Katie's Coronet. A novel

Front matter

KATIE'S COEONET KATIE'S CORONET a iiobel BY F LANCASTER LUCAS EDEN, REMINGTON & CO PUBLISHERS LONDON and SYDNEY. 1892 [Alt rights reserved] CONTENTS. CHAP. PAGE I. Anna's Young Man ... ... ... 1 II. Davidstow Castle 10 III. The Wrecker's Cove 19 IV. Afterwards 28 V. The Inquest _ VI. " What Does it Mean ? " 48 VII. Iu the New Forest 57 VIII. Wrexton Headway... ... ... ... 66 IX. Wreckage 75 X. A Really Good Thing ... 83 XI. David and Jonathan ... 92 XII. Kismet 101 XIII. Reeds and Rushes ... ... ... ... 110 XIV. " What will Grannie say ? " 119 XV. The Trysting- Place 128 XVI. Patchwork 136 XVII. In the Deanery Garden 145 XVIII. In the Grey Friars' Wood 154 XIX. In the Sanctum ... ... ... ... 163 XX. At the Green Man CONTENTS. CHAP. PAGE XXI. What Does it Mean ? 181 XXII. Charlie 190 XXIII.

Lady Rachel and Mr. Gray 200 XXIV. Mrs. Vane 209 XXV. "Counsels" 218 XXVI. " Un Mauvais Quart d'Heure " ... 227 XXVII. The Tripe-Shop in Holborn ... ... 235 XXVIII. The Sports 243 XXIX. Joe Heale 252 XXX. The Manifesto 261 XXXI. Muriel 268 XXXII. A Purely Business Transaction ... 277 XXXIII. Treu und Fest 286 XXXIV. "Coercion" 296 XXXV. Flight 305 XXXVI. An Eye-Witness 314 XXXVII. Lady Rachel's End 328 XXXVIII. Home Again 332 XXXIX. Courting 342 XL. Reuben takes a Missus ... ... 351 XLI. Swift Justice 360 XLII. Katie's Coronet 367 XLIII. At Long Last

Chapter I. Anna's Young Man

One wild March evening two people might have been seen in a narrow lane in Cornwall taking what advantage they could of the shelter afforded by the high banks. Had it been light enough to see them, primroses would have been found already showing their pale beauty among the tender green of the feathery mosses, sheltered by the graceful fronds of the hart's tongue and lady ferns, but the primroses were folded up, and the ferns were bending and swaying with the wild gusts of wind and rain that were making sad havoc among the trees on the top of the bank, for the wind was whirling aud tearing inland with all the mad strength of an Atlantic gale, driving the rain be fore it in blinding sheets. But the young people in the lane were too much engrossed with their own troubles to mind the wild wind or the drenching rain, though the girl stood as near the sheltering bank as possible.

The shawl that was drawn about her head more than half concealed her face, but what was visible showed that she was both young and pretty. Her companion was rather older than herself B apparently — big and dark-haired, usually a very smiling and good-humoured looking youth, but just now you could see in the fast waning light that his face wore an expression that was both cross and sulky. The girl was speaking in hurried, tremulous tones. " I tell you it's no use, Jim. Father says ' Nay,' and I told you back along I'll wed no man without father's blessing. I do love you, Jim, and if so be I mayn't mate with you, I'll never marry at all. But us'U have to bide awhile ; you've a way and a name to make." She broke off with a sob, for James Crowthe, called familiarly " Jim Crow," was notoriously unsteady and as little likely to make either a way or a name for himself as anybody in or out of Bodmin Gaol.

He had only just quitted this abode of retirement after an enforced residence there of six months for breaking the head of a supposed rival in a drunken quarrel. " It's all very fine for you, Nan, to say that. Do you think I'll bide in Davidstow kicking my heels while your father's making up his mind whether he'll give you to me or to yon snivelling Methody parson, who's for ever hanging round kidding up to your father and my lord. No, Nan my lass, it won't do." He shook the rain from his dripping sou'-wester as he spoke, and sunk his head deeper into the folds of his crimson, knitted neck wrap. Anna Trueman wiped the tears from her eyes with the corner of her rain-soaked shawl, and said, in a voice which struggled hard to be steady and hopeful — " I never said it would do, Jim. They'll find you some place beyond seas.

