What the Swallows told me

Front matter

OTat tfte -^toaiiottis tolo a^e. " " They are not worth your having, Miss," he says, quietly.' Page 203. BY L. P. MOHUN HARRIS. ' A lily of a day Is fairer far in May, Al tho' it fall and die that night It was the plant and flower of light. In small proportions we just beauties see, And in short measures life may perfect be.' B»N JoNbON. LONDON: HATCHARDS, PICCADILLY. 1879. LONDON: Printed by John Strange-ways, Castle St. Leicester Sq. CONTENTS. CHAr. _0E I. DOWN UPON THE ROCKS I II. HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS .... 24 III. GRANDAD 35 IV. THE CHELSEA PENSIONERS .... 48 V. 'WHY DO YOU LIKE THE SWALLOWS?' . . 63 VI. FIGHTING THE BATTLES OF OLD CORNWALL . 87 VII. BURYING THE DEAD I07 VIII. MICHAEL ARSCOTT IS SURPRISED BY A VISITOR 115 IX. MISS CARWITHEN WINS THE RACE . . . I34 X. KING ARTHUR'S CASTLE 1 60 XI. ' LET HIM NEVER FORGET THE DAYS WHEN HE WAS HAPPY' 185 XII.

LE PAS accel£r£ 208 XIII. THE HEDGE WHERE THE FOXGLOVE GREW . 234 XIV. OVERTAKEN BY THE TIDE .... Contents. VI CHAP. PAGE XV. 'IF HE REPENTED, YOU SHOULD FORGIVE HIM' .265 XVI. THE FLIGHT OF THE SWALLOWS . . . 284 XVII. A SHADOW FALLS ON THE OLD HOUSE . . 293 XVIII. ' HE'S ONLY GOT ARCHIE AND ME LEFT ' . 300 XIX. 'YOU WON'T FORGET ME, MICHAEL?' . . 309 XX. THE GOLDEN PATH ACROSS THE SEA . . 3 17 XXI. 'FOR HER SAKE'

Chapter I

DOWN* UPON THE ROCKS. THE sun is sinking slowly, clad in royal purple and gold, into the sea, and turning the waves to a mother-of-pearl tint. It is shining on the surface of the quiet pools among the huge masses and reefs of black rock on the shore, and is dyeing the hanging fringes of sea-weed on their brink a bright rose colour. It touches the tall spires of the splintered rocks in the rugged outline of magnificent cliffs as they sweep away into the far distance, and tinges even the white breasts of the gulls floating on the crests of the waves with crimson. The sun is truly a fine artist ; not only does he paint his foreground in rich and glowing colouring, but he knows how to produce a lovely contrast, for B he throws Lundy Isle into a faint and shadowy dis tance, so soft and so delicately grey that it seems to the eyes of some children on the shore like a fairy world uprising from the ocean.

It is only by those who dwell on these western shores of England that is seen the grand and beautiful sight of the sun -setting beyond the sea. The tide is coming in. The evening is lovely and calm, yet round the reefs that stretch in long ridges down the yellow sands this blue summer sea breaks in seething masses of white foam ; for the great Atlantic in its calmest mood is like a giant, asleep but for a while, with his terrible strength and power ready to awaken at the smallest touch of opposition. The tide does not creep gently up as it does on other coasts on a quiet evening, like the present one, when the faintest wind is not stirring ; but urged on by the mighty swell of the ocean behind it leaps and tosses in sudden fury when it reaches the black rocks. Now it runs impatiently up through the narrow channels between the reefs towards the place where Milly Tresillian, and her little brother Archie, and Elsie St. Aubyn, are sitting on the rocks.

They are playing at giving tea-parties, and have established themselves on three rocks which represent their three respective houses, and a clear little pool left by the last tide divides them. This, however, makes it rather a difficult undertaking, when they scramble down from their perches for the purpose of going to drink tea with their neighbour. Milly has some gooseberries and some biscuits in a basket which have been provided by nurse for the entertainment, and the limpet shells make capital little tea-cups, although the salt water is not quite as pleasant as real tea, and Archie refuses sturdily to partake of this refresh ment. There is usually a kind of feud between him and Elsie, and she takes the opportunity to scold him for not liking his ' tea.' He is a fat, solemn-eyed little fellow, of four years old.

