Chapter THE THIRD: The Blow Falls

For some days after the event just related, life at Polkerran and the neighbourhood flowed on its customary sluggish tide. The fishermen were idle, waiting for pilchards to appear off the coast. The harvest had been gathered in from the fields. There was little for the village folk to do except to gossip. Men gathered in knots on the jetty and at the inn-doors, chatting about the return of John Trevanion, the strange vessels that had been seen, and the revenue cutter's failure to catch them, the appearance of a ghost at St. Cuby's Well, the prospects of the fishing season, the chances of making good "runs," and besting Mr. Mildmay and the excisemen. At the Towers there was nothing to show that anything had happened to disturb the placid surface of existence, except that the Squire was more silent than usual, and went about with a pale face and a preoccupied and troubled look.

One afternoon, after the lapse of about a week, Dick, leaving the Parsonage after his daily lessons, was surprised to see his father approaching across the glebe. The Squire was on foot: his last horse had been sold long ago.

"Ha, Dick!" he said, as he met his son, "you have finished with Greeks and Romans for the day, then. I have come for a word with the parson. Shall be home to supper."

Dick went on, and his father entered the house.

"Ah, Trevanion, I am glad to see you," said Mr. Carlyon, cordially, his keen eyes not failing to note a certain gravity in his old friend's expression.

"I want your advice, Carlyon," said Mr. Trevanion abruptly.

"And you shall have the best I can give, as you know well. Come into the garden and smoke a pipe with me. Good, honest tobacco, even if 'tis contraband--and I can't swear to that--will do no harm to you or me."

When they were seated side by side in wide wicker chairs beneath the shade of an elm-tree, the Squire drew from his pocket a folded paper which had been sealed at the edges.

"Read that," he said, handing it to the vicar.

Mr. Carlyon carefully rubbed his spectacles, set them on his nose with deliberation, and slowly opened the paper.

"H'm! God bless my soul! Poor old Trevanion!" he murmured, as he read, unconscious that his words were audible. "This is bad news, Trevanion," he said, aloud, looking over the rims of his spectacles with grave concern.

"It is. It is the very worst," said the Squire, gloomily. "It is the end of things for me."

"No, no; don't say that. Every cloud has a silver lining."

"A musty proverb, Carlyon. You don't see the silver lining in a thunderstorm, and it doesn't keep your skin dry. This spells ruin, ruin irretrievable."

The parson pressed his lips together, and read the document again. It was a brief intimation from a Truro attorney of his client's intention to foreclose on the mortgages he held upon certain parcels of land, if the sums advanced on them were not repaid within a month from that date.

"This is not your own man?" said the parson.

"No. I never heard of him before."

"What is the extent of the obligation?"

"Two thousand pounds. I can't muster as many shillings. I am in arrear with the interest. Within a month we shall be in the poor-house--a noble end for Trevanion of the Towers!"

"Tut, tut! You take too black a view of things. 'I have been young, and now am old; yet have I not seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread.'"

"But I have, and so have you, Carlyon. I see things as they are. 'Tis no surprise to me; these many months I have felt the blow might fall at any moment; but the condemned man hopes to the last for a reprieve, and I have gone from day to day, like a weakling and simpleton, refusing to face the facts. Not that I could have done anything; I am bankrupt; there's no way out of it."

"Who holds the mortgages?"

"Sir Bevil Portharvan. I have nothing to say against him. He has been very patient. A man of business would have foreclosed long ago, though he would have got little by it, for the mines are worked out, the Towers is a ruin, and the land will grow next to nothing but thistles and burdock. 'Twas to be."

"But he can't take the Towers from you. Do you not hold fast to that?"

"I did till a year ago, but there's a small bond on that now--a paltry hundred pounds; I could raise no more on it and the cliff. Sir Bevil does not hold that, however; 'tis my own lawyer."

The parson sawed the air with his hand, a trick of his when perplexed.

"Well, old friend," he said, "I am sorry for you, from the bottom of my heart. If I had the money, I would gladly lend it you, but 'passing rich on forty pound a year,' you know----"

"I know well. 'Tis not for that I come to you. Give me your advice. What can I do? I must leave the Towers; what can I do for a livelihood? Like the man in the Book, 'I cannot dig; to beg I am ashamed.' What a miserable fool I was to throw up the sea when I came into the property! And yet I don't know. Look at Mildmay; a year or two younger, 'tis true, but still a lieutenant, and thought fit for nothing better than to chase luggers and circumvent the trade. I've no interest with the Admiralty; they've enough to do to provide for the seamen invalided from the wars. What can an old fool past fifty do to earn his salt? Years ago I had my dreams of paying off the burdens and reviving the Trevanion fortunes; but they have long since vanished into thin air; the task needed a better head than mine. And what little chance I might have had was doomed by the misdeeds of that scoundrel cousin of mine----"

"I heard that he reappeared the other day. I hoped it was not true."

