[Illustration: “‘There he is,’ said Bride softly to Eustace. ‘I think
you had better go to him alone.’... Without pausing to rehearse any
speech, Eustace walked up to the lonely figure on the rocks, holding
out his hand in greeting.”--P. 234.]
EUSTACE MARCHMONT
A FRIEND OF THE PEOPLE
BY
EVELYN EVERETT-GREEN
[Illustration]
BOSTON:
A. I. BRADLEY & CO.
PUBLISHERS.
[Illustration]
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I. ON CHRISTMAS EVE 1
II. THE DUCHESS OF PENARVON 17
III. THE HOUSE OF MOURNING 32
IV. THE DUKE’S HEIR 48
V. MAN OF THE WORLD AND MYSTIC 63
VI. THE GOSPEL OF DISCONTENT 78
VII. THE KINDLED SPARK 94
VIII. BRIDE’S PERPLEXITIES 111
IX. THE WAVE OF REVOLT 129
X. A STRANGE NIGHT 145
XI. DUKE AND DEFAULTER 160
XII. AUTUMN DAYS 176
XIII. TWO ENCOUNTERS 193
XIV. EUSTACE’S DILEMMA 209
XV. STIRRING DAYS 225
XVI. THE POLLING AT PENTREATH 242
XVII. THE DUKE’S CARRIAGE 258
XVIII. ABNER’S PATIENT 274
XIX. THE BULL’S HORNS 289
XX. BRIDE’S VIGIL 307
XXI. FROM THE DEAD 322
XXII. SAUL TRESITHNY 337
XXIII. BRIDE’S PROPOSAL 353
XXIV. CONCLUSION 368
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
EUSTACE MARCHMONT
CHAPTER I
_ON CHRISTMAS EVE_
“Yer’s tu thee, old apple-tree,
Be zure yu bud, be zure yu blaw,
And bring voth apples gude enough
Hats vul! caps vul!
Dree bushel bags vul!
Pockets vul and awl!
Urrah! Urrah!
Aw ’ess, hats vul, caps vul!
And dree bushel bags vul!
Urrah! Urrah! Urrah!”
This strange uncouth song was being chanted by moonlight by two score
or more of rough West-Country voices. For half-a-mile the sound was
carried by the sea-breeze, and all the cottagers within hearing of the
chant had run forth to join, both in the song and in the ceremony which
it marked.
For it was Christmas Eve, and Farmer Teazel was “christening his
apple-trees,” according to the time-honoured custom of the place. And
when the trees were being thus christened, there was cider to be had
for the asking; and the farmer’s cider was famed as being the best in
all St. Bride’s, or indeed in any of the adjacent parishes.
The moon shone frostily bright in a clear dark sky. A thin white
carpet of sparkling frost coated the ground; but the wind blew from
the west over the rippling sea, and was neither cruel nor fierce, so
that even little children were caught up by their mothers to assist at
this yearly ceremony; and Farmer Teazel’s orchard had, by ten o’clock,
become the centre of local attraction, fully a hundred voices swelling
the rude chant as the largest and best trees in the plantation were
singled out as the recipients of the peculiar attentions incident to
the ceremony.
First, copious libations of cider were poured round the roots of these
trees, whilst large toast sops were placed amid the bare branches; all
this time the chant was sung again and again, and the young girls and
little children danced round in a ring, joining their shriller voices
with the rougher tones of the men. The cider can that supplied the
trees with their libations passed freely amongst the singers, whose
voices grew hoarse with something beyond exercise.
When the serenading and watering had been sufficiently accomplished,
guns were fired through the branches of the chosen trees, and the
company broke up, feeling that now they had done what was necessary to
ensure a good crop of cider-apples for the ensuing year.
But whilst the singing and drinking was at its height, and the moon
gazed calmly down upon the curious assembly beneath the hoary old trees
in the farmer’s orchard, a keen observer might have noted a pair of
figures slightly withdrawn from the noisy throng around the gnarled
trees that were receiving the attentions of the crowd--a pair that
gravitated together as if by mutual consent, and stood in a sheltered
nook of the orchard; the man leaning against the rude stone wall which
divided it from the farm buildings of one side, the girl standing a few
paces away from him beside a sappling, her face a little bent, but a
look of smiling satisfaction upon her red lips. She was clasping and
unclasping her hands in a fashion that bespoke something of nervous
tremor, but that it was the tremor of happiness was abundantly evident
from the expression of her face.
