TRESCOBELL.

New Zealand Herald, Volume LXVIII, Issue 20988, 26 September 1931, Page 14 (Supplement)

TRESCOBELL.

By JOSEPH HOCKING.

A ROMANTIC MYSTERY.

CHAPTER I. WHY I WENT JO TKESCOBELIj. On what little happenings do the issues ''Of lifo rest! It was only a letter from a child, an unknown child, about, the most Common, place things, which altered the whoje course of my existence and led to happenings which, to say the least of them, were 'Startling and far-reaching. -• • But perhaps I had better explain. My name is Benjamin St. Hilary, and I come of an old West Country family. Both my father and mother died while I was but a child, leaving me to the care of my Dncle Gideon who was, and is, at the head of a big shipping company, and ;who I believe is a rich man. My father and "mother married somewhat late in life, and I was their only child. Neither of them was blessed, or cursed, with much of this world's riches, and when my father's affairs were settled soon after his death, there was, as my uncle more than once informed me, only 'just enough left to send me to a good public school, and set me up in life. " Why your father should have stipulated that you should be sent to Harrow, and to his old college at Oxford beats me," grumbled my uncle when at length I was old enough to go away to school, " but he was always unpractical, and never knew the value of money." After I had taken a fairly good degree at the University my uncle took me into his business, telling me that there were brilliant opportunities for a young man with, grit and energy and who was willing to work. But I disappointed him. Life in an office was nothing less than purgatory to me, while I showed not the slightest aptitude for the business on which he was engaged. The truth was, that, like my father, I was a dreamy, unpractical sort of fellow, and loved to spend my timo in the world of fancy rather than that of fact. The consequence was that by the time I was twenty-three my uncle would have no more to do with me. " You are no good tq me," he told mo plainly, " and although you are my nephew I am not going to bother myself about you. You have three hundred a year,' so you'won't starve; the best thing you can do, therefore, is to follow the bent of your own inclinations, and fritter away your time according to your fancy." I must, do justice to my uncle, however. He told me that if ever I grew ashamed of myself, and was prepared to settle down to hard work, to let him know and he would see what he could do for me. Please do not think from this that I was either idle or vicious. I was not. For that matter, I was often called a pattern boy, and was not guilty of the vices often attributed to young men. But I had no business instincts, and my chief delights were to wander in the by-ways of literature and to tell the dreams and fancies which came to me in poem and in story. My uncle's dismissal did me good, however. Hitherto, even when I was engaged in the occupation which I most loved, I ■worked in a desultory kind of way without either aim of purpose; but my uncle's action had the effect of- arousing within me, not only my dormant ambitions, but , a determination to " make good " in the calling for which I felt myself fitted. "Hang it all!" I exclaimed as I left my uncle's presence, " I'll let him know that I am neither a money grub nor a business hack; but neither am I a fool Bor a wastrel." I imagine that nature has endowed me with the story-telling instinct. VAnyhow, within two years of leaving my uncle's office I finished a novel which I had the temerity to send to a publisher. Strange as it may seem, my book was accepted .within a fortnight of my submitting it.* and for several days afterwards I walked on air. My dreams-were realised. I had not only written a book, but that book had been accepted by a highly reputable firm of publishers. I had found my true .vocation, and all my difficulties vanished even as the mists of a June morning vanish with the rising of the sun in a cloudless sky. Of course my book would be a success, and I should soon be the talk of the literary world. But alas it was not so! It was true my effusion was praised by certain reviewers, but when at the end of a few months the sales were made known to me I had cold ieet with a vengeance. Still, I would not be dismayed by thecomparative failure of one book, and I struggled on. I dreaded the idea of going back to my uncle with a tale of nonsuccess, and although ray effort, had brought me practically no money, hope rose triumphant. • I must at this point mention my publisher's generosity too. Although from their point of view my book had fallen flat, ( and could have barely paid its way, they had faith in me; and during the-next four years they issued two other books which I submitted to them. "You have not struck oil yet, Mr. St. Hilary," one of them informed me after my third book failed to satisfy my ambitions, " but I think it will pay its way; so if you are determined to fight on we will stand by you." And I did fight on, although despair was beginning to get hold of me. Of course, but for the three hundred a year which my father had left me I should not have been able to live, and my dreams of becoming famous by my pen were each day seeming less likely to be realised. " Yes, we will take it," said Mr. Belmont, the junior partner of the firm to which I had submitted my fourth book, • but if this does no better than the others I am afraid it will be the last as far as we are concerned. ' You see, a. publishing house is net a philanthropic concern, and although in 3 way it has been a pleasure to issue your books, we cannot keep doing so at a loss. Indeed, I may tell you this," and he became confidential. " But for me the firm would have given yon up years ago. You sse, in spite of your failure I have believed in you, and I nope this may prove success." Three months later I was in the depths of despair. The book, on which I had laboured so hard, and on which I had bestowed the best powers I possessed, notonly failed to arouse public interest, but it was less a success than the. first I had written; while worse than that, the partner to whom I owed past favours as good as told me that the other members of the firm' would nut, unless there was some striking alteration in rnv work, consider anything more from my pert. Of course I tried to comfort myself, f reflected that there were other firms of publishers who might not only take my work, hut who would do far belter for irie than Messrs. Quill and Steel, who had hitherto been the medium through which I had tried to give my effusions to the world. But this did not satisfy me. I. knew that Belmont, the junior partner of whom I havo spoken, had taken infinite trouble to give, my novels a chance, so that if he failed I did not sec how others would he more successful. And this was I not the worst I could not explain why. except that, constant failure dries tip the fount of invention, hut ever since 1 had finished •my last book, my- mind seemed" a blank; nothing came to me. ' I did my best to whip my dormant faculties into » something like life, but in vain.- 1 think it was J7 M. Barrie who described himself at one." period of his literary life as an empty ink bottle; my condition was worse than that Try as I would, think as I would, struggle as I would, nothing came to me. A great dread laid hold of me. Was it to be that after all'l was to go back to my uncle and confess myself a failure? More than once during the years since I had left, him had he chaffed me on my non-success, and had suggested to me that I should return to him and settle nown to something useful. Should I, after all my boastings, havo to return to tho drudgery of an office.

