Читать книгу Ande Trembath: A Tale of Old Cornwall England - Matthew Stanley Kemp - Страница 14

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REPARATION

Some days elapsed before Ande went near the village or the Manor. With a boyish burst of confidence, he related the whole affair to his mother, who was not only shocked, but highly indignant at the treatment accorded her "laddie." The lad refused to attend school and lost some of his old buoyant spirit. In these days, he spent most of his time working around the home place, meeting frequently Tom Glaze, in the furze croft, and profiting much by his training. Tom had heard of Ande's shameful treatment, and had given him much advice, that seemed phenomenal, coming from such a pugilistic character.

"See 'ere, my lad, doan't 'ee go a-moping around, looking as ghastly as a death's head on a mopstick. Thee might as well knaw there's no use a-fighting sarcumstances that way. The squire will discover his mistake some day, and will maake all right. When the lads tease 'ee a bit about the stocks, doan't 'ee take any offence. Doan't 'ee fight o'er little things."

"Aye, but the world treats a man pretty hard once when he is down, and what's a fellow to do?"

"Why, above all things, doan't 'ee be a great chuckle-head, but have some judgment," said Tom, at which Ande flushed angrily. "Now doan't 'ee take no offence. What I means is this. Did 'ee ever see a kicking donkey? Treat un kindly and 'e won't kick. Smile and duck your 'ead to the world and say, 'What cheer,' or ''Ow do 'ee do,' and the world will smile and bow or duck back and say, 'Pretty well, thank 'ee,' or 'Brave, thank 'ee.' Frown, and give the world the cold shoulder, and you gets the same. They say the Golden Rule is 'Do unto others as 'ee would be done by,' but the practical rule is 'Others do to 'ee as 'ee do by they.'"

"Well, Master Glaze, that doesn't 'old good in my case. Here I did good to Squire Vivian and received evil in return."

"Exceptions prove the rule. Anyhow, try my hadvice."

Ande did try Tom's advice, and was gratified to see that, with the exception of Bully Bob Sloan, all the village lads improved in their conduct toward him. The rescue of Mistress Alice was soon noised abroad, and he was considered almost in the light of a hero by the juvenile element.

One evening, as the lad was returning from the furze croft, he noticed a chaise and pony at his mother's door. It was the chaise of Mistress Alice, who had, since the affair with Queeny, betaken herself to the pony and chaise when desiring an airing. His mother had received her with a certain amount of cold dignity which her feelings would scarcely allow her to conceal.

There was a variety of emotions in the lad's breast as he approached. There was anger at Squire Vivian's indignity to him, a feeling of shame at the report of his depredations, and an emotion that had lived in his soul for quite a time, but which he had never fully analysed. From early childhood he had remembered the squire's daughter. He remembered, with all a youth's tenacity, how he was led to church by the tall, soldierly man, his father, and how rapidly he had to move his infantile feet to keep up with the soldier's tread. In the family pew he would sometimes turn his head to a nice dark-haired little miss of a few summers' age, seated in Squire Vivian's pew. Once she had shyly and demurely returned his look, then quickly turned away, as if displeased. He had asked his father afterward whether he didn't think the squire's girl a "pretty little maid," and he remembered the hearty roar of laughter with which his father responded. Since he had been attending the parish school, he had not seen her much. Indeed, he had never become acquainted with her before the affair of the runaway. He had always admired those dark elfin locks, and in church he had thought if he had one of them how he would cherish it, and then he had flushed crimson at what he thought almost a profanation. He had always admired her, but the feeling he had had for quite a time past could neither be admiration nor friendship. He had not analysed it. It was this strange sentiment that had led him frequently into the vicinity of the Manor, before the regrettable affair of the stocks. His appearance there on the evening of the killing of the mastiff was an incident of that kind. He had conceived a passion for flowers, and especially for the flow ers of a garden plot, watered and attended by the hand of Mistress Alice. Could he secure one of those blossoms? Now, Ande was the perfect soul of honour, but he had had a hard fight with himself to keep from appropriating what was not his own. The slightness of the offence, the intensity of his feelings, the heritage of his ancestors, all urged the harmlessness of the deed. He might have secured one by request, but he would have died before exposing his feelings to ridicule.

