The Owls' House

Crosbie Garstin

Description

John Penhale has been served an ultimatum in the will of his Aunt Selina: “Marry within the year or lose your inheritance.”
Fighting off an attack by a highwayman as he returns to his farm near Lamorna, he is followed home by Teresa - a gypsy girl who changes his life forever. The Owls’ House follows the fortunes of John and Teresa Penhale and their two children Ortho and Eli - exploits that turn a family saga into a rip-roaring adventure sweeping across Cornwall, Morocco and the high seas

Sujets

• Romance historique
• Historical
• Romance
• Scottish
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Rare Treasure Editions
• Date de parution: 08 novembre 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781774643686
• Langue: English

Extrait

The Owls' House
by Crosbie Garstin

First published in 1923
This edition published by Rare Treasures
Victoria, BC Canada with branch offices in the Czech Republic and Germany
[e-mail]
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, except in the case of excerpts by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
THE OWLS’ HOUSE





by

CROSBIE GARSTIN

CHAPTER I
It was late evening when John Penhale left theHelston lawyer’s office. A fine drizzle wasblowing down Coinage Hall Street; thin beamsof light pierced the chinks of house shutters andcurtains, barred the blue dusk with misty orangerays, touched the street puddles with alchemic fingers,turning them to gold. A chaise clattered uphill,the horses’ steam hanging round them in a kindof lamp-lit nimbus, the post-boy’s head bent againstthe rain.
Outside an inn an old soldier with a wooden legand very drunk stood wailing a street ballad, botheyes shut, impervious to the fact that his audiencehad long since left him. Penhale turned into “TheAngel,” went on straight into the dining-room andsat down in the far corner with the right side of hisface to the wall. He did so from habit. A trioof squireens in mud-bespattered riding coats sat nearthe door and made considerable noise. They hadbeen hare hunting and were rosy with sharp airand hard riding. They greeted every appearanceof the ripe serving maid with loud whoops andpassed her from arm to arm. She protested andgiggled. Opposite them a local shop-keeper wasentertaining a creditor from Plymouth to the bestbottle the town afforded. The company was madeup by a very young ensign of Light Dragoons boundto Winchester to join his regiment for the firsttime, painfully self-conscious and aloof, in his newscarlet. Penhale beat on the table with his knife.The maid escaped from the festive sportsmen andbrought him a plate of boiled beef and onions. Asshe was about to set the plate before him one ofthe hare hunters lost his balance and fell to theground with a loud crash of his chair and a yellof delight from his companions.
The noise caused Penhale to turn his head. Thegirl emitted an “ach” of horror, dropped the plateon the table and recoiled as though some one hadstruck her. Penhale pulled the plate towards him,picked up his knife and fork and quietly began toeat. He was quite used to these displays. The girlbacked away, staring in a sort of dreadful fascination.A squireen caught at her wrist calling herhis “sweet slut,” but she wrenched herself free andran out of the door.
She did not come near Penhale again; the tapsterbrought him the rest of his meal. Penhale wenton eating, outwardly unmoved; he had been subjectto these outbursts, off and on, for eighteen years.
Eighteen years previously myriads of birds hadbeen driven south by the hard winter upcountry.One early morning, after a particularly bitter snap,a hind had run in to say that the pond on PolmennaDowns, above the farm, was covered withwild duck. Penhale took an old flintlock fowlingpiece of his father’s which had been hanging neglectedover the fireplace for years, and made forPolmenna, loading as he went.
As the hind had said, the pool was covered withduck. Penhale crouched under cover of some willows,brought the five-foot gun to his shoulder, andblazed into the brown.
An hour later a fisherman setting rabbit snaresin a hedge above the Luddra saw what he describedas “a red man” fighting through the scrub andbramble that fringed the cliff. It was John Penhale;the gun had exploded, blowing half his face away.Penhale had no intention of throwing himself overthe Luddra, he was blind with blood and pain. Thefisherman led him home with difficulty, and then,being of a practical mind, returned to the pond topick up the duck.
An old crone who had the reputation of being a“white witch” was summoned to Bosula and managedto stop the bleeding by means of incantations,cobwebs and dung—principally dung. The hind wassent on horseback to Penzance to fetch DoctorSpargo.
Doctor Spargo had been making a night of itwith his friend the Collector of Customs and a strayship captain who was peculiarly gifted in the brewingof rum toddies. The doctor was put to bed atdawn by his household staff, and when he wasknocked up again at eleven he was not the bestpleased. He bade his housekeeper tell the Bosulamessenger that he was out—called out to a confinementin Morvah parish and was not expected backtill evening—and turned over on his pillow.
