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 V. I

 
 PENHALA. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 NEW NOVELS AT ALL LIBRARIES. 
 
 IN A NEW WORLD. By Mrs. Hans Blackwood. One 
 
 volume. (Now first published.) 6s. 
 VENTURED IN VAIN. By Reginald E. Salwey, author 
 
 of ' The Finger of Scorn,' ' Wildwater Terrace,' &c. 2 vols. 
 
 ADAM THE GARDENER. By Mrs. Stephen Batson, 
 
 author of ' Such a Lord is Love,' &c. 3 vols. 
 
 ST. MAUR. By Adeline Sergeant, author of ' Caspar 
 
 Brooke's Daughter,' ' Sir Anthony,' &c. 3 vols. 
 
 SUIT AND SERVICE. By Mrs. Herbert Martin, author 
 
 of 'Bonnie Lesley,' 'Britomart,' &c. 2 vols. 
 
 LONDON: HURST & BLACKETT, LIMITED.
 
 P E N H A L A 
 
 A WAYSIDE WIZARD. 
 
 BY 
 
 CLARA LEJiORE, 
 
 AUTHOK OF 
 
 A HARVEST OF WEEDS,' * A COVENANT WITH THE DEAD, 
 ' GWEN dale's ORDEAL ' ETC. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. L 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 HURST AND BLACKETT, LIMITED, 
 
 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 
 1895. 
 
 All rights reserved.
 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 OF 
 
 THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 S^ 
 
 ^K 
 
 
 
 
 
 ^^ 
 
 CHAPTEE PAGE 
 
 ^ 
 
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 
 I. 
 
 Penhala's House 3 
 
 
 11. 
 
 Petrovsky takes the Reins ... 29 
 
 
 III. 
 
 The Waters titere Racing downhill to the 
 
 Sea 67 
 
 IV. 
 
 He Pushed heh in — I saw it done — I'll 
 
 SWEAR it : 104 
 
 ^ 
 
 V. 
 
 A Dog with a Bad Name . .139 
 
 >„ 
 
 vr. 
 
 A Glimmer of D.a.'wn 166 
 
 1 
 
 B C) K II. 
 
 I. John Smith washes his Face . . . 185 
 
 11. • Part of the Shadow THAT is ON ME *. 217 
 
 ^ III. A Matter OF Mutual Obligation . 248 
 
 IV. An Upward Step 268 
 
 4.
 
 BOOK I 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 PENHALA. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 PENHALA S HOUSE. 
 
 Not ' Penhala House ;' mark that ; but, 
 ^ Penhala's House.' The name had been 
 given to it by the fisher-folk of Carn Ruth 
 while it was in course of building. Per- 
 haps there had been a suggestion of good- 
 humoured satire in their fashion of making 
 a large mouthful of the words. For Carn 
 Ruth had held up its hands and turned up 
 its eyes in open wonder as the walls began 
 
 B 2
 
 4 PENHALA. 
 
 to rise from the ground, and show what 
 sort of dwelling this was that old Joshua 
 Penhala was building for himself, among 
 the pines on the upland above the little 
 fishing town. 
 
 In what way had he and his forbears 
 differed from themselves ? farming their 
 few acres industriously, and living from 
 hand to mouth as all the rest of them did, 
 as far back as the mind of man could carry 
 them. And now, behold ! Because Joshua 
 had found out a few things about wheels 
 and cranks, and such like gear, for lighten- 
 ing the labour in the mines, and because 
 some of the biggest mining lords had taken 
 his inventions up, and spread the use of 
 them to other mining centres — because he 
 was getting to be talked about a little, the 
 silly old man was pufi*ed up with pride, 
 and was going to set up for a gentleman 
 all at once. And as the Carn Ruth folks
 
 PEXHALA. d 
 
 watched the walls of the stately mansion 
 rise from the ruins of the old farm-house, 
 and realised what sort of dwelling it was 
 that their neighbour was building for him- 
 self, they shook their heads very solemnly 
 indeed, and expressed their hopes audibly 
 to one another, that the pride of the Pen- 
 halas might not come down as quickly as 
 it had lifted itself up. 
 
 But there did not seem to be much fear 
 of that. The present owner of the house 
 was not yet born when the house was built, 
 and he was now a man of middle-age, and 
 still there was no sign of financial difficulty 
 among the Penhalas. Socially, too, they 
 were an altogether different set of ^Deople 
 to the Penhalas of fifty years ago. AVhen 
 the Mr. Penhala of to-day walked or rode 
 down the Carn Ruth high-street, the greet- 
 ings of the people he met were of the kind 
 offered by the working-classes to their
 
 6 PENHALA. 
 
 ' betters.' And it said much for him, being 
 a new man, that they were given ungrudg- 
 ingly. With all their surface radicalism, 
 these sturdy Cornish folk are conservative 
 enough at the core ; not quick to take up 
 with new notions, and slow to dispossess 
 themselves of old ; and yet, at the period 
 with which this history has to do, the 
 name of Penhala had made for itself a 
 recognised position among all classes of 
 them — fisher-folk, farmers, and fine county 
 gentry into the bargain. 
 
 A thoroughly popular man was Lance 
 Penhala ; and the Cam Ruth people could 
 have given no more certain proof of his 
 popularity with them, than by their open- 
 ly expressed regret that his son ' dedn't 
 favvor un mowr.' 
 
 ' The very moral of his mother, the lad 
 wor, for sure ; and 'twas a shaame, aw, that 
 'twas, that he shud favvor her, w^hen nature
 
 PENHALA. 7 
 
 had purvided iin weth such a braave look- 
 ing clain-off Cornishman of a father by 
 ■way of example.' 
 
 It was a breathless, scorching afternoon 
 in July, breathless even here, on the edge 
 of the Atlantic, where, as a rule, there is 
 more or less agitation in the atmosphere 
 the whole year through. 
 
 It is true that Penhala's house stands 
 high, and on the south-west side, where 
 the pines have been cleared for a wide 
 stretch, there is nothing but a half mile of 
 gently sloping lawn between the windows 
 and the open ocean. But even on that ex- 
 posed upland, the summer air was still 
 and sultry on this especial afternoon — the 
 afternoon of the Carn Ruth flower-show — 
 and especially was it so in there under the 
 tent, which had been set up to protect the 
 cottagers' cherished blossoms from the too
 
 8 PENHALA. 
 
 impetuous greetings of the Carn Ruth 
 breezes, whicli for once were conspicuous 
 by their absence only. 
 
 Lancelot Penhala, just finishing his in- 
 augural speech, was visibly affected by the 
 unusual closeness, there was a suggestion 
 of fatigue in the way he supported himself 
 with one hand on the table at his side, his 
 voice was less resonant than usual, and 
 his relief — when he reached the end of 
 his ' few opening remarks,' and stepped 
 down from the low crimson cloth dais — 
 was obvious to every person in the little 
 crowd. 
 
 ' Maaster Penhala's gettin'to lookaulder 
 than he shud,' one observed, quietly, to 
 another. 
 
 And the other answered, 
 
 ' Aw, it looks like it for sure ; and 
 'tain't years, nither ; he's nobbut haalf way 
 between forty and fifty, caan't be; I re-
 
 PENHALA. y 
 
 member the feasting and jinks at his 
 christening as if 'twere but yesterday.' 
 
 ' Aw, aw !' returned the first speaker, 
 ' but theer's mower things than years go 
 to the makking of an auld man, Jabez 
 auld lad.' 
 
 And Jabez looked wise and solemn, and 
 shook his hoary head, and muttered an 
 acquiescent 'Aw, aw!' under his breath, 
 with a glance round him at his neighbours 
 on either side, as if to assure himself 
 against being overheard, and moved away 
 to avoid any further conversation in the 
 same strain. 
 
 The cause of Mr. Penhala's haggard 
 looks was evidently not a subject for open 
 discussion among his humbler neighbours; 
 but those among his equals apparently saw 
 no necessity for the observance of an equal 
 discretion. 
 
 There was a new vicar at Carn Ruth^
 
 10 PENH ALA. 
 
 and his wife being young, pretty, and 
 well-born, had been ' taken up ' by old 
 Lady Penruddach. Whether it was purely 
 from kindness of heart on her ladyship's 
 part, or whether because it was such a 
 delight to the old woman to have a new 
 listener, to whom to retail her endless 
 stories and gossip, is an open question, and 
 perhaps not a very important one, since 
 Mrs. Yarlstoke's pleasure in hearing the 
 family histories of her husband's new 
 parishioners was certainly equal to Lady 
 Penruddach's in relating them. 
 
 The two ladies wandered away from the 
 tent now, upon the conclusion of Penhala's 
 speech, glad to get out of the heat and 
 crush. They could look at the cottagers^ 
 flowers later on, when the sun was less 
 powerful. Lady Penruddach said. What 
 they wanted to do for the next two hours
 
 PENHALA. 11 
 
 was to keep themselves as cool as was 
 possible under the circumstances. 
 
 So they took their way across the south 
 slope, which was ^the name of the lawn on 
 which the tent was pitched, and made 
 straight for the terrace on the east side of 
 the house, away from the chattering crowd 
 and the overpowering scent of the blossoms, 
 and, above all, away from the blistering^ 
 heat of the July sun. 
 
 Mrs. Yarlstoke swept a glance along the 
 front of the grand gray-stone house as they 
 went. Perhaps it looked better from this- 
 particular point than anywhere. , There 
 was no clear view of it from end to end 
 except from the south slope. On the 
 other sides, it was more or less masked by 
 its sheltering belts of firs. And even from 
 the avenue on the east, you only caught an 
 occasional glimpse of a chimney-stack or
 
 12 PENHALA. 
 
 window, until you were well up under the 
 walls ; and no building shows to advantage 
 without a little of the enchantment which 
 distance lends to a picture. 
 
 From the south slope you got this effect 
 of distance ; and the result was charming. 
 
 ' It is a vary lovely old house,' said the 
 vicar's wife, after that comprehensive look 
 of hers. ' It seems a thousand pities that 
 there should be no lady to preside over its 
 affairs. How long has Mr. Penhala been 
 a widower. Lady Penruddach?' 
 
 ' Have you some fascinating little friend 
 in your mind's eye for the vacant post, my 
 dear?' asked Lady Penruddach, with a 
 shrewd smile on her worldly old face. ' I'm 
 afraid Penhala is a hopeless case. His 
 wife has been dead nine years, and he has 
 never shown the faintest desire to replace 
 her.' 
 
 ' And has he no female relation who
 
 PEXHALA. 13 
 
 would play housekeeper for him?' Mrs. 
 Yarlstoke chose to ignore her new friend's 
 innuendo ; it was not in the best taste, she 
 thought. ' Xo cousin nor sister who would 
 come to him ? A woman does so much to 
 civilise a home, I think.' 
 
 ' Xo ; he has no female relation what- 
 ever. At the present moment the house of 
 Penhala consists of the man we have just 
 been listening to and his only son — a lad 
 of twenty — a shockingly spoilt boy.' 
 
 There was a touch of disgust in Mrs. 
 Yarlstoke's manner as she answered : 
 
 ^ Oh, yes ; Fve seen the son. He has 
 attended choir practice every Wednesday 
 night since we have been here.' 
 
 ' Choir practice !' snapped out Lady 
 Penruddach. • What on earth is John 
 Penhala doing at choir practice ?' and she 
 turned a quick suspicious look on the 
 pretty pleasant face at her side, as if she
 
 14 PEXHALA. 
 
 half expected to find the answer there. 
 
 Mrs. Yarlstoke laughed a little as she 
 met the look, but the laugh in no degree 
 lessened the disquiet of her manner. 
 
 ' That is just what I have been asking 
 myself lately,' she said. ' He certainly 
 does not come to sing, neither does he come 
 •out of civility to the vicar or me, for as 
 often as not he does not even bid us a Good 
 -evening. But he comes as regularly as 
 the rest of them ; and I am a little worried 
 about it. I don't think it ought to go on ; 
 and yet it is difficult to see how to stop it. 
 If we had been here longer it would be 
 different — it is so difficult for new people 
 — folks will say we are mischief-makers. I 
 Avish I knew what to do for the best.' 
 
 ' I suppose it is that little minx, Hagar 
 Polwhele,' said her ladyship ; and when 
 Mrs. Yarlstoke bent her head by way 
 of reply, the old v»^oman gave a snort of
 
 PEXHALA. 15 
 
 disgust, and settled herself in a garden 
 chair, and shut down her parasol in a 
 series of vicious jerks, which expressed her 
 opinion of the whole affair sufficiently well 
 without the aid of words. 
 
 ' I had heard something of this before,' 
 she said, presently; 'but because it came 
 to me through the servants, I tried not to 
 think anything of it. Mrs. Polwhele is a 
 London woman, and the Carn Ruth people 
 don't like her : so I thouoht there mio^ht be 
 a spice of spite in this story against her 
 dauo^hter. I thought the o-lrl was s^oin cr 
 to marry the man who sings tenor in the 
 choir — that giant from the Cluth-hoe mine ?' 
 
 'Morris Edyvean, you mean. I believe 
 there was something of the sort, until 
 young Penhala came on the scene. I sup- 
 pose it is natural that the girl should pre- 
 fer to be seen home by a gentleman ?' 
 
 ' I suppose it is natural she should be a
 
 16 PENH ALA. 
 
 little fool,' retorted the elder lady. ' How- 
 ever, I mean to put a stop to the nonsense. 
 It is not a pleasant matter to interfere in, 
 but somebody will have to do it, unless 
 the thing is to go on to the usual ending. 
 I should be sorry to see the boy make a 
 fool of himself. A lad with old Joshua 
 Penhala's blood in him should do better 
 than that. I'll speak to his father myself; 
 before I go home this afternon.' 
 
 Mrs. Yarlstoke was a little surprised at 
 the temerity of this decision. 
 
 ' I'm afraid it will be a very unpleasant 
 thing to do,' she said, with the air of 
 gentle decorum which seemed to her the 
 proper thing for the occasion. 
 
 But Lady Penruddach smiled like the 
 toughened old warrior she was. 
 
 ' Pooh ! That side of the question 
 doesn't trouble me,' she said. ' It is only 
 that one would rather not be the first per-
 
 PENHALA. 17 
 
 son to create dissension between father and 
 son. Lancelot Penhala has simply wor- 
 shipped that boy.' 
 
 ' Still,' protested the parson's wife, with 
 her primness a little accentuated, to show 
 that she held to her own view of the ques- 
 tion, ' still it would certainly be less un- 
 pleasant to discuss the matter with a lady. 
 It is such a pity the boy has no female re- 
 lation that one can go to.' 
 
 ' I don't think poor Henrietta Penhala 
 would have been of much use in such an 
 affair as this in any case,' observed Lady 
 Penruddach, with a slight movement of 
 her fat shoulders. ' She was the only fe- 
 male relation the lad ever had, except his 
 mother ; but nobody would ever have 
 thought of consulting her in such an affair 
 as this ; she muddled her own matters so 
 hopelesly.' 
 
 Mrs. Yarlstoke looked interested. 
 
 VOL. I. c
 
 18 PENH ALA. 
 
 ' This boy's aunt, was she ?' she asked. 
 
 'Yes; his father's only sister — one of 
 the prettiest creatures I ever saw, but as 
 flighty as a kitten. Did you see that tall, 
 €lumsily-built man, with the deep-set eyes 
 and the square jaw, who stood behind 
 Lancelot Penhala, when he was making his 
 speech just now?' 
 
 ' You mean the man with a quantity 
 of crisp fair hair ? Yes, I noticed him ; 
 a peculiar looking man I thought him.' 
 
 'That is Stanislaus Petrovsky, the man 
 poor Henrietta Penhala ran away with. I 
 was very surj^rised to see him here to-day. 
 Lance Penhala has received him once or 
 twice in London, but this is his first ap- 
 pearance down here, in the family strong- 
 hold.' 
 
 ' ^Yas it a very romantic affair?' asked 
 Mrs. Yarlstoke. ' Petrovsky — a Russian 
 name, is it ?'
 
 PEXHALA. 19 
 
 ' Russian or Polish, or something of the 
 kind. Romantic? Well, I daresay that 
 is what Henrietta thought it when she ran 
 away with him, but I am afraid the poor 
 soul had time to alter her mind during 
 her two years of married life. I believe 
 they were in absolute want during the last 
 year of her life/ 
 
 ' Want ! But surely she had money?' 
 ' My dear, yes. But Petrovsky got rid 
 of it all in no time. Don't ask me how, 
 because I don't know. I have heard a 
 whisper that he is mixed up with some of 
 these secret societies in Russia, and that 
 would account for the disappearance of 
 the money. I know that he was a political 
 refugee when Henrietta married him. He 
 had to leave Russia in a great hurry to 
 save his head, and they confiscated his 
 estates in his absence, so he must have 
 done something very bad. When he first 
 
 c2
 
 20 PENHALA. 
 
 came over he gave riding-lessons in Lon- 
 don, just to keep the wolf from the door. 
 He is a gentleman, yoii know — a prince, I 
 believe he is really — and when Henrietta 
 met him in society she fell in love with 
 him at first sight, and arranged to take 
 riding-lessons, which she did not want, 
 from him. Well, he was poor, and in 
 great trouble, and he can be most fasci- 
 natino: when he likes, and his eves are 
 perfectly wonderful when you are near 
 him, a brilliant, dark blue, and the com- 
 bination of attractions was too much for 
 poor Henrietta Penhala. In less than a 
 fortnight from the date of her first riding- 
 lesson she was missing. Then came a 
 telegram announcing her marriage to 
 Petrovsky, and there was an end of her. 
 They went on the Continent at once — the 
 wretched man found it more convenient 
 for his treasonable practices, I suppose —
 
 PENH ALA. 21 
 
 and the next thing we heard of her was 
 that she was dead — died almost in want, I 
 believe — and that she had left a week- 
 old baby boy behind her. When Lance 
 heard of it he wanted to have the boy, 
 to bring up with his own. There was 
 ten years' difference in the boys' ages, but 
 he thought it would do Master John good 
 to have another child in the house. But 
 for some reason or another Petrovsky re- 
 fused the offer, and chose to drag the 
 child about with him from j^iH^i' to post, 
 among the scum and sediment of European 
 political society, and a delightful young 
 scamp he has become by this time, I 
 expect.' 
 
 'He is still alive?' 
 
 ' Oh, yes. He is here with his father. 
 I have not seen him, but I hear he is a 
 wonderfully precocious lad ; far too old 
 for his age. But then what else could you
 
 22 PENHALA. 
 
 expect from his bringing-up. He is out 
 yachting with John. Be-cahned, I sup- 
 pose they are, or we should have had 
 the pleasure of their company. When I 
 saw^ Petrovsky here this afternoon, I 
 thought of the boy at once. Is it on hi& 
 account his father is here ? Petrovsky is 
 as deep as the sea — he is not here for 
 nothing. Is he going to bleed Lance 
 Penhala ? I hope Lance won't give him 
 a penny, not even for the boy. Whatever 
 money passes into his possession is meltedin 
 the one crucible — The Cause. If Lance is 
 wise, and w^^nts to do the boy good, he will 
 pay his school-bills direct to the school- 
 master, and not let Petrovsky have the 
 fingering of a single coin.' 
 
 ' You think he would appropriate it to 
 his own uses ? Surely he would not 
 be so dishonest, Lady Penruddach ?' 
 
 Lady Penruddach smiled again. She
 
 PEXHALA. 2^ 
 
 found the freshness of the parson's decorous 
 little wife rather amusing, even while she 
 half-doubted its genuineness. 
 
 ' These conspirators have another name 
 for it, my dear,' she said. ' lA^hat we 
 ignoramuses would call dishonesty, they 
 call patriotism. " The Cause " is their 
 whole creed ; and nothing else — honour, 
 truth, honesty — is of the slightest conse- 
 quence by comparison. On other matters 
 their ideas of rio;ht and wrono^ are as clear 
 as yours or mine perhaps, it is only when 
 the good of The Cause is in question 
 that the rules which govern other people's 
 conduct have no meaning for them. This 
 man, Petrovsky, for instance — if Lance 
 Penhala were to hand a thousand pounds 
 over to him for the education of his boy, 
 he would consider it his sacred duty to 
 pass it on at once to one of his rascally 
 centres, for the manufacture of bombs, or
 
 24: PENHALA. 
 
 the printing of seditious pamphlets. 
 There is not one of them who would not 
 sell his soul for money, if the price offered 
 were large enough to compensate The 
 Cause for the loss of a supporter. It is a 
 grand idea, too, when you take the trouble 
 to look into it. It is martyrdom under 
 another name ; one of the last real en- 
 thusiasms left to us in this over-civilised 
 nineteenth century. 
 
 Mrs. Yarlstoke opened her pretty brown 
 eyes at this expression of approval ; she 
 was beginning to think that the people in 
 the parish she had left must be a little 
 behind their generation. But though she 
 was startled she was candidly interested. 
 It was delightful to find herself in contact 
 with a person of the Petrovsky type. The 
 experience was altogether new to her. The 
 parish in which she had lived since her 
 marriage, was one of those quiet, humdrum,
 
 PENH ALA. 25 
 
 correct communities, whicli go on their 
 way, year in year out, without the faintest 
 ^excitement to break their formal monotony. 
 Tennis-parties, at-homes, and an occasional 
 carpet-dance, had hitherto given sufficient 
 variety to her life to satisfy her most lofty 
 ambition, but those innocent forms of 
 dissipation faded into insipidity by the side 
 of this new experience. To hold personal 
 communication with a man who was more 
 than suspected of complicity in the 
 nihilist movement — and a prince to boot ! 
 What an enchanting piece of news to send 
 in her next letter to her staid, plodding 
 Essex friends ; those friends who had so 
 pathetically bemoaned her fate in being 
 * banished to an outlandish, uncivilised 
 parish, at the extreme end of Cornwall.' 
 How gladly they would have submitted to 
 banishment under similar conditions. 
 She was a good little thing, this pleasant,
 
 26 PENHALA. 
 
 pretty matron of twenty-nine, and she was 
 very determined to do her duty in that 
 state of life into which it had pleased God 
 to call her, but it was a fact that, for the 
 present, all thoughts of parochial affairs — 
 of choir practisings, and clandestine meet- 
 ings between young men and women of 
 great social disparity, and all such trifling 
 matters — were completely driven out of 
 her head by the more interesting subject 
 of Petrovsky, the Patriot and Prince ! 
 
 Some time later in the afternoon. Lady 
 Penruddach, with a mind still full of the 
 story she had heard from Mrs. Yarlstoke, 
 contrived to secure a tete-d-tete with 
 Stanislaus Petrovsky. She had come to 
 the decision that, after all, men were better 
 judges of these matters than women. 
 Petrovsky was a man of the world, he 
 would know how to handle the affair 
 better than she ; she would tell him every-
 
 PENHALA. 27 
 
 thing, and leave it to him to manage things 
 his own way. 
 
 If John had only been at home himself, 
 the well-meaning old woman would j)roba- 
 bly have gone straight to him. But John 
 was out yachting, and was not expected 
 home until the wind shifted a point or two ; 
 for the Carn Ruth harbour was one of 
 those awkward little havens, common 
 enough on that stretch of coast, which can 
 only be entered with safety when there is 
 exactly the right amount of wind blowing, 
 from exactly the right quarter. 
 
 But for this accidental absence of John's, 
 the chances are that Stanislaus Petrovsky 
 would have accomplished the purpose of 
 his visit to Penhala, and gone his way back 
 to the Continent again, without hearing a 
 word to his nephew's disadvantage. 
 
 On such trivial chances as these, as far 
 as our finite vision reveals to us, does our
 
 28 PENHALA. 
 
 destiny for good or evil depend. And yet 
 who dares to assert that in all God's 
 scheme of creation there exists such a 
 thing as chance ? 
 
 And, even if one be found bold enough 
 to assert it, how shall he prove it ? How ?
 
 29 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 PETROVSKY TAKES THE REINS. 
 
 It was in the Penhala dining-room that 
 the confidential interview between Lady 
 Penruddach and Petrovsky took place. 
 She had asked for a cnp of tea, and he had 
 taken her there to get it ; for Penhala, with 
 his usnal lavish hospitality, was keeping 
 open house to-day, and the appetite that 
 could not find something to suit its taste 
 among the variety and profusion of the 
 Penhala tables, would have been hard to 
 please indeed.
 
 30 PENHALA. 
 
 When he had attended to Lady Pen- 
 ruddach's wants, Petrovsky provided Mm- 
 self with a large plateful of early 
 raspberries, which he dressed with sugar 
 and port-wine, and attacked with great 
 enjoyment, much to the old English- 
 woman's amusement. 
 
 But she had somethino; far more im- 
 portant to discuss with her host's brother- 
 in-law than his infantile love of sweets, 
 and she was not given to straw-splitting 
 when she had once made up her mind to 
 a course of action. 
 
 In a very few minutes Petrovsky knew 
 all she knew concerning the flirtation be- 
 tween Hagar Polwhele and John Penhala, 
 and he also knew what she suspected of 
 Mrs. Polwhele's influence in the afl*air. 
 
 ' The very spirit of mischief must be in 
 the boy,' she declared, irritably moving 
 her fan to and fro violentlv, as if she must
 
 PENHALA. 31 
 
 needs find some outlet for her vexation, 
 and making herself very hot with the 
 exertion. ' To think that he must needs 
 go and mix himself up with that particular 
 family ! I should like to o^ive him a sfood 
 shaking.' 
 
 Petrovsky smiled at her excess of 
 energy ; up to the present he was not at 
 all interested in the affair ; this red-faced 
 old lady was doubtless exaggeratino; the 
 whole thing, as her kind always did. 
 
 ' Then it is not the indiscretion itself 
 which arouses your anger,' he said, ' but 
 John's want of taste in his choice of the 
 object.' Petrovsky 's English was perfect; 
 the onlv si2:n of unfamiliaritv he ever o;ave 
 was the choice of a stilted phrase now and 
 again. 
 
 ' It is because I know what the girl's 
 mother is,' snapped back her ladj'ship, her 
 irritation increased by his cynical tone.
 
 32 PENHALA. 
 
 ' I hear a good deal about the Carn Ruth 
 people from my maid — who is a Carn Ruth 
 woman herself — and this girl's mother 
 bears anything but a good character in 
 the town. If she once gets John Penhala 
 in her clutches, he wdll have to pay a 
 pretty price to get free again — one does 
 not need to be very far-sighted to see that. 
 I'll be bound she has done more to en- 
 courage the boy's folly than the girl her- 
 self I understood the child was o^oins; to 
 marry one of the captains from the Cluth- 
 hoe mine. Morris Edyvean doesn't look 
 the man to stand aside and give place to 
 another. He'll be another person for John 
 to reckon with, if harm comes to the girl. 
 Altogether, Mr. Petrovsky, your nephew 
 has made about the bio^o-est mess of it that 
 
 DO 
 
 w^as possible. I should not like to be the 
 person to tell Lancelot Penhala of his son's 
 folly.'
 
 PEXHAIiA. 3S 
 
 'Why?' asked Petrovsky, still eating 
 his raspberries with that faint smile of 
 amusement on his colourless face. ' Lance 
 does not take much heed of the cost, so 
 long as his darling is pleased. That last 
 whim of his — to go to Italy to have his 
 voice trained — do you know what it cost 
 his father? Two thousand pounds ! Two 
 thousand pounds for a whim. What use 
 is he ever likely to make of his voice ? 
 Then this craze for drawino'-room mao^ic. 
 They spend a small fortune on the folly. 
 And now, if he has a fancy for a pretty 
 face, do you think his father would refuse 
 it to him, or trouble himself about the 
 consequences ?' 
 
 ' Yes, I do !' Lady Penruddach was get- 
 ting horribly angry with this wretched 
 foreigner, who took so little interest in his 
 nephew, that he could not lay down his 
 spoon and give the boy's affairs a serious 
 
 VOL, I. D
 
 34 PEXHALA. 
 
 thouglit. ' I do think Peiihala would 
 trouble himself very much indeed about 
 this business. He has spoilt the boy, of 
 course, — we all know that, — but I am cer- 
 tain he would not encourage him in selfish 
 vice. Lance Penhala is a gentleman, Mr. 
 Petrovsky ; if John brings this girl to 
 shame, and it comes to his father's ears, 
 there will be permanent mischief between 
 them, you may take my word for it.' 
 
 ' But it would not matter much in the 
 long run, would it? However angry the 
 good Lance might be, he has not the power 
 to punish the boy very severely. He could 
 not threaten to disinherit him, for instance. 
 Your English law of primogeniture would 
 step in to prevent that.' 
 
 ' You are wrong, even in that view of the 
 case !' retorted the angry old woman, too 
 exasperated by his persistent attitude of 
 indifference, to give much heed to her own
 
 PEXHALA. 35 
 
 words. ' Even from the lowest stancli^oint 
 of all, John is committing a fatal error, in 
 arousing his father's anger, for the Penhala 
 money has never been settled. The man 
 who made it all — this man's grandfather — 
 left it by will to his eldest son, and he left 
 it in the same way to Lancelot. The house 
 and land — the old farmstead, in fact — must 
 go down from father and son. But what 
 good would Penhala's house do anybody 
 without the money to keep it up ? And 
 the money Lancelot can will as he pleases.' 
 There was not the faintest show of sur- 
 prise or excitement in Petrovsky's manner 
 as he listened. He went on methodically 
 spooning up large spoonfuls of his crushed 
 raspberries and port- wine, with every out- 
 ward sign of enjoyment. And yet if, at 
 that moment, the luscious mess could have 
 been changed by some trick into a heap of 
 sea-sand, he would probably have gone on 
 
 D 2
 
 36 PENHALA. 
 
 spooning it up, without a change of coun- 
 tenance, in complete ignorance of the trans- 
 formation. In that earlier part of his life 
 which had been spent at the Russian Court 
 — before he had been compelled by an un- 
 fortunate mistake on the part of one of his 
 servants, as to the destination of two letters 
 which he had to deliver, to fly for his life 
 from the presence of the sovereign whose 
 death he had schemed to encompass, even 
 while in receipt of his personal favours — 
 during that period of perpetual dissimula- 
 tion, when it had grown to be a second 
 nature with him to act always outwardly 
 in direct opposition to his actual feelings — 
 even in those trying years he had, perhaps, 
 never experienced a more sudden surprise 
 than at this moment, when Lady Penrud- 
 dach made that matter-of-fact announce- 
 ment — ' And the money Lance can will as 
 he pleases.'
 
