The sergeant was agreeable.
It was not before dawn that these stalwarts would consent to be mustered. They clattered back to Penzance in high fettle, joking and singing. Some of the younger heads (recruits only) were beginning to ache, but the general verdict was that it had been a very pleasant outing.
Mr. Carmichael rode at their head. His fettle was not high. His ankle was most painful and so were his thoughts. Fancy being rescued by a pair of damnation girls! Moreover, two or three horses were going lame; what would Jope say to him when he returned—and Hambro? Brrh! Soldiering wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.
Mr. Curral rode at the tail of the column. He too was a dejected man. That silly little fool of a Carmichael had bungled the haul of the year, but he didn’t expect the Collector would believe it; he was sure to get the blame. He and his poacher had captured two horses to have them taken from them by the troopers, the tubs broached and the horses let go. Dragoons!—they had known what discipline was in the Horse Guards! It was too late to go to Bosula or the gypsy camp now; all tracks would have been covered up, no evidence. The prisoners had by this time dwindled to a solitary youth whom Curral suspected of being a half-wit and who would most assuredly be acquitted by a Cornish jury. He sighed and sucked the head of his whip. It was a hard life.
Phineas Eva, parish clerk of St. Gwithian, came to call on Teresa one afternoon shortly after the catastrophe. He was dressed in his best, which was not very good, but signified that it was a visit of importance.
He twittered some platitudes about the weather, local and foreign affairs—the American colonists were on the point of armed rebellion, he was creditably informed—tut, tut! But meeting with no encouragement from his hostess he dwindled into silence and sat perched on the edge of the settle, blinking his pale eyes and twitching his hat in his rheumatic claws. Teresa seemed unaware of his presence. She crouched motionless in her chair, chin propped on knuckles, a somber, brooding figure.
Phineas noted that her cheeks and eyelids were swollen, her raven hair hanging in untidy coils, and feared she had been roistering again. If so she would be in an evil mood. She was a big, strong woman, he a small, weak man. He trembled for his skin. Still he must out with it somehow, come what might. There was his wife to face at the other end, and he was no less terrified of his wife. He must out with it. Of the two it is better to propitiate the devil you live with than the devil you don’t. He hummed and hawed, squirmed on his perch, and then with a gulp and a splutter came out with it.
His daughter Tamsin was in trouble, and Ortho was the cause. He had to repeat himself twice before Teresa would take any notice, and then all she did was to nod her head.
Phineas took courage; she had neither sworn nor pounced at him. He spoke his piece. Of course Ortho would do the right thing by Tamsin; she was a good girl, a very good girl, docile and domestic, would make him an excellent wife. Ortho was under a cloud at present, but that would blow over—King Nick had powerful influence and stood by his own. Parson Coverdale of St. Just was always friendly to the Free Traders; he would marry them without question. He understood Ortho was in hiding among the St. Just tinners; it would be most convenient. He . . . Teresa shook her head slowly.