laugh,--talking and laughing loudly himself all the time, but all was
unnatural. His apologies for his strange visitor were numerous. He was
an old friend who liked to come to him and see new faces and young life,
but was too old to do more than look on. He was deaf and dumb, that was
why his conduct was so strange. Sometimes the little old man sat unmoved
while these stories were told, at other times, though, he would spring up,
and with a burst of mocking laughter would disappear no one knew how.
By and by, of course, Ezekiel Grosse's friends began to leave him.
They declined his invitations, and omitted to include him in theirs, so
that in a comparatively short time he had not a single friend remaining of
all those he had spent so much upon.
Disappointed and miserable, he soon became the wreck of his old self.
Alone in his luxurious house now, save for his old clerk John Cull, he
could never be said to be quite alone, either, for wherever he went,
or whatever he did, the spectre haunted him persistently. Under this
persecution the attorney became a brokendown, miserable man, with every
feature stamped with terror. For a long time he bore with the merciless
ghost without complaining, but at last he came to an end of his endurance.
In heart-rending terms, with tears and piteous pleading, he begged the old
man to go away and leave him. He had been punished sufficiently, he said.
But his prayers were poured into deaf ears. The spectre absolutely
refused to go, and for some time stuck to his word. Then, at last he
consented, on one condition, and that was that Ezekiel should give up all
his wealth to someone the spectre should name.
"Who am I to give it to?" gasped Ezekiel humbly.
"To John Cull, the man you have overworked and underpaid for years.
John Cull, your clerk and dependent."
Ezekiel Grosse had been given wealth, happiness, friends, only to be
deprived of all, to be lowered in the eyes of all men, with not one to
pity him. This was the punishment designed by the frightful spectre,
who was no more nor less than an ancestor of the family Ezekiel Grosse had
robbed, the Rosewarnes. He had planned to punish the lawyer by whose
wickedness his family had been robbed and made homeless, and he carried
through his plan.
Poor Ezekiel Grosse did not live long in his disappointment and shame.
He was found dead one day, with strange marks upon him, and people who saw
it say that when he died the weird little spectre stood beside him with a
pleased smile on his face. As soon as it was dark, he disappeared,
and the story goes that he took Ezekiel's body with him, for from that day
to this it has never been seen.
THE STORY OF THE LOVERS' COVE.
This is a sad story,--at least, some will think it sad! It is not about
fairies, or giants, or witches, but about two lovers who loved each other
above and beyond everything else in the world;--which is uncommon,
for most people love themselves in that way first, and someone else next.
These two lovers loved each other passionately and devotedly. They used
to meet in the Lovers' Cove, or Porthangwartha,--which means the same,--
and many a happy meeting they had, and well did everything go until they
told their friends. After that there was such a talk and such a stir, and
such hardness and misery, that the lovers never again knew what it was to
be happy. The parents said that they _should not_ love each other,--which
was foolish, for they could not prevent it; that they should never meet
and never marry, which was cruel, for this they could prevent, and did.
So the poor lovers led a life of utter wretchedness, for they were
persecuted sadly, and were breaking their hearts for each other.
At last their persecutors ended by driving the young man away.
He determined to go to the West Indies. Then the relations congratulated
themselves heartily that they had got their own way, and parted the lovers
for ever.
In spite of all their precautions, though, those two poor heart-broken
lovers managed to meet once more; and as it was to be their very last
sight of each other for they did not know how long, perhaps for ever,
it was a very, very sad parting indeed.
It was in the Lovers' Cove that they met, and there, under the frosty
light of the moon, they bade each other their sad good-byes, and while
they clung to each other for the last time, they made a solemn vow that,
living or dead, they would meet again in that same place at that same hour
of the same day three years hence.
So the young man sailed away, and the girl lived with her parents,
going about her duties quietly and patiently, and, in spite of her
sadness, with a look of hope in her eyes that increased and increased as
the weeks and months slipped by. Her parents noticed it, and told
themselves that she had forgotten the banished lover, and would soon learn
to care for one of those they approved of. When, though, she had refused
to listen to any of the others who came wooing her, they began to fear
that they were mistaken, and were puzzled to know what it was that was
driving the wistfulness from her face, and the languor from her step.
So the long years dragged to a close, and at last, as it was bound to do,
the end of the three years drew very near, and with each day the girl's
step grew lighter and more buoyant, her eyes glistened and her lips curved
in a smile that was new to them. Now and then even a snatch of song burst
from them. Her parents had no doubt now that she had quite forgotten the
lover whose name had not been mentioned in her presence since the day he
sailed.
Then, at last, the three years were really past and gone, the last day
dawned and wore away to evening, and then night fell, moonlit, still,
beautiful, a fitting night for lovers who were to meet once more, whether
living or dead. In the Cove it was as light as day, one could count each
wave as it rose and fell, and see distinctly the white foam at its edge as
it broke on the beach. The sands gleamed like silver in the sad white
light save where the rocks threw dark shadows.
All round the coast the witches and wizards were busy manufacturing their
spells. High up on a cliff overlooking the Lovers' Cove an old woman,--
not a witch,--was sitting preparing her herbs and simples,--which must
always be done by moonlight,--when suddenly she was startled to see down
in the Cove below her the figure of the maiden swiftly crossing the sands.
The old dame, who recognized the girl, was startled for it was nearly
twelve o'clock, and in that part most people are in bed by nine.
Swiftly and unhesitatingly the girl made her way to a rock far out on the
sands, and close to the water. Up the rock she climbed, and sat herself
down as though it had been noon on a fine summer's day. Did not she know,
wondered the old woman nervously, that the tide was rapidly rising, and
the rock being fast surrounded? Apparently, though, the maiden did not
know, or care, for there she sat immovable, her face turned towards the
sea, gazing at it with bright intent eyes, as though searching its face
for something.
At last the old woman grew so alarmed she could endure the suspense no
longer. The girl's danger increased every moment, and she felt it her
duty to go and warn her, and give her what help she could. So with
trembling limbs and fast-beating heart she hurried as fast as she was able
down the side of the cliff. The path, though, was rough and winding, and
she was old. At one point the end of the beach where the girl sat was cut
off from her view. It was only for a moment, certainly, yet when the old
dame caught sight of her again, she saw, to her amazement, that a fine
young sailor had also mounted the rock, and was seated close beside her!
He too, sailor though he was, seemed quite unconscious of their danger.
They sat there on the water-surrounded rock, he with arm around the girl,
she with her head on his breast, oblivious of everything but each other.
"Oh ho! my young woman!" said the old dame to herself, "so this is how you
pass your time while your lover is away! and after the way you pretended
to love him, too!" She felt quite cross, for she was very tired and very
frightened and in no mood to smile at lovers' foolishness. She sat
herself down on a rock by the path they would have to ascend, determined
to await their return, partly to give the maiden a good sound scolding for
her reckless behaviour, and partly to satisfy her curiosity by seeing who
the young man was who had won her heart away from the absent lover.
The lovers, though, appeared in no hurry to move. There they sat clinging
together, with the moon shining down coldly on them, and the water
gleaming around them. The wind had died away until there seemed to be
scarcely a breath of air stirring, and the sea lay as calm as a lake.
The whole scene resembled Fairyland, with the lovers as two spirits
watching over the Cove. The tide rose higher and higher, and the only
sound to be heard in that lone, desolate spot was the lazy plash of the
waves on the shore, and around the cliffs.
In a short time the water rose so high that the rock was almost covered;
to get off it now the lovers would have to swim; yet still they paid no
heed. They seemed lost to everything but each other.
It was all so ghostly and uncanny that the poor old woman grew wild with
nervousness and excitement. She called and called to them at the top of
her voice, but she failed to make it reach them. The plash of the waves
and the sighing of the gently heaving sea seemed to swallow it up.
And when at last a wave came up and washed right over them, she shrieked
aloud, distracted by her own helplessness, and covered her eyes with her
apron. She could not bear to look and watch them being drowned.
