A Plot in the Duchy

by H. C. Bailey

 

A PLOT IN THE DUCHY

BY H. C. BAILEY

CHAPTER I.

OF A STUDENT OF HORACE.

ALL of this befell two hundred years ago, when William the Dutchman, christened of his loving people Hogan Mogan, was coughing on the throne and our rightful King James II. ate an exile's bread at St. Germain en Laye. By a girdle of spikes next his skin, by copious flagellations, King James arranged for his welfare in the hereafter, and the while he sought the good things of this world by brewing a many plots for the murder of the usurper. Wherefore from the Duchy to the Cheviots the sheriffs were sniffing after treason, and all their shires were nervous. So merry was England when Guy Chartier the ninth was lord of Pentire.

Behold my lord Pentire, himself blue, framed in gold. He lay in the dying bracken, and turned eyes and mind now to a book, now to the glowing sea. Both studies were agreeable to my lord. They appealed to sense and mind without harassing demand for enthusiasm, For his poet was Horace and his sea was calm. Only in the purple distance a foam line grasped at the bluff cliffs of Tintagel. Horace became lachrymose, and my lord Pentire shut him up and turned on his side and graciously praised nature.

Below him lay the clear emerald waves of Pinehaven, and far out beyond the rough grey nose of Lobber Point the sea glowed wine-dark for mile on mile, bounded at last by purple rock. A new colour flashed into the picture. Level with my lord's eyes rose red-gold hair glittering from the kiss of the sea. Below the wavering curls was a brow milk-white, cheeks daintily flushed. Palest green was the dress that clung about her as she came up the hill with the quick lithe step of a maid; and suddenly she broke out laughing, pointed the finger at my lord Pentire, and—

“Guy! Sluggard!” she cried.

“A word, Betty, of sound obscene.”

“Pooh!” said Mistress Betty Trevanger, and sat down in front of him. “I”—says she with emphasis—“have bathed.”

“'Tis why the sea looks so beautiful.”

“Pooh!” said Betty Trevanger. With scornful fingers she felt the two towels whereon lay my lord Pentire. They were dry. “You are a sluggard indeed!”

My lord Pentire lay on his back. “I have been young,” said he, who was twenty-six, “and now am old. Yet have I not seen a woman just nor her daughter grateful.”

Betty showed no sign of wrath: or scorn: or even of interest. She began to hum a song irrelevant:

My Skill goes beyond
The Depth of a Pond
Or Rivers in the sorest Rain,
Whereby I can tell
All things will be well
When the King enjoys his own again.

And she did not ask for an explanation. So my lord was constrained to expound of his own accord—a necessity always ignominious. But he carried it gracefully: waving a hand at the sunset, thus:

“Ere that sun was red came one exultant down the combe, even to the marge of the grey beach. O Betty, in the emerald water he saw, thrice happy, a vision foam-white, Aphroditean——”

“Guy!” cries Betty, rose-red.

“Siccis oculis monstra natantia—dry-eyed he saw the swimming monster,”—so my lord, after Horace. “But how could he profane the honoured waves? Nay, faith, a courteous knight, unwilling he fled and clomb steamily the combe, here to meditate on beauty. Yet sluggard, quotha!”

Betty's blushes ebbed while my lord feasted his eyes. Betty tossed back her curls, “But you are lazy, you know,” she insisted.

“I thank God,” says my lord humbly.

[Illustration:“'Guy! Sluggard!' she cried.”]

Betty uplifted her nose. “A Chartier of Roscarrock,” she remarked to the heavens.

“Who loves his ease,” my lord explained.

She turned a little and laid her white hand on his: “Guy, do you love naught else?” she asked gently. My lord Pentire patted the pretty fingers, held them up to see the light make them pink. Her dark eyes shone.

“Why, no, Betty,” my lord concluded. She turned quickly away, looked westward to the red dying sun that stained her face. “That were unbecoming a philosopher. Become, Betty, a philosopher. Love thyself—faith, all others are unworthy—and thy neighbour in a merely Christian spirit. So——”

“I wonder sometimes if you are a man at all!” cried Betty fiercely.

