One evening, in late February, there was mullet pie for supper which was
so much to Teresa’s taste that she ate more than even her heroic
digestive organs could cope with, rent the stilly night with
lamentations and did not get up for breakfast. Towards nine o’clock, she
felt better, at eleven was herself again and, remembering it was Paul
Feast, dressed in her finery and rode off to see the sport.
She arrived to witness what appeared to be a fratricidal war between the
seafaring stalwarts of the parish and the farm hands. A mob of boys and
men surged about a field, battling claw and hoof for the possession of a
cow-hide ball which occasionally lobbed into view, but more often lay
buried under a pile of writhing bodies.
Teresa was very fond of these rough sports and journeyed far and wide to
see them, but what held her interest most that afternoon was a party of
gentry who had ridden from Penzance to watch the barbarians at play. Two
ladies and three gentlemen there were, the elder woman riding pillion,
the younger side-saddle. They were very exquisite and superior, watched
the uncouth mob through quizzing glasses and made witty remarks after
the manner of visitors at a menagerie commenting on near-human antics of
the monkeys. The younger woman chattered incessantly; a thinly pretty
creature, wearing a gold-braided cocked hat and long brown coat cut in
the masculine mode.
“Eliza, Eliza, I beseech you look at that woman’s stomacher! . . . And
that wench’s farthingale! Elizabethan, I declare; one would imagine
oneself at a Vauxhall masquerade. Mr. Borlase, I felicitate you on your
entertainment.” She waved her whip towards the mob. “Bear pits are
tedious by comparison. I must pen my experiences for _The
Spectator_—‘Elegantia inter Barbaros, or a Lady’s Adventures Among the
Wild Cornish.’ Tell me, pray, when it is all over do they devour the
dead? We must go before that takes place; I shall positively expire of
fright—though my cousin Venables, who has voyaged the South Seas, tells
me cannibals are, as a rule, an amiable and loving people, vastly
preferable to Tories. Captain Angus, I have dropped my kerchief . . .
you neglect me, sir! My God, Eliza, there’s a handsome boy! . . . Behind
you. . . . The gypsy boy on the sorrel pony. What a pretty young rogue!”
The whole party turned their heads to look at the Romany Apollo. Teresa
followed their example and beheld it was Ortho. Under the delusion that
his mother was abed and, judging by the noise she made, at death’s door,
he had ventured afield in company with four young Hernes. He wore no
cap, his sleeve was ripped from shoulder to cuff and he was much
splashed all down his back and legs. He did not see his mother; he was
absorbed in the game. Teresa shut her teeth, and drew a long, deep
breath through them.
The battle suddenly turned against the fishermen; the farm hands,
uttering triumphant howls, began to force them rapidly backwards towards
the Church Town. Ortho and his ragged companions wheeled their mounts
and ambled downhill to see the finish. Teresa did not follow them. She
found her horse, mounted and rode straight home.
“The gypsy boy on the sorrel pony—the _gypsy_ boy!”
People were taking her Ortho, Ortho Penhale of Bosula and Tregors, for a
vagabond Rom, were they?
She was furious, but admitted they had cause—dressed like a scarecrow
and mixed up with a crowd of young horse thieves! Teresa swore so
savagely that her horse started. Anyhow she would stop it at once, at
once—she’d settle all this gypsy business—_gypsy_! Time after time she
had vowed to send Ortho to school, but she was always hard up when it
came to the point, and year after year slipped by. He must be somewhere
about sixteen now—fifteen, sixteen or seventeen—she wasn’t sure, and
it didn’t matter to a year or so, she could look it up in the parish
registers if need be. He should go to Helston like his father and learn
to be a gentleman—and, incidentally, learn to keep accounts. It would
be invaluable to have some one who could handle figures; then the damned
tradesmen wouldn’t swindle her and she’d have money again.
