FISHING FOR AN INVITATION.
"What a strange girl!" muttered Richard, as he stood in the same
hollowed rock, alone, where Harry and he had first taken shelter. "What
a compound of strength and weakness--as my mother says all girls are,
though I have never known them strong before! How eager she seemed to
part company with me, and how anxious to get home without me--and I am
never to speak of what has happened, to her father nor to Solomon! This
Solomon is her unwelcome wooer, that is clear. He is neither young nor
handsome--nor attractive in any way in her eyes, I reckon. And what a
beauty she is, to be thrown away on such a boor!"
The recollection that the door at the top of the rock had been left
open, and the key inside it, here flashed upon him. "She will be sorry
about that key," he thought; "and glad and grateful to me if I go back
and fetch it. The old man will be wroth with her for having trusted a
stranger with such a treasure. This Trevethick must be an ingenious
fellow, and a long-sighted one, no doubt. It was he who applied to
Parson Whymper for a lease of the old mine, if I remember right. Perhaps
the chaplain may help me to get it him, for I owe him something for his
daughter's sake. The idea of his having such a daughter! What rubbish is
this we artists talk of birth and beauty! Neither in life nor on canvas
have I ever seen one so fair as this girl." He meditated for a moment,
then cried out, angrily: "Heaven curse me, if I harm her! What an
ungrateful villain should I be! If there be a Gehenna, and but one man
in it, I should deserve to be that man!"
Then he began to climb the rock. He did not tarry this time for breath
nor shelter, though the wind had no whit abated, but trod right on till
he reached the spot where the catastrophe which had been so near fatal
to him had occurred. "It was a narrow escape," mused he, looking down
upon the place, not without a slight shudder. "What odd things come into
the head when Death is whispering in the ear! If it had not been for my
fair guide, where should I have been by this time? Beneath the sea, for
certain. But what else? How strange it seems that if there is any
'else,' no one, from the beginning of time till now, of all the millions
who have experienced it, should have come back to tell us! And yet there
was a man who came back from the grave once. Who was he? I recollect his
picture by Haydon; his talk must have been better worth listening to
than that of most. Is nothing true that one hears or reads, I wonder?
Here is where I kissed her! I wouldn't kiss her again, if I had the
chance; I swear I would not. I am a good boy now--all morality, if not
religion--for they do say that hell is paved with good intentions--which
seems hard. If one is to be punished for one's wicked thoughts--even if
they do not bear fruit--it is surely but reasonable that one's good
ones--even if never carried into practice--should be set down on the
credit side of the ledger."
With an exclamation of contempt or impatience, he turned from the dizzy
sight of cliff and sea, and shouldered his way through the wind-kept
doorway on to the open summit of the rock. It was a wild waste place
indeed, yet not without ample indications of having been inhabited in
days of old. Low but massive walls sketched out the ground-plan of many
a chamber, the respective uses of which could only now be guessed at.
But beneath one broken arch there was a heap of rude steps with a stone
something on it, which Richard rightly imagined had once formed an
altar. Man had worshiped there thirteen hundred years ago. Nay, not far
off, and in the very centre of this desolate hold, there was a
burial-ground, with a low wall of earth about it, which neither time,
nor the curious barbarism which marks our epoch, had much defaced. The
archaeologists had been there, of course, and discovered evidence which
had satisfied them of the presence of the remains of their
fellow-creatures; but with that they had been content. The dead had, for
the most part, been left undisturbed in their rocky graves, to await the
summons in the faith of which--and perhaps even for it--they had died.
For these were King Arthur's men (as Richard had read)--the warriors who
had helped the blameless king "to drive the heathen and to slay the
beast, to fell the forest and let in the sun."
The lonely desolation of the place, and its natural sublimity, combined
with the recollection of his late deadly peril, tinged the young man's
thoughts with an unusual seriousness; and yet he could not restrain the
cynicism that was habitual to him whenever his attention was compelled
to solemn subjects.
"Now, are these poor folks--whose creed must have been any thing but
orthodox, by all accounts--all in eternal torments, I wonder, or only
waiting to be so, for a few hundreds of years longer? Such was my
mother's friend, Joanna's, comfortable creed, and it is shared, as I
understand, by all the most excellent people. How much better (if so)
would it have been for them to have been born and cradled on this rock
as sea-gulls! Gad, to dwell here and fight for a king about whose very
existence posterity is to be in doubt in this world, and then to go to
the devil! What a nightmare view of life it seems! If, an hour ago or
so, things had turned out otherwise with _me_, I should have solved the
problem for myself. I almost wish I had. And yet it was not so when I
was clinging tooth and nail to the cliff yonder; and these folks would
not have died if they could have helped it, neither. There's something
ugly in black Death that disinclines man to woo her. This wind bites to
the marrow, and I'll go. I've seen Gethin now, and there's an end." He
turned, and walked as slowly as the blast would let him toward the gate.