“To myself I seem sometimes divine,” my lord admitted.

“And to others—la! to others—God save us.”

My lord shook back his ambrosial black curls and stretched himself. “I argue,” he observed, “that I seem to you wanting. In what, my Queen Rhadamantha?”

Betty sprang up, a tall maid and lovely in her wrath, “Was it one of your name, then, my lord, that rode with Sir Bevil Grenville?” she cried.

My lord sat up. “My grandsire died on Launceston Hill,” said he.

“For his King, my lord!” and her eyes flashed.

My lord was caught by the flame, sprang up too and took her hand. “Faith, yes, Betty,” he whispered.

A moment she looked away over the sea, her bosom surged and fell. Then in the golden light silent she turned to him, and laid her free hand too in his. The full lips parted and her eyes smiled at him. “'A health unto his Majesty,' my lord,” she cried, confident now.

“Ah!” says my lord—a little sigh of understanding. “His Remarkable Majesty, James.”

Betty sprang back, and the smile was dead and her cheeks grew white with anger. Still he held her struggling hands and laughed. “Will I walk into your treasonable parlour? Nay, King in possession is the King for me. Little William of Orange has all my loyalty—while he can hang me. My grandsire, my respectable grandsire, he was fool enough for three generations.”

“My lord!” She wrenched herself free and stamped her foot.

And my lord, still laughing, pointed westward. “My dear Betty! Behold then the wisdom of the sun, The sun sets—Orange! As usual.”

She gave a little mocking laugh. “Oh, my lord is careful of himself!”

“Faith, of nothing more. And you will not be ruled by the sun? Well, I grieve. Orange is a pleasing colour. Does not Betty bear it in her hair? Betty, trust your admirable hair! You'll not? I will, then. Faith, my head yearns for my shoulders.”

“Oh, I see that you are a true Oranger, my lord.”

“So

You wish me neither wit nor wealth,
Nor yet a rope to hang myself—

eh?”

“The truth for once, my lord Pentire,” says Betty fiercely, and flung away.

“'With a fa la la lal la la la!'” my lord chanted in conclusion, and lowered himself to the bracken; then lay looking after her, with his chin in his hands, smiling. “A divine walk. Doubtless divine legs. But for her mind—oh, lud!” said my lord Pentire.

CHAPTER II.

OF A MAN WITH NO EARS.

Against the off-shore wind of evening a brig was beating into the bay. It made a brown speck on the water, and my lord Pentire reviled it for spoiling the harmony of colour. From the obnoxious brig he turned to survey the sunset—which was very gracious. It offered him a sky of orange and lilac and apple-green, glowing beyond the gaunt headland and the foam-circled island crags.

Nevertheless, “I complain of the sunset,” says my lord. “It gives me colour, but not form. Now Betty—Betty hath both. So, doubtless, have I. But I yearn to believe there is beauty beyond my skin. And sure, the beauty of Betty is longer of life than the sunset. I think even Betty's autumn may be comely. I'gad, I will write a poem upon Betty's autumn—and recite it unto her, It should chasten.” He smiled upon the world, and began to compose verses.

To record them were in many ways unkind.

Colour faded from the western sky. Land and sea grew dark and grey. A bat, swooping low, whirred past my lord's face, and he shivered; then, for the slugs were coming out, bethought him that it was time to depart.

Over the short pasture he went inland, chanting an Oxford catch:

At last he resolved, though nothing would do,
That nothing should put him by, sir!
But nothing to purpose of Nothing he'ld write,
And nobody should be the wiser.

'Tis nothing to you if he would do so,
And if nothing is in 't you find,
Then thank him for Nothing! And that will be moe
Than ever he designed.

“Now, I doubt my dear Betty would not think that humorous,” said he, and therewith came upon a fern-clad wall. Below it, narrow, deep-worn, is the path that wriggles down the combe to the sea. Over the wall my lord flung a leg, and was hailed at once.

“Hallo, fellow!” So shouted a man labouring up the hill.

My lord sat down on the wall and communed with himself. “The question is,” says he, “am I a fellow? 'Tis a base name. I think I am not a fellow.” And he put the other leg over the wall.