“The gypsy boy!” . . . The words stung her afresh. Had she risen out of
the muck of vagrancy to have her son slip back into it? Never! She’d
settle all that. Not for a moment did she doubt her ability to cope with
Ortho. What must John in heaven be thinking of her stewardship? She wept
with mingled anger and contrition. To-morrow she’d open a clean page.
Ortho should go to school at once. _Gypsy!_ She’d show them!
She was heavily in debt, but the money should be found somehow. All the
way home she was planning ways and means.
Ortho returned late that night and went to bed unconscious that he had
been found out. Next morning he was informed that he was to go with his
mother to Penzance. This was good tidings. He liked going to town with
Teresa. She bought all kinds of eatables and one saw life, ladies and
gentlemen; a soldier or two sometimes; blue-water seamen drunk as lords
and big wind-bound ships at anchor. He saddled the dun pony and jogged
alongside her big roan, prattling cheerfully all the way.
She watched him, her interest aroused. He certainly was good looking,
with his slim uprightness, eager expression, and quick, graceful
movements. He had luminous dark eyes, a short nose, round chin and crisp
black curls—like her own. He was like her in many ways, many ways. Good
company too. He told her several amusing stories and laughed heartily at
hers. A debonair, attractive boy, very different from his brother. She
felt suddenly drawn towards him. He would make a good companion when he
came back from school. His looks would stir up trouble in sundry
dove-cotes later on, she thought, and promised herself much amusement,
having no sympathy for doves.
It was not until they arrived in Penzance that she broke the news that
he was going to school. Ortho was a trifle staggered at first, but, to
her surprise, took it very calmly, making no objections. In the first
place it was something new, and the prospect of mixing with a herd of
other boys struck him as rather jolly; secondly, he was fancying himself
enormously in the fine clothes with which Teresa was loading him; he had
never had anything before but the roughest of home-spuns stitched
together by Martha and speedily reduced to shreds. He put the best suit
on there and then, and strutted Market Jew Street like a young peacock
ogling its first hen.
They left Penzance in the early afternoon (spare kit stuffed in the
saddle-bags). In the ordinary way Teresa would have gone straight to the
“Angel” at Helston and ordered the best, but now, in keeping with her
new vow of economy, she sought a free night’s lodging at Tregors—also
she wanted to raise some of the rent in advance.
Ortho was entered at his father’s old school next day.
Teresa rode home pleasantly conscious of duty done, and Ortho plunged
into the new world, convinced that he had only to smile and conquer. In
which he erred. He was no longer a Penhale in his own parish,
prospective squire of the Keigwin Valley, but an unsophisticated young
animal thrust into a den of sophisticated young animals and therefore a
heaven-sent butt for their superior humor. Rising seventeen, and set to
learn his A, B, C in the lowest form among the babies! This gave the
wits an admirable opening. That he could ride, sail a boat and shoot
anything flying or running weighed as nothing against his ignorance of
Latin declensions.
He sought to win some admiration, or even tolerance for himself by
telling of his adventures with Pyramus and Jacky’s George, but it had
the opposite effect. His tormentors (sons of prosperous land owners and
tradesmen) declared that any one who associated with gypsies and
fishermen must be of low caste himself and taunted him unmercifully.
They would put their hands to their mouths and halloo after the manner
of fish-hawkers. “Mackerel! Fresh mack-erel! . . . Say, Penhale, what’s
the price of pilchards to-day?”
Or “Hello, Penhale, there’s one of your Pharaoh mates at the gate—with
a monkey. Better go and have a clunk over old times.”
Baiting Penhale became a fashionable pastime. Following the example of
their elders, the small boys took up the ragging. This was more than
Ortho could stand. He knocked some heads together, whereby earning the
reputation of a bully.
A bulky, freckled lad named Burnadick, propelled by friends and
professing himself champion of the oppressed, challenged Ortho to fight.
Ortho had not the slightest desire to fight the reluctant champion, but
the noncombatants (as is the way with noncombatants) gave him no option.
They formed a ring round the pair and pulled the coats off them.
