs. Loveys liked it, and Mrs. Gaverock 
 always attended.' 
 
 ' When the ladies decline to attend the gentlemen will 
 hold aloof. Then it will be left to farmers and their wives 
 to frequent the ordinary.' 
 
 ' I believe Gerans would not care to go unless accustomed 
 to do so.' 
 
 ' Gerans ! ' laughed the surgeon ; ' he goes because his 
 father says " Go " ; and he eats his goose because his father 
 puts the roast bird under his nose. If he obeys his wife, 
 when he gets one, as he obeys his father, his daily meal 
 will be off humble pie.' 
 
 ' You are too hard on poor Cousin Gerans,' said Rose, 
 in an injured tone. 
 
 ' I am but repeating what you have said. You likened 
 him to a dancing dog the other evening. I saw dancing 
 poodles to-day at the fair, and remembered your simile.' 
 
 Rose said nothing, but moved uneasily in her seat. So 
 they drove on, neither speaking. 
 
 The white moorland, cold and shining, was stretched to 
 the horizon on both sides. The road was indicated only by 
 granite stones stuck on end, capped with snow, casting black 
 shadows away from the moon. Everything around was in 
 white and black ; there was no colour in the dark sky 
 aloft, no colour in the inky sea, caught in glimpses between 
 the headlands ; no colour in the tortured thorn-bushes and 
 rare crippled ashes come upon here and there. They might 
 have been driving over the surface of the full moon. 
 
 Presently Rose said, ' Let us have done with joking on 
 that subject. It has become distasteful to me.' 
 
 'Perhaps the subject of your jokes has been changed,' 
 
THE PEDLAR'S PACK. 109 
 
 said Dennis bitterly, ' and I am the unhappy victim of your 
 raillery. I saw you laughing with Gerans.' 
 
 Rose opened her eyes wide. ' We were not thinking or 
 speaking of you.' 
 
 ' The unfortunate and the unhappy are not worthy to 
 be thought of by those on whom fate smiles.' 
 
 ' Why do you speak like this, Mr. Penhalligan 1 ' asked 
 Rose. ' You are not unfortunate, and have no right to be 
 unhappy. You are very highly blessed in having a sister 
 such as Loveday, and ought to be serenely happy in such a 
 sweet home as Nantsillan.' 
 
 ' I may have ambitions beyond a sister to keep house 
 for me, and a hired cottage, scantily furnished, with slate 
 floors.' 
 
 'You are young, and have the world before you,' said 
 Rose, cheerfully. 
 
 ' The world before me ! ' repeated Dennis with a sneer. 
 ' A world like this ' — he swept the horizon with his whip — 
 ' cold, dead, shelterless, over which to go, with head down 
 against the numbing wind, without a gleam of sunshine to 
 cheer, a continual winter, moonlight, and beyond ' — he 
 pointed with his whip to the black Atlantic — ' the un- 
 fathomed sea of Infinite Night. It is now as it was of old 
 in Egypt. Some are in day, whilst others are immersed in 
 a darkness from which there is no escape.' 
 
 He put his hand into his overcoat pocket for his 
 kerchief, as his brow was wet. 
 
 ' What is this 1 ' he asked in surprise, as he drew some- 
 thing from it. Insensibly he tightened the rein and checked 
 the horse. In his hand he held a small pistol, and the moon 
 glinted on its polished stock and rusty barrel. 
 
 Rose laughed. 
 
 ' This is the pistol I saw among the flowers,' he said. 
 
 ' Accept it as a little present from me,' said Rose, 
 coaxingly, but timidly. ' I saw you wished to have it, so 
 stayed behind and bought it. Keep it for my sake.' 
 
 ' And use it,' asked Dennis, ' should the necessity 
 arise 1 ' 
 
HO THE GAVEEOCKS. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 'pas de chance.' 
 
 Dennis was more than touched, he was deeply moved by 
 the kindness of Rose. His blood rushed through his veins 
 like lava streams. His hand shook as he held the reins. 
 
 ' How good — how very good of you ! ' he said. ' I feel 
 it the more because I am unused to receive kindnesses.' 
 
 He put the reins in her hand. ' You can drive for a 
 minute whilst I look at your present. How I shall value 
 it, words cannot tell ; never, never will I part with it 
 whilst I have life.' 
 
 He turned it over in the moonlight. The rust spots on 
 it were like the marks — the blotches — on the back of a 
 toad ; the steel shone white in the moon's rays, flashed 
 and became dark again. Dennis tried the cock. 
 
 ' Don't span it,' said Rose ; ' it may be loaded.' 
 
 Penhalligan laughed. ' Not likely. An old pistol, lying 
 at the bottom of a basketful of roses. Loaded ! "Why should 
 it be loaded V He drew the trigger carelessly. At once a 
 report followed, with a flash, and the bullet flew over the 
 horse's head. 
 
 The beast, frightened at the discharge, bounded, kicked, 
 and dashed forward. Before Dennis had time to wrest the 
 reins from the hand of Rose, the horse had run the gig 
 against one of the granite blocks by the roadside, and 
 almost instantaneously the gig was over, and Dennis and 
 Rose were in the road. 
 
 Penhalligan picked himself up. He was shaken, but 
 not hurt. 
 
 Without a thought for his cob and trap, he ran to Rose, 
 who lay on the snow motionless. In mad terror he picked 
 her up, and spoke to her, but she made no answer. 
 
 ' Rose ! My dearest ! Rose, for God's sake speak ! ' 
 
 He felt her arms, her feet ; no bones were broken ; the 
 words she had said as he lifted her into the gig occurred to 
 him — but her neck was not broken. 
 
 ' Rose ! Rose ! ' he cried, and clasped her in his arms. 
 He knelt on the hail- and snow-covered ground and held 
 
'pas de chance.' Ill 
 
 her to his heart. ' My God ! ' he said, ' has it come to this, 
 that I have killed her I love best in the world ? ' He 
 turned her face to the moonlight. How lovely it was ! In 
 his agony and passion he put his lips to her brow, her 
 cheeks, her mouth. ' I may never have another chance of 
 kissing her,' he said fiercely. As he held her to his heart 
 it was as though he held her before a raging furnace, 
 and that the heat it gave forth must restore her. He 
 leaned his cheek to her mouth, to feel if she were breathing ; 
 he laid his hand on her heart to learn if it were beating. 
 Then he put his fingers through his hair, and held his 
 temples, which were bursting with the boiling, beating 
 pulses of fire, and his eyes were lifted to the black sky, in 
 which swam the chill, dead moon. ' My God ! ' he said in 
 a voice that shook with passion, ' give her to me, and I will 
 be good. I have not prayed for many years. I ask this 
 one thing now. Give her to me ! ' 
 He felt her move in his arms. 
 
 ' Dennis,' she said, ' what is it ? What are you saying 1 ' 
 
 ' I am praying.' 
 
 'Forme?' 
 
 ' Yes — yes — yes, for you. Only for you.' 
 
 1 What is the matter ? Where am 1 1 What has 
 happened 1 ' She disengaged herself from his embracing 
 arm and tried to stand. 
 
 ' We have been upset, You are hurt ? ' 
 
 She felt her head. ' No,' she said, ' not much. I lost 
 all sense. Now I am right. What happened 1 Where 
 is the gig 1 Did we fall out ? ' 
 
 Now he looked round. 
 
 ' The gig is broken. There is my poor horse, fast by the 
 head. The rein has caught in the axle, and the axle turn- 
 ing has brought his head up to the wheel.' 
 
 ' Can we not go on 1 ' 
 
 Penhalligan shook his head. 
 
 ' But what is to be done 1 We cannot spend the night 
 on the moor and sleep in the snow.' 
 
 ' The chaise is coming on with Mr. Gaverock and the 
 Loveys' party. The young cub can turn out on the box, 
 and you will travel home, inside.' 
 
 ' But you 1 ' 
 
 Dennis shrugged his shoulders. ' What happens to me 
 
112 THE GAVEKOCKS. 
 
 is of little moment. I must release my cob and ride him 
 home.' 
 
 ' I am so sorry. It is all my fault.' 
 
 ' I regret the accident for one thing only. 
 
 'What is that?' 
 
 ' It deprives me of your company for the rest of the 
 way.' 
 
 ' That is nothing.' 
 
 ' To me — everything.' 
 
 ' Even the cutting wind and the snow cannot freeze 
 compliments from your tongue.' 
 
 Dennis led her to a block of granite and seated her 
 upon it. He collected the wraps and folded them round 
 her ; if she would have suffered him he would have taken 
 off his overcoat and laid it in the snow for her feet to rest 
 in, and folded it over them to keep them warm. 
 
 ' Mr. Penhalligan, I cannot, I will not permit this ; you 
 are over-kind to me and over-cruel to yourself. See the 
 poor horse. Do release him, and tell me the true condition 
 of the gig.' 
 
 ' The horse must wait until you are taken away from me 
 by the chaise. Every moment now is to me most precious.' 
 
 ' Really, Mr. Penhalligan, you turn me dizzy again. Do 
 attend to the horse.' 
 
 ' The carriage may be here at any moment.' 
 
 ' Well — the sooner the better for me.' 
 
 ' But not for me, Rose ! no, not for me ! ' He stood 
 before her in the white road, with his right hand on his 
 brow ; the moonlight was full on his face ; she could see it 
 working convulsively, as the face of a man might work who 
 was on the rack. ' Rose ! dear Rose ! I have held you 
 for one moment in my arms, to my heart. I confess all. I 
 touched your lips with mine, and have drunk from them 
 madness ! I know what I am, a man with no fortune, and 
 no luck, a disappointed, an unhappy man. And you are 
 born to enjoy life, without a care or a sorrow, or occasion 
 for thought. I look at you as Dives in torment gazed at 
 Lazarus afar off, and feel but too cruelly that there is a 
 gulf between ; but it is a gulf which love can overleap. 
 Dives ! ' he laughed, and his laugh was shrill and startling 
 in the night. 'I liken myself to Dives. The time for 
 Dives to be cast into hell and Lazarus to be translated to 
 
'pas de chance.' 113 
 
 heaven is over. Dives now mounts to Paradise, and the 
 poor and the sick and the aching in heart and bone, and 
 the sore of skin and racked of brain, toss and ache and 
 moan in life and in eternity.' He spoke so fast, and in 
 such a passion, his breath coming in gasps breaking his 
 speech, that Rose could hardly catch what he said. She 
 was frightened at his vehemence, and she put out her hand 
 to lay it on his arm and pacify him. He mistook her 
 meaning, and caught her hand in his. 
 
 ' Rose ! dear, dear Rose ! ' he cried, ' is it true that my 
 long night is turning to day 1 That happiness is coming 
 to me, even to me 1 Oh, Rose ! you have never known or 
 dreamed of love such as mine. I am not a poor, sleepy, 
 cold-blooded creature such as Gerans. I love you. I have 
 knelt here in the snow and stretched my hands to God and 
 asked for you. I who never pray, I cannot endure life 
 without you. Rose, speak to me. Tell me you hear what 
 I say. Tell me that I am not to despair.' He clenched 
 her hand so tightly in his that she cried out with pain. ' I 
 have hurt you ! ' he said ; ' that is the nature of my love. I 
 hurt those I love.' He became cooler, and folded his arms. 
 
 Then the horse, driven desperate by the restraint of its 
 head, began to kick furiously at the broken gig behind it. 
 
 ' Do, Mr. Penhalligan — do look to the poor horse. Give 
 me a minute to collect myself.' 
 
 He stood doubting whether to obey or not ; then he saw, 
 coming along the road from Camelford, two orange balls of 
 light. The barouche was approaching. 
 
 ' No,' he said firmly. ' I will have my answer now. It 
 must be now. I must know whether I shall have you or 
 lose you, On this moment everything hinges. I had not 
 thought to speak, but the necessity drove me. I could not 
 do other. Answer me.' 
 
 ' Mr. Penhalligan,' began Rose, after a pause, with her 
 eyes along the road, watching the approaching carriage 
 lamps, and measuring the distance between them and the 
 place where she sat, ' Mr. Penhalligan ' 
 
 ' When you woke from your unconsciousness you called 
 me Dennis,' he interrupted. 
 
 1 Did I ? That was because I was unconscious still — of 
 what was fitting.' 
 
 'Answer me, Rose. There is but a moment more.' 
 
 I 
 
114 THE GAVEEOCKS. 
 
 He also looked round. The tramp of the horses in the 
 snow and hail was audible. 
 
 ' You are too late,' she said slowly, articulating each 
 word with distinctness. ' Gerans asked me on my way to 
 the Goose Fair, and I said Yes.' 
 
 Then he burst into a wild, fierce, ringing laugh, and 
 clasped his hands over his head, and wrung them there. 
 
 ' Pas de chance ! ' he cried — ' Pas de chance ! It is 
 always so.' 
 
 ' Halloa 1 who are there ? ' was shouted in their ears. 
 The barouche was level with him ; the driver had drawn 
 up. 
 
 Rose ran to the door and knocked. Old Gaverock and 
 Mr. Loveys were out directly. 
 
 ' It was my doing, all my fault,' said Rose, half crying, 
 half laughing, and nigh on hysterics. ' I would drive, and, 
 having the reins, upset the gig.' She turned to the surgeon. 
 £ Mr. Dennis, whatever you may say to the contrary, I 
 alone am responsible. It was my fault solely.' 
 
 ' Curse it ! ' exclaimed old Gaverock. ' "Who cares 
 whose fault it was 1 The gig is broken and will have to be 
 mended. You, Missie, will come home with us now. Pen- 
 halligan, how will you manage 1 ' 
 
 ' I shall ride home.' 
 
 ' Here ! ' shouted the Squire, ' give me the light.' 
 
 He took the carriage lamp and looked about in the snow. 
 ' Is there anything lost ? What is this ? Here is a pistol ! 
 Golly ! very like that we saw to-day in the pedlar's pack.' 
 
 ' It is mine,' said Dennis, and he took it from the 
 Squire's hand. 
 
 Just then a large white owl flew hooting to and fro 
 over the carriage and the little group, flitting like a great 
 ghost-moth or swaying like a pendulum. At the same 
 time, from under the carriage ran the white spotted mon- 
 grel of the pedlar, and began to limp on three legs round 
 the party, then to threw itself on its back as one dead, then 
 to leap with all fours straight up into the air and dance on 
 its hind legs. 
 
 ' How comes this brute here 1 ' asked Mr. Loveys. 
 ' Why is it performing these antics here 1 To whom does 
 it belong ? ' 
 
 Mr. Gaverock took the coachman's whip and lashed at 
 
'pas de chance.' 115 
 
 the dog, hit it, and the beast began to howl, then dashed 
 under the carriage, and disappeared. 
 
 The moon passed behind a white curdy cloud, and 
 formed in it a ghastly ring of tawny hue ; it was like a 
 single great owl's eye staring down at them from its socket 
 of radiating feathers. 
 
 Young Anthony, useful when anything touching horses 
 had to be done, had gone with the coachman to Dennis's 
 gig, and disengaged the cob, with much shouting to the 
 frightened beast. The brute was hot and trembling, his 
 rough coat standing out, matted with sweat, and the steam 
 rose from him. Anthony junior patted his neck and 
 uttered ' Wohs ! ' in his ear, which produced a soothing 
 effect, whilst the coachman extricated the gig from the 
 place where it was wedged. 
 
 ' Her ain't so bad used but what her may be made to 
 run,' said the driver, speaking of the gig. ' The splash- 
 board be scatt (broken to pieces) and the axle be bent : 
 but otherwise her's middling sound. But her must be 
 drove slowly and with care.' 
 
 ' Where are my flowers 1 Has anyone seen my beauti- 
 ful roses ? I must have my posies,' said Rose. ' Oh, 
 Guardie ! let me have the lamp. I want them so much.' 
 
 ' Never mind the roses,' said old Gaverock. ' We must 
 get on our way.' 
 
 ' But I do mind them,' answered Rose, ' not only for 
 their own beautiful sakes, but also for the sake of those 
 who gave them to me.' 
 
 Dennis approached. He said nothing, but held out the 
 bunches. He had found them in the snow. 
 
 ' Oh, thank you again, Mr. Penhalligan,' said Rose, look- 
 ing at him and smiling, but somewhat timid still. ' There 
 is no end to the favours you do me. You recover me out of 
 the snow, and will not suffer my sweet namesakes to lie 
 and perish in it.' 
 
 ' Are all the cloaks and wraps in 1 ' asked Gaverock. 
 ' Come, Rose, we cannot spend the night here.' 
 
 ' Yes, Guardie, I believe so. I am ready.' 
 
 ' Then get in yourself.' 
 
 She stepped into the chaise ; then, opening the window, 
 put out her hand. ' Good-night, Mr. Dennis,' she said, in 
 
 i2 
 
116 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 her prettiest tones. 'You have overwhelmed me with 
 kindness. I shall never forget this night.' 
 
 ' Drive on,' said Gaverock. 
 
 Then the yellow glare — the little of colour there was in 
 that waste of white and black — moved forward, and Dennis 
 Penhalligan was left in the road looking after the carriage. 
 Though steeped in his own trouble, he started as he noticed 
 a figure, which he thought was that of the pedlar, crouched 
 behind the carriage, clinging to the great springs. In the 
 moonlight he could not make out the nature of the coat, 
 but his doubt ceased when he saw the shadow of the dog pur- 
 suing the barouche. The white dog with spots was itself 
 scarce distinguishable against the snow and stony ground, 
 but its shadow was black and defined. Dennis clasped his 
 hands and moaned. 
 
 ' Would to God we had both been dashed against these 
 stone posts, and the life crushed out of us ! Always too 
 late for luck ! The prize is out of my reach. Healing, 
 rest, happiness, are for others, not for me. Pas de chance 1 
 Pas de chance ! ' 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THE FEATHERSTONES. 
 
 When the hero of a novel falls overboard, is wrecked, or 
 plunges off a cliff into the sea, unless he be. produced within 
 a few chapters with his nose eaten off by fish and his eyes 
 pecked out b}*- seagulls, the reader may be certain that he 
 will turn up unhurt somewhere near the end of the book. 
 Constantine Gaverock, it is true, is not our hero — indeed, 
 we have no hero ; but he is an important personage in our 
 tale, and as we have not shown his bones in process of 
 transformation into coral, nor his eyes into pearls, nor as 
 undergoing any kind of sea-change, the reader may expect 
 to see him again. Indeed, we gave the reader every reason 
 to suppose that he would not be drowned, for we expressly 
 stated that he was launched from the keel of the 'Mermaid,' 
 with two stone jars lashed about him, from which the 
 spirits had been emptied, and which were corked full of 
 air. Now, anyone with a particle of intelligence must 
 know that a man thus buoyed cannot sink. 
 
THE FEATHERSTONES. 117 
 
 Constantine did not sink. On the contrary, he floated 
 like a bubble, and was driven by the waves against the 
 black cutter which old Gaverock supposed to be that of 
 the rover Featherstone. The men on board the vessel 
 saved him, but not before he had been beaten against the 
 side and was so stunned and bruised as to be unconscious 
 that he was in safety. 
 
 Constantine did not recover consciousness till he was 
 brought to land and had been in bed for three days. He 
 did, indeed, occasionally open his eyes, when roused to take 
 food, but he closed them again, and dropped off into sleep. 
 His head had struck the side of the boat, and he was suf- 
 fering from concussion of the brain. He dimly saw figures 
 about his bed, and was aware that he was in bed, but he 
 felt no interest to know who visited him, or where he was, 
 or why he was there. 
 
 On the third day, he woke from his stupor and looked 
 about him. He was in a strange room. He raised himself 
 on his elbow for better inspection. The room was large, 
 with coved ceiling. There was a fireplace in which a fire 
 of sea-coal was burning ; in the corner was a spinet. The 
 sun was shining in through the window, and he could see 
 through the latticed panes into a little court. Above the 
 roof opposite were tree-tops, curled and leafless. He 
 thought, on seeing this, ' I am somewhere near the coast.' 
 
 Whilst he was wondering and looking about him, 
 the door opened, and a man of about thirty entered, very 
 tall, grave, with dark hair and large hazel eyes ; he was 
 dressed in a dark suit, knee-breeches and blue worsted 
 stockings, like a farmer. 
 
 ' I am glad to find you better,' he said in a quiet, precise 
 tone. ' I supposed you would recover consciousness to-day 
 — if at all. The Lord be praised ! I am glad, and I am 
 thankful.' 
 
 ' Not more than I,' said Constantine. ' But where the 
 devil am 1 1 ' 
 
 ' Hush ! ' said the man gravely. ' It is not through 
 the agency of Satan that you are here ; it is the Lord's 
 doing, and it is marvellous in our eyes.' 
 
 1 1 should like to know where I am, and how I came 
 here,' said Constantine, He spoke with a raised tone, for 
 he fancied that the man was slightly deaf ; he fancied it 
 
118 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 from the way in Avhich he turned the side of his head to 
 him when he spoke, and from the intent, earnest ex- 
 pression of his face, as he listened to catch what was 
 said. 
 
 ' You are at Marsland,' answered the man, ' you are our 
 guest ; our name is Featherstone — Featherstone of Mars- 
 land.' A slight colour rose to his face, and a look of 
 annoyance crossed it. ' Unfortunately the name is known 
 along the coast. If you come from these parts you may 
 have heard it — not spoken of with honour. The fathers 
 have eaten sour grapes and the children's teeth are set on 
 edge. Of the Lord's mercies, however, we are not utterly 
 destroyed for the iniquities of our parents ; and perhaps, 
 in His pity, He suffers the children to expiate by a blame- 
 less life, and by love and charity and prayer, for the sins of 
 former generations.' 
 
 Constantine turned red and white. He was in the 
 house of a man whose father or uncle, he knew not which, 
 had been killed by his own father. 
 
 ' You were out in the terrible storm which, I fear, sent 
 many poor fellows to their last account,' Mr. Featherstone 
 went on. ' Your boat and ours were close neighbours for 
 some way ; when yours capsized we picked you up. You 
 were unconscious. But I must not speak to you more, 
 newly restored. One thing only I ask. Put your hands 
 together, as you cannot kneel, and consecrate to heaven 
 your first returning thoughts.' 
 
 Then the grave man withdrew. 
 
 When he was gone, Constantine lay quiet, with his face 
 to the wall, thinking. He was awkwardly situated. He 
 had got into the house, of all others, he would least like to 
 find himself in. Whereabouts he was he did not exactly 
 know. Marsland was somewhere on the coast between 
 Hartland and Padstow Point, he supposed, but he had 
 never before heard the name. Whether it was in Cornwall 
 or Devon he did not know. It certainly could be nowhere 
 near his own home, or he would have heard of it. As for 
 old Featherstone, whom his father had spiked, he was 
 known all along the coast, and had his kitchens and cellars 
 near every accessible bay, but he had never heard, that he 
 remembered, where Featherstone's house was. He had 
 been as ubiquitous as the Flying Dutchman. 
 
THE FEATHERSTONES. 119 
 
 Constantine could not think for long. His head was 
 painful, and his thoughts began to wander when he tried to 
 concentrate them. 
 
 Presently the door opened again, and a young lady 
 entered, dressed in grave colours, but with a fresh and rosy 
 face and pleasant, kindly expression. She had dark hair, 
 and, what goes so charmingly with that, violet blue eyes. 
 She had some needlework in her hands. She seated herself 
 in the window and sewed. Constantine watched her. He 
 thought her very pretty. There was a purity and inno- 
 cence in her face which were more attractive than her 
 beauty. Beautiful she properly was not, as her features 
 were not regular, but her face was agreeable. The young 
 man saw a likeness in her to the man, and concluded that 
 she must be his sister, not his wife. His features were 
 much more pronounced and regular than hers. He had a 
 strongly characterised aquiline nose, dark eyebrows, and 
 rather sunken eyes. She had not the same sort of nose, 
 nor as heavy brows, yet there was an unmistakable family 
 resemblance between them. 
 
 She saw that he was watching her, and looked round 
 smiling. 
 
 ' I am glad you are better,' she said, in a gentle voice 
 with a Cornish intonation ; ' we have been very anxious 
 about you. We thought, if you did not rouse to-day, you 
 would not rouse at all. And now, you must not talk, or 
 trouble your poor head about anything you see or hear. 
 Rest and be thankful. I am Juliot, Paul Featherstone's 
 sister, and your nurse.' 
 
 ' I am fond of music,' said Constantine. ' It would be 
 the best medicine for me if you would play me something.' 
 She threw down her needlework at once, and went to the 
 spinet, opened it, and played ' All people that on earth do 
 dwell.' 
 
 At the first notes, a rich deep bass voice rose from the 
 court outside singing the psalm, and Juliot's sweet, un- 
 taught, but musical voice sang also. 
 
 When the psalm was done, Constantine said, ' I thank 
 you. Can you sing me something else 1 I should like 
 something of Mozart.' 
 
 ' I don't know anything of his, though I believe he 
 wrote masses,' said Juliot. ' I play mostly sacred music. 
 
120 THE GAVEEOCKS. 
 
 My brother does not care for any other. I can play you 
 Home of Tallis or PurcelL' 
 
 ' Anything,' said Constantine ; ' but it is not very 
 lively ; perhaps, however, it may be more soothing.' 
 
 ' My brother Paul likes psalm tunes most of all,' she 
 said, ' and so I play more psalm tunes than anything else. 
 I can play and sing Jackson's " Te Deum " if you like, and 
 " Angels ever bright and fair." ' 
 
 ' What sort of music do you like best, yourself ? ' asked 
 Constantine. 
 
 ' I ! ' exclaimed Juliot, modestly colouring — ' I — oh I 
 — I do not know. I never considered. Of course I like 
 that which pleases Paul best.' 
 
 'Does Mr. Featherstone object to your playing other 
 than sacred music 1 ' 
 
 ' Oh no,' answered Juliot frankly, turning her honest 
 face, and looking full at him out of her honest violet eyes, 
 ' not at all. Paul is not a Methodist. I can play gavottes 
 and quadrilles ; and he and I sing together Jackson's 
 pretty duet, "Time has not thinned my flowing hair." But 
 he says that no music speaks to his heart like the old 
 psalm tunes. Whenever Paul is fretted about anything, 
 or has met with annoyance, I can always bring his gentle, 
 sweet look back on his dear face with a psalm tune. When 
 I saw that you were awake and looking a little troubled, I 
 played the "Old Hundredth." I thought it would have the 
 same effect on you as it does on my brother.' 
 
 ' Is he married ? ' asked Constantine. 
 
 ' Paul married ! ' echoed Juliot, and laughed. ' I can- 
 not fancy him with a wife. And yet she would be a happy 
 woman who won him, for Paul is the gentlest of men. The 
 animals all love him. When he goes out on the cliffs, the 
 gulls come round him in flights ; and the sheep run to him 
 when he appears on the common. As for the cows and 
 horses — I am sure they adore him. I never hurt an animal, 
 that I know, but they will not come to me as they go to 
 Paul. The people round look on him as some one quite 
 out of the ordinary, and come to him to have their arms 
 and legs struck when suffering from swellings, and they 
 bring him kerchiefs to bless, when any one has cut himself 
 in the hay or corn field, that he may stop the flow of blood.' 
 
 ' But — does this succeed ? ' 
 
THE FEATHEKSTONES. 121 
 
 c Of course it does. Paul would not do it else. Bat he 
 is very humble, and it pains him if anyone says it is 
 because he is so good. I think that is the reason. He 
 thinks that it is given him that he may do a little good to 
 make up for the great wrongs done to men, and the sins 
 committed in the sight of God, by our uncle — Red Feather- 
 stone.' 
 
 ' I do not know quite where I am. Am I in Devon, or 
 Cornwall, or in Wales 1 ' 
 
 ' You are in Devon. This is the parish of Welcombe. 
 Our little Marsland brook runs down to the sea and divides 
 the counties and parish from Morwenstowe. We have a 
 little harbour : it is the only bay in which in decent 
 weather a boat may run in and be safe. We keep a boat 
 there. Paul is very particular about his boat. It is the 
 old cutter that our uncle had. When there is a storm, my 
 brother is on the look-out to help distressed vessels, and 
 save those who are in peril. Paul is so good. He was 
 returning from Hayle, where he had some business, when 
 he saved you, not so far out from Black Rock, where the 
 people say the spirit of our poor uncle is engaged weaving 
 ropes of sand. At one time we heard a great many stories 
 about what went on in his time ; of his wickednesses, of 
 how he wrecked vessels, and murdered the crews when 
 washed ashore, and of how he plundered on the coasts of 
 France and Wales. But now we are told nothing ; the 
 people know that it distresses my brother to hear these 
 tales. It is now a great many years since he was killed. 
 If ever there was a case of murder, that was one — a man 
 called Gaverock ran him through with an old spear whilst 
 he sat in the sun on a rock warming himself. It was a 
 treacherous and cruel act, though I admit my poor uncle 
 deserved his death. People say he wilfully wrecked vessels, 
 and if sailors and passengers swam ashore he killed them ; 
 but I cannot believe this ; I think this an exaggeration. 
 Do not talk to Paul about his uncle ; he cannot endure it.' 
 
 Just then Paul Featherstone came in. 
 
 ' You are not overstrainiug our patient's attention 1 ' 
 said he. ' Remember, he must be spared.' 
 
 ' Paul, I have been telling him where he is — he did not 
 quite understand.' 
 
 ' You are in Marsland in Welcombe,' said Mr. Feather- 
 
122 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 stone, 'and you will also find a Welcome in Marsland.' 
 He turned to his sister. ' I am making a joke, Juliot.' 
 
 ' So I hear. You are very humorous, Paul.' 
 
 ' Will you bring up the beef broth for our friend 1 ' said 
 Paul Featherstone ; ' I believe it is quite ready.' 
 
 ' I hope my sister has not made you talk more than 
 your strength can bear V said Mr. Featherstone, addressing 
 Constantine. 
 
 ' Not at all ; she has been speaking to me, and playing 
 and singing for my pleasure.' 
 
 ' Juliot is always ready to do a kindness. Her heart 
 overflows with goodness. In Welcombe, near the church 
 is a holy well to which people came in Catholic times for 
 the blessed water that healed infirmities and cleared eyes 
 o«f the scales that covered them. The parish takes its 
 name from this well. It never fails. The limpid spring 
 never diminishes, never runs dry, and all the way down to 
 the sea, whither its waters run, the grass is green and 
 flowers bloom. My sister Juliot's heart is a better holy 
 well than that. It also never fails, and whithersoever its 
 influence reaches it bears healing, strength, and beauty and 
 love. I am glad you are here, to know Juliot. Do not 
 raise your voice to speak to me. I can hear. I am not as 
 deaf as you suppose.' 
 
 ' I cannot sufficiently thank you for your kindness,' 
 said Constantine. 
 
 ' Oh, I do nothing. My sister thinks and cares for you. 
 I am only her servant, and do what she designs. I am the 
 hand that executes what her head and heart devise. I 
 hope you will not think me wanting in courtesy if I ask 
 your name.' 
 
 ' Gaverock,' answered Constantine after a pause, and 
 with some nervousness. 
 
 ' Rock,' said Mr. Featherstone, who had not caught the 
 full name. ' Now that is indeed curious, that the Rock 
 should come to the Stone, whereas generally the stone 
 comes from the rock. Our name,' he explained, 'is Feather- 
 stone.' 
 
 Just then Juliot came in, bearing a bowl of soup on a 
 tray. 
 
 ' Sister,' said Paul, turning to her, ' our patient, whom 
 by God's providence we have been able to help, is called 
 
THE FEATHERSTONES. 123 
 
 Rock. Mr. Rock — my sister, Miss Featherstone. Juliot, 
 I have made a joke. I have said that now the rock has 
 come to the stone instead of the stone proceeding from the 
 rock. Do you follow me 1 ' 
 
 ' Oh, Paul, how clever, how humorous you are 1 ' 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 MARSLAND. 
 
 Marsland House was built by William Atkyns in 1656, 
 as a stone in the wall testifies. It is one of the most pic- 
 turesque and delightful specimens of a small gentleman's 
 house of the seventeenth century that Ave know. Not that 
 it has architectural adornment. Of that it is absolutely 
 free, but that it remains to this day perfectly untouched. 
 It stands as it was when built, without an addition, and 
 without a stone of the structure having been thrown down. 
 An avenue leads to a little gatehouse that closes with 
 strong oak doors. In this gatehouse lived the porter, with 
 a peephole to command the avenue, and windows to light 
 him, opening into the first court — quadrangle it is not, but 
 an oblong court, before the face of the house. The entrance 
 is from the east, and the face of the house is to the east, 
 away from the sea. The north side of this court is closed 
 by a high wall. On the south side is the wall of the 
 garden, with a door in it ; the ground slopes rapidly to the 
 south into the glen of the Marsland brook, and the garden 
 takes all the sun, and is screened from the sea-gales by a 
 dense wood of beech. The most prominent feature in the 
 facade is the immense hall chimney forming a buttress, one 
 side of which is utilised as the wall of the porch. The 
 front consists of several gables of irregular heights, charm- 
 ingly picturesque. If we enter the porch, we pass through 
 the house by a passage one side of which screens off the 
 hall, and the other the kitchen and cellar and buttery. 
 We then emerge upon the quadrangle of the mansion, into 
 which the hall also looks, westward, and in which, on the 
 north, are the drawing-room windows, securing by this 
 arrangement shelter and sun. The west side is formed of 
 
124 THE GAVEEOCKS. 
 
 sundry domestic buildings, and the south side is occupied 
 by the servants' apartments. 
 
 Marsland Coombe is the most beautiful on this portion 
 of the north Cornish and Devon coast. It is deep, clothed 
 with oak coppice, and opens on a lovely bay. But scarcely 
 a tourist who visits the coast thinks of looking in on this 
 gem of old English country life and architecture. Since 
 visitors have frequented this coast, settlers from the metro- 
 polis and elsewhere have come, and have built mansions — 
 such miracles of hideousness that the traveller may rub his 
 eyes, and, looking from the modern to the ancient, ask 
 whether, after all, we have progressed during the two 
 hundred years since Marsland was built. At the present 
 day, Marsland, like so many other mansions of the gentry 
 of a century or two ago, is turned into a farmhouse, and 
 no guide-book calls the attention of the tourist to its 
 beauty. 
 
 At all times Marsland was out of the way. The old 
 north coast road from Bideford to Stratton, which is as 
 ancient as British times, runs along the watershed of the 
 streams which empty after a brief course down the thousand 
 coombes into the sea, and, on the other hand, of the Tamar 
 and Torridge. This watershed is a long backbone of 
 elevated moorland within sight of the sea. Between it and 
 the ocean are numerous — innumerable — deeply cleft valleys, 
 becoming deeper as they near the sea, without the inter- 
 vening hills becoming lower. The consequence is that a 
 road skirting the cliffs would be a road consisting of scramble 
 and slide up and down hills as steep as mediaeval high- 
 pitched roofs. Let the reader look at the back of his hand, 
 and he may imagine a road taken across his knuckles to 
 represent the high road, and his fingers with the clefts 
 between will well represent the conformation of the land 
 between that road and the sea. His finger-ends accordingly 
 figure for precipitous headlands standing out of the ocean. 
 The ravine between his index finger of the left hand and 
 the middle finger represents the Welcombe valley, near the 
 head of which stands the little parish church. The fissure 
 between the middle finger and the ring finger symbolises 
 the Marsland glen, which divides the counties. Halfway 
 between the knuckle of the hand and the finger-nail, on the 
 slope to the south, lies old Marsland House. The valley 
 
MARSLAND. 125 
 
 between the ring finger and the little finger is that of Mor- 
 wenstowe, and the end of the ring finger is the splendid 
 crag of Hennacliff, rising 450 feet sheer out of the waves. 
 The high road traverses the bleak and barren moor, where 
 the stiff clay soil refuses to yield anything but rushes and 
 gorse, and this dreary country stretches away to the east, 
 and in it rises the Tamar. On the other side the coombes 
 are fertile, and, being sheltered by the folds of the hills, 
 give pleasant pasture meadows and leafy coppices. To the 
 present day there is no inn in either Welcombe or Morwen- 
 stowe, nothing to invite the traveller to diverge from the 
 high road to visit these glens. At the time of which we 
 write, some seventy years ago, this angle of coast was as 
 little visited as Iceland, and those who dwelt in it were 
 unknown beyond the moor side and road. 
 
 The Atkyns family, who, in the seventeenth century, 
 owned the estate of Marsland, did not appear at the last 
 heralds' visitation of Devon and Cornwall, in 1620, probably 
 because they did not hear in their isolated nook that the 
 heralds were holding inquisition as to who were gentle and 
 entitled to bear arms and who were to be discounted as 
 ignobiles. But though the Atkyns family did not then 
 appear at Barnstaple on September 9, 1620, when the 
 heralds held their court, there can be no question as to the 
 antiquity and the gentility of the family. 
 
 But the Atkyns family went, as nine out of every ten 
 old families have gone ; and at the time of which we are 
 telling, and indeed for some hundred years before, Marsland 
 had been in the hands of the Featherstones. 
 
 Should the tourist be induced by this account to diverge 
 from the main road and visit Marsland, let him look in the 
 side of the hedge of the lane descending into the coombe, 
 and he will observe the entrance to one of Featherstone's 
 kitchens, a vault, arched and walled with brick, filled in 
 indeed, but still structurally uninjured and readily dis- 
 tinguishable. In it he hid his spoils ; the place was easily 
 accessible from the house, but the goods were not stored in 
 his house, lest on a domiciliary visit they should be found 
 by the constables. 
 
 When Constantine was left to himself, he considered 
 what had taken place. He was not sorry that his name 
 had been mistaken. He would make no attempt to correct 
 
126 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 the error into which Paul Featherstone had fallen. Why 
 should he ? It would do no good. It would only give 
 annoyance. It might cause his expulsion from the house. 
 
 Constantine took the world as it went, very easily. He 
 liked to be comfortable, and not to have much to do. He 
 was averse to the roughness of his father's ways, and he 
 was not sorry to be now away from home. Dennis Penhal- 
 ligan had given him three days for communicating the fact 
 of his marriage to his father. The time was now past, and 
 no doubt the old man knew by this time, if he were alive, 
 the secret that had been kept from him. Of his father's 
 safety he was not, however, sure, and he resolved, without 
 saying anything to his hosts, as soon as he was able, on 
 going to Bude Haven and making inquiries. 
 
 Next day he was better and got up, but could not leave 
 the room. He was surprisingly weak. He was amazed at 
 himself, how his strength had gone in a few days. His 
 head was still painful, especially when he exercised it, so 
 that he was glad to have cold compresses applied. Juliot 
 attended him, and was so kind, and earnest in her desire to 
 relieve his pain, and to see him recovered, that he felt dis- 
 posed to make the most of his weakness and suffering. 
 
 During the ensuing days he sat up longer than he had 
 been able to do at first. He saw a good deal of Paul 
 Featherstone, who took every opportunity of visiting him ; 
 but he saw most of Juliot, who brought her work to his 
 room, and sat with him the greater part of the afternoon. 
 
 ' You will not see Paul to-day,' she said once. ' He is 
 gone over to Stanbury, which belongs to us. It came 
 through my mother, and Paul has to go there two or three 
 times a week. It tires him, as he must ride : there is no 
 driving on these by-roads, and Paul cannot ride well, it 
 hurts him. He received a slight injury when he was young, 
 which makes it painful for him to ride, and it is too far for 
 him to walk with ease, our hills are so steep. My mother 
 was a Stanbury, and she brought the estate to us.' 
 
 ■ ' Does that, then, belong to your brother as well as 
 Marsland 1 ' 
 
 ' It does and it does not. Properly it belongs to me, 
 and Marsland is Paul's ; but it does not matter — what is 
 his is mine, and what is mine is his. There is no mine and 
 thine between us.' 
 
MARSLAND. 127 
 
 ' But if he or you were to marry it could not go on like 
 this.' 
 
 ' I do not know. We have neither of us given a thought 
 to that,' answered Juliot, blushing. ' It is so unlikely. We 
 see nobody. We visit no one, and no one visits us. Paul 
 cannot go far, as I have told you ; he is not very strong, 
 and it hurts him to ride. Besides, the ill-fame of our 
 family through two or three generations has cast us into 
 isolation. When Paul and I grew up we knew no one, and 
 no visitors came to this house which bore so bad a name, 
 and so we have lived to ourselves. We are very happy, and 
 quite content, and want no change/ 
 
 ' But would you not wish Paul to marry and give you a 
 sister-in-law 1 You must need some lady friend to whom 
 to open your heart.' 
 
 ' If Paul were to marry — but the thought is so strange 
 I cannot grasp it — I should love the wife he chose very 
 dearly, for his sake, but I do not know that I want her. I 
 keep no secrets from Paul, and Paul tells me everything 
 that passes in his mind. I am sure you never, though you 
 may have travelled very far, you never met with so beautiful 
 and sincere a mind as that of Paul. He is so good. He is 
 a little too trustful, if he has a fault ; he believes that 
 every one else is as good as himself.' 
 
 ' But you will marry some day, and what about Stanbury 
 then ? And Paul, how would he like to have that cut off', 
 after having managed it with Marsland so long 1 ' 
 
 ' Paul ! Oh, Paul would always do what is right, and 
 would not have a wish contrary to what he thought was 
 right. Besides,' she said, going on with her needlework, 
 hastily, ' the thing will never be. It is not possible.' 
 
 ' What is Stanbury worth 1 ' 
 
 Juliot laughed, and looked round at him frankly, with 
 her pretty, deep violet eyes — so pretty under their long dark 
 lashes. ' I do not know. I have not an idea. I do not 
 suppose my brother even could tell you. It is a nice little 
 property, and the Stanburys lived on it for many genera- 
 tions. They were not great people, like the Grenvilles, and 
 Bolles, and Arundells, but a very long way behind. I 
 suppose the property is much the same as this in value, but 
 no one knows less about these matters or cares less than 
 myself.' 
 
128 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 ' Why does not your brother put in a farmer at Stan- 
 bury ? ' 
 
 'He either does not like to let it, or cannot. You see, 
 Stanbury never has been a farm — I mean it never has been 
 let. My mother's family lived there from generation to 
 generation, and Paul hardly likes to turn it into an ordinary 
 farmhouse. Besides, I am not sure that he can let it on 
 lease, lest I should marry — not that it is likely — in which 
 
 case ' She did not finish the sentence, but got confused 
 
 and red. 
 
 'I understand. Should you marry, you and your 
 husband would go to Stanbury. I do not suppose Paul can 
 let the place on lease.' 
 
 Nothing more was said for a few moments ; Juliot sat 
 with her needle in hand, looking out of the window, thinking. 
 Presently she broke the silence with, ' I wish Paul had not 
 to go there so much, it always over-tires him. He never 
 complains, but his eyes become sunken in his face ; then I 
 know he is over-done, and has suffered. It does him good 
 to be out of doors, and he has enough to occupy him here, 
 in looking after Marsland Farm ; but the journeys to Stan- 
 bury hurt him. I wish he would get some good, conscien- 
 tious man to attend to the estate for him. He has had so 
 much trouble with the caretakers he has put in. Some 
 have turned out drunkards, others have been dishonest, and 
 the last man has been in deep with the smugglers, and 
 actually let them store away their run goods in the place. 
 Paul was really angry about that. It takes a great deal 
 to put him out, but that did annoy him, and no one about 
 sympathised with his feelings, and thought he behaved very 
 unjustly to the man, when he gave him notice of dismissal. 
 As if Paul could be unjust ! ' She held up her head with 
 a pretty pride. ' No one but I, his sister, know what it 
 costs Paul to dismiss a man from his service. It costs him 
 many wakeful nights. He turns the man's conduct over in 
 his mind, and tries to find excuses for him, and he is over- 
 ingenious in doing so. But even when he finds these 
 excuses, he still knows when he must give dismissal, for he- 
 has to consider the example to others. I believe it gives 
 bim a heartache more than the man he turns away. I hear 
 him sighing, when he is not conscious that anyone is near ; 
 and, indeed, he sighs involuntarily, without knowing it, 
 
MARSLAND. 129 
 
 when I am present, and is reproaching himself for undue 
 severity. I think a conscience may be over-tender.' 
 
 'I quite agree with you,' said Constantine. 'The hedge- 
 hog is sensible, it does not coil itself up with the prickles 
 inwards. Now, shall we have some music ? ' 
 
 She put down her needlework instantly and went to 
 the spinet. 
 
 ' Do I hear Mr. Featherstone reading aloud in the 
 evening ? ' 
 
 ' Yes. He is fond of books, but we have not many. 
 He is reading now Mr. Brooke's " Fool of Quality." Do 
 you know it ? My brother is very fond of the book. It is 
 in six volumes. Sometimes he reads poetry, Crashaw and 
 Vaughan, and George Herbert. If it would give you 
 pleasure, he would come up here and read, and I would 
 come also. He was afraid to offer it, lest it should be too 
 much for your poor head. My brother wishes to do all in 
 his power to make you happy and comfortable, and — the 
 "Fool of Quality" is a mighty pleasant book. On holidays 
 he reads Nelson's "Fasts and Festivals.'" 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 STANBURY. 
 
 When Constantine was thought sufficiently convalescent 
 to come downstairs, Mr. Featherstone went to him in the 
 morning, and laid some garments on a chair by the bed. 
 
 ' Mr. Rock,' he said, ' you have conferred on my sister 
 and me real favours as well as affording us great pleasure. 
 You will not, I trust, shrink from extending your kindness 
 to us.' 
 
 ' I — what have I done ? ' asked Constantine, sitting up 
 in bed. ' It is I who am the recipient, not the conferrer, 
 of favours.' 
 
 ' Mr. Rock,' said Paul Featherstone, ' to house the 
 shipwrecked, to nurse the sick, to minister to those who 
 need a helping hand through poverty, or weakness, or acci- 
 dent, is to my good sister and, secondarily, to me such a 
 blessed privilege, that we cannot be satisfied till we have 
 added to our pleasure that of clothing those who are de- 
 
 K 
 
130 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 privecl by disaster of their customary wardrobe. Whilst 
 you have been confined to your bed, we have taken the 
 liberty of calling in the village tailor, and he has fashioned 
 you a suit out of some claret- coloured cloth I happened to 
 have in the house. He had your suit in which you were 
 wrecked as his pattern, and I believe you will find it a 
 decent fit, though mayhap the colour of the stuff be not to 
 your liking. As to your linen, Juliot has cared for that. 
 You have seen her busy with her needle ; she has supplied 
 you with what is necessary. Do not thank me,' said Paul 
 Peatherstone, holding up his hand, as he noticed that Con- 
 stantine was about to speak ; ' it is we who have cause to 
 thank a loving Providence which has put the opportunity 
 into our hands. We live so quiet a life here, and see 
 nothing of the world, that a visitor sent us is a friend 
 given us, and, having few friends, it is a delight to us to 
 help as best we can those whom God bestows on us.' 
 
 He bowed with old-fashioned courtesy and left the 
 room. Constantine got up and dressed. The suit, though 
 made by a village tailor, was well made ; it was after the 
 cut of his garments got in Exeter. He stood before a 
 glass and looked at himself in them. He was pleased with 
 his appearance. He made a fine figure of a man. His 
 illness gave a look of refinement to his face. He was a 
 good-looking young fellow, and he was never more con- 
 scious of this than at the present moment. He put his 
 hand into his pockets, and found in one a folded and sealed 
 paper, addressed to himself, on opening which three bank- 
 notes fell out, one for ten pounds and two for five. A 
 present from Paul Featherstone, or a loan, according to 
 Constantine's circumstances. Not a word accompanied the 
 notes. If Constantine had means, he would repay the 
 advance ; if he had not, Paul would never ask for the 
 money — he was free to keep it. 
 
 ' What nice, simple people these are ! ' said young Gave- 
 rock. ' They understand what a person wants, without forcing 
 him to ask. This is what I consider good manners. I had 
 to plague my father with my necessities before I got any- 
 thing out of him.' 
 
 The moment Constantine's foot was heard on the land- 
 ing, Paul and Juliot ran to his assistance. The staircase 
 was steep, and they thought he might need support in 
 
STANBTJRT. 131 
 
 descending. Therefore, each gave him an arm, and he 
 went down with his right hand resting on the arm of the 
 sister and the left on that of the brother. 
 
 He noticed that both were flushed when they con- 
 ducted him into the little low-ceiled hall. They were flushed 
 with pleasure at getting their guest downstairs, and seeing 
 him so much improved in health. They were like children, 
 pleased with small matters, and pleased that others should 
 be happy and well. 
 
 By the hearth was an armchair, and they led him to it ; 
 and when he was seated, Paul clasped his hand and wrung 
 it, and said, ' I shall always remember this day. I am so 
 glad — so glad ! ' 
 
 Tears came up into the deep violet eyes of Juliot, tears 
 of sympathy and pleasure. She said nothing, but Con- 
 stantine saw that her heart was with her brother's, full of 
 happiness, because he was sufficiently recovered to come 
 downstairs. 
 
 ' Juliot,' said Paul, with a smile, ' we have now a vested 
 interest in Mr. Rock.' 
 
 'Yes, quite.' 
 
 ' That was a joke, Juliot.' 
 
 ' You quite sparkle, Paul. You are so witty.' 
 
 ' I am sorry to have to leave you, Mr. Rock, on such a 
 joyful occasion,' said Mr. Featherstone, ' but I am obliged 
 to go over to Stanbury. Perhaps, when you are well 
 enough, in a week or two, you will accompany me. I have 
 some annoyance there.' 
 
 ' If I can be of any service to you, here or there, now 
 or at any time, command me,' said Constantine ; ' I am not 
 ignorant of law.' 
 
 Paul shook his head. 'We have nothing to do with 
 law here. I would rather suffer the extremity of injury 
 than prosecute any one.' 
 
 ' And I have had much experience in farm management.' 
 
 ' That is another matter,' said Mr. Featherstone ; ' and, 
 indeed, therein you may do me great service. But of that 
 we can talk at another time. I again apologise.' He 
 bowed himself out. 'Juliot,' he said, in the door, 'you 
 will entertain Mr. Rock in my absence, that the time hang- 
 not heavy on his hands.' 
 
 Constantine looked about the little hall with some 
 
132 THE GAVEEOCKS. 
 
 curiosity. It was very plain, with a slated floor ; a little 
 dull, as both windows looked into yards enclosed by high 
 walls, east and west, and the sun was not shining into 
 either. Indeed, the sun that day was not shining at all. 
 A long oak table occupied the centre with peg holes at the 
 end, showing that in former times it had served not only 
 as a table at which to eat, but also as a shuffle-board on 
 which to gamble. Over the mantelpiece was a picture, 
 apparently a portrait, badly painted, in a black frame. It 
 represented a man, at full length, but the size of the picture 
 was small. Constantine looked at the painting and was 
 struck by it. The man was represented in a red waistcoat 
 and black velvet coat, and he had a white spotted dog at 
 his side. He wore high boots, but instead of a cap had a 
 strap round his head confining his thick black hair, and in 
 the strap was stuck a peacock's feather, where the band 
 was fastened by a sort of brooch with a white stone in it, 
 probably a Cornish crystal. The features were pronounced 
 — an eagle nose, and arched brows, with the eyes sunken 
 under them. The mouth was hard and the jowl heavy. 
 
 Juliot noticed that Constantine's eyes were on the pic- 
 ture, and that it excited his interest. 
 
 ' That,' she said, ' is the likeness of our uncle, the 
 wicked Featherstone, who was killed by a man called 
 Gaverock. He was so wicked that the parson would not 
 bury him in consecrated ground and read the service over 
 him ; so he is laid just outside the wall. Paul thinks, and 
 of course he is right, that the shadow of his evil influence 
 hangs over the place and the family. He quotes Scripture 
 to prove it ; but I am sure of one thing, there is none of 
 the sinful nature of our uncle in dear brother Paul, who is 
 as good a man as old Featherstone the Rover was bad.' 
 
 ' What a curious fashion for a head-dress ! ' said Con- 
 stantine. 
 
 ' Whether he wore that or not I cannot say. I dare be 
 bound there are people in the place who could tell ; but 
 Paul does not speak about the old Rover, nor does he 
 wish me to converse with them about him. The subject is 
 painful to Paul. He feels it very much. I have thought 
 — but I may be wrong — that the plume and the crystal 
 may be a fancy of the painter to express the name, 
 Feather-stone.' 
 
STANBURY. 133 
 
 ' I see that your brother is like his uncle, except about 
 the chin and mouth. He has the same nose, and eyes, and 
 brow.' 
 
 ' But nothing — nothing whatever in character.' 
 
 ' Was that your uncle's spotted dog ? ' 
 
 ' That — yes. The clog lay down on his grave, and 
 never left it, would eat nothing, and died. So there must 
 have been some goodness and kindness in the old Rover, or 
 the dog would not have attached itself to him. When the 
 clog died, it was buried beside its master — that is, a hole 
 was made in the earth by his grave, and the brute was laid 
 there.' 
 
 About a week after this, Paul Featherstone said to 
 Constantine, ' Do you not think that a ride would be 
 beneficial to your health, Mr. Rock ? You are heartily 
 welcome to the use of my cob, as much and as often as 
 pleases you.' 
 
 'Thank you,' answered Constantine; 'I should like a 
 ride greatly. If I can be of service to you at Stanbury, to 
 take a message, or to see whether an order has been 
 executed, command me.' 
 
 ' Certainly,' said Paul ; ' you can oblige me greatly. 
 The roofs were badly used by the gale, and I sent a wagon 
 for slates. The masons are there, and should have reslated 
 where the roofs were ripped. The water has been kept out 
 for the time with hurdles and straw.' 
 
 ' I will go there to-day.' 
 
 'And,' continued Paul, 'you may inquire of old Car- 
 withen if he has got work. He has acted as hind for me 
 hitherto — that is, for my sister — Stanbury belongs to her — 
 and I have had to dismiss him, but I allow him to remain 
 till he finds a suitable situation. The old man has abused 
 my confidence. I am sorry. I liked him. Ascertain for 
 me whether he has heard of a place, and I will thank 
 you.' 
 
 Constantine enjoyed his ride. The air was mild, the 
 sun shone, and the sea sparkled. Lundy Isle was full in 
 view, its granite cliffs white in the sunshine. The leafy 
 copse-covered coombe basked in the last warm light of 
 declining autumn. The leaves were russet as the bosom of 
 a redbreast. On the high land the gorse still bloomed ; its 
 golden flowers were, however, sparse. In the hedgerows 
 
134 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 the long glossy hart's-tongue ferns were unshrivelled by 
 frost. 
 
 ' I like this country,' said Constantine, looking round. 
 ' It is more homelike than Towan. I could be very com- 
 fortable here. It is not quite so bleak as about Padstow, 
 and the people don't seem so rugged as my father and his 
 set.' 
 
 He passed Morwenstowe valley and church, and ascended 
 the hill opposite. He inquired his way, and was directed 
 to Stanbury. ' Bless my soul ! ' said Constantine, ' what 
 an out-of-the-world corner one is in here ! Why, one might 
 spend a life here unknown to the rest of the world, and 
 without hearing how the rest of the world fares. That is 
 just the sort of life I should like.' 
 
 He arrived at last at the house : it was small and com- 
 fortable and unpretentious. The land about it seemed 
 good. ' One might fare worse than on this estate,' said 
 Constantine. Then, as a man approached, he asked, ' Are 
 you Richard Carwithen 1 ' The man was rough and old, 
 very broad-shouldered, with haybands tied about his legs, 
 below the knees. 'Ay,' answered he, 'at your service, 
 Richard Carwithen ; and you, sir, I reckon, be Mr. Rock, 
 as we've heard of at Marsland. Will you come in and 
 have a drop of something to keep the cold out 1 ' 
 
 ' Take the horse, please, and I will go round with you. 
 The master has asked me to see if the repairs are done.' 
 
 ' The master ! ' repeated Carwithen. ' Stanbury don't 
 belong by rights to he ! Stanbury belongs to the lady, and 
 he who takes the lady takes Stanbury. More's the fool he 
 who don't seize his chance while he may.' He looked at 
 Constantine and laughed. Gaverock coloured to the roots 
 of his hair. 
 
 ' Has the gale done you much harm here 1 ' asked he. 
 
 ' Ripped off slates here and there, as a gale be like to,' 
 answered Carwithen. ' Providence, that cares for sparrows, 
 cares for slaters and shipwrights, and makes work for both ; 
 it tears the roofs away and sinks vessels with the same 
 blast.' 
 
 ' Were there many wrecks on the coast, that you have 
 heard, in the last gale ? ' asked Constantine. 
 
 Carwithen shrugged his shoulders. ' Naught to signify, 
 
STANBUEY. 135 
 
 he said. ' There was a boat washed ashore at Bude, the 
 "Mermaid."' 
 
 'All hands lost?' 
 
 ' The skipper came ashore all right.' 
 ' Any more 1 ' 
 
 ' A schooner went to pieces in Widmouth — her name 
 was the " Marianne " — just off Featherstone's Rock. I 
 reckon that was the vessel in which you were. Bound for 
 Bristol. All hands lost but you. That was the boat you 
 was in, warn't it 1 ' 
 
 Constantine paused. After a moment he answered, 
 'Yes.' 
 
 ' I have not heard of more,' continued Carwithen ; ' but 
 that's not saying there were no more. Us don't get news 
 fast here. I knowed a case of a vessel laden with copper, 
 went to pieces in Tonacombe Cove, and the Morwenstowe 
 farmers were still as mice about it till they'd brought up all 
 the ore on donkeys' backs. The neighbours in Kilkhampton 
 and Bude knew nothing about it till the bones were picked 
 clean. That's our ways, hereabouts. We don't talk when 
 we're eating.' 
 
 ' How many acres are there in Stanbury ? ' 
 ' About nine hundred, and some of the land first-rate. 
 Come in, sir, and have a drop of comfort. You drank water 
 enough when picked up, I reckon, not to want any of that. 
 Come in, sir, and sit down.' 
 
 ' Have you heard of another situation, Richard V asked 
 Constantine. 
 
 ' No,' answered Carwithen roughly. ' Stone deaf on that 
 side. I'm very comfortable here, and don't want to go. 
 What is the sense, I ask you, of Squire Eeatherstone taking 
 on, if I do lend a hand to the runners ? I ain't against 
 Scripture. Show me the passage that condemns smuggling, 
 and opens the kingdom of Heaven to gaugers, and I submit. 
 What is there wrong in smuggling 1 Nobody can say. It's 
 the custom of the country. Wasn't Levi an exciseman, 
 and called away, because it was not a fit occupation for an 
 apostle 1 Do you mean to tell me that the sons of Zebedee 
 owned a boat and went all about the sea and brought across 
 nothing but fishes 1 It is not in human nature. It is not 
 credible. I should have no respect for them if they were 
 such fools. Come in, sir. I'll tell you the truth of the 
 
136 THE GAVEROOKS. 
 
 matter. Master is a very good man, and great in Scripture. 
 So am I, and because he can't bring down a great text on 
 my head and floor me touching smuggling, he's so put out, 
 he wants to be rid of me. That is the sense of the matter.' 
 He stopped in the door, and turned again to address Gave- 
 rock. ' Now, look you here, Mr. Rock. Them two is a 
 pair of innocents. Stanbury, and with it as sweet a turtle- 
 dove as ever were hatched, are to be had for the asking, 
 and the man who gets Stanbury will know better than show 
 Richard Carwithen the dooi*, and object to a keg of brandy, 
 real cognac, left now and again at his doorstep.' 
 
 After that visit to Stanbury, Constantine rode back in 
 a meditative mood. ' What a fool I have made of myself ! ' 
 was the burden of his reflections. 
 
 On reaching Marsland he was met by Paul Feather- 
 stone. 
 
 ' Rock,' said the Squire, ' my sister and I have been 
 considering during your absence. We want to ask of you 
 a favour. I am not able to attend to Stanbury as I ought. 
 Would it be possible for me to persuade you to spend the 
 winter with us, and to look after the farm for me 1 — that is, 
 
 for Juliot — Stanbury is hers. I need hardly say ' He 
 
 hesitated, and patted the horse's neck, and looked at the mane. 
 ' We will not ask you to give us your services gratuitously. 
 We will try to make it up to you — but it would be doing 
 me a real kindness, and Juliot a great service.' 
 
 ' I shall be most happy,' answered Constantine ; ' I have 
 no ties — anywhere.' 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 A TEMPTATION. 
 
 Constantine Gaverock settled himself to his satisfaction 
 into the situation offered him. He knew from the nature 
 of the man with whom he had to deal that he would be 
 treated with honour and liberality, though no terms were 
 agreed on between them. Paul, indeed, with delicacy, 
 shrank from the mention of money. He knew that Con- 
 stantine was a gentleman, and with a gentleman money 
 
A TEMPTATION. 137 
 
 transactions are necessarily awkward to conduct, to spare 
 the feelings on both sides. Constantino was far less sensi- 
 tive on this point than he was credited with being by Paul 
 Featherstone, and he would rather have been told the 
 amount of his salary than be left to conjecture what it 
 might be. 
 
 Constantine had that easy-going temperament which 
 made him adapt himself readily to the place where he was. 
 There were few positions into which he could not accommo- 
 date himself, except such as exacted energy and resolution. 
 He liked to waste his day in rambling about the Marsland 
 Farm with Featherstone, riding over to Stanbury to smoke 
 a pipe and drink grog with Carwithen, play on the spinet, 
 and sing with Juliot, and read aloud, or join a game of 
 cribbage in the evening. Scott's novels were then appear- 
 ing. ' Waverley ' had attracted attention ; it was quickly 
 followed by ' Guy Mannering' and the ' Antiquary.' Paul 
 Featherstone was not narrow in his reading ; he preferred 
 a religious book, as he preferred sacred music, because both 
 appealed to the deep feelings of his soul ; but light litera- 
 ture and opera music were not condemned by him. ' Waver- 
 ley ' was procured, and read aloud by Constantine, and both 
 Paul and his sister were so delighted with it that ' Guy 
 Mannering ' was purchased for evening reading in like 
 manner. 
 
 The days grew shorter and the evenings longer. Very 
 easy days for Constantine, very pleasant evenings for all. 
 Young Gaverock thought of the office of Mr. Nankivel at 
 Exeter, the tedious work of engrossing he had done there, 
 seated on a high stool in a dreary office with the window 
 looking into a back yard to the north against a bit of the 
 old crumbling red sandstone city wall. How monotonous 
 that life had been ! How much better off he was at 
 Marsland ! At Exeter he was under a master. At Mars- 
 land he was his own master. 
 
 He looked about him at Stanbury, riding thither on 
 Paul's cob. He was fond of horse exercise. At Exeter he 
 had not a chance of getting astride of a horse. In the 
 office his hours were from nine to twelve, and from one to 
 five. Here he regulated his work — such as it was — accord- 
 ing to his own convenience. 
 
 Constantine was not an exacting man. He was not 
 
138 THE GAVEEOCKS. 
 
 restless by nature, craving for change, wanting excitement. 
 He was happy to be left alone, to spend his clays in a 
 sleepy, slow manner, and amuse himself with small matters. 
 
 He liked a talk with Carwithen, and so persuaded 
 Featherstone, who was ready to be persuaded, that the old 
 man was prepared to abandon his intercourse with the 
 smugglers. 
 
 Carwithen never lost an opportunity of urging Con- 
 stantine to secure for himself the estate over which he was 
 now but a paid overseer. 
 
 Gaverock shook his head and made no answer. 
 
 ' I shouldn't like to be turned out of this nest, I con- 
 fess,' mused he ; ' so comfortably lined with down, so little 
 to do in it but turn about from side to side and open my 
 mouth to receive my worms.' 
 
 One day — it was a Sunday — Constantine was walking 
 with Paul Featherstone from the church. They came to a 
 well, rudely built up, slabbed over with great granite stones, 
 with a gable of solid stepped masonry built up on the hori- 
 zontal covering slabs. 
 
 ' By the way, Mr. Rock,' said Featherstone, ' it occurs 
 to me that we have not been told your Christian name. I 
 ask in no spirit of inquisitiveness, but in one of friendliness. 
 Here, when we know and esteem a man, we cease to call 
 him by his surname alone, we call him by both his names.' 
 
 ' My name,' answered Constantine, ' is John.' He spoke 
 the truth, he was baptized John Constantine. But he did 
 not speak the whole truth. 
 
 ' Then,' said Featherstone, ' you will suffer us to call 
 you John Rock.' 
 
 They were standing by the Holy Well. 
 
 ' This,' said Constantine, looking down into the water to 
 conceal his face, and speaking so as to change the subject — 
 ' this, I presume, is the well of which you spoke to me, as 
 resembling the heart of your sister.' 
 
 As he spoke he put his walking-stick into the pool to 
 measure its depth, and he played with it, stirring up the 
 sediment. Paul caught his hand. 
 
 ' For God's sake,' said Featherstone hastily, ' do not 
 that. The saying here is, " Who troubles the spring, 
 troubles his soul." ' 
 
A TEMPTATION. 139 
 
 ' The turbidness will soon settle,' said Constantine. 
 
 ' In the well — yes. In you 1 — you know best. I tell 
 you only what the people here say. That which is by 
 nature placid soon casts down what clouds it — that which 
 is not as clear takes long to disperse its cloud.' 
 
 They walked on, talking. Paul Featherstone was re- 
 strained in his manner. Something was on his mind which 
 he desired to say and yet dreaded to utter. 
 
 As they neared Marsland he became agitated. He 
 stood still, and laid his hand on the arm of Constantine. 
 
 ' I wish to communicate something to you,' he said ; 
 'but I must ask beforehand that you will do me justice to 
 believe I speak with the best intentions.' He paused, and 
 Constantine bowed. His heart failed him. Was Paul 
 about to rebuke him, and bid him depart ; to tell him he 
 needed his services no longer ? 
 
 'Mr. John Rock,' said Paul Featherstone, 'we have en- 
 joyed your society during the few months you have been with 
 us, and we are in dread of losing you. I think that I can assure 
 myself that you have been happy at Marsland.' Constan- 
 tine bowed again. ' I cannot be deceived in what I have 
 seen,' he continued. ' I believe that my sister likes your 
 presence here, as much — even more than myself. We unite 
 in desiring that you will remain. I wish above all things 
 to secure my clear sister's happiness. If — as I almost hope 
 — you are not indifferent to her — and I am sure she is not 
 indifferent to you — why should you not remain here perma- 
 nently ? Excuse me speaking : I thought some modest 
 shrinking on your part might restrain your tongue. For 
 that reason I speak. If I am mistaken, it matters not. 
 Juliot has no idea that I have divined her feelings and am 
 revealing them to you. She shall never know. But if this 
 regard be reciprocal — if ' 
 
 Constantine clasped his hand and pressed it, almost 
 wrung it. His emotions, conflicting, tumultuous, would not 
 allow him to speak. 
 
 ' Your hand tells me I am right,' said Paul . 
 
 Constantine did not say No. The temptation came to 
 him — from the best of men, and he yielded. The purest of 
 wells was to be troubled by his base hand. 
 
140 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 SPRINGTIME. 
 
 A tear and a half had elapsed — to be exact, nineteen 
 months— since the snowy Goose Fair. Spring had come 
 and was passing into summer. The trees had put forth 
 their green leaves, tender and fresh, and the rushing salty 
 blast from the sea had shrivelled them up and turned them 
 black. Only those protected by shelter had survived. In 
 the dingles, the coombes, under the hedges, the glistening 
 pennywort leaves had spread, the white saxifrage spikes of 
 flowers had shot up, the primroses had opened, laughed and 
 faded, and now the stately foxglove was everywhere tossing 
 its pink bells. 
 
 The garden of Towan was not a snuggery in which the 
 flowers could nourish, but the glen of Xantsillan was over- 
 run with them ; plants that had languished at Towan, and 
 had been cast forth, had found their way to the sheltered 
 glen, and run wild there — blue navelwort, pink fumitory, 
 and yellow horn poppy. About Towan the gulls screamed, 
 and the magpies chattered, and the peewits piped, but down 
 in the sheltered glen of Nantsillan thrushes and blackbirds 
 sang and finches cheeped and chirruped. 
 
 The sea had thrown aside its winter grey trimmed with 
 white and put on azure and spangles, and the winds ex- 
 changed their wail for a plaintive song. 
 
 Joyous with summer triumph that coast could never be, 
 with its tortured trees and scanty vegetation, that fought 
 the winds, a guerilla warfare of ambushes. But it could be 
 pleasant, always with an under-note of melancholy in its 
 gaiety. 
 
 A change has taken place in Towan since we were last 
 there. Mrs. Gaverock is better, but will never recover her 
 former vigour. When old people descend the scale, they 
 go down, not by steps but by stages. The loss of Con- 
 stantine had broken her. She was so far recovered that 
 she could attend to some of the little matters that needed 
 attention in the house, but she was delicate and weak, and 
 obliged to rest in her own room much during the clay. 
 
SPRINGTIME. 141 
 
 Dennis Penhalligan came to see her every week and ad- 
 minister medicines to enable her to regain something of her 
 lost strength. 
 
 Old Squire Gaverock had not suffered from his exposure 
 in the storm. If it had done anything to him it had 
 toughened and roughened him. Tough and rough he had 
 been before : he was now, perhaps, even more domineering, 
 exacting, and boisterous than previously. He had a new 
 ambition, now that Constantine was lost, and this ambition 
 made him proud and headstrong and resolute to accomplish 
 it. Gerans had married Rose, and they were now away on 
 their honeymoon. The old man was elate. Rose's money 
 would come to the family head, and the estate of Towan 
 might be considerably extended. 
 
 'We'll build up the paddock wall again, and have some 
 deer in it once more. We will, by Golly ! ' he said. 
 
 He had despatched Gei'ans to Truro, on his honeymoon, 
 to look about the house property there of Rose, and see 
 whether it could be disposed of to advantage. There was 
 a tin mine in Kenwyn on her land, bringing in royalties. 
 Gerans was to inquire into the condition of this mine, and 
 take advice with the Truro solicitor whether to sell the 
 land or keep it for a few years. Old Gaverock had no idea 
 of business. He kept no accounts. When he had money 
 in his pocket he spent it ; he did not waste it — throw it 
 away — but he spent it, and when he had no money he lived 
 without. He could kill his own sheep and bullocks when 
 he wanted meat ; he had his own dairy. He grew his own 
 corn. He could live on the produce of his farm till next 
 court day and the rents came in again to flush his limp 
 purse. He was now somewhat troubled with his respon- 
 sibility for Rose. He received her rents, and muddled her 
 money with his own. Sometimes he had not change in his 
 drawer where he kept his cash, then he borrowed the change 
 from the drawer where he kept Rose's money, and then 
 forgot what he had borrowed, and put back sometimes more, 
 sometimes less. His intention was to be honest in his 
 dealing with the trust, but he was by education unfitted to 
 undertake one. He had reckoned on the help of Constan- 
 tine, who, having been given a business training, would be 
 able to disentangle the affairs ; but Constantine was dead, 
 and the tanede became more confused, Gerans was of no 
 
142 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 use to him. Gerans was reared in the same want of system 
 as himself. The old man became uneasy in his conscience. 
 He did not wish to do wrong, and he did not know how he 
 stood with regard to the trust. So he asked the help of 
 Penhalligan. 
 
 Dennis had a clear head, and was business-like. He 
 came up continually to Towan to see Mrs. Gaverock — which 
 was nonsense — old women can no more be patched up than 
 old cracked crockery ; but he might be of service in looking 
 into the trust, in arranging the figures, and in advising 
 about the sale. Gaverock had the idea that lawyers were 
 all rogues, and that if he consulted a lawyer he would be 
 given rascally advice. ' One lawyer shovels into the pocket 
 of the other/ he said, 'as one hand washes the other hand. 
 But Penhalligan is a doctor, not a lawyer, so he may be 
 able to give an unbiassed opinion.' As he regarded all law- 
 yers to be rogues, he considered all doctors to be humbugs, 
 as far as their profession affected them — that is, he con- 
 sidered law to be rascality and medicine quackery ; but a 
 lawyer or a doctor, taken independently of his profession, 
 might be an honest man. If he were himself unwell, he 
 would not think of calling in a surgeon ; he would ask the 
 opinion of a non-professional, because more likely from the 
 latter to get an unprejudiced opinion. A doctor would pro- 
 tract his illness to extract a larger fee. By degrees old 
 Gaverock came to regard Dennis with respect. He found 
 that he was quite able to see his way through legal docu- 
 ments, and to sift and sort debit from credit entries. 
 
 'What is the sense of writing "Debtor" there?' said 
 Gaverock, pointing to the head of an account-book. '1 pay 
 my way. It is insulting. You'll be putting me down as 
 bankrupt next. Besides, you are setting down there things 
 I have paid. You may scribble them there if you please, 
 but you won't force me to pay them again.' 
 
 With his mind alive to his own incapacity, and with a 
 keen suspicion that the solicitors at Truro were not to be 
 trusted, he was ready to accept advice from Dennis and 
 submit to his opinion in a way he had done to no one else. 
 Dennis Penhalligan had a peremptory, decided manner, and 
 this exactly suited Gaverock. The old Squire readily sub- 
 mitted to be guided through a quagmire in which at every 
 step he took he sank, when he felt that the hand extended 
 
SPEINGTIME. 143 
 
 to him was that of a man who knew where he was treading. 
 Although he grumbled at Doctor Sawbones giving himself 
 airs, yet he secretly approved of the tone he assumed, and 
 blindly submitted to his advice. Gerans was surprised and 
 Rose annoyed at the influence gained over old Gaverock by 
 the young doctor. The former was unsuspicious of the 
 attachment of Dennis for Miss Trewhella, and the latter 
 was too prudent to waken his jealousy by adverting to it. 
 Rose was annoyed at the influence gained over Mr. Gave- 
 rock, because she considered, not without reason, that 
 Dennis was taking a place in the counsels of the family that 
 properly belonged to Gerans, that he was advising and di- 
 recting concerning her property instead of the man who 
 was shortly to be her husband. Involuntarily, she con- 
 trasted Gerans' ignorance with the knowledge of Dennis, 
 the promptitude and intelligence of the latter with the pro- 
 crastination and stupidity of the former. Gerans was good- 
 natured and easy-going ; it never occurred to him to oppose 
 his father ; if he formed a contrary opinion, he allowed the 
 old man to override him, and trample it down, scornfully, 
 whereas if Dennis Penhalligan expressed an opinion the 
 Squire submitted at once. 
 
 ' Gei'ans,' said she, one day, pouting and peevish, ' why 
 do you allow Mr. Penhalligan to supplant you as your 
 father's adviser ? He is listened to, and no ear is turned 
 to you. He directs and is obeyed ; you express a wish 
 and are ignored.' 
 
 ' My dear Rose, I know nothing about business. Dennis 
 is a very good fellow, has plenty of brains, and is invaluable. 
 If I were to meddle I should muddle.' 
 
 ' But your father ought to pay attention to your wishes, 
 and not listen to Dennis Penhalligan.' 
 
 ' What ! attend to my advice when I am as ignorant 
 of these matters as a babe ! ' 
 
 ' Yes, whether for right or wrong, for good or evil, your 
 opinion should be deferred to.' 
 
 ' I don't see that, Rose,' said Gerans, good-humouredly. 
 
 ' I am not at all convinced that Penhalligan's advice is 
 for the best,' urged Rose. 
 
 ' There we differ. Of course he advises for our welfare. 
 We are friends. He likes you and he likes me.' 
 
 Rose's cheek flushed, and a light quivered in her eye. 
 
144 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 She was tempted to tell him of Dennis's proposal on the 
 night of the Goose Fair, but her better judgment prevailed. 
 She might have done so without exciting jealousy and 
 dislike of his rival in the heart of Gerans. Gerans was so 
 perfectly truthful, right-minded, and good-hearted, that he 
 would have pitied Dennis, not borne him ill-will ; he would 
 not have suspected that he continued to harbour a hopeless 
 passion for Rose and to nourish bitter feelings against 
 himself. 
 
 For some time before the marriage Rose Trewhella was 
 not in an amiable mood. She was fond of Gerans, but im- 
 patient of his placidity and angry at his submissiveness to 
 his father. She saw all his weaknesses, she liked him, but 
 did not love him with all her heart, and she caught herself 
 contrasting him with Dennis, and asking herself which was 
 the better man of the two — better, not as to the qualities 
 of the heart, but of the mind. A little corroding contempt 
 for the easy good-humour of Gerans was seated, like a 
 'worm i' the bud/ very near her heart. To Dennis she 
 could look up, on him she could lean, he was strong and 
 tall ; but at Gerans she must laugh or curl her lip, he was 
 so small and weak where Dennis was great and strong. 
 She was angry with herself for drawing this contrast, 
 because she really liked Gerans and she had no spark of 
 affection for Dennis. Then she thought of Old Michaelmas 
 Day — of her drive with Gerans to Wadebridge, and his 
 proposal ; she thought how broad and red he had seemed 
 seated by her in the gig with his greatcoat on and a thick 
 white belcher over his chin, how he had fidgeted over his 
 proposal, and made it clumsily, in a prosaic manner, whilst 
 blowing his nose in a great orange pocket-handkerchief 
 spotted white. She would always associate that most 
 eventfnl moment of her life with the great yellow bandana 
 kerchief and the white woollen belcher. There had been 
 no passion in his voice ; he had been like one labouring to 
 get rid of an irksome duty, great shy booby that he was. 
 Then — on the way home, how different ! What fire, what 
 rage, what romance, in the declaration of Dennis ! She 
 remembered how she had recovered consciousness in his 
 arms, against his furiously beating heart. She recalled his 
 quivering face, his frantic words, his vehement appeal, his 
 despair. Did Gerans love her 1 She could not tell. He 
 
SPRINGTIME. 145 
 
 showed no tokens of passion. Did Dennis love her ? Of 
 his love there could be no question. She was irritated at 
 the contrast. 
 
 ' Gerans,' said she, one day, after she had been thinking 
 about this, ' tell me truly, on your honour, what I desire to 
 know of you.' 
 
 ' Of course I will, Rose — I keep no secrets from you.' 
 
 ' Tell me : before you started on Goose Fair day, did 
 your father order you to propose on the road ? ' 
 
 ' Order ! No, Rose — not exactly that. He recommended 
 me to speak to you.' 
 
 ' That is enough,' she said, and ran to her room, where 
 she burst into tears. She sulked for a week after that 
 avowal. ' He is, indeed, like a well-trained poodle,' she 
 said. ' Never mind, as soon as we are married, I will insist 
 on his taking his own course, and the old man must give 
 way. If he will not, I will not remain at Towan ; I shall 
 make Gerans come with me to Truro, and there we can 
 settle, and be masters in our own house.' 
 
 Whilst Gerans and Rose were away on their honeymoon 
 trip to Truro, Squire Gaverock saw more of Dennis than 
 before. His presence had become a necessity to him. 
 Loveday had not been easy at the frequent visits of her 
 brother to Towan before the marriage. She knew the state 
 of his heart, and she thought that it could conduce to no 
 good that he should meet Rose so often. She saw that 
 every visit made him miserable and gloomy. She heard 
 him pace his room at night and sigh. She noticed how 
 much more worn and thin his face became, and how the 
 lines, hard and bitter, about his mouth deepened. Dennis 
 was becoming irritable towards her as well. He thought 
 she watched him, and he thought right ; he did not value 
 the tender love that prompted her to observe him ; he re- 
 garded her attention as intrusive and inquisitive. He 
 became silent and reserved with her, sometimes he even 
 lost his temper, and spoke roughly to her. Then her eyes 
 filled with tears, and she withdrew, but said nothing, 
 knowing that it was best to leave him alone. She was 
 unaware that he had spoken his heart's secret to Rose ; she 
 saw that Rose's engagement was preying on his mind and 
 heart. She tried to hide from him that she saw the trouble 
 he was in, and that she was watchful of him, yet her deep 
 
 L 
 
146 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 sympathy must express itself, if not by word, at least by 
 act of love ; and when he noticed that she saw and pitied 
 his sufferings, he was offended and resented it. 
 
 At Christmas he had met with disappointment about 
 his bills. Several were unpaid ; payment was delayed, and 
 he was pressed for money to meet certain debts he had 
 contracted for groceries, and drugs, and drapery. He could 
 not pay till he had received his dues, and if he were impor- 
 tunate for his money he might lose his patients. This also 
 helped to fret his temper and make him more despondent 
 in his view of life. 
 
 Whilst he was thus troubled, old Gaverock called him in 
 to help him in the management of Rose Trewhella's pro- 
 perty. He had loved Rose without any mercenary ideas in 
 his head ; but, as he went through the accounts, and 
 examined into her affairs, previous to the marriage, for the 
 drawing up of the settlement, it was forced on him — how he 
 would have been relieved of his embarrassments if only he 
 could have secured the hand of the heiress. 
 
 ' Take from him the talent, and give it to him that hath 
 ten,' muttered Dennis one day ; ' that is the order of the 
 world's government. This world is a school, in which every 
 good thing goes to the favourites, and certain poor boys get 
 only impositions and blows. I have but one luxury left 
 me, one friend dear to my heart, my last, my only con- 
 solation. From that I shall be parted.' He set his teeth, 
 and his eyes glared fiercely. ' That will be taken from me, 
 because I am to be utterly badgered, and goaded to madness. 
 My piano — I shall have to sell that, if I can find a 
 purchaser in this desolate land. My piano — my mother's 
 piano ! No more Beethoven, no more Mozart and Haydn ! ' 
 He clenched his nervous fingers behind his back, and his 
 chin sank on his breast. ' Some men are born under a 
 star, and the star may disappear for awhile but returns in 
 the sky. I was born under a meteor, whose course is 
 downward, a flare, a few sparks, and then — nothing.' 
 
147 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 RETURN. 
 
 'I expect them back to-day,' said old Gaverock ; 'and high 
 time they were home — only spending money and idling. 
 What the advantage of a honeymoon is I never could see. 
 It is a cruel institution, for it makes a young couple sick 
 of each other's society, whereas, if they were at home, and 
 had their daily duties to attend to, they would have some- 
 thing else to think of than each other's shortcomings.' 
 
 ' At what o'clock do you expect them 1 ' asked Dennis. 
 
 'I cannot tell. They take post-horses from St. Columb. 
 They have been spending their month in Truro ; or rather 
 on the outskirts. Rose has a house in Kenwyn, about a 
 mile outside. If it had been in Truro, it might have been 
 let ; but there has been no tenant found for it all the while 
 she has been here, so she has been out of pocket, had to put 
 in a couple, as caretakers, at so much per week, whereas if 
 let money would have come in. That comes of leaving it 
 in the hands of lawyers. I don't believe that any trouble 
 has been taken to let the house. I suppose they make 
 something out of it — got some understanding with the man 
 I have put in the house to keep it. But what is one to do 
 — at a distance 1 I can't run about searching for tenants. 
 I want to sell the place, and I will do so.' 
 
 ' But does — does your daughter-in-law wish it ? She 
 was born in the Kenwyn house ; it is associated with her 
 childhood and happiest recollections.' 
 
 ' If she does not like it, she may lump it. I do not see 
 the fun of paying a salary to a caretaker, and having house 
 and furniture deteriorate, whereas the money for which it 
 was sold could be well expended here. If she is a fool and 
 don't see that, I pity her.' 
 