“Here, fellow!” cried the man, hurrying on.

My lord peered at him through the gathering gloom: saw something tall and gaunt shrouded in a cloak, a hat cocked truculently. The hat displeased him. “Faith, I am no fellow of thine,” says he, and dropped down to the road; then paused. “But to be called fellow by any fellow is, rightly understood, praise.” So he waited.

“Am I going to Trelights, fellow?” cries his man.

My lord made him a bow. “Sir, you know best.”

“Sure and I do not, or I would not be asking you, fool. Will I come to Trelights, fellow?”

“Sir, God knoweth.”

“Odso, knave; is this the road to Trelights?”

“It is, sir, a road by which one may go to Trelights,”

With an “Od rot ye!” the man brushed by him.

“But not, gentle sir, that way of it.”

The man turned on his heel and gave out an oath.

“At least,” says my lord blandly, “you would first circle this interesting world.”

The man spluttered.

“Nay, sir; I would not stay you from walking to the Antipodes. I think you would delight them.”

My lord sat down upon the farther wall, and the man spoke profanities. Breath and vocabulary failing, there came at last a pause,

“Is there aught else you would like to say?” says my lord, smiling upon him.

And the man, breathless: “Bah, fool; bah!”

“So, coming in like a lion, you go out like a lamb. Behold—a small path to the right. Thereby you may come to Trelights. You leave me a savoury memory. I wish you a goodly welcome. Farewell, most noble.”

Off went the man in a hurry, while my lord regarded him with benevolence; when, behold, thundering out of the gloom came horsemen a pair and cried: “Stand! i' the King's name, stand!” and knocked him down.

“Faith, there is logic!” says my lord. “But indeed the man is by himself a romance. And what is the plot of him?”

To find out, my lord approached him as he lay on the ground, a loathsome sight, kicking, biting, spitting. Not without reason: for while one giant knelt upon his chest the other prodded him and delved in his clothes, searching.

“What? Reuben Hawken? Jan Philp?” cried my lord Pentire, knowing the giants for two of the Sheriff's posse.

“Iss, my lord,” Reuben admitted, thrusting a bunch of papers just unearthed into his mouth, so that he might have a hand free to pull his forelock. “Order of the Sheriff, my lord.”

“I am humbly grateful. 'Tis a passionful romance.” My lord put his head on one side to regard the victim, whom Reuben and Jan did methodically pummel.

At last, having searched the gentleman from end to end, “'A hath no more, Jan Philp,” says Reuben; “except mun hath it under mun's skin,”

“Nay, faith, flay him and be sure,” my lord advised,

“Please you, my lord?” says Reuben, anxious to oblige.

My lord with a wave of his hand resigned all decision.

Reuben arose, and “Let mun up, Jan Philp,” says he.

Jan Philp rose heavily and hoisted the breathless wretch to his feet. The truculent hat and periwig lay on the ground; so my lord beheld a face of mottled purple, a bullet head wherefrom the hangman had had the ears. That same head was wriggled to and fro; the neck, wrung in Jan Philp's gripe, was shifted uneasily.

“Tell me now,” its owner begged, “is my head on?”

“Sir,” says my lord, with a polite bow, “at present.”

“Odso, then I'll snuff.”

His free hand was going to his empty pocket when “Here 'a be,” Reuben reminded him, and held out a big snuff-box.

The gentleman took it grinning. But, “Pray honour me,” says my lord, holding out his own box. Jan Philp loosened his grip of the right arm, that it might be received.

And then the gentleman dashed his own big box in Jan's eyes, flung the snuff of my lord's in Reuben's, and while they spluttered broke loose from one, broke past the other, sprang on one horse, snatched the reins of both and galloped off, belly to earth, madly down the combe.

So passed the man with no ears, pursued by the sound of sneezes. The two lusty Cornishmen bowed themselves, and gasped and wiped their streaming eyes. My lord leant against the wall, laughing decorously.

“He has all the honours, Reuben,” my lord remarked.

“Oons, but we ha-ha-have mun's papers, my lord.”

Another person came into the romance. On to the fragrant battlefield spurred the short rider of a short cob: Master Phinehas Pascoe, Sheriff of the Duchy.

