The Cornish penny; a novel

Front matter

GooS

CORNELL

UNIVERSITY

II

When Pitt resigned office in 1761, George III, by scattering favours broadcast among the members of the House of Commons, set about making a "Royal" party who would vote with the ministers chosen by himself. Among His Majesty's most staunch supporters was Sir Senton Myall, sixth baronet, who for his services was created a baron of the United Kingdom.

"I detest a pack of women about me," Lord Myall would often be heard to declare. Certainly he managed to enjoy life without their intrusions at his comfortable house In Westminster, tended by a staff of capable, middle-aged menservants. Among his intimates he went by the nickname of the Ram: nicknames were often bestowed perversely then, as now. At the age of five and thirty, in January of the year 1770, Lord Myall stated: "I am still a celibate; and a celibate I shall continue to remain" — or words to that effect. None doubted; though the ladies voted it was vastly droll, for a celibate of five and thirty in George the Third's reign was as rare a bird as the dodo of Mauritius.

Imagine, then, the flutter of excitement in social circles when in February month my Lord Myall became affianced to a beautiful young heiress! He purchased a house in Grosvenor Square, which was decorated and furnished to the expensive taJste of Miss Maria Marsden, his fiancee: fathoms deep in love was my lord and in frantic haste, as only a man who had been all his life a stranger to women could be. In six weeks from the day he had first met his charmer, Lord Myall found himself installed in his new house with a staff of servants of both sexes about him, and married to a wife that made him the envied of all his friends and acquaintances. To the house in Grosvenor Square came all the wit and beauty of the town — for three months: Jealousy, the green-eyed, came too, at last, an uninvited guest who, catching my lord's eye, winked knowingly.

Doubtless my lord thought he had very good reason for one morning whisking off his bride in a chaise and four en route for his ancestral home, Myall Manor, far away in the Duchy of the West.

"How very odd to elope with one's own wife," was the cj'nical comment of the young Earl of Varlington, who, wearying of impecuniosity, shortly after married an heiress himself, and went to reside in the house in Grosvenor Square he had bought of Lord Myall: Lady Varlington was four and forty and plain-featured withal!

In her little hour in London town Lady Myall, who was petite and graceful, who darted swiftly to and fro among her guests, who instinctively wore gay colours to enhance her gipsy beauty, who innocently loved to bask in the sun of male admiration, was likened by a traveller to the humming-bird of tropical forests : an apt simile.

One can picture the girl-wife looking out of the window of the chaise, as they neared their journey's end, on the mistcovered Goonhilly Downs towards the close of what had been verily a wet November day that was mis-sorted among July's.

One can imagine the talk:

"It is all so cold and drear," with a shiver.

Her husband's quick reply: "It is not always so. • . . You will soon grow used to such days."

"Never! I vow. . . . But we shall not always live at Myall?"

"It is a well-built house; a safe retreat: you will be far removed from the temptations of town."

"I think Myall Manor will prove an odious place!" vehemently.

"We shall see, my little one; we shall see," as he attempts to fondle her.

Her sobbing: "Don't touch me! . . . Please! Oh, please ..."

A humming-bird is happy in its own environment amid the bright flowers of a sunny climate. The poor little woman shut up in the lonely manor-house with an uxorious husband whom she could not love was like a wild bird caught and caged; she could not live away from familiar sights and sounds, from the world she knew. Lady Myall pined for a year and a half; gave birth to lusty twins, boy and girl; and, having justified her existence, died.

The last word she uttered was "Rupert": her husband's name was Senton.

A year after the death of his wife Lord Myall was spending Christmas at Henliston with his boyhood's friend, John Penellis, at the latter's house in Church Street. It was a comfortable house in which to spend the festive season, as my lord knew full well: that was why he was there.

Mrs. Penellis, a pleasant-featured buxom dame, in her ten years of married life had presented her husband with seven fine sons — all living — and looked splendidly well of it. Her chief merits — in her guest's opinion — were that she knew how to make a giblet-pie with the best, and was aware that children are only of cursory interest to others than their parents.

