The Indianapolis journal. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1867-1904, 1902-07-13
THE ASTARTE BELL
I3,y
MA UDE PENNELL.

Away back in the limbo Of the dead-and-
gone past, when Cornwall was in very truth
western Barbary." its history inseparable
from the records OF the press-gang. the
smuggIer. and the wrecker. Trevissick. as
an ideal smuggling cove, possessed a no
toriety By no means enviable.
The village, just a cluster OF matched
cottages. an inn. with a swinging sign, The
Three Pilchards. and a church with grey.
ivy-grown tower, stood far up in the cleft
Of the hills. approached from the open sea
by a ford long and narrow. on one side OF
which jutted out a jagged reef whose
treacherous teeth had proved the destruc-
zion Of many a gallant vessel in those by
gone days: when false lights had been wont
20 lure the prize TO her doom, and burly'
half-savage, Cornish wreckers were swift TO
seize their booty
Now. opposite these deadly rocks, long,
straight. stone quay. with a lighthouse at
the end, had been built, and in and out Of
the tiny harbor thus formed. the tan-sailed
fishing smacks came and went with their
lawful harvest of the deep. for now Ire
vissick was a peaceful fishing village. and
over the hill that led TO the town, in place
ons, creaking under their load OF contra
band kegs in the early morning sunshine
carts ratified along, filled with glittering,
silvery fish, the throb Of life not out OF their
scaIy bodies, and the ''dollies.'' as the fish
wives are called in the West Country
tramped through the dust in their short
skirts and Topping sunbonnets-"gooks -
their precious mawns of pilchards or mack
ereI strapped on to their shoulders, their
high-pitched. drawing voices presently to
awaken the echoes of the town with lusty
calls OF Want a bit Of fish to-day, my
dear?"
The reformation of Trevissick dated
from a certain stormy November night,
when, on the Death Stone reef, a great
trading steamer, hOmeward bound with a
cargo of specie, was hopelessiy wrecked by
the usual aid of false lights, every soul
on board perishing. But the gold the
wreckers clutched brought nothing but
misfortune in its wake Disaster logged
all those who touched it, and one Of the
villagers a ''mazed" man, as he had
formerly been deemed, who had heard
John Wesley preach to the miners and had
caught some of his religious passion, was
quick to declare that a curse lay on such
loot. and to denounce wrecking, root and
branch. The idea appealed to the super
stitious Cornish fancy. Another terrible
storm occurred shortly afterwards. and,
surprised by il. a number of Trevissick
men were drowned. The sweetheart Of one
of them, half-mad with grief, maintained
that she had heard the bell OF the wrecked
steamer changing beneath the sea before
the storm came on. Other hysterical
women supported her declaration, and the
legend arose that before a death by drown
ing the bell OF the lost Astarte was sure
to be- heard by the best beloved of the
doomed person.
From that winter the big cave down
under the Dead Cliff lacked it's customary
store of smuggled spirits. Instead of
wrecking. the village men turned their at
tention TO fishing. and as generation sue
ceeded generation the picturesque little
hamlet became inhabited by an honest,
Industrious. seafaring race, only the legend
OF the Astarte bell remaining to recall its
nefarious past.
II began 10 obtain favor, too, with the
artist fraternity. and on the sunIit summer
days, often a velvet-coated member Of that
Xix might be seen on the shingly beach.
huge umbrella. working vigorously at a
canvas destined to adorn the walls of Bur
Hngton House.
One such painter was staying there now
handsome, clever. Guy Russell-prince OF
his own particular Bohemian circle, the
passionate gaze of whose fathomless, sea
blue eyes seemed TO compel the love OF
women, and whose next gravest accom-
plishment to painting was undoubtedly
love making.
Even there, far removed from the
glamour and glitter of society, he must
needs indulge in his favorite pastime. as
soon as he discovered that a few languish-
ing glances and complimentary words
would win the innocent heart of the
pretty. rosy-cheeked fisher maiden whom
he had induced to pose as the central figure
OF his latest seascape.
Phoebe Tregelles was betrothed to a
young fisherman, Dan Polwhele by name
and it was the sight OF the paltry little
ring her left hand that first reused
the artists interest, as, towards sunset one
evening. her sitting over. she fingered
watching him deftly touching in crimson
stroke here and there on his painted sky
and absently twirling the tawdry trinket
on her finger.
Suddenly he looked up into her face
perhaps with more passion than he knew
for her eyes fell before his and a blush
crept over her clear skin.
"Ah. little Phoebe" he whispered. 81
only there might be no ring on your hand
what tale might tell you
There was silence while she still admired
the sparkle of the bits of glass that die
duty for diamonds. and he asked
How long have you had it?''
Twelve months come Christmas" sht
answered.
And do you love Dan very much?" h,
went on IN those low. caressing tones thai
had made many heart less simple thsr
the one beating beneath that cotton bodic,
futter fast
"Of course do. I've knowed him all my
life"
But knowing a person a long time doe:
not always bring love, Phoebe. See thes,
few weeks that ] have known you" III,
lightly put a feecy cloud on his canvas a.
he asked. in a moment: Did you ever hear
OF love at first sight?''
"Oh. yes. When Parson married Mis-.
Adams. that was lodging here one summer
they told how he failed in love with she a
first sight down upon the beach there"
Guy Russell sighed.
you cannot always marry the girl 70,