Where Duty lies, etc

Front matter

WHERE DUTY LIES " The next moment Penliggin was lying flat on his back." — P. 128, Front. WHERE DUTY LIES. BY SILAS K. HOCKING,; F.R.H.S., AUTHOR OF "FOR LIGHT AND LIBERTY,'' '"FOR ABIGAIL," " HER BENNY," "REX RAYNOR, ARTIST," ETC, ETC. WITH ORIGINAL ILLUSTRATIONS BY HAROLD COPPING. LONDON : FREDERICK WARNE AND CO. AND NEW YORK. 1892. [Att rights reserved] CONTENTS. CHAPTER TAGE Prologue, ........ 7 I. — New Year's Eve 16 II. — The Tea-Meeting 25 III. — Frank Carey, ..:.... 33 I\". — Snowed Up 43 V. — Dreams and Realities, 51 VI. — An Anxious Night, do VII. — A New Experience 69 VIII. — Growing Interest, ... . . .77 IX. — A Pleasant Day 87 X. — Work and Worry, ....... 96 XI. — A Great Opportunity 10; XII. — A Sabbath Interlude, 115 XIII. — An Unexpected Meeting, . . . . 123 XIV. — Penliggin v. Carey, ... . . 132 XV. — Friends and Foes ... 141 XVI.— Candid Friends 150 XVII. — Revelations IS9 XVIII.— St. Rowland's Head, i('9 VI CONTENTS.

CHAPTER PAGE XIX. — An Unsatisfactory Conclusion, . . . 178 XX. — Learning and Unlearning, .... 187 XXI. — A Story Within a Story, .... 196 XXII. — Hope and Despondency, ..... 205 XXIII. — A Turn in the Tide 214 XXIV. — A New Development, ..... 222 XXV. — Perplexity, 231 XXVI. — Confidence 239 XXVII. — Preparing for Action, 248 XXVIII. — Premonitions, ....... 257 XXIX. — Deserted, 266 XXX. — An Unsatisfactory Interview, . . . 275 XXXI.— The Tam.es Turned 284 XXXII. — Gathering Shadows, ..... 292 XXXIII. — Parents and Children, 301 XXXIV. — Inconsequent Lives, ..... 310 XXXV. — Surprises 318 XXXVI. — The Unexpected Happens, .... 326 XXXVII. — A New Experience, 335 XXXVIII.— A Vision ok Duty 343 XXXIX. — Daring Love

Prologue

. Fair was thy blossom, bonnie flower, Fair as the softest wreaths of spring, When late 1 saw thee seek the bower In peace thy morning hymn to sing. Thy little foot across the lawn Scarce from the primrose press'd the dew; I thought the spirit of the dawn Before me to the greenwood flew. — James Hogg. That the village of Trevisco was greatly excited there could be no doubt. Not, indeed, since the wreck of the Pelican on the Lugger Reef, sive years before, had there been such general consternation. In the long and straggling street, people stood under the light of the stars, in anxious groups, and discussed, in short and disjointed sentences, the painful occurrence. Across the cobbled way the lamp-light fell in yellow bars, for nearly every cottage door had been thrown wide open as men, women, and children rushed into the street on the first sound of the crier's bell.

"Lost, stolen or strayed!" was the startling an nouncement that greeted their ears, bawled forth in Tommy Trelore's most rasping tones. Then followed a lengthy pause, during which Tommy emptied his mouth of a quid of tobacco, and indulged in sundry coughs and scrapings of the throat. "AVhat's lost? who's lost? AA7hen ? where? how?" was whispered forth from a hundred lips. Then a great hush fell, while Tommy tucked his bell under his left arm, and drew himself up to his full height. " A little girl, two years and a half old, the daughter of John Pentwyn, Esq. Last seen this afternoon about five o'clock — was then playing on the terrace in front of the Hall. Any one restoring her to her parents, or giving such information as will lead to her recovery, will be handsomely rewarded." And Tommy grasped the handle of his bell again with his right hand and hurried down the street at a swinging trot The bigger boys and girls followed the crier, with a great rattle of hobnailed shoes on the cobbled street The younger men rushed in the opposite direction and made straight for Larchwood Hall, while the mothers and older men stood still, or gathered in little knots to discuss the painful intelligence.

