PREFACE
When visiting my native county some time since, I was struck with the modern, "up-to-date," aspect of men and things. In this respect Cornwall has much changed even during the twenty years since I left it. The quiet, old-world feeling which I can remember has gone, and instead there is a spirit of eagerness, almost amounting to rush. I discovered, too, that the old stories, dear to me, are forgotten. All the old superstitions have passed away. I remember asking a man whether there were any witches or ghosts in his vicinity. "Look," he said, in reply, pointing at a telegraph post, "they things 'ave destroyed boath witches and ghoasts." And yet, less than four decades ago, when I was a child, ghosts, witches, charms, omens, and the like were firmly believed in. Perhaps the most vivid remembrance I have of my childhood's days, are those connected with the weird stories of the supernatural which my mother used to tell us, as I with my brothers and sisters sat around a roaring fire on winter evenings. I called to mind, too, the haunted places, which I feared to pass after dark; but on inquiring of the new generation concerning these same places, I found an utter ignorance of their old-time reputation. Old Tommy Dain, the famous wizard, is forgotten, while Betsey Flew, she who could blight corn, cause milk to turn sour, and ill-wish all but the eldest son of a family, has no part in the life of the present generation. And yet I remember wearing, for months, a charm which old Betsey had prepared for me, with what result I cannot tell, save that I never had the disease from which the charm was to save me. As for curing warts, crooked legs, weak backs, and other ailments by the means used in the good old days—well, they are utterly forgotten. In short, Cornwall, which even in my boyish days was the very Mecca of Folklore and superstition, has been completely changed. The spirit of "modernity" is everywhere, and thus the old West Country has gone, and a new West Country has taken its place.
Whether this has been an unmixed blessing, or not, I have grave doubts; anyhow, the Cornwall I love to think about is the Cornwall of my boyhood, when apparitions from the spirit-land were common, when omens and charms were firmly believed in, and when the village parson had power to "lay a ghost," by reading the burial service a second time over a grave, and taking great care to turn the prayer-book "up-side-down."
Much of the story which is here offered to the public was written some years ago, when the memory of the old time was more vivid than it is now; and although it has been re-written, I trust I have retained in its pages something of the atmosphere of mystery and romance for which my native county was once so famous. Indeed, the prologue, while not absolutely true to fact, is true in spirit. The story is not mine at all, but was told me long years ago by those who were old when I was but a boy, and who had no doubt of the truth of what they related. I am afraid I have not pieced their somewhat confused narratives together very well, although one told me by an old dame with wild eyes, and a strong love for a "bit ov bacca," which is reproduced in the chapter entitled "The Vault under the Communion," haunts me even yet.
JOSEPH HOCKING.
TREVANION,
WOODFORD GREEN,
The New Year, 1905.
PROLOGUE
I
The following story came to my knowledge under somewhat curious circumstances:—
I had gone to Cornwall, my native county, to spend my summer vacation, and there met with an old college chum, who asked me to accompany him on a walking tour.
"Where?" I asked.
"Let us do the Cornish coast," he replied, "it is the finest and most rugged coast in England. The scenery around is magnificent; there are numberless old legends told about many of the places we shall see; and I know that legends have always had a great attraction for you."
I must confess to a weakness for anything romantic, and was attracted by the proposal. Accordingly, we journeyed by train and coach to the most northern watering-place on the eastern coast of Cornwall, viz., Bude, and commenced our journey southward.
As this personal reminiscence is only written to tell how I came by the remarkable history which follows, I shall say nothing of our journey that has not a direct bearing on that history.
We had been walking some days, I need not say how many, when we saw, standing on a rough headland, and yet some little distance from the sea, an old house. It caught my attention the moment I first glanced at it. Grey and lonely, it looked the residence of some misanthrope or hermit, and its tower and battlements gave it the appearance of some feudal castle.
"That's a strange looking old place, Will," I said to my companion.
"It is, indeed," he replied. "It looks in good repair, too. I wonder if it's inhabited?"
"The best way to know is to go and see," I replied, and accordingly we bent our steps thither.