With her face hidden she waited, breathless, for their shrieks for help,--
but none came. She uncovered her eyes and looked at the rock,--it was
bare, save for the water which now covered it. She gazed frantically
around, first at the beach, then out to sea; the beach was empty, save for
herself, but out on the sea were the two lovers, floating out on the
scarcely moving waters, hand in hand, gazing into each other's eyes,
smiling happily and without sign of struggle. Further and further away
they drifted. Then across the still waters came the sound of sweet low
voices singing, and in the stillness which hung over everything the very
words sounded distinctly:--
I am thine,
Thou art mine,
Beyond control;
In the wave
Be the grave
Of heart and soul.
Slowly, slowly they passed out through the moonlit sea, sweetly chanting
their pathetic song; until at last they turned and faced the shore; and in
that moment the old woman recognized in the sailor the lonely maiden's
lover, who had been driven away by her parents so long before.
One long look they took at the Lovers' Cove and the black rock on which
they had met, then turned their happy faces to each other, their lips
meeting in one long, long kiss, and while their lips were meeting they
sank quickly beneath the waves.
A few days later the maiden's body was found not far from the Lovers'
Cove; and some time after news reached the village that on the very night
that she had been seen with him on the rock he had been killed in a
foreign land.
THE SILVER TABLE.
Off Cudden Point, in the parish of Perranuthnoe, there lies buried in the
sea, treasure enough to make anyone who finds it, one of the wealthiest
persons in the whole county.
Now and then, during the spring-tides, when the water is very low,
small portions of it are found, just enough to keep up the excitement,
and cause dozens of children from all the neighbourhood round to gather
there in a swarm, to search among the seaweeds, and dig in the sands,
and venture out in the sea itself as far as they dare. It is only about
once in a blue moon that they do come upon treasure, but there is always
the hope that any hour or day may bring them a big find.
Jewellery and coins, and silver goblets, are some of the treasures they
seek, but the greatest of all is no less a thing than a table, a large and
massive table, too, made of solid silver.
I am sure you would like to know why they expect such a prize, so I will
tell you.
Many, many years ago there lived in those parts a very wealthy man.
He was also a very wicked one, indeed it was said that he was no other
than the Lord of Pengerswick, of whom you will have read in another of
these stories. It was rather difficult to say for certain, for the wicked
old man being an enchanter could go about in all kinds of disguises,
so that only those who had the gift of 'second sight' could discover him.
Anyhow, if this rich, bad man was not the Lord of Pengerswick he was
someone just as wicked, and just as rich. I believe, though, it was that
old enchanter, and, at any rate, we will call him so for the time.
The old gentleman had plenty of money and he spent it freely too, for it
cost him no trouble to get. He ground it out of the poor, and in the most
cruel manner. As he got it so easily he did not mind wasting it, and he
kept 'open house' as they call it,--that is, he always had a houseful of
visitors, men and women who were nearly as bad as he was, and he provided
them with every kind of luxury, and pleasure, and amusement that he could
think of. They rode pell-mell over the country on fiery, unmanageable
horses, breaking down the farmers' hedges, trampling down the land,
hunting, shooting, dancing and gambling! They did anything and everything
that was wild, and foolish, and exciting, in order to make the days pass
pleasantly.
One very, very hot summer's day, though, when the sun was pouring down
pitilessly, scorching up everything, and there was scarcely a breath of
air to be found, and it was too hot to dance, or to ride, or do anything
tiring, this gay crew thought they would like to spend some hours on the
sea, where it was cooler than on the land.
So the Lord of Pengerswick, always glad to show off his possessions,
ordered his largest and most sumptuous barge to be set afloat, and stored
with every kind of luxury, and every sort of dainty thing he could think
of, and the gay party went on board. Seated on silken cushions under an
awning of cloth of gold, they began at once to feast on the marvellous
dainties spread for them on a large solid silver table, and all the time
they feasted and laughed and jested, delicate music and singing wafted
towards them from the far end of the boat, to charm their ears if they
cared to listen.
While, though, the awning sheltered them from the sun, it also concealed
from them a little cloud which presently appeared in the sky; and the
music, talk and laughter drowned the sound of a little breeze that sighed
round the vessel.
