Teresa rode out of Gwithian in a black temper. Three days before, in another fit of temper, she had packed the house-girl from Bosula, bag and baggage, and she was finding it difficult to get another. For two days she had been canvassing the farms in vain, and now Gwithian had proved a blank draw. She could not herself cook, and the Bosula household was living on cold odds and ends, a diet which set the men grumbling and filled her with disgust. She pined for the good times when Martha was alive and three smoking meals came up daily as a matter of course. Despite the fact that she offered the best wages in the neighborhood, the girls would not look at her—saucy jades! Had she inquired she would have learnt that, as a mistress, she was reported too free with her tongue and fists.
Gwithian fruitless, there was nothing for it but to try Mousehole. Teresa twisted her big horse about and set off forthwith for the fishing village in the hopes of picking up some crabber’s wench who could handle a basting pan—it was still early in the morning. A cook she must get by hook or crook; Ortho was growling a great deal at his meals—her precious Ortho!
She was uneasy about her precious Ortho; his courtship of the Penaluna girl was not progressing favorably. He had not mentioned the affair, but to his doting mother all was plain as daylight. She knew perfectly well where he spent his evenings, and she knew as well as if he had told her that he was making no headway. Men successful in love do not flare like tinder at any tiny mishap, sigh and brood apart in corners, come stumbling to bed at night damning the door latches for not springing to meet their hands, the stairs for tripping them up; do not publicly, and apropos of nothing, curse all women—meaning one particular woman. Oh, no, Ortho was beating up against a head wind.
Teresa was furious with the Penaluna hussy for presuming to withstand her son. She had looked higher for Ortho than a mere farmer’s daughter; but, since the farmer’s daughter did not instantly succumb, Teresa was determined Ortho should have her—the haughty baggage!
After all Simeon owned the adjacent property and was undeniably well to do. The girl had looks of a sort (though the widow, being enormous herself, did not generally admire big women) and was reported a good housewife; that would solve the domestic difficulty. But the main thing was that Ortho wanted the chit, therefore he should have her.
Wondering how quickest this could be contrived, she turned a corner of the lane and came upon the girl in question walking into Gwithian, a basket on her arm, her blue cloak blowing in the wind.
Teresa jerked her horse up, growling, “Good morning.”
“Good morning,” Mary replied and walked past.
Teresa scowled after her and shouted, “Hold fast a minute!”
Mary turned about. “Well?”
“What whimsy tricks are you serving my boy Ortho?” said Teresa, who was nothing if not to the point.
Mary’s eyebrows rose. “What do ’e mean, ‘whimsy tricks’? I do serve en a fitty supper nigh every evening of his life and listen to his tales till . . .”
“Oh, you know what I mean well enough,” Teresa roared. “Are ’e goin’ to have him? That’s what I want to know.”
“Have who?”
“My son.”
“Which son?” The two women faced each other for a moment, the black eyes wide with surprise, the brown sparkling with amusement; then Mary dropped a quick curtsey and disappeared round the corner.
Teresa sat still for some minutes glaring after her, mouth sagging with astonishment. Then she cursed sharply; then she laughed aloud; then, catching her horse a vicious smack with the rein, she rode on. The feather-headed fool preferred Eli to Ortho! Preferred that slow-brained hunk of brawn and solemnity to Ortho, the handsome, the brilliant, the daring, the sum of manly virtues! It was too funny, too utterly ridiculous! Eli, the clod, preferred to Ortho, the diamond! The girl was raving mad, raving! Eli had visited Roswarva a good deal at one time, but not since Ortho’s return. Teresa hoped the girl was aware that Ortho was absolute owner of Bosula and that Eli had not a penny to his name—now. If she were not, Teresa determined she should not long go in ignorance.
At any rate, it could only be a question of time. Mary might still have some friendly feeling for Eli, but once she really began to know Ortho she would forget all about that. Half the women in the country would give their heads to get the romantic squire of Bosula; they went sighing after him in troops at fairs and public occasions. Yet something in the Penaluna girl’s firm jaw and steady brown eyes told Teresa that she was not easily swayed hither and thither. She wished she could get Eli out of the way for a bit.
She rode over the hill and down the steep lane into Mousehole, and there found an unwonted stir afoot.
The village was full of seamen armed with bludgeons and cutlasses, running up and down the narrow alleys in small parties, kicking the doors in and searching the houses.
The fisherwomen hung out of their windows and flung jeers and slops at them.
“Press gang,” Teresa was informed. They had landed from a frigate anchored just round the corner in Gwavas Lake and had so far caught one sound man, one epileptic and the village idiot, who was vastly pleased at having some one take notice of him at last.
A boy line fishing off Tavis Vov had seen the gang rowing in, given the alarm, and by the time the sailors arrived all the men were a quarter of a mile inland. Very amusing, eh? Teresa agreed that it was indeed most humorous, and added her shrewd taunts to those of the fishwives.
Then an idea sprang to her head. She went into the tavern and drank a pot of ale while thinking it over. When the smallest detail was complete she set out to find the officer in command.
She found him without difficulty—an elderly and dejected midshipman leaning over the slip rails, spitting into the murky waters of the harbor, and invited him very civilly to take a nip of brandy with her.
The officer accepted without question. A nip of brandy was a nip of brandy, and his stomach was out of order, consequent on his having supped off rancid pork the night before. Teresa led him to a private room in the tavern, ordered the drinks and, when they arrived, locked the door.
“Look ’e, captain,” said she, “do ’e want to make a couple of guineas?”
The midshipman’s dull glance leapt to meet hers, agleam with sudden interest, as Teresa surmised it would. She knew the type—forty years old, without influence or hope of promotion, disillusioned, shabby, hanging body and soul together on thirty shillings a month; there was little this creature would not do for two pounds down.
“What is it?” he snapped.
“I’ll give you two pounds and a good sound man—if you’ll fetch en.”
The midshipman shook his tarred hat. “Not inland; I won’t go inland.” Press gangs were not safe inland in Cornwall and he was not selling his life for forty shillings; it was a dirty life; but he still had some small affection for it.
“Who said it was inland? To a small little cove just this side of Monks Cove; you’ll know it by the waterfall that do come down over cliff there. T’eddn more’n a two-mile pull from here, just round the point.”
“Is the man there?”
“Not yet, but I’ll have en there by dusk. Do you pull your boat up on the little beach and step inside the old tinner’s adit—kind of little cave on the east side—and wait there till he comes. He’s a mighty strong man, I warn ’e, a notable wrestler in these parts, so be careful.”
“I’ll take four of my best and sand-bag him from behind,” said the midshipman, who was an expert in these matters. “Stiffens ’em, but don’t kill. Two pound ain’t enough, though.”
“It’s all you’ll get,” said Teresa.
“Four pound or nothing,” said the midshipman firmly.
They compromised at three pounds and Teresa paid cash on the spot. Ortho, the free-handed, kept her in plenty of money—so different from Eli.
The midshipman walked out of the front door, Teresa slipped out of the back and rode away. She had little fear the midshipman would fail her; he had her money, to be sure, but he would also get a bounty on Eli and part............