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ANDE
TREMBATH

To My Friend

The Right Rev. Cortlandt Whitehead, S.T.D.

Bishop of Pittsburgh

In memory of pleasant hours spent together

at "Burgtown."

Copyright, 1905, by

C. M. CLARK PUBLISHING CO., Inc.

BOSTON, MASS., U.S.A.

Entered at

STATIONER'S HALL, LONDON

Foreign Copyrights Secured

All Rights Reserved

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

ANDE TREMBATH

CHAPTER I

A CALAMITY AT THE MANOR

"Never before in the history of the Manor have deeds like these been perpetrated," said the squire, his genial, rubicund countenance turning pale with anger.

"Prithee, prithee, cool thyself; look at the affair calmly and you will speedily discover the rogue," replied the parson.

"Cool myself!" replied the squire, in some heat; "it is easy enough to talk, but this is the third offence in a week. Last Monday the tulip beds and shrubbery were trampled and ruined; Wednesday, the fish-pond drained and the best fish secured; and last night, the unknown miscreant killed poor, faithful Borlase. It is becoming unbearable,"—and the squire, with angry features and the semblance of a tear in his eye, knelt down by the body of the English mastiff to convince himself again that the life of his canine friend was extinct.

The scene was in a remote corner of the gardens of an old Cornish manor estate. Some distance away, looming up above the nodding heads of trees, were the gables and chimney pots of the squire's residence. Near a clump of shrubbery was the kneeling form of the squire, with flushed face and unsteady hand, for his soul was trembling with indignation, examining the head of his slain, four-footed friend. The parson, with dignified step, was closely scrutinising the ground between the squire and the road-side hedge.

"Ah! Here, do you see? Here is where the missile struck him." It was the squire who spoke, for he had found a long deep gash near the right ear.

"From what I can see," said the parson, who was a keen observer, "the rogue was making for the hedge, the most natural deduction, the hedge being the nighest escape from the dog. Then," he continued, with homiletical precision as if outlining a pulpit theme, "since the dog followed him, he must have hurled some missile at him. What more natural missile than a stone, and what more natural place to secure it than from the hedge? Now the missile must be around here somewhere. Ah! Here it is," and Parson Trant picked up a good sized stone from amidst the shrubbery. "There is blood upon it; proof, number one; now let us discover its place in the hedge."

The squire arose and accompanied the parson to the hedge and, after a minute examination, the stone's former location was discovered.

"So far, good," ejaculated the parson. "Now what servants would be most likely around the gardens last evening?"

"Tut, tut, you would never make a barrister, parson. To suspect any of my servants! You are well versed in theology, and no one knows better how to preach a sermon, but in matters of law and trespass we, magistrates, must take the precedence."

Now at times Squire Vivian could be as genial and pleasant as the sun on a June-tide morning. Kind-hearted, generous, frank, bluff, with a rough veneer of the old-time courtesy was the old squire, and yet with a choleric spirit underneath all, that would sometimes burst forth into passionate invective, to the scandal of his friends and to his own aftertime regret. Add to this a dignified opinion of his position as a landed magistrate and the squire of Trembath Manor is evident. He had a goodly amount of hard English sense and in managing his estates and finances had been tolerably successful, but in sharp penetration of character and shrewd judgment in other affairs, he was lamentably deficient. His frank and open nature had not given him much chance to develop these talents, even had he ever possessed them, and, like many persons whose positions require talents in which they are lacking, or at best but meagrely gifted, the squire felt vexed when his little magisterial keenness was surpassed.

"Tut, tut, parson, you are losing your judgment if you suspect the servants. There's old George Sloan, the hostler, and Ned Pengilly, the gardener, the only two persons likely to be on the grounds at that time, and they loved old Borlase,—ay,—even better than they love his master. No, no, parson, you are at fault there."

Parson Trant smiled, for he knew one of the chief failings in the squire's character.

"No, I did not suspect them, but they, being on the grounds, can no doubt enlighten us and bring to view more evidence. The most learned and keen-sighted judge, at times, profits by the evidence of common labourers and country parsons, who are far beneath him in the knowledge of law and criminal investigation."

"To be sure, to be sure," said the squire, somewhat mollified, "but here comes Sloan."

An old man, whose erect form and sturdy step belied his grey hair and wrinkled brows, was seen approaching from the direction of the stables.

"Canst tell us anything more about this outrage, Sloan?"

The hostler was now close at hand and had removed his cap in deference to the gentlemen near him.

"A bad job, beant it, squire, as I was a-telling nephe Bob this marning. No, sir, I can't say as Hi knaws much. I 'eard Borlase barking savage-like last night, and I ups and slips quiet-like down from my room o'er the stables, and run through the paddock just in time to see the rogue on the other side of the 'edge. It was dark, squire, and I 'aven't the heye-sight I used to 'ave, and so I couldn't make un out who 'e was. This marning I looked around and found poor Borlase a-lying there and brought you word. That's all I knaws, only I 'opes the villain will be caught and 'anged."

"And did you see no person around the grounds late in the afternoon, George?" asked the parson.

"None, sir, except my nephe Bob, who comes hover to the stables to 'elp me in my work, now and then, but 'e always leaves afore evening. Now—as I think of it, Bob was a-telling me 'e 'ad seen Ande Trembath nigh the Prospidnic road gate, as 'e was going 'ome last night; 'e may 'ave seen the rogue and could tell you summat."

Blackness as of a thunder-cloud rolled across the old squire's features, and a purple stream of blood mounted and flushed his temples.

"Spawn of the traitor! He shall smart for it!"

"What a horrible oath! Squire, you are beside yourself," said the parson, with gentle, chiding reproof.

"Well, damme, parson, what's a man to do? Here's all these outrages, and it's perfectly clear to my mind, now, that that traitorous son of——"

"Tut, tut, fie, squire!"

"That that traitorous son of a traitor, knowing that I have the possession of the manor of his ancestors, which the King—God bless him—took from their family on account of their treason, that boy—don't interrupt me, Parson Trant—that boy is the culprit, and damme—I'll have him arrested for malicious mischief and trespass."

"Not so fast, squire. What evidence do you have except your own suspicions and the fact that the lad was seen nigh the Prospidnic road gate? If I know aught of law there's not sufficient evidence."

"There, there, you talk of law—as if a magistrate didn't know the law."

"Well, the evidence is lacking," said the parson, gently, though firmly, for he would not allow the squire to shake his confidence in his best pupil. "The lad has a good reputation, is a bright scholar in my parish school, and——"

"Well, well, we'll get more evidence," interrupted the squire, a little testily. "George, see that the dog is buried, and—here, hitch up the black mare for Mistress Alice; she's going out this morning."

The hostler paused, fingering his cap.

"I'm feared, squire, Queeny is a little huntrusty; she's been standing in the stall some time."

"What!—--"

The presence of the parson restrained the squire from saying more, but his flushed countenance spoke volumes. George saw it and, touching his cap, hastened off to obey.

"Here's a pretty pass things are coming to! Outrages committed daily, and my own servants in open rebellion, disputing my word."

"Come now," said the parson, gently, "he meant no harm and no disrespect, I'm sure. Suppose we go down to the lodge and see Pengilly."

