Читать книгу Ande Trembath: A Tale of Old Cornwall England - Matthew Stanley Kemp - Страница 4

Table of Contents

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: