CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. — A CORNISH LANDLORD.
CHAPTER IV. — TYRREL’S REMORSE.
CHAPTER V. — A STRANGE DELUSION.
CHAPTER IX. — MEDICAL OPINION.
CHAPTER XI. — BUSINESS IS BUSINESS.
CHAPTER XII. — A HARD BARGAIN.
CHAPTER XIII. — ANGEL AND DEVIL.
CHAPTER XIV. — AT ARM’S LENGTH.
CHAPTER XV. — ST. MICHAEL DOES BATTLE.
“Then you don’t care for the place yourself, Tyrrel?” Eustace Le Neve said, musingly, as he gazed in front of him with a comprehensive glance at the long gray moor and the wide expanse of black and stormy water.
“It’s bleak, of course; bleak and cold, I grant you; all this upland plateau about the Lizard promontory seems bleak and cold everywhere; but to my mind it has a certain wild and weird picturesqueness of its own for all that. It aims at gloominess. I confess in its own way I don’t dislike it.”
“For my part,” Tyrrel answered, clinching his hand hard as he spoke, and knitting his brow despondently, “I simply hate it. If I wasn’t the landlord here, to be perfectly frank with you, I’d never come near Penmorgan. I do it for conscience’ sake, to be among my own people. That’s my only reason. I disapprove of absenteeism; and now the land’s mine, why, I must put up with it, I suppose, and live upon it in spite of myself. But I do it against the grain. The whole place, if I tell you the truth, is simply detestable to me.”
He leaned on his stick as he spoke, and looked down gloomily at the heather. A handsome young man, Walter Tyrrel, of the true Cornish type—tall, dark, poetical-looking, with pensive eyes and a thick black mustache, which gave dignity and character to his otherwise almost too delicately feminine features. And he stood on the open moor just a hundred yards outside his own front door at Penmorgan, on the Lizard peninsula, looking westward down a great wedge-shaped gap in the solid serpentine rock to a broad belt of sea beyond without a ship or a sail on it. The view w