Watertown republican. [volume] (Watertown, Wis.) 1860-1906, 1881-06-22

JlmoS W1Un uno DOaC, ana TO uOlu GIlou-
selves in readiness at any time when
their services might be wanted. If they
saved lives, they were to have each a
bounty of one pound on every human
head rescued. Nay, they were to have
fifteen shillings, too, for every dead
human body they brought to shore.
Thus had the earl and his daughter tried
to enlist the cupidity of these men on the
side OF humanity, hoping, may be, that
some higher agencies would work too for
the reclai1ning of population as bar
barous and debased as any in these isles.
Peter Pencorrow lived in q pretty
house which his patron had built for
him near the large white shed where the
lifeboat was kept. There was a phar-
macy in the place, with two rooms hold
ing three beds each, which were to be
reserved for half-drowned men and
women who might be drawn out of the
sea; and there were great number of
useful appliances for restoring lives that
might be Just Pickering out Sometimes
the Earl and Lady Blanche would drive
to the village to see If everything was in
good order; but since their carriage could
be seen five miles off as it wound down
the steep road on the rock side, leading
to Polloot, Peter and his daughter Meg
always had about an hours notice to see
things tidy Peter now lived alone with
his daughter Margaret. His son had
left him in disgust to enlist, and Meg
only remained with h1m because there
was nothing else for her her to do. She
had been cursed at and cudgelled by him
all through her childhood; she had been
his drudge, his scapegoat in every one
of those drunken fits of his which re-
Cured daily, and her body bore brutal
marks of kicks he had given her when
little thing, with limbs still tender and
weak. But now she had grown up to be
a strong girl, with tanned face and a
determined look, so that Peter was afraid
of her. He used to hide his money from
her, as bad boy does from his mother,
and if she wanted anything for house
keeping expenses she had to search his
pockets when he was dead drunk. How
ever, more than ESQ out of ESQ year
used to melt in drink, and Margaret had
to exc out subsistence for herself and
him by making nets and shrimping.
Sometimes Lady Blanche used to give
her sovereign, and this too, helped
the household along.
Margaret had wild, logged sort of
attractiveness in her appearance. She
never wore shoes or stockings, and her
black hair fell down her back in one
thickly- plated tress. A red handker-
chief formed her head-covering and was
tied under her chin; her rough, brown
arms were always bare to the elbow.
Harold Trecorpe had cast his eyes upon
the girl from the time when she was
seventeen, but she hated him. The
first time he tried some rough piece of
gallantry on her she caught up the
stump of a broken oar to protect herself
and merely glared at him, without say
ing a word On another occasion, when
he came behind her unawares and took
her under the chin, she lifted a heavy
tishing-net, all bronzed with age and
salt, and dashed it in his face with such
violence that he was knocked down on
the single.
Course ye', GIRL" he swore as he
picked himself up. "Yo' wouldn't
have done that to Mark Brathwaite; but
let him look to himself if he crosses me. :"
eff yo' lay finger on Mark Brath-
waite yo'n have to look to yo'self," an
Harold contented himself with scowling
at her from that time.
Mark Brathwaite was Margaret's Sec
ond lover-a fair-haired boy, about her
own age, whom she had saved from
drowning one windy day, when he had
been dashed out of his fishing boat by a
flap of loosed sail, which had hit him
on the head and stunned him. Mar
garet had swan q couple of furlongs and
Mark Brathwaite had loved her from the
moment when he opened his eyes and
found her bending over him and breath
ing life into his body vigorously from
her own lungs. Margaret, however,
treated him like younger brother. He
was the only human being who could
draw a smile from her, but he was not
the man to teach her what love was,
though he tried hard and made himself
pretty wretched In the attempt
Sometimes Peter Pencorrow's daugh-
ter, sitting outside her fathers house on
fine afternoons to make nets, would
drop her hands into her lap and. look
out with dull, wistful expression over
the sea, SO broad, so blue and mysterious.
Her fnely-shaped head mi ght have been
a storehouse of knowledge and great
thoughts, but it was empty. She could
neither read nor write; she knew nothing
of the world except in its most sordid
aspects of dire poverty, drunkenness
and brutality. She had never set foot
In a church, and had no idea of God
save that she had heard and believed that
there was something above those skies
which were now so golden with sunlight,
now SO black with thunder. Occasional
ly such natural impulses of good as were
in the girls heart would well up in short
scraps of advice which she gave to Mark
Brathwaite; Mark, yo'n not get drunk
like father. There's no good in drink"
or, Mark, if I were a mon, I'd learn
summit and become scholard.'
This is what Margaret Pencorrow was
at eighteen, and on the night alluded to
in the first line of this story, when her
worthless father stood, drunk as usual,
on his watch, and unheedful of the
storm that was gathering.