“What is all this, ye zanies?” cried Master Pascoe.

“Master Sheriff,” says my lord Pentire, “but a pinch of snuff.”

“My lord Pentire!” cried the Sheriff, wheeling round, “And what do you do here?”

“I humbly admire,” says my lord. “Chiefly you.”

The Sheriff exalted his head. He endeavoured to look terrific, and in ominous voice he said: “I trust you do no worse, my lord.”

“Oh, be confident,” says my lord blandly.

The Sheriff growled; then turned to his pair: “Now, fools?” he inquired.

Reuben pulled his forelock. “Mun hath come over we, Master Pascoe. But we have mun's papers, and here they be.” He handed them up to the Sheriff.

Master Sheriff broke the seal and began to read in the dim twilight. Then: “Ha!” says he dramatically, and smote his hand on his slim thigh, and “Ha, ha!” again.

“Are you,” says my lord politely, “the hero or the villain?” The Sheriff glowered at him. “Ah, I perceive. The villain,” says my lord with satisfaction.

“My lord Pentire, this is no time for jests, nor am I fit subject,” cried the Sheriff.

“Your modesty, sir, deceives you.”

“I give you warning, my lord—there is treason abroad, and I am here to seek it. I advise you be careful.”

My lord Pentire swept a bow to the earth. “I am vastly, infinitely, your debtor. And of whom will I be chiefly careful?”

“Of yourself, my lord. Come, fools,” says the Sheriff, and spurred off with the two trotting at his heels.

My lord looked after him in the twilight. “I cannot love that person,” says he.

CHAPTER III.

OF AN EPISTLE ROYAL.

Master Sheriff and his tail of two vanished into the lane on the right. My lord Pentire observing, tapped with his fingers upon the wall, and permitted his Olympian brow to wrinkle. For that lane leads to Trelights, and in Trelights dwelt Betty Trevanger and Sir William her father. My lord ceased to tap. “Certainly they will not want me,” he remarked. My lord vaulted the wall. “That is why I will go,” said he—and struck across the meadow with his long moorland stride.

Soon there was much trampling in the lane on his left. “Gad! a troop cometh,” my lord muttered. Master Sheriff had received reinforcements. When my lord came down to the hollow where the windows of Trelights shone golden through the trees, the whole of the posse was gathered. My lord came through them delicately, saluted by scrapes and tugged forelocks, to the doorway.

Within the grey stone hall behold a tall lusty gentleman standing with a tall maid, and a little man snorting at them. My lord Pentire, bowing before Betty's pale face, Betty's haughty eyes, remarked to himself that the girl was designed for a queen. But the Sheriff had become, though purple, articulate: “You, sir,” he snarled at Sir William Trevanger, “I have had you watched for many a month. It is long you have been in suspicion of treasonable commerce with France by smuggling craft that run into Port Isaac. This night, sir, I was warned of one's coming.” He puffed out his chest. “And, sir, one came: and landed a fellow who fell into my hands.”

“I interpolate that he also fell out of them,” my lord remarked from the background.

The Sheriff flung round with an ejaculation, and Sir William laughed.

The Sheriff turned again: “Oh, I mark your glee, I mark your glee; but I will change your smile,” cried the Sheriff in majestic rhythm. “Now, Sir William Trevanger, now, sir—on that villain were found papers that prove you art and part of a hellish plot to murder our gracious King William.”

My lord Pentire arrested himself in the middle of a yawn, and stared. But Betty's eyes were flashing, Betty was white with wrath. And her father's ruddy face had paled; he drew in his breath and shivered. Then, growing red again, “You lie, by God, you lie!” he roared.

“That,” my lord murmured, “is intrinsically probable.”

“Lie, sir?” cried the Sheriff. “Ha, ha! Then what means this—this that was found on your scoundrel messenger?” He began to read dramatically—this:

Since by many evidences it is plain that nought may prosper in the King's service while Prince William lives, these are to acquaint you of his Majesty's pleasure that all loyal subjects should behold no hindrance and count their duty to lie in doing in good season and discreetly what may advantage the well-being of his realm of England, so as above all he that hindereth may be removed. Perth.

