BY.T. MULLETT ELLIS
EMORY UNIVERSITY
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE
H flhelohramatic anD psychological Story
T. MULLETT ELLIS
Author of " Reveries of World History: or, The Roma7ice of a Star
etc., etc.
" I have done the deed. Didst thou not hear a noise?"
—Macbeth, Act IT. Scene 2
The Scene is laid at—
1. Boscastle, Cornwall
2. Monte Carlo and the Riviera
3. Venice
4. Switzerland
5. Boscastle
SLontiou
SWAN SONNENSCHEIN & CO,
PATERNOSTER SQUARE
1893
Butler & Tanner,
The Selwood Printing "Works,
Feojie, and London.
XTo
Those Worshipful Sirs,
All
Critics and Reviewers,
Pioneers in the Path of Knowledge ! Potentates in the
World of Thought!
who though not Invariably Loved,
are Universally Respected, Devoutly Honoured, and Occasionally Feared,
and before Whom
Authors tremble,
by reason of their power,
which is infinitely greater than that exercised
by Kings and Nobles
and other illustrious Patrons of Literature
in days of yore,
h
the 'umble author of this volume,
do dedicate'
it,
hi profound veneration of their stupendous influence,
hoping, if not trusting,
that their knowledge is equal to the authority of their expression
that their temper is more even than their discrimination,
their conscience co-equal with their confidence,
that their literary taste is as Epicurean as it is fastidious,
and that their modesty and judgment
are more delicate than their wit, and even finer than
the general average of their humour,
sincerely thanking those who eulogized my last literary venture
{in many respects far beyond its merits),
defying its ignorant censors,
but gratefully appreciating its most critical judges,
and praying
that the Inestimable Advantage of their Enviable Consideration
{that mvaluable boon)
may be graciously conferred upon this work, and that they may deem
it worthy of
Commendatory Notice,
without which the work of any Author
is as surely damned
as every good Critic's soul
will eventually be saved
in that Great Review of all Men,
which we are taught {by some) to believe
Will One Day
occur,
sincerely promising, if this prayer be granted,
the eternal,
though not 7iecessarily the worthy,
gratitude
of their most obliged,, appreciative,
abject,
obedient, humble Servant,
T. MULLETT ELLIS.
CONTENTS.
Borrowed Plumes. page
CHAPTER I 1
In which a Young Woman finds 7" Red as a Rose is She."
Herself too much Admired. S (Bhodu Broughton.)
CHAPTER II 8
Which introduces the Reader\
to an old-fashioned Colonel, I" War and Peace."
who has much to do with our ) (Count Tolstoi.)
History. '
CHAPTER III 12
Wherein the too-much Admired -n
Young Woman is still more / As in a Looking-Glass."
Admired, and eventually C (P. C. Phillips.)
Admires Herself. ■'
CHAPTER IV 23
In which there is nothing at all 7 " The Idle Thoughts of an Idle
but the Thread of the Tale. ) Fellow." (Jerome K. Jerome.)
CHAPTER V. • 25
Which contains the Meditations 7 " Is Life Worth Living?"
of an Impecunious Man. ) {Mullock.)
CHAPTER VI 29
„ _ 7 " An Unsocial Socialist."
Describing a Seaman. ) (Bernard Shaw.)
CHAPTER VII 32
Wherein the before-mentioned }" I say No."
Seaman Pops the Question. 3 (Wilkie Collins.)
CHAPTER VIII 35
_ T 7 " Through Pain to Peace."
Which, though Short, is Lively. ) (fi, doudneyj
vii
vill CONTENTS.
Borrowed Plumes. page
CHAPTER IX 37
Which heralds the approach op 7 "All the world and his wife."
more select society. ) (Old Saw.)
CHAPTER X ' 41
Concerning Parsons exclu- 7 " Saints and Sinners."
• sively. ) (H. A. Jones.)
CHAPTER XI 46
About Earls and Countesses, 7 " Of High Degree."
and People of Quality. ) (Chas. Gibbon.)
CHAPTER XII. . 55
In which a Wary Old Bird con- y f( ^ t 0 »
fesses that He is LlMED AT [ 6 W°' {Mna LyaU )
last. *
CHAPTER XIII 58
Which recites how Dan Cupid>
got to work and Played Mis- / " Her Heart's Desire."
chief in his accustomed c (H. P. Lewis.)
manner. j
CHAPTER XIV 63
Relating the Adventures of as _ ... 1tt.11 ,t , , -rr
Man to whom Satan whis-1 h® ^ w ^m
pered on a Summer's Day. / (Mrs. Ohphant.)
CHAPTER XV 69
Which Suggests the possible 7 "Absolutely True."
Existence of Mermaids. S (Irving Montagu.)
CHAPTER XVI 71
Which tells the Thrilling 7 " Love for an Hour is Love for
Story of a Rescue. ) Ever." (A. E. Barr.)
CHAPTER XVII 75
Which I Dedicate to Sculptors ) "'Paradise Regained."
and Painters. ) (Milton.)
CHAPTER XVIII 78
Describing a Game of Hide and>.
Seek, and a little of the /" Within the Maze."
Love-making that very often t (Mrs. Henry Wood.)
follows. ^
CHAPTER XIX 85
Which, alas ! is but too True to 7 "Hot Wisely, but Too Well."
Nature. ) (Rhoda Broughton.)
CONTENTS.
ix
Borrowed Plumes. page
CHAPTER XX
About cebtain Wayward Whims ) " I dreamt that I dwelt in
of W omen kind. ) marble halls." (Moore.)
CHAPTER XXI
Which is so very Serious that") ,„r
I am certain it will RlSK the [ ' w°rk wme ye^ve ^L^t.
£00K> 3 (Count Tolstoi.)
CHAPTER XXII 100
Which, like divers Chapters in")
this and other novels, is £ a t^rea(i- .
about Love. 3 (Mrs. Lynn Tnnton.)
CHAPTER XXIII. 103
Containing another Proposal of\ "In Honour Bound."
Marriage. ) (Chas. Gibbon.)
CHAPTER XXTY 107
Which tells how a Woman isn
Grieved, how a Man is Wor- ( " How Like a Woman !"
ried, and how Another is C (Florence Marry at.)
Angered. '
CHAPTER XXY 114
Show,no how Ev,h may seizi a „ por o(
opon man, and pill his sou! ^ ^ g(u
with Diabolical Enterprise, j
CHAPTER XXYI. . 120
Describing the Devilish Villain y-n
that sprung up within and / " After Dark."
utterly possessed a Human t (Willcie Collins.)
Soul. j
CHAPTER XXYII 122
Relating how a Dark Deed was \ " Eoul Play."
Done. ) (Chas. Reade.)
CHAPTER XXVIII 124
Briefly Descriptive of the Wit- ") " Alas ! "
ness of the Wickedness. ) (Rhoda Broughton.)
CHAPTER XXIX 126
Showing how Crime makes Cal- ) " The Spendthrift."
lous the Heart of Man. 5 (Harrison Ainsworth.)
CHAPTER XXX 130
Telling of the first Qualms of \ " The Legacy of Cain."
Remorse. ) (Willcie Collins.)
X CONTEXTS.
Borrowed Plumes. page
CHAPTER XXXI 133
Which Relates how the Dead ") "Found Dead."
Body was Found. 5 (James Payn.)
CHAPTER XXXII 134
Describing the Inquest and ? " What Dreams may Come."
Verdict. ) (G. F. Atherton.)
CHAPTER XXXIII 141
Which shows how a Guilty Man,-.
let him travel where he / " Life's Remorse."
will, cannot run away prom c (Mrs. Hungerford.)
Himselp. *
CHAPTER XXXIV 144
Which is a Corrective op the, ... „ , ... t,
last Chattel, and teaches!^" What will He do It ? "
the Exact Opposite thereof. 5 ^ u wer y 071^
CHAPTER XXXV. . 147
Concerning Lady Violet Bote-v " Through All the Changing
rel, and the Grief that [■ Scenes of Life."
Gaiety cannot Dispel. ) (8. Baring Gould.)
CHAPTER XXXVI. 152
Describing a Game of Roulette V'"Vanity Fair."
at Monte Carlo. 3 (W. M. Thackeray.)
CHAPTER XXXVII 156
Referring Casually to a Rail-') [£mi _ „ ,,
way , Accident, and to other £ the wases of ,
Events. ) {lucas malet)
CHAPTER XXXVIII 160
Telling how Love Entered and-) „
Agitated Two Passionate £ Darkness and Dawn.
Hearts. ) (Archdeacon Farrar.)
CHAPTER XXXIX 163
Which Teaches that when the-\
Gates of Paradise were I " It is Never Too Late to Mend."
Shut, a sure Way in was still 4 (Ghas. Bsade.)
left open for Poor Humanity.
CHAPTER XL 172
Describing the very Eden of 1 " Far from the Madding Crowd."
Love. 3 (Thos. Hardy.)
CONTENTS.
xi
Borrowed Plumes. page
CHAPTER XLT . . .177
Which, ill-natured Critics may^
: The Scarlet Letter.'
say, Begins with the Sublime | ({
and Ends with the Ridicu- , , ,t m • i -rr m
lous, and which I claim to | mthamel Bawthome.)
be therefore very natural
CHAPTER XLII. 189
About an Elopement and its 7 " The Diary of a Pilgrimage."
Development. 3 (Jerome K. Jerome.)
CHAPTER XLIII 194
Describing the Tricks of a ") "The New Pilgrim's Progress."
Lady's Maid. 3 (Mark Twain.)
CHAkfER XLIY 197
Which, if Brevity is the Soul of 7 "A Woman of No Importance."
Wit, has some Merit. 3 (Oscar Wilde.)
CHAPTER XLV. . 198
In which a Lady holds a Brief n „ with a gilken thread »
to prove that killing is no j ^ ^
Murder. j
CHAPTER XLYI 205
Containing an Account of av, . . ,.t ,,
Morning Call, and some i s amma' ., a
other tri,lino Incidents. ) Surtees.)
CHAPTER XLVII . 213
Which may be Summarized in the>
three simple words of Boy-/"The Earthly Paradise."
hood's Memory—Amo, Amas, C (Wm. Morris.)
Amat.
CHAPTER XLYIII. 218
Which Fixes the Date of an 7 " Night and Morning."
Impending Marriage. 5 (Buhver Lytton.)
CHAPTER XLIX 224
. _ ) " A Woman's Vengeance."
About a Female Detective. j (Jas.Payn.)
CHAPTER L. ..... ' . 230
7 "The Day will Come."
More about the same. 3 iUiss Braddon.)
Xli CONTENTS.
Borrowed Plumes. page
CHAPTER LI 235
Which if cut in half wouldi
make two tolerable CHAP-
ters ; but being told in one,
is probably too much for
the Reader's Digestion.
Hide and Seek."
(Willcie Collins.)
CHAPTER LII 246
Telling how the Watcher was 7 " Eyes and No Eyes."
Watched. 3 (Nursery Boole.)
CHAPTER LIII 249
7 " Hopes and Fears."
About a Mother and her Child. $ (Charlotte ill. Yonge.)
CHAPTER LIY 252
Wherein the Wanderers Return ) " Return of the Native."
and the Plot Thickens. ) (Thos. Hardy.)
CHAPTER LY.
Showing the Relationship of 7 " Better Dead."
Jealousy to Love. 3 (J- M. Barrie.)
CHAPTER LYI.
Wherein the Evil Consequences ((tt , m
-rv t Under Two Flags.
of Sin are further Deline- [•
ated
» (Ouida.)
CHAPTER LYII.
Describing the Renunciation of 7 "The Shadow of a Crime."
a Profound Love. 3 (Hall Caine.)
CHAPTER LVIII 274
Describing the Martyrdom of ") " What He Cost Her."
a Noble Woman. 3 (Jas. Payn.)
CHAPTER LIX 282
. m ~ 7 In the Roar of the Sea.
A Tempestuous Chapter. \ /o x> • ^ n s
3 (S. Baring Gould.)
CHAPTER LX
7 " God and the Man."
The Cohchismn of the Matter. } (Robert Buchanan.)
THE BEAUTY OE BOSCASTLE,
~=—— —
CHAPTER I.
in "which a young woman einds hersele too much admired.
" Red as a Rose is She." (Rliocla Broughton.)
A girl stood at a cottage window, scissors in hand, cutting blossoms
from a climbing rose-tree, which grew so well that it hung far over
the open casement and almost obscured the view.
It was a pretty view, for it overlooked Boscastle harbour, the
prettiest and tiniest harbour in England.
The cottage was perched high up on the sloping cliff which frames
the little port. Every visitor to Boscastle knows it well, for it is a
picturesque and isolated building, overhung with honeysuckle and
fuchsia, with roses and nasturtiums—conspicuous on the green hill-
side—the last house of the straggling town, looking as though it had
slid down the hill and was about to fall upon the quay below.
There is a footpath along the cliff from which this pretty cottage
can be approached, although it is more commonly entered from the
road below. Close to the cottage is a garden patch, and upon the
green hillside here and there are clumps of yellow furze. Looking
out of the cottage window across the harbour, one can see a few
straggling houses, deserted coal stores, some fishermen's huts, and
an old grimy smithy. Further up towards the town is a stone bridge,
arching the little stream that flows into the harbour. The harbour
itself is like a lake at the foot of the hills ; for the high rounded cliffs
seem to enclose it on every side, and it is not until one follows the
path leading seawards that one can discover the tortuous entrance
to this pictui-esque and peaceful little haven.
Oh 1 the beauty of Boscastle ! The bold cliff scenery, inland vale
and stream and wood, cot and fold, kieve and sea!
The girl, having cut the roses, entered the cottage, and put the
flowers in ajar upon the table. Then she laid a cloth, put the kettle
on the fire, placed teacups on the table—one for her father, one for
herself—and made preparations for a simple repast.
Her father, Richard Tredorn, was on the other side of the river
yonder, blowing the bellows at his smithy. The girl looked at the
clock on the mantel-shelf. Her father would not be home for an hour,
she thought; so she brought out a chair, and sitting by the garden
wall, on which a fishing net was stretched, she began with deft
fingers to mend the many torn meshes with some twine.
B
2
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
She -was a tall, fine girl, broad-shouldered, and of massive build.
Her arms were beautifully rounded and flexible ; many a full day's
work had they done, yet they were not gnarled by hard labour. Her
gestures were simple, yet the poise of her head was stately with
the unassumed dignity of natural grace. Often she bent low as
she gathered up the folds of the net she was mending, and the
shapeliness of her neck and the full curves of her shoulders were
thus shown to advantage. Occasionally she leant backwards, looking
up, and the sunlight fell full upon her tanned and ruddy face—a fine
face of the true Cornish type. Her hair was as black as jet; her
eyes and eyebrows very dark; even in the corners of her lips there
was a delicate down of fine hair, which shaded the curves of her
mouth and accentuated her smile. Her features were fine. The
ancestors of some of the Cornish people came over from Phoenicia
centuries ago. Jennie Tredorn's physiognomy still showed traces of
such origin.
Along the path from Willapark Point—a bold headland stretching
out into the Atlantic, and forming one of the guardians of Boscastle
harbour—came a man. He did not walk ; he waddled.
He was more like a fish than a man. His eyes were small and
round. His ears were large, and made a broad line at the edge of
his face like the gills of a fish. He had a coarse skin with large
marks like scales. He had no hair on his face, except a short beai'd,
which resembled the appendage on the under lip of a cod. His
name was Jose. He had no other name. He had no father ; he had
no mother. He came out of the sea.
Twenty years ago there had been a wreck off Boscastle. The life-
boat went out to her, but before it reached the wreck the vessel
foundered. One life only was saved ; a young boy's—Jose.
The smith, Richard Tredorn, fathered him. " I have no son,"
said he, " for Jose is dead ; and now G-od has given to me another
Jose. I will be father to the little one."
So the kind-hearted smith reared this waif of the sea. He was a
difficult charge, a troublesome lad, a frequent truant, an idler at
school, an unwilling youth at the smithy—happy only on a boat,
happy in the slime of the harbour, happiest at sea.
But at sea he was the best sailor afloat.
He came along the path to the cottage. Over his shoulder was a
bag.
" Zee what I brought 'ee, Jennie," he said, swinging the bag off
his shoulder.
"Why, -Jose!" exclaimed the girl, jumping up from her chair,
" how you frightened me ! "
" Frightened 'ee, lass ? " answered Jose.
" You came so suddenly. Where have you been the last four
days? You have not been home. And what have you there ? It
moves 'tis alive."
"Alive, lassie, aye! aye! 'tes a hog, a fine young hog, I've got for
'ee."
"A hog?"
A YOUNG WOMAN FINDS HERSELF TOO MUCH ADMIRED. 3
" Aye; a sea-hog. I caught 'ee iu Blackapit," said Jose, opening
the mouth of the bag.
"Why, 'tis a seal," exclaimed Jennie, patting his head. "What
a pretty creature ! How restive he is ! What a pretty head, Jose !
and his eyes, how bright the poor thing's eyes are! And, oh!
Jose, what a soft skin ! 'tis like velvet. And it is for me, you say ?"
"Aye,for 'ee, my lass," said Jose, watching with an expression of
intense delight the evident interest Jennie took in the seal.
" Three nights I be in Pentargon in yon hole, for the sea was too
rough for me to get out in a boat. An' after all I didn't. I swam.
I had to git round the point on the rocks, for I frighted all the seals
away; and I saw this 'un an' the mother in Blaclcapit, and swam
round, I did, an' killed the dam an' caught this young 'un."
" Oh, Jose! "
*" Aye, I killed the dam, and 'ee shall have a jacket, lassie, o' the
skin. She's in Blackapit."
" 'Twas cruel of you, Jose," said the girl, stroking the young seal
tenderly. " No wonder the poor thing cries; 'tis mourning. There ;
look how he struggles. Take him back, Jose, and put him in the sea
again."
" Put him back!" cried Jose, in a disappointed tone; "no, no. Why,
lassie, three nights was I a-takin' of 'im, and I'm main hungry "
"Ob, Jose, Jose; how thoughtless of me! " said Jenny, as, putting
her arm on his, she drew him into the cottage. " Here's tea all
ready. Come,—-bread, bacon, cream. Sit down and eat."
Jose fell to at once like a hungry man. Great hunks of bread,
huge slabs of bacon fat followed each other down the vast cavity
of his open jaws. The remainder of a joint of beef was on a shelf,
and this too quickly disappeared. So greedily did he gnaw the
bones, that he resembled a wild beast. His eyes were staring, his
protruding tongue followed the edges of the bones, and licked off
every morsel of skin. His misshapen hands, which were covered
with red bristling hair, tore the meat asunder and wrested the bones
apart. When he had picked the bones, he broke them on his knee
and sucked the marrow. He drank his tea out of a bowl, Jennie
cooling it by adding a quantity of milk. The cream, which she had
placed on the table as a delicacy, he disposed of in two gulps. Soon
he had eaten all there was.
" More," said he.
" How hungry you are, Jose! " she said softly, as she left the room
and sped to a little outside larder, returning with a cold rice pud-
ding, an immense loaf of bread, some ship's biscuits, and butter.
" But you must be hungry after your long fast. Had you nothing
to eat in the cave ? "
" Pish," answered Jose.
By this he meant raw mussels, limpets, and perhaps a few raw
crabs.
" And to drink ? "
" Water."
"Poor Jose!"said Jennie, in a tone of sincere commiseration,
4
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
unlocking a small cupboard and pouring out a wineglass of Hollands.
" Take that; it will warm you."
He tossed it down his throat in a moment. " Another," he said.
She partly filled the glass again. " No more," she said, locking
up the cupboard with decision. " 'Tis bad stuff, and leads to wicked-
ness. No more."
Jose looked at her. It was evident she meant what she said, and
that she was accustomed to be obeyed, so that he did not repeat his
request. He put down his glass in a resigned way, and producing
a very short clay pipe from his trousers pocket, and a cake of ship's
tobacco, he commenced to cut off some shreds, which he kneaded in.
the palm of his hands, sailor fashion, and, filling the bowl of his
pipe, he was very soon puffing out thick clouds in contentment.
" Outside, Jose," said Jennie. " I can't have you smoking in the
house; you must smoke in the garden. Father is coming in to tea
directly. 'Tis time he was here already," she added, looking up at
the clock.
" Then I'll go and make fast my boat," said Jose; and turning
down the steep path that led from the cottage to the harbour, he
was soon out of view.
To clear the table and shake the crumbs to the birds, to clean the
plates and re-arrange them in an orderly manner, to make up the fire
and brighten the hearth for her father's coming, was the work of a
few minutes to the nimble-fingered Jennie ; and as she worked she
sang blithely :—
" There's a lad afloat, afloat,
He has left his heart with me;
But I'm as free as a mountain goat,
I'm freer far than the.lad in the boat,
For I love not any Jack afloat,
And I do not care for thee—for thee;
No, I care not a jot for thee."
The final couplet she repeated in a louder tone and with pointed
emphasis, smiling archly as she sang; for a good-looking village
youth, one Nicholas Pearn, had approached, and, looking in at the
cottage door, called to her over the garden wall.
" And I do not care for thee—for thee ;
No, I care not a jot for thee,"
she sang.
" Oh ! but I wish thou didst, Jennie," said the new-comer seriously.
" I'd make thee the happiest girl in Boscastle."
" Poof 1" said Jennie, not expecting such an answer to the dial-
lenge of her song. She was not accustomed to such definite and
business-like compliments, and with a pretty toss of her head,
and a frown on her brow, she showed that she wanted to hear no
such nonsense.
" Ah, but I mean it, Jennie," said the young man earnestly.
"And I shall have the mill," he said in lower tones. "Father's
grown main old, and he has talked with me, and he ses I'm to have
A YOUNG WOMAN FINDS HERSELF TOO MUCH ADMIRED. 5
the mill soon, all for my own. Aye, Jennie, I've often thought it, but
didn't know how for to speak to 'ee about it. I've often thought to
ask 'ee, an' I heard 'ee singing your song, and somehow out it came,—
the very thing I've been wanting to say for a year or more, but I
couldn't put it into words, Jennie."
The young man stood by the cottage door as he said this, and
Jennie stood there too, with her wet arms bared to the elbow.
" You shouldn't say such things," answered Jennie, wiping her
moist hands upon her apron. " It isn't I'ight to say such things,
Nicholas—and me washing the dishes too."
" Jennie," said the young man, taking her hand in his, " will you
be my wife ? "
" Oh, get along with you, Nick," she replied, snatching her hand
away from him. It was the first time she had ever been spoken to
in the serious language of love, and she did not know how to behave
in such circumstances. She was taken by surprise. Many a rough
compliment had she received, and had bandied back the unmean-
ing phrases with careless disdain; but there was a directness and a
vigour about this language of young Pearn's that took her breath
away.
She drew herself up to her full height with unconscious dignity,
and said in the severest tones, as she shut the door of the cottage,
" I am surprised at you, Nicholas."
Poor Nicholas Pearn stood outside motionless, as oue dazed.
Then, like a man gradually recovering his senses, he slowly walked
up the four or five slate steps that led to the path, and with his head
bent forward he took the way to the mill.
Jenuie heard his retreating footsteps, and having worked herself
up into a becoming temper, she put her head out of the little rose-
hung window, and called out in a tone of sharp reproof, " And not
even to go down upon yotir knees." Then she shut the window
with a slam, and murmured something about " manners."
It was evident that Jennie considered a proffer of marriage one of
the rights of her sex, which should be attended by all the time-
honoured rites and ceremonies.
Yery probably, if Nicholas Pearn's offer had not been sprung so
suddenly upon her, if he had approached her gradually, and broken
his wooing gently, she would have said "Yes," and in due course
become his bride. Then one novel less would have been written.
As for Nicholas, he was now conscious he had made a fool of him-
self. It was evident that these young girls were not to be attacked
on any sudden impulse, but that skilful engineering and considerable
acquaintance with the lore and etiquette of courtship were neces-
sary before any one entered the difficult shoals of matrimony.
He remembered now that there were books upon this intricate
subject, and he determined, before he made a second effort to besiege
a woman's heart, that he would study at least the elementary rules
of the science.
" I ought to ha' known that I should ha' gone upon my knees,"
he reflected. " Many a picture have I seen of a young man kneeling
6
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
afore his sweetheart, a-offering her his hand. Ah, it'll take a long
time for her to forget that. It was an insult to her, I reckon. These
young things—ah, you have to know their ways, and their lights,
and all about the fashion o' doin' things. But I love the girl. I
love her. I do love her, no mistake. An' when she's forgotten my
orkard way of askin' of her, I'll ask her again upon my knees. I'd.
rather kneel afore her an hour, than kneel half an hour at a prayer-
meeting. She may say 'No ' to me, but she won't say ' No ' to my
mill. There! that's what I call a mill to be missus of. Where else
in these parts is there a mill with two wheels like that 'un ? " And
as he asked himself this question, he paused by the roadside, and
looking at the picturesque pile of buildings which a turn in the road
enabled him to view more clearly, he stood there in contemplation of
the property soon probably to be his, mingling his thoughts with
regretful meditations on the ill-success of his sudden and uncon-
sidered proposals to the blacksmith's daughter.
Jennie had scarcely arrived at full womanhood, and though she
had indulged in many a flirtation, it had been almost unconsciously,
and with the thoughtless frivolity of a child. To be a wife 1 The
idea had never occurred to her, and she shrank from it with a
yague dread—almost with fear. Her cheeks were suffused with
heightened colour, her eyes became moist, and, sinking into a chair,
she allowed herself the feminine enjoyment of a good cry.
As she was thus engaged, a timid-looking youth—light haired,
mild-eyed, clad in the common-sense apparel of a peasant farmer,
and with a basket of ripe plums upon his arm—tapped feebly at the
door. Twice he had walked round the cottage, peering curiously
into the interior, and apparently surprised that he saw no sign of
any occupant. He had stood a little time at the cottage gate, and
after some delay he took courage, descended the little flight of
steps leading to the garden, and, with an almost trembling hand,
gently knocked.
"Who's there?" cried Jennie, springing up from her chair and
awaking from her reverie.
" It's me," answered the youth.
" Who's me? " asked the girl, flinging open the casement and look-
ing cautiously out.
" James Trethewy," he replied.
" What do you want ? "
The young man for an answer smiled. It seemed to Jennie that
he smiled in a singularly inane way.
"Well, what do you want? " repeated Jennie, stamping her foot.
" What do you stand grinning there for ? "
" I've brought you some plums, Miss Ti edorn," said the youth, as
the smile suddenly vanished from his face. He had not anticipated
such a cold reception, for only last Sunday he had walked home
from chapel with the girl arm-in-arm, and she was usually so soft-
tongued, so pleasant-spoken, that he imagined himself to be a
peculiar favourite of hers. He looked down at his basket, and then
at her. They were beautiful plums, covered with purple bloom—the
A MOtiNG WOMAN FINDS HERSELF tOO MUCH ADMIRED. ?
finest plums from liis orchard, picked with care and intended as a
modest love-offering.
" Don't want any," said Jennie curtly, leaving the window.
Mr. James Trethewy stood, first upon one leg and then upoil the
other, to recover his breath. He glanced at his plums, and then at
the vacant window. " She thinks I've brought them to sell,"
thought he. He went nearer the window. Nobody there. He
drew a long breath, changed the basket of plums from his right
hand to his left, and placed his right hand upon his bowed head, as
though in silent prayer. These Cornish folk have many such pious
gestures. Then he stretched out his neck as far as he could, and
nervously peered, into the room.
" Well," cried Jennie sternly.
" They're not for sale, Miss Tredorn."
" Then what do you bring them here for ? "
"They're for a present, miss."
" Well, father's not in."
" They're for you, Miss Tredorn."
" I don't want 'em," said Jennie rudely.
James Trethewy withdrew his head, and again placed his band
over his eyes in bewilderment. What in the world could have
happened to Jennie ? He had watched these plums bud and form
and ripen. They were the pick of his garden. He had watched
them all the summer, and when they were in their prime he had
promised himself the pleasure of taking them to Jennie, expecting
she would receive them with delight. What should he do ? Sell
them he could not. Take them back ? that would be too hard. He
would leave them on a bench by the door. She was cross. When
she regained her usual good temper, she would find them where he
left them, and she could take them in at her leisure.
He had meant to proffer with those plums his honest heart. But
there again the entire course of that man's life was changed, simply
because of the inopportuneness of his call, For Jennie was at that
pregnant era of her life when any chance incident, any accidental
tide might take her, heart and all, and sweep her on its current
where chance might take. A stray meeting at a stile—a lost path
—a broken wheel—a good humour—the merest trifle—these are the
circumstances that turn the whole teuour of a maiden's way. But
knowing nothing of his destiny, as none of us do, the disappointed
youth footed his way homewards, sorely at a loss to understand
what could have happened to disturb the usually sweet-tempered
girl.
He did not know what a dreadful thing it must be to be beautiful,
and to be simply pestered with lovers.
8
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
CHAPTER II.
wnich introduces tiie reader to an old-eashioned colonel,
who has much to do with our history.
"War and Peace." (Count Tolstoi.)
" The fire, lighting the large, low room,
A dim, rich lustre of old oak
And crimson velvet's glowing gloom."
(Coventry Patmore.)
The straggling, picturesque town of Boscastle, witli many an adjoin-
ing parish, including several flourishing farms and many miles of
moorland, belongs in part to Lady Tintagel, only daughter of the
Earl of St. Austell; but a portion of it, a part of the parish of Forra-
bury, and many inland farms, are the property of the Forrabury
family.
At the time of which we write there had been a recent change of
ownership, through the death of old Matthew Forrabury, the
property, which is entailed, descending to his only son John, a
bachelor. John Forrabury was about fifty-five years old. For
years he had been in the tenth Hussars. He had seen a good deal
of service, and was now a lieutenant-colonel. Upon coming into
possession of the property, he decided to retire from the service and
settle down at the Hall. Forrabury Hall, which lies inland, hidden
in foliage, is a fine old structure, with traces of many different styles
of architecture in the original building, although the most imposing
elevation consists of a comparatively modern wing, built in the
reign of George the Second; but in the grounds there are the
ruins of an ancient keep, and a fine Norman doorway, built by one
of the Boterels, in excellent preservation. The eastern side was for-
merly a priory. The present library has moulded windows and
pointed arches, in the solid Early English style, and those strong,
buttresses that seem to defy time and destruction. A long low
building, with windows abounding in Perpendicular tracery, was
probably at one time an ancient refectory, but is now turned into
dairy premises and larders, the windows being curiously filled in
with stone, excepting here and there where light is permitted to
enter. Externally, however, its effect is by no means lost, for its
decaying walls covered with ivy, its mouldering tracery, half hidden
by clematis, the joints of the masonry filled with small ferns and
flowering weeds,-the masses of-yellow stonecrop on its heavy
cornice, the stain of yellow, red, and grey lichen, and the patches of
bright green moss on its antique walls, all combine to form a picture
which is rendered the more effective by the formal lines and prim
regularity of the newer buildings. In the quadrangle formed by
these ancient walls the grass grows green and the roses bloom.
The old dial tells not of time present only, but of time past, and
over the refectory roof are the dark tops of the old firs, where
solemn rooks congregate to hear some distinguished elder of their
number preach to them of the vanity of earthly things.
AN OLD-FASHIONED COLONEL.
9
Forrabury Hall, internally, is roomy and comfortable, but in no
way splendid. Matthew Forrabury detested a good many modern
frivolities, but he detested restheticism more than all; and Colonel
Jack Forrabury in this respect resembled his father. There was
nothing aesthetic in any room in the house, unless the very absence
of all the hackneyed, cockneyed signs of aestheticism imparted an
effect of the truly aesthetic to some of the unpretentious rooms.
The little study, which had been Matthew Forrabury's sanctum, and
where Colonel Forrabury now sat, for instance. There were no
yellow jars, no Japanese screens or fans, no plates of blue china,
no brilliant wall-papers, no Chippendale tables no Sherraton chairs.
No. The walls were of wainscot, and the old mullioned bow window
had no hangings except a pair of plain, dingy red curtains. The
large chimney-piece was of massive granite, framed with moulded
time-stained oak, but there was a fire of logs merrily blazing up
the ample chimney. The chairs, the tables, and the one old sofa
were of solid, cumbrous oak, darkened by age, without the least
suggestion of ornament or elegance. There were no pictures on
the walls save some sporting prints, a favourite bay gelding, a
print of a prize fight in an ebony frame, a view of a naval engage-
menb,. and a map of the West Indies on a common roller. But
somehow the room would have pleased an artist. The sombre walls
had a rich warmth of tone, the old red hangings did not vex the
eye, the chairs looked like the most comfortable chairs that were
ever made, and as though they would last until the Day of Judg-
ment. One felt that it was possible to sit at that table without
hearing any warning creaks of collapse, and there was a quaint
shapeliness about the legs both of table and chairs that invited the
eye to follow their curves, and to contemplate their sturdy strength
with pleasure. And those common prints in their unassuming
frames, with letters and papers peeping out between their backs
and the wainscot—what an attraction there was in them ! The man
who had hung them there loved them. He had seen that prize
fight. His portrait was in the group, and the man next to him, the
Bishop, had birched him many a time and oft in the old school-days
of yore. And as for Tom Spring, who figured in the print, how
many thousand anecdotes about him had circled round that room
when Matthew and his cronies sat round the merry hearth together,
talking of old times ! Then the fishing-rods, and the rack of guns
with their bright barrels, the small glazed book-case, full of well-
thumbed favourites in good old-fashioned bindings, the row of
many-shaped pipes, richly hued, what glorious tones of yellow and
browns were there, and above all, that sofa—the very type of ease."
Cowper might have sung his lay on that sofa. "What amplitude of
width! How cunning the simplicity of those cushions! What
comfort in its well-padded slopes ! After a hard day's fishing or
hunting, what a sofa! But—not one vase, not one note of blue in
the whole room. Your fashionable art-furnishing upholsterer would
have regarded it with horror, but a true aesthete would contemplate
it with peaceful delight; his eyes, not troubling to rove, would rest,
10
THE BEAUTY OF SOSCASTLE.
and his contented mind would be soothed as by "a sweet, unobtrusive
melody.
There now sits Lieutenant-Colonel Jack Forrabury, fifty-five
years old almost to a day; tall, thin, spare, grizzled, close-shaven,
excepting as regards a pair of grey moustaches, and, as one may
note very clearly from the manner in which he now opens, dockets,
and puts away his morning letters—precise.
The only letter that concerns us runs as follows:—
Wanderers' Club, Pall Mall, W.
Wednesday.
" Dear Uncle Jack,—
" Can you put me up for a week or two at Forrabury ? London
is detestably dull and hot.
"Your affectionate nephew,
"Norman Forrabury."
To which the Colonel replied by wire ;—
"dear norman come at once delighted to see you wire what train
will send dogcart to meet you.—jack."
" I am glad Norman's coming down," said the Colonel to himself.
"I am dull myself here. Wonder what the young scamp's been
doing latel}7. Haven't seen him since—let me see—since I was in
Malta, five, six—it must be nearly seven years ago. How time
flies 1 I was a young man then, and now I am positively getting
old.
"Humph! Seven years ago! I was foriy-eight then. Forty-
eight! Hadn't turned a hair. Now I'm grey. What a difference
seven years makes, to be sure !
" Fifty-five! By George ! How Old Time does peg along; in five
ye ars more people will call me really old. Well, they can call me
what they like. I'm open to bet that I shall be a particularly game
old cock at sixty.
"How old can Norman be ? I'm fifty-five. Then if my brother
Norman had lived—Norman the first—he would be about fifty-three,
so young Norman must be about—let me see, twenty-six from fifty-
three leaves twenty-seven. Norman is twenty-seven. A nice age !
I wish I was twenty-seven.
" And my sister Catherine—dead, poor girl; she would have been
about forty-five; what a comfort she would have been to me if she
had lived!
" Strange how some families die out—none of us left except my-
self and my precious scapegrace of a nephew. If we were both
to die, I suppose the Forrabury estates would revert to the Crown.
Upon my word, I don't know who to leave it to, if Norman were to
peg out before me. I ought to make my will—one of these days.
"Ah well, I think I'll go round the farms. If they should chance
to pass to the Crown, I should like them to fall-in in good condi-
tion."
AN OLD-FASHIONED COLONEL.
11
So musing, the Colonel blew a wliistle. Almost immediately a
man-servant, about the Colonel's age, opened the study door, and,
standing very erect before his master, saluted him in military
fashion.
" Mac," said the Colonel, " I shall want the cob."
" Yes, sair."
"And send off this wii'e, and these letters; but copy the letter
mind."
" Sairtainly, sair. Is there anything else the morning ? "
"No, Macpherson."
" Ye'll maybe remaimber there is na' any cairtridges, and to-day's
the seextenth."
" Quite true, Macpherson. You had better wire to Daws'. I
forgot to tell you, too, that I'm expecting my nephew, Norman, for
a few days. You had better tell Mrs. Macpherson to get ready the
blue room. He may be here in a day or two. Do you remember
Norman, Mac?"
" Mr. Norman, Colonel ? I vera weel remaimber how he veesited
yuir honour at Floriaina, and inseested on Sandy of ours a-tuning
his pipes on the Sawbath to a weecked reel in the Palace gairdens,
and a' the Maltese thought it was the cairnival. Heck! and hoo the
lasses and lads spun and danced, and the crew of the Haircules,
they were ashore, and merriest of a' young Mr. Norman. Ah,
mony's the bit draap o' whusky he found for a puir body, God bless
him for it, when it wasna to be had for bawbees or love. Not a
draap to be had, Colonel, on that rock. How St. Paul ever come to
life after being wreckit on thaat unhospitable shore, without a wee
draap o' whusky to bring him to his senses and waarm his bluid,
I dinna ken. And a fine sportsman, Mr. Norman, Colonel. Mony's
the stag he's lameit in dear auld Scotland. I'm reet glad he's
coming amang us, and ye'll be wishin' me to get some extra cairt-
ridges, I'm afearing."
" Yes, yes, Mac, though we shan't find much sport for him. A
few wood-pigeons, half a dozen coveys of partridges, and an
occasional hare is all the game we can find for him about here. Our
moors are not like the Scotch moors, Mac."
" Na, na, sair. It's a puir land for bairds, and the mountains are
all heels. Eh, it's a puir land, a puir landand the old Scotch
corporal shook his head as he thought of his native heath.
" Well, well," said the Colonel, who knew what a tongue his old
servant had if it was once set loose, " bring round the cob."
" In less than hawf an hour, sair," replied Macpherson, saluting
his master as he quietly closed the door.
12
THE BEAUTY 0U BOSCASfLU.
CHAPTER III.
wherein the too much admired young woman is still more
admired, and eventually admires herself.
" As in a Looking-glass." (F. C. Philips.)
Norman Forrabury was a tall, broad-built, handsome, well-tailored
fellow. He was a shade taller than his uncle, though his uncle was
a trifle over six feet, but he was much broader and stronger looking.
His features were thoroughly English, his expression, frank and
good-humoured. Many big men are awkward looking ; but Norman's
bearing was so courteous, and his actions were so full of grace and
ease, that he looked what he indeed was—a thorough gentleman.
His intelligent, forcible brow, with the clustering short hair around
it, gave a stamp of mental power to a face which might otherwise
have seemed indolent if not sensuous, for he had the full lips of a
voluptuary, although his mouth was well modelled, and partly con-
cealed by an abundant growth of moustache and beard. His golden
brown hair was silky but crisp, his whiskers well trimmed, his beard
carefully pointed, and his full moustache had a natural droop, so that
his face was redeemed from that appearance of coarse savagery
which an amplitude of hair sometimes imparts to an otherwise pleas-
ing physiognomy. His eyes were large, full of expression and un-
mistakably blue, shaded by long eyelashes.
He was well-educated: an Eton boy: an Oxford man. He had stuck
to his studies. He worked hard, he played hard. He had been a good
bat, though rather lazy in the field. He had been a powerful though
a heavy oar, but invaluable to his boat. He had got into scrapes,
but then he had got out of them. He joined the dragoons, but,
objecting to be dragooned, obtained his discharge. He had travelled ;
had done Europe thoroughly, especially Italy, which he loved. He
had tried his hand a little in the East, joined the Diplomatic Service,
sojourned in Constantinople and Smyrna, lived vei'y fast, and threw
up his appointment because he found it slow. He scampered through
India, came home by the Cape, found nothing to do at home, tried
his luck at cattle ranching in Texas, came over to England again
to see a ballet, got entangled with a Bishop's wife, very soon found
himself hard up, and now here he was at Forrabui*y.
As he was on his way to Eugland from New York, his father had
died, so that he had to wind up his father's affairs, and found a great
deal more business to transact than he could have anticipated. None
of his father's cash being immediately procurable, and ready money
being an essential of existence, Norman had cabled to New York to
sell his ranche immediately by peremptory sale without reserve.
Under these circumstances the ranche did not fetch full value, and
Norman was surprised that he only received £3,000. However, he
felt that this was sufficient for his immediate wants. He mourned
his father sincerely, but that did not prevent his plunging into the
THE TOO MUCH ADMIRED YOUNG WOMAN. 13
usual whirl of pleasure that a city full of old friends affords. Besides,
after Texas all the played-out attractions were fresh again—billiards,
theatres, balls, dinners, cai'ds, clubs, races, the women of society,
the women out of society—all these indulgences involve expenditure,
and at the end of twelve months the £3,000 had melted mysteriously
away—nothing being left but some trivial debts.
His father had loved his only son devotedly. Never rich, he had
impoverished himself to educate and find lavish pocket-money for
his dear boy. Never a man of business, he had lived beyond his
means without knowing his income. An examination of his affairs
disclosed a distressing condition of things, and proved that by his
death he had avoided bankruptcy. Norman, the sole heir, found the
assets—nil.
Earlier in the course of the same year old Matthew Forrabury had
died. He had never liked young Norman, and all he left him was
£100 a year in consols, Colonel Jack Forrabury, the heir to the
Forrabury estates,.becoming possessor of the major portion of the
personalty as well as of the whole real estate. The Colonel was
on active service when his father Matthew died, and was unable to
return to England to take possession of the family estates until a
very short period before the commencement of this history.
But now the uncle aud nephew, who were on affectionate terms,
though they had seen little of each other during the last fifteen
years or so, were riding by each other's side over the Forrabury
farms.
" What an appetite these moors give one ! After Piccadilly and
Pall Mall, the air of this coast is delightful," said Norman.
" Bracing breeze," replied the Colonel. "After a Suez passage
in a P. and O., it blows almost cool—though it is August."
" You didn't go on to Town ? "
"No, stopped at Southampton and came here straight."
" And found everything at sixes and sevens, I suppose," said Nor-
man.
"On the contrai-y, all in square formation."
"Ah," said Norman, " Grandfather of course was always precise;
but I thought that in the interval, perhaps "
" No, Jenkins kept everything straight. But you had trouble, I
dare say. My poor brother was not an accountant. Left affairs in
a muddle, I hear."
" Well, rather," said Norman, as a troubled shade passed over his
features.
"There wasn't a great deal to muddle, eh? " said the Colonel,
glancing at his nephew. " However, there would be a few thousands,
I suppose. With those Devonshire estates and your ranche, I hope
you'll find your income tolerable."
" I sold the ranche."
" Have you ? " said the Colonel in surprise.
" Yes ; but don't let us talk about it, uncle. Pve been bored to
death with business in town. Can you take that wall ? "
" In a canter," laughed Colonel Forrabury, putting his cob at the
14
THE BEAUTY OP BOSOASTLE.
stiffest part. They were both good riders, well mounted, and they
cleared the rugged wall with ease.
" These Cornish hoi'ses, Norman "
" Could clear a house."
" Do you like the Emperor? your mount, I mean."
" Very much. Have you had him long, Uncle Jack ? "
" No. To be candid, I bought him yesterday for you."
" Oh, Jack, how good of you ! "
" So, if you like him, you can have him. There was no horse in the
stable strong enough to bear you. You are a splendid fellow, Nor-
man; You really ought to have remained in the dragoons."
" Thanks, uncle. But for the horse, uncle, a thousand thanks.
How generous of you ! Of course I like him. He is a splendid fellow,
he ought to be in the dragoons; what a chest and what a neck! "
"High houghs, too. I like a horse with high houghs; they can
always go such a pace," said the Colonel, looking with unassumed
pleasure at his nephew's well-groomed steed. " He wants working,
though; he is too fat."
" I'll soon take that off," cried Norman, laughing. "What a stride
he has ! Is that Hartland Point yonder ? Of course it is. I suppose
from here to Hartland all the land is ours—I mean, it belongs to
Eorrabury. Shall we ride on to Bude ? "
" Nob this morning, Norman. I want to go over the Beeny farms ;
besides, my cob isn't like the Emperor. There is Pentargon, you
see."
"Ah, Pentargon. Dear old Pentargon! Just as it used to be.
One would think that these eternal waves, dashing continually
against the cliff, would make more impression than they do. But
all this is just as it used to be when I was a boy. The same rocks
exactly. 1 recognise each one of them. Not altered a bit. How
many thousands of years it must have taken those persistent seas to
hollow these caves and carve out those grand headlands! "
"Yes ; I wonder whether we can see any seals," said the Colonel,
reining in his cob and peering out to sea. " I hope they are not all
killed. When I was a boy, they would follow my boat if I whistled.
I haven't seen any since I came back from Egypt."
" I have," said Norman. " I was going round the Blackapit
path this morning before breakfast, when I saw a wretched creature
in a tin bath, in a cottage garden. It was a young seal, a live one.
A girl had been feeding it with milk, and when I reached the cottage
she was mending nets, so I stopped and spoke to her. I was going
to roast her for catching it "
" Quite right, Norman. I'll make it hot for any of my tenants if
I find them meddling with the seals. They are one of the features
of Boscastle. I don't think there is any other place on the English
coast where they are to be found. I hope you made a row."
" I intended to, Jack. But I wasn't brute enough when I got
nearer. The girl was so devilish pretty."
" What had that to do with it P "
" Every thing. She was a picture, Jack—a perfect picture. If you
THE TOO MUCH ADMIRED YOUNG WOMAN.
15
had seen her there mending nets, bending forwards and backwards,
displaying all unconsciously the graceful lines of her figure, you
would have said she was superb. And not a bit of show-off about
her. It was all pure nature. She held the lower edge of the net
with her feet, and bending backward at full stretch to reach the
top of the net, she exhibited a pair of the very neatest ankles, Jack,
—not to say moi'e. 'Pon my soul, I couldn't help admiring her,
and I told her so."
" And what did she say ?"
" Oh, the funniest thing—she hoped I wasn't going to make her
an offer of marriage, as she had had ' two or three offers already this
morning.' And she was so serious, too—she meant it."
" So you were non-plussed p "
"I was. But I said I wouldn't marry her for the world ; only, if
she would let me make love to her a little, I would be delighted."
" Have a care, Norman," said the Colonel. " I'm more particular
about my tenants' daughters than I am about my rare and precious
seals. I'll make it very hot for any who meddle with the rural
innocents on my estates—not excepting the heir."
"Bravo, uncle ! But I'm not a Don Juan."
" Of course not; ' neither are you a positive Joseph.' But I mean
this, Norman—understand me—you are not in Texas. Well, this
girl, was she going to rear a seal-skin jacket P "
"I asked her the same question,—asked her what she wanted
the seal for. She said she didn't want it at all. Her brother Jose
gave it to her. What a name ! Jose ! "
" It's Cornish."
" I asked her whether she wanted the fur. She said no. Her
brother had taken it, having killed the mother."
" D—n him ! " exclaimed the Colonel angrily.
" But that she didn't want the seal cub, so that her brother had
decided to show it in Bodmin."
" To do what ? " .
" Take it round the country and show it at fairs, I suppose."
" The villain!"
"Exactly what I said, and the girl agreed. She said she was
going to put it back in the sea."
" Did she, though? " cried the Colonel eagerly.
"She did, indeed; and if you had heard her say it, you would
have seen she meant it."
" She is a good girl," said the Colonel. " Look ! Norman. Those
are the Pentargon steps. Let us tie up our horses, and stroll to the
point. I haven't seen a seal since I came back. The hours I used
to spend when I was a boy on those rocks, and in the caves ! I
used to play on a tin whistle, and the seals crowded round—at
a respectful distance, though. A good thing they were rather shy,"
he added, leaping from his cob and tying the reins to a gate, "for
in the glorious days of boyhood I shouldn't have been quite so
benevolent. I dare say, if I could have killed a seal then, I should
have been proud of it. One gets humane as one gets older."
16
THE BEAUTY OE BOSCASTIiE.
" You are softened by your professional experience," said Norman,
smiling, as be strolled by bis uncle's side.
" Pboo I Don't talk about it, Norman. We badbot work at Abou-
Klea. Poor Burnaby ! I was never in sucb a warm corner. Those
Arabs can figbt. I killed three men with my own sword. Took
one fellow's head off like that," said the Colonel, cutting off the
flower of a wild daisy with his riding whip. " Horrible ! "
" I never killed any one with a sword," said Norman.
" Nor with any other weapon, I should hope."
" Oh, yes. Life is cheap in Texas. It is good form there to pot
at Indians."
"And have you potted at Indians ? "
"Yes. One gets acclimatized. One regards them as vermin
after a time. I thought it murder at first, but soon fell in with the
popular view."
" It is worse than war."
" It is war," said Norman. " I heard the whizzing of a bullet one
day, winced, took off my sombrero, found* the hole. A narrow
squeak, I can tell you. After that I took to potting, like the
others. I was in a wild part rather; but there are not many Indians
left now. They are nearly exterminated. A bad lot."
" Let us thank God we are in dear old England, after all. Thank
God! thank God ! I ought to do so on my knees, as I have done
often," said the Colonel piously. " It was only by His providence
that we came unharmed out of that awful bout at Abou-Klea. To
Him be all the praise! " And the old soldier reverently bent his
head.
" I like to hear you say that sort of thing, Uncle Jack," said
Norman, who heard his companion with some surprise. "Not that
I believe in it myself," he muttered. " You got out of Abou-Klea all
right because your skilled arm and sword cut off that fellow's head.
I don't suppose Providence had much to do with it. But, any way,
it sounds old English. It's the sort of tone one doesn't hear in
Texas," he added aloud.
" We ought both to thank God for many mercies that we should
recognise as coming direct from His hand."
" We have to thank Him for a fine view now. Did you ever see
Pentargon look more lovely ? The calm sea, not a ripple, and the
purple shadows of those rocks, the grass shining in the sun, those
brilliant daisies like a million stars "
"And a hare yonder."
"Where?"
"Coming up from the sea, there, on the brow of the cliff. If I
had a gun, I'd soon show you."
"That. I see. But it's no hare. That's a man's head. You'll
see his shouldei's soon. Didn't I tell you ? "
"It isn't a man, Norman. It's a woman."
" So it is, by Jove ! Perilous for a woman, you know. She'll fall
directly;" and he bounded forward, vaulting a wall and running
down the cliff to proffer her his aid.
THE TOO MUCH ADMIRED YOUNG WOMAN.
17
" Take care, nephew. Take care," cried the Colonel nervously.
"That was how Miss Elsworfchy's fiance lost his life."
"Do you want any help ? " exclaimed Norman, holding out his
hand to the girl who was climbing up the cliff.
" It is steep," she replied, availing herself of Norman's proffered
aid. " But I am sorry you troubled to come down. I can climb
very well. I have often climbed this cliff. Indeed, I am so
accustomed to it that I think I could help you." So saying, she smiled
roguishly, and taking firmer hold of Norman's wrist she bounded
up the well-known path, dragging him after her, or at any rate keep-
ing in front of him, independent of his assistance, and leading the
way. Nearing the summit, where the descent was less precipitous,
she abandoned him and ran gaily to the stile, turning round as she
reached it, and laughing derisively at the well-intentioned laggard.
" At least, let me help you over the stile," laughed Norman, as he
came up out of breath. She took his proffered hand demurely.
"You first," said the girl, with a gesture that suited the word.
"No," said Norman, bowing gallantly, and signifying, by a cour-
teous wave of his hand, that she should precede him.
She curtesyed laughingly, and then, in a pretty, mimicing manner,
waved to him that he should go first.
He shook his head, smiling.
" Do you want help ? " she said, archly skipping over the stile, but
still holding his hand and leading him over.
There stood the Colonel. " Your gallant aid wasn't required,
Norman," said he, smiling at his rather abashed nephew. " That
is what she means. She has taken a rise out of yon, and in a very
pretty way, too."
"There were no cliffs in my part of Texas, and I am out of prac-
tice. I positively thought the girl was in danger. It was a good
thing you hadn't your gun, though, when you first started the hare
—there would have been homicide."
"Is it Mis3 Tredorn? " said the Colonel, lifting his hat.
" Yes, sir," said the girl simply, with a respectful curtesy.
" Let me introduce you, Norman. This is Jenny Tredorn, the
daughter of one of my tenants."
" I have already introduced myself, sir. Let me introduce to you
the proprietress of the young seal, of whom we were speaking a few
minutes ago."
" Ob, this is the young lady, is it? " said the Colonel. " And so
you have been poaching my seals, eh p"
" No, your honour," she said, flustered at finding herself in the
presence of the squire. " Jose gave me one, but I have put it back.
I rowed out with it this morning, and I have been down to the
point to see if I could see anything of it."
" And did you see it ? "
" No, your honour. I expect it has gone into the cave."
" You're a good girl, Jennie, and there's a sovereign for you."
"Thank you, sir"—this with a low curtesy, the funny bob that
peasant girls are taught.
c
18
THE BEAUTY OP BOSCASTLE.
" And you can call at the house and ask Mrs. Macpherson to give
you one of those Indian shawls I brought home with me," he added,
mounting his horse. " Come, Norman."
Norman vaulted into his saddle, Jennie watching him admiringlj'.
"And, Jennie," cried the Colonel, speaking in a low tone as she
approached him, "I see you know my nephew. Take care ! He is
dangerous ! Come, Norman," he continued more loudly ; "now for
a canter. You can ride on to Bude, if you'd like to try the Emperor;
but if you prefer to come with me, you will find some stiffish fences
on the Beeny farms."
" I'll come with you, Jack. Isn't she absolutely a goddess ? "
"Who?"
"Why, that girl, Jennie Tredorn."
"A goddess! Certainly not. She is good looking, but she is
flesh and blood."
" That is exactly the phrase. She is flesh and blood, and so was
Yen us."
"I thought Yenus sprang from the froth of the sea, was received
by the Seasons, that the flowers sprang up wherever she trod, that
she was carried into the heavens, was admired by the gods, and has
been playing the very mischief ever since."
" The parallel holds good. She came to us this morning from out
yonder, wafted by the Zephyrs, with the scent of the sea on her
shining black tresses; she was fresh from the waves. Didn't you
see her long black hair, streaming in the wind, was still moist with
the salt sea ? She had been bathing. It's a good thing we were not
earlier, or we should have surprised our Yenus at her toilette, which
would have been a pity. And see those flowers. There in her
path, wild marigolds and mountain heather-bells ; they have
blossomed in her footsteps, and you can bet she does play mischief
with those black eyes of hers. Then, as for the admiration of the
gods, you, oh! Uncle Jupiter, are you not commander-in-chief P
She thinks you a great lord, I'll be bound, scattering largesse of
gold and gorgeous cloth of rarest weaving from the looms of distant
Ind. There's a sentence for you ! Now, why did you promise her
that shawl P"
" Because I thought she was a good girl, and because she dished
you so when you went to help her up the cliff," he added, laughing.
"You deserve to be chaffed, Norman. Now beyond this wall you'll
see Beeny.. I'll go through the gate."
" And Emperor shall take the jump," said Norman, putting his
horse to it and clearing the wall in gallant fashion.
# # * * - *
" He jumped that beautiful," thought Jennie Tredorn, who had
turned to watch the two horsemen. "And so that is the young
squire. 'Norman,'his uncle called him. Norman! "What a big
man ! Norman Forrabury. I have often heard father talk of him.
I thought it was one of the tourists from the hotel when he spoke
to me this morning. And the other is the new lord. How bronzed
he is! They say he has come back from the wars. I shall give
THE TOO MUCH ADMIRED YOUNG- WOMAN.
19
Jose this sovereign. I wonder whether I dare call for the shawl.
I shall ask father whether I may. Perhaps father will go with me.
And, oh ! what will Jose say when he hears I have let the seal loose?
He is snre to be cross.
" How handsome the young squire is ! "Why did the other say he
was dangerous ? I wonder whether Colonel Forrabury will ever
marry. How odd for gentlefolks to live till they are quite old before
they get married!
" I wonder what colour the shawl will be. I hope it will match
my grey cashmere dress. What do gentlemen keep shawls in their
wardrobe for ?
" I hope it will be either white, or black, or grey, then I can wear
it in the winter.
" As long as it isn't blue—but there, I could have it dyed.
" Norman ! So that was Norman Forrabury. What a big man !"
With such musings Jennie Tredorn entertained herself as she
trudged homewards, staying here and there to rest upon a stile and
to enjoy the prospect of sea and moor, or stooping to gather a few
of the wild flowers that grow so well on those breezy downs.
Descending the hills and coming within sight of Forrabury Hall,
whose grey slated roof and snug chimneys peeped above the tree-
tops, Jennie's mind was again disturbed by reflections upon the
promised shawl; and though she quite decided that she would not
venture to call at the house, she thought she would take the foot-
path through the park, as a pleasanter way home on such a bright
and sunny day, than by the dusty road.
Still adding to her stock of wild flowers, she soon entered the
Bude and Boscastle road, traversed it about half a mile, and then
climbing another stile left the road on her right hand, and took her
way by a footpath through Forrabury Park.
She soon came upon the mansion, passing very near the servants'
way, and, as it chanced, met so motherly and prim a woman, dressed
in black, but with white cap and apron, and wearing round her
waist such a conspicuous bunch of housekeeping keys, that Jennie
at once recognised the great Mrs. Macplierson herself.
So, with a great deal of hesitation in her heart, but with much
decision of attitude, Jennie Tredorn went up to the kindly featured
woman, and with a simple curtesy " did her duty " to Mrs. Mac-
pherson.
Then Jennie made no more ado, but showing the Colonel's
sovereign as her warrant, immediately plunged into an account of
her meeting with the squii*e, and of his promised gift.
She told her little errand so modestly, but withal so prettily and
naively, that Mrs. Macpherson, who had herself been a pretty woman
in her time, warmed at once to Jennie, took her into her own room,
gave her a kiss, and poured out a glass of elderberry wine.
Then, as women will, they began to gossip.
So the minutes sped fast, and the hands of the old Dutch clock
went round whilst Jennie's tongue prattled on, and the garrulous
old dame talked and laughed, and slapped her knees at many a tale
toE BEAUTY OE BOSCASTLfi*
of camp-life, and at many ail anecdote about her husband and the
Colonel, and their deeds of prowess in distant lands and on fields of
blood.
Besides being a stranger in these parts, the old housekeeper was
very glad to hear a little tittle-tattle about her neighbours, and the
new people amongst whom she had come to dwell.
And . Jennie was so communicative, and so delighted to have a
listener to whom all the stale village news was fresh, that the
minute hand of the clock went all the way round before they
thought again of the Colonel's promised shawl.
Then Jennie started up and said she must be going, whereat Mrs
Macpherson looked at tho clock and declared she couldn't believe
her eyes.
"But ye must coom up the stairs, my bonnie lass, an' see the
handsome shawls, and a' the fine trinkets an' trumpery that the
Colonel an' Mac have brought together fra' many pairts; Heck! it's
wonderfu' wha' puir fu's meelitary men air. Ye wadna' beleeve
there be sic a muck o' foo's in the airmj', if ye hadna' leeved in
barracks. But the Colonel is mair carefu' of his ain than maist.
Sic a threeftless set o' bodies, an' augh sic awfu' waste. Wilful
waste brengs wofu' want. Shawls ! Did ye ever ken sic folly ?
An' the Colonel a single mon! Gae in this room, lassie," said she,
opening a door at the head of the stairs, "an' bide a wee till I come
till ye."
The room into which Jennie was shown was a handsomely
furnished saloon, with more pretension to splendour than most of
the chambers at Forrabury. It had been comparatively newly
furnished, with other rooms in the same part of the house, at a time
when old Matthew Forrabury had taken his seat in the House of
Commons, and when he found it necessary to entertain more guests
than was either his wont or his pleasure. The room was lofty and
well proportioned, and the furniture had been supplied by a London
firm in a business-like way, without much regard to expense, in
somewhat garish taste and without any of those marks of individual
interest and control on the part of the owner, which alone can
prevent a room from appearing like an upholsterer's exhibit. The
colour of the hangings and carpets and the upholstery of the chairs
were crude and staring, and the great gilded canopy over the bed,
where exceedingly obese Cupids sported amongst ill-moulded leaves
of some strange, unnatural tree, looked as though it might fall and
slay some unwary sleeper. For the rest, all was painfully new-
lpoking, and out of keeping with the old house and the old-fashioned
ways of that remote spot.
To Jennie, however, it was magnificent. A hall of dazzling splen-
dour, sparkling with gold, gorgeous with shining satin, and brilliant
with innumerable mirrors. The curtains ! of what grandeur! how
costly! how splendid! and the great gorgeous bed canopied with
tracery of golden leaves and clusters of abundant fruit, in which
Were intertwined those little golden angels, and the satin curtains,
richly hued, dependent from the canopy, and falling in profuse waste
THE TOO MUCH ADMIRED YOUNG WOMAN.
21
of material upon the heavily carpeted floor. Had she ever stood on
such a carpet ? It was like walking on thick moss. It made her
nervous to walk on such a carpet as that, the sensation was so novel,
for she could not feel her footsteps nor hear the sound of her tread.
Somehow that carpet made her feel weak at the knees. Half arraid
to walk there in the midst of such magnificence, she was still more
afraid to sit down 011 those gilded chairs. To be alone in the midst
of all this grandeur made her timid. She was r.ot sure whether
those chairs were really intended to be sat upon. Perhaps, the girl
thought, they were only meant to be looked at. They were made
not for use but for show, like the best poker and tongs at home,
which were never allowed to be used, but were always kept shining
and polished. All these thoughts, mingled with half-shaped calcula-
tions as to the commercial value of this or that article, and all con-
fused by a sense of oppression which made her feel insignificant in
the midst of so much splendour*, overwhelmed Jennie, and she felt
that if she did not sit down she should faint. Holding out her arms,
like a skater who has lost his balance, or like a lost man on a dark
road, Jennie groped her way to a gilded sofa, which creaked omi-
nously as she sat down upon it, although she only sat on the edge of
it very gingerly, and with the utmost care. After a little while, how-
ever, some of the feeling of timidity passed away. Her roving eyes
observed the massive brazen chandelier, the painted ceiling, the
marvellous bell-ropes with their gigantic tassels, the marble toilet-
stand, the painted wardrobe, and at the far end of this saloon of mar-
vels, this state bed-chamber, Jennie beheld, as it were a great way
off, another woman sitting alone on a gilded sofa, who started with
fright as she started, who rose as she rose, and whom she recognised
with a smile as herself—a full-length portrait of herself in a French
mirror.
Never in her whole life before had Jennie seen herself in all the
majesty of full length. In her bedroom at the cottage there was
a certain looking-glass, about twelve inches long and eight inches
wide, in which, if she got far enough away, Jennie conld behold her
face entire, although, unfortunately, there were three flaws or
scratches in the quicksilver, which repeated her portrait with a black
patch on her forehead, a long scratch on her cheek, and a blurred
outline of her chin and neck. At rare intervals she had seen her
head and bust in larger looking-glasses without flaws, but this had
been furtively as a rule. Never in her whole existence had she been
able to study herself attentively from head to foot. Without the
least fear or dread now, but quite happy in the cheerful companion-
ship of her other self, she strode down the room towards that other
woman, who bad so long been unknown to her.
Yet, as she came close to the mirror, she was oppressed again
with a sense of wonder. This, she thought, could not be herself,—
this magnificent and beautiful creature, so amply proportioned, so
nobly fashioned, advancing to her with such stateliness, and shrink-
ing now from herself wilh so much grace,—her lips open with won-
der, her black eyes gazing in a bewilderment of surprise and pleasure,
22
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
her changing, flitting expt'ession of admiration, of undisguised delight,
of wonderment, of curiosity, and of amusement. She noted all
these with quick appreciation, smiled at her own expression of won-
der, laughed gaily at herself, and all the while admired. For awhile
she almost; felt afraid of herself—timid in the presence of this ma-
jestic shadow. For this reflection of herself surprised her. She did
not know before that she was a person of so much consequence.
She beheld herself in silent gravity, in dread of herself. How solemn
she looked ! She smiled at her solemnity ; the glass smiled back to
her. She forced expressions to see how she looked when she frowned,
when she was angry, when she was sad, when she turned her head to
the right, to the left, in profile. Then she walked backwards, still
looking at herself, till she could see her whole length again down to
her feet.
So she lifted her dress a little, with a pretty movement like the
gesture of a danseuse, but more natural, and turned slowly rouud,
looking at herself over her shoulder. Then she gave a little
unintentional nod of approval, and the mirror mimicked that
unintended nod. Then she laughed, amused at her own conceit.
Soon, being a woman, she looked at the fit of her dress, a simple
garment of navy blue serge, fitting closely to her figure above the
skirt, and falling in graceful folds of the same material, pulling her
bodice, shaping it more tightly to her waist, altering the hang of the
folds, looking all the while in the mirror—now sideways in front,
turning rapidly, turning slowly.
" Would the skirt be better longer ? "
She stooped forward, so allowing her dress to touch the tips of
her toes.
"Or shorter?"
She lifted the skirt, yet modestly, and but an inch or two, for she
was a chaste' and pure-minded maiden, and she would have been
shocked had she transgressed propriety even before her own image.
" And how does it hang behind? " was her next thought, as, walk-
ing away and looking over her shoulder, she criticised the drapery
of her skirt till she almost ricked her neck by the twisting.
Satisfying herself as to the improvements that might be effected
in her attire by a little judicious home-treatment, she next proceeded
to try various arts and ceremonies of polite life. She curtesyed;
that was too low. Again; that was too much of a bob. Again;
more satisfactory. She retreated a little, advanced, curtesyed again,
offered to shake hands with .herself, stroked her chin.
. " Oh ! what horrible hands! "
A true criticism ; they spoilt the picture. She put them behind
her back.
Then she thought, Oh, if she could see herself in h'er grey dress;
if she could only try how her hair looked in plaits and twisted on the
top of her head like the fine ladies ; but that was impossible without
hairpins. Any way, she could take her hat off, which, suiting the
action to the thought, she did.
Her hair was loose and flowing, and but loosely pinned after her
THE THREAD OE THE TALE.
23
sea bathe. In a moment she had it tumbling in profusion over her
shoulders, over her back, far below her waist. She held out her
arms akimbo, letting her beautiful tresses droop over them like cur-
tains of black satin, whilst she looked at herself, at her massive neck,
at her shapely features, her lustrous eyes, her pink and parted lips.
- Then she said, " I am a very pretty girl."
• " A vairy prutty gairl," echoed Mrs. Macpherson, who had entered
the room unheard.
Jennie shrieked with dismay and shame.
" I did not know you were here. I have'never seen such a grand
mirror before. Oh! ma'am, I did not know I was so vain—so
wicked."
■ " Dinna fash yersel', lassie. The guid God has made ye vairy
beautiful. It is na' grateful if ye dinna i*ecognise His maircies. Ye
are a vairy, vairy prutty gairl. An' heck ! here's a prutty shawl to
deck ye with. There's mony a fine leddy—but there, I'll no' melc ye
vain. ' Handsome is as handsome does.' "
" 'Tis too fine for me, ma'am," said Jennie, looking at the shawl
which Mrs. Macpherson had thrown over her shoulders.
"Na, na; 't becomes thee weel," said Mrs. Macpherson in kindly
tones. "I'll fold it for thee. 'Twill mek thee an unco' guid shawl for
Sawbath-day wear. 'Twill last mony's the year."
" I must be going," said Jennie; " father will be anxious."
"Aye,'tis true. The time has gane quickly. Anither marn ye
must see the Colonel's trinketry," said Mrs. Macpherson, as she
showed Jennie downstairs; and giving her a hearty kiss at parting,
she bid her be a good girl, and wished her good-day.
. " Who be that a-goin' out of the back gate? " asked the Colonel's
groom.
" Why, that be the Beauty o' Boscastle," said one of the stablemen.
Norman Eorrabury, who had just ridden into the yard, and who
had not yet dismounted, turned his head and saw Jennie.
" The Beauty of Boscastle," repeated Norman to himself, with his
eyes on the comely figure of the girl, who, with a stately and swing-
ing stride, and with that undulating step so becoming and so truly
beautiful in woman, was fast disappearing from sight; "the Beauty
of Boscastle. She deserves the name."
CHAPTER IY.
in which there is nothing at all but the thread of the tale.
"The Idle Thoughts of an Idle Fellow." (Jerome K. Jerome.)
" I have an invitation for you, Norman," said the Colonel at dinner.
" Where to ? "
" To dine with our hospitable neighbour, the Earl of St. Austell.
There is his letter—very friendly and informal—you see; they heard
you were here, and I am to ask you. Of course you will go."
" I thought my grandfather Matthew bought up all the Earl's
24
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
property hereabout?, and that he now lived at St. Austell; but this
paper is beaded Tintagel."
" My father bought something in the late Earl's time—a good
deal of Boscastle, indeed—but most of the Earl's estates are entailed.
You know his full title—Earl of St. Austell, Baron Tintagel. He
has a place at Tintagel, but he owns a part of Boscastle, you know.
He would give his ears for our property now. His estate is sand-
wiched between ours in several places. Surely you remember his
daughter Violet. She has grown into womanhood now, and is a
beauty. She was quite the rage last season. I hear that they call
her the Boscastle Beauty in London."
" The Boscastle Beauty ! " exclaimed Norman in surprise.
" Yes, you think it odd. It is stagey, and it is not very appropriate.
If we had a girl in the family, and she had any pretensions to good
looks, I suppose she would be the rightful owner of the nom de guerre.
For, after all, most of Boscastle is ours; St. Austell hasn't much this
side of Trevalga. But then he is in true line from the old Boterels.
Lady Violet is very fond of Boscastle. She is for ever sketching
at Will a park, and even in the town. She has quite identified her-
self with Boscastle. You have read The Bottreaux Sonnets, surely.
She is a Boterel."
" Is she very slight? spirituelle P "
" Yes. You would meet her in Town last season."
"I did. Yes, I remember now. She paints and exhibits at the
New Gallery. Dainty, pretty thoughts well wrought. Her sonnets
are like her pictures, they say, and she resembles both. She is
very fair, I remember, very fragile, very lovely. I had no idea she
was Cornish. She is too exquisite, too daintily pretty, too sweetly
beautiful for our barbarous county."
" Where were your wits ? The name ought to have told you—St.
Austell. Where did you think she came from with such a name ? "
" From Heaven, She always seemed to me like a spirit."
" And you did not speak to her ! "
" Yes, I did. But you know the crush of modern drawing-rooms.
I shook hands with her, though I was afraid I should break her
delicate fingers. I complimented her on—what was it? "
" The Bottreaux Sonnets," suggested Colonel Forrabury.
" No. I had neither read nor heard of them then."
" Bottreaux is ours," said the Colonel proudly. " Thoso arcbaeo-
logical people wanted to excavate amongst the ruins, but I told
them to go to Jericho."
"It was one of her pictures. I think it was called 'Death and
the Lady.' It was something weird. Whatever the name, the
picture itself was full of beauty. Then I met her at Lady Herbert's,
but I never had much opportunity of speaking to her. I was
without women-folk, don't you know ? And Tom Willyams, who
was my shadow, would always whisper after the third or fourth waltz,
' Come to the club and play billiards.' By the bye, you haven't a
billiard-room. However do you kill time at nigbts? "
" I am going to build a billiard-room ; you shall see the plans,
THE MEDITATIONS OE AN IMPECUNIOUS MAN. 25
Since I have come back, I have found nothing to do but go to the
parson's and play cribbage or a quiet rubber. I promised to go to-
night; will you come too ? "
" My dear Jack, I hate parsons. I have lived in Texas. I don't
swear much, but I always have a blaspheming fit if I have the bad
luck to be in the solemn presence of one of those superfine gentry.
I feel choked. I feel I must swear, and yet I know I mustn't."
"Ah, but Parson Energy doesn't mind; you might swear the house
on fire, he knows it doesn't mean anything. He is broad."
" I don't care. I hate the whole school. He gives you a little
license, perhaps, because you are an old soldier."
" No; he swears himself, if he has a very bad hand."
" Ah ! then I think I'll stay at home; I can always loaf the time
away."
"Well, you'll find some books in the library, and the morning
papers. We get the morning papers by the evening coach. And
there are the guns and the fishing tackle. The tackle is in my study ;
and oh—come this way, Norman," said the Colonel, lighting his
cigar as he rose from the dinner-table and led the way to his stud}'.
" There are the drawings for the billiard-room. You might look them
through, with the specification, and tell me what you think of them
in the morning. There is whisky, and Mac will bring you coffee if
you ring. If you feel dull, you can look in at the ' Wellington.' Per-
haps there are some non-clerical visitors, though a fair moiety of
our tourists are ecclesiastics. You will have to conquer your Texan
prejudices, Norman, if you stay long in Boscastle. Good-evening."
" Good-evening, uncle," said the nephew, sinking into one of the
comfortable chairs, and unrolling the plans of the new billiard-
room, as he fell into idle reverie.
CHAPTER Y.
wiiicu contains tiie meditations of an impecunious man.
" Is Life Worth Living ? " (Malloclc.)
" What tho' on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hodden-grey and a' that;
Gie fools their silks and knaves their wine,
A man's a man, for a' that.
For a' that, and a' that,
Their tinsel show, and a' that:
The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor,
Is king o' men for a' that."
(Burns.)
Left to himself, Norman Forrabury soon tossed the drawings of the
proposed new billiard-room aside, and confined his attention to the
excellent cigar he was smoking and to his disquieting meditations.
That his thoughts were not agreeable was evident from the manner
in which he crossed and uncrossed his legs, fidgetted with his
fingers, knitted his brow, and from the quick, dissatisfied manner in
26
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
which he puffed his cigar, the stump of which he jerked almost
angrily away before he had half finished it.
" Something must be done," he soliloquised. " I owe money. I
must pay it. Where the deuce can I raise a loan ? "
He sat thinking, looking vacantly at the picture of the pi'ize fight,
seeing nothing.
"My.assets at the present moment are—what? "
He took out his pocket-book and counted over a few notes, then
he looked at his purse and counted three sovereigns. Smiling sar-
donically, he counted also the shillings and coppers in his pocket.
"Twenty-eight pounds sixteen shillings and eightpence: total
assets. I must put that down," he said to himself, producing a gold
pencil-case, and taking a scrap of paper from the table. " Assets,
£28 16s. 8d. Liabilities.—Humph! A more complicated, more
difficult calculation. I must light another cigar."
He did so, puffing out a great cloud of smoke, and gazing at its
whirls and circles in an abstracted, thoughtful manner.
" I owe Charlie Gray a hundx-ed and fifty, with interest at five
per cent, for twelvemonths, that makes one liundred and fifty-seven
ten; that must be paid. It has all the sacredness of a debt of honour.
Jacobs.—Eighty-two, I think. Humph ! Mr. Jacobs, I fear it will
be a long time before you get that eighty-two pounds. Edwards,
White & Company, for that very expensive wine, £13-5."
He jotted down the items with his pencil. "£135. I think that is
my highest liability. Jones & Co., about £60. What's-er-name, £23.
Rent, a trifle. Hum-um-m ! Upon my word, not so very awful. A
thousand pounds would clear me.
"But the future. Hang it all, one can't continue for ever living
on air.
" There is my worthy grandfather's hundred a year. Quite a
handsome annuity! I wonder, if I realized that-valuable sum,
whether it would clear me. Twenty years' purchase, £2,000.
Wonder whether Jacobs would give me twenty years' purchase for
an annuity of £100 on a life aged twenty-seven, with reversion to an
estate yielding about £6,000 per annum contingent on a life:—let me
see, how old is Uncle Jack? fifty-five;—contingent on a life ag.ed
fifty-five.
" Phew! This bori*owing is a detestably mean business. It
involves selling your relatives in a hole-and-corner auction. What
a nuisance it is to be poor !
"Wonder if I could do anything clever like those City people.
Wonder whether I could get Jack to part with his interest in
the Trewyn slate quarry, and sell it for £10,000—half in cash and
half in shares."
He got up and stared blankly out of the window at the setting
sun, seeing it not, blind to the beauties of that globe of gold on its
radiant hangings of carmine and purple, of violet and sapphire, of
lightest green and palpitating blue.
" With a pi*eference dividend of twelve per cent, guaranteed by
the promoters per deposit of a sufficient amount at the Bank of
THE MEDITATIONS OF AN IMPECUNIOUS MAN. 27
England in Consols, and with a director who takes the chair at
Exeter Hall as collateral security."
" Or, better still, indeed with such collateral security, for £20,000
cash," he mused.
" Or, again, for £30,000; while I am about it, better make a job of it.
" £30,000! Delicious ! Norman, my dearest fellow, it is best not
to talk of what you do not understand. I am afraid you are build-
ing some very stupid castles in the air. You had better go for a
stroll."
He put on his hat and sauntered into the town, crossed the little
bridge, ascended the path leading to the Napoleon Point close to the
harbour, and looked out to sea.
The path on which he stood, a mere track on the edge of the cliff,
wound round the precipitous scarps of that ocean wall. Away for
a thousand miles stretched the great Atlantic, the dark waves
lipping the jagged rocks at the base of Boscastle cliff, and flecking
the sea immediately below him with bubbling foam.
Ear away in the distance he perceived a bright light. "Lundy!"
he thought; " Lundy lighthouse. Men live there, I suppose. Per-
haps some one with wife and babes. Happy beggars ! They know
nothing of society—of its cost, its waste, its thriftlessness, its
prodigality and meanness, its whirling eddies of excitement, its
insufferable dulness, its unceasing, round of pleasures that are
insupportably wearisome, and of duties that are irksome and
troublesome beyond bearing. The inane conversation, the absurd
trifling of society. Bah! Is life worth the candle? Is it worth while
for a penniless man to struggle and fight to keep his head above
water, to keep in the running with these arrant impostors who con-
stitute what they are calmly pleased to call society ? Thank God, I'm
out of it. I am blown, and I fall out of the race without regret.
"Besides, before I did become a pauper, I threw it up. I was
tired of it—heartily sick and tired of it. I was happy in Texas ;
there was something to do."
He sat down on a rock, and lit another cigar. The Boscastle
cliffs are of slaty formation, and the weather-worn rocks afford
many natural seats, comfortable and safe beyond cavil.
" I was a fool to sell that ranche," he reflected. " However, it has
gone. I've run through the money, and now I'm a pauper.
" And if I am, what then ? A poor man eats, drinks, plays cards
if he likes, marries, and is merry. A rich man eats—eats too much
generally, drinks—likewise too much, plays cards, in many cases
doesn't marry, and is certainly very often disgustingly miserable.
Poor men, like those fellows I hear somewhere heaving their sails,—
though I wonder where they are and why the deuce they don't show
their starboard light,—poor men work, and are consequently happy.
Work a curse ! Not a bit of it! Strike it out of the curses, and put
it down as the first and chiefest of the blessings. Idleness is the
true curse.
" Decidedly it is a good thing to be poor.
" Heave-yo-ho ! Heave-yo-ho ! Heave-yo-ho J Heave on, ye
28
THE BEAUTY OP BOSCASTLE.
gallant lads ! Whoever heard a merrier sound ? They are as jolly as
sand-boys. But why the deuoe don't they show their light ?
" I can see the boat. Schooner rigged—bound for Cardiff, I dare
say. Shouldn't mind if I was in her.
" Wasn't it the Earl of Aberdeen who stole off one fine day from
the incubus of an income of over £20,000 a year, to work before the
mast, and to live the life of a common sailor ?
" And I myself. I ran away to Texas because I was blase, tired of
civilized life, of its humbug, its shallowness, its dull dinners, tired
of fate de foie gras, Strasburg pies, mayonaise of lobster, and
champagne cup, tired of balls and racecourses, picture galleries, and
mincing women, ballet girls and Flo,—yes, even of Elo. I was
ennuye, and I am ennuye again ; and considering that my assets are
only twenty-eight pounds, plus that by no means to be despised
annuity, which I shall certainly sell, it is a very good thing that I
am ennuye. I'll write Tom Willyams in the morning, to see what
the annuity will sell for. Money I must have. A few more weeks
in Boscastle, just a few pops at the partridges, and I'm off. Where
to? Texas? No. The Cape? Queensland? Mexico? I don't
know; I must leave it to the Fates.
" Who is that 011 Napoleon Point, close to the beacon ? Tourists,
I suppose. A man and a woman. Their arms are round each
other's waists. A bride and bridegroom, very likely; the inevitable
bride and bridegroom. That is the fault I have to find with
Boscastle. It is impossible to find a secluded spot on an autumn
evening untenanted; if one goes to one's most quiet, most favourite
haunt, one's loveliest sanctum, there are the happy lovers. It is the
sign that the moon will rise directly. Nine o'clock! Yes, her
majesty will presently appear. Already the clouds are edging with
silver, and the sky is flooding with pale light.
" How plainly one can see those figures on the point, darkly out-
lined against the faint light of the evening sky ! They would not
caress like that if they thought their full-length silhouettes were so
plainly visible afar.
"Ah ha! Methinlcs the lady doth protest too much. Her
gestures are quite dramatic. Really this is a tragedy going on up
yonder. I have a seat in the stalls. It reminds one of a shadow
pantomime. I suppose it is mean of me to spy unseen at this al
fresco drama. Ha! Mr. Bridegroom is gesticulating now. This
must be the last week of the honeymoon. The quarrels have begun
early. Bravo! Signor. After that thrilling denouement you must
have slow music; perhaps it will let you know that there are specta-
tors of your excellent play, and it may bring down the curtain."
Then Norman began to whistle as loudly as he could the beautiful
song from Romeo e Giulictta,—
" What is love ?" etc.
As he whistled this, he looked out to sea. What was a lover's
quarrel to him ?
Then he heard an awful cry—a cry so shrill and ringing that it
squnded like the despairing shriek of a lost soul.
DESCRIBING A SEAMAN.
29
Springing to his feet, he looked up to the point. The 'woman had
disappeared, and he just discerned the dark outline of the man
shambling under the shadows of the cliff.
" Murder!" exclaimed Norman hoarsely, making hurriedly towards
the scene.
CHAPTER YI.
describing a seaman.
"Aii Unsocial Socialist." (Bernard Sharv.)
Tiiey were nob " the inevitable bride and bridegroom." They were
Jennie Tredorn and Jose.
They wei-e walking arm-in-arm, up the highest part of Napoleon
Point, until they came to the beacon, whence they could obtain the
best view of the wide waste of waters. They were merely idle
strollers, walking, like brother ""and sister, aimlessly, contentedly,
pleased unconsciously with each other's society, soothed by the soft
influence of the delightful autumn night, moved by the mysterious
glamour of the moon, allured by the quietude, the reposefulness,
the nameless indescribable fascinations that mingle together to lull
humanity when the soft sea-breezes play, when the pale stars begin
to peep out of the dim ether, when the sleeping waves rock with
slumberous sound, when the day's work is done and peace permeates
all Nature, when the dark hangings of night are spread over the
mystery of life, and God reveals Himself in Ilis myriad sparkling
worlds to meditating man.
Their thoughts, not vivid enough to be expressed in words, or it may
be far too vigorous to be shaped by speech,—for, after all, humanity
in its vulgarest items thinks more deeply than we wot of,—occupied
their silence. Nob one word had either spoken since they left the
cottage on the other side of the harbour. Speechless they had
walked together side by side, as lovers of the peasant class do often
walk, silent but happy.
And even their attitudes were in a sense unchanged. The slow,
measured, graceful step of the young woman, whose arm rested
within the man's, had not deviated from its regular motion, her
calm, abstracted gaze had not roved, even the steady pulsation of
her bosom had nob quickened. Neither did the man, ambling by
her side with shambling gait and swinging arm, change his gesture,
except at the end of the broad path, where a small slated pent-
house—a rough shelter for the coastguard on a boisterous night—
marks the termination of the safe footway, and the commencement
of the more irregular ascent to the higher part of the cliff's
extremity, upon which the beacon, lib only on foggy and dangerous
nights, marks the entrance to the harbour. There he had placed his
arm, as it were in a protecting, helpful way, round the girl's waist, on
his part perhaps unconsciously, on hers unnoticed. Boy and girl
together, they had grown up under the same roof almost as brother
and sister; for the good old blacksmith treated Jose with all the
so
the Beauty o£ IjoscasYle.
affection of a father, and as though he had been his own offspring
rather than an adopted waif. Accustomed to each other's society,
accustomed to each other's love, they had walked arm-in-arm beside
each other, and on many a calm summer's night had paced the
vistas of the moon, and the marge of the sounding sea, hand in
hand, heart to heart.
Jane Tredorn was to Jose his all in all. He did not say .it, pos-
sibly even he did not know it. She was the only thing in the world
he loved. The smith, his father, was not his father. He had been
his tutor, his master, his corrector. He was not grateful to him.
He was not ungrateful. Jose did not think. He was not born to
meditate, or so it seemed. Perchance he too, like many other
seeming witless men, found in his soul thoughts deeper than the
sea. Yet he knew little. Certain things were. That was all.
There was the sun. The sun rose, shone, set. Good. There was
the rain—a necessity. The winds—his excellent good friends. The
storm and tempest—his rough playfellows. There was Jose number
one, who it happened had been his brother, but who was now dead;
and the smith, who it happened was his father. These were his
environments. There was the sea—the womb of his being, the
cradle of his existence, still ofttimes his bed. There was he him-
self; and these were the facts which constituted his existence.
These—and Jennie.
Did he ever think of Jennie? Yes and no. He knew certain
things, but he did not consciously reflect about them. The facts of
life were present, and he was conscious that these were the facts.
He knew that Jennie was.
Jose was not an idiot, nor was his mind in any way obscured. It
was simply limited, and the area of its operation circumscribed.
A man cannot fly, but his intelligence is greater than a bird's.
A king cannot cook, but he can rule—sometimes. A gentleman
cannot dig, and to beg he is ashamed—but he can eat and sleep.
A director cannot invariably be honest, but he can perhaps, go to
chapel. A poet cannot keep a ledger account; a sculptor cannot
work a stone quarry—but each can create. So with Jose : he could
not read, but he could fish.
The mental powers of all men are capable only in certain grooves,
are bounded by various definite limits, and are individually differ-
entiated by characteristics and circumstances ; so that mind i.e.; the
actual man, is a thousand times more varied than body, i.e. the
many-featured corporeal and outward form which the mind assumes,
and which is indeed to a large degree the outcome and effect of the
mind itself, being the stamp and impress of the mysterious Within,
that soul of which the corporeal body is the index.
As the outward and visible form of Jose was marked and un-
common, so was his soul, the strange mystery within that outer
presence.
He had reason, intellectual capacity, even vigour of mind, in
some of the by-ways and channels of mental activity. He possessed
in a very high degree powers of observation, those faculties of
DESCRIBING A SEAMAN.
31
sight and comprehension peculiar to seamen. He could exercise a
logic that he had never learned. From certain facts he could draw
conclusions, and obtain deductions by an irregular though correct
system of demonstration. He had strong mnemonical powers.
His memory of the position of underground rocks, of coast sound-
ings, of times and tides, was marvellous. His feats of calculation
independent of arithmetic were astonishing. He could perceive
without seeing, and comprehend without understanding. What to a
landsman was darkness, to liirn was light. Where a landsman could
see no shore, Jose could detect headlands, points, bays, limits.
That monotony of changeless, unvarying sea was not monotony to
him. He could read that surface, seemingly so blank, so undecipher-
able. To him it was not one monotone of uniformity; it was not
one boundless expanse of neutral grey. There yonder, far out in
the invisible, were the teeth of breakers. Here, close by, a narrow
channel of safety ; on the one side jagged rocks, upon the other
shifting sands. The glimmer there is not of light; it is not the
iaughter of sunshine upon the waters; it is the flight of a shoal of
mackerel. Upon the waves there are a myriad bubbles, wrought
into irregular rings of froth and foam. Is that all the work of the
tossing waters, of the curling billow ? Jose can read every bubble.
Those are the bubbles of the wave that has dashed upon the cliff ;
those of the wave that had curled upon the sea; those are the
bubbles of the eddy; those of the passing vessel—the vessel that
steamed up Channel an hour ago. And that one little air-bell which
forms on the dark surface of the unrippled water, and which builds
as by magic its minute and solitary dome of prismatic hue—it has
bubbled, burst, gone; but Jose has interpreted its being, and looks
as he peers into the silent depths for the sinuous windings and
elegant writhings of the conger which sent to the surface that
active globe of air. For to Jose all this is as the open page of a
book. There are the vast depths, there the dangerous shallows,
the sands for brill, the sands for sole, the sands for turbot;
lobsters are upon those rocks, but not on these. " Cast your net
upon the north of the headland, and not upon the south, because of
the current." "Always?" "Ho, to-day only." "Why?" "Be-
cause to-morrow there will be a west wind." "And what of that? "
" When there is a west wind there is no current; when there is no
current there are no fish." " How knowest thou there will be a
west wind to-morrow ? Oh, Jose, thou sage." " Because the clouds
are low upon the horizon, and a mist is rising upon the sea ; but
above, the clouds are piled up with masses, and their lightest edges
are ragged, and above that are long striated lines of drawn-out
vapour. That is the west wind." " Is that always a token that the
wind will blow westerly ? " "Ho. It is rarely so. But the tides
have been very high of late, and yet at noon—sure sign." " What ? "
" Lundy has been clear." "Then, when Lundy is clear, the wind
will blow from the west V " " Hot generally."
Decidedly the language of the sea is hard to understand. But
Jose had learned it. He was a profound.scholar, a great master of
32
THE BEAUTY OP BOSCASTLE.
this mysterious lore. He knew all the alphabet, the etymology, the
syntax, the chapter on mists, the chapters on tides, the currents, the
moon, the sun, the shallows, the calms, the gales, the tempest. Jose
had read all these, and pondered them.
Hot only was he a seaman, and consequently wise; he was a fisher-
man, and consequently cunning. If he was not clever, he was sly;
if not ingenious, he was crafty; and if not ill-natured, he was cruel.
Further, he was in part at least an artisan, a blacksmith. He could
forge iron, he could shape and temper molten metal, he could
guide or control the fire and furnaces, and he could hammer at
the anvil with those agile, able muscular arms without becoming
weary.
But the thoughts of this man being turned into certain channels,
were active in them only. Out of his own element, he was lost, like
a butterfly in mid-ocean.
His mind accepted ascertained ideas. Jennie Tredorn and he
had been babes together, had been children in the same cottage,
playmates on the same hill-slopes, boy and girl companions. They
had quarrelled at the same games, they had been pleased by the
same pastimes, fed by the same father, and sheltered by the same
roof.
Thus Jennie was his sister, her brother was his brother, he was
dead, but he was still " our brother," her father was his father—and
yet they were not brother and sister, nor did any tie of blood con-
nect them.
For the sea had cast him up from the spume of the tempest.
He was a waif. Had he, then, no relations ?
Oh, yes. Was not Jennie Tredorn his mother? Had she not
nursed him, as he had nursed her ? Had she not fed him? Had
she not reared him ? She it was who gave him milk, bread, meat,
She it was who filled his bowl, spread his table, kept his raiment,
and mended his rags. Jennie Tredorn, then, was his mother. Jennie
Tredorn was his mother and his sister. He had no other relatives
except these—these and the sea.
CHAPTER VIr.
"WHEREIN THE BEPOKE-MENTIONED SEAMAN POPS THE QUESTION.
"I say No." (Wilkie Collins.)
How, in the pale light of the rising moon, he sat by her side, con-
scious of little else except that she was close to him and that both
were happy,
And Jennie was unconscious of aught save that the autumn night
was as tranquil as her placid soul.
They both rested on that headland, gazing at the untroubled sea.
They sat there long, resting after the ascent, looking silently
upon the illimitable waters, It is upon such peaceful nights that
THE SEAMAN POPS THE QUESTION.
33
the souls of men are awake to the voices of the silence. Jose medi-
tated. Reverie occupied his mind. Destiny brooded over him. A
chill came from the west, and, for a few moments, the ropes of the
beacon trembled with the music of the wind.
Shuddering, the girl wrapped her cloak more closely about her
figure, and, rising, turned to descend.
She took a few steps, and then looked back, surprised that her
companion did not accompany her.
He still sat there upon the turf-covered rock, motionless, staring
out of his vacuous eyes, gazing open-mouthed at the dark sea and
the faintly glimmering stars.
She called him, in a low musical voice, tenderly, " Jose."
He answered, " Stay."
" Wherefore P"
" It is not late."
" But it is chill."
"Yet, I prithee stay, for the moon has risen, and the winds will
sleep."
" If 'tis thy wish, I will stay. At what dost thou gaze ? "
" At thee."
" But thou didst look upon the sea."
"Jennie!" he exclaimed, rising from the turf on which he had
been resting. " Jennie ! " he repeated, putting his arm about her
waist. " Who art thou P "
" Thou hast said," replied the girl in astonishment. "I am Jennie,
as thou well lcnowest."
" Jennie ! "
" As thou knowest well, I am Jennie Hredorn."
" Thou'st Jennie Tredorn. Aye, lass. Ut es thy name; and I, who
am IP"
"Thou knowest."
" Hay."
" Thou knowest."
" I know not. Tell me who I am."
"Jose."
" Aye, aye, I am Jose. 'Tis enough."
He relapsed into silence, standing by her side, and gazing again
with his stolid, vacant eyes towards the horizon.
The girl looked at him with apprehension. He was always strange,
but to-night more so than usual. Why did he ask these odd ques-
tions ? What was troubling him ? Was he thinking of the mystery
of his parentage—of the day when he was found at sea—a waif and
a stray ?
He lifted his bony, misshapen hand, and pointed with his finger at
the sea below. Jennie, following the direction in which he pointed,
peered into the rippling waters, beholding nothing.
" Yonder," he said.
" I see nought."
" Look again."
"Nought but the sea."
D
34
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
" It es my father."
"Nay, nay, Jose. Father woi'ks still at the smithy, if he be not at
the inn, for it is not chapel night. How strange thou art!"
" The sea es my father."
"'Aye, Jose ; thou wast born at sea."
".And God es my Father."
" Oh, yes, He is our Father. ' Our Father, which art in heaven,
hallowed be Thy Name,'" said the girl, reverently clasping her
hands.
" He es our Father. But the smith es thine only."
" Not so, Jose. He is your father also. Am I not thy sister ? "
"Nay, I have no father. My name es Jose only."
" But thou art my brother, Jose."
