The Gregors. A Cornish story

Chapter I

It waa a warm day for October, but surely it was not the beat that made the colour rush into the face of that tall girl, leaning on the gate that divided the cartway through the fields from the road with a hedge on either side. There was a sound of a horse coming along the road, and she passed quickly through the gate and let it fall close behind her as she slowly walked down the field. It was a fair scene she had been looking upon ; deriving most of its beauty, however, from the sky, for though the view was an extensive one, and the country did not look barren, it looked bare from the almost entire absence of trees, the stunted tops of one or two in the valley to the left being alone visible. The hedges even were all made of stone, but they I were relieved by plentiful tamarisk, planted on the top, the long slender branches of which waved gracefully in the light wind, and in many places had grown so thick as to give good shade to the sheep, which they seemed to be lazily enjoying.

The field was on the top of a hill, overlooking a bay. It was nearly low tide, and a long stretch of yellow sand was visible. The sea, though perfectly calm a little distance from the shore, was tossing its white breakers against the black rocks, to sparkle in the sunlight. The cliffs got higher and higher as they ran out to the sea, and at last ended in a magnificent abrupt point. Great masses of golden clouds cast their shadows and glories upon the water, and even the fields and rocks had caught something of the golden hue of the sky, while, away among the high hills that she could just catch a glimpse of, there floated a pale pink mist. The horse reached the gate and went over it, and in a minute stopped by the side of the girl. " You are likely enough to break your neck one of these days, Mr. Eplet, I think," she said, looking at him with a half-frightened admiration.

Mr. Eplet laughed, and got off his horse. " Not with jumping over your gate, I hope, Margaret." She had on a very plain lavender print dress, with a white drawn sun-bonnet on her head, and her hands were large and evidently used to hard work ; but she was very beautiful, with the clearest brown complexion, and hair that was a blue-black when it caught the sun, and large dark languid eyes that did not often sparkle with laughter as they should have done, for Margaret Gregor had lost her mother when she was fourteen, and had had the management of the household — as far as it could be managed by a girl — and the care of her younger sister ever since. "I've been up to the Higher Town, to look at the geese," she said quietly, as if she wished to explain how she came to be there just then. ""That lazy Molly thought she'd have to help to pick them, so she said they were not fit to kill.

And they've been in the arishes ever since harvest, so they wouldn't pay for their keep if they ain't sold soon. I declare those 'prentice maids are just more plague than profit." " If you can't manage them I don't know who should be able to, Margaret. Even mother allows that you are a famous housekeeper." " You are home from market early to-day," said Margaret, changing the conversation, though she was pleased at the compliment. 1—2 "I thought you'd be home in time to do that," answered Susan, quite undisturbed. Margaret felt that she ought to tell her, she ought not to trust to that ; but it was so hard to have to be cross with her little sister as she always thought of her. In reality she was just as tall as Margaret, but she had light bright hair and dark grey eyes. There was a remark able likeness between the sisters, although there was so much that was different in their faces ; and Susan seemed always gay, while Margaret was almost always sad-looking.

Susan was re trimming her Sunday bonnet, a white straw that Margaret had plaited for her the spring before. " Where did you get those ribbons ?" asked Margaret, taking a bright blue one in her hand. " William Avery gave them to me. He says they're a deal prettier than the old brown ones I had before. Don't you think so too ?" "Yes," answered Margaret honestly; "but, dear heart, I wouldn't have ribbons from William Avery if I were you." "Why not?" asked Susan, getting rather red. " Well,"Margaret said,and hesitateda moment, " I don't think William Avery's a very steady young man ; and I suppose those ribbons never came properly out of a shop." " P'raps they haven't," said Susan, laughing. " But you know we're not alike about that. I should never have said No, like you, when father was going to give you a silk gown, because you wouldn't go to church in what the king hadn't had his share from.

And as for William's not being a steady young man," and here she got hot, " he doesn't drink more than other young men, nor yet so much as some ; and you know yourself there isn't another can come near him at wrestling, and he got the silver ball to St. Columb last year when they had the hurling too. And I'm sure I don't know where you'll look for a handsomer young man to keep com pany with." " Keep company with !" cried' Margaret. " Surely it isn't come to that ?" " Yes it is," said Susan. " We're going to keep company with each other and nobody else. Here's father coming across the town-place." This was a signal for them both to rush down stairs. Margaret despatched Molly with the calves' meat, and put the bowl of potatoes into the earthenware oven to keep hot till they were wanted, while Susan put bread in the basins all round for the broth that was already boiling.