 PENH ALA. 37 
 
 But, startled as he was, the vivid in- 
 stincts of his old training were too firmly 
 implanted in his nature, to allow any token 
 of his astonishment to escape him. 
 
 The money that this impetuous old lady 
 spoke of so easily, the money that Lance 
 ' could bequeath as he pleased,' what was 
 it that Petrovsky had heard about it ? 
 Surely it was some great sum — great even 
 in the estimation of a Russian noble ? 
 Was it a cjuarter of a million sterling, or 
 more ? His wife — the poor sentimental 
 Henrietta — had had thirty thousand as her 
 marriage portion. And of what immense 
 use that thirty thousand had been ! It 
 had almost accomplished one of the great- 
 est ends he and his fellow- workers had in 
 view — almost ! But the money had reach- 
 ed its end first. That was always the way 
 of it. These levers, prepared with such 
 infinite pains and exquisite ingenuity for the
 
 38 PENHALA. 
 
 overtoppling of dynastic oppression, perfect 
 as they were in themselves, failed always 
 from the one cause, want of money. Money 
 was the only falcrum which would raise the 
 levers, and money was the one needful 
 thins: lackino; anion o^ the workers. And 
 here, lying at the feet of one of the most earn- 
 est of the brotherhood, was money ; heaps 
 of it ; and all that Avas needed was a little 
 skill in the manner of stooping to pick it 
 up. Stoop ? Of course it was needful to 
 stoop, it might even be needful to go on 
 stooping until the back grew double, and 
 it was no longer possible to recover an 
 upright position at will. But of what ac- 
 count was that, ao^ainst the o^ain to The 
 Cause ? A quarter of a million sterling ! 
 and to complain because the picking of it 
 Tip might produce a pain in the back ! 
 
 No wonder there was no longer any 
 taste in the raspberries and port ! Xo
 
 PENH ALA. 39 
 
 w.onder there was a rather long silence 
 between the two people in the stately 
 dining-room of Penhala's house. 
 
 Lady Penruddach was enjoying her 
 little triumph over her antagonist, and 
 would not break the silence, imputing it 
 to his inability to reply. 
 
 It was not until the plateful of wine 
 and fruit had disappeared, and Petrovsky's 
 beard — flaxen and crisp like his hair — 
 had been carefully cleansed from the last 
 suggestion of sticky moisture, that he 
 spoke again. 
 
 'That is news to me,' he said then, 
 showing at last a natural amount of in- 
 terest in the subject, ' and I am surprised. 
 I knew the Penhalas had not Avon their 
 wealth by robbing their weaker neigh- 
 bours, at the date of the Xorman Conquest, 
 as so many of the Old English families 
 boast of doing. I even think I knew that
 
 40 PENHALA. 
 
 their money had been gained honestly, 
 and that they had not always been rich. 
 But, for all that, I was under the impres- 
 sion that nine-tenths of their possessions 
 -were bound to descend from father to son 
 in the direct line, as they do in other 
 famiUes. I confess this news has altered 
 my view of the matter, Lady Penruddach. 
 And you really believe that if Lance 
 heard of John's youthful indiscretion he 
 would disinherit him? Well, perhaps that 
 is going a little too far. After all, it is 
 nothing absolutely unpardonable that our 
 dear boy has done, and we must take care 
 that in his ignorance of the world he is 
 not led into deeper folly, that he is not 
 led into doing anything that would really 
 rouse his father to such extreme measures.' 
 Her ladyship gave a sharp snort of con- 
 tempt ; she always declared she had lived 
 too long in the world to have any faith
 
 PENH ALA. 41 
 
 left in human nature, but she was dis- 
 gusted all the same whenever she found a 
 fellow- creature impervious to all consid- 
 erations but those of loss and gain, — ' and 
 if I can do John a good turn I will. I 
 owe it to his father's son — Lancelot has 
 undertaken the education of my boy Paul, 
 Lady Penruddach ; he has behaved most 
 generously to me ; I shall be glad to be 
 able to make him some little return by 
 freeing John from this ^x^ if he will per- 
 mit me to. But you must not exj^ect too 
 much from my interference, Lady Pen- 
 ruddach ; boys at his age are not fond of 
 taking advice.' 
 
 ' Yery well then,' said her ladyship, 
 closing her fan with a snap and rising 
 abruptly. 
 
 In spite of all his elaborate caution 
 there was something in the Russian's 
 manner, as he announced his willingness
 
 42 PENHALA. 
 
 to serve his brother-in-law, which grated 
 on her sense of fitness ; the true ring was 
 wanting in his declaration of good-will ; 
 she instinctively mistrusted him, and 
 wished she had acted on her first impulse 
 and gone straight to Penhala himself. 
 
 '• Will you order my carriage, if you 
 please ?' she said, closing the discussion 
 at once with a promptness peculiarly her 
 own. She did not care to hear any more 
 of Petrovsky's anxiety to help John, and 
 there were very few people in the world 
 who could make Lady Penruddach do a 
 thing against her own will. 
 
 The shrewd old woman had rightly 
 guessed the Russian's motive for this visit 
 to Cam Ruth. There was another big 
 affair approaching a crisis, in that mys- 
 terious territory known as ' Underground 
 Russia,' and the lot of chief instrument 
 having fallen upon Petrovsky, it had be-
 
 PENHALA. 4S 
 
 come necessary for him to put his head in 
 the lion's mouth again — in other words, to 
 return to Russia, where, if the authorities 
 once got wind of his presence there, his life 
 would be measured by days. Under these 
 circumstances he had at last devoted a 
 little thought to his duty as a father, and 
 this pilgrimage to Carn Ruth was the 
 result. 
 
 Having once obtained Penhala s promise 
 to look after the boy Paul for a few years, 
 there was no longer a single human 
 anxiety to stand between him and his de- 
 votion to any dangerous duty The Cause 
 might demand of him. Paul's future once 
 assured, he was willing to risk his life, or 
 to lose it, at any moment, if the loss would 
 advance by so much as a hair's-breadth the 
 movemcDt for which he had already sacri- 
 ficed so much. It was true that to-night 
 he had found cause to regret that his stay
 
 44 PENHALA. 
 
 in Cornwall was of necessity so limited. 
 Had his time been his own, he could 
 surely have put that startling information 
 concerning the Penhala heritage to some 
 good use. Short as his time was — for by 
 that day fortnight he was due in a tiny 
 village, close to the railway, on the 
 borders of the Caucasian province — he 
 yet hoped to do something towards turn- 
 ing the news to his own purposes. If 
 Paul had been but a few years older ! 
 But, child as he was, he would have 
 to trust him. And indeed there were 
 many grown men to whom he would 
 less willingly have confided a perilous 
 scheme than this little lad of eleven. 
 These years of association with the most 
 advanced thinkers in the movement, had 
 had the right effect on the boy's heart and 
 mind; through and through he was just 
 w^hat his father would have had him ; the
 
 PEXHALA. 45 
 
 blood of the true martyr breed was already 
 in him — to his boyish enthusiasm the world 
 and all it held was as nothing, when 
 weighed against the progress of The Cause. 
 And this being so, his father had decided 
 to take him into his confidence with regard 
 to the Penhala heritage. 
 
 Petrovsky sighed in spirit as he came to 
 the co.nclusion. He was human, after all, 
 and Paul was his only child, and it was 
 hard on the boy that all the joyousness 
 of his childhood should be extinguished 
 by these eternal plots. These few days he 
 had spent in his uncle's house, he had been 
 as bright ^nd happy and thoughtless as a 
 boy of his age had a right to be. It had 
 seemed as though he had left all his young 
 precocity, his fits of heavy thought, his 
 crude, childish plans for the wholesale 
 extinction of their enemies, behind him, 
 with the people who had fostered them.
 
 46 PEXHALA. 
 
 And his father had been glad to see the 
 change, and had even felt some faint hope 
 that, as the boy grew up among his mother's 
 prosaic English relations, his sympathy 
 with The Cause might weaken, and he might 
 be allowed to develop into a peaceful 
 citizen of the British Empire, contented, 
 placid, and respectable. 
 
 But now he knew this thing was im- 
 possible. The Cause demanded yet another 
 victim, and, though it was his own son, he 
 could not withhold the sacrifice. 
 
 AVhat he could not do himself in the 
 matter of the Penhala heritage, must be 
 left in Paul's hands to accomplish; in Paul's 
 small hands, broad and square at the fin- 
 ger tips; in Paul's hands, which would grow 
 larger with the on-coming years, and 
 stronger, and more capable of grasping 
 and keeping a hold on what they grasped. 
 
 And havino' come to this decision he
 
 PEXHALA. 47 
 
 went clown and dined tete-a-tete with his 
 host, and made himself ao^reealDle durino: 
 the meal, and slept for a few hours after- 
 wards — the light wary sleep that is 
 habitual with these opponents of established 
 authority, a sleep which leaves their sense 
 of hearing still on outpost duty at the 
 portals of their understanding, eternally on 
 guard against a surprise. 
 
 He was up and out again in the morn- 
 ing before any of the resident household 
 were astir ; his brain was too busy to tole- 
 rate inaction once its need of rest was 
 satisfied. He heard the stable-clock strike 
 five as he descended the echoing staircase, 
 and made his way out into the freshness 
 of the summer's mornino-. The sultrv 
 stillness of the preceding day had given 
 place to a south-westerly breeze, which 
 met him as he opened the terrace door, 
 and wooed him with kisses sweet with
 
 48 PENHALA. 
 
 the unadulterated freshness of the broad 
 Atlantic. 
 
 His life had been too full of projects 
 and plans to leave him any leisure for the 
 adoration of Nature ; but standing there 
 this mornings in that exquisite silence, to 
 which the faint murmur of the tide on the 
 rocks below served rather as an accom- 
 paniment than an interruption — a silence 
 of which the dwellers in cities know no- 
 thing — with the scented tips of the pine- 
 boughs in the plantations on either side 
 swinging noiselessly to and fro, and the 
 grass — green here in moist Cornwall even 
 at the end of July — stretching away from 
 his feet in soft descending undulations, 
 until it met the blue purj^le of the sea — 
 jewel-fretted under the morning sunlight 
 — as his senses took in the loveliness sur- 
 rounding him, a faint compunction seized 
 upon him, a doubt as to whether, after all,
 
 PENHALA. 4^ 
 
 he had chosen the better part of life, 
 whether his past record of disappointments 
 was worth all he had spent on it. And, 
 even as the doubt rose in his mind, he saw 
 the yacht — John Penhala's yacht, with its 
 young owner and Paul Petrovsky on 
 board — slip into view round the green 
 outline of Tregarron Head, and straight- 
 way the mind of the plotter was back 
 among its familiar work again, and the 
 touch of rsgret was done with and put 
 away, as a thing that has no use. 
 
 The breeze was very light, and the yacht 
 moved but languidly. Petrovsky lit one 
 of his eternal cigarettes, and watched the 
 beautiful little vessel glide slowly across 
 the width of the Carn Ptuth inlet, until it 
 passed out of sight under the cliffs at the 
 foot of the Penhala slope ; then he strolled 
 quietly down the incline until, at the dis- 
 tance of a mile from the house, he came to 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 PENHALA. 
 
 the place where the slope grew suddenly 
 steeper and descended abruptly to the sea- 
 shore. 
 
 It was at this point that the Carn Ruth 
 river threw itself into the sea ; making its 
 way down the face of the slope, by a series 
 of short leaps and deep pools, to the strand 
 below; and it was by the side of these falls 
 that the steps leading direct from the 
 Penhala park to the Penhala landing-stage 
 had been cut. Not the best place that 
 could have been chosen for them, perhaps ; 
 for when the autumn and winter rains had 
 swollen the little river to three times its 
 summer height, and the water dashed over 
 the rocky ledges with a force and volume 
 that would have carried a horse's body, 
 without pause or hindrance, from the up- 
 lands above to the ocean below, the spray 
 from the dashing waters was apt to make 
 the steps slippery. They were arranged
 
 PEXHALA. 51 
 
 in short fligiits, certainly, lout the spaces 
 between the flights were still on the slope, 
 and, given a slip on the topmost step, the 
 chances were all in favour of a roll from 
 top to bottom of the steep incline. 
 
 Looking at the pathway now, danger 
 was the last thins^ it would have suo^orested. 
 Here and there down the face of the cliff 
 were little nooks or hollows, where the 
 ferns and grasses grew breast-high, and 
 where the Carn Ruth sweethearts were 
 fond of sitting in the summer evenings, to 
 watch the sun set over the mighty stretch 
 of the Atlantic waters ; while the path 
 leading inland — through the plantations to 
 the main drive — was a positive dream of 
 beauty, because of the overhanging sha- 
 dows of the pines, mirrored in the still- 
 ness of the deeper pools, the flashing lights 
 that were caught and tossed skywards 
 again from the rapids between, and the 
 
 E 2
 
 52 PENHALA. 
 
 luxuriance of the undergrowth, which was- 
 allowed to follow its own sweet will un- 
 checked by the hand of man. 
 
 As Petrovsky waited there, where the 
 path and the river emerged in company 
 from the shadow of the pines, and went 
 on their way in company over the edge of 
 the slope to the sea, the romance of his 
 surroundings struck him yet once again. 
 It was an ideal spot for lovers' meetings. 
 He could imagine the youthful couple 
 standing a little way back on the edge of 
 the large black pool, which lay so treach- 
 erously still in the shadow of the pines^ 
 scarcely a dozen yards distant from the 
 first leap down the face of the rock, while 
 they exchanged their poor little vows of 
 eternal constancy. Yes, it was quite an 
 ideal place for lovers' meetings ; for, if she 
 proved unkind, was there not the steep 
 slope close at hand, from which he could
 
 PENHALA. 53 
 
 leap straight from the cruel one's presence 
 into eternity? 
 
 As the sound of voices rose from the 
 face of the cliff beneath his feet, warning 
 the waiting man of the approach of those 
 he had come to meet, he smiled cynically, 
 and muttered a mental jibe at his own 
 folly. Twice in half-an-hour he had been 
 guilty of a touch of sentiment. What 
 did such an unusual thing portend, he 
 wondered ? 
 
 With a careless shrug of his shoulders 
 he turned again to the downward path, as 
 two faces came into vicAv, mounting from 
 the steps below ; one a small reproduction 
 of his own, all but the beard — flaxen- 
 haired, sallow-skinned, square-jawed, full- 
 lipped, with eyes deep-set and of a dark- 
 blue colour; the other less remarkable, 
 but more agreeable. A good, well-tanned, 
 English skin, chestnut hair, well-opened
 
 54 PENHALA. 
 
 brown eyes, a suggestion of fair hair on 
 the upper lip, a mouth which looked at 
 its best when smiling, and a chin which 
 one would expect to find under such a 
 mouth — massive chins and flexible lips 
 are not often found in one another's 
 company. 
 
 The mobile lips flashed into a ready 
 smile now, as their owner glanced upward, 
 and saw the Russian waiting at the top of 
 the steps. The boy at his side did not 
 smile, but his eyes deepened and flushed 
 under their overhanging brows till his 
 whole face was alight with feeling, and he 
 sprang up the few remaining steps almost 
 at a bound, in his eagerness to clasp his 
 father's outstretched hand. 
 
 Petrovsky stooped and kissed his fore- 
 head, and giving his left hand into his 
 ardent young clasp, held out his right to 
 the more leisurely climber.
 
 PEXHALA. 55 
 
 ' You must not estimate him as a baby, 
 John, because he is so glad to see hi& 
 father again,' he said, half-apologetically. 
 ' We have not often been separated for 
 two days and nights, have we, Paul ?' 
 
 ' Oh, there's not much of the baby 
 about him,' declared John, heartily. ' Al- 
 ready he's as good a yachtsman as I. We 
 have arranged that he is to be my sailing- 
 master, as soon as he has finished with 
 Rugby.' 
 
 ' Only when you don't want me, father,' 
 put in the boy, hastily ; and a faint colour 
 flashed into his face, and he drew an inch 
 or two nearer his father's side, as if to 
 assure him that he was still first in his 
 heart and mind. ' It is grand being out 
 in the yacht, but I don't want to be there 
 if you want me to be anywhere else.' 
 
 Petrovsky laughed gently as he turned 
 by John's side for the homeward walk.
 
 56 PENH ALA. 
 
 • Cousin John will hardly thank you 
 for such a bargain as that,' he said. ' Per- 
 haps it would be wiser to defer the con- 
 tract until we see what the next few years 
 have in store for us all.' His tone changed 
 a little as he continued, ' Your father was 
 disappointed that you were not back in 
 time for the cottagers' flower-show yester- 
 day, John. I suppose you were becalmed 
 a long way out?' 
 
 'A pretty good distance,' John answered, 
 carelessly. * It would have been a good 
 long pull for the men in the heat; and 
 Paul and I were so pleasantly occupied 
 that we did not care to break up our after- 
 noon.' 
 
 ' 1 have learnt three tricks, father,' put 
 in Paul, eagerly; ' how to swallow an egg 
 whole and fetch it out from the top of my 
 head, how to bring a live bird in a cage 
 from the crown of a hat, and how to pro-
 
 PENHALA. 57 
 
 duce any card you ask for from the pack. 
 Jolin is going to show me some more by- 
 and-bye. He says ' 
 
 ' Chut !' said Petrovsky. ' He will make 
 you as enthusiastic over his drawing-room 
 magic as he is himself. It is a pity you 
 were not here yesterday, John, to give a 
 display of your skill to the wit and fashion 
 of Cam Ruth. And that reminds me,' he 
 added, and turning suddenly to Paul, he 
 sent him forward on some trifling excuse, 
 and bade him wait for them at the terrace- 
 door. 
 
 ' That is not the only reason why it was 
 a pity you were not here yesterday,' he 
 -continued, when the boy was beyond ear- 
 shot. ' Do you know why I came down to 
 meet you this morning, John?' 
 
 John's ready smile came at the question. 
 He was a little inclined in his heart to 
 make fun of his uncle, to call him a nine-
 
 58 PENHALA. 
 
 teenth century Guy Fawkes, and to poke 
 sly jokes at his bombs, and mines, and 
 plottings, and conspiracies. He was smil- 
 ing now at tbe touch of mystery in his 
 manner, and saying to himself that the 
 man was such a born conspirator, that he 
 could not discuss the most everyday affair 
 without making a secret of it. But he was 
 a Penhala guest, and a guest, too, not in 
 the most flourishing circumstances, and 
 John was too courteous to chafl* him as he 
 would have liked. 
 
 ' Had it anything to do with Paul ?' he 
 asked. ' Did our long absence make you 
 anxious ? Perhaps you came down to see 
 for yourself that the little chap was all safe 
 and sound.' 
 
 He was still smiling as he made the 
 suggestion, a pleasant, sympathetic smile 
 it was, and meant to show that he could
 
 PENHALA. 59 
 
 quite understand the father's anxiety under 
 the circumstances. 
 
 ' No,' said Petrovsky. slowly ; ' Paul 
 was scarcely in my mind : it was you I 
 was thinking of, not Paul. I came to meet 
 you because I wanted to say a word or two 
 to you in private, without the fear of being 
 overheard. Especially I wanted to avoid 
 any chance of your father overhearing 
 what I am going to say.' 
 
 John, with his hands in the pockets of 
 his loose blue serge trousers, and his 
 peaked yachting-cap pushed rakishly to 
 the back of his head, turned a glance of 
 enquiry on his companion. Had he really 
 anything important to say, or was it only 
 that his inveterate habit of mystification 
 would not be shaken off? 
 
 Petrovsky answered the look with one 
 of shrewd intelligence.
 
 60 PEXHALA. 
 
 ' People were busy with your affairs in 
 your absence yesterday,' lie said. ' Who 
 is this Hagar Polwhele, whose name is 
 being mixed up so freely with yours ?' 
 
 The blood flashed up to John's hair- 
 roots. Just for an instant he tried to laugh 
 the attack off as not worth attention ; but 
 Petrovsky's investigating glance was on 
 him, and he knew that flush had betrayed 
 him, and so, instead of laughing the thing 
 down, he fell into a passion. 
 
 ' Whose slanderous tongue is at work 
 now ?' he cried. ' Is it that Morris Edy- 
 vean again ? I'll make the bullying brute 
 pay for it if it is. I told him last time 
 that I wouldn't put up quietly with any 
 more of his interference. Because he's 
 the biggest man in the parish, he thinks 
 he can dictate to the lot of us ; but knock- 
 ing a man down isn't the only way of
 
 PEXHALA. 61 
 
 wiping out a grudge, as I'll soon prove to 
 him if he doesn't leave me and my affairs 
 alone.' 
 
 With the rapid insight born of his past 
 training, Petrovsky pieced this defiance on 
 to the hint dropped by Lady Penruddach, 
 and drew his own inferences. 
 
 ' Then Miss Hagar has two strings to 
 her bow,* he said, quietly; 'and this 
 Edyvean is the other ; and there is a little 
 ill-blood between you ; and there was 
 some truth after all in the little story I 
 heard the birds whispering to one another.' 
 
 John said nothing. His little flash in 
 the pan was over, and he was wishing he 
 had held his tongue. Petrovsky looked 
 up the slope at the house, where Paul 
 stood leaning on the terrace balustrade 
 waiting for them. It was not yet six 
 o'clock, and the little lad was the only
 
 62 PENH ALA. 
 
 sifirn of life to be seen alons: the wide low 
 front of the sleeping house. 
 
 ' I wish we knew a little more of each 
 other,' he went on, letting his voice fall 
 to a more confidential key, though indeed 
 there was no possibility of their being 
 overheard; ' as man to man I should like 
 to speak candidly to you — but we are 
 such strangers ' 
 
 ' All right !' said John, as he paused. 
 
 John was feeling savage, but he did not 
 feel justified in sulking with Petrovsky ; 
 perhaps the subtle touch of flattery in the 
 phrase, ' as man to man,' addressed by a 
 man of Petrovsky's age to one of his own, 
 may have also influenced him. 
 
 ' All right ! Fire away ! Well take the 
 intimacy for granted. Say what you want 
 to say.' 
 
 ' Well, then, it is this. Drop the Pol- 
 whele afl'air. Don't risk its getting to your
 
 PEXHALA. 63 
 
 father's ears. Leave her and the other 
 fellow — what is it ? Eclyvean — to make a 
 match of it ' 
 
 ' I wish to God I could !' burst forth 
 John, irrepressibly, and stopped dead, 
 with Petrovsky's penetrating eyes on him. 
 
 ' So bad as that ?' he muttered. 
 
 John pulled his cap forward, as if the 
 sunshine had 2:rown suddenly too strono: 
 for his eyes, and stared moodily at the 
 grass at his feet. 
 
 ' It's as bad as it can be,' he said. 
 
 There was a short silence between them. 
 The elder man's eyes left the gloomy 
 young face for a moment to travel in a 
 rapid comprehensive glance around him, 
 at the house, the pasture lands, and the 
 little town nestling at the foot of the 
 brown cliiFs on the other side of the inlet. 
 All of it Penhala property, all of it some 
 dav to belona* to this bov, unless !
 
 64 PENHALA. 
 
 Another flash of his eye towards the 
 solitary little figure, waiting so quietly on 
 the terrace in the shadow of the house ^ 
 and then 
 
 ' What do you mean to do ?' 
 
 ' There is only one thing to be done.' 
 
 ' You would marry her ? . . . . Good 
 heavens, John, you must not do that!' 
 
 'What then?' asked John, lifting his 
 miserable young eyes from the ground. 
 'Cut my throat? I don't see any other 
 way out of it. Perhaps you don't know 
 what a woman's reproaches are like ' 
 
 ' Pish !' said Petrovsky, refusing to 
 waste argument on that j)art of the sub- 
 ject. ' Look here ! What if you could stop 
 the reproaches,without sacrificing yourself?' 
 
 ' What if I could put Magara into a 
 thimble ?' came the hopeless reply. 
 
 Petrovsky put his hand on the other's 
 shoulder.
 
 PENHALA. 65 
 
 ' What would you say to the man who 
 showed you how to do it ?' 
 
 John did not answer, but a glimmer of 
 hope shot into his glance. 
 
 The Russian threw another half furtive 
 look towards the waiting figure on the 
 terrace. 
 
 ' Come over under the trees,' he said ; 
 ' nobody will see us there ; what I'm going 
 to say can't be said in a breath.' 
 
 John turned without demur, and follow- 
 ed him across the grass to the shadow of 
 the pines, with an increased air of hope- 
 fulness in his face and whole bearing. 
 
 And an hour later when the gardeners 
 came bustling about the lawns, anxious to 
 remove all traces of yesterday's disorder 
 before the master came on the scene, Paul 
 was still on the terrace, waiting patiently, 
 as he had been bidden. 
 
 But for his impregnable faith in his 
 
 VOL. T. F
 
 €6 PENH ALA. 
 
 father, he might have believed himself 
 forgotten ; but he knew better than that. 
 He had heard it said that ' Stanislaus 
 Petrovsky never forgot,' and of his own 
 knowledge he knew the saying was true. 
 So he waited patiently, as one who waits 
 with a purpose.
 
 67 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE WATERS WERE RACING DOWNHILL TO 
 THE SEA. 
 
 Ox the clay following their long interview 
 in the plantation, John Penhala and Stan- 
 islaus Petrovsky travelled to London to- 
 gether. The decision on John's part was 
 quite sudden, but there was nothing to 
 object to in it. 
 
 Though Petrovsky had not spoken openly 
 of the danger he was going into, there was 
 an impression in Penhala's mind that his 
 brother-in-law's anxiety to secure little 
 
 f2
 
 68 PENH ALA. 
 
 Paul's future, arose from his doubt concern- 
 ing his own. On one occasion he had gone 
 so far as to say the chances were all against 
 his ever revisiting England, speaking in a 
 quiet, unemotional manner which gave his 
 words the impress of truth. 
 
 Under these circumstances, Penhala had 
 been glad when John decided to go to town 
 with his uncle, 'to see him off;' for, mis- 
 guided though his efforts appeared to the 
 Englishman's law-abiding understanding, 
 he would not have neglected one of the 
 smallest duties of hospitality towards a 
 man who was so obviously ' down on his 
 luck.' 
 
 So John and the Russian journeyed to 
 London together, and when, two days later, 
 pretty Hagar Polwhele also left Carn Ruth, 
 on a visit to her mother's relatives in Lon- 
 don, nobody thought of associating the two 
 events, for Petrovsky's companionship
 
 PENHALA. 69 
 
 seemed to prohibit such a suggestion. 
 
 Later in the year people were not so 
 reticent, but before then many things had 
 happened. And, as far as the Penh alas were 
 concerned, one of the most important of 
 these was the imprisonment and execution 
 of Petrovsky. He was caught red-handed, 
 and he died as he had always wished to 
 die — for the good of The Cause. 
 
 Paul was at Rugby when it happened, 
 and Penhala went himself to break the 
 news to the lad, hoping by his presence to 
 soften the boy's feeling of desolation. 
 But, by some unknown means, the news 
 had already reached Paul before his ar- 
 rival, and the kind-hearted Cornishman 
 was considerably nonplussed by the young- 
 ster's unnatural bearing under the blow. 
 
 ' It was a good death to die,' he said, 
 standing up straight and steady before his 
 astonished uncle, with a still, quiescent
 
 70 PENHALA. 
 
 glow in his deep-set eyes. ' If I could 
 choose how to die, I would die that way 
 too ; but not yet. I will get to be well 
 known first, as he was, and then my death 
 will do good, as his will. When we die 
 like that we make the people's hearts burn 
 with the hope of revenge, and they count 
 their own lives as straw, and it is worth 
 dying for, to make them feel like that.' 
 
 Poor Lancelot Penhala looked at the boy 
 in a ridiculous perplexity. Conventional 
 condolences would be thrown away upon 
 such a truculent young revolutionist as 
 this. He made a few remarks to the elFect 
 that Paul would know better by and by^ 
 and that he was to look upon him as his- 
 father in future, and to consider Penhala's 
 house his home. And having done his 
 duty in this respect, he got himself out of 
 the youngster's presence as quickly as he 
 decently could.
 
 PEXHALA. 71 
 
 In spite of its tragic nature, the absurd 
 incongruity of the situation tickled his 
 sense of humour. He had come to comfort 
 this child in his grief for the loss of his 
 father, and the child had tacitly rebuked 
 him for believing he was such a fool as to 
 grieve at all. It was Lance Penhala who 
 was the babe, and Paul Petrovsky who was 
 the philosophic man of the world. And 
 Lance had made himself responsible for the 
 up-bringing of this budding revolutionist I 
 He beo;an to understand somethino^ of the 
 hen's distress, when the duckling she has 
 hatched takes to the water. Revolution and 
 its tricks and manners were not at all in 
 Penhala's line. He comforted himself, how- 
 ever, with the reflection that Paul's enthu- 
 siasm would probably fade with time ; 
 time and disuse. Certainly it would re- 
 ceive little encouragement at Rugby; for 
 if there was one place in the world more
 
 72 PENH ALA. 
 
 than another where such high falutin' was 
 likely to be knocked out of the boy, that 
 one place was an English public school. 
 
 So Lancelot returned again to his big 
 house on the Cornish upland, and tried to 
 fill his life with his duties to his neigh- 
 bours, noble and simple. But those 
 autumn months hung heavily, for he was 
 accustomed to John's company at this par- 
 ticular season, and this year John had 
 chosen to absent himself more than usual 
 from the neighbourhood of Carn Ruth. 
 
 It was in the nature of things that Lance 
 Penhala, being the person most concerned 
 in his son's absence, should be the last to 
 hear a hint as to its cause. Folks in the 
 town had been talking busily for weeks 
 before a breath of the rumour reached his 
 ears. 
 
 Hagar Polwhele w^as back in her mother s 
 bar aofain, though the women declared it
 
 PENH ALA. 73 
 
 ■was past tlieir knowledge to understand 
 how she had the face to show herself 
 among the customers, in the place where 
 she had been born and bred. 
 