Betty gazed wide-eyed at her father, and Sir William Trevanger's face grew white; his breath came hard as he listened to the clumsy phrases. They savoured too truly of King James's trusty secretary; and for their purport—“What means this but murder?” cried the Sheriff, triumphant.

And Betty's blood came and faded, and her bosom was a-tremble, and Sir William could but mutter feebly: “'Tis forged, 'tis not in Perth's hand, 'tis forged.” Only my lord Pentire was quite composed. He regarded the scene with narrowing eyes—a philosopher studying emotions.

“Aha, you know Perth's hand, then, sir?” says the Sheriff, with a look of vast cunning.

“Let me see it,” Sir William muttered.

“Oh, with good will,” says the Sheriff, and held it out. Sir William looked a moment, then stumbled back to his chair and sat heavily down and stared at the ground. “Ha, ha, you do know it!” says Master Sheriff with glee. But Betty stood quivering, with her hand clasping at her heart. For behold her idol, her curious king, was proven very base metal, and her father brought near the halter.

Sir William looked up, and his face was grey. “Before God, I had never thought on this,” he said in a low voice. “I have been King James's man—but not for this. If he asks murder of me, I am done.”

“Begad, I think you are,” the Sheriff chuckled amiably. “Come, sir, it grows late, and Bodmin gaol yearns for you.”

Sir William rose. “I am at your pleasure, Sheriff,” he said gravely.

“Ay, we sing softlier now,” says the Sheriff, with a grin. “Come away, my man,” and he took Sir William by the sleeve.

Then my lord Pentire sat down and stretched his long legs across their path. “I want,” he remarked, “my letter.”

And the Sheriff and Sir William and Betty all gaped upon my lord Pentire.

“Your amazing acuteness, Master Sheriff,” says my lord blandly, “has delivered it to the wrong address.”

“Ods blood!” gasped the Sheriff. “Is't yours, then, my lord?”

“Yours, Pentire?” cried Sir William.

“I endeavour,” says my lord with a yawn, “to say so.”

“You confess to it?” the Sheriff roared.

“Dear sir, I have been confessing for five minutes.”

“Then, begad, you are my man, my lord!” cries the intelligent Sheriff, and puts a hand on his big shoulder.

My lord Pentire rose up and looked in his eyes: “Faith, I will be,” he said slowly. “Come on!'

“Lud, I'll not stay you from gaol,” the Sheriff chuckled, and they began to walk down the hall.

But “Guy!” cried Betty wildly. My lord turned and waited for the rest. “You—you must not...” says Betty, with quivering throat.

My lord bowed. “Pray, ma'am, permit me,” says he gravely. And Betty gave a little gasp and said no more. Only she watched him with shining eyes.

Master Sheriff was staring round-eyed when Sir William strode forward. “Sure, Pentire, you never knew of this?” he cried. “You never knew they meant murder?”

My lord's lip curled. “I am honoured by the question,” said he.

But honest Sir William, struggling in the realms of enigma, frowned at him and muttered, “I' gad, but I never knew you was a Jacobite. And I thought you was a gentleman.”

My lord laughed gently. “One may not be both, you opine?” he inquired; and good Sir William shook a mournful head. “Alack and alas! I believe you are right,” says my lord. “But behold me now essay,” and passed on to the door without a glance for Betty.

So off to gaol went the gentleman Jacobite, and left Betty's eyes shining.

CHAPTER IV.

OF A SHERIFF SUSPENDED.

In the courtyard, in the dark, the little Sheriff halted and looked up at my lord Pentire. “I'll require your word not to escape, my lord,” says he with dignity, while his posse stared in amazement at this large and unexpected prisoner.

“Faith, I'll follow you as his tail a little dog,” says my lord.

“Enough jests,” the Sheriff snapped. “Your word to keep by my side, or I tie you on a-horse.”

“The charms of your person hold me captive,” says my lord; “and yet I cannot love you. Is not that strange?”

The Sheriff snorted.

“Sweet sir, be gentle with your nose. 'Tis nonpareil. And I will ride with you for ever.”

