PETER TREVISA'S OFFER.
The next morning I awoke with terrible pains in my head, while my heart
lay like lead within me. For some time I could not realize what had
happened; indeed, I hardly knew where I was. It was broad daylight, but
I could not tell what the hour was. Presently a clock began to strike,
and then I realized that I lay in my own bed at Trevanion and that the
clock stood in the turret of my own stables. I counted the strokes. It
stopped at eleven. No sooner had it ceased than all that had happened
the previous night flashed through my mind. I jumped out of bed and
looked out of the window. Never had the place seemed so fair to look
upon, never had the trees looked so large and stately. And I was
burdened with the dread remembrance that it was no longer mine. When I
had dressed I tried to face the matter fairly. I tried to understand
what I had done. The more I thought about it the more I cursed myself
for being a fool. For I felt how insane I had been. I had drunk too much
wine, I had allowed myself to become angry at old Peter Trevisa's words.
I had blurted out truths which under other circumstances I would rather
have bitten my tongue in two than have told. I had acted like a madman.
Wild, foolish as I had been in the past, that night was the climax of my
folly. Why had old Peter Trevisa's presence and words aroused me so?
The more I thought the sadder I became, the darker did my prospects
appear. I had given Prideaux a written guarantee for the money I had
been unable to pay. That piece of paper meant my ruin, if he took
advantage of it. Would he do this? Yes, I would see that he did. In
extremities as I was, I would rather sacrifice the land than violate our
old code of honour.
I heard a knock at the door, and a servant entered.
"From Mr. Trevisa of Treviscoe, sir," he said.
I am afraid my hand trembled slightly as I took the letter.
"Who brought it, Daniel?" I asked.
"A servant, sir."
"Let breakfast be ready in ten minutes, Daniel; I'll be down by that
time."
"Yes, sir."
I broke the seal of the letter and read it. I soon discovered that it
was written by young Peter Trevisa. For, first of all, it was written
in a clear hand and correctly spelt, and I knew that old Peter's writing
was crabbed and ill-shapen; besides which, the old man had not learnt
the secret of stringing words together with anything like ease. The
contents of the epistle, too, revealed the fact that the son, and not
the father, acted as scribe. The following is an exact transcript
thereof:
"TREVISCOE the 25th day of March in the year 1745.
"_To Roger Trevanion, Esq., of Trevanion._
"DEAR SIR:--The events of last night having altered their
complexion somewhat after you left the house of Geoffry Luxmore,
Esq., and the writing which you gave to Mr. Edward Prideaux having
changed hands, with that gentleman's consent, it has become
necessary for you to visit Treviscoe without delay. My father has
therefore instructed me to write (instead of employing our
attorney, who has up to the present conducted all correspondence
relating to my father's connections with Trevanion) urging your
presence here. I am also asked to impress upon you the fact that it
will be greatly to your advantage to journey here immediately,
while your delay will be perilous to yourself. We shall therefore
expect you here within two hours from the delivery of this letter.
"PETER TREVISA."
This communication certainly looked ominous, and I felt in no very
pleasant frame of mind as I entered the room beneath, where my breakfast
had been placed for me.
"Where is the fellow who brought this, Daniel?" I asked of my old
serving-man.
"He is standin' outside, sur. He wudden cum in. He seemed in a terble
'urry."
I went to the door and saw a horse which had evidently been hard ridden.
It was covered with mud and sweat. The man who stood by the animal's
side touched his hat when he saw me.
"Go into the kitchen, my man, and get something to eat and drink," I
said.
"I must not, sur," was the reply. "My master told me to ride hard, and
to return immediately I got your answer."
"Anything wrong at Treviscoe?"
"Not as I know ov, sur."
I had no hope of anything good from old Peter, and I felt like defying
him. My two years' possession of Trevanion had brought but little joy.
Every day I was pinched for money, and to have an old house to maintain
without a sufficient income galled me. The man who is poor and proud is
in no enviable position. Added to this, the desire to hide my poverty
had made me reckless, extravagant, dissolute. Sometimes I had been
driven to desperation, and, while I had never forgotten the Trevanion's
code of honour, I had become feared and disliked by many people. Let me
here say that the Trevanion code of honour might be summed up in the
following way: "Never betray a woman. Never break a promise. Never leave
an insult unavenged. Suffer any privation rather than owe money to any
man. Support the church, and honour the king."