For a moment or two it looked as if Ortho would win. An opening punch
took him under the nose and stung him to such a pitch of fury that he
tumbled on top of the freckled one, whirling like a windmill, fairly
smothering him. But the freckled one was an old warrior; he dodged and
side-stepped and propped straight lefts to the head whenever he got a
chance, well knowing that Ortho could not last the crazy pace.
Ortho could not, or any mortal man. In a couple of minutes he was
puffing and grunting, swinging wildly, giving openings everywhere. The
heart was clean out of him; he had not wanted to fight in the first
place and the popular voice was against him. Everybody cheered
Burnadick; not a single whoop for him. He ended tamely, dropped his
fists and gave Burnadick best. The mob jeered and hooted and crowded
round the victor, who shook them off and walked away, licking his raw
knuckles. He had an idea of following Penhale and shaking hands with him
. . . hardly knew what the fight had been about . . . wished the other
fellows weren’t always arranging quarrels for him; they never gave his
knuckles time to heal. He’d have a chat with Penhale one of these days
. . . to-morrow perhaps. . .
His amiable intentions never bore fruit, for on the morrow his mother
was taken ill, and he was summoned home and nobody else had any kindly
feelings for Ortho. He wrestled with incomprehensible primers among
tittering infants during school hours; out of school he slunk about,
alone always, cold-shouldered everywhere. His sociable soul grew sick
within him, he rebelled at the sparse feeding, hated the irritable,
sarcastic ushers, the bewildering tasks, the boys, the confinement,
everything. At night, in bed, he wept hot tears of misery.
A spell of premature spring weather touched the land. Incautious buds
popped out in the Helston back gardens; the hedgerow gorse was
gilt-edged; the warm scent of pushing greenery blew in from the
hillsides. Armadas of shining cloud cruised down the blue. Ortho,
laboriously spelling C, A, T, cat, R, A, T, rat, in a drowsy classroom,
was troubled with dreams. He saw the Baragwanath family painting the
_Game Cock_ on the Cove slip, getting her summer suit out of store; saw
the rainbows glimmering over the Twelve Apostles, the green and silver
glitter of the Channel beyond; smelt sea-weed; heard the lisp of the
tide. He dreamt of Pyramus Herne wandering northwards with Lussha, and
the other boys behind bringing up the horses, wandering over hill and
dale, new country out-reeling before him every day. He bowed over the
desk and buried his face in the crook of his arm.
A fly explored the spreading ear of “Rusty Rufus,” the junior usher. He
woke out of his drowse, one little pig eye at a time, and glanced
stealthily round his class. Two young gentlemen were playing noughts and
crosses, two more were flipping pellets at each other; a fifth was
making chalk marks on the back of a sixth, who in turn was absorbed in
cutting initials in the desk; a seventh appeared to be asleep. Rufus,
having slumbered himself, passed over the first six and fell upon his
imitator.
“Penhale, come here,” he rumbled and reached for his stick.
Ortho obeyed. The usher usually indulged in much labored sarcasm at the
boy’s expense, but he was too lazy that afternoon.
“Hand,” he growled.
Ortho held out his hand. “Rufus” swung back the stick and measured the
distance with a puckered eye. Ortho hated him; he was a loathly sight,
lying back in his chair, shapeless legs straddled out before him, fat
jowl bristling with the rusty stubble from which he got his name,
protuberant waistcoat stained with beer and snuff—a hateful beast! An
icy glitter of cruelty—a flicker as of lightning reflected on a
stagnant pool—suddenly lit the indolent eyes of the junior usher and
down came the cane whistling. But Ortho’s hand was not there to receive
it. How it came about he never knew. He was frightened by the revealing
blaze in Rufus’ eyes, but he did not mean to shirk the stick; his hand
withdrew itself of its own accord, without orders from his brain—a
muscular twitch. However it happened the results were fruitful. Rufus
cut himself along the inside of his right leg with all his might. He
dropped the stick, bounded out of his chair and hopped about the class,
cursing horribly, yelping with pain. Ortho stood transfixed, horrified
at what he had done. A small boy, his eyes round with admiration, hissed
at him from behind his hand:
“Run, you fool—he’ll kill you!”
