CHAPTER I.

THE WIDOWED AND THE FATHERLESS.

“Well, gentlemen, I have gone over your several accounts, and find that the debts of the late Mr. Robert Davy amount altogether to the sum of £1300.”

These words were addressed to a little group of tradesmen and others who were assembled in a small room over a mercer’s shop, in the town of Penzance. There was Jan Penberthy, the neighbouring miller, who, though in his holiday clothes, had sufficient of the flour clinging to his black eyebrows and whiskers to indicate his calling; and Malachy Carteret, the carpenter and builder, who had slipped on his best coat, as he ran out from his work, to be present at the meeting, and had still the brass ends of his foot-rule projecting from the little fob at the side of his fustian trousers. There was Mr. Trevisky, too, the sporting lawyer, in his check shooting-jacket, all over pockets, and those at the hips large enough for game or law papers, and who held in his hand a square, horny-looking parchment deed; and close beside him sat the village apothecary, in a long, snuff-brown greatcoat, between the skirts of which might be seen, shining in the light, his high boots, that reached well up to his knees; and there were two or three other of the village tradespeople besides, all seated at the end of the little apartment, and who, when they heard the amount of their united claims, exchanged glances with one another in astonishment at the largeness of the sum.

At a table in front of the little assembly sat Mr. John Tonkin, the old gentleman who had addressed them. Nor was he the least remarkable among the company, for he was habited in the costume that had been fashionable in the previous century. Over his shrivelled and veiny hands flapped deep lace-ruffles, and the top of his head was white as a twelfth-cake, with the large powdered wig that surmounted it. The straight, stand-up collar of his Quaker-cut coat was as if mildewed at the back with the powder that fell from his peruke, and the large fan-like frill that protruded from his waistcoat—which was long as a modern groom’s—was speckled brown in places with snuff, as thick as nutmeg on a custard; while from underneath the table at which he sat peeped a pair of gold shoe-buckles and black silk stockings. On a chair by his side lay the cocked hat which completed his antiquated costume, and the underneath part of which was greyed with hair-powder and long usage.

Peculiar as was the old gentleman’s dress, yet it had more of a quaint than comical appearance with him; for his features, though creased with age, and his form, though slightly bowed with his load of years, were still of too manly a cast to excite any irreverent feeling, even in the lightest minds; indeed, he had too stern and austere a look to dispose any to smile at the oddity of his costume.[2]

After a short pause the old gentleman continued his address to the company before him. “Now to meet this sum of £1300 there is the property of the farm at Varfell, which is valued at about £150 a year, and upon which Mr. Trevisky’s client has a mortgage to a small amount.”[3]

At the mention of the name of the attorney, that gentleman proceeded to open the square deed before him, and to throw back the huge skins, that looked like large sheets of bladder, as he glanced his eye down them one after another.

“This little property, gentlemen,” proceeded Mr. Tonkin, “is all that the widow and her five children—the eldest of whom, you will permit me to remind you, is but sixteen years of age—have to subsist upon. Mrs. Davy, therefore, I think, has a claim to some little indulgence and sympathy at your hands. Some years must pass before her children are old enough to obtain a maintenance for themselves, and in the mean time they have to be supported, educated, and apprenticed. How this is all to be done upon such slender means is a matter that I need not tell you adds severely to the widow’s distress; for not only has she the grief to bear on losing the partner with whom she had lived in happiness for nearly twenty years, but she has the greater grief, if possible, of knowing that her children are fatherless, and that she herself lacks the means of providing for them in comfort. Her sorrow, then, gentlemen, has a double sting. It arises not only from regret for the past, but a dread of the future. I am sure, therefore, she will, under her great affliction, meet with every consideration from you.”

At this point Mr. Malachy Carteret—a little man, remarkable for the blackness and bushiness of his eyebrows, which grew so close together as to look like one long one, rather than a pair, and who, from his being considered a “good prayer-maker” at the chapel to which he belonged, was always glad of an opportunity of displaying his oratorical powers—ventured to observe, that he was sure all then present felt for Mrs. Davy under her trials, but they had most of them children of their own, and it was their duty to look at home first; for who could tell how soon they themselves might be called away, and their little ones left in the same distressing situation, unless their bills were duly paid? “Now my little account,” proceeded the carpenter, “has been standing so long as the new house at Varfell has been built, and that were the same year as Dolly Pentreath died—I mean her as were 102 year old—and that’s some time agone, you know; so I’m sure no one can’t say as I’ve been hard about my little matter. But we were a thinking among ourselves, Mr. Tonkin, that as you’d always been suchy kind friend to the family, and as we hadn’t no wish to trouble Mrs. Davy under her affliction, that maybe a—a—you—you—you wudn’t mind becoming security yourself for the debts, and then they cud stand over for another year or two if need be. You’ll excuse ma making maself so bould, sir; but I’m a plain man, and think plain speaking is better than double-dealing at ale times.”

