Your father privately fed a hope that now Penhallow had seen his old and powerful enemy, he would leave of his own will; but when the man did not do so, his lordship began to cheat him of his earnings. Your father had learned well enough, Hal, the arts of juggling accounts and corrupting assayers. To my shame, I also helped him cast up his columns of false figures — there are so many little persecutions a man may put upon his daughter-in-law day by day, she living alone under his roof.
But Penhallow did not leave — only his pile of ore grew less, which diminished your father’s profits a little. Then, in the next fortnight there was a cave-in that shut up the new tunnel, and although no men were trapped therein, yet no ore could be got from it for three days while they dug it out again. At the last, his lordship went again to see how he might have more tin out of the miners, when Penhallow’s core, having come up after their morning’s time below, and playing at quoits, a quoit flew astray and narrowly missed your father, who would believe not otherwise but that it had come in malice from Penhallow’s hand.
Whether indeed Thomas Penhallow meant your father some bodily mischief, or your father merely chose to believe it was so, his lordship now made up his mind he must see to the man he had wronged fifteen years ago, before that man saw to him. There was a certain worthless fellow called Ned Curnow working at the Nancy, or rather signed on to draw his month’s pay, for little ore he ever brought to surface. They said that some traces in his speech and bearing shewed him to be a gentleman or gentleman’s son fallen into low estate, and scarcely a day passed but Curnow was in mischief of some sort, and often serious mischief.
The mine captain pointed him out to your father, that same day of the quoit, and remarked he wished to turn this Curnow out of the mine. His lordship questioned the captain more closely, and ended by telling him to have the fellow come round to see him at Wilharthen House.
Curnow did not come round until two mornings after, and being let in by Bosvannion (our new steward, Hal; old Parsons died a fortnight after you), and finding us in the parlour, he bowed, and looked at me as a man looks at a woman, past my thirtieth year as I was, and still in the mourning I have meant never to lay aside. Then, taking an apple from the bowl on the table, he sat in the oaken armchair, which used to be your favourite, and put his feet on the settle.
Three weeks before, this vagabond had been whipt through the streets of Saltash, and stood in the pillory, and cared not who knew it, and yet he bore himself as if Wilharthen were an ale-house, and your father his drinking companion. Only to me, Hal, did Curnow shew respect. I sat on and sewed. Your father had brought me far enough into his confidence that, though he did not tell me in so many words all that was in his heart, he cared little whether I went or whether I remained.
His lordship told Curnow of the enquiries he had made. “It was only by the grace of Sir Edward Chilwidden,” said he, “that you were not banished to the galleys when you would not say the name of your home parish, and it is only the lightest thread holds you from the Stannary Gaol now.”
“Send me up, then,” said Curnow, “to galleys or gaol, whichever you will.”
The rogue had washed his face, I think, before coming up, and perhaps even his hair, which fell long and golden on his shoulders; but his beard was untrimmed and the rags he wore left the dust of the mine on all they touched, and he was like a man who has lost all joy and desire and hope, so that he no longer cares how long he lives or when he dies.
I too, Hal, I had lost all joy, all desire and hope, and there have come lines into my face, and silver hairs amongst the chestnut. I would look very seldom in my glass but that it was your gift to me.
So your father talked for some minutes to Curnow, sounding him, as I have seen him sound the mettle of a mare before buying, or the honesty of a judge before bribing, whilst Curnow sat and ate his apple. The colour of Curnow’s eyes was between green and grey, and he looked at your father as I think he might look at a long deep shaft in the mine.
At length his lordship came to the point, and offered Curnow fifteen pounds for doing away with, for killing Thomas Penhallow.
Curnow put back his head and laughed. “So I am to murder a man,” he said, “and be paid for ’t, too. How if I were to go to the magistrates with this tale?”
His lordship replied that “I have the magistrates in my purse, and the judges, too.”
Curnow threw the core of his apple into the fire. “I misdoubt it,” said he, “if you pay them in proportion as you offer to pay me.”
Then they haggled over the money as if Penhallow had been a pound of fish or a pile of ore, and at last Curnow settled for twenty-five pounds. His lordship gave him ten, and told him to return when he had done it, and to come at night. Curnow bowed to me again in leaving us, and looked once more into my eyes, as a man looks at a woman. I dropt my eyes to my seam. (Your father had money enough, Hal; I could have sewed with good thread, that was not forever knotting and breaking.)
I had no power to stop this thing, Hal, but what great difference was there, after all, between how your father had dealt with Thomas Penhallow fifteen years ago and how he would deal with him now? In any case, whatever we keep hid from outsiders and strangers, it is no life to go about in ignorance and suspicion of those under the same roof with you, those on whom you depend, and I judged it better I should know, than only suspect.
This was why I sat up with your father into the night, to see the play run out to its end. His lordship had sent the steward on some errand to Launceston, and ordered Betty to her room an hour before sunset, to stay there all the night as punishment for some fault he pretended she had made in sweeping her kitchen, all so that we would be alone. And I much thought he meant to settle all likelihood of Curnow ever telling of the crime he had committed.
There had come no word nor even rumour from the mine during the day, and we did not know whether Curnow would return on this night or another — or indeed, I thought, ever. Your father sat and studied over his accounts. You remember how he loved his accounts, Hal; as others love their coin, and more, for there was ever the hope of catching some mistake I had made in casting them up, for which he might take me to task. I nodded over my book, and as the hours passed I rose to pour out a glass of wine from the silver bottle which had been your mother’s pride.
“I would advise you against it, Margery,” said your father grimly.
I smelled the wine. It was hippocras, sleep-heavy with many spices. I brought back the glassful and set it at his elbow, rather than my own. He did not drink. “Why did you not find some means of killing Penhallow by your own hand?” I asked.
“Penhallow would not have trusted himself near enough my hand,” said your father. “Nor would I have trusted myself near his.”
“Perhaps Ned Curnow will not trust himself near your hand again, neither,” said I, measuring my words.
“I took the man’s measure,” said his lordship. “There is fifteen pounds in the balance. He will come.”
I thought that your father had but applied his own scale to Curnow, while that insolent man with neither hope nor desire nor fear in his grey-green eyes had likely taken better measure of his lord-ship. But I did not speak this thought, and so we waited.
Somewhat after midnight a storm broke, and, thinking Curnow would not come, I might have sought my bed; but every moment I delayed would lengthen out into another moment, and yet another, and so I sat on, scarce thinking, with my book open in my lap.