MY FIRST NIGHT AT ENDELLION.
I had barely time to take note of the house on entering. In the dim
light I could just see the grim gray walls on the outside and the great
hall within. But nothing appeared to me with distinctness. The strident
voices of the Killigrews had the effect of making me keep my hand on the
hilt of my sword. I remember, too, that my heart beat faster than its
wont, while both my eyes and ears seemed preternaturally sharp. Nowhere
was a woman to be seen, and although I was no lover of women,
especially of those who belong to that class with which my people mated,
I felt that a house filled with rough men was no desirable residence for
a gentlewoman.
Presently I was ushered into the dining-hall, a huge oak-paneled room.
At the head of the table sat an old man. He had long white hair and
beard, and beneath his rugged forehead, and overshadowed by bristling
eyebrows, gleamed a pair of piercing black eyes. He arose as I entered,
and I saw that he was well on towards seventy. "A warm welcome, Roger
Penryn," he said. "From what I hear my sons played a rough game at the
gates yonder. I am sorry for this. The truth is, they thought that the
Hanson varlets were playing them a trick. But enough of that. A man of
your stamp bears no ill-will because of a mistake."
He kept his eyes on me all the time he spoke as if he would read my very
soul, and I winced at the thought that I appeared under an assumed name,
for I hate fighting an under-handed battle. At the same time I was sure
that had I appeared as a Trevanion, I should have been ill-received.
"It is but little wonder in these rough times, that suspicion is
aroused," I said. "There are many rumours of treason afloat in my part
of the country. Indeed, Hugh Boscawen is reported to be raising an army
to put down a rebellion there at this time."
He nodded his head, still eyeing me keenly.
"Know you Hugh Boscawen?" he asked.
"Not well," I replied, "but I have seen him."
"And have thought of joining his ranks?" he asked.
"Nay, a Penryn strikes not a blow for the House of Hanover, when the
real King of England is perhaps eating his heart away in France,
yonder."
"Ah, say you so?" he cried eagerly. He seemed to be about to say more,
but checked himself. "We will not talk of these things now," he said;
"perchance when you have been here a few hours we can discuss such
matters. Besides, here come my sons. You are a strapping fellow, Roger
Penryn, but methinks my Benet is taller."
A servant entered bearing a huge haunch of beef, another followed
bearing other things, and then all being ready we fell to right
heartily.
Old Colman Killigrew talked pleasantly with me as we ate, and when the
meal was over he pressed wine upon me. But I had passed the age of
hot-blooded boyhood, and, knowing the work I had to do, drank
cautiously, for a man filled with wine has a loose tongue and an unwary
head.
"Hath old Uncle Anthony supped?" asked Colman Killigrew presently. "Let
him come in when he is ready."
I was glad to have the old man say this, for I was becoming weary of the
talk of the young Killigrews. They drank freely, and grew heedless as to
the language they used. For, careless as I was in those days, I loved
not to hear men speak of maidens as though they were brute beasts. I
have also discovered that men, when they live away from the society of
women altogether, grow churlish. I had seen this in my own life,
although I had not fallen so low as these men of Endellion.
One among these sons, however, was different from the rest. He was
neither tall nor handsome like his brothers. I discovered that he was
called Otho, after an ancient member of the race, and seemed to be
regarded as the wise-man of the family. He had more learning too than
the others, and spoke with more taste. He was not pleasant to look upon;
he had a short bull-neck, and there was a round upon his back which
almost approached a hump. I saw, however, that his hands were large and
his wrists thick. Moreover, his legs, while ill-shaped, were thickset
and evidently powerful. He did not drink freely like the others, nor did
he talk much, but he watched me closely.
When Uncle Anthony entered, I noticed that he was regarded with great
respect. He had evidently visited the house often, and knew the ways of
the inmates. He had a seat of honour beside old Colman Killigrew too,
and they conversed together in low tones, while the sons plied me with
questions about my life in the South.
Presently a number of the serving people came in, and with them three
women-folk. They were ill-favoured, however, not like the kitchen maiden
I had kept at Trevanion. Two out of the three were past mid-age, too,
while the third was a large-limbed wench, angular and awkward, but
evidently as strong as a man. So far, not a sign of Nancy Molesworth was
visible.
"Now, Uncle Anthony, a song and a story!" cried Otho Killigrew.
"Shall it be a little zong or a little stoary first, then?" asked Uncle
Anthony in broad Cornish.
"A song first, then a story, and then a galloping song and dance to
finish up with," replied Otho.
Uncle Anthony swept his eyes quickly around the room; then, standing up,
he, bowed towards Colman Killigrew.
"I drink the 'ealth of the 'ouse," he said, bending towards the owner of
Endellion. "The Killigrews 'ave been called 'A grove ov aigels'
(eagles); they 'ave flied 'igh; they 'ave stood avore kings, they 'ave.
