Since that night, seventeen years before, John Penhale had done no
love-making nor had he again visited Tregors. The Tregellas affair had
broken his nerve, but it had not impaired that of his aunt in the
slightest degree, and he was frightened of her, being assured that, did
he give her a chance, she would try again.
And now the old lady was dead, and in dying had tried again. John
pictured her casting her final noose sitting up, gaunt and tall, in her
four-poster bed dictating her last will and testament to the Helston
attorney, awed farm hands waiting to affix their marks, sunset staining
the west window and the black bull roaring in the yard below. And it was
a shrewd cast she had made; John could feel its toils tightening about
him. He had always been given to understand that Tregors was as good as
his, and now it was as good as Carveth Donnithorne’s—Carveth
Donnithorne! John gritted his teeth at the thought of the suave and ever
prospering ship chandler. Tregors had always been a strong farm, but in
the last seventeen years Selina had increased the acreage by a third, by
one hundred acres of sweet upland grazing lopped from the Tregellas
estate. There were new buildings too, built of moor granite to stand
forever, and the stock was without match locally. John’s yeoman heart
yearned to it. Oh, the clever old woman! John pictured Carveth
Donnithorne taking possession, Carveth Donnithorne with his
condescending airs, patronizing wife and school of chubby little boys.
Had not Carveth goods enough in this world but that he must have Tregors
as well?
John swore he should not have Tregors as well, not if he could stop it.
How could he stop it? He puzzled his wits, but returned inevitably to
the one answer he was trying to evade, “Marry within twelve months!
Marry within twelve months!” His aunt had made a sure throw, he admitted
with grim admiration, the cunning old devil! It was all very well saying
“marry,” but who would marry a man that even the rough fisher girls
avoided and children hid from? He would have no more force or
subterfuge. If any woman consented to marry him it must be in full
knowledge of what she was doing and of her own free will. There should
be no repetition of that night seventeen years before. He shuddered.
“No, by the Lord, no more of that; rather let Tregors go to Carveth.”
In imagination he saw the Squire’s daughter as he was always seeing her
in the dark nights when he was alone, stricken numb in his arms, glazed
horror in her eyes—saw her running across the blind country, sobbing,
panting, stumbling in furrows, torn by brambles, trying to get home,
away from him—the Terror. He shut his eyes, as though to shut out the
vision, and rode on past Germoe to Kenneggy Downs.
The moon was flying through clouds like a circus girl through hoops, the
road was swept by winged shadows. Puddles seemed to brim with milk at
one moment, ink the next. At one moment the surrounding country was
visible, a-gleam as with hoar frost, and then was blotted out in
darkness; it was a night of complete and startling transformations. The
shadow of a bare oak leapt upon them suddenly, flinging unsubstantial
arms at man and horse as though to grasp them, a phantom octopus.
Penhale’s mare shied, nearly unseating him. He came out of his somber
thoughts, kicked spurs into her and drove her on at a smart trot. She
swung forward, trembling and uneasy, nostrils swelling, ears twitching,
as though she sensed uncanny presences abroad. They reached the high
ground above Perranuthnoe, waste, gorse-covered downs. To the south the
great indent of Mount’s Bay gloomed and glittered under cloud and
moonshine; westward Paul Hill rose like a wall, a galaxy of ships’
riding lights pricking the shadow at its base. The track began to drop
downhill, the moors gave over to fields with high banks. An old pack
horse track, choked with undergrowth, broke into the road from the
seaward side. The mare cocked her ears towards it, snorted and checked.
Penhale laid into her with his whip. She bounded forward and shied
again, but with such violence this time that John came out of the saddle
altogether. He saw a shadow rush across the road, heard something thwack
on the mare’s rump as she swerved from under him, and he fell, not on
the road as he expected, but on top of a man, bearing him to the ground.
