The SEA-HAWK
PART I
SIR OLIVER TRESSILIAN
CHAPTER I
THE HUCKSTER
Sir Oliver Tressilian sat at his ease in the lofty dining-room of the
handsome house of Penarrow, which he owed to the enterprise of his father of
lamented and lamentable memory and to the skill and invention of an Italian
engineer named Bagnolo who had come to England half a century ago as one of the
assistants of the famous Torrigiani.
This house of such a startlingly singular and Italianate grace for so remote
a corner of Cornwall deserves, together with the story of its construction, a
word in passing.
The Italian Bagnolo who combined with his salient artistic talents a
quarrelsome, volcanic humour had the mischance to kill a man in a brawl in a
Southwark tavern. As a result he fled the town, nor paused in his headlong
flight from the consequences of that murderous deed until he had all but reached
the very ends of England. Under what circumstances he became acquainted with
Tressilian the elder I do not know. But certain it is that the meeting was a
very timely one for both of them. To the fugitive, Ralph Tressilian—who appears
to have been inveterately partial to the company of rascals of all
denominations—afforded shelter; and Bagnolo repaid the service by offering to
rebuild the decaying half-timbered house of Penarrow. Having taken the task in
hand he went about it with all the enthusiasm of your true artist, and achieved
for his protector a residence that was a marvel of grace in that crude age and
outlandish district. There arose under the supervision of the gifted engineer,
worthy associate of Messer Torrigiani, a noble two-storied mansion of mellow red
brick, flooded with light and sunshine by the enormously tall mullioned windows
that rose almost from base to summit of each pilastered facade. The main doorway
was set in a projecting wing and was overhung by a massive balcony, the whole
surmounted by a pillared pediment of extraordinary grace, now partly clad in a
green mantle of creepers. Above the burnt red tiles of the roof soared massive
twisted chimneys in lofty majesty.
But the glory of Penarrow—that is, of the new Penarrow begotten of the
fertile brain of Bagnolo—was the garden fashioned out of the tangled wilderness
about the old house that had crowned the heights above Penarrow point. To the
labours of Bagnolo, Time and Nature had added their own. Bagnolo had cut those
handsome esplanades, had built those noble balustrades bordering the three
terraces with their fine connecting flights of steps; himself he had planned the
fountain, and with his own hands had carved the granite faun presiding over it
and the dozen other statues of nymphs and sylvan gods in a marble that gleamed
in white brilliance amid the dusky green. But Time and Nature had smoothed the
lawns to a velvet surface, had thickened the handsome boxwood hedges, and thrust
up those black spear-like poplars that completed the very Italianate appearance
of that Cornish demesne.
Sir Oliver took his ease in his dining-room considering all this as it was
displayed before him in the mellowing September sunshine, and found it all very
good to see, and life very good to live. Now no man has ever been known so to
find life without some immediate cause, other than that of his environment, for
his optimism. Sir Oliver had several causes. The first of these—although it was
one which he may have been far from suspecting—was his equipment of youth,
wealth, and good digestion; the second was that he had achieved honour and
renown both upon the Spanish Main and in the late harrying of the Invincible
Armada—or, more aptly perhaps might it be said, in the harrying of the late
Invincible Armada—and that he had received in that the twenty-fifth year of his
life the honour of knighthood from the Virgin Queen; the third and last
contributor to his pleasant mood—and I have reserved it for the end as I account
this to be the proper place for the most important factor—was Dan Cupid who for
once seemed compounded entirely of benignity and who had so contrived matters
that Sir Oliver's wooing Of Mistress Rosamund Godolphin ran an entirely smooth
and happy course.
So, then, Sir Oliver sat at his ease in his tall, carved chair, his doublet
untrussed, his long legs stretched before him, a pensive smile about the firm
lips that as yet were darkened by no more than a small black line of
moustachios. (Lord Henry's portrait of him was drawn at a much later period.) It
was noon, and our gentleman had just dined, as the platters, the broken meats
and the half-empty flagon on the board beside him testified. He pulled
thoughtfully at a long pipe—for he had acquired this newly imported habit of
tobacco-drinking—and dreamed of his mistress, and was properly and gallantly
grateful that fortune had used him so handsomely as to enable him to toss a
title and some measure of renown into his Rosamund's lap.