The moon shone clearly down upon the pair, and perhaps gave a touch of
additional softness and refinement to them, for at that moment both
appeared to the best advantage, and looked handsome enough to draw
admiring regards from even fastidious critics.
The man was very tall, and although he was habited in the homely garb
of a farm labourer of the better sort, there was a something in his
air and carriage which often struck the onlooker as being different
from the average man of his class. If he had been a gentleman, his mien
would have been pronounced “distinguished;” but there was something
incongruous in applying such a term as that to a working man in the
days immediately prior to the Reform agitation of 1830. If the artisan
population of the Midlands had begun to recognise and assert their
rights as members of the community, entitled at least to be regarded
as having a voice in the State (though how that was to be accomplished
they had hardly formulated an opinion), the country labourer was
still plunged in his ancient apathy and indifference, regarding
himself, and being regarded, as little more than a serf of the soil.
The years of agricultural prosperity during the Great War had been
gradually followed by a reaction. Whilst trade revived, agriculture
was depressed; and the state of the labourers in many places was very
terrible. Distress and bitter poverty prevailed to an extent that was
little known, because the sufferers had no mouthpiece, and suffered in
silence, like the beasts of the field. But a growing sense of sullen
discontent was slowly permeating the land, and in the restless North
and the busy Midlands there was a stirring and a sense of coming strife
which had not yet reached the quiet far West. And here was this young
son of Anak, with the bearing of a prince and the garb of a labourer,
standing beside the farmer’s daughter, Genefer, and telling her of his
love.
Although he was but one of the many men who worked by day for her
father, and slept at night in a great loft above the kitchen, in common
with half-a-dozen more men so employed, yet Genefer was listening to
his words of love with a sense of happy triumph in her heart, and
without the smallest feeling of condescension on her part. Possibly her
father might have thought it presumptuous of the young man thus boldly
to woo his only daughter; and yet the girl did not feel much afraid
of any stern parental opposition; for Saul Tresithny, in spite of a
history that to many men would have been a fatal bar towards raising
himself, had acquired in the parish of St. Bride’s a standing somewhat
remarkable, and was known upon the farm as the handiest and most
capable, as well as the strongest man there, and one whom the farmer
especially favoured.
Genefer was the farmer’s only daughter, and had to work as hard as
either father or brothers, for since her mother’s death, a year or two
ago, the whole management of the dairy and of the house had passed
into her hands, and she had as much to do in the day as she could get
through. Perhaps it was from the fact that Saul was always ready to
lend a helping hand when her work was unwontedly pressing, and that
he would work like a fury at his own tasks by day in order to have a
leisure hour to lighten her labours towards supper-time, that she had
grown gradually to lean on him and feel that life without him would
be but a barren and desolate sort of existence. Her brothers, ’Siah
and ’Lias, as they were invariably called, were kind to her in their
own fashion, and so was her father, who was proud of her slim active
figure, her pretty face, and crimpy dark hair. West-Country women are
proverbially good to look at, and Genefer was a favourable specimen of
a favoured race. Her eyes were large and bright, and of a deep blue
tint; her skin was clear, and her colour fresh and healthy, and the
winter winds and summer suns had failed to coarsen it. She was rather
tall, and her figure was full of unconscious grace and activity. If
her hands were somewhat large, they were well shaped and capable, and
her butter, and cream, and bread were known far and wide for their
excellence. She had a woman and a girl to help her in the house, but
hers was the head that kept all going in due order, and her father had
good cause to be proud of her.
And now young Saul stood beside the old grey wall in the light of the
full moon, and boldly told her of his love.
“I’ll be a gude husband to yu if yu’ll have me, Genefer,” he said in
the soft broad speech of his native place, though Saul could speak if
he chose without any trace of dialect, albeit always with a subtle
intonation, which gave something of piquancy to his words. “I du lovee
rarely, my girl. Doee try to love me back. I’ll serve day and night for
yu if thee’ll but say the word.”