"And yet, if it was warmer, and summer-time," continued he, "I should
like to sketch these things, or some of them, especially if Harry were
with me." He came out, and locked the door, and once more stood in the
shelter of it, with the key in his hand. "She'll be glad I went back for
this, and know that it was done for her sake. If she had but money,
now--this girl--and was a lady, and all that! Or if I could choose whom
I would!" He began to descend slowly, step by step; the furious gale
forgotten; his late escape from death unremembered; one thought alone
monopolizing his mind--the thought that monopolizes all men's minds (or
nearly all) at his age. It was here that his hat had blown off, and her
soft curls had played about his face; it was there that he had first
clasped her waist, and had not been rebuked. Then he fell to thinking of
all that had happened between them during the few hours that were
already an epoch in his life. Why had she looked so frightened at first
seeing him? Had he seemed to come upon her as her "fate," as some girls
say? He would ask her that some day--perhaps up yonder amidst the ruins.
He had not missed the look of annoyance which she wore when Solomon had
spoken to him so roughly, nor failed to couple it with the expressions
she had before made use of with reference to Coe the elder, and the
gratitude with which her father regarded his memory. This Solomon might
be a suitor who was backed by the old man, but certainly not encouraged
by Harry. Was she already engaged to him, tacitly or otherwise? It was
impossible, being what she was, that she should not have been wooed by
somebody.
Richard Yorke was not one of those exacting characters who demand that
the object of their affections should never have attracted those of
another; he was even reasonable enough to have forgiven her (if
necessary) for having returned them, in ignorance of the existence of a
more worthy admirer in himself. There are many more varieties of Love
than even the poets have classified; and perhaps it is in despair of
dealing with this Proteus that we elders so often ignore him in our
calculations.
The day was darkening by the time Richard reached the village. Around
the inn door were a group of miners, who stared at his bare head hard
enough, but gave way to him civilly. They were talking and laughing
loudly, and wiping their mouths with the backs of their hands. It was
evident that somebody had been "standing treat" in the narrow passage;
and leaning their elbows on the sill of the little bar window were more
miners, each with his pint pot of ale.
"Here's luck to Trevethick and Coe," said one, "for a parting toast."
"Ha, ha, that's good!" cried another, in appreciation of this commercial
epigram; "Trevethick and Coe; to be sure."
"Trevethick and Coe, and may the copper last!"
But one, emboldened by the liquor, or naturally more audacious than the
rest, put his head and shoulders through the open window, and, making a
trumpet of his two hands, whispered in a hoarse voice, audible to every
one: "And is it to be Coe and Trevethick also, Miss Harry--eh?"
Then the window was slammed down with no gentle hand, and the men went
out laughing heartily, and for the first time leaving room for Richard
to pass in. He did not look toward the bar window, but, as though he had
heard nothing, walked quickly past it into the sitting-room, which had
been allotted to him. It was strange, since what he had just heard only
confirmed the suspicions which he had already entertained, that the
words should give him annoyance; but they certainly did so. What was
more natural than that this inn-keeper's daughter should be engaged to
marry her father's friend--a man apparently well-to-do, and with a
prospect of doing better? What could be more unreasonable than for Mr.
Richard Yorke, a young gentleman whose only hope in life was to marry a
girl--or an old woman, for that matter--with a good fortune, to be
irritated at such intelligence, especially after an acquaintance with
this "Miss Harry" of about three hours at most? After a minute or two of
reflection the idea seemed to strike even himself in the same light; for
he gave a short sharp laugh, and said what a fool he was, and then lit
his pipe. Even tobacco, however, that balm of hurt minds, did not
altogether soothe him. He could think of nothing but this young girl,
whose beauty had bewitched him, and to whose courage and presence of
mind he owed his life. He had sworn to himself--and there was no
necessity to repeat it--that he meant her no harm. Indeed, it would not
be less than she deserved to ask her to be his wife. Perhaps, if this
mine, in which her father had a share, should turn out well, she would
not be so bad a match, even in point of money; but to this he did not
attach much importance. He was indulging in a dream, which he fondly
imagined was unselfish and honorable to himself in a high degree. Quite
a virtuous glow seemed to mingle with his ardent passion; though the
fact simply was (as it often is in such cases) that, for a personal
gratification, he was prepared to barter his future prospects. He did
not doubt but that what he contemplated would be for the benefit of this
young girl; he must seem like an angel to her (for love does not always
touch us with the sense of unworthiness); as, indeed, by comparison with
this man Coe, he was. His mother would be a good deal "put out," it was
true, but then she was too fond of him to be angry with him for long,
far less to break with him. He was his own master, for some time to
come, at all events, for he had two hundred pounds in his pocket.