As John fell he knew exactly what he had to deal with—highwaymen! The
mare’s swerve had saved him a stunning blow on the head. He grappled
with the assailant as they went down and they rolled over and over on
the ground feeling for strangle holds. John was no tyro at the game; he
was muscled like a bull and had been taught many a trick by his hind
Bohenna, the champion, but this thief was strong also and marvelously
elusive. He buckled and twisted under the farmer’s weight, finally
slipped out of his clutch altogether and leapt to his feet. John
scrambled up just in time to kick the heavy oak cudgel from the man’s
reach and close with him again. John cross-buttocked and back-heeled him
repeatedly, but on each occasion the man miraculously regained his feet.
John tried sheer strength, hugged the man to him, straining to break his
back. The man bent and sprang as resilient as a willow wand. John hugged
him closer, trying to crush his ribs. The man made his teeth meet in the
farmer’s ear and slipped away again.
Once more John was just in time to stop him from picking up the club. He
kicked it into the ditch and set to work with his knuckles. But he could
not land a blow; wherever he planted his fists the fellow was not,
eluding them by a fraction of an inch, by a lightning side-step or a
shake of the head. The man went dancing backwards and sideways, hands
down, bobbing his head, bending, swaying, bouncing as though made of
rubber. He began to laugh. The laugh sent a shiver through John Penhale.
The footpad thought he had him in his hands, and unless help came from
somewhere the farmer knew such was the case; it was only a question of
time and not much time. He was out of trim and cooked to a finish
already, while the other was skipping like a dancing master, had breath
to spare for laughter.
At that time of night nobody would be on the road, and help was not
likely to drop from Heaven. He had only himself to look to. He thought
over the manifold tricks he had seen in the wrestling ring, thought
swiftly and desperately, hit out with his left and followed with an
upward kick of his right foot—Devon style. His fist missed as he
expected, but his boot caught the thief a tip under the knee cap as he
side-stepped. The man doubled up, and John flung himself at him. The
footpad butted him in the pit of the stomach with his head and skipped
clear, shouting savagely in Romany, but limping, limping! John did not
know the language, but it told him there was a companion to reckon
with—a fresh man; the struggle was hopeless. Nevertheless he turned and
ran for the club. He was not fast enough, not fast enough by half; three
yards from the ditch the lamed thief was on him. John heard the quick
hop-skip of feet behind him and dropped on one knee as the man sprang
for his back. The footpad, not expecting the drop, went too high; he
landed across John’s shoulders, one arm dropping across the farmer’s
chest. In a flash John had him by the wrist and jerked upright, at the
same time dragging down on the wrist; it was an adaptation of the
Cornish master-throw, “the flying mare.” The man went over John’s
shoulders like a rocket, made a wonderful effort to save himself by a
back somersault, but the tug on his wrist was too much, and he crashed
on his side in the road. John kicked him on the head till he lay still
and, picking up the club, whirled to face the next comer. Nobody came
on. John was perplexed. To whom had the fellow been shouting if not to a
confederate?
Perhaps the cur had taken fright and was skulking in the gorse. Very
well; he would drub him out. He was flushed with victory and had the
club in his hands now. He was stepping towards the furze when he heard a
slight scrunching sound to his left, and, turning, saw a dark figure
squatting on the bank at the roadside. John stood still, breathing hard,
his cudgel ready. The mysterious figure did not stir. John stepped
nearer, brandishing his club. Still the figure made no move. John
stepped nearer yet, and at that moment the moon broke clear of a mesh of
clouds, flooding the road with ghostly light, and John, to his
astonishment, saw that the confederate was a girl, a girl in a tattered
cloak and tarnished tumbler finery, munching a turnip. Strolling
acrobats! That explained the man’s uncanny agility.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded.
“Nothing, sir,” said the girl, chewing a lump of the root.
“I’ll have him hung and you transported for this,” John thundered.
“I did you no harm,” said the girl calmly.
That was true enough. John wondered why she had not come to the
assistance of her man; tribe law was strong with these outcasts, he
understood. He asked her.
The girl shrugged her shoulders. “He beat me yesterday. I wanted to see
him beat. You done it. Good!”
She thrust a bare, well-molded arm in John’s face. It was bruised from
elbow to shoulder. She spat at the unconscious tumbler.
“What is he to you?” John asked.