“A horse for the fool here!” cried the Sheriff.

“Master Sheriff demands his steed, gentlemen,” my lord explained; and the posse giggled and the Sheriff grew profane.

They brought my lord a lean cob. “That? Is that to carry me?” my lord inquired with emotion. “Poor beast!” and gently he put his sixteen stone on its back.

It was a night of cloud. The sea lay black below them, and mist loomed grey in the combes. Slow the cavalcade toiled up the hill, and the hoofs rasped on the rock. The posse made the van, Master Sheriff and my lord abreast the rear. Over the shoulder of the hills they came, and a colder air struck them, All below was drowned in a grey sea of mist. Down the steep slope they plunged into it, and for miles the tramp was deadened. Horses and men were wet when at last, toiling up the farther side, they came out upon the moor to a clearer air. The hoofs beat dully on the tufted grass. Out of the gloom crags rose upon them, gaunt, black, in wild distorted forms, white patches of mist lay in the hollows, and a brook talked weirdly in the tongue of the pixies and the demons.

The posse were riding huddled together, and so to encourage them my lord Pentire began a dolorous chant:—

When the wind whustles cold on the moor of a night
All along, down along, out along lee;
Tom Pearse's old mare doth appear—gashly white ...

his voice went up in a scream, and he stopped dramatically. The little Sheriff looked anxiously round, and the posse checked their horses nervously, and mutters came: “'Tis naught!” “It be!” “Mun hath the eye!” My lord lifted up his voice again, and the posse went on in a hurry:

And all the night long be heard skirling and groans,
All along, down along, out along lee;
Irom Tom Pearse's old mare in her rattling bones...

“Oh, come on, curse you!” growled the Sheriff, plucking at his bridle, for the nervous posse were leaving them far behind.

My lord let him pluck. “Sweet sir,” says he, “you ask the poor beast the impossible. Hark how he roars. Moreover, our friends in front are going straight for Tredethy bog, and though I vowed to follow you, bogs were not in the bond.”

The little Sheriff reined up. “Tredethy bog?” he gasped, for it was a bog of reputation; and he howled to the posse. And at his howl my lord Pentire let out of himself a fearsome yell—a yell of anguish, of torment, not apt to encourage any posse in a misty night on Bodmin moor. Again the Sheriff howled, again my lord yelled, and the posse were heard to recede swiftly.

They related in Bodmin that my lord Pentire and the Sheriff had been seen in the grip of Jan Tregeagle, the demon.

“Zanies!” growled the Sheriff, and turned nervously to my lord Pentire. “Well, my lord, well, which is our way, then?”

“Sweet sir, let us halt and pray for the posse,” says my lord.

“Curse the posse!” roared the Sheriff. “Well, if Tredethy bog is straight in front we go to the right.”

“Let us ever seek the right!” cried my lord with enthusiasm; and sought it.

Then suddenly came the thud of another troop, a thud from behind them. “God save us! what is that?” cried the Sheriff, starting up in his stirrups.

My lord peered back through the darkness, saw nothing but mist and giant crag. “Jan Tregeagle a-hunting, perhaps,” says my lord, and emitted a view halloa.

“F-for God's sake, my lord, be silent!” stammered the Sheriff; for the shout was answered, “You know not—you may be talking to the devil.”

“Master Sheriff,” says my lord with emotion, “are you the devil?”

“Pray, my lord, do not talk so,” gasped the Sheriff. Again came a shout from behind. “Oh, 'tis the devil indeed.”

“Now, who the devil is the devil?” my lord inquired, turning again to stare.

And then the Sheriff reined up with a jerk and a yell, for the ground ended. Far down below lay silver white a sea of mist. “In God's name, my lord,” cried the Sheriff, “do you know where we are?”

“Precisely,” says my lord. And fell upon him.

So it happened that the little Sheriff found himself suspended over the cliff. My lord Pentire, lying on his chest on the grass, held him fast by the collar, and the Sheriff vainly scraped fingers and feet on naked wet granite.

“Pull me up, my dear lord, pull me up!” the Sheriff screamed.