Squire and parson wended their way across the gardens to the broad carriage-way and thence down to the main entrance of the manor estate, the latter talking and the former keeping down his temper as best he could in silence, until he became of a more quiescent frame of mind. In truth, the squire was inwardly regretting his outburst of temper, and the violent language he had used in the presence of his friend, the parson.

"Such a thing is possible but not probable. Ande has been the best scholar in the parish school and a model boy, so the master assures me. We must not condemn him too hastily and without being heard. His mother is a noble woman and has inculcated high principles in her training of the lad."

There was silence for a moment unbroken save by the crunch, crunch of the gravel underfoot and the twitter of bird overhead. Then the squire, sufficiently calmed, spoke.

"All very true, but envy and malice crop out even in the very best of characters; especially is it true in those who, having been deprived of high position, see others occupying that which was formerly theirs. They are apt to allow their feelings to bias their judgment."

"And are you sure that you, my old friend, are not doing the same thing?" said the parson, with a winning smile, referring to the last remark of the squire.

Squire Vivian flushed at this rejoinder.

"Well, we'll give the lad a fair chance; perhaps I was a trifle too hasty, but you well know, parson, that next to my Alice and you, I was extremely fond of Borlase, and naturally feel angry at his loss. I secured him when a puppy from an old friend, one of the Borlases of Borlase at St. Just. You know, to be sure, Dr. William Borlase, the scholar and antiquarian?"

"Aye, I have studied his works with interest."

"Well, I named the mastiff after him; the intelligence of that dog, parson, was phenomenal. Ah, here we are at the lodge."

The drive-way terminated at the entrance gate, a large affair of massive iron bars, fancifully and artistically wrought at the top into intricate curves and flourishes. Huge square pillars of Cornish moor-stone surmounted at the top with the Trembath arms—a Lyonnesse warrior galloping amidst ocean waves—flanked the gate on either side and gave it desired support. Why the squire, or his father, had not removed the arms of his predecessor, replacing them with his own, is hard to tell. The whole gateway stood out like fret-work upon the background of the squire's woods beyond the highway, woods and trees of ancient standing, as scrupulously cared for as the members of the squire's own household.

Within the gate and close on one side, lovingly environed by beds of blooming gilli-flowers and marigolds, and almost concealed by enveloping masses of English ivy that affectionately embraced its walls, was a small, neat, stone cottage that bore the dignified name of "the Lodge." A man, still in the prime of life, was labouring assiduously over some strawberry beds in the rear.

"Ned, this way, please," shouted the squire, and Ned Pengilly, who acted in the double capacity of gardener and porter, dropping his hoe, hastened to comply. There was independence and respect for his master admirably blended in the demeanour of the gardener, as he stood before parson and squire.

"Ned, did you see Ande Trembath nigh the place of late? We want you to freshen up your memory and tell us when and how often you have seen him about the place of late."

"Well, I seed him going through the Manor woods—yesterday; 'e was whistling a tune, bright and cheery-like, and bid me the time of day as 'e passed the gate. We all likes young Squire Ande, as we calls 'im—no offence, squire, I 'opes;—we all calls 'im 'young squire' 'cause 'is grandfather was squire 'ere years ago, afore 'e turned for the French—which the lad can't 'elp."

"Which the lad can't help!" fairly thundered the squire, his wrath getting the better of him once more, no doubt fired at the term of young squire. "I suppose he couldn't help draining the fish pond? I suppose he couldn't help trampling the shrubbery? I suppose he couldn't help killing Borlase last night? Couldn't help——"

The latter part of this ebullition of passion died away in a hoarse growl of something like "blood will tell."

The effect upon the porter of this news of the killing of Borlase was most striking.

"Bless m' well, squire! What! Borlase dead—killed! Good hold Borlase! 'ow fond we were of 'im! Dead!"

There was a curious working of the gardener's features and he hastily rubbed the sleeve of his rough shirt across his eyes.

"You must excuse me, squire—to blubber 'ere like a babby—but then you knaw 'ow I brought un, nigh ten year ago, from St. Just—a puppy 'e was then, and I loved un—ay—like—like—like a father. 'Ow 'e used to bark—just like the roar of a lion—ah was—and 'ow sensible 'e was too when 'e would come nigh me at work on the flower beds; 'e'd wag 'is tail and look on like a gentleman, as if saying, 'thas all right, my man,' and yet 'e'd ne'er put foot on a posy or stamp on my work. Dead! But bless'ee, squire, you can't suspect Ande. Why, I knawed Ande when 'e was only a hinfant, and I knawed him from then up, and a brighter, better, honester lad ne'er breathed. Soul of 'onour, 'e ez, sir! Ande! Why 'e wouldn't 'urt nothing, sir."

"I agree with you, Ned," said the parson. "Ande has too kind a heart to hurt any of God's creatures. His character is above suspicion in the matter."

"'Zactly so, so 'e ez," affirmed Ned.

"The principles and character of his father and grandfather were not above reproach. He's a chip of the old block," growled the squire.

"But, I am afraid the commonwealth is against you in your judgment of the lad. You know the old adage, 'a man's innocent until proved guilty,' squire," rejoined the parson.

"Aye, but in this case it's the Irish verdict, 'guilty, but not proven.' Ned, fix up the berry bushes and trim the shrubbery to-day. In the meantime keep an ear open, and report to me any news you may hear of last night's outrage."

The gardener touched his cap and returned to his labour, and squire and parson, still conversing, sauntered away through the grounds.

"A man shouldn't allow his feelings to run away with his judgment," said the latter, warmly championing the cause of his favourite.

"The days of the Stoics are past. You have a marvellous predilection for that lad, Parson Trant. Now, I shall just send the steward down to the village, this evening, and have him up here, not for a trial, but just for a private examination, and he shall have fair play. But going to other subjects, old friend,—what think you of young Master Lanyan?"

"Master Lanyan—um—a bright young man—bright beyond his years, I think. He will certainly make his mark in life if he keeps to right principles."

"Ah, exactly so," said the squire, rubbing his hands in the first satisfaction he had had for the whole morning. "I wanted to get your opinion and am glad you think so highly of him."

His companion shook his head.

"As to thinking highly of him—I don't know. He has a strong, subtile mind,—culture,—and a determined will, but he plays cards and——"

"Pooh! Pooh! Pish! Physician, heal thyself; you know that you and I engage in a social game at times."

"But we don't gamble."

"Only a few wild oats. That is natural to a high-spirited lad. He has culture, a strong head—a genuine gentleman," stoutly maintained the squire.

"Ah, but those things in my estimation are not the true requisites of a gentleman. I consider the foundation principles of a man's life."

"Yes, but the English gentry are supposed to be dominated by the highest principles," said the squire, earnestly.

"As a class, yes, but in reference to the individual, it is a supposition without the fact, frequently; and, if your statement holds good, how about my young friend, Ande Trembath?"

The squire flushed with angry impatience.

"Back again to that young villain! Well, parson, that family no longer belongs to the English gentry class, as you can readily see. Attainder of property and corruption of blood!"

It was the parson's time to "Pish! Pish! Pooh! Pooh!"

"Pshaw! Nothing of the kind. Does a plant cease to be the same when it is transplanted to another soil, or the king of the jungle cease to be a lion when surrounded by the bars of a cage?"

"Yes, to an extent. Environment has a large influence on life; at least so our parson said in last Sabbath's discourse." The squire laughed heartily, and thwacked the discomfited parson on the back with his large, broad hand.

