The return of Ortho Penhale, nearly seven years after his supposed
death, caused a sensation in West Cornwall. The smuggling affair at
Monks Cove was remembered and exaggerated out of all semblance to the
truth. Millions of gallons had been run through by Ortho and his gang,
culminating in a pitched battle with the dragoons. Nobody could say how
many were killed in that affray, and it was affirmed that nobody ever
would know. Midnight buryings were hinted at, hush money and so on; a
dark, thrilling business altogether. Ortho was spoken of in the same
breath as King Nick and other celebrities of the “Trade.” His subsequent
adventures lost nothing in the mouths of the gossips. He had landed in
Barbary a slave and in the space of two years become a general. The
Sultan’s favorite queen fell in love with him; on being discovered in
her arms he had escaped by swimming four miles out to sea and
intercepting an East Indiaman, in which vessel he had visited India and
seen the Great Mogul.
Ortho discovered himself a personage. It was a most agreeable sensation.
Men in every walk of life rushed to shake his hand. He found himself
sitting in Penzance taverns in the exalted company of magistrates and
other notables telling the story of his adventures—with picturesque
additions.
And the women. Even the fine ladies in Chapel Street turned their proud
heads when he limped by. His limp was genuine to a point; but when he
saw a pretty woman ahead he improved on it to draw sympathy and felt
their softened eyes following him on his way, heard them whisper, “Ortho
Penhale, my dear . . . general in Barbary . . . twelve times
wounded. . . . How pale he looks and how handsome!”
A most agreeable sensation.
To insure that he should not pass unnoticed he affected a slight
eccentricity of attire. For him no more the buff breeches, the raffish
black and silver coats; dressed thus he might have passed for any
squire.
He wore instead the white trousers of a sailor, a marine’s scarlet tunic
he had picked up in a junk shop, a colored kerchief loosely knotted
about his throat, and on his bull curls the round fur cap of the sea.
There was no mistaking him. Small boys followed him in packs,
round-eyed, worshipful. . . . “Ortho Penhale, smuggler, Barbary lancer!”
If he had been popular once he was doubly popular now. The Monks Cove
incident was forgiven but not forgotten; it went to swell his credit, in
fact. To have arrested him on that old score would have been more than
the Collector’s life was worth. The Collector, prudent man, publicly
shook Penhale by the hand and congratulated him on his miraculous
escape.
Ortho found his hoard of six hundred and seventy pounds intact in the
hollow ash by Tumble Down and spent it freely. He gave fifty pounds to
Anson’s widow (who had married a prosperous cousin some years before,
forgotten poor Anson and did not need it) and put a further fifty in his
pockets to give to Tamsin Eva.
Bohenna told him the story as a joke, but Ortho was smitten with what he
imagined was remorse.
He remembered Tamsin—a slim, appealing little thing in blue, skin like
milk and a cascade of red gold hair. He must make some honorable
gesture—there were certain obligations attached to the rôle of local
hero. It was undoubtedly somewhat late in the day. The Trevaskis lout
had married the girl and accepted the paternity of the child (it was a
boy six years old now, Bohenna reported), but that made no difference;
he must make his gesture. Fifty pounds was a lot of money to a
struggling farmer; besides he would like to see Tamsin again—that
slender neck and marvelous hair! If Trevaskis wasn’t treating her
properly he’d take her away from him, boy and all; b’God, he would!
He went up to the Trevaskis homestead one afternoon and saw a meager
woman standing at the back of a small house washing clothes in a tub.
Her thin forearms were red with work, her hair was screwed up anyhow on
the top of her head and hung over her eyes in draggled rat’s-tails, her
complexion had faded through long standing over kitchen fires, her apron
was torn and her thick wool socks were thrust into a pair of clumsy
men’s boots.
It was some seconds before he recognized her as Tamsin. Tamsin after
seven years as a working man’s wife. A couple of dirty children of about
four and five were making mud pies at her feet, and in the cottage a
baby lifted its querulous voice.
She had other children then—two, three, half a dozen perhaps—huh!
Ortho turned about and limped softly away, unnoticed, the fifty pounds
still in his pockets.
Making amends to a pretty woman was one thing, but to a faded drudge
with a school of Trevaskis bantlings quite another suit of clothes.
He gave the fifty pounds to his mother, took her to Penzance and bought
her two flamboyant new dresses and a massive gold brooch. She adored
him. The hard times, scratching a penny here and there out of Eli, were
gone forever. Her handsome, free-handed son was back again, master of
Bosula and darling of the district. She rode everywhere with him, to
hurling matches, bull baitings, races and cock-fights, big with pride,
chanting his praises to all comers.
“That Eli would have seen me starve to death in a ditch,” she would say,
buttonholing some old crony in a tavern. “But Ortho’s got respect for
his old mother; he’d give me the coat off his back or the heart out of
his breast, he would, so help me!” (Hiccough.)
Mother and son rode together all over the Hundred, Teresa wreathed in
fat, splendid in attire, still imposing in her virile bulk; Ortho in his
scarlet tunic, laughing, gambling, dispensing free liquor, telling
amazing stories. Eli stayed at home, working on the farm, bewildered,
dumb, the look in his eyes of a suffering dog.
