HOW BEATRICE TOLD THE STORY OF TREGEAGLE.
Charmingly she made room for him upon the bed of heather. She placed
herself snugly between the wall and his shoulder, with her feet
toasting upon the hearthstone, and merely gave a sigh of gratitude
when he leaned forward to place his knapsack between the rough stone
and her heels. Then she began:--
“Once upon a time there lived a man whose name was Tregeagle. Nothing
is known about his early life, because none of the Cornish villages
will own him, which is rather stupid, because after all a great
criminal is just as famous in his way as an equally great saint--you
may expect to hear comments like that. Remember they are mine, and
don’t belong to the story. Well, this man became at last the steward
of Lord Robartes at Lanhydrock. If ever you go there ask to see
Tregeagle’s room. Mention me, and they will be delighted to show it
you.
“Tregeagle was the wickedest man who ever lived. It’s much easier to
say that than to give a list of his crimes. He was rotten all through
like a medlar. As steward he gave the poor tenants an awful time, and
it wasn’t long before he had screwed enough out of them to buy
Trevorder, which is a nice estate in St. Breock. He went on amassing
wealth and inventing new crimes until at last the sun refused to shine
upon him and the grass withered where he trod upon it. You are not
bound to believe that unless you like, but I think you’d better, as it
may make it easier for you to believe what is coming.
“Tregeagle became a magistrate, and a churchwarden, and Chairman of
the Board of Guardians, and all the rest of it. You see he was awfully
rich, and men could be as wicked as they liked then as long as they
spent money. Tregeagle lived hundreds of years ago, you must remember.
But at last he got very ill, and knew that he was going to die. He
didn’t like the idea at all, because there was a long line of devils
standing in his bedroom waiting to grab his soul directly it left his
body. So he called for his secretary and dictated letters to the
abbots and priors of the district, asking after their health and
begging them to pray for his, and telling them all about the devils
who were waiting for him, and wondering whether the cheques enclosed
would be of any use to their right reverences. Apparently they were,
for the abbots and priors came as fast as they could, with bells,
books, candles, and gallons of holy water, and drove away the devils
in less than no time. Then they thanked Tregeagle for past favours,
and assured him that any other esteemed order would receive their
immediate attention. So the dying man told them he would divide his
wealth among them if they would save his soul. They agreed of course,
delighted that it was nothing more difficult. Tregeagle died, and they
buried him with great pomp in St. Breock Church. They chanted and
prayed and sang for weeks, so that they might cheat the devil out of
Tregeagle’s soul. That ends the first chapter,” quoth Beatrice.
“Now we go upon the moor,” Burrough suggested. “Thunder and lightning.
Enter Satan as the clock strikes twelve.”
“You’re going ahead much too fast,” said Beatrice. “It’s easy to see
you never had a Cornish nurse. The Court of Justice scene comes next.
It used to frighten me horribly when I was a kid. My nurse told me the
story. My nurse was a fisherman, and his wife would always say, ‘Dids
’en, dids ’en frighten my child? It shan’t be frightened den. It
shan’t hear Daddy Tregeagle howl.’
“The Judge is upon the bench,” Beatrice went on, in a hushed voice.
“The jurymen are in their places, and counsel rises. The most
celebrated case in the whole history of law is being tried. The
plaintiff, as heir of Tregeagle, claims a large estate, which has
since become part of the town of Bodmin. All that counsel for
defendant can say is, that the dead man destroyed all the deeds
connected with the property, and drew up forgeries in their place; but
he cannot produce any witnesses in support of this statement. It
appeared to be a clear case for the plaintiff. The judge was about to
sum up, when the defendant came into court and asked permission to
call a witness. The judge consented. A cold wind seemed to pass
through the hall, and everyone was frozen with terror, though they
could not tell why. Then Tregeagle stepped into the witness-box.
“In the midst of a terrible silence, the counsel for defendant rose
and questioned the evil spirit. The truth was soon out, and the jury
gave a verdict at once in favour of the defendant. Then the Judge
ordered the victor to remove his witness, but the man said, ‘It has
been enough for me to bring him from his grave. I leave him to the
care of the Church of St. Breock which loves him so well.’
“The Judge sent a special messenger to the Abbot and his monks,” went
on Beatrice, with a return to her flippant manner. “The first thing
the holy men saw, when they came into court, was Tregeagle standing in
the witness-box. They did not like that at all, for they were afraid
that little affair of the cheques might be mentioned. The lawyers
talked at the clergy, and the clergy talked at the lawyers, and the
Judge said it was a disgraceful affair altogether, and quite contrary
to precedent, and went on to suggest that the best thing the Abbot
could do would be to hand over Tregeagle to the Devil, who was waiting
like a policeman by his side; and the Abbot coughed behind his hand
and said, ‘Really, me lud, as a churchman, I can’t possibly hand over
a soul that might--er possibly be saved by--er repentance to the evil
one.’
