About half-an-hour before Mr. Mildmay left the Squire's supper-table so
hurriedly, a man laboured up the last few feet of the winding path
leading from the beach of St. Cuby's Cove to the cliff-top, which he
gained at a point rather more than half-a-mile from the spot where Dick
and Sam had previously ascended. He was a tall man, his build and
figure indicating a capacity for lithe and rapid movement, so that the
heaviness of his gait was probably due solely to the size and weight of
the leathern trunk he carried. Like Sam Pollex, he paused for a moment
on reaching the top to recover his breath and mop his brow; then,
shouldering his trunk, he struck into a narrow footpath that led over
the cliff. It branched into two after a few yards, the right-hand
branch going direct to the Towers, the left-hand running away from the
sea to join a rough, ill-made road which led past the gate of the Towers
to the village.
On reaching the fork the pedestrian did not hesitate, as a stranger
might have done, but took the left-hand path. After proceeding a few
steps along it, however, he made a sudden half-turn, and stopped,
looking across the open ground towards the Towers, where one room on the
ground floor made a patch of light against the dark background of sky
and sea. The man stood but a moment, then resumed his march along the
path in the same direction as before. A smile wreathed his lips, and he
muttered to himself. He went on at a smart pace over the level ground,
turned to the right when he came to the road, passed the Towers' gates,
which he observed were broken, and walked for another quarter of a mile
before he again halted. Then he set his burden down by the roadside,
sat upon it, and wiped his heated face, where the smile had been
replaced by a frown.
"I daresay I'm a fool," he muttered in a growling undertone. "Why did I
chafe and gall myself with carrying this plaguey trunk? However, maybe
'tis best."
While he was still resting, he heard footsteps upon his right hand, and
looked round quickly. The moon was up, and he saw a young fisherman
rolling along a path that ran into the road a few paces distant.
"Ahoy, there!" cried the traveller in a deep and mellow voice.
The fisherman, who had not as yet perceived him, came to a sudden stop
as the silence of the night was broken thus unexpectedly and so near at
hand; then, catching sight of the figure on the trunk, he slipped off
the path on to the grass and began to run.
"Ahoy, there! What ails you?" cried the man. "D'you want to earn a
groat?"
Reassured, apparently, at the mention of so material a thing as a groat,
the fisherman turned and came slowly towards the speaker.
"Did you think I was a ghost?" the stranger went on with a laugh. "I
want you to carry this trunk to the village, and I'll give you a groat
for your pains."
"I'll do it, maister," replied the fisher, shouldering the trunk. "But
ye give me a fright, that ye did."
"Why, you never saw a ghost with a brown face, and a black hat, and a
blue coat, not to speak of brown breeches and long boots, did you?"
"I won't say I did, but the neighbours do say there be ghosteses
up-along by St. Cuby's Well. Maybe yer a furriner, maister?"
"No, no; I'm good Cornish like yourself," replied the man, who knew that
to Cornishmen all who lived beyond the borders of the duchy were
accounted foreigners.
"Well, I can see plain ye be a high person, and jown me if I know why ye
carry yer own bag and traipse afoot, instead o' coming a-horseback, or
in a po'chay."
The traveller shot a glance at the lad. He saw a rugged profile, a brow
on which thought had carved no furrows, a half-open mouth: the
physiognomy of a simple countryman. Then, after a scarcely perceptible
pause, he said:
"Well, I hate close folks who make a secret of everything, so I'll tell
you. I got a lift in a travelling wagon from Newquay, but the wretch
that drove it was bound for Truro, and point-blank refused to bring me
farther than the cross-roads a couple of miles back. So now you know,
my man, and I daresay you could tell a stranger what I've told you."
"Sure and sartin. You be come from Newquay in a wagon, and when ye got
to cross-roads driver said he'd be jowned if he'd carr' 'ee a step
furder."
"You have it pat; and now step out; 'tis getting latish."
They proceeded along the silent road at a good pace toward the village,
the traveller dropping a remark now and then from which the fisherman
understood that he was not a complete stranger to the district. Just as
they reached a spot where the road dipped somewhat steeply, there were
sounds of rapid footsteps behind them, and in a few moments two men came
up, one Mr. Mildmay, the revenue officer, the other an old
weather-beaten fellow in seaman's clothes. He wore a black shade over
his right eye, and the unnaturally short distance between his nose and
the tip of his chin showed that he had lost his teeth. This was Joe
Penwarden, the veteran exciseman who had been mentioned at Squire
Trevanion's supper-table. On leaving the Towers, Mr. Mildmay had gone
first to the right, and fetched Penwarden from his little cottage on the
cliff, and then retraced his steps through the Squire's grounds. Had he
been a few minutes earlier, he could hardly have failed to see the
pedestrian trudging with his trunk on his shoulder along the path that
ran a score of yards from Penwarden's cottage.