Ande stood near the threshold with a tumult of feelings within him, that made him look more like an awkward, country lout than the grandson of a squire.

"Master Trembath, I have come to beg your pardon for the hasty act of father."

Ande could not help noticing the slight colouring of her features, enhanced by the wealth of dark locks overhead. There was a sincerity and earnestness in her tone that made her a hundred times more attractive than he had ever seen her before. He mastered himself with a great effort.

"The apology comes from the wrong person, Mistress Vivian, and the deed being done, cannot be undone."

"It was a cruel injustice," said Mrs. Trembath, with some little warmth in her tone, "and I wondered how the squire could have done it, seeing how bravely my laddie acted in the runaway."

The young girl flushed at the charge of injustice.

"Indeed, father was not aware of Master Trembath's brave conduct; he was away all afternoon, and I was not aware of the judgment on Master Trembath until the following day. I was very much vexed over the whole affair, and when I told father, he, too, was chagrined, yet he said the circumstances were so much against Master Trembath that he didn't see how he could amend matters. I want you to accept these flowers, Master Trembath, as a token of my high esteem, and I trust that you will neither consider my father nor myself in any hard light."

She placed the large bouquet of flowers on the settle and turned to depart. Mrs. Trembath placed her hand on the dark, raven locks of the squire's daughter as she stood on the portico step.

"And may God's blessing attend you, Mistress Vivian, for your kind and charitable spirit, and may your father be imbued with the same!"

Ande accompanied her to the pony chaise. His righteous indignation against the squire was mitigated by this unexpected visit and by the flowers. He had coveted only a single blossom; here was a gorgeous bunch from her very hand.

They made a pretty picture, standing without the gate, in the rays of the setting sun. The pony stood patiently waiting near the hedge, occasionally nibbling a choice bit of herbage that seemed to seek safety from his investigating jaws in the rough rock crevices.

"I thank you very much; the flowers are very beautiful."

"And you will not think hard of my father."

The youth was silent and bit his lip; then avoiding the question, he answered:

"It was not the stocks, but the accusation and the condemnation, that has made all people look down on me."

"Oh, Master Trembath——"

"Call me Ande; it's more natural to me; you were going to say——"

"I was going to ask whether you could not clear yourself from being on the grounds at that time."

"No. I was there."

"After your having saved my life. I shudder to think of it——"

"You shudder to think of my saving your life," said the youth, a little stiffly.

"Oh, no. How you misunderstand me!"

"You mean you are pleased," said Ande, brightening.

"Stupid!" said the girl, a little indignant. "Why don't you let me finish my sentence."

Ande was abashed at this rebuff.

"I shuddered at the accident that might have been, and I want to see you justified. Now if you could tell me why you were there I could inform father, and he, being the soul of honour, would make all right."

"No, I cannot tell my reason," said the youth, flushing painfully.

"And not even tell me, when you know I am so interested in having you brought out from under this cloud."

"If you knew you would not tell him either," said the youth, doggedly.

She gazed at him quickly. Somehow in her young woman soul she seemed to read his reason. Yes, in a moment, with that keen intuition, developed earlier in woman than in man, she read through this hesitation, this confusion. She knew.

"I can tell who did the deed, though," said the lad, for he thought of the information of the gipsy chief, and that now he was at perfect liberty to tell.

"Who?" asked the girl, eagerly. This youth that had so bravely saved her life should be justified.

Ande related the events of his rescue from the stocks and the tale of the gypsy chief. The girl listened with brightening eye and kindling cheeks.

"It must be so, for how could you have gotten forth from the stocks? No one would have dared to let you out but a person like that. I know how we all wondered when Stephen Blunt came in and told my father that the stocks were empty. But why did you not tell this before?"