"Nay," he cried, removing his arm from her waist and taking her
wrist with his claw-like hand, whilst he bent his eyes eagerly upon her
face. "Nay, Jennie Tredorn. I am not thy brother. I am not thy
brother. If et were so, how could'st thou be my wife ? "
" Thy wife! " ejaculated Jennie in bewilderment, endeavouring in
vain to rid herself of his iron grasp and struggling to withdraw her
face from his; for his eyes were fixed on hers like two burning lamps,
and she was frightened.
" Aye, ray wife, my own."
She strove to push him from her.
" Why dost strive ? Art thou not my love ? "When shall we--
marry ? "
She tore her arm, bruised and blue, from his harsh grip,
" Of course thou wilt many anon."
" Marry you ! " she criedjSiolding herself proudly up, and gazing
at him with ineffable loathing and disgust. " You ! "
" I had looked for it," he answered simply.
" Man, you are mad ! "
" Mad, nay. I am too old to be thy brother now. Et es the cus-
torn to marry."
"Stand oft' from me! If you dare to touch me, I will scat you,"
said the girl, clenching her fists like a schoolboy.
" Jennie, you do not understand. When I was a babe, you were
a babe. Then, afterwards, we were children. But I was only a boy.
That was why, don't 'ee see, you became the mother. There wasn't
any other mother. There was only you. Have 'ee forgotten ? 'Tis
not long ago. Have 'ee forgotten how everyone said—There goes
the little mother. Then 'ee were my sister afterwards; his sister
too, but he was your brother. The other Jose was your real brother;
hes name was Tredorn. When he died, that was the name they put
upon hes grave. And now that I am a man, we marry, and you be-
come my wife. Et es the way when one grows up. Et es so with the
beasts. Et es very easy to understand, but I have been thinking of
it long. To-night it was borne in upon me. I did not know it before.
For you 'tis not easy, because you have not thought. But ef 'ee
think, you will see that when people are grown up they marry."
" First, they are sweethearts."
Which, though short, is lively.
35
" Aye. They walk together."
"Jose," said the girl, " I shall never walk with you again."
She spoke the simple words, in their deep provincial significance,
with a strange solemnity. An expression of dislike and disgust took
form upon her face. She began to loathe this creature with whom
she had been bred, and whom she had looked upon as one of the
family.
" 'Ee wilt not! " cried Jose angrily.
" No ; away from me, monster ! "
" Sweetheart! " cried Jose passionately, making towards her as she
rapidly walked from him, " thou say'st what 'tis not possible to mean.
Come, come, let me fold thee to my heart ! " and, rushing after her,
he endeavoured to seize her in his embrace.
" Madman! Hog of the sea, I hate you ! " she shrieked, evading
his grasp.
" Hate me ! I care not, so I have you ! " he cried, his voice thick
with passion. " You hate me, my beauty, but yon shall not go from
me! "
With a piercing scream she rushed down the steep, regardless of
the dangerous path; and Jose, his eyes flashing, his nostrils distended,
his mouth agape, his arms and bony fingers outstretched, clambered
hurriedly after her, like a wild and passionate beast in pursuit of his
prey.
CHAPTER YIII.
which, though short, is lively.
" Through Paiu to Peace." (S> Doudney.)
Jose could not interpret his own feelings. He desired Jennie for
his wife. His instincts told him that he wanted her. When she fled
from him, he hunted her, as he would have hunted a hare.
Half-way down the steep lie caught her, seizing her arm below
the elbow with his left hand, whilst with his right he endeavoured
to pinion her free arm, which she vainly essayed to use in her own
defence.
Fearing his passion, fearful of violence, afraid of her life, as she
struggled on the verge of that dangerous cliff, but dreading still
more the awakened brutality and passion of the unloosed savage who
pursued her, and whose guttural laugh of animal delight sounded
barbarously exultant in her ear, Jennie wrestled with all her
strength to escape from the clutches of this half-human creature.
But in vain. Stung by her obstinate refusals, moved by the
promptings of his uncurbed and suddenly licentious spirit, he clasped
her in his strong arms as in a vice, and almost lifting her from the
ground, drew her palpitating form to his bosom, grunting with
animal glee, uttering devilish gasps of unmeaning sound, burning
her shrinking face with his hot, snorting breath, horrifying her with
36
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
his fierce, flashing eyes, laughing with the joy of desire, and ravish-
ing her flushed and beauteous face with tumultuous kisses—kisses
like the bites of a wolf, or the gnawings of a satyr.
Making one final, despairing effort to escape from this madman,
she unloosed one of her hands and strove to release herself from the
violation of his wild embrace. Shrieking in horror and fear, almost
fainting with exhaustion and terror, and summoning all her remain-
ing energy, she uttered one loud, long cry for help.
Suddenly a tall form emerged from the darkness.
Then a blow fell like a thunderbolt from heaven, and Jose, still
clasping the girl's form, lay prone upon the earth.
Bewildered by her sudden fall, Jennie Tredorn, clutching a rock
of gleaming spar, looked wildly around her.
Jose lay beneath her like a dead man—his head bent back, and
his form sprawling upon the precipitous but grassy slope. There
below were the plaoid waters of the harbour, and the collier schooner
in the black shadows by the quay. Opposite were the Forrabury
cliffs, clear in the bright light of the risen moon, and there Willa-
park Point, with its grey tower, and the cliff's of Blackapit, whitened
at the base by the foam of the gentle waves ; and yonder,—oh, delight-
ful truth !—her cottage home across the harbour, its white walls
markedly visible in the clear moonlight, and the rose-hung lattice,
and the town lights, the bridge, the old stores, all distinct; and she
herself unhurt, inviolate.
All this she beheld and knew in a few moments, as she looked
about and around her; and above and close to her stood the upright
form of her deliverer.
His hand took hers very gently, and with the other lightly placed
about her waist, he raised her in silence to his side.
She looked up and peered in the darkness at the face of the man
who had succoured her—at that grave face in the shadow bent down
to hers—her right hand resting in his, the other feeling upwards to
his shoulder, so that she might draw down his face to hers and look
her gratitude into his eyes.
She recognised him with one word—spoken simply, uttered in all
tranquillity—"Norman."
So to her own heart she knew him, so in her own mind she
thought of him, so for the first time she uttered his name.
And his serious, almost sad voice, answered, " It is fate."
Then she rested her head upon his broad breast, her hand still
clinging to his shoulder, her throbbing palm still clasped in his;
whilst, with his arm about her to sustain her, he held her trembling
form, now placid and content in the shelter of his strength.
WHICH HERALDS THE APPROACH OP MORE SELECT SOCIETY. 37
CHAPTER IX.
WHICH HERALDS TIIE APPROACH OF MORE SELECT SOCIETY.
" All the world and liis wife." (Old Saw.)
" You will be charmed wibh Lady Yiolet," said the Colonel to
Norman, as they were in the brougham, going to Tintagel. "But
you know her."
" No, I have seen her," said Norman, fingering the solitaire stud
in his shirt. It was a fine diamond, and would have looked too large
on most men, but it became him admirably. He was bigger than
the diamond. Sometimes one sees diamonds bigger than the man.
" She must be dull down here," said the Colonel. " There are so
few people with whom a cultivated girl can associate."
" You forget; she is a poet—an artist. An artist is never dull,"
said Norman.
" One cannot amuse one's self for ever with ideas."
" Ah ! you are not a poet."
" And I am never dull."
"And yet you are more alone than Lady Yiolet. You were quite
alone till I came down to take pity on you, and shoot y§ur birds."
" I really think I should have been dull, Norman, if you had not
come down; but I was full of work before you came; the rent-roll
to master, farms to be improved, the house to be fui'bished up, the
billiard-room to be built, and all the rest of it. Besides, thei'e are
the parson's girls—the Gees—-they have been society for me. Now
Lady Yiolet has really nothing practical to think of; she must be
dull; and no people she cares for to speak to, except some silly girls
—oh, decidedly she must be dull."
" All her friends are yonder," said Norman.
" Where ? "
" Up in the clouds."
" Pooh ! A doleful set of friends! She will be very pleased to
see real flesh and blood. I pi'ophesy she will like you immensely,"
"Does she never see real flesh and blood people, then? " asked
Norman. " Does the Earl shut himself up and bar out society ? "
" On the contrai'y; he gives parties, he does the popular, he likes
to have people about him. You will see to-night. I shouldn't
wonder if there are thirty to dinner."
"Thirty people! wherever will he find them? I didn't think
there were so many in the county."
"Thei'e is nobody in the county; no young people, I mean. Of
course there are girls. Girls have to stop at home, poor creatures ;
but all the young fellows, high and low, clear off. Cornwall is too
dull for them."
" Where do they go? "
" Go ? To London, to Australia, to India, to Texas. The asses !
And here are all these charming gix'ls pining away for love—for love
38
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
—for love, and not one young man in the whole county to divide
between 'em."
Norman laughed.
"'Tis true," cried the Colonel. "I have met, since I have been
home, some scores of young ladies, and wondered what in the world
it was that made them all look so much alike—they were the prettiest
creatures ; but, blonde or dark—all the same—one settled expres-
sion of melancholy. I thought at first it was the Cornish expi-ession.
I put it down to dissent; I was wrong. Norman, they are, ' one and
all,' pining for a man."
"Then, my dear uncle," said Norman, laughing ; "out of thine
own mouth will I judge thee. Why don't you "
"Because I'm a settled old bachelor. Damme ! boy, I can't think
of marriage at my time of life. If I have thought of it lately, I have
thought better of it. I'm fifty-five; in five years I shall be sixty.
But if some of you young fellows don't come home and set a good
example, I shall have to take pity on one of the poor creatures my-
self, and put her, at least, out of her misery. Poor girls ! To sit in
church and see them in rows, all well dressed, all beautiful, all good ;
'tis enough to make a man's heart grow tender. To see the prim,
neat, darling creatures, so modest, so well behaved, with their red
lips pouting to be kissed and nobody to kiss them, with their young
hearts brimful of affection, and not a lad on whom to pour out their
fulness. Where are all the boys, I say? It is a shame that any
girl should be allowed, against her will, to die an old maid. Where
are Trelawney's sons?—Gone to London. Where is the Doctor's
son?—Gone to London. Where is Tom Willyams ? Where are all
the fine, strapping young men, like the Tremaynes, and Trethewy,
and Penaston? All gone to London. Farming? Oh, no! Bar-
ristering, engineering, tea-tasting, in London. That is where they
are; there, and in the Colonies, and Texas. What the devil made
you go to Texas? "
" To make money," said Norman gloomily, as his thoughts were
. turned to this uncongenial topic.
" How much did you make ? "
" Precious little."
" Did you make any ? "
" Yes."
" IIow much? "
" I don't know; but anyhow, it is all gone now,—what I made I
have lost. It's a beastly subject to talk about, but one of these days,
Jack, I—I've—I've something to say to you—something disagree-
able, so I may as well throw it off my mind at once."
"Well?" answered the Colonel, rather warily. He was an ex-
perienced man of the world, and he had learned that confessions
beginning in such ominous tones were very often particularly
disgreeable.
"I—I—there is—that is—oh, curse it—I don't quite know how
to begin. I wanted to speak to you about that small annuity my
grandfather left me in his will."
WHICH HERALDS THE APPROACH OF MORE SELECT SOCIETY. 33
" A hundred a year," said the Colonel, with dry precision.
"Weii?"
"It isn't much, but I should like to capitalize it. I've written to
Tom Willyams about it and asked him to sell it, not intending to
trouble you at all; but it seems to be tied up in some way, so that
I can't sell ib without your consent, lb is under your control, in
plain English."
"Well?"
" That's all," said Norman abruptly, rather nettled by his uncle's
tone.
" You want my consent to sell it. You should understand,
Norman, that the hundred a year was intended to be a sort of last
resource. Two pounds a week—that was my father's idea,
evidently."
"A crust for the prodigal," exclaimed Norman bitterly. "Yes.
Well, the prodigal is starving now."
" Whatever do you mean, Norman ? "
"What I say. I have nothing left. The hundred a year—the
annuity, which a few months ago I laughed at—and which, to speak
the truth, I still regard more as an insult than a boon—that little
legacy, I say, is all I have in the world."
" And you desire my consent to squander that as you have
squandered the rest, and as my poor brother did, God bless his
memory; bub your father was not a business man, Norman; nor will
you ever be one, I fear."
Norman bit his lips angrily, but he checked his rage, and said
gently enough, "Two pounds a week is no use to me. A hundred
a year, indeed ! But if I could sell it for, say, two thousand pounds,
I might do something."
" As for instance ? " said the prudent Colonel.
" Buy a farm, or a small ranohe, or a mine, or something, I
have formed no definite intention at present."
" Perhaps, if you have the two thousand pounds before you form
a definite intention, when you have formed your definite intention
yon may have spent the two thousand pounds,"
" Say no more about it. You refuse your consent ? " said Norman
stiffly.
"I do, most certainly," replied the Colonel. "It is foolish, it is
improvident, ib is—■—"*
" At any rate, be so good as to withhold, not only your valuable
consent, but your most excellent kind advice," exclaimed Norman in
a bitter tone; "and," he added, in an accent of forced pleasantry,
as he produced a silver cigarette box, "accept a mild weed to
stimulate your appetite for dinner. I trust this detestable busi-
ness talk has nob disturbed ib. Where do you get your cigarettes,
uncle?"
" Mac makes them for me when I smoke them, which is seldom.
A handsome cigarette box, Norman."
" A present," answered Norman.
" M' yes," said the Colonel meaningly, surmising very correctly
40
THE BEAUTY OP BOSCASTLE.
that the present was a small acknowledgment of many more costly
ones from the recipient.
Norman crossed his legs, and puffed his cigarette angrily. His
thoughts had gone in the same direction, and he felt the unuttered
rebuke. Annoyed by his uncle's refusal, still more annoyed at
himself, he reflected on all kinds of unpleasant topics—his utter
poverty, his uncle's wealth and churlishness, the soundness of his
uncle's objections, and the shabbiness, as he thought, of his uncle's
conduct. " If I were a rich old bachelor, and had a poor devil of a
nephew, by Jove, he should have two or three thousand pounds with
pleasure. Not that I would accept it," he thought to himself. " A
hundred a year! A mean old grandfather. A hundred and fifty
pounds owing to Charlie Gray; whatever is to be done ? Assets,
twenty pounds or so. Actual present necessities staring him in the
face. A heartache and a dinner to get through, whilst he bad this
burden to bear. These frets and worries harrying his mind." Such
were the reflections 'that occupied him as he sab opposite his
uncle, whilst the carriage in which they sab whirled them away
towards Tintagel. A beautiful drive upon the cliffs, with the sea
and the sunset on their right, and the grey moors upon the left,
and the voices of the coming night, aud the melancholy sea sobbing
faintly above and below them.
Simultaneously, the thoughts of the Colonel ran somewhat thus :
—" Poor Norman. Just like his fool of a father ! Peace be to his
memory ! After all, what a good thing it was that notliiug was left
his precious nephew but that small annuity ! And a good thing
that was subject to his, the Colonel's, control. So he had sold his
ranche and fooled away the money, and everything else besides.
Poor chap! Dolt! Prodigal! Quite useless to put such a fool
into any business, except to keep him out of mischief. Must do
something for him. What ? I will do something for him, my only
relative, the only Forrabury left. A handsome boy, a good lad, a
talented, pleasant, accomplished, clever, magnificent, sweet-natured
good-for-nothing. Must and will do something for him. Must get
him married. Why shouldn't he marry well ? Another thing—must
tie up the estate somehow, or else, good Lord, what ducks and
drakes the precious nephew will make of it when I am dead and
gone ! Wonder whether I shall outlive him."
With these and similar thoughts, respectively, the uncle and
nephew arrived at the beautiful seat of the Earl of St. Austell.
Smoothing away the wrinkles of care, each prepared to undergo
the ordeal of dinner. Norman was philosophical, and by an effort
he blotted out his troubles, made his obeisance to the Countess,
won the good graces of the Earl, who had not seen him since he
was a boy, found an old chum in the library, and drove care away.
The Colonel, who was delightfully old-fashioned with ladies, made
himself most useful to the Countess by holding a skein of wool
whilst she wound it into a ball.
There were some pleasant people therein millionaire who had
bought a large place in the neighbourhood, with an adjacent
CONCERNING- PARSONS EXCLUSIVELY.
41
township Padstow way, and outlying villages and farms—a shrewd
clear-headed man of business, who meant his property to pay,
believed in the development of estates, liked to train his tenants
to become prosperous by encouraging honest industry, and who
did not be'lieve in patronising them into pauperism. There was the
millionaire's lady, who was rightly convinced that, as she had plenty
of money, the best thing she could do with it was to make people
happy around her. There was a dear old gentleman, with white hair
and old-fashioned ways, a lover of old pictures, old furniture, and
old brown sherry—a benevolent-minded, tender-hearted, round-
featured old gentleman, who always did kind things, said kind
things, ate his dinner heartily, and thanked God for it. There
were some pleasant old maids, who talked about the stars, botany, and
Byron; and a man of business, who had come down to Cornwall to find
out everything he could about tin, and who had brass enough in
his face to turn everything he looked at into gold. Besides these
there were all the usual county magnates; including that most
modest of men, the great Cornwall Philanthropist, whose name is
a household word throughout England, a Cabinet minister's wife, a
notable baronet, a celebrated judge, and a very great Society lady.
It goes without saying, that the clergy were there in their usual
force. There was no Lady Yiolet, but there were plenty of clergy.
There was the latest new Bishop of the new See, who seems fated
to be ever the least competent of English Bishops. There was the
Rector of Tintagel—and his curate—two parsons to one church; and
the Rector of Minster and Foi'rabury—two churches to one parson.
There was also the Vicar of St. Austell, the Vicar of St. Juliotts
and Pengraff, and a vast quantity of those ecclesiastical camp-
followers, the feminine belongings of the priesthood—the Rector of
Tintagel's wife, the Curate of Tintagel's mother, the Vicar of St.
Juliotts' daughters, and other semi-ecclesiastical ladies, too numerous
to mention.
But really these excellent people deserve a chapter all to them-
selves.
CHAPTER X.
concerning parsons exclusively.
" Saints and Sinners." (H. A. Jones.)
My Lord Bishop, having his usual cold, had chosen a draughty
corner to accelerate his cure, so we can leave him to get gradual!}'
better in his own ascetic fashion. Some of the minor clergy were of
more importance.
The Rev. W. Godless, the Rector of Tintagel, was the Earl's
favourite parson. He was in some respects a popular rector. It is
true, he detested public meetings, parish charities, school-boards,
and Dorcas societies; but he loved private dinners and good old
sherry, of which latter he had good store. He was himself given to
42
the beauty of boscastle.
hospitality. He was an excellent cricketer, and sometimes played
in the West of England eleven, for lie was a tolerable bat and a sure
catch. If he did not play tennis so much as most rural parsons, it
was because he disliked the intrusion of ladies in any of the sports
of men. He thought that they might hunt, but only if they rode
well, which his wife did. And he thought they might go to the
races, but only on condition that they dressed there much better
than they did at church. He bad married a lady of position, having
great expectations ; but he had done so conscientiously, for he con-
sidered it the first duty of every English gentleman to marry an
heiress. He did not preach this doctrine, but the exact opposite;
only it was characteristic of all his preaching that he practised
precisely the opposite of what he preached, and he would have been
very angry with any of his flock who did otherwise. Yet it mat-
tered little what he preached, since he preached so seldom; and
when he did preach at all, his sermons were short. No wonder
he was popular. One of the churchwardens, a devout quarryman,
and a few old ladies who were interested in the heathen world, re-
garded their parson as a man for whom they ought to pray. They
looked at him very sourly; and if they could have put him out of
existence without sin, they would have done so with alacrity. As
it was, they waited impatiently for Providence to smite him by
lightning, having long convinced themselves that he would never
commit himself by any act or opinion which would bring him under
the notice of his bishop, for his ecclesiastical views and conduct
were not at all extreme. No one could say he was a Ritualist, and
110 one could say he was not. He observed the usually observed
rubrics with respect, fulfilled his duties with unimpassioned pi*o-
priety, and did all that the law of the Church requires with lazy
regularity, just in the same way that a horse in a blind hood turns
a wheel. Only if he found his duties troublesome, his curate, a man
after his own heart in things ecclesiastical, the Rev. Sleepy Snore,
performed them for him. The evangelical ladies and the serious-
minded quarryman disliked rector and curate alike, for both were
equally indifferent to the spiritual wants of our coloured brethren,
and neither of them even affected an interest in the Zenana Mission,
or the Teetotal Society, and as for that great cause, the Ladies'
Association for the Introduction of American Organs and Hand-bell
Ringers into our Juvenile Deaf and Dumb Schools and Reforma-
lories, neither Dr. Godless nor Mr. Snore pretended to care a dump.
But in more ordinary and less severe circles, Dr. Godless was looked
upon as a very good parson, probably just because he was not a very
good parson.
If there was one thing more than another that Dr. Godless
loathed, it was visiting the sick. He didn't mind burying the dead
—if it was a fine day. It reminded him that he personally under-
stood the art of living. He rather enjoyed performing the holy
ceremony of marriage, and, though he was a rich man, he always
insisted upon his fees. He read all the forms of the services in a
becoming manner; that is to say, he hummed them through without
CONCERNING PARSONS EXCLUSIVELY.
43
waste of time, and with the regulation parsonic twang. He con-
sidered it his duty to do it, or to hire somebody to do it for him;
and he did it accordingly, or hired somebody accordingly. The fact
was, his living was a very fat one, in his wife's gift. Fatness was
the Reverend W. Godless's god. Ere Miss Dolly Longpurse became
Mrs. Godless, he had remarked with satisfaction the physical fatness
of Dolly, for fat and fair was she. But though attractively fat in her.
own personality, she was fatter still in an ecclesiastical or temporal
sense. The physical fat and the ecclesiastical fat combined were an
irresistible allurement to Dr. Godless, and he acquired them both.
It seemed to Dr. Godless that he had come into the world to live
without his consent having been previously obtained, and, that as in
say, thirty years or so he would have to die, he might as well look
upon life as a business to be got through with as little trouble as
possible. Some unpleasant things had to be done, and some
pleasant things. Some unpleasant things—as, for instance, to read
prayers, to preach sermons, to visit the poor, to minister to the sick.
Well, let these unpleasant things be done as gracefully as possible,
and, like a man of sense, in the usual way. It is not difficult to
hum a few prayers through the nose, to preach occasional sermons
on doctrines which few believe and none practise, and never to
swear except in one's own dressing-room. As for his other duties,
and even for most of these, he could, and did, hire a man for them.
The pleasant things in life—'"0 Lord I how manifold are Thy
mercies ! " To collect tithes, to cultivate glebes, to sit on the bench
and administer justice—very often to dissenters; to follow the
hounds on a bright frosty morning, to play cricket on a warm June
day, to unite in the holy bonds of matrimony a couple of fools who
would be on the parish funds probably in six months, and who, by
their want of foresight and worldly prudence, served to remind him
of his superior sagacity; to inter an evangelical lady—were not
these pleasures indeed p Aye, and to be looked up to and honoured
so by the whole parish, to be courted by the Lady Delightful, to
lunch occasionally with the Earl and Countess, to preside at the
Annual Flower Show, to ride every day over his prosperous acres,
and to come home to dinner with Dolly, where he knew he could
depend upon his sherry. A pleasant life, verily ! And in the even-
ing the accounts—ah! those accounts, with the balance always bulky,
and the investments so wisely made, and the dividends so regular—
for a man of business was the Reverend Dr. Godless. Truly he did
not resemble every Doctor of Divinity. His education had included
arithmetic. And then to light a pipe before going to bed, and to
look through the Nineteenth Century, to read Mr. Frederick Harri-
son's last essay, to master a new work by Mr. Herbert Spencer, and
to find the opinions of these learned philosophers coincide with his
own ; to be more than ever sure in his own mind that the Christian
religion as a creed is played out, whilst as a social, institution it is
only just coming in; and to be more than ever careful to keep his
real opinions to himself. Verily, a good time of it had this world-
worthy rector.
44
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
Turn we now to the Rector of St. Juliotts and Pengraff—the
Rev; N. R. Gee—Mr. Energy, as some of his admiring parishioners
named him ; the Rev. Gee-whoop !—as the scoffers called him—a fine
fellow enough, whose misdirected abilities were lost in the Church.
Had he been the manager of a dry-goods store, he would have made
a fortune; had he owned a good business or a sound trade, had he
been the managing director of an Insurance Company, a grocer in
South Africa, the master of a brewery, or even a Congregationalist
minister, his talents would have found scope; but as a village rector
he was lost, although he had two churches to minister in, and two
parishes in which to exercise his zeal. His views were strictly evan-
gelical, and there was no society or association or mission permitted
by the evangelical school that he did not pray for, preach for, work
for. The poor people of his two parishes, and of adjoining parishes
too—for he was a kind of poaching ecclesiastic—were for ever being
goaded on to accomplish some object which was remote from their real
interests and beyond their scope; and when two benevolent ladies
had ruined themselves by the largeness of their benefactions to
Objects which their Rector had warmly espoused, his people grew
callous to the impassioned appeals of their parson, and the accom-
plishment of the Object became more and more remote. But still
the Rev. N. R. Gee bustled on, for ever stirring, or endeavouring to
stir, his flock to commence some New Project, or to complete some
Grand Scheme, to subscribe to some noble Cause, to revive some
Great Work, or to join some excellent Mission. He was a fussy
man, a never-satisfied man—a narrow-minded, bigoted, bustling,
prying, energetic, hard-working man—a busybody.
And the Rector of Buddicombe. He has been described in a
thousand novels. He was a Ritualist.
One other clergyman there should have been; but he was con-
spicnous by his absence.
The Rev. Thomas Hastings Goodall—Parson Tom Goodall, as his
parishioners were accustomed to call him—the Vicar of Forrabury
and Minster was not one of the party, the reason being that he was
in love with Lady Violet. No one knew the secret but the worthy
parson himself, and he knew it all too well. The agony of a great
love gnawed at his heart. He bore in silence the weight of a burden
under which he almost fell, but which it was a painful pleasure to
bear. He was twice her age, and very poor ; and he felt not only alto-
gether unfit for her, because unworthy of her, but he was soundly
conscious that she was in every way unfitted to become a parson's
wife, incompetent to perform the many duties that would devolve
upon her, unorthodox in many of her views—if, indeed, her views
were even remotely Christian—and further, that by her works, both
literary and artistic, she taught heresies.
Now Parson Tom was a good man. A man of the highest in-
tegrity, of an innocent and simple faith, devoted to the arduous
work of his parish, and beyond all, the very soul of honour. But
it seemed to him a wrong to aspire to the heart of a lady so much
his superior in the social scale. Then, being a modest man, he kuew
CONCERNING- TARSONS EXCLUSIVELY.
45
she would never have him. Even if she would, lie regarded ifc as a
gross iniquity to counteract the good he was doing by bringing into
the parish, as its ecclesiastical mistress, a woman of unsound faith
—nay, more, a woman who frequently expressed, in her writings,
defiance of Christianity—a woman who would use her talents to
destroy the good seed which he himself had sown. So pitying,
admiring, mourning for, yet loving Lady Yiolet, he worshipped her
a great way off, and daring not to approach her, kept out of the
danger of her fascinations as much as possible, whilst he prayed for
her soul day and night.
The Earl rather wondered why he did not accept his repeated
invitations to the Castle, and he would have been rather vexed if
Parson Tom had not always greeted him and the Countess, and his
beautiful daughter too, whenever they casually met, with such
warm, o'er-brimming good nature, and with smiles so genial, that it
was impossible to feel there could be any personal reason for his so
strangely absenting himself. So the Earl put in down to the
parson's modesty, thought better of him for his humility, and
chaffed him for a bearish old bachelor.
Bearish he was not. The very soul of goodness was Parson Tom,
and he was loved by all the country-side. He was so generous that
he would give his last shilling to a passing gipsy, and he would
share his dinner with a ragged tramp, or give it away untasted to a
poor starving woman, if it chanced he heard of any distress in his
parish, whilst he contented himself with a crust. The poor loved
him for his gracious and generous deeds, the inch for his courtesy
and meekness, the learned for his scholarship, and men of the world
because he mingled with them, joined in their sports and pastimes,
and spoke boldly to them in a natural, manly way, setting them an
example of a holy life, instead of vexing them with many sermons ;
and women of high or low degree, and childreu of either sex, looked
up into his face and smiled, for they saw there something akin to
the benignity, the tenderness, and the gentleness that once lit the
earthly lineaments of Jesus Christ.
He had two intimate friends—his horse and his dog. Likewise he
had enemies. The partridges hid in the mangold-wurzels when Parson
Tom was of. the shooting party, for they knew that to rise was to be
bagged. The frolicsome trout became wary if they saw the parson's
too frequent figure on the winding banks of the Vallency, for none
so cunning with the fly as Parson Tom. And the fox ! Ah, if
Reynard, glancing behind when the hounds were in full cry, heard
the jovial parson's deep-mouthed view holloa! he panted and
sweated till the scent lay thick along the field, for no straighter
rider went a-hunting than jolly Parson Tom.
His delight in field sports, however, did not clash with the duties
of his clerical office. He was a devoted pastor, and an indefatigable
visitor. He devoutly and rigidly observed the services. He read
the lessons in a clear, manly tone, and as though it was not his sole
aspiration to aspirate his h's. His sermons, written sometimes
with great labour, were frequently profound, always scholarly, and
46
THE BEAUTY OF I30SCASTLE;
sometimes philosophical, and were expressed in chaste and polished
phrase. On occasions he spoke without a written sermon before
him, in plain, nervous, definite Saxon that could be understood of the
common people.
" There is only one parson I can endure," said Norman Forrabury,
" and he isn't here."
CHAPTER XI.
about earls and countesses and people of quality.
" Of High Degree." (Charles Gibbon .)
" That nothing here may want its praise,
Know, she who in her dress reveals
A fine and modest taste, displays
More loveliness than she conceals."
(Coventry Patmore.)
Dinner was announced. The Earl, who delighted in informalitj',
and detested all fixed arrangements, gave his arm to one of the old
maids. The Judge went in alone, looking very wise; he was in a
profound abstraction, thinking really of the soup. The Colonel led
in the Countess. Norman found himself between the two Miss
Gees. The Rev. Dr. Godless hesitated between the great Society
lady and the wife of the Cabinet minister, but after due thought paid
his court to the millionaire's wife, reflecting how much all dinner
parties would be improved if the hostess did not arrange the
partners; the Philanthropist sidled in last, as though he had no
right to a seat at all; and the Bishop chose a little corner where he
could sneeze unobserved; for the rest they each led in somebody—
what would you more ?
" Where is Lord Lancelot P " asked the Colonel.
" Somewhere on the high seas," replied the Countess. "We are
a roving people. We get worse. I expect the precious boy will be
drowned some day."
" God forbid !" said the Colonel.
" You may say ' God forbid' in vain, tempting Providence as you
do. I consider you are as bad as the rest of them, Colonel Forra-
bury. But now you have come home, I hope you will really stay,
and never leave us except for a few months in the season."
" That is what I intend to do, my dear lady, and I have been
telling Norman that if he dares to leave Cornwall again "
" We shall organize a hunt for him, and bring him back," said
Miss Gee, interrupting rather rudely.
" Indeed, the Miss Gees seem to have quite taken possession of
your nephew already," said the Countess aside to the Colonel.
" They are charming girls," said the Colonel simply. " They are
great friends of mine. I spend almost every evening at St.
Juliotts."
" You like the Rector."
ABOUT EARLS AND COUNTESSES AND PEOPLE OP QUALITY. 4?
" He is a man of business, a man of energy,—that is his nickname,
you know—Mr. Energy ; he plays a good game of whist, and so do
the girls ; they don't lose time between cutting and dealing. I
call tliem the Miss Energies. They are just like their father.''
"You are talking about us," said the eldest Miss Gee, a plain girl
with determined-looking eyes and thin hard lips. " What a wicked,
back-biting Colonel it is! "
" I was saying how well you played whist," said the Colonel.
"Do you play whist, Mr. Eorraburyp" said Miss Priscilla Gee, who
was a feeble imitation of her sister. "If you play like the Colonel,
you play well. Do you know what we call him at the Rectory ? "
" Who ? my uncle P "
" Yes. My sister has dubbed him the King of Trumps."
" He is a good fellow," said Norman, rather pleased, " and ho
deserves the title."
"And do you know what he calls me in return P " said the eldest
Miss Gee, sniggering. "He calls me—he! he! He calls me—he!
lie! But I don't like to say. It is hardly modest of me to repeat
what he says, it is so complimentary."
" Clara! How can you ! " exclaimed Miss Priscilla.
"Why not?" rejoined Miss Gee fiercely. And then turning to
Norman, she added, with a smile meant to be peculiarly engaging,
" He calls me the Queen of Hearts."
" What discrimination! " exclaimed Norman, concealing the tone of
irony that should have accompanied the word.
" It's so nice to be discriminating," said Miss Priscilla. " I think
you Forraburys are so full of discrimination. You have never been
'to see us at St. Juliotts, Mr. Forrabury."
" A proof of my discrimination," thought Norman. " I fear I am
too worldly for the Rector's society," he added meekly.
" Oh, how delightful! " exclaimed the fair one. " We do so like
worldly people, don't we, Clara? We believe in the Church and
the World. What is the World for, if it is not for the Church;
what is the Church for, but the World ? Oh, yes; pa is so liberal
in his views, so broad, so all-embracing—aren't you, pap "
" What, my child ? " said the Rev. Mr. Gee from the other-end
of the table.
" Broad in your theological views," shrieked Miss Priscilla, re-
gardless of the Vicar of Buddicombe, who scowled at her over the
top of his wine-glass.
" I am sorry to hear it," said the Countess placidly.
" And it is a lib'el on our Rector," whispered an old maid. " He
is very good—but he is as narrow as he is obstinate."
"Are you broad, Dr. Godless P" said the millionaire.
" M', well," answered that diplomatic divine, sipping his sherry ;
" What is breadth p "
"Breadth is the reverse of length," said the Countess. "Dr.
Godless is never long."
" Except at the wickets," said the Earl. " That wa3 a fine score
you made against the I. Zingari at Gloucester."
48
THE BEAUTY OP BOSCASTLE.
"Shall we ever have a Cornwall eleven, I wonder ? " sighed Dr.
Godless, ignoring the compliment with, excellent modesty.
" Certainly, certainly," exclaimed Mr. Gee vehemently. " It only
wants Push. I shall take up cricket next season. I have been
long convinced that a Public Meeting of the combined parishes
should be summoned, and a Subscription List opened for the Pro-
ject."
"Mr. Forrabury is an old Cambridge bat," said the Countess.
" So you have a captain already to hand in a neighbouring parish."
'• I have given up cricket," said Norman quickly.
" Traitor !" exclaimed Miss Gee, with a smile that was meant to
be arch and cliic.
" True," said the Colonel. " Every young Englishman who deserts
cricket should be drummed out of his county. It is the English
game. Your son, sir, set a good example. I am proud of the
laurels he won at the Antipodes."
"He scored 103," said the Eaxd, beaming. "That was not bad
against the Demon's bowling."
" Demon indeed ! He broke the precious boy's finger," said the
Countess.
" All the better," growled the Colonel. " Fuss about a finger."
" What's a finger ! " exclaimed the Earl.
"Dreadful!" cried the Miss Gees. " They talk like the torturers
of the Grand Inquisition. When Lord Lancelot comes home, we
shall tell him how callous they were at the story of his sufferings."
"When does Lancelot return?" asked the Earl, turning to his
wife. " When did you hear from him last ? "
" My dear, you know Lancelot never writes—except to his sister.
Yioleb heard from him last week, but he said nothing of returning.
He is a Cornishman—ergo, a rover."
" Is Yiolet in her studio ? " asked the Earl in an undertone.
" Tush ! " exclaimed the Countess, with an accent of annoyance
" Either she is there or at some new folly. My dear Colonel, you
must pardon her. She has the misfortune to be a genius, and she
therefore assumes the privilege of outraging her father's friends.
When I was a girl, I had to come to dinner whether I wanted to or
not—unless I was told to stay away. But in those days it was not
the fashion for young ladies to walk down Grub Street—to smear
their fingers with printer's ink—to go on the stage, to perform at
concerts, daub with paints and turpentine, nor to outrage the rules
of good society. But in those days girls were girls, and therefore
modest—and of a dignified reserve which became them, in my
opinion much better than this modern mode of competing with men
for the applause of the mob."
" My dear lady," exclaimed the Colonel, " we will not have Lady
Yiolet maligned; we are all proud of her—I especially—I claim to
unsheathe my sword in her defence. Bottreaux, you know, is ours.
1 regard the writer of the Bottreaux Sonnets as my own kin. I
think those little poems are very fine, though I cannot understand
them. But then I am a soldier, and how is it likely I am to com-
ABOUT EARLS AND COUNTESSES AND PEOPLE OP QUALITY. 49
prehend the meaning of all that ? I can understand some of it, and
can appreciate the patriotic ring of sncli a couplet as : —
' Their English sinews strong as steel.
Their loyal hearts, their English zeal.'
Besides, the verse, whether pretty or not, is about Bottreaux, and
Bottreaux is ours."
"Bravo, Colonel!" cried the Earl, beaming with pleasure. "I
like to hear my daughter's work praised. The Countess is as proud
of her as I am, but she thinks it unbecoming a woman of sense to
relish any work of the imagination. And then," he added, lowei-ing
his voice, " she thinks as I do that Violet should have come
down to dinner to-day—especially as you were here. I am cross—
angry with the naughty child. If she were made of our common
clay, she would always fulfil the proprieties, I suppose ; but being a
spirit she cannot always dine with the mortals, she cannot con-
descend to waste the golden hours in the society of such inferior
people as her father and mother. She must sit at the tables of
Olympus, and partake of nectar and ambrosia with the upper ten
of heaven. I always disliked ceremony myself; but now we suffer
for my bad example."
" So we excuse Violet, if you do, Colonel Forrabury," said the
Countess, smiling. " She is a precious child, and is, no doubt, very
gifted; so we will pardon her, if she does give herself a few airs* on
the one condition—that you will not turn her head with any more
flattery, for she is already brimful of conceit. This is her Keats
day or her Shelley day—or is it her Raphael day ? I am not sure.
She is so full of nonsense. Have you seen the Tomb ? "
•'The P"
" The Tomb. I do not wonder you look surprised. That is where
she buries herself from the world. That is where she holds her
orgies. Do you understand P Perhaps she will show you one day.
It is where she drinks nectar. Your glass is empty. My dear, the
Colonel will take some more champagne."
"I doubt whether the gods drink anything better than Perrier
Jouet, 1874," said Colonel Forrabury, as he palated the wine.
" But we must ask Lady Violet."
" I say, Jack," exclaimed Norman aside to his uncle in the smolc-
ing- room, after the second cigar. "Are we obliged to stay long p
Can't we slip away somehow P"
" Are you bored ? "
" The billiard-room lamps have gone wrong, and those parsons! "
"I thought you would like Godless."
" So I do, but he is going into the drawing-room. He would play
billiards, but we cannot rig up a light. These private gas works ! "
" Go also."
" My dear uncle, untold millions would not induce me to spend
another hour in the vicinity of the Miss Gees. They are the most
dreadful girls I have ever met. I cannot be reasonably polite to
them—nor to their mother—nor to pa."
E
BO
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE,
"At any rate, do not forget they are my particular friends," said
the Colonel seriously.
" Well, if you like them—well! But that lean man, the Ritualist,
is so awfully solemn, he makes me feel positively funereal. Do let
us go."
"We are in Rome, we must do as the others. Besides, people
are asked to meet you and me, you know. Come, come with me ; I
want you to have a chat with the Countess. I am surprised you do
not like the Gees. They are near neighbours and good friends.
You do not know how kind they have been. My evenings would
have been dulness itself but for them. Come! "
" I am afraid Texas has unfitted me for this sort of thing."
" Say Mayfair rather has satiated you with it. But come, there
has been an arrival. Minerva has descended from Olympus."
" You do not mean Lady Yiolet P "
"I do. The Boscastle Beauty."
" Then I will accompany you forthwith. I do not care about her
beauty, though she is beautiful. It is the poet I want to know. I
have seen her, but I have not heard her. I never met any poets in
Texas. It will be a new experience to me. Is she so very wonder-
ful ? Does she speak in rhyme and shed couplets and quatrains in
common conversation ? "
"You shall learn for yourself. There she is."
" The slim girl in white satin, next to the Countess ? No, nor the
prim lady in lavender. Wh)', that is Lady Yiolet, surely, between
them, but she is in grey velvet."
" My dear Norman, how should she be dressed? I am sure she
looks very pretty. She has ' a fine and modest taste.' Did you
expect to see her in angelic robes, with wings and spangles? "
" Lady Yiolet in Parisian costume like all the rest. What a fall!
I thought she would have an aesthetic gown with baggy sleeves and
sea-green sashes. Come, uncle, introduce me. I am delighted. I
thought she would have the conceit to turn up her poetic nose at
everything ordinary, whereas she looks like an animated fashion
plate just let loose from a Parisian costumier's. And yet the sim-
plicity of it! How incomparably quiet that faultless costume.
Introduce me, 1 say; introduce me at once. I have endured so
much vapid nonsense; now I want to hear an ode."
At this moment the Countess came forward, exclaiming, " Yiolet!
Yiolet, my child ! here are our new neighbours—old neighbours, too
—you knew them both when you were a baby. Colonel Forrabury
has come back from Egypt, and—Mr. Norman Forrabury. Gentle-
men, my daughter. We want your advice, Colonel. Pray, sit down ;
but can you sit on an ottoman ? "
" I have been in the Easf," said the Colonel, "and have had ex-
perience in seats from a camel's back to a rail."
"Then you can tell us," said Lady Yiolet, in a singularly s\veet
voice, very calm and melodious,—" you can tell us, perhaps, Colonel
- Forrabury, where in England we can get merely tolerable chutnee."
"Chutnee?"
ABOUT EARLS AND COUNTESSES AND PEOPLE OP QUALITY. 51
"Yes; that is what we were discussing. Bub Jet me first tell you
that these ladies, whom I beg to present to you—my friends
Euphieme and Irene Erskine—are the daughters of the Indian
Judge, and are therefore great authorities on chutnee 'and curries."
" I detest curries, and I never eat chutney. Perhaps, Norman, as
you are a young man, you will know all about both."
" There is excellent chutney at Arthur's; bub I have my uncle's
tastes—I never take curry."
"It is clear, Euphieme," said Miss Irene Erskine, speaking with
much deliberation and fluency, " that these gentlemen cannot advise
us on this important point. Is there anything else they can advise
us upon, I wonder ? You have been in Egypt," she continued, sur-
veying with her calm grey, but twinkling eyes, first the Colonel and
then Norman, " and you are both great travellers "
" They have been in the East," interrupted Lady Violet, with a
mischievous undertone of satire.
"And they have been in the West,"said Miss Euphieme, glancing
at ,the Texan traveller.
" So that, perhaps, you can tell us," continued Miss Irene,
" whether there is any more delicious way of grilling the calipash of
a young turtle than by "
" Are you writing a cookery book ? " exclaimed the Colonel abrupt-
ly ; " because I am an old fogey, and all my tastes are for plain roast
and boiled."
" We must ask the younger epicure," said Lady Violet in a mossy
voice, turning her beautiful eyes fully upon Norman, and waiting
with mock humility for his answer.
"Begin again, Irene. Mr. Forrabury, who I am sure knows the
difference between a gourmand and a gourmet, can certainly give you
some hints. We were quite agreed before you joined us that there
are only two or three questions worthy to be discussed iu this last
decade of the nineteenth century. Firstly, What is worthy of being
eaten? Now, Mr. Forrabury."
" Really," said Norman, who had expected that the conversation
would have struck a richer vein, " you should have been in the smok-
ing-room after dinner, and you would have heard the great question
discussed with all its pros and cons. I have so long roughed it in
Texas that I fear I am not an authority on the art of cookery."
"Is it possible," exclaimed Euphieme Erskine—" is it possible wo
have discovered two men, in 1892, who are callous upon the great
topic of dining ? "
" Wherever have they been trained ? " exclaimed Irene in mock
wonder.
"We are ashamed of ourselves," said Norman, who felt that he
must study the fine art of Epicureanism.
" You are not worthy of your sex. You seem ignorant of the
Only Topic," exclaimed Lady Violet. . "Bub we must nob bore you.
Evidently the great dinner question is not your forte. Can you give
us the tip for the Cambridgeshire ? "
Norman looked up in surprise.
52
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
"'Fair Ellen' is running," said Lady Violet, "and so is the
' Lively Filly ' and ' Topsawyer.' The ' Lively Filly' is my fancy. I
shall back the filly if I can get on at fair odds, unless you can give
me a better tip straight from the stables, Mr. Forrabury, and if I can
get on at S.P."
"My dearest Violet," exclaimed one of the Miss Erskines, " how
can you think of backing the filly when Tom Oates is up? "
"Is where?" said Lady Violet, smothering a smile with difficulty.
" When Tom Oates, you know, the jockey, is in the saddle."
"But perhaps some other boy will ride. Don't you know anything,
Mr. Forrabury ? It is not long since you were in Clubland, is it ? "
" I have lost my interest in racing," said Norman, rather shocked
to find the conversation of the poetess so much akin to the conversa-
tion of the crowd.
"My dear Violet," said Miss Erskine, as her eyes twinkled with a
merry malice. " We are unkind and unjust to Mr. Forrabury. He
is not a frivolous man. He is not given to the follies of youth, nor
to the soulless vices of the day. We all know the staid virtues of
the Forraburys. Let us converse with you, Mr. Forrabury, on The
Greatest Question."
" The greatest question ! " echoed Norman.
" Yes," acquiesced Lady Violet, surveying Norman's features stu-
diously. " 1 think I discern a likeness to our old neighbour your
grandfather, whose excellent character endeared him to the whole
county, whose shrewd—er—er—generosity was notorious for miles
around. You will excuse our frivolity, Mr. Norman, our idle gaiety.
Do forgive us, and especially Euphieme. She is not so empty as she
would have you think, nor ai*e we so giddy and foolish as to be obli-
vious to higher interests than horse-racing and steeplechases. We
all admire the steady, plodding industry, the careful, saving, thrifty
ways, the business-like methods of the good people who have built
up the greatness of England, and Euphieme Erskine "
" Wants to invest," interrupted that lady. " How to invest is,
after all, the greatest question. Now what would you advise ? "
" Brighton A's, for instance," said Lady Violet demurely. " There
is nothing like good railway stock."
"And sell your Great Northerns," said Irene. "No, indeed;
after the late fall."
"My dear," said Lady Violet, "Mr. Forrabury can advise us that
the markets "
" I kuow nothing of the markets," replied Norman stiffly. " I
will bring Dr. Godless to yon. I know nothing of his abilities as a
theologian, but I can unhesitatingly recommend him as a masterly
dealer. He always knows when to sell, and never buys anything bujfe
bargains."
* * # # #
" Oh, you darling Colonel! " said Miss Gee, who was sitting in an
alcove away from the rest.
"Is he not good? " said her sister Priscilla.
" Goodness itself," echoed Miss Gee.
ABOUT EARLS AND COUNTESSES AND PEOPLE OE QUALITY. 53
" Ladies, to be tlie devotee of your charming sex is the only occu-
pation left; to an old pensioner." This courteous speech was from
Colonel Forrabury.
" To be devoted to the sex," said Priscilla, in a still, low voice, "is
no devotion. We demand entire devotion to—to the one."
" To the one," the Colonel replied, heart and voice alike softened
by the excellent wine. "It is very true; it is the only true devo-
t.ion. A soldier can only serve under one flag. Clara! Clara Gee.
You make a capital partner at whist. If it were not for your father's
hospitality and your society, my evenings would have been unendur-
able. I have been a long time a rebel bachelor, but you have as-
serted the right at last. I should like to join the ranks of the loyal
side. Forrabury is dull without a queen." The Colonel's voice
. grew husky. He hardly knew what he was saying, and he certainly
didn't think. Men say these things with less premeditation than is
supposed. " Clara," he said, and he took her hand.
Priscilla cleax-ed her throat, and quietly withdrew to look for—
well, for Norman.
"Yes, Clara," he continued, bending over Miss Gee's hand, " it was
all very well for life in barracks, that happy bachelordom. But now
that I am a country squire, I want some one. I want you, Clara, to
brighten those dull rooms, to let in the sunshine, to bring in society,
like—like this; " and he waved his hand over the palms and ferns to
the brilliantly lit drawing-room. " Dear Miss Gee, could you be
happy with sucli an old fogey ? "
" Happy !" exclaimed Miss Gee, with a refreshing burst of truth,
" my sweet Colonel, it will be paradise."
* # * * *
" This is the only chair I can find," a lady remarked, sitting down
in it without further apology.
Norman, who had found a modest nook where he thought ho
would be undisturbed enough to reflect upon his debts, looked round
and beheld Priscilla Gee.
"Oh, Mr. Norman, is it you? I was obliged to run away from
Colonel Forrabury ; for he is going on so, I really could not stay."
" I did not know that you were a man-hater," answered Norman,
rising.';," What a delightful moon! I shall stroll into the garden and
take a cigarette."
" You do not offer me your arm," said Priscilla, rising also and
accompanying him. "The garden would be delightful."
* # * # *
That same night, when the Gee family had returned to the rectory,
and the two girls were alone, with locked door and blinds down,
they clasped each other in a fond embrace.
" How sudden it was, Priscilla ! I knew he would propose at last.
I meant him to;" and the girl pursed up her hard lips as she said it,
and the gleam of joy was in her happy eyes.
" And you—really—are—at last—engaged," said Priscilla slowly.
" I thought you would never catch your hare, Clara. I thought the
Colonel would be an old bachelor to the end. I thought Norman
54
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
was the true quarry,—I did, indeed. Well, Clara,I congratulate you.
Just fancy ! you the Lady of Forrabury. 01), Clara ! "
So the two girls embraced again, and they felt each other's hearts
beat—Clara's thumping with pride and joy exceeding, exulting ;
Priscilla's responding with envy and jealousy, whilst her heart was
full of malice and all uncharitableness, mingled with a more satisfac-
tory emotion consequent on visions that opened to her of being her
sister's sister at Forrabury Hall, where her matrimonial chances
would be likely to take a new turn for the better.
"Norman Forrabury hasn't a shilling. He told me so himself
last night," said Priscilla to her sister in the morning.
"My dear Priscilla, dismiss him from your mind altogether. He
is an incubus on the estate, that is all. He is an incubus on me—he
is a spendthrift—a worthless fellow. When we are married "—she
laughed with joy at the thought—" when we are married, I will take
care he does not come to Forrabury very much. You may trust me.
He shall not waste our substance in riotous living."
" To think that but for you he would have had all that money, all
those great estates. Oh, Clara, you have spoilt my chance. And he
is so handsome, too; and I could have had him, I am sure. He
would have been so rich some day but for you. After all, if you
have no children, it w.ill come to him, perhaps," she added en-
viously.
" I shall be married very quietly," said Clara, thinking of herself,
her hard features beaming with a strange pleasure, that almost
made her beautiful. "I shall not have too much show and splen-
dour. It will be in better taste to have a quiet wedding. Don't you
think so, darling p "
The severe Miss Gee had become quite softened even by the sem-
blance of love.
"At least, I shall be the first bridesmaid," said Priscilla re-
signedly. " Ah, Clara, what a lot there will be to do ! What shall
we wear P How shall you be dressed P—and the bridesmaids' dresses,
too—and, oh, the wedding breakfast ! Pa must get that from Laun-
ceston; for, of course, it will be a grand affair. How delightful !
Clara, next to being married myself, I am so pleased you are actually
going to be married—at last."
" At last, indeed ! " exclaimed Miss Gee indignantly. " I am only
three years older than you."
"You are a dear, delightful, rich old Colonel's darling," said her
sister, kissing her.
" And our wedding shall be before Christmas," said Miss Gee, in
a business-like way. " I don't see any reason for the least delay.
One never can tell what may happen. The banns shall be proclaimed
forthwith. I will ask pa about it the very first thing to-morrow."
A WARY OLD BIRD CONFESSES THAT HE IS LIMED AT LAST. 55 *
CHAPTER XI r.
in which a wary old bird confesses that he is limed at last.
" We Two." (Edi 1a Lyall.)
"Norman!""
"Uncle!"
" I'm going to be married."
"You!"
"Yes. I have been an old bachelor long enough. It was very
well when I was in the army—in garrison to-day, the next at sea,
then in Egypt, the Cape, Burmah, God knows where—but now that
I have settled down at Eorrabury, with all these empty rooms, these
ghostly corridors, these melancholy chairs and tables, it is another
thing; so I have decided to marry. I decided on it suddenly—in
fact—ahem !—it was an inspiration."
" I will see if I can find you a wife."
" My dear boy, I have found one."
" The devil you have ! A Cornish lady ? "
" Miss Gee."
" Miss Gee! "
" Clara Gee."
Norman nodded cautiously.
"You will like her when you know her," the Colonel continued.
" I prefer her to the other—to Priscilla."
" There you show your good sense, Norman," said the Colonel,
smiling with pleasure. "Oh, she is infinitely superior to her sister
—-she is a sound, sensible, good girl."
"Upon my soul, Uncle Jack," cried Norman, seizing his uncle's
hand, " I—I hope you will be happy—very happy. A thousand con-
gratulations !"
" Thanks, Norman, thanks. I am quite sure that she is very fond
of me. Any one could see that by her manner. It is good of you
to be so magnanimous about it. I was afraid you might be angry."
"Angry ! Why on earth angry ? "
" Well, you are the heir to Forrabury at present; and if I get
married, of course "
- "My dear uncle," interrupted Norman, "from the bottom of my
heart I wish you all the luck in the world. Have you popped ? "
" Yes," said the Colonel rather sheepishly, looking at his boots.
" I have had it in my mind a long time—ever since I have been
home, in fact. I have always dismissed the idea as a foolish one, but
somehow it came out last night—and I never meant it—but out it
came. I dare say, if I had thought about it, I should have never said
it. As it was, I popped."
"And you were, of course, accepted? Well, chacun a son gout.
Any way, I can congratulate the lady. You are the best fellow in
the worid, uncle; and I say again, may you be as happy as can b^
expected under the circumstances—I mean may you be very—very—
56
THE BEAUTY OE BOSCASTLE.
very happy. But what is this? " continued Norman, gaily clapping
his uncle on the back. " A new surtout ! The cut is excellent; and
your gloves, Jack, are superb. The flower is perfect, too. You are
really irx*esistible this morning. All Boscastle will see that you are
going a-courting, though."
"No," said Colonel Forrabury, smiling vainly.
" I mean it, uncle. You do look such a perfect buck."
" Well, the sooner the better, the sooner the better," said the
Colonel, flourishing his stick, as he escaped from his nephew's plea-
santries.
It was a glorious morning in late September. The sun shone
brightly in the blue heavens. The leaves were still gi-een here and
there, only the oaks were changing their vesture, putting off" their
verdant raiment for a more splendid livery of crimson and tawny
gold. The silver bark of the birches was curling off in patches, and
the grass was whitened and brown. On the branches and roots of
the trees were clusters of rich-coloured fungi—amber, and yellow,
and red—and the mushrooms sprang up by magic in the meadows.
The hedgerows and thickets, and the tangle of brambles in the
coppice were hung with clusters of ripe blackberries, the hazel nuts
hid beneath their leaves, the "last rose of summer " fluttered like a
lost vagrant on the sunny side of a sheltered copse, and a belated
butterfly mistook the flower for his lost love. The sloes were in full
fruit, and stretched their laden branches of bloom-covered berries to
the birds. The spiders were busily weaving lace curtains over the
green bushes, or craftily lay in waiting after labour. And over
all—over tree, and leaf, and flower—Aurora had passed, scattering,
not blossoms, but the jewels of morning. Tiny dewdrops sparkled
like countless gems on the tip of every leaf, on the point of every
thorn, on every cluster of wild fruit, beneath the hoods of the fairy
fungus, and all the spiders' webs were beaded with innumerable
pearls. Norman drew in his breath to taste the sweetness of the
exhilarating air. It was like a summer's day—one of those days
that, in every year, lags behind the season and comes up smiling in
•September. The blackbirds bob out of the woods and find it warm
in the sun. They cock their heads on one side and think there must
be something wrong, then they flutter their wings, there is a rustle
amongst the leaves, and they are gone. The hares come stealthily
out, and the rabbits play in the sunny glades. The brooks are full,
and the waters gurgle in the valleys. The wind smells of the sea,
and, afar over the heathery moors—ping! ping!—some one is having
a fine day's sport amongst the partridges.
A glorious day for a sail, thought Norman, strolling towards the
harboui*. A west wind, but only a capful—a day to drift and dream,
not to scud fast nor to sail far, but a day to tack about and lounge
and idle, with perhaps a fresher breeze later on and a rattle home
under full sail.
The tide was out in the harbour, but the Forrabury boat lay
the old pierhead. " Where is Jose ? " Norman shouted. No
answer. Well, Norman could go by himself. He could manage a
A WARY OLD BIRD CONFESSES THAT HE IS LIMED AT LAST. 57
sail. It did not take him long to wade over the green weed that
lies in Boscastle harbour at low water, to jump from boulder to
boulder, from slippery rock to sandy foothold, to draw the boat to,
to bale it out and shove off, pipe in mouth, skirting the sinuous
windings of the harbour, and to row out beyond the point past the
Meachem Rock into the open sea.
But, after all, it was not a day to sail. Norman rigged up the
canvas, but it only flapped idly against the mast; he pulled the boat
round, tried this tack and that—no, it was of no use, there was no
wind—the sea was as smooth as the heavens. He decided to lie to.
Later, perhaps, there would be "a little draught." For the present
had be not his pipe and his meditations ?
Not pleasant news that of this morning. If his uncle must marry,
what on earth made him select such a cross-grained, hard-featured
woman as Clara Gee?
He didn't select her. She selected him. That was evident
enough. "What was his motive ? Did he want a wife ? No. He
wanted some furniture; that was all. Forrabury Hall was unfur-
nished. The rooms were dull. There were no antimacassars. The
chairs were empty. There was a lack of drapery—of petticoats—of
society.
Enter Clara Gee with eyes like a hawk's. To pounce on the old
Colonel and seize her prey—a sudden swoop, and it was done.
Would the dear old chap change his mind? Not a bit of it. Would
Clara change hers P Most decidedly not. Then the Colonel was
practically a married man already. Perhaps a few weeks, and—
Good-bye to Boscastle.
Hang it all ! He had begun to regard Forrabur}', and the farms,
and the moors as his own—in reversion. Now they would, of
course, go to some one else. His uncle would have a family, and he,
Norman, would be a pauper, absolutely a pauper, for the rest of his
days.
As it was, his uncle was not too generous. Mated with Clara
Gee!—phew !—he would be the meanest old screw in Cornwall.
And that loan—and—and other pressing debts—well! Away with
them to the devil!
How clear the water is! It is almost possible to see into the
depths. Is that a fisb, that dark shadow ? If Jose were in the boat,
he could tell.
Jose. An odd fellow, a loutish brute—and Jennie.
Jennie !
Hum ! pleasant to loaf away the passing moments, and dwell on
the thought of Jennie. An infinitely pretty girl! shaped by the
gods, moulded in utmost beauty; a masterpiece of Nature, fashioned
so superbly, draped as a fisher-girl; but squandered—all these
charms, these rare attractions—altogether squandered—lost amongst
rough quarrymen and fisher-folk.
Strange, the pearl lies in the festering heap, the ruby in the
mountain fastness, the lustre of the diamond sleeps unknown in
some wild abyss.
58
THE BEAUTY OP BOSCASTLE.
" Anil many a gem of purest ray serene
The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear."
How true those beautiful, hackneyed words! How Nature hurls
her jewels into the sloughs ! Came then the natural corollary—for
the'discerning to acquire.
CHAPTER XIII.
wiiicii recites iiow dan cupid got to work and played miscijiee
in his accustomed manner.
" Her Heart's Desire." (H. P. Lewis.)
" Soft she withdrew, and like a wood-nymph light,
Oread, or Dryad, or of Delia's train,
Betook her to the groves ; but Delia's self
In gait surpassed, and goddess-like deports."
(Milton's Paradise Lost.)
A pleasant morning. A crisp, bright September morning.
Tredorn, the blacksmith, was hard at work at his forge ; the carters
busy unloading coal in the harbour, their carts standing axle-deep in
the water beside the toy-like schooners; Jose at sea. Jennie only,
erst so willing and so blithe, so hard-working and industrious, sat
with her arms listlessly folded and her noble limbs outstretched,
with her head lolling on the back of a chair, and with her wide-open
eyes gazing out of the trellised window—at what ?
At Napoleon Point, with its peculiar natural sculpture, its acci-
dental effigy of the great soldier? at the brown hills bathed in the
bright sunshine ? at the blue heavens beyond? No. An event had
happened. An occurrence common enough, not in Cornwall only,
but in other counties—a common occurrence, indeed, in all parts of
the world.
Namely this :—
A most beautiful youth, nude, blindfold, and winged, wearing on
his left side a quiver, bearing in his left hand a bow, had crept,
unseen amongst the rose bushes, ivy plants, and fuchsias that made
a bower of Jennie's cottage window, and had shot a magic arrow into
the maiden's heart.
Day after day, this beauteous youth, yclept Dan Cupid, clad
only in invisibility, had haunted the steps of this fair maid; and this
morning, when the birds sang, and the sun shone, and the flowers
yielded their perfume to the caresses of the zephyrs, the love-bolt
was shot, and the arrow was driven deep into her virgin bosom.
It is very dangerous for young maidens to sit in scented bowers,
and to gaze at the ethereal blue, when that mischievous wight, Dan
Cupid, is near. Prithee, fair readers, beware !
As for Jennie Tredorn, she had not the benefit of this good advice;
so that when she looked out of the garlanded casement, and stared
at the limitless expanse of cloudless sky, she beheld—
HOW DAN CUPID GOT TO WORK AND PLAYED MISCHIEF. 59
Norman Forrabury.
'Twas all she saw, though he was miles away; she saw him and
naught else—none other.
The roses round her window had faded and gone, the ivy leaves
hung down in sprays of darkest green, a few nasturtium flowers
still lingered, though blown and broken by the rifling winds. Some
dwarf chrysanthemums upon the window ledge were coming into
bloom, and Jennie saw all these pei-haps—but only as the picture-
frame wherein hung the portrait of her hero, her love, her protector,
her king.
The opposite hill she saw not, nor the heavens beyond.
But only the heaven of eternal love—that only; and traced
thereon, she beheld no clouds nor mists—she beheld not the azure
or the sunlight in the sky—she beheld only, as in a dream, the face
of Norman Forrabury, and that was distinct and clear, all surpass-
ing, all sufficient. On all the blue expanse she saw only the god-
like image of a man.
Therefore she worked not, but worshipped.
^ ^
I know not whether it was on this very day, or on some other
day similar, but one bright morning, Jennie Tredorn, according to
her occasional custom, sauntered towards Pentargon, and descend-
ing the cliff by many a skip and jump, passing with agile steps
over many a seemingly impassable ledge, and swinging round
points and precipices where nobody but a fearless mountaineer
could find a foothold, found herself at last at the green mouth of a
cave, into which she entered like one who knew the way.
She was in the Pentargon caverns, to which there are two
entrances—one from the cliff above, practicable only to sea-gulls,
to miraculous climbers, and to Jennie; the other from the sea, by
boat, at low tide, and then only in fair weather. The seals which
haunt these caverns can, and do, enter at all tides ; for when the
tide is so high that the ragged orifice, which forms the cavern's
mouth, is hidden by the water, the seals dive down, and swimming
through the sub-aquean tunnel, rise again in the twilit and sombre
vaults which for long ages have formed their home.
The caverns into which Jennie had thus fearlessly descended are
known well enough to Boscastle fishermen, but they are rarely
approachable from the sea. For even on calm dajs, when the waves
are seemingly still, the ocean swell forces upwards, with dangerous
celerity, the imprisoned water in the narrows of the Pentargon gulfs
and inlets, and it is only an experienced boatman who realizes the
danger of the approach.
No one knew the way from the upper cliff except Jennie. A
fearless climber, she had on one occasion noticed in her rambles a
massive iron ring, rusted and antique, let into the rock. Upon the
ring was a chain. She let herself down by the chain, and found
herself on a narrow ledge, along which she passed with unblench-
ing temerity. Then she discovered rock-hewn steps, and further on
another chain, and so with whetted curiosity she at last stumbled
60
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
on an entrance to the Pontargon caverns unknown to the living.
There is a little cave nearer the harbour which tourists descend to,
but that is comparatively a mere insignificant indentation in the
cliff. The caverns which Jennie had entered were huge subter-
ranean vaults, undermining the cliff inland, by many insidious
windings and tortuous ways, for a mile or more. In bygone years
they had been haunted by smugglers, and in the far dim recesses of
one of the lesser caves there were still casks of brandy and rum,
mellowed by age, and covered with moss. They were still the haunt
of innumerable birds. There the gulls bred their young, there the
black cormorants found shelter in the storm, there sea-parrots
chattered, there seals lay extended on the cool rocks, or sported in
the green pools, and crabs and lobsters, safe from the craft of fisher-
men, ambled on the salt and sea-stained stones.
As Jennie alighted on the floor of the cavern, the cormorants
fled on frightened wing, but the great white-breasted gulls, with
their dove-coloured pinions, circled round her in slow flight, not in
dread, but in expectation. For, as Jennie gained the floor, she
opened a bag that was slung to her shoulders, and uttering a
musical laugh of joy and maidenly delight, which the echoes of
those resounding rocks gave back with many a weird and mocking
cadence, she threw into the air handful after handful of golden grain.
Immediately there was heard the rustling of a thousand wings, and
the echoes doubled and redoubled the sound thereof, and repeated
again and again the shrieks and shrill cries, and plaintive, grateful
notes of the sea-birds; for from far and near, from the caves and
the cliffs, the sea-gulls came flocking to Jennie's feet, swooping
down from the blue heavens, and darting towards her from the
salt waves—some, bolder than the rest, alighting on her arms and
shoulders, attempting to peck, half timorously, the grain from the
open bag, and others, who knew not the maid, still circled about the
cavern with many a graceful gyration, approaching her as with
generous allurement she cast towards them handfuls of maize, re-
ceding again in cautious dread, but at last, for the most part, joining
the flock which fed at her feet.
Then she stood and looked at them with love, and laughed, and the
boldest ones she loved the most, for they submitted to her caress.
One who knew her best, a gull with an injured wing, settled on
her finger, and put his dove-like head against her cheek, and looked
with his mild eyes into hers ; so she fed him from her lips, whilst
she stroked his wings and tickled his neck under the feathers, and
cuddled the palpitating creature in her warm and heaving bosom.
With all the birds about her, hundreds of them at her feet, and
many circling about her head, flapping their broad pinions in her
face, and alighting for a moment or two on her shoulders, or
settling on her outstretched arms ,she looked almost like a huge
bird herself, the Queen of Birds, equipped with a score of snow-
white wings.
When her bag of seed was empty, and the birds were bus^ peck-
ing around her feet, she tenderly bade her pet bird begone ; and
HOW DAN CUPID GOT TO WORK AND PLAYED MISCHIEF. 61
thrusting the others from her arms, and stamping her foot with a
sudden jerk, she shook herself free of them all, laughing gaily and
clapping her hands.
In sudden fear they flapped their wings, a crowded mass of flutter-
ing white and grey feathers, and uttered shrill cries as they swirled
and circled slowly around. Soon they settled again, and silently
sought what grains were left amongst the crevices of the rocks, or
between the boulders and pebbles; whilst the girl, singing a tuneful
ballad, descended the recesses of the cavern.
Arrived at a spot far above the reach of the highest tide, she
came to a nook, where the slaty rock had left a broad shelf. This
was overgrown with grasses, and was soft with dry moss and
heather. She found there a book and some knitting, things which
she had left on a former visit. She regarded this spot and the
caverns altogether as her own. She felt herself the Proprietor.
Having made this discovery, she appropriated this unknown
arm of the caves, and made it all her own. The cottage was her
father's, was exposed to the public gaze, was without privacy.
Here she had found a hermitage, a solitude. Here she knitted,
read, and meditated. It was her boudoir—here, in the sweltering
summer noon, was her grotto and her couch. As has before been
stated, the whole cave was absolutely private and unapproachable,
excepting during the calmest days. Prom the cliffs above, from the
points and headlands around, it was invisible, the huge scarps
of the Pentargon rocks shut it in from view on either side; above,
the beetling cliff's projected and overhung. Prom the sea-side only
was the place visible. Through one broad rift in the mighty mass
of the jagged and frowning cliff came the sunshine of heaven; and
out of that great window, looking from the upper part of the cave,
where Jennie was now, she could view the heavens and the sea.
The upper portion of the cave was therefore visited only by the
sun and rain, by the birds, and by Jennie herself. The winds rarely
entered, for it was sheltered on all sides. A spring filtered through
the rocky walls of the cavern, and stole by many a leap and fall
into the sea ; and the flowers bloomed there—the blue and purple
heather, the golden lady's-slipper, the star-wort, and the blue-bell.
Sheltered from the winds, yet exposed to the sun, and moistened by
the dews and the plashing rills, the ferns loved that solitude, and
flourished exceedingly. Out of this nook of greenery and verdure,
this natural grotto of flower-hung beauty, stretched inland a deso-
late subterranean arm, a haunt of terror, where dwelt no living
thing. Seawards sti-etched the majestic and rugged sides of the
cavern, deepening into sombre twilit gloom, until at the sea-mouth
of the cave, it was lit and illumined again by the sunshine, which
there found a second ingress, excepting when the sea entrance was
covered by the tide.
Thus the lower portion of the cavern had a different character of
beauty to the higher, for by the sea-mouth the rocks were studded
with limpets and efflorescent with masses of floral weed and purple
musselV, and beflowered with richly hued anemones, red, and pink,
62
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
and grey, and yellow—nay, who shall describe the innumerable tints
of the sea-anemones?—and the rocks themselves were of every hue,
grey, and purple, and brown, stained with the red of iron, and
studded with sparkling boulders of granite, and veined in, between
the dark neutral purple of the slaty rocks, with streaks of quartz, white
as marble, and dazzling with sea-moisture. Moreover, this beauty
was overgrown with curtains of amber, and pink, and green sea-
weed ; and the sea came curling in upon and over the flowered pave-
ment, fringing the surrounding walls of the cavern with creamy
edges of milk-white foam and sea-froth, and forming cool, clear
pools of delicious green and blue mirrors, in which the unimagin-
able beauty of the rocks was repeated again.
All this belonged to Jennie by discovery, and by the indefeasible
right of appropriation. This was her solitude, her chamber by the
sea, her palace.
Knowing that none could hear, and that she was absolutely alone,
she broke into joyous song, and moved with careless freedom. Un-
slinging the bag from her shoulder, she hung it on a sharp corner
of the rock, whereon there already was a thick warm shawl—an old
shawl she had left there long ago. Then she took off her brown
holland apron and frontlet, and divested herself of her dress, for the
morning was warm, and our lady was about to take her bath.
She did not look around in dread, for she had bathed thus hun-
dreds of times, and knew herself to be alone. Careful of her fair
white linen, she placed it cautiously upon a dry grassy bank, weight-
ing it with two or three large rounded pebbles, lest the mischievous
winds should blow her garments on to the floor of the cave. Soon
she stood in all the noble beauty of nudity, unblushing, conscious
that no eye rested upon her but that of the Divine Being whose
masterpiece she was.
Still warbling an unconscious song, she took from the bottom of
her bag a little case, in which were the three pieces of a flute.
Taking this in her hand, she strode with firm and fearless step into
the solemn shade of the overhanging cavern, hastening through the
sombre corridors where the sun never shone, and where no fern nor
weed grew, and gaining the vicinity of the sea-entrance, she peered
timidly towards the wide expanse of the sunlit ocean, screening her-
self behind a great boulder of granite, and shrinking with modest
and maidenly dread, lest perchance some passing vessel should
descry her fair and timorous form.
But boat there was none. Ocean steamers passed occasionally up
and down Channel eight miles away, almost beyond reach of vision;
yet none was now in view. Nor was it possible for any fishing
smack to come near that dangerous and lonely inlet of the sea.
Her only fear was lest some casual boatman should approach; but
the sea to-day, though it was calm and bright, was not sufficiently
smooth for the capture of seals.
Besides, whenever there was a seal-hunt, Jose gave her prior infor-
mation ; so she had another reason to feel assured.
Still she peeped and peered and trembled in her hiding-place, for
ADVENTURES OF A MAN TO WHOM SATAN WHISPERED. 63
she was a .modest maiden; so, with bending form and shrinking
attitude, she looked and listened.
There was no one.
She could see all around. The curling waves came in; she heard
them break and fall. There was no disturbing plash of a boatman's
oar, no sound or voice of man, no sign of any boat, not even a distant
and harmless sail. The girl's alert expression of watchfulness and
maidenly dread vanished and changed to a smile of pleasure. Her
form unconsciously became erect, and she stood in the bright sun-
light by the cavern's mouth daring, and beautiful, and bold.
Placing the flute to her lips, she commenced to play a tuneful
melody.
Whereupon the face of the sea became speckled here and there
with the dark heads of numerous seals.
And when they beheld the maiden, lo ! they knew her, for she it
was who many a time and oft had discoursed sweet music to them;
and they loved those beauteous strains.
So when their wonderment bad passed, they came towards her with
lazy motion, pausing often as they approached; for seals are timid
creatures, and badly used by man.
Jennie meanwhile sat upon the rocks and, bending her face to the
sea, continued to pipe sweet music to the seals she loved. Then they
came and fawned around her like favourite dogs. Some of them
disported in the waves, and others leaned against her white and
shapely limbs, and others yet, plashing and awkward, climbed upon
the l'ocks and lay at her side.
Tired of her flute she laid it aside and fondled the seals, patting
them on the head, and stroking their wet fur, till, like so many
dogs, they were jealous of each other.
Of all the seals she had been kind especially to one, and she loved
that one more than the others. This was the young seal that Jose
had given her. Now she could not allure this youthful and thankless
creature to her side, for he dreaded the horrors of another captivity
and prudently swam backwai-ds and forwards some yards away,
pausing now and again to gaze with sullen and afeared eyes at the
beautiful damsel.
So Jennie was grieved; and again she took her flute and piped
delightful strains. Disappointed still, she clambered on to a rock
by the cave-mouth, placed her flute on a ledge, and dived like a
young dolphin into the green waves.
CHAPTER XIV.
relating tiie adventures of a man to whom satan whispered
on a summer's day.
" He that Will Not when He May." (Mrs. Olijphant.)
"When Cupid had nestled in Jennie's bosom, Satan began to whisper
in Norman's ear. The heathen and the Christian deities entered
into an alliance. I term Satan a Christian deity with some apology ;
64
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
but my observation leads me to think that he is, alas! a principal
object of worship in the Christian mythology.
Norman was generally regarded as an honourable man. He had
never been found out deceiving a woman, he had until recently paid
most of his debts, he had never consciously harmed his fellow-man,
except in that little item of "potting Indians," and that was done in
self-defence. Although not a paragon of virtue, he was in some re-
speets a good man ; the same may be said of any man. He was not
perhaps good enough for a hero—though, be it observed, this book
hatli not a hero—resembling in that respect the world itself; but he
was good enough to pass in a crowd.
Which Satan knew and regretted; for in these days a man so
good as this is conspicuously virtuous, and he likes not the average
of goodness to exceed the standard of morality which is reached by,
say, the ordinary member of Parliament, the average vestryman, or a
popular representative of the London County Council. Whereupon
he decided, whilst Norman was in his boat alone, that he would
tempt him sore, and perchance bring about his fall.
Therefore he approached Norman in the guise of a zephyr, and
whispered in his ear.
And these were his words : —
" Oh, thou who hast no money, why dost thou not take the money
that is thine ?
" Were it not for a life, wouldst thou not one day be rich?
" Bat thou art poor. Thy birthright is being filched away from
thee, even before thine eyes.
" Were it not for a life
" Why shouldst thou consider others, since others do not consider
thee ?
# # # # #
" The rose blossoms before thee, but thou dost not pluck it; the
perfume thereof is wafted in thy nostrils, and thou wilt not gather.
"Dost thou fear the thorn ? Art thou afraid? Wherefore dost
thou heed not the sweetness of the rose ?
" Sweet odours are offered to thee; ripe apples are held out to
thee, and thou wilt not possess them.
" The rose droppeth her leaves before thee, her petals blush
before thy feet, thou treadest on her treasures, and despisest them.
" She offereth her sweetness, saying, Take me ! but thou wilt not
gather.
" Oh, thou foolish one! Wealth is thine, and thou sayest No.
Beauty is offered thee, and thou refusest it."
And Norman listened to the Tempter, but could not understand
him. He frowned, for the Satanic woi'ds were terrible. Then he
looked up to heaven and smiled, and said, "When is the way of
wealth the way of honour ? I am proud. I am a man. Is it the
way of the strong to brush the feathers from the wings of a butter-
fly ? The virtue of the simple is their rightful heritage, and the
pilfering of a woman's honour is the theft of a coward."
ADVENTURES OF A MAN TO WHOM SATAN WHISPERED. 65
So Satan went away discomfited.
But ere he went, he puffed a capful of wind into Norman's sails.
The boat felt the breath, and stole away for half a league.
Then again there was a calm, and the boat rested. Norman drove
away his meditations, for they disturbed and perplexed him, and he
looked around on either side.
The day was fine, the sea smooth ; it was past noon, and the sun
shone. He felt the water, and it was warm.
So, like a fine young Englishman, he took off his jacket and his
jersey, cast care off with the rest of his garments, let go the anchor,
and plunged into the sea. ^
A bold and powerful swimmer, he dived, at the first dip, far, far
down into the deep. Emerging, he looked at his boat and took his
bearings. It was clear that the current set northerly. In a few
strokes he had rounded the headland.
What a delicious sensation, that motion through the waves ! The
accelerated current of blood through every artery and vein, as with
vigorous stroke the body is impelled through the unresisting, all-
supporting element,—how it fires the system ! To be dandled on
the gentle wave, upheld in the strong arms of the sea, upraised
above the curling froth and whiteness of the foam,—to be rocked on
the recurring waves, as one by one they sui'ge, and fill, and fall,—to
be swung and let go,—to move, feeling no movement,— to be sup-
ported, but to feel no sustentation,—to know no support below, above,
around, and yet to be supported, suspended, upheld,—what ecstasy !
Norman took stroke after stroke, and beheld at last the cliff of
Pentargon, a mile away. Thither, with the confident sweep of a
strong swimmer, he headed. "Was that a seal he saw yonder?"
The thought reinvigorated him, and he bore steadily towards the
shore.
When he was a boy, he had spent many a stray half-hour upon
the waters there, often fancying he saw the seals, seldom seeing
them in reality. Now he saw one cleai'ly, its black head rising
occasionally above the crest of the wave; so with stronger and
quicker stroke he swam yet nearer still to the Pentargon shore.
Almost breathless he paused, and, treading the water, looked
about him.
Was lie sane? What strange delusion was this? What mirage ?
What miracle ? What madness ?
A mermaid!
He shook the water from his eyes, and stained.
Impossible! incredible !
And yet there, was it not clear, distinct, palpable; the head, the
ear, the cheek; and now, as the fabled creature turned, the eyes,
face, and breasts of a mermaid, and the flashing tail as, with a feeble
cry, the strange illusion dived and disappeared ?
Norman put his hand to his brow, and with wet fingers rubbed
his astounded eyes.
If at twelve o'clock on a fine morning the editor of the Daily Tele-
graph happened to walk into his very spacious offices in Fleet Soreet,
r
66
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
and seeing no clerks whatever there, were to clearly behold a
mediaeval ghost in white and weird attire quietly making up the
advertisements for the next issue, he would feel much as Norman
felt when he distinctly saw this wonderful apparition.
Norman was a nineteenth-century man; and odd though the
apparition was, he was not in the least degree flustered. He re-
fleeted quite calmly, as the aforesaid editor would have done in the
circumstances above stated. How could he account for the tail ?
He stared around him, sweeping the whole width of the sea with
careful vision.
There was no boat anywhere. His own, beyond the headland, was
invisible.
Could it have been a woman? Impossible! Had nob the mer-
maid—had nob the apparition a tail P And if his eyes were mistaken,
and the dark and tail-like object were not a tail, how could a woman
be there, where there was no boat and no beach ?
Besides, if it were a woman, she must reappear.
It could not be a woman; for—Firstly, it would be extremely
unlikely and improbable in any case.
Secondly, as there was no beach, and as the cliff was precipitous,
it was impossible for any one to bathe from the shore.
Thirdly, there was no boat from which she could have bathed.
Fourthly, if it was a human creature, why no reappearance ?
Fifthly, a woman has not a long black tail with a forked fin.
He decided that it could not be a woman. All the time he was
reasoning thus, he was also carefully surveying the sea.
Could it, then, be a seal ? If it were a seal, that would account for
the tail, certes. But the white cheek, the ear, the fair and spark-
ling bosom, the rounded shoulder, the arms ?
Did he see the arms ?
He was not sure.
It must have been fancy ; and yet never was an illusion so perfect.
Did he not stare and rub his eyes, and note the ear, the hair, the
expression of womanly surprise and terror as she dived into the
depths ? Did he not note the splash of the black and sparkling tail ?
" There! Again ! " exclaimed Norman.
No. This time that dark head peering with wondering gaze at
Norman is clearly the head of a seal. And yet, with the whitish
fur on the breast, there is a resemblance, a suggestion of the
human.
There is a mild, sweet expression in the eyes of a seal.
And altogether, when a seal raises its head above the crest of the
waves, with its white breast partly out of the water—for the
Cornish seals have white breasts—and with that questioning look of
wonder in its black, reposeful, quiet eyes, there is an extraordinary
similarity to a human creature.
So thought Norman as the seal he now looked on disappeared,
exhibiting for one moment the dark tip of his furred back and the
shining extremity of his forked and glistening tail.
The illusion was thus explained. The mermaid was not a mirage.
ADVENTURES OF A MAN TO WHOM SATAN WHISPERED. 67
lb was a seal, white breasted, mild eyed, dark haired. In no other
way could Norman account for the extraordinai'y apparition.
Thus satisfied that he had been for once deceived by his usually
sharp eyes, Norman decided that the mistake was with himself; that
the salt water had half blinded him ; that the illusion was dne to the
refraction of the sun's rays, assisted by the passing reflection of
some white-winged bird, which unnoticed must have flown overhead,
casting for a moment a reflected whiteness on the smooth, wet fur of
the seal's breast and face.
Laughing to himself at his credulity and folly, and thinking that
the absurd illusion was partially due, perhaps, to his own exhaustion
—for he began to feel tired after his long swim—Norman looked
around him for some hospitable ledge or projecting boulder where
he might take rest.
But look where he might, the forbidding cliffs frowned at him
cheerlessly, and offered no resting-place to his tired limbs.
He cast a hasty glance behind him, looking far away over the
mocking sea towards his distant boat, now quite lost to view behind
the headland.
Immediately he recognised his danger, and a thrill of fear, like a
galvanic shock, convulsed every nerve.
But he was full of courage. Was he not an Englishman ? Find
me the Eton boy, the Anglo-Saxon—find me a man of this noble
race who has nob courage. It is in the blood of the people, a part of
their indomitable obstinacy and pride. Mr. Gilbert (whom may God
long preserve to write other works yet more comical than the witty
conceits he has already created), Mr. Gilbert may sneer at the boast,
but every Englishman is the heir to a nobility that lives nob in the
"Rooshian, the Turk, or perhaps the Prooshian or the I-tal-i-an,"
and as we have the spirit, we, too, only amongst nations, have the
word—" pluck."
So, instead of opening his mouth and shutting his eyes, to see
what God would send him, Norman, after the first thrill of horror,
was as calm and undisturbed as when he first dived into the waves.
Gently turning over on his back, he lay there floating on the water
as still as a log, whilst he quietly reflected.
It was his first thought to float. If he floated long enough, he
would regain his breath and his strength, and he could return as he
had come.
For clearly it was impossible to find any resting-place on those
sheer, inhospitable cliffs.
So he lay there floating, resting, gaining breath, thinking hard—
thinking especially that there was the current to swim against; a
thought which gloomed over his brow, and made him feel that he
was a gone coon.
" Messrs. Jones & Co.," he muttered, " it strikes me that you
will never be paid that little bill Tor £63 7s., unless my uncle thinks
fib to pay my debts when I am deceased—a thing I fear his soldierly
sense of honour will prompt him to do. It is about time to say my
prayers."
68
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
Then he set his teeth and thought, "I won't die—I'll swim it. I
will keep cool, and by force of will I'll do it."
He turned, and with a slow, powerful stroke, commenced his swira
back to the boat.
He was satisfied. His rest had renewed his vigour. Determining
not to flurry himself, he forged his way slowly, but surely, through
the water. After he had been swimming some time, he observed
with satisfaction that he was making excellent progress. Still he
did not hurry his stroke, but continued his work steadily and with
determination. After he had traversed a good distance, he felt his
energies waning, and, conscious of the necessity of husbanding his
resources, he decided to rest again from swimming, and to float until
he recovered his breath.
Whilst floating, he soon noticed, with dismay, that the current
took him back faster than he had advauced. Turning to his work
of swimming again, he saw that it was incumbent upon him to keep
to his task resolutely, desperately.
He had now approached the vicinity of the headland. Once past
the headland, he felt he could manage either to reach the boat, which
was now in sight, or to get on to the adjacent rocks, where, at the
worst, he could obtain some shivering foothold, for at that point the
cliff was not so precipitous, and he anticipated that he could find
there some available resting-place.
Feeling how great his danger was, and at the same time nerved
to the endeavour by a newly kindled hope, he bravely put forth all
his power, and ploughed against the increasing current, but in
vain.
He made the most desperate efforts, he put forth all his strength.
Every stroke weakened him ; at every stroke the current became
increasingly strong. He struggled on despairingly, swimming with
all his might and main. Yet he made no progress. It became
evident to him that all this effort was wasted energy, that he made
no advance, that he was using his last available powers vainly.
Yet to give up was death.
To struggle on, to swim against a current stronger than the force
of his stroke—this also must have the same inevitable conclusion.
Was there no alternative ? Absolutely none.
However, with enfeebled stroke he continued to contend against
his destiny—brave to the last, but despairing.
Faint and exhausted, unable to continue the unequal struggle,
unable to move his tired limbs, panting, breathless, with no aid
near, with no help possible, he was at last compelled to cease his
useless efforts, to give up the hopeless struggle, to submit to his
fate. The waves gurgled in his ears, the spray dashed over his face.
He knew it was all over. He was a drowning man.
Game to the last, he summoned a final effort, and, taking a long
breath, turned upon his back to float and drift.
The current carried him back over the same toilsome distance he
had come.
With great difficulty he raised himself to look around. There
WHICH SUGGESTS THE POSSIBLE EXISTENCE OP MERMAIDS. 69
was no sail, no boat, no succour. There was the sea only, and the
frowning, precipitous, inhospitable cliff.
He had tried the sea—he would try the precipice; knowing that
the attempt was vain—knowing that there was no ledge nor chance
of foothold, he would yet, in his despair, attempt the impracticable.
It mattered not whether he was dashed to death on the teeth of
those jagged crags, or lost in the depths of the sea.
Once more, with careful, scrutinizing eye, he surveyed the grim
and forbidding cliffs, looking for foothold in vain, blankly staring
with glazing vision at the walls of death.
His sins rose before his eyes like a curtain, and strange, weird
fancies revolved through his brain in rapid succession, clear visions
of his past life, scenes from his Texan history, memories of his
youth, of his boyhood, and with them all were mingled the picture
of that illusion, that mirage of the mermaid of the sea, that mockery
which had allured him to Iris death, the face of that sea-maiden
whose eyes he felt were fixed on him, whose face he seemed to be-
hold still over the waves which were to engnlph him.
Shaking off the lethargy and exhaustion which he felt were gain-
ing a mastery over him, the weary swimmer made yet another
desperate effort to reach the cliffs. But vain was his endeavour.
His limbs were numb and cold. A fatal cramp seized and paralyzed
him. He ceased his attempts to swim, and strove by force of will to
float, to stretch and straighten his legs. His mind was still clear,
but his physical energies were utterly exhausted. He struggled
and splashed in one final paroxysm of despair, until his outwearied
limbs refused to obey the summons of his will; then he sank. The
waves closed over him. He was gone.
CHAPTER XV.
which suggests the possible existence oe mermaids.
"Absolutely True." (Irving Montagu.)
" Wild thing3 are here of sea and land,
Stern surges and a haughty strand;
Sea monsters haunt yon caverned lair,
The mermaid wrings her briny hair."
(Hawker of Morwenstow.)
Still the sun shone. The rippling waves broke ; the bubbles of the
sea-froth sparkled and danced; the passionless sea rolled over un-
concernedly, and the careless waves scattered their spent energies
in creamy foam upon the cliff.
That little speck upon the waters, that item of struggling
humanity had vanished into their depths. What cared the sea P
Full many a time before had those chill and heedless waters laughed
over the head of a drowned man. Full many a time had those piti-
less rocks looked down from their gloomy heights, in days of calm
70
TilE feEAUTY 0£ BOSCAStL®.
and in nights of storm, and seen strong men exhaust their strength,
and vainly struggle there with death.
Grim, and gaunt, and pitiless, those grey, impassive cliffs had
witnessed many a tragedy, had been deaf to many a human cry.
Wrecks are frequent on that dangerous coast, and in times of evil
weather numberless vessels have given up their ill-fated crews, and
sent them into the tempest-tossed waves to seek, and to seek in
vain, a refuge from the storm.
The strongest swimmers have coped with the Atlantic breakers,
and have gained a victory over the surging flood, only to be dashed
against the stern rocks, and slain in blood and foam at their
feet.
And when the sea has smiled and the sun has shone, whilst high
overhead the lark has been singing his joyous song, many a careless
swimmer—unconscious, at first, of danger—has been swept by the
current into this awful recess of the sea—a prison from which there
is no escape—and here, sported with and tortured by the mocking
ripples, mocked at by the inhospitable cliff, the despairing victim
has torn his bleeding fingers on the jagged slate, has mutilated his
bruised and mangled limbs upon the forbidding rocks, where he has
found no final foothold, and where, in fright and horror, exhausted
by loss of blood, bruised, maimed, he has hung to the pi-ecipice in
hope, till he has yielded himself to the sea in despair.
For the precipice has no pity. The sombre walls rise up sheer in
lofty disdain. So they have stood for ages and aeons, and men have
been slain before them, as before pagan gods is offered sacrifice.
Before history was, they were. Before man walked the world.
Changeless, expressionless, they have looked on as one human gene-
ration has succeeded another, as race has succeeded race. And now
and then the sea, sporting or raging in triumph, or in play, smiling
in livery of white and blue, or black in tempestuous anger, and
frothed with spume and foam, has brought the victim of sacrifice,
has laid the tribute at the foot of the rocks, and has slain the human
offering before the face of those hard, unpitying crags.
Never has there been succour. High in their pride they have
stood aloof from humanity, offering no aid, holding out no hand.
But to-day their heart was opened, and they sent the victim a
deliverer.
The sea was still, the sun shone, the rippling waves curled over
and over, and a head emerged from the smiling waves.
It was a woman's head. It appeared suddenly, and disappeared
as quickly. It was the head of the mermaid that the man had seen.
Soon another head, the head of the drowned man, reappeared above
the surface of the sea, and his hair was clutched by the fingers of
the woman.
And the woman's face appeared also. Holding the man as far
from her as possible, she firmly seized him by the hair. He thus
brought miraculously to the surface instinctively took a long gasp
for breath. At that moment the woman dealt him a severe blow
upon the back of his head. Then she dived down, as a mermaid
WHICJt TELLS THE THRILLING- STORY OF A RESCUE. 71
dives, into the liquid depths, which seemed her home, and she bore
with her the victim that the sea had given her.
Hour after hour passed, and she was seen no more.
The rocks looked down, but the man and this beauteous creature
of the sea had vanished altogether.
CHAPTER XVI.
which tells the thrilling story of a rescue.
" Love for an Hour is Love for Ever."
(A. E. Barr.)
" She half enclosed me with her arcns,
She pressed me with a meek embrace ;
And, bending back her head, looked up,
And gazed upon my face."
(S. T. Coleridge.)
When Jennie Tredorn began her bathe, and dived into the sea,
two or three of the tamest seals still accompanied her. This
familiarity was not duly appreciated by the young lady, her amphi-
bious playmates being rather too boisterous companions in the
water, and she found it necessary to keep them at due distance by
occasional kicks and blows. These were delivered by the young
Amazon with sufficient force to moderate the excessive ardour of the-
seals, who, however, still kept in her proximity.
Thoroughly enjoying the delicious pleasure of a sea bathe—a dan-
gerous delight that can only be properly appreciated by a good
swimmer—Jennie Tredorn, revelling in the sea as though it were
her element, swam, and floated, and dived, plunging like a Greek
goddess through the waves, disappearing in the blue depths, and
emerging again with the sparkling water streaming from her hair
as she shook her flowing locks and lifted her happy, radiant face to
the shining sun.
So, gambolling in the billows like a water-witch, she beheld with
amazement a man.
For a few moments she stared at the intruder in bewildered
surprise, then, uttering a cry of terror, she darted out of sight be-
neath the water, like a frightened trout. Diving still, she entered
the cavern through the water. The sea had risen so as to hide the
entrance, but she well knew the way, and traversing the gloomy
green channel of the subaquean water-gate, she emerged from the
sea in the cool and silent cavern.
Heedless of the seals which accompanied her thus far, she rushed,
in maidenly fear and dismay, to the interior of the cave and through
the rough natural tunnel which led to her secret hiding-place, as-
cending into the upper cavern that she had established as her own.
Gaining the green and sunny bank in the upper cavern, she threw
a shawl over her shoulders, and from this eminence looked down
through " the lady's window " to the sea.
72
THE BEAUTY OE BOSCASTLE.
From where she stood, in fear and trembling, she conld see and
not be seen. Looked at from the sea, her bower appeared like a
dark blot on the rock, whilst from the interior of that upper cavern
she could see through the rent in the cliff, as from an open window,
the sun, the heavens, and the mid ocean, a glorious prospect stretch-
ing away to the distant horizon.
She had not recognised the man. In the shock and surprise, her
senses were utterly bewildered. Yet now that she had time to throw
off her fear, the thought crept into her mind that the strange
swimmer was none other than Norman Forrabury.
As this thought came to her, she blushed in every vein, and drew
the shawl closer around her in modest dread.
For every wave that broke in the resonant cavern below seemed to
announce his name. Shrinking farther back into the darker recess
of the cavern, she modestly peered below at the swimmer.
He was floating there very placidly and calmly, extended upon the
smooth sea, nursed by the rocking waves, as a child is rocked in a
cottage cradle.