“Nothing,” she retorted. “Muck,” and took another wolfish bite at the
turnip; she appeared ravenous.
John turned his back on her. He had no intention of proceeding with the
matter, since to do so meant carrying a stunned footpad, twelve stone at
least, a mile into Market Jew and later standing the publicity of the
Assizes. He was not a little elated at the success of his “flying mare”
and in a mood to be generous. After all he had lost nothing but a little
skin; he would let the matter drop. He picked the man up and slung him
off the road into the gorse of the pack track. Now for his horse. He
walked past the munching girl in silence, halted, felt in his pocket,
found a florin and jerked it to her.
“Here,” he said, “get yourself an honest meal.”
The florin fell in the ditch, the girl dropped off the bank onto it as
he had seen a hawk drop on a field vole.
“Good God!” he muttered. “She must be starved,” and walked on.
He would knock up the inn in Market Jew and spend the remainder of the
night there, he decided. He would look for his horse in the morning—but
he expected it would trot home.
A hundred yards short of the St. Hilary turning he came upon the mare;
she was standing quietly, a forefoot planted on a broken rein, holding
herself nose to the ground. He freed her, knotted the rein and mounting
clattered down the single street and out on the beach road on the other
side. Since he had his horse he would push straight through after all;
if he stopped he would have to concoct some story to account for his
battered state, which would be difficult. He went at a walk, pondering
over the events of the night. On his left hand the black mass of St.
Michael’s Mount loomed out of the moon-silvered bay like some basking
sea monster; before him lay Penzance with the spire of St. Mary’s rising
above the masts of the coasters, spearing at the stars.
At Ponsandane River the mare picked up a stone. John jumped off, hooked
it out and was preparing to remount when he noticed that she had got her
head round and was staring back down the road, ears pricked. There was
some one behind them. He waited a full minute, but could neither see nor
hear anything, so went on again, through Penzance, over Newlyn Green and
up the hill. The wind had died away. It was the still hour that outrides
dawn; the east was already paling. In the farms about Paul, John could
hear the cocks bugling to each other; hidden birds in the blackthorns
gave sleepy twitters; a colt whinnied “good morning” from a near-by
field and cantered along the hedge, shaking the dew from its mane.
Everything was very quiet, very peaceful, yet John could not rid himself
of the idea that he was being followed. He pulled up again and listened,
but, hearing nothing, rode on, calling himself a fool.
He dropped down into Trevelloe Bottoms, gave the mare a drink in Lamorna
stream and climbed Boleigh. A wall-eyed sheep dog came out of a cottage
near the Pipers and flew, yelping, at the horse’s heels. He cursed it
roundly and it retired whence it came, tail between its legs. As he
turned the bend in the road he heard the cur break into a fresh frenzy
of barking.
There _was_ somebody behind him after all, somebody who went softly and
stopped when he did. It was as he had suspicioned; the tumbler had come
to and was trailing him home to get his revenge—to fire stacks or rip a
cow, an old gypsy trick. John swung the mare into a cattle track, tied
her to a blackthorn, pulled a heavy stone out of the mud and waited,
crouched against the bank, hidden in the furze. He would settle this
rogue once and for all. Every yeoman instinct aroused, he would have
faced forty such in defense of his stock, his place.
Dawn was lifting her golden head over the long arm of the Lizard. A
chain of little pink clouds floated above her like adoring cherubs.
Morning mists drifted up from the switch-backed hills to the north,
white as steam. Over St. Gwithian tower the moon hung, haggard and
deathly pale, an old siren giving place to a rosy débutante. In the
bushes birds twittered and cheeped, tuning their voices against the day.
John Penhale waited, bent double, the heavy stone ready in his hands.
The footpad was a long time coming. John wondered if he had taken the
wrong turning—but that was improbable; the mare’s tracks were plain.
Some one might have come out of the cottage and forced the fellow into
hiding—or he might have sensed the ambush. John was just straightening
his back to peer over the furze when he heard the soft thud of bare feet
on the road, heard them hesitate and then turn towards him, following
the hoof prints. He held his breath, judged the time and distance and
sprang up, the stone poised in both hands above his head. He lowered it
slowly and let it drop in the mud. It was the girl!