 ' You wish the young people to live here with you ? ' 
 asked Dennis. 
 
 'Wish — choose,' answered the Squire. 'Hark! there 
 they are.' 
 
 He rose and walked to the porch. Penhalligan hung 
 
148 THE GAVEKOCKS. 
 
 back, a spasm of pain came over him, and drops stood on 
 his brow. 
 
 The old man boisterously welcomed his son and Rose, 
 and shouted to the post-boy to go round to the kitchen and 
 regale himself. 
 
 ' Come in, come in ! ' he roared. ' That is right — glad 
 to return to Towan ; utterly tired of each other ; ready to 
 take off your coats and be at work. Heigh ! Gerans, the 
 mare has foaled. Poor Buttercup ! we nearly lost her in 
 milk fever. I haven't been out in the " Mermaid " since 
 you left. Come in : here is Mr. Penhalligan, run up to 
 welcome you, and see how you both look. Last time we 
 saw you, you were like two ring-doves. Have you begun 
 to peck out each other's feathers yet 1 ' 
 
 Gerans went up at once to Dennis, with his hand ex- 
 tended, and his honest face radiant with good-nature. 
 ' Glad to see you, old fellow,' he said, wringing his hand. 
 ' How is Loveday ? Is she here 1 ' 
 
 ' I should have thought,' said Rose, somewhat sharply, 
 c that a dutiful son's first thought should have been of his 
 mother.' 
 
 'How is my mother?' asked the docile Gerans, turning 
 to his father. 
 
 ' All right ; never was better — except for fancies. 
 Thinks herself ill, imagines an ache in a rib — there it is ; 
 then in her toe, and the obedient ache flies thither ; and 
 so it dances all over her body in attendance on her fancies. 
 Is it not so, Penhalligan 1 No — of course you will not 
 admit it ; any more than a parson will admit we are not 
 all miserable sinners in need of tinkering into tolerable 
 Christians.' 
 
 Rose, on entering, had given Dennis a very cool saluta- 
 tion, but when she heard her inconsiderate husband rush 
 into inquiries after Loveday she changed her mind, and 
 greeted him with considerable cordiality, hoping thereby to 
 make Gerans jealous. But Gerans was without a spark of 
 suspicion in him. ' That is right,' he said ; ' glad to see 
 you welcome our friend cordially.' Rose looked at him to 
 see if he were in earnest ; when she saw that he was — 
 pouted, and went off to her room. 
 
 'Well, Dennis,' said the unconscious Gerans, 'very 
 pleased to see you again, and only wish you had something 
 
RETURN. 149 
 
 as bright to cheer you as I have. I hope you have been 
 here often to enliven my father. Father, I suppose you 
 have wanted me home ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, yes,' answered the old man. ' I had to sit up 
 with Buttercup all night, and give her gruel, because you 
 were not here. Can't trust Tom Geake. Can't trust any- 
 one, now I have lost old Tregellas. Geake will promise every- 
 thing, but performance is a limping leg that don't keep 
 pace with promise. Lord bless me ! ' exclaimed old Gave- 
 rock, ' I've had to be master and mistress together, and 
 order dinner and keep the maidens in discipline. Mother 
 can t or won't get about, and there would have been riot 
 and waste if I had not looked to everything. Now Rose 
 is here, she shall be housekeeper. I found the maidens in 
 the kitchen had been using the silver, and sending me the 
 plated forks and spoons. I found that out because I saw 
 a silver spoon in the pig's trough and inquired how it had 
 got there.' 
 
 ' You will stay and sup with us, Dennis 1 ' said Gerans, 
 arresting the doctor as he was taking his hat. ' Come, on 
 my return you must be neighbourly.' 
 
 ' I had rather go home,' answered Penhalligan ; ' Love- 
 day will be expecting me.' 
 
 ' I will send a boy clown to ask Loveday to come up,' 
 said Gerans. ' Do stay, and hear what we have seen and 
 done. It is a real pleasure to meet you again. Rose has 
 been among her acquaintances, but they were all strangers 
 to me. I am rejoiced to meet an old friend once more. 
 Do stay, Dennis. Rose will like it also. Now excuse me 
 — I must run upstairs and see my mother.' 
 
 ' Stay, Penhalligan, I wish it,' ordered the Squire. ' I 
 must go out and see that the post-boy has put the horses 
 in the proper stalls, and that some cider has been drawn 
 for him. The maidens one day drew me a jug of lamp-oil 
 for my dinner. I went into the kitchen myself in a 
 pretty state of tempest, and found that they were drinking 
 a bottle of my best claret. Stay here, Penhalligan, till I 
 come back.' He went to the door", then returned, and said, 
 ' High time Rose should be here. Will you believe me 1 
 I thought my nightcap was very damp, and yesterday found 
 the chambermaid wiping out the basins with it.' Then he 
 went away. 
 
150 THE GAVEEOCKS. 
 
 The glimpse Dennis hud had of Rose on her arrival, 
 flushed with excitement at her return to Towan, sufficed to 
 show that her beauty was heightened, and to revive in him 
 the fire that was slowly consuming his heart. 
 
 He could not, and he did not, believe that she loved 
 Gerans. She had sneered at him only a few days before 
 she accepted him. His jealous eye had not observed in her 
 any of the tokens of love. What had been Rose's answer 
 to himself when he told her of his passion 1 That he was 
 too late. Too late might well be an expression of regret 
 that she had accepted a man for whom she did not care, in 
 ignorance that she was loved by another for whom she had 
 a regard. To the jaundiced eye of Dennis, Gerans was 
 undeserving of her respect. His good-nature was stupidity ; 
 his submission to his father, mean-spiritedness. He had 
 recognised his good qualities before, now he disputed them 
 all. How could a bright, intelligent girl like Rose love a 
 boor 1 She must despise him, and regret that she was 
 yoked to him. 
 
 As he thus thought, with knitted brow, by the hearth, 
 Rose entered. On observing him, she resumed her distant 
 behaviour. She was in a somewhat ruffled mood, and vexed 
 at seeing him there. She did not forget that he was a 
 rejected lover. 
 
 ' I hope Loveday is well,' she said coldly. 
 
 ' She is very well : she will be here directly.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! Does she know I am returned 1 ' 
 
 * Gerans has sent a boy down to tell her to come up.' 
 
 Rose frowned. She did not speak for a moment. After 
 a while she said, ' Gerans is inconsiderate and selfish. This 
 is your sister's day for ironing, as I know. She must not 
 be dragged away from her work. I am provoked at the 
 thoughtlessness of Gerans. I will run down to-morrow 
 morning and see her.' 
 
 ' You wish me to stop the messenger ? ' 
 
 ' Stop Gerans' messenger to Loveday ! By all means ' 
 ■ — she turned her head — ' if he is not gone already.' 
 
 Dennis went out. When he returned he was accom- 
 panied by the Squire. 
 
 ' Well, Rose ! ' shouted the latter. ' Very glad to haA r e 
 you here. Been quite lost without you. Mother has given 
 up in a foolish despondent way, and there is no rousing her. 
 
RETURN. 151 
 
 I have had to see to everything and been driven distracted 
 by the maidens. They have run to the store cupboard as 
 they liked, and eaten all the sugar : first the lump, then the 
 moist. I had none for my toddy last night. When I 
 found there was no sugar I took a pot of honey, and dis- 
 covered finger impressions in that. How have you enjoyed 
 yourself ? ' 
 
 ' Very well, uncle,' answered Rose, hardly recovered 
 from her irritation. ' You see I was among old scenes and 
 old friends at Truro.' 
 
 ' Did you find a tenant for the house ? ' 
 
 ' No,' answered Rose airily, ' we did not trouble to 
 look for one.' 
 
 'Why not? I expressly commanded Gerans to do so.' 
 
 ' I did not wish it,' said Rose, ' and I forbade Gerans to 
 move.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! And pray why ? ' 
 
 ' I think it not unlikely we may go there again.' 
 
 ' Not this year. You have had your jaunt with Gerans, 
 and I can spare neither of you. The maidens have nearly 
 driven me mad. Do you know that, having worn out the 
 leather of the knife-board, they took and adapted one of 
 the legs of my hunting breeches ? No, no, Rose, here you 
 stay and keep house for me.' 
 
 ' But, uncle ' 
 
 ' Rose,' said the old man peremptorily, ' I will it. Con- 
 sider, you are paying fifty pounds in rates and for care- 
 keepers for your house at Kenwyn, and it might be let for 
 a hundred, and the tenant pay all outs. A hundred in 
 pocket, instead of fifty out. Do you understand 1 ' 
 
 ' I think it not improbable that Gerans and I will settle 
 there, instead of living with you at Towan.' 
 
 Old Gaverock burst out laughing. 
 
 ' What is there absurd in this 1 ' asked Rose, with heigh- 
 tened colour. ' I like Truro. I am known there. It is 
 not a desert. There are plenty of friends about Kenwyn.' 
 
 ' Have done,' said the old man roughly ; ' enough that I 
 don't choose it.' 
 
 ' But perhaps I may wish it,' said Rose ; ' I presume I 
 have a voice in the matter.' 
 
 ' This is soon settled,' exclaimed Gaverock, indignant at 
 her opposition. ' I shall sell the house.' 
 
152 THE GAVEKOCKS. 
 
 Rose fired up. ' My home ! You cannot. You shall 
 not.' 
 
 ' Cannot and shall not are strong words,' said the Squire, 
 ' and need justification. I am your trustee, and I shall act 
 as I think proper.' 
 
 ' But Gerans ' began Rose, with tears rising to her 
 
 eyes. 
 
 ' Gerans has no will but mine,' answered old Gaverock. 
 
 Through the month of her absence Rose had been re- 
 solving to try her strength against her father-in-law. She 
 considered that it would be impossible for her to live happily 
 in Towan if the old man were allowed to rule unopposed. 
 He must be taught that other wills had to be considered 
 beside his own. She had spoken to her husband on the 
 subject, but had met with no encouragement. ' My father 
 is a very clever man,' said Gerans ; ' it will not do to oppose 
 him. He never has met with resistance. Besides, he 
 always knows better than anyone else — than you or I — 
 what ought to be done.' 
 
 Rose had brought her opposition to the point just 
 described when her husband came in. She felt her own 
 weakness and need of help, so she turned eagerly to him. 
 ' Gerans,' she said, ' I have just told your father that we 
 are not going to live at Towan, and may go back to 
 Kenwyn ' 
 
 ' And he has pooh-poohed her,' said the old man. 
 
 'I will not be pooh-poohed ! ' exclaimed Rose. 'I like 
 my old home, and I will not allow it to be sold.' 
 
 ' Who talks of selling it 1 ' said Gerans. 
 
 1 Your father.' 
 
 ' He has good reasons, doubtless.' 
 
 ' He shall not do it. It is my home. I love it.' 
 
 Then Rose burst into tears. Gerans looked undecidedly 
 from his wife to his father. 
 
 ' I think,' said Dennis, ' that it will not do to sell, at any 
 rate at present. Mining interest is down. There is no 
 money circulating, but this will not be for long. House 
 property about Truro is certain to rise in value. I have 
 heard that land suitable for building purposes has gone up 
 five and thirty per cent, within the last twenty years, and 
 it is likely to become more valuable every year. Just now 
 there is depression, and it would be a vast pity to sell at a 
 
RETURN. 153 
 
 moment when you would get a poor price. Keep till better 
 times ; and in the meantime you may come to reconsider 
 your determination.' 
 
 ' Thank you,' said Rose. 
 
 ' There is something in this,' acquiesced old Gaverock. 
 ' Very well, Rose. I won't sell just at present. I'll think 
 about it, and wait for better times.' 
 
 Rose turned with a flushed face towards her husband, 
 and some words trembled on her lips, but she controlled 
 herself and did not speak them. Penhalligan saw her, and 
 guessed what was passing in her mind. 
 
 When she and Gerans were alone together she burst 
 forth with, ' This is intolerable ! You dare not raise a 
 word in my favour. You would let your father play ducks 
 and drakes with my money, and rub your hands and 
 applaud.' 
 
 ' My dear Rose, you are mistaken. My father will do 
 the best possible for you.' 
 
 ' I do not care whether he meditates good or bad. I 
 want to have things done as you and I choose, not as he 
 wills.' 
 
 ' You are unreasonable, Rose.' 
 
 ' I may be. I do not care. I want, and will have, my 
 own way, whether reasonable or not. Why do you not 
 take my part ? Why must I be beholden to Mr. Penhalligan 
 for support ? You are my natural protector, and you 
 stand like a sheep by my side and bleat Ah ! when the old 
 ram calls Baa ! ' 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 FIVE AND-TWENTY POUNDS. 
 
 When Dennis Penhalligan came home to Nantsillan, that 
 evening, he scarcely spoke to his sister. She thought he 
 looked haggard and miserable — more so than usual. He 
 walked straight to the piano, opened it and began to play. 
 After waiting for him to cease, she went to him, laid her 
 hand lightly on his shoulder, stooped, and kissed his brow. 
 ' It is late, Dennis. I am going to bed. Is there any- 
 thing you would like to eat or drink that I can fetch you ? 
 Little Ruth has gone to roost three hours aero.' 
 
154 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 He shook off her hand impatiently. 
 
 ' You will not remain up long,' she said. ' You want 
 sleep as much as a child.' 
 
 ' Do you grudge me my only pleasure ? ' he asked im- 
 patiently. ' I am parting from my best solace.' 
 
 ' What do you mean, Dennis ? ' 
 
 ' I am going to sell the piano.' 
 
 ' You shall not do that. No, Dennis, indeed you shall 
 not.' 
 
 ' It cannot be helped. If we eat, we must pay for our 
 food. We cannot live without food, and we can live 
 without music' 
 
 ' Oh, Dennis, dear brother ! It was mamma's instru- 
 ment. Her sweet influence will pass away, it almost 
 seems, if the piano goes. When you are unhappy, and 
 vexed about money — and other troubles, you fly to this, and 
 find comfort in its music' 
 
 ' Yes,' he said, ' that is just why it must go.' 
 
 ' I do not agree with you.' 
 
 ' I must be robbed and bereaved of everything,' he said. 
 ' Do you know who will buy it 1 Old Anthony Loveys — 
 because his wife is talking of a dance, and their harpsichord 
 is worn out. He will give five-and-twenty pounds for the 
 instrument.' 
 
 ' Dennis, it cost a hundred and fifty.' 
 
 ' We must take what Ave can get.' 
 
 ' Oh, my brother, what would you do without your 
 piano 1 It is necessary to your happiness.' 
 
 ' I have no happiness — as beggared of that as of cash.' 
 
 'You must not be deprived of it. You would never, 
 nowhere, be able to get one as cheap, and — it is so good. 
 Why do you not ask Mr. Gaverock to lend you the 
 money ? ' 
 
 Dennis shook his head. 
 
 ' You are too proud,' she said timidly. 
 
 ' I do not see my way to being able to repay the money. 
 What prospect is there of this practice improving ? What 
 chance is there of farmers being more ready to pay for 
 medical attendance 1 The poor call me in, and I must take 
 my pay as I can, in pence.' 
 
 Loveday sighed. She kissed him again, and withdrew, 
 not to sleep, but to think. 
 
FIVE-AND-TWENTT POUNDS. 155 
 
 The state of poverty in which they were was becoming 
 distressing. Dennis did not make way in the neighbour- 
 hood ; his gloomy temper, morbid and touchy, did not con- 
 ciliate good-will, and his rigid conscientiousness dissatisfied 
 patients who wanted to be thought and to think themselves 
 ill. His pride stood in the way of success. He would make 
 no effort to be popular, because he would not conciliate the 
 good opinion of persons whose opinions he considered not 
 worth having. Perhaps the only individual who got on 
 with him and whom he did not repel was Squire Gaverock. 
 The Squire was so rough himself, that he appreciated the 
 unyielding temper of the doctor. 
 
 Loveday would have lost heart but that she supposed 
 her brother's disappointment about Rose must wear off, and 
 then perhaps he would become brighter and more sanguine. 
 His manner and mood were depressing, but she made a 
 brave struggle not to be crushed by them. How to better 
 their prospects occupied her mind night and day. It was 
 clear to her that till the daily grind of poverty was relieved 
 there was no chance of her brother's spirits improving. 
 
 A fat sorrow, says a Cornish proverb, is better to bear 
 than a lean sorrow. She made great allowance for the 
 morose mood of Dennis. He had to bear a very heavy 
 disappointment on great leanness. 
 
 Next morning, without waiting for Rose to visit her, 
 Loveday went up to Towan. Rose received her stiffly she 
 thought ; but Loveday was without suspicion, and she 
 attributed the distance and the coldness of her reception to 
 nervousness on the part of Rose at being seen in her new 
 condition as bride. 
 
 After a little general conversation, which dragged, 
 Loveday went headlong at the purpose of her visit. 
 
 ' My dear Rose,' she said, ' I have come to ask a great 
 kindness of you, a kindness which is to remain strictly 
 between me and thee. I need say nothing about our being 
 straitened in circumstances. Dennis has but one solace 
 in all his troubles — his piano. You have heard how beauti- 
 fully he plays on it. That instrument when new cost a 
 hundred and fifty guineas, and was my father's wedding 
 present to my mother. It is not, of course, worth the sum 
 then given for it ; but it is a good piano, and worth a good 
 deal of money. Dennis is in immediate difficulties, and 
 
156 THE GAVEKOCKS. 
 
 proposes selling it to Mr. Loveys, who will give five-and- 
 twenty pounds for it. If the piano leaves our house, I do 
 not know what will happen to Dennis : he will become so 
 depressed that nothing will rouse him again. You do not 
 know how bitter life can be made by the lack of a few 
 shillings : how it galls the pride and frets the temper, how 
 it darkens the eyes, and lies like a festering thorn in the 
 sick soul. I have come up here to entreat you to do Dennis 
 and me a great kindness. "Will you buy our piano and 
 leave it with us till you want it, or till we can redeem it ? 
 I do not like to ask you to advance us the money. I am, 
 like Dennis, too proud to do that ; but ' — she laughed 
 through the tears that were in her eyes — £ I delude my 
 haughty spirit by a trick : I say — buy the piano. We will 
 consider it as yours, take care of it for you, and — yet — I 
 am sure you will allow us to repurchase it of you if we are 
 ever able to afford it.' 
 
 She fixed her earnest eyes on those of .Rose. Rose had 
 been offended by the desire of Gerans to see Loveday 
 directly he arrived at home, and could not forgive his 
 sending down after her, and had felt angry with Loveday 
 and determined to keep her at a distance. But Rose was 
 kind-hearted, and was at once touched by the story told 
 her — touched especially, as Loveday pleaded not for herself, 
 but for Dennis. Rose pitied the young doctor. Penhalligan 
 had loved her very dearly, with an intensity of passion of 
 which Gerans was incapable ; and her marriage had been 
 to him a bitter disappointment. Rose was relieved directly 
 she heard Loveday's request, because an opportunity was 
 offered her of showing the rejected suitor a little favour 
 and doing him a great kindness. 
 
 Loveday went on. ' Dear Rose, I see by your face that 
 you pity him — poor fellow. You will do what I ask, will 
 you not? Now for something further. I have no doubt 
 that you will want needlework executed for you. Mrs. 
 Gaverock is ill, and can do little. You have told me 
 repeatedly that you are unskilful with the needle. Allow 
 me to do all the making and mending that is required foi 
 the house, and let me earn a small sum, which can be struck 
 off quarterly from the piano debt. May this be so 1 ' 
 
 Rose, in effusive pity and good nature, caught her round 
 the neck and kissed her. 
 
FIVE-AND-TWENTT POUNDS. 157 
 
 ' My dear Loveday,' she said, f I have not the sum with 
 mo just now in my purse, but you shall have it. I will 
 give it you and your brother — that, and more.' 
 
 ' No,' said Loveday, ' we will not receive any money as 
 a present. You shall buy the piano, and suffer me to re- 
 purchase it. If you are to do us a kindness, it must be 
 done on my terms.' 
 
 'Gerans shall get me the money at once out of my 
 father-in-law.' 
 
 ' You will not tell anyone what it is for : that is to 
 remain a secret between us. Only Dennis must know ; and, 
 believe me, he will value the piano all the more when he 
 knows it is yours.' 
 
 'Will he?' exclaimed Rose. 'lam so glad to hear 
 that.' 
 
 Squire Gaverock and Gerans were out, so that Rose was 
 unable to speak to them whilst Loveday was with her. 
 
 ' I suppose your brother will be coming up in the even- 
 ing,' she said. ' I will send the money by him.' 
 
 Then Loveday left. 
 
 Gerans and his father did not return till late in the 
 afternoon. They had been out together in the boat. When 
 Gerans went to his room to change his coat, Rose followed 
 him. 
 
 ' I want five-and-twenty pounds,' she said. 
 
 ' Do you 1 ' asked Gerans. ' Your wishes are moderate. 
 I want a thousand, but I do not know where to find them.' 
 
 ' I want the money at once,' said Rose. ' I have 
 immediate need of it.' 
 
 ' For what purpose 1 ' asked he. ' There are no shops 
 here. You have spent quite enough at Truro.' 
 
 ' Never mind the object. I want and will have the 
 money.' 
 
 ' My dear Rose, you are welcome to it, as far as I am 
 concerned.' 
 
 ' The money is mine,' said Rose. 
 
 ' My father manages for you. He is your trustee. The 
 guardianship of your dear self he has transferred to me, but 
 not the trusteeship of your fortune.' He put his arm 
 round her, to draw her to him and kiss her, but she was 
 annoyed, and with a twist escaped his arm. 
 
 * It seems to me vastly strange,' said Rose, ' that 1 
 
158 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 should have three or four hundred a year, and yet not be 
 able to touch twenty-five pounds when I want them.' 
 
 ' Tell me what for, and I will ask my father to let you 
 have the sum.' 
 
 'I will not tell you. The reason is good enough : I 
 want it.' 
 
 ' But that is not a reason wherewith to convince my 
 father.' 
 
 ' I will give no other.' 
 
 ' Then you stand little chance of obtaining the money.' 
 
 ' Do you mean to tell me that you refuse to ask him 
 for it.' 
 
 ' No, Rose, dear. I will ask, but he is not likely to 
 consent.' 
 
 ' Make him give it me.' 
 
 ' I make my father ! ' Gerans fairly laughed at the idea. 
 ' I thought that by this time you knew how resolute a man 
 he is.' 
 
 ' I will not be satisfied with twenty-five pounds now,' 
 said Rose. ' I will have forty. Go and ask him for 
 forty.' 
 
 ' Be reasonable, my sweet blossom,' said Gerans. ' Any- 
 thing that you desire in reason you shall have, but a 
 sufficient reason must be shown. My father is responsible 
 for your money, and he will not let you have it to throw 
 away.' 
 
 ' I am not going to throw it away.' 
 
 ' What are you about to do with it ? ' 
 
 ' I will not tell.' 
 
 ' I have nothing of my own,' said Gerans good- 
 humouredly, ' or I would gladly let you have what you 
 want, and ask no questions ; but with my father it is other- 
 wise. He must know the why and wherefore of every 
 penny spent.' 
 
 1 Come with me,' said Rose. ' I will have it out with 
 the Squire.' 
 
 She was very angry, and went down into the hall with 
 her cheeks flaming and her pretty lips pursed. Gaverock 
 was there. He had thrown himself into his chair without 
 changing his clothes or washing his hands, which were 
 stained with gunpowder. His hair was very rough, heaped 
 in a thick tangle on his head. He was cleaning his gun, 
 
FIVE-AND-TWENTY POUNDS. 159 
 
 and the air in the hall was impregnated with the offensive 
 odour. He threw the oiled, blackened rag into the fire. 
 
 ' There are others than the maidens want keeping in 
 order/ said Rose, looking at the gun, sniffing, and tossing 
 her head. 
 
 ' The maidens ! ' repeated old Gaverock. ' They do 
 indeed require looking to. Will you believe it 1 — I had 
 no butter with my bread for two or three days. I was told 
 the cows had yielded badly. Then the maids were all laid 
 up with a bilious attack, and had to take blue pill and be 
 visited by the doctor. I found they had been guzzling at 
 the clotted cream. That is why I had no butter. If my 
 wife can't, or won't, look after them, you must do so, 
 Mistress Rose. You are not here only as a beauty, but for 
 business.' 
 
 ' I am here now on business,' said she. ' I want money 
 — forty pounds.' 
 
 ' Forty porpoises ! ' laughed Gaverock. ' Whence are 
 you going to get them 1 ' 
 
 'From you. I must have money. It is mine, and I 
 will have it. My father did not leave you my trustee to 
 bully me, and deprive me of my money.' 
 
 ' Halloo, Mistress Briar Rose ! Showing your thorns 1 ' 
 He looked at her with astonishment. ' This is the second 
 time. Yesterday ; then again to-day.' 
 
 ' I want only fair treatment,' said Rose. ' I want 
 money. I will consent to take five-and-twenty pounds, but 
 not one farthing less.' 
 
 ' If you have any bills, bring them to me,' Gaverock 
 said. ' But you shall not have the money without telling 
 me the purpose for which it is destined.' 
 
 ' That I will not tell you,' said Rose stubbornly. 
 
 1 Very well ! ' 
 
 Gaverock put his hands into his pockets, threw his head 
 back in the chair, and stretched out his legs their full 
 length. The action was defiant, contemptuous, and Rose's 
 blood flamed. 
 
 ' You shall find me the money,' she said, ' or I will go 
 to a lawyer, and get him to insist on your giving me up 
 my own.' 
 
 Gaverock turned his head, and looked at her; then 
 lauehed. 
 
160 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 1 Gerans, there is a mutinous spirit here that must be 
 quelled, or your cruise will end in wreck.' 
 
 ' I think, father, you might as well let her have some- 
 thing. You have just asked her to take the management 
 of the house out of my mother's hands, and, as you know 
 well, there must be money given her for housekeeping.' 
 
 ' The money is not for housekeeping,' said Rose, whose 
 bosom was heaving with the breath that panted, and whose 
 heart was beating fast. 
 
 ' Let me know her object, and, if I think it right, she 
 shall have the money,' said the old man composedly. 'But, 
 Gerans — 
 
 A whistling woman and a crowing hen 
 Are good for neither God nor men. 
 
 This is not even a crowing barndoor fowl, but a strutting, 
 blustering jenny- wren.' 
 
 Then there came a knock at the porch door. 
 
 ' There is Penhalligan. I know his step and rap. 
 Gerans, run and open to him,' said the Squire. 
 
 ' Gerans shall not open the door ! ' exclaimed Rose 
 angrily. ' As you can't manage your maidens, you order 
 your son about. It is a servant's place to answer the door, 
 not that of a gentleman.' 
 
 ' Nonsense, Rose,' said Gerans. ' How can you be so 
 foolish ? Penhalligan is a friend. One friend always flies 
 to open to another.' Then he moved towards the door. 
 
 Rose rushed out of the room, ran upstairs, and locked 
 herself into her own apartment, where she gave vent to her 
 anger and disappointment in tears. 
 
 Presently Gerans came up and knocked at the door ; 
 she would not even answer, much less open to him, and he 
 descended again. 
 
 She did not appear at supper, and again Gerans came 
 to her door. 
 
 ' I want nothing,' she said, in answer to his questions. 
 
 He hesitated a little while on the landing, and then said 
 peremptorily — 
 
 1 Open the door ! ' 
 
 I No,' she answered ; ' I am not coming down.' 
 ' Open the door, Rose.' 
 
 I I will not.' 
 
 1 Then I will burst it open.' 
 
FIVE-AND-TWENTY POUNDS. 161 
 
 She was alarmed, and obeyed. She stood, frightened, 
 in the doorway ; her hair dishevelled, and her eyes red. 
 
 'Rose,' he said in a gentle tone, 'you have been very 
 foolish. You shall have the five-and-twenty pounds. My 
 father has consented.' 
 
 ' Who has got that out of him ? ' asked she eagerly. 
 'You?' 
 
 ' Not I,' answered Gerans. ' That matters nothing. 
 There, Rose, wash your face and come down.' 
 
 ' Who persuaded your father ? ' 
 
 'Penhalligan reasoned with him. My father is quite 
 open to reason, but he will not be defied and brow-beaten.' 
 
 ' Penhalligan did it ! ' 
 
 'Yes. My father will furnish you with a regular 
 allowance, paid quarterly, for you to dispose of as you 
 see best.' 
 
 ' This is Mr. Penhalligan's proposal ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, and a very sensible one.' 
 
 She stamped her foot angrily on the floor, and took a 
 turn round the room, with teeth set and flashing eyes. 
 
 ' Gerans,' she said, with heaving bosom, ' I do not know 
 whether I most despise you or ' 
 
 'Or what?' 
 
 She turned sullenly away without answering. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 A FOUR-LEAVED SHAMROCK. 
 
 Dennis Penhalligan was walking through the Coombe 
 next morning. The spring or early summer sun was 
 streaming through the young leaves of the wood. Flies 
 danced in the golden light. The dingle was fragrant with 
 spring flowers. The bluebells were not over; the red- 
 robin was in bloom. The fern was raising its red, furred 
 shepherds' crooks out of the ground, ready to uncoil as the 
 heat grew more generous ; the speedwell threw up its blue 
 spires. 
 
 The wood-doves cooed softly ; a squirrel leaped among 
 the interlaced boughs — his was an easy run overhead, for 
 here the boughs were netted like coarse lace ; as they were 
 
 M 
 
162 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 debarred from rising high, they spread laterally and formed 
 a densely woven screen of branches, twigs, and foliage. A 
 magpie screamed and rushed away. Dennis looked after 
 it and laughed mockingly. ' One for sorrow ; only one,' 
 he said. His thoughts were weaving a plaiting like the 
 branches above him ; he was thinking of Rose. It seemed 
 to him that he could understand her heart. She had never 
 loved Gerans ; she had been persuaded into taking him 
 partly, perhaps, because she was comfortable at Towan, and 
 did not know where else to go ; partly induced by his good 
 looks and easy good nature. She had not known in time 
 that she was loved by him, Dennis, or she would have hesi- 
 tated, perhaps have refused Gerans. Dennis was rejected 
 only because he asked too late. He clung to this thought. 
 He built out of it a hope that he was kindly regarded by 
 Hose ; that she harboured a secret liking for him in her 
 heart — a liking which, under more favourable circum- 
 stances, might have unfolded into love. Now that she was 
 married she had found out that she did not love Gerans. 
 There was a void in her heart which could not be filled by 
 such as he. Dennis had watched her face on her return 
 from the bridal tour ; he had been present at the quarrel 
 on the arrival. He had seen her turn an angry, disap- 
 pointed countenance on her husband. There had been no 
 trace of affection in her expression when she spoke to him. 
 Only yesterday there had been an altercation. He had 
 arrived in the middle of it ; he had seen Rose dash out of 
 the room with a face on fire with indignation and wrath. 
 Gerans had, of course, occasioned it. Dennis heard that 
 Rose had wanted money, and he himself had advised the 
 old Squire to let her have pin money, and not create a last- 
 ing quarrel by unreasonable refusal. The Squire had 
 yielded to his advice. 
 
 The marriage was like to be a miserable one. Dennis 
 did not regret this. He felt bitterly that Gerans had spoiled 
 his own happiness, and blighted that of Rose, who certainly 
 would have been happy in his love. 
 
 Whilst he was thus thinking he came out into a glade. 
 Here the sun lay on a bed of turf, completely buried under 
 old brown autumn leaves. The wind had eddied here as it 
 swept down over the trees, and had heaped the dead leaves 
 above the grass. They lay dense as a russet carpet, 
 
A FOUR-LEAVED SHAMROCK. 1G3 
 
 stifling the grass below by forbidding light and air to 
 reach it. 
 
 Dennis Penhalligan stood still and looked at the carpet 
 of dead leaves. The effect was singular. In the wood the 
 soil was teeming with life ; here was one broad tract of 
 death. The rains had wet and glued the leaves together ; 
 those beneath were, perhaps, half-rotten, but the upper sur- 
 face was uninjured. The leaves were distinct as plates of 
 mail, and covered the earth like a panoply, protecting it 
 from every arrow of sunlight. 
 
 When Dennis put his foot on the bed of leaves it bent, 
 but did not break, and the soil beneath seemed spongy. 
 He looked round and saw exactly how the phenomenon 
 had been brought about. The glade was completely en- 
 closed by dwarf trees ; when the wind drove the leaves into 
 it there they whirled, but thence they could not escape. 
 There was no door of escape open for them. When the 
 wind rushed up the valley from the sea and stripped the 
 withered foliage from the boughs and carried it in a flut- 
 tering cloud before it, it swept them all into this open 
 space and left them to spin and dance and turn over and 
 over there, and finally fall on one another, till they were 
 cemented together where they lay by common decay. With 
 the leaves were split-open beech-mast cases, with prickly 
 outsides, all empty, and many masts, but the masts were 
 lifeless. Dennis stooped and pressed several between his 
 fingers; they were fleshless husks, refused even by the 
 wood-pigeons. 
 
 ' Such a backwater as this I find myself in here,' he 
 said, ' a place of withered hopes and dead promise, of empty 
 aspirations and disappointed ambitions. I cannot escape 
 from it. Here I must spin about and rot away, without 
 a prospect of emancipation.' He bowed and picked up a 
 rose-hip, no longer bright scarlet and hard, but pulpy, 
 black, decayed.' ' Nor I alone,' he said with a sigh : 'the 
 rose also must wither here, lose its beauty, and become 
 filth on the face of the earth — it will be so also with the 
 other Rose.' 
 
 He walked on ; the little footpath was embedded in 
 leaves, somewhat crushed and half- converted into mire. 
 All at once Dennis stopped, looked, and knelt down. Be- 
 fore him was a little spot of green, some two or three living- 
 is^ 
 
164 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 leaves had driven their way through the casing of dead 
 leaves. Dennis put his hand to one of these and picked it. 
 1 Is it possible 1 A four-leaved shamrock ! ' 
 
 At the same moment the bushes parted before him, and 
 Rose appeared, framed in young spring green foliage and 
 bursting honeysuckle, the sun on her golden hair and in 
 her brilliant blue eyes, and illumining her delicately-coloured 
 face. She wore a white straw hat, trimmed with pink, 
 shaded satin ribbon in large bows, and lined with silk of 
 the same hue ; a white kerchief was round her bosom ; 
 she was dressed in a soft silvery-grey gown, short, show- 
 ing her pretty little feet in white stockings and low black 
 shoes. In her hand she held a packet of white paper with 
 a scarlet seal, very large, on it. 
 
 Dennis remained kneeling at her feet, looking up at 
 her as in a trance, hardly able to believe that he saw the 
 true Rose, and not a spirit of the wood appearing in her 
 form to deceive and torment him. 
 
 'What is it that you have found, Mr. Penhalligan 1 ' 
 asked Rose smiling. 
 
 He remained still on one knee, speechless. 
 
 ' Have I caught you in the commission of a crime ! ' 
 asked Rose, drawing nearer. Then she also stooped. ' A 
 four-leaved clover,' she said with delight. ' That is lucky. 
 You — you who are for ever bewailing your misfortunes, 
 you have got the good luck to-day in your hands. You 
 are right not to speak. A word will break the spell. 
 You must form a wish, and that wish is sure to be granted.' 
 
 He rose now to his feet, holding the shamrock-leaf in 
 his hand, and looking from it to Rose. 
 
 ' Come,' said she, ' form your wish ; it is yours.' 
 
 He looked intently at her, and her eyes fell before his 
 burning glance. Then he shook his head and handed her 
 the leaf. ' I have nothing to wish for,' he said. 
 
 ' Oh, happy man, who has everything he desires ! ' 
 
 ' Not so, Mistress Rose ; one who has lost the only 
 thing he could wish for, one who is deprived of that has 
 not another wish left.' 
 
 Rose coloured. She understood his meaning and was 
 confused. She rapidly recovered herself and said, ' You 
 are too soon dispirited, Mr. Penhalligan. You think, at 
 the first discomfiture, that all is lost. I am sure you 
 
A FOUE-LEAVED SHAMEOCR. 165 
 
 were wishing very much for something. I can read your 
 heart. I know what passes therein/ 
 
 He started, and his colour deepened. 
 
 ' I do,' she continued. ' You thought you had lost 
 your piano, and were wishing to be able to keep it. See, 
 your wish is granted. It is yours to keep till — till you 
 need it no more.' 
 
 He raised his brows. ' I do not understand. Has 
 Loveday been blabbing 1 ' 
 
 ' Loveday has sold me her piano, the pretty instrument 
 that was her mother's, and to which you had no right what- 
 ever. Loveday has fled to me to save her from her brother. 
 She has sold it to me for twenty-five pounds. Here is the 
 money. You can hand it to her from me. I ask you a 
 favour, Mr. Penhalligan. Will you keep my piano in your 
 house, as there is no room for it at Towan, and practise on 
 it as much as you can to preserve it in tune till I want it, 
 which will not be till I leave Towan, and set up my tent- 
 poles in Truro 1 ' 
 
 ' How kind of you — how very kind ? ' said the Doctor, 
 greatly moved and colouring deeply. 
 
 'Not at all. Selfish, most selfish,' answered Rose. 
 ' But you see I was right. I read your wish, and brought 
 fulfilment at the same time.' 
 
 ' To be thought of kindly by you, Mistress Rose, was 
 more than I dared desire.' 
 
 ' Take this,' she said, and pressed the little packet into 
 his hands. ' Give it to Loveday from me, and take no toll 
 on your way.' 
 
 He caught her hand and bowed his lips to the finger- 
 tips. The blood rushed into her brow. 
 
 ' That will do, Mr. Penhalligan. You owe me no grati- 
 tude. I am consulting my own convenience. When I 
 move to Truro I shall carry off my piano.' 
 
 ' May that never be ! ' 
 
 ' O selfish man, you want to keep my piano ! ' 
 
 1 1 do not wish to lose sight of my benefactress.' 
 
 1 1 am not a benefactress, I repeat. You mistake.' 
 
 ' I make no mistake. May I offer you now this four- 
 leaved shamrock? As you say, it has fulfilled my wish, 
 perhaps it may fulfil yours.' 
 
 1 It is too late — I have spoken.' 
 
166 THE GAVEEOCKS. 
 
 ' It is not too late ; you have not had the shamrock in 
 your hand yet.' 
 
 ' Is that so ? Very well, I will accept the leaf.' 
 
 He gave it her, and she stood in the sweet sunlight on 
 the mat of dead leaves, the doves cooing in the wood, a 
 pair of white butterflies flickering about her — a lovely 
 object, lovely and sweet as a wild rose in June. She 
 frowned whilst she considered what her wish should be, 
 though a pretty dimple played about her mouth. She was 
 half-amused, half -ashamed of herself. By degrees the ex 
 pression of her face changed. The brightness and merri- 
 ment went out of it, and a shadow of vexation and a gloom 
 of discontent crossed it. Dennis watched her face intently. 
 The light of the sun was full on her, so that she could not 
 lift her eyes to see him, but he could watch every change 
 in her countenance. 
 
 ' I have wished,' she said moodily, ' but I have no hope 
 that my desire will be answered.' 
 
 ' I believe I have read your wish,' he said. 
 
 She started, looked up, but in the dazzling light her 
 eyes fell again ; in her clear face the tell-tale blood 
 flickered. She had been wishing that Gerans would be a 
 little more resolute with his father. 
 
 In another moment her mood changed. The cloud was 
 dispersed, laughter and dimples returned, and with a short 
 twinkling glance at Dennis, she said — 
 
 ' Well, Mr. Penhalligan, I hope you have learnt the 
 lesson to-day — Never despair.' Then she went backwards 
 among the bushes, putting forth her hands and drawing 
 them apart, and in a moment was lost to sight. Dennis 
 stood rooted to the spot, looking after her. He had quite 
 misinterpreted the thoughts of her heai't when her face 
 clouded. Only in this was he right, that she had turned 
 her mind to Gerans, and that her wish was connected with 
 him. 
 
 When she had formed her wish she threw down the 
 leaf ; it lay at his feet resting on the dead leaves. He 
 picked it up and put it to his lips. Then he opened his 
 pocket-book and pressed the leaf therein. 
 
 He walked home with a tumult in his heart. When he 
 came near his house he turned ; he would not go in and 
 be seen of his sister. He did not choose, he could not en- 
 
A FOUR-LEAVED SHAMROCK. 1G7 
 
 dure that her eyes should mark the agitation of his mind. 
 He felt that before her honest eye his own would turn 
 away. 
 
 The last words of Rose rang in his ear — •' Never despair.' 
 What was the one thing he cared for ? The one object of 
 his heart's desire ! He had told her plainly enough that he 
 cared for, wished for her, and that he had no desire for 
 anything beside. Having lost her he had lost everything. 
 Knowing this, with strange significance she had bidden 
 him hope on — not despair. Then the remembrance of Con- 
 stantine came upon him. The sea had engulfed the one 
 brother, why not also the other 1 Gerans was going that 
 very day on the water with his father. Involuntarily 
 Dennis looked up at the sky for a token of wind. Was 
 this also in her mind, he asked himself, when she held the 
 leaf and bade him hope on ? Gerans, Gerans alone, stood 
 in his way. 
 
 Then he laughed bitterly and harshly, as again his tread 
 disturbed the magpie. 
 
 ' One for sorrow — only one,' he said. c A life-long 
 sorrow, with only one solace in it — she hates and despises 
 him as heartily as I hate and despise him.' 
 
 He looked at the packet he held ; it was addressed to 
 his sister in Rose's hand, and sealed with the crest of the 
 Gaverocks, a goat on a mount, trippant, a canting crest 
 on the name, which in old Cornish means ' The Goat- 
 Hill.' 
 
 He entered Nantsillan Cottage, placed the letter on the 
 piano, seated himself, and began to play. Then his sister 
 came in. He was glad to be at the instrument that she 
 might not see his face. He signed to her to take the 
 packet. 
 
 ' Dennis, dear,' she said, ' I know its contents. Twenty- 
 five pounds. It will tide us over our present trouble.' 
 
 ' And sweep us on into one that is worse,' he said. 
 
 1 Why will you look for darkness instead of clay 1 Be 
 hopeful.' 
 
 He smiled. Twice he had been bidden not to be dis- 
 couraged. 
 
 Loveday returned to her work, but presently looked into 
 the room again. 
 
 ' What are you playing, Dennis I * 
 
168 THE GAVEEOCKS. 
 
 'I am playing out of my own head and heart,' he 
 answered. 
 
 ' I do not like it ; change the piece,' she said ; ' it is 
 wild, threatening, and uncomfortable. It has made me 
 uneasy. Throw in some brighter chords ; bring in a thread 
 of sweet melody.' 
 
 ' I cannot ; the music leads me on ; I follow, blindly. 
 It is with music that is improvised as with destiny ; we 
 make neither, they make themselves.' 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 A LOVEYS' VISITATION. 
 
 Now that Gerans was at home, old Gaverock dragged him 
 from it. He made him ride with him to market and cruise 
 with him about the coast. The Squire had for some time 
 wanted to visit St. Ives, to have the ' Mermaid ' refitted 
 with sails and cordage, St. Ives being a great place for such 
 manufacture. Accordingly, Gerans had not been home a 
 week before the old man had told him to be ready to go 
 with him to St. Ives. Gerans raised no objection. 
 
 ' I suppose the neighbours will be coming to call on us,' 
 said Rose, pouting. ' I presume I am to be left alone to 
 receive them.' 
 
 ' Show them every hospitality,' answered Squire Gave- 
 rock. ' Stuff them with cake, make them drink your health 
 in old port. I give you the keys. Don't let the maidens 
 get it. Lord bless you ! whilst you were away the nobbies 
 (buns) came in without figs (raisins). I ate four nobbies 
 and got but one fig. Yet the proper amount was served 
 out, only the maidens ate the figs instead of putting them 
 into the nobbies. Then — will you believe it 1 — I sent a 
 maid to draw me a jug of cider for my supper, and she for- 
 got to turn the tap, so by next morning a whole hogshead 
 had run to waste.' 
 
 ' I cannot go after the servants and see that they do 
 their work properly,' said Rose, tossing her head. 
 
 ' Very well,' answered Gaverock, grimly ; ' then I will 
 tell you what to expect. You will have all the crusts and 
 stale ends of loaves served for you to eat, whilst the maidens 
 
A LO vets' visitation. 169 
 
 are grrging on fresh bread. That was my experience. 
 Never spent such a miserable time as since my old woman 
 has been laid up. Damn hysterics ! Gerans, come on. In 
 that villainous month with the maidens I got more grey 
 hairs than in three years previous. I do not know what 
 would have been the end had not Loveday Penhalligan 
 come to the rescue, and brought some order into the store 
 closet and discipline into the kitchen. All the lemons went 
 mouldy whilst I had the key, and the mice made a nest in 
 the bag of vermicelli. I found the gardener's boys playing 
 marbles in the backyard with the nutmegs. How they got 
 them is a mystery. I suppose the maidens ' 
 
 'Perhaps,' said Rose, throwing up her chin, 'it would 
 conduce to your happiness, uncle, if Loveday were to take 
 up her residence in the house altogether, and manage the 
 maidens, the store-room, Gerans, and me.' 
 
 ' I'll tell y' what, mistress,' said the old man, ' we shall 
 be brought to that if you don't take heartily to doing your 
 duty. Someone must be housekeeper here. I won't ; one 
 month was enough for me. I'd rather manage a caravan of 
 monkeys than a kitchenful of maidens. If you won't do 
 your duty, someone must be summoned to do it for you.' 
 
 ' Father,' said Gerans, ' Rose will always do her duty.' 
 
 ' Do not speak off your book,' said Rose sharply, turning 
 on her husband. ' You cannot answer that I will do my 
 duty ; but you may promise that I will always follow my 
 pleasure.' 
 
 ' The colt must be broken into harness by you or by me, 
 Gerans,' said the Squire on his way down to the boat. ' At 
 the touch of the whip up go her heels : none the worse for 
 that in the end. But it will be a tough job just at first to 
 break her. Whatever you do, Gerans, don't give her her 
 head. She wants a firm hand on the reins ; must be ridden 
 with the curb ; and when she sets back her ears, dig into 
 her flanks with your spurs, and cut her this way, that way, 
 till your arm aches. Trust me ; I know women.' The old 
 Squire illustrated his instruction with hand and heel. ' After 
 a while,' he went on, ' it is beautiful to see how they obey. 
 You have only to draw your whip tenderly across their 
 necks, and they understand you as if you spoke volumes. I 
 am sixty-five : I have made my experiences ; I know them.' 
 
 In the meantime the poor woman on whom his ex- 
 
170 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 perience had been made with curb, and bearing rein, and 
 spur, and whip, was a broken-spirited, failing creature, 
 unable to attend to the requirements of her house ; who 
 came down into the drawing-room every day, was visited 
 by her husband, who tried to rout her into activity, who 
 scolded, and hectored, and rebuked her for yielding to 
 imaginary maladies, and piling all domestic vexations upon 
 his back. 
 
 Gerans was dutiful and kind to his mother ; but he 
 could not be much with her, and his subjects of interest 
 were not hers. Besides, for a month he had been away ; 
 and during that month, but for Loveday, she would have 
 been neglected. Loveday had made a point of visiting the 
 old lady every day. A tender love had sprung up between 
 them, and Mrs. Gaverock was unhappy and restless on the 
 clay that she did not see the girl. Loveday had a soothing 
 influence upon her mind, fretted with her husband's im- 
 patience, with the consciousness that household affairs were 
 on the cross, that she had duties to discharge which she 
 was incapable of discharging. Gaverock rushed into her 
 room when anything went wrong. She suffered for the 
 butter and the crusts, and the cider cask run out, and the 
 jug of lamp oil, and the raisinless buns, and the mice in 
 the vermicelli, and the boys with the nutmegs, and the 
 mildewed lemons, and the hunting-breeches converted into 
 a knife-board, and the wet nightcap. She worried about 
 these things till they made her nervous and ill ; her brain 
 could not bear the daily annoyances ; and when the Squire 
 plunged into the room, and flung the store-room keys down 
 on the table with an oath, and swore he would have no 
 more to do with stores and servants, then Loveday took 
 up the bunch, and distributed what was needed every day 
 till the return of Rose. 
 
 It is a peculiarity of the female mind that it draws 
 delight from the possession of a secret which it can share 
 with one or two close friends. Mrs. Gaverock and Loveday 
 had a secret — the secret of the marriage of the latter — and 
 this secret formed the closest of bonds between them. 
 Should this ever cease to be a secret, one great charm and 
 sweetness of their intercourse would be gone. Both felt 
 this, and shrank from the thought of Constantine's marriage 
 becoming generally known. 
 
A LOVEYS' VISITATION. 171 
 
 After the return of Rose and Gerans, Loveday did not 
 come to Towan every day to visit the old lady. She 
 thought it was the place of Rose to become the consoler 
 and stay of her mother-in-law. But Rose, though kind, 
 was not considerate ; and she did not understand and 
 sympathise with the old lady so as to enable her to fill the 
 position which was hers by right. 
 
 Squire Gaverock and Gerans would be absent for some 
 days. For how many, depended on the wind and the 
 activity of the refitters at St. Ives. Rose was not pleased 
 at her husband being carried off immediately on his return 
 home. The old man had not shown her proper consideration 
 in throwing on her the sole responsibility of receiving- 
 visitors. 
 
 The same day that Squire Gaverock left, the Loveys' 
 party came to call : old Anthony, young Anthony, and the 
 Madam. Although we have put Madam Loveys last, she 
 was the most important person of the three. An thou y 
 Loveys, senior, was an old, heavy, led-faced man ; and 
 Anthony Loveys, junior, was a young, heavy, red-faced 
 man. Neither had anything to say for himself, except on 
 the subject of dogs and horses. To these two subjects the 
 elder added rates. When Anthony junior reached the 
 independent position and age of his father, he also, doubt- 
 less, would supplement dogs and horses with rates as topics 
 on which he could talk. Mrs. Loveys was a woman with 
 bright, keen eyes, and a Roman nose. She was accustomed 
 to command in the house and outside, and met with equal 
 obedience from her servants, her son, and her husband. 
 She had inherited the domineering spirit of the Gaverocks ; 
 and, as her husband had yielded to it, she became the one 
 person of authority in the house and in her parish. Even 
 the clerk in church, when he gave out the psalm, announced 
 ' Let Madam and I sing to the praise and glory,' &c. He 
 thus gave it out, because he and she were the only persons 
 in the church who sang. The peasants could not read ; and 
 the two Anthonies either had no voices or were too lazy to 
 use them. Madam Loveys sang loudly and sang well. The 
 congregation stood up to listen to Madam sing, and sat 
 down to listen to the parson pray. Occasionally, during 
 the service, Madam Loveys would rise from her knees, 
 stand up, and look round. If she saw that any of the 
 
172 THE GAVEEOCKS. 
 
 labourers or their wives were asleep, or inattentive, she 
 coughed. If this did not rouse them to devotion, she 
 coughed a second time. She rarely was obliged to cough 
 a third time, so greatly in awe of her did the people stand. 
 The Loveys' party were shown into the parlour. Madam 
 Loveys sailed in first — tall, portly, head erect, eagle eyes 
 looking into every corner — followed by old Anthony, and 
 old Anthony by young Anthony, scuffling in. 
 
 ' How do you do, Lydia ? ' to Mrs. Gaverock on the 
 sofa. ' Better, of course ; don't deny it. I won't believe 
 you. And Rose, my dear, glad to see you. Come to call 
 and welcome you as one of us. Now, Anthony, give your 
 aunt your right, not your left hand. How have you en- 
 joyed your trip ? Greatly, of course. You have got a fine 
 fellow for a husband — quite a Gaverock in build, but want- 
 ing the Gaverock force of character. Anthony, don't shake 
 your cousin's hand as if you were working a pump. Raise 
 the finger-tips gallantly to your lips. You don't mean to 
 tell me, Lydia, that Gaverock has gone to St. Ives, and has 
 taken Gerans with him 1 Tell him when you see him that 
 I say his conduct is preposterous — that I say it. He will 
 mind me. You may sit down, Anthony.' She gave no 
 instruction to her husband. She had given him up in des- 
 pair, but her son, though aged one-and-twenty, was as yet 
 unformed, and she did her best to model him. 
 
 ' I am sorry Gaverock is not here,' said Mr. Loveys. 
 c I wanted to consult him. They've stuck on twopence in 
 the pound in our parish. I don't understand it.' 
 
 ' That is all right,' said Madam, ' don't you bother your- 
 self about it. You never did understand anything in which 
 division and subtraction were necessary.' 
 
 ' But, my dear, twopence in the pound is not subtraction, 
 it is addition.' 
 
 ' If you are in doubt, send the overseers up to me with 
 the rate-book. I'll go through the account. Anthony, you 
 may go and look at the stables — only mind your boots. 
 We are going to stay for tea.' 
 
 ' Of course you are,' said Mrs. Gaverock kindly, but 
 looking somewhat blank ; for Mrs. Loveys overpowered 
 her, and she was incapable of the strain of entertaining the 
 two Anthonies. 
 
 'We are going to spend the evening,' said Madam ; ' as 
 
A LOVEYS' VISITATION. 173 
 
 Hender and Gerans are gone, you are likely to be dull, so 
 I have brought my husband and son to enliven you.' 
 
 Mrs. Gaverock looked with an appealing glance at Rose. 
 Rose smiled. ' I am very glad, Aunt Honora,' she said, 
 ' Loveday Penhalligan is coming ; I will send down a boy 
 for the doctor, and we will do our best to be merry. We 
 will have music and cards.' 
 
 ' I think,' said Mr. Loveys, ' that I also would like to 
 look into the stables.' 
 
 ' Go,' said his wife, ' examine the horses, and feel the 
 pigs. We can do without you till tea time. I want a chat 
 with Lydia and Rose, and you are in the way.' 
 
 ' Thank you, my dear. I'll be sure to be here for the 
 meal.' 
 
 Then Mr. Loveys slipped away. 
 
 Rose, nettled at the conduct of her father-in-law, was 
 resolved to show him that she could do very well without 
 his presence, that his absence was a relief to her. She was 
 determined that she would do her best to give the Loveys 
 a pleasant evening, knowing that Madam would tell her 
 brother how vastly they had enjoyed themselves during his 
 absence. But this was not her only motive. The Loveys' 
 party were, when alone, very trying to Mrs. Gaverock, and 
 it was her duty to the poor lady to relieve her of the 
 trouble of entertaining them. 
 
 At the time of which we write, and the custom prevailed 
 to some twenty-five years ago in the West of England, it 
 was a common thing for friends to visit, sometimes uninvited, 
 and to take a £ high tea ' — that is, tea and meat and cakes 
 and puddings and wine, and spend the evening till the 
 moon shone on their ride or drive home. Few dined late. 
 Nothing more hospitable, pleasant, and sociable could have 
 been devised than these visits. In a thinly peopled region 
 distances are great, and a visit entails a journey of some 
 hours. Moreover, a visit in a thinly peopled country is 
 hailed by those on whom the descent is made as a pleasure 
 for which to be grateful. Also, a visit entailing several 
 hours' drive over breezy downs makes the visitors hungry ; 
 therefore those visited, being grateful, exhibit their grati- 
 tude by feeding their visitors. 
 
 The Loveys family did not live at a great distance — 
 in fact, they lived only in the next parish ; neA T ertheless, 
 
174 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 a visit with them, whether near or far, always meant a 
 visitation of several hours, and a meal, to which the two 
 Anthonies and Madam always did justice. Madam was 
 hospitable in return. To call and not stay some hours 
 and eat at her table was to offend her. This was the cus- 
 tom of the country and of the time, and we, who in our 
 younger days were familiar with it, sigh over the old, 
 homely, hospitable fashions that have passed away. 
 
 Loveday arrived shortly after, and Dennis came up in 
 answer to a summons, bringing his music with him. 
 Loveday at once saw what was to be done, to amuse the 
 Loveys family to the relief of Mrs. Gaverock, and she 
 devoted herself to doing this. It was hard to get anything 
 but Yes and No out of young Anthony, but she did manage 
 to galvanise him into a little life, assisted by his mother, 
 who administered shocks at intervals by saying, ' Now then, 
 Anthony, did you hear what Miss Penhalligan was asking 1 
 Of course you know where the wild yellow marigold grows, and 
 will be happy to bring her some roots — say so.' Or ' Come, 
 Antnony, no doubt you are right, that what Miss Penhalli- 
 gan has seen in the glen is a badger ; but go on, and pro- 
 mise to hunt there with the dogs and catch it, and cure the 
 skin for her. You can do that, you know, with alum and 
 pepper.' Or, ' Well, Anthony ! Say something more than 
 Lawk ! when you have trodden the gathers out of Miss 
 Penhalligan's gown.' 
 
 During tea, Mrs. Gaverock was left to herself in the 
 drawing-room. Loveday took her a cup, and what she 
 fancied from the table ; but when the meal was over, the 
 whole party returned to the parlour for a round game, and 
 for music. 
 
 ' Do you think, Mr. Penhalligan, that you could read us 
 something ? ' asked Rose. ' Something not dreary and 
 terrible ; as a variety to cards and music. Not the " Essay 
 on Man " and the Dissertation on Happiness. 
 
 Happiness ! our being's end and aim ! 
 
 Good, Pleasure, Ease, Content ! whate'er thy name : 
 
 That something still which prompts th' eternal sigh, 
 
 For which we bear to live, or dare to die, 
 
 Which still so near us, yet beyond us lies, 
 
 O'erlooked, seen double, by the fool, and wise. 
 
 ' Let me hear the " Rape of the Lock," ' asked Mrs. 
 
A LOVETS' VISITATION. 175 
 
 Gaverock gently ; ' it is many years since I have either 
 read it or heard it read.' 
 
 ' Mistress Rose has Pope on the tip of her tongue,' said 
 Dennis, ' surely she can recite us some of his verses.' 
 
 ' No, Mr. Penhalligan, my memory is only stocked 
 with scraps, like a rag-bag.' 
 
 ' " The Rape of the Lock," by all means,' said Madam 
 Loveys. 'Anthony knows nothing about it. His mind 
 needs culture. Anthony, sit by me, and I can then ensure 
 your keeping awake. I will nudge you, or touch you with 
 my fan when we reach verses of conspicuous beauty. Mr. 
 Penhalligan, you will confer a lasting obligation on us if 
 you will read.' 
 
 ' It would be unmannerly to make a condition,' said 
 Dennis, ' but it is permissible to offer a petition. I venture 
 to ask that between the cantos Mrs. Rose will favour us 
 with her harp and a song. 5 
 
 The evening passed briskly. Rose was in her element. 
 At her father's house entertainments had been frequent ; 
 she was not shy ; she was delighted to have distraction, 
 relief from the monotony of life at Towan. 
 
 ' I can see by aunt's face that she has enjoyed herself,' 
 said Rose. ' We have not had too much of one thing, 
 though Mr. Penhalligan's reading, and Loveday's singing, 
 and Mr. Loveys' whist, and Madam's comments, and Mr. 
 Anthony's attention, have all been admirable of their kind. 
 I invite you here again on Saturday, and I will get some of 
 the Brendons to come as well from the Rectory. But stay 
 - — I have a suggestion.' She threw a number of little books 
 on the table. ' Why should we not, next time, diversify 
 our amusements still further 1 At our house in Kenwyn, 
 when papa was alive, we used to make up parties to read 
 plays, each taking a part. Shall we begin on Monday 1 
 Take each a copy and all look over your parts. What do 
 you say, Aunt Loveys 1 And you, Mr. Penhalligan 1 Let 
 us begin " She Stoops to Conquer.'" 
 
176 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 IN THE DUSK. 
 
 Gerans and his father returned to Towan on Saturday 
 evening. The ' Mermaid ' was run into the little port at 
 Sandy Mouth, and secured, then both ascended the cliff, 
 for home. 
 
 ' What have we here ? ' asked the Squire, ' hats and 
 sticks ! That is the hat of Loveys — I know it, and there is 
 Madam's umbrella. Her clogs also.' 
 
 ' Dennis is also here,' said Gerans, ' I know his over- 
 coat.' 
 
 ' And that green umbrella belongs to the Misses Bren- 
 don,' said Hender Gaverock. ' There seems to be a party 
 here.' He opened the door into the hall, and saw that the 
 table was laid with glass, silver, preserves, pies, cold 
 chicken, and adorned with flowers. 
 
 Old Gaverock laughed. Whilst the cat is away the 
 mice are romping. I must take off my sea-togs and make 
 myself presentable. ' You do the same, Gerans.' 
 
 'Where is Mrs. Rose Gaverock V asked the young man 
 of a servant. He was told that she was in her own room. 
 Mrs. Gaverock was in the parlour with the company. 
 
 Gerans was disappointed. In his kindly, tender heart 
 the words Rose had said to him before he left rankled. He 
 tried to forget and bury them out of thought, but they 
 worked up, like stones in a ploughed field. He was inclined 
 to judge her charitably. She was accustomed to have her 
 own way, and was impatient of opposition. When opposed, 
 she fired up and said words which, doubtless, she afterwards 
 repented having uttered, and which at the time they were 
 spoken were exaggerations of her momentary feeling. 
 
 She had told him that she despised him, she had 
 scoffed at his obedience to his father ; but his conscience 
 was clear ; he had given way to his father because his 
 father was in the right ; surely Rose would have despised 
 him if he had supported her in demanding and doing what 
 was wrong. She did not mean what she said. Her words 
 were the spluttering of sparks from a burning log of fir. 
 
IN THE DUSK. 177 
 
 The sparks scorched and marked where they fell, but were 
 too small and powerless to ignite anything. Besides, 
 Gerans had been accustomed to rough words from his 
 father, all his life, which had gone with a good deal of 
 affection. Nevertheless, the experience of stinging speeches 
 from a woman's lips was new to Gerans, and was painful, 
 partly because he believed them to be undeserved, chiefly 
 because the speaker was very dear to him. 
 
 He had looked forward to his return, that he might be 
 alone with Rose, and be completely reconciled. She would 
 beg his pardon for what she had said, and he would caution 
 her not to test her powers against those of the old Squire. 
 He heard the buzz of voices in the parlour ; he was glad 
 she was in her own room ; he could see her alone first, 
 before she met the visitors. Their presence was not pleasant 
 to him. He was not very well, and would have to remain 
 in his own room ; he must either withdraw her from the 
 party downstairs, or remain the evening by himself. 
 
 ' Why should she not keep me company ? ' he said. ' I 
 would gladly do so, if she were ill. She will be pleased to 
 be with me. A woman is happy to sacrifice something for 
 the man she loves. She is not wanted in the parlour, for 
 my mother is there, my father is going in, and my aunt is 
 hostess in our house.' 
 
 He opened his dressing-room door and went in, and 
 would have passed through into the bedroom beyond, but 
 he heard Loveday's voice, within, speaking to Rose. The 
 door of communication was ajar. There was another door 
 into the bedroom from the corridor outside. 
 
 'You are longing for their return, I suppose 1 ?' 
 
 ' Oh dear, no ! ' answered Rose, ' not at all. I fairly 
 skipped when their backs were turned. Loveday, there is 
 nothing like marriage for making a girl sick of mankind.' 
 
 Then ensued a pause. Presently Loveday spoke again : 
 ' When do you suppose they will be home 1 ' 
 
 ' Perhaps to-morrow, perhaps the clay after. If I had 
 my wishes, not for another week. I am not sure, though, 
 that I should not like them to come home to-night, and see 
 how well we can entertain ourselves in their absence. Now 
 run clown, dear ; I will follow directly.' 
 
 Loveday left the room by the door into the passage. 
 Then Gerans came in. There was a carpet on the floor, 
 
178 THE GAVEEOCKS. 
 
 and he had taken off his big waterboots in the back hall 
 below stairs. Consequently, Rose did not hear his tread 
 when he opened the door and entered. She was standing 
 before a looking-glass, arranging a red geranium in her 
 hair. She was prettily, coquettishly dressed in white, with 
 short sleeves, and much of her lovely neck and throat 
 showing. A coral chain was round her neck. There was a 
 childlike beauty and simplicity about her appearance. 
 
 She heard the noise of his foot on her bedroom floor, 
 and turned half round, with her arms raised, adjusting the 
 scarlet flower, and the loose sleeves were fallen back, ex- 
 hibiting her delicate, rounded, ivory arms. She supposed 
 a servant-maid had entered, to tell her she was wanted 
 below. But, as nothing was said, she turned round with 
 an impatient movement. 
 
 ' My dear Rose ! ' exclaimed Gerans. 
 
 She started. For a moment she looked at him, with 
 parted lips, and expressionless, wide- opened eyes, without 
 uttering a word. Then suddenly she became scarlet. 
 
 ' What ! already back 1 You startled me. I thought 
 you would not be here so soon. I hardly expected you to 
 sail on Friday.' 
 
 As she spoke, she withdrew her right hand from her 
 hair, and held it out to him, whilst with the other she con- 
 tinued fidgeting with the flower and the pin that held it. 
 
 ' We thought to take you by surprise, to give you plea- 
 sure, my sweet white Rose ! my dear spring morning, my 
 dewy blossom ! ' 
 
 He held her hand with both his, and drew her towards 
 him, till he could pass his arm round her, hold her to his 
 heart, which was beating fast, and kiss her brow. 
 
 ' There,' he said, ' I shall not be away for so long again, 
 if I can help it. Every day of absence has to me been one 
 of longing for your presence.' 
 
 He spoke with a tone of reproach in his voice, not in- 
 tentional. He spoke the truth, but as he spoke he recalled 
 her words to Loveday, expressing a very different feeling. 
 
 ' Let me have another look at the Pride of my Life,' he 
 said, and held her at arm's length. Then he saw that he 
 had not been wrong in calling her a dewy blossom, for tears 
 stood in her eyes. 
 
 ' Why are you crying 1 ' he asked. 
 
m THE DUSK. 179 
 
 She bowed her head on her bosom, and gave no answer. 
 Had she spoken she would have sobbed. 
 
 Gerans considered for a moment, and a line formed on 
 his open brow, but it passed away. He thought that she 
 was regretting her unkind words spoken before they parted, 
 regretting the light words just said, in his hearing, to Love- 
 day ; and, in his good nature, he thought to spare her the 
 humiliation of confessing the reason. 
 
 ' Never mind,' he said. ' I startled you — did I not 1 ' 
 
 'Yes,' .she answered; 'I have not recovered myself 
 yet.' 
 
 He went to the window, and looked out on the rainy, 
 grey sky, to allow her, unobserved, to recover herself. He 
 said, still gazing out through the panes of glass : 
 
 ' We have had a wet miserable sail ; but the expectation 
 of soon seeing you has filled my heart with longing.' 
 
 She did not answer. After a while he turned round, 
 and saw his young wife seated on a sofa, wiping her eyes. 
 
 ' What ! ' he said. ' Not yet recovered 1 ' 
 
 ' Oh yes,' she answered. ' I was only thinking that ' 
 
 She bit her red, quivering lips, and her bosom rose with 
 a sob. 
 
 'My dearest Rose,' he said. 'There — there! think no 
 more about it.' 
 
 He took a chair, turned the back towards her, and 
 seated himself on it astride, with his elbows on the back, 
 looking at her. The window was behind him, and the 
 evening light was on her pretty, troubled face. Gerans 
 thought how lovely she was, what a prize was his, how sur- 
 passingly happy he ought to be. 
 
 ' You have got company downstairs,' he said, to change 
 the current of her thoughts, and divert it from self-re- 
 proach. 
 
 ' Yes,' she replied, looking down at her lap ; ' Uncle 
 and Aunt Loveys are here, and young Mr. Brendon and his 
 sister.' 
 
 ' Loveday is also here, surely.' 
 
 ' Yes ; Loveday, of course, is here.' 
 
 ' Is that all 1 Not Dennis 1 ' 
 
 ' Oh— Mr. Penhalligan also.' 
 
 She coloured slightly ; her eyes were still on her lap. 
 
 n2 
 
180 THE GAVEEOCKS. 
 
 But Gerans was entirely free from jealousy. He did not 
 observe the flush. 
 
 ' Has anything happened whilst I have been away 1 ' 
 
 'Nothing particular. There have been calls. The 
 
 Loveys' party, and the Brendons, also Captain and Mrs. 
 
 Trefry, and the parson from St. Golan — I forget his name.' 
 
 Gerans rocked himself in his chair, without turning his 
 
 eyes from Rose. 
 
 ' I have not been well. I caught a cold, I suppose, in 
 my eyes, and I have suffered much. One day I could not 
 bear the light. I had to remain shut in at the little tavern 
 where we put up at St. Ives, whilst my father went about 
 the new sails and tackle.' 
 
 He stopped. She did not seem to be listening. "When 
 he stopped she started. 
 
 ' Yes 1 ' she said quickly. ' Sails and tackle you were 
 speaking about.' 
 
 ' I was telling you that I had been very unwell. I got 
 a chill and inflammation of my eyes.' 
 ' I am very, very sorry.' 
 
 ' You have not observed how red they still are. I can- 
 not bear a strong light.' 
 
 ' I could not see ; the room was dark,' she explained, 
 and stooped and looked — but shyly — into his eyes. 
 
 He turned his head that she might observe how red and 
 hot they were. 
 
 ' I see. I am sorry.' 
 
 ' I cannot bear much light, especially candle and lamp 
 light, so I will not go downstairs I would prefer to sit 
 here in the dusk with you. You can let me have a place 
 beside you on the settee, and we will talk together. We 
 shall enjoy that so much more than being downstairs with 
 the Loveys and Brendon pai'ties.' 
 
 ' Yes,' answered Rose faintly, not cordially. 
 ' But I suppose you must show yourself. Look here, 
 Rose ; explain to them why I remain away, and make an 
 excuse for yourself as well. Was it not Pluto, the God of 
 Darkness, who had Proserpine for a wife, half whose time 
 was to be spent with the merry gods in light, and the other 
 half with her husband in darkness 1 Well, so let it be 
 to-night. Go clown to tea, and after that is over slip away, 
 and come to keep me company.' 
 
IN THE DUSK. 181 
 
 ' But.' said she, with trembling lips, ' we are going to 
 read a play ; it is all settled, and I shall be wanted.' 
 
 ' No, no,' answered Gerans cheerfully. ' Miss Brendon 
 can take your part, but I do not suppose there will be 
 reading where my father is present. He will endure 
 nothing but cards.' 
 
 Then Gerans stood up, and went into his dressing- 
 room. 
 
 ' I have not been acting judiciously,' he said, ' sitting so 
 long talking to you, in my wet clothes. However, I have 
 not felt it ; I have been in a glow, sitting over against 
 you, my pretty.' 
 
 Then he shut his dressing-room door. 
 
 No sooner was Rose alone than her self-restraint gave 
 way, and she began to cry. Why, she could not explain to 
 herself. She was disappointed of a pleasant evening, and 
 of amusing herself reading her part in ' She Stoops to Con- 
 quer.' She was happy among many people ; she had 
 dressed herself with special care to attract admiration, to 
 force everyone present to say : How pretty she is ! What 
 a lucky fellow Gerans Gaverock is to have got so charming 
 a bride ! She wanted particularly to hear Mr. Penhalligan 
 play, and to sing with him and Loveday ' Five times by the 
 taper's light.' She had set her mind on playing her harp. 
 Her beautiful arms, bare above the rosy elbow, would show 
 to-night, and make even poor playing acceptable. 
 
 It was really too provoking of Gerans to come home 
 that night — and with sore eyes also, which would prevent 
 him from going down to the company. It was cruel, it 
 was unreasonable of him to ask her to sit with him in the 
 dark in the bedroom, whilst there were lights, and card- 
 tables, and round games, and conversation, and laughter, 
 and music below. She was obliged to wash her face, to 
 put away the traces of her tears, before she could descend. 
 She went downstairs at last, and assisted at tea ; but her 
 cheerfulness was gone — a shadow of disappointment hung 
 over her brow. Her attention was distracted, and she took 
 little or no part in the conversation. This mattered the 
 less because the Squire was there, and where he was no one 
 else could talk. He was boisterous, in good spirits, and 
 full of what he had done and seen in St. Ives. Mr. Loveys 
 interrupted him once to ask his opinion about the extra 
 
182 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 twopence in the pound added to the rate, but Hender 
 Gaverock was too much interested in his own proceedings, 
 and the conduct of the ' Mermaid,' newly rigged, to turn 
 his thoughts to the rates, and consider whether the imposi- 
 tion was just or not. 
 
 After tea, Rose reluctantly apologised for leaving the 
 guests, and promised to return as soon as she could be spared, 
 then she went up to Gerans. 
 
 He kept her with him a long time, telling her what 
 had been done, repeating in other words the uninteresting 
 story of the expedition to St. Ives, already told during tea 
 by his father. It seemed to her as if he never would have 
 done — the time seemed interminable. Occasionally she 
 heard the burst of laughter from downstairs, then the sound 
 of the piano. Dennis Penhalligan was playing. She had 
 heard the piece before, Beethoven's Sonata in C minor ; he 
 had played it on the evening when she and Gerans were at 
 jSTantsillan, before that eventful Goose Fair. 
 
 As her mind wandered, drawn away by the music, 
 indistinctly heard, the voice of Gerans sounded in her ear 
 as out of a remote distance, and she no longer heard what 
 he was saying. Then she recovered her thoughts with an 
 effort, to catch a word or two, and make some suitable 
 observation, or ask a pertinent question, that Gerans might 
 not notice her abstraction. 
 
 Presently, he pressed her hand so tightly in his, that 
 she uttered an exclamation of pain. 
 
 'You hurt me.' 
 
 ' I do not think you are attending to me. I want to 
 give you a piece of advice.' 
 
 ' I detest advice,' said Rose. ' I never read the morals 
 to "^Esop's Fables."' 
 
 ' It is for your advantage,' said Gerans gravely. ' Pro- 
 mise me, my own darling, do not be cross with my father ; 
 do not oppose him, if he is a little dictatorial and crabbed. 
 He thinks you ought to be more yielding, and I am sure he 
 will thwart you on all sorts of points till you give way. It 
 is best to humour him. You got on very well with him 
 before we were married. "Why do you change your 
 behaviour now 1 Nothing is to be gained by it. Take my 
 advice, dear Rose, and give way.' 
 
 ' And so,' said she angrily, ' I am to be thwarted, 
 
IN THE DUSK. 183 
 
 contradicted, and bullied, and browbeaten,, and you will 
 stand by and allow it ! You — ray husband ! allow it ! ' 
 
 'My dear Rose, be reasonable. He is my father. We 
 are in his house. He is the best of men, but he has his 
 humours. You can lead him where you will, if you pretend 
 deference to his will.' 
 
 ' I will not pretend. I have my will, as well as he.' 
 
 ' If you are in the right, I will support you ; if you are 
 in the wrong, I will not. My father is an old man, and 
 respect is due to grey hairs.' 
 
 ' His hair is red.' 
 
 ' Red mingled with grey. He is more than thrice your age. 
 He knows far better than you what is wise and just and 
 reasonable. I will not sustain you when you act on caprice, 
 but in a matter of right you may rest on me — only, I am 
 quite sure, my father will never interfere with you, without 
 occasion, unless you provoke him. He is annoyed with 
 you now. Take my advice and be submissive. You will 
 get your own way with a tongue of velvet, rather than 
 with a tongue roughened to a rasp.' 
 
 She shook her hand free from his, and stood up. 
 
 ' I will not remain here,' she said, ' to be insulted. I 
 have sacrificed my pleasure downstairs, to sit with you, 
 and listen to your droning talk, like the whirr of a 
 winnowing machine, all about nothing, whilst below there 
 is music, and merry talk, and stories, and round games. So 
 I am repaid. I will not come up here again till all are 
 gone. Sit in the dark by yourself.' 
 
 ' Send up Dennis Penhalligan,' said Gerans with a sigh. 
 ' I want him to give me something for my eyes.' 
 
 ' Send him up ! ' exclaimed Rose, in a. tone of irritation. 
 ' That is too bad ! you will spoil our amusements by keeping 
 him here, when he is wanted to sing, or play, or take a part 
 in a game. You are selfish — in all things selfish, without a 
 thought of me.' 
 
 She went out, and slammed the door ; but as she stood 
 on the landing before descending the stairs, she hesitated, 
 and her hand on the banister shook. A qualm came over 
 her conscience. She had spoken and acted unkindly to her 
 husband. She half turned to run back, and throw herself 
 into his arms and kiss his hot eyes. But she recalled his 
 advice, and his warning not to expect support from him 
 
184 THE GAVEEOCKS. 
 
 against Hender Gaverock, and her bosom heaved with 
 anger ; she set her pretty red lips, and with firm step 
 descended the stairs. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 THE MOSS-ROSE. 
 
 Next day was Sunday. Loveday was up early, looking at 
 her flowers. She had been watching a moss-rose for some 
 days, expecting its first bud to break. The bright morning 
 sun had effected this, with its warm kiss, and Loveday 
 picked the flower with delight ; then, with instinctive kind- 
 ness and unselfishness, ran up the hill to Towan, and 
 without ringing entered the hall where breakfast was laid, 
 and placed the moss-rose on Rose's plate. Xo one was in 
 the room to observe her. She did not tarry, but ran home. 
 
 Rose, however, did not come clown till late ; Gaverock 
 had made his own breakfast, when she arrived in the hall ; 
 Mrs. Gaverock had hers taken to her ; and Gerans was 
 there talking to Penhalligan, who had come to see how his 
 eyes were, on his way to church. Rose was in her riding 
 habit. She intended to go to church on Phcebus, her horse ; 
 the distance was considerable, and the road was muddy with 
 the rain of yesterday. She made a laughing apology for 
 her lateness ; she had overslept herself, she said, and went 
 to the head of the table to pour herself out a cup of tea. 
 Then she saw the pretty bud on her plate. She looked up, 
 and caught Penhalligan's eye ; she coloured. The rose 
 came from Xantsillan ; there were no moss-roses at Towan. 
 She concluded immediately that Dennis had brought it and 
 put it in her plate for her. She said nothing, but pinned 
 the bud into her bosom, then sat down and took a hasty 
 meal. 
 
 Presently the front-door bell was l'ung, and Gerans, 
 looking out, said, ' Rose, your horse is at the door.' 
 
 ' I shall be ready in a minute,' she replied. 
 
 ' I am not going to church to-day,' said Gerans. ' I 
 will stay at home and nurse my eyes. Dennis, I dare say, 
 will be kind enough to escoi't you, if my father has gone on 
 before.' 
 
THE MOSS-KOSE. 185 
 
 They went out through the porch. The groom was 
 holding Phoebus, a pretty roan, that might be said to belong- 
 to Rose, for she had ridden him ever since she had been at 
 Towan, and considered him as her horse, though he had not 
 been bought for her, or formally made over to her. 
 
 ' I do not know exactly what the time is,' said Rose. 
 ' I do not object to being a little late at church, so long as I 
 am not very late. I smile when I enter during the Con- 
 fession, I blush if I am at the First Lesson, I would hide 
 my face in my handkerchief at the Second.' 
 
 ' What is this ? ' shouted old Gaverock, bursting out of 
 the hall (he was attired for church, with a beaver hat on 
 his head, very rough). ' What have you got Phoebus here 
 for ? Rose, you are not going to ride. Run upstairs and 
 take off that habit at once. You are going to walk with 
 me. I can't have Phoebus ridden to-day.' 
 
 ' The road is dirty,' said Gerans. 
 
 ' What if it be ? ' asked Hender Gaverock, turning sharp 
 on him. ' Dirty roads don't drown. She shall walk. 
 Petherick ! '—to the groom — ' take the horse back to the 
 stable.' 
 
 ' Stop,' said Dennis, laying his hand on the bridle, as the 
 man was about to obey his master. 
 
 'I will ride to church,' said Rose indignantly. { I am 
 in my habit ready. Gerans, help me up on Phoebus.' 
 
 ' Mrs. Rose,' shouted the Squire, ' it won't do. Phoebus 
 must not be used to-day. The shoe is too tight and pinches 
 him. Run upstairs at once and change your habit.' 
 
 ' I do not choose,' said Rose ; ' I intend to ride.' 
 
 ' I went into the stable yesterday, and saw he had been 
 badly shod. I'll have the shoe off to-morrow,' said the 
 Squire. ' Petherick, take him round.' 
 
 ' A pinching shoe will not lame him,' argued Rose, her 
 face clouding and colouring ; ' the distance to the church is 
 not so great as to injure him.' 
 
 ' I have said it. That suffices,' exclaimed Gaverock. 
 
 Then Gerans came up to her, and said, ' Rose, do not be 
 unreasonable, and lame Phoebus — you will spoil him for a 
 ride in the week if you do.' 
 
 ' Of course, it is I who am unreasonable, not Mr. 
 Gaverock.' 
 
 ' Take the horse round, Petherick,' ordered the Squire. 
 
186 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 ' I will ride,' said Rose angrily, brushing past her 
 husband. ' Here, Gerans, help me into my saddle. 5 
 
 Gerans hesitated. Whilst he hesitated, Dennis stepped 
 quickly to her aid, and in a moment had raised her to her 
 place on Phoebus. 
 
 ' Rose ! Rose ! ' shouted the Squire in tones of amaze- 
 ment and indignation. 
 
 ' Thank you, Mr. Penhalligan,' said she, ' for coming to 
 my aid when my husband hung back.' 
 
 Then she whipped Phoebus, and dashed away. 
 
 ' Penhalligan ! ' shouted old Gaverock, very red in the 
 face, ' How dare you ' 
 
 ' Mr. Gaverock,' interrupted the doctor, ' I beg you will 
 he careful what words you address to me. I am not a dog 
 or a daughter-in-law to be addressed imperiously.' 
 
 ' Do you know, sir 1 Do you know who I am — that — 
 
 that ' Old Gaverock could not finish his inquiry ; 
 
 his anger choked him, and he ended his question with a 
 splutter. 
 
 ' I know one thing very well,' said the doctor — ' that 
 the wishes of Mrs. Rose ought to be a law to you, and to 
 your son.' Then he turned to go. 
 
 ' Come back ! I want a word with you,' roared the 
 angry man. ' By Golly ! am I to be bearded by a petti- 
 fogging Sawbones 1 ' He ran after Penhalligan, as the 
 surgeon did not arrest his steps. He laid his hand on his 
 arm, and said angrily, ' Do you know, sir, who I am 1 I 
 am Gaverock of To wan, who is not accustomed to be dis- 
 obeyed, and who will not, toill not, in his old age, endure 
 what he would not permit in his youth.' 
 
 ' Mr. Gaverock of Towan,' said Penhalligan, the veins 
 in his forehead swollen and black, his dark eye flashing, 
 ' I knew that these seadowns harboured many strange 
 creatures ; I learn now that they harbour also bears.' 
 
 ' I give you notice ! ' roared the old man, beside himself 
 with wrath. ' I will turn you out of Nantsillan. You 
 shall not inhabit it, and be my neighbour one day longer 
 than I can help.' 
 
 'You cannot desire my departure more heartily than 
 myself, from a place where the people are as savage as their 
 surroundings.' 
 
 Then he walked along the church road, leaving Mr. 
 