She conld not discern his features at that distance, but she could
see that he was a man of massive make, and, aided by the spectacles
that Cupid lent her, she beheld Norman.
Then she blushed to the roots of her hair, clasping her shawl more
closely about her, and turned her back to the sea,—for was it not a
wickedness to gaze thus at the man she loved, even though he were
afar off, veiled by the foam of the sea as by transparent lace, and
attired by the green shimmering waters as in silken vesture?
So, with the blush reddening her face and tinging her ear-tips even
through the tan, she averted her eyes from the figure of the swimmer,
and looked down at the ground.
But it did not matter where she looked, for her eyes were filled
with his image, and she beheld the picture of him as he floated on
the waves.
Yet now shame vanished, for she was contemplating the flowers
and grass, and her back was towards the sea.
Her blushes faded away, and over her features flitted the passage
of a smile, the symptom of a pleasant reverie.
Curiosity visited her, and whispered in her ear. She frowned, she
shook her head, stamped her foot, resisted the temptation, turned
her head .after a while just a very little, and finally took a peep out
of the tail of her eye.
The swimmer had ceased to float, and was now swimming sea-
wards, with long, regular stroke.
Jennie quickly turned her head again, blushing with the guilt of
her peccadillo. To her this revelation of a man was a shock—it was
the violation of a virgin mind. Flesh, blood, and nature combined
to assail the purity of her soul. She loved this man. The thought
of him was gracious to her. And now he was uncurtained before
her vision, her bewildered mind was suffused with his image, whilst
her maidenly instincts were aroused, and her chastity shocked. Her
bosom heaved with guilty abashment and outraged modesty. Crim-
WHICH TELLS THE THRILLING STORY OP A RESCUE. 73
son with shame, she knelt on the turf and heather, and daring not
to lift her eyes to heaven, she repeated, with muttering lips, frag-
ments of hymns, to drive away the intrusion of the guilty idea, and
to blot the vision out of her mind. But her thoughts could not
dwell on prayers, though her lips uttered them. She began rather
to reason. What was the swimmer doing there ? Had he discovered
the secret of her hiding-place ? Had he found out also this secluded
aisle in Pentargon ? She grieved with timid apprehension at the
thought. How else had he come there ? There was no boat. It
was dangerous also.
Dangerous!
At that idea all the instincts of modesty fled. Was he in danger ?
She leapt to her feet, turned round to gaze at the sea, and stared at
the swimmer with a newly awakened fear.
At first she could not see him, for by this time he had swum a
good distance out towards the point. His head was but a speck
upon the water, but she soon discerned him swimming hard, swim-
ming resolutely—swimming, as she noticed, against the current—a
current that she knew well enough no swimmer could contend
with.
Ho boat was in sight—no definite goal was in view. She stared at
him in wonder. How had he got there? Why did he attempt—
strong swimmer as he evidently was—to breast such a difficult cur-
rent? Was he endeavouring to accomplish some wild feat for a
wager? Most of all, where was the boat from which he must have
come? These and a score of similar thoughts rushed tumultuously
through her mind. She saw him slacken his stroke. She saw and
knew that he could never reach the headland, if that were his inten-
tion. She saw him turn over, and float, drift with the current, and
take to swimming again. It was evident that he was attempting the
impossible.
Staring at him in mute horror, she quickly felt more and more,
assured that he was losing his strength, and still struggling in that
awful current for his life.
Arching her hands over her lips, she raised a loud cry of warning.
The cavern echoed with the cry. At that moment he gave up the
struggle, and floated back with the current. Regarding him in des-
perate anxiety, wringing her hands uselessly, tearing her hair in
grief and fear, she at last darted down the cave, intending to.fly to
his assistance, when she saw, with renewed alarm, that he was again
attempting, bravely but desperately and uselessly, to breast the cur-
rent.
She paused, and again and again shouted to him at the top of her
voice to come back. He did not heed or hear her. Again she raised
her voice, filling the vaulted cavern with the resounding echoes of
her cries. Then she thought he heard, for he gave up his attempt,
and came floating back, borne by the current. He came nearer and
nearer. Stepping a few paces forward, she was about to descend
into the lower cavern, but as he thus got out of her view, she ran
back hesitating, afraid to lose him from sight, lest he should again
74
The beauty of boscastle.
attempt to breast the current, and exhaust his last energies in futile
efforts at the impossible.
As he came nearer to the shore of Pentargon Bay, she beheld with
horror that he was already in utter exhaustion, and, shouting that
she came, she descended through the cavern, leaping from boulder
to boulder, into the blackness of lower Pentargon, plunged into the
green water, dived through the sea-mouth of the cave, and rising in
the open sea, saw him near her—saw him when the film of death
was glazing his eyes, at the moment when his last exhausted
struggle was over, when his limbs, too tired to struggle longer, re-
fused to uphold him. as he sank, instinctively splashing in his last
convulsive agonies.
Taking a deep breath, Jennie dived after him, seized him by the
hair, and came with him to the surface. Then, stunning him with
a well-dealt blow, lest his writhing arms should clasp her with con-
vulsive grip, and involve them both in the meshes of despair,—for
she well knew how the drowning, when their lost reason is succeeded
by bewildered instinct, clutch even a saviour in perilous embrace,—
she seized him with resolute yet stealthy grip, and, plunging into the
depths, took him with her through the green subaquean way, through
the dark and gloomy water-gate of the ocean cave, and emerged
breathless and exhausted, with her heavy burden stupefied and
struggling in her strong grasp, emerged in the solemn darkness of
the Pentargon caverns, where the seals frolicked around the limbs
of their mistress, or rolled in awkward sport upon the granite boul-
ders and sea-stained rocks.
Taking him in her arms, she kissed him in the darkness; then,
exhausted by excitement rather than by weai-iness, she laid him on
the beach of the cavern, and stood leaning upon the green wet weed
of the rocks, whilst she took breath.
Very soon she knelt by his side. It was dark, almost as dark as
on a winter's night when there are no stars. There was a green
dull glimmer beneath the sea, and the edges of the waves that burst
into the cavern and splashed upon the rocks were marked with
foam. The seals were almost invisible, except for the chrysalis-
light that glittered in their eyes. The body of the man was indis-
tinct. Jennie, kneeling beside him, put her hand upon his arm. It
was numb and cold. She felt his heart. Did it beat? She lifted
up his head. The water ran from his mouth. Knowing that he
must have swallowed large quantities of sea water, she placed his-
head so that it hung downwards, lifted his body on her knee, and
propped his limbs against the rocks. She moved his arms back-
wards and forwards like a pump, helping him to disgorge the sea-
water, chafed him with her hands, rubbed his feet, wrung the water
from his hair, bent over his face and covered it with kisses. Then
she whispered in his ear, "Norman ! I am with you ! Do you hear
me ? Speak ! Norman, my love ! my treasure ! Oh, I can say
this, for you hear me not. It is dark, and you cannot see. Norman !
Norman! "
Again she placed her cheek against his. He was cold. His heart
WHICH I DEDICATE TO SCULPTORS AND PAINTERS. 75
seemed sfcill. In alarm she cried to him, " Norman ! Norman! You
are not dead. My love ! ray life ! Norman ! It is cold. Up with
me to the sun ! Wake! Awake ! Up with me ! Come ! "
Lifting him from the position in which she had lain him for some
minutes, she placed him in a sitting posture on the rocks, and, bend-
ing down, slung his right arm over her shoulder, whilst, with her
arm round his waist, she raised him to his feet. Struggling in the
darkness under the heavy load, she began to drag him into Upper
Pentargon, and with infinite difficulty lifted him through the ragged
hole which communicated with the higher cave.
So they gradually came out of the darkness through the sombre
vaults into the ^rey twilight, the man still helpless, the woman over-
burdened, but brave ; anxious, yet full of hope.
For as she struggled onwards, dragging, pushing, lifting, support-
ing the man, she felt his heart slowly pulsing, and knew that her
heavy burden, though still inanimate, would come to life—knew that
her efforts had not been in vain—knew that she had snatched the
treasure of her life from an ocean grave.
Therefore her heart was glad.
CHAP TEE, XVII.
which i dedicate to sculptors and painters.
" Paradise Regained.'1 (Milton.)
" But what is your opinion, Mrs. Grundy ? " (Tom Hood.)
Arrived at last in the sunny recesses of her own favourite bower
in Upper Pentargon, she laid the unconscious man upon the soft
green bank, yielding with moss, covered with crisp, close, sun-
burnt grass, and fragrant with fern and heather.
No eye saw them but the eye of God. The All-seeing One, for
ever pleased in the contemplation of His most perfect physical
creation, beheld them now, as on the day when Eve stood newly
ci'eated by the side of sleeping Adam amidst the flowers of Eden,
and declared, with Divine pleasure, the beauteous forms He had
made in His own Image, to be " very good."
There could be nothing more beautiful on earth or in heaven. The
man, of magnificent and massive structure, pale with exhaustion, yet
glowing into life—a faultless giant, an ideal man—perfect in the
pattern of lineaments and limb. The woman, of exquisite mould
and noble stature, dark eyed, black haired, her bosom heaving, her
cheeks red, her whole body beaming with vigorous health, warm
with exercise, and suffused with blushes as she veiled the man in
her shawl, and hastily draped herself in white linen, ere she bent
by his side in the sunshine, in that sheltered greenery sown with
flowers and musical with the laughter of rippling rills and falling
waters.
The nymphs and naiads of Arcadia in their bosky glades, sunlit,
or the nereids of the sea-caves, sheltered with garlands of hanging
76
THE BEAUTY OE BOSCASTLE.
vine, awaiting the behests of Neptune, the beautiful legends of
classic ages, the fair dreams of mediaeval romance, or the songs of
troubadours—nay, the visions of poets exceeded not in beauty this
perfect picture, hid from the world in a casket cranny in the cliff.
For it was the same picture that the great Creator limned for
His own dream, a repetition of the exquisite scene which God
wrought out upon the earth with His own Almighty hands, and to
which, after long toil, He added the final strokes, when, resting from
His labours, He placed the waking woman by the side of the sleep-
ing man, and regarded with Divine delight His perfect work.
Now again slept the man, and the new Eve, palpitating with
wonder and blushing with modesty, regarded the sleeper by her
side.
The flowers and moss on which he lay gave out their fragrance,
a linnet twittered on a fluttering bough, and the plashing waterfall
and purling streamlets sang in time with the linnet, as the waters
accompanied the choir of song-birds in Eden.
But the bewildered maiden beheld none of this beauty. Nay,
her bashful eyelids drooped outraged, and, quickly covering his
extremities, she hastened to cover more warmly the form of the
exhausted sleeper.
There were some shawls, an old jacket, and warm wraps, which
the girl had stored for cold weather, and which she took from the
jutting ro<-ks of the cave, where they had hung, and cast them over
the cold limbs of the tired man.
Her modesty thus soothed, she gazed with wide, delighted eyes
at Norman, and, clasping her hands, fell down upon her knees,
staring at his face, her lips murmuring, almost unconsciously, words
of devout thanksgiving and holy texts of gratitude and praise. In
an ecstacy of delight, her eyes revelled upon the lace of the sleeper
the treasure she had plucked from the sea, her heart's love, the man
of her dreams. She smiled in a paroxysm of happiness, writhing on
her knees, wringing her hands, viewing with persistent curiosity
the lines of his features, trembling with excitement, and exhaustion,
beaming benignantly over him, as a mother gazes with rapture on
the face of her sleeping child.
How profoundly he slept! She would not wake him. Wake him
and end these moments of her bliss ! No. Would that for ever she
could crouch by his side. For when he woke—ah !—he would be
hers no longer. She would have no right to look upon him. Whilst
now, with curious gaze, she could peer into his face and count the
hairs in his long eyelashes as they lay upon his cheek. So, holding
her breath, she bent over him stealthily, stealthily, until, unable to
resist the impulse in her bosom, her light lips stole a kiss from
his; then, shocked at her boldness, she shrank from him abashed.
Thrilled at his touch, and tinged to the tips of her rosy ears
with mantling blushes, again she smiled, almost laughed with delight.
Oh, blessed day! She had saved him—saved him! saved him!
Rocking herself to and fro in wild gestures, swaying herself upon
her knees, occasionally breaking out in snatches of delighted praise
WHICH I DEDICATE TO SCULPTORS AND PAINTERS. 77.
and thanksgiving, almost in hysterics with joy, she gazed upon the
life she had saved,. gloated over him deliriously, whilst her own
heart beat tumultuously.
Thus she did not reason. For a time she was, in common phrase,
" out of her mind " ; excessive rapture, overfilling her soul, had left
110 room for thought—she only knew that this precious life was
spared, and she was overjoyed, overcome.
She longed to clasp him in her embrace ; her arms hovered over
him. She remembered that she had held him against her bosom.
She trembled with love for him, knowing that he was forbidden to
her, that between him and her there was a wide chasm, that it was
only now, now for a brief hour of heaven, that she might dare even
to look upon him.
Tremblingly, faint-heartedly she put her hand upon his as it lay
upon the heather. It was very cold.
She started to her feet, anxious and afraid.
Again she laid her hand upon him unhesitatingly. How cold
he was! Roused to activity, she rubbed his arms with her warm
palm—shook him. Alas! how he slept! She chafed his temples, put
her cheek against his, endeavoured to warm him, and held his cold
form to her bosom. Then hurriedly divesting herself of some
clothing, she covered him more warmly yet, and ran frightened
towards the kegs of rum left in the cavern years and years ago,
blaming herself for her folly that she had not earlier thought of
some restorative.
Returning with quick steps, she sat on the moss by Norman's
side, and supporting his head upon her bosom, forced open his teeth,
and poured the rum down his throat.
He opened his eyes stupidly as she anxiously watched him. Then
she fell to chafing his numb limbs, and dressed him as best she
could, determining to make him move and circulate his blood.
Again she gave him some of the spirit. He sat up, half con-
sciously, while she supported him. Then she laid him gently down
upon the moss, and, gathering a few twigs and broken boughs,
essayed in vain to light a fire.
But he slept again. Anxiously she returned to him, repeatedly
feeling his pulse, and noticing with pleasure that he breathed freely,
and that he was not so cold. Reassured, she now began to reflect
how to get her patient out of the cave, for the days were shortening,
and long ere the sun sank the cavern would be chill.
Heaping more dry leaves and moss over the sleeper, and leaving
a light kiss of inexpressible love and tenderness upon his brow,
Jennie ascended the rocky side of the cave, and with many a nimble
skip and jump, got out on to the lower cliff, traversed the narrow
and dangerous ledge that led to the heights, and at last reached the
grassy slopps on the top of Pentargon cliff.
A few sheep were grazing in the first field, and she sprang up
amongst them so suddenly, that they scampered timidly away. She
ran after them with a merry peal of laughter, clapping her hands
to increase their fear, for she was iii high spirits, and reaching the
78
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
stone wall that marks the Beeny Road, she scrambled over it with
the agility of a schoolboy.
Jumping down, she alighted close to a pony chaise. The chaise
was empty, and the frightened pony, which was browsing on the
green edge of the road, became a little restive. Jennie went up,
patted his neck, and pacified him. She then observed that there
was an excellent warm fur rug in. the chaise. It occurred to her
that this was the very thing for Norman; and reflectingfthat it was
a shame so good a man should be a-shivering, she thought if she
could borrow it, for his dear sake, it would be well. She looked
around, but no one being in sight, she appropriated it without ado,
and descended the cliff again to Norman.
Arrived within sight of the cavern, she found to her surprise,
that the mossy couch on which she had left Norman asleep was
empty.
A nameless dread came over her. What if she had saved this
man from the sea to lose him in the rocks ? Those natural caverns
were full of danger to the inexperienced. Their rugged indentations
pierced far into the entrails of the earth, the winding ways and
sinuous turnings, intersected by many cross caves and precipitous
chasms, afforded terrible possibilities of dangers.
It was easy to be lost in their dark and gloomy chambers. Had
Norman, in a half-awakened stupor, sought to solve the mystery of
his presence there by groping his way along some dangerous route ?
Had he fallen in some by-way of this maze P
Palpitating with fear, the girl, angrily waving off the birds which
had congregated around and above her, as was their wont, hastened
on, and began to descend the rocky sides of the cavern in quest of
her lost pi*ize.
CHAPTER XVIII.
describing a game of hide and seek, and a little of the
love-making that very often follows.
" Within the Maze." (Mrs. Hennj Wood.)
" Thy mouth is made of fire and wine,
Thy barren bosom takes my kiss;
And turns my soul to thine,
And turns thy lip to mine;
And mine it is." (Swinburne.) .
Suddenly she paused, and, suppressing a little scream of surprise,
crouched down behind a jutting rock, half hid in moss and fern.
A smile of intense merriment and love, with a curious expression
of amusement, passed over her half-hidden face.
For she beheld the object of her search vainly endeavouring to
scale an impossible crag, ludicrous in his feminine costume, more
ludicrous still through his air and look of wonder and bewilder-
ment. He soon paused in his effort, evidently convinced that the
DESCRIBING A GAME OF HIDE AND SEEK.
79
ascent he was attempting was a vain one—and, lowering himself, he
commenced again, in a half-hearted way, to climb the rocks in another
direction. But again he was foiled, and, descending breathless, he
sat on a boulder, looking at his hands, the very picture of discom-
fiture. Then he looked ruefully at his dress, felt the texture of his
petticoat, wondering, and, stretching out his long legs and bare feet,
laughed softly at the funny figure he cut.
Then he took off the jacket, which Jennie noticed had been split in
the seam by his broad shoulders, and looked at the collar, as if per-
chance some name might be written there. It was a woman's
jacket, with a braided front and pockets. Without a moment's hesi-
tation, his rifling hand dived in and drew out a ball of worsted, two
reels of cotton, a paper of pins, and a hymn-book. Turning over the
pages, he found a name, " Maria Trethewy, her book, Boscastle, 1837."
He looked at it thoughtfully, shook his head, and then put the things
back. Putting on the jacket, he surveyed himself again, and
chuckled quietly at the grotesque spectacle he made.
Then he put his head on his hands, and reflected, a puzzled expres-
sion playing on his features. He shook his head, as though he gave
up the conundrum, stretched himself, and again noticing his comic
attire, laughed aloud.
His laugh was so spontaneous, and the figure he cut was so comic,
that Jennie joined her laugh to his. He at once looked up and saw
her.
" Jennie, by all that's wonderful! " he exclaimed. " How do you
get up there P "
" This way," answered the girl, as, bounding from ledge to ledge,
and from crag to crag, she swung herself down to the floor of the
cave. He took her hand in his as she stepped on to the last boulder,
and, looking into her laughing eyes, said, " Now explain all this ! "
" Sir, I saved you," she answered simply.
" Yes. I remember. I have been thinking; you were the mer-
maid."
" You would have been drowned, sir ! " she replied.
" And you came to me—I thought—have I been dreaming ?
Where is my boat that I came out in this morning ? For certainly
I went out for a sail. How comes it then that 1 am here P Some-
thing has happened that I cannot understand."
"1 brought you here, sir, from the sea! " replied Jennie, pointing
to Pentargon Bay.
" Yes, yes ; I know. I was swimming; I saw you. By Jove ! I
should think I ought to remember. I was struggling in the water
there for hours. I was drowning; I thought I did drown, then I
found myself yonder, asleep on that heather. I sprang up be-
wildered—awake. I looked at myself—at this odd dress ; I thought
I was in the other world. I pinched myself, to know if I was dream-
ing or not. Oh, yes; I am still in a trance, for I cannot understand
it, except this only, that I was drowning, and that you have saved
me." And he looked at the girl with infinite gratitude and tender-
ness.
80
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
" And I dreamt, do you know, Jennie," he continued, in a softer
tone, " I dreamt that you were by my side, that I was ill, that you
were my nurse, and you kissed me, and I wanted to kiss you too, but
I could nob wake. It was an odd dream. It is all very strange.
For how did I get up here? You have not yet told me, nor how
it happens that I am dressed like this," and he held out his arms,
the jacket sleeves reached down to his elbows only—looked at his
petticoat, and laughed.
And Jennie, laughing too, answered, "I brought you up here
from the sea."
" Yes," exclaimed Norman, putting his arms round her waist, and
drawing her to his side, while he kissed her cheek. " Yes; my
saviour, my good angel, you have saved my life, and I have not
thanked you. Jennie! how can I thank you? I should have been
dead, but for you. A thousand, thousand thanks. But, hang it all!
I still don't understand how the deuce I got here. But you—yes,
it was you. I know that quite well. My darling! My Jennie!"
and he embraced her again and again.
" There, that will do," said Jennie, disengaging herself from him.
" Still, it is all a mystery to me. Where are we ? "
"In my cave. Look you! it is a secret. You must never tell
any one. I will show you the way out, bub promise me "
" I will promise you anything."
"Well, then, the cave is a little secret. It is mine, all this. The
way out is the way in. But there are two ways. I will show you,
if you promise not to tell."
" Thus I seal the promise," said Norman, kissing her.
" Sir! you must not do that," said Jennie, assuming a pretty accent
of anger, and thinking that she ought to be shocked, though, in
reality, she was in the seventh heaven of happiness. " Are you ready
to go ? "
"How?"
" Climb. It is difficult. Are you strong enough ? "
" Never stronger in my life," he answered, through his chattering
teeth.
" But you are cold," said Jennie, putting her hand on his. " Stay;
sit there. That is my sofa,—my sofa of ferns and heather,—and this
rug I have brought here for you. I will bring you some rum in a
minute. It will do you good. Thex*e," she said, bringing him a cup
of the spirit; " drink that."
"By Jove!"
" Do you like it ? "
"Like it? It's as mild as milk, and as good as a liqueur. It's better
than Oura$oa or Green Chartreuse. Bum, eh? I've never tasted
such glorious stuff in my life. Fill up again, Jennie."
"You had better not. You have had two or three nips of it be-
fore."
" When? "
"When I was bringing you to—and you will want a clear head
going up the cliff, I can tell you."
DESCRIBING A GAME OE HIDE AND SEEK.
81
Well, take some yourself, then."
" No, sir, thank you. I'm in the blue-ribbon army. Don't you
see ? Now we'll be going. All you have to do is to follow me."
It was easier said than done, for Jennie could climb like a goat,
whilst Norman, shoeless and encumbered by the petticoat and carriage
rug, found it difficult to keep pace with her. Now and then she waited
for liim, and, at the most dangerous places, helped him up with her
strong arm.
Arriving at a certain ledge, where there is a chain let into the rock
with an iron ring, Norman positively refused to climb it.
" My dear Jennie," he said, " I simply can't do it."
" It is the only way," replied the girl apologeticalty.
" Anyway, I can't climb it."
"You are faint and tired," she exclaimed, descending to him.
"Rest awhile." And she sat down by him.
" Thanks," he said, gripping her hand tightly. "Do you know,
Jennie, 1 must seem an awful coward; but my head swims. Great
Scott! what an awful height to sit shaking and shivering over.
Something seems to be pulling me forward. What an awful preci-
pice! Some invisible cord seems to be dragging me down, and the
rocks behind—hang it all! the cliff seems moving. Hold me up,
Jennie, or, by Jove ! I shall be over."
" Shut your eyes," exclaimed Jennie, in an authoritative tone.
" There! you are quite safe. Give me your other hand. How
you tremble! It is safe—it is quite a broad ledge."
" Oh, quite a carriage road to you, perhaps ; but I am not a
Jennie forced a laugh to re-assure him. Really she was in great
trepidation on his account. If he should faint, if his previous exei'-
tions had weakened him, and he were to become unconscious, his
position would be perilous in the extreme, and she was racking her
brain to think what she could do. She could not leave him to get
aid. She had no cord, or she would have lashed him to herself.
What she dreaded was, that he might faint and fall. All she could
do was to repeat again and again, " Keep your eyes shut. You will
be all right directly."
The rest, however, soon drove away his dizziness, and, as he said,
he " began to feel in form again."
"But move from here, by Jove ! I won't," he continued. "I am
as comfortable as if I were in an armchair, now I have found out the
fit of the rock. I shall sit here, and dangle my legs over the cliff till
doomsday. But as for moving—why, my feet are so cut and mangled,
I could not move a yard, even on a level road; whilst to think of
going up there,"—and he nodded his head at the precipitous rock—
" ugh ! I shudder at the idea."
" 'Tis the only way," said Jennie simply.
" And at the top—what then P A pretty figure I shall look going
through the town in petticoats! "
" It is better than being drowned."
"Ah, Jennie! how ungrateful of me! But for you, I should be
6
THE BEAUTY 0£ BOSCASTLE.
under there with the fishes. And already I am discontented—
already I have forgotten to be grateful. Tell me, sweet—and let
me look into the depth of your bright eyes as you answer—does
there not seem a destiny in all this ? How the Fates have drawn
together the threads of our lives ! "
" God has willed it so," said Jennie devoutly.
" Umph! I don't know about that. The devil, as a rule, has a good
deal to do with these things. It is very strange. I have avoided
you ; I have kept away from the road where your cottage is ; I have
said to myself, ' She is dangerous.'"
" Dangerous! Why am I dangerous ? That is what Colonel
Forrabury said of you. Why did he say so? I have often asked
myself that."
" Because I am. I am a monster, an ogre. Have a care, Jennie.
But no. Harmyou ? You, my good angel—you to whom I owe
my life ? Never ! I would rather fall from this cliff and be dashed
on to the rocks below than hurt a hair of your head. Why, my
beautiful! my Jennie ! do you know that I am madly fond of you ?
Do you know that I dream of you night and day p Do you know
that when I wake I see your bright eyes beaming on me, that here
in my bosom is a passion for you tearing at the chords of my heart—
a raging flame ? See! look at me ! Best your lovely head so on my
shoulders, and fan my cheek with your sweet breath. Do you know
how beautiful you are ? You are fit to be a queen. You are magni-
ficent! Girls like you are not shaped everyday. If you were in
Paris, you would be the rage. God forbid ! You are too beautiful,
too good—so sweetly simple, so innocent. The first moment I saw
yon, I admired you ; and now, now—I love—love—love you."
" And I " murmured Jennie, almost unconsciously.
" I never meant to tell you. I thought of going to Texas. I
thought I would blot from my heart all this witchery. I swim, and
your mirage is on the watesr. I drown, and you save me from the
waves. It is fate. Kiss me."
She put her lips on his like an obedient child.
" But it is madness all the same. It would have been far better
for us both if you had let me drown down there. These kisses will
burn on my lips like fire. Kiss me again."
But she shrank from him in dread, and looked at him with a gaze
ip which were mingled a score of varying emotions, fear, wonder,
and modesty conflicting in her heart with love, admiration, and
delight.
"No; do not kiss me again, then. It is best. I have what will
serve to consume me. You are not a woman; you are a witch. I
frighten you, eh ? Then I am glad. Listen. It is best to be
frightened of me. If you are good, I am not. It is well for you that
we are on this ledge. Here you are safe. I will never see you any
more. You do not know me. When a man has travelled, look you.
he becomes wicked. I am not fit to breathe this pure air with you,
1 have no spark of purity in me at all. I am base. That man Jose
is better than I. Certainly he is an awful brute. I am different to
describing a Game op hide And seek. 83
him altogether. It is nonsense to talk of him—a lout like that. Ask
about me in Florence. I think nothing of women's hearts. This is
the first time I have ever had any regret. Perhaps you do not un-
derstand, but you—you—you are the first. All the rest—pooh ! I
have never cared. I have passed on heedlessly, like the wind that
breaks a flower. The difference is only this—that I love you."
She nestled in his bosom. He paused, and kissed her forehead
almost reverently.
"Angel! Sweet! Darling! How long your eyelashes are! They
are like threads of jet fine spun ; and your colour, how beautiful it is !
If you knew how beautiful you are, you would be vain. You are al-
together lovely. You are modelled (God forgive me) to be gathered.
Your limbs are like Greek columns. By Jove! you witch, your
ankles are so exquisite that I revoke all my vows. They would turn
the piety of St. Anthony. And yet, sweetest, not for all the world
would I injure you one whit. Innocence! rest for once upon my
bosom. I wish you had let me drown. My time had come. By
rights I should be dead. Now that you have saved me, you must
take the consequences. I am dangerous; I am a devil. You cannot
be such a little fool as not to know what I mean. I tell you I am a
villain."
She burst into tears, murmuring between her sobs, " All the same,
I love you."
"Yes, but you must not, Jennie. Promise me you will not. It
would be much better if we never saw each other any more. I will
go away. I will go back to London. I will go, Heaven knows
where; perhaps to Jericho, or Texas. I swear, by all that's holy,
that I will tear myself from you. I swear it. I will go to-morrow.
The world is wide enough. We will forget each other."
" Do not go," she muttered, putting her arms round his neck in
unconscious abandonment.
" Yes," he exclaimed, in a forced, cheery tone, "and at once. Up
with you! Let us go on. I feel the strength of a thousand men in
me. I can scale that rock now. Phew! my feet are sore, though.
What a confounded path! You need not fear the secret of your
cavern. No; even a goat could not climb this. Thanks. You see, I
cannot do without your hand." This he said as she helped him over
a rough bit of cliff.
" Now the worst is over," she said happily. " We shall be at the
top directly. It is easy walking as soon as we pass yonder jutting
boulder."
" I have cut my feet so."
"You will be on the grass soon. When we get round this, if you
look up, you will see the first wall."
Norman hobbled on; his feet were certainly badly cut,though not
deeply. The girl went in front, looking round constantly with a gaze
so pained and yet so tender. They came in time to the wall, which
she helped him over with a gratified smile.
" At last," he said. " I am really tired."
" Mr. Norman Forrabury!" said a voice behind them.
84
trite beauty ote boscastle.
" Lady Violet! " he exclaimed, turning round and huddling the rug
about him to hide his petticoats.
" So it was you stole the rug," she cried, with a laugh. " We have
been hunting for it high and low. Euphieme! Irene! Halloa!
Halloa ! I have found the thief."
Just then the carriage drove up, with the Miss Erskines.
" Who on earth is that extraordinary figure ? " said Miss Euphieme
Erskine, calmly adjusting her pince-nez, and staring placidly from
Jennie to Norman. "Not Mr. Norman Forrabury, surely! Well, you
have given us a great deal of trouble. Whatever your prank has
been, it has put us to great inconvenience, and has made us wrongly
suspect half a dozen honest people. Why, what in the world is the
matter ? You look very strange. How odd the man looks, Irene !
Mr. Forrabury has joined the barbarians. How defiant the female
savage seems! What odd society to choose ! " And then, calling to
Lady Violet, she whispered, " I think we had better drive away from
these sans culottes.,,
" Stay, Lady Violet," said Norman, recovering his composure. "I
don't understand anything about your stolen rug, though I suppose
this is it. I have had an adventure. I have been half drowned, and
should be dead if it were not for this noble girl, to whom I owe my
life."
" Drowned! " exclaimed the young ladies in chorus.
" And my proper clothes are in the boat. It is lucky I have met
you. Will you give me a lift P "
" Get into the chaise at once," said Lady Violet. "Why, your feet
are badly cut. Are you hurt elsewhere ? Let me bind your feet
with my handkerchief." And, suiting the action to the word, she knelt
on the ground and bound her handkerchief round his wounds. " Can
we get you anything P "
" Let us take you to the Farm," said Miss Euphieme Erskine.
" And send for Dr. Good," added Irene.
" No. Thank you very much, I am not hurt. But I am such a
figure, that I should be glad if you would drive me to Forrabury."
" Get in at once; only do not sit on my colour-box. I have been
painting, you see. Never mind the canvas. If you smudge it, it
will not matter. It is a mere sketch, a study of this landscape. How
fortunate that we met you ! There, let me tuck you up under the
rug. You will not catch cold without a hat ? "
; " Not a bit of it."
" And we can do nothing more P "
"No, except to thank this young lady. She has saved my life."
" Is it not Jennie Tredorn ? " asked Lady Violet.
" Yes, my lady," she answered, dropping a curtesy.
" You are a very beautiful girl, and it seems you are brave as well
as beautiful. Let me thank you."
"We all thank you," said Euphieme Erskine.
" From the bottom of our hearts," said Irene. " But come, Violet.
Mr. Forrabury will tell us the whole story. The sooner we get him
between blankets, the better."
WHICHj alas! is but too true to nature. 85
Jennie regretfully watched lliem as they went. " I have saved
him for them," she thought bitterlj7. She had noticed the dress of
each—how well they were made, how graceful and elegant! Even if
the material was inexpensive and the style simple, what nameless
grace there was in each pretty costume. And the hats! Lady
Violet's was only a h*ge straw one with a deep ribbon; but the
others were extravagant masterpieces of the milliner's art, full of
birds' heads and nodding plumes and pins of silver filagree, and
their sunshades were costly marvels compounded of ostrich plumes
and Mechlin lace, of satin and silk and ivory. It was to high-born
ladies like these that Norman belonged. They had claimed him from
her of right.
And no doubt it was right, thought Jennie; but still, that did not
bridge the gap that Society had hewn between herself and her love.
He was not for her ; he belonged to them—to those who had taken
from her the treasure that she had rescued from the sea.
So, sitting down on the grass by the roadside, she wept. Gentle
tears ! They flowed almost soothingly from her eyelids, cooling her
flushed cheeks and easing her over-strained heart.
CHAPTER XIX.
which, alas ! is but too tube to nature.
" Not Wisely, but Too Well." (Rhoda Broughton.)
" Haidee spoke not of scruples, ask'd no vows,
Nor offer'd any; she had never heard
Of plight and promises to he a spouse,
Or perils by a loving maid incurr'd;
And never having dreamt of falsehood, she
Had not one word to say of constancy.
She loved and was beloved—she adored,
And she was worshipp'd ; after Nature's fashion."
(Lord Byron.)
It is the old story. We need not traverse every phase of it. It is
the same oft-told tale—the gentleman and Joan. Every village
has its illustration. The incidents vary, perhaps ; the end is the
same.
Only that with Norman Forrabury there was many a good re-
solve. In his case, at any rate, there was not the sin of calculating
vice, based on a frivolous whim. There was rather a manful struggle
against the dictates of an overwhelming passion ; but it was the
contest of his passion with his love. His love for the blacksmith's
daughter was strong. The circumstances and opportunities were
unfortunately so malignly favourable that the idle happenings of
chance seemed to be the definite dictates of destiny. He was not
a man of principle. He had no religious belief, and his passion
mastered his better self.
86
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE,
But the girl. Was she so feebly structured that she must fall?
Was there not in her nature strength ? She was not an addle-pated,
conceited little puss, spreading her ears for flattery, smiling with
mischief, and sparkling with folly, ready to be dazzled by the first
glitter of false love's spurious trinketry. She was not an artless
maiden, all innocence and simplicity, allured unknowingly to wrong,
like a lamb that strays from the fold, which, bleating piteously,
finds itself torn amongst the thorns; nor was she careless and
carnal and craving; nor was she, again, as so many "ruined
maidens " are, designing and cold, calmly, calculating the advantages
and disadvantages of an exchange in merchant fashion. So much vir-
tue, so much position, so much esteem lost; so much value received
in fun, excitement, finery; so much gain to be appraised, more or
less, in bank notes. Loss and gain. Credit and debit. Weigh it in
the balance: " ruin" in one scale, virtue in the other; and if
" ruin " weighs the heavier, welcome " ruin." No. With Jennie
there was no calculation. Her love overflowed. Her heart brimmed
over. Love was too deep, passion too strong, opportunity too easy,
and fate irresistible, overwhelming.
On Norman's part, and on her own, there had been vain strivings
against the hot impulses of Nature, which had made their respective
bosoms whirling cauldrons of tumult. Honour had whispered its
gentle sayings in the ear of the man; Virtue and Modesty had
spread their beautiful wings about the trembling woman, but Satan
spread his snare and limed his birds.
There was a beautiful calm, deliriously sweet, delightfully serene;
an uneasiness, a flash of lightning, and the thunder-peal; a blinding
storm, and a man guilty and ashamed held a sobbing, heart-stricken
woman in his shuddering arms.
CHAPTER XX.
about certain wayward whims ob womankind.
"I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls." (Moore.)
" I built my soul a lordly pleasure-house,
Wherein at ease for aye to dwell.
I said, ' 0 Soul, make merry and carouse,
Dear Soul, for all is well.' "
(The Palace of Art.—Lord Tennyson
All tourists who have " done " North Cornwall have seen Tintagel,
with the traces of King Arthur's ruined castle crowning the cliff,
where the seabirds cry and the waves make moan continually.
The Earl of St. Austell is prouder of this than of his own family
demesnes, for, apart from the interest attaching to a spot hallowed
by legends of King Arthur, the knights of the Round Table, and
the gentlemen and nobles of a forgotten day when chivalry was a
fact; when men wrought deeds of highest honour; when women's
hearts wei'e pure and good, and when all the other beautiful things
that are chronicled in legend and poetry were said and done; apart
ABOUT CERTAIN WAYWARD WHIMS OF WOMANKIND. 87
from all this, the estate came to him in a very gratifying way, with
which perhaps it is not worth while to burden the reader of this
story in detail.
Lady Violet loved every rock, and every trace of ivy-hung ruin,
and every stone of it that trembled in the wind. To her, King
Arthur and Sir Lancelot were living men. They climbed with her
up the acclivities. They stood beside her there, and faced the sea,
and she loved them—or one of them—she let not her own heart tell
her which, until a warrior, princely-clad in purity and honour, as
in impenetrable mail, should step forth and claim her for his own.
Through the will of a kinsman she became entitled, on attaining
her majority, to the copyhold of this estate, subject to a small annual
fine to the lord—her father, to wit. It so nearly adjoined the Earl's
place at Tintagel that, delighting in possession, she determined to
make use of it, and, on returning from her art studies in Italy, with
a mind almost inebriated with delight in Venetian and Lombardic
architecture, she determined to build; and, as all her other wants
were supplied, she put up a studio.
It must. be said, to her credit, that she chose an inaccessible
place for her freak, where she did no injury to the romantic land-
scape, and left, far away and untouched, the famous and hallowed
stones of Arthur's Castle. And, further to her credit, that, though
delighting in the work of the old Italian builders, she did not even
dream of suiting the stones of Venice or Verona to the heights of a
Cornish headland.
After his adventures at Pentargon, Norman, whom the Earl had
very kindly called upon—for he was a prisoner with cut feet for
some days—returned the Earl's courtesies. Then nothing would do
but the Earl must sho.w him the new building; for, though the
Earl of St. Austell pretended to laugh a little at his daughter's
caprices, he was, in reality, as proud of all her little vanities and
follies as he was justly proud of her genius and her grace.
Externally, the building was unpretentious enough—built
raggedly of local stone, with huge boulders of glistening spar inter-
spersed, as by accident, in the rough, irregular masonry; but the
quoins and dressings were square and truly laid, as were the window
sills and jambs. The cornice was finely moulded, and carven with
many a fanciful thought and quaint device. At the corners were
grotesque gargoyles, and the manner in which they discharged into
finely chiselled basins was pleasing and unique. But there was no
garish display of ornament. On the contrary, the charm of the
building was its calm repose, depending for its adornment upon the
gentle and kindly touches of Nature, which had already scattered,
in the rugged joints of the solid and sombre masonry, a thousand
seeds of bright green mosses, yellow stonecrop, grey lichen, and
ti'embling fern.
The steps to the entrance were remarkable. On the one side the
parapet was extended with a large curtail, forming a wide landing
for the bottom step, stopped by a massive pedestal. Upon the
pedestal was a life-size bronze statue of Industry. On the opposite
side the parapet extended but a fevp feet, and there euded abruptly.
88
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
Here was no pedestal, but upon tlie top stone was cawed a Brob-
dignagian snail. A few trailing flowers filled the angle. The effect
was qnaint and picturesque.
"That is an odd fancy of Violet's," said her father. "The
architect had designed the entrance with a parapet sweeping round
on both sides, in each case stopping with a pedestal and a statue.
But the masons were so lazy and slovenly in their work that for
months the right-hand side was left incomplete. Violet got Lance-
lot—who, you know, is an amateur bricklayer and mason—just to
build the wall straight up as it was left, and, by way of a joke, she
herself carved that snail as a mild reproof to the masons. A few
days afterwards the architect happened to come down, and he was
delighted with the accident to his design. He at once recognised it
as an improvement, saying—and I agree with him—that the steps,
with the parapet on either side, and the two statues as he had
originally designed them, would have looked too important and
imposing—too large for the building."
" And too formal for the character of the architecture," added
Norman.
" Exactly," said the Earl. "You like architecture, eh? It ought
to be every gentleman's hobby. It employs the industrious, it en-
courages a hundred trades, it enriches the country, it gives to Art
her noblest impulses, it refines and ennobles the people, and it leaves
to other ages enduring works. It is the only way that I approve
of money being squandered. How do you like the doors? "
" They are bronze, surely."
" Yes; the Five Wise and the Five Foolish Virgins. Do you know
Arthur ? They are his work."
" Indeed I do. In any other age he would be famous. But he is
modest, and this is the nineteenth century, consequently he is starv-
ing. But let us go inside."
So saying, the Earl and Norman proceeded, the doors opening
automatically by some curious contrivance, at the same time setting
in motion a number of melodious bells, which rang a gay and frolic-
some chime.
An old servant answered the summons, carrying a wand. He was
tall but bent, his beard long and grey ; he was clad in a long, sweep-
ing robe, " like an ancient Druid," thought Nor-man.
" He is one of the models " said the Earl to Norman, smiling.
" He does double duty—door-opener and "
" Druid? "
" Yes. The girls are very good, and cultured, and clever; but,
hang it! they are full of conceit. I suppose we must blame Newnham
for that. But their conceit will go as experience comes. Violet, at
any rate,'is too capable and too grave, altogether much too sensible to
be led through many more ridiculous crazes by the Erslcine girls.
I do not interfere. I do not approve everything, but I do not inter-
fere. She will do great things some day. I let her severely alone.
I shall leave you here."
" Why ? "
"They vex me by some of their absurdities. They lead here, you
ABOUT CERTAIN WAYWARD WHIMS OE WOMANKIND. 89
know, what they call' The Beautiful Life.' It is all very pretty—but
the regulations are ridiculous."
" The beautiful life," said Norman, smiling. What is that P "
"If you would know, enter," exclaimed a soft, silvery voice, as
Euphieme Erskine, smiling and beautiful, stood before him, holding
up a silken curtain of finest texture.
Norman stooped under the curtaiD, and found himself in a mag-
nificent hall of marble and gold. He was dazzled by its splendour,
for it was revealed to him suddenly and unexpectedly; its proportions
were pure and proper, and its materials were costly, magnificent, and
highly wrought.
"Be seated," said Euphieme, sinking on to an ottoman. " Do you
desire to live the Beautiful Life ? "
" I do," answered Norman mechanically.
<£ And will you observe the rules of our Host P "
" I' will," said Norman. As a matter of fact, he was almost
frightened by Euphieme Erskine, and at that moment he felt so
cowed he would have consented to any demand.
"The first rule is that every guest shall obey the orders of the
Host during the entire day. Are you prepared to observe that
rule p "
Norman hesitated. It seemed a rather comprehensive law.
"Are you prepared to observe the rule ? " again demanded Miss
Erskine almost fiercely.
" I will observe it, provided I be not commanded to break the laws
of the realm," replied Norman, smiling.
" There is to be no levity or frivolity. That is one of the standing
orders," said Miss Erskine severely. " There is to be absolute
obedience to our Host, obedience in the spirit as well as to the
letter."
"Are there any vows P " asked Norman timidly.
" We are not a religious Order," replied Miss Erskine. " We are
a few people, friends of Lady Violet, having tastes and sympathies in
common, who, disgusted with the frivolities of Society and with
the aimlessness of ordinary existence, have determined to lead the
Beautiful Life, so far as we humbly may, without offence to the
World. We are not an Order, we are not an Institution. On Sunday
some of us go to Church. I do not, nor does Lady Violet—at least,
generally. The Tomb—we call it the Tomb because we bury here
the World—is open then for private meditation and for music. We
hold it a sacred day. Lady Violet and I, though Agnostic, desire
to reverence the Sunday as a sacred day, out of regard for the many
good, yet, we think, misguided people who consider the Sabbath
peculiarly holy. We think that every day is holy. Still, Sunday is
always observed by us, if we choose to come hither at all, in silence
and meditation.
" On Mondays and Tuesdays we prosecute our work, with brief and
occasional intervals for recreation and pleasure. On Wednesdays
the Tomb" is closed. It is the day we give up to the World—to
Society. Then we hunt, play golf and tennis, receive, go to parties
jf we are asked, dine with the World, and talk nonsense with noodles,"
90
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
Here Miss Erskine shook her head viciously. " Thursdays we devote
to the Business of Humanity."
" What is that P " asked Norman, startled by the formidable
phrase.
"It is the day we give up to the poor. We visit them, read to
them, soothe their distresses, administer to their wants, and relieve
their necessities. We hope some day that we shall raise them also
to a higher level. Why should not the poor also live the Beautiful
Life p Here they have every opportunity; they do not live in crowded
alleys, their work is not mechanical, their hours of labour are not
excessive. They have the flowers, the clouds, the sea. Why should
they not sing and dance, read Shakespeare and the poets, weave
and shape foe the immortals, work in tapestry, and model in clay ?
Why should not they, too, paint, and work in marble or enduring
stone? Why should not they, too, like the ancient Greeks—like the
people of mediaeval "Venice and Lombardy—like their own Gothic
forefathers in a minor degree—live a worthy life, creating things
of beauty, 'joys for ever ' P Some day, perhaps, it will be so again.
We do what we can to raise them. We give them our Thursdays.
We try to teach and inspire them. We have not had great results
yet, but we hope."
Norman thought of Jose, but said nothing.
" Then Friday we devote to work, without any recreation at all;
and our Saturday—like the Saturday of the world—is a holiday."
" So, to-day being Tuesday "
"You shall see. First of all you must robe. We desire to have
no surroundings but those of exquisite beauty. We abhor all forms
of ugliness. To-day is our Keats' day. We cannot adequately
study Keats in the presence of tweed suits. Come with me to the
robing room. Let me see—to-day you must wear—we are reading
Lamia— some Greek costume. You will look well in a long tunic
such as the sages wore. I will send Cuthbert to you. And if you
want help," she continued, opening the door of a room in which
were hung a number of costumes of all periods, like the garb of
models in a painter's studio, " ring the bell; it will summon the
tiring maids. I should explain that they dress the models, and are
themselves models sometimes. But first Cuthbert will come to you.
Join us when you please."
As she left him, the white-headed old janitor, whom Norman had
irreverently called the Druid, made his appearance.
" So you are Cuthbert ? " said Norman. " Eh p "
The old man did not reply.
" Bather deaf," muttered Norman. And then, more loudly, " You
are valet, eh? as well as door-keeper?"
The old man shook his head and pointed to his lips, then
proceeded to open various drawers and cupboards, in which were
numerous robes of silk and fine linen.
" Ah ! Stone-deaf and a mute. Shouldn't wonder if he's mad,
too, like all the rest of them. This is really very ridiculous, and I
would hook it—only the whole thing rather piques one's curiosity.
The Tomb, eh ? Wonder whether there's a real corpse. Now then,
ABOUT CERTAIN WAYWARD WHIMS OF WOMANKIND. 91
King Lear, or whatever your name is, fork out the regulation wear.
A Greek tunic! Well, I'm hanged ! It's like dressing for a
pantomime.
"Ah! Sandals for a man whose feet have been cut about on
Pentargon rocks—sandals are rather pleasanter wear than Dawson
Brothers' boots. Quite pleasant, upon my word. I think I shall
adopt sandals for ordinary, everyday wear. Straps on the legs
rather queer, though. Not so tight, Mr. Druid, if you please.
Thank you. That is better. Old gentleman folds his hands and
nods. What do you nod for, I wonder p I suppose you mean I am
finished, eh? Well, I don't feel proud of myself. I think I'll ring
for the what-d'ye-call-'ems—the tiring maids. Dare say they'll be
more fun than their mistresses."
He touched an electric bell, which, instead of raising the usual
shrill clangour, set going some pretty chimes.
Two young girls, one of whom held a work-basket, approached
him, curtesying.
" Shall I do? " he said, smiling.
They smiled in reply, and curtesyed again, shaking their heads.
• " Mute, but not deaf," he thought, wondering whether they were
ladies or servant-girls. They were clad like Greek virgins, their
hands were white and shapely, and their faces were regular and
indeed beautiful.
Then they approached him without speaking and examined his
dress, critically observing the fall of the folds, evidently accustomed
to manage drapery.
" May I ask whether you have been trained by Messrs. Liberty &
Co. ? "
They both shook their heads, but in a coquettish, smiling way that
was charming to see. Then one nodded to the other, and they each
began silently to lengthen the sleeves of his tunic by letting out
a tuck, one working upon his right arm, and another on his left.
He watched them gravely; then he said,—
"You young ladies are, I presume, not able to speak. No? You
are not deaf, it is clear; for you observe that I speak, though you
do not understand what I say. Is that so ? "
There was no answer but a pretty giggle.
" You are able to hear me speak, that is clear; but you evidently
do not understand me. Young ladies, this is the oddest conversa-
tion I ever assisted in. May I ask whether you are so unfortunate
as to be dumb ? I observe that you hear. Be so kind as to answer
me by a nod. In the first place, do you understand me at all ? If
you do, nod your head."
The girls looked at each other and tittered, but otherwise made no
response.
" Now, by that titter," thought Norman, " I rather begin to think
that you are making fun of me, and that you understand me as well
as possible. Again, that titter and tho previous giggle seem to
denote you are not ladies, but servant-maids. You are exceedingly
well-favoured damsels, white - fingered and winsome. Strange!
Your expressions are very blank. You do liot smile, Yfter all, I
92
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
begin to think that you are mutes also, and as deaf as the ancient
Druid.
"Assuming you to be servant-girls, but not being positive of that,
I will cautiously and with due deliberation proceed to a few mild
experiments. Yon, mademoiselle, at my right arm—you with the
velvet-black eyes, if you are pretending not to understand what I
say, you make-believe very well indeed; you are a very charming
young person, your lips are cherry sweet, your skin is smooth and
soft. If you were iu Texas, I should chuck you under the chin. As
you are here—well, I shall do the same as if I were in Texas."
He suited the action to the word, at which, bounding from him
with a laughing scream, she ran from the robing room with her
sister-servant, both finding their voices, as they cried in their native
Italian,—
" Oh che cattivo signore ! Mi ha baeiato."
" Vorei che avesse baeiato anche me," said the other.
" Oh, ho!" cried Norman. " This is the explanation of the mys-
tery. You are not mutes—except in English. Parlate Italiano,
eh?"
" II signore parla Italiano," cried the second girl. " Ha capito
quel che disse, che peccato I"
" Si ti intesi mia bella piccina e daro un bacio anche a te se verrai
a prendertelo," cried Norman.
" No," she cried, smiling at him roguishly, as she vanished
through a curtain. " TJn 'altra volta. Mi bacierete qualche sera al
chiaror di luna sotto gli alberi. Un bacio al chiaror di luna e il piu
dolce d'ogni bacio."
" Ah, Juliet! " said Norman, " you cannot forget the moonlight of
Mantua. Umph ! This is interesting, deuced odd, and altogether
funny. If the mistresses are as entertaining as the maids, I am glad
I came here. Now, Mr. Druid, lead the way. Don't you under-
stand ? I am ready. ' Lead on, Macduff. I'm eager for the fray.'"
CHAPTER XXI.
WniCH IS SO VERY SERIOUS, THAT I AM CERTAIN IT WILL RISK
THE BOOK.
" Work while ye Have the Light." (Count Tolstoi.)
" Cheer up, then, O Soul! We count them happy that endure." (Letters of
James Smetham.)
He was led through the same magnificent hall which had previously
impressed him, and traversed a curtained corridor, with bas-reliefs,
representing " the Sorrows." Here sat a blind harper, but his harp
was dumb. Be raised his head at Norman's step. There was a
pathos about his dejected figure, combined with his infirmity, which
touched Norman.
"You cannot see," said Norman to him kindly. Every one has an
instinctive pity for the blind. No affliction appeals so surely to the
human heart,
WHICH IS SO VERY SERIOUS.
93
" I am blind," he replied gi'avely; " bub it is well I cannot see, for
if I could see I should weep. But pass—pass, and look at the
flowers. Perchauce, if you weep, they will dry your tears. I can see
them. Ob, yes, I remember them all." Then, as Cuthbert .opened
the doors, they entered a conservatory full of the most exquisite
flowers, blooming and glorious in all their radiance of gorgeous col-
our, fragrant and sweet with heavy yet delightful perfume, glittering
with moisture of dew, and dazzling in the gay variety and profuse
splendour of their thousand blossomings. But the usual ugly iron
heating pipes were invisible, and the shelves were of smooth and
polished marble, the tender dove-like and pearly tints and the cool
surface of the veined stone of Sicily enhancing and combining with
the beauty of the flowers.
There were no stained glass windows—(the odious barbarity so
frequently violating the presence of flower-rooms)—there were no
violent colours to compete with the sweet and indescribably gentle
yet gorgeous colours of the mingled blooms, but through the small
and latticed panes were peeps of expansive lawns and restful shades,
green groves of peace and quietude, a terrace of grey stone, on which
lordly peacocks spread their splendours in the sun, and afar, be-
tween the trees in the distant park, the long horizon of the mysteri-
ous sea, with the clouds above in the blue.
All was soothing, delicious, beautiful beyond expression.
In the centre was a fountain of pure statuary marble.
It was the old, undying, eternally beautiful theme. A woman, in
the amplitude of womanhood, la source, and the water plashed unceas-
ingly from her vase into the basin beneath, where lilies grew be-
tween broad cool leaves. On the darker side of the conservatory a
clear river of (seemingly) black water ran, raised on black marble,
and, for the sake of illusion, filled exactly to the ebony brim. Here
gold fish sported, and flowers duplicated their varied hues in the
still, dark stream of magic beauty. Norman passed through the
avenues of flowers, and by the tinkling fountain, his whole nature
softened and imbued by these visions of loveliness; and proceed-
ing through an extensive aviary, where hundreds of birds of
brilliant plumage and melodious song disported themselves, he
advanced into a dim hall, which became darker and darker as he
proceeded. Then his guide left him, and the curtains in front
were slowly and invisibly drawn. He was in darkness, or rather
in a deep gloom more solemnizing than darkness. He was not
in silence. The air was full of strange melodies that died away
mysteriously; all but the sad strains of a harp: they continued.
Their effect was reposeful, encouraging the mind to the restfulness,
not of sleep, but of idle musing; to contemplation rather than to
thought. Soon he observed that a subdued light shone upon one
spot in the chamber. Nothing was visible but a time-stained
skull mounted in silver, and jewelled. He paused, rivetting his
eyes upon it, solemnized in spite of himself; then the light became
slowly diffused. He heard a distant and dull sound, like the sound
of a death knell, and observed that the small chamber was entirely
94
THE BEAUTY OP BOSCASTLE.
draped in black cloth. The skull was the ancient relic of a man, and
it lay on a black cushion, solitary, but as though it had been placed
there by reverent hands.
In digging the foundations, this fragment had been unearthed,
together with some old Saxon ornaments. It might once have
contained the cares of a king or the griefs of Sir Galahad. But
whether the head of king or carle, there it was to speak its own
word.
" It is the presence of Death," thought Norman. " Here let each
one listen to such sermon from the mouth of the dead as his own
conscience may kindle into life from that skeleton.
" I understand these girls. They do not trifle; they are in solemn
earnest. The trivial-minded, the jester, the frivolous may not pass
this way; the flowers are too beautiful for such, the fountain is too
pure for their understandings, and this—this is no comedy that the
slight wit of the fool would pretend. There is solemnity in that
empty skull. I know the man. He is like myself. I shall one day
be even so. He has gone. Where ? His life has vanished. What
has he left behind but this ? "
, Then he reverently laid his hands upon the skull, and raised it
gently from the cushion, as though it had belonged to some lost
friend.
The flippant who indicate their superiority by making a gibe of all
that is holy, men who blaspheme in graveyards, and show their force
of intellect by raising a jest when they stand by the dust of their
forefathers, men who have no respect for humanity alive, nor for the
memorials of humanity dead, would have found warrant here, in the
sombre curtains, the funereal cushions and drapery, for a cynic sneer
or mock of disdain. Not so Norman. As the beauty of the flowers,
set in ordered rows upon the carved brackets and polished shelves
of marble, amidst the sound of plashing waters and the songs of birds,
had imbued his spirit with a soothing sense of pleasing calm, so now
the voiceless speech of Death and of the past impressed him. He
could have refused the mood, and by a slight effort banishing his un-
wonted seriousness, he could have set his teeth with a grim smile<
and turned all to farce, had there been any present there but
himself. But, being alone—alone save for that solemn presence
which now so much impressed him—he gave up his mind to search-
ing and serious thought, and meditated with knit brow on the
mysteries of human life, on the entangled web of earthly things, on
the theories and for ever inexpressible ideas which crowd into the
perplexed and over-wrought mind when man broods over the con-
fusing problems of life and nothingness, spirit and matter, and
destiny.
Whilst he stood there, lost in reverie, forgetting the skull that he
held in his hands, though his meditations had been born of that
empty fragment, he heard the gentle voices of girls singing, to the
tuneful accompaniment of a harp, a calm, sweet melody. Placing
the ancient skull upon the cushion again, as a sacred and holy relic,
he lifted the curtain, entering a small chamber, bright with mural
Which Is so very serioPs.
95
painting and gold. Immediately opposite him, over the door, was a
scroll, on which, in vivid lettering, were the words—
ZTbe mjcct of %itc is to %ix>e.
On either side were tables, upon which were grapes and melons,
peaches, and nectarines, all kinds of ripe and luscious fruits in silver
dishes, and flagons of wine, cups of quaint device, and twisted glass
of Venice. There were also four windows of painted glass. The
sign of the first was the Dance of Carnival, where young men and
maidens, in the acme of abandonment and delight, were in the trans-
ports of gayest pleasure. The second represented Labour—a sculp-
tor at his work, a smith at the forge, and three ladies at the tapestry.
The subject of the third window was Love—a bride, with her lover
husband. The fourth—"What was the fourth?" asked Norman,
gazing at it, for it contained all the figures that were in the other
designs. The bride was in robes of mourning for her dead husband,
the dancers were toiling in rain and sleet, the smith's arm was burnt;
and bandaged, and his handiwork was spoiled and useless, the
ladies were weeping at their loom, and the sculptor sat with bowed
head, for he was blind. Was the subject Poverty? No. Or
Misery ? Surely it was Suffering.
" Labour, Love, Pleasure, Suffering," said Norman. " The human
lot. It is all said in those four words, except"—and he thought
again of the skull he had lain aside—" except the last inevitable
chapter. Is it the last ? or is it the first of some greater, nobler,
more glorious life? It is the old, the eternal question that philoso-
pliers have mused over from the very first, knowing no more than
they ever knew."
But he did not stop to muse. The song had ceased, and its cessa-
tion seemed to him an invitation onwards. This progress from
chamber to chamber began to affect his mind with a sense of weird-
ness. He lifted the soft silken fabric, and again was confounded by
a surprise.
He was in a small apartment, a lady's room, a study, carelessly
hung with guitar and lute, unfinished sketches and knick-knacks, a
diptych, some Venetian vases and Oriental brackets, on which were
sprays of bright flowers in crystal vases. But the surprise was in
the window, or rather out of the window. The sea, which he thought
was half a mile away, was here, close at hand. The great bay window
opened clear out to the sea. A rugged arm, like the inlet of Black-
apit, that he knew so well, struck inland here, as though the sea had
set his hand upon the house and claimed it. The room was small,
the window was larger than the room, it passed beyond it on either
side, and formed a large bay oriel, hanging positively over the cliff,
so that one could look down and see the waves toss and surge and
spit in their tumultuous flow, between the frowning sides of the
narrow channel.
The sudden revelation of these beetling cliffs and angry sea was
so startling that it was almost terrifying. There was a sense of in-
96
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
security in that hanging window fronting the sea so boldly. Sheer
down two hundred feet or more groaned the reverberating pebbles,
as the retreating waves ground and chafed them against one another.
And mingled with the sounds of beach and wave, were weird and
sobbing harmonies from an iEolian lyre, which lay upon the spacious
sill and filled the room with the music of the winds.
But it was a poet's window. The table, built into the room like
a great internal window sill, was strewn with books and written
notes, and on a blotting pad near the inkstand, as Norman plainly
saw, was the last unfinished Bottreaux Sonnet, scored with the
erasures and blotted amendments of construction.
All this Norman took in at a glance, but he felt an intruder there,
and proceeding with some hesitation he entered a room, evidently a
studio, as he saw from a moment's inspection.
The three girls were there, and Lady Violet Boterel, with her palette
and brushes in hand, stepped towards him with a smile of welcome.
" How kind of you to let me intrude on you here !" said Norman.
" What a beautiful place you have! It is a palace of the earthly
paradise; every room is like an ante-chamber of the earthly heaven."
" I have tried to make it beautiful, because I love beauty," said
Lady Violet.
"You are the soul of this," he answered in a low voice. "I
sliotild have seen you everywhere, for in each chamber, as I passed,
an elegant and graceful presence, a beautiful yet grave spirit, has
beautified all it looked upon, all that I saw."
" How beautiful all the world is, if one only looks for its beauty 1"
she replied. " Do not attribute this to me. Why, this round little
world is full of beauties, inexhaustible, boundless, unutterable. All
that we have done is to garner some for ourselves. Does it seem
selfish to you ? "
" No. A Cornish cottager may lead the Beautiful Life, too. Not
as a princess in a palace, but like a nereid or a nymph. There is
a labourer's daughter in one of my uncle's cottages by the river side
in the valley, a cottage covered with mosses and tremulous ferns,
all hung with roses and clematis and honeysuckle, and often sweet
with primroses and violets that bloom in the crannies of its walls,
and even amidst the mosses on its roof. There is another Boscastle
girl who loves the cliff and shore and haunts the caves—caves so
gorgeous with anemones, and limpets, and purple shells that they
exceed the glory of your lovely room of flowers, Lady Violet. Well,
these two girls have their grottos of beauty too, they also lead the
Beautiful Life."
"Aye, more than we truly."
" Yes, more than we perhaps, because they know nothing of the
Beautiful Life; they do not seek it, are not conscious of it, and yet
they love it, knowing not what it is they love."
" They are themselves part of the beauty."
" They are the soul of that beauty, as you are of this. The sun-
burnt face of a Cornish fisher-girl, framed by the stained and
spotted rocks, and fringed by the lace-work of the surf and surge,
WHICH IS SO VERY SERIOUS.
97
is as fib there as is yours here, Lady Boterel, set in jewels and marble
and gold, with the hothouse flowers around and fountains of per-
fumed water and statues, mirrors, vases, silks—all that is rarest and
fairest in the beautiful world. You desire to lead the Beautiful Life
—and you succeed. You ransack all the treasures of the arts and
possess them, create them. Here you are the goddess. Bub the
girl on the sands, watching the courtly waves as they bow before
her, is a goddess too. She leads the beautiful life of Nature—you of
Art."
" Have you made a convert already, Yiolet ? " said Irene
Erskiue, leaving a pedestal on which she had been posing as Cal-
liope—for she had been acting as model for a picture which was still
unfinished on Lady Yiolet's easel—and. now advanced to participate
in the conversation.
" A convert!" exclaimed Lady Yiolet. " No, indeed, I sought a
convert, but I have found a high priest."
" Say a novice rather, if I may claim even that modest degree."
" Why not ? it is our mission to invite the elect."
" Because when a man is past thirty, life has lost its illusions."
" Illusions, forsooth! Do you mean that we are in a fool's
paradise ? " said Euphieme Erskine, joining the others.
"A fool's paradise! No, indeed. I think you are three wise
virgins. All this life of luxurious idlesse "
" Idlesse I" echoed Euphieme pugnaciously.
" Pardon me, shall we say of elegant labour and delightful toil ?
.it is very beautiful.. Enjoy it whilst you may. Some day you will
find life has ruggeder paths for you to traverse than you tread hi
this. This girls'play ; Art and Poetry. Umph! Yes, excellent-for
the golden hours of youth, but excepting the few you cannot live
like butterflies for ever."
" Yiolet," said Irene, " I do not believe in this new high priest of
yours. He speaks as the world speaks outside."
" Did Milton coase to be a poet when he was out of his teens ? "
inquired Euphieme viciously. " Did Raphael cease to work at one-
and-twenty ? Perhaps we shall lose our illusions when we have cub
our wisdom teeth. I thought there was a man of our time—one
Alfred Tennyson, who "
" Stay," interrupted Norman, " I own myself defeated. I
generalized foolishly from personal experience. I was wrong. For
me Poetry has gone. The Arts only came into my life as the butter-
fly to a fading garden. For you young ladies I wish a happier fate.
You have devoted yourselves to Art. May it be for a lifetime if you
wish it so. Art is already proud of one of its devotees." He looked
at Lady Yiolet. " May you all lead the Beautiful Life, and for ever."
"And why may we nob pray the same for you?" asked Lady
Yiolet. " We pray it, we believe in it for all."
" Well," said Norman, putting his arms behind him and looking
over the heads of the girls with a far-away gaze, whilst a humorous
gleam played over his features. " There is a certain gentleman
whose initials are £ s. d."
ii
98
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
"And there were certain impecunious poets—to wit, Thomas
Chatterton, Oliver Goldsmith, Robert Burns "
"Aye, aye," continued Norman, taking no notice of the inter-
ruption, "and there are certain other curious gentry of my ac-
quaintance with whose names I will not fatigue you. Their names
would jar on you. Suffice it that when a man has rattled through two
hemispheres "
" Yet that same poor Oliver who wrote ' The Traveller' tuned his
pipe in Lombardy," interjected Euphieme.
" And shrieked along rail routes, at the rate of a continent per
diem, gambled his hours at baccarat on an ocean steamer, losing a
fortune between sunset and dawn, without turning his head to look
at the splendour of the sky or the glory of the sea, though both
flamed with fires of crimson and molten gold."
" There is a gleam of the poet left still," said Lady Violet.
" In every man there is a gleam of the poet, Lady Boterel," re-
plied Norman; "but after roughing it in the Rockies and potting
Indians in Texas, the gleams are feeble and rare."
" Potting Indians ! " cried Irene. " What is that P "
"Click! pop! whizz! Man dead," said Norman dramatically.
" Sounds very shocking, doesn't it? "
" And have—you—really—killed a man p " asked Irene, looking up
to Norman with wide, open eyes and in actual terror.
" Actually killed him with your own hands," said Lady Violet,
shrinking from him, yet gazing at him with her clear blue eyes, as
though some irresistible fascination fixed her there before him.
"You have killed—a man ? "
"A man! Lady Boterel. Dozens of'em."
"The monster!" exclaimed the girls, looking at each other in
horror, and clasping each other by the hands, as they stood in a
frightened group shuddering before him.
" Only in Texas we don't count Indians as men—we reckon 'em
rats. We think no more of potting an Indian than you do of
squashing a beetle."
" Ugh! That's a thing I never could do! " exclaimed Irene, with
an unconscious shrug that made her look irresistibly pretty, the
gesture and the occasion of it were so feminine.
" You—you—you shot them ? " said Lady Violet inquiringly. She
clasped her hands and bent forward, as though she prayed for her
own life, as though she was in dread lest he should exercise upon
her his homicidal will, lest he should open his great arms and tear
her asunder by his giant strength; and all the girls, shrinking and
trembling, stood in a semi-circle, mute and horror-stricken, gazing
at this monstrous man who towered above them, his manly height
increased seemingly by his flowing robes, which, to tell the truth,
became him admii ably.
Then it seemed as though Lady Violet experienced a kind of
fascination through this monster—a fascination which perhaps she
had gradually felt because of his noble and manly size, but which
now increased as she looked upon him, surveying him with an
WHICH IS SO VERY SERIOUS.
99
added interest born of tbe very terror slie had from him, and the
horror she experienced through him. He was not a brute—an
animal, a grotesque and hideous ghoul, like an ancient headsman,
horrible to contemplate through his very ugliness—yet this was
what she sought in him. He had the bearing of a gentleman, the
politeness, the suavity, the tenderness, and the gentle character-
istics of a man of education and breeding. She looked at his hands,
which were as white and well shaped as the hands of a woman; at
his refined features ; she looked at all his outward signs of gentle-
manliness ; and then with her clear grey imaginative eyes she tried
to read him in and in and in, to discern the brute beast that resides
in every man, the animal that dominates his vices; and she saw in-
stead his finer spirit, his nobler self, his over soul; yet seeing all
she shuddered, dimly appreciating that somewhere in this creature
compact of flesh and spirit, of evil and good, there dwelt the hate
that could kill, the demon that could slay, the fiend that could revel
and riot in slaughter and blood. A red dream rose between her
and him, like the mist of unwholesome moisture that might rise
from a river of blood or from the carnage of a battle-field. She saw
shapeless horrors, bleeding wounds, corpses weltering in gore, and
by some sympathetic invisible magnetism the evil that lurks in
every human soul, and that slumbered unknown till then in her,
awoke and responded to the evil in him disturbing her serenity. An
inebriation of blood ran through her veins and distressed her.
With a freedom of manner new to her she motioned Norman For-
rabury to a chair, and with a gesture of command made him sit
down, whilst the other girls on a low bench fronted him, and said,
with a smile and tone of encouragement, " Now, tell us all about it."
She asked it with a naive simplicity, yet with an almost blood-
thirsty pleasure. Her eyes flashed, and her cheeks were on fire.
The other girls, catching some measure of her spirit, sat there too,
crouching round this man who had slain man, this monster who
could kill.
They formed a picture, their terror-stricken faces and uplifted
chins notwithstanding—the girls in their exquisite Greek costumes
of silken stuff, all grace and elegance and beauty, but English ladies
still. No dress could remove the indescribable national characteris-
tics that impart to a group of English girls that " something—
nothing " which makes the young English lady the most charming
creature in the universe. What is it ? The Italians are beautiful
enough with their large, lustrous black eyes and antique features;
and the Viennese with their fashionable and coquettish ways ; the
fair and solid German blonde and the Spanish brunette ; the spark-
ling Parisienne, with her vivacity and wit and wickedness—or affe'c-
tation of wickedness, perhaps—all these have a thousand charms,
yet they all lack the rare and nameless quality which confers upon
the English lady that air of sweet' refinement, that grace of move-
ment, that suavity of manner, that honest unaffectedness, that
delicious self-consciousness which is so pleasing and gracious. The
pen cannot catch it, the pencil cannot figure it. The modest
100
THE BEAUTY OP BOSCASTLE.
abandonment, the gentle ease and self-possession, the bland propriety,
no! no combination of phrases can express the precise quality—it is
indescribable! but in the words "an English lady" it is described
as fully as words can express the intangible.
They sat there in amazed and interested terror whilst Norman un-
loosed his tongue and told them many a tale
"... of most disastrous chances,
Of moving accidents by flood and field;
Of hairbreadth 'scapes—•"
And Lady Violet listened as Desdemona listened to the Moor.
CHAPTER XXIL
which, like divers chapters in this and other novels, is about
love.
" With a Silken Thread." {Mi's. Lynn Lynton.)
11 By you do we confer with who are gone,
And the Dead-living unto Council call." {Samuel Daniel.)
The horror and fascination which fastened upon Lady Yiolet Boterel
came and went like a passing thrill.
She.turned from the feeling by a violent effort of mind. At the
ringing of a silver bell, the curtains of the studio were drawn,
Euphieme Erskine rose, and the girls, following Lady Yiolet, who
rose mechanically as the accustomed signal rang, proceeded to a
magnificent circular hall, Norman accompanying them. The walls
and dome and floor were of marble and gold beautifully designed.
Conspicuously in the centre of the hall was a marble sarcophagus,
inscribed,—
" He ne'er is crowned
With immortality, who fears to follow
Where airy voices lead : so through the hollow
The silent mysteries of earth descend."
This was surrounded by pedestals bearing busts of poets—Homer
and Shakespeare, Shelley and Keats, "Wordsworth and Swinburne.
A bunch of flowers was strewn before each pedestal, and in every
window there were large vases filled with many flowers, the fragrance
of their mingled perfumes filling the place.
Norman observed all this at once with wonder and delight. It
was impossible not to admire the costly and conscientious effort
made by these inexperienced and simple ladies to lead " the Beautiful
. Life." He saw also the two Italian girls who had waited on him in
the tiring chamber with several others, passing two by two in slow
procession; some bore baskets of rare flowers, and all were dressed
in rare silks and diaphanous robes, soft as the mists that sleep on
summer seas. Then they began, in a soft, low voice, to sing,—
"I weep for Adonais—he is dead!
Oh ! weep for Adonais, though our tears
Thaw not the frost which binds so dear a head !
WHICH IS ABOUT LOVE. 101
And thou sad Hour, selected from all years
To mourn our loss, rouse thy obscure compeers,
And teach them thine own sorrow ! Say : ' With me
Died Adonais! Till the future dares
Forget the past, his fate and fame shall be
An echo and a light unto Eternity.' "—
from Shelley's elegy—for this was a Keats' day.
So, proceeding round the marble colonnade, they came to a larger
pedestal, on which was a colossal bust of Keats. The plinth of the
pedestal was hid by innumerable wreaths and immortelles, and the
young ladies, taking flowers from the baskets of the Italian girls,
laid them reverently, as it were, at the feet of the poet.
Upon a marble slab, inscribed in leaden letters, Norman read these
lines, beginning with the often-quoted line of the poet,—
"A thing of beauty is a joy for ever,"
and proceeding through the whole of the beautiful passage to the
thirty-third line,—
" They always must be with us, or we die."
It was clear that the accustomed reading of Keats and other poets
was dignified by these girls until their simple yet studied ceremonies
imparted to their conduct the nature of a service—a religious service
in which there was no worship of the man, but a reverent regard
for his work and spirit.
The song and the ceremonial were of the simplest, but each heart
was filled with ennobled feeling, and was subdued by the exquisite
loveliness and the harmonious surroundings that hallowed their work.
The Ionic architecture, the spotless marble, the burnished gold, the
beautiful lines which open "EndymioU," the furniture of rich design,
the blithe Italian girls and singing maids, Lady Violet with her cul-
tured and refined companions, and now the blind old man in long
flowing robes, who, led into the room by the old man-servant, struck
his harp to an ode of sweet and touching melody—all this seemed to
usher the actual living Keats into their very presence.
"We are reading ' Lamia,' " said Lady Violet, in her dulcet voice,
when the harper ceased. " We read in turns. To-day the pleasure
is mine." So, shaking from her with an effort the sensation of horror
which had left an effect upon her, she began to read in a soft, devout
voice, as clear as it was musical, until Norman thought, as he
listened to the tuneful and gilded words, that the poet himself who
had fashioned and polished them might have believed the lovely
lady who read them was the goddess of their inspiration.
When she had finished the first part, the Italian girls brought
flagons of wine and dishes of fruit, and the harper filled the interval
with strains of minstrelsy—the merry, cheerful gaiety of the tune
merging its closing chords in weird notes of tumult and sadness.
Then, following a custom in which all acquiesced, she commenced
the second part:—
" Love in a but, witb water and a crust,
Is—Love forgive us—cinders, ashes, dust;
Love in a palace is perhaps at last
AIor e_gci&vnns_hai--mflnt-fcliau-q, hermit's fast."
102
THE BEAUTY Of BOSCASTLE.
But she read these lines with an inharmonious expression, as one
who did not understand, and archly emphasized the couplet,—
"That is a doubtful tale from fairy-laud,
Hard for the non-elect to understand."
But Norman was half oblivious of the lines. He was thinking of
the accomplished and lovely reader, admiring her rare and spiritual
beauty, admiring the sweet and melodious modulation of her voice,
contemplating the refined and poetical cast of her character, so cul-
tured, so exquisite, so elegant—for in her he discerned a noble and
beautiful ambition supported by real force and power. He had seen
the horror which she felt when he had talked of his wild career and
callous disregard of human life, and he shuddered with self-disgust,
lor he felt he was in the presence of a chaste and holy spirit.
"When she had finished reading, she laid aside the book, and the
singing girls, chanting a melancholy song of love, formed a proces-
sion, and left the hall with the old blind harper. The ladies and
Norman sat in silence till the echoes of their last cadences were
muffled in the falling curtains, when Irene Erskine said musingly,—
" Is there no wisdom, then, in love ? "
And Euphieme answered,—
"Apollonius was sage, and when he found that the woman
Lamia was a serpent, he would not have Lycius made prey. That
was right. He turned the lantern of knowledge on the falsity of
Lamia, and immediately all the illusion vanished."
" Then is love an illusion ? " said Irene. " Is that the moral P "
"No," said Lady Violet. "The exact reverse. Everything
except love is an illusion. It is very beautiful, aud so lucid. It is
the old truth, ' Love is enough.5 It is all in all—love is a perfect
sphere, complete. It is wanting in nothing; neither riches nor
wisdom does it require. Love is a rounded and completed and
perfected entirety. Where Love is, let not Wisdom contest an
entrance."
There was a pause. Then again Lady Violet continued as if in
reverie.
"Why is it that the 'Lamia' of Keats always reminds me of
Tennyson's ' Mexdin and Vivien ' ? 'Merlin and Vivien' is as dif-
ferent as the poles are far asunder, but the one always haunts the
other in my mind. Perhaps it is that here, with Tintagel ever
pi*esent, all that one ever reads and sees and thinks is steeped in
the glamour of the Arthurian romances. So that even when one
reads 'Lamia,' there comes now and again the vision of—
' A minstrel of Caerleon, by strong storm
Blown into shelter at Tintagel, say '—
Ihe sad old story of Merlin's fall, of Vivien's wickedness and triumph.
There is a trace of the same moral even in that, the power of love,
that eternal truth. Even the mimic flame in Vivien's false and
siren heart was sufficient for the conquest of the wise Merlin, the
sage of Arthur's Court."
" Tell me, Lady Violet," said Norman. "Your sonnets are full
of analyses of all the passions, and the sentiments seem, to a man
CONTAINING ANOTHER PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE. 103
of the world like myself, to be singularly exact and correct. I do
not speak of their beauty,—that I can understand. Here, in the
midst of these lovely scenes, hallowed by the legends of fifteen
centuries, within view of the ruins of Tintagel, where the knights
of the Round Table banqueted and Arthur ruled, within view of
the mound where Bottreaux Castle stood in the old days when the
lords of Bottreaux wielded the battle-axe and fought by land and
sea—here, I say, where every village name awakes a memory and
breathes a poem, St. Piran, St. lssy, St. Juliott, and with such
lovely and entrancing views as you have in the Kieve and the rocky
valley, at Trebarwith Sands, or in that loveliest valley of all by the
Vallency stream, where my uncle's cottages nestle beneath the
apple-trees—here, with land and sea and shore luminous with the
beauty of legend and the beauty of Nature, I do not wonder that
your poems are full of beauty. And to-day, now that I have been
over this palace of marble and gold, and have seen you at home,
like a spiritual jewel shrined in a casket of gems, I can undei'stand
how it is that your verse is all elegance and grace; but what I do
not understand, is that there is so much truth, not only in the de-
scription of Nature, but in the analysis of the passions of the human
heart.
' Quenchless, reckless, heedless love,
All other love is useless,
But deathless doth love ever prove
If guileless, boundless, ruthless.'
"You wrote that, and it is true; but you have never loved like that.
"What do you know of ruthless love ? It is truth itself. Love that
cares a hang, that looks before it leaps, is not worth a groat; but
reckless, ruthless, aye, even pitiless love, that is true love indeed.
But how did you find it out ? It is the sentiment of a man of the
world, and it was revealed to the world by a maiden of nineteen."
" It is written hei'e," said Lady Violet, placing her hand upon her
heart, as her vast poetic eyes filled with tears. " It is the way I
would be loved."
CHAPTER XXIII.
containing another proposal of marriage.
" In Honour Bound." (Charles Gibbon.)
" Come, let me take thee to my breast
And pledge we ne'er shall sunder,
And I shall spurn as vilest dust
The woi-ld's wealth and grandeur."
{Burns.)
" I suppose our great-grandfathers were all pirates and wreckers,"
thought Norman, as he walked home towards Boscastle along the
cliffs. " All our Cornish ancestors used to turn out on dark nights
a hundred years ago and wave lights to wreck ships, and those old
sea-dogs who conquered America and snuffed out Spain—Devon and
Cornish men, for the most part—they were cruel, hard, savage
104
THE BEAUTY OE BOSCASTLE.
fellows. "Well, Lady Violet, lier refinement and fragile beauty
notwithstanding, must have a little of the hard nature of the wrecker
in her, or she could have never written that
' Quenchless, reckless, heedless love,
All other love is useless,
But deathless doth love ever prove
If guileless, boundless, ruthless.'
" There is a rough, breezy, Cornish daring in the rugged truth of
those lines, that goes home to me. I believe she thoroughly enjoyed
the tales of my Indian adventures, especially when it came to the
killing business. I saw her cheeks flush with excitement. Well,
she is English—she hunts, she likes to be in at the death, and, by
George, can't she ride to hounds ! "
Then he looked at his watch, and thought of Jennie. It would be
time to meet her soon.
" I have a good mind to seize one of those fishing smacks, pro-
vision her for an ocean run, pack Jennie into her, and skedaddle
across the herring pond," he thought. " Lady Violet talks like a
sage. ' Love is a perfect sphere.' That is a great truth. ' Love
is enough.' Humph! Yes; but hardly enough. A little money
is such a very pleasant thing to have into the bargain."
He sat down on the turf under the old tower on Forrabury Cliff,
and smiled grimly, counting in an almost painful way the few
coins in his pocket—all his worldly possessions.
" It is a beastly thing to be poor," he said, hurling a stone into
the sea, and resuming his walk restlessly. " There are so many
things I must do, and some debts I really must pay. It is all very
well to joke, but I am beginning to feel quite serious."
He went down the long steep footpath on the side of the cliff
leading into the harbour, lost in thought.
"Hang it! if I were only poor I wouldn't mind, but it's being in
love. And if one is in love, Lady Violet is quite right—one must
love head over heels. A half-and-half kind of love is a sorry busi-
ness. One must plunge right into the ocean of bliss, and flounder
there like a—a turbot.
" But confound the poverty ! Eeally one can't become a positive
labouring man—and yet—if I run away with Jennie, how am I to
live?
" I suppose I ought to marry money; a man of my breeding and
impecuniosity, a worthless man who can earn nothing always ends
by doing that.
"And yet, Jennie, Jennie, my love, I love you too dearly to
throw you over for a few gold pieces.
" Here's Parson Tom coming round the point. Good, jolly Parson
Tom ! I wonder what sort of advice he would give me 011 the
subject.
" Tom," said Norman to the Vicar as they met, " what would
you do if you loved a poor girl, a really pauper girl, far below you
in social position P Say a fisher-lass, or the daughter of one of these
cottagers ? "
CONTAINING ANOTHER PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE. 105
" I should mai'ry her," said Parson Tom simply. There was no
nonsense about Parson Tom. Whatever he thought, he said bluntly
and without hesitation.
" And it' you had no money, would you marry her then ? "
"I never had any money, Norman ; but if I loved a woman, and
she was below me in station, I should raise her to my own."
A few minutes afterwards, as Norman came swinging down the
Willaparlc footpath, after a fine invigorating walk round the breezy
headland, he came upon Jennie a few yards from the door of her
cottage. She ran before him to hide indoors. Their love had been
illicit, their interviews in the dark, their kisses stolen, their troth
unacknowledged by and unknown to the world.
He called to her with a loud voice, fearlessly.
She stopped. He put his arm around her waist there on the
cliff in broad daylight, and took her brown hand in his, whilst she,
opening her beautiful eyes in mute wonder, gazed into his hand-
some face.
So tenderly looked he into her eyes, and withal so grave he
seemed, as he said in a calm voice, " Jennie, my own darling, I
love you."
She had heard it a hundred times. He had whispered it under
the trees in the Yallency Yalley when they had strolled at night
under the leafy walk that runs like a green thread by the side of
the rippling river. He had said it in the cave that she called her
own, when meeting there by stealth they had poured into one mutual
lake of love the flow of their passion. He had murmured it to her
on the cliffs as they sat together in the darkness 011 the weather-
worn bench of Napoleon Point, or as they strolled round the ruined
tower on Willapark Head in the soft moonlight. But now he did
not whisper it. By day and in the light of the world he said, in
manly outspokenness, " I love you."
Trembling with happiness and love, she leant her head upon his
bosom, and looked up to him with an expression of intense be-
nignity, unspeakably beautiful.
"Aye, Jennie," he continued ; " I have been thinking of you. I
have been sad when I have thought of you. I saw you the other
day when you were not looking. I heard you sobbing, sobbing as
though your heart would break. It was I, Jennie darling, that
stabbed your anguished heart. I gave you those tears. I was the
coward that struck you. Each tear you shed was through my blow.
Disgrace ! no, you shall not bear it. "VYe will stand together against
the world. You and I shall be one. I love you so that all the
world is nothing to me, nor the worldlings in it. Let them mock.
My dearest love, my wife ! Let us mairy."
She tried to speak; in vain. Overwhelmed by exceeding happi-
ness, she failed to articulate her gratitude, her delight. Her features
worked spasmodically, her lips seemed set, as in one struck by par-
alysis. Sinking on her knees, she wrung her hands before him, as a
savage adores a god, and then fell, fainting with excess of joy.
* # « * *
10 G
THE BEAUTY OP BOSCASTLE.
" Parson Tom."
" Well, Norman, my lad."
" I have done it."
" What! broken the Emperor's legs? I said you would, some
day. They say I ride recklessly, but you "
" No ; the horse is all right."
" What is it, then ? "
" Well, I have taken your advice."
"You don't say so? I feel highly flattered. So many of my
parishioners ask my advice, and so few take it. And, pray, how ? "
" You told me, if I loved a poor girl I was to marry her."
" I remember I did. Were you in earnest P "
" Never more in earnest. I have followed your advice thus far.
I have offered marriage to Jennie Tredorn."
" The smith's daughter? "
" The Beauty of Boscastle."
" I know. A good girl, an excellent girl. She goes to chapel. 1
wish my parishioners were half as regular at church as many of
these good Wesleyans. So you are going to marry her, eh ? "
" I love her, Parson Tom, and have already loved her to her
injury. If I do not marry her soon, she will be disgraced."
"What? what? what?" replied Mr. Goodall gi-avely. "You
take my breath away. That good girl so weak, and you so wicked.
Well, well! May God forgive you both ! Aye, and bless you, too.
You are an honest fellow, Norman; you will marry her? It is the
onty reparation you can make. You have been wicked and base,
but it is not for me to condemn. Human nature, alas ! is frail.
God, who made us weak, and who knows our nature, is a merciful
God. He will accept your penitence. I wish all men had the same
righteous honour. Your sin is absolved in your sacrifice."
# # # * *
Never had Jennie been so happy. To be married to the ideal of
her love ! To realize the summit of her joy ! It is the height of
every maiden's aspirations, the secret hope so seldom experienced.
To have as husband the noblest, the best, and the most handsome
of men; to love, honour, and obey this her lord and master; to be
loved and cherished by a man, who bridged his superiority to herself
in rank, birth, station, with such love profound, such kindliness and
gentle goodness, that the very condescension of his actions levelled
their position to an equality. Jennie could not believe it. She
pinched herself to know that she was not dreaming. Could it be
true? Oh, yes. He had said the words so gravely, so earnest^.
Never could she forget them, nor the tone in which they had been
uttered. Her brain swam in a sea of joy. Her disgrace—the shame
that had plunged her in a tumult of anticipated misery and despair
—vanished, and instead, came a delicious glow of peace, like the
calm that suffuses the soul of a repentant sinner.
And, following, came pride. Mrs. Norman Forrabury ! How
grand seemed the sound ! She trembled as she whispered to herself
the married name. And then, her bosom swelling with exultation,
WHICH TELLS HOW A WOMAN IS GKIEVED. 107
she strode up and down her narrow room, overflowing with sal is-
fled happiness. She could not help swaggering there by herself.
Humble enough she would be, and her lips muttered a simple
prayer, that God would give her humility, that she might bear her-
self with meekness towards her neighbours and nob look down
upon them when she was—her heart bounded again as she thought
it—Mistress of Forrabury.
The secret was not to be let out for the present. Norman was to
choose his opportunity of acquainting his uncle; but it was sweeter
thus. The world would know in good time.
Mistress of Forrabury ! Yes ; not immediately, but in due course
she must be that. The old squire was grey; the time would pass,
and she would become mistress of that grand house, of that army
of servants, that array of gorgeous rooms. To sib ab table and be
waited on ! To ring bells ! To say, " Bring ray carriage with the
pair!" and now and then she would go to chapel—for surely
Norman would not mind her going to Bethesda sometimes ?—perhaps
even he would take a chair at a missionary meeting, and she would
be able to head the subscription lists, and be the great lady. How
glorious, how delightful these golden visions! She surveyed her-
self with a look of almost wanton impudence, and with a shame-
faced, though silent boast—a boast uttered to her own heart alone—
cared nothing now, since she was to be made an honest woman.
And then she burst into a glad, ecstatic song, exulting in com-
placency and pride, unconsciously changing her strain by degrees,
as love mingled his softening murmurs, and her passionate heart
dwelt on the man who had so stooped to choose her from a thousand.
CHAPTER XXIV.
which tells how a woman is grieved, how a man is worried,
and how another is angered.
" How Like a Woman ! " (Florence Marry at.)
Jennie Tredorn, with a basket of butter and cream ofi her arm, was
walking down the Trevalga Road.
" A handsome girl, Lady Violet." The words were Parson Tom
Goodall's who was riding by Lady Violet's side. He had happened
to overtake her on the road to the first meet of the season.
" She is very beautiful. I have often admired her," said Lady
Violet, turning round in the saddle to gaze after the girl. "I should
like her to sib for me."
" Do you know, the folk about here call her ' the Beauty of Bos-
castle' P "
" Oh, yes, I know it; and well the name suits her. Her dark
eyes, her wild air, her vigorous strength, are so thoroughly Cornish
108
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
that the author of the soubriquet fabricated, for once, a good phrase.
As a rule, I do not like nicknames."
" Society has baptised you prettily enough, and, strange to say,
in the same words, for yon are as different as possible, yon and
Jennie Ti'edorn."
"You mean "
" I mean, when they call you ' the Boscastle Beauty.' "
"They are very impertinent and stupid, to call me anything of
the kind. I am not a Boscastle girl, though I am a Boterel.
Strictly, I am of Tintagel; but in any case I consider it a very gross
liberty to call a lady by any name but her own."
" Society meant to pay you a compliment."
" Society has a sad lack of delicacy. It is all very well to have a
catch-phrase to distinguish a handsome fisher-lass; it is another
thing for us. I actually saw the odious phrase applied to ms in
print, in a criticism of my last book. Could anything be more
annoying? "
" But, my dear lady," said the good clergyman, gallantly removing
his hat, "if to Minerva's brow you add the beauty of Juno—
" I will bear anything from you, Parson Tom," said Lady Violet,
with a smile, that lit her face till it beamed in blushing loveliness;
" because you are licensed to flatter ladies."
"Why?*"
" Because you cannot help it. 'Tis in your nature. The last time
I was at Forrabury Church you did nothing all the sermon but
praise us to the skies. No wonder you get your church full of
women, if you say such pleasant things to them."
" You were there. How could I scold ? "
" Again ! I shall revoke your licence presently. Now, how are
we to get through yonder bridle gate ? "
" Why, over it, of course," said Parson Tom Goodall, and giving a
light shake to the reins his clever chestnut mare took the gate, lit
in the grass field on the other side, and, dropping her head, bounded
forward on the springy turf like an india-rubber ball.
" I shall follow you, Parson Tom," cried Lady Violet, clearing the
gate nimbly; "though what Dick will say at my jumping the
fences before we break away, I don't know. Fortunately he is
coming up behind with my second horse. You will blow yours
before starting if you go to work like that—and you do not ride
two."
"No; I can't afford two. But sometimes I am in at the deatb,
all the same;" and he laughed cheerilj\ He was an inveterate
hunter—none better in the county, nor even in the renowned shire3.
"Yours is a lovely mare."
" She is a darling. I have ridden her in many a gallop. There is
no staying her. Nothing is too big for her. Brooks, walls, bill-
finches—she flies them all. There isn't a cleverer mare in England.
And climb!—she could climb a church steeple. I know nothing to
touch her in climbing, except—well, except' the Beauty of Boscastle.'
That girl can climb any cliff on the coast."
WHICH TELLS HOW A WOMAN IS GRIEVED. 109
" I suppose slie is a wonderful climber ? " said Lady Violet. " Lid
you hear how she saved Mr. Norman Forrabury's life some little
while ago P "
" Yes ; he told me about that, and be also told me something else,
which will soon set the whole country talking."
" What was that? " asked Lady Violet curiously. "About him-
self?"
" Ah ! that is a secret."
" A secret! " exclaimed Lady Violet eagerly, and with a bewitch-
ing smile and manner. "Do tell me, Parson Tom. Now, while we
are having this quiet little canter; not a soul can hear us."
The Vicar shook his head.
" Oh, do ! I would give the world to know. How can you pique
my curiosity like this ? I love a secret beyond everything."
" What woman does not ? "
" Now, dear Mr. Goodall, do tell me. My ears are burning to
know."
" But it is about a woman, too."
" Oh ! it is about a woman," said Lady Violet, turning white and
red by turns.
" And I don't think I ought to talk of one woman's secrets to
another."
" Nor do I; but if you once commence, you ought to tell the whole
story—otherwise one will suspect all sorts of wicked things about
every woman in the parish."
" 1 can assure you," said the clergyman seriously, " that it is very
creditable to Mr. Forrabury."
" Oh, Parson Tom ! what is the use of being so mysterious ? If
Mr. Forrabury has done anything so very creditable, why make a
;mystery of it? I am sure, if he had done anything very bad, it,
would have been noised abroad soon enough. And, pray, who is
the woman? Not that I care to know," she added, with a toss of
her head, and a pretended indifference. " Only you set one wonder-
ing so."
" Well, if you don't care to know "
" But I do care to know," interrupted Lady Violet. " Now, be a
dear old darling, and let me guess. Just whisper the first letter of
her name."
" J."
" J ! J stands for Jones, Jenkins, Jane, Jennie. Of course, Jennie!
Jennie Tredorn ! That is certain. Well! A bold girl. I should
think she could be a very assuming woman; but I suppose I am not
to know any more."
" My dear lady, there is nothing in it. The whole parish will know
very soon. Jennie is to be married to Mr. Forrabury. For the pre-
sent it is a secret. When it is out, the world will of course say
that it is preposterous; the world always censures sins against
Society. The world will point out that the positions of the young
people are so unequal, but it is very noble of—Why, what have I
done ? Are you really—are these tears ? Why, you are crying ! "
110
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
" I am n-n-n-n-n-not," blabbered Lady Violet, shaking the tears
from her eyes, and reining in her horse. " Oh, Mr. Goodall, lam a
weak, silly woman. I cannot hunt to-day. I think something has
gone wrong with—with the horse. His fore sleeves are tender. And,
Parson Tom," she added, as the tears streamed down her face, " yon
will keep my secret, won't you, more secret than the other ? It
came so suddenly. I never suspected it. I loved him so, Mr.