“What word am I to zay, Zaul?” asked the girl softly, with a shy upward
look that set all his pulses tingling. “Yu du talk so much, I am vair
mazedheaded with it all. What is it yu would have me zay to thee?”
“Only that yu love me, Genefer,” answered Saul, taking a step forward,
and possessing himself of one of the restless hands that fluttered in
his grasp, and then lay still, as if content to be there. “It’s such a
little word for yu to zay, yet it means such a deal to me.”
She let herself be drawn nearer and nearer to him as he spoke; but
there was still a look of saucy mischief in her eyes, despite their
underlying softness.
“Yu be such a masterful chap, Zaul, I du feel half afeared on ye. It’s
all zoft talk now, but the clapper-claw come afterwards.”
“Nay, lassie, I’ll never clapper-claw yu. Yu needen be afeared of that.
I’ll work for yu, and toil for yu, and yu shall be as happy as I can
make yu. Only say yu can love me, Genefer. That is all I care to hear
yu say to-night.”
He had drawn her close to his side by this time, and she was pressed to
his heart. He bent his head and kissed her on the lips, and only when a
few minutes had passed by, of which they kept no count, did the sudden
salvo of the guns cause them to start suddenly apart, and Genefer
exclaimed, almost nervously--
“Whatever will vaither zay?”
“Du yu think he will make a bobbery about it, Genefer?”
“Nay, I dwon’t know. He is fond of yu, Zaul, but I du not think he will
part easy with me; and then----”
“I du not ask that of him, Genefer,” broke in Saul quickly; “yu du know
that I have no home tu take yu tu yet. It’s the love I want to make
sure of now, lassie. If I know I have your heart, I can wait patiently
for the rest. Can yu be patient tu?”
“Oh, yes, Zaul, so as I know yu love me,” answered the girl with a
quick blush; “dwon’t yu think that is enow for the present? Why need we
speak to vaither about it at all? May be it mid anger un. Why shouldn’t
we keep it a secret betwixt us twain?”
“With all my heart, if yu will have it so,” answered Saul, who was
fully prepared to wait many years before he should be in a position to
marry. That he would one day be a man of some small substance as things
went in those parts, he was aware. But his grandfather, from whom he
looked to receive this modest heritage, was yet a hale man, and it
might not be his for some years to come. Meantime he had at present no
ideas beyond working on with Farmer Teazel, as he had done since his
boyhood, and it quite satisfied him to feel that he had won Genefer’s
heart. He was ready to let this mutual avowal of love remain a secret
between them for the present. He had of late been consumed with
jealousy of a certain smart young farmer, who paid frequent visits to
the Cliff Farm, and appeared to pay a great amount of attention to the
pretty daughter who ruled there. It did not take two eyes to see what a
treasure Genefer would be as a farmer’s wife, and Saul was afraid the
girl’s father had begun to look with favour upon the visits of young
Mr. Hewett. It was this fear which made him resolve to put his fate to
the touch on this particular Christmas Eve. He half believed that his
love was returned by Genefer, but he could no longer be satisfied with
mere hope. He must be certain how things were to be between them in the
future; but having been so satisfied, he was quite content to leave
matters where they were, and not provoke any sort of tempest by openly
letting it be known that he had aspired to the hand of his master’s
daughter. He knew that his present position did not warrant the step he
had taken, yet it was his nature to hazard all upon one throw, and this
time he had won. He feared no tempest himself, but he would have been
loth to provoke one that might have clouded Genefer’s life, and Farmer
Teazel could be very irascible when angered, and by no means good to
live with then.
Whilst the lovers were thus standing in the corner of the orchard,
exchanging vows of constancy which meant more than their quiet homely
phrases seemed to imply, an elderly man with a slight stoop in his tall
figure and a singularly thoughtful and attractive face, was coming
slowly up the long steep slope of down which led to the farm, guided
alike by the brilliance of the moonbeams and by the voices singing the
rude chant round the apple-trees. That he was a man occupying a humble
walk in life was evident from the make and texture of his garments, the
knotted hardness of his hands, and other more subtle and less definable
indications; but the moonlight shone down upon a face that riveted
attention from any but the most unobservant reader of physiognomy,
and betrayed at once a man of unusual thoughtfulness for his walk in
life, as well as of unwonted depth of soul and purity of character.
