For Abigail. A west country story, etc

Front matter

FOR ABIGAIL front. Cut when it was full she did not appear to heed it. FOR ABIGAIL A WEST COUNTRY STORY. By SILAS K. HOCKING, F.R.H.S., Author of "Her Benny,'" " Real Grit" '/ Crookleigh" "Ivy" etc., etc. With Original Illustrations by W. S. Stacey. LONDON AND NEW YORK FREDERICK WARNE & CO. All Rights Reserved. CONTENTS. CnATTEH PAGE I. — The Secret Out 1 II. — Those Boys 10 III. — Husbands and Wives 18 IV.— By the Sea 25 V. — Taken to Task 34 VI. — A Cool Reception7 42 VII.— Passed By 50 VIII. — The Coastguard 57 IX. — Hope Deferred ...... 66 X. — Abigail's Diary ..... 75 XL — A Serious Charge , 82 XII. — What should he do? - - - - 91 XIIL— A Day of Rest 100 XIV.— Love and Duty 109 XV— Vindicated - 120 XVI. — Lighting Death VI CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE XVII.— Still Upward 135 XVIII.— The Huro of Wheal Anthony - 143 XIX. — A Glimpse of High Life - - - 153 XX. — A Strange Story - - - - 162 XXI.— The Tables Turned - - - - 169 XXII. —A New Experience - - - 178 XXIIL— "Alive on the Ocean Wave" - - 187 XXIV. — Cedar Creek - - - - . - 195 XXV.— New Friends ..... 203 XXVI. —Doubts and Fears .... 211 XXVII. —Lost in toe Woods - - - - 219 XXVIII.— Abigail's Diary 228 XXIX. — The Larger Hope - - - - 236 XXX. — Paul Makes a Suggestion - - 245 XXXI. — "It might have been" - - - 253 XXXII.— Too Late 261 XXXIII. — Nearing Home 271 XXXIV.—" Within the Veil" - - . 279 XXXV. — Home Again 288 XXXVI. — The Golden Rule .... 296 XXXVII. — Life's Battle CONTENTS.

VII CHAPTER PAGE XXXVIII. — Seeking the Lost - - - - 312 XXXIX.— Getting at the Truth - - -322 XL. — Ee-united 330 XLL— Surprises 310 XLII.— " Kequires no Learning" - - 319 XLIIL— Mr. Tresilliax Relents - - - 359 XLIV.— Abigail's Diary ... - FOB ABIGAIL. A WEST COUNTRY STORY.

Chapter I

the secret out. " Time takes out the sting of pain : our sorrows after a certain period have been so often steeped in a medium of thought and passion that they ' unmould their essence ; ' and all that remains of our original impressions is what we would wish them to have been." — Hazlitt. JOHN VIVIAN had been absent from liis home nearly eighteen years. Like many another Cornish miner, he had gone out to California in the hope of making his fortune. But as the years had dragged slowly away the hope had become more and more dim. Fortunes were not so easily made, and not one in a hundred of those who had left their English homes to come to this far-off land had found his golden dreams come true. Now and then it was reported that some miner from the old country had fallen across a streak of luck, and had made his little " pile."

But in most instances the " pile " was scarcely a fortune, and in further speculation, with the hope of increasing it, the little heap of gold dust melted far more rapidly than it had been gathered together, and the miner found himself at the end of a few weeks just where he started, having nothing. ., IlclVlIl-, 11UL1HI1_. This had been the case with John Vivian more than once. Indeed, on two occasions he had found himself the possessor of two thousand dollars. But what was a fortune of £400 with which to set out on a journey to England? One quarter of it would have melted by the time he reached the old country. No • he had come to California to make his fortune, and it would be too great a humiliation to return almost as poor as when he left. So he steadily toiled on, while the days flew past one after another, and all unconsciously lengthened into months and years.

He could hardly realize sometimes that he had been away so long. The first year or two had seemed an intermin able period, and his heart often ached with an unutterable hunger for a siglit of the dear faces he had left behind, the faces of wife and children, but gradually the soreness passed out of his heart, and the longing became less and less intense, till now, after the lapse of eighteen years, it had nearly died out altogether. Occasionally he looked at a group of portraits he had in his possession, taken only a few months previously. But though he tried very hard, he failed to realise that those tall young men, standing one on each side of that pleasant, matronly-looking woman, were his sons. His wife he could recognise. In features she had changed but little: a little older-looking; a few silver threads here and there in her dark-brown hair he could detect ; but otherwise she was unchanged.