Goodall. I loved him myself. You will never—never tell him.
You will never whisper it to him. He does not know."
"My dear girl," said Mr. Goodall, in his kind, gentle, grave voice,
" God bless you. Yes, certainly, the off foreleg is a little tender—a
little tender. I shouldn't hunt to-day if I were you. Bide him
gently home. Only a quiet canter. So, so, Dick! " he added to the
groom, who had now approached. "Your mistress will nob hunt
to-day. Good-morning, Lady Violet. Your mistress, Dick, fancies
her horse a little tender in the olf foreleg. Eh! how do you
account for that now P "
"Dunnow, zur," said Dick, scratching his head, and watching
his mistress's horse as it cantered away. " The 'oss seems to move
prutty free, zur."
" Bruised itself in the stable, perhaps. Eh P "
" Seems to be going along first class, zur—can't see nothing
wrong wi' the 'oss."
" Nonsense, Dick. Can't you see how he limps ? "
" I really can't, zur. I can't say I do."
" Not that off foreleg p "
"No, zur, nor yet the back 'uns. Won't her Ladyship have this
other nag P "
" I don't know, Dick. I think nob. Why, that is worse than the
other. Both of them a little tender about the toes. Do you keep
the stable dry enough, Dick P eh ? "
"Yes, zur—dry as a bone," said Dick, who had now dismounted,
and was examining the horse's legs with a puzzled expression on his
face.
" Well, there's half-a-crown for you, Dick. Don't you get too
near your mistress now. Follow her at a respectful distance.
Don't you let her see that both the horses are tender. And, Dick ! "
" Yes, zur."
" Give them both an extra feed of corn when you get home."
"Yes, zur."
"And, Dick ! "
" Yes, zur."
" You take precious good care not to follow your mistress too
close. If she sees both the horses going wrong, I don't know what
she will say."
" Thank'ee, zur," said Dick, touching his hat, as the parson rode
off, and stroking the nag's shin. "I reckon I must be a-goin'
blind. Blamed if I can see anything wrong with the 'oss."
# =* * * *
The days passed by—pleasant days to Norman, who, loitering and
WHICH TELLS HOW A WOMAN IS GRIEVED. Ill
loafing about on the cliff, was for ever at Jennie's cottage, or near
it. Once, rounding the Willapark Cliff, he saw on the seat that looks
out to sea a lady. It was Clara Gee. He almost passed her without
recognition. Then suddenly doing so, he raised his hat, and with
a remark about the weather, wished her good-evening.
She replied, with a smile full of triumph, and with a look of un-
concealed detestation.
He hated her. But for her, he thought he could raise something
on his reversion. Now what was his reversion worth ? The banns
of marriage between herself and his uncle had been read for the
first time on the previous Sunday; very shortly she would be
installed at Forrabury. Her children would take his place, and he
would cease to be the heir.
With these reflections, he walked into Boscastle. As he crossed
the bridge, a man who had been loitering outside the " Wellington"
followed him, touched him on the arm, and served him with a
writ.
It was for a debt.of £88 10s. 7d.
" Have you come all the way down from London to servo this ? "
asked Norman with some asperity.
"Yes, sir. Instead of troubling you through the Launceston
agents,'' replied the man, with the obsequious bow characteristic of
writters.
" And have you been gossiping about it at the 'Wellington ? ' "
" Oh no, sir," answered the man, with an apologetic cough, and
mopping his face with a red cotton handkerchief. " These lips, sir, is
sealed,"—he brushed them with the greasy edge of his coat-sleeve—
" and they is discreet."
" But you have been drinking," said Norman, looking at the man's
bloodshot eyes and heated cheeks.
"A little light refreshment, sir," replied the man, repeating the
same faint apologetic cough. " But these lips, sir, is discreet. We
lawyer's clerks, sir, is accustomed to gentlemen's secrets, and like-
wise to irregular refreshments."
" Well, keep a still tongue in your head," said Norman, giving
him one of his few remaining half-crowns. " And get out of the
parish."
" Thank your honour," said the man, with a repetition of the
obsequious bow.
Forgetting all about his latest assignation with Jennie Tredorn,
Norman walked home, worrying his mind by reflections on his
poverty. The time had come when he must stifle his pride, make a
clean breast of his position to his uncle, put himself straight
with his creditors, and make arrangements of some kind as to the
future.
His uncle was in the library. He went to see him at once, and
opened with a round shot.
" I want some money, uncle."
The Colonel put his head on one side, with a gesture of displea-
sure. He Ayas not a mean man, but he was careful, economical,
112
THE BEAUTY OE BOSCASTLE.
precise. He had that respect for money which is characteristic of
most rich men. He disliked spendthrift habits, largesse and waste.
He regarded his nephew as a sterling good fellow, but at the same
time a good-natured prodigal, who must be taught by bitter ex-
perience, and even by the pinch of poverty, to learn the value of
money, and the advantage of economy and prudence.
" And money I must have," continued Norman.
" You are like your father, my lad," said the Colonel in a hard
voice.
Norman winced. He felt very much inclined to kick his uncle,
curse his greed, and clear out of the country. He felt the humilia-
tion of his position, and his pride rose.
" Money does not tumble out of the skies. All men have either
to work for it, or husband that which others have earned. If you
had husbanded-yours, you would not now have to—to—ask from me."
Norman buttoned up his coat stiffly.
" I do not mince my words. It is time to speak freely, and in
plain English. I do not wish to be unkind. I will help you
Norman ; but,' first, you must show yourself worthy of help. You
ought not to be wanting money at all. How much have you spent
during the last twelve months ? "
" Oh, perhaps three or four thousand pounds."
" Four thousand pounds ! I have not spent the half of that. It
is ruinous. It is wicked prodigality."
" It is. I have been foolish—wasteful. It is unpardonable. But
I mean to turn over a new leaf. I mean to start fresh, and do some-
thing. I want your advice, almost as much as your help. I want
to make a clean breast of my affairs, uncle, and to consult you about
my future. One must live, you know "
" Live ! You have been living at a fine rate, I think. Do you
know that £4,000 a year represents the interest on a capital of
£100,000? Man! This extravagance is more than I can listen
to with composure. It is more than I expected even of you. I am
surprised beyond measure."
" I have been going it, uncle. I have spent money like water.
You have a right to be annoyed. You caunot be too hard on me.
I deserve "
"Deserve! You deserve nothing."
" That is exactly what I have," he answered, laughing.
"What?"
"Nothing."
" Do you mean to tell me you have squandered everything—
everything—that your principal has gone ? "
"Yes, and that I have not a square rood or a brass farthing
left."
The old Colonel swore.
"And besides—I have debts."
" Go on—go on, sir."
" Well, I think that's about the end of the story. I'm glad I've
got it off my mind. I think there's nothing to add, except that I
WHICH TELLS HOW A WOMAN IS GRIEVED.
118
am in actual present discomfort for pocket money—actual di3com-
fort."
"I'm d d glad to hear it! "
" Sair," said Macpherson, entering the room with a salute.
" Dinner is sairved."
"I don't want any dinner," said the Colonel angrily.
" And I'm as hungry as an otter," said Norman. " I suppose I
ought to tell yon how sorry I am, and what a fool I've been, and
what a fool I'm going to be again, as no doubt you will think 011
another matter. Apologies don't do any good, but "
" Ob, go to blazes with your apologies, and leave me. I have no
appetite for dinner. I am astounded at you !—astounded, sir! "
The Colonel was in no simulated passion. He was really upset
and angry ; and as soon as his nephew had left the room, he paced
up and down with a quick military stride, vainly endeavouring to
work off his annoyance. Suddenly he sat down at his desk, and
wrote the following letter :—
"My dear Norman,—
" It is difficult to address myself to you with courtesy, after the
very grave information you have just given me respecting your
financial position. You will pardon me if I observe that there was,
in my opinion, a lack of a due sense of contrition ; I will even say
there was an effrontery in your manner, which I regard as distinctly
discreditable to you. After such folly as you have confessed, I
should have preferred to see in you a manful disdain of aid. To
resort to the purse of your friends as soon as you have squandered
the contents of your own, is mean and shabby. But as you are not
ashamed to receive help, I regard it as my duty to make some
definite arrangement for your future welfare—arrangements which
must be subject to revision, if your subsequent conduct is not marked
by a sensible economy.
" As to the details of those ai'rangements, I will speak with you
later. I must request you to make it convenient to see me to-night,
at ten o'clock, after my visit to the Rectory. You are aware that
I am to be married very soon to Clara Gee. She has already my
fullest confidence on all subjects, and in her prudent counsel and good
sense I shall find what I sorely need—sympathy and guidance.
"I confess that the very serious statements you made have much
angered me. I do not think, however, that I have written here
anything that I should regret in calmer moments. But if I have
used any expressions which the facts do not warrant, be so good as
to overlook them. I am so shocked at your bankruptcy thafc I am
unable to measure my words. Let me express the hope that the
humiliation of your position will serve to entirely alter your spend-
thrift mode of life, and that, by the blessing of God, this disaster
may make you a changed man. You have so many estimable
qualities, my dear nephew, that I shall never cease to feel the
deepest affection for you.
" I fear that many of your extravagances have been through loose
i
114 T&E BEAtTY 0E BOSCASTLE.
living. To make a suitable marriage would save you many expenses,
and give you many joys; in fine, it would benefit you body and
soul.
"I beg that you will never again cause me to feel a grief so deep
as I have experienced in writing this.
" Your affectionate uncle,
John Forrabury."
CHAPTER XXV.
showing how evil may seize upon man and fill his soul avitn
diabolical enterprise.
" For Lack of Gold." (Charles Gibbon.)
" Meanwhile, the adversary of God and man,
SataD, with thoughts inflamed of highest design.
Puts on swift wings." (Milton.)
Norman bad brought himself to the resolution to tell his uncle all
by a great effort. He was a man of a proud and sensitive spirit, and
he felt deeply the humiliation of his position. To have told all the
facts in their fulness to a sympathetic ear would have been difficult;
it was more difficult to confess them to one who, however kind, was
undoubtedly severe. There were times, during his interview with
his uncle, when Norman almost choked himself by the fierce tumult
of resentment which raged in his breast; but during his brief recital
of the facts of his case, he had felt himself impressed, for the first
time, by a sense of shame at his own conduct. It was during his
narrative only, that he realized for the first time that he had been
guilty of meanness and " bad form." He had been aware of his
stupidity and recklessness before; it was not until he was face to
face with his uncle that he felt convinced of the shabbiuess of his
conduct, and the new light in which he saw himself lit up his con-
duct as by a revelation. He had the conscience-stricken feeling
which a man experiences when, for the first time, he is awakened
to a sense of recognition of his errors. This it was that made him
calmly receive those reproofs of his uncle which, at ordinary
times, he would never have brooked from equal or superior.
He felt stung by his uncle's reproaches. He was pierced to the
quick, and bit his lips till the blood came. He could with difficulty
smother the proud and defiant dictates of his breast, until one in-
dignaift remark seemed to him so unjust that his heart was chilled,
and he bore all the rest in sullen callousness; refraining, too, from
telling his uncle of his intended marriage with Jennie—a point of
consequence in his affairs to which he had intended to allude.
If these were the mingled feelings he experienced during his
interview, it may well be imagined with what passionate rage he
lead his uncle's letter. He read it through, blanched and pale
With anger. He laid it down with trembling hand. He read and re-
SHOWING HOW EVIL MAY SEIZE UPON MAN.
115
read ib with increasing passion and resentment. He was too much
angered to show the signs of anger—he was calm, quiet, collected ;
but deep down in his heart bubbled a well of malice, and in his eye
there was a dangerous light.
Had he been merely annoyed, he would have angrily crushed the
letter in his hand and stamped upon it with his heel. He would
have paced with raging step up and down the room, as men do when
aroused. But he was more than annoyed, more than angered. On
his brow was a hard frown, his teeth were sternly set, and on his lip
was a grim, foi'eboding smile. ,
He poui^ed out some whisky, lib a cigar, and sat in an easy-chair
lost in thought. Then again he took up the letter, carefully, almost
tenderly, and read it again and again, until every word of ib was in-
delibly impressed upon his memory. " As you are nob ashamed to
receive help," he repeated bitterly, quoting from the letter—" As
you are not ashamed to receive help."
Then he put his hands deep down in his pockets, and laughed a
low, cynical, cruel laugh.
Something was brewing in that man's mind. The shadows came
and passed upon his face. Long he sat there, thinking—thinking ;
whilst he unconsciously beat with his fingers a slow and measured
tattoo upon the arm of the chair, staring the while at the ceiling—
staring with wide-open eyes at vacancy for an hour or more, with a
calm, fixed, set look upon his collected face that boded evil.
Again he poured out a stiff glass of whisky, and lit another cigar,
which he smoked with rapid puffs, gazing through the rings and.
circling clouds of smoke in an abstraction of profound and melancholy
thought, absorbed in passionate and tender dreams, mingled with
wicked and malicious broodings of anger and revengeful malice,
of hard resentment and bitterness, lost in a tumult of conflicting
emotions, of thoughts on his past follies, his present needs, the
insults and the kindnesses of his uncle, on the impossibility now of
accepting his help, on his absolute poverty) on Clara Gee, on his
disinheritance.
Then, with a strange, purposeful lcok upon his face, he sat down
to the table, took pen and ink and paper, and with a firm l^and full
of resolve, wrote :—
"My dear Uncle,—
" I have to thank 3*ou for many past acts of kindness to me, which
I deeply regret I can never forget.
"Your approaching marriage with Miss Gee is a fact of consider-'
able importance to myself. It alters the whole course of my*future»
Of late years the probability of your marriage has never even occurred
to me. I have always regarded myself as the certain heir to your
large estates, as indeed you have led me to believe. Had I thought
otherwise, I should doubtless have husbanded more carefully my small
possessions. In the assumption that I had an easy competence to
fall back upon, which in case of need I could anticipate, I lightly
squandered my own little fortune, never dreaming for one instant
116
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASfLti.
that when gone ib would leave me penniless. Youv unsympathetic,
not to say insulting, reception of the account I gave you of my
position makes it impossible for me, as you justly observe, to accept
your aid. What alternative is left to me, then ?
"I have pondered that question long and anxiously. I have
thought ib over in all its bearings for an hour or more. I have
arrived at a very definite conclusion, bub ib is a very ghastly one.
" I cannot accept your aid. That is clear; as you say, that course
is'mean and shabby.' Help from you, after these insults! No!
I scorn to take ib. I have ' begged,' I will not ' beg' again. But
I ask you to consider—if I do not accept your help, what alternative
have I, except to break stones on the road ?
" I cannot accept your aid. That point is clear; consider then,
what can I do? What must I do ? I can literally sum up my
belongings in shillings. I have before me the career of a pauper,
handicapped, even for that wretched existence, by the instincts of a
gentleman.
" Why should Clara Gee affect the whole circumstances of my
life? She is a woman whom I have seen but twice only—three or
four times at most. Yet she is to influence my whole career like a
fate.
"Were I to attempt to forecast the future, I should prophesy
that she will worry you into the grave as soon as she has given
birth to an heir. Linked to such a woman, your life cannot be other
than most unhappy.
" It is impossible, then, to repress the thought that your immediate
death would be desirable."
He paused, and then he continued
" I do not think I shall deliver this letter to you. I meant to do
so, but I have changed my mind. I want to write my thoughts. I
want them to take clear shape. I want them to be definitely ex-
pressed. Your death would damage no one bub that detestable
woman, whose name I loathe to write. You have doomed, the rest
of your existence to be unspeakably miserable. What, then, is to
prevent me from taking your life ? I write the question. Let me
consider it all in cool blood. I do not hate you. I have no malice.
I am simply thinking of myself and of my future; a miserable out-
look whichever way I look.
" To me your death means the difference between a life of utter
poverty and one of wealth and ease.
"And to you it would be almost a kindness, for life linked to that
woman would be unendurable.
' " You have been kind to me—very, very kind. The memory of it
rises before me continually. I try in vain to shut it from me.
"Bub I remember, too, that your kindness has been tempered by
an almost incredible stinginess. I cannot conceive how a man of
your wealth can be so close and mean. If I meant this letter to
reach you, I should not write that, for you have indeed been very
generous also.
SHOWING HOW EVIL MAY SEIZE UPON MAN. 117
" I only desire to record my thoughts.
" I shall not deliver this letter to you, but it does me good to
write. I wish to put down my exact ideas in precise language. I
want to consider calmly—as a man of the world carefully weighs
and reflects upon ordinary business—-whether it is expedient to carry
out the purpose that is seething in my brain; whether the facts
justify me in my contemplated act; whether I have good reason to
carry out the thing I think of.
" Good reason ! Have not you and I both killed men for reasons
much less satisfactory, on facts not half so justifiable, for purposes
not so logical ?
" The risk I run is worth while. I shall be a blundering fool
indeed if I cannot take your life without leaving traces and proofs
behind me like a common footpad. I will take my time. I will re-
duce the risk practically to nil.
"And, after all, what do I risk? My life; no more. I, like most
other men of my kind, do not believe in the nonsense that priests
talk. I do not believe in a future. I believe in this world only
which I see and know—a tangible certainty. A life full of prizes
for those who will take them; a life heavy with fruits for those who
will gather them. There are no human rights without human
wrongs. Yes; the Radicals speak trulj\ I believe I am a Radical.
I have always looked upon the rich as robbers on a grand scale—-
cool robbers who, with sublime effrontery, lay claim to the best
things on earth, and have them for the claiming. Well, I, too—I,
Norman Forrabury, pauper—I will lay claim to lands and a position,
to opulence and ease. If this involves a wrong, the same may be
said of every human right. I will seize my own. My own. Does
it not belong to me more than to Clara Gee ?
" What a dismal look-out for me if I do not do this thing ! Even
to cross the Atlantic ; even if I air my pride to the full, aud refuse
to take the grudging pittance you may offer me, my fond uncle;
even to run to America as a steerage passenger. Ugh! the thought
is at once odious and absurd; but even for that it would be neces-
sary for me to accept from you some wretched dole. I should not
have even the proud elation of independent poverty. I should have
to accept—possibly to extract—some petty sum for the absolute
essentials of life. And that spent, what then ? I have not knocked
about the world with my eyes shut. I have seen them—these
worthy fools—these pauper gentlemen—too proud to be under ob-
ligation to their friends. I have seen them, ragged,hungry, footsore,
not even honest. Shall I join that miserable crew ?
" Not I. I prefer to be an English gentleman ; to entertain; to
keep a pack of hounds ; to wear a white shirt; become a magistrate,
and die respected. I will throw myself into politics. I will be a
county member. This one crime will give a piquancy to my life.
I was hlase. Life for me was becoming a dull affair. New pros-
pects open to me. The vistas of the future open.
" I will be generous. I will givd to all the charities. I will
squander your hoardings, my good uncle, in philanthropies. The
118
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
devil is in me. I will build a church to your memory. I will be a
villain on a grand scale. I will buy a new place, give a park to the
people, and give myself up to be a model member.
" I will rat from my political party. I will try for a peerage. Yes;
why should not I get into the Upper House ? Plenty of unscrupulous
brutes like myself have got there before me —though, of course, not
in the nineteenth century ! Life will have new charms for me.
"A better prospect this than the odious toils of poverty. Poverty!
I have always loathed it. The thought of it is detestable. I should
be a very good fellow if I had plenty of money* And I will have it;
therefore, my poor uncle, the fiat has gone forth. Your death is a
necessity.
" It remains only to think of the modus operandi.
•"How shall I do this with the least risk? "
He paused. The rest he had written with a rapid pen. Now he
waited, pen in hand, staring at his paper, absorbed in thought.
He sat there long, without moving a limb. Then he rose, and
with a trembling gait crossed to the fireplace. He stood there in a
dejected attitude, brooding unconsciously over his wicked project
with a hard-set frown on his face.
" It leaves traces," he muttered. " That is the worst. It always
leaves traces. No, no ; there shall be no poison.
" Shall I do it at all ? Am I serious in this desperate thing ? " he
mused silently ; and then with a great oath, and a bang of his fist on
the table that made the glasses ring, he cried, " Aye, I'll do it. I've
made up my mind. I'll take his life ! " Then he lowered his voice
to a hoarse whisper. " I'll take his life—his life!"
He crossed the study and opened a drawer. There were two or
three revolvers, and a large, heavy, old-fashioned pistol; for the
Colonel was a connoisseur in these pretty playthings.
Norman took them up and examined them with deliberate preci-
sion, fitted them with cartridges, took them out again with gingerly
care, and replaced them in their cases. During this he shook his
head repeatedly; then he closed the drawer.
" Some—better—way," he said slowly, " We are not in Texas."
He began to pace the room with slow, measured pace, and soft
tread.
"No. A good thought, but there is no time. An excellent idea !
An excellent idea ! But there is not time—not time."
Again he paced the room. Surely he had never walked so slowly
before, or so softly. This careless, good-natured, brave fellow, as all
the world believed him, began to show the stealth and cunning of a
tiger.
"Ah! if I could get him over there! " he hissed between his teeth;
" if I could get him over to Texas ! "
Up and down the room, up and down the room with cautious, noise-
less tread he walked again and again. Suddenly he started.
"What is that?" he whispered in a frightened tone. "What?
What? Pah! my lad," he continued, changing his tone, " this will
not do. Your nerves are getting overstrung,"
showing how evil may seize upon man.
119
He poured himself out some more whisky and water with an
unsteady hand; then went to the sofa and stretched himself out at
full length, twitching his watch-chain with nervous fingei's.
" Hike this business," he muttered ; "it interests me."
Then he passed his hand over his brow with a weary motion that
belied his words. Doubtless he smothered the dull l'eprimands of
his conscience by these half-expressed thoughts. His better
thoughts he did not utter. As they were vaguely shaping them-
selves in his mind, he negatived them by some muttered rejoiader,
which, though rather the horrible and fiendish inspiration of some
unseen devil than his own personal thoughts, he believed at the
time to be the outcome of his own mind.
A man does not always know what his own thoughts are. Men often
conceive wicked intentions, almost in spite of themselves. Greed,
or selfishness, or passion, or hate dictates some villainous ingenuity,
or with fiei'ce searing whisper prompts a man to evil-doing; and
even while the temptation is flashing its blinding fire upon the
dazzled intellect, the feeble protests of the man's real self are stifled
within him almost before they have shaped into definite ideas.
The better thoughts are slain ere they have become full-fledged,
when they are too feeble to take wing. They are strangled by the
evil spirit that seizes possession of a man's soul. It is still true in
the nineteenth century as in the first that a man may be possessed
of a devil. We deem, with fond conceit, that we have almost ex-
hausted the bounds of knowledge. We think, in our pride, that the
heart and nature of man have been so dissected and analysed that
there is nothing left for us to learn which has not already been re-
vealed. But we are still in the dark ; and we yet remain ignoi'ant
as to how much of the environments of an individual are himself.
We do not know what man's mind is, how far his mind is his own,
how much it is others'. We do not know where the individual
ceases. The mind of one man is permitted to enter into another's,
and there how often it takes up a residence, until, to our surprise,
we hear A talking the ideas and using the sentiments, and even
reflecting the soul of B.
By some strange, occult and diabolical "seizure only is it possible
to account for the horrible wickedness which now steeped the whole
being of Norman Forrabury in murderous desire.
He was not himself, surely. He looked another creature. His
frank, honest, open expression had gone. His features were wrinkled
in new lines. His eyes seemed to have receded far back into the
depths of dark caverns, and flashed with evil cunning in shifty,
furtive glances. His lips, generally set with manly purpose, or
curving with genial and easy smiles, were now hard and drawn, as
though the muscles of his face wei'e not under his control, but were
tied by an unseen power; and his hands, usually so sinewy, so
shapely, and so strong, were bent like the hands of a paralytic, and
twitched with nervous palsy.
A sword hung on the wall. It was a favourite trophy of the
Colonel's. It had done him gallant service in Egypt. It was of
120
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
true and trusty steel, and sharp, as Norman knew well, for his uncle
and he had often tried its temper in sportive feats of pastime.
Normau eyed it with averted gaze, muttering," No, there must be
no blood—no blood."
He shuddered, and then his old honest look came back to him.
"What!" he exclaimed; "am I a devil that I should do this
thing? No, no, I'll not do it.. My dear uncle! My good, generous
uncle! Why, what madness have I dreamt of? May God forgive
me! I would sooner be a shepherd or a cowboy. I would sooner
break stones on the road. What shall I do? "
He leant forward, resting his elbows on his knees, burying his face
in his hands, in a melancholy attitude of dejection, remaining long
in that posture, as though asleep.
So he sat when the handle of the door was turned with a sounding
click, and Colonel Forrabury suddenly entered.
CHAPTER XXVI.
describing the devilish villainy that sprung up within and
utterly possessed a human soul.
" After Dark." (Willcie Collins.)
Norman started to his feet with an affrighted expression on his face,
aud with an exclamation that would have been a shriek had not his
tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth, so that his voice refused
utterance, his parched lips remaining open, gaping mute and
ghastly.
The Colonel, struck with astonishment, stood at the door, with his
hand still on the handle.
" It's Jack ! " exclaimed Norman in a honrse tone, half shriek, half
whisper.
" Yes, yes, my boy. It is I," answered the Colonel, shutting the
door. " Who else should it be ? "
" It's Jack," he repeated, as though in a stupor, sinking on to the
sofa with trembling knees.
" Whatever is the matter, Norman P " exclaimed the Colonel, step-
ping towards and bending over his nephew. " Are you faint ? How
hot the room is ! Let me open the window."
" It is close," said Norman in a more natural tone, mechanically
rising as he spoke.
" I was afraid you had been taking too much whisky; you seemed
so excited and strange. But I see I am mistaken. Why do you
keep the windows shut ? You are not usually so afraid of the air."
" I did not notice the heat before you spoke. I have been busy
scribbling a lot of nonsense ; I will burn it." Stepping forward, he
took the sheets on which he had written, and held them one by one
in the flame of a candle till they were burnt to ashes.
" That was my answer to your letter," he continued. " But it was
THE VILLAINY THAT POSSESSED A HUMAN SOUL. 121
better not to deliver it; I can tell you tbe contents. And yours, I
burn that too." He held his uncle's letter in the flame till that also
was destroyed.
He spoke very strangely, and his manner, usually so genial, was
cold and peculiai*.
"You have been waiting for me," said the Colonel, rather awlc-
wardly.
" Yes; it is past ten o'clock."
" Well, let us talk, then. These unpleasant conversations are best
got over at once. Pass me the cigar box, so, and light one yourself.
Well, I have been talking this business over with Clara."
" And what, pray, has Miss Clara Gee to do with my affairs P "
" Your affairs ! With your affairs exclusively she has, of course,
nothing to do at all. But with my affairs, since she is to be my wife
very soon, she has much to do, and indirectly, therefore, with yours."
Norman pursed up his lips, but made no reply. An evil light glared
in his usually mild eyes, and he clenched his fist, hardly able to con-
trol his passion.
" I have no secrets from her; I confide in her absolutely," con-
tinued the Colonel coldly. "I think highly of her judgment. She
is very shrewd, prudent, and sensible. I have consulted her about
you."
" I think it is an unwarrantable liberty on your part and an im-
pertinence on bers."
" I pass over the remark, sir. I will only add that she refused to
listen to me on the subject, and tliat, so far from being guilty of any
impertinence, she expressed a wish not to discuss the point with me
until after our marriage."
" Ob, until after your marriage," said Norman icily.
"Yes; you must be reasonable, Norman. This is a matter of, I
may say, family interest. For the present, 1st the business end here,
The room is abominably close. Let us go out into the air. Come,
put on your hat."
" Shall we go into the garden ? "
"Yes, or better still, let us stroll on to the cliffs. There will be a
breeze on the point; there is always air there."
" No," cried Norman, almost beseechingly," not on the cliffs. Nob
on tbe cliffs, uncle; not to-night."
" Why not ? "
" It is dangerous."
" Dangerous p "
"Yes, on a dark night like this."
" It was not dark when I came in. The stars were just beginning
to peer out—a lovely night. Dangerous, indeed ! Why really,
Norman, you amuse me. You timid, of all men ! You, tbe fool-
hardy climber! Nob a week ago Clai-a and I watched you clamber-
ing over the rocks, and skipping over the boulders like the cliff-
sheep. You went down to the Blow-hole as easily as though you
were going down-stairs, and we remarked that you had more pluck
than brains."
122
THE BEAUTY OP BOSCASTLE.
" That was Miss Gee's compliment, nob yours," said Norman, with
some asperity.
"I wish you did not dislike Clara so ; you are barely civil fo her.
But your temper is upset to-night. Come, the air will do us both
good after this wretched, quarrelsome day. It will drive off our ill-
humours, and after our walk we shall sleep like humming tops.
Nothing so good for a disordered mind as a good, sound sleep."
" Aye, a«aund sleep," said Norman in a deep, grave tone.
CHAPTER XXVII.
relating ii0w a bark deed was done.
" Foul Play." (Charles Reade.)
" And lo, between the sun dawn and the sun,
His day's work and bis night's work are undone;
And lo, between the nightfall and the light,
He is not, and none knoweth of such an one."
("Laus Veneris."—Swinburne.)
It was indeed a beautiful night. The sky was almost cloudless.
The moon in its last quarter gave little light, but the stars shone in
the dark heavens with unusual brightness. The air was cool and
bracing, and the wind, though not stormy, was from the north-west,
and came in occasional gusts, cold and almost piercing, heralding the
approaching winter.
The little town was asleep. There were no lights in the windows.
The old, quaint, picturesque harbour was all stillness and repose, and
almost lost in the darkness. One vessel only, a schooner, laid by the
quay, showing a dim red light on her bows. The Napoleon Rock
was grim and dark, its outline only visible. The smith's cottage
with its whitewashed walls could be discerned under the heavy
blackness of the Eorrabury cliff. Far out over Blackapib the dark
old ruined tower stood in grim and sombre outline against the stars.
It was very dark; there was no light on the beacon.
They ascended the path. Before, them was the Napoleon Rock,
known so well to every visitor to BoscasLle—a rock so shaped by
Nature that "the little Corporal" in his cocked hat might have been
carved by some cunning sculptor rather than by the casual winds
and the denuding natural forces in snows and frosts and rains. The
very expression of the great little man is there, his very character
expressed in the living rock.
Norman's enraged bosom welled over in sympathy towards that
arch-murderer. He thought of the great man's conscienceless power,
and of the thousands and ten-thousands he had slain in his callous
march onwards towards eminence and empire; of his courage and
his indomitable will; of the wisdom of that supreme selfishness
which made all other aims than his own matters of the utmost in-
RELATING HOW A DARK DEED WAS DONE. 123
difference. He thought not only of his battles and his wars, but of
the little treasons and spites, of the private murders, the men re-
moved who were in the way—items which showed a species of petty
greatness in the man, the impassive, imperturbable decision by which
he strode his way even through blood and the blood of friends, sacri-
firing the reputation and the love of his dearest comrades to gain his
ends. And then the battlefield was pictured to his mind, and the
thousands slain for one purposeful intent, and the refrain? shaped in
in his ears, What is a life? What is a life? What is a life? The
waves below seemed to sing it, rmtil the monotonous chant became a
diabolical invitation, a supernatural command. Putting his fingers
in his ears, they ascended the path and walked past the Penally
cottages. Every one was asleep. Upon the cliff breasting the open
ocean it was lighter. The Meacham Rock, like a majestic guardian
of the port, stood in the grandeur of its sables amidst the frothed
and foaming sea. The surging, sighing, clamouring waves broke
perpetually against the cliff, marking in ghostly whiteness the bases
of the rocks, whose heights were lost in the blackness of darkness.
Seawards only was there any view—a dark and palpitating ocean,
ceaselessly heaving beneath the spangled canopy of night.
They sat down upon the double-armed seat, known well enough to
tourists who visit Boscastle, each in a corner of the weather-worn
bench, each smoking in the stillness, the silence that Nature imposes,
whether by night or day, upon all who regard the grandeur of that
noble stretch of breathing sea. Each meditating as in a dream, each
interpreting to his own mind the voices of the sea, listening to the
whisper of the winds.
Out yonder, miles away, a steamer came up the Channel, nothing
of her visible but her green light, steadily passing in the silence,
like a spirit upon the moving waters.
But neither spoke. They sat there in the solemnity almost in-
visible to each other, except for the little point of fire that tipped
the ends of their cigars.
So they waited, gazing abstractedly at the infinite stretch of sea,
at the glimmering splendour of the jewelled heavens, fascinated as
all men are by the mystery of the moving tide, by the solemn still-
ness of the stars, by the majestic monotony of night.
"Whilst continually sounded in Norman's ears the Satanic chant of
the breakers, " What is a life ? What is a life ? What is a life ? "
At last the Colonel rose, yawning, and said, as he stretched his
arms, " It is cold ; it is time to go."
" Yes," replied Norman, in a grave, deep voice; " it is time."
" Come, then."
'* Are you ready ? "
" Yes."
" For death ? "
" Death ! What ? " exclaimed the Colonel, drawing back in horror.
" Why do you glare at me like that ? Hands off, Norman! Can this
be you ? Off, I say ! Madman or devil! "
" Keep your breath, You will want it for your struggle with me,"
124
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
cried Norman, seizing bis uncle and violently thrusting him away
again.
" What is this ? Norman ! Are you mad to-night, or "
" Call it a duel, if you will. I care not; we fight for our lives."
"We fight?"
"Aye, and fairly, if fair can be in such a bloody piece of work. I
am calm. Recover yourself. Summon all your strength. You will
want it all. One of us goes over the cliff—jou or I; I care not
which."
" Norman ! "
" Call me some other name. Come, let us fight. Let us struggle
here for our lives. You have killed men in battle; now kill me,
01* "
" This is murder," ejaculated the Colonel breathlessly. " Then by
Heaven I will not die without grappling for my life; " and he rushed
upon his nephew, seizing his arm and holding him as in a vice.
But only for a moment. A struggle upon that narrow, dangerous
ledge could have but one result. A fierce wrestle there, when each
held the other in his grip, could only have resulted in a fearful grap-
pling and stumbling, until both the combatants, interlocked in
deadly embrace, would have fallen over the precipitous cliff into the
deep and surging sea.
Putting forth a sudden and terrific effort, Norman wrested his
arms free from his uncle's despairing clutch, and threw him forcibly
back; then, seizing him by the throat with his giant arm, he lifted
him bodily from his feet, and, hurling him forward with awful force,
thrust him over the edge of the cliff. The Colonel tottered for a
moment on the rocky slope, frantically endeavouring to cling to the
sharp and jagged crags as befell; but, reeling through the vigour of
the terrible thrust he had received, he fell with a despairing and re-
IToachfnl cry into the boiling waves.
Was it an echo—that shrill cry that reverberated from the rocks,
and resounded in Norman's ears ? Or was it the first harsh wail of
remorse, that was to torture him to his grave ?
Answering it with a curse, he clambered up the rocks, and, fearful
of descending by the regular path, made his way homewards by the
steep, grassy ridge at the rear of Penally Cottages.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
briefly descriptive of tiie witness of tiie wickedness.
"Alas!" (Rhoda Broughton.)
At the top of the footpath, and adjoining the ledge, the scene of
the murder, there is a rough hut, or coastguard's shelter, rudely
fashioned by sailor hands. Soon after Norman had gone, a woman,
scared and haggard, emerged from this, and, with staggering gait,
DESCRIPTIVE OE THE WITNESS OF THE WICKEDNESS. 1'25
clambered to the edge of the cliff, and peered over into the dark-
ness.
Ascertaining that it was impossible to "see anything in this man-
ner, she retraced her steps ; then, creeping forwards on her hands
and knees, she prostrated herself at full length, and managed,
though not without a feeling of dizziness and dread, to project
her head over the cliff in such a manner as to be able to see the
base of the rocks. It was a dreadful slope. It was like lying
head downwards on the roof of a house and peering over the
eaves.
At first, all she saw was the surging waves, breaking in foam and
spray upon the jagged boulders ; but after a while, at the entrance
to the Blow-hole, she imagined she could discern some dark object,
tossed this way and that in the white spit of the breakers.
The narrow tongue of rock projecting into the ocean, and forming
the extremity of Napoleon Rock, is tunnelled at the sea-level, by the
force of the seas of ages, in a very peculiar manner, causing a natural
phenomenon, known well enough to all visitors to Boscastle. It is
called the Devil's Bellows, or the Blow-hole. The sea, dashing in wild
fury into the sea-mouth of the tunnel, is forced through the narrow
way with mighty force, and discharges into the harbour side with a
loud roar like thunder, spouting out the spume and spray in jets of
sudden anger, blowing with the force of the imprisoned air, which,
caught for a few moments between the subsiding waves, is sealed in
the cavern, until the next roaring billow rushes through the tapering
tunnel, and with wild force and rage bursts out in mad gusts of
foaming water. The suction of the tunnel draws the waves to linger
at its mouth, and causes a whirlpool or vortex both at flux and
reflux, in which the waters gurgle everlastingly.
It was in this boiling eddy of broken water that the woman, utter-
ing a sob of horror, beheld glimpses of the murdered man's mangled
body. Slowly and with difficulty she regained the ledge, rushed
frantically to the seat, and burst into hysterical tears. For a min-
ute only. Throwing up her arms to heaven, she breathed a prayer.
Sinking upon her knees, wringing her hands in wild lamentation,
and making frantic gestures of woe, she was, indeed, beside herself
with grief and dismay.
She remained for long upon her knees, muttering prayers, burst-
ir.g into cries and sobs, clasping her hands before her eyes, or staring
in stupor at the stars.
Then she felt a hand upon her arm, and, rising to her feet, she
found herself face to face with a man.
Gazing at him in bewilderment and terror, she uttered a loud
shriek, and fell fainting and horrified at his feet.
126
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
CHAPTER XXIX.
showing how crime makes callous the heart of man.
"The Spendthrift." (Harrison Ainsworth.)
" Oh, my offenco is rank, it smells to heaven." (Shakespeare.)
It was after one o'clock when Norman reached Forrabury Hall. He
entered the gates stealthily, and walking with cat-like tread on the
sward beside the carriage-drive, got into the house through the
French window of the library, which was open, exactly as Colonel
Forrabury had left it.
By the appearance of the room, no one had been there since they
went out. Norman noted this with satisfaction. Pouring out a stiff
dose of whisky, he drank it at a draught, and then taking off his
boots, which he dusted with his handkerchief, he walked up the car-
peted stone stairs noiselessly and in the dark, reaching his chamber
and quietly locking the door with extreme care.
Undressing without lighting a candle, he sank upon his bed, and,
regardless of his damnable crime, or too exhausted by the events
of the day to reflect upon his reckless wickedness, and doubtless
assisted by the repeated draughts of spirit, he fell at once into a
sound sleep, nor did he wake until he heard the Scotch servant Mac-
pherson summoning him at the usual hour.
Roused from his slumbers, he sat up in bed with a start, and put
his hands to his head wearily.
" Do I dream p " he said to himself sofily. "No, no. The inci-
dents are too clear. I remember ; I pushed him over the cliff. Yes.
A voice said to me, as I sat there, ' Kill him ! kill him ! kill him !
Now is your chance ! Kill him!' How we struggled ! I feared he
would have clung to me, and dragged me with him. But I was too
strong for him. Ha ! ha ! How I hurled him over! He' went like
a ball from a catapult; once he reeled—only once; and then—well!
—an easy death. He would be stunned before he reached the water.
After that fall he could not struggle as I did in Pentargon Bay. He
would drown at once. An easy death. I am glad of that.
"But that shriek! Yes; it was his only—or my imagination.
Had I been seen, they would have followed me. I did not hurry. I
sat down on the ridge. It was an echo, that was all; though it
thrilled me at the first, and frightened me.
" How vivid it seemed! It was not his.
" It sounded afterwards—an echo; and my coward thought con-
verted it into another's voice.
"I must beware of that. I must not let myself know fear, or
startle at trifles. I must be bold—and prudent, and cautious. -It is
fools only who are found out—blundering fools. How strange!
Have I really done it P A horrible, horrible, horrible act. "What!
Was it I who did this ?
"A horrible act ! Ab, yes; but I am not sorry. Nothing is so
SHOWING HOW CRIME MAKES CALLOUS THE HEART OF MAN. 127
odious as poverty. I will forget it. I will try not to tliink of it; I
will blot it out of my mind. Even now I do not care. I am fresh
and well. I feel as merry as a cricket—never better. Remorse !
Bah ! That is for the melodrama.
"But there will be some nasty work to go through. They will
find it out soon ; they will find the—the—the body ; and they will
miss him. Mac will miss him soon.
"I shall be questioned in this confounded country. It is not like
Texas, where all is over when you have killed your man. The
worst has to come. The most dangerous, the questioning, the
inquiry; there will be an inquest if they find the — the—if they
find it.
" I shall have to give an account of myself.
" Fool! I have already made a mistake. I ought to have awoke
Mac last night, and told him that I saw my uncle fall over. I should
have told him the truth—all but the last horrors. Now I must
weave a web of falsehoods, which is difficult.
"."What shall I say of myself? It is little things that give the
clue. I must weigh every word—remember everything, be careful
of each act.
" Well, I know nothing—absolutely nothing. I went to bed as
usual. The servants had all retired, as usual, before me. No one
saw me last night upon the cliff.
" But that shriek ! That gives me a shudder still. Pooh ! a
mere echo. It shall not daunt me.
" If it were not an echo, I shall—hang--by—the—neck—until—I
---am—dead. No, no; I shall not. There will be a trial. I will
have the first criminal lawyers to defend me. I will establish an
alibi. Somehow I will creep through.
" How odious to be stared at in court! Every one will flock to
stare at me. No; I will shoot myself first.
" What a lazy blue-bottle ! They get numb towards winter. The
cold makes them torpid.
"Why, I have slept with my window open, I declare. I thought
the room was fresh and sweet. I wonder what causes those flaws in
the glass ; specks of sand, I suppose. There ! the fly has fallen on
its back. No; he is up again. (Strange what becomes of all the
dead flies !
" When will they find the dead body of my ?
" Nonsense ! Let me not waste time by these idle dreams. I have
slept in my clothes. I must rumple the sheets. I must get up and
dress. I must act exactly as usual.
" It is strauge—strange ! I feel as usual. I feel no horror. I am
well, I am blithe; I have slept like a rock, and feel as cheerful as a
cricket. I wonder whether crickets are cheerful, and whether rocks
do sleep—whether they have not some peculiar sentient feeling that
our natures cannot dream of. How strange that I can speculate on
such trifles ! It strikes me as strange; I am a murderer now, and
yet I feel just like my ordinary self. My teeth do not chatter.. I
do not tremble with terror. All that they say in melodramas is
128
THE BEAUTY OP BOSCASTLE.
false. Conscience ! Fudge ! Remorse ! All ! bah ! That is all
for tragedians.
" I catch myself musing on things so oddly insignificant. What
matter is it to me which of those drops of water on my window-pane
first reaches the bottom ledge ? Why do I twist the dewy pattern
on the glass into trees and fields P The trees and fields are out yon-
der—real actual firs and pines, and. green stretches of meadow. Let
me get up, for they are mine—mine. Aye. I am master of all this
now. I am the squire ; lam rich ; I can pay my beastly debts. Let
me get up. I am buoyant, exhilarated, gay, actually happy."
He jumped out of bed and took his bath in the adjoining room.
There was a bath with hot and cold supply in his dressing-room, as
there was in the Colonel's. There was not a speck or a scratch 011
his hands, nor any sign of his recent struggle. He sang a stave or
two as he dressed, until he noticed his brace broken. He looked at
it, and began to mend it thoughtfully.
" Those are the things that give a clue," he muttered. " A lost
button, a broken sleeve link, found near the place of the murder. I
must not hesitate. I must accustom myself to say the murder—the
murder—the murder. Why ? There was no murder. It was a
duel—ah, no. I must lie. Who has not lied ? He must have fallen
over the cliff. He went out—I told him not to go on such a dark
night—but he would go; and I suppose he fell over. That will
do.
"Are my buttons all right? Yes; even the shirt studs. All are
here. It is very fortunate, for those little things give a clue. Those
are the things one ought to think of. What else must I remember ?
Could I have left anything there? My cigarette case ? No ; I cer-
tainly did not take it; but I will make sure. I left it in the library.
And I took no stick.
" But that strange cry I" he added, with a perplexed frown. " It
was uncommonly like the shriek of a woman. That is the thing
that makes me most uneasy. My ears could not have cheated mc,
D ! It was a cry ! That was no echo.
" Perhaps it was a gull or a sea-mew.
" No, no ; too loud, too shrill for that," he pondered, with a darker
frown. "A curse upon it; there is danger in that mysterious shriek.
Was I seen? Did any oue see the—the murder ? If so, were my
features detected ? 'Twas a dark night—dark as pitch. They could
not see me. No one could have made out my face on such a night.
And then we scarcely spoke. All was finished in the silence.
" But there was certainly a cry.
" What if there was ? By ! Come weal, come woe, I'll brazen
it out. I was not there, whoever says it.
" I'll be bold ! I will brazen it out ! I will be as bold as brass,
and circumspect—yes, I must be circumspect—very circumspect—
very circumspect.
" I have no slippers. That is a little thing, but little things tell
up. I always put slippers on to come up to bed, but last night I
came upstairs without them very quietly. Fool that I was 1 why
SHOWING HOW CHIME MAKES CALLOUS THE HEART OF MAN. 129
did I not bring them up in my hand ? They make chains of evi-
dence, these little points. They ferret out these ti'ifles and fit them
together. Curses be on all lawyers, say I. They scheme, and
ferret, and find out. They think and put together things, and they
weave, and weave, and weave until "
" And if they do. To with them all! Have I not brains as
well as they—and courage ? I'll not think on it too much."
He ran downstairs silently, found his slippers in the library, and
put them on. Then he whistled an air, assuming—nay, in reality
he felt in a jaunty humour, walked noisily into the breakfast-room,
and gambolled with the dog, holding a stick to make it leap.
Macpherson, coming in with a tray, saw him playing with the dog,
making him beg, bow, jump, and bark.
" A heavy rain last night, sair; after the fine I'se warrant 'twill
du a muckle guid," said Macpherson, putting down his tray.
"Oh, Mac, good-morning," replied Norman, apparently paying
no heed to anything but the dog. "Hi! hi! Cassai*, jump ! Higher,
sir. Higher—what d'ye say, Mac ? "
" Howd your yaffing," answered Mac to the dog. " I canna hear
the young laird for thee barking and howling. A fine morn, your
honour, after the rain."
" Oh. Has it been raining during the night ? "
" Aye, since five o'clock the morn, sair, but now it stoppit."
" Ah, I'm glad to hear it, Mac. The stream was getting very low.
I was afraid the sun would be killing the young trout;" and he
thought to himself, " Rain—ah ! it will wash out footmarks." Then
he added, " Is breakfast ready, Mac ? "
" Aye, aye, sair, lang syne."
" Where is the Colonel—in the garden P "
"Na, na, sair. He is na doon yet. He doesna like sairvants i'
his room. But he is late this morn. Shall I gae up to his honour
and tell him the breakfast is aye ready ? "
"Yes, Mac, I think you had better do so. For Caesar is as ready
for the bones, as I am for breakfast."
Norman's heart beat quickly with excitement. Nothing was
known yet, then. So far he felt reassured. But there would be a
stir directly. It needed no straining of the ears to hear Mac knock-
ing loudly at the Colonel's door.
" Heck, sair," cried Mac, running into the room, his face white
with alarm. " I dinna ken a bit what to make o't. The Colonel is
na in his room."
"Well, man, what of that? He is seldom so late as this. He
must have come down and strolled into the garden."
"Na, na, he has na sleppit in his bed; an', mair's the meestry,
his shoon that he worn yestreen canna be found at a'."
" Nonsense, Mac ! " exclaimed Norman, with a fine assumption of
wonder.
" It is na nonsense, but ii's muckle queer. I dinna like it."
"Do you say he has not been in his bed all night? It is very
strange. When did you see him last? "
K.
180
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
"Aboot ten o'clock. He came in at the gate, and he said,'Ye
can go to bed, Mac. I shall stroll on the lawn a wee. I will lock
up. He said he wad look for glow-worms, after he had got a cigar.
Glow-worms ! Sae muckle fash wi' his fancies."
" And that was the last thing you saw of him? "
"Aye, sir; I dinna ken the meaning o't."
" Nor I. Come upstairs with me. It is so strange, that I can
only believe my own eyes. Have you asked Mrs. Macpherson and
the servants p "
"Ay, sair. An'they canna tell wha's the matter."
" Certainly the bed is undisturbed."
"And the bowster has na been sleppit on."
"You had better step up to the Rectory, Mac. He must have
gone for a walk and stopped there to shelter from the rain. It is
certainly very odd. He cannot have gone to sleep in the drawing-
room or the librae, I suppose, eh ? "
" Na, I have lookit there," said Mac, shaking his head gravely.
" Well, send in my breakfast at once. And go to Mr. Gee's and
inquire. You are sure to find him there, I expect."
CHAPTER XXX.
TELLING OF THE FIRST QUALMS OF REMORSE.
" Methouglit I heard a voice cry, ' Sleep 110 more.' " (Macbeth.)
" So far so good," said Norman to himself, as he uncovered the
breakfast. " Chops—good ! Eh, ham and eggs—blackberries and
cream—good ! I have an excellent appetite. Chapter two is over.
But how odd it is that everything seems so natural! I begin to like
this business. It is exciting. One has to use one's wits. I have
learnt a good deal. I am collecting evidence, and I have not com-
mitted myself. So he went out to look for glow-worms, did he?
Bravo, Mac! An admirable idea! I will harp on that string. I
fancy I played my part well. My surprise was admirable. I had no
idea I was so good an actor."
He went on eating his breakfast heartily; then he muttered, as
he laid his knife and fork down,—
" I wonder when they will find the body."
The idea made him reflect, and for some minutes he sat gazing
vacantly out of the window, turning over and over in his mind the
thoughts that were vaguely forming.
"Whatever I do must be easy," he said. "I will make a point
of behaving just as an innocent man would behave."
He rang the bell, and Mrs. Macpherson appeared.
"This is very extraordinary and disturbing, Mrs. Macpherson,
Where can my uncle have gone ? "
" Ah, sair. I daur na say wha's in my ken,"
"Why not? Come, say what you think, I have no more
appetite."
TEtLlttG OF THE FIRST QUALMS OF REMORSH. 131
"To gae after a gang o' daft auld wurrums. Eh, but it was
tempting Providence, and 011 sic a dark night. It was pit mirk.
Our talents were given us to other use. I kenna where he is; if he
hadna gone to luke for wurrums I shouldna be afeard. But I fear
1 shall see the puir Colonel na mair. An' a' for a few puir glimmer-
ing wurrums, tfyit dinna gie 'ony light out o' their uncanny bodies
after they're catchit. I always almaist believed that glow-wurrums
belong to the devil. For it is'na in nature for wurrums to gie a
light like a candle; and ye ken, Mr. Norman, if ye find ane of them,
an' put it in a basket, it's bewitched awa' aye soon. Aweel, aweel,
I hope I may be wrang, but I fear the Colonel is na mair; for mee-
self, I have na the heart of a sprug."
" Well, do not clear away the breakfast, Mrs. Macpherson. I am
very agitated,_ and—and concerned. It is extraordinary—extra-
ordinary. Has Mac come back from the Rectory yet ? " His heart
thumped against his ribs for all his easy air of natural solicitude.
"Na, sair. He hasna been long gane."
" Tut, tut, it seems a long time. Let me know as soon as he
returns. Do not clear away the breakfast, Mrs. Macpherson. We
shall have the Colonel walking in directly with an appetite like a
hunter."
"Na, na," replied the old woman, shaking her head solemnly.
"He will come back na mair. He is clean bewitched awa'. Bos-
castle is an uncanny place to gae out when it's pit mirk to seek for
wurrums that shine wi' the deil's own light like the lanterns of
Beelzebub, or the weel o' the wisp mayhap, snaring wi' their un-
canny glow my puir maister to stumble in the darkness, an' to fall
like a stane from a sling over the craigs of Blackapit."
" Stop your moaning, woman ! " cried Norman excitedly. " I will
not believe such fancies until I have better evidence than your
foolish fear. Keep the coffee hot, and a brave heart. The Colonel
will return, I tell you. Who says he fell over the cliff? Who?
who ? who ?"
So saying, he strode into the library, and, locking the door, went
up to the bookshelves, muttering, "When will the body be found?
It will not do for me to be here with a locked door. I ought to head
a hue and cry. When will the body be found ? Drowned bodies
sink. It takes time for them to rise to the surface; that is a thing
every one knows; but how long first? What book will tell me? "
With feverish and trembling hands he pulled out volume after
volume, turning over the pages eagerly, and throwing them on the
flooi'. Then in a reflecting, cautious way he put them back with
careful exactitude, muttering, " It is these little things that tell
tales. I must put them all back again exactly where they were.
And I must not be here long. I ought to be heading a search. Ah,
I must lead a cautious life now—a cautious life. I must live as
though under the microscope. My every action will be watched—
scrutinised. Aha ! well. Let me smoke a cigarette.
" Where is my case—my cigarette case? Did I take it with me
last night on to the cliff? I have lost it somewhere. These are the
things that make evidence.
132 IHE BfeAtTY Of* BOSCASTLB.
" A fig for evidence ! I do not care. It is exciting. Ah ! How
my heart beats ! I can hear every pulsation. Well, well! It is better
than billiards. I will play with judgment. I will think of 'the
leave.' I will ' keep under the cush.' Oh, yes, I will be prudent.
I will always think 'who is my player' ? By the bye—who is my
player P " he said aloud, sitting down in an easy chair, in a thought-
i'ul attitude. " Who is my player? "
Then, jumping to his feet, he muttered between his teeth, " Clara
Gee is my player. By all that's holy, that cursed woman is on me!
So, so ! She is a shrewd, clever woman, suspicious, hard. Yes,
d d hard ! She will follow me like a sleuth hound.
" Well, so much the more careful must I be. It is a point to con-
stantly bear in mind that my player is Clara Gee. She hates me
already. What a fui*y she will be in soon when the body is found ! "
On the bottom shelves were some old folios bound in time-worn
calf—heavy, ponderous books, never read, and seldom looked at.
These Norman now examined, scrutinising their musty title-pages
with serious care. When about to give up his seai'ch he came to
a torn and dingy volume, the title-page of which was missing, but
turning over the leaves he was soon reading the old stained pages
with concentrated interest.
" This is it," he exclaimed. " I knew I had read it in one of these
old books.
He turned the leaves over quickly, searchingly backwai'ds and
forwards. At length he read,—
" Srobmcb bobges, fofjctljer of men ov brashes, bigll remainc
beneath ge footers in fohgch tljcg are immcrscb untgl tfjrg are
bp ge processes of tgme bccomposeb.
" ge exhalations anb impuritges Snfjtclj arc rauscn bg ge
gcncratione of foul gasses bgstenbe ge bttlke of ge bobge, until
gt ascenbcth to ge top of ge Waters anb floatrtfj thereon.
" Some berg learncb persones thtuhtn gt brobmeb bobges
txrjjll surelge rcmagne bcrneath ge foaters for mang bates,
othcrrs tbeir abttrrsartcs thinftcn'gt ntoch bepenbeth on ge
stglc or eharactere of ge corpus, anb on ge supernatural bps*
tension of ge stomaches of ge persones brobmcb.
" But 31 babe often tgmrs obscrbcb gt after a mtghtg grate
shgpbiracfee, the fohgch hap fogth a sorrg frequcncg on these
eoasttes, gt alfoags tahrtlj sebcu or height bates for ge brofoncb
attb afoollcit bobges of ge gllstarr'b martnercs to appeare bpon
atop ge hggh scasr."
"Seven or eight days!" exclaimed Norman, replacing the old
volume upon its shelf. " I cannot remain here in Boscastle during
that awful interval of suspense. I shall grow grey-headed. I wish
I had not done this thing."
Striding into the hall, he rang the bell. "How long Mac is ! " he
exclaimed impatiently. " Has he not returned from the Rectory
yet ? Order my horse to be saddled. Send some one over to the
Earl's to inquire about my uncle there. Let some one step to the
WHICH DELATES HOW THE DEAD BODY WAS FOUND. 133
coastguai'd station and ask them to institute a thorough search upon
the cliffs, I shall ride over to Launceston. If I hear nothing there,
I shall go on to London. In some freak he may have gone up to
Town. Telegraph to Bude, to Camelford, to Bodmin—to all the
police-stations. Let all suspicious characters be watched.
"This anxiety is unbearable. This mystery is so disturbing, so
awful. I am at my wits' end what to do."
Having given way to a burst of long pent-up excitement, Norman
staggered rather than walked into the library, and, tottering on to
the couch, he covered his face with his handkerchief and sobbed like
a child.
CHAPTER XXXI.
which kelates how the dead body was pound.
" Found Dead." (/as. Payn.)
The news had already spread. All Boscastle was agog. At every
door of the long and straggling village street men and women stood
agape, shaking their heads and talking volubly.
At the foot of the hill the worthy miller, the centre of a bewildered
crowd, stood open-eyed, stroking his long grey beard in wonder-
ment, attempting in vain to solve the extraordinary problem of the
Colonel's mysterious disappearance, continually asking every fresh
comer for more news—more news.
There are only two roads out of Boscastle—one up a steep hill to
the east, the other up a steep hill to the south. Had the Colonel
passed along either of these, he must have been seen. Again, the
nearest railway station is seventeen miles away. He could not have
traversed the lonely road over the moors to Launceston without
having been observed. No man, whatever his station or degree in
life, could disappear from Boscastle unnoticed. Hence the excite-
ment at the strange non-appearance of Colonel Forrabury was
natural.
So, when a servant mounted on a swift horse clattered up the
steep village street towards Tintagel, all the people came out won-
dering, and soon Macpherson came back from St. Juliott's Rectory
with Mr. Gee in a fast gig. And after that Norman, with a grave,
thoughtful face, rode, mounted on the Emperor, inquiring personally
of the tenants. The coastguardsmen got out their life-saving appa-
ratus and repaired to the cliffs, and the people flocked after them,
as in time of danger or shipwreck or trouble the seaboard folk do
ever turn as by instinct to search by the sea.
Hearing no news, Norman checked his horse at the " Napoleon "
Inn, and, calling a youth, sent him to the Hall with a message for
Macpherson, saying that he would ride on to Launceston and leave
for London by the 2.40 p.m. train. " Possibly some strange freak,"
he said, " may have possessed my uncle to visit London. I may get
news at Launoeston Station. Meanwhile, I have left Macpherson
134
THE BEAUTY OP BOSCASTLE.
orders to search everywhere. Let him continue to malce the fullest
inquiries." Then, glad to be away from the gaze of the people, he
gave the Emperor his head, and galloped madly over the moors as
fast as his horse could carry him.
Meanwhile the search party, headed by the coastguards, proceeded
to the cliffs. Before long it was noticed that the Devil's Bellows
were unusually still. Some fishermen, surveying the coast line from
a boat, observed that the hole was apparently stopped, that it ceased
to "blow." Such an incident was unusual—indeed, at the present'
stage of the tide, unknown. This natural phenomenon peculiar to
Boscastle has been already described. Through a natural funnel in
the rock the water is forced, and the imprisoned air and water
ejected in spouts of spume and spray, like a whale blowing. When
the tide reaches the level of the hole, it emits on the harbour side a
volume of foam with a loud roar like thunder, two or three times
a minute. Now, strange to say, the usual action of the Blow-hole had
ceased. The fishermen could not fail to notice this conspicuously
unusual circumstance. An oar was pushed into the hole. The
people crowded on the cliffs in great excitement. Another boat put
off from the quaint old pier, skirted Napoleon Point, and rounded
the cliff to the sea side of the Blow-hole. There was much shouting
and strange sailor cries. The crowd rushed from the harbour side to
the sea face of the cliff, whispering in awe, pulsing with breathless ex-
citement, shouting, calling to each other by name, or speculated upon
the incident in hushed and whispered voices. The coastguardsmen
fixed their grappling irons to the rock, and their captain scrambled
down by a rope into the boat which had now gained the sea orifice
of the Blow-hole. A long boat-hook was thrown to him from the
cliff, and in a little while, amidst a subdued roar of voices, the shape-
less body of the Colonel—unrecognisable—torn, and mangled, and
bloody, was drawn from the terrible hole which had formed his
tomb.
CHAPTER XXXIT.
describing the inquest and verdict.
" What dreams may come." (G. F. Atlierton.)
The inquest was duly held. Evidence was given by the coast-
guardsmen of the finding of the body. Macplierson explained how,
a little after ten o'clock on the night of the 26th November, the
Colonel came home as usual from his visit to St. Juliott's Rectory,
sent him to bed, and said he would lock up the house himself—as he
would very likely go for a stroll and look for glow-worms. It was a
dark night. The Colonel often went out to seek glow-worms. He
liked to have them in his garden. Asked by a juror whether the
Colonel was accustomed to stumble, Macpherson replied in the nega-
five, Asked when he first missed his master, said in the morning,
DESCRIBING THE INQUEST AND VERDICT.
135
and related the circumstances which are told in a former chapter.
All the servants were called, but had little evidence to give.
Mr. Norman Forrabury was the next witness. He looked pale
and worn and very grave. Every one was struck with the great pro-
priety of his demeanour, the precision of his answers, and the frank
manner in which he volunteered statements as to his poverty. He
himself suggested that it was a vei'y pertinent point in the inquiry
that he was the heir to the Forrabui-y estates, and that by his uncle's
death he had become possessor of a considerable fortune. He knew
his uncle was engaged to be mai'ried to Miss Gee. He believed his
uncle had been visiting her at St. Juliott's Eectory the night of his
death. His uncle came home at ten o'clock or a little after.
He came into the library, and conversed with him for a few mo-
ments. He then went out, saying he was going to look for glow-
worms. His uncle asked him to accompany him, but he declined to
do so, as he was interested in a book he was reading. He advised
his uncle not to go, as he thought it was a dark night to be out
without a lantern. His uncle replied that it was best to look for
glow-worms in the dark. He saw his uncle to the gate, and went to
bed leaving the door unlocked. His uncle took the key; that was
the last he saw of him. Was much surprised and alarmed in the
morning when he heard his uncle's bed had not been slept in.
Asked by a juror whether he immediately instituted a search for
his uncle, replied in the affirmative.
Nicholas Pearn was called, and testified that he had often seen
Colonel Forrabury walking on the cliffs after dark. Asked if he had
seen him gathering glow-worms, replied Yes. Asked if he had seen
him on the night of the 26th November, replied No.
Inhabitants of the Penally Cottages were called. They had often
seen the Colonel strolling on the cliff after dark, but not the night
in question. Tourists frequently walked on the cliffs and up to
Napoleon Point after sunset. The Colonel was generally alone when
he took his night walks.
The constable was called. He stated that from information re-
ceived he repaired to the cliffs by the bench near Napoleon Point.
He found the end of a cigar (produced), and a silver cigarette case,
containing cigarettes and marked N.F. This was produced, and re-
cognised by Norman Forrabury as a case he had lent to his uncle.
The constable assumed that it had fallen from the pocket of the
deceased. It was close to the bench on the cliff'. He could see no
trace of the deceased, and returned to the town. He advised the
coastguard to especially search that portion of the cliffs, and it was
near there that the body was found. He afterwards viewed the
body ; it was awfully cut and mangled. There was a large diamond
ring on the finger of deceased's right hand. His watch and chain
were in his pocket, and his purse and pocket-book were also found
upon the body.
Dr. Good was called, and stated that from the appearance of the
body there could be no doubt that the deceased had been drowned.
The cuts and bruises upon the body were superficial, and had been
136
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
caused by the sliavp edges of the roclcs against which the body had
been repeatedly dashed by the waves. No body could have been
forced into the Blow-hole without being afterwards much mangled
and injured. Had there been deeper cuts he should not have been
surprised; the cuts were, however not deep and were undoubtedly
caused by the jagged edges of the rocks. The rocks in North Corn-
wall were of a slaty character, and as every one knew were very sharp
and jagged. Had no doubt as to the cause of death, which of course
was evident to the meanest comprehension.
Numerous other witnesses offered themselves, but had no evidence
of importance to give. Mainly their statements were to the effect
that the deceased was given to solitude and to strolling upon the
cliff at night. The coroner at length stated that no further evi-
dence need be taken upon that particular point.
A communication was then whispered to the coroner by an
officer of the court.
"Very important evidence," replied the coroner. "Call the
witness."
" Jennie Tredorn," cried a policeman at the door; "call Jennie
Tredorn."
Mr. Norman Forrabury looked up with some anxiety. What
could this "important evidence" be? he asked himself, as the girl,
in the modest dark serge dress that became her so well, stepped
forward and with a respectful curtesy replied to her name in a
faint and faltering voice.
"Well, Jennie Tredorn," said the coroner; "have you also seen
the deceased walking upon the cliffs ? "
"Yes, sir," replied Jennie, with her eyes upon the floor.
" Well, and what other information have you to give? Did you
see him upon the night in question ? "
" Yes, sir." Her answer was given in an odd, constrained manner.
Norman Forrabury grew pale as death at her answer. Coward
that he was, he trembled, staring at the witness in terror and bodily
fear.
" Oh, you saw him ! At what time ? "
"At about eleven o'clock."
" Was he upon the cliff ? "
" Yes, sir."
" Well, and where were you P "
" Upon the Point."
" The Point ? "
"Upon Napoleon Point, sir."
" On the cliffs close above where the body was found? "
" Yes, sir; and there I saw Colonel Forrabury."
Norman's face blanched. His eyes were riveted upon the wit-
ness. In an instant it flashed upon him that the cry he had heard
at the time of the murder was Jennie's voice. His heart pulsed
with a sudden and deeper fear. Here then, in court, in open court,
before the dead was committed to the grave, his crime was to be
published to the wondering world by the lips of his lover, his
DESCRIBING THE INQUEST AND VERDICT.
137
mistress. It was her voice that uttered that cry of horror. She
had seen the foul and abominable murder, and now her outraged
humanity, revolting against the wicked deed, was to find voice, and,
in the face of all people, the murderer was to be unmasked. She,
the woman whom he had wronged, was to level against him the
terrible charge. Horrified by the deed she had seen enacted, her
eyes would be opened to all his villainy. Overwhelmed by the loss
of her own honour, grieved and sore at heart, burning under a sense
of shame, her simple conscience awakened to her own sins, she would
in repentance and grief lay bare all his iniquity in the open day and
accuse him, aye, and convict him too, of a murder, so black and bare,
that the very people in the streets would stone him.
He could read it all in her determined face as he stared fixedly at
her. One glance of disdain—one flash of contemptuous loathing—
struck from the hard flint of her black eyes, after that she would
not look at him. His lips wei'e colourless, his cheeks pale, and his
palms grew moist with the sweat of horror; whilst she, averting her
face, bearing on her featui'es a sullen look of disgust, and with eyes
bent upon the floor, recited her evidence in faint and almost
frightened tones, amidst the breathless interest of the court.
" He was upon the cliffs above the Devil's Bellows," she said,
almost inaudibly.
" Speak louder. I cannot hear what you say," said the coroner.
" I saw the Colonel, sir, there."
" Well, go on. Was he alone ? "
Her answer was inaudible.
" Speak up to his worship," said the policeman present.
" I cannot understand why witnesses cannot make themselves
heard," exclaimed the coroner testily. " You had better come a little
nearer. I have no doubt you can make yourself heard ordinarily.
How, do speak up. Do you say that the deceased was alone at the
time you saw him ? Your evidence is most important."
" Yes, sir, he was quite alone."
" Exactly. Go on. Have you anything else to tell us P "
"He sat some time on the bench, sir; and then his hat blew off,
and he went to fetch it, for it had fallen a little way down the cliff.
Then I saw him fall over into the sea."
A gasp—a sob—an indescribable sound burst from Horman
Forrabury's lips. People in court looked upon his evident distrac-
tion with sympathetic pity.
"Then you actually witnessed the death of the deceased?" con-
tinued the coi*oner.
" Yes, sir."
" Why did you not instantly arouse the neighbourhood ? "
"Wbat were you doing upon the cliff at that hour?" asked a juror
simultaneously.
And another juror said, "Let the witness complete her story.
What happened when you saw the deceased fall over the cliff ? "
"I am often out at night, sir," continued Jennie. "I often stroll
on to the Point. I did so on Thursday night, I saw Colonel
138
THE BEAUTY OP BOSCASTLE.
Forrabury there. I saw him fall over the cliff. I rushed up to the
place and tried to save him. I tore my dress upon the rocks. I leant
over head foremost. I can climb well, but it is very steep there. I
had great difficulty in getting back again. When I got on to the
ledge again, I fainted. It was so horrible."
Here Jennie covered her face with her handkerchief, and sobbed
hysterically. Norman Forrabury was visibly affected, though he
endeavoured to conceal the emotion which was almost choking
him.
" Did you see a basket ? "
"A basket, sir P No."
"Had the deceased a basket on his arm when you saw him on the
cliff ? Did yoii see him pick up any glow-worms and put them in a
basket ? "
" Yes, sir, I think I saw a basket," said Jennie Tredorn faintly.
"But you said just now you did not see a basket," said a juror.
"You must be very careful in your replies. Now, did you see a
basket, or not ? "
" Yes, sir, I saw a basket. The words came faintly from her lips
as she told the lie.
" What sort of a basket was it ? "
" I could not describe it. I did not notice it particular!y."
" But you did see a basket, eh p "
" I think so ; I am not sure."
" Think again."
" I think he had a basket."
" Well, anything else? "
" In the morning Jose found me upon the cliff. It had been
raining. It seems I was delirious. I do not know what I said to
him. I do not know whether I told him of the—of the— of the
horrible death. I was so delirious and ill."
" To whom did you first speak of this ? "
" I told my father. He said I had been dreaming."
" Is your father present ? "
"Yes, sir."
" And who is Jose ? "
" He is my brother."
" Your brother, eh ? "
" Well, he is not my brother exactly."
'• But just now you said he was," exclaimed the exact juror.
" Sir, he is my foster-brother. Father adopted him—and we have
grown up together."
" Is he here."
"No, sir, he is not here. He left in the Sir Francis Drake for
Bilbao at dawn."
" Why did he leave ? "
" He was bound for Bilbao."
" Did he know that the deceased had fallen over? "
" No."
" Have you anything further to tell us ? "
DESCRIBING THE INQUEST AND VERDICT. 139
" No, sir."
" You may go for the present. Call Tredorn."
" What do you know of this sad affair, Tredorn ? "
" My lad, Jose, brought my daughter home this morning. She
was wet through and faint. I was angry with her for being out late.
I am sorry to say she is often out late of nights. I had her put to
bed. Jose is a seaman—as you well knows—he went off in the Sir
Francis Drake, bound for Bilbao, at dawn. I got the girl some tea.
She roused a little, and seemed delirious. I remember, now, she
said something about something falling over the cliff. I thought it
was delirious nonsense at the time. I went to my forge as usual.
When I heard that Colonel Forrabury was missing, 1 thought of
the girl's words, and communicated the facts to the constable; and
that is all I know."
"How do you account for your daughter being out so late?"
inquired a juror.
" She is often out late of nights," replied the worthy smith ;
" especially this autumn when the nights have been so calm. Jose
is often late also. They are brother and sister, as all Boscastle
knows. I adopted Jose. He is never at home, except sometimes at
meals, but then not often. In the summer time he rarely sleeps at
home. He sleeps anywhere, under a boat—on the cliff—anywhere
rather than in a bed."
" Can you throw any further light upon this sad affair?" asked the
coroner.
The old smith shook his head.
" You can stand down, Tredorn."
Then there was a good deal of talking, and wlyspering, and
rustling of papers, and shaking of heads, sighs, and sad looks, and
earnest consultations ; and soon there was a quietude and attention
as the coroner summed up the evidence. Finally he continued:
"Well, gentlemen of the jury, I do not think I need say any more,
or that any further evidence is forthcoming, nor, as we shall prob-
ably be agreed, is any further necessary. We all knew the late lord
of these adjacent manors, Colonel Forrabury. A worthier man
never served his Queen and country, a better neighbour we could
not have; and we must all join in expressing our sincere sym-
pathy at the great loss which has been sustained by his bereaved
nephew, Mr. Norman Forrabury, whose painful duty it has been to
give his evidence in the frank and straightforward manner that we
have all just heard. It is satisfactory to us, at any rate, to have
cleared up the case so thoroughly. There remains no mystery in
the case. It is in evidence that the deceased, in pursuance of a
frequent custom, went upon the cliffs at some time between ten and
eleven o'clock to seek glow-worms, and that he did soon the night of
the 26th instant. His hat blew off, and fell over the cliff. The
incident was witnessed by Tredorn's daughter—a young woman of
exemplary character, known, doubtless, to most of you—whose habit
of strolling on the cliffs at night is in accordance with the habit of
many tourists in the neighbourhood, and of the young Boscastle folk
140
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
—though, doubtless, it is not desirable for women o£ her class to be
out so late. Still, there was nothing extraordinary in her being
there at eleven o'clock ; it has been proved that it was her custom.
Well, then, the deceased, endeavouring to reach his hat, clambered
after it, and he was seen by the witness to fall over. The witness
endeavoured to reach him, became exhausted in her efforts, and
fainted away. In the morning, in her delirium, she seems to have
alluded to something having fallen over the cliff, but in such a
rambling way that it was not understood fully; and here I think
that the court will agree that it is very unfortunate the witness
Tredorn did not give greater attention to his daughter's words. The
girl was delirious, it seems, and the witness paid no heed to his
daughter's statement. That, I think, is very serious, and I regret
it much. I do not know that we have sufficient material to censure
Tredorn, but had he been more sensible, had he been more quick to
interpret his daughter's delirium, possibly—though, even then, not
very probably—the deceased might have been saved. Again, we
must regret the absence of the young man Jose, who found the
girl upon the cliff; but he, knowing nothing of the disappearance
of the deceased at the time that he sailed for Bilbao in the Sir
Francis Drake, had, of course, no knowledge that there would be this
inquiry. We all know this man Jose—a respectable fisherman—
and his ship we know too, and that he is continually sailing in her.
We all know the vessel was bound for Bilbao, and due out that
morning, in the ordinary course. Jose, if rather stupid, is a decent,
insignificant man whom we all know. He could throw no further
light on the sad event. Still, his absence is to be regretted. I do
not think it is necessary to adjourn this inquest in order to obtain
his evidence; it could not be of consequence. We have the evidence
of the finding of the body, and you have heard the opinion of the
medical man—that the death was due to drowning. Considering that
the watch and chain of the deceased, with his purse and other valu-
ables, were found untouched upon his body; that a cigarette case,
belonging to him or his nephew, was found uninjured close to the
scene of the accident; that the deceased was known to be in the
habit of searching for glow-worms at night time, and that he was
actually seen to fall over by the daughter of one of his most
respectable tenants; I suppose, gentlemen, you will have no diffi-
culty in arriving at a verdict."
Then the jurymen all nodded acquiescence, and after a short pause
their verdict was given—" Accidental death."
A GUILTY MAN CANNOT RUN AWAY PROM HIMSELF. 141
CHAPTER XXXIII.
WHICH TELLS ROW A GUILTY MAN, LET HIM TRAVEL WHERE HE WILL,
CANNOT RUN AWAY FROM HIMSELF.
"Life's Remorse." (Mrs. Hungerford.)
—'' But oh, what form of prayer
Can serve my turn ? ' Forgive me my foul murder ? '
That cannot he, since I am still possessed
Of those effects for which I did the murder." (Shakespeare.)
So tlie Colonel's remains were buried with his ancestors in the vault
in the chancel of Forrabury church, near the old, solemn, solitary
tower. His nephew, the new Lord, stood by his tomb, and all the
people of Boscastle gazing at him, as the Rev. Thomas Goodall read
the service, thought how pale and sad he looked, and their sympathy
welled out towards the lonely mourner.
" Energy," said the Rev. Dr. Godless, as they strolled away from
the churchyard, " you ought to be'the real mourner. It would have
been a nice thing to have been the father-in-law of the Lord of your
Manor. St. Juliott's and Pengraff are fair livings, eh? How does
Clara bear it? Poor thing! A sad blow for her."
" Ah ! a great blow to her, Godless. She is such an affectionate
girl. It grieved her to the quick; she has sobbed her eyes out,
almost, poor thing."
" Humph ! She shouldn't do that. Spoil her appearance you
know. Better to be resigned. I should advise her to set her cap at
the nephew; he is equally rich, now, and younger."
" Don't say so, Godless. It shocks me. You are too blunt and
unsympathetic."
" My dear Energy, I sympathise with you thoroughly. Three liv-
ings in his gift! Bless me ! and Foiwabury is a good parish. That
is in his gift, or partly so. What do the tithes come to, eh P "
" Pretty well, only," said the Rector of St. Juliott and Pengraff
sadly.
" Ah ! poor fellow, poor fellow ! " said Dr. Godless, in a tone of deep
commiseration. " I am sorry for Clara. Has he left her anything,
Energy ? "
"Hot a fraction. The will is an old one. Everything goes to the
heir. Everything—except a trifle to the executors and the servants,"
said the Rector of St. Juliott bitterly.
" Ah! He is a lucky fellow. They say he was so poor before.
And now, Jupiter Tonans ! Won't he cut ducks and drakes with it!
You take my advice; tell Clara to call and console him. Let them
mingle their tears, and pity each other."
" But she dees not like him."
" All the better. Plenty of wives hate their husbands—and watch
'em like cats. Does the husband good. Keeps 'em out of mischief.
They have to behave so circumspectly that their morals are
absolutely perfect; so both live chaste, and each lives to be old to
the beauty op BoscastBe.
spifce the other. Of course they quarrel, so that life is never dull.
Really, when married people hate each other, as they so often do,
they do each other good unbeknown. Now Clara would be a real
blessing to young Norman Forrabury. You may be sure, Energy,
he will want looking after. Of course, all this in the strictest confi-
dence."
For three or four days after the funeral, Norman was busy with
innumerable items of detail. These afforded him good excuse for
remaining much in the library alone. Early in the morning and in the
evening he took lonely rides on the unfrequented roads. Very soon
his presence in London would be essential on business matters. He
longed to leave Boscastle. He had not many calls to receive.
Nothing was so agreeable to him as solitude. Even Mac's respect-
fill attentions became offensive. He desired one thing only—to be
alone, to be under nobody's eye, to be unwatched.
He had not spoken with Jennie since the day when he had
promised to take her to Texas. On the day after the funeral he met
her coming down the old High Street. He perceived her approach
as he was ascending the hill. He felt he could not meet her.
For one moment, their eyes met but in that brief flash of recogni-
tion he discerned such contempt and horror, that his cheeks flushed
with shame.
Turning on his heel, he rapidly retraced his steps; he dared not
face her.
At nights he could not sleep. After a few days of loneliness, the
solitude became unbearable, his own thoughts were too much with
him. If he slept, he woke with a start, and could sleep no more.
He had nightmares and horrible dreams. He beheld Jennie's eyes
fixed on him in scorn and awe. By day he was restless, listless, and
dull. He felt that his love for Jennie had vanished; that, instead of
loving, he now disliked her. Why had she come to the inquest to
lie for Kim? She lied for him, she screened him, and then scorned
him. He had read scorn and contempt in her eyes, and felt a shame
which made his ears tingle and his face flush to the roots of his
hair. He thought gloomily how he owed his present misery to her.
It was mad unreasoning passion for her that had unhinged his in-
tellect, and inspired him with unholy greed. It was his desire to
screen her from disgrace, that indirectly made him a murderer.
She, whom fate had mingled so strangely with his life, was the cause
of the past murder, the pi'esent remorse. It was for her that he
wanted money; it was his quixotic love for her that had pi'ompted
him to the murder. And now, if he went to her, she would turn up-
on him like a rebel.
All the same, he would go to her.
He sought her next day upon Pentargon Cliff, as she was going to
her sanctum. Cold as it was, her weird love for the cavern still at-
tracted her thither.
He lay in wait for her stealthily behind the rugged stone wall.
As soon as she observed him, she repelled him with a gesture of
inexpressible horror, and turned in a contrary direction.
a guilty man cannot run away from himself. 143
Maddened by her contempt he pursued her, and though she fled
from him, he soon caught her. As he approached she paused, put-
ting up her hands in a gesture of fear.
He looked at her, saying nothing.
She murmured, "Do not scowl at me so."
He did not know that his expression had made him hideous, so
much had his evil passions worked upon his features.
He tried to speak, to say something ; anything ; but his thoughts
refused to take shape, his features worked nervously as in a man
who has St. Vitus's dance, and his lips were twisted into a dog-like
smile.
" Monster ! " she exclaimed " you are another man."
Again he tried to speak, but though his lips moved he said no-
thing.
" Villain! " she said, watching him in dread. " I saw you do the
murder. Go!"
He turned to leave her, and then, turning round again and offering
her his purse, he said, "You will want money for the "
" No, no, no," she cried, bursting into hysterical sobs. " Not that
money ; not that. It is stained with blood."
With an oath he turned on his heel, and left her sobbing violently
upon the turf.
At last he went to London. Macpherson and his wife were left in
the house as caretakers ; the servants were placed on board wages.
As he drove up the hill and left the town yonder in the valley, he
looked at it with a sense of relief, and bade it, with a curse, farewell
for ever.
But even London was odious to him. He met there so many whom
he knew—people who condoled with him on the death of his uncle in
language which scarcely concealed their congratulations on his attain-
ment of sudden wealth, people before whom he felt he had to act. He
determined to clear out of the country. He felt he could be happy
in Texas only, and instructed an agent to send him particulars of
ranches for sale. Once in his old life again, his visit to England,
with all its hateful incidents, would seem like a dream. But before
going back to that wild adventurous life, he took it into his head to
go to Paris. There he threw himself into a whirl of wild revels,
visited haunts of low vice in the Latin quarter, drove women of the
demi-monde in the Bois, flung himself with strenuous enthusiasm into
the reckless gaieties of the city of pleasure, drank absinthe, stimu-
lated his jaded and exhausted system with maddening excitement,
sipped champagne with ladies of the chorus and the ballet, and
revelled with vicious women in the whirling inebriations of sin that
one knows nowhere, joins in nowhere, but iu Paris.
Once a woman, snake-like, a Parisian, a woman on whom he had
lavished gold as freely as a gardener pours water on a dahlia, was
lolling on his bosom. It was after one of the mad delirious balls
which the demi-monde of Paris bask in, a romp of Satanic mirth,
where twirling women, wild-eyed, danced such dances as no master of
theTerpsichorean art could show the steps of, indecent,mad, wickedly
144
THE BEAUTY OE BOSCASTLE.
spirited dances full of a gay abandon, of fascination, of diablerie, danced
in a den of wickedness, a lurid saloon that might have well formed
the vestibule of the Palace of Hell.
He lay there unhappily, but lost in the glamour of wickedness.
The woman clad in a costly dressing gown, made of the small
feathers of birds, a gown exquisitely beautiful, although painfully
suggestive of heartlessness and cruelty.
Her long, thin, and yet lovely arms covered with diamonds and
gems, twisted about his neck like serpents, and her sinuous undulat-
ing figure wound round his, her glittering eyes fixed upon him,
and her jewelled head, her cruel mouth, thin lips and little pointed
teeth, made her look like the incarnation of a daughter of Satan
claiming her victim.
He was lolling on a sofa in his evening dress, fatigued with the
ball and his excesses, sleeping uneasily, muttering in his dreams.
" What are you thinking of, mon cher ? " she said to him gaily,
tapping him with her jewelled fan. "You started so when I struck
you. One would think you had committed a murder."
" Murder! " he cried, springing to his feet, and looking about him
uneasily. " Who said I had committed a murder ? "
" Pouf. But it does not signify. Ma foi! a little killing! That
is nothing to an Englishman.
He laughed huskily, saying, "I was drowsy and dreaming. I
think the champagne has got into my head. Do not wake me again
when I fall asleep."
She saw him no more. Indeed, he disappeared from Paris.
" Milord has done something," said the painted woman, " I
found him out, and he knew it. He will not come back! He knew
it was dangerous here. Eh Men I There are plenty more English-
men."
CHAPTER XXXIV.
which is a corrective of the last chapter, and teaches
the exact opposite thereof.
" What will He do with It ? " (Bulwer Lytton.)
Forsaking Paris in disgust, the wretched man sought change and
diversion in the sunny South. He visited Cannes, Mentone, Venice,
Genoa, vainly endeavouring to banish from his memory therecollec-
tion of his foul, cowardly, and wicked deed. His restlessness was
insatiable. He took interest in nothing. He longed for Texas, yet
dared not take his passage, lest Texas too should disappoint him.
He suffered all the pains of purgatory.
He had avoided Monte Carlo.- There he knew he could find dis-
traction, but he dared not play. In the excitement of the gaming-
tables he knew he could find relief, but he feared that in his un-
hinged state of mind, his play would be wild and foolish, and that
he should lose his ill-gotten fortune by plunging.
WHICH IS A CORRECTIVE OF THE LAST CHAPTER. 145
So from Genoa he returned to Nice, -without staying at Monaco.
The moth flutters round the candle. * Nice was dull. Mentone
was worse. At Monte Carlo there was something to exhilarate,
something to do. Besides, if he lost his fortune, what then ? Many
had lost their all that very year. Forty-three people had com-
mitted suicide there that season. Well, at the worst he would be
the forty-fourth. Perhaps they would find him some day at sunrise
with a hole in his forehead, lying under a palm-tree. The hand-cart
would be brought; and in an hour he would be stripped and
buried. After all a very quiet way of going out of the world, and
a thing that all of us have to do somehow or other. A suicide at
Monte Carlo is perhaps the least fussy way of all.
With these thoughts, he communicated with his bankers, and
with a heavy sum at command, took his place daily at the
tables.
He played very cautiously, and for small stakes, without much
loss or advantage. The croupiers watched him with an occasional
smile. They all start so. They all play low to begin with—all the
victims.
In a very few days he felt better than he had done for months.
It was now Februai-y, the wintry sunshine was delightful, the Medi-
terranean breezes bracing and agreeable, and the mild fresh
air, scented with the aromatic perfumes of the pepper plant, of
lemon and orange groves, of peach blossom and mountain pine, was
exhilarating and stimulating. He began to be happy again, or at
least to cling to the skirts of the ghost of happiness.
He met many people whom he knew. Old 'Varsity chums, people
of his county, men about town, Americans, all the world was
-there.
The Riviera towns seemed crowded with English people, the Prince
of Wales, the Duke of Monlcchester, Mr. Henry Challoner, the
notable dowagers. There too were the Orleans princes, Russian
and German celebrities, all the fashionable world. Never had there
been a gayer season at Cannes. Day and night there was an inces-
sant round of amusements, receptions, races, dinners, parties, and
balls.
He found himself happy in the society of these English abroad.
They had all become Bohemian; the memory of his great crime
dwindled away.
An excellent shot, he became quite popular at the tir aux
pigeons.
He became quite an habitue of the casino, )ret he always played
for the smallest stakes, and in the most systematic manner. He
played like a man of business, " keeping books " or cards with the
accuracy of an accountant, and carefully studying them after wai'ds
at his hotel. He did not follow any known system, but tried all
sorts of theories. Very often he sat there for hours booking only,
merely putting his money on the table in imagination, and carefully
noting the result in a large pocket-book.
Strolling one morning before breakfast, reading his newspaper
L
146
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
and smoking Lis cigar, he was touched lightly on the arm. He
turned with a guilty start.
" The Earl of St. Austell! You here ? Whei-e are you staying ? "
" I am at Cannes."
" And your daughter, Lady Boterel ? "
" She is with us, and my wife and son."
" Been hei*e long ? " he said, gradually recovering his coolness and
composure.
" A few days."
" With your people ? "
" They are here now."
" And you stay "
" For a day or two only. Lancelot will stay longer perhaps.
Like yourself he shoots well. He means to kill a few pigeons. What
a reputation you have made here ! "
" As a shot you mean P "
" You always were a sure shot. But I do not mean that. We
hear that you sit all day at the gaming tables, and rise an invariable
winner."
" I wish it were true. It is not. One day last week, for instance,
I lost something—nothing."
" Well, well! That is what people say, that you never lose much,
and that you often win."
" I never play for much."
" So we hear. But they say you have discovered a system, that
the table is afraid of you, that the croupiers call you the dangerous
Englishman."
" Eumour talks nonsense. I have played for absurdly low stakes,
and though I have won now and then, it is but a trifle in the aggre-
gate. Many men win more in one minute than I have done in a day.
The tables afraid of me ! Why, that is absurd. They do not even
notice such a small punter. I am only learning the game. It is a
distraction."
" After that sad affair at home."
"Yes," he said wearily, and with a shudder.
" Ay, yes. Poor Colonel Forrabury ! He was a dear fellow. How
mad of him to go out on those dangerous cliffs at midnight! My
daughter Yiolet used to do the same kind of thing. To some
people the cliffs by night have a strange attraction. But after -the
sad accident to your uncle, I have put my foot down. I will not
let her go out after sunset. She got into such a temper about it
that it made her quite ill. That is one reason we came here; a
winter in the Riviera is a panacea for all ills. Where are you stay-
ing?"
" At the Hotel Paris."
" Then we shall see each other at dinner perhaps, for to-day we
are there too. Meanwhile I wish you luck, and the good sense to
continue to play low. I don't like this roulette. It is not English;
though upon my word there are so many of our countrymen here,
we might think it the national game. Au revoir."
CONCERNING- LADY VIOLET BOTEREL.
147
" Au revoir, and ray compliments to the Countess. I regret to hear
Lady Boterel has been ill. I hope it is not serious."
" No, but she frets and seems dull. Lancelot wants to see you.
He heard you were here, and wants a matph with you. Knows how
dangerous yon are at the bii'ds."
" Well, we shall meet no doubt. But I am keeping you. GoocJ
morning."
" Good-morning, and remember my advice, Play low,"
CHAPTER XXXV.
CONCERNING LADY VIOLET BOTEREL AND THE GRIEF THAT GAIETY
CANNOT DISPEL.
" Through all the Changing Scenes of Life." (8. Baring Gould.)
To Lady Violet the circumstances connected with Colonel Forra-
bury's death seemed most extraordinary. Mr. Goodall, who was
present at the inquest, had called upon her immediately afterwards,
and informed her of the evidence. He laid great stress on the desira-
bility of keeping strictly secret the information he had indiscreetly
communicated to her respecting the intended marriage between
Jennie Tredorn and Norman Forrabury. No one knew of this but the
parties immediately concerned, except the Rector and Lady Violet.
Mr. Goodall seemed to think that a knowledge of the projected
relationship between the two chief witnesses would throw no light
upon the facts connected with the Colonel's death, although their
unauthorized publication might do much harm. The good man had
110 suspicions; but Lady Violet, with her imaginative temperament,
regai'ded the whole case as very mysterious, and her mind was dis-
turbed by vague ideas that she scarcely allowed to take shape.
These fearful thoughts, which she would not permit to remain in
her mind a moment after they had shaped there, haunted her. She
became unwell. Ever since she knew of Norman's engagement to
the smith's daughter she had been unhappy, listless, and even cross-
tempered. She neglected her work, her beautiful labours, her re-
fined and noble aims. She walked about aloue, became more and
.more eccentric, and at last fell ill.
She was advised to seek a sunnier clime and change of scene.
Following the prevalent fashion, she " went south," with her parents
and her brother.
To Lady Violet the Riviera brought no change. She could not
work. She abandoned her pen. The poetry of happy youth had
gone out of her soul, and the poetry of sorrow, brooding over her
troubled heart, was too profound to find utterance. Anxious to please
her father, she forced a gaiety she could not feel, and moved amidst
the crowded and fashionable salons of Cannes like a ghost. People
marked her, hunted her, and lionised her; for her poems and her
148
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
pictures liad made lier famous, and her budding fame had shed its
savour; thus she was courted, especially in the fashionable set that
circles in the Riviera towns.
She was indifferent to all; but her very coldness and apparent
hauteur served only to give a zest to her popularity.
■ " The best people" in Europe were there ; nay, all the world was
represented. Many famous Americans, renowned for their wit or
their wealth; princes and rajahs from India, loitering on those sunny
shores on their way to London for the coming great season; Her
Majesty the Queen, and many of her family; the leader of the Oppo-
sition, dukes, earls and barons numberless, Orleans princes, great
Russians, and the heir to an Imperial crown,
Yet this society, to which she had the entree, had no attraction
for her, A central figure was missing from the group,—the man
whose personality had awoke her interest, and more than her in-
terest, her alarm, her apprehension; and where he was not there
was a void.
Her father looked at her pale cheeks and wondered. A most emi-
nent physician, who happened to be in Cannes, was consulted. He
felt her pulse, took her temperature, tested her with the stethoscope,
and pronounced her in the best possible health.
"Then why this listlessness, this unusual pallor, etc., etc.," inquired
the fond mother.
" My dear lady, it is the old story j she is in love," said the great
physician.
" She is nothing of the sort," protested the Countess.
" She has all the signs," said the eminent one. " I know them all.
Half the girls that their mothers bring me in Belgravia with nervous-
ness, pallor, headaches, hysteria, and all the rest of it, have the same
complaint. Pooh, my dear Countess, it is always the same thing,
and the jades know it. I write them a prescription, and look gravely
at the mother; but as for the fair patients—the cunning creatures
are all alike—they smile at me through their tell-tale tears, for they
know I have found them out. You can do nothing for your
daughter, my dear lady ; she has something worrying her about the
region of the heart. Let her have plenty of change."
So they went to Nice for the carnival. Surely the battle of flowers
with its prettiness and gaiety, not to say its abandon, would drive
away the care that settled like a cloud upon her brow.
The Earl and Countess threw themselves into the fun with zest.
The passing carriages, with their trappings of roses and lilies, the
recognition of friends who, whirling past, pelted them with flowers,
the strangers, to whom the carnival gave liberty, and the pleasant
enjoyment of romping fun with ol noXkol, shorn of vulgarity by the
prettiness of the thing itself. The excitement of the mimic warfare,
the sunshine of springtime in winter, combined with the remem-
brance that it was early in March, and that there were fogs in Lon-
don, whilst they drove about in splendid equipages half hidden in
flowers, beneath the waving palm trees, surrounded by troops of
people, who hurled at them bouquets of violets, and covex-ed them
60NCER1TING LADY VIOLET BOTEF.EL.
i49
■with snowdrops and anemones, whilst tlie picturesque people who
lined the promenade covered them with showers of roses, migno-
nette and orange blossom, until, in the exhilaration brought of this
unwonted gaiety, where the aristocracy mingled with the street to
romp beneath the sun, and to laugh with the flowers of spring, the
impudence of the stranger who attacked them with love speeches
betwixt his showered bouquets, was pardoned for his dark eyes and
Italian features, his white teeth and picturesque ways.
