A .*j 
 
 ■^^. 
 
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 Q
 
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 GARRET MCENERNEY 
 
 DONATION
 
 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY
 
 ^>^^<^
 
 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY 
 
 STORIES, STUDIES, AND 
 SKETCHES 
 
 By "Q^^i 1 K^ ^ ' 
 
 u ''■ 
 
 Author of "Thk Splendid Spur," 
 " Dead Man's Rock," etc. 
 
 MACMILLAN AND CO. 
 
 AND LONDON 
 1893 
 
 All rights reserved
 
 GARRET M-'^-i'R'^EY 
 DONATION 
 
 COPTKlGBT, 1893, 
 
 By MACMILLAN AND CO. 
 
 ,•58892 
 
 Norfajool) }Ptc03 : 
 
 J. S. Cushing & Co. — Berwick & Smith. 
 Bueton, Mass., U.S.A.
 
 pp -UNIVERSITY OF r^r tfornia 
 
 f^K SANTA BARBARA 
 
 ALFRED PARSONS
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Prologue 1 
 
 The Spinster's Maying ...... 11 
 
 Daphnis ......... 23 
 
 When the Sap rose ...... 35 
 
 The Paupers .43 
 
 Clckoo Valley Railway 61 
 
 The Conspiracy aboard the "Midas" ... 71 
 
 Legends of St. Piran. 
 
 I. St. Piran : the Millstone .... 85 
 
 II. St. Piran : the Visitation .... 93 
 
 In the Train. 
 
 I. Punch's rnderstudy 107 
 
 II. A Corrected Contempt 117 
 
 "WooN Gate 127 
 
 From a Cottage in Gantick. 
 
 I. The Mourner's Horse 137 
 
 II. Silhouettes 153 
 
 The Drawn Blind ....... 163 
 
 vii
 
 viii CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 A Golden Wedding 175 
 
 School Friends ........ 185 
 
 Parents and Children. 
 
 I. The Family Bible 195 
 
 II. Boanerges 205 
 
 Two Monuments 213 
 
 Egg-Stealing 223 
 
 Sbven-an'-Six 233 
 
 The Eegent's Wager 243 
 
 Love of Naomi 255 
 
 The Prince of Abyssinia's Post-bag. 
 
 I. An Interruption ...... 301 
 
 II. The Great Fire on Freethy's Quay . . 311
 
 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 A WEEK ago, ray friend the Journalist wrote 
 to remind me that once upon a time I had 
 offered him a hed in my cottage at Troy and 
 promised to show him the heauties of the place. 
 He was ahout {he said) to give himself a fort- 
 nigMs holiday, and had some notion of using 
 that time to learn what Cor'nwall was like. He 
 could spare hut one day for Troy, and hai^dly 
 looked to exhaust its attractions ; nevertheless, 
 if my promise held good .... By anticipa- 
 tion he spoke of my home as a " nookP Its 
 windows look down upon a harbour, wherein, 
 day hy day, vessels of every nation and men 
 of large experience are for ever going and com- 
 ing ', and heyond the harhour, upon leagues of 
 open sea, highway of the vastest traffic in the 
 world: whereas from his own far more expen- 
 sive house my friend sees only a dirty laurel- 
 
 1
 
 2 THE' DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 bush, a high green fence, and the upper half of 
 a suhurhan lamp post. Yet he is conmnced 
 that I dwell in a nooh. 
 
 I answered his letter, warmly repeating the 
 invitation; and last loeeh he arrived. The 
 change had hronzed his face, and from his talk, 
 I learnt that he had already seen half the 
 Duchy, in seven days. Yet he had been un- 
 reasonably delayed in at least a dozen places, 
 and used the strongest language about ''bus and 
 coach communication, local trains, misleading 
 sign-posts, and the like. Our scenery enrapt- 
 ured him — every aspect of it. lie had trav- 
 elled tip the Tamar to Launceston, crossed the 
 moors, climbing Roughtor and Brown Willy 
 on his way, plunged down towards Gamelford, 
 which he appeared to have reached by fol- 
 lowing two valleys simultaneously, coached to 
 Boscastle, walked to Tintagel, climbed up to 
 Uther\s Castle, diverged inland to St. Nectai'Cs 
 Kieve, driven on to Bedruthan Steps, Mawgan, 
 the Vale of Lanherne, ISfewquay, taken a train 
 thence to Truro, a steamer from Truro to Fal- 
 mouth, crossed the ferry to St. Mawes, walked 
 up the coast to Mevagissey, driven from Meva- 
 gissey to St. Austell, and at St. Austell taken
 
 PROLOGUE. 3 
 
 another train for Troy. Tlils hr ought half 
 his holiday to a dose : the remaining half he 
 meant to devote to the Mining District., St. 
 Tves, the LaiuVs End^ St. MlcltaeVs Mount., the 
 Lizard., and perhajps the Scilly Isles. 
 
 Then I began to feel that 1 lived in a nooh, 
 and to wonder how I could spin out its at- 
 tractions to cover a lohole day : for I coidd 
 not hear to think of his departing with secret 
 regret for his lavished time. In a flash I saw 
 the truth • that my love for this spot is huilt 
 up of numherless trivialities., of small memories 
 all incommunicable., or ridiculous when com- 
 municated ', a scrap of local speech heard at 
 this corner., a pleasant native face remembered 
 in that doorway., a battered vessel dropping 
 anchor — she went out in the spring vnth her 
 crew singing dolefully ; and the grey-bearded 
 man waiting in his boat beneath her counter 
 till the custom-house officers have made their 
 survey is the father of one among the creio, 
 and is waiting to take his son''s hand again, 
 after months of absence. Would this interest 
 my friend, if I pointed it out to him f Or, 
 if I ivalk with him by the path above the 
 creek, what will he care to hnoiu that on this
 
 4 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 particular hank the violets always hloom earli- 
 est — that one of a line of yews that top the 
 churchyard wall is remarhahle because a pair 
 of missel-thrushes have chosen it to huild in 
 for three successive years? The violets are 
 gone. The empty nest has almost dissolved 
 under the late heavy rains, and the yew is so 
 like its fellows that I myself have no idea why 
 the hirds chose it. The longer I reflected the 
 7nore certain I felt that my friend coidd find 
 all he wanted in the guide-hooks. 
 
 None the less, I did my hest : rowed him 
 for a mile or two up the river j took him out 
 to sea, and along the coast for half a dozen 
 miles. The water was choppy, as it is under 
 the slightest hreeze from, the south-east j and 
 the Journalist was sea-sick / hut seemed to mind 
 this very little, and recovered sufficiently to a^sk 
 my hoatman two or three hundred questions 
 hefore we reached the harhour again. Then 
 we landed and explored the Church. This took 
 us some time, owing to several freaks in its 
 construction, for which I Messed the memory 
 of its early-English huilders. We went on to 
 the Town Hall, the old Stannary Prison {now 
 in ruins), the dilapidated Block-houses, the Bat-
 
 PROLOGUE. 5 
 
 teri/. We trave)'s<'(l the toivii from end to end 
 and studied the harge-hoards and piinkin-ends 
 of every old house. I had meanly ordered that 
 dinner shoidd he ready halfan-hour earlier than 
 usual, and, as it was, the ohjects of interest just 
 lasted out. 
 
 As roe sat and smoked our cigarettes after 
 dinner, the Journalist said — 
 
 "7/^ you donH mind, Pll he off in a few 
 minutes and shut myself up in your study. I 
 wonH he long turning out the copy ; and after 
 that I can talk to you without feeling Pve 
 neglected my work. There's an early post here, 
 I suppose f " 
 
 '''■Man alive!'''' said I, '"''you donH mean to 
 tell me that you'' re working, this holiday f^ 
 
 ^^ Only a letter for the ^ Daily ' three 
 
 times a week — a column and a half, or so.^'' 
 
 " The suhject f " 
 
 " Oh, descriptive stuff about the places I^ve 
 been visiting. I call it ' An Idler in Lyonesse.^ " 
 
 " Why Lyonesse f " 
 
 « Why not f " 
 
 " Well, Lyonesse has lain at the bottom of tlte 
 Atlantic, between Land^s End and Scilly, these 
 eight hundred years. The chroniclers relate
 
 6 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 that it was overivhelmed and lost m 1099, A.D. 
 If your Constant Readers care to ramble there, 
 theyWe welcome, Pm sure.'''' 
 
 "/ had thought^'' said he, ^Ht luas just a 
 jpoefs name for Cormvall. Well, never mind, 
 1 HI go in presently and write up this place : ifs 
 just as tvell to do it while one's impressions are 
 still fresh:' 
 
 He finished his coffee, lit a fresh cigarette, 
 and strolled off to the little library lohere I 
 usually %oorTc. I stepped out upon the verandah 
 and looked down on the harbour at my feet, 
 where already the vessels ivere hanging out their 
 lamps in the twilight. I had looked down thus, 
 and at this hour, a thousand times / and alioays 
 the scene had something new to reveal to me, 
 and much more to withhold — small subtleties 
 such as a man finds in his wife, however ordi- 
 nary she may appear to other people. And 
 here, in the next room, was a man who, in half- 
 a-dozen hours, felt able to describe Troy, to 
 deck her out, at least, in language that shoidd 
 captivate a million or so of breakfasting 
 Britons. 
 
 '■^ My country, '^ said I, ''''if you have given 
 up, in these six hours, a tithe of your heart to
 
 PROLOGUE. 7 
 
 this man — {/", hi fact, his screed he not arrant 
 ho'sh — then 10 ill I hie me to London for good 
 and all, and write political leaders all the days 
 of my life.'''' 
 
 In an hour's time the Journalist came saun- 
 tering out to me, and announced that his letter 
 loas written. 
 
 " Have you sealed it up ? " 
 
 '' Well, no. I thought you might give me an 
 additional hint or two / and mayhe I might 
 look it over again and add a few lines hefore 
 turning in.'' 
 
 " Do you mind my seeing it f " 
 
 " Not the least in the world, if you care to. 
 I didnH think, though, that it could p>oss%bly 
 interest you, who know already every inortal 
 thing that is to he known ahout the placeP 
 
 " YoiCre mistaken. I may know all ahout 
 this place when I die, hut oiot hefore. Lets 
 hear what you have to say^'' 
 
 We went indoors, and he read it over to me. 
 
 It was a surprisingly h7'illiant piece of 
 description', and accurate, too. He had not 
 called it "<3^ little fishing-town^'' for instance, as 
 so many visitors have done iti my hearing, 
 though hardly a fishing-hoat puts out from the
 
 8 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 harbour. The guide-hooks call it a fishing-town., 
 hut the Journalist was not misled^ though he 
 had gone to them for a numher of facts. I 
 corrected a date and then sat silent. It amazed 
 me that a man who could see so much^ should 
 fail to perceive that what he had seen was of no 
 account in comparison ivith what he had not : 
 or that, if he did indeed perceive this, he could 
 write such stuff with such gusto. '■''To he 
 capable of so much and content with so little,^'' 
 I thought; and then broke off to wonder if 
 after all, he were not right. To-morrow he 
 would be on his way, crowding his mind with 
 quick and brilliant impressions, hurrying, liv- 
 ing, telling his felloius a thousand useful and 
 pleasant things, while I pored about to discover 
 one or two for them. 
 
 " / thought^'' said the Journalist, swingiiig 
 his gold pencil-case between finger and thumb, 
 " you might furnish me with just a hint or so, 
 to give the thing a local colour. Some little 
 characteristic of the oiatives, for instance. I 
 noticed, this afternoon, when I was most sea- 
 sick, that your fellow took off his hat and 
 pidled something out of the lining. I was too 
 ill to see what it was / but he dropped it over-
 
 PROLOGUE. 9 
 
 hoard the next minute and muttered some- 
 thing.'''' 
 
 " Oh, you remarJced that, did you ? " 
 
 " Yes, and meant to ask him about it after- 
 wards j hut forgot, somehow^ 
 
 "• Do you remember where ice ivere — ichat we 
 were passing — when he did this f " 
 
 ^^ Not dearly. I teas infernally ill just 
 then. Why did he do it ? " 
 
 I was silent. 
 
 '■'' I suppose it had some meaning f^ he went 
 on. 
 
 " Yes, it had. And excuse me when I say 
 that Pm hanged if either you or your Constant 
 Readers shall Tcnow what that meaning was. 
 My dear fellow, you belong to a strong race — a 
 race that has beaten us and taken toll of us, 
 and now carves '■ Smith^ and ''Thompson'' and 
 such names upon our fathers^ tombs. But there 
 are some things you have not laid hands on 
 yet I secrets that loe all know somehow, but 
 never utter, even among ourselves, nor allude 
 to. If I told you what Billy Tredegar did 
 to-day, and why he did it, I tell you frankly 
 your article loould make some thousands of 
 Constant Readers open wide eyes over their
 
 10 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 hreakfast-cups. But you won't know. Why, 
 after all, should I say anything to sjpoil Corn- 
 waWs jprospeots as a health-resort ? " 
 
 My friend took this very (jtiietly, merely 
 observing that it was rather late in the day to 
 take sides against Ilengist and Horsa. But he 
 loas sorry, I coidd see, to lose his local colour. 
 And as I looked dovjn, for the last time that 
 night, upon Troy, this petition escaped me — 
 
 " my country, if I keep your secrets, keep 
 for me your heart ! "
 
 THE SPINSTER'S MAYING. 
 
 " The Jields breathe sweet, the daisiet; kiss our feet, 
 Young lovers meet, old icives a-sunnhiff sit; 
 In every street these tunes our ears do greet — 
 Cuckoo, Jug-jug, pu-tvee, to-witta-tvoo ! 
 Spring, the sweet Spri?ig." 
 
 At two o'clock on May morning a fishing- 
 boat, with a small row-boat in tow, stole up 
 the harbour between the lights of the vessels 
 that lay at anchor. She came on a soundless 
 tide, with her sprit-mainsail wide and drawing, 
 and her foresail flapping idle ; and although 
 her cuddy -top and gunwale glistened wet with 
 a recent shower, the man who steered her 
 looked over his shoulder at the waning moon, 
 and decided that the dawn would be a fine one. 
 A furlong below the Town Quay he left the 
 tiller and lowered sail : two furlongs above, 
 he drop])ed anchor : then, having made all 
 ship-shape, he lit a pipe and pulled an enormous 
 watch from his fob. The vessels he had passed 
 11
 
 12 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 since entering the harbour's mouth seemed one 
 and all asleep. But a din of horns, kettles, and 
 tea-trays, and a wild tattoo of door-knockers, 
 sounded along the streets behind the stores 
 and houses that lined the water-side. Already 
 the town-boys were ushering in the month of 
 May. 
 
 The man waited until the half-hour chimed 
 over the 'long-shore roofs from the church-tower 
 up the hill ; set his watch w^ith care ; and sat 
 down to w^ait for the sun. Upon the wooded 
 cliff that faces the town the birds were waking ; 
 and by-and-bye, from the three small quays 
 came the sound of voices laughing, and then a 
 boat or two stealing out of the shadow, each 
 crowded with boys and maids. Before the 
 dawn grew red above the cliff where the birds 
 sang, a dozen boats had gone by him on their 
 way up the river, the chatter and broken 
 laughter returning down its dim reaches long 
 after the rowers had passed out of sight. 
 
 For some moments longer he watched the 
 broadening daylight, till the sun, mounting 
 above the cliif, blazed on the watch he had 
 again pulled out and now shut with a brisk 
 snap. His round, shaven face, still boyish in
 
 THE spinster's MAYING. 18 
 
 middle age, wore the shadow of a solemn 
 responsibility. lie clambered out into the 
 small boat astern, and, casting loose, pulled 
 towards a bright patch of colour in the grey 
 shore wall : a blue quay-door overhung with 
 ivy. The upper windows of the cottage behind 
 it were draped with snowy muslin, and its walls, 
 coated with recent whitewash, shamed its 
 neighbours to right and left. 
 
 As the boat dropped under this blue quay- 
 door, its upper flap opened softly, and a voice 
 as softly said — 
 
 " Thank you kindly, John. And how d'ye 
 do this May morning?" 
 
 " Charming," the man answered frankly. 
 " Handsome weather 'tis, to be sure." 
 
 He looked up and smiled at her, like a lover. 
 
 " I needn t to ask how you be ; for you'm 
 looking sweet as blossom," he went on. 
 
 And yet the woman that smiled down on 
 him was fifty 3'ears old at least. Her hair, 
 which usually lay in two flat bands, closely 
 drawn ov^er the temples, had for this occasion 
 been worked into waves by curling-papers, and 
 twisted in front of either ear, into that particu- 
 lar ringlet locally called a kiss-me-quick. But
 
 14 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 it was streaked with grey, and the pinched 
 features wore the tint of pale ivory. 
 
 " D'ye think 3^011 can clamber down the lad- 
 der, Sarah ? The tide's fairly high." 
 
 " I'm afraid I'll be showing my ankles." 
 
 " I was hoping so. AYunnerful ankles you've 
 a-got, Sarah, and a wunnerful cage o' teeth. 
 Such extremities 'd well beseem a king's 
 daughter, all glorious within ! " 
 
 Sarah Blewitt pulled open the lower flap of 
 the door and set her foot on the ladder. She 
 wore a white print gown beneath her cloak, and 
 a small bonnet of black straw decorated with 
 sham cowslips. The cloak, hitching for a 
 moment on the ladder's side, revealed a beaded 
 reticule that hung from her waist, and clinked 
 as she descended. 
 
 " I reckon there's scarce an inch of paint left 
 on my front door," she observed, as the man 
 steadied her with an arm round her waist, and 
 settled her comfortably in the stern-sheets. 
 
 He unshijDped his oars and began to pull. 
 
 " Ay. I heard 'em whackin' the door with a 
 deal o* tow-row. They was going it like billy-O 
 when I came past tlie Town Quay. But one 
 mustn' complain, May-mornin's."
 
 TUE SPINSTEIi'S MAYING. 15 
 
 " I wasn' complaining," said the woman ; " I 
 was just remarking. How's Maria?" 
 
 " She's nicely, thank you." 
 
 " And the children ? " 
 
 " Brave." 
 
 " I've put up sixpenny worth of nicey in four 
 packets — that's one apiece — and I've written 
 the name on each, for you to take home to 'em." 
 
 She fumbled in her reticule and produced 
 the packets. The peppermint-drops and brandy- 
 balls were wrapped in clean white paper, and 
 the names written in a thin Italian hand. John 
 thanked her and stowed them in his trousers 
 pockets. 
 
 " You'll give my love to Maria '( I take it 
 very kindly her letting you come for me like 
 this." 
 
 "Oh, as for that — " began John, and broke 
 off; "I don't call to mind that ever I saw 
 a more handsome morning for the time o' 
 year." 
 
 They had made this expedition together 
 more than a score of times, and always found 
 the same difficulty in conversing. The boat 
 moved easily past the town, the jetties above 
 it, and the vessels that lay off them awaiting
 
 16 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 their cargoes ; it turned tlie corner and glided 
 by woods where the larches were green, the 
 sycamores dusted with bronze, the wild cherry- 
 trees white with blossom, and all voluble. 
 Every little bird seemed ready to burst his 
 throat that morning with the deal he had to 
 say. But these two — the man especially — 
 had nothing to say, yet ached for words. 
 
 " Nance Treweek's married," the woman 
 managed to tell him at last. 
 
 " I was thinking it likely, by the way she 
 carried on last Maying." 
 
 " That wasn' the man. SheVe kept company 
 with two since him, and mated with a fourth 
 man altogether — quite a different sort, in the 
 commercial traveller line." 
 
 " Did he wear a seal weskit ? " 
 
 " Well, he might have ; but not to my knowl- 
 edge. What makes you ask ? " 
 
 " Because I used to know a Johnny Fort- 
 night that wore one in these parts; and I 
 thought it might be he, belike." 
 
 " Jim had a greater gift o' speech than you 
 can make pretence to," said the woman abruptly. 
 "I often wonder that of two twin- brothers one 
 should be so iilib and t'other so mum-chance."
 
 THE SPINSTER'S MAYING. 17 
 
 "'Tis the Lord's ways," tlie man answered, 
 resting on his oars. " Will you be dabblin' 
 your feet as usual, Sarah ? " 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 lie turned the boat's nose to a small landing- 
 place cut in the solid rock, where a straight 
 pathway dived between hazel-bushes and ap- 
 peared again twenty feet above, winding inland 
 around the knap of a green hill. Here he 
 helped her to disembark, and waited with his 
 back to the shore. The spinster behind the 
 hazel screen pulled off shoes and stockings, and 
 paddled about for a minute in the dewy grass 
 that fringed the meadow's lower slope. Then, 
 drawing a saucer from her reticule, she wrung 
 some dew into it and bathed her face. Ten 
 minutes later she re-appeared on the river's bank. 
 
 " A happy May, John ! " 
 
 " A happy May to you, Sarah ! " 
 
 John stepped out beside her, and making 
 his boat fast, followed her up the narrow path 
 and around the shoulder of the steep meadow. 
 They overed a stile, then a second, and were 
 among pink slopes of orchards in bloom. 
 Ahead of them a church tower rose out of soft 
 billows of apple-blossom, and above the tower
 
 18 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 a lark was singing. A child came along the 
 footpath from the village with two garlands 
 mounted cross-wise on a pole and looped to- 
 gether with strings of painted birds' eggs. 
 John gave him a penny for his show. 
 
 " Here's luck to your lass ! " said the wise 
 child. 
 
 Sarah was pleased, and added a second penny 
 from her reticule. The boy spat on it for luck, 
 slipped it into his breeches pocket, and went 
 on his way skipping. 
 
 They stood still and looked after him for 
 some moments, out of pure pleasure in his good 
 humour; then descended among the orchards 
 to the village. Half-way up the street stood 
 the inn, the Flowing Source, with white-washed 
 front and fuchsia-trees that reached to the first- 
 floor windows ; and before it a well enclosed 
 with a round stone wall, over 'which the toad- 
 flax spread in a tangle. Around the well, in 
 the sunshine, were set a dozen or more small 
 tables, covered with white cloths, and two score 
 at least of young people eating bread and cream 
 and laugliing. The landlady, a broad woman 
 in a blue print gown and large aj)ron, came 
 forward.
 
 THE SPINSTER'S MAYING. 19 
 
 "Why, Miss Sarah, Vd nigh 'pon given you 
 up. Your table's been s[)rea(l this hour, an' 
 at hist I was forced to ask some o' the young 
 folks if you was dead or no.'' 
 
 " Why should 1 be dead more than another?" 
 
 "Well, well — in the midst o' life, we're told. 
 'Tisn' only the ripe apples that the wind scat- 
 ters. He that comes by your side to-day is but 
 twin-brother to him that came wi' 3'ou the first 
 time I mind 'ee, seerain' but yesterday. Eh, 
 Miss Sarah, but I envied 'ee then, sittin' Avi' 
 hand in hand, an' but one bite taken out o' 
 your bread an' cream ; but I was just husband- 
 high myself i' those days, an' couldn't make 
 the men believe it." 
 
 " Mary Ann Jacobs," Miss Sarah broke out, 
 " if 'twas not for the quality of your cream, I'd 
 go a-mayin' elsewhere, for I can truly say I 
 hate your way of talkin' from the bottom of 
 my soul." 
 
 " Sarah," said John, wiping his mouth as he 
 finished his bread and cream, "I'm a glum 
 man, as you well know ; an' why Providence 
 drowned poor Jim, when it might have taken 
 his twin image that liadn' half his mouth-
 
 20 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 speech, is past findin' out. But 'tis generally 
 allowed that the grip o' my hand is uncom- 
 mon like what Jim's used to be ; an' when I 
 gets home to-night, the first thing my old 
 woman'Il be sure to ask is ' Did 'ee give 
 Sarah poor Jim's hand-clasp ? ' -^ an' what 
 to say I shan't know, unless you honours me 
 so far." 
 
 " 'Tis uncommon good of Maria," said the 
 woman simply, and stole her thin hand into his 
 horny palm. She had done so, in answer to 
 the same speech, more than twenty times. 
 
 " Kot at all," said John. 
 
 His fingers closed over hers, and rested so. 
 All but a few of the mayers had risen from 
 the table, and were romping and chasing each 
 other back to the boats, for the majority w^ere 
 shop-girls and apprentices, and must be back 
 in time for business. But Miss Sarah was in 
 no hurry. 
 
 " Not yet," she entreated, as John's grasp 
 began to relax. He tightened it again and 
 waited, while she leant back, breathing short, 
 with half-closed eyes. 
 
 At length she said he might release her.
 
 THE SPINSTER'S MAYING. 21 
 
 " I'm sure 'tis uncommon kind of Maria," she 
 repeated. 
 
 "I don't see where the kindness comes in. 
 Maria can have as good any day o' the year, an' 
 don't appear to value it to that extent." 
 
 They walked back through the orchards 
 in silence. At Miss Sarah's quay-door they 
 parted, and John hoisted sail for his home 
 around the corner of the coast.
 
 I
 
 DAPHNIS. 
 
 Has olim exuvias mihi per/id us ille reliquit, 
 Pignora cara sui: quae nunc eyo limine in ipso, 
 Terra, tibi mando ; dehent haec pignora Daphnin — 
 Ducite ab urbe domum, mea, carmina, ducite Daphnin. 
 
 I KNEW the superstition lingered along the 
 country-side : and I was sworn to lind it. But 
 the labourers and their wives smoothed all 
 intelli^'ence out of their faces as soon as I beg'an 
 to hint at it. Such is the way of them. They 
 were my good friends, but had no mind to help 
 me in this. Nobody who has not lived long 
 with them can divine the number of small 
 incommunicable mysteries and racial secrets 
 chambered in their inner hearts and guarded 
 by their hospitable faces. These alone the 
 Celt withholds from the Saxon, and when he 
 dies they are buried with him. 
 
 A chance word or two of my old nurse, by 
 chance caught in some cranny of a child's 
 memory and recovered after many days, told 
 
 23
 
 24 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 rae that the charm was still practised by the 
 woman-folk, or had been practised not long 
 before her death. So I began to hunt for it, 
 and, almost as soon, to believe the search hope- 
 less. The new generation of girls, with their 
 smart frocks, in fashion not more than six 
 months behind London, their Board School 
 notions, and their consuming ambition to " look 
 like a lady " — were these likely to cherish a 
 local custom as rude and primitive as the long- 
 stone circles on the tors above? But they 
 were Cornish ; and of that race it is unwise to 
 judge rashly. For years I had never a clue : 
 and then, by Sheba Farm, in a forsaken angle 
 of the coast, surprised the secret. 
 
 Sheba Farm stands higli above Ruan sands, 
 over which its windows flame at sunset. And 
 I sat in the farm kitchen drinking cider and 
 eating potato-cake, while the farmer's wife, 
 Mrs. Bolverson, obligingly attended to my coat, 
 which had just been soaked by a thunder- 
 shower. It was August, and already the sun 
 beat out again, fierce and strong. The bright 
 drops that gemmed the tamarisk-bushes above 
 the wall of the town-place were already fading 
 under its heat ; and I heard the voices of the
 
 DAPHNIS. •lr> 
 
 harvesters up the lane, as they returned to the 
 oat-field whence the storm had routed them. 
 A bright parallelogram stretched from the 
 window across the white kitchen-table, and 
 reached the dim hollow of the open fire-place. 
 Mrs. Bolverson drew the towel-horse, on which 
 my coat was stretched, between it and the wood 
 fire, which (as she held) the sunshine would put 
 out. 
 
 "■ It's uncommonly kind of you, Mrs. Bolver- 
 son,"' said I, as she turned one sleeve of the 
 coat towards the heat. " To be sure, if the 
 women in these parts would speak out, some 
 of them have done more than that for the men 
 with an old coat." 
 
 She dropped the sleeve, faced round, and 
 eyed me. 
 
 "What do you know of that?" she asked 
 slowly, and as if her chest tightened over the 
 words. She was a woman of fifty and more, of 
 fine figure but a worn face. Her chief surviv- 
 ing beauty was a pile of light golden hair, still 
 lustrous as a girl's. But her blue eyes — though 
 now they narrowed on me suspiciously — must 
 have looked out magnificently in their day. 
 
 "I fancy," said I, meeting them frankly
 
 26 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 enough, '^ that Avhat you know and I don't on 
 that matter would make a good deal." 
 
 She laughed harshly, almost savagely. 
 
 " You'd better ask Sarah Gedye, across the 
 coombe. She buried a man's clothes one time, 
 and — it might be worth your while to ask her 
 what came o't." 
 