That was finished, and a piece of boiled bacon taken from the pot by the time their father had got through scrubbing his boots with the broom in the back-kitchen, and came in at the head of his men. He was a tall man, more than six feet, but he scarcely looked so because he was broad in pro portion. He had evidently worked too hard to grow fat, but he was very muscular. His hair and whiskers were grizzly, and his eyes sharp. Looking sixty-five, he was still a very upright and powerful man. He stood up at the end of the table while the four or five men seated them selves, and his daughters poured the broth into the basins and put everything for the meal ready on the table ; then they came and sat down on either side of him, a little space being left between them and the servants ; then he said grace before any one had eaten anything, and the meal began.

Grace, the other appren tice, came in, and Molly, who left her tub in the back-kitchen, took her place at the bottom of the table. " Hast seen the geese, Meg ?" demanded the master. " Yes, father," answered Margaret ; " they're fit to kill." " You lazy lerrip," he said to Molly, " do you think you've got nothing to do here but eat and drink ? Thank God, there's always a-plenty for everybody in this house, but there's plenty of work too, and for they that won't there's that," pointing to the peg where his horsewhip hung. The colour rushed to Margaret's face, and Molly seemed to shrink more into herself, but managed to eat her supper notwithstanding her fright. The men were not long over their meal ; they were not hurried, but they ate heartily and quickly. As for Margaret she hardly knew how to swallow anything, but did not dare to go without her supper under her father's eye.

The men, after they had finished, went out, and the girls soon had the place set straight again. Margaret took out a shirt she was making for her father, and sat down at it. " What is it, Meg ?" her father asked, pinch ing her ear ; " you might have lost a lover from the face you've got." " She doesn't mean to have a lover," laughed Susan, " till she can get one who hasn't anything to do with free-trade." " She'll have to bide single a long time," said her father. " I don't know who she expects to have — why the parson himself wouldn't do." " She'll be obliged to take the new ' rider,' ' said Susan, laughing again, "after all." The new " rider " had been rather making friends with Margaret, which she did not care for. " I don't know if that even would do the trick," said the father, laughing too.

" I can bide my time as father says," said Margaret. " It doesn't much matter if I'm married or not. You don't want to get rid of me, father, do you ?" " No, faith and sure. There's enough for the two of you, and if you stay single I shall be all the better pleased. Your poor mother never wished you to marry, she used to say." He got up and walked slowly out of the house ; Margaret through the two doorways watched him drive the cows out of the yard. " My dear," she said to Susan, when she heard the gate fall behind her father, " I wish you would wait a bit before you agree to go keeping company with William Avery. You are over young for that yet." " Why you don't want me to have a sweet heart before you ! But you know, Meg, you could find plenty of men that would be proud to be courting you."

" Susan," said Margaret, hurt, " you know it isn't that." " Well, then, what is it ? If you know aught against the man, tell it out." " I should be sorry to leave him down, Susan, but I can't abide your having anybody who goes on this wild night-work, and then you yourself have seen him the worse for liquor, and you know that brings to want and misery. You might do better too. I don't like the calling, and I'm sure living in a little public-house would go against your grain ; and how would father take it, do you think ?" " Oh, father's got no right to object to him, for I'm sure he hasn't more to do with free-trade than father himself. And as for anything else, perhaps we shan't keep the public-house, and then he'll give up drink. 'Tis seeing so much of it that makes him do that — not that he's worse than other young men."

Margaret knew that it was no use to argue any more ; she could only entreat. " Let it bide a bit, Susan. Whatever are you in such a hurry for ? Let it go a bit, and see how he goes on." " Bide a bit and see if anybody better comes along," said Susan hotly ; " then if nobody does, then have him. That may be all very well for me, but it ain't what I call fair for him." " 'Tis fair enough. He's free to choose any body else too if he likes, but if he really cares as much for you as he should, he will get steadier for your sake." " Well, he can do that as it is," said Susan. " I've almost given my word too, and you wouldn't have me draw back after that." " You haven't quite given your word, and you haven't spoken to father neither." "Well," said Susan, evidently rather frightened at having him brought into the case, " I'll see what I can do the next time I see him."