My lady was asking me what I thought you'd like only this very morning; and then, Jim, when you've settled down a bit I'll come out to you." anna's yodng man. 3 " They may find me fifty places in as many queer countries," replied Jim, savagely, " but I don't budge from Davidstow so long as you're in it, and if that preacher fellow walks home along of you from chapel on Sunday I'll brain him for sure if I swing for it, so there ! " He said the last words with a sullen, ugly scowl on his face, and, though the fast darkening evening hid the expression from Anna, she knew by the sound of his voice that it was there, and it made her sob afresh as she said — " Jim, you'll break my heart." " You and yours have done for mine," he answered, grimly, grinding the sticky mud and stones with the heels of his fisherman's boots as he spoke.

" It's no fault of mine, Jim. I can't help Mr. Mason seeing me home from chapel these dark nights." " Oh, no ! of course not," he sneered, making a furious cut at the heads of the storm-tossed ferns with the short knobbed stick which he carried, and which was his constant companion. "Particu larly," he went on, "when I'm awaiting to meet you. Mind you, _an 'tis your fault if mischief comes of it." Poor Anna cried. Jim, alas ! that I should have to record it, swore aloud at the minister for presuming to pay attentions to Anna, at " My lord," for allowing his servants to go to chapel, at " My lady," for suggesting that he should emigrate, and so rid Davidstow of an unwelcome inhabitant, at Trueman (Anna's father) for his stern refusal to allow his daughter to think of marrying such a tearing, headlong, good-for nothing scamp, as James undoubtedly was, at Anna for being influenced by her father's com mands, and finally at himself for deserving the contempt and mistrust in which he was held.

And he was fully conscious that he did deserve it. Overhead the beech and sycamore trees that crowned the bank, and formed a soi-t of wood or spinney, groaned and swayed as the west wind in its strength swept through them. The furious rain was lashing the half formed buds on the trees, while in the grey twilight the great black storm clouds seemed almost to touch the soaked earth as they hurried inland bearing with them their tale of danger and despair. " I must be going back now, Jim," said Anna, "it's nigh my lady's dressing time. Don't be hard on me, Jim, I can't help myself." She held out one of her cold trembling hands to him, and he took it in both his great brown idle ones, that could do so much when their owner willed, but which generally reposed in the pockets of his blue trousers, during the day at least ; at night — well you know there are such things as snares for game and night lines for trout.

Jim, I am afraid, knew of many places suitable for setting them ; the proceeds of his ill-gotten sport usually enabled him to have money to spend. It was for the most part expended in two ways — some for gauds for Anna and the remainder in drink. A successful poaching raid more often than not ended in a visit to the Green Man, when the greater part of the day would be passed drinking, and it not unfrequently happened that the poachers fell out among themselves, when blows would be exchanged, ending, as the last encounter had done, in Jim and another man being sent to Bodmin Gaol. This it was that had made Anna's father decide to stop Jim's "courting," hence this meeting in wind and rain. Jim having held Anna's outstretched haud for a minute, drew her to him, and said, as he kissed. her tear-stained face — anna's young man. 5 " Will you meet me here again at sundown to morrow, Nan ?

" " If I can ; but don't be set on it, for my lady -" He cut her short. " Dang my lady ! What for did you go and tie yourself to a fine lady's apron-strings ? It's yea or nay ! " " Yes — if you will have it so. Good-night, Jim." " Good-night ! " So they parted, Anna going up the lane, through a small white gate dimly visible in the darkness, while Jim turned downwards towards the steep ground that led through the upper end of Davidstow Park on to the downs, and was one of the three ways of reaching the village of Combe Davidstow. How the wind blew as he quitted the sheltering banks and began slowly to ascend ! He had to take his pipe from his mouth, or it would have been blown away. The rain had stopped for the moment, but it had left a water-course running down the rough, uneven footpath.

