one evening, in late february, there was mullet pie for supper which was so much to teresa’s taste that she ate more than even her heroic digestive organs could cope with, rent the stilly night with lamentations and did not get up for breakfast. towards nine o’clock, she felt better, at eleven was herself again and, remembering it was paul feast, dressed in her finery and rode off to see the sport.
she arrived to witness what appeared to be a fratricidal war between the seafaring stalwarts of the parish and the farm hands. a mob of boys and men surged about a field, battling claw and hoof for the possession of a cow-hide ball which occasionally lobbed into view, but more often lay buried under a pile of writhing bodies.
teresa was very fond of these rough sports and journeyed far and wide to see them, but what held her interest most that afternoon was a party of gentry who had ridden from penzance to watch the barbarians at play. two ladies and three gentlemen there were, the elder woman riding pillion, the younger side-saddle. they were very exquisite and superior, watched the uncouth mob through quizzing glasses and made witty remarks after the manner of visitors at a menagerie commenting on near-human antics of the monkeys. the younger woman chattered incessantly; a thinly pretty creature, wearing a gold-braided cocked hat and long brown coat cut in the masculine mode.
“eliza, eliza, i beseech you look at that woman’s stomacher! . . . and that wench’s farthingale! elizabethan, i declare; one would imagine oneself at a vauxhall masquerade. mr. borlase, i felicitate you on your entertainment.” she waved her whip towards the mob. “bear pits are tedious by comparison. i must pen my experiences for the spectator—‘elegantia inter barbaros, or a lady’s adventures among the wild cornish.’ tell me, pray, when it is all over do they devour the dead? we must go before that takes place; i shall positively expire of fright—though my cousin venables, who has voyaged the south seas, tells me cannibals are, as a rule, an amiable and loving people, vastly preferable to tories. captain angus, i have dropped my kerchief . . . you neglect me, sir! my god, eliza, there’s a handsome boy! . . . behind you. . . . the gypsy boy on the sorrel pony. what a pretty young rogue!”
the whole party turned their heads to look at the romany apollo. teresa followed their example and beheld it was ortho. under the delusion that his mother was abed and, judging by the noise she made, at death’s door, he had ventured afield in company with four young hernes. he wore no cap, his sleeve was ripped from shoulder to cuff and he was much splashed all down his back and legs. he did not see his mother; he was absorbed in the game. teresa shut her teeth, and drew a long, deep breath through them.
the battle suddenly turned against the fishermen; the farm hands, uttering triumphant howls, began to force them rapidly backwards towards the church town. ortho and his ragged companions wheeled their mounts and ambled downhill to see the finish. teresa did not follow them. she found her horse, mounted and rode straight home.
“the gypsy boy on the sorrel pony—the gypsy boy!”
people were taking her ortho, ortho penhale of bosula and tregors, for a vagabond rom, were they?
she was furious, but admitted they had cause—dressed like a scarecrow and mixed up with a crowd of young horse thieves! teresa swore so savagely that her horse started. anyhow she would stop it at once, at once—she’d settle all this gypsy business—gypsy! time after time she had vowed to send ortho to school, but she was always hard up when it came to the point, and year after year slipped by. he must be somewhere about sixteen now—fifteen, sixteen or seventeen—she wasn’t sure, and it didn’t matter to a year or so, she could look it up in the parish registers if need be. he should go to helston like his father and learn to be a gentleman—and, incidentally, learn to keep accounts. it would be invaluable to have some one who could handle figures; then the damned tradesmen wouldn’t swindle her and she’d have money again.
“the gypsy boy!” . . . the words stung her afresh. had she risen out of the muck of vagrancy to have her son slip back into it? never! she’d settle all that. not for a moment did she doubt her ability to cope with ortho. what must john in heaven be thinking of her stewardship? she wept with mingled anger and contrition. to-morrow she’d open a clean page. ortho should go to school at once. gypsy! she’d show them!
she was heavily in debt, but the money should be found somehow. all the way home she was planning ways and means.
ortho returned late that night and went to bed unconscious that he had been found out. next morning he was informed that he was to go with his mother to penzance. this was good tidings. he liked going to town with teresa. she bought all kinds of eatables and one saw life, ladies and gentlemen; a soldier or two sometimes; blue-water seamen drunk as lords and big wind-bound ships at anchor. he saddled the dun pony and jogged alongside her big roan, prattling cheerfully all the way.
she watched him, her interest aroused. he certainly was good looking, with his slim uprightness, eager expression, and quick, graceful movements. he had luminous dark eyes, a short nose, round chin and crisp black curls—like her own. he was like her in many ways, many ways. good company too. he told her several amusing stories and laughed heartily at hers. a debonair, attractive boy, very different from his brother. she felt suddenly drawn towards him. he would make a good companion when he came back from school. his looks would stir up trouble in sundry dove-cotes later on, she thought, and promised herself much amusement, having no sympathy for doves.