Not so, however, the lads. Paul was only three when he left home, and David a baby of one brief year, just learning to walk, and delighting his mother with his feats of locomotion. How was ifc likely that he should recognise in these young men the children of eighteen years ago ? In the little village of Penwharf people had almost given up expecting John Vivian's return, and had long since ceased to talk about him, unless his name should crop up by acci dent, and then women, and men too, expressed their surprise that a man who professed to be a Christian should leave his wife for so many years to battle with the world alone, and bring up her boys as best she could. But then the people of Penwharf did not know every thing ; and there is more in most people's lives than the out side world ever dreams of.

But that, perhaps, is saying very little after all. For the outside world, as a rule, has no dreams outside itself. Most people are so wrapped up in their own selfishness, that they don't care two straws about anybody else, except as subjects to gossip about. People gossiped freely about John Vivian in the years gone by, and said some very hard things, which, had he heard, would have hurt him sorely. But of late, as we have before intimated, his name was very rarely mentioned. The old people who knew him were dead. The young people had never seen him, and the middle-aged folk had almost for gotten what he w7as like. Yet the hard things that had been said and thought, would probably have been considerably softened down had all been known. John Vivian had carried away from home a secret grief, for which he felt there was no healing except in Heaven.

And Mary, his wife, had been left to nurse a sorrow that was all the more bitter because it was chiefly of her own causing. They had come to Penwharf a few months before David was bom, bringing with them Paul, a plump little fellow of less than two. Of course, no one sus pected that Paul was not their own child, and neither of them was disposed to enlighten the villagers on the subject. Yet such was the case. John Vivian had found Paul on his doorstep, nearly eighteen months before, as he was going to his work at the mine early in the morning. The child was fast asleep, and though the early summer morning was chilly, the little fellow seemed comfortable and warm. John's heart gave a great bound as he tenderly gathered up the bundle of clothes and looked at the sweet chubby face of the sleeping infant.

It seemed as though God had sent the child in answ7er to his longing. His wedded life had extended over four years now, and no little life having yet been given to bless their union, his heart went out in a moment to this little stray, and rushing back into the bedroom, where his wife was still sleeping, he startled her out of her extra nap by exclaiming, "Do look here, Mary, at what I have found." 1 — "If you've found anything that's worth anything," she answered, crossly, " it'll be a wonder." "Well, open your eyes and look," he exclaimed, "for you'll never guess." "I don't want to guess," was the reply; "I'm too sleepy. Put it on the window sill, whatever it is, and I'll look at it when I get up." "I can't do that," he said; "I'm afraid I shall hurt it. Do rouse yourself, Mary." But just at that moment a fretful cry came from the bundle he held in his arms, which obviated the necessity of any further persuasion on his part.

Mary was wide awake now. " Why, it's a baby, John ! " she exclaimed, with a look of wonder in her eyes. " Ay, and a bonny baby it is too," he replied. "But what are you doing with it?" she said, with a sudden flash of anger darting from her eyes. "I found it on the doorstep," he answered. " That may be true," she said, huskily ; " but you know the hussy who laid it there." " By Heaven, Mary," he said, growing pale to the lips, " I do not. How dare you suggest such a thing ? How could such a thought have ever found its way into your heart 1 " She saw that she had wronged and hurt him, and so replied more gently, " It seems so strange that the child should be laid on our doorstep, John." " Perhaps the porch around the door offered a tempting shelter," he said. " But, anyhow, our duty is clear, and that is, to take care of it till its friends are found."

" I don't see that," she replied. " Why not go and tell the policeman, and get it taken to the workhouse at once 1 " " I couldn't do it," he replied. " I feel as though Heaven had sent the child to us. We have no children of our own, Mary, why not keep this one till its friends turn up ? And if its friends are never found, why — who can tell ? — the little waif may be a joy and blessing to us in years to come." "A joy and blessing, eh?" she answered, sulkily; "more likely a trouble and curse. I don't believe any good ever comes of harbouring strange children in this way." " You are vexed, Mary, because your sleep has been dis turbed," he said, after a pause, and with a pained look in his eyes. "But I'll go and tell the policeman if you very much wish it." "You'd better be off to your work now," she said, "and we'll talk about the matter when you come back.

