THE FAMILY PARTY.
The two young officers had been invited to dine at Pendrea-house on that
day, at two o'clock--the squire's usual dinner-hour. Lieut. Fowler had
some writing work to do--rather an unusual occupation for him. However,
as it was a report to be sent to head-quarters, which he had put off
from day to day, he said to his friend in the morning, during breakfast,
"The writing be blowed! but 'needs must when the devil drives!' so you
go out, old fellow, and take a stroll, and leave me here to kick my
heels under the table for a few hours. Two o'clock sharp, mind, and then
we'll put our legs under the squire's mahogany, and tuck into his old
port like trumps. That's an amusement which suits me a devilish deal
better than quill-driving, if I must tell the honest truth for once in
my life."
Two o'clock arrived, but Morley did not make his appearance. "The deuce
take the fellow," soliloquised the lieutenant; "he'll lose his dinner
and get out of the squire's good books. By Jove! though, perhaps he went
in to have a lark with the girls in the morning, and so he did not think
it worth while to come back. I'll just wash the ink off my paws, and
toddle down as quick as I can; the squire won't like being kept waiting.
'Tis devilish lucky the old chap doesn't require a fellow to dress for
dinner every time he tucks his legs under his mahogany;--I don't like
getting into harness very often, unless duty calls--and then we must
obey."
While the jovial officer is washing his hands, we will just look round
his little "cabin," as he called it.
The little dwelling in which the commander of the signal-station
resided, was certainly fitted up more to resemble a cabin on board ship,
than the habitation of a landsman. On the ground floor there was a small
room, or lobby, into which you entered at once from the front door.
Opposite this door there was a door leading into the sitting-room, and
beyond that another door led from the sitting-room into the kitchen. On
the right, as you entered the lobby, were the stairs, leading to the two
bedrooms, which led one into the other, like the rooms below. And in the
ceilings were fixed iron rings, to which the hammocks were slung at
night, and unshipped by day, the same as on board ship, so that these
rooms might also be used as sitting-rooms, if required, in the daytime.
There were three men kept at each of these stations, besides the
officer, and they had a separate cabin appropriated to them, adjoining
the principal one. Their duty was to attend upon the officer; hoist
signals of flags and balls, to give notice of the approach of an enemy's
ship; or to signal to English ships orders from head-quarters. And these
signals could be communicated to and from London in a very short
time,--although not so quickly, nor so accurately, as by the telegraph
of the present day.
It was not long after two when Lieut. Fowler got down to Pendrea-house,
where he found the squire with his watch in his hand.
"Half-an-hour is soon lost, my boy," said the old gentleman, as the
lieutenant entered the drawing-room; "but where is your friend?"
"Hasn't Morley been here, sir?" asked Fowler, in some surprise.
"No," replied the squire, "I haven't seen him,--have you, girls?"
This last question was addressed to two young ladies, whom Lieut. Fowler
now approached, and greeted as old acquaintances. They had seen nothing
of Mr. Morley, they said, since the day before, when they had all walked
to Lamorna Cove together.
"That's queer," said the squire; "but he's a stranger, and may have
missed his way,--so we'll give him a quarter-of-an-hour's grace."
And during this quarter-of-an-hour--the most awkward one in the whole
twenty-four hours--we will introduce the reader more formally than we
have hitherto done, to Squire Pendray and his family, the present owner
and occupiers of Pendrea-house.
The squire was a purse-proud man, who had made a good deal of money, no
one knew how, and purchased Pendrea estate many years before. He wished
to rank among the ancient aristocracy of the county,--and his wealth
enabled him to mix with them, and to be on a seeming equality; but in
those days ancestral pride was very strong, and those who could boast of
an ancient aristocratic pedigree, however limited their means might be,
looked down with contempt on the man of a day, who had nothing but his
riches to recommend him. The rich man was tolerated and patronized for
the sake of his wealth, but he was still looked down upon as an
inferior. Squire Pendray was one of these. But he was as proud of his
riches as they were of their pedigree, and so he did not see nor care
for their patronizing airs;--besides, he, in his turn, patronized those
whom he considered inferior to him in wealth, and he was satisfied. Some
said he was connected with the smugglers, and that they brought goods up
to some of his subterranean vaults, through a secret passage which led
from a cavern at Lamorna Cove up to Pendrea-house. Where the entrance
from the house to these subterranean vaults was, no one could tell but
the squire himself.
Mrs. Pendray was a homely, good sort of woman,--kind and hospitable, and
very much beloved by the poor of the parish, to whom she distributed her
bounties with a liberal hand.
Her two daughters will require a more elaborate description; for they
were considered the "belles" of the west, and were toasted by all the
young men of the neighbourhood at their after-dinner orgies--a custom
very prevalent at that period.
The elder of the two sisters, Matilda--or Maud, as she was generally
called--was a brunette, with dark hair and eyes, and a profile so
regular and perfect, that, when the countenance was still and in repose,
as it were, you might, without a great stretch of imagination, have
fancied it a piece of tinted sculpture,--but the slightest thing would
rouse it into animation, and then the dark eyes would flash like a
piece of polished steel when struck by the electric fluid. She wore her
hair in bands, which contrasted well with her high intellectual
forehead, and added dignity of expression to her handsome features. Her
stature was lofty, and her form elegant and symmetrical; and when she
walked across the room there was majesty in her step, as if her foot
disdained the ground it trod upon. She delighted to wander out alone
over the highest headlands, when the wind was raging with its wildest
fury, and to stand and watch the foaming waves, as they surged and
dashed against the perpendicular cliffs, until she was saturated with
the spray and in danger of being blown over into the abyss beneath.