THE MOSS-ROSE. 187 
 
 Gaverock bewildered with the new sensation of having 
 been encountered by a man who did not fear him, and 
 who gave him as good as he took. 
 
 Penhalligan found Rose in the lane over the brow of 
 the hill. She had reined in Phoebus. He came on with 
 long strides, his hat drawn over his eyes, and his head 
 down to conceal his agitation. His face was livid with 
 rage, and his eyes sparkled. 
 
 ' Thank you, Mr. Dennis,' she said, when he was level 
 with her. ' This is not the first time you have acted as my 
 champion. Once, when my guardian wanted to sell the 
 house at Kenwyn, again to obtain for me an allowance, and 
 now to save me a dirty walk. I am afraid, however, that 
 this last intervention has been a mistake — Phoebus really 
 limps. Still, I would not for the world go back to Towan 
 and confess myself in the wrong, and beaten.' 
 
 ' No harm will follow,' said the young surgeon, ' if you 
 walk the horse. I will pace at your side. If he trips, my 
 hand will grasp the bridle at the bit.' 
 
 ' Is the Squire following 1 ' 
 
 ' I do not know. I think not. I have given him some- 
 thing to digest that does not agree with his stomach.' 
 
 ' I hope I have not been the occasion of a quarrel.' 
 
 ' There has been a quarrel, and a friendship ripped, 
 which can never be rehealed.' 
 
 ' Not between you and Gorans 1 ' 
 
 'The friendship Avas between the Squire, not his son, 
 and me,' said Penhalligan after a pause, with reserve in his 
 tone. Rose slightly winced. 
 
 ' I thought you and Gerans were such fast friends,' she 
 said timidly. 
 
 Penhalligan made no reply. 
 
 ' I am sure that Gerans always speaks of you with the 
 warmest regard.' 
 
 ' He can afford to do so ; he has lost nothing through 
 me.' 
 
 After that, neither spoke for full ten minutes. Dennis 
 walked near the head of Phoebus, looking gloomily before 
 him, and Rose looked back at intervals nervously, along 
 the Towan lane, wishing, yet at the same time not wishing, 
 that the Squire would appear — wishing, because she did 
 not desire to be alone with Dennis ; not wishing, because 
 she dreaded the old man's ancjer. 
 
188 THE GAVEEOCKS. 
 
 The morning was as beautiful as an early summer morn- 
 ing could be. The hedges were brilliant with fresh fern 
 and bursting flowers. The honeysuckles -were out, and as 
 the path passed a bush with the trailing trumpet flowers, 
 they traversed a zone of fragrance. The wild roses were 
 blooming, white and blush pink. 
 
 The raindrops glittered on the sprays and grass. The 
 may was not over, the thorn-bushes had shed most of their 
 flowers in a white snow over the road, but flowers, turning 
 pink before they fell, still hung in the bushes. When the 
 sea was caught in glimpses through gates in the high hedge 
 on the left, it was seen bluer than the sky, lost in it at the 
 horizon, where a vapour hid the line of demarcation between 
 sea and sky. The bells of the parish church, that lay in 
 the valley, were wafted to their ears on the pleasant air. 
 
 Rose broke the silence, which was becoming painful. 
 ' The Squire is a very determined man/ she said ; ' one must 
 bend or break who dares oppose him.' 
 
 Dennis turned his face, and looked up at her, like one 
 awakening from a dream. ' Yes,' he said, and pressed his 
 hat lower over his eyes ; ' but all will not bend, or break. 
 They will not, though he set his knee against them, and use 
 his utmost strength for their destruction.' 
 
 ' I hope — Mr. Penhalligan ' she began, and stopped 
 
 the horse. 
 
 ' There is no use hoping,' he answered, and urged 
 Phoebus on. ' He has ordered me out of Nantsillan. It is 
 his house, and he can do what he will with his own.' 
 
 ' Oh, Mr. Dennis ! ' cried Rose turning pale, and her 
 heart standing still. She could say no more. Her pallor 
 was succeeded by a rush of blood to her face ; she — by her 
 persistence over a trifle had been the occasion of Dennis 
 Penhalligan becoming homeless. The tears rose in her eyes. 
 He did not look up at her ; he walked on, with his hand on 
 the bit and his eyes lowered. 
 
 Presently she said, in a choking voice, ' I am sorry — I 
 am so, so sorry. I shall never forgive myself.' 
 
 He raised his eyes to her face, with a kindling glance, 
 full of vehemence, and said, ' I am amply, most amply repaid 
 by your pity.' 
 
 ' Did not my husband put in a word for you with his 
 father 1 ' she asked with a tremulous voice. 
 
THE MOSS-ROSE. 189 
 
 Dennis laughed mockingly, bitterly. ' Not he. As the 
 old one pipes, the young one whistles.' 
 
 Again ensued a silence. Rose's bosom heaved. The 
 peal on the church bells changed. 
 
 ' I am sorry, more sorry than I have words to say,' she 
 murmured. 
 
 ' Do not repeat that,' said Dennis earnestly, leaving the 
 head of Phoebus and coming by her foot. ' I cannot bear 
 it. I am unaccustomed to sympathy. What matters one 
 more kick along the road of life ? It is only one more 
 among the many I have received. You — you also will have 
 your sorrows. If the old man has not spared me, he will 
 not spare you. You will come to understand Beethoven's 
 Sonata in C minor.' 
 
 ' I have my sorrows already,' she said, and a sob escaped 
 her breast. 
 
 ' You 1 ' he exclaimed, standing still, and Phoebus also 
 stood, either startled by his loud tone or involuntarily 
 arrested by the hand of Pose on the bridle. ' You — you 
 have sorrows ! You, whom I have always associated with 
 unclouded joy ! ' 
 
 ' Have I not cause to be unhappy % ' she asked, ' with a 
 father-in-law who browbeats me, who will not allow me my 
 way in anything, who treats my opinions with contempt, as 
 though I were a child,' — her pity for herself grew as she 
 recited her wrongs — ' and with a husband who will never 
 stand by his wife, and see that she is not wronged % He 
 swore at the altar to uphold and cherish me, and this is 
 how he keeps his oath ! I am — I am very wretched. And 
 now I have become the unwitting cause of a wrong done to 
 you.' 
 
 ' Do not name that — it is nothing. The rich always 
 spurn the poor.' 
 
 ' If I may not mention it, still I must think of it,' con- 
 tinued Pose ; then recurring to herself, and her own wrongs, 
 she said, ' What am I, a poor young girl, feeble, thought- 
 less, helpless — I look around for someone to help, comfort, 
 advise me, to be a stay to me, and a friend, and I find 
 none ! ' 
 
 ' Do not say that — it is not true,' said Dennis in a deep 
 thrilling tone. 
 
 'No,' she said, and her tears flowed, tears of pity for 
 
190 THE GAVEEOOKS. 
 
 herself. l ~No, perhaps not. I have a friend. You have 
 proved yourself one. You will always be my friend ! ' 
 
 'Your friend?' he asked, in a voice scarcely audible 
 from emotion. ' Your friend ! O Rose ! '■ — and his flashing 
 eyes met hers. He seized her hand, that hung down, 
 and pressed it in his own. ' Your friend ! ever ! ever ! ' 
 
 He pressed her hand so vehemently, and, in his agitation, 
 so inconsiderately, that she cried out from pain. Gerans 
 had pressed that hand the evening before, and then she had 
 exclaimed, ' You hurt me ! ' She remembered that now, 
 and contrasted the fierce agonising squeeze of Dennis with 
 the firm, but sparing pressure of the hand of Gerans, which 
 had not hurt her, though she had affected to pretend it had. 
 
 The bells ceased pealing, and the single bell tolled, the 
 token that service would begin in five minutes. The clergy- 
 man was already vesting. 
 
 Then Rose touched Phoebus with her whip, to make 
 him hurry on. Her horse was really lame, and he could 
 not go fast. Nevertheless, she reached the church in 
 time, and took her place by herself in the Towan pew. 
 The church was for the most part seated with old carved 
 oak benches, such as remain in a great number of churches 
 in the West to this day, and which were, fifty or sixty 
 years ago, much more common. The bench ends were 
 richly, even profusely carved, but in the Towan aisle they 
 had heen swept away to make room for a square baize-lined 
 pew. This box had the advantage of screening Rose's face 
 from the congregation, except when she stood up, and 
 therefore of isolating her, and leaving' her to her own 
 thoughts. In her pew, Rose became cool and collected. 
 The influence of the place made itself felt, and the solemn 
 words of the service entering at her ear lodged in her mind. 
 
 By degrees she became aware that she had acted 
 foolishly, if not wrongly. Rose loved Gerans, but she loved 
 herself better. She was, naturally, a coquette, and the Avay 
 in which she had been reared had fostered her vanity, love 
 of admiration, and self-will. Her heart had not veered 
 from Gerans to Dennis. She did not care for the latter, 
 more than so far as his homage flattered her vanity. 
 
 She was provoked with Gerans ; she was angry with 
 him, but she loved him, not passionately, indeed, but sin- 
 cerely. She was provoked with him, partly because he was 
 
THE MOSS-ROSE. 191 
 
 so amenable to his father, but also because he took his 
 bliss so equably, and he was so undemonstrative in his love. 
 It would do him good to be made jealous, to feel her dis- 
 pleasure. It would goad him into more energy in trying to 
 win, and more solicitude to retain her affection. 
 
 These thoughts flew through her mind during the ser- 
 vice. Then she recalled what had just taken place, and 
 she felt she had gone too far with Dennis ; she had no 
 right to complain to any man of her husband, and to ask 
 his support in the place of her husband. She felt this so 
 strongly that as she came out of church she looked round 
 for Dennis, and when she caught his eye deliberately 
 removed the moss-rose bud from her bosom, and threw it 
 down in the grass beside the path. She supposed that he 
 had put the bud on her plate, and by throwing it away she 
 intended him to understand that she refused his offer of 
 friendship and declined his homage. 
 
 But Dennis, who followed, misread her mind. He 
 stooped, and picked up the bud. He remembered the look 
 she had cast him when she found it on her plate, and, now 
 that she had thrown it down, he thought that she had cast 
 it in his way for him to take and keep in remembrance of 
 her, and as an encouragement. 
 
 A moment later Gerans appeared, leading Phoebus, from 
 the church stable. 
 
 ' Though I could not come to service, I came to assist 
 you and escort you home,' he said. ' Petherick has assured 
 me that the horse is lamed with bad shoeing.' 
 
 ' Oh, thank you, thank you, Gerans, for coming,' she 
 said without a look at Dennis, who supposed she had cast 
 the rose to him, as a pledge of her regard, at the moment 
 she saw her husband approach. 
 
 ' Gerans, I am so pleased to have your company home.' 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 BROKEN RESOLUTIONS. 
 
 Dennis had sneered at the idea of Gerans interfering with 
 his father when the latter ordered the doctor to leave 
 Nantsillan. Nevertheless, Gerans had interfered. He 
 waited till Dennis was out of sight, and the old man's 
 
192 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 choler was somewhat cooled, to say, ' You did not mean 
 what you said, father. Dennis is not given notice to quit.' 
 ' I will have nothing more to do with the fellow,' 
 stormed the old Squire. ' He shall not set foot across my 
 threshold : he shall not dose my wife ; he shall not live on 
 my land. I have given way to him too much ; I have 
 taken his opinion on sundry matters, not surgical and 
 medicinal, and that has puffed him up with conceit. I'll 
 do clean contrary to all he has advised. I will sell the 
 Kenwyn estate. I will not make Rose any allowance. I 
 will call in old Doctor Squance from Padstow, if your 
 mother must have a doctor to humbug her.' 
 
 ' My dear father, you will use your own discretion 
 about these matters, later, when you have weighed them. 
 Not now, when you are heated. As for Dennis, he must 
 not be turned out of Nantsillan.' 
 
 ' Not turned out ! I'll rout him out with a red-hot poker 
 if he stays a minute after his time.' 
 
 'You cannot, you must not. A doctor has had that 
 cottage as long as I can remember, or you either.' 
 ' Time some other trade should go into it.' 
 'There is no other house into which he can go.' 
 ' Yes, there are two or three in the village.' 
 ' No ; single rooms in which he might be received as a 
 lodger. But, remember, father, he has his sister with him. 
 We must consider Loveday.' 
 
 ' Why should we consider her 1 She is no relation.' 
 ' My dear father,' said Gerans firmly, ' you must con- 
 sider Loveday. She has been most kind and attentive to 
 mother ; scarce a day has passed without her coming here 
 
 to see her ' 
 
 ' And cocker her up in the delusion that she is ill. All 
 your mother wants is a good routing up. She has nothing 
 the matter with her but the vapours.' 
 
 ' Whether Loveday has acted wisely or unwisely does 
 not affect the case. She has acted as her kind heart 
 prompted, and her visits have been of the greatest comfort 
 to my mother. My mother loves her as if she were her 
 own daughter — loves her far more, clings to her more, far 
 more than to Rose. Rose is very good, but she does not 
 suit mother, as Loveday suits her.' 
 
BROKEN RESOLUTIONS. 193 
 
 I Your mother did without Loveday in times past, she 
 must do without her in time to come.' 
 
 ' Consider how useful she was when you were at your 
 wits' ends with the servants, during our absence.' 
 
 ' The maidens ! ' exclaimed the old Squire, firing up. 
 ' I will give you an instance of their stupidity. I put out 
 my wading boots, that cost me three guineas, to be rubbed 
 over with tallow. Will you believe me, after larding the 
 boots, they set them in a rat-run between the sink and the 
 larder, and of course, in the morning, the rats had eaten 
 the topleathers away — holes as big as a crown 1 ' 
 
 ' It is rarely that I have interfered with what you have 
 determined,' said Gerans, returning to his point ; ' but now 
 I must remonstrate against your sending Dennis Penhalli- 
 gan and his sister out of Nantsillan. The neighbourhood 
 will cry shame on you if you do.' 
 
 ' Let the neighbourhood dare to prescribe to me what 
 I am to do with my houses and tenants ! ' said the Squire 
 wrathfully. 
 
 ' Your better feelings will not allow you.' 
 
 I I have said it,' exclaimed Hender Gaverock. c What 
 would the neighbourhood say if it heard that I had spoken 
 a thing one day and withdrawn it the next ? You ought 
 to know that what I say I stick to.' 
 
 ' I entreat you to forbear, father.' 
 
 ' You are pertinacious. Why should I forbear ? Show 
 me a proper reason. Those you have given are chaffy, 
 worthless.' 
 
 Then Gerans told his father the whole truth about Con- 
 stantine and Loveday. The surprise, indignation, and rage 
 of the old man knew no bounds. The story had been kept 
 from him at first, lest be should burst forth into violence, and 
 in his violence say words about his dead son which he would 
 afterwards regret, but which would wound mortally his 
 weak and failing wife. But now his wrath took another 
 turn : he cast no blame on Constantine. He was at the 
 moment occupied with the Penhalligans, and the secret 
 now divulged exasperated him against them to the last 
 degree. He was angry with Gerans for not having told 
 him before, but he was furious against Loveday and her 
 brother for thrusting themselves uninvited into relation- 
 ship with his family. ' The sister of the beggarly Saw 
 
 o 
 
194 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 bones ! ' he cried, walking up and down the gravel before 
 the house, with huge strides, ' to dare to inveigle my son 
 — my son into marriage with herself — the hussy who says 
 I do not know women ! I know them so well that I see 
 through her machinations. Do you think, you fool, Gerans, 
 that she came here out of Christian charity to your mother ? 
 Not a bit ; she came to ■ work herself into a place in this 
 house, and when she had got into a snug corner, to be able 
 to snap her ringers in my face and dare me to turn her out 
 because she was my daughter-in-law.' Then he flew out 
 in another direction. ' I don't believe it — not a word of 
 it ! The impudent wench ! It was a love affair, and no 
 marriage at all. She has deceived you, lied to you ! I 
 will not believe till I see the marriage lines. I will go to 
 Nantsillan at once, and dare her to produce them. And 
 that Sawbones brother ! He thought to trade on his con- 
 nection. To patch up his miserable practice with the 
 recommendation of the Gaverocks his kinsmen, and send 
 out his bottles of jalap and boxes of pills sealed with our 
 crest ! Golly ! my blood boils. Gerans, I shall never 
 forgive you for keeping this infamy concealed from me. 
 Now, it is well that I know it. Not for another day, if I 
 can help it, shall these beggars live in my house. That 
 was the meaning of sending Loveday to Exeter, was it, 
 where my son Con was in an office 1 A deep-laid scheme. 
 A clever scheme. A scheme worthy of that black-eyed 
 crafty hussy ! But it shall not answer. I am glad I know 
 it. I will go down at once and force her to tell me the 
 truth. I always knew that Con was a milksop ; I never 
 thought him such a cursed fool ! But Adam was no match 
 for Eve, and so, I suppose, one must not wonder if Con 
 fell a prey to another intriguing woman. I not know 
 women ! I know this, that they can combine the subtlety 
 and wickedness of the serpent with the innocent outward 
 appearance of the dove.' 
 
 In vain did Gerans strive to abate his father's fury, and 
 divert him from his purpose of an immediate interview with 
 Loveday. He entreated him to postpone the visit till the 
 morrow. The old man would listen to no advice ; in his 
 headstrong temper and roused passion he rushed off in the 
 direction of the cottage, shaking Gerans from him when he 
 held his arm to detain him. 
 
BROKEN RESOLUTIONS. 195 
 
 Then Gerans, greatly troubled at having made matters 
 worse by telling his father what had so long been kept from 
 him, resolved to go down to the church, meet Rose, and 
 urge her to do what she could to appease the irate old 
 man. Perhaps if she made her submission, his anger would 
 abate. 
 
 He arrived at the church during the sermon. Instead 
 of going in, he went to the stables provided for the horses 
 of churchgoers from a distance, and brought out Phoebus, in 
 readiness for Rose. 
 
 He helped her into the saddle, and led the horse away ; 
 he wanted to get ahead of the people who were about to 
 stream along the same road. She, penitent for what she 
 had done, did not look behind her, nor say a word to 
 Dennis. She held the reins, and allowed her husband to 
 urge on the lame horse. 
 
 ' I see Phoebus does limp, 5 she said. ' However, he is not 
 lame. When the shoe is taken off he will be right. The 
 road is very muddy ; I should not have liked to walk it. 
 If your father had not been so peremptory, I might, 
 however, have gone on foot, but I will not be ordered 
 about — like you.' 
 
 She could not help it ; even when penitent she must 
 say something sharp, and also excuse herself, when half 
 acknowledging that she had been in the wrong. When 
 they were some way ahead of those coming from church in 
 the same direction, and quite out of earshot, Gerans said, 
 in a low tone, ' Rose, I want your help. I am afraid my 
 father is much put out. I wish that you would tell him 
 you are sorry that you took Phoebus. It will please him. 
 You see the horse is unfit to be ridden.' 
 
 ' He will be right when the shoe is off.' 
 
 ' Do you know, Rose, that my father, in a fit of impetu- 
 osity, gave notice to the Penhalligans to leave their cottage ? 
 What is to be done ? Where is poor Loveday to go ? I 
 wish you would intercede with father and get him to yield 
 in this one matter.' 
 
 Rose's lips closed tightly. ' I suppose,' she said con- 
 strainedly, 'if "poor Loveday" is to go, that poor Dennis 
 must go also.' 
 
 ' Yes, of course ; but that is not such a great concern. 
 
196 THE GAVEEOCKS. 
 
 But our dear Loveday ! — I cannot bear to think of it. 
 What will mother do 1 Where can Loveday go 1 ' 
 
 ' I should have supposed it of far more consequence that 
 Mr. Dennis should be housed than " our dear Loveday." ' 
 
 ' Not at all,' answered Gerans, without perceiving that 
 she was speaking ironically. ' He, as a man, can find 
 lodgings somewhere, but she — there is no place where they 
 could be taken in together.' 
 
 ' And,' said Rose, ' it would be so very hard that Loveday 
 should not be within a gunshot of Towan.' 
 
 1 Yes, quite so,' answered Gerans. ' It would not do at 
 all ; she could not then be in and out of our house at all 
 times.' 
 
 ' That would be intolerable indeed.' 
 
 ' I do not know — intolerable, but very inconvenient.' 
 
 ' There I differ from you,' said Rose, coldly. ' I am 
 not sure but that her frequent visits are inconvenient at 
 present, and I can quite imagine that they may become 
 intolerable.' 
 
 ' I cannot see that,' Gerans replied, not in the least 
 understanding his wife. ' My father is so exasperated that 
 he may forbid her as well as Dennis the house.' 
 
 ' It is, of course, of far more importance that Loveday 
 should be at home there than that Mr. Dennis should be 
 admitted.' 
 
 ' Of course it is. My dear mother is so attached to 
 her ' 
 
 ' Your mother only ? ' 
 
 ' No, all of us — you, I know, like her, love her dearly, 
 and I — I am very fond of her.' 
 
 ' I suppose that, as we are made one by marriage, we 
 must share everything, even our attachments.' 
 
 ' Yes, Rose, so it ought to be, and so I hope it is. 
 Loveday is so good, noble, and true, that we must value 
 and love her. You do both.' 
 
 He was wholly unconscious of the irritation his words 
 caused. He spoke of Loveday's trouble, because he thought 
 that would touch and move his wife more than any con- 
 sideration for the doctor. He was devoid of jealousy 
 himself, and had no conception that his wife could be 
 jealous of him and Loveday. He regarded the latter so 
 completely as a sister, that the thought that she could be 
 
BROKEN RESOLUTIONS. 197 
 
 regarded in any other light by him never entered his 
 head. 
 
 ' My father has gone down to Nantsillan,' continued 
 Gerans. ' I hope he will control himself ; he was very 
 excited when he went off. Loveday is there alone, I 
 know.' 
 
 ' You know, do you 1 How do you know that 1 ' 
 
 ' Because little Ruth came out of church. One or the 
 other must remain at home to cook the dinner.' 
 
 ' At home,' repeated Rose. ' Do you mean Nantsillan 
 Cottage when you say, " at home " 1 ' 
 
 'Yes,' he answered, and turned and looked at her. ' I 
 do not understand you. Nantsillan is their home.' 
 
 ' Oh ! you spoke of it as home — as your home.' 
 
 c How can you so misinterpret me 1 ' said Gerans. Then 
 he sighed. It struck him that she was in a captious and 
 unyielding mood, but he did not see the reason for it. 
 
 Phoebus went slowly on. Rose's cheeks burned. All 
 her penitence and good resolutions were gone. She was 
 angry with her husband for talking so persistently of Love- 
 day. After they had gone on in silence a little way, 
 Gerans stepped back, and, laying his hand on the crupper, 
 said, ' Rose, dear, speak a word for them to father. He 
 must not turn them out ; they have had troubles enough 
 without our adding to them — more troubles than you know. 
 They are very poor, and have made a hard fight to get on. 
 I fear this change would break their back.' 
 
 ' So you creep behind my skirt, and thrust me on, be- 
 cause you dare not yourself interfere ? ' 
 
 ' Rose, I have spoken, but my father will not listen.' 
 
 ' That is false,' said Rose, vehemently ; ' you said no- 
 thing. You had not the courage to stand up for a friend. 
 You are a coward ! ' 
 
 ' Rose ! ' exclaimed Gerans, withdrawing his hand from 
 the back of the horse, and colouring — ' Rose ! ' he repeated 
 in a tone of reproach and pain and astonishment. 
 
 She did not spare him. She had no pity. She went on 
 with flaming cheeks and sparkling eyes : ' Nothing is to be 
 expected of a man who will not take the part of his own 
 wife. No wonder if such a fellow is too timid to defend 
 his own friend. I know some who would never have 
 suffered me to be ill-treated and insulted, had I listened to 
 
198 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 one or other of them, instead of to you. I wish I had 
 never seen your face.' 
 
 Gerans turned deadly pale. He said, with quivering 
 lips, ' Rose, you were not forced to take me.' 
 
 ' No ; but when I took you, I did not know you as I 
 do now.' 
 
 Gerans had hold of her rein. He let go, and walked on. 
 He did not look at her, he hung his head. Not two months 
 had elapsed since they had been married, and his happiness 
 was gone. 
 
 All the annoyances, disappointments, slights she had 
 undergone, real or imaginary, justly or unjustly, in Towan, 
 were alive and moving and gnawing in her soul. Another 
 man would never have allowed her to be subjected to these. 
 Dennis Penhalligan would have protected her from the 
 slightest breath of offence. Dennis was not afraid of old 
 Gaverock. He defied him to his face when Rose's pleasure 
 was concerned. How Gerans had hung back — that morn- 
 ing at the door ! How Dennis had sprung forward to lift 
 her into her seat ! They were men of different stamp. 
 She began to cry. Gerans heard her, and her tears fell as 
 fire- drops on his heart. He could not speak to her. He 
 had nothing to say to her. She did not love him. 
 
 When they arrived at Towan, he handed her from the 
 horse, but said nothing. He did not look at her. She 
 went within. He walked away, with bowed head. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 A SENTENCE OP EXILE. 
 
 Hender Gaverock, in his Sunday suit, but without his 
 rough beaver hat, strode down to Nantsillan, opened the 
 cottage door without knocking, and, entering the front 
 room or little hall, shouted, ' Loved ay Penhalligan, where 
 are you 1 I want you. Come here.' 
 
 Loveday was in the kitchen. She came to him at once. 
 She knew by his voice, and she saw by his face, that he 
 was in a passion, and had lost all control over himself. 
 Loveday wore a white apron, that covered her bosom and 
 was fastened on her shoulders. Her gown was deep blue. 
 
A SENTENCE OP EXILE. 199 
 
 She looked very pretty with her rich dark hair, lustrous 
 eyes, and oval, pale face. She was not alarmed, but she 
 felt at once that she must exercise great discretion with a 
 man who had no command over what he said or what he 
 did. 
 
 ' I am at your service, Mr. Gaverock,' said Loveday. 
 ' Will you take a chair ? ' Then she seated herself. 
 
 ' No, I will not,' he answered roughly. ' Why do you 
 sit down ? Stand up when I speak to you.' He could 
 browbeat her better, face to face with her, than with her in 
 a chair, by the hearth, showing him only her profile. 
 
 ' You must excuse me, Mr. Gaverock. I know you 
 will, you are so kind and considerate. I have been standing 
 all the morning, and a moment in a chair is a boon.' 
 
 ' I have heard a scandalous story,' said the Squire, 
 pacing the little hall, and turning his great rough, shaggy 
 head towards her, as he strode, with his hands behind his 
 back, under the tails of his plum-coloured coat. ' 1 have 
 heard a scandalous story, and I have come here about it.' 
 
 ' Then, Squire,' said Loveday, gently, ' you have come 
 to the wrong place.' 
 
 £ I have not. I know what I am about, where I am.' 
 
 ' You have come to call on a gentlewoman,' said Loveday, 
 ' and are her visitor, in her parlour.' 
 
 Gaverock was somewhat abashed, but he was too highly 
 incensed for a soft word to affect him more than momen- 
 tarily. 
 
 ' Mistress Loveday Penhalligan ' — he emphasised the 
 surname — ' I have just heard a story about you and Con- 
 stantine, outrageous, detestable, scandalous.' 
 
 'Excuse me, Mr. Gaverock, I have green gooseberries 
 to pick.' She made him a slight bow, and withdrew into 
 the kitchen. He continued striding up and down the hall, 
 waiting for her. After a few minutes she returned, looked 
 him full in the face, and reseated herself, with a dish of 
 gooseberries in her lap, and put an empty pie-dish, for the 
 stalks, on the table. She was so cool, so collected, that 
 Gaverock was disconcerted. She fixed her honest dark 
 eyes on him, and said, ' You have heard that Constantine 
 and I were married in Exeter. It is true, but I did not 
 wish that it should be known.' 
 
 ' It is not true. I dispute it. Show me the certificate.' 
 
200 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 'Mr. Gaverock,' she said, raising her head, 'I excuse 
 those hasty and ill-considered words ; but I will not suffer 
 them to be repeated, nor endure words like them. I cannot 
 show you the certificate, because I did not furnish myself 
 with a copy. But I will write, or you can write, if you 
 doubt my word of honour, and obtain a copy of the register 
 from St. SidwelPs Church in Exeter.' 
 
 ' I do not believe it. I will not believe it,' stormed the 
 angry man ; ' it is a disgraceful imposition. What took 
 place between you and Con, you know best, but I will not 
 
 allow ' She was gone. The basin of gooseberries was 
 
 left on the table ; she had quietly and easily withdrawn. 
 
 He paced the room again. It was full ten minutes 
 before she returned, and resumed her place and dish of 
 berries. 
 
 ' How can I talk if you run out of the room every few 
 minutes ? ' he asked. 
 
 ' How can I stay when you forget to whom you are 
 speaking 1 ' she replied. ' I am your daughter-in-law. I 
 did not seek the honour. I shrank from it. It was pressed 
 upon me. I have endeavoured to keep the relationship a 
 secret. I shall bring no dishonour on the name of Gaverock ; 
 that name, however, will be dishonoured by any man who 
 bears it and fails to behave as a gentleman in the presence 
 of a lady.' 
 
 ' Do you mean to imply ' began Gaverock, threaten- 
 ingly. 
 
 ' I imply nothing,' said Loveday, quietly ; ' I state a 
 fact that you yourself must admit. Would it not be dis- 
 honourable of a man who is a gentleman by birth and 
 position to forget what is due to a lady, and address her in 
 terms of insolence when she is alone, with no one by to 
 protect her 1 ' 
 
 Gaverock was very angry. He thrust his hands into 
 his pockets and paced the room. 
 
 ' You have not replied to my question,' said Loveday. 
 
 He would not answer. 
 
 ' Mr. Gaverock,' she said, ' you want to talk to me, and 
 I am ready to speak with you ; but I will only consent to 
 a conversation on these terms — that you sit opposite me, 
 Mistress Loveday, and hold the pie-dish into which I put 
 the gooseberry stalks.' 
 
A SENTENCE OF EXILE. 201 
 
 1 1 am not here to be made a fool of,' said the Squire. 
 
 'Nor am I here to waste valuable time. The goose- 
 berries are to be made fool of, not the Squire of Towan. 
 That is left to himself and his inconsiderate temper.' 
 
 She set a chair for him opposite herself, and held the 
 back, waiting for him to occupy it. He shortened his 
 tramp and his steps, hesitated, drew near the chair, went 
 back, came again, and finally seated himself. Then she 
 put the basin in his hands. 
 
 ' What is this for 1 ' he asked angrily. 
 
 ' For the stalks of the gooseberries, and the little brown 
 ends, which must not be allowed in a fool, or it spoils it. I 
 dare say you know that by experience.' 
 
 ' Miss Loveday,' said Hender Gaverock, ' you and your 
 brother will have to turn out of this house. I have given 
 him notice. I will have none of you in my neighbourhood 
 any more. Your brother, madam, has defied me, me ; 
 interfered with me, me ; and ' 
 
 ' Take care of the pie-dish ! ' she said as he flung him- 
 self back impetuously in the chair. 
 
 ' And has called me a bear — me, me ! ' 
 
 ' Well, Mr. Gaverock. Is there anything so dreadful and 
 offensive in that ? A bear is rough, tough, and indomitable. 
 You do not pretend to be sleek as a greyhound ; all your 
 muscles are as hawsers, and who is there that has ventured 
 to tame you ? ' 
 
 This recognition of his roughness, toughness, and in- 
 domitability, three qualities on which he prided himself, 
 somewhat mollified the old Squire. 
 
 ' And because of this, you are going to expel us from 
 this house 1 This is not kind.' 
 
 ' Not for this only,' answered Gaverock. ' I will not 
 have the doctor trade on his relationship, and you establish 
 a claim to be one of us.' 
 
 ' Have we done so ? Have we shown the smallest 
 desire to do this ? Who told you of my marriage ? Not 
 Dennis ? ' 
 
 ' No, Gerans.' 
 
 ' You have not heard anything about it from the neigh- 
 bours,' said Loveday ; 'it was I who begged Gerans to keep 
 it secret. But for my urgency it would have been the talk 
 of the county. If now the tidings spread, it will be through 
 
202 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 you, not through me. Unless Gerans has told Rose, she is 
 ignorant. The secret was in the hands of Mrs. Gaverock, 
 Gerans, and Dennis.' 
 
 ' My wife knows — and never told rne ! ' 
 
 ' She knows. Constantine had himself told her part of 
 the secret ; I confided to her the rest.' 
 
 ' Women cannot keep secrets — it will spread like thistle- 
 down in a week.' 
 
 ' You do not know women, or you would not say so. It 
 has been known to Mrs. Gaverock since last autumn twelve- 
 month, when poor Constantine was drowned, and whom 
 has she told 1 No one. Whom have I told 1 If the story 
 circulate you will set it running.' 
 
 ' I — I do not want it to get about. I would hush it up 
 if possible. I am too vexed, too indignant — too ashamed.' 
 
 ' It is I,' said Loveday, gently, ' who have cause to be 
 ashamed, not you. And I am ashamed — deeply humbled, 
 and there is not an hour of the day in which it does not 
 weigh on me.' 
 
 ' You ! — it was an honour.' 
 
 ' I do not see it so. I did wrong. I consented to marry 
 Constantine privately, I will not reproach him ; but I may 
 say that I neither intended nor expected that any secret 
 should have been made of the marriage, when once it had 
 taken place. A secret was made of it, and I have had to 
 suffer. I am suffering now from it. When poor Constan- 
 tine was dead, I thought to bury my secret in forgetfulness. 
 No advantage could come of divulging it. But as it has 
 leaked out — it cannot be helped.' 
 
 ' I do not want it to go farther. Why should we have 
 this put into the mouths of half Cornwall 1 ' 
 
 ' Exactly — Avhy should we 1 I do not ask for recognition. 
 Dennis has no such desire. It lies with you to publish or 
 suppress what has been confided to you.' 
 
 ' Oh, I ! It is no such honour to me ' Then with 
 
 Loveday's calm face before him, full of dignity, and her 
 soft eyes fixed on him, he became conscious that he was 
 about to make a rude remark, unworthy of a gentleman. 
 
 He considered for a while. If he turned Dennis Pen- 
 halligan out of Nantsillan, no doubt the surgeon would go 
 about complaining of the wrong done him by the man 
 
A SENTENCE OF EXILE. 203 
 
 whose son had married his sister. He would do the thing 
 of all others most likely to publish the affair. 
 
 'Are you not treating us with undue severity,' said 
 Loveday, ' in banishing us from this cottage 1 You know 
 there is no other house in the place that we can have. You 
 are therefore forcibly separating my brother and me, and 
 breaking up our poor little home. A young man beginning 
 professional life has not an easy time, and it is surely harsh 
 to make it more painful to him than need be. My offence 
 is not mine alone. Poor Constantine, who married me, 
 was your own flesh and blood. If there be fault on my 
 side, and I freely admit it, blame attaches to him also. 
 Why should the burden of expiation fall on my brother and 
 me alone ? Why should your family bear none of it 1 My 
 brother knew nothing of the marriage till Constantine's 
 return, the ensuing autumn. He was not consulted. He 
 was kept as much in ignorance as yourself. It is not right 
 that he should suffer for what I have clone.' 
 
 ' He has offended me,' said Gaverock. 
 
 c How, I do not know,' Loveday said. 
 
 ' Then I will tell you. Phoebus was ill-shod and like to 
 go lame. Rose insisted on riding him to church, and when 
 I forbade her, and she persisted, your brother took her part, 
 and helped her into the saddle.' 
 
 ' He acted wisely,' said Loveday. ' Rose is wilful, and 
 resolved to have her own way. She will lame Phoebus, and 
 find that she cannot ride him again for many days. She 
 will be forced to admit that you were right, and that she 
 was wrong. Henceforth she will show you more deference. 
 She has been taught in the only way she could be taught, 
 by experience, that your orders are not capriciously given, 
 but rest on common- sense.' 
 
 ' There is something in that,' said the Squire. 
 
 ' My brother saw that clearly, and he allowed her to 
 have her own way, that she might return to Towan ashamed 
 of her obstinacy. Sunday is a day for acquiring moral 
 lessons.' 
 
 ' I will tell you what it is, Miss Pen ' He stopped, 
 
 corrected himself, and recommenced his sentence. ' I will 
 tell you what it is, Loveday. I am more incensed against 
 you than against him. His conduct, as you say, is capable 
 of being given a different interpretation from that I gave 
 
204 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 it ; and what he said may be accepted as complimentary, 
 though I cannot say I thought he spoke it with that in- 
 tention. Still, as his manners are peculiar, and unformed, 
 I will suppose that he did mean to compliment me. I 
 admit that I am rough, vigorous, and tough — I am that, as 
 every sane man on this coast knows, and no man has yet 
 been able to throw me, though I have wrestled with the 
 best men in Cornwall. But I am a man of my word. 
 When I have said a thing, I stick to it. I have said that I 
 would turn you out of Nantsillan, and so I will. I could 
 never look Gerans in the face, never order him about, if I 
 were to go back from what I have said.' 
 
 ' You may put down the pie-dish, Mr. Gaverock,' said 
 Loveday ; ' I have finished the gooseberries.' 
 
 ' Ah,' growled the Squire, ' I had green gooseberry pud- 
 ding on Whitsunday, but the maidens were not looked 
 after, and to save themselves trouble did not pick the goose- 
 berries. But that is neither here nor there. We are not 
 talking of gooseberries. As I said, I stick to my word, and 
 I have said I would tuni you out of Nantsillan. Gerans 
 will expect it. I expect it of myself. But — there are two 
 of you. You are the chief offender. If you will go, I will 
 not be hard on the doctor. He, at all events, is not a rela- 
 tion ; but you — if your story be correct, and I suppose I 
 must admit that it is — you stand to me in the surprising 
 and close relationship of daughter-in-law. Now I am not 
 prepared for this. It will take my mind some time to get 
 used to the idea. I shall have to determine on a course of 
 action. You must go. It is best for you. It is necessary 
 for me. I do not say, Go away for ever, but go away for 
 awhile — for a twelvemonth, till I have had time to digest 
 this startling piece of news, and have decided whether to 
 recognise you or not. If you will consent to this, I will 
 retreat so far as to allow the doctor to remain here. This 
 understanding must be come to between us, that not one 
 word is said of the — the circum stance just told me, this 
 startling news sprung on me, when so unprepared to 
 receive it. No one must know of it till I have made up 
 my mind what is to be done, and if, at the end of a twelve- 
 month, I refuse to acknowledge you, then you and your 
 brother must accept my refusal as final. If you choose to 
 
A SENTENCE OF EXILE. 205 
 
 come to my terms, I will say no more about his vacating 
 Nantsillan.' 
 
 ' I accept the terms,' said Loveday. ' I accept them 
 heartily. I am willing to go. I believe it will be best for 
 myself, as you say, though on other grounds. I will go 
 somewhere, and earn a little money, so as to be a help to 
 poor Dennis.' 
 
 As Squire Gaverock walked back to Towan, he said to 
 himself, ' That young woman has some sense in her — for a 
 woman. She did not forget what was due to me ; she 
 maintained a proper respect. If she only had money, I 
 would rather have her as my daughter-in-law than Miss 
 Vanity Scatterbrain, who has not yet learned her place.' 
 
 In about half an hour after the Squire had gone Dennis 
 entered the cottage. 
 
 ' Oh, Dennis ! ' said Loveday, who came to him from 
 the kitchen on hearing his step, ' Mr. Gaverock has been 
 here whilst you were at church. He has been told all. 
 He is highly incensed against me. He was very angry at 
 first with you, but that is passed away.' 
 
 'He has given me notice to quit the house,' said Dennis. 
 He had not raised his eyes to his sister on entering, and 
 now he looked furtively at her. He saw that her eyes were 
 swimming with tears. ' Is that what has made you cry 1 ' 
 
 ' No, Dennis ; he will allow you to remain, but I must 
 go.' 
 
 'You! Why?' 
 
 ' Because of my marriage with Con. He cannot make 
 up his mind whether to recognise it or not; and he has 
 made me promise to go away for a twelvemonth. But he 
 will not disturb you.' 
 
 Dennis drew a long breath. He did not exhibit much 
 concern at the prospect of losing his sister. 
 
 Suddenly, after drying her tears, Loveday exclaimed — 
 
 ' Dennis, what is that rose in your buttonhole ? Where 
 did you get it 1 ' 
 
 He looked away, as her searching eyes were on his 
 face. 
 
 ' Dennis, I know that rose. It is from our garden ; 
 there is but one.' 
 
 ' Well,' he said roughly, ' if you know the rose, why do 
 you ask about it 1 ' 
 
206 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 'Because — oh, Dennis! — I gave it to Rose Gaverock. 
 That is, I carried it up to Towan, and put it in her plate 
 at the breakfast table. How came you by it ? ' 
 
 ' I picked it up,' he answered, with a sullen look and 
 impatience in his tone. 
 
 She watched his face eagerly with alarm and pain. 
 
 ' Oh, Dennis,' she said, ' why did you pick it up ? ' 
 
 He turned angrily on her, and said — 
 
 ' Loveday, this is intolerable. I will not stand here to 
 be catechised.' 
 
 ' Dennis, dear brother ' — Loveday spoke in a low, plead- 
 ing tone, and put her hand on him — 'you picked it up 
 because it was hers, because she had worn it. I see it in 
 your face. This must not be. Dennis, she is lost to you, 
 she belongs to Gerans ; and you must not, without sin, lay 
 a thought to her. Dennis, dear Dennis, I have noticed 
 that you have not crushed and cast out of your heart the 
 love you bore her. But it is a duty. You must be true, 
 and good, and honourable, and a Christian. Oh, Dennis ' — 
 she pressed on him, and put up her other hand beseech- 
 ingly on his arm — ' let me take the rose away ; and as I 
 pluck it, be brave, and pluck every thought of her out of 
 your heart.' 
 
 She put her delicate, slender fingers to the lappet of 
 his coat. He sprang back, cast her off, his dark eyes glared, 
 and his brows contracted. 
 
 ' Have you done with this preaching 1 ' he said. ' I 
 have borne from you more than I will endure for the 
 future. It is well you are going. I am sick of prying and 
 peeping eyes ; go as soon as you can. I had rather be 
 alone. I am tired of your officious care.' 
 
 ' Oh, Dennis ! ' she said, and covered her eyes ; then 
 fled the room, and buried her face on her pillow. She had 
 lost her brother's love, and was banished alike from her 
 home and his heart. 
 
207 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 SAMPHIRE. 
 
 During the early dinner Gerans was silent. Rose, on the 
 other hand, was lively. She did her utmost to let Gave- 
 rock, the father, and her husband see that she was in good 
 spirits, and quite unaffected by what had taken place. 
 But on this occasion she had an uphill scramble. Hender 
 Gaverock was not in his jovial, boisterous humour ; and 
 Gerans said nothing. Moreover, Rose was not well at 
 ease with her conscience, and felt disposed rather to cry 
 than to laugh. This, however, was the last thing she 
 would allow either of the men to suspect. Mrs. Gaverock 
 came in to dinner, but she was never to be relied upon to 
 furnish topics of conversation and keep up a flagging talk. 
 She seemed, on this occasion, to be conscious that something 
 had gone wrong, and to be more than usually depressed by 
 this consciousness. She was a quiet, faded old lady ; very 
 ready to do her duty in the house as far as her physical 
 powers allowed ; but she was too diffident of her knowledge, 
 too narrow in her interests, too much afraid of her husband, 
 to be of much use solidly. She was a good listener, a kind 
 sympathiser ; and in opinions she always agreed with the 
 last speaker, because she never could see more than one 
 side of any question at a time. She looked from her hus- 
 band to Gerans, and then to Rose, with perplexity and 
 timidity, afraid to ask if anything was the matter and 
 unable to explain their moods. That Rose's hilarity was 
 put on she knew by her feminine instinct ; but in her inno- 
 cent, humble heart, she attributed it to her goodness in 
 desiring to brighten a dull meal and recover the spirits of 
 her father-in-law and husband. She was struck with 
 admiration at Rose's ability and energy, an ability and 
 energy of which she was herself devoid and incapable. 
 
 After dinner, Rose gave her mother-in-law one arm, 
 and Gerans gave her one on the other side, and they helped 
 her back to the sofa in the parlour, where she had her Bible 
 and Church Service and a volume of Blair's Sermons on a 
 tea-table at her side. She had gone religiously through 
 
208 THE GAVEKOCKS. 
 
 the form of prayer for the morning, and would do the same 
 in the afternoon with Rose to help her, and such of the 
 servants as could not be spared to go to church. The per- 
 formance was dreary and not very improving. The Psalms 
 were divided among those who could read, each taking a 
 verse, and in the case of the servants hashing it, and in 
 the case of the scullery-maid spelling it and making non- 
 sense out of it. Rose galloped away with her verse, her 
 Truro maid trotted with hers, Mrs. Gaverock's verse went 
 along at an amble, but the rest were in various conditions 
 of crawl and tumble. The Lessons were gone through in 
 the same way ; and no one, when it came to her turn, had 
 the faintest idea of what she was reading about. However, 
 it was all well intended. 
 
 Gerans withdrew. His mother cast a sad look after 
 him. She feared that religion was losing its hold on her 
 son, as he shrank from these spirit-deadening exercises. 
 Rose would have run away had she dared, but she had suf- 
 ficient grace to be sensible that it would be kind and 
 dutiful to remain. 
 
 'We must allow the servants time to dine and wash up,' 
 said Mrs. Gaverock, ' and then we will begin.' 
 
 'Yes/ answered Rose, with her mouth down at the 
 corners. She was standing by the window, looking out, 
 watching Gerans as he left the house. There was a dejec- 
 tion about him — affecting his walk, his bearing, his face — ■ 
 she had never seen in him before. She knew the cause, 
 and she relented towards him, for she really did love him. 
 
 ' What can be the matter with father and Gerans 1 ' 
 asked Mrs. Gaverock, as she turned over the pages of Blair 
 in quest of a sermon that would do to read to the maids. 
 ' They were neither of them in their usual spirits at 
 dinner. Do you know the reason 1 ' 
 
 ' No, aunt.' 
 
 ' To-morrow is Gerans' birthday. Have you prepared 
 something for him ? I have knitted him a pair of mitts, 
 though I do not think he will wear them. Still, he will 
 value them. They will tell him he has been thought of.' 
 
 ' I have nothing, aunt. I forgot about his birthday.' 
 
 ' Which of these two sermons will do best, Rose 1 Just 
 cast your eye over them and give me your opinion.' 
 
 ' My dear aunt, either will do equally well : they are 
 
SAMPHIRE. 209 
 
 just like each other and all the rest ; the same words only 
 differently arranged. And as for ideas, they are, like the 
 raisins in the cakes uncle complains of, conspicuous by their 
 absence. When I was at school we called these plum- 
 loaves — milestone cakes — because of the distance between 
 the raisins. As for the ideas in the sermons, the distance 
 between them is to be measured by geographical miles, 
 which are seven hundred and ninety-five feet and four- fifths 
 longer than the statute mile.' 
 
 When the service was over, Rose's feelings were in an 
 irritated condition. She heartily wished that Goliath had 
 killed David, and prevented him from writing Psalms; and 
 that with the Destruction of Jerusalem the First and 
 Second Lessons had gone to make the blaze brighter. 
 
 Gerans returned somewhat later. The service had 
 lasted quite an hour and a half. Every verse spelled and 
 made nonsense of by the scullery-maid had occupied three 
 minutes. Rose was sitting by the drawing-room window, 
 looking out for his return. She saw him arrive with head 
 down. 
 
 ' He seems still very unhappy,' thought Rose. ' Per- 
 haps I was a little too sharp with him.' Her heart beat 
 fast. 
 
 Mrs. Gaverock said something, and Rose answered in* 
 coherently. 
 
 The drawing-room window was open. Would he come 
 to it 1 — lean his elbow on the sill, and stand there and 
 speak to her 1 If he would come, she would address him 
 cheerfully, and give him a tender look, which would make 
 him forget any hasty word she might have spoken. But 
 Gerans did not turn his head and look towards the parlour 
 window. She heard his steps in the hall, and listened. He 
 would come along to the parlour to his mother and her. 
 He did not do so. Then a hard look came on her face. If 
 Gerans had not noticed her at the window, it was his duty 
 to come after her into the room where she sat. She was 
 convinced that Gerans did not choose to see her, and she 
 threw up her head haughtily. If he did not want a recon- 
 ciliationj neither did she. If he would not apologise to her, 
 she would not go out of her way to seek him. 
 
 ' I hear Gerans in the next room,' said Mrs. Gaverock. 
 1 Call him to me, Rose.' 
 
 p 
 
210 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 Rose had to be twice asked to do this before she com- 
 plied. Then she went to the door and said coldly, ' Your 
 mother wants you.' 
 
 { I will come,' he said, and entered the parlour. 
 
 ' Gerans,' said the old lady, ' what is this I hear about 
 the samphire picking 1 Are you going to-morrow 1 ' 
 
 ' Yes, mother ; it is in condition now. Loveday wants 
 to pickle some and send it to her cousin in Exeter, and 
 Rose will want some for this house, and Madam Loveys 
 also.' 
 
 ' Loveday first, and I only next,' said Rose shortly, 
 frowning. 
 
 ' No ! — not so. Dennis and Anthony join me. Loveday 
 always has her store in now, and so do you, mother. I told 
 Anthony and Dennis about it yesterday. We may as well 
 all go together. Indeed, we must help each other ; the 
 rocks are so precipitous that we cannot get the samphire 
 Avithout a rope.' 
 
 ' Oh, Gerans, be careful ! ' 
 
 He laughed, but not cheerfully — not his usual careless, 
 gay laugh. ' I shall be careful enough ; but if I am over 
 the edge of the cliff, it lies with Dennis and Anthony to be 
 careful. Dennis cannot go over an edge, he turns giddy at 
 a precipice ; and Anthony is so slow and clumsy.' 
 
 ' Do they hold the rope 1 ' 
 
 ' Yes, attached to my waist. If they let go, don't ex- 
 pect me home to-morrow, for home I shall not come.' 
 
 ' Take some one else. Take Petherick or Jago.' 
 
 ' My dear mother, have no fear. There are not two 
 more powerful young men in these parts than Dennis and 
 Anthony, and they will not let me go, they love me too 
 well.' 
 
 ' Yes, but they may lack nerve.' 
 
 ' Dennis has nerve. The only fear is lest Anthony 
 should go to sleep at his rope end.' 
 
 ' Oh, Gerans ! ' exclaimed his mother. ' Do not be 
 angry with me. All the samphire in the world is not 
 worth your life. Give up this expedition. My mind fore- 
 bodes ill.' 
 
 He stooped over her and kissed her. 
 
 ' You are weak and nervous,' he said. ' Have no un- 
 easiness about me. I have none for myself.' 
 
SAMPHIRE. 211 
 
 As he went out of the room he cast a glance at his 
 wife. Rose stood with averted face. 
 
 ' Do you know what you are looking at 1 ' asked Mrs. 
 Gaverock, following the direction of her eyes. ' On that 
 window-jamb is marked the height of Gerans on each of 
 his birthdays till he was full grown. He will never stand 
 higher now than the highest score ; but — he may lie lower 
 than the lowest. It was so with Con.' Then her tears 
 flowed. 
 
 On the morrow, the three young men — taking with 
 them a coil of new rope, bought recently at St. Ives, and 
 sure to stand any strain put on it — went along the dills 
 together, above the sea, in quest of samphire. 
 
 The samphire derives its name from Saint-Pierre, be- 
 cause it is ripe and ready to be pickled about St. Peter's 
 Day — that is, June the twenty-ninth. It is a fleshy stalked 
 and leaved plant, with pale whitey-green flowers like those 
 of the fennel. It only grows on such crags above the sea 
 as the gulls delight to haunt, above the lash of the waves, 
 but ready to sip of though not to be engulfed in their brine. 
 It sprouts out of rocky crevices in thick clusters, enlivening 
 the bald cliff faces where nothing else will grow. Not one 
 of our native plants can at all compare with this in flavour 
 when pickled with vinegar and spices. It is pleasantly 
 aromatic both in odour and taste, and very succulent. As 
 it was highly prized at one time, those who lived near the 
 coast collected it and sent it to their friends inland. 
 
 Gerans wore light shoes, without nails in the soles ; a 
 short jacket ; and a sower's pouch slung round him, in 
 which to put the gathered plants as they were plucked. 
 He was not in the cheerful humour which was common to 
 him. The samphire-picking he greatly enjoyed on former 
 occasions, and he was wont to go forth singing to his dan- 
 gerous pursuit. There was pleasure in hanging halfway 
 down a cliff with the rolling blue-green sea curling and 
 foaming underneath ; and to feel the sun strike back from 
 the rocks to which he clung ; and to inhale at every in- 
 spiration an air that went down into his lungs as the 
 vapour of the elixir of life. It was pleasant to be among 
 the wheeling gulls, the kittiwakes with their scarlet beaks, 
 the great cormorants with metallic plumage, the gannets — 
 the young black and white speckled and the older white 
 
 p2 
 
212 THE GAVEBOCKS. 
 
 with blue-grey faces — the glossy black, scarlet-stockinged 
 chuff : to have these birds wheeling and screaming around, 
 and to invade their nests, and see their startled young, it 
 was worth the risk of the descent. It was pleasant to be 
 among the scented glassy-stalked samphire, and the pink 
 dancing tufts of the thrift. On a bright day, nothing gave 
 so great a sense of light, and sparkle, and buoyancy as a 
 swing down the face of the sea cliffs after samphire. But 
 this morning Gerans was not himself. It was his birthday, 
 and Rose had forgotten to congratulate him on it. He 
 was going forth on a perilous enterprise, and she had 
 manifested no concern about it. He had expected every 
 moment that morning from his waking that she would re- 
 collect what day it was, and would come smiling to him, 
 put her arms round his neck, and wish him many happy 
 returns of it. A very little love on her part would have 
 made him forgive, if he could not wholly forget, her words 
 of yesterday. But she gave no token of relenting. It was 
 certain that she loved him no more. She had taken him, 
 not knowing her own mind ; and now she had discovered, 
 when too late to retract the step, that she did not either 
 respect or love him. He had noticed, ever since his return 
 from Truro with her, that she had become estranged from 
 him bit by bit, but he had hoped that the gulf might close 
 instead of widening farther. Now he knew that he must 
 abandon this hope. He felt no bitterness towards her ; he 
 loved her as much as ever, possibly more. He had no 
 suspicion of her heart having turned from him to another. 
 He did not suppose that she was still the coquette, demand- 
 ing, insisting on admiration, that she had been before. He 
 knew that he had forfeited her love by his submission to 
 his father and, he supposed, from deficiencies of manner, 
 and mind, and culture, which she observed, but of which 
 he was ignorant. 
 
 Dennis was not in a conversational mood either, and 
 Anthony only talked with an effort. Consequently, the 
 three walked along the cliffs in silence, only broken by re- 
 marks about spots where it was likely that samphire would 
 be found, where it was observed growing in accessible spots, 
 and where it was safe to descend. 
 
 After some little discussion, a place w r as fixed upon 
 where Gerans had gone down in former years. This was 
 
SAMPHIRE. 213 
 
 on the face of the cliff called Cardue Point, pierced by the 
 Iron Gate. 
 
 The day was most beautiful. The sea was like a great 
 sapphire, full of changing lights, and flashes, and shades of 
 colour. The turf was thickly covered with thrift, running 
 through every change of hue from pink to silvery white. 
 Here and there a delicate little blue flax-flower shook in 
 the wind — a flower so delicate, that when picked it shed its 
 leaves at once. 
 
 'Here,' said Gerans, as he fastened the rope round his 
 waist ; ' I will go down the cliff in this place. I know that 
 the samphire is abundant here, though one cannot see it 
 from the top, as the edge slightly curves over.' 
 
 'Mind your footing, and the knot,' said Dennis. 'A 
 fall here would end your happiness in this world.' 
 
 Gerans sighed. ' I do not know but that it would be 
 as good a way out of one's troubles as any.' 
 
 ' Troubles ! ' exclaimed Dennis, scornfully. ' You, a 
 Gaverock, with everything you can wish for, have no right 
 to speak about troubles.' 
 
 ' But I have troubles,' answered Gerans, laying his hand 
 on his heart. ' There is a skeleton in every house.' He 
 looked up at Dennis, and their eyes met ; only for a 
 moment — and Dennis knew by the sadness in those of 
 Gerans that Gerans was aware that he was not loved by 
 his wife. A wave of hot blood rolled through his veins, 
 making sparks flash before his eyes, then darkness came 
 over them. It passed, and he had regained his composure. 
 But his heart beat faster, a triumphant feeling swelled in 
 his breast. Rose did not love Gerans, never had loved 
 him ; she writhed in her marriage bonds. If she loved any 
 one, it was himself, Dennis Penhalligan. 
 
 ' Ready 1 ' asked Gerans. 
 
 'Ready you are,' replied the other two, and Gerans 
 crept over the edge, his white seed-pouch disappearing first, 
 then his face, and last, the fingers clinging to the turf. 
 As the fingers, first of one hand, then of the other, left 
 their hold, the thought rushed through Penhalligan's brain, 
 'Now the man who stands between you and happiness is 
 in your power. "What does he care for life 1 He would 
 thank you to let him fall.' 
 
 A crowbar had been driven into the turf, and the rope 
 
214 THE GAVEEOCES. 
 
 looped round that. Anthony payed it out as it was 
 wanted ; Dennis knelt on one knee, with the heel of the 
 other foot driven into the turf, grasping the cord with both 
 hands, one before the other. At the farther end, the un- 
 seen end, was Gerans, creeping down the face of rock, 
 holding to projections with his hands or resting his feet on 
 ledges. At times the strain on the rope was great, at 
 others not at all. The two young men were forced to be 
 on the alert, as they could see nothing of their comrade, 
 and were obliged to be ready to have the rope jerked vio- 
 lently at any moment. 
 
 Once while the strain was greatest, and they knew that 
 Gerans was swinging almost with his entire weight over 
 the spiked rocks and foaming surf, the temptation to let go 
 came over Dennis with such power that he had great 
 difficulty in conquering it. The temptation was not of the 
 will, or of malice, to destroy Gerans ; it was the numbing 
 fear of letting go and so becoming his murderer, that 
 almost took the power out of his muscles. The sensation 
 was much the same as that which is felt when one stands 
 on the verge of a precipice. One feels impelled to cast 
 oneself down, not from any Avish to do so, but from an all 
 but irresistible fascination, which the thought of falling 
 exercises on the mind. Dennis saw Gerans dashing from 
 his foothold, whirling down through the air to the sea 
 below, and the sight of this descent, to his imagination, 
 unnerved him ; his fingers trembh d and began to relax, 
 whilst a sweat of agony burst from his brow and lips and 
 studded them with great drops. 
 
 Whether he could have mastered the weakness, had it 
 continued, cannot be said. Fortunately, Gerans obtained 
 foothold on a ledge, relaxing the cord, then shouted, and 
 shook it, and Dennis and Anthony began to draw him 
 up, he helping himself with his hands and knees and 
 toes. 
 
 He brought up his pouch full of samphire. Then he 
 cast himself on the turf to rest a few minutes, and Dennis 
 was glad of the relief. 
 
 ' I have seen plenty growing a little way to the right,' 
 said Gerans. ' Quite a bed of it. I will go down there in 
 a minute.' 
 
 ' Give us more than a minute for rest,' said Dennis. 
 
SAMPHIRE. 215 
 
 ' Both Anthony Loveys and I have need of breathing time, 
 besides, I have had a sharp pull on the rope, and it has 
 made my hands tender.' 
 
 ' Tender or not, they must be tough enough to sustain 
 me,' answered Gerans. ' My life depends on them.' 
 
 ' Do not fear for me,' said Dennis, gravely. But though 
 he spoke boldly he had lost confidence in his nerve. 
 
 ' I am ready for you when you like,' said Anthony. 
 1 My skin is like leather.' 
 
 The three walked along the verge to the spot indicated 
 by Gerans. The excitement of the descent, and the herb- 
 picking, had driven from him his despondency, and as he 
 went over the edge his face was smiling and hopeful as 
 usual. 
 
 ' For God's sake be careful now,' were his last words. 
 ' Don't go to sleep, Anthony. There is a tickle (difficult) 
 bit where I cannot plant a foot.' 
 
 ' The bar is well driven in,' said Anthony Loveys. 
 
 'Yes,' said Dennis, looking over his shoulder. ' But the 
 bar is nought without the grip on the rope slewed about it. 
 Hold hard.' 
 
 The two young men exerted their full strength ; with 
 heels driven into the turf they were firm as rooted trees. 
 The cord was given a turn about the bar, and the bar 
 was driven into the ground slanting steeply away from the 
 direction in which was the strain ; but the soil on the 
 surface of the rock was not of sufficient depth to allow of 
 its being forced down to any considerable distance. It 
 would have been quite insufficient alone to have supported 
 the weight of a man. With the rope looped round it, it 
 materially assisted in sustaining the burden. Very cau- 
 tiously the young men let out length to allow of the 
 descent of Gerans. He was hanging now quite free from 
 the cliff over jagged points of slate and the waves, torn and 
 tattered as they rushed over and in and out among the 
 blades of rock. According to his estimate, he must descend 
 sheer fifty feet before he reached the shelf on which the 
 samphire grew in a green belt, rankly. 
 
 How much rope had been payed out, how long they 
 had been slowly lowering Gerans, neither Dennis nor young 
 Loveys knew exactly, when suddenly a white liver-spotted 
 dog, limping, ran up, and jumped over the rope behind 
 
216 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 Penhalligan, who did not see it, drawing its lame cold foot 
 across the back of Anthony's hand. 
 
 Anthony, startled, and, in his surprise, forgetful of 
 what he was about, let go his hold to wipe away the 
 clammy moisture, like the track of a slug, left by the 
 mongrel dog's foot on his hand. 
 
 Instantly the rope flew away, jerking the bar out of the 
 ground, and throwing up the turf, rushing through the 
 hands of Dennis. A cry was heard, whether that of 
 Gerans or of a gull, neither knew, neither heeded. Dennis 
 threw himself full length on the cord, gripping it with all 
 the force he could concentrate into the muscles of his arms, 
 but the weight and fall at the farther end drew him along 
 the turf to the edge of the precipice. In another moment 
 he would have been over as well as Gerans ; but the end of 
 the coil was fortunately round Loveys, and, as it ran out, 
 caught him, and he cast himself, or was flung across the 
 course of the pull, instead of in the line of it, like Dennis, 
 and the rope was arrested by his weight and resistance. 
 
 Then Penhalligan retreated backwards, hand behind 
 hand, till he was a safe distance from the edge. He was 
 quivering in all his muscles, and sick at heart ; he had 
 seen over the cliff the spikes and razor-blades of slate far 
 below waiting to cut and kill him. Slowly the two young 
 men drew in the rope till Gerans was safely landed on the 
 top. He was white and agitated. 
 
 ' It was my fault/ said Anthony, when Gerans cast 
 himself on the turf, speechless, beside Dennis, who also was 
 unable to speak. ' I thought I heard a low bark behind 
 me, and a moment after saw the flap of a coat in the wind, 
 and just then a spotted clog like that of the pedlar at the 
 Goose Fair ran over my hands, and took the power out of 
 them, just as if I'd had a shock from a sea-nettle.' 
 
 ' But for Penhalligan I would have been dashed to 
 pieces,' said Gerans. ' Give me your hand, Dennis ; I 
 thank you for my life.' 
 
 The doctor held out his hands. They were covered with 
 blood ; the rope had flayed his palms in flying through 
 them, and the backs and knuckles were cut and bleeding 
 from the stones over which they had been drawn. 
 
 ' Don't thank me. I cannot shake hands,' said Dennis, 
 coldly. ' I saved my own life.' 
 
SAMPHIRE. 217 
 
 Anthony Loveys looked about and behind him. ' I 
 can't make it out at all,' he said. ' I see no one here, and 
 no dog either. Yet, if it were the pedlar, he could not 
 have left the cliff by this time.' 
 
 ' Bah, Anthony ! ' said Gerans. ' It was a dream. You 
 fell asleep over your work.' 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 THE DEER'S WELL. 
 
 Gerans returned to To wan with the samphire for Rose. 
 He went in search of her at once, and found her in her own 
 room. He was too agitated to observe her mood. 
 
 ' Rose/ he said ; ' as I began life on this day, I almost 
 ended it. I have been nearer my end than I ever was on 
 any former occasion. I owe my life to Dennis. Anthony 
 let go the rope, and I was being whirled down to death, 
 when Dennis arrested it, and saved me. He will not come 
 in ; he is washing his hands at the Deer's Well. He has 
 torn and cut them. Take him some rag. I will go to my 
 mother. I do not want her to know anything about it, and 
 Anthony is below.' 
 
 Rose looked at him with anxiety, and trembled. He 
 did not kiss her ; he hurried away to his mother, afraid of 
 Anthony Loveys in his stupidity letting out the danger he 
 had been in. 
 
 Rose got some pieces of soft old rag, and a bottle of 
 Friar's balsam, and, without putting on her hat or bonnet, 
 went out through the old deer paddock to the. well. This 
 well lay on one side of the house, in a depression, with old 
 thorn trees growing about it, over-arching and plaiting their 
 branches together like clasped fingers across the spring. 
 The well itself was built up of grey lichened stones, and 
 had originally been gabled like that we have described at 
 Welcombe, but many of the stones were out of place, and 
 it was ruinous. Still, the trough that received the water 
 was sound and free from fallen stones, and indeed from it 
 most of the water used in the house was derived. As it 
 was in a depression, those standing at the well were invisible 
 from the house, the roofs of which and the chimney -tops 
 
218 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 could be seen at the well, but no window commanded the 
 Deer's Well. 
 
 Rose hurried down the slope over the fresh and 
 springy turf, sown thick with daisy and buttercup, and 
 found Dennis on his knee at the spring, holding his hands 
 in the water to arrest the blood and cleanse earthy particles 
 from the wounds. 
 
 She turned her face away as she held out the balsam and 
 the linen. ' Do not let me see blood,' she said, ' or I shall 
 faint. But tell me, are you really very — very much hurt ? ' 
 
 Dennis stood up, and taking the rags from her hands, 
 sopped them in balsam and fastened them round his fingers 
 where most cut and abraded. 
 
 ' Nothing to signify,' he said. ' Perhaps now that I 
 have been hurt myself, I shall have what I hitherto lacked, 
 sympathy for sufferers.' 
 
 ' And you saved Gerans' life ! How I thank you.' 
 
 ' I saved my own at the same time. He nearly dragged 
 me over the edge of the cliff. I cannot fasten this kerchief 
 round my hand ; would you object to do it 1 You will see 
 no blood. The stains that you see on the wrapper are those 
 of balsam.' 
 
 He held out his right hand. The left was bound up. 
 He had put the white strips over the palms and knuckles, 
 but with the bound left hand he was unable to knot them. 
 Rose took the ends, and drew the loose strips tighter. 
 
 ' Do I hurt you 1 ' she said, raising her blue eyes to his 
 face. 
 
 ' Yes, always. But I cherish my pain.' His dark orbs 
 met hers, and she dropped her eyes hastily. 
 
 How pretty she was in her white dress, gathered rather 
 high, according to our modern notions, below the bosom, 
 and falling plain to a set of frills of the same material as 
 the dress, at the bottom. About her neck was thrown a 
 forget-me-not blue kerchief, tucked into her breast, where 
 the gown was edged with a broad double frill, like that on 
 the skirt. Her golden curly head was exposed to the full 
 blaze of the sun, which seemed to revel in the tangle of 
 burnished beautiful hairs, and produce flakes and glints of 
 light and colour among them. 
 
 Dennis's pulses beat. She looked so young, so girlish, 
 so slender and sweet — she could not be regarded as a married 
 
the deer's well. 219 
 
 woman, with that childish, coquettish face, and those 
 laughing blue eyes, and the little compressed cherry-red 
 lips, that seemed made to laugh and kiss, and could not ex- 
 press a serious thought, or quiver with pain. 
 
 Her hands trembled, for she was nervous, whilst tying 
 the bandages. She felt that his eyes were on her head. 
 
 ' It would have been well, perhaps,' said Dennis, ' if we 
 had both gone over the edge together, Gerans and I, and so 
 there had been at once an end of two broken lives.' 
 
 ' Broken ! ' she glanced up surprised, caught his deep 
 look again, and resumed her work on his hand, with her 
 eyes on the rag. 
 
 ' Broken and miserable ' he said. 
 
 ' I know,' said Bose, ' that you have had many disap- 
 pointments. I know that you have not been appreciated 
 according to your merits, and that you are unhappy, because 
 disappointed ; but Gerans — why should you speak of him 
 as having a broken life 1 ' 
 
 ' Because, where he looked for happiness, he met with 
 disappointment.' 
 
 Then the blood shot through every artery of Bose's 
 body, and crimsoned her face and throat and temples. Her 
 fresh lips tightened and lost their cherry redness. She 
 misunderstood him. She thought he meant that Gerans 
 had loved Loveday, but had been unable to marry her, 
 perhaps because his father would not permit it. He had 
 taken herself because old Hender Gaverock had ordered 
 him ; but he could not draw his heart away from Loveday, 
 therefore he was miserable, and his life broken. 
 
 Benhalligan, who watched her intently, saw the tumult 
 in her soul, and misinterpreted it. He thought that in it 
 he saw an acknowledgment that he was right. She did not 
 love, she did not even care for Gerans, to whom she was 
 fatally linked. What had been her first words on coming 
 to him 1 Had she not spoken to him of himself, and only 
 afterwards of Gerans 1 To his passion-distorted mind, such 
 a small matter as this had its significance. 
 
 ' Loveday ' began Bose, and then the words died 
 
 away on her lips. She trembled. She let go the bandage, 
 which was now tied. She did not look up, she clasped her 
 hands before her, and watched the water that flowed away 
 from the Deer's Well. 
 
220 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 'Loveday,' said Dennis after a pause, ' Loveday is going 
 away. She leaves Nantsillan and me for a twelvemonth.' 
 
 ' Loveday going ! ' exclaimed Rose in surprise, and with 
 a leap of her heart in pleasure 
 
 ' Yes,' he answered. ' Loveday is going away — directly. 
 You will not see her again for a year.' 
 
 ' But — why ? — for what reason ? ' 
 
 ' The Squire wishes it. He has extorted from her a 
 promise that she will go.' 
 
 ' But why 1— tell me, why 1 ' 
 
 ' Squire Gaverock has his reasons. If he has not men- 
 tioned them to you, it is not for me to repeat them.' 
 
 Rose said no more. She stood, buried in thought, and 
 now there was no laughter in her eyes, no dimples in her 
 soft cheeks, little colour in them, and the merry lips were 
 agitated with distress. 
 
 ' The Squire thought it best that she should go. So 
 do I.' 
 
 ' And Gerans 1 ' 
 
 ' He was not consulted.' 
 
 She understood the reason of the banishment of Love- 
 day ; she could see all as clearly as though she had been 
 told everything. The Squire had discovered, what was 
 obvious to her, that Gerans was still attached to Dennis's 
 sister ; therefore for Loveday 's sake, for the sake of Gerans, 
 and of herself, Rose, he had advised that she should go. 
 Then it was to be hoped that, in her absence, Gerans 
 would cease to think of her, and that his heart would in- 
 cline to his wife. 
 
 It was unfortunate that Rose had not been told of the 
 marriage to Constantine. Gerans had not confided it to 
 her, because he did not feel justified in doing so against the 
 wishes of Loveday, and when the old Squire heard of it, 
 ' Not a word to Rose,' he said, ' or her wagging tongue 
 will publish what I want to keep quiet. I know women 
 too well to entrust them with secrets.' 
 
 Rose was hurt, and was incensed. The tears welled up 
 into her eyes, and her bosom heaved fast ; but she tried to 
 conceal her emotion from Dennis, or, at least, to disguise 
 the occasion of it. 
 
 ' That is very hard upon you,' she said ; ' what will you 
 do without your sister, to keep house for you 1 ' 
 
the deer's well. 221 
 
 ' I have had harder things to bear than that,' said 
 Dennis. 
 
 She was struggling with herself. She tried hard to 
 control her agitation ; but she was unaccustomed to self- 
 restraint. 
 
 ' When is Loveday going ? ' she asked, with a fluttering 
 mouth, and a voice full of tears. 
 
 ' In two days — at latest. To-morrow if she can. She 
 has already written to her cousin at Exeter to expect her.' 
 
 She put up her hands to her mouth, and pressed her 
 knuckles to her lips to arrest their quivering. 
 
 ' There is that matter of the piano,' said Dennis. ' Love- 
 day undertook to repay the sum you advanced upon it. 
 She will be better able to do so now than if she remained 
 here. She will look out for a situation in which she can 
 earn some money, a situation suitable for a gentlewoman,' 
 he explained. 
 
 ' Say nothing about that,' entreated Rose, putting out 
 her hand to wave away all mention of money. Then a great 
 sob burst from her bosom, and she gave way to a flood of 
 tears. ' I am so unhappy ! so unhappy ! ' she gasped, to 
 excuse this outbreak. 
 
 Instantly Dennis seized her hand, drew her to him, 
 clasped her in his arms, and kissed her lips and wet cheeks, 
 fiercely, passionately. 
 
 Rose recovered herself, and strove with him, crying, 
 ' Let go ! Leave me ! ' flaming in her cheeks, and drawing- 
 back. Then both heard a cry. Dennis relaxed his grasp 
 of her, and both looking up, saw Loveday standing on the 
 path that descended to the well, standing as one frozen. 
 
 Rose shook herself free and fled past Loveday, without 
 a word, and ran into the house, to her own room, and locked 
 herself in. Dennis turned deadly white. ' Peeping, pry- 
 ing again ! ' he said ; ' I shall count the hours till I see your 
 back.' As he went by he thrust her from him roughly, 
 with a look so angry, so charged with dislike, that Loveday 
 covered her face and moaned. She was too deeply wounded 
 and shamed to weep. 
 
 Loveday had come to Towan to see Mrs. Gaverock and 
 to break to her as gently as she could her approaching de- 
 parture. She knew that the old lady would feel the loss of 
 her very keenly, and she was afraid of her hearing that she 
 
•222 THE Gi.VEP.O0E8; 
 
 was going from other lips than her own. Whilst she was 
 at Towan, Gerans told her that her brother had cut his 
 hands badly, and was washing them at the Deer's Well. 
 Then, anxious to know the extent of his hurt, she ran to 
 find him, and arrived at the moment when he had clasped 
 Rose to his heart and was kissing her. 
 
 It was some time before she could sufficiently recover 
 herself to walk home, and then a numbness was on her 
 brain, and a chill at her heart, such as no trouble had 
 brought heretofore. 
 
 When Rose was alone in her room, she threw herself 
 in a chair by her bed, laid her hands folded on the bed and 
 her face on her hands, and wept long and convulsively. 
 She hardly knew what had happened, her brain was in a 
 whirl. But after an hour, when the storm of her grief and 
 shame had spent itself, she was able to recollect all that 
 had passed. She poured water into her basin, and washed 
 her cheeks and lips, and rubbed them with the towel till 
 they smarted, to wipe away the taint of Dennis's kisses. 
 What must he think of her, to dare thus to touch her? 
 What a low, vile opinion he must have formed of her ! Her 
 anger boiled up. She — a married woman — to be thus in- 
 sulted ! The sense of humiliation burnt like fire in her 
 heart, and called forth a new and scalding rain. Gladly 
 would she have sacrificed all her jewelry — her pretty coral 
 necklet, her Roman pearl earrings, if only thereby she 
 could undo what had been done. Never before had she 
 been treated with such indignity, and she hated the man 
 who had offended her. Should she tell Gerans 1 He 
 would be obliged to revenge the wrong done her. She 
 would do so. She would get the Squire to turn Dennis out 
 of the cottage as well as Loveday. Then she thought that it 
 was no wonder she was shown disrespect when she received 
 scant courtesy from her own husband. Whose fault was it 
 that she had met with this outrage 1 Whose but Gerans's, 
 who had shown Dennis and everyone that he would not 
 fight her battles 1 Whose but Gerans's, who allowed it to 
 be seen by all that he had no love for his wife ? Whose but 
 Gerans's, who was always deserting her to run down to 
 Nantsillan courting the society of his old flame, Loveday ? 
 Then the current of her indignation turned against the 
 latter, for having witnessed her humiliation. If only the 
 
the deer's well. 223 
 
 insolence of Dennis had been offered with no eye-witness to 
 tell tales, it would have mattered less ; but that there 
 should have been a witness ! — and that witness, Loveday ! 
 A fresh flood of tears ran over her burning cheeks. 
 
 Would she tell Gerans of the insolence of Dennis 1 "No 
 — she would not. He had not the manhood in him to pro- 
 tect her ; why — in such a matter as the riding of Phoebus, 
 he had deserted her, and left her vindication to Dennis. 
 Dennis at least had courage ; and if he loved her, was 
 proud to champion her. Dennis Penhalligan had acted to- 
 wards her very wrongly, but then — he loved her so intensely! 
 As for Gerans, he did not love her at all. Dennis had for- 
 gotten himself, and he would regret it. Those regrets 
 should be his punishment. He would be ashamed to meet 
 her again. How he admired, worshipped, loved her ! She 
 thought of the night of the Goose Fair, and of the declara- 
 tion of his despair in the snow ! His life had indeed been 
 broken by the loss of her. As for Gerans, he took every- 
 thing easily. Nothing disconcerted him for long. 
 
 When Pose descended to the hall and to the parlour, 
 she seated herself in the shade. She had not the courage 
 to meet the eyes of her mother-in-law or of her husband. 
 She thought they must certainly read in her face what had 
 happened. Her cheeks burnt, and her eyes were cast down, 
 and she was very silent. But neither Mrs. Gaverock nor 
 Gerans observed her condition ; and presently she reasoned 
 with herself that she had no occasion for being ashamed, 
 and. sitting like a penitent ; she had not encouraged Dennis 
 to kiss her. When he put his arm round her, she had 
 bidden him let go, and had striven to thrust him off. Why 
 should she feel compunction because a man no way related 
 to her had misconducted himself 1 
 
 ' Pose ! ' said Mrs. Gaverock ; and at the call Rose 
 started from the study into which she had fallen. ' Rose ! 
 are you aware that this is Gerans's twenty-third birth- 
 day ? ' 
 
 ' It had escaped me,' answered Rose. 
 
 ' Then — you have not wished him well ? ' 
 
 ' I wish you,' said Rose, turning to her husband, 
 ' many happy returns of the day.' She spoke without 
 warmth. 
 
 ' Was that spoken in earnest or in sarcasm ? ' asked 
 
224 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 Gerans, fixing his eyes on her face entreatingly, but doubt- 
 fully. 
 
 ' Take it which way you like,' she answered with a 
 shrug of her shoulders, stood up, and left the room. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 Anthony's wooing. 
 
 Loveday returned to ISTantsillan, hardly able to think, so 
 stupefied was she by what she had seen. But she pressed 
 her hands to her bosom, and repeated to herself, 'I am glad 
 I am going ! ' 
 
 She had loved her brother so dearly, believed in him so 
 stoutly, encouraged him so bravely, brightened his cloudy 
 moods with so sanguine a trust in Providence, that what 
 had occurred shook her soul to its depths. How could she 
 hope any more that Heaven would smile upon her brother's 
 efforts, and grant a turn for the better in his prospects, 
 when he harboured a passion that was sinful 1 She had 
 not believed him to be bad ; she had trusted in his integ- 
 rity. Now that trust was shaken down. She was as des- 
 pondent as Dennis, for the grounds of her confidence and 
 hope were destroyed. 
 
 She saw little of him that evening and next day. He 
 treated her with coldness, and held her at a distance. She 
 would like to speak to him of what lay in her heart, but 
 he allowed her no opportunity. He kept away from the 
 house, as fearing she might speak ; and she, in her mind, 
 was doubtful whether a word from her would avail, whether 
 it might not aggravate him to speak cruel words to her 
 which would mortally wound her loving soul. 
 
 She had much to occupy her, and this was as well ; it 
 took off her thoughts from what had happened. She had 
 to pack her clothes, and instruct little Ruth what to do for 
 her master, and to find a woman who could come in by day 
 and char. Dennis left the whole arrangement and pro- 
 vision with her. He acted as though the house could go 
 on as well without her as with her presence. 
 
 In the morning of the day following — that is, on 
 Tuesday — Squire Gaverock looked in. 
 
Anthony's wooing. 225* 
 
 ' Good morning, Loveday,' he said. ' I hear you are 
 going on Wednesday by the coach from Wadebridge. That 
 is right. When you've a mind to do a thing, do it at once, 
 as the cormorant said when he swallowed a herring whole. 
 Gerans shall drive you over to meet the coach. I reckon 
 your brother's gig won't hold your box, and he will be 
 wanted to-morrow. I hear that Reuben Rouse is very ill 
 with inflammation, and Penhalligan can't be spared a whole 
 day to take you into Wadebridge.' 
 
 'Thank you, Mr. Gaverock. I shall be much obliged.' 
 
 ' Golly ! don't thank me. I pack you off, and so must 
 see you despatched. I've come about that, and ' — he 
 shuffled his feet — ' I suppose you ain't too proud to accept 
 a present from me. Mind you, it implies no recognition. 
 I must have time to digest what has been told me, and 
 make up my mind about it. A present commits me to 
 nothing, you understand.' He crushed a couple of five- 
 pound notes into her hand, then hastily went on, to inter- 
 rupt her as she began to speak : ' Gerans had a near shave 
 of having every bone in his body broken yesterday. I 
 heard all about it from Anthony. Your brother was nigh 
 pulled over the cliffs as well, for he clung on till Anthony 
 was able to lay hold. Well ! a man's life on this coast, 
 what with winds and waves and rocks, is full of venture. 
 But that makes life the more enjoyable.' Then suddenly, 
 without giving Loveday time to speak, he strode out of the 
 door, and climbed the steep path through the glen to Towan 
 moor. 
 
 The old Squire had spoken with more gentleness than 
 was usual for him, and there had been a kindly look in his 
 rough face. He was thought to be a close and hard man 
 about money. For him to give her ten pounds proved that 
 she had made some way into his regard. To part with it 
 must have cost him a struggle. 
 
 Squire Gaverock had not been gone long before the 
 farmer's wife who supplied the Penhalligans with butter 
 and milk appeared. She was a rosy-faced, dark-haired, 
 stout woman named Josse — Jemima Josse. 
 
 ' Loramussy, Miss Loveday,' exclaimed she, coming in, 
 ' what be this us ha' heared 1 You're a going to leave us t 
 Loramussy, who ever'd ha' believed it ! ' 
 
 Q 
 
226 THE GAVEEOCKS. 
 
 1 Yes, Mrs. Josse,' said Loveday. ' I am going away for 
 a while, but only for a while.' 
 
 ' Folks do talk/ observed Mrs. Josse. ' There be no 
 more stopping 'em than there be a-stopping the waves from 
 roaring and the sand from shifting. Uncle Zackey were up 
 to our place about an hour ago, and says he, " Sure Miss 
 Loveday be agoing all along of your bill for eggs and butter 
 and the side o' bacon you had back along to Cursemass. 1 ' 
 " No, never ! " says I, but I thought I'd just run down and 
 see. If 't be, and it'll keep you, Miss, we'll halve the bacon, 
 and let the eggs and the milk stand over to better times.' 
 