They were both silent for some minutes, while the nervously rapid movements of their needles told how excited they still were. Margaret was rather frightened at her own decided interference in this matter ; she was half doubtful of the purity of her motive, for there was strongly before her mind the difference in social standing between William Avery and Matthew Eplet. The father of the one kept a little road-side public-house ; the other with his brothers farmed a small farm of their own. She could not tell if this was influencing her or not, but she silently prayed that she might not be proud, and might p-uide her sister as was best for her. Presently voices were heard at the yard -gate, and they looked up. Margaret gave a little cry and turned pale, then crimson. She threw her sewing on the table, and half rose up.

Tlie Gregors. 15 " Hush, Meg ! Keep still, do, dear !" said Susan soothingly, yet almost under her breath ; " father will be so angry." Her face, too, was burning, but she kept her seat. Margaret sat down again, and one or two scalding tears dropped on her work, but the •others had to be kept back somehow.

Chapter II

When Farmer Gregor walked out after his cows, he did not go at his usual brisk pace, but followed them so slowly down the lane that they waited patiently at the gate for a minute or two before he came to let them into the field. Then he gradually made for the higher fields that ran out to the edge of the cliff. In one he stopped a few minutes, and looked with pride at some bullocks nearly ready for the butcher; in another he set a sheep upon its legs, which had got on its back. " Well," he said to himself, " 'tis lucky I came this way, for it wouldn't have lasted out till I got round in the morning." Then he set to work to count them — no very easy matter, as they were still huddled together against the shady hedge. Almost ever since he had left the house, a coastguard on a high point had been visible to him, seated on bis " donkey," the one-legged stool that would upset if it were not nicely balanced, and so effectually prevented a doze.

The farmer had been gradually getting nearer and nearer this man, when a shrill whistle sounded from the bay below, and the coastguard picked up his "donkey," and went down a rugged little path to the beach. Gregor faced the wind a moment, and stood as if he were trying to decide upon the exact point it was blowing from, then made for another path to the beach, and was soon standing on the road leading out of the bay. Very soon three men came on after him. " Any chance of ore-weed to-night, Davis ?" he shouted as soon as they were within hearing. " No," roared back Davis, who was the coast guard he had seen sitting on the cliff. " Well, Williams," said the farmer to another in a very loud voice, that was perhaps necessary on aecount of the noise made by the sea, " art getting more reconciled to the country yet ?"

" The country's well enough, Mr. Gregor," answered Williams in the tone of a man who means to be condescending. " But I hope there won't any more of those beastly ore-weeds come in for some time. That old fool of a woman that I live with put her donkey in the cart the last catch there was, and went four turn, and upset them in a heap outside the door. And there they lie stinking in the sun, and the old hens keep scraping in it, and I'm d d if the eggs and everything else hasn't tasted of it ever since." A roar of laughter from the others followed this. " Thee'rt too particular," said Mr. Gregor ; " still she might have kept the hens off, for she must have known nobody could eat the eggs after they've been at it. Wilt come in and have a drink, man, to wash the taste out of thy mouth for once ?"

Williams was the new rider Susan had spoken of. He hesitated a moment, but the idea of a refusal evidently never entered the farmer's head, who began at once to lead the party towards his house. " There's a cow," he said, stopping at the gate where he had put them in, and pointing out one, "that I say hasn't an equal in this here parish — no, nor in the next — for milk and butter. My cows are all good for butter. Now some of Mr. Eplet's cows perhaps give as much milk as some of mine, but not so much butter after all." " I dare say," said Williams ; " Miss Margaret always has beautiful butter." Gregor was a boastful man, proud of everything on his farm, including his daughters, so he gave a tremendous wink at Coote, the other coastguard, who gave him one back again. At the mowhay there was another pause for wonder and admiration.