The little breeze sighed, and went away unnoticed, but presently returned,
not little now, but very big, and determined to be heard; but they were,
by this time, making such a noise on board, that even the louder breeze
went unheeded, until, grown quite angry, in a gust of fury it struck the
boat--and what happened next no one knows, for none were left to tell the
tale,--except the breeze, and he went scuffling off to another point.
This only is known, that where the barge had floated nothing was to be
seen but a desolate expanse of water, but for years and years afterwards,
when the wind was in the right direction, the fishermen heard sounds of
laughter and talking coming up from the bottom of the sea, the rattle of
plates and the jingle of glasses, and through it all the strains of sweet
music, and deep voices singing. If the moon was in the right quarter and
the water very still, far down beneath the waves could be seen the
gleaming silver table, and the wicked old Lord of Pengerswick and his
guests still seated round it keeping up their revels.
The feasting must all have ceased by this time, though, for no sound is
ever heard now, and it is long since anyone has caught sight of the
pleasure-loving crew. A part of the treasure has been cast up by the sea,
and seized by the descendants of the poor people the old lord robbed, and
it seems quite possible that if they only wait long enough, and the tide
goes out far enough, someone will be so fortunate as to find the silver
table.
CRUEL COPPINGER, THE DANE.
One of the most terrific storms ever known was raging on the north coast
of Cornwall. The gale, blowing up channel from the southwest, broke with
such fury on that bold, unsheltered piece of coast by Morwenstow, that the
wreckers, who were gathered on the shore and heights above, had more than
enough to do to keep their feet. The rain came down in driving sheets,
shutting off the sea from their eager eyes, so that they could see nothing
of the prey they were watching for.
Beaten down, drenched, well-nigh frozen, even these hardy men were on the
point of giving way before the fury of the hurricane, when suddenly from
out the sheets of driving rain loomed a vessel, a foreigner. If she had
been a phantom ship, as at first they thought she must be, she could not
have appeared more strangely, suddenly, or unexpectedly. But it was no
phantom battling so bravely, yet so hopelessly with the fierce waves,
ploughing her way through them, defying their efforts to draw her down and
devour her. She rolled and lurched heavily, and was driven closer and
closer on to the jagged rocks of that cruel coast; her sails were in rags,
and she herself was utterly beyond control.
As she drew nearer, the terror-stricken faces of those on board
could be plainly seen, clinging to each other or to the masts,
praying, gesticulating, or too frightened to do anything but gaze with
fixed and ghastly eyes at the awful fate awaiting them.
Standing near the wheel was a man who, even at such a time, seemed to hold
himself apart from the rest. He was of gigantic size, towering above the
heads of the rest of them. He had stripped himself of his clothing, and
was evidently awaiting a suitable moment to plunge off the vessel into the
boiling ocean, and fight his hand-to-hand battle with death. At last the
right moment came. Without an instant's hesitation he plunged over the
side into the raging waters. Then rising again, in a moment or two, to
the surface, like a perfect Hercules, he fought his way through the
billows, his strong arm and massive chest defying their power. On, on he
went, now riding on the top of a huge boiling mountain of water, now down
in the hollow, with the raging sea rising above him, so that it seemed he
must be swallowed and crushed in their embrace.
Long the struggle continued, and the excitement on shore grew intense,
for no one thought it possible that he could reach the land alive.
But, after a terrible fight which would have exhausted anyone not endowed
with supernatural powers, his bravery was rewarded, and with one
tremendous leap he landed safely on the shore, well beyond the deadly
clutch of the waves.
All the people of the country-side seemed now to have gathered to witness
the marvellous combat, men and women, on horse and on foot, wreckers,
fishermen, and what not,--and into the midst of them all rushed the
dripping stranger. Apparently not in the least exhausted, he snatched the
scarlet cloak off the shoulders of an old woman, and wrapping it about
himself, as suddenly sprang up behind a young woman, who was sitting on
her horse watching the wreck, and urging the animal on to a furious
gallop, rode off in the direction of the young woman's home. The people
shouted and screamed, for they thought the poor girl was being carried
off, no one knew where, by the Evil One himself; but the strange cries,
which they took to be the language of the Lower Regions, were only a
foreign tongue, and the horse made for its own stable by instinct.