“It would have been a shabby trick,” commented Beatrice, “considering
that he was living upon the nice fat fortune Tregeagle had given him.”
When the girl had been describing the introduction of the spectre
witness, her right hand had fallen somehow upon Burrough’s left. His
fingers closed over it, but she did not attempt to withdraw the hand.
She prattled on with her story, very much like a little sister
entertaining her smaller brother.
“Presently one of the monks got up, and said he had found a way out of
the difficulty. They must give Tregeagle a task which would take him a
long time to accomplish. While he worked, the devil should not be able
to touch him, but if he stopped, even for a moment, he would be
doomed. While he worked he would have plenty of time to consider what
a wicked person he had been, and thus his soul might gradually be
softened, and in time he might repent and be saved. This seemed a good
idea, and, on being put to the vote, it was carried unanimously. The
next thing was to find a really lengthy job. One of the lawyers very
soon had a suggestion. He thought it would be a good plan to send
Tregeagle to bale out Dozmare Pool. One of the monks objected that
this would be too easy; but another thought that if a wee-winikin
limpet-shell with a hole in it should be given Tregeagle as an
instrument of baling, it might be difficult enough. A nice kind of
thing for a parson to say, wasn’t it? Of course, the Judge interposed
with the question, ‘What is Dozmare Pool?’ although he knew perfectly
well; and the lawyer had to explain it was a black sheet of water
below the tin-streamers’ village on the side of Bron Gilly, surrounded
by bare hills, dark and lonely. It was into this lake that Sir
Belvidere flung Excalibur. The lawyer went on to say that he knew a
man who had once spoken to another, who in his childhood had heard his
grandfather say that _he_ knew someone who had been related to a man,
whose father had seen someone who had dropped a thorn-bush into
Dozmare Pool, and the appearance of that thorn-bush--or another rather
like it--in Falmouth Harbour a year or so later, proved what had
always been suspected, namely, that the pool was bottomless. So the
Judge was quite satisfied, and said to the Abbot, ‘I think we can
leave this matter in your hands, Reverend Sir. Will you be good enough
to recite the necessary incantations?’ The Abbot said he should be
delighted, so he sent for bells, books and candles, and gallons of
holy water, as before, and muttered the spells which protected the
spirit of Tregeagle from the devil, and removed it to Dozmare Pool to
bale out the water with a limpet-shell. And that ends the second
chapter,” said Beatrice.
Burrough still sat beside her, clasping the small hand. Once she had
withdrawn it to throw back a tress of hair, but she slipped it back
into his in the most confiding manner possible, and went on with her
child-like narrative. She had squeezed his fingers more than once out
of pure excitement. She was a Cornish girl, and she was telling the
most popular story of Cornish folk lore; and it stirred her blood, as
the wandering minstrel of old must have felt his blood stirred when he
sang of Arthur and his tragedy in a Saxon camp.
“Now for the moor,” she cried. “The moor as it is to-night, wild wind,
white mists and cold rain. The wind is the howling of Tregeagle, the
mist is his breath, and the rain the sweat that drips from him as he
works. Years passed away, which is what years will do whether you want
them to or not, and all the year round there was Tregeagle baling with
the wee-winikin shell.”
She broke off with a sudden gasp. Her companion had flung his arm
about her.
“Your head was against that cold wet wall,” he murmured passionately.
“He baled and baled with the winikin shell,” Beatrice went on more
dreamily, closing her eyes for a moment; then fixing them upon the
tiny feet which played together like two kittens beside the hot peat.
“But of course the pool remained just the same. The devil was near all
the time trying to catch him. He knew that if Tregeagle stopped baling
for a moment he was his; so he kept on bringing winds and storms. But
Tregeagle only screamed louder and went on baling.
“At last the devil called all the powers of darkness to his aid, and
raised a storm such as had never been known upon the earth before.
There was lightning and thunder, fire-balls fell like rain into the
lake. There was an earthquake. The winds smashed the tors. Tregeagle
gave way at last, and rushed over the moor with a host of devils at
his heels. He ran in circles, as people do when they are lost upon the
moor; and every time he returned to the lake he tried to dip the
shell. But the devils would not let him. Finally he made a great leap,
and was carried by the wind right across the pool. He flew away over
the moor and left the devils behind. They had to fly round, because
devils cannot cross water.