" There's a mow worth looking at," remarked the owner, proudly waving his hand towards it. " Iss, iss, you may well say so," chimed in Davis and Coote, nodding their heads. " There's barley enough there to brew beer for half the county," said Williams, meaning to make himself very agreeable. " You mean for half of Devonshire where they all drink cider," said Gregor, much pleased not withstanding his answer ; " but a good many parishes wouldn't do badly on that barley neither." Margaret's face was so white when they entered, that her father could not help seeing it ; but he did not say a word to her, and she sat still by the table, and never stopped her sewing but for one moment, when she took a bunch of keys from the pocket that hung at her side, and gave them to Susan, who hurried about and brought glasses and spirits as her father ordered, with an almost nervous haste, for she well remembered a frightful scene, once when Margaret had refused to tend upon the coastguards.

Her father had sworn at her, called her a " chicken-hearted little fool," and even when she persisted had threatened her with the horsewhip. Susan had thought then that Mar garet showed a great deal more courage in not doing what her father told her to, than she would have if she had quietly done it. Since that time Margaret had sat there, a silent protest against the proceedings. This made her father rather uncomfortable ; but he said to himself that he was bound to go on as he had before to show Margaret that he was master in his own house, though he would never have thought of altering anything if Margaret had not put it into his head. The water for the first glasses round waa mixed with gin, privately put in before it was put on the table. " My respects to you, miss ; and to you, miss," said the " rider," looking towards both of the girls as he lifted his glass.

The others followed his example. Margaret muttered something inaudible, and Susan said " Thank you." Williams said something about the brandy 2—2 being very good ; but this was one of Gregor's few possessions that he did not care to enlarge upon, at least to his present company, so he contented himself with saying, that he " didn't like anything poor in his house." Suddenly a clatter was heard in the back kitchen, and through the open door, Molly was seen shunted forward and seated on the floor. This was greeted with a tremendous guffaw from all the men. The child had taken the opportunity of trying to sit on one of the men's " donkeys " that they had left in the back kitchen. " Go to bed, Molly," said Margaret, as the girl picked herself up, "and Grace too." "Yes," roared her master, "or you won't be down in the morning till half-past five again."

After the glass was finished, Williams wanted to go ; but his host would not hear of it, and his companions seemed unwilling to stir, so he was persuaded to stay. Margaret felt quite sick and faint, and could hardly keep quiet, she knew so well what was coming. Her father talked and laughed, and filled the man's glass himself (the others did not require much invitation to do it again and ao-ain for themelves), he drew him out, got him to talk about himself and his own doings, until the desired end was gained, and he lay helplessly drunk on the great oak settle by the fire. By that time the two others were lying, one in the deep window-seat, the other on the floor before it. Margaret thought they might not be really as tipsy as they seemed ; but there could be no doubt that they had taken a great deal too much for them, and they lay for hours like logs.

It was dark now outside and very still. When their father got up and went out, Margaret and Susan could hear him speaking quite plainly to the workmen who must have been waiting somewhere quietly for him. They heard the horses brought out and silently led down the road, and as the sound of their footsteps died away the girls looked at each other half frightened. Yet it was no new position in which they were placed ; it had happened many times since they were children, but somehow it had never seemed so bad to Margaret before. She had known exactly what would happen, yet it appeared quite fresh. She was sick at heart when she thought of Matthew Eplet, and she was thinking about him all the time. Was he really gone out fishing, or had he told her a lie ? Oh ! what should she do ? She laid down her sewing and put her head on her hands.

When she took it up again she had made up her mind. She must go and see. Susan was startled at the wildness of her great eyes, as she rose and began to fold up her work. " What are you going to do, Margaret ?" she asked. " I'm going out, Susan." "You're not going to leave me by myself here, to be sure." " You had better go upstairs to Grace or go to bed, and put up the bolt till I come home," said Margaret, " for go I must, whatever comes of it." " Father'll be in such a way if he sees you," said Susan ; " I wouldn't go for anything." Margaret took down her white sun-bonnet. " Don't take your gook bonnet, it'll show up so in the dark," said Susan. So Margaret tied a dark apron over her head and went out into the night. Susan fastened the door after her, and crept up the back-stairs without going again into the kitchen where she could hear the men's heavy breathing.

Mar garet ran down the road as fast as she could, keeping carefully in the grassy ditches, however, lest the noise of her footsteps should attract anybody's attention. She knew that there would be all sorts of people about that night* and she often stopped herself with a thrill of fright, as she fancied she heard some one coming. But as it was always fancy, she tucked up her dress well, for there had been a heavy dew after the hot day, and hurried on again. When she got near the bay she turned off the road and stole up on the cliffs. She crept along as near the edge as she dared, but she soon found it was hopeless to try and hear any sounds but the waves, the tide being nearly high now. All she could do was to wrait till the moon should shine out from a break in the clouds that were scud ding across the sky.