The announcement that a child has been lost even in our great towns and cities, where it is a matter of every-day occurrence, always carries with it a little thrill of pain. Mothers and fathers instinctively think of their own little ones, and shudder at the bare pos sibility of such a calamity overtaking them. But in quiet country villages, where such a thing is scarcely ever heard of, the announcement startles like an earthquake shock. Trevisco was shaken to its foundations. It was supper-time when the bell-man went down the street; but in most houses the meal remained untouched. AA'ho could eat when a child was missing, and the only child, too, of the most important man in their little community? The evening was dark and chilly, for the year was well on into October, but the groups in the street showed no signs of dispersing.

On the contrary, they got steadily larger. From lonely cottages up on the hill-sides, and from courts and alleys behind the prin cipal thoroughfare, people came with eager inquiries upon their lips. They had heard the crier's bell, but had been unable to gather anything he had said. So that within an hour of the first announcement, every one in the village knew and every one was troubled But how or in what way little Elsie Pentwyn could

PROLOGUE.

9 have got lost was a puzzle beyond all explaining. She was too young to wander far away alone, and too clever, if she did, not to find her way back again. True, the daylight quickly faded in these autumnal days, and she might have lost her reckoning in the darkness. Still, that was very improbable, and yet the stern fact remained that at five o'clock she was seen by her nurse playing on the Terrace, and at half past five she was missing. Since when no trace of her had been discovered After awhile a quick footstep sounded in the street, and two or three of the little groups, like so many globules of quicksilver, suddenly coalesced; while Tommy Trelore found himself in the centre of some thing like a crowd. Tommy had gone the round of the village, and was now returning, dry and hungry, to his half-finished supper.

But the villagers were too anxious and excited to let him pass without gathering from him a fuller version of the story. Under other circumstances nothing would have pleased Tommy better than "holding forth" on this burning topic, for he prided himself on his eloquence, and was firmly persuaded at the same time that he was something of an oracle. But just at present his throat was dry with much talking, while the smell of the grilled pilchards he had left uneaterrwas still in his nostrils. Nor was that all. As his keen, grey eye swept the small crowd of upturned faces, he recognised several leaders of the Methodist Church, who, notwithstanding his repeated applications, and in face of his well-known eloquence, had stoutly and stubbornly refused to recommend him to the circuit quarterly meet ing as a suitable person to come on the plan as a local preacher.

This action or inaction on the part of the " Leaders'' had angered Tommy very much. In fact, he regarded it as nothing less than an insult, and more than once had protested that it was intolerable that he should be kept out of a position he was pre-eminently fitted to occupy, by the contemptible jealousy of a few jacks in office, who were not worthy to unlace his shoes. Tommy had often longed for the chance of paying them back in their own coin, and now, unexpectedly, the opportunity had come. "Ah, yes," he said in his most rasping tones; while on the outskirts of the gradually swelling crowd, peo ple craned their necks to listen. " It's a sad case. I've been to the 'All. I've heerd the story. There's a mystery behind it, but " Here Tommy paused and scraped his throat; then, glancing slowly round him, continued: "But when I've wanted to talk to you for your hedification you would not 'ave me.

Now that the tables is turned, an' you wish me to talk to you for yer own curiosity, I'm dumb. Good-night." And before any one could reply, Tommy had bolted through the crowd, and was far down the street in the direction of his own home. One or two of the younger men were half disposed to give chase, and in all probability would have done so, but for the return of those who had gone to Larch wood Hall to make inquiries. Unfortunately, how ever, they had little or nothing to add to what was already known. "Mr. and Mrs. Pentwyn," they said, 'were dis tracted. All the servants were in tears, dozens of people were there with lanterns, and had been scouring the woods and fields and ditches in all directions; and as a last resource they were going to search the 'pump,' which had been found with the lid thrown back, though who had uncovered it, no one knew."

