CHAPTER V.
y chief fear when I went to bed that night was that I might not wake early the following morning, for in this event my departure would have to be put off. I must leave Ascot House before any of the Turtons were up, if I left at all; I was bent upon getting away from Castlemore at the very earliest moment. In my room there were three beds, two being unoccupied during the holidays, and there was a chest of drawers which I shared with my companions. On the knob of one of the drawers hung the bag in which were kept my brush and comb, and this I thought would serve to hold the few things I intended to take with me. Not daring to get the things ready that night, lest Mr. Turton should pay one of his occasional visits to the bedroom when he turned out the gas, I lay down, and in spite of the important coming event, soon fell fast asleep. When I awoke the sun shone into the room, and getting out of bed and looking at the watch which was to be shortly converted into money, I saw that it was twenty minutes to six.
Losing no time over dressing, putting on the better of my two knickerbocker suits, I removed the brush and comb from the bag, putting in their place two pairs of stockings, a spare flannel shirt, a pair of gum-shoes, two handkerchiefs, and a flannel cricket cap.
Having little fear that any one but the servants would be about the house, I tightened the string of my bag, and went quietly downstairs. In the room where we kept our hats and overcoats I put on my laced boots, which already were somewhat thin in the soles, and my straw hat, as the sun had been extremely hot the last few days; and then I began to think of breakfast, because I made up my mind that it would be wise not to attempt to dispose of my watch and chain until Castlemore had been left some distance behind. About ten miles on the London road, although I did not know the precise distance, stood the small town of Broughton, and there, I thought, it might be safe to replenish my exchequer. Consequently, having not a penny in my purse at present, I must wait until I reached Broughton for breakfast, unless it were possible to obtain something to eat before I left the school.
So, leaving my bag in the hat-room, I went to the kitchen, where the cook was in the act of lighting the fire.
'Good morning, Cook,' I said.
'You are up early this morning, Master Everard,' she answered.
'I am most awfully hungry,' I continued. 'Do you think you could give me something to eat?'
Turning her broad back to the fireplace, she stared at me from head to foot, seeming especially to be impressed by the fact that I had put on my boots. But if she had a suspicion of my intention, she kept it to herself, and going to the larder, returned with a plate on which lay a thick slice of dry bread and another of cold beef.
Thanking her, I took the bread and meat and left the plate, then, returning to the hat-room for my bag, unbolted the front door without making a noise and walked calmly away from the house, beginning to eat my breakfast as soon as I reached the road. It was a beautiful summer morning, and the birds sang in the garden trees as I walked towards the margin of the town. Holding my bag by the long string I let it hang over my left shoulder, and stepping out briskly soon passed the last houses in Castlemore. Although my chief feeling was one of relief at having left Ascot House and the Turtons behind, it was impossible to avoid a glance back at the days which I had spent so happily with the Windleshams. I no longer had the least doubt that Captain Knowlton had been lost with the Seagull, and as I covered the first mile or two of my long journey, I became impressed with a conviction of all the difference his death had made to my life. Instead of Sandhurst, I could not tell what lay before me, and yet I scarcely doubted that, whatever it might be, the end would prove satisfactory.
I determined to lose no time over my first stage, and after walking for three-quarters of an hour, I passed a finger-post, which conveyed the information that Broughton lay still eight miles distant. Although I had told myself yesterday that Mr. Turton was very unlikely to start in pursuit, that he would be only too glad to get rid of an unremunerative boarder, this morning seemed to make the affair look different. He might consider that his duty compelled him to set out in search of the runaway, so that it would be wise not to rest until the first ten miles had been put between myself and the school.
I felt anxious to reach Broughton, in order to dispose of my watch and chain, being already somewhat afraid that there might arise some difficulty about its disposal. I had never attempted to sell anything before, nor was it easy to form an opinion concerning the value of the only things I had to barter. Still, four pounds appeared a likely sum, or three pounds ten at the lowest, and this would surely serve to provide food and shelter until I reached London.