I don't want you to lose a day's wage over the child." He lifted his head as though about to reply, but perhaps thought better of it, for no word escaped his lips, but casting another look at the fair dimpled face of the child, he stole silently out of the room, and was soon on his way to the mine. When he returned in the afternoon he found his wife sitting on a low chair with the baby on her knee. For several seconds he stood looking at her through the open door. He thought he had never seen her with such a happy look upon her face since she had been his wife. She had not heard his footstep, and so did not know he was standing a little back from the open door w7atching her unobserved. When at length his own shadow fell upon the floor her face clouded in a moment. John saw it and wondered, as he had often wondered, why his home-coming had never seemed to bring brightness or joy to his wife.

She did not hold up her face to be kissed as most wives would have done, and he did not offer to kiss her. Their married life had never been characterized by any outward expression of affection. She was not a demonstrative woman — at least, she never seemed so to her husband, and he, when he found that she did not care for his caresses, respected her wishes and tried to please her in every way. "Shall I take the baby to the workhouse now?" he said, coming and standing in front of her. "No, John, not to-day," she said, without lifting her eyes. " I think we will keep him a few days. He is not a tramp's baby. His clothes are beautifully made, and though the material is not rich it is good. And sec, there is a mark on several of his things, worked in red silk, like two P's, or a couple of swords crossed, or a pair of scissors," aud she held up for her husband's inspection a monogram, thus <\/0 He looked at it silently for a few moments, and then said, " Ycu are right, Mary, this is no gipsy waif or base-born child.

Perhaps his friends will be turning up directly, and then the mystery will be explained." "He's a beautiful baby," she said, the bright look coming back again to her face, "and as good as he is beautiful. Why, he has scarcely cried for the whole day." "I'm glad he's given no trouble," he said, and he bent down and touched the child's dimpled cheek with his large forefinger, at which the little waif looked up with an un mistakable smile. " Why, he knows me already," said the kindly miner. " Give him to me a bit, Mary ; I'll hold him while you get the tea." "Hold him, indeed," she said ; "as if he were a horse that would bolt." "I'll not hurt him," he said, taking him tenderly from her arms. " I wonder what we shall call him, Mary." "Peter or Paul," she said, "or perhaps Philip ; something that begins with a P, anyhow."

"Let's call him Paul," he said. "It's a good name; and let's pray that he may grow up to be worthy of it." "Paul is nicer than Peter, anyhow," she said, "so perhaps we could not do better." And so it was agreed that the child's name should be Paul. And as no one came to dispute it, or to claim the little fellow, he grew up as Paul Vivian, the son of John Vivian the miner. As John Vivian's house at that time stood quite alone by the roadside, nearly a week passed away before anyone knew of their possession of a baby. All the talk that week was of a boat disappearing from Port Stormel. On the very morning that John Vivian had his " tind " Frankey Hooper discovered his "loss." "I wonder if the disappearance of Frankey's boat has any thing to do with little Paul ! "' John said, one evening. "I dont know," said his wife, rather crossly, "and I'm not going to talk about Paul as if we 'found' him.

I told Susan Blake, when she called this afternoon, that it's a Uttle orphan we've ' adopted.' " " Oh, indeed ! " said John, lifting his eyebrows, as if he were by no means certain that that was the proper way to put it. Ho did not discuss the question, however, and as the few people who called now and then manifested very little interest in the matter, John Vivian was saved from any temptation to equivocate. When Paul was about eighteen months old his foster par*>nts removed to Penwharf, John Vivian having got work at Wheal Anthony, a tin mine about a mile out of the village. Here, six months later, David was born, and then all the love of Mary Vivian, th.it had been given to her foster son, was given to her own baby boy. From thenceforth she seemed to care for nothing but little David. If her husband received little show of affection froni her besom, he received less from her now.

For Paul's sake she had never neglected him, but for " baby's " sake both he and Paul were neglected. So matters went on, and, instead of improving, grew worse, until one day, when David was about a year old, John quite lost his patience — a most unusual thing for him — and began to reproach his wife for hor neglect. Then Marv tired up, and the secret she had hidden for years she iu her passion let out. She told her husband that she had never loved him, and never could ; that she married him to spite Nicholas Bray, with whom she had had a quarrel ; that she had tried to be a good wife and do her duty, but her heart she had given to another. John's face was positively haggard when she finished speaking. For a whilo ho stood staring at her like one stricken dumb. Once or twice his pale lips moved as though he was about to speak, but the words died upon his tongue.

