THE SON OF A TRAITOR
"Blithe bird of the wilderness, sweet is thy song,
Blithe lark of the wildwood, O, all the day long,
A-singing so cheerily in the green tree,
Thy anthem dispels gloom and sorrow from me;
Thou sayest in thy song, 'What can sadness avail?
Injustice shall fall and the good shall prevail.'
"Yet bird of the wilderness, sad is our lot,
Our home, confiscated, our name, a dark blot;
The Cornish chief, stricken at Prestonpan's fight,
Wounded at Culloden for King and the right,
And captured at Braddock's defeat in the glen,
Was branded at home by a sycophant's pen.
"Oh, bird of the wildwood, upon the green bough
Thy ancestor sang just as sweetly as thou,
He sang, as thou singest, that evil should fail,
Injustice should fall, and that good should prevail;
But surely the goddess of justice is blind,
When traitor is honoured and patriot maligned.
"Sing sweetly, O wild bird, upon the green tree,
And let me draw comfort and solace from thee,
Though home's confiscated, dishonoured our name,
And poverty adds a deep sting to our shame,
And father's departed,--yet, evil shall fail,--
Some day,--right shall triumph and good shall prevail."
Clear and sweet arose the melody, and yet with a plaintive element of
sadness in it. The parson paused in his steps to listen. On one side of
the highway stretched the woods of the Manor, their shadow etched darkly
by the slightly slanting sun-rays; on the other side were the fields,
yellow, ripe, all ready for the sickle of the reaper. A wood-lark, the
sweetest of all English birds, arose in the air from the Manor woods
and, still twittering, flew over hedge and field, no doubt seeking its
home and mate.
A smile of pleasure lit up the saintly old rector's face and then merged
into the thoughtful. He made a pleasing picture leaning on his
silver-headed cane, his long skirted coat slightly open at the neck,
revealing the white stock-cravat in its fluffy folds, his head slightly
inclined as if not willing to lose a single bar of the song. Not until
the song was ended did he venture forward.
"Most remarkable song and most remarkable sweet tenor voice--yes--a
great deal sweeter than Penjerrick's. I must have that voice for our
parish choir."
Arriving at the corner of the woods, the silence of the singer was
explained in a single, brief, cursory glance. There, seated on the hedge
that separated the woods from the road, sat the figure of a boy, tall,
sinewy and strong, yet still a boy. His cap had fallen to the ground and
the tangled masses of dark red hair lay deep on his brow. With
melancholy, abstracted air, he was gazing across the fields as if in
meditation.
"Why, Ande, you are quite a singer," said the parson, in a pleasant
voice.
The lad, startled from his reverie, leaped down from the hedge, picked
up his cap and coming forward gave his customary salutation,
"Good-morning, Parson Trant."
The parson returned the salutation and then there was silence for a
moment, during which the rector scrutinised him with his kindly, yet
keen grey eyes.
The lad's face was both attractive and strong. His slightly aquiline
nose revealed a sensitive nature; his prominent chin and firm lips, a
resolute will; his high, rolling forehead--swept by the tangled waves of
rollicking hair--intellectuality; the hue of his locks and the deep blue
eye, a soul that, though kind and affectionate, could be fired by strong
passions. At least so conjectured the parson, who thought he could read
character in human lineaments.
But these thoughts did not occupy the latter long. It was the manner of
the lad that disturbed him. With bright, cheery smile he had been
accustomed to greet him heretofore. Now the youth stood before him
almost with the air of a culprit. He shunned the rector's eyes, and
seemed as if wishing to avoid that calm scrutiny. A fleeting thought
possessed the mind of the pastor. Could the youth possibly be guilty of
the misdemeanours committed at the Manor? Was he wrong in his judgment
of his favourite pupil? The truth of the matter was that the youth had
been crying over petty vexations. At least there were tears in his eyes
and, like many of his age, he disliked to be seen thus.
"Well, Ande," said Parson Trant, breaking the silence, "you have a voice
that ought to be in our parish choir. Now what do you say about coming
in next Sabbath morning? Mr. Penjerrick will give you a little
preliminary training Saturday afternoon."
"I--I would rather not come, sir, if you could excuse me. I--I don't
sing in church."
"And why not?" asked the parson, kindly.