 ' No, Mrs. Josse ; I assure you it is not that. I have 
 the money all ready for you.' 
 
 ' Well now, I be glad o' that,' said the woman. ' How 
 folks can have the face to talk ! I've got my little bill in 
 my pocket, made up to the end o' the month ; that's the 
 half year, tacked on to the Cursemass account. If you'd 
 not mind settling all to once, as you can. But if you can't, 
 well, I'll say naught about it. It shall stand over. Still, 
 if once you do get to a great town, there's no knowing what 
 attractions the beautiful things in the shop winders may 
 have on you, and you'll be spending the money.' 
 
 ' I will pay you in full, Mrs. Josse.' 
 
 ' And,' said Jemima, ' I've made so bold, Miss, as to 
 bring you down a pound o' cream, real Cornish cream, wi' 
 a round o' brown bread at top to keep it sweet, and make 
 it travel beautiful. Us have heard you're going to Exeter, 
 and my old man and me, us have heard that they Devon- 
 shire folk do go and brag as they can make cream, and 
 calls it Devonshire cream. . How folks can be so wicked 
 and set up to be Christians, beats me. But the world is 
 going to destruction. It's all prophesied. You'll accept 
 the pound o' Cornish cream, will you not, Miss, and let 
 some of the folks in Devon look at it, and taste it, and may 
 they never make so bould as to call theer own rubbish 
 cream again.' 
 
 When Jemima Josse was gone, an old woman, bent 
 with rheumatism, arrived, leaning on a stick. 
 
 ' Well, Mary Trego thnan,' said Loveday. ' Come to see 
 me before I leave ? ' 
 
 1 O Lord ! Miss, whatever shall us do without y' 1 ' 
 asked old Mary. ' There be that three yards o' red flannel 
 
Anthony's wooing. 227 
 
 you was so very good as to give me last winter. I rolled 'n 
 round my body and sewed it on, and her do give me a 
 power of comfort. Whenever I goes to church, and when- 
 ever I sez my prayers, I be wearing thicky (that) flannel, 
 and the Lord sees it, and I show 'n how good Miss Loveday 
 were to a poor body with rheumaticks in her bones. But, 
 Miss, I 'sure you I've never had thicky bit o' flannel off to 
 this day, and never will till her drops off.' 
 
 ' Oh, Mary, surely ' 
 
 ' My dear young leddy, if you knew the comfort her be 
 to my back ! But I reckon you're agoing away, and mebbe 
 won't be here next winter, I'm that bould, Miss, to bring 
 you a bottle of ketchup I made last fall. Her's cruel good, 
 and her'll keep a terrible long time.' 
 
 ' Oh, thank you, thank you so much, Mary ! ' 
 
 ' My dear ! if the flannel should goo all into holes about 
 me, afore you come back, it will be a pity. I reckon you'll 
 be too far away to think on me next winter when it be 
 cold and I be took wi' the pains in my back, and the 
 flannel be wore as thin as muslin. But, sure, whenever 
 you taste the ketchup you'll mind old Mary Tregothnan 
 and her bad back.' 
 
 The next to come was little Ruth. 
 
 ' Please, Miss,' said the small maid, holding a pair of 
 large mottled blue, green, and black gull's eggs, ' my brother 
 Jim have been scrambling about the cliffs. He thought 
 you'd like to have some gull's eggs to show to the foreigners 
 inland in Devonshire. I reckon they've never seen a gull's 
 egg. But this be a wrong time for getting them good, as 
 all the little 'uns be hatched out, so he were forced to get 
 two as was addled. If you'll shake them, Miss, you'll hear 
 how the trade swashes about inside. Jim sed they'd better 
 not be blowed — they wouldn't travel so well. But when 
 you're settled, Miss, please to make a hole at both ends, 
 and put your mouth to one, and blow as hard as ever you 
 can, and all the inerds will come out fast enough. And 
 Jim sed as how you was to be very kearful wi' them and 
 fold them up in your best silk gown, in the middle of 
 the box, for if they wos to break — there'd be a smeech 
 (smell) ! ' 
 
 ' Oh, thank you, Ruth, and thank Jim so much for 
 me!' 
 
 Q2 
 
228 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 1 And, please, Miss, Jim sed I wos to tell you that if 
 you heard of a sitivation with a nobleman as game- 
 keeper, he'd take it very kind if you'd put in a word for 
 him.' 
 
 The next to come was the captain of a slate quarry in 
 the parish, with a pot of honey in one hand, and a slab of 
 slate under the other arm. 
 
 ' Why, Miss Penhalligan ! ' said Captain Davie, ' this is 
 a disaster indeed, that us is to lose you. I don't believe as 
 there be nobody in the parish will be missed more than you. 
 Not that folks sees so much of you. You've your duties at 
 home, but when you do visit 'em, they vallies your visits as 
 those of angels. As for my wife, her be that took on, her 
 have so thought about your going that it have gived her 
 the collick, and her can't come up and see yourself as her'd 
 have liked. So I've a-come instead. I do assure you, 
 Miss, us have cried in the night thinking you was going.' 
 He began to sniff and wipe his eyes and nose. ' And now 
 I've made tha,t daring bold to bring you up a little present 
 of a pot of honey. It come from a virgin swarm, took last 
 fall, and beautif ul and clear now as when it was runned out 
 of the comb. Lord ! sure I've shooked the pot in coming, 
 and the cover be a bit busted, and the honey be running 
 down the side. But, Miss, the pot will travel well enough 
 if you put it at the bottom of your box under the clothes, 
 and write on the cover of your box, in big letters, " This 
 side uppermost." ' 
 
 ' How good, how kind you are ! ' exclaimed Loveday, 
 with the tears in her eyes also. 
 
 ' And, Miss,' continued the captain, producing the great 
 slate and placing that also on the table, ' if I might be so 
 bold as to ask a favour, would you mind taking this here 
 sample of our slate with you, and if when your' about 
 travelling you hear any talk of slate, would you kindly 
 show this sample, and ring it, and let folks see the colour, 
 and recommend my quarry.' 
 
 So Loveday was left with a pot of cream in dog days, 
 sure to become sour ; a medicine bottle of ketchup, stopped 
 with an old castor-oil cork that did not fit, and was so oily 
 that it would not keep in ; two addled gull's eggs, a pot of 
 honey running over the side, and a slab of slate, to add to 
 the rest of her property ; and l;he was too sensible of the 
 
Anthony's wooing. 229 
 
 kindness shown her, and too conscientious, to leave any of 
 these articles behind. 
 
 The affection and generosity of the good people touched 
 her. She saw nothing of the selfishness that spiced their 
 kindness : she saw the kindness alone. That the Squire 
 had given her ten pounds to help to be rid of her, and that 
 the farmer's wife had come down to get her money if she 
 could, and that Mary wanted another three yards of flannel, 
 and Jim a good situation, and Captain Davie an extension 
 of custom, through her, was either unnoticed by her, or 
 was not regarded as in any way derogating from the kind- 
 ness of the people in making their presents. 
 
 But these were not the only visitors Loveday had, in- 
 terrupting her at her packing. 
 
 Whilst she was engaged, in the afternoon, in securing 
 the honey with a cover of oiled paper, she was called 
 away by the arrival of Madam Loveys and Anthony, her 
 son. 
 
 ' Why ! ' exclaimed the lady, looking round her, and 
 taking observations of everything in the room, ' what is the 
 meaning of this, Miss Penhalligan ! Going to leave us ! 
 The news only reached me this morning. Cook told me 
 when I was ordering dinner. I prevented Anthony going 
 out boating this afternoon, and have made him put on his 
 best clothes, and have brought him over.' 
 
 What Anthony had to do with this was not clear. 
 
 ' Why are you going 1 ' asked Madam. ' No one goes 
 away without a reason. What is your reason 1 ', 
 
 ' There are several reasons,' said Loveday. ' One is 
 that I want to relieve my brother from a little expense, 
 and I intend to earn some money if I may with my services.' 
 
 ' Any situation in view 1 ' 
 
 'No, Mrs. Loveys, none.' 
 
 ' Umph ! ' 
 
 Then from young Anthony, ' Go out, Toby ! Get out, 
 you rascal ! ' addressed to a terrier who had come in and 
 was jumping about him. 
 
 ' The dog will do no harm here,' said Loveday. ' Let 
 me get him a bit of biscuit.' 
 
 'No, please,' said Madam. 'We have rules. The 
 dogs are not fed in the house, and the dog ought not to 
 come in. Turn out Toby, Anthony.' 
 
230 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 Then ensued a series of efforts on the part of Anthony 
 to get the dog out. Toby went under the table, and would 
 not leave, though his master adjured him. At last young 
 Anthony slipped out at the door, and kneeling down began 
 to scratch with his fingers on the step. Toby, thinking the 
 noise proceeded from rats, went out to ascertain. But di- 
 rectly he saw his master, he darted back into the hall again. 
 
 ' Never mind the dog,' said Loveday. 
 
 ' But I do mind, Miss Penhalligan,' said Madam. 
 4 Rules are rules. If it were not that this floor is slated, 
 Toby would not have dared to intrude. How are you 
 going V 
 
 ' The Squire has very kindly offered to have me driven 
 to Wadebridge, where I shall take the coach to Bodmin, 
 and from Bodmin, by Launceston, I shall go by coach to 
 Exeter. 
 
 ' Umph 1 ' 
 
 1 1 hope Mr. Loveys is well.' 
 
 ' Oh, nothing ever ails him but gout. I think, Anthony, 
 if Miss Penhalligan will allow you to seduce Toby into the 
 kitchen, you might shut him in there, and run round, and 
 in again by the front of the house.' 
 
 This manoeuvre was executed, but with only partial 
 success. The dog was, indeed, beguiled into the kitchen, 
 but he created such terror in Ruth, by jumping up on her 
 and snapping at her nose and the flaps of her white cap, 
 that Mrs. Loveys was obliged to open the door and call 
 Toby back into the hall. He at once returned, and began 
 smelling round the room for rats. 
 
 ' Where are you going to in Exeter 1 ' asked Madam, 
 reseating herself. 
 
 ' I am going to my cousin till I hear of something.' 
 
 ' How long will that be 1 ' 
 
 Loveday could not tell. 
 
 ' Have you had this idea long in your head 1 Really, 
 Anthony, that Toby is unendurable. What is he about 
 now ? ' 
 
 'There are rats there, I reckon,' said Anthony. The 
 terrier was on one side scratching furiously in the corner, 
 uttering sharp barks. 
 
 ' I think he smells the cake in my cupboard,' said Love- 
 day, rising : ' he shall be given a bit.' 
 
ANTHONY'S WOOING. 231 
 
 'Upon my word, Anthony, I will not bring you out 
 with me again if you cannot keep Toby in order.' Mrs. 
 Loveys stood up hastily and arrested Loveday. ' No, Miss 
 Penhalligan, not in the room. Toby ! Toby ! Give me 
 the piece of saffron cake, Miss Penhalligan. I will decoy 
 the dog out of the house, and keep him there awhile, and 
 leave Anthony.' 
 
 Then Madam Loveys walked in a stately manner out 
 of the door, holding up a piece of yellow plumcake, whilst 
 Toby danced, and jumped, and barked round her, and 
 tumbled over, picked himself up, and jumped again. 
 
 Loveday reseated herself. 
 
 ' Toby is but a pup,' said Anthony. 
 
 Then ensued a silence. Loveday looked to the door, 
 expecting the return of Mrs. Loveys. 
 
 ' Mamma is walking about with Toby,' explained 
 Anthony. ' She won't be in for some minutes.' 
 
 Another silence ensued. 
 
 ' Are you fond of dogs 1 ' asked young Loveys. 
 
 ' I never had one to care for,' answered the young lady. 
 ' Would you like a piece of cake 1 Very plain.' 
 
 ' Thank you,' answered Anthony, ' I can always eat 
 cake.' 
 
 ' Perhaps you would like a little cream on top of it,' 
 said Loveday. ' Mrs. Josse has been so very kind as to 
 send me a pot, but I really do not think it will keep 
 till I reach Exeter. Let me find you a spoon and a 
 plate.' 
 
 ' Thank you,' answered Anthony. ' Plum cake is terri- 
 ble good with cream.' 
 
 Then ensued another pause, of long duration, during 
 which young Loveys heaped the clotted cream on his cake 
 as thickly as it would stand, and conveyed it to his mouth, 
 not, however, without dropping some on the floor, which he 
 covered with his foot. 
 
 ' I hope you find it good,' said Loveday. 
 
 'Terrible,' answered Anthony, and helped himself to 
 more. 
 
 Then Madam Loveys was visible, passing the window 
 and looking in. Also Toby came to the door, stood on the 
 threshold, looked at Anthony and at Loveday, shook his 
 ears, and went back to Madam. At the sight of the dog 
 
232 THE GAVEEOCKS. 
 
 young Loveys concealed the cake and cream, lest Toby 
 should exact a share. 
 
 c Toby ! how are they getting on 1 ' asked Madame 
 Loveys without, quite audibly to those within. 
 
 Young Anthony grew red, pushed the cream from him, 
 and said, ' Don't you eat any ! ' 
 
 ' Not now, thank you/ answered Loveday. 
 
 A long pause. Anthony coughed, and crossed his feet. 
 Then coughed again, disunited his feet, and recrossed them, 
 the foot below on the former occasion being placed upper- 
 most on this. 
 
 Mrs. Loveys again swept past the door and window. 
 Anthony, as though stimulated by the sight of his mother 
 to say something, remarked, ' Toby's tail is cut too short to 
 be beautiful, I think, and his ears ain't cut at all. They 
 don't congrue.' 
 
 'I don't see why dogs' tails should be cut,' said Loveday. 
 
 ' Oh, of course, they must be cut.' 
 
 « Why V 
 
 ' Because, you see, they always are cut.' 
 
 ' Always 1 ' 
 
 ' Depends, of course, on the sort of dog.' 
 
 Madam Loveys now stood in the doorway ; she said, 
 1 Well Anthony 1 ' in a tone of query. 
 
 ' Well, mother,' answered the young man in a tone of 
 assurance. 
 
 Then Madam Loveys resumed her walk. 
 
 ' Will not Mrs. Loveys come in and sit down ? ' asked 
 Loveday. 
 
 ' Oh, no, not yet, till we've settled about it.' 
 
 1 Settled about what 1 ' inquired the young lady some- 
 what puzzled. 
 
 ' Oh, you know. All that sort of thing. You know.' 
 
 A pause. Then Anthony got up, went to the door, and 
 called his mother. She appeared at once with Toby. The 
 dog dashed in, became at once aware that some eating had 
 been going on, span about the floor after crumbs, lapped up 
 the spilt cream, and insisted on more, jumping about the 
 table, and sniffing and yelping. 
 
 ' All right, mother,' said Anthony. 'She understands.' 
 
 ' Glad to hear it. So he has asked you 1 ' said Mrs. 
 Loveys, addressing Loveday. 
 
Anthony's wooing. 233 
 
 ' I beg your pardon,' said the latter, colouring. ' Mr. 
 Anthony has asked me nothing. I asked him why dogs' 
 tails were cut, and have not yet had a satisfactory answer.' 
 
 ' There, Anthony, you never can be trusted. Sit down, 
 Miss Penhalligan.' Loveday had risen when Mrs. Loveys 
 entered. 'I must speak for him. Anthony will have plenty 
 to live on, but he must have a wife with a head on her 
 shoulders, and I have fixed on you. You are so excellent, 
 and so kind and generally beloved, so prudent and sensible, 
 that I think you will do very well for Anthony ; his father 
 and I have the greatest pleasure in saying so.' 
 
 Loveday was too astonished to speak. 
 
 ' Anthony is not a bad fellow. He is dough to be 
 moulded. A woman with wits will make something out of 
 him.' 
 
 ' My dear Mrs. Loveys,' said Loveday, greatly moved, 
 ' this is kind and flattering of you. I had not an idea. It 
 is so unexpected. I had not the remotest ' 
 
 ' There is no immediate hurry,' said Madam. ' Turn 
 the proposal over. Good heavens ! PifF ! pitf ! ' 
 
 Toby had leaped on the table to get at the cream and 
 cake, and had upset the gull's eggs on the slate floor. An 
 immediate retreat into the open air was necessary. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 FAREWELL. 
 
 The last to emerge from the cottage was Anthony, who 
 said, with a sense of pride, ' I have put the cream out of 
 the reach of the dog. Toby is very fond of cream.' 
 
 ' My dear Miss Penhalligan,' said Mrs. Loveys, standing 
 on the doorstep, ' we are quite of one mind in this. Nothing- 
 could be better for Anthony. Though he is my son, I say 
 it, he is a good boy. There is no vice in him, and his con- 
 stitution is sound. He has had measles, chicken-pox, 
 whooping-cough, and ringworm, and got through and out 
 of all bravely. He has been vaccinated, and it took beau- 
 tifully. What more could you desire 1 We do not wish 
 to hasten you to a decision, but desire that you will bear 
 our proposal in mind, mark and inwardly digest it.' 
 
234 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 ' Mrs. Loveys, Mr. Anthony ! ' said Loveday, looking 
 from one to the other ; ' you must not think me ungrateful 
 for the great honour and kindness you have shown me, 
 but ' 
 
 ' There can be no buts in the case,' said Mrs. Loveys ; 
 4 it commends itself to my mind as admirable, and Mr. 
 Loveys quite agrees with me. As Anthony is so flexible, 
 it is most important that he should be put in the hands of 
 a woman with a character and will of her own. He has, 
 or will have, quite sufficient means. After his father's 
 death he will be well off. We have put our heads together, 
 and weighed a good many girls one against another, and we 
 have decided on you for our daughter-in-law.' 
 
 ' I cannot — I cannot, indeed,' protested Loveday, tear- 
 fully. ' You are very good. I shall never forget your 
 goodness, but — it cannot, indeed, be.' 
 
 ' Hoity toity ! ' exclaimed Madam. ' No can'ts and 
 shan'ts with me. What I have settled shall be. I was a 
 Gaverock, and though I have changed my name by marry- 
 ing Loveys, still, bone and muscle and fat and flesh, I am 
 Gaverock still. Come, Anthony ! Come, Toby ! Pah ! I 
 have the smell of those addled eggs in my nose still.' 
 
 ' My dear Mrs. Loveys ' 
 
 ' My dear Miss Penhalligan, leave everything to me. I 
 am a manager. There — we will say no more about this 
 matter at present. Let it stand to settle. It will do An- 
 thony good to have the cloud hang over him, ready to fall 
 when we summon it to descend. Stay, my dear ; I saw an 
 advertisement in the " Light of the West" that may suit 
 you. I will send it to Towan to-night, and you shall have 
 it in the morning. One of the Towan maidens is at our 
 house, and she will carry it back.' 
 
 ' Oh, Mrs. Loveys, dear kind Mrs. Loveys ! I cannot 
 express to you all — do not think me unfeeling, ungrateful. 
 I will write to you from Exeter.' 
 
 ' Very well, do so. Let us hear of your safe arrival and 
 prospects. I will put a pencil mark against the advertise- 
 ment. It may or it may not suit you. It may be already 
 filled, or it may be still vacant. Come along, Anthony ! 
 come along, Toby ! Anthony, you awkward fellow, are you 
 going away without saying good-bye to Miss Penhalligan, 
 whom you may not see for many months? Good-bye, Miss 
 
FAREWELL. 235 
 
 Loved ay ; you have my best wishes, and — oh ! I must not 
 forget — here is a little brooch I have brought you, rather 
 pretty, of spiral gold work, with an enamel view of the 
 Staubach in the middle — a scene in the Alps. You will 
 keep it as a remembrancer of me ; and when you look at 
 that you will think of my proposal for Anthony. Now 
 then, Toby ! Come along, Anthony ! ' 
 
 When the Loveys' party was gone, Loveday sat for a 
 few minutes in the unfurnished parlour, while little Ruth 
 wiped up the mess made by the broken eggs. 
 
 Poor Ruth was sore distressed at their ' going scatt ' on 
 the floor ; and Loveday was obliged to simulate great dis- 
 appointment as well, and to beg that she might be given 
 two more gulls' eggs next spring, when they would be fresh, 
 not addled. 
 
 Loveday was obliged to sit quiet for awhile to review 
 the proposal made to her. She could not accept it. 
 
 It was very kind of Mrs. Loveys, she thought ; she had 
 not conceived the smallest ambition in that direction. 
 Were she to become Mrs. Anthony, she would be in a 
 position of considerable social advantage — she would have 
 an excellent home and handsome fortune to dispose of ; that 
 it would assist her brother greatly she was also aware, but, 
 notwithstanding all the advantages, it was a proposal she 
 could not entertain. She shook her head. No, it was as 
 she had told Mrs. Loveys, a thing that could not be. She 
 resolved not to say anything about it to Dennis ; indeed, 
 noi: to any one. If the Loveys liked to speak about it, they 
 might ; but she resolved to write from Exeter to tell Mrs. 
 Loveys that she refused the offer definitely. It would be 
 easier to write than to speak her refusal. It would be more 
 likely to be taken as final when written. 
 
 Loveday again thought of the kindness of all who had 
 come to see her that day, and again forgot that every one 
 of her visitors had come, not only to give, but also to 
 take. 
 
 She could not allow herself much time for her thoughts. 
 She had too much to do. She had promised Mrs. Gaverock 
 to run up in the afternoon and say good-bye to her. The 
 afternoon was wearing on. She put on her bonnet and 
 took her way to Towan. She must also part with Rose, 
 and she doubted how to do so after yesterday. In her 
 
236 THE GAVEBOCES. 
 
 sweet, innocent heart, she could not believe that Rose had 
 given Dennis any encouragement ; she was sure that the 
 kisses had been taken by violence. She felt that Rose 
 must be full of indignation against Dennis, and she herself 
 felt that, as the sister of the man who had offered the 
 insult, some of the anger of the injured woman must over- 
 flow upon her. Knowing what she did, having seen the 
 insult offered, and knowing also that Rose knew her to have 
 witnessed it, the meeting between them must be awkward, 
 and their conduct towards each other restrained ; indeed, 
 Loveday told herself that she would not venture to look up 
 and meet Rose's eye. That incident of yesterday had 
 covered Loveday with humiliation and stained her brow 
 with shame. 
 
 The parting of Mrs. Gaverock with Loveday was tender ; 
 the old lady had, however, the great consolation of hope 
 that on Loveday's return it would be as her acknowledged 
 daughter-in-law. She had not much confidence in her 
 own influence with Hender Gaverock, but she could do 
 something. She saw, moreover, that the old Squire was 
 becoming daily more irritated against Rose, who was 
 insubordinate, and who was unwilling or incapable of taking 
 the management of ' the maidens,' whose turbulence, 
 thoughtlessness, and neglect were as vexatious to the old 
 man now that Rose was at the head of the house as when 
 she was away on her honeymoon. Rose had the key of the 
 store-room, but forgot to give out supplies, and went for a 
 ride on Phoebus with the key in her pocket. The Squire 
 discovered that ' the maidens ' were gravitating one and all 
 to the stables, to laugh and romp with the groom and 
 coachman, and that, accordingly, the men did their work 
 imperfectly. The bread was underbaked, the potatoes were 
 boiled without salt, the beds were made with a strip of 
 blanket to tease the feet when thrust to the bottom, the 
 coal-cellar was left unlocked, and tracks of dropped frag- 
 ments indicated the road to all the neighbouring cottages 
 except Nantsillan. Now and then old Gaverock, with 
 exhausted patience, rushed in among ' the maidens ' and 
 gave them all notice to quit, scaring and scattering them, 
 squalling and chattering, as a paper kite sent up over a 
 rookery scares and scatters the clamorous rooks. But no 
 improvement was effected by his interference. ; either the 
 
FAREWELL. 237 
 
 same maidens came back on their own terms, or raw, igno- 
 rant hands were imported, who smashed the crockery, 
 stood on one foot with their hands in their pockets when 
 addressed by their mistress, and sent in the plates and 
 tumblers smeared and thumbed. Occasionally, before her 
 marriage, Eose had interfered, and had spasmodically made 
 herself useful ; but she did nothing well for long, she tired 
 rapidly of self-imposed tasks, and when the tasks became 
 duties she was reluctant to acknowledge them as such. 
 Mrs. Gaverock foresaw that, before the twelvemonth was 
 out, the Squire would send for Loveday, acknowledge her 
 as a Gaverock, and make her his housekeeper. She was so 
 coniident of this that she smiled through her tears as she 
 bade Loveclay good-bye, and threw her gold chain round 
 her neck, and bade her keep her pretty gold watch as a 
 remembrance of Towan. 
 
 Rose was not in the parlour with her mother-in-law, but 
 as Loveclay left she saw her in the hall. With downcast 
 eyes the latter approached Rose, and said, ' Good-bye, I 
 am off to-morrow, and shall not see you again for a 
 twelvemonth.' 
 
 ' I am sure you will have a very pleasant drive to Wade- 
 bridge to-morrow,' said Rose, with sarcasm in her tone. 
 She had been told that Gerans was to take Loveday to the 
 coach. Loveday raised her timid eyes with surprise, and 
 dropped them again. 
 
 ' I hope you will have a satisfactory absence,' said Rose, 
 holding out her hand, and touching that of Loveday with 
 the tips of her fingers. ' You have my best wishes.' With 
 a cold, distant bow she left the room. 
 
 Miss Penhalligan, hurt, though she had not expected 
 cordiality, walked back to Nantsillan more sad at heart 
 than she had been before that day. She found Dennis 
 returned. He asked where she had been, and she told him 
 she had said farewell to Mrs. Gaverock and Rose at Towan. 
 He said nothing more than that he was going out again to 
 see Reuben Rouse. 
 
 When Loveday had left, Rose composed her face and 
 went into the parlour to her mother-in-law. 
 
 ' My dear,' said Mrs. Gaverock, ' I hear a noise from 
 the kitchen ; it penetrates even here, though there is a six- 
 foot stone wall between. The sound is that of the maidens 
 
238 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 talking together, i suspect they are all chattering, whereas 
 Mary ought to be ironing in the laundry, and Anne milking 
 in the cowhouse, and Susan drawing down the blinds 
 upstairs, and Betty getting the tea-things ready, and 
 Priscilla washing up in the back kitchen, and Genefer pre- 
 paring the pie for supper or peeling the potatoes. Would 
 you kindly look into the kitchen. Hark ! I hear men's 
 voices. I think that possibly the gardener, and the coach- 
 man, and the stable-boy, and one or two of the labourers 
 may be there as well.' 
 
 Rose went out, and for a minute there was a lull in the 
 buzz of voices that made its way even through a six-foot 
 wall. Directly Rose left the kitchen it recommenced louder 
 than ever. 
 
 ' Yes,' said she, returning to Mrs. Gaverock, ' the men 
 were there, drinking cyder and eating hunches of currant 
 cake. They had come for their milk, they said. It is my 
 belief that they are given fresh milk instead of scalded.' 
 
 ' Very likely,' said Mrs. Gaverock. ' I wish, Rose, you 
 would look after matters a little more. I cannot ; I did it 
 when I was able. I would do it now, if I could.' 
 
 ' I was not brought up to it,' answered Rose ; ' my father 
 had a housekeeper, and I am ignorant of the smallest 
 matters of housekeeping.' 
 
 ' That is unfortunate ; someone must take the manage- 
 ment of an establishment such as this.' 
 
 ' Besides,' said Rose, ' I don't like it.' 
 
 ' We cannot always do what we like. We have duties 
 to perform, as well as pleasures to distract us.' 
 
 ' I do not see it. We are rich enough to have a 
 woman here who can look after the maids and serve out 
 stores.' 
 
 ' My dear,' said Mrs. Gaverock, confidentially, ' I am in 
 hopes of getting our Loveday here eventually, in the house, 
 and then she shall have the keys and the control of every- 
 thing. That is my scheme. 
 
 Rose flushed angrily. 
 
 ' Indeed ! Set her over me ; take from me my proper 
 authority ! Let her plant her feet on my neck ! ' 
 
 ' My dear,' exclaimed Mrs. Gaverock, ' I do not under- 
 stand you. Just now you said that you wanted a person 
 here to relieve you of irksome obligations.' 
 
FAKE WELL. 239 
 
 * A hired servant, yes. I won't have Loveday in the 
 house ; if she comes, I shall leave it.' 
 
 Mrs. Gaverock looked at her out of her faded eyes with 
 astonishment. 
 
 ' You are incomprehensible to me, Rose ; there is not a 
 more suitable person than Loveday. I thought you were 
 devoted to her.' 
 
 ' I do not want to have her installed here in a position 
 of authority over me.' 
 
 ' She would not be in authority.' 
 
 'Yes, she would. If I wanted squab pie some day, 
 she would answer, " Can't have it, I have ordered neck of 
 mutton." I do not like neck. I never did like it. Besides, 
 there are other reasons.' 
 
 ' What 1 ' 
 
 Rose was silent. 
 
 ' Come here, and sit by me on the sofa,' said Mrs. 
 Gaverock. ' You are one of the family. There is no reason 
 why you should be kept in the dark any longer. You shall 
 be told all.' 
 
 Then Mrs. Gaverock confided to Rose the story of Con- 
 stantine's secret marriage to Loveday. 
 
 ' My husband,' she went on, ' knew nothing about it 
 till last Sunday, and then he was very angry. He has 
 ordered Loveday to go away, whilst he makes up his mind 
 whether to recognise her as a Gaverock or not.' 
 
 Rose hung her head, and covered her face with both 
 her hands. She was ashamed of her jealousy. Now she 
 understood why Gerans had made so much of Loveday; 
 why Loveday deserved much attention. Now she com- 
 prehended the force of Loveday 's words that evening that 
 she had been with her at Nantsillan when she had said, 
 ' Gerans is nothing, can be nothing more to me, than a 
 kind and trusted brother.' 
 
 Loveday was her sister-in-law, a cruelly injured sister- 
 in-law, denied recognition by the old tyrant Squire, when 
 she had a right to exact it. She had been unfairly treated 
 by Constantine. Why had not Gerans stood up for her ? 
 Rose answered herself indignantly, ' Because he is a coward, 
 he feared his father.' Then in her impetuosity, acting on 
 the sudden revulsion in her feelings, inconsiderate in this, 
 as in all things, conscious only that she had not parted 
 
240 THE GAVEROCES. 
 
 from Loveday with the affection, that was her due, regard- 
 less whether it were well for her, after the event of yester- 
 day, to go to the house of Dennis Penhalligan, she threw 
 on her bonnet and shawl, and ran down to Nantsillan, 
 sprung into the hall, and cast her arms round Loveday, 
 crying and laughing and kissing her and calling her by 
 every available endearing term. 
 
 ' Oh, Loveday, dear Loveday, you must forgive me if I 
 was cold to you just now. The — the servants were bother- 
 ing me. I wish you would come and take the management 
 out of my hands.' 
 
 She was ashamed to admit her jealousy, so she gave a 
 false excuse. 
 
 ' I thought, I thought,' said Loveday, timidly, speaking 
 in a tremulous, low tone, ' that you were angry with me 
 
 because ' she hesitated, caught her breath, as her heart 
 
 fluttered, ' because of what my brother did, because he so 
 forgot himself yesterday. Oh, dear Rose, do forgive him ! 
 If you love me at all, do forgive and forget this offence.' 
 
 ' I took the rags to the well because my husband told 
 me to do so,' explained Rose. ' He said that Mr. Pen- 
 halligan had torn his hands badly, and that they were 
 bleeding.' 
 
 'Forgive him this once, Rose,' pleaded Loveday earnestly. 
 ' Tell no one of his impertinence, and he will, I trust, never 
 forget himself again. It is, I dare say, hard for you to 
 pardon him. I can understand your indignation, but great 
 excuse is to be made for Dennis. I may tell you now, 
 though my mouth was sealed before, that he loved you, 
 very, very much. I think he cared more for you than for 
 any person or anything the world contains. My brother 
 has a very strong nature, and he feels very strongly. He 
 has had to put great control on himself ; and then, when 
 he was excited, and fevered, just recovered from the brink 
 of destruction, thrilled in every nerve, and fired with the 
 pain of his wounds, you will allow there is some little 
 excuse to be made for him. I am sure — I am sure Dennis 
 will never so far forget himself as to commit such an in- 
 discretion again. You will — you will forgive 1 ' 
 
 ' Very well, Loveday,' answered Rose, with great mag- 
 nanimity, 'as you ask it I will pass this affront over. 1 
 can refuse you nothing. Otherwise ' She did not 
 
FAREWELL. 241 
 
 finish her sentence, but assumed an indignant and injured 
 look. 
 
 Dennis Penhalligan saw Rose leave the cottage. She 
 did not see him. He watched her, and he thought, ' I have 
 not offended her. Had my conduct yesterday been re- 
 garded as an unpardonable affront, she would not have come 
 to my cottage in the evening. Why should she come ? She 
 had already said farewell to Loveday. She comes to show 
 me that I am forgiven.' 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIY. 
 
 'P. F.' 
 
 Gerans drove Loveday to Wadebridge next day, and saw 
 her and her box safe into and on the coach. Loveday was 
 silent and tearful when she started. She was leaving home, 
 a small home and a humble one — still it was home. This 
 was the second time her home had been broken up. The 
 first time was on the death of her mother, this was on the 
 death of her confidence and belief in her brother. Dennis 
 had turned on her, who had loved him with such tender 
 devotion, and had spurned her from him. Nantsillan could 
 never be to her a home again ; when she returned, perhaps 
 she would be recognised by Squire Gaverock as a connec- 
 tion, perhaps not. Either way it mattered little to her ; 
 Nantsillan could not be home, because the mutual love and 
 trust which make a home had gone, and would never re- 
 turn the same. Gerans did not attempt to comfort her, he 
 allowed her to cry her heart's first sorrow away ; he was kind 
 and pitiful. Only when he thought her grief was abating did 
 he speak, and bid her hope for the best, and always rely on 
 this, that at Towan there were those who loved her and 
 who would love to hear tidings of her, to whom good news 
 of her would bring the best of pleasure and bad news would 
 afford acutest sorrow. ' Whatever my father may decide, 
 Loveday,' he said, in a kind tone, ' remember that I am 
 your brother. Whether he acknowledge you or not, I am 
 honoured and proud to look to you as bound to me by kin- 
 ship.' Then in a sad voice, full of humility, ' I'm but a 
 
 R 
 
242 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 poor sort of a fellow, and am thankful to have one to hold 
 by whom all can respect/ 
 
 Loveday looked at him, touched by his kindness, but 
 surprised at the diffident tone. Gerans, strong, hale, hand- 
 some ; a young squire, with a beautiful young wife. What 
 right had he to speak doubtfully of himself ? She was un- 
 able to see into his heart. His confidence in himself was 
 rudely shaken. His wife did not love him.. The reason 
 was to be sought in himself, and he was conscious now, for 
 the first time, of his own shortcomings. 
 
 Strangely, as he became aware that Rose did not care 
 for him, his love for her became more articulate. It had 
 been inchoate. He had liked her greatly, was attached 
 to her in a dreamy, indistinct way, till he discovered that 
 she had no love for him, then, but not till then, did his love 
 become distinct, ardent — a passion. Loveday saw that his 
 open, pleasant face was clouded, and then it struck her that 
 this arose from more than distress at her departure. Sha 
 was far too humble-minded to imagine that the loss of such 
 an insignificant person as herself could disturb the bright 
 sky of the young Squire of Towan. 
 
 ' I hope, Gerans, you have had nothing to vex you,' she 
 asked with some tremor, for she thought it just possible 
 Rose might have spoken to him of the behaviour of Dennis. 
 
 He sighed. ' I have nothing very special,' he said. He 
 was so upright, so transparently truthful, that he could not 
 endure to say what was not strictly true, so he corrected 
 himself. ' I should not have said that. " The heart 
 knoweth its own bitterness, and a stranger intermeddleth 
 not with its joy," ' he said. 
 
 ' I am not a stranger,' said Loveday, gently ; ' and the 
 text speaks of the stranger not intermeddling with joy. 
 The full heart is better if it can overflow into that of a 
 friend — a sister. You have said I am a sister.' He shook 
 his head, and whipped the horse. 
 
 1 You, dear Loveday, do not know what a tumble down 
 it is to one who thought himself great things to find he is a 
 poor fool. The cock has crowed on the dunghill very loud 
 till the day that the nightingale sang, and then he dis- 
 covered he was only a dunghill fowl, and hid his head.' 
 
 ' What hand has made you fall 1 What voice has sung 
 and made you droop your wings 1 ' 
 
'p. f.' 243 
 
 He did not answer her, but looked straight away to the 
 horizon. 
 
 After a while, she saw him put up his whip hand to his 
 eyes, and draw the back across them. 
 
 ' Gerans,' she said gently, in her soft entreating tones, 
 ' tell your sister what is the trouble in your heart.' 
 
 ' Loveday, you know Rose better than anyone else.' 
 
 ' I think so. A girl understands a girl, and a man 
 understands a man.' 
 
 ' Yes,' he said. ' I do not think Rose loves me. That 
 is, truly spoken, I know she does not. You see, she was 
 but a child when I asked her to be mine, and even now 
 she is but a little over nineteen. We waited over her 
 nineteenth birthday to be married. "What is a boy of 
 eighteen or nineteen ? He is only a boy, wayward, un- 
 stable, not knowing his own mind. A girl is the same. I 
 dare say Rose thought there was more in me than there is. 
 I never came up to Constantine in parts. He was in com- 
 pound subtraction before I got out of low division.' 
 
 ' I am sure you are mistaken,' said Loveday, gravely. 
 
 ' No, I am not,' answered Gerans ; ' in these matters 
 the heart is very keen sighted.' 
 
 ' Gerans,' said Loveday ; ' do not be cast down without 
 occasion. I know Rose intimately. Yesterday she said 
 good-bye to me with such coldness that I was very un- 
 happy, and an hour after she ran down to Nantsillan, and 
 hugged and kissed me and cried ; and she told me she 
 loved me most dearly. Do you know why she was cold 
 before 1 She told me because she was worried about the 
 servants. She changes her mood, not because she is capri- 
 cious, but because she can only think of one thing at a 
 time.' He shook his head. 
 
 ' She has been growing colder and colder towards 
 me, 
 
 ' Do not be discouraged. Be kind and attentive to her. 
 Do not reproach her, bear with her. As you say, she is a 
 child. Perhaps she has not yet loved you with ardour — 
 that will come with time, as the seriousness of life impresses 
 itself upon her. She has something of the butterfly in her 
 yet. The ants are given wings for one clay to find a home, 
 and when they have found it, they bite off their wings with 
 their own teeth, and settle for life. Rose has but just come 
 
244 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 to her home, and her shiny, beautiful, rainbow wings are 
 quivering in the sweet air and pure sunshine ; do not be 
 impatient, wait — wait, and she will tear them off with her 
 own hands.' 
 
 Gerans' face lightened. It was a pleasure to see the 
 shadow glide away, 
 
 ' A woman,' continued Loveday, ' is a creeper ; she must 
 cling to the post to which she is tied, it is her nature to 
 do so.' 
 
 Gerans laughed. ' A very wooden post is that to which 
 my blush Rose is bound.' 
 
 ' One very strong,' said Loveday quickly, smiling also, 
 * and sound to the core.' 
 
 ' Here we are at Wadebridge,' said Gerans ; ' and now, 
 before I forget it, I have in my pocket a paper which my 
 aunt Loveys sent up to our house to be given to you. She 
 says that she has marked with red ink the passage about 
 which she spoke to you.' 
 
 He fumbled in his pocket, and produced the newspaper, 
 and gave it to Loveday, who, without looking at it, put it 
 in her reticule. 
 
 ' I shall have abundance of time in the coach for looking 
 at the news and reading the advertisements,' she said. 
 
 He handed her from the light cart, and helped the ostler 
 to convey her box to the coach, which was already standing 
 in front of the inn, and the horses were being put in. 
 
 The box was hauled to the top of the coach, and strapped 
 down. Loveday stepped into the coach. She was the only 
 passenger inside. 
 
 ' You have not far to go before you change,' said Gerans 
 at the window. ' At Bodmin you get into another coach 
 which will convey you to Launceston, where you sleep the 
 ■night. You will travel to-morrow to Exeter. Here, Love- 
 day, is a little basket of provisions, a roast chicken and 
 some cold eggs and some cake, my mother sends you, and a 
 little bottle of wine. I am so ashamed, I alone have 
 nothing for you but my best, best wishes, dear sister. God 
 be with you.' 
 
 ' Your best wishes — I prize nothing higher.' She took 
 .his hand, and leaning through the window lightly kissed 
 ;his cheek. 
 
 ' God bless you, dear Gerans. Be sure of this — what- 
 
'p. f.' 245 
 
 ever clouds and showers you pass through, that true honest 
 heart will lead you at last to great happiness.' 
 
 Gerans pressed her hand. ' I accept your words,' he 
 said, ' as the message of an angel.' 
 
 Then the driver cracked his whip this way, that way, 
 when round went the wheels — clatter, clatter, went the 
 horses' hoofs on the boulder pavement ; a white handker- 
 chief was waved out of the coach window, and Gerans 
 stood, with his hat in his hand, signalling after it. 
 
 Then the four horses swung round a corner, and the 
 scarlet- bodied coach lurched after them ; and Gerans saw 
 Loveday no more. 
 
 The distance from Wadebridge to Bodmin is but seven 
 miles ; Loveclay sat back and allowed her tears to flow un- 
 restrained because unobserved. Her talk with Gerans had 
 done her good, she had been able to clear away a trouble 
 that oppressed him. She spoke to him in great sincerity ;. 
 she understood Rose better than Rose understood herself 
 She could not believe that Rose was untrue to her husband, 
 even in thought, but she quite believed that her heart had 
 not yet been roused to love and value Gerans as he de- 
 served. 
 
 She knew well that one cause, if not the chief cause 
 of Rose's dissatisfaction was her husband's submission to 
 his father. Loveday had not spoken on this matter to 
 Gerans, because he had not alluded to it ; but if he had 
 done so, she would have counselled him to continue as 
 heretofore. The caprice of a girl must not turn him 
 against the mature determination of an experienced man, 
 Gerans must think for himself, and if, which was most sure,. 
 Rose opposed the old Squire out of empty fancy, out of a 
 spirit of perversity, he must not take his wife's side. This 
 would displease her at first, but after a while she would 
 admit that he had acted aright. 
 
 Loveclay was so confident in the rectitude of Gerans 
 that she did not regret not having given him advice on 
 this point. His own conscience would be his best adviser, 
 other counsel was superfluous. 
 
 At Bodmin, Loveclay got a seat inside the Launceston 
 and Exeter coach only through the courtesy of a gentleman, 
 who had secured an inside seat, but vacated it for her, and 
 went outside. 
 
246 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 The day was so fine, the air so exhilarating, that she 
 had little compunction in accepting his offer, and assurance 
 that he preferred a place on the top. 
 
 About an hour after leaving Bodmin, as the scenery 
 was uninteresting, and she desired to turn her thoughts 
 away from Nantsillan and Towan for a while, Loveday 
 opened her reticule, and drew forth the paper sent her by 
 Mrs. Loveys. It was a small badly printed sheet, with a 
 print, rude and blotty, of a lighthouse on the top. Under 
 this woodcut was the title, The Light of the West. It was 
 a religious paper for Sunday reading. As Loveday un- 
 folded it, her eye was caught by a score of red ink against 
 an advertisement. She looked at the paragraph indicated, 
 and read as follows : — 
 
 ' Wanted, immediately, a gentlewoman by birth and 
 education, to be the companion of a young married lady, 
 with a child, an infant, to assist in the management of 
 the house, and the care of the child. Remuneration liberal. 
 Apply P.F., the Post Office, Launceston. A personal in- 
 terview desired.' 
 
 ' Why,' said Loveday to herself, ' this is the very thing 
 I desire. Nothing could suit me better. I will not go 
 on to Exeter to-morrow, I will stay a day in Launceston.' 
 
 She thought a good deal about this opening. ' " P. F.,'" 
 she repeated to herself, ' P must stand for Priscilla, or Pru- 
 dence, or Philippa, or Phoebe.' 
 
 The long road over the dreary Bodmin moors was not 
 interesting ; little presented itself to distract her thoughts 
 from herself and the chance presented to her by the adver- 
 tisement. 
 
 ' " P.F.," ' she said. ' I wonder whether I shall come 
 to know and make a friend of " P.F." ' 
 
 As the coach, in the evening, dashed up to the door 
 of the King's Arms, a gentleman who was walking towards 
 the inn sprang aside from the horses. 
 
 The coach drew up at the inn. Then the door was 
 opened, and the gentleman, a tall, grave young man, with 
 very black hair, an aquiline nose, and deep-set dark eyes, 
 courteously came to the coach- door and held out his arm 
 to assist Loveday Penhalligan to descend. 
 
247 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 ENGAGED. 
 
 When Loveday had settled about a bedroom, and had un- 
 packed what few things she would want for the night, had 
 removed her bonnet and taken off her gloves, and smoothed 
 her glossy, abundant dark hair, she came down into the 
 coffee-room of the King's Arms, and ordered tea and 
 an egg. 
 
 The gentleman who had handed her from the coach was 
 there, reading a paper. He was dressed in a long black 
 coat with high velvet collar, and dark knee-breeches with 
 black silk stockings. His hair was black, cut short in 
 front, but falling behind, longer than was usual at the time. 
 Indeed, his dress was antiquated. He was in the costume 
 worn, probably, by his father. His throat was surrounded 
 by a white, fine linen tie, and his waistcoat disclosed beau- 
 tiful lace ruffles in front. 
 
 His manner, like his dress, was old-fashioned and courtly. 
 When he heard Loveday order her frugal repast, he put 
 down the paper he was reading, stood up, bowed, and 
 said : 
 
 ' Will you excuse the interference, madam, of a gentle- 
 man who, though he has not passed through the College of 
 Surgeons, yet exercises some of the functions of a medical 
 man 1 There are some men, madam, who are born to heal 
 the infirmities of their fellows, who have the instinct, or 
 shall I not say reverently, the inspiration, of healing given 
 to them from on high, without any seeking and study. 
 There are others who acquire laboriously what is intuitive 
 in some. I speak in no spirit of vanity when I say that I 
 am a born physician of the body.' 
 
 Loveday looked at him with wonder, marvelling to what 
 this preamble would lead. There was an expression of 
 such goodness, simplicity, and desire to oblige in his 
 striking face, that she felt confidence at once in ker strange 
 companion of the coffee-room. 
 
 ' You have come a long way to-day, madam ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, from almost the other end of Cornwall.' 
 
248 the gaverocks. 
 
 ' And you have been journeying the entire day 1 ' 
 
 'Yes, sir. I left home early. I have been in two 
 coaches and an open gig. ; 
 
 ' Then,' said he, ' I am confirmed in my audacity in 
 prescribing for you something more substantial than an 
 egg, a bit of toast, and tea. I have ordered a roast fowl 
 for my supper, and a custard pudding. I hope, madam, 
 you will not regard me as taking an undue liberty, being a 
 total stranger, in asking you to share the fowl with me. It 
 would be foul conduct in me to eat the bird, and leave the 
 lady but the egg. Which/ said he, ' is a joke, madam.' 
 
 Then he gave directions to the waiter to have two 
 covers laid at the table. 
 
 ' I believe,' said the gentleman, who was, it need hardly 
 be said, Paul Featherstone, of Marsland, 'that I am the 
 intruder here. The general coffee-room is repugnant to me. 
 There has been smoking in it, and I am averse to the odour 
 of tobacco. I believe that this is, in fact, the private 
 ladies' room, and that I am here only on sufferance, madam. 
 If my presence at all incommodes you, I will withdraw ; 
 but I trust to your good nature to endure my society for 
 a little while. We must both eat, and why not eat in 
 society 1 Social intercourse gives relish to the best food. 
 I am so accustomed to the company of my sister, that a 
 meal without a lady to grace the board would not agree 
 with me.' 
 
 Loveday did not answer him, save with a grateful look. 
 He spoke in so kind a tone, and with a manner so fatherly, 
 that she felt quite safe in his presence and company from 
 the slightest impertinence. 
 
 ' My sister,' said Paul Featherstone, ' is one of the most 
 remarkable women in the world. It is a privilege to be 
 her brother. She thinks and cares for every one who 
 comes within the radius of her influence, as the sun lights, 
 warms, and attracts every planet in the solar system. 
 But,' said Paul, and his mouth twitched, ' rare confusion 
 am I making in my similitudes. The sun has no satellite, 
 but the planet is allowed one or more. My sister, Avho has 
 been married for over a twelvemonth, has lately acquired a 
 little, a very tiny bright, and shining moon, which sails 
 round her, and never leaves her ; and my sister delights in 
 the soft and silvery radiance of her little moon.' 
 
ENGAGED. 249 
 
 ' You speak, sir, as if the presence added to your own 
 pleasure and light.' 
 
 ' To be sure it does,' answered Paul, his face kindling 
 with a sweet and happy brightness. 'A child in the house 
 is a blessing from on high. I was out at night — I had, in 
 fact, ridden for a doctor, and was returned — and as the 
 groom took my horse, through the still, starry, dark-blue 
 sky we saw a silvery streak ; it described a curve, and was 
 formed by a brilliant meteor. When my man saw that I 
 was watching it, he said, " Folks do say that falling stars 
 be little souls coming to babes out o' paradise." And sure 
 enough, when I entered the house, I heard a faint sobbing. 
 The sou. 1 had come, and found it dark and desolate here 
 below— away from paradise.' 
 
 ' You have no children of your own, sir ? ' 
 
 ' I ! ' exclaimed Paul in surprise, and laughed. ' I have 
 not a wife. I have not reached the point of considering it 
 possible that I may have one. ' No,' he shook his head, 
 ' I pity the woman that would take me. My ideal of 
 womanhood is so high, that she would be ever on the 
 tremble lest she fall short of it. I believe,' continued Paul, 
 dropping into a meditative mood, ' that the characteristic 
 of man is justice, and that of woman is self-abnegation. 
 Excuse me if I seem to say a hard thing, but I do not 
 observe in woman that rooted conscience of justice that I 
 find inherent in men. But, on the other hand, I find 
 immeasurable love in woman, a self-devotion that counteth 
 not the cost, that will give up everything and think no 
 merit lies in doing so. Man, on the contrary, can do a 
 spasmodic act of self-denial, but cannot live a life of it. 
 Man is naturally selfish ; woman is instinctively unselfish.' 
 
 ' And, sir, in evidence of man's natural selfishness, you 
 insist on my partaking of your roast chicken.' 
 
 ' I beg your pardon. In evidence of my natural justice 
 I offer you half. I could not eat it all myself, you will 
 allow that 1 I deny myself nothing. Whereas, if you had 
 sat down to your cup of tea and one egg, and you had seen 
 me sitting in the window fasting, you could not have 
 broken the end of the egg or touched your cup. Your 
 kind, pitiful eyes would have sought me, and striven to 
 catch mine ; and then, with a blush, you would have 
 offered me your egg and untasted cup, and you would have 
 
250 THE GAVEEOCKS. 
 
 gone to bed perfectly happy because I had eaten one and 
 emptied the other.' 
 
 Loveday winced at the reference to herself, but she 
 smiled and said modestly, ' You judge our virtues higher 
 than they deserve. Your justice is largely qualified with 
 mercy.' 
 
 'Not at all,' answered Paul Featherstone. 'I do not 
 pretend that every woman is a perfect pattern of self- 
 abnegation, but that she is set in the key of which self- 
 devotion is the dominant. Whatever be the melody, 
 however varied the harmonies of her life, the dominant 
 underlies the melody, and interpenetrates the harmonies ; 
 and at the last the whole piece comes — possibly after 
 changes into other keys — back to the original, and dies 
 away, as its only proper finish, on the dominant. It is the 
 same with man, only the male key has justice for its ruling 
 note. However wrongheaded a man may be, and however 
 criminally he may act, the note of justice is vibrating, 
 thrilling, heard and felt deep down in the depths of his 
 conscience. He may drown it for a while in noise ; but, 
 as the noise ceases, the key-note is heard still sounding, 
 and will sound as long as life lasts.' 
 
 ' I have sometimes thought,' began Loveday ; then 
 hesitated, and ceased. 
 
 ' Yes,' said Paul Featherstone, encouragingly. ' I entreat 
 you to tell me your thought.' 
 
 ' I have sometimes thought,' said Loveday, with lowered 
 eyes, 'whilst I have been wool- working, that we poor women 
 are embroidering our lives with all sorts of colours, and 
 making of them various figures, but that there must be 
 some common cross-thread on which we all elaborate the 
 varied patterns of our humble lives. You have given me 
 one of the threads, the warp or the woof, I know not 
 which. Is there not another ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' answered Paul. ' Self-abnegation is the woof, 
 religion is the warp. That is not naturally in men, as in 
 women. On these two threads the whole carpet of life is 
 embroidered ; done in strange reversed mode, sometimes, 
 as the Gobelin tapestry is wrought, when the maker sees 
 nothing of the design which he is developing. He stands 
 behind the threads, and thrusts his colours in and out — 
 now this, now that — in a blind way, and only those on the 
 
ENGAGED. 251 
 
 other side see the result. It is so with the soul within. 
 Behind these threads, weaving life's beautiful Gobelin 
 carpet, the soul stands and sees not the end to which it is 
 working — beholds only ragged ends, and irregular threads, 
 and ugly knots — whereas the world sees a beautiful, rich, 
 and consistent whole.' 
 
 ' I am afraid,' said Loveday, ' we must be content to 
 weave our little lives into kettle-holders, not Gobelin 
 tapestry.' 
 
 ' And a kettle-holder saves the hand from being burnt,' 
 answered Paul. ' So, many an insignificant modest life has 
 been a hand-guard against much suffering.' Then, looking 
 across the table, he said, ' I see that you have brought your 
 blotting-book, and want to write letters. Do not let me 
 interrupt you. I will go out and take a turn in the town, 
 or, if no inconvenience to you here, will take the newspaper 
 and read.' 
 
 'No inconvenience whatever,' said Loveday, readily. ' It 
 is true that I have a couple of letters to write, and there is 
 no ink in my room.' 
 
 Paul at once placed the rack of pens and the inkstand 
 on the table, beyond the white table cloth, and rang for 
 the waiter to remove the supper. 
 
 Loveday opened her book, took a couple of sheets of 
 paper, and, spreading one before her, wrote to Mrs. Loveys. 
 Loveday took a long time in writing this letter. It was 
 well to let Madam know at once that the suit of Anthony 
 was hopeless. She was resolved not to leave Mrs. Loveys 
 and the young man in suspense, or in the delusion that she 
 acquiesced in their arrangement. The sooner they were 
 made aware that she could not accept him the better. Her 
 conscience would be clear. She was thankful for the honour 
 shown her — in her humble mind, she considei-ed it an 
 enormous condescension — but she could not resolve to 
 think of the union as possible. To her brother she had 
 not mentioned the offer, fearful lest he should try to 
 persuade her to the sacrifice for the sake of his interest. 
 Her faith in Dennis was so shaken that she admitted the 
 possibility of this meanness. Yet, when the strange gentle- 
 man spoke of woman's self-devotion, she felt her cheeks 
 burn, and was aware with shame that there was one act of 
 self-devotion of which she was not capable. She could not 
 
252 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 take Anthony Loveys. even for the love she bore to her 
 brother. Had she, perhaps, sufficient of the spice of mascu- 
 line justice in her soul to strengthen her against this, as 
 more than a brother had a right to exact 1 Perhaps so. 
 
 The letter to Madam Loveys was a difficult letter to 
 compose. Poor Loveday spoiled her first copy, and had to 
 write a second. She thought long between each line she 
 wrote, and was so engrossed in her thoughts as to com- 
 pletely forget the presence of the gentleman, who was seated 
 in the background behind the newspaper. 
 
 As she considered, with her pen to her lips and one 
 hand on the paper, the trace of her thoughts was visible in 
 her pure face, like the fleeting shadows of the clouds during 
 the day over the moor : never deep and threatening, always 
 soft ; a bloom, not a gloom ; a varying beauty of colour in 
 the pervading sunlight. 
 
 Paul Featherstone's eyes, irresistibly attracted to her, 
 watched her, then returned to the newspaper. Paul was 
 ashamed of himself for looking at her. He knew he ought 
 not to do so, as she was unconscious of his presence, but 
 the attraction was too strong for him to fight against it. 
 There was something — he knew not himself what it was — 
 in Loveday's face which drew his sympathy towards her. 
 He suspected sorrow ; he saw intelligence ; and he recog- 
 nised the guileless goodness of her soul by that instinct 
 which exists in all cognate spirits. 
 
 Once he noticed a clear trickling tear issue from under 
 her dark lash and roll down her cheek. Then the hand 
 that held the newspaper trembled. Paul was full of pity 
 for suffering, and he would have been glad to comfort the 
 bruised heart of Loveday, if he knew what was her pain. 
 
 At length the letter was finished, and folded, and 
 sealed with a wafer. Then she addressed it, put it aside, 
 and wrote the second letter. This was done quickly, without 
 long consideration. 
 
 When it was finished she stood up, and then started. 
 She saw Paul Featherstone. She had completely forgotten 
 him. He had said something about going out round the 
 town, and she had perhaps fancied he was no longer in the 
 room. He had remained without noise, and this had led 
 to her error, if it was an error, and not absorption and 
 forcetfulness. 
 
ENGAGED. 253 
 
 She took up the two letters, intending to go out at once 
 and post them ; but Paul Featherstone rose at the same 
 time. 
 
 ' If you will allow me,' he said, 'Iwilltake the letters for 
 you to the office.' 
 
 ' Thank you very much,' she replied. ' Only one will 
 Ziave postage to be paid on it — at least I suppose so. The 
 other is to be left till called for.' 
 
 He looked at the directions, and smiled. 
 
 ' You have afforded me a rare pleasure,' he said. ' I 
 shall have to post but one of the letters. The second is 
 addressed to me. lam" P. F." ' 
 
 Loveday started, and looked at him. The colour went, 
 then came, in her face. 
 
 ' I need hardly say,' continued Paul Featherstone, 'that 
 it will indeed be a proud thing for me if I can secure your 
 kind, generous services for my sister. I am glad,' he said, 
 after a pause, ' on two accounts ; on my sister's, that she 
 should have for her companion one to whom she is sure to 
 cling, and whom she will treasure ; on yours, that you 
 should have the opportunity of knowing one whom it is a 
 privilege to know.' 
 
 ' Sir,' said Loveday, timidly, ' you will want references. 
 You know nothing of my abilities.' 
 
 ' I want no references,' answered Paul. ' None in this 
 case are necessary.' He bowed. 
 
 ' My brother,' faltered Loveday, ' is a surgeon.' 
 
 ' And I,' said Paul, ' am one also. Unrecognised by 
 the faculty, indeed, but I am a healer of men by natural 
 gift from on high.' 
 
 ' My name,' she said, ' is Loveday Penhalligan.' 
 
 ' I am Paul Featherstone, of Marsland. My sister Juliot 
 is Mrs. Rock. She was married just after Christmas twelve- 
 month to a Mr. John Rock, who lives with me. Miss Penhalli- 
 gan, shall you be able to travel to-morrow 1 I am impatient 
 to make you acquainted with my sister Juliot. I am sure you 
 will love her — you cannot fail to love her — she is so good. 
 We are a quiet family, and live in a quiet nook, out of the 
 noise and rush of the current of life, but we are happy and 
 peaceful ; and, please God, the peace and happiness of that 
 home will remain unbroken. It has been heightened and 
 deepened by the addition of the little one who has risen on 
 
254 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 our horizon. Did I say that he added to our peace ? 
 Well — happiness — hardly quiet. Miss Penhalligan, this is 
 almost a joke.' 
 
 So Loveday went from the house of the surgeon, who 
 was one by science, but without sympathy, to that of the 
 physician, who was one by sympathy, but without science. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 THE THRESHOLD OF A SORROW 
 
 Next day Paul Featherstone and Loveday departed, the 
 former on the box, the latter inside, the Stratton coach. 
 At Stratton, Paul's horse and conveyance were awaiting 
 him. He had left them there, when he was on his way to 
 Launceston, on the double business of consulting his law- 
 yer and finding a companion for his sister. 
 
 The letter to Madam Loveys had been despatched 
 without its containing any further allusion to the adver- 
 tisement of ' P. P.' than thanks to the lady for the copy of 
 the paper sent. Loveday had deemed it as well not to 
 say anything about her application till she heard whether 
 it were successful. She resolved to write to Mrs. Loveys 
 and to her brother from her destination, to inform them 
 that she was settled, and to acknowledge her debt to the 
 former for having directed her attention to the advertise- 
 ment, which had so speedily answered her most sanguine 
 wishes. 
 
 Loveday did not fail to notice the resemblance of the 
 scenery to that of the home she had left. The character of 
 the coast was the same, and the air, fresh and invigorating, 
 was the same. 
 
 The evening was closing when she reached Marsland. 
 Paul had been attentive to her throughout the journey, 
 at every stoppage of the coach coming to the window 
 to inquire how she was ; and, in the gig, he interested 
 her with his quaint conversation. At Stratton he pointed 
 out to her Stamford Hill, the scene of the victory of the 
 Royalists under Sir Bevil Grenville, in 1643. At Kilk- 
 hampton he showed her the valley and the woods where 
 once stood Stowe House, the ancestral home of the Gren- 
 
THE THRESHOLD OF A SORROW. 255 
 
 villes. The glimpses of the sea, with the evening sun 
 gleaming on it, converting it into a sea of fire, were like 
 those about Towan. She might almost have believed 
 herself returning home but for the voice of the driver. 
 
 As the sun went down Marsland was reached, and a 
 cold grey shadow was on the courtyard as Paul drove 
 through the gateway into it. 
 
 ' You are at my house,' said Paul, assisting Loveday to 
 descend. ' Give me your hand, that I may lead you with a 
 welcome over my threshold.' 
 
 He conducted her through the rude porch, with old- 
 fashioned gallantry. 
 
 ' How cold your hand is,' he said. 
 
 Loveday stood still. A sudden nervous trembling had 
 come over her. 
 
 ' Are you ill — overtired, Miss Penhalligan ? ' 
 
 She put her hand to her brow, to collect her thoughts), 
 which left her for an instant, and answered, ' I am better. 
 A momentary faintness, it is past.' 
 
 He took her hand and led her within. ' Welcome, Miss 
 Penhalligan,' he said. ' In God's name I wish you peace 
 and happiness, rest from care, and bright days in the 
 future, across this threshold.' 
 
 She bent her head in acknowledgment. 
 
 ' And now,' he said, ' for my sister.' 
 
 In a moment the door at the end of the hall opened, 
 and Juliot scudded the length of it and fell into her 
 brother's arms. ' Oh, Paul ! I did not expect you home 
 to-day.' 
 
 'Juliot,' said he, 'I have brought you a friend. This 
 good, sweet lady has done us the honour and conferred on 
 us the favour of paying us a visit, not to be a short one, 
 we trust, sure that she will be a companion to you, and 
 love and be loved by little Con.' 
 
 Juliot at once carried off Loveday to the room above the 
 parlour — the room with the southern aspect, the room in 
 which the spinet had stood. The instrument was not 
 there now, it was removed to the drawing-room under 
 it. 
 
 Loveday was given whatever she wanted ; Juliot was 
 full of thought and kindness ; but, through all her eager- 
 ness to be hospitable, one desire prevailed and transpired. 
 
256 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 ' You will not mind, as soon as you can, without incon- 
 venience, you will come and see the Baby.' 
 
 ' I am ready now,' answered Loveday. ' What a pretty 
 room this is.' 
 
 ' Do you know, that in this room lay my husband sick f or 
 many days, before he was my husband. I was accustomed 
 to sit in the window, and wait, and watch, and pray that 
 he might recover. But then, I had no thought at all of 
 him but as a sick man claiming our aid. The room has 
 acquired for me a new charm since then. Mr. Rock is not 
 here to-day. He is at a farm or property we have some 
 little way off, called Stanbury. They are haymaking there, 
 as we are here, and he has to watch the hay harvest there. 
 In this part of the world everything depends on seizing the 
 golden weather when it comes. The sun does not wait on 
 our leisure.' 
 
 Then Juliot led Loveday along a passage to the nursery. 
 ' I must tell you that this house has got a king now, reign- 
 ing by right divine, and as an autocrat. We have to do 
 homage at his little feet. Oh, Miss Penhalligan, they are 
 the dearest little weeny feet ! And to see the comical way 
 in which the tiny toes work about and are never at rest ! 
 I could spend an hour in merely watching the little feet. 
 But the hands are more beautiful still. You cannot look 
 at them without falling to kiss them. His Majesty is 
 asleep now. You will not disturb him in his sacred repose.' 
 
 She brought Loveday to the side of the cradle, an old- 
 fashioned rocking cradle, in which Paul and herself, and 
 perhaps their father, had slept in infancy. Loveday stooped 
 over the child, and saw that its bright eyes were open. 
 Directly, it began to coo like a dove and pat its hands on 
 the coverlet excitedly, whilst dimples formed in the fat 
 cheeks. 
 
 ' The darling is awake ! ' exclaimed Juliot, ' and in a 
 serene temper. How beautiful ! How fortunate, Miss 
 Penhalligan. I would not for the world have had you 
 make first acquaintance with his Royal Highness when his 
 mood is contrary. People, involuntai-ily, are governed by 
 prepossessions formed on first sight. I am so glad you have 
 seen my darling smiling and happy on this first interview.' 
 
 ' Allow me to take him and throne him in my arms,' 
 said Loveday. Seeing a smile on Juliot's face, she put her 
 
THE THRESHOLD OF A SORROW. 257 
 
 hands into the crib and took the little fellow out. All 
 Juliot's nerves quivered, and her heart stood still, till her 
 eyes reassured her that Loveday knew how to hold a baby. 
 
 The little monarch was quite content to rest his head 
 on the heart and be encircled by the arms of Loveday ■ he 
 crowed, and puckered up his mouth, and kicked and flapped, 
 expressive of contentment. 
 
 ' He was born in December, so he is now six months 
 old,' said the delighted mother. ' Take that stool and sit 
 on it, with the little bird nested on your lap. How cosy 
 he is in your arms ! ' 
 
 ' He is not in the least shy. He is a precious little 
 treasure.' 
 
 ' Precious ! ' exclaimed Mrs. Rock. ' His price is above 
 rubies. Everyone here values him unspeakably high. Paul 
 quite adores him. I cannot give the maids a greater treat 
 than to take him down into the kitchen for them to surround 
 and admire. To-morrow we will carry him into the hay- 
 field, and make sweet hay with him ; shall we not, my pet 1 
 Shall we fling a bind of hay round your tiny neck, and draw 
 the small head to us, and cover it with kisses ? Will you 
 laugh and clap and chirp with joy ? ' 
 
 Loveday sat with the child on her lap, looking at it. 
 As when a vein has been wounded a rush of warm blood 
 pours over the skin, and a mingled sensation ensues of 
 pleasure and pain, so was it now with her. A stream of 
 warm love poured from her heart, but she was sensible of 
 an ache, unaccountable in her gentle breast. 
 
 ' He takes happily to you,' said Juliot, ' and does not 
 seem to concern himself much about me. Oh, the fickle 
 fellow ! Con ! Con ! Look at your mother ! ' 
 
 Loveday looked suddenly up at Mrs. Rock. 
 
 ' His name is Constantine,' said Juliot. ' My dear 
 husband had a fancy for it, though it is not his own name, 
 he is called John ; nor do I hear that he had any relatives 
 of that name. Paul did not disapprove. Paul says that 
 Constantine was a king of Devon and Cornwall, who re- 
 signed his crown and went into a monastery in Scotland. 
 No one knew there who he was, till one clay a monk over- 
 heard him laughing, whilst grinding corn in a quern, and 
 saying "What would my people say at home if they saw 
 King Constantine grinding rye, like a donkey in a mill." 
 
 s 
 
258 THE GAVEEOCKS. 
 
 I did not myself care much for the name at first, but this 
 rogue will make it sweet to me.' 
 
 Loveday bowed over the child, and drew it tight to her 
 bosom, laid her face on it, and felt that love and pain were 
 equal in her heart. 
 
 ' Do you know the name Constantino 1 ' asked Juliot. 
 
 ' Yes,' answered Loveday, raising her face, ' it is a name 
 that to me is very dear.' 
 
 ' Have you had any one so-called whom you loved 1 ' 
 
 Loveday paused. 
 
 ' There is a ruined church dedicated to St. Constantine 
 near my home, and I have been very happy there.' 
 
 The answer sufficed. Juliot asked no more ; she saw 
 that she had touched a tender point in Loveday's heart. 
 ' I dare say I am very absurd,' she said, ' but I will have 
 no nurse to baby ; I do everything for him. You can 
 understand, he is a great tie. In fact, I can do nothing 
 else. But, he is too precious to be trusted in rough hands. 
 Look at the weeny bones of the fingers — why, they can be 
 no thicker than pins. Just fancy how easily one of them 
 might be injured ! ' she shuddered. ' No, I must look after 
 him myself, or have a lady to help me, and relieve me now 
 and then. That is why my brother Paul has urged me to 
 secure suitable assistance. He says that I am made a 
 perfect slave to Constantine ; that it must not be, I have 
 other duties to attend to. Of course he is right. My 
 brother is always right. And now, with his usual good 
 fortune, he has lit upon you. I am sure Ave shall like each 
 other. That is, I am sure I shall like you. Baby has 
 decided the matter. He has accepted you as my substitute 
 now and then ; only now and then, understand, you fickle 
 fellow ! ' shaking her hand at the child. Then it began to 
 cry, and strain its arms towards its mother. ' There ! ' ex- 
 claimed Juliot, with a triumphant laugh, ' after all he 
 wants to come to his mother ! He is not going to desert 
 her ! He will not turn away his heart wholly from her ! 
 Though she does not object to his giving a part of it, a 
 little part, to Miss Penhalligan.' 
 
 ' Will you take the stool 1 ' asked Loveday, rising. 
 ' No, no,' answered Juliot, quickly, ' baby and I are 
 quite content on the chair. Look ! he is patting his hands ! 
 Bake a cake, bake a cake, baker's-man.' Then ensued that 
 
THE THRESHOLD OF A SORROW. 259 
 
 loving play with the child, familiar to all women. Love- 
 day put her face close to the little fellow and kissed, then 
 drew it away again, and he crowed, and kicked, and went 
 into fits of ecstatic laughter, and clapped his warm, soft 
 little palms on her cheeks, and proceeded to munch her 
 with his toothless gums. 
 
 The pride and delight of the mother were unbounded. 
 Her heart warmed to Loveday, and she slipped into calling 
 her by her Christian name before an hour was past. 
 
 ' You drove with my brother from Stratton,' said Mrs. 
 Rock. ' What a privilege ! Paul is a remarkable man, 
 whom it is an advantage to know. I am so glad you have 
 made his acquaintance ; you will learn to value him more 
 and more every day, he is so good. Indeed, I look up to him 
 with wonder and reverence, and the poor people regard him 
 with extraordinary respect. You will not see my husband 
 to-night ; he does not return from Stanbury till the hay is 
 carried. And now, if you do not mind going down into 
 the hall, I will send the rogue to sleep. Then we will 
 have supper, which I am sure both you and Paul need 
 after your long journey.' 
 
 Loveday descended to the hall, and found Paul Feather- 
 stone there. 
 
 ' You have seen the baby,' he said, ' and you have seen 
 my sister. I am glad you know her ; to make her ac- 
 quaintance is an event in the life.' 
 
 Loveday's attention was arrested by the picture of 
 Featherstone the Rover. She started. 
 
 ' How very strange ! ' she said. 
 
 ' That is the portrait of my uncle,' said Paul. 
 
 ' How strange ! ' repeated Loveday, with her eyes still 
 on the picture. . 
 
 ' The dress, no doubt, strikes you as peculiar.' 
 
 ' I have seen — at least, it seems to me that I must have 
 seen him.' 
 
 ' That is quite impossible. He died long before you 
 were born.' 
 
 Loveday considered. Then she said, thoughtfully, 'Yes, 
 
 of course it is impossible, and yet ' Then a faintness 
 
 and a shudder came over her, such as she had felt on cross- 
 ing the threshold. 
 
 ' You are not well,' said Paul, in alarm, ' you have 
 
 s2 
 
260 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 been overdone. Sit down. You must take a glass of 
 wine.' 
 
 ' Thank you,' answered Loveday, seating herself with 
 her back to the picture, ' it is nothing ; it is over again. It 
 seemed to me as if I were stepping — I hardly knew whither 
 — into some terrible, overwhelming horror. As if I were 
 on the threshold of some creat sorrow.' 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 IN THE HAY FIELD. 
 
 A day of cloudless brilliancy, a day of days for the haysel. 
 The wind was off shore, and therefore the sea was still, and 
 reflected the white distant cliffs of Lundy, and the passing 
 sail. The air was fragrant with hay. There had been a 
 succession of beautiful days, and the farmers were making 
 the most of it — all but a few laggards, noted for invariably 
 cutting when they ought to be sowing. 
 
 Loveday was occupied through the greater part of the 
 morning unpacking her box, and arranging her possessions 
 in the room assigned to her. This was the same into which 
 Juliot had first shown her — the same that Constantine had 
 occupied. It was the best bedroom, reserved for visitors, 
 but the Featherstones had no strangers staying with them. 
 They had no acquaintances at a distance, and few in their 
 immediate neighbourhood. 
 
 She had some little ornaments of her own, relics of the 
 home where she had spent her childhood with her mother. 
 She had removed nothing that she might have laid claim 
 to by right from the sitting-room at Nantsillan, only the 
 trifles of her own bedroom, which her brother would not miss. 
 
 She came, when she had done, into the nursery, and 
 insisted on taking little Con into the garden, the pretty 
 garden on the southern slope, walled in, with its old- 
 fashioned flowers. Paul was passionately attached to 
 flowers ; and he had his beds of herbs — simples, which he 
 used, after the advice of old Culpepper. Every walk and 
 bed in the garden was scrupulously cared for, weeded and 
 trim ; and hei'bs and flowers repaid the attention shown 
 them. Nothing gave Paul greater delight than to spend a 
 
IN THE HAY-FIELD. 261 
 
 fine morning in his garden. ' When man was in a state 
 of innocency,' he said, ' God put him in a garden ; and 
 through a garden, methinks, we steal back to innocency.' 
 
 All Loveday's anxieties, and the strange misgiving that 
 had come over her on the preceding evening, had passed 
 away. She was very happy and hopeful. Not a word had 
 been said about money — the amount of remuneration for 
 her services. As with Constantine, so with Loveday, this 
 was left undetermined ; but Loveday knew as well that 
 Paul would overpay her services, as he knew that she 
 would undervalue them. 
 
 In the garden she saw Mr. Featherstone, in his plain 
 grey suit and blue worsted stockings, with a spud, en- 
 gaged on one of the beds. He came towards her at once, 
 and said : 
 
 ' You have a great privilege and responsibility, Miss 
 Penhalligan, in the custody of this urchin. Every respon- 
 sibility is tied to a blessing, and there is no blessing unen- 
 cumbered with a duty. ""What God hath joined, let not 
 man put asunder." As this little fellow grows up, we 
 shall have to use the utmost circumspection to provide that 
 he grows aright. Look here, Miss Penhalligan ' (he stooped, 
 and picked a tender double-leaf). ' Do you know what 
 this is 1 It is the seed-leaf of a plant. I have plucked it, 
 and it will never now come to life. It has been killed, and 
 I know not of what nature it was. The soul of a child 
 is sown thick with seeds, and these seeds spring up rapidly, 
 developing thus double-leaves, from which you can hardly 
 tell what their promise is. You will have to use the 
 utmost care not to pluck up the good along with the 
 tares.' 
 
 ' I hope,' said Loveday, ' that the child's little soul will 
 become like this trim and pleasant garden, where nothing- 
 grows but what is healthful and beautiful.' 
 
 ' It cannot fail to be other,' said Paul Featherstone, 
 ' with two such gardeners as you and Juliot.' 
 
 Then he fell to thinking, leaning on his spud, with his 
 eyes on the ground, and seemed forgetful of the presence 
 of another. After a while he drew two circles in the gravel 
 with the end of his spud, the circles cutting each other, so 
 as to form a long and narrow ellipse. 
 
 1 Man stands,' said Paul, ' at the intersection of the two 
 
262 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 spheres, the material and the spiritual, the natural and 
 the supernatural. There ' (he made a mark with the tool), 
 ' there stands little Con now, and he will either stand there 
 all his days, or be drawn away to the centre of one circle 
 or the other. All early training must be towards the 
 maintenance of equilibrium, towards the education of man 
 to perfection— that is, to live equally in both spheres. I 
 think I said to you the evening we were first acquainted 
 that woman was naturally more religious than man. That 
 is, she has her place more on the spiritual side of the 
 ellipse, and, therefore, on her the spiritual centre exerts a 
 greater attraction. The tendency of man is to gravitate 
 more and more towards the material; and if once he passes 
 out of the spiritual sphere beyond that curve ' (he indicated 
 what he meant with the spud) ' then he is a man with 
 reason — intelligence, may be — but without soul any more. 
 He is outside the spiritual sphere. The tie or attraction 
 between him and the spiritual centre is broken. There is 
 no longer attraction outside a sphere. This is what I want, 
 what I pray, that our little babe may from infancy be so 
 turned that the centre of the spiritual circle may attract 
 him more and more through life, till ' — he drew his tool 
 along the gravel — ' till he passes out of the material circle, 
 he has traversed that arc, and the gross things of life affect 
 him no more.' 
 
 ' I suppose,' said Loveday, ' that the nearer one is drawn 
 to either centre, the stronger the attraction becomes, and 
 the more rapid the movement towards it.' 
 
 ' It is so,' answered Paul. Then he caught the child 
 from her, and held it above his head in his strong arms, 
 with the face to the sky, and in the brilliant sun. ' See ! ' 
 he said. ' Never hold the child with its eyes on shadow ; 
 always set its face to the light. That is the great secret of 
 life's training.' He kissed the babe tenderly, and returned 
 it to Loveday's arms ; then he said, ' You understand me, 
 for you have your face towards the centre of spirit and life 
 and light, and so has Juliot.' 
 
 'And Mr. Rock?' 
 
 ' I do not judge any man,' answered Paul, and resumed 
 his spud and walked away. 
 
 Loveday noticed a slight look of disappointment on his 
 earnest, kind face. It was not the first time she had 
 
IN THE HAT-FIELD. 263 
 
 observed this ; whenever allusion had been made to his 
 brother-in-law the look had come over him, as a faint and 
 very transient shadow. 
 
 Then Loveday, watching Paul at his bed of herbs, 
 standing in the full sunlight, thought how different was 
 his theory of life from that of her brother. Paul looked at 
 the light, and Dennis's face was set towards the shadow. 
 Presently Mr. Featherstone returned to her. He had been 
 thinking whilst working, and, pointing to the space between 
 the arcs, drew a line, cut at each end by the circumference 
 of a circle, and said, ' That is the measure of man's free 
 will. When he passes beyond the curve his power of 
 volition ceases ; he is inevitably drawn to the centre. We 
 oscillate between the arcs. Hark ! I am wanted.' 
 
 He stood listening, and Loveday heard the tramp of a 
 galloping horse along the road, then down the avenue. 
 
 In another moment a man, excited and hot, came into 
 the garden, holding a handkerchief. 
 
 ' Please, your honour/ he said, ' John Vosper have a-gone 
 and cut hisself bad wi' a scythe in the leg, and us can't stop 
 the flow of blood noways; so I've brought this to your 
 honour.' 
 
 Mr. Featherstone took the kerchief within both his 
 hands. His face became grave, and his eyes fixed, and his 
 look abstracted. He passed the kerchief once between his 
 palms, and handed it back to the man. 
 
 ' Ride back as fast as you can,' he said, ' and bind this 
 about his leg. The blood, however, is already stayed. Do 
 not touch the kerchief with more than the tips of your 
 fingers ; ride holding it at arm's length.' 
 
 When the man was gone, Loveday looked at Paul 
 Featherstone with amazement. 
 
 ' I am obliged to remain at home during hay and corn 
 harvests,' he said. ' So many accidents occur, and I like to 
 be where I may be found at once.' 
 
 ' Do you mean that — you have really stopped the bleed- 
 ing of this man Yosper's leg 1 ' 
 
 ' Yes,' answered Paul, with wonder at her doubt ; ' of 
 course I have — yet not I ; the power given me has done it. 
 It never fails. Not I — no, not I.' 1 
 
 1 Lest the author should be charged -with transgressing the bounds of 
 truth in this account, he assures the reader that such a method of arresting 
 
264 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 Paul was about to return to his work, when the garden 
 gate was again opened, and a poor young man hobbled in 
 on crutches. 
 
 ' Good morning, Tooke. Come to have your knee 
 struck?' 
 
 ' Yes, your honour ; it be a deal easier since your 
 honour have blessed 'n.' 
 
 ' Sit down on the bench, James,' said Featherstone ; and, 
 kneeling on one knee before the cripple, he laid his hand 
 on the swollen joint, and as he did so the same fixed, far- 
 away look came into his eyes that Loveday had noticed 
 when he had the kerchief between his palms. 
 
 ' I seem to feel the pain drawed out by your finger ends,' 
 said the lad. ' I know exact to a line where your honour's 
 fingers have rested ; there be no hurting there, but lines o' 
 ache where they have not touched.' 
 
 ' Is the swelling gone down, James 1 ' 
 
 'O yes, your honour — gone down powerful.' 
 
 ' That will do for to-day ; come again to-morrow. Now 
 go round to the kitchen and stay there, and tell the maids 
 you are to have your dinner. Do not stint the beef, 
 James.' 
 
 The next to arrive were two women with a baby. 
 
 ' The little chap have got the thrush,' said the mother. 
 ' Us have took 'n and passed 'n at new moon three times 
 under a bramble as is growed to both ends in the ground, 
 but all to no good. Us have gotten naught by it but a 
 lot o' scratches.' 
 
 ' And you deserve them,' said Paul. ' You have no 
 right to have recourse to superstitious methods. Super- 
 stition is sinful. How can you expect a cure if you apply 
 to such unblessed remedies 1 Give me the child. Open 
 its mouth ; I will put my finger in.' When he had 
 done this, he gave the infant back to the mother. ' There,' 
 he said, ' you need not return to me ; the eruption will 
 begin to disappear to-day, and in a couple of days the 
 child will be well. Ask the dairy-maid to give you a 
 quart of new milk.' 
 
 The next to arrive was an old woman with sore eyes. 
 
 hemorrhage is resorted to still in the West of England, and he has known 
 persons such as Paul Featherstone constantly resorted to as thus described — 
 and practising successfully. 
 
IN THE HAY-FIELD. 265 
 
 1 Betty,' said Featherstone, ' go every morning and wash 
 your eyes in the water of the Holy Well. Now see if the 
 cook can give you a little dinner. You have had a long, 
 hot walk. If you cannot eat the meat, there is pudding you 
 will like.' 
 