He has been coaxed by Milly to sit in his own house, in company with Snap, the little wire-haired terrier. They both rebelled at first, Archie not liking to be so far out of reach of the gooseberries, and Snap, at all times, has a decided objection to the slippery rocks and the sea and those dreadful little pools into which he is sometimes plunged when the higher powers are of opinion that a washing is requisite. Just at present he and Archie are united by a cause of common discontent, but they are both partially reconciled to their lot by Milly, who gives Archie a cabbage-leaf full of gooseberries, and a handful of biscuits between him and Snap. ' Now, Archie, darling,' says Milly, coaxingly, 'you are Mr. Brown, and Snap is your little boy, and you must invite us to drink tea with you ; and I'm Mrs. Wellington Smith, and Elsie is Mrs. Valentine Longlegs.' ' My name is not Longlegs,' says Elsie, rather resentfully.

It must be admitted that she lias rather long legs, considering she is only ten years old, and as she sits upon the top of her rock, with no handy ledge to rest her feet upon, her legs dangling down the side, and ending in a pair of thick boots that will turn up at the toes, it is possible that the name suggests itself naturally to Milly. It is not one of her own invention, and if it displeases Elsie she is much too kindly-natured to call her by it. She forgets at the moment that on certain occasions Elsie's brother Jack has teased her about her long legs, and that both he and Peter Borlase are disposed now and then to be facetious on the subject of ' Daddy Longlegs.' Archie fixes his solemn eyes on Elsie, and says slowly, — 'Yes, you are Mrs. Va-len-tine Long-legs. — You are, you are.' ' I'm not !' retorts Elsie, hotly ; ' and you shan't have any more gooseberries, you greedy little crea ture !

You've eaten more than half already.' Archie gets very red in the face at this threat, and is evidently making up his mind to a howl, but Milly interposes, — ' You shall have some of mine, Archie ; only please don't cry, dear. And you shall be Lady Grace Grenville, Elsie, — Sir Bevil's wife, you know.' Elsie looks pleased, for who would not like to be the wife of the brave Knight of Stowe, the great and glorious Sir Bevil Grenville, about whom Mr. Tresillian tells them those delightful stories some times by the great hall fire at Tresillian, in the twilight of the autumn evenings, and the fair Lady Grace, who wrote such gentle, beautiful letters of encouragement to her gallant husband when he was away from home fighting for the King ? She was naturally the heroine of these stories, so Elsie was very much pleased indeed.

Milly is busy filling her tea-cups. She is a lovely little girl, with a fair, flower-like face, and large deep blue eyes. The masses of her bright golden hair stream over her shoulders from under her little brown straw hat. She and Elsie are the same age, but Milly is smaller, and the little friends are quite different. Milly is a soft, gentle little thing, with pretty clinging ways, and a kind of motherliness in her manner to little Archie, who is very fond of her. Perhaps the fact that they have no mother lends this touch of protecting care to Milly's love for her little brother. The children are orphans and live with their grandfather at Tresillian, the quaint old gabled mansion that stands back among its woods in the quiet valley, sheltered from the western gales that sweep along the wild coast.

Elsie St. Aubyri is Milly's friend and favourite companion, and the two little girls are constantly together, for their homes are not far apart. Elsie is much taller than Milly, and the long legs that have been mentioned already, together with her long arms, give her a somewhat angular appearance. They are very useful to her nevertheless, and enable her to climb about the steep rocks, which she especially delights in doing ; but there are times when poor Elsie wishes that she could look as neat and nice as Milly always manages to appear ; and when Jack, with one of those dreadful teasing fits strong upon him, loves to take what he calls ' a rise out of Elsie,' and makes tender inquiries for her relations the Spiders, she secretly mourns that Nature has not limited the length of her limbs. She is all the same a happy, good-tempered, merry-hearted child, and her large dark eyes, and her rosy cheeks, make her bright and blooming face a very pleasant one to look upon.