Christmas passed more merrily than ever before at the Owls’ House that
year. Half Gwithian was present and two fiddlers. Some danced in the
kitchen, the overflow danced in the barn, profusely decorated with
evergreens for the occasion so that it had the appearance of a candlelit
glade. Few of the men went to bed at all that night and, with the
exception of Eli, none sober. Twelfth Night was celebrated with a
similar outburst, and then people settled down to work again and Ortho
found himself at a loose end. He could always ride into Penzance and
pass the time of day with the idlers in the “Star,” but that was not to
his taste. He drank little himself and disliked the company.
Furthermore, he had told most of his tales and was in danger of
repeating them.
Ortho was wise enough to see that if he were not careful he would
degenerate from the local hero into the local bore—and gave Penzance a
rest. There appeared to be nothing for it but that he should get down to
work on the farm; after his last eight years it was an anti-climax which
presented few allurements.
Before long there would be no excuse for idleness. The Kiddlywink in
Monks Cove saw him most evenings talking blood and thunder with Jacky’s
George. He lay abed late of a morning and limped about the cliffs on
fine afternoons.
The Luddra Head was his favorite haunt; from its crest he could see from
the Lizard Point to the Logan Rock, some twenty miles east and west, and
keep an eye on the shipping. He would watch the Mount’s Bay fishing
fleets flocking out to their grounds; the Welsh collier brigs racing
up-channel jib-boom and jib-boom; mail packets crowding all sail for
open sea; a big blue-water merchantman rolling home from the world’s
ends, or a smart frigate logging nine knots on a bowline, tossing the
spray over her fo’csle in clouds. He would criticize their handling,
their rigs, make guesses as to their destinations and business.
It was comfortable up on the Head, a slab of granite at one’s back, a
springy cushion of turf to sit upon, the winter sunshine warming the
rocks, pouring all over one.
One afternoon he climbed the Head to find a woman sitting in his
particular spot. He cursed her under his breath, turned away and then
turned back again. Might as well see what sort of woman it was before he
went; you never knew. He crawled up the rocks, came out upon the granite
platform pretending he had not noticed the intruder, executed a
realistic start of surprise, and said, “Good morning to you.”
“Good afternoon,” the girl replied.
Ortho accepted the correction and remarked that the weather was fine.
The girl did not contest the obvious and went on with her work, which
was knitting.
Ortho looked her all over and was glad he had not turned back. A
good-looking wench this, tall yet well formed, with a strong white neck,
a fresh complexion and pleasant brown eyes. He wondered where she lived.
Gwithian parish? She had not come to his Christmas and Twelfth Night
parties.
He sat down on a rock facing her. “My leg,” he explained; “must rest
it.”
She made no remark, which he thought unkind; she might have shown some
interest in his leg.
“Got wounded in the leg in Barbary.”
The girl looked up. “What’s that?”
Ortho reeled slightly. Was it possible there was anybody in England, in
the wide world, who did not know where Barbary was?
“North coast of Africa, of course,” he retorted.
The girl nodded. “Oh, ’es, I believe I have heard father tell of it.
Dutch colony, isn’t it?”
“No,” Ortho barked.
The girl went imperturbably on with her knitting. Her shocking ignorance
did not appear to worry her in the least; she did not ask Ortho for
enlightenment and he did not feel like starting the subject again. The
conversation came to a full stop.
The girl was a ninny, Ortho decided; a feather-headed country ninny—yet
remarkably good looking for all that. He admired the fine shape of her
shoulders under the blue cloak, the thick curls of glossy brown hair
that escaped from her hood, and those fresh cheeks; one did not find
complexions like that anywhere else but here in the wet southwest. He
had an idea that a dimple would appear in one of those cheeks if she
laughed, perhaps in both. He felt he must make the ninny dimple.
“Live about here?” he inquired.
She nodded.
“So do I.”
No reply; she was not interested in where he lived, drat her! He
supplied the information. “I live at Bosula in the valley; I’m Ortho
Penhale.”
The girl did not receive this enthralling intelligence with proper
emotion. She looked at him calmly and said, “Penhale of Bosula, are ’e?
Then I s’pose you’m connected with Eli?”
Once more Ortho staggered. That any one in the Penwith Hundred should be
in doubt as to who he was, the local hero! To be known only as Eli’s
brother! It was too much! But he bit his lip and explained his
relationship to Eli in a level voice. The ninny was even a bigger fool
than he had thought, but dimple she should. The conversation came to a
second full stop.
Two hundred feet below them waves draped the Luddra ledges with shining
foam cloths, poured back, the crannies dribbling as with milk, and
launched themselves afresh. A subdued booming traveled upwards, died
away in a long-drawn sigh, then the boom again. Great mile-long stripes
and ribbons of foam outlined the coast, twisted by the tides into
strange patterns and arabesques, creamy white upon dark blue. Jackdaws
darted in and out of holes in the cliff-side and gulls swept and hovered
on invisible air currents, crying mournfully. In a bed of campions, just
above the toss of the breakers, a red dog fox lay curled up asleep in
the sun.