 And Mrs. Polwhele, meeting the elliptic 
 glances of some of them, tossed her head in 
 R way that puzzled, even while it shocked 
 them. On one occasion, when these mean- 
 ing glances had been more than usually 
 trying to bear, she lost her self-command 
 for a moment, and, addressing nobody in 
 particular, observed that she thought Carn 
 Ruth folks might safely leave her to fight, 
 ay, and to win, her daughter's battles 
 without any of their interference ; which 
 remark naturally set the tongues wagging 
 faster than ever. 
 
 And Morris Edyvean still came regu- 
 larly every evening, and smoked his pipe 
 quietly in the parlour of the ' Miner's Rest,' 
 and saw and heard all there was to see
 
 74 PENHALA. 
 
 and hear ; and said nothing. But there 
 was a certain grimness settling on his face, 
 which was something new in his mates' 
 knowledge of him. Though he came so 
 persistently among them, he showed so 
 plainly his desire to be left alone, that 
 there was no choice left to them in the 
 matter ; and it grew to be no uncommon 
 thing for the young overseer — once the 
 most popular man in the Cluth-hoe mine 
 — to pass an entire evening smoking 
 and drinking alone in his corner, with- 
 out exchanging a sign of comrade-ship 
 with his fellows, beyond a curt nod as 
 they entered or left the room. 
 
 Since Hagar's visit to London at the 
 end of July, he had finally given up 
 singing in the choir, greatly to Mrs. Yarl- 
 stoke's regret ; for the loss of his magnifi- 
 cent voice and his imposing figure created
 
 PEXHALA. Id 
 
 a vacancy which she was likely to find 
 some difficulty in filling. 
 
 And it was not until a few days before 
 Christmas, that the first faint breath of 
 this brooding mischief reached the ears 
 of the lonely man in the big house on 
 the hill. And even then, so delicately 
 was the truth hinted at, that if he had not 
 been peculiarly sensitive in all matters 
 concerning his son, the chances are that 
 he would have still remained in ignorance 
 of what the speaker intended to convey. 
 But the introduction of John's name into 
 a discussion had at any time the effect 
 of quickening his perceptions to an extra- 
 ordinary degree, and so it was that the 
 half word let drop in his presence had an 
 effect the speaker scarcely anticipated. 
 
 It was at the weekly meeting of magis- 
 trates that this awakening came to him, and
 
 76 PENHALA. 
 
 his way home afterwards led him past the 
 ^ Miner's Rest.' 
 
 Hagar, with the sleeves of her loose red 
 flannel blouse rolled up above her dimpled 
 elbows, and with a large, white bibbed 
 apron muffling her entire figure, was 
 busily at work among the glasses and 
 bottles on the shelves behind the bar. 
 when Mr. Penhala pushed open the swing 
 door leading from the street, and, coming 
 down the two steps, crossed slowly to the 
 counter. Hagar, facing the mirror, recog- 
 nised the broad shoulders and handsome, 
 clean-shaven features of her mother's land- 
 lord at a glance, and, with a stifled ex- 
 clamation, caught with both hands at the 
 edge of the shelf just above her head, to 
 save herself from falling. Perhaps for 
 ten seconds she hung there, insensible to 
 everything but the terror of the thought 
 that she must face round, sooner or later,
 
 PENHALA. 77 
 
 and supply the wants of this unAvelcome 
 customer. 
 
 The bar was empty but for themselves, 
 and the silence in the quaint, gay little 
 place was more pregnant with meaning 
 than the most impressive speech. Indeed, 
 when speech came, the height of the crisis 
 was past. The consciousness of this came 
 to Hagar instantly, with his first word. 
 The studied unconcern of his tone told 
 her that much — that he had not come to 
 make his accusation. With a dry sob of 
 relief she loosened her clutch on the shelf, 
 and faced round to him. 
 
 ' Will you give me a glass of your best 
 ale?' 
 
 Instinctively she performed her duty, 
 caring for nothing only that he should 
 not attack her openly, while he had her 
 there, defenceless, at his mercy. As her 
 hand closed round the pump-handle in
 
 78 PEXHALA. 
 
 drawing his ale, she felt, rather than saw, 
 his glance fix itself on a ring she wore on 
 the third iinger of her right hand. The 
 terror of the knowledge went through her 
 like a pang of physical pain ; still she 
 would not mind so long as he did not 
 attack her to her face, while she was 
 there alone with him. As she went to- 
 wards him with his glass in her shaking 
 hand, she felt to the innermost core of 
 her being the full meaning of the com- 
 prehensive glance he threw over her, from 
 the 2)retty rings of dark hair above her 
 forehead, to the hem of the big, white, dis- 
 figuring apron. But, conscious as she was 
 of her shame in his sight, even this emo- 
 tion was pushed into the background by 
 her overpowering relief at the every-day 
 tone of his ' Thank you.' 
 
 She would probably have a sharp attack 
 of hysterics when he was gone, but mean-
 
 PENH ALA. 79 
 
 time she took his shilling, and passed his 
 change back to him, and went and fetched 
 her duster from the back of the bar, where 
 she had left it, and made a show of dust- 
 ing the pump handles, heedless of her own 
 death-like pallor, heedless of her shaking 
 hands, caring for nothing, except that this 
 courteous, observant gentleman, should 
 take himself off without saying what she 
 had, at the beginning, feared he had come 
 to say. 
 
 Poor, frivolous little Hagar, caring for 
 nothing but the joy or pain of the jDresent 
 moment ! Poor, feeble little ephemera ! 
 It were well that you should not outlast 
 the trembling joy and triumph that is hid 
 away in your heart just now, for all its 
 quaking at this alarming encounter, that 
 you should not see the going doAvn of 
 the sun on the day of your transient 
 exaltation.
 
 80 PENH ALA. 
 
 When Lancelot Penhala found himself 
 in the light of day again, he groaned 
 aloud. He was not conscious of it him- 
 self, but a wee child passing looked up 
 at him, with so much sympathetic sur- 
 prise in her small face, that he guessed he 
 must be making himself conspicuous in 
 some way. Pulling himself up sharply, 
 he set a guard on himself, and gained the 
 shelter of his own house without arousing 
 further curiosity. 
 
 Both the boys were due home that day 
 — John between two and three, Paul not 
 until nine. John had hinted at a desire 
 to spend Christmas in town, but his father 
 had put pressure on him to induce him to 
 come home for the festive season. He was 
 doubly glad now that he had. 
 
 Luncheon, usually at two o'clock sharp, 
 had been put off till the young master's 
 arrival, and Penhala, instead of meeting
 
 PEXHALA. 81 
 
 him in the hall, according to invariable 
 custom, awaited his coming in the library ; 
 a well-used room in that house, for the 
 master was a real lover of books. 
 
 John knew part of the truth before he 
 got to his father's presence. He read it 
 in the butler's troubled face, as he stood 
 at the top of the steps in the great porch ^ 
 holding the house door wide for him, and 
 saw corroboration in the man's anxious 
 manner, as he told him the master was 
 waitino^ in the librarv for him. 
 
 John's step was lighter than his heart as 
 he ran down the length of the big hall and 
 round a side passage to the library door. 
 
 How he managed out of the difficultv. 
 even for the time being, heaven, or the 
 other power, alone knows. His lies must 
 have rained like hail. He certainly did 
 succeed in staving off his father's wrath at 
 the moment, though he must have known 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 PENHALA. 
 
 such weakness could only add to the 
 trouble in the future. 
 
 ' Very well,' said Penhala, at the close 
 of the interview, ' I accept your explana- 
 tion upon one condition — that the girl re- 
 turns your mother's ring to you to-night. 
 If you have had no hand in the mischief 
 that is brewing there, if you handed the 
 ring to her in a moment of folly, because 
 she wanted to see how a diamond ring 
 looked on her finger, if there is nothing 
 more in it than that, there can be no real 
 difficulty in making her return it. Come 
 to me this evening with the ring in ^^our 
 possession, and I will try to believe what 
 you tell me. Let us drop the whole thing 
 now, if you please. It sickens me. I 
 hope to God you may never again make 
 me feel as I felt when I saw that 
 child wearing your mother's ring this 
 morning. I'm not sure that my aifection
 
 PENH ALA. 83 
 
 for you would stand many such wrenches 
 — not at all sure/ 
 
 Morris Edyvean arrived at the ' Miner's 
 Rest ' earlier than usual that evening. It 
 still wanted a quarter of six when he came 
 into the bar, kicking his boots free of 
 trodden snow at the door ; for the weather 
 had broken since sunset, and there was 
 <3very promise of a real, seasonable Christ- 
 mas of the good, old-fashioned type. 
 
 When he had rid his boots and coat of 
 snow, Edyvean made his way as usual to 
 Mrs. Polwhele's end of the bar — Hagar 
 and he never showed consciousness of each 
 other's presence in these days — and asked 
 for his usual dose of whisky. He stood 
 there for a minute or so talking to Mrs. 
 Polwhele,with his shoulder towards Hagar, 
 persuading himself pitifully that nobody 
 saw his hungry eyes watching the girl's 
 reflection in the mirror facing him. It 
 
 g2
 
 84 PENHALA. 
 
 was the only sight he ever got of her now 
 — these stolen glances in the looking-glass 
 behind her mother's bar — but, even so, he 
 saw that of her which he would gladly 
 have given bis two hands not to see ; that 
 which made him set his teeth close on the 
 stem of his short pipe, and register many 
 a vow of vengeance against some unnamed 
 person, in the fulness of time. He was 
 only holding off till events justified his 
 
 suspicions, and then He could afford 
 
 to wait, he declared doggedly; there was 
 nothino' else left to him now but to wait. 
 Ay, to wait till his chance came, and then 
 to take it — to take it to the full, and let 
 the Afterwards care for itself. 
 
 While he stood there, exchanging ori- 
 ginal remarks with his hostess on the 
 seasonableness of this sudden fall of snow, 
 keeping meantime his furtive watch on 
 the mirror behind her, he saw one of the
 
 PENH ALA. 85 
 
 stable-lads from Penliala's house come up 
 to the counter, and pass a note across to 
 Hagar. As she turned a little aside to 
 read the line or two of the enclosure, he 
 watched the face of his whilom sweetheart 
 carefully, lifting his glass, and sipping 
 slowly at his grog meanwhile. 
 
 Was it anger or gladness that brought 
 the quick warm blood flashing up into her 
 face as she read, till she looked for the 
 moment like the bright, thoughtless Hagar 
 of a year ago ? 
 
 The flush was still there when she 
 slipped the letter into her pocket, and 
 watching her opportunity, when her mother 
 was unoccupied for a moment, called her 
 to the back of the bar, and evidently 
 communicated the contents of the note. 
 
 Edyvean, with his glance openly on the 
 mirror now, for there was no longer any- 
 body at leisure to observe him, made out
 
 86 PENHALA. 
 
 that Mrs. Polwhele was first indignant and 
 then furious at what Hagar was saying to 
 her ; that she argued and remonstrated 
 with all her might against some proposi- 
 tion of her daughter's, and that it ended 
 in Hagar's open defiance of her mother's 
 authority. The final words of the argu- 
 ment were spoken loud enough for every- 
 body in the bar to hear. 
 
 ' Go your own wilful way then ; only, if 
 harm comes of it, don't come to me to set 
 it right, for I'll have nither pairt nor 
 passel in the mucky mess, and so I tell 
 ee.' 
 
 It was only when under the influence 
 of strong emotion, that Mrs. Polwhele 
 allowed herself to slip into the use of the 
 Cornish vernacular. 
 
 Hao^ar scarcely waited to hear the finish 
 of her mother's ultimatum ; she swung 
 round and passed hastily out of the bar^
 
 PENHALA. 87 
 
 throwino' an upward glance at the clock 
 as she went, as if to remind herself that 
 she had no time to waste. 
 
 As Mrs. Polwhele turned to resume her 
 duties to her customers, Edyvean picked 
 up his glass and moved away from the 
 counter to his usual corner, on the other 
 side of the bar. Setting his glass on the 
 window-ledge, he reached up in his usual 
 manner to relight his pipe at the bracket 
 over his head — scarcely a ' reach up ' for 
 him because of his enormous height. 
 
 But when his pipe was fairly under way 
 he did not seat himself immediately ; he 
 stood there until Mrs. Polwhele was thor- 
 oughly occupied again, and then he moved 
 over to the door, and stood an instant or 
 two reading an account of a forthcoming 
 Christmas feast, that was hanging against 
 the wall there j and the next time the 
 door swung open to admit a customer, he
 
 88 PENHALA. 
 
 caught it, and passed out before he let it 
 fall-to again. It was almost as if he 
 wished to get away without drawing 
 especial attention to the exact moment of 
 his exit. 
 
 Once outside and beyond the glare of 
 the tavern windows, he paused a moment 
 to turn up the collar of his pilot coat — for 
 the snow was coming down in earnest now, 
 and the sensation of melted snow trickling 
 down inside one's coat collar is something 
 of a trial, to the most philosophic man 
 alive. 
 
 Standing there in the shadow, Edyvean 
 glanced up and down and across the street, 
 as if looking out for some particular object, 
 but as he crossed over to the other side of 
 the road, there was a dissatisfied dawdle in 
 his way of moving which showed he had 
 not found what he was looking for. Here 
 he waited, pressed well back against the
 
 PENH ALA. 89 
 
 projecting corner of one of tlie irregularly 
 built houses, until lie saw Hagar, w^ell 
 muffled up and carrying a lantern, come 
 out of the house opposite, and start off at 
 a smart walk up the hill, in the direction 
 of Penhala's house. 
 
 Then he drew a deep, big breath, and 
 treading cautiously, though indeed the 
 snow underfoot was already thick enough 
 to deaden his footsteps, he stole after the 
 little figure ahead. 
 
 Creeping along in that stealthy manner, 
 with bent back and shoulders hunched up 
 to his ears, his huge form looking larger 
 than ever ao^ainst the backo;round of univer- 
 sal whiteness surrounding him, his outlines 
 blurred and indistinct as they loomed 
 through the fast falling snow, there was 
 something almost suggestive of the super- 
 natural in his whole entourage ; or there 
 would have been had anybody been there
 
 90 PENHALA. 
 
 to receive the suggestion. But they had 
 the road quite to themselves, those two 
 figures, the robust and the fragile, the one 
 a patch of light ahead, the other a mass 
 of shadow in the rear, and they passed^ 
 unnoticed by the eye of man, up the hill, 
 in at the gates, and about a third of the 
 way up the drive that led from the east 
 lodge to the main front of Penhala's 
 house. 
 
 Here the road crossed, by means of a 
 handsome little stone bridge, the Carn 
 Ruth river, and it was on the far bank of 
 this river that the pathway leading to the 
 cliff and the Penhala landing-stage lay. 
 
 Hagar paused on the bridge and lifted 
 her lantern above her head, and whistled 
 shrilly, and waited, listening. But only 
 the sighing of the pines, and the hoarse 
 sullen roar of the sea beating against the 
 foot of the cliffs, and the swift hurrying
 
 PEXHALA. 91 
 
 rush of the river under her feet, answered 
 her. 
 
 In front of her the drive stretched away 
 round a bold curve to the house, sheltered 
 on either side by the wide-reaching planta- 
 tions ; which had been mapped out sixty 
 years ago by old Joshua Penhala, to shield 
 his new house from the biting blasts from 
 the east. Running away from her on her 
 left, in a direct line for the sea, was the 
 river, bordered on either side by these 
 same pines until it neared the brink of the 
 clifF, and took its final eager leap into the 
 open ocean. 
 
 Because of the continuous curve of the 
 drive neither the house nor the lodge could 
 be seen from the bridge where Hagar 
 waited. Only the road itself lay white 
 and smooth for a short distance before and 
 behind her, until it passed out of sight 
 round the crowded boles of the pines. The
 
 92 PENH ALA. 
 
 plantations themselves were as yet free of 
 snow underfoot, for there was no wind, 
 and the snow lay still where it had fallen, 
 on the interlacing branches of the trees 
 above. 
 
 It was very dreary there alone, with 
 never a sign of human-kind in sight — for 
 the man's figure in the rear, keeping well 
 beyond the radius of light from the lifted 
 lantern, was invisible among the tree- 
 trunks — and the waiting girl, looking 
 keenly about her, up and down the curve 
 of the white road, and in and out and 
 about among the blackness of the pines, 
 grew suddenly conscious of her utter 
 loneliness, and a horrible shudder seized 
 her and shook her from head to foot. She 
 whistled again and the sudden fear at her 
 heart was discernible in the quavering 
 weakness of her whistle. 
 
 But her alarm was over for the present,
 
 PENH ALA. 93 
 
 for at that second whistle a tall, lissom 
 youth, in gaiters and jacket, came leaping 
 through the shadow to her side, pouring 
 forth an eager string of apologies and 
 regrets as he came. 
 
 ' What an awful night to bring her out 
 into ! AVhen his note was written, there 
 was no sign of this beastly break in the 
 weather. Had there been he would have 
 come down to her, instead of bringing her 
 up to him. But he wanted so much to 
 have a long talk with her without fear of 
 interruption ; and it was so sweet of her to 
 come in spite of the snow.' 
 
 Still holding forth with affectionate 
 solicitude, he drew her in under the trees 
 out of the storm, and relieved her of the 
 lantern, and taking off his cloth cap, used 
 it to flick the snow from her shoulders and 
 bosom. And then he turned with his arm 
 round her, and led her along the trodden
 
 94 PENHALA. 
 
 path, by the brink of the brawling river. 
 
 And the figure on the other bank kept 
 pace with them, moving along in the shadow, 
 srlidin^ from tree to tree, never far from 
 them, but, because of the noisy rapids be- 
 tween, never actually within ear-shot. 
 
 They had gone perhaps half the distance 
 along the path leading from the drive to the 
 edge of the cliif when they stopped, and 
 the lantern was set on a crag overhanging 
 the rushing stream, from whence it threw 
 its lii2:ht downwards on the swirlin^', hiss- 
 ing waters beneath. From here could be 
 heard the sound of each separate billow as 
 it broke against the cliffs below. There 
 had been a spell of westerly gales lately, 
 until to-day, and now, at high tide, as the 
 towering breakers came rushing landwards, 
 flinging themselves furiously against the 
 first obstacle they had encountered since
 
 PENH ALA. 95 
 
 their birtli in mid-ocean, the influence of 
 those blustering clays was making itself 
 felfc from end to end of that exposed 
 Cornish coast, so that the very earth 
 seemed to vibrate with the accumulated 
 force of the billows' thunderous blows. 
 
 ' It's a rough night at sea,' said Hagar, 
 still with some sign of disquiet in her face. 
 It was as if the sudden scare that had 
 fallen upon her up at the bridge ten min- 
 utes ago, had left its mark behind it in the 
 dilation of her eyes, and the quickened 
 rise and fall of her bosom. ' I'm glad 
 there's no one near or dear to me on the 
 water to-night, John.' 
 
 John did not answer immediatelv. He 
 stood with his hands tucked in the belt of 
 his shooting-jacket, staring moodily at the 
 streaks of light flashing in and out, out 
 and in, among the hurrying rapids at his
 
 96 PENHALA. 
 
 feet. And then, gathering hhnself to- 
 gether with a burst of desperation, he set 
 his back towards the lantern against the 
 rock, and faced his difficulty. 
 
 ' Why have you not told me about the 
 visit my father paid you this morning, 
 Hagar ? ' 
 
 She left off listening to the thunder of 
 the billows — it was curious w^hat a fascina- 
 tion they had for her to-night — and turned 
 to him wath a touch of self-assertion in her 
 manner. 
 
 ' I think I might put the same question 
 to you, John. I was waiting for you to 
 introduce the subject.' 
 
 He waived the childish quibble aside 
 with a touch of impatience. 
 
 ' How did he behave to you?' 
 
 ' Just as Mr. Penhala might be expected 
 to behave to Hagar Polwhele. Just that, 
 and nothing more.'
 
 PENHALA. 97 
 
 ' And yet he has heard — somethinor, 
 Hagar.' 
 
 ' I guessed that the instant I saw his 
 face at the open door. What else would 
 have brought him to the " Miner's Rest " 
 for a glass of ale ?' 
 
 ' It has put me in a devil of a fix — his 
 springing a mine on me in this way. I 
 had an awful scene with him when I got 
 home this afternoon.' 
 
 'And you had to tell him everything?' 
 asked Hagar, a sudden eager expectancy 
 leaping into the glance she gave him. 
 ' Does your father know that I'm his 
 daughter-in-law, John ?' 
 
 She could not see the expression on his 
 face, but he struck at the ground with his 
 heel with a vicious petulance, which was 
 as good as a sight of his eyes. 
 
 ' You didn't,' she said. ' You broke 
 your promise. You gave me your word 
 
 A'OL. I. H
 
 98 PENHALA. 
 
 that, if anybody accused me to your father, 
 you would clear my name. And you Ve 
 not done it.' 
 
 There were warnings of tears in her 
 Yoice, and he put his hand quickly on her 
 shoulder with a comforting gesture. 
 
 ' Come now, Hagar, what is the use of 
 going over all that ground again ? I give 
 you my word that my father does not 
 think so badly of you as you imagine. 
 Your main backsliding in his sight is that 
 you serve the Cluth-hoe miners with pints 
 of ale with my mother's ring on your 
 iinger.' 
 
 She drew off her woollen glove as he 
 spoke and looked admiringly at the hand- 
 some ring. She even held her hand 
 up so that the stones should catch the 
 light from the lantern ; and the watcher, 
 behind a tree on the other side of the 
 stream, gnashed his teeth in silent frenzy
 
 PEXHALA. 99 
 
 ?is he cauglit the flash of the brilliants, 
 and saw the passionate admiration in the 
 girl's face. 
 
 ' I saw him look at it,' she said. ' I 
 was half-afraid he would ask me to give 
 it up.' 
 
 ' That is just what he wants,' struck 
 in John, snatching eagerly at the open- 
 ing. ' He wants you to give up the ring.' 
 
 She closed her hand sharply, and put 
 it out of sight under her cloak. 
 
 ' You're not going to ask me to do it, are 
 you ? You told me I should wear it until 
 I was able to wear my wedding-ring open- 
 ly ; you're not going back on your w^ord, 
 are you?' 
 
 He laughed drearily as she hid her 
 hand. 
 
 ' You don't suppose I'm going to take it 
 from you by force ! If you won't give it 
 up willingly, you must keep it. But I 
 
 H 2
 
 100 PENHALA. 
 
 warn you, if I don't show that ring to my 
 father to-night, it will mean ruin for us 
 both; 
 
 'Ruin?' she echoed. 'How, John?' 
 She had never seen her gay, adoring 
 young husband in this mood until now, 
 and she was startled by it. ' I don't want 
 to do you any harm,' she went on ; ' and, 
 after all, whether the ring is on my finger 
 or not, it don't make any real difference, 
 does it?' 
 
 She drew her hand from under her cloak 
 and be2*an to fino^er the ring^ caressino^ly. 
 And he, seeing that she was going to yield, 
 was overcome by a sudden spasm of shame, 
 so violent and overwhelming, that he spoke 
 out the very thought that was in his heart, 
 without any heed for the consequences. 
 
 ' AYait a minute, Hagar!' he cried, with 
 a gesture of passionate repudiation. ' I 
 can't cheat you out of the ring under false
 
 PENHALA. 101 
 
 pretences — I've been a blackguard to you 
 — I can't take the ring from you till you 
 know, my dear. I've been a mean, coward- 
 ly cur, but, as there's a God above us, I'll 
 make reparation !' 
 
 ' Reparation ?' she repeated, and stood 
 transfixed ; her hands, in the act of draw- 
 ing off the ring, raised in front of her, her 
 lips parted, her horrified, questioning eyes 
 searching his face for denial of the sudden, 
 -awful terror at her heart. 
 
 ' You wonder what I mean by " repar- 
 ation," ' he went on, hurrying over his 
 shameful confession, and forgetting, in his 
 own misery, to break his news gently to 
 the poor child before him. ' You are 
 thinking that there is no need of such a 
 thing between you and me. But there is, 
 my darling ; bitter need of it ! I have 
 done you an awful wrong, Hagar — the 
 ceremony we went through in London last
 
 102 PENHALA. 
 
 July was no marriage in reality — it was a 
 sham affair, got up for me by an obliging 
 friend ' 
 
 He stopped, for such a cry came from 
 between her blanched lips as struck him 
 into silence. She lifted her hands, one on 
 either side of her head, and stood so, sway- 
 ing heavily, with her wide, stricken eyes 
 reading the self-abasement of his face. It 
 was as if she wanted to assure herself of 
 the truth of what she had heard, and that 
 done, she turned without a sound, as if to 
 fly from him. 
 
 ' Hagar!' he cried, heart-broken at her 
 shrinking. ' Hagar !' And he put out a 
 quick hand to detain her. 
 
 But with a face of loathing, she sprang 
 away from his touch, sprang, in her eager- 
 ness to get beyond his reach, so far back- 
 wards, that her feet came down on the 
 oozy slope of the river bank, and, without
 
 PENHALA. 103 
 
 a cry, she slid noiselessly into the rushing 
 rapids at his feet. 
 
 The action was so instantaneous, that, 
 left there alone, he stood a moment as if 
 stricken into stone, rigid and helpless with 
 the sudden horror of it ; but the next in- 
 stant his senses and the use of his limbs 
 came back to him, and with a despairing 
 cry of ' Hagar ! Hagar ! My love ! my 
 love !' he dashed along the path towards 
 the brink of the cliff. 
 
 And on the other bank, unseen by him, 
 there was also a figure flying for dear life 
 in the same direction. 
 
 But the waters were racing downhill to 
 the sea, and the night was dark as Erebus.
 
 104 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 HE PUSHED HER IN — I SAW IT DONE — I SAW 
 IT DONE, i'lL swear IT ! 
 
 If he had given himself time to reason, 
 John Penhala would have known how utter- 
 ly futile was that straining, tearing rush 
 along the river bank. 
 
 At this point of the stream it was danger- 
 ous work for a man to attempt wading, 
 going into it steadily with a wading pole, 
 how then could a girl, slipping in unawares, 
 without foothold or warning, be expected 
 to stand against the rushing waters ? 
 
 But one does not reason at such
 
 PEXIIALA. 105 
 
 moments. It ^vas mere instinct that 
 prompted that mad, blind dash down the 
 stream through the darkness. Passing thus 
 suddenly out of the light of the lantern, 
 he could see absolutely nothing, and an 
 occasional snow-flake drifting into his eyes 
 through an opening overhead, did not 
 serve to make his eyesight clearer. 
 
 It was wonderful that he kept his footing 
 as long as he did, wonderful that he was 
 not tripped up in his first dozen steps, in- 
 stead of keeping his feet till he was out of 
 the plantation and on the smooth grass land, 
 where the snow showed white through the 
 gloom against the blackness of the river. 
 It was here, as he neared the first short 
 flight of steps leading down the face of 
 the clifl", that he lost his foot-hold, and fell 
 into space. 
 
 He threw out his hands as he went, 
 crashing, bounding, flying downwards, but
 
 106 PENHALA. 
 
 they caught at nothing ; and he knew he 
 was going head-long down to the sea. 
 Then came another crash, with a sound in 
 his ears like the blow of the blacksmith's 
 hammer on the anvil, and a flash like the 
 blacksmith's forge before his eyes, and then 
 silence. 
 
 The first thing he was sensible of, when 
 the physical agony of a return to con- 
 sciousness was over, was the roar of the 
 surf in his ears. Awfully near it was, but 
 the fact of its nearness conveyed no terror 
 to his mind ; his understanding was not yet 
 alert enough for that. The next thing he 
 knew was that sundry hard points were 
 penetrating the skin of his face, and causing 
 him considerable inconvenience. He lifted 
 a languid hand, and found he was ly- 
 ing face downwards among the trailing 
 branches of a bramble bush. With some- 
 thing of an efi*ort he rolled over on his
 
 PENHALA. 07 
 
 back, and stared straight up above him. 
 
 There was a moon somewhere ; she was 
 not visible, but over-head the heaped-up 
 hurrying clouds were white wdth her light ; 
 and here and there, where the edges of the 
 moving masses did not overlap each other, 
 an occasional flash of starlight struck 
 momentarily on his sight. Then the 
 bramble branches above him moved slight- 
 ly, and a little mass of dislodged snow fell 
 on his face. 
 
 His reason asserting itself little by little, 
 he began now to wonder how it had come 
 about that he was out there, asleep, on this 
 bitter night — began to ask of himself what 
 the circumstances were which had led to 
 this extraordinary state of things. His 
 brain did not respond immediately to this 
 demand upon it. For a few seconds he lay 
 there asking the question, but unable to 
 answer it. And then, in one blinding,
 
 108 PENHALA. 
 
 vivid, flash of memory, the whole string of 
 events leading up to his fall flashed com- 
 plete into his mind, in one instant of time 
 his brain shook off its puzzled bewilder- 
 ment, and he passed from a state of idle 
 enquiry to one of the most perfect, the 
 clearest, the most appalling recollection. 
 He saw the whole scene again, down to 
 
 the minutest detail : the girl's fi2:ure fac- 
 es o 
 
 ing him, with the light of the lantern re- 
 flected in her pretty dark eyes, as they 
 gazed at him wide with horror, the flashing 
 colours in the diamonds on her uplifted 
 hand, the duller flashes from the rushing 
 waters at her feet, the dim mystery of the 
 background of crowding pine boles behind 
 her — not a feature of the picture was miss- 
 ing from his memory. Again he heard her 
 quick little cry of anguish as she realised 
 the full extent of his crime ao^ainst her,
 
 PENHALA. 109- 
 
 again he saw the swift turn from him, his 
 quick step forward, her backward spring, 
 her noiseless slip down the bank, and the 
 sudden emptiness of the picture. Once 
 more he saw himself standing there, mazed 
 and helpless in that awful solitude, once 
 more saw himself tearing along the river 
 path in the darkness, once more felt him- 
 self trij) and fall, flying through space, 
 downwards to the sea, and felt the stun- 
 ning blow on his head, which had stopped 
 his descent some way down. He even 
 remembered hearing the ringing sound 
 his head made in contact with the edge of 
 the steps. That was what had knocked 
 him senseless. 
 
 And he had lain there how long ? 
 
 He had no means of knowing, but some 
 time must have passed since his fall ; the 
 snow-flakes were driving in his face as he
 
 110 PENHALA. 
 
 dashed along tlie river bank, now the night 
 was fair. 
 
