CHAPTER ELEVEN.
SHOWS THAT MUSIC HATH CHARMS, AND ALSO THAT IT SOMETIMES HASDISADVANTAGES.
One morning, not long after his arrival at St. Just, the young doctorwent out to make a round of professional visits. He had on his way topass the cottage of his uncle, which stood a little apart from the chiefsquare or triangle of the town, and had a small piece of ground infront. Here Rose was wont to cultivate her namesakes, and otherflowers, with her own fair hands, and here Mr Thomas Donnithornerefreshed himself each evening with a pipe of tobacco, the flavour ofwhich was inexpressibly enhanced to him by the knowledge that it hadbeen smuggled.
He was in the habit of washing the taste of the same away each night,before retiring to rest, with a glass of brandy and water, hot, whichwas likewise improved in flavour by the same interesting association.
The windows of the cottage were wide open, for no Atlantic fog dimmedthe glory of the summer sun that morning, and the light air that came upfrom the mighty sea was fresh and agreeably cool.
As Oliver approached the end of the cottage he observed that Rose wasnot at her accustomed work in the garden, and he was about to pass thedoor when the tones of a guitar struck his ear and arrested his step.He was surprised, for at that period the instrument was not much used,and the out-of-the-way town of St. Just was naturally the last place inthe land where he would have expected to meet with one. No air wasplayed--only a few chords were lightly touched by fingers which wereevidently expert. Presently a female voice was heard to sing in richcontralto tones. The air was extremely simple, and very beautiful--atleast, so thought Oliver, as he leaned against a wall and listened tothe words. These, also, were simple enough, but sounded both sweet andsensible to the listener, coming as they did from a woman's lips sotunefully, and sounding the praises of the sea, of which he waspassionately fond:--
SONG.
"I love the land where acres broad Are clothed in yellow grain; Where cot of thrall and lordly hall Lie scattered o'er the plain. Oh! I have trod the velvet sod Beneath the beechwood tree; And roamed the brake by stream and lake Where peace and plenty be. But more than plain, Or rich domain, I love the bright blue sea!
"I love the land where bracken grows And heath-clad mountains rise; Where peaks still fringed with winter snows Tower in the summer skies. Oh! I have seen the red and green Of fir and rowan tree, And heard the din of flooded linn, With bleating on the lea. But better still Than heath-clad hill I love the stormy sea!"
The air ceased, and Oliver, stepping in at the open door, found RoseEllis with a Spanish guitar resting on her knee. She neither blushednor started up nor looked confused--which was, of course, very strangeof her in the circumstances, seeing that she is the heroine of thistale--but, rising with a smile on her pretty mouth, shook hands with theyouth.
"Why, cousin," said Oliver, "I had no idea you could sing socharmingly."
"I am fond of singing," said Rose.
"So am I, especially when I hear such singing as yours; and the song,too--I like it much, for it praises the sea. Where did you pick it up?"
"I got it from the composer, a young midshipman," said Rose sadly; atthe same time a slight blush tinged her brow.
Oliver felt a peculiar sensation which he could not account for, and wasabout to make further inquiries into the authorship of the song, when itoccurred to him that this would be impolite, and might be awkward, so heasked instead how she had become possessed of so fine a guitar. Beforeshe could reply Mr Donnithorne entered.
"How d'ee do, Oliver lad; going your rounds--eh?--Come, Rose, let's havebreakfast, lass, you were not wont to be behind with it. I'll be boundthis gay gallant--this hedge-jumper with his eyes shut--has beenpraising your voice and puffing up your heart, but don't believe him,Rose; it's the fashion of these fellows to tell lies on such matters."
"You do me injustice, uncle," said Oliver with a laugh; "but even if itwere true that I am addicted to falsehood in praising women, it wereimpossible, in the present instance, to give way to my propensity, forTruth herself would find it difficult to select an expressionsufficiently appropriate to apply to the beautiful voice of Rose Ellis!"