As the men sat together late one night drinking punch the conversation turned on their respective progeny.

Said Mr. Penellis: "You're a lucky devil, Senton! , . ,., Next time my wife conceives I hope it will be a daughter: seven sons are enough for any man. ... I wish the house was larger though. . . . What a fine position for a house — above the Devil's Rock! Pull down those two cottages and make the top of the rock a pleasure-garden: idea came to me t'other day when — "

Lord Myall broke in : "And a very good idea too, my friend, that bears thinking on! . . . Myall is a bit lonely in wintertime. Since my wife's death I have come to understand. . . . Supposing one of the twins took ill. Take a time to bring Dr. Tyacke out of Henliston. ... I have thought of late that I am over-young to devote my remaining years to the study of the weather and the crops. . . . Somehow, since my elevation to the Lords, politics seem to have lost their flavour."

A few weeks later Lord Myall gave orders for the demolition of the cottages above the Devil's Rock, and the erection of a noble house of stone on the site they had occupied with its front facing Hill Street. He owned most of Henliston

THE CORNISH PENNY g

and much land in the district — as his descendant does today. Already a very wealthy man was Lord Myall when he had presented himself as a suitor for the hand of Miss Maria Marsden, and that young lady's worldly-wise guardian had deemed him none the less eligible on that score. To the tearful ward who had elected to fall in love with a penniless adventurer, and who "hated money," her guardian, a zealous churchman who on occasions interpreted the scriptures literally, felt constrained to read a certain passage from St. Matthew's gospel : "For whosoever hath, to him shall be given, and he shall have more abundance. ..."

One can scarcely credit that the austere-looking portrait by Reynolds of Lord Myall painted shortly before his marriage in which he is shown with sallowish face, heavy jowl,' thin-cut lips and cold blue eyes is that of the man who became the popular Master of the Ceremonies, a lesser Beau Nash, who for fourteen years held sway in Henliston and was known throughout the Duchy for his "wit, tact, generosity, and all lovable qualities: a noble nobleman."

Lord Myall died in 1785 at the age of fifty; and his house in Henliston was inhabited by his heirs and successors until Philip, third baron Myall, sold it for a nominal sum to his brotherin-law, John Trevarthon, when that gentleman had gambled away the Trevarthon estates. John Trevarthon married Catherine Myall, and had one son by her, who in the course of years married and became the father of twins, Anthony and Cynthia.

Twins-begetting was a Myall trait,

III

Some months after the death of Anthony and Cynthia Trevarthon's father— he had died on their thirty-third birthday, oddly enough the anniversary of his wife's death : she had pre-deceased him by two years— Anthony was spending a rainy December morning in the library dipping at random into one of his favourite books, The House of the Seven Gables. In it he found an atmosphere that was congenial; the intimate linking of the Present and the Past in the way of ancestry and descent appealed to him; the sentences yielded up some faint old-time fragrance which he had acknowledged long ago by flowers of lavender pressed here and there between the pages.

Anthony chuckled as he read a favourite passage describing Hepzibah's fowls:

"All of them {Chanticleer, his two wives and a solitary chicken) were pure specimens of a breed which had been transmitted down as an heirloom in the Pyncheon family, and were said, while in their prime, to have attained almost the size of, turkeys, and, on the score of delicate flesh, to be fit for a prince's table. In proof of the authenticity of this legendary renown, Hepzibah could have exhibited the shell of a great egg, which an ostrich need hardly have been ashamed of. Be that as it might, the hens were now scarcely larger than pigeons, and had a queer, rusty, withered aspect, and a gouty kind of movement, and a sleepy . and melancholy tone throughout all the variations of their clucking and cackling. It was evident that the race had degenerated, like many a noble race besides, in consequence of too strict a watchfulness to keep it pure. These', feathered people had existed too long in their distinct variety; a fact of which the present representatives, judging by their lugubrious deportment, seemed to be aware. They kept themselves alive, unquestionably, and laid now and then an egg, and hatched a chicken, not for any pleasure of their own, but that the world might not absolutely lose what had once been so admirable a breed of fowls."