"Well, it interested even Lady Yiolet.
They therefore took her to the balmasque, the great carnival ball
—the most delirious, joyous, exciting thing in this gay and glorious
world.
But she only sat listlessly in her box, and watched, with a languid
air, " the stupid people,"
Irio they went early, and her mother, who had thought over what
the eminent physician said, asked her plump if she had anything on
her mind.
To which she answered, with feminine veracity, " No, mother dar-
ling. Why do you ask ? "
"Because you look so pale, and seem so listless and indifferent.
Are you in love P "
" Mother dear! Indeed, no. What will you ask me next, I wonder ?
In love indeed I Most certainly not.*'
"Then it is your stupid poetry. That is what it is. When I was
a girl, no lady would have ever lowered herself to become an author.
But in this radical age," etc., etc., etc.
" My dear mother," she replied, " whatever it is, I will try and be
a better girl. Come, let us go and see King Carnival. How foolish
am I to be so dull in the midst of all this riot and gaiety ! "
Indeed, it would have been difficult to be dull in the midst of so
much frolic. Of all the scenes of mirth and revel, what can equal
the giddy round of laughing delights of the Southern Caimival? that
sunny festivity which- thrills through the towns of Italy and the
Riviera, that joyous delirium, maddening the whole people with the
intoxication of child-like revelry, that inebriation of the people, male*
ing every one so happy and so gay, that we wonder humanity can
ever feel sorrow.
The fantastic colours, the brilliant silks, the decorations of streets
and promenades, the sunny sky, the springtime breaking in flowers,
the Florentine lilies, the rich silken fabrics, the satins, the carriages
hidden beneath flowers, the decorated horses, the splendour of all
this and these, the mirthful dances, the laughter of youth, the orgies
of pleasure and of revelry—what delight do they all combine to
create and inspire!
Standing on a balcony overlooking the Promenade des Anglais,
Lady Yiolet looked down on the street whilst the splendid and gro-
tesque procession of King Carnival was passing.
In the crowds of carnival time one mingles with strange samples
of humanity. Hotel salons are not select, and the conversations on
an hotel balcony are frequently more piquantes than proper. One
150
The beauty ou boscasTlB.
may jostle a duke and, on the same verandah, have one's pocket
picked by a blackleg. It is all a chance whether the lady leaning
next to you is a countess or a courtesan, an arch-duchess or an ad-
venturess. But whatever Lady Violet's immediate neighbours were,
there was no mistaking the character of those upon the balcony of
the adjoining hotel, where two women, both over-dressed, rouged
and bejewelled to excess, giggled and laughed between the flowers of
the verandah. One was conspicuously evil-looking, notwithstanding
the serpentine grace of her gesture and the elegance of her figure.
She pointed to a man in the crowd dressed in a black domino, but
without a mask. He wore a hood only ; and, regardless of the con-
fetti, stood amongst the surging, rollicking, romping crowd, who
made him a butt for tlje flowers and bon-bons they threw.
" Do you see that tall man ? " said one of the mondaines to the
other, pointing with her long yet graceful arm across the street.
Lady Violet looked unconsciously and beheld Norman.
" Where ? " said the other.
"Yonder, in the crowd. He has a black domino, and no mask.
He has no confetti. He stands like a-church steeple."
"Ah! oui, via cherie. I see. He is himself by him alone. Evi-
dently he is an Englishman—he is an island. I think I have seen
him at Monte Carlo. He is very handsome. He looks distingue et
distrait aussi. Let us make our caps set for him, as the English
say."
"Ah ! no, m'mselle. Do you know that he gave me this ? " tap-
ping a handsome diamond bracelet.
" Ah!" cried the other, " un gage d'amour. You know him,
then ? "
"Yes; he is a friend of mine; I met him in Paris. He is very
rich. And, look you, I could tell you something."
" Amusing ? "
" No, terrible, terrible, vdamie ! I do not think I will tell you."
"Yes, yes; tell me, Clairette, if it is terrible, and especially if it
relates to your magnificent friend—the Englishman there. Is it
very horrible ? Tell me, Clairette ; my ears are tingling to hear."
"Ah! no—no^no."
" Clairette! " said the other reproachfully.
" You will keep it a secret, if I tell you ? "
" Certainly; a close secret."
" Well, look at him in his domino. L'habit ne fait pas le moine ;
he does not laugh, he does not throw confetti. He does not make
doux yeux at the balconies. He was not at the balmasque. He has
no friend."
" The English are all miserable."
* He has something on his mind, Lizette, ma cherie / I found him
out in Paris; " and, lowering her voice to an ominous whisper, she
added, "he is a murderer."
" A murderer, Clairette ? Oh ! Mon Dieu, cela me donne la chair
de poule. But with these English a murder is a peccadillo. Every
day they are not happy if they do not kill something; they sell
CONCERNING LADY VIOLET BOTEREL. 151
their wives, they drink brandy in mugs, and on Sundays they do
not kneel a little while on prie-dieus, they sit all day in churches,
Clairette, and they have no beads to play with, but all day long they
sit still in church—churches with no pictures, no, none. Mafoi, I
have been a Londres for three days, and on Sunday I was starved—
starved. All the shops and restaurants were shut. I said to a gen-
darme, 'Who is dead?' for I thought there was going to be a
funeral. Ah, Clairette ! what is the matter on the other balcony ? "
" Only a girl in a fit," replied the other woman, as Lady Yiolet
was removed into the salon.
" A mui'derer! " The words had fallen on Lady Violet's ears like
a bomb, for she, too, was regarding that big fellow in the crowd.
She could not be mistaken in him. No one but Norman Forrabury
had a back so broad, or limbs so long.
A murderer! He, a murderer! Yes; she did not doubt it one
moment. The words were no sooner uttered than all the mystery
that had oppressed her imagination seemed to be luridly illumined.
It was like the effect of a red sunrise. Everything was clear, as in
the dawn of a tempestuous day. The truth appeared to her as a
revelation. As by intuition, she knew all. Evidence, there was
none; the chance word of a Parisian cocotte, that was all; but it
sufficed.
Turning her back on these creatures, ignoring their very existence,
as she would have done before had she not been riveted to the spot-
by her interest in their conversation, she sought her father, longing
to escape the vile crowd, the odious frivolity, and to go from these
unpleasant scenes of exuberant amusement, longing for solitude, for
a return home, or for a sojourn in some quiet retirement, in Venice
or Sicily. For her the giddy multitude below did not exist. She
looked over their heads, beyond the fantastic cars of dancing girls,
beyond the fluttering pennons and banners, beyond the brilliantly
bedecked, rioting, frolicking crowd, masqued and dominoed, throw-
ing their confetti, romping, and mad in the very frolic height of
revel; beyond all these she looked, and the bewildering picture
swam—a confused mass of intermingled colour in her eyes—the
hateful, horrible words of those evil women ringing in her ears, and
in her mind's vision there was a mist, like the mist that might ruse
from a murdered man's grave, obscuring the blue waters of the
Mediterranean, which showed betwixt the fronds of the palm trees
on the Promenade des Anglais.
Yet she saw not the Mediterranean. No ; but she saw instead
Norman Forrabury, whose troubled face, lined with mysterious fur-
rows of care, haunted her. And then her limbs became weak; she
felt she must fall. She tottered on the balcony and swooned.
152
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
describing a game oe roulette at monte carlo.
" Yanity Fair." (Thackeray' s "John Bunyan.")
By a violent effort she recovered herself. The terrible thought
occurred to her that her actions might betray her love for this
wicked man, or, worse, that she might imperil his safety by her
concern. In a dazed and abstracted way she spent the long, long
days. She went about with her father to receptions and at homes.
She mingled with society, hating it, loathing it, and received its
flatteries with forced smiles. She went to Mentone, to San Remo,
to Monte Carlo. Yes, to Monte Carlo; for there she could sit in
the concert room and forget, in the strains of Schubert, and
Gounod, and Mendelssohn, the odious world in which she existed,
and all the horror of its wickedness and crime.
One day, soothed by the sweet influences of the music of the
Casino, Lady Yiolet, accompanied by her father, entered the mag-
nificent salle de Jeu. "What a scene! The large, green tables, lit
by the soft, glowing lamps, surrounded by crowds of people
standing and sitting, the impassive officials, the eagle-eyed crou-
piers and failleurs, so watchful yet so calm, the breathless excite-
ment, the quietude of the gamblers, the occasional buzz of whispered
conversation, when an incident of good or bad luck marked heavy
play, the spinning of the ball as it whirled in the wheel, the anxious
faces, the suppressed excitement, the well-behaved, subdued eager-
ness of the players, the rich dresses of the women, their blazing
diamonds, the rolls of great gold pieces, the piles of money raked in
by the croupiers every minute, or passed over to the winners, the
rustling, crisp bank notes, the occasional muttered oath or half-sup-
pressed cry of jubilation, the voices of many nations, the silence of
expectation as the ball hesitated in its fall, the hum of conversation
as the winning number was announced, and the greedy, outstretched
hands of the winners.
Lady Yiolet took in the animated scene at once, watching the
giddy throng with her large, intelligent, lustrous eyes, as, led on
her father's arm, she walked from table to table, peering over the
shoulders of the crowd of people standing round, pausing a minute
to watch, and then passing on to another table.
Lady Yiolet watched the scene with the idle but observant glance
characteristic of every student of human nature. She felt no thrill
of the fatal fascination which had lured the fortune of many a
woman into the coffers of the Monte Carlo bank. She was a woman
of too much composure to feel more than a common interest in the
destiny of the coins placed so nervously upon the green cloth, but
she was intensely fascinated by the faces of the crowd, by the work-
ings of the features of the eager gamblers, and by the varying ex-
pression that played over their faces. One sees so little natural
expression. English people_are so impassive; they have so schooled
describing a game of roulette at monte carlo. 158
themselves to accept, with imperturbable composure, all events that
may happen. In our days, it is considered such bad form to wear
one's heart upon one's sleeve, that one rarely sees grief, or anxiety,
or any very definite emotion depicted in reality upon the face. Lady
Yiolet was a painter, and this true, unacted reality, this spectacle of
human nature laid bare, this panorama of hearts made visible, en-
thralled her, so that when her father spoke to her she woke from
her study with a start.
" There is high play at the other end of the table," said the Earl;
" let us go and see. You may punt a little, if you like."
"No; I do not wish to play, papa," she answered; "I like to
watch the people. Here is a place whei*e we can see well."
" What is all this sensation about P "
"I hate this Monte Carlo, papa; the people are all odious, or they
become so. And the women one meets "
"My dear daughter, do not listen to them," replied her father.
" What is all this excitement about, eh ? "
" It is the dangerous Englishman," said a dashing French cocotte
next whom they stood. " Oh, le hon diahle ! II est tres comme il
faut." Then she added, laughing, and in broken English, " I would
him much like to fall into love mid me. Oh, yes."
" Ah! urn sot trouve toujours un plus sot qui Vadmire," said her
companion, with an accent of disdain.
And the other exclaimed laughingly, "Ah hah ! vous avez perdu."
" It is Norman Forrabury," said the Earl, in a whisper. " We
must not recognise him now. Never interfere with a player; it
might put him off; if we stay let us stand where he cannot see us."
" Is it fair to watch him at play? " said Lady Yiolet, thinking of
the faces of the miserable gamblers she had just been watching.
" I see no harm," said the Earl ; " only we must not disturb him.
Everybody watches everybody."
She looked at him, as a doctor examines a specimen under the
microscope, with fixed, attentive, studious gaze. How calm he
seemed, how sombre! He could shoot pigeons; he could "pot
Indians." The horrible question insisted 011 shaping itself in her
mind : " Could he commit murder p "
Perhaps!
What evidence had she? The chance word of an execrable
woman. She was too innocent to know how abandoned and abomin-
able—but a vulgar woman, a detestable creature. What proof more
had she than her chance but confident words ? The many mysterious
little items combined, spoke volumes to her quick apprehensions.
She felt he was capable of any wickedness—that he had a will so
strong and imperious, he would compel the world to suit his
whims; that he would not scruple at a trifle, or even, if need be, at a
life.
And yet again, how unjust were the accusations that she per-
mitted herself to level at him. If he were innocent of the crime,
what an iniquity to him. Possibly, he might be good, and nobly
good, but good or evil she loved him.
154
I'HE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
Yes, good or* evil. She was distressed for him, she dreaded him,
but she was fascinated by him. If he had done this fearful thing,
he was handsome still. He was great, aud graceful, and strong.
She began to harbour excuses, even for the extreme crime. She
knew not what he had done, but she dreaded and then excused.
His unscrupulousness was strength. He was inexorable. He was a
power. Like a pagan deity, he could remove a life, and sweep it
from his way.
She considered him as he sat before her. Had he ever done a
crime, this calm, self-contained, impassive man ?
He was sitting with several rolls of gold, and a little pile of notes
by his side near the croupier. Before him was a card, on which he
carefully noted the result of every spin. In his hand was a pocket
book, which he frequently, indeed, constantly, consulted, and in
which he made rapid calculations after each spin.
His broad shoulders, his manly, massive, and indeed beautiful
head, rendered him a conspicuous figure at the table ; his face wore
a calm in earnest expression, without the least trace of excitement.
A number of people were watching his play, and now and again
there fell on Lady Violet's ears, half-whispered chance sentences,
from persons who crowded round.
" Arthur. Look! Hush! There is the gentleman \tfho is stay-
ing at our hotel. He who is always so silent at dinner," said one.
"Maria, my child," said a stout old lady to her well-developed
daughter, " that gentleman is a bachelor, and they say he is very
rich. His estates are in Cornwall. A word to the wise, my sweet
girl. And I wonder who that other gentleman is with the fair
moustache? Any one can see he is an Englishman, too."
"Mother, dear, he has lost again. That is the sixth throw in
succession he has lost."
" He is a bold player. Who is he ? " said one.
"I don't know; every one calls him the dangerous Englishman.
He is playing for high stakes."
"Yes," answered the other; "and losing heavily, too. He has
lost over 100,000 francs since I have stood here."
"Do you hear, papa?" whispered Lady Violet. "He has lost
100,000 francs. Do you not think you had better stop him."
" Not a word," replied the Earl, holding up a warning finger.
"Though he is losing, he is playing with a cool head."
" Messieurs, faites vos jeuxcried the croupier, in his imperturb-
able voice.
Norman placed six thousand francs on the number he had been
backing several times in succession.
" Lejeu est fait," cried the croupier. " Bien ne va pZus."
The ball spun round and round. All eyes followed it. It hesitated,
gyrated slowly once more, and finally dropped into Zero. v
" Zero," exclaimed the croupier with a smile across the table, as
he raked in thousands of francs.
" Zero! " a buzz of whispering voices hummed around. " Another
coup for the tables. They are netting a little fortune."
i>ESCBIliINa A GrAME OF ROULETTE AT MONTE CARLO. 15&
Norman calmly made a note in his pocket-book of the result.
His fingers did not tremble. He was as " cool as a cucumber."
" He is a gallant player," said the Earl admiringly, in his lowest
tones. "Nerves like these make the heroes who stand at Waterloo
and Abou-Klea. I don't care whether it is behind the hounds, or
at a gaming table—an English gentleman keeps his head."
" Messieurs, faites vosjeux."
Again Norman placed six thousand francs upon the 17, amidst a
buzz of admiration from the crowd.
" Lejeu est fait," cried the croupier, as the ball was again spun in
the roulette. " Rien ne va plus"
Anxious eyes watched it rapidly gyrating. It slackened, paused,
and fell into No. 13.
" Treize," said the croupier. " Noir impair et manque."
Again the croupier raked in Norman's six-thousand-franc-note,
with other moneys, and paid over to those who had to receive on the
last throw.
Once more Norman staked the maximum on the same number,
and again he lost.
And agaiD. And again.
" Why does he always back the same number ? " said a bystander.
" Because number 17 has not turned up once to-day."
" So by the law of averages ? "
"Exactly. 17 is due. He plays scientifically. But the doctrine
of averages is a poor horse to ride. Many a man has ruined him-
self by the doctrine of averages."
"Apres perdre perd on bien !" exclaimed the cocottc, as Norman
again lost. " Bonheur! Mon brave."
"I cannot stand here and see him ruin himself," said Lady
Violet, in an excited whisper to her father. " Do, do beg him to
stop."
" I forbid you to speak to him," whispered the Earl. " If we put
him off his play, he will never forgive us. Perhaps 17 will turn up
the very next spin."
More excited far than Norman, more interested than he, thrilled
to her heart, she watched with intensest anxiety the whirling ball.
It trembled on the very verge of 17, looked in as it were, whilst her
heart seemed to bulge in her throat, and then, maliciously passing,
fell into number 34. She bit her lips with mortification, whilst
tears of excitement stood in her eyes.
Wiping them furtively away with her handkerchief, she gazed at
the man whom she secretly loved. How handsome he looked there;
impassive, imperturbable, less moved to all seeming than any
present, his fine features marking him amongst all who crowded
round. The cunning, excitable, wizened, hard features of the
gamblers who surrounded him, serving as a foil to him, and making
his well-shaped face stand out in contrast.
Suddenly there was a rush from the tables. An eddy of people,
gathering from several tables, were surrounding a man who spoke
loudly, excitedly.
156
THE BEAUTY Of BOSCASTLE.
" What can the matter be ? What does he say ? " said the Earl.
" Killed ! " exclaimed a voice. " Who is killed ? "
"Killed!" exclaimed Norman, with an accent of horror, rising
suddenly from the game, and standing with pallid face and staring
eyes. " How ? Who ? "
"A railway accident."
"Ah," he cried, with a gulp of relief, sinking down again into his
seat. " Is that all ? "
Lady Yiolet noticed the words, the action. To her observant eyes
and mind, his conduct recalled the vague dreads that had haunted
her so long, and confirmed those fearful apprehensions which she
had intuitively experienced. There was a momentary pause in the
game.
" Ah, but it is terrible. Many are killed. Oh, mon Dieu! Mon
Dieu!"
" There has been a collision. An awful disaster. Four carriages
have been thrown into the sea. Oh, horrible! They say there is a
fearful scene upon the line."
"It was the train from Mentone."
" Yiolet—from Mentone," cried the Earl.
" Lancelot," echoed his daughter. " He has gone there to-day."
" Come. TJne voiture," cried the Earl, dragging his daughter with
him, and forcing his way through the crowds of people who were
flocking from the Casino.
" Messieurs, faites vos jeux," said the impassive croupier, for though
many idlers were rushing away to the scene of the accident, the
players remained. Rome herself might burn for aught they cared.
CHAPTER XXXYII.
referring casually to a railway accident and to otiier events.
" The Wages of Sin." (Lucas Malet.)
Soon the beautiful Corniche Road was crowded with hundreds of
brilliant equipages, full of gaily-dressed people, and the most
frivolous section of the rank and fashion of Europe, thrilled by a
new sensation, flocked on a March afternoon, beneath the blue
Riviei-a sky, to see one of the most fearful railway catastrophes of
recent years.
Two trains had met in collision when going at high speed, several
carriages had been hurled over a high cliff' into the sea, and the
shattered remains of the engines and of the other carriages lay in a
heap upon the line, covering the corpses of many poor people, whilst
a great number of wounded were being removed from the debris by
a gang of volunteers.
In two or three hours, the dead, the wounded, and the dying,
REFERRING CASUALLY TO A RAILWAY ACCIDENT. 157
had been removed into adjacent cottages, the carriages were return-
ing to Monte Carlo, and the Corniche Road soon.assumed its ordin-
ary aspect. The Earl of St. Austell's anxiety about his son was
allayed, and Lady Yiolet was sitting by Lord Boterel's side—he
having driven over from Mentone.
" Why, the Casino is still open ! " said the Earl in surprise, as
they passed to their hotel.
" They are surely not playing," said Lady Yiolet. " After such
a terrible disaster, so many killed at their vei\y gates."
" Perhaps they are not playing. I wonder how Norman "
" Let us stop the carriage, and if he is still there ask him to dine
with us."
Entering the Casino, they heard the automatic phrase of the
croupier :—
" Messieurs, faites vos jeux."
" They are positively playing ! It is outrageous ! " exclaimed
Lady Yiolet. " Common decency dictates in vain to these soulless
men," she added, flushing with anger. "Papa, let us not go further.
Let us go from this wicked den, where even the good become vicious
in an hour."
" Look ! " exclaimed the Earl, in a grave voice, pointing across the
salon to a table marked from the rest by the crowd that surrounded
it.
" What P" answered Yiolet, in a frightened tone.
" Look at that crowded table."
" It is where we left Norman. They are ruining him. Oh, what
a vile, bad world ! Do stop him, papa. If you do not, I shall speak
to him."
" Ah, he is ruined, ma cherie. II a remue ciel et terre p>our y par-
venir—mais—" and the little French actress made a sign with her
finger as though she would cut her throat. " G'est en fait de luif
"All over with him!" cried Lady Yiolet, rushing forward. She
paused. She had made her way to the table. Her eyes were centred
upon the ball as it spun in the roulette, falling eventually into
No. 24.
She looked across the table; there, pale and anxious-looking,
sat Norman, with a slight frown upon his brow, still quietly
pencilling the numbers, though with a dejected air. "Again he
has lost," she cried, wringing her hands. " He looks ruined, poor
fellow."
Norman, hearing her voice, looked up, and saw the mild, benignant
sympathetic gaze of his beautiful neighbour regarding him with an
expression of anxiety, which softened, as he caught her eye, to one
of tenderest pity. " Lady Boterel," he exclaimed, rising from the
table, and greeting her with a smile, ." you have come to be in at
the death."
" Messieurs, faites vos jeuxf
.. " My last note but two," said Norman, putting his money on the
table.
" Do not play any more, dear Mr. Forrabury. It is almost wicked.
158
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
There has been such an appalling accident. Many people have been
hurled over the cliff into the sea and killed."
" Hurled-over-the-cliff!" he ejaculated, his face assuming a
haggard aspect. He could hardly pronounce the words. His voice
was thick, his tongue seemed paralysed. "Like—my—uncle—>
thrown into the sea—over the cliff—over the cliff."
" Pardon, pardon me," she cried; " I forgot. Yes, it is a terrible
coincidence."
" I do not care," he cried. " I am above these foolish super-
stitions. I will play on while I have a feather to fly with, and when
I have lost these," and he flourished his few remaining notes, "I
will stake all Forrabury." To-morrow I wire my bankers to raise a
mortgage on all I possess. Then, dropping his voice to a whisper,
he exclaimed between his teetb, " Devil's money for luck. We shall
see yet. Play on."
" Le jeu est fait. Rien ne va plus," cried the croupier, smiling
across the table at the banquier as the ball was spun.
" He has backed another number this time," said one of the crowd
audibly.
"Eh, what is that? I meant to back seventeen. It must come
up. I have made a mistake. I have put my money on sixteen.
Ah, well, le jeu est fait. On sixteen let it lie."
The ball slowly circled, then came that thrilling moment of ex-
pectancy when the ball appears to pause ere it falls. It fell into
Ho. 16.
"Seize!" exclaimed the croupier. " Rouge pair et manque," and
he counted out to Norman 216,000 francs, amidst the applause of
the bystanders.
" You have given me luck, Lady Violet Boterel. It is against the
rules of my system, but I shall back 16 again, out of compliment
to you."
He did so, and won.
"Again," he cried. "There is a run on 16. It is haphazard
play, but I must back sixteen again once more."
For the third time in succession, the ball fell into number 16.
"Now, Lady Violet," he said, "you have been my good angel;
what do you advise P "
" Six," she said demurely, in a whisper. " I do not know why, but
I feel convinced it will be six."
He put six thousand francs on No. 6. Again he won 216,000
francs. The crowd applauded. There was a great sensation in the
Casino. Every one flocked to that table. The rumour spread that
the dangerous Englishman, after hours of bad luck, after hours of
loss without one iota of success, had made several successive coups.
Even the railway accident ceased to be talked of.
" Shall I work out the number?" he said, looking at Lady Violet.
Shall I back No. 1 ? "
" No. I do not believe in systems," she answered. " Let me fancy
some number. Yes, yes. Back my age. I am 24."
He backed 24, and won. She clapped her hands in delight.
REFERRING CASUALLY TO A RAILWAY ACCIDENT. 159
" She is a "prophetess," exclaimed the little French actress, who
had resumed her place at the table. " Tell him again, ma petite."
" No," she answered coldly, with a veiled hauteur. " The spell
has passed ; I cannot tell what will win."
"How could you tell,.Violet? Your accuracy was marvellous,"
said her father.
" I do not know. But I felt confident. I was not surprised that
the ball fell where I expected it. I knew it would. Somehow I
was sure of it. And now—how I detest these odious public rooms,
the vile people—the feeling of confidence has passed."
" Never mind. Do have another guess," said Norman.
" No, I cannot. The spell is over."
" Then I will work out No. 24 I will back 4"
He lost.
" You had better return to your system," said Lady Violet gaily.
" I will take it as a prophecy," said Norman, and again he laid
the maximum, i.e. 6,000 francs, on 17.
" JDix-sept gagnecried the croupier, as this time the ball fell
into 17.
It was very extraordinary that No. 17 had not turned up before
throughout the day. But now he stuck to the number, and it won
frequently. Again and again and again the 17 turned up; its
repetition occurring with astonishing frequency. Such incidents
happen occasionally at Monte Carlo, as indeed in all games of chance
where runs of good and bad luck, though they may seem incredible,
must necessarily occur. The absence of such eccentricities in the
game would be extraordinary. In a game of chance, like roulette,
certain numbers must occasionally have their "run." Norman was
in luck, in great luck. He had backed 17 and lost heavily upon it,
yet he stuck to it, with thorough English tenacity, and now fortune
took his side. He was quite busy raking in his winnings. "You
are bringing me a rare harvest, Lady Violet," said he. " Will you
be so good as to clerk for me ?" He handed her his pocket-book and
She booked each event. 17 recurred with astonishing frequency.
Never had there been such a miraculous run on any number.
Norman kept continually picking up his winnings. The news
had spread. Many others began to back No. 17 heavily. Crowds
came struggling to the table to put their money on the lucky
number for the day.
" 17," said the little actress musingly during the height of the
excitement. "Strange! it is the number who were killed to-day.
There were seventeen people in the accident. It is supernatural,
prendre la balle an bond" and she rushed across to the old Jew
money lender at the restaurant, to borrow what she could, and stake
all on the lucky number.
Meanwhile Norman Forrabury was still playing in the Casino,
frequently pausing to post up his calculations, Lady Violet watch-
ing his play in the utmost excitement, regarding him frequently
with admiration and wonder, for throughout his success, as during
his long run of ill-luck, he still kept cool and displayed no rashness
160
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
of triumph. To lier surprise, after making a series of careful calcu-
lations, he abandoned No. 17, and laid six thousand francs on No. 22.
The very first time he did so the ball fell into that number, amidst
the applause of the table. He played for another hour. He seemed
to be gifted with second sight, for he won so frequently. Every
number he touched appeared sooner or later to come up, and to
have a little run. Gazing at his pocket-book he appeared to be
able to forecast the number that would have the next turn from the
wheel of fortune. The croupiers watched him ill at ease; and
sending from the table, held a consultation with the banquier.
Finally, after Norman had made another brilliant coup, the croupier
and other officials rose from their seats. They would play no more.
Norman Forrabury had broken the bank.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
teeling how love entered and agitated two passionate hearts.
" Darkness and Dawn." (Archdeacon Farrar.)
In the height of his successes, liofrized by the haut monde of Cannes
and Monte Carlo and the adjacent Riviera towns, throwing himself
with vigour into a whirl of gaiety and pleasure, going to dinners,
dances and balls, refusing himself time for reflection, Norman almost
succeeded in obliterating from his mind the awful memory of his
crime.
He threw himself into the maelstrom of maddening delights which
constitute the episodes of Riviera life, and worked himself in the
harness of pleasure with the definite object of finding oblivion in
these excesses, conquering his memory, and drowning his remorse,
in a surfeit of mad joys.
But after the unhealthy feast the surfeit surely came, and he ex-
perienced all the horrors of a moral dyspepsia. Weary of his life,
and hating himself, he dared not allow himself reflection or recollec-
tion. By a strong effort of his vigorous mind he scotched thought,
he obliterated memory, he suffocated conscience. Yet, with all his
strength of will, and with all his callous cynicism, there were times,
frequent and many, when the ghosts of his sins haunted him and
refused to vanish. Whenever he dared to let the past into his pre-
sence, his evil deeds oppressed him, and he saw himself in his true
light, to be astonished at his own villainy, to loath himself for his
crime, and to so abhor himself for his cowardice, his mean ingrati-
tude, his base and murderous deeds, that he was overwhelmed—
wrung by the pangs of remorse, and torn and tortured by the raging
turmoil in his soul.
The moon shone brightly upon the terrace of the Casino gardens,
and the pale stars, twinkling in the dark heavens, were repeated in
the calm waters of the untroubled sea. It is a lovely place by night,
when the moon lends her weird light to reveal, and, by the shadow
HOW LOVE AGITATED TWO PASSIONATE HEARTS. 161
she creates, to half conceal the beauties of the scene. The well
kept walks, the undulating gardens, the glistening rockeries, the
palms and myrtles, the distant groves of oranges and lemons, the
pretty bay and town, and the far-away stretches of landscape. Close
at hand the Casino towers, of suitably elegant architecture, the cheer-
ful little restaurant, and the marble statuary were lit by the bright
light of electric lamps. Norman, strolling from his hotel, where he
had been almost mobbed by the lion-hunters, and stared at by his
admirers, was glad to get on to the terrace, and sought seclusion for
a cigar. Lady Violet, disturbed and deeply agitated on Norman's
account, beside herself with horror and dread, tormented also with
pangs of love that she strove harder than ever to stifle, was pacing
up and down the terrace, a prey to the agony of her own heart.
" Good-evening, Lady Boterel." He seemed very suave, and his
voice sounded strangely gentle and tender for a man whom in her
heart she now verily believed to be utterly base.
" How lucky you have been ! "—she did not know what to say—
whether she should speak with him at all—whether she should spurn
him from her. She knew not whether she hated him or loved him.
She was agitated at his success, overcome with his bland calmness,
fascinated by his quiet force, horrified at the crime she suspected in
him, insulted in that he preferred women of the lowest oi'der to those
of his own set and circle. A score of antagonistic impulses con-
flicted within her, but she summoned all her self-possession, and
spoke with well-assumed indifference,—" How lucky you have been ! "
If to her he was wickedness enthroned, to him she was the Genius
of Purity and Goodness. Her pallor clad her with additional beauty.
Robed in lavender satin, so light in hue that it seemed white as it
glistened in the moonlight, she looked like a heavenly spirit. Her
large, lustrous eyes, sparkling with liquid fire, seemed supernatur-
ally beautiful as she looked him through and through. He looked
upon her with a sad look of longing, thinking of the last time he
had seen her, and said in grave, slow, solemn tones, and in words
that came from his heart, " Would that my life, Lady Violet, had
been pure as yours; would that I too might lead the ' beautiful
life.'"
In a moment her eyes filled with blinding tears, and her breast
heaved with a convulsive sob. His words were like a confession:
his accent so penitent. She pitied him ; she wept for him.
Surprised, he made her sit down on a marble seat beneath the
overhanging fronds of a palm tree, and tried to console and comfort
her, saying not a word, but holding her gloved hand in his, and
bending with concerned gaze upon her, whilst she wept tears of
relief.
To be near him like that, to have him by her side, to have his
sympathy and feel the warmth of his hand in hers; for weary, weary,
weary weeks this had been her hope, her dream. And now unex*
pectedly he sat there, so close to her side that she could feel the
great beats of his heart.
She would not believe the horrible suspicions that had tortured
162
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
her. He was too tender, lie had too much of the milk of human
kindness in him, to be base. The sense of a sublime calm came upon
her ; her tears ceased. She could hear below the gentle waves of
the Mediterranean softly breaking on the shore, mingling with the
distant strains of voluptuous music. The scent of mignonette $nd
myrtles was wafted on the cool air, and the moon shining through
the shimmering leaves of the garden, though unable to pierce their
perfumed sanctum, lit with soft, sensuous light the sweet blossoms
of the new Paradise. Strange dream ! to sit in blissful repose by
his side, and to feel no other thrill than the throb of love.
Until she became conscious that it was not a dream, but reality.
She drew her hand from his. "You have been very kind, Mr.
Forrabury," she said, rising. " I am not well. Of late I have ex-
perienced these seizures sometimes, though not in such an acute
form." Then, with a smile, a grave smile, she added, "You must
pardon an invalid."
" I had no idea you were such a sufferer. I said something stupid.
What right had I to burden your spirit with my foolishness ? But
let that pass. I must see you to the hotel."
" Lancelot was with me when I came on to the terrace, but I
bid him go. Every one banishes propriety at Monte Carlo; besides,
on such a night I desired to be alone, to see the symbols of the old
gods spangled on the dark canopy, to see Orion yonder with his
sword, and Neptune rising from the waves on his white-crested horse
attended by his Nereids, to wonder whether the wood-nymphs and
the satyrs still haunt the cork groves that grow now as in the olden
days upon these shaggy slopes and shores, and whether in the silver
beams Luna sports as of yore. We never see the stars shine like
that in England."
" The air is so clear here," answered Norman. " Not that way,
Lady Yiolet. Let us still walk upon the terrace. I love to hear
you talk like that, to listen to the poet of to-day interpreting the
poetry of a past time. Let us lean over the balustrade and listen to
the music of Nature, whilst you "
" No. Thank you so much. But if you will kindly allow me to
encumber you as far as my hotel, I shall be obliged."
" It was selfish of me to ask you to linger, for the nights are cold.
I hope your illness, Lady Yiolet, is temporary only, and not really
serious."
" Oh, do not ask me; it is nothing. And now, it is very rude of
me after all your kindness, but I have a sudden wish to be quite
alone again—nay, nay, I must be alone. I can see the hotel, and the
electric lamps are so bright "
He pressed her hand, for he noticed that her eyes were full of
tears.
" Good-night, Mr. Forrabury ; " and she added, with a strange
earnestness, with a gesture of her hand to the stars, " May the good
God who fashioned all these give to you the peace that passeth
understanding."
\ "Thankyou, Lady Yiolet," he said wonderingly, "and d demain."
WHEN THE GATES OE PARADISE WERE SHUT. 163
" No. To-morrow we leave Monte Carlo. It is good-bye alto-
gether; " and she forced a smile.
"I am really sorry you are going. Oh, Lady Yiolet, these few
minutes with you, you can never know what a delight they have
been to me. May I come and see you off to-morrow ? "
" Thank you so much, Mr. Forrabury," she said rather icily, " but
Lancelot is with me, and my father and mother too. Then we
arc not going by rail. After this sad calamity papa will nob hear of
our travelling by these wretchedly constructed and worse managed
railways. So we are actually going by diligence. Will not that be
delightful f " But she added, resuming again her earnest air, " Will
you promise me one favour if I beg you ? "
"One ! A thousand. Whatever you ask I promise."
" Play no more. I hold you to your word."
" Phew ! " he whistled. " By Jove, Lady Yiolet, that is rather too
rough."
She looked at him anxiously, critically, with her head on one
side, and tears in her heart, if they had not reached her eyes. Her
lips parted and shaped the words she could not speak, "Promise
me."
" Well, I promise, Lady Yiolet."
She pointed again to the stars.
He looked her eloquently in the eyes, and taking off his hat, with
a low bow, said, " By the two brightest stars that shine on earth I
swear it."
CHAPTER XXXIX.
wiiich teaches that when the gates of paradise were shut a
sure way in was still left open for poor humanity.
" It is Never too Late to Mend." (Chas. Reade.)
"And our mingled souls shall soar
Far away the wide world o'er,
On through heaven's golden door
Into bliss for evermore."
(Anna Countess de Bremont.)
By the departure of Lady Yiolet, Norman discovered that he loved
her. The fact broke in upon his mind like the sudden flash of a
lighthouse upon the vision of a belated mariner, and plunged him
into the brightness of a fearful joy. They are ignorant of human
nature who teach that a man can love but once, that his first real
passion is his last, that once only can he feel a true devotion and
affection, and that true love has but one bolt. If it were so the
mystery of human life would be easier to interpret, its web would be
of less intricate texture, and the course of human affairs would be
smoother and less eventful.
It is an oft-repeated axiom that "Pity is akin to Love." There was
already sympathy between Lady Yiolet and Norman, and when with
164
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE,
a heart-breaking sob, she revealed unwillingly the existence of some
bidden grief, Norman, unsuspicious of the nature of her sorrow,
pitying the fair and palpitating creature by his side, loved her
thenceforth and for ever. From that moment he tore off the shreds
and tatters of all other love, and clothed himself in a deeper, purer
and more absorbing passion than he had known, in a love so en-
thralling and a devotion so complete that he felt a new creature.
But it made him miserable, for it lit anew, and with a scorching
flame he had not felt before, the fires of remorse. What right had
he to aspire to that chaste heart, to touch that virgin hand ! He ! He
who had no right even to his own being ! He whose life was already
forfeit to the law. He, a murderer, hateful to himself—so horrible
even to his own excusing soul, that he dared not look at himself, think
of himself—recognise himself, but must needs drown in vice and sin
the memory of his life, and blot out its searing chapter of crime, by
plunging into all the mazes of excitement, until it became necessary
to stake on the hazard of a die the fortune that he had gained by
murder that he might buy forgetfulness. Horrible I The aspira-
tion to win so high, so pure, so gifted a soul, was not that another
crime ? To attempt to link her fate to his; to drag her down to the
depths of damnation where he dwelt; to sear her pure soul, winged
as it was with beauty and poetry, by his odious contact; to stamp on
her pure heart the shadow of his crime, and to sully the holiness of
her genius; to befoul that well of purity by the accumulation of
evil and wrong of which his vile, weary, troubled life was compact.
No, no. Ho dared not aspire to her love. To attempt to woo her
would be folly, to win her would be villainy.
Besides, it was impossible. Impossible to consort with her. Im-
possible to sustain through the long coming years in the presence
of her chastity, the oppressive secret that wrestled within him. Im-
possible to smirch the happy current of her pure life by penitence
and confession. With her high ideals and noble aims, with her
luminous intellect and gifts and powers, she stood for ever separate
from him. Her beautiful ambitions placed her out of his reach even
if he were innocent, but with all his guilt upon him she was heavens
high beyond him. To wed her would be to drag her into his own
hell. Such were his thoughts night and day, whether he rode in
solitude upon the sunny Corniche Road, or strolled idly in the Casino
gardens, or lolled over the balustrade of the terrace gazing at the
moonlit sea and the eternal stars.
Men thought him happy. There were no furrows of care upon
his brow, no signs of sorrow in his mien. He had broken the bank;
he had large estates; he was rich. A meditative thoughtful man,
a man of force, doubtless a happy man. They envied him.
Women looked upon and admired him. He had a frank, honest,
open face, the broad shoulders of a man, a grave, serious air, a large
income, and a very-much-to-be-envied Hall, with an empty chair at
the end of the table. Mothers courted him for their daughters' sake,
and the daughters laid pretty little feminine traps for him, with a
delicacy and a subtlety deserving of a better cause. In vain did they
WHEN THE HATES OF PARADISE WERE SHUT.
1G5
wear the latest things in hats, got specially from Paris. In vain
did the dressmakers vie with each other in constructing the most
superb dresses. In vain did artless eighteen approach him with
humility to ask him to teach her the game. In vain did the most
graceful and indefatigable waltzer of the season languish on his arm,
or draw him to the most solitary and scented grotto in the garden,
where the music was subdued and where the grateful but guilty
cigarette could be smoked in secret. Heartwhole he escaped a
whole battery of blandishments. Sought, courted, desired, what was
he but a gallows-bird after all!
No wonder he loved the walk on the moonlit terrace. There,
pacing alone, he could hear below the murmurs of the Mediterranean
waves and the sofo amorous music of the Casino band, as on the
night when he had listened to the tuneful sweetness of her voice
whom he loved so much. There he could look at the stretch of
heaving sea, as he had gazed upon it with her. There he could lift
his eyes to the starry solemnity more brightly spangled now than
ever, for the sickle moon was in her first quarter. There he could
sit beneath the palm tree on the same marble seat where Lady Yiolet
had taken his heart, and left him desolate.
Desolate, but better content, for she had filled a void even by the
memory of her presence. The biting remorse, the recurring re-
membrance of that foul act of murder which lie could never wipe
away, was in some measure obliterated or rather obscured by her
sweet transit across his life, and it gave a peace and comfort to his
jaded mind to allow himself to meditate upon her, to have some
other dreams for his wandering thought than the unending re-
membrance of his crime and the perpetual self-reproaches which
made his life a very hell.
So, almost happy, he was musing upon her when a woman, with
stealthy step and noiseless gait, approached him and sat on the same
seat in the darkness.
Absorbed by his reflections he did not notice her, until she said,
" Bon soir, mon cher."
He started in terror; then turning towards her he exclaimed,
" Clairette!"
" Si, milord," she replied.
" What are you doing here P "
" I have come pour un petit jeu—pour roulette; d vous on dit.
You have broken the bank."
Norman nodded his head.
"And why did you leave Paris, cher ami?"
" Because I chose," said Norman coldly.
"Ha mis son bonnet de tracers aujourd'hui. Au serieux. You left
me because I found out about the murder. Eh, mon brave ? Aha!
Avis an lecteur."
" Clairette," said Norman imperturbably ; " I do not know what
you are talking about."
"Bah, I talk about the murder. That is plain, is it not? It is
horrible to speak of. Cela me donne la chaire de poule
166
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
" Well, horrible or not, I do not want to talk either to you or to
any one else; adieu." So saying he rose from his seat and made her
a low bow.
" Baste pour celct, au revoir mon bon chevalier d' Industrie" she re-
plied, with an exaggerated curtesy.
" What do you mean by this nonsense, woman ? " exclaimed Nor-
man, turning on his heel. " What murder are you dreaming
about ? "
" Ah, it will be une cause celebre. Gela viendra," said the woman,
with a shrug of her supple shoulders.
"Well, Clairette, I do not know what nonsense you have in your
head. You used to be charming and good fun. You have got hold
of some stupid tale. You thought you would extort money from
me, I suppose. Black-mail, ehP "
She nodded, and said, with significant emphasis, "A bon chat, Ion
rat."
"Well, you are wrong. You have got hold of the wrong stick.
If you wanted some money, and asked me in a civil way, you should
have had it—you should have had cartloads of it if you wanted. As
you have chosen to show your teeth—bah, au diable
" Va-t-en toi-meme a tons les diables!" she replied fiercely. Then,
as Norman walked away with a careless step, she said to herself,
"Ah, there is no truth in ib then. What a pity; I thought I had
discovered a gold mine. It was a dream—no more. Eh bien. He
will come back to me. Next time I see him I will captivate him
with smiles. Then perhaps I shall find something out, for there is
a mystery in him somewhere. Yes, I will smile on him next time.
A smile after a frown is doubly sweet."
Her threats disturbed Norman more than she thought.
Not that he was in bodily fear or dread. The annoyance he felt
was attributable to his repugnance to himself. A sense of shame
came home to him again by a new channel. To have to lie to such
a woman in self defence, to be obliged to resort to quibbling, and
the meanest dodges of the criminal class! This was a fall indeed.
So though he felt no actual fear, his ears burned to the tips with
abasement and bitter self-contempt.
He left Monte Carlo as soon as possible for Cannes. Unable to
bear himself, he strove to get away from himself by changing his
place of residence. Absurd hope! He was still present every where.
He experienced the state of mind expressed in the phrase—that life
is unendurable. At the Villa Edelberg, in the prettiest of houses
on the heights of California, in the aromatic drives of le bois de la
croix des Gardes, he was still the same man, with the same care-
worn heart, with the same smooth face. He was still the murderer,
who for filthy lucre bad done the inexpiable deed. He was that
vile detestable thing he loathed to think of—the man marked out
not by the finger of the mob—yet—but by the scorn of his own
awakened conscience—as unfit to mingle with his fellow men, out-
side the pale of their sympathies, a hypocrite amongst them, pos-
sessing money to which he had no right, blood-stained money,
WHEN THE HATES GP PARADISE WERE SHUT.
167
accursed wealth, wealth so accursed that, unable to enjoy it, and
hating its possession, he had to wander on the face of the earth like
another Cain, a skulker and a vagabond.
Away, away, away, to Mentone, to Villa Franca, to the fairest
towns in fair Italy, to Pisa, Floi'ence, Naples, Rome, Palermo. Oh,
God, was there to be no rest for him anywhere ? Solitary amongst
those flocking tourists, shunning all mankind, yet unable to shun
the man he hated and despised the most—himself. "Was there to
be no rest ? In sleep ? No. For if he slept he awoke with a start to
recognise—himself.
On the 20th of April he found himself at Venice. He had com-
pelled himself to go the usual round. In new sights day by day, in
the poetry of old buildings, in the magnificence and splendour of old
palaces, in the gleaming marbles and bejewelled churches, bright
with fresco and mosaic, glowing with pictures and sculpture, in the
change of hotels, in the excitement and fatigue of ti'avelling—in
these, as he justly reasoned, he should find some diversion. A man
of the strongest and most resolute will, he simply compelled himself
by clear and determined effort to divert his mind with the excite-
ment of travel. He was his own courier, he had no servant, and the
mere engagement of hotels, and the paying of travelling-bills, in itself
occupied and exercised him; new scenes, new faces gave him relief.
So that sometimes he obtained a respite for his wearied soul, and
sometimes he slept from sheer exhaustion.
But it was only by fatigue or excitement that he could find forget-
fulness. As soon as his brain found real rest, as soon as the fatigue
he sought was alleviated, his invigorated mind recurred again to the
old repugnant theme, and the most soul-tormenting self-reproaches.
Brightly shone the moon on the quiet waters of the City in the
Sea. Softly gleamed the lamps from the funereal gondolas, which
flitted like hearses across the noiseless canals. Fair, in the white
moonlight, shone the marble walls of the Venetian palaces, and the
stalwart massive soaring tower, the Campanile in the Piazza.
Faintly and weirdly across Norman Forrabury's ears came the
tinkling melody of a passing guitar, and the muffled voices of Vene-
tian lovers, whose sweet duet told still of love. Beautiful dream-
land! City of dreams ! How through thy fluent thoroughfares
flows the noiseless stream of life ! How many myriad tragedies are
muffled for ever in thy silent waters! How many virgin hearts have
drowned their grief, how many hopeless wrecks have sought their
doom; how many agonised mortals have found their solace; how
many stabbed or strangled wretches have been engnlphed in the
peaceful waters whereon the heavens and the city sleep intermingled,
whereon the stars dance and the moon gleams, though the tide
be crimson with tears of blood? Faith, love, hope, ambition;
they have all sunk there, sunk out of sight for ever. And now
auother penitent soul, another breast racked by despair and bitter
remorse, another human heart full to overflowing and desolated by
the wasting fire3 lit by irrevocable sin, lured by the passive bosom
qf the moonlit wqters, fascinated by the serene calm which slurpbers
168
THE BEAUTY OP BOSCASTBE.
thereon, would plunge, tired of this weary life, to end its woes in
that silver tide.
One plunge, and it would be all over. One plunge, and he would
render to his uncle's memory the only atonement he could yield—a
life for a life.
Lo, then appeared upon the water the face of an angel!
An apparition ? A dream ? In the noiseless ways and bye ways
of Yenice life is all a dream.
For after eventide especially, whether the Queen of Heaven, irra-
diant in the full splendours of her glory mounts her celestial throne,
or whether the glittering robe of night is darkened deeper yet by the
clouds that are the drapery of darkness, all the waterways of Yenice
are mystic with the dreamy magic of silence. Although the stream
of human life glides over them, nothing is heard but the gondoliers'
cry, the soft music of a lute, the passing laughter of a pleasure party,
or the muffled murmur of lovers' voices. But these soon pass and
are gone. The sounds of everyday life are not there. No footfall
breaks the stillness, no whirr of wheels or bustle of traffic salutes the
ear. Even on the gayest night, when the canals are busy with pas-
sengers, the quiet gondolas glide gaily by unheard. It has been said
a thousand times, it is a city of dreams. The heavens are always
above, but they are also around, about, and below. The stars are
mirrored on the tide, the moon shines as brightly in the waters
as in the sky, and the buildings inverted in the water repeat them-
selves with strange unearthly aspect, till palace and temple are
doubled in the water, and shimmering with softened outline in the
changeful stream where the heavens mingle, they look not like
mansions builded with hands, but as though they were edifices of
God.
Into these heaven-seeming depths Norman Forrabury gazed, fasci-
nated by their inviting beauty, lost in grievous reverie, thinking that
he would plunge into the stillness of the mirage, and end his life for
ever.
Lo, as he gazed, he beheld a slowly flitting shadow darkening the
bosom of the tide, and therein a pale, white face—the face of an
angel!
He felt no surprise, for Yenice is a dreamland where everything
may be that is beautiful, and the heavens and the angels of heaven
are everywhere. They are carved in purest marble on the walls of
a hundred churches, they smile from the crannies of arcades, and
peer from the intricate tracery of wondrous colonnades. They are
bright as the sunset on a thousand richly dight panes ; they stretch
their wings in golden mosaic, clad in the gorgeous hues of Paradise,
azure and sardius and chrysoprase, and even on the jewelled flooi'S
the angelic emblems are laid, amidst tesselated pavements that are
fit for the foot of God.
And yet more arc they present and living in the faces of the Yene-
tians, for every Yerxetian woman, without any exception whatever,
has the face of an angel in her youth.
By continuous contact with beauty, by dwelling for ever amongsfc
WHEN THE GATES OF PARADISE WERE SHUT. 169
the beautiful, by the contemplation of the lovely buildings which
shelter them, and by creating things of beauteous form and hue, the
Venetians themselves have been beautiful for generations. Continu-
ons contact with beauty has made them beautiful; that is to say
until recently. But now that the steam omnibus of hideous shape
flounders through the befouled water, and belches forth its sooty
smoke, covering with grime arch and balustrade and traceried ver-
andah, the people are losing their loveliness, because soot is sadly
destructive of the complexion.
Nevertheless, there is a wonderful beauty yet about the Venetian
girls, with their delicate olive oval faces and mild black eyes ; so
much so, indeed, that numerous young men of all nations have gone
thither to reside amongst them, and to limn their marvellous grace.
Truly their beauty, their almost invariable beauty, is one of the
most astonishing facts of Venice.
I can deliberately vouch for it by my own personal guarantee.
Are you still unconvinced ?
Then, fair reader—for fair and beautiful and lovely beyond all de-
scription I hope thou art—I have exhausted my vocabulary of praise.
Shut this unconvincing page, and go thou to that faithful friend
whom thou dost consult so many times per day, go to thy mirror
and gaze upon the features that are there presented to thy admiring
vision, look at the radiant eyes that look into thine, turn thy face
slightly to the light, and contemplate the fair expanse of cheek and
neck; gaze on the exquisite picture in the glass, and then, fair lady,
beauteous descendant of the angels who won for their country its
name of Angel land, thou wilt behold the only rival of those beau-
teous Venetian girls who trill the guitar in their gondolas, or who
shrink behind the antique balconies which hang over their historio
canals.
Understand well; in their beauty they are angelic. I say nothing
of their temper, their character, or their goodness. But their mild
eyes give them a benignant expi-ession, they sing like seraphs, and
they are as lovely as the angels.
Every traveller remarks this, and people who lean over the bridges,
lost in contemplation of lovely Venice, dream that they are in Para-
dise, and that the angels are about them.
Norman Eorrabury, matter-of-fact Norman Forrabury, the man of
the world, the man who had run all over both hemispheres and struck
every note in the gamut of human passion, who had seen everything
and been everywhere, who had known poverty and wealth, labour,
luxury and ease, to this man of wide experience, who was absolutely
free from the least shadow of superstition, and who, even in the
horrible dreams of remorse, had never been haunted by any super-
natural idea, looking at the face in the water beheld an angel.
And without surprise. The scene was supernatural. The heavens
were below him, and there was no earth. The world had melted
away, and in the limpid flood shimmered the reversed arcades, the
star-like tracery, and the long colonnades of ethereal mansions, whose
softened outlines were changed every moment in the depths, and
170
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
again every moment appeared anew on the palpitating mii'ror, bril-
liant with the moon's gloi'y.
Into this heaven, weary of life, the murderer gazed, lost in dark
reveries of his stricken soul. One plunge, and the bubbling waters
would circle above him, for a brief minute the fair scene would be
blurred and troubled, and then the palaces would reappear, the beau-
tiful picture would be repeated, and again the city of dreams would
be mirrored on the limpid flood.
He sat on the seat of the gondola, not under the hood, but in the
open boat, a,nd in a depressed, dejected attitude gazed on the water,
musing, contemplative.
A dark shadow glided slowly over the surface, the reflection of a
passing gondolier; then he beheld a woman's face upon the water.
Yery beautiful seemed the angelic apparition, the softened outlines
of the pale seraphic face mingling with the subdued colours in the
dreamy scene.
Lost in his reverie, oppressed with the remorseful memory of his
awful crime, he simply observed that face as a passing incident, a
note of evanescent beauty like transient music. It yielded him no
surprise, and no other interest than is given by a pleasing dream.
Still he looked, conscious of the beautiful picture spread before him,
but lost in sorrowful meditation.
Then he heard a voice, musical as a nightingale's, sad as his own,
telling his name.
" Mr. Forrabury ! "
"Lady Violet!"
Thrilled to his heart, he started like one who has received a mag-
netic shock. " Lady Yiolet," he repeated, in a voice trembling with
rapture. " It is you."
She put out her hand.
He clasped it in his iron grasp, as a drowning man might clutch
at a hand stretched out to save him.
" To meet you in Venice ! " he said, his over-full heart bi-imming
over in words of truth. " Thank* God I have met you. You have
not been out of my thoughts one hour since that night when you
bade me adieu on the terrace at Monte Carlo."
* "Nor you of mine," she answered, but in a murmur so low he
could not hear the confession.
" I have so much to say to you, Lady Yiolet. And you—have
you been every where ? to Florence, Rome ? "
" A-t Capri most," she answered.
" May I get into your gondola, and have a chat ? "
" With pleasure," she replied.
" Adagio," he cried to the gondolier, as the men, steadying the
boats, enabled him to transfer himself to her gondola.
He dismissed his man, and sat by her side beneath the dark cur-
tains, whilst her boatmen, for she had two with her, urged their quiet
course over the almost deserted canal.
" That we should meet in Venice," she said. " How delightful it is
here 5 so different from any other city in Italy. Capri was delightfub
WHEN THE GATES OF PARADISE WERE SHUT. 171
but this—oh, is it not too lovely ? Life here is a continuous dream !
One never tires where one never walks. And how can one sleep with-
out weariness ? I glide all day long and by night too over these beau-
tiful canals, musing and dreaming; and even if one is sad, there
seems a reposefulness and a quietude here that soothes and comforts
and Oh, whatever has fallen on my hand ? It burnt me! "
She looked up, and beheld the hot tears streaming down Norman's
cheeks.
" You are not happy," she said, in a tone of infinite tenderness.
" How hot the tear was that fell upon my hand."
He put his arm around her, and she, taking the other hand, nursed
it between her palms.
" So," she said, in the soft murmuring tone that one uses when
one speaks to an infant in pain; " cry, if it does you good. Let
the tears flow, poor heart—poor distressed heart. I know your
agony. Be comforted."
" Violet," he cried passionately, " I love you, though I must not,
dare not, may not. I love you. Though it is a crime to love you, I
love you. Since you left me that night at Monte Carlo, I have been
desolate, miserable. Oh, fool and villain that I am to say it, I love
you with all my black and worthless soul. You fill my heart;
night and day you possess me. You are here always, throbbing
amidst the vileness of my vile self. Your image is within me,
burnt in ineradicable lines upon my heart. Come closer to me,
Violet, and hear how my pulse thuds with love for you. I can
never ask you to love me. Satan might as well ask for Heaven.
You do not know what hellish depths of wickedness are mine. It
is another crime to love thee. But, 0 Lady, pui'e holy creature,
let me for once, in this hour of overwhelming passion, violate the
sweetness of thy lips."
He drew her to his bosom.
" And ere I die—for by Heaven I do not wish a longer life in
this hell of my passion and self-hate—let me cover thee with kisses
of love."
As he kissed her the teai's streamed.
Leaning over her, and drawing her almost unconscious form
closer to him, he pressed his lips to her brow. Overwhelmed and
unmanned by the sudden bliss that overtook him after long months
of ordeal, his breast heaved, his throat felt as if he would choke; a
great sob, like the moan of a storm, came from him,#and from his
eyes gushed a flood of tears like summer rain—tears that coursed
down his cheeks in a hot stream, and fell on Lady Violet's face.
At once he would have drawn away from her ashamed, but, her
heart aching with his pain, she put her compassionate arm about his
neck, and held him fixed, so that feeling the tenderness and the
sympathy of her embrace, and the soft and furtive kiss that she laid
like a hidden blessing upon his cheek, he reclined, locked in her
arms, sobbing like a child.
"When at length he drew himself away he was in Paradise.
It seemed that the burden of his crime had vanished altogether,
172
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
The tears he shed seemed to have purged his soul and to have
washed away the remembrance of his sin.
And the blissful touch left on his cheek by those virgin lips gave
him the peace of an absolution.
So, with a heart free from pain, he sat with his hand in the hand
of the maiden who had given him happiness, looking into her face.
And she, happy in the burst of love that had broken upon her,
feeling the pulse of his throbbing wrist, looked up at him, her soft
eyes beaming and tender with the joy she shared.
What to them was Venice? All the beauty in earth and heaven
was contained in the sight of each other's face. So under the dark
canopy of the gondola, curtained from the fair scenes beyond, they
sat in the ecstasy of love, in a fairer dreamland than the city of
dreams, preferring the darkness to the light; for there was light
enough in their hearts—in that one unified heart where all was light
and love.
Their happiness was too intense for speech. In silence the
gondoliers urged on the boat, and the only sound the lovers heard
was the music of the gurgling tide.
CHAPTER XL.
describing the very eden of love.
" Far from tlie Madding Crowd." (Thos. Hardy.)
"Now assuredly I see
My lady is perfect and transfigureth
All sin and sorrow and death,
Making them fair as her own eyelids be,
Or lips wherein my whole soul's life abides."
(Swinburne.)
Whilst still sitting in this ecstasy, they felt a bump against their
gondola, which awoke them from their dream. Lady Violet started,
uttering a stifled little scream, and Norman, drawing the curtains,
put out his head to ascertain what was the matter, for their gondo-
liers were interchanging with another oaths and abuse worthy of
London cabmen. It was nothing—a gondola, darting rapidly from
the Canal di Lido, had run- into theirs. A common enough oc-
currence. No harm of course was done, and the rival boats pursued
their way.
But it loosened the lover's tongues.
And as they passed the traceried window of that very house where
Desdemona had listened to the Moor as he told
" Of moving accidents by flood and field,
Of hairbreadth 'scapes,"
DESCRIBING- THE VERY EDEN OP LOVE.
173
so Lady Violet listened now to her hero, excusing all his faults in
the greatness of the love she bore him, and telling him in her turn
the story of her travels.
And yet more they talked of what they would now see together,
planning visits for to-morrow, and the next day, and the next to the
Ducal Palace, and the Church of St. Mark's and S. G. Maggiore, and
the great sights of Venice.
And how they would go together on a delightful pilgrimage, and
see Verona and Milan, Como and Bellaggio, and all the glorious
places in this lovely world.
And how together they would lead the " beautiful life."
For he had forgotten that the " beautiful life " was not for him.
And if she too knew that, she shut the idea from her ere it
dawned, and determined that she would hide his sins in the drapery
of Love.
Even then she so hid them. She deified him. He was her
Apollo. She ransacked the mythology of Greece, and decorated
him with the virtues of all the gods. The iniquities of Olympus
were not iniquities upon Olympus, but the vagaries of Greatness,
The great are a law unto themselves. And he, the hero of her
heart, with his noble lineaments and giant stature, was great in soul
to her, and none the less great, but greater still, by the greatness of
his crime.
In her heart of hearts she was certain that he had sinned the most
horrible sin. But she only admitted it unconsciously. After all,
that very crime was perhaps an imagination. She had only guessed
that it was, or might have been. She knew nothing in truth.
But crime or no crime, he was faultless in her eyes. He was a
man. A man of force, towering above the drawing-room men who
had sought her hand before with civil speech and nicety of
etiquette—perfumed darlings of the salon, with drawling speech
and nineteenth century style. Little men these—men of little vices
and little sins : small and petty and mean even in their wicked-
nesses, which she knew, well enough, were many. But this ! He
was indeed a man, who carried away her heart by onslaught of such
fierce passion, and with such resolute, ungovernable, raging love,
that she likened him to the old world heroes, and felt that to such a
man how insignificant was a life—a little thing to be hurled aside.
He was greater to her love-blinded sight by the very force and depth
of his sin—if that sin were his—and by its crushing magnitude. In
the splendour, and, as she chose to phrase it to herself, in the
magnificence of his villainy, in the success that had crowned it, in
the sombre hauteur that had concealed it, in the placid calm that had
veiled it, she discerned an overpowering greatness.
Whatever he did she admired. His talk seemed full of high
thoughts, spoken in phrases of beauty; and, indeed, on that night
in Venice, after long weeks of silence, Horman Forrabury's fluent
words, spoken from a full heart, were singularly eloquent; for the
flood-gates of his passion were opened, and the tumultuous torrent
poured forth in natural grandeur.
174
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
What a contrast to her wooers of Mayfair !
Never for one moment did she doubt his loyalty. She had asked
him but one request—to abandon the roulette table. She knew it
was difficult for him to acquiesce, but she knew also that he had kept
his word. She knew that he would ever be loyal to her lightest
wish. This tyrant amongst men was her slave. It filled her with
feminine.pride to know that she could harness this lion and control
him with the gaidanded reins of love; that the massive hand in
which her little palm lay would clench with all its might and strength
at her bidding, and that her giant would not harm a gnat if she
breathed a prayer.
So with the curtains undrawn now, so that the reflection of .the
Venetian moon shone from the waters upon the face of her lover,
she gazed upon him, with his English face and beard ruddy by
contrast with the blue light, and admired. Admired him for his
features, his stature, and, ignoring his crime—which again and
again that night he had attempted to confess to her—had she not
always stayed him—for was not the mystery of it an excuse ? She
admired him for his bravery and his goodness.
His goodness !
Even for his goodness. What is love if it discriminates truly?
She recalled a thousand little amiabilities, innumerable acts of
generosity and of self-denial. She had heard of him this and that,
for she had often spoken of him indirectly with all sorts of people in
the months gone by, and her maid, who was an Italian girl—one of
the tiring women at Tintagel Tomb who had long ago found out her
mistress's secret—fed the flame that burnt in her heart by sound-
ing his praises to the skies. Then as Lady Violet had been hungry
for such tit-bits as her maid Yould serve, when the supply failed
she found it necessary to draw on her imagination. She was a clever
maid, and had a highly inventive genius.
But assuming that Lady Violet had not so much sound evidence
concerning her lover's good qualities as she believed, the result would
have been the same, for was she not a woman ?
Every woman who truly loves believes her sweetheart to be a
paragon. Love is not a critic or a judge. The world found out
long ago that Love is blind.
Yet with her large intelligent eyes wide open, she looked upon
Norman Forrabury, and felt that she could read him altogether—all
the good and all the evil that was in him, the gentleness and
generosity, the sagacity born of experience, the gravity that comes
of sorrow, the reserve bred of sin, his innate candour, his sensuous
love of ease, the signs of human frailty, and the evidence of super-
human strength.
Whilst he contemplated her, his eyes almost closed in this new
peacefulness—complacent, satisfied.
Now and then they spoke—the foolish chatter of lovers—or
plunged into the depths of the language of passion. Oftenest they
lapsed into dreamy silence, which is love's utmost eloquence.
Now gondoliers are accustomed to the ways of lovers, and know
DESCRIBING THE "VERY EDEN OF LOVE.
175
from experience that on these soft moonlit nights they may work
the boat till morning if they wait to bo dismissed. Therefore, after
several courses along the Grand Canal, and some deviations along
the Lido, they took upon themselves to bring-to with a suddenness
that made the blissful pair " sit up." It brought them back to the
world of commonplace.
" Why, this is our house," said Lady Violet, with a little start. " I
had no idea we were so near home."
"You are not staying in a hotel then. This is the Mocenigo
Palace, is it not ? And Sir Henry Lever has it this season, surely."
"Yes. We are his guests. Papa knew him at Cambridge. In-
deed, they were undergrads together, and both at Trinity. We
happened to meet at Capri not long ago, and Sir Henry very kindly
insisted on our visiting him. It is a beautiful house. See, that is my
room with the lantern amidst the flowers on the balcony."
" I shall serenade you."
" Dare! Cecil Lever has neuralgia, and he has a spite against
serenaders. Hush-sh-sh! I ought not to be out so late. What-
ever will they think ? Good-night, go-o-o-o-o-o-d-night."
" Good-night, sweet," he murmured slowly. "But stay. When
may I call ? "
" In the morning," she whispered quietly.
"Yes. How early may I come ? "
" Oh, why not to breakfast ? " she replied, as she disembarked
upon the steps at the gate of the Palace.
" To breakfast! Capital! Er—hum. Let me see. How i3 your
mother ? "
" Oh, nonsense! I have told you she is well. Good-night."
■ J|Htay, Violet. Violet, my very own. Must you leave me ? I
never knew what happiness was until to-night. Let us have just
one more spin down the canal. Come."
" It is too late, you silly." Her eyes sparkled with fun as she
spoke the charming nonsense common to all lovers.
" Come," he whispered pleadingly.
" I would, but I dare not. There, that is what you want, monster,"
and she held out her hand.
How white it seemed in the silver light! He seized it trembling,
and covered her delicate and jewelled fingers with reverent kisses.
" Have done, Norman," she whispered, struggling to release
herself. " You will get me into a row presently. Now, go-od-night.
For the last time, go-o-o-o-o-d-night." And, running up the palace
steps, she disappeared.
Bidding the gondoliers take him to his hotel, he sat on the open
seat, gazing intently at the Mocenigo Palace. Soon a soft light
shone through the curtains of her window. He saw her shadow pass
and repass, or was it the figure of: her maid p His mind was filled
with such trifling speculations. He stopped the gondola and
watched.
Again. Was that her shadow P It passed too quickly—a mere
shade that came aud went.
176
THE BEAUTY OE BOSCASTLE.
Now, again that shadow, an arm only, the rest obscured. He
could see the fingers moving—something removed and replaced,
and for a few moments the entire shadow. Then it vanished
altogether.
Norman waited, gazing intently, spell-bound. Was it hers, or her
maid's ? It seemed to him a momentous question, a puzzle that
must be riddled out. He felt a strange presentiment towards that
doubtful shadow. How could he sleep unless he determined that?
Now a shadow having no definable meaning came and passed.
Then two figures. Violet and her maid, clearly. But which?
Soon one of the two collapsed—disappearing behind a fixed
shadow. The other remained standing, frequently moving the arm.
" It is the maid tiring her hair," thought Norman. " How she
tugs it! She will tear it out by the roots."
" My darling ! She bears it like a lamb. She seems to be hitting
her. Of course these shadows are deceptive. The maid has grown
into a giant now. It is an illusion of the shadows.
" Ah! It is over now. There! Two shadows. That is Violet's,
my darling, my treasure. Even her shadow has a grace in it. A
palpable grace. Now she raises her arm. How elegant that little
natural motion was. To think that I was so blind as to be unable
to discriminate the lady from the maid.
" Her figure is all elegance ; even in shadow one can tell that it is
the arm of a lady. Am I a pig to stay here ? Violet, my sweet, I
would not intrude on the chastity of thy presence for the whole
world. Brute that I am! There is a curse upon me that compels
me to sin, even against thee, thou loveliest shade. And yet I meant
ho wrong, thou holy creature. Nor is there wrong. Stay I will,
and witness thy shadow, harming thee not in thought or sense^ it
is impossible. To me, sweetest and purest flower! thou art
altogether holy, holy, holy."
The gondoliers must have thought strangely of their burden, for
he sat stone-still, muttering his thoughts as a devotee murmurs his
prayers.
Soon in the centre of the square of soft light there appeared a
bright line, which widened and widened. Lady Violet was opening
the casement, and now stepped on to the balustrade, robed in a light
silk dressing gown trimmed with white fur.
Shading her eyes with her hand, she peered up the Grand Canal
in the direction of Norman's hotel.
" Go nearer there," said Norman to the gondoliers, pointing to the
Mocenigo Palace. The splash of their oars and the movement of
the gondola attracted Lady Violet's attention. Becognising Norman,
she leant over the balcony, and waved him kiss after kiss from the
tips of her pretty fingers, pointed with a gesture of command to
his hotel, and, wafting him one more adieu, disappeared into her
chamber.
In a moment the light was put out, and Norman returned to his
hotel.
WHICH BEGINS WITH THE SUBLIME.
177
CHAPTER XLI.
which, ill-natured critics may say, begins "with the sublime and
ends "with the ridiculous, and which i claim to be
tiierepore very natural.
" The Scarlet Letter." (Nathaniel Hawthorne.)
" May one be pardoned and retain the offence ? " (Shakespeare.)
Lady Violet came down to breakfast looking brighter and better
than she had done for months. Her face had lost its ghostly pallor,
and her manner was so buoyant and gay that her mother could
not fail to remark it.
" Is it the Venice air, my girl?" asked she.
" What, mother dear P "
" The roses are blooming in your cheeks again," answered the
Countess, " and your eyes are bright with girlish lustre. You are
better, my child."
" She has only been shamming," said her brother laughingly.
" Now, at any rate, she is the very picture of health."
" Come, my pretty one," said the Earl, kissing his daughter's brow.
" These roses are not to fade. We must keep them until we get to
England."
" Yes, papa."
" What, you promise? You have made up your mind, then.
There are to be no more white lips, and pallid cheeks, and cheerless
ways."
" No, they have vanished. I feel that I am going to be well. I
am in such good spirits that I could dance. Lancelot, do you
remember how we always used to skip before breakfast for an appe-
tite ? I feel just as merry as that now."
" We owe this improvement in our daughter to you, Sir Henry.
The air of Venice, and your hospitalities "
" And Cecil's kind attentions," interjected the Countess politely.
" —Have worked wonders. Violet, you have not looked so well
since we left Boscastle."
" The canals are very healthy," said Lady Lever seriously. " One
is so much out of doors, and the air is so salt, that I always think
Venice a good place for invalids. Cecil, you must take "Violet out
for a good long row this morning."
" Yes, m-m-mother d-d-dear, I will," said Cecil Lever
quickly.
" But—ur, is it safe P " asked Lady Violet, blushing.
" Safe ! Hang it, that is wather a c-calm thing for you to ask!
Wh-wh-wh-why, I s-s-s-saw you in a gondola after dark last night,
s-s-so it is surely safe in the daytime."
" Yes, but they were professional gondoliers; one feels safe with
them, Mr. Lever."
" Cecil can manage a gondola as well as any gondolier in Venice,"
N
178
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
said Sir Henry proudly. " So you can trust yourself 'with him.
You need not be uneasy on that score, Lady Violet. Ah, James,
the letters ! Excuse me if I open mine. I always open my letters
at breakfast if I don't open them before. Here is for you, my Lord;
and quite a budget for the Countess. Do not stand on ceremony,
I beg. For my own part, I cannot tackle breakfast until I have
mastered the morning's post. Lady Violet, here is a solitary one
for you.
I It ran thus :—
" Canal Grande, April 21 st, 1887.
" Dear Lady Violet,—
" How shall I write you ? I must write, but I cannot. I have
to write what no words can express. Words! ah, how vain they
are! How shall I attempt to express all that I would P the unutter-
able ? How can I convey, amidst these blots and blurs, and with this
faltering pen, the inexpressible?
" It was cowardly and base of me to yield to a passion stronger
than myself. I told you a few hours ago, what, alas ! has been true
for months past, that I love you with an ardour beyond expression.
Ah! it is a horrible thought to me that you reciprocate my love.
Blot out my memory at once. I could not tell you how unfit I was
to aspire to your hand. How unworthy ! Unworthy, oh, the weak-
ness of words ! Lady Violet, I am unworthy the love of the meanest
and most wretched woman in the wide world. I have no right to
live. I wanted to confess to you what I ought to confess to—to the
law. It is an awful thing to write. I would have confessed it to
you in the gondola; but over and over again, when I endeavoured to
tell you my wretched history, you would have none of it. You would
not listen to me. It seems to me that I commit another vile sin by
now disturbing the serenity of your pure soul with this confession.
I would not make it—but 1 must. I have come across your life and
darkened it. It shall be for a brief while only. I will end it with
as much regard to you, and with as much regard to others, as is now
possible, but my life has been so full of wickedness that I cannot
now do right. There is no good path for me to follow. The com-
monest acts of life become crimes in me, because of my previous
guilt. I have sown the wind, I must reap the whirlwind. It is just.
" Just—but not to others. What fiend possessed me, but a few
hours ago, that I must needs lay the burden of my baseness upon
you ? A dorable one! in the overmastering passion of my love for
you I told you my distraction. I could not help it. Your sudden
presence was like an apparition; it plunged me in a sea of happiness,
it has left me in a worse abyss of misery because, by aspiring to the
foolish height, I have soiled the pages of your life's book. I con-
fessed to you my love : a curse on me that I did so. I must now
confess my crime.
" It was I who murdered Colonel Forrabury. He did not fall over
the cliff. I murdered him, I—I who write this. Ob, curse me as
I curse myself. Hot hurriedly or without forethought did I this foul
thing, but in cold blood and after previous consideration. My sole
WHICH BEGINS WITH THE SUBLIME.
179
object in murdering him was to obtain his money. Oh the base-
ness, the horror of it! And other wicked acts —but it is unnecessary
that your pure heart should be troubled by their recital. Words !
words, they are useless, all! I cannot make them express a tithe
of the thoughts that burn in my brain as I think them.
" It would be easy, 0 God, how easy ! to die by my own hand.
But I am not coward enough for that. What restitution I can do
I will do, and yet what can I do ? Nothing. Can I bring back the
life I took away ? Can I—oh, I cannot write it—can I heal the
hearts I have broken, the homes I have ruined—these thousand
injuries ?
" No, every night and every day for months past I have asked
myself these questions in vain. I cease to seek the impossible.
Reparation. Repentance—foolish words ! I have repented during
every hour of my existence since I did the foul deed. What good
has that done? It has not brought back the life I took away.
Confession ! Yes. I will confess. I will write by this post to the
authorities a full confession of the murder. I will leave Yenice by
the first train, probably before you get this letter. I cannot say
good-bye to you—you who would despise me, loathe me, spurn me.
A criminal—I will deliver myself up to the law. I will go to justice.
I seek my goal—punishment.
" I am glad this is written. I feel the end is at hand. Soon I
shall perish. Though I have yet to face the fire of humiliation, I
do not flinch. I look forward, craving for my deserts. It is an
awful prospect—a descent into unutterable horror, into agonies of
public torture. I survey all with a fearful gravity, longing to purge
my weaiy bosom of this searing sin by the humiliation of disgrace
inexpressible, of a notoriety unutterably odious, of the torment and
anguish of public shame.
" Horrible, most horrible! Oh that the lightning would blast
me. Oh that the shivbring heavens would open and strike me
dead. Oh that mercy would kill me before I stand at the bar of
justice in the blaze of day—in that utmost humiliation.
" Do not shed one tear for me, Lady Violet. It is iniquity for
this vile hand to write thy holy name. And yet I will sin again.
I will write it once more that I may kiss the word. Yiolet, Violet.
" At least I have snatched myself from thee and thee from hell.
The Paradise of love was open. Thou wast there, pure, holy,
radiant. The gates of love and of Paradise were open. I shut
them. Remain inviolate, sweet saint. Thou hast helped mo to
conquer. In the glory of thy presence I was dazzled. I forgot
that I was Satan. The light vanished and I was in darkness.
" I go to my just doom.
" Stay, thoir angel, in a world not pure enough for thee. I have
one blissful consciousness alone. That in thee I have conquered
myself, that I have not seared thy life with another crime; if I
were in the world I must needs be with thee. It is because thou
livest that I must die.
" So I go to death.
180
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
u I cannot ask thee to fcrget me. For one brief hour I stole thy
love. Oh the rapture of that ecstatic hour !
" Forgive me—nay, that is impossible ; but suffer me. Now I
linger to write that other letter.
*****
" I have written a full confession of the murder to the Home
Secretary. I have myself taken it to the post. My fate is now out
of my hands. It is done.
" I passed your window afterwards in a gondola.
" Oh to have been sinless, that I might have lived with thee the
beautiful life !
" Yiolet.
" Pardon me if I write again thy beautiful name.
" Come lightnings and whirlwinds! Come hell and flames and
fightings ! Strivings of a stricken soul; raging tempests and tor-
ments ; tossing eddies of tumult. Come misery and love ! Torture
me, tear me asunder, kijl me with the agonies that stretch the
chords of my remorseful heart. 0 God! 0 God! let me not en-
dure the awful humiliations, the disgraces, the maddening shames
staring at me million eyed, but let me die a thousand deaths, racked
with pain, in gloom and horror. Oh, my stout, strong heart! wilt
thou never break ? Then rack me more and more, oh anguish,
stretch these attenuated chords to the last string. Come Ruin and
Havoc, riot upon my heart-strings, seize the aching tendons and
draw them apart; wring them until they break—until they break—
until they break.
*****
" I cannot bring back the dead.
*****
" There is no mercy. Curse me! I call on thee to curse me.
Curse me with a curse so deep that I shall be blasted out of being;
annihilate me. Oh that I knew the gate that leads to Nothing-
ness.
" Norman Forrabury."
* * * * *
" In the Times ? "
" No, my dear lady, in the—I think it was the Telegraph."
" I saw it in the Post. A good paper that. It is wonderful how
it has improved under new management."
" I prefer the Standard, Sir Henry. It has stood by us through
thick and thin. There is nothing sensational."
" No heavy, leaded type."
" Nor staring capitals."
" The evening editions do the mischief. They dress up their
placards."
" And the dreadful boys shouting."
" With always a special edition." •
" Howling a scandal. Let me help you to a cutlet, No? A few
WHICH BEGINS WITH THE SUBLIME. 181
grapes. It is in all the English papers—and, of course, in ' Galig-
nani.' Cecil, where can we see the Morning Post ? "
" My dear lady, do not trouble further. How nice your coffee is !
Of course it is in all the papers. The whole world knows it now."
" It is not true," said Lady Violet, in a tone so strange and
sepulchral that every one looked at her in surprise.
" But it is frightful, frightful, frightful," she repeated, staring
wildly into vacancy, whilst she nervously clutched and crumpled
in her trembling fingers the rustling letter she had been reading.
" What is the matter, my sweet child?" said the Earl, going to his
daughter's assistance, whilst every one rose from the table in con-
sternation.
" Violet, my dear daughter!" exclaimed the Countess. " Lancelot
support her. She is going to faint."
" I am not," she replied firmly. " Stand away from me. Ho-
thing is the matter."
" My dear child. What troubles you ? You have some bad
news. Confide in me, my own Violet," said her mother sooth-
ingij-
" What is in the papers?" she cried excitedly, and with rapid
speech. " Why do you all stare at me so ? What? What is it?
Tell me you say it is in the Times, in all the daily papers. What
is in the papers P Can none of you speak ? "
An English newspaper lay upon the floor; she rushed at it, and
ran her eye eagerly through its columns, crumpling it in her
excitement.
"We were only speaking of Annersley, my dear sister. He is to
be made a Peer. It is in every paper."
She looked at her brother vacantly, still clutching the lettei*, and
gazed round the room with a strange stare. Her frenzied eyes
rolled from side to side. She strove to speak, but could not. Her
tongue clave to the roof of her mouth. Her bosom heaved violently.
All stood around her in awe and silence, as she slowly raised her
arm, pointing into vacancy at some fearful vision that afflicted her,
until, with a shrill shriek of horror, she fell in a swoon; a shriek so
weird, so full of fright and fear, that it horrified and appalled the
friends who surrounded her, and brought the servants crowding
into the salon.
They stooped and knelt by her side. The Earl supported her
head on his knee, the Countess wept hysterically. Lady Lever
rubbed her forehead. Sir Henry and his son, Cecil, ordered the
servants to bring brandy, hartshorn, and restoratives. Lancelot
silent and stern, stood by the table thoughtfully, witnessing the
strange scene of excitement.
" She has gone mad. Her reason has left her," whispered Sir
Henry to his son. " This it is to be a genius."
" My poor daughter! my Violet," murmured the Earl. " What
ails you, my sweet child? What troubles vex you, my own
daughter ?"
" Send for Dr. Dunstan, James " cried Lady Lever.
182
the beauty of boscastle.
" She has had bad news in the letter," said Sir Henry. '• It did
not come by post. James, how came the letter to Lady Violet ?"
"A gondolier brought it this morning, sir," said the servant;
" and left at once, saying there was no answer."
" Give her some brandy," said Lancelot, pouring out some eau-
de-vie in a glass and kneeling anxiously by his sister's side.
" She has the letter still in her hand," said Lady Lever, trying in
vain to unclose her fingers, which tightly grasped it.
" Softly," said the Earl gently; " she is coming to. Give her
another spoonful of brandy, Lancelot."
She opened her eyes and looked round dreamily.
" She is mad," sighed the Countess, weeping bitterly, " mad—mad
—her reason has gone. Oh, my darling daughter."
Suddenly she dragged her hand from Lady Lever's, and scowled
at her, flourishing her arm, and fighting the air.
" Let her alone," cried Lady Violet's maid, Rosine, uncere-
moniously.
There was an English fireplace in the room, in which a coal-fire
burnt merrily. Lady Violet, summoning all her strength, struggled
away from her father, and drawing herself along the carpet held
the letter in the flame, Lady Lever endeavouring to prevent her.
The letter caught fire in the blaze and burnt to ashes.
Then, with a peculiar unearthly laugh, a laugh that sounded more
like the mocking wail of a lost spirit than the voice of a human
being, Lady Violet threw up her arms and lay stretched full length
upon the floor. Great beads of sweat stood on her brow, her teeth
were fixed, her limbs trembling, and her bosom heaving, whilst the
muscles of her face twitched as in one struck by paralysis.
" Air!" cried Rosine, who knelt by her mistress. She waved
every one away, pushing even the Earl aside. "Air. My lady
wants air."
They all made way.
" James," continued Rosine, assuming command of her mistress,
"help me to carry my lady to her chamber. Bring the great
cushion from the sofa. So, that is well."
" Chafe her hands," said Lady Lever.
" Pooh, Why? She is well—it is no good to chafe her hands. It
is only une affaire du cceur. She will be better presently. Lift
her carefully," she continued, as they bore her tenderly to her bed-
chamber, father, mother, brother and host all following, and assist'
ing to bear the precious burden.
" There," cried Rosine; " lay her gently on the bed. Oh, my poor
dear mistress, my dear lady," and Rosine, kissing her mistress's
hands, began to weep.
" Now, out all of you ! My lady wants sleep," she continued.
" She will never get well till she has perfect quiet. My Lord, I
pray you go. Her ladyship will recover best if she be quite alone.
I will stay and be at her side when she awakes," and the devoted
maid, triumphing by her earnest decision and good sense, was able
to convince them all that they were best away.
WHICH BEGrltfS WITH THE SUBLIME.
188
So the hours woi*e quietly away, and Lady Violet slept, her faith-
ful Rosine sitting near'her knitting tranquilly.
The doctor came but did not disturb her, though he saw her in
her sleep. Hearing what had occurred, and being convinced that
her trouble was mental, he passed a commendation upon Rosine's
good sense, and declared that, for the present at any rate, Lady
Violet had better be undisturbed.
Another hour wore by, and still the patient remained unconscious.
After a while she moved restlessly, opened her eyes, and, awaking
with a start, looked fixedly at Rosine.
Putting aside her knitting, the maid approached her mistress, and
put her hand upon her brow. "Shall I play to your ladyship ?" she
asked.
It was Rosine's custom to play the lute to her mistress every
morning at her waking. She was a pretty and accomplished player,
and now, in accordance with her custom, softly struck the notes and
beginning a SAveet melody, she sang, in a low aftd tender voice, a sim-
pie Italian song. Rosine was a great favourite of Lady Violet's.
She was one of the tiring maids in the Tomb at Tintagel; she tra-
veiled with her everywhere, and was rather a companion than a
servant; a sweet, singing creature, proficient in languages, devoted
to her mistress, and very fond of dressing her and brushing her
hair.
It seemed quite natural and customary to Lady Violet to lie there,
and to listen to Rosine as she lifted'her delicately modulated voice
to the strains,—
" Lo the early beam of morning
Softly chides onr longer stay.
Hark! the matin-bells are chiming ;
Daughter, we must hence away."
But very soon she said sternly, " Rosine."
"My lady."
" What is this ? I wear my gown. My head aches. I remember—
or was it a dream ? "
" Hush—sh—sh, my lady ; you are not well."
" Norman is in Venice."
"Ah!" exclaimed Rosine, her mind suddenly illuminated by a
flood of knOAvledge. "He is here."
" Yes. He loves me. Oh, Rosine, he loves me!"
" I told your ladyship he loved you."
"Yes, Rosine; you are always right. But ah! What! what!
oh! He is not here! he is going. The letter! Where is the
letter?"
" The letter ? "
" His letter. Norman's. Did I not tell you ? No. Now I re-
member. I must never tell you, because it is dangerous. Ob, it is
terrible ! No, Rosine, my faithful Rosine, I must not tell even you.
Oh—h-h-h!"
She sprang from the bed, and held her maid's hand as she looked
184
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
her steadfastly in the face, whilst her memory gradually came back to
her.
"Rosine," she sobbed, rather than said, "Rosine, Rosine."
" My dear lady, calm yourself. You have been ill. You have been
dreaming."
" Dreaming, Rosine ! say that again. Dreaming ! no. I have not
been dreamingand she flung her maid's hand from her. "You
are deceiving me, Rosine. I remember all; all that letter. I burnt
it."
" Yes; your ladyship burnt it in the salon. I saw you burn it."
" And no one read it P "
" No; you clutched it in your fingers when you fainted, and when
they would take it from you, your ladyship woke,—woke up and put
it in the fire, till it was all burnt to ashes."
" And no one read it, Rosine ? "
" Not a word, my lady."
Lady Yiolet sat down calmly, and seemed lost in conjecture for
several minutes.
Then she rose and deliberately looked at her watch. The night
had come on; it was half-past eight o'clock. The morning train,
in which Norman was, had been speeding on its way for nearly twelve
hours. She shook her head sadly, and the tears began to stream
down her cheeks.
" My lady, you must not. I sjhall have to send for the Countess
if you weep. It is only if you are quiet that you may rest here."
" Oh, Rosine, Rosine!" She spoke as though her heart would
break.
Then she plucked up courage. " This is no time for foolish tears,"
she said bravely. " But what can I do ? Nothing. It is impossible."
"Ah, m'inselle; how often you have said to me "impossible."
Never mention to me that execrable word."
" See, Rosine. It is impossible this time. Oh, yes ! [it is impos-
sible."
" Let us try, my lady. What is impossible P "
" To stop a letter from going to the post that has gone to the post."
Rosine shook her head sadly. " To stop it from going if it has
gone; that is very difficult, certainly. Oh, yes."
" Listen, Rosine. I remember everything quite clearly. I cannot
tell you all, because, because—ah! I cannot. A letter has been
posted last night, or early this morning, to—to London. If that
letter reaches its destination "
She paused, and burst into tears, sobbing, sobbing oh so piteously.
" Hush ! my lady; let us be brave. I understand. If it reaches
London it will kill you."
"Kill me! Yes, it will kill me, Rosine,—and worse even than that.
Oh, God ! It is too, too horrible ! "
" Well, then, it shall not reach London, my lady," said Rosine
quietly.
" What! "
" It shall not reach London, my lady."
WHICH BEGINS WITH THE SUBLIME.
185
" Eosine !"
" No."
" How will you stop it P"
" I do not know. But everything can always be done. Oh, yes.
First, you must be brave. I will find everything out; I will know
what are the facts. And then we will go to work. Impossible! Ah,
bah! nothing is impossible."
" My brave Eosine."
" Go on then."
" Yes, time is everything; but there is more to say. Norman, he
has left for London, or he will go. If he goes, when he gets to Lon-
don they will kill him."
" Then do not let him go. I will ring and send for him to come
here."
"But lie will not stay. He is going by express train, madly—madly
to his ruin."
" By the mail express, my lady ? "
" By this morning's train. He will travel all night: he is travel-
ling now. He will not break his -journey. Oh ! what can I do; what
can I do ? "
" We are two silly women. Whilst we talk a man would act."
" What man, Eosine ? "
" Any man, my lady. A man ! We must have a man to help us;
otherwise we are lost. The mail will reach London, Mr. Forrabury
will get there also, and then—what will happen your ladyship knows
best."
"Eosine, it must not be! It would kill me. It would utterly
overwhelm me."
." Could not his lordship order the train to be stayed, my lady ? "
" My father?"
" Yes.';
" No, indeed. My father must not—cannot be consulted."
" Nor Lord Lancelot P "
" Certainly not."
" Then Sir Henry, my lady. He is very powerful."
" No, no, no, Eosine. You cannot understand, and I may not ex-
plain. I must stop Norman from reaching London. I must stop
the mail from being delivered. In that mail there is a fatal letter.
How can I explain it to you p What man can help me? There is
Mr. Cecil; but what could he do ? In the first place, he is a fool."
" Yes; but he is devoted to your ladyship. He worships the very
ground you stand on. He is the man ! Oh, yes, yes, he is the very
man,"
" But what can he do ? "
" He can do what he is told. That is what men are for—to obey.
We must send him after the train. You must tell him to stop it at
all hazards. He knows the capo di stazione. I will find Signor
Cecil, and, oh ! my lady, we shall succeed, do not fear."
So, with a quick but respectful courtesy, Eosine ran out of the
room, darted downstairs to the kitchen, ordered a chicken and light
186
THE BEAUTY OP BOSCASTLE.
repast to be sent to her mistress's room, and then sought Mr. Cecil
Lever. She found him at the billiard table, practising the spot
stroke; she curiesyed to him, blushed, smiled roguishly, and was
leaving the room with a grin, when he stopped her.
" Rothine, you are a pretty gyurl."
" Ah! if my mistress heard you say that, siguor."
" The would not care."
" Men are so stupid. Can you not see, signor, that she is in love
with you ? "
" Rothine; do you weally thay tho P."
" Every one knows it, signor, except yourself."
" My mother w-w-w-would be tho pleathed if it weally were
tho. How ith the, Rothine ? "
" She is very well, signor, except here; " and Rosine tapped the
region of her heart significantly.
Cecil laid down his cue, staring at the maid with his goggle eyes,
and twisted the ends of his feeble moustache. Then he smiled con-
ceitedly, put his hand in his pocket, gave Rosine a gold coin, and
burst into a laugh of delight.
" And the weally liketh me," he exclaimed, chuckling.
" Signor, she pines for you. If I were a man "
" Yeth ; w-w-what would you do P "
" Why, I would elope with her of course, signor."
" Weally, Rothine."
" And now. By the next train."
" Bai Jo\te ! You take my bweath away."
" And if you would like to see her, signor," said Rosine, as her
eyes twinkled with mischief, " if you follow me on tiptoe, you shall
see her ladyship, and arrange all the details."
" Rothine, you are a good gyurl; I will never forget you. B-but
what hath all thith to do with Annerthley? It was hith name the
f-f-fainted at."
" He is her other lover, don't you see ? " said Rosine.
"My lady," said Rosine, opening her mistress's apartment, and
admitting Cecil Lever discreetly, "I have found your saviour."
" Aw, your ladythip," said Cecil, seizing and kissing the tips of
Lady Yiolet's fingers, which she immediately snatched away.
" The signor will conduct us to England," said Rosine. " In a few
minutes the gondola will be ready. I will dress your ladyship in-
stantly, and we will start, unknown to any one, forthwith."
" Bai the midnight twain; the ah—the 11.25."
" It is our only chance," said Lady Violet, rising dejectedly. "But
how can you help me p " and she looked upon Cecil Lever with an
almost unveiled contempt.
" I will be your motht devo-de-voted," said Cecil, with a low bow.
As Rosine showed him out of the door she covered her laughter
by saying, " Ah, signor, how irresistible you are! "
" Tho thweet of you to thay tho, Rothine ! Y-yet I have n-neg-
lected mytlielf lately: my c-complexion, m-my eyelashes ! I have
t-taken no pains with them for days patht."
WHICH BEGINS WITH THE SUBLIME.
187
" When you are quite finished you will be really killing, signor.
But good-bye for the present; and do not make yourself too charm-
ing 1 beg." . '
" How can that fellow serve me ? " exclaimed Lady Ylolet.
" Madam, he can be our escort."
"Good!"
" He can take our tickets, preserve our reputations, pull our
chestnuts out of the fire."
" Bosine, can he stop the mail ? "
" My lady, we will follow the mail, and at least we will do our
best. How eat while I pack a little luggage and plenty of warm
wraps, for it is cold."
" You give me hope, Bosine. If we stop the mail—if we stop the
mail all may yet be well."
" You will take three through tickets to London," said Lady
Yiolet to Cecil Lever, in the same tone that she would have used
if talking to a courier. She was, of course, oblivious of the fact
that Cecil imagined himself a favoured suitor, eloping with a lady
whose heart he had affected. She regarded him simply as a friend
whom Bosine had pressed into her service. "I do not know how
much they will be, but here are some notes—more than enough;
keep the change for an emergency, and "
" But, my de-ah Lady Yiolet, it is an unheard of thing. I pwotetht
that I cannot thub-thub-thub-thubmit to wetheive mofiey at your
handth in thith way, especially on thnch an authpithiouth occathion.
The ideah ith weally ■"
" My dear Mr. Cecil, I insist. I shall cease to have any regard for
you if you do not obey me in this one matter," rejoined Lady Yiolet,
pressing the notes upon him; " and through tickets mind, with the
excess for coupes lits, and express fares."
" If you inthitht upon going to London," said Cecil, " tho be it.
But if you were only to go ath far ath C-C-C-omo where there ith
the pwettietht—quite the pwettietht little church you evah thaw, it
would be far bettah."
"But I don't want to go to Como, and I don't want to see any
churches, however pretty," rejoined Lady Yiolet. " What I want to
do is to get to England as soon as possible."
"And g-g-g-go before the wegithtwar," said Cecil, with a chuckle.
" Go where P " exclaimed Lady Yiolet, with a blank stare.