Author of " Nancy Trevanion's Legacy," "Andrey Boconnoc's Will," etc., etc.

One morning while I was in this state of mind, -the wornaiv. whose rooms 1., occupied in this neighbourhood of Bloomsbury, knocked at my door, and announced that a gentleman wished to see me. " Show him.in, will you? " I requested, A few seconds later piy uncle entered the room. • " Well, Ben, how are things going with you ? " he greeted me. I tried to speak cheerfully, but could not. " How are your books going ? " he persisted. 1 tried to answer evasively, and then asked his reason for calling. " I am afraid 1 have bad news to teli you," he informed me presently. "As you know, the little money your father possessed was invested in what he thought safe six per cein securities; as a consequence, your three hundred a year has come to you as regularly as the seasons. I am sorry to say, however, that owning to unthought-of circumstances, that six per cent. is.llo longer a certainty; indeed, you will do well if you get half or even a quarter or! that amount." I need not, enter into details of what he told me afterwards; enough to say that at the end of the interview I came to the conclusion that I was wellnigh penniless. " Don't be too downhearted. Ben." My uncle tried to comfort me when he saw how depressed I was. " Remember that you arc my nephew, and if you are prepared to work 1 will find you ji place in my office. I cannot offer you a large salary, but I will give you enough to keep you from starving." " Thank you, uncle, but I think I would rather starve!" " What, than earn a living in an honourable business? " " I am not cut/ out for business,"* I replied. "In fact," 1 added dolefully, " 1 am not cut out for anything." Directly my uncle had gone 1 made my way to my publishers. As I have said, Mr. Belmont had always tried to be friendly to me, and I hoped that he might have news to cheer me. But he hadn't. The book market was poor, he told me, while my last effusion had practically died at its birth. ' As may bs imagined, Belmont gave me but little comfort, and when at length I returned to my lodgings I was as much in the dark as ever us.to what my future was to be. Then carre the letter which I mentioned at the beginning of this narrative, and which, unimportant as it seemed to be, led to the events I have to describe. It came en the morning following my uncle's visit, and as it happened was the only one I received that day. It w^s in an unformed childish handwriting; the spelling was not impeccable, the grammar was faulty, while the punctuation was anything but what it ought to be: and vet it interested me. It ran as follows: Dear Mr. St. Hilary,—l am a perfect stranger to you. and I hope you will forgive me for writing this, lint I can't help it because you seem a real dear friend of ours. 1 say ours because we read your hooks, especially mother and myself. We have just finished "The Vision and the Reality," and we enjoyed it so; and we could not help talking about you and wishing we could see you. Really you must b-j a very clever man to write such good books, and so very, very interesting. Oh! Mr. fit. Hilary will you forgive me for writing to 'you. Of course I know you are very busy in writing more books and thinking tha': I hardly expect you to write to me as I :im a perfect stranger, and just a mere child at that. Please, Mr. St. Hilary, forgive me for.asking you, but have you ever been to Trescobell, in Cornwall? Mother's people came from there, and she says it is a lovely place. I should like to know what you think about it, because mother says it is the most romantic place in the world. -s There was a lot more, but I need not repeat 'it here. Suffice it to say that after repeated requests that I would forgive her for writing, and expression of hopes that I would answer her letter, she signed herself Your little friend, Mary Prynne. On turning to the heading of this epistle 1 saw that it came from South Africa, and I judged from the quality of the paper that the child must be well circumstanced. There was something in it which suggested refinement, too, and before long 1 found myself weaving - fancies about little Mary Prynne in her South African home. 4 Acting upon sudden impulse, I went to my desk, and wrote her a long letter. The fact that she had read my books'and had evident!