 The knowledge that, in any case, he had 
 lain there senseless long enough to shut 
 out the faintest possibility of rescue for 
 Hagar, came upon him with a new shock 
 of misery. 
 
 She was dead — jDoor, pretty Hagar Pol- 
 whele was dead ! His mind, never entirely 
 free from self-condemnation since he had 
 allowed himself to be talked into the ex- 
 pedient of a sham marriage, was now one 
 vast expanse of agonised remorse. The 
 wrong done to the living girl seemed a 
 thousand times intensified, now that it had 
 become a wrong against the dead. If he 
 had but done her justice, the horror of her 
 death would have pressed less intolerably 
 upon him. 
 
 He turned his face to the ground again.
 
 PENHALA. Ill 
 
 unconscious of the acute discomfort of his 
 surroundings, and lay there, with his head 
 clasped in his hands, moaning in a mental 
 anguish which could not be endured in 
 silence. 
 
 For some time his moans were the only 
 sounds that broke the monotony of the 
 shrill swish of the cascades at his side, 
 and the hoarse roar of the surf a hundred 
 feet below him. 
 
 When his head had struck against the 
 step, he had bounded off into one of the 
 sheltered, fern-filled recesses which abutted 
 on the pathway, one of those well pro- 
 tected nooks which the wind blew over 
 but did not penetrate, and where last 
 summer s growth of ferns still stood, green 
 and waist-high, behind the tufts of tough, 
 feathery tamarisk that waved on the edge 
 of the ledge.
 
 112 PENHALA. 
 
 No snow had made its way into this 
 sheltered cavity, beyond one or two drop- 
 pings from the vegetation on the faee of 
 the cliff above, and it is possible that John 
 Penhala would have spent the night there, 
 alone with his misery, but for what hap- 
 pened afterwards. 
 
 Lying there, face downwards, almost 
 invisible in the diffuse light of the cloud- 
 veiled moon, because of the luxuriant 
 growth surrounding him, he presently 
 grew conscious of a new sound, breaking 
 intermittently through the thunders of 
 the breakers — the sound of a human 
 voice. Xow and again, in the pauses be- 
 tween the mighty moan of one retreating 
 wave, and the thunderous advance of the 
 next, he could hear the voice quite plainly. 
 And even when the deafening crash of the 
 billow against the rock overwhelmed it for 
 a time, it rose again the next moment, tri-
 
 PEXHALA. 115 
 
 umphant over the hoarse roar of the 
 defeated torrent — vehement, powerful, and 
 full of menace. 
 
 John Penhala lifted his head and 
 listened. 
 
 The voice was cominsr nearer, orrowino^ 
 more continuous. He could distinguish 
 now the rise and fall in the tones, as they 
 came hurtling through the pandemonium 
 of the rushing waters ; and now he caught 
 a word or two ; and, as he heard, he drew 
 himself instinctively closer, under the 
 overarching growth, and held his very 
 breath for terror. For he had heard his 
 own name mixed up with the torrent of 
 curses that were being shouted forth to 
 the nio^ht, and in an instant — althouo-h till 
 now his thoughts had never glanced in 
 the direction of possible peril for himself 
 — his instinct of self-preservation was on 
 the alert, his whole beino^ vibratino- with a 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 PENHALA. 
 
 new-born apprehension, his every faculty 
 responding instantaneously to the call on 
 his self-defence. 
 
 It was the voice of Morris Edyvean 
 that was flinging forth its curses on the 
 tempestuous solitude of the night, it was 
 the tread of Morris Edyvean — a furious, 
 vehement tread, in exact keeping with the 
 passionate incoherence of his ravings — 
 that was crushing its way upwards 
 through the brambles and bushes on the 
 other side of the dashing watercourse, it 
 was the form of Morris Edyvean that 
 passed between the watcher's strained 
 gaze and the whiteness of the cliff face 
 beyond, with its brawny arms tossing 
 heavenward, and its quivering fingers ex- 
 tended towards the hurrying clouds and 
 the calm unconcern of the distant stars. 
 
 ' Long ago, John Penhala, I swore to 
 my Maker, with a binding oath, that if
 
 PEXHALA. 115 
 
 harm came to Hagar through you, you 
 should answer for it to me — now you shall 
 answer for it to a mio^htier than me ! To 
 one whose grijD, once on its prey, doesn't 
 loosen till it's reaped its full penalty. The 
 law shall deal with you, you sly. soft- 
 tongued devil, and we'll see what service 
 your smooth tongue and your silken man- 
 ners will do you when it's a judge and 
 jury you've got to stand up to, instead of a 
 foolish, trusting slip of a girl. Curse 
 you ! . . . Much good your leering looks 
 and your soft way of speaking will do you 
 then, you ... I will see to that, lad. If 
 one man's swearing can hang another, as 
 surely as I'm a man born of woman, you 
 shall hang for this night's work. Hang by 
 the neck until you are dead, and may God 
 not have mercy on your soul ! Do you 
 think Hagar Polwhele's death shall go un- 
 punished? I've got you in my clutch at 
 
 r 2
 
 116 PENH ALA. 
 
 last, and, by the eternal God, I'll not 
 loosen it till I've squeezed tlie last breath 
 of life out of your fair, leprous carcase, yoit 
 Sink of Iniquity, you Whited Sepulchre !' 
 
 And as he mounted higher and higher,, 
 and, reaching the brink of the cliff above,, 
 passed at once out of sight and hearings 
 the man below raised himself slowly and 
 cautiously from his recumbent j)osition, 
 stretching his stiffened limbs, ]Dushing his 
 fair hair back from his throbbing temples, 
 and looking about him, from side to side, 
 above and below, as if wondering in which 
 direction his best chance of safety lay — by 
 the path to the upland above, or by a 
 step over the edge to the foaming billows 
 below. 
 
 Mrs. Polwhele's desire to keep Hagar 
 at home that evening had been prompted 
 entirely by considerations for the girl's
 
 PEXHALA. 117 
 
 health. As for being left alone to attend 
 to her customers, that was a matter which 
 did not trouble her at all. In her younger 
 days, in a busy London tavern in the heart 
 of the city, she had often had twice as 
 many people at one time on her hands as 
 she was ever likely to have in her own 
 bar at the ' Miner's Rest.' This busy, 
 buxom, bright-eyed mother of Hagar's 
 was a thoroughly capable woman of busi- 
 ness ; she found no difficulty in keeping 
 the wants of her dozen or so of customers 
 — miners and fishermen, for the most part 
 — supplied as fast as they arose, finding 
 time every now and again, in the midst of 
 her duties, to throw a quick upward 
 glance at the clock over the mirror at the 
 back of the bar. 
 
 As the time drew on towards half-past 
 seven, these glances grew more frequent 
 and anxious ; so much so that the quick-
 
 118 PENHALA. 
 
 witted Cornish folk saw and understood 
 all about ' them trubbled gleeazings at 
 clock faace,' without a word on the subject 
 from their hostess. 
 
 One or two of the elder men, talking 
 among themselves in a far corner, had 
 almost decided to offer their services — ' if 
 so be as she'd like waun or two to taake a 
 look up and down the rooads for signs of 
 the missing wench,' when the door was 
 flung open violently from the outside, and 
 Morris Edyvean, white as death, panting 
 and wild-eyed, strode into the brightly-lit 
 little place. 
 
 The crash of the door, as it swung to 
 again behind him, brought all eyes that 
 way to where he stood ; and, as the glances 
 fell upon him, the cheerful chatter changed 
 at a breath to a dead silence of intense 
 expectancy, while those nearest him fell
 
 PENHALA. 119 
 
 back a space, as if his near neighbourhood 
 were a terror in itself. 
 
 Left thus isolated in their midst, he 
 threw his big shoulders back, and swept 
 the circle of horror-stricken faces at a 
 glance. 
 
 ' Is't writ on ma very faace, thin?' he 
 cried, the Cornish coming thick and strong 
 in the presence of his every-day familiars. 
 
 And now that they heard his voice, 
 shrill and quivering with an unknown 
 horror, the terror of the breathless silence 
 seemed as nothing to the terror of hearing 
 him. 
 
 ' Ef a man sees murder done, does the 
 cruelty of et set et's maark on hes faace, 
 so et can be knawn without a word on hes 
 pairt?' 
 
 Nobody made a sound. One or two 
 formed the word ' Murder !' with their
 
 120 PENHALA. 
 
 whitened lips, but his whole appearance 
 and bearing were so awesome, his colour- 
 less face, the burning hate of his ever- 
 moving glance, the rock-like rigidity of 
 his attitude, drawn up to his full height, 
 with his clenched hands hanD-iiio* down- 
 wards, and his breath coming in quick, 
 audible puffs, were so terrible to look 
 upon, that his listeners lost their power of 
 speech, and could only gaze and wait, in 
 a fear too great for words, for what was to 
 come next. 
 
 ' Ay, murder !' he went on, catching that 
 silent movement of their lips. ' Murder, 
 I tell ee — the basest, bloodiest murder 
 ever committed by the hand of man ! Yes, 
 I ses et — Morris Edyvean. If any of ee 
 ses I lie, lev un say et now.' 
 
 His glance flashed round the circle of 
 faces — set hard like stone masks — as he 
 flung forth his challenge. But there came
 
 PENHALA. 121 
 
 no answering word, and again he went 
 on — 
 
 ' He pushed her in — I seed un — I'll 
 swear to et ! He shall sweng ef my word 
 can hang un, that shall he ! He pushed 
 her in, I saay ! The w^aaters were between 
 us, rushin' and roarin' like a hunderd 
 devils lev loose, or he ^vud ha gone in be- 
 hind her. He pushed her in and run — 
 God, how he run ! If I'd w^aunce got 
 how^ld on him, I'd ha' throttled un, cum- 
 raades — ay, that wud I ! But hes time 
 wull come. My word wull hang un, and 
 I'll spaik it, aw that avuU I, befowr any 
 judge in the land! He pushed her in, I 
 tell ee ! And the ^vaaters swurled her 
 awaay, ovver the clefF, and dow^n the faals 
 to the murderous rocks and the roarin' 
 sea ; an' what w^uU they leave of her 
 ''atween 'em, think ee? I tell ee, cum- 
 raades, he pushed her in, John Penhala
 
 122 PENHALA. 
 
 himself— he ded, he ded ! Hagar, Hagar !^ 
 Higher and higher his voice rose with 
 each denunciation, until, reaching a climax 
 of frenzied hate, it dropped suddenly, at 
 the utterance of the girl's name, to a hoarse 
 guttural whisper, and, swinging round on 
 his heel, he lunged forward, writhing in 
 the convulsions of epilepsy. 
 
 One of the Penhala servants, driving 
 through the high-street a few minutes 
 afterwards, on his way to the railway- 
 station, to meet Paul Petrovsky, was 
 stopped as he passed the ' Miner's Rest,^ 
 and heard the story that was flying through 
 the town. Edyvean's story, with an addi- 
 tion from Mrs. Polwhele, to the effect that 
 it was a letter from John Penhala that 
 had enticed Hagar out that evening. The 
 man went back at once as far as the stew- 
 ard's house, half-way up the hill, and 
 repeated what he had heard. And the
 
 PENHALA. 123 
 
 steward, Eli Tregea, being a man of sound 
 common-sense, called for his boots, and 
 with a horrible sinking at his heart, 
 tramped off to the house to interview Mr. 
 John. 
 
 Going in quietly by the entrance that 
 led to the offices, he came upon Mr. John's 
 own man waiting inside the door, with a 
 worried look on his usually impassive 
 face. 
 
 ' You're the very man I wanted to see, 
 Crawford,' he said. ' Can you make 
 some excuse to get Mr. John away from 
 the dinner-table ? I must speak to him 
 at once !' 
 
 ' He's not in, Mr. Tregea,' returned 
 Crawford. * There's the master waiting 
 dinner this half-hour past, and the cook 
 in the devil's own temper. I thought it 
 was him when I heard you at the 
 door.'
 
 124 PENHAL^V. 
 
 ' Do you know where lie has gone ?' 
 ' He told me he should be in to dress 
 at seven,' said Crawford, unconscious, 
 apparently, that this observation was not 
 an answer to the steward's question. ' ''I 
 shall be in a deuce of a hurry Crawford," 
 he said to me, when he went out ; "I 
 can't get back before seven, and I don't 
 want to keep my father waiting dinner for 
 me the first night I'm home. Get every- 
 thing ready for me to slip into, there's a 
 good fellow, and then come down and wait 
 for me at the office-door." And here I've 
 been more than an hour, Mr. Tregea, lis- 
 tening to the cook's refined observations on 
 the virtue of jDunctuality, and what to be 
 at I'm blest if I know.' 
 
 Tregea stood thinking. He knew no 
 more what to be at than Crawford himself. 
 He did know that for a certainty Edy- 
 vean's ghastly story would be up here
 
 PEXHALA. 125 
 
 presently, and he wanted to soften the 
 blow a little for Mr. Penhala if he possi- 
 bly could. But he was utterly at a loss 
 how to set about it. And even as he 
 stood there considering, he heard voices 
 in the courtyard outside, and instinctively 
 put up his hand for silence. 
 
 ' If so be as we can awnly get the lad 
 out o' the way, and braake the noos a bit 
 gentle lek to the squire afowr she comms, 
 it 'ull be something. He's that proud o'" 
 that bo}^ it met go fur to braake his 
 haart ef she plumps her accoosation down 
 on ee all at wance.' 
 
 ' It's old Peter Carlyon,' said Tregea. 
 ' Show him into the office, Crawford, and 
 tell him the master will come to him in a 
 minute.' And, urged forward by the 
 necessity for immediate action, he strode 
 away to the front of the house, meaning 
 to send his name in by the butler.
 
 126 PENH ALA. 
 
 But he found Penhala paciiio; up and 
 down the length of the inner hall, so he 
 waited for him, near the fire-place at the 
 lower end, where there was no chance of 
 their conversation being overheard through 
 the open glass doors leading into the 
 entrance hall. 
 
 Eli Tregea had eaten Penhalas bread 
 for more than twenty years past, and 
 never once in all those years had it tasted 
 bitter in his mouth. 
 
 This was the thought that flashed 
 through his mind now, as he waited his 
 employer's approach. If he had loved 
 him less, he could better have performed 
 the duty he had in hand. 
 
 Perhaps this was why Penhala saw so 
 quickly that there was something terribly 
 wrong afoot. Tregea had not got his con- 
 ventional enquiry, ' Do you know^ what's 
 keeping Mr. John out so late to-night,
 
 PENHALA. 127 
 
 sir?' properly out, before Penhala was 
 down on him, with quickened steps and 
 questioning eyes. 
 
 ' Xo ; but you've come to tell me ! 
 AVhat is it, Tregea ? Any harm to the lad ? 
 Out with it ! Xo breaking it softly, man !' 
 
 Tregea answered promptly, 
 
 ' Xo harm to him, that I've heard of, 
 sir, but it seems there's been an accident 
 in the river above the falls — somebody is 
 drowned, and people are trying to make out 
 that it wasn't an accident, and that Mr. 
 John ' 
 
 'Is a murderer?' said Penhala, catch- 
 ing him up as he paused. 
 
 Already his mind had leapt to certain 
 conclusions. He had guessed why John 
 was late, and knowing the lad had a 
 difficult task in hand — for in insisting 
 on the return of the ring he had reckoned 
 on the chance of its putting an end to the
 
 128 PENH ALA. 
 
 foolish entanglement — lie had made allow- 
 ances for his unpunctuality. And now, 
 as Tregea faced him. w^ith troubled eyes 
 and faltering speech, and spoke of an 
 accident in the river, an accident in which 
 John was concerned, he grasped instantly 
 at something of the truth, and saw trouble 
 ahead. 
 
 ' Who says this thing of him, Tregea? 
 Who accuses him?' 
 
 ' Morris Edyvean, sir — one of the over- 
 seers down to Cluth-hoe mine.' 
 
 ' And — who is it that is drowned ?' 
 
 *• The daughter of Mrs. Polwhele.' 
 
 'Ah!' 
 
 ' The landlady of the '' Miner s Rest." ' 
 
 ' That poor little child ? Good God, 
 how terrible ! And only this morning — 
 Is it certain that she is drowned, Tregea? 
 Are you sure there is no mistake ?' 
 
 ' I'm afraid not, sir,' said Tregea, sorrow-
 
 PEXHALA. 12^ 
 
 fully. ' It seems she went in between the 
 bridge and the cliff; a bad enough place at 
 the best of times ; and you know w^hat the 
 stream is like just now.' 
 
 ' A torrent, Tregea ; not a stream at alL 
 Poor child, poor child ! And Edyvean 
 says it was not an accident, and accuses 
 John. He saw the whole thing?' 
 
 ' So I gathered — but I was in such haste 
 to get to you ' 
 
 'Thank you, Tregea I It was like you.' 
 
 He lifted his face suddenly from the con- 
 templation of the glowing logs, and looked 
 Tregea straight in the eye. 
 
 ' I want you to answer a question with- 
 out a word of equivocation ; without a 
 thought that it is my son you are speaking 
 of. You know what people are saying 
 about my sou and this girl ? Do you 
 think it was true ? Xow ! the whole truth, 
 Tregea!' 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 PENIJALA. 
 
 ' I'm afraid it was, sir.' 
 
 Tregea had never wished he had been 
 born dumb until that moment, when he 
 saw the look his words brought into 
 Penhala's face. 
 
 But Lance Penhala was not the man to 
 turn his glance aside because a thing was 
 distasteful to him. He put his own feelings 
 into the background, and went on unflinch- 
 ingly Avith his questions. 
 
 ' Was she a respectable girl, Tregea ? 
 Don't make excuses for John; only just 
 tell the truth. Do you honestly believe 
 John acted like a thorough-paced villain 
 all through the piece ?' 
 
 More than ever Tregea prayed for dumb- 
 ness, but with those clear, steady eyes 
 upon him, prevarication was impossible. 
 And maybe, after all, it was better for the 
 lad's father to hear all there was to hear, 
 in the first place, from a friendly tongue.
 
 PENH ALA. 131 
 
 ' Sooner or later you'll hear it, now tlie 
 poor little thing is gone,' he said, sorrow- 
 fully. ' Mr. John put a cruel trick on her, 
 sir. He pretended to marry her, up in 
 London last July. The girl showed some 
 sort of paper to my missus, under an oath 
 of secrecy, and she says it wasn't a proper 
 certificate.' 
 
 ' My God !' cried Penhala, his self-con- 
 trol vanquished utterly by his distress of 
 mind. ' My God ! Tregea, that I should 
 live to hear such a thing as that of my own 
 son.' 
 
 He turned aside, and, reaching a hand 
 up to a projection in the carved oak of the 
 mantelpiece, he laid his head against the 
 support of his arm, and muttered brokenly 
 his boy's name over and over again. 
 
 And Tregea, conscious that this was a 
 trouble past the reach of comfort, could 
 only stand quietly on guard, ready to pre- 
 
 k2
 
 132 PENH ALA. 
 
 vent any intrusion on his employer's grief. 
 
 ' You see, sir,' he began again present- 
 ly, ' what I'm afraid of is that, if there is 
 an inquiry, and this business of the sham 
 marriage comes out, it will go so hard with 
 Mr. John.' 
 
 ' It can't go harder than he deserves,' 
 muttered Penhala, with lips that quivered 
 still from the smart of this new blow. 'He's 
 my own son, Tregea ; and for ten lonely 
 years past he has been the only creature I've 
 had to love or spend a thought on ; but I 
 can't blind myself to the villainy of thi& 
 business. Whether he lifted his hand 
 against that girl or not, her blood is on his 
 soul, and he will have to suffer for it, one 
 way or another. Perhaps it would be the 
 most merciful thing they could do with 
 him, to hang him ! What is his life likely 
 to be with such a memory as that pressing 
 like a deadweight on his soul? God help
 
 PENHALA. 133 
 
 him, and me ! I think my heart is broken, 
 Tregea.' 
 
 ' Things mayn't be quite so bad as they 
 seem, sir,' said Tregea, trying to speak hope- 
 fully. But Lance Penhala shook his head. 
 Knowing what he knew of the object John 
 had in view^ when he made that last ap- 
 pointment with Hagar Polwhele, he knew 
 also that it was almost impossible for 
 things to seem worse than they really 
 were. 
 
 But, thouo^h from the beo^innino^ he re- 
 cognised the utter hopelessness of Johii's 
 position, nobody but Tregea ever knew or 
 guessed at the full depth of his sufferings. 
 What he endured henceforth he kept re- 
 ligiously hidden from the eye of man. All 
 his pride and his affection had been bound 
 up in the one object — his boy, and now 
 pride and affection lay stifled in the mire 
 of a base, cowardly cruelty.
 
 134 PENHALA. 
 
 Sometimes it seemed to him that, if he 
 had known beyond all doubt that John 
 had pushed Hagar into the torrent, as 
 Edyvean asserted, he could have forgiven 
 even that unpremeditated crime, sooner 
 than the calm, pre-arranged cruelty of the 
 sham marriage. 
 
 But after that first irrepressible outburst 
 of grief, he kept his opinions shut up in 
 his own mind. 
 
 Even on that first night of his downfall, 
 by the time Mrs. Polwhele and Edyvean 
 arrived at the house, escorted by a dozen 
 or so of the scared customers from the 
 ' Miner s Rest,' to make their accusation 
 aofainst John, even so soon after the shock 
 as that, he had assumed the curious, rigid 
 self-possession which he maintained ever 
 afterwards, when dealing with John and 
 his backslidings. 
 
 Of all the little crowd collected round
 
 PENHALA. 135 
 
 the open door in the shelter of the big 
 porch, only Tregea guessed ever so slightly 
 at the anguish that lay behind the cold- 
 ness of his white, stern face, the level still- 
 ness of his voice, the laboured quietness 
 of his manner. The poor mother's noisy 
 grief dropped to silent sobbings as she 
 listened to his measured words, and even 
 Edyvean's frothy, hysterical denunciations 
 died away to nothingness, before the quiet 
 dignity of Penhala's bearing. There was 
 almost a touch of shame in his manner as 
 he slunk to the rear of the crowd, and leant 
 against the side of the porch listening to 
 Penhala. 
 
 ' What can I say to you in the face of 
 such a tale of cruelty as this 3- ou bring to 
 me ?' he said, with one hand on the weep- 
 ing woman's shoulder,' and his troubled 
 eyes on her poor, tear-blistered face. ' If 
 you have lost your only child, so have I ;
 
 136 PENHALA. 
 
 and I think mine is the worse case of the 
 two. At least you can think lovingly of 
 your child, and even that comfort is denied 
 to me — my son is lost to me, soul and 
 body! Even if the law pronounce him 
 guiltless of this crime of murder, he is 
 none the less dead to me. Henceforth 
 your daughter's destroyer is as a stranger 
 in his father's house, and his father's heart. 
 Don't think of me as your enemy in this 
 terrible calamity — John Penhala must take 
 the consequences of his own acts on his 
 own shoulders — let him clear himself of 
 this accusation if he can, he will have no 
 help from me. It is justice you want, and 
 justice you shall have. In any case I will 
 not throw the weight of my money and in- 
 fluence into the scale against you. The 
 case shall be tried on its merits, that I 
 promise you.'
 
 PENHALA. 137 
 
 ' Then,' said Edyvean, lifting himself 
 from the support of the porch, and towering 
 above the rest from the rear of the crowd, 
 * then he wull sweng for et, that wiill he. 
 Hang by the neck till he be dead !' 
 
 A faint stiffening of the muscles round 
 his lips was Penhala's only answer to this, 
 and for an instant there was silence among 
 the group, as if they recognised the wanton 
 brutality of the interruption. And across 
 this silence, from beyond the heads of the 
 little crowd, there struck the noise of 
 advancing wheels, deadened partially by 
 the coating of snow on the drive, and a 
 boy's fresh voice broke through the gloomy 
 quiet. 
 
 ' Hollo ! what's up ? Is it carols ? How 
 ripping ! Here I am, Uncle Lance ! How 
 jolly it seems to be at home again !' 
 
 And Stanislaus Petrovsky himself, past
 
 138 PEXHALA. 
 
 master in the art of j)lotting though he 
 was, could not have arranged the thing 
 better to suit his own purpose.
 
 139 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 A DOG WITH A BAD NAME. 
 
 January was nearly over when they 
 brought poor little Hagar Polwhele home 
 again to Carn Ruth. The body had been 
 found in a narrow inlet twenty miles to 
 the north. Edyvean's prophecy had come 
 very near the truth — the sea and the rocks 
 between them had made cruel havoc of 
 the girl's prettiness, and for all actual 
 evidence to the contrary, it might as pro- 
 bably have been a complete stranger as 
 Hagar Polwhele. There was the pretty
 
 140 pe:shala. 
 
 dark hair, and the height, and there was 
 also the fact that no other young woman 
 was known to be missing anywhere on 
 that coast. This was really all the coroner 
 and the jury and witnesses had to go 
 upon in forming a decision as to the 
 identity of the body. 
 
 But there are certain conditions of pub- 
 lic opinion in which a very little evidence 
 will go a very long way, and the condition 
 of public opinion in regard to the Carn 
 Ruth murder was a case in point. 
 
 Since folks had heard of that sham mar- 
 riage in London, the popular indignation 
 against John Penhala had reached the 
 white heat stage ; and perhaps the jury 
 and the witnesses did not much care 
 whether the poor, battered remains they 
 were holding an inquest on, were really 
 those of Hagar Polwhele or not, so long as 
 Ihey provided them with an excuse for re-
 
 PENHALA. 141 
 
 turning a verdict of wilful murder against 
 that cruel young limb of the devil, John 
 Penhala. 
 
 Of course it was Edyvean's evidence 
 that put the rope round his neck. After 
 hearing what he had to say under oath, it 
 only became a matter of catching the crim- 
 inal and hano;ino^ him. 
 
 All these weeks, ever since Edyvean 
 had burst into Mrs. Polwhele's bar on 
 that snowy December night, and de- 
 nounced John Penhala as the murderer of 
 Hagar Polwhele, the Carn Ruth people 
 had talked of one thino-, and one thino; 
 onlv — John Penhala's unmiticrated bru- 
 tality. 
 
 And young Paul Petrovsky, running 
 hither and thither amono^ them durino; his 
 somewhat lonely holidays, picked up a 
 good deal of knowledge on the subject, 
 <ilthough the topic was never openly dis-
 
 142 PENH ALA. 
 
 cussed in his presence. These Cornish 
 iishermen and miners were too well bred 
 to make a mistake of that kind. 
 
 But they would have been genuinely 
 shocked if they had known how much 
 actual information on the subject the lad 
 had gathered from the fragmentary odds 
 and ends he had overheard of their dis- 
 cussions ; and this in spite of their desire 
 to keep all such knowledge from him. 
 
 It was Tregea who first set the boy's 
 precocious wits to work. He took him 
 aside that first night of his home coming, 
 and warned him against mentioning John's 
 name in Mr. Penhala's presence ; but he 
 refused to tell why this was to be so, and, 
 his curiosity thus aroused, it followed 
 naturally that Paul set to work to find out 
 for himself. 
 
 It was one afternoon about a fortnight 
 after the boy's arrival from Rugby, on his
 
 PENHALA. 143 
 
 return from a lounge round the town, that 
 he fastened himself in his own room and 
 unlocked his desk — a present from his 
 father — and took from a cleverly contrived 
 recess at the back of the pen-tray a letter 
 in his father's handwriting. 
 
 'The eve of my execution,' was the date 
 it bore, and it began with a doubt as to 
 whether it would ever reach the person it 
 was intended for. 
 
 But Paul passed over all that part — he 
 knew it ah^eady by heart — the admonition 
 to never slacken in his devotion to The 
 Cause, to nurse his Russian assiduously 
 for use in the future, so that when the 
 opportunity came to him, as come it 
 would, to strike a blow for the liberation 
 of his unhappy country, he might be fully 
 qualified for any service demanded of 
 him. 
 
 All that part of the letter he knew word
 
 144 PENH ALA. 
 
 for word. It was another passage he 
 wanted to look at now, a passage which 
 referred to the possibility of John Pen- 
 hala's disinheritance. 
 
 ' If he should ever offend his father 
 so grievously as to bring about such a 
 disaster, the Penhala money would be- 
 yond all doubt come to you. And my 
 last command to you is, to bid you re- 
 member that the son of your father can 
 possess nothing independent of The Cause. 
 We men of the Kurtz family hold oar last 
 kopec in trust for the purposes of our 
 masters — you, in particular, Paul, will not 
 need to be reminded that everything you 
 possess — health, wealth, happiness, liberty, 
 life — must be held in trust only, at the 
 command of our leaders, to be devoted 
 directly to the advancement of our undying 
 desires, and, indirectly, to the avenging 
 of your father's death — the two purposes
 
 PENHALA. 145 
 
 are indissoluble— in furthering the one 
 you must of necessity forward the other. 
 Xow heed what I arn going to tell you. 
 John Penhala has, by his own action, for- 
 feited all right to his father's wealth — 
 never mind how, it is enough for you that 
 / know this to he so. Very well ! If, at 
 his twenty-first birthday, John is still 
 in favour with his father, you are to post 
 the enclosed letter to your uncle with 
 your own hands, without taking a crea- 
 ture into your confidence on the matter. 
 If, on the other hand, your uncle's eyes 
 have already been opened to his son's 
 true character, and there is open dissen- 
 sion between them, you are to burn the 
 letter unopened. John once disgraced, 
 the future is entirely in your own hands, 
 see that you use your opportunities.' 
 
 "With the thin, closely-written sheets 
 spread out on the window-ledge, to catch 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 PENHALA. 
 
 the waning light of the January afternoon, 
 and with his head supported in his hands, 
 Paul pored for a long time over his father's 
 explicit directions ; and when at last he 
 lifted his glance to look out at the lawns 
 below, and the stretch of throbbing waters 
 beyond, there was a weirdly old look on 
 his face, a look that would have made his 
 mother's heart ache had she been there to 
 see it. Was it that there was no longer 
 any childhood in the lad's soul ? had his 
 boyish instincts shrivelled up and withered 
 away, under the fierce heat of the furnace 
 through which he had passed while yet a 
 baby ? Was his heart like an ear of wheat 
 stunted by drouth, prematurely hardened 
 and yellowed, giving forth all the outward 
 tokens of maturity while there is still no 
 grain in the husk ? 
 