As we drew nearer we saw a hollow, which looked as though it had been scooped out by some giant's spade. In it were built two or three cottages, and by the fact of there being some tumbled-down houses near, we came to the conclusion that at one time a little village must have stood there.
"What in the world have people to do or live for here?" said Will. "We are five miles from any place that can be called a town, and there's scarcely a house near. Everything is as weird and lonely as the wilderness of Judea."
"I expect they live on the fish they catch, and the produce of their little farms," I said; "but come, there's a man yonder, we'll question him."
Accordingly we hailed him and he waited, evidently with some degree of curiosity, until we came up.
"What's the name of this place?" asked Will.
"Trewinion," was the reply.
"Trewinion? Is it in the parish of Trewinion?"
"Iss."
"Is there a parish church anywhere near?"
"Iss."
"Where?"
"There," pointing southward.
We saw a little grey tower about half a mile away, evidently a part of the building after which we had been inquiring.
"Are there any houses there?" we asked.
"Five."
"Whose are they?"
"Passon Teague's, Muster Yelland's, Bill Treloar's, Tom Williams's, and Jack Jory's."
"And what's the name of yonder place?" asked Will, pointing to the old house we had seen on the great headland.
The man looked at us curiously, and then replied:
"Trewinion Manor."
"It looks old," I said. "Is it?"
"Ould's Mathusla," was the brief reply.
"Who lives there?"
"Th' oull Sir Nick."
"Sir Nick" is the term usually applied by the Cornish people to his Satanic Majesty. Scenting a story I eagerly inquired what he meant.
"Well, he d' live there," was the reply.
"And what does he do?"
The man shook his head gravely. "Nobody knows but hisself," was the reply.
"But does the devil live there alone?" asked Will.
The man looked at us again, as though he wondered who we were.
"Who be you?" he said.
"We are simply out for a holiday," I replied, "and, as we were walking along, we saw that old place, and wondering what it was, and to whom it belonged, we thought we'd ask."
"Then you be'ant no friend or 'lation to un up there?" he said.
"None."
"Nor you wa'ant say nothin' to un ef I tell 'ee?"
"Not a word."
"Well, then, ould Squire Trewinion do live there."
"Alone?"
The man shook his head.
"Two ould servants," he said, solemnly.
"Is there anything strange about him?" I asked.
"Shud think ther es," he replied.
"What?"
"What! Why he've sold hisself to tho'ull Sir Nick, who do stick to un like a limpet to a rock."
As this mediaeval belief has scarcely died away among the Cornish people, I attached no importance to it, but asked in a jocular way for what he had sold himself.
"Nobody knows," the man replied, "but he hev sould hisself, and now he do never come out to shaw hisself nor nothin'. He wa'ant speak to nobody, and is as ugly as sin."
"Are these Trewinions important people?" asked Will.
"'Portant!" said the man, "sh'd think they be; why oal the land round do belong to un, and I've heerd my faather say as 'ow in th' ould days it was the grandest plaace in oal Cornwall; but now—m—m—m!"
"Now, what?" I asked.
"Hunted!"
"Hunted! Haunted, I suppose you mean. By what?"
"Ghoasts and evil sperrits, as well as with th' oull Sir Nick."
"Do you ever go up there?"
"No; I kip away in the daytime, and as fur goin' ther after dark, I wouldn't for a crock of gould."
We asked the man many more questions, but could get nothing much further from him. All I could gather was that the Trewinions had been a great people, but had fallen on evil days as the result of their own sinning, and that the present representative of the family was a recluse, living alone in the old Manor House, and that many curious stories were told about him.
"Well," said Will to me, "I think we've heard enough; let us get away from this outlandish place."
"Not until I've inquired at the place itself," I replied.
"You are mad," said he. "Evidently this old man is some strange creature, who prefers living alone, and will no doubt think it a piece of impudence on our part if we call. Perhaps he will set the dogs after us."
"Nevertheless, I'm going," I replied. "If you like to remain behind, you may do so; but I want to know the truth of this. I suspect a good story."
"Oh, well, if you will be foolish, I'll go," said Will, "but remember we have to walk twelve miles before we get to our resting-place to-night."
