The Birthright

"Yes, Tamsin," I replied. "What do you know about my imprisonment?"

"I suppose you got him away?" she said to Eli, angrily, without noticing my question.

"Iss," grunted Eli; "I ded, ded'n I, Jasper?" and the dwarf laughed gleefully.

"And I meant to have done it," she said, as if musing to herself. "I have travelled a long way."

"What do you mean, Tamsin?" I asked.

She hesitated a minute, then she spoke like one in pain.

"I did my best, Jasper – believe that. But for me you would have been killed. Israel Barnicoat and others vowed it, but I persuaded father. I heard about your coming back, and I tried to find out where you had been taken. As soon as I knew I started to come. I would have set you free; I would, Jasper, I would."

My slow-thinking mind was trying to find its way to Tamsin's motives for acting thus, when she went on if possible more earnestly than before.

"She didn't care for you, Jasper; if she did, why were you imprisoned in her house?"

"Tamsin," I said, for I began to see her meaning, "do you know what is become of Naomi Penryn?"

"No," she said, sullenly.

"Tamsin," I went on, "I thank you for your goodness to me; I am glad I had a friend willing to travel so far to help me. But I am in great sorrow, Tamsin. I may tell you about it, I know; I love Naomi Penryn – love her like my own life. I have heard strange rumours about her, and my heart is very sad. I can trust you, Tamsin, I know that. Have you heard anything about her?"

She became very pale as I spoke, and I thought she would have fallen from her horse, but she recovered herself presently.

"Israel Barnicoat told me that she would not marry young Tresidder," she replied, "and that she asked to be taken to a convent until she came of age."

"Yes," I said, eagerly, "and what then?"

"I heard that she died there."

"And do you know where the convent is?"

"No; I know nothing! She is dead, that's all."

"Tamsin," I replied, "something tells me she is not dead. I have heard this again and again, and I cannot believe it. I am going to search for her until I find her."

"Why do you not believe she's dead?" she asked, like one in anger.

"I have reasons," I answered. "They are real to me, although they might not be real to you. Besides, I cannot think of her as dead. Tamsin, suppose you loved a man, would you rest upon hearsay in such a case?"

"I would search until I died," she cried. "If he were alive I would find him; if he were dead I would die too."

"Then you can feel for me," I said, "for I love Naomi Penryn. I shall love her till I die, and if she be dead, I shall want to die, too."

Then the girl gave a heartrending cry. "Don't, Jasper Pennington," she said, "don't!"

I looked around me and saw that Eli had wandered toward the Porth. I was glad for this, for I realised what her words meant.

"Tamsin Truscott," I said, "I never had a sister; will you be one to me? For I love you as truly as ever brother loved sister. Can you care for me as a sister cares for a brother?"

I said this because I wanted to be true to Naomi, and because I determined to dispel from Tamsin's mind all thoughts of me as one who could ever love her. I wanted to appeal to all that was best and truest in her, too, believing, as I have always believed, that by this means alone can we get the best that people are capable of giving.

For some minutes she seemed like one fighting a great battle, then she said quietly, "Yes, Jasper Pennington, I will do for you all that a sister would do."

"Then, Tamsin," I said, "if it should please God to let me find my love, would you befriend her?"

"Yes," she gasped.

"It seems as though she hath many enemies," I went on, "and there be many who plot against her. If I find her among friends all may be well, but if I were to find her among enemies and rescue her, I know of no place to take her where she would be safe."

For a little while Tamsin sobbed as though her heart would break; and at that time I thought it was because she pitied both me and Naomi.

Presently she said, quietly, "If you should ever find the one you mean alive, and she needs a home, take her to my aunt's at Porth Mullion. She is a good woman, my mother's sister, and hates my father's ways. She will do anything I ask her."

"What is her name?" I asked, "and how shall I find her?"

"Her name is Mary Crantock, and there are but three houses at Porth Mullion. Hers is a white house, with a wooden porch painted green. The other houses have no porches."

"And how will she know about me?"

"I will ride there to-morrow and tell her."

"And where will you go to-night?"

"I will ride to St. Columb. I have another aunt who lives there."