 If you can imagine a glint of moonlight 
 running up the blade of a rapier, you may 
 know the chill flame of spite and despite that 
 flickered in her eyes then as she spoke. 
 
 "I take my oath," I muttered to myself, 
 " I'll act on the invitation." 
 
 The woman stood straight upright, with 
 her hands clasped behind her, before the deal 
 table. She gazed, under lowered brows, 
 straight out of window ; and following that 
 gaze, I saw across the coombe a mean mud 
 hut, with a wall around it, that looked on 
 Slieba Farm with the obtrusive humility of a 
 poor relation. 
 
 ''Does she — does Sarah Gedye — live down 
 yonder ? " 
 
 " What is that to you ? " she enquired fiercely, 
 and then Avas silent for a moment, and added, 
 with another short laugh —
 
 DAPJJMIS. 27 
 
 "I reckon I'd like the question put to her: 
 but 1 doubt you've got the pluck." 
 
 " You shall see," said I ; and taking my coat 
 off the towel-horse, I slipped it on. 
 
 She did not turn, did not even move her 
 head, when I thanked her for the shelter and 
 walked out of the house. 
 
 I could feel those steel-bhie eyes working like 
 gimlets into my back as I strode down the hill 
 and passed the wooden plank that lay across 
 the stream at its foot. A climb of less than 
 a minute brought me to the green gate in 
 the wall of Sarah Gedye's garden patch ; and 
 here I took a look backwards and upwards at 
 Sheba. The sun lay warm on its white walls, 
 and the whole building shone against the burnt 
 hillside. It was too far away for me to spy 
 Mrs. Bolverson's blue print gown within the 
 kitchen window, but I knew that she stood 
 there jet. 
 
 The sound of a footstep made me turn. A 
 woman was coming round the corner of the 
 cottage, with a bundle of mint in her liand. 
 
 She looked at me, shook off a bee that had 
 blundered against her apron, and looked at me 
 again — a brown woman, lean and strongly
 
 28 THE DELECTABLE DUCUY. 
 
 made, with jet-black eyes set deep and glisten- 
 ing in an ngly face. 
 
 " You want to know your way? " she asked. 
 
 " No. 1 came to see you, if your name is 
 Sarah Gedye." 
 
 " Sarah Ann Gedye is my name. What 'st 
 want ? " 
 
 I took a sudden resolution to tell the exact 
 truth. 
 
 " Mrs. Gedye, the fact is I am curious about 
 an old charm that was practised in these parts, 
 as I know% till recently. The charm is this — 
 When a woman guesses her lover to be faithless 
 to her, she buries a suit of his old clothes to 
 fetch him back to her. Mrs. Bolverson, up at 
 Sheba yonder — " 
 
 The old woman liad opened her mouth (as I 
 kno^v now) to curse me. But as Mrs. Bolver- 
 son's name escaped me, she turned her back, 
 and walked straight to her door and into the 
 kitchen. Her manner told me that I was 
 expected to follow. 
 
 But I was not prepared for the face she 
 turned on me in the shadow of the kitchen. It 
 was grey as wood-ash, and the black eyes 
 shrank into it like hot specks of lire.
 
 DAPHNIS. 29 
 
 " She — she set you on to ask me that '^ " 
 She caught me by the coat and liissed out : 
 "Come back from the door — don't let her 
 see." Then she lifted up her fist, witli the mint 
 tightly clutched in it, and shook it at the warm 
 patch of Sheba buildings across the valley. 
 
 " May God burn her bones, as He has smitten 
 her body barren ! " 
 
 " What do you know of this ? " she cried, 
 turning upon me again. 
 
 " I know nothing. That I liave offered you 
 some insult is clear : but — " 
 
 "Nay, you don't know — you don't know. 
 No man would be such a hound. You don't 
 know ; but, by the Lord, you shall hear, here 
 where you'm standin', an' shall jedge betwix' 
 me an' that pale 'ooman up yonder. Stand 
 there an' list to me. 
 
 " He was my lover more'n five-an'-thirty 
 years agone. AYho ? That 'ooman's wedded 
 man, Seth Bolverson. We warn't married " — 
 this with a short laugh. " Wife or less than 
 wife, he found me to his mind. She — she that 
 egged you on to come an' flout me — was a 
 pale-haired girl o' seventeen or so i' those times 
 — a church-goin' mincin' strip of a girl — the
 
 30 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 sort you men-folk bow the knee to for saints. 
 Her father owned Sheba Farm, an' she look'd 
 across on my man, an' had envy on 'en, an' set 
 her eyes to draw 'en. Oh, a saint she was! 
 An' he, the poor shammick, went. 'Twas a 
 good girl, you understand, that wished for to 
 marry an' reform 'en. She had money, too. 
 If I'd ha' poured out my blood for 'en : that's 
 all I cud do. So he went. 
 
 " As the place shines this day, it shone then. 
 Like a moth it drew 'en. Late o' summer 
 evenin's its windeys shone when down below 
 here 'twas chill i' the hill's shadow. An' late 
 at night the candles burned up there as he 
 courted her. Purity and cosiness, you under- 
 stand, an' down here — he forgot about down 
 here. Before he'd missed to speak to me for 
 a month, I'd hear 'en whistlin' up the hill, so 
 merry as a grig. Well, he married her. 
 
 " They was married three months, an' 'twas 
 harvest time come round, an' I in his vield 
 a-gleanin'. For I was suffered near to that 
 extent, seein' that the cottage here had been 
 my fathers', an' was mine, an' out o't they culdn' 
 turn me. One o' the hands, as they was pitchin', 
 passes me an empty keg, an' says, ' Run you to
 
 DAPHNIS. 31 
 
 the farm-place an' get it filled.' So with it I 
 went to th' kitchen, and while I waited outside 
 I sees his coat an' wesket 'pon a peg i' the pas- 
 sage. Well I knew the coat ; an' a madness 
 takin' me for all my loss, I unhitched it an' flung 
 it behind the door, an', the keg bein' filled, 
 picked it up agen and ran down home-along. 
 
 "No thought had I but to win Seth back. 
 'Twas the charm you spoke about : an' that 
 same midnight I delved a hole by the dreshold 
 an' buried the coat, whisperin', ' Man, come hack, 
 come bacTt to me ! ' as Aun' Lesnewth had 
 a-taught me, times afore. 
 
 " But she, the pale woman, had a-seen me, 
 dro' a chink o' the parlour-door, as I tuk the 
 coat down. An' she knowed what I tuk it for. 
 I've a-read it, times and again, in her wifely 
 eyes ; an' to-day you yoursel' are witness that 
 she knowed. If Seth knowed — " 
 
 She clenched and unclenched her fist, and 
 went on rapidly. 
 
 " Early next mornin', and a'most afore I was 
 dressed, two constables came in by the gate, an' 
 she behind 'em treadin' delicately, an' he at her 
 back, wi' his chin dropped. They charged me 
 wi' stealin' that coat — wi' stealin' it — that
 
 32 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 coat that I'd a-darned an' patched years afore 
 ever she cuddled against its sleeve ! " 
 
 " What happened 'i " I asked, as her voice 
 sank and halted. 
 
 ""What happened? She looked me i' the 
 eyes scornfully ; an' her own were full o' knowl- 
 edge. An' wi' her eyes she coaxed and dared 
 me to abase mysel' an' speak the truth an' wdn 
 off jail. An' I, that had stole nowt, looked 
 back at her an' said, ' It's true. I stole the coat. 
 Now cart me off to jail ; but handle me gently 
 for the sake o' my child unborn.' When I 
 spoke these last two words an' saw her face 
 draw" up wi' the bitterness o' their taste, I held 
 out my wrists and clapped the handcuffs to- 
 gether like cymbals and laughed wi' a glad 
 heart." 
 
 She caught my hand suddenly, and drawing 
 me to the porch, pointed high above Sheba, 
 to the yellow upland where the harvesters 
 moved. 
 
 " Do 'ee see 'en there ? — that tall young man 
 by the hedge — there where the slope dips? 
 That's my son, Setli's son, the straightest man 
 among all. Neither spot has he, nor wart, nor 
 blemish 'pon his body ; and when she pays 'en
 
 DAPHNIS. 33 
 
 his wages, Saturday evenin's, lie says ' Thank 'ee, 
 ma'am,' \vi' a voice that's the very daps o' liis 
 father's. Aiv she's childless. Ah, childless 
 AYoman ! Childless woman ! Go back an' carry 
 Avord to her o' the prayer I've spoken upon her 
 childlessness." 
 
 And "Childless w^oman!" "Childless wo- 
 man!" she called twice again, shaking her 
 fist at the windows of Sheba Farm-house, that 
 blazed back anffrilv ao-ainst the westerino- sun.
 
 WHEN THE SAP KOSE. 
 
 A FANTASIA. 
 
 An old yello^y van — the Comet — came jolt- 
 ino; alono' the edo-e of the downs and shaking^ 
 its occupants together like peas in a bladder. 
 The bride and bridegroom did not mind this 
 much ; but the Registrar of Births, Deaths, and 
 Marriages, who had bound them in wedlock at 
 the Bible Christian Cliapel two hours before, 
 was discomforted by a pair of tight boots, that 
 nipped cruelly whenever he stuck out his feet to 
 keep his equilibrium. 
 
 Nevertheless, his mood was genial, for the 
 young people had taken his suggestion and 
 acquired a copy of tlieir certificate. This 
 meant five extra shillings in his pocket. There- 
 fore, when the van drew up at the cross-roads 
 for him to aliglit, he wished them hmg life and 
 a multitude of children with quite a fatherly 
 air. 
 
 " You can't guess where I'm bound for. It's
 
 36 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 to pay my old mother a visit. Ah, family life's 
 the pretty life — that ever /should say it ! " 
 
 They saw no reason why he should be 
 cynical, more than other men. And the bride, 
 in whose eyes this elderly gentleman with the 
 tight boots appeared a rosy winged Cupid, 
 waved her handkerchief until the vehicle had 
 sidled round the hill, resembling in its progress 
 a very infirm crab in a hurry. 
 
 As a fact, the Registrar wore a silk hat, 
 a suit of black West-of-England broadcloth, 
 a watch-chain made out of his dead wife's hair, 
 and two large seals that clashed together when 
 he moved. His face was wide and round, with 
 a sanguine complexion, grey side- whiskers, and 
 a cicatrix across the chin. He had shaved in 
 a hurry that morning, for the wedding was 
 early, and took place on the extreme verge of 
 his district. His is a beautiful office — record- 
 ing day by day the solemnest and most myste- 
 rious events in nature. Yet, standing at the 
 cross-roads, between down and woodland, under 
 an April sky full of sun and south-west wind, 
 he threw the ugliest shadow in the land- 
 scape. 
 
 The road towards the coast dipped — too
 
 WHEN THE SAP HOSE. 37 
 
 steeply for tight boots — down a wooded 
 coombe, and he followed it, treading delicately. 
 The hollo\v of the Y ahead, where the hills 
 overlapped against the pale blue, was powdered 
 with a faint brown bloom, soon to be green — 
 an infinity of bursting buds. The larches 
 stretched their arms upwards, as men waking. 
 The yellow was out on the gorse, Avith a heady 
 scent hke a pineapple's, and between the bushes 
 spread the grey film of coming blue-bells. High 
 up, the pines sighed along the ridge, turning 
 paler; and far down, where the brook ran, a 
 mad duet was going on between thrush and 
 chaffinch — ''^ Cheer uj>, cheer up, Queen!'''' 
 ''''Clip clip, clip, and hiss me — Sweet I^'' — one 
 against the other. 
 
 Now, the behaviour of the Registrar of 
 Births, Deaths, and Marriages changed as he 
 descended the valley. At first he Avent from 
 side to side, because the loose stones were sharp 
 and lay unevenly ; soon he zig-zagged for an- 
 other purpose — to peer into the bank for vio- 
 lets, to find a gap between the trees Avhere, by 
 bending down Avith a hand on each knee and 
 his head tilted back, he could see the primroses 
 stretching in broad sheets to the very edge of
 
 38 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 the pine-woods. By frequent tilting- his collar 
 broke from its stud and his silk hat settled far 
 back on his neck. Next he unbuttoned his 
 waistcoat and loosened his braces ; but no, he 
 could not skip — his boots were too tight. He 
 looked at each tree as he passed. '' If I could 
 only see " — he muttered. " I'll swear there 
 used to be one on the right, just here." 
 
 But he could not find it here — perhaps his 
 memory misgave him — and presently turned 
 with decision, climbed the low fence on his left, 
 between him and the hollow of the coombe, 
 and dropped into the plantation on the other 
 side. Here the ground was white in patches 
 with anemones ; and as his feet crushed them, 
 descending, the babel of the birds grew louder 
 antl louder. 
 
 He issued on a small clearing by the edge of 
 the brook, where the grass was a delicate green, 
 each blade pushing up straight as a spear- 
 point from the crumbled earth. Here were 
 more anemones, between patches of last year's 
 bracken, and on the further slope a mass of 
 daffodils. He pulled out a ])ocket-knife that had 
 sharpened some hundreds of quill pens, and look- 
 ing to his right, found what he wanted at once.
 
 WHEN THE SAP ROSE. 39 
 
 It was a sycamore, on which the butls were 
 swelling-. lie cut a small twig, as big round as 
 his middle linger, and sitting himself down (jn 
 a barked log, close by, began to measure and 
 cut it to a span's length, avoiding all knots. 
 Then, taking the knife by the blade between 
 finger and thumb, he tapped the bark gently 
 with the tortoise-shell handle. And as he 
 tapped, his face went back to boyhood again, 
 in spite of the side- whiskers, and his mouth 
 was pursed up to a silent tune. 
 
 For ten minutes the tapping continued ; the 
 birds ceased their contention, and broke out 
 restlessly at intervals. A rabbit across the 
 brook paused and listened at the funnel-shaped 
 mouth of his hole, which caught the sound and 
 redoubled it. 
 
 " Confound these boots ! " said the Registrar, 
 and pulling them off, tossed them among the 
 primroses. They were " elastic-sides." 
 
 The tapping ceased. A breath of the land- 
 \vard breeze came up, combing out the tangle 
 that winter had made in the grass, caught the 
 brook on the edge of a tiny fall, and puffed it 
 back six inches in a spray of small diamonds. 
 It quickened the whole copse. The oak-sap-
 
 40 THE DELECTABLE DUCIIY. 
 
 lings rubbed their old leaves one on another, as 
 folks rub their hands, feeling life and warmth ; 
 the chestnut-buds groped like an infant's fin- 
 gers; and the chorus broke out again, the 
 thrush leading — " T'lurru^ tiurru, clii^jpewee / 
 tio-tee^ tio-tee ; queen^ queen^ que-een!'''' 
 
 In a moment or two he broke off suddenly, 
 and a honey-bee shot out of an anemone-bell 
 like a shell from a mortar. For a new sound 
 disconcerted them — a sound sharp and piercing. 
 The Registrar had finished his wdiistle and was 
 blowing like mad, moving his fingers up and 
 down. Having proved his instrument, he dived 
 a hand into his tail-pocket and drew out a roll, 
 tied around with ribbon. It was the folded 
 leather-bound volume in which he kept his 
 blank certificates. And spreading it on his 
 knees, he took his whistle again and blew, read- 
 ing his music from the blank pages, and piping 
 a strain he had never dreamed of. For he 
 whistled of Births and Marriages. 
 
 O, happy Registrar ! O, happy, happy Re- 
 gistrar ! You will never get into those elastic- 
 sides again. Your feet swell as they tap the 
 swelling earth, and at each tap the rtowers push, 
 the sap climbs, the speck of life moves in the
 
 WHEN THE SAP ROSE. 41 
 
 hedge-sparrow's egg; Avliile, far away on tlie 
 downs, witli each tap, the yellow van takes 
 bride and groom a foot nearer felicity. It is 
 hard work in worsted socks, for you smite with 
 the vehemence of Pan, and Pan had a hoof of 
 horn. *. 
 
 The Eegistrar's mother lived in the fishing- 
 village, two miles down the coombe. Her 
 cottage leant back against the cliff so closely, 
 that the bo3's, as they followed the path above, 
 could toss tabs of turf down her chimney : and 
 this was her chief annoyance. 
 
 Now, it was close on the dinner-hour, and 
 she stood in her kitchen beside a pot of stew 
 that simmered over the wreck- wood fire. 
 
 Suddenly a great lump of earth and grass 
 came bouncing down the chimney, striking 
 from sitle to side, and soused into the pot, 
 scattering the hot stew over the hearth-stone 
 and splashing her from head to foot. 
 
 Quick as thought, she caught up a besom 
 and rushed out around the corner of the cot- 
 tage. 
 
 " You stinking young adders ! " she began. 
 
 A big man stood on the slope above her.
 
 42 THE DELECTABLE DUCHT. 
 
 " Mother, cuff iny head, that's a dear. I 
 coaldn' help doin' it." 
 
 It was the elderly Registrar. His hat, collar, 
 tie, and ^vaistcoat were awry ; his boots were 
 slung on the walking-stick over his shoulder; 
 stuck in his mouth and lit was a twist of root- 
 fibre, such as country boys use for lack of 
 cigars, and he himself had used, forty years 
 before. 
 
 The old woman turned to an ash-colour, 
 leant on her besom, and gasped. 
 
 " WiUiam Henry ! " 
 
 " I'm not drunk, mother : been a Band of 
 Hope these dozen years." He stepped down 
 the slope to her and bent his head low. " Box 
 my ears, mother, quick ! You used to have a 
 wonderful gift o' cuffin'." 
 
 " William Henry, I'm bound to do it or die." 
 
 "Then be quick about it." 
 
 Half-laughing, half-sobbing, she caught him 
 a feeble cuff, and next instant held him close to 
 her old breast. The Registrar disengaged him- 
 self after a minute, brushed his eyes, straight- 
 ened his hat, picked up the besom, and offered 
 her his arm. They passed into the cottage 
 together.
 
 THE PAUPERS. 
 
 ov fj.(.v yap Tov ye KpcLcraov Kai apuov, 
 7} 06 oixo(f>poveovTe vor'/fjiacnv olkov exrjTov 
 avrjp 7)81 yvv?;. 
 
 Round the skirts of the plantation, and half- 
 way down the hill, there runs a thick fringe 
 of wild cherr^'-trees. Their white blossom 
 makes, for three weeks in the year, a pretty 
 contrast with the larches and Scotch iirs that 
 serrate the long ridge above ; and close under 
 their branches runs the line of oak rails that 
 marks off the plantation from the meadow. 
 
 A labouring man came deliberately round 
 the slope, as if following this line of rails. As 
 a matter of fact, he was treading the little-used 
 footpath that here runs close alongside the 
 fence for fifty yards before diverging down- 
 hill towards the village. So narrow is this 
 
 path that the man's boots were powdered to a 
 43
 
 44 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 rich gold by the buttercups they had brushed 
 aside. 
 
 By-and-bye he came to a standstill, looked 
 over the fence, and listened. Up among the 
 larches a faint chopping sound could just be 
 heard, irregular but persistent. The man put 
 a hand to his mouth, and hailed — 
 
 " Hi-i-i ! Knock off ! Stable clock's gone 
 noo-oon ! " 
 
 Came back no answer. But the chopping 
 ceased at once ; and this apparently satisfied 
 the man, who leaned against the rail and waited, 
 chewing a spear of brome-grass, and staring 
 steadily, but incuriously, at his boots. Two 
 minutes passed without stir or sound in this 
 corner of the land. The human figure was 
 motionless. The birds in the plantation Avere 
 taking their noonday siesta. A brown butterfly 
 rested, with spread wings, on the rail — so 
 quietly, he might have been pinned there. 
 
 A cracked voice was suddenly lifted a dozen 
 yards off, and witliin the plantation — 
 
 " Such a man as I be to work ! Never heard 
 a note o' that blessed clock, if you'll believe 
 ine. Ab-sorbed, I s'pose." 
 
 A thin withered man in a smock-frock
 
 THE PAUPERS. 46 
 
 emei'ged from among- the clierrv-trees witli .1 
 bill-hook ill his hand, and stooped to pass under 
 the rail. 
 
 " Ewgh ! The pains I suffer in that old back 
 of mine you'll never believe, my son, not till 
 the appointed time when you come to suffer 
 'em yoursel'. AVell-a-well ! Says I just now, 
 up among the larches, ' Ileigh, my sonny-boys, 
 I can crow over you, anyways ; for I Avas a 
 man grown when Squire planted ye ; and here 
 I be, a lusty gaffer, markin' ye down for de- 
 struction.' But hullo! where's the dinner r' 
 
 " There hain't none." 
 
 " Hey ? " 
 
 "There bain't none." 
 
 " How's that ? Damme ! William Henry, 
 dinner's dinner, an' don't you joke about it. 
 Once you begin to make fun o' sacred things 
 like meals and vittles — " 
 
 "And don't you flare up like that, at 3'our 
 time o' life. We're fashionists to-day: dining 
 out. 'Quarter after nine this morning I was 
 passing by the Green wi' the straw-cart, when 
 old Jan Trueman calls after me, ' Have 'ee 
 heard the news ? ' ' What news ? ' says I. 
 ' Why,' says he, ' me an' my missus be going
 
 46 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 into the House this afternoon — can't manage 
 to pull along by ourselves any more,' he says ; 
 ' an' we wants you an' your father to drop in 
 soon after noon an' take a bite wi' us, for old 
 times' sake. 'Tis our last taste o' free life, and 
 we'm going to do the thing fitty wise,' he says." 
 
 The old man bent a meditative look on the 
 village roofs below. 
 
 " We'll pleasure 'en, of course," he said slowly. 
 " So 'tis come round to Jan's turn ? But a' was 
 born in the year of Waterloo victory, ten year' 
 afore me, so I s'pose he've kept his doom off 
 longer than most." 
 
 The two set off down the footpath. There 
 is a stile at the foot of the meadow, and as he 
 climbed it painfully, the old man spoke again. 
 
 " And his doorway, I reckon, '11 be locked 
 for a little while, an' then opened by strangers ; 
 an' his nimble youth be forgot like a flower 
 o' the fiekl ; an' fare thee well, Jan Trueman ! 
 Maria, too — I can mind her well as a nursing- 
 mother — a comely woman in her day. I'd no 
 notion they'd got this in their mind." 
 
 "Far as I can gather, they've been minded 
 that way ever since their daughter Jane died, 
 last fall."
 
 THE PAUPERS. 47 
 
 From the stile where they stood they could 
 look down into the village street. And old 
 Jan Trueman was plain to see, in clean linen 
 and his Sunday suit, standing in the doorway 
 and welcoming his guests. 
 
 "Come ye in — come ye in, good friends," 
 he called, as they approached. "There's cold 
 bekkon, an' cold sheep's liver, an' Dutch cheese, 
 besides bread, an' a tliimble-full o' gin-an'-water 
 for every soul among ye, to make it a day of 
 note in the parish." 
 
 He looked back over his shoulder into the 
 kitchen. A dozen men and women, all elderly, 
 were already gathered there. They had brought 
 their own chairs. Jan's wife wore her bonnet 
 and shawl, ready to start at a moment's notice. 
 Her luggage in a blue handkerchief lay on the 
 table. As she moved about and supplied her 
 guests, her old lips twitched nervously ; but 
 when she spoke it was with no unusual tremor 
 of the voice. 
 
 " I wish, friends, I could ha' cooked ye a 
 little something hot ; but there'd be no time 
 for the washing-up, an' I've ordained to leave 
 the place tidy." 
 
 One of the old women answered —
 
 48 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 "There's nought to be pardoned, I'm sure. 
 IS'ever do I mind such a gay set-off for the 
 journey. For the gin-an'-water is a little addi- 
 tion beyond experience. The vittles, no doubt, 
 you begged up at the Vicarage, sayin' you'd 
 been a peck o' trouble to the family, but this 
 was going to be the last time." 
 
 "I did, I did," assented Mr. Trueman. 
 
 "But the gin-an'-water — how on airth you 
 contrived it is a riddle ! " 
 
 The old man rubbed his hands together and 
 looked around with genuine pride. 
 
 " There was old Miss Scantlebury," said an- 
 other guest, a smock-frocked gaffer of seventy, 
 with a grizzled shock of hair. " You remember 
 Miss Scantlebury 'i " 
 
 " O' course, o' course." 
 
 "Well, she did it better 'n anybody I've 
 heard tell of. Wlien she fell into redooced 
 circumstances she sold the eight-day clock that 
 was the only thing o' value she had left. 
 Brown o' Tregarrick made it, with a very 
 curious brass dial, whereon he carved a full- 
 rigged ship that rocked like a cradle, an' w^ent 
 down stern foremost when the hour struck. 
 'Twas worth walking a mile to see. Brown's
 
 THE PAUPERS. 49 
 
 grandson bought it off Miss Scantlebury for 
 two guineas, he being proud of his grand- 
 father's skill ; an' the old lady drove into 
 Tregarrick Work'us behind a pair o' greys wi' 
 the proceeds. Over and above the carriage 
 hire, she'd enough left to adorn the horse wi' 
 white favours an' give the rider a crown, large 
 as my lord. Aye, an' at the Work'us door 
 she said to the fellow, said she, ' All my life 
 I've longed to ride in a bridal chariot ; an' 
 though my only lover died of a decline when 
 1 was scarce twenty-tAVO, I've done it at last,' 
 said she ; ' an' now heaven an' airth can't undo 
 it!'" 
 
 A heavy silence folloAved this anecdote, 
 and then one or two of the women vented 
 small disapproving coughs. The reason was 
 the speaker's loud mention of the Workhouse. 
 A week, a day, a few hours before, its name 
 might have been spoken in Mr. and Mrs. 
 Trueman's presence. But now they had entered 
 its shadow; they were "going" — whether to 
 the dim vale of Avilion, or with chariot and 
 horses of fire to heaven, let nobody too curiously 
 ask. If Mr. and Mrs. Trueman chose to speak 
 definitely, it was anotliei- mattei'.
 
 50 THE DELECTABLE BUCHY. 
 
 Old Jan bore no malice, however, but 
 answered, " That beats me, I own. Yet we 
 shall drive, though it be upon two wheels 
 an' behind a single horse. For Farmer Lear's 
 driving' into Treo-arrick in an hour's time, an' 
 he've a-promised us a lift." 
 
 '"But about that gin-an'- water? For real 
 gin-an'-water it Is, to sight an' taste." 
 
 " "Well, friends, I'll tell ye : for the trick may 
 serve one of ye in the days when you come to 
 follow me, tho' the new relieving officer may 
 have learnt wisdom before then. You must 
 know we've been considering of this step for 
 some while, but hearing that old Jacobs was 
 going to retire soon, I says to Maria, 'We'll 
 bide till tlie new officer comes, and if he's a 
 green hand, we'll diddle 'en.' Day before 
 yesterday, as you know, Avas his first round 
 at the work ; so I goes up an' draws out my 
 ha'af-crown same as usual, an' walks straight oif 
 for the Four Lords for a ha'af-crown's worth 
 o' gin. Then back I goes, an' demands an 
 admission order for me an' the missus. ' Why, 
 where's your ha'af-crown ''; ' says he. ' Gone in 
 (h'ink,' says I. 'Old man,' says he, 'you'm a 
 scandal, an' the sooner you're i3ut out o' the
 
 THE PAUPERS. 51 
 
 way o' drink, the better for you an' your poor 
 wife.' 'Eight you are,' I says; an' 1 got my 
 order. But there, I'm wasting time ; for to 
 be sure you've most of ye got kith and kin in 
 the place where we'm going, and '11 be wanting 
 to send 'em a word by us." 
 
 It was less than an hour before Farmer Lear 
 pulled up to the door in his red-wheeled spring- 
 cart. 
 
 "Now, friends," said Mrs. Trueman, as her 
 ears caught the rattle of the wheels, "I must 
 trouble ye to step outside while I tidy up the 
 floor." 
 
 The women offered their help, but she de- 
 clined it. Alone she put the small kitchen to 
 rights, while they waited outside around the 
 door. Then she stepped out with her bundle, 
 locked the door after her, and slipped the key 
 under an old flower-pot on the window ledge. 
 Her eyes were dry. 
 
 " Come along, Jan." 
 
 There was a brief hand-shaking, and the 
 paupers climbed up beside Farmer Lear. 
 
 " I've made a sort o' little plan in my head," 
 said old Jan at parting, " of the order in which
 
 52 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 I shall see ye again, one bv one. 'Twill be a 
 great amusement to me, friends, to see how the 
 fact fits in wi' my little plan." 
 