By nature Sir Oliver was a shrewd fellow ("cunning as twenty devils," is my
Lord Henry's phrase) and he was also a man of some not inconsiderable learning.
Yet neither his natural wit nor his acquired endowments appear to have taught
him that of all the gods that rule the destinies of mankind there is none more
ironic and malicious than that same Dan Cupid in whose honour, as it were, he
was now burning the incense of that pipe of his. The ancients knew that
innocent-seeming boy for a cruel, impish knave, and they mistrusted him. Sir
Oliver either did not know or did not heed that sound piece of ancient wisdom.
It was to be borne in upon him by grim experience, and even as his light pensive
eyes smiled upon the sunshine that flooded the terrace beyond the long mullioned
window, a shadow fell athwart it which he little dreamed to be symbolic of the
shadow that was even falling across the sunshine of his life.
After that shadow came the substance—tall and gay of raiment under a broad
black Spanish hat decked with blood-red plumes. Swinging a long beribboned cane
the figure passed the windows, stalking deliberately as Fate.
The smile perished on Sir Oliver's lips. His swarthy face grew thoughtful,
his black brows contracted until no more than a single deep furrow stood between
them. Then slowly the smile came forth again, but no longer that erstwhile
gentle pensive smile. It was transformed into a smile of resolve and
determination, a smile that tightened his lips even as his brows relaxed, and
invested his brooding eyes with a gleam that was mocking, crafty and almost
wicked.
Came Nicholas his servant to announce Master Peter Godolphin, and close upon
the lackey's heels came Master Godolphin himself, leaning upon his beribboned
cane and carrying his broad Spanish hat. He was a tall, slender gentleman, with
a shaven, handsome countenance, stamped with an air of haughtiness; like Sir
Oliver, he had a high-bridged, intrepid nose, and in age he was the younger by
some two or three years. He wore his auburn hair rather longer than was the mode
just then, but in his apparel there was no more foppishness than is tolerable in
a gentleman of his years.
Sir Oliver rose and bowed from his great height in welcome. But a wave of
tobacco-smoke took his graceful visitor in the throat and set him coughing and
grimacing.
"I see," he choked, "that ye have acquired that filthy habit."
"I have known filthier," said Sir Oliver composedly.
"I nothing doubt it," rejoined Master Godolphin, thus early giving
indications of his humour and the object of his visit.
Sir Oliver checked an answer that must have helped his visitor to his ends,
which was no part of the knight's intent.
"Therefore," said he ironically, "I hope you will be patient with my
shortcomings. Nick, a chair for Master Godolphin and another cup. I bid you
welcome to Penarrow."
A sneer flickered over the younger man's white face. "You pay me a
compliment, sir, which I fear me 'tis not mine to return to you."
"Time enough for that when I come to seek it," said Sir Oliver, with easy, if
assumed, good humour.
"When you come to seek it?"
"The hospitality of your house," Sir Oliver explained.
"It is on that very matter I am come to talk with you."
"Will you sit?" Sir Oliver invited him, and spread a hand towards the chair
which Nicholas had set. In the same gesture he waved the servant away.
Master Godolphin ignored the invitation. "You were," he said, "at Godolphin
Court but yesterday, I hear." He paused, and as Sir Oliver offered no denial, he
added stiffly: "I am come, sir, to inform you that the honour of your visits is
one we shall be happy to forgo."
In the effort he made to preserve his self-control before so direct an
affront Sir Oliver paled a little under his tan.
"You will understand, Peter," he replied slowly, "that you have said too much
unless you add something more." He paused, considering his visitor a moment. "I
do not know whether Rosamund has told you that yesterday she did me the honour
to consent to become my wife...."
"She is a child that does not know her mind," broke in the other.
"Do you know of any good reason why she should come to change it?" asked Sir
Oliver, with a slight air of challenge.
Master Godolphin sat down, crossed his legs and placed his hat on his knee.