Then a great fear came into my heart, and, almost without thinking, I had caught hold of Tamsin's hand.

"Tamsin Truscott," I said, "you once told me you loved me. I may trust you, may I not? As God is above us, you will be true if ever I need you?"

"As surely as what I once told you is true, as surely as God is above us, you may trust me."

Then she turned her horse's head, and rode rapidly toward the St. Columb road.

Now, in describing my meeting with Tamsin, I have failed to record many things. I have not told of the many questions she asked regarding my imprisonment or my escape, nor of the answers I gave, because they do not bear directly on the history I am writing. Besides, it is difficult to remember many things after the lapse of long years. So many things were said, however, that it was nearly dark when she rode away from me.

From Mawgan Porth it is about two miles to Mawgan Church, and I was anxious to get there before night had quite come upon us. So, calling Eli to my side, we hurried across the Porth, and then went up a narrow lane, where we met a man who directed us to Mawgan Church.

A quarter of an hour later we were descending into the vale of Lanherne, and in the light of the departing day I could see the tower of the church rising from the trees among which it nestled. The sight seemed to give wings to my feet, and so fast did I go that Eli had great difficulty in keeping close to me. Eagerly did I jump across the brook that ran down the valley, after which I ran along by the churchyard wall, and a few seconds later I stood before the gray walls of Lanherne Manor House.

CHAPTER XIX

TELLS HOW I CLIMBED THE WALL OF THE MANOR HOUSE GARDEN, AND WHAT I SAW

My first impulse on seeing the house was to go boldly up to the door and ask for Naomi Penryn, but a second's reflection told me that such an act would be madness. I remembered the words of Parson Thomas. This house was the property of a man widely known and respected, and while it was given over to Papist ways and usages, I could not ask questions as though it were a public institution. My brain, slow to work as it was, told me that I must act warily, and in such a way as to arouse as little suspicion as possible. On looking back over my plan of action, however, I can see how foolish I was, and how, but for the kind providence of God, I did that which was calculated to frustrate the dearest desire of my heart.

This, however, is what I did. I waited for some few minutes in a state of indecision, then it occurred to me that I had better find an inn, so that I might leave Eli in a place of safety, and on looking round I quickly found a kiddleywink. Here I left Eli, and after telling the landlady to cook some supper, I again went back to the front of the old Manor House. Fearing to be seen, I wandered around the place, and saw that the walls around the garden were over fifteen feet high, and that from no position could I look over, except by climbing one of the huge trees that grew in the near distance. Never in my life had I realised the meaning of silence as I realised it then. Not a breath of wind stirred, and beyond the sound of the brook as it rippled down the valley, nothing was to be heard. To me it seemed like the home of the dead. "How can I discover what is behind those walls?" I asked myself, but no answer was forthcoming.

Twice did I walk around the house and gardens, and was about to go back to the inn again, when I heard the sound of singing. I listened intently, and discovered that the singers were within the Manor House, and from the number of voices and the nature of the singing, I concluded that the inmates were taking part in some religious service. I stood like one entranced, for the music was very sweet, and it seemed to my excited imagination that Naomi's voice mingled with the rest. Presently it died away, and I heard the sound of footsteps. But there was no loud voices or confusion, neither was there any laughter; all was quiet, orderly, and subdued.

The night was not dark, for the clouds which hung so heavily in the sky during the morning had been swept away, and innumerable stars shone brightly.

As I watched, I saw a man, who, from his garb, I took to be a priest. I went up to him and saw that I was right in my surmise.

"I am a stranger to these parts," I said, "and have travelled far to-day. May I ask if this is a monastery or religious house?"

"No, young man, it is not a monastery, but the house of a Catholic gentleman."

"I heard the sound of many voices just now. I thought I heard a mass being sung," I said.

"You are right, young man."

"If it had been a monastery I should have asked for shelter to-night," I said; "and from the number of voices singing mass, I concluded that it was a religious institution."

"Souls that are weary are admitted here for rest and guidance and help," he replied, "and some have passed from here to some religious home. This is by the kindness of the owner of this house. But why do you ask? Are you a Catholic? Are you, amid so much heresy, a member of the true fold?"