"Hey-day, young man," exclaimed Mr Donnithorne, as he carefully filledhis pipe with precious weed, "your oratorical powers are uncommon!Surely thy talents had been better bestowed in the Church or at the Barthan in the sickroom or the hospital. Demosthenes himself would havepaled before thee, lad--though, if truth must be told, there is a dashmore sound than sense in thine eloquence."
"Sense, uncle! Surely your own good sense must compel you to admit thatRose sings splendidly?"
"Well, I won't gainsay it," replied Mr Donnithorne, "now that Rose hasleft the room, for I don't much care to bespatter folk with too muchpraise to their faces. The child has indeed a sweet pipe of her own.By the way, you were asking about her guitar when I came in; I'll tellyou about that.
"Its history is somewhat curious," said Mr Donnithorne, passing hisfingers through the bunch of gay ribbons that hung from the head of theinstrument. "You have heard, I dare say, of the burning of Penzance bythe Spaniards more than two hundred years ago; in the year 1595, I thinkit was?"
"I have," answered Oliver, "but I know nothing beyond the fact that suchan event took place. I should like to hear the details of itexceedingly."
"Well," continued the old gentleman, "our country was, as you know, atwar with Spain at the time; but it no more entered into the heads ofCornishmen that the Spaniards would dare to land on our shores than thatthe giants would rise from their graves. There was, indeed, an oldprediction that such an event would happen, but the prediction waseither forgotten or not believed, so that when several Spanish galleyssuddenly made their appearance in Mounts Bay, and landed about twohundred men near Mousehole, the inhabitants were taken by surprise.Before they could arm and defend themselves, the Spaniards effected alanding, began to devastate the country, and set fire to the adjacenthouses.
"It is false," continued the old man sternly, "to say, as has been saidby some, that the men of Mousehole were seized with panic, and thatthose of Newlyn and Penzance deserted their houses terror-stricken. Thetruth is, that the suddenness of the attack, and their unpreparedcondition to repel it, threw the people into temporary confusion, andforced them to retreat, as, all history shows us, the best and bravestwill do at times. In Mousehole, the principal inhabitant was killed bya cannon-ball, so that, deprived of their leading spirit at the criticalmoment when a leader was necessary, it is no wonder that at _first_ thefishermen were driven back by well-armed men trained to act in concert.To fire the houses was the work of a few minutes. The Spaniards thenrushed on to Newlyn and Penzance, and fired these places also, afterwhich they returned to their ships, intending to land the next day andrenew their work of destruction.
"But that night was well spent by the enraged townsmen. They organisedthemselves as well as they could in the circumstances, and, when daycame, attacked the Spaniards with guns and bows, and that soeffectively, that the Dons were glad to hoist their sails and run out ofthe bay.
"Well, you must know there was one of the Spaniards, who, it has beensaid, either from bravado, or vanity, or a desire to insult the English,or from all three motives together, brought a guitar on shore with himat Mousehole, and sang and played to his comrades while they wereburning the houses. This man left his guitar with those who were leftto guard the boats, and accompanied the others to Penzance. On hisreturn he again took his guitar, and, going up to a high point of thecliff, so that he might be seen by his companions and heard by any ofthe English who chanced to be in hiding near the place, sang severalsongs of defiance at the top of his voice, and even went the length ofperforming a Spanish dance, to the great amusement of his comradesbelow, who were embarking in their boats.
"While the half-crazed Spaniard was going on thus he little knew that,not three yards distant from him, a gigantic Mousehole fisherman, whowent by the name of Gurnet, lay concealed among some l
ow bushes,watching his proceedings with an expression of anger on his big sterncountenance. When the boats were nearly ready to start the Spaniarddescended from the rocky ledge on which he had been performing,intending to rejoin his comrades. He had to pass round the bush whereGurnet lay concealed, and in doing so was for a few seconds hid from hiscomrades, who immediately forgot him in the bustle of departure, or, ifthey thought of him at all, each boat's crew imagined, no doubt, that hewas with one of the others.