The parson smiled and resumed.

"I am beaten with my own stick, yet, notwithstanding that you quoted me correctly, you are wrong. Environment is not a paramount influence. Man can conquer. Tertullian and Origen——"

Afraid of starting his friend on some long-winded discourse on ancient church worthies, the squire interrupted him.

"Your idea of a gentleman is——"

"My idea is that wealth, culture, position, etc., are the emoluments or adjuncts, and that high, sound, moral principles, a righteous heart and a noble soul, whether under the blouse of the peasant or under the silk vest of the prince, are the only badges of gentility."

"Well, well,—little did I think that my old, conservative friend would turn out such a radical."

"Not at all. My firm belief, that these, by training, education, blood, descent, are embodied more fully in the gentry class of England than in any other, has made me an extreme conservative. But, about young Master Lanyan?"

"Young Richard? Young Richard in a year or so will attain his majority. What think you of a match between the young Richard and my Alice? You see," added the squire, as he linked his arm in that of the parson, "I am getting old and I would like to see my only child well settled in life before I leave the earth. The Lanyan estates are nigh to ours and they will fall to Richard after his father's death. What better match than Richard? My Alice is worthy of being called 'My Lady' and Richard will be Baronet in time. Now, what think you, old friend?"

"You asked me two questions; let us consider one at a time. In reference to young Richard. It is not the playing of cards that I object to; it is the trait that his gambling reveals. You know of the schemes of his grandfather, and of his great-grandfather; the rage for speculation, the South Sea Bubble, and the hundred and one schemes that that family has engaged in. Blood will tell. Richard's gambling reveals that. He will either make or break his family. This mad rage for speculation is an evil thing. Some day either Sir James or Richard will overreach himself and should—but of that anon. He is determined and has a strong will, but should his will be thwarted might not the young Richard be like his grandfather, a man of no principle. I do not wish to misjudge the young man, but I fear me that he is one who will allow nothing to come between himself and his ends, and even to stoop to questionable and evil things to accomplish those ends. God forgive me if I have judged wrongly. Then he is proud and even supercilious at times, a disdainer of the commons. Should he be brought to poverty, the lack of principle which I fear is in him would hasten the degradation of his character. He may be different than I have said, but whenever I see him I have an undefinable suspicion of incipient evil within. Now in reference to Alice and this projected alliance. Alice is a good child and has commendable traits. No 'My Lady' will enhance her worth any more than it is now. Her happiness is no light consideration. I believe she can be happy with no man except one of high and noble principles. Then, in event of this alliance being consummated, there may be danger of Trembath Manor being involved in the ruin that may come upon Lanyan Hall. Has she been consulted? Would she offer no objection to this plan of yours?"

"Objection! No," said the squire, a little testily, for he had been listening impatiently to this advice of his friend. "Alice is a good child and will do as I say."

The parson had his own opinion, but said nothing.

The great gables and chimney-pots of the "great house," as it was generally called by the peasantry around about, loomed up in the distance and suggested to the parson that the hour was getting late. Taking out his watch——

"I declare! I had no thought that the hour was so late, and Harriet will be waiting for me, too. I must go and we'll talk about the matter later on."

The squire tried to prevail upon his friend to stay for lunch, but, finding that it was unavailing, cordially shook hands and they separated, the former going on toward the Manor house, the latter hastening down to the entrance gates.

CHAPTER II

THE SON OF A TRAITOR

"Blithe bird of the wilderness, sweet is thy song,
Blithe lark of the wildwood, O, all the day long,
A-singing so cheerily in the green tree,
Thy anthem dispels gloom and sorrow from me;
Thou sayest in thy song, 'What can sadness avail?
Injustice shall fall and the good shall prevail.'

"Yet bird of the wilderness, sad is our lot,
Our home, confiscated, our name, a dark blot;
The Cornish chief, stricken at Prestonpan's fight,
Wounded at Culloden for King and the right,
And captured at Braddock's defeat in the glen,
Was branded at home by a sycophant's pen.

"Oh, bird of the wildwood, upon the green bough
Thy ancestor sang just as sweetly as thou,
He sang, as thou singest, that evil should fail,
Injustice should fall, and that good should prevail;
But surely the goddess of justice is blind,
When traitor is honoured and patriot maligned.

"Sing sweetly, O wild bird, upon the green tree,
And let me draw comfort and solace from thee,
Though home's confiscated, dishonoured our name,
And poverty adds a deep sting to our shame,
And father's departed,—yet, evil shall fail,—
Some day,—right shall triumph and good shall prevail."

Clear and sweet arose the melody, and yet with a plaintive element of sadness in it. The parson paused in his steps to listen. On one side of the highway stretched the woods of the Manor, their shadow etched darkly by the slightly slanting sun-rays; on the other side were the fields, yellow, ripe, all ready for the sickle of the reaper. A wood-lark, the sweetest of all English birds, arose in the air from the Manor woods and, still twittering, flew over hedge and field, no doubt seeking its home and mate.

A smile of pleasure lit up the saintly old rector's face and then merged into the thoughtful. He made a pleasing picture leaning on his silver-headed cane, his long skirted coat slightly open at the neck, revealing the white stock-cravat in its fluffy folds, his head slightly inclined as if not willing to lose a single bar of the song. Not until the song was ended did he venture forward.

"Most remarkable song and most remarkable sweet tenor voice—yes—a great deal sweeter than Penjerrick's. I must have that voice for our parish choir."

Arriving at the corner of the woods, the silence of the singer was explained in a single, brief, cursory glance. There, seated on the hedge that separated the woods from the road, sat the figure of a boy, tall, sinewy and strong, yet still a boy. His cap had fallen to the ground and the tangled masses of dark red hair lay deep on his brow. With melancholy, abstracted air, he was gazing across the fields as if in meditation.

"Why, Ande, you are quite a singer," said the parson, in a pleasant voice.

The lad, startled from his reverie, leaped down from the hedge, picked up his cap and coming forward gave his customary salutation, "Good-morning, Parson Trant."

The parson returned the salutation and then there was silence for a moment, during which the rector scrutinised him with his kindly, yet keen grey eyes.

The lad's face was both attractive and strong. His slightly aquiline nose revealed a sensitive nature; his prominent chin and firm lips, a resolute will; his high, rolling forehead—swept by the tangled waves of rollicking hair—intellectuality; the hue of his locks and the deep blue eye, a soul that, though kind and affectionate, could be fired by strong passions. At least so conjectured the parson, who thought he could read character in human lineaments.

But these thoughts did not occupy the latter long. It was the manner of the lad that disturbed him. With bright, cheery smile he had been accustomed to greet him heretofore. Now the youth stood before him almost with the air of a culprit. He shunned the rector's eyes, and seemed as if wishing to avoid that calm scrutiny. A fleeting thought possessed the mind of the pastor. Could the youth possibly be guilty of the misdemeanours committed at the Manor? Was he wrong in his judgment of his favourite pupil? The truth of the matter was that the youth had been crying over petty vexations. At least there were tears in his eyes and, like many of his age, he disliked to be seen thus.

"Well, Ande," said Parson Trant, breaking the silence, "you have a voice that ought to be in our parish choir. Now what do you say about coming in next Sabbath morning? Mr. Penjerrick will give you a little preliminary training Saturday afternoon."