 That the beef, and the milk, and the pudding had any- 
 thing to do with the drawing of patients to Marsland, or 
 with the cure of the under-fed, Featherstone did not 
 suppose ; nor, to do them justice, did the sick attribute 
 their healing to anything other than the touch of his hand. 
 Loveday, who had seen nothing of the self-seeking in her 
 own visitors, thought that in this case there may have been 
 deception, not in Paul Featherstone himself — he was abso- 
 lutely sincere, and believed thoroughly in the powers lodged 
 in him — but in the patients. She ventured to say as much, 
 sure that her remark would not be taken ill. 
 
 ' Do you not think, Mr. Featherstone, that the sick may 
 come as much for what they can get in your kitchen as in 
 this your consulting-room 1 ' 
 
 'Perhaps,' he replied, quite undisturbed by the sugges- 
 tion. ' No motives are wholly pure ; they are always more 
 or less double, more or less charged with earthly particles. 
 My motives are never absolutely transluceut ; all men's 
 motives are like water — analyse, and there is something in 
 the clearest ; but then, the only perfectly pure water is 
 that which has been distilled, and that is undrinkable.' 
 
 In the afternoon Juliot and Loveday went together to 
 the hay-field, carrying the baby. The harvest was nearly 
 over, the last of the fragrant loads were being taken home, 
 and tea and saffron buns were carried into the field for the 
 men. Most of the servant-maids were there as well, raking 
 the hay together, laughing and joking with the men. 
 
 Every now and then a rake was dropped, and one of 
 the young men was seen with a whisp of twisted hay pur- 
 suing a girl, trying to catch and hold her with the hay-loop 
 whilst he kissed her. The pressure of work was over, the 
 strain was relaxed, a little romp and relaxation were allow- 
 able now. 
 
 Juliot and Loveday sat under the shade of some trees, 
 beneath a hedge wreathed with pink wild rose and honey- 
 suckle, and with clusters of meadow-sweet, white, scatter- 
 ing their powdery pollen on the arms that brushed them, 
 
266 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 climbing the steep hedge-bank as refugees from the all- 
 destroying scythe. 
 
 The yellow evening sun bathed the hayfield in bands 
 striking through the trees ; the doves were cooing in the 
 wood ; the butterflies dancing about the dried grass, and 
 then fluttering away to the fresh flowers in the hedgerows. 
 A bumble-bee in brown and yellow deep pile velvet was 
 humming round the baby as though it thought honey was to 
 be gathered from it — in reality attracted by the wreath of 
 wild rose Loveday had made for his white washing hat, that 
 would fall flapping over the little fellow's face, and make 
 him growl in protest. 
 
 Loveday was very happy. Her clouds seemed to have 
 parted and rolled out of her sky. The delight of having a 
 baby to worship and play with, and of having one so sweet, 
 womanly, and sympathetic as Juliot to talk to, filled her 
 heart to the brim. For a while the cares of the past were 
 lost sight of ; she gave herself over to the unmixed plea- 
 sure of the present. The two ladies were seated a little 
 way from the harvesters ; the laughter and calls lost harsh- 
 ness, and were wafted to them as pleasant music by the 
 fragrant air, along with strands of grass, and seeds of hawk- 
 weed, and black leaves of meadow clover. 
 
 The maids had lighted a fire, and slung a kettle, to make 
 the tea, and the white smoke rose above the hedge in a 
 thick curl, and was then dispersed as a blue vapour through 
 the wood. 
 
 Every kind of distraction was offered to the baby. A 
 chain of daisies was made by Loveday, and suspended round 
 his neck, to be at once torn to pieces by his impatient 
 hands ; dandelion ' clock ' heads were puffed, to ascertain 
 the hour ; the golden buttercup was held in the sun under 
 his fat chin, to prophesy whether he would love butter ; a 
 tiger moth, with yellow, crimson, and black wings, was suf- 
 fered to creep unmolested along Loveday's hand, till the 
 little fellow made a dab at it with his, and then the insect, 
 startled, flew away. Honeysuckle trumpets were picked, 
 and the sweet drop expressed on baby's lips ; then the little 
 red tongue was poked out and curled about the lips, much 
 as a lizard protrudes his tongue to catch up its food. Love- 
 day's gold watch-chain was suddenly laid hold of, and 
 wrenched, and almost broken. Out flew the watch Mrs. 
 
IN THE HAY-FIELD. 267 
 
 Gaverock had given her, and that was held first to one ear, 
 then the other. Nothing satisfied Con for long. Some new 
 distraction was demanded every minute, and the in- 
 genuity of the mother and Loveday taxed to the utter- 
 most. 
 
 Paul Featherstone remained at home till Constantine 
 arrived. 
 
 ' Done the haysel at Stanbury,' said the latter joyously. 
 ' First-rate crop, and splendidly carried. How are you get- 
 ting on here 1 ' 
 
 ' Very well indeed. The last loads are now returning. 
 Will you come with me to the field 1 ' 
 
 ' Yes. Is my wife there with the bahy 1 ' 
 
 'And her companion,' said Paul. ' I have had the best 
 success, John Rock. Providence has blessed us in this as in 
 all we do. I do not believe if I had the world to pick from 
 I could have found one better fitted for the post she is de- 
 signed by us to fill. She has won her way already to 
 Juliot's heart, and little Con is as content with her as in 
 the arms of his mother.' 
 
 ' Where did you pick her up 1 ' 
 
 'At Launceston.' 
 
 ' Was she well recommended 1 ' 
 
 'Her face, her voice, her whole appearance, were her 
 best recommendation. You cannot look at her and not 
 trust her.' 
 
 ' What is her name 1 ' 
 
 ' Penhalligan.' 
 
 ' What ! ' Constantine's heart stood still 
 
 ' Come with me — I am going to the hay field — and you 
 shall see and judge for yourself.' 
 
 Paul Featherstone did not observe the alarm in the face 
 of his brother-in-law. He put on his hat and went out at 
 the door. Constantine followed. ' It is impossible,' he 
 muttered. ' There is no occasion to be uneasy. There are 
 hundreds of Penhalligans beside Loveday.' He plucked 
 up courage at the thought, and strode alongside of Paul. 
 But he did not speak to him. He was busied with his own 
 uneasy thoughts and alarms. He asked no more questions. 
 He was afraid to do so, as he was unable for some moments 
 to command his voice. 
 
 They reached the harvest-field. The last load of hay 
 
268 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 was being heaped on the waggon. Paul went towards the 
 men. 
 
 ' There,' he said, pointing to the shade under the hedge, 
 ' there they are. Go and make Miss Penhalligan's acquain- 
 tance.' 
 
 Constantine walked in the direction indicated. He 
 could see his wife with the baby in her arms seated on the 
 bank. The back of the other lady was towards him, and 
 she was bent, so that he could not make out her form. 
 
 Loveday was, indeed, crouching before the little child, 
 counting the buttons of its dress, saying slowly, as she went 
 from one to the other, 'Tinker — tailor — soldier — sailor — 
 gentleman — apothecary— ploughboy — thief. My pet is not 
 — never can be that. Tinker — tailor — will he be a soldier? 
 Not a cruel soldier, to kill and be killed. Sailor, to be 
 tossed on the deep sea and wrecked 1 ' She sighed. ' Gen- 
 tleman ? Of course, of course ! nothing else ; my golden 
 boy can be nothing else but a gentleman — the sweetest, 
 dearest ' 
 
 ' Loveday,' said Juliot, interrupting the other who, in a 
 transport of love and happiness, had clasped the tiny gen- 
 tleman in her arms and was covering him with kisses. 
 ' Loveday, my husband.' 
 
 Loveday rose to her knees, without looking round, then 
 to her feet, stood, turned, and was face to face with Con- 
 stantine ! 
 
 For one moment — but it seemed to him an hour — they 
 confronted each other in silence, then, without a cry, with- 
 out a word, Loveday fell, as though he had struck her down 
 with an axe. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 AT THE GATE. 
 
 Constantine hovered irresolute whether to help Loveday 
 to rise or to turn and escape. His mind was in confusion. 
 He knew that a great danger menaced him, but he had no 
 readiness of resource to make an attempt to escape from it. 
 Juliot had not a suspicion of the cause of Loveday's fall ; 
 she attributed it to a turn of the ankle or a trip in a root, 
 and she asked anxiously if she were hurt. 
 
AT THE GATE. 269 
 
 ' John, give lier your hand. What is the matter, clear ? 
 Have you hurt yourself ? ' She was unable to assist her, 
 as she held the baby. 
 
 But Loveclay, herself, rose unassisted. Constantine 
 held out his hand, but she did not accept it. She pressed 
 both her palms to her brow, as though by the pressure to 
 assure herself that she was awake and in her senses, and 
 not the prey to a horrible delusion. She looked into Con- 
 stantine's eyes to be certain that it was he, himself — her 
 husband, esteemed dead — who stood before her. She read 
 the confirmation in his confusion and dismay. 
 
 Then she turned away. Accustomed for many years to 
 self-control, but never before tried as she was tried now, 
 her powers of restraint over herself did not wholly desert 
 her. She said nothing ; she could not speak ; she could 
 scarce see. It was as though the smoke from the fire that 
 had been lighted for the haysel tea-drinking had blown 
 before her eyes ; she looked into a mist ; sounds she heard 
 as from a distance. 
 
 ' Loveday,' said Juliot, ' you are ill, you look death-like. 
 I entreat you, go home.' 
 
 She did not stir, she moved her lips, and held out her 
 hands mechanically, to take the child. 
 
 ' No,' said Juliot. ' Indeed, and indeed you shall not. 
 You were overtired with the journey yesterday, and the 
 day before. You turned faint last evening, Paul told me. 
 I am sure you are not well ; go home.' 
 
 But still the words, though they entered her ear, met 
 with no response. She heard them, but they struck on her 
 ear without her knowing what their meaning was. 
 
 Juliot was alarmed at her appearance. 
 
 ' John,' she said, ' give her your arm, take her home ; 
 she is very much upset by the journey, and the sun has 
 been hot. Go, dear Loveday, go with him. I insist on it.' 
 
 ' If you insist, yes,' answered Loveclay, dimly conscious 
 that she had been given an order. 
 
 Juliot was distressed. ' I did not mean to speak harshly, 
 only in your own interest. John, take her with you.' 
 
 ' I shall be better directly,' said Loveday, recovering 
 her composure slightly ; ' I should like some cold water.' 
 
 ' You shall have some. John, take her to the spring,' 
 said Juliot, tenderly. ' Lean on him, dear ; he is sti'ong 
 
270 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 and will support you, and a few steps will do you good — it 
 will enable you to recover yourself.' 
 
 Constantine drew Loveday's arm through his, and 
 hurried her away ; he was nervous, alarmed, eager to get 
 her out of the field before Paul saw that she was unwell, 
 lest he should come after her, and interfere with his having a 
 few words with her in private. He looked over his shoul- 
 der as he went along, and pressed Loveday to walk faster 
 than she was able, till they were in the lane alone. Then 
 he somewhat relaxed his speed ; then also she withdrew 
 her hand from his arm, and walked at his side in silence. 
 He could not speak. What to say, how to excuse his con- 
 duct, he knew not. 
 
 She did not turn her face to him, she walked with her 
 arms by her sides, and her eyes fixed in a lustreless stare 
 before her. She would have Avalked into the hedge at the 
 turn of the lane if he had not touched and turned her. The 
 lane descended into the coomb ; a gate to the west allowed 
 an orange belt of sunlight to fall across it, and strike on 
 the little stream, here only a spring which shot over a stone 
 mantled with the greenest moss, and fell a few feet into a 
 drain which passed under the way. The rock about the 
 spring was overhung with delicate fern, now shining in the 
 sun, which struck on it obliquely. 
 
 Loveday saw and staggered to the spring ; she could 
 go no farther, her strength was deserting her, and her 
 consciousness failing. She clung to an ash root in the 
 hedge that was clear of earth. Constantine filled his hat 
 with water and sprinkled the cold drops in her face. She 
 revived, looked at him, at first with gratitude, then with 
 fear. Her first instinct was thankfulness for a kindness 
 shown her, her first impulse to acknowledge it ; but this 
 was followed by the recollection of who it was who helped 
 her, and the terror that this knowledge awoke overwhelmed 
 every other thought. 
 
 When she was somewhat recovered, she remained 
 leaning against the hedge, clinging to the grey ash 
 root. The orange evening sun was on her pale face, 
 and sparkled in the water-drops that hung in her hair, on 
 her lashes, and that trickled over her cheeks. She did not 
 wipe them away, she did not feel them. They were not 
 tears. She could not cry. They were the fresh drops from 
 
AT THE GATE. 271. 
 
 the spring. She looked with unswerving eyes before her, 
 at a delicate quivering maidenhair fern that caught the 
 draught through the gate, and swayed and shuddered and 
 flashed in the sun, then dropped out of it. She saw this, 
 and followed every vibration of the frond in all that 
 followed. She was not interested in the fern, but she saw 
 and noted it, and to her last hour that dancing frond of 
 fern was associated in her mind with the interview with 
 Constantine at the spring. 
 
 ' I am very, very sorry for this,' faltered he. 
 
 She made no answer. What could she answer ? Her 
 bosom rose and fell, and every inspiration was like a knife 
 piercing her. The mental anguish translated itself into 
 physical suffering, so closely were the forces correlated. 
 She stood, as Paul had said, in two spheres, and spiritual 
 and bodily anguish were as one to her in this supreme hour. 
 
 'Loveday,' he continued, ' why do you not look at me ? 
 "Why do you not speak 1 I suppose you considered me dead.' 
 
 She slightly bent her head. 
 
 ' I was wrecked, Loveday — that is, I was washed off 
 the keel of the " Mermaid " and was picked up insensible 
 by the boat of Paul Featherstone. I was much hurt ; my 
 head had struck the side. I lay for a long time unconscious, 
 and when I came round to life I was here, at Marsland.' 
 
 She slightly moved her hand on the root of the ash, in 
 token that she was listening. She had no glove on the 
 hand, the sun shone warm over the long, delicate, sensitive 
 fingers — fingers that spoke of a refined mind. 
 
 ' I was here,' Constantine went on. 'Paul Featherstone 
 made me his steward to Stanbury, and then he forced his 
 sister on me. I did not want to do what was wrong, but 
 I am weak, I dare say you know that, and the temptation 
 came to me. It was very wrong of Paul Featherstone 
 proposing it to me. He ought to have known better. 
 What was I to say when I had set before me the prospect 
 of dismissal and beggary, if I did not come to his terms 1 ' 
 
 Loveday looked steadily at him, and her lips opened. 
 
 ' Constantine,' she said, ' this is not true.' 
 
 ' It is true,' he answered, his eyes falling before hers. 
 ' That is — he did not know, of course, about you, and he 
 made a mistake about my name. However, that is passed. 
 It is no use crying over spilt milk. What has been done 
 
272 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 is past undoing. I am very sorry, and I know I have 
 acted very wrongly. 1 am sure my conscience has re- 
 proached me for it over and over again. I cannot help 
 myself, the thing is done ; and, now, if I knew what was the 
 right thing to do, I would do it ; hut you see, yourself, Love- 
 day, what a predicament I am in. Paul Featherstone is a 
 very strict-thinking, pedantic fellow. When he knows all, I 
 shall be handed over by him to the constables, I shall be 
 sent to prison, tried at the assizes for bigamy, and be 
 transported for life. That is what will be my fate when 
 this becomes known. I do not see how Featherstone can 
 act otherwise.' 
 
 ' What am I to do ! my God ! my God ! ' cried 
 Loveday, clasping her hands on the root. 
 
 ' He must give me in charge ; then comes the disgi'ace 
 to my name and family. My father — my poor, poor 
 mother ! What will Gerans say 1 It will cover him with 
 shame. He will never hold up his head again. As for my 
 mother, it will kill her.' He sighed and moaned. ' There 
 is only one chance of escape,' he said, ' and that is for you 
 to hold your tongue. If you tell all, I am not gained to 
 you. You lose me for ever, as I shall be sent as a convict 
 to Van Diemen's Land to work in chains, in prison clothes 
 till I die. What then will be the advantage of your 
 telling 1 None to yourself, and infinite distress to others. 
 If you want revenge on me, very well, you shall have it.' 
 
 She raised her hand deprecatingly. 
 
 ' Whom else do you desire to punish — my mother 1 I 
 thought you liked her. Gerans 1 — he is your brother's 
 friend. Then consider these people here. Tell the truth, 
 and what is Juliot ? A betrayed woman with a bastard.' 
 
 Again she raised her hand deprecatingly. 
 
 ' Paul Featherstone is a just man, and he will believe it 
 his duty before God and man to bring me to justice. Let 
 him do so, and cover two — three families with ignominy, 
 his family, mine, and yours. You will come in for the 
 disgrace as well, remember, for you will be indicated as the 
 woman with a convict husband.' 
 
 Loveday covered her face with her hands. She was 
 not thinking of herself, she was thinking of Paul Feather- 
 stone, of his horror when he knew the truth, of the un- 
 speakable shame that would fall on Juliot and her babe. 
 
AT THE GATE. 273 
 
 She thought also of Mrs. Gaverock, and she knew that if 
 told that her loved Constantine was alive and a felon, with 
 a blasted name, she would die of a broken heart. She 
 thought also of honest Gerans, of his trouble about Rose. 
 Was she going to add to this trouble ? 
 
 She raised her head, and again stood looking intently 
 at the quivering maidenhair fern. Her soul trembled like 
 it, but unlike it, in darkness, not in light. 
 
 By a cruel fatality the happiness of all those whom she 
 loved, and who had been good to her, was put into her 
 hands to destroy with a word : of Mrs. Gaverock, Gerans, 
 Rose, Paul Featherstone, Juliot, and the little babe. She 
 would bring shame also on Madam Loveys, and stupid 
 Anthony. She had herself desired that her marriage with 
 Constantine should be kept secret. Now was she to pub- 
 lish it to bring about general dismay, and to cover those 
 she loved and regarded with dishonour 1 
 
 ' Hark ! ' cried Constantine, ' I hear the cheers. The 
 last load is made up. The waggon is in motion, the 
 harvesters will be here. Loveday, have pity on me ; do 
 not be cruel ! ' 
 
 They could hear the creak of the wheels of the laden 
 waggon on the road, the shouts of the waggoners, and the 
 clash of the ironshod hoofs on the stones. 
 
 ' Loveday ! ' said Constantine, trembling and turning 
 cold, ' if you have any love for me still, keep silence for a 
 few days only, till I have considered what is to be done. 
 I shall find a way out of this desperate difficulty, if you 
 give me time. Oh, Loveday, we are all weak, frail, sinful 
 creatures ! Forgive me as you hope to be forgiven your- 
 self ! ' 
 
 ' Self-abnegation is the woof of woman's life,' Paul had 
 said to her ; his words, or the tenor of them, rose in her 
 mind, and strengthened her to embroider a little more of 
 her pure story over that sad thread. 
 
 She could not speak, but she held out her hand. 
 
 Constantine grasped it and said, ' Thank you, Loveday 
 this is like you.' 
 
 Then, without a word or a look at him, without return- 
 ing the pressure of his hand, she went up the la.nc to the 
 avenue and gate of Marsland. 
 
 T 
 
274 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 THE WOOF. 
 
 Paul Featherstone came on before the waggon, and 
 caught Constantine up at the gate and spring. He had 
 not left the spot where Loveday had extended to hirn her 
 hand in assurance that she would keep silence — for a while. 
 
 Twice had he persuaded her not to speak, to be secret 
 about their marriage. The first time when they were 
 married, now — when she found herself cruelly betrayed. 
 The imposition of silence on her on the former occasion had 
 brought with it a train of sorrow, the imposition of silence 
 on her now was the only means of averting dishonour and 
 misery indescribable. Would she keep her promise ? For 
 how long would she restrain her tongue 1 What way was 
 to be found out of this tangle 1 Constantine's head was 
 full of questions, to none of which could he give an answer. 
 He must have time to find a means of escape from the 
 dilemma. He was incapable of seeing any at present in 
 his then condition of dismay and bewilderment. 
 
 ' What is this I hear 1 ' asked Paul. ' Miss Penhalligan 
 is ill, Juliot tells me ; you were to have escorted her to 
 Marsland. Why are you standing here, Rock 1 ' 
 
 ' She is better. She has gone on by herself. She did 
 not require my aid. A fit of giddiness soon over.' 
 
 ' All ! something of the sort came upon her yesterdaj 7 . 
 Poor soul, she has been overstrained in mind and body ! 
 There is a look in her face as if she had dipped her foot 
 into the bitter waters of Marah.' 
 
 ' I know nothing of that,' said Constantine ; ' I dare 
 say the journey has upset her. She will be right again in 
 a day or two. Do not tax her energies too much for a 
 while. I will speak to Juliot to spare her.' 
 
 ' You should not have allowed her to go on alone,' said 
 Paul, reproachfully, and the same shade of disappointment 
 that Loveday had noticed stole across his face. ' Juliot 
 trusted you to see her to the house in safety, and you 
 should have fulfilled exactly the ti'ust.' 
 
 Constantine's lip curled, but he said nothing. 
 
THE WOOF. 275 
 
 Paul and lie walked on. As they ascended the hill 
 the former turned to him, ' I beg your pardon, Rock ; I 
 ought not to have reproved you so sharply. She may have 
 laid her commands on you, which would alter the case. I 
 was alarmed for her. A fit might take her, unawares, 
 and she fall on the hard stones. I could not endure the 
 thought, and it was present to me when I rebuked 
 you.' 
 
 ' Say no more about it.' 
 
 ' And yet I am not sorry that I was led to speak. I 
 do wish, John Rock, that you were more reliable. My 
 words are kindly meant, take them kindly. We have all 
 our faults, I chief of all, and if you blame me where I have 
 done amiss I will accept the admonition thankfully and 
 endeavour to amend. I deal with you as I would be dealt 
 by. John, during the past eighteen months I have had 
 brought to my mind irresistibly, and involuntarily, the 
 story of the son who said to his father, "I go, sir, and 
 went not." ' 
 
 ' Had you not better apply to the Bishop for a licence 
 to preach 1 ' asked Constantine, irritably. 
 
 ' No,' answered Paul, insensible to irony, ' I have no 
 wish for that. My vocation is for the life of a recluse, 
 not for a public career. But you are evading the subject, 
 Rock.' 
 
 ' I am getting too old to be lectured.' 
 
 ' But not to learn. We are learning all our days, cor- 
 recting what is wrong, and acquiring what is deficient. Do 
 not resent what I have said.' He stood still and looked 
 back along the lane. ' The dew is beginning to fall. I 
 wish Juliot would come. I want to hear how our friend 
 is. Will you go back, John, and help to carry the baby, 
 or shall I V 
 
 ' You seem so anxious about the young lady that you 
 had better go on, Featherstone, and peep or listen at the 
 keyhole, to learn how she is. We are none of us, you 
 know, too old to learn.' 
 
 Paul Featherstone looked at him with astonishment. 
 He understood neither his tone, nor the sneer in his words, 
 but they grated on him. 
 
 ' I do not take your meaning, John Rock — I never pry 
 and listen. I could not do so. You have greatly mis- 
 
 i 2 
 
276 THE GAVEEOUKS. 
 
 understood me, to think such a thing possible. I want to 
 know how Miss Penhalligan is, because she is ill and 
 because she is my guest.' 
 
 Constantine scarcely waited for the end of his sentence. 
 He walked back to meet his wife with the child. 
 
 Paul turned towards the house. ' He has hurt me,' said 
 Paul. ' But he did not mean it. He is thoughtless.' 
 
 Loveday on reaching the house had gone to her room, 
 and thrown herself on the bed. She could not cry. She 
 was as one half-stunned. She was conscious of what had 
 taken place, but she felt a numbness in her brain, which 
 prevented her from fully realising it, as it affected herself, 
 and from forming a resolution for the future. The dis- 
 covery had been so sudden, so overwhelming, so utterly un 
 expected. 
 
 She trembled, and the bed shook under her ; she had 
 folded her hands and lay with her cheek on them, looking 
 at the wall with wideopen eyes. Her breath came fast, 
 and her pulses throbbed in her temples, and each throb 
 was like the stroke of a hammer against her head. Paul 
 Featherstone had told her that the science of life was to 
 turn the face to the light ; but where was light to which 
 she could look 1 There was open to her only an abyss of 
 gloom. Instinctively she had turned, as she lay on her 
 bed, away from the window to look at a blank and 
 shadowed wall. Everything before her was blank. There 
 was no exit, no escape. 
 
 So Juliot found her lying, when she came to her. At 
 the sound of Juliot's voice a shudder, more violent and 
 convulsive than her continuous trembling, shook Loveday 's 
 frame ; and when Mrs. Rock bent over her to ask how 
 she was, Loveday with horror thrust her away, but imme- 
 diately repented, sat up, and held forth her arms, entreating 
 pardon. 
 
 Juliot asked if she felt herself better ? Yes — she was 
 better. If she wanted anything 1 No — nothing but to be 
 alone. 
 
 At this Juliot retired, and Loveday reproached herself 
 for having answered nncourteously. She wanted nothing, 
 nothing whatever but that. What else could she desire 1 
 Constantine was lost to her more fatally than if he had 
 
THE WOOF. 277 
 
 been engulfed, as she had believed, by the sea. Then she 
 could think of him as still her own Constantiue, although 
 in another world, and cherish her love of him and the 
 remembrance of his love. Now he was lost wholly to her. 
 Her respect for him was gone, she was robbed of that as 
 she had been robbed of her respect for her brother. She 
 loved Constantine still, and she loved Dennis still, but 
 the love for both was a pitiful, sorrowing love, a love that 
 stooped, not that stood on tiptoe. She could not wish to 
 have Constantine to herself, for she could no longer honour 
 him. Even if she had desired him, she could not have 
 him, for to assert her claim was to condemn him to trans- 
 portation. 
 
 She remembered the morning when she was married in 
 St. Sidwell's Church at Exeter, and the solemn sincerity 
 with which she had vowed to hold to Constantine till death 
 parted them. How could she be true to her oath if she 
 now renounced him ; yet how could she be true to him 
 without committing great cruelty to others 1 She was 
 morally bound to keep her promise, and yet, it seemed to 
 her, she would be morally wrong if she asserted her 
 claim. 
 
 Her thoughts went round and round in her brain, the 
 same thoughts, never getting any farther, sometimes re- 
 volving more furiously than at other times, but not for a 
 moment stationary, as though within her skull was a mill- 
 wheel that rushed and scattered the foam about, now 
 swiftly, now slowly, always going, never at rest. She lay 
 perfectly motionless on her bed, with her feet crossed, and 
 her hands closed, and her cheek on them, but her thoughts 
 whirled incessantly and could not be arrested. 
 
 So she lay till darkness had closed in ; then again Juliot 
 came to her room, this time with a cup of tea and some 
 toast. Loveday sat up on the bed, but her hand shook so 
 that she spilt the contents of the cup, and her throat rose 
 and prevented her from swallowing the toast. 
 
 ' You are ill,' said Juliot, with anxiety ; ' let me send 
 for a doctor.' 
 
 1 1 am not ill,' answered Loveday ; ' I am unhappy. I 
 shall be better to-morrow.' 
 
 Then she laid her head again on her hands, and her 
 hands on the pillow, in the same position, and said no more. 
 
278 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 And again, impatient at the interruption, the wheel of 
 thoughts went rushing round, and round, and round again 
 in her hot, aching brain. She was unconscious that Juliot 
 was still in the room, standing by the bed watching her. 
 Juliot remained some minutes with her eyes on her, per- 
 plexed and uneasy. Presently she said, ' My dear girl, you 
 must undress and go to bed. You cannot lie there. Let 
 me help you off with your gown.' 
 
 Then Loveday shuddered and held her hands to her 
 bosom to prevent Juliot from touching her dress, and un- 
 covering the blue silk thread, and seeing the gold wedding- 
 ring that hung there. 
 
 ' No ! no 1 ' she exclaimed with such terror in her voice 
 that Juliot desisted. ' Let me alone. 5 
 
 'I will not let you alone unless you promise me to go 
 to bed. You are either ill now, or are on the eve of an 
 illness.' 
 
 ' I promise ; I promise,' gasped Loveday, and she sat on 
 her bed, and watched Juliot with wide, alarmed eyes, till 
 she left the room. Then only mechanically did she undress, 
 and lie down. 
 
 Sleep she could not. Even whilst engaged removing 
 her clothes, she was conscious of the revolution of the wheel 
 of thoughts, speculations, doubts, conjectures, in her head ; 
 every thought, and doubt, and imagination was armed with 
 a blade that cut, like the spikes of a catherine-wheel, that 
 tore and tortured her relentlessly. And now to her former 
 thoughts there came another, an added dread, lest she 
 should become really ill, unconscious or delirious, and that 
 in this state the ring in her bosom would be seen, and her 
 tongue might blab the secret. She. folded her hands over 
 the ring, and pressed them and it to her breast, and the 
 ring became Avhite hot, and burnt its way, little by little, 
 deeper and yet deeper in through the tender skin and flesh 
 and buried itself in the palpitating heart, and there it spun 
 round and round and threw out drops of molten gold, burn- 
 ing with unspeakable anguish, drop on drop, drop on drop, 
 but never would melt away. 
 
 She considered whether, in her box, in her drawers, in 
 a book, anywhere, there was a written line that would re- 
 veal the secret, should curious eyes search them whilst she 
 was unconscious. No — there was nothing ; all Constan- 
 
THE -WOOF. 279 
 
 tine's letters were destroyed. There was nothing but the 
 ling to betray her. 
 
 Through all the tossings, and turnings, and fire of her 
 brain there ran the dominant thought of self-abnegation. 
 Her first duty was towards her husband, to save him from 
 the terrible consequences of his own guilt. Her self-sacri- 
 fice must assume a form never contemplated by her as pos- 
 sible — she must sin for him, she must go from her marriage 
 vow, and give him up. In sickness and in health, for 
 richer, fcr poorer, for better, for worse, she could not have 
 and hold him, she must not cherish him. She must resign her 
 proper place at his side, her proper office as his comforter 
 and stay and cherisher, to another, against her vow. It 
 must be so. She saw no escape from this, no alternative 
 but one of misery and humiliation for others. One must 
 suffer or many. She would accept the burden, and the sin 
 that attended it. The sacrifice was more than she could 
 bear — or almost more — but she felt that she was bound to 
 bear it. The hours passed, and she could not sleep ; she was 
 still thinking, the wheel spinning and tearing in her head, the 
 ring burning and sinking and melting in her heart, and now 
 and then she was aware that her self-command was slipping 
 from her. The tension was more than her nerves could 
 endure without giving way. That was now her chief terror, 
 lest she should have fever fall on her and sweep her away 
 into unconsciousness. 
 
 Where could she hide the ring ? What could be done 
 with it 1 It must not be seen. 
 
 When Juliot came down from Loveday's room for the 
 last time that night, she said to her brother, who was wait- 
 ing anxiously for her report, ' I am not at all satisfied with 
 leaving her alone. I cannot make her out. Poor soul, 
 some acute suffering seems to be endured by her, with a 
 determination not to let it be known of what nature it is 
 nor what is its extent. Yet I cannot be with her. She 
 entreats me to leave her, and she will endure no servant 
 with her. What is to be done ? ' 
 
 'Go to bed, Juliot,' answered Paul. 'Baby is your 
 charge. I will sit up in the parlour under her room, and 
 if she is stirring I shall hear. If she is worse I shall know, 
 and can summon assistance.' 
 
 So it was settled. Paul remained awake in the house, 
 
280 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 reading and meditating in the di*awing-room. The spinet 
 was there, but he did not venture to touch it, lest he should 
 disturb the sick girl above. 
 
 The night was as lovely as the day. The sky was without 
 a cloud, and the full moon shone down into the tiny quad- 
 rangle into which the windows looked. Paul had the 
 shutters back, so that he could see the moonlight in the 
 court, and could look up to the pure sky and a solitary star 
 that hung in it. On the opposite side of the quadrangle 
 was a window, and an orange gleam from it showed where 
 the baby slept with Juliot, and a rush-light burnt through 
 the hours of darkness. 
 
 All in the house were asleep ; not a sound had he heard 
 in the room above. He trusted that poor Loveday was also 
 sleeping. The book he had been reading had possessed no 
 interest for him. 
 
 His mind wandered from it and would not be arrested 
 by its contents. He sat at the spinet and played on the 
 keys, without sounding them, various airs that came into 
 his memory and harmonised with the tenor of his imagina- 
 tions. Then he sat in the window, and looked long into 
 the silvery blue sky, at the one star. He did not look at 
 his watch to note how the night passed, because he was not 
 impatient. Paul was never so content as when alone, in a 
 still house, communing with his thoughts. 
 
 After a while he stood up, went into the hall, unlocked 
 the porch door, and took a turn up and down the avenue 
 in the moonlight. He was stiff with sitting still, and felt 
 a little chilled. The gr-eat oak gates of the lodge were 
 never fastened. They had been barred every night in the 
 Rover's days, never since. What had Paul to fear ? 
 
 He did not remain long in the avenue, as he was afraid 
 of being away from his post for more than a few minutes. 
 He returned to the parlour, without locking the hall door, 
 and resumed his place at the window, looking up at the 
 sky and the star. 
 
 How long he thus sat, lost in meditation, he did not 
 know. He was roused from it as by an electric shock — he 
 heard a movement in the room overhead. He started to 
 his feet, for he heard a soft tread. He went to the parlour 
 door and listened. The footfall was on the landing ; it was 
 descending the stairs. Alarmed, uncertain what to do, 
 
THE "WOOF. 281 
 
 what ought to be clone, Paul remained standing in the 
 doorway, holding the latch with his left hand, watching. 
 
 Then he saw a white figure issue from the staircase 
 doorway, and walk down the hall slowly. A couple of wax 
 candles were burning in the room behind Paul, and their 
 light shone along the floor and cast his shadow over it. 
 The floor was of slate, but some mats were on it, and a 
 strip of carpet between the porch entrance and the stair 
 door. 
 
 There could be no doubt whatever as to who was walk- 
 ing through the hall ; there could be no doubt as to her 
 unconsciousness of what she was doing. Had she been 
 awake or in her right mind, she would have seen the candle- 
 light and the man standing watching her, and have shrunk 
 away. She saw nothing ; she was ashamed of nothing. 
 She was in her long white dress, as she had lain in bed ; 
 she was possessed by one idea, even in her sleep. She held 
 her hands folded one over the other, on her bosom. She 
 looked neither to right nor to left, but walked on. She 
 went direct to the porch doorway, released one hand from 
 its hold on her breast, opened the closed door, and went 
 out. 
 
 Then Paul recovered from his amazement. He knew 
 that she was walking in her sleep. He caught from a hook 
 in the hall a large dark cloak that his sister wore in wet 
 weather, and hurried after Loveday. He would not wake 
 her, and cover her with confusion, and fill her with terror. 
 He threw the cloak over her shoulders, and she accepted it 
 as a matter of course, and drew it with the disengaged 
 hand together across her bosom and what she held so 
 tightly and secretly there. She went through the outer 
 court and under the gatehouse, and down the avenue ; her 
 eyes were wide and fixed before her. She did not turn her 
 head ; she did not feel the cold earth and stones under her 
 bare feet. Paul followed her at a little distance. She 
 passed out of the avenue into the lane, and descended the 
 hill till she reached the little spring opposite the gate. 
 There she stood still, and, letting go her hold on the mantle, 
 put forth her right hand to the ash root she had held and 
 leaned on in the evening light. Now the light struck 
 through the gateway as then, but the light was now that 
 of the moon— then, of the sun. Then it had turned all it 
 
282 THE GAVEEOCKS. 
 
 touched to gold — now, to silver ; then the spring water fell 
 in diamonds— now, in pearls. The lane was over-arched 
 with trees, and Avas therefore in shadow, except at the well, 
 where the gate and gap in the trees allowed the moon- 
 light to flood the road and illumine the bank and falling 
 water. The cloak slipped from Loveclay's shoulders to her 
 feet, and in the halo of white effulgence she stood, looking 
 before her with motionless eyes at a frond of maidenhair 
 fern that danced in the air and flashed into a cluster of 
 silver flakes, and then sank back into invisibility. She put 
 her fingers to her neck and drew the gold wedding ring from 
 her bosom, and held it, suspended by its silk thread, spin- 
 ning and twinkling in the moonlight. Never hasty, never 
 rough, in anything she did, waking or sleeping, she un- 
 knotted the string — she did not break it. 
 
 Then she sighed, and holding it between her palms, and 
 resting both, closed, on the ash root, she laid her brow on 
 them, and so remained, still as a figure of marble, for full 
 five minutes. Whilst Paul hesitated whether to step for- 
 wards and throw the cloak over her again, she raised her 
 head, and, with a rapid motion, cast the ring from her into 
 the spring. 
 
 Then she turned away, and began rapidly to retrace her 
 steps. Paul followed, carrying the mantle, but afraid of 
 touching her. She had done that which she had determined 
 on, and was more likely now to be roused from sleep by a 
 word or a touch. The highest mercy he could show her 
 was to allow her to return to her room unroused. 
 
 She did not wake. She went back as she had come, 
 and Paul, when he returned to the parlour, heard her throw 
 herself on her bed. Then all was still. 
 
 Paul locked the hall door, and resumed his place at the 
 window. He blew out the candles, and sat thinking till 
 morning broke and the star had passed over the roof beyond 
 his ranee. 
 
283 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 THE WARP. 
 
 For many clays Loveday was confined to her bed by nervous 
 fever. She was unconscious, and rambled. But she never 
 uttered one word about her marriage, or named Constantine. 
 She spoke very little, and then concerning her brother, and 
 little Ruth, and domestic arrangements at JSTantsillan. The 
 slab of slate weighed on her. What was she to do with it 1 
 How many years was she to carry it about with her 1 Was 
 ifc always to be on her head, pressing her down ? — because 
 it hurt her ; it was too heavy for her to bear. Would no 
 one take the slab of slate off her head, or must she bear it 
 till it crushed her into the earth ? If so, would someone 
 write on it ' Loveday,' and nothing more, and leave it as 
 her tombstone ? Then for hours she lay with her fore- 
 finger on her lips, checking herself lest she should say 
 something that must not be said. 
 
 ' I thought,' said Constantine, ' that you were about to 
 get a companion for Juliot, to save her trouble, and you 
 have given her an additional pack to carry. This comes of 
 boasting, Featherstone. You told me you had secured a 
 treasure. But I suppose you are content that this house 
 should be a hospital.' 
 
 ' You were nursed in it,' said Paul, with slight reproach 
 in his tone. 
 
 ' The best thing you can do is to send her about her 
 business as soon as she is well. Juliot has enough to do 
 with the baby, and ought not to be worried with nursing 
 sick women.' 
 
 ' We did not pack you away.' 
 
 ' No ; I was useful to you. Saved you the rides to 
 Stanbury.' 
 
 'And this poor girl will be useful when she is well.' 
 
 ' I suppose she will not be drawing her salary all the 
 time she is being coddled up 1 ' said Constantine. 
 
 Paul did not answer ; he stood up, and walked away. 
 
 Constantine was in reality very anxious about the con- 
 dition of Loveday. He stood in daily terror of her reveal- 
 
284 -ma GAVEEOCXS. 
 
 ing the secret which would consign him to prison. He was 
 not heartless, but he was rendered so for the time by his 
 fear for himself ; and, in his desire to screen himself from 
 suspicion, he allowed Paul to regard him as lacking in 
 common charity. His want of feeling, or apparent want of 
 feeling, for the patient, angered Paul Featherstone, who 
 could not forget that his brother-in-law had lain in the 
 same condition, in the same room, less than two years ago, 
 and owed his life to the attentions he and his sister had 
 freely, ungrudgingly given him. 
 
 Paul Featherstone did not call in a medical man for 
 Loveday. ' The mind is suffering,' he said, ' and reacts on 
 the body. A surgeon can do nothing. The mind will re- 
 cover itself presently, and then the body will cast off its 
 fever. Too much wool has been worked over the woof, and 
 the string is strained.' 
 
 He visited the sick room every day, and sat some time 
 beside Loveday. Sometimes he stood over her. He never went 
 to her without kneeling by her side and praying, or repeating 
 the psalms of David. His presence always brought her 
 relief. She did not recognise him when delirious, or speak 
 to him ; but she was cooler, calmer, after his visits. He 
 laid his hand on her hot brow, and a stream of soothing 
 influence passed from him to her ; the flame in her cheek 
 became less fierce, her restlessness abated. 
 
 ' If she could cry, she would be better,' said Paul one 
 day, when glimmering consciousness appeared in her eyes. 
 ' Juliot, bring the baby. She seemed to love it. Try 
 whether she will recognise the child. Perhaps the little 
 finger may touch the rock of stone, and the rivers gush 
 forth in dry places.' 
 
 Juliot went out, and returned with the little fellow in 
 her arms, placed him on Loveday's bed, and said : ' My 
 dear, I have brought you my baby, little Constantine. Kiss 
 him.' 
 
 Then Loveday shuddered, and shrank away with a look 
 of trouble and terror in her face ; and as she crouched back 
 against the wall, with her hands extended before her, to 
 hold off the child from touching her, they saw that the 
 experiment had failed. They had done harm, not good, by 
 it. Paul was disappointed and puzzled. He said to Love- 
 day : ' Give me your hand.' 
 
THE WARP. 285 
 
 She always obeyed him ; she extended her hand to him, 
 and he put his fingers on the pulse ; the blood was leaping 
 and hammering in her veins. 
 
 ' Lie down,' he said. 
 
 She submitted. 
 
 ' Shut your eyes.' 
 
 She closed the lids. 
 
 ' Can you sleep 1 ' 
 
 She shook her head slightly. 
 
 ' I am your master ; I order you to sleep. I am your 
 physician ; I prescribe sleep. I am your friend ; I beseech 
 sleep.' 
 
 She unclosed her eyes, looked at him with such anguish 
 in them as to move him grievously. Then she closed her 
 eyes again. He continued to hold her wrist till the pulse 
 became more regular, and then he withdrew. 
 
 Next day she was better ; the fire was gone from her 
 cheeks. She was very pale, sunken-eyed, and thin, but 
 the light of restored intelligence was in her eyes. She was 
 very weak. A look of settled melancholy, almost of despair, 
 was in her face. 
 
 Paul Featherstone again visited her, and this time 
 signed to his sister to leave the room. He stood — he did 
 not attempt to take a chair — he stood some little way from 
 the bed. He had his hat in his hands ; he held it with 
 both in front of him. His back was towards the door and 
 the light of the window, but the reflected light from the 
 white walls and sheet partly illumined his grave, earnest 
 face. 
 
 ' Miss Penhalligan,' he said, in a low tone, ' I have not 
 much to say to you to-day, and I will not intrude for more 
 than a couple of minutes. I only dare to venture here as 
 your doctor. I have had to deal in this room with two 
 cases, of which yours is one. There has been unconscious- 
 ness and fever in both — in the first caused by outward 
 physical wounds, in this by inward wounds dealt to the 
 spirit. I do not know your story, but I know this, that you 
 have had to suffer. The pain of a crushed soul has been 
 yours, and that brought on your illness. The wounds are 
 not healed, the cause of your sorrow not removed. I see 
 in your face that the anguish remains, though the bodily 
 fever is over. I know one thing more. As I told you that 
 
286 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 the dominant of woman's life is self-sacrifice, so I doubt 
 not that the beginning, the middle, and the ending of this 
 passage of wild and troubled music has been on the domi- 
 nant that rules true woman.' He paused. Her eyes were 
 on his, full of entreaty not to ask anything — not to press 
 her to yield up the secret. He quite understood her. ' I 
 ask you nothing. I want to know nothing. That I am 
 right in what I have said I know without asking. This I 
 will assure you for your comfort : you never said a word, 
 in your wildest paroxysms, which conveyed a hint of any- 
 thing you may wish to keep from us.' He saw a look 
 of relief creep into her eyes. ' But I have not come here 
 to speak about this. I have come to remind you of some- 
 thing you yourself asked me. You said to me that life 
 was an embroidery on canvas, and you accepted what I 
 told you was the woof of woman's life. Have you forgotten 
 what I said was the warp 1 The strings of that are fixed 
 above — in heaven. Throw the rest of your threads about 
 the warp, and the woof will not give way.' He was silent 
 again for a moment. Then he went on : ' Do you know 
 the constellation of Charles's Wain 1 It turns and turns for 
 ever, but in all its turnings the two foremost stars ever 
 point in one direction ; therefore they are called the 
 Pointers. In all the motions of the Wain they never turn 
 a hairbreadth aside — they ever point to the Pole Star. 
 There are many changes and revolutions in life, but each 
 of us has his pointers — the head and the heart, and they 
 will keep him steady if they point ever to the centre of the 
 spiritual sphere.' 
 
 Then he bowed and left the room. 
 
 A moment after, she heard him at the spinet below, 
 playing and singing : 
 
 As pants the hart for cooling streams, 
 
 VVhen heated in the chase, 
 So longs my soul for Thee, O God ! 
 
 And Thy refreshing grace. 
 
 Then the tears trickled from the eyes of Loveday and 
 moistened her pillow. 
 
zm 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 ANOTHER NOTICE TO QUIT. 
 
 Constantine was engaged all the time that Loveday 
 was ill in forming plans of escape from the dangerous as 
 well as embarrassing situation in which he was placed. 
 None were satisfactory. All rested on the assumption that 
 Loveday would be induced to abandon her rights. But 
 could he hope this ? Had he a right to expect it ? She 
 was his legitimate wife, and was it likely that she would 
 waive her claim in favour of another woman 1 That she 
 loved him dearly he knew; but was her love of so unselfish 
 a nature as to induce her to renounce him 1 Was not love 
 essentially selfish 1 He had wronged her in the most cruel 
 manner in which wrong could have been done. Was it not 
 probable that the injury done her would transform her love 
 into hatred, and that she would seek revenge 1 How could 
 she better chastise him for having deserted her for another 
 than by proclaiming his infamy and exacting legal retribu- 
 tion 1 
 
 But supposing that she consented not to betray him, 
 would she be able to keep the secret 1 Would she not be 
 moved, when next she was at Towan, to confide to his 
 mother that he, her best -loved son, her Benjamin, the 
 apple of her eye, was still alive 1 Would she be able to 
 keep the secret from Gerans, his brother, who had always 
 loved him with a strong, unselfish, fraternal love ? 
 
 Would she be silent to her own brother, Dennis 1 If 
 Dennis knew the truth, he would certainly demand redress 
 for his sister's wrongs. He would not be satisfied that his 
 sister should forfeit her position. 
 
 Loveday would be writing home, every one in his old 
 parish, all his relations and friends would know where she 
 was, and what more likely than that some one or other of 
 them would drop in at Marsland to see her, for Loveday 
 was an universal favourite. Then, if any one from the 
 old place came to Marsland, the mischief would be done. 
 
 He trusted that Loveday had said nothing to com- 
 
288 THE GAVEEOCKS. 
 
 promise him during her delirium, or nothing that Paul 
 Featherstone and Juliot had understood as compromising 
 to him. If she had used his name in her murmurs, it was 
 possible that the fond Juliot had supposed she was speaking 
 of the child, and nattering herself that the sick girl had 
 already become attached to it. A mother is sufficiently 
 proud and foolish to believe anything, said Constantine. 
 
 He could not, however, conceal from himself that Paul 
 did not regard him with the same friendliness as before, 
 and this change in his manner filled him with uneasiness. 
 Did Paul suspect anything 1 Had he an inkling of an 
 idea that he and Loveday were not absolute strangers to 
 each other 1 Had Paul noticed his alarm when the name 
 of Penhalligan was mentioned to him 1 Had Juliot told 
 Paul that it was at sight of him, Constantine, that Love- 
 day had been overcome ? 
 
 In his fear and desire to allay suspicion Constantine 
 overdid his part. He spoke with heartlessness of the sick 
 woman, and expressed impatience at her illness. This it 
 was which alienated Paul from him. Featherstone sus- 
 pected nothing, but he was shocked and disgusted at Con- 
 stantine's lack of generosity, and dearth of sympathy. 
 
 Paul's manner became more restrained and cold towards 
 him, and this, instead of inducing Constantine to alter his 
 conduct, drove him to accentuate it. 
 
 Loveday had been thinking, quite as much as he, what 
 was to be done. He had considered what was expedient, 
 she what was right. 
 
 One day, when Paul was about the farm and Juliot 
 was with the baby in the garden, Constantine took the 
 occasion of being alone in the house with Loveday to talk 
 to her about the future. She was sufficiently recovered to 
 sit in the parlour. He had shunned a short private inter- 
 view when left alone for a few minutes ; it must be painful 
 to both, and could lead to nothing. Now he had his chance, 
 and he seized it. 
 
 She was looking deathly white, with bright sunken 
 eyes ; beautiful she always was, her intense sorrow had 
 spiritualised her beauty, and Constantine thought her now 
 more lovely than he had ever done before. He had never 
 lost his affection for her, but his fear for himself had stifled 
 it in his bosom when he saw her again. 
 
ANOTHER NOTICE TO QUIT. 289 
 
 She looked at him sadly, with a tinge of fear in her 
 sadness. 
 
 ' My dear Loveday,' he said, carefully shutting the door 
 behind him. ' I am so glad to see you better, and trust 
 you will soon be well. I have not had a chance before of 
 speaking with you in private, and telling you how anxious 
 I have been whilst you were ill. It has been doubly 
 distressful to me, because I was forced to conceal my 
 feelings.' 
 
 She did not interrupt him. She did not curl her lip 
 and wonder whether his anxiety were for himself or for 
 her. 
 
 ' I have been thinking what is to be done, and I cannot 
 tell. What have you thought ? ' 
 
 'You asked me to be silent till you had come to a 
 resolution. I have kept my word. What do you pro- 
 pose 1 ' 
 
 'My dear Loveday, you see the position I am in. It 
 is desperate. I have schemed one thing, then another, and 
 every scheme when built up seems reared on sancl, which 
 will shift and let it down.' He was afraid to propose to 
 her any one of his schemes : they all rested on the one base 
 of her self-abnegation, and he had not the heart — he had 
 sufficient sense of shame not to ask that of her. 
 
 ' Constantine,' she said, ' what do you offer me 1 ' 
 
 ' I have no offer to make.' 
 
 ' And I am to be silent till you have made up your 
 mind ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, I entreat you. Some solution will present itself, 
 must do so, but I have not found it yet.' 
 
 ' Listen to me,' she said, calmly. ' I have had even 
 more time than you for the consideration of this matter. 
 You have had distractions, I have had none ; waking, 
 all day I have thought of nothing else ; in my bed, unable 
 to sleep, at night, I have had the problem ever before me. 
 Even sleeping it has been present, embarrassing me. I 
 have considered it from every possible point of view ; I 
 have disengaged my own interests from it, I have tried to 
 see it, as I might have seen it had it pleased God to take 
 me to Himself. That, perhaps, would have been the simplest 
 way out of the maze, but that it was not to be the way God 
 has shown by leaving me here. I was willing enough to go. 
 
 u 
 
290 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 I clung to life, no, not by a finger end — but I have been 
 sent back from the door of death with a command to stay. 
 Therefore, Constantine, the puzzle must be riddled out 
 between us.' 
 
 ' What is to be done ? ' asked he, distractedly. ' I have 
 tried to discover, and cannot.' 
 
 ' Perhaps you have looked at it from one narrow point 
 of sight — your interests, or your fancied interests. But we 
 must consider it from another ; we must ask, What is right 
 to be done 1 ' 
 
 Constantine's heart sank. He was not prepared to 
 think of it thus. Thought of thus there was but one 
 answer. 
 
 ' You are my husband in the sight of God, and by the 
 law of the land. I am your wife, and Juliot is not. You 
 will allow this.' 
 
 'Yes' — reluctantly admitted. ' But, consider ' 
 
 ' Let me say what I desire, and then you shall speak. 
 The plain, broad right is that you and I live together 
 henceforth as we have sworn to each other. Is it not so 1 ' 
 
 He did not answer. 
 
 ' But,' continued Loveclay, ' that has been made impos- 
 sible by your guilty act. It cannot be. It never can be. 
 If your guilt is made known, you will be separated from 
 me and from your other wife, equally. Is it not so 1 ' 
 
 ' Yes, it is ; and surely, Loveclay, if you have a 
 heart ' 
 
 ' Let me finish what I have to say. I have thought it 
 all out. It is clear to me now, but I cannot say that it 
 will remain so. I cannot live with you as your wife, and 
 you cannot return to me as my husband, because of your 
 crime. Not only because the law would banish you, but 
 also because my whole nature recoils from it. But, as you 
 are living now, you are in sin. Poor Juliot is guiltless, 
 because she is ignorant ; but you are not, and every day 
 that you remain here aggravates your sin, and lessens your 
 chance of pardon and salvation. Is it not so ? ' 
 
 He did not answer. 
 
 ' Do not think for one moment that I regard Juliot 
 with jealousy. I pity her. I love her. I cannot do other 
 than both admire and love her for her singleness of mind 
 and childlike innocence. She knows nothing of the battles 
 
ANOTHER NOTICE TO QUIT. 291 
 
 and agonies of life. She has lived here as a nun in a con- 
 vent, secluded from the knowledge of evil. Not for the 
 world would I have her faith in goodness shaken by the 
 discovery of the wrong you have done her. I will never, 
 never tell her. I will for ever seal my mouth lest she 
 should know this terrible secret : I would spare her the 
 shame which would crush and kill her ; and for her brother's 
 sake — so good, so kind, so pious, and so simple — I would 
 be silent, if there were no other motive to influence me, 
 but ' 
 
 Constantine had been breathing freer. At the ' but ' he 
 began to shiver with fear again. 
 
 ' But,' she continued, ' though she must not know the 
 cruelty and feel the disgrace, you must not remain here as 
 her husband. That would be sin. You must go hence.' 
 
 ' What ! ' exclaimed Constantine, angrily ; ' you would 
 banish me ! ' 
 
 ' Not I. You must exile yourself. I will do nothing, 
 I can do nothing, but tell you your duty. Not to come to 
 me — I do not ask, I do not wish that. It will be a pang- 
 to Juliot, but an innocent pang — not a degrading torture, 
 like the knowledge of your iniquity. Am I not right 1 ' 
 
 ' And pray, whither am I to go 1 ' 
 
 'That I leave to you.' 
 
 ' You will swear to me most solemnly not to reveal our 
 marriage to Juliot, to Paul, to anyone 1 ' 
 
 ' I have shown that I can keep silence, and I will keep 
 it. But understand that your father and mother, Gerans, 
 and Rose all know about that. I am now in banishment 
 myself from Nantsillan, for a twelvemonth. At the end of 
 this time I return, and the old Squire will probably re- 
 cognise my relationship. I will say nothing about you ; I 
 will not allow them to suppose, from anything I may say, 
 that you are still alive. Accident, or rather Providence, 
 has brought me here, to startle you out of your security 
 and tell you your duty. If you neglect to attend to me, 
 Providence may again interfere, not to warn, but to punish.' 
 
 ' A veiled threat,' muttered Constantine. 
 
 ' Not at all. Not through me shall you ever suffer.' 
 
 He considered. What she said was true ; there was 
 always a danger of his being discovered. There were 
 plenty of persons in his own county who knew him ; he 
 
 u 2 
 
292 THE GAVEKOCKS. 
 
 was known by some in Exeter. He was shut up in a little 
 corner of land — there was danger in leaving it ; he must be 
 for ever in fear of its invasion, and of his recognition. If 
 his previous marriage was known to his father and mother, 
 to Gerans and Rose, it would soon be known to all who 
 cared, and his recognition would lead to his destruction. 
 
 ' Loveday,' he said, ' you have put this in a new light 
 to me. I admit to you that my conscience has been very 
 uneasy. I have not been happy. I did what was wrong, 
 and then did not know how to undo the wrong. You 
 must give me time to think well over what you have put 
 to me so clearly. And now, as you have pronounced sen- 
 tence of banishment against me, I must deliver the same 
 to you. You cannot stay here.' 
 
 ' No,' she answered quietly, ' I do not wish to. Here is 
 a letter I have written to-day to my cousin in Exeter, to 
 ask her to receive me. I was to have gone to her when 
 diverted at Launceston.' 
 
 ' No one at home knows where you are at present ? ' 
 
 ' How can they 1 I have not written. I have been too 
 ill to write, even if the wish had been in me.' 
 
 ' I will see to this letter being posted.' 
 
 'When I hear from her I will leave. I will leave 
 gladly. To be here is daily suffering. I had written to my 
 cousin from Nantsillan to expect me, but did not wait for 
 an answer ; she will have wondered what became of me 
 when I did not arrive.' 
 
 ' Do not condemn me, Loveday. I have, I have indeed, 
 suffered.' 
 
 ' I know that you have done very wrong, but I do not 
 condemn you. No one has any right to judge another who 
 has not been subjected to the same temptation.' 
 
 ' And you will forgive me 1 ' 
 
 ' I will forgive you freely, heartily, when I am sure that 
 you are repentant.' 
 
 ' I am that now.' 
 
 ' When you have left this place I will forgive you.' 
 
 Then they heard the voice of Juliot, talking to her baby, 
 as she entered the house from the garden. 
 
 Constantine at once left the parlour. 
 
 ' You have been in to see our patient,' said Juliot. 
 * She is, indeed, patient, which is a joke, as Paul would say. 
 
ANOTHER NOTICE TO QUIT. 293 
 
 By the way, have you observed, John, how much graver my 
 brother has become of late 1 He was wont to be vastly 
 humorous, but now he never jokes. What has come over 
 him, I wonder ? ' 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 OX A BENCH. 
 
 The departure of Loveday from Marsland was not so easily 
 managed as Constantine supposed. Days passed without an 
 answer from the Exeter cousin, and at last Loveday's letter 
 was returned from the Dead Letter Office : ' Left Exeter ; 
 address not known.' 
 
 Loveday was troubled. Whs.t should she do ? Whither 
 could she go ? She must consult Constantine. There was 
 no one else whom she could consult. She was uneasy, 
 anxious to leave, partly because her brother and friends at 
 Towan knew nothing about her — where she was, what she 
 was doing — and also because a continued residence at 
 Marsland was unendurable to her. 
 
 She had seen little of Constantine since the interview 
 in the parlour. He had, or pretended to have, business 
 at Stanbury, which occupied him so continuously that he 
 slept there, coming to Marsland only now and then. 
 
 One beautiful day the opportunity she desired arrived. 
 She was in the garden, sitting on the bench, holding the 
 baby on her lap, talking and singing to it. She was much 
 improved in health, but still looked delicate, and the ex- 
 pression of intense sadness would not wear out of her face, 
 but it was qualified and sweetened by resignation. She 
 had no hope in life, no object towards which she could 
 strive. Sometimes, when she was in the garden with the 
 child, Paul was also there, working, or collecting herbs, and 
 he would talk to her. His conversation always brought 
 her comfort. Without knowing her secret he divined the 
 depth of her trouble, and sympathised with her. 
 
 Paul's conversation acted on her hot and suffering heart 
 like the flow over it of cool spring-water. 
 
 The child exercised a healing influence also. It drew 
 her attention from herself. She became very fond of it, 
 
294 THE GAVEEOCKS. 
 
 and it was a pleasure to her to be able to carry it about and 
 amuse it whilst the mother was engaged on her duties in 
 the house. When Loveday was not nursing little Con she 
 was engaged on needlework, repairs which had been 
 neglected after the birth of the child, because Juliot had 
 not time to attend to both. 
 
 She had made a little posy of bachelor's-buttons for the 
 baby when the garden door opened, and Constantine came 
 to her. He looked sharply about, to make sure that Paul 
 Featherstone was not there, and then he seated himself on 
 the bench beside Loveday. At the back grew an elder, now 
 a mass of sweetness and white bloom. 
 
 ' I am glad to find you alone,' said Constantine. ' Why 
 are you still here ? ' 
 
 She told him the reason. He was perplexed, and bit 
 his thumb. 
 
 ' I thought your cousin was living beyond her income. 
 How is it you did not know this before leaving Nantsillan % ' 
 
 ' I wrote, but left before the return of the letter. It 
 will have arrived, and alarmed my brother : he will not 
 know where I am.' 
 
 ' There is no help for it,' said Constantine. ' You must 
 remain here a little longer, till something is heard of. I 
 will put an advertisement for you in an Exeter paper. 
 Tell me, have Paul Featherstone and Juliot questioned you 
 regarding the cause of your illness 1 ' 
 
 ' Oh, Constantine ! no. They have vastly too good feel- 
 ing to do such a thing. But Mr. Featherstone is so wonder- 
 ful that I fancy at times he sees into my soul and reads 
 what is there. I am sure he knows more than his sister.' 
 
 ' Does he suspect me ? ; 
 
 c I do not think so. I cannot tell what he knows, but 
 I believe, from the way he has with me, that he has more 
 knowledge than we suppose. He has great and miraculous 
 powers.' 
 
 ' Pshaw ! ' scoffed Constantine. ' Do not be imposed 
 on by his airs. He fancies that he has the gift of healing, 
 but he is a quack and a mountebank.' 
 
 'You must not say that/ exclaimed Loveday, with some 
 warmth. ' He is true to himself and to others.' 
 
 Constantine laughed. 'He imposes first on himself and 
 then upon others. I thought you had more common sense 
 
ON A BENCH. 295 
 
 than to be deceived by his pretensions. I'll tell you what 
 happened whilst I have been here. I went with Paul one 
 Sunday to Welcorabe Church, and found it crowded with 
 an unusually large congregation. All through the service 
 it was clear the people were thinking of something other 
 than the prayers and sermon. When the parson retired, 
 then the churchwardens came up to the Featherstone pew, 
 and asked Paul to accompany them. So he went out, and 
 all the people lined the churchyard path, apparently expect- 
 ing something. They closed in after Paul and the church- 
 wardens, and followed them to the church-house. " Us 
 have got him at last," said one of the- wardens. " The old 
 enemy be safe locked up in here," said the other. " What 
 do you mean 1 " asked Paul, much puzzled. " Sure, Squire, 
 us have caught the devil, and locked him in. Nicolas 
 Hey ward, there, found him in the road." We entered, and 
 there lay a black indiarubber ball on the floor. " Nicolas 
 Heyward took'n up off the road, not knowing what he 
 was," said one of the wardens ; " and when he let'n fall, 
 then he jumped and danced so high he was sure that he'd 
 laid hold on him then. So he said the Church Catechism 
 right through, questions and all, and, thus fortified, he sent 
 him on wi' his foot, till he got him into the church-house, 
 and there he be." " Why," said Paul, " this is quite 
 natural ; it is not Satan, it is an indiarubber bouncing 
 ball." Then he took it up and went out before all the con- 
 gregation, and tried to explain its properties. Then he 
 threw it down, and away it sprang over their heads, and 
 the folk flew right and left ; and where the ball fell no one 
 ever saw. But all Welcombe parish believes that Squire 
 Featherstone conjured the devil away.' 1 
 
 'Mr. Featherstone did not encourage their superstition; 
 he endeavoured to dispel it.' 
 
 ' He could do no other, with me at his elbow. If I had 
 not been present, there is no knowing to what hocus-pocus 
 he might have had resort.' 
 
 ' For shame, Constantine ! ' 
 
 ' Well,' said he, with a laugh and shrug of his shoulders, 
 ' it is an instance of the way in which the people encourage 
 him in his craze ; and he does nothing, as you have seen, 
 
 1 A true incident that occurred about forty years ago. The thing 
 found was, however, not a ball, but a gutta-percha whip. 
 
29G THE GAVEEOCKS. 
 
 to discourage them in their belief. Here, Loveday, give 
 me the baby.' 
 
 He took the child in his arms and played with it. The 
 little fellow laughed, and beat with his feet on his father's 
 knees, and tried to stand and leap on them. Loveday had 
 stuck little tufts of golden bachelor's-buttons down the 
 front of his dress, and as Constantine danced him they fell 
 out on his lap, and then on the ground about his feet, where 
 he carelessly trod on them. 
 
 ' He is like me, is he not, Loveday 1 ' asked he. 
 
 ' Yes, despotic as a Gaverock,' she replied. 
 
 ' Tell me about home,' said Constantine. ' I have heard 
 nothing since I left, and I cannot make inquiries. I have 
 not had the chance of asking you. Is the old place just the 
 same — and the old people, how are they ? ' 
 
 She told him about them. He was interested and 
 moved by recollections, and sighed. 
 
 ' It is very hard ! You cannot understand my feelings. 
 I wish again and again that I could go home and see them 
 all. Now that I may not, I feel an almost uncontrollable 
 desire to go. My father was rough, but, after all, Gerans 
 and I had a very happy boyhood. How is Phoebus 1 ' 
 
 ' Phoebus belongs now to Rose.' 
 
 ' She will not know how to manage him. I should like 
 to slip back to Towan, by night, open the stable door, and 
 gallop away on Phoebus. But it would not do ; it cannot 
 be. O Loveday ! I have imprisoned myself here. I dare 
 not go anywhere, lest I should be stumbled upon and re- 
 cognised hy some one from our parts. I have come to hate 
 this nook of the world. Look at those bachelor's-buttons 
 — how scraggy they grow ! Do you remember the plant in 
 the Towan garden under the drawing-room window ? I 
 nearly committed myself one day when I was here with 
 Juliot. She spoke of this very tuft, and said that she was 
 fond of the golden flower. Then I laughed, and said I 
 knew far finer shrubs of bachelor's-buttons. " You should 
 Bee ours," I began ; then recollected myself, and turned the 
 colour of a peony.' 
 
 Loveday sighed. 
 
 ' Look at this little fellow,' said Constantine. ? There 
 is not a scrap of Featherstone in him, I am glad to say ; he 
 has my nose, and my hair, and his eyes will, I think, be 
 
ON A BENCH. 297 
 
 like mine — only one cannot tell of what colour a baby's 
 eyes are. Loveday, was my father very angry when he 
 heard about our marriage 1 ' 
 
 1 At first, but he soon cooled.' 
 
 ' Ah ! now that it is too late, I wish I had been brave 
 and told him all. One is always wise after the event, 
 when it is irrevocable. I hate my life here, with this 
 weariful Paul Featherstone, solemn and dreamy, and in 
 this cramped nook from which I can no more escape than 
 a mouse from a trap. How is Bryony ? ' 
 
 ' What, the black cow V 
 
 ' Yes. I remember her when she was a little calf. 
 I was wont to give her sugar, and she was tame as a 
 kitten, and ran after me and licked my hand. Whenever 
 I came home from Padstow she ambled and jumped for 
 joy. She had not forgotten me on my return from Exeter. 
 I went through the yard when the cows were being brought 
 in to be milked, and she brokj away from the rest, and 
 lowed, and rubbed her head against me, and licked my 
 hand.' 
 
 'I heard Mrs. Gaverock say that Bryony gave more 
 milk than two of the red Devons.' 
 
 ' I care for nothing here, and for nobody ' 
 
 c Nobody ! ' exclaimed Loveday, looking round. ' Not 
 this little fellow V 
 
 1 Oh, of course, I exclude him. If I ran away I should 
 carry him with me. You must not condemn me for what 
 I have done. All men make mistakes some time or other, 
 only most are able to redress them somehow, and I cannot 
 — that is the difference.' Then he handed the baby back 
 to Loveday. He was tired of holding it, and of its jumps 
 and pats on his cheeks. ' The little fellow goes to you 
 quite readily, as if ' He checked himself. A con- 
 strained pause ensued. ' Were they very distressed at 
 Towan when they thought I was dead 1 ' he asked. 
 
 ' It nigh on broke your dear mother's heart. She has 
 never recovered the shock. She was ofl' her head for a 
 while, thinking of you as a child.' 
 
 ' Ah ! so was I off my head. If I had not been so, I 
 would not have got into this cursed predicament. So 
 Gerans is married, and has got Rose. Some fellows are 
 born to luck. Why, she must be worth four or five hundred 
 
298 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 a year, and charming to boot. Gerans is a good fellow, 
 but that is no reason why the skies should rain gold on 
 him and pitch on me. I could be quite as good a fellow as 
 he if circumstances allowed me. The saying is, "A poet 
 is born, not made ; " it is the reverse with a virtuous man 
 ■ — he is made, not born. How can a man be righteous 
 when he is impecunious ? A man must live. When you 
 are drowning you catch at what you can to keep you afloat, 
 and don't ask if the casks have paid the excise on which 
 you are washed ashore. Was the "Mermaid" badly hurt?' 
 
 Loveday was made uncomfortable by his conversation. 
 She did not see his meanness, selfishness, and want of 
 balance, but his talk fretted her wounded and suffering 
 heart, she hardly knew why. 
 
 ' Constantine,' she said, ' never mind about the " Mer- 
 maid." We have other matters that concern us more 
 nearly. I think day and night about them, and it seems 
 to me that there is no escape from the consequences this 
 side the grave. We must do our duty, each going the 
 straight road that opens before us, and spare others as 
 much as we can.' 
 
 ' Be easy,' he answered, with a tone of impatience ; " I 
 shall find a way out. A rabbit has more holes than one 
 to his burrow. There is no knot that cannot be untied 
 with patience.' 
 
 Loveday shook her head sadly. ' We are all enveloped 
 in one cloud,' she said, ' and the cloud is so charged with 
 lightning that some must be struck, and none can escape 
 unsinged. You are bound to both Juliot and me — to both 
 by the most sacred vows. My claim is the elder, and is 
 the claim that the law would allow. Nevertheless, you 
 are bound to her ; you made promises to her, and she put 
 her life in your hands, trusting to them. You are bound 
 to her by this mutual bond.' She bent over the child, 
 which was falling asleep, and her tears dropped on its 
 sweet, innocent face. ' The child itself has a strong claim 
 on you by nature, though not by law. Why do you speak 
 so lightly of rabbit holes, and taking your choice out of 
 which you will run ? You can leave neither Juliot nor me 
 without breaking a tie one end of which is attached to 
 your heart. You cannot leave either Juliot or me without 
 giving one of us inexpressible pain. You have broken 
 
ON A BENCH. 299 
 
 your mother's heart, you have broken mine, and — it is 
 inevitable — you must break Juliot's. Yes, the saying is 
 true : " The earth is strewn with potsherds" — the broken 
 lives of us frail vessels of clay.' 
 
 ' I suppose I shall have to leave Marsland,' said Con- 
 stantine. ' I shall not be sorry. I am weary of my im- 
 prisonment here. I did what was wrong, and I repent. 
 My conscience will not be easy till I have escaped from 
 this false position. But whither am I to go ? I have no 
 money. I cannot return to Nankivel at Exeter or to 
 Towan without giving some account of myself, and I am a 
 bad hand at inventing lies. I have told enough since I 
 came here, and every one of them has cut my throat as it 
 came up.' 
 
 'Nevertheless, that is your best course. Return to 
 your father, but tell no lies. Decline to say where you 
 have been.' 
 
 'Yes ! and then there will be hue-and-cry through the 
 country after me. Paul will advertise me — full description 
 given, and full account of how I was found. Then, what 
 will happen ? Judge for yourself. No, Loveday, that will 
 not answer.' 
 
 ' You are bound to go,' said Loveday. ' That is a clear 
 duty.' 
 
 ' And safer for me,' added Constantine. 
 
 ' But,' she went on, ' do not go yet. I must leave ; I 
 cannot remain under the same roof with you and Juliot. I 
 cannot visit my cousin, as I do not know where she is. 
 You must bestir yourself to find some situation for me ; 
 otherwise I shall leave without knowing whither I am 
 going. My position here is insupportable.' 
 
 Just then Juliot came into the garden, and seeing the 
 two together on the bench talking, she clapped her hands, 
 and called over her shoulder to her brother : 
 
 ' Paul ! Paul ! come here. I am so glad ! John is re- 
 conciled at last to Loveday.' 
 
 ' I am rejoiced that his eyes are opened to acknowledge 
 worth where it is found,' said Paul, entering. 
 
 ' Do you know, Loveday,' explained Juliot, ' that Mr. 
 Rock was quite prejudiced against you 1 He did not know 
 you, and I think he was afraid that you would steal away 
 baby's heart from me. Now that you have had a talk to- 
 
300 THE GAVEEOCES. 
 
 gether you will have come to like each other — I am so de- 
 lighted ! ' 
 
 ' Dinner is ready,' Juliot said, when Constantine stood 
 up, greatly confused. 
 
 Then all went together into the hall. Constantine had 
 not dined with Loveday since her recovery ; he had kept 
 away at Stanbury. Now, as he sat at table, he looked 
 from her to Juliot, and from Juliot back to Loveday. There 
 could be little question which was the most attractive of 
 the two women to whom he was bound. Juliot had the 
 simplicity of a child in her face ; that of Loveday was full 
 of intelligence, and the sweetness bred of pain. They 
 were both pleasant looking, but Loveday was the most 
 beautiful. 
 
 ' After all,' said Constantine to himself, ' I do love my 
 first wife, and I do not care particularly for the second. 
 Confound that fool, Paul, for throwing his sister at my 
 head ! ' 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 
 BETWEEN TWO HEAVENS. 
 
 ' I have a plan, a beautiful plan,' said Juliot, when the 
 early dinner was ended. ' The day is so perfect, the wind 
 is off shore, and the sea is so still, that I have set my mind 
 on Loveday having a paddle on the water. What do you 
 say, Paul ? Will you take the oars 1 From you, Loveday, 
 I will allow no refusal, The air on the sea, the sun, the 
 sparkling water, will do you much good, and bring colour 
 to your pale cheeks.' 
 
 ' Which boat shall Ave take 1 asked Paul. ' I suppose 
 Pock will take an oar as well.' 
 
 ' Oh, no ! ' exclaimed Juliot, eagerly, 'John is not going, 
 nor am I. That is, we will stroll with you as far as the 
 beach, but I shall have baby in my arms, and I am not 
 going to sea with him. You will probably stay out longer 
 than the young gentleman will approve, so I retain John to 
 assist me in carrying him home. If he is amiable, we will 
 await you on the sand and let the fine fellow play with the 
 shingle ; if he be overcome with ennui, John and I will 
 transport him home.' 
 
BETWEEN TWO HEAVENS. 301 
 
 ' I think it would do the child good to be rowed about 
 in the bay,' said Constantine. 
 
 ' My dear John, you must leave me to decide what is 
 good for my boy. When he is six months or a year older I 
 will not object. The air would be too strong for his lungs 
 now, or his lungs might be too strong for those in the 
 boat. He is capricious, and when he wills spoils the best 
 sport.' 
 
 ' As you choose,' said Constantine. 
 
 Paul Featherstone was well content to meet his sister's 
 wishes. Loveday was grateful for the thought and kind- 
 ness ; Constantine alone appeared dissatisfied with the pro- 
 posal, though he did not actively oppose it. The four, 
 Juliot carrying the baby, descended the valley towards the 
 shore of Marsland Mouth. 
 
 'Do not wait for us,' said Juliot. ' Push on, Paul, with 
 Miss Penhalligan, and seize the day in its splendour. My 
 fine gentleman detains me ; he wishes to touch everything 
 he sees, and what he touches he puts into his mouth. He 
 is an experimental philosopher. Well, sir, what is your 
 opinion of dandelion 1 Will it serve as a pickle ? The flies 
 are tiresome, are they, Constantine the little ? John, dear, 
 fetch me some large bracken leaves, that I may arrange 
 them about his hat to drive away the tormentors. There, 
 sir, is King Charles's oak in the bracken stalk, where your 
 father has cut athwart. It does not interest you now. 
 Wait a few years, and then you will be hunting for the 
 meanings of the cabalistic characters in the fern-stalk 
 yourself.' 
 
 Constantine assisted Paul in running the boat to the 
 water ; then Loveday was handed in. Featherstone re- 
 moved his coat, and took an oar. ' You will not take the 
 other 1 ' asked he of Constantine. 
 
 ' No, Paul,' said Juliot, ' John remains with me.' 
 
 ' I don't know that,' said Constantine, perversely. 
 ' Hold hard, Featherstone, I will join you.' 
 
 But Paul thrust off from land, and left his brother-in- 
 law on the beach, with a moody brow and a dissatisfied 
 grumble. 
 
 ' Come to me, John,' said Juliot. ' Do you not see 1 
 You men are so dull : I do not want a third to spoil that 
 little water-party.' 
 
302 THE GAVEEOCKS. 
 
 'Why should I spoil it V lie asked, impatiently. 
 
 ' Oh, John ! you think me simple, but I am shrewder 
 in some matters than you.' 
 
 Her words, instead o£ allaying, aggravated his dis- 
 content. He paced the sands, and looked after the re- 
 ceding boat with an angry scowl. 
 
 ' John, what is the matter 1 ' 
 
 ' I ought to have been at Stanbury to-day, not fooling 
 here.' 
 
 Paul rowed Loveday well out from shore. The sky was 
 perfectly serene, and as the wind was from the east and 
 blew over the cliffs the sea was unruffled for some way out ; 
 indeed, in the bay, it was quite still. The beauty of colour 
 in the water was indescribable. The sea on the north-west 
 coast is so deep, the rocks rising precipitously out of many 
 fathoms of water, that it is wholly void of earthy particles, 
 and is transparent almost as an atmosphere and blue as the 
 sky overhead. 
 
 The sea, though it did not form waves, and to the eye 
 was still, yet heaved with the swell from the ocean ; but 
 the effect was soothing — it was as though the sea were 
 breathing in sweet sleep under the rays of the summer 
 sun. 
 
 That the sea was not altogether still was also evident 
 from the line of white about the rocks, a precipitous cliff 
 that formed the horn of the bay dividing it from Welcombe 
 Mouth. The surf was, however, nothing to-day compared 
 to what it usually was over and about the slate rocks there. 
 Loveday looked up at the sky, and then down into the sea. 
 It seemed as though the boat were hanging between two 
 equally deep, blue, and tranquil heavens. 
 
 'You are almost disposed to doubt which is the real 
 heaven,' said Paul ; ' many look for it below, instead of 
 above, yet there is one beneath as well as one above — 
 bright, beautiful, peaceful, so long as it reflects the upper 
 heaven. Shall I tell you what is the occasion of breaker 
 and foam and wreck and ruin 1 It is the setting of the 
 wind inland, instead of off the shore. Which is an allegory.' 
 Then he pulled more vigorously, and shot round a rock 
 beyond sight of those on the beach. The gulls were flutter- 
 ing around, flashing like snow-flakes. Loveday put her 
 fingers over the side, and let the clear water flow between 
 
BETWEEN TWO HEAVENS. 303 
 
 them. As the boat moved a soft air fanned her face, but 
 failed when Paul suddenly shipped his oars and allowed the 
 boat to float and heave on the sea as it listed. 
 
 Then he put his hand in his waistcoat pocket and drew 
 forth a piece of silver paper, which he unfolded, and from 
 it took a gold ring attached to a thread of blue silk, and 
 handed it in his palm to Loveday. 
 
 ' Madam,' said he, ' I return you what was yours, found 
 oy me under circumstances I need not' detail. That it is 
 connected with your trouble, I am well assured. Of your 
 secret grief I know nothing, and I desire to know no more 
 than you choose to tell. But, madam, I am moved to ask 
 you to confide somewhat in me. You are alone, and with- 
 out a counsellor ; I might help you, and I trust I could 
 tender you consolation also.' 
 
 He had found the ring suspended by its silken thread to 
 a frond of maidenhair fern beside the spring in the lane. 
 Loveday had, indeed, missed it, and been uneasy at its loss, 
 and quite unconscious that she had cast it from her in a 
 sleep-walk. 
 
 The faint colour that had come into her cheeks fanned 
 by the sea air died away, and a cloud came over her eyes. 
 She trembled when she took the ring from his hand ; she 
 said nothing for some minutes, but her bosom heaved, not 
 with the even swell of the sea at that moment, but as it 
 heaves at the coming on of a storm. Presently she raised 
 her eyes to the face of Paul Featherstone, and said in a low, 
 but distinct voice : ' It belongs to me. You have a right 
 to know more. I have been married, and have lost my 
 husband.' 
 
 ' Lost ' 
 
 ' Lost at sea.' 
 
 ' Your happiness was of short duration ? ' 
 
 ' My happiness ! ' 
 
 She said no more, but her tone told him how very short, 
 how very slight, the happiness had been. 
 
 He put the oars into the water again, and rowed on, 
 outward, to where the wind coming over the cliffs touched 
 and roughened the surface — but the touch was light and 
 the roughness little. Holding the oars in the water, or 
 raising them and letting the clear drops run off the blades, 
 using no exertion, but seeing that the tide did not carry 
 
304 THE GAVEEOCKS. 
 
 the boat further, Paul paused, and looking gravely at Love- 
 day he said, ' You have no home, no one to care for you, to 
 protect you from trouble, to shield you from harm ; no one 
 to whom to confide your sorrows, and from whom to accept 
 consolation. From the moment that I found your ring, I 
 
 suspected your story, and ' He hesitated, drew a long 
 
 breath, and said, ' I have desired an opportunity of asking 
 you to accept from me that of which you are bereaved.' 
 
 Loveday looked at him at first with uneasiness, then 
 with alarm. 
 
 ' The time must come, and come quickly, when my 
 brother-in-law will leave Marsland, and take up his residence 
 at Stanbury with his wife and child. Stanbury is theirs, 
 and, somehow, Mr. Rock and I do not agree together quite 
 as well as I should wish. I have nothing to say against 
 him, but our opinions and feelings are not harmonious, and 
 it is best that he should go to his own house, where he is 
 master. And now, madam, I venture very humbly, and 
 knowing my own deficiencies and your transcendent excel- 
 lence, to entreat you ' 
 
 ' Oh, stay, stay ! ' exclaimed Loveday, in tones of dis- 
 tress. She clasped her hands, and entreated, ' Oh, Mr. 
 Featherstone, I beseech you, say no more ! ' 
 
 He obeyed he rode harder, turned the head of the boat 
 landwards, and was silent. Loveday sat speechless, with 
 her hands pressed to her bosom. The cup of bitterness that 
 had been given her was not drained to the dregs. She 
 must be a cause of disappointment and grief to the good, 
 courteous, and kind man who had led hitherto a life free 
 from heart-ache. 
 
 After a long silence he said, whilst still rowing : 
 
 ' I must not allow this interview to pass without making 
 myself clearly understood, without assuring myself that you 
 do not mistake my meaning. I look on you with such 
 respect, such tender regard, that I should be most happy 
 to place my life, my fortune, my name at your feet.' 
 
 ' It cannot be,' answered Loveday, profoundly agitated, 
 gasping for breath. 
 
 ' Tell me this,' he said, ' you do not love another ? ' 
 
 ' No,' she replied, after a moment's thought ; ' I think 
 of none but the husband I have lost.' 
 
 ' But lie is lost ! ' exclaimed Paul. 
 
BETWEEN TWO HEAVENS. 305 
 
 Loveday covered her eyes, and bowed her face on her 
 knees. 
 