it was not until they arrived in penzance that she broke the news that he was going to school. ortho was a trifle staggered at first, but, to her surprise, took it very calmly, making no objections. in the first place it was something new, and the prospect of mixing with a herd of other boys struck him as rather jolly; secondly, he was fancying himself enormously in the fine clothes with which teresa was loading him; he had never had anything before but the roughest of home-spuns stitched together by martha and speedily reduced to shreds. he put the best suit on there and then, and strutted market jew street like a young peacock ogling its first hen.
they left penzance in the early afternoon (spare kit stuffed in the saddle-bags). in the ordinary way teresa would have gone straight to the “angel” at helston and ordered the best, but now, in keeping with her new vow of economy, she sought a free night’s lodging at tregors—also she wanted to raise some of the rent in advance.
ortho was entered at his father’s old school next day.
teresa rode home pleasantly conscious of duty done, and ortho plunged into the new world, convinced that he had only to smile and conquer. in which he erred. he was no longer a penhale in his own parish, prospective squire of the keigwin valley, but an unsophisticated young animal thrust into a den of sophisticated young animals and therefore a heaven-sent butt for their superior humor. rising seventeen, and set to learn his a, b, c in the lowest form among the babies! this gave the wits an admirable opening. that he could ride, sail a boat and shoot anything flying or running weighed as nothing against his ignorance of latin declensions.
he sought to win some admiration, or even tolerance for himself by telling of his adventures with pyramus and jacky’s george, but it had the opposite effect. his tormentors (sons of prosperous land owners and tradesmen) declared that any one who associated with gypsies and fishermen must be of low caste himself and taunted him unmercifully. they would put their hands to their mouths and halloo after the manner of fish-hawkers. “mackerel! fresh mack-erel! . . . say, penhale, what’s the price of pilchards to-day?”
or “hello, penhale, there’s one of your pharaoh mates at the gate—with a monkey. better go and have a clunk over old times.”
baiting penhale became a fashionable pastime. following the example of their elders, the small boys took up the ragging. this was more than ortho could stand. he knocked some heads together, whereby earning the reputation of a bully.
a bulky, freckled lad named burnadick, propelled by friends and professing himself champion of the oppressed, challenged ortho to fight.
ortho had not the slightest desire to fight the reluctant champion, but the noncombatants (as is the way with noncombatants) gave him no option. they formed a ring round the pair and pulled the coats off them.
for a moment or two it looked as if ortho would win. an opening punch took him under the nose and stung him to such a pitch of fury that he tumbled on top of the freckled one, whirling like a windmill, fairly smothering him. but the freckled one was an old warrior; he dodged and side-stepped and propped straight lefts to the head whenever he got a chance, well knowing that ortho could not last the crazy pace.
ortho could not, or any mortal man. in a couple of minutes he was puffing and grunting, swinging wildly, giving openings everywhere. the heart was clean out of him; he had not wanted to fight in the first place and the popular voice was against him. everybody cheered burnadick; not a single whoop for him. he ended tamely, dropped his fists and gave burnadick best. the mob jeered and hooted and crowded round the victor, who shook them off and walked away, licking his raw knuckles. he had an idea of following penhale and shaking hands with him . . . hardly knew what the fight had been about . . . wished the other fellows weren’t always arranging quarrels for him; they never gave his knuckles time to heal. he’d have a chat with penhale one of these days . . . to-morrow perhaps. . .
his amiable intentions never bore fruit, for on the morrow his mother was taken ill, and he was summoned home and nobody else had any kindly feelings for ortho. he wrestled with incomprehensible primers among tittering infants during school hours; out of school he slunk about, alone always, cold-shouldered everywhere. his sociable soul grew sick within him, he rebelled at the sparse feeding, hated the irritable, sarcastic ushers, the bewildering tasks, the boys, the confinement, everything. at night, in bed, he wept hot tears of misery.
a spell of premature spring weather touched the land. incautious buds popped out in the helston back gardens; the hedgerow gorse was gilt-edged; the warm scent of pushing greenery blew in from the hillsides. armadas of shining cloud cruised down the blue. ortho, laboriously spelling c, a, t, cat, r, a, t, rat, in a drowsy classroom, was troubled with dreams. he saw the baragwanath family painting the game cock on the cove slip, getting her summer suit out of store; saw the rainbows glimmering over the twelve apostles, the green and silver glitter of the channel beyond; smelt sea-weed; heard the lisp of the tide. he dreamt of pyramus herne wandering northwards with lussha, and the other boys behind bringing up the horses, wandering over hill and dale, new country out-reeling before him every day. he bowed over the desk and buried his face in the crook of his arm.
a fly explored the spreading ear of “rusty rufus,” the junior usher. he woke out of his drowse, one little pig eye at a time, and glanced stealthily round his class. two young gentlemen were playing noughts and crosses, two more were flipping pellets at each other; a fifth was making chalk marks on the back of a sixth, who in turn was absorbed in cutting initials in the desk; a seventh appeared to be asleep. rufus, having slumbered himself, passed over the first six and fell upon his imitator.