“Away went Tregeagle, shrieking with terror, and the devils were still
after him. They had nearly caught him when he saw the hermit’s cell
upon Roche Rocks, and the chapel of St. Michael, near the wishing
well, where the girls go on Maundy Thursday to throw in pins and
pebbles, and tell their fortune by the way the bubbles sparkle and
burst. He flew over the rocks, and as the devils were about to seize
him, he dashed his head through the east window of the chapel. He was
safe because his head was inside the church. Nobody upon the Cornish
moors had any sleep that night.
“When the hermit of St. Roche came to the altar in the early morning,
there was the awful head of Tregeagle looking down upon him. While the
priest prayed the demons yelled. Swarms of devils hovered about the
Roche Rocks, ready to seize Tregeagle directly he withdrew his head.
He remained there for years. The services had to be abandoned. The
chapel became deserted. The hermit was nearly dead with terror. At
length he collected a crowd of holy men, and they decided to procure
two saints who should take Tregeagle out of the window and remove him
to Laffenack--it’s called Padstow now--and condemn him to remain on
the beach until he should have made a truss of sand and a rope of sand
to bind it. The difficulty was to find the saints. I don’t know how
they managed it. Very likely they advertised: ‘Wanted, two saints.
Must know spells and incantations, and thoroughly understand how to
exorcise demons.’ Anyhow, the saints turned up. They pulled Tregeagle
out of the window and off the Roche Rocks, and took him to Padstow to
make his truss of sand. And that ends another chapter,” said Beatrice.
She stirred a little, but without looking at her companion, and
removing her hand, pushed the still damp hair from her forehead. She
lifted her head; it had been pressing more against his shoulder than
the wall--and stared into the ruddy mists where big stones and jagged
outlines were faintly visible. It seemed to her that the wind was less
violent, but the rain had increased, and the clouds were as dense as
ever. The gloom which was gathering was not that of the storm, but
that of evening. She settled herself again. She knew that her hair was
caressing his cheek, but she had not intended that it should. He could
move away if he did not like it. His arm was still round her, and it
was pleasant, she thought, and decidedly more restful than leaning
against the wall.
“Ho, and away for Laffenack Strand!” she continued blithely.
“Tregeagle found the rope-making worse than the baling. He didn’t make
any headway at all. So soon as he got a ball of sand together it would
break, or a wave of the sea would knock it into pieces. He yelled and
screamed worse than ever, so that the poor people of Padstow had no
rest by day and no sleep by night. They agreed that Tregeagle was a
regular public nuisance. As the demon’s rage increased, his screams
became so frightful that not a creature could stop in the town. A
meeting of the council was called upon the plain, and it was decided
that a holy man should be requisitioned to remove the nuisance. Now
Padstow was better off than most places. It did not have to look about
for saints. It had one ready made, and his name was St. Petrock. It
was proposed by the grocer, and seconded by the butcher, that a
committee, headed by the mayor, who was a shoemaker, should call upon
the saint and request him to act in a public-spirited manner on behalf
of his native town. So the mayor put on his robes and his chain, and
went off, headed by the town band, to interview the Reverend Mr. St.
Petrock. The saint was at home. He listened to what the mayor had to
say, remarked that demons were certainly unpleasant things, and
promised finally to remove Tregeagle from Padstow. He set to work at
once, and forged a chain with which he bound the evil spirit, and then
took him across the county to Helston, which was then called Ella’s
Town. The saint set Tregeagle down at the estuary of the Loe, and
condemned him to carry the sand from Barreppa across the estuary to
Porthleven, and not to stop working until there was no sand left upon
the beach. They’re kind, charitable saints in this story, I do think,”
said Beatrice.
“The people of Helston woke up to hear Tregeagle yelling and screaming
as he shovelled up the sand, and they wondered whatever it could be.
They were not left long in doubt, and after that there was no rest for
them. Tregeagle screamed worse than ever, and no wonder, for as fast
as he carried the sand across the estuary and emptied it at
Porthleven, the sweep of the tide round Trewavas Head carried it back
again. St. Petrock was an artful person. You won’t find any churches
dedicated to him round Helston. They rather prefer the devil in that
part of the country. The devil did try all he could to get Tregeagle
away, but Mr. St. Petrock ruined the place. I’ll tell you how. Helston
in those days was one of the principal ports in England. It was the
harbour of the tin-streamers, and ships from all over the world sailed
up the estuary of the Loe to load with tin from Huel Vor.