"I know a dozen," he answered. "But I need not urge them. Sufficient should
it be to remind you that Rosamund is but seventeen and that she is under my
guardianship and that of Sir John Killigrew. Neither Sir John nor I can sanction
this betrothal."
"Good lack!" broke out Sir Oliver. "Who asks your sanction or Sir John's? By
God's grace your sister will grow to be a woman soon and mistress of herself. I
am in no desperate haste to get me wed, and by nature—as you may be observing—I
am a wondrous patient man. I'll even wait," And he pulled at his pipe.
"Waiting cannot avail you in this, Sir Oliver. 'Tis best you should
understand. We are resolved, Sir John and I."
"Are you so? God's light. Send Sir John to me to tell me of his resolves and
I'll tell him something of mine. Tell him from me, Master Godolphin, that if he
will trouble to come as far as Penarrow I'll do by him what the hangman should
have done long since. I'll crop his pimpish ears for him, by this hand!"
"Meanwhile," said Master Godolphin whettingly, "will you not essay your
rover's prowess upon me?"
"You?" quoth Sir Oliver, and looked him over with good-humoured contempt.
"I'm no butcher of fledgelings, my lad. Besides, you are your sister's brother,
and 'tis no aim of mine to increase the obstacles already in my path." Then his
tone changed. He leaned across the table. "Come, now, Peter. What is at the root
of all this matter? Can we not compose such differences as you conceive exist?
Out with them. 'Tis no matter for Sir John. He's a curmudgeon who signifies not
a finger's snap. But you, 'tis different. You are her brother. Out with your
plaints, then. Let us be frank and friendly."
"Friendly?" The other sneered again. "Our fathers set us an example in that."
"Does it matter what our fathers did? More shame to them if, being
neighbours, they could not be friends. Shall we follow so deplorable an
example?"
"You'll not impute that the fault lay with my father," cried the other, with
a show of ready anger.
"I impute nothing, lad. I cry shame upon them both."
"'Swounds!" swore Master Peter. "Do you malign the dead?"
"If I do, I malign them both. But I do not. I no more than condemn a fault
that both must acknowledge could they return to life."
"Then, Sir, confine your condemnings to your own father with whom no man of
honour could have lived at peace...."
"Softly, softly, good Sir...."
"There's no call to go softly. Ralph Tressilian was a dishonour, a scandal to
the countryside. Not a hamlet between here and Truro, or between here and
Helston, but swarms with big Tressilian noses like your own, in memory of your
debauched parent."
Sir Oliver's eyes grew narrower: he smiled. "I wonder how you came by your
own nose?" he wondered.
Master Godolphin got to his feet in a passion, and his chair crashed over
behind him. "Sir," he blazed, "you insult my mother's memory!"
Sir Oliver laughed. "I make a little free with it, perhaps, in return for
your pleasantries on the score of my father."
Master Godolphin pondered him in speechless anger, then swayed by his passion
he leaned across the board, raised his long cane and struck Sir Oliver sharply
on the shoulder.
That done, he strode off magnificently towards the door. Half-way thither he
paused.
"I shall expect your friends and the length of your sword," said he.
Sir Oliver laughed again. "I don't think I shall trouble to send them," said
he.
Master Godolphin wheeled, fully to face him again. "How? You will take a
blow?"
Sir Oliver shrugged. "None saw it given," said he.
"But I shall publish it abroad that I have caned you."
"You'll publish yourself a liar if you do; for none will believe you." Then
he changed his tone yet again. "Come, Peter, we are behaving unworthily. As for
the blow, I confess that I deserved it. A man's mother is more sacred than his
father. So we may cry quits on that score. Can we not cry quits on all else?
What can it profit us to perpetuate a foolish quarrel that sprang up between our
fathers?"
"There is more than that between us," answered Master Godolphin. "I'll not
have my sister wed a pirate."
"A pirate? God's light! I am glad there's none to hear you for since her
grace has knighted me for my doings upon the seas, your words go very near to
treason. Surely, lad, what the Queen approves, Master Peter Godolphin may
approve and even your mentor Sir John Killigrew. You've been listening to him.
'Twas he sent you hither."