"But he never reached the boats. As he passed the bush Gurnet sprang onhim like a tiger and seized him round the throat with both hands,choking a shout that was coming up, and causing his eyes to start almostout of his head. Without uttering a word, and only giving now and thena terrible hiss through his clenched teeth, Gurnet pushed the Spaniardbefore him, keeping carefully out of sight of the beach, and holding himfast by the nape of the neck, so that when he perceived the slightestsymptom of a tendency to cry out he had only to press his strong fingersand effectually nip it in the bud.
"He led him to a secluded place among the rocks, far beyond earshot ofthe shore, and there, setting him free, pointed to a flat rock and tohis guitar, and hissed, rather than said, in tones that could neither bemisunderstood nor gainsaid--
"`There, dance and sing, will 'ee, till 'ee bu'st!'
"Gurnet clenched his huge fist as he spoke, and, as the Spaniard grewpale, and hesitated, he shook it close to his face--so close that hetapped the prominent bridge of the man's nose, and hissed again, morefiercely than before--
"`Ye haaf saved bucca, ye mazed totle, that can only frighten women an'child'n, an burn housen; thee'rt fond o' singin' an' dancin'--dance now,will 'ee, ye gurt bufflehead, or ef ye waant I'll scat thee head injowds, an' send 'ee scrougin' over cliffs, I will.'"
In justice to the narrator it is right to say that these words are notso bad as they sound.
"The fisherman's look and action were so terrible whilst he poured forthhis wrath, which was kept alive by the thought of the smouldering embersof his own cottage, that the Spaniard could not but obey. With aludicrous compound of fun and terror he began to dance and sing, orrather to leap and wail, while Gurnet stood before him with a look ofgrim ferocity that never for a moment relaxed.
"Whenever the Spaniard stopped from exhaustion Gurnet shouted `Go on,'in a voice of thunder, and the poor man, being thoroughly terrified,went on until he fell to the ground incapable of further exertion.
"Up to this point Gurnet had kept saying to himself, `He is fond o'dancin' an' singin', let un have it, then,' but when the poor man fellhis heart relented. He picked him up, threw him across his shoulder asif he had been a bolster, and bore him away. At first the men of theplace wanted to hang him on the spot, but Gurnet claimed him as hisprisoner, and would not allow this. He gave him his liberty, and thepoor wretch maintained himself for many a day as a wandering minstrel.At last he managed to get on board of a Spanish vessel, and was nevermore heard of, but he left his guitar behind him. It was picked up onthe shore, where he left it, probably, in his haste to get away.
"The truth of this story, of course, I cannot vouch for," concluded MrDonnithorne, with a smile, "but I have told it to you as nearly aspossible in the words in which I have often heard my grandfather giveit--and as for the guitar, why, here it is, having been sold to me by adescendant of the man who found it on the seashore."
"A wonderful story indeed," said Oliver--"_if true_."
"The guitar you must admit is at least a fact," said the old gentleman.
Oliver not only admitted this, but said it was a sweet-sounding fact,and was proceeding to comment further on the subject when MrDonnithorne interrupted him--
"By the way, talking of sweet sounds, have you heard what thatgruff-voiced scoundrel Maggot--that roaring bull of Bashan--has beenabout lately?"
"No, I have not," said Oliver, who saw that the old gentleman's ire wasrising.
"Ha! lad, that man ought to be hanged. He is an arrant knave, asmuggler--a--an ungrateful rascal. Why, sir, you'll scarcely believeit: he has come to me and demanded more money for the jewels which heand his comrade sold me in fair and open bargain, and because I refused,and called him a few well-merited names, he has actually gone and giveninformation against me as possessor of treasure, which of right, so theysay, belongs to Government, and last night I had a letter which tells methat the treasure, as they call it, must be delivered up without delay,on pain of I don't know what penalties. Penalties, forsooth! as if Ihadn't been punished enough already by the harassing curtain-lectures ofmy over-scrupulous wife, ever since the unlucky day when the baubleswere found, not to mention the uneasy probings of my own conscience,which, to say truth, I had feared was dead altogether owing to thevillainous moral atmosphere of this smuggling place, but which I findquite lively and strong yet--a matter of some consolation too, foralthough I do have a weakness for cheap 'baccy and brandy, being of aneconomical turn of mind, I don't like the notion of getting rid of myconscience altogether. But, man, 'tis hard to bear!"