The face was quite clean shaven, as was common in those times, when
beards were regarded as indicative of barbarism in the upper classes,
and were by no means common in any rank of life save that of seafaring
men. The features were, however, very finely cut, and of a type noble
in themselves, and farther refined by individual loftiness of soul.
The brow was broad, and projected over the deep-set eyes in a massive
pent-house; the nose was long and straight, and showed a sensitive
curve at the open nostril; the mouth was rather wide, but well formed,
and indicative of generosity and firm sweetness; the eyes were calm and
tranquil in expression. The colour it was impossible to define: no two
people ever agreed upon the matter. They looked out upon the world from
their deep caverns with a look that was always gentle, always full of
reflection and questioning intelligence, but was expressive above all
of an inward peace so deep and settled that no trouble from without
could ruffle it. Children always came to his side in response to a
look or a smile; women would tell their troubles to Abner Tresithny,
whose lips were sealed to all the world beside. There was something
in the man, quiet though he was, that made him a power in his own
little world, and yet he had never dreamed of seeking power. He was
at once the humblest and the most resolute of men. He would do the
most menial office for any person, and see no degradation in it; he
was gentle as a woman and mild as a little child: yet once try to move
him beyond the bounds he had set himself in life, and it would be as
easy to strive to move that jagged reef of rocks guarding St. Bride’s
Bay on the south side--the terror of hapless vessels driven in upon
the coast--the safeguard and joy of the hardy smugglers who fearlessly
drove their boats across it with the falling tide, and laughed to scorn
the customs-house officers, who durst not approach that line of boiling
foam in their larger craft.
Abner Tresithny had grown up at St. Bride’s Bay, and was known to
every soul there and in the neighbouring parish of St. Erme, where
Farmer Teazel’s farm lay. Perhaps no man was more widely beloved and
respected than he, and yet he was often regarded with a small spice of
contempt--especially amongst the men-folk; and those who were fullest
of the superstitions of the time and locality were the readiest to gibe
at the old gardener as being a “man of dreams and fancies”--a mystic,
they might have called it, had the word been familiar to them--a man
who seemed to live in a world of his own, who knew his Bible through
from end to end a sight better than the parson did--leastways the
parson of St. Bride’s--and found there a vast deal more than anybody
else in the place believed it to contain.
To-night an unwonted gravity rested upon Abner’s thoughtful face--a
shadow half of sorrow, half of triumphant joy, difficult to analyse;
and sometimes, as he paused in the long ascent and wiped the moisture
from his brow, his eyes would wander towards the sea lying far below,
over which the moon was shining in misty radiance, marking a shimmering
silver track across it from shore to horizon, and he would say softly
to himself--
“And she will soon know it all--all the mysteries we have longed to
penetrate. All will be known so soon to her. God be with her! The Lord
Jesus be near her in His mercy and His love in that struggle! O my God,
do Thou be near her in that last hour, when flesh and heart do fail!
Let not her faith be darkened! Let not the enemy prevail against her!
Do Thou be very very near, dear Lord. Do Thou receive her soul into Thy
hands.”
And after some such softly breathed prayer, during which his eyes would
grow dim and his voice husky, he would turn his face once more towards
the upland farm and resume his walk thither.
The firing of the guns, which told him the ceremony was over, met his
ears just as he reached the brow of the hill, and he began to meet the
cottagers and fisher-folk streaming away. They all greeted him by name,
and he returned their greetings gently: but he could not refrain from
a gentle word of reproof to some whose potations had been visibly too
deep, and who were still roaring their foolish chant as they staggered
together down the slippery slope.
Abner was known all round as an extraordinary man, who, whilst
believing in an unseen world lying about us as no one else in the
community did, yet always set his face quietly and resolutely against
these time-honoured customs of propitiating the unseen agencies,
which formed such a favourite pastime in the whole country. It was a
combination altogether beyond the ken of the rustic mind, and encircled
Abner with a halo of additional mystery.
“Yu should be to home with your sick wife, Nat,” he said to one man who
was sober, but had plainly been enjoying the revel as much as the rest.