At this time I wished that I had prepared for a meeting with a priest, so that I might have been in a better position to have fulfilled my desires. I wished, too, that, instead of being slow to think, I had been clever to make plans, and quick to act upon them. Still, I determined to do the best I could.

"I am but a wanderer, father," I said, "and my mind hath been torn by many doubts. I have been troubled, too, about one who is very dear to me, who is of the Catholic faith, and who, I am told, found her way to a convent or a religious home, to find rest and peace. I know not where she is, and whether she has found the peace that she hoped for. I have heard that it was in this neighbourhood that she sought to find what she desired."

"Is she young or old, young man?" said the priest, looking keenly at me.

"She is young," I replied, "scarcely twenty, I should think."

"And her name?"

"Her name is Naomi Penryn," I replied; "she once lived at Trevose, close by the great headland."

I thought he gave a start, and he seemed to measure me, as though he thought of trying whether he or I was the stronger man.

"Alas!" he said, presently, "she is dead."

"Dead!" I repeated, and my heart became cold.

"Yes. She came here some time ago. She was very pale and fragile when she came. She was in sore distress, too. But she received the consolation of the Church, and died in the faith."

At this all my strength seemed to ebb away from me, and my hands became nerveless.

"How long is it since she died?" I asked.

"About three weeks ago," he replied.

"And where was she buried?"

"I would show you her grave," he replied, "but the house is not mine. I grieve to see your sorrow, but there is consolation, young man. Trouble for our young sister no longer, for she is with the blessed. I am sorry I cannot offer you food and shelter; but it is only four miles to St. Columb, and you will find accommodation there."

"But surely there is an inn here?" I suggested.

"Yes; but it is not a place you would care to stay at, and you will fare far better at St. Columb. Good-night."

Then he left me, and I went away toward the kiddleywink like one dazed. I made no pretence of eating the supper which had been prepared, neither did I speak to Eli, who looked at me pityingly; and I saw that tears dropped from his strange-looking, cross eyes, and rolled down his ugly, misshapen face.

All hope had now gone from me; I felt I had no desire to win back my own, or even to live. My life had more and more become bound up in that of Naomi Penryn, until now, when I could no longer comfort myself with the hope that she lived, nothing was of value to me.

"Eli," I said, presently, "you had better go to bed. You will need all your strength."

"Why, Maaster Jasper?"

"Because to-morrow I shall go with you back to St. Eve."

"And what then, Maaster Jasper?"

"I do not know," I said; "it does not matter what becomes of me now."

"And why, Maaster Jasper? Poor little Eli do love 'ee, love 'ee deearly."

"But my love is dead," I answered; and then I told him what the priest had told me.

His cross eyes shone brightly, and his mouth began to move just as I had seen his mother's move many times.

"I've found out things," he said, cunningly; "mawther 'ave tould me, I c'n vind out ef she's dead; ef she es, I c'n bring 'er back. Zay I shall, Maaster Jasper, 'n little Eli 'll do et."

"No," I cried, with a shudder; "Naomi, who is as pure as the angels of God, shall never be influenced by the powers of darkness."

At first I thought he was going to say some angry words, but he only fondled my hands and murmured loving words to me just as a mother murmurs to a tired or sick child.

"Poor Maaster Jasper, dear Maaster Jasper," then he went to bed, leaving me alone.

The landlady of the kiddleywink was a kind and motherly soul, and treated me with much sympathy, for she saw I was in trouble, and when I told her that I should not go to the bedroom with Eli, she prepared a bed for me on the window-seat, and left a candle burning for me.

But I could not sleep; when all the inn was quiet I went out into the night, and wandered around the old Manor House like a man bereft of his senses, as indeed I was. I found my way into the churchyard, and roamed among the grave-stones, wondering all the time where Naomi's grave was, and why the death of one who possessed so much property was so little thought of. Perhaps I stayed here two hours, and all the time I grew more and more fearful. It seemed to me that the dead were arising from their graves and denouncing me for disturbing them, while all around me evil things crawled, and mocked me in my sorrow. I thought I saw men and women, long dead, haunting the graves in which other bodies lay, and I fancied I heard them pleading to God to hasten the resurrection day. These and many more phantoms appeared to me until, with a cry of anguish, I rushed back to the kiddleywink again. The night had become clear, and the moon, which was half full, caused the church-tower and the Manor House to appear very plainly, and as I lay on the window-seat I could see both.