Her brown hair is short and grows in thick waves over her little head, something like a boyls. She can join in all boys' games, and makes a capital field at cricket — always on the alert, and never tired. She can bowl, too, very respectably when required, and on one occasion has been known to attempt football, but a frightful kick made her sick with pain. She scorned to cry, and kept back her tears bravely, but poor Elsie limped on one leg for ten days afterwards. It was balm to her wounded body and mind when she heard Jack exclaim, — ' I say ! ain't she a plucky little toad ?' The remark was made to Martha, the servant who had lived with Mrs. St. Aubyn for many years, and who, devoted to both Jack and Elsie, yet highly disapproved of some of Elsie's per formances. ' I don't know nothing about plucky toads, Master Jack,' was her indignant reply on this occasion ; ' but I do know that Miss Elsie ought to be that ashamed of herself to go and play at them rampageous boys' games, not fit for a girl, let alone a young lady !' Poor Martha ! her patience is sorely tested at times by Elsie.

Jack is the idol of Elsie's heart, and when he is at home for the holidays, she is his devoted slave and shadow, helping him in all his undertakings, and following him in every ex pedition. She climbs the steep and jagged cliffs with him when he goes to look for choughs' nests high up among the crannies, while poor little Milly trembles with terror as she watches them from below, scrambling and crawling to a height that reduces them in her frightened eyes to the size of black-beetles. ' I don't think I like the tea much,' says Milly, after having drunk two or three limpet-shells of salt water. ' It doesn't taste nice with the gooseberries.' 'It's horrid!' says Elsie. 'I can't drink any more. I've tried to make believe it's nice, but it's horribly nasty.' ' We'll bring some milk next time in a bottle, and some revel cakes.

Andrews says that the next time he goes to Portrenna he will bring me back some.' Revel cake is a Cornish delicacy. It is a round, flat, saffron cake or soft biscuit, with currants in it sometimes, and at other times without currants. The taste of the saffron is not pleasant to many people, but these are little Cornish maidens, and in Cornwall saffron is much used, so to them these revel cakes are delicious. They are called revel cakes because they are made at the fair times, in the towns, in large batches ; and the bakers have enough to do to supply the large demands upon them, as not only the fairing people want them, but those who live at long distances from the town send in for supplies of revel cakes. ' I like revel cakes,' says Archie, who has finished his gooseberries, and having nothing else left but a pile of skins, is beginning an attack on them. ' Look at him, Milly,' cries Elsie. ' You mustn't do that, darling,' says Milly ; ' nurse would be angry, and they will make you ill.

Give me the skins, there's a dear.' Archie hands over the bundle of forbidden luxury, but his eye is on Elsie, and he asks : ' Milly, what has she done with hers ?' The fact is, Elsie has swallowed gooseberries and skins. ' Never mind, Archie, where mine are. You're only a little boy, and mustn't ask questions about your betters.' It is possible that if Archie had been a little older than he is, he would have denied that Elsie was his better, but as it is he does not under stand her taunt, and can only stare defiantly at her, and say in a tone of entire satisfaction : ' Milly, she's eated all her skins, and she'll be sick ; won't she ?' Snap, finding the top of a rock decidedly un comfortable where there is only space enough for him to sit up with his four paws drawn altogether, and seeing that no more biscuits are forthcoming, gets very weary of the performance in which he is an unwilling actor, and suddenly deserts his parent, Mr. Brown, with a bound from the rock on to the smooth sands.

The foolish little fellow is soon in hot pursuit of a grey gull that is pecking among some drifts of seaweed. The gull never stirs until Snap is quite close to him, not thinking it worth while to hurry his evening meal, and at the last moment he rises in a contemptuous sort of way on his wing, and sails slowly off just above the head of the discomfited Snap, who, with a little yap of disgust, trots slowly back to the rocks. The children are still playing at visiting,. and now Mrs. Wellington Smith and Lady Grace Grenville are discussing household matters after the fashion of their elders. ' I really think, Mrs. Wellington Smith,' Lady Grace Grenville is saying, ' that times is hard, and prices aggravatin' ! I'm just 'mazed !' It is to be hoped that even in those far back times the Lady Grace made use of better English.