 The guests raised three feeble cheers as the 
 cart drove away, and hung about for several 
 minutes after it had passed out of sight, gazing 
 along the road as wistfully as more prosperous 
 men look in through churchyard gates at the 
 acres where their kinsfolk lie buried.
 
 11. 
 
 The lirst building passed by the westerly 
 road as it descends into Tregarrick is a sombre 
 pile of some eminence, having a gateway and 
 lodge before it, and a high encircling wall. 
 The sun lay warm on its long roof, and the 
 slates flashed gaily there, as Farmer Lear came 
 over the knap of the hill and looked doAvn on 
 it. He withdrew his eyes nervously to glance 
 at the old couple beside him. At the same 
 moment he reined up his dun-coloured mare. 
 
 " I reckoned," he said timidly, '' I reckoned 
 you'd be for stopping hereabouts an' getting 
 down. You'd think it more seemly — that's 
 what r reckoned : an' 'tis down-hill now all the 
 way." 
 
 For ten seconds and more neither the man 
 nor the woman gave a sign of having heard him. 
 The spring-cart's oscillatory motion seemed to 
 have entered into their spinal joints ; and now 
 that they had come to a halt, their heads con- 
 
 53
 
 54 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 tinued to wag forward and back as they con- 
 templated the haze of smoke spread, like a 
 blue scarf over the town, and the one long slate 
 roof that rose from it as if to meet them. At 
 length the old woman spoke, and with some 
 viciousness, though her face remained as blank 
 as the Workhouse door. 
 
 " The next time I go back up this hill, if ever 
 1 do, I'll be carried up feet first." 
 
 " Maria," said her Imsband, feebly reproachful, 
 " you tempt the Lord, that you do." 
 
 " Thank 'ee, Farmer Lear," she went on, 
 paying no heed ; " you shall help us down, if 
 you've a mind to, an' drive on. We'll make 
 shift to trickly 'way down so far as the gate; 
 for I'd ])e main vexed if anybody that had 
 known me in life should see us creep in. Come 
 along, Jan." 
 
 Farmer Lear alighted, and helped them oat 
 carefully. He was a clumsy man, but did his 
 best to handle them gently. When they w^ere 
 set on their feet, side by side on the high road, 
 he climbed back, and fell to arranging the 
 reins, while ho cast about for something to say. 
 
 " Well, folks, I s'pose I must be wishing 'ee 
 good-bye." He meant to speak cheerfully, but
 
 TUE rAUPEliS. bb 
 
 over-acted, and was liilaiious instead, llecog- 
 nising this, he blushed. 
 
 "We'll meet in heaven, I daresay," the 
 woman answered. " I put the door-key, as 
 you saw, under the empty geranium-pot 'pon 
 the Aviiidow-ledge ; an' whoever the new ten- 
 ant's wife may be, she can eat off the floor if 
 she's minded. Now drive along, that's a good 
 soul, and leave us to fend for ourselves." 
 
 They watched him out of sight before either 
 stirred. The last decisive step, the step across 
 the AVorkhouse threshold, must be taken with 
 none to witness. If they could not pass out 
 of their small world by the more reputable 
 mode of dying, they would at least depart 
 \vith this amount of m3'stery. They had left 
 the village in Farmer Lear's cart, and Farmer 
 Lear had left them in the high road; and 
 after that, nothing should be know^n. 
 
 " Shall we be moving on ? " Jan asked at 
 length. There was a gate beside the road just 
 there, with a snudl triangle of green before it, 
 and a granite roller half-buried in dock-leaves. 
 Without answering, the woman seated herself 
 on this, and pulling a handful of the leaves, 
 dusted her shoes and skirt.
 
 56 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 " Maria, you'll take a chill that'll carry you 
 off, sitting 'pon that cold stone." 
 
 " I don't care. 'Twon't carry me off afore I 
 get inside, an' I'm going in decent, or not at 
 all. Come here, an' let me tittivate you." 
 
 He sat down beside her, and submitted to 
 be dusted. 
 
 " You'd as lief lower me as not in their eyes, 
 I verily believe." 
 
 " I always was one to gather dust." 
 
 "An' a fresh spot o' bacon-fat 'pon your 
 weskit, that I've kept the moths from since 
 goodness knows when ! " 
 
 Old Jan looked down over his waistcoat. It 
 was of good West-of-England broadcloth, and 
 he had worn it on the day when he married 
 the woman at his side. 
 
 " I'm thinking — " he began. 
 
 " Hey ? " 
 
 " I'm thinking I'll find it hard to make 
 friends in — in there. 'Tis such a pity, to my 
 thinking, that by reggilations we'll be parted 
 so soon as we get inside. You've a-got so used 
 to my little ways an' corners, an' we've a-got 
 so many little secrets together an' old-fash'ned 
 odds an' ends o' knowledge, that you can take
 
 THE PAUPERS. 57 
 
 my meaning almost afore I start to speak. 
 An' that's a great comfort to a man o' m\' age. 
 It'll be terrible hard, when I wants to talk, to 
 begin at the beginning every time. There's 
 that old yarn o' mine about Hambly's cow an' 
 the lawn-mowing machine — I doubt that any- 
 body '11 enjoy it so much as you always do ; 
 an' I've so got out o' the way o' telling the 
 beginnings — which bain't extra funny, though 
 needful to a stranger's understanding the whole 
 joke — that 1 'most forgets how it goes." 
 
 " We'll see one another now an' then, they 
 tell me. The sexes meet for Chris'mas-trees 
 an' such-like." 
 
 "■ I'm jealous that 'twon't be the same. You 
 can't hold your triflin' confabs witli a great 
 Chris'mas-tree blazin' aAvay in your face as 
 important as a town afire." 
 
 "Well, I'm going to start along," the old 
 woman decided, getting on her feet ; " or else 
 someone '11 be driving by and seeing us." 
 
 Jan, too, stood up. 
 
 "We may so well make our congees here," 
 she went on, "as under the porter's nose." 
 
 An awkward silence fell bet\veen them for a 
 minute, and these two old creatures, who for
 
 58 THE DELECTABLE DUCKY. 
 
 more than fifty years had felt no constraint in 
 each other's presence, now looked into each 
 other's eyes with a fearful diffidence. Jan 
 cleared his throat, much as if he had to make 
 a public speech. 
 
 "Maria," he began in an unnatural voice, 
 "we're bound for to part, and I can trewly 
 swear, on leaving ye, that — ^" 
 
 " — that for two-score year and twelve it's 
 never entered your head to consider whether 
 I've made 'ee a good wife or a bad. Kiss me, 
 my old man ; for I tell 'ee I wouldn' ha' wished 
 it other. An' thank 'ee for trying to make 
 that speech. What did it feel like 'i " 
 
 " Wh}^, 't rather reminded me o' the time 
 when I offered 'ee marriage." 
 
 " It reminded me o' that, too. Com'st 
 along." 
 
 They tottered down the hill towards the 
 Workhouse gate. When they were but ten 
 yards from it, however, they heard the sound 
 of wheels on the road behind them, and walked 
 bravely past, pretending to have no business at 
 that portal. They had descended a good thirty 
 yards beyond (such haste was put into them by 
 dread of having their purpose guessed) before
 
 THE PAUPERS. 59 
 
 the vehicle overtook them — a four-wheeled 
 dog-cart carrying a commercial traveller, Avho 
 pulled up and offered them a lift into the town. 
 
 They declined. 
 
 Then, as soon as he passed out of sight, they 
 turned, and began painfully to climb back 
 towards the gate. Of the two, the woman had 
 shown the less emotion. But all the way her 
 lips were at work, and as she went she was 
 praj^ing a prayer. It was the only one she 
 used night and morning, and she had never 
 changed a word since she learned it as a chit of 
 a child. Down to her seventieth year she had 
 never found it absurd to beseech God to make 
 her " a good girl ■' ; nor did she lind it so as the 
 Workhouse gate opened, and she began a new 
 life.
 
 CUCKOO VALLEY RAILWAY. 
 
 This century was still young and ardent 
 when ruin fell upon Cuckoo Valley. Its head 
 rested on the slope of a high and sombre moor- 
 land, scattered with granite and china-clay ; and 
 by the small town of Ponteglos, where it 
 widened out into arable and grey pasture-land, 
 the Cuckoo river grew deep enough to float up 
 vessels of small tonnage from the coast at the 
 spring tides. I have seen there the boom of 
 a trading schooner brush the grasses on the 
 river-bank as she came before a southerly wind, 
 and the haymakers stop and almost crick their 
 necks staring up at her top-sails. I3ut between 
 the moors and Ponteglos the valley wound for 
 fourteen miles or so between secular woods, so 
 steeply converging that for the most part no 
 more room Avas left at the bottom of the V 
 than the river itself filled. The fisherman 
 beside it trampled on pimpernels, sundew, 
 watermint, and asphodels, or pushed between 
 
 61
 
 62 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 clumps of Osmunda regalis that overtopped 
 him by a couple of feet. If he took to wading, 
 there was much ado to stand against the cur- 
 rent. Only here and there it spread into a 
 still black pool, greased with eddies ; and beside 
 such a pool, it was odds that he found a diminu- 
 tive meadow, green and flat as a billiard-table, 
 and edged with clumps of fern. To think of 
 Cuckoo Valley is to call up the smell of that 
 fern as it wrapped at the bottom of the creel 
 the day's catch of salmon-peal and trout. 
 
 The town of Tregarrick (which possessed a 
 gaol, a workhouse, and a lunatic asylum, and 
 called itself the centre of the Duchy) stood 
 three miles back from the lip of this happy 
 valley, whither on summer evenings its burghers 
 rambled to eat cream and junket at the Dairy 
 Farm by the river bank, and afterwards sit to 
 watch the fish rise, while the youngsters and 
 maidens played hide-and-seek in the woods. 
 But there came a day when the names of Watt 
 and Stephenson waxed great in the land, and 
 these slow citizens caught the railway frenzy. 
 They took it, however, in their own fashion. 
 They never dreamed of connecting themselves
 
 CUCKOO VALLEY RAILWAY. 63 
 
 with other towns and a hirger world, but of 
 aggrandisement by means of a railway that 
 should run from Tregarrick to nowhere in 
 particular, and bring the intervening wealth to 
 their doors. They planned a railway that 
 should join Tregarrick with Cuckoo Valley, and 
 there divide into two branches, the one bringing 
 ore and clay from the moors, the other fetching 
 up sand and coal from the sea. Surveyors and 
 engineers descended upon the woods; then a 
 cloud of navvies. The days were filled with 
 the crash of falling timber and the rush of 
 emptied trucks. The stream was polluted, the 
 fish died, the fairies were evicted from their 
 rings beneath the oak, the morals of the 
 junketing houses underwent change. The vale 
 knew itself no longer ; its smoke went u]> 
 week by week with the noise of pick-axes and 
 oaths. 
 
 On August 13th, 1834. the jAIayor of Tre- 
 garrick declared the new line open, and a 
 locomotive was run along its rails to Dunford 
 Bridge, at the foot of the moors. The engine 
 Avas christened The Wonder of the Age; and 
 I have before me a handbill of the festivities 
 of that proud day, which tells me that the
 
 64 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 mayor himself rode in an open truck, " embel- 
 lislied with Union Jacks, lions and unicorns, 
 and other loyal devices." And then Nature 
 settled down to heal her wounds, and the 
 Cuckoo Valley Railway to pay no dividend to 
 its promoters. 
 
 It is now two years and more since, on an 
 August day, I wound up my line by Dunford 
 Bridge, and sauntered towards the Light Horse- 
 man Inn, two gunshots up the road. The time 
 was four o'clock, or thereabouts, and a young 
 couple sat on a bench by the inn-door, 
 drinking cocoa out of one cup. Above their 
 heads and along the house-front a vine-tree 
 straggled, but its foliage was too thin to afford 
 a speck of shade as they sat there in the eye of 
 the westering sun. The man (aged about one- 
 and-twenty) wore the uncomfortable Sunday- 
 best of a mechanic, with a shrivelled, but still 
 enormous, bunch of Sweet-William in his 
 buttonhole. The girl was dressed in a bright 
 green gown and a white bonnet. Both were 
 flushed and perspiring, and I still think they 
 must have ordered hot cocoa in liaste, and were 
 repenting it at leisure. They lifted their eyes
 
 CUCKOO VALLEY RAILWAY. 05 
 
 and blushed with a yet warmer red as I passed 
 into the porcli. 
 
 Two iiuMi were seated in the cool tap-room, 
 each with a pasty and a mug of beer. A com- 
 position of sweat and coal-dust had caked their 
 faces, and so deftly smoothed all distinction out 
 of their features that it seemed at the moment 
 natural and })roper to take them for t\vins. 
 Perhaps this was an error: perhaps, too, their 
 appearance of extreme age was produced by 
 the dark grey dust that overlaid so much of 
 them as showed above the table. As twins, 
 however, I remember them, and cannot shake 
 off the impression that they had remained twins 
 for an unusual number of years. 
 
 One addressed me. " Parties outside pretty 
 comfortable i " he asked. 
 
 *' They were drinking out of the same cup," 
 I answered. 
 
 He nodded. " Made man and wife this 
 mornin'. I don't fairly kno\v what's best to do. 
 Lord knows T wouldn' hurry their soft looks 
 and dilly-dallyin' ; but did 'ee notice how much 
 beverage was left in the cup ? " 
 
 " They was mated at Tregarrick, half-after- 
 nine this mornin','' observed the other twin,
 
 66 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 pulling out a great watch, " and we brought 
 'em clown here in a truck for their honeymoon. 
 The agreement was for an afternoon in the 
 woods ; but by crum ! sir, they've sat there and 
 held one another's hand for up'ards of an hour 
 after the stated time to start. And we ha'nt 
 the heart to tell 'em so." 
 
 He walked across to the window and peered 
 over the blind. 
 
 " There's a mort of grounds in the cocoa 
 that's sold here," he went on, after a look, " and 
 'tisn't the sort that does the stomach good, 
 neither. For their own sakes, I'll give the 
 word to start, and chance their thankin' me 
 some day later when they learn what things be 
 made of." 
 
 The other twin arose, shook the crumbs 
 off his trousers, and stretched liimself. I 
 guessed now that this newly-married pair had 
 delayed traffic at the Dunford terminus of 
 the Cuckoo Valley Kailway for almost an hour 
 and a half ; and I determined to travel into 
 Tregarrick by the same train. 
 
 So we strolled out of the inn towards the 
 line, the lovers following, arm-in-arm, some 
 fifty paces behind.
 
 CUCKOO VALLEY RAILWAY. 67 
 
 " How far is it to the station ? " I inquired. 
 
 The twins stared at me. 
 
 Presently we turned down a lane scored 
 with dry ruts, passed an oak plantation, and 
 came on a clearing where the train stood ready. 
 The line did not finish : it ended in a heap of 
 sand. There were eight trucks, seven of them 
 laden with granite, and an engine, with a pro- 
 digiously long funnel, bearing the name The 
 Wonder of the Age in brass letters along its 
 boiler. 
 
 "Now," said one of the twins, while the 
 other raked up the furnace, "you can ride in 
 the empty truck with the lovers, or on the 
 engine along v/ith us — which you like." 
 
 I chose the engine. We climbed on board, 
 gave a loud whistle, and jolted oif. Far down, 
 on our right, the river shone between the trees, 
 and these trees, encroaching on the track, almost 
 joined their branches above us. Ahead, the 
 moss that grew upon the sleepers gave the line 
 the appearance of a green glade, and the grasses, 
 starred with golden-rod and mallow, grew tall 
 to the very edge of the rails. It seemed that 
 in a few more years Nature would cover this 
 scar of 1834, and score the return match against
 
 68 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 man. Rails, engine, officials, were already 
 no better than ghosts : youth and progress lay 
 in the pushing trees, the salmon leaping against 
 the dam below, the young man and uiaid sitting 
 with clasped hands and amatory looks in the 
 hindmost truck. 
 
 At the end of tliree miles or so we gave an 
 alarming whistle, and slowed down a bit. The 
 trees were thinner here, and I saw that a high- 
 road came down the hill, and cut across our 
 track some fifty yards ahead. We prepared to 
 cross it cautiously. 
 
 "Ho— o— oy! Stop!" 
 
 The brake was applied, and as we came to 
 a standstill a party of men and women de- 
 scended the hill towards us. 
 
 " 'Tis Susan Warne's seventh goin' to be 
 christen'd, by the look of it," said the engine- 
 driver beside me; "an', by crum! we've got 
 the Kirably." 
 
 The procession advanced. In the midst 
 walked a stout woman, carrying a baby in long 
 clothes, and in front a man bearing in both 
 liands a ])late covered with a white cloth. He 
 stepped up beside the train, and, almost before 
 I had time to be astonished, a large yellow cake
 
 CUCKOO VALLEY RAILWAY. (39 
 
 was thrust into my hands. Engine-driver and 
 stoker were also presented with a cake a-piece, 
 and then the newly -married pair, who took and 
 ate with some shyness and giggling. 
 
 "Is it a boy or a girl?" asked the stoker, 
 with his mouth full. 
 
 " A boy," the man answered ; " and I count 
 it good luck that you men of modern ways 
 should be the first we meet on our way to 
 church. The child '11 be a go-ahead if there's 
 truth in omens." 
 
 " You're right, naybour. We're the speediest 
 men in this part of the universe, I d' believe. 
 Here's luck to 'ee, Susan Warne ! " he piped 
 out, addressing one of the women ; '' an' if you 
 want a name for your seventh, you may christen 
 'en after the engine here, the Wondei^ of the 
 Age:' 
 
 We waved our hats and jolted off again 
 towards Tregarrick. At the end of the jour- 
 ney the railway officials declined to charge 
 for the pleasure of my company. But after 
 some dispute, they agreed to compromise by 
 adjourning to the Railway Inn, and drink- 
 ing prosperity to Susan Warne's seventh.
 
 THE CONSPIEACY ABOAED THE 
 MIBAS. 
 
 " Are you going home to England ? So am 
 I. I'm Johnny ; and I've never been to Eng- 
 land before, but 1 kno^y all about it. There's 
 great palaces of gold and ivory — that's for the 
 lords and bishops — and there's "Windsor Castle, 
 the biggest of all, carved out of a single dia- 
 mond — that's for the queen. And she's the 
 most beautiful lady in the Avhole world, and 
 feeds her peacocks and birds of paradise out 
 of a ruby cup. And there the sun is always 
 shining, so that nobody wants any candles. O, 
 words would fail me if I endeavoured to con- 
 vey to you one-half of the splendours of that 
 enchanted realm ! '' 
 
 This last sentence tumbled so oddly from the 
 childish lips, that I could not hide a smile as I 
 looked down on my visitor. He stood just out- 
 side my cabin-door — a small serious boy of 
 about eight, with long flaxen curls hardly dry 
 71
 
 72 THE DELECTABLE DUCIIY. 
 
 from his morning bath. In the pauses of con- 
 versation he rubbed his head with a big bath- 
 towel. His legs and feet were bare, and he 
 wore only a little shirt and velveteen breeches, 
 with scarlet ribbons hanging untied at the 
 knees. 
 
 " You're laughing ! " 
 
 I stifled the smile. 
 
 " What were you laughing at ? " 
 
 ""Why, 3^ou're wrong, little man, on just one 
 or two points," I answered evasively. 
 
 " Which ? " 
 
 " Well, about the sunshine in England. The 
 sun is not always shining there, by any means." 
 
 " I'm afraid you know very little about it," 
 said the boy, shaking his head. 
 
 " Johnny ! Johnny ! " a voice called down 
 the companion-ladder at this moment. It was 
 followed by a thin, weary-looking man, dressed 
 in carpet slippers and a suit of seedy black. I 
 guessed his age at fifty, but suspect now that 
 the lines about his somewhat prim mouth were 
 traced there by sorrows rather than by years. 
 He boAved to me shyly, and addressed the boy. 
 
 " Johnny, what are you doing here ? in bare 
 feet!"
 
 CONSPIRACY ABOARD THE '' MlDASy 73 
 
 " Father, here is a man who sa3's the sun 
 doesn't always shine in England." 
 
 The man gave me a fleeting embarrassed 
 glance, and echoed, as if to shirk answering — 
 
 " In bare feet ! " 
 
 " But it does, doesn't it '. Tell him that it 
 does," the child insisted. 
 
 Driven thus into a corner, the father turned 
 his profile, avoiding my eyes, and said dully — 
 
 " The sun is always shining in England." 
 
 "Go on, father; tell him the rest." 
 
 " — and the use of candles, except as a lux- 
 ury, is consequently unknown to the denizens 
 of that favoured clime," he wound up, in the 
 tone of a man who repeats an old, old lecture. 
 
 Johnny Avas turning to me triumj)hantly, 
 when his father caught him by the hand and 
 led him back to his dressing. The movement 
 was hasty, almost rough. I stood at the cabin- 
 door and looked after them. 
 
 We were fellow-passengers aboard the 3fidas, 
 a merchant barque of near on a thousand tons, 
 homeward bound from Cape Town ; and Ave 
 had lost sight of the Table Mountain but a 
 couple of days before. It was the first week of 
 the new vear. and all dav lono; a fierv sun made
 
 74 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 life below deck insupportable. Nevertheless, 
 though we three were the only passengers on 
 board, and lived constantly in sight of each 
 other, it was many days before I made any 
 further acquaintance with Johnny and his 
 father. The sad-faced man clearly desired to 
 avoid me, answering my nod with a cold em- 
 barrassment, and clutching Johnny's hand when- 
 ever the child called " Good-morning ! " to me 
 cordially. I fancied him ashamed of his foolish 
 falsehood ; and I, on my side, was angry because 
 of it. The pair were for ever strolling back- 
 Avards and forwards on deck, or resting beneath 
 the awning on the poop, and talking — always 
 talking. I fancied the boy was delicate ; he 
 certainly had a bad cough during the first few 
 days. But this went away as our voyage pro- 
 ceeded, and his colour was rich and ros3^ 
 
 One afternoon I caught a, fragment of their 
 talk as they passed, Johnny brightly dressed 
 and smiling, his father looking even more 
 shabby and weary than usual. The man was 
 speaking. 
 
 " And Queen Victoria rides once a year 
 through the streets of London on her milk- 
 white courser, to hear the nightingales sing in
 
 CONSPIRACY ABOARD THE " J//Z>^S." 75 
 
 the Tower. For when she came to the throne 
 the Tower was fnll of prisoners, but with a 
 stroke of her sceptre she changed them all 
 into song-birds. Every year she releases fifty ; 
 and that is why they sing so rapturously, 
 because each one hopes his turn has come at 
 last." 
 
 I turned away. It was unconscionable to 
 cram the child's mind with these preposterous 
 fables. I pictured the poor little chap's disap- 
 pointment when the bleak reality came to stare 
 him in the face. To my mind, his father was 
 worse than an idiot, and 1 could hardly bring 
 myself to greet him next morning, when we 
 met. 
 
 My disgust did not seem to trouble him. In 
 a timid way, even, his eyes expressed satisfac- 
 tion. For a week or two I let him alone, and 
 then was forced to speak. 
 
 It happened in this way. We had spun 
 merrily along the tail of the S.E. trades and 
 glided slowh' to a standstill on a glassy ocean, 
 and beneath a sun that at noon left us shadow- 
 less. A fluke or two of wind had helped us 
 across the line ; but now, in 2° 27' north lati- 
 tude, the Midas slept like a turtle on the greasy
 
 76 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 sea. The heat of the near African coast seemed 
 to beat like steam against our faces. The pitch 
 bubbled like caviare in the seams of the white 
 deck, and the shrouds and ratlines ran with 
 tears of tar. To touch the brass rail of the 
 poop was to blister the hand, to catch a whiff 
 from the cook's galley was to feel sick for ten 
 minutes. The hens in their coops lay with 
 eyes glazed, and gasped for air. If you hung 
 forward over the bulwarks you stared dowm 
 into your own face. The sailors grumbled and 
 cursed and panted as they huddled forward 
 under a second awning that was rigged up to 
 give them shade rather than coolness ; for cool- 
 ness was not to be had. 
 
 On the second afternoon of the calm I hap- 
 pened to pass this awning, and glanced in. 
 Pretty well all the men were there, lounging, 
 with shirts open and chests streaming w^ith 
 sweat ; and in their midst, on a barrel, sat 
 Johnny, with a flushed face. 
 
 The boatswain — Gibbings by name — was 
 speaking. I heard him say — " An' the Lord 
 Mayor '11 be down to meet us, sonny, at the 
 docks, wi' his five-an'-fifty black boys all a- 
 blowin' Ilallelujarum on their silver key-bugles.
 
 CONSPIRACY ABOARD THE 'M/7Z)/16'." 77 
 
 An' we'll be took in tow to the Mansh'n 'Ouse 
 an' fed — " here he broke off and passed the 
 back of his hand across his mouth, with a 
 glance at the ship's cook, who had been driven 
 from his galley by the heat. But the cook had 
 no suggestions to make. His soul was still sick 
 with the reek of the boiled pork and pease 
 pudding he had cooked two hours before under 
 a torrid and vertical sun. 
 
 " We'll put it at hokey-pokey, notliin' a lump, 
 if you dofii mind, sonny," the boatswain went 
 on ; " in a nice airy parlour painted Avhite, with 
 a gilt chandelier an' gilt combings to the 
 wainscot." His picture of the Mansion House 
 as he proceeded was drawn from his reading 
 in the Book of Revelations and his own recol- 
 lections of Thames-side gin-palaces and the 
 saloons of passenger steamers, and gave the im- 
 pression of a virtuous gambling-hell. The whole 
 crew listened admiringly, and it seemed they 
 were all in the stupid conspiracy. I resolved, 
 for Johnny's sake, to protest, and that very 
 evening drew Gibbings aside and expostulated 
 with him. 
 
 " Why," I asked, " lay up this cruel, this 
 certain disappointment for the little chap (
 
 78 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 Why yarn to him as if he were bound for the 
 New Jerusalem ? " 
 
 The boatswain stared at me point-blank, at 
 first incredulously, then with something like pity. 
 
 " Why, sir, don't you know 'i Can't you see 
 for yoursel' ? It's because he is bound for the 
 New Jeroosalem ; because — bless his tender 
 soul! — -that's all the land he'll ever toucli." 
 
 " Good Lord ! " I cried. " Nonsense ! His 
 cough's better ; and look at his cheeks." 
 
 "Ay — we knows that colour on this line. 
 His cough's better, you say ; and I say this 
 weather's killing him. You just wait for the 
 nor'-east trades." 
 
 I left Gibbings, and after pacing up and 
 down the deck a few times, stepped to the 
 bulwarks, where a dark figure was leaning and 
 gazing out over the blacli waters. Johnny was 
 in bed ; and a great shame swept over me as 
 I noted the appealing wretchedness of this 
 lonely form. 
 
 I stepped up and touched him softly on the 
 arm. 
 
 " Sir, I am come to beg your forgiveness." 
 
 Next morning 1 joined the conspiracy.
 
 CONSPIRACY ABOAlil) TIIK '' MIDAS^ 79 
 
 After his father, I became Johnny's most 
 constant companion. " Father disliked you at 
 first," was the child's frank comment ; " he 
 said you told fibs, but now he wants us to be 
 friends." And we were excellent friends. I lied 
 from morning to night — lietl glibly, grandly. 
 Sometimes, indeed, as I lay awake in my 
 berth, a horror took me lest the springs of my 
 imagination should run dry. But they never 
 did. As a liar, I out-classed every man on 
 board. 
 
 But by-and-bye, as we caught the first 
 draught of the trades, the boy began to punc- 
 tuate my fables with that hateful cough. This 
 went on for a w^eek ; and one day, in the midst 
 of our short stroll, his legs gave way under 
 him. As I caught him in my arms, he looked 
 up with a smile. 
 
 " I'm very weak, you know. But it'll be all 
 right when I get to England." 
 
 But it was not till we had passed well beyond 
 the equatorial belt that Johnny grew visibly 
 w^orse. In a week he had to lie still on his 
 couch beneath the awning, and the patter of 
 his feet ceased on the deck. The captain, who 
 was a bit of a doctor, said to me one day —
 
 80 THE DELECTABLE DUC'HV. 
 
 "He will never live to see England." 
 
 But he did. 
 
 It was a soft spring afternoon when the 
 Midas sighted the Lizard, and Johnny was still 
 with us, lying on his couch, though almost too 
 weak to move a limb. As the day wore on 
 we lifted him once or twice to look. 
 
