Chapter XVI: Out Carolling

It was evening, the day had passed; they had stayed in Camborne all the morning, had decorated the church to their entire satisfaction. Not an elegant structure is the church at Camborne, though parts of it are venerable enough in point of age. And then Duke drove them back again, though hardly at such a pace as that at which they went. Lunch had of necessity been late, later even than they had intended. It was nearer five than four when they rose from table. Such a meal might be properly called dinner, though at Tregowan on Christmas Eve the hours were topsy-turvy, and dinner was inordinately late.

Dinner, however, to Marmaduke, luncheon at such a time of day necessarily was. In the town he had fell in with some of those who were to be of the party in the evening. Eddie Mason was there. Scarcely more than a child was Eddie; he could scarcely be thirteen years old, and was even younger in stature and appearance. George Trevena he had met. George had come to fetch the pony-cart from Abraham's. It appeared that they had had rather an adventurous drive the night before. Among other things, the pony had shied at something on the road, and had pitched Effingham upon a heap of snow. Though the damage he received was nothing, the accident had by no means tended to improve Chandos's peculiarly sweet temper, and he had been, even for him, unusually disagreeable ever since. On the subject of his plans for the evening George was diplomatically vague. They were to go carolling, that was all he had to say; but why they were to go carolling, or what the carols were to be, Duke neither asked, nor did George volunteer to say. He reiterated his assurance that it would be splendid fun, but on that matter Duke kept his own counsel. He had said he would go, and go he would, though he was by no means sure that he exactly saw what would be the fun of it.

And now that he was back again at Tregowan, after a somewhat fatiguing day, and lunch was over, and the hour was so late, he began cordially to wish that he had followed Effingham's courteously proffered advice, and refused to have anything to do with George's scheme. "Anyhow," he told himself, "I'll just go and see what it is that's really in the wind; and if it isn't good enough, I'll come straight back again. I'll take Tony"--Tony was a certain cob of his, a sure stepper, amenable to reason, and a splendid one to go--"and ride over to the 'Daws.' I can do it in half an hour, and then I'll just ride home again."

This he told himself when lunch was over and he was in the dining-room alone.

"I don't think it's worth while to tell the mother that I'm going out; she'll only be worrying herself, and thinking that I'm into mischief. I'll just tell Stevens"--Stevens was the sexagenarian butler, who had lived with the Tregowans from babyhood till now--"and then, if I'm not back for dinner, he can tell the mother how it is. But I shall be, I expect. In any case, I shan't be late."

"Man proposes, God disposes," is a truth as old as the hills, and was to be once more verified in the case of Marmaduke that night.

Having made up his mind upon the point that he would not tell the mother, but leave it to Stevens to impart the information should he happen to be late for dinner, he got a book and drew a chair before the fire, and set himself to enjoy a read under the influence of the cheering blaze. The book proved to be an engrossing one--so engrossing, that when he chanced to lift his eyes off its pages and glanced up at the clock which stood on the high old-fashioned mantel-shelf, he was startled to see that it was already after six.

"Why," he exclaimed, astonished, and shutting the book up with a bang, "how the time has flown! It will be a quarter of an hour before Tony is ready, and I shall have all my work cut out to reach Treswithian in time. What a book that is!" It was rather an unusual volume for a lad, being none other than Carlyle's lectures upon "Heroes and Hero-Worship." "What a thing it is to be a man! It warms the blood to read what the fellow says of heroes; and how he says it too! What wouldn't I give to be a hero!" Then he considered the matter for a moment, and then again the flight of time occurred to him.

"Twenty minutes past six! If I mean to go at all I must go now, that's certain."