"'Twas true. He had the boldness, the effrontery, to come to me with his 'let bygones be bygones,' and sneering at my Christianity. You know the facts, Carlyon. You know how, but that I impoverished myself, he would to this day be in the hulks or slaving in the plantations. I was too tender, I was indeed. I ought to have let the law take its course, and put my pride in my pocket. 'Twas a weakness, I own it; and now 'tis time to take my payment."

"No, my good friend, you did right to keep your name unstained. But I wonder, indeed I do, that John Trevanion has dared to show his face here again."

"Oh, 'tis no wonder," said the Squire bitterly. "No one knew of his crime but three, you and I and John Hammond; only Hammond had proof of it, and he is dead. My worthless cousin learnt of his death, I warrant you; the Devil has quick couriers for such as he; and he comes back, relying on my weakness and your holiness. But I'll speak no more of him; he is gone, and I hope I shall never see him again. There's my boy Dick: what is to become of him? He is seventeen; he ought to be making his way in the world. I can't put him to a profession; I keep him at home drudging for us; and but for your kindness, Carlyon, he would be as ignorant and raw as the meanest farm-hind. 'Tis not right; 'tis cruelty to the lad; and he will live to curse the day he was born a Trevanion."

"Come, come, this is not like you, Squire," said Mr. Carlyon warmly. "The lad is doing very well. He lives an open, honest life, and a useful one. What if his hands are horny? He makes good progress with his books, too, and will be fit in a year or two to win a sizarship at Oxford, and he will do well there, take orders, or maybe become secretary to some great person. You need fear nothing for Dick. No; 'tis for yourself and your good wife we must think. And now let us put our heads together. What say you to visiting Sir Bevil, and seeking further grace? I will myself undertake the office."

"Never!" cried the Squire firmly. "I will have no man supplicating and beseeching on my behalf. No; let what must come, come; never will I whine and grovel for mercy."

"You are an obstinate old fool, Roger Trevanion," said the parson, laying a friendly hand on the other's arm. "But I own I sympathise with your feeling. Well, then, my counsel is--and you may scorn it--do nothing."

"Nothing!"

"Simply wait. The foreclosure must come, I see that; but the other mortgagee has not moved; you will still have a roof above you; you make no profit of the mortgaged lands, and so will be not a whit worse off than you are now, save in the one point of pride. That pride of yours has been your snare, Trevanion."

"Well I know it!"

"I don't preach, except on Sundays, but I believe in my heart that this trouble will turn out for your good. Hold fast your rock, old friend; 'twas sound advice, even though it came from a witch. No man can give you better, and I am superstitious enough to believe that while you follow it the Trevanions will not come to beggary."

The two friends sat talking for some time longer. When the Squire rose to go away, he said--

"I thank you, Carlyon. You have done me good. I see nothing but darkness ahead, but I'll take your advice; I'll stick to the ship, and keep my colours flying, and who knows?--perhaps I shall weather it out after all."

They shook hands and parted, and the parson returned to his study to read over an ode of Horace in readiness for Dick's lesson next day.

After his conversation with Mr. Carlyon the Squire recovered his wonted serenity. So cheerful was he when he told his wife and son what was going to happen, that they refrained from giving utterance in his presence to their own feelings on the matter, for fear of bringing back his gloom. He rode over one day in the carrier's cart to Truro to pay the interest on the Towers mortgage with the proceeds of a fine litter of pigs, and showed his lawyer the letter he had received from his professional brother.

"An excellent practitioner, sharp as a needle," said the lawyer. "He came to me a while ago wanting to purchase the little bond I myself hold; but I refused him point-blank, and went so far as to express my surprise at Sir Bevil. He grinned at me, Mr. Trevanion--yes, grinned at me in the most unseemly way. 'Twas not Sir Bevil's doing: that is one comfort."

"Who bought up the bonds, then?"