“What good du yu think can come of wasting good zyder over the trees,
and singing yon vulish song to them? Go home to your sick wife and
remember the true Christmas joy when the morrow comes. All this is but
idle volly.”
“Nay, nay, maister,” answered the man, with sheepish submission in his
tone, albeit he could not admit any folly in the time-honoured custom.
“Yu knaw farmer he wants a ’bundant craap of awples next year, an we
awl of us knaw tha’ the trees widden gi’ us a bit ef we didden holler a
bit tu ’m the night.”
“Nay, nay, Nat, it’s not your hollering that makes the trees give of
their abundance,” answered Abner, with gentle sadness in his tone.
“It’s the abiding promise of the Lord that seed-time and harvest shall
not vail. Go home, go home, and mind thy wife.”
“Ay, ay, maister, I’m gwoan,” answered the man, and beat a hasty
retreat, secretly wondering whether one of these days the black witches
wouldn’t “overlook” Abner’s house and affairs generally, since he
was known for a man of such peculiar views. The Duke’s head-gardener
was looked upon with considerable respect by the mere labourers, and
always addressed as “maister” by them. He came of a good stock himself;
and from having been so much with the “quality,” he could speak pure
English as easily as the Saxon vernacular of the peasantry. It was
constant conversation with him which had given to Saul his command
of language. From the time of his birth till he began to earn his
own bread, Saul had lived with his grandfather; and it had been a
disappointment to the old man that his grandson had refused the place
of garden boy offered him by the Duchess when he was old enough to
be of use on the place. Before that he had scared birds for Farmer
Teazel, and had done odd jobs about the farm; and to the surprise of
all who knew the prestige and advantages attached to the service of the
Duke, the lad had elected to continue a servant of the farmer rather
than work in the ducal gardens. The grandfather had not attempted to
coerce his grandson, but had let him follow his own bent, although he
thought he was making a mistake, and was perplexed and pained by his
independent attitude.
“He wants to get away from the old ’un--he can’t stand all that
preachin’ and prayin’,” had been the opinion in some quarters;
but Abner knew this was not the case. His grandson had always been
attached to him, and the old man had never obtruded his own opinions
upon him. Saul’s reason for his decision lay beyond any natural desire
for an independent home of his own. He had independence of a kind up
at the farm, but only of a kind. He was a member of Farmer Teazel’s
household. He had to keep the hours observed there. He had not nearly
such comfortable quarters there as in his grandfather’s cottage. He had
to work hard early and late, and had none of the privileges accorded
from time to time on high days and holidays to the servants at Penarvon
Castle. Yet he never appeared to regret the decision he had made,
or spoke of desiring to change his condition. This was in one way a
satisfaction to Abner; but he missed the youth from his own home, and
was always glad of an excuse to get him down there for a few days.
This was, in fact, the reason of his errand to the farm on this winter
evening. To-morrow (Christmas Day) no work would be done, and the day
following was Sunday; so that if Saul would come home with him to-night
they would have quite a little spell together before he had to return
to his work on the Monday morning.
The farmer saw his approach, and hailed him with friendly greeting,
offering him a tankard of cider, of which the old man partook
sparingly, as was his way.
“How gwoes the world down to St. Bride’s?” asked the master, as he
received back the tankard and put it to his own lips. “They du say as
the Duchess be mortal bad. Is it trew that the doctors ’a given her
oop, poor zoul?”
Abner shook his head mournfully.
“So they du zay,” he answered; “I asked at the castle my own self this
even, and they said she could scarce live over the night. St. Bride
will lose a kind friend when it loses her. God be with her and with us
all this night!”
Faces were grave and serious as the sense of Abner’s words penetrated
beyond the immediate circle round him. The Duchess of Penarvon had been
long ill: for several years she had been more or less of an invalid;
but it had not been known until quite recently that the nature of her
malady was so serious as it had now proved to be, and the confirmation
of the tidings of her extremity was received with a considerable amount
of feeling. The Duke was a stern grave man, just and not unkindly, but
self-restrained and hard in his looks and words, whatever his acts
might be. But the Duchess was gentle and kindly towards rich and poor
alike, and had a personal acquaintance with most of the fisher-folk
and cottagers in the parishes of St. Bride and St. Erme. If those who
were in trouble could obtain speech with the Duchess, they nearly
always went rejoicing home again. If any casualty occurred amongst the
fisher-folk in the bay during a winter storm, the Duchess was almost
sure to send substantial aid to make up the loss. It was no wonder then
that the news Abner brought with him was regarded as a public calamity,
and that even those who had drunk most deeply of the farmer’s cider
were sobered into gravity and propriety of demeanour by the thought of
what was passing at the castle down by the Bay of St. Bride.