"I—I would rather not come, sir, if you could excuse me. I—I don't sing in church."

"And why not?" asked the parson, kindly.

"Because I would be singing the praises of God when—when—I don't feel like it," responded the lad a little slowly, and with some effort.

"Why, Ande, you are a Christian lad—true, you have not yet been confirmed and united to the church—but still, you are a Christian lad. Are you not?"

"I don't know, sir," said the lad, and again relapsed into silence.

"My poor lad," said the good old man, as he put one arm over the boy's shoulder, affectionately, "there's something wrong with you to-day; you are not yourself. Come now, confide in me. Tell me about it and let me give you my advice in the matter. You have not done anything wrong, have you?"

Thus questioned by the good old rector, Ande, who loved him for his worth as a true man and a noble exponent of Christianity, could not help but respond. Flinging up his head and pushing back the masses of hair that would persist in falling over his eyes, he said:

"It is this way, Mr. Trant, I have made up my mind to leave the country. There is room for me on the sea or in foreign parts. I can't bear the taunts of some of the lads at the parish school. The master doesn't know and you don't know how mean some of the boys act. There's Bob Sloan, Dick Denny and some more of that stripe that are becoming unbearable."

"Why, what do they say?" asked the parson, kindly.

"They call me the ugly Dane or Deane and cast slurs upon my father and grandfather, saying they were traitors to the government."

"Ah, in reference to the first name, methinks, my lad, you are old enough to know that that old story of the Danes seizing the wives of Englishmen has no historical foundation; in reference to the second matter, time itself must clear up the truth or falsity of the accusation. It certainly shows a mean, petty spirit to vilify a son for the reputed deeds of a father."

"Aye, there's just the point about my not singing in church. The Bible says 'the sins of the fathers shall be visited upon the children,' and I think that's unjust. Here," said the boy with a trace of angry passion in his tones, "I am taunted, despised, looked down on, not only by the lads, but by some of the grown people as well. I believe, just as you say, that it shows a small spirit in lads, men and the Bible, to condemn a lad for the faults of his father. How can I sing then?"

The parson was dumfounded and completely silenced for a moment. He was grieved and dismayed to hear how his last remark was misapplied.

"And," continued the youth, rather bitterly, "I believe, and know you believe, that neither father nor grandfather were guilty of any treason, that there's a mistake somewhere. Yet—yet I have to stand all this. Squire Vivian looks upon me with an angry look. Sir James Lanyan looks upon me as if I was a dog. Master Richard called me a traitor's cub, because I happened to be in his way this morning, and if he hadn't been on horse-back I would have made him take it back—and—and—I hate them. I hate them all!" The lad's face was marked with passion, his fists clenched, and there was an angry tear in his eye that he could not conceal. "Why does God allow all this? Why—and—and—but I'm not going to stay here and bear it."

The parson looked grave and turned the conversation for a moment by asking the name of the author of the song he had heard.

"The Song of the Lark, you mean? That was made by my father, and my mother taught me to sing it when I could first finger the harp. The harp is the only thing we have now that used to belong to the Manor." There was a sad ring in the boy's voice that but indicated the feelings within.

"Do you believe in the truth of that song?"

"Yes," responded the lad.

"Well, why don't you put in application the thought?" and Parson Trant quoted the words:

"'What can sadness avail,
Injustice shall fall, and good shall prevail.'

Now, Ande," continued the parson, "I know the history of your family almost as well as you. Your grandfather was a faithful subject of the king. He fought with Gardner at Prestonpans, at Culloden, and also against the French in the American colonies. He disappeared after Braddock's defeat and was shot a year afterward by General Armstrong's troops, by mistake, no doubt. Now consider,—at the time he had on a tattered French uniform, with a commission as captain in the French army in his pocket. These things were brought to England and, through the instrumentality of Sir Richard Lanyan, father of Sir James, the attention of the authorities was directed toward them and the Manor confiscated. Under the circumstances was not the king justified in suspicioning his loyalty? Consider, too, that England and the Hanover dynasty had been threatened seriously, by the Pretender, with another invasion of French troops. Culloden was still fresh in men's minds. Cornwall was noted for her adherence to the Stuarts in the Cromwellian wars, and even at the time of the young Pretender many noted Cornish families sympathised with him and the Stuart claims. You know the story of Burnuhall[1], and how young Prince Charles, the Pretender, spent several nights there in concealment. Do you wonder at a ready ear being given to suspicion coming from this quarter? Blame not the king or your fellows, my lad. The suspicion was natural, although the friends of your family believe that there was a mistake somewhere. Hope for the best and bear up cheerfully, my lad. You misapplied my remark some moments ago about God being unjust and that therefore you could not sing His praise. My remark applied only to men and not to God. God is above our judgment. He cannot be measured by our standards. You spoke about playing the harp. It was hard work to learn, was it not?"

[1] Burnuhall—A fine old mansion near the English Channel in the parish of Buryan, Cornwall, England. Sheltered the young Pretender in 1746.

"Yes, sir, but mother kept me at it."

"Well, so God is trying to teach you some things. You heard my sermon last Sabbath. Can you tell me the text?"

"Part of the eighteenth verse of the Hundred and Fifth Psalm, 'He was laid in iron,'" responded the boy.

"I am glad you remember it. You remember how Joseph was treated, sold into slavery, maligned, slandered, imprisoned. Yet he had done no wrong. Now is your case any worse than his? No, not nearly so bad, yet he didn't refuse to sing God's praise, although he knew God permitted him to be slandered and to be unjustly imprisoned. Now, what was it for? You remember the old Hebrew rendering that I quoted as the last thought, 'Barzel baah naphsho,' and its meaning iron entered his soul. You remember I said his soul was strengthened as with iron, on account of his suffering and dishonour, and that through that same discipline he gained the courage, wisdom, resolution and position of a prince, and became ruler o'er all Egypt. Now, Ande, God may be training you in the same way. You know Cowper's hymn, no doubt, by heart."

"God moves in a mysterious way
His wonders to perform;
He plants His footsteps in the sea
And rides upon the storm.
Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take,
The clouds ye so much dread
Are full of mercy and will break
In blessings on your head.
Judge not the Lord by feeble sense
But trust Him for His grace,
Behind a frowning Providence
He hides a smiling face!"

The beautiful hymn was quoted to the very end, and the good old parson, apparently filled with the glad, stirring thought, had a smile of exalted hopefulness on his countenance. Ande gazed at him and it seemed in that smile he read a happy augury of his own future. The parson had preached a sermon without realising it, but yet he could not fail to see the effects of his words on the youth at his side. There was a serenity on the boy's features and a new, hopeful light in the eye as he grasped the parson's hand with fervour, and said, "I'll not doubt God again, Parson Trant, and I'll not refuse to sing."

"And not hate Squire Vivian, Sir James Lanyan, or the young Master Richard?" asked the parson.

The parson had overreached himself. The youth's countenance flushed with anger and the hands were slightly clenched. There was silence.

"Perhaps it is a little too much to ask that now. That will come. Don't doubt God. Love Him and you will soon love men. In reference to the slurs of the lads, pay no attention to them and they will soon cease their annoyance. In reference to your name and the stain upon it, resolve to make a new name for yourself and your family by your own conduct. Can you think of anything more noble than to labour against unfavourable circumstances, against slander, encumbered by a stained name,—false though the accusation may be,—fighting against odds, and yet finally coming forth from the struggle, a victor, having made a new and honourable name for yourself and family? Can you, my lad?" Parson Trant gave the lad an affectionate pat upon the back.

