Mistress Nancy Molesworth: A Tale of Adventure

TREVANION.

The only part of my history which I regard as worthy of placing on record is confined to a few months. I was thirty-two years of age at the time, and had thus entered into the very summer of my life. At that age a man's position ought to be assured; at any rate his career should be marked out with tolerable plainness. Such, however, was not my fortune. Although I bear one of the best known and most honoured names in my native country, I, Roger Trevanion, was in sore straits at the time of which I write. And this not altogether because of my own faults. I did not come into the possession of my heritage until I was thirty, my father having retained absolute control of his estate until his death. Up to that time I knew nothing of his money matters. Neither, indeed, did I care. I had enough for my own use; I possessed good horses and was able to enjoy what festivities the county provided, to the full. Ever since my mother's death, which took place when I was fourteen, my father paid me but little attention. He saw to it that I was taught to ride, fence, shoot, with other accomplishments befitting my station, and then allowed me to follow my own inclinations. As a consequence I became a gay fellow, being guilty, I am afraid, of most of the misdemeanours common to young men. I remembered that I was a Trevanion, however, and while I did not belong to the most important branch of the family, I held to the code of honour to which for many generations we had been true.

I knew that my father gambled freely, and had many relations with people which were beyond my comprehension. I did not trouble about this, however. Very few restraints were placed upon me, and I was content.

When my father died, I discovered that I was a poor man. I had still the semblance of wealth. I lived in the old house, and was supposed to own the lands surrounding it. The old servants still called me master, and the farmers paid their rents to me as they had paid them to my fathers. In reality, however, everything was mortgaged for nearly all it was worth. True, the lawyer told me that if I would discharge a number of superfluous servants, get rid of a number of useless horses, and consent to the sale of a quantity of timber, I could by practicing the strictest economy for ten years, place everything on a satisfactory footing.

"That will mean that I must give up hunting, racing, drinking, betting, besides closing the house and living like a hermit, I suppose?" I said to him. "That does not suit me. Is there no other way?"

"Yes, there is one," he replied.

"And that?"

"A suitable marriage."

I shrugged my shoulders.

"Women are not in my way, Mr. Hendy," I said. The truth was, I had fancied myself in love when I was twenty, with the daughter of John Boscawen, a distant relation of the famous Boscawens. She had led me on until I was mad about her. I was her slave for several months, and she treated me as though I were a dog of the fetch-and-carry breed. Presently a young fellow from a place near Penzance, Prideaux by name, came to her father's place, and no sooner did he start a-courting her than she sent me about my business, drove me away in fact, as though I were a cur. Since that time I had hated women, and I grew angry at the thought of ever being expected to put confidence in one.

"The state of your affairs is not generally known," persisted the lawyer, "and a wife with a handsome dowry would mean getting back the deeds."

"No petticoats for me," I replied angrily.

"But if the petticoats mean comfort and freedom from money cares, would you not be wise to put aside your prejudice against them?"

"Anything but that," I cried, remembering Amelia Boscawen.

"Retrenchment or a wife," persisted the lawyer.

"Neither," I cried, angry that directly I came into my heritage I should find myself in such a fix.

The lawyer sighed.

"From whom did my father borrow?" I asked presently.

"Peter Trevisa," he replied.

I knew the man slightly. A little, shrivelled-up, old creature who had married late in life, and who had one son whom we called "Young Peter," because he was so much like his father. Young Peter was not so old as I, and I had never been friendly with him. In fact I had despised him as a ferrety kind of fellow, with whom I had nothing in common.

"He holds you like that," said the lawyer, putting out his hand and clasping it.

A great deal more was said, but to no purpose, and I went on as I had gone before. True, I discharged one or two of the younger servants and sold a quantity of timber, but I did not retrench as the lawyer advised. Thus at the end of two years I was, if possible, in a worse position than when my father died.

One day--and here my story really begins--I rode off to a fox hunt. I still held my head high, and rode the best horse in the field. I was careful, too, to be well dressed, and I prided myself that in spite of my poverty I was inferior to none. I was young, regarded as handsome, stood over six feet in my stockings, and was well set up. As usual I avoided women, although there were many at the meet. Although one of the heaviest men there, I kept well ahead through the day, and in spite of the weight of my debts I was in at the death.

After the hunt I went to Geoffry Luxmore's ball, which was a part of the day's programme, but I did not join the dancers. I wanted to be free from women, and therefore accepted an invitation to take part in a game of cards.

While sitting at dinner I saw old Peter Trevisa. He nodded to me in a friendly way. Afterward he came to me and caught me by the arm.

"And how are matters going at Trevanion, eh, lad?" he asked.

"Grandly," I replied gaily, for I was heated with good wine and I felt no cares.

"Thou shouldst be in the dancing-room, lad," he said. "There's many a fine maid there; many with a big dowry. Geoffry Luxmore's daughter should suit thee well, Roger."

"No women for me," I cried.

"No; dost a hate them so?"

I shrugged my shoulders.

"Then my Peter'll be getting Trevanion, Roger?" he said with a leer.

In spite of my excitement I felt uneasy as I looked at his eyes.

"I've been thinking about calling in my mortgage," he said.

"Do," I replied.

"Ah, sits the wind in that quarter, eh? Well, Roger, thou hast always been a dare-devil fellow. But a landless Trevanion will be a sorry sight."

"There never has been one yet."

"And if thou art the first, 'twill be a sorry business."

I felt more uncomfortable, so I swallowed a large bumper of wine to keep my spirits up.

Presently we sat down to play. I won, I remember, freely at first, and was in high good humour.