Very few persons passed me by the way, but coming within sight of the first houses of the small town, which was in reality little more than a large village, I began to overtake and soon passed a man who I little imagined would cross my path again. Broughton is approached by a long decline, at the foot of which, on the right, stands a rural inn. Before its door this morning were a couple of waggons, one laden with hay, the other with sheep-turnips. A smock-frocked carter stood eating a chunk of bread and fat bacon, while a fox-terrier begged for scraps. Having walked ten miles in the hot sunshine, I was glad of any excuse to halt, so that a few minutes after passing the man in the road, I stopped to watch the dog.
While I stood there the man caught me up again, and he also came to a stop, between myself and the waggons. He was quite young, probably not more than one or two and twenty, tall and well-built, although he walked with a slouching gait. He wore corduroy trousers fastened round the waist by a narrow strap, and a blue shirt, with an unbuttoned jacket of fustian. On his head was a limp-brimmed, dirty, drab felt hat, and in his left hand he carried a red handkerchief, which apparently contained all his possessions, and in his right a stout stick which had been obviously cut from a hedge. His hair was extremely short and black, but he could not have shaved for some days; his face was deeply sunburnt and one of the most evil-looking I had ever seen. I imagined that he was looking for a job at hay-making or harvesting, and in that case he would have little difficulty in finding one at the present season.
Without entering the inn, he walked on towards the main street, which contained two dozen or more of small shops, and a few minutes later I took the same direction, soon beginning to look about for the kind of shop I wanted. After I had passed the tramp a second time, I saw the usual sign of a pawnbroker's, and, thinking it would look better to remove my watch and chain before entering, I took the bar out of my button-hole.
"The tramp stood outside, watching me with the greatest intentness."
Stopping outside the shop, I stood a few minutes gazing in at its window, which was filled with a miscellaneous collection: teapots, telescopes, knives, spoons, pipes, and one or two flutes and concertinas. Presently I summoned enough resolution to enter, and going to the counter, held out the watch and chain to the rather elderly man behind it.
'I want to sell this watch and chain,' I said.
'Oh, you do, do you?' he answered, and opening the watch, he began to examine the works. He looked so doubtful that I began to fear he would refuse to buy, in which case I scarcely knew what to do, as it seemed unlikely that I should find another such shop that day. It was already past eleven o'clock, and after my walk I was beginning to feel hungry. Certainly he had no right to buy the watch from a boy of my age, but I suppose that after a little hesitation he was unable to resist the temptation to make a bargain.
'How much do you want for it?' he asked, as he closed the lid with a snap.
'Four pounds,' I answered, thinking that a reasonable demand.
Still holding the watch with the chain hanging down between his fingers, he broke into a laugh which did not sound very merry.
'Four pounds!' he exclaimed. 'Think yourself lucky if you get ten shillings. I will give you fifteen.'
It was a terrible disappointment, but at the time it did not occur to me to doubt the man's good faith. I came to the conclusion that I had ignorantly over-valued my property, and at least fifteen shillings would be better than nothing.
'Very well,' I answered, and, placing the watch and chain on a shelf behind him, the man opened a drawer under the counter. While he slowly counted out the money in silver, I happened to glance at the window. In a moment my eyes seemed to be riveted by those of the tramp, whose existence I had quite forgotten. He stood outside the shop, watching me with the greatest intentness, and suddenly I felt afraid, and wished he had gone on his way, and left me to go mine. I spent as long a time as possible counting the money and putting it in my knickerbockers' pocket, but when I at last left the shop the tramp was still staring in at the window.
Still, he took no notice of me as I walked away from the door, not even turning his head. With money in my pocket, my appetite suddenly became urgent, and seeing a coffee-shop a little further down the street, I entered and sat down at a table, which sadly required scrubbing. An untidy girl came to ask what I wanted, but when I suggested a chop—for 'chops and steaks' was painted over the window—she said I could only have eggs and bacon.
'I will have some eggs and bacon,' I answered.
'Poached or boiled?' she asked.
'Poached, please.'
'Tea or coffee?' she suggested.