Having obeyed these dictates, a Trevanion might feel himself free to do
what else he liked. He could be a drunkard, a gamester, a swashbuckler,
and many other things little to be desired. I speak now for my own
branch of the family, for I had but little to do with others of my name.
In the course of years the estates had been much divided, and my
father's patrimony was never great. True, there were many hundreds of
acres of land, but, even although all of it were free from
embarrassment, it was not enough to make its owner wealthy. My father
had also quarrelled with those who bore our name, partly, I expect,
because they treated him with but little courtesy. Perhaps this was one
reason why he had been recklessly extravagant, and why he had taken no
pains to make me careful. Anyhow I am afraid that while I was feared by
many I was beloved by few. I had had many quarrels, and the law of my
county being something lax, I had done deeds which had by no means
endeared me to my neighbours.
My pride was great, my temper was of the shortest, my tastes and habits
were expensive, and my income being small, I was weary of keeping up a
position for which I had not the means.
Consequently, as I read young Peter Trevisa's letter, I felt like
refusing to obey his bidding. I had been true to the Trevanion code of
honour. I had given Prideaux a written promise that the gaming debt
should be paid. Let them do their worst. I was young, as strong as a
horse, scarcely knew the meaning of fatigue, and I loved adventure. I
was the last of my branch of the family, so there was no one that I
feared grieving. Very well, then, I would seek my fortune elsewhere.
There were treasures in India, there were quarrels nearer home, and
strong men were needed. There were many careers open to me; I would
leave Trevanion and go to lands beyond the seas.
I was about to tell the man to inform his master that I refused to go to
Treviscoe, when I was influenced to change my mind. I was curious to
know what old Peter had to say. I was careless as to what he intended
doing in relation to the moneys I owed him, but I wondered what schemes
the old man had in his mind. Why did he want to see me? It would do no
harm to ride to his house. I wanted occupation, excitement, and the ride
would be enjoyable.
"Very well," I said, "if I do not see your master before you do, tell
him I will follow you directly."
"Yes, sur," and without another word the man mounted the horse and rode
away.
I ate a hearty breakfast, and before long felt in a gay mood. True the
old home was dear to me, but the thought of being free from anxious care
as to how I might meet my creditors was pleasant. I made plans as to
where I should go, and what steps I should first take in winning a
fortune. The spirit of adventure was upon me, and I laughed aloud. In a
few days Cornwall should know me no more. I would go to London; when
there nothing should be impossible to a man of thirty-two.
I spoke pleasantly to Daniel, the old serving-man, and my laughter
became infectious. A few seconds later the kitchen maids had caught my
humour. Then my mood changed, for I felt a twinge of pain at telling
them they must leave the old place. Some of them had lived there long
years, and they would ill-brook the thought of seeking new service. They
had served the family faithfully too, and ought to be pensioned
liberally instead of being sent penniless into the world.
A little later I was riding furiously toward Treviscoe. The place was a
good many miles from Trevanion, but I reached it in a little more than
an hour. I found old Peter and his son eagerly awaiting me.
"Glad to see you, Roger, glad to see you," said the old man.
"Why did you send for me?" I asked.
"I'll tell you directly. John, take some wine in the library."
The servant departed to do his bidding, and I followed the two Trevisas
into the library.
"Sit down by the fire, Roger, lad; that's it. First of all we'll drink
each other's health in the best wine I have in my cellar. This is a
special occasion, Roger."
"Doubtless, a special occasion," I replied; "but no wine for me at
present. I want to keep my head cool in talking with such as you. What
do you want of me?"
"Let's not be hasty, Roger," said old Peter, eyeing me keenly, while
young Peter drew his chair to a spot where his face was shaded, but
from which he could see me plainly. "Let's be friendly."
"I'm in no humour to be friendly," was my rejoinder. "Tell me why you
have wished me to come to you?"
"I would have come to you, but I had a twinge of gout this morning, and
was not able to travel. I wanted to see you on an important matter, my
dear lad."
"Will you drop all such honeyed phrases, Peter Trevisa," I said angrily.