"Because I would be singing the praises of God when--when--I don't feel
like it," responded the lad a little slowly, and with some effort.
"Why, Ande, you are a Christian lad--true, you have not yet been
confirmed and united to the church--but still, you are a Christian lad.
Are you not?"
"I don't know, sir," said the lad, and again relapsed into silence.
"My poor lad," said the good old man, as he put one arm over the boy's
shoulder, affectionately, "there's something wrong with you to-day; you
are not yourself. Come now, confide in me. Tell me about it and let me
give you my advice in the matter. You have not done anything wrong, have
you?"
Thus questioned by the good old rector, Ande, who loved him for his
worth as a true man and a noble exponent of Christianity, could not help
but respond. Flinging up his head and pushing back the masses of hair
that would persist in falling over his eyes, he said:
"It is this way, Mr. Trant, I have made up my mind to leave the
country. There is room for me on the sea or in foreign parts. I can't
bear the taunts of some of the lads at the parish school. The master
doesn't know and you don't know how mean some of the boys act. There's
Bob Sloan, Dick Denny and some more of that stripe that are becoming
unbearable."
"Why, what do they say?" asked the parson, kindly.
"They call me the ugly Dane or Deane and cast slurs upon my father and
grandfather, saying they were traitors to the government."
"Ah, in reference to the first name, methinks, my lad, you are old
enough to know that that old story of the Danes seizing the wives of
Englishmen has no historical foundation; in reference to the second
matter, time itself must clear up the truth or falsity of the
accusation. It certainly shows a mean, petty spirit to vilify a son for
the reputed deeds of a father."
"Aye, there's just the point about my not singing in church. The Bible
says 'the sins of the fathers shall be visited upon the children,' and I
think that's unjust. Here," said the boy with a trace of angry passion
in his tones, "I am taunted, despised, looked down on, not only by the
lads, but by some of the grown people as well. I believe, just as you
say, that it shows a small spirit in lads, men and the Bible, to condemn
a lad for the faults of his father. How can I sing then?"
The parson was dumfounded and completely silenced for a moment. He was
grieved and dismayed to hear how his last remark was misapplied.
"And," continued the youth, rather bitterly, "I believe, and know you
believe, that neither father nor grandfather were guilty of any treason,
that there's a mistake somewhere. Yet--yet I have to stand all this.
Squire Vivian looks upon me with an angry look. Sir James Lanyan looks
upon me as if I was a dog. Master Richard called me a traitor's cub,
because I happened to be in his way this morning, and if he hadn't been
on horse-back I would have made him take it back--and--and--I hate them.
I hate them all!" The lad's face was marked with passion, his fists
clenched, and there was an angry tear in his eye that he could not
conceal. "Why does God allow all this? Why--and--and--but I'm not going
to stay here and bear it."
The parson looked grave and turned the conversation for a moment by
asking the name of the author of the song he had heard.
"The Song of the Lark, you mean? That was made by my father, and my
mother taught me to sing it when I could first finger the harp. The harp
is the only thing we have now that used to belong to the Manor." There
was a sad ring in the boy's voice that but indicated the feelings
within.
"Do you believe in the truth of that song?"
"Yes," responded the lad.
"Well, why don't you put in application the thought?" and Parson Trant
quoted the words:
"'What can sadness avail,
Injustice shall fall, and good shall prevail.'
Now, Ande," continued the parson, "I know the history of your family
almost as well as you. Your grandfather was a faithful subject of the
king. He fought with Gardner at Prestonpans, at Culloden, and also
against the French in the American colonies. He disappeared after
Braddock's defeat and was shot a year afterward by General Armstrong's
troops, by mistake, no doubt. Now consider,--at the time he had on a
tattered French uniform, with a commission as captain in the French army
in his pocket. These things were brought to England and, through the
instrumentality of Sir Richard Lanyan, father of Sir James, the
attention of the authorities was directed toward them and the Manor
confiscated. Under the circumstances was not the king justified in
suspicioning his loyalty? Consider, too, that England and the Hanover
dynasty had been threatened seriously, by the Pretender, with another
invasion of French troops. Culloden was still fresh in men's minds.