There was silence for a moment.

"Yes, I can."

The rector was taken aback, for he had expected a different answer.

"And what is more noble?" he asked.

"I think it is better to clean the old name; and I'll do it, if I can." There was a steady light of purpose in the eye of the youth, as he replied.

The parson said nothing for a time and they walked on in silence and then——

"Perhaps you are right, lad. You are very much like your father. Those were his words and sentiments. I trust you may be more successful, though."

Parson Trant, while giving vent to these brief, epigrammatic sentences, was thinking of another matter,—the depredations on the estate of the Manor,—and had just decided to broach that unhappy subject. They were standing near the village stocks and the parson, placing his arm again in that of Ande, began the subject in an indirect manner.

CHAPTER III

THE RUNAWAY

"And as the chariot rolled along the plain,
Light from the ground he leaped, and seized the rein;
Thus hung in air, he still retain'd his hold,
The coursers frighted, and their course controlled."

—Dryden's Virgil.

"Ande, my lad, if—"

His remarks were very unceremoniously cut short by a shout from the lad.

"Look out, Mr. Trant! A runaway!" and before he had finished speaking, he caught the old parson by the shoulders and gave him a shove to one side of the road. Now the action of the youth was so quick and with such vigour, that the parson had no alternative but to go in a very undignified manner. His shovel-shaped hat went into the hedge, and with coat-tails flying like the pennants of a man-of-war, the parson was following, but tripped on some obstacle and plunged very quickly and involuntarily into a bunch of stinging nettles and thistles by the road-side.

Nor was the action too quick, for down the road, galloping and plunging as if mad, her eyes flashing and nostrils distended with terror, came the squire's black mare, Queeny. A brief glance had sufficed for the youth's quick eyes. The bit had broken in the mare's mouth. The chaise in the rear rocked from side to side in a most frightful manner, but the plucky driver, Mistress Alice, with resolute will, though pale with fear, still held the lines, seeking in vain to restrain the maddened creature. There was a quick thud, thud, thud; the creaking of wrenched axle; a rolling cloud of dust; and through it all in the rear a strained face, beautiful, yet fear-stricken, with wide, dark eyes and a tumbling mass of curly hair as black as the clouds of a moonless night.

"There was a vision of a flying, athletic, youthful form—clinging with the grip of a vice—"

Then there was a leap and a vision of a flying, athletic, youthful form, and Ande was clinging with the grip of a vise to the black, flowing mane. With his right arm up over the animal's neck, supporting himself, with the other hand he grasped the mare by the nostrils, completely shutting off all air. Then there was a struggle for the mastery. The infuriated creature reared, plunged, until there was imminent danger of the shafts breaking, but the lad was too strong to be thus shaken off. There was a cry, almost a shriek, like unto a scream of human agony, from Queeny. On, on, on plunged the creature with its human burden, but there was a slowness of speed until some hundred yards from the parson's position, when the runaway was brought to a standstill, although trembling in every limb with fright.

The squire's daughter, only too anxious to alight after that mad ride, stepped from the chaise, and between her petting and speaking to Queeny and Ande's grip, that he still maintained, the mare was pacified.

"Now," said the lad, speaking for the first time, "please unbuckle those backing straps and unhook the traces."

The girl, though unaccustomed to be ordered in this manner, saw the necessity of complying, since her rescuer did not dare to leave his position at the mare's head.

"Now, let me have the halter in the chaise."

The girl produced it, and the animal thus secured was led out of the half-ruined shafts.

Parson Trant, in the meantime, had disengaged himself from the unwelcome embrace of the nettles and thistles. Picking up his shovel-shaped hat and dusting it with his handkerchief, he placed it on his head after first arranging his scattered locks, and then hurried forward to assist the squire's daughter. That young lady had, however, finished the work before his arrival.

"Well, well, well!" exclaimed the parson, as he came up, puffing with over-exertion and mopping the perspiration from his brow. "That was a narrow escape, Mistress Alice—thank God for it—also—this brave young man. Mistress Alice, this is Master Ande Trembath."

The parson in the midst of his hurry had neither forgotten his religion nor his courtesy that seemed inherent in his very nature, but he little realised the ludicrous figure he presented in that scene. His neckerchief was all awry; one coat-tail was sadly torn by the violence of his fall and was now hanging in a most melancholy manner by a few threads from his coat; his broadcloth trowsers were soiled and covered with nettle stickers and thistle down; and his hat, in the hurry of putting it on, was located on one side of his head in a most rakish and disreputable manner.

A silvery peal of laughter from the girl, which was joined by a hastily suppressed chuckle from Ande, caused the rector to notice his condition and he was much chagrined in consequence. There was a flush on his countenance that made both of the young parties regret their hasty merriment.

"Parson Trant, you must pardon my rudeness in pushing you aside, but if I hadn't done it we both might have been hurt."

"To be sure, to be sure—don't mention it, my brave lad. You did a noble action and probably saved my life as well as that of Mistress Alice," said the parson kindly, as he patted the lad on the back.

"And as for me, dear Parson Trant, I must beg pardon for my rudeness in laughing," said the girl with regret in her tone, and then turning to Ande she thanked him for his brave conduct. "And now you must both come up to the Manor for lunch, will you not? O do, please; father will be so delighted."

Parson Trant cast a rueful glance at his clothes, saying he was hardly presentable, and then his face relaxed into a smile that widened into a good-humoured laugh as he pictured himself seated at the squire's table in his present condition. As for the lad, the invitation would have been acceptable, had he not thought of the squire's antipathy toward himself. He declined also, but accompanied the squire's daughter to the Manor gates, having first bid the kind-hearted parson adieu.

"I can't tell why it was that Queeny ran away. She never acted that way before. I was so frightened. It was very brave of you to stop her."

The lad was a trifle confused under these glowing tributes to his heroism and could make but little reply.

"Trembath—Trembath," continued the girl musingly, "why that's the name of the former owner of the Manor—that is, before my grandfather. They said he was killed in America, and you——"

"He was my grandfather," said the youth with a sensitive flush on his face. "He was an honourable man."

The flush on the face of the youth was reflected on the countenance of the girl, for she realised that she had committed an indiscretion in referring to the death of his grandfather.

There was an embarrassed silence for a time and then the girl exclaimed,

"There's Ned Pengilly!"

It was indeed the worthy lodge-keeper who appeared at the gates. To him Ande consigned the animal that he was still leading and, receiving the thanks again of the girl, he turned and wended his way toward home. Within a short distance he paused and turned, watching the retreating forms of the girl and the lodge-keeper leading Queeny. Then, with a feeling he knew not what, he once more continued his journey.

CHAPTER IV

THE PRIMROSE COTTAGE AND TOM GLAZE

"Ande, laddie, thou art late to-day. Here it is almost one o'clock—and—why—what have you been doing? Hast been fighting? Why, your jacket has a rent of fully five inches and your trowsers look as if you had been rolling over in the dirt."