There was a general impression, however, that the child had been kidnapped. No one believed that she had fallen into the "pump," though search was to be made. It is true that no tramps or suspicious-looking people had been seen in the neighbourhood for many days, but that she had been enticed away seemed the only solution of the mystery, unless, indeed, she had

PROLOGUE.

. 11 been spirited away, which, if any believed, they had not the courage to declare. And so the conviction grew and passed from lip to lip that some evil-disposed person or persons had stolen the Squire's child. By ten o'clock Trevisco was silent again, and wrapped in darkness. However much the villagers might sympathise with the bereaved parents, no good could come of their loitering longer in the street. Moreover, if the child had been stolen, she might be found again, and found unharmed; at any rate, they could hope so. So one by one they stole away to their homes. But there were few mothers in Trevisco who did not give their children an extra kiss as they tucked them in for the night; and where the families were large they passed from room to room and counted heads, and re peated their names, in order to be sure that none were missing.

And when the parents lay down themselves, and put out the lights, it was with a sigh of thankful ness that their children were safe and warm. Nor did many forget to pray that no real harm might befall the Squire's child. Yet, in many instances, sleep refused to come for many a long hour. The excited brain would not rest. The imagination had been stirred ancl quickened. Fancy kept painting painful scenes, and every sound that disturbed the silence quickened the heart-beat, and seemed to bode some evil. Far out beyond Lugger Reef — for the tide was low — the sea moaned and moaned, and never ceased to moan through all that solemn night; and sometimes the wind came up from the great wide ocean, and forced itself through the narrow channel of the street with a little cry. And mother:;, half asleep, would lift up their heads with a start, and listen again with every sense awake.

But there was one mother who never tried to sleep. She believed she would never sleep again until her child was found. The miners, who had come across UIS. 12 from the village of Pentare to drag the well, had found nothing: and now all the searchers had returned to their homes, having hunted every place, likely and unlikely, for a mile around without finding a single trace or clue. Up and down the long terrace Joyce Pentwyn walked, wringing her hands, heedless of the night wind, un conscious of the cold. Through all the terrible hours that had elapsed since it was discovered that her little Elsie was missing, one terrible fear, one dread sus picion, had been eating its way into her heart — a sus picion so horrible that she scarcely dared to shape it into words, and which as yet she had not found the courage to hint even to her husband.

" Ah," she said to herself, with a gasp, lifting her dry eyes to the stars, " he has told me more than once that he would stab me where I should feel it most, and make my life one long bitterness, as I have made his. But, oh! I did not dream, I could not imagine, that his love would turn to such terrible hate." Then after awhile she went on again. " AA'ould he kill my child, I wonder ? AA7ould he wipe out insult with murder? Ah! when I flung back his love I need not have added insult thereto. Oh, why did I listen to him at all, or give him encouragement ? I was always half-afraid of him, he was so fierce and passionate Oh, God in heaven, my trouble is greater than I can bear!" And she sat down on the damp, cold steps, and hid her face in her hands. A moment later her husband came and touched her on the shoulder.

" Joyce, my darling," he said, " the gardener has just found this note wedged between the bars of the outer gate; it is addressed to you." In a moment she sprang to her feet. " It will be from him," she said, with a wild light in her eyes. " Oh, I have known it all the evening." " AA'hat have you known, Joyce?" he asked quietly. " AA'hom do you fear?"

PROLOGUE.