Elsie is rather forgetting her part in the exact reproduction of a conversation she had overheard between Martha and her friend Mrs. Penwarden, the butcher's wife, but she suddenly remembers that her grammar is not in keeping with her grand position, so she adds : ' I mean that everything is enormously dear — don't you think so?' ' Yes, really, my dear Lady Grace Grenville, it is quite true,' returns Mrs. Wellington Smith, trying to shift her painful seat on the point of the rock to an easier one, ' I gave two pounds yester day for a leg of mutton.' 'Oh, that's impossible, Milly!' says Elsie, startled into her natural voice and tone by this astounding exaggeration of price. ' You mustn't say that. You know you couldn't give two pounds for a leg of mutton. Why, it would buy a pig all alive ! ' 'Well, two shillings then,' says Mrs. Wellington Smith, calmly ; ' it doesn't matter which.' ' I'm not quite sure that you could get a leg of mutton for two shillings,' replies Elsie, reflectively. ' I think meat's something a pound, and I suppose there's lots of pounds in a leg of mutton ; but never mind, go on.' ' One man asked me a shilling for potatoes the other day ; very dear, wasn't it ? ' ' How many did you get ?' inquires the practical Lady Grace. ' Oh, only one sackful, and there are heaps of potato-fields, you know!' The Lady Grace again ponders.

She has an idea that Mrs. Wellington Smith has made another mistake, and means a peck instead of a sack ; but she lets it pass, and turns her attention next to the silent Mr. Brown, who is sucking his thumb. 'And pray, Mr. Brown,' she says, graciously, what are you giving for butter ?' Mr. Brown takes his thumb out of his mouth, and eyes the Lady Grace severely. ' I won't give nothing,' he replies, rather gruffly. He thinks that Elsie may have some design on his pennies in the little money-box which stands in the corner of the nursery mantel-piece. ' She shan't have my pennies,' he says, appealing to Milly, 'and I won't have her butter!' ' Oh, you little stupid !' cries Elsie, impatiently. ' I don't want your pennies. He doesn't under stand how to play, Milly, so there's no use our going on with him for a neighbour.' ' Look, Elsie, how clear the water is,' says Milly, as she drops the limpet-shells into the pool, ' and see how bright the pink sea-weed is, floating on the top.

Doesn't it look like one of the fairy bathing-places? I wish a beautiful mermaid would come and sit on the rock and comb her hair with a mother-of-pearl comb, and sing her lovely songs. Oh ! wouldn't it be nice?' 'No,' replies Elsie; 'I shouldn't like it at all. The mermaids are horrid cruel creatures, singing to the poor sailors, and coaxing them to bring their boats among the rocks, just for the fun of seeing them dashed to pieces.' ' But we could listen to her singing without her doing us any harm,' persists Milly, whose fancy has been captivated by the stories of mer maids. ' No, we couldn't, Milly. She would draw us away until we followed her into the sea and were drowned, and then she would swim away with her horrid fish's tail, and her dreadful laugh, quite glad that we were dead.' Milly laughs, but Archie, who has only under stood from Elsie's account that a mermaid is something very terrible — more terrible, perhaps, than the butcher's great black dog — immediately sets up a dismal cry, so suddenly that Elsie is considerably startled, for her mind at the moment is filled with the mermaid's misdemeanours. ' I want to come down,' wails poor Archie ; ' and I don't like the creatures combing their hair with fishes' tails and drowning us.' ' Do be quiet, Archie, and I'll take you down,' says Elsie, and with a slide and a sprawl she scrambles down, splashing into the pool as she goes. ' Take me down,' cries Archie, again ; and Elsie seizes hold of him, slipping and stumbling as she drags him down, and deposits him on the sand.