He put his watch into his pocket and left the room. First he sought out Stevens, and instructed him, if he were not back for dinner, to inform the mother that he would not be long. Then he put on a short, thick overcoat over his ordinary one, and proceeded to the stables to see that Tony was got ready. That sagacious animal, although he pleasantly recognised his master's presence, was by no means enthusiastic when he found that he intended to take him out at such a time. The stable was warm and snug; there was everything necessary to add to a well-bred horse's comfort. It was very different outside; everything was dark as pitch, and cold and miserable--at least in Tony's judgment. He surveyed his master with a look of undisguised astonishment, by way of expressing his amazement at the idea of _his_ being taken out at such a season of the night; but finding that Duke was not sufficiently impressed by this, he assumed a most woebegone expression, and hung his head and drooped his ears, and tried to make his master understand that he was the most delicate of cobs, and that to take him out at such a time would be to take him to his death, and that, in fact, the whole thing was the most disgraceful piece of cruelty of which he in all his life had ever heard. But still the work of saddling went on, and so in despair he felt himself compelled to turn his eyes, full to the very brim with sorrow, upon the unrelenting Marmaduke; and then, finding that his fate was sealed, and that Duke still continued stony-hearted, he raised his head, and pricked his ears, and made up his mind to go like mad.

It was after half-past six before a start was made, and then Tony fulfilled his promise, and went at a pace at which a high-spirited cob can go when he chooses; nor did he find Duke at all inclined to baulk his humour, for, indeed, Duke was to the full as willing to travel fast as ever he could be.

They went along the main avenue: there are half-a-dozen entrances to Tregowan, but the main avenue leads to that which is the nearest through Trevenson to Camborne; moreover, since it was the chief avenue, it was lighted all the way by gas. This was only recently, and even then many people had cried out that it was barbarous to associate that majestic park with such monstrosities as gas-lamps; but it was not illogically retorted that it was just because it was a park, and one so majestic, that the gas-lamps were necessities, for the trees were so thick, and the foliage so dense, and the road so winding, and the paths so many, that it was almost impossible, even for those who had known the place from childhood, to find the way by night. So the lamps were had, and by their light Tony trotted now.

And as Duke rode along his mood was changed; Carlyle had woke him up; he began to think of heroes and heroic things; to dream of daring deeds and of the gallant things which gallant men had done; and all at once it struck him that there was a spice of romance in the adventure on which he now was bound; the day, the time, the season, the country--all these inclined to the romantic, and he gave Tony a slight reminder, which really was unneeded, and urged him to go faster, and so fanned Tony's indignation to a whiter heat.

And now they had left the park behind and were hastening along the road, which Duke had already traversed twice that day, which leads to Trevenson, and his spirits were so high that he felt almost inclined to sing. A curious excitement mastered him; he felt that Tony could not go fast enough for him. Poor Tony! who was already used so hardly; and he wished that he had brought Black Bess, whose temper was the vilest, and whose only redeeming feature was, that when she was that way inclined, she could cross the country like the wind.

And now Trevenson was hurried through. How dark it was! There was something attractive in the darkness, and how still! There was not a sound except the rattling of Tony's hoofs against the iron road. He almost thought that he could hear the sea washing against the cliffs; but surely it was fancy. The wind had sunk, there was not a breath upon his cheeks. It was intensely cold, there was no doubt of that; there could be no doubt that it was freezing hard; but it in no way affected Marmaduke; indeed, his face was burning and his body glowed with heat.

And now Pool was on his right, and now is passed, and now Camborne is drawing near. He looks at his watch; it is still some minutes short of seven. The town is crowded; all the country-side had come to make their purchases for Christmas Day. Camborne crowded is a thing to see; the streets are tightly wedged with human beings; he has to force his way along. Everybody knows him well by sight, and to the best of their ability make room to let him pass, wishing him a merry Christmas or exchanging a good-night greeting; but at the best his rate of progress is not fast; yet the crowd and the bustle and the noise are suited to his mood. In front of Abraham's and before the market-house the crowd is quite astonishing; a Cheap-Jack had set up his stand, and in strident tones announced the value of his wares. It took Marmaduke a good quarter of an hour to force a passage and get Camborne behind his back, and then seven was already past.