The scene was in the main living room of a little stone cottage. Indeed the cottage could only boast of having two rooms and an attic—but this room was the main living room. A primrose vine covered the house front and several roses that still retained their position, though late in the season, drooped on their stems over the small, diamond-shaped window panes, as if anxious to catch a glimpse of the speaker within. A fire of Cornish furze and sea coal was blazing brightly in a grate in the chimney. A tea-kettle, suspended from a crane o'er the fire, had been humming away for quite a time and mingling its tune with the steady tick-tick-tick of a great-grandfather clock standing in the angle of the stairs that led up to the attic. A harp, its gilded framework much tarnished with age, stood in the opposite corner near the dresser, a striking contrast to the humbleness of its surroundings. A few cheap prints of country scenes, one a scene of Wellington at the battle of Waterloo, and a picture in oils of a rugged soldier—an officer evidently—who had a striking resemblance to Ande, adorned the plain white-washed walls.

The room altogether presented a cosy appearance and just now was filled with the odour of steeping tea, fresh biscuit and a scrowled pilchard—most welcome indeed to a hungry boy.

A kind, motherly looking woman, who had not yet passed middle age, was busy laying a cloth on a small centre table. She had a pleasant, refined countenance, marred a little with care, a countenance classic with its profile and grey eyes. Hair, dark, mingled with a few grey streaks, fell down gracefully o'er the ears from a parting in the centre, lending a sweet, motherly appearance to the classic features. Though clad in an ordinary common house dress, a stranger gazing at her for the first time would say she must have occupied a higher station in life in her earlier years; and his estimate would be correct.

Mrs. Thomas Trembath, the mother of Ande, for it was she, was the daughter of William Borlase, a younger son of a young branch of that illustrious Cornish family. He had been a rising young barrister of Bodman town, and would have won fame in his profession had not death claimed the bright mind. His wife and child managed to live on a thousand pounds that constituted the bulk of his little fortune. It was to Bodman that Captain Thomas Trembath came, seven years after the war with the American colonies terminated. He had never married, partly because he had been engaged in the American war and had no time to think of matrimony; partly because one great thought absorbed his attention, the vindication of his family name; and partly, most potent reason of all, no doubt, he had found no lady of his rank willing to take upon herself a name so stained with treason as his own; and, as for marrying beneath him, he gave it not a thought. He was then approaching middle age and was thinking most seriously of the problem, when, meeting young Mistress Elizabeth Borlase, he mentally decided the question. For three years this soldier, who had the courage to face the American batteries and the charge of Washington's horse, attended the Borlase home before he had the courage to settle his doubts. The daughter accepted him, but when the consent of the widow was asked there was a stormy scene. She was much outspoken against it, alleging the difference in ages, the Captain being fully fifteen years older than his affianced bride. The truth of the matter was that the widow had resolved to secure the handsome middle-aged Captain as a mate for herself and was mortified to find it was the daughter and not herself he desired.

For ten years no children were born of this union. In the year 1805, however, a male child was born.

"We will call him Borlase Trembath," said the mother, "for he has the Borlase mouth; those lips are like his grandfather's. He will be a speaker and a good singer."

As if in testimony of his mother's opinion the babe set up a lusty wail, sometimes crescendo, sometimes staccato, then babbling recitando, flourishing his fists and kicking his limbs in animal spirit.

"Oratory enough to oppose a Pitt," said the Captain, with a grimace, and putting his fingers in his ears. "He will be a parliamentarian some day, no doubt. See, he is already beginning to gesture." Then, changing his bantering tone, "He has the nose, the forehead, the blue eyes, the hair of his grandfather, Squire Andrew Trembath, my father, and why not the name."

The wife saw the desire of her husband and acquiesced in the name. "He shall be called Andrew," she said.

The Captain, though much pleased with the comforts of home and the presence of his wife and child, still retained the passion for war and battlefields. He came of a long line of Cornish soldiers and the war spirit had become intensified in himself. Was there any truth in the old legend of the blood of the Danish freebooters mingled in his ancestors? He knew not and gave it not a thought. War called him, and he joined the Iron Duke in the Peninsular campaign. When the War of 1812 with America began, fired with the same old passion to redeem his family name from the stain of treason, he secured his discharge, with the rank of major, and was soon on his way to participate in that struggle. Here he disappeared after the defeat of Proctor, and his wife and son, Ande, were succoured from dire distress and want, into which this event plunged them, by the death of the widow Borlase. Her fortune of a thousand pounds, depleted somewhat, was by regular process of law conferred upon Mrs. Thomas Trembath. Such was the condition of affairs at the time our tale opened.

"Ande, laddie, hast been fighting?"

"Well, I had a bit of a fight with Bob Sloan—a great hulking bully 'e is—but the master parted us. He called father and grandfather names and said I was a coward, and I beant a coward."

"Laddie, why are you always picking up the insults of the lads, and how often have I told you about language. 'Beant' isn't good English."

Now before the parson and other dignitaries Ande was accustomed to use good language, but before the boys and at times before his mother, he drifted into a little of the vernacular.

"Well, I forget sometimes, mother dear, but my torn clothes are due to another affair and not the fight."

The lad recited the incidents of the runaway, while engaged in eating the lunch that had been so long delayed. The mother listened with bright eyes, attending occasionally to the wants of the table, and when the tale was fully narrated, she leaned over the back of his chair, kissed his forehead, and called him her "brave laddie."

"But, laddie, how rudely you must have treated Parson Trant! Was he not angry at his fall?"

"No, mother, parson saw that I did not mean to push him down, but only tried to get him out of danger, and he laughed afterward, too."

The lunch was ended and Mrs. Trembath was bustling around, clearing the table. Ande had a project in view that afternoon. It was a half-holiday and he had purposed going to the Loe Pool with some of his fellows to gather shells, and a swim in the lake or in the sea adjoining was a pleasure to his athletic nature. The Loe Pool had other fascinations for him also. What wonderful tales were related about it! A little sheet of water below Helston, kept full by the little River Cober, having no outlet to the sea except by percolating through the sandbar which Mother Ocean, inhospitably, threw up between herself and her child; yet was it not the remnant of the old harbour of Helston. He had heard of it from the old Droll Tellers, and loved to lie on the sandbar meditating, dreaming of the things that had happened there centuries before. He knew the Phœnicians had sailed over that sandbar with their ships and the Danish freebooters in later times. It was a pleasure highly anticipated.

"Well, laddie, I suppose you must hurry back soon to school."

"No, there's no school. The master gave us a half-holiday to-day; that is the reason I loitered some on the way home."

"Then thou canst cut the furze in the croft."

Submissive to his mother, not even mentioning his disappointment, with furze cutter o'er his shoulder, the youth sallied forth and was soon busy in the furze croft, a sort of high, rough land in which the furze grew. The prickly, shrubby plant grew around him in great abundance, some of them reaching the height of three feet. He paused for a moment during which he viewed with delight the abundance of its golden flowers, dappling the whole field with its starlike disks. It was a pity to cut them down, thought the lad, but then we must have something to burn, and what is equal to furze in a grate on a cold evening? With this thought he again wielded the cutter with a will, and the desired amount was soon bound in bundles, ready to carry to the cottage.

"Well, young squire, and how dost like the work?"