 " Can you see them quite plain ? " he asked ; 
 "and the precious stones hanging on the 
 trees? And the palaces — and the white ele- 
 phants ? " 
 
 I stared through my glass at the serpentine 
 rocks and white- washed lighthouse above them, 
 all powdered with bronze and gold by the sink- 
 ing sun, and answered — 
 
 " Yes, they are all there." 
 
 All that afternoon we were beside him, look- 
 ing out and peopling the shores of home with 
 all manner of vain shows and pageants ; and 
 when one man broke down another took his 
 place. 
 
 As the sun fell, and twilight drew on, the 
 briglit revolving lights on tlie two towers sud- 
 denly Hashed out their greeting. We were 
 about to carry the child below, for the air was
 
 CONSPIRACY ABOARD TJIE ''MIDAS.'' 81 
 
 chilly ; but he saw the flash, and held up a 
 feeble hand. 
 
 " What is that ? " 
 
 "Those two lights," I answered, telling ray 
 final lie, " are the lanterns of Cormelian and 
 Cormoran, the two Cornish giants. They'll be 
 standing on the shore to welcome us. See — 
 each swings his lantern round, and then for a 
 moment it is dark ; now wait a moment, and 
 you'll see the light again." 
 
 " Ah ! " said the child, with a smile and a 
 little sigh, " it is good to be — home ! " 
 
 And with that word on his lips, as he waited 
 for the next flash, Johnny stretched himself 
 and died.
 
 LEGEI^TDS OF ST. PIRAN.
 
 I. — SAINT PIRAN AND THE MILL- 
 STONE. 
 
 Should you visit the Blackmore tin-streamers 
 on their feast-day, which falls on Friday-in-Lide 
 (that is to say, the first Friday in March), you 
 may note a truly Celtic ceremony. On that day 
 the tinners pick out the sleepiest boy in the 
 neighbourhood and send him up to the highest 
 hound in the works, with instructions to sleep 
 there as long as he can. And by immemorial 
 usage the length of his nap will be the measure 
 of the tinners' afternoon siesta for twelve 
 months to come. 
 
 Now, this first week in March is St. Piran's 
 week : and St. Piran is the miners' saint. To 
 him the Cornishmen owe not only their tin, 
 which he discovered on the spot, but also their 
 divine laziness, which he brought across from 
 Ireland and naturalised here. And I learned 
 his story one day from an old miner, as we ate 
 our bread and cheese together on the floor of 
 
 85
 
 86 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 Wheal Tregobbin, while the Davy lamp between 
 us made wavering giants of our shadows on the 
 walls of the adit, and the sea moaned as it 
 tossed on its bed, two hundred feet above. 
 
 St. Piran was a little round man ; and in 
 the beginning; he dwelt on the north coast of 
 Ireland, in a leafy mill, past which a stream 
 came tumbling down to the sea. After turning 
 the saint's mill-wheel, the stream dived over 
 a fall into the Lough below, and the lul-ul- 
 iir-r-r of the water-wheel and fall was a sleepy 
 music in the saint's ear noon and night. 
 
 It must not be imagined that the mill-wheel 
 ground anything. No; it went round merely 
 for the sake of its music. For all St. Piran's 
 business was the study of objects that presented 
 themselves to his notice, or, as he called it, 
 the " Eapture av Contemplation " ; and as for 
 his livelihood, he earned it in the simplest way. 
 The waters of the Lough below possessed a 
 peculiar virtue. You had only to sink a log 
 or stick therein, and in fifty years' time that 
 log or stick would be turned to stone. St. 
 Piran was as quick as you are to divine the 
 possibilities of easy competence offered by this
 
 ST. I'll! AX AM) Till-: MILLSTONE. 87 
 
 spot. He took time by tlie forelock, and in 
 half a century was fairly started in Ijusiness. 
 Henceforward he j)assed all his days among 
 the rocks above the fall, whistling to himself 
 while he Avhittled bits of cork and wood into 
 quaint shapes, attached them to string, weighted 
 them with pebbles, and lowered them over 
 the fall into the Lough — whence, after fifty 
 years he would dra^v them forth, and sell them 
 to the simple surnmnding peasantry at two 
 hundred and hfty j)er centum i^er anmiin on 
 the initial c(>st. 
 
 It was a tranquil, lucrative employment, and 
 liad he stuck to the Rapture of Contemplation, 
 he might have ended his days by the fall. 
 But in an unhicky hour lie undertook to feed 
 ten Irish kings and their armies for three weeks 
 anend on three cows. Even so he might have 
 escaped, had he only failed. Alas! As it 
 was, the ten kings had no sooner signed peace 
 and drunk together than they marched u]) 
 to St. Piran's door, and began to hold an 
 Indignation Meeting. 
 
 "What's ailing wid ye, then?" asked the 
 saint, poking his head out at the door; "out 
 widuti Did I not stuff ye wid cow-mate galore
 
 88 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 when the Land was as nakud as me tonshure "i 
 But 'twas three cows an' a miracle wasted, I'm 
 thinkin'." 
 
 " Faith, an' ye've said ut ! " answered one 
 of the kings. " Three cows between tin Oirish 
 kings ! 'Tis insultin' ! Arrah, now, make it 
 foive, St. Piran darlint ! " 
 
 "Now may they make your stummucks 
 ache for that word, ye marautherin' thieves 
 av the world ! " 
 
 And St. Piran slammed the door in their 
 faces. 
 
 But these kings were Ulstermen, and took 
 things seriously. So they went off and stirred 
 up the people : and the end was that one 
 sunshiny morning a dirty rabble marched up 
 to the mill and laid hands on the saint. On 
 Avhat charge, do you think ? Why, for Being 
 loithout Visible Means of Supjyort ! 
 
 " There's me pethrifyin' spicimins ! " cried 
 the saint : and he tugged at one of the ropes 
 that stretched down into the Lough. 
 
 " Indade ! " answered one of the ten kings : 
 " Bad luck to your spicimins ! " says he. 
 
 "Fwhat's that ye're tuggin' at?" asks a 
 bystander.
 
 ST. PIRAN AND THE MILLSTONE. 89 
 
 " Now the Holy Mother presarve your eye- 
 sight, Tim Coolin," answers St. Piran, pulling 
 it in, "if ye can't tell a plain millstone at foive 
 })aces ! I never asked ye to see tliroiujh ut," he 
 added, with a twinkle, for Tim had a plentiful 
 lack of brains, and that the company knew. 
 
 Sure enough it was a millstone, and a very 
 neat one ; and the saint, having raised a bit of 
 a laugh, went on like a cheap-jack : 
 
 "Av there's any gintleman prisunt wid an 
 eye for millstones, I'll throuble him to turn ut 
 here. Me own make," says he, " jooled in wan 
 hole, an' dog-chape at fifteen shillin' — " 
 
 He was rattling away in this style when 
 somebody called out, '' To think av a millstone 
 bein' a visible means av support!" And this 
 time the laugh turned against the saint, 
 
 " St. Piran dear, ye've got to die," says the 
 spokesman. 
 
 " Muslia, musha ! " — and the saint set up a 
 wail and wrung his hands. " An' how's it 
 goin' to be ? " lie asked, breaking off ; " an' if 
 'tis by Shamus O'Neil's blunderbust that he's 
 fumblin' yondther, will I stand afore or ahint 
 ut? for 'tis fatal both ends, Pm thinkin', like 
 Barney Sullivan's mule. Wirra, wirral May
 
 90 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 our souls find mercy, Shamus O'Neil, for we'll 
 both be wantin'' ut this day. Better for you, 
 Shamus, that this millstone was hung round 
 your black neck, an' you drownin' in the dept's 
 av the Lough ! " 
 
 The words were not spoken before they all 
 set up a shout. " The millstone ! the mill- 
 stone ! " " Sthrap him to ut ! " " He's named 
 his death ! " — and inside of three minutes 
 there was the saint, strapped down on his 
 own specimen. 
 
 " Wirra, wirra ! " he cried, and begged for 
 mercy; but they raised a devastating shindy, 
 and gave the stone a trundle. Down the turf 
 it rolled and rolled, and then lohoof leaped 
 over the edge of the fall into space and down 
 — down — till it smote the waters far below, 
 and knocked a mighty hole in them, and went 
 under — 
 
 For three seconds only. The next thing 
 that the rabble saw as they craned over the 
 cliff was St. Piran floating quietly out to sea 
 on the millstone, for all the world as if on a 
 life-belt, and untying his bonds to use for a 
 fishing-line ! You see, this millstone had been 
 made of cork originally, and was only half pet-
 
 ST. PI BAN AND THE MILLSTONE. 91 
 
 rifled ; and the old bo}^ liad just beguiled them. 
 When he had linished undoing the cords, he 
 stood up and bowed to them all very politely. 
 
 "Visible Manes av Support, me childher — 
 merely Visible Manes av Support ! " he called 
 back. 
 
 'Twas a sunshiny day, and while St. Piran 
 chuckled the sea twinkled all over with the 
 jest. As for the crowd on the cliff, it looked 
 for flve minutes as if the saint had petrified 
 them harder than the millstone. Then, as 
 Tim Coolin told his wife, Mary Dogherty, that 
 same evening, they dispersed promiscuoush^ in 
 groups of one each. 
 
 Meanwhile, the tides were bearing St. Piran 
 and his millstone out into the Atlantic, and he 
 whiffed for mackerel all the way. And on the 
 morrow a stiff breeze sprang up and blew him 
 sou'-sou-west until he spied land ; and so he 
 stepped ashore on the Cornish coast. 
 
 In Cornwall he lived many years till he died : 
 and to this day there are three places named 
 after him — Perranaworthal, Perranuthno and 
 Perranzabuloe. But it was in the last named 
 that he took most delight, because at Perran- 
 zabuloe (Perochia Sti. Pirani in Sabulo) there
 
 92 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 was nothing but sand to distract him from the 
 Study of Objects that Presented Themselves to 
 his Notice : for he had given up miracles. So 
 he sat on tlie sands and taught the Cornish 
 people how to be idle. Also he discovered tin 
 for them ; but that was an accident.
 
 II. — SAINT PIPwAN AND THE VISI- 
 TATION. 
 
 A FULL fifty years had St. Piran dwelt among 
 the sandhills between Perranzabuloe and tlie 
 sea before any big rush of saints began to 
 pour into Cornwall : for 'twas not till the old 
 man had discovered tin for us that they sprang 
 u\) tliick as blackberries all over the county ; 
 so that in a way St. Piran had only himself to 
 blame when his idle ways grew to be a scandal 
 by comparison with the push and bustle of the 
 newcomers. 
 
 Never a notion had he that, from Rome to 
 Land's End, all his holy brethren were holding 
 up their hands over his case. He sat in his 
 cottage above the sands at Perranzabuloe and 
 dozed to the hum of the breakers, in charity 
 witli all his parishioners, to whom his money 
 was large as the salt wind ; for his sleeping part- 
 nership in the tin-streaming business brought 
 him a tidy income. And the folk knew that if
 
 94 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 ever they wanted religion, they had only to 
 knock and ask for it. 
 
 But one fine morning, an hour before noon, 
 the whole parish sprang to its feet at the sound 
 of a horn. The blast was twice repeated, and 
 came from the little cottage across the sands. 
 
 " 'Tis the blessed saint's cow-horn ! " they 
 told each other. " Sure the dear man must be 
 in the article of death ! " And they hurried 
 off to the cottage, man, woman, and child : for 
 'twas thirty years at least since the horn had 
 last been sounded. 
 
 They pushed open the door, and there sat 
 St. Piran in his arm-chair, looking good for 
 another twenty 3'ears, but considerably flus- 
 tered. His cheeks were red, and his fingers 
 clutched the cow-horn nervously. 
 
 " Andrew Penhaligon," said he to the first 
 man that entered, "'go you out and ring the 
 church bell." 
 
 Off ran Andrew Penhaligon. " But, blessed 
 father of us," said one or two, " we're all here ! 
 There's no call to ring the church bell, seein' 
 you're neither dead nor afire, blessamercy ! " 
 
 " Oh, if you're all here, that alters the case ; 
 for 'tis only a proclamation T have to give out
 
 ST. PIRAN AND THE VISITATION. 95 
 
 at present. To-morrow iiiornitr — Glor}' be to 
 God ! — 1 give warniir that Divine service will 
 take place in the parish church." 
 
 "You're sartin you bain't feelin' poorly, St. 
 Piran clear?" asked one of the women. 
 
 " Thank you, Tidy Mennear, I'm enjoyin' 
 health. But, as I was savin', the parish church 
 '11 be needed to-morrow, an' so you'd best set 
 to and clean out the edifice : for I'm thinkin '," 
 he added, " it'll be needin' that." 
 
 " To be sure, St. Piran dear, w^e'll humour 
 ye." 
 
 " 'Tisn' that at all," the saint answered ; 
 "but I've had a vision." 
 
 " Don't you often ? " 
 
 " Il'm ! but this was a peculiar vision ; or 
 maybe a bit of a birdeen whispered it into my 
 ear. Anywa}^, 'twas revealed to me just now 
 in a dream that I stood on the lawn at Bodmin 
 Priory, and peeped in At the Priory window. 
 An' there in the long hall sat all the saints 
 together at a big table covered with red baize 
 and plotted against us. There was St. Petroc 
 in the chair, wath St. Guron by his side, an' 
 St. E"eot, St. Udy, St. Teath, St. Keverne, St. 
 Wen, St. Probus, St. Enodar, St. Just, St. Fim-
 
 96 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 barrus, St. Clether, St. Germoe, St. Very an, St. 
 Winnock, St. Minver, St. Anthony, with the 
 virgins Grace, and Sinara, and Iva — the whole 
 passel of 'em. An' they were agreein' there 
 was no holiness left in this parish of mine ; an' 
 speakin' shame of me, my childer — of me, that 
 have banked your consciences these fifty years, 
 and always been able to pay on demand : the 
 more by token that I kept a big reserve, an' 
 you knew it. Answer me : when was there 
 ever a panic in Perranzabuloe ? "Twas all 
 very well,' said St. Neot, when his turn came 
 to speak, ' but this state o' things ought to be 
 exposed.' He's as big as bull's beef, is St. JS^eot, 
 ever since he worked that miracle over the 
 fishes, an' reckons he can disparage an old man 
 who was makin' millstones to float when he 
 was suckin' a coral. But the upshot is, they're 
 goin' to pay us a Visitation to-morrow, by sur- 
 prise. And, if only for the parish credit, we'll 
 be even wid um, by dad ! " 
 
 St. Piran still lapsed into his native brogue 
 when strongly excited. 
 
 But he had hardly done when Andrew Pen- 
 haliffon came runnino- in — 
 
 " St. Piran, honey, I've searched everywhere ;
 
 ST. FIR AN AND THE VISITATION. 97 
 
 an' be hanged to me if I can find the church ut 
 all!" 
 
 " Fwhat's become av ut ? " cried the saint, 
 sitting up sharply. 
 
 "• How sliould I know ( But devil a trace 
 can I see ! " 
 
 " Now, look here," St. Piran said ; " the 
 church was there, right enough." 
 
 " That's a true word," spoke up an old man, 
 " for I mind it well. An elegant tower it had, 
 an' a shingle roof." 
 
 " Spake up, now," said the saint, glaring 
 around ; " f wich av ye's gone an' misbestowed 
 me parush church ? For I won't believe," he 
 said, " that it's any worse than carelussness — 
 at laste, not yet-a-bit." 
 
 Some remembered the church, and some 
 did not : but the faces of all Avere clear of guilt. 
 They trooped out on the sands to search. 
 
 Now, the sands b}'^ Perranzabuloe are for 
 ever shifting and driving before the northerly 
 and nor'- westerly gales; and in time had heaped 
 themselves up and covered the building out of 
 sight. To guess this took the saint less time 
 than you can wink your eye in ; but the bother 
 was that no one remembered exactly where the
 
 98 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 church had stood, and as there were two score 
 at least of tall mounds along the shore, and all 
 of pretty equal height, there was no knowing 
 where to dig. To uncover them all was a job 
 to last till doomsday. 
 
 " Blur-an'-agurs, but it's ruined I am I " cried 
 St. Piran. "An' the Visitashun no further 
 away than to-morra at tin a.m. ! " He wrung 
 his hands, then caught up a spade, and began 
 dio^ffino- like a madman. 
 
 They searched all day, and wnth lanterns all 
 the night through : they searched from Ligger 
 Point to Pofth Towan : but came on never a 
 sign of the missing church. 
 
 " If it only had a spire," one said, " there'd 
 be some chance." But as far as could be 
 recollected, the building had a dumpy tower. 
 
 "Once caught, twice shy," said another; 
 "let us find it this once, an' next time w^e'U 
 have landmarks to dig it out by." 
 
 It was at sunrise that St. Piran, worn-out 
 and heart- sick, let fall his spade and spoke from 
 one of the tall mounds, wdiere he had been 
 digging for an hour. 
 
 " My children," he began, and the men un- 
 covered their heads, " my children, we are
 
 ST. PIRAN AND THE VISITATION. 99 
 
 going to be disgraced this day, and the best 
 we can do is to pray that we may talce it like 
 men. Let us pray." 
 
 He knelt down on the great sand-hill, and 
 the men and Avomen around dropped on their 
 knees also. And then St. Piran ]jut uj) the 
 prayer that has made his name famous all the 
 world over. 
 
 TIIF PR A YER OF ST. PIRAN. 
 
 Harr us, Lord, and he debonair : for ours 
 is a particular case. We are not like the men 
 of St. Neot or the men of St. Udy, ivho are for 
 ever importuning Thee ajjon the least occasion, 
 frayinfj at all houi's and every day of the weeTc. 
 Thou knowest it is only with extreme cause that 
 we hring ourselves to trouhle Thee. Therefore 
 regard our moderation in time ixist, and he 
 instant to help us now. Amen. 
 
 There was silence for a full niimite as he 
 ceased ; and tlien the kneeling parishioners 
 lifted their eyes towards the top of the mound. 
 
 St. Piran was nowhere to be seen ! 
 
 They stared into each other's faces. For a 
 while not a sound was uttered. Then a woman 
 beofan to sob —
 
 100 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 " We've lost 'en ! We've lost 'en ! " 
 
 " Like Enoch, he's been taken ! " 
 
 "Taken up in a chariot an' horses o' fire. 
 Did any see 'en go ? " 
 
 " An' what'll we do without 'en ? Holy St. 
 Piran, come back to us ! " 
 
 " Hullo ! hush a bit an' hearken ! " cried 
 Andrew Penhaligon, lifting a hand. 
 
 They were silent, and listening as he com- 
 manded, heard a muffled voice and a faint, 
 calling as it were from the bowels of the earth. 
 
 " Fetch a ladder ! " it said : " fetch a ladder ! 
 It's meself that's found ut, glory be to God ! 
 Holy queen av heaven ! but me mouth is full 
 av sand, an' it's burstin' I'll be if ye don't fetch 
 a ladder quick ! " 
 
 They brought a ladder and set it against 
 tlie mound. Three of the men climbed up. 
 At the top they found a big round hole, from 
 tlie lip of which they scraped the sand away, 
 discovering a patch of shingle roof, through 
 which St. Piran — whose weight had increased 
 of late — had broken and tumbled heels over 
 head into his own church. 
 
 Three hours later there appeared on the
 
 .ST. Pin AN AND THE VISITATION. 101 
 
 eastern sky-line, against the yellow blaze of 
 the morning, a large cavalcade that slowly 
 pricked its way over the edge and descended 
 the slopes of Newlyn Downs. It was the 
 Visitation. In the midst rode St. Petroc, his 
 crozier tucked under his arm, astride a white 
 mule with scarlet ear-tassels and bells and a 
 saddle of scarlet leather. Pie gazed across the 
 sands to the sea, and turned to St, Neot, who 
 towered at his side upon a flea-bitten grey. 
 
 " The parish seems to be deserted," said he : 
 " not a man nor \voman can I see, nor a trace 
 of smoke above the chimneys." 
 
 St. Neot tightened his thin lips. In his 
 secret heart he was mightily pleased. 
 
 " Eight in the morning," he answered, with 
 a glance back at the sun. " They'll be all abed, 
 I'll warrant you." 
 
 St. Petroc muttered a threat. 
 
 They entered the village street. Not a soul 
 turned out at their coming. Every cottage 
 door was fast closed, nor could any amount of 
 knocking elicit an answer or entice a face to 
 a window. In gathering wrath the visiting 
 saints rode along the sea-shore to St. Piran's 
 small hut. 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 SANTA BARBARA
 
 102 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 Here the door stood open : but the hut was 
 empty. A meagre breakfast of herl)s was set 
 out on the table, and a brand new scourge 
 lay somewhat ostentatiously beside the platter. 
 The visitors stood nonplussed, looked at each 
 other, then eyed the landscape. Between bar- 
 ren sea and barren downs the beach stretched 
 away, with not a human shape in sight. St. 
 Petroc, choking with impotent Avrath, appeared 
 to study the hollow green breakers from be- 
 tween the long ears of his mule, but with 
 quick sidelong glances right and left, ready to 
 jump down the throat of the first saint that 
 dared to smile. 
 
 After a minute or so St. Enodar suddenly 
 turned his face inland, and held up a finger. 
 
 " Hark ! " he shouted above the roar of the 
 sea. 
 
 " What is it ? " 
 
 "It sounds to me," said St. Petroc, after 
 listening for some moments with his head on 
 one side, " it sounds to me like a hymn." 
 
 "To be sure 'tis a hymn," said St. Enodar, 
 "and the tune is 'Mullyon,' for a crown." 
 And he pursed up his lips and followed the 
 chant, beating time with his forefinger —
 
 ST. PIRAN AND TIIK VISITATION. 103 
 
 " When, Ul'c a thief, the Mldianite 
 Shall steal upon the cavij), 
 O, let hirti find our armour bright, 
 And oil loitliin our lamp ! " 
 
 "But where in the workl does it coine 
 from?" asked St. Neot. 
 
 This could not be answered for the moment ; 
 but the saints turned their horses' heads from 
 the sea, and moved slowh^ on the track of the 
 sound, which at every step grew louder and 
 more distinct. 
 
 "/i5 is at no appointed hours, 
 It is not hy the clock. 
 That Satan, grishj wolf, devours 
 The unprotected fiocky 
 
 The visitors found themselves at the foot of 
 an enormous sand-hill, from the top of which 
 the chant was pouring as lava from a crater. 
 They set their eai's to the sandy wall. They 
 walked round it, and listened again. 
 
 " But ever prowls tW insidious foe, 
 
 And listens round the fold.'''' 
 
 * 
 This was too much. St. Petroc smote twice
 
 104 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 upon the sand-liill with his crozier, and 
 shouted — 
 
 " Hi, there ! " 
 
 The chant ceased. For at least a couple of 
 minutes nothing happened ; and then St. Piran's 
 bald head was thrust cautiously forward over 
 the summit. 
 
 " Holy St. Petroc ! Was it only you, after 
 all ? And St. Neot — and St. Udy ! O, glory be ! " 
 
 " Why, who did you imagine we were ? " St, 
 Petroc asked, still in amazement. 
 
 " Why, throat-cutting Danes, to be sure, by 
 the way you were comin' over the hills when 
 we spied you, three hours back. An' the 
 trouble we've had to cover up our blessed 
 church out o' sight of thim marautherin' 
 thieves ! An' the intire parish gathered inside 
 here an' singin' good-by songs in expectation 
 of imminent death ! An' to think 'twas you 
 holy men, all the while ! But why didn't ye 
 send word ye was comin', St. Petroc, darlint? 
 For it's little but sand ye'll find in your mouths 
 for breakfast, I'm thinkin'."
 
 m THE TRAIN.
 
 L —PUNCH'S UNDERSTUDY. 
 
 The first-class smoking compartment was the 
 emptiest in the whole train, and even this was 
 hot to suffocation, because my only companion 
 denied me more than an inch of open window. 
 His chest, he explained curtly, was ''suscepti- 
 ble.'" As we crawled w^estward through the 
 glaring country, the sun's rays reverberated 
 on the carriage roof till I seemed to be crushed 
 under an anvil, counting the strokes. I had 
 dropped my book, and was staring listlessly 
 out of the windovv^ At the other end of the 
 compartment my fellow-passenger had pulled 
 down the blinds, and hidden his face behind 
 the Weste)'7i 3forning News. He was a red 
 and choleric little man of about sixty, with a 
 protuberant stomach, a prodigious nose, to 
 which he carried snuff about once in t\vo 
 minutes, and a marked deformity of the shoul- 
 ders. For comfort — and also, perhaps, to hide 
 this hump — he rested his back in the angle by 
 
 107
 
 108 THE DELECTABLE DUCllY. 
 
 the window. He wore a black alpaca coat, a 
 high stock, white waistcoat, and trousers of 
 shepherd's plaid. On these and a few other 
 trivial details I built a laz}^ hypothesis that he 
 was a lawyer, and unmarried. 
 
 Just before entering the station at Lost- 
 withiel, our train passed between the white 
 gates of a level crossing. A moment before I 
 had caught sight of the George drooping from 
 the church spire, and at the crossing I saw it 
 was regatta-day in the small town. The road 
 was thick with people and lined with sweet- 
 standings ; and by the near end of the bridge 
 a Pun ch-and- Judy show had just closed a per- 
 formance. The orchestra had unloosed his 
 drum, and fallen to mopping the back of his 
 neck with the red handkerchief that had pre- 
 viously bound the panpipes to his chin. A 
 crowd still loitered around, and among it I 
 noted several men and women in black — ugly 
 stains upon the pervading sunshine. 
 
 The station platform was cram-full as we 
 drew up, and it was clear at once that all the 
 carriages in the train would be besieged, with- 
 out regard to class. By some chance, however, 
 ours was neglected, and until the very last
 
 PUNCH'S UNDERSTUDY. 109 
 
 moment we seemed likely to escape. The 
 guard's whistle was between his lips when I 
 heard a shout, then one or two feminine screams, 
 and a com])any of seven or eight persons came 
 charging out of the booking-office. Every one 
 of them was apparelled in black : they were, 
 in fact, the people I had seen gaping at the 
 Punch-and-Judy show. 
 
 In a moment one of the men tore open 
 the door of our compartment, and w^e were 
 invaded. One — two — four — six — seven — 
 in they poured, tumbling over my legs, panting, 
 giggling inanely, exhorting each other to hurry 
 — an old man, two youths, three middle-aged 
 women, and a little girl about four years old. 
 I heard a fierce guttural sound, and saw my 
 fellow-passenger on his feet, choking with 
 wrath and gesticulating. But the guard 
 slammed the door on his resentment, and 
 the train moved on. As it gathered speed 
 he fell back, all purple above his stock, 
 snatched his malacca walking-cane from under 
 the coat-tails of a subsiding youth, stuck it 
 upright between his knees, and glared round 
 upon the intruders. They were still possessed 
 with excitement over their narrow escape, and
 
 110 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 unconscious of offence. One of the women 
 dropped into the corner seat, and took the 
 little girl on her lap. The child's dusty boots 
 rubbed against the old gentleman's trousers. 
 He shifted his position, grunted, and took snuff 
 furiously. 
 
 " That was nibby-jibby," observed the old 
 man of the party, while his eyes wandered 
 round for a seat. 
 
 "I declare I thought I should ha' died," 
 panted a robust-looking woman with a wart 
 on her cheek, and a yard of crape hanging 
 from her bonnet. " Can't 'een find nowhere to 
 sit, uncle 'i " 
 
 " Reckon I must make shift 'pon your lap, 
 Susannah." 
 
 This ^vas said with a chuckle, and the Avoman 
 tittered. 
 
 " What new-fang'd game be this o' the Great 
 Western's ? Arras to the seats, I vow. We'll 
 have to sit intimate, my dears." 
 
 " 'Tis First Class," one of the young men 
 announced in a chastened whisper : " I saw it 
 written on the door." 
 
 There was a short silence of awe. 
 
 " Well ! " ejaculated Susannah : " I thought.
 
 PUNCH'S UNDERSTUDY. Ill 
 
 when first I sat down, that the cnshions felt 
 extraordinary plum. You don't think they'll 
 fine us 'i " 
 
 " It all comes of our stoppin' to gaze at that 
 Punch-an'-Judy," the old fello\y went on, after 
 I had shown them how to turn back the arm- 
 seats, and they were settled in something like 
 comfort. " But I never could refrain from 
 that antic, though I feels condemned too, in 
 a way, an' poor Thomas laid in earth no longer 
 ago than twelve noon. But in the midst of 
 life we are in death." 
 
 " I don't remember a more successful buryin'," 
 said the woman who held the little girl. 
 