 The sun was declining now, and its rays gilt the cliffs ; 
 the boat was out of the rougher water, under the lee of the 
 coast again. The gulls were screaming and chattering, 
 boldly diving near the boat, and coming up with fish, and 
 dashing on to wing again with a splash of water. 
 
 ' Madam,' said Paul Featherstone, ' why can you not be 
 happy at Marsland ? A quiet corner of a quiet world, 
 where there is nothing to distress from without or from 
 within— almost too quiet for our good, maybe — perhaps 
 too still to last without a ruffle. My sister loves you, and 
 would gladly receive you. Of myself I will say nothing, 
 save this, that the whole desire of my life would be to make 
 you happy.' 
 
 ' You are so good, so generous,' said Loveday, ' that it 
 goes to my heart to refuse you, but — I cannot, I cannot.' 
 
 ' Regard for the dead,' continued Paul, ' is just and 
 good ; but do not let the dead stand between you and 
 happiness. The dead do not return from the deep of the 
 sea to cut you off from home and rest and love. They do 
 not haunt us, after they are dead, to forbid us forming new 
 friendships and relationships. By all means be faithful to 
 the memory of him you have lost, but, believe me, he in 
 Paradise will rejoice, if he ever loved you, to see that his 
 poor storm-beaten dove is offered a sheltering cot.' 
 
 She could not speak, the power to answer was gone 
 from her, so great was her despair. 
 
 ' I am in no hurry,' Paul went on. ' I will wait for 
 you patiently two or three years, till your fresh grief has 
 abated. If I trouble you now, it is only because I am 
 eager to save you from fresh trials.' 
 
 ' Oh, how good, how kind to me ! ' said Loveday. ' And 
 I seem so ungrateful ! Oh, Mr. Featherstone, believe me, 
 there is no man on earth, whom I respect as I respect you. 
 There is no man on earth from whom I could obtain better 
 guidance, more strength, holier comfort. Be my friend, 
 my guide — if I may ask this ; but ask for nothing further. 
 It cannot be. Indeed, indeed.' She fell on her knees in 
 the boat, and put her hands to her brow. ' I cannot ex- 
 plain myself. I shall go mad. It cannot be.' 
 
 ' Madam,' said Paul, ' I fear I have been too hasty. 
 
 x 
 
306 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 Your sorrow is too recent. I can wait. I apologise for 
 having spoken ; I will transgress no more. Have no fear. 
 Endeavour to forget the rash words that I have addressed 
 to you. It grieves me to the heart that I have troubled 
 you. You have asked me to be your friend ; I am content 
 to stand in that capacity to you. Consider me for ever 
 after as your friend, who has your interests and welfare 
 near his heart ; I am honoured beyond my deserts to be so 
 regarded. I was premature in speaking, because I thought 
 that the time would shortly come when Mr. Rock and I 
 would part — he to go to Stanbury, I to remain here. But 
 I will master my repugnance — that is, I mean I will think 
 the best I can of him, excuse him as far as I can, and bear 
 with what it costs me a struggle to endure, for your sake. 
 I am sorry to speak thus of my own brother-in-law, but I 
 cannot avoid it. I am disappointed ; he is hardly what I 
 supposed him to be. But there, I will say no more on this 
 topic, which is painful to me, and only touched on to ex- 
 plain my temerity in addressing you as I have to-day. 
 Madam, we are at the shore. Allow me to offer you my 
 hand to disembark. On some future occasion, it may be 
 far away, I shall dare to offer it you again — then to em- 
 bark on a cruise as still and untossed as that to-day, to 
 float with me between two heavens.' 
 
 She made no answer, but stepped ashore. He drew the 
 boat up and secured it ; then offered her his arm, but she 
 declined it. Constantine and Juliot were no longer on the 
 beach ; the evening was settling down, and the dew falling, 
 so the mother had carried baby home. As Loveday walked 
 without speaking at Paul's side, he also was silent. She 
 thought of his words, 'floating between two heavens.' She 
 had been cast out of the rest and serenity of one, and a 
 second had been opened and offered to her that day, into 
 which she could not enter. Peace, happiness, security, 
 love, were no more for her ; she could no more recover the 
 heaven she had lost, nor reach another. She still loved 
 Constantine, but she had lost respect for him. Even if she 
 were to condone the past, a home with him would never 
 be a happy home ; the recollection of his treachery, his 
 desertion, must penetrate and poison it. The iron had 
 entered into her soul, and could never be extracted ; and 
 the wound could not be salved over by his hand. 
 
BETWEEN TWO HEAVENS. 307 
 
 Paul regretted his precipitation, but did not lose hope 
 Surely, in time, the living would take the place of the dead 
 in her thoughts. He resolved to behave towards her as he 
 had done hitherto — in no way to force his attentions upon 
 her, to embarrass and pain her. 
 
 She was tired ascending the hill, which was very steep, 
 and Paul cut her a stout ash staff, on which to lean, as she 
 declined his arm. 
 
 At last they reached the house. At the entrance of 
 the first court under the gatehouse Paul said, in a low tone : 
 
 ' One final word, and I will trouble you no more with 
 my attentions. Have you noticed the scroll that adorns 
 the old sun-dial in the garden ? Upon it stands the legend, 
 " I wait upon the sun." I am like that dial. I will not 
 be dispirited by rejection, by cloud, by wintry shadow. I 
 will live in hope, and will wait upon the sun.' 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 FLED. 
 
 The proposal of Paul Featherstone had greatly increased 
 Loveclay's uneasiness. She could not remain longer at 
 Marsland, placed between a husband who did not acknow- 
 ledge her, and was married to another, and an honourable, 
 sincere man who sought her as his wife. If her position 
 was intolerable before, it was made more so by the event 
 of that day, She could not, she must not, remain. She 
 had, indeed, accepted Constantine's undertaking to find her 
 a place, but some time must elapse before the place was 
 found, and Constantine was not a man of energy to bestir 
 himself. 
 
 She was impatient, moreover, to communicate with her 
 brother and with her friends at Towan, and relieve them 
 from the suspense in which she was aware they must be, 
 not knowing what had become of her. She was not angry 
 with Constantine— she was disappointed with him, and her 
 faith in him was more completely wrecked than her faith 
 in Dennis. She was not jealous of Juliot — she loved and 
 pitied her. Por Paul she felt great regard, and some awe. 
 She could not remain at Marsland, because the conflicting 
 
 x2 
 
308 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 feelings constantly roused in her bosom were more than 
 the could bear. The strain was never off her. She was 
 conscious of a craving in her soul for rest, a longing to be 
 away, where she should no longer see her husband, her 
 rival, the child that was his but not hers, the man who 
 sought of her what she could not give him. There was 
 not one of the household that did not cause her a pang. 
 Hitherto, Paul, and he alone, had been a comfort to her. 
 In his society and conversation she could, in a measure, 
 escape from her cares. It was so now no longer. His 
 company would embarrass her ; he would be another to fill 
 her with nervous alarm. 
 
 That night, when she retired to her room, she con- 
 sidered what was to be done. She was without one person 
 to whom she could apply for advice. She was forced to 
 be everything to herself. More strength was required of 
 her than she was endowed with — strength of will, strength 
 of judgment, strength of nerve, physical power. 
 
 How long would it be before Constantine advertised ? 
 He had asked no particulars as to what sort of a situation 
 she needed ; he had offered to advertise in his careless, 
 inconsiderate manner, and days might elapse before he 
 fulfilled his undertaking ; and, after that, more time must 
 pass before answers arrived, and more still before final 
 arrangements were come to. Thus weeks might drag out 
 before she got away. She had not the courage to contem- 
 plate this. She might recover her health if away from the 
 sights and voices that troubled her, but a few more days 
 among them would cast her back on the bed of sickness. 
 She must get away. Her soul hungered, ached, strained 
 for escape. 
 
 What excuse could she offer for leaving ? She had 
 been treated with exceptional kindness. To leave would 
 savour of ingratitude. Yet Paul's offer furnished the 
 excuse. She might make it her plea that she could no 
 longer with delicacy remain in the house of the man whom 
 she had refused. He would understand this, and explain 
 her conduct to Juliot. This consideration decided her. 
 She would leave at once. Instead of going to bed, she 
 remained up all night packing her box, reserving from 
 it only those few things which she would need at once, 
 and which she could carry in her reticule. Then, in the 
 
FLED. 309 
 
 early hours of the morning, she stole downstairs, un- 
 fastened the hall door, and left Marsland. She took with 
 her the staff Paul had cut the evening before and placed 
 in her hand. That was the only thing she carried from 
 Marsland with her, except her painful secret. 
 
 The morning air was fresh ; the birds were singing 
 already, although the sun was not yet risen. There was 
 light in the sky, as there always is at midsummer, and the 
 light was growing, for in another hour the sun would rise. 
 Away in the north-west the Lundy lighthouse was wink- 
 ing ; aloft was one star, fading. She hurried away from 
 the house with beating heart, for as she passed out of the 
 porch she heard the plaintive wail of the baby. It was 
 cutting teeth, and fretful in the night, waking with a start, 
 in a terror, and crying out and sobbing. Juliot also was 
 awake, sitting up in her bed, and soothing the infant, 
 speaking caressingly to it, kissing its little hands and fiery 
 cheek. 
 
 Paul's dog came to her bounding, fawning, and asking 
 to be patted, addressed, and taken a walk. Loveday had 
 some difficulty in persuading him not to attend her. 
 
 She left the court and the avenue, and descended the 
 hill to the spring. The water was dark now ; neither 
 diamonds nor pearls fell over the rock, and the maidenhair 
 fern leaf was not visible in the gloom of the hedge. Love- 
 day stood one moment by the spring, holding the ash root, 
 recalling that first terrible interview ; then she put her 
 hands to the water and caught it in her palms, and drank. 
 The freshness of the air and of the fountain invigorated 
 her, and she pushed on. 
 
 Of the country she knew nothing. She had but a 
 vague recollection of the way by which she had come from 
 Stratton. She remembered a high road, and then lanes — 
 intricate, winding, innumerable. But she had a general 
 idea as to the direction she must take. She had resolved 
 to go to Stratton, and thence make her way by coach to 
 Launceston, where she would remain till she had decided 
 on her future course. She must keep the sea on her right 
 hand — that she knew. In course of time she must reach 
 Stratton or Bude Haven. Bude was only three miles 
 from Stratton. Should she reach Bude first, she must 
 strike inland for the town of Stratton. That formed the 
 
310 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 substance of what she knew. Unfortunately, she was 
 ignorant of the structure (orography, we should call it 
 now, but the word was unknown then) of the land ; and, 
 consequently, instead of striking inland, due east, till she 
 hit the high road on the backbone of the moor, she hugged 
 the coast, and lost herself among winding lanes, among 
 hills and valleys, which only a goat could scramble up 
 directly ; where the lanes zigzagged, and dodged, and shifted 
 direction at every bowshot she went. The hills, even when 
 ascended at a slant, are mere scrambles, most exhausting 
 to a strong man, and Loveday was worn with sickness and 
 without food. She came upon neither farmhouse nor village 
 inn. The sun rose, and struck on her back with scorching 
 heat as she toiled up the hills. She stood still, and wiped 
 the perspiration from her brow, whilst she leaned on Paul's 
 stick. She was sick and faint with hunger. From weak- 
 ness, the tears came into her eyes and mingled with the 
 drops that fell from her forehead. When she had a steep 
 hill to descend, her feet failed her. She leaned heavily on 
 the staff, and her ankles turned ; she had not the strength 
 to stay herself from falling ; and when she stood still, her 
 limbs quivered with convulsive muscular trembling — the 
 fruit of over-exertion. If she could have found a farm she 
 would have asked for bread and a cup of milk, if she had 
 lighted on an inn she would have ordered a meal ; but she 
 was out of the region of houses, passing now over gorse- 
 strewn moors, then through oak coppice. The wild straw- 
 berries were ripe, but too small to satisfy her. On reach- 
 ing the bottom of a glen, overcome by weai-mess, she crept 
 into a little wood of dwarf oak, laid herself down in the 
 bracken under the shade, and, before she was aware that 
 she was sleepy, sank into unconsciousness. 
 
 Whilst she lay thus hidden, slumbering from exhaustion 
 of mind and body, the day changed. The burning rays of 
 the sun had been those which precede a storm. Clouds 
 rose, covered the sky, and cut off the heat and light of the 
 sun. A cold wind wailed through the valley, and whistled 
 among the oak leaves of the coppice. Loveday slept on. 
 Her tiredness after the sleepless night, and the weariness of 
 her walk, and the exhaustion consequent on want of food, 
 had cast her into a paralysing slumber, in which she neither 
 heard nor felt — did not even dream. She did not wake till 
 
FLED. 311 
 
 the storm burst ; then she was cold, shivering, and be- 
 wildered. She came forth from the dripping wood to see 
 scuds of rain drive by, filling the valley with flying drifts 
 that concealed every object. The lightning flashed, and 
 the thunder boomed, but not very near ; and the lightning, 
 though vivid, was not forked and distinct. The wind 
 roared up the valley, and on its breath carried the growl of 
 the angry sea which it was lashing into fury. Uncertair. 
 where she was, and in what direction she had to go, Love- 
 day ascended the hill she had last come down and emerged 
 on a moor, where she lost her way, and found herself near 
 the ragged edge of a cliff that projected into space illimit- 
 able, like the last hour of life. In her alarm she took the 
 opposite direction, but could make out no road. Tracks 
 there were, trodden by cattle, that led nowhere. The 
 valleys below were filled with eddying vapour and driving 
 rain. She was drenched. The water ran up her sleeve 
 from the staff she held. The wind caught her ribbons and 
 made of them instruments of shrill screaming music. The 
 water came as in sheets from her brow over her eyes, 
 blinding her, and the moisture soaked her bosom. Her 
 skirts clung to her limbs as though they had been dipped 
 in a river. 
 
 She seated herself under a ragged scrap of hedge, made 
 of stones and clay, that the cattle had scrambled over and 
 trodden clown till it resembled the jaw of an old woman 
 with a few fangs standing up. Under one of these she 
 crouched, with a thorn-bush stretching above her landwards 
 like a streamer. The wind howled and screeched through 
 the twigs, and curled round the corners and lashed at 
 her wet skirts, and beat her in the face with splashes of 
 sea foam. 
 
 She could not sit there, worn out with hunger, with 
 knees that trembled with fatigue, numbed with the wet 
 that penetrated everywhere. She stood up with an invo- 
 luntary moan, and staggered forwards. 
 
 Surely the evening was setting in, the light was per- 
 ceptibly becoming less. The thunder rolled away and 
 muttered in the distance, but the rain continued to fall. 
 Loveday looked up, and around— there was no rent any- 
 where in the clouds. 
 
 If she could but find the road again, the road must lead 
 
312 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 to some habitation. Little by little she would push on 
 till she reached a cottage. Any house, however humble, 
 would suffice. Driven inland by the wind, holding to the 
 staff to prevent herself from being blown over, picking her 
 way among gorse-bushes, she reached at length a rough 
 stone wall, and was obliged to turn down it towards the 
 valley before she could find a gate. Then she saw by it 
 what in the dialect of the country is called a tallat — that 
 is, a shed, wattled and roofed with gorse-bushes, and with 
 an open door. She was thankful for the shelter, and crept 
 in ; but the floor was dirty, it had been trodden by horses, 
 and the water had entered from the ground outside. She 
 went to the farther end, by the manger, where it was drier, 
 and laid herself down there. She put her hands to her 
 face to wipe the wet from her eyes, and she took the cold, 
 soaked bonnet from her head, and tried to rest against the 
 side, but the prickles of the gorse pierced her. There was 
 nothing she could lean against except one rough piece of 
 wreck wood, that supported the manger. Against this she 
 sat, upright, with her face to the entrance through which 
 the wan light entered, and the wind and rain eddied. She 
 had thrown up her sodden bonnet into the manger ; dis- 
 coloured drops fell from it, stained with the dye in the 
 once pretty ribbons. 
 
 At first she felt warm in this sheltered tallat — com- 
 pared with outside it was warm ; but Loved ay had carried 
 the chill in with her in her soaked garments, and she soon 
 began to feel numbed. Then she heard a scampering 
 without, and some wild moor ponies appeared at the entrance, 
 roans with bleached manes. They stood in the doorway 
 and stared at her, then plunged away, then returned. One 
 more daring than the rest entered, but when Loveday 
 spoke it threw up its heels and dashed forth again, snorting 
 and whinnying. 
 
 This was notice for her to leave. She dared not remain 
 longer, wet to the bone, in the tallat. But when she tried 
 to rise her limbs were so stiff that she could scarcely move 
 them, and her knees when she rose failed under her. She 
 considered that if horses and an enclosure were there, 
 there must be a farm near ; but her heart sank. She doubted 
 if she would have strength to reach it. 
 
FLED. 313 
 
 Constantine was sitting that same evening in the kitchen 
 at Stanbury with old Carwithen. 
 
 A fire was smouldering on the hearth, the wood was 
 from a wreck, and it gave forth the peculiar odour which 
 comes from wood that has been long immersed in sea- 
 water ; the afternoon was so stormy and damp that a fire 
 was pleasant. They had the kettle over the fire boiling, 
 and on the table tumblers and a bottle of spirits. Constan- 
 tine had left Marsland the evening before, after seeing 
 Juliot safe home with the baby, and had slept the night at 
 Stanbury. During the morning he had been about the 
 farm, but had been driven in by the storm. Accordingly 
 he spent his afternoon with old Carwithen and hot rum- 
 and- water. A good deal of rum was drunk at Stanbury, 
 and not one drop of it had paid duty. 
 
 ' I'll tell ye what it be, your honour,' said Carwithen, 
 knocking the ashes out of his pipe against the side of the 
 fireplace. ' It is my opinion that I put you in the way of 
 becoming master of Stanbury, and I expect some consider- 
 ation for it. If you be coming to live here along with 
 madam, what is to become of me 1 Am I to turn out o' 
 Stanbury and go down to Featherstone's Kitchen and live 
 there ? I've been long enough here to like a better house. 
 I put you up to getting Stanbury, but I did not reckon on 
 your turning me out.' 
 
 ' Is it not reasonable 1 ' asked Constantine, impatiently. 
 ' This house is mine — at least, it is my wife's, and here we 
 shall live, as we ought. I am sick of Marsland ; I'll no 
 longer stay there with that canting fool, Featherstone ; 
 I'll come here. Here I shall be master in my own house, 
 and, whether you like it or not, you must turn out. I will 
 give you employment on the land.' 
 
 ' At what wage 1 ' 
 
 1 At an ordinary day-labourer's wage 1 ' 
 
 ' I am not to have my hind's wage ? ' 
 
 ' Of course not, I shall be here to manage my own 
 affairs. I shall not need a hind. I shall not pay more 
 than I am obliged.' 
 
 ' So, this is what I receive for putting you up to getting 
 the place ! ' 
 
 ' How can you talk so foolishly ! You have had 
 nothing to do with me and my marriage. I am not a fool. 
 
314 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 How the wind roars ! It will blow in the window. The 
 water is coming in through the leadwork, and driving in 
 under the door. We shall be swamped if this continues.' 
 
 ' Master,' said Carwithen, surlily, ' you're well enough 
 and friendly wi' a fellow as long as he serves your purpose, 
 but as soon as you think you can do without him, you're 
 ready to kick him aside with no compunction. That's not 
 Scripture.' 
 
 ' You have no claim upon me at all. I shall pay such 
 men as I want, and such wages as are reasonable. I shall 
 not want a hind when I am here myself, therefore I shall 
 not keep one. If you are not content to take a labourer's 
 pay you may look out for a hind's place elsewhere. Hark ! 
 Good heaven ! What is that 1 ' 
 
 A blow at the door had startled him, as though some 
 heavy body had fallen against it. 
 
 ' Nothing but the wind,' said Carwithen. ' I've heard 
 the wind beat at the windows that you could have sworn 
 it was some one outside striking them with his hands. 
 Satan be called the Prince of the Power of the Air. When 
 he heard you threatening to cut me down he were inclined 
 to be in and strangle you for your wickedness.' 
 
 ' If a man is not to look after his own interests,' said 
 Constantine, 'no one else will look after them for him.' 
 
 ' True for you,' said Carwithen, ' but a man's best 
 interests don't always lie in using short measure in dealing 
 with others and long measure in dealing with self. Master 
 Paul Peatherstone at Marsland will be better served than 
 you at Stanbury, for he measures long to others and short 
 to self.' 
 
 ' I think it is time for you to go and see after the cattle,' 
 said Constantine. ' Pinish your glass of grog first.' 
 
 ' I'll do that without invitation,' said Carwithen. And 
 when the old man had put his pipe on the mantelshelf and 
 drained his glass, he threw a sack over his shoulders, put a 
 south-wester on his head, grasped a staff, and went to the 
 door. 
 
 ' Upon my word,' said he,' the wind be beating against 
 it so that I doubt if I can shut the door again. Come you 
 here, master, and put your shoulder to it after I'm outside.' 
 
 Then Carwithen opened the door, and the wind and 
 rain rioted into the kitchen, blowing the log into a sudden 
 
FLED. 315 
 
 blaze, and whirling the white wood ashes in an eddy on the 
 hearth. 
 
 ' Good Lord ! ' cried the old man, ' what have we here ? ' 
 
 Upon the threshold lay the body of a woman, soaked 
 with rain ; she had apparently reached the door and fallen 
 unconscious on the step as she tried to knock for admission. 
 Her failing powers had carried her so far, and there 
 deserted her. 
 
 Constantine was behind Carwithen, with his head down, 
 against the wind, that blew his hair about. The old man 
 knelt, and turned the face of the woman towards the light. 
 
 ' My God ! ' gasped Constantine, and smote his brow. 
 ' What is to be done ? Loveday ! Loveday ! ' 
 
 CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 featherstone's kitchen. 
 
 In a hollow of the moor over which poor Loveday had 
 wandered in the storm without finding shelter was a 
 cottage : the roof was of turf, and so low that it was in- 
 visible till one was close upon it. It had but a single face, 
 and that was turned, contrary to the invariable custom, 
 towards the sea. All the other sides were banked up with 
 peat, out of which the grass grew rankly, so that no one 
 coming on the house would suppose it was a cabin inhabited 
 by human beings, and not a gigantic rabbit warren. 
 
 In front of this hovel, on a bench, sat Loveday and a 
 girl. The girl was Tamsin Carwithen, the daughter of the 
 old hind at Stanbury. She lived in this odd turf house, 
 and earned a few shillings by watching the cattle turned 
 out to graze on the down. She was a young woman of 
 thirty, with strongly marked features, a rough, uncivilised 
 girl, almost as wild as the colt that had claimed the tallat 
 into which Loveday had intruded. 
 
 ' How came I here 1 ' said Loveday. ' I remember 
 nothing.' 
 
 'I reckon you don't,' answered Thomasine — Tamsin, as 
 she was called. ' You was nigh melted right away, you 
 must have been out and about in that storm. My word ! 
 it came down proper solid water sheets.' 
 
316 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 ' Where was I found 1 ' 
 
 1 At Stanbury. You'd got so far and could go no 
 further, I reckon. Father found you over the drexil 
 (threshold) when he went to open the door.' 
 
 ' But who is your father 1 ' 
 
 ' Old Dick Carwithen, sure enough. Who other 1 ' 
 
 1 He took me into Stanbury 1 ' 
 
 1 Ees, he did. He and the young Squire.' 
 
 'Who?' 
 
 ' Squire Rock. Father and he were sitting, smoking 
 and talking and drinking sperrits and water together, and 
 they heard a sort of bang agin' the door, but they took no 
 particular heed. The wind were hammering that powerful 
 on window and door, they thought it the wind. But, after 
 a bit, father up and out after the cattle, and there he found 
 you, as I said, in a faint, and wet as seaweed, on the drexil. 
 So he called to the Squire, and the Squire and he carried 
 you in, and mother, her came, and they took you to the 
 best bedroom, and there the men left you, and mother un- 
 dressed you, and put on you warm blankets, and set a hot 
 brick to your feet, and made some rabbit broth, and fed you 
 with it, and last of all you was dressed in my clothes and 
 brought here.' 
 
 ' But why here ? ' 
 
 ' Sure enough, I cannot tell. The master wouldn't 
 allow you to bide in Stanbury. He said, no, you must be 
 took to Featherstone's Kitchen.' 
 
 ' To what 1 ' 
 
 ' To this place, for certain ; this be Featherstone's 
 Kitchen. Not, you know, Squire Featherstone's kitchen 
 to Marsland. Lord bless you ! don't think that. There 
 be reasons why this house is called Featherstone's Kitchen, 
 and there be others like it, I'm told, further down the 
 coast, right away to Land's End, but about here I know of 
 none but this. It don't take its name after Squire Paul, 
 bless your heart ! It was christened after his uncle, who 
 was a mighty rough sort of a man, very fond of the sea, and 
 made it his pleasure to dare the gaugers. There be queer 
 talk of he, I can tell you. I've nothing again' him ; he 
 were a useful man in his time, he dug out this here Kitchen, 
 and it serves its purpose now as well as then. I've heard 
 tell that old Featherstone were here one day, sitting on a 
 
FEATHEKSTONe'S KITCHEN. 317 
 
 cask, when in at the door came a couple of sheriff's officers 
 to take him. " My men," said he, and he took a pistol in 
 his hand, " I'm sitting on a keg of gunpowder. I don't 
 care a hang for my life, nor half a hang for yours. If you 
 don't sheer off at once, I'll discharge the contents of the 
 pistol into this here keg I be sitting on." Sure as cows 
 have calves, and not calves cows, the sheriff's officers did 
 sheer off.' 
 
 ' But why was I brought here ? ' again asked Loveday. 
 
 ' The young Squire would have it,' answered the girl. 
 ' As soon as ever they seed there was life in you, then he 
 gave father and mother no rest, but swore you should not 
 stay and be nursed at Stanbury. Naught would please 
 him but that you was taken to the Kitchen. So to the 
 Kitchen you was took, and in the Kitchen you be, least- 
 ways, a-sitting in front of him (it).' 
 
 Loveday was pained and surprised. 
 
 ' I reckon,' Tamsin continued, ' he were a-thinking of 
 his missus. The master is married, you know, to Squire 
 Featherstone's sister. The property be hers, not his. I've 
 heard my father tell that it be that tightly tied up that the 
 master can't lay a finger to it, can't sell a tree off it, or an 
 acre out of it. I reckon, all the money belongs to Madam, 
 and none to he ; which must be as galling to a man as rid- 
 ing in market on a lady's saddle. Well, it seems to me, it 
 stands this way. He thought his missus might be jealous, 
 hearing there was a leddy staying at Stanbury, and he so 
 much there and not much at Marsland. If you larrup a 
 donkey with a bunch of thistles he'll not eat a mouthful of 
 thistles never after, he takes a distaste to the sight of them. 
 So I reckon it may be with men, when they've a wife 
 about 'em, a-scratching and a-stinging, they take ever after 
 a sort of disgust to the sight of petticoats. Women are 
 jealous creatures, it is their nature. Mother told me that 
 the young Squire laid it on her and father as hard as he 
 could, they was not to say a word to nobody about you. 
 He had you brought here where nobody would see you 
 and none be the wiser, and run about telling tales and 
 making of scandal. Squire Rock were mighty particular 
 that you should be well cared for. You was to have chicken 
 and rabbit broth, and wine, and wear my Sunday clothes, 
 and mother's flannel petticoat, and have a hot bottle in 
 
318 THE GAVEEOCKS. 
 
 your bed, and red currant jelly, and just anything one 
 could think of to make a leddy happy and contented.' 
 
 Loveday sat silent, looking seaward and musing. Pre- 
 sently she found an explanation of Constantine's conduct 
 which satisfied her, as it did not show him to be heartless. 
 He had doubtless considered that she had escaped from 
 Marsland with the intention of hiding herself. She could 
 not remain concealed at Stanbury, therefore he had re- 
 moved her to the cottage where she would be seen by no 
 one, and where she might remain for many days without 
 her hiding-place being discovered. 
 
 ' If you'll come with me,' said Thomasine, ' I'll show you 
 round the Kitchen. This be a queer place, sure enough, to 
 those as is unacquainted with the like. The old Rover 
 Featherstone, as he were called, he dursn't dispose of his 
 goods too near to Marsland, though he had a store there, 
 so he had a cave scooped out in the rock here, in our cot- 
 tage. Mind you this bit o' land didn't belong to he. My 
 grandfather were a squatter on it, and nobody said him 
 nay. My grandfather was glad enough to oblige Red 
 Featherstone in anything, so he helped to have a hole dug 
 in the rock from our inner wood store. Squire Paul be 
 another kind of man altogether. He have his fancies, and 
 Red Featherstone had his. Men's tastes differ — some are 
 all for religion, and some for wickedness ; some can eat 
 mussels, and others can't. I've known a man blown up and 
 nigh strangled by eating of a dish of mussels which were 
 innocent to another's stomach. It's just the same with 
 smuggling, and wrecking, and drinking. They suited Red 
 Featherstone's stomach, and they don't agree with Squire 
 Paul. We ain't all constituted alike, praises be ! Father 
 ain't a dainty man. He can do with all sorts, pick a bit of 
 Scripture, and then pick a bit of smuggling ; he can com- 
 bine Gospel and drink, and curdle neither, but make a sort 
 of junket out of 'em, which is a gift. Praises be ! If you 
 will come along of me, I'll show y' a path in the face of the 
 cliff down to the Cove. You see I keep a pair o' donkeys 
 on the down. They can scramble up and down the cliffs, 
 and are as sure-footed as a fly. When a boat comes into 
 Marsland Mouth then they send the kegs over here in a 
 row-boat, if weather permits, if not on the backs of donkeys. 
 Bless your heart ! not on mine. All the farmers round 
 
featherstone's kitchen. 319 
 
 about keep donkeys and lend 'em for the purpose. The 
 smugglers take 'em, and no questions are asked. The 
 farmers are pleased to help and loan 'em. But if a boat 
 can be run to our Cove, then my beasts go down the cliff 
 and bring up on their backs what sperrits and other things 
 are for this neighbourhood, and I store them away in 
 Featherstone's Kitchen. So all the kitchens along the 
 coast are supplied ; I dispose of the sperrits and take the 
 money, and so all parties are accommodated, which is a 
 provision of nature, beautiful to think on, sure enough.' 
 
 ' Have you never been married ? ' asked Loveday. 
 
 ' JSever,' answered Thomasine, sorrowfully. ' That's the 
 only real drawback to a place like this. It's so out of the 
 way you don't get a fair start with other girls. It is not 
 as if the men will come after you, it is you must go after 
 them. Men are much like snipe in their flight, and a 
 straight shot from the shoulder won't, bring them down ; 
 you must allow for their dipping. It is only the old and 
 heavy chaps as whirr up under your feet and go level away 
 like a partridge. And yet,' continued Thomasine, ' I ain't 
 sure that I shan't come in to the goal and get the prize be- 
 fore others that have started before me, and used more 
 exertion in the running. You see, Miss, the race for a 
 husband among us maidens is very much like a race in 
 sacks at a fair. There be a deal of hindrance and impedi- 
 ment, but along we go. It is she as takes the littlest steps 
 and minds to keep the sack up about her neck as will come 
 in at last, not they as makes the big jumps and is most 
 fiery eager. They go down on their noses pretty smart, and 
 lie about like potatoes turned out of a garden. It is shuf- 
 fling on, not leaps, as does it.' 
 
 The talkative girl was interrupted by the appearance of 
 Cons tan tine, who came over the down towards the cot- 
 tage. 
 
 Thomasine at once retired into the hovel. Constantine 
 greeted Loveday with restraint ; he feared the eyes and 
 ears of Thomasine, and he drew Loveday from the front of 
 the cottage, away to the edge of the cliff, where they were 
 beyond earshot. 
 
 ' Loveday,' said he, ' I am glad you are better. You 
 have no conception how anxious and distressed I have 
 been. But what can have induced you to come to Stan- 
 
320 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 bury 1 What more likely than such a course to arouse 
 suspicion 1 ' 
 
 ' 1 did not intend it,' she answered, meekly. ' I ran 
 away from Marsland. I could not remain there longer ' 
 
 ' Why not 1 I told you I would look out for some 
 situation for you. You ought to have remained.' 
 
 ' I could not, Con,' she said gently, but firmly. ' I will 
 tell you why. I was there in a wrong position. I was 
 there as an unmarried woman, and Mr. Featherstone has 
 asked me — ■ — ' She faltered. 
 
 ' I understand,' said Constantine, testily ; ' well, what 
 of that? You refused him. It will do him good. He has 
 his own way too much. His sister worships him, kneels 
 before him in an adoring attitude, and that has turned his 
 head. I am glad to hear he has had his nose tweaked. It 
 will draw some of the fantastic humours out of him.' 
 
 ' After that I could not stay.' 
 
 ' Why not ? I didn't ask you to stay long. Don't you 
 see that by your conduct you are exciting suspicion 1 You 
 think only of yourself, Loveday, and have no consideration 
 for me. You should have stayed on a few days, then 
 have given a formal notice, said that your health would 
 not allow you to undertake the duties, and gone, and 
 there would have been the end of the matter. But to run 
 away, as if you had stolen some silver spoons — Good 
 heavens, Loveday ! Juliot and Paul will be imagining all 
 sorts of things.' 
 
 ' No, Constantine, there you are mistaken.' 
 
 ' I am not mistaken. I am alarmed for myself. It is 
 I am in danger, not you. You think only of how you may 
 get away from a place where you have had a great shock 
 and grief. I do not blame you for wishing to leave, but I 
 do blame you greatly for putting me in danger. You 
 should not be selfish, Loveday. Selfishness is objectionable 
 in a man, but it is offensive in a woman.' 
 
 ' What will you have me do, now 1 ' asked Loveday, 
 unwilling to argue. 
 
 'Do — there is nothing that can be done but remain 
 where you are. You are like a draughtsman on a board 
 driven into a corner, with only two moves, one forward 
 and one back. Here you are safe enough, if you do not 
 take flight again. Do you suppose that happiness is to be 
 
featherstone's kitchen. 321 
 
 caught, as a child goes after a bird, with a pinch of salt to 
 clap on its tail ? Happiness will come to you in good 
 time, if you take matters easy, and do not go racing over 
 the country with your reticule in your hand, chasing it.' 
 
 ' You quite mistake me,' said Loveday, gravely. ' I 
 have given up all hopes of happiness. I left Marsland 
 because I could not remain there after Mr. Featherstone 
 had asked me to be his wife.' 
 
 ' That was what Paul meant by taking you out in the 
 boat, was it 1 Juliot played into his hands. A pair of 
 ninnies, both.' Constantine was angry. If he loved any- 
 one beside himself, that person was Loveday. 'Nothing 
 in the world would give me greater pleasure than to take a 
 cudgel to his head and beat the nonsense out of it. Unfor- 
 tunately, just now, and till you are well away, I am in his 
 power, and he may do me a cursed turn— show me the 
 white horse, as the wrestlers say as they give the fling that 
 breaks the backbone. I wish it were in my power to kick 
 up his heels. I shall have it some day. I must wait my 
 time, and then I shall pay him out for daring to insult you 
 with his addresses.' 
 
 ' You must not speak thus,' said Loveday. ' Mr. 
 Featherstone is the soul of honour. If he addressed me, 
 he did so with respect, and in ignorance of my position, 
 which ignorance is due to you, who dare not tell him the 
 truth.' 
 
 ' Oh, you reproach me ! ' said Constantine, angrily. ' The 
 compliment of an offer has disposed you to think kindly of 
 the crackbrained quack. You turn against me, of course, 
 following the rest. Such is the way of the world. My 
 father never had a good word for me, and Gerans was the 
 hero. I was always in the background, always forced to 
 play second fiddle. Now because I am in difficulty and 
 danger, even you will not spare me.' 
 
 ' Constantine ! ' She looked reproachfully at him, and 
 he coloured. 
 
 1 1 meant no harm,' he said. ' You must make allow- 
 ances for me. I am harassed and nervous. I live in daily 
 terror of discovery. Perhaps you have not fully realised 
 what discovery would entail on me.' 
 
 ' What am I to do now 1 May I not go 1 ' 
 
 ' You must remain concealed in this place. On no 
 
 Y 
 
322 THE GAVEEOCKS. 
 
 account allow anyone to see you. I have no doubt that that 
 fool Peatherstone will be stirring up the neighbourhood in 
 quest of you. I have insisted on old Carwithen and his 
 wife holding their tongues. None but they know that you 
 are here. As soon as I can I will get you away by boat to 
 Clovelly. Give me time to consider what; is best, and all 
 will come right. I'm like a boy with a puzzle map. It is 
 confusion now, but with patience I shall make it out and 
 fit all into a consistent whole. Now I'm poking the toe of 
 Italy in the side of Russia, and fitting Timbuctoo into 
 Great Britain.' 
 
 ' I have no clothes fit to go in,' said Loveday. ' Every- 
 thing is in my box at Marsland.' 
 
 ' There it must remain. You must not meddle with 
 that. I will see what I can get for you. Or, stay ! write 
 a letter as if from Exeter, and say you have found a home 
 there with your cousin, and I will get it posted to Juliot.' 
 
 ' No,' answered Loveclay. ' I will not speak or write 
 an untruth. I want to be somewhere whence I can write. 
 I cannot remain here for long.' 
 
 ' Stay a week. Only a week. Before seven days are 
 past something shall be decided. Now I must go. Tamsin 
 Carwithen must not see us so long together, or she will sus- 
 pect something.' 
 
 CHAPTER XLVI. 
 
 RICHARD CARWITHEN. 
 
 Loveday was not missed at first by Paul and Juliot. She 
 did not appear at breakfast, but neither was surprised, 
 because they thought she was tired with the excursion on 
 the water, and hoped that she had overslept herself and 
 was recruiting her strength. 
 
 ' Well, Paul ? ' said Juliot, with inquiry in her tone and 
 in the look of her eyes. 
 
 Paul Featherstone sighed, and shook his head. ' I was 
 too precipitate, Juliot. I feared it myself, but you en- 
 couraged me. She has had great sorrows which have so 
 crushed her that she cannot yet look up. She is like a 
 bruised and broken flower, lying on the ground ; we must 
 raise her, and tie her up, and have patience, allow the sap 
 
RICHARD CARWITHEN. 323 
 
 to flow, and the healing processes to begin. We must not 
 demand fresh bloom of the flower this season ; we must be 
 satisfied if it does not wither away.' 
 
 ' I thought that your regard, dear Paul, would have 
 been the stay for the flower. It would have held to that 
 and become strong.' 
 
 ' Juliot, I have reproached myself severely for my haste. 
 But I acted from the best motive. I desired to be honour- 
 able and open with her. As she was in the house, and had 
 won my respect and love, I did not consider it proper to 
 leave her in ignorance of my sentiments, and to allow her 
 to settle into a house in a menial position when I purposed 
 to make her its mistress. But 1 was too precipitate. I 
 hurt and alarmed her.' 
 
 ' Oh, Paul ! what will she do now ? She will hardly be 
 induced to stay here if she has refused your addresses.' 
 
 Peatherstone leaned back, and looked with dismay at 
 his sister. ' Juliot ! ' he exclaimed, ' I had not thought of 
 that. Where is Rock ? ' 
 
 'John went back to Stanbury last night. He is very 
 busy there.' 
 
 ' So it seems. He used not to be there so much. But 
 the place has demands on him. Now he is there all day and 
 night as well.' 
 
 ' He tells me the men there need much supervision.' 
 
 Paul left Marsland after breakfast, without saying 
 whither he was going, consequently he was not at home 
 when the discovery was made that Loveday had fled. Her 
 packed box, the bed not slept in, showed that she had gone. 
 Juliot sent after her brother, but Paul was not to be found, 
 and did not return till noon. Then, only, was he made 
 aware of Loveday's disappearance. 
 
 The morning had been lost in looking for him. Juliot 
 was incapable of giving directions for a search. Paul was 
 filled with consternation and self-reproach. ' Oh, poor soul, 
 poor soul ! ' he exclaimed, ' I have driven her from her 
 newly discovered retreat. Juliot, she must be found and 
 brought back ; it is not she, it is I who must go. It is my 
 fault that this has come about. I will goto Stanbury, and 
 let Rock live here for a while. She must not be driven away. 
 God be merciful to her ! She is in no fit condition of mind 
 or body for a journey.' 
 
 t2 
 
324 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 ' Whither has she gone ? ' asked Juliot. 
 
 ' I doubt not, towards Exeter,' answered Paul. ' She 
 let fall, as I was driving her here, something about a cousin 
 whom she had purposed visiting when arrested on her 
 journey by my advertisement. She has certainly started 
 on her way thither. I shall reproach myself for this all my 
 days. The weather is changing. We shall have a storm 
 this afternoon, and she may be exposed to it ! ' He ordered 
 the horse to be put in the trap at once. There was room 
 in this conveyance for two only. ' Juliot,' said Paul, ' I 
 shall take Willy Penrose with me, and when we find her I 
 shall alight and let Willy drive her home, and I will come 
 after afoot.' 
 
 Paul spent the whole afternoon in the storm, driving 
 from place to place making inquiries, always without result. 
 The district was thinly populated, and there were more 
 ways than one by which Loveday might have gone. No 
 main road ran thence in the direction of Exeter, but lanes 
 and parish roads led away, an intricate ramification, towards 
 villages to the east. Had she gone across country by one 
 of these towards Torrington 1 or had she gone by another 
 to Holsworthy ? or had she taken the main road along the 
 coast to Hartland, intending to follow thence the highway 
 to Exeter through Bideford 1 or had she gone along the 
 coast to Stratton, to take the coach thence to Launceston 1 
 It was uncertain which of all these ways she had gone. 
 One was just as near as another. There was actually only 
 one direction in which she could not have gone — due west, 
 over the cliffs, and into the sea. 
 
 Paul, disappointed on one road, took another ; the horse 
 became fagged, his companion dissatisfied. The storm 
 raged about them. The rain drenched them, driving 
 through all the clothes they wore, forming a pool in the 
 bottom of the gig. Now and then the horse stood still, 
 and obstinately refused to stir, till some whirling rush of 
 rain had spent itself. The tempest defeated the object 
 of Paul. It was most likely that Loveday had taken re- 
 fuge somewhere off the road. It drove everyone in doors, 
 there was no traffic, therefore none to see her, if she did 
 pass. Late in the evening, almost as wearied as his horse 
 and man, but reluctant still to give up the search, Paul 
 turned homewards : perhaps he would not have done that 
 
RICHARD CARWITHEN. 325 
 
 but for the hope that some tidings of the missing girl had 
 been obtained nearer home — that, possibly, she might have 
 been driven back by the storm. It was, to him, unaccount- 
 able that no one had seen her, yet he had asked at every 
 cottage he had passed, of every traveller he had encountered. 
 
 When he reached home, he was disappointed. Nothing- 
 had been learned of her. The servants were questioned. 
 The only thing that could be elicited from them was that 
 the hall door was discovered to be unlocked in the morning. 
 Not a line was found in her room to afford a clue. There 
 was no fresh direction on the box to show whither it was 
 to be sent. The old address to her cousin's in Exeter was, 
 indeed, there, scored through with a pencil. On his return 
 Paul wrote at once to this address, but too late for the post. 
 
 ' Has Rock been here, Juliot ? ' 
 
 ' No, Paul. I suppose the tempest has detained him at 
 Stanbury.' 
 
 1 1 have been everywhere but thither. It is mysterious, 
 prodigiously strange to me. She seems to have disappeared 
 as effectually as if the earth had swallowed her up.' 
 
 'Take off your wet clothes, Paul, or you will be laid up. 
 You are not a strong man. You must have a posset, and 
 go to bed.' 
 
 ' I— I take a hot posset ! ' exclaimed Paul, ' and she — 
 she, poor soul, whom I drove from this house by my per- 
 secution is, perhaps, in cold, and wet, and hunger ! My 
 God ! I cannot bear to think of what may be ! Oh, 
 Juliot, Juliot ! ' He was overcome with emotion. He 
 took his sister by the hand, and covered his face with the 
 other. 
 
 I I'll get a change of clothes,' he said, when he had re- 
 covered himself ; ' but I cannot go to bed. I have sent 
 Will Penrose home, he is tired and wet and out of temper ; 
 and I have bid Roger Gale harness the other horse and 
 bring him round in half an hour.' 
 
 ' But night is set in ; whither are you going 1 ' 
 
 I I shall drive now to Stratton. I have thought that 
 she may have avoided the nearest houses and made for the 
 town ; we came thence, and she would naturally think to gc 
 back thither. There she knows a coach is to be caught 
 which would carry her away. I will drive to-night to 
 Stratton, and make inquiries. She may even have gone 
 
326 THE GAVEEOCKS. 
 
 thither by the coast through Stanbury. Rock might give 
 us news if he were here, but I doubt her having gone that 
 way • she would have passed Stanbury before the storm 
 broke, and Rock would for certain have brought her back. 
 It is much more likely that she would go by the way she 
 came, and avoid the houses.' 
 
 Then he went to his room and changed his clothes. 
 When vested in a dry suit he came down, and hastily took 
 some refreshment. ' I will go alone now,' said he ; 'I will 
 not take Roger with me. Even if I found her, I would 
 not bring her home to-night, but place her where she would 
 be safe and Avell cared for.' 
 
 Then he departed. The storm was over, the violence of 
 the gale had spent itself, but it left behind a small di'izzle 
 that in time would wet one exposed to it as thoroughly as 
 the previous pelting rain. 
 
 It was late at night, or rather very early in the morning, 
 when Paul returned. His journey had been in vain. He 
 had been to every inn in the little town of Stratton, but 
 could hear nothing of Loveday. He left word at the 
 coach office that she was not to go till he had been com- 
 municated with, should she appear there. And, finally, he 
 announced at each of the inns that he would give a liberal 
 golden reward to any one who should bring him infor- 
 mation which might lead to her recovery. 
 
 When Paul Peatherstone came home he was completely 
 worn out in body and in mind. He was not a strong man, 
 and the exposure to the wet and the wind for twelve hours, 
 and the strain on his nerves, had exhausted him. He 
 threw off his sodden garments, and went to bed, but he 
 could not sleep. He could think only of the poor girl, a 
 wanderer, in the storm, without a home to which to go, 
 without a friend on whom to lean. She was not restored 
 to her full strength since her illness. Had she succumbed ? 
 Was she lying dead behind a hedge, or in a copse 1 His 
 brow was as wet, and not his brow only, his eyes as well, 
 at the thought, as if they were still in the drift of the rain. 
 He put both his hands over his face, and as he lay, hour 
 by hour, instead of thinking further of what might have 
 happened, he prayed. 
 
 Next morning Constantine appeared. 
 
 ' Well, Peatherstone ! how are you all after the storm ? 
 
RICHARD CARWITHEjST. 327 
 
 The wind took our new hayrick and blew it over. To-day, 
 if middling fine, we shall try to dry the hay, and rick it 
 again. Was your hay thatched 1 We didn't reckon on 
 such a gale, did we ? ' 
 
 Then Paul told him of the loss of Loveday. 
 
 ' Don't you trouble your head about her,' said Constan- 
 tine, with affected composure. ' The poor creature was 
 evidently off her head, and has gone over the cliffs into the 
 sea. I never supposed her right in the brain — gone melan- 
 choly mad. I've heard of such cases.' 
 
 Paul looked at him with horror. The idea that Love- 
 day had come to an end in this way had not occurred to 
 him. Even now he could hardly bring himself to entertain 
 the conjecture that she had voluntarily destroyed herself, 
 but he remembered that she had walked in her sleep once, 
 and it was possible that she had again gone sleep-walking 
 in the direction of the sea. No doubt but her thoughts 
 that night had been on the excursion with him in the boat ; 
 what more likely than that she had dreamt of the sea, and 
 gone towards it — perhaps down the same road they had 
 traversed together, to and from the bay ? 
 
 This thought made such an impression on Paul that he 
 left the house immediately, and descended the lane to 
 Marslancl Mouth, and there searched the beach. Not a 
 trace of Loveday was to be found. He went to the boat- 
 house and searched that. He explored the caves in the 
 rocks. Nowhere a token that she had been there — the 
 tide had risen and ebbed since they had left the boat, so 
 that every footmark on the sand was effaced. 
 
 When slowly and sadly, and, it must be added, wearily, 
 he ascended the steep hill to Marsland, his attention was 
 caught by the bush of ash from which he had cut the staff 
 for Loveday. Where was that staff? He considered when 
 he reached home. The staff was gone. She must have 
 taken it with her. Surely, then, she intended it for a 
 support on a long or steep walk. This and the packed box, 
 and the unslept-in bed, satisfied him that she had not gone 
 from the house walking in her sleep. That she had taken 
 the stick with her assured him that she had not meditated 
 suicide. 
 
 It was a relief to him to think this. It was a comfort 
 to him, a very minute one, but still something of a comfort 
 
328 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 to think that the staff he had cut for her had been a stay 
 to her. 
 
 Three days passed, and still no news of Loveday. The 
 anxiety was wearing Paul, who reproached himself, un- 
 necessarily and unreasonably, but he had an over-sensitivo 
 conscience. His fears that she might have been overcome 
 by exhaustion, and died in the storm, or that in the cZoud 
 and driving rain she might have fallen over the cliffs 
 returned. He went in a boat along the coast, searching 
 every margin of sand, but still, ineffectually. He went 
 round the neighbourhood again, offering rewards, hut no 
 one put in a claim for any. He could attend to none of 
 the business of the farm. His mind was engrossed with 
 the search for Loveday. 
 
 ' Please your honour,' said Carwithen, appearing before 
 him as he went out on foot down the avenue to resume his 
 inquiries ; he had worn out his horses, and was obliged on 
 this day to give them rest. ' Please your honour,' said 
 Carwithen, ' Scripture says, Thou shalt not muzzle the ox 
 that treadeth out the corn. If you want to find the young- 
 lady, you must pay folks for the trouble they take in 
 hunting after her.' 
 
 ' I am ready to do so. Dick, have you news ? Do not 
 keep what you may chance to know from me. What haz 
 brought you from Stanbury 1 ' 
 
 ' Your honour, I thought I'd take the liberty of asking, 
 How much 1 ' 
 
 ' What do you mean 1 ' 
 
 ' Your honour have promised a reward to such as can 
 give information respecting Miss Penhalligan.' 
 
 ' Dick Carwithen,' exclaimed Paul, suddenly, ' where 
 did you find that staff of ash 1 I recognise it. I cut it for 
 her the evening before she disappeared.' 
 
 ' That may be. And it may be also that I can tell 
 more than about where the stick were found. The truth 
 of the matter is this, master. Squire Rock and I don't hit 
 it off together as I should like. Scripture says, Thou shalt 
 not plough with an ox and an ass together.' 
 
 ' Tell me,' said Featherstone, 'tell me straight out, what 
 you have discovered. I will reward you.' 
 
 ' Look here, master, it turns to this, How much ? Just 
 
RICHARD CARWITHEN. 329 
 
 as all men turn to dust and ashes, so do all questions turn 
 to guineas and shillings. What will you pay ? ' 
 
 ' Name your price,' said Paul, impatiently. 
 
 ' There's that little holding of forty acres at Coombe,' 
 said Carwithen. ' Old Kennard is dying, and when he's 
 gone it will be vacant : he had it for life, as he reclaimed 
 it out of the moor. Now, if I may have that at three 
 shillings an acre for fourteen years' lease I'll tell you a good 
 deal.' 
 
 Paul looked at him with surprise and disgust. 
 
 ' Ah ! ' said Carwithen, ' I'll do more than tell you, I'll 
 take you where you shall see her, but whether alive or dead 
 I won't say till you give me my price. If I tread out your 
 corn, I mustn't be muzzled. Let me assure you cf this — if 
 you don't hear it from me you will never know anything 
 more about her.' 
 
 Paul gave way at once. 
 
 ' Come with me clown to Marsland Mouth,' said Car- 
 withen, ' and we will go by boat under the rocks.' Then 
 he laughed. ' I was not to have a hind's place any longer, 
 but to be reduced to work as a labourer and have a 
 labourer's wage ! ' 
 
 CHAPTER XLVII. 
 
 DISCOVERED. 
 
 Constantine went every day to Featherstone's Kitchen, 
 especially at such times as he knew Tamsin Carwithen 
 would not be there. Tamsin came to the house at Stan- 
 bury daily to assist her mother with the washing ; and 
 Constantine took the occasion for slipping off to the 
 Kitchen on the cliff, so as to enjoy a long conversation 
 with Loveday unobserved. 
 
 The old inclination for Loveday revived in his heart, 
 and the attraction that drew him to her originally again 
 exerted over him its former power. The notice that Paul 
 took of her had made him jealous, and he was angry with 
 him for having dared to propose to her. A first love is 
 always surrounded with a halo of romance which surrounds 
 no second love. Moreover, Constantine had never really 
 
obO THE GAVEEOCKS. 
 
 cared for Juliot. He had taken her for the sake of Stan- 
 bury and an easy life. He was tired of the monotony of 
 his existence at Marsland, impatient of the fear which kept 
 him there a prisoner, and, when he saw Loveday again, he 
 longed to recover what he had lost or thrown away. The 
 recollection — the old courtship, the early happy love — spun 
 its delicate gleaming magic fibres round his heart, and 
 filled him with melancholy. How happy he would have 
 been with her, if he had had the courage to confess his 
 marriage to the old Squire, and his father had accepted it, 
 and made him a small allowance, which, with what he 
 earned in an office, would have sufficed to support them ! 
 What might have been is always so superior to what is. 
 
 He had forfeited Loveday's regard, but hardly lost her 
 love. Was it wholly impossible for him to recover the 
 regard 1 
 
 Surely not, if he showed her good proof of repentance. 
 
 He was uneasy at the efforts made by Paul Feather- 
 stone to find her. Wherever he went, he heard nothing 
 talked about but the missing lady. The labourers leaned 
 on their picks and discussed the subject. He was asked by 
 every one he met whether any news about her had reached 
 Marsland. Carwithen took a grim delight in exciting his 
 alarm. What the relation was between Mr. Rock and the 
 lady Richard Carwithen could not understand, nor why his 
 master pressed him with such urgency to be silent. Con- 
 stantine had no fear of Carwithen betraying him, because 
 he supposed it was the old man's interest to remain in 
 favour with him, as Squire of Stanbury, and because Car- 
 withen, he knew, had no regard for Paul Featherstone. 
 He had, moreover, promised to pay him the same reward 
 for keeping the secret as Featherstone had offered for news 
 of the lost lady. 
 
 ' I can get no sleep,' said Constantine to Loveday. 
 ' Paul is raising an insane hue-and-cry, and disturbing the 
 entire country. I want your bonnet and cloak. I will 
 throw them into the sea ; they will be washed ashore, and 
 then, perhaps, this prodigious fuss will abate — Paul will 
 suppose that you have drowned yourself.' 
 
 'I will not let you have them for this purpose,' answered 
 Loveday. ' I would not have Mr. Ft atherstone suppose it 
 of me, that I could destroy myself.' 
 
DISCOVERED. 331 
 
 ' Oil ! he may think you tumbled over the cliffs, and 
 were drowned accidentally.' 
 
 Loveday made no reply to this, and Constantine, seeing 
 he had annoyed her, did not press the point. 
 
 ' I am much afraid,' she said, after a while, ' that my 
 brother will be alarmed as well, and make inquiries all the 
 way from Wadebridge to Launceston, and so be led on to 
 Marsland ; then all will come out.' 
 
 Constantine turned livid. He had not considered this 
 danger. 
 
 ' Loveday,' he said, after a few moments of anxious 
 thought, as he paced the turf near the cottage, ' I have made 
 up my mind ; I will do what you advised. I will leave Mars- 
 land for ever, Marsland and Stanbury both. I will go out 
 into the world, and begin life afresh. I have acted very 
 wrongly, and I will use my best endeavour to undo the wrong. 
 I tell you, Loveday, that I cannot bear myself for my error, 
 and I am terribly scared at the prospect that it entails. I 
 can have no peace any more, now that I have seen you 
 again. After all — you are my wife — my own dear wife, to 
 whom I am bound, with whom I promised to fight through 
 the world. I tell you the whole truth, Loveday, I have 
 never, never loved any one but you. You I loved in the 
 dear, happy old days at Towan, days of innocence and 
 brightness. I lie awake at night and think of them. 
 Whilst I am about the farm all day I am recalling them. 
 I did wrong in not telling my father at once when we mar- 
 ried. I did wrong in persuading you to marry me without 
 asking his consent. One wrong act, we are told, draws on 
 a chain of others. It has been so in this case, I have 
 proved it ; and I reproach myself for the first and all that 
 followed. But I suppose it is inevitable. If once we do 
 wrong, we must go on from wrong to wrong till brought to 
 our senses. That, I presume, is a moral necessity, a law of 
 the universe, just like gravitation, and the revolution of the 
 sun. Now I see what I have done, and am resolved never 
 to do anything that is wrong again. I loved you always, 
 and I will love you ever, as I promised and vowed, and if 
 you have the spirit of Christianity in you, you will forgive 
 me.' 
 
 When Constantine told Loveday that he loved her, and 
 her only, then, as was natural, her heart bounded and her 
 
332 THE GAVEEOCES. 
 
 cheeks flushed. But the excitation was momentary, the 
 colour went again, and her pulse resumed its ordinary 
 beat. She shook her head. She tried to speak, but her 
 words failed. 
 
 ' I will tell you what my plan is,' continued Constantine. 
 ' I have resolved to leave England. I cannot settle anywhere 
 in the British Isles. If that owl, Paul, makes such a dis- 
 turbance because you are lost, who are nothing to him, 
 what a tenfold disturbance will he make to find me, whom 
 he married to his sister. He would stir up the whole 
 country till I was tracked out. No, no, Loveday. That 
 will never do for me. I will leave the country. I will go 
 to America, where, in a new world, I may begin a new and 
 a better life — with you.' 
 
 Loveday had been seated. She started to her feet and 
 walked abruptly away, along the down, to be for a few 
 moments by herself to consider this proposal of Constan- 
 tine's. She was his wife. It was her duty to be with him. 
 He loved her and loved her only. She loved him and him 
 only. He had sinned against her and against Juliot. Ought 
 she so far to forget the past as to accompany him 1 She 
 could not answer this question at once. Indeed she hardly 
 put it to herself as a question to be decided at once. She 
 was overcome by the offer, by the glimmer it afforded her 
 of a future home. 
 
 Constantine lacked the tact to leave her to herself. He 
 went after her. He went from the extreme of despondency 
 to the most sanguine elation. His scheme was perfect. 
 All would come right now. He was learned in the law — 
 that is, he had been a few years in an office, engrossing — 
 and would be certain to obtain a judgeship in the United 
 States. He was perfectly acquainted with the manage- 
 ment of a farm. He would obtain a grant of land, and 
 build a log-house, and Loveday and he would dwell together 
 in it, as happy as two wood- pigeons. He was well-edu- 
 cated, he would set up a school and charge high, and train 
 young American citizens in knowledge and virtue, and 
 realise a fortune — a man of parts from England could not 
 fail to succeed. Anything, everything was open to him. 
 
 ' Oh, Constantine ! ' exclaimed Loveday, ' what would 
 Mr. Featherstone and Juliot think if they found that we 
 had gone together to America 1 I would not that she 
 
DISCOVEEED. 333 
 
 should know how she has been deceived by you, and I would 
 not have him think unworthily of me.' 
 
 ' What can it matter what their opinion is of us, when 
 we are beyond the sea ? Besides, I would write to Feather- 
 stone and tell him everything. Then the responsibility of 
 undeceiving his sister would lie on his shoulders, and he 
 would not think ill of you. He would, on the contrary, 
 think highly of you for following your proper husband over 
 the Atlantic to his new home. 5 
 
 ' Oh, Constantine ! ' said she, in a tone of agony, dis- 
 tressed by the conflicting feelings in her bosom, ' is it really, 
 really true that you love me aljne, that you will forget 
 poor Juliot and the little child she has borne to you 1 ' 
 
 1 If it were not so, would I make this proposal to you 1 ' 
 he answered. ' Consider the sacrifice I am ready to make 
 at the altar of duty. I lose Stanbury, a comfortable home, 
 and a nice fortune, to go forth in poverty, as an exile — what 
 for 1 Because, Loveday, my conscience tells me I ought to 
 do it. When conscience speaks we must obey. And in 
 this case inclination jumps with obligation. I have told 
 you I love you. I cannot live away from you. If you 
 refuse to come with me I will stay in England, but I will 
 not remain here with Juliot. I will follow you wherever 
 you go ; I will follow you like a dog. You shall not be able 
 to shake me off, except in one way, by delivering me over 
 to justice ; and that you will not do — you are too noble, 
 too generous, too good at heart. That is a contingency not 
 to be considered. Remember that you are my wife in the 
 sight of heaven, that you are responsible to heaven for me. 
 If you let me go alone to America, I do not know what 
 will become of me. I shall have nothing to live for — no 
 home, no happiness. I dare say I shall take to drink and 
 perish miserably. Of course you will come with me. You 
 are not, I trust, lost to all sense of religion and moral obli- 
 gation.' 
 
 Loveday musing looked into his face, and shook her 
 head, whilst pressing her hands on her heaving bosom. 
 Could she flatter herself that her reappearance had driven 
 Juliot wholly from his heart ? That in a foreign land the 
 yearning for his little son would not awake in him and 
 make him restless to return to England and see his child 
 again ? Was he one who would endure the privations of 
 
334 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 exile 1 One who had sufficient tenacity of purpose to hold 
 to his resolution 1 In America, if they had to undergo 
 hardships, would he not turn against her, and reproach her 
 with banishment ? Was he trustworthy ? Also, she felt 
 great repugnance against uniting her lot with him now 
 after his treachery and falsehood, and the wrong he had 
 done to her and to Juliot and to Paul. 
 
 ' I love you,' she said, ' I love you dearly. God who 
 reads the heart, knows it. But what happiness would I 
 find if I knew you were unhappy ? I am glad that you 
 still love me ; but we can never be happy together again — 
 never ! ' 
 
 ' My dear Loveday,' exclaimed Constantine, ' what 
 nonsense you talk ! Of course we can be happy together. 
 In a new world, amid fresh scenes, fresh occupations, sur- 
 rounded by new people, we shall be quite happy. We shall 
 shake off all these unpleasantnesses, like a dog who gets out 
 of a bath. He shakes himself, and away fly the drops in 
 all directions, and in ten minutes he is dry as Paul Feather- 
 stone. We shall sit together over our own fireside and not 
 give even a thought to the past. Oh, Loveday, how happy 
 we shall be ! Cares, fears, troubles drowned like Pharaoh 
 in the deep of the sea, sunk deeper than he, as the Atlantic 
 is more profound than the Red Sea. We will have a 
 garden of our own, and put mignonette under the window 
 — I am so fond of the scent of mignonette — and we will 
 have a little summer-house in the corner of our garden 
 with Banksia roses trained over it ; that will be charming. 
 And then we will sit there in the evenings, and I will read 
 to you " Guy Mannering " whilst you knit my stockings. 
 Have you read that 1 It is prodigiously interesting. Then, 
 consider this, my sweet wife, we shall be in a climate that 
 is dry. Here we are in a warm bath and a steam alike in 
 every season. In Amei'ica when the winter sets in there 
 is real cold weather, and in the summer there is real heat. 
 On my word, Loveday, I am all eagerness to start. 5 
 
 ' Constantine,' said Loveday, looking at him with eyes 
 that streamed with tears, 'do not try me with such pic- 
 tures. It cannot be, at least not now. That you should 
 go is right, and I do not say that after a time I will not 
 rejoin you, but not now, certainly not now. Go yourself, 
 and, if you think proper, write to Mr. Featherstone and tell 
 
DISCOVERED. 335 
 
 him the whole truth. But I cannot go with you. Perhaps 
 after three years, when you have shown yourself in earnest, 
 I may follow, but I will not, I cannot, go with you now. 
 The sooner you go, the better. Do not delay ; it is right 
 that you should depart.' 
 
 ' This is unkind,' said Constantine, impatiently. ' You 
 want to drive me away, and you will not help me in my 
 difficulties. It is easy to say Go, but harder to do it. I 
 have little money, and one cannot cross the ocean without 
 means. I shall have to sell stock off the farm, and raise 
 something in spite of Paul Featherstone, who will ask me 
 what I am about.' 
 
 ' If you have no right to make money on Stanbury, do 
 not try to do it. Take my advice once again, Constantine. 
 Be straightforward and truthful. Go, as the prodigal in 
 the parable, and your father will not cast you out. Con- 
 fess everything to Mr. Gaverock and ask him to help you to 
 cross to America. He will certainly assist you, and assist 
 you liberally. Is he not your father 1 Then from Towan 
 write to Mr. Featherstone, and tell him the whole truth, 
 and tell him you are leaving England for ever, a penitent 
 for the wrong you have done. He is so good, he will accept 
 your repentance, and not attempt pursuit and demand 
 chastisement. You must write, leaving all to him. If he 
 were to demand your punishment, accept it ; give him the 
 time to decide whether he will punish, or whether he will 
 pardon. That will be most honourable, and when he 
 lias granted you leave to depart unmolested, go. After 
 three years, Constantine, when you have proved your own 
 heart, if you still desire my presence, I will cross the ocean 
 to you, and I will never by word or look reproach you for the 
 past, but freely, heartily forgive you your trespass against 
 me, as I look for forgiveness of my trespasses from heaven. 
 There, Constantine, in pledge of my sincerity I give you 
 my hand — no — not one, I give you both.' 
 
 As she held out her arms, and he clasped her hands, 
 they were startled by the appearance of Paul Feather- 
 stone, standing before them. Their backs had been turned 
 to the path that ascended the cliff from the little strand, 
 but as she gave Constantine her hands she turned, intend- 
 ing to go back to the cottage, having said her last words. 
 In so turning she saw Paul, and her start induced Con- 
 
336 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 stantine to turn also. Constantine turned pale with fear, 
 and dropped the hands of Lovedaj. She felt the blood 
 rush to her face and temples. She covered her eyes with 
 her hands, and fled to the hovel. 
 
 CHAPTER XLYIII. 
 
 A STROKE. 
 
 Paul Featherstone and Constantine Gaverock stood con- 
 fronting each other. Both were pale as chalk. 
 
 Constantine was in deadly fear lest Paul should have 
 heard any portion of his conversation with Loveday. But 
 Paul had not caught a word. He could not have ap- 
 proached to listen to them ; to do this was repugnant to 
 his character. But he had seen enough to send the blood 
 to his heart. She whom he had been seeking everywhere 
 was living concealed under the protection of his brother-in- 
 law. She had run away from Marsland to be near him. 
 That they were on very intimate terms their conversation, 
 and the way in which they had held each other's hands, 
 the dismay with which they had started asunder on seeing 
 him, sufficiently proved. He had been hurt by the cold- 
 ness and callousness of Rock towards the suffering girl. 
 It had never occurred to him that this might be assumed 
 to disguise a warmer feeling. Now he was too startled to 
 consider the relation in which they stood to each other, 
 or account for the intimacy, to speculate when it had 
 begun, and to what an extent it had been carried. 
 
 Constantine was the first to recover his self-possession 
 sufficiently to ask Paul what he wanted there. Had he 
 come in quest of him ? 
 
 Paul Featherstone turned his eyes slowly upon him. 
 He had been looking after Loveday, flying to the cottage. 
 He was overwhelmed by the double betrayal of himself and 
 his sister. 
 
 ' I do not seek you,' answered he, gravely. ' Not you — 
 certainly not you — the husband of my sister Juliot.' 
 
 Constantine winced ; but the words of Paul afforded 
 him some relief. Paul would not have emphasised the 
 
A STROKE. 387 
 
 relationship if he had any suspicions of the truth. This 
 conviction revived his courage. 
 
 ' What do you want ? ' he asked. ' I know you have 
 extraordinary ways. Are you qualifying to act as Jack- 
 in-the-box, popping up unexpectedly under one's nose 1 ' 
 
 Featherstone did not deign a reply ; he had a dark vein 
 on his brow, and this swelled. When he was much dis- 
 turbed it puffed and became purple. He was indignant 
 and angry, but he had not lost his usual self-control, his 
 somewhat pedantic stateliness of manner. 
 
 ' There is nothing wonderful in a poor girl seeking pro- 
 tection with me against your impertinence,' said Constan- 
 tine. He stooped, picked a pink-flowering thrift, and 
 began to bite the stalk. His jaws were trembling ; he did 
 this to conceal the chatter of his teeth. ' Do you not think,' 
 asked Constantine, with low cunning, attacking his brother- 
 in-law to protect himself from assault, ' do you not think 
 that the advertisement in the Light of the West was worded 
 wrong, and should have stood, " Wanted a companion for 
 Paul Featherstone ; young, pretty, and sanctimonious " 1 ' 
 
 ' Rock ! ' said Paul, sternly, ' be silent.' 
 
 c I have a duty to perform,' said Constantine, defiant in 
 self-defence. ' When a young lady whom you have be- 
 guiled into your house is driven by your insolent addresses 
 to escape from it ; when she flies to me — a married man — 
 to protect her ; throws herself upon my honour and chivalry 
 to ward off your offensive persecutions, then I am only 
 doing my duty as a gentleman when I say to you, Go back 
 the way you came, and trouble her no more. Good 
 heavens ! the whole country is ringing with your scanda- 
 lous conduct ; your name is coupled with hers in a way 
 intolerable to the modesty of a virtuous gentlewoman. 
 Everyone laughs and winks, and says an aside behind his 
 hand, when you pass along the road nose in air, hunting 
 the pretty and pious companion.' 
 
 ' Rock ! ' exclaimed Paul, his eyes flashing with in- 
 dignation. 
 
 ' It is very sanctimonious for you to profess to be 
 shocked when I tell you the truth. You have hoodwinked 
 yourself as well as others. You live in a world of self- 
 delusion, and it is well that I can pluck you out of it and 
 show you the contemptible figure you make, as viewed 
 
 z 
 
338 THE GAVEEOCKS. 
 
 from outside. In a fog a sheep is magnified to the size of 
 an elephant, and in the fog you live in nothing bears its 
 proper proportions. You had the temerity when Miss 
 Penhalligan was ill, to force yourself into her room, and 
 make your passes over her face, and press her hand under 
 the pretence of feeling her pulse. When she recovers you take 
 her out on the water, and make a point of rowing behind 
 the rocks where you may be out of sight, and you take the 
 base advantage of being alone with her in the boat, when 
 you know she is unable to escape, and I am not at hand 
 to protect her, to pester her with vulgar and insolent 
 attentions. Bah ! Whether you be most fool or rogue I 
 do not pretend to say. I should be sorry to make the 
 analysis of such nasty material. A little of all sorts, made 
 up as a Chinaman makes a picture of a plant with the 
 flower of one stock on the stalk of another, garnished with 
 the leaves of a third.' 
 
 'You despicable fellow,' said Paul, with his black brows 
 knit and his eyes flashing wrathful! y. ' You are not worthy 
 to be answered by a man of honour. I am ready enough 
 to allow that I am full of fault, and may, unknown to 
 myself, have fallen into follies and error ; but I know you 
 now out of your own mouth, the outpouring of your base 
 mind, I know you. I have long dreaded the discovery, and 
 have shrunk from it ; now you stand revealed to me in all 
 your vileness. Had I known what a dishonourable, ill- 
 disposed creature you were, I would have struck you with 
 the marlingspike when you clung to the side of my boat, 
 and not have held out a hand to save you. Or, had I saved 
 your life, as I might have that of a dog, I would never have 
 admitted you under my roof, to bring on it giief, and shame, 
 and dishonour.' 
 
 Constantine flamed up with rage. He could cast insults 
 at another, but could not endure to hear the truth spoken 
 of himself. 
 
 ' Cursed be the day ! ' he exclaimed, \ that ever I came 
 under that roof of yours, that ever I crossed your threshold. 
 From that day I date all my misery. You — you and your 
 sister have made me what I am, an unhappy, tormented 
 man.' 
 
 These words of Constantine confirmed the suspicion of 
 Paul. They were the confession of his love for Loveday, 
 
A STKOKE. 339 
 
 and his alienation from Juliot, his wife. Exasperated to 
 the last degree by this infidelity towards his sister, he 
 uttered a groan of wrath and pain, and raised the ash staff 
 be held, and thrust with it at his brother-in-law, to repel 
 him. The action was hasty ; he did not intend to strike 
 him, but to express his horror. The touch of the stick was 
 sufficient to make Constantine blind with fury. He shook 
 Featherstone off, wrenched the staff from his grasp, and 
 struck him with it a blow so violent that Paul staggered 
 back and fell against a stone. He tried to gather himself 
 up ; he was deadly pale. A stream of blood poured from 
 his head. He swayed on his knees, put forth his hands to 
 find support, and sank back on the turf. 
 
 Then Constantine heard a cry — and in another moment 
 Loveday flew past him, knelt on the ground, and raised 
 Paul in her arms, and strove to staunch his blood with her 
 kerchief. 
 
 Constantine stood staring at Paul's white face, and the 
 streaming blood, without stirring, without thinking, frozen 
 with consternation at what he had done. 
 
 His rage evaporated, and his fears gained the upper 
 hand. He looked about him. No one was present. None 
 had seen the struggle save Loveday. 
 
 Now all was over. The secret must come out. It could 
 be retained no longer. This quarrel with Paul would in- 
 evitably lead to his detection. 
 
 ' What have you done 1 ' cried Loveday. ' Oh, Con ! 
 Con ! You have killed him, and added one sin to another. 
 Run ! Bring me water ! Help me to carry him to the 
 house ! Oh, Con ! I would you had struck and killed me 
 instead.' 
 
 Constantine ran to the edge of the cliff, then re- 
 turned. 
 
 ' Loveday,' said he, ' there is the boat below in which 
 Paul Featherstone came. I shall take it and be off. I 
 cannot, I dare not remain. Come with me. It will be 
 safer for me if you do ; then nothing can be extracted from 
 you to criminate me.' 
 
 ' Oh, Constantine, run for water ! I cannot leave him 
 in this condition, insensible.' 
 
 ' Let him be — he is not killed, he is hurt, that is all. 
 and when he comes round can practise passes on himself. 
 
 z2 
 
340 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 It will be an occupation and an amusement. Come along, 
 Loveday ! No time is to be lost. The weather is fine, and 
 I will row down the coast till we reach Towan ; then we will 
 go together before my father, and ask his forgiveness and 
 favour.' 
 
 ' I cannot go with you ; I have told you that I will not 
 do so. Now, least of all, when Mr. Featherstone is in this 
 condition. Bring me water.' 
 
 ' How selfish you are, Loveday, you do not think of me. 
 I must get away. I entreat you — as your husband I com- 
 mand you — to accompany me.' 
 
 ' Constantine, you have forfeited your right to com- 
 mand. When you have recovered my respect again I will 
 submit to your orders, not earlier.' 
 
 ' There ! he is becoming conscious. Come, or I shall 
 believe that you care more for Paul Featherstone than for 
 me.' 
 
 'Constantine?' she looked at him with an indignant 
 flash in her dark eyes. 
 
 ' I am not going to wait and waste valuable time,' said 
 he. ' If you will not come, stay and coddle Paul Feather- 
 stone. It will be some time before I send for a disobedient 
 wife.' 
 
 Without looking at her again he descended the path to 
 the beach. Carwithen, seeing him, hid behind a rock, 
 fearing his anger. But Constantine had not observed 
 him. He went to the boat, jumped in, and rowed himself 
 away. 
 
 ' Towan ! ' he said, ' yes, that is my only chance now. 
 I will return to Towan.' 
 
 CHAPTER XLIX. 
 
 THE LAST CORD. 
 
 Carwithen came up the path in the face of the cliff after 
 Constantine had gone oft' with the boat. On seeing that 
 Paul Featherstone was hurt, and resting in Loveday's arms, 
 he came to his assistance. Shortly after Thomasine also 
 arrived, and Paul was brought to consciousness, and was 
 sufficiently recovered to stand. He had received a cut in 
 
THE LAST COED. 341 
 
 the back of his head, and had lost a good deal of blood, but 
 there was nothing dangerous in the wound — the skull was 
 not broken. 
 
 Loveday had taken the white kerchief from her neck 
 and bound it round his head tightly, and arrested the 
 bleeding. 
 
 He signed to Carwithen and his daughter to withdraw, 
 and then he said to Loveday : ' Madam, I shall feel obliged 
 if you will say nothing about a struggle with Mr. Rock, 
 The cut in my head was made by a stone in the ground, 
 against which I fell.' 
 
 Loveday bowed her consent. There was an expression 
 of sadness in his eyes as he looked at her that went to her 
 heart. 
 
 ' Mr. Featherstone,' she said, timidly, ' I pray you not 
 to judge me by appearances. I pray you to be pitiful and 
 forbearing.' 
 
 ' Madam,' he said, but he paused a long time before he 
 spoke, ' He who is over all knows how anxious, how eager 
 I am to excuse you, but I cannot condone what is unex- 
 plained.' 
 
 She was silent. He waited for her to speak, but as she 
 said nothing he went on slowly, sadly — ' I will go in now 
 to the cottage. Carwithen will attend to me. He can 
 manage so trifling a cut as that I have received. I will 
 return presently, and listen with patience to what you may 
 wish to say, in the hope that you will be able to relieve my 
 mind of a great pain.' Then he withdrew. 
 
 Loveday was left alone. Her shoulders and neck were 
 uncovered, she had torn off her kerchief for Paul's head. 
 His blood stained the bosom of her gown. There was a 
 little water near the cottage — a land spring, and she washed 
 it thereat. Then she stood on the cliff looking seaward. 
 She saw Constantine's boat, but he was already so far off 
 that she could not distinguish him. She thought over what 
 had taken place, and considered what she could say to Mr. 
 Featherstone — how she could give a colourable explanation 
 of her conduct. She could not account for her presence 
 there satisfactorily. Would he believe that she had found 
 her way to Stanbury by accident 1 If he were persuaded 
 that this was so, how could she explain the intimacy with 
 Constantine 1 She saw that to exculpate herself she must 
 
842 THE GAVEKOCKS. 
 
 betray him, and, however unworthy lie might be, that she 
 could not do. If she had any lingering regard for Con- 
 stantine after the discovery of his falsehood, he had dis- 
 pelled it now by his insolence and injustice to Paul Feather- 
 stone. For this latter, Loveday had conceived the deepest 
 respect. His simplicity of character, his earnest desire to 
 do what was right and kind, had touched her heart ; and 
 the ungenerosity, the ingratitude of Constantine in attack- 
 ing him, had filled her with horror and repugnance. She 
 had known him to be weak ; she now saw his irremediable 
 worthlessness. If he had had any spark of good feeling- 
 lingering in his heart he could not have taunted Paul with 
 such words. He was a coward and a scoundrel. 
 
 With this discovery her love for him died, as her respect 
 had died. Now he had dragged her into the lowest humi- 
 liation. He had left her to bear the shame of being re- 
 garded by Paul Featherstone as a woman lost to gratitude 
 and to honour. Rather than that she should be lightly 
 thought of, Constantine would have braved the worst had 
 he possessed a manly spirit. He had preferred to expose 
 her to shame, and escape himself from danger. 
 
 In about a quarter of an hour Paul Featherstone came 
 forth from the cottage. Richard Carwithen had patched 
 up the wound in his head with plaster, of which he fortu- 
 nately had some. Paul came forward to Loveday, who was 
 sitting meditatively on a sand-hill. She rose as he ap- 
 proached. He was very pale — paler than could be accounted 
 for by the amount of blood he had lost. 
 
 ' Will you permit me,' he said, ' to ask you a few ques- 
 tions, madam 1 ' 
 
 She had noticed that he ceased to address her as Miss 
 Penhalligan after he had learned that she was a widow. 
 She bowed her head. 
 
 'You will allow me to lean on this staff?' he said, 
 kneeling and picking up that with which Constantine had 
 struck him. ' I am shaken by the blow, and shall be glad 
 of the support.' 
 
 He shrank from putting the questions to her which he 
 had to put to her. 
 
 1 1 have thought it advisable to ask you a few things — 
 to — to save you much speaking. It will be simpler and 
 better. Carwithen has told me that Mr. Rock is crone. He 
 
THE LAST CORD. 343 
 
 took the boat and rowed away in the direction of Bude, not 
 towards Marsland.' 
 
 ' Mr. Featherstone,' said Loveday, in a low tone, with 
 her hands clasped before her and her eyes on the ground, 
 ' I may tell you this — he is gone for ever. You will see 
 him no more.' 
 
 Then she was silent ; and he did not speak, but she felt 
 that his eyes were on her face, searching it. 
 
 ' Why has he gone 1 ' 
 
 She was unable to answer. 
 
 ' Madam/ he said, in a very low tone, and his voice 
 shook as he spoke, ' as I was returning to consciousness I 
 thought I heard his voice addressing you, and asking you 
 to accompany him. And — I heard you refuse 1 ' 
 
 ' Yes/ She was as white as himself, and she was trem- 
 bling 
 
 He clutched the staff, but his fingers opened and closed 
 and worked nervously on it. 
 
 ' I would say enough,' he continued, after a long 
 
 pause, ' but that I must know something more. I have my 
 sister, my dear sister, to consider.' Then he stopped. He 
 was not strong enough, after the blow and fall and the loss 
 of blood, to proceed rapidly, and every sentence was torn 
 from him with a wrench of pain. 
 
 ' I would hear further. Did you know him 1 Was 
 there any attachment to — to him before you came to Mars- 
 land i ' 
 
 ' Yes,' very faintly. 
 
 ' One question more. Is Penhalligan your real name ? ' 
 
 'No.' 
 
 Then, involuntarily, a groan escaped him ? Loveday 
 looked up with terror. Had he divined the truth ? No, he 
 had not. 
 
 ' Then/ he said slowly, articulating each word distinctly, 
 and each as it issued from his heart cost him a pang, and 
 each as it fell on her ear entered and pierced her brain, 
 ' under a feigned name you made your way into my home, 
 you followed him whom you loved, and who, I suppose, 
 loved you. And then, when he had arranged all, you fled 
 to him, to Stanbury.' 
 
 With a cry of despair, putting up her quivering hands, 
 she said, ' No ! no ! ' 
 
344 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 ' Do not deny it,' he went on, mastering his emotion 
 with an effort which covered his brow with sweat drops. 
 ' You left Marsland, and came direct to Stanbury, where 
 he was awaiting you. Carwithen told me all.' 
 
 What would her denial profit her ? She raised her 
 hands in speechless agony, put her fingers to her teeth, then 
 let her hands fall again flat on her lap, and her head hung 
 down on her bosom, as if it were a flower-head that had 
 been struck and broken, but not broken off. 
 
 ' And yet,' said he, ' I have to acknowledge a debt to 
 you. The evening before you departed you behaved hon- 
 ourably to me. When I asked you ' 
 
 She raised her hand to stop the words ; she could not 
 lift her eyes. 
 
 ' You dealt with me conscientiously ; you refused me. 
 I thank God for that ! both because it saved me from a 
 terrible awakening when too late, but also for your own 
 sake, because it shows me that your soul still stirs in re- 
 sponse to generous feelings. And again, now, when he 
 asked you to escape with him, the grace of God prevailed : 
 
 you resisted the voice of the tempter, and ' He could 
 
 not speak any more. He shook ; he was weeping ; he was 
 enfeebled by what he had undergone, and unable at this 
 moment to retain the mastery over himself. 
 