. 13 "Dr. AA'inter," she gasped. "Oh, my husband, I have not dared to tell you!" " Oh, nonsense,' he said, reassuringly ; "you distress yourself unnecessarily; but come into the house and into the light. " A moment later the hall lamp shed its light upon them, and, holding up the crumpled letter, she gave a little cry. "I knew it," she said; "the letter is in his hand writing Oh, John, I cannot read it. You read it for me, and tell me the worst." In a moment he tore open the envelope, and devoured the contents; then, crushing it in his hand, he turned a white, scared face to his wife, and whispered, " Come into the dining-room, Joyce." She saw by the look upon his face that her worst fears were realised, and, without a word, she staggered after him. "I am sorry, my darling, it is as you feared, lie said, slowly, trying in vain to steady his voice.

"AA'hen you can bear it, I will read what he says." "lean bear it now, John," she answered; "let me know the worst." "It isa hurried note, written in pencil," he said, smoothing out its crumpled folds; "but its meaning is clear enough. Listen: ' My opportunity has come at last. I have waited long for it, and patiently A'ou have wrecked my life, and turned my love to hatred. Since that day you spurned me with cruel insult I have lived for one thing — revenge. Death I do not fear; death I welcome. To-night I have my revenge, and die We die together, your child and I. Out in the deep water we shall sleep Farewell for ever. "Richard T. Winter." For several minutes after the reading of this strange epistle there was silence in the room. Joyce Pentwyn sat crouched in her chair, her face buried in her hands, her breath coming and going in quick, short gasps.

Her husband paced to and fro on the hearthrug, with clenched fists and flaming eyes. He was not a man that outwardly betrayed much emotion, but the volcano within surged none the less fiercely on that account. Suddenly he paused in front of his wife. " This surely must be some wretched hoax," he said. " Much as I dislike AVinter I cannot think he is capable of this." "He is capable of anything desperate," she said, with a moan. " And yet it cannot be true. Oh, Elsie, my darling, my darling!" " I knew he was hit hard when you gave him up for me, but I thought he had recovered himself long since. " " Perhaps I ought to have told you, John," she said, lifting her clear, tearless eyes to his; "but more than once during the last two years he has hissed at me when I have met him, T will havemy revenge yet!' or words to that effect."

"You should have told me, darling," John Pentwyn answered, with flaming eyes, " and I would have horse whipped him." "I did not wish to make a bother, John," she answered, "and I really did not think his threat meant anything." " I cannot think it anything more than a threat yet," he answered. "Perhaps, having frightened us, and given us a night of anguish, he will restore our darling in the morning." "Oh, if I could think so," was the answer. "Oh, to feel the soft arms about my neck, the sweet dimpled cheek against my own once more. Oh, to kiss those precious lips, and hear my darling say she was 'Mam ma's own.' Oh, John! Oh, my child! my child!" and for the first time the poor stricken mother burst into a flood of tears. AVith the first streak of the morning searchers were running hither and thither all along the shore, and with the early tide a child's hat came floating in on the crested waves. This was at once identified as the hat little Elsie Pentwyn was wearing when she was last

PROLOGUE.

. 15 seen. Later in the morning a man's hard felt hat was cast up by the tide, bearing the initials R. T. AV. And before noon an empty boat drifted on the Lugger Reef, in which was found a slipper belonging to the missing child. But anything beyond this the great sea refused to give up. For days and weeks searchers scoured the long stretch of beach north and south ; but the great ocean refused to disclose her secrets further. The mystery was some thing more than a nine days' wonder, but in time people ceased to talk about it, and as the years went by it gradually faded from their memories. Dr. Winter's old housekeeper waited for him for six long months, then she sold his furniture, pocketed the money, and went away, no one knew whither, and six months after that, a family of children made merry in the rooms that the silent and gloomy doctor had occu pied so long.