“Now Tregeagle was staggering along the mouth of the estuary one day,
with a huge sackful of sand upon his shoulders, when the little devil
who was watching him thought he would have a lark. He put out his foot
and tripped Tregeagle. The spirit fell on its face, the sack burst
open, and its contents streamed out right across the estuary of the
Loe, making a sand-bar which completely cut the town off from the sea.
It’s there to this day, to prove that I’m telling you the truth, and
what was the harbour is now called Loe Pool. Sometimes they cut a
trench in the sand-bar and the waters in the pool sweep out and carry
the sand away; but the next tide brings it back, because it’s the
accursed sand which fell out of Tregeagle’s sack when the maliceful
little devil tripped him up; and the tide from Trewavas Head throws it
back just as St. Petrock saw that it would. One of the morals of this
story is that a saint can be quite as great a nuisance as a sinner,”
said Beatrice.
She sat up suddenly and cried, “You are not listening. I believe you
are half-asleep.”
“I have heard every word,” Burrough said. “But I can look at you at
the same time.”
“It’s getting dark and gloomy. The fire’s dying down and I’m not dry
yet. Don’t you hear Tregeagle screaming as he sweeps the sand? For he
is sweeping now. The poor people of Helston were in an awful state
when they found their harbour had been destroyed. They collected all
the bishops, priests, and deacons they could lay their hands on and
rushed them down to Loe bar. Tregeagle was bound by spells once more,
and this time it was decided to place him where he couldn’t destroy
commerce or frighten people. So they carried him off to Land’s End,
and sentenced him to sweep all the sand and shells out of Porthcurnow,
round Tol Pedn Penwith, into the Valley of the Bosom, which is also
called Nankissal. And he’s doing that still. You can hear him always.
In summer he sighs and sobs; in autumn he wails; and in winter he
screams. The fishermen know when a storm is coming by the sound of his
wailing, and they don’t put their boats across the bar when they hear
him roar. And that, my child, is the true story of Tregeagle,” she
murmured. “Now put all your toys away tidily into the cupboard, then
ring the bell for nurse, because it’s past your usual bed-time, and
I’m sure you’re tired.”
Beatrice did not draw away, but stretched herself with a little yawn.
He felt her strong body tighten and relax against him, and saw her
eyes flicker and close.
“Do wake up,” she said sleepily. “There are all sorts of wild beasties
about the ruin--ferocious sheep, ravening ponies, and mad March
rabbits. I’ve seen big eyes and little eyes staring out of the mist.
It would be fearful to be trampled underfoot by a rabbit, or torn to
pieces by a sheep.”
“I am wide awake,” he said.
“We must make the fire up and have supper. It’s lucky you’ve got
another giant’s sandwich. Then if the weather clears, and we can find
a guiding star, we must be going home.”
“There isn’t going to be any star,” said Burrough.
“Yes, presently. Do you think I could stop all night in this haunted
ruin? I should be pinched to death by pixies. All sorts of little
people will be here by midnight--quite a mixed crowd. They would be
dreadfully annoyed to find me here.”
“They will find you here,” said Burrough boldly. “Because you know
it’s impossible for you to get away from here to-night.” Then he went
on hurriedly, “This has been a very happy day.”
“I’m sure it hasn’t,” she said flippantly. “It began nicely, but it
turned out a perfect beast. Do let me get up. I want to see the fire.”
“Beatrice,” he murmured.
“I’m here,” she whispered saucily. “You needn’t shout. Will you please
see if my boots are dry yet?”
“In a minute,” he said.
“Now you must be good,” she went on, with her sleepy laugh. “I told
you a story to keep you quiet, and then I told you to run away. You’re
very disobedient, and in the Sunday School books you will find that
disobedient children are invariably devoured by lions.”
“Never mind the Sunday School books.”
“But you must. S’ars o’ mine! Don’t you know that the good child
becomes Lord Mayor of London, and the bad child goes to the gallows?”
“Yes, but Beatrice----”
“Hush-a-den! It shall be a Lor’ Mayor itself sometime or other, and
ride in its own coach.”
“Bother the Lord Mayor,” said Burrough, with his cheeks flushed and
eyes eager, bending over her.
“Won’t it be a Lor’ Mayor?” she laughed. “It shan’t be a Lor’ Mayor.
Dod a bless it! It shall be a Bishop. O! de blessing of it!”
At that instant he kissed her saucy mouth. He had already kissed her
soft hair a hundred times, and she had been quite conscious of it.
“Thee’rt a tiresome brat!” she sighed.