His poor little fat legs are scratched by the sharp sides of the rock, and he slips and falls on the slimy sea-weed, but he bears these evils. Anything is better than being seated on a rock by himself, when at any moment a creature with a fish's tail and a comb in her hand might appear and carry him off into the waves. That would be far worse than being dipped in them by old Nanny the bathing-woman, for she, at any rate does not drown him, and sometimes comforts his wounded feelings by a peppermint drop, or a piece of barley-sugar, as she carries him back dripping to nurse on the rocks. But a mermaid is a very different kind of being, so Archie does not at the present moment mind his scratched legs, and trots off on the hard smooth sands after Snap, away from the pools and the rocks. Elsie remarks, — ' I say, Milly, we mustn't talk of mermaids be fore Archie again.' The truth is, she has not liked the turn their conversation has taken, and is by no means easy in her mind on the subject of mermaids.

The western sky is bright with the rich sunset glow that burns along the deep-coloured rocks, and on the golden furze with which the tops of the cliffs and the wild downs are a-blaze, as the children turn homewards. The shadows are deepening, and the figure of the little old man who is walking quickly along with a creel at his back, is reflected at more than twice his natural length on the yellow sands. ' Look, Milly, there's that horrid old Michael Arscott. Do you know Martha says that he gets into the most dreadful rages when the boys toss his heaps of sea-weed back into the sea. The other day he collected a whole lot in the cove, and he had ever so much trouble to get his donkey to climb up that narrow zig-zag path that leads up the side of the cliff, you know, to his cottage — the load was so heavy ; and when he came down again to fetch the rest, it was all gone.

The boys from the village had watched till he was out of sight, and then they threw it back into the pools. He was in a rage, and Roger Boone, the baker's boy, who hid himself behind a rock to see the fun, told Martha that old Michael was so angry he quite danced about in his anger, and said he would half kill the boys if he could catch them, but of course they didn't let him. I should like to have seen his face when he came down and found all his sea weed gone — shouldn't you ?' 'No, that I shouldn't !' says Milly, indignantly, with the colour flushing all over her face. ' I think it's horrid of those boys to tease him so, and to go and throw away all his sea-weed, for he must work so hard to get it, and his poor old back looks so bent and tired. I call them wicked, bad boys to do it' ' But, Milly, Michael is a dreadful old man, you know.

Martha says that he never gives a civil word to anybody, and he is always so cross that no one dares to go near him. Mother sent her once to his cottage when he was ill, with some wine and things, and he was so angry with her for coming, and told her he didn't wish to be beholden to anyone for anything, so she just put down the things and said, " You're a cross-grained old creature, Michael, and only fit to live with the choughs and the daws in the holes of the rocks." ' ' Oh ! what did he say,' asks Milly, breathlessly ; ' wasn't he very angry ?' ' Martha didn't stop to hear. She says she bounced out of the cottage, and slammed the door behind her. I believe she was afraid, though she said she wasn't, because he is a dreadful old creature, Milly.' ' But then he's very poor, and old, and all alone,' replies Milly ; ' and nurse says he has had some great troubles.

He was well off once, she told me, and had a wife, and a farm, and then his brother did something very wrong. He copied Michael's hand-writing, and went to the bank where all his brother's money was kept, and got it all out, and ran away with it. What do you call it, Elsie?' 'Robbery!' replies Elsie, promptly. ' Yes, I know it was robbery, but that's not the name nurse called it. What is it, when you copy somebody's hand-writing ?' ' Imitating.' Milly shakes her head reflectively. ' That isn't it, Elsie.' 'Well, if it's not imitating, what can it be?' asks Elsie, impatiently. ' But it can't be that, Milly. We imitate writing when we do our copies, you know, and there's nothing wicked in that. I wish there was, and then perhaps Miss Carwithen would not make me write mine over again so often.' Milly looks at the sea, and she looks at the sky, and she twines her fingers in and out of Archie's, whose little fat hand she is holding, until he snatches it away, and says in an aggrieved tone, ' Don't, Milly,' — in her endeavour to remember the word, but it does not come back to her.