"Halt, in the King's name!" cried Mr. Mildmay, as he overtook the two
men who had preceded him along the road.
[Illustration: "'HALT, IN THE KING'S NAME!' CRIED MR. MILDMAY"]
"I'll halt if 'ee bid me in the King's name," said the fisher,
recognising the revenue officer, whom he, like the population of
Polkerran generally, held in detestation mingled with unwilling respect,
"but I bean't doin' nowt agen the law, I tell 'ee, carr'in' a genel'um's
traps for a groat."
"A gentleman, is it?" said Mr. Mildmay, turning to the traveller. "I
must ask you to tell me your business."
"And you shall have an answer. I come from Newquay, and am going to
seek a night's lodging at the Five Pilchards, if you have no objection,
captain."
Mr. Mildmay looked suspiciously at the speaker, whose accent was that of
an educated man. He was not the type of person to meet afoot with his
trunk on the high road. Old Penwarden's single eye also was fixed on
the stranger's swarthy, bearded face.
"No more objection, my dear sir, than you will have to my taking a look
at the inside of that trunk of yours. In the King's name!"
"With all the pleasure in life. Amos, or whatever your name is, set
down the trunk for the inspection of this exceedingly zealous officer of
His Majesty's."
The trunk was opened, and Penwarden turned over its contents, Mr.
Mildmay looking on. He found articles of apparel, a sword, some bundles
of papers, a bag of money, a large leather-bound book, a brace of
pistols, and sundry insignificant articles, none of which was chargeable
with duty.
"Thank you, sir," said Mr. Mildmay, when the inspection was concluded.
"I am sorry to have detained you, but in these times----"
"Quite so, captain," interrupted the other. "In these times one cannot
be too particular. I bid you good-night, and better luck at your next
examination."
Mr. Mildmay hurried on with Penwarden, and was soon lost to sight.
"Who's that popinjay?" said the traveller, when the lieutenant was out
of hearing.
"That be Maister Mildmay, the preventive officer, and a dratted
furriner," replied the fisher. "He've been in these parts two years
now, and a meddlesome feller he be too. Hee! hee! He got nowt for his
pains this time, maister, and if there's one thing I do like to see,
'tis the preventives fooled. Hee! hee!"
"Old Penwarden looks the same as ever, except for the shade over his
eye."
"Do 'ee know him, maister?"
"I used to, years ago."
"Iss, old Joe be a decent good soul of his trade, and we was vexed,
trewly, when 'a got his eye put out in a fight by Lunnan Cove. But
there, he shouldn' meddle with honest free-traders. Lawk-a-massy! I be
speakin' free."
"Oh, you're quite safe with me. I'm a bit of a free-trader myself, in
my way."
They went on, and in a few minutes came to an inn at the lower end of
the village near the beach. This was the Five Pilchards. The village
boasted another inn, a hundred yards away, called the Three Jolly
Mariners; but it belied its name, being frequented mainly by farm
labourers.
The traveller paid and dismissed the fisher, and rapped at the closed
door. It was opened by the innkeeper himself, a podgy, red-nosed,
blear-eyed fellow, with an underhung lip, and a chin like a dewlap. A
small candle-lamp hung above in the doorway, showing a dim yellow ray
upon the smiling face of the visitor. The innkeeper started back.
"I startled you, eh?" said the visitor. "Yes, it is I myself--John
Trevanion come home again. I am getting on in years, Doubledick, and I
felt I should like to die among my friends."
"Ha, ha! Ho, ho!" laughed the innkeeper. "'Tis Maister John, for sure,
come home with his little jokes. Come along in, maister, come in; daze
me if I bean't as pleased as pigs to see 'ee."
"Take me to a room, Doubledick, and get some clean sheets, will you?
And send me up something passable to eat and drink; I'll sup alone."
"Iss, sure. I'll give 'ee the best I've got in the house. What do 'ee
say, now, to collops and fried taties, or a nice bit o' bass, or a dish
o' pickled pilchurs, and some real old--you know what, Maister John?
Hee, hee!"
"Whatever you like, Doubledick, only be quick about it."