"I know you lent money to my father on Trevanion. I know I have been a
fool since I came into possession. Last night I lost my head. Well,
Prideaux shall be paid, and you will take the rest. I quite expect this,
and am prepared for it."
"Prideaux has been paid," laughed the old man.
"In cash?"
"Aye, that he has."
"Who paid him?"
"I did."
"Oh, I see. You wanted the bone all to yourself, did you," I cried
angrily. "Well, some dogs are like that. But it makes no difference to
me. Do your worst."
"You remember this," he said, holding up the piece of paper I had given
to Prideaux the night before.
"I was mad when I wrote it," I replied, "but I remember it well. How did
it come into your hands?"
"Prideaux has very fine notions about honour," remarked old Peter. "He
did not like taking advantage of it, and yet he knew that you as a
Trevanion would insist on his doing so."
"Well?"
"Well, Roger lad, seeing I have the Trevanion deeds, I thought I might
as well have this too. So I offered him money down, and he was pleased
to arrange the matter that way. He has made the thing over to me."
"Let's see it--his writing ought to be on it to that effect."
"It is; aye, it is."
"Then let me look at it."
"No, Roger. This paper is very precious to me. I dare not let you have
it. You might destroy it then."
"Peter Trevisa," I cried, "did ever a Trevanion do a trick like that?"
"No, but you are in a tight corner, and----"
"Listen, you chattering old fool," I cried angrily. "If I wished, I
could squeeze the life out of the bodies of both of you and take the
paper from you before any one could come to your aid. But that's not my
way; give it me."
"I'll trust you, Roger; here it is."
I looked at the paper. I saw my own promise and signature; underneath it
was stated that the money had been paid by Peter Trevisa, and signed
"Edward Prideaux."
I flung it at him. "There," I said, "you've forged the last link in your
chain now. I am quite prepared for what I have no doubt you will do.
Trevanion is yours. Well, have it; may it bring you as much joy as it
has brought me."
"You misjudge me," cried old Peter. "You misjudge both me and my son.
True, Trevanion would be a fine place for my lad, but then I should not
like to drive you away from your old home. All the Trevanions would turn
in their graves if any one else lived there. I want to be your friend. I
desire to help you on to your feet again."
"Wind!" I cried. "Trust you to help any man!"
"Listen to what my father has to say," cried young Peter. "You will see
that we both wish to be friendly."
His face was partly hidden; nevertheless I saw the curious light shining
from his eyes. He was undersized, this young Peter, just as his father
was. A foxy expression was on his face, and his mouth betrayed his
nature. He was cunning and sensual. His was not unlike a monkey's face.
His forehead receded, his lips were thick, his ears large.
"Roger Trevanion, my lad, there is no reason why you should have to
leave your old home. Nay, there is no reason why you should not be
better off than you have been. That is why I got this paper from Edward
Prideaux."
Old Peter spoke slowly, looking at me from the corner of his eyes.
"You want me to do something," I said after a minute's silence.
"Ah, Roger," laughed the old man, "how quickly you jump at conclusions."
"It will not do, Peter Trevisa," I cried. "You have Trevanion. Well,
make the most of it. I shall not be sorry to be away from the county.
The thought that everything has really belonged to you has hung like a
millstone around my neck. I am not going to fetch and carry for you."
"But if you had the deeds back. If I burnt this paper. If the estate
were unencumbered. What then?"
"You know it will not be. Trust you to give up your pound of flesh."
"You do me an injustice," replied old Peter, with a semblance of
righteous indignation. "What right have you to say this? Have I been
hard on you. Have I dunned you for your money."
"No; but you have lost no opportunity of letting me know that the place
belongs to you."
"That was natural, very natural. I wanted to put a check on your
extravagance."
I laughed in his face, for I knew this to be a lie.
"Roger Trevanion," cried young Peter, "my father is a merciful man. He
has your welfare at heart. He is old too. Is it manly to mock old age."
"Let there be an end of this," I cried. "I begin to see why you have
brought me here. I knew you had some deep-laid plans or I would not have
come. It is always interesting to know what such as you think. Well,
let's know what it is."
For the moment I seemed master of the situation. An outsider would have
imagined them in my power instead of I being in theirs. Especially did
young Peter look anxious.