 " That Avas partly luck, as you may say, it 
 bein' regatta-day an' the fun o' the fair not 
 properly begun. I counted a lot at the ceme- 
 ter}^ I didn' know by face, an' I set 'em down 
 for excursionists, that caught sight of a funeral, 
 an' followed it to fill up the time." 
 
 " It all added." 
 
 " Oh, aye; Thomas was beautifully interred." 
 
 By this time the heat in the carriage was 
 hardly more overpowering than the smell of 
 crape, broadcloth, and camphor. The youth 
 who had wedged himself next to me carried
 
 112 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 a large packet of "fairing," which he had 
 bought at one of the sweet-stalls. He began 
 to insert it into his side pocket, antl in his 
 struggles drove an elbow sharply into my ribs. 
 I shifted my position a little. 
 
 " Tom's wife would ha' felt it a source o' 
 pride, had she lived." 
 
 But I ceased to listen ; for in moving I had 
 happened to glance at the further end of the 
 carriage, and thei'e my attention was arrested 
 by a curious little piece of pantomime. The 
 little girl — a dark-eyed, intelligent child, whose 
 pallor was emphasised by the crape which 
 smothered her — was looking very closely at 
 the old gentleman with the hump — staring at 
 him hard, in fact. He, on the other hand, was 
 leaning forward, with both hands on the knob 
 of his malacca, his eyes bent on the floor and 
 his mouth squared to the surliest expression. 
 He seemed quite unconscious of her scrutiny, 
 and was tapping one foot impatientl}'^ on the 
 floor. 
 
 After a minute I was surprised to see her 
 lean forward and touch him gently on the 
 knee. 
 
 He took no notice beyond shuffling about a
 
 PUNCH'S UNDERSTUDY. 113 
 
 little and uttering a slight growl. The woman 
 wlio held her put out an arm and drew back 
 the child's hand reprovingly. The child paid 
 no heed to this, but continued to stare. Then 
 in another minute she again bent forward, and 
 tapped the old gentleman's knee. 
 
 This time she fetched a louder growl from 
 him, and an irascible glare. Not in the least 
 daunted, she took hold of his malacca, and 
 shook it to and fro in her small hand. 
 
 " I wish to heavens, madam, you'd keep 
 your child to yourself ! " 
 
 " For shame, Annie ! " whispered the poor 
 woman, cowed b}^ his look. 
 
 But again Annie paid no heed. Instead, she 
 pushed the malacca towiirds the old gentleman, 
 saying — 
 
 '* Please, sir, will 'ee warm Mister Barrabel 
 wi" this?" 
 
 He moved uneasily, and looked harshly at 
 her without answering. '" For shame, Annie ! " 
 the woman murmured a second time ; but I 
 saw her lean back, and a tear started and rolled 
 down her cheek. 
 
 " If you please, sir," repeated Annie, '' will 
 'ee warm Mister Barrabel wi' this ? "
 
 114 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 The old gentleman stared round the carriage. 
 In Ills eyes you could read the question, " What 
 in the devil's name does the child mean '( " 
 The robust woman read it there, and answered 
 him huskily — 
 
 " Poor mite ! she's buried her father this 
 mornin' ; an' Mister Barrabel is the coffin-maker, 
 an' nailed 'en down." 
 
 " Kow," said Annie, this time eagerly, " will 
 'ee Avarm him same as the big doll did just 
 now ? " 
 
 Luckily, the old gentleman did not under- 
 stand this last allusion. He had not seen the 
 group around the Punch-and- Judy show ; nor, 
 if he had, is it likely he would have guessed 
 the train of thought in the child's mind. But 
 to me, as I looked at my felloAv-passenger's 
 nose and the deformity of his shoulders, and 
 remembered how Punch treats the undertaker 
 in the immortal drama, it was all plain enough. 
 I glanced at the child's companions. Nothing 
 in their faces showed that they took the allu- 
 sion; and the next moment I was glad to think 
 that I alone knew what had prompted Annie's 
 speech. 
 
 For the next moment, with a beautiful
 
 PUNCH'S UNBEIiSTUDY. 115 
 
 change on his face, tlic old gentleman had 
 taken the chiUl on his knee, and was talking 
 to her as 1 dare say he had never talked before. 
 
 " Are you her mother { " he asked, looking 
 up suddenly, and addressing the woman oppo- 
 site. 
 
 " Her mother's been dead these tAvo year. 
 I'm her aunt, an' I'm takin' her home to rear 
 'long wi' my own childer.'' 
 
 He was bending over Annie, and had re- 
 sumed his chat. It was all nonsense — some- 
 thing about the silver knob of his malacca — 
 but it took hold of the child's fancy and com- 
 forted her. At the next station I had to alight, 
 for it was the end of my journey. But looking 
 back into the carriage as I shut the door, 1 
 saw^ Annie bending forward over the walking- 
 stick, and following the pattern of its silver- 
 work with her small linger. Her face was 
 turned from the old gentleman's, and behind 
 her little black hat his eyes were glistening.
 
 II. — A COKRECTED CONTEMPT. 
 
 The whistles had sounded, and we were 
 ah'eady moving slowly out of St. David's Sta- 
 tion, Exeter, to continue our journey westward, 
 when the door was pulled open and a brown 
 bag, followed by a whiff of Millefleurs and an 
 over-dressed young man, came flying into the 
 compartment where I sat alone and smoked. 
 
 The youth scrambled to a seat as the door 
 slammed behind him ; remarked that it was 
 " a near shave " ; and laughed nervously as if 
 to assure me that he found it a joke. His face 
 was pink with running, and the colour con- 
 trasted unpleasantly with his pale sandy hair 
 and moustache. He wore a light check suit, 
 a light-blue tie knotted through a "Mizpah" 
 ring, a white straw hat with a blue ribbon, 
 and two finger-rings set with sham diamonds 
 — altogether the sort of outfit that its owner 
 would probably have described as " rather 
 nobby." Feeling that just now it needed a 
 
 117
 
 118 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 few repairs, he opened the bag, pulled out a 
 duster and flicked away for half-a-minute at 
 his brown boots. Next with a handkercliief 
 he mopped his face and wiped round the inner 
 edge first of his straw hat, and then of his 
 collar and cuffs. After this he stood up, shook 
 his trousers till they hung with a satisfying 
 gracefulness, produced a cigar-case — covered 
 with forget-me-nots in crewel work — and a 
 copy of the Sjporting Times., sat down again, 
 and asked me if I could oblige him with a 
 light. 
 
 I think the train had neared Dawlish before 
 the cigar was fairly started, and his pink face 
 hidden behind the pink newspaper. But even 
 so between the red sandstone cliffs and the 
 wholesome sea this ])ink thing would not sit 
 still. His diamond rings kept flirting round 
 the edge of the 8portin<j Times, his brown 
 boots shifting their position on the cushion in 
 front of him, his legs crossing, uncrossing, 
 recrossing, his cigar-smoke rising in quick, 
 uneasy puffs. 
 
 Between Teignmouth and Newton Abbot 
 this restlessness increased. He dropped some 
 cigar-ash on his waistcoat and arose to shake
 
 A fOliUECTED CONTEMPT. 119 
 
 it off. Twice or thrice he picked up the paper 
 and set it doAvn again. As we ran into New4on 
 Abbot Station, he came over to my side of 
 the carriage and scanned the small crowd upon 
 the platform. Suddenly his pink cheeks flushed 
 to crimson. The train was slowing to a stand- 
 still, and w^hile he hesitated with a hand on the 
 door, a little old man came trotting down the 
 platform — a tremulous little man, in greenish 
 black broadcloth, eloquent of continued depres- 
 sion in some village retail trade. His watery 
 eyes shone brimful of pride and gladness. 
 
 "Whai, Charley, lad, there you be, to be 
 shure ; an' lookin' as peart as a gladdy ! Shaiike 
 your old vather's vist, lad — ees fay, you be 
 lookin' well!" 
 
 The youth, scorched with a miserable shame, 
 stepped out, put his hand in his father's, and 
 tried to witlidra^v him a little up the platform 
 and out of my hearing. 
 
 " Noa, noa ; us'll bide where us be, zoa's to 
 be 'andy vur the train when her starts off. Her 
 doan't stay no while. I vound Zam Emmet zarv- 
 ing here as porter — you mind Zam i Danged 
 if I knawed 'en, vurst along, the vace of 'en's 
 that altered : grawed a beard, hcrhev. But her
 
 120 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 zays to me, ' How be gettin' 'long, Isaac ? ' an' 
 then I zaw who 'twas ^ — -an' us fell to talkin', 
 and her zaid the train staps vaive minnits, no 
 more nor less." 
 
 His son interrupted him with mincing haugh- 
 tiness. 
 
 "'Ow'smothaw?" 
 
 "Weist an' ailin', poor crittur — weist an' 
 ailin'. Dree times her've a-been through the 
 galvanic battery, an' might zo well whistle. 
 Turble lot o' zickness about. An' old Miss 
 Ruby's resaigned, an' a new postmistress come 
 in her plaace — ^a tongue-tight pore crittur, an' 
 talks London. If you'll b'lieve me., Miss Ruby's 
 been to Plymouth 'pon her zavings an' come 
 back wi' vifteen pound' worth of valse teeth in 
 lier jaws, which, as I zaid, ' You must excoose 
 my plain speakin', but they've a-broadened your 
 mouth, Miss Ruby, an' I laiked 'ee better as you 
 was bevore.' ' ISTever mind,' her zays, ' I can 
 chow.' There now, Charley — zimmei've been 
 doing arl the tarlk, an' thy mother'll be waitin' 
 wi' dree-score o' questions, zoon as I gets whome. 
 Her'd ha' comed to gie thee a kiss, if her'd 
 a-been 'n a vit staiite; but her's zent thee 
 zummat — "
 
 A CORRECTED CONTEMPT. 121 
 
 He foraged in the skirt pockets of his tliread- 
 bare coat and brought out a paper of sand- 
 wiches and a long-nosed apple. I saw the 
 young man wince. 
 
 " Her reckoned you'd veel a waniblin' in the 
 stommick, travellin' arl the waiiy from Hexeter 
 to Plymouth. There, stow it awaiiy. Not 
 veclin' peckish ? Never maind : there's a plenty 
 o' taime betwix' this an' Plymouth.*' 
 
 " No, thanks." 
 
 "Tut-tut, now^ — " He insisted, and the 
 packet, on the white paper wrapper of which 
 spots of grease were spreading, changed hands. 
 The little man peered wistfully up into his son's 
 face : his own eyes were full of love, but seemed 
 to search for something. 
 
 " How dost laike it, up to Hexeter : an' how't 
 get along?" 
 
 " Kepital — kepital. Give mothaw my love." 
 
 " E'es be sliure. Fainely plaized her 11 be to 
 hear thee'rt zo naicely adrest. Her'd maade 
 up her maind, pore zowl, that arl your buttons 
 ud be out, wi' nobody to zee arter 'en. But I 
 declare thee'rt drest laike a topsawyer." 
 
 And with this a- dead silence fell between 
 the two. The old man shifted his weio-ht from
 
 122 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 one foot to another, and twice cleared his throat. 
 The young counter-jnmper averted his eyes from 
 his father's quivering lip to stare up the plat- 
 form. The minutes ran on. 
 
 At last the old man found his voice — 
 
 '' Thic' there's a stubbard apple you've got in 
 your hand." 
 
 " Take your seats, please ! " 
 
 The guard held the door while they shook 
 hands again. " Charley " leaned out at the 
 window as our train began to move. 
 
 " Her comes from the zeccond 'spalier past 
 the inyon-bed ; al'ays the vurst to raipen, thic' 
 there tree." 
 
 The old fellow broke into something re- 
 sembling a run as he followed our carriage to 
 shout — 
 
 " Turble bad zayson vur zaider ! " 
 
 With that he halted at the end of the plat- 
 form, and watched us out of sight. His son 
 Hung himself on the seat with — I could have 
 kicked him for it — a deprecatory titter. Then 
 he drew a long breath ; but it was twenty 
 minutes before his blush faded, and he regained 
 confidence to ask me for another light. 
 
 Just eiirhteen months after T was travelling:
 
 A CORRECTED CONTEMPT. 123 
 
 up to London in the Zulu express. A large 
 Fair Trade meeting had been held at Plymouth 
 the night before, and three farmers in the com- 
 partment with me were discussing that morn- 
 ing's leader in the Western Daily Mercury. 
 One of them had alread}^ been goaded into 
 violent speech when we halted at Newton 
 Abbot and another passenger stepped in — a 
 little old man in a suit of black. 
 
 I recognised him at once. And yet he was 
 changed ^voefully. He had fallen aAvay in 
 flesh ; the lines had deepened beside his upper 
 lip; and in spite of a glossier suit he had an 
 appearance of hopelessness which he had not 
 worn when I saw him for the first time. 
 
 He took his seat, looked about him vacantly 
 and caught the eye of the angiy farmer, who 
 nodded, broke off his speech in the middle of 
 a sentence, and asked in a curiously gentle 
 voice — 
 
 " Travellin' up to Exeter ? " 
 
 The old man bent his head for " yes," and I 
 saw the tears well up in his weak eyes. 
 
 " There's no need vur to ax your arrand." 
 The farmer here dropped his tone almost to a 
 whisper.
 
 124 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 " Naw, naw. I be goin' up to berry 'en. 
 Ees, vriends," he went on, looking around and 
 asking, with that glance, the sympathy of all 
 present, " to berry my zon, my clever zon, my 
 only zon." 
 
 Nobody spoke for a few seconds. Then the 
 kindly farmer observed — 
 
 "Aye, I've heerd zay a' was very clever to 
 his traade. 'Uxtable an' Co., his employers, 
 spoke very handsome of 'en, they tell me. I 
 can't call to maind, tho', that I've a-zet eyes 
 'pon the young man since he was a little 
 tacker." 
 
 The old man began to fumble in his breast- 
 pocket, and drawing out a photogi-aph, handed 
 it across. 
 
 " That's the last that was took of 'en." 
 
 " Pore young chap," said the farmer, hold- 
 ing the likeness level with his eyes and study- 
 ing it ; " Pore young chap ! Zuch a respectable 
 lad to look at! They tell me a' made ye a 
 gude zon, too." 
 
 " Gude ? " The tears ran down the father's 
 face and splashed on his hands, trembling as 
 they folded over the Jcnob of his stout stick. 
 "Gude? I b'lieve, vriends, ye'll call it gude
 
 A COliliECTED CONTEMPT. 125 
 
 when a young man zends the third o' his 
 eariiin's week by Aveek to help his parents. 
 That's what my zon did, vrum the taime he 
 left whome. An' presunts — never a month 
 Avent by, but zome little gift ud come by the 
 postman ; an' little 'twas he'd got to live 'pon, 
 at the best, the dear lad — " 
 
 The farmer was passing back the photograph. 
 " May T see it ? " I asked : and the old man 
 nodded. 
 
 It Avas the same face — the same suit, even 
 — that had roused my contempt eighteen 
 months before.
 
 WOON GATE. 
 
 It was on a cold and drenching afternoon in 
 October that I spent an hour at Woon Gate : 
 for in all the homeless landscape this little 
 round-house offers the only shelter, its windows 
 looking" east and west alono- the hig-h-i-oad and 
 abroad upon miles of moorland, hedgeless, 
 dotted with peat-ricks, inhabited only by flocks 
 of grey geese and a declining breed of ponies, 
 the chartered vagrants of Woon Down. Two 
 miles and more to the north, and just under 
 the rim of the horizon, straggle the cottages 
 of a few tin-streamers, with their backs to the 
 wind. These look down across an arable coun- 
 try, into wdiicli the women descend to work 
 at seed-time and harvest, and whence, return- 
 ing, they bring some news of the world. But 
 "VVoon Gate lies remoter. It was never more 
 than a turnpike ; and now the gate is down, 
 the toll-keeper dead, and his widow lives alone 
 in the round-house. Slio opened the door to 
 
 127
 
 128 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 me — a pleasant-faced old woman of seventy, 
 in a muslin cap, red turnover, and grey gown 
 hitched very high. She wore no shoes inside 
 her cottage, but went about in a pair of coarse 
 worsted stockings on all days except the very 
 rawest, when the chill of the lime-ash floor 
 struck into her bones. 
 
 " May I wait a few minutes till the weather 
 lifts ? " I asked. 
 
 She smiled and seemed almost grateful. 
 
 " You'm kindly welcome, be sure : that's if 
 you don't mind the Vaccination." 
 
 I suppose that ni}^ face expressed some 
 wonder: for she went on, shaking my drip- 
 ping hat and hanging it on a nail by the 
 fire — 
 
 " Doctor Rodda '11 be comin' in half -an-h our' s 
 time. 'Tis district Vaccination to-day, and he 
 always inoculates here, 'tis so handy." 
 
 She nodded her head at half a dozen deal 
 chairs and a form arrayed round the wall 
 under a row of sacred texts and tradesmen's 
 almanacks. 
 
 " There '11 be nine to-day, as I makes it out. 
 I counted 'em up several times last night." 
 
 It was evidently a great day in her eyes.
 
 WOON GATE. 129 
 
 "But you've allowed room for many more than 
 nine," I pointed out. 
 
 " Why, of course. There's some brings their 
 elder childer for a treat — an' there's ahvaj^s 
 'Melia Penaluna." 
 
 I was on the point of asking who Amelia 
 Penaluna might be, when my attention was 
 drawn to the small eastern window. Just out- 
 side, and but a dozen paces from the house, there 
 stretched a sullen pond, over Avhich the wind 
 drove in scuds and whi])ped the sparse reeds 
 that encroached around its margin. Beside the 
 further bank of the pond the high-road was 
 joined by a narrow causeway that led down 
 from the northern fringe of Woon Down ; and 
 along this causeway moved a procession of 
 women and children. 
 
 They were about twentv in all, and, as they 
 skirted the pond, their figures were sharply 
 silhouetted against the grey sky. Each of the 
 women held a baby close to her breast and bent 
 over it as she advanced against the wind, that 
 beat her gown tightly against her legs and blew 
 it out behind in bellying folds. Yet beneath 
 their uncouth and bedraggled garments they 
 moved like mothers of a mighty race, tall, large-
 
 130 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 limbed, broad of hip, hiding generous breasts 
 beneath the shawls — red, grey, and black — 
 that covered their babes from the wind and 
 rain. A few of the children struggled forward 
 under ricketty umbrellas ; but the mothers had 
 their hands full, and strode along unsheltered. 
 More than one, indeed, faced the storm without 
 bonnet or covering for the head ; and all marched 
 along the causeway like figures on some sculpt- 
 ured frieze, their shadows broken beneath them 
 on the ruffled surface of the pond. I said that 
 each of the women carried a babe : but there 
 was one who did not — a plain, squat creature, 
 at the tail of the procession, who wore a thick 
 scarf round her neck, and a shawl of divers 
 bright colours. She led a small child along 
 with one hand, and with the other attempted to 
 keep a large umbrella against the wind. 
 
 " Nineteen — twenty — twenty-one," counted 
 the toll-keeper's widow behind me as I watched 
 the spasmodic jerkings of this umbrella. " I 
 wasn't far out in my reckon. And you, sir, 
 make twenty-two. It niver rains but it pours, 
 they say. Times enow I don't see a soul for 
 days together, not to hail by name, an' now you 
 drops in on top of a Vaccination."
 
 WOON GATE. 131 
 
 Her sigh over this plethora of good fortune 
 was interrupted by a knocking at the door, and 
 the mothers trooped in, their clothes dripping 
 pools of water on the sanded lime-ash. One or 
 two of them, after exchanging greetings with 
 their hostess, bade me Good-morning : others 
 eyed me in silence as they took their seats 
 round the wall. All whose babes were not 
 sound asleep quietly undid their bodices and 
 began to give them suck. The older children 
 scrambled into chairs and sat kicking their 
 heels and tracing patterns on the floor with 
 the water that ran off their umbrellas. They 
 were restless but rather silent, as if awed by 
 the shadow of the coming Vaccination. The 
 woman who had brought up the procession 
 found a place in the far corner, and Ijegan to 
 unwind the comforter around her neck. Iler 
 eyes were brighter and more agitated than any 
 in the room. 
 
 " A brave tra})se all the way from Upper 
 Woon," remarked the youngest mother, wiping 
 a smear of rain from her baby's forehead. 
 
 " Ah, 'tis your first, Mary Polsue. Wait till 
 you've carried twelve such loads, my dear," said 
 a tall middle-aged woman, whose black hair,
 
 132 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 coarse as a mane, was powdered grey with rain- 
 drops. 
 
 " Dear now, Ellen ; be tins the twelfth ? " 
 our hostess exclaimed. " I was reckonin' it the 
 'leventh," 
 
 " Ay, th' twelfth — tho' I've most lost count, 
 I buried one, you know." 
 
 " For my part," put in a pale-eyed blonde, 
 who sat near the door, " 't seems but yestiddy I 
 was here with Alsia yonder." She nodded her 
 head towards a girl of five who was screwing 
 herself round in her chair and trying to peep 
 out of the window. 
 
 " Ay, they come and come : the Lord knows 
 wherefore," the tall woman assented. " When 
 they'm young they make your arms ache, an' 
 when they grow up they make your heart 
 ache." 
 
 " But 'Melia Penaluna's been here more 
 times than any of us," said the blonde with a 
 titter, directing her eyes towards a corner of 
 the room. The rest looked too, and laughed. 
 Turning, I saw that the plain-faced woman had 
 unwound her comforter, and now I could see, 
 hanging low on her chest, an immense lump 
 wrapped in clean white linen and bound up
 
 WOON GATE. 133 
 
 with a gaudy yellow handkerchief. It was a 
 goitre. 
 
 " Iss, my dears," she answered, touching it 
 and smiling, but with tears in her eyes ; " this 
 here's my only child, an' iver will be. Ne'er a 
 man '11 look 'pon me, so I'm forced to be con- 
 tent wi' this babe and clothe 'en pretty, as you 
 see. Ah, you'm lucky, you'm lucky, thougii 
 you talk so ! " 
 
 " She's terrible fond o' childer," said one of 
 the women audibly, addressing me. " How- 
 many 'noculations have you 'tended, 'Melia ? " 
 
 " Six-an'-twenty, countin' to-day," 'Melia an- 
 nounced with pride in her trembling voice. 
 But at this point one of the infants began to 
 cry, and before he could be hushed the noise of 
 wheels sounded down the road, and Dr. Rodda 
 drove up in his reedy gig. 
 
 He was a round, dapper practitioner, with 
 slightly soiled cuffs and an extremely business- 
 like manner. On entering the room he jerked 
 his head in a general nod to all present, and 
 stepping to the table, drew a small packet from 
 his waistcoat, and unfolded it. It contained 
 about a score of small pieces of ivory, pointed 
 like })ens, but fiat. Then, pulling out a paper 
 and consulting it hastily, he set to work,
 
 134 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 beginning with the chikl that lay on the 
 blonde woman's lap, next to the door. 
 
 I looked around. The children were starine" 
 with wide, admiring eyes. Their mothers also 
 watched, but listlessly, still suckling their babes 
 as each waited its turn. Only 'Melia Penaluna 
 winced and squeezed her hands together when- 
 ever a feeble wailing told that one of the 
 vaccine points had made itself felt. 
 
 " Do 'ee think it hurts the poor mites ? " the 
 youngest mother asked. 
 
 " Not much, I reckon," answered the big 
 woman. 
 
 Nevertheless her own child cried pitifully 
 when its turn came. And as it cried, the child- 
 less woman in the corner got off her chair and 
 ran forward tremulousl3^ 
 
 " 'Becca, let me take him. Do'ee, co ! " 
 
 " 'Melia Penaluna, you'm no better 'n a fool." 
 
 But poor, misnamed Amelia was already back 
 in her corner with the child, hugging it, kissing 
 it, rocking it in her arms, crooning over it, hold- 
 ing it tightly against the lump that hung down 
 on her barren bosom. Long after the baby had 
 ceased to cry she sat crooning and yearning 
 over it. And the mothers watched her, Avith 
 wonder and scornful amusement in their eyes.
 
 FROM A COTTAGE IN GANTICK.
 
 I
 
 I. — THE MOURNER'S HORSE. 
 
 The Board Schoolmaster and I are not friends. 
 He is something of a zealot, and conceives it 
 his mission to weed out the small superstitions 
 of the countryside and plant exact information 
 in their stead. He comes from up the country 
 — a thin, clean-shaven town-bred man, whose 
 black habit and tall hat, though considerably 
 bronzed, refuse to harmonise with the scenery 
 amid which they move. His speech is formal 
 and slightly dogmatic, and in argument he al- 
 ways gets the better of me. Therefore, feeling 
 sure it will annoy him excessively, I am going 
 to put him into this book. He laid himself 
 open the other day to this stroke of revenge, 
 by telling me a story ; and since he loves precis- 
 ion, I will be very precise about the circum- 
 stances. 
 
 At the foot of my garden, and hidden from 
 my window by the dipt box hedge, runs 
 Sanctuary Lane, along which I see the heads 
 
 137
 
 138 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 of the villagers moving to church on Sunday 
 mornings. But in returning they invariably 
 keep to the raised footpath on the far side, 
 that brings the women's skirts and men's small- 
 clothes into view. I have made many attempts 
 to discover how this distinction arose, and why 
 it is adhered to, but never found a satisfying 
 explanation. It is the rule, however. 
 
 From the footpath a high bank (where now 
 the primroses have given place to stitchwort 
 and ragged robin) rises to an orchard ; so steeply 
 that the apple-blossom drops into the lane. 
 Just now the petals lie thickly there in the 
 early morning, to be trodden into dust as soon 
 as the labourers fare to work. Beyond and 
 above the orchard comes a stretch of pasture- 
 land and then a young oak-coppice, the fidnge 
 of a great estate, with a few Scotch firs breaking 
 the sky-line on top of all. The head game- 
 keeper of this estate tells me we shall have a 
 hot summer, because the oak this year was in 
 leaf before the ash, though only by a day. The 
 ash was foliating on the 20th of April, the oak 
 on the 28th. Up there the blue-bells lie in 
 sheets of mauve, and the cuckoo is busy. I 
 rarely see him ; but his three notes fill the hot
 
 THE MOURNER'S HORSE. 189 
 
 noon and evening. AVhen he spits (says the 
 gamekeeper again) it is time to be sheep-shear- 
 ing. My talk with the gamekeeper is usually 
 held at six in the morning, when he comes 
 down tlie lane and I am stepping across to 
 test the water in Scarlet's Well. 
 
 This well bubbles up under a low vault 
 scooped in the bank by the footpath and hung 
 "with hart's-tongue ferns. It has two founts, 
 close together ; but whereas one of them oozes 
 only, the other is bubbling perennially, and, as 
 near as I have observetl, keeps always the same. 
 Its specific gravity is that of distilled water — 
 1.000°; and though, to be sure, it upset me, 
 three weeks back, by flying up to 1.005°, I 
 think that must have come from the heavy 
 thunderstorms and floods of rain that lately 
 visited us and no doubt imported some in- 
 gredients that had no business there. As for 
 its temperature, I will select a note or two 
 of the observations I made with a Fahrenheit 
 thermometer this last year : — 
 
 tfune l'2th. — Temperature in shade of well, 
 62° ; of Avater, 51°. 
 
 Avgust 2oth. — In shade of well (at noon), 
 73° ; of water, 52°.
 
 140 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 ]Vovem,her 20tli. — In shade of well, 43°; of 
 water, 52°. 
 
 January 1st. — • External air, 56° ; enclosure, 
 53° ; water, 52°. 
 
 March lltk. — A bleak, sunless day. Tem- 
 perature in shade of well, at noon, 54° ; water, 
 51°. The Chrysosjylenium Ojppositiflori'um in 
 rich golden bloom Avithin the enclosure. 
 
 But the spring has other properties besides 
 its steady temperature. I was early abroad in 
 my garden last Thursday week, and in the act 
 of tossing a snail over my box hedge, when I 
 heard some girls' voices giggling, and caught 
 a glimpse of half-a-dozen sun-bonnets gathered 
 about the well. Straightening myself up, I saw 
 a group of maids from the village, and, in the 
 middle, one who bent over the water. Pres- 
 ently she scrambled to her feet, glanced over 
 her shoulder and gave a shrill scream. 
 
 I, too, looked up the lane and saAv, a stone's 
 throw off, the schoolmaster advancing with 
 long and nervous strides. He was furiously 
 angry. 
 