What nonsense do the greatest philosophers sometimes discourse, when
their topic is Self-interest! It is likely enough that self-interest
actuates _them_, and in a supreme degree. When folks are by nature wise
and prudent--or if their tastes are studious, and their vices few--or
when, above all, the brain is seasoned, and the blood moves sluggishly
in the veins, then men do act for their own advantage, and keep their
eyes fixed on the main chance. But with most of us, especially when
young, self-interest, properly so called, is often but a feather's
weight in the balance of Motive. Revenge makes it kick the beam; and
Passion; and even momentary Whim. It was one of the arguments advanced
by Christian men in favor of slavery, that no man would ill-use his
slave, because it was his own property; as though the lust of cruelty in
a brutal nature were, while it lasted, not ten times as strong as the
lust of gain. There are moments when a man is ready to part with not
only his earthly prospects, but his hopes of heaven, rather than be
balked of an immediate satisfaction: that of striking his brother to the
heart, or growing rich by one stroke of fraud, or ruining forever the
woman that loves him best; and there are many men, in no such desperate
case, whose only guide is Impulse, and whose care for the morrow is
dwarfed to nothing matched with the gratification of to-day. These are
said to have no enemies but themselves, but they have victims; and,
though not apt for plots, are often more dangerous than the most
designing knaves.
Pipe after pipe smoked Richard Yorke as he sat over the fire in the
deepening twilight, so deep in thought that it quite startled him, when,
suddenly looking up, he found that all was dark. Then he rang the bell,
and Hannah entered with the wished-for candles.
"Is your master in?"
"I'll see, Sir. Do you wish to see him?"
"Yes. First bring me a bottle of sherry and two glasses, then ask him to
step in."
The serving-maid obeyed; and presently there was a heavy step in the
passage, and in strode John Trevethick, a man of sixty years or so, but
straight as a pine, and strong as an oak.
"Your servant, Sir," said he, in a gruff voice, and with no such
inclination of the head as landlords use.
"Good-evening, Mr. Trevethick. I am afraid I'm putting you to some
inconvenience by coming to Gethin so many weeks before the usual time."
"Nay, Sir; my house is open summer and winter."
"Now I wonder is this the natural manner of this boor," thought Richard,
"or has he been already prejudiced against me by the other?--And an
excellent house it is, Mr. Trevethick; I little expected to find so good
a one down here, I promise you."
"Well, I built it myself, Sir," said the landlord; "so it don't become
me to say much of that. It cost me a good bit of money, however; and
it's hard to get it back, when one's season only lasts for a month or
two."
"Ah! I'm the first swallow that you've seen this year, I dare say. Well,
I hope I herald a lucky summer. Take a glass of your own sherry, will
you?"
The landlord looked suspiciously at his guest: perhaps the phrase "your
own sherry" smote his conscience, knowing the price he paid for it, and
what it was, and what he meant to charge; but grunting: "Here's to you,
Sir," he filled his glass, and smacked his lips over it slowly.
"Solomon has not set him against me," was Richard's conclusion. "The
graceful manner of this Cornish giant is natural to him.--You have a
fine castle here, Mr. Trevethick, and nobly placed. Indeed, I never saw
the like before."
"So most folks say," answered the landlord.
"There is not much left of it, however," said Richard, smiling.
"Well, it'll last my time, at all events, and I dare say yours," was the
morose reply.
"Indeed it will, and that of many a generation to come. It is seldom one
sees such massive walls. A good deal of trouble, however, seems to have
been taken to prevent people from running away with them, to judge by
this;" and he held up the key.
"Well, the castle is mine, Sir--or, at least, I pay my rent for it; and,
I suppose, I can do what I like with my own. If there was no gate there,
do you think any body would pay me for viewing the place? Not they. Why,
there's some parties ain't even content with the key, but must have a
guide too, or else they buttons up their pockets."