The housekeeper returned, agitated, to say thatthe messenger refused to move. He knew the doctorwas in, he said; the groom had told him so.Furthermore if Spargo did not come to his master’sassistance without further ado he would smash everybone in his body. Doctor Spargo rolled out of bed,and opening the window treated the messenger tosamples from a vocabulary enriched by a decade ofarmy life. The messenger listened to the tiradeunmoved and, as Doctor Spargo cursed, it was bornein on him that he had seen this outrageous fellowbefore. Presently he remembered when; he hadseen him at Gwithian Feast, a canvas jacket on,tossing parish stalwarts as a terrier tosses rats.The messenger was Bohenna, the wrestler. DoctorSpargo closed both the tirade and the window abruptlyand bawled for his boots.
The pair rode westwards, the truculent hind canteringon the heels of the physician’s cob, layinginto it with an ash plant whenever it showed symptomsof flagging. The cob tripped over a stone inBucca’s Pass and shied at a goat near Trewoofe,on each occasion putting its master neatly over itshead. By the time Spargo arrived at Bosula hewas shaking worse than ever. He demanded morerum to steady his hand, but there was none. Hepulled himself together as best he could and set towork, trembling and wheezing.
Spargo was a retired army surgeon; he had servedhis apprenticeship in the shambles of Oudenardeand Malplaquet among soldiers who had no optionbut to submit to his ministrations. His idea wasto patch men up so that they might fight anotherday, but without regard to their appearance. Hesewed the tatters of John Penhale’s face togethersecurely but roughly, pocketed his fee and rodehome, gasping, to his toddies.
John Penhale was of fine frame and hearty. Ina week or two he was out and about; in a monthhe had resumed the full business of the farm, buthis face was not a pleasant sight. The left sidewas merely marked with a silvery burn on the cheekbone, but the right might have been dragged by aharrow; it was ragged scars from brow to chin.The eye had gone and part of an ear, the brokenjaw had set concave and his cheek had split intoa long harelip, revealing a perpetual snarl of teethunderneath. He hid the eye socket with a blackpatch, but the lower part of his face he could notmask.
Three months after his accident he rode into Penzancemarket. If one woman squeaked at the sightof him so did a dozen, and children ran to theirmothers blubbering that the devil had come forthem. Even the men, though sympathetic, wouldnot look him in the face, but stared at their bootswhile they talked and were plainly relieved whenhe moved away. John never went in again, unlessdriven by the direst necessity, and then hurried outthe moment his affairs were transacted. For despitehis bulk and stoic bearing he was supersensitive, andthe horror his appearance awoke cut him to the raw.Thus at the age of twenty-three he became a bitterrecluse, a prisoner within the bounds of his farm,Bosula, cared for by a widow and her idiot daughter,mixing only with his few hinds and odd farmersand fishermen that chance drove his way.
He had come to Helston on business, to hear theterms of his Aunt Selina’s will, and now that hehad heard them he was eager to be quit of theplace. The serving girl’s behavior had stung himlike a whip lash and the brawling of the drunkensquires jarred on his every nerve. He could havetossed the three of them out of the window if heliked, but he quailed at the thought of their possiblemockery. They put their heads together and whispered,hiccoughing and sniggering. They were, asa fact, planning a descent on a certain lady in PigsStreet, but John Penhale was convinced that theywere laughing at him. The baby ensign had a derisivecurl in his lip, John was sure . . . he couldfeel the two shop-keepers’ eyes turned his way . . .it was unbearable.
Sneers, jeers, laughter . . . he hated them all,everybody. He would get out, go home to Bosula,to sanctuary. He had a sudden longing for Bosula,still and lonely among the folding hills . . . hisown place. He drank off his ale, paid the scoreand went out to see what the weather was like.
The wind had chopped around easterly and therain had stopped. The moon was up breastingthrough flying ridges of cloud like a naked whiteswimmer in the run of surf. Penhale found anostler asleep on a pile of straw, roused him andtold him to saddle his horse, mounted and rodewestwards out of town.
He passed a lone pedestrian near Antron and astring of pack horses under Breage Church, but forthe rest he had the road to himself. He ambledgently, considering the terms of his aunt’s will. Shehad left him her strong farm of Tregors, in theKerrier Hundred, lock, stock and barrel, on theone condition that he married within twelve months.In default of his marrying it was to pass to herlate husband’s cousin, Carveth Donnithorne, shipchandler of Falmouth.
John Penhale paid silent tribute to his aunt’scleverness. She disliked the smug and infallibleDonnithorne intensely, and in making him her nextheir had passed over four nearer connections withwhom she was on good terms. Her reasons for thiscurious conduct were that she was a Penhale by birthwith intense family pride and John was the last ofher line. A trivial dispute between John and Carvethover a coursing match she