 Little need indeed to fear that he would 
 miss his opportunities from any undue soft-
 
 PENHALA. 147 
 
 €ning of the heart, any flaccid leanings to- 
 wards mercy. Even now, watching the 
 waters whereon John and he had spent 
 those happy two days in the summer, he 
 rebuked himself for remembering his 
 €ousin's pleasant kindness, telling himself 
 stoically that at such a moment the memory 
 amounted to an act of treason against The 
 Cause. A withered ear indeed, an empty 
 husk, hardened prematurely for want of 
 nourishment, what fruit shall you yield in 
 harvest time in return for the ground you 
 have cumbered ? 
 
 The Carn Ruth Tragedy had provided 
 the London papers with a splendid stop- 
 gap during the dull weeks intervening be- 
 tween Christmas time and the meeting of 
 Parliament. With that delicate sense of 
 justice so conspicuous in the English 
 journalist up to date, most of them had 
 from the first designated it ' The Carn 
 
 L 2
 
 148 PENH ALA. 
 
 Ruth Murder!' setting forth the title in 
 heavy type day after day, and gathering 
 enough details, real or imaginary, to fill a 
 column. 
 
 Between the lot of them, they kept 
 the public fully informed of all that 
 was going on in the obscure little Cornish 
 iishing and mining town, and long before 
 the coroner held his inquiry on those un- 
 recognisable remains at Carn Ruth, all the 
 rest of the world had finally and definitely 
 made up its mind on the subject of John 
 Penhala's guilt ; and many and loud were 
 the outcries against the stupidity of the 
 police, because of their inability to put 
 their hands on the missing murderer. 
 And nowhere were these outcries louder 
 and more frequent than among the lower 
 classes, ' the honest labouring man,' and 
 his associates. 
 
 On the day following the Carn Ruth
 
 PENHALA. 149 
 
 enquiry there was a select coterie of these 
 sons of toil gathered together in the par- 
 lour of a small public-house at Barking. 
 This delightful suburb of London owns a 
 population composed almost exclusively of 
 the artizan class, and from that downwards, 
 with a stratum somewhere in its complex 
 entirety of the maritime element. For 
 Barking Creek is always more or less 
 crowded with smacks, and lighters, and 
 barges, and small coasting vessels ; and their 
 crews are always very much in evidence 
 in the streets, and shops, and bars of the 
 unlovely river-side settlement. 
 
 To-day one of these small coasters had 
 arrived from Cornwall, with a cargo of 
 granite from the Penrhyn quarries, and 
 two members of her crew, as soon as the 
 day's duties were over, made their way 
 in company to the parlour of the ' Merry 
 Minstrel,' to join the social circle already
 
 150 PENHALA. 
 
 gathered there. Rough-looking fellows 
 they were, both of them, only there was 
 this difference in their roughness, that 
 wdiereas one, the elder, looked as if he 
 were making the best of a roughness 
 natural to him, the other had the ajDpear- 
 ance and bearing of one who wilfully ex- 
 aggerates his inborn disadvantages. There 
 was an aggressive air of blackguardism 
 about him, which showed itself in his un- 
 washed face and hands, his touzled head^ 
 his carelessly huddled-on clothes, and his 
 half sulky, half swaggering gait. There 
 was that about him to-night, as he slouched 
 into the flaring light of the ' Merry Min- 
 strel ' bar-parlour, which seemed to say to 
 everybody who was interested in the 
 matter, 
 
 ' Here I am, a regular rough un ! As 
 rough as you make 'em, and no pretence.
 
 PEXHALA. 151 
 
 Them as don't like me as I am, can leave 
 me alone, and there's an end of it.' 
 
 The men already gathered round the 
 table bore, as a rule, some signs of having 
 ' smartened up a bit ' for the evening's 
 festivity, and, as they noted the undiluted 
 ruffianism of the new-comer's appearance^ 
 there was a touch of resentment in the 
 glances they cast at him. 
 
 The elder of the two was evidently an 
 old acquaintance, and was greeted with 
 some show of eagerness. 
 
 ' You're just the chap we re wanting, 
 Joe Hellyar !' said the gentleman who oc- 
 cupied the chair at the head of the table. 
 ' Glad to see you again ! When did you 
 come up ?' 
 
 ' On this marning's tide,' answered Joe, 
 shaking hands with the two or three 
 nearest him, and seating himself on the
 
 152 PENHALA. 
 
 end of a form as the others pushed up to 
 make room for him. 
 
 ' Same cargo as usual, I suppose?' some 
 one asked. 
 
 ' Saame as usual/ returned Joe. ' We 
 begin unloading to-marrer.' 
 
 ' Are you come straight from Cornwall T 
 inquired the chairman. 
 
 ' Ay. straaight as crass winds would 
 allaow of,' returned Joe, speaking strictly 
 by the card. ' We've been better nor three 
 weeks beating up channel.' 
 
 ' Then mebbe you don't know the latest 
 news about the murder that was done 
 down your parts ?' 
 
 ' Es there any fresh news ?' asked Joe, 
 a new vivacity flashing into his quick 
 eyes. 'Hev the gell turned up again 
 after all?' 
 
 • She's turned up in a sort of way, yes. 
 The coroner held an inquest on her body
 
 PENH ALA. 153 
 
 yesterday, and the jury brought in a ver- 
 dict of wilful murder against the young 
 blackguard as pushed her in — Penhala.' 
 
 ' Eh, my dears, but that'll be a terruble 
 day's wark for hes father,' said Joe, com- 
 passionately ; and immediately there arose 
 a chorus of enquiries. 
 
 ' Do you know the people at all, Joe ?' 
 ^ Is the place in your part of Cornwall?* 
 'What sort of a chap is this John Pen- 
 hala?' ' Just a slip of a girl, wasn't she, 
 Joe?' 
 
 For the moment Joe was master of the 
 situation. Everyone's eye was on him ; he 
 had, all in an instant, acquired a new and 
 vivid interest for them, because of this 
 possibility of personal acquaintance with 
 the actors in the Cornish tragedy. No- 
 body had a thought or a glance to spare 
 for the lonely man near the door, nobody 
 saw him reel back a^'ainst the wall as if
 
 154 PENH ALA. 
 
 an invisible hand had dealt him a mighty 
 blow, they were all too absorbed in their 
 new interest in Hellyar. But he was too 
 honest to make a bid for notoriety at the 
 expense of truth. 
 
 ' I caan't saay as I'm parsonally ac- 
 quainted with Maaster Penhala myself/ 
 he said, regretfully. ' But maybe my 
 cumrade, Jahn Smeth, knows summat of 
 'em. Aw, Jahn Smeth, my dear,' he broke 
 off, as, turning to include his friend in the 
 conversation, he found him still standing 
 solitary at the end of the room, ' es theare 
 ne'er a plaace at tabble for ee ? Come ee 
 heere, lad, aw'll maake room for ee.' 
 
 But the unwashed man at the door 
 showed no inclination to accept his com- 
 rade's friendly offer. He drew a grimy 
 hand from his pocket and passed it across 
 his lips, as if he feared their tremor might 
 arouse curiosity, and pulled his shapeless
 
 PEXHALA. 155 
 
 cap lower on his brow, and turned towards 
 the door. 
 
 ' I wooan't trubble ee, thank ee, Joe/ 
 he answered, sullenly, his Cornish every 
 whit as broad as the other's. ' Company's 
 too smurt for I, lad. I'll just drink my 
 pint in the bar outside, and get back to 
 the boat.' 
 
 ' Aw, my dears !' said the amiable Joe, 
 looking from the closed door to the faces 
 round the table in great distress, ' to thenk 
 of that now — and the lad's first trip out 
 of hes own country too. He's a clain off 
 hand on a boat, aw, that un es ; but un's 
 got no manners to spaik of — how shud 
 un ? He's never been now^heer's but in 
 the mines and among the pilchard boats. 
 Us travellers must maake allowance for hes 
 want of manners, cumraades.' 
 
 ' Don't bother yourself, mate,' said the 
 chairman, consolingly. ' We don't expect
 
 156 PEXHALA. 
 
 politeness from uncultivated savages. The 
 boy ull get learnt better by-and-by. What 
 are the folks down in your ]3arts saying 
 about this fine gentleman of a murderer 
 at Carn Ruth?' 
 
 John Smith out in the bar called for his 
 drink, sixpennyworth of brandy, and drank 
 it at a gulp, and, throwing a shilling on 
 the counter, called for another. 
 
 The woman behind the bar looked 
 rather curiously at her customer as she 
 supplied him wdth the second dose. 
 
 ' Have a biscuit with it,' she said, pleas- 
 antly. 'You look a bit fainty like — the 
 spirit will do you more good if you take 
 a mouthful of something wdth it.' 
 
 He muttered a curt ' Thank you,' under 
 his breath ; but she noticed that he did 
 not follow her advice, though she pushed 
 the biscuit-jar invitingly towards him. 
 
 The good-natured soul was so accus-
 
 PEXHALA. 157 
 
 tomecl to slovenliness and unwaslied faces 
 among her customers that John Smith's 
 appearance did not horrify her to any- 
 great extent ; certainly not enough to pre- 
 vent her seeing that he was in ' a bit of 
 trouble.' He looked pitifully desolate and 
 heart-broken, she thought, and there was 
 a mazed, lost look about him that went 
 straio:ht to her heart and set it achino:. 
 
 And perhaps it might have been good 
 for John Smith had he been conscious of 
 that one touch of human sympathy that 
 night. As he waited there, fingering his 
 glass, a newspaper-boy passed down the 
 street; and, as he caught the shrill cry^ 
 the Cornishman shot out at the door and 
 bought a paper. He did not return at 
 once, standing outside in the flaring light 
 cf the windows to read something which 
 seemed to have a very great interest for 
 him.
 
 158 PENHALA. 
 
 It was the account of the coroner s in- 
 quest at Cam Ruth that he was reading, 
 and when he came to Morris Edyvean's 
 evidence his breath quickened and his grip 
 on the paper tightened. Lies all of it — 
 cruel, heartless, murderous lies ! But, lies 
 or the truth, that evidence of Edyvean's 
 would, in the absence of rebutting testi- 
 mony, hang the man it was directed against 
 as surely as the most unsullied truth from 
 a crowd of Avitnesses. 
 
 The reader's hand shook as he stuffed 
 the paper into his pocket. The other 
 trembling hand was already at his throat, 
 as if he would fain rid himself of a sensa- 
 tion of strangulation. Then he suddenly 
 remembered the untasted brandy in the 
 bar, and turned back for it. The man 
 next to him was folding up a newspaper, 
 and beating the packet flat with his closed 
 fist on the metal-topped counter in front
 
 PEXHALA. lo9 
 
 of him. A clirtv drunken sot he was, with 
 * loafer ' writ large over his filthy person 
 and drink-soddened face. 
 
 • T wish it was 'ini I'd got here instead 
 of this 'ere paper,' he was observing to a 
 V kindred spirit, when John Smith first lent 
 an ear to his conversation. ' I'd spoil 'is 
 beauty for 'im. I'd pound 'im fiat as I'm 
 a-pounding this paper. But now, you 
 mark my words, my boy — because 'e's the 
 son of a gentleman, 'e'll get off. If it was 
 a poor, down-trodden, hard-workin' la- 
 bourin' man like you or me what 'ad done 
 it, we should swing for it, and everybody 
 'ud say, " Sarve 'im light !" But it 'ull 
 be quite a different thing with this elegant 
 young slip of the haristocracy. The cussed 
 youno' devil ! a-o:ettin round that poor o^ell 
 with 'is soft voice an' 'is coaxin' ways, and 
 then rounding on 'er like that as soon as 
 she got a bit troublesome. Hanging's too
 
 160 PENHALA. 
 
 good for 'im, tlie heartless young black- 
 guard. I hope with all my 'eart and soul 
 as they'll catch him, with all my 'eart and 
 soul I do !' 
 
 ' Oh, they'll catch 'im,' returned his 
 friend, ' and it's my opinion they'll hang 
 him too, haristocrat or not. You see the 
 pertickerlers of the case are so dead agin 
 'im all through. They'll hang 'im right 
 enough, and a good job, too. Such war- 
 min as 'im ought to be cleared off the face 
 of the earth.' 
 
 John Smith did not drink his second 
 dose of brandy, he left it untouched on the 
 counter — forgot all about it, apparently, 
 in a sudden violent desire to get out into 
 the street. 
 
 There had been a slight fall of snow 
 during the afternoon, and the pavement 
 was coated with inches of half-melted, foul 
 slush, into which the feet sank at every
 
 PENH ALA. 161 
 
 step, and the cold of whicb penetrated 
 the thickest shoe leather. 
 
 But John Smith, ploughing his way- 
 through the yielding slime, knew nothing 
 of the discomfort of his surroundings. The 
 news of the Carn Ruth verdict had dropped 
 upon him like a thunder-bolt. In the 
 moments when his grief and self-reproach 
 for Hagar's death had been keenest, he had 
 never contemplated such apossibility as this. 
 His flight had been the result of a scare, 
 and, that once over, he had never expected 
 to be accused of having wilfullv caused 
 the death of his poor little sweetheart. 
 But for the nervous collapse which had 
 seized on him after the tragedy, he would 
 never have allowed Morris Edyvean's hys- 
 terical denunciations to scare him into the 
 folly of flight. But fear had gripped him, 
 and he had acted upon it, and the world 
 had accepted his disappearance as proof of 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 PENH ALA. 
 
 his guilt, and was clamouring for his life 
 in return for that poor child's. His fel- 
 low-creatures could think this thing of him 
 — that he could crown his foul villainies 
 towards the girl he had wronged so bitterly 
 by lifting his hand against her ! 
 
 Of what account to him were such things 
 as half-frozen pavements and biting winds? 
 Just then there was room in his mind for 
 one desire only — to find a place where he 
 could rest for a few minutes, without feel- 
 ing that the people around him were men- 
 tally condemning him to death ; to find 
 some cranny or corner where he could 
 listen to the sound of the human voice, 
 without hearing himself branded as a 
 murderer ; to shake ofi*, if but for a few 
 seconds, this ghastly sensation of the 
 world's undying enmity towards him, of 
 his eternal isolation in the midst of his 
 kind, this burdensome consciousness of his
 
 PEXHALA. 163 
 
 own repulsiveness in the sight of his 
 fellow-men, this terrible knowleclo;e that 
 he was indeed an Ishmaelite, in so far that 
 every man's hand was against him, and 
 that he w^as an outcast and a wanderer 
 from the land of his fathers, homeless, 
 hopeless, and desolate exceedingly. 
 
 Plodding along, with his hands deep in 
 his pockets, and his eyes seldom lifted from 
 the space of pavement immediately ahead 
 of his feet, he traipsed the streets hour 
 after hour — spent with fatigue, yet know- 
 ing nothing of it ; exhausted from want of 
 food, but unconscious of the pangs of 
 hunger; chilled to the marrow by ex- 
 posure to the biting north-east wind, yet 
 unaware of his own intense j^^iysical 
 wretchedness — enwrapped, soul and body, 
 in a muddled maze of misery, which shut 
 out all consciousness of his physical self, all 
 thought of such trifles as comfort or safety. 
 
 M 2
 
 164 PENHALA. 
 
 Safety ! What indeed did that count 
 with him in this apathy of suffering? 
 Once or twice, when the thought of his 
 possible arrest did glance across his trouble- 
 dimmed mind, it came to him with a thrill 
 that was more like relief than terror. For 
 then at least this hunted feeling would no 
 longer be with him day and night; he 
 would no longer be secretly consumed, 
 sleeping and waking, b}" the knowledge 
 that the man standing next him in a public 
 bar, the people who passed by him on the 
 pavement, the whole population of this 
 great city were, one and all, eager to hunt 
 him down, would turn upon him as hounds 
 upon their quarry, if they once suspected 
 his true individuality. 
 
 Safety ! If this continued concealment, 
 this constant anticipation of discovery was 
 safety, danger itself would be welcome by 
 way of contrast.
 
 PEXHALA. 165 
 
 Perhaps it was this very inclifFerence to 
 danger which saved him from suspicion. 
 Certain it is that, in those first terrible 
 days — while the knowledge was still new 
 to him, that, in the sight of his fellow- 
 men, he bore the brand of murder on him 
 — in those early days of the quest suspicion 
 never came near him ; he passed unscathed 
 through the hue and cry of search, into the 
 comparative security of a disheartened 
 pursuit. 
 
 Another murder was occupying the 
 public mind, interest in his capture slack- 
 ened, and the police centred their atten- 
 tion on the chase after the newer criminal, 
 hoping by a brilliant success in this affair 
 to obliterate the memory of their past 
 failure.
 
 166 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 A GLIMMER OF DAWN. 
 
 So there came a time when John Smith, 
 with an increased ruffianliness in his ap- 
 pearance and manners, was able to mix 
 with his fellows again, without experienc- 
 incr that horrible feelino^ that their hands 
 were longing to be at his throat. And 
 then a new terror faced him — death by 
 starvation. 
 
 The night he tramped away from 
 Barking, and severed the last connecting 
 link between himself and Cornish asso-
 
 PENHALA. 16 7 
 
 ciatioiis, was already some weeks behind 
 him in the past, when this new peril 
 threatened him. The money he had on 
 him had provided him with food and 
 lodging of a sort — the sort which, for a 
 hunted man, was safer than any other — 
 until now. 
 
 And now the first overpowering horror 
 of his own position was growing dulled 
 by time and familiarity, and the love of 
 life — even such a life as he was living 
 now, the Ufe of a rat in a hole — had re- 
 turned to him ; as it was bound to do. 
 And to Hve one must eat, and to eat one 
 must have food, and to have food one 
 must pay for it, and to pay one must have 
 money, and at last there came a day when 
 he changed his last shilling ! 
 
 All his life long he remembered the 
 morning afterwards, when he woke up 
 with his money clasped as usual in his
 
 168 PENHALA. 
 
 hand under his pillow, and, drawing it 
 forth, found two penny pieces in his 
 palm. 
 
 He lay a long time that morning won- 
 dering what he should do. 
 
 The week's rent of the squalid, grimy 
 den he was occupying was due to-day, and 
 credit was out of the question. He shiv- 
 ered as he imagined himself putting such 
 a request to the slatternly grimy-faced 
 shrew downstairs. At midday the rent 
 was due, and at midday she would expect 
 it. But for this consideration he would 
 probably have lain in bed the day through. 
 Hunger is less keen perhaps in bed than 
 elsewhere, and he was hungry already, 
 having put himself on short commons 
 these last three days in order to make his 
 money last as long as possible. The 
 thought of facing the attack of that foul- 
 tongued virago downstairs, however, was
 
 PENHALA. 169 
 
 more alarming than the thought of faint- 
 ing from hunger on the pavement. He 
 rolled off the bed a little after eleven 
 o'clock, put on his mud-encrusted boots, 
 and stealing cautiously downstairs reached 
 the street in safety. 
 
 He had been lodging in one of the side 
 streets off the City Road. Wandering on 
 in a purposeless fashion, he turned west- 
 ward when he reached the big busy thor- 
 oughfare, and slouched straight along till 
 he came to the ' vVngel ' at Islington. 
 
 He waited some little time here, among 
 the bustle at the corner, watching the 
 people get in and out of the omnibusses, 
 Avondering dully whether there was any- 
 one among them whose worldly posses- 
 sions Avere limited to the sum of two- 
 pence, and whether any of them were quite 
 so hungry as he was. But the constable 
 who reorulated the omnibus traffic turned
 
 170 PENH ALA. 
 
 sharply on him presently, and ordered 
 him about his business — for John Smith's 
 appearance at this time was anything but 
 a letter of recommendation in itself, and 
 the policeman probably credited him with 
 designs on the pockets of the passing 
 pedestrians. 
 
 He took the command to move on meek- 
 ly enough — hunger has a curiously taming 
 influence on the human species — one of 
 the signs of acute differentiation between 
 humanity and the brutes — and held on his- 
 way down the hill, past the big railway 
 stations to the Euston Road. 
 
 His hunger was approaching famine by 
 this time, and yet he held back from spend- 
 ing his two-pence. It formed the last 
 frail barrier between him and absolute 
 want ; that once gone, what lay beyond ? 
 So he held on desperately, enduring the 
 pangs of starvation as best he might, and
 
 PEXHALA. 171 
 
 findinor some curious touch of compen- 
 sation in jingling his cojjpers against one 
 another in his pocket, and running over in 
 his mind all the different things to eat 
 which that two-pence would buy. 
 
 When he came to the Regent's Park 
 gates he dawdled about, watching his op- 
 portunity to slip past the park keeper into 
 the enclosure. His knees were beginning 
 to shake under him, and though it was 
 bitterly cold — cold with that cruel keen- 
 ness peculiar to the London streets at the 
 beginning of March — he had a strong 
 desire to get into the park, and rest him- 
 self on one of the more sheltered seats. 
 
 By dint of perseverance and patience he 
 accomplished his purpose, and got into 
 the park, where he spent all the early 
 hours of the cold, grey, unlovely after- 
 noon, huddled up at the end of a seat, 
 with his chin resting on his breast, and
 
 172 PENHALxV. 
 
 his chilled hands pressed between his 
 shakinoj knees, in a vain attempt to keep 
 some touch of warmth in them. 
 
 It was a conclusive sign of the utter 
 hopelessness of his mental condition, that 
 he was incapable of forming the slightest- 
 plan for the future ; he was drifting on- 
 wards towards death by starvation, be- 
 cause he was too heart-broken to give 
 thought to any matter beyond the fact and 
 manner of Hagar Polwhele's death, and his 
 own position as the cause, if not the actual 
 perpetrator, of the tragedy. His mind was 
 never entirely free from the thought that, 
 though he had had no active hand in her 
 death, he was, before God and man, re- 
 sponsible for it; and with this ever present 
 consciousness of guilt upon him, he had 
 no courage for anything. He was a rud- 
 derless vessel, without aim or purpose, 
 adrift on the waters of life.
 
 PEXHALA. 173 
 
 Sitting there in the bitter cold of the 
 March wind, which found its way to him 
 through the clumps of laurels behind him, 
 he did what he had not dared to do 
 durino: these two months of desolate desfra- 
 dation — he looked backward, and drank 
 his fill of the waters of Marah. 
 
 He grew a touch light-headed by-and-by, 
 and when a little lad, with dark curly hair 
 and big brown eyes, after observing him 
 shyly from the other end of the seat, edged 
 up to him, and stooping, looked up into 
 his face, he thought for a brief instant 
 that it was Hagar, and brushed his half- 
 numbed hand across his forehead in pitiful 
 dismay. 
 
 ' You, at least, know that 1 didn't do it,' 
 he muttered, huskily. ' Cruel though I 
 was to you, 1 would have died rather than 
 lay a rough finger on you, my pretty 
 darlinof!'
 
 174 PENH ALA. 
 
 The little child opened his velvety eyes 
 in a sorrowful wonder. The beggar-man's 
 talk was Greek to him, but, with the un- 
 erring instinct of childhood, he recognised 
 the signs of suiFering in the pinched face 
 before him, and a divine pity flooded his 
 pure little soul. 
 
 * Have you been naughty ?' he asked, in 
 his sweet, clear treble. ' Is some one 
 angry wif you ? My g'anma says God 
 is angry wif us when we are naughty. Is 
 God angry wif you T 
 
 John Smith said nothing, only gazed 
 at the bonny creature in silence. 
 
 ' Ven you must be sorry,' continued the 
 small missionary, ' and God will forgive 
 you ; g'anma says so. Are you sorry ? 
 I fink you are. Will you say you're 
 sorry ?' 
 
 ' God ! yes, I'm sorry ! if that will do 
 any good,' said John Smith, speaking with
 
 PEXHALA. 175 
 
 such intensity that the words sounded 
 more like an outbreak of ferocious anger 
 than a confession of repentance. 
 
 The child just for an instant looked 
 scared at the vehemence of the sudden 
 outburst. His experience of penitence 
 Tvas probably confined to a less passionate 
 emotion. But his fright was over in a 
 breath, and he was all love and pity again. 
 
 • I knew you were sorry,' he said, and 
 he laid a warm little dumpling of a hand 
 in a pretty knitted glove on John Smith's 
 grimy, slender, flexible fingers. ' Here's 
 a new penny for you,' he went on ; 'g'anma 
 gave it to me to buy a cake wdf ; but I 
 ain't a bit hungry, and I fink you are. 
 God will forgive you if you're sorry.' 
 
 • Master Claud !' broke in a woman's 
 shrill voice from behind the shrubs, ' where 
 are you? You naughty boy ! How dare 
 you hide away ?'
 
 176 PEXHALA. 
 
 Master Claud slipped off the seat and 
 ran a few steps, stopping, before he finally 
 disappeared round the bushes, to nod his 
 lovely little head at the bent figure on the 
 seat and repeat, 
 
 ' Mind you be sorry. God will forgive 
 you if you're sorry.' 
 
 John Smith sat looking at the bright 
 coin in his hand. Sorry ? AYas not his 
 whole life a blank expanse of hopeless 
 sorrow and remorse? Sorry? The coin 
 lost some of its brightness as he asked 
 the useless question of himself, and he did 
 not know whence came the sudden dim- 
 mino; of his sio;ht, until bij? tears came 
 splashing down on Master Claud's new 
 penny. Ay, he w^as sorry enough ; God 
 help him ! 
 
 It was dark before he left the park. 
 His craving for nourishment was so terri- 
 ble by this time that he had made up his
 
 PEXHALA. 177 
 
 mind to spend his money. Close to the 
 park entrance there was a small public- 
 house, up a very narrow passage ; he knew 
 the situation quite well. The place was 
 used principally by servants from the big 
 houses in the neighbourhood. This was 
 where he would go for his last meal. After- 
 wards — perhaps he would give himself into 
 the charge of the first policeman he met — 
 in prison they would at least feed him. 
 
 When he had had his bread and cheese 
 and glass of beer, he stood watching a 
 group of men in the next compartment, 
 gathered round another who was perform- 
 ing sleight-of-hand tricks with a pack of 
 cards. 
 
 The food he had eaten had not half- 
 satisfied his ravenous hunger, but the 
 contrast between his past and present con- 
 dition was strons; enouo^h to make him 
 look back with actual terror to the suffer- 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 PENHALA. 
 
 ings of the last few hours. Anything, he 
 told himself, would be better than a repe- 
 tition of this afternoon's experience; sooner 
 than go through such agony again, he 
 would hand himself over to the care of 
 the police, or put an end to his troubles 
 for good, by whatever means came first 
 within his reach. 
 
 Having come to this decision, a curious 
 «pell of recklessness fell upon him. 
 
 ' Eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow 
 ye die,' he quoted to himself, as he watched 
 the performer in the next division of the bar. 
 
 He was a boastful sort of fellow, and 
 after each trick he had a way of say- 
 ing, ' I'll give half-a-crown to anybody 
 here who can tell me how it's done.' 
 
 John Smith, watching his movements, 
 presently saw him do a trick which he 
 knew perfectly well, and, without stopping 
 to think what he was doing, he said as much.
 
 PENHALA. 179 
 
 The conjurer — an amateur, evidently — 
 dropped his jaw, and tried to get out of 
 his bargain, but the others laughingly 
 insisted that the unwashed gentleman 
 should have a try; and John Smith was 
 invited to come round to the other com- 
 partment and show what he could do. 
 
 And John Smith went, and took the 
 cards into his hands and began to shuffle 
 them. 
 
 And the men gathered round him, Avatch- 
 ing the smooth, easy grace of his move- 
 ments, wondered at it, even more than 
 at the skill of the tricks he performed for 
 them. 
 
 As he stood in the midst of the sleek, 
 well-fed gentlemen's servants, with his 
 head well thrown back, and a smile on his 
 white, pinched face, his long chestnut hair 
 falling in wavy masses on either side of 
 his head, and his slender, subtle fingers 
 
 n2
 
 180 PENHALA. 
 
 working whatever wonder they willed 
 among the inanimate cards, the poor, half- 
 starved, forsaken-looking wretch was trans- 
 formed under their very eyes, until it 
 seemed to them that the mere touch of the 
 cards had inspired him. 
 
 They could not guess — how should they 
 — that hunger and terror and shame had 
 ceased to exist for him, that he was back 
 in the past, in a brilliantly-lit room, the 
 centre of a delighted circle of well-dressed 
 people, living over again the pleasant ex- 
 citement of a successful first appearance 
 as an amateur magician, in his father's 
 drawing-room. 
 
 They were a discriminating -audience, 
 for they had seen the best things of this 
 kind in their masters' houses, and John 
 Smith, discovering this, rose to the occa- 
 sion, and excelled himself.
 
 PEXHALA. 181 
 
 And when the exhibition was over, he 
 found himself possessed of four shillings 
 and threepence, and the pack of cards — a 
 present from their defeated owner. 
 
 And a man, who had watched the per- 
 formance from the less select division of 
 the bar, joined him as he left the house, 
 and dropped into conversation with him. 
 
 ' I can see you're only half-clothed, and 
 you look as if you wasn't more'n half-fed 
 neither,' he said, after a few preliminary 
 remarks. * Strikes me you must be a 
 durned soft fool to get into such a state as 
 that, while you've got the making of a 
 fortune in them nimble fingers o' yourn. 
 What's yer name, mate ?' 
 
 ' John Smith.' 
 
 ' S'help me now, if that ain't a coinci- 
 dence ! I'm John Smith too ! Shouldn't 
 wonder if we was related somehow. Do
 
 182 PENHALA. 
 
 you want to pick up another bob or two 
 with the cards before bed-time ? Be- 
 cause, if you do, I can show you a likely 
 pitch.'
 
 BOOK II
 
 185 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 JOHN SMITH WASHES HIS FACE. 
 
 Mrs. Boxfokd was delighted with her new 
 lodger, and exceedingly glad of the long 
 let of six weeks, reaching from the third 
 week in July until the end of August. 
 
 Mrs. Boxford's pretty cottage stood a 
 mile outside Chichester, in one of the 
 lovely, sheltered lanes Avhich abound in 
 that part of Sussex; and at that particular 
 period of the year Mrs. Boxford's spare 
 rooms were usually let to people who were 
 down for Goodwood races. But she had
 
 186 PENHALA. 
 
 been delighted to accept Miss Fentimore 
 as a lodger ; first and foremost, because a 
 six weeks' let is better than a fortnight's 
 any day ; and secondly, because she took 
 a fancy at first sight to Mary Fentimore's 
 pleasant manner, her sweet smile, and 
 charming face. 
 