But it is a short cry from Camborne to Treswithian, along the road to Roseworthy, and Penzance, and Copperhouse, and Hayle. Tony, told to do his best, brought him in a couple of minutes to the appointed rendezvous. At Treswithian are two cross-roads. You go forward to Roseworthy, to the right for Rosewarne, to the left for Barrappere and Pendarves, while just off the highway, behind the houses, is a footpath which leads across the parson's fields to Camborne. There is an open space just there, and lying back somewhat in the shadow, so that at night you would scarcely notice it, is a Little inn, the "Cornish Daws," kept by one Jonathan Reath, who is a very honest man, and unites innkeeping with farming and a little dabbling in mines. Here it was they were to meet.

It was too dark to distinguish persons even at a little distance; but as Duke came trotting in some one came running forward, and a voice cried out, "Hurrah! here he is! Here's Duke Tregowan."

And Duke knew that it was Eddie Mason. In another second Tony was standing before the open door of the little inn, committed to the tender mercies of some chance idlers--for the "Daws" did not boast an hostler--and Duke had gone inside to meet his friends. They were all assembled in the kitchen. An important apartment is the kitchen at the "Daws," with its long low rafters and sanded floor, well cared for in the way of fire, and always at the service of any visitor who may drop in upon the way. There was quite a crowd of them, and they were all doing their best to talk at once.

Noel Penharden was seated on the dresser, dangling his heels against the drawers; George Trevena, Eva, and Anderson were on a settle, which they had drawn before the fire; Pollyon was standing up, lounging against the wall beside the fireplace; while, to Duke's surprise, no less a person than Chandos Effingham was lying full length upon the table, with his hands serving as a pillow to his head, and the heel of his right foot balanced upon the toe of his left.

"Holloa! you fellows," cried Duke as he came in, with Eddie Mason on his heels; "how goes it with you all? Holloa! Penharden, how are you? Effingham, I didn't expect to see you here."

"No, I daresay you didn't," replied Chandos, without troubling himself to alter his position; "and I was an idiot to come. You're all boors in this miserable den. The host doesn't consider his guest, but it's the guest who has to consider his host. Eva, who has no more idea of manners than he has of flying, made up his mind that he would come, so of course I had to keep him company."

"I don't think you ought to blame him for that. Your company is of such inestimable value, that, of course, he could not afford to do without it." And Duke moved towards the fire, leaving Chandos to understand his speech which way he chose. "Ha! Lionel, how do, old man?" and he nodded to Pollyon. "Now, Trevena, what is this lark of yours? I've come, but why I've come I've not the least idea."

"You've come, sir," said George, rising and turning his back to the fire, "to go carolling on Christmas Eve. I presume you've heard of carolling before. There were such things as carols in my youthful days."

"Stuff and nonsense! Don't talk such bosh. As though carolling were in your line; and if it is, it certainly is not in mine." And a touch of the Tregowan pride was in the speaker's tone.

"I regret to hear it; I very much regret to hear it." And George endeavoured to assume an oratorical manner. "It is a beautiful old fashion, which dates from the very earliest times. It is a custom which should not be allowed to die of neglect, and we are going to do our best to keep it alive and kicking."

"I'm in no humour, Trevena, to stand your chaff," returned Duke, as haughty as you please; "and if you have nothing else to give me, shall have to wish you good-night."

"George is a duffer," volunteered Ralph Eva, putting his spoke into the wheel. "We are going carolling, but not in the good old-fashioned way of which he speaks. In fact, we are going to make a regular lark of it. We are going to serenade one or two people with whom nobody is particularly in love, and we are going in for whatever spree may turn up upon the way."

"Just so! It is Trevena's delectable idea," said Pollyon, speaking for the first time, and it was impossible to tell whether he spoke in jest or earnest. "We are going to make mountebanks of ourselves because, in his opinion, Christmas Eve is the best possible day to choose for clowning."