"That I cannot tell you: I do not know. No doubt a stranger, who has more money than judgment. I am sorry for this; I am indeed; and if there were any chance of getting metal out of the earth I could have transferred your mortgages with the greatest ease. As it is--but there, I won't talk of it. As for my own little bond on the Towers, that may remain till Doomsday so far as I am concerned. It would cut me to the heart to see the old place in the hands of any one but a Trevanion."

"You're a good fellow, Trevenick," said the Squire, "and I'm grateful to you."

"Not at all, not at all, my dear sir. I am perfectly satisfied with my investment."

And the Squire returned home more cheerful than ever, convinced that lawyers were not all as dry as their parchments.

The allotted month sped away. One afternoon, when Dick was at the parson's, Sam Pollex ran at headlong speed up the road from the village, dashed into the house, and forgetting his manners, burst into the Squire's room without knocking or wiping his boots, as he had been strictly enjoined always to do.

"If 'ee please, sir," he panted, "there be a wagon full of females pulled up at the door o' the Dower House yonder."

"Indeed!" said the Squire. "Have you never seen females before, Sam?"

"Iss I have, sometimes, in the village; but these be furriners, sir."

"Well, maybe they'll buy your eggs, and that'll save you three-quarters of your walk to the village."

Sam went out, looking very much puzzled. What had brought foreign females to his master's house, he wondered? Within half an hour he was back again, this time a little less eager, though equally excited. He rapped on the door, and being bidden to enter, said, less breathlessly than before:

"If 'ee please, sir, I seed a man on a hoss ride up to Dower House, and he went inside, sir, and 'twas Maister John."

"Who? John who?" The questions came like pistol-shots.

"His other name be Trevanion, it do seem," said the boy.

The Squire got up in great agitation.

"Are you sure, boy?" he asked.

"No, sir, I bean't sure, 'cos I never seed un afore; but I axed Tom Penny, who was standing by, who 'twas, and he said, 'Why, ninny-watch, doan't 'ee know yer own maister's born cousin? 'Tis the same fine genel'um that give Ike Pendry a groat for carr'n his portmantel.'"

Then something happened that scared Sam out of his wits and sent him scampering to the kitchen for his father.

"Feyther, Feyther," he cried, "come quick! Squire's took bad. 'A went all gashly white and wambled about, sighin' and groanin' that terrible! He's dyin', I b'lieve."

Old Reuben was lame, but he caught up a jug of water and hobbled with it as fast as he could to the Squire's room, sending Sam to fetch the mistress. He found the Squire seated in his chair, with a stony look upon his ashen face.

"What ails thee, maister?" cried the terrified servant.

"Nothing, nothing, Reuben," replied Mr. Trevanion. "Don't be afraid, and don't alarm your mistress."

Here Mrs. Trevanion came hastily in, Sam hanging behind as if afraid to approach too near.

"I am sorry they called you, my dear," said the Squire. "There is nothing wrong. Leave us, Reuben."

The old man hobbled away. Mrs. Trevanion stood by her husband's chair.

"I was overcome for a moment, but it has passed," said the Squire. "John Trevanion is the master of my lands."

"It cannot be, Roger!"

"It is, it is. Sam saw a party of servants drive to the Dower House, and John himself ride up a while after."

"But, Roger, I do not understand."

"'Tis very simple. He has bought up the mortgages from Sir Bevil's attorney--'twas hard to believe that the foreclosure was Sir Bevil's doing--and has come to mock me and flout me at my own doors; ay, and to drive me away, if he can!"

"A penniless man, Roger! You told me he left here a beggar."

"Yes, a beggar, and worse--a thousand times worse. But that was ten years ago, and in ten years beggars may become rich, and scoundrels may tread down many an honest man. But he shall not tread me down. He may own my land, and fence me in, and do what he will; but the Towers is mine, and by heaven I will hold it!"

Discretion was one of Mrs. Trevanion's qualities. Being relieved to find that Sam's alarming report of the Squire's illness was exaggerated, if not wholly imaginary, she sought with her wonted tact to divert her husband's thoughts into a calmer channel, and soon had him interested in purely domestic matters.

The re-opening of the Dower House was already the all-engrossing topic of conversation among the old wives and young wives, fishers, farmers, tradesmen, loafers and small fry of Polkerran and the neighbourhood. The "wagon-full of females" of Sam's kindling eye turned out to be one plump woman of forty and one slim maid of half that age, the cook and housemaid whom John Trevanion had engaged, as afterwards appeared, in a Devonshire village. On the same day two heavy wagons, each drawn by four enormous horses, arrived from Truro with furniture, kitchen utensils, and other things needed in setting up house, and on the next appeared a couple of riding-horses in charge of a lively young groom.