'Coffee,' I replied, and, after waiting ten minutes or longer, I was supplied with a plate of hot eggs and bacon, a thick slice of bread, and a cup of coffee. Not in a mood to be very particular, I ate every scrap with the greatest relish, and altogether I could not have spent less than three-quarters of an hour in the coffee-shop. My meal cost eightpence, and its effect was to make me feel extremely lazy and sleepy; but, having a long day before me, I determined to find some shady spot and rest for an hour or two until the heat of the day had passed. Then I would push along until I was about twenty miles from Castlemore, when I must find a lodging for the night.
GEORGE II. AT DETTINGEN.
"The horse nearly carried the King into the French lines."
At the battle of Dettingen, George II. was on horseback, and rode forward to reconnoitre the enemy. The horse, frightened by the cannonading, ran away with the King, and nearly carried him into the midst of the French lines. Fortunately, however, one of the attendants succeeded in stopping him. An ensign seized the horse's bridle, and enabled the King to dismount.
'Now that I am on my own legs,' said he, 'I am sure that I shall not run away.'
The King then abandoned his horse, and fought on foot at the head of his Hanoverian battalions. With his sword drawn and his body placed in the attitude of a fencing-master who is about to make a lunge, he continued to expose himself without flinching to the enemy's fire, and in bad English, but with the utmost pluck and spirit, called to his men to come on.
This was the last occasion upon which a sovereign of Great Britain was under the fire of an enemy.
MY FRIEND.
ho is my friend? Not he who seeks
By flattery to sway;
Who, whether I be good or bad,
Gives me his praise alway.
Who is my friend? Not he who frowns
On me when I am wrong,
But never gives encouragement
To make me glad and strong.
Who is my friend? 'Tis he who makes
My highest good his aim;
Whose love sincere is shown alike
In praise or wholesome blame.
E. Dyke.
HEROES AND HEROINES OF FAMOUS BOOKS.
I.—'THE WATCHERS ON THE LONGSHIPS.'[1]
The scene of this story is laid at Land's End in Cornwall, or, to be precise, to the west of the little village of Sennen Cove, and the time chosen is toward the end of last century.
The month of the year was November, and the night was wild and tempestuous, so that the storm beat against the little thatched cottage in one room of which a woman was dying. Gathered about her bed was her husband, Owen Tresilian, and their son Philip and daughter Mary. We pass over the sad scene connected with the death of Mrs. Tresilian, just referring to her last words to the father of her children. There had been times in Owen's life when, finding himself without means and without work, with want staring himself, his wife, and his family, in the face, he had resorted to bad ways of obtaining money. He would never have yielded to the temptation had it not been for the persuasive words and occasionally the threats of his mates. Many of these men were wreckers; that is to say, they deliberately placed on the coast false lights which lured passing ships to destruction. It was from the wrecks of the disabled vessels that they gathered up the treasures carried to them by the waves, and it was known that one or two of the more desperate characters among them had not hesitated to throw back into the water the poor unfortunate creatures whom they had lured to destruction, as they struggled to reach the shore. Owen, indeed, had never gone thus far, but he had participated in their illicit gains, and had himself helped to kindle the lights that were to wreck the boats. His dying wife, whose trouble when she heard of this was very great, had made him promise that whatever might occur after her death, he would never again be guilty of such wicked work. He had promised her faithfully that none should ever force him again to engage in such undertakings, and he had added solemnly, 'They may kill me first, but I would rather starve than do it.' Scarcely had she finished speaking to husband and children, when wild shouts were heard outside the cottage, from the midst of the storm, 'Come on, men! come on—a wreck! a wreck!' Lights passed the little windows, and the clatter of many feet along the path close by told the family what manner of men were about.
The story goes on to tell how Owen, after his wife's death, his son Philip and his daughter Mary, endeavoured to lead lives very different from those of the greater number of their neighbours. They had come under the influence of Wesley's teaching, and were not afraid to let it be seen that they wished to honour God and keep His commandments. Owen's mates, who had known him in the days when he had thought very much as they did, left no stone unturned to show their ill-will to him and his family now that so marked a change had taken place. There was in the village a certain Arthur Pendrean. He was the son of old Squire Pendrean, who had at first greatly opposed his son's wish to become a clergyman. On one occasion, when Wesley had been preaching in the village, and had been in danger from the rough crowd, Arthur, then but a boy, had been so indignant at their behaviour, that he had rushed forward with the intention of placing himself between the old man and his rough assailants.