"Any day's the same to you," retorted George. "You're a clown all through the year. But why shouldn't we have a lark upon Christmas Eve as well as upon any other day? and we'll have a lark in spite of all you fellows' cold-shouldering. Now, let's understand the thing at once. Who's coming and who is not?"

"Before we say, we should like to know what you are going to do," said Marmaduke.

"For one thing, we're going to old Fruin's on Zunny Waters, and we're going to wake him up; I believe more than one of us has got a grudge against that gentleman. Then we'll go on to Godrevy, and favour them at Winston's; and then, if there's nothing else that offers, we'll come back and finish in the town. In fact, my boys, I mean to make a night of it."

"Then I don't," said Tregowan hastily. "I've not the least objection to repay Fruin for his civility--that's a pleasure which I've long promised to myself; and after that I should not object to favour Richard Winston; but after that I march straight home. No night of it for me. I know what that means--a general row in Camborne, and a general scandal too."

"Agreed, my boy!" said George. "You shall go as soon as we have done with Winston; but Fruin I must be even with; and as I'm off after to-morrow, this may be my last chance these holidays."

Jabez Fruin, whom they intended to favour with their presence, was certainly not an agreeable personage. He had the last stream-works* but one on Zunny Waters, just where the waters break in two, and the smaller stream branches off towards Menadarva and Rosewarne. The works themselves were on a sort of little island. From Roseworthy you could walk along the water's side to Godrevy and Gwithian; but when you came to Mr. Fruin's, you had first, by means of boards, to get on to his island, and then, by means of other boards, to get upon the farther bank again. On the Gwithian side of the river Jabez had built himself a little house of wood, and here he resided, with his wife, his son, and a choice assemblage of dogs, who had, collectively and individually, as pleasant a reputation as their master. Now among his other accomplishments Mr. Fruin numbered poaching. Any one who knows the district of which we tell knows that he had chosen to reside in the very heart of the game country. With the myriads of rabbits which were to be found at Godrevy, and the birds of every sort in the copses and spinneys which were on every side of him, it was a perfect Tom Tiddler's ground to a gentleman who had a knack of forgetting the rights of _meum_ and _tuum_ and the existence of the game laws. For long Mr. Fruin, with his son, and, if report spoke truly, Mrs. Fruin, and a friend or two--among whom not the least backward was Richard Winston of Godrevy--had carried out their own ideas of sport and profit, without let or hindrance; but such practices always have the same result in the long-run, and one fine summer's night Mr. Fruin, and Mr. Fruin, junior, and Mr. Richard Winston were taken red-handed in the act of poaching. They were taken before the magistrates, and all three of them consigned to jail.

* The water is pumped from the Cornish tin-mines into the numerous little streams which, after a short course, run into the sea. This water carries with it a large proportion of tin, and to prevent this tin running into the sea and being lost, what are called "stream-works" are erected all along the streams. These are nothing but gigantic filters, through which every drop of water is compelled to pass, leaving some of its metallic treasure behind it as it goes. It is a curious fact that, although these works are very numerous, one nearest to the sea and farthest from the mine secures as large a share of the metal as one farthest from the sea and nearest to the mine--the water having passed through a dozen works upon the way, all of which have taken as much as possible of its burden from it.

So far the whole affair had no connection with the boys, nor would it have ever had if they only had been consulted. As it chanced, among the magistrates who tried the case were Mr. Trevena, George Trevena's father, and Mr. Eva, who bore the same relation to Quicksilver Ralph, while the actual offence had been committed on Marmaduke Tregowan's property. Mr. Fruin and his companions in misfortune vowed vengeance deep and dire, and so soon as they were free they began to put their projects of revenge into immediate execution. Valuable or favourite dogs belonging to Mr. Trevena, or to Mr. Eva, or to Tregowan, either mysteriously disappeared or equally mysteriously were poisoned; sheep and oxen in the fields were wantonly outraged, orchards were robbed, trees were injured, rare plants were utterly destroyed, and not a clue was to be found to show who it was by whom the mischief had been done. At the same time no one doubted that Jabez Fruin had had a hand in it--that it was all part of his revenge. He himself did not trouble to deny it: in his own peculiarly forcible language he simply contented himself with defying them to bring it home to him.