It was so impossible to misunderstand the bearing of this remark that
Richard burst out into a good-humored laugh; he was really pleased
because the landlord's hint assured him that he was in ignorance that he
had had a guide. "I shall certainly pay my footing, Mr. Trevethick, the
same as if I had had an attendant--of which, however, I should have been
glad at one or two places; the wind did take my hat, and very nearly the
rest of me. But what I meant by the trouble that was taken to secure
your ruins from intruders was with reference not to the door, but to the
key of it. Why, if it were a real castle, full of furniture, it could
not be more effectually guarded. You must have good lock-smiths
hereabout, if that's a specimen of their work."
The icy landlord thawed again.
"Well, Sir, the fact is, I made that key with my own hands."
"You?" cried Richard, in affected astonishment. "Why, you must be a
mechanical genius. Look at the work! look at the wards!" and he
scrutinized them admiringly close to the candle. "Do take another glass,
Mr. Trevethick."
"Nay, Sir; I've a friend in the parlor waiting for me," rejoined the
landlord, dryly. He appeared already to regret having given way to that
momentary feeling of self-esteem.
"I wish _I_ had," observed Richard, smiling. "It's lonely work coming
down here by one's self, and finding nobody to speak to."
There was a short pause, during which Richard was rapt in admiration of
the key.
"Now, if his thick skin prove impervious to flattery," thought he, "then
will I fly my last shaft into his very gizzard."
Mr. Trevethick's skin was quite compliment-proof, if an invitation into
the bar parlor was to be the evidence of its having been pierced.
"You should come down in the summer-time, Sir," said he, coolly; "then
you will find lots of folks to talk with. At present I am afraid you
must put up with your own company." And the huge frame of the landlord
was already moving toward the door.
"I am afraid so, indeed," said Richard, carelessly. "Parson Whymper
ought to have known better than to send me down here at such a time as
this."
John Trevethick stopped at once, and Richard saw reflected in the glass
above the fire-place a look of intense interest. He could not have
supposed so phlegmatic a face was capable of so much expression.
"Parson who, did you say, Sir? Whymper?"
"Yes; an excellent friend of me and mine; the chaplain of Mr. Carew, of
Crompton. It was he who told me how I might fill my sketch-book with the
beauties of Gethin; and added, that I should have a hearty welcome from
one John Trevethick, if I gave his name."
"And that you shall, Sir," cried the landlord, returning to the table,
and striking his broad palm upon it, to give emphasis to his words. "A
friend of Mr. Whymper's should be always welcome here. How is he, Sir?
And how is Mr. Carew?"
"I have seen neither of them since I was staying at Crompton three
months ago or so," said Richard, coolly. "They were well enough then,
though the Squire was doing his best, as usual, to exhaust his
constitution and his purse; and the chaplain, as usual, also, was making
things as straight as he could, and putting the skid on where he dared.
But you know all about that, Mr. Trevethick, I dare say, almost as well
as I do. I am sorry you won't take another glass of wine."
"I think I will, if you permit me to change my mind, Sir," said the
other, suiting the action to the word. "Now, the idea of your being so
intimate with Parson Whymper, and having staid at Squire Carew's! Why,
the Squire's my landlord, and owns all about here--leastway, short of
Dunloppel. It's unlucky that this copper should have cropped out just
beyond him, as it were."
"There is no mine here belonging to him then, eh?"
"Well, no, Sir; not, properly speaking, a mine, there ain't;" and the
well-practiced hand of the landlord shook as he put down the glass, so
that it clanked against the bottle.
Richard Yorke laughed a short dry laugh, apparently at some reflection
of his own.
"Well, I'm sorry you've got your friend, landlord, and therefore can not
have a chat with me; for it is evident we should find something to talk
about together."
"And I'm sorry too, Sir. Though, if you wouldn't be too proud to come
into our bar parlor--but then I can scarcely ask a gentleman as has been
used to Crompton to do that."
"Indeed, I shall be very pleased to come," said Richard, frankly. "I
have nothing to be proud of, I assure you; and if I had, why should I
not accept the company of an honest man?"
"Very good, Sir. There's only me, and my daughter Harry, and this friend
of mine, Solomon Coe. If you'll please to walk this way."
"Let's take the bottle with us, and then, perhaps, Mr. Coe will help us
to finish it."
And bearing that token of amity in his hand, John Trevethick led the way
into the bar parlor.