Looking up from the book he watched the rain lashing the window-panes. Leaning far back in his chair he mused:

Our race has degenerated ; perhaps from "too strict a watchfulness to keep it pure." No, degenerated was too severe a word. Himself was not a degenerate, whatever he might be, Godfrey had said when last he was at the Poplars: "Don't want to marry, do you, Anthony? If you ever do you'll make a shy breeder, I'm thinking: Trevarthons have been that way for many generations — the Myalls too, for the matter of that. . . . Now I fancy I'm a throw-back, one of those 'baronet- Myalls who sired a dozen and more — by his wife. Wait till 7

THE CORNISH PENNY n

marry! There's spunk in your Cousin Godfrey." A coarse and clumsy-tongued boor was Godfrey — ^with no brains worth mentioning — ^yet he had his good points. . . . Did quality matter more than quantity? . . . The Trevarthons had been given to intermarrying; when they condescended to marry outside the family they had chosen mates from the oldest families in the Duchy; no elder son had ever made a mesalliance. They were proud. His great-grandfather, a supporter of the Stuarts, had felt insulted when offered a peerage. "An ancestor of mine was knighted on the field of battle. The Trevarthons are too ancient a family to use a title: good wine needs no bush," was the message he sent to "the German gentleman who styles himself King of England." . . . Cynthia might marry, though it seemed doubtful. But if she were to she would change her name. He, Anthony, was the last of the Trevarthons — as far as he knew. . . . They had all died out: sad, in a way. . . . He might marry ; he was not anxious to do so. He was comparatively young. There was plenty of time. . . .

Anthony gave a little shrug as he drew himself up. Having read once more the description of the fowls, he turned over the pages until he arrived at what it amused him to call the Episode of the Egg:

"The second of Chanticleer s two wives, ever since Phoebe's arrival, had been in a state of heavy despondency, caused, as it afterwards appeared, by her inability to lay an egg. One day, however, by her self-important gait, the side-way turn of her head, and the cock of her eye, as she pried into one and another nook of the garden, — croaking to herself, all the while, with inexpressible complacency, — it was made evident that this identical hen, much as mankind undervalued her, carried something about her person, the worth of which was not to be estimated either in gold or precious stones. Shortly after, there was a prodigious cackling and graiulation of Chanticleer and all his family, including the wizened chicken, who appeared to understand the matter quite as well as did his sire, his mother, or his aunt. That afternoon Phoebe found a diminutive egg, — not in the regular nest — it was far too precious to be trusted there, — but cunningly hidden under the currant-bushes on some dry stalks of last year's grass. Hepzibah, on learning the fact, took possession of the egg, and appropriated it to Clifford's breakfast, on account of a certain delicacy of flavour, for which, as she affirmed, these eggs had always been famous. Thus unscrupulously did the old gentlewoman sacrifice the continuance, perhaps, of an ancient feathered race, with no better end than to supply her brother with a dainty that hardly filled the bowl of a tea-spoon!"

Chanticleer in high dudgeon ! One could imagine him stalking away on his long stilt-like legs, with the dignity of interminable descent in all his gestures — followed by the bereaved mother of the egg — after having failed to deliver himself of an harangue that might have proved as long as his own pedigree had he not been interrupted by the laughter of Phoebe, the stealer of the egg!

