BLTC Press Titles

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Esoteric Buddhism

A. P. Sinnett

The Revolt of the Netherlands

Friedrich Schiller

Some Experiences of an Irish R. M.

Edith Somerville and Martin Ross

The Art of Worldly Wisdom

Baltasar Gracian


by George Smith


Constantine coloured at the reference to his torn coat. 'I apologise for appearing before you in this figure,' he said; but she interrupted him, her quick blue eye had caught sight of a young man turning his horse to ride away. * Here!' she exclaimed, catching up her habit with one hand, and waving the whip imperiously with the other, 'No skulking off, Mr. Penhalligan. I have just caught you in the act of executing a retreat, when the general sounded a summons to table. Stay!'

'Miss Trewhella, one must be driven from your presence—one is not disposed to skulk from it,' answered the young man, a dark handsome man, seated on a rough cob.

'Well said, Mr. Penhalligan,' laughed the girl. 'There is a polish of politeness about you which is so rare an element at Towan that we prize it when it is found. I doubt not but that in proper hands something may be made out of you.'

'Anything may be made out of me, if you, Miss Trewhella, will put your hand to the moulding.'

'I have neither the patience nor the skill,' said Rose Trewhella, laughing; 'I am doing my best to civilize Uncle Hender, but the result does not reward the pains.' Then, suddenly, in an altered tone, 'Why is not your sister, Loveday, out with us to-day?'

'Because I have no second horse on which she can ride.'

'Oh, you bad brother—like all men, selfish. You should have stayed at home, and sent her out.'

'Then, consider, there was no groom to look after her.'

'I have none to-day. I allowed my groom, Gerans, to leave, so that he might go to Wadebridge, and bring thence his double. If it were possible for me to ride without a groom, surely it was possible also for Loveday.'

'Every gentleman in the field, Miss Trewhella, is your dutiful servant.'

'And the same to Loveday. Have you noticed how I have pouted all day? It has been because your sister was not with us.'

'How do you do, Dennis ?' said Gerans, coming up beside the dark young man, and patting the neck of his cob. 'What sort of a run have you had? How did this mare keep up?'

Penhalligan shook his head. 'Only a cob, I can't keep hunters.'

'How is your sister?' asked Gerans, passing over the reply without notice. • Oh! here is Constantine. Do you see him? He has returned home for a change.'

Constantine came up, awkwardly, with his eyes on the ground; but that may have been due to disgust at appearing in a torn coat. He held out his hand.

Dennis Penhalligan did not meet the extended fingers, he pretended to overlook the proffered hand. 'Constantine and I must have a talk,' he said; then he turned the head of his horse and rode away to the stable-yard to hitch up his beast.



The party of huntsmen were assembled in the hall of Towan House. The hall was low, lighted by a long five-light granite window looking to the east. It had an immense open granite fireplace, in which a log was smouldering upon a pair of andirons, banked up with peat, that diffused an agreeable odour through the room. The hall was panelled with oak and ornamented with stags' horns. Towan in past times was said to have had a deerpark, hut the park had consisted merely of a walled paddock of some ten acres, in which was a spring of pure water, with some gnarled, crouching thorns above it.

The wall of the deer paddock remained in places, but the greater portion was broken down; of the deer, all that remained were the few horns on the wall, poor and stunted as the trees that grew on that coast. The horns were fitted into very rudely cut heads of oak, shaped by a village carpenter in past times.

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