"I am sure we can trust Roger," said the old man. "When a Trevanion
gives his word he has never been known to break it."
"But they are learning to be careful how to give their word," I
retorted.
Peter looked uneasy. "But if I ask you to keep what I tell you a secret,
you will promise, Roger?"
"I ask for no confidences," I replied.
"You said just now that we wanted you to do something," said young
Peter. "You guessed rightly. If you do not feel inclined to do what we
ask you, you will of course respect anything we may tell you?"
"That is but fair," was my answer.
"You promise, then?" cried old Peter.
"If I honourably can," I replied.
For a few seconds both men were silent; then old Peter began to speak
again.
"Roger Trevanion," he said, "you know that I hold the deeds of
Trevanion; you know that you are entirely at my mercy."
"Well enough."
"You would like to remain at Trevanion? You, a Trevanion, would not like
to be an outcast, a mere vagrant, a landless gipsy."
"I don't care much," I replied. "I should be free; and I would rather be
landless than be supposed to own the land, while everything practically
belonged to you. I've told you this before. Why make me say it again?"
"But you would like the deeds back. You would like to live at the old
home with plenty of money?"
"You know I would. Why mock me?"
"You would do a great deal in order that this might come to pass."
"What do you want?"
We had come back to the same point again, and again old Peter hesitated.
"You know Restormel?" he said at length.
"Restormel Castle, up by Lostwithiel?" I asked.
"No; Restormel in the parish of St. Miriam, a few miles north from
here?"
"Oh, yes, I know."
"What do you know?"
Both old Peter and young Peter spoke in the same breath; both spoke
eagerly, too--anxiously in fact.
"What is rumoured by certain gossips," I replied. "I expect there is no
truth in it."
"But what have you heard?"
"It is said that the estate belongs to a chit of a maid," I replied;
"that the maid's mother died at her birth, and that her father, Godfrey
Molesworth, did not long survive her. That he was broken-hearted. That
everything was left to a mere baby."
"But what became of the baby?"
"I know not. I have heard that she has never been seen on the place,
although her father has been dead wellnigh twenty years. That the rents
are paid to Colman Killigrew who lives at Endellion Castle, and who is a
godless old savage. Rumour says that he claims to be the maid's
guardian. But of this I am ignorant. He lives full fifty miles from
here, and I know nothing of him."
"That is all you have heard?"
"That is all I can remember at present."
"You have never seen the maid?"
"No. Who has? Stay; I have heard she was placed in a convent school. Old
Killigrew is a Catholic, I suppose."
"I'll tell you more, Roger Trevanion. Colman Killigrew has been
fattening on the Restormel lands for wellnigh twenty years. He hath kept
the maid, Nancy Molesworth, a prisoner. In a few months she will be
twenty-one. He intends marrying her to one of his sons. She hates the
whole tribe of Killigrews, but he cares nothing for that. He is
determined; you can guess why."
"Yes, such things are common. But what is that to me? I know nothing of
the maid, Nancy Molesworth; I do not care. Let the Killigrews marry her;
let them possess Restormel."
"My son Peter hath seen the maid, Roger."
"Ah! How?"
"He had to pay a visit in the neighbourhood of Endellion Castle, and he
saw her by chance."
"Spoke he to her?"
"No, he did not; she did not see him. She is kept a close prisoner, but
my Peter hath lost his heart."
I turned and looked at young Peter, and his face looked more monkeyish
than ever. A simpering smile played around his protruding mouth. His
eyes shone like those of a weazel.
"Well," I said, "what is this to me?"
"This, Roger Trevanion. I want that maid, Nancy Molesworth, brought here
to Treviscoe. I want to save her from those Papist savages who would
bring ruin upon the maid and upon the country."
"That's nothing to me," I replied; "I avoid women. They are all
alike--all cruel, all selfish, all false as hell. Why tell your plans to
me?"
"Because," cried young Peter, "if you will bring the sweet maid, Nancy
Molesworth, to Treviscoe, you shall have the Trevanion deeds back. I
will destroy this paper you gave to Prideaux, and we will forgive a
large part of the money you have had from us." And he named a fairly
liberal sum.