A few days later this story reached the Squire's ears, who, in a violent passion, sent for his son and told him that if he ever went near the Methodists again, he would disinherit him and turn him out of doors. A few years later, when, between sixteen and seventeen years of age, the youth left school, he told his father boldly that he wished to go to Oxford, and that he intended to become a clergyman. The boy had a hard time of it before he won the old Squire's consent, but in time leave was given.
Arthur Pendrean had from the first taken a keen interest in the Tresilian family, and had watched most carefully over Philip. He was aware of the ill-will felt by the rest of the villagers towards his charges, and made it no secret that he was one of the sternest opponents of the evil practice of wrecking. It was well known that Arthur had set his face against their evil designs, and that it was his determination to have a lighthouse built, no matter at what cost, to warn off ships from this doubly dangerous spot. The worst-disposed among the men would have made short work of the young clergyman could they have had their way and escaped consequences. At least, they would prevent, if it lay in their power, the carrying out of his cherished plan, the erection of a lighthouse. It was perhaps natural that hating the 'parson,' they should not feel kindly disposed towards those who closely followed his advice and over whom he so carefully watched. It was in these circumstances that the following occurrences took place. Arthur was about to ride to St. Sennen one Sunday morning, when his faithful old servant, Roger, came up to him and said, 'I hear, Mr. Arthur, that a cutter with a press-gang on board is at anchor off Sennen Cove. Sunday is a favourite day for those chaps to land; they always find the men at home then, and so they are easier to catch. I thought I would warn you about it, sir, because their game is to carry off all the men and lads who are called Methodists.'
'This is bad news,' Arthur had replied. 'I knew a press-gang was in the neighbourhood, but never thought of their coming our way. I will gallop down to Sennen Cove at once.'
Arrived at the Cove, Arthur found everything as usual, the cutter lying quietly at anchor and a few men and boys sitting or lying lazily on the beach watching her, and speculating as to the intentions of those on board.
On Sunday afternoon we again see the young curate; we hear his stern voice as he asks a group of six stalwart men, 'What are you doing here, men? Take your hands off those lads at once; what right have you to drag them away?' We see the men, furious at this repulse, falling upon Arthur from behind and dragging him to the ground, and Philip with him. The young clergyman, brave man that he was, was no match for six assailants at once, and was of course unable to withstand the combined attack. Promising Philip that he would have him released when he reached Plymouth, for he was under seventeen, and handing him as a memento a small Testament, and commending him to the care of God, he was obliged to witness the rowing away of the boat that carried his young charge every minute farther out of sight.
Philip's capture would not have been brought about had it not been for the ill designs of the youths of his own age who were no friends to Arthur Pendrean. The scheme for decoying him into the immediate neighbourhood of the press-gang belonged to two of the worst characters in the village. But we will not enter into details of their scheming. It is enough to know that for the time being their wicked designs were successful, and we find Philip within a very short time on board the Royal Sovereign, one of the finest line-of-battle ships in Earl Howe's fleet.
The trouble and grief of his father and little sister when they learned what had happened was great. Owen at first refused all comfort. It was in vain that Mr. Pendrean promised to spare no pains to bring the lad home again: the bereaved father would not be comforted. It was in this state of mind that he set out for Falmouth, accompanied by Arthur Pendrean, as they thought it not improbable that the cutter might put into this port before proceeding to Plymouth. Her crew were, however, too wide awake, and the press-gang too anxious to secure prize-money, to run any risk of losing those whom they had captured, and pressed for his Majesty's navy; they therefore made straight for the fleet. How Philip Tresilian subsequently fought in the battle of the first of June, how he saw for the first time and understood something of the horrors of war, are all graphically described by the author.