The remark emanated from a tall, muscular man, in shirt-sleeves, who, leaning on the hedge, calmly smoked a "bob" or short Cornish pipe. He was a little over the medium height but looked short because of the heavy shoulders and thick, muscular arms and limbs which nature and hard work had given him. The face was kindly, good-humoured, honest and open. By his general outline he was neither a hard eater or drinker. There was a suppleness and ease in this young man of twenty-six that made him admired by the whole country around, a suppleness demonstrated by the ease with which he placed one hand on the hedge and leaped lightly over.

"Pretty well, thank 'ee, Tom Glaze," responded Ande.

"I 'eard that thou and Bob Sloan 'ad a bit of a scrimmage this marning and that 'e was a bit too much for 'ee. Is that so?"

The welcome look died out of the lad's face and he flushed, angrily.

"There's no truth in that at all," he said, curtly.

Glaze laughed heartily and then, seeing he had offended his young friend, sought to soothe his spirit.

"Come now, no offence, I 'opes. There's no dishonour in your being licked by Bob, seeing as how 'e is both bigger and older. He 'as beaten you when 'ee were smaller, 'asn't 'e?"

"Yes, 'e has, but I would like to know why you are throwing the defeats at my 'ead, when you say they were no dishonour."

Tom Glaze laughed again and then seated himself boy-fashion on the turf, embracing one knee with his great arms.

"Let me tell 'ee a tale. There was once a great rogue elephant that lived in the jungles of Africey. He was a very bad 'un, 'e was, I can tell 'ee. He 'ad great long tusks and a great trunk and everybody was afeared of 'im because 'e was so large. He was mean, too. The other elephants banded together and drove 'im from the herd, and in spite 'e began to abuse all the other animals of the jungle. There was also a young lion that come that way one day. He 'adn't been long away from 'is mother's 'ome in the jungle, but he thought 'e was big enough to go forth to seek 'is fortune in the world. He was a-lying asleep in the path when Mr. Elephant come by. 'Out of my way,' bellowed the elephant. Young Lion reared up and says he wasn't going to move a step. With that Mr. Bad Elephant seized 'im with 'is trunk and flung 'im pretty 'ard into the bush and walked on. What did Young Lion do? He went straight 'ome to 'is father and told 'im all about it and 'is father was pretty mad, but 'e didn't say much. He thought a bit and then 'e said: 'My son, 'ee need a few tricks of the lion trade.' And then he began to teach 'im some of the tricks, 'ow to spring and where to land. The next time Young Lion met Mr. Bad Elephant, 'e 'ad all the tricks of the trade and 'e just beat the elephant all around, clawed 'im up so that 'is best friends wouldn't know 'im. The animals of the jungle all come together and gave a public feast in honour of Young Lion and they thought 'e was a public hero."

Tom Glaze ceased speaking, and smiled again.

The lad said nothing.

Now this Tom Glaze had always inspired Ande Trembath with admiration. Tom had been a tin miner for years, but he also had another calling. Cornwall was and always will be noted for her wrestlers and boxers, and, though Glaze was not a champion, he was on the highway to that distinction. There were only three or four wrestlers in the whole country that he could not defeat. In addition to this he was an all-round athlete. Many a time Ande had seen him break the head of his opponent at the contest of quarter-staff at the county fairs.

"Now why do I tell 'ee about thy defeats? Why? 'Cause I've sized 'ee up, many a time, and says I to myself, that with summat of a training thee could do wonders. All 'ee needs is the tricks and the training."

"And could I beat Bob?" asked Ande, eagerly.

"Bob? Aye, and two like 'im, and I would like to see 'ee do it. Now thee art about through with furze cutting let me give 'ee a lesson or two."

Ande sprang nimbly to his feet and Tom having arisen, they set to work.

What tugging there was in the scrimmages! What dodging! At first it was slow work, but as the lad learned point after point he speedily put them into practice. With all his heart, with the remembrance of Bob's insults strong within him, with the consciousness of his strength yet undeveloped, and with the burning desire to avenge some of those insults to his family honour, Trembath was resolved to profit by the instruction of his teacher.

"Bravo! Bravo! That was finely done," exclaimed Tom, when the youth, having learned a new dodge and counter, put the same into practice in a way that delighted the wrestler.

"Now, I suppose we 'ad better go 'ome, as thy mother may be looking for 'ee. But, mind 'ee, my lad, doant'ee go a-telling of this. Doant'ee go a-telling. Why? 'Cause you want to take Bully Bob by surprise. Thee meet me 'ere every evening, and thee will soon knack Bob off 'is pins."

The good-humoured wrestler vaulted the hedge and strode lightly and rapidly away, while Ande shouldered his burden of furze and started toward the Primrose Cottage.

CHAPTER V

"THE BIG HA' BIBLE, ANCE HIS FATHER'S PRIDE."[2]

[2] Burns' "Cotter's Saturday Night."

Burns has beautifully described the cotter's Saturday night, but that was the cotter of Scotland. Cornwall, too, has that beautiful and appropriate custom, not only of closing the week but also the day with the worship of God.

Supper is over in the Primrose Cottage. The sun is slowly sinking to rest in the watery bed of the western sea, flecking and streaking the distant blue into a variegated coverlet for its nightly repose. In a few hours twilight will come and then night with its darkening mantle. The main living room of the cottage is gilded by the slanting sunbeams that glisten through the small, diamond window panes and the open doorway. The floor of stone has been freshly sanded with white sea sand and raked and marked in neat figures. Ande Trembath is interested in a new tale that seems fascinating to him. It is Scott's "Lady of The Lake." Mrs. Trembath is seated in a comfortable rocking chair, knitting, for Ande must have warm stockings for the coming cold weather. The hour of worship peals out from the great clock in the corner of the stairs. Without a word, the lad places away the tale he has been perusing and picks up the worn gilded volume of God's word. The mother places her knitting on the small side table and prepares to listen, while her laddie opens the book with care at the One Hundred and Fifth Psalm. The reading of God's providence revealed there seemed to have additional interest for the lad, and he paused for a moment over the eighteenth verse and thought over the parson's morning talk. The Scripture ended, the mother and son kneel in prayer, using not only the prayer of ordinary evening worship, but that other prayer for the safety of those astray on sea or land, and as the mother reads reverently the latter prayer, the thoughts of both are concentrated on the dear one lost amidst the American wilds eight long years ago. Then followed the Lord's prayer, repeated in concert, until the part "forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us," where the lad's voice faltered, and ceased for a moment, resuming the prayer in concert with his mother when the phrase was passed.

The prayers were ended and the harp was brought forth with loving care. The lad handled it with reverence, for it was his father's, and his grandfather's, and he knew not how far it had dwelt in the annals of his family. Then came the strains of Bishop Ken's Evening Hymn,

"Glory to Thee, my God, this night,
For all the blessings of the light;
Keep me, O keep me, King of kings,
Under Thine own almighty wings."

The worship was finished and the Word, the prayer book, and the harp replaced in their usual positions; Ande had returned to his "Lady of The Lake," the mother to her knitting. There was no sound for a time save the monotonous click, click of the knitting needles, keeping up a sort of recitative duet with the tick, tick of the clock.

"Ande, laddie, why is it that thou dost not repeat the whole of the Lord's prayer with me? I have noticed the last few times and have wondered."

The lad was silent for a moment and his face flushed.

"I cannot, mother dear," he said simply.

"Why, laddie?"