These important events were retailed and freely commented on in the tap-room of the Five Pilchards.

"We shall see brave doings up at the old house, neighbours," said Doubledick, the innkeeper, to the group of fishermen idling there. "Maister John is a fine feller, that he be. He were allers the chap for a randy, and 'twill be a rare change for we to have some one as will have feastings and merry-makings arter the miserable cold time we've had wi' Squire."

"'A must have a heap o' gold and silver in his purse to pay for all they fine-lookin' things we seed goin' in," said one of the men. "Wheer 'd he get it all from, can 'ee tell us that, neighbour Doubledick?"

"I might if I put my mind to it," said Doubledick sententiously. "But it don't matter a mossel wheer it do come from; there 'tis, and we shall have the good o't. The lord-lieutenant 'll make un a magistrate, if I know the ways o' providence, and I do know summat about 'em, neighbours all; and if any of 'ee are brought up afore un for a innocent bit o' free-tradin', he'll not be the man to stretch the law against 'ee, not he."

"'Tis a terrible affliction for Squire, to be sure," said another. "There be no loving-kindness 'twixt 'em, if all's true as folks tell, and a dog can't abide seein' another run off with his bone, that bein' my simple way of speech."

"Squire be goin' down, that's the truth o't," said Doubledick. "Well, some goes up and some goes down, and all gets level in churchyard."

Sam Pollex lost no time in making acquaintance with the new household. On the day after their arrival he carried a basket of eggs to the back-door of the Dower House, and blushed to the roots of his hair when it was opened by a pretty Devonshire lass, who smiled sweetly on him, asked him the price, and said she would speak to Cook.

"She will take them," said the girl on her return, "and bids me say you must come to-morrow and she'll let 'ee know if any is addled. What be the name of 'ee, boy?"

"Sam Pollex, ma'am," said Sam sheepishly.

"And where do 'ee live?"

"Up at Towers, yonder."

"Well I never! Bean't that where Maister's cousin the Squire lives?"

"Iss, him and me lives there, and the mistress, and Feyther, and Maister Dick."

"Only think of it, now! Squire selling eggs like a common dairyman!"

"Squire don't sell 'em; 'tis me, and I take Mistress the money. Sometimes it come to two or three shilling a week, but the hens don't lay in winter, and then I sell sides o' pork and chitterlings."

"Well, run away now, boy--Sam Pollex, did you say? What a funny name! And mind you don't lose the money."

Sam went away all aglow with admiration of the sweet looks of the maid-servant, and told Mrs. Trevanion how kindly she had spoken to him. He was seized with a terrible depression of spirits when he left his mistress's presence.

"Never go there again to sell eggs, or anything else, Sam," she said firmly. "Your master will be very angry with you if he hears of it. Here is the money. Take it to your father, and mind you never do such a thing again."

Sam, with a rueful face, told Dick what had happened.

"I should think not, indeed," said Dick indignantly. "If I catch you going inside the gates of the Dower House grounds again I'll break your head, young Sam; you remember it."

For several days the Squire scarcely left the house. Then he happened to meet John Trevanion riding along the road. The supplanter swept off his hat with a mocking salutation, but the Squire passed him without a sign of recognition.

A day or two later Sir Bevil Portharvan, owner of an estate some miles distant, rode over to the Towers.

"Ah, Trevanion," he said to the Squire, "how d'ye do? 'Tis only yesterday I heard that your cousin was the purchaser of the bonds I held. It must be a great comfort to you that the property has not gone out of the family."

"Let me tell you, once for all, Sir Bevil," cried the Squire, his cheeks red with anger, "that the owner of the Dower House is a stranger to me. I will not speak to him, nor look at him, and I don't care who knows it."

"Dear me, I am sorry," said the astonished visitor. "I had no idea of it, or, believe me, Trevanion, I would never----"

"Enough, Sir Bevil. I have no grudge against you. You have been very long-suffering; I thank you for it; but I would have given you my property rather than it should fall into the hands of its present owner. I say no more."

And Sir Bevil told his friends that old Trevanion was growing very crusty, and it was a pity to see such paltry envy in a man of his years.