Anthony smiled as he pictured the humorous scene played in the old ruined garden of the Pyncheons against a background of tall poles up which the scarlet-flowering bean-vines clambered, to the humming of the plundering bees that flew in and put of the great yellow squash-blossoms. It flashed across his mind that himself in time might grow into a sort of Clifford. iWould Cynthia grow into a Hepzibah? Only a week ago he might have thought that she would : yes, he haS thought Cynthia was destined for spinsterhood. She had had her chance ten years ago when Jack Penrose was a constant visitor at the Poplars. Jack had wished to marry her ; but she had frightened him away, at last : he was a silly fool who could not understand that a hard tongue may go with a, soft heart. . . .It had come as a shock that Cynthia had strong maternal instincts, for he believed he had plumbed the depths of her. ... A woman still might marry at three and thirty. The idea disquieted him, until he reflected that suitors for the hand of a plain woman of no particular charm were not plentiful. Cynthia was not beautiful, not even pretty; though he loved her with all brotherly love, he could not disguise from himself the truth of that. . . . As he gazed at her standing within the circle of lamplight -holding vthe-babyvjinihfiTo'arflJs 4ie fctdis?fipi5ned.stj;an^6gi^ed',before him: his plain sister Cynthia appeared to him as strangely beautiful, and she silenced him with her eyes that he had never seen so blue and brightly-shining.

He had traversed a dark passage, so that when he entered the room his eyes were a little dazzled. Perhaps his imagination was too vivid. . . . The fact remained that never again would he be able to tease Cynthia in the old way. How often had he said: "My dear, you have the mind of a shrewd trades/naw. There was a mistake made, at our birth: you should have been a male; I, the female." His sister was after all just a woman, with a woman's feelings. . . . She had found the baby, and she meant to keep it — something in her attitude had told him that when he saw her standing there with it in her arms. Take the baby away, and Cynthia would be even more resentful than the Pyncheonhen whose egg was stolen. . . . Very reluctantly had she consented to the appointment of Mrs. Jago as foster-mother; and only when she was forced to recognise the infant's requirements that she, as a maiden, could not supply. . . . For perhaps the hundredth time he wondered who was the baby's mother. Was she some astute woman of the town who had read Cynthia with her woman's eyes and, having read truly, decided that it was certain that her nameless child would be received with welcoming arms? . . . There were times when he felt a little lonely. It might be most amusing to have a small boy installed as an inmate of the house. It would give him the opportunity of testing his theory with regard to environment influencing, if not shaping, a child's character; though it was tiresome he was not acquainted with the child's ancestry : then, one might know the traits to look for and, if necessary, to combat. '. . . Cynthia had made her decisions with regard to the quixotic affair before he had had barely time to consider. The happenings of that eventful night had been so unlooked-for, so unexpected, and he disliked the unexpected, for it disturbed the even tenor of his ways.

Anthony, closing the book, was arrested by the title on the cover. He rose, and crossing to the window stood looking out for several moments at the poplar-trees his grandfather had planted.

"A much more appropriate name for the house ! I must consult with Cynthia," he said aloud.

In the far corner of the room the grandfather's clock emitted a wheezing sound as it prepared to strike the hour — ^just such a sound might one of the Pyncheon-fowls have made.

As he turned away from the window Anthony exclaimed: ".Why not!", and went downstairs to luncheon as one inspired.

His spirits sensibly lowered as on entering the dining-room he heard the chink of coins, and perceived Godfrey Myall straddling the hearthrug with his back to the fire, his hands thrust deep in his breeches' pockets.

There was little In common between Anthony and Cynthia Trevarthon and their second cousin, Godfrey, Lord Myall, who was six years their junior. At the Poplars Anthony lived in his books and dreamed his dreams, while Cynthia kept house and interfered in the garden. Godfrey at Myall Manor lived the life of a country squire with great satisfaction to himself, knew the name of every pretty girl on the Lizard peninsula, and seldom rode to Henliston more often than once a month.

Anthony the student and Godfrey the sportsman were as the poles asunder. Godfrey admired Anthony's "cleverness" — and said so; he was certainly attracted to him. Anthony acknowledged — to himself — Godfrey's virility. The two might criticise one another and disagree, yet in some strange way each was necessary to the other.

As for Cynthia, her well-bred incivility occasionally exceeded the limit of delicate inattentions: she detested Godfrey.

To his sister Anthony confided that he dreaded the days when Godfrey rode to town ; Godfrey's visit always put him out of temper for the rest of the day, he declared.

"Why does he not stop at the Rose instead of arriving here at five minutes to the luncheon-hour? . . . Godfrey soaks up one's vitality as a sponge water."