 "Thomasine Slade," said he, "you are as 
 shameless as you are ignorant ! " 
 
 I
 
 THE MOURN ER\'^ HOUSE. 141 
 
 The girl tossed lier chin and was silent, with 
 a warm blush on her cheek and a lurking imp 
 of laughter in her eye. The schoolmaster 
 frowned still more darkly. 
 
 " Shameless as well as ignorant ! " he repeated, 
 bringing the ferule of his umbrella smartly 
 down upon the macadam ; " and you, Jane 
 Hewitt, and you, Lizzie Polkinghorne ! " 
 
 " Why, what's the matter i " I asked, step- 
 ping out into the road. 
 
 At sight of me the girls broke into a peal 
 of laughter, gathered up their skirts and fled, 
 still laughing, down the road. 
 
 " What's the matter ( " I asked again, 
 
 " The matter ? "" echoed the schoolmaster, 
 staring blankly after the retreating skirts ; then 
 more angrily — "The matter? come and look 
 here ! " He took hold of my shirt-sleeve and 
 led me to the well. Stooping, I saw half-a- 
 dozen ])ins gleaming in its brown depths. 
 
 " A love-charm." 
 
 The schoolmaster nodded. 
 
 " Thomasine Slade has been wishing for a 
 husband. I see no sin in that. When she 
 looked up and saw you coming down the 
 lane — "
 
 142 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 I paused. The schoolmaster said nothing. 
 He ^Yas leaning over the well, gloomily exam- 
 ining the pins. 
 
 " — your aspect was enough to scare anyone," 
 I wound up lamely. 
 
 " I wish," the schoolmaster hastily began, " I 
 wish to Heaven I had the gift of humour! I 
 lose my temper and grow positive. I'd kill 
 these stupid superstitions with ridicule, if I had 
 the gift. It's a great gift. My God, I do hate 
 to be laughed at ! " 
 
 " Even by a fool ? " I asked, somewhat as- 
 tonished at his heat. 
 
 " Certainly. There's no comfort in compar- 
 ing the laugh of fools with the crackling of 
 thorns under a pot, if you happen to be inside 
 the pot and in process of cooking." 
 
 He took off his hat, brushed it on the sleeve 
 of his coat, and resumed in a tone altogether 
 lighter — 
 
 " Yes, I hate to be laughed at ; and I'll tell 
 you a tale on this point that may amuse you 
 at my expense. 
 
 " I am London-bred, as you know, and still 
 a Cockney in the grain, though when I came
 
 THE MOURNER'S HORSE. 143 
 
 down here to teach school 1 was just nineteen 
 and now I'm over forty. It was during the 
 summer holidays that I first set foot in this 
 neighbourhood — a week before school re- 
 opened. I came early, to look for lodgings 
 and find out a little about the people and 
 settle down a bit before beginning work. 
 
 "■ The vicar — the late vicar, I mean — com- 
 mended me to old Eetallack, who used to farm 
 Rosemellin, up the valley, a widower and child- 
 less. His sister, Miss Jane Ann, kept house for 
 him, and these were the only two souls on the 
 premises till I came and was boarded by them 
 for thirteen shillings a week. For that price 
 they gave me a bedroom, a fair-sized sitting- 
 room and as much as I could eat. 
 
 " A month after my arrival, Farmer Eetallack 
 was put to bed with a slight attack of colic. 
 This was on a AVednesday, and on Saturday 
 morning Miss Jane Ann came knocking at my 
 door with a message that the old man would 
 like to see me. So I went across to his room 
 and found him propped up in the bed with 
 three or four pillows and looking very yellow 
 in the gills, though clearly convalescent. 
 
 " ' Schoolmaster,' said he, ' I've a trifling
 
 144 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 favour to beg of ye. You give the children 
 a half-Iioliday, Saturdays — hey ? Well, d'ye 
 think ye could drive the brown boss, Trumpeter, 
 into Tregarrick this afternoon? The fact is, 
 my old friend Abe Walters, that kept the Pack- 
 horse Inn is lying dead, and they bury 'en at 
 half after two to-day. I'd be main glad to 
 show respect at the funeral and tell Mrs. 
 Walters how much deceased 11 be missed, 
 ancetera; but I might so well try to fly in 
 the air. Now if you could attend and just 
 pass the word that I'm on my back with the 
 colic, but that you've come to show respect in 
 my place, I'd take it very friendly of ye. 
 There'll be lashins o' vittles an' drink. No 
 Walters was ever interred under a kilderkin.' 
 "Now the fact was, T had never driven a 
 horse in my life and hardly knew (as they say) 
 a horse's head from his tail till he began to 
 move. l>ut that is just the sort of ignorance 
 no young man will readily confess to. So I 
 answered that I was engaged that evening. 
 We were just organising night-classes for the 
 young men of the parish, and the vicar was to 
 open the first, with a short address, at half-past 
 six.
 
 THE MOURNER'S HORSE. 145 
 
 " ' You'll be back in lasbins o' time,' the 
 farmer assured me. 
 
 " This put me fairly in a corner. ' To tell 
 you the truth,' said I, ' Fm not accustomed to 
 drive much.' But of course this was Avickedly 
 short of the truth. 
 
 "He declared that it was impossible to come 
 to grief on the way, the brown horse being 
 quiet as a lamb and knowing every stone of 
 the road. And the end was that I consented. 
 The brown horse was harnessed b}- the farm- 
 boy and led round with the gig while Miss 
 Jane Ann and I were finishing our midday 
 meal. And I drove off alone in a black suit 
 and with my heart in mv mouth. 
 
 "Trumpeter, as the farmer had promised, 
 was quiet as a lamb. He went forward at a 
 steady jog, and even had the good sense to 
 quarter on his own account for the one or two 
 vehicles we met on the broad road. Pretty 
 soon I began to experiment gingerly \vitli the 
 reins ; and by the time we reached Tregarrick 
 streets, was handling them with quite an air, 
 while observing the face of everyone I met, 
 to make sure I was not being laughed at. The 
 prospect of Tregari'ick Fore Street frightened
 
 146 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 nie a good deal, and there was a sharp corner 
 to turn at the entrance of the inn-yard. But 
 the old horse knew his business so well that 
 had I pulled on one rein with all my strength 
 I believe it would have merely annoyed, with- 
 out convincing, him. He took me into the 
 yard without a mistake, and I gave up the 
 reins to the ostler, thanking Pleaven and look- 
 ing careless. 
 
 " The inn was crowded with mourners, eat- 
 ing and drinking and discussing the dead 
 man's virtues. They packed the Assembly 
 Room at the back, where the subscription 
 dances are held, and the reek of hot joints 
 was suffocatino-. I caug-ht sio-ht of the widow 
 Walters bustling up and down between the 
 long tables and shedding tears while she 
 changed her guests' plates. She heard my 
 message, welcomed me with effusion, and 
 thrusting a plateful of roast beef under my 
 nose, hurried away to put on her bonnet for 
 the funeral. 
 
 " A fellow on my right paused with his 
 mouth full to bid me eat. ' Thank you,' I 
 said, 'my only wish is to get out of this as 
 quickly as possible.'
 
 THE MOURN EIVS HORSE. 147 
 
 " He contemplated me for hall' a minute with 
 an eye like an ox's ; remarked ' You'll be a 
 furriner, no doubt;' and went on with his meal. 
 
 " If the feasting was long, the funeral Avas 
 longer. We sang so many burying-tunes, and 
 the widow so often interrupted the service to 
 ululate, that the town clock had struck four 
 when I hurried back from the churchyard to 
 the inn, and told the ostler to put my hoi'se 
 in the gig. I had little time to spare. 
 
 " ' Beg your pardon, sir,' the ostler said, ' but 
 I'm new to this place — only came here this 
 day week. Which is your horse ? ' 
 
 "'Oh,' I answered, 'he's a brown. Make 
 haste, for I'm in a hurry.' 
 
 " He went off to the stables and returned in 
 about two minutes. 
 
 " ' There's six brown bosses in the stable, sir. 
 Would you mind coming and picking out 
 yours ? ' 
 
 "I followed him with a sense of impending- 
 evil. Sure enough there were six brown horses 
 in the big stable, and to save my life I couldn't 
 have told which was Trumpeter. Of any dif- 
 ference between horses, except that of colour,
 
 148 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 I hadn't an idea. I scanned them all anxiously, 
 and felt the ostler's eye upon me. This was 
 unbearable. I pulled out my watch, glanced at 
 it carelessly, and exclaimed — 
 
 " ' By George, I'd no notion it was so early ! 
 H'm, on second thoughts, I won't start for a 
 few minutes yet.' 
 
 "This was my only course — to wait until 
 the other live owners of brown horses had 
 driven home. I strolled back to the inn and 
 talked and drank sherry, watching the crowd 
 thin by degrees, and speeding the lingering 
 mourners with all my prayers. The minutes 
 dragged on till nothing short of a miracle 
 could take me back in time to open the night- 
 class. The widow drew near and talked to 
 me. I answered her at random, 
 
 " Twice I revisited the stable, and the second 
 time found but three horses left. I walked 
 along behind them, murmuring, ' Trumpeter, 
 Trumpeter ! ' in the forlorn hope that one of 
 the three brutes would give a sign. 
 
 " ' I beg your pardon, sir,' said the ostler ; 
 ' were you saying anything ? ' 
 
 " ' No — nothing,' said I, and luckily he was 
 called aAvay at this moment to the farther end
 
 THE MOURNER'S HORSE. 149 
 
 of the stable. ' Oli,' sighed I, ' for Xanthus, 
 horse of Achilles ! ' 
 
 "I felt inclined to follow and confide my 
 difficulty to the ostler, but reflected that this 
 wouldn't help me in the least : whereas, if I 
 applied to a fellow-guest, he must (if indeed he 
 could give the information) exj)ose my previous 
 hypocrisy to the ostler. After all, the com- 
 pany was dwindling fast. I went back and 
 consumed more sherry and biscuits. 
 
 " By this six o'clock had gone, and no more 
 than a dozen guests remained. One of these 
 was my bovine friend, my neighbour at the 
 funeral banquet, who now accosted me as I 
 struggled with a biscuit. 
 
 " ' So you've got over your hurry. Glad to 
 find ye settlin' down so quick to our hearty 
 ways.' 
 
 " He shook hands with the widow and saun- 
 tered out. Ten more minutes passed and now 
 there Avere left only the widow herself and a 
 trio of elderly men, all silent. As 1 hung 
 about, trying to look unbounded sympathy at 
 the group, it dawned upon me that they were 
 beginning to eye me uneasily. I took a sponge 
 cake and another o-lass of wine. One of the
 
 160 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 men — who wore a high stock and an edging 
 of stiff gvej hair around his bald head — 
 advanced to me. 
 
 " ' This funeral,' said he, ' is over.' 
 
 " ' Yes, yes,' I stammered, and choked over a 
 sip of sherry. 
 
 " ' "We are waiting — let me tap you on the 
 back — ' 
 
 " ' Thank you.' 
 
 " ' We are waiting to read the will.' 
 
 " I escaped from the room and rushed down 
 to the stables. The ostler \vas harnessing the 
 one brown horse that remained. 
 
 " 1 was thinking you wouldn't be long, sir. 
 You're the very last, I believe, and here ends 
 a long day's work.' 
 
 " I drove off. It was near seven by this, but 
 I didn't even think of the night-class. I was 
 wondering if the liorse I drove were really 
 Trumpeter. Somehow — whether because his 
 feed of corn pricked him or no I can't say — he 
 seemed a deal livelier than on the outward 
 journey. I looked at him narrowly in the 
 twilight, and began to feel sure it was another 
 liorse. In spite of the cool air a sweat broke 
 out upon me.
 
 THE 3I0UIiA'J£li 'S UOlitiE. lol 
 
 " Farmer Retallack Avas up and dressed and 
 leaning on a stick in the doorway as I turned 
 into the 3'ard. 
 
 " ' I've been that worried about ye,' he began, 
 ' I couldn't stay abed. Parson's been up twice 
 from the schoolhouse to make in(juirics. AVliere 
 in the name o' goodness have 'ee been i ' 
 
 " ' That's a long story,' said I, and then, feign- 
 ing to speak carelessly, though I heard my heart 
 go thump — ' How d'3'e think Trumpeter looks 
 after the journey i ' 
 
 " ' Oh, he's all right,' the old man replied 
 indifferently ; 'but come along in to supper.' 
 
 " JSTow, my dear sir " — the schoolmaster thus 
 concluded his tale, tucking his umbrella tightly 
 under his armpit, and ta])ping his right fore- 
 linger on the palm of his left hand — "these 
 pagans whom I teach are as sensitive as I to 
 ridicule. If I only knew how to take them — 
 if only I could lay my linger on the Aveak spot 
 — I'd send their whole fabric of silly supersti- 
 tions tumbling like a house of cards." 
 
 This ha])pene(l hist Thursday week. Early 
 this morning I crossed the road as usual with 
 my thermometer, and found a strip of pink
 
 152 THIfJ DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 calico hanging from the brambles by the mouth 
 of Scarlet's Well. I had seen the pattern before 
 on a gown worn by one of the villager's wives, 
 and knew the rag was a votive offering, hung 
 there because her child, who has been ailing all 
 the winter, is now strong enough to go out into 
 the sunshine. As I bent the bramble carefully 
 aside, before stooping over the water, Lizzie 
 Polkinghorne came up the lane and halted 
 behind me. 
 
 " Have 'ee heard the news ? " she asked. 
 
 " No." I turned round, thermometer in 
 hand. 
 
 " Why, Thomasine Slade's goin' to marry 
 the schoolmaster! Their banns '11 be called 
 first time next Sunday." 
 
 We looked at each other, and she broke 
 into a shout of laughter. Lizzie's laugh is irre- 
 sistible.
 
 II. — SILHOUETTES. 
 
 The small rotund gentleman who liad danced 
 and spun all the way to (xantick village from 
 the extreme south of France, and had danced 
 and smiled and blown his flageolet all day in 
 Gantick Street without conciliating its popula- 
 tion in the least, was disgusted. Towards dusk 
 he crossed the stile which divides Sanctuary Lane 
 from the churchyard, and pausing with a leg on 
 either side of the rail, shook his fist back at the 
 viUage which lay below, its grey roofs and red 
 chimneys just distinguishable here and there 
 between a foamy sea of apple-blossom and a 
 haze of bluish smoke. He could not well shake 
 its dust off his feet, for this was hardly separable 
 on his boots from the dust of man}'^ other vil- 
 lages, and also it was mostly mud. But his 
 gesture betokened extreme rancour. 
 
 " These Cor-rnishmen," he said, " are pigs all ! 
 There is not a Cor-rnishman that is not a big 
 pig!" 
 
 153
 
 154 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 He lifted the second leg wearily over the 
 rail. 
 
 "Asfor Art — " 
 
 Words failed him here, and he spat upon the 
 ground, adding — 
 
 " Moreover, they shut up their churches ! " 
 
 This was really a serious matter ; for he had 
 not a penny-piece in his pocket — the last had 
 gone to buy a loaf — and there was no lodging 
 to be had in the village. The month was April 
 — a bad time to sleep in the open ; and though 
 the night drew in tranquilly upon a day of broad 
 sunshine, the earth had by no means sucked 
 down the late heavy rains. The church porch, 
 however, had a broad bench on either side and 
 faced the south, away from the prevailing wind. 
 He had made a mental note of this early in the 
 day, being schooled to anticipate such straits as 
 the present. While, with a gait like a limping 
 hare's, he passed up the narrow path between 
 the graves, his eyes were busy. 
 
 The churchyard was narrow and surrounded 
 by a high grey Avail, mostly hidden by an inner 
 belt of well-grown cypresses. On the south side 
 the ranks of these trees were broken for some 
 thirty feet, antl here the back of a small
 
 SILHOUETTES. 155 
 
 dwelling-house abutted on the cemetery. There 
 was one window only in the yellow-washed wall, 
 and this window — a melancholy square framed 
 in moss-stained plaster — looked straight into 
 the church porch. The flageolet-player eyed it 
 suspiciously ; but the casement was shut and the 
 blind drawn down. The whole aspect of the 
 cottage proclaimed that its inhabitants were 
 very poor folk — not at all the sort to tell tales 
 upon a casual tramp if they spied him bivouack- 
 ing upon holy ground. 
 
 He limped into the porch, and cast off the 
 blue bag that was strapped upon his shoulders. 
 Out of it he drew a sheep's-wool cape, worn 
 very thin ; and then turned the bag inside out, 
 on the chance of a forgotten crust. The disap- 
 pointment that followed he took calmly — be- 
 ing on the whole a sweet-tempered man, nor' 
 easily angered except by an affront on his vanity. 
 His violent rancour against the people of Gan- 
 tick arose from their indifference to his playing. 
 Had they taken him seriously — had they even 
 run out at their doors to listen and stare — he 
 would not have minded their stinginess. 
 
 He who sleeps, sups. The little man passed 
 the flat of his hand, in the dusk, over the two
 
 156 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 benches, chose the one which had fewest asperi- 
 ties of surface, tossed his bag and flageolet 
 upon the other, pulled off his boots, folded his 
 cape to make a pillow, and stretched himself 
 at leng-th. In less than ten minutes he was 
 sleeping dreamlessly. 
 
 For four hours he slept without movement. 
 But just above his head there hung a baize- 
 covered board containing a list or two of the 
 parish ratepayers and the usual notice of the 
 spring training of the Royal Cornwall Rangers 
 Militia. This last placard had broken from two 
 of its fastenings, and towards midnight flapped 
 loudly in an eddy of the light wind. The 
 sleeper stirred, and passed a languid hand over 
 his face. A spider within the porch had been 
 busy while he slept, and his hand encountered 
 gossamer. 
 
 His eyes opened. He sat upright, and 
 lowered his bare feet upon the flags. Outside, 
 the blue firmament was full of stars sparkling 
 unevenly, as though the wind were trying in 
 sport to puff them out. In the eaves of the 
 porch he could hear the martins rustling in the 
 crevices — they had returned but a few days 
 back to their old quarters. But what drew the
 
 SILHOUETTES. 157 
 
 man to step out uutler the sky was the cottage- 
 window over tlie AvalL 
 
 The lattice was pushed back and the room, 
 inside was brightly lit. But between him and 
 the lamp a white sheet had been stretched 
 right across the window ; and on this sheet two 
 quick hands were weaving all kinds of clever 
 shadows, shaping them, moving them, or re- 
 shaping them with the speed of summer 
 lightning. 
 
 It was certainly a remarkable performance. 
 The shadows took the forms of rabbits, swans, 
 foxes, elephants, fairies, sailors with wooden 
 legs, old women who smoked pipes, ballet-girls 
 who pirouetted, anglers who bobbed for fish, 
 twirling harlequins, and the profiles of eminent 
 statesmen — all made with two hands and, at 
 the most, the help of a tiny stick or piece of 
 string. They danced and capered, grew large 
 and then small, with such profusion of odd 
 turns and changes that the flageolet-player 
 began to giggle as he wondered. He remarked 
 that the hands, whenever they were disentwined 
 for a moment, appeared to be very small and 
 plump. 
 
 In about ten minutes the display ceased, and
 
 158 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 the shadow of a woman's head and neck crossed 
 the sheet, which was presently drawn back at 
 one corner. 
 
 " Is that any better ? " asked a woman's 
 voice, low but distinct. 
 
 The flageolet-player started and bent his eyes 
 lower, across the graves and into the shadow 
 beneath the window. For the first time he was 
 aware of a figure standing there, a little way 
 out from the wall. As well as he could see, it 
 was a young boy. 
 
 " Much better, mother. You can't think 
 how you've improved at it this week." 
 
 " Any mistakes ? " 
 
 " The harlequin and columbine seemed a 
 little jerky. But your hands were tired, I 
 know." 
 
 " I^ever mind that : they mustn't be tired 
 and it's got to be perfect. We'll try them 
 again." 
 
 She was about to drop the corner of the 
 sheet when the listener s]3rang out towards 
 the window, leaping with bare feet over the 
 graves and waving his flageolet wildly. 
 
 " Ah, no — no, madame ! " he cried. " Wait 
 one moment, the littlest, and I shall inspire you."
 
 SILHOUETTES. 159 
 
 " Whoever is that I " cried the woman's voice 
 at the windoAY. 
 
 The youth below faced round on the in- 
 truder, lie was white in the face and had 
 wanted to run, but mastered his voice and 
 enquired gruffly — 
 
 " Wlio the devil are 3"ou ? " 
 
 " I ? I am an artist, and as such I salute 
 madame and monsieur her son. She is greater 
 artist than 1, but I shall liel[) her. They shall 
 dance better this time, her iiarlequin and col- 
 umbine. Why ? Because they shall dance to 
 my music — the music that I shall make here, 
 on this spot, under the stars. Tlens ! I shall 
 play as if possessed. I feel that. I bet you. 
 It is because I have found an artist — an artist 
 in Gantick. 0-my-good-lor ! It makes me 
 expand ! " 
 
 He had ])ulled off his greasy hat, and stood 
 bowino; and smilino-, showino- his white teeth 
 and holding up his flageolet, that the woman 
 might see and be convinced. 
 
 "That's all very well," said the boy; "but 
 my mother doesn't want it known that she 
 practises at these shadows." 
 
 " Ha ? It is perhaps forbidden by law ? "
 
 160 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 " Since 3^011 have found us out, sir," said 
 the woman, " I will tell you why we are be- 
 having like this, and trust you to tell nobody. 
 I have been left a widow, in great poverty, and 
 with this one son, who must be educated as 
 well as his father was. Richard is a promising 
 boy, and cannot be satisfied to stand lower in 
 the world than his father stood. His father 
 was an auctioneer. But we are left very poor — 
 poor as mice : and how was I to get him better 
 teaching than the Board Schools here ? Well, 
 six months ago, when sadly perplexed, I found 
 out by chance that this small gift of mine 
 might earn me a good income in London, at — 
 at a music-hall — " 
 
 " Mother ! " interjected the youth reprov- 
 ingly. 
 
 " Pursue, madame," said the flageolet-player. 
 
 " Of course, sir, Richard doesn't like or ap- 
 prove of me performing at such places, but 
 he agrees with me that it is necessary. So we 
 are hiding it from everybody in the village, 
 because we have always been respected here. 
 We never guessed that anybody would see us 
 from the churchyard, of all places, at this time 
 of night. As soon as I have practised enough.
 
 SILHOUETTES. 161 
 
 we mean to travel up to London. Of course 
 I shall change my name to something French 
 or Italian, and hope nobody will discover — " 
 
 But the flageolet-player sat suddenly down 
 upon a damp grave, and broke into hysterical 
 laughter. 
 
 " Oh-oh-oh ! Quick, madame ! dance your 
 pretty figures while yet I laugh and before I 
 curse. O stars and planets, look down on this 
 mad world, and help me play ! And, O mon- 
 sieur, your pardon if 1 laugh ; for that either 
 you or I are mad is a cock-sure. Dance, 
 madame ! " 
 
 He put the flageolet to his lips and blew. 
 In a moment or two harlequin and columbine 
 appeared on the screen, and began to caper 
 nimbly, naturally, Avith the airiest graces. The 
 tune was a jigging reel, and soon began to in- 
 spire the performer above. Her small dancers 
 in a twinkling turned into a gambolling ele- 
 phant, then to a pair of swallows. A moment 
 after they were flower and butterfly, then a 
 jigging donkey, then harlequin and columbine 
 again. With each fantastic change the tune 
 quickened and the dance grew^ wilder. At 
 length, tired out, the woman spread her hands
 
 162 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 out wide against the sheet, as if imploring 
 mercy. 
 
 The player tossed his flageolet over a head- 
 stone, and rolled back on the grave in a par- 
 oxysm of laughter. Above him the rooks had 
 poured out of their nests, and were cawing in 
 flustered circles. 
 
 "Monsieur," he gasped out, sitting up and 
 Aviping his eyes, " was it good this time 'i " 
 
 " Yes, it was." 
 
 " Then could you spare from the house one 
 little crust of bread ? For I am famished," 
 
 The youth w^ent round the churchyard wall, 
 and came back in a couple of minutes with 
 some bread and cold bacon. 
 
 " Of course," said he, " if you should meet 
 either of us in the village to-morrow, you will 
 not recognise us." 
 
 The little man bowed, "I agree," said he, 
 " with your mother, monsieur, that you must be 
 educated at all costs."
 
 THE DRAWN BLIND. 
 
 Silver trumpets sounded a flourish, and the 
 javelin-men came pacing down Tregarrick Fore 
 Street, with the sheriff's coach swinging behind 
 them, its panels splendid Avith fresh blue paint 
 and florid blazonry. Its wheels were picked 
 out with, yellow, and this scheme of colour 
 extended to the coachman and the two lackeys, 
 who held on at the back by leathern straps. 
 Each wore a coat and breeches of electric blue, 
 with a canary waistcoat, and was toned off 
 with powder and flesh-coloured stockings at 
 the extremities. Within the coach, and facing 
 the horses, sat the two judges of the Crown 
 Court and Nisi Priiis, both in scarlet, with 
 full wigs and little round patches of black 
 plaister, like ventilators, on top ; facing their 
 lordships sat Sir Felix Felix-Williams, tlie 
 sheriff, in a tightish uniform of the yeomanry 
 with a great shako nodding on his knees, and 
 a chaplain bolt upriglit hy his side. Behind 
 
 1G3
 
 164 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 trooped a rabble of loafers and small boys, who 
 shouted, " Who bleeds bran ? " till the lackeys' 
 calves itched with indignation. 
 
 I was standing in the archway of the Pack- 
 horse Inn, among the maids and stable-boys 
 gathered to see the pageant pass on its way to 
 hear the Assize sermon. And standing there, 
 I was witness of a little incident that seemed to 
 escape the rest. 
 
 At the moment when the trumpets rang 
 out, a very old woman, in a blue camlet cloak, 
 came hobbling out of a grocer's shop some 
 twenty 3'ards up the pavement, and tottered 
 down ahead of the procession as fast as her 
 decrepit legs would move. There was no 
 occasion for hurrying to avoid the crowd ; for 
 the javelin-men had barely rounded the corner 
 of the long street, and were taking the goose- 
 step very seriously and deliberately. But she 
 went by the Packhorse doorway as if swift 
 horsemen were after her, clutching the camlet 
 cloak across her bosom, glancing over her 
 shoulder, and working her lips inaudibly. I 
 could not help remarking the position of her 
 right arm. She held it bent exactly as though 
 she held an infant to her old breast, and shielded 
 it while she ran.
 
 THE DRAWN BLIND. 165 
 
 A few paces beyond the inn-door she halted 
 on the edge of the kerb, flung another look 
 up the street, and darted across the roadway. 
 There stood a little shop — a watchmaker's — 
 just opposite, and next to the shop a small ope 
 witli one dingy window over it. She vanished 
 u]) the passage, at the entrance of which I was 
 still staring idly, when, half a minute later, a 
 skinny trembling hand appeared at the window 
 and drew down the blind. 
 
 I looked round at the men and maids ; but 
 their eyes were all for the pageant, now not a 
 stone's-tlirow away. 
 
 " Who is that old woman ? " I asked, touch- 
 ing Caleb, the head ostler, on the shoulder. 
 
 Caleb — a small bandy-legged inan, with a 
 chin full of furroAvs, and the furrows full of 
 grey stubble — withdrew his gaze grudgingly 
 from the sheriff's coach. 
 
 " What woman ? " 
 
 " She that went by a moment since." 
 
 " She in the blue cloak, d'ee mean ? — an old, 
 ancient, wisht-lookin' body ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " A timraersome woman, like ? " 
 
 " That's it."
 
 166 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 " Well, her name's Cordely Pinsent." 
 The procession reclaimed his attention. He 
 received a passing wink from the charioteer, 
 caught it on the volley and returned it with 
 a solemn face ; or rather, the wink seemed to 
 rebound as from a blank wall. As the crowd 
 closed in upon the circumstance of Justice, he 
 turned to me again, spat, and went on — 
 
 " — Cordely Pinsent, widow of old Key 
 Pinsent, that was tailor to all the grandees in 
 the county so far back as I can mind. She's 
 eighty-odd; eighty-five if a day. I can just 
 mind Key Pinsent — a great, red, rory-cum- 
 tory chap, with a high stock and a wig like 
 King George — ' my royal patron ' he called 
 'en, havin' by some means got leave to hoist 
 the king's arms over his door. Such mighty 
 portly manners, too — Oh, very spacious, I as- 
 sure 'ee ! Simme I can see the old Trojan 
 now, with his white weskit bulgin' out across 
 his doorway like a shop-front hung wi' jewels. 
 Gout killed 'en. I went to his buryin' ; such a 
 stretch of experience does a young man get by 
 time he reaches my age. God bless your heart 
 alive, / can mind when they Avere hung for 
 forgery ! "
 
 THE DRAWN BLIND. 167 
 
 " Who were hung ? " 
 
 " People/' he answered vaguely ; " and young 
 Willie Pinsent." 
 