The old gentleman’s brow fell suddenly, and looking the carpenter full in the face, he said, scornfully, “Though you have no wish to trouble Mrs. Davy under her afflictions, you would not object, it seems, to involve her friends in her liabilities. You allude, sir, to my past services, and surely the recollection of the melancholy occasion which, rendered such services necessary should have made you less eager after what is due to you, and less anxious to entangle in the family difficulties a person who, when he found that his assistance was needed, has never added to the distress by waiting till asked for it. In this very house, now thirty-seven years ago, it was my sad lot to see three young girls deprived of both father and mother in the same week. Mrs. Davy was one, and the youngest of those three—left almost in her infancy without a friend or counsellor to help her through the world. And now in her womanhood the same hard fate attends her—bereft of him whose affection had made him her protector, and finding her children fatherless, as she herself was, at the very time when needing most a father’s care. Surely the remembrance of a double bereavement like this, sir—for hardly is she out of her orphan age before she is doomed to enter on her widowhood—should teach you that Providence must have some special design in visiting so much misery upon this poor lady.[4] Nevertheless, I am happy to say that Mrs. Davy needs no pecuniary assistance from her friends, and requires but little indulgence from those to whom her husband was indebted. It is proposed to increase the mortgage upon the farm at Varfell to the amount of £1300, though this—even if Mr. Trevisky can obtain the money at 4 per cent.—will reduce the family income to less than £100 a year; and immediately the mortgage is completed and the money paid, your accounts, gentlemen, will be discharged. The reason of my requesting your attendance here to-day was not to seek to make any compromise with you, nor to crave any unusual indulgence at your hand, but merely to ascertain the amount of the collected claims against the late Mr. Davy, and to inform you that steps were being taken for a speedy payment of them, so that you might not trouble his widow with any importunities on the matter. She, poor soul, has enough to bear with in the privation she has recently suffered, and those wordly ones which threaten herself and children in the future; but, thank Heaven, she is prepared to meet all her trials with resignation and courage.”

Then, rising from his seat, he bowed haughtily to the company as he said, “Now, gentlemen, I wish you a good day.”

The words were no sooner uttered than Mr. Trevisky, who had previously folded up the deed, and sat fidgetting on his chair for the last quarter of an hour—now twisting a piece of red tape round and round—then paring his nails—and then twiddling the brass fox’s-head buttons of his shooting-jacket—the words were no sooner uttered, we repeat, than the lawyer started to his feet, and, pulling out his watch, said, half to himself, “Egad, I shall be in time for the cock-fight yet;” and then, waving his hand rapidly in the air, shouted as he darted from the room, “I’ll see to that directly, Mr. Tonkin—I’ll see to it directly.”

Malachy Carteret was the last to leave, for he purposely remained behind to plead his excuse to Mr. Tonkin for the use he had made of his name.

“I hope no offence, I’m sure, sir,” began the little carpenter. “I always thoft ma money safe enow, but ya see times is hard, and there’s the men to pay every Saturday night, and that’s a great pull. No one feels more for Mrs. Davy than your humble servant M. C. does. Her husband always behaved honourable to me, and M. C. is ‘ever grateful for past favours,’ as my card says. That there wor a bit of poor Mr. Davy’s handiwork, worn’t it, Mr. Tonkin?” added Malachy, pointing to the oak mantel-piece, that was elaborately and beautifully carved with birds, fruit, and flowers.

“Yes,” returned the old gentleman, dryly: “Mr. Davy presented it to me when he used to come courting here, at the time his wife and her sisters were under my care.”

“Ah, he wor very clever with his tools,” continued the carpenter. “‘The last of the carvers,’ we used to call him. I remember him afore he went to London to larn the business—he lived with his uncle Robert then. I used to work for the uncle; indeed I sarved my time with the late Mr. Davy’s father—the builder, ya know—so, of coose, I cudn’t mean anything but kindly to the family—only money’s very scarce just now, sir, and I’ve a-mashes of bills to meet this quarter: so I hope no offence, I hope no offence, sir. You doan’t want nothing in my way, do you, Mr. Tonkin?”

The old gentleman shook his head.

“Very well, sir,” proceeded the tradesman; “when you do, M. C. will be proud to take your orders—ever grateful for past favours, sir, and hoping for a continuance of your kind support. Allow me to give you one of my new cards, sir; you’ll see I says as much there.” So saying, the pushing little carpenter thrust one of the printed bits of pasteboard into the old gentleman’s hand.

Suddenly a loud shout was heard in the street beneath.

Malachy and Mr. Tonkin looked vacantly at one another, as they both inwardly wondered as to the cause of the noise.

In a few minutes the shouting was repeated, and this time the ear, quickened by curiosity, could distinguish the shrill cries of the village boys and women among the rest.

The carpenter, in the excitement of the moment, forgot his customary obsequiousness, and rushing towards the window threw open the little diamond-paned casement, making its metal frame twang again as he did so; and as he craned his neck over into the street he cried, “Oh, Mr. Tonkin, Mr. Tonkin! here, you never saw suchy thing in ale your life!”

The old gentleman was sufficiently curious to be unable to resist sharing in the excitement, and proceeded to join the little carpenter, who was still eagerly surveying the mob that was gathered round about the “Star Inn,” on the opposite side of the street.