" That is, to register the mail," broke in Bosine mendaciously ;
" could you stop the last mail, signor P "
" Yes, yes ! " echoed Lady Yiolet. "Can you stop the last mail ?
Oh, Mr. Cecil, if you could stop the 9.15 train, this morning's mail,
I would be your humble servant for ever."
" What the d-d-d-deutlie hath the latht mail to do with it ? " asked
Cecil, in blank astonishment.
"Oh, signor! signor!" cried Bosine, shaking her head reprov-
ingly ) " h' you would not ask so many questions, but would simply
188
THE BEAUTY OP BOSCASTLE.
do what her ladyship tells you, it would be so much more becoming a
young gentleman bent on such a romantic adventure."
" Lady Yiolet—I am your motht obedient," said Cecil, accepting
the reprimand without annoyance. " If you with me to thtop the
m-m-mail, why, of courthe I will do it."
" You will! " exclaimed Lady Yiolet, clasping her hands. You
will! Oh, then, dear Mr. Cecil, do—do—do."
" And how P " said Rosine.
" Why, wire and thtcp har," said Cecil simply.
" You darling ! " exclaimed Lady Yiolet involuntarily. "Why did
we not think of that, Rosine ? "
" Because we are not men, my lady. Oh, we women are poor
things. We can do nothing of ourselves."
But arrived at the station, Cecil found it was not so easy to stop
a mail train as to talk about doing it.
So, when they were comfortably seated in the coupe, speeding on
through Lombardy, with their well-packed wraps and hand-bags
neatly stowed away, their guide books and luncheon baskets most
thoughtfully arranged for, Cecil had to say,—
" I could not thtop the mail, Lady Yiolet."
" Why not P " she asked severely.
" The capo di stazione th-thaid he would not do it for a hundred
lire."
" Then why did you not offer a thousand lire ? "
" Would you have me give all that P "
" Yes, anything—everything—all the world. The mail must be
stopped, at all hazards."
At the next station he tried again.
" Impossible," exclaimed the capo di stazione, throwing up his
hands. "Absolutely impossible. It would be a criminal offence.
My punishment would be, not only dismissal, but imprisonment."
" What is the next station P " asked Rosine.
" Yicenza."
" I will try at Yicenza."
She saw the station-master.
" I want you to stay the mail, signor. The mail that left Yenice
at 9.15 this morning."
"Why?"
" For many urgent reasons—private reasons of delicacy, connected
with a family of high rank."
" I cannot stop the mail without the highest authority."
" Gold is the highest authority," said Rosine, with a smile, pro-
ducing a roll of notes; " a thousand lire."
" Impossible."
" Five thousand lire."
" Impossible, signora."
" Ten thousand."
"Always impossible."
" All—all we have," said Rosine, unrolling note after note, " and
you shall be screened from all the consequences. Signor, I promise
ABOUT AN ELOPEMENT AND ITS DEVELOPMENT. 189
you it shall not get you into trouble, but, on the contrary, you shall
have preferment. I speak in the name of people of great weight
and influence, and of such wealth that you shall have still further
remuneration. You shall not suffer. You shall have the most
handsome reward."
u Ah, signora; all this that you say is very tempting, but I fear
I cannot. It is very unfortunate, for I would," and he looked at
the roll of notes with greedy eyes.—" I would like to have those in
my pocket."
" Take them, signor. One little telegraph—tic-tic-tic, and these
are yours; ten thousand lire."
" Quick, then; come with me to the telegraph office, signora."
" Now," he continued to the clerk, " wire to Airolo—and ascertain
whether the 9.15 a.m. from Venice has passed the frontier. Ask
for an immediate reply."
" If it be possible, signora, I will take the risk—risk! It is a
gigantic risk, and as the punishment will be great, I must have a
corresponding reward. At any rate, I will stay your train till we
get a reply from Airolo, though you are due out now. Get into
your cowpe. En voitures, messieurs."
" The reply, signor," said a clerk, bowing respectfully to his chief.
" Ah, Jesu! How unfortunate ! "
" Well, signor," said Rosine, looking over his shoulder at the
telegram.
" No, not well. A fortune, and I have lost it. The mail train,
signora, has left Airolo ; it has crossed the frontier. It is out of my
power to do anything. How unlucky ! "
Then he blew his whistle, and the train steamed out of the
station.
" Well, Rosine," said Lady Violet,
" Ah, my lady, it is very sad. The train has crossed the frontier.
It is in Switzerland."
" But what the deuthe had the m-m-m-mail to do with the w-w-w-
wedding ? " lisped Cecil, in bewilderment.
" Hush! " said Rosine, holding up a warning finger.
His question was uttered unheard, for Lady Violet, in abject
hopelessness and grief, sank back in her carriage so wretched and
heart-sick that she did not attempt to stem her tears.
CHAPTER XLII.
ABOUT AN ELOPEMENT AND ITS DEVELOPMENT.
" The Diary of a Pilgrimage." (Jerome K. Jerome.)
Eon hour after hour they sped on their hopeless journey. They had
dispensed with Cecil, who sought the comfort of an adjoining
carriage, where he endeavoured to dispel his perplexity by smoking
a cigarette. Lady Violet had shown the utmost indifference to him ;
190
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
and when he had endeavoured to soothe her, by dwelling on the
prospect of their future happiness, she had stared at him in blank
amazement. As for his attentions, she rejected them with an un-
becoming hauteur, being satisfied with the services of her maid. A
strange elopement, indeed. He could not understand it. However,
he consoled himself by thoughts of her wealth and fame, her title
and beauty. She was a grand prize indeed, and she was a genius
into the bargain ; he must put up with her chilling idiosyncrasies,
although he made up his mind that when the nuptial knot was
tied, he would not permit her oddities and cranks, her waywardness
and affectations. She had fallen in love with him. Good. That
showed she had some common sense mingled with her other
qualities. But he would have preferred that she showed her
love with a little of the usual tenderness that should accompany the
passion. She had run away with him. Well—rather outrageous
conduct, but it saved a good deal of trouble; it prevented a tedious
courtship, and all the attendant bother of buying presents, escorting
her to parties and balls, and writing love letters. But now that
she had run away with him, she ignored him, preferred his room to
his company, desired him to travel in another compartment, and
even refused to allow him to unstrap her wraps, or make her com-
fortable with shawls. Ho matter; he would have his revenge; when
they were married he would spend her money.
Lady Yiolet, meanwhile, entirely oblivious of the ideas that were
disturbing Cecil's mind, was beside herself with sorrow. In vain
Rosine implored her mistress to sleep, to try to read, to converse,
to distract her thoughts. Overwhelmed with grief and despair, she
refused to be comforted. She wept bitterly, clenched her fists,
rent her wraps like an angry child, opened and shut the windows,
leant out and gazed fixedly at the landscape, restlessly changed her
position in the carriage, maddened by the pain of her thoughts as
one is maddened by the unbearable pain of a violent toothache, and
so tortured by the horror in her mind that she could no more re-
strain or control her actions than one insane.
" We are mad, Rosine. We are attempting the impossible. We
are on the most foolish errand."
" Yes, my lady. Perhaps. But can we do more than try? It is
better to try and to fail, than to fail without trying."
They reached Milan at half-past six. It was a cold, raw morning.
There they had to wait till nearly ten o'clock for the out-going
train. Lady Yiolet was almost beside herself with impatience. She
paced the platform like an angry tigress in a cage. After a wait
of nearly four weary hours, they resumed their tedious and hopeless
journey.
" At last we are on our way again. But it is useless—utterly
useless. Oh, what shall I do P There is no hope—no hope—no
hope," she sobbed. " It is dreadful! It is frightful! No hope
whatever—absolutely none."
Rosine looked upon her mistress almost in awe, her grief was
so poignant, her distress so pitiable.
ABOUT AN ELOPEMENT AND ITS DEVELOPMENT. 191
"Is there nothing that can be done, Rosine?" she pleaded for
the hundredth time.
" Of course, nothing," she continued, as Rosine shook her head
sadly. " It is madness to hope. There is no hope at all. None."
And again she burst into unavailing tears.
" Perhaps ! Something—some luck—who knows ? But be brave,
my lady. Often it is the impossible that happens."
A score of times Rosine consulted the Bradshaw, for she was an
unusually able woman, and could master even the difficult complica-
tions of a railway-guide. But it was only too clear; the mail by
which Mr. Forrabury had left Venice on Wednesday morning at
9 o'clock, would reach London very early in the small hours of
Friday morning, before sunrise; whilst, if they travelled without
breaking their journey, they could not get to London until 5 o'clock
on Friday afternoon.
It was very cold indeed; snow was falling, which made them both
feel very wretched. Rosine insisted upon getting out another shawl
for her mistress, and then turned again wearily to consult the rail-
way-guide.
And yet in turning over the pages of the time table, Rosine's
face, as her mistress saw—for she was watching her like a cat—
showed the faint traces of a hope.
" You have a thought, Rosine. Tell me, quick. What is it ? "
"Ah, madam. No. It is not a thought at all; it is only a de-
sire."
" What ? tell me."
" I do not think anything can happen to the mail. It must reach
Basle. If brigands would attack it—if they would rob the mail.
One sometimes reads of such things."
" There is no hope in that. It never happens. Once only in ten
thousand times. No, it is madness to dwell on such a slender
chance."
" Therefore, ray lady, I give it no thought. But I have noticed
that the wind is in the west; it is stormy, the snow falls; so I
suppose we have had north winds until recently; and the wind
increases, so that though the mail reaches Calais, it may get no
further."
" You mean, Rosine, that the weather may be so rough "
" That no boat can cross the Channel."
" It oftens happens."
" Yes, my lady, at this time of the year the mail is often delayed.
The boats do not leave Calais if the sea is very rough."
" Yes, Rosine, yes, that is so."
" And to-night "
" Yes, a glorious wind. Blow, blow, blow. Oh, for a fearful
tempest. Let us pray, Rosine, God in His mercy send a hurricane."
" It is from the west, my lady. I have been thinking "
« That "
" A good, bad wind, my lady. Oh, how it will sweep up the
Channel, and rock and rage."
192
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
"Pray Heaven it may continue ! Oh, the beautiful wind. Blow on
and rage! Let down the sash, Rosine. Never mind the snow.
How the trees bend, and toss, and rustle. Bravo ! bravo ! Como
on, brave storm ! It does me good to hear the gusts. Bravo! "
They clapped their hands delightedly.
" Oh, Rosine, if when we get to Calais, we can stop the letter! I
suppose it will be easy to do that. "We can ask some official, surely.
It will be easy, quite easy; and then if we can see him on the pier—
if we catch up his train—oh, what happiness! "
" Yes, my lady, but he will not know you, for you look so pale, so
haggard and worn ; you are another creature. You must eat, and
you must sleep. Here is a wing of a chicken from the luncheon
basket, and wine I will get you when I can find the cork-
screw."
" Then, Rosine, I will eat. How good you have been to me ! I
have an appetite now. Why, I am positively hungry. What a
glorious wind. Oh, blow on, blow—blow, ye welcome winds!
And it will be worse at sea. If it blows like this on land, the waves
will be enormous in the Channel. They will not subside easily,
Rosine. Let down the other sash, and let us have a thorough blow.
Glorious ! It is like yachting. Rosine, it will last. Do you not
think so ? "
" I am certain, madam."
" Really, Rosine P "
" If you will only sleep. If you sleep and are brave, the winds
and the sea will help us. Oh, never fear, my lady. We have no-
thing to be afraid of, if you will try to sleep."
" Then I will sleep, my good Rosine—or I will try. I will
do whatever you wish, for you have been so faithful, so good and
true. Tuck me up, you good, brave girl. But no, do not pull up
the sashes. The snow will do us no harm. Let me hear the winds.
If they cease to blow I shall never sleep."
She did not sleep, perhaps, but she closed her eyes.
For her part, Rosine, after making a hearty meal, wrapped her-
self up beneath plenty of shawls, and was soon snoring.
How far they travelled they neither knew, but a louder snore
than usual half-chpked Rosine, and awoke her.
She rose from her pile of rugs with a start. The wind had sub-
sided, and the train was standing still, although they were not
stopping at any i-ailway station.
" Where are we P " asked Lady Yiolet, in a wide-awake tone. She
had slept but little, if at all.
" I do not know," said Rosine, rubbing her half-shut eyes stupidly.
" We are up in the Alps. It is very wet and miserable. It is sleet
that falls now. The carriage is wretchedly uncomfortable. I shall
close the sash." Before doing so she looked out of the window,
but could not make out where they were.
" We are not at any station. I can see a tree, and snow, moun-
tains, a bridge, and a river."
" And the wind has dropped," said Lady Violet sadly.
ABOUT AN ELOPEMENT AND ITS DEVELOPMENT. 198
" Mr. Cecil is in the nest carriage. He is looking out, smoking a
cigarette ; and he asks how is your ladyship."
" Oh, I am well. How he bores one 1 Ask him where we are."
" He says he does not know, my lady."
" Does he know anything, that nincompoop ? "
" He says we have been staying here half an hour. Something
must be wrong."
" How unfortunate ! "
"I have asked him to get out of the carriage and go along the
line. There! He has got out. It is a good thing sometimes to
have a man with you. We could not do that. It would make me
shudder to drop out of the carriage and go along the rails."
She closed the sash.
"We have nothing to do but to wait."
" And while we wait, the mail goes on," said Lady Violet, as the
tears stood in her eyes.
Rosine could do no more. Exhausted, she covered herself again
in her rugs, and endeavoured to sleep.
The train gave a little jolt, moved on, paused, stopped again.
Then there was much loud talking, whistling, and shouting. Lady
Violet went to the window and looked out.
Cecil Lever, quietly smoking a cigar, stood on the line.
She signalled to him.
He came to her with alacrity.
" Where are we, Mr. Cecil? Have yon discovered ? "
" Oh, Lady Violet! G-good morning. How are you ? "
" Thank you, a little fatigued. It was very good of you to get
out of your carriage to ascertain where we are. Have you found
out ? "
" We are at, or n-n-n-n-near Airolo, about a couple of mileth thith
tliide of the St. Gothard Tunnel."
" And why are we stopping? "
" There is an acthident—tho they thay."
" Dear me, another misfortune. The very Pates are against us,"
and she stamped her foot angrily.
" Messieurs ! en voitures," cried the guard. The train started on
again, leaving Cecil on the line.
" Do not try to get in. You will kill yourself," cried Lady
Violet.
" Nevah mind me. It's all right. I will f-f-follow behind. We
are booked heah for theveral hours. I shall walk on after you," he
shouted, as the train kept slowly moving on, at a snail's pace.
" Hours ! " repeated Lady Violet. " Do you say hours? "
" Yeth, ith it not pwovoking ? There is an avalanche, or thome-
thing, the other thide of the tunnel. The only c-c-c-comfort is, we
can get a c-c-capital dinner at Hospenthal, where, no doubt, they
are expecting us. I believe the pwopwietors of the b-buffets get up
these little acthidents; for my own part, I am weally gwateful to
them. I feel jutht in form for a b-b-bowl of good thoup."
" An avalanche, Rosine, our last hope has gorie."
o
194
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
Without replying, the quick-witted Rosine, put her head out ot
the window, and beckoned to Mr. Lever.
" Where is the avalanche P "
" Near G-g-go-Goshen-Goschenen."
" When did it occur? "
" I do not know. It ith only a little thnow they thay. The thnow-
plough will clear it away all right. The line has been b-blocked
for hours. We shall get through the t-t-tunnel all right, and there
we thhall have to wait—a day or two perwaps."
" Then perhaps the mail "
" Has been stopped too," ejaculated Lady Yiolet, springing to her
feet with a scream o£ joy; and putting out her head over Rosine's,
she cried to Mr. Lever, " Has the mail been stopped ? Run, run
on and see, I beg you."
But at that moment an official cried, " en voltures," again the
train resumed its journey, and passing Airolo, soon began to slowly
traverse the great St. Gothard tunnel.
Lady Violet looked out eagerly.
" Rosine, the platform is crowded with people."
" Travellers ? "
"Yes, English people; you can tell them; many of them are
English ladies and gentlemen. Their travelling caps, their coats,
their rugs, their whole appearance, they are English."
" Then they must be the passengers of the mail."
" It must be the mail; it must be so."
" Let me look, my lady."
" No, Rosine, I am looking. I can see everything, everybody—
even the tallest, but he is not there: and yet it—must—be—the—
mail."
" Let me look, my lady."
" No, I can see; you cannot help me. I can see, I can see the
faces of the people, all—and all: he is not there. I can see. What?
ah—ah—ah—Rosine ! At last! It is ! It is Norman!" With a
shriek of joy she fell on Rosine's neck and fainted.
CHAPTER XLILI.
DESCRIBING THE TRICKS OF A LADY's HA.ID.
" The New Pilgrim's Progress." (Mark Tivain.)
As Rosine laid her mistress on the seat, they steamed into the
station. A porter instantly opened the-door. Rosine was a clever
girl, speaking both Erench and Italian. She immediately secured
the services of two men, who carried the unconscious form of her
mistress through the crowded station into the waiting-room.
There was no superfluous commotion, but most people could not
fail to notice that the lady was an invalid, and they made respectful
way.
DESCRIBING THE TRICKS OP A LADY'S MAID. 195
Amongst them was Mr. Norman Forrabury, who recognised in an
instant Lady Violet Boterel. But he could not believe his eyes.
Therefore, for a few moments he stood stock still, staring and
mute. # . .
Then, still dazed and wondering, he strode into the waiting-room,
and gazed upon her form.
A continental waiting-saloon is not even so comfortable as the
cheerless room set apart at English railway stations for the con-
venience of passengers; and one does not expect all the comforts
of life, 7,000 feet above the sea level.
The porters who had carried Lady Violet were endeavouring to
lay their fragile burden on a low, uncushioned seat, when Norman
Forrabury, taking her gently in his strong arms, lifted her tenderly,
and bore her, as lightly as a mother carries her child, to a neighbour-
ing chalet, which occasionally did duty as an hotel.
Securing the only suite of rooms the place afforded, he inquired
immediately for a doctor, though he did not expect to obtain one
there in the desolate heights of the Alps. But he laid her in a
darkened room, and hushed the noisy domestics.
Rosine did not follow her mistress. Having seen her safely
taken in charge by the porters, she went straight to the buffet, and
ate about the squarest meal that was ever tackled by anybody of her
sex.
Having satisfied her hunger, she proceeded to inspect the mail-
train, with especial regard to the mail-van. She discovered that
this was the last carriage, and that it was as much locked and barred
as a Chubb's safe.
So, making a wry face, she scratched her head—a gesture common
to all nationalities, and expressive of perplexity.
Then she went again to the buffet, and bought half a dozen boxes
of vesta matches. Did she contemplate arson ? Putting these
furtively in her pocket, she went into the open station, sat down on
a bench, and kept her eyes pretty intently fixed on the mail-van,
hatching ideas. There, x-egardless of the cold, she waited patiently.
Meanwhile, there was much commotion at the Railway Station.
The line had been blocked for some hours by a fall of snow, which
slid on to the line from the mountain side, completely choking the
railway cutting. It would be a misnomer to call it an avalanche,
for it was nothing more or less than a considerable snow-slip.
There had been a heavy fall during the night and preceding day,
and the wind had collected it in large drifts, so that when the thaw
set in rapidly, followed by sleet and rain, a very heavy snowslip
occurred, blocldng the line, not in one place only, but at several
intervals along the route for miles. The mountain railways of
Switzerland are, of course, peculiarly liable to troubles of this
nature. However, snow-ploughs were soon got to work, and after
the lapse of a few hours, the impatient shrieking of engine whistles,
and the too-tooiug of the childish railway trumpets, announced the
clearance of the line. Guards and porters went wildly about into
the waiting rooms and the buffet announcing the early departure of
196
THE BEAUTY OP BOSCASTLE.
the mail, and shooting " En voitures, en voitures " ; and soon, whilst
Mr. Forrabury was still guarding his treasure at the hotel, the train
slowly steamed out of the station, whistling and shrieking like a
roundabout at a fair.
Just as it left the station a girl—none other indeed than Rosine—
ran along the platform to catch it, and just succeeded in clambering
on to the step of one of the carriages which happened to be the
mail-van, into which she was assisted by a postal official who gave
her a sound rating for her temerity.
Smiling her thanks to him, and thanking him also in abundant
words and in four languages, she protested that the rough bench,
which she forthwith took -possession of, was all she needed or
desii'ed.
He was a polite man, and soon forgiving her for her intrusion, he
was good enough to pay her compliments.
Whereupon Rosine blushed—an accomplishment she could very
prettily exhibit on occasions—cast her eyes very modestly on the
floor, so that her lashes drooped upon her cheek, lifted her dress so
as to show a gleam—the merest gleam—of her pretty white petticoat;
and then, suddenly lifting her gaze, she turned on a full volley
from two very lovely black eyes, which settled Our Official at the
first shot.
Making room for him on the seat by her side, he was soon
satisfying her curiosity upon all the secrets of the Continental
mail.
He showed her the net by which they took in mail bags, explained
the secrets of sorting, told her where the registered letters were
placed, showed to her the letters that came from Italy, from Brin*
disi, from the East, and explained how these were destined for
Paris, those for Basle, for Brussels, and those again for London.
To all this, however, Rosine, though she encouraged his conversa*
tion, appeared to be indifferent. She seemed to be more interested
in him. She asked him a score of questions as to his nationality,
his condition, his likes and his dislikes; she admired his beard, and
refused his attentions.
So he proceeded with the sorting of the letters. These he placed
in that box, and those in another, and so deftly and expeditiously
did he get on with his work that he soon returned to his flirtation
with Rosine.
Rosine had left her seat, and was admiring the landscape, the
glorious gorges and abysses of Switzerland, whose magnificent
grandeur and sublime beauty imparted to Rosine's features an ex-
pression of twinkling fun and triumph, rather than a more becom-
ing awe and solemnity.
So merrily indeed did her roguish eyes glisten, and so prettily
did her little pouting mouth curl with wreathed smiles, that the
post clerk would have been more or less than man if he had not
done that very thing which he forthwith did.
It was true that Rosine screamed, but then the little coquette had
the kiss first and the scream after.
BKEVITY IS THE SOUL OF WIT.
197
At this juncture the train began to slow again, for they were
approaching a station.
" Amsteg," 'said the official.
" Amsteg!" she exclaimed; " that is my station."
The man looked disappointed.
" Your station? " he repeated.
" Yes," she said simply.
" Then I think I ought to charge an excess postal fee before you
are safely delivered at your destination."
" What is the charge ? " she asked roguishly.
"Two stamps," he replied, "for registration."
" I think you deserve two," she answered, and she laughingly
administered a sounding kiss on each cheek as she alighted from
the train.
A little kissing is nothing in Switzerland—merely a custom of
the country. How many osculations they interchanged, counting
the aggregate number, I cannot say, but he probably considered
them expensive, for on the following day he* was dismissed the
service.
Eosine, for her part, lost no time in leaving the station. Hiring
a vehicle, she was soon speeding along towards a village which lay
off the railway route ; arriving at which, she entered an inn, dis-
missed the driver, secured a private room, locked the door, and,
skipping about like a school-girl, managed somehow to shed a
burden as big as Christian carried through the Slough of Despond,
which, although not perhaps so heavy, was a good deal more valuable,
since it proved to be none other than the English mail-bag.
CHAPTER XLIY.
which, if "brevity is the soul of wit, has some merit.
" A Woman of No Importance." (Oscar Wilde.)
When Mr. Cecil Lever arrived at Goschenen station, he was much
exercised in his mind, for he could find no trace either of the lady
with whom he had eloped, or of the maid.
He looked about for them everywhere, feeling that it was a very
awkward thing indeed to elope with a lady, and to lose her in the
clouds upon the Alps.
How it was he did not come in Rosine's path is quite incompre-
hensible; perhaps it was because she made a point of not coming
in his.
But just as she ran down the platform and jumped into the out-
going mail he saw her. He was however too late to jump into the
same train; but concluding, very naturally, that where the maid
went the mistress was, he deterrnined to follow by the ne^t train.
And he did so,
198
THE BEAUTY OP BOSCASTLE.
Where he got to I never heard.
This is a very short chapter, but it is quite long enough to dis-
pose of so unimportant a person as Mr. Cecil Lever once and for all.
CHAPTER XLY.
in which a lady holds a brief to prove that killing is no
murder.
"With a Silken Thread." (Mrs. Lynn Linton.)
" If you -were queen of pleasure,
And I were king of pain,
We'd hunt down love together,
Pluck out his flying feather,
And teach his feet a measure,
And find his mouth a rein.
If you were queen of pleasure,
And I were king of pain." (Swinburne.)
When Lady Yiolet recovered consciousness, she found herself in a
darkened room, with ice about her head, and a kindly-featured
sister-of-mercy seated as nurse by her bedside.
Taking time to collect her thoughts before she showed signs of
wakefulness, she gradually brought to mind the circumstances that
had brought her there—her flight from Yenice, the successful pur-
suit of her lover, the accident upon the railway, and her own sudden
failure and loss of strength. Turning to the nurse, and raising her-
self on the pillow, she inquired at once for Mr. Forrabury. Her
nurse rose, peered anxiously into her face, felt her pulse, and then
left the room to return in a few minutes with a white-headed old
gentleman in a thick, coarse frieze coat, whose presence was at-
tended by such a strong aroma of snuff that it made his patient
sneeze.
He said a few words to the nurse in a patois that Lady Yiolet
could not understand, and approaching her bedside, laid his cold,
and not particularly clean hand upon Lady Yiolet's brow, bent over
her to listen to her breathing, gave a little grunt of satisfaction, and
taking a phial from the table shook it vigoi'ously.
" Rosine ! Where is Rosine ? " asked Lady Yiolet.
The doctor shrugged his shoulders with a gesture which said,
plainly enough, that he did not understand English. He however
went to the door, and, beckoning to some one in the next room,
returned with Norman Forrabury.
" Norman ! " she exclaimed, in an accent that expressed a depth
of yearning ; " Norman !"
He said nothing, but lifting her white hand kissed it as a courtier
kisses the hand of his queen.
" You will not leave me," she said. " Promise that you will not
leave me,"
A BRIEF TO PROVE THAT KILLING IS NO MURDER. 199
" I will not if the doctor will let me stay."
"He will. He must. Iam quite well. -Only," she added, sinkipg
back on to the pillow, " I am a little weak."
" You will be better soon."
" If you do not leave me."
" I am only allowed to see you for a few minutes ; but I shall be
close to you—in the next room ; and there I pledge you my word X
shall stay, until you are better."
" I shall soon be better. Where is Bosine P"
" Bosine ? "
" My maid, Bosine.
" I have not seen her."
" You have not?"
" Indeed, no ! Did she accompany you ? "
" Yes. It is strange."
" She must be seeking you. Perhaps she is at the station; or,
having lost you in the confusion, she seeks you at one of the other
chalets in the village. 1 will institute inquiries and find her. There
are not many places where she can have hid."
" Where are we p "
" You are at Goschenen—at the Swiss end of the St. Gothard.
The air is glorious, and here you may rest in comfort until you are
well. Already the doctor signs to me I must not disturb you
longex*. Be assured that I will find your maid. How do not exhaust
yoUrselE by talking, but rest."
" Do not be long before you return."
" I will not," he answered, leaving the room.
His quest for Bosine, however, was longer than he had anticipated,
and, after some hours' absence, he had to return without definite news
of her, feeling confident that she must have gone on in the train by
mistake. He found Lady Yiolet sitting up in a great easy chair,
supported by numerous cushions, and attended in the most thought-
ful manner by the good nurse, who, with her snowy cap and bronzed
face, her soft step and her discretion, made the very best possible
attendant for a sick room.
"You are better, Lady Yiolet," he said cheerily, as he was ad-
mitted; "that is evident."
"I am quite enjoying these grapes, Norman, and my kind nurse,
who is tenderness and goodness personified, has won my heart. We
have had quite a long conversation; but it has been conducted
principally by shrugs and gestures. It is astonishing how well one
can converse in a language one has literally no knowledge of what-
ever. But have you found Bosine ? "
"She will be found in due course, Lady Yiolet. I have left word
of our whereabouts, and I do not doubt that she will find you if ■"
"But you have not found her yet. Well, I have my surmises ; she
has some relatives near here; and, at any rate, as she is very wide-
.awake and quite able to take care of herself, I have no real anxiety
about her. Still, it is odd. How weak I am—my poor head—my
merpory has gone, I can remember nothing— there. How discregt
200
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
a nurse ! Like a sensible woman, slie Las left us alone, and shut the
door. Norman."
" Violet."
"How cruel of you, how wicked of you, to leave Venice as you did,
to bid me farewell and to forsake me broken-hearted; to go—ob,
Norman ! How horrible ! "
"Horrible ! Yes, again I am wrenched back to remembor myself.
I will soon leave you."
"Leave me ! You must not leave me."
"Yes, as soon as I may, As soon as I have left you safe with
your maid. I know I have no right to be here, to profane your
presence—to per "
"You shall not go," cried Lady Violet, flinging herself upon him
and clinging round his neck. "You shall not; you must not."
"Nay, I must," he replied, in a firm, grave voice, and endeavouring
to disengage her arms. But she only clung to him the more closely,
imploring him, beseeching him, with tears streaming from her eyes,
and in words of frenzy, to stay.
"For I love you," she cried. "If you go from me, it will kill me.
If you go out of my sight, I shall die. If you go from me—if you
go to—to—England. Oh, dreadful! dreadful! the thought is too
frightful—the idea of that awful—awful ! 0 God! 0 God !
Have mercy upon us. Oli-h-h-h ! " and uttering a terrible cry, that
wail of pain which can be wept by a heart-broken woman only, she
fainted upon her lover's breast.
The nurse hurried into the room, but she could not disengage
Lady Violet's fingers, so closely did she clasp her hands about his
neck. Her efforts only caused her instinctively to tighten her grip.
Soon her eyes half opened, and through a dull film she looked at
her lover, with an expression of reproach that cut him to the heart,
then sank exhausted on his bosom.
The nurse rated at Norman in her strange patois—a mingled jar-
gon of French, German, and Italian—but he took no notice, he
understood little. With a heart full of grief, distress and sorrow,
with a load of remorse in his soul, he supported Lady Violet's un-
conscious form, and looked upon her with an eye of tenderness and
pity, whilst within him raged all the passions and all the griefs,
tormenting him, until he felt that he should lose his reason.
How long he supported her he -never knew; he sat gazing
upon her, lost in a stupor. The nurse ceased to rate at him, en-
deavoured to administer restoratives to her patient, and at last,
with an expressive shake of her head, gave up the effort in despair.
An old Swiss clock ticked—ticked—ticked. The daylight ebbed
away. Still he sat there, half dazed, gazing at Lady Violet, as in a
dream.
Had he killed her P Was she, too, to be now his victim ?
He bent over the beautiful face, not the less beautiful because its
lineaments were drawn by grief and anxiety. He felt her pulse.
How feebly did it beat. Hour after hour he stood there, almost be-
side himself with pain, and forced to repress the maddening selfT
A BRIEF TO PROVE THAT KILLING IS NO MURDER. 201
reproaches that wrung his hearb. He saw the doctor come in and
shake his head gravely. He noticed his ominous expression as he
bent his head to listen to the beatings of her hearb. He watched the
nurse, and marked her solemn foreboding air. Was Lady Yioleb to
die?
He clasped his hands, and tried to pray. To pray! He—this
godless man ; he who years and years ago had struck the very name
of God out of his life, out of his being, out of his conceptions. No ;
the prayer would nob ascend. Even the heavens were blank for
him. His hot eyes could nob weep. His senses became numb. He
seemed dazed when the doctor pointed to the door, with a gesture
that clearly meant, "Go !"
The nurse drew him from the room. He stood outside her door,
as quietly watchful as a faithful dog, covering his face with his
hands, and feeling a remorseful grief, endeavouring to catch the
sound of her breathing, and suffering agony. Was it hours or days
that passed, or an age of anguish? Now and then he followed the
nurse into the room, walking on tip-toe noiselessly.
At last she awoke, and with a startled cry sab up and looked
Norman full in the face. Her lips were white, her cheeks blanched,
her expression was full of terror. "You must not go," she cried,
stretching out her hand and clutching at his wrist. "You must nob
—shall not." The idea of his escape from her was her waking
thought.
For answer he clenched his teeth resolutely. He dared not speak.
But in his hearb was a fixed resolve to deliver himself up to the
law.
"You shall not go," she moaned again and again. "You must nob
—must not." Then again she fell back weary and faint. The hours
passed, and she tossed wearily to and fro upon her bed. Nurse and
doctor tried to relieve her and smooth her pillow. But she would
allow no one but Norman to touch her, and him she continually held,
as loth to let him go.
As she recovered a little, he signified to the nurse that he would
be alone with her. He rose, disengaged himself from her clasp,
and placed her tenderly in a chair. She looked at him pleadingly,
but he had made up his mind. He must carry out his resolve.
Speaking in a clear, firm tone, he said, " I must go. I must sur-
render to Justice."
" You shall not, Norman; you shall not." And she beat him with
her fists passionately, not knowing what she did. " You will kill
me. I feel oh so full of illness and of wretchedness. Why, why
will you be so cruel ? Do you not see that you are torturing me,
when I know that you love me ? "
" I do love thee, in very truth. To my shame I love thee."
" And I love thee, so that without thee I cannot live."
" And I must die."
" No, no, no."
" It is the law."
" I care nothing for the law. You must not go, you must pot, J
202
THE BEAUTY OP BOSCASTLE.
love you, I love you so that I cannot part with you. If you leavo
me—I feel faint and exhausted—if you leave me when I am ill, you
will be a coward. If I faint, and you leave me when I am uncon-
scious—if you are gone when I wake—I will go straight to the lake
there and drown myself. I swear it, for life without you would be
wretchedness. Promise me that you will not go, for I love you
so."
"You love me p "
" I love you, love you, love you."
" After all my wickedness—even my great crime p "
" Is there not forgiveness for you p "
" For me ? Ho. Have you not read my confession—my guilt ? "
" Every word—every syllable."
" And yet p "
" And yet I love you. Oh, Norman, I can see in you and through
you. I know the wretchedness that you have lived—Hie penitence
you feel. You are purged and pardoned of your sin. To me you
are spotless: there is no guilt in you at all. It is not that I am
blinded with love, but love has given me the eyes of Argus: I see
further, and I see more; I gaze into your very being. I have an
introspection over your soul. To me you are a being full of great
possibilities ; I love you altogether."
" It cannot, cannot be," he replied.
" Who of us is without sin p Are we not all base and wicked?
We have given up too easily the benefits of the old creed. In re-
pentance there is forgiveness still, and you are cleansed—you are
purified. Oh, the very priests would say it if they knew how you
had suffered, for it accords with their creed; and that item of their
creed is mine. Listen ; is love nothing ? You are beatified in my
love. Is there no good in you, that you should die ? nothing better
to be done than that ? Live for me, Norman, for me. Beautify your
life in the light of love. There is purification and pardon and hope
in the beauty of love, in a future full of sacrifice, in those sunuy
days of labour to be done, when together we will work out your
ransom."
He shook his bead.
" Ah, you are not the only man who has done this—this ; you are
not the only one who has done evil and learnt afterwards to do well.
David, the poet and the king—was he all evil ? He who killed
Uriah, and for the most odious of reasons, and Eugene Aram! Many
others!
" History is full of such events. But whether so or not, oh, Nor-
man, you are not unworthy of life—you may yet have a future, a
career, and you are necessary to mine. I love you. Your life and
your love are mine. I will, I must, claim you for myself."
" Although this arm that lies about your neck has thrust a life
aside—has terminated the days of one who "
" Yes—and on that account. Often during the weary, weary
months that have passed, when I have dwelt upon your memory, I have
thought of the time I loved you first; when fir§t there dawnpd upon
A BRIEF TO PROVE THAT KILLING IS NO MURDER. 203
me the consciousness that I loved you. I can date the very day, the
very minute. It was on your visit to us at Tintagel, when we read
Shelley together, and when you, dressed as a Greek, told ns how you
had killed a man. I remember—I have often remembered and won-
dered and speculated upon it—that there and then, in the awe that I
felt, I received here the bolt of love. What is a life? Every
moment some one dies. There are millions and millions of people,
and yet a few brief years pass, and not one of them shall live. Have
you not seen Vasali Yerestcliagin's battle-pictures? There are
heaps of dead, hecatombs of slain. Thousands of men—poor Turks
aud Russians—God pity them, the brave soldiers !—I could hardly
see the pictures for the tears that came into my eyes. There were
acres of slaughter. It has always been so. Men are the prey of
men; every where and always men prey upon each other. It is a law:
a strange, sad, horrible law."
" Horrible! And you would learn to hate me."
"Did Cleopatra hate Antony ? Did Josephine hate Napoleon?
I love you for the very reason that you are dreadful to me. You are
a terror to me, but I pity you ; you are a mystery, and I marvel at
you. I weep for you because your soul is full of sorrow. Hove you
because you have taken human lives. Am I the first woman who
has loved a soldier ? You are so strong, so handsome—yes, yes, yes,
do not interrupt me. You stand out amongst your fellow men. If
you are bad and base and worse than others, be it so; you are unique.
I look up to you. Yet I know you to be good. Tell me, as you
told me in Venice, that you love me."
" You know I love you."
"And yet you would kill me. You would give yourself up to
death, and leave me to mourn until my life was wasted away in
tears. So cruel are you; so pitiless. Ah ! I love you more, for I
would die for you, whilst you—you will not live for me."
" Listen, Lady Violet—although I have no right to speak to you at
all, for I am vile—you exalt my most diabolical acts, you eulogize
even my wickedness, although I have told you that I am inhuman—
a brute—a devil. You spoil yourself and your ideals for me, you
injure yourself for me, you condescend to love me; nay, it cannot be
love, at the most it is an intense, an exaggerated pity. I say I am
not worthy even of your pity. Turn upon me your contempt, con-
tempt such as I feel for myself. Oh ! if I could make you hate me
as I hate myself, I would go with gladness, with satisfaction to my
death, for I should have the consciousness that in seeking death and
shame, I had done one act at least that was worthy ; if I could go
now, with your curse upon me to my ruin, knowing that you would
shed no tear, that you would utter no sigh, that you would read of me,
and say, ' He has his deserts.' For, Lady Violet, I am so steeped in
vice and crime, that the blackest wrong I can yet do would be to dare
to love you. Look at us—on me, stained by all my vileness, all my sins
—on yourself, spotless, chastely beautiful, accomplished, gifted with
genius. I think of you, Lady Violet, with your noble nature, your ambi-
tious aims, and the gifts and graces that have made you famous, dese-
204
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
crating your high-souled and noble self by mingling your life with this
black life of mine. Oh ! Lady Violet, shall I add this last baseness
to the long list of my wickedness? Let me go, accursed by you,
by all my race, conscious that I have done one worthy act of a hate-
ful career, that I have expiated my crime by tearing myself from the
happiness, the rapture of life with you."
" Norman! You do not know yourself nor me. In you there is
an infinity of good, and, if you have sinned, have you not repented?
have you not suffered ? In me, shall I lay it bare, that there is base-
ness, too ? No. I would have you think that I am the perfect crea-
ture of your dreams, lest you should learn to love me less, if, indeed,
you love me at all."
" Love thee less, Violet, my own, my saint ! Art thou not to me
like the smile of God, which can make man happy ? Art thou not.
the one ray of sunshine that has fallen across the horrible gloom of
my accursed life ? "
" Then live in the sunlight for ever."
"'For ever,' my Violet. The temptation is greater than I can
bear. God knows that I have tried to resist, but I do so love you,
sweet, that I can resist no more. I yield to you a love, a passion
that is beyond my control; for though I lay it at your feet, I clutch
you with an almost fierce embrace. Believe me that my heart is
breaking—that I shall die here of rapture in the overflowing joy of a
great anguish that is the ruin, the violation of an angel. God par*
don this unpardonable crime."
" My love, it is not ruin ; it is salvation—your salvation and mine."
" It is an ecstasy—I shall go mad twixt grief and joy."
" No, no, wherever we go the sun shall shine. See the colour is in
my cheeks again, for I know that I am blushing with the love that
you have given me. And my heart, Norman, is light. We will give
alms every day ; the poor shall have largesse wherever we go. The
past has gone for evermore ; we will not look back on it. But the
future! Oh, Norman what a store ! Every day shall be ennobled by
good deeds ; all our acts shall be for the good of others ; our life shall
be one continuous round of benefits conferred; there shall be music
and singing every where, we will spend life together in deeds of peni-
tence, the arts shall be our comrades. And as we go hand in hand
through the joyous world, the flowers shall spring up in our foot-
steps, gaiety shall come, and mirth and laughter, and we will make
the history of our days a perpetual pleasure. Dancei's shall tread
to the merry measures we will pipe ; we will feed in other hearts the
happiness of the love we feel, we will dower poor maidens and help
young lovers, and the universe shall smile. Bub all this, my king,
my Norman, my dear love, you shall do whilst I admire you, be-
cause all my life and all my love I will devote to you."
"Nay,nay, my sweet romancist. Your pretty poem can never
be," replied Norman sadly. " Ah ! my darling, and my love, our hap-
piness must be even-as the bliss of a butterfly. All is over except
my shame, and the sorrow that I shall bring to you; for I have
written my own accusation,"
containing an account of a morning call.
205
" The letter! " exclaimed Lady Yiolet, blanching with horror.
" Aye, I have written my accusation; by this time "
"The letter! I had forgotten. Rosine! Where is Rosine? Ring
for her. Quick. Let us take flight together. Let us go to America
—anywhere rather than "
" Did your ladyship call?" asked Rosine, quietly entering the door,
and carrying a strange bundle, from which she quietly produced a
mail bag.
" Impossible! Rosine! That is the mail-bag !"
"Yes, my lady, and this, I think, is the letter your ladyship
desires to have."
" Rosine, you are a marvel. Ask of me what you will, and it is
yours; and yet, you are too faithful to require thanks, you good,
brave girl. Thanks you shall have though, and solid thanks."
" It is a miracle," exclaimed Norman, recognising his own hand-
writing, and taking the latter stupefied.
Opening it, that she might be the more certain of his writing,
Lady Yiolet tore it in pieces, and threw it in the fire.
CHAPTER XLVI.
containing an account oe a morning call, and some other
trifling incidents.
"Ask Mamma." (B, 8. Surtees.)
The departure of Lady Yiolet from Yenice, and the strange disap-
pearance of Cecil Lever, provoked much comment in the English
circle. The exact facts were never ascertained, but tittle tattle had
a gi-eat deal to tell. It was known that the Earl was much discon-
certed, that the Countess was exceedingly angry, that Lord Lance-
lot was very savage, and that Lady Lever, though professing to
be much shocked, was highly delighted at her son's escapade, and
all the world deemed him a very lucky fellow to have made conquest
of a lady so accomplished, so fashionable, and, above all, so wealthy.
There seemed, however, to be much difficulty in arriving at a correct
knowledge of what had happened, and, after the lapse of some days,
people were more and more puzzled. When nearly a fortnight had
elapsed, the English papers had solved the problem in accordance
with their several lights.
" Sir Henry Lever, formerly our Ambassadpr at Con-
stantinople, but since his retirement from that post,
resident at the Palazzo Morenizo, Canale Grande, Venice,
has been entertaining a numerous and fashionable party.
Amongst his other guests were the Earl and Countess of
206
£hE beauty op boscastle.
St. Austell and their son and daughter, Lord Lancelot
and Lady Violet Boterel. On dit that Mr. Cecil Glen-
dower Talbot Lever, of H. M. Diplomatic Service, has
eloped with Lady Violet Boterel."—The World.
"Lady Violet Boterel, the fashionable beauty who
created such a sensation at Cannes a few weeks ago, when
the Prince of honoured the Monckhon ball by^iis
presence—our readers will remember the incident we
refer to—has excelled herself. After rejecting the hand
and the heart of an eminent personage, the purse of Mr.
H. C. Wilbarton, the wealthy American, and the reversion
of a ducal coronet, Lady Violet, who is nothing if not
singular, has selected from her numerous suitors, Mr. C.
G. T. Lever, only son of Sir Henry Lever, formerly
Turkish Ambassador. The fortunate man disappeared
from Venice with the lady on the 18th of March, and
neither has since been heard of. It is surmised that the
happy pair are on their honeymoon, but the Earl and
Countess of St. Austell are as much in the dark as the
world about the runaways' movements.
"However, we know all the facts ourselves, and may
possibly communicate them to our readers in another
issue."—Truth.
" The accomplished authoress of the ' Bottreaux Sonnets/
whose picture of ' Amor omnia vincit,' exhibited at the
English Art Club, caused such a sensation in artistic circles,
and who has been writing upon the Riviera, is the joint
author of a new romance, her partner in the work being Mr.
Cecil G. T. Lever. Her ladyship will probably issue an illus-
trated edition later, as at present the details are vague.
* * * *
" We hear later that the romance is already finished, and
that the next surprise will be a new tragedy."—Vanity Fair.
tiONTAINTNG AN ACCOUNT OF A MORNING CALL.
"We have grounds for stating that the rumours
as to the alleged elopement of Lady "Violet Boterel,
with the only son of Sir Henry Lever, are entirely
without basis. Mr. Lever and Lady Violet tra-
veiled by different trains to different destinations,
and the only foundation for the gossip is that they
both left Yenice on the same day. Owing to the
snow-slip that blocked the line on the 21st instant,
and the consequent exposure, Lady Yiolet caught a
severe cold, which necessitated her breaking the
journey at Goschenen. Lady Yiolet Boterel was
accompaniedby several friends, and took the journey
at the express desire of the Earl and Countess of
St. Austell."—Court Journal.
" "We congratulate Mr. Cecil Grlen-
dower Talbot Lever, for he has succeeded
where an Eminent Personage has failed.
He has married £30,000 a year. Bravo,
C-C-Cecil! He will now be able to
settle that little bill with Blobbs, and
arrange with the Shifter that outstand-
ing pool.
"We are reading the ' Bottreaux Son-
nets.' We think there is money in 'em.
We hope to meet Cecil at Epsom Spring
meeting, and to win some of his oof, or
his wife's, or, for that matter, any one
else's. Well run, C-C-Cecil! "—Sporting
Times.
" The weekly Society press has been busy with
various versions of an affair on which we are able
to report more definitely. It has been stated
that Lady Yiolet Boterel, whose accomplishments
and beauty have recently attracted the marked
attention of H.R.H. the Prince of , and who
is decidedly the coming comet, had eloped from
Yenice. This is not so. She is visiting in Swit-
zerland, with the entire knowledge and approval
of her parents. The lady, whose name has been
208
THE BEAtJTV OE BOSCASTLE.
so cruelly compromised, although she has many
suitors, is not engaged. She has sought retire-1
ment to escape from the too troublesome claims
of society, and to devote her energies to her
pencil and her pen. We understand that Messrs.
Chipman & Hill will shortly issue a new volume of
her ladyship's poems, and we understand that she
has a canvas for the Academy Exhibition.
" The Eai-l and Countess of St. Austell left Yenice
yesterday to join Lady Yiolet at Lucerne. Lord
Lancelot Boterel left on the 21st by the s.s. Him a-
laya for Bombay. Sir Henry and Lady Lever are to
be the guests of the Earl and Countess at St. Austell
Castle, in the autumn. Lady May Croxteth and
Signor Asti have arrived at the Palazzo Maroni,
and will stay until the conclusion of the festivities
in honour of H.K.H. the Duke of Jedburgh."—
Galignani.
Erom these varying accounts the scandal-mongers and the scandal
lovers were compelled to gleaii what truth they could. Those most
concerned deemed it judicious to be silent, and the gossips had an
opportunity of reconciling the conflicting accounts as they chose,
relying on the surmises of their fertile imaginations, wherever they
were in a dilemma.
In the midst of the buzz of the tatlers, the Earl and Countess of
St. Austell left Yenice for Lucerne. Lady Yiolet feeling herself
compromised by her sudden journey and by its incidents, especially
when she learned of the manner in which Cecil Lever had been in-
duced to accompany her, took counsel with her maid and Mr. Eorra-
bury. Fortunately a Mrs. Digby Trevelyan, known to the St.
Austells, had a villa and was resident in Lucerne, only a few hours'
journey. She was a woman of the world, and Lady Yiolet making
her a confidante she appreciated the delicacy of the situation, ex-
tended her hospitality and silenced slander by taking her into her
house, at once inviting the Earl and Countess to become her visitors
—an invitation which they gladly accepted. Norman Forrabury
remained at the Three Kings' Hotel; Mrs. Trevelyan proved a posi-
tive bear to him, for she would not permit him to see Lady Yiolet
alone, nor for more than one brief visit a day, and even then she sat
in the same room and played propriety.
The Earl and Countess were of course vei'y angry with their way-
ward daughter; the Countess especially read her several lectures,
asked her a score of perplexing questions, and worked herself into
quite a temper, because she did not get satisfactory replies. Lord
CONTAINING AN ACCOUNT OF A MORNING CALL. 209
Lancelot wrote a long letter from Alexandria, upbraiding her with
fraternal reproaches, and even her father, who usually idolized her,
showed her that this time he was really cross. As for the poor
victim, she bore her vexations lightly. A load was lifted from her
heart, and in its place was laid the sweetness of reciprocated love.
True, she longed to see her lover and to talk with him for a longer
space than the few minutes allowed by her duenna, but she knew
she had sufficiently outraged the proprieties already, and she there-
fore submitted with Norman's consent to Mrs. Trevelyan's wise
restraints. She had to content herself by dreaming of him day and
night, watching him ride past, fishing from the hotel terrace, sailing
on the lake, or climbing the mountains with an alpenstock bearing
her badge. And now she was able to resort again to the loved com-
panions of her solitude, her pen and her pencil, and she beguiled the
speeding hours by writing new ballads, and sketching the nooks
and corners of beautiful Lucerne.
Her father did not fail to notice the new interest that his loved
and lovely daughter took in the world around her. Her listlessness
had gone. Her cheeks had regained their freshness, her spirits
were full of their wonted gaiety and sprightliness, she did nob
shudder at society, and there was a consistency in the happiness of
her conduct which showed that it did not indicate a mere transient
gleam of convalescence, but an abiding improvement and lasting
vigorous health.
He noticed this, though he took care not to make any observation
about it in her presence, for he remembered that on the morning
of her flight from Venice she had looked as well as she did now,
and that he had no sooner remarked upon it than she had fainted
away.
But he spoke of it to his wife.
"She is in love," said the Countess. "Depend upon it Cecil did
not leave Venice in that mysterious way for nothing. There is
a mystery somewhere. The minx is up to something. What an
execrable match! What an extraordinary selection, and above all
what serious misconduct! When I was a girl, our mothers arranged
all these things for us ! "
" My dear, I always cherished the thought I had won you through
my own efforts."
" And so you did, bub every one approved. Now I should never
approve Cecil Lever. Never."
"Mr. Wilbarton is only a parvenu, and Violet does not want money;
but still he is fabulously rich, and in the next generation his wealth
will be colossal. There are so many she might have. The atten-
tion the Prince paid her at the Cannes ball certainly set every one
talking of her. Percival wanted her. She had a very good chance
of the dukedom, for neither of his brothers have any children, and
though I should not quite approve of Percival, there is no doubt he
is mad to have her. Then there is Sir Isidore."
" My dear! Sir Isidore is such a Radical."
" And so is Violet."
p
210
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
" You shock me," said the Earl.
" Sir Isidore is very clever, too, but he hasn't a penny. Now if
Violet had selected him I could have understood it. I wonder she
did not do so out of sheer waywardness and perversity, for I should
certainly have refused my consent."
" Your surmises may be correct, or not, but something has
happened, and she is without doubt marvellously improved. She is
a new creature; she skips like a goat, smiles like the sun, and
blooms like a rose. If it is because she has fallen in love with
Cecil Lever—well, then she shall have the ass ! Confound him."
" My dear father," exclaimed Yiolet, running into the room and
kissing him on both cheeks, " and you mamma darling, how fortunate
to find you both together."
" Why, my sweet daughter ? " asked the Earl, lovingly laying his
hand upon her golden hair which shone like an aureole.
" Because I want you to see some one, and to grant him whatever
he asks."
" But who is he, and what will he want P "
" Promise me first that you will raise no difficulties."
" Let us have no more mysteries, Yiolet. Who is it you wish us
to see p "
" I will send him to you, but mind, papa, if you refuse him I will
be a rebel for ever after."
" You have always been a rebel," said the Countess, as Lady
Violet skipped out of the room.
" Mr. Norman Forrabury," Lady Yiolet announced in a roguish
mock tragedy tone, and pushing him playfully forward shut the
door.
He was faultlessly dressed in a well-fitting morning suit, and
carried a highly polished hat and ebony cane. In his buttonhole
he had a bunch of snowdrops. His careful attire and portentous
bearing almost bespoke his errand.
Approaching the Countess he bowed profoundly and raised the
tips of her fingers to his lips; turning to the Earl, whose hand was
proffered, he shook it heartily, but with an old-fashioned respect
that was almost reverence, and then sat in the chair towards which
he was motioned by the Earl.
" You are always welcome, Mr. Forrabury," said the Earl; " for
had you not accidentally met our daughter during the snow-slip,
she might have been much inconvenienced. Your kindness and
considerate attentions to her were most timely, and we shall never
cease to be indebted to you."
" My lord, the Countess and yourself have already thanked me too
much and too often, whereas no thanks were deserved. If it were
true that I was able to render Lady Yiolet some slight service, who
would not have been pleased at such good fortune—a lady so beau-
tiful, so accomplished and so amiable? Pardon me, my lord, that
I presume to speak to you of her gifts and graces. But the time
has come when I have no right to conceal from you what (amongst
other secrets that have distressed me) has long been hidden in my
CONTAINING AN ACCOUNT OF A MOKNING CALL. 211
heart. My lord, I have the presumption to love your daughter. I
love her in spite of myself, against my reason, almost against my
will, because I know myself deeply unworthy—how terribly un-
worthy I can never confess, unworthy in everything except a
genuine deep rooted love for her. I have no right to ask for this
rich pearl, and yet the object of my interview with you is to seek
your approval, your sympathy, your condescending permission."
The Earl raised his chin from his stock, coughed dryly and looked
at his wife. The Countess took off her spectacles, rubbed them with
her handkerchief and set them on her nose again.
" It is somewhat sudden," said the Earl icily.
" Very," echoed the Countess, after a brief pause.
" The announcement, my lord, may be sudden, but for months past
I have striven against my love, not hoping—not even willing so to
aspire. Recent events have allowed me to cherish a hope that I
dare not have dreamed of before."
" Mr. Forrabury, I have the highest regard for you, as I had for
your uncle; he and I were at Cambridge together, we sat, too, on
the county bench side by side for years."
" My uncle! " ejaculated JYorman with bloodless lips and becoming
white as a ghost.
" You and I are Cornishmen and neighbours," continued the
Earl. " Your estates border my own, but I have other suitors in
mind who have spoken to me for my daughter's hand."
" And they, sir, are more deserving doubtless than I; of better
birth, of higher rank, above all of less ignoble character, in every
way worthier one of whom no man can be altogether worthy, but
in one thing only do I claim a preference, that I already possess
your daughter's heart."
" Sir."
"Yes. I knew it, but recently when—when—ah, how difficult it
is to recite the strange story. By accident I discovered that she
loved me as I in secret loved her. Yet so unworthy am I that I
would not even now dare to ask for her—and believe me, I say this to
your lordship in no stereotyped fashion—lam utterly unworthy your
daughter—but I ask your consent because I have already won her
affection."
" Then I think Violet had better be here too," exclaimed the
Countess rising, " to apprise us how it comes that she has engaged
in affectionate intercourse with you for months past without letting
her father and mother know anything about it, getting herself talked
of, compromising herself, and hoodwinking us to believe that others
were at the base of the whole mischief."
" There are many mysteries to be unravelled," continued the Earl,
" that is indisputable. How far were you concerned in this indis-
creet and compromising rush from Venice? "
" The fault, sir, was mine, although it was an incident arising
from a misunderstanding; an incident in which her ladyship was
in no way concerned, and in which I cannot have her held re-
sponsible."
212
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
" Well, here she comes to answer for herself," said the Earl, as his
daughter came gaily into the room, all smiles and blushes. " So, my
sweet, your lips are red again, and you have your old, own, brisk,
elastic step. How long, my pretty Violet, are these to last P For an
hour ? a day ? or for longer P "
"For a lifetime, my dear father," replied Lady Violet, seating her-
self on the Earl's knee, and twining her arms round his neck, whilst
he kissed her brow paternally. " At least, if you do not cross me in
my whims, if I may write what I choose, think what I wish, do as
I will,"
" Has your father been such a terrible tyrant to his darling
daughter, such a cruel oppressor? "
" Or has not his Violet been a consistent rebel, and though rebel-
lious continually indulged? " said the Countess.
" My dear father, a thousand pardons. I am, indeed, an ungrate-
ful daughter, wayward and wilful from my very childhood, and you
and mamma have ever been to me the kindest, the most generous,
the best of parents, excusing me in countless faults, foi'giving my
Bohemianism, my innumerable sins against society, against our
Order, against yourselves. You have let me smudge my pinafore
with paints; you have not grumbled at me (although Lancelot
has) when I have made the library at Tintagel redolent of printer's
ink ; you have put up with all my whims. I am not fit to be your
daughter. Had I been born in Grub Street or Cheyne Walk I could
not have behaved worse. Forgive my last escapade, and ask me no
more questions I beseech you. But tell me at once what you have
decided as to my fate, for I know well that Norman has asked my
hand of you, and I have already given it him myself."
" It is true, Violet, that you were always wilful," said the Countess
kindly.
" And even obstinate," said the Earl. " So as experience has
taught us that you will always have your own way, and still more,
because we believe that your health will suffer if we deny you, we
consent to your siffiance with Mr. Forrabury."
" Papa! papa ! " exclaimed Lady Violet, with a cry of delight, as
she raised her father's hand to her lips and covered it with kisses.
"Take her, Norman, and cherish her, and love her as I have loved
her."
" With all my heart, with all my soul, and with all my strength!"
said Norman, in his solemn, earnest voice, as he embraced her.
AMO, AM AS, AM AT1.
CHAPTER XLYII.
wiiicii may be summabized in t1ie three simple words of
boyhood's memory : amo, amas, amat.
"The Earthly Paradise." (Wm. Morris.)
" There yet are two things in my destiny—
A world to roam through, and a home with thee."
(Lord Byron.)
Norman, now drowning the past in the Lethe of forgetfulness, drank
to the full the cup of happiness. He felt that he had never lived
before. His love for Lady Yiolet was so intense and so absorbing,
that it obliterated from his heart every other feeling. The past, with
all its vices and wickedness, had rolled away. By a supreme force of
will lie banished it. Right or wrong, of the past he made oblivion.
In new scenes, with new companionships, he lived a new life.
Lucerne was almost deserted, for it was much too early and very
cold; so that the only people they saw were a few picturesque Swiss
and an occasional belated traveller. The Earl and Countess thought
it intolerably dull and bitterly cold ; but 'Mrs. Trevelyan was a model
hostess, and made her house so comfortable that they endured her
hospitality rather than undertake a tedious return journey. Norman
and Lady Yiolet, regardless of the weather, were continually jolting
hither and thither sight-seeing, the excuse that lovers make for being
alone. Together they made repeated runs to Fluellen, had an adven-
ture in the Furlca Pass, and visited the glacier and source of the
Rhone. They went, of course, to Rozlock, ascended the Rigi, and
even attempted to scale Mont Pilatus, a hazardous climb so early in
the year. Morning after morning they spent upon the beautiful
lake, far more beautiful at this season than later; more beautiful
because the grandeur of mountain scenery is enliauced by blackness
of threatening clouds and mystery of passing storms. Pilatus,
white-crested, shone up in the blue heaven, and far below the
wreaths of the rain-clouds hung on the brown sides of the steep preci-
pices, gloomy, mysterious, lowering as though they were garlands
hung over the walls of Grief. The mountain cliffs, stern and steep,
rose up sheer in massive grandeur, grey and sombre ; here and there
a swollen waterfall leapt out of the hidden breast of the moun-
tain, rumbling in angry tumult, and falling by many a wayward
course and cataract, into the lake. In the midst of these sublimities
the lovers lived as in a dream, rowing over the deep, clear waters,
and coasting the lake edge, whei^e flowers and moss and fern made
the cliffs lustrous with emerald, and where they found many a quiet
nook secluded from the wind and rain, temples which love builds
everywhere, but most in the loveliest places of earth. For hours
they haunted these green cathedrals, making the rocks around them
ring with mirthful laughter and chastened gaiety, or listening to the
echoes of their own whispers and the music of their love sighs.
214
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASfLE.
Norman often sat silent, worshipping his saint whose soul more than
ever in tune with the nature that she loved responded to the beauty
around her, and whose mind, stimulated by the variety and loveliness
of the changeful mountain scenes, continually gave expi'ession to
some poetic thought, which Love tipped with heavenlier beauty.
The aspect was occasionally wintry; but sometimes, nay, very often,
the sun streamed out at noon from the azure field of sky, whereon
there was no cloud, or at most some white-robed shape that looked
like an angel lighting on the white summit of Pilatus.
The grandeur of purple gloom and glistening snow, of rock and
glacier, crevasse, and wood, and field, and nestling town, and tiny
tower, combined in beauty until, even on summer days, Lucerne
never looked more radiant, no, nor so lovely, for the brightness of the
sun shone with more dazzling glory when the snow lay everywhere,
from the mountain foot to the mountain height, and all was clad in
the white raiment of a bride, the gleaming cataracts and lightning-
flashing falls glistening like pearls and diamonds about the skirts of
her wedding garments. The earliness of the year has its own beauty
in Switzerland, and after a warm day, when the snow melts quickly,
each tree becomes a miracle of beauty, for every twig exhibits a
golden leaf-bud, and thereon sparkles a dewdrop more lustrous than
Indian Rajah ever wore, a drop of crystal water as limpid and pure
as the lake water itself; aye, every tree glistens and every copse
dazzles, for on the gilded tip of each bursting leaf and coming blade
hang jewels—a million and a million and a million—which scintillate
and sparkle and flash, and a myriad tumbling streams and cataracts
glean the precious gems that fall, and bear them, by many a cascade
rippling with merriment, leaping and laughing, to toss the precious
freight they carry into the bosom of the lake. Later on rise up the
clouds, and the mists creep along the ledges, and loiter amidst the
pines, and the dark firs are soon lost in the sea of mist, soft as the
feathers on the neck of a dove, and soon again the clouds hang heavy
on the shoulders of the mountains, the cliffs grow austere and grim,
and scowl threateningly even upon lovers. But they do not go ; not
yet. It is all so beautiful to them. They hear the whispering of the
winds, the rebellious mutterings and murmurs of discontent. The
mists of the mountain sides are moving, drawn this way and that in
long filmy fields of bluish ether, and soon the sky becomes primrose
coloured, melting into tints of salmon pink, and fading through an
ethereal green to the dark loveliness of violet. Across this beauti-
ful expanse of sky now drift the clouds, white ragged clouds, swift
striding harbingers of storm, and now up roll the mighty masses of
tempestuous wind-shapes of God. Huge flocks of heavily-laden
cloud, with fleecy edges and rounded sides, and yet with pinnacles
and spires of whiteness in the midst of them, and pinions of plu-
mage, as though the very mountains themselves were upon wing,
and were flying through the heaven. And soon, for a few brief
minutes, another and a lovelier revelation comes to Norman and
Yiolet, a vision that they look upon in the trance of love, hand in
band, throbbing heart close to throbbing heart, the eyes of both up-
AHO, AMAS, AMAT.
215
lifted in rapture, the lips of each parted in wonder and delight. Up
yonder now all the colours of the rainbow mingle with the splen-
dours of sunset. Deep down, the lake and the valley are dim and
darkling; dun and brown and dark green, all mingled in a mysteri-
ous monotony, over which the mists move grey and dull and cold,
and the distance loses its blueness, and vanishes altogether, lost in
the darkness of evening, but the hills above are blue, and scudding
clouds move continually out of a mysterious darkness of purple and
dull red, and the snow melts with a million tints, whilst the clouds,
turned to floating fields of lustrous amber, speed on, and throw
strange flitting shadows on peak and precipice, as though beneath
the shelter of evening troops of men were marching in vast silent
masses to some great tragedy. Now, as the clouds rush on, they
hesitate, pause, and weirdly vanish, vanish in gold and glory and
splendour, save to the west, where, on a ruined bank, stained with
blood and fire, the cloud troops have battled in vain, and pass away
in red retreat, leaving on the golden field of heaven flecks of carmine
and streaks of crimson and vermilion. So the sun, beaming his last
upon the world, departs in the fulness of majesty, like a conqueror,
and gathering together his body-guard of splendours and magnifi-
cences, of glories and wonders and sublimities, sinks in opalescent
light, and curtains himself behind the mountain heights, throwing
across the heavens the beauty of his after-gleam, transparent pink,
an 1 peach, and soft translucent pearl, and the Rigi ridges are gilded,
an< 1 Pilatus blushes like arose,and the blue steals slowly into grey and
gloom, wherein glimmei's the promise of God in the flickering of a
star.
Even the whispers of the lovers are hushed in the presence of this
magnificence; and as they row home, no sound is heard but the
monotonous echo of the oars in the rowlocks, and the ripple of the
water, until the awe of the vision has gone, and love asserts his pre-
sence by the issue of a sigh.
" Pilatus was dyed blood-red to night," said Norman, in a voice of
gloom.
Lady Yiolet noticed the tone. It was the first sad, foreboding
sign she had heard for days. They had been so happy. No remem-
brance of the past had darkened their days, no trace of a disturbing
memory. She roused herself to answer him. " It is Nature's set*-
mon," she said. "She tinges even the pure white heights of the
mountain crests, and the crystal fields of snow. She reddens all
with the stain of guilt. But the other evening, I saw a little child at
sunset, leaning over the old bridge. Its face, its little hands were
crimson in the glow. I could have brooded and meditated on that,
but I put the thought aside from me. Promise me, Norman, pro-
mise me, my darling, that you will not cherish gloomy thoughts or
troubling memories. It is in me only that you can live. But for me,
you are dead. In me all the past has gone for ever, never to be re-
called, never to be remembered. All is lost in a sea of love. Pro-
mise me that you will never, in word or deed, in thought or in silence,
dwell upon or remember the days that have gone by. Oh, I am
216
THE BEAUTY OH BOSCASTLE.
greedy of all your thoughts. Never shall anybody be loved as you
shall love me. I am your universe. I will have you love me abso-
lutely, completely, altogether, to the exclusion of all ideas, of all
remembrances, of all memories; never dare to think of aught but
me. I only am to be the constant theme of your thoughts ; the fates
have willed it so. I am hungry to have all your heart and all your
mind. I want you, my love, to mingle your life so completely with
mine that you are me; the only past for you is my past; the only
life for you is my life."
" My love and darling ! My life, my sweet, my Yiolet! "
" You promise? "
" Command me as you will. I promise everything! "
" Promise that you forget every being in the world but me, that I
only live, that no one exists in the wide world but you and me. Our
love must be unique. There is nothing else. There is no world!
There is no past! For you I only am ! "
" I promise, for it is true. You only exist! There is none other !
We ourselves only, each to each, and both for the other; we only
live for and in each other amidst this solemn, silent world upon the
waters, between the mountains, beneath the stars."
"You have promised me, Norman. Swear it, by the love we bear
each other."
" Yiolet, my life, my self, my love, I swear it as I promise it,
there is no other being, no other life, no other heaven but you.
You, Yiolet, are my heaven, my life, my all."
" There is no memory of aught but me ? "
" None, or if there is, I blot it out, I obliterate it henceforth and
for ever."
" You promise, Norman ? "
"Yiolet, ray sweet, I promise; there is none other, there is no
memory of aught but you."
" And the past, Norman, has gone altogether, never to be recurred
to, never to be thought of more. You promise that, too ? "
" I promise all you ask. I promise never to think of the days
that are gone. The past is all forgotten, the unremembered years,
and all the deeds of which they were compact, are banished. And
in you, Yiolet, I live, in you only, in your work, your aims, your
ambitions and your dreams, admiring you, worshipping you as a
devotee adores his god. No other life is possible for me but this.
To obliterate myself, to colour all my being with you. To be suffused
in you, to be transmuted in your love. There is no world—no past
—nothing is—but you only."
" Norman ! "
" Ay ! and what ecstasy it is. In the days of my sorrow I read
the life and the doctrines of Buddha—that wonderful teacher who
lived unconscious of Greek lore, and long before the revelation of
Christ, full of Divine learning ; a man who had so thoroughly
obliterated from his life the existence of pain and suffering, in which
he had bitter experience, that he dwelt in an ecstasy of tranquil
peace, in perfect joy. His soul and the souls of his followers were
AHO, AMAS, AMAT.
217
full of peace and enjoyed super-human felicity; to him it was not
enough to look to Nirvana as the fiual goal, as an escape from the
sorrow of this world; but he had in this present life an enduring
cheerfulness which infinitely surpassed the mere passive stage of
resignation. So, Yiolet, my love, my heaven, I will live, tranquil
and happy, full of peace, full of rapture in the complete sphere of
love. You have taught me this new religion, Yiolet. Do you not
remember our day at Tintagel when we read the ' Lamia' of Keates,
and when you taught me the beautiful trutb, that truth which I have
taken so long to learn, Love is all. All, all, all the world and all it
contains, the past and all its stains, conscience and all its memories—
I annihilate them, destroy them utterly, and in this present glory,
in the actual real life of this hour and of the days, the rapturous
years to come, I live, and will live, with you, oh, Yiolet! my dear
deliverer, with you for ever."
" And I with you, Norman ; proud that I control you, glorying in
you. Oh, Norman, every gratification that I have you shall have,
every pleasure we will enjoy together, we will be in reality one, you
and I. We will never be apart. Yery soon we shall be with each
other always; we shall be alone together always, or, even if others be
with us, we shall even then be one. At my work you will be at my
side; what books we read we will read by turns and to each other,
our very thoughts, Norman, shall amalgamate, and if I ever write
another verse there shall be such manly vigour in the strain that all
the world shall know the lines are yours, for you shall ennoble and
strengthen my poor thoughts, and make them so muscular and
forcible and strong that they shall be in truth poems indeed."
"Violet!"
"Yes. And at my easel, too, you shall inspire me, Norman—you
shall help me."
" Ay, sweet—to clean the brushes, to squeeze the colours on to
your pallet, to mix the tints, and grind the paint. That is all.
Creator though you be, you cannot make me a genius like yourself.
I fear, Yiolet, on this lovely lake, we are getting into dreamland."
" Do not disenchant me, Norman. If we were up yonder amongst
the stars, now faintly appearing, it is good to be there sometimes.
For most of us Wordsworth is too true—
" ' The -world is too much with us, late and soon,
Getting and spending, we waste all our powers.' "
" A beautiful sonnet, Yiolet, one that even I have often loitered
and lingered over. You shall teach me all these things anew, point
out the hidden beauties of all the poets and interpret them to me.
Meanwhile the world must be sometimes with us. Dinner is a sad
destroyer of Poetry. If we keep dear Mrs. Trevelyan waiting "
" Oh, row, row on quickly ! " cried Lady Yiolet. " To be late for
dinner is the one unpardonable sin."
" I would not keep your father waiting one minute for all the
twilight effects in Switzerland."
218
THE BEAUTY OP BOSCASTLE.
" Or my mother, Norman. She will imprison me for a week if we
are a minute late."
" Besides, as we have not had lunch, Violet."
" Though we brought it with us in the basket."
" Why, we have forgotten it, for it is here in the boat unopened."
Tliey both laughed gaily.
" We must be-in love indeed, Violet."
" I wonder what there is for dinner," said Lady Violet laughingly.
" For I assure you I have suddenly awoke to the perception of an
appetite so keen that I fear I shall disgrace myself at table."
" And I, Violet, have such a craving that if I had been on the
moors all day after grouse, or castaway on a raft for a week, I could
not be more hungry."
A few hundred strokes brought them to the steps of Mrs.
Trevelyan's villa, where quickly mooring the boat, whilst Lady
Violet went to be dressed, Norman whistled—" The River of
Years," and, coming downstairs after a rapid toilet, found-himself
in excellent time, and Mrs. Trevelyan in the best of humours.
CHAPTER XLVIII.
which fixes the date of ax impending marriage.
" Night and Morning." (Buliuer Lytton.)
" Never a lip is curled in pain,
But can't be kissed into smiles again." (Bret Harte.)
They had rainy days too. Then Lady Violet worked at her easel,
and Norman read to her; while the Earl, wrapped in waterproofs,
sat solitary in a punt fishing, a miserable object. The Countess
and Mrs. Trevelyan stared out of the window and bemocked him.
They were happy enough, for they were both gossips ; so was the
Earl, for he was an enthusiast; so were Norman and Violet, for they
were lovers.
However, the time soon came when they left Lucerne. It was not
the rain, nor the cold, nor the dullness of the place. But their invasion
on Mrs. Trevelyan's hospitality had been sudden, and though she was
kindness and generosity itself, and begged them to stay with the
utmost warmth, they decided to go further south. Some little time
elapsed whilst they were making arrangements about a house.
Finally they found that if they went to Como they could have the
Villa d'Este—now an hotel—almost to themselves. So to Como
they went.
Spring was now advancing towards summer, and their stay at
Como was delightful, surrounded by scenery more picturesque, and
beyond question lovelier than any in Switzerland, in the midst of the
most beautiful alpine views, charming gardens studded with statuary
and bursting into verdant beauty, amongst oleanders and olives,
Which eixes the Bate otf atf impending maeeiage. 219
aloes and orange groves, the bright green of the young myrtle, and
the drooping grace of the cypress in spring, and withal blessed by a
soft and genial climate, which the countess vowed outdid all the
views on earth. And the drives through Blevio, Tremezzo and
Bellagio! drives so lovely that, with Lady Yiolet by his side, Norman
might well dream this earth a paradise, even if he were Satan loosed
in its glades.
Nor were they without society here. The countess, who detested
loneliness, discovered several old friends, and made many new ones.
She found out that the Italians are a delightful people, and she met
at the Yilla Inoff a Russian Prince who so charmed her by his
courtly manners and graceful address that she was constrained to
confess to him that she wished she had another daughter, in order
that she might seek in Russia another son. The Earl, who had
filled a few minor diplomatic posts in his younger days, and who felt
himself a very astute statesman, and loved to prose on European
politics, found many well-bred auditors at different houses who
marvelled, as well they might, on his political prophesies, and who
laughed at his jokes, although they did not understand them. He
always led his own chorus, for he vastly appreciated his own
humour, so that his audience always knew where the laugh was to
come in. So he agreed with his wife that the Italians are a very
polite people, and that Italy is the pleasantest part of Switzerland.
Norman and Lady Yiolet felt themselves a little bored at the
number of calls they had to make, and at the parties they were ob-
liged to go to. A number of English visitors were staying at Bellaggio,
Bellinzona and the neighbourhood, and they seemed to be for ever
meeting people who claimed acquaintance and whom it was difficult
to cut. Then the earl was so proud of his daughter that he liked
her to go to any dinner or ball that he himself accepted, so they
had more gaiety of this kind than they desired. But they had,
after all, a great deal of each other's society, and wherever they
went they insisted on the lovers' licence of always dancing together.
All this gaiety, however, gave Norman an opportunity of more
fully realizing the prize he had gained in Lady Yiolet. Her fame
had spread wider than he knew. Wherever she went she was
lionized. Her pictures and her poems were the theme in every
circle ; the men admired her beauty, and the women envied her
wealth. Even her detractors paid her unintended compliments in
the zeal of their venom, and many eligible suitors with dark hair and
sparkling eyes would have contended for her hand if Norman had
nob stood six-foot-two.
As it was, there were many efforts to part them, some being
skilful plots, and some the mere attempts of envy. One lady of
acknowledged craft, proud of her many successes, a coquette of
many seasons, and a professed breaker of men's hearts, a lady not
without personal attractions made a set attack on Norman, and in the
mock engagement really fell seriously in love herself. Simultaneously
a sentimental Count, as affected as Lara, and as handsome as Conrad,
struck attitudes and posed before Lady Yiolet, wrote Italian verses,
220
THE BEAUTY OP BOSCASTLE.
and begged for sonnets in return : whilst the Russian, secretly egged
on by the countess, offered'her his silver mines and Siberia, together
with the remains of his heart, in exchange for hers. All our friends
from the "School for Scandal," Mrs. Candour, Lady Sneerwell, Lady
Backbite, Mr. Snake, and Joseph came to life again in foreign dress,
and the slanders and inuendoes that were uttered in the easiest and
most good-natured way possible, did equal credit to the ingenuity
and the politeness of all concerned. Lady Yiolet was assured in the
friendliest and strictest confidence that Norman was the most con-
firmed gambler, the most unprincipled roue, the most hardened rake
in Europe—indeed, a thoroughly bad man in all respects ; and when
she took her informant's breath away by calmly replying that was her
chief reason for choosing him, another insinuated that he only sought
her for her money and her position. Meanwhile Norman Was forced
to overhear the audible coversation of a Coterie of ladies who assured
each other on the best authority that the Bottreaux sonnets were
in fact written, not by Lady Yiolet, but by her governess ; and that
her most celebrated picture was in reality the work of a rising young
artist, who, unfortunately, was a cripple, but , and the flourish of
a fan finished the sentence. They all agreed that she was wilful
and wayward, that she had compromised herself repeatedly, and
that if she was not an earl's daughter she would be cut; and they
all differed in the varying accounts they gave of the elopement
from Yenice. Their speculations on her conduct at' the Cannes ball
was as much a libel on a great prince as on Lady Yiolet, so much so
that Norman's long-smothered anger broke out into audible and
enraged protests, and the lady who at that time was making love to
him mistook his rage for a tenderer sentiment, and smiled with
delight at the belief that she had at last kindled in his bosom the
flame of a new passion.
But notwithstanding the machinations of their excellent good
friends, their love remained undisturbed. It was evident to Lady
Violet that Norman's handsome, bearded face, manly shoulders and
stately bearing made him an object of envy with her sex, and the
manner in which the coterie of English ladies surrounded, him,
inveigling him in converse, seeking his society, fussing over him,
and setting their caps at him, secretly amused her, whilst it filled
her with pride. The flutter of admiration and the buzz of con-
versation which always greeted Lady Violet's advent was, in the
same way, a gratification to Norman. He was much angered by
the attentions the men lavished upon her, by their impertin^t
stares of admiration, and by the fondling manner in which they
presumed to address her; but as they alternated with these scowls
at himself, he hoped and waited for an occasion to deal to one of
them a lesson which would serve as a warning to all.
In this way time sped quickly during their visit to Como. In
the morning they had frequent walks and rides, exploring new
roads and constantly discovering new beauties. Spring advanced
apace, and every day became milder and more agreeable. Every
tree was tipped with golden buds, or had burst into verdant loveli-
WHICH FIXES THE DATE OF AN IMPENDING MARRIAGE. 221
ness, and the variety of plant life ranged from the palm of the
tropics to the Arctic moss. The lake was frequently as smooth as
a mirror, and of a deep dark blue, bluer even than the blue sky
above, whilst the varying tints of the hills and mountains, where
clustering villas nestled in every pretty nook and corner, were
reflected in softened beauty on the tranquil bosom of the lake.
Sometimes they joined the Earl and had a day's fishing, and as
the lake abounded in tench and trout and the dainty luccio, they
found plenty of sport. Or they drove to Torriggia or Briennio or
Molina, or to some other village, finding everywhere some lovely
scene, a charming waterfall, a picturesque gorge, or a combination
of natural effects, till they were almost cloyed with the satiety of
loveliness. Then the villas they visited were full of works of art,
of painting and sculpture. As the season advanced the place be-
came fuller, and every day brought them new faces and new friends.
Their evenings were never dull. They had almost too much of
parties and balls, but finding it was impossible to avoid them, they
threw themselves into the midst of the gaiety with spirit, until they
found themselves anticipating the next night's pleasure. They now
danced so much that it grew upon them like a good habit: the
more they danced, the more dancing they desired; each of them
seemed to grow younger, and one night as they left the Villa Inoff,
in the broad daylight of dawn, the last to leave, they had to admit
to each other that they were children again.
As they drove home to the Villa d'Este, they actually met the
Earl with his rods and fishing tackle, for he was an early riser
when the fish were on the bite.
" You look odd in evening dress at this hour," he said. "Why,
it is after six. Violet, my child, your bloom will fade again if you
do not take care. Such dissipation was only occasional in my
young days, but it is habitual with you."
" I feel quite fresh, papa," she answered, " and I am sure I was
never better in my life."
" Go and sleep for eight hours," said Norman ; " I will meet you
in the afternoon. And I think, sir, I will go fishing with you, if
you will allow me."
" With all my heart, my dear fellow," said the Earl. " Fritz has
some more rods in the boat; there is plenty of bait, and we shall
have good sport for the next three hours. Be quick, and get on
your jacket; I will wait and look after the tackle."
It did not take Norman long to change his dress, and he was
very soon in the punt with the Earl, rowing along skirting the
edge of the lake. After a few preliminary trials they found a spot
which the Earl knew and liked; there they moored and went to
business.
"When do you think of returning to England?" Norman asked
abruptly, after the Earl had caught his first fish, and had faiidy
settled to his work in comfort.
" I have not given it a thought. The Countess, as you know,
makes a point of being in London in May. Time is getting on ; we
222
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
cannot l'emain here much longer, so let us catch all the fish we can
before we go."
" Lady Yiolet and I see no reason why we should indefinitely
postpone our wedding. London is not the most suitable place for
the ceremony. With your Lordship's consent, and if the Countess
has no objection, we should like to be married in Italy."
" In Italy ! Why in Italy ? "
" Why not in Italy P " replied Norman, with a laugh.
" My dear Norman, there is only one place where Yiolet can be
married."
" You mean at Boscastle."
"Of course. I should certainly never consent to her being married
anywhere else."
" I hate Boscastle."
" Why p I should have imagined there was no spot on earth you
loved more. Your estates are contiguous, you have been associated
with the place for generations, and after all it is not a question for
you at all. That is in Yiolet's right—hers with her mother's and
mine. Yiolet, I am sure, would wish to be married at Boscastle,
either at St. Merthiana's or at Forrabury. You know, though Forra-
bury is not ours, of the legends that connect Yiolet with the locality.
I should have thought you would have wished, it, too on your own
personal grounds, apart from the fact that it is peculiarly and
essentially the place that Yiolet would select."
" I like Como so much, and we have so often met the English
pastor. It may seem hypocritical—it is hypocritical, but I confess
I had hoped you would have sanctioned it whilst we were here."
" My dear fellow, you do not speak with your usual good sense.
You talk like a stockbroker, or a railway contractor, who meets
a merchant's daughter during a Cook's tour, and takes her off to
the first church they come to in order to make a honeymoon of
their return trip, so as to get back on 'Change or to the 'House'
in time for settling-day."
" 1 knew I should have some difficulty to persuade you," said
Norman feebly.
" If you forget what is due to yourself and to your own tenantry,
do not forget, sir, I beg what is due to my daughter, my only
daughter. She is not only a lady of the house of St. Austell, but
the estates at Tintagel are her own inheritance, and the wedding
ought to be, and must be, amongst her own people. I cannot for a
moment think of her being wedded in an out-of-the-world village
like this, with a lot of Italian children bawling about her, a crowd of
nobodies surrounding her, and half a dozen American tourists sand-
wiching the ceremony amongst other items of the day as an incident
of travel. Besides, who can we invite ? The whole thing is absurd,
unreasonable. Do not even mention it to the Countess, I beg."
" I hate England, and should be glad never to return."
" I am astonished! Why do you dislike England P From May
till October, at any rate, no country can be more delightful; and
though an old fogey like me may prefer to winter on the Riviera, I
WHICH FIXES THE DATE OF AN IMPENDING MARRIAGE. 223
should have thought that a sportsman like you would have loved
England in winter better than in summer. Besides, you ride so
well, and—stay ! I have a bite."
" A fish—a splendid fellow!" exclaimed Norman. " Do you know,
I think we should do better, now the sun is out, if we tried for
trout. I have some flies—only the worst of it is one can't wade in
530 feet depth of water."
" Very well, we will whip for trout, if you like. But you have
quite taken my breath away. You don't mean to say seriously that
you think of abandoning England, because, if so, I think you should
have hinted this before. I was very pleased to have you as a son,
but principally because I desired you as a neighbour, so that Yiolet
might always be near us."
" Ob, let it pass, sir; I confess I have a dislike to Boscastle, but
I must'conquer that. I have spoken to Yiolet; she is ready to fix
the day—only the earlier, the better."
" Well, shall we say sometime in November r"
" November, indeed!"
" It seems too long to wait, eh ? There ! Did you see that leap
and splash ? A magnificent trout! We must catch that fellow.
Eritz has made my flies himself. They are different from English
ones. But what was it we were talking of?—ah, yes—your marriage,
yes; well, my dear chap, it is a question for you and Yiolet to
settle. Have it at any decent time you like,—any time after Good-
wood. You know how good the Duke is; the house is given up
almost entirely to the Prince and his friends, with a very few of the
Duke's own party, bub we are to be at Molecomb, which is near
the course."
" Bub what are we to do in June and* July ? "
"You will be in London with the rest of us, I suppose. You
have not given up your flat in Walsingbam House, I presume, or
have you arranged to take a house on lease ? I know of one to let in
Wilton Crescent, General Gray's, the very thing for you and Violet,
not too large, close to the park, and near ours in Belgrave Square."
" Do you not think we might be married in May ? "
" What, this coming May? My dear fellow, absurd! We are
half through April already. Why such haste, Norman ? "
" I mean the end of May. Yiolet desires it too. We neither of
us wish to wait through a long London season."
" Ob, you are sui'ely not serious ; but Yiolet had better consult
her mother. It seems to me it is imperative that you wait until
Goodwood is over, at any rate."
" But you will be in Cornwall in May."
" Certainly, for a month or so."
" Well, then, I shall ask the Countess what objection there is to
our being married before the season. Violet, I am sure, wishes
it."
" And I, my dear Norman, leave it entirely to the Countess. She
understands these things—I don't; all the same, I think a marriage
in May is out of all question,"
224
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
There was a good deal of discussion about it, and the Countess
raised many objections. She considered that it ought to be put off
for a year at least. She disliked short engagements. Lancelot
ought to have time to come back from India; so short an engage-
ment was scandalous. Violet would not have time to get her
trousseau; their engagement was hardly "out" yet. There were
a score of objections.
Finally, it was arranged, but not without temper and tears, that
the cei-emony should be during the first week of September. They
decided they would remain at Como until May, omit their usual
spring visit to Cornwall, spend the season in London, go on to
Goodwood, and thence to Cornwall, where the wedding should be
celebrated as early as possible.
CHAPTER XL1X.
about a female detective.
"AWoman's Vengeance." (James Payn.)
" Upon the ungodly He shall rain snares, fire and brimstone, storm and tem-
pest; this shall be their portion to drink." (Fsalm xi. 6.)
Claea Gee mourned Colonel Forrabury with unfeigned sincerity.
She had loved him none the less because her features were plain
and her nature harsh. If her affections were not of a tender and
genial order, if her character was hard, if her training had made her
austere, if even her heart was "cold and her temper calculating, it was
none the less true that Colonel Forrabury's proposal had filled her
with delight, and had kindled in her bosom the flame of real love.
Such filial affection as she had for her father took the form of obe-
dience. She had no mother, alas ! or her disposition would have
shown a gentler side. Her sister she would probably have loved
under some circumstances ; but, unfortunately, for many years past,
every eligible bachelor who crossed their horizon became a bone of
contention between them; so that they had spent the springtime of
life in bickerings and quarrels of a sisterly rivalry. Doubtless each
of the girls—women now, for they were between thirty and forty
years of age, but their father called them girls still—doubtless each
of them, although their tempers had been soured by continual dis-
appointment, had in her heart a well of affection, none the less deep
because undiscovered; and when Colonel Forrabury had offered his
heart to Clara, she gave him hers in return, with unqualified affec-
tion. It was a tough heart, perhaps, and, it may be, a little one, but,
as far as it went, it was true.
For it meant so much to her—the love of that good old Colonel.
For the first time in her life she knew what it was to give love for
love, to look for another's coming, to yearn for his approach, to feel
happy at his happiness, to be grieved for his pain. For the first
ABOUT A FEMALE DETECTIVE.
225
time she knew what it was to receive the flattery of manly courtesy,
the kind attentions and the gallantry of one who was and who pro-
fessed himself her servitor, and who courted her with an old-fashioned
grace and dignity that was indeed beautiful. It softened her heart,
it softened her demeanour towards her sister, her father, towards
the world at large. She ceased to say unkind things whenever she
spoke, and she ceased to continually depreciate others, and to detect
evil motives in the commonplace actions of everyday life.
So that his death was a cruel blow to her. The newly budding
pride in her bearing, her dawning smile vanished. Miserable and
dejected, ill-tempered and cross-grained, sourer than ever, slovenly
in her attire, she sulked by the fireside, weeping often, frowning al-
ways, until the wrinkles on her forehead were marked there for
life.
It had been her one opportunity. It had passed, leaving her more
irretrievably sad, more utterly disconsolate than many a widow.
She had lost so much; not only the love of a lifetime—the one
love of a lifetime, that great all—but position, prospects, future.
To have been Mrs. Forrabury, the mistress of the Hall, to have
managed the Forrabury income, to have roamed those long corridors
at will, to have instituted a spring cleaning in those great apartments,
to have economized in the Forrabury larder ; to have exercised her
taste (execrable though it perforce was) in the furniture of the rooms,
to have held drawing-room meetings there, with her father in the
chair, and a bishop at his l'ight hand—these were the denied delights
of which she had dimly dreamed.
Had he lost all—his estates, his stocks, his domains—she would
still have loved him to the xitmost. She would have dwelt with him
in a cottage, and with many exhibitions of ill-temper would have
worked for him with her hands. But to lose him, her only love, to
hear no more his footstep, to watch no longer for his coming, to
hear his hearty, manly, military tone no more, to have in her
shrivelled heart a blank, a memory, a name !
Or even had she been left his widow, had she possessed his name
but for one little month, she could have borne his loss with resigna-
tion; she would have buried him, not meanly, yet without unneces-
sary expense, and, mourping him sincerely, shedding copious tears
of truest affection, so far as her nature allowed, she would yet have
exhibited the virtues of Christian fortitude, and would have worn
the becoming weeds of a widow to the day of her death, nobly bear-
ing up under a heavy trial, which would have taxed her religious
tranquillity to its utmost, but in which she would be consoled by
wearing a costume impressibly respectable in the highest degree.
But this sudden blow, this terrible and fatal stroke, was too heavy
for her to bear; it overwhelmed her.
For weeks and weeks she mourned. No mourner ever wept sin-
cerer tears; though there were tears of mortification, of rage, mingled
with all were tears of true love, of real sadness, of the unavailing
bitterness of sorrow.
" You should go out, my child; the air will do you good. You
Q
226
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTUE.
will make yourself ill," said her father. But she sat still, like a dumb
creature, making no reply. " Stir up, and stir out; that is the way
to rid yourself of sorrow. It is no use sitting here staring at the
fire. Rouse yourself, my dear Clara! Your gloom makes us all
unhappy."
" If you prefer my room to my company," she ^replied angrily, " I
will not inflict myself upon you; " and she bounced off in a temper
to her bedroom.
There she sulked. It became her habit to remain in her own bed-
room, coming downstairs to meals only. For day after day she sat
solitary, gazing moodily at the fire, neither reading, nor writing, nor
sewing, nor engaging herself in any occupation whatever, but brood-
ing sullenly, nursing her foot, and scowling at the few scanty embers
in the cheerless grate.
" He did not fall," she said to herself one day; "he did not fall
over the cliff. There was foul play. I am confident, I am certain
of it."
She rose from her chair, and, knitting her brows, stared out of the
window, glaring at the little town of Boscastle, looking at each house,
as though she could see through the windows of it, and at the people
who lived there, as though she wished to look through and into the
people's hearts, to read what was there concealed.
. " If I could fathom this mystery," she said, shaking her head
slowly from side to side, and pursing up her thin and bloodless lips.
" Down there below, in one of the houses, they know all about it.
Some one knows the truth—some one. Who ? "
She leant by the window, gazing out at the rainy landscape,
moodily looking at house after house—and those houses she could
not see, she knew, and her mind loitered and lingered over each of
them as she slowly passed them under mental review.
She had a pair of scissors in her hand, grasped in her thin, bony
fingers, and as she looked out of the window, she stabbed the table
in front of her again and again, unknowingly, mechanically, repeat-
ing to herself, " If I could find out, if I could find out!"
Taking a bunch of keys from her pocket, she opened a drawer,
took out a bundle of papers, neatly tied together, and selected from
them three newspapers, each of which contained an account of
Colonel Forrabury's inquest. These she read, carefully and slowly,
one after the other, whilst she stood by her drawer. "If I could find
out the truth ! " she said. " Oh 1 that I could find it out! "
Putting on hat and waterproof, she went downstairs, taking her
umbrella with her.
" Where are you going, Clara ? " her sister asked.
" Out," she answered laconically, marching into the rain.
It poured in torrents, a steady, heavy, continuous fall.
Taking no notice of it, she walked into Boscastle, down the long
hill, walked slowly, looking at each house as she passed it. One by
one she passed every cottage in the little town, and as she looked at
each, she called to mind their inmates, and, as it were considered
them in her memory.
ABOUT A FEMALE DETECTIVE.
227
She went over the bridge, turned to the left, and walked to the
harbour side, past Penally Cottages, on to Napoleon Point, to the
weather-worn bench that faces the sea.
" He never fell over here," she said, as the gusts of rain streamed
and spattered on the rocks around her: "never! He was thrown
over."
She had been obliged to put down her umbrella. She stood on the
cliff in the wet, gazing at the sea below. She shuddered, turned,
and marched back, carefully looking at the cottages by the harbour
side as she descended the path from the cliff.
On her way home she paused at the post-office,—a little cottage
with a small shop attached, for the sale of books and cheap
stationery.
She purchased a map of the district, a visitor's guide, some sealing-
wax and a paper of pins ; went home, and clumped upstairs, wet as
she was, without saying a word to any one.
" I wonder what Clara is doing," said Priscilla to her father.
"You had better go and see if you can help her," he replied.
But Clara did not want her sister—no, nor her dinner either; she
wished to be alone.
Seating herself* by a little table, she opened the parcel of pins, lit a
candle, and softened some sealing-wax. Pulling off small pieces of
the softened wax, she attached them to the pins, forming a wax head
to every pin. She had wax of different colours,—red, black, and
white. With these she formed heads upon a number of pins.
After she had made several of these, she commenced to write what
may be best described as a directory of Boscastle, refreshing her
mind as she wrote from the guide book, and the map which was
spread before her.