 It would be something of a relief, Mrs. 
 Boxford confided to her husband — Lord 
 Haphazard's head-keeper — to have a pleas- 
 ant, sweet-faced young woman about the 
 house, instead of the loud-voiced, card- 
 playing young men, who generally occu- 
 pied her best parlour and two spare rooms 
 during the race-week. 
 
 Miss Fentimore had been perfectly 
 frank with the good motherly woman^ 
 when she came over from Portsmouth 
 early in June to take the rooms. 
 
 ' She was a member of Mr. Wilfred Bur-
 
 PENHALA. ]87 
 
 lington's Opera Company,' she said. ' Mr. 
 Burlington had decided to give his com^ 
 pany a six weeks' vacation during the 
 height of the summer — from the middle of 
 July to the end of August — and she want- 
 ed to find quiet country lodgings for that 
 time. She had been a little over-worked 
 lately, singing sometimes four times a week, 
 and she was feeling the need of a long 
 spell of perfect rest and quietness, away 
 from all the bustle and distractions of 
 town-life.' 
 
 ' And you'll get it here, miss,' Mrs. Box- 
 ford had assured her. 'Maybe, just dur- 
 ing the race-week, you'll have to keep a 
 bit close to the house of an evening ; for 
 there's a queer lot of characters about the 
 place just then. But once that's over, you 
 can stroll about the woods and meadows 
 and plantations and lanes from daylight
 
 188 PENHALA. 
 
 till bed-time, and never need to so much 
 as put a pair of gloves on for the company 
 you'll meet.' 
 
 ' That is exactly what I want,' said 
 Mary, openly delighted with the prospect, 
 and the arrangement was concluded there 
 and then. 
 
 Mrs. B oxford was quick enough to see 
 that this operatic artiste was likely to be a 
 model lodger — quiet and regular in her 
 habits, and keeping no company to speak 
 of, and congratulated herself on ' a good 
 summer let.' 
 
 And Miss Fentimore more than fulfilled 
 her landlady's anticipations; she revelled 
 in the quiet and retirement of the country 
 life, and began to ask herself, before she 
 had been a week in her new quarters, 
 whether she had not after all made a mis- 
 take in her choice of a profession. 
 
 Her father had been a bookseller in the
 
 PENHALA. 189 
 
 city of York, a man very highly thought 
 of and respected by all those of his fellow- 
 citizens whose good opinions were worth 
 having ; but keenness in business matters 
 did not rank among his claims on the good 
 opinion of his neighbours. And so it fol- 
 lowed that at his death, two years ago, his 
 affairs were found to be in anything but a 
 flourishing condition ; and Mary discovered 
 that, when everything was realised, and 
 the estate cleared from debt, there would 
 be an income of something less than fifty 
 pounds a year left as her portion. 
 
 Faced thus by the necessity of, in part 
 at least, earning her own living, she had 
 decided to utilise her voice, and so make 
 capital out of the money spent on its 
 training. She had already something of a 
 local reputation, having made several ap- 
 pearances in the choral concerts of her 
 native city, and she found very little diffi-
 
 190 PENHALA. 
 
 culty in obtaining an engagement in one 
 of the travelling operatic companies. 
 
 But she had not taken very kindly to 
 the life. Her love for her art Avas pure 
 and enthusiastic, but she found very little 
 artistic enthusiasm among the members 
 of Mr. Burlington's company. Singing, 
 as an art, they thought very little of, but 
 they thought a ^ood deal of it as a means of 
 gaining applause, heaps of it, and especially 
 applause that should be a little noisier or 
 a little more prolonged than that bestowed 
 on their companions. 
 
 She never forgot the first time that 
 Trovatore was performed after she had be- 
 come a member of the company. 
 
 She was not singing herself, but she was 
 in the Green-Room, waiting to ascertain 
 the hour of the next day's rehearsal, when 
 the two ladies, Leonore and Azucena, passed 
 through on the way to their dressing-rooms,
 
 PENH ALA. 191 
 
 after taking a call before the curtain. The 
 contralto, all smiles and pleasure, passed 
 on with a splendid bouquet to her nose, 
 the soprano flung her bouquet on the 
 ground with an expression of petulant 
 contempt, stamped it flat under her high- 
 heeled shoe, kicked it violently against 
 the opposite wall, and went ofi*, leaving 
 the mangled floAvers behind her, filling 
 the whole room with the sweetness of 
 their dying breath. 
 
 Mary Fentimore held her breath and 
 wondered ; and two men on the other 
 side of the room looked at one another 
 and laughed. 
 
 ' What was Avrong with the Morelli's 
 flowers to-night,' asked one. ' Weren't 
 they as good as Miss Betterton's ?' 
 
 ' It wasn't that,' came the answer. ' I 
 don't believe there was a pin to choose 
 betw^een the two bouquets to-night. They
 
 192 PENHALA. 
 
 came in tlie wrong place — that's all. She 
 can't endure that Miss Betterton should 
 have the first bouquet.' 
 
 Mary listened and wondered still more ; 
 such jealousy as this was something she 
 could not understand. 
 
 It was the first sample she had seen of 
 Madame Morelli's furious jealousy, but she 
 was to see many another, and those others 
 were to concern her more nearly ; for the 
 Italian prima-donna was always at logger- 
 heads with the second soprano in the com- 
 pany, and this was the position which Miss 
 Fentimore had the misfortune to fill. Things 
 had grown so uncomfortable lately that once 
 Mary had gone so far as to send in her re- 
 signation; but Mr. Burlington had prevail- 
 ed upon her to withdraw it; for by this time 
 his first and second sopranos were running 
 one another close for the position of popu- 
 lar favourite, and he half-hinted to Mary
 
 PENHALA. 193 
 
 that, sooner than lose her, he would dis- 
 pense altogether with the services of 
 Madame Morelli. 
 
 And now that she was away from it 
 all — the close, hot air of the side-wings, 
 the ghastly lath and canvas parodies of 
 nature, the unhealthy excitement of facing 
 the audience, and, above all, the personal 
 attacks of her professional rival — now that 
 she was here, amongst the sights and 
 sounds and scents of the country, with 
 God's own sweetness all about her, now 
 that she found herself face to face Avith 
 nature, unspoiled and unsullied by the 
 influence of man, she liked the thouo^ht of 
 a return to that other life less than ever, 
 and longed, as she had never longed before, 
 to shake herself free from it. 
 
 She had already been a week in her 
 country quarters before the race-week 
 began, and brought with it that gathering 
 
 VOL. I. o
 
 194 PENHALA. 
 
 together of the dregs of society, which 
 follows at the tail of a race-meeting as 
 inevitably as dusk follows after daylight. 
 A curious conglomeration of human 
 vice and criminality it was, that packed 
 itself into the sly chinks and crannies of 
 the lovely old country town of Chichester, 
 during those last few days of July. 
 
 There was one troupe of five ' niggers ' 
 who had started from their London quar- 
 ters in the best of spirits. Perhaps, 
 though, it would be safer to say that four 
 were in such boisterous spirits, that the 
 depression of the fifth became a negative 
 quantity in reckoning up the whole. But 
 then, as they all agreed among themselves, 
 there was never any counting on the 
 temper of ' John Smith number two,' 
 from one minute to another. And this 
 time they admitted that, for once, John 
 Smith — better known amons: his intimates
 
 PENH ALA. 195 
 
 as ' The Markiss ' — had some reason for 
 being down on his luck, for only the night 
 before they left London his especial pal — 
 ' John Smith number one ' — had gone to 
 kingdom come. And those two John 
 Smiths had been like a pair of Siamese 
 twins — barring the inconvenient circum- 
 stance of not being able to turn over in 
 bed without one another's permission — for 
 the last three years or more, ever since 
 John Smith number one had brought John 
 Smith number two, alias the Markiss, into 
 the community of which these gentlemen 
 Avere shining lights, and gone security for 
 his good faith in the future. 
 
 It was natural that the cove should feel 
 a bit cut up at the loss of his pal, they 
 agreed among themselves ; but when they 
 found out, during their first day on the 
 course, that this natural regret was likely 
 to seriously interfere with the takings of 
 
 o2
 
 196 PENH ALA. 
 
 the firm, they grew less tolerant of their 
 partner s low spirits, and told him he was 
 not acting fairly by them, in allowing his 
 private troubles to interfere with his brisk- 
 ness in business. 
 
 And then there happened what might 
 have happened any time during these last 
 three years, but for the peaceable inter- 
 vention of the man who had died over- 
 night. 
 
 When the other members of the firm 
 began to grumble at the day's takings, and 
 hinted that the falling off* was due to the 
 dulness of the man who did the conjur- 
 ing business, the Markiss ' cut up rough,' 
 said right out that he had had enough of 
 the nigger business, and announced his 
 intention of working on his own account 
 for the future. 
 
 There was a big row then, for, in addition 
 to his exhibition of magic, the Markiss sang
 
 PENHALA. 197 
 
 tenor in the glees, and his defection was 
 likely to cause a serious difference to them. 
 For a minute or two it seemed doubtful 
 whether he would not have immediate 
 cause to regret his declaration of inde- 
 pendence ; but while two members of the 
 troupe asserted their intention of ' doing 
 for' the defecting one there and then, 
 the other two insisted upon his right to 
 follow his own inclination. 
 
 The whole five of them were too much 
 of a muchness in point of weight and 
 skill, to give any two of them a chance 
 against the other three, if it came to a 
 scrimmage ; and so, the Markiss giving the 
 casting vote in his own favour, pacific 
 counsels prevailed in the end, and the 
 threats of bodily violence simmered down 
 to personal remarks of the usual offensive 
 nature. 
 
 ' He'd been glad enough to join 'em three
 
 198 PENHALA. 
 
 years ago, when lie was a babby in armSy 
 and didn't know his way about.' 
 
 ' Yes ! cors why ? Didn't they know ? 
 Cors it 'ud been convenient to him at the 
 time to 'ide his face behind the burnt cork 
 — any fool might know that. Chaps with 
 white 'ands and that almighty finnicking 
 way of talking, didn't join nigger minstrels 
 from chice.' 
 
 ' Ah, there was something agin' him^ 
 sure enough ? And, by God ! if the 
 speaker could find it out, wouldn't he just 
 blow the gaff on him, that was all ! He'd 
 hid himself among 'em as long as it served 
 his purpose, and now they could go to 
 blazes for all he cared. Perhaps, though, 
 he wasn't so safe out of the wood even 
 now. Maybe that was why he'd grown a 
 beard this last six months, and maybe 
 after all he'd find a beard wasn't such a 
 safe disguise as the burnt cork had been.
 
 PENHALA. 199 
 
 More likely than not he'd live to wish him- 
 self among his coloured friends agin.' 
 
 But the Markiss took no notice of the 
 verbal bricks being flung at him ; he made 
 up his small bundle, washed his face, and 
 walked out of the attic-room, down the 
 ricketty stair to the street, a free man. 
 
 He found the court where their lodo^ino^s 
 were situated quite deserted when he 
 reached the pavement, and even in the 
 wider high-street, teeming with humanity 
 a short time ago, there were no signs of 
 life at this hour. Up and down the high- 
 Avay, as far as he could see, there was not 
 even a twinkling light in a window, to 
 speak to him of human companionship, the 
 whole city lay sleeping under the spangled 
 purple of the solemn sky. 
 
 Standing there, with that curiously ac- 
 centuated feeling of loneliness upon him, 
 which only comes to one shut off from his
 
 200 PENHALA. 
 
 kind in the heart of a thronged city, with 
 the stars gazing down at him from above 
 the irregular sky-line of the houses across 
 the way, and all around him the scented 
 silence of the summer night, an emotion 
 nearly akin to elation stole upon him, 
 followed by a touch of wondering surprise 
 at his own lightness of heart, surprise 
 that he had not yet forgotten how io feel 
 glad. 
 
 Surely the heart of man must possess a 
 strength of endurance, far beyond the 
 power of words to convey, to have gone 
 through what he had gone through, and 
 yet retain the faculty of feeling glad. For 
 though his gladness was sobered, even 
 now, by the haunting memory of much 
 that lay behind him in the past, it was 
 genuine gladness, nevertheless. 
 
 And he did well to be glad. He had at 
 last broken away from the ghastly sur-
 
 PEN HAL A. 201 
 
 roundings of those first years of penance. 
 He had promised John Smith he would, 
 and he had done it. He wondered a little 
 whether stout-hearted old John knew how 
 quickly the promise to him had been 
 redeemed. 
 
 ' Promise me that you'll get away from 
 these chaps here the very first chance you 
 get,' he had said, when the doctor had left 
 them alone, after telling them the end was 
 near ; ' and that you'll make your way up 
 to Lincolnshire, and give this bundle of 
 papers into my missis's keeping. It'll be 
 a f^-ood excuse for breaking with these 
 London chaps. And don't come back 
 among 'em again, my boy — give me your 
 word you won't.' 
 
 And the Markiss had given his word. 
 And here he was, already on the way to 
 fulfil it ; only he could not start off direct 
 for Lincolnshire, for the reason that he
 
 202 PENHALA. 
 
 had not a penny in his pockets. Because 
 he had been accused of spoiling the day's- 
 . takings, he had not chosen to ask for his 
 share of them ; and the Markiss never had 
 a penny put by. All those three years he 
 had spent in the London slums, he had 
 got rid of his money as fast as he earned 
 it ; his free-handed recklessness having 
 helped to gain for him the title he had 
 borne among his blackguardly companions. 
 He would have to stay out the race- 
 meeting in Chichester, and make a few 
 shillings to start him on his journey to his 
 old friend's wife. To-night he would have 
 to lie in the open — for by this time every- 
 body was in bed. Well, there was not much 
 hardship in that on such a night as this. 
 HeAvouldgo a mile or so outside the town,, 
 and creep under a hayrick, or find his way 
 into the heart of a plantation — a plantation 
 of pines, perhaps, with a tangled under-
 
 PEXHALA. 203 
 
 growth of brambles and bracken, like one 
 he remembered in Cornwall, near the cliffs 
 overhano^ino^ the Atlantic breakers. 
 
 He would enjoy lying in such a plan- 
 tation as that to-night ; he would lie, with 
 his little bundle for a pillow, and watch 
 the stars peeping through at him, as often 
 as the faint breeze of the summer night 
 brushed the feathery boughs of the pines 
 aside, and gave him a brief, fleeting glimpse 
 of the silent glory beyond. There was a 
 faint touch of something at his heart to- 
 night that was almost like a promise of 
 returning peace — peace for him, who had 
 parted with the dove-eyed, soft-footed mes- 
 senger of comfort many a weary, vice- 
 stained month ago. 
 
 And, with this strange new sensation of 
 rest upon him, he went his quiet way 
 along the fragrant country road, till he 
 had left the last outposts of the city be-
 
 204 PENHALA. 
 
 hind him; and then, turning down a lane 
 •embowered between spreading hedges, and 
 passing an isolated cottage, slumbering in 
 the embrace of its own luxuriant green- 
 ery, he came to a plantation of pines skirt- 
 ting the road, and leapt the low, mossy, 
 stone wall, and — found himself at home ! 
 
 On the next day an extraordinary piece 
 of luck befell him. A young fool who 
 had won a hatful of money on the great 
 race, was flinging his sovereigns about 
 right and left. The Markiss happened to 
 ^ take a pitch ' near his party, and the 
 ladies in the carriage chose to admire the 
 strolling wizard's deft manipulation of the 
 cards ; a consummation to which his pic- 
 turesque appearance may in some measure 
 have contributed. 
 
 Result, a couple of sovereigns tossed to 
 the Markiss, as if they were a couple of 
 pennies.
 
 PENHALA. 205 
 
 The conjurer opened his eyes as he 
 pocketed the gold, and said nothing. This 
 windfall would smooth away the difficul- 
 ties in the way of his journey to the wife 
 of John Smith number one. It was curi- 
 ous how he held on to that notion of 
 carrying out his promise to his dead friend 
 with as little delay as possible. Perhaps 
 it was because, in all those past years of 
 misery and degradation, he had never had 
 an ojDportunity of doing anybody a good 
 turn, and the novelty of the thing attracted 
 him ; perhaps he snatched at the journey 
 as an occupation only, glad to have once 
 more some purpose in life, some object 
 ahead to aim at, something to lift him for 
 a time above the soul-stifling influences of 
 a life lived for the present moment only, a 
 life without a to-morrow, and, as nearly 
 as he could make it, without a yesterday 
 either ; a life as nearly on a level with
 
 206 PENHALA. 
 
 that of the brutes as he could render it, 
 and yet worse by far than that of the 
 brutes, because, let humanity degrade it- 
 self as it will, it cannot utterly stifle all 
 thought and sense of responsibility. 
 
 And now John Smith number two had 
 a little shred of wholesome thought for 
 the restless tendrils of his mind to wrap 
 themselves round about, and having some- 
 thing to look forward to, his old depres- 
 sion loosened its grip somewhat, and he no 
 lono-er felt the constant need of drink to 
 deaden thought. Such a queer sensation it 
 was — to dare to think! To be able to think, 
 on one subject at least, without getting the 
 heart-ache, or wishing himself dead, or fly- 
 ing to the drink for forgetfulness. 
 
 And this windfall of the two sovereigns 
 he took as a sign that he w^as to prosper on 
 this Lincolnshire journey. So elated was 
 he that, meeting the members of his old
 
 PENH ALA. 207 
 
 firm on his way down the hill at the end 
 of the day, he took one of them into his 
 confidence. 
 
 That was one of his many weak points, 
 that he could not suspect another of a 
 meanness impossible to himself. 
 
 Because he would have been glad to hear 
 of another's good fortune, it seemed a 
 matter of course to him that others should 
 be glad to hear of his. He was very young 
 yet, very young indeed, for all the lines 
 which trouble had graven on his brow, and 
 round his lips, and in spite of the silver 
 threads, which showed themselves here and 
 there among the long wavy masses of his 
 chestnut hair. 
 
 And so, in the fulness of his heart, and 
 because of that new pleasant touch of 
 hopefulness that was on him, he told his 
 old comrades of his slice of luck, and even 
 stood drinks round at the first pub they
 
 208 PENHALA. 
 
 came to, and then went on his way towards 
 his last night's camping-ground. 
 
 He held out against their invitation to 
 stay and make a night of it, because he 
 intended to be off with the dawn, and he 
 wanted to get a few hours' rest beforehand. 
 And, for another thing, he had lost the 
 old incentive to drink till he was drunk 
 — the power to think was no longer syno- 
 nymous with the power to suffer. He had 
 something to do, and he needed a clear 
 head to plan how best to do it. 
 
 And he was planning his journey as he 
 took his way once again towards Lord 
 Haphazard's pine-woods, too busily occu- 
 pied with his own affairs, to notice that he 
 was being followed at a distance by some- 
 one who seemed particularly anxious to 
 avoid observation, judging from the way 
 he crept along in the shadow. 
 
 It struck him once or twice, after he had
 
 PENH ALA. 209 
 
 composed himself for the night, that he 
 heard sounds of movement in the under- 
 growth near him, the breaking of a dry- 
 twig underfoot, or the springing back of a 
 bramble trail that had been forced out of 
 its natural position by some passing body. 
 But the Markiss did not trouble himself 
 to enquire what the sounds might mean. 
 If poachers were in the woods it was no 
 affair of his, still less was it his affair if 
 the keepers were abroad. So he lay there 
 listening to the whisper of the pine needles, 
 and the distant croaking of a frog, and the 
 occasional lowing of kine from the lord 
 of the manor's dairy-farm close by, until, 
 by and by, his thoughts grew indefinite 
 and disconnected, and the sounds around 
 him ceased to convey any meaning to his 
 brain, and he slept. 
 
 • Mary Fentimore had adopted the prac- 
 
 VOL. I. P
 
 210 PENH ALA. 
 
 tice of early rising since her arrival at 
 Love Lane Cottage. That morning half- 
 hour she spent with Mr. Boxford, tramp- 
 ing through the woods to the pheasants' 
 feeding-ground, was one of the most enjoy- 
 able times during her whole day. She 
 loved tramping through the dewy woods 
 in the exquisite sweetness and stillness of 
 the new-born day, she loved to watch 
 nature awake, all flushed and fresh, from 
 her night's rest, and it was a delight to her 
 to stand back well in the shadow of the 
 trees, and see the gorgeous birds stealing 
 shyly from the cover into the open, to peck 
 daintily at the strewn grain. 
 
 One or another of the dogs would usu- 
 ally accompany them on these occasions, 
 keeping obediently at his master's heels 
 on their way through the plantations, and 
 crouching out of sight in the grass, with
 
 PEXHALA. 211 
 
 tis muzzle on his paws, while the feeding 
 was going on. 
 
 On this especial morning Roderick, the 
 setter pup, showed more impatience of 
 control than usual. Once or twice he 
 broke away from the pathway, and went 
 sniffing vigorously among the undergrowth. 
 He always came back at his master's word, 
 but he did it plainly under protest, resum- 
 ino; his investio:ations the moment the 
 keeper's eye was off him again. 
 
 ' He's a bit self-willed this morning,' 
 said Mary, presently. 
 
 Boxford shook his head, and shot a 
 sharp glance through the brushwood. 
 
 ' There's something there that hadn't 
 ought to be, as I make it out,' he said. 
 ' The pup wouldn't be so rampageous 
 about nothing. I'll take a look as I come 
 back. I'm a bit late for the birds already.' 
 
 p2
 
 212 PENH ALA. 
 
 ' I'll go and look now,' said Mary ; ' and 
 join you on your way back.' 
 
 Boxford threw an approving glance 
 over his shoulder at her. She was made 
 of good stuff; such a thing as fear never 
 seemed to come into her head. 
 
 ' I shall be back in ^ve minutes, miss,^ 
 he said. ' I expect it'll be dead game, 
 you'll find. Take my whistle, and call 
 out if it's anything serious.' 
 
 Mary took the whistle and turned off 
 through the bushes, with the pup whim- 
 pering excitedly in front of her. 
 
 Just at the spot where they had left the 
 path the undergrowth was unusually 
 thick, so that it was impossible to see any 
 distance ahead, and so it happened that 
 Mary, skirting round a solid clump of 
 foliage, came, utterly unprepared, upon 
 what she had come to find.
 
 PENHALA. 213 
 
 In that first moment of discovery slie was 
 not frightened, only startled. The man 
 was lying on his side with his back to- 
 wards her, and his head pillowed on his 
 outstretched arm. She took in at a glance 
 his black stockings, scarlet knickerbockers, 
 short black jacket, and a mass of wavy 
 chestnut hair. 
 
 Evidently one of the wandering min- 
 strels down for the races, who had stolen 
 in here for a night's rest. She was turn- 
 ing away again, when she saw Roderick 
 put his nose close to the sleeping man's 
 head, and sniff. 
 
 The next instant she was down on her 
 knees, with the man's face turned up to 
 the sky, and all the blood in her body 
 making an inward rush to her heart. 
 
 As her glance fell on the red stain 
 where his head had lain, there was a
 
 214 PENHALA. 
 
 moment's qualm ; but she pulled herself 
 together heroically, and blew a shrill call 
 on the whistle. 
 
 Kind God ! How white his face was ! 
 Everywhere but just that patch above his 
 temple, where the blood had dried over a 
 horrible wound. AYas he dead ? No ; 
 his heart was still beating. Who and 
 what was he, to be here in such a plight 
 as this ? His clothes were those of a 
 wayside mummer, but his delicate features, 
 and the impress of mental suffering, so 
 visible, even in his unconsciousness, in 
 the tense knit of his finely pencilled brows, 
 and the deep lines of thought above his 
 auburn moustache, surely they hinted at 
 something higher in the social scale than 
 a strolling conjurer ? And his hands I 
 Beyond all doubt they were the hands of 
 a gentleman. Those long, slender, flexilCy 
 tapering fingers, and those well-kept nails
 
 PEXHALA. 215 
 
 must belong to a man accustomed to the 
 refinements of civilisation. How drawn 
 and strained and troubled was the whole 
 expression of his face ! And yet, surely 
 he was quite a young man ? He was 
 broad and big, but there was still that 
 suo^orestion of lissomness in the lines of 
 the throat and shoulders, that slenderness 
 in the loins which seem to hint at further 
 development in the future. 
 
 So young in years, and yet so old in 
 suffering ! 
 
 A great pity welled up in Mary Fenti- 
 more's heart as she looked. The broad, 
 candid forehead should have been so 
 smooth and calm, the fine brows should 
 never have taken that permanent knit of 
 sullen suffering — as of one bending be- 
 neath a burden beyond his strength. She 
 knew exactly the haunted look his eyes 
 would have. Ah, now he was oroino^ to
 
 216 PENH ALA. 
 
 open them. Heaven, what a spasm of 
 agony that was ! See how his brows came 
 together, and his lips drew back, showing 
 the teeth set hard on one another within ! 
 
 Would somebody never come ! 
 
 Again she blew a shrill call on her 
 whistle, and at the sound the eyes of the 
 injured man unclosed in sudden, startled 
 consciousness, and gazed up wonderingly 
 into her own. 
 
 And then came the crashing of hurry- 
 ing footsteps through the undergrowth, 
 and the astonished Boxford strode into 
 view.
 
 217 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 'PART OF THE SHADOW THAT IS ON ME.' 
 
 It was three weeks since Mary Fentimore 
 and the pup Roderick had found John 
 Smith in Lord Haphazard's plantations, 
 three weeks since he had been brous^ht 
 home, insensible, to the cottage in Love 
 Lane, and he was there still. 
 
 This was Mary's doing. Boxford had 
 suggested taking the unconscious man 
 into Chichester, and leaving him in the 
 hands of the authorities, but Miss Fenti- 
 more had begged so earnestly that he
 
 218 PENH ALA. 
 
 might be spared the ordeal of the jolting- 
 ride into the town, and had given the good 
 people of the house to understand so un- 
 mistakably that they should lose nothing 
 by their kindness to the poor fellow, that 
 it had ended in her having her own way. 
 
 Mrs. Boxford, noting the mountebank 
 attire of the stranger, and, drawing her 
 own conclusions from the absolute empti- 
 ness of his pockets, had at first refused 
 most decisively to have anything to do 
 with him. But Mrs. Boxford, in her 
 younger days, had known service in good 
 families, and flattered herself that she 
 could always tell an aristocrat by instinct. 
 And Miss Fentimore, knowing of this little 
 -weakness of the kind creature's, played 
 upon it shamelessly to gain her own ends. 
 
 ' He is no common roadside stroller,' 
 she said, slyly. ' Look at his finger-tips,, 
 and his almond-shajDed nails. Look how
 
 PEXHALA. 21^ 
 
 delicate his hands are, for all their sun- 
 burn. A woman who knows as much of 
 the aristocracy as you do, Mrs. Boxford, 
 must know that that is the hand of a gen- 
 tleman. I believe this ridiculous dress is 
 some mad freak. For all we know he may 
 be some very highly-born person — some 
 nobleman's son who was carrying out a 
 practical joke, and fell into bad company, 
 and got rough treatment. Surely we can- 
 not do wrono; in showino^ him a little kind- 
 ness, till he can tell us who he is, and 
 enable us to communicate with his friends.' 
 It was this last touch that carried the day. 
 Mrs. Boxford's active imagination took a 
 flying leap into the future ; already she 
 pictured herself, in her best silk gown, 
 receiving the thanks of perhaps a duke 
 — or an earl at least — in her own little 
 parlour, and the ambitious dream per- 
 suaded her into a folly which her kind-
 
 220 PENHALA. 
 
 ness of heart alone would never have 
 countenanced. 
 
 So the mountebank was carried into her 
 remaining spare bed-room, and there he 
 remained for three weeks ; attended by the 
 best doctor in Chichester, and nursed by 
 Miss Fentimore and Mrs. B oxford — with 
 the assistance of a hired nurse for the 
 night work. 
 
 Even in his delirium he was a model 
 patient, but when that trouble was over 
 and he was rational again, his obedience 
 to orders, and his perfect patience under 
 the tedium and misery of convalescence, 
 made Mary feel sometimes as if she must 
 run away and have a good cry. She had 
 had experience of sick men before, and 
 she knew the state of mind that was 
 natural to them when recovering from an 
 illness ; and, knowing this, she asked her-
 
 PENH ALA. 221 
 
 self a dozen times a day, what could have 
 been the circumstances of this man's past 
 life to produce such humble-mindedness, 
 such a pathetic gratitude for small services, 
 as he evidently felt. 
 
 Sometimes, as she ministered to his com- 
 fort, he would watch her about the room 
 with a look in his eyes that brought a 
 lump into her throat; and she would have 
 to run away and tight the folly down by 
 herself. For Miss Fentimore hated nothing 
 more than uncalled-for displays of emotion, 
 and she would never have pardoned herself 
 for giving way to anything of the kind in 
 the presence of her patient. Indeed, she 
 found it rather hard work to forgive her- 
 self even for the private indulgence of such 
 folly ; but the sad humility, the shamed 
 wonderment of the poor fellow's manner, 
 as he accepted her trifling services, seemed
 
 222 PENHALA. 
 
 to hint at such an overwhelming conscious- 
 ness of his own self-abasement, such a con- 
 stant sense of his own undeservingness, that 
 she could not always keep her sorrowful 
 pity within bounds. 
 
 Of course she was annoyed with herself 
 for giving way in this absurd fashion, and 
 that was why, as he approached conva- 
 lescence, she withdrew herself gradually 
 from the invalid's room. If she could not 
 remain in his society without behaving like 
 a weak-minded fool, she must keep out of 
 it, that was all. 
 
 And so it fell out that, for the last few 
 days of his confinement to his room, John 
 Smith saw nothingof his sweet-faced nurse, 
 and missed her as nobody but a sick person 
 can miss a fellow-creature. 
 
 But for all that he never presumed to 
 speak of her to Mrs. Boxford ; only won-
 
 PENHALA. 223 
 
 dered incessantly whether he should ever 
 see her again, to thank her for her kind- 
 ness to a castaway who could never hope 
 to repay her. 
 