" Why do you look at me in that way 1 " sho said. " Why don't you speak 1 You have wrung the confession from mo with your constant complaining. Perhaps you will bo satis fied now." "I did not know, Mary, or I would not have complained," he said, in a choked voice. "I will go out for a little bit to recover myself. I cannot answer you now," and, taking up his hat, ho strode out of the house. The sweet September day was dying over tho western hills when ho found himself in the open air. To the right was a path leading over tho hill to Wheal Anthony. To tho left a zig-zag road across the valley, and up the slope past Farmer Tresillian's home, and out over the bluff to the rugged dill's that overlooked the sea. In front the winding valley of Penwharf, which about four miles away touched the blue waters of the English Channel.

He did not hesitato a moment in deciding which course to take, and in a comparatively short time ho had crossed the bluff, and was standing on the cliffs, with tho shining waters of the sea surging at his feet. He did not attempt to descend to the beach, for the tide was at its flood, bid he sat down, at length, and tried to think ; tried to shape his future course of action; tried to brace himself for the struggle that lay before him. Slowly the day faded into darkness, while the Btars came out one by one, and looked down upon him with kindly eyes. Up from tho heaving waters of the restless sea came a low toned song, soft and soothing as a mother's lullaby, whilo far out in the distance the shadows deepened with a growing sense of mystery and awe. 0 to got away from his trouble, to hide himself among those outer shadows that were deepening all the while, to forget the words that rankled in his heart like thorns, and banished joy and hope !

At first this was only an indefinite longing, but by-and-bye it grew into shape, and hardened at length into a fixed determination. It was late when he returned to his home, and his wife, angTy with herself that she had let her secret out, angry with her husband because he was her husband, received him in no very friendly mood. He did not heed her chiding, however, but when he had a chance of speaking, he said : "They are shortening hands at Wheal Anthony, next week, Mary." "And what of that?" she asked, sharply. " I expect I shall have to go," he said. "Just like your luck," she replied. " I expect I shall have to do what many an old comrade has done," he said. "And what is that?" " Go abroad ! There's a chance of making a fortune in California. I don't care much for money myself, but I would like to make a lady of you, Mary.

It would be some com pensation, you know." She did not reply. His kindness and gentleness touched her heart strangely. She felt almost that she could love him now, but her pride shut her mouth and steeled her heart. " I will write to you often ; that is, if you consent to my soing." o-"'o' "Consent ! " and her eyes flashed again. "Don't imagine that I will put a straw in your way." " God knows I want to do the right thing,'' he said. " We will part friends, for I have loved you truly, and love you still.''' She did not reply, and so the conversation dropped. During the next few days she helped him with his packing, though she rarely spoke, and by the end of the following week John Vivian had spoken all his good-byes, aud had turned his face towards the sunset.

Chapter II

those boys. "There's something in a noble boy, A brave, free-hearted, careless one, With his unchecked, unbidden joy, His dread of books and love of fun ; And in his clear and ruddy smile Unshaded by a thought of guile, And unrepressed by sadness ; Which brings me to my childhood back, As if I trod its very track, Aud felt its very gladness." ■N. P. Willis. " T\AVID gets all the love aud Paul all the lickings," was XJ a frequent remark of the people at Penwharf. Not that Mary Vivian was an unkind woman, or meant to be un just. On the contrary, she was anxious to do her duty by the children honestly and fairly. But love made her blind to the faults of her own child, while the very fact that Paul was not her own son made her blind to his virtues. Indeed, according to her sincere belief, Paul had no virtues ; or if so, they were so few and feeble as not to be worth taking into account ; while David in her eyes was a little saint.

And so it happened that if ever David was dis covered in any mischief, Mary was quite sure that no blame was attaching to him. Paul must bo at tho bottom of it. That was a settled conviction in her own mind. And though she might be unable to trace any connection between Paul and the offence of her own child, yet all the same she was quite convinced that the connection did exist ; and Paul would be punished accordingly ; while poor wronged, ill-used David would be pitied, and condoled with, and cried over, until he had a vague feeling that his offences were virtues, iu and that to do a wrong in his case would be almost an im possibility. Such treatment could not possibly be without its influence on two growing lads. In Penwharf it was a frequent remark that "Mary Vivian was going just the right way to spoil both the boys.

And that it was a pity her husband did not come home and take the boys in hand himself." And, in truth, it did seem a pity. A firm, yet gentle hand was what both the boys seemed to need. It must be said, however, that Paul took his " lickings " with wonderful equanimity and good humour, nor did he seem conscious of any injustice in the treatment he received. He was a merry, mischievous, light-hearted young dog, who could never sit still five minutes on a stretch. His foster mother said he could not keep still even when he was asleep. That he led David into numberless scrapes there could be no doubt; David was two years his junior, and the younger naturally looked up to the elder. Moreover, David was dif fident, lacking altogether in self-confidence, easily led, and not very far-seeing, while Paul was resolute, confident, and brimming over with mirth and mischief.