"Because Midnight Jack told me it would not hurt them if it wasn't told for a day or so."

"I shall see that you are justified. You have been shamefully treated."

The squire's daughter mounted into the pony chaise, grasped the lines with her slender, gloved hands, and with a smile was gone.

"Poor lad! He has been shamefully treated and he shall be justified," she thought to herself. "How foolish I was not to see before. He loves me," she said softly. "He is good looking and tall and man-like for his age." Then there was a pause in her soliloquy, unbroken save by the pony hoofs. Then she drew her brows down with a slight frown. "Pshaw!" Then the scowl left her features and she broke into a slight, nervous laugh. "Absurd!"

The remainder of the drive was spent in silence, but there was heightened colour in her cheeks and a soft, pellucid light in her eyes.

Old Sloan took the pony and chaise at the entrance of the great house, and Mistress Alice tripped up the steps and into the hall. The old squire was seated by the hall fire, meditating apparently, for his chin was resting on his hand and he had his eyes fixed upon the flaming coals. His daughter bent over his chair, and lightly kissed his forehead; then drawing a stool near him she seated herself, leaning her head against him and waiting for him to speak.

But the old squire did not speak for a time; he placed his big, brown hand upon his daughter's dark locks, and still gazed into the fire. It was the daughter that broke the silence.

"Father, I have news to tell you."

"Well, Allie?"

"It was not Master Trembath that killed Borlase, or drained the pond; it was one of the gipsies." Then she poured forth the whole story of Ande's escape from the stocks, while the old squire listened, as he gazed into the fire. When she had finished he gazed at her.

"I know it, Allie. I had my eyes opened, and even saw the rogue, this afternoon, at Sir James Lanyan's. Sir James had him up for some offence and he confessed all, the rogue."

"And about Master Trembath?"

"Aye, that's what troubles me. I can't see what I can do to justify him. True, I can exonerate him, but to make reparation for the injustice of putting the lad into the stocks—I can't see what I can do. The lad is better than I thought, if he does have treasonable blood."

"We must exonerate him by announcing it in the parish school and at the church. We ought to reward him, too, for stopping the runaway. It ought not to be said that a Vivian received a favour of such kind, from any one, without doing something in return."

"Reparation shall be made!" exclaimed the squire, emphatically. Alice had touched him in his pride. She had also touched him on the side of his honesty and uprightness.

"We will have it announced in the parish school and church, as you say; the whole parish knew it when he was placed in the stocks, and the whole parish shall know of it—that he is not guilty—that—that——But we must do something else. That will be only common justice. We must reward the lad,—but how?"

The eyes of Mistress Alice became luminous; she was winning her case. With deftness she proceeded.

"He doesn't like to attend school, so Parson Trant says, and I was thinking how nice it would be to send him to the Helston Grammar School. Now, father, if you could make the offer?"

The squire brightened. He had found a way out of his difficulties. He kissed his daughter and called her a wise, little prime minister. He hastened away that very evening to the parson's house, and the old rector was delighted to be the means of Ande's reinstatement in popular favour.

After the departure of Mistress Alice from the Primrose Cottage, Ande had better thoughts of the squire and his people. Somehow or other he felt lighter of heart, but his mind was strangely confused. During the evening hymn instead of the sweet strains of Ken's Evening Hymn he was guilty of fearful, musical blunders.

As he lay awake under the eaves that night, his imagination still carried him back to the garden-gate scene. Yes, she stood before him just as attractive in memory as she did then. In impatience he tried to banish her face.

"Fudge," said he "I'll get Glaze to give me a skevern in the chacks that will knock some sense into my addled head."

He dreamed that night that he was under the walls of the great house, near Mistress Alice's window, and that he was playing on the harp of his fathers. Once he thought he saw her face—then it changed to the features of the squire—and, wonder to relate, a smile upon his rugged features—then over the squire's shoulders appeared the sardonic countenance of Sir James Lanyan. He changed the strains to the Hymn of the Lark, and Sir James paled and fled.