The innkeeper led his visitor along a passage past the open door of the
bar-parlour. John Trevanion glanced in as he went by. A number of
rough fishermen in various garments sat drinking on settles along the
wall. The most noticeable among them was a man of vast breadth, brawny
and muscular, his strong features tanned copper-colour by years of
sea-faring, his thick hair and beard the hue of ebony. The sleeves of
his scarlet jersey were turned up, revealing brown and hairy forearms
that would have befitted a Hercules.
"Tonkin is still flourishing, I see," said Trevanion in an undertone to
the innkeeper as he passed.
"Iss, Zacky Tonkin be as great a man as ever he wer, and a tarrible
plague o' life to the preventives. Mr. Curgenven--ye mind of him,
Maister John?--died two year back, and they sent a furrin feller,
Mildmay by name, to look arter us mortals--hee! hee! He be a good feller
at his job, a sight better than Curgenven, who loved an easy life, as
'ee could remember; but Zacky do know how to deal wi' un, he do so. Oh,
'tis a rare deceivin' game he plays wi' un. He's up-along and
down-along, and this Mildmay feller atraipsin' arter un, by sea and
land, 'tis all one to Zacky. Here's yer room, Maister John. Do 'ee set
yerself down and I'll bring 'ee up a supper fit for a lord in no time."
He looked at his visitor doubtfully for a moment.
"I'd axe 'ee one thing," he said. "Be I to let 'em know down below as
you be in house?"
"To be sure, Doubledick, there's nothing to conceal. You might remember
to say that I've come from London--no, hang me, I am forgetting; from
Newquay directly, from London ultimately. You understand?"
"Iss, I understand. No matter where 'ee come from, if 'twere from old
Nick hisself, they'll be glad to see 'ee, that they will."
John Trevanion kept to his room until the morning. At nine o'clock he
left the inn and made his way through the village by back lanes, to
escape the notice of such fishermen as might remember him, and proceeded
at a quick pace along the road to the Towers. He was dressed this
morning in a black hat turned up at one side with a rosette, a
bottle-green frock coat, white kerseymere breeches, and long boots. "He
looks summat older and nearer graveyard, as must we all," remarked
Doubledick to a crony as he watched him depart, "but he's a fine figure
of a man still."
Arriving at the Towers, John Trevanion lifted the latch of the door
leading to the inhabited portion, and entered with the freedom of one of
the family. The Squire was at breakfast with his wife and son.
"Come in," he shouted, in answer to a tap on the door, and rose from his
chair as the well-dressed visitor entered, thinking, as might have been
gathered from his manner, that it was one of the few friends who had the
freedom of the house. But at a second glance his demeanour altered.
"You have made a mistake, I think," he said stiffly, resting both hands
on the table. His fine face was flushed, and Dick, looking on in
wonderment, noticed that the riband that bound his queue of grey hair
was quivering.
"Surely, Cousin Roger, you'll let bygones be bygones," said John
Trevanion suavely. "'Tis now--I don't know how many years ago."
"When I last saw you, sir, I bade you never enter my door again. I do
not call back my words, and see no reason to do so. You will oblige me
by relieving me of your presence."
The words came sternly from his trembling lips. Dick felt himself go hot
and cold.
"Is there no word repentance in your dictionary, Roger Trevanion?" said
his cousin bitterly. "You're a good Christian, I suppose--go to church
and say the Commandments, 'love your neighbour,' and all that; but
you'll harden your heart against one of your own kin that had the
ill-luck to offend you----"
"Stop!" thundered the Squire. "The offence to me I make nothing of; you
have shamed your name and put yourself beyond the pale of honest men.
'Ill-luck,' you call it! 'Twas no ill-luck--though we Trevanions have
enough of that, God knows!--but the act and nature of a scoundrel. I am
ashamed you bear my name. I disown you. Take yourself out of my sight."
His wife laid a gentle hand on his arm.
"A pretty welcome, on my soul, for a man who has lived down the faults
of his youth," said John Trevanion. "I tell you, Roger Trevanion, I
will not put up with such usage--I will not! I don't want your
forgiveness; a fig for your friendship! But I demand decent treatment
from you, and----"
"By the Lord that made me," cried the Squire, "if you do not instantly
remove yourself from this house I will have you thrown out. Do you hear
me, sir?"
John Trevanion's eyes glittered as he returned his cousin's wrathful
look. He half opened his mouth, closed it with a snap; then an
inscrutable smile stole upon his face. He shrugged, turned on his heel,
and went silently from the room.
The Squire sank into his chair. The flush had vanished from his face,
leaving it ashy pale. His hands trembled with excess of indignation.
"My dear, calm yourself," said his wife soothingly. "He is gone."