She looked at the stone, then at John and her mouth twitched with the
flicker of a smile. John felt foolish and consequently angry. He stepped
out of the bushes.
“Why are you following me?” he demanded.
She looked down at her bare feet, then up at him out of the corners of
her deep dark eyes, but made no answer.
John grasped her by an arm and shook her. “Can’t you speak? Why are you
following me?”
She did not reply, but winced slightly, and John saw that he was
gripping one of the cruel bruises. He released her, instantly contrite.
“I did not mean to do that,” he said. Then, hardening again: “But, look
you, I’ll have no more of this. I’ll have none of your kind round here,
burning ricks. If I catch you near my farm I’ll hand you over to the law
for . . . for what you are and you’ll be whipped. Do you hear me?”
The girl remained silent, leaning up against the bank, pouting, looking
up at John under her long lashes. She was handsome in a sulky,
outlandish way, he admitted. She had a short nose, high cheekbones and
very dark eyes with odd lights in them; her bare head was covered with
crisp black curls and she wore big brass earrings; a little guitar was
tucked under one arm. The tattered cloak was drawn tight about her,
showing the thin but graceful lines of her figure—a handsome trollop.
“If you won’t speak you won’t . . . but, remember, I have warned you,”
said John, but with less heat, as he untied his horse and mounted. As he
turned the corner he glanced furtively back and met the girl’s eyes
full. He put spurs to the mare, flushing hotly.
A quarter of an hour later he reined up in his yard. He had been away
rather less than twenty-four hours, but it seemed like as many days. It
was good to be home. A twist of blue smoke at a chimney told him Martha
was stirring and he would get breakfast soon. He heard the blatter of
calves in their shed and the deep, answering moo of cows from the byre,
the splash and babble of the stream. In the elms the rooks had already
begun to quarrel—familiar voices.
He found Bohenna in the stable wisping a horse and singing his one song,
“I seen a ram at Hereford Fair,” turned the mare over to him and sought
the yard again.
It was good to be home . . . and yet, and yet . . . things moved briskly
outside, one found adventures out in the world, adventures that set the
blood racing. He was boyishly pleased with his tussle with the vagabond,
had tricked him rather neatly, he thought; he must tell Bohenna about
that. Then the girl. She had not winced at the sight of his face, not a
quiver, had smiled at him even. He wondered if she were still standing
in the cow track, the blue cloak drawn about her, squelching mud through
her bare toes—or was she ranging the fields after more
turnips—turnips! She was no better than an animal—but a handsome
animal for all that, if somewhat thin. Oh, well, she had gone now; he
had scared her off, would never see her again.
He turned to walk into the house and saw the girl again. She was leaning
against the gate post, looking up at him under her lashes. He stood
stock-still for a moment, amazed as at a vision, and then flung at her:
“You—you . . . didn’t you hear what I said?” She neither stirred nor
spoke.
John halted. He felt his fury going from him like wind from a pricked
bladder. In a second he would be no longer master of himself. In the
glow of morning she was handsomer than ever; she was young, not more
than twenty, there was a blue gloss on the black curls, the brass
earrings glinted among them; her skin had a golden sunburnt tint and her
eyes smoldered with curious lights.
“What do you want?” John stammered, suddenly husky.
The girl smiled up at him, a slow, full-lipped smile. “You won me . . .
so I came,” she said.
John’s heart leapt with old pagan pride. To the victor the spoils!—aye,
verily! He caught the girl by the shoulders and whirled her round so
that his own face came full to the sunrise.
“Do you see this?” he cried. “Look well, look well!”
The girl stared at him steadily, without a tremor, without the flick of
an eyelid, and then, bending, rubbed her forehead, cat-like, against his
shoulder.
“Marry,” she purred, “I’ve seen worse than that where I came from.”
For answer John caught her up in his arms and marched, shouting with
rough laughter, into the house, the tumbler girl clasped tight to his
breast, her arms about his neck.
To the victor the spoils!