/ enjoyed them led me to do this; anyhow, I wrote just as an elder brother might- write to a little sister; and concluded by saying that I hoped she would send another letter together with her photograph, so that I might know what she was like. Yes, little Maiy Prynne did me good. The perusal of her childish letter somewhat aroused my dormant faculties; my brain was less sluggish, and my imagination began to live. I turned again to that part of her letter in which she had asked me whether I had ever been to Trescobell. " Mother says," she had said, " that, it is the most romantic place in the world." , Upon this I began ,to try to picture. Trescobell, and to wonder what it was, like. I had never heard of the place before; never dreamt of its existence. . . 1 went back to my book-shelves, and took down a large volume on Cornwall. Ido not remember having ever s opened the book before, but it had been left me among my father's other possessions, and I had guarded it jealously. It was au abridged history of the various parishes in the county, and made special mention of old West Country families. Before long I happened upon Trescobell, and eagerly devoured what had been written. It came to me suddenly. There seemed no reason why it- should, but it was as plain as if a voice had spoken close to my ear. Go to Trescobell at once. I started to mv feet, and began to pace the room excitedly. Go to Trescobell! Of course the idea was pure madness. Trescobell was out of the world; it, was a dead-and-alive village in the wilds of Cornwall, 't wa» nearly three hundred ! miles from London; it was away from all centres of life and activity. Still, the thought persisted in my "mind. I reflected that as the income from my father's limited estate would probably soon fall t.o zero and as the money 1 had been able to save since I left my uncle's office was anything but a large sum, 1 should not be able to afford to continue living in London. I called to mind what I paid Mrs. Higgms, my landlady, for my rooms, and felt sure that I could obtain accommodation in Cornwall for a quarter of the. sum. Living would be cheaper, too, and "my general expenses not nearly so heavy. An hour later I had paid my landlady a week's rent ir> heu of notice, and was feverishly packing my belongings. . That same night 1 found myself at Paddington Station entering a train bound for Cornwall. 1 shall never- forget the morning, on which I arrived It was, 1 remember, at. the end >of April, .audi the whole country-side was beginning to hurst into green. The station at- which 1 alighted was several miles from the place 1 liad in my mind, so I hired a primitive conveyance from an old .man who I'ejoiced in the name of Jeremiah Cowling, who assured me " that ef the Lord spared'n he would get nie to Trescobell sdfe' and sound." During the early part of our journey Jeremiah was • reticent and seemed undesirous of speech I noticed, however, that .he looked at me keenly, and seemed to be trying to estimate my social standing. Let me say here that although I bear an old West Country name, and am descended from an old West Country family,» this was my first visit to Cornwall. I always spoke of myself as of Cornish descent, and was always proud to fee], as far as blood and lineage went, that J belonged to the most historic, and the most romantic county in the country. Why I had never visited it I cannot tell, yet s'o it was. This morning, however,! sitting in a, primitive spring trap by the 1 side of an old Cornishman who told me j that he had never been to London but