He made no reply. Dick sat silent, every nerve tingling with
excitement. In a minute his father rose, leaving his coffee half
finished, and strode heavily from the room.
"Mother, what does it mean?" asked Dick breathlessly. "Was that cousin
John?"
"Yes, my dear. Do not name him to your father. I will go to him; I
fear he will be ill. Finish your breakfast, Dick, and go to the
Parsonage. You had better stay there all day; Mr. Carlyon will give you
some dinner."
She followed her husband, leaving Dick to his breakfast and his
wondering thoughts. He faintly remembered his cousin John Trevanion,
who ten years before had lived in the now empty Dower House, between the
Towers and the village, as his father had done before him. John
Trevanion had then been a gay, careless, happy-go-lucky young man of
thirty, who lived on the Squire's bounty, riding his horse among the
county yeomanry, hunting with his neighbours, roistering it with the
most rakish young blades of the adjacent manors, joining in daredevil
escapades with the smugglers. His antics and riotings became a byword in
the country-side, and Dick remembered how, when a young boy, he had
witnessed several violent scenes between his father and John after some
particularly outrageous exploit. Old Pollex had told him that the
Squire had threatened many times that unless John reformed he would no
longer be allowed to occupy the Dower House, and had forgiven him over
and over again. At last a day came when John disappeared. Dick had
never learnt the true reason; the Squire never mentioned his cousin;
Pollex, when questioned, shook his head and pursed up his lips, and said
that John Trevanion was a villain; and Dick had formed the conclusion
from stray hints that the ne'er-do-well cousin had been driven out of
the country by some criminal act. For ten years he had not been heard
of, and he had wholly slipped from Dick's thoughts.
Having finished his breakfast, Dick took his cap and set off for his
two-mile walk to the Parsonage, where he went daily to receive lessons
in classics and literature from Mr. Carlyon, the vicar. He had never
been to school, his father's resources being incapable of bearing the
expense. A few years before this time the Squire had been seriously
disturbed about his son's education. He was himself a sufficiently
competent tutor in mathematics, but what classics he ever had had wholly
left him, and he was miserable in the thought that the boy was growing
up without the elements of the education of a gentleman. At this point
the vicar stepped in with a proposal. He was a liberal-minded, genial
man, a fellow of his college, a student of his county's antiquities, and
in his 'varsity days had been a notable athlete. Now, though well on in
years, he would often, on a Sunday afternoon after church, lend his
countenance to wrestling bouts and games of baseball among the village
youths. He rode to hounds, and judged at coursing matches, these and
similar avocations probably accounting for the fact that a history of
the parish, which he had commenced twenty years before, was still
unfinished. One day he suggested to the Squire that he should give Dick
lessons in Latin and Greek, to keep himself from rusting, as the worthy
man delicately put it, but really to make good the deficiency due to his
friend's straitened means. Mr. Trevanion gladly accepted the offer, and
Dick had now been for five years under the parson's capable tuition.
When Dick returned home in the evening he was met by Sam Pollex in a
state of considerable excitement.
"I say, Maister Dick," he said, "this be a fine mossel o' news. Yer
cousin John--a rare bad 'un he be--have come home-along."
"I know," replied Dick. "I've seen him."
"Have 'ee, for sure? I hain't seed un, but I heerd tell on un in
village. Ike Pendry were goin' along road last night when up comes my
genel'um and axed un to carr' his bundle for a groat. He wer traipsin'
along from St. Cuby's Cove way, about an hour, it do seem, arter we come
up from fishin'."
"Where had he come from?"
"Newquay, 'a said; but 'tis my belief he come out o' the smack we seed,
and clomb the cliff, same as we."
"That's nonsense. He wouldn't come in a smack, and if he did he
wouldn't land at the Cove. He has made no secret of his return, and
there's no reason why he shouldn't land at the jetty."
"Ah, well, things be as they be; but I reckon he come in the smack, all
the same."
"What is he doing in the village?"
"He bean't there no longer. This arternoon he packed up his traps and
rid off on one of Doubledick's hosses to Trura. Feyther seed un go. 'A
called to un as he rid by. 'Hoy, Reuben!' says he, ''tis a cold
country, this!' That just 'mazed Feyther, 'cos it was a frizzlin' day.
'Spect he've been in furrin parts, wheer what's bilin' to we is nawthin'
but chill-off to they. So 'tis, to be sure."
At this piece of news Dick felt much relieved. He hoped that Polkerran
had seen the last of John Trevanion. But it turned out that the return
of the native was only the first scene in a series of strange happenings
that were to be long remembered in the village, and were vitally to
affect the fortunes of the family at the Towers.