But Jim took hardly any notice of the weather, he was used to being out in storms, and just now he was too cross and miserable to notice the unusual severity of the tempest he was braving, unusual even for the Cornish coast at the spring equinox. He had known Jacob Trueman, the head keeper, as long as he had known anything, and he was quite aware that the grey cliffs behind the hill were almost as likely to leave their posts as that "old Trueman" should take back his word. Trueman looked down upon all the Crowthe family (there were a good many of them in and about Davidstow) as something infinitely beneath him, regarding James particularly as hopelessly lost, a person to be avoided, and made war upon in much the same way as you do upon stoats, weazels, pole-cats, and all the other predatory animals who endanger the lives of young pheasants.

That Anna, his daughter/ should imagine herself to be in love with this six foot piece of wickedness was an insult alike to all the True mans who were yet in the flesh and those whose dust reposed in the churchyard at the Combe. Now, until the incident of the head-breaking, which has already been alluded to, Trueman had never said in so many words that Anna should not "walk" with Jim, though he had always looked upon the whole thing with disfavour, but when Jim had been sent to Bodmin he said that, with his knowledge, Jim should never speak to Anna again ; and it was to discuss this stern decree that the lovers had met in the lane. All this and much more was in Jim's mind as he breasted the hill in the teeth of the gale — thinking, half-sulkily, half-angrily, of all that had been said. He struggled on with his head bent down, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, the stick under his left arm.

The idea of emigration was altogether distasteful to him, for Jim had no imagination, and hated work. He thought aimlessly, as he had done before, of the gold fields, but that would mean work, and this was objectionable. You see, the life that Jim had been leading for several years was not good for developing indus trious habits — lounging all day long in the sun on the beach in fine weather, and when it was bad sitting over the blazing fire in the kitchen of the " Green Man," with more drink than was good near at hand, and then, when the shades of night were falling, to loaf inland after game, the taking of which was comparatively easy, and for which he could always find plenty of customers, anna's young man. 7 and the proceeds of this traffic always ensured him his dinner, and money to spend as he would, hence he failed to see any reason for working.

He loved Anna, but even his love for her had not so far spurred him into activity. Besides Anna, there was another person in Davidstow for whom Jim cared, and this person was the heir to the property — Charlie Trelana, who was known about the place as " the young master." To Jim, the young master, who was several years his junior, was a sort of embodiment of all the virtues and talents ; it was, in fact, hero-worship in an acute form, arising, perhaps, from Charlie Trelana having made Jim one of his constant companions whenever he was at home, finding that Jim's knowledge of the woods and moors was highly conducive to the pursuit of bird's eggs, game, fish, etc. And it was one of Jim's great pleasures to be admitted to the attic where it pleased Charlie to keep his treasures of flood and field, as he called them — "the young master's mess," said the head housemaid.

During some of these wet afternoons among the treasures Jim had confided to Charlie his love for Anna, and the boy had enlisted the sympathy of his mother and grandmother in the cause of the young people. So interested had Lady Davidstow become that she ventured to attack Trueman upon the subject. She never mentioned that interview to anyone, but ber family suspected that she had by no means had the best of it ; still, she continued to take an interest in the lovers, and was always endeavouring to find something that Jim would do; perhaps she would in the end succeed. Though he felt sulky and cross as he battled onward toward the village, Jim was unhappy, all the more so because he had an uneasy feeling that, love him as she might, Anna doubted his steadiness of purpose, and was reluctant to trust herself to him entirely.