She did her work carefully, and it took her long ; it occupied her
the rest of the day, and far into the night. Long after her accus-
tomed early hour to retire she was working at her task.
At last she finished her list, after many corrections, to her satisfac-
tion. This she put away in her drawer with other papers.
In the morning she was up early, and was down to breakfast first.
She had a cold, and her usual cross, ungracious temper was also
with her. After prayers, Clara withdrew to her room.
Her first act was to tear off the lid of a deal box, and to use it as
a board, on which she nailed the map. Then she took out the pins,
and the newspapers with the reports of the inquest.
"This is for Colonel Forrabury," she said to herself, taking a pin
with a white wax head, and fixing it in the map at Napoleon
Point.
" And this is for meand she fixed, another pin in the map, indi-
eating the position of St. Juliott's rectory.
" Jennie Tredorn! A red pin for Jennie Tredorn. You saw him
fall, you say ; you saw him fall over the cliff. Liar ! Minx ! Cat!
You did not see him fall, unless you pushed him over yourself.
Hussy ! What were you doing there? What were you out for at
midnight ? "
228
THE BEAUTY OP BOSCASTLE.
She thrust the pin in the map at Napoleon Point, with a vicious
twist of her wrist.
" That is where you say you were, you lying Wesleyan hussy! at
Napoleon Point at midnight. And the jury and the coroner be-
lieved you—the fools ! And your precious father, where was he ?
" He said he was at his cottage. Well, this shall be the smith,
Tredorn, at his cottage."
So saying, she fixed a pin in the map at Tredorn's cottage.
"Jose Tredorn. What says the report ? Oh, T need not look. I
well remember what was said. Jose found her fainting on the cliff.
A pretty tale !
" Preposterous! This man and this woman out on the cliff at
midnight—in the small hours of the morning. And the jury see
nothing strange ! Monstrous !
" This crippled pin—it is bent—it shall mark Jose. He too upon
Napoleon Point.
" Between them they did it, those two. Most likely—together—
murderers both!
" For what? For his money ? How could they get his money ?
The watch was found upon my poor Colonel's body. His purse was
in his pocket. Ah! But these people are cunning! What else
did they take? What may they have known ? What may he not
have had in his pocket ? Deeds, mortgages, bonds.
" And yet what would these ignorant people have known of deeds
or bonds—of their value, or their advantage ? I should not know
myself; how should they ? And where is the evidence he had such
papers in his pocket ? None. He had none such, or I myself should
have noticed them.
" Still, it is odd ; it is suspicious, for what did they there upon the
cliff after midnight ?
" What did they there ? "
Leaning her head upon her hands, she pondered over the question
long.
" I do not know what they did, but I am sure that they murdered
him. Why, I know not; for hate, perhaps; possibly for his purse,
and in the struggle he fell, losing his life before they could commit
the theft. Oh, it is clear. They could not have been there at that
hour, except for some wicked purpose. They were there, and he was
killed. It is clear they killed him. A stupid jury ! "
Dipping her pen in the ink, she made a cross in her list after
Jennie Tredorn's name, and another after the name of Jose. She
paused at the name of Tredorn the smith, and affixed a note of
interrogation.
" Who else ? The coastguards ? The gipsies ? She covered
the map with her pins, passing under mental review every one in
the village, and pausing at several names to meditate and reflect,
recalling innumerable little acts and trivial words that might pos-
sibly suggest some point or form a clue.
" It could not be through malice. No one knew him to hate him.
No one could recall a word said of him in ill-will. He had done no
ABOUT A FEMALE DETECTIVE.
229
harm. He had not been long enough in possession of the property
to evict a single tenant. He came so little into contact with his
tenants that he could not have annoyed any of them."
She sat frigidly thinking out these questions, occasionally em-
phasizing some idea that struck her by sticking a pin into the board
with malicious vigour. Assuming the murder, what theory could
she construct to account for it ?
First, there was the theory that the coastguards assaulted him
with the intention of robbing him, but that he proved more agile
than they anticipated ; a struggle ensued, and in the fray that
followed, he fell over the cliffs before they succeeded.
There was not a tittle of evidence to support this theory, and all
the probabilities were against it. Besides, the coastguards were
men of excellent character, and she rejected the idea as wild, ground-
less, and improbable.
Second, the gipsies.
Less likely still. The gipsies always traverse the roads and lanes.
She had never seen a gipsy on the cliff paths, nor had any one else:
they stick to the roads.
Third, Jennie and Jose.
They were on the cliff at an extraordinary hour, under extra-
ordinary circumstances. Jennie was said to have been brought
home unconscious, Jose had disappeared, and, strangest fact of
all, though she avowed she saw the Colonel fall over the cliff at
midnight, she was not able to raise an alarm until the after-
noon.
Those two were probably the guilty pair. There the secret of the
murder lay. But what was the motive ?
In what way were they advantaged by the Colonel's death ?
To whose advantage was his death ?
It was none to Jose.
It was none to Jennie.
It was no advantage to any living soul but to the heir—to Norman
Forrabury, who, being poor, in one moment became rich.
Could he have hired this bravo, this wild sailor, this ragged waif,
to do that base and dastardly deed ?
For a moment her cheeks flushed red, and her thin lips grew pale,
as the sudden thought entered her mind.
She took a pin and drove it into Forrabury Hall.
" He was at Forrabury Hall; it seems to be proved that he was
there all that fatal night," she said. " He was at Forrabury Hall.
Was; aye? And where now? He too disappeared, like Jose, like
his accomplice."
" Norman Forrabury—a bad man, a spendthrift, dissolute, an
evil liver; like Cain', a wanderer on the face of the earth ; a mysteri-
ous man; one who had lived amongst cut-throats and blackguards
and American rowdies, a gambler, a man who, to gain his ends, would
not stick at murder."
"And my marriage!" she exclaimed, as the thought thrilled
through her; " my marriage might have disinherited him! "
230
THE BEAUTY Of BOSCASTLf.
She rose and paced her room excitedly, tearing the air with her
claw-like hands, as though she had him in her grip.
" He hated me," she said. " Oh, it .is clear, clear ! I shall never
forget how he looked at me with hate, even as instinctively I hated
him. Ho, ho! He! It was he ! He did it! Yes. He, too, was
an accomplice; he was the instigator of the crime.
" The villain ! The murderer !
" Norman Forrabury!
" He shall hang! Hang! How I hate him! hate him ! hate
him! He shall be hanged! He has cheated me of my love, of
my happiness, of the riches that would have been mine. All the
wealth of Forrabury shall not save him. Mine it would have been.
Oh, what a villainy to rob me! what an injustice! The money I
should have had. The hoards that would have been mine! Night
and day I will compass his ruin. I hate him ! I will not be con-
tent until he is hung ! 0 God, help me ! Give me strength to
avenge this dastardly deed, this foul, atrocious murder! 0 God,
hear my prayer! Give to me a life for a life. The proofs! the
proofs! Oh, for the proofs ! Hour by hour I will collect them. In
patience and in prudence I will glean them. One by one, little by
little, I will piece them together. Stitch by stitch I will weave the
net that shall entrap him. For it was he ! He! Hanged he shall
be!
" Would that I could see him with the rope round his neck ! Ah !
ha!, and the prison garb upon him. Ob, a rare sight it would be!
But I shall at least see him at his trial, cowering in the felon's
dock, and the lawyers, the judge, every one staring at him—the
villain brought to his deserts at last. And I—I will be there. He
shall not lie. I will look at him so that he dare not. Piece by
piece, item by item, it shall be made plain. Aye, and they will go
out; they will come back with their verdict. Breathless silence.
He will tremble and grow pale. And then—Guilty ! Ha ! ha ! ha!
ha ! I hear the verdict. Guilty ! It makes me dizzy to hope it,
to dream it. Ah! ha ! ha ! ha! " and she sank into her chair, sob-
bing hysterically.
CHAPTER L.
more about the same.
" The Day will Come." (Miss Braddon.)
" Consume them in Thy wrath; consume them, that they may perish."
(Psalm lix. 13.)
" What are you following me about for P "
The words were spoken by Jennie Tredorn to Miss Clara Gee.
" I was not following you," replied Clara Gee, with humility.
" You were," cried Jennie, as her eyes flashed. " I have noticed it
before. If I go to the grocer's, you come in behind me ; if I go to
Si ORE ABOUT ME SAME;
23l
the top of the hili, you are at my heels ; if I am talking to Nicholas
Pearn at the mill, you must needs have business there too ; and if I
walk on the cliff, you are close to me like a shadow. Have done with
it, or you will find yourself in trouble."
" Perhaps it is so, Miss Tredorn," said Clara Gee ineekly ; " for in-
deed I have wanted to have a word with you, although not to offend
you. It may be that I have seemed to desire to converse with yon,
but you have ever seemed so brusque, that I have not dared to speak
to you ; and when I have called at your father's cottage, you have not
been at home."
" Father does not desire you to call. He goes to chapel. He is
not of the Church, nor in your father's parish."
" I will not annoy you, Miss Tredorn, but I would have spoken
with you, were it not that I displease you."
" It displeases me to be watched, not to be spoken with, Miss Gee.
What do you wish to say P "
" Only to ask why you avoid me, why you are not friendly as
you used to be ? If you have anything on your mind, as your
sombre looks and solitary habits indicate, confide your sorrows too,
friend. I too have my grief, and know what it is to want sym-
pathy."
" You are mistaken, Miss Gee," replied Jennie haughtily. " I
desire no confidences, and I need none."
So saying, she marched away, leaving Clara standing in the road,
looking after her, with an expression of annoyance and defeated
malignity.
" A bold minx ! " muttered Clara, tossing her head. " And what
airs ! This comes of education. The daughter of a blacksmith, for-
sooth! Soon it will come to pass that there will be no difference
between the speech and manners of a fisher-girl and a lady. Mr.
Gladstone, and Board Schools, and Wesleyanism, oh ! they will ruin
the country."
She walked on down the hill, muttering to herself, angry and ill-
humoured, embittered against all the world.
" The hussy ! She has the key of this mystery, but she keeps
the secret to herself. She is never seen with others, not even with
young men, although she is a rather well-favoured girl, for a
woman of her class. They tell me she is called the ' Beauty of Bos-
castle.' A fine beauty, indeed! A foolish thing to make such a
woman vain; some day she will come to sorrow. A bold girl!
What did she on the cliff? Aye, her sin will find her out. Well,
Nicholas."
As she spoke, a young man touched his hat civilly, and passed.
" Stay a moment. You know the young woman who has gone up
the hill."
"Up street, m'm."
" Yes. Do you know her ? "
" Miss Tredorn, you mean, miss."
" Yes."
" Yes; I knows her."
£32 THE BEAUTY OP BOSCASTlE.
" Well, what do you know of her ? "
" I doan't knaw neething of her, miss."
" Don't you think she is rather strange of late ? "
" No, I hain't noticed neething."
" Think, now."
" No, miss, I doan't call to mind neething strange."
" Ah, well. And what of Jose? Do you know Jose ? "
" Ees, miss ; I knaws Jose."
" And what of him ? "
The young man smiled in an oafish way. Clara's questions were
not well put to encourage conversation.
" Don't }'Ou understand me P What is Jose doing now ? "
" I've heerd he be at sea, miss."
" Humph ! Do you like him ? "
" No, miss."
" You dislike him."
" No, miss, I doan't dislike him."
She picked up her dress and walked on angrily. " Stupid man !"
she muttered. " The density of these people !"
Pausing at the cottages of the coastguards, she tapped at the
door, and endeavoured to mollify a pretty little child by lifting
it for an embrace. The child began to cry,- and the mother to
scold. Clara's was not a face that won the hearts of women or
children.
" Is your good man in P " she ventured, in her blandest tones.
" Ees, miss. "Walk in, if 'ee wish to see 'im. The place is not
tidied for visitors, but 'ee can come in if 'ee'd like," and she dusted
a chair with her apron.
She sat down and scowled around, at the pictures, the books, the
simple furniture, with a frown full of the hate that reigned in her
heart. When the coastguard conversed with her, she fixed her
eyes upon him in a way that frightened him. She spoke at once of
the night of the murder, a subject on which he would have been
garrulous if he had not been terrified by her gimlet-like gaze. As
it was, her conversation produced nothing. But in her determined
humour, she only clenched her teeth more firmly, and proceeded, with
dogged decision to call on Mrs. Macpherson, at Forrabury Hall. So
far she had gleaned little, learnt nothing. By patience and per-
severance, however, she hoped to alight on some chance information
that would shed at least a ray of light on the mystery of Colonel
Eorrabury's death.
As the mansion of the Forraburys' loomed in sight, her spirits
and her anger rose. Sheltered from the winds by a grove of trees,
approached by an imposing avenue, the Hall was one of tbe best
houses in the county, and this would have been hers—hers! So
long as she lived its very existence would be a mortification to her,
a constant reminder of the villainy by which, she felt assured, she
had been cheated of her happiness.
It looked very desolate. The shutters were closed, the blinds
down, the garden walks unkempt, the drive neglected, and lawn and
MORE ABOUT THE SAME.
238
flower beds slovenly and uncared for. An unseen dog barked
savagely as she trod the weed-grown path.
She rang the bell. A long, hollow peal echoed within, but no one
answered the summons.
She pulled it again and again, impatiently.
At last a head appeared at one of the windows—an old woman,
who asked her what she wanted, with scant courtesy.
" I want to see Mrs. Macpherson," said Clara.
" Mrs. Macpherson has been gone a fortuight since."
"Gone!"
" Aye."
"Where?"
" To Aberdeen. Gone away altogether."
" And who are you, then ? "
" My husband is caretaker."
" And the servants P "
" They are all gone. Who be you that asks ? No one has any
business here. The Squire is not in England."
" Where is he ? "
" I don't know. He is not coming back. The solicitors has sent
us here to look after the house. May-happen 'twill be sold."
" Oh!"
With that Clara moved off. No information was to be gained in
that quarter.
And yet " the house to be sold," was not that information? A
suspicious circumstance it seemed to her. And Macpherson dis-
missed—that seemed strange, too. Why should nob the Macpher-
sons be caretakers? The servants all gone. Would an}'of them
know anything of the events of the fatal night? She determined
to see them. Many of the maidservants were people of the locality.
She called their names to mind, and decided to find out where they
lived and what they knew.
Her energy was untiring. During the next few days she found
and saw every one of them; but they shed no light on the mystery
she would unravel.
Nor did her conversations with the few tradespeople and gossips
of the town, with whom she purposely mingled, yield her a shred of
information.
Disheartened, but not despairing, she went to Camelford, to call on
Mr. Penarth, a solicitor whom she knew intimately enough to con-
verse with freely.
She laid before him the facts connected with the death of Colonel
Forrabury, acknowledged, sensibly, that she had no information
other than that which had been furnished to the jury at the inquest,
but frankly confessed that their verdict seemed to her extremely
unsatisfactory.
Mr. Penarth listened to her with interest, discussed the points
that impressed her, and begged her to confide her suspicions to
him freely ; but after an hour-or more's conversation, he told her
that he believed her impressions were entirely mistaken—that the
234
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
Colonel's death was the result of pure accident, and that the jury
were justified in their verdict.
" But do you not think it most extraordinary that a young
woman l'esident in Boscastle should be out on a wild cliff at mid-
night p "
" Yes, and no. "We lawyers find that in every inquiry relating to
human affairs, whether in coroners' inquests or in bankruptcy, in
commercial undertakings, in civil cases or in criminal cases, it
matters not what, there are always extraordinary disclosures—un-
accountable events. Let any man's life be inquired into, there will
be strange revelations. Every human being is a mystery. It was
pei'haps extraoi'dinary that she was on the cliff at that hour, on
that night—but it was equally extraordinary that she was there on
other nights, and very often all night. She was probably not there
for any good. It is not unlikely she is engaged in the smuggling
interest."
" But there are no smugglers now."
" Are there not ? " said Mr. Penarth, with a significant smile.
" And yet the present duty on brandy is ten and fourpence a gallon.
I have not been in practice thirty years, madam, on the west coast,
without knowing something of the smuggling interest. Besides
where was the motive? Assume that she and Jose, or one or
other of them, murdered Colonel Eorrabury ; why did they do so? "
" They had no motive, but another might have."
" You mean "
" Norman Forrabury, of whom I have spoken to you earlier."
" You cannot suggest that Norman Forrabury bribed them to do
murder."
"Why not? He is bad enough. Oh, he is badness itself—a
gambler, a rake, a spendthrift. Mr. Penarth, you cannot conceive
the wickedness of that man."
" I can believe he is bad enough,—most men are bad, in my opinion.
I am not a believer in my species. I see my specimens stripped
bare. If you were a lawyer, you would have my opinion possibly;
but is he fool enough—a strong man like that, fearless, brave ? I
have met him out with the hounds, Miss Gee: I know him. A man
of iron. He is not the man to bribe a half-witted fisherman and a
young inexperienced woman to do a thing that would put him in
their power for ever, when he has as much courage in his own bosom
and more strength in his own right arm than any man in the
county."
" Then you think——"
" I think you are entirely mistaken, and I should cease to enter-
tain this idea, unless you have further evidence. Why, evidence
you have none. I shall be pleased to see you again on the subject if
any fresh circumstances come into view, but I believe you will
consult your own happiness best by taking my judgment as final."
" But if thei'e is fresh evidence ? "
" Come to me, by all means."
fROBABLY TOO MUCEt EOR THE READER^ DHxESTlON. 235
CHAPTER LI.
WHICH, IF CUT IN HALF, WOULD MAKE TWO TOLERABLE CHAPTERS; BUT
BEING TOLD IN ONE, IS PROBABLY TOO MUCH FOR THE READER'S
DIGESTION.
"Hide and Seek." (Wilkie Collins.)
To Jennie Tredorn the murder of Colonel Eorrabury was a terrible
event. Au eternal horror, it afflicted her night and day. Every
hour of her waking life the picture of the frightful tragedy was
present in her thoughts, and gave rise to fearful speculations and
meditations, to troublous thoughts and conscience-stricken terror.
When she endeavoured to sleep, her brain became more active, her
mind was filled with revolting thoughts; and if she snatched a few
hoars of disturbed sleep, her rest was afflicted with dreams. She
wondered that even the strength of her love had possessed her to
lie for this criminal, to perjure herself for this murderer, to bear
false witness even for the man of her choice. She wondered that he
could have been so base, so cowardly, so unutterably wicked; she
marvelled at his crime. She wondered at her own weakness, her
fall from virtue, her sin.
Trained austerely, taught from childhood the tenets of a Puritan
faith, reared in the respect of the simple doctrines of Methodism,
she was astounded at her fall. To go to chapel three times on Sun-
day, to attend prayer meetings and class meetings on several other
days during the week, to learn hymns and read her Bible, or to hear
her father read it, morning and evening-—these had been her strict
habits. To rove upon the cliffs and breast the fresh wind, to cull
wild flowers and gather blackberries, to steal into her cave, and
perhaps occasionally to read the well-thumbed pages of some half-
forbidden novel,—these were her simple delights. By what mystery
had she strayed from these quiet pleasures and pastimes to destroy
her peace and happiness for ever ?
Was this man who had tempted her a devil, and she herself
possessed? Yes; and the scales had fallen from her eyes, the
fascinating spell had withered in that moment when, wild and won-
dering, she beheld her lover's murderous hand hurl his fellow-man
into Eternity.
Until that moment, no reflection, and scarcely one thought of ill,
of sin—her virtue had ebbed quietly, silently like the tide, and she
knew not, or at any rate did not consciously realize, that she had
fallen, that she had lost purity—all.
Now, unchaste, ashamed, ruined, she loathed herself, hated and
despised herself—apprehended with a dull ache of horror that the
time would come when others would point the finger of scorn at her,
and avoid her presence as a contamination.
She did not weep, for the tears would not flow.
She did not speak, because when she shaped the words no sound
left her lips. She bowed her head and sat mute, grieving.
236
The beauty oe boscastle.
Her father noticed it, spoke of it, and wondered, sorrowing too,
for sorrow is contagious ; and though he knew not the cause, he felt
a sympathy for his only daughter iu her grief, though, with a rare
and considerate kindness, he did not attempt to gauge its depths or
ascertain its reason. She went to chapel just the same as ever, and
met her acquaintances, with whom she had always been somewhat
distant and reserved in manner. People noticed her sad look, and
tried to sympathise with her,—she met them rudely, almost indig-
nantly.
The women loitering at the chapel gate eyed her narrowly as she
swept by them homewards. " She was always proud," they said of
her. " She is prouder than ever of late."
" The pride that goeth before a fall," said a stern-looking old
woman, her " class-leader," folding her thin hands and looking
heavenwards.
Her two dearest friends looked at each other sideways, cast down
their eyes again, raised them slowly, and coughed.
" Oh ! " said one, with a peculiar intonation.
The other elevated her eyebrows. " Do you think so P " she said
significantly.
Then they both giggled.
The old woman turned her back, and, shaking her head, set forth
to stump up the hill.
There was abundance of gossiping—every village lias its topic for
the day.
When she went out, Jennie noticed that she was stared at, that
women-folk looked at her curiously. She detected on some lips the
symptoms of an inquisitive smile.
Then she went home and kept indoors. Nothing could prevail
upon her to leave her father's cottage. She ceased to attend chapel,
to go to the prayer meetings, or " to class." Her leader called
upon her, but Jennie spoke to her from the window, and refused her
the door. One of the preachers came to reason with her ; she bade
him begone. Now and then, at nights, she stole out for hours, pro-
bably to roam the desolate cliffs.
Her own guilt and sorrow came so forcibly home to her, that the
horror she felt at Norman's villainy was mitigated. Her personal
sin felt by herself, that she must bear in shame and pain, lightened
the terrible awakening of her soul to the criminality of her lover, of
that man whom she had so loved and adored that she believed him
to be a hero. Oh the descent—a fall like Lucifer's. He who was so
noble, strong as a giant, tender as a child; he who was so learned
and scholarly, who had travelled all over the world, and knew the
names and the laws which governed even those other scintillating
worlds at which they had often gazed together, when iu his gentle
voice he had taught her the secrets of the stars, mingling those
celestial lessons with the ardours of love; he whose conversation
was like a melody, whose bosom seemed compact of generosity and
goodness, so noble that he had stepped from the estate of gentleman,
and had condescended to her level that he might raise her to his
own; he—this Hero, this King !
PROBABLY TOO MUCH FOR THE READER'S DIGESTION. 287
—was a murderer, impenitent, cold and calm, and undisturbed in
his villainy, and afterwards, untroubled by remorse, careless and
ruthless in his sin, diabolical!
She believed in Satan, in the embodied personality of the devil.
She believed in the actual fires of hell, and the bottomless pit, in
the eternity of suffering, of punishment and woe.
In the midst of her sadness and horror, plunged in shame, loathing
herself, her life, which she dreaded to live, and dreaded still more
to destroy, she became possessed with the idea that she had been
wooed and won through some magical arts, that her virtue had been
sapped by the direct agency of the author of sin and the father of
iniquity.
She knew that she ought to condemn herself, but sbe could not,
her descent to evil had been so easy, so unconscious, her awakening
so sudden, that she believed herself the victim of some malignant
being allured to damnation by Apollyon.
In the dim remembrances of her lover's speech were weird
memories of Faust and Mephistopheles, and these were mingled in
her'mind with more distinct figures from the allegories of Bunyan,
and the pages of " Paradise Lost "; one of her school prize-books was
a copy of Milton's poems. She believed in the existence of all the
devilish enemies of mankind—Beelzebub, Moloch, Astarte, Belial,
and their hellish host.
Thus in the midst of the dreadful consciousness of looming dis-
grace, mingled with fearsome forebodings of eternal condemnation,
she saw continually the distorted face of her lover, grasping the
throat of his struggling victim on the precipitous cliff, lapped not
by the sea, but by the luminous fire and flames and burning brim-
stone of hell.
Solitude increased her morbid gloom, until she became nearly
mad. At night-time, during her lonely rambles upon the cliffs, she
was frequently tempted to hurl herself over into the deep gorge of
Blackapit, and it was only by an effort that she rejected the tempba-
tion. Whenever her mind dwelt 011 her lover, she endeavoured
to blot out all thought of him, to cancel his image from her
memory. Sbe believed him to be a fiend, she associated every
temptation with him, she regarded every simple thought as the
summons of his diabolical whisper, and when she felt herself drawn
as by the strong arms of a man, drawn by an almost irresistible but
invisible cord towards the edge of the precipice, she felt that the
temptation to throw herself into the abyss was an emanation from
the evil one incarnate, the horrible suggestion of a devil.
Frequently she came home blenched and pale, singing in a
quavering and frightened voice—
" Jesus, the Name high over all,
In hell, or earth, or sky;
Angels and men before it fall,
And devils fear and fly "—
or other lines from Wesley's hymns.
238
THE BEAUTY OF BOSOASTLE.
This continual strain upon her nerves became too awful an ordeal
for her. She fell ill; she knew that her face began to tell only too
plainly the story of her sin. She feared the questionings of her
father; she could not bear the sight of her fellow-creatures. Her
pride alone stood her in good stead, helping her to assume an im«
passive aspect, and forcing her to affect a careless air.
One day she disappeared.
On her father's open Bible she left a short note. It ran thus,—
" My dear Father.—I have a great trouble. Do not ask what it
is. It is necessary that I should go away for awhile, but I shall
come back. If you love me, say nothing about me to any one. Your
loving daughter, Jennie."
Tredorn the smith read his daughter's brief message in bewil-
derment. He put on his spectacles, spelt out the words, turned over
the paper, investigated the envelope, read the brief sentences again
and again; but he sat marvelling, stupefied.
What could it mean ?
There are some things that the mind cannot believe. So thoroughly
did the good smith trust in his daughter's virtue, that he could not
entertain any question of her honour, and if the idea passed through
his mind, it only came to be dismissed. But the letter was extra-
ordinary. For months, aye, ever since the Colonel's death, his
daughter's conduct had been so strange, her appearance so changed
—and now her flight. It passed his understanding.
She had something on her mind ; so the letter said, but for months
past her conduct had said the same thing. And why " say nothing
to any one," and " it is necessary that I should go" ? Extraordinary
sentences those! The old smith was dumbfounded. For days he
mourned in mute wonder, yet he believed in his daughter. In some
way, beyond the solution of his guesses, her disappearance was com
nected with the Colonel's death. That was the only point that
seemed clear to him, and it gave him intense uneasiness.
He went day by day to his forge. The farmers and carters stood
outside the door and gossiped, not inside by the glaring forge, as
they used to do, for the old man had become gloomy and fretful.
In the old days the forge was one of the merriest of chatting places.
Of late the smith had become almost mute.
Some of the carters rallied him on his quietude, but he did not
seem to hear them.
"Aye, and 'ee daughter—the beauty; what's become of she? We
never see her at chapel on a Sunday—nor on a weeky day, for that
matter, simmen to me."
The old smith made no reply, except to hammer the shoe upon his
anvil until the sparks flew like meteors in the darkness.
" Why, hain't ye heerd what's become of she? Why, all tUe
village knows," said a labourer, with a loud laugh.
Tredorn pricked up his ears, and the beads of sweat started from
his brow.
" Knaws what ? " said the fellow.
" She's like a-many others—a common-—-"
PROBABLY TOO MUCH FOR THE READER'S DIGESTION. 239
The smith heard the foul word as it fell. Aghast, he dropped his
hammer. His mouth opened and remained fixed, as though he was
paralyzed. A train of strange thoughts passed rapidly through his
mind. In a harsh voice he cried, as he fell upon his knees, "Jennie !
0 God. My Jennie 1" Rising hurriedly, he strode from his anvil
to the door.
" Es that true? " he said, in an ominous whisper, confronting the
speaker.
The man cowered sheepishly.
" Say, es it true? " he repeated, in a voice of thunder.
" I don't know. I have heard it said," replied the man.
" Ee've heard it said! " exclaimed the smith contemptously, and
with one stalwart blow he felled him like an ox.
"My Jennie!" he said, folding his hands. "My Jennie! and to
think that for one moment I believed 'im. God pardon me ! "
These incidents were ascertained by Clara Gee and duly reported
to Mr. Penarth, the Camelford solicitor.
He began to take an interest in the case. It was at least re-
markable that the chief witness at the inquest comported herself so
strangely.
"Dating exactly from Colonel Forrabury's death," observed Clara
Gee.
" It is without question a noteworthy thing," said Mr. Penarth.
* # # * #
A great event happened in Boscastle. There was some work to
do. The lazy little place felt a shock. Jf an earthquake had occurred
it would not have caused more sensation.
About a dozen men came down from Gillows'. They proceeded
to Forrabury Hall, covered up the chairs and tables, and set to work
cleaning, paperhanging, painting, repairing, whitewashing. Then
there were carpenters, upholsterers, gilders, decorators. All Bos-
castle was set a-gossiping. The rumour spread that the Hall was
sold.
Jose returned. He had been at sea to Cardiff, thence to Bilbao,
then coasting on the French sea-board, again to Cardiff, and so
back to Boscastle.
His first thought was to see Jennie, to visit the cottage home.
The old smith was there, solemn, grizzled, aged, bowed over his well-
thumbed Bible. By the sadness of his appearance, Jose saw at a
glance that sorrow had visited the home. He looked round for
Jennie.
" Es she dead ? " he asked.
The old man lifted his hands with a mute gesture, and feebly
shook his head.
" Where es she? " he demanded, not with his lips, for Jose never
wasted words, and indeed rarely spoke, but he elevated his eyebrows
and opened his arms in a gesture that meant, as plainly as possible,
" Where is she? "
The smith pointed out of the window.
240
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
" She will come back," he said gravely. " Oh yes, she will come
back again. Meor' ras tha Dew !" *
" Es she in service P " said Jose, after a long silence.
The old smith nodded.
" Where P " asked Jose, by another gesture.
" Out yonder."
Jose left the cottage. Something had happened; he did not
know what. He went to the inn—the picturesque and quaint old
beerhouse, snug as a ship's cabin, where the sailors yarn together,
the " Napoleon" Inn, half-way up the hill. True, Jose could not talk,
he had lived so much alone ; he had never been taught to speak,
but he could listen.
Yes, if there was anything to hear. But the muteness of men
in a village inn is sometimes extraordinary. They must think;
those men who sit in profound silence round a deal table, solemnly
regarding a mug of ale, occasionally passing it round to each other
without a word, smoking short pipes in stolid quietude, evidently
they think.
Well, one cannot always be talking.
After two or three hours of solid meditation, Jose emptied his
nepperkin, filled his pipe, rose from the table, nodded to a man on
the opposite bench, and walked out.
He went down to the harbour to his ship, the Sir Francis BraTce
(the great Admiral was, in Queen Elizabeth's day, M.P. for the
borough of Bottreaux). She was high and dry in the bed of the
harbour. All was quiet. He stole into his bunk, and fell asleep.
In the morning he was helping to load-in with ballast. At high
tide they sailed, bound for Cardiff, to return with coals.
When a fisherman is ashore, he never hurries. Jose had many
callings, but he was, before all, a fisherman.
The Sir Francis BraTce accomplished her voyage, and duly returned.
Jose repaired, as before, to the smith's cottage—this time about
noonday. The table was neatly spread, a pot was boiling on the
fire, the room was tidy, and neatly garnished with flowers. Across
the harbour he discerned the smith, hard at work at the forge. He
listened; yes, overhead were footsteps. Jose smiled,—his face was
transfigured.
He left the cottage and returned to the ship. Emerging from
his cabin with a bundle, he revisited the cottage. There he found
the smith about to sit down to his midday meal, and at the fire
stood Jennie.
" Jose." she said, as his form darkened the doorway.
"Aye," he answered, laying down the bundle and advancing to
greet her.
She kept a chair between herself and him. He took her hand,
and mumbled her fingers with his lips. She withdrew her hand and
averted her face. " I thought it was your ship," she said.
" Aye, lass," he replied, with a guttural laugh, untying his bundle,
and handing out to her the contents one by one : a necklace of garish,
* " Meor' ras tha Dew! " old Cornish for " Many thanks to God!"
PROBABLY TOO MUCH FOR THE READER'S DIGESTION. 241
worthless beads and " handcuffs," as he called them, to match; a
black mantilla shawl, a bottle of strongly flavoured scent, a pair of
coarse stockings, some Spanish onions, and a really handsome fan,
made of large black ostrich feathers, which were sadly crumpled
and broken, mounted in ebony, inlaid with silver and mother-of-
pearl.
" There, lass!" he ejaculated proudly, as he put the last of these
treasures in her arms, and putting the handkerchief in his pocket,
he stared at the girl in a stupor of joy.
Jennie was touched by the fellow's simple kindness. It was the
first kind act, excluding her father's continual goodness, that she
had known for months, so, though she smiled at the ridiculous
trinketry, she responsively accepted the gift.
" All these for me, Jose ? " she said, in the brightest tone she
could, assume. " What grandeur ! And the fan, how lovely ! " and
she smoothed the broken feathers with her hand.
" Nay, but put 'em on 'ee, lass," cried Jose, as his face glowed with
proud delight. " The shawl o'er thee head, Jennie—so."
She threw the mantilla over her dark hair, put the garish beads
on her neck, and waved the broken splendours of the fan. " There,
father," she exclaimed ; " I am a mighty fine lady now that Jose has
come back."
"Aye, Jennie; but without they pomps and vanities thou'rt finer
still. Put down the fan, my lass ; I like 'ee best in plain homespun.
Jose, my lad, sit down and eat."
Thus accosted, Jose fell to, paying little heed to anything but his
plate, which Jennie more than once replenished from the seemingly
inexhaustible pot.
When he had finished his meal, he stared at her again.
She had altered, possibly improved. If her face were paler, her
complexion was almost transparent; if her features had lost their
girlish vivacity, they had gained a womanly tenderness and suavity,
and on her brow an almost invisible line suggested the gravity of
care. Her bust was full and ripe. In short, the girl had gone, and
Jennie was now a woman.
He watched and studied her with his little, piercing, half-shut
eyes, eyes almost concealed in a network of wrinkles—watched her
as a sailor on the look-out steadily scans the horizon.
Now and then she looked at him furtively, conscious that she
was under his gaze. Dinner over, the smith returned to his forge,
and Jennie cleared the table. Jose sat narrowly watching her. j
" What ha' ye been doin' ? " he suddenly demanded.
The question almost took her breath away. She stood up stiffly,
returning his stare by a fixed gaze, as though she too in turn
would read him through and through.
He brought his fist down on the table with a thump that made the
plates and dishes rattle.
" Come. When did I see 'ee last ? " he said, ignoring his former
question. " Eh ? Tell me."
" On that night," Jennie replied, covering her face with her hands,
242
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
and shuddering. " On that horrible night. Oh ! Jose, speak iiot
of that,"
" Of the murder, aye? So 'ee said 'efore. Speak not of et, 'a
said nothing. Well, 1 ha' said nothing. Was 'at well ? "
" Yes. It was well. Oh, Jose, I thank you for that."
" 'A thank me, aye. But the villain—the young master—what of
him, eh P The murderer ! where is 'un ? "
She shook her head.
" Where es 'un ? Eh ? Where es that murderous lubber ? Say,
es 'un hung P "
"Oh, Jose!" t'she cried, with a shriek of horror, "I know not.
Before God I swear I know not where he is. He has not been here
since—since—since then. They say he is not in England."
" Ha-ha! ha-ha! " laughed Jose. " So-ho, 'un has gone—'un has
fled—ha ! ha! 'An what ha' you been doin' ? "
A blush suffused her face, and for a moment she hung her head
in shame.
Again Tie thumped the table with his fist, and shouted angrily,
" Eh ? Where ha' 'ee been ? "
Weeks of enforced dissimulation had taught her to be cunning.
Instead of answering his question, she removed the mantilla from
her head, took off the necklace and bracelets, and put them into
his helplessly extended hands, with the fan he had given her.
" Take them back," she said quietly, " take them back, if you
cannot be civil."
" Hay, nay, Jennie, they are for 'ee, my sweet lass."
She shook her head resolutely.
" Come, lassie," he said, in a coaxing tone.
"Ho. You are too rough, Jose, and ever uncivil. I do not want
the foolish things. As father says, they suit me not; they are too,
fine for the likes of me. Go ! I have work to do: the kitchen to tidy,
and things to sew. Go you also. Father is at his forge; see
how the sparks fly from his anvil. Get to the ship and thy
work."
He held the things, stupidly, in his open arms—the shawl, the
onions, the vulgar-coloured beads and finery, muddled together in,
confusion, and looked from her to them, and from them to her.
" Ee'll not take 'un ? " he said. "This I bought at Bilbao. 'A
said, as I bought 'un, et will do for my sweetheart. An' this is
from Bordeaux, and the pretty beads, ah—the bo-sun's daughter
would ha' liked the beads, but I kept 'um all for my Jennie. An'
the fan !—a power o' money it cost, lassie, but I thought, 'twill
do for 'ee to keep off the flies when thow'rt sweatin' in chapel. Eh,,
my lass P Take 'um ; they are fo' thee."
" And if I take them—what then ? "
"What then?"
" Will you do as I tell you? Will you never be rude any more,
never take liberties, never speak—oh, Jose—never, never speak of
that horrible, horrible night."
"Of the night o'the murder; aye, lass, I know. I saw 'un; I
tEOBABLY TOD MUCH FOE THE EEAt>EE's DIGESTION. 243
Was there too. I saw 'an do 'ut. I was watching you. Yes, do
not start. I suspected you and him, suspected that 'uti was playing
'ee false, girl—do 'ee understau' ? But if he had, I would ■"
" Would—what would you do ? "
" I would kill 'un," he hissed.
" Oh, Jose," muttered the girl, turning as white as death.
" Aye ! 'A was often wi' 'ee. Un was too fine for 'ee* lass; an' I
believe "
" What—oh, Jose—what ? what do you believe ? "
" That you loves 'en."
" I do not love him."
" 'A do not ? "
" As God is my Judge, I swear I do not love him."
He looked at her fixedly, convinced by the vigour of her denial.
" And how dare you say so ! How dare you come here disturbing
me, questioning me! How dare you accuse me of such things! And
you were watching me ? Why did you watch me ? What right had
you to spy on my actions, to follow me from place to pla<>e ? Dare
to watch me again. I am as strong as you. I would She
shook her fist like a Billingsgate fishwife, and ground her teeth in
real rage.
" Go! Get hence! Bag and baggage and beads; I will have
none of them, nor of you—unless "
" Unless," he repeated, with the most abject humility.
" Unless you are good, unless you are civil and keep a quiet
tongue in your head, unless Sit down, Jose, there at my feet
—so. Unless you promise me, never, under any circumstances
whatever, to speak a single word about—that night."
" The night o' the murder ? " said Jose, looking up into her face.
" Hush ! Hot a word. Promise me."
" I promise."
■ "You will not say one word ? "
" Hot one word. Ho—never no more: not I. But 'ee'Jl wear the
bea,ds ? "
" Yes, sometimes, on condition you are good. There, you may
shake my hand to seal the promise: and now go. Come, that is
enough. I have my work to do; get to your ship, and mind you
keep your word."
* # * # *
Soon afterwards Jennie went out. She was frequently seen now,
traversing the solitary Boscastle Street, where she was regarded
as a mysterious woman; her coming and going were not under-
stood.
In small towns and hamlets there is much curiosity as to the
conduct and doings of each inhabitant. Jennie's mysterious ap-
pearances and disappearances, , her hauteur, her stand-offishness,
piqued the curiosity of the town. She who had been so long absent,
whose mysterious disappearance had puzzled every one, was again
" seen about." Eve was curious ; Eve talked with Eve.
Two and two the Eves, their curiosity aroused, discussed their
244
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
mysterious sister. They mouched about the nooks and corners of
the village by-ways, loitered on the bridge, met at the grocer's, and
gossiped about her at Dorcas meetings, decided to watch her, to
follow her. They followed her, they watched her, they discovered
nothing.
Jennie was a strange girl, and had ever been so. In her earliest
girlhood, and ever since, she had loved solitude, delighted in long
sea-cliff rambles, and had found in the breezes of the ocean heights
her purest happiness. But there had been nothing morbid about
it. She had skipped and gambolled with the other village girls, as
merry as they. She had raced with the others on the downs, and
played at cross-touch round Willapark Tower. She had been the
merriest at all the merry makings, and the belle of them all at
blindman's buff. She had been the boys' favourite and friend.
Nicholas Pearn learnt to love her over his multiplication table; he
cherished for her his alley-tors, and invested his pocket money in
toffee, that he might sweeten his way to her heart. True, the toffee,
treasure^in his trousers pocket, being of a sticky disposition, was
sometimes troublesome to extricate, especially in warm weather, but
when the token of love was produced, even though with effort, Jennie
accepted it with approval, and shared it with him in equal parts,
that which remained in his pockets affording him furtive delight
during school hours, enabling him to think of Jennie, while he sucked
the sweetness that casually adhered to his fingers. James Trethewy,
too, had wooed her in his boyhood, bringing her from his father's
orchard such evidences of his affection as plums and pears, an amaz-
ing quantity of which Jennie had eaten before the jealous eyes of her
girl friends, until, having enjoyed to the full the fruits of conquest,
the victorious little damsel became generous through sheer satiety,
and allayed the envy of the jealous maidens around her by sharing
the remainder of her triumphs between them. Groups of joyous
girls and boys, they had roamed throughout the Valency valley to-
gether, gathering blackberries, romping in the hay, hiding in the
bracken or plucking armfuls of flowers, and amongst them all
Jennie had been as full of merriment and sport as the rest. And
later she had been as gay as the others, first of the village girls in
all their frolics, if it chanced that they met for play at fairs or school-
treats. At tea-meetings Jennie's table became the centre of joy,
where all the young men were prone to assemble, happy if they were
so fortunate as to have tea from her urn, and striving amongst each
other as to who should eat the most cake, anxious, one would assume,
to prove to her by the vast quantities they disposed of which of them
was the worthiest. But though Jennie .had thus shared in all the
customary pastimes of her fellows, it was universally remembered
that it was on high days and holidays generally that she had mingled
with her kind, and that though she shone in society, she loved soli-
tude. From the earliest her habit had been to moon upon the cliffs
alone, to linger upon the mossy bank of the rippling Valency, to
wander down by the dangerous sea-shore, and to roam on the steep
cliff sides, where none could follow but the mountain sheep.
PEOBABLY TOO MUCH FOE THE EEADEB'S DIGESTION. 245
So when the mystified womenkind of Boscastle, loitering two and
two and gossiping of Jennie, discovered her on the cliffs alone, or
frequently going thither, they thought little of it, and their curiosity
gradually faded. She was back again; she went amongst them
occasionally, and behaved much as before, only that she seemed a
good deal more stiff and proud and sullen.
But Jose was even more curious than these daughters of Eve.
He was a fisherman, therefore a meditating, suspicious, and cun-
ning man. It was his habit to notice, to watch, to look out, to form
opinions. Many and many an hour during the pilchard season he
had stood like a post staring at the sea, for he could tell by the
colour of the water and by various occult signs where the fish were
miles away—he could see them, invisible to others—and the pilchard
fleet would steer by the signs he made from the cliff's, trusting to
the acuteness of this extraordinary man, leather than to their own
observations.
Scanning Jennie's face, Jose, this quick student of natiwal plieno-
mena, had observed indications which, to all the wise olti. wives in
Boscastle, and to all the green-eyed and jealous young maidens,
aud to all the defeated and sore-hearted young men alike, were
invisible.
He had seen indications as difficult to point out to others as the
shoals of pilchards in the far-off sea. When Jennie went out, he
followed her.
Others had followed her, and found nothing. That was because
tbey did not understand the art of following, for following, like
everything else, is an art, and requires practice to make perfect.
If you or I " followed " any one, we should give a fair start and
proceed stealthily, with noiseless step, after the quarry.
Jose did nothing of the kind : he observed her with his eyes.
He did not follow her on foot, only with his eyes, with his little,
light grey, foxy eyes—eyes that could look out to sea and discern
a ship where no other person could see anything at all, and count
its masts, describe its build, and tell whence it hailed.
He watched her leave the cottage, proceed towards the town, cross
the bridge, go up the rise of the hill, and pass out of sight. Had she
gone up the steep road, or into the valley ? He did not move, but
kept his eyes fixed continually in the same direction. He did not
see her any more. If she had gone into the valley, he would have
seen her again. As she did not reappear, it was certain she had
gone up the Beeny Hill.
Then he turned his back, and went away in the opposite direction,
as a vessel tacks at sea. This is the fisherman's way of " following."
Thus he went until he came to the top of Forrabury Hill. There he
lay down on the grass, not to sleep, but to look at the beautiful view,
fixing his eyes solely on one point thereof—the Beeny road.
Occasionally, rarely, a wayfarer passed along it. Towards dusk
he saw a woman's figure come along the cliffs, climb a stile and
gain the road. Soon he made out that this was Jennie returning to
the cottage. At tea-time he scanned hey face narrowly.
246
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
On the following day, about the samejiour, he saw her disappear in
the same manner. After she was out of sight, he went in the same
direction, and lay down amongst some furze on the Beeny cliff.
Towards dusk he saw her on her return, climbing up the hill, as
though she had been down to the beach. She passed near him,
crossed the stile—one of those quaint Cornish stiles, so picturesque
that painters have found them too difficult to portray for us as yet
—and so made for home.
Jose did not follow her to the cottage, but went down to the sea.
There for hours he clambered on the rocks, throwing stones at the
gulls and the cormorants, chewing samphire, sucking the limpets
and mussels, or lying at rest, yet hlert, on the ledges of the cliff.
But nothing occurred to satisfy his curiosity or to amuse his
solitude, only that in the twilight a vessel stole round the headland,
hoisted full sail, and put out to sea. She was the Sir Francis Drake,
bound for Cardiff.
Jose laughed. It was his ship ; she would sail underhanded this
voyage. He slapped his knee and chuckled—a silent chuckle, a
movement of the muscles, like a fish makes with its gills.
He went homewards, gathering mushrooms from the downs.
" Jose," exclaimed Jennie and her father, as he entered the cottage,
why, your ship has weighed and gone this two hours."
" Ah," he replied, " then I'll go a week's lobstering."
CHAPTER LII.
telling how the watcher was watched.
" Eyes and No Eyes."
The fact that Jose was seen about again came to the knowledge of
Clara Gee. He was an important figure in her little puppet gallery.
There was a mark against his name in her list.
One day she met him on the quay, but was unable to inveigle him
into a conversation, because he had never spoken to a lady in his life,
nor had any lady spoken to him.
He regarded her, therefore, with amazement. Of course he had
seen ladies—scores of them. Every season they visit the little port
in variegated multitudes, beautiful and ephemeral as butterflies.
Sometimes they had looked at him from afar with a kind of curious
horror, or if nearer, had passed him quickly by, holding their scented
handkerchiefs to their noses, and looking back at him over their
shoulders as they hurried away with an expression of dread, for
Jose was more than ugly—uncouth as a dwarf, hideous as a de-
formity.
How one of these creatures spoke to him. He was bewildered.
He saw her sppalc, but the intonation puzzled him. Jt was his turn
TELLING- HOW THE WATCHER WAS WATCHED. 247
to be afraid. She smiled, to reassure him, and minced her words, as
she always did when she desired to patronize the poor, but Clara
Gee's smile was like the smile of a rat, and her affected tone ren-
dered her the more incomprehensible. He looked confused, touched
his cap, perspired like a fox in his last agony, and got away.
All this seemed very suspicious to Clara, whose mind was on the
alert regarding Jose. She determined to watch him. He was one
of the principal actors in the drama of her life. He was connected
somehow with the mystery of Colonel Forrabury's death. If he
could be made to speak, it was in his power to reveal. If he would
not speak, his actions should proclaim what part or lot he had in the
inexplicable doings of that fatal night. He had not fled from the
scene without reason, of that Clara felt sure. She determined to
watch him. She came with her sketch-book and took a view of the
harbour, that poor picturesque, much-wronged, misrepresented,
deeply-to-be-sympathised-with harbour that has suffered so many
times and so much from young ladies with sketch-books.
Clara was not an artist, but, like most other clergymen's daughters,
she could smudge. Whilst making a smudge of the harbour, her
observant eyes were quick to notice every suspicious act on the part
of that strange, sullen-looking creature who in loutish fashion lolled
away the long days in lazy quietude upon the quay.
She observed him narrowly from a vantage point that gave her a
view of the entire harbour. His very idleness seemed to her almost
criminal; with the aid of a field-glass she frequently contemplated
his featui'es, his expression. To her it always seemed the same, cun-
ning and sly.
She noticed further that he did not look straight before him ; that
though he lolled leaning over a parapet, apparently looking listlessly
at nothing in particular, he was continually gazing out of the tail of
his eye.
Whilst so regarding him through her glass, she noticed a distinct
alertness on his part, and a more intense eagerness in his gaze. He,
too, was watching, it seemed.
Noticing the direction of his fixed glance, Clara turned her head,
and saw Jennie Tredorn emerging from her cottage carrying a
basket.
Ah! Ho! The pair! What magnetic influence did this girl
possess over that strange man ?
For Clara began to observe that to watch Jose was to watch Jennie.
As Jennie descended to the village, Jose's eyes never left her; as she
crossed the bridge, Jose followed her; stranger still, he followed her
with a stealth and cunning that showed a desire on his part to be
unseen. Excited by her discovery, Clara followed Jose with rapid
step.
Jennie walked quickly, soon gaining the heights of the Beeny
cliffs. After her shambled Jose, and behind him panted Clara Gee,
with beating heart and bloodless lips. She even had to run to keep
her man in view.
Arriving at the Beeny heights, and crossing the stile, she could
248
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
iust see the head of Jose, as he descended towards Pentargon
Bay. . ...
She ran forward breathlessly, determined to keep him m view.
He was so intent on looking ahead that he did not pause a moment
to look behind him.
Suddenly he fell. She watched him and wondered.
It seemed very strange. He had fallen purposely, concealing him-
self behind some gorse, and now scrambled forward's shyly on his
hands and knees. What mystery was this ? Her heart bounded
with an unshaped hope.
The path she trod now became steeper, became a mere sheep
track, vanished altogether. Still she kept on her descent, deter-
mined to follow at all hazards. She almost lost sigjit of Jose, but
now and again he reappeared in view. Soon the way became diffi-
cult, precipitous, and at last for her impossible.
Quite breathless, she gave up the chase. She had descended
further than she dared have ventured in cooler moments. Dizzy and
panting, she anchored against a bare boulder that afforded her sup-
port, and looked out at the magnificent stretch of boundless sea,
speculating on her discovery.
Beneath and beyond her, flights of sea birds cii'cled and flew, as
though they were disturbed by the trespassers, whom she found
herself unable to follow further.
She determined to wait. Baffled in her pursuit of the mysterious
paii', some solution of the problem might be gained if she lingered
for their return.
Meanwhile, Jose tracked Jennie on her way, keeping her conlinu-
ally in sight, following her with noiseless tread, cautious to remain
constantly invisible to her.
At first he thought she only came to see the seals, which she
loved, and the gulls, vast numbers of which circled about and
around her.
Soon the broken path made him pause. Jennie had vanished from
sight. Even to him, experienced in cliff-climbing, no further pro-
gress seemed possible. He essayed to scale the most precipitous
ledges, to pass along shelves in the slaty rock, which he felt sure no
woman could have trod. She seemed to have vanished like a spirit,
or to have flown away with the wings of a bird. He, too, was
baffled.
He tried back, and ventured by many a dangerous ledge and
narrow foothold to proceed, but in vain. He was positive that
neither woman nor man could pass that way. Again he returned,
like a Red Indian on the war trail, and proceeded slowly, step by
step, to track out the lost path.
At last he came to a huge rock, where there was a long drop, from
which he was about to turn away, confident of its impossibility,
when he noticed a rusty iron ring. On the ring hung a chain.
With an exclamation of satisfaction he dropped over the rock.
He had found the way.
He scrambled on hurriedly, His astute eyes noticed the little
ABOUT A MOTHEE AND HEK CHILD.
249
trivial indications that none else could have read—liere, crushed
heads on the tufts of heather, there, scratches on the lichen-covered
rocks, broken edges of the shaly cliff, a stone newly disturbed by a
footstep. Soon he paused. Was it fancy, or did he hear a cry ?
He stooped behind a boulder, peeping round its edge, like a hunter
after his quarry.
Proceeding cautiously, he suddenly stood on the edge of a rift or
chasm in the cliff; he heard a pleased and gentle murmur, the soft
delight of a happy woman's voice, the song of a mother's lullaby.
Stepping forward and peering over the edge, he beheld Jennie
fondling and caressing a little babe.
CHAPTER LIII.
about a mother and iier cii1ld.
" Hopes and Fears." (Charlotte M. Yonge.)
Jose held his breath bewildered. Even he was touched by the
beauty of the picture. There sat the mother, beaming with the holy
gaiety of maternal joy, dandling the dainty little creature in her
arms, kissing and fondling the crowing babe, and uttering, as she
covered it with caresses, soft murmurs, snatches of joyous song, and
those fond and tender diminutives that form the music of maternal
love.
Jennie had constructed in the cave both a hut and a cradle, her
occupation, doubtless, during the long and tedious months of her
mysterious absence. Nothing could be softer than the bed of dried
fern and abundant heather that she had collected together, and which
she had curtained from wind and weather by many an ingenious con-
trivance. Jose observed all with curious astonishment.
Soon his brow darkened ominously, and as he contemplated the fair
and placid child, pink and pretty as an opening rose-bud, his fierce
ferret eyes were angered with rajs of hate and the lurid flashes of
jealousy.
Prom the infant his glances roved to the mother, lovelier than ever
in her ripened and matured womanhood, beautified in the contem-
plation of her smiling and innocent child, her milk-white bosom full
of life, her heaving breast palpitating with love ; and as he looked
on her, his expression of rage and jealousy changed to a bestial stare
of lust.
A score of passions rioted over his face, drawing hard wrinkles
upon his visage, and contorting his muscles, as the workings of his
mind wrought turmoil within him.
For this man-beast was human, and love which can make man
saint or devil possessed his soul. Love it was in very truth, a pas-
sionate love that she could have turped to tenderness by a smile; a
250
THE BEAUTY OP BOSCA.STLE.
raging love that fed upon his vitals; a sincere love that a lifetime
could not exhaust, and an inextinguishable longing that he could
never satiate.
Shallow his intellect might be, deformed as his physical structure^
Of what consequence was that? Having no reason he was worse,
the uncurbed animal within him was so much the more fierce, his
anger greater, and his desire more uncontrollable.
Hate burnt in his flashing eyes, as he fixed them withi murderous
intent on the cooing babe. Baffled love and jealous passion and re-
kindled longing shone dangerously in his flaming gaze, as he fixed
them upon the mother of another's child.
The slyness of his disposition had kept him silent. He had
witnessed, considered, and understood this surprise without an
exclamation, without the motion of a muscle ! Terrible intentions
and crimes shaped in his brooding mind, and with a grin of wicked
boding he conceived a malicious dream not to kill, but to steal the
child; to lie in wait, and secretly bear away that tender morsel; to
watch the unconscious mother depart in happy ignorance, and then
to rifle her Paradise of its flower; to take away the emblem of her
mysterious love, and to witness the mother's emotion, to revel in her
grief and tears at the discovery nf her loss. A silent chuckle passed
over his features at the thought, and his bosom heaved with inward
laughter. It was a cruel idea, but his love was cruel and inhuman.
He loved her with an intensity that brooked no rival, not even that
of an infant child.
As he gloated over her like an unseen devil, the delighted mother,
yearning and crooning over her baby-son, was in the seventh heaven
of bliss. She suckled him, baptised him with the purity of the rip-
pling spring, clad him in linen white as the foam, adorned him with
gay ribbons, kissed him a thousand times, murmured over him a
myriad sweetnesses, wept and laughed and sung till the cavern
echoed with fairy voices, whilst the birds, who loved and knew her
accents, flitted around her like the winged angels of heaven.
Her happiness and her love became unbearable. Seized by an un-
controllable jealousy, he sprang into the cave.
Affrighted, she arose, pressing the baby to her bosom, too much
afraid to utter a cry.
He stood scowling at her like a wild beast. He did not speak, but
from his bull throat rumbled forth an ominous growl.
" Begone ! " she cried, in an accent of fury, and with a gesture of
command.
He put up his hands, and shrank back almost in fear.
She sprang at him, like a tiger guarding her cub.
" Go ! " she exclaimed. " What do you here? Go from this place!
Dog! I could strike you! "
He lowered his head, and fixed on the babe a look so full of hate
that she was terrified.
Clutching her crying child, she advanced with clenched fist, fierce
as a virago, and struck him with her strong arm.
He caught her by the elbow, and grappled with her> but her fury
ABOUT A MOTHER AND HER CHILD.
251
gave her unusual strength. "Wresting herself from him, she dealt
him a blow that made him reel back, and following up her advantage
uttering cries of rage and fury, not words of fear, she cuffed and
struck him like an Amazon, and tore his face with the nails of her
outstretched hand. As he stumbled towards her again, she seized
him by the hair and flung him against a rock, where he fell, bruised
and confused by the vigour of her attack. Then, breathless and
panting and indignant, she looked at her screaming child, her eyes
welling over with maternal pity.
" Go !" she cried fiercely, as she regained her breath. " Would he
harm yo.u, my pretty one? " she continued, changing her tone to one
of indescribable tenderness, and covering the cheek of her crying son
with kisses. " Insolent! How came you here ? Begone, I say, at
once ! Dare to come again! Dare to lift a finger against my little
one, my treasure ! I would scat you on the head ! Oh, I hate you!
Jose, be off I tell you, and at once ! "
In the confidence of her strength, and by the strength of her
motherhood, she strode rapidly forward, and, seizing him by his hair,
half pushed, half dragged him to the path, and pointing to the way,
forced him as much by the influence of her will, nay, doubtless more
by that influence than by her actual strength, to obey her.
He shambled away, looking back with an evil eye.
When he had gone she stooped over the crying infant, and wept
bitterly.
Her cave had been her sanctum, her own, her home, sacred to her
use alone; now the secret known, the gateway violated, its value
and its use were passed. She regarded it with a sad regret; its
flowers and ferns, its pink and purple heather, the springy tufts of
turf, the green mosses, feathered with a thousand sprays of delicate
fern, the branches of ivy and the festooning creepers, they were
hers no longer. Her sense of possession in them had passed; the
waterfall and rill would murmur their music in other ears—ears that
would be deaf to their melody.
And her babe—where would now be his shelter and safety ?
Fright confused her. Shame ran through her veins, and made her
blush with the dread of apprehension.
. Heaving with sobs, she sought sympathy in the little child; nurs-
ing him till he crowed again with joy, hugging him to her bosom,
smothering him with caresses, with kisses, with exclamations of
love, and with soothing words of maternal tenderness.
The child's eyes closed. He slept. She laid him softly on warm
blankets upon the leafy bed, peered at him with a mother's anxiety
as she drew around him the protection of rug, and awning, and sail-
cloth—ingenious arrangements she had contrived for his shelter—
and then, overcome with fear for the fruit of her womb, she lifted up
her hands to heaven, and knelt by his side in prayer.
At last she tore herself away, wrenching herself from the cradle.
Her eyes were red, but her tears had ceased. Her face was stern
with the weight of a thought.
Beaving the pave, she reaphed the point in the path where the
252
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
ring and chain were fixed in the rock. She studied the place at-
tentively, mentally occupied -with an idea, and then proceeded
thoughtfully homewards.
On the way she passed a boulder where Clara Gee lay in hiding:
her curiosity whetted, her suspicions extended, but the sum of her
knowledge in no way increased.
When Jose descended the cliff on the following day, and, travers-
ing the route to the cave, came to the difficult passage in the path
where the ring and chain were let into the rock, he could not dis-
cover it, for it had been blasted away, with tons of cliff-boulder, and
a great gaping chasm yawned where the path—difficult before, but
utterly impassable now—had previously existed.
Day after day he looked for Jennie, but she was not. Where was '
she ? Had she fled to some obscure village ? Was she concealed
still in that unapproachable cavern? Did she know of some other
entrance, some secret way ? He inclined to the latter view, and
spent hours and days in the endeavour to discover it—risking his
life in perilous climbs, and ^making ineffectual efforts to solve the
problem.
CHAPTER LIY.
wherein tiie wanderers return, and the plot thickens.
" Return of the Native." (Thos. Hardy.)
" And what may fallen spirits win,
When stripes and precepts cannot move ?
Only the sadness of all sin,
When look'd at in the light of love."
(Coventry Patmore.)
Indeed Jennie, the secret of her cavern discovered, had destroyed the
pathway that led to it with a blast of powder—an operation which
had almost cost her her life.
Luckily the weather was fine and the sea smooth, and, fortune
favouring her, she had been able to provision the cave, and to drag
the boat into it.
During her absence from Boscastle, events had happened in the
town, quite exciting the sleepy little place.
A complete set of new servants—it is right so to describe them as
though they were a suite of furniture—came down frbm London, and
were installed at Forrabury Hall. The news spread that, after all,
the place was not to be sold, and that young Mr. Norman Forrabury
was engaged to Lady Violet Boterel.
Nobody knew for certain ; nobody was quite sure, but the event
and coming events were discussed everywhere in the village, upon
the quay, at the cosy parlour of the " Wellington," and especially
on the way home from St. Mertbiana's, where, every Sunday monw
jng, Boscastle discusses the Boscalonians,
The WanEerErs return, anE tEe plot thickens. 25S
At length, however, the news was confirmed.
It had been whispered in Society long before. % It had been the
talk of the London season, in whose gay circles Norman and Violet
had been feted frequently. The Doctor had known it for two months,
at least, and Parson Tom Goodall longer still, but they were pro-
fessional holders of secrets, and what they knew it was not for them
to reveal.
Soon the Earl of St. Austell and his family returned to Tintagel,
and quietly renewed residence.
Events quickly followed events. On the '25th of August, a natty
little yacht was seen in the offing, steaming for the port. For years
no steamboat had entered Boscastle Harbour, and the few people
who were about flocked to Willapark, to the Napoleon Point, and
along the edges of the cliff-paths to witness the apparition.
So neat and trim a little craft excited the admiration of the on-
lookers: her brass furniture and clean new paint, her mahogany
fittings and gaily-appointed crew, her bright whistle and shapely
boats neatly hanging on the davits, and her flapping silken flag.
She moored by the quay, and her captain—to wit, Norman Forra-
bury—dressed in a dark suit of yachting serge, came ashore and
walked to the Hall, the people touching their caps as he rapidly
strode homeward alone.
Last autumn he had been an universal favourite. This year it was
soon noticed that he was gloomy, almost morose. People said, " He
mourns. He still feels the loss of his uncle."
And they spoke truth. He did mourn. . All his riches, all the
advantages that come with wealth, and even the love of Lady Violet,
aye, even that, he would have given up all for a stainless heart and
a pure conscience.
At times he was happy. Wrapped in a philosophic forgetfulness,
or in the whirl of fashion and excitement, which left him no time or
opportunity for reflection or despondency ; above all, lifted out of dc-
jection and into the golden Heavens on the wings of Love, lost in
its rapture and suffused in its bliss, earth, with its sorrows and cares,
vanished altogether, and even remorse faded away.
But here even Love could not veil his miseries. The waves
sighed and sobbed around the Napoleon Rock as though they
mourned for the murdered man. The " silent, solitary tower " of
Forrabury Church stood like a sentinel over the dead man's grave,
as though watching the hour to signal his accusation. Here, how
could he forget ? How could he smile ?
The house had been altered, the furniture renewed, new servants
substituted for the old, the " Emperor," his uncle's gift, had been
sold. New horses were in the stable, and new faces surrounded his
board. In vain, he could not choke the voices of his memory, nor
stifle the accusations of remorse.
He gathered a rose from his garden for Lady Violet. With an
oath he dashed it to the ground, and crushed it with his heel.
Even the flowers, as they blossomed, proclaimed him a thief.
He spent every day at Tintagel. Late at night he came home in
254
TftE BEAUTY OE BOSCASTLfi.
a brougham, with the blind down, that he might obliterate Bos-
castle from his view.
He hated his house, his heritage, and all that was his.
One day he chanced to meet Jennie at the stile on Beeny Cliff.
She looked charming in her dark, unadorned, russet dress; the lines
of her figure were more rounded and beautiful; her eyes drooped
with a modest timidity, and her cheeks flushed crimson. For the
life of him he could not help looking in her face as he passed, and a
tremor of the old affection ran through his veins.
He would have been more or less than man if he could entirely
erase from his heart such love as theirs had been. For a moment
she raised her eyes to him, and he would have spoken, but as their
glances met, she turned her head and fled like a frightened
deer.
To him it was a momentary awaking of a past and transient
passion—a thrill which froze as it flamed. He shut his eyes, and
summoned to his aid the vision of Lady Yiolet, as St. Anthony, in
the hour of his temptation, thought of the Madonna. He forced
her idea from his mind, that he might be loyal to her whose love,
through good report and through evil report, abided always. Yet
he felt a very villain, and, flushing in shame, cursed himself, in
hatred of himself, in horror of his sin. Oh! for a sponge of ob-
livion that he might wipe out and cleanse away for ever all memory
of the hateful past! Oh ! that he could be sinless, that he might
kneel unsullied before his heart's love, and be her equal in holiness
and chastity !
It was but one glance—their eyes met, and fell abashed. In him
it awoke a memory instantly stifled in regret and shame. In her it
lit a spark that kindled anew, that spread within her bosom, and
flamed about her heart, that in spite of her efforts to quench it,
leapt into living fire, and that quivered and quickened within her.
What evil fascination was there in this man ? By what glamour
did he send the blood mantling through her cheek, and heat the
current of her veins ? Wicked she knew him to be. His worst
crimes she knew, and she fully believed he was capable of infamies
equally hideous. He had led her to ruin, he had slain his uncle.
What damnable wickedness had he not done ? Yet callous, as she
thought, to all the evil of his life, coldly triumphant, as he seemed,
in the calm enjoyment of the spoils of his sin, he walked abroad, an
unrepentant murderer, radiant in the very sunlight of success.
And yet she loved him. Against her will, in spite of herself, of her
conscience, of her prayers, wrestling against the newly-awakened
passion that was inflaming her heart in spite of the ^ruggles of her
reason, the insidious flame burnt on, strive though she would to
quench it.
She had rebelled against him. She had turned from him in horror
and in dread. She had seen him in his true colours, and the scales
had fallen from her eyes, to reveal him as a monster, but to leave
her in darkness and despair. Now she had seen him again, knowing
him to be a villain. Yet, by some occult spell, he had thrown a
THE WANDERERS RETURN, AND THE PLOT THICKENS. 255
glamour over her, and she was again enthralled, subject to his
magic—his devotee. In spite of herself, she loved him.
*****
The days sped fast. The party at Tintagel Castle was assembled
for the wedding. Lord Lancelot returned from India; the Erslcines,
the Bells, and Heathcotes had arrived. Presents came in by every
coach ; amongst others, Her Most Gracious Majesty sent the bi'ide
an Indian shawl. Dressmakers and milliners came over from Worth's,
and the bridal robe—a marvel of lace and satin and pearl—was sent
from Paris in charge of a lady's tailor. The Castle servants were so
hard-worked that they wished the wedding over. Symptoms of
street decoration appeared.
Lady Yiolet looked radiant. Her beauty was of a delicate and
refined order. Thin, well-chiselled features, of precise shapeliness
and of perfect contour, were the bases of her beauty; but the indes-
cribable refinement that hovered over her features was not in their
actual and measurable balance and proportion, but in the sweetness
of expression that relieved them, and in a deep, underlying spiritu-
ality that shone through her large, intelligent eyes, beaming with
the heaven-born light of Genius—a glamour that suffused all her
features, and that made her resemble at once a saint, an angel, and a
spirit—a very embodiment of Psyche.
She spent all her days with Norman. The sanctity of the Tomb
was invaded by vain babblers. The Bells and the Heathcotes
romped and chattered in the magnificent vestibules and marble
halls, built by Lady Yiolet out of devotion to Art, and the Erskines
discovered that weddings sadly interrupt the ordained regulations
of what they were pleased to call " the beautiful life." They no
longer observed their self-imposed rules. The Keats day and the
Shelley day were not lived. The blind harper harped in accordance
with his own sweet will. The chorus gossiped and quarrelled, the
models skipped, and the days sacred to labour were spent in frolic.
Lady visitors roamed, laughing and sneering, through the superb
chambers, and even took pretty liberties with the blind janitor,
making him a sharer in their gay frivolities ; the day devoted to
charity was forgotten, and all the hours of all the weeks were
abandoned to gaiety and pleasure.
Euphieme Erskine found that the chief occupation of a life devoted
to duty meant for her at the present juncture the playing of Mistress
Propriety. However, she accepted the position in a spirit of sullen
amusement, and guarded the door of Lady Yiolet's studio, keeping
out intruders, engaging herself solemnly in crewel work, and mus-
ing spitefully that no man should spoil her resolutions, whilst,
at the other end of the room, or in the adjoining one, the lovers
whispered and murmured that sweet, sweet lay which needs no
written words nor ordered music, the immortal melody of the old,
old story.
She loved him so. No need of Keats now. She had her own
speech^ words that leapt from her heart and trembled on her tongue;
256
THE BEAUTY OP BOSCASTLE.
words so fond and tender, so loving and true, read by her own lips
from the open book of her chaste heart in the rapt language of love;
words that lingered in his ear and purified his soul: words that
the roses and the lilies might mutter when the zephyrs stir them;
words that breathed the poetry of love.
He held her hand, white as marble, elegant as the dream of a
sculptor, and vivid with the warmth of his own responsive touch.
He sat at her feet and listened, looking into her face, contemplating
her serene beauty, tranquillized by contact with her puritj'. The
diamond that sparkled on her finger with unflawed lustre was not
more pure than she, and she, this jewel amongst women, was his.
In a few speeding days the merry clangour of their marriage bells
would proclaim them one. Banished for ever be all care, all trouble.
He had drowned his past in the sea of this great love. How and
always there was for him in the radiance of this happiness, in the
possession of this serenity, in the sacredness of the love of this
spiritual woman—a supreme forgetfulness.
He did not disturb himself with questionings. He had promised
her to forget. Enough for him to sit at her feet, to mingle his
voice with hers, to kiss the hand of her whose lips he should kiss
when the priest bad made them one, to breathe her breath and feel
his own being suffused with the virtue that came out of her.
She was his Nirvana. He did not think of his past life or of his
fitness for her. He had promised her that in her presence the past
was oblivion. There was only the Present and the Future.
He loved her purely and chastely as she loved him. His lips, that
had often trembled erewhile with passion, spoke now only in grave
tenderness, and his heart beat not with fierce irregularities but with
the chastened flow which animates the soul, with the God-given
current that sanctifies love and keeps it holy.
He was transformed. Love transmuted his being. His heart
was merged in hers; her spirit had passed into his; her soul took
residence in him. She, who was chaste and pure and holy, wrought
this miracle and made him like herself.
He was conscious of this divine influence, a tranquillity and serene
calm entered into and possessed him. He took her white and
shapely hand.
A lady's hand ! Yerily the loveliest of created things, fairer than ,
lilies ; the very symbol of herself. '
He took her hand, tenderly and with almost devout reverence,
raised the fragile treasure to his lips, with a modest dread lest his
touch should rifle the whiteness of its purity.
Without were the perfumes of flowers and the heavy laden breeze
bore to them the scents of Paradise.
They sat in silence, listening to their heart's-beat, hearing not
the music of the harper, hearing nothing but the harmonies of
their own hearts.
Or, if they spoke, they murmured so quietly, that none could
hear. Nay, their souls were so at one, that even words of poetry1
were vain. Language to them was powerless now. Two little
Showing the eelationshib of jealousy to love. 25?
words were all, and over and over and over again they murmui-ed
them with infinite rapture in each other's ear. " My love ! my love!
my love!"
CHAPTER LV.
snowixo THE RELATIONSHIP OF JEALOUSY TO LOVE.
"Better Dead." (J. M. Barrie.)
" Love is still love, although its thorns may pierce;
Love is still love, although its wounds be fierce ;
Love is still love, and love is still Divine."
(A Bundle of Songs. Christina Dening.)
So they sat in the twilight. In the morning there were calls to
make, business to be done, and people to be seen.
But, riding or driving, they were ever together.
One day Jennie Tredorn saw them. A solitary, engrossed in her
babe, and away from the gossips of the town, she had not even heard
the news of the wedding, the news that was on every one's tongue.
They swept past her in a magnificently horsed victoria, too
occupied with each other to notice her as they passed her on the
road.
She saw them plainly enough. He false to her, she under his
spell. He holding her little, frail, gloved fingers in his giant hand,
looking into her face, talking in his low but earnest tone, she
looking at him tenderly, smiling with hope or love, and alluring
to herself his ardent glances.
So he had looked at her. But a year ago he had spoken to her
just as now he spoke to the other.
The memory of it sprang up and leapt like the flames of a
furnace in her bosom. The old passion, revived before, now raged
and ravaged in its strength.
" Oh, Norman, Norman ! " she cried; " I love you, I love you !"
Far away, down the road, obscured by a cloud of dust, the carriage
passed on, and away from sight. They did not hear her, though
she had cried aloud.
"I love you!" she exclaimed, clenching her fists; <£if you are
Satan, I love you. It is all the same to me. Do what you will I
cannot help myself. Rather than be without you I would be dead.
Oh, Norman, my love, my life !
" Why are you false to me ?
" Norman, Norman. Are you dazzled by that lady-woman, or is
she another sport for you ?
" Sport with her. Drag her down to my level. I should laugh to
see it. I should laugh to see her mocked at. 'Twould serve her
right. Why does she try to steal you from me ?
" Bub, ah, she is too great a lady," she cried regretfully, wringing
her hands.
258
THE BEAUTY OP BOSCASTLE.
" I knew liow it -would be when I first saw him with her; she
puts him in her carriage and drives him away. She takes him as
though he were hers by right. She drives him off to her fine
castle. How can he help liking a lady like that, dressed so magni-
ficently? Whilst I
"I? Well. He meant well by me. I suffer for my own fault.
" He offered me honest mai'riage," she mused. " I believe he
would have married me, and made me mistress of the great house.
Why did I turn from and reject him! Oh, to be his wife, to have
my child—our child—fostered in comfort and luxury, to ring for
the servants, to sit at a great table! Oh, it would not have been
too grand for me; I could have brought myself up to it. I do not
speak bad grammar, or with a Cornish dialect, as dear father does.
If I were to travel, and could visit all the wonderful places, I could
behave like a lady too.
" And he would be so kind to me, so gentle and good. He is
kindness itself. I can hear the echo of his voice. It is only gentle-
men who know how to treat a woman. Common men are so rude,
so boisterous and inconsiderate. A gentleman is more courteous
and civil even to his servants than a common man is to his mother
or his sister or his wife. Nicholas would be kind, perhaps, but if
he were angry he would strike me as soon as look at me. And how
mean James Trethewy would be. Ugh. I believe he would count
the apples as they grew on the wall lest I should pick one when he
wasn't looking. I hate meanness in a man.
" Whereas, Mr. Forrabury. Bang! He spends money like water.
What does he care? Oh, the dresses I should have had! The
bonnets ! and a riding habit! I should choose a brown riding habit,
not a dark green one, like Lady Yiolet's.
" And, what's more, I should look better than she does—that little
thing! In a brown habit 011 a big black horse, oh, it would be
splendid ! "
She clapped her hands with joy.
Then she leant against the wall, and mused in another and less
material vein.
He was so broad across the shoulders, his beard was so soft and
bushy, he was such a fine fellow. What happiness in such a
husband, what foolishness to have turned from him.
After all, perhaps he loved her still, for Jennie knew she was
beautiful, knew that he had loved her truly once. There is no
mistaking true love. She had saved his life, seen him in his beauty,
and felt the caresses of his embrace. Perhaps he would come back
to her if she summoned him.
" ' Oh, for a falconer's voice
To lure this tassel-gentle back again !'
. " I wish I were a witch, that I might cast a spell over him, and
lure him to my side. Once he said—nay, he told me again and again—
that I was beautiful; he told me that my smiles would tempt a
saint. He has called mc a witch ere now. I will try him. I will
Showing the relationship oE jealoLsy to love. 259
match my smiles against that little light-haired thing's ; bewitch him.
Oh! for the magic of a Sorceress—the spells of witchery "
" Good-morning, Miss Tredorn."
" You, Nicholas ! "
" 'Ee look fine and pleased this morning ; happen the winds ha'
brightened 'ee colour. 'Eer'b as rosy, Miss Tredorn, as our apples.
I never see 'ee look better; no never; not I."
Jennie turned her face full on him, pleased by his compliments,
and smiled at him graciously. " Do you think I really look well,
Nicholas ? " _
" 'Eere't simply beautiful, Miss; there, it's true what 'ey call 'ee.
'Ee're the true Beauty of Boscastle. There's not another girl i' this
parish or the next can walk i' the same road wi' 'ee. 0 Jennie !
happen that's what 'tis males 'ee so proud. But proud the day
would be for me if 'ee'd be my bonny wife. There's me, and there's
the mill "
" Hush—hush. Nicholas, how dare you ? Happen if I am beau-
tiful, as you say, I shall look high. But 'tis all your flattery "
" Flattery, 'bes not. All say as how 'er't a beauty. Ye have stolen
the heart of every lad i' the village. 'Tes my thinkin' that ye're
' a witch."
" A witch !" cried Jennie, as an excited flush leapt into her cheek.
" Say that again, Nick. A witch you said—a witch ! "
"Not meaning onpleasantness, Miss Tredorn," said Nicholas
Pearn, touching his cap, and much taken aback by Jennie's breath-
less manner. " I simply mean 'ee've eyes that thrill a man, and
lips like cherries. Jennie, why not let's be wed P The Squire es to be
married ; 'tes a good example for us poor folk, hes tenants."
" The Squire—to be married! " cried Jennie, in amazement. " What
Squire ? "
Why, our Squire to be sure. Who else ? 'Tes stale news by now.
Where ha' been not to ha' heerd that ? "
" Our Squire, Norman Forrabury ? "
" Of course. Lord, where ha ye "
"Married! When is he to be married? Who—who is he to
marry P "
" Why the Earl's young lady up at the Castle. Where ha' been
not to have heerd that ? "
" Lady Violet P "
" Aye, that be her."
" I saw them in the road a few minutes since," said Jennie, turn-
ing pale.
" 'At's her. Fine doin's there'll be, an' many a wedding follow.
Sports at Tintagel, fireworks on the cliff, roast ox whole. Thenk o'
thaab. An' dance, an' kiss i' the reng. 'Tes luck to be married along
wi' the Squire. A lucky week. Say the word, Jennie, lass, and let
us be wed too, for 'tis lucky, I tell 'ee' to marry wi' the Squire.
There's me and there's the mill, an' father's dying and all. So I say
et's all lucky together; say the word. Nay, doan't graw pale, lass;
why graw so pale ? Lord, whar's the matter wi' ye! Dang me ef I
'260
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
ain't upset lier. Bless her heart, she's a thinking o't. Et means
yes—doan't it, girl ? Nay, doan't faint o't; if I thought ye'd tak it so
to heart I'd 'a asked ye more gentle. Lord—Lord, Jennie. Why so
much fuss about getting wedp "
" No, Nicholas. 'Tis nothing. I cannot wed. Good-bye."
" But, lassie."
" Nay, good-bye, I say; I'm in no mood for foolishness."
She left him standing in the road, and strode home with a heavy
heart.
CHAPTER LYI.
wherein the evil consequences of sin are further delineated.
"Under Two Flags." (Ouida.)
"My heart is true to thee, hut not to thee alone, dear." (Clarice's Song.)
Norman's habit was to get up with the lark. The pure air of the
counti'y and the freshness of the early breezes were sweet to him in
these days of his wooing. All day, from breakfast till night, he
spent at Tintagel in the presence of his love, wandering through the
beautiful park, or roving on the cliffs, where stands King Arthur's
ruined castle, facing the wild western sea.
Thus Forrabury Hall was deserted. He was rarely seen by his
own people, or in Boscastle town, except before breakfast. From six
till eight in the morning he was in his own grounds, or walking in
the rosery, looking through his stables, or, occasionally, strolling
down to the hai'bour. All the rest of his day he spent with Lady
Yiolet.
The day after Jennie heard the news of the approaching wedding,
she saw Norman. It was quite early, about six o'clock. She was
looking out for him, waiting near his gate.
He recognised her, and noticed, with pleasure, she did not avert
her gaze. A smile of forgiveness and welcome lit her face. He went
up to her extending both his hands, in a warm greeting.
She looked down coyly and blushed, then raised her face to his and
beamed.
He smiled in answer, whilst she still retained his hands in hers
with a gentle clasp, loth to let them go.
Then he remembered, and his face darkened. He could not look^t
her; his glance fell to the ground. In shame and hatred of himself,
a feeling that recurred to him perpetually, he averted his head; he
would have spoken but the words seemed to choke him. She it was,
she only who had seen that black and fateful deed. She it was, and
she only, who, with looks of accusation, had indignantly spurned
him from her. Her honest words of contempt, her repudiation, her
words of rejection and abandonment, these l'ang in his memory and
compelled him to remorse. He made an effort to disengage his
hands.
THE EVIL CONSEQUENCES OF SIN FURTHER DELINEATED. 261
But she kept them still, holding them firmly, reluctant to part
with the touch of those strong fingers, soft as a woman's, withal
their strength.
Wondering, he lifted his eyes. Why did she, who had spurned
him, who would not speak with him, why did she hold him thus ?
Why was she gentle with him ? Her face was full of kindness,
and sweet with invitation. A year ago she had fled from him in
horror. A month since she had turned her face when he went by.
" Come," she murmured.
Dazed by conflicting emotions, he turned with her, and walking
in silence by her side, began to ascend Beeny hill.
He had forgotten her already, or had at best but a semi-conscious-
ness of her presence, and walked by her side as in a dream. He
thought not of her. He thought only of the terrible night when he
became a criminal before God and man.
At the stife he paused. On a straight road he would have walked
for miles like a somnambulist; the obstacle, the wide Cornish stile,
disturbed and dispelled his dream. He awoke.
" Where do we go ? " he whispered, in a tone almost of fright.
She took his arm for answer, looking at him with a sad but
sympathetic look, with an expression as tender and as timid as a
young gazelle's, and led him over the springy turf, over the breezy
cliffs, down that path to the cave that he had visited so often in days
gone by.
She had made a new path. Having blasted away the old track,
through fear of Jose, she had found it necessary to find or make some
other route. She could not be imprisoned in the cave, and necessity,
the sure mother of invention, had assisted her beyond her expecta-
tion.
As she looked at him, she read his thoughts ; nob altogether per-
haps, but enough to understand their tenor. For the first time she
realized how, beneath his calm exterior, he had carried a heart heavy
as lead and bitter with grief. The gloom was now upon his brow,
the muscles of his face twitched with the pangs of sorrow, and the
sweat of remorse stood in beads upon his forehead. He looked
chastened, sad, a man of many sorrows. She understood him now.
He was revealed in a new character. By that haggard face, in the
new wrinkles that were there, she knew the suffering he had endured.
She understood how his conscience had racked him, how fear and
shame had pursued him, and how, in sleepless nights and weary days,
he had struggled with the agony of a tortured heart.
She pitied him.
All the womanliness in this true woman welled out to sorrow with
him.
He was not Satan. He was nob a heartless devil, ice-cold, magni-
ficently diabolical, cruel and pitiless, smiling with calm yet impious
triumph in his deeds of wickedness, but a poor human creature, sad-
dened by suffering, struggling beneath the weight of his woes, and
sorrowing in horror of his sin.
She led him on, down the steep cliff side, the birds flocking round
262
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
her as was their wont in the days gone by, days that came back to
his memory now—days when he was always blithe and gay and
cheerful, when he could honestly look all the world in the face. He
was poor then, but he was happy. He was rich now, and wretched.
It was a cold grey morning. Below stretched the swelling sea.
Lundy was dimly visible afar. A big liner was going down channel;
closer in was a white-winged schooner sailing through the water
graceful as a swan.
He sat down on a ledge of rock, lost in meditation, Jennie sitting
by his side in silence.
A sigh like the sough that disturbs a forest, heaved his bosom.
Oh ! the sadness of it; it sank into Jennie's heart. Her lord and
love, how he suffered !
Drawing closer to him, with the imperceptible movement and
quietude of a nurse, she drew him gently nearer, and placed his
head upon her shoulder, resting him against her side.
What happiness to comfort him; his brow was less moody, the
haggard lines in his face were smoothing out, the wrinkles of his
grief were vanishing, and a placid expression shone in his mild eyes.
She watched, sitting by him quite still, unwilling to disturb the
peacefulness that crept gradually over his face.
Sitting thus in warm contact with him, regarding him so compla-
cently, she too thought of the sweet bygone times, of the day when
she saved him from the sea, of the days of their love and joy and
bliss unutterable. Again her heart beat with the throbs of an un-
quenchable love, and her brows contracted with the gloom of pas-
sionate jealousy.
" Was he not hers P " she thought, as he lay quite calmly now be-
side her. She looked at him through the long dark lashes that
veiled her own eyes. How handsome he was. How finely made were
his features ; his moustache soft as silk; she could stir its delicate
hair with her softest breath. His lips ! Oh that they would speak
to her again as of yore—gently, gravely, and withal saying such
earnest words, couched in tones of loving kindness. Ho one else
could speak as he could. His voice and his speech were so manly
yet so soft, so careless yet so sensible, so full of gaiety and goodness
and tenderness. Kindness ! his natural voice had the very accent of
kindness. Oh ! that he would open his lips and speak, that he would
say to her "I love thee."
He smiled. Surely he smiled. His lips curled faintly. Did he
dream of her again, and of last year, when every day they sat there,
with the cliffs behind them, the sea below them, the birds and the
skies about them as though they were in heaven ?
She bent her face over his nearer and nearer, until they could see
themselves each in the other's eyes. He looked at her dreamily, half
consciously. Perhaps to him it was a year ago.
For his cheeks were flushed with love as they were then, and in
her eyes were the fire and the flame of her old passion.
A year had passed, but time had beautified her. Her colour was
a sunnier and ruddier brown; the hue of her eyes also was richer,
THE EVIL CONSEQUENCES OE SIN FURTHER DELINEATED. 263
deeper, and more dazzling ; her mouth was shapelier in its fulness,
her bust expanded, and instead of the simple artlessness of inno-
cence, her features were filled with the sweetness and the tenderness
of perfected womanhood.
Her breath fanned his cheek; nearer yet she bent over him until
she could see her own smile reflected on his face, until she saw the
old happy peaceful look that she knew so well of old.
She smiled in a delirium of delight; her face was wreathed with
joys. The Graces had hung upon her features all their gems, and
all their flowers, and all their loveliness. He reclined on that
narrow ledge, hung as it were on a ladder that leads to the skies,
suspended betwixt earth and heaven, whilst a thousand gulls and
white-winged sea-mews circled and flew in dizzy eddies about and
above them. Touched by the glamour of her witchery, lost in the
bewilderment of her beauty, but scarce yet awake from his dream of
horror, he gazed upon that radiant face, so full of charm and invita-
tion, so sweetly equipped with enchantments, gazed and gazed still,
in that muteness which is the most eloquent adoration.
She looked triumphant, bathed in the delight of victory : then
she opened her coral lips, and the double row of pearls was parted,
and through the glistening gateway rippled a melodious murmur,
which said " Come."
She led and he followed.
They went into the cave together, as lovers who had been lovers
long.
Parting the rough curtains, she took from the soft bed of fern and
heather her pretty child.
" See this little life," she said. " It is ours—yours and mine."
" Ours ! " he exclaimed.
" Aye ! You gave me a life—your own—you gave it me out of the
sea. Now here is another life—another Norman."
He stooped over his little one with a grave and steady look.
" Kiss him, for he is yourself. Kiss him, because it is myself also.
Look what little feet, what tiny hands. And his arms—see how
strong they are. My pretty one! My darling ! How sweet he
is!"
" 0 God ! " he ejaculated, bowing his head.
" Aye, God has given him to us," she said.
" Oh, Pate ! Why is it that I am worse than others ? Ob, Violet!
Violet! my Lady Violet,my love: how I have wronged thee."
" Speak not her name here ! " she exclaimed, snatching the baby
from him fiercely. " Dare to speak of her to me ! "
" Why is it that I am ever, ever base ? Oh, my life ! Would it
were ended for ever. Wretch that I am. Miserable and doomed to
misery. I would to heaven you had let me drown. I wish I had
sunk a year ago in the sea. Then I should not have been a curse to
you, a curse to this little innocent, a curse to her. I should have
been spared that one terrible horror which will haunt me till I die.
Oh, my child! poor infant! let your mother's blood live in your
veins only, not mine, not mine. For there is a curse on me. My
264
THE BEAUTY OP BOSCASTLE.
collar chokes me. Is it the rope that shall strangle me at last ?
Would that I had drowned, I say; would that I had drowned!
" Ob, hate me, Jennie! What right have I here ? Here with you
I add to the wrongs I do. I am false. There is no truth in me at
all. I am false to you—false to that noble lady who is so true —
to my poor murdei'ed uncle, who was so generous—false to every
one.
" What right have I to embrace you here. It is abominable. I
have pledged myself to her. My honour is bound to her. Honour!
Ha, ha, ha ! " He laughed hysterically at the word. " My honour,
indeed! And yet I meant to be true and loyal to her—never to
swerve from my fealty : to love her devotedly, faithfully, honestly ;
to lead with her a new life purely and truly, never to stray from
loyalty even in thought or dream.
" Yet you—you smile, and I forget her ; you touch me, and she is
gone; I see you, and, 0 Jennie, I am lost! I am accursed for
ever. Did you save me from yonder sea to be worse than death to
me? Is there in your beauty a fate? Hands off me! I cannot
bear you to lay a finger on me ; for I loved you, Jennie, I swear that
I loved you.'1
" And you love me now," said Jennie, seizing his hands and press-
ing them to her heart. " You love me still. This other—0
Norman ! you do not really care for her as you care for me. Ah! yes,
she is a lady true—but what else ? A distraction from your troubles,
an engagement to occupy you, she interests, she amuses you—she is
a plaything, a "
" Away from me. You shall not insult her. Let go my hands,
or I will wrench them away. I do love her, and as for you I hate
you, because you have made me faithless to her. Oh, Yiolet! for-
give me: henceforth I will be true."
" Norman, do not turn from me so, do not leave me."
" I must. I have no right here. You know that on Thursday
we are to be married. Yet to-day I have listened to you, looked
upon you."
" Because you love me, Norman. Oh! I will lure you back. I
will have you : if you marry her I will haunt you. Her life shall
be a misery to her : you shall come to me : you shall love me."
" Farewell for ever," he cried, tearing himself from her.
" It shall not be," she exclaimed, as he fled from her, covering
his ears with his hands ; " for you are mine, and I will—I will have
you."
He ran from her along the dangerous path, her voice singing con-
fusedly in his ears.
She sank upon her knees before her child.
" He is your father, my sweet one," she cried. " And he is my
life, my light. I will claim him; for I know that he loves me—in
spite of his words I know he loves me.
" This lady ! belike she will listen, though she is proud and high.
I will go to her. Perchance, when she knows that he loves me, she
will drive him back to me.
DESCRIBING THE RENUNCIATION OP A PROPOUND LOVE. 265
" She is but a little thing ; I will make her give him back.
" Oh! I care not how he comes, so long as he comes to me ; for
I love him so that I must —must bring him back and cage him in
my heart."
CHAPTER LYII.
describing the renunciation of a profound loye.
" The Shadow of a Crime." (Hall Caine.)
" Plunge thy right hand in St. Madron's spring,
If true to its troth be the palm you bring;
But if a false sigil thy fingers bear,
Lay them rather on the burning share."
(Ha ivlcer of Morwenstow.)
That evening Jennie Tredorn walked over towards Tintagel,
determined to see Lady Violet at all hazards.
It was moonlight. As she passed St. Nectan's Kieve she noticed
acoroneted carriage with the Castle livery. It was empty, and stood
waiting. Then she saw Norman and Lady Violet, arm-in-arm, going
into the Kieve.
St. Nectan's Kieve, as every tourist knows, is one of the loveliest
nooks in all Cornwall. It is for ever green with ferns, for ever gay
with flowers, for ever musical with falling waters. Sunlit, it is
Paradise ; moonlit, it is fairyland.
Lovers go there to plight their vows. A cup of water from St.
Nectan's well, partaken of by lovers, is a draft that ensures eternal
constancy. Hands bathed in the waters of the Kieve are purified,
and so made fit for the holy bond of matrimony.
Thither went Norman and Violet to drink the magic potion from
the well, and to bathe the hands that were to give the wedding ring
and the little shapely finger that was to wear it, in the falling waters
of the Kieve.
Jennie, on her way to Tintagel Castle, saw the lovers enter the
Kieve.
She followed them.
They went down the moonlit path, now lost in the darkness, now
emerging in the brightness.
Suddenly they turned, for they heard a footstep behind them.
" Lady Violet Boterel," said Jennie, with a respectful curtesy.
" Jennie ! " exclaimed Norman angrily.
" It is the smith's daughter, is it not ? You are Jennie Tredorn ?"
said Lady Violet.
" Yes, my lady."
" And what do yon here," inquired Lady Violet, with some asperity.
" The Kieve, as you know, is sacred to lovers."
" Therefore am I here," replied Jennie, in a firm, resolute voice.
" But alone," said Lady Violet, with a demure smile.
266
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
" I am nob alone, my lady," answered Jennie sternly. " My sweet-
heart is here."
Her voice was strangely resolved, and her demeanour gloomily
sombre.
Lady Violet silently looked up at her lover, who stood scowling.
" Speak," said Norman. " I have no secrets from Lady Violet."
" None? " asked Jennie, with marked emphasis and meaning.
" None," he repeated firmly.
" She is acquainted with all the past? " said Jennie incredulously.
" She knows all. I have told her everything," he gravely
answered.
" Everything ? "
" All my past—all its sins, all its crimes," he repeated, bowing his
head.
" It is true," said Lady Violet. " Speak, then, for we would be
alone—my lover and I. Your sweetheart is in the Kieve also, so
you say ; go to him."
" He stands by your side."
" By my side ! " ejaculated Lady Violet.
She raised her hand, and, pointing to Norman Forrabury with
the gesture of a tragedy queen, said sternly, " I claim him."
" Ah ! " said Lady Violet, drawing herself up with a stately
dignity, " I understand. Leave me, Norman, I pray you. Go on to
the fall; I will come to you presently. This woman desires to speak
to me alone. No protestations, Norman. I insist on your leaving
us. Go. I command you."
" We have the honour to be rivals, I believe," resumed Lady
Violet, as Norman withdrew. " You put in a claim to the hand of
this gentleman ? "
Jennie curtesyed an assent.