 Sometimes he hoped he should have 
 an opportunity of tendering his thanks in 
 person, at others the mere thought of find- 
 in": himself ao^ain face to face with her 
 w^ould fill him with a wordless dread. 
 With the memory of the life he had lived 
 for the last three years always more or less 
 present in his mind, he felt there was a 
 touch of sacrilege in personal intercourse 
 between himself and such a woman as this. 
 Hitherto he had endeavoured to shut his 
 eyes to his own degradation, but he could no 
 longer be blind to it. In the moral lumin- 
 osity of a good woman's presence his social 
 defilement stood forth with hideous clear- 
 ness, and he shrank back appalled at the
 
 224 PENHALA. 
 
 sudden self-revelation, at the contrast 
 between his two selves, past and present. 
 
 And this was his mental condition when 
 he found himself strong enough to get 
 down over the stairs again, and asked for 
 his clothes, that he might take himself off 
 out of the way of these good Samaritans. 
 
 And then it was that he heard Mary's 
 name. 
 
 ' Miss Fentimore has taken the liberty of 
 getting you some clothes,' Mrs. B oxford 
 told him. ' She thought you might be shy 
 of showing yourself in those masquerading 
 things, when you got about again, and so 
 she ventured to get some others. Boxford 
 took your coat to the tailors for the size, 
 and brought you back a tweed suit.' 
 
 John Smith laughed in a kind of feeble 
 desperation. 
 
 ' I wonder if Miss Fentimore under- 
 stands the sort of character I am,' he said,
 
 PENHALA. 225 
 
 roughly. ' Do you take me for a prince 
 in disguise, that you overwhelm me with 
 favours like this ?' 
 
 But Mrs. Boxforcl only shook her head 
 and said nothing, and left him to make his 
 toilette. And, because his own clothes 
 were nowhere visible, he was forced to at- 
 tire himself in those of Miss Fentimore's 
 providing. How did she think he was 
 ever going to repay her, he wondered sar- 
 donically ; and began to wish that this fairy 
 princess, with the clear limpid gray eyes, 
 and the tender voice, had left him to fight 
 things out in his own fashion, after he had 
 been robbed and half murdered out in the 
 woods yonder. 
 
 And when he got out on the staircase 
 presently, and heard no sound of move- 
 ment in the house, and saw the door below 
 wide to the summer sunshine, a sudden 
 idea came to him to make his escape there 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 PEXHALA. 
 
 and then, and leave his gratitude for some 
 other day. 
 
 But he altered his mind when he reach- 
 ed the open door, for Miss Fentimore was 
 sitting in the garden, and escaj^e by that 
 way was impossible. 
 
 The poor wretch was very weak yet, 
 and as he took in the full meaning of the 
 little picture out there in the shadow of 
 the acacia tree — the daintily set out tea- 
 table, the large cane chair, with a rug 
 spread under it and a large cushion at its 
 back. Miss Fentimore herself in a spotless 
 cambric frock, girt round with a pale blue 
 w^aist-ribbon — as he saw it all, and recog- 
 nised the fact that the little festival had 
 been got up in honour of his re-appear- 
 ance, such a mad yearning after the un- 
 attainable fell upon him, that the hot tears 
 rushed to his eyes, and he hid his face 
 with his hand, and fell back into the
 
 PENHALA. 227 
 
 shadow of the porch to steady himself. 
 
 How pure and sweet she looked! The 
 clear pallor of her skin, the healthy red 
 of her lips, the glistening coils of her 
 warm, dark hair, the dainty freshness of 
 her spotless gown, weren't they enough to 
 give the heart-ache to any poor devil who 
 had, by his own iniquity, placed all such 
 things beyond his reach for ever and ever ? 
 Ay, his penance was not over yet. 
 
 Once again, as he stood there in the 
 creeper-smothered porch, the inclination 
 to get away, somewhere where she could 
 not find him, to release her at once and 
 for ever from the overshadowing influence 
 of his guilty presence, seized upon him ; 
 but, before he could pluck back his gaze 
 from her dainty loveliness, she lifted her 
 eyes and saw him, and the next thing he 
 knew was that his hands were in hers, and 
 she was congratulating him on his con- 
 
 q2
 
 228 PENHALA. 
 
 valescence, witli her clear, candid glance 
 raised to his in the outspoken warmth of 
 a pure woman's friendship. 
 
 For a brief, blessed breathing space, as 
 she led him to the big cane chair, and ar- 
 ranged his pillows behind him, it seemed 
 to him that those three-and-a-half years 
 of black, blinding misery were nothing but 
 a hideous dream, to be put behind him 
 and forgotten — for a few minutes all his 
 old attractive manner returned to him, and 
 he found himself answering her enquiries 
 as he would have answered them of old, 
 in that long past time of his life which 
 had become a mere memory to him. And 
 then, all in an instant, the full sum of his 
 own enormity rushed back upon him, and 
 he stood up, abruptly checking himself in 
 the midst of a grateful reply to some of 
 her enquiries. 
 
 ' What in God's name am I doins:?' he
 
 PENHALA. 229 
 
 burst fortli ; and at the sudden anguish in 
 his voice she stopped her little bustle 
 among the cups and saucers, and rested 
 her hands on the edge of the tray, looking 
 up pitifully at him. ' Miss Fentimore, 
 this farce mustn't go on any longer. It 
 took my breath away for a moment, when 
 you came to me like — like that — as if I 
 had been an old friend — and greeted me 
 as you would greet an equal ; I was too 
 taken aback to set you right at once. It 
 is all a terrible mistake, my kind little 
 lady. I am not the sort of man to be 
 received like this, by you. Do you know 
 the sort of thing I am? I come of the 
 very dregs of the people. When I am at 
 home, I live in that part of London which 
 is known to such as you as The Slums, and 
 my associates are, almost without exception, 
 members of the criminal classes. And I — 
 if I am not in very deed a criminal myself
 
 230 PEXHALA. 
 
 — I am the next thing to it — I am a rogue 
 and a vagabond, dear lady; that is my titles 
 according to the laws of my country. To 
 descend to detail, I am a Wayside Wizard ^ 
 who turns a nimble penny by practising 
 the hocus-pocus business at race-meetings 
 and penny fairs. I ask your pardon for 
 presuming to sit in your presence, as I 
 did just now. I forgot myself — you — 
 you ' 
 
 ' Forgot myself too,' Mary put in, with a 
 little smile. 
 
 She was startled, there was no denpng 
 that, but she was sorry too, more sorry 
 than she could say, for the worn, weary 
 man who stood at the other edge of the 
 small table, bent beneath the heart-break- 
 ing consciousness of his own fallen con- 
 dition. 
 
 ' As for presuming to sit in my pre-
 
 PENHALA. 231 
 
 sence,' she went on, gently, ' that is all 
 nonsense. You are not strong enough to 
 stand. Even now, you are half-fainting 
 with fatio^ue. Don't let us waste thouo;ht 
 upon such trifles as social distinctions 
 until you are a little stronger. At present 
 our relations towards each other are only 
 those of nurse and patient, and you must 
 be docile and obedient. Let me set your 
 pillows straight for you again. You must 
 rest yourself. Dressing has fagged you. 
 I had a serious illness myself some few 
 Years ao^o, and I remember that the first 
 day I left my room I was ready to cry 
 with exhaustion. Some day, when you are 
 a little stronger, you shall talk to me as 
 much as you like about yourself, but to- 
 day we will talk of pleasant things 
 only.' 
 
 Agitation and weakness had set him
 
 232 PENH ALA. 
 
 shaking, and he offered no further resist- 
 ance when she gently persuaded him into 
 his chair again. 
 
 He was silent for a little, watching her 
 dainty management of the tea-table. He 
 did not remember much about his mother, 
 but he had one clear memory of her, in a 
 white dress, making tea in a garden arbour, 
 with a lawn bathed in the summer sun- 
 shine as a foreground, and all around her 
 the flutter of leaves, and the drowsy 
 buzzing of bees, and the gladsome song of 
 the birds. 
 
 His mother had been just such another 
 as this girl ; and he was — what he was ! 
 
 ' I thought,' he said, presently, ' I ex- 
 pected that you would refuse to have any- 
 thing more to do with me, when you heard 
 what I really was.' 
 
 ' Then you had not formed a very good 
 opinion of me,' she answered him. ' But
 
 PEXHALA. 233 
 
 I am not really so surprised as you seemed 
 to expect ; I guessed at something of the 
 sort, you know. But I guessed at some- 
 thing else too — 1 guessed that things with 
 you had not been always as they are now. 
 And besides,' she hurried on, afraid that 
 he might take this last remark as a hint 
 that she was curious to know more about 
 him, ' there is another reason why I should 
 have stood by you in your trouble — you 
 and I are brother chips — you see we both 
 belong to the community of mummers — 
 I am a public singer. For the past year 
 I have been earning my living as a mem- 
 ber of Mr. Burlington's travelling opera 
 company. Perhaps that will make you 
 feel more at home — to know that I am as 
 truly a rogue and a vagabond as you your- 
 self, if we go in for the strict letter of the 
 law.' 
 
 A ghost of a smile touched his lips for
 
 234 PENH ALA. 
 
 an instant, and was gone again ; and she^ 
 seeing the change it wrought in his face^ 
 was seized with a desire to brino^ it back 
 
 agam. 
 
 ' That does not lessen the distance be- 
 tween us, dear lady. There is nothing in 
 common — God forbid that there should 
 be — between you and me ; I belong to 
 those who stand in the outer darkness for 
 ever and ever — your lot shall be always 
 full of brightness, and light, and happiness, 
 because of the beauty and goodness of 
 your heart.' 
 
 Her eyes darkened with a touch of 
 pain. 
 
 ' It is because you are weak that you 
 talk so hopelessly,' she said. ' Because 
 3^ou have made some terrible mistake in 
 your past — forgive me ! I can't help guess- 
 ing at something of the sort — is that any 
 reason why you are never to do good in
 
 PENH ALA. 235 
 
 the time to come ? It is folly ! You are 
 so young — the best part of your life is 
 still before you.' 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 ' If you knew what my past has been 
 like,' he said, quietly. 
 
 As she looked across at his white, 
 drawn face, a sudden touch of hesitation 
 fell upon her. The colour came and went 
 in her cheeks, and, when she spoke, her 
 timidity was very apparent in her lowered 
 tone, and the tremulousness of her lips. 
 
 ' Who has made you a judge of what is 
 pardonable and what not? I do not be- 
 lieve there is any sin we are capable of that 
 is past making atonement for. "Though 
 your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as 
 white as snow." ' 
 
 She paused suddenly, very much over- 
 whelmed at her own temerity. She to take 
 to preaching !
 
 236 PENHALA. 
 
 There was a long, long silence, except 
 for the booming of a big bumble-bee, busy 
 among the hedge of sun-flowers which shut 
 off the view of Mrs. Boxford's vegetable 
 garden, and the curious hum of invisible 
 life that is always more or less audible in 
 the hot, dry air of a summer dsij. 
 
 John sighed softly under his breath 
 and looked around him, taking in the ex- 
 quisite peace and beauty of the picture 
 with a passionate yearning in his wan 
 eyes. It was all so strange and wonderful 
 — and not without its touch of the terrible 
 too — to find himself — the drunken, soulless 
 blackguard, the past associate of criminals 
 — thieves who lived openly on the pro- 
 ceeds of their robberies, and so forth — to 
 find himself in the solemn silence of this 
 summer afternoon, tete-a-tete^ on a footing of 
 equality, with this pure, soft- voiced, dainty- 
 minded girl. Could it be really he — the
 
 PENH ALA. 237 
 
 strolling conjurer, the past comrade of 
 ^velshers and pickpockets — who was sitting 
 here, in social intercourse with this refined 
 creature, who had 'Lady' written on every 
 fold of her clean white gown, every tone of 
 her exquisite voice, every thought of her 
 pure, holy mind ? 
 
 ' " White as snow," ' he said, breaking 
 that long pause with a repetition of her 
 last words. ' " White as snow " ? That I 
 shall never be. Repentance and pardon 
 don't come in the way of such as me. 
 And yet — ' he paused, meeting her com- 
 passionate glance, and went on again, with 
 a quick longing at his heart to be even as 
 she would have him, — ' and yet, if I could 
 cleanse myself of some of the scum that has 
 settled on me in these last ghastly years, 
 I would — I would try to be something 
 better than I have been, if only out of 
 gratitude to you, dear lady.'
 
 238 PENHALiV. 
 
 Mary's face flushed again. 
 
 ' I am glad !' she said, and she put out 
 a quick, eager hand across the table to 
 him. But he held back, though there 
 came a faint reflection of her flush into 
 his hollow cheeks. 
 
 ' Am I forgetting myself again ?' she 
 asked, with a tremulous little laugh. 
 ^ Never mind ! I won't ask you to shake 
 hands again till you are better friends 
 with yourself. I was so glad — that was 
 all. Life shall be a beautiful thing for 
 you yet ; you shall see. And because you 
 are doing this great thing for me, you will 
 let me do something for you in return. 
 You won't be proud with me. There 
 must be some way in which you can help 
 yourself, and you will let me help you 
 to find it out. You will not run away 
 again and hide yourself from your friend ?' 
 
 ' Dear lady '
 
 PENH ALA. 239 
 
 • Xo ; I will not have you call me that! 
 All that sort of thing belongs to the old 
 life — to-day we will start with the new. 
 You will use my name in speaking to 
 me ; and I will use yours, with your 
 permission.' 
 
 Her bonhomie won upon him ; he gave 
 her iDack her smile, though about his there 
 was a substratum of self-depreciation. 
 He could not forget so soon the distance 
 between them, or the reverence due from 
 him to her. 
 
 ' I cannot offer you a visiting-card — 
 when those murderous ruffians stripped 
 my pockets, they did it thoroughly — but 
 my name is John Smith.' 
 
 'Well, at any rate, there will be no 
 difficulty about remembering it,' she said, 
 not allowing him to guess for an instant 
 that she suspected the alias. ' So they 
 stripped your pockets ? Mr. B oxford said
 
 240 PENHALA. 
 
 you liad been robbed, as well as balf- 
 murdered. Did they take anj^thing very 
 important? Would you like to put the 
 matter into the hands of the police ?' 
 
 His smile this time came with a differ- 
 ence. The suo:o:estion touched his sense 
 of humour. He to apply to the police ! 
 
 ' It would be useless now/ he said. 
 ' There was a parcel of papers that T pro- 
 mised to deliver to the widow of a dead 
 friend. The poor fellow died only the 
 night before I came down here. For 
 years he had heard nothing from his wife 
 until that day — the day of his death — and 
 then he only heard that she was staying 
 with her people in Lincolnshire, and that 
 they were all going to emigrate. They 
 were to sail for Australia the first week in 
 August. He had been a rough one, but, 
 when the end came, his thoughts were all 
 for the poor soul he had driven from him.
 
 PENHALA. 241 
 
 I promised to go to her, and lie gave me 
 all kinds of messages, and this bundle of 
 papers ; hut the opportunity is lost. Even 
 if I recovered the papers, which I should 
 not do — the thieves who robbed me would 
 not keep such incriminating evidence, you 
 may be sure — but, even if I did, where 
 would be the use ? She is half-way to 
 Australia by now.' 
 
 'It is a pity,' said Mary, softly ; ' a 
 promise to the dead is such a sacred 
 thing.' 
 
 Her words started a new train of thought. 
 He did not speak at once, and when he 
 did, he spoke more to himself than to 
 her. 
 
 ' It is all part of the shadow that is on 
 me,' he said, sombrously. ' My heart was 
 set on doing it. Another man would have 
 been allowed to carry out his promise. 
 Such little pleasures are not for me.' 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 PENHALA. 
 
 Mary pretended not to hear. She 
 changed the conversation by asking him 
 if he had any taste for music, and when 
 she found that, upon this point at least, 
 they were kindred spirits, she kept him 
 talking brightly and pleasantly, until the 
 sloping shadows warned her that it was 
 time her patient was back in the dryer and 
 safer atmosphere of his own room. 
 
 And perhaps, though he had put the 
 thought into words — that his inability to 
 keep his promise to his dead friend was 
 ' all part of the shadow that was on him ' 
 — he did not himself realise the full truth 
 of the saying. 
 
 This one o;ood thins; that he had tried 
 to do in all those years of bestial degra- 
 dation, was it not ' part of the shadow that 
 was on him,' that it should, in the time to 
 come, tell against, rather than for his life's 
 happiness ; that this attempt to serve a
 
 PENHALA. 243 
 
 friend should, in the lono^ run, tell for his 
 shame rather than his credit ? 
 
 When he was back in bed again, and 
 Mrs. Boxford came in to see that he had 
 all that he needed for the night, he asked 
 for his own black jacket, the one he was 
 wearing when they found him in the 
 woods. 
 
 And after the good woman was gone, 
 and he was alone again, he sat up in bed 
 and ripped a few stitches under the collar, 
 and drew out a slender packet of news- 
 2)aper from under the stiffened lining. 
 There were Hxe cuttings in the packet — 
 two of some length, the others mere scraps, 
 and they all referred to one subject — the 
 search for Hagar Polwhele's accredited 
 murderer, John Penhala. 
 
 Mary Fentimore was singing somewhere 
 among the shadows in the garden under 
 the open window of John Smith's room ; 
 
 k2
 
 244 PENUALA. 
 
 and as he sat up in bed, reading his cut- 
 tings by the light of the August afterglow, 
 he was conscious of the melody of her 
 voice, entangling itself among the matter- 
 of-fact phraseology of the newspaper scribe. 
 
 'We understand it is the intention of 
 the Government to offer a reward of a hun- 
 dred pounds, for such information as shall 
 lead to the arrest of John Penhala, the 
 suspected murderer of Hagar Polwhele.' 
 
 He might almost have been reading 
 them for the first time, judging by the 
 close attention he gave them, and indeed 
 there was a certain sense of freshness in 
 their perusal. More than a year had 
 passed since he sewed them up in the 
 collar of his ' property ' jacket, and the 
 cruelty of them came now as something 
 new to him. He had always known how 
 hard and pitiless they were, but desuetude 
 had a little blunted the keenness of their
 
 PENHALA. 245 
 
 edge, and now their merciless harshness 
 smote him almost as if he had never fully 
 realised it before. 
 
 And through the evening's quietness 
 rose Mary's voice from the shadowy gar- 
 den beneath, as he picked up the next and 
 read — 
 
 ' It is reported at Carn Ruth that Morris 
 Edyvean — the one-time sweetheart of the 
 girl Hagar Polwhele, who was drowned at 
 Carn Ruth last Christmas time — is about 
 to leave his home, and start on a world- 
 wide search after the man whom he ac- 
 cuses of her murder. He has dedicated 
 himself, so it is said, to the one purpose — 
 tracking down her murderer — and as he is 
 an unusually powerful man, considerably 
 over six feet in height, it would probably 
 go hard with John Penhala if they should 
 ever meet face to face.' 
 
 He read them all through, sitting on the
 
 246 PENHALA. 
 
 bed, with his knees hunched up to his chiuy 
 and when he had read them he still sat 
 there, listening to the singing underneath, 
 and wondering whether he should destroy 
 them or not. He could hardly tell why 
 he had taken such pains to keep them all 
 these years, no more than he could tell 
 why he had such a rooted disinclination 
 to destroy them now. He had always 
 known there was danger in keeping them, 
 that was why he had taken such pains to 
 secrete them, and yet he could not bring 
 himself to make away with them. 
 
 Perhaps it was because they formed a 
 link, the only one left, between his jDast 
 and his present. AVell, even so, it was 
 folly to preserve them. What had he to 
 hope for from his past ? Nothing ! Why 
 then seek to keep himself in touch with 
 it? Why, indeed! He did not know. 
 He only knew that some influence, stronger
 
 PEXHALA. 247 
 
 than his o^vn common-sense, held back his 
 hand, when he would have destroyed those 
 ill-omened scraps of paper. 
 
 Mary was still singing as he tucked 
 them back into their old hiding-place, and 
 sewed up the opening in the seam. She 
 was indoors now, the sweetness of her 
 voice penetrated the walls but faintly as 
 she sang, without accompaniment, Mar- 
 guerite's jewel-song. 
 
 The music seemed to be calling him, 
 urging him to leave the past behind him 
 at once and for ever, and to live for the 
 future alone. For a moment his needle 
 paused, — should he destroy the incrimi- 
 nating evidence ? — and then went on 
 again. Xo, the cuttings were safe enough 
 there. 
 
 Was it all a part of the shadow that was 
 on him ?
 
 248 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A MATTER OF MUTUAL OBLIGATION. 
 
 If, in the course of the next few weeks, 
 John Smith succeeded in overcoming to a 
 certain degree that distressing sense of his 
 own social abasement, which had been so 
 noticeable in his first interview with Miss 
 Fentimore, if he was no longer so contin- 
 uously conscious of the impassable dis- 
 tance — social and moral — which separated 
 him from her, the praise or the blame of 
 the change rested entirely with Mary her- 
 self. She had set her heart on the re- 
 clamation of this unfortunate sinner, and
 
 PENHALA. 249 
 
 she had begun her task by fostering and 
 cultivating his self-respect. And now he 
 was almost beo-innino* to believe that there 
 was some faint little hope for him after all, 
 that he was to have a chance at last of 
 leaving the bitter mistakes of the past be- 
 hind him, a chance of making a fresh bid 
 for the life of a man, rather than the 
 existence of a brute beast. 
 
 Xot that he was less really humble- 
 minded than before — it would be a matter 
 of years rather than weeks before he could 
 shake off the humility which always came 
 of a glance at the years behind him — but 
 his sense of degradation was less con- 
 spicuous than it had been ; reverence there 
 still was in his manner to Mary, but the 
 old obsequiousness had disappeared; he 
 still recognised, and acknowledged by 
 every word and look, her spiritual superi- 
 ority, but he did not show such an ever
 
 250 PENHALA. 
 
 present consciousness of the social dis- 
 parity between himself and his sweety 
 gracious hostess. 
 
 For in a sort of way he was still Mary's 
 guest. That is to say, he had so per- 
 sistently declared the impossibility of tres- 
 passing further on her generosity, that she 
 had cast about for and found means of 
 satisfying his scruples. For the last fort- 
 night he had been working live or six 
 hours a day at music-copying, Mary having 
 suddenly discovered that it was necessary 
 she should have all her operatic parts re- 
 written without delay. Before this supply 
 of employment gave out she wrote to Mr. 
 Burlington, asking him to allow her to 
 make him a present of an entire set of new 
 orchestral parts for some of his operas, a 
 request he granted without demur, though 
 not without a little wonder on the subject 
 of ' Fentimore's little game.'
 
 PENH ALA. 251 
 
 And so, day after day, John Smitli sat 
 out on the tiny lavrn, in the shadow of the 
 acacia-tree, in the mellow softness of the 
 September atmosphere, with his music 
 sheets spread out on the table before him, 
 working as, in all his life, he had never 
 worked before. And the peaceful repose 
 — is there any time of the year that is so 
 soothing in its influences as those weeks 
 at the end of summer, before the final 
 break-up comes ? Those utterly still morn- 
 ings, when the warm translucent mist lies 
 like a veil over the face of the earth, waiting 
 till the amorous touch of her lover the sun 
 shall lift it, and leave her beauty disclosed 
 in all the fulness of accomplishment ; the 
 swooning heat of the noon-day; the languor- 
 ous softness of the afternoons; the seductive 
 silence of the evenings, when the moon 
 comes up, big and ruddy, mounting slowly 
 through the layers of vapour till she lifts
 
 252 PENHALA. 
 
 herself clear of them, and sails smoothly 
 on, across the solemn background of il- 
 limitable space — the birds scarcely chirp 
 the day through, just now, their family 
 cares are over for the year, and they are 
 lazy as the result of a too easily satisfied 
 appetite; the bees, thinned in numbers, go 
 about their labour with far less bustle and 
 obtrusiveness than when the summer's work 
 was still before them ; all nature seems to 
 be resting, with the air of one conscious of 
 a good day's work done, conscious of 
 deserving rest. 
 
 And John Smith sat and worked at his 
 copying amid this balmy sweetness, this re- 
 pose of maturity, and some of the restful 
 influences of his surroundings penetrated 
 to his tempest-riven spirit, and brought 
 some touch of healing with it. 
 
 And Mary, watching him from the 
 shadowy recesses of her flower-filled par-
 
 PENHALA. 253 
 
 lour, would sigh and wish he would not- 
 work quite so hard ; she could scarcely 
 persuade him to exchange half-a-dozen 
 words with her, until his day's allotted 
 portion of work was finished. 
 
 Perhaps, though, this very abstinence 
 made the enjoyment of the evening's com- 
 panionship all the keener, when they sat 
 out in the garden talking, or watched the 
 moon rise in a delicious, companionable 
 silence, or went into the fragrant little par- 
 lour and sang, to the accompaniment of 
 the piano which Miss Fentimore had hired 
 on her first arrival at the cottage. 
 
 And Miss Fentimore, hearino; and takinor 
 heed unto John Smith's cultivated method 
 and refined voice, was careful to give no 
 expression to any conjectures she formed 
 on the matter. If the whole truth must 
 be told, she was considerably surprised to 
 find how exceedingly well he sang. He
 
 254 PENHALA. 
 
 ivas a gentleman by birth and upbringing, 
 of course ; she had known that all along. 
 His slim finger-tips, his soft, easy speech, 
 the spontaneity of his little attentions to 
 her wants at the table — everything told 
 the same story ; but, admitting that he was 
 all she had guessed, his singing was still 
 not to be accounted for in that fashion. 
 He sang like one who had received a pro- 
 fessional training. And yet there was no 
 sign of the professional vocalist about him. 
 His manners, but for those intermittent 
 flashes of shame, were purely and simply 
 those of a gentleman. 
 
 And it was because of this that matters 
 were so difficult for missionary Mary. 
 Occupation of some sort he must have — 
 his determined attitude of independence 
 demanded it — but occupation for a gentle- 
 man is, unhappily, so difficult to find.
 
 PENHALA. 255 
 
 What would he do when her vacation was 
 over, and she had resumed her duties as a 
 member of Mr. Burlington's opera com- 
 pany? Was he to slip away from his 
 present standing ]Dlace, back into the social 
 quagmire from which she had but just res- 
 cued him ? The thought made her clasp 
 her hands in veritable agony of mind. 
 
 And while she was plaguing herself day 
 and night over the problem of John Smith's 
 ultimate fate, something happened which 
 seemed to her, in the impulsive gratitude 
 of the moment, to be an actual interposi- 
 tion of providence on behalf of her inter- 
 esting protege. 
 
 Mrs. Burlington, in writing to acknow- 
 ledge a parcel of parts, mentioned a sur- 
 prising piece of news. 
 
 ' We are just now in a great state of 
 suspense. Lascelles has lost his father,
 
 256 PENHALA. 
 
 and will of course come into the property 
 at once. We have not heard from him 
 yet — we saw the announcements of the 
 death in the paper — but we are expecting 
 a line from him daily, to tell us that he 
 does not return to us. Wilfred is beside 
 himself with anxiety. If it had happened 
 at the beginning of the vacation, or even a 
 month ago, we might have replaced him 
 without much difficulty, but all the autumn 
 engagements are made now, and the good 
 men all booked, until Christmas at least, 
 and we shall probably have to put up with 
 some ghastly stick, who will ruin every 
 scene he appears in.' 
 
 Mary received the letter by the after- 
 noon post, and, as she gathered the full 
 meaning of the news, a quick, sudden 
 throb of gladness sent the blood flashing 
 into her cheeks. 
 
 She glanced through the open window
 
 PENHALA. 257 
 
 at the quiet, absorbed figure under the 
 acacia-tree. The very thing! If he would^ 
 oh, if he only would ! 
 
 Without stopping to give it a second 
 thought — how indeed should a second 
 thought be needed for an arrangement so 
 exactly in keeping with all the require- 
 ments of the case ? Her state of delight was- 
 such that to wait to consider would have 
 seemed almost like ingratitude — with her 
 face alight with pleasure, and Mrs. Bur- 
 lington's letter still in her hand, she ran 
 out to the garden, speaking as she went. 
 
 ' I must break rules, John Smith ! Lay 
 down your pen and listen to me. I have 
 a great, a magnificent scheme to propose 
 to you ! How would you like an engage- 
 ment as second tenor in Mr. Burlington's 
 opera company ?' 
 
 He did not answer her instantly, only 
 lifted his head and looked at her smiling- 
 
 VOL. I. S
 
 258 PE^^HALA. 
 
 ly, with his finger still keeping his place 
 on the sheet he was copying, awaiting 
 further enlightenment. She was always 
 pleasant to look at, this girl with the ten- 
 der, luminous gray eyes, and the sweet 
 mobile mouth, but, somehow, she had 
 never looked quite so lovely in his sight as 
 she looked at that moment, with the light 
 of a great gladness on her face. 
 
 ' It is all going to fall out as we want it 
 — just as it does in books,' she went on, 
 laughing gently at his look of blank non- 
 comprehension ; indeed, in her present state 
 of joyousness she was glad to find some ex- 
 cuse for laughter. ' Here are we puzzling 
 our heads over the question of your future 
 career, and then, at a breath, comes this 
 suggestion, and there is no longer any 
 difficulty at all. Mr. Burlington is in want 
 of a second tenor, and I can secure the en- 
 gagement for you, if you care to accept it.'
 
 PENHALA. 259 
 
 He understood now what it was she was 
 offering him, and he saw at a glance what 
 lay behind her words. And of all the bene- 
 fits he was likely to reap from this sudden 
 stroke of good fortune, only one stood out 
 clearly in his mind — it would mean a con- 
 tinuance of the friendship betAveen him 
 and her. That separation in the immedi- 
 ate future, which he had been looking for- 
 ward to with a dread unspeakable, would 
 be avoided I And at the thought he rose 
 hurriedly, with an inarticulate cry in his 
 throat, and stood looking at her, afraid, 
 even now, to believe, lest disappointment 
 should follow. 
 
 And the alternations of passionate hope 
 and fear that chased one another across 
 his features, she took for signs of gladness 
 because he saw at last, oj^ening out before 
 bim, a chance of redeeming his past. And 
 she felt a great thrill and glow of joy at 
 
 s 2
 
 260 PENHALA. 
 
 her "heart, because she had been able to 
 help him up the hill a little, the steep 
 difficult hill that lies between blackguard- 
 ism and self-respect. 
 