Ther've bin wisht times laately, but a better day es comin'. The raace
'ave allays bin great fer lovin' and drinkin' and fightin', and their
sun es risin' again. I can zee et."
"May it come quickly!" cried Benet, a giant of a fellow. "There are no
women to love around here--they are afraid of us; but drinking is always
good; as for fighting, I long for the clash of steel."
All the brothers echoed this, save Otho; he looked steadily into the
huge fireplace, and spoke not. From that moment I felt sure that he was
the one selected to wed Nancy Molesworth.
Uncle Anthony touched his harp-strings and began to sing a plaintive
song. I had heard it often before; but he sung with more feeling than
did the drolls who had visited Trevanion. It was moreover peculiar to
Cornwall, and, interspersed as it was by Uncle Anthony's explanations,
caused even the hard-featured serving-women of Endellion to wipe their
eyes. I will write it down here, for the song is being forgotten, while
the fashion of receiving wandering story-tellers is fast dying out. This
is how he sung it:
"Cowld blaws the wind to-day, sweet'art,
Cowld be the draps ov raain;
The fust trew-luv that ever I 'ad,
In the greenwud 'ee wos slain.
"'Twas daown in the gaarden-green, sweet'art,
Where you and I did waalk;
The purtiest vlower that in the gaarden growed
Es rinkled (withered) to a staalk.
"The staalk will graw no laives, sweet'art,
The vlowers will ne'er return:
And now my oan love es dead and gone,
Wot can I do but mourn?"
"The pore maid did zing this," explained Uncle Anthony. "She was in a
wisht way, for maidens be vit fer nothin' 'cipt they've got a man by
'em. The man es the tree, an' the maid es an ivy-laif, and tha's oal
'bout it. But you do knaw, my deears, that when a man 'ave bin dead one
year, 'ee do allays cum back. Tha's religion, ed'n et then? Zo--
"A twelvemonth an' a day bein' gone,
The sperrit rised and spok:
"'My body es clay cowld, sweet'art,
My breath smells 'evvy an' strong;
And ef you kiss my cowld white lips,
Your time will not be long.'
"Ah, but thicky maid wos a true maid. She cudden rest till she 'ad
kissed the booy she loved; and w'en she'd kissed 'im once, she loved him
more and more. Zo she cried:
"Oa, wawn mooar kiss from yer dear cowld lips,
One kiss is oal I craave;
Oa, wawn mooar kiss from yer dear cowld lips,
An' return back to yer graave."
After this, Uncle Anthony sung in a low, wailing tone a stormy kind of
duet between the maid and what he called her "booy's sperrit," who tried
to make her accompany him to the world of shadows, and after much
weeping, she departed with her lover.
"And zo et es, my deears," remarked Uncle Anthony, "that trew luv is
stronger'n death."
"That's a wisht zong, sure enough, Uncle Anthony," remarked one of the
women, who at such times were allowed especial liberty. "Strick up
summin' purty and sweet and lively." Whereupon he sung a song about a
sailor who courted a rich nobleman's daughter "worth five hundred
thousan' in gould." This pleased them much, after which he started to
tell a story. At first he did not interest me, for my mind was filled
with many things; but presently I saw that his tale was original. He
brought in our meeting in the Molesworth Arms at Wadebridge, and
insinuated many surmises concerning me. He took a long time to tell the
story, for he weaved in a love episode, a duel, the appearance of a
ghost and a wizard, besides many droll sayings peculiar to the county;
but through it all I could see that he aimed at me, and gave hints that
he suspected I had other motives in coming to Endellion than those which
I had revealed. He described me as an unknown cavalier who wore a mask;
he also spoke of a wise man whose eyes pierced the mask. It is true he
dated the story in the far back past; all the same, I could not help
seeing his meaning. I doubt whether any of the listeners other than
myself saw his drift--but I felt sure that he had suspicions concerning
me. Whether his feelings were friendly or no, I could not gather;
neither could I understand his motive in so turning the story. The tale
was well liked, however, for the old man weaved it well. He ended it by
telling us that the maid wedded the man she loved, and that when she was
on her way to church, she trod on flowers strewn by angel hands, while
angel voices sung songs of hope and gladness to her.
"And what became of the masked cavalier?" asked Otho Killigrew when he
had finished.
"I'll tell 'ee that next time I come this way," replied Uncle Anthony.
"That's a paart of another stoary."
"And the wise man?" I asked,--"what became of him?"
"The wise man, Maaster Roger Penryn--for tha's the naame you towld me to
call 'ee--es livin' still. A trewly wise man don' never die. 'Ee do live
top 'igh plaaces, my deear. A wise man do mount a 'igh rock, and rest in
paice. Around 'im es the wild, treacherous waaste, but up there 'ee's
saafe. 'Appy be they who in trouble seek the shelter of the wise man's
'igh plaace. 'Tes the shadda of a great rock in a weary land."