She lay down that when the light came she might not be seen, and eagerly watched for any gleam on the sea or shore ; but none came, and when at length the moon shone out for a moment and she gazed down on the little strip of bare sand, nothing moving was to be seen, only the waves falling gently for the time on it. And there was no boat making for the shore on that sea of silver sheen before her. She sprang to her feet and ran back to the road, and mounted an opposite hill. Then she climbed a hedge and bore straight away for the next creek, regardless of cattle or fences. She knew the country well, or she must have lost her way with only the occa sional liorht she had from the moon. It was a wild walk, and she was nervous ; but she never once thought of turning back. Once she sprang down from a hedge close to two colts that scampered away in the dark, and gave her such a start that she shook, although she knew quite well what it was.

And when she came to the bay the moon was shining quietly down on it, and there was neither sight nor sound of any human being. The sense of her utter loneliness came so strongly upon her that the perspiration started out on her forehead and ran down her face. Still she did not hesitate, though the next land ing-place was two miles from her home, going as she had come. She had come out to know if Mathew Eplet was fishing or smuggling that night, and if possible she would find out. But as she went on her heart was very sick. She could not go beyond the place she was now making for ; and she kept troubling herself by thinking that they might have landed some where in the opposite direction from the one she was going, and then perhaps her father would get home before she did, and whatever should she do then !

So settled bad the idea got that she had come the wrong way, that, though she still hurried on, she was at last startled when she saw what she had been looking for — the flash of a light on the sea. The point that the gleam came from was hid from her, and could probably only be seen out to sea, but she knew at once that it was a signal. Davis should have been about here now, but he was safe at home in their kitchen ; so, most likely, the landing would be at once. The moon had been behind a cloud for some minutes ; and even if it had been shining ever so brightly, she was not near enough the edge of the cliff to look down and see what was doing below. Such a distant view of the people as she could gain from her elevated position would not serve her purpose, and yet she did not dare to approach too close.

There might be watchers about, whom it would be very difficult to get past without being noticed. So she sat down to think about it, while the breeze that was wafting about the scent of wild thyme, was so cold to her after her walk that she drew the skirt of her dress over her shoulders. Her object seemed almost unattainable now she had to face it ; her courage had been oozing away, being so long on the stretch. Still, after coming so far, she must attempt something. She soon decided that all the coastguards would be sure to have been attended to, so that there would be no need to have people on the look-out after all. She had been once, when she was a little girl, with her father to a hiding-place about a mile inland from this bay, and there she supposed they were going to put their smuggled goods for the time.

About a quarter of a mile inland two narrow valleys joined, and made one broader one to the shore. A little stream ran in each, and, uniting, flowed into the sea, dividing the bay pretty equally. In which of the two valleys "Vugga's Hole," which was the name the hiding place went by among themselves, was, Margaret could not remember, nor was it at all likely she could have found it if she had ; but she re collected crossing the little foot-bridge at the entrance of the bay, so the path must run up the other side of the stream at first. Her plan was to get concealed somewhere close to the path, where she could see every one who passed up. To do this she would be obliged to make a considerable circuit, and to cross the river with out a bridge. She knew of one over one of the streams, a long way up ; but that wTould help her very little, and was not to be thought of, for if she was to get herself hid away, she must be quick and do it, before any one got up the valley.

She started again at once, and soon saw lights on the beach. She knew they must be very sure of the coastguards to be so bold. She tore her clothes and scratched herself in her hurry to get to the point where she wished to cross the water. There she waited a minute to take off her shoes aud stockings, and so on the other side to slip on her shoes again. Her stockings she put in her pocket, for she would have to cross again on her way back, and she might not have it so quiet then. She now searched for the path, which she found was not exactly in the valley but near the bottom of the hill, which was very steep above. Large patches of furze clung to the lower part of it, and in one of these that came close to the path, Margaret decided to lie down and watch the men pass. But even then she could not be quite sure that every one would go up to the hole, so she must try and get a nearer view of the group of men she could see on the beach.