" You are very beautiful—far more so than I," continued Lady
Violet, regarding her critically. " You are tall and nobly framed :
I do not wonder he admired you, that he loved, or thought he
loved you. I heard that he wooed you; the Vicar so informed
me twelve months ago. You were to have been married: is not that
so?"
" Yes," said Jennie.
" Yes. But you rejected his addresses. You refused his hand.
You spurned him from you. Well. Refused by you, he turned to
me. I have accepted him. That is fair, is it nob ? Say if it is
just. In a few days—nay, so near is it I count the hours—he
will be my hubsand."
" In the eye of God he is already my husband."
" In the eye of the law he will be mine."
" In the eye of the law he is dead," retorted Jennie, in a threaten-
ing voice. "Do you hear? Dead! I would rather he were dead
than think that his arms were round you, that his smile was for
you, that his love, which was mine, had been stolen from me. Oh, I
could not bear it. I could nob bear to think that he had forgotten
me. Hush ! What is that ? "
DESCRIBING THE RENUNCIATION OF A PROPOUND LOVE. 267
" I thought I heard some rustling behind the trees."
" And so did I. Some eavesdropper perhaps, but I do not care.
Let who will listen. I am desperate. All the world may know that
he is a murderer. Did you know that?" asked Jennie, scanning
Lady Violet's face eagerly.
" I did."
" You knew "
" I knew it before he asked me to be his wife. But I, I loved
him. I did not refuse him my pity when he was most in need."
" Ah, my lady, my lady! "Were you then so true to him, that,
knowing all, you loved him ? Reproach me then, for I did turn
from him. I did spurn him."
" You could not have loved him or you would have clung to him
through fire and death. Think what he has suffered. I have seen
him so haggard with agony that I would have died for him. Think
you that he will ever be free from his sorrows ? No ! they will
haunt him to the grave. Only in his love for me will he have
forgetfulness. Woman, think of it; you have a heart, you are true
and brave ; and that you have loved him, that you do love him, I
well believe. Nay, interrupt me not, but listen. He loves me. He
loves me so, that when he is with me he forgets. He is happy in
my presence. The lines of care melt from his face, the pangs of
remorse cease to tear him, and in the future time will heal all griefs.
The memory that tortures him, the agonies that rack his soul, will
pass, will fade away. Can you not suffer for him ? Can you not en-
dure a loss for his supreme happiness? Will you not sacrifice your
own joys to ensure his ? In your noble self-abnegation, and in our
wedding-bells "
" They shall not ring," interrupted Jennie passionately. " He
would be as happy in my love as in yours. Oh, you are a great lady,
but you are not so powerful as I. v I have but to raise my voice,
and they shall lead him away in fetters."
" Viper !" cried Lady Violet, as she reeled in horror, and clasped
an oak branch for support. " You are bad. You have a false and
cowardly heart. I have mistaken you. And yet—oh, if you are a
woman, spare him," and she flung herself on to her knees before
Jennie, beseeching her.
" Listen to me. You have had your turn. It is well to say spare
him. Spare him to you! Why to you and not to me ? He is
mine. I took him from the sea. He was cast by the waves into
these arms. Aha ! My father's father and his forbears all took
what the sea gave them. They had the right. They were wreckers.
All that came to them they had. I have the wrecker's blood in me.
I would rather he were wrecked, look you, than saved on your
bosom. Smugglers and pirates were my forefathers. We are all
the heirs of the wreckers—the children of pirates and sea-rovers,
stern men with little conscience. I am their grand-daughter ; I feel
their bad blood in me. You say I am bad—I am : and that is why
I claim this man. He is mine. But for me he would be dead, twice
dead; I saved him from the sea, I saved him from the law; I risked
268
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
my life to save him from the elements; I lied, I perjured myself,
I sold my soul to save him from the gallows. Twice over have I
saved his life. I will not give him up. You! Who are you that
you should have everything ? You have carriages, servants, a
palace. You have plenty, you levy dues and fees. My cousin and
my uncle's kin pay tax and tithe to your cousiimy. You are a
lady in your own right. Is it not enough? No, but my lady
must have our Squire ! You shall not. He is mine. He loves me.
He has lain upon my body, he has slept in these arms, his little
son, our baby-boy, now cries for him in his heather-bed."
Lady Yiolet moaned.
"Weep," resumed Jennie; "I love to hear you. I care not
how you sob and sigh. You should not have tried to steal him from
me. Why did you dare to put him in your carriage and drive him
away ? Him I forgive. The rustle of silks, and the scent of fine
ladies, fashions and fineries, these belike would turn a young
man's head. I have nothing. I stand in my simple gown. I want
no more."
She posed herself before Lady Yiolet, stretching out both her
arms, as though to exhibit her figure. Then she resumed, in a stern
voice that made Lady Yiolet quail before her,
" Hear and attend : I will not boast. Break off this wedding, my
lady ; I wish you no harm, but it is done with. Happen another man
will come along of higher rank than our Squire to ask your lady-
ship in marriage."
" Impertinent woman! " exclaimed Lady Violet, as, with a stately
inclination of her head, she turned to go; "I regret that I have
condescended to speak with you."
" Nay, my lady," said Jennie more respectfully; "your ladyship
mistakes. I meant no impertinence: stay one moment. Do you
yet mean to marry this man ? "
Lady Yiolet paused, and looked her rival full in the face. The
moonlight lit up every feature. Her expression was anxious,
gloomy, and troubled. For some moments she did not speak, then
she bit her lips, and said, in a faint voice, " I do."
Jennie's eyes flashed fire. "Then you shall marry him. You,Lady
Yiolet Boterel, shall marry him. In the eye of the law he shall be
your husband, and you shall be his wife. But never before God. No!
So sure as you marry him he shall die. I would rather he should
die than marry another. He shall be arrested as you come out arm-
in-arm from the church door."
" Oh," cried Lady Yiolet. " No, no. You cannot. You will nob,
you dare not be so wicked, so cruel," and covering her face with
her handkerchief she reeled against the tree almost unconscious,
too feeble and too sorrowing to hear the departing footsteps of her
rival.
Norman, tired of waiting by the waterfall, was reascending from
the Kieve when Lady Yiojeb met him. He noticed her agitation,
and taking her hand regarded her with a fierce anxiety.
" Why did I leave yon, my sweet ? It was against my bettey
Describing the renunciation of a brofound love. 269
inclination. She can have told you nothing that I have not con-
fessed to you myself; that I have not moui'ned over with you when
I have made confession."
" Nothing," replied Lady Violet sadly; " nothing."
" Yet she has made you weep, you who never weep at my recitals,
full as they are of my sins and my wickedness."
" 0 Norman. She would " then she bit her lip and checked
herself.
" What, my dearest ? "
" Do not ask me."
" Tell me."
" I cannot, Norman. I cannot."
" If she dare to disturb you again—if she dare to injure you, my
sweet Violet " he paused.
" Tell me what then," said Lady Violet eagerly; " for she hates
me."
" Has she threatened you ? She! 0 Violet, what indignity and
what sufferings have you to undergo for my sins. Do not see her
again. Eefuse to speak with her. Let her dare to injure you, to
abuse you, and "—he dropped his voice to a whisper as he said it—
" there will be another crime."
" 0 Norman! No, no, not that."
" Every crime is the father of another," he said gloomily. " I am
in the toils of the cruellest fate that ever dogged the footsteps of a
man."
She looked up brightly. She was accustomed for his sake to
assume a serenity and happiness that she did not feel, but now her
flash of pleasure was real. " Norman," she whispered.
"Violet."
She paused, she was thinking. An idea had occurred to her, to
elope, forthwith in the yacht, to put him out of reach of danger.
But she soon rejected the notion. In his anger he would commit
some terrible sin, or in his pride he would yield himself to justice.
She felt she dare not tell him what Jennie had threatened. There
was only one resource : to give him up, to give up her love, to bid
him go to her rival, to forfeit him for ever.
She shuddered at his side. This act of immense self-abnegation
overwhelmed and dazzled her. Its nobleness was an inspii-ation,
its efficacy was complete. She would be a martyr for his dear sake.
" Norman," she murmured, " I love you. I never loved you more
than I love you now. You are the all in all to me, as I am to you.
We are each more to the other than we can realize. Our love is tran-
scendental. It is not objective, nor finite, it is spiritual; our souls
are so commingled and unified that we already exist in each other's
personality, more than we do in our own. I feel your sufferings and
griefs more acutely than you feel them yourself, because I forbid
you to have any self, because you promise to efface yourself, your
personality, your very being, and to live in me only. I am the flood
in which you find oblivion and happiness. We have attained, by a
species of synthetic philosophy; impossible to comprehend, except
270
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
by the exercise of an analysis of transcendentalism, to the very apex
of love. Oh love! oh the infinity of natural phenomena! I love
you, so that I know yon can never be separate from me, even if we
were separated. We have 110 longer a dual existence. If yon
were to marry another I should be with you in spirit, a part of you,
in your mind and in your soul, incorporated with your existence,
dwelling in you, feeling your grief and joys."
He kissed her brow. "You speak over my head, Violet; all I
know is that in two days we shall hear the wedding-bells. I have
had a wire from Ilfracombe. The Pride has left port, and the
master is quite certain he will be able to land the bells after all. I
am very glad, for I was afraid the new peal would not be here in
time."
" Norman, I have been thinking it all over, as I have talked with
you. Here in the Kieve, on this moonlight night, when all the
heaven is clear, and eternity seems visible, what is marriage ?—the
tinkle of a bell, the clamour of a crowd."
" Violet," he said severely ; " these woi'ds from you! "
" Or," she resumed, in her suave clear voice, calm with the as-
sumption of a philosophic serenity, though her heart was torn and
bleeding with trouble, "or," she said—" is marriage the unison of
two souls, or their transposition, yours in mine, mine in yours ?
0 Norman, for ever and for ever I am yours. True till death,
tb> ough death, and for ever—I am in you, a part of yourself. Our
souls are so eternally united, that where you are there am I with
you always ; again I say it, and again. Even now we are already
wedded, already we are one. You and I are one person, or rather
one spirit. So that even if fate separated us we should not be
parted, but in spirit we should be together. It is our spirit, it is
our soul that weds, it is not our flesh. What has this vile body
to do with aught so holy as the eternal union of our souls ? I will
not wed you physically and corporeally, but spiritually. I will not
desecrate the sanctity of this ineffable and sublimely perfect union
of our spirits. We will be one soul always for evermore. We will
not be married as others are married : our love is too great. A more
ethereal, a more complete, a more spiritual wedding shall be ours;
The body shall not share it: our souls only shall be joined. Come
with me." She took his hand, and glided down the moonlit path to
the basin of the Kieve, leading her lover as in a dream. He did
not understand her. He deemed that in her poetic mood she had
ascended beyond the limits of his power to comprehend.
" It is the cup of constancy," she said, filling an urn from the
falling waters; " share it with me."
He drank at her bidding, wondering as he looked upon her, for
she was so grave and almost solemn, though her voice was soft and
tremulous with love.
"That is our wedding ceremony," she continued; "it is the
marriage rite. Henceforth our twain being is blended in a unity."
They were both silent as they ascended from the Kieve. There
was a gravity and earnestness iu the manner of the ceremony they
DESCRIBING THE RENUNCIATION OE A PROFOUND LOVE. '271
had shared in. It had been to each, a solemnity. To speak or to
think was impossible. As in a dream they had quaffed the waters
of St. Nectan. As in a dream they came from the fountain. As in
a dream they traversed the winding pathway through the glen,—
fairies and spirits and fancies mingling in the moonbeams, and
playing about their feet, as they trod the ferns and flowers and moss
that lined the way.
Emerging into the commonplace road the common world came
back to them.
Lady Yiolet sighed as they got into the carriage. How could she
announce her great renunciation ? How could she break to her
lover that she must forfeit him out of her life to the rival who
claimed him with threat and penalty ?
" If we were to be separated until death," she said, as they stood
at the Castle door, " I should be always with you, though seas and
continents were between us. Nothing can part us for evermore." She
leant her head upon his bosom, trying in vain to conceal a terrible
sob.
" Yiolet, Yiolet," he said anxiously; " you have said many things
to-night that are beyond my feeble comprehension. The day after
to-morrow we are to be wedded in earnest; and then nothing shall
part us, for I will never leave your side. Why then speak of separa-
tion, and of death, in tones so apprehensive P But a few hours ■"
" A few hours," she repeated gloomily, " aye, the hours of the
last day. I have promised them to my mother." She forced her-
self to smile between her tears. " A bride always gives to her parents
the day before the wedding. Now let the carriage take you back to
Eorrabury. It is getting late. Tredwyn."
" My lady? " answered the footman, approaching his mistress.
" Tell the coachman to drive Mr. Forrabury home," and, lowering
her voice, she added, " on your way back, call in at Tredoi'n's
cottage; you know Tredorn's cottage on the cliff? "
" The smith's cottage, my lady ? "
" The white cottage over the harbour."
" Yes, my lady ? "
" Call there, and ask to see Jennie Tredorn ; you understand ? "
" Yes, my lady."
" Say that I want to see her here particularly to-night. The
carriage is to bring her."
" To bring her here, my lady P "
" Yes, here to Tintagel. Show her to my studio, Avhere I shall
await her."
In less than an hour the errand was fulfilled, and Jennie alighted
from the carriage, where she had sat in uncomfortable ease. She
was glad to find her feet again upon sound turf, and once again in
her element she strode beside the wondering footman with a length
of step which made that worthy move himself with unaccustomed
vigour. At the steps of the studio she paused, and hardly daring
to enter a place of so much grandeur, took breath and looked about
her like a timid fawn.
272
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
Summoning her courage, however, she ascended the steps.
Arrived upon the landing the entrance doors opened wide, as though
by magic, noiselessly moving open at her approach, and the melody
of an old tune, mysteriously awakened, broke the silence of the large
and empty hall. Then the doors closed by some unseen agency, and
she stood awed and alone on the polished marble floor looking about
her in wonderment.
An old man came to her, and took her hand. She followed where
he led, through long corridors of painted splendour, into chambers
of gold, through rooms of stately beauty glistening with polished
marble and alabaster. She walked as in a dream, led unwillingly by
the mute, her own eyes and her own lips wide open in wonder.
Strains of sad musical song in an unknown tongue, and the twingle
of stringed instruments accompanying the sweet harmonies of
women's voices, stole upon her ears. There were fountains and
statues and masses of wondrous flowers, there were perfumes, and
pictures, and melodies, and everywhere there glowed a soft, suffusing,
sensuous light, roseate, marvellous. She had never seen a statue.
She had seen the word in books, but she had never realised the
meaning. Now she stood gazing and wondering at the more than
eat'thly beauty, at the ideal loveliness of a Flora, wondered and
passed on, her eye lingering on a Bacchus, a Naiad, a Yenus.
Trembling, she put out her hand to touch the thing of beauty, and
shuddered to find it cold. A great awe possessed her. She stood
in some enchanted palace. The stories of the " Arabian Nights"
mingled in her mind with impressions from the realities around her.
The statues seemed like living creatures touched by magic into
death.
The beauty, the opulence, the splendour, the glowing light, the
strange revelations of unknown loveliness, bewildered her.
Silken curtains rolled aside as she passed from room to room.
Now the light went out, and she was in twilit darkness. A skull
grinned at her horribly, or did she dream ? Was that the wind
that sighed without or the moan of a lost spirit P She looked through
the painted pane, ghostly with images and symbols and draperies,,
through which the dim moonbeams shone with coloured light. Even
the light of heaven was weird and wan in this strange place.
Hark! Sound of ocean was that? sigh of sea? splash of wave?
Sounds dear to her that sounded real for the moment, but now trans-
lated into mystic yet tuneful voices, and tearful strains. For the
ffiolian lyre construed the old sounds newly, and she knew them
not.
And who were these in silken vestments whose voices spoke in an
unknown tongue ?
They led her to a chamber where stood a picture, before which a
lady sat alone.
The frame was massively made, carved and golden, and hung
with draperies of white silk looped with cords and tassels of gold.
The picture was the picture of a man, strangely attired, ascending
from the depths of darkness into a very heaven of light. His face
DESCRIBING THE RENUNCIATION OF A PROFOUND LOVE. 273
was full of a restful peace and a serene and tranquil joy. The
picture was inscribed, " Into the light of Love."
Jennie saw neither the frame nor the inscription, nor even the
picture as a whole; all she beheld was the man in the picture—Nor-
man Forrabury—and her voice broke into an exclamation of delight.
At that the lady rose, and with a rapid gesture pulled the white
curtain over the picture, as though jealous that any eye should look
upon it save hers alone.
The singing maidens vanished to the melody of a far away and
fading song, and Lady Yiolet and Jennie Tredorn stood alone.
" You are very beautiful," said Lady Yiolet, in a soft voice, and
in an accent almost of envy. Jennie answered nothing. Dazzled by
all she had seen and felt, she stood as though transfixed, gazing at
her highborn rival, wondering at her unearthly beauty and at the
splendours in which she was set, like a rare and priceless gem in
the midst of costly and precious treasure.
"You know his secrets," continued Lady Yiolet, in a sad measured
tone, as though she spake to herself alone, as though she stood by
an open grave, and was there sinking all her hopes and all her love.
" You are the mother of his child," she said, in a strange funereal
tone that sounded like a chant.
" I consent to your demand. Marry him." Her voice trembled,
though she tried to speak the words bravely. She checked a great
sob that would have burst from her, and feeling iu her bosom, drew
thence a letter.
"Give to him this," she said; "tell him I remain within him."
Then with a gentle curtesy she turned her back, lest the peasant
girl should see her grief.
Jennie was upon her knees, clutching the letter in her hands,
burying her face, overwhelmed, prostrate with wonder.
Gentle hands raised her and led her away. Her mind whirled.
Innumerable impressions crowded so fast into her brain, that she
could not arrange the strange medley. A joy struck its bell so
loudly within her that it deafened her. At last, at last, at last she
was to marry Norman Forrabury. Was this really so ? The clang-
our of this great happiness dazed her senses. Could it be true?
Ah, no, for it was Lady Violet who gave her the letter, and when
she took it from her bauds they were cold like the statue. It was a
statue that gave the letter, a statue in a dream. Roses, lilies, arums,
camellias,, orchids, marvellous flowers, a very blaze of beauty. Ah,
sweet, sweet, the perfume of heliotrope. Hush! Can caged birds
sing so melodiously ? Listen to the plash of the fountains ! Listen
to the harper! Ah ! he is blind. His strains are sweet because
he dreams. Dreams ! Is this a dream ? The portrait, how like it
was ! It was Norman, the very man himself; though but a picture
he seemed to speak, to be alive, ready to step out of the frame a
very creature of flesh and blood. And this she knew to be Lady
Violet's handiwork, her own creation, the issue of her hands. Was
Lady Yiolet a sorceress, that she could thus call her dreams into
being and make her thoughts living sentient things ? Ah, well!
T
274
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
let her have her arts, her crafts and her dreams. For her, Jennie,
there was the real man, the living Norman. She had abandoned
him to her. She had said, "Take him! Marry him!" She had
given him up ; henceforth he was hers. He would father his child.
Again, as of old, she would nestle in his bosom, and feel his strong
arm about her, again she would recline by his side and read the
mysteries of his face. Let the dreams of marble halls and corridors
of gold pass away. The statuary, the pictures, the silken curtains,
the velvet carpets—away with them from her memory. They had
framed a vision of such opulent luxury, that the very magnificence
of it was a horrible splendour, so dazzling and brilliant that it con-
fused her. The cloying perfumes were like poison. Ah, pleasanter
far this free air which she inhaled now with such vigorous satis-
faction, pleasanter far this blessed rain and the spattering mud, the
strong Atlantic breezes and the smell of the heaving sea. She was
bewildered by the sounds of Italian songs. The twittering melodies
of those strange unknown birds, the weird lays of the blind harper,
the hidden choruses of sweet yet overwhelmingly beautiful music,
and the magical, unearthly tremulations of the aeolianlyre, frightened
her. Pleasanter far the stillness of the Tintagel road, the occasional
cry of the seagull, the distant murmur of the breakers and the
sound of the falling rain. These and the voice of her child, these
and the voice of Norman, were enough.
Enough, aye, and more than enough. This strong peasant girl,
hurrying homewards along that lonely road, drenched to the skin,
ill-clad in the pouring rain, hastening to her child and to her lover,
was in the seventh heaven of happiness.
Not so her rival. The high-born, high-souled lady in her palatial
and sumptuous bower, with Arts and Music and Graces for her
handmaidens, stricken at heart, grovelled in sorrow and in grief,
and wept in solitude and despair.
CHAPTER LVIII.
describing the martyrdom of a noble woman.
" What He Cost Her." (James Payn.)
Still the rain continued, a steady downpour. The outlines of the
cliffs and headlands were blotted out. The night grew very dark.
Boscastle was for the most part asleep. Here and there only, as
Jennie traversed the long village street, was a light visible in any
window. There was a faint glimmer in the parlour of the "Napoleon"
Inn, and if the " Wellington " was still wide awake, it was probably
hilarious tourists who kept it so. But she met no one as she went
down the steep hill; indeed, the rain poured too steadily for way-
farers to be abroad. Yet, regardless of the rain, Jennie did not turn
aside to the road leading to her father's cottage, but went straight
DESCRIBING THE MARTYRDOM OF A NOBLE WOMAN. 275
on over tlie bridge and up the Beeny road, making for the cave in
the cliff.
Yes, dark as it was, rainy and. windy too, and dangerous, Jennie
forged ahead, heedless of all, to attend to her child in the cavern.
She did not turn aside, either to her father's on the one hand, nor to
Forrabury Hall on the other, anxious though she was to deliver to
Norman Forrabury Lady Violet's letter. Again and again, as she
hurried through the rain, did Jennie's right hand enter the bosom of
her dress, that she might feel for the safety of that message. And
each time she felt the crisp paper nestling there, a thrill of triumph
traversed her veins. She had won him.
Even in the darkness she noticed, as she went through the village,
the bare Venetian masts, the triumphal arches partially constructed,
the unfurnished framework of firework trophies, and other signs of
the approaching festivities, which were intended to celebrate Lady
Violet's wedding; and she had smiled as she passed them, a smile,
in which there was something of restrained malice, a leaven of
humour, perhaps something of pain, of regret and of sympathy for
her rival, but, above all, an overwhelming triumph of ambition
realized, and of a great love to come.
She descended the cliff side to the cave, wet and slippery though
the path was, and so dark that it seemed a miracle she was not
dashed to her doom. But she was so agile, she knew the path so
well, she had clambered those steep and precipitous cliffs so often,
and she was, withal, in such a wild exhilaration of triumph, that her
nimble feet seemed to skim the invisible scarps and ridges of the
wet cliff side as though she were a mountain bird.
And still the rain beat down, the winds blew strong from the south-
west, bringing masses of heavily charged clouds over the sea, and
the darkness grew denser and denser, no ray of moon nor of star
cheering the night.
She entered the cave with a cry of satisfaction, and, guided by
maternal instinct, went straight to the mossy cradle of her babe.
Lifting the oil-cloth and old sails, forming a curtain for her
loved one, she uttered the gentle coo of a mother—that tenderest of
sounds which language has always deemed too sacred to call by any
name.
Stretching out her hands, she felt towards her child.
He was not there.
She screamed. Then, in her fright, she felt in the darkness, up
and down the moss and fern on which she had pillowed it, all over
and about the cradle of willow with which she had hedged her boy,
outside it, below it, above and ai'ound, gasping as she felt, tearing
down the oil-cloth and sacking with which she had curtained its
rough cot ; feeling again and again, with trembling hands, in an
agony of anxiety and apprehension, uttering incoherencies of horror
and fear. Then, with a cry like a maniac, she fell to the ground,
wringing her hands in the darkness.
In a moment she stumbled to her feet, rushed to a cranny in the
rocks, a sheltered cranny, as dry, on that rough and wild, wet night,
276
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
as a cupboard in a lady's boudoir, and, with nervous, twitching fin-
gers, she drew out a box of matches and a stable lamp, and pro-
cured a light.
She held the lamp high, and looked anxiously ai'ound; but the babe
had vanished.
The sweat of agony was on her brow. She clutched the lamp with
trembling fingers, and tore the bosom of her gown. Where was he?
Where was her boy, her darling, her pride, and her shame ? Where
was this little life that linked her to her love ?
She searched for him, wildly staggering from place to place, exam-
ining the shadows cast by every boulder and mass of rock, looking
beneath the gnarled stumps of a tree, amidst the broad leaves of
fern and burdock growing by the waterfall; she peei'ed in every ere-
vice, in every cranny. She traversed the branching corridors of the
cave that ramified the cliff. She sought in vain.
How could he have rambled away ? The child was helpless. It
could not walk, it could not even crawl. Could he have rolled from
his cradle? Then he would have fallen on the moss and heather
and leaves of dried fern that were strewn deeply beside his couch,
and thence he could not have strayed.
Had some wild animal devoured him ? She looked about for foot-
marks, or signs of a struggle; there were none such. Besides, no
wild beasts roved these cliffsides. Unless a fox A fox ! The
idea struck her with horror. She shrieked aloud, and, jangling her
lamp by her side, began to explore the lower cavern.
But all was blackness. The long, bare cavern echoed with the roar
of the breakers ; the great, pitiless rocks, the clumps and masses of
seaweed and sea-flower, the green tongues of the salt weeds gave her
no tidings of her boy.
She retraced her steps. High up, perhaps, in the upper caverns
she might find some trace of her lost one. Uow and again flocks of
frightened gulls flew past, with flutter and scurry of flapping
wings.
Could the gulls have stolen him ?
Or an eagle? She paused to think. There were no foxholes, nor
did the fox frequent the coast: but she had seen an eagle. Once,
years ago, she had seen one hovering over the high cliffs; there had
been talk about it in Boscastle, and she remembered that it had been
shot at last near Hartland, and its measurements described in local
newspapers. Eagles would steal babes; she had seen that in pictures.
In no other way could her child have disappeared. She looked up-
wards to the sky, her eyes suffused with tears, her heart aching, her
bosom rent with anguish. Of what use looking behind boulder and
scar ? In despair she sat down, bowing her head, rocking herself to
and fro, sobbing in pain.
Her light went out. "Well, and what matter ? It had brought her
nothing. Yet what was the good of sitting there brooding ? She
sprang to her feet furious, stumbling in the darkness. She fumed
and raged; she hit out at the blank darkness with clenched fists;
she cried, wrung her hands, and ground her teeth in despair and
DESCRIBING THE MARTYRDOM OE A NOBLE WOMAN. 277
anger. She felt a3 though she wei*e mad. As she strode along,
she tripped over a rock, and fell almost stunned.
She lay there huddled up. Putting her hand to her brow she felt
the bruise, and knew that the blood was trickling down her cheek.
She nodded approvingly. She was in pain. Yery good; let it be so
then. For hours it might be she rested there. Day was dawning :
she saw the blood on her hands and dress. What mattered that ?
Her fall, if it stunned her, bad sobered her sorrow. In a dazed,
stupid, half-stunned way she called gently, over and over again,
cooing the mother's cry.
Suddenly she raised herself to her knees, resting on her hands,
craning out her neck, and listening intentty.
All her senses were strained to the utmost; she held her breath in
silence.
Then again she called, now loudly, now gently, using the soft, en-
dearing note that mothers utter. After each call she paused and
listened.
Soon she sprang to her feet, uttering a sound that seemed like the
striking of a bell, for she had heard again, faintly and afar, yet cer-
tainly, the cry of her lost one.
She darted forward towards the region whence the sound had come.
Then she clambered thoughtfully, cautiously, quietly, upon tip-toe
in search of her boy.
The sound came from the lower cave.
And now, clearly enough, as she drew nearer, she heard the con-
tinuous rhythmical wail of a crying infant,—that soft, measured, per-
sistent, and almost contented cry, by which Baby, in all ages and in
all households, is accustomed to proclaim his desire for food.
Reassured, the happy mother sped on, yet with quiet and careful
step, peering into the dim twilit corridors of the great cave, and
tracing her way by the sound of the wailing babe, whom she was
rapidly nearing.
At last, rounding a huge sparkling boulder, she came upon him
suddenly.
There he lay—in the arms of Jose!
He was resting quite contentedly, with open eyes and slobbering
mouth, vigorously and rhythmically crying for the breast, whilst Jose,
sitting on the boulder, nursed him in his bi'awny arms, and regarded
him with a vague, blank look of stupor.
Snatching up her boy with a sudden clutch, she hugged him to
her bosom.
In a moment the wail ceased, there was silence, and the mother
fed the babe.
=» * * # *
For some time neither spoke. The mother was all absorbed in
her newly found treasure. The universe lay upon her knee.
As for Jose, after a first start of surprise, lie sat still upon the
boulder, making room for Jennie on the more comfortable part of the
smooth, rounded spar.
After a brief look of surprise, his face relapsed into its usual ap-
278
the beauty of boscastle.
pearance of expressionless vacancy. Soon, as he sat by her side, a
devilish craving took possession of him. He looked at the soft,
round, lustrous whiteness of the mother's breast, veined with faint
streaks of delicate blue, and as he looked, his little eyes gleamed, his
tongue protruded between his teeth, and the saliva trickled upon his
chin. He moved with a nervous restlessness. His breath was short
and hot, his face flushed; he fumbled with his misshapen hands, and
rubbed them awkwardly back to back. With half averted face, as
though he did not regard her, he leered upon her, yet with a sly
cunning, lest she should observe him ; for he feared although he loved
her. Aye, understand that he truly loved.
She took no notice of him whatever; she was oblivious of his pre-
sence. She hugged her boy with a tender embrace, watching him at
her breast, taking his fat little hands and covering them with kisses,
stroking his legs, crooning over and fondling as she fed him.
As she thus caressed her little one, Jose regarded her with larking
glances, and his brow contracted with hate for the infant whom she
loved. What would he not give for one of the kisses that she
showered upon that babe? He smacked his blubber lips as he
looked upon her. His eyes gleamed with fire; he was jealous of the
child. He had stolen it away out of jealousy; and now that she
had found it again, he hated more and more this object of her
entire affection, this well into which she poured the opulence of her
love.
Would she never have done mumbling the hand of her child ?
She seemed, as she kissed and kissed and kissed him, as though she
too, having fed her babe, now in her turn fed on him, satisfying the
hunger of her maternal passion by burying her face in his, and
devouring him with continual kisses.
She lost herself in this ecstasy, plunged in the happiness of
motherhood, in the bliss and rapture of an idolatry that absorbed
all her soul. She was unaware of the presence of Jose, until she
felt the hot current of his breath blasting her cheek, and, looking
up, saw him gazing at her like a demon, with the ugly leer of a
lustful satyr frenzying his evil eye.
With a sudden thrill of horror, she clutched her child more closely
to her bosom, and started to her feet.
" It was you who stole him !" she cried, as the truth flashed upon
her; " you ! you!"
He sat still and nodded vacuously, but in a manner that expressed
assent.
She advanced to him threateningly, angry as a tigress concerned
for her cubs, and with doubled fist struck him a blow that knocked
him from his seat.
She was a woman of ungovernable passion. She came, as she
said, of a race of wreckers and sea-rovei's. She was not yet schooled
to modern ideas. In her fits of rage some instincts of the old pirate
race survived.
Jose scrambled to his feet, and with clenched hands came towards
her, slavering at his mouth and mumbling incoherencies full of spite
and malice.
DESCRIBING THE MARTYRDOM OF A NOBLE WOMAN. 279
She looked at him with scorn: it was not in her nature to feel
fear. She drew herself up proudly, nursing her babe with her right
arm, whilst her left, brawny and strong, hung free, its doubled fist
working from the wrist like a piuze-fighter's.
He moved round and round her with awkward gesture, limping,
stumbling, and scrambling like a hideous deformity that he was,
now sputtering with wrath, and trying to speak, roaring like a wild
beast, and now stringing together a few broken sentences of rage
and hate.
Then in his fury, he extended his long grisly arms, and caught
her in a vice.
He was very strong : he held her tight, she could not move. Her
child began to scream aloud.
" Ha! ha!" he laughed, and a horrible smile played on his lip.
" Ha! ha ! ha! I will have my way with 'ee yet."
She tried to shake him off.
"Nay; I am too strong for 'ee," he cried, tightening his grip
upon her. "Hold!" and as he grasped her arms, he bent his
odious face to hers and kissed her cheek, with parted grinning lips,
a kiss that resembled a bite.
" Beast! " she exclaimed, shuddering and shivering with horror,
and struggling to free herself, whilst the babe screamed loudly.
" Brute and villain that you are, you are hurting my child."
" Your child ? " cried Jose fiercely, and releasing her to flourish
his fists in her face in his rage; " aye, your child, and his child—
that villain whom I hate. Well, he es to be wed—wred—wed ; d'ye
hear? Ha! ha! ha! They are bringing the bells from over the
sea. Ha! ha! he e3 to be wed," and his voice pealed with frantic
laughter.
Then he became grave. " Aye, it es so ; all goes well. There is
only that now betwixt us," and he pointed to the child, as she drew
it closer still to her heaving bosom.
" Aye, hug it. I would have killed it, but you came. Well!
well! Another time ; another time."
" You would have killed my boy ? " exclaimed Jennie.
" Aye, he stands betwixt us. The Squire es to marry the great
lad}\ 1 am glad on it ; I have waited for it; I knew it would be so,
and I waited. There will be none then but that little thing 'twixt
you and me."
" You are wrong, Jose. The Squire es to marry me." Her face
beamed with triumph and pride as she said it.
"Nay; 'a cannot have two wives. Our Squire is to marry the
Lady of Tintagel. Dost not know ? The flags are up i' th' village :
all are going to the feast. Ah. It goes well for Jose. I would not
have waited if I had not known it would be so. 'Ee '11 wed the great
lady, and then Jose can have his own."
He spake with a strange fluency, as he had never spoken before.
Jennie was impressed by the clear decision of his words. He sat
quite still now, occasionally slapping his leg as he laughed, or feeling
with his hands if he wanted a word.
"Aye, lass; 'ee shalt be mine. Wed 'ee I well. I've got the
280
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
license ia my pocket now. I've carried it, lassie, next my heart for
many a daay; an' a comfort it has been to me. Mayhap 'twas better
'at I did not drown the boy. Happen I should ha' thought on't when
Ave lay together. Thou cam'st in time. Well, lass, I will not harm
the boy. Shall we be wed when the Squire is wed ? o' the same
day ? He left 'ee. I never will. No, never. No, not I."
" I tell you, her ladyship has given him up. She will not wed
him." She shouted the words madly, boastfully.
" That's bad," said Jose anxiously. " Happen she knaws."
" Knows what ? "
" What you knaw and I knaw," he said, lowering his voice to a
whisper.
She nodded her head thoughtfully.
" Aye, I saw it too. I saw him wi' th' old Squire, did I not ? I
saw him do the murder—the murder! dost hear? the murder, the
murder, murder, murder. Let the rocks ring wi' it, 'twill do no
harm; all the world shall know't, if thou dost not marry me. I
will shout it in the street, as I shout it here. I have waited long
enough. When he es done wi', I will have you. Let 'un hang! or.
he may wed and go; I care not which. Let 'un wed the lady, and
leave 'ee to me. We are each other's, bred together, o' the same
cot, o' the same crust."
" But if I wed the Squire ? " said Jennie feebly, struck with his
grave earnestness.
" Ha' done wi' such foolishness. But, lass, 'a should'st not have
him one hour. Boscull shall ring wi' it. Listen; this very day I
have pledged myself to speak to the parson's daughter; she haates
'un, and. I haate 'un. I'll have my revenge o' the Squire. Blood for
blood! Jose hes been cunning, Jose hes been patient, but at last
the day hes come to loose my tongue. Murder shall out at last.
I'll tell all the world. Let thy brat live. Its father shall hang.
Hang! hang! Ha ! ha ! ha! Ha! ha ! ha! " and a diabolical peal
of laughter echoed and re-echoed along the corridors of the cave,
mingled with the screams of the terrified babe.
" Jose," exclaimed Jennie, falling on to her knees before him, and
forgetting even her child as she thought of her lover's danger,
" Jose, Jose; you cannot do it."
" Aye, but 'tis all fixed up. I ha' told the parson's daughter that
I lia' a secret for her ears. Aha! 'twill be fine sport. You may cry
you trull, but I love to see't. Go on; cry, cry. It es good to see
the tears rolling."
He rubbed his hands in a frenzy of delight, whilst she knelt be-
fore him like a devotee praying before some hideous idol, pleading
and weeping, burying her face in his greasy coat, or looking into his
face with streaming eyes.
" I'll be at Bodmin gaol," he continued. " They don't hang 'em
outside now, but I'll see the black flag go up. Aha! 'Twill be rare
sport. Oho ! He struck me—our Squire ; I feel the mark now ; I
often do. I love to feel it: it makes me think of 'un. He caame
'twixt me an' you. He stole your love, and now he es to have the
DESCRIBING THE MARTYRDOM OF A NOBLE WOMAN. 281
great lady. Well, let him wed first. Oh, yes. Let him wed. Let
the fish feed 'afore they feel the hook. Then I'll have my revenge
on both of 'ee : him first. As for his brat—well, the brat may live,
I say. I'll be his father; he shall run for me, he shall fetch for me.
Oh, yes; I'll look after 'un. The Squire shall hang—hang!"
She was silent now, after her first burst of horror and pain. After
the first flood of tears was spent, all her senses became alive to the
awful terror that faced her lover. She had but one thought now.
How could she protect Norman from the terrible danger that was
imminent ? Her blood ran cold as she contemplated the public dis-
grace of her lover, as she thought of the malice of his enemy, as she
pictured his arrest, his trial, his doom. Ceasing to sob, she cowered
before the deformed and callous man, embracing his knees, and for-
getting her loathing in her misery.
By what means could she apprise Norman of his danger ? Quick
thoughts sped through her brain, to be immediately dismissed as
soon as formed. She felt assured that if he knew his danger, he
would not face the public and unbearable shame of a trial, nor would
he become a fugitive from the law. He would take his own life.
He would die by his own hand, and plunge, red-handed and unfor-
given, before the Judgment Seat of God.
• White as death, with features tightly drawn and pleading eyes
sunk in cavernous circles, Jennie lifted her face to Jose.
" Aye, thou craven ," he cried, with a brutal epithet. " I ha'
brought thee to thy knees. Oho ! I knew I should ha' sport when
the hour came for me to tak' my revenge."
" Jose, Jose," she moaned; " have pity, have compassion, if not on
him, on me."
" On thee ? " he answered, striking her with his open palm ; " and
why on thee? Hast pitied me? Hast shed one tear for me? No,
no; Jose might suffer, Jose might die, and good riddance. But for
this soft-handed gentleman, and yon squalling brat of 'un, there is
to be.pity and waste o' good tears. Oho! 'Tis fine: but I'll be
revenged this very day," and, with a loud laugh, he rubbed his hands
together in gleeful malice.
"Nay, but pity—pity and forbear," she cried, putting her hands
on his shoulders, and drawing him to her bosom. " Spare him,
Jose, and I could almost love you."
" Aye, lass, and 'ee shalt love me when this villain o' thine is hung.
Ha! ha! ha! We'll go to Bodmin gaol together to see 'em hoist
the black flag. Happen after that honest Jose shall come to his
own, and live happy again wi' his Jennie. Eh, mother ? " he continued
in a softened voice; " Eh, little mother? what saytothaat? I've
got the license here as is to maake us one. 'Tis natural and 'tis
right: we were bred and reared together i' the same cot, o' the
same crust. 'Tes right we should wed. What say, lass ?"
Blanched and shuddering, Jennie removed her arms from his
shoulders, and rose from her knees. Taking her child in her arms,
and looking into the little one's face, she sat down shivering by the
side of Jose.
282
THE BEAUTY OP BOSCASTLE.
Bub a few liours ago she had been so happy. Mad with joy^and
triumph and expectation, she had meant to go to Norman and claim
him, to go with him to the far ends of the earth. Now her dream
had vanished, like a bubble broken in the wind.
" He es like thee, Jenny, and for that I could love the younker.
'Tes the other's masterful look in's face 'at I loathe. But I promise
'ee I'll not harm the boy, for thy sake."
She looked at him for a moment with an expression of unutter-
able disgust and abhorrence, a look full of loathing and repugnance.
Then she flushed to the tips of her ears with shame, and as
suddenly grew pallid with horror. She seemed almost distraught.
She lifted her eyes to heaven, and tried to part her lips in prayer.
She wrung her hands in abject misery, too fearfully distressed to
weep, and then, shutting her eyes, she pub her arms about the neck
of this odious and hateful deformity, and laid her soft cheek against
his scaly skin and rugged face, whilst every drop of blood in her
veins became cold as ice.
He pub his distorted, web-like hands upon her shapely arms, and
rubbed them with animal joy.
She shuddered.
" Oh, Jennie, 'a knowest not how I love 'ee," he muttered.
She drew away from him, and looked him full in the face.
" Make me one great promise ? " she said, in faltering, tremulous
words.
" If 'a wilt wed me, I promise aught, even the squire's life."
" 'Tis that I ask. You will not harm him. You will keep his
secret—for ever ? "
" For ever, if 'a wilt wed me—to-day."
She shuddered again, a shudder like a fib of ague.
" 1 will wed you to-day," she answered.
" Thy kiss upon it, wife."
She kissed him with white lips.
CHAPTER LIX.
a tempestuous chapter.
" Iu the Roar of the Sea." (S. Baring Gould.)
" The pilot heard his native hells
Hang on the breeze in fitful swells;
' Thank God,' with reverent brow he cried,
' We make the shore with eveniDg's tide.'
Come to thy God in time !
It was his marriage chime ;
Youth, manhood, old age past,
His hell must ring at last."
(Haivker of Morwenstow).
A wild, web morning followed the rainy night. The Meacliem Rock
seemed like a living monster floundering in the foam, guai'ding the
harbour mouth, as Cerberus guards the gates of Hades. The
A TEMPESTUOUS CHAPTER.
283
Napoleon Rock and Willapark Cliff were wliite with spume and
froth. Heavy seas, driven by south-westerly gales, burst into
Boscastle harbour, deluging the useless breakwater, and flooding
over the toy-like quay, filled the little basin of the port with froth
and foam: Ever and again it rained. A few coastguards, standing
on the point, scanned the horizon anxiously, looking out for the
Pride of the Haven, long overdue.
" 'Twill be a wedding wi'out bells, I reckon, said an old salt, as
he shook the water off his oilskins.
" If she fetches port to-night," said another, " we'll get the bells
to the tower somehow; but likely she'll not fetch."
" Naay," said the other; "she'll not make port wi'this sea on.
She'll ha' to keep out to windward, or the wedding bells '11 maybe
toll the knell o' the Pride of the Haven."
" 'Twill be worse afore it's better," said another, turning his quid.
Then they went into the shelter again—a little hole in the rock,
fenced off with the large local slate, and fitted up with a rough
bench, the dismal shelter of the coastguards on many a wild night.
The little town shivered in the wind. The trees stooped and
swayed and shook off their yellow foliage, dowering successive gusts
with a wealth of golden leaves, till the wonder was that every branch
was not bare; the lanes were full of them, scudding and careering
before the blast. Now and then a roof slate or a chimney pot came
hurtling through the air, and fell with a crash in the long village
street. But for all that, workmen were busy, drenched to the skin,
putting up the Venetian masts for the wedding festivities, and
succeeded in decorating them with gay bunting, difficult though their
task was.
Indooi-s the women-folk were hard at it, threading ivy and fern
and evergreen, and making wreaths of chrysanthemums for the
decorations, pausing often, however, to look out of window at the
rain, and shaking their heads regretfully.
Old Ann, regardless of all weathers, went from door to door as
usual, walking beside her donkey, and delivered small parcels con-
taining the simple wants of the villagers, for whom she fetched and
carried. At every door she was met with the same question : "Has
the Pride come into haven? " and when she answered " No," there
was the almost invariable comment, accompanied by a solemn shake
of the head : "Ah! 'twill be a wedding wi'out bells."
And still the rain fell in torrents, and the wind blew strong.
Upon the little town bridge, yet sheltering somewhat against the
wall of the little cottage that abutted upon it, a woman wrapped in
a dark waterproof waited and waited, regardless of the rain. The
old miller noticed her repeatedly, and motioned to her to come into
shelter, but she took no notice of him. The workmen, occasionally
passing and repassing, looked at her and then smiled at each other
significantly. It was Clara Gee. She was a little " touched," they
thought. They did not know that she waited for Jose—that she
anticipated the revelation of a secret that would be a solution of the
mystery which had so long vexed her, that she was in patient yet
angrily anxious expectation of handling the key which should un-
284
THE BEAUTY OE BOSCASTLE.
loose her revenue, and tbat on the very eve of the squire's wedding
she would fulfil her hope and her hate, and turn festivity to woe.
When old Ann passed, Miss Gee spoke to her; the village carrier
was its newsmonger, too. She knew the tittle-tattle of every cottage.
" Have you seen Jose ? " she asked anxiously.
" 'Ee be up street at the chapel," she answered, striking her
donkey and passing on.
"Up at the chapel ?" echoed Miss Gee. " What is he doing
there P "
But the old woman ambled on, and vouchsafed no answer. Her
news consisted always of facts. She did not aspire to theories.
So Miss Gee still stood in the rain, moodily waiting, waiting,
waiting for Jose.
A groom from the Hall clattered up the street to the telegraph
office, with orders to wire to Bude, Bideford, Padstow, to all the
coastguard stations around, likely or unlikely, for news of the
Pride of the Haven.
A dapper little gentleman stepped out of the " Wellington,"
skipping under an umbrella, and touched Miss Gee's shoulder.
" It is neaidy twelve o'clock," he said.
" I know that, Mr. Penarth," she answered pettishly. " But he will
come presently."
" Well, I am here at your request, but I have been waiting since
nine o'clock—it was at nine that you were to meet him. My patience
is getting exhausted. Besides, I have clients waiting for me at
Camelford. You have no further evidence, I presume P "
" Yes, I have; I was in the Kieve last night—St. Hectan's Kieve.
I overheard a conversation,—not all of it, but some. I wish I could
have got nearer. The woman Jennie was talking to Lady Yiolet.
I could not hear much, but what I did hear was all to the point. I
am on the right scent. Colonel Forrabury was murdered—I am
certain of it. Depend upon it I shall find it all out. Only give me
time."
" Well, do not stand in the wet. Come into the inn, I beg you."
" I shall stay until Jose Tredorn comes. He will be here pre-
sently. He is up the street; old Ann has just told me so. I shall
wait."
" I will tell you this for your comfort. You are on the right
track. Jose was not upon the cliff on the night of the—the Colonel's
death for nothing, and I have evidence that "
" That what P " she added impatiently.
He lowered his voice ; " That connects Horman Forrabury with the
girl Tredorn, under circumstances of the most suspicious character."
" You have proof of that P " she cried excitedly.
" Positive evidence."
" Then out with it."
" Hot now," he said, struggling with his umbrella. " Hot in this
soaking rain. But all in good time—all in good time. It is a
pity this fellow has not kept faith with you, for Lhe could tell you—
he could tell you something—something."
=* * * * #
A TEMPESTUOUS CHAPTEE.
285
Meanwhile, Jennie and Jose were married. The wedding was
" solemnized " at the little chapel in the street. The ceremony was
as bald as it could be. The minister, and an old man and woman,
who were the caretakers of the building, were the only other people
present. . But the news spread like fire on a furze common. It was
a wet day. The village was excited by many events. The coming
festivities, the non-arrival of the Pride, the inauspicious events
that heralded the wedding of the squire—all these loosened people's
tongues, and gave them more food for conversation than they had
known for years. Yet there were many to whom Jennie's marriage
was an item more interesting than any other. James Trethewy
heard of it in jealous anger, Nicholas Pearn could not believe it at all,
and many other straight-limbed, broad-shouldered young fellows,
who admired Jennie as it were afar off, audibly marvelled at the
strangeness of woman-kind.
To Clara Gee, as to every one else, the news came as a great
surprise. But whilst to others it was unaccountable, to her it was
not so mysterious. It was a partnership between the holders of a
common secret. She could interpret it, not clearly, perhaps, but she
could make a shrewd guess. Jennie was afraid of her foster-brother
Jose, and paid all she possessed to the man who had her in his
power. At the very hour which Jose had fixed to tell her some
" great news about the Squire," he had turned from his intention,
and Jennie had bribed him with a great bribe to keep the secret
that he knew, and that they jointly knew. To CHara Gee, this odd
union was another link in the chain, another piece in the puzzle
that would all fit in one day, and soon, and that would reveal the
truth about Colonel Forrabury's death.
The rumour spread far and near; it made everybody marvel. The
man was so odiously and barbarously uncouth, that the sudden
announcement of his wedding with this comely young woman came
on all ears like a shock. The news reached Lady Yiolet Boterel
through Parson Tom, who broke the intelligence to her in his usual
delicate and considerate manner. When the strange announcement
first reached him, he was incredulous ; when it was confirmed, he was
astounded. Ever since the terrible death of the late Squire, his
parish had been " out of joint." The worthy man was mystified;
and now Lady Yiolet, to whom he bore the news, grew pale as he
spoke, and, uttering strange and incoherent ejaculations, fell into
hysterics at his story.
Norman, alone in his great house, was one of the few who did not
immediately hear the intelligence. When he did, the storm had
burst, and the anguish and the agony he felt were mingled with the
sobs of the tempest.
But the excitement and speculation caused by this remarkable
item of local intelligence was merged and lost in the apprehension of
greater news. The non-arrival of the Pride became a cause of great
uneasiness. It was known that many people from Ilfracombe and
the neighbourhood had embarked in her, in order to participate in
the wedding festivities. A part of the Earl of St. Austell's estate
was in that neighbourhood, and many of the tenants at Boscastle,
286
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
Tintagel, and the neighbouring hamlets had relatives and friends
resident in this distant part of the Earl's property. Young men, who
could not earn a livelihood in the sleepy little port of Boscastle, had
found plenty of work at the busy North Devon watering-place, and
there they had settled and married Boscastle wives, visiting occa-
sionally their Cornish fathers. Thus Lady Violet's marriage was
an occasion of popular consequence at Ilfracombe, and the Pride,
filled with Ilfracombe people, had for her precious cargo the grand-
sons and granddaughters, the sweethearts and the youth of Boscastle
and Tintagel folk.
No wonder, then, that thei^e was great excitement when it became
generally known that the Pride was dangerously over-due. The
inauspicious delay in the delivery of the wedding-bells had already
given the Earl and Norman Eorrabury much uneasiness. It boded
ill, even to people who put no faith in omens. But every hour the
situation became more serious. Telegrams passed repeatedly from
every port and look-out station. The rising storm awoke the most
serious apprehensions. But the dread was rather of delay than of
danger. The fireworks were wet through, the decorations were be-
draggled, the triumphal arches weather-torn, the tents in the fair-
field blown down, and a large branch from the gigantic pear-tree at
the top of the village street had been torn off by the wind with such
force that it had caused considerable damage to the roof of the
manor-steward's house.
And now the bells that were to have rung the wedding chimes,
with many of the friends of the tenants that were to have feasted on
the fat ox, were out at sea, the storm increasing and the winds
adverse.
An hour or two before sunset the crowd on Napoleon Point in-
creased. Regardless of the wind and rain, all the sharp-eyed youths
and many a farsighted damsel, with weather-wise old salts and ex-
perienced coastguards men, stood on the cliff straining their vision,
on the look-out for the missing vessel.
But they watched in vain. Gale after gale passed over them,
saturating them to the skin. The sea became rougher every hour,
The great rolling Atlantic billows rose like a rebellious enemy ad-
vancing regiment by regiment, white-crested, and like troops upon
the march, rank after rank they came on, dashing in all their majestic
strength against the jagged spears of the cliffs, and attacking the
armaments of the coast and shore. The strength and magnifi-
cence of the sea, the sublime spectacle of ocean in anger, opened
before that gaping crowd of anxious men. Grave shakes of the head,
and apprehensive glances, betokened a common fear. The men grew
silent, the women began to sob and pray. The Pride, with its freight
of human souls, was in danger.
The crowd upon the headland increased. Every sob and sigh of
the winds beating against the casements of the cottages, the bellow
and roar of the storm, as it howled through the long village street,
was a cry of danger. The villagers, long accustomed to bolt and
barricade every door and casement when the south-west gales beat
upon them, and who usually barred themselves rigorously indoors
A TEMPESTUOUS CHAPTEE.
287
when the winds and rains came, in this time of storm were all agog,
and instead of the usual desolate scene of barred shutters and empty
streets, there were horror-stricken folk rushing excitedly from house
to house, women standing at the open doors, careless of the incom-
ing rain, and all but the infirm and the very young were hurrying to
the cliffs, to hear and see for themselves whether there was any tid-
ings of the missing vessel.
Amongst those who stood upon the Point was Norman Forrabury.
There he had stood on the night of the murder, and there now,
almost oblivious of the crowd, from which he stood aloof, he had his
place. Calm, impassive, stern, he looked out to the dai'lcening
horizon, scanning the line with his glass. Many looked at him in
pity, in sympathy, or in wonder. He looked uncanny in his soli-
tude. He, the bridegroom ; so haughty and so cold. Why did he
not speak to any of them ? for that shipload of wedding guests con-
tained their offspring and their kinsmen.
Loudly as the roar of the Devil's Bellows smote on their ears,
a hundred times more harshly its dreadful roar reverberated to him.
Standing aloof, and in the blinding rain, he might have been a
statue, for all the notice he took of the sobbing crowd upon the point.
He made no sign. He uttered no word. He stood stone still, gaz-
ing continuously at the horizon through his glass, or wiping the rain
from the lens.
The crowd looked at him. He was anxious for them, doubtless,
though he said nothing, though he did not care to utter one kind
word, though he did not turn to regard them with one tender
glance, and seemingly oblivious of them all. Beneath his stern
exterior there beat a heart that felt for them, or why did he stand
there in the rain, regardless of the pitiless gusts that beat upon him
so fiercely ?
How the rain fell, whipping the foaming sea ! How the wind howled
and moaned! How raged the sea and storm! The gusts came, and
the clouds opened and spent their flood. Another gust and another,
and between each gust a lull, and the rain ceased, and then it was
possible to see far away the murky horizon, obscured by gathering
clouds and dark masses of rising tempest.
In such a lull as this Norman shouted, " Is that the Pride ? " and
he pointed far away towards Lundy.
Half a hundred weather-wise eyes followed the direction of his
arm. The captain of the coastguard went to his side, and looked
long and anxiously through Norman's powerful glass. But the
weather had thickened again, and it was impossible to see. There
came another lull.
" Haapen et be on'y Jack Harry's lights," said one in a dismal
whisper.
" God grant et be no spectre-ship," said another, " or sure there'll
be a wreck afore sundown."
" 'Tis a vessel," said the coastguard excitedly; " close-reefed—a
schooner."
" Be it the Pride ? " said an old mariner. " My daughter Ellen's
aboard ; be it the Pride F "
288
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
" Belike there be a score-o' schooners afloat, and all close-reefed in
such weather," said another. _
"God help her, whoever she be!" exclaimed a sailor. The
breeze wull be stronger yet, and sets dead ashore. God help her if
she cannot keep out to sea. There's never a port on this northern
shore 'twixt the Land's End and the Channel. A curse on all
governments that it should be so. There's not a harbour on the
whole shore ; and many a life lost for want of 'un. _ God help that
poor craft, and keep her out to sea. Pride or no Pride, she'll never
live if she comes near in."
" She's under bare poles, and i' this wind she'll drift in," said the
old mariner. " Happen 'tis some other schooner. Pray God 'un
ain't the Pride. My poor Ellen ! "
" 'Tis the Pride," shouted a man kneeling on the cliff.
Every one looked at the author of this confident statement. He
was on a jutting promontory, by turns kneeling on the rock, or lying
there at full length with his ear to the ground. " 'Tis the Pride," he
shouted again ; " I can hear the bells."
" Who says he can hear the bells ? " cried Norman Forrabury.
And all the crowd answered, " It is Jose."
They knew he was right. This half-witted creature, so stupid
ashore, was reverenced as a sage in interpreting the winds or in
reading the signs of the sea. Although they could not see the
vessel, and although they could hear nothing but the pattering rain,
the sough of the wind, and the roar of the sea, they knew that Jose
was right, and that his quick sense, skilled to discern all sounds of
sea and storm, was not at fault, as he shouted again and again, " I
hear the bells ! I hear the bells ! "
" 'Tis the Pride o' the Haven, sure enough," said the captain of
the coastguards, "and she is driving in. I can see her without a
glass now. See, there! There! Those flashes! Her danger
signal! She will be lost, and all aboard her."
Immediately there was a sound of dreadful portent, known so well
to our coast population—the boom of the coastguard rocket, the
signal to man the lifeboat.
" Is all ready? " exclaimed Norman anxiously.
" The rocket-corps is here, sir, and all in order. The lifeboat is
ready to launch, the crew ready; but the men can do more good
with the rockets from the cliff on this wild coast than trying to put
to sea in the life-boat. I have seen too many wrecks; I know these
sou'-westers too well. Here and there we save a life, but in the
main, ship and crew go down, all hands often."
" Can nothing be done to rescue them ? "
" No, sir, I fear not. The storm increases."
And, indeed, the wind blew so fiercely in their teeth that they
could hardly hear their own voices, though they shouted every word.
" Cannot some vessel be sent to their rescue ? "
" Sir, no sail can stand, no boat can leave the harbour. Look!
The quay ! You cannot see it for froth and foam. The harbour is
like a pot; it seethes and bubbles with boiling,angry water. If the
A TEMPESTUOUS CHAPTER.
289
water is like that in the harbour, what chance is there in the open
sea ? No boat can round the Point, sir. No boat could leave the
harbour; and if she did, where would be the use ? "
The night came on, and in the thickening gloom the Pride became
visible to the crowd on the Point, or rather the little speck of light
which danced upon the stormy sea mai'ked her position.
" She will be driven on the rocks 'twixt here and Bude," cried an
old salt in the midst of the crowd. " Get ye home, ye women. No
good can 'ee do, an' such a sight as maybe will be, God send the
night to shut it out from your eyes. Mayhap 'twill end all afore
sunrise."
They wailed and sobbed and prayed, but the sound of the storm
drowned all their cries. Drenched by the rain, weary with waiting
and watching, there still they sat or stood, the wind blowing their
long hair, their garments and wraps shaking and shivering in the
blast. Still they cowered together, holding each other in knots for
safety; still they huddled together, in an agony of apprehension for
their fiuends, almost paralyzed witli fear for themselves, staring at
the little dull, distant light which marked the Pride of the Haven.
There was a whistle, shrill and clear and long, and Norman Forra-
bury turning on his heel, and passing through the crowd towards the
harbour, shouted in a voice of command. " Man the yacht! "
His men were there. " Aye, aye, sir," they said, with mechanical
alacrity. Then they whispered to each other, " Who goes in the
yacht, goes to death."
They were brave fellows, for they were Englishmen ; but to attempt
to put to sea, out of such a harbour, on such a night, seemed madness.
However, the fires were set going, and after a time her engines
were got to work, Norman working like two men, helping a hand
here, there, and everywhere.
" It is all very fine," said an old sailor in the crowd, " but they'll
never get her out of harbour alive."
And, indeed, the difficulty was undoubtedly greatest, and the
danger most acute, whilst in the hai-bour. The port is so diminutive
and unsheltered, and is so surrounded by steep cliffs and crags,
that every moment there was danger of the yacht being dashed
against the rocks by the fierce seas that swept into the harbour.
Very soon evei*y able-bodied man available foiuned one of a gang
of assistants who hauled and hove the yacht from the steep shore.
Great hawsers were uncoiled, and ropes innumerable were brought
into service. Gangs of men were at work upon either side of the
harbour controlling the yacht from the shore by means of heavy
hawsers attached to it. Even the women helped, holding lanterns,
working at the windlasses, or assisting to carry ropes. The har-
bour was very dark, as it always is by night if there is no moon ;
but what light there was seemed to be emitted from the white-
ness of the fi'othing sea in the bubbling harbour. Occasionally
the waves swirling in from the sea swept over the liliputian break-
water and quay with terrific force, straining the ropes and hawsers
to their utmost capacity, threatening the safety of the yacht, and
U
290
THE BEAUTY OF BOSOASTLE.
endangering the limbs and lives of all on board ber. There were
weird cries and gruff, unearthly answers. Mingled with the gusts
and howls of the wind there were now fierce and angry calls of
anxious men, curses and imprecations on ropes, waves and quay,
and things inanimate. A gang of farm labourers, accustomed to
draw coal from the harbour, came mounted on their strong cart-
horses with clattering harness, and, cracking their whips, helped to
drag the yacht round th% head of the quay. Over all the din could be
heard Norman's stentorian voice shouting his orders to the gangs of
men who worked at the several hawsers right and left of the harbour.
A boy standing on the cliff with a rope fender, which he held by
the side of the yacht to prevent concussion, slipped from his pre-
carious foothold, and, falling between the vessel and the rock, was
badly injured before he could be extricated. It was a scene of frantic
confusion. The yacht yawing to and fro, the wild billows breaking
over her, the gurgle and surge of the sucking waves eddying and
swirling in the narrow harbour, betwixt the unsteady vessels and the
diminutive quay ; the hawsers tightening and loosening ; the horse-
men urging on their strong horses, aided by gangs of volunteers, and
almost succeeding in their endeavours to get the yacht past the
pier head, whilst another gang on the other side of the harbour
hove her tight ; the cries, the oaths, the lanterns, the groups of
wild women with streaming hair, the hurrying men, the monotonous
" Heave, yeo-ho ! " of the workmen at the windlass, and over all the
gusts of pattering rain, the roar of the Blow-hole, the wail and sob
of the fierce storm.
" She has rounded the pier. All clear astern. Make ready the
hawser on the port-bow. Is all taut there ashore? " cried Norman,
in his strong, clear voice.
" Aye, aye, sir ! " cried a gang upon the cliff. " Keep her head to
the wind, sir. Look out for a big sea. Look out "
" Lord have mercy upon us ! " cried the crowd, led by some pious
mariner, for, looking out seawards, a huge wave, which seemed to
gather force and volume every moment, came swirling round the
Meachem Rock, howled into the gorge of Blaclcapit, whistling and
roaring as it advanced, and, swelling into the harbour, mounted
higher as the channel narrowed, until, bursting on the yacht, which
was hove taut and held by many a rope and line, it swept the vessel's
deck from end to end, and carried overboard several of the crew ; two
large ropes cracked with a loud report, and the yacht, groaning and
swaying to and fro, creaked ominously. " Man the pumps ! " cried
Norman, shaking himself like a dog.
" Sir, we attempt the impossible," said his chief officer. " Three
men are washed overboard, and one is killed. It is tempting
Providence to put to sea in such a night with half a crew."
" Are the engineers aboard ? "
" Aye, sir."
" And the fires-*—"
" They are ready."
" Sir," said one of the seamen, " for my own life, though I love it,
A TEMPESTUOUS CHAPTER.
291
I would risk it in any common risk, but lam not a madman. Who-
ever puts to sea in this cockle-shell to-night goes to his death. I
have three children and a wife ; may I go to them P "
" Let every man leave the ship who will."
Two or three men, under pretence of helping with the hawsers,
clambered perilously ashore; others dauntlessly remained, though
scarce able to keep their foothold. Wave after wave broke over
them, half deluging them as they endeavoured to put off the craft.
Their task seemed, indeed, impossible.
" Sir," said the chief officer, after a hurried conversation, " what's
left o' the crew wish to leave. It is,—begging pardon, sir,—main fool-
hardy. 'Tis tempting Providence, we reckons, and ain't no use at
all—'cept for men as seeks to die."
" Aye, aye," chorused the crew. " 'Tain't no good : no seaman
would go such a wild errand "
And another huge billow, crashing on to the yacht and raking it
from stem to stern, gave point to their muttered talk.
" Let who likes to leave, leave," cried Norman. " We go to save life
at the risk of our own. Come those who will, and none other."
" There are thirty lives or more out yonder; we may save them all."
" True."
" Or more like lose our own."
The crowd hesitated.
" Come, there are thirty lives at least. Let us try."
" We would try, sir, be sure," shouted an old sailor whose voice
was drowned by the wild whoop of the wind; " but we know 'tis a
fool's eri'and. We shall lose our own lives, 'tis certain ; and we
shan't save them others, that's certain too."
" We're game to save life and to risk life," cried another; " but
we're not such born fools as to jump into a cauldron. 'Tis a fool's
errand."
" Aye, aye! a fool's errand! " echoed one and all.
" Hold fast to them bollards," cried one of the coastguards ashore.
" Here's another big sea coming. Hold fast, I say ! Lower another
fender there 'twixt the vessel and the rock. God help us! she'll strike.
Make ready with them life-belts." A large sea struck her amid-
ships, and made her tremble like a live creature shivering in fear.
But when the wave had passed, Norman still stood at the wheel, and
a cheer burst spontaneously from the onlookers.
Wiping the salt water from his eyes and hair, Norman Forrabury
looked wildly round, and cried in an imploring voice : " There are
thirty lives! Will no one help me to sail the yacht ? Thirty lives !
Is there none who will help to keep in the fires P "
But the tars shook their heads.
" Is there no one who will go this errand with me ? " he re-
peated.
" Ma-ake way there for a volunteer," cried a voice out of the dark*
ness, as a woman, with long and tangled hair streaming in the wind,
rushed out of the parted crowd, and, jumping into the basket, was
hauled into the yacht.
292
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
" 'Tis Jennie," cried some one ; " Jennie Tredorn, the smith's
daughter."
" Aye, 'tis Jennie ! she that es the bride," shouted another.
" The bride, Jennie," shouted the crowd. "Three cheers for Jennie
Tredorn !"
" Three cheers for the bride ! "
The cheers were taken up, and faintly echoed again from cliff to
cliff.
" I can keep in the fires and manage the engines," said the brave
girl as she went below.
" Where the wife goes the man goes," muttered Jose, running
down the cliff like a goat, and, scorning to use the basket, he
clambered along the big hawser and jumped on to the deck, amidst
the cheers of the crowd.
" Jose ! her husband. Three cheers for Jose ! "
" 'Tis a strange wedding night," said some one in the crowd.
The yacht was so near to the rocks and to the crowd that swarmed
upon the cliff that every word they shouted could be heard, even in
the midst of the howling winds and the noise of the storm.
" Wife and husband ! " ejaculated Norman, dazed by the intelli-
gence, and looking at Jose as one stupefied.
" Yes, she es mine," said Jose, with a triumphant nod. " We are
married, we two."
He was as calm and cool as if the sea had been a millpond. No
storm ever gave Jose a fear.
" Look out for this sea, Master Norman," cried the captain of the
coastguard from the rocks above. " Hold taut to the main hawser !
Make ready to warp her out. Steady, all! Good God, what a sea!
It is madness, madness. They go to their death, them three."
" If a woman dare to, 'tis shame on us if we dars'nt," said a couple
of sailors, making ready to follow her noble example.
Suddenly the sea struck right on her bow, the yacht trembled,
heaved, yawed, and then with a mighty lurch snapped the main
hawser as though it had been pack-thread. An intending volunteer,
endeavouring to board the vessel, was dashed into the sea and
drowned. Jose leapt towards the stem, and severed the smaller ropes
with his jack knife.
" Let her go," cried Norman, amidst a hundred cries, and, rushing
to the engine, he shouted, " Full speed ahead ! " The vessel paused
as though it would founder, swayed, backed, made a little headway,
and then, with a bound like a greyhound, sprang over the waves.
Jose, with the handy activity of a sailor, was forward, below, here,
there and everywhere at once, invaluable.
" She will dash herself to pieces on Napoleon Point before she
leaves the harbour," said the coastguard. " They are mad ! "
" But, to every one's surprise, she cleared the Point, while the
crowd held their breath with excitement, and, weathering the
Meachem, she shaved past the rocks as though she scorned them.
Once at sea, she rose to the wild waves, and breasted every
breaker like a gull.
THE CONCLUSION OF THE MATTER.
293
Soon she was lost to sight in the thick darkness. There was a lull
in the storm.
" Let us pray," said Parson Tom solemnly.
Immediately all the people fell upon their knees.
CHAPTER LX.
THE CONCLUSION OF THE MATTER.
" God and the Man." (Robert Buchanan.)
" Uprose that sea, as if it heard
The mighty Master's signal word.
What thrills the captain's whitening lip ?
The death groans of his sinking ship.
' Come to thy God in time! '
Swung deep the funeral chime;
Grace, mercy, kindness past,
' Come to thy God at last!' " (Hawker of Morwenstow).
Ho one aboard spoke. Jennie, who knew something of engines as a
smith's daughter, used her common sense and stoked, continually
adding fresh fuel. Jose, active here and active there, was ubiquitous,
hauling a rope or tying up a tarpaulin. The waves broke over him in
vain; he did not even trouble to get out of their way. They broke,
and he ignored them. Norman stuck to his wheel and kept the
yacht's head to wind. He did not look for the light of the Pride of
the Haven. For a time, indeed, he had forgotten his mission. All
that he did was to instinctively work the yacht so that the waves
should not strike her on the beam. The sudden intelligence of
Jennie's marriage to Jose dazed and stupefied his intellect. As he
stood there, between the water and the sky, navigating a ship with-
out a crew, sometimes descending into a black trough in the valleys
of the waves, sometimes rising up the mountain slopes of the white-
crested breakers, held up as it were 'twixt the heaven and the sea,
with the fierce winds howling through the ratlins, the ragged clouds
scudding over the angry sky, the pitiless rain beating upon him, and
the boiling waves about him, he seemed to be in some other world,
where he was visited by strange dreams of this. As it is said of a
drowning man, that all the events in the history of his life are re-
enacted in a few brief moments, so now with Norman, he was visited
as in a dream by visions rather than by thoughts. He saw Jennie
married—Jennie whom he had loved so dearly ; Jennie who was the
mother of his boy ; Jennie taken now away from him for ever, claimed
and owned by another creature. He was stupefied. The facts of
life stunned him ; he dreamt; he wondered. He saw Lady Violet,
the pure and holy idol of his soul, moving out of his life, and passing
away from him like a beautiful ghost. He whispered her name, and
mumbled of the marriage morrow. But that too seemed a dream, a
hope, a shade. He saw the sea black in its depths, frothed and
294
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
foaming and whitening in the lashes of its anger, and spots of blood
were on it, or on his eyes. And from white it grew to red, and
redder and redder yet till it was a sea of blood. And there afar was
a light moving on the face of the waters, like a spirit, a blot of red,
a disc of blood-red fire. He saw his uncle's face with a look of re-
proach in his eyes. He started at the shi-iek of a wild sea-mew,
that almost touched him in the weird darkness with its flapping
wings. He saw himself fettered and guarded, arraigned before a
crowded court, and in the crowd were all the men and all the women
he ever knew, and all looked upon him with loathing, except one,
and that was Yiolet. But her face, lit by a tenderness almost Divine,
dwelt upon him like an angel's. Her eyes were full of tears, but
bright also with hope. And in that brightness the whole scene dis-
pelled as clouds vanish before the sun, the sound of wedding bells
fell on his ear, there were children's voices and youthful laughter,
and visions of peace.
Then a wave very nearly took him off his legs, for it broke on the
quarter, and the yacht " fluttered like a frightened bird." Jose
rushed to his side and helped him over with the wheel, but all with-
out a word, and then went below to the engines.
So that brought him to his senses, and he bethought him of his
errand, and of the thirty lives he bad come out to save.
Looking ahead, he saw no light. Where, then, was the Pride of
the Haven ? Had she foundered in these mighty billows ?
As he asked himself the question, another great sea broke on deck
with a force so terrific that he wondered his little vessel survived the
blow.
So far from saving lives of others, there seemed to be little chance
of keeping their own. If he did not keep her head on to the
seas, he could not possibly keep the yacht afloat. If she once came
beam-on to the waves, she would founder. At the most, he could
face the billows. He could not steer for any fixed object. Well, what
matter ? Let them voyage on, on, on, over the wild waves to
some far land, or traverse the waste of tempestuous seas, accursed,
doomed to plough the stormy main for ever.
Thus, like a man in a dream, he dreamed, and woke and dreamed
again, and woke startled. Turning his gaze round, he saw a green
light behind him. Then he had passed the Pride, which must be
getting dangerously near shore. If she attempted to make the
harbour, she would be wrecked on the Meachem or dashed to pieces
in Blackapit, where, though so near home, not one man's life was
worth a minute's purchase.
If she stood out to sea and tried to coast round to Padstow, that
perhaps might save her. But she would have even then to run the
gauntlet of Hell Bay, and perchance be lost on the terrible Doom-
Bar.
In any case, it was madness to try to turn the yacht. He must
keep his bows to the seas. If he did not, he would sink in the first
big wave, he and his crew! he and Jennie and Jose.
Jennie and Jose married! Strange! Again and again he won-
THE CONCLUSION OF THE MATTER.
295
dered at it, and wondered how long ago the marriage had occurred,
biting his lip, savage at the thought. The blood leapt into his face
and reddened his cheeks. His eyes were bloodshot with ire,
his heart yearned with pity. Was ib jealousy that raged now in
him? He put to himself the question—Did he love both women,
Yiolet and Jennie, both ? And as soon as he asked it, he despised,
he hated, he loathed himself that he had dared to associate those
two names even in his thoughts, that he had dared to violate the
sanctity of Lady Violet's personality by harbouring the idea of her
love in comparison with the love of any other being. So, dwelling
on the thought of this pure and beautiful soul, he again lost sense
of sea and storm and wind, of the jeopardized schooner, and of Jennie
and Jose, until he saw the ungainly figure of the man shambling
up from the engine-room. Again a whirl of unbearable thoughts
oppressed him. This brute in human shape, this inhuman monster,
the possessor of that lovely and lovable creature! How then!
Did he dare to touch her sweet soft flesh with his devilish claws ?
Did he rest his dog-like face near hers ? Did he have touch of her,
sense of her, breath of her ? Horrible ! Did she loathe him as she
once loathed him ? Did she shudder at his approach ? did she detest
and dread his presence, and yet in abhorence submit to the degrada-
tion of this unholy, this damnable alliance. Or had she callously
abandoned herself to him in despair of life and happiness ? Why had
she so sunk that she permitted this almost diabolical embrace ? Had
she some affection for him ? Oh ! a thousand curses that he let this
last worst thought take shape ! To shape the idea was to repudiate
it with loathing and horror. He knew that Jose was hateful to her,
an offence to her. It flashed upon him that this marriage was a great
sacrifice, that she had made herself a martyr in order to be his
saviour, that, for some reason he could nob follow, she had yielded
her body to this loathsome man, whom she hated for his own sake,
that she consented to suffer the horror and indignity of this oafish
love in martyrdom, and submitted to be rifled in the caresses
of a hideous creature who was everything that was horrible.
For him ! For him, Norman, this sacrifice was made. For the
hundredth time he contemplated suicide. Nay, decided upon ib when
the lives of those in jeopardy were saved. His bosom was a hell of
torments ! The storm of the elements was no greater than the storm
that raged in his soul. His heart welled over in pity towards this
noble creature who had submitted to such loathsome union for his
sake. Again he thought of Lady Violet, and of his treason in think-
ing of any but her, of his marriage, of the wedding bells and the
jeopardized boat, of Jose. A thousand conflicting thoughts tossed
and tumbled in his overstrained mind until morning rose over the
troubled sea.
" This is my wedding morning," he thought, turning his eyes
towards Tintagel, and to the tower where was Lady Violet's
chamber.
But he was interrupted by a gesture from Jose, who pointed over
the stern towards Crackington.
296
THE BEAUTY OF BOSOASTLE.
There in the grey dawn, her light but dimly seen, was the schooner.
She was hopelessly drifting on to the rocks.
Imperilling the yacht, Norman made an effort to bring her round,
and after many futile endeavours, which almost swamped them,
eventually succeeded.
Then he bore down straight on the Pride.
Before they reached her, she had struck on a sunken rock about a
mile from Pentargon. A sea washed her off, and now she was drift-
ing, a doomed wreck.
As they neared her, they saw a poor shivering crowd huddled to-
gether on her stern, against which the great driving waves beat con-
tinually. Ever and anon the bells were heard adding a strange
clamour to the noises of the storm.
Norman steered straight for her, and, more by luck than judgment,
came in alongside the wreck, which had again struck the rocks,
and was already breaking up. The sailors aboard grappled the
yacht and held her, though she swayed up and down in the churning
foam.
The first to spring from the wreck to the deck was a strong, stout
sailor. To him Norman abandoned the wheel, and, clinging to a rope
that was thrown to him, he clambered on to the fated schooner. And
then he set to work to save lives. One after another he lowered
from the wreck, first the women and children then the able-bodied
men, until every one was on board.
In the midst of the excitement and hurry, and regardless of the
waves, of the creaking timbers, of the flapping ropes, of the huge
clanging bells whose iron tongues swang to and fro with the sway-
ing wreck, Norman maintained his calm composure. When the
wreck was cleared, and not till then, he sprang on to the yacht.
Two or three rocket men on the Pentargon cliffs made signs to
him to land the shipwrecked people there, but it would have been a
work of great danger, and perhaps impossible.
" We had better try to make port in the yacht," said one of the
sailors he had saved.
So, with his living cargo, he made for Boscastle. Many people
had been out on the cliffs all night, and many others, who had gone
home for a few hours' rest, returned to the cliffs at early dawn.
Such a sight was never seen before in the little town at daybreak;
every man, woman, and child, the young and the aged, were hurry-
ing beneath the bedraggled and melancholy ruins of triumphal
arches, through the sodden roads and paths to the heights of the
cliff, and stood in noisy groups at various points of vantage, either
on Napoleon Point or the Willapark Tower, or at other conspicuous
standpoints upon the cliff.
The harbour was positively white with the wrath of froth and
foaming sea. The huge waves had lost nonh of their violence, but
broke still over the angry Meachem, and dashed occasionally even
over the Napolean ridge. The quay was continually submerged.
The crowds standing here and there, huddled together in groups,
looked anxiously out to sea.
THE CONCLUSION OF THE MATTEB.
297
They looked in vain for the Pride of the Haven. It had been seen
by skilled onlookers all night, until it had drifted out of sight into
Pentargon. They had watched its light continually, and had noted
by its position that the vessel was inevitably doomed. The mass of
people had come to witness the last scene of the tragedy. Thirty
lives, being for the most part people near and dear to some one of
them there present, were about to be launched into Eternity. They
had come to view the final scene, with that fascination that Death
has for man. Yet this was the great holiday of the year; the great
event of many years to these people was fixed for to-day. It was
the day of the great wedding. Lads and lasses, far and near, bad
been anticipating it for long. And now they met on this wild Octo-
ber morning, and, flocking to the cliffs, looked out to sea, not daring
to hope that they should ever see alive their belated friends, but
expecting perhaps to see the disaster of their death.
Bound the point of the Pentargon cliff came the steam yacht, its
funnel puffing black clouds of smoke. Those .who had glasses saw
at once that there were many people on board her. In intense ex-
citement they sent up a loud cheer, which was taken up by group
after group of the onlookers, and which was renewed by each of them
as the steamer came into their view. They could scarcely believe
their eyes. All thought 'that the yacht must have foundered : to see
her now crowded with people seemed a miracle. Many people wept
for joy. Others capered and danced in the boisterous wind. Caps
and hats were thrown up into the air. They prayed, they cheered,
they shouted. Able-bodied men descended to the quay, holding on
to the frail structure by means of iron rings. Men went about
hurriedly, shouting to each other. Farmers came from all the
neighbouring farms with their plough teams all caparisoned. Horses
were brought out of the stables again, rapidly harnessed, and
brought up on the cliffs, for Boscastle port is a winding and tortu-
ous harbour—a narrow channel between the rocks—and the only
way to bring the yacht in would be by hard hauling. It was a wild
scene of excitement. The sailors who had not dared to venture in
the yacht bit their lips with mortification, ashamed of their coward-
ice, and anxious to retrieve their characters hurried down to the
quay to be of service there.
" They've got to warp her in yet," said the captain of the coast-
guards warily, as the yacht passed the Meachem in safety. " Are
the rocket men all ready ? "
" Aye, aye, sir."
" Well, the worst part of the voyage has yet to be. Though the
yacht is almost in harbour, in such a cauldron as this she must be
wrecked, unless we are wonderful handy getting a hawser about her.
Yet, God willing, we will save all the lives."
Hounding the Napoleon Point, the yacht steamed like a little toy
ship on that tossing sea. Her deck was black with the survivors
from the wreck. Conspicuous amongst them all was Norman Forra-
bury.
" Three qheers for the Squire," cried Parson Tom Goodall, who
298
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
stood in the centre of a crowd on the cliff. " Three cheers for the
pluckiest man in England."
A loud hurrah, repeated again and again, and taken up by group
after group of excited onlookers, was the response. It was a warm
greeting for the yacht. The exhausted, half-starved, and pitiable
crowd on board responded with a feeble cheer in reply.
" Poor creatures, they have little strength left. Men, women,—
aye, and children too, your sweethearts and wives, my lads! your
children and your kin. He has saved them all. By God's mercy
he has saved them all. Three cheers for the Squire."
And again the cliffs reverberated with loud hurrahs.
" And three cheers for the Squire's lady. Three cheers for Lady
Violet Boterel! " cried the captain of the coastguards. " 'Tis a fine,
handsome present the bridegroom has made your ladyship this
morning—some thirty human souls."
" Aye, and Cornish folk, too, mind 'ee," said an old farmer, though
his remark was lost in the clamour of echoing and enthusiastic
cheers that greeted Lady Violet.
She looked pale and careworn. She had been up all night, and in
the saddle at her father's side for the most part of it. She rode now
amongst the people, her face as white as a lily.
" Keep your breath and your strength, good people, to help save
your kith and kin," she answered, though she never took her
anxious eyes from the yacht.
" Aye! aye!" said an old salt. " Look to the ropes, and gi' a
hand to them hawsers, will 'ee ? "
" The boat is almost in harbour, if so be such a hell of a place can
be called a harbour. But she ain't safe till she's docked."
" Make ready a line there below," cried the captain of the coast-
guards, shouting at the top of his voice.
" All ready below, sir," came the cheery response.
Then, amidst a scene of breathless excitement, amidst shouts and
cries of recognition, the loud orders of the chief coastguards and the
strange sailor phrases shouted in reply, they succeeded in getting
a line on to the yacht, and commenced to warp her in.
It was a difficult and a dangerous task, for the waves still roared
and rolled heavily. It is not easy to make the port of Boscastle even
in moderate weather. In such a sea as this it was terrible work.
But there were many hands and many hearts in the work. They
got big hawsers on, harnessed strong teams of horses to her, and
warped her gradually in towards the little breakwater, grazing the
yacht severely more than once upon the rocks.
But all the while the sea broke continually over her.
" We can't moor her in this sea," said the coastguard captain.
" The rocket corps must relieve the ship."
Three men of the rocket corps thereupon boarded the yacht, and
sent the passengers ashore in the basket.
" First, let this brave woman go," said Horman, as he supported
Jennie, who, from being weak and faint, had now swooned away.
They took her across first, and carried her into a cheering crowd,
THE CONCLUSION OP THE MATTER.
299
in where her father stood. He received her with bowed head,
murmuring his thanks to God.
Then, one by one, the shipwrecked passengei's were landed.
Exhausted women and children, so tired and weather-beaten that
they had not strength to cry; feeble old men, still more enfeebled
by their terrible recent experiences; youths and men in their
prime, overcome and exhausted by the pains of shipwreck; even
sailors accustomed to heavy seas and privations — all were over-
powered and weak, so that the rocket corps had difficult work to
land them safely.
For continually the sea, breaking upon the vessel, so strained the
ropes and hawsers, that it seemed every moment that she would
break away, whilst the difficulty of working the basket was im-
mensely enhanced. Many, indeed, of those who were landed had
been immersed, and almost drowned, during their passage from the
vessel, and got ashore more dead than alive. All the time the yacht
continued to yaw to-and-fro, and was frequently so battered by the
waves that all wondered she did not break loose.
And at last their fears were realized. One of the large hawsers,
strained to its utmost, parted with a report like a gunshot; its re-
coil carried two men and a boy overboard. At the time, four men
and a coastguardsman, all sailors, were the only people left on
board the yacht, excepting the Captain, Norman Forrabury.
As the great hawser broke, a loud wail of alarm burst spontane-
ously from the crowd. The vessel, breaking away, strained still
more and more the other hawsers and ropes that bound her. Then
one after another they snapped, whipping the air with loud cracks
as they parted. The vessel turned broadside on. One of the
hawsers alone was left, and that now so held the yacht, that its
stern grated on the rock. Soon a big hole was knocked in her side.
A seaman, seizing an axe, parted the hawser with one stroke.
Those on board looked at him with wonder.
" Jump," he said. " Save yourselves." And he pointed to the
angry, seething sea.
" They will throw life-buoys," said one. " The man is right. Our
safety is to jump overboard." And as he spoke, he dived into the
waves.
A hundred men on the cliffs clambered to his succour, many ropes
were thrown to him, and he was very soon hauled out of the water,
reaching shore fortunately without being bruised upon the rocks.
The other four men, finding that their comrade reached shore
safely, and that the vessel was fast drifting out of port again to sea,
followed his example without hesitation, and amidst the agitation
and excitement of the multitude were landed separately and sever-
ally amidst cheers from the. on-lookers. Meanwhile the yacht,
released from the bollards, was drifting out again towards the
Meachem rock.
" There is no chance to save the yacht," said the coastguard: " we
must go overboard and swim for it" ; and he precipitated himself
forthwith into the sea,
300
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
Norman cast one look round and followed his example.
The coastguardsman, though a fair swimmer in a smooth sea,
found it no easy matter to keep afloat in the tumultuous waters;
but Norman saw his difficulty, and swimming by his side, helped
him, whilst the waves, surging on with a big sweep, carried them
in. So he got safely landed, and Norman, seeing the last man safe,
clutched a rope that was thrown to him, and was hauled on to the
rocks and out of danger.
Loud and long were the cheers that greeted him. Men, women
and children crowded around him, shaking his hand, patting him on
the back, imploring blessings on his head, all calling him a plucky
fellow. He had saved all the crew, and nearly thirty lives all told;
and that by an almost incredible display of heroism and bravery.
No wonder his people were proud of him; they rallied round and
cheered him till they were hoarse. Then, in a quiet interval, some
women brought him a bowl of hot soup and a loaf, of which he par-
took gratefully.
" And now have a pull at this," said Parson Tom, heartily shaking
him by the hand ; " it's good stuff, though I'll bet a crown it never
paid duty."
Norman raised it to his lips, and took a long draught.
" So ; that's- the way to tackle it," said the parson. " Welcome
home, my lad ; welcome to your wedding. You deserve the dearest
lass in the county, and if you'll come along, I'll take you to her.
She's crying to welcome you, but I wouldn't let her rush among the
rabble."
Lady Yiolet, who had dismounted from her horse, stood by her
father's side, pale with anxiety, and tremulous with joy and pride.
As Norman approached her father she stepped forward to meet
her lover. Exhausted with his labours, he fell at her feet, and, rising
to his knees, kissed her hands with all the chivalry of a knight
of the Table Round.
" My Lord I he has brought his wedding presents with him," said
Parson Tom to the Earl, as he pointed to the knots of rescued peo-
pie each surrounded by friends and kin. " We will have a right
merry wedding yet; and listen ! "
" What ? "
" Can you not hear ? There are the wedding bells."
Indeed, whenever there was a lull, there could be heard distinctly
the clang, clang, clang of the wedding bells, as they swayed to and
fro upon the distant wreck.
" I feared it was to be postponed," said the Earl; " but it is not
yet nine o'clock. There is still plenty of time. Let all the rescued be
well seen to, and got into warm flannels; for ourselves, and for all,
let us get into the dry. Most of us are wet through. What a morn-
ing ! How it rains ! "
Indeed, the rain again poured in torrents, and whenever it slack-
eried the wind increased.
Then turning to his daughter and her lover, he continued: " Come
Violet, come Norman, my brave son. Enough! Let us to our
THE CONCLUSION OF THE MATTER.
801
homes, and that quickly. "We all want dry clothes—you especially.
The sooner we leave these boisterous cliffs the better. Come, girl,
you will have time enough for cooing after you are wed. But stay!
Have you strength, Norman, to go through the ordeal to-day? It is
unlucky to postpone a wedding ; but can you be at church? or shall
we put it off for a few days ? "
" Strength, sir! never more,'' he answered cheerily ; then kissing
Lady Violet's hand, he said, in a gentle undertone, for there were
excited crowds around them,—" Go with your father, my darling,
and make yourself ready."
He lifted her into the saddle, and she and the Earl rode away
along the narrow cliff path.
"Will you ride, sir?" said a groom, touching his cap; " I have
brought Surefoot."
He got at once into the saddle, and looked out to the Meachem.
The yacht had drifted on to the rock, and was fast breaking up. He
smiled a brighter, happier, sunnier smile than he had for many a day,
ana, putting his horse to a trot, was going through the clamouring,
rejoicing, huzzaing people homewards. As they cheered, he reflected
how little he deserved their cheers; that still, in the eyes of the law
and in his own, he was a criminal. So the smile faded from his face.
Every cheer was more bitter than a reproach. " For me," he muttered,
" there is no atonement. I am a robber in my own ball. Though I
save others, I cannot bi'ing back the life I have taken away.
Better for me, far better, had I died. Would I had been drowned—
there at the foot of that dreadful rock, there by the Blow-hole. The
roar of the Devil's Bellows rings in my ears, as though Satan's
voice clamours for me. How it booms and howls !"
Then a woman stood before him threateningly. It was Clara Gee.
" You—you," she said, in her low, hissing voice ; " what have you
done with Jose ? "
" Jose! " he repeated, in astonishment.
" Jose Tredorn," she answered,
k " Aye," he replied abstractedly, thinking hard. " Aye ; where is
" He has not come ba.ck," said Miss Gee. " Where is he ? "
" He did not come back ; he did not come back. I did not see him
when we returned," said Norman, lost in thought.
Several of the people were around him ; amongst others was the
old smith.
" What has become of Jose? " asked he.
" He must be on the wreck still. He must have been left behind,"
said one.
" He is left on the wreck," they repeated.
" There is a man left on the wreck," echoed the throng.
A great cry went up from the agitated crowd.
" I must save that life," said Norman gravely. His smile had
gone; he sat on his horse dejectedly, looking out to sea with hopeless
eyes. The crowd answered only with a murmur.
At length he cried, in his strong, stern voice, " Perhaps we may
302
THE BEAUTY OF BOSCASTLE.
save liim. Follow me. Bring ropes, bring rockets. We may yet
save him from Pentargon cliff. Give me a narrow line." He snatched
a coil of line from a coastguard, and then, giving his horse her head,
he darted down the path as fast as he could go.
He was soon into Boscastle, clattering over the bridge and up
Beeuy Hill.
He did not stay to open the gates; he cleared the walls like the
hunter he was. It is not a long ride. Very soou he was on the
Beeny cliff, looking down into Pentargon Bay.
He took the path that tourists know so well. But there was no
scent of heather this morning, no chirp of the merry grasshopper
beneath the furze, no gloriously coloured landscape, rich with a thou-
sand tints, framed in blue of sea and sky, but a wild mist of rain and
spume of tempest, through which the grey headland loomed, and in
the angry bay, white with the froth and foam, stood the wreck, still
breasting the fury of the storm, still wildly pealing with the clamour
of the wedding bells.
His sure-footed Cornish-bred horse ran down the steep and dan-
gerous declivity. Before he reached the bottom he reined her in,
and springing from his saddle, threw off his wet and heavy clothes.
Making fast the shore end of the line that he had brought with
him, he plunged fearlessly into the boiling waves, and struck out
with all his strength.
He was a powerful swimmer. He reached the wreck.
Clambering on to it, he saw Jose, axe in hand, approaching him.
No sooner had he climbed on to the wreck, than Jose severed the
cord which was brought to save him.
Then, with a cry like a maniac, he swung his axe in the air, and
chopped off Norman's right hand. Gibbering like an ape, and
chuckling and mumbling, he leant over the taffrail, looking and
laughing insanely at his saviour, who hung there supported by
his left hand, whilst from the stump of his right arm the blood
flowed fast.
Uttering another maniacal laugh, he raised his axe again to strike,
when a heavy sea struck the wreck and washed him overboard.
When the wave had passed, Norman too had vanished.
Although they had been out all night upon the cliff, and although
the rain still fell, many of the people repaired to Forrabury church
to be present at the wedding—a fixture to which the people of Bos-
castle and of Tintagel had looked forward and regarded as a public
holiday for months past.
A knowledge of the return of Norman Forrabury with the crew of
the Pride was universal; and it was quite understood that after
all the wedding was to be. So very soon all Boscastle was flocking
up the hill to Forrabury. The rain had ceased, the wind lulled;
there was a prospect, after all, that the day might brighten.
Yet there were not a few who said it was a question whether the
wedding could take place,—that the young Squire was out by Pen-
targon saving another life, rescuing another man.
THE CONCLUSION OP THE MATTER.
303
It was said he had sect a messenger to Tintagel, that Parson Tom
Goodall had ridden on a fast mare to the Earl's, and that the cere-
mony was to be put off.
And soon this news was confirmed. But still a large portion of
the crowd waited outside the church gates, by the old Arthurian
stone, clamorously discussing the tragic events that had occurred
during the last few hours.
Until a thrrible rumour spread among the people. It was whis-.,
pered, with bated breath, that the Squire was dead.
The crowd felt a new thrill. All the people now were following
each other, like a flock of sheep, up Beeny Hill towards Pentargon.
They could see the wreck; they could hear the bells, swaying on
the deck of the fated craft, sob, sob, sob, sob. The waves had ceased
to toss ; they settled soon to a regular beat, and every wave that
broke sounded the bells, until their cadence seemed like a funeral
dirge.
Later in the day, the coastguardsmen walked down the hill info
the town, carrying a stretcher, on which lay something under a sail.
Beneath were the corpses of two men. One was Norman Forra-
bui'y, the other Jose Tredorn.
They were locked together. The hands of Jose were gripped
tightly round the arms of his would-be saviour. Norman had one
hand only, and that was fast at the throat of Jose Tredorn.
Parson Tom Goodall walked in front of the coastguards, with his
head low bent towards the earth. The people drew aside as the sad
procession passed, and followed in its wake.
" He is dead," whispered the people, weeping.
But the parson did not answer; he did not weep. He shook his
head solemnly, and walked slowly on, speaking never a word.
Two graves were dug in the shadow of "the silent, solitary tower"
on Forrabury Hill; there they were laid.
Two moui-ners, friends now for ever, draped in widow's dress,
stand often in that bleak churchyard, hand in hand, their tears
mingling. Buried in each of their hearts lies the secret of an undis-
covered crime.
In days of storm, you may still hear the sound of the sunken bells
tolling a solemn knell beneath the waves.
FINIS.
Butler £ Tanner, The Selwood Printing Works, Froine, and London