Blanche was as unlike her elder sister as it was possible for her to be.
She was fair, and her beautiful auburn hair hung in graceful ringlets
over her soft young cheeks, as if to hide her blushes, which the merest
trifle would call forth. She was just seventeen. Her sister was four
years older; but, in person and manners, you would think there was a
greater difference of age between them. While Maud walked out to witness
the storm in all its majesty, from those bold cliffs, Blanche would take
some quiet book of poetry, and sit alone, and read, in the little room
upstairs, which their mother, years ago, had set apart for her two
daughters. And when the early spring brought soft and balmy sunshine,
Blanche would take her book and wander out alone--not to the towering
cliffs, and bold headlands, but along the sheltered paths which led down
to Lamorna Cove, gathering wild flowers by the way. And there she would
watch the rippling waves, as they came dancing in over the beautiful
white sand, sparkling in the sunshine; and when her eyes were weary with
watching the calm unruffled sea, she would sit beneath some sheltered
rock, and read, and weep over some sad tale until her eyes grew dim, and
then would rise again and search for some rare shell, or tiny piece of
seaweed, she had read or heard of, as being found at Lamorna Cove.
Lieut. Fowler, whose occupation caused him to wander everywhere along
the coast, in search of smugglers, or enemies' ships, would often come
suddenly on one or other of the sisters, and would then escort them home
and dine with the old squire, who liked him, and was fond of having him
there to while away an afternoon in social chat; for the lieutenant,
although not more than thirty years of age, had seen a little service,
and could tell tales that even Maud would sit and listen to. But, for
the gentle Blanche, those tales of hardship and suffering, and deeds of
daring, and hairbreadth escapes, had a deeper charm than she dared to
confess even to herself. He was not a handsome man by any means, but he
had a fine noble bearing, and courage and daring were marked in his
broad forehead. He was sometimes the only person they saw for weeks,
and, therefore, the two sisters enjoyed his society, and were always
glad when their papa asked him to dine. He admired them both, and not
being in a hurry to marry, or having been knocked about too much in the
world to have time to think of it, he did not see the danger he was
daily and hourly incurring by being on such intimate terms of friendship
with these two fascinating girls.
The old squire was very fond of his children, indulging them in most of
their caprices, and he did not see any danger or impropriety in allowing
them to be on intimate terms of friendship with a man whom he himself
liked so well, and who was, in fact, so necessary in assisting him to
pass away his time, with pleasure and comfort, in that dull
out-of-the-way place. It had also been a great pleasure to the squire's
family to receive the lieutenant's friend, Frederick Morley, at their
house; for he, too, was a very gentlemanly man, had seen a good deal of
the world, and could tell them of foreign scenes and manners, which very
much delighted them all. He was more romantic and impressible than his
friend. It was therefore evident that Miss Pendray preferred his society
to that of the more matter-of-fact Lieut. Fowler, and would take him to
her favourite wild cliffs, and point out the beauties she saw in them,
to which he listened with marked attention, entering into her feelings,
and admiring her pursuits, more than any other man she had been
accustomed to meet; but still there was something sad in his manner,
sometimes, which she could not account for. It seemed to her as if he
had met with some heavy affliction in days gone by. This thought was
impressed on her more than ever to-day; for he had not arrived in time
for dinner,--so they sat down without him. As the day passed slowly on,
and he did not appear, it made the whole family think the more of him.
After dinner, Miss Pendray asked Mr. Fowler if there was anything
pressing on his friend's mind, as, she said, she had often observed him
sad and thoughtful, when all had been merry and cheerful around him. Now
that the subject was mentioned, everyone seemed to have observed the
same; and they urged the lieutenant to tell them--if he knew, and it was
not a secret which he felt bound to keep--what it was that made the
young soldier look so sad at times when others were gay.
"My friend, Frederick Morley, has been a romantic dreamer all his life,"
said the lieutenant. "He was the same at school,--sometimes as gay and
reckless as the worst of us, and at other times sad and low-spirited,
even when his companions were in their gayest mood. About two years ago,
before he went abroad with his regiment, poor Fred had a romantic
love-affair at the town in which his regiment was quartered. His sister
was living in the same place, with her aunt; and Fred fell desperately
in love with a boarding-school miss, and as his sister was a day-pupil
at the same school, she was the messenger between them. Since his
return he has searched everywhere for the girl, but cannot succeed in
finding her. This much he has told me, but he will not divulge her name.
So you see, ladies, my poor friend has enough on his mind to make him
sad."
"Yes," replied Miss Pendray; "but this affair is of recent date, and you
say he was the same at school;--it was not a love-affair then, I
presume."
"Oh! no," said the lieutenant, in a grave tone; "there was another cause
for his melancholy then, but that is all blown over, and therefore,
perhaps, it is as well to leave it rest in oblivion. He never speaks of
it now, and so, I suppose, he wishes it to be forgotten."
"Oh! do tell us, Lieut. Fowler," said Blanche. "Poor young man! it must
have been some dreadful tale, I'm sure, to prey on his mind thus, for so
many years;" and she looked at him so beseechingly, that he could not
refuse,--indeed, why should he decline to make his friends acquainted
with the history of a young man whom he had introduced to their house?
The story threw no disgrace on his young friend; and if he scrupled to
tell them the true story, they might suspect it was some crime or
indiscretion which his friend had himself been guilty of. So, looking at
the sweet girl who sat opposite him, with her fair curls thrown back
from her face, the more easily to catch every word that was spoken by
him whose tales she loved to hear, he said he would relate the story as
well as he could. But it was a sad tale; and as it is likely to be a
long one, and probably an interesting one, we will give it a chapter to
itself.