It had begun to dawn upon him that perhaps loafing, poaching, long drinking bouts, rows, broken heads, and Bodmin Gaol were hardly the best way of starting in life. His reflections as he battled slowly homeward through the storm were the reverse of pleasant, almost as unpleasant, in fact, as the torrents of rain that were lashing the short turf of the downs into a sort of green mud. Had he been an Irishman, he would have gone in heavily for the " National League," for dynamite, and general assassination, and would then and there have considered himself as an individual of whom his country should be proud. But being only a Cornishman, and, unless blind drunk or wildly jealous, a law-abiding citizen — as far, that is to say, as it suited his peculiar tem perament — his opportunities for conferring benefits on his fellow-men, as understood and practised by the Irish-American school of re formers, were necessarily limited.

Anna's thoughts were even less p>leasant than Jim's. She knew her father better than he did, and, moreover, there was that doubt about Jim that made her feel that she dare not defy her father, whom she knew to be trustworthy, if somewhat hard in his dealings with others, and firm of purpose when once his mind was made up. No one could say the same of Jim, for, excepting in his attachment to Anna and his worship of " the young master," Jim had never adhered to anything for long. And as to making up his mind, had not Anna been trying her best to persuade him into some occupation for the two years that they had been engaged, but always unsuccessfully. Things seemed now to have reached a crisis, but how they would get over it it seemed almost impossible to say. The kind Countess had suggested more than one plan for his future well-being ; certainly they all, more anna's young man. 9 or less, involved his emigrating, but none of them had contemplated his giving Anna up.

But each fresh idea had had to be abandoned, because Jim declared he would not leave Davidstow so long as Anna was there. It was a sort of deadlock, out of which it was hard to see any way, and poor Anna felt sick at heart as she went back to her work, though she knew she should find sympathy and counsel, both from her mistress and Mrs. Merrit, the housekeeper.

Chapter II. Davidstow Castle

;' Swift sweeps under heaven the ravencloud's flight, And the land, and the lakes, and the main Lie belted beneath with steel bright light, The light of the swift rushing rain." It was not, properly speaking, a castle at all, but a big, comfortable, rambling country house, standing on the site once occupied by a castle that had been burnt down during the Civil War by a neighbouring family, whose opinions happened to differ from those of the Trelana of the day, and who had taken this opportunity of show ing it. It stood in the hollow of a hill, which sloped gradually to the top of the cliffs, and a fine view of the Atlantic was obtainable from the terraced walk in front of the house. To the left rose a wood of larch and beech trees, while to the right was the park, more trees, and in the dis tance the park gates and Trueman's cottage.

The gardens were behind the house, and were one of the very few sights of the neighbourhood. The Trelanas had always been fond of gardens, though I do not think the present owner cared much about them. His wife and daughter-in-law,. however, did, and now as ever the gardens were more than well cared for. All that was left of the original castle was a half-ruined tower, that now formed part of the stables, and some very curious old cellars, dating as far back as Saxon times, at which the servants were always grumbling, but which were really the nicest part of the house. The white gate which Anna had entered was a sort of back entrance, and she soon gained the servants' door, though she was rather breathless with her battle against wind and rain, and as she entered she seemed to bring with her some of the tumult and confusion from without.

Sounds of laughter came from the kitchen and servants' hall, and in the former were visible through the open door the cook and his myrmidons preparing the evening meal with a considerable degree of clatter, both of implements and voices. The housekeeper's room door was also half open, and Mrs. Merrit, the housekeeper, was knitting by the blazing fire, with her cat asleep on the round table beside her. But Anna did not pause, only glancing quickly up at the clock over the passage door to see if she was late, but the hands yet wanted some minutes to seven. She hastily changed her wet dress and shoes and arranged her hair, which had been sadly tumbled by the shawl and the wind, and then, having tried to remove the traces of tears from her pretty face as far as she could, she descended neat and trim to Lady Davidstow's room.