To which Cynthia would reply: "He comes because he likes you : if you do not care for his company you can surely tell him so! I would not allow myself to be upset or disturbed by a turnip-headed fool."

Godfrey might be at times a boor, but boor was not a synonym for fool. When his sister called their cousin a fool Anthony felt irritated; he ahnost wished that he could be convinced Godfrey was a fool; he could not decide on the right docket for Godfrey— it seemed unlikely that he ever would: he was no nearer solving his character than when Godfrey, as a boy, had arrived, an uninvited luncheon-guest, at the Poplars on the day he had first ridden on a pony to town. Sometimes Godfrey would say a surprising thing, a good thing, an original thing; a thing that a wise man might say. Anthony, acutely expectant, would sit awaiting the hoped-for bon mot or mot juste', the rare nugget that presently might be discovered among all that gravel of words, for Godfrey would talk, talk, talk throughout the meal. When Anthony joined in the conversation Godfrey appeared to be considering carefully his cousin's every sentence; while Anthony was speaking Godfrey would screw up his eyelids and gaze downwards, as if he were examining some insect through an imaginary microscope. Once he had observed : "Your words string together like beads on a rosary" — a surprising utterance for Godfrey. Godfrey never allowed himself to be influenced by any opinion or advice of Anthony's, even though he had asked for the opinion or advice : perhaps he found amusement in listening to Anthony. Apparently everything that Anthony said or did he regarded as wonderful. "I think if you could you would like to present me as a curio to a museum; and expect the public to stand awe-struck before such an unique specimen," Anthony had once startled his cousin by saying.

In a word, Godfrey was an insoluble enigma to Anthony and, therefore, provokingly interesting. If Godfrey were to discontinue his visits Anthony realised that he would miss them greatly; he welcomed his cousin politely, but not cordially, when that gentleman came to the Poplars. However exasperating Godfrey might prove Anthony could not bring himself to give him his conge. After all, Godfrey seldom came more often than once a month.

"Hullo, Godfrey! If you are not careful, noble lord, you will singe those breeches of yours, and possibly melt your spinal column. This is an unexpected pleasure ... on such a wet day, too."

"He was only in town a week ago," said Cynthia bluntly, as she inspected a neat darn at one corner of the tablecloth.

Godfrey did not care whether Cynthia chose to be polite or rude; he always gave her the minimum of attention: in his opinion if a woman were not pretty and sufficiently young she should be silent-tongued when men were present.

Ignoring her remark Godfrey rushed towards Anthony in a way that suggested to that gentleman a bull charging across a field.

"What's all this I hear?" he bellowed.

"What do you hear?" returned Anthony politely, with a questioning glance at Cynthia who shook her head.

"Oh, Lord ! As if he doesn't know what I mean," Godfrey apostrophised the room. "I heard the story at Myall this morning — that's why I'm here. I heard it again from Tyacke who drew up to tell me. It's all over the town."

"Have you noticed, my dear Godfrey, how some people are given to the keen consideration of other people's afEairsr^. . . I do not know what you have heard, but it seems to have excited you."

"About this baby. ..."

Anthony braced himself.

"A baby, a very young baby, was deposited on our front doorstep a few nights ago; Cynthia almost stepped on it. I had already gone to my room. Cynthia, who was reading the newspaper, had not yet retired, and on hearing the bell — the servants, too, had gone to their rooms, it was past eleven o'clock — went to the door ... to find the baby. The night was pitchdark and — "

"Whose baby?"

"I wish I knew! I have made all possible inquiries without avail. . . . Cynthia has expressed a wish — she — we have decided to adopt the infant. At present it — a boy it is — is being nursed by Mrs. Jago at Trewoof, who has fortunately — unfortunately, I should say— been deprived by death of her own child. ... An infant would be most upsetting in an ordered household. I have persuaded Cynthia to allow it to remain with Mrs.^ Jago until it begins to run about, is old enough to be interesting. There is much to be said for the French and Italian system which modern doctors disapprove of. I believe—"

"You don't think that if you adopt this infant you will regret it? I mean, won't all the wantons in the district — ?"