In the home of John Pentwyn and his wife the cloud was never lifted. As the years passed on it grew thin ner, letting now and then a glimpse of sunshine through, but it was always there. No other child came to take the place of the one that had been so ruthlessly and cruelly snatched away. No baby laughter made music in the home. In a drawer, always carefully locked, theunforgetting mother kept a baby's hat and a dainty slipper, on which a monogram E. P. was worked in gold. Now and then she looked at these treasures given back by the sea, but she had long since ceased to hope that her child would ever be restored to her again on earth. Time, the great healer, had wrought its blessed cure, as far as cure could ever be wrought, and gentle deeds of charity filled up the uneventful days. Sometimes a sigh escaped the mother's lips for what might have been on earth ; but sweet-eyed Faith kept her company all the while, and promised a happy meeting in heaven.

Chapter I. New Years Eve

Full knee-deep lies the winter snow. And the winter winds are wearily sighing;: Toll ye the church bell sad and low, And "tread softly, and speak low, For the Old Year lies a-dying. — Tennyson. Thf. Old Year was dying in a blinding tempest of snow. For days past the cold had been intense All the streams were locked mice: the trees creaked and snapped in the arctic grip; the grass crunched beneath the foot like straw. People spoke of a "black frost," and prophesied a late and barren spring. In the val leys the cold was not quite so intense; but over the hills and moors the wind swept like a breath from the frozen seas. Old men, scanning the heavens with criti cal eye, were unanimous in declaring that " there would be snow before long," and that nothing short of a heavy fall would "bring down the cold."

In the village smithy and in the big kitchen of the King's Arms, farmers told stories of winters thirty and forty years before, and declared that the present weather was like a return of old times, and that it was good for killing the grub and breaking up the land. Others were not quite so sure that any good ever came of such severe weather. The youngsters who could slide and skate might like it, but for elderly folks, with a touch of rheumatism in their joints and a chronic winter's cough, it was terribly trying. Then some one would remember a story that would show up the hu morous side of the question, and loud guffaws would follow the recital. But in the end, when the flaming forge and the cosy kitchen had to be forsaken, and the frosty wind nipped ears and nose, one and all were agreed that a change in the weather was desirable, and that the sooner the NEW YEAR'S EVE. 17 snow came to bring down the cold the better it would be for man and beast.

So from Christmas Day to New Year's Eve the wind whistled across the frost-bound country with pitiless severity. And then the change came; but most people agreed that it was a change for the worse. The dull and leaden sky which greeted the dawn grew more dull and leaden as the day advanced. The bitter east erly wind shifted a point or two towards the north, and hourly increased in severity and force, till by sundown it was blowing half a gale. Then, with the dying of the day, the first snowflakes fell, the precursors of the coming storm. On Trennick Downs the full force of the "blizzard" was felt, though at the time of which we write our transatlantic cousins had not made us a present of that expressive word, indeed we are not certain if they had coined it. The solitary homestead which occupied the high plateau, and which was known through all the country side as Garrick House, was saved from demolition by a steep shoulder of the hill which rose directly at the back, wooded to the top.

Had the wind remained in the east the consequences would have been disastrous, for many a house was unroofed that night, and in some instances completely wrecked. But the shifting of the wind to the north seemed to one of the inmates of that lonely house at least like a special providence. Just after the snow began to fall, and long before the storm was at its height, she came out and stood in the large stone porch and closed the door behind her. Now and then, in the swirling eddies of the gale, the snow flakes drifted into the porch and touched her hands and cheeks, and lighted upon her shining hair. But she did not mind. Indeed, it was a relief to escape for a few minutes from the rasping voice within, and from the shadow of a frown that had become chronic. The snow's cold kiss upon her cheek felt grateful, and the wind's wild music suited her mood.

She was young and strong, with an unconquerable spirit, and a restless, eager longing for a larger life. Drawing herself up to her full height, she locked her hands behind her head and looked off into the darkness. AVhere the light from the window fell across the garden she could see the snowflakes spinning in wild confusion, but all beyond was darkness dense and impenetrable. She was half disposed to take a run down the garden path, and get out yonder beyond the shelter of the wood, where the storm was spending all its fury. "Oh," she said, stamping her little foot, "I feel as though I wanted to wrestle with something. This listless, languid, uneventful life from day to day and year to year is getting to be intolerable. To go out yonder and beat the wind would be a relief, only I know it would make father very angry.