Toward morning I began to grow less fearful, although a great pain still gnawed at my heart. I remember, too, that I was making up my mind that when daylight came I would seek the priest to whom I had spoken, and ask him to show me Naomi's grave, when I heard a sobbing wail that seemed to come from a heart as broken and bleeding as my own.

I started up and listened for some seconds, but all was silent.

"Was I dreaming?" I asked myself, "or are the spirits of the dead come back?"

Scarcely had the thought passed my mind when I heard another cry, more piteous, if possible, than the other.

"Jasper, Jasper, my love, Jasper!" I heard. "Can you not deliver me?"

The cry was very real, and it had no suggestion of the grave. It was the voice of some one living.

"My God!" I cried; "it is Naomi!"

I looked at my watch; it was six o'clock, and thus wanted two hours to daybreak. Hurriedly I left the inn and went out again. A rimy frost had come upon every twig and bush and tree, and in the light of the moon the ice crystals sparkled as though the spirits had scattered myriads of precious stones everywhere. But I thought not of this. I made my way toward the spot from which I thought I had heard the sound come, and then listened intently. All was silent as death.

Near me was a tall tree. I made a leap at its lowest branches, and a few seconds later was fifteen or twenty feet from the ground. From this position I saw the whole garden. I looked long and steadily, but could discern nothing of importance. I continued to strain my ears to listen, but all was silent save the rippling of the brook that wended its way down the valley, and which seemed to deride me in my helplessness.

"It was all fancy," I said, bitterly – "all fancy; or perhaps I am mad."

I prepared to get down from the tree when I heard a sound like sobbing not thirty yards from me.

My heart thumped so loud that I could detect no words, but not so loud as to keep me from locating the sound. Yes, it came from a little house used as a summer bower. Instantly my mind was made up. I had no patience to consider whether my determination was wise or foolish. I madly dreamed that Naomi was near crying for my help. Else why should I hear my own name, or why should I think it was the voice of my love?

In another second I had leapt from the tree, and then ran along by the wall until I came close to the place where the bower had been placed.

I listened again. Yes, I heard sobs – sobs which came from a breaking heart!

The wall was, as I said, from fifteen to twenty feet high, but this did not deter me. I caught hold of an ivy branch, and by its aid sought to climb, but at the first pull I had torn it away. So there was nothing for me but to stick my fingers into the masonry and climb as best I could. How I managed I know not, but in a few seconds I had accomplished my purpose.

"Naomi!" I whispered, but I heard no answer.

I waited a few seconds and spoke again: "Naomi, my love," I said, "it is Jasper."

At that I heard a movement from within the bower, and then I saw some one come into the garden. It was a woman. I saw her look eagerly around, like one afraid. Then her face was turned toward me. It was my love!

"Naomi," I said, "do not be afraid; it is Jasper – Jasper Pennington comes to set you free."

Then she saw me and gave a glad cry.

"Jasper, Jasper!" she cried; "not dead!"

A few seconds later I had descended and stood in the garden, my heart swelling with joy until it seemed too large for my bosom. I came close to her, and then my confidence departed. All my old doubts came back to me. Joyful as I was at the thought that she was alive, I could not believe that she cared for me. How could she when I was so unworthy?

The moon shone brightly on the garden, while the rimy frost, reflecting its light, dispelled the darkness, and thus I was able to see the face of my love and the flash of her eyes. I seemed close to the gates of heaven, and yet I felt as though they were closed against me.

I stood still. "Naomi," I said, "forgive me. You know who I am – Jasper Pennington."

Then she came toward me, and I heard her sobbing again. Then I, anxious not to frighten her, went on talking.