"Because there are some I cannot forgive, it seems. There's Sir James Lanyan and Richard, his son, Squire Vivian, and Bob Sloan, and—and—they treat a person mean. When I think of the Lanyans and Squire Vivian and how they or their people treated ours and took away the estate, and—and when I think to-day how they treat father's and grandfather's memory, I cannot feel like forgiving them and I can't say 'forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us,' for that would be asking God not to forgive me."

As Ande Trembath referred to the Lanyans there was an angry light in his eyes, which softened into gloom as he spoke of the Lord's prayer.

"Ande, laddie, we must pray to God to help us to forgive. 'If ye forgive not men their trespasses, neither will your heavenly Father forgive your trespasses.'"

The widow was silent. She felt as keenly as her 'laddie' the injustice done the Trembath family and there was a half-inaudible sigh from her lips. She had not that bitter, unforgiving spirit, but she knew the temper and spirit of her laddie. Will time ever remove the sting of an unjust act? she thought. It was of no use to urge the point now with her boy. She must think.

There was a clicking of the garden gate; a step was heard on the stone garden walk, and a figure appeared at the door. It was that of a man clad in livery dress—knee-breeches of nankeen, long stockings, and low shoes with immense silver buckles, and a coat of velveteen. In short, he was clad very much like a gentleman of the period fifteen years before, but inasmuch as the majority of the gentry had adopted the new costume of trowsers, the knee-breeches, low shoes, and long stockings generally indicated the servant. And such he was—Master Stephen Blunt, Squire Vivian's steward. Master Blunt doffed his cap and hesitated a moment. Mrs. Trembath paled a little, for the steward was scarcely ever the bearer of good news. He was a general factotum of the squire. He rented farms, collected the dues, was an officer of justice, the terror of small boys, and, in short, was a kind of constable, sheriff, and prime minister of the squire's little domain.

Concerning the rent there was nothing to fear, for the Trembath's had owned in fee simple as it was called, for many years, the Primrose cottage and the few fields adjoining.

Master Blunt was a silent man, not wasting many words.

"The squire wanted to see Ande a bit," he stated.

A new thought flashed across the mother's mind. It was her laddie's bravery in stopping the runaway in the morning. Yes, the squire was going to reward her laddie and a more favourable understanding was going to be established between the squire's people and theirs. She communicated her opinion to her boy in a whisper as she assisted in getting him ready. There was a smile of happiness on her countenance which Master Blunt, seated on the garden settle outside, did not observe.

Ande Trembath, however, was not so happy to go. Honour heaped upon him for an act that he considered only an ordinary matter-of-fact affair, and especially by one whom he considered in the light of an enemy, to be hated and to be hated in return, was distasteful to him; but he knew the necessity of going, as one did not dare disobey the squire.

CHAPTER VI

SQUIRE AND PARLIAMENTARIAN

Thud, thud, thud, thud.

Squire Vivian was riding at a smart pace on the solid roads. He was fond of horse-back riding, but long ago, having given up riding after the hounds, he was constrained to solace himself by daily trips over the turnpike. This was not exercise, however. He must see his old friend, Sir James Lanyan, about one or two things, and so, after a hasty lunch and a word of instruction to the steward, he mounted his fast-pacing cob and was off. His thoughts were not very pleasant as he started forth. He was thinking of the conversation he had had with Parson Trant just a short time before.

"The lad is guilty," he muttered, and then there was silence save for the rapid hoof strokes.

"He shall smart for it. The traitor's cub!"

The squire compressed his lips and the frown on his ruddy features boded ill to Ande Trembath. Then pleasant thoughts gained the upper hand. He had reached the confines of his estate and the fields and woods of Lanyan Hall stretched on either side of the highway. There were round hillocks nodding like Indian chieftains with their proud headgear, downs alive with cattle and sheep, farmhouses of stone—as short and thick-set in appearance as the sturdy farmers that occupied them. Yes, thought Squire Vivian, with a smile, these shall belong to Alice when she marries young Richard. My Lady Alice sounds as good as any other name with a Lady attached to it. The pleasant expression passed and a worried look came in its place. He was thinking of the Parson's disapprobation of young Richard. The vale was passed and Lanyan moor, as wild and uninviting as his thoughts—Lanyan moor, a high rough land of a few miles in extent, covered with a rank, rough grass, extended on either side. Under the influence of his surroundings and pressed by his thoughts, the squire spurred the cob into a gallop and after a few minutes the gables and tower of Lanyan Hall greeted his vision. It was a stately mansion, built partly in the Queen Anne style and partly in the style of previous times, one side being built during the Crusades, of Cornish moor-stone that lent a heavy warrior-like appearance to the whole structure.

The owner, Sir James Lanyan, a son of that Lanyan whose agitation in certain quarters of the government had produced the confiscation of the Trembath estates, like his grandfather, had devoted considerable time to politics and had been twice in Parliament; but failing of re-election he had turned the strength of his ambitious mind to the rebuilding of his fortunes, which were sadly shattered by the schemes and speculations of his grandfather.

His grandfather, in coöperation with Sunderland, the Premier of that time, had been unduly interested in the South Sea Bubble; but though Sunderland cleared his skirts in the gigantic swindle, Sir James, Sr., was entrapped. His estates were heavily mortgaged and his private fortune ruined. He died of a broken heart, bequeathing to Sir Richard, Sr., his son, the ancestral hall and its liabilities.

Sir Richard, Sr., was a rogue, with very little ability. Casting about by hook or crook to retrieve his father's reverses, he thought he saw an opportunity in the reputed treason of Squire Andrew Trembath. His covetous eye surveyed the rich farms and woods adjoining his own, and so, with the outward reason of loyalty to King George, and the inward hope of profit, he turned the keen eyes of government authorities upon the matter.

The name of the Stuart and France were still to be dreaded. The first tendency in that direction must be crushed and an example made. The fiat went forth, the estates were confiscated, but Sir Richard, Sr., instead of receiving them or even a money reward, received a flattering letter from London, a ribbon of honour and a star. With a muttered oath he flung the bauble from him and ground the letter under his heel. He knew what all men were to know in time, that neither Newcastle nor Pitt were as free-handed as Walpole.

The present Sir James, a son of Sir Richard, Sr., had inherited the bold, daring, scheming ambition of his grandfather, and was in every way superior to his father, Richard. At first, a great Parliament man, he gradually lost power with the electors, or rather they lost in terest in him; then he turned his attention to the task in which both his father and grandfather had laboured in vain.

On the day mentioned, the squire rode up the drive-way and with a sigh, for the gallop had wearied him. He slipped from the saddle, gave the cob into the hands of a servant, and mounting the veranda, raised the rapper and sent a peal through the old house that speedily brought to the door a footman, clad in green livery. By him he was ushered into the main living room—a large hall, its walls curiously and artistically panelled in wood. Here he reposed himself in a large armchair by the open fireplace and awaited, musingly, the coming of Sir James.

Yes, thought the squire, a fine old place—a fine old place—and my Allie will be one of the first of Cornwall. Then he mused on.

There was a sound of a soft tread on the floor behind him, and a smooth, liquid baritone voice broke the reverie.

"Well, my old friend, so you have decided to return my call."

The squire almost leaped to his feet, for, lost in his thoughts, the voice startled him.

"Zounds! Sir James, you come in like a spirit."