“I came to fetch Saul to bide with me till Monday,” explained Abner.
“It makes a bit of company, and my heart is heavy with sorrow for them
all. They say that Lady Bride looks as if her heart was breaking. She
and her mother have been together almost by night and day, ever since
the Duchess’s health first failed her so sadly. It’ll be a sad day for
her, poor young thing, when her mother is taken from her.”
“Ay, that it will be,” answered one and another, and heads were
gravely shaken. For the position of Lady Bride in stately solitude at
Penarvon Castle, without the sheltering protection of her mother’s
love, was felt even by these unimaginative rustics to be a trying
one. It was whispered around that her father had never quite forgiven
her for not being a boy. It was hard upon him that their only child
should be a girl, incapable of inheriting title or estates. He was not
a violent or irascible man, but the disappointment of having no son
had eaten deeply into his nature, and there had always been a sense of
injured disapproval in his dealings with his daughter, of which that
sensitive young thing had been keenly conscious. It had thrown her more
and more upon the one parent of whose love she felt secure, and even
the unlettered village hinds (who knew a good deal of the tittle-tattle
of the servants’ hall) could stand mute and struck for a few minutes in
contemplating the thought of the terrible blank that would be left in
the girl’s life when her invalid mother was taken away.
But Abner would not stay to discuss the situation with the farmer and
his family. He was anxious to get home, and Saul was quickly found,
and appeared ready and willing to go with him. Saul indeed was not
sorry just at this juncture for a good excuse to leave the farm for a
few days till he and Genefer had had time to get used to the secret
that now existed between them. Genefer was quite as much relieved as
her lover at this temporary parting. She felt that she should in his
presence be in imminent danger of betraying herself a dozen times a
day; and as her father would be at home enjoying his brief holiday, he
might have leisure to note little symptoms which would pass him by on
a working day. Moreover, Mr. Hewett might very likely drive over and
bring her some sort of a fairing in honour of the season, and if he did
so, and she was forced to be civil and friendly to him, she would just
as soon have Saul fairly out of the way.
Grandfather and grandson walked down the hill together, the old man’s
mind full of the mystery of death, the young man’s flooded by that
kindred mystery of love--the two most wonderful mysteries of the world.
He had been sorry to hear of the extremity of the Duchess; but it
seemed a thing altogether apart from himself, and his own new happiness
soon banished it from his mind. Not that he had not some feeling that
was not happiness mingling with his own bright dreams, as the growingly
stern expression of his face testified; and all of a sudden he turned
upon his grandfather and asked--
“Do you know who my father was?”
“I cannot say that I _know_. I have my suspicions. But your mother
would not tell even me, and she died so soon. Had she lived a little
longer I should perhaps have learned more.”
“And so I must always be called Saul Tresithny, though that is not my
name by right?”
“It is your name by right, because you were so christened. You may have
another name as well, my lad, or you may not.”
The last words were spoken very slowly and sorrowfully, but Saul
started as though they stung him.
“I will never believe that my mother,” he began, and then stopped
short, his face contracted with passion and pain.
“I trust not also, Saul,” said the grandfather, his face expressing a
far keener depth of pain than that of his young companion. “But she
may have been deceived--that has been the fate of too many loving and
ignorant women; and she came without papers upon her and would speak
no word. Illness and sorrow sealed her lips, and there was no time for
urging speech upon her of herself. There was but time to point the way
heavenwards for the departing spirit. I have left that question with my
Maker all these years, and you will have to do the same, my boy, for I
fear the truth will never be known on this side of the grave.”
Saul compressed his lips and walked on in silence. His face in the
moonlight looked as if carved out of solid marble.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]