I did not reply, but went away in the direction of Trewinion Manor, while Will, grumbling, came on behind.
As we ascended the hill the view became wondrously grand. At least fifteen miles of coast were to be seen, with great rugged cliffs, hundreds of feet high, while huge rocks stood out in the sea as if inviting the fury of the waves as they broke upon them. In winter it must be almost terrible to live there, but now it was beautiful beyond compare. We found, too, that the old house was somewhat sheltered, on the one hand by the great headland which rose higher as it neared the sea, and on the other by a thick, lofty wall. Besides this, a hill which rose up landward broke the force of the wind, so that it was not so exposed as I had at first thought.
There was no way of entering the grounds save by a door that was locked. It was thick and heavy, made of oak, and iron studded.
"Evidently those within are determined to keep out intruders," I said, as I saw the grim forbidding wall.
"I should think so," replied Will. "Now let's go on, for it's only waste of time to stay here."
My love for the mysterious, however, was too strong to allow Will's words to have due effect, and seeing a breach in the wall I climbed it. I found that this enclosure had so far sheltered the grounds of the house that a quantity of vegetation of various kinds had grown there, and although the place was now in a very neglected condition, it must in past years have provided for a great household. The house looked extremely lonely, and no soul was to be seen. I confess I was taken a little aback at this. To gain admittance did not seem either as pleasant or as easy as at first sight. I did not like to shout. The silence of the place, only broken by the sobbing of the waves, hundreds of feet below, forbade it, while to knock at the old iron-studded door was equally unseemly.
Yet I did not like to go away. My curiosity continued to increase, so I came down from the wall and began to examine the door. To my delight I saw fastened to a great gray rock, on which the door was partly hung, a piece of iron at the end of a chain.
Evidently this was in some way a means of communication with the house. I seized, and pulled it.
No sooner had I done so than I heard the clanging of a bell away up in the old house.
"There," I said to Will, who had kept on protesting, "perhaps that is like the bells in the old monasteries; it will frighten away all evil spirits."
Will grumbled about my having "plenty of cheek," while I waited, somewhat anxiously, I confess, for an answer.
Presently I heard a murmur of voices within, and then the withdrawing of bolts. After a few seconds the door turned on its rusty hinges and revealed two men both about fifty years of age.
"What do you want?" asked one sternly.
"I want to see Squire Trewinion," I replied boldly. I felt it would be of no use hesitating, and although I had no earthly business there I determined to get admittance.
"Why do you wish to see him?" was the next question.
"I will answer that to Mr. Trewinion himself," I said.
"Your names, then?"
"They are unknown to you," I replied, "and my telling them could serve no purpose. Lead the way to your master."
They looked at us suspiciously; but seeing two young men, well dressed and with plenty of assurance, they seemed inclined to let us in. Consequently a minute after we stood within the walls that surrounded this place of evil repute, the door being carefully locked behind us.
The two men, evidently servants, led the way up an unused road, by which we reached the tower entrance. Neither spoke a word.
On coming close to Trewinion Manor we found that it was built of granite, and had evidently been standing for hundreds of years. The stones of the doorways were curiously carved, and even the exterior of the place looked as though it contained a hundred secrets. It was large, too, and must at some time have been the home of people of wealth.
The view was wonderful. In front of us stretched the mighty Atlantic, whose murmuring song told of the peaceful waves that now splashed on the shore. I had seen the Atlantic in a tempest, however, and so could easily fancy what a sight there must be when the waters beneath were lashed into fury by great storm clouds.
Arrived at the door, our guides stopped.
"We can show you no further without permission," said the spokesman. "I will tell the master you are here, and see if he will receive you."
Accordingly he went away, while the other stood at some little distance watching us.
"I've caught your mystery fever," said Will. "I'm longing to get inside now; but what excuse are you going to make for intruding?"
"I've settled that," I replied. "Our visit is an ordinary one, and I shall tell no lies."
I had scarcely spoken when the man returned, telling us to follow him, as his master would see us.
A minute later we stood within the silent walls of Trewinion Manor.