I pondered much about the old man's tale, and made up my mind that, if I
could, I would speak with him alone. I decided that he was not what he
seemed; but how I could converse with him again was not easy to
discover, for he expressed a desire to retire, and Otho Killigrew
continued to watch me closely.
Before I was in any way able to decide what to do, I knew by the baying
of the hounds outside and the sounds at the door that some visitor was
approaching. At a look from Colman Killigrew, all the serving-people
left the room. Uncle Anthony also went out with them, saying that he
would retire to rest.
The newcomer turned out to be one John Polperro, a fair-spoken young
fellow of about five-and-twenty. I saw at a glance that he was a
gentleman, although of no great force of character. He was dressed in
accordance with the latest foppery of the times, and was, I thought,
mighty careful about his attire. His face was somewhat weak, but there
was no vice, no meanness in it. I presently discovered, too, that on
occasion he could speak boldly.
Colman Killigrew's welcome was by no means warm, while each of the sons
looked at him distrustfully, almost savagely. But he did not seem to
heed their evident dislike.
"I would like a word with you alone," he said to the squire.
"I am alone," was the reply. "I have no secrets from my sons."
"But there is a stranger among you," retorted Polperro.
"He is a friend who honours us by staying with us. He is of the same
religion and hath the same interests."
I winced at this, and rose to leave, but Colman Killigrew, by a gesture,
bid me remain.
"But this is not an affair for the ears of all," retorted Polperro.
"I have no affairs with you that may not be discussed by all here," was
the cool response.
I wondered at this, for I could not fathom the old man's design. Perhaps
he thought that by treating me as one of his family, even though I was a
stranger, he would cause me to be more obedient to his wishes in the
future. I listened eagerly, however, for I remembered why I was there.
"Be it so, then," replied Polperro with a touch of anger in his voice.
"You know, then, that I have met Mistress Nancy Molesworth?"
The old man nodded.
"I love her."
Colman Killigrew betrayed no emotion whatever, but the sons made a
movement expressive of scorn and derision.
Polperro saw this, and the colour began to mount to his cheeks. I could
see, too, that he had difficulty in refraining from angry words; but he
mastered himself.
"I have reason to believe that my sentiments are not unrequited."
Still Colman Killigrew was silent.
"You know that a messenger was sent to you. He bore a letter containing
an offer of marriage. This you received and read."
The old man nodded.
"This you received and read," repeated John Polperro, "but I cannot
think you fairly understood the purport of the letter, otherwise you
would have sent back a different answer."
"The answer was plain."
"But curt and uncivil. It was not such an answer as one gentleman may
send to another."
"I said that eagles mate not with hawks."
"That is why I cannot think you understood. My family is at least as old
as your own."
"On the father's side, perchance--but on the mother's?--Bah! we will not
speak of it."
Young John Polperro's hand played nervously with the hilt of his sword;
but still he kept his temper under control.
"I am come with my father's consent and approval," he continued; "I am
come in person to offer my name and fortune--a name as good as your own,
a fortune more than equal to that of the Killigrews."
"I give you the same answer that I gave to your messenger," was the
response.
John Polperro still kept outwardly cool.
"Then I have another proposition to make," he continued, but this time
his voice took a loftier tone. "I am here to offer Mistress Nancy
Molesworth the protection of my father's house. I am here to offer her
safety and honour!"
The old man started to his feet. He had been pricked on the quick at
last. "What mean you, sir?" he cried.
"It is well known that ever since she came from the convent, she has
been afraid to live here!" cried Polperro. "That your sons pay her
attention which she hates; that she loathes the thought of living where
modesty, virtue, and honour are all outraged!"
I think he was sorry he had uttered these words as soon as they had
passed his lips.
All the Killigrews looked as though they would have liked to have struck
him dead. On my part, however, I had a feeling of admiration. Courage is
always good, even although it be shown at the wrong time. Nothing was
said or done, however. They remembered that the man stood in their own
house.
"The maid has had but one occasion to speak of her woes to any one,"
continued Polperro. "You allowed her to visit Mistress Arundell, where
she met with a friend she had known at the convent school. There, as you
know, it was my good fortune to meet her."
I felt he was a fool. Why could he not have spoken more guardedly? If he
wanted to do Mistress Nancy an injury, he could not have accomplished
his purpose better. I saw, too, that old Colman Killigrew ground his
teeth with rage, and I heard him mutter something about his being mad to
let the girl go a-gadding about at people's houses. For a moment I
thought he would have answered Polperro angrily; but such was not his
plan.
"You stand in my own hall, or it might go hard with you," he said
presently. "But enough. You spoke in hot blood, just as a lovesick fool
may. Let me also say this, although you deserve not this explanation:
Mistress Nancy Molesworth is betrothed to my eldest son Otho according
to her father's wish. Therefore her honour is safe, and she will be
wedded to one of her own degree."
"Is this by her own will?" cried Polperro.
"A maid's will is like the wind in April," replied the old man, "and is
no more to be relied on. But I tell you this, she shall be guarded
safely."
"Kept in prison!" retorted Polperro; "and these," looking with scorn on
the young men, "will be her gaolers."
He turned to leave the room, but did not flinch at the angry looks
bestowed upon him. Benet Killigrew turned to follow him, but he was
stopped by his father's word.
"He stands in my own hall, Benet, and must be treated as a guest," he
said. "The time may come when the laws of courtesy may not hinder you
from giving him the chastisement he deserves."
"That time cannot come too soon for me!" cried John Polperro.
"Meanwhile, do not think Mistress Nancy Molesworth is without friends.
And besides that, it might be profitable for you to remember----" he
did not finish the sentence. Perchance he felt that silence were wise.
"I did not think you would witness such a scene, Roger Penryn," said the
old man when he had gone, "for in truth I did not believe the lad had so
much spirit."
"He spoke stoutly," I responded, not daring to ask the questions which
hung on my lips. "He sadly lacked wisdom, however, and will land himself
in trouble if he be not careful."
"I had many things to say to you to-night," remarked old Colman
Killigrew, "but they must stand over. I am not as young as I was, and
young Polperro's words have ill prepared me to speak on matters which
lie near my heart, and I trust to yours also. But the opportunity will
come to-morrow."
I bent my head gravely. I was glad he had put off his questionings, for,
truth to tell, I dreaded the man. I instinctively felt his eyes probing
me. I knew he had been making plans all through the evening to find out
who I was, and why I had come northward.
"I will retire to rest," he said; "perchance you, too, will be glad to
get to your room?"
"I will go with him," said Otho Killigrew; "it is easy for a stranger to
lose his way in this house."
So I said good-night to his brothers, who pressed me to stay among them
and drink another bottle of wine, and walked up a broad stairway with
Otho by my side.
On reaching the top of the stairway I saw a man walking to and fro; but
he seemed to pay no heed to us as we passed by him.
"You will stay a day or two with us, I trust?" remarked Otho.
I answered in the affirmative.
"And then?--go you farther north?"
"That will depend on what your father thinks," I responded.
He gave me a searching glance, but spoke no word more until we reached
my bedroom door.
"I am afraid you have had a rough welcome," he said; "but we have the
name for a rough people. All the same, we are faithful to our friends."
"Yes," I assented.
"The Killigrews never yet turned their backs upon those who merited
their friendship," concluded Otho; "but they never forgive those who
betray their trust. Never!"
He uttered the words slowly and distinctly, as was his manner of speech.
"Sleep soundly, Roger Penryn," he said as he bade me good-night. "The
Tower of London is not more safely guarded than Endellion."
"It is good of you to tell me," I replied; "but a good sword and a ready
hand are all I have needed in the past."
To this he did not reply, and I heard his steps echo along the corridor.
He walked slowly, like a man deep in thought. Did he suspect anything,
or did my mission make me suspicious?
The room into which I was ushered was plain and bare. The walls were
whitewashed, the floor almost wholly uncovered. I sat for a long while
on the bed in deep thought, and my musings were not pleasant. I almost
regretted having undertaken to do Peter Trevisa's bidding. Not because
of the danger. Nay, that was almost the only redeeming feature in the
business. And yet I tried to persuade myself that my mission was good.
Were not these Killigrews lawless men? Should I not be rendering signal
service to the maid Nancy Molesworth by taking her away from a place
which, according to Polperro, she loathed? And still I was not
satisfied.
Presently I thought I heard a rustling outside. Instantly I went to the
door and opened it softly. The corridor was but dimly lighted, but I saw
the retreating form of a woman. She did not look a well-bred dame; at
the same time she was different from the serving-women I had seen in the
hall. I started to follow her; but before I had taken two steps, she
turned, and I saw her face. Dim as was the light, her features seemed
familiar. Evidently she was a superior kind of serving-maid. In a
moment, however, she vanished.
"Ah," I thought, "there is some stairway yonder!" I looked cautiously
around before starting to seek it, then stopped. I heard the clank of
steel. I saw the man I had passed with Otho Killigrew, still pacing the
corridor.
"A sentinel, eh?" I mused; "truly, the place is guarded."
Noiselessly I slid back to my room. The man had not seen me. My
stockinged foot touched a piece of paper, which was carefully folded.
Close to my bed the candles flickered in the socket; so, after
carefully bolting my door, I made my way towards them. On unfolding the
paper I saw one word only. The word was
ROCHE.