By the time Paul had reached his teens, he was fully convinced in his own mind that he had received a double dose of original sin, and that he was deserving of all the punishment he received. It was well for him perhaps that he looked at the matter in this philosophic light, otherwise he might have resented his mother's favouritism, and grown up with an embittered feeling in his heart. Other people might see favouritism ; he did not, and indeed he was so fond of David that he would rather suffer punishment any day himself than that David shoidd be punished. And many a time at school he had borne volun tarily, and without a murmur, the stripes that ought to have fallen on David's back. Being so healthily constituted, the rough winds of neglect, and the stern ways of severity, instead of making him bitter and defiant, only made him self-reliant and firm of purpose.

And so he grew up with the most lovable of dispositions, in spite of the treatment he received. David, however, on the contrary, was being steadily moulded into a milksop, if not into a hypocrite. If his mother could see no wrong in him, why should he look for wrong in himself ? Moreover, his brother Paul was anything but a good boy — of that there could be no doubt whatever. His mother had insisted upon it so often and so continuously, that he could not do other than believe it. It is true he could not see very clearly where the wrong came in. Paul was very kind to him, and generous almost to a fault ; but then that might be to cover some deep design of wickedness. Any how, his mother had always been able to trace any faults in him to Paul's evil influence, and his mother was wiser than he, and therefore ought to know.

And so he grew up with the feeling that Paul was his just and legitimate scapegoat ; and as the years passed away, instead us being grateful to his brother for so often bearing his punishments, he was annoyed with him because he did not do so more frequently. When David was about ten years of age, he came blubbering liume from school one evening, complaining that he had not only been kept in, but that the master had caned him as well. " Caned you? " said his mother, indignantly ; "and did he not cane Paul also ? " "No ! Paul was at the top of the class." " But I'm sure that it was he who deserved it, and not you; but come to your mammy, my darling, and tell her all about it." And the next moment David was on his mother's lap, his hot cheek pressed against hers, while into her sympathetic ear he poured the story of his wrongs.

"He had only been drawing some figures of animals on his slate instead of writing his dictation," he said, " and he thought it was a shame he should be punished for that." " And who taught you to draw animals, my darling ? " his mother asked. Instantly David's face brightened. Till now he had been utterly unable to see how Paul could be in any way respon sible for his wrong-doing. Now his mother's question had made it all as clear as day. "It was Paul who taught me, mammy," he said, with a fresh burst of sobbing. " Indeed, I am sure I should never have thought of drawing animals on the slate but for him." " I'm sure you would not, my darling," said his mother. "As usual, he is at the bottom of the mischief, as, alack he always is." " Don't you wish he were a good boy like me ? " said David, consolingly.

" Indeed, I do, my child," said his mother with evident sincerity. "You have never given me an hour's anxiety since you were born, while Paul has been a constant trouble." " I think it's too bad that I should be punished when it's all his fault, don't you, mammy ? " " I do, indeed, my darling," said his mother, caressingly. " If he were punished as well, it wouldn't be half as hard to bear," whimpered David. " My own ill-used boy," she whispered, stroking his hair fondly at the same time, "I'll see to it that you are not wronged for nothing." Not long after Paul burst into the room, like a fresh sea breeze. He had been scampering across hill and dale in an exciting game of "hunt the fox," and was all excitement still to his finger tips. But seeing David on his mother's lap, he sobered down in a moment.

" Oh, Davie," he said, " I'm so sorry you got kept in, we've had such a jolly run all round by Wheal Anthony. You would have enjoyed it." " But I didn't get the chance," whimpered David. "I don't know how you could enjoy yourself," said his mother reproachfully, " when you knew that your brother was being wrongfully punished, and all through you." "All through me, mother?" said Paul, raising his eye brows in astonishment. " Yes, all through you ! David was kept in and caned for drawing animals on his slate. But who taught him to draw animals ? " "Well, I reckon I did, mother, but you can never tell Davie's cows from his elephants." " That's neither here nor there," said his mother, reproachfully. " Don't you see how it is through you that he has got into trouble ? " Paul thought a moment, and then said, " I'm very sorry, mother, but I didn't mean to get him into trouble.