“First,” says my lord blandly, “let me describe to you the landscape.” The Sheriff gurgled and wriggled. My lord lengthened his neck and peered down over the edge at a small, quivering, piteous face. “Certainly,” says my lord, “your nose is unique. But I am irrelevant. Sweet sir, this admirable acclivity is Pencarrow Cliff. Mark the bare grey granite wet from the kiss of the night! Hear the prattle of the dark cascade! A spot romantical. I envy your point of view. Pray look down.”

“Pull me up,” the Sheriff yelled, wriggling like a hooked fish.

Again my lord lengthened his neck, to observe Master Sheriff kicking in the dark void. “Thus suspended, dear sir, you give life to the scene. Far and far below you that silver sea of mist whelms great boulders of granite. Large boulders, sweet sir—hard boulders. Do you now feel that you know the landscape well?” My lord swinging his heels aloft looked down with a pleasant smile at the white face.

“Oh, my lord, is this a time to jest?” moaned the Sheriff.

“Jest?” My lord Pentire changed his tone and his smile. “By heaven, I was never more solemn! Nor you, I doubt. Now, sir—in your small bosom there is a letter that was never meant for you. But, since you have come by it at such pains, it shall be yours for ever. Eat it!”

“Oh, my dear lord!” gasped the Sheriff.

“Do you know,” says my lord genially, “you are heavier than I thought. I doubt I shall not hold you long.”

“Pull me up!” screamed the Sheriff.

“I give you ten seconds to acquire an appetite,” says my lord. “Then—— but pray, are you sure that you know the landscape? It is a long fall, and they are large, hard boulders. I think you will make a mess on those boulders.”

“Oh, my dear lord, only pull me up, and you shall go free; only——”

“Eat!” says my lord in a voice of thunder.

The little Sheriff tore at his coat, plucked out the letter and stuffed it spluttering into his mouth, and chewed in a frenzy.

“Your manners,” says my lord critically, “are merely disgusting. Have you done? Pray contemplate the landscape once again. 'Tis your last chance.” The Sheriff screamed in an agony of fear—and behold, a shout from the night answered him. But my lord set his free hand on a boulder, and pushing on that rose to his knees and dragged the little man over the cliff edge, and snatching at him gathered him up and sat him down. Then my lord rose up, but the little Sheriff mopped the fear-sweat from his face and panted like a hunted beast.

Nearer and nearer through the gloom came the thud of horses. “Who the devil are you?” cried my Lord Pentire.

“Be that you, my lord?” cried the voice of one of his own servants.

“Iss: be I, Jan Hawken,” says my lord in their own tongue. “And what be you a-doing here away?”

Jan Hawken loomed large out of the greyness, reined up and saluted. Behind him halted his fellows, a stalwart troop. Jan Hawken growled at the sight of the Sheriff. “Shall us heave mun over cliff, my lord?” he inquired with interest.

“I ha' just pulled mun up, Jan Hawken,” says my lord.

“Ax pardon, my lord. Us did not know what you was a-doing.”

“Us have took supper, Jan Hawken. Only Master Sheriff here did eat all the victuals.”

Jan Hawken growled; his fellows surged forward.

And Master Sheriff, hopping nervously 'twixt them and the cliff edge, squeaked shrill: “And this is how you keep a promise, my lord!”

My lord wheeled round. “Sweet sir, you are unjust. I promised to ride with you for ever. I rode till you fell off. Now mount, and we will ride once more.”

“By God, my lord, you shall ride to Bodmin gaol!”

“'Twill be pure joy,” says my lord. “There will we tell the pleasant story how Master Sheriff ate his evidence, good greedy soul. Sweet sir, you will be a delight to all the Duchy.” My lord took him by the arm. “Come, let us gallop to the telling.”

The Sheriff suffered himself to be drawn to his horse. My lord Pentire lifted him like a child and set him in the saddle. But the little Sheriff did not find the stirrups, and sat with his legs dangling. “My lord, a word with you,” says he in a whisper. My lord approached his ear. “My lord, can we not end this matter?” says the Sheriff. “I—I have no desire to bear hard upon you.”