 ' Now don't let us be childish and im- 
 pulsive over this business,' she cried, mak- 
 ing a determined effort to treat the whole 
 affair as a matter of business only. ' There 
 is really nothing to fuss about — it is pure- 
 ly a matter of mutual obligation — Mr. Bur- 
 lington is in a bit of a fix for want of a 
 tenor, you are anxious to obtain enploy- 
 ment, and are just the man Mr. Burlington 
 wants ; and I want you to try for the en- 
 gagement, because Mr. Burlington has been 
 such a good friend to me, and I should so 
 like to do him a good turn if I could. May 
 I wire to Mrs. Burlington noAV, in your 
 name ?' 
 
 ' You shall do what seems best to you,* 
 he said, speaking at last, though speech
 
 V 
 
 PEXHALA. 261 
 
 was still an effort to him, and his voice 
 was low and muffled under the strain of 
 his strong feeling. ' You are my good 
 angel, Miss Fentimore ; I leave myself in 
 your hands. If you are not afraid of in- 
 troducing such a blackguard to your 
 friends — ' 
 
 ' I'm a little afraid of one thing,' she 
 broke in, cutting him short with a touch of 
 tender impatience at his self-depreciation — 
 ^ you mayn't like the life. Though it will 
 be an upward step from the wayside wizard 
 business, still there are drawbacks. We 
 are not all quite so — so — nice — so 
 generous to each other, as we might be ; 
 and we are pretentious, too, some of us ; 
 and I think it is extremely probable that 
 you will find more difficulty in putting up 
 with our vulgar pretentiousness, than with 
 the outspoken ruffianism that you talk 
 about so often. Still, as I said, it is an
 
 262 PENH ALA. 
 
 upward step, and who can tell what it may- 
 lead to in the future.' 
 
 ' It seems to me,' said John, recovering^ 
 himself somewhat from his first over-power- 
 ing touch of emotion, but with such a 
 softening of his lips and such a light in 
 his eyes, as the reality of this dazzling 
 hope came home to him, that it almost 
 seemed to Mary she had never seen this 
 man's face before, ' it seems to me, that you 
 were sent into the world to be my salvation. 
 Yes, indeed, you must let me speak out 
 something of what is in my heart, or it 
 will burst asunder from very fulness. It 
 seems to me that the powers that rule the 
 destinies of us mortals have suddenly lifted 
 me out of the darkness of night, and set me 
 in the light of the noon-day — and I'm 
 wondering why. Unless indeed — ' he 
 added, with a swift touch of memory, and 
 then checked himself, and looked at her
 
 PEXHALA. 263 
 
 half doubtfully. Should he tell her his 
 history, or should he remain silent ? ' You 
 know,' he went on again, after that pause 
 of indecision, ' I have never tried to excuse 
 myself to you, I have never tried to make 
 out that I am an innocent martyr, that I 
 don't deserve all that has befallen me. I 
 do thoroughly deserve it. Miss Fentimore — 
 I deserve every hour of wretchedness and 
 misery that I have gone through since the 
 day of my disgrace ; I acted like a scoun- 
 drel, and I've had to put up with the con- 
 sequences, and I'm not going to cry out 
 about it. I can't say I've taken my punish- 
 ment like a man, but at any rate I've not 
 whined and whimpered over it. But now, 
 when, in spite of myself, I am almost be- 
 ginning to believe that life — my life — is to 
 be worth livino^ ao^ain, I've orot a mad wish 
 to clear myself in your estimation on one 
 point — I acknowledge that I deserved all
 
 264 PEXHALA. 
 
 that has fallen on me, but I should like 
 you to know that just that one piece of 
 villainy, the suspicion of which drove me 
 from my father s house, and made a social 
 pariah of me, I am not guilty of; the one 
 piece of wickedness which the whole world 
 credits me with I did not commit; the one 
 charge which has turned me into an 
 Ishmaelite for all time I am innocent of. 
 As surely as I am grateful for the inestim- 
 able blessing of your friendship, I swear 
 this to you, I swear it solemnly I If, at 
 any time in the future, you should learn 
 who and what I really am, I ask you to re- 
 member this assertion of mine, and never 
 to doubt it — the crime I am accused of I 
 am innocent of I You believe me?' 
 
 ' Most thoroughly !' 
 
 ' Ah !' 
 
 It was a sigh of fervent relief, a sigh 
 which spoke so eloquently of the burden
 
 PEXHALA. 265 
 
 just cast off, that Marj's lip trembled a 
 little for very pity. 
 
 And so he told half his story, and leffc 
 half untold, forgetful of the danger of half- 
 €onfidences. 
 
 'If you knew what it was to rest for 
 years under an unjust accusation, and then 
 to find some one — and some one whose 
 good opinion is inestimably preci > : 
 you — who believes in your innocence! 
 But it is only one more good gift from you 
 to me — this belief in me. It sets me 
 shaking sometimes when I think of all I 
 owe you. My very soul you have given 
 back to me — you found me a brute, and 
 you have revived in me some touch of man- 
 hood. May God reward you as you 
 deserve — as He alone can.' 
 
 They waited a little, looking at one an- 
 other in a silence that was more eloquent 
 of intense feeling than the most fervid
 
 266 PENHALA. 
 
 speech. Very wliite their faces were 
 as they held each other in the close^ 
 lingering gaze of a complete unity of 
 thought and feeling. Then he put his 
 hand out, Avith a touch of something like 
 entreaty in the action. 
 
 ' I have never dared to take your hand 
 before. May I take it now, because of 
 the hope of something better to come that 
 is lifting my heart up so wonderfully ? If 
 there is less contamination in my touch 
 than there was, it is due to the purifying 
 power of a good woman's influence.' 
 
 They stood awhile, hand in hand, eye to 
 eye, with the autumn stillness like an in- 
 visible wall all about them, and they two 
 alone in it. The silence between them 
 was of that indescribable quality which 
 invests the very vibrations of the heart 
 with the power of speech — the only form 
 of speech possible at such a moment.
 
 PENHALA. 267 
 
 And, presently, he grew terrified lest even 
 that inarticulate recital of his feelings 
 should grow too outspoken, and tell her 
 more than she would deign to listen to of 
 the state of his mind. A sudden fear of 
 his own presumption fell on him. He 
 dropped her hand, and lowered his eyes, 
 and strode off hurriedly ; through the 
 gate, down the leafy lane, out of sight. 
 
 Mary stood there a breathless spell, 
 wondering. 
 
 And the stirred wonder was still in 
 her eyes when she turned and went into 
 the house.
 
 268 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 AN UPWARD STEP. 
 
 Missionary Mary's scheme for the better- 
 ing of John's position prospered so exceed- 
 ingly, that a cynical onlooker, had there 
 been any such at hand, would have inevit- 
 ably come to the conclusion that this dish 
 of broth was of the devil's own brewing. 
 From start to finish there was never a 
 hitch in the negociations between Mr. 
 Burlington and his new tenor. 
 
 On the day following the receipt of the 
 wire from Miss Fentimore, the manager
 
 PEXHALA. 269 
 
 ran down to Chichester, met Mr. Smith bv 
 appointment at the princij)al music-shop, 
 tried his voice, took his observations on 
 the questions of appearance, presence, 
 etcetera, and, concluding that Miss Fenti- 
 more's '* find ' was likely to turn out an 
 unusually satisfactory stop-gap, came to 
 terms at once. 
 
 And in a small way John was a success. 
 In his position as second tenor, it was 
 hardly expected of him that he should 
 make a sensation with the public ; but 
 he was expected to be note-perfect in his 
 parts, to put himself into the background 
 as much as was consistent with the con- 
 struction of the scene, as often as he and 
 the leading soprano occupied the stage 
 together, and to be ready and willing to 
 come to the rescue of the management in 
 any emergency that might arise ; and all 
 these expectations he fulfilled to the letter.
 
 270 PENHALA. 
 
 For his heart was still aglow with grati- 
 tude to his good angel, and he worked 
 like a horse to do credit to her recom- 
 mendation. 
 
 And so it was that he quietly but surely 
 attained a popular position in the company. 
 Among the men he was ' A good sort of 
 fellow; a bit close about himself; but as 
 fair a chap in business as one could wish 
 to meet ' — which really meant that he 
 carried his unobtrusiveness on the stage 
 to the verge of self-effacement, and allowed 
 other people to claim his share of the 
 applause as well as their own. The honest 
 truth of the matter was, that he cared no- 
 thing for the applause but a very great 
 deal for Miss Fentimore's approval ; and, 
 so long as he got that, he was indifferent 
 to the opinion of the audience. 
 
 With the ladies he was even a greater 
 favourite than with the men. It is
 
 PENHALA. 271 
 
 possible that they too appreciated his 
 consistent humble-mindedness on the 
 stage, but they were also attracted by the 
 quiet deference of his bearing towards 
 them ; and his handsome broAvn eyes, and 
 waving chestnut hair, and close silky 
 brown beard, and muscular figure certain- 
 ly did their share, in securing for him the 
 favourable opinion of the female members 
 of the company. 
 
 And Mary watched his growing popu- 
 larity and the increasing improvement in 
 his morale with a sweet, secret delight. 
 Every little advance he made Avas a source 
 of great gladness to her, and she took 
 more pride, immeasurably more, in every 
 little success he scored with the audience 
 than she had ever taken in her own oTeater 
 triumphs. And he knew exactly how she 
 felt on this point, and the knowledge 
 spurred him on to such constant effort
 
 272 PEXHATA. 
 
 and endeavour that it told with the audi- 
 ences as, despite his modesty, it was bound 
 to do, and Burlington declared openly 
 that he had never had such a painstaking 
 artist in his employ since he started 
 management. 
 
 And in those days the Morelli-Fentimore 
 feud waxed secretlv stronojer. Hitherto 
 the Italian's jealousy had been a profes- 
 sional jealousy only ; now it was something 
 more. John's bright, wavy locks, and his 
 sorrow-clouded glance, and the wistfulness 
 of his unfrequent smile had attracted the 
 fancy of the hl^ick-hrowed 2)rima-cIojvia, at 
 the very moment of his presentation ; and 
 when to these advantages was added that 
 marked unobtrusiveness in business, which 
 left the applause entirely at her feet, her 
 heart warmed to this operatic novice as it 
 had never warmed to man before. It was 
 a curious feeling she developed for him,
 
 PENHALA. 273 
 
 half patronage, half love. Hitherto her 
 consuminof ambition had filled her life, to 
 the exclusion of all gentler passions, and 
 perhaps it was because she so rarely smiled 
 upon a man that now, when she did, she ex- 
 pected her favours to be accepted humbly 
 and responded to with avidity. 
 
 But this was just what John could not 
 and would- not do. At first Morelli put 
 his unresponsiveness down to modesty, 
 and grew warmer in her encouragement 
 accordingly: but wlien she found there 
 was somethino' besides his difiidence ob- 
 structing her wishes, she grew furious, 
 and vowed to herself that he should find 
 good cause, sooner or later, to regret the 
 slight he had put on her. 
 
 And just about the time that Xita 
 Morelli discovered the futility of her de- 
 signs upon John, it happened that he had 
 his first and last slight misunderstanding 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 PENHALA. 
 
 with Burlington. Burlington wanted him 
 to take oiF his beard for a certain part, and 
 he refused point-blank. 
 
 ' But you can't possibly play this part 
 with a beard, my dear fellow!' remon- 
 strated the perplexed manager, with a 
 glance at the other members of the com- 
 pany, who were gathered round awaiting 
 the commencement of the rehearsal ; ' and 
 you can hardly expect me to engage a 
 man for this one especial j^art because you 
 object to shave.' 
 
 ' I expect nothing,' returned John, 
 quietly. 'You must consult your own 
 convenience entirel}^' 
 
 ' Do you mean that, sooner than take 
 off your beard, you would throw the 
 engagement up altogether?' ^ 
 
 ' Yes,' answered the second tenor, speak- 
 ing entirely without bluster, but with ab- 
 solute decision. ' I'm afraid I do mean
 
 PENHALA. 275 
 
 that. Nothing you could offer me in the 
 way of parts or salary would induce me 
 to part with my beard.' 
 
 ' AYell, I'm blest !' ejaculated Burling- 
 ton, vastly astonished at this sudden 
 exhibition of stubbornness in one he 
 had hitherto found so willing to oblige. 
 He would doubtless have been still 
 more surprised if he had known the real 
 particulars of John's financial position, if 
 he had known that there was nothing be- 
 tween his new tenor and penury but the 
 weekly salary he paid him. However, 
 he neither knew nor guessed at John's 
 poverty. 
 
 ' That's the worst of you chaps with 
 means of your own, you're so confound- 
 edly independent when you do take a 
 whim into your heads. Xow what is your 
 objection to shaving ? You're not going 
 to tell me it's pure conceit, are you ? Be- 
 
 T 2
 
 276 PENH ALA. 
 
 cause if that's it, I can tell you you'd be 
 a sight better looking without the beard 
 than with it.' 
 
 John Smith smiled in a way which 
 effectually disposed of that view of the 
 matter. 
 
 ' Then what the deuce are you jibbing 
 at ?' cried the irritated Burlington, with 
 another glance at the interested faces 
 around him. ^ You're such an obliging 
 chap, as a rule ; what on earth do you 
 want to set your back up over such a 
 trifling thing as this for ? It'll put me to 
 no end of inconvenience, you know, to 
 drag the man over from the number two 
 company as often as we want to do this 
 opera ; and that's what I shall have to do 
 if you won't give way. And the weeks he 
 comes to us you'll have to take his place 
 in the other crowd, and you won't like 
 that, I expect.'
 
 PENHALA. 277 
 
 But John snatched eagerly at this way 
 out of the dilemma. He would not object 
 to the extra travelling at all, and he would 
 make no trouble of an occasional week 
 with the number two company — he would 
 do anything, in short, to oblige Mr. Bur- 
 lington, but dispense with his beard, and 
 that he would not do. 
 
 Morelli, with the wound to her slighted 
 vanity still raw, seized on the little inci- 
 dent and made all she could of it. To 
 Burlington she held forth on John's ob- 
 stinacy until the good-natured manager 
 was sick of the subject ; among the 
 members of the company she threw out 
 hints of Mr. Smith's possible motives for 
 refusing to take off his beard, and showed 
 her spite so plainly, that they joked 
 among themselves over her disappoint- 
 ment. And she heard of the fun that 
 was being made at her expense, and added
 
 278 PENHALA. 
 
 it as another mark to her score against the 
 upstart amateur; which was her latest 
 title for unfortunate John. But her veno- 
 mous attacks fell upon barren ground — 
 she was not popular with the company, 
 and John Smith was, and they refused to 
 believe that, because he would not shave, 
 he must needs be a criminal of the deepest 
 dye. And so the breeze passed over ap- 
 parently without doing any damage. But 
 circumstances, which seem slight enough 
 in themselves at the time, occasionally 
 prove of the gravest importance, when 
 the sum total for and against a man's good 
 name comes to be reckoned up. 
 
 As Miss Fentimore left the theatre at 
 the end of that rehearsal John ventured 
 to offer his escort ; a thing he very 
 seldom did, for he had been scrupulously 
 careful, since joining the company, to 
 avoid doing anything that could bring her
 
 PENH ALA. 279 
 
 name into association with his. It avouIcI 
 be a queer return to make for her un- 
 paralleled oroodness to him, to lower her 
 fair name by bringing it down to the 
 level of his. This was the reason he had 
 never sought her society privately, striv- 
 ing to content himself with a word or two 
 spoken amid the chatter of the green-room, 
 or the hurry and bustle of departure and 
 arrival on the railway platforms, during 
 their weekly journeyings from town to 
 town. But to-day he felt bound to get a 
 few words with her in private, come what 
 might of it, and so he asked to be allowed 
 to walk to her lodgings with her. 
 
 There was less familiarity between them 
 now than there had been in the Love Lane 
 days, and they were both conscious of a 
 touch of shyness as they turned away from 
 the stage door, and set their faces towards 
 Prince's Street — for the little arofument
 
 280 PENHALA. 
 
 happened during their stay in Edinbursjh. 
 All the world seemed to be abroad, this 
 crisp December day, on the wide pavement 
 of the most beautiful street in the world, 
 and as Miss Fentimore and her cavalier 
 threaded their way through the well- 
 dressed crowd they came in for a fair share 
 of observation. For Mary's portrait smiled 
 at the passers from all the music-sellers' 
 windows in the town, and if John was not 
 equally well known, his calling was guess- 
 ed at by the shrewd Scotch folks ; and 
 they were almost as interested in him as 
 in his fair companion. But this morning 
 the}^ were scarcely conscious of the ob- 
 servation they were exciting, they were too 
 deeply absorbed in their own affairs. 
 
 ' I hope you are not annoyed with me 
 for what happened this morning,' said 
 John, as soon as they were well clear of 
 the theatre. ' It must have seemed so
 
 PENm^xA. 281 
 
 churlish to refuse to do what Burlington 
 asked, and yet ' 
 
 ' But that is nonsense !' broke in Mary, 
 brightly. ' Mayn't a man follow his own 
 wishes about the length of his own beard ? 
 How could you think I should be annoyed 
 with you for such a thing?' 
 
 John smiled his wistful smile round at 
 her, and glanced away again, along the 
 streams of people coming and going ahead 
 of him, before he answered her. 
 
 ' You see. Miss Fentimore, that is just 
 what I can't do.' There was keen pain 
 underlying the quietness of his voice, and 
 Mary suddenly found herself wishing he 
 would not say what he was going to. 
 ^ That is what I wanted to explain to you. 
 If it was merely a matter of personal whim 
 or liking, do you think I would have held 
 out about it ? Do you think I set so little 
 store by all you have done for me, as to
 
 282 PENHALA. 
 
 risk the loss of it for tlie indulgence of a 
 paltry bit of vanity ? Did you liear what 
 good-natured old Crawford said about my 
 beard preserving my throat from mischief? 
 Well, that is the real truth of the case ; 
 though perhaps not in just the manner he 
 meant. Have you never realised what an 
 extraordinary change a beard works in a 
 man's appearance ? If I were to dare to 
 take my beard off — you remember what I 
 told you the afternoon you came out to me 
 under the acacia-tree, and first suggested 
 that I should try for this engagement? 
 Something about an accusation hanging 
 over my head, an accusation of a crime I 
 am innocent of?' 
 
 By her face he saw that she did, and 
 went on without waiting a reply. 
 
 ' It is because of that that I hold on so 
 desperately to the disguise of my beard. 
 Preserve my throat indeed ! It does more
 
 PENHALA. 283 
 
 ttan that, Miss Fentimore, it preserves my 
 neck.' 
 
 She turned her glance to his in blank 
 inquiry, and, reading in a flash the full 
 meaning of his words, she cried out as if 
 he had struck her, and reeled a step apart 
 from him. 
 
 Quick as thought he twisted her round 
 towards the shop- windows, and placed 
 himself as a shield between her white, 
 terror-stricken face, and the curious obser- 
 vation of the passing crowd. He had not 
 anticipated her terror, and it came as a 
 shock to him ; but he did not lose his 
 self-possession as she had done. 
 
 ' It never struck me that it might 
 frighten you,' he said, putting her hand 
 under his arm, and making a great dis- 
 play of interest in the contents of the 
 window. ' I would not have told you if 
 I had known, but I thought you had
 
 "284 PENHALA. 
 
 guessed. I forgot that you would most 
 likely be half dead with terror to find 
 yourself in the presence of a sus- 
 pected ' 
 
 'No!' she cried, under her breath. 
 • No ! don't say it ! Hush ! let me steady 
 myself 
 
 The hand clutching so desperately at his 
 coat-sleeve, and the wide-stretched, piteous 
 eyes fixed so searchingly on him, as if she 
 would fain persuade herself that he was 
 only trifling with her, hurt him horribly. 
 This was to be her attitude towards him 
 for the future — a terrified pity, or a pity- 
 ing terror. He was to be a waking night- 
 mare to her! Ah, but he would not 
 though — he would take himself out of her 
 life altogether, rather. 
 
 ' Poor, scared little child,' he said, 
 tenderly, forgetting his old humility as 
 the necessity for protection arose, ' poor
 
 PENHALA. 285 
 
 friojhtened little woman ! Why did I 
 pounce the hideous truth out on you like 
 that ? Blundering brute that I am ! I 
 ought to have known how it would shock 
 you. Don't look at me like that — people 
 will wonder — and — it cuts me like a 
 knife.' 
 
 ' It is terrible !' she muttered, dropping 
 her eyes in obedience to his hint. ' It is 
 ghastly — awful ! I never guessed at — 
 that. I never dreamt your danger was so 
 extreme as that. Oh, why do you stay in 
 the country at all ? Why don't you go 
 away to the other side of the world, where 
 you would be in comparative safety?' 
 
 ' My safety ? Is it my safety you are 
 thinking of? Is it the thought of my 
 danger that frightened you so?' The dis- 
 covery sent a quick glow through him. 
 Thank God, she was frightened for him 
 rather than of him ! ' Was it your fear
 
 286 PENHALA. 
 
 for me that knocked you over like that ? 
 It comes upon me in the same way some- 
 times, even now. But that is only when 
 the memory flashes into my mind all in 
 an instant — without a moment's warning, 
 and I see myself already at the finish, pay- 
 ing the penalty for a crime I did not 
 commit. When the recollection of the 
 fate hanging over me comes on me sud- 
 denly in that way, I go faint and sick with 
 the horror of it. At other times, when I 
 force myself to face the possibility quietly, 
 as now, I can keep my cowardice under 
 control.' 
 
 ' Cowardice ?' she repeated, smiling 
 wanly up at him. ' Cowardice?' 
 
 They were walking on again now, and 
 had nearly arrived at the end of their 
 journey. 
 
 ' Well,' he said, answering her smile with 
 one which had plenty of manhood in it,
 
 PENHALA. 287 
 
 * I don't know what else you call the fear 
 of death. It is a thing that must come to 
 us sooner or later, and since we must die, 
 it ought not to make so much difference 
 whether one dies between the sheets, or 
 in the open air with a rope ' 
 
 ' Oh, for God's sake, don't, I pray of 
 you !' she gasped. ' If you talk like that, 
 I shall drop dead at your feet.' 
 
 Her intense anguish was such that he 
 instinctively drew back a step, the better 
 to read the expression of her face. She 
 stood in the open doorway of the Edin- 
 burgh house, with the dense shadow of 
 the public stairway behind her. Strange- 
 ly white and ethereal her face looked 
 against the blackness of the dark entry, 
 but there was something besides terror in 
 it — something which overwhelmed him 
 in a sudden rush of wildly conflicting 
 emotions, which, passing, left him shaking,
 
 288 PENHALA. 
 
 with a feeling at liis heart as if a hand of 
 ice had grasped it. 
 
 They had just been talking of cowardice 
 — this would be cowardice indeed, to take 
 advantange of the knowledge which had 
 that instant flashed in on his under- 
 standing! 
 
 ' You must make allowances for me,' 
 she went on, faintly, and he knew just 
 the pleading smile she wore though he was 
 not looking at her ; for, amid all the blind 
 bewilderment of the moment, he had sense 
 enough to keep his gaze away from hers, 
 knowing the trouble in her face might be 
 too much for him. ' I can't control myself 
 as you can. I go weak and faint when 
 you say those things. And yet, if you 
 could talk to me about it a little, it might 
 
 be that Will you come in for a few 
 
 minutes? We can talk better upstairs; 
 and I can't send you away like this.'
 
 PENH ALA. 289 
 
 She turned and went up the stairs, 
 going slowly, and holding on to the hand- 
 rail as if she felt the need of its assistance, 
 and he followed her. 
 
 It was the first time he had been in a 
 room inhabited by her since the days in 
 the Sussex cottage ; and even at that mo- 
 ment, amid all the rack and hurry of his 
 brain, he was conscious, as he entered the 
 large, light room looking out on to the 
 Leith road, of the subtle influence of her 
 personality surrounding him. 
 
 In what it consisted he could not tell, 
 he only felt that if he had stumbled 
 accidentally into this room, without any 
 previous knowledge on the matter, his 
 instinct would have informed him of the 
 individuality of the occupant. 
 
 She went over to a large, old-fashioned 
 couch between the high windows, and 
 sank on it with an air of exhaustion, and 
 
 VOL. I. u
 
 290 PENH ALA. 
 
 pulled off her gloves and removed her 
 veil and hat, and pushed her trembling 
 fingers through the luxuriant masses of 
 hair above her brow, as if even that 
 weight were too much for her head just 
 then. 
 
 ^ I have often wondered how and when 
 you would next pay me a visit,' she said, 
 smiling sorrowfully across the big room at 
 him. ' I never thought of such circum- 
 stances ' 
 
 ' You know now why I never came,' he 
 put in, as she broke off in sheer inability 
 to go on. ' Even apart from this, there i& 
 so much in my life that should keep me 
 from pressing my society on a pure, good 
 woman ; but, if there were nothing else, 
 this would be enough. The blight that 
 is on me is contagious. It might spread 
 at any time to those who associate with 
 me. I have tried to keep you free of this
 
 PENH ALA. 291 
 
 risk — to keep you outside the circle of 
 shadow that hems me in.' 
 
 ' I understood somethino^ of that,' she 
 said; ' not all, but something of it I under- 
 stood ; and I was sorrv ; and I am sorrv 
 still. Won't you come over here l3y the 
 windows, there is always something to be 
 seen in the streets below, and — I want to 
 say things I dare not say aloud.' 
 
 He came and stood close by the head of 
 the couch, gazing blindly across the wide 
 space of the road beneath the windows, 
 seeing nothing of the bustle of the street 
 below, conscious only of her white up- 
 turned face close under him. 
 
 ' First of all I want to scold you,' she 
 went on. ' Why did you not tell me the 
 whole truth at first ? There must be some 
 way out of this terror — there must be, 
 there slicdl be ! We will find it together — 
 you and I. Two heads are better than 
 
 u2
 
 292 PENH ALA. 
 
 one. If you had only told me this when 
 you told me the rest, you might have been 
 a free man now, able to throw off the 
 burden you have carried so long.' 
 
 Her beautiful trust in him touched him 
 to the core of his being, but at her reason- 
 ing he only shook his head, and drew in a 
 long, tremulous breath. 
 
 ' You don't know,' he said, quietly, 
 ' and I can't explain matters to you. If I 
 could, you would see how hopeless things 
 are for me.' 
 
 ' Nothing is hopeless !' she cried. ' I 
 will not believe it.' 
 
 Again he shook his head slightly. 
 
 • I'm afraid my case is. There are other 
 influences at work — the desire for justice 
 is not the only motive — there is the long- 
 ing for revenge to be reckoned with.' 
 
 ' Revenge against an innocent man ?' 
 
 ' Ah, you don't understand ! Innocent
 
 PENHALA. 293 
 
 of that one crowning iniquity against 
 human life ? Yes. But guilty still of a 
 great deal that calls out for vengeance. 
 There is a man living whose longing to 
 be revenged on me is such, that he would 
 swear away my life without a moment's 
 hesitation.' 
 
 ' Swear away your life ?' 
 
 ^ He would swear — he has already sworn 
 — that he saw me, that he himself saw me^ 
 commit the crime I did not commit.' 
 
 ' He would swear away your life with a 
 
 lie r 
 
 ' To be revenged on me for those other 
 sins, yes. There is nothing half-hearted 
 about a Cornishman's revenge.' 
 
 ' If I could but see him !' 
 
 ' It would be no use.' He let his glance 
 fall for an instant to her pale face, and 
 pictured her vis-a-vis with. Morris Edyvean. 
 ' To open communication with the past
 
 294 PENHALA. 
 
 would only be to put tlie noose round my 
 neck. There is nothing for it but to bear 
 the burden as best I can.' 
 
 She put her hand over her eyes, and 
 murmured brokenly, 
 
 ' It is terrible — terrible !' 
 
 ' Yes ; sometimes it is very terrible. If 
 I were altogether innocent of \Yrong-doing 
 in the matter, I could bear it better. But 
 there is always the memory that, though 
 I did not in very deed take away a fellow- 
 creature's life, I am responsible for the 
 circumstances that led to her death. And 
 sometimes I think the stain of blood- 
 guiltiness is on my soul, as truly as if I 
 had wilfully hurried that poor child into 
 eternity, and that in the end I am bound 
 to be hanged for it. Xow and then, when 
 I am alone, this idea — that my end is pre- 
 ordained, that, do what I Avill, I shall hang 
 ultimately — gets such a hold on me, that
 
 TENHALA. 295 
 
 I feel madness coming on, and I rush 
 away, out into the streets, anywhere where 
 there are people, and talk to a shoe-lDlack, 
 or a crossing-sweeper, or anybody who will 
 listen to me till the mad terror passes 
 again.' 
 
 She still sat Avith her hand over her 
 eyes, and he thought she was crying. It 
 was the first time he had known her give 
 way to such a weakness. It smote him 
 with a new touch of sorrow to know that 
 the unusual tears were shed on his ac- 
 count. If it had but been possible for 
 him to gather her up in his arms and com- 
 fort her ! But such joy was not for him. 
 He stood looking down at her bent head 
 for a shorr space, with his eyes full of 
 a grievous heart-hunger, a heart-hunger 
 which he must endure to the end in si- 
 lence, l)ecause he did not dare make an 
 effort to satisfy it.
 
 296 PENH ALA. 
 
 ' I suppose it is part of the cloud tliat is 
 over me,' lie said, ' that no one can be 
 orood to me without suiFerins; for it. See 
 -what distress I have brought on you — you 
 to whom I owe a gratitude past the wit of 
 man to measure. But that at least I can 
 prevent in the future, and I will. God 
 bless you for your sweet sympathy ! It 
 makes me realise that I cannot be wholly 
 lost, when such a one as you can weep for 
 me.' 
 
 He stooped and kissed the back of her 
 hand, as it still sheltered her face from 
 observation, and, turning swiftly, strode 
 without a backward glance or a faltering 
 step from the room. 
 
 END OF THE FIKST VOLUME. 
 
 London : Printed by Duncan Macdonald, Blenheim Housa., W,
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS-URBANA 
 
 823R541P C001 v.1 
 Penhala a wayside wizard 
 
 30 
 
 12 088988701