Ortho came to his senses and bolted for the door.
But Rufus was too quick for him. He bounded across the room, choking,
spluttering, apoplectic, dirty fat hands clawing the air. He clawed
Ortho by the hair and collar and dragged him to him. Ortho hit out
blindly, panicked. He was too frightened to think; he thought Rufus was
going to kill him and fought for his life with the desperation of a
cornered rat. He shut his eyes and teeth, rammed Rufus in the only part
of him he could reach, namely the stomach. One, two, three, four, five,
six, seven—it was like hitting a jelly. At the fourth blow he felt the
usher’s grip on him loosen. At the fifth he was free, the sixth sent the
man to the floor, the seventh was wasted.
Rufus lay on the boards, clutching his stomach, making the most dreadful
retching noises. The small boys leapt up on their desks cheering and
exhorting Ortho to run. He ran. Out of the door, across the court, out
of the gates, up the street and out into the country. Ran on and on
without looking where he was going, on and on.
It was fully an hour later before it occurred to him that he was running
north, but he did not change direction.
* * * * *
Teresa was informed of Ortho’s sensational departure two days later. The
school authorities sent to Bosula, expecting to find the boy had
returned home and were surprised that he had not. Where had he got to?
Teresa had an idea that he was hiding somewhere in the district, and
combed it thoroughly, but Ortho was not forthcoming. The gypsy camp was
long deserted, and Jacky’s George had gone to visit his Scillonian
sister by the somewhat circuitous route of Guernsey.
It occurred to her that he might be lying up in the valley,
surreptitiously fed by Eli, and put Bohenna on to beat it out, but the
old hind drew blank. She then determined that he was with the tinners
around St. Just (a sanctuary for many a wanted Cornishman), and since
there was no hope of extricating him from their underground labyrinths
the only thing to do was to wait. He’d come home in time, she said, and
promised the boy a warm reception when he did.
Then came a letter from Pyramus Herne—dictated to a public letter
writer. Pyramus was at Ashburton buying Dartmoor ponies and Ortho was
with him. Pyramus was profuse with regrets and disclaimed all
responsibility. Ortho had caught up with him at Launceston, foot-sore,
ragged, starving, terrified—but adamant. He, Pyramus, had chided him,
begged him to return, even offered to lend him a horse to carry him back
to Helston or Bosula, but Ortho absolutely refused to do
either—declaring that rather than return he would kill himself. What
was to be done? He could not turn a friendless and innocent boy adrift
to starve or be maltreated by the beggars, snatch-purses and loose women
who swarmed into the roads at that season of the year. What was he to
do? He respectfully awaited Teresa’s instructions, assuring her that in
the meanwhile Ortho should have the best his poor establishment afforded
and remained her ladyship’s obedient and worshipful servant, etc.
Teresa took the letter to the St. Gwithian parish clerk to be read and
bit her lip when she learnt the contents. The clerk asked her if she
wanted a reply written, but she shook her head and went home. Ortho
could not be brought back from Devon handcuffed and kept chained in his
room. There was nothing to be done.
So her son had reverted to type. She did not think it would last long.
The Hernes were prosperous for gypsies. Ortho would not go short of
actual food and head cover, but there would be days of trudging against
the wind and rain, soaked and trickling from head to heel, beds in wet
grass; nights of thunder with horses breaking loose and tumbling over
the tents; shuddering dawns chilling the very marrow; parched noons
choked with dust; riots at fairs, cudgels going and stones flying;
filth, blows, bestiality, hard work and hard weather, hand to mouth all
the way. Ortho was no glutton for punishment; he would return to the
warm Owls’ House ere long, curl up gratefully before the fire, cured of
his wanderlust. All was for the best doubtless, Teresa considered, but
she packed Eli off to school in his place; the zest for duty was still
strong in her—and, furthermore, she must have somebody who could keep
accounts.