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once, " and dedn't want, to go agen," I felt, akin to my surroundings. Ido not know how it was,' but "a new spirit seemed to enter my life. Presently, I found myself on a high piece of moorland through which the road on which we travelled ran, and soon after the trap began to descend into a valley. " Stop a minute," I exclaimed, " I must, look at this!" Jeremiah stopped his horse without a word while I gazed down the valley we presently descended. " That's Trescobell," Jeremiah informed me as he pointed to village which nestled among the trees about a mile away " Purty ed'na ? " "It's lovely!" I cried. . » "That ed'n the say," lie remarked, pointing to a sheet of water. ' " That es, tedn't the say proper; it's only an arm of it which do come in 'ere. That's the river 'Soobell which d'run into it," and he nodded toward a stream which trickled down the hillside. " Do you know why the village is called Trescobell ?" T asked: " Because of Lord Trescobell, I sponse." "Is there a Lord Trescobell . there now?" " No, not now, but there used to be. There is a funny s]tory about 'ee," he added, " but I dunnaw the rights of it myself. Where must I take 'ee to when we get to Trescobell ?" he asked suddenly. " I don't know," I replied; and then for the first time I realised that I had made no preparation!: for coming, and I had not the slightest idea where I should find accommodation. " There's a hotel there, I suppose ?" I queried. " There's a sort of kiddlywink," he replied, " but not what you would call a hotel. Nothing like a gentleman like you would want to stay at." " But surely there is a house where I can get lodgings?" " Do you mean to say," asked Jeremiah, " that you 'av come all the way from London down 'ere without knowing where you be going ?" ' I did not know I was coming until yesterday," 1 explained. Jeremiah seemed to be in deep thought for a few tieconds, then ho exclaimed aloud: " I reekon I can do fer 'ee," and without another word he drove down the steep hill toward the village. I fell in love with Trescobell the moment I entered it. I thought I had seen many pretty villages in my wanderings around England and the Continent, but never before had I seen one which appealed to me so much. It was situated near the bottom of the valley of which I have spoken, and was close to the arm of the sea which I had seen from the hill-top. In all, there were perhaps thirty houses clustered together, and built higgledy-piggledy without a suggestion of design; they formed the most perfect picture I had ever seen. Eariy spring though it was, many of the bouses could barely be seen owing to the dense foliage which grew everywhere. It was true the trees were not yet in leaf, but such shrubs as veronica, eschalonia, laurels, and a dozen others of which I do not even pretend to know the names, grew in such profusion that many of the cottages were well-night hidden. On the other side of the valley was one of the most beautiful places it had ever been my lot to see, and yet the sight saddened me. It was a lovely old house in ruins " I thought you would take notice of that'," remarked Jeremiah. " What is it ? Who does it belong to ?" I asked. " It ded belong to Lord Trescobell who was the 'ead of the great Trescobell family, but they all be dead now; and so it do'ant belong to nobody.; at laist that's what I've 'card; but I be'ant a Trescobell man although I used to come 'ere courtin' thirty years agone, but I never knawed the rights • and wrongs of the. thing, so to speak. But Emily will know." "Emily! Who's Emily?" " Why, my wife's sifter, and she d'live in the 'ouse where I be going to take 'ee. Emily is a widda, she'e bin a widda now for seven . years come/next Michaelmas; but she's got a nice 'ouse, and she'll take 'ee in for a lodger." I don't know why it was, but although a few minutes before I had been greatly interested in the lodgings which Jeremiah said he would find for me, that interest had all evaporated. The old ruins which 1 could see 011 the slope of the hill had so gripped my imagination that anything like lodgings, or who was going to " do for me," to use Jeremiah's vernacular, held no interest for me. " You say that the Trescobell family have died out?" I persisted, " but someone must own that place. Who owns it?" " I tell 'ee I do'ant knaw, but Emily will knaw everything, she's a weliinformed woman, she is. Come with me, and I will take 'ee up to 'er "ouse." A minute later I followed him up a kind of shrub-boarded passage, at the end of which a gateway opened up a tiny garden from which I could see the cottage where I imagined Jeremiah's sister-in-law lived. " This is >'t," he informed me. ''will it do?" " It's a hft. of Arcadia," I replied. " Bit of Arcadia, es it ? Well. I do'ant know what that is. Anyhow, this is where Emily, my wife's sister, d'live. Boundy she's called. Her man was called Peter Boundy." Jeremiah, without knocking, opened the door, and called aloud. " Emily, my. dear." "Who's that?" It was a woman's voice 1 heard. " tome 'ere and you will soon see."' A few seconds later I'saw a buxom, com-fortable-looking woman coming down the stairway. " Why, my dear life! it's Jeremiah ! she exclaimed. "Who 'av 'ee got there?" " I've brought 'ee a lodger, my dear. C'ii 'ee find room for'ii ?" The woman looked at irie appraisinglv. She might have been trying to make up her mind as to whether she would care to have me in her house. " I don't, know," she replied slowly like one ir: doubt. " Why do'ant 'ee know ?" asked Jeremiah. • " Well," replied the woman, " my two best rooms are bespoke. I got a letter only two days ago." I must, confess that the woman's words terribly disappointed me. From where I was standing I could see into what I afterwards learnt was called her best, parlour, and a more inviting room I have seldom seen. Spotlessly clean, and furnished.just as a cottage parlour should be furnished, it appealed to me strongly; while everything about the house was just what my heart craved for. " I promise you 1 wouldn't be a bad lodger, Mrs. Boundy," I said, " and I don't think I should give you much trouble." It isn't that, sir," replied the woman with a pleasant smile. "How long will you want the rooms for?" she added. " I don't know," I replied. " At present I feel I would like to live in Trescobell for ever," '' I could take you in for three months," she said hesitatingly. " That was the lirrie the young lady said." " Young lady ?" I queried. " A young lady from South Africa. She said she was coming to England in three months' - time, and bespoke my rooms." " A young lady from South Africa," I repeated as I thought of the letter which had brought me to Trescobell. " What part .of South Africa ? What is her name?" \ "I have forgotten tho name of the place, sir, but I" used to know her mother very well. She and I were maidens together and her daughter wants to come here." "What's the name of her d.iughtW?" 1 asked a little eagerly. " Mary Prynne," . she replied. >• (To be continued 011 Saturday next.)