“Waiting cannot avail you in this, Sir Oliver. ’Tis best you should understand. We are resolved, Sir John and I.”
“Are you so? God’s light. Send Sir John to me to tell me of his resolves and I’ll tell him something of mine. Tell him from me, Master Godolphin, that if he will trouble to come as far as Penarrow I’ll do by him what the hangman should have done long since. I’ll crop his pimpish ears for him, by this hand!”
“Meanwhile,” said Master Godolphin whettingly, “will you not essay your rover’s prowess upon me?”
“You?” quoth Sir Oliver, and looked him over with good-humoured contempt. “I’m no butcher of fledgelings, my lad. Besides, you are your sister’s brother, and ’tis no aim of mine to increase the obstacles already in my path.” Then his tone changed. He leaned across the table. “Come, now, Peter. What is at the root of all this matter? Can we not compose such differences as you conceive exist? Out with them. ’Tis no matter for Sir John. He’s a curmudgeon who signifies not a finger’s snap. But you, ’tis different. You are her brother. Out with your plaints, then. Let us be frank and friendly.”
“Friendly?” The other sneered again. “Our fathers set us an example in that.”
“Does it matter what our fathers did? More shame to them if, being neighbours, they could not be friends. Shall we follow so deplorable an example?”
“You’ll not impute that the fault lay with my father,” cried the other, with a show of ready anger.
“I impute nothing, lad. I cry shame upon them both.”
“ ’Swounds!” swore Master Peter. “Do you malign the dead?”
“If I do, I malign them both. But I do not. I no more than condemn a fault that both must acknowledge could they return to life.”
“Then, sir, confine your condemnings to your own father with whom no man of honour could have lived at peace. …”
“Softly, softly, good Sir. …”
“There’s no call to go softly. Ralph Tressilian was a dishonour, a scandal to the countryside. Not a hamlet between here and Truro, or between here and Helston, but swarms with big Tressilian noses like your own, in memory of your debauched parent.”
Sir Oliver’s eyes grew narrower: he smiled. “I wonder how you came by your own nose?” he wondered.
Master Godolphin got to his feet in a passion, and his chair crashed over behind him. “Sir,” he blazed, “you insult my mother’s memory!”
Sir Oliver laughed. “I make a little free with it, perhaps, in return for your pleasantries on the score of my father.”
Master Godolphin pondered him in speechless anger, then swayed by his passion he leaned across the board, raised his long cane and struck Sir Oliver sharply on the shoulder.
That done, he strode off magnificently towards the door. Halfway thither he paused.
“I shall expect your friends and the length of your sword,” said he.
Sir Oliver laughed again. “I don’t think I shall trouble to send them,” said he.
Master Godolphin wheeled, fully to face him again. “How? You will take a blow?”
Sir Oliver shrugged. “None saw it given,” said he.
“But I shall publish it abroad that I have caned you.”
“You’ll publish yourself a liar if you do; for none will believe you.” Then he changed his tone yet again. “Come, Peter, we are behaving unworthily. As for the blow, I confess that I deserved it. A man’s mother is more sacred than his father. So we may cry quits on that score. Can we not cry quits on all else? What can it profit us to perpetuate a foolish quarrel that sprang up between our fathers?”
“There is more than that between us,” answered Master Godolphin. “I’ll not have my sister wed a pirate.”
“A pirate? God’s light! I am glad there’s none to hear you for since her grace has knighted me for my doings upon the seas, your words go very near to treason. Surely, lad, what the Queen approves, Master Peter Godolphin may approve and even your mentor Sir John Killigrew. You’ve been listening to him. ’Twas he sent you hither.”
“I am no man’s lackey,” answered the other hotly, resenting the imputation—and resenting it the more because of the truth in it.
“To call me a pirate is to say a foolish thing. Hawkins with whom I sailed has also received the accolade, and who dubs us pirates insults the Queen herself. Apart from that, which, as you see, is a very empty charge, what else have you against me? I am, I hope, as good as any other here in Cornwall; Rosamund honours me with her affection and I am rich and shall be richer still ere the wedding bells are heard.”
“Rich with the fruit of thieving upon the seas, rich with the treasures of scuttled ships and the price of slaves captured in Africa and sold to the plantations, rich as the vampire is glutted—with the blood of dead men.”
“Does Sir John say that?” asked Sir Oliver, in a soft deadly voice.
“I say it.”
“I heard you; but I am asking where you learnt that pretty lesson. Is Sir John your preceptor? He is, he is. No need to tell me. I’ll deal with him. Meanwhile let me disclose to you the pure and disinterested source of Sir John’s rancour. You shall see what an upright and honest gentleman is Sir John, who was your father’s friend and has been your guardian.”
“I’ll not listen to what you say of him.”
“Nay, but you shall, in return for having made me listen to what he says of me. Sir John desires to obtain a licence to build at the mouth of the Fal. He hopes to see a town spring up above the haven there under the shadow of his own Manor of Arwenack. He represents himself as nobly disinterested and all concerned for the prosperity of the country, and he neglects to mention that the land is his own and that it is his own prosperity and that of his family