Poor Mr Donnithorne stopped here, partly owing to shortness of breath,and partly because he had excited himself to a pitch that renderedcoherent speech difficult.
"Would it not be well at once to relieve your conscience, sir,"suggested Oliver respectfully, "by giving up the things that cause itpain? In my profession we always try to get at the root of a disease,and apply our remedies there."
"Ha!" exclaimed the old gentleman, wiping his heated brow, "and losetwenty pounds as a sort of fee to Doctor Maggot, who, like other doctorsI wot of, created the disease himself, and who will certainly neverattempt to alleviate it by returning the fee."
"Still, the disease may be cured by the remedy I recommend," saidOliver.
"No, man, it can't," cried the old gentleman with a perplexedexpression, "because the dirty things are already sold and the money isinvested in Botallack shares, to sell which and pay back the cash in thepresent depressed state of things would be utter madness. But hush!here comes my better half, and although she _is_ a dear good soul, withan unusual amount of wisdom for her size, it would be injudicious toprolong the lectures of the night into the early hours of morning."
As he spoke little Mrs Donnithorne's round good-looking face appearedlike the rising sun in the doorway, and her cheery voice welcomed Oliverto breakfast.
"Thank you, aunt," said Oliver, "but I have already breakfasted morethan an hour ago, and am on my way to visit my patients. Indeed, I haveto blame myself for calling at so early an hour, and would not have doneso but for the irresistible attraction of a newly discovered voice,which--"
"Come, come, youngster," interrupted Mr Donnithorne, "be pleased tobear in remembrance that the voice is connected with a pair of capitalears, remarkable for their sharpness, if not their length, and at nogreat distance off, I warrant."
"You do Rose injustice," observed Mrs Donnithorne, as the voice at thatmoment broke out into a lively carol in the region of the kitchen,whither its owner had gone to superintend culinary matters. "But tellme, Oliver, have you heard of the accident to poor Batten?"
"Yes, I saw him yesterday," replied the doctor, "just after the accidenthappened, and I am anxious about him. I fear, though I am not quitecertain, that his eyesight is destroyed."
"Dear! dear!--oh, poor man," said Mrs Donnithorne, whose sympatheticheart swelled, while her blue eyes instantly filled with tears. "It isso very sad, Oliver, for his delicate wife and four young children areentirely dependent upon him and his two sons--and they found itdifficult enough to make the two ends meet, even when they were all inhealth; for it is hard times among the miners at present, as you know,Oliver; and now--dear, dear, it is very, _very_ sad."
Little Mrs Donnithorne said nothing more at that time, but her mindinstantly reverted to a portly basket which she was much in the habit ofcarrying with her on her frequent visits to the poor and the sick--forthe good lady was one of those whose inclinations as well as principleslead them to "consider the poor."
In some cases this sentiment is carried too far, and has degeneratedinto pride; for, when God in His wisdom sees fit, by means of disablingaccident or declining health, to incapacitate a man from labour, it isas honourable in him to receive charity as it is (although not alwayssufficiently esteemed so) a high privilege and luxury of the morefortunate to give.
Worthy Mrs Donnithorne's charities were always bestowed with suchdelicacy that she managed, in some mysterious way, to make therecipients feel as though they had done her a favour in accepting them.And yet she was not a soft piece of indiscriminating amiability, whosechief delight in giving lay in the sensations which the act createdwithin her own breast. By no means. None knew better than she when andwhere to give money, and when to give blankets, bread, or tea. She wasequally sharp to perceive the spirit that rendered it advisable for herto say, "I want you to do me a favour--there's a good woman now, youwon't refuse me, etcetera," and to detect the spirit that called forththe sharp remark, accompanied with a dubious smile and a shake of herfat forefinger, "There now, see that you make better use of it _this_time, else I shall have to scold you."
Having received a message for poor Mrs Batten, the miner's wife, thedoctor left the cottage, and proceeded to pay his visits. Let usaccompany him.
Deep Down, a Tale of the Cornish Mines Page 11