 At the sound of his broken voice, and the sob that 
 issued from his heart, Loveday's frozen horror and despair 
 gave way. She had been standing. She threw herself 
 before him on her knees, she held up her clasped hands 
 above her head, the tears poured from her eyes, and a 
 storm of passionate weeping choked her words. 
 
 ' Have patience with me ! — Have pity on me ! — Do not 
 condemn me ! — Oh, do not think so badly of me ! — I am 
 not wicked ! — I have been weak and have erred ! — I be- 
 seech you pardon me ! — It is not all as you say ! — I am 
 not so lost as that ! — And you ! you ! you to cast me out ! 
 — You to scorn and reject me ! ' Then she bowed her face 
 to the coarse sea-grass, and the pink and silver thrift, and 
 the purple sea-lavender ; and held her hands with the fin- 
 gers interlaced tight, as though woven out of wire, over her 
 lips to restrain them from saying more. 
 
 ' I do not condemn you,' said Paul, calmly. He had 
 recovered his composure, which had left him only for a 
 
THE LAST COED. 345 
 
 moment. ' I should indeed be an unworthy servant of Him 
 who stooped and wrote on the sand when such another 
 was brought before him if I did not pity with an infinite 
 and loving pity instead of condemnation. Far from speak- 
 ing words of condemnation, I am thanking heaven that you 
 are repentant, and hoping that this is the beginning of a 
 new life. Stand up, I pray you. Do not lie there in the 
 sand. Be composed. We must consider the future.' 
 
 She obeyed him mechanically. 
 
 He walked away, leaning heavily on the staff, towards 
 the edge of the cliff, and held his hand over his eyes, whilst 
 he looked along the coast towards the south, as trying to 
 see the boat in which Constantine was departing. He 
 stood thus gazing for a long while motionless, but he saw 
 nothing. It may be doubted whether he were in reality 
 straining his eyes to follow the boat and find the direction 
 it was taking. After some time, during which he stood 
 motionless, with his back towards Loveday, he turned and 
 came to her. 
 
 ' Let us sit down,' he said, with composed voice. ' I 
 am not strong enough to stand long just now. I can speak 
 better, and with less effort, if you will allow me to take my 
 place on this stone.' He did not look at her, fearing lest 
 he should lose control over his voice if he saw her white 
 tear-stained face, and large, entreating, anguish-brimming 
 eyes. 
 
 'Madam,' he said, 'between you and me let the past be 
 no more mentioned, or let it be spoken of as little as may 
 be. I shall have to consider my sister, and break to her 
 the news that she has lost her husband. I would spare her 
 unnecessary pain ; I would spare her the thought of evil. 
 She must not hear your name associated with that of John 
 Rock, she must have no suspicion that your disappearance 
 is in any way mixed up with his departure. I trust you 
 will suffer me to decide for you what is best. What is best 
 for you is also best for us. You will allow me to rule your 
 course for a little while 1 ' 
 
 She bowed for an answer. He did not look at her, but 
 he saw her shadow, and the motion of the shadow assured 
 him of her consent. 
 
 ' It will be advisable for you to remain here with Tarn- 
 sin Carwithen, at least for a time.' 
 
346 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 She assented, as before. 
 
 'You were taken in the storm, drenched to the skin, 
 and were found in a state of exhaustion and unconscious- 
 ness by Carwithen, who brought you here. This is what I 
 shall tell Juliot, and what shall be given to the world. It 
 will suffice. Mr. Rock has gone away on business of his 
 own. Has he gone to his home 1 ' 
 
 Loveday hesitated to admit this. 
 
 ' I have never asked him about his home. I understood 
 he had none, and that his past was associated with misfor- 
 tune. I did not press to know. I saw no need. Now I 
 suspect that I was deceived by his very reticence. If you do 
 not assure me to the contrary, I will assert that he has gone 
 to his home on business of his own.' 
 
 Loveday offered no denial. 
 
 'What is to follow time will decide. It is very im- 
 portant, madam, for your honour, that you should remain 
 here, and that it be known throughout the neighbourhood 
 that you are here, and that here you should continue for 
 some time after it has become certain that John Rock 
 has departed, never to return. You can understand my 
 motives. I shall be glad that you accept my decision for 
 your own sake, and for that of my sister.' 
 
 ' It shall be so/ said Loveday. 
 
 ' That you cannot return to Marsland, you see for your- 
 self. Should Juliot come to you and entreat you to return, 
 you must refuse. You can say, what is true, that your 
 health incapacitates you from being of assistance to her. 
 You can be understood to reside here, to lodge in this cot- 
 tage with Tamsin Carwithen, till your health is recruited. 
 And now, madam, farewell — for ever. I do not suppose 
 we shall meet again. It is best not.' He stood up. ' Your 
 box, left at Marsland, shall be sent to you here. I believe 
 the arrangement made — or contemplated — was such that a 
 half-yearly notice should be given, and the salary was fixed, 
 though not named. You will allow me to send you what 
 we owe you ; the notice to leave comes from me. Excuse 
 me entering on these matters now, but, as I may not see 
 you again, I desire to make everything clear. Your box 
 shall be sent over to-day, and with it the sum of money to 
 which you are entitled, together with a little present which 
 you will not, I am sure, pain my sister by refusing.' 
 
THE LAST COED. 347 
 
 ' Oh 3 Mi*. Featherstone ! ' cried Loveday, ' Mr. Feather - 
 stone ! I cannot, I cannot bear this ! I have now lost 
 everything. I am without a mother, without a home, and 
 I have lost my husband, and I have lost my brother. 
 There is one thing to which I clung — your respect ; but 
 that also is gone, and yet indeed I do not deserve it.' 
 
 ' Madam/ answered Paul, ■ it is possible that the ex- 
 planation which would clear your conduct, which is denied 
 to-day, may be afforded in the future. If you can assure 
 me of that, the pity you now command will not be un- 
 accompanied with respect.' 
 
 Loveday shook her head sadly. She could give him no 
 hope of such an explanation, at least from her lips. If it 
 came, which she doubted, it would be from Constantine. 
 
 ' I wish you farewell,' said Paul, sorrowfully, after 
 waiting for a reply. ' We shall probably never meet 
 again.' 
 
 He bowed solemnly, and went away. She looked after 
 him with eyes filled with tears. She saw him, when he 
 reached the cottage, unbind he?- kerchief from his head and 
 give it to Tamsin, with a sign that it was to be returned to 
 the owner. But Paul did not look back. Then he took a 
 clean kerchief the daughter of old Carwithen gave him, 
 and that he bound around his head. He would not take 
 away with him any remembrance of Loveday. 
 
 She understood his meaning in the action, and it over- 
 came her. She had indeed lost everything — except his pity. 
 
 CHAPTER L. 
 
 AN APPARITION. 
 
 Squire Gaverock, Gerans, and Rose were in the room 
 called the study, in which, however, no study was ever 
 undertaken. They were all dressed in deep mourning. 
 Mrs. Gaverock was dead, and had that day been buried. 
 A stroke had fallen on her shortly after the departure of 
 Loveday, which had greatly affected her, and this was fol- 
 lowed by another, fiom which she did not rally. Her 
 departure had been without pain. She had faded away in 
 sleep. How far the Squire had felt his wife's loss none 
 
348 THE GAVEEOCKS. 
 
 could say. He was not accustomed to show his emotion ; 
 it is possible that he did not feel much. ' It is, taken all 
 in all/ said he, ' a happy release. She wasn't good for 
 much of late, and no comfort to herself, let alone others. 
 As for the maidens, she'd lost every mite of control over 
 them. I do not know how it is with others ; but, for my 
 part, I'd be shot or drowned rather than die soaking in 
 bed, dying by inches. But,' he added, philosophically, 
 ' tastes differ, and there is no accounting for them.' 
 
 On this occasion he had a bundle of banknotes before 
 him, and a paper. 
 
 ' Here,' said the Squire, ' you see what your mother's 
 will was, Gerans. She had her money tied up to her ; not 
 much, bu t something, from eighty to a hundred a year, in 
 the Three per Cents., and one or two other little matters. 
 You see she had left everything to Constantine ; but as he 
 is dead she revoked, and by a codicil left all for life to 
 Loveclay ; and I was to dispose of some shares she had in 
 the Bridgewater Canal at once, and pay over the proceeds 
 to Loveday for her immediate necessities. Here is the 
 money, but where is Loveclay 1 She executed a deed of 
 attorney just before the second fit she had to enable the 
 sale at once, and so it was effected before she died, but I 
 have only got the money to-day. Now it is at Loveday 's 
 disposal, if I could find her. All the rest of your mother's 
 money — that is, the money in Consols — will come to you 
 after Loveday's death. It won't go out of the family. 
 I have nothing against what your mother did. Constantine 
 made an ass of himself, and you must suffer. Eighty 
 pounds a year would have been something to you ; but, 
 after all, you are well off, more comfortable than ever I was 
 with your mother. She, when squeezed as tight as you 
 could, was not worth quite a hundred, and Hose is worth 
 four without squeezing.' 
 
 ' Dennis — I mean Mr. Penhalligan,' said Rose, ' has 
 gone to Exeter to make inquiries. Loveday has not written, 
 and nothing has been heard concerning her. When he 
 reached Launceston, he could learn no news ; she had spent 
 the night at the King's Arms and gone on by coach next 
 day, but by which coach and whither no one had noticed.' 
 
 ' How did you hear that ? ' asked Gerans. 
 
 ' Mr. Penhalligan wrote to me,' she replied, colouring. 
 
AN APPARITION. 349 
 
 ' He knew I was very anxious, and promised to send me 
 news on the first opportunity.' 
 
 Gerans nodded. He Avas not surprised nor suspicious. 
 Nothing more natural than that Rose should desire tidings 
 of her friend and sister-in-law, nothing more proper than 
 that Dennis should report progress. 
 
 ' My old friend, Ennoder Hocking,' said the Squire, 
 ' when he was dying was asked whether he would prefer to 
 be buried in the old churchyard or in the new cemetery, 
 and he replied that he would certainly prefer the new 
 ground, because it lay on gravel and was healthier, whereas 
 the old graveyard was on clay and a " rheumaticky place." 
 As for myself, I don't care a farthing where I am buried, 
 but I do care how I die. Bless my soul ! what incon- 
 venience and expense there is in a death-bed, and how quick 
 and economical is an accident ; no long drawn-out sickness 
 for me, if I may have my choice. But this is neither here 
 nor there, only this I will say, Constantine showed his good 
 sense and good taste in going out of this world in the way 
 he did. No nursing, no doctor's bill, no funeral expenses. 
 I hope it will be the same with myself.' 
 
 Rose uttered a cry of terror. She was seated facing the 
 window, and she saw a pale face looking in. The others, 
 startled, turned in the same direction, but observed nothing ; 
 they asked her what was the occasion of her alarm. 
 
 ' I thought — I thought ! ' she said, in trepidation, ' that 
 I saw Gerans out there, looking deathly white. He looked 
 in through the window glass and fixed his eyes on me.' 
 
 ' That,' said Gerans, ' is impossible, for here I am in the 
 flesh and in the solid, not very pallid, but fresh in colour.' 
 
 Even as he spoke the door behind him opened, and 
 framed in the entrance stood Constantine, so like Gerans, 
 but paler, that all who saw him were silent, startled, not 
 knowing what to think- -whether they had before them the 
 ghost of Constantine or the ' double ' of Gerans. 
 
 ' Well ! ' exclaimed Constantine, ' what are you all staring 
 at me for in that mazed manner ? Do you take me for 
 a spectre ? Not impossible, you have been eager enough 
 to reckon me among the dead ; not an effort did you 
 make to discover whether I were alive. Don't you know 
 me again, father ? or has disappointment taken the breath 
 out of your lungs ? Gerans, here I am to trouble you again.' 
 
350 THE GAVEKOCKS. 
 
 ' Good heavens ! ' exclaimed Gerans, springing up, and 
 rushing to his brother with open arms. ' Constantine, old 
 fellow ! Is this really you ? Oh, my God, how glad I 
 am ! ' He clasped his hand and shook it, then caught his 
 brother in his arms, and hugged him. ' I am rejoiced ! 
 Who ever would have expected this ! ' 
 
 ' What, Constantine thrown up by the sea ! ' exclaimed 
 the Squire. ' Humph ! come forward, and let me have a 
 look at you.' 
 
 Rose gazed on the restored brother with amazement 
 He was extraordinarily like her husband. Of late Gerans 
 had lost much of his cheerfulness, and this brought him 
 into closer resemblance to the pale, depressed man who 
 stood before them. 
 
 ' So you are Constantine ! ' said old Gaverock, without 
 manifesting any exuberant delight at the recognition. 
 ' Always too late for everything. Look here ! ' He spread 
 out the banknotes on the table. ' Here are four hundred 
 pounds, the proceeds of the sale of the Bridgewater Canal 
 shares ; but they are not for you. There are two thou- 
 sand six hundred in the Three per Cents., but they are 
 not for you. Just returned too late for the plunder ! ' 
 
 ' What do you mean, father 1 ' asked Constantine, 
 whilst his eyes rested eagerly, greedily on the money. 
 
 'I mean this, that your mother is no more. And as 
 you chose to keep away and sham dead, she has left her 
 money to Loveday instead. And now we do not know 
 what has become of her. You do not, I suppose ? ' 
 
 ' I — how should I know 1 ' 
 
 His father looked at him from head to foot. He had 
 been in his boat for some time rowing, had not been able 
 to get much to eat, had been wet and exhausted, and had 
 no appearance of prosperity about him. 
 
 ' Do you see this 1 ' asked old Gaverock. c Four hun- 
 dred pounds in notes, and some small gold and silver over. 
 You don't look to me as if you had had the handling of 
 this sort of thing where you have been.' 
 
 ' No,' laughed Constantine, contemptuously. ' Where 
 I have been I have not fingered much money.' 
 
 ' I can believe that,' said Gaverock ; and he put the 
 notes away in a pocket-book, and the coin in a purse, 
 thrust them into his library table drawer, locked it, and 
 
AN APPAKITION. 351 
 
 put the key in his pocket. ' But this might have been 
 yours, had you not been hiding and made us believe you 
 were dead. Now, your best way is to find your wife, and 
 ask her to provide you with a shilling or two for clean 
 linen.' 
 
 ' Con,' said Gerans, ' look at Rose. She is my wife 
 now, and your sister-in-law.' 
 
 Constantine held out his hand, but Rose accepted it 
 without alacrity. His close resemblance to her husband 
 was strange to her. 
 
 'You have come from a distance,' she said. 'You are 
 hungry and tired. I will hasten supper.' 
 
 ' Ah ! ' said he, ' do so. I have not eaten anything 
 since early morning.' 
 
 ' Sit down,' said Hender Gaverock, pointing to a chair 
 on the other side of the table. ' Whence come you ? From 
 the bottom of the sea 1 The last I saw of you was on the 
 keel of the " Mermaid," when a sea went over her. What 
 have you been doing with yourself all this time 1 ' 
 
 Constantine shrugged his shoulders. 'One thing to- 
 day, something else to-morrow — whatever offered.' 
 
 ' Why did you not go back to Nankivel ? why did you 
 not communicate with us 1 Why did you let us suppose 
 you dead ? ' 
 
 ' Nankivel ! I had had enough of a lawyer's office. 
 I did not write, because I had no pleasant news to tell.' 
 
 ' That you have not done well is no wonder to me. 
 You are not the man to make a fortune.' 
 
 ' I'm not an eldest son, born with a gold spoon in his 
 mouth, who gets the property and the heiress.' 
 
 His father brought his fist down on the table. 
 
 ' Whose fault is it that you did not get the heiress, 
 Con 1 Your own — you married a beggar.' 
 
 ' Father,' interposed Gerans, ' what is the advantage of 
 going back to the past 1 Con is here, alive — that suffices. 
 He is welcome, and we are rejoiced to see him ; if he is 
 unlucky, home is the place for him, where his best friends 
 will endeavour to comfort him. If he had been fortunate, 
 we should have rejoiced. Whether he returns to us pros- 
 perous or unfortunate is of little moment, so long as we 
 have him again, risen from the dead.' 
 
 • I want to know,' said the old man, rapping on the 
 
352 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 table again, ' I want to know what he has been about all 
 this while ? It is getting on for two years since he dis- 
 appeared. "What has he been about ? Where has he been 
 hiding ? ' 
 
 ' I tell you,' answered Constantine, sullenly. ' I have 
 been in various places, trying my hand at various things. 
 If I was picked up by an outward-bound vessel for the 
 West Indies, and went there, and have now come back — 
 what have you to say to that 1 ' 
 
 ' Your complexion is not tanned enough for the sun of 
 the "West Indies,' said old Gaverock. 
 
 ' That shows you know nothing about the matter. Do 
 you suppose that one can return in six days from the New 
 World, and bring one's tanned skin back 1 The voyage 
 is long enough to bleach the face ; besides, I have been ill.' 
 
 ' One can see that,' said Gerans. ' Do not be unkind 
 to him, father. Poor Con has been ill, and has suffered. 
 Why, the father in the parable ran to meet his son when 
 he returned, and he was a prodigal. Con has not been 
 that, and you are scarcely gracious to him.' 
 
 ' Do not you meddle,' said old Gaverock, angrily. ' I 
 know what I am about. It is not for the yellow beaks to 
 instruct the parent birds. I must know all about you, 
 Constantine, before I receive you cordially. The prodigal 
 returned with a confession, and therefore was taken to his 
 father's heart. You come back with evasion and equivo- 
 cation ; therefore I hold you at a distance, with the table 
 between us.' 
 
 He continued rapping angrily on the board. His temper 
 was rising. Then he stood up and paced the room with his 
 usual huge strides, with his hands in his pockets. Con- 
 stantine's eyes followed him. Dusk had set in, and it was 
 becoming dark in the room. 
 
 ' First of all, you married without my leave, and left me 
 in ignorance of the circumstances ; then you were washed 
 off the keel of the " Mermaid," when I, the older by more 
 than double your years, held on. Then you let us suppose 
 you were dead ; and so your mother has willed away her 
 money to Loveday, for her own irresponsible! private, and 
 independent use. Then you come home, without a pro- 
 fession, without money, and, of course, want to be helped 
 on to your feet.' 
 
AN APPARITION. 353 
 
 Constantine looked askance at his father. 
 
 I Yes/ he said, ' I do want help. I have made up my 
 mind to settle in the West Indies. I will have a sugar 
 plantation there, and negroes to work for me ; but land 
 and slaves are not to be had for nothing. I have come 
 home to ask you to assist me, and then I will trouble you 
 no more.' 
 
 ' Loveday is your wife. She has four hundred pounds. 
 You must settle matters with her. I suppose you intend 
 to take her with you ? ' 
 
 ' You tell me that Loveday is lost.' 
 
 ' Yes, but she will be found. Her brother is gone in 
 search of her. People do not get lost for long in England.' 
 
 ' I do not intend to take her out with me at first, till I 
 have my estate and house ; after that, I will write, or 
 return for her.' 
 
 ' Well, you must settle matters with her. I can give 
 you nothing.' 
 
 I I cannot wait till she is found. I have to be off in a 
 few days. I do not wish to meet Dennis Penhalligan.' 
 
 ' Why not 1 Are you a coward ? ' 
 
 ' I do not wish to quarrel with him. We nigh came to 
 blows before, and we are sure to come to an angry encounter 
 now if we meet. He is my brother-in-law, and I do not 
 want to hurt him. In a little while all will be right. I 
 shall have my sugar plantation and my negroes, and be a 
 thriving man, with a good house, and Loveday will be with 
 me ; and then Dennis may come out and doctor my blacks, 
 if he cannot succeed with white people here. He is inclined 
 to be my enemy now because I am down. But when I am 
 up, he will be amiable enough. No, I will not meet him. 
 Why should you not give me the money, father ? Loveday 
 is sure to approve.' 
 
 ' But supposing she does not, then I shall have to make 
 it up to her. ~No, no.' 
 
 ' Then let me have five hundred pounds to start with. 
 I am your son ; you are bound to provide for me.' 
 
 ' Did I not pay a premium to Nankivel for you 1 Who 
 forfeited that ? I have no money to advance. I am 
 always out of pocket. I can't sell without Gerans' con- 
 sent, and if he consented I would not do it — not reduce the 
 property for you.' 
 
 A A 
 
354 THE GAVEKOCKS. 
 
 ' Why not 1 I am your son. Why is Gerans to have 
 everything and I nothing 1 ' 
 
 ' It is your own fault if you have nothing. You were 
 put in a lawyer's office, and on the road to a livelihood, and 
 that opportunity you threw away. I had an heiress for 
 you worth five hundred per annum, and you married Love- 
 day on the sly, and threw that chance away. You were 
 your mother's favourite son and heir to all her money, and 
 you let her suppose you were dead, and so you have lost her 
 money, which has gone to Loveday. Now you are depen- 
 dent on your wife. Find her, and get her to advance you 
 the five hundred pounds. I will tell you what I think, 
 Constantine. Some men are like skittles, set up to be 
 bowled over. You may set them up a hundred times, and 
 they go over on their sides a hundred and one times. You 
 are one of these. You have no independence of character, 
 no manliness of heart.' 
 
 'That is the fatherly reception I get,' sneered Constan- 
 tine. ' Because I return with empty pockets I am un- 
 welcome ; had I come back with a full purse I should have 
 been made much of. I am not the prodigal son of the 
 Gospel who returns snuffling and beseeching forgiveness. 
 I came back to demand my rights, and, by Heavens ! I 
 will have them ; and, what is more, you'll be eager to give 
 me the money to get me off.' 
 
 Old Gaverock went hastily out of the room ; he was so 
 angry that he feared an explosion, and he had sufficient 
 sense to avoid that on the night of his lost son's return. 
 
 'You must not speak to father in that manner, Con,' 
 cautioned Gerans. ' He is unaccustomed to it, and cannot 
 bear it.' 
 
 ' Pshaw ! ' exclaimed Constantine, ' he will have to open 
 his eyes wide before long to what I say, unless — ' he went 
 to the locked drawer where the money was — ' unless he 
 furnishes me with this.' 
 
355 
 
 CHAPTER LI. 
 
 WANTED : MONEY ! 
 
 5 Well,' said Squire Gaverock after breakfast to Constan- 
 tine, ' what is to become of you ? ' 
 
 Constantine was now dressed in a suit of his elder 
 brother's clothes, and he looked much better than yesterday ; 
 he had recovered his colour, and seemed to have filled out. 
 A good sleep after a hearty supper had wrought a great 
 improvement in his appearance. When Rose looked at 
 him, in clothes that her husband usually wore, the resem- 
 blance between them was remarkable. The brothers were 
 alike in everything except in the expression of their 
 faces. 
 
 ' What is to become of me ? ' asked Constantine. ' That 
 remains for you to decide.' 
 
 Gerans was very pleased to have his brother home. He 
 considered him as his natural friend to whom he could open 
 his heart, and confide the trouble that corroded his soul. 
 He showed Constantine the kindliest, most affectionate 
 sympathy, which the latter accepted without thanks, as his 
 right. Gerans lived in clover, whereas he had to shift; for 
 himself on the bare world beyond the hedge. 
 
 ' I will tell you what will become of you,' said old 
 Hender Gaverock ; ' you shall remain here till Loveday is 
 heard of, and then you shall settle matters with her. If she 
 chooses to let you have the four hundred, she may, and I 
 will add another hundred, which is the utmost I can do. 
 That will make five hundred pounds. With five hundred 
 pounds you shall go to Barbadoes, or wherever you like ; I 
 shall have done with you. You will take your wife with 
 you, or leave her for a year till you are settled. That is 
 the plan. It will do. You shall follow it.' 
 
 ' I cannot wait till Loveday is found,' answered Con- 
 stantine. 
 
 ' Why not ? What reasons 1 ' 
 
 'I have my reasons.' He looked round. Rose had left 
 the room, only Gerans and his father were there. 'You 
 have your plans, father, and I have mine. I tell you I am 
 
 aa2 
 
356 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 off to-morrow, or the day after at latest. I cannot, and I 
 will not, wait.' 
 
 ' Why not ? 
 
 ' I have told you. I have my reasons. That must 
 suffice.' 
 
 'But it does not suffice.' 
 
 ' You had better not ask further.' 
 
 ' But I do ask further.' 
 
 ' Then you ask in vain.' 
 
 ' Then you are a worthless vagabond,' said old Gaverock 
 in a rage. 
 
 ' If I am a vagabond, who has made me so 1 Who l»ut 
 yourself 1 All your solicitude has been for Gerans ; I have 
 been unconsidered.' 
 
 ' That is false. You were sent with ISTankivel.' 
 
 ' Yes — when I had not the smallest inclination for a 
 solicitor's office. Of course I am a vagabond. I have no 
 home. I must go over the world looking for one. I have 
 not a house and acres provided for me by my ancestors. 
 They are for Gei'ans.' 
 
 ' If you had had a spark of honour in your whole carcass 
 you would not have returned home as you have, after allow- 
 ing us for two years to believe you dead.' 
 
 ' If you had had a spark of fatherly feeling in you, you 
 would never have penned me into Nankivel's musty office, 
 with a brick wall to look at, and old parchments to munch. 
 An unnatural father has made a vagabond son.' 
 
 Hender Gaverock's face became red as blood, and his 
 eyes sparkled. He grasped Constantine by the collar, 
 dragged him up from his chair, and thrust him down on it 
 again with such violence that the chair gave way, and Con- 
 stantine fell to the ground. 
 
 ' I will teach you how a son is to address his father,' 
 said he, and shook his fist at Constantine, who scrambled 
 to his feet with face livid with rage and mortification. 
 
 ' I have been treated with only violence and insult by 
 you,' said Constantine. ' I ask you for money now, that I 
 may depart out of your sight, never to appear before you 
 again, and have it I will.' 
 
 'You will!— how?' 
 
 ' Father,' interposed Gerans, ' what can be the harm of 
 granting him what he desires 1 He has his reasons, which 
 
wanted: money! 357 
 
 are no doubt good, that make it necessary for him to leave 
 immediately, and he wants the money at once. A penny 
 now is worth twopence ten minutes hence. Con has told 
 you that he cannot wait.' 
 
 ' He has had his deserts.' 
 
 ' No, he has not,' answered Gerans, boldly ; ' you are 
 doing him an injustice.' 
 
 ' I— an injustice ! ' The old man flamed up, and Con- 
 stantine laughed. 
 
 ' I ask for five hundred pounds. The sum is moderate. 
 I forewarn you, if you do not give me the money willingly, 
 I will make you give it,' said Constantine. 
 
 ' You ! You make me ! ' 
 
 ' Yes, I will. If I were to ask for a thousand you would 
 give it with gladness to be rid of me.' 
 
 ' I should like to see the force you will wield against 
 me, to make me pay money which I do not choose to 
 expend.' 
 
 ' Do you remember when I last came here, you tripped 
 me up, father ? ' 
 
 Old Gaverock nodded. 
 
 ' It is my turn now, and such a fall I will give you as 
 you never experienced before.' 
 
 ' Con,' interposed Gerans, ' why do you aggravate father ? 
 You can gain nothing by doing so, and your manner is 
 offensive, as your conduct is improper.' 
 
 ' Leave me to settle my affairs,' answered Constantine, 
 impatiently. ' My father will not give me the money. Is 
 it so?' 
 
 ' Yes, it is so,' answered Gaverock. 
 
 ' I will make him do it, with the threat of dishonour on 
 himself, the family, and the name of Gaverock.' 
 
 ' What ! what ! ' 
 
 ' Ah ! that is my weapon. I must tell you the truth. 
 I have got into a scrape. It was no fault of mine, but let 
 that pass. I am now in danger of arrest and of conviction 
 as a felon, and of transportation.' 
 
 The old man uttered a hoarse cry. Like a madman he 
 rushed upon Constantine, who turned pale and started 
 back, and armed himself with a leg of the broken chair. 
 Gerans threw himself between them, laid hold of the furious 
 old man, grappled with and restrained and overpowered 
 him, and thrust him back. 
 
358 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 ' Gerans ! ' gasped the old Squire, ' Gerans ! ' He ceased, 
 to resist, and his son let go his hold. The old man panted 
 for breath. Gerans also breathed hard and fast. He was 
 astonished at himself for daring to oppose and control his 
 father, and he cast down his eyes before him, as one that 
 was guilty. He turned aside to his brother, and said, re- 
 proachfully, ' Con, you should not say false and idle words 
 certain to anger our father. You know how sacred he holds 
 the honour and name of the family.' 
 
 'I spoke nothing but the ugly truth.' said Constan- 
 tine. 
 
 ' That,' answered Gerans, ' I will never believe. You 
 are the cleverest and best of us two. I might bungle into 
 wrongdoing, but not you. You have twice as much brains 
 as I.' 
 
 ' The world is for the brainless, then,' mocked Constan- 
 tine. ' Towan estate, and an heiress with four hundred a 
 year. I — the clever one of the family — am a vagabond 
 who sues in vain for a few hundreds.' 
 
 The old man stood looking from one son to the other 
 without speaking, hardly knowing with which to be most 
 angry. 
 
 ' Father,' said Gerans, approaching old Hender ; but 
 the Squire would accept no submission — he thrust him 
 away with violence, and a smothered oath. 
 
 Gerans gave his brother a sign to leave the house, and 
 Constantine threw aside the leg of the chair which he had 
 taken up as a weapon wherewith to defend himself, and 
 went out at the porch door. In another moment Gerans 
 followed him. They walked on together in silence for some 
 distance over the downs towards the sea. 
 
 Presently Constantine asked, ' Have you seen mother's 
 will 1 ' 
 
 'Yes — that is, I have heard it read.' 
 
 ' I must have a look at it. I believe it may be upset. 
 She left the money to Loveday conditionally on my death.' 
 
 ' You need not trouble yourself about that. Loveday 
 gets the money, and she is your wife. It is all the same.' 
 
 ' It is not all the same. I want the money at once. I 
 cannot wait for it till she is found and can give her consent. 
 I am not sure that she will consent without conditions. 
 How much have you got with Rose 1 ' 
 
wanted: money! 359 
 
 ' I do not know. I have not looked into matters.' 
 
 ' 1 suppose that now her affairs are out of father's hands 
 and in yours. He was her trustee only whilst she was 
 under age and unmarried.' 
 
 1 1 do not know.' 
 
 ' You can raise money, I presume, independently of his 
 consent ? ' 
 
 ' I do not know.' 
 
 Constantine laughed contemptuously. ' You do not 
 deserve to have money, if you do not know on what tenure 
 you have it, what is its amount, whether you can dispose 
 of it, whether you can control it.' 
 
 'I have had no occasion,' answered Gerans. ' Father is 
 an excellent manager. An agent at Truro manages for 
 Rose ; and when that property is sold, we shall buy Dina- 
 bole and other land round here so as to have all the estates 
 together within a ring fence. That is father's plan, and 
 I approve of it. Rose does not want to have the house at 
 Kenwyn sold in which she was born and lived, and if my 
 father insists on that I shall oppose him, but that is the 
 sole point on which any difference is likely to arise. He 
 aims only at doing the best for Rose and me. She knows 
 that as surely as myself, and we are content to trust him.' 
 
 ' I would trust no one but myself,' said Constantine. 
 ' However, I am not here to talk over your plans of rising 
 to be a big county squire and possibly a high sheriff ; your 
 affairs concern me now only as they touch me. My neces- 
 sities are urgent. What I said is true. I will give no par- 
 ticulars. I am under a cloud, and must leave the country. 
 I have been drawn into a horrible quagmire, from which I 
 must scramble before I am sucked down into the depth. 
 The money I must have, or in very spite, to revenge myself 
 on father, I will let the worst come, and then he will go 
 mad with shame and rage and vexation that he did not 
 come to my terms in time.' 
 
 ' Constantine ! I cannot, I will not, believe that you 
 have done anything dishonourable.' 
 
 ' No — the wrongdoing has been forced on me. You say 
 I have brains. I am easy-going and good-natured. Easy- 
 going and good-natured folk get imposed on. I was im- 
 posed on by a hypocritical, pious idiot — and he has led me 
 into such a trouble that unless I escape out of the country 
 
360 THE GAVEEOCES. 
 
 at once, of my own accord, I shall be transported out of it, 
 at the cost of the country.' 
 
 ' Oh, Con ! ' 
 
 'What help to me is there in your reproachful Con- 
 stantines ! and Oh, Cons ! I want — not exclamations of 
 righteous or simulated horror, but ready money. In my 
 opinion it is they who lay pitfalls for the unwary who 
 should be punished, not those who fall into them. It is all 
 very well for you to stick to the high road of virtue, be- 
 cause you have no temptations to leave it ; you are an 
 eldest son and married to an heiress, but I am nothing and 
 have nothing. I have to get what I can, make a nest like 
 a puffin in a disused rabbit burrow, or catch a meal like a 
 skua from the gulls when they return from fishing by strik- 
 ing them in the breast, making them disgorge, and catching 
 and rushing off with their prey.' 
 
 ' Brother, this is very dreadful ! ' 
 
 ' Of course it is. So is a torn coat, but a tailor will not 
 mend it by holding up his hands over the rent. He must 
 take needle and thread and draw the riven edges together. 
 I want money.' 
 
 ' What have you done, Con 1 ' asked Gerans, with sink- 
 ing heart. 
 
 ' Never mind what I have done. The thing that we 
 have to consider is, what is to be done with me. What do 
 you consider is the thing to be done with a cankered apple- 
 tree in your garden ? You get rid of it as quickly as you 
 can, lest the canker spread. I am the cankered tree. You 
 must get rid of me. Mind you, Gerans, it is the soil that 
 produces the canker ; the tree is good enough, and the best 
 sorts of apples take the canker readiest. Your sour cider fruit 
 never catch it. I have not been given proper nourishing 
 soil in which my roots may spread, so I have got the can- 
 ker. You must get rid of me, send me to the West Indies. 
 There I shall recover and bear bigger and better apples than 
 even you with your Towan and your heiress.' 
 
 ' Have you been, really, in the West Indies, Con V 
 
 ' Never mind where I have been. Again your questions 
 are irrelevant. I can assure you I have been in a new 
 world to this, with quite a different order of ideas, and 
 habits, and manners from those of the old world ruled by 
 the Squire of Towan. Where I am going, not where I 
 
WANTED : MONET ! 361 
 
 have been, is that to occupy us at present, and that I do 
 not mind telling you. I am going out of the kingdom, to 
 the West Indies, and I am going as quickly as I can to 
 prevent being sent east to Botany Bay.' 
 
 ' I cannot believe this.' 
 
 ' What ? That I am in danger ? You will have to 
 arrive at conviction pretty sharply, or the danger will be at 
 your door in the shape of a couple of sheriff's officers to 
 arrest me. I will not wait here much longer. I have some 
 patience with your sluggish minds, which require time to 
 take in new notions, but I will not protract the time 
 indefinitely. Money I want, and will have. Five hundred 
 pounds. If you will give me some of your own — that is, 
 Rose's — or if father will give me Loveday's, it is one to me. 
 The money I must have, and do not so much care out of 
 whose pocket it proceeds so long as it finds its way into 
 mine. If you advance me the money, I will repay it at 
 five per cent, interest out of my sugar canes. If I 
 have Loveday's, she of course will join me, and suck 
 the sugar on the spot out of the canes grown on her gold.' 
 
 'You must give me time to think this over,' said 
 Gerans. ' If you must have money, you shall have it. 
 Whatever is mine, personally, I will freely share with you, 
 but I cannot take Rose's money without her consent, nor 
 can my father give you the four hundred pounds left to 
 Loveday without her consent. But, Con ! that you have 
 been unfortunate I know ; that you have been guilty, I 
 cannot and will not believe.' 
 
 ' You have said that already, and I am glad of your 
 good opinion. As you say, I am unfortunate ; but the self- 
 righteous world will say I was something else. Well ! 
 when I am on my sugar plantation whacking my negroes, 
 I shall whistle across the ocean in the face of this rotten, 
 canting, hypocritical old world. When I am wealthy I 
 will come back, and it will bow low before me and do 
 worship. You will see ! You will see ! ' He laughed 
 carelessly. ' Gerans, I must have some of the mignonette 
 seed from under the drawing-room window. I am passion- 
 ately fond of the scent of mignonette, and the hot sun of 
 the West Indies will draw it out in double fragrance. Do 
 you remember the butter-scotch we were wont to make 
 together, Gerans 1 and how little sugar mother would spare 1 
 
362 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 You will come out and pay me a visit on our plantation,, 
 and we will make butter-scotch out of my own sugar, grown 
 on the estate.' Then Constantine threw himself down on 
 the short grass. ' I am going no further with you, Gerans,' 
 he said. ' I have a fit of laziness on me, and I will lie and 
 dream here of my sugar plantation. You go on and 
 find out how the money is to be raised for purchasing it.' 
 
 CHAPTER LII. 
 
 ON THE TURF. 
 
 Constantine lay on the turf, picking up little empty white 
 shell cases which strewed it, and crushing them between his 
 fingers. There was not much sport in this proceeding, but it 
 was a distraction. Towan was on his left ; from where he lay 
 he overlooked the house. When he was tired of cracking 
 shells he raised his head on his right hand, put a stalk of thrift 
 in his mouth, and tried to tie a knot in it with his tongue. 
 His eyes rested on Towan, without any emotion at seeing 
 the home of his childhood again, at the prospect of seeing it 
 now for the last time. 
 
 ' If I get to the West Indies I shall not be such a fool 
 as to return home to my father's growls, and my brother's 
 exclamations of Oh, Con ! ' 
 
 His heart was bitter within him at the thought that his 
 brother was well provided for, happily married, exposed to 
 none of the roughs of life, whilst he had to shift for his 
 living, run into, and succumb to temptations. He stood 
 now in peril of transportation, simply because he was a 
 younger son. Gerans was respected as an honourable, just, 
 and generous man, solely because he was the firstborn, and 
 as firstborn had everything showered on him for which 
 another must fight. He was angry with Gerans, because he 
 envied his luck. He was angry with his father, because 
 his father was partial. He was angry even with his 
 dead mother, because she had put him to inconvenience by 
 her will, making him subservient to his wife, to whom he 
 did not want to owe an obligation just then. The recep- 
 tion he had met with from his father had not been cordial. 
 He did not stop to inquire whether he deserved a better 
 
ON THE TURF. 363 
 
 reception, after showing so little regard for the feelings of 
 his parents as to leave them for nearly two years in igno- 
 rance that he was alive. He had returned home, not that 
 home now exercised any attractive spell on his heart, not 
 to see again his old father and mother, and the brother who 
 loved him with such sincerity, but because he wanted 
 money, and knew not whither he should turn for it beside 
 home. Nevertheless a soft emotion had risen in his heart 
 on the yester eve when he came up from the strand, and saw 
 before him the old walls and roofs, and his hand had 
 trembled on the door latch before he pressed it, out of real 
 feeling. But that was transient, and had given way to 
 bitterness and discontent. He was ashamed of the momen- 
 tary melting, as of a weakness. Even his brother's hearty 
 welcome could not rethaw his frozen heart. He thought 
 of him only as on^ who stood between him and an 
 easy life. 
 
 ' There is no saying,' said Constantine, spitting the stalk 
 of thrift from his mouth ; ' Gerans may be dissembling, and 
 be only eager how to be rid of me cheaply. It is as well 
 that I have no great tenderness towards him. We shall be 
 better able to deal with one another in business-like fashion.' 
 
 Lying on the turf and looking towards Towan, he saw 
 the old Squire ride away on his favourite cob. Constantine 
 knew it well. ' Whither is he going 1 ' he asked, and then 
 remembered the day was that of market at Padstow, and 
 the Squire never missed attending. 
 
 ' It is nothing to him that I am here,' sneered Constan- 
 tine. 'He is off to learn the price of bullocks and sheep.' 
 
 He was wrong in his conjecture. Squire Gaverock was 
 not on his way to Padstow without thought of his son. He 
 was on his way thither to see about raising a hundred 
 pounds for Constantine. He had made up his mind to give 
 him that ; more he could not, without selling land, and the 
 idea of selling did not enter his head. ' With a hundred 
 pounds from me, and Loveday's four hundred, and her eighty 
 pound per annum from the Three per Cents. — it is enough. 
 He must be satisfied. If he has to ask his wife for the 
 money, so much the better ; it will make him behave to her 
 with kindness and respect.' Jog, jog, jog ! ' After all,' 
 mused the Squire, ' I was a bit sharp with the boy, but he 
 made me angry. Why did he not write and let us know 
 
364 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 he was alive, and not make his mother miserable ? ' Jog, 
 jog, jog ! 'I don't like his looks. There is a skulking, hang- 
 dog expression in his face which it did not wear in old times.' 
 
 Constantine's eyes followed his father along the Pad stow 
 road without love. He was thinking of the four hundred 
 pounds in the old man's table drawer. That money was 
 his own by rights. His mother had left it to Loveday 
 only because she believed her son Constantine was dead. 
 Morally, if not legally, the money was his. If he could 
 get hold of that money, he would be able to settle in 
 the West Indies, and with some assiduity and determination, 
 and by keeping the negroes up to their work with a cat-o'- 
 nine-tails, make a large fortune. There was no doubt 
 about that, as there was also no doubt that it would be 
 idle for him to go to Barbadoes or anywhere else without 
 capital. ' I am going to be a master, not a slave,' said 
 Constantine. 
 
 Presently he saw Rose come out of the house and 
 enter the walled garden, carrying a basket. She left the 
 garden door open — it was too much trouble to shut it. 
 She went among the raspberry bushes, and began picking 
 the fruit. Constantine thought, though too far off to be 
 certain, that she put quite as many berries into her mouth 
 as into the basket. In fact she did so. She had gone 
 into the garden to pick for a raspberry pudding. Rose 
 had the keys of the store-room, and ate the currants and 
 raisins, and figs, and almonds there whenever she went 
 to the room. She helped herself, not because she was 
 greedy, but because she liked sweet things, and liked 
 having something in her mouth to play with, and she 
 never denied herself any fancy. So — she liked to see and 
 talk to, and coquet with Dennis Penhalligan, and notwith- 
 standing his impertinence at the well she met him and 
 conversed with him, and allowed him to compliment her, 
 and take her hand. It was a pastime, and no harm was 
 meant. 
 
 Constantine was so intent watching Rose, and laughing 
 at the motion of her hand to her lips instead of to the 
 basket, that he did not observe the approach of a man from 
 Nantsillan, till he was close at hand — and then he started 
 as he recognised Dennis. The young doctor did not go to 
 the house, but walked to the garden door. Perhaps he 
 
ON THE TUEF. 365 
 
 judged by the door being left open who was within. Per- 
 haps as he went by he caught a glimpse of Rose in her 
 morning gown. Constantine was interested and alarmed. 
 He wished he were near enough to overhear their conver- 
 sation. He considered whether, if he crept down to the 
 garden wall, he could catch any of it, but he abandoned the 
 thought of doing this ; the wall was high, and of brick. 
 From where he was, he could see what passed ; behind the 
 wall, he would be able neither to see nor to hear. 
 
 He saw Rose start with surprise, and take a step eagerly 
 forwards- to meet Dennis, then she extended her hand to 
 him, and Penhalligan took and held it for some while. 
 
 ' Humph ! ' said Constantine, ' on uncommonly friendly 
 terms. To be sure he is her brother-in-law twice removed.' 
 
 At last Rose drew her hand hastily away, and began to 
 pick raspberries rapidly. They seemed to have much to say to 
 each other. Constantine looked anxiously. He wondered 
 whether Dennis had obtained a clue to where his sister was. 
 He wondered whether Rose was telling Dennis that he, Con- 
 stantine, was there. Constantine thought that if Penhalligan 
 made a motion of surprise, he would detect it, and that would 
 assure him that the surgeon had been made aware of the 
 reappearance of his brother-in-law, long supposed to be 
 drowned. But look as closely as he could, Constantine 
 could detect no such movement. They had other matter 
 to talk about, much more interesting than himself, thought 
 Constantine and laughed, ' And Gerans, the soft-headed, 
 there is no thought of him either, I suppose.' 
 
 Just then he saw, but only for a moment, an odd figure 
 of a man in a red waistcoat, that peeped from beneath an 
 oilskin coat, standing in the garden doorway, and at the 
 same time a white spotted dog ran up and down between 
 the raspberry bushes. 
 
 The moment Penhalligan saw the dog, he ceased speak- 
 ing to Rose ; he seemed to become excited and angry ; he 
 ran after the dog, threw stones at it, and — all at once, Con- 
 stantine could see neither it nor the red -vested man any 
 more. He supposed that the man had gone along under 
 the wall towards the house, and the dog had left the garden, 
 and followed him. The spotted dog had, however, effec- 
 tually interrupted the interview. Dennis Penhalligan said 
 a few more words to Rose, and then hastily left the garden 
 
366 THE GAVEROCZS. 
 
 and returned to Nantsillan. Then Constantine observed 
 that Rose stood by the bushes with her forefinger to her 
 lips in a deep study • she neither ate nor put into the bas- 
 ket any more raspberries. 
 
 If he had been near enough to hear the conversation, he 
 would have been greatly relieved of his anxieties. In the 
 first place he would have learned that Dennis had not come 
 upon the traces of his sister, and that he was altogether 
 following a misleading clue. Penhalligan had assumed 
 that Loveday had gone to Exeter, and he had made that 
 the point of departure for his inquiries. It is true that 
 Madam Loveys had mentioned to him the advertisement, 
 but he argued that if his sister had taken the situation she 
 would certainly have written, whereas it was much more 
 probable that she had found her cousin and was with her. 
 Her cousin was in money difficulties and did not want her 
 address to be known, and had persuaded Loveday not to 
 write to her friends. Consequently Dennis was trying to 
 find out his cousin with the anticipation of discovering 
 Loveday with her. He had returned home unsuccessful, 
 to make some arrangements about his business, intending 
 to leave again after a few days. In the second place Con- 
 stantine would have learned that Rose had not betrayed 
 the fact of his being alive and at Towan. The spotted dog 
 had disturbed the conversation and interrupted the current 
 of her thoughts when she was on the point of making the 
 communication to Dennis. Constantine thought that there 
 was something suspicious in this meeting of Rose with 
 Dennis. It was by appointment. The door had been left 
 open purposely. That was his conclusion. ' Well,' said he, 
 4 1 can make some use of it, I dare say.' 
 
 Gerans had laughed at him half-an-hour ago for picking 
 up a crooked nail on the road, and asked him what use it 
 could be to him. Then he had replied that it would come 
 handy somehow, and some day. Why was it that Con- 
 stantine was prepared to lay hold of anything, however 
 crooked, and turn it to his own purposes 1 of anything that 
 chance cast in his way, and convert it into a weapon where- 
 with to wound his fellow-men 1 
 
 1 Because,' he would answer, ' I am a younger son.' 
 
 Constantine had good abilities, better than Gerans ; he 
 had the same lazy good-nature as his brother, a love of 
 
ON THE TTJRF. 367 
 
 taking things easily, but circumstances were against him, 
 and for Gerans. He had not a fortune to fall back upon. 
 He could not take life easily, he must work to get a living, 
 and he was angry because of this obligation. Why should 
 he, and not Gerans, have to work 1 
 
 The day was warm, the sun had heated the sandy soil 
 of the turf on which he lay. He had nothing to do but 
 grumble over the injustice with which he had been treated 
 ■and find palliations for his own ill-doing. He was tired of 
 lying with his head propped on one elbow, so he threw him- 
 self back, put his hands under his head, drew his hat over 
 his face, and went to sleep. 
 
 When Gerans came back, he found his brother where he 
 had left him, sleeping and snoring. 
 
 Gerans had been thinking since he parted from Con- 
 stantine. He had not forgotten the reproaches of Rose 
 because he gave way to his father so readily, but he would 
 not oppose the old man without a better reason than to 
 show that he had an independent opinion. Rose was in- 
 different as to the occasion of a passage of arms, in her 
 eagerness to have a battle in which her husband would 
 measure his strength with his father. Gerans was essen- 
 tially a peace-loving man, and a just man. He would yield 
 in matters unimportant to ensure peace, and he would not 
 oppose his father in matters where his father, he knew, was 
 in the right. He was aware that his yielding to his father 
 had lost him the respect and love of his wife ; now the 
 occasion had come in which he would have to take a 
 decided line of opposition. He might not thereby recover 
 his wife's regard, but he would be doing a justice to his 
 brother. 
 
 He had a notion that Towan estates were worth in the 
 gross about twelve hundred a year — that is, when all outs 
 were paid, about eight hundred — but he was not sure ; his 
 father neither told him the value, nor consulted him about 
 the burdens. There was a mortgage on it he knew for his 
 aunt's jointure, but to what amount he was unaware. 
 There were continual repairs being executed to the farm 
 buildings and cottages, but at what annual cost he was not 
 told. The only way by which he had obtained an inkling 
 into the amount of his father's income was through the 
 rate- book which the parish overseer had shown him one 
 
368 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 day. Whether there were other charges on the estate than 
 the mortgage for Madam Loveys he did not know. What 
 the cost of the maintenance of the Towan establishment 
 was he was unable to conjecture. 
 
 His father kept no accounts. 
 
 Gerans waited by his brother's side till Constantine 
 awoke. The latter sat up, rubbed his eyes, and asked how 
 long he had been asleep. 
 
 ' Con/ said Gerans, ' I have thought over what is to be 
 done. When I was married no resettlement of the pro- 
 perty was made. Time enough when a boy is born, said 
 father. Consequently, he and I can do with it pretty much 
 what we will. It is of no use asking him to do too much 
 — we must be moderate in our demands — now ; if, after 
 my father's death, I can help you further, and you need 
 assistance, command me. At present I am powerless with- 
 out his consent. I have resolved to ask him to raise a 
 thousand pounds for you on Towan. Then, with Loveday's 
 four hundred in cash, you will have something to start with, 
 and she will have mother's two thousand six hundred in the 
 Three per Cents.' 
 
 ' Do you mean this 1 ' asked Constantine, with pleased 
 but incredulous surprise. 
 
 ' I do, indeed,' answered Gerans. ' You are my brother. 
 Here is my hand, old fellow — is it a compact 1 I would do 
 more for you if I could.' 
 
 Constantine walked on at the side of his brother to- 
 wards Towan. 
 
 ' You see, Con, that if I should have no son, the pro- 
 perty would come to you. So if you go out of the country, 
 you must not leave us without tidings of you. Towan 
 nearly came to change of heirs the other day when I was 
 samphire-picking for Rose. Penhalligan saved my life.' 
 
 Constantine laughed. 
 
 There was something unpleasant in the tone of his 
 laugh — a significant innuendo — which jarred with Gerans, 
 and he looked at his brother. 
 
 'I have been witness to-day to a meeting,'' said Con- 
 stantine. ' Rose was in the garden picking raspberries 
 when Dennis Penhalligan came to her.' 
 
 ' Dennis back ! ' exclaimed Gerans, with glad surprise ; 
 ' then he has tidings of Loveday.' 
 
ON THE TURF. 369 
 
 ' Possibly,' answered Constantine ; ' I was not so im- 
 polite as to run down and form a third in the party. 5 He 
 spoke mockingly, and Gerans looked at him again, indig- 
 nantly, whilst the colour rushed to his face. But he was 
 without suspicion of Rose, without jealousy of Dennis ; he 
 flushed with indignation at Constantine for reflecting on 
 his wife's proceedings with disparagement. He said no- 
 thing more till they reached the house. 
 
 CHAPTER LIII. 
 
 A THOUSAND POUNDS. 
 
 "When Gerans and Constantine entered Towan, the former 
 said to Rose, ' What news of Loveday ? I hear from Con 
 that you have seen Dennis.' 
 
 ' Met him between the raspberry bushes in the garden,' 
 said Constantine. 
 
 Rose looked sharply at her brother-in-law ; there was a 
 smirk on his lips and a twinkle in his eye which angered 
 her. She knit her brows, turned her back on him, and 
 answered in a voice tremulous with shame and annoyance, 
 'No news at all.' Then she went with quick steps to- 
 wards the door. 
 
 ' Stay a while,' spoke Constantine ; ' I don't want Pen- 
 halligan or, indeed, any one outside Towan to know of my 
 presence here. Will you be good enough to keep my return 
 a secret till my back is turned, which will be as quickly as 
 possible. I shall be obliged if you will silence the servants.' 
 
 ' I cannot answer for them,' replied Rose. ' Why you 
 should be ashamed to be seen, unless you have done what 
 is discreditable, I do not understand.' 
 
 ' I explained my reasons to my father and your husband 
 this morning,' said Constantine, coolly ; ' as for the servants, 
 their tongues can be tied. Promise them each a crown, if 
 my return be kept secret till this day week.' 
 
 Rose made no answer. She went out of the room 
 without another word. She was angry with Constantine 
 and with herself, perhaps a little frightened at the con- 
 sequences of her inconsiderate conduct. Not a word had 
 passed between her and Dennis to which Gerans might not 
 
 B B 
 
370 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 have listened. Their conversation had been about Love- 
 day, in whose welfare Gerans was as much interested as 
 herself. Dennis had acted, perhaps, injudiciously in coming 
 to her into the garden instead of going to the house, and she 
 had also, perhaps, been unwise in inviting him to come to 
 Towan that evening to see her and Gerans, and tell them 
 his plans for the ju-osecution of the search. Penhalligan 
 was reluctant to enter Towan after his quarrel with the 
 old Squire. Mr. Gaverock had not quite forgotten and 
 forgiven the young surgeon for calling him a bear, though 
 he professed to be content with the explanation given by 
 Loveday. Dennis had not apologised, and had not with- 
 drawn the expression. Therefore he treated him with 
 coldness, and Dennis would not cross the threshold unless 
 called in professionally, or specially invited. He had been 
 summoned to Mrs. Gaverock when she was taken with 
 paralysis, but specially invited he had not been till Eose 
 asked him in the garden. She had intimated to him that 
 she had something particular to tell him. She had told him 
 nothing about Mrs. Gaverock's will, nor of the return of 
 Constantine. Now she thought that if she had been guilty 
 of an indiscretion, she would soon put that to rights. She 
 wrote a note : 
 
 ' Dear Mr. Penhalligan, — Pray do not come up this 
 evening, as I asked you. — Yours very sincerely, 
 
 'Rose Gaverock.' 
 
 She sent the note down to Nantsillan by the postman, who 
 arrived just then, a poor man nearly deaf. Then her mind 
 was relieved. She had done nothing wrong, nothing where- 
 with to reproach herself. 
 
 Constantine and Gerans were in the hall, the latter 
 turning over the letters. The former was at the window. 
 
 ' Do you employ the postman for carrying messages 1 ' 
 asked he. 
 
 ' Yes, sometimes,' answered Gerans, with indifference. 
 
 ' Because I see Rose outside slipping a triangular, note 
 into his hand.' 
 
 'Very possibly,' Gerans answered shortly ; he was hurt 
 and offended at his brother's tone and words. 
 
 ' Rose,' said he, when his wife came in, ' have you been 
 giving old Hockaday a note 1 ' 
 
A THOUSAND POUNDS. 371 
 
 1 Yes,' she answered. 
 
 1 To whom 1 ' 
 
 ' A friend,' she replied, shortly, and left the room. 
 
 Constantine laughed. 
 
 ' She will not be taken to task by you,' he said. 
 
 ' I did wrong to take her to task,' answered Gerans, 
 sadly, ' I was wanting in good feeling, and she replied to 
 me as I deserved.' 
 
 ' The wife of Caesar is above suspicion ! ' sneered Con- 
 stantine. 
 
 ' In every way,' answered Gerans, sharply, ' as gold is 
 untarnishable, because the element of canker is not in it. 
 The cloud covers the mirror from the breath of him who 
 approaches it, the mirror itself is clear.' 
 
 Constantine shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 1 Have you a white liver-spotted dog ? ' he asked. 
 
 •No.' 
 
 ' Pshaw ! because I have seen one about Towan to-day.' 
 
 ' We have no such dog.' 
 
 In the evening Squire Gaverock returned from Padstow. 
 He went into the study where his sons and Rose were 
 seated awaiting him. Since the last sickness and death of 
 Mrs. Gaverock the drawing-room had been deserted by 
 Rose, and she preferred to sit in the library or hall ; the 
 former was the snugger room. Old Gaverock was little 
 there. He used the apartment as his office. His box of 
 deeds was there, his desk and money were there, his letters 
 were there, his whips, and guns, and spurs. 
 
 He had ridden off his anger, and returned in good- 
 humour. 
 
 ' Rose,' said he, ' the Kenwyn mine is sold, and the 
 money is in the banker's hands at Padstow. Never had so 
 much gold and notes at my disposal before. I am going 
 to see Tregellas to-morrow about the purchase of Trevi- 
 thick.' 
 
 ' I have no objection to the sale of the mine,' answered 
 Rose, ' but I will not have my house at Kenwyn disposed 
 of.' 
 
 ' I have not said I will sell that,' said the old man, 
 roughly. 'Don't screech before you are pinched.' 
 
 ' What did you sell the mine for ? ' asked Constan- 
 tine. 
 
 b b2 
 
372 THE GAVEEOCKS. 
 
 ' For more money than you will ever get, sitting in the 
 corner, twiddling your thumbs. I sold for two thousand 
 five hundred and eighty pounds. Five years ago it would 
 have sold for six thousand.' 
 
 Rose was sitting in the window, embroidering the 
 border for the carpet she had promised to Loveday, on 
 which she had been so long engaged. 
 
 ' Is that money mine now 1 ' 
 
 ' No, my dear,'" answered the Squire ; ' I am your trustee 
 and shall invest it for you. You are not to be entrusted 
 with large sums to play ducks and drakes with.' 
 
 ' Father,' said Gerans, ' I have been considering to-day 
 what is to be done for my brother. You have kept me 
 always in the dark as to the value of this estate, but I can 
 form a rough estimate of what it is worth. There is enough 
 to keep Rose and me here in comfort, and we do not ask for 
 luxuries. The estate has not been re-entailed on my mar- 
 riage, and therefore you or I can sell or mortgage with 
 mutual consent. It is my wish that Constantine be given 
 a thousand pounds at once, to enable him to buy an estate 
 in the "West Indies.' 
 
 He spoke quietly and firmly. 
 
 Old Gaverock's eyebrows went up to the roots of his 
 hair as he listened to his eldest son. 
 
 ' A hundred pounds,' he said ; 'here it is. I have raised 
 it this day at Padstow by note of hand. Here it is in gold 
 and paper.' He pulled a purse out of his trousers pocket, 
 and a book out of the breast pocket of his coat. Then 
 he unlocked his drawer, and threw in purse and book. 
 ' There,' he said, ' there is the hundred pounds I promised. 
 He can have four hundred from Loveday when he finds 
 her. He shall have no more.' He slammed the drawer 
 and locked it. 
 
 ' A hundred pounds is insufficient,' said Gerans. ' My 
 mother's money is his and Loveday's, quite independently 
 of what I wish Constantine to have out of the property.' 
 
 ' You — you wish it ! ' echoed old Gaverock in too much 
 amazement to boil up with wrath. 
 
 Rose put down her needle, and turned her face towards 
 her husband. She was surprised at his audacity. 
 
 ' Yes,' said Gerans, unabashed ; ' I have made up my 
 mind to that sum. You cannot raise money on the estate 
 
A THOUSAND POUNDS. 873 
 
 without my consent, and I cannot raise any without 
 yours.' 
 
 ' I know all that better than you.' 
 
 'Well, father, I wish that justice should be done to 
 Constantine. It is not fair that I should have everything, 
 and he nothing.' 
 
 ' He will have his mother's fortune — through his wife. 
 If he does not have it directly, whose fault is that but his 
 own, because he allowed her to suppose him dead.' 
 
 'That is not sufficient. Besides, he is in immediate 
 need of a large sum of money. He is confident of sucoess 
 in the New World if he lands on it with good capital to 
 dispose of. The least that I can think of letting him have 
 is one thousand pounds.' 
 
 ' Pray how is that to be raked out of the ground % 
 Are you going to open a cairn, expecting to find a pot of 
 gold?' 
 
 'We will mortgage a portion of the estate to raise it.' 
 
 ' No, thank you. It is well you say we. You luckily 
 cannot do this without my consent, and that shall never be 
 given. I will not allow the property to be farther encum- 
 bered. I have had trouble enough with the burdens on it. 
 I only shook off some with the aid of money I had with 
 your mother.' 
 
 ' Very well,' said Gerans. ' If the property was cleared 
 with her money, let the money be paid to her son Con- 
 stantine out of it. A thousand pounds, I ask for no more.' 
 
 ' A hundred ! ' roared old Gaverock. 
 
 ' A thousand ! ' replied Gerans, determinedly. 
 
 Rose, sitting at the window, listened with growing 
 surprise. The man who had yielded to his father un- 
 questioningly in everything hitherto, was now showing him 
 a very determined front. What a transformation was 
 effected in the submissive, pliable Gerans, who had been 
 ready to slip into a mouse hole before his father's wrath 
 till now ! What occasioned this change 1 Surely the love 
 he bore to his brother steeled him to defy the anger of the 
 old tyrant. How little love must he have felt for her, if 
 he had not once stood up in her defence against the Squire ! 
 He was bold in his brother's behalf, timorous in hers. She 
 was not worth enough in his eyes to make him measure 
 his strength with his father, in spite of all she had said to 
 
374 THE G-AVEROCKS. 
 
 urge him. His opposition to old Gaverock now, instead 
 of pleasing her, aroused her resentment. There was another 
 man who loved her with so fierce a love that he had taken 
 her part in a trifling matter such as the mounting of 
 Phoebus, even when he knew she was in the wrong. How 
 he had held her hand that clay, what fire had flickered in 
 his eyes as he looked at her, how his voice had quivered 
 with passion when he addressed her, suppressed, but sup- 
 pressed with a terrible effort, because he knew that she 
 would be offended if he gave it vent ! Gerans was not 
 even jealous of Penhalligan's admiration and devotion. He 
 had accepted Constantine's hint about the conversation in 
 the garden, and had received the news that she sent private 
 notes by the postman, without surprise and anger. He did 
 not really love her. He had married her only because he 
 was an obedient boy, and had been ordered to do so by his 
 father. She recalled the drive to Wadebridge and the 
 proposal of Gerans, his chin in a white woollen muffler, 
 and his spotted pockethandkerchief to his nose. Then there 
 rose up before her eyes the scene on the road when Dennis 
 told her of his love. She uttered a faint cry. Outside the 
 window was Dennis, leaning against a side wall, looking 
 at her through the glass. None of the rest could see him ; 
 she saw his burning eyes fixed on her, saw the heaving of 
 his breast, saw his hands convulsively clenched on Ms 
 bosom, saw how white and agonised was his face. 
 
 None in the room had heard her exclamation. Old 
 Gaverock was storming against Gerans. He had worked 
 himself up into fury. Constantine sat in a corner, biting 
 his nails, watching his father ; Gerans, pale but firm, sat 
 opposite the old man, listening to him, waiting till the 
 storm was overpast. None of the three had attention to 
 bestow on her. She made a sign to Dennis, waving her 
 hand, a sign of entreaty that he would go away ; but he 
 would not obey. She looked at him beseechingly, and 
 again waved her hand. "What a proof of love was this in 
 poor Penhalligan, that in spite of her commands he would 
 come, if only to get a glimpse of her face through a window ! 
 She was alarmed, however, at his remaining outside. She 
 stuck her needle into the canvas, and began to roll it up ; 
 she intended to leave the room, go outside and entreat 
 Dennis to depart. Just then the door opened, and the 
 
A THOUSAND POUNDS. 375 
 
 servant came in with candles. Rose started up and drew 
 the blinds across the window. She was afraid of the girl 
 seeing outside the face of Dennis. When the lights were 
 brought in the Squire ceased to speak, and waited till the 
 servant left. 
 
 Rose's attention had been distracted from the alterca- 
 tion by Dennis's appearance. Now that the curtains were 
 drawn, and he could not see her, he would go away. She 
 leaned her head on her hand and watched Gerans. His resolu- 
 tion would fail, she was sure. He made a little show of re- 
 sistance, and then would give way. The storm was broken 
 loose, and he would strike sail and run before it. But 
 Gerans did not strike sail as she supposed. He did not 
 budge from the ground he had taken up. She listened to 
 him when he spoke, and was fain to allow that he was right 
 in what he advanced. He was firm and temperate, but his 
 cheeks glowed, and his eyes flashed. 
 
 ' Father,' said he at last, ' the property will be mine 
 eventually, and I will bear the loss, not you. I am not 
 only ready but eager to make the sacrifice, because I con- 
 sider it just.' 
 
 'You dare to charge me with injustice ! ' 
 
 ' I deny that you have treated Con with the liberality 
 that he has a right to expect of you. You should not require 
 any urging from me to do an act of justice.' 
 
 ' I am not responsible to you,' shouted the old man. 
 * Golly ! if I had spoken to my father in the manner you 
 have addressed me, he would have knocked me down. I 
 will not give him a penny over a hundred pounds.' 
 
 Constantine stood up and left the room. Impotent rage 
 boiled in his heart. He could not remain in his father's 
 presence, and constrain himself. He must go out and cool 
 his heated face, and leave the calmer Gerans to manage for 
 him. 
 
 When he was gone, his brother said in a softer tone than 
 heretofore, ' Father, it is not fair that Con should be placed 
 completely dependent on his wife. My mother never in- 
 tended that. Right is right. My dear mother wished to 
 leave Con her money. You have yourself told me that 
 some of her money was sunk in the property.' 
 
 ' That was years ago — she has not mentioned that in 
 her will.' 
 
376 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 ' I know what her wishes were — that all she had, 
 ' and all she ever had had, should go to Con. I will not 
 accept the freedom bought by her money. Poor Con has 
 had much trouble, has gone through great privations, I fear 
 he has got into some difficulties — I hope he exaggerates 
 their extent. I cannot hold up my head and look an honest 
 man in the eyes, unless I can feel that justice has been done 
 him, and that the wishes of my dear mother have been 
 carried out.' As he spoke his eyes moistened, and his tone 
 became soft and pleading. 
 
 ' I have had a quiet and comfortable home, and Con ha& 
 had none at all. I have had plenty, and he has had poverty. 
 I have my position secured to me, and he has a position to 
 gain. I cannot enjoy an easy hour if I know that he has 
 been thrust forth to hunger and hardship. It must not be 
 so ! Father, your own heart will tell what I say is right. 
 Give him the thousand pounds at once. You say you have 
 got money in the bank.' 
 
 ' That is not mine — it is Rose's.' 
 
 ' Very well. Let us mortgage one of the farms to Rose, 
 and raise on it the sum I want. Rose ! ' he said, turning 
 sharply towards her, ' Rose ! you will consent to that, will 
 you not 1 ' 
 
 ' Yes, Gerans, heartily ! ' 
 
 ' There ! there ! ' he exclaimed, almost with a shout of 
 triumph, ' see what a good, true, noble wife Rose is. God 
 bless you, Rose, for that word.' 
 
 ' Rose has nothing to do with it,' said old Gaverock. 
 ' Her consent is nothing. I am her trustee, and I will not 
 allow it. What is that 1 ' 
 
 Rose was weeping. Why 1 She did not know, herselL 
 
 CHAPTER LIV. 
 
 THE SPOTTED DOG. 
 
 The letter received by Dennis from Rose had not had the 
 effect on him she intended. The tone of the note was more 
 than friendly. What did she mean by it 1 Was it a con- 
 fession of her own weakness, and dread of seeing him again ? 
 Or did she hint that he was not to come openly to the door 
 
THE SPOTTED DOG. 377 
 
 and ask for admission 1 He had no rest at home. As the 
 evening closed in, and silvery twilight filled the sky, he was 
 irresistibly drawn to Towan. The moor was silent and 
 solitary. He approached the house stealthily. He looked 
 at the garden door. It was not open, it was not ajar. Then 
 he thought he observed the face of Rose at a window, and 
 he crept nearer, leaned his back against the brick garden 
 wall, where it joined to the wall of the house, and looked 
 at Rose, as she sat engaged on her needlework in the 
 window.. The sill of this window was low, a couple of feet 
 above the turf outside. The window had looked originally 
 into the court, but the outer walls of the court, screening 
 the front of Towan manor-house, had been pulled down, so 
 that it was now exposed to the road and moor. 
 
 He saw Rose signal to him, and he misread her signal. 
 He thought she waved her hand to him to remain where 
 he was, and be quiet, till she came out to speak to him. 
 He waited patiently, without stirring, watching her face 
 till the curtains were drawn. After that he waited on. He 
 could hear voices speaking in the room where Rose was ; 
 he could distinguish that of the Squire, it was loud and 
 rough. He thought he could hear as well that of Gerans ; 
 but he caught not a word of their conversation. What 
 they spoke about was indifferent to him : he had not come 
 there to hear them argue, but to see and speak to Rose, if 
 only for a minute. 
 
 He waited on patiently. Rose would come to him, 
 when she could ; she had waved her hand to him through 
 the window in token of recognition. He was accustomed 
 to wait motionless by the bedside of a patient, watching a 
 crisis ; so he stood now, not altering his position. His 
 thoughts were active. How fate had fought against him ! 
 How cruelly it had dealt with the lives of two human be- 
 ings ! It had separated him and Rose, and had bound her 
 to a man she did not and could not love. He believed that 
 sh_ hated Gerans, and repented the day that she had mar- 
 ried him. He believed that she loved himself, and him- 
 self only. His declaration of love had drawn from her the 
 cry of ' Too late ! ' Too late had she found that she was 
 loved by the only man whom she loved. He thought of 
 the samphire-picking. Why had he thrown himself on the 
 rope and arrested the fall of Gerans ? Why had he not 
 
378 THE G-AVEROCKS. 
 
 rather let go and allowed him to crash down among the 
 knife-like slate rocks ? He wondered at himself. For once 
 luck had befriended him — had put into his hands the 
 chance he desired, and he had cast it from him. Had he 
 not been an inconsiderate, impulsive fool, he would have 
 let the cord whirl away — and Gerans would by this time 
 have been buried, and he would not be lingering there, 
 waiting, hoping, yet knowing that he had nothing to expect 
 but disappointment. All he could look to was to touch 
 Rose's hand, speak a few words about Loveday, wish her a 
 good-night, and go away miserable, despairing, to his lonely 
 home. 
 
 He looked at his hands, and then struck them against 
 the wall behind him with such force that they bled. Fool 
 that he was to stand between himself and happiness. Why 
 had he wounded and galled his hands to save his adversaiy 
 and to perpetuate his wretchedness 1 His wretchedness ! 
 not his own only — that of poor Rose also, chained to an 
 uncongenial, commonplace country clown. 
 
 If he had but money, he would carry her off to some 
 distant land, away, by sea, out of the kingdom, and begin 
 with her a new life. But that was not possible. He was 
 poor and powerless. He could hope for nothing more than 
 to see Rose now and then, listen to her sweet voice, and 
 know without expecting to hear her confess that she loved 
 him. 
 
 The porch-door opened, and a man came forth. That 
 man was Constantine, but he was dressed in a suit belong- 
 ing to his brother. Summer twilight was in the sky, so 
 that Dennis could see though he could not distinguish, and 
 Constantine and Gerans were extraordinarily alike. The 
 young surgeon was startled, and had at once to form a 
 resolution. Where he stood he could be seen. He had 
 presence of mind, and he came forward from his dark 
 corner. Constantine started and drew back ; he recognised 
 him at once. 
 
 ' Gerans,' said Penhalligan, ' I have come up to tell you 
 and Rose that I have ascertained at last the address of my 
 cousin — that is, I know where she is. This clay's post has 
 brought me tidings of her. She is at Goodrington, near 
 Paignton. I am off in two days to see if Loveday be with 
 her.' 
 
THE SPOTTED DOG. 379 
 
 ' Eight,' answered Constantine, afraid to speak more 
 than a word or two lest his voice should betray him. 
 
 ' Rose has told you, I suppose, that my search in Exeter 
 was fruitless ? ' said Dennis. 
 
 ' Yes.' Constantine moved to go away. 
 
 ' I leave on Saturday, and trust at last to discover her.' 
 
 ' Content.' Then, suddenly, ' Gah ! — the spotted dog 
 again ! ' 
 
 In the twilight he saw the white mongrel with its liver 
 patches running round him and Dennis, limping. Then 
 the beast stood up on its hind legs and hopped about them 
 ljke a kangaroo, then flung itself down on its side as if 
 dead. 
 
 ' Curse the brute ! ' exclaimed Dennis. ' That dog will 
 drive me mad. I am haunted with it. Yesterday, in the 
 night, as I drove back from Wadebridge, it sprang over a 
 heap of stones by the roadside at the very spot where I had 
 been upset with Rose on the night of the Goose Eair, and 
 I have not been able to get rid of it since. I see it con- 
 tinually jumping about me, and then disappearing, coming 
 to me when I least expect it ; and yet I can never lay hold 
 of it. I have thrown stones at it, but cannot hit it. I have 
 run after it with a stick, but cannot reach it.' 
 
 'Shoot it,' said Constantine. 
 
 'I will,' answered Dennis. ' See — it is gone ! ' 
 
 The dog had disappeared. 
 
 Constantine bowed and withdrew to the house. Dennis 
 was satisfied from his manner that he — Gerans, as he 
 supposed him — was offended. ' It is well,' muttered he — 
 ' well that he should understand that I hate him. I cannot 
 dissemble. I am too proud and too thorough to affect love 
 where I hate. Perhaps he knows the reason. It is best 
 so. Best that he should know that he stands between the 
 happiness of two unfortunates whom fate has separated. 
 May be Rose has told him that she scorns and abhors him. 
 It is best so. Best that he should feel some of the misery 
 he has brought upon us.' 
 
 He walked leisurely back to Nantsillan. He did not 
 doubt that Rose loved him. Had he not clasped her in Ms 
 arms and kissed her red lips at the well, and she had for- 
 given him 1 Had not her blue eyes told him that she was 
 pleased to see him, and had she not invited him to come 
 
880 THE GAVEKOCKS. 
 
 to Towan and see her again ? Had not her letter shown 
 him mistrust of her own heart 1 He excused her for not 
 coming to him. She was under restraint. There was a 
 quarrel in the family, and she was the victim. The old 
 Squire and Gerans had been assailing her with reproaches — 
 had been pouring over her vials of wrath and gall. She 
 had borne this for him, because she loved him. She was 
 doomed to a life of daily ill-treatment by two men — the 
 boisterous, brutal father, the surly, suspicious husband — 
 because she loved him. For how many years was this 
 misery to be spun out, her bright life darkened, her joyous 
 spirit saddened, her tender heart broken, because she loved 
 him ? Oh, that there were some way of escape — some 
 means of freeing her from this bondage ! 
 
 As he came to the dingle down which dived the path to 
 his cottage, he saw a man standing at the edge of the wood, 
 with a basket slung over his shoulder by a strap. A 
 crescent moon was in the sky lying on its back, shedding a 
 silvery light which, with the summer twilight, enabled him 
 to see and recognise the pedlar whom he had first beheld at 
 Wadebridge at the Goose Fair ; but in that uncertain cold 
 light he could not distinguish the colour of his waistcoat. 
 The face was very white with the moon on it, and the 
 Cornish crystal in the band round his wild, long, black hair 
 flashed suddenly, then was unseen, then flashed again, like 
 a revolving light at sea. 
 
 Something, Dennis could not say what, arrested his 
 steps when he saw this strange man, and he stood watching 
 him. The pedlar did not seem to observe him ; he was 
 playing or practising with his long basket. "With his hand 
 he rapped the bottom, and the blow jerked up the lid, 
 whereupon a number of roses sprang into the air — white, 
 red, yellow, perhaps, but in the combined twilight and 
 moonlight they all gleamed a ghastly white, and fell again 
 into the basket, when the lid dropped on them and shut 
 them in. Another rap — up sprang the lid, and high into 
 the cold light leaped the roses, to drop again and be shut 
 in by the lid. The performance was clever. Not a rose 
 fell over the side upon the ground, nor did the lid close on 
 the flowers till all were in the basket. The man was- 
 practising, apparently. He tried to jerk the flowers higher, 
 and each time higher, and was always equally successful in 
 
THE SPOTTED DOG. 381 
 
 matching and securing them. Then he changed his pro- 
 ceeding. He tapped twice at the bottom, and now roses 
 and glow-worms shot up out of the basket, a rain of 
 ghost-like bloom and pale stars. Tap, tap ! and again the 
 mingled spray was thrown up, again to fall and disappear 
 in the basket. 
 
 Dennis stood spell-bound ; how long he would have 
 thus remained cannot be said. He was released from his 
 astonishment by seeing the spotted cur leap out of the 
 bushes and begin its gambols round the pedlar. Then his 
 anger broke loose. 
 
 ' You fellow ! ' he shouted, ' take that beast away. I 
 have been plagued with it. I do not want either you or 
 your dog in my neighbourhood. Get away with you at 
 once. Leave this place. Take yourself and the brute 
 elsewhere. I warn you — if I see that cursed dog again I 
 will kill it!' 
 
 He stepped forward. Immediately, without a word, 
 the man backed before him into the wood, and the dog 
 dived behind some bushes. 
 
 ' Confound these tramps ! ' muttered Dennis. ' Why 
 does not Squire Gaverock, who is a justice of peace, clear 
 the neighbourhood of them. Hah ! the fellow was not 
 as successful as I thought.' 
 
 He saw a pale rose lying on the path in his way, a rose 
 that must have fallen from the pedlar's basket. He stooped 
 to pick it up, but as he stood his shadow was cast over it 
 and the piece of road on which it lay. He groped with his 
 fingers on the ground, but picked up nothing save bits of 
 earth and dust. Then he stood on one side to allow the 
 crescent moon to illumine the path again. The rose was 
 no longer there ! 
 
 He went in at his garden gate, unlocked his door, and 
 fastened it from the inside. On the hall table was laid his 
 supper. He lit a candle and took his place, but he had no 
 appetite, and he thrust his plate away. 
 
 He was by himself in the house. Little Ruth, after 
 having laid supper for him, was wont to go away with the 
 woman who came there to char for him. She slept at her 
 cottage and returned early in the morning. She carried 
 away the back door key with her, and let herself in with 
 it next day. He sat up late, doing nothing with his hands, 
 
382 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 but with his head busy. Of Loveday he thought little. 
 He was not much concerned about her. He had made up 
 his mind that she was with her cousin ; she had discovered 
 her somehow in Exeter, or discovered her address when 
 there, and had gone to her, and was now at Goodrington. 
 The jouimey to Exeter and the stay there had put him to 
 some expense, and his absence had interfered with his 
 duties at home. As is usual, he had been more wanted 
 when away than when at ISTantsillan. Several sick people 
 had sent for him, and, finding he was absent, had trans- 
 ferred themselves to the old tippling doctor at Padstow. 
 
 Dennis considered how different his prospects woula 
 have been bad Rose been his wife. Comfortably off, unop- 
 pressed with the daily pinch of poverty, with her presence 
 as sunlight in his home, all the darkness and burden of his 
 life would have rolled away. Then from out of his burn 
 ing, dry heart there welled up a fiery spring of hate against 
 Gerans. He, and he only, was it who had spoiled his life, 
 stolen from him the woman he loved, deprived him of the 
 money which would have made him easy in his circum- 
 stances. He had nothing to live for now — nothing — no- 
 thing — and that was Gerans' doing ! He would have liked 
 to have his enemy there, in the dark room with him, and to 
 have fought him. His nerves quivered with pleasui'e at the 
 thought of striking Gerans, of beating him down, of hear- 
 ing the thud of his head on the slate floor. He stood up, 
 with feet apart, and imagined himself standing above 
 Gerans, with the life of his enemy in his power. Would 
 he spare him ? Dennis laughed aloud. When he laughed, 
 then a dog outside barked, a strange bark like a laugh, or 
 the echo of a laugh. Dennis went to the window and 
 looked out. He could see no dog. He saw the moon twink- 
 ling among the swaying boughs and leaves of the oak wood, 
 and the flickering lights on the ground like white dancing 
 roses. Then he went upstairs to bed. But though he lay 
 in bed he could not sleep. He had retired at midnight. 
 The crescent moon was gone, or no longer shone in at the 
 window. The wind sighed outside- among the trees. 
 
 All at once, he started and raised his head. Against the 
 whitewashed wall at the foot of his bed he thought he saw 
 something move. The moon had not set ; it had not shone 
 into his room because of a dense mass of ivy-hung elm and 
 
THE SPOTTED DOG. 383 
 
 a holly that had obscured it. Now it passed from behind 
 these bushes and flared between some boughs, making a 
 grotesque figure on his wall that waved and moved as the 
 branches and leaves waved and moved. The freakish 
 light drew on his wall a figure like a white dog sitting up 
 on its haunches, with its paws before it, begging, and the 
 head bobbing and turning, the paws now thrust forward, 
 then drawn in as though trying to reach some object, and 
 failing. Moreover, the white dog was covered with moving 
 liver spots. The head was at one moment very distinct, 
 with a brilliant eye, then it was blurred aad shapeless, then 
 it was turned aside and clear again. The beast seemed to 
 put up its paws and wash its face as a cat or a rabbit, and 
 the ears flapped as it turned its head. All the while 
 the liver spots ran over the body, melting into each other, 
 dividing, disappearing, then manifesting themselves again. 
 
 Suddenly the fantastic figure was gone, the wind rushed 
 past the window, and whilst the wind rushed there was no 
 white dog on the wall, but a whirl of white roses flying up 
 and down fast, faster, up and down and in and out, some 
 falling on the floor, some sprinkling their petals over the 
 bed, but all gathering themselves up again, the petals re- 
 joining the blossoms that shed them, and dancing like a 
 spin of snow flakes. 
 
 Dennis threw himself back on his pillow. His mind 
 was overwrought, his nerves unstrung ; he was becoming a 
 prey to fancies. 
 
 The gust of wind was gone ; there were flickers of light 
 and moving spots of shadow on the wall still, but no shape. 
 He watched them till they went out, one after another. 
 Now, certainly, the moon had passed beyond the house, or 
 behind so dense a mass of foliage as not to cast shadows and 
 lights in his room. So he thought, but was presently unde- 
 ceived by seeing one gleaming spot, one that seemed to 
 shine and twinkle like the Cornish crystal in the pedlar's 
 hair. This spot appeared on the wall and travelled along it 
 slowly. Dennis followed it with his eyes. It was formed, 
 doubtless, like the rest of the fantastic figures, by the moon 
 among the branches and leaves ; but it was certainly strange 
 that on this occasion there was but a single light. It crept 
 along the whitewashed wall very stealthily. It seemed to 
 travel like a snail, and at a snail's paee. All at once it 
 
384 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 flashed with double brilliancy. It had touched and was 
 gleaming on the Little double-barrelled pistol Rose had 
 given to Dennis on the night of the Goose Fair ! 
 
 CHAPTER LV. 
 
 away! 
 