All this was bad enough, but what followed was much worse. George Trevena had his own particular pet dog, a beautiful little fox-terrier, whose reputation as a ratter was spread throughout the county, and whose courage was as great as his affection. "Bitters" he was called; and one day the dog was missing. George was in a pretty passion. He loved the dog, had watched his bringing-up with pride, had interested himself in his training, and, in short, would have lost a considerable sum of money rather than "Bitters" should have gone. That Jabez Fruin had either taken him, or at least was in the confidence of the individual who had, he never for a moment doubted, and at once determined either to insist on his return or to make Mr. Fruin pay the penalty of stealing him. With this end in view he induced Duke Tregowan and Ralph Eva to join him in an expedition to that gentleman's abode. This was at the close of the last summer holidays; and, as it chanced, on the very next day they were to return to Dorrincourt.

They found Mr. Fruin engaged upon his works. His son was there, and Richard Winston, and Mrs. Fruin, and one or two boys and two or three women, who were engaged in raking. When the boys came up, George opened the ball of conversation by coming point-blank to the matter which they had in hand.

"Fruin," he said, marching straight up to Jabez, with Duke and Ralph upon his heels, "where's that dog of mine?"

Fruin, thus addressed, stopped working, and surveyed his questioner from top to toe with a look which promised anything but peace. The boys noticed too that Winston, and Mrs. Fruin and her son, all ceased working, and approached a little nearer to themselves.

"Dog?" asked Fruin, "what dog?"

"You know what dog perfectly well; my dog Bitters. You've stolen him."

Now, whatever he might suspect, he certainly had no proof that Fruin was the actual robber, and it is a well-known axiom in common sense which suggests that you should not charge a man with theft, or any other act of crime, unless you have evidence to prove your charge. George's error, Fruin, as he quickly showed, was quite capable of turning to his own account, and, for his own ends, was perfectly willing to assume an air of injured innocence.

"Oh!" he cried, "so I'm a thief, am I? You call me a thief, do you? Here's a pretty state of things, when any young brat can take away a honest man's character because his father thinks hisself a swell!" Jabez's language in general, and adjectives in particular, were of a kind which we should be very sorry to reproduce here. "But you've come to the wrong shop this time, and so I'll show you;"--and he laid his great hand on George's shoulder. "If you don't clear out of this"----

"Take your hand away," cried George, indignant at the fellow's touch.

"So I will when you've taken yourself off these premises."

"You thieving scoundrel!" shouted George, forgetting in his wrath that discretion is the better part of valour, and striking Mr. Fruin a pretty smart blow with his clenched fist.

"So ho! that's your sort is it, my young rooster? I'll just teach you manners." And Mr. Fruin lifted George clean off his feet and flung him head-foremost into the stream, while, at the same moment, Richard Winston, and young Fruin, and Mrs. Fruin rushed forward and unceremoniously hustled Duke and Eva back upon the bank.

To retort was out of the question; the odds were too unequal. Duke and Ralph helped George out, he being none the worse for his ducking, except that he was half choked with mud and soaked to the skin, and, without exchanging another word with their antagonists, they left Mr. Fruin and his friends in possession of the field. But none the less neither of them was likely to forget the incident, nor was the probability of their doing so increased by the fact that the next morning, just as he was about to start for school, George found, just outside his own particular kennel, the body of poor Bitters, dead and cold, with a scrap of dirty paper tied round his neck, on which was written: "Mister George Trevena returned with thanks to show we ber no malis."