“Come up here often?” Ortho inquired, restarting the one-sided
conversation.
“No.”
“Ahem!—I do; I come up here to look at the ships.”
The girl glanced at him, a mischievous sparkle in her brown eyes. “Then
wouldn’t you see the poor dears better if you was to turn and face ’em,
Squire Penhale?”
She folded her knitting, stood up and walked away without another word.
Ortho arose also. She had had him there. Not such a fool after all, and
she had dimpled when she made that sally—just a wink of a dimple, but
entrancing. He had a suspicion she had been laughing at him, knew who he
was all the time, else why had she called him “Squire”?
By the Lord, laughing at him, was she? That was a new sensation for the
local hero. He flushed with anger. Blast the girl! But she was a damned
handsome piece for all that. He watched her through a peep-hole in the
rocks, watched her cross the neck of land, pass the earth ramparts of
the Luddra’s prehistoric inhabitants and turn left-handed along the
coast path. Then, when she was committed to her direction, he made after
her as fast as he was capable. Despite his wound he was capable of
considerable speed, but the girl set him all the pace he needed.
She was no featherweight, but she skipped and ran along the craggy path
as lightly as a hind. Ortho labored in the rear, grunting in admiration.
Catch her he could not; it was all he could do to keep her in sight.
Where a small stream went down to the sea through a tangle of thorn and
bramble she gave him the slip.
He missed the path altogether, went up to his knees in a bog hole and
got his smart white trousers in a mess. Ten minutes it took him to work
through that tangle, and when he came out on the far side there was no
sign of the girl. He cursed her, damned himself for a fool, swore he was
going back—and limped on. She must live close at hand; he’d try ahead
for another mile and then give it up.
Within half a mile he came upon Roswarva standing among its stunted
sycamores.
He limped up to the door and rapped it with his stick. Simeon Penaluna
came out. Ortho greeted him with warmth; but lately back from foreign
parts he thought he really must come and see how his good neighbor was
faring. Simeon was surprised; it was the first time the elder Penhale
had been to the house. This sudden solicitude for his welfare was
unlooked for.
He said he was not doing as badly as he might be and asked the visitor
in.
The visitor accepted, would just sit down for a moment or two and rest a
bit . . . his wounds, you know. . . .
A moment or two extended to an hour. Ortho was convinced the girl was
somewhere about—there were no other houses in the neighborhood—and,
now he came to remember, Penaluna had had a daughter in the old days, an
awkward child, all legs like a foal; the same girl, doubtless. She would
have to show up sooner or later. He talked and talked, and talked
himself into an invitation to supper. His persistency was rewarded; the
girl he had met on the cliffs brought the supper in and Simeon
introduced her as his daughter Mary. Not by a flicker of an eyelash did
she show that she had ever seen Ortho before, but curtsied to him as
grave as a church image.
It was ten o’clock before Ortho took his way homewards. He had not done
so badly, he thought. Mary Penaluna might pretend to take no interest in
his travels, but he had managed to hold Simeon’s ears fast enough.
The grim farmer had laughed till the tears started at Ortho’s
descriptions of the antics of the negro soldiers after the looting at
Figvig and the equatorial mummery on board the Indiaman.
Mary Penaluna might pretend not to be interested, but he knew better.
Once or twice, watching her out of the tail of his eye, he had seen her
lips twitch and part. He could tell a good story, and knew it. In
soldier camps and on shipboard he had always held his sophisticated
audiences at his tongue’s tip; it would be surprising if he could not
charm a simple farm girl.
More than ever he admired her—the soft glow on her brown hair as she
sat sewing, her broad, efficient hands, the bountiful curves of her. And
ecod! in what excellent order she kept the house! That was the sort of
wife for a farmer.
And he was a farmer now. Why, yes, certainly. He would start work the
very next day.
This wandering was all very well while one was young, but he was getting
on for thirty and holed all over with wounds, five to be precise. He’d
marry that girl, settle down and prosper.
As he walked home he planned it all out. His mother should stop at
Bosula of course, but she’d have to understand that Mary was mistress.
Not that that would disturb Teresa to any extent; she detested
housekeeping and would be glad to have it off her hands. Then there was
Eli, good old brother, best farmer in the duchy. Eli was welcome to stop
too and share all profits. Ortho hoped that he would stop, but he had
noticed that Eli had been very silent and strange since his home-coming
and was not sure of him—might be wanting to marry as well and branch
out for himself. Tregors had gone, but there was over four hundred
pounds of that smuggling money remaining, and if Eli wanted to set up
for himself he should have every penny of it to start him, every blessed
penny—it was not more than his due, dear old lad.
As soon as Mary accepted him—and he didn’t expect her to take more than
a week in making up her mind—he’d hand the money over to Eli with his
blessing. Before he reached home that night he had settled everybody’s
affairs to his own satisfaction and their advantage. Ortho was in a
generous mood, being hotly in love again.