 Next morning, early, Squire Gaverock departed on his cob, 
 along the Padstow road. He did not say whither he was 
 going, or what business took him from home ; he was out 
 of humour with both his sons, would speak to neither, and 
 merely told Rose curtly that he would not be home to early 
 dinner, unless he got through what he had to do much 
 quicker than he expected. Gerans also went out, in the 
 direction of Nantsillan, after informing Rose that he in- 
 tended seeing Dennis — for what purpose he did not say. 
 
 Thus Constantine was left alone with Rose in the study. 
 
 ' Gone down to Nantsillan, is he 1 ' said the former. 
 He was sitting half on the table, but his foot was on the 
 ground — the right foot ; the toe of the left rested on the 
 top leather of the right boot. He wore a pair of Gerans' 
 hunting-boots, with red leather tops. He had on his back 
 a blue coat with brass buttons, his brother's best coat. 
 Gerans had told him to make free with his wardrobe, and 
 he had taken him at his word. He had on, as well, a white 
 nankeen waistcoat, and a fine shirt with a frill — all of the 
 best that he could rummage out of the drawers and cup- 
 board of Gerans. He had a stick in his hand, and with 
 the ferrule he played with the toe of his — that is, his 
 brother's — boot. Only Gerans' best boots fitted him ; 
 those at all worn would not accommodate themselves to his 
 feet. 
 
 ' Gone down to Nantsillan, is he ? ' asked Constantine. 
 'I am not surprised. Gone to have it out with Dennis, I 
 presume.' 
 
 ' Have what out 1 ' asked Rose. ' It is vague, and refers 
 to anything without life.' 
 
 ' Plenty of life in this matter — a little exuberance may- 
 hap.' 
 
away ! 385 
 
 ' I do not pretend to understand you,' said Rose, tossing 
 Tier head and curling her lip. 
 
 ' Probably you pretend not to understand me.' 
 
 ' You take liberties to be impolite, trusting to your kin- 
 ship, and to my husband's placidity of temper.' 
 
 ' Oh ! that placidity is ruffled, and may toss and foam. 
 You are indebted to me that I did not work him into 
 breakers this morning, by telling him that your gallant 
 -was hanging about the house last night under the windows, 
 waiting for you to come out ; but the naughty Gerans was 
 within, and would not let you escape.' 
 
 1 You are a bad, insolent man,' exclaimed Rose, in shame 
 and disgust. 
 
 ' The meeting in the garden was not enough by day ; 
 you must meet again by the garden wall at night.' 
 
 He laughed, but his laugh was silenced by the flaming 
 indignation in her eyes. She was swinging herself out of 
 the room, when he caught her by the wrist, and said : 
 
 ' I have not told Gerans, but I will, unless you pay me 
 to be silent.' 
 
 Rose did not understand him, though he pointed with 
 his stick to the drawer where his father had locked up the 
 money. 
 
 ' Say what you like,' she answered, disengaging herself 
 from him. ' Speak the truth — I am not ashamed of that — 
 but hint nothing from your evil heart.' 
 
 Then she left the study and ran to her bedroom, where 
 she locked herself in to weep her heart out. Her feelings 
 were in tumult, swaying her from side to side. Everything 
 rocked about her, and the ground rocked under her feet. 
 She saw now how foolish, how inconsiderate she had been, 
 to put her character in the hands of one so unscrupulous 
 as Constantine. She had trifled with the thoughts of 
 Dennis's love for no other reason than that his devotion 
 flattered her vanity. 
 
 When she was gone, Constantine took the handle of the 
 drawer and drew at it. The drawer was locked and re- 
 sisted his efforts. There were five hundred pounds in there. 
 Gerans offered to get a thousand for him, but Gerans had 
 shown his powerlessness the evening before. Should he 
 "wait another day, and allow Gerans to plead for him again ? 
 He was by no means sure that his brother was in earnest. 
 
 c c 
 
:386 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 No man who was not a fool would burden his estate with 
 a thousand pounds if he could help it. Of course Gerans 
 affected to desire it, as a decent show of fraternal love is 
 expected by the world ; but there was no reality in his 
 effort, no sincerity in his protestations. No man, said Con- 
 stantine, can fatten on promises. A sprat in the net is 
 worth more than a whale in the sea. 
 
 He threw himself into his father's chair, and stretched 
 out both his legs before him, and tapped the toes of his 
 boots alternately with the ferrule of the cane, whilst his 
 eyes rested on these same toes. His brows were knit, and 
 his forehead full of creases. He thrust out his lips. ' For 
 good or ill,' he said, ' I wish I were in my brother's boots 
 — metaphorically as well as really.' Constantine's character 
 had deteriorated rapidly of late. Three years ago he had 
 been a pleasure-loving, careless, good-natured young fellow 
 — selfish, disliking the drudgery of work, but without harm 
 in him. Then came the initial wrong done in marrying 
 Loveday clandestinely. From that moment he had taken 
 a downward turn, and his path had become precipitous of 
 late. He had allowed himself to drift into moral ruin ; he 
 had not run into it wilfully. He had never harboured bad 
 intentions, had always desired to do what was right, but 
 had lacked the energy to act on what he knew was right, 
 till the perceptive moral faculty was dead within him. He 
 was now incapable of seeing what a base and despicable 
 ruffian he had become. The old father was not free from 
 guilt in this disintegration of his son's character. His 
 despotism exercised over the lads whilst their characters 
 were forming had injured both, had deprived both of self- 
 reliance and spontaneity. 
 
 Constantine had in his pocket the crooked nail he had 
 picked up on the road, when walking outside the house 
 with Gerans. Now he found a use for it. He put the 
 nail to the drawer lock, and in another moment the money 
 that had been left by his mother to Loveday was before 
 him — that and the hundred pounds his father had under- 
 taken to give him — five hundred pounds in all. His hand 
 trembled as he turned over the bank-notes, his face was 
 white as chalk, and cold drops beaded his brow and upper 
 lip. But he was able to pacify his conscience. He was 
 
aw at! 387 
 
 taking what was his own. His mother had intended him 
 to have it. She had left it to Loveday under an erroneous 
 belief in his death. Besides, it was his anyhow, for Love- 
 day was his wife, and between husband and wife there is 
 no mine and thine, or rather, on the side of the husband, 
 ' thine is mine, and mine is mine ' — all take and no give. 
 He put the purse with the gold and the two pocket-books 
 away in his breast, shut the drawer, and stalked out of the 
 room, whistling. He looked round in the hall for Rose. If 
 she had been there he would have told her some lie to excuse 
 his absence from dinner. His father would not be home till 
 the afternoon. Gerans was away. Gerans would not think of 
 examining the drawer. Rose would be too busy about 
 household matters. He had several hours during which he 
 could escape ; but, he thought, it would not do to depart 
 in the boat in Gerans' best blue coat. He would, indeed, 
 take that with him ; but for the rough work of rowing he 
 would wear something less fine. So he went upstairs, took 
 off the coat and waistcoat, and put on a common every-day 
 suit that also belonged to Gerans, rolled up the blue coat 
 and nankeen waistcoat in a bundle, and went off over the 
 downs towards the cliffs, with his bundle in hand. The 
 boat in which he had come from Stanbury — Paul Feather- 
 stone's boat — was not in the boathouse at Sandymouth ; he 
 had come into Nantsillan Cove, and had run his little craft 
 into the Iron Gate, and drawn it up on some sands there, 
 which were not submerged except in a storm. When he 
 had gone a little way along the down, as if on his way to 
 Sandymouth, he struck a different course and came round 
 towards the steep goat-path that led down the face of the 
 crags to the bay into which the Nantsillan brook discharged 
 itself in a pretty fall. He had quite made up his mind 
 what to do. He would row to New Quay, and leave the 
 boat there. Thence he would strike inland by Truro, and 
 cross the isthmus to Falmouth, whence he could easily and 
 quickly get out of the country. Whether there were 
 packets or sailing vessels bound for the West Indies from 
 Falmouth, or that put in at Falmouth, he did not know. 
 That he could ascertain when he got there. More probably 
 they ran from Bristol. But that was a matter of minor con- 
 sideration ; his great desire now was to leave the kingdom 
 
 c c 2 
 
388 THE GAVEKOCKS. 
 
 as expeditiously as possible. Whither he went concerned 
 him less ; with five hundred pounds in his pocket the 
 world was open to him. 
 
 ' There is Canada,' said he to himself, 'but I don't fancy 
 it. The winters there are very cold, and I dislike cold. 
 There are the States — but I should have to work hard 
 there, and I am not partial to work. Then, turning in 
 another direction, there is New South Wales, but I do not 
 fancy the society there — a bad type of men, the scum of 
 England, convicts, rag-tag — not the sort I could associate 
 with. No, first thoughts are best thoughts, and the cream 
 comes to the top when the milk is sweet. I'll go to the 
 West Indies — perhaps Jamaica, perhaps Saint Domingo, 
 perhaps South Carolina — anywhere where there is negro 
 labour, and there are sugar-canes. I always had a sweet 
 tooth ; I had rather grow sugar than anything else. How 
 Cerans and I loved treacle-pudding as boys ! By George ! 
 I'll go to the West Indies, I will ! ' After a while he began 
 to consider about Loveday. ' She is too finical in her ideas. 
 I am very fond of her, and she will have two thousand six 
 hundred in the Funds. There is this disadvantage, that 
 she knows my unfortunate story, and might throw it in my 
 face at any time. Perhaps it would be advisable to begin 
 the new sum with a fresh slate ; on an old one, however 
 rubbed, the figures come through and confuse the reckon- 
 ing. I am very deeply attached to Loveday, and she is my 
 wife. If I am an exile, it will be a pleasure to have some 
 one to speak with who knows about the old place, and with 
 whom one can talk of former times — pleasant times before 
 this wretched muddle came about. Besides, I must have 
 some one to cook and stitch, and knit my stockings. I 
 think I will send for Loveday. Yet, perhaps it will be 
 wisest for me to see how I can get on without her first. If 
 I want her two thousand six hundred I can always fetch 
 her over. If I find I can do without, well, I shall be un- 
 encumbered. This is settled ; Loveday waits on my con- 
 venience. The woman was made for man, and not man 
 for the woman. She has caused me annoyance and heart- 
 ache and mental worry enough at Stanbury and Marsland. 
 It is well that she should suffer a bit for it, and learn by 
 punishment not to be self-seeking.' He strode on a little 
 further, and his thoughts took another direction. He 
 
away ! 389 
 
 laughed. ' Curse it,' said he, ' I am sorry to go without 
 enlightening Gerans' mind about that little pretty coquet, 
 Rose. He is without a suspicion. I wish I had told him 
 that I found the doctor lingering under the garden wall 
 last night. I owe Gerans a kindness. I will write to him 
 when I reach Falmouth, and post my letter just before I 
 step aboard. I will tell him all I have seen, and what I 
 suspect. Then there will be a storm in Towan. I should 
 like to be there to witness it. However, one cannot fire a 
 gun and stand by the target and see the shot strike.' He 
 was now very near the head of the path where it descended 
 the precipice. ' I wonder,' he said to himself, ' I wonder 
 what Gerans had to say to Penhalligan this morning. He 
 looked grave when he went off, and intended something 
 more than to invite him to go out fishing or row after seals. 
 If he was going to call him to order for casting sheep's eyes 
 at Rose, there will be an ugly end to the meeting, for Dennis 
 is violent when his blood is up, and Gerans, for all his 
 quietness, is deuced determined when his honour is touched. 
 I would give a crown to be present at that interview ; but 
 we cannot have all our wishes gratified, and I have got five 
 hundred pounds in my pocket, and the sea is before me.' 
 
 Constantine descended the path in the face of the rock 
 very warily. He was accustomed to cliffs ; he could look 
 down without losing his head. Some people can climb up 
 more easily than descend ; it was not so with Constantine 
 in more ways than one. 
 
 ' I think,' said Constantine, as he crept down, holding 
 by one hand to every projection of rock available, and 
 trying the path before him with his foot before he rested 
 any weight on it, ' I think it both a queer and an unfair 
 thing that Gerans and I should be as like as two acorns 
 growing on one stalk, and yet that he should have the sun- 
 shine and I the shadow, he the luck, and I the loss.' 
 
 He reached the shore in safety. ' Ah ! ' he growled, 
 1 the tide does not quite suit. There is a fatality against 
 me. I cannot get the boat out for another hour — perhaps 
 more. I must go into Porthiern, and lie hid there, and 
 be ready to float the boat as soon as the water rises. No 
 one will dream of looking for me there ; besides, the money 
 will not be missed till father returns, and that will not be 
 till afternoon.' 
 
390 THE GAVEKOCKS. 
 
 He jumped upon the ledge of slate rock that ran into 
 the tunnel scooped by the waves through the promontory 
 of Cardue, and disappeared within the vault. 
 
 CHAPTER LVI. 
 
 A SHOT. 
 
 Gerans Gaverock walked to Kantsillan. The morning 
 was bright, and every bush in the glen was hung with dew- 
 drops, that twinkled prismatically in the early sun. Near 
 the sea the dew falls of a clear night heavily, and beads the 
 twigs and grass with drops as rain. 
 
 Gerans' face, as Constantine had remarked, was serious. 
 He was not going to tell Penhalligan that Constantine was 
 there, because his brother did not wish it, but he was 
 determined to let him know that Loveday was not a widow, 
 as he and she supposed. 
 
 ' Where is your master ? ' asked Gerans at the door of 
 little Ruth, who answered the knock. 
 
 ' Master hev a-gone out and about wi' a pistol/ an- 
 swered the girl. ' There hev been a queer white spotted 
 dog about the place yesterday and all night and this morn- 
 ing, sure enough, a-worriting of master. He hev a-took on 
 terrible, and he've gone out to shoot 'n. Nobody seems to 
 know nothing about the dog ; her don't belong to nobody, 
 seemings.' 
 
 ' Which way has Mr. Penhalligan gone ? ' 
 
 ' Down the coombe, your honour. But, sir, don't you 
 go for to run in the way when he's a-firing. It be the 
 spotted dog he's going to kill, and master'd be terrible put 
 out if he shot you instead o' the dog.' 
 
 Gerans looked at the little garden before the cottage as 
 he went through it. The absence of Loveday's hand was 
 perceptible. The white jasmine had broken away from its 
 ties against the wall, and was fallen over on a flower-bed ; 
 the Canterbury bells had been beaten by wind and rain, and 
 needed binding to a stick. Weeds had sprung up among 
 the garden flowers, and daisy-leaves appeared with grass in 
 the paths. Even the gate, and the doorstep, looked un- 
 cared for, and the window-glass was not clean in a climate 
 
A SHOT. 391 
 
 where incrusting salt from the sea-air has to be incessantly 
 rubbed away. 
 
 Gerans walked slowly down the glen towards the cove, 
 looking on all sides for Penhalligan. The little stream, 
 running among ferns and under trees, emerged from shadow, 
 and danced sparkling over stones, where the grove abruptly 
 stopped at a turn of the valley and gave place to short turf 
 and furze. The point where exposure to the prevalent 
 north-west wind began was marked as sharply as with a 
 knife. The trees were arrested, and the sea-grass and 
 thrift began. The air was light, the sea blue, and the hills 
 primrose in the soft sunlight, with here and there a cobalt 
 shadow cast by a white cloud on the down sides, indigo 
 when on the sea. Gerans now saw Penhalligan before him, 
 and he called. Dennis turned. He had the pistol in his 
 hand. He saw that Gerans' eye was on it, and he ex- 
 plained the reason of his carrying it. 
 
 ' Do you remember that pedlar at the Goose Fair ? He 
 had a white spotted dog. Well, that dog has haunted me 
 of late. I see it everywhere. It runs round me when I 
 walk. I hear it outside my house. I dream of it in my 
 bed. It stood this morning on my doorstep looking in on 
 me, then it scampered off. I Avill make an end of the brute. 
 I will be pestered with it no more. It has gone this way, 
 I believe, but I do not see it at the moment.' 
 
 ' The pistol is loaded ? ' 
 
 ' Oh yes, both barrels ; if one fails, the other shall not.' 
 
 ' Never mind the dog. Come on with me, Dennis, down 
 into the cove, or to that rock by the fall, where we can sit 
 in the sun together, and talk. I have something I want to 
 say to you very particularly.' 
 
 ' I am at your service. My time is not in such requisi- 
 tion that I cannot spare an hour. Besides, Ruth knows 
 where I am should anyone come to the surgery for me.' 
 
 ' I have not had an opportunity of speaking alone to you 
 since Loveday left,' said Gerans. ' No news of her, Rose 
 tells me.' 
 
 1 None.' 
 
 * Are you going to seek her again ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ; to-morrow. I think she is near Paignton with 
 her cousin.' 
 
 1 You think ; you are not sure. 5 
 
302 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 ' I am not sure ; I suspect. ' 
 
 ' I shall sit here,' said Gerans, letting himself down on 
 the stone. ' I like to hear the plash of the water. Sit 
 down also, Dermis/ 
 
 ' Thank you. I prefer to stand.' 
 
 Gerans sat musing in the sun ; his pleasant, good- 
 natured face was troubled now ; he wanted to tell Dennis 
 that Constantine was alive without allowing him to suspect 
 that he was then at Towan. He was so open in character 
 and frank of speech that he had great difficulty in keeping 
 anything concealed. He was now considering how he was 
 to tell half the truth. 
 
 ' You think you will see Loveday shortly,' he asked. 
 
 'I consider it probable.' 
 
 ' Give my love to her. I always have had the greatest 
 regard for Loveday. She is so noble, so good, so true.' 
 
 Dennis said nothing in reply. 
 
 ' Tell her that I hope by the time she returns, or, if she 
 does not return, by the time we know she is settled some- 
 where, I may be able to give her an agreeable surprise. 
 Probably the very pleasantest surprise that could be given 
 her. Can you guess, Dennis 1 ' 
 
 ' Not at all.' 
 
 ' Well, only tell her that, no more. It will set her 
 mind working, and her loving heart fluttering.' He looked 
 up. ' Dennis, turn the mouth of the pistol another way, 
 will jov. ? It is aimed now right at my heart. You are a 
 nervous being, and your finger might twitch the trigger in- 
 voluntarily if I said something to surprise you very much r 
 and — that would be bad for both of us.' 
 
 Penhalligan averted the barrel, and muttered something 
 which Gerans did not catch. But Gerans looked atten- 
 tively at his face, and said, ' Dennis, old fellow, you are 
 out of humour with me. You have been so for some time ; 
 you have avoided me, and have answered me shortly. By 
 the Lord ! if we are not friends it is a pity — close neigh- 
 bours, and meeting each other daily ; not so only, but 
 brothers-in-law. Come, Dennis, sit down on that stone, and 
 tell me how I have offended you.' 
 
 Penhalligan's face darkened. His brows drew together. 
 Instead of complying with the request of Gerans he planted 
 himself more firmly where he stood, with one foot on the 
 
A SHOT. 393. 
 
 path, the other on a stone, and folded his arms, the pistol 
 thrust forth out of his right, pointing behind him towards 
 the crags of Cardue. He made no other answer to Gerans. 
 
 ' Well ! ' said the latter, ' this is not the best of fellow- 
 ship. However,' he sighed, ' I have no complaint to make 
 against you ; it is you who have occasion against us. That 
 is why I am here now, Dennis. That is what I want to 
 speak about. I have been thinking a great deal of late 
 about your sister, and I see that she has been ungenerously, 
 even cruelly, treated by us. I ought to have seen this be- 
 fore. I did see it in a vaporous manner, but now I see it 
 all sharp and clear before me. I have leaned too much 
 hitherto on my father's judgment, and taken his opinion as 
 infallible. I acknowledge my mistake. A man must think 
 for himself, and do what is right according to his own con- 
 science, not according to what another thinks is right. 
 That has been my weakness, but I see it now, and will 
 fight against it. I do not like to resist my father ; I do 
 not like to suppose he can be wrong ; but still — it is inevit- 
 able that we should not see duties alike.' 
 
 ' To what does this preface lead 1 ' 
 
 1 To this, Dennis. I have resolved to let all the world 
 know the relationship in which Loveday stands to us. It 
 is all very well for my father to banish her for a twelve- 
 month, and say that he will take a year to decide whether 
 he will acknowledge her or not. I acknowledge her as my 
 sister. I have a voice in the matter as well as he. I have 
 a conscience which tells me it is a shame and a sin to con- 
 ceal this any longer, and to impose hardships on poor Love- 
 day. My God ! it is an honour to us to have her for our 
 relative. If I have occasion to be proud of anything, it is 
 of that. She is a noble girl, and I will hold up my head at 
 the thought that she is my sister. I think I esteem her 
 even more highly than do you.' 
 
 Dennis shrugged his shoulders, and said nothing. 
 
 ' I have had a passage of arms with my father,' continued 
 Gerans, ' about another matter, in which he was in the 
 wrong and I in the right, and to my astonishment I have 
 carried my point. We differed about the raising of a 
 thousand pounds on the property, and — will you believe it? 
 — after a hard fight he gave way, gave way all at once, and 
 has gone over to-day to Padstow about the money. Now,. 
 
394 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 I am well satisfied that Loveday has been unfairly dealt 
 with by us Gaverocks. It all began with Constantine. I 
 did not like to speak against him when I thought him 
 dead — that is, not at first, but I felt that he had acted very 
 wrongfully by her. Now I do not mind saying this plainly. 
 It is from us that expiation should come. We have injured 
 Loveday, not Loveday us. Constantine trapped her into a 
 clandestine marriage, and held her by a promise of silence 
 under false assurances : he assured her that he would tell 
 his father about their union, and he failed to do so. Love- 
 day fulfilled her part honourably; Constantine betrayed 
 the trust she had placed in him. This is clear to me now 
 as Cardue Point, and it is a truth not tunnelled through 
 and liable to be broken down like Cardue Point.' 
 
 Gerans paused, and looked up at Penhalligan. The 
 same gloomy frown was on his face ; his arms were folded 
 tight, his hands clenched, his lips were drawn over his 
 teeth, and were white. 
 
 ' I dare say you have felt that we have used you badly,' 
 pursued Gerans. ' I consented to hold my tongue because 
 Loveday urged it. But I ought not to have listened to 
 her. It was weak in me to give way. That you have 
 resented our behaviour I am well aware. I have seen how 
 you have drawn away from me and have declined my 
 friendship. That has gone to my heart, and I have felt 
 it the more because I knew it was deserved. Now, Dennis, 
 I ask your pardon. I will keep silence no longer. This 
 very evening I will have the matter out with my father, 
 and Loveday shall have right done her, full, and immediate. 
 I go over to-morrow to Madam Loveys to tell her every- 
 thing, and through her I trumpet the truth to the entire 
 neighbourhood. It will be in vain for my father to oppose 
 me ; I will carry through what I now know to be right. 
 But that is not all ; there is more to be told, only not yet. 
 You must have patience, Dennis, and in a week at furthest 
 you shall hear additional news which will surprise and 
 please you. Have you been told that my mother has left 
 all she had to Loveday ? ' 
 
 ' No. I was away when your mother was buried.' 
 
 ' She has left her four hundred pounds in cash, and two 
 thousand six hundred in the Stocks.' 
 
 Dennis turned and looked at Gerans with surprise. 
 
A SHOT. 395 
 
 ' It is true,' said Gerans ; ' my father is executor, and 
 has the money ready for Loveday directly she is found. I am 
 delighted at this, and it will help to reconcile my father to 
 the view I take.' 
 
 He waited, expecting Penhalligan to say something ; as 
 he did not, Gerans went on, with increasing eagerness and 
 some emotion : ' There, Dennis ! You know now that I 
 will do all that is honourable and just towards your sister. 
 It has not been done before this because I have been — yes, 
 I will confess it — a coward. I gave way to my father in 
 everything, without weighing my own responsibility. You 
 may believe me, Dennis, when I assure you that I have 
 been brought to see my weakness, and to make this con- 
 fession by having suffered in a way you do not know, but 
 which has been very cutting to me. I have had to under- 
 go punishment, and my sentence is not yet worked out ; 
 however, I will bear it, and do better. Now give me your 
 hand, Dennis, old fellow, and let us be best friends again. ' 
 
 He stood up from the rock on which he had been sitting 
 and held out his hand towards the surgeon. 
 
 ' Take it away,' said Dennis, hoarsely, ' I am not a 
 hypocrite. I will not promise what I cannot give.' He 
 quivered with emotion. He saw that by striking Gerans 
 in the chest he could upset him over the edge of the rock, 
 and that then Gerans would fall down the steep cliff and be 
 broken in every bone. 
 
 Gerans looked at him with surprise. ' Dennis,' he said, 
 gravely, ' no one, not even my deadliest enemy, would have 
 offered me his hand and asked pardon, and been refused.' 
 
 ' How do you know that I am not your deadliest enemy 1 ' 
 cried Dennis in a sudden outburst of hate and rage. 
 
 ' My enemy ! — and yet you saved my life ? ' said Gerans, 
 shaking his head. 
 
 ' Cursed, cursed to all eternity be the moment in which I 
 did that ! ' exclaimed Dennis, in a paroxysm of jealousy and 
 fury. ' I hate myself for having done it. Go along with 
 you, I tell you, go whilst you may. Beware of me ! I am 
 dangerous ! There is no more room on earth for you and 
 me.' 
 
 His words, his face, the twitching of his hands, one of 
 which held the deadly weapon, showed a conflict of dread 
 and desperation in his heart. 
 
396 THE GAVEEOCKS. 
 
 Gerans looked him firmly, questioningly, in the eyes. 
 Dennis turned his face away. He could not meet his look. 
 Then Gerans reseated himself on the stone, and hid his face* 
 in his hands. 
 
 After a few minutes of mutual silence, Gerans said, in 
 a voice that shook, ' Dennis, you do not bear me this hatred 
 on account of your sister 1 ' 
 
 The answer of Penhalligan was a groan. 
 
 What was there in the tone of this utterance that made 
 Gerans look at his companion with a face that grew cold 
 and livid with horror ? The secret of Dennis's soul was re- 
 vealed by that moan. The truth, to which he had been so- 
 long and so unaccountably blind, was disclosed by it to 
 Gerans. If Dennis loved Rose, then, indeed, all hope of 
 reconciliation was over. 
 
 He stood slowly up, and without a word went up 
 the path towards the coombe. He must be alone with 
 the anguish and terror that tossed and tore in his 
 heart. 
 
 His silence and his departure showed Dennis that his 
 love had been discovered. The die was cast. Never 
 again could he and Gerans meet. He could no more go up 
 to Towan and see Rose. If he had thrust Gerans over the 
 precipice, even then, when the truth burst on him, and he 
 was stunned with the discovery, the riddle would have been 
 solved, Rose have been free, and himself on the way to 
 happiness ; but when, for the second time, the life of his 
 rival had been in his power, he had not seized the oppor- 
 tunity. ' Woe be to him if he gives me a third chance ! ' 
 exclaimed Dennis. 
 
 Then he descended the steep path to the bay. He would 
 pace the sand, and consider his course. The image of Rose 
 stood before him, in her pretty white dress with a blue sash, 
 her golden hair, her forget-me-not blue eyes full of sparkle, 
 as she stood before him in the glade carpeted with dead 
 leaves, holding the four-leafed shamrock, and bidding him 
 not despair. He flamed at the vision. His blood went in 
 scalding waves through his arteries. She was not happy ; 
 she could not be happy with Gerans, because she loved him, 
 Dennis. He fancied he heard her voice above the swash of 
 the rising tide, that lapped the sand, and stroked it, and 
 withdrew, to lap again, ' Save me ! release me ! Dennis ! * 
 
A SHOT. 397 
 
 He fancied her extending her delicate arms towards him, 
 love and longing on her red lips, in her gleaming eyes. 
 
 What salvation was possible for Rose 1 None, save 
 through the death of Gerans, and twice had he put from 
 him the chance of freeing her without grasping it. 
 
 The sun was hot ; fevered with his thoughts, teased 
 with the roughness of the beach, that was cut through with 
 vertical reefs of slate, he looked for shade, where he could 
 rest and be cool. He stood by the projecting portion of the 
 slate ledge that ran some way into the Porthiern tunnel. 
 He mounted the ledge. In the gloom and chill of the Iron 
 Gate he would sit and think what was to be done. He 
 crept along the shelf, and suddenly — confronted the man 
 he hated. 
 
 The gulls in Nantsillan Cove were startled by a report 
 — it sounded like that of a gun — from the depths of Porth- 
 iern, and the echo was caught and beaten back by the 
 cliff opposite. Then Cardue took the echo, and flung it 
 back at Sillan Head. And so the opposite crags played 
 ball with the report, till it grew so faint and small that they 
 threw it away. 
 
 The reverberations were not done when a man rushed 
 out of the cave, leaped from the shelf, and crossed the sands 
 hastily towards the path that led to ISTantsillan. 
 
 CHAPTER LVII. 
 
 ANOTHER SHOT. 
 
 ' Here I am,' said old Gaverock, bustling into the hall, with 
 his coat tails pinned forward, his riding-whip in hand, his 
 top-boots on his feet. ' Back for dinner after all. I rode 
 right on end into Padstow, went into the bank, settled my 
 business, and here I am again. Rose, all is settled famously. 
 Con shall have a hundred pounds to start with, and as soon 
 as he gets to Barbadoes, or Jericho, or Botany Bay — wher- 
 ever it is that he intends to set up — then he shall have 
 nine hundred. I've not a word to say against Gerans for 
 sticking up to me as he did last night. If a man has an 
 opinion, let him flourish it, and not throw it away. I re- 
 spect him for it. Gerans will be a man yet. Where is he, 
 
398 THE GAVEEOCKS. 
 
 Rose ? The bell has rung. I heard it as I came along the 
 down. Heigh ! some one, ring the house-bell again. The 
 boys are out in the stable-yard may be, and so engrossed 
 in the horses that they cannot hear. In my time I was 
 always hearty for my dinner, never missed a meal, and was 
 first in my place at table. Ring the bell ! But, Rose, we 
 will begin. I wait for no man. What is it 1 Roast mutton ? ' 
 
 The Squire was in good spirits ; he talked incessantly 
 during dinner, interrupting his conversation at intervals 
 to inquire after Gerans and Constantine. It appeared to 
 Rose that he had come round to the opinion of his eldest 
 son about giving Constantine the large sum asked for him, 
 but he did not like to admit it ; he pretended that he 
 yielded because the real person to be pinched would be 
 Gerans, not himself, and that he could not stand in the 
 way of a man nipping his finger in a door, if he chose wil- 
 fully to nip it. 
 
 Rose did not share the old man's spirits ; she had been 
 so much disturbed by Constantine's insolence in the morn- 
 ing, and by the rude awakening of her conscience that had 
 resulted from it, that she was depressed, and, although she 
 would not admit it to herself, uneasy at the absence of her 
 husband. Gerans had gone to speak in private about some 
 serious matter to Dennis. Was she the subject of their 
 talk 1 Would she be the occasion of a quarrel 1 Had she 
 by her folly nourished the hopeless passion of Dennis, and 
 alienated from her the heart of Gerans 1 Her eyes were 
 red with tears, but the Squire did not observe this. 
 
 ' Run,' said she to one of the servants, ' run to Nant- 
 sillan, and inquire if Mr. Gerans has been there.' 
 
 The messenger returned to say that Mr. Gerans had 
 been there in the morning, and had gone after Mr. Pen- 
 halligan, and that neither had returned. 
 
 After dinner the old man went out to inspect some 
 buildings that were being repaired at the back, and to see 
 that his cob had eaten her oats and was properly groomed. 
 
 Rose went to her room. She was restless. She looked 
 at her face in the glass, and was shocked to see how pale 
 she was and how red about the eyes. She soused her face 
 well with fresh water, and, to distract her attention from 
 her self-reproaches, changed her gown. 
 
 The room was hot, and she could not breathe. She put 
 
ANOTHER SHOT. 399 
 
 on her hat and went out to walk on the down, and fill her 
 lungs with sea-air — and to look for Gerans. 
 
 ' Where are you going % ' shouted the Squire. He was 
 outside the calves' house, ordering a portion of the wall to 
 be rebuilt. ' Going to hunt after your husband 1 Don't 
 you have any fears about him ; he and Con have probably 
 gone fishing/ 
 
 She went on, in the direction of Nantsillan Cove, over 
 the track taken by Constantine that morning. She had no 
 intention of descending the dangerous path. She purposed 
 looking out seaward, on the chance of getting a sight of 
 Gerans and Constantine in a boat. 
 
 Suddenly, Dennis Penhalligan stood before her. He 
 came abruptly on her from the steep ascent. Rose's heart 
 leaped and stood still when she saw that he was alone. He 
 did not seem to observe her at first. His hat was drawn 
 over his e3^es and his step was uncertain. When he heard 
 her call his name he looked at her with eyes the expression 
 of which frightened her. 
 
 ' Mr. Penhalligan ! ' she cried, ' for pity's sake tell me, 
 where is my husband 1 ' 
 
 His eyes flashed, then faded. He seemed like a man 
 who was recovering from a swoon, who did not know where 
 he was and who was addressing him. He opened his mouth 
 to speak, but only an unintelligible murmur issued from it. 
 Rose was seriously alarmed. His manner was enough to 
 startle her, her conscience sufficiently aroused to warn her 
 of danger. In her fear she grasped his wrist, she shook 
 him, and said : 
 
 ' Tell me, tell me, where is Gerans ? ' 
 
 Then he seemed to recover himself. His eyebrows drew 
 together, and his eyes kindled. He looked at her with a 
 searching glance, and asked in a low tone, ' Am I his 
 keeper 1 What do I care for him V 
 
 Rose let go her hold. She turned deadly pale and 
 trembled. Her heart stood still. She looked at him with 
 terror, afraid to ask more. His eyes fell. He remained 
 before her with his head sunk, and his nervous hand clutch- 
 ing at something in his breast pocket. 
 
 ' Dennis,' said Rose, ' where is he 1 ' 
 
 ' You do not love him, why then do you ask 1 ' he said, in 
 a hoarse whisper. 
 
400 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 Then she laid hold of him, fiercely, frantically, with a 
 hand on each shoulder. ' Dennis ! tell me ! Have you seen 
 him ? What has happened ? Where is he ? ' 
 
 ' Let me go,' answered he, sullenly. ' Gerans will 
 trouble you no more. He has fallen — down the rocks — 
 into the sea — is dead ! ' 
 
 Then Rose uttered a scream, shriller than the cry of 
 the sea-gulls. ' You have killed him — murderer ! ' 
 
 She was staggering forward to the cliff edge, uncon- 
 scious whither she went, when he caught her, and said in a 
 deep, hoarse, vibrating tone : 
 
 ' Why do you cry 1 You did not love him.' 
 
 ' I — I not love him ! ' She wrung her hands over her 
 head in the air. ' O Gerans ! dear husband ! my dearest 
 love ! my only love ! It is not true ; you are not dead ! ' 
 
 ' Rose ! — you love me.' 
 
 She thrust him away with a cry of horror, and, turning, 
 ran home, threw herself before her father-in-law on her 
 knees and cried : ' He is dead ! He is dead ! He has 
 been murdered ! my God, have mercy on me ! O my 
 God, forgive me ! ' 
 
 But when she had turned from Penhalligan, with a look 
 and cry of loathing, she heard a laugh behind her, a laugh 
 the like of which she never had heard before, the sound of 
 which in all her after-life she never forgot. The laugh 
 proceeded from Dennis. He had committed murder, and 
 Rose loved the murdered man. His ill fate pursued him 
 to the last. Fate played a hideous game with him, and 
 mocked him to the end. Rose loved Gerans, had loved him 
 all along, and had not cared for him — Dennis. She had 
 coquetted with him, but had reserved for him no place in 
 her heart. With this torturing thought gnawing at his 
 brain he reached his cottage. 
 
 ' Please, sir,' said little Ruth, ' will you have some 
 dinner ? There be cold roast beef and pickled cauliflower.' 
 
 He started, and left the house again. He must be 
 alone now. He staggered up the coombe till he came to 
 the spot where the floor of dead leaves lay, now as of old — 
 the place where Rose had bidden him not despair. He 
 moved like a piece of clockwork. From the moment that 
 he saw the white face of Gerans before him in the Iron 
 Gate, and fired at him, to the moment that he met Rose on 
 
ANOTHER SHOT. 401 
 
 the cliffs, he remembered nothing. He had seen Gerans, 
 struck by his ball, totter back, and fall from the ledge of 
 rock into the water below, a dark pool left by the ebbed 
 tide, which the rising tide was replenishing. 
 
 Murder ! That word uttered by Rose hammered in his 
 ear, and would not cease. He had committed a murder. 
 For what end ? To break the heart of Rose, and to cover 
 his soul with an indelible stain. Whether brought to 
 justice or not mattered nothing — the self-reproach, the con- 
 sciousness of guilt would never leave him, night or day. 
 
 Dead ! Gerans dead ! In the stupefaction that followed 
 the first outbreak of horror, this was all that Rose could 
 repeat. She felt everything spin about her. She ran into 
 the hall, without purpose, without knowing whither she 
 went, and fell on her knees, with her hands pressed to her 
 brow, rocking herself in a stunned state, in which she could 
 think of nothing. She moaned, and the tears ran over her 
 cheeks, her brain was bursting, her heart was contracted 
 with a spasm of pain. So old Gaverock found her. What 
 was the meaning of her alarm 1 What occasion had she for 
 her fear 1 Why did she frighten him without cause 1 As 
 he spoke he seemed to be turning about the piercing sword 
 that had penetrated to her heart, and with every turn a 
 fresh gash was made. She screamed with pain. 
 
 ' Rose, be rational,' said the Squire. ' Dead ! Mur- 
 dered ! How dead ? By whom murdered ? ' 
 
 ' He is dead ; I know it,' cried Rose. ' Murdered by 
 Dennis Penhalligan. ' 
 
 ' This is nonsense,' said the old man. ' Woman's 
 exaggeration and irrational jumping to conclusions. Why 
 do you say this 1 Give me a reason. Have you seen 
 Gerans 1 How do you know he is dead 1 What grounds 
 have you for your charge ? Because he did not return to 
 dinner you have worked yourself into hysterics. That is 
 it. I know women.' 
 
 Rose somewhat recovered her senses when thus cate- 
 chised. What would she not have given now to be able to 
 say that she had no grounds for believing that Dennis had 
 killed her husband, no grounds for supposing that he bore 
 him enmity ! She, she herself was the cause of the crime ; 
 her vanity, which craved for flattery, and which was pleased 
 with alluring to her such a man as Dennis. She, she herself 
 
 D D 
 
402 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 had murdered Gerans. She had inflamed the heart of 
 Penhalligan against him. She was as guilty of his death as 
 if she had murdered him with her own hand. Then there 
 surged up in her memory the recollection of her unkindness 
 to Gerans, the coldness with which she had met his over- 
 tures, the bitterness with which she had reproached him. 
 ' I know he is dead. Dennis Penhalligan told me so,' was 
 all she could say to her father-in-law. Old Gaverock was 
 angry with her tears, impatient with the difficulty of getting 
 a statement out of her mouth. 
 
 ' I don't believe a word of it,' he said. ' Women like 
 to imagine disasters, and enjoy a squeal over them, knowing 
 that there is nothing at the bottom. I'll go to Penhalligan, 
 and learn from him what this means.' Then he strode out 
 of the house. 
 
 Rose remained where she was, a prey to despair and 
 self-reproach. She threw herself in a chair, and wept and 
 prayed, and beat her head. The servants heard her, and 
 peeped in at the door, and whispered ; then one of the 
 oldest ventured in and spoke to her, and asked what was the 
 matter, was she ill 1 She had better have a drop of brandy. 
 
 ' Go away ! Leave me alone ; I am not ill ! ' She 
 started erect on her knees, and thrust the woman away 
 with her right hand, with the left in her hair, which was 
 dishevelled, and falling about her neck. She was as one 
 mad, mad with the agony of remorse. The servant-maid 
 withdrew ; but Rose could not remain where she was, with 
 the girls talking about her, peering in, and volunteering 
 advice. She stood up, went out of the porch door, and 
 tottered along the path towards Nantsillan. 
 
 Hark ! a shot. She shrunk in all her muscles and 
 nerves at the sound. 
 
 Half an hour passed. She had staggered to the garden 
 wall, and was leaning against that, looking along the path, 
 waiting for the return of her father-in-law. That half- 
 hour to her went creeping along as if each minute were an 
 hour. 
 
 Presently she saw Hender Gaverock rise from the 
 coombe and come slowly along the way towards her. She 
 tried to leave the wall and go to meet him, but her knees 
 yielded under her weight. She was constrained to await 
 him there. One look at his altered countenance sufficed to 
 
ANOTHER SHOT. 403 
 
 convince her that her worst fears were well founded. She 
 had lost Gerans for ever. The face of the old Squire was 
 grey as ashes. 
 
 ' I cannot ask any questions of Dennis Penhalligan,' he 
 said, in a low tone. ' He has shot himself through the 
 heart.' 
 
 CHAPTER LVIII. 
 
 ON FOUR OARS. 
 
 The old man said no more. He went past Rose, towards 
 the house. Rose's tears dried in her eyes. She crept after 
 her father-in-law, supporting herself against the brick 
 garden wall till she came to the spot where Dennis had 
 stood the evening before, watching her through the window. 
 Vividly did she now see him, as he looked at her with his 
 burning eyes. She cried out with fear. She fled from the 
 spot, and stumbled over the porch steps. Dennis was dead 
 also. Dead — by his own act. Her guilt became deeper, 
 blacker, more hideous ! 
 
 No one in Towan noticed her. There was commotion 
 there. Old Gaverock was sending the men out to look for 
 Gerans — or his body ; and one fellow rode away towards 
 Padstow, with loose rein, to summon the old drunken 
 ■doctor, and another ran off to the farm nearest Nantsillan, 
 to get aid for removing the body of Penhalligan from the 
 glade to his house. 
 
 Rose crouched on the steps, holding to a granite ball 
 that ornamented the low wall that enclosed them. Her 
 shame was more than she could bear. For some time she 
 could not cry, but at last the tears began to flow again, 
 and as they flowed they washed away all the false colours 
 with which she had disguised to herself the relations in 
 which she had stood to Dennis, colours painted on with the 
 hand of discontent, vanity, and weakness. She knew her 
 guilt. She could no longer excuse her conduct, and the 
 breath of death blew away all the ashes which had overlain 
 and threatened to choke the glowing embers of her real love 
 for Gerans. 
 
 Hitherto Rose had lived in a dream of pleasure and 
 self-confidence. Now she was rudely awakened to see the 
 
 D d 2 
 
404 THE GAVBROUKS. 
 
 ruin that her thoughtlessness had brought on herself and 
 others. 
 
 Squire Gaverock went out with his men, and searched 
 the shore of Sandymouth and Nantsillan Cove in vain. 
 They ran out the boats and explored the rocks where they 
 rose out of the sea. They could find no trace of the pi"e- 
 sence of Gerans, alive or dead. After a search of some 
 hours the Squire came home. He bade his men continue 
 their examination of the coast ; he returned to inquire if 
 any tidings of his lost son had reached Towan during his 
 absence. He found that none had. 
 
 Then he entered his study, and threw himself into his 
 chair, to consider what was to be done. He passed his 
 hand over his eyes and brow, and the hand shook as he 
 did so. However often he made this movement he was 
 unable to brush away the picture of Dennis lying on the 
 mat of russet autumn leaves, cemented together with the 
 rain and rot of winter, with a pistol falling from his life- 
 less hand, and the blood clotted on his breast over the 
 heart. 
 
 Would Penhalligan have destroyed himself had Rose's 
 accusation been unfounded ? This question insisted on 
 being answered, but he strove to put the question away 
 from him. Why had Rose accused him 1 Was it only 
 because Dennis had informed her of the death of her 
 husband, or did some dreadful mystery lurk behind this 
 into which he dare not look ? The old man's mouth 
 quivered, as did his hand. One dark mystery after an- 
 other stole through his thoughts, unexplained, which he 
 feared to attempt to solve. A tide was rising and sur- 
 rounding him, and each wave that leaped higher was more 
 threatening than the last. What lay before him ? What 
 were the discoveries that would be forced on him ? He 
 heard Rose's foot in the hall. He would not go out to 
 her. He would not speak to her. He shrank from even 
 looking at her. To what extent was she responsible for 
 what had taken place 1 He dared not ask her, or ask 
 himself. 
 
 The ambition of his life was at an end. In one 
 moment his pride, his desire, were broken down. His 
 hopes, his ambitions, had been centred in his son, and lay 
 dead with him. 
 
ON FOUR OAES. 405 
 
 Suddenly he starred back in his chair, and ran it against 
 the bookcase, and sat staring at the drawer of his table. 
 The drawer had been tampered with. There were marks 
 on it that an effort had been made to open it, and that the 
 lock had been broken. He stood up and put his hand to 
 the drawer. It opened readily. The lock was torn off, 
 the mahogany bruised. The money was gone. Purse and 
 pocket-book — the purse with the gold, the pocket-book 
 with the notes — all were gone, 
 
 Who was the robber ? Had this robbery any connec- 
 tion with the loss of Gerans and the self-destruction of 
 Penhalligan ? The number of questions rising before the 
 old man's mind and demanding replies was growing and 
 becoming bewildering. He was led from darkness to 
 deeper darkness, into night profound. 
 
 His mind went at once to Constantine. That Gerans 
 had taken the money did not suggest itself to him. That 
 Dennis had clone so, been caught in the act by Gerans, that 
 Dennis had killed him to conceal his theft, and then, finding 
 he could not escape, had shot himself, was a possible' solu- 
 tion. But then, where was Constantine 1 Why was he 
 away 1 Why had not signs of him been seen 1 The 
 brothers had not gone out boating together. Every boat 
 that belonged to Towan was in its place. Where was Con- 
 stantine to give them some information about Gerans 1 
 Then, suddenly, it occurred to the old man that if Pen- 
 halligan had taken the money, the purse and note-book 
 would be found on him. He ought to have remained by 
 the corpse and examined the pockets. But he had been 
 too alarmed and anxious to find Gerans to consider that ; 
 besides, when Dennis was discovered, the Squire had no 
 suspicion that the money was taken. 
 
 Where was Constantine 1 Constantine had wanted the 
 money. He was impatient to have it at once ; he had 
 refused to stay more than a day. There was a mystery 
 about Constantine. He had darkly hinted that he was in 
 danger of arrest for some crime. The Squire had put this 
 from him as an attempt to extort the money from him by 
 playing on his family pride. But now he began to fear 
 "that there was some truth in the threat. Constantine had 
 taken money elsewhere, or forged a name. That would 
 •explain both his reticence and his eagerness to get awa.y. 
 
406 THE GAVEEOCKS. 
 
 He had not told his parents that he was alive because he 
 wished it to be thought generally that he was dead, and 
 that so his guilt might not be disclosed. By some means 
 it had been found out that he was not dead, and he had 
 come home to be helped to escape from the country, and 
 now that this help had been delayed he had taken the 
 money from his father's drawer, and gone. Perhaps this 
 was the story of Constantine, the old man thought, with a 
 flush on his brow, and with clenched hands. 
 
 But — what had this to do with the disappearance of 
 Gerans and the suicide of Dennis ? Time alone could solve 
 these riddles. Then a fresh horror came on him, and made 
 him gasp. If Gerans were dead, then his estate, and the 
 representation of the family, the headship of the Gaverocks 
 — Toujours sans tache — would devolve on Constantine, on 
 this runagate, this wretch who robbed his own father and 
 wife, who was flying from justice ! What would become 
 of Towan in the hands of an unprincipled scoundrel, who 
 dare not show his face in England 1 He groaned. He 
 would have paid out his heart's blood to the last drop 
 cheerfully at that moment, if with it he could redeem 
 Gerans from death. He compared the two brothers, so 
 strangely alike in face and build ; and now a flame of real 
 love flashed up through the thick crust of pride that he 
 had suffered to grow over his heart. Gerans had always 
 been an obedient, amiable son, had never given him annoy- 
 ance, had been ever upright and true and manly. 
 
 He had not treated Gerans properly ; he had exacted 
 from him submission with despotic authority, he had not 
 considered his years, and that he ought to have taken him 
 into counsel, and listened to his opinion. He saw by the 
 unselfishness of Gerans, with which he had stood forth on 
 behalf of his brother, that his heart was good to the core ; 
 he saw by the pertinacity with which he held to his deter- 
 mination, that he was bold where he felt he was right. A 
 feeling of pride at the recognition of the merits of Gerans 
 woke up in the old man's soul, and now the tears began to 
 trickle down his cheeks, from eyes that had not been thus 
 moistened since childhood. 
 
 Alas ! no tears, no love, no recognition, would bring 
 back the dead. 
 
 Squire Gaverock went to Nantsillan. He put on his 
 
ON FOUR OARS. 407 
 
 roughest manner to disguise his emotion. He found the 
 house overrun with the curious ; no one was in authority, 
 every one had as much right there as another. He drove 
 them all out except the farmer's wife, Mrs. Jemima Josse, 
 and the charwoman, and old Mary Tregothnan, who under- 
 took to lay the body out ; all the gentlefolks liked her to 
 lay them out, she explained, she did make such pretty 
 corpses of them. Then he inquired whether any money 
 had been found in the pockets of the dead man, any purse, 
 any note-books. Yes, a leather purse had been found that 
 contained a few shillings. Farmer Josse had taken charge 
 of that as he was constable. Yes, there had been dis- 
 covered one note-book ; it was produced, and the Squire 
 saw it was the surgeon's pocket register of his visits and 
 the maladies of the patients visited. Mr. Gaverock made 
 strict inquiries, and had no occasion to doubt that this was 
 all. The constable, Mr. Josse, had been on the spot when 
 the body was moved, and had seen and taken note of every- 
 thing the pockets contained. The Squire placed Mrs. 
 Josse in charge. She was an old servant of Towan, her 
 husband a tenant ; Nantsillan was the property of the 
 Gaverocks, and Squire Hender was Justice of Peace. He 
 was accordingly obeyed promptly. 
 
 Then he returned to Towan. As his face was directed 
 homeward the stern and rough expression deserted it, and 
 it became haggard and distressed. 
 
 ' Any news 1 ' he asked. 
 
 There were none. 
 
 ' Where is Mrs. Eose ? ' 
 
 ' Please your honour, her's upstairs, a-locked into the 
 bedroom, a-crying like blazes. Us have took her up some 
 tea and toast, but her won't touch it.' 
 
 ' Go, someone, upstairs, and tell her to come to me into 
 the study. Tell her I insist on her obedience.' 
 
 He went into the library and cast himself into the 
 chair. 
 
 In a few moments Rose entered, so changed in face and 
 manner that the Squire looked at her some time with sur- 
 prise without speaking. 
 
 ' Rose,' said he at last, ' are you now sufficiently com- 
 posed to answer questions in a rational manner ? ' 
 
 She looked up at him. He thought her eyes filled her 
 
408 THE GAVEEOCKS. 
 
 face, so large were they, so shrunk were her fresh and 
 rounded cheeks. Her lips moved, but she could not speak. 
 The lips had lost their cherry redness. 
 
 ' Rose,' he said, ' tell me everything you know, every- 
 thing that can help me to understand what has happened. 
 There is something behind this to which I cannot get, and 
 which you, perhaps, may disclose.' 
 
 ' I will tell you everything,' she answered slowly, then 
 paused to gather up her courage and strength for the 
 avowal. 
 
 In that pause she and the old man heard a step on the 
 hall floor that they knew, and held their breath. 
 
 The study door opened, and he whom they believed to 
 be dead came in. 
 
 Squire Gaverock grasped the arms of his chair, and half 
 rose from it. That was Gerans, certainly, before him, and 
 not his ghost, though Gerans looking pale and dejected. 
 Rose uttered a cry, flew to his breast, and threw her arms 
 round him. 
 
 ' Gerans ! Gerans ! you are alive ! ' 
 
 Her cry was as full of joy and ecstasy of love as the 
 song that breaks from the throat of a nightingale on a still 
 spring night. It went direct to the heart of Gerans, who 
 understood its meaning, and he put his arm round her, and 
 held her to his beating heart, whilst with the other hand he 
 pressed back the white brow that was buried in his bosom, 
 in order that he might look into her eyes. She dared not 
 yet meet his steady, inquiring eyes, and she shook her head 
 from his hold, and laid it on his shoulder, and burst into a 
 storm of tears. 
 
 Old Squire Gaverock held out his hand. ' So, so — a 
 false alarm. That is well.' He drew a long breath. 
 ' Women are fools. With my sixty-five years, Golly ! I 
 ought to have known better than believe their alarms. 
 Gerans, we thought you were dead.' 
 
 ' I am alive and sound,' answered Gerans, with astonish- 
 ment. ' This is not the first time I have absented myself 
 from dinner.' 
 
 ' Where is Constantine 1 ' 
 
 ' Is he not here 1 I have not seen him.' 
 
 ' Gerans, where did you part from Penhalligan V 
 
 1 At the waterfall into the cove.' 
 
ON FOUR OARS. 400 
 
 ' What had you to do with him 1 ' asked the Squire, 
 gravely. 
 
 ' With Dennis 1 Oh, we had a conversation.' 
 
 ' And an altercation 1 ' 
 
 ' Not on my side. I apologised to him for our conduct 
 to Loveday. I shall speak about that presently.' 
 
 ' Do you not know what has happened ? ' 
 
 ' Happened 1 — to him ? — no. I parted from him many 
 hours ago.' 
 
 ' Rose charged him with having murdered you, and he 
 has shot himself.' 
 
 Gerans stared at his father with horror and perplexity. 
 He became pale as death, whilst Rose clung to him more 
 passionately. He put his hand over his eyes, and tried to 
 collect his thoughts. 
 
 ' I do not understand this,' he said. ' Dennis has been 
 for some time incensed against us, against me for not taking 
 up Loveday's cause with the vigour that I ought to have 
 shown, and for something else I need not mention.' He 
 felt Rose's arms contract convulsively about him, and 
 heard a sob escape her labouring bosom, ' And he has 
 been irritated with you, father, for sending Loveday away 
 and not acknowledging her, as you ought to have done. 
 Then ensued the disappearance of Loveday. It is possible 
 that poor Dennis's mind has become disturbed. I did 
 not think him himself when I left him this morning. I 
 did not tell him plainly that Constantine had returned. 
 I do not think he had heard of it, or he would have 
 mentioned it to me. I only told him that a great surprise 
 and joy were in store for Loveday.' 
 
 ' Gerans,' said Rose, looking up in his face, through 
 her tears, ' dear Gerans, he told me that you were dead. 
 He had seen you fall.' 
 
 ' His mind was disturbed,' said Gerans, ' poor fellow ! 
 My God ! what troubles, what sorrows come on us ! ' 
 
 Neither his father nor his wife had anything to say to 
 this. A tear came from Gerans' eye and fell on the cheek 
 of Rose, a tear of sorrow for his friend. 
 
 Then they heard a tramp of feet, and, looking through 
 the study window, they saw eight men approach the house 
 carrying four oars crossed on their shoulders, and on the 
 oars lay a body. 
 
410 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 Before the eight men walked another, carrying a 
 bundle. 
 
 ' They are bringing him here ! ' cried Rose, cowering 
 into her husband's breast in terror. ' Oh, do not let them ! 
 Why should they bring him here ? — this is not his home. 
 Let him be taken to ISTantsillan.' 
 
 Gerans disengaged himself from her clinging arms. He 
 looked steadily through the window, then he turned quickly 
 back, and said : ' Stay, stay here, Rose. Do not leave the 
 room. Father, this is not Dennis. Prepare your mind for 
 another and worse disaster.' He had recognised his red- 
 topped boots on the legs of the man who was being borne 
 by the eight. He knew that Constantine had put them on 
 that morning. 
 
 The old Squire stood up, trembling like an aspen, with 
 white face. 
 
 ' God be gracious to us ! ' he gasped. ' Give me your 
 arm, Gerans. I — I find my feet fail me. Not — it is not — 
 Constantine 1 ' 
 
 In another moment the tramp of the feet was in the 
 hall. Then with a sigh of relief the eight bearers put down 
 their burden upon the long oak dinner table, withdrew the 
 oars and wiped their brows with their sleeves. 
 
 The ninth man placed the bundle at the foot of the 
 dead man who lay on the gate — a man in a suit of Gerans' 
 clothes, with his fine frilled shirt, and with his red-topped 
 boots ; and with his white face streaked with blood from a 
 wound in the forehead where a bullet had pierced his brain. 
 In death, Constantine bore a strange and striking likeness 
 to his brother who now stood nearly as white, and with as 
 rigid a face, bending over him. 
 
 ' Here, your honour,' said the man who had carried the 
 bundle, ' here be two pocket-books and a purse us have 
 took out of his coat pockets, lest they should fall and be 
 lost. I reckon they be chuck full of money. And us be 
 dry, and would like a drop of cider.' 
 
411 
 CHAPTER LIX. 
 
 RECONCILIATION. 
 
 That evening when Gerans came to his room for the night 
 he found Rose, dressed as she had been, sitting on the sofa 
 awaiting him. He was late, he had sat up long in con- 
 versation with his father. He was surprised to find Rose 
 not gone to bed. 
 
 ' Oh, Rose,' he said, with a little reproach in his tone, 
 ' you will overtire yourself. You should be asleep at this 
 hour. 5 
 
 ' No, Gerans, no,' she replied. ' I could not sleep till I 
 had spoken with you. Tell me, tell me all. You think that 
 Dennis shot Constantine, and then went away and destroyed 
 himself. Why did he kill Constantine 1 ' 
 
 ' He bore him a grudge. Con had behaved very badly 
 towards Loveday. Con had first married her secretly, and 
 made her promise not to tell what had been done, but to 
 leave to him the communication to his parents. He took 
 advantage of her promise, and did not tell any one. Then, 
 when it came out, he hid himself somewhere — where, perhaps, 
 we shall never learn — and allowed Loveday to suppose he 
 was dead. That was cruel and unjust treatment, and no 
 doubt Dennis felt it keenly ; he was a man of strong 
 passions, and resented it. I had been speaking to him in 
 the morning on the matter, but I could make nothing out 
 of him. I suppose he was wild with rage because he had 
 heard that Constantine was alive and home again. He left 
 his house armed with a pistol. He went to find Con, and 
 ask him his intentions, to know what he meant to do about 
 Loveday. What ensued when they met no one now can tell, 
 but I conjecture that there was a quarrel ; Constantine did 
 not satisfy Dennis, and Dennis, blind with anger, shot him. 
 Then he woke to the full horror of what he had done, and 
 destroyed himself.' 
 
 ' That is the way in which you explain the whole story ? ' 
 asked Rose, looking him questioningly in the eyes. ' That 
 you think accounts for everything 1 ' 
 
 ' It explains all,' he answered, but with some hesitation. 
 
412 THE GAVEEOCKS. 
 
 ' Gerans,' said Rose, with a firmness unusual in her, 
 'Gerans, clear hushand, no — it was not so.' 
 
 ' Rose ! ' he exclaimed, and shuddered. ' Rose ! 
 enough. It is explained.' 
 
 ' No, Gerans, no. This will not do. You shall know 
 the whole truth. I will not hide anything from you. No, 
 Gerans, it was not so at all — Dennis Penhalligan shot Con-, 
 stantine because he mistook him for you.' 
 
 ' Rose ! Rose ! ' 
 
 ' I have more to say. I am guilty, I, even I, of the death 
 of Constantine and of Dennis. It was I, by my vanity and 
 love of admiration, who lured Dennis on, till he was mad 
 with love for me and hate for you. But, oh, Gerans, I 
 swear to you, by the God who stands above the starry sky, 
 that I have not loved any but you.' 
 
 ' I will believe you,' he said, sadly. ' I have always 
 trusted you. I have loved you — in spite of all.' 
 
 ' In spite of my folly, my temper, my wicked words ! ' 
 she said, and her tears began to flow. ' Oh, Gerans ! I know 
 now how wicked I have been. Here, in this very room, I 
 treated you cruelly, when you returned with inflamed eyes 
 from St. Ives. You asked me to stay with you, and I 
 would not. I wanted to be away with the company below.' 
 She threw herself on her knees before him. ' I am un- 
 worthy of you, Gerans ; indeed, indeed, I am.' 
 
 He tried to raise her. ' Say no more, Rose. Your 
 acknowledgment of having done wrong is the utmost you 
 can do to efface the past.' 
 
 ' I will not rise,' she said, ' till you know everything. 
 I will tell you all, I will tell you what the thoughts of my 
 heart were, as well as the words I said. I will not be 
 forgiven till you know the truth as clearly as I can 
 put it.' 
 
 ' Rose, I also have to ask your pardon. I was too 
 yielding to my father.' 
 
 'No, Gerans, you were right, and I was wrong. You 
 did not oppose your father, because my whims were un- 
 reasonable. You were right not to let me have my own 
 way. Because I have taken my course it has led me to 
 this.' 
 
 He raised her from the floor, and made her sit by his side 
 on the sofa; and there he, with his arm round her, and her wet 
 
RECONCILIATION. 413 
 
 face in his breast, listened to the whole story of her frivolity, 
 her play with Dennis — to his coming and standing outside the 
 window on the previous evening. She told him of the ride to 
 church on Phoebus, of everything that had passed on that 
 expedition, of her brief repentance in church, and the return 
 of her bad spirit on the way home ; she told him of her 
 foolish jealousy of Loveday ; she told him of the kiss 
 Dennis had given her at the well. She hid nothing from 
 him. ' But, oh, Gerans, I never, never, loved any one but 
 you, and I wanted to make you love me more by forcing 
 you to become jealous.' 
 
 ' But I Avas not jealous.' 
 
 ' No — because you could not believe me as bad as 
 I was.' He drew her close to his heart, and the bond 
 between them was resealed, to last unstrained, unbroken, 
 till death. 
 
 The brothers-in-law were buried the same day, and at 
 the same time. Indeed, the two coffins were borne to 
 the church in one procession — first that of Constantine, 
 then that of Penhalligan, and one body of mourners at- 
 tended both — first walked Squire Gaverock with Loveday 
 on his arm, then Gerans with Madam Loveys, then Mr. 
 Loveys and Rose, and finally Anthony junior. 
 
 The news of the deaths of Dennis and of Constantine 
 Gaverock had spread through the country. It was in the 
 papers. Thus Loveday had been apprised of her brother's 
 and husband's simultaneous decease. She sent at once to 
 Marsland for Paul Featherstone. When he came to the 
 cottage, she told him everything. The necessity for keep- 
 ing silence was removed. 
 
 One request she made, that Juliot might never be told 
 of her husband's treachery. Let her know that he was 
 dead — not that he had led her into a dishonourable mar- 
 riage, which cast a stain on her child. 
 
 Paul was too astonished at the revelation to be able to 
 determine at once what should be done. 
 
 ' I must return immediately to Nantsillan,' said Loveday, 
 earnestly, entreatingly, to Mr. Featherstone. ' I must at- 
 tend the funeral of my brother ; and I will go, if need be, 
 on my knees to Mr. Gaverock to beseech him to keep the 
 secret of my marriage. It need never be known now.' 
 
414 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 Nothing had come out at the double inquest. One man 
 had been found shot through the head, the other through 
 the heart, both killed by the same weapon, a double-bar- 
 relled pistol. Dennis was found in the wood, lying dead 
 on the dry leaves ; Constantine was washed ashore by the 
 tide in the cove. It was not till long after that the boat 
 in the Iron Gate was discovered. The tide had carried his 
 body out of Porthiern, and cast it up below the water- 
 fall. 
 
 No motive could be attributed to Dennis for killing 
 him. No one but the Gaverocks knew of the marriage. 
 Little Ruth was called, to account for Penhalligan going 
 out with the pistol. She was able most confidently to 
 assert that Mr. Constantine had not been to the cottage, 
 and that Mr. Dennis had complained of annoyance from a 
 dog that haunted him. Who had seen the dog ? No one 
 else. The supposition arrived at was that Mr. Penhalligan 
 was suffering from disturbance of the brain, that accidentally 
 he had shot Mr. Constantine Gaverock, and that then, 
 horrorstruck at what he had done, he had destroyed him- 
 self. 
 
 The verdict on Constantine was ' Accidental death ; ' 
 that on Dennis was, ' Suicide whilst in a state of unsound 
 mind.' Neither Rose nor Gerans was called to give evi- 
 dence. Properly, Rose ought to have been summoned, as 
 she had given the first notice of a tragedy, but she was 
 spared the painfulness of so doing. The old Squire deposed 
 to the finding of the body of Dennis ; no evidence appeared 
 necessitating the call of Gerans. That was well, for he 
 could not have kept back the subject of conversation with 
 Dennis if closely interrogated. The real cause of the mur- 
 der and suicide was never known to Loveday or to the 
 Squire ; two only knew it, and they kept it locked in their 
 own breasts. 
 
 Madam Loveys with her son and husband would not 
 return to Towan after the funeral. The lady had ordered 
 a carriage to await them in the village to carry them home. 
 She made her son mount the box, and put her husband in- 
 side, and then, when they were seated, entered the carriage 
 herself, and ordered the coachman to drive on. As soon as 
 old Gaverock with Loveday, Gerans, and Rose, and the 
 servant had returned to Towan, the Squire called his son 
 
RECONCILIATION. 41.5 
 
 and daughters-in-law into the library, and bade them be 
 seated. 
 
 The old man was greatly altered — his hair was greyer 
 and less rough, his eyes had lost their commanding flash, 
 his complexion was less hale, his hand less steady, his gait 
 less confident, his voice was lower, and his manner had 
 ceased to be boisterous. 
 
 ' Is the door shut behind you, Gerans 1 ' 
 
 ' Yes, father.' 
 
 ' My children,' said the Squire, and his eyes as he said 
 1 my children ' rested on Loveday as well as Rose, ' we have 
 now a single duty to perform, a duty that has been delayed 
 too long. Our Loveday must have right done her. She 
 must receive immediate acknowledgment. I blame myself 
 for having denied it to her so long. Now it shall be ac- 
 corded to her fully and publicly. This house is henceforth 
 her home, our name is her name, we form but one family, 
 and I am her father as truly as I am yours, Rose. From 
 me she can count on receiving henceforth deference and 
 love.' 
 
 'Yes,' said Gerans, 'so it must be.' 
 
 Then, Loveday, who was pale as snow but composed, 
 said, ' No, dear Mr. Gaverock. If I have any claims upon 
 you, let me claim your submission to one thing I ask. Let 
 the past be forgotten. Do not let it be known that I 
 married Constantine.' 
 
 ' Not— why not ? ' 
 
 ' For his sake,' she answered. ' We must think of the 
 dead, and spare his memory. I may say for my poor 
 brother's sake also ; I would have his memory also spared. 
 If it transpire that I was married to Constantine privately, 
 and that he did not let his marriage be known, people will 
 at Once suspect that the death of Constantine was not acci- 
 dental, that Dennis shot him out of revenge for the wrong- 
 he conceived that he had done to his sister. I do not myself 
 believe this — but that is what people will say.' 
 
 The old man considered. This was certainly true. 
 
 ' Did Constantine not communicate with you after he 
 disappeared and we believed him dead ? ' asked Gerans. 
 
 ' No,' replied Loveday. ' I received no letter, no tidings 
 of any sort from him. Till quite recently I, like you, 
 believed him to be dead.' 
 
416 THE GAVEEOCKS. 
 
 ' I suppose we shall never know where he was during 
 the time between when he was washed off the keel of 
 the " Mermaid " and when he reappeared the other day here 
 to meet, as it proved, his death.' 
 
 The old man said this musingly, and Loveday did not 
 contradict him. He never did learn where Constantine 
 had been, for Loveday never told. She held back this from 
 the Squire lest she should add to his shame and sorrow, and 
 he held back from her the truth about Constantine breaking 
 open his drawer and stealing her money lest he should add 
 to her sorrow. 
 
 ' I do not ask of you to publish what for my sake, for 
 the sake of Constantine, and for the sake of Dennis, had 
 better be kept secret,' said Loveday ; ' let all that miserable 
 story be buried from the world, and forgotten, if possible, 
 by ourselves.' 
 
 ' Come by me, Loveday,' said the old man, gently. 
 "When she obeyed, he drew her hand within his, and stroked 
 it with his rough but unnerved hand. 
 
 ' My Loveday, my dear, very dear Loveday,' he said, ' I 
 am sixty-five years old, and I thought I knew women, but 
 I am only beginning to know them now. Loveday, I did 
 think it was conferring a great honour on you to allow you 
 to bear our name, but I am not so sure of that now.' He 
 leaned his elbow on the table, and thrust his left hand 
 through his grey hair, whilst clear tears rolled down his 
 cheeks. ' Dishonour has been brought on the name of 
 Gaverock by — by my son, and perhaps you do well to refuse 
 to bear it. Aye, though you may not know all, it is so — ■ 
 dishonour.' 
 
 Loveday rose and put her arms round his neck, whilst 
 the tears welled out of her eyes. 
 
 ' No, dear Mr. Gaverock, do not say that. It is because 
 I love and respect that name that I would ward off from 
 it the breath of reproach.' Then she kissed him. 
 
 He still held her hand. ' But you will stay with us 
 here, you will make this a home ? I will not be domineer- 
 ing or violent any more. Gerans, I have to ask your 
 forgiveness. Here, before your wife, I must acknowledge 
 that you are sometimes right, and that I esteem you for 
 holding your ground when your conscience forbids a sur- 
 render. Rose, I must ask your forgiveness also. I have 
 
RECONCILIATION. 417 
 
 tried you also. I have been to blame. My poor wife, I 
 wish she were here, I would ask her forgiveness also. I did 
 not understand her. By the way, Gerans, have you an old 
 hat that will fit me 1 I won't go about bareheaded any 
 more — by Golly ! I won't.' 
 
 CHAPTER LX. 
 
 A BED OF VIOLETS. 
 
 A twelvemonth — nay, more — had passed, winter had set 
 in and tossed its foam o"ver the cliffs, and the wind had 
 carried the roar of the wintry Atlantic far inland. Spring, 
 summer, autumn passed, and now as the last leaves were 
 shed in Nantsillan glen Loveday was stooping over her old 
 bed of purple violets, picking a bunch. She had a little 
 basket on her left arm, slung on the wrist ; she wore long 
 black mittens from her elbows to her hands. She had no 
 bonnet on, but a shawl was thrown over her head and 
 pinned under her chin. The fern in the coombe was as 
 brown as copper, but the moss in revenge was showing it- 
 self vividly green. Here and there the blue bugloss, and with 
 it pink cranes-bill, remained in flower, defying the wintry 
 winds, smiling under a clouded sky. A few rooks were 
 cawing, and jackdaws chattering ; a yellow finch swinging 
 on a maple twig was piping. No bird was disturbed by 
 Loveday. She stooped and passed her fingers among the 
 green leaves, and plucked each violet that was discovered, 
 and made them into a little cluster. Some were in the 
 basket ; she put her bunches into the basket, not the 
 several violets as picked. The shawl over her head was 
 much the same in colour as the flowers she gathered. Her 
 gown was black, with a white lace fringe about the sleeves 
 and flounce. 
 
 She was so engrossed in gathering violets that she did 
 not hear the fall of a step behind her. 
 '- ' How do you do, Miss — Mrs. I mean — Loveday 1 ' 
 
 She started, rose upright, turned and the colour came 
 into her cheeks and a light into her dark eyes. 
 
 ' Oh, Mr. Featherstone, I am so heartily glad to see 
 you !' 
 
 E E 
 
418 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 ' Excuse me,' he said, ' I apologise for calling you by 
 your Christian name, but I was hardly able to decide by 
 what name to address you with strict truth and to avoid 
 giving pain.' He was the same stiff, pragmatical man, 
 haggling about trifles, yet sincere to his heart's core. She 
 held out her hand to him, after passing the violets from the 
 right hand to the left. 
 
 He bowed over it, and with old-fashioned courtesy, old- 
 fashioned even then, pressed his lips to her fingers. 
 
 ' Your hand is fragrant with violets,' he said, ' and what 
 marvel, when you are as a violet yourself, sweet, and hiding 
 beneath the leaves.' 
 
 ' Pardon me, sir,' said Loveday, ' I am standing on the 
 leaves ; look above me, all are fallen.' 
 
 ' I was speaking metaphorically,' said Paul, with a slight 
 tone of vexation, but so slight that it was lost as soon as 
 perceived. ' 1 have ventured to search for you, madam, as 
 I doubted how to ask after you at the door of Towan. 
 Should I inquire for Miss Penhalligan, or for Mrs. Pock — 
 pardon me, Mrs. Gaverock, I mean. I was unaware to 
 what extent circumstances were known, and under which 
 name you were now pleased to pass. So I wandered and 
 waited about till I lighted upon you, and now, most appro- 
 priately, I find you at a violet bed. You will take no 
 offence, madam, if I say that in my mind the violet is so 
 associated with your sweet self that at Marsland my sister 
 Juliot, who shares my views in everything, and myself 
 always regard the violet bed under the wall as sacred to 
 the memory of one whom we have both learned to love and 
 revere.' 
 
 Loveday would have been puzzled by his odd address 
 had she not known the man, and been able to allow for his 
 formal ways. She was really pleased to see him, she had 
 the warmest regard for him, she valued him as a man per- 
 fectly true, sincere, upright ; she smiled at his quaint ways 
 and rather liked them, they savoured of old-world manners, 
 and there was a lack of these in Towan which made her 
 ready to condone some exaggeration in Paul Featherstone. 
 
 'How is Juliot?' she asked. 'I have longed to hear, 
 yet did not like to write.' 
 
 ' Juliot is well, and the little Con is also well and very 
 flourishing,' answered Paul Featherstone. ' There will be 
 
A BED OF VIOLETS. 419 
 
 a Stanbury of Stanbury yet. I have spent forty pounds 
 in obtaining a royal licence for young Master Con to assume 
 the name of Stanbury in place of Rock, so that henceforth 
 that little urchin is Squire Stanbury of Stanbury, and our 
 dear mother's name will nourish anew in him.' 
 
 ' What — what does Juliot know ? ' asked Loveday, 
 timidly. 
 
 ' Nothing. I have stood as a wall about her, fencing 
 her from the knowledge, and now all danger is past. She 
 still believes in a Mr. Rock, and supposes he has been 
 drowned. Her great grief is that his body has not been 
 recovered. I would not for anything in this world that 
 she should be undeceived. Juliot is a child in heart, and 
 has the faith of a child. Were she to learn what a wicked 
 — excuse me — were she to know all, her faith in the good- 
 ness of mankind would receive such a shock that the child- 
 like spirit in her would droop and die. No — she shall 
 never know — never, so help me, God ! ' He took off his 
 hat at the last words. Then he covered again and con- 
 tinued, ' And I — I also must ask, what is known here ? ' 
 
 ' Nothing,' answered Loveday. ' That is to say, only 
 Mr. Gaverock and Gerans know the truth, and it is their 
 wish now, as well as mine, that the past should be buried.' 
 
 ' So the marriage of Constantine Gaverock and Love- 
 day Penhalligan is to remain hidden in the parish register 
 of the church in Exeter where you were married 1 ' 
 
 ' Yes. It is so, indeed.' 
 
 c Then,' said Paul, ' should you ever be married again it 
 seems to me that the most suitable proceeding would be for 
 you to be re-married in that same church, that the two 
 registers might be preserved in the same book, so no dis- 
 guise or evasion of the truth would be needed, and such 
 disguise or evasion would be very painful, and hardly to be 
 justified.' 
 
 Loveday coloured, then laughed, and said : ' We need 
 not consider remote eventualities, Mr. Featherstone. 
 We will talk of Juliot and little Con. Is he much grown ? 
 Is he a dear pet 1 How many teeth has he 1 What colour 
 is his hair — and his eyes ? ' 
 
 ' Pardon me, at this moment I cannot talk of little Con. 
 He is a dear little daisyflower. But who thinks of the 
 daisy when he lights on the violet ? Nor is that such a 
 
 E E 2 
 
420 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 remote contingency as you consider, that is if you would 
 deign — that is to say — if your humble servant should find 
 favour in your eyes.' 
 
 The bunch of violets fell from Loveday's hand, and the 
 colour deserted her cheeks. 
 
 ' I am well aware,' continued Paul ; he removed his 
 hat and, kneeling stiffly, began to pick up the violets that 
 she had let fall. ' I am well aware,' he said whilst thus 
 engaged, ' that I am unworthy to solicit such a treasure. 
 I have sinned against you most deeply, and should not 
 dare to appear before you now were I not convinced that 
 in you every sweetness and beauty of soul were to be 
 found, the quality of mercy, the grace of generosity in- 
 cluded. I had the mad folly at one time to doubt you. 
 IsTow, reviewing the past, I am covered with shame at the 
 thought that I should have been so wicked, so graceless, as 
 to doubt you. You — you are to me the ideal of woman- 
 hood, all gentleness, truth, self -surrender, pity. I do not ask 
 you if you have cared for me. I know that when you were 
 Tinder my roof you suffered the bitterest of pains. I know 
 that then into the pure temple of your soul no thought of 
 me could enter, dedicated then as it was to another, though 
 that other was unworthy. I ask only to make some amends 
 to you for the wrong I did in mistrusting you, and I ask 
 for Juliot's sake. She wants a sister to guide, comfort, 
 and help her. I know my own unworthiness, but I know 
 also that as you have seen Juliot you must love her. So — 
 take me for my sister's sake.' 
 
 Loveday was trembling. She knew the man at her feet, 
 his perfect integrity, his chivalrous honour and love of truth; 
 she was not blind to his weaknesses. 
 
 ' Madam ! ' he said, ' I have picked up all the violets. I 
 do not ask you to speak. What shall I do with the violets ? 
 Am I to take the little posy and carry it away with me as 
 the only remembrance I have of the one woman whom I 
 love and regard above every other woman under heaven ? 
 Or may I put the violets into your basket, and help you to 
 carry the sweet and pretty burden 1 ' 
 
 She hesitated but for a moment, and then held out the 
 little basket to him. 
 
 The air about them was fragrant with violets. 
 
A BED OP VIOLETS. 421 
 
 The bells of Wellcombe were ringing a peal in the fresh 
 summer air a twelvemonth after the events last recorded. 
 The wind caried their music in waves inland, much as wave 
 on wave flows with the tide upon the shore. At the en- 
 trance of the avenue to Marsland is an arch of laurel and 
 fir and flowers. 
 
 Many people are gathered in the avenue, more outside, 
 lining the pretty lane past the spring, up the hill, away 
 towards the Stratton road. All are in their Sunday clothes; 
 the children have bunches of flowers in their hands. 
 
 Hark! 
 
 The cracking of postillions' whips are heard, and down 
 the hill amidst cheers comes a carriage, the horses and the 
 boys with white favours. The cheers swell into a roar of 
 applause. At the entrance to the avenue the carriage 
 draws up, and a servant lets down the steps. Then Paul 
 Featherstone descends, and holds out his hand for a 
 lady. 
 
 At the same moment from the gateway appears Juliot 
 in black, with a widow's cap, and a baby on her left arm, 
 running forward to put her disengaged arm round the lady, 
 and laugh and cry together for joy of heart. 
 
 ' Welcome ! welcome ! darling Loveday ! ' 
 
 Then the bride, who is in a soft grey silk, with white 
 bonnet, veil, and orange flowers, with a face almost as white 
 as the orange blossoms, but with her large dark eyes alight 
 with pleasure and gratitude, bows to the tenants and 
 cottagers who crowd round to touch and take her hand, 
 and the children to thrust their posies on her. 
 
 ' I think,' said Paul, ' that we shall have to change the 
 name of this place from Mars-land to the Land of Yenus, 
 for no wars will be fought here in this home of love. This, 
 Juliot, you will perceive is a sort of a joke ! ' 
 
 ' Oh, Paul ! how glad I am to hear you joking again ! 
 You are so humorous.' 
 
 ' Good heavens, Loveday ! how came you by that ? ' 
 asked Paul one day, when all his wife's effects were being 
 unpacked and arranged in her room and drawers. The 
 china vases, relics of her mother, had been placed on 
 the mantelshelf. The sampler had been hung in the hall. 
 The piano had been put in the drawing-room. Paul pointed 
 
422 THE GAVEROCKS. 
 
 to none of these things, but to a small double-barrelled 
 pistol. 
 
 Loveday shuddered. ' Oh, Paul ! I do not know 
 
 how that has come among my goods. It — it ' She 
 
 did not finish her sentence. 
 
 He was turning and examining it. 
 
 ' Loveday, this is very singular. Do you see this little 
 silver shield let in, with our arms on it — a chevron between 
 three ostrich plumes, and above it P.F., my uncle's initials 
 as well as mine. The pistol has never been mine : it must 
 have belonged to him. How did you come by it ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, Paul, dear Paul, throw it into the sea ! Do not 
 let it remain with us. I did not know it was in my box. 
 That was the weapon which robbed poor Constantine and 
 Dennis of their lives.' 
 
 Mr. Featherstone put the weapon down, as if it burnt 
 his fingers, but he still looked at it with a puzzled face. 
 
 ' But, Loveday, how did Dennis come by it 1 ' 
 
 Just then, with a shiver, Loveday thought of the red- 
 waistcoated pedlar, and then of the picture in the hall of 
 the old rover Featherstone. 
 
 ' Paul,' she said, ' I cannot tell you now. I will some 
 day ; but it seems to me as though the spirit of your uncle 
 could not rest till it had wrought out its revenge on the 
 family of Gaverock, and taken blood for blood. We will 
 speak about it another time.' 
 
 ' Juliot ! ' said Paul one day, on coming home to Mars- 
 land from a ride to Stanbury, whither he had been sum- 
 moned, ' the storms have been ripping the roof again at the 
 little Squire's place. We must make it snug for him, but 
 it will cost money.' 
 
 ' Oh, please,' said Loveday, raising her dark pleading 
 eyes, ' if you want slates, would you mind ordering them 
 from Captain Quance, of the Towan quarries. I have a 
 specimen slab in my bedroom, which I brought with me 
 when I first came here. He — he almost forced me to take 
 it ; he was very kind.' 
 
 ' Certainly. I will send a boat thither for a load. But 
 pray, Loveday, what are you going to do with that red 
 flannel 1 ' 
 
 1 1 am going to send it home by my little maid Ruth, 
 
A BED OF VIOLETS. 423 
 
 before Christmas, to an old woman, Mary Tregothnan, who 
 suffers from rheumatism. And — dear Paul — you have lost 
 Willy Penrose. Would you mind taking on Ruth's brother 
 as stable boy ? He once got for me two addled gull's eggs, 
 which was very thoughtful of him, and I do not like to 
 seem ungrateful.' 
 
 ' To be sure I will,' answered Paul. ' Loveday, you 
 have only to ask me for anything and you shall have it ; to 
 express a wish, and it shall be fulfilled. Since you have 
 been here the whole house has been sweet with your 
 presence, as with the fragrance of violets, that bloom and 
 are sweet throughout the year. I love the day that brought 
 you here, and made Loveday mine own. Heaven has made 
 my day of life a day of love. Which,' he added after a 
 pause, ' though it sounds like a joke, is not a joke, but a 
 plain statement of fact.' 
 
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 Font) No S13. 
 Rev. 1/84 
 
 
 
 
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 II