“Dear sir, never fear for me. 'Twill be my heart's delight to tell of your zeal—and your meal!”

The Sheriff coughed. “My lord, I—I—I think I may have been hasty. I am willing to take your word that you knew nought of that letter.”

“In fact,” says my lord, “who does know aught of that letter? Nay, faith, who need know aught of that letter? Save your digestion.”

“My lord,” says the Sheriff with enthusiasm, “you speak my own mind. Good my lord, I could never believe you a traitor. Pray give me your honour you will not be.”

“Your logic captivates me!” cried my lord. “Master Sheriff, my honour is pledged,” and he held out his hand.

The Sheriff grasped it: “And—and you will tell nought of—of——?”

“Your supper. No word,” says my lord, and turned: “Peter Roose, Dick Hosken,” he cried, “bring Master Sheriff comfortably to Bodmin town.”

The little Sheriff bowed and rode off with two large guides, while my lord Pentire turned, and says he, “Us'll cheer for the Sheriffs innards, boys.” And it was so.

CHAPTER V.

OF A MAID ON A MOOR.

Then, as the Sheriff faded into the greyness, said Jan Hawken: “Ax pardon, my lord—Mistress Trevanger be here.”

My lord allowed his jaw to fall; my lord stared with round eyes. Then “Ahem!” says he dubiously, remembering his last remark.

“Mistress did come to Roscarrock and rouse we up,” Jan generously explained.

My lord stared at Jan as at a wonder of nature. Then “Give me a horse, and go back to bed,” says he. So they went off thudding, and alone in the gloom on the moor were left my lord and Betty.

“Betty,” says my lord Pentire severely, “Betty, you are superfluous.”

“Oh, Guy, are you truly safe?” says Betty.

“My dear Betty, I never meant to be anything else.”

“But that letter?” cried Betty.

[Illustration:“'There is no one else would have forgiven.'

“'I believe,' says my lord, 'I am unique.'”]

“Reguiescat in pace,” says my lord devoutly. “I wonder, by the way, if it will.”

“But where is it?” says poor Betty.

“Betty, you become improper,” says my lord sternly. “Conceive that there was no letter, that there is no letter—and ask no more, for decency.”

Betty glanced at him. The sky was changing to a lighter grey, and my lord's square face was faintly revealed. They were riding close, and her saddle brushed his knee. “Guy,” says Betty softly, “why did you save us?”

My lord glanced at her. He saw the noble form dark-outlined—he saw her grey eyes shining. “Betty,” says my lord, “you exaggerate deplorably. Do I talk—do I look like a saviour?”

“I think you have been very noble,” says Betty.

“Now I think I have been very humorous,” says my lord.

“And I said shameful things to you on the cliff.”

“Betty, your conscience is impertinent.”

“There is no one else would have forgiven.”

“I believe,” says my lord modestly, “I am unique.”

“You have made me ashamed.”

My lord addressed the universe. “O earth, O sky and ye swift-winged winds! Behold a woeful sight—Betty ashamed!”

Betty answered nothing, and the horses paced on to a silence. Then suddenly, “Oh, why will you always mock me?” cried Betty. My lord started at the tone, and drew himself up and stared at her. Her bosom was storm-tossed. “If—if you mean it, oh, 'tis no matter at all; but if—but—you—Guy, tell me!”

Ere the words were spoken my lord had his arm about her—my lord was leaning out of the saddle to hold her quivering close on his breast. “Dear heart,” says he in her ear, “I am a fool with my tongue, and I doubt I'll hurt you again; but there's nought I love in the world but you.”

Betty leant back on his heart and sighed and smiled. 'The pale dawn stealing over Rough Tor saw their kiss.

Betty shot a laughing sidelong glance at my lord Pentire, and began to sing in the sunlight:

“My skill goes beyond
The depth of a Pond,
Or Rivers in the sorest rain,
Whereby I can tell
All things will be well
When the King enjoys his own——

“Is it so, my lord King?” says she softly.

“All things, Queen Betty,” says my lord. “Save haply the Sheriffs digestion.”

But behold how King James bred faithful subjects for his enemy King William.

Copyright 1905 by H. C. Bailey.