"If women are wantons, Godfrey, it is men that make them so," interrupted Cynthia pointedly.

Godfrey affected not to hear. Having returned to monopolise the fire he rattled the coins in his pockets.

"Well, it's a pretty kettle of fish, I must say, Anthony." "There's no must about it as far as you are concerned !" This time Godfrey glared in Cynthia's direction. On finding Godfrey in the dining-room Anthony had decided to wait until his departure before he broached the question of a new name for the house to Cynthia, but observing the eager expression on his cousin's face as they sat down to table he changed his mind ; he could see that Godfrey would enter on a discussion of the baby's adoption unless some other intriguing subject of conversation was immediately introduced! Anthony objected to the discussion of any sort of personal matter while a servant was present, and he knew by long experience that Godfrey did not. He addressed his sister hurriedly.

"I wonder why our grandfather named this house the Poplars?"

Cynthia, a little surprised and catching an eager note in his voice, asked:

"What is the matter, Anthony?"

"I think he might have named it House of the Seven Poplars."

Anthony's ruse was more successful than he had dared to hope. Godfrey with the look in his eye of a detective who had tracked down his first criminal exclaimed : "I know where you got that idea!"

"Really?" Anthony encouraged, a little wondering.

"A fellow called Nathaniel Hawthorne wrote a book called The House of the Seven Gables. I have read it!"

Recently, foi the first time in his life, Godfrey had taken to spending an occasional evening with the books in the wellstocked library at Myall. Of this Anthony was not aware.

"My dear Godfrey, you astonish me! I thought you never read anything but the Western Morning News. Always have you stated most explicitly that you have not read a book of any sort or kind since you left college. Reading books is waste of time, you have often said."

Godfrey had not his answer ready when Cynthia said quietly: "You do not purpose having House of the Seven Poplars painted on the front door, I hope, Anthony?"

"How absurd you are, my dear! I do not purpose having it painted anywhere . . . but I thought the longer name would look well on the note-paper."

"H'm; that means that you will have to go to the expense of a new die."

"But a few shillings," Anthony urged.

"Fancy you thinking of a name like that ! You are an imaginative chap," from Godfrey, to whom the use of words had returned. He seemed perfectly genuine in his admiration; and his eyes held the " like to put you in a museum" look. "Such a notion would never have occurred to me," he added reflectively.

"I believe you, my lord," said Cynthia briskly; and turning to her brother: "I do not see the point of stamping House of the Seven Poplars on the note-paper when the house will be referred to in the future as the Poplars, just as it has been in the past."

Anthony had his way. He told his friends of the new name ; he told the servants who told the tradesfolk.

Cynthia had been right: it was the note-paper that was changed.

For a few months Anthony persisted in his whim until he was convinced, at last, that the name of a house in Henliston — such an one as he dwelt in — may not be changed. Once more he knew it as the Poplars.

Only the note-paper was still headed House of the Seven Poplars. The old die had been lost; and as Cynthia pointed out:

"It will mean having to go to the expense of another die, so let the silly name stay."

IV

On a fine evening towards the end of June, 1914, Mr. Anthony Trevarthon, having finished reading an article in the Spectator, yawned, pushed back his chair, and stretching himself, rose. He descended to the lower room of the tower and, after gravely shaking a warning finger at a fat mouse that had run across the floor and was peeping out at him from a fold in a piece of sacking, passed out into the garden.

"A mouse and an ostrich when alarmed behave contrariwise," said he whimsically, as he set off along a path to seek for Robin.

"Will it not be pleasant to take a walk in the quietening world? Let us saunter down Hill Street to the Outer Green. There will be ample time to pause at our plateau and smoke a pipe under the oak-tree's spreading branches."

"Very well, Uncle," Robin answered, as he gave the last pint of water in the watering-pot to a languishing heliotrope. "The poor thing is quite exhausted with the heat. Why should it be called cherry-pie?"