She was not much more than twenty, and distinctly pretty, with a very good complexion, bright intelligent blue eyes, and dark hair ; but nobody looking at her on that particular 22nd of March would have imagined that the pale-faced, heavy-eyed girl, who was languidly stirring the fire in the handsomely-furnished bedroom appropriated to the mistress of the castle, was the acknowledged belle of Davidstow. Anna had just completed her arrangements, and was wishing that " my lady " would come, as she felt that if left long alone her tears would once more gain the mastery, when Lady Davidstow came in. She was a very picturesque old lady, her very white hair and rather quiet manners making her appear more than her sixty-two years. She had never been a beauty, and was more nearly one now than at any time, for her white hair contrasted so well with her pretty pink and white complexion.

Years had given dignity to her always gentle, refined manners ; indeed, enthu siasts were wont to say that Lady Davidstow was an ideal Chatelaine. " Well, Anna, how did you get on ? " she said, sinking into her arm-chair, and putting her feet on to the fender. " It was a fearful night for you to be out in." " I shouldn't have minded the weather, my lady, if only Jim hadn't been so cross. I don't kuow what to do." She began to cry again, as she thought of the sulky face, the cross words and threats of mischief. " Poor girl ! " said Lady Davidstow, quietly, " I believe it would be less pain in the end for you if you gave him up now." " Oh ! no, no, my lady, I couldn't, indeed I couldn't," replied Anna, almost passionately, as she thought of what might be the possible results of giving him up.

Her mistress smiled ; she had been young herself once, and her thoughts went back to the time, now more than forty years ago, when Edward Trelana, then a by no means famous artist, had come wooing ; how her family had objected, more especially as he was a widower with a five-yearsold daughter, and with no prospect then of in heriting the Davidstow coronet. " Has Jim any plans ? " she said presently, returning from her own past to poor Anna's very pressing present. " He can't expect you to marry him unless he has something to keep you with." Anna replied, rather tearfully — . " I don't believe he has given it a thought, my lady. He's just mad because Mr. Mason walked back with me last night." " Get me my slippers, Ann. We must not keep his lordship waiting, though Lord Trelana was not in when I came upstairs.

What tiresome, un reasonable creatures men are, to be sure," she continued, speakiug more to herself than to her maid, and as she spoke drawing on the nice black silk stockings which were warming before the fire. " After all, I believe I shall have to see Jim myself, or get his beloved Mr. Charles to talk to him. And perhaps you had better stay away from chapel for a few Sundays ; we don't want any more scenes." " I had thought about that, my lady. What dress will you wear, please ? " " The grey tea-gown ; it is comfortable. How the wind blows ! I wonder where Lord Trelana went ? " " His lordship passed me in the passage as I went out, my lady. I think I heard him tell Mr. Knowles he was going to the Preventive Station." " I wish he wouldn't go out in weather like this. Ah, Ned (as her husband came in), 1 was just wondering about Francis ; has he come in ?

" " No ; he told me he was going to study storm effects, but I don't think he will see much now. He wanted to take Charlie, but the boy's cold seemed so bad that Muriel wouldn't hear of it. Consequently, he and Horace have been wrangling all this evening in the smoking-room." " Poor Ned, how pleasant for you ! We had better go down then, or we shall be having some unpleasantness between the mothers of " the dear boys." She took up her pocket handkerchief and went out, followed by her husband. He was a very pretty old gentleman, who was fast nearing his seventieth birthday, and with whom time had dealt very tenderly. He was under the middle height and rather slight, with a long white beard, which he cultivated with much care, clear blue eyes, and a splendid head of curly white hair. He was a rather frivolous old gentleman, said his detractors, principally because he would indulge in artistic garments in the evenings ; he was not allowed to do it in the daytime.