"I am no man's lackey," answered the other hotly, resenting the
imputation—and resenting it the more because of the truth in it.
"To call me a pirate is to say a foolish thing. Hawkins with whom I sailed
has also received the accolade, and who dubs us pirates insults the Queen
herself. Apart from that, which, as you see, is a very empty charge, what else
have you against me? I am, I hope, as good as any other here in Cornwall;
Rosamund honours me with her affection and I am rich and shall be richer still
ere the wedding bells are heard."
"Rich with the fruit of thieving upon the seas, rich with the treasures of
scuttled ships and the price of slaves captured in Africa and sold to the
plantations, rich as the vampire is glutted—with the blood of dead men."
"Does Sir John say that?" asked Sir Oliver, in a soft deadly voice.
"I say it."
"I heard you; but I am asking where you learnt that pretty lesson. Is Sir
John your preceptor? He is, he is. No need to tell me. I'll deal with him.
Meanwhile let me disclose to you the pure and disinterested source of Sir John's
rancour. You shall see what an upright and honest gentleman is Sir John, who was
your father's friend and has been your guardian."
"I'll not listen to what you say of him."
"Nay, but you shall, in return for having made me listen to what he says of
me. Sir John desires to obtain a licence to build at the mouth of the Fal. He
hopes to see a town spring up above the haven there under the shadow of his own
Manor of Arwenack. He represents himself as nobly disinterested and all
concerned for the prosperity of the country, and he neglects to mention that the
land is his own and that it is his own prosperity and that of his family which
he is concerned to foster. We met in London by a fortunate chance whilst Sir
John was about this business at the Court. Now it happens that I, too, have
interests in Truro and Penryn; but, unlike Sir John, I am honest in the matter,
and proclaim it. If any growth should take place about Smithick it follows from
its more advantageous situation that Truro and Penryn must suffer, and that
suits me as little as the other matter would suit Sir John. I told him so, for I
can be blunt, and I told the Queen in the form of a counter-petition to Sir
John's." He shrugged. "The moment was propitious to me. I was one of the seamen
who had helped to conquer the unconquerable Armada of King Philip. I was
therefore not to be denied, and Sir John was sent home as empty-handed as he
went to Court. D'ye marvel that he hates me? Knowing him for what he is, d'ye
marvel that he dubs me pirate and worse? 'Tis natural enough so to misrepresent
my doings upon the sea, since it is those doings have afforded me the power to
hurt his profit. He has chosen the weapons of calumny for this combat, but those
weapons are not mine, as I shall show him this very day. If you do not credit
what I say, come with me and be present at the little talk I hope to have with
that curmudgeon."
"You forget," said Master Godolphin, "that I, too, have interests in the
neighbourhood of Smithick, and that you are hurting those."
"Soho!" crowed Sir Oliver. "Now at last the sun of truth peeps forth from all
this cloud of righteous indignation at my bad Tressilian blood and pirate's
ways! You, too, are but a trafficker. Now see what a fool I am to have believed
you sincere, and to have stood here in talk with you as with an honest man." His
voice swelled and his lip curled in a contempt that struck the other like a
blow. "I swear I had not wasted breath with you had I known you for so mean and
pitiful a fellow."
"These words...." began Master Godolphin, drawing himself up very stiffly.
"Are a deal less than your deserts," cut in the other, and he raised his
voice to call—"Nick."
"You shall answer to them," snapped his visitor.
"I am answering now," was the stern answer. "To come here and prate to me of
my dead father's dissoluteness and of an ancient quarrel between him and yours,
to bleat of my trumped-up course of piracy and my own ways of life as a just
cause why I may not wed your sister whilst the real consideration in your mind,
the real spur to your hostility is not more than the matter of some few paltry
pounds a year that I hinder you from pocketing. A God's name get you gone."
Nick entered at that moment.
"You shall hear from me again, Sir Oliver," said the other, white with anger.
"You shall account to me for these words."
"I do not fight with... with hucksters," flashed Sir Oliver.
"D'ye dare call me that?"
"Indeed, 'tis to discredit an honourable class, I confess it. Nick, the door
for Master Godolphin."