When Miss Dinah Hamlyn and her reeking steed dashed into the courtyard of
her own home, closely clasped by a tall wicked-looking man wrapped in a
scarlet cloak, the outcry was doubled. There was nothing to be done,
though, but to give the stranger a suit of Mr. Hamlyn's clothes, and some
food, and very comely he looked in the long coat, the handsome waistcoat,
knee-breeches, and buckled shoes.
He accepted the clothes, and the food, and indeed all their attention,
as a matter of course, and having informed them that his name was
Coppinger, and that he was a Dane, he seemed to think he had done all that
was required of him, and settled down in the family circle as though he
were one of them, and as welcome as though he were an old family friend.
Of the distressed vessel, and the rest of the shipwrecked crew, nothing
more was seen from the moment the big man left her. How or where she
disappeared no one knew, all eyes had been fixed on the struggling swimmer
from the moment he leapt into the sea; and when they had looked again the
ship had gone, and no trace or sign of her or her crew was ever found on
that coast, or on any other.
At first Coppinger made himself most agreeable to the people he had
appeared amongst, he was pleasant and kind beyond anything you can
imagine. Miss Dinah Hamlyn thought him a very attractive man, indeed,
and not only forgave him for his first treatment of her, but thought it
something to be proud of. Old Mr. Hamlyn liked the man, too, and was as
kind to him as could be, giving him the best he had, and even at last
consenting to his marriage with Miss Dinah herself, though against his own
feelings.
Coppinger had given out that he was a Dane of noble birth and great
wealth, who had run away to escape marrying a lady he disliked.
Old Farmer Hamlyn did not like his daughter to marry a 'furriner,' and he
considered that people should marry in their own stations; but Dinah
herself loved the man all the better for what he had told them, and
between them they soon overcame the father's scruples, and the wedding-day
was fixed.
The wedding-day had to be postponed, though, for Farmer Hamlyn fell ill,
grew rapidly worse, and in a very short time was dead and buried. As soon
as this was over a great change came over things. Master Coppinger began
to show himself in his true character, and a very black character indeed
his was! So black and so bad that for generations his mere name was a
terror to the people who lived in that part of the world, and is detested
to this day.
As soon as poor Farmer Hamlyn had passed away, Coppinger made himself
master and controller of the house and all in it, even to the smallest
domestic affairs. Dinah he persuaded to marry him at once, and hardly had
she done so, when all the evil in his character made itself known, and as
though to make up for having so long suppressed his wicked passions,
he utterly threw off all appearance of goodness or respectability, and
poor respectable Farmer Hamlyn's quiet, happy home became a den of thieves
and vagabonds, and a meeting-place for all the lawless characters in the
county.
Then it very soon came out that the whole country-side was infested with a
body of smugglers, wreckers, poachers, robbers, and murderers, over all of
whom 'Cruel Coppinger,' as he came to be called by the honest people in
the neighbourhood, was captain and ringleader.
He and his gang worked their own wicked will, and the poor inhabitants of
the place were completely in their power, for there were no magistrates,
or rich men of power in that part, and no revenue officer dared show
himself. The clergyman was scared into silence, and Coppinger and his
band ruled the country-side.
Very soon a regular system of smuggling was carried on. All sorts of
strange vessels appeared on that part of the coast, and were guided by
signals to a safe creek or cove, where they were unloaded, and the
valuable, illegal spoil brought in and hidden in the huge caves, which no
one but Coppinger and his crew dared to enter, for it would have meant
torture and death.
By and by one particular vessel, the 'Black Prince,' Coppinger's own,
which he had had built for him in Denmark, became a perfect terror to all
the other vessels in the parts she frequented. Coppinger and his crew
sailed the seas as though they belonged to them, robbing, murdering,
and doing every evil thing they could think of.
If a vessel chased them, they led her into such dangerous parts of the
coast that her whole crew invariably perished, while the 'Black Prince'
glided out by some intricate passage, and got safely off. If one of the
poor landsmen offended any of the gang, away he was dragged to Coppinger's
vessel, and there made to serve until he was ransomed, and as the people
were almost reduced to beggary by the rogues, there was very little chance
of the poor fellow's ever being free again.