To-night he wore full trousers of soft dark terra-cotta cloth, a full silk waistcoat, or Garibaldi shirt of a paler tone, and a brown velvet coat. He had not always been able to have his garments of such costly material, having had for many years to be content with anything that was decent. For, much as he loved his art, he had never attained lame; his pictures reached as far as being very nearly very good, but his poverty and its con sequent necessities had, perhaps, dwarfed his genius. I have mentioned already that Lord Davidstow had been twice married. His first wife had been a Frenchwoman, whom he had met and married in Paris. She had not lived to come to England, but had died early, leaving him one daughter named Rachel, who had always been a rock in her stepmother's path. She had married early a barrister without means or brains, and they ha 1 led a cat-and-dog life for some years, when he had died at an out-of-the-way place in Greece, whither they had gone to escape duns and debts, and his widow and infant son had, by-and-bye, drifted home, and as they had not sufficient means to live upon, Rachel boarded with her father and his family, sending her son, when he got old enough, to a cheap day-school in the neighbour hood, thus making considerable economies in the allowance made her by her husband's family for his education.

This had been a very good plan so long as her half-brother was single, but when he in a fit of enthusiasm brought home beautiful, portionless Muriel Woodston as his wife, having rescued her from a school were she was one of those unhappy things — a governess pupil, this altered the situ ation considerably. Then the other grandson had been born, and the perpetual quarrels of the two boys had disturbed even their grandmother's placid temper. When the Earl and his wife entered the draw ing-room on this particular March evening Lady Rachel was the only occupant of the room. Although now over forty Lady Rachel was, in a way, undeniably handsome. She had bright, warm colouring, straight, dark eyebrows, and dark eyes, which had, however, an uncomfortable hard look in them ; she had a hooked nose with very thin nostrils — a distinctly ill-tempered nose — and her mouth was represented by a thin red line where her lips should have been.

She was sitting in a low chair crouching almost into the fire, the heavy folds of her black tea-gown falling in great waves of darkness about her, throwing into high relief her abundant fair hair, on which the light from the logs was casting strange fantastic shadows. She looked up as the door opened, and said, peevishly — " Why are we waiting ? It is more than half past seven now." " Francis has not come in yet," replied Lady Davidstow, seating herself in her own particular chair, while the Earl began rearranging the logs with the brass fire-tongs. The drawing-room at Davidstow was a long, rather narrow room ; it had two French windows that opened on to the terrace, and a big bow window at the farther end. With the pale-green Indian silk curtains drawn, the tall lamps with their rose-coloured shades and the blazing logs lighting up the pictures, china, old cabinets, and manifold other things, it was a very pleasant place to look at and to be in.

So thought Lady Tre lana, as she paused on the threshold, holding the many-bued Indian curtain in her hand before letting it fall behind her. She was a very beautiful woman — men still turned to gaze admiringly at her, and, what is perhaps a greater compliment stiU, most women admired her too. She had beautiful features, soft subdued colouring and large grey eyes ; her hair was dark, but not black, and she wore it in great coils on the top of her head. Cer tainly, as she paused with the curtain in her hand, her cream-coloured gown contrasted pleasantly with the rich tones of the curtain and the dark wood of an Indian cabinet, and justified the Earl's remark — " You are very harmonious to-night, Muriel. I should like to paint you." " ShaU we wait any longer for Francis ? " said Lady Davidstow.

" Don't wait, certainly. I expect he is at White Friars. Where are the boys ? " she said, as she advanced to the fire. " Horace has gone to bed with one of his bad headaches," said Rachel, "and Charles is, I believe, dressing." " I am here, Aunt Rachel," said her nephew, coming in. He was rather lanky and overgrown, as lads of twenty are apt to be, but he promised to be good looking, like his mother, whom he resembled in many ways. His aunt took no notice of him, though he had spoken to her. She had never been fond of him, and since they had fallen on prosperous times his very existence was a standing grievance ; if he had not been born, Horace, her idolized son, would have been his grandfather's heir. Dinner was not a cheerful meal that evening. Rachel was cross, Muriel anxious about her hus band, for it was most unlike him to keep dinner waiting, Charlie's cold made him silent, and so the grandparents took refuge in discussing Anna Trueman's troubles.