Suddenly she recollects it. ' I know, Elsie,' she exclaims ; ' it's forgery. I remember nurse said Michael's brother had made a forgery. And she said it was something very bad. He copied Michael's writing, and made be lieve that his brother wanted to have his money c out of the bank. So the bank people looked at the piece of paper and saw Michael's name on it, and they gave him the money, and then he went away with it to America or somewhere, and poor Michael was ruined. Wasn't it sad for him? He had to give up his farm, and come and live in that miserable little cottage on the cliff; and his poor wife fell ill one day, and nurse says he couldn't get her any nice comforting things, you know ; and he was too proud to tell anybody how much he wanted them for her, so she soon died.' ' But then he shouldn't have been proud and disagreeable when his poor wife was so ill, and everybody would have been wanting to help him, persists Elsie, whose prejudice against Michael is very strong. ' And then, Milly, you know, he won't ever come to Church, and doesn't care a bit when Mr. Vyvyan talks to him and tells him how wrong it is.' ' He ought to come to Church,' says Milly, slowly ; ' and I can't think how he can say No when Mr. Vyvyan asks him, for he is so good and kind ; but perhaps it is more difficult to be good when one is very unhappy ; and poor old Michael has lost everything.' ' But there are some people who have great troubles, and still they are as good as good can be, Milly.

You know Mr. Tresillian has had very great troubles. Uncle says his wife was like an angel, she was so gentle and sweet, and I think Lady Alice's picture in the library looks like one, and he has lost her. And then,' she adds in a lower voice, ' there was his son, your father, it was so terrible his being drowned — his only son, and then poor beautiful Mrs. Hugh Tresillian. They are all gone, and yet Mr. Tresillian is so good.' The colour deepens in little Milly's face, and her eyes grow large and soft, as she looks away over the sea. ' Yes, grandad is good,' she says presently in a soft, tender little tone ; ' and once, Elsie, when I was wondering how many beautiful things there were at the bottom of the sea, he said, " The gold and the jewels are not the most precious things that the sea has got in its depths, Milly, but the husbands, and the fathers, and the sons, are all in its keeping until the great day, when it must give them up to God."

I know he was thinking of poor father, Elsie, for he sighed, oh ! such a long sigh ; but still he has not lost everything yet. He has got Archie and me ; and poor old Michael hasn't got anybody ; and he is miserable and poor, so I can't help being sorry for him though he is cross and disagreeable.' Elsie laughs merrily, and says, — ' Well, you shall have your old pet Michael all to yourself, Milly.' ' I so tired,' moans little Archie, who is not the least interested in the conversation. He has been dragging his spade along after him, and has twice come to grief over it, while his little feet are stumbling wearily through the soft sand. ' WeU, I'll carry you on my back,' says Elsie. ' Now, hold tight, Archie;' and she stoops down while Archie scrambles upon her back. He hangs heavily, for he is tired, and his fat arms cling round her neck in a tight clasp until poor Elsie is nearly suffocated and her face gets very red, but she is really a very good-natured little girl, so she plods on through the sand with her heavy burden uncomplainingly.

Presently they come to a spot where the huge cliffs suddenly drop to a small bay, and their way is through this bend, covered on either side with dark green sea-grass. Then the path leads up for a little way over the smooth turf of the down, where sheep are scattered about, and small brown cattle are quietly browsing, or lying about in the restful calm of the summer evening. From this point you can see the long stretches of wood that run up the deep, quiet valley ; and just below, sheltered by the woods from behind, and standing on a wide terrace, with the ground sloping away in front, stands a charming old house, built of grey stone, with quaint twisted chimneys and many gables. The flush of crimson clouds left by the setting sun is reflected in the panes of the oriel windows, and the same pleasant light rests upon the flower-beds on the terrace, and in the garden below, until the scarlet geraniums and bright calceolarias blaze from afar like coloured lanterns- The rooks are cawing loudly among the trees, for they are just returned from their long day's wandering, and after the manner of rooks, they are very fidgety and difficult to please in their choice of sleeping apartments, flying about from tree to tree, and altogether very unsettled in their minds.