" Then she drew back into the porch as a swirling eddy went shrieking past. "Ah," she said, after a pause, " it is going to be a terrible night, and I ought to be very thankful that I am not forced to wrestle with the storm ; and, indeed, I am thankful. Hark! how it is raving in the trees!" And her face grew from sober to grave as she stood still and listened. In the trees at the back the wind pulsed and sobbed like an angry sea beating upon the shore, while the frozen branches creaked and groaned and snapped in a medley of sounds that was almost ap palling. "I wonder what Judy will do," she said at length. " I wish now I had persuaded her not to go, for it has been threatening snow all the day. But she seemed so eager to go to the tea meeting, and to stay to the 'watch-night' after, that it would have been a great disappointment to her not to have gone; but really the storm is terrible.

I am sure if she attempts to return she will perish in the snow. But hark, what was that ?" And she bent her head fonvard in a listening atti tude. NEW YEAR'S EVE. 19 "I thought I heard some one calling," she said to herself. " I hope no one has to cross the downs to-night. Ah, there it is again. Perhaps it is father," and she opened the door and listened; then asked, "AVere you calling, father ?" "Calling? I should think I have been," he snarled. " I've been calling for ten minutes at least. AA'here in the world are you ?" " I'm here in the porch," she answered. " In the porch, and on such a night as this. Good heavens! Do you wish to catch your death of cold?" " I really never thought of it," she answered, with a little laugh. " Do you ever think of anything ?" he said querulously. " Oh, yes, I think of much more than lean express," she answered, with a little touch of defiance in her tones.

" Great thoughts surge in me sometimes that are too big for utterance, and mighty longings take possession of me which I would fain control and banish, but I cannot." " AA'ell, just now think of such a small thing as shut ting the door," he said, with a gesture of impatience. " This wind is enough to lift the roof off. " "Does it make you restless, father?' she asked, coming towards him. " No, but it makes me irritable and nervous." "Do you know," she said, coming and standing by his side, and looking earnestly into the fire, "that when the wind roars and surges as it is doing now it fills me with a strange exaltation. It is so grandly free, so gloriously untrammelled, so magnificently defiant. Oh, I should like to be the wind." "You want more liberty, do you?" he asked, with a touch of irony in his voice.

"Sometimes I do," she answered. "Our life is so little, so narrow, so uneventful. Can you wonder?" "Yes; I wonder very much. Most young people of your age would be very glad to have such easy times as you have." "Oh! I don't complain that I have too much to do. Indeed I have not enough. I would like a larger and fuller life. I would like to dare something — like Joan of Arc, for instance." He laughed cynically. "Ah! that is your way, father," she said, a little bitterly. " You laugh at me when I try to express my thoughts; you think I am only a girl, fit_ for nothing but to do embroidery or sit in the parlour and read novels. " " I know you can do the latter very well," he said. " I wish you would read fewer. You are simply crowd ing your mind with sentimental rubbish and pictures of an unreal and an impossible life."

" I need something to take me away from myself, " she answered. " I feel sometimes like a caged eagle." "Parrot, you mean!" he interrupted cynically. "Please, father, do not laugh at me," she said, almost piteously. " I wish you understood me better, but I cannot help being what I am I chafe and fret and beat against my prison bars and long fora broader, freer life." "Young people, especially young girls, who want so much freedom are generally anxious to go to ruin," he said, looking at her with interest. " I really cannot understand you. You are allowed to do pretty much as you please. You have your own way in nearly everything " "Yes, I know," she interrupted; "perhaps I ought not to complain — but to live all one's life on a lonely moor, where every day is like every other day; where no new interest ever comes into one's life; where noth ing happens from one year's end to another; where a new face is so rarely seen that we rush to the door to see a stranger pass; where there is nothing to awaken interest or stir enthusiasm.