“penhale, come here,” he rumbled and reached for his stick.
ortho obeyed. the usher usually indulged in much labored sarcasm at the boy’s expense, but he was too lazy that afternoon.
“hand,” he growled.
ortho held out his hand. “rufus” swung back the stick and measured the distance with a puckered eye. ortho hated him; he was a loathly sight, lying back in his chair, shapeless legs straddled out before him, fat jowl bristling with the rusty stubble from which he got his name, protuberant waistcoat stained with beer and snuff—a hateful beast! an icy glitter of cruelty—a flicker as of lightning reflected on a stagnant pool—suddenly lit the indolent eyes of the junior usher and down came the cane whistling. but ortho’s hand was not there to receive it. how it came about he never knew. he was frightened by the revealing blaze in rufus’ eyes, but he did not mean to shirk the stick; his hand withdrew itself of its own accord, without orders from his brain—a muscular twitch. however it happened the results were fruitful. rufus cut himself along the inside of his right leg with all his might. he dropped the stick, bounded out of his chair and hopped about the class, cursing horribly, yelping with pain. ortho stood transfixed, horrified at what he had done. a small boy, his eyes round with admiration, hissed at him from behind his hand:
“run, you fool—he’ll kill you!”
ortho came to his senses and bolted for the door.
but rufus was too quick for him. he bounded across the room, choking, spluttering, apoplectic, dirty fat hands clawing the air. he clawed ortho by the hair and collar and dragged him to him. ortho hit out blindly, panicked. he was too frightened to think; he thought rufus was going to kill him and fought for his life with the desperation of a cornered rat. he shut his eyes and teeth, rammed rufus in the only part of him he could reach, namely the stomach. one, two, three, four, five, six, seven—it was like hitting a jelly. at the fourth blow he felt the usher’s grip on him loosen. at the fifth he was free, the sixth sent the man to the floor, the seventh was wasted.
rufus lay on the boards, clutching his stomach, making the most dreadful retching noises. the small boys leapt up on their desks cheering and exhorting ortho to run. he ran. out of the door, across the court, out of the gates, up the street and out into the country. ran on and on without looking where he was going, on and on.
it was fully an hour later before it occurred to him that he was running north, but he did not change direction.
teresa was informed of ortho’s sensational departure two days later. the school authorities sent to bosula, expecting to find the boy had returned home and were surprised that he had not. where had he got to? teresa had an idea that he was hiding somewhere in the district, and combed it thoroughly, but ortho was not forthcoming. the gypsy camp was long deserted, and jacky’s george had gone to visit his scillonian sister by the somewhat circuitous route of guernsey.
it occurred to her that he might be lying up in the valley, surreptitiously fed by eli, and put bohenna on to beat it out, but the old hind drew blank. she then determined that he was with the tinners around st. just (a sanctuary for many a wanted cornishman), and since there was no hope of extricating him from their underground labyrinths the only thing to do was to wait. he’d come home in time, she said, and promised the boy a warm reception when he did.
then came a letter from pyramus herne—dictated to a public letter writer. pyramus was at ashburton buying dartmoor ponies and ortho was with him. pyramus was profuse with regrets and disclaimed all responsibility. ortho had caught up with him at launceston, foot-sore, ragged, starving, terrified—but adamant. he, pyramus, had chided him, begged him to return, even offered to lend him a horse to carry him back to helston or bosula, but ortho absolutely refused to do either—declaring that rather than return he would kill himself. what was to be done? he could not turn a friendless and innocent boy adrift to starve or be maltreated by the beggars, snatch-purses and loose women who swarmed into the roads at that season of the year. what was he to do? he respectfully awaited teresa’s instructions, assuring her that in the meanwhile ortho should have the best his poor establishment afforded and remained her ladyship’s obedient and worshipful servant, etc.
teresa took the letter to the st. gwithian parish clerk to be read and bit her lip when she learnt the contents. the clerk asked her if she wanted a reply written, but she shook her head and went home. ortho could not be brought back from devon handcuffed and kept chained in his room. there was nothing to be done.
so her son had reverted to type. she did not think it would last long. the hernes were prosperous for gypsies. ortho would not go short of actual food and head cover, but there would be days of trudging against the wind and rain, soaked and trickling from head to heel, beds in wet grass; nights of thunder with horses breaking loose and tumbling over the tents; shuddering dawns chilling the very marrow; parched noons choked with dust; riots at fairs, cudgels going and stones flying; filth, blows, bestiality, hard work and hard weather, hand to mouth all the way. ortho was no glutton for punishment; he would return to the warm owls’ house ere long, curl up gratefully before the fire, cured of his wanderlust. all was for the best doubtless, teresa considered, but she packed eli off to school in his place; the zest for duty was still strong in her—and, furthermore, she must have somebody who could keep accounts.