"Naomi," I continued, "you are in trouble, and I fear that you have enemies. I have tried to make you feel my protection in the past, but I have been unable. But I have come to help you now, if you will let me."

All this I said like one repeating a lesson, and I said it badly, too, for I am not one who can speak easily. But when I had spoken so far a weight seemed removed from me, and my heart burned as though great fires were within my bosom.

"My love, my life!" I cried, "will you not come to me? I will give my life for yours."

Then I opened my arms, and she came to me, not slowly and timidly, but with a glad bound, and, as though leaning her head upon me, she found joy and rest and safety.

Ay, and she did find safety, too, for it would have gone ill with any man, ay, with many men, if they had come to harm her then. The lifeblood of ten strong men surged within me, and the touch of her little hand gave me more strength than the touch of magic wands which we are told were potent in far-off times. I felt as though I could do battle with an army, and come off more than conqueror. Besides, the first words she spoke to me, telling as they did of her helplessness and her dependence on me, were sweeter than the music of many waters.

"Jasper," she said, "I have many enemies – I who never harmed any one – and I have no one to help me but you."

Ah! but she had me – she had me! I know this seems like boasting, especially when I remember that I had been the easy dupe of the Tresidders, and that they had foiled me in every attempt I had made against them in the past. But her love made me wiser, and though, thank God, I have never been a coward, her presence made me many times braver. Besides, I felt I could protect her, that I could save her from the fear of her enemies, for I loved her – loved her a thousand times more than can be expressed in cold words on paper; and let who will say otherwise, the unsullied love of an honest heart is of more value than great riches.

All the time I longed to ask her many questions. I wanted her to tell me all her trouble, but there were other things I wanted to know more. I wanted her to tell me what I had told her.

But she did not speak further; she only sobbed as though her heart were breaking, until I, awkward and fearful, and knowing nothing of the ways of women, was afraid lest I had frightened her, or had in some way caused her pain.

"Naomi, my little maid," I said, "have I done anything to frighten you? I could not help coming to find you, for I could not believe what I have heard. I have not angered you, have I?"

"No, no," she said with a sob, "only they made me believe you were dead!"

"And did you care? – you who were so coy, and who, when you knew my heart was hungering for you, would tell me nothing!"

I will not tell you what she said. Only God and myself heard her words, and they are sacred to me. They have been my inspiration and my joy in lonely hours, they have nerved my arm in time of peril and danger. They opened the gates of heaven to me, and filled my life with sunshine. So great is the power which God hath given to woman!

She nestled her head on my bosom as she told me what my heart had been hungering to know, and for the time we forgot our surroundings – forgot everything save our own happiness. The morning, which slowly dawned, we did not heed, neither did we notice that the silvery light of the moon died away. The cold was nothing to us, the bower in which we sat was indeed a place of warmth and beauty and sunshine. No sadness was there, for each welcomed the other as one come back from the gates of death. We rejoiced in life and youth and love.

And yet we said nothing to each other with regard to our experiences in the past, or our fears for the future. In those blissful minutes we only lived in the present, regardless of all things, save that we were near each other.

Thus it was that Naomi Penryn and I, Jasper Pennington, became betrothed.

I think the realisation of our position came to each of us at the same moment, for just as the thought of our danger flashed through my mind Naomi tore herself from me.

"Jasper, Jasper," she cried, "you must not stay here longer. You are in danger here, and if we are seen together – " She did not finish the sentence, but looked eagerly, anxiously around.

Then I blamed myself for not acting differently, but only for a moment. We had been only a few minutes together, and even if the direst calamity befell us, I should rejoice that we had spent that blissful time together, living only in the joy of love.

"I must go back to the house now," she said, hurriedly. "I shall soon be missed, and searched for."

"No; do not go back," I said. "I can climb the wall and take you away. Let us leave now."

"It would be no use now, Jasper," she said. "I should be followed and brought back."

"Why?" I asked.

"There is not time to tell you now," she said; "if you were known to be here you would never escape alive. Oh, Jasper, I am beset with danger; I have almost died in my sorrow."

"What time will your absence be discovered?" I asked.

"We are supposed to attend mass at seven o'clock," she said.