Cornwall was noted for her adherence to the Stuarts in the Cromwellian
wars, and even at the time of the young Pretender many noted Cornish
families sympathised with him and the Stuart claims. You know the story
of Burnuhall[1], and how young Prince Charles, the Pretender, spent
several nights there in concealment. Do you wonder at a ready ear being
given to suspicion coming from this quarter? Blame not the king or your
fellows, my lad. The suspicion was natural, although the friends of your
family believe that there was a mistake somewhere. Hope for the best and
bear up cheerfully, my lad. You misapplied my remark some moments ago
about God being unjust and that therefore you could not sing His praise.
My remark applied only to men and not to God. God is above our judgment.
He cannot be measured by our standards. You spoke about playing the
harp. It was hard work to learn, was it not?"
[1] Burnuhall--A fine old mansion near the English Channel in the
parish of Buryan, Cornwall, England. Sheltered the young Pretender
in 1746.
"Yes, sir, but mother kept me at it."
"Well, so God is trying to teach you some things. You heard my sermon
last Sabbath. Can you tell me the text?"
"Part of the eighteenth verse of the Hundred and Fifth Psalm, 'He was
laid in iron,'" responded the boy.
"I am glad you remember it. You remember how Joseph was treated, sold
into slavery, maligned, slandered, imprisoned. Yet he had done no wrong.
Now is your case any worse than his? No, not nearly so bad, yet he
didn't refuse to sing God's praise, although he knew God permitted him
to be slandered and to be unjustly imprisoned. Now, what was it for? You
remember the old Hebrew rendering that I quoted as the last thought,
'Barzel baah naphsho,' and its meaning iron entered his soul. You
remember I said his soul was strengthened as with iron, on account of
his suffering and dishonour, and that through that same discipline he
gained the courage, wisdom, resolution and position of a prince, and
became ruler o'er all Egypt. Now, Ande, God may be training you in the
same way. You know Cowper's hymn, no doubt, by heart.
"God moves in a mysterious way
His wonders to perform;
He plants His footsteps in the sea
And rides upon the storm.
Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take,
The clouds ye so much dread
Are full of mercy and will break
In blessings on your head.
Judge not the Lord by feeble sense
But trust Him for His grace,
Behind a frowning Providence
He hides a smiling face!"
The beautiful hymn was quoted to the very end, and the good old parson,
apparently filled with the glad, stirring thought, had a smile of
exalted hopefulness on his countenance. Ande gazed at him and it seemed
in that smile he read a happy augury of his own future. The parson had
preached a sermon without realising it, but yet he could not fail to see
the effects of his words on the youth at his side. There was a serenity
on the boy's features and a new, hopeful light in the eye as he grasped
the parson's hand with fervour, and said, "I'll not doubt God again,
Parson Trant, and I'll not refuse to sing."
"And not hate Squire Vivian, Sir James Lanyan, or the young Master
Richard?" asked the parson.
The parson had overreached himself. The youth's countenance flushed with
anger and the hands were slightly clenched. There was silence.
"Perhaps it is a little too much to ask that now. That will come. Don't
doubt God. Love Him and you will soon love men. In reference to the
slurs of the lads, pay no attention to them and they will soon cease
their annoyance. In reference to your name and the stain upon it,
resolve to make a new name for yourself and your family by your own
conduct. Can you think of anything more noble than to labour against
unfavourable circumstances, against slander, encumbered by a stained
name,--false though the accusation may be,--fighting against odds, and
yet finally coming forth from the struggle, a victor, having made a new
and honourable name for yourself and family? Can you, my lad?" Parson
Trant gave the lad an affectionate pat upon the back.
There was silence for a moment.
"Yes, I can."
The rector was taken aback, for he had expected a different answer.
"And what is more noble?" he asked.
"I think it is better to clean the old name; and I'll do it, if I can."
There was a steady light of purpose in the eye of the youth, as he
replied.
The parson said nothing for a time and they walked on in silence and
then----
"Perhaps you are right, lad. You are very much like your father. Those
were his words and sentiments. I trust you may be more successful,
though."
Parson Trant, while giving vent to these brief, epigrammatic sentences,
was thinking of another matter,--the depredations on the estate of the
Manor,--and had just decided to broach that unhappy subject. They were
standing near the village stocks and the parson, placing his arm again
in that of Ande, began the subject in an indirect manner.