“It’s Squire Giddy’s new conveyance, sir!” exclaimed Malachy. “The gardener told me last night it had come down from London the day afore, with all its wheels done up in haybands like an Irish reaper’s legs. It’s the fust as has ever bin seen in these parts, and so of coose the whole town has come to have a peep at it.”

Ay, so it had! All Penzance was out to behold the first carriage that had ever appeared in its streets.

There were the fishwomen from the neighbouring villages of Mousehole and Newlyn, who had stopped in their rounds to join in the throng, and who had their “cowals” or panniers of fish slung round the crown of their broad-brimmed hats, with the load of pilchards glittering like lumps of silver at their backs. And there were the ruddy-faced oil-girls, who had put down their heavy pitchers and ceased for a while their cries of “Buy ma traa-in! Buy ma traa-in!” to eye “the big box upon wheels,” as they called it. The portly town-crier, too, was there, with his huge dustman-like bell turned upwards, and looking like a big tulip in his hand; for having found that his audience had suddenly deserted him, and were more attracted by the sight of the new conveyance than with his announcement that the grocer “had just received several chests of the best tea from London,” the bellman had himself helped to swell the crowd, and was now as eager as any to obtain a view of the new wonder. Mingling with these might be seen the forms of the boatmen—half-smugglers, half-fishermen—from the neighbouring shore, with their tight-fitting blue “Guernseys,” their yellow, greasy-looking, fan-tail hats, and their large high jack-boots, that bagged about their legs and looked as rusty as if they had been made out of brown paper; whilst at the outside of the motley group the eye fell upon the news-boy, mounted on a podgy pony, with his long tin horn in his hand and pad of “SHERBORNE MERCURYS” under his arm; and he, in his eagerness to catch sight of the strange-looking vehicle, was leaning over on one side of the saddle, as a butcher-boy loves to ride. All the shop people were at their doors: some in long aprons, and others with white sleeves on their arms over their coats; and the boys kept darting across from the houses towards the mob; while the upper windows all down the street were knobbed over with heads, each bent towards the one grand focus of attraction.

“It’s a queer-looking consarn, aint it, sir?” inquired Malachy; “and there’s a good bit a work in it, I’ve no doubt.”

“It’s a hideous lumbering affair,” responded the old gentleman, as he turned away from the window, “and it’s a great pity that persons haven’t something better to excite their admiration than the follies of the rich; but there’s such a love of luxury coming over our people, that soon we shall become as effeminate as those of the East, who are borne about upon couches when they journey from one place to another. In times past we were a sturdy, energetic race, inured to hardship, and loving, rather than avoiding, exercise; but now we must have soft, easy seats, and beds of down, or we cannot rest. Not many years back the floors of our nobles’ houses were strewn with rushes, but at present even our gentry are beginning to find a sanded room unpleasant to their feet, and so they must needs have soft carpets to tread upon—as if they had all at once grown as tender-footed as negroes. There’s Squire Austell has already carpetted his best sitting-room; and mark my words! there’s sufficient of the monkey in our natures to make his great and little neighbours ape the Squire’s manners. Ugh! We shall be as unmanly as fiddlers before many years have passed over our heads. Haven’t we got to drink slops for breakfast instead of a horn or two of good strong ale, as they did in our fathers’ time? and do you think, sir, strength, and courage, and energy are to be got out of teacups? Soon we shall find it impossible to eat without silver forks, as they do in London already; and, by and by, the dinner-bell will ring at the same hour as the curfew-bell used to toll in olden times—for what’s called fashion is setting nearer that way every day. But, thank goodness, we still dine at noon here, and our parties are limited to tea and Pope Joan at three o’clock, instead of grand dinners or dances with Frenchified gavottes, and minuets that begin with the owls and end with the lark. I hate such new-fangled customs! they would put John Bull into stays like a Frenchman, and exchange his top-boots for dancing pumps. Take my word for it, sir, since that four-wheeled aid-to-laziness has appeared in our town we shall shortly find every one of our would-be fine ladies unable to stir a yard from their homes without one.”[5]

“You’re quite right, Mr. Tonkin, _quite_ right, sir,” chimed in the little carpenter; “our rich folk are getting more proud and fond of luxuries and vanities every day of their lives. Why, what do you think? they’re talking of putting cushions to all the seats of the pews in our chapel, sir, just because the gentlefolks has ’em to their sittings in Madern church! and I give you my word, sir, I’ve only just finished setting a bright polished steel grate in the withdrawing-room, as they call it, at Castle Horneck. It’s just bin had down from London, and I declare one might see to shave one’s self in any part of it. It never was made to put a fire in, I’m sure. But there’s nothing I can do for you in my little way; is there, Mr. Tonkin? I’ve got the newest designs for furniture just arrived from town by the pack-horse as came in last Monday.”

Mr. Tonkin shook his head, and turned, towards the window.

“I hope no offence, sir,” continued Malachy; “another time, maybe, I shall be honoured with your commands, and then I can only say that your orders shall be punctually attended to by your humble servant, M. C.;” and, having delivered himself of this speech, the pushing little carpenter bowed himself backwards out of the room.