 " This woman's son ? " 
 
 " Ay, her son — her ewe-lamb of a child. 
 'Tis very seldom brought up agen her now, 
 poor soul ! She's so very old tliat folks forgits 
 about it. Do 'ee see her window yonder, over 
 the ope ? " 
 
 He was pointing across to the soiled white 
 blind that still looked blankly over the street, 
 its lower edge caught up at one corner by a 
 dusty geranium. 
 
 " I saw her pull it down." 
 
 " Ah, you Avould if you was lookin' that 
 way. I've a-seed her do 't a score o' times. 
 Well, when the gout reached Key Pinsent's 
 stomach and he went off like the snuff of a 
 candle at the age of forty-two, she was left 
 unprovided, with a son of thirteen to maintain 
 or go 'pon the parish. She was a Menhennick, 
 tho', from t'other side o' the Duchy — a very 
 proud family — and didn't mean to dip the 
 knee to nobody, and all the less because she'd 
 demeaned hersel', to start with, by wedding a 
 tailor. But Key Pinsent by all allowance was
 
 168 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 handsome as blazes, and well-informed up to a 
 point that he read Shakespeare for the mere 
 pleasure o't. 
 
 " Well, she sold up the stock-in-trade an' 
 hired a couple o' rooms — the self -same rooms 
 you see : and then she ate less 'n a mouse an' 
 took in needle-work, plain an' fancy : for a lot 
 o' the gentry's wives round the neighbourhood 
 befriended her — though they had to be sly 
 an' hide that they meant it for a favour, or 
 she'd ha' snapped their heads off. An' all the 
 while, she was teachin' her boy and tellin' 'en, 
 whatever happened, to remember he was a gen- 
 tleman, an' lovin' 'en with all the strength of a 
 desolate woman. 
 
 " This Willie Pin sent was a comely boy, 
 too : handsome as old Key, an' quick at his 
 books. He'd a bold masterful way, bein' proud 
 as ever his mother was, an' well knowin' there 
 wasn' his match in Tregarrick for head-work. 
 Such a beautiful hand he wrote ! When he 
 was barely turned sixteen they gave 'en a place 
 in Gregory's Bank — Wilkins an' Gregory it 
 was in those aged times. He still lived home 
 wi' his mother, rentin' a room extra out of his 
 earnin's, and turnin' one of the bedrooms into
 
 THE DRAWN BLIND. 169 
 
 a parlour. That's the very room you're lookin' 
 at. And when any father in Tregarrick luxd a 
 bone to pick with his sons, he'd advise 'em to 
 take example by young Pinsent — ' so clever 
 and good, too, there was no tellin' what he 
 mightn't come to in time.' 
 
 " Well-a-'well, to cut it short, the lad was 
 too clever. It came out, after, that he'd took 
 to bettin' his employers' money agen the rich 
 men up at the Royal Exchange. An' the up- 
 shot was that one evenin', while he was drinkin' 
 tea with his mother in his lovin' light-hearted 
 way, in walks a brace o' constables, an' says, 
 '"William Pinsent, young chap, I arrest thee 
 upon a charge o' counterfeitin' old Gregory's 
 handAvritin', which is a hangin' matter ! ' 
 
 " An' now, sir, comes the cur'ous part o' 
 the tale ; for, if you'll believe rue, this poor 
 woman wouldn' listen to it — wouldn' hear a 
 word o't. ' "What ! my son Willie,' she flames, 
 hot as Lucifer — ' my son "VYillie a forger ! My 
 boy, that Pve nussed, an' reared up, an' studied, 
 markin' all his pretty takin' ways since he 
 learn'd to crawl ! Gentlemen,' she says, standin' 
 up an' facin' 'em down, ' what mother knows 
 her son, if not I '{ I give you my word it's all 
 a mistake.'
 
 170 TtlE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 " Ay, an' she would have it no other. While 
 her son was waitin' his trial in jail, she walked 
 the streets with her head high, scornin' the 
 folk as she passed. Not a soul dared to speak 
 pity ; an' one afternoon, when old Gregory 
 hissel' met her and began to mumble that ' he 
 trusted,' an' ' he had little doubt,' an' ' nobody 
 Avould be gladder than he if it proved to be 
 a mistake,' she held her skirt aside an' went 
 by with a look that turned 'en to dirt, as he 
 said. ' Gad ! ' said he, ' she couldn' ha' looked 
 at me worse if I'd been a tab ! ' meanin' to 
 say ' instead o' the richest man in Tregarrick.' 
 
 " But her greatest freak was seen when 
 th' Assizes came. Sir, she wouldn' even go to 
 the trial. She disdained it. An' when, that 
 mornin', the judges had driven by her window, 
 same as they drove to-day, what d'ee think she 
 did? 
 
 " She began to lay the cloth up in the 
 parlour yonder, an' there set out the rarest 
 meal, ready for her boy. There was meats, 
 roasted chickens, an' a tongue, an' a great ham. 
 There was cheese-cakes that she made after a 
 little secret of her own ; an' a bowl of junket, 
 an inch deep in cream, that bein' his pet dish ;
 
 THE DUA WN BLIjSJ). 171 
 
 an' all kind o' knick-knacks, \vi' grapes an' 
 peaches, an' apricots, an' decanters o' wine, 
 white an' red. Ay, sir, there was even crackers 
 for mother an' son to pull together, with scraps 
 o' poetry inside. An' flowers — the table was 
 blooniin' with flowers. For weeks she'd been 
 plannin' it : an' all the forenoon she moved 
 about an' around that table, givin' it a touch 
 here an' a touch there, an' takin' a step back 
 to see how beautiful it looked. An' then, as 
 the day wore on, she pulled a chair over by the 
 window, an' sat down, an' waited. 
 
 " In those days a capital trial was kept up 
 till late into the night, if need were. By-an'-by 
 she called up her little servin' gal that was then 
 (she's a gran'mother now), an' sends her down 
 to the court-house to learn how far the trial 
 had got, an' run back with the news. 
 
 " Down runs Selina Mary, an' back with 
 word — 
 
 " ' They're a-summin'-up,' says she. 
 
 " Then Mrs. Pinsent went an' lit eight 
 candles. Four she set 'pon the table, an' 
 four 'pon the mantel-shelf. You could see the 
 blaze out in the street, an' the room lit up, 
 wi' the flowers, an' fruit, an' shinin' glasses —
 
 172 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 red and yellow dahlias the flowers were, that 
 bein' the time o' year. An' over each candle 
 she put a little red silk shade. You never saw 
 a place look cosier. Then she went back an' 
 waited : but in half-an-hour calls to Selina 
 Mary agen : 
 
 " ' Selina Mary, run you back to the court- 
 house, an' bring- word how far they've got.' 
 
 " So the little slip of a maid ran back, and 
 this time 'twas — 
 
 " ' Missis, the judge has done ; an' now they're 
 considerin' about Master Willie.' 
 
 " So the poor woman sat a while longer, an' 
 then she calls : 
 
 " ' Selina Mary, run down agen, an' as he 
 comes out, tell 'en to hurry. They must be 
 finished by now.' 
 
 "The maid was gone twenty minutes this 
 time. The evenin' was hot an' the window 
 open ; an' now all the town that wasn' listenin' 
 to the trial was gathered in front, gazin' 
 cur'ously at the woman inside. She was 
 tittivatin' the table for the fiftieth time, an' 
 touchin' up the flowers that had drooped a 
 bit i' the bowls. 
 
 "But after twenty minutes Selina Mary
 
 THE DRAWN BLIND. 173 
 
 came runniii' up the street, an' fetched her 
 breath at the front door, and went upstairs 
 slowly and 'pon tip-toe. Her face at the par- 
 lour door was white as pa])er ; an' while she 
 stood there the voices o' the crowd outside 
 began to take all one tone, and beat into the 
 room like the sound o' ^vaves 'pon a beach. 
 " ' Oh, missis — ' she begins. 
 " ' Have they finished ? ' 
 " The poor cheald was only able to nod. 
 " ' Then, where's Willie ? Why isn't he here ? ' 
 " ' Oh, missis, they're goin' to hang 'en !' 
 " Mrs. Pinsent moved across the room, took 
 her by the arm, led her downstairs, an' gave 
 her a little push out into the street. Not a 
 word did she say, but shut the door 'pon her, 
 very gentle-like. Then she went back an' 
 pulled the blind down slowly. The crowd 
 outside watched her do it. Her manner was 
 quite ord'nary. They stood there for a minute 
 or so, an' behind the blind the eight candles 
 went out, one by one. By the time the judges 
 passed homeward 'twas all dark, only the blind 
 showin' ^vhite by the street lamp opposite. 
 From that year to this she has pulled it down 
 whenever a judge drives by."
 
 A GOLDEN WEDDING. 
 
 On the very spot which the raihvay station 
 has usurped, with its long shite roof, wooden 
 signal-box, and advertisements in blue and 
 white enamel, I can recall a still pool shining 
 between beds of the flowering rush ; and to 
 this day, as I wait for the train, the whir of a 
 vanished water-wheel comes up the valley. 
 Sometimes I have caught myself gazing along 
 the curve of the narrow-gauge in full expecta- 
 tion to see a sagged and lichen-covered roof at 
 tlie end of it. And sometimes, of late, it has 
 occurred to me that there never was such a 
 mill as I used to know down yonder ; and that 
 the miller, whose coat was always powdered so 
 fragrantly, was but a white ghost, after all. 
 The station-master and porters remember no 
 such person. 
 
 But he was no ghost ; for I have met him 
 again this week, and upon the station platform. 
 I had started at daybreak to lisli up the stream 
 
 175
 
 176 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 that runs down the valley in cui'ves roughly 
 parallel to the railway embankment ; and com- 
 ing within sight of the station, a little Ijefore 
 noon, I put up my tackle and strolled towards 
 the booking-office. The water was much too 
 fine for sport, and it seemed worth while to 
 break off for a pipe and a look at the 12.20 
 train. Such are the simple pleasures of a coun- 
 try life. 
 
 I leant my rod against the wall, and w^as set- 
 ting down my creel, when, glancing down the 
 platform, 1 saw an old man seated on the 
 furthest bench. Everybody know^s how a 
 passing event, or impression, sometimes ap- 
 pears but a vain echo of previous experience. 
 Something in the lines of this old man's figure, 
 as he leaned forward with both hands clasped 
 upon his staflP, gave me the sensation. "All 
 this has happened before," I told myself. " He 
 and I are playing over again some small and 
 futile scene in our past lives. I wonder who he 
 is, and what is the use of it 'i "" 
 
 r>ut there was something wanting in the 
 picture to complete its resemblance to the 
 scene for which 1 searched my memory. 
 
 The man had bent further forward, and was
 
 A GOLDEN WEDDING. 177 
 
 I'estintj: his cliin on his hands and starinfi: 
 apathetically across the rails. Suddenly it 
 dawned on me tliat there ought to ])e another 
 figure on the bench — the figure of an old 
 woman ; and my memory ran back to the day 
 after this railway was opened, when this man 
 and his wife had sat together on the platform 
 waiting to see the train come in — that fascinat- 
 ing monster whose advent had blotted out the 
 very foundations of the old mill and driven its 
 tenants to a strange home. 
 
 The mill had disappeared man}^ months 
 before that, but the white dust still hung in 
 the creases of the miller's clothes. He wore his 
 Sunday hat and the Sunday polish on his shoes ; 
 and his wife was arrayed in her best Paisley 
 shawl. She carried also a bunch of cottage 
 flowers, withering in her large hot hand. It was 
 clear they had never seen a locomotive before, 
 and wished to show it all I'espect. They had 
 taken a smaller house in the next valley, where 
 they attempted to live on their savings ; and 
 had been trying vainly and pitifully to struggle 
 Avith all the little habits that had been their 
 life for thirty-five years, and to adapt them to 
 new quarters. Their faces were wear}'", but
 
 178 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY, 
 
 flushed with expectation. The man kept look- 
 ing up the line, and declaring tliat he heard 
 the rumble of the engine in the distance ; and 
 whenever he said this, his wife pulled the 
 shawl more primly about her shoulders, straight- 
 ened her back, and nervously re-arranged her 
 
 posy- 
 
 When at length the whistle screamed out, 
 at the head of the vale, I thought they were 
 going to tumble off the bench. The woman 
 went white to the lips, and stole her disengaged 
 hand into her husband's. 
 
 " Startlin' at first, hey ? " he said, bravely 
 winning back his composure : " but 'tis wunner- 
 ful what control the driver has, they tell me. 
 They only employ the cleverest men — " 
 
 A rattle and roar drowned the rest of his 
 words, and he blinked and leant back, holding 
 the woman's hand and tapping it softly as 
 the engine rushed down with a blast of white 
 vapour hissing under its fore wheels, and the 
 carriages clanked upon each other, and the 
 whole train came to a standstill before us. 
 
 The station-master and porter walked down 
 the line of carriages, bawling out the name of 
 the station. The driver leaned out over his rail.
 
 A GOLBEN WEBBING. 179 
 
 and the guard, standing by the door of his van, 
 with a green flag under his arm, looked enquir- 
 ingly at me and at the old couple on the bench. 
 But I had only strolled up to have a look at 
 the new train, and meant to resume my fishing 
 as soon as it had passed. And the miller sat 
 still, holding his wife's hand. 
 
 The}^ were staring with all their eyes — not 
 resentfull}', though face to face with the enemy 
 that had laid Avaste their habitation and swept 
 all comfort out of their lives ; but with a simple 
 awe. Manifestly, too, they expected something 
 more to happen. I saw the old woman search- 
 ing the incurious features of the few passengers, 
 and I thought her own features expressed some 
 disappointment. 
 
 '' This," observed the guard scornfully, pulling 
 out his watch as he spoke, '' is what you call 
 traffic in these parts." 
 
 The station-master was abashed, and forced 
 a de})recatory laugh. The guard — who Avas 
 an up-country man — treated this laugh with 
 contempt, and blew his whistle sharply. The 
 driver ansAvered, and the train moved on. 
 
 I was gazing after it when a woeful exclama- 
 tion drew my attention back to the bench.
 
 180 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 " Why, 'tis gone ! " 
 
 " Gone ? " echoed the miller's wife. " Of 
 course 'tis gone ; and of all the dilly-dally in' 
 men, I must say, John, you'm the dilly-dalliest. 
 Why didn' you say we wanted to ride ? " 
 
 " I thought, maybe, they'd have axed us. 
 'Twouldn' ha' been polite to thrust oursel's 
 forrard if they didn' want our company. Be- 
 sides, I thought they'd be here for a brave 
 while — '' 
 
 '" You was always a man of excuses. You 
 knew I'd set ray heart 'pon this feat." 
 
 I had left them to patch up their little 
 quarrel. But the scene stuck in my menior}'^, 
 and now, as I walked down the platform 
 towards the single figure on the bench, I won- 
 dered, amusedly, if the woman had at length 
 taken the ride alone, and if the procrastinating 
 husband sat liere to w^elcome her back. 
 
 As I drew near, I took note of his clothes 
 for the first time. There was no white dust 
 in the creases to-day. In fact, he wore the 
 workhouse suit. 
 
 I sat down beside him, and asked if he 
 remembered a certain small boy who had used
 
 A GOLDEN WEDDING. 181 
 
 to draw dace out of his mill-pond. With some 
 difficulty he recalled my features, and by 
 degrees let out the story of his life during the 
 last ten years. 
 
 He and his wife liad fought along in their 
 new house, hiding their discomfort from each 
 other, and abiding the slow degrees by which 
 their dwelling should change into a home. 
 I>iit before that change was worked, the woman 
 fell under a paralytic stroke, and their savings, 
 on which they had just contrived to live, 
 threatened to be swallowed up by the doctor's 
 bill. After considering long, the miller wrote 
 off to his only son, a mechanic in the Plymouth 
 Dockyard, and explained the case. This son 
 was a man of fort}'^ or thereabouts, was married, 
 and had a long family. He could not afford to 
 take the invalid into his house for nothing ; but 
 his daughters would look after their grand- 
 mother and she should have good medical care 
 as well, if she came on a small allowance. 
 
 " So the only thing to be done, sir, was for 
 my old woman to go." 
 
 '' And you — t " 
 
 " Oh, I went into the ' House.' You see, 
 there wasn' enough for both, livin' apart."
 
 182 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 I stared down the line to the spot where 
 the mill-wheel had hummed so pleasantly, and 
 the compassionate sentence I was about to utter 
 withered up and died on my lips. 
 
 " But to-day — Oh, to-day, sir — " 
 
 " What's happening to-day ? " 
 
 " She's comin' down to see me for an hour or 
 two ; an' I've got a holiday to meet her. 'Tis 
 our Golden Wed din', sir." 
 
 " But why are you meeting her at this station 
 instead of Tregarrick ? She can't walk, and 
 you have no horse and trap ; whereas there's 
 always a 'bus at Tregarrick." 
 
 " AVell, you see, sir, there's a very tidy little 
 cottage below where they sell ginger-beer, an' 
 I've got a whack o' vittles in the basket here, 
 besides what William is bringin' — William an' 
 his wife are comin' down with her. They'll 
 take her back by the last train uj) ; an' I thought, 
 as 'twas so little a while, an' the benches here 
 are so comfortable, we'd pass our day 'pon the 
 platform here. 'Tis Avithin sight o' the old 
 home, too, or rutlier o' the spot where the old 
 home used to be : an' though 'tis little notice 
 she seems to take o' things, one never can tell 
 if poor creatures in that state hainH pleased
 
 A GOLDEN WEDDING. 183 
 
 behind all their dazed looks. What do you 
 think, sir i " 
 
 The whistle sounded up the valley, and 
 mercifully prevented my answer. I saw the 
 woman for an instant as she was brought out of 
 the train and carried to the bench. She did not 
 recognise the man she had married fifty years 
 before : but as we moved out of the station, he 
 was sitting beside her, his face transfigured with 
 a solemn joy.
 
 SCHOOL FRIENDS. 
 
 " What ho, there ! " 
 
 At this feudal summons I turned, and spied 
 the Bashaw elbowing his way towards me 
 through the Fleet Street crowd, his hat and tie 
 askew and his big face a red beacon of good- 
 ^vill. He fell on my neck, and we embraced. 
 
 " Is me recreant child returned ? Is he tired 
 at last av annihilatin' all that's made to a green 
 thought in a green shade ? An' did he home- 
 sickun by the Cornish Coast for the Street that 
 Niver Sleeps, an' the whirroo an' stink av her, 
 an' the footmon et ojxise strepitum'ke — to drink 
 delight av battle with his peers, an' see the 
 great Achilles whom he knew — meanin' me- 
 self ? " The Bashaw's style in conversation, as 
 in print, bristles with allusion. 
 
 I shook my head. 
 
 "I go back to-morrow, I hope. Business 
 brought me up, and as soon as it's settled I 
 pack,'' 
 
 185
 
 186 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 '■' Too quick despairer — but I take it ye'll be 
 bound just now for the Cheese. Riglit y'are ; 
 and 111 do meself the honour to hmch wid ye, 
 at your expense." 
 
 Everyone knows and loves the Bashaw, alias 
 the O'Driscoll, that genial failure. Generations 
 of Fleet Street youths have taken advice and 
 help from him : have prospered, grown repu- 
 table, rich, and even famous : and have left him 
 Avhere he stood. Nobody can remember the 
 time when O'Driscoll was not ; though, to judge 
 from his appearance, he must have stepped upon 
 the town from between the covers of an illus- 
 strated keepsake, such as our grandmothers 
 loved — so closely he resembles the Corsair of 
 that period, with his ripe cheeks, melting eyes, 
 and black curls that twist like the young ten- 
 drils of a vine. The curls are dyed now-a-days, 
 and his waist is not what it used to be in the 
 picture-books; but time has worn nothing off 
 his temper. He is perennially enthusiastic, and 
 can still beat any journalist in London in 
 describing a Lord Mayor's Show. 
 
 " You behould in me," he went on, with a 
 large hand on my shoulder, "the victnm av a 
 recent eviction — a penniless outcast. 'Tis no
 
 SCHOOL FRIENDS. 187 
 
 beggai-'s petition that I'll be profifcrin', however, 
 but a bargiin. Give me a salad, a pint av hock, 
 an' fill me pipe wid the Only Mixture, an' I'll 
 repay ye across the board wid a narrative — the 
 sort av God-forsaken, ordinary thrifle that you 
 youngsters turn into copy — may ye find for- 
 giveness ! 'Tis no use to me whatever. Ted 
 O'Driscoll's instrument was iver the big drum, 
 and he knows his liniuts." 
 
 " Yes, me boy," he resumed, five minutes 
 later, as he sat in the Cheshire Cheese, beneath 
 Dr. Johnson's portrait, balancing a black- 
 handled knife between his first and second 
 fingers, and nodding good-fellowship to every 
 journalist in the room, "the apartment in 
 Bloomsbury is desolut ; the furnichur' — what 
 was lift av ut — disparsed ; the leopard an' the 
 lizard keep the courts where O'Driscoll gloried 
 an' drank deep ; an' the wild ass — meanin' by 
 that the midical student on the fourth floor — 
 stamps overhead, but cannot break his sleep. 
 I've been evicted: that's the long and short 
 av ut. Lord help me! — I'd have fared no 
 worse in the ould country — here's to her! 
 Think what immortal copy I'd have made out 
 av the regrettable incident over there ! " His
 
 188 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 voice broke, but not for self-pity. It always 
 broke when he mentioned Ireland. 
 
 " Is it comfort ye'd be speakin' ? " he began 
 again, filling his glass. " Me dear fellow, 
 divvle a doubt I'll fetch round tight an' safe. 
 Ould Mick Sullivan — he that built the Wild 
 Girl, the fastest vessel that iver put out av 
 Limerick — ould Mick Sullivan used to swear 
 he'd make any ship seaworthy that didn' leak 
 worse than a five-barred gate. An' that's me, 
 more or less. I'm an ould campaigner. But 
 listen to this. Me feelin's have been wrung 
 this day, and that sorely. I promised ye the 
 story, an' I must out wid ut, whether or no." 
 
 It was the hour when the benches of the 
 Cheese begin to empty. My work was over 
 for the day, and I disposed myself to listen. 
 
 " The first half I spent at the acadimy where 
 they flagellated the rudiments av polite learnin' 
 into me small carcuss, I made a friend. He 
 was the first I iver made, though not the last, 
 glory be to God ! But first friendship is like 
 first love for the sweet taste it puts in the 
 mouth. Niver but once in his life will a man's 
 heart dance to that chune. 'Twas a small slip 
 of a Saxon lad that it danced for then : a son
 
 SCHOOL FRIENDS. 189 
 
 av a cursed agint, that I should say it. But 
 sorra a thought had I for the small boccawn's 
 nationality nor for his own father's trade. I 
 only knew the friendship in his pretty eyes 
 an' the sweetness that knit our two sowls to- 
 gither, like David's an' Jonathan's. Pretty it 
 was to walk togither, an' discourse, an' get the 
 strap togither for heaven knows what mischief, 
 an' consowl each other for our broken skins. 
 He'd a wonderful gift at his books, for which 
 I reverenced um, and at the single-stick, for 
 which I loved um. Niver to this day did I call 
 up the ould play-ground widout behowldin' that 
 one boy, though all the rest av the faces (the 
 master's included) were vague as wather — 
 wather in which that one pair av eyes was 
 reflected. 
 
 " The school was a great four-square stone 
 buildin' beside a windy road, and niver a tree 
 in sight ; but pastures where the grass would 
 cut your boot, an' stone walls, an' brown hills 
 around, like the rim av a saucer. All belonged 
 to the estate that Jemmy Nichol's father man- 
 aged — a bankrupt property, or next door to 
 that. It's done better since he gave up the 
 place ; but when I've taken a glance at the
 
 190 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 landscape since (as I have, once or twice) I see 
 no difference. To me 'tis the naked land I 
 looked upon the last day av the summer 
 half, when I said good-bye to Jemmy; for 
 he was lavin' the school that same afternoon 
 for Dublin, to cross over to England wid his 
 father. 
 
 " Sick at heart was I, an' filled already wid 
 the heavy sense of solitariness, as we stood by 
 the great iron gate wishin' one another fare- 
 ye-well. 
 
 " ' Jemmy avick,' says I, ' dull, dull will it 
 be widout ye here. And, Jemmy — send some 
 av my heart back to me when ye write, as ye 
 promise to do.' 
 
 " ' Wheniver I lay me down, Ned,' he an- 
 swered me (though by nature a close-hearted 
 English boy), ' I'll think o' ye ; an' wheniver I 
 rise up I'll think o' ye. May the Lord do so to 
 me, an' more also, if I cease from lovin' ye till 
 my life's end.' 
 
 " So we kissed like a pair av girls, and off he 
 was driven, leavin' a great hollow inside the 
 rim av the hills. An' I ran up to the windy 
 dormitory, stumblin' at ivery third step for the 
 blindin' tears, and watched um from the win-
 
 SCHOOL FRIENDS. 191 
 
 dow there growin' small along the road. ' Ye 
 Mountains av Gilboa,' said I, shakin' my fist at 
 the hills, ' let there be no dew, neither let there 
 be rain upon ye ; ' for I hated the place now 
 that Jemmy was gone. 
 
 " Well, 'twas the ould story — letters at first 
 in plenty, then fewer, then none at all. Long 
 before I came over to try my luck Fd lost all 
 news of Jem : didn't know his address, even. 
 Nor till to-day have I set eyes on um. He's 
 bald-headed, me boy, and crooked-faytured, 
 to-day ; but I knew him for Jemmy in the first 
 kick av surprise. 
 
 " I was evicted this mornin', as I've towld ye. 
 Six years I've hung me hat up in those same 
 apartments in Bloomsbury ; and, till last year, 
 aisy enough I found me landlord over a quar- 
 ter's rent or two overjue. But last midsummer 
 year the house changed hands ; and bedad it 
 began to be ' pay or quit.' This day it was 
 ' quit.' The new landlord came up the stairs 
 at the head av the ejectin' army : I got up from 
 breakfast to open the door to um. I'd never 
 set eyes on um since I'd been his tenant. 
 Bedad, it was Jemmy ! ''
 
 192 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 O'Driscoll paused, and poured himself another 
 glass of hock. 
 
 " So I suppose," I said, " you ran into each 
 other's arms, and kissed again with tears ? " 
 
 " Then you suppose wrong," said he, and sat 
 for a moment or two silent, lingering the stem 
 of his glass. Then he added, more gently — 
 
 " I looked in the face av um, and said to 
 meself, ' Jemmy doesn't remember me. If I 
 introjuce meself, I wonder what'll he do ? Will 
 he love me still, or will he turn me out ? ' An' 
 by the Lord I didn't care to risk ut ! I couldn't 
 dare to lose that last illusion ; an' so I put on me 
 hat an' walked out, tellin' him nothing at all."
 
 PARENTS AND CHILDREN.
 
 t
 
 I. — THE FAMILY BIBLE. 
 
 There lived a young mau at Tregarrick 
 called Robert Ilaydon. His father Avas not a 
 native of the town, but had settled there early 
 in life and became the leading solicitor of the 
 place. At the age of thirty-seven he married 
 the daughter of a county magistrate, and by 
 this step bettered his position considerably. 
 By the time that Robert was born his parents' 
 standing was very satisfactory. They were 
 living well inside an income of £1,200 a year, 
 had about £8,000 (consisting of Mrs. Haydon's 
 dow^ry and Mr. Haydon's bachelor savings) 
 safely invested, and were on visiting terms 
 with several of the lesser county families. 
 
 In other respects they w^ere just as fortunate. 
 They had a sincere affection for each other, and 
 coincident opinions on the proper conduct of 
 life. They were people into whose heads a 
 misgiving seldom or never penetrated. Their 
 religious beliefs and the path of social duty 
 
 195
 
 196 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 stood as plain before them as their front gate 
 and as narrow as the bridge which Mohamme- 
 dans construct over hell. They loved Bob — 
 who of four children was their only son — and 
 firmly intended to do their best for him ; and as 
 they knew what was best for him, it followed 
 that Bob must conform. He was a light-col- 
 oured, docile boy, with a pleasantly ingenuous 
 face and an affectionate disposition ; and he 
 loved his parents, and learned to lean on 
 them. 
 
 They sent him in time to Marlborough, 
 where he wrote Latin verses of slightly unusual 
 merit, and bowled with a break from the off 
 which meant that there lay a thin vein of 
 genius somewhere inside of him. AVlien once 
 collared, his bowling became futile ; success 
 made it deadly, and on one occasion in a school 
 match against the M.C.C. he did things at 
 Lord's which caused a thin gathering of spec- 
 tators — the elderly men who never miss a 
 match — to stare at him very attentively as he 
 returned to the pavilion. They thought it 
 worth while to ask, " Which 'Varsity was he 
 bound for ? " 
 
 Bob was bound for neither. lie had to in-
 
 THE FAMILY BIBLE. 197 
 
 lierit, and consented to inherit, his father's prac- 
 tice without question. His consuming desire 
 to go up to Oxford he hinted at once, and once 
 only, in a conversation Avith his father; but Mr. 
 Ilaydon " did not care to expose his son to the 
 temptations Avhich beset young men at the Uni- 
 versities " — this was the very text — and pre- 
 ferred to keep him under his own eye in the 
 seclusion of Tregarrick. 
 
 To a young man who is being shielded from 
 temptation in a small provincial town there 
 usually happens one of two things. Either he 
 takes to drink or to discreditable essays in 
 love-making. It is to Bob's credit that he did 
 neither; a certain delicate sanity in the fel- 
 low kept him from these methods of killing 
 time. Instead, he spent his evenings at home ; 
 listened to his parents' talk ; accepted their 
 opinions on human conduct and affairs ; and 
 tumbled honourably into love with his sisters' 
 governess. 
 
 Ethel Ormiston, the governess, was about a 
 year older than Bob, good to look at, and the 
 only being who understood what ailed Bob's 
 soul during this time. She was in prison her- 
 self, poor woman. Mrs. Haydon asserted after-
 
 198 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 wards that Miss Ormiston had " deliberately set 
 herself to inveigle " the boy ; but herein Mrs. 
 Haydon was mistaken. As a matter of fact 
 Bob, having discovered someone obliging and 
 intelligent enough to listen, dinned the story of 
 his aspirations into the girl's ear with the per- 
 sistent egoism of a hobbedehoy. It must be 
 allowed, however, that the counsel she gave 
 him would have annoyed his parents exces- 
 sively. 
 
 "But I do sympathise with you," she said 
 after listening to an immoderately long and 
 peevish harangue ; " and I should advise you 
 to go to your father, as a first step, and ask to 
 be paid a very small salary for the work you 
 do — enough to set up in lodgings alone. At 
 present you are pauperising yourself." 
 
 Bob did not quite understand — so she ex- 
 plained : 
 
 " You are twenty-one, and still receiving 
 food and lodging from your parents as a 
 dole. At your age, if a man receives any- 
 thing at all from father or mother, he should 
 be earning it as a right." 
 
 She spoke impatiently, and longed to add 
 that he was also impoverishing his intellect.
 
 TUE FAMILY BIBLE. 199 
 
 She felt a touch of contempt for him ; but a 
 touch of contempt may go with love, and, 
 indeed, competent observers have held that 
 this mixture makes the very finest cement. 
 Certain it is that when Bob answered patheti- 
 cally, " But I don't want to leave this roof. 
 I — I ca7iH, Miss Ormiston, you know!" she 
 missed her opportunity of pointing out that 
 this confession stultified ever}^ one of his 
 previous utterances. She began a sentence, 
 indeed, but broke otf, Avitli her grey eyes fixed 
 on the ground ; and when at length she lifted 
 them. Bob felt something take him by the 
 throat. The few words he proceeded to blurt 
 out stunned him much as if a grenade had 
 exploded close at hand. But when Miss 
 Ormiston burst into tears and declared she 
 must go upstaii's at once and pack her box, he 
 recovered, and, looking about, found the aspect 
 of the world bewilderingly changed. There 
 were valleys where hills had stood a moment 
 before. 
 
 " I'll go at once and tell my father," he said, 
 drawing a full breath and looking like the man 
 he was for the moment. 
 
 " And," sobbed ]\[iss Ormiston, " I'll go at 
 once and pack my box."
 
 200 THE DELECTABLE BUCHY. 
 
 Herein she showed foresight, for as soon as 
 Bob's interview with his father was over, she 
 was commanded to leave the premises in time 
 to catch the early train next morning. 
 
 Then the Haydon family sat down and talked 
 to Bob. 
 
 They began by pooh-poohing the affair. 
 Then, inconsequently, they talked of disgrace, 
 and of scratching his name out of the Family 
 Bible, and said they would rather follow him 
 to his grave than see him married to Miss 
 Ormiston. Lastly, Mrs. Haydon asked Bob 
 who had nursed him, and taught him to walk, 
 and read and know virtue when he saw it. 
 Bob, in the words of the poet, replied, " My 
 mother." " Very well then," said Mrs. Haydon. 
 
 After forty- eight hours of this Bob wrote to 
 Miss Ormiston, saying, "My father's indigna- 
 tion is natural, and can only be conquered by 
 time. But I love you always." 
 
 Miss Ormiston replied, " Your father's indig- 
 nation is natural, perhaps. But if you love me, 
 it might be conquered by something else," or 
 words to that effect. At any rate, her letter 
 implied that as it Avas Bob, and not his father,
 
 TUE FAMILY BIBLE. 201 
 
 who proposed to make lier a wife, it was on 
 Bob, and not on his father, that she laid the 
 responsibility of fulfilling the promise. 
 
 But Bob was weak as water. Love had 
 given him one brief glimpse of the real world : 
 then his father and mother began to talk, and 
 the covers of the Family Bible closed like gates 
 upon his prospect. At the end of a week he 
 wrote — "Nothing shall shake me, dear Ethel. 
 Still, some consideration is due to them ; for I 
 am their only son." 
 
 To this Ethel Ormiston sent no answer ; but 
 reflected "' And what consideration is due to 
 me ^ for you are my only lover." 
 
 For a while Bob thought of enlisting, and 
 then of earning an honest wage as a farm- 
 labourer ; but rejected both notions, because his 
 training had not taught him that independence 
 is better than respectability — yea, than much 
 broadcloth. It was not that he hankered after 
 the fleshpots, but that he had no conception of 
 a world without fleshpots. In the end his 
 father came to him and said — 
 
 " AYill you give up this girl ? " 
 
 And Bob answered — 
 
 " I'm sorry, father, but I can't."
 
 202 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 "Very well. Eather than see this shame 
 brought on the family, I will send you out 
 to Australia. I have written to my friend 
 Morris, at Ballawag, ISTew South Wales, three 
 hundred miles from Sydney, and he is ready 
 to take you into his office. You have broken 
 my heart and your mother's, and you must 
 go." 
 
 And Bob — this man of twenty-one or more 
 — obeyed his father in this, and went. I can 
 almost forgive him, knowing how the filial 
 habit blinds a man. But I cannot forgive the 
 letter he wrote to Miss Ormiston — whom he 
 wished to make his wife, please remember. 
 Nevertheless she forgave him. She had found 
 another situation, and was working on. Her 
 parents were dead. 
 
 Five years passed, and Bob's mother died — 
 twelve years, and his father died also, leaving 
 him the lion's share of the money. During this 
 time Bob had worked away at Ballawag and 
 earned enough to set up as lawj^er on his own 
 account. But because a man cannot play fast 
 and loose with the self-will that God gave him 
 and afterwards ex})ect to do much in the world, 
 he was a moderately unsuccessful man still
 
 THE FAMILY BIBLE. 203 
 
 when the inheritance dropped in. It gave him 
 a fair income for life. Wiien the letter con- 
 taining the news reached him, he left the office, 
 walked back to his house, and began to think. 
 Then he unlocked his safe and took out Ethel 
 Ormiston's letters. They made no great heap ; 
 for of late their correspondence had dwindled 
 to an annual exchange of good wishes at 
 Christmas. She was still earning her liveli- 
 hood as a governess. 
 
 Bob thought for a week, and then wrote. 
 He asked Ethel Ormiston to come out and be 
 his wife. You will observe that the old curse 
 still lay on him. A man — even a poor one — 
 that was worth kicking would have gone and 
 fetched her; and Bob had plenty of money. 
 But he asked her to come out and begged her 
 to cable " Yes " or " No." 
 
 She cabled " Yes." She would start within 
 the month from Plymouth, in the sailing-ship 
 Grimaldi. She chose a sailing-ship because it 
 was chea})er. 
 
 So Bob travelled down to Sydney to wel- 
 come his bride. lie stepped on the Grimal- 
 cWs deck within five minutes of her arrival, 
 and asked if a Miss Ormiston were on board.
 
 204 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 There advanced a middle-aged woman, gaunt, 
 wrinkled and unlovely — not the woman he 
 had chosen, but the woman he had made. 
 
 " Ethel ? '' was all he found to say. 
 
 " Yes, Bob ; I am Ethel. And God forgive 
 you." 
 
 Of the change in him she said nothing ; but 
 held out her hand with a smile. 
 
 " Marry me, Bob, or send me back : I give 
 you leave to do either, and advise you to send 
 me back. Twelve years ago you might have 
 been proud of me, and so 1 might have helped 
 you. As it is, I have travelled far, and am 
 tired. I can never help you now." 
 
 And though he married her, she never did.
 
 II.— BOANEEGES. 
 
 " Bill Penbeethy's come back, I hear." 
 
 The tin-smith was sharpening his pocket- 
 knife on the parapet of the bridge, and, without 
 troubling to lift his eyes, threw just enough 
 interrogation into the remark to show that he 
 meant it to lead to conversation. Every one of 
 the dozen men around him held a knife, so that 
 a stranger, crossing the bridge, might have 
 suspected a popular rising in the village. But, 
 as a matter of fact, they were merely waiting 
 for their turn. There is in the parapet one 
 stone upon which knives may be sharpened to 
 an incomparable edge ; and, for longer than I 
 can remember, this has supplied the men of 
 Gantick with the necessary excuse for putting 
 their heads together on fine evenings and dis- 
 cussing the news. 
 
 " Ay, he's back." 
 
 "Losh, Uncle, I'd no idea you was there," 
 said the tin-smith, wheeling round. " And 
 how's your lad looking ? " 
 
 205
 
 206 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 "Tolerable — tolerable. 'A's got a black 
 suit, my sonnies, and a white tie, and a soft hat 
 that looks large on the head, but can be folded 
 and stowed in your tail pocket." Complacency 
 shone over the speaker's shrivelled cheeks, and 
 beamed from his horn-spectacles. "You can 
 tell 'en at a glance for a Circuit-man and no 
 common Rounder." 
 
 " 'A's fully knowledgeable by all accounts ; 
 learnt out, they tell me." 
 
 " You shall hear 'en for yourselves at meeting 
 to-morrow. He conducts both services. Now 
 don't tempt me any more, that's good souls : for 
 when he'd no sooner set foot in th' house and 
 kissed his mother than he had us all down on 
 our knees giving hearty thanks in the most 
 beautiful language, I said to myself, 'many's 
 the time I've had two minds about the money 
 spent in making ye a better man than your 
 father;' but fare thee well, doubt! I don't 
 begrudge it, an' there's an end." 
 
 A small girl came running down the street 
 to the bridge-end. 
 
 "Uncle Penbcrthy," she panted, "your tall 
 son — Mr. William — said I was to run down 
 and fetch 'ee home at once."
 
 BOANEBGES. 207 
 
 " Notbin' Avrong with 'en, I hope ? " 
 " I think he's going to hold a prayer." 
 The little man looked at the blade of his 
 knife for a moment, half regretfully : then 
 briskly clasped it, slipped it into his pocket, and 
 hobbled away after the messenger. 
 
 The whitewashed front of the Meeting 
 House was bathed, next evening, with soft 
 sunset yellow when Mr. Penberthy the elder 
 stole down the stairs between the exhortations, 
 as his custom was, and stood bareheaded in 
 the doorway respiring the cool air. As a 
 deacon he temperately used the privileges of 
 his office, and one of these was a seat next 
 the door. The Meeting House was really no 
 more than a room — a long upper chamber over 
 a store ; and its stairway descended into the 
 street so sharply that it was possible, even for 
 a short-armed man, to sit on the lowest step 
 and shake hands with a friend in the street. 
 
 The roadway was deserted for a w h i] e. Across 
 the atmosphere there reigned that hush which 
 people wonder at on Sundays, forgetting that 
 nature is always still and that nine-tenths of 
 the week's hubbub is made by man. Down
 
 208 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 the pale sky came a swallow, with another in 
 chase : their wings were motionless as they 
 swept past the doorway, but the air whizzed 
 wdth the speed of their flight, and in a moment 
 was silent again. Then from the upper room 
 a man's voice began to roar out upon the still- 
 ness. It roared, it broke out in thick sobs 
 that shook the closed windows in their fasten- 
 ings, it wrestled with emotion for utterance, 
 and, overcoming it, rose into a bellow again ; 
 but, whether soaring or depressed, the strain 
 upon it was never relaxed. Uncle Penberthy, 
 listening to his son, felt an oppression of his 
 own chest and drew his breath uneasily. 
 
 The tin-smith came round the corner and 
 halted by the door. 
 
 " That son o' yours is a boundless man," he 
 observed with an upward nod. 
 
 " How did he strike ye this morning ? " 
 
 "I don't remember to have been so power- 
 fully moved in my life. Perhaps you and me 
 being cronies for thirty year, and he your very 
 son, may have helped to the more effectual 
 working; but be that as it may, I couldn't 
 master my dinner afterwards, and that's the 
 trewth. Ah, he's a man, Uncle ; and there's
 
 BOANERGES. 209 
 
 no denying we wanted one of that sort to 
 awaken us to a fit sense. What a dido he do 
 kick up, to be sure ! " 
 
 The tin-smith shifted his footing uneasily as 
 if he had something to add. 
 
 "I hope you won't think it onneighbourly 
 or disrespectful that I didn' come agen this 
 evenin','' he begun, after a pause. 
 
 " Not at all, Jem, not at all." 
 
 " Because, you see — " 
 
 " Yes, yes, I quite see." 
 
 " I wouldn' have ye think — but there, I'm 
 powerful glad you see." His face cleared. 
 " Good evenin' to ye. Uncle ! " 
 
 He went on with a brisker step, while Uncle 
 Penberthy drew a few more lingering breaths 
 and climbed the stairs again to the close air 
 of the meeting-room. 
 
 " Im afraid, father, that something in my 
 second exhortation displeased you," said the 
 Rev. William Penberthy as he walked home 
 from service between his parents. He was a 
 tall fellow with a hatchet-shaped face and eyes 
 set rather closely together. 
 
 " Not at all, my son. What makes ye deem 
 it?" The little man tilted back his bronzed 
 top-hat and looked up nervously.
 
 210 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 " Because you went out in the middle of 
 service." 
 
 '"Tis but father's habit, Wilham," old Mrs. 
 Penberthy made haste to explain, laying a 
 hand on his arm. She was somewhat stouter 
 of build and louder of voice than her husband, 
 but stood in just the same awe of her son. 
 "He's done it regular since he was appointed 
 deacon." 
 
 "Why?" asked William, stonily. 
 
 Uncle Penberthy pulled off liis hat to ex- 
 tract a red handkerchief from its crown, re- 
 moved his spectacles, and wiped them hurriedly. 
 
 " Them varmints of boys," he stammered, " be 
 so troublesome round the door — occasion'lly, 
 that is." 
 
 " Was that so to-night ? " 
 
 " Why, no." 
 
 " But you were absent at least twenty 
 minutes — all through the silent prayer and half 
 way through the third exhortation." He gazed 
 sternly at the amiable old man. " You didn't 
 hear me treat that difficulty in Colossians, two, 
 twenty to twenty-three? If you have time, 
 we'll discuss it after private worship to-night. 
 If I can make you see it in what I am sure
 
 BOANERGES. 211 
 
 is the right light, it will lead you to think 
 more seriously of that glass of beer you have 
 fallen into the habit of taking with your 
 supper." 
 
 It is but a fortnight since the Eev. William 
 Penberthy came home ; but in that fortnight 
 his father and mother have aged ten years. 
 The old man, when I took him my watch to 
 regulate the other day — for on week-days he 
 is a watch-maker — began to ask questions, as 
 eagerly as a child, about the village news. It 
 turned out that, for a whole week, he had not 
 been down to sharpen his knife upon the 
 bridge. He has given up his glass of beer, too, 
 and altogether the zeal of his house is eating 
 him up. 
 
 This morning the new minister climbed into 
 the van with his carpet-bag. He is off to some 
 Conference or other, and will be back again the 
 day after to-morrow. Ten minutes after he 
 had gone his father and mother shut up the 
 shop and went out together. The}' mean to 
 take a whole holiday and hear all the news. It 
 Avas pitiful to see their fumbling haste as they 
 helped one another to put up the shutters ; and
 
 212 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 almost more pitiful to mark, as they hurried 
 down the street arm in arm, their conscientious 
 but feeble endeavour to look something more 
 staid than a couple of children just out of 
 school.
 
 TWO MONUMENTS. 
 
 My dear young Lady, — 
 
 Our postman here does not deliver parcels 
 until the afternoon — which nobody grumbles 
 at, because of his infirmity and his long and 
 useful career. The manuscript, therefore, of 
 your novel. Sunshine and Shadow, lias not yet 
 reached me. But your letter — in which you 
 beg me to send an opinion upon the work, with 
 some advice upon your chances of success in 
 literature — I found on my breakfast-table, as 
 well as the photograph Avhicli you desire 
 (perhaps wisely) to face the title-page. I trust 
 you will forgive the slight stain in the lower 
 left-hand corner of the portrait, which I return : 
 for it is the strawberry-season here, and in 
 course of my reflections I had the misfortune 
 to let the cardboard slip between my fingers 
 and fall across the edge of the plate. 
 
 I have taken the resolution to send my ad- 
 vice before it can be shaken by a perusal of 
 
 213
 
 214 TUE DELECTABLE DUCUY. 
 
 Sunshine and Shadow. But it is difficult 
 nevertheless. I might say bluntly that, unless 
 the camera lies, your face is not one to stake 
 against Fame over a game of hazard. You 
 remember John Lyly's "Cupid and my Cam- 
 paspe" "i — and how Cupid losing, 
 
 " down he throws 
 The coral of his lij), the rose 
 Grovnng ons cheeh {hut none knows how) . . ." 
 
 — and so on, with the rest of his charms, one 
 by one? I might assure you that when 
 maidens play against Fame they risk all these 
 treasures and more, without ho])e of leniency 
 from their opponent, who (you will note) is the 
 same sex. But you will answer by return of 
 post, that this is no business of mine, and that 
 I exhibit the usual impertinence of man when 
 asked to consider woman's serious aspiration. 
 You will protest that you are ready to stake all 
 this. Very well, then : listen, if you have 
 patience, to a little story that I came upon, a 
 week since, about a man who spent his days at 
 this game of hazard. It was called The Two 
 Monuments. 
 When the Headmaster of the Grammar-
 
 TWO MONUMENTS. 215 
 
 School came to add up the marks for the 
 term's work and examination — which he 
 always did without a mistake — it was dis- 
 covered that in the TJi)])er Fourth (the top 
 form) Thompson liad beaten Jenkins major 
 by sixteen. So Thompson received a copy 
 of the Memoirs, of Eminent Etonians, bound 
 in tree-calf, and took it home under his arm, 
 wondering what "Etonians" were, but too 
 proud to ask. And Jenkins major received 
 nothing ; and being too weak to punch Thomp- 
 son's head (as he desh'ed) waylaid him opposite 
 the cemetery gate on his ^vay home, and said — 
 
 "• Parvenu ! " 
 — which was doubly insulting ; for, in the first 
 place, French was Thompson's weakest subject, 
 and second]}', his father was a haberdasher in a 
 small way, Avho spoke with awe of the Jenkinses 
 as a family that had practised law in the town 
 for six generations. Thompson himself Avas 
 aware of the glamour such a lineage conferred. 
 It was wholly due to his ignorance of French 
 that he retorted — 
 
 " You're anotlier ! " 
 
 Young Jenkins explained the term, with 
 a wave of his hand towards the cemetery gate.
 
 216 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 " You'll find my family in there, and inside a 
 rail of their own. And you needn't think I 
 wanted that prize, /'ve got a grandfather." 
 
 So, no doubt, had Thompson ; but, to find 
 him, he must have consulted the parish books 
 and searched among the graves at the northern 
 end of the burial-ground for one decorated with 
 a tin label and the number 2054. lie gazed 
 in at the sacred acre of the Jenkinses and the 
 monuments emblazoned with " J.P.," " Recorder 
 of this Borough," " Clerk of the Peace for the 
 County," and other proud appendices in gilt 
 lettering : and, in the heat of his heart, turned 
 upon Jenkins major. 
 
 " You just wait till we die, and see which of 
 us two has the finer tombstone ! " 
 
 Thereupon he stalked home and read the 
 Memoirs of Eminent Etonians, and learnt 
 from their perusal that it was indeed possible 
 to earn a finer tombstone than any Jenkins 
 possessed. At the end of the Christmas term, 
 too, he acquired a copy of Dr. Smiles's famous 
 work on Self -Help., and this really set his feet 
 in the path to his desire. 
 
 He determined, after weighing the matter 
 carefully, to be a poet : for it seemed to him
 
 Tiro M0NU3IENTS. 217 
 
 that of all the noble professions this was the 
 only one the initial expense of which could be 
 covered by his patrimony. The paper, ink, and 
 pens came cheaply enough (though the waste 
 was excessive); and for his outfit of high 
 thoughts and emotions he pawned not merely 
 the possessions that you, my dear young lady, 
 are so willing to cast on the table — charms of 
 face and graces of person — for, as a man, he 
 valued these lightly ; but the strength in his 
 arms, the taste of meat and wine, the cunning 
 of horsemanship, of boat-sailing, of mountain- 
 climbing, the breathless joy of the diver, the 
 languid joy of the dancer, the feel of the canoe- 
 paddle shaken in the rapid, the delicious lassi- 
 tude of sleep in wayside-inns, and lastly the 
 ecstas}' of love and fatherhood — all these he 
 relinquished for a tombstone that should be 
 handsomer than Jenkins's. Jenkins, mean- 
 w^hile, w^as articled to his father, and, having 
 passed the necessary examinations with credit, 
 became a solicitor and married into a county 
 family. 
 
 Thompson, I need hardly tell you, was by 
 this time settled in London and naturally spent 
 a good deal of his leisure time in Westminster
 
 218 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 Abbey. The mouuinents there profoundly 
 affected his imagination, and gave him quite 
 new ambitions with regard to the tombstone 
 that towered at the back of all his day-dreams. 
 When first he trod the Embankment, in thin 
 boots with a few pence in his pocket, it had ap- 
 peared to him in slate with a terrific inscription 
 in gilt letters — inscriptions in which " Bene- 
 factor of His Species," " Take him for All in All 
 We shall not Look upon his Like Again " took 
 the place of the pettifogging " Clerk of the 
 Peace" or "J.P." tagged on to the names of 
 the Jenkinses. By degrees, however, he abated 
 a little of the inscription and made up for it by 
 trebling the costliness of the stone. 
 
 From slate it grew to granite — to marble — 
 to alabaster, with painted cherubs and a coat of 
 arms. At one time he brooded, for a whole 
 week, over a flamboyant design with bosses of 
 lapis lazuli at the four corners; and only gave 
 it up for a life-size recumbent figure in alabaster 
 with four gryphons supporting the sarcophagus. 
 As the soles of his boots thickened with pros- 
 perity, so did his stone grow in solidity. Finally 
 an epic of his — Adrastus — took the town 
 by storm, and three editions were exhausted 
 
 A
 
 TWO MONUMENTS. 219 
 
 in a single week. When this happened, lie sat 
 down with a gigantic sheet of cartridge paper 
 before him and spent a whole year in setting 
 out the elaborated design. By his will he left 
 all his money to pay for the structure : for his 
 father and mother were dead and he had 
 neither wife nor child. 
 
 When all was finished he rubbed his hands, 
 packed up his bag and took a third-class ticket 
 down to his native town, to have a contemptu- 
 ous look at the Jenkins monuments and see 
 how Jenkins major was getting on. 
 
 Jenkins major was up in the cemetery, 
 among his fathers. And on top of Jenkins 
 rested a granite cross — sufficiently handsome, 
 to be sure, for a solicitor, but nothing out of 
 the way. " J.P." was carved upon it ; though, 
 as Jenkins had an absurdly long Christian 
 name (Marmaduke Augustus St. John), these 
 letters were squeezed a bit in the right arm of 
 the cross. Underneath was engraved — 
 
 ''ERECTED BY HIS DISCONSOLATE 
 WIE^E AND CHILDREN. 
 
 A Father kind, a Husband dear, 
 AfaitJiful Friend, lies buried here.''^
 
 220 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 Thompson perused the doggerel once, twice, 
 and a third time ; and chuckled contemptuously. 
 " So Jenkins has come to this. God bless me, 
 how life in a provincial town does narrow a 
 man ! " 
 
 " A Father hind, a Htisband dear . . ." 
 
 — and he went away chuckling, but with no 
 malice at all in his breast. 
 
 Jenkins slept forgiven beneath his twopenny- 
 halfpenny tombstone, and Thompson, reflecting 
 that not only was his own monument designed 
 (with a canopy of Carrara marble), but the cost 
 of it invested in the three per cents., walked 
 contentedly back to the station, repeating on 
 his way with gentle scorn — 
 
 " A Father hind, a Husband dear, 
 A faithful Friend, lies huried here.'''' 
 
 The jingle lulled him asleep in his railway 
 carriage, and he awoke in London. Driving 
 home, he paid the cabby, rushed up to his room 
 three stairs at a bound, unlocked his safe and 
 pulled out the great design. In one corner he 
 had even drawn up a list of the eminent men
 
 TWO MONUMENTS. 221 
 
 who should be his pall-bearers. Certainly such 
 a tomb would make Jenkins turn in his grave. 
 
 He spread the plan on the table, with a 
 paper-weight on each corner, and sat down 
 before it. After considering it for an hour, he 
 arose dissatisfied, 
 
 " Jenkins had a heap of flowers over him — 
 common flowers, to be sure, but fresh enough. 
 I dare say I could arrange for a supply, though. 
 It's that confounded doo-o-erel — 
 
 ' A Father Tcind, a Husband dear.^ 
 
 That's Mrs. Jenkins's taste, I suppose. Still — 
 of course I could better the verse; but one 
 can't stick up a lie over one's remains. I wnsh 
 to God I had a disconsolate wife, or a child, if 
 only to spite Jenkins." 
 
 And I believe, my dear young lady, that 
 underneath his tomb (whereon there now stands 
 a marble figure of Fame and blows a gilt trum- 
 pet) he is still wishing it.
 
 EGG-STEALING. 
 
 It wanted less than an hour to high water 
 when Miss Marty Lear heard her brother's 
 boat take ground on the narrow beach below 
 the garden, and set the knives and glasses 
 straight while she listened for the click of the 
 garden-latch. 
 
 A line of stunted hazels ran along the foot of 
 the garden and hid the landing-place from Miss 
 Lear as she stood at the kitchen window gazing 
 down steep alleys of scarlet runners. But 
 above the hazels she could look across to the 
 fruit-growing village of St. Kits, and catch a 
 glimpse at high tide of the intervening river, 
 or towards low water of the mud-banks shining 
 in the sun. 
 
 It was Miss Lear's custom to look much on 
 this landscape from this window : had, in fact, 
 been her habit for close upon forty years. And 
 this evening, when the latch clicked at length, 
 and her brother in his market-suit come slouch- 
 
 223
 
 224 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 ing up the path between the parallels of garden- 
 stuff, her eyes rested all the while upon the line 
 of grey water above and beyond his respectable 
 hat. 
 
 Nor, when he entered the kitchen, hitched 
 this hat upon a peg in the wall — where its 
 brim accurately fitted a sort of dull halo in the 
 white-wash — did he appear to want any wel- 
 come from her. He was a long- jawed man of 
 sixty-five, she a long-jawed woman of sixty-one ; 
 and they understood each other's ways, having 
 kept this small and desolate farm together for 
 thirty years — that is, since their father's death. 
 
 A cold turnip-pasty stood on the table, with 
 the cider-jug that Job Lear regularl}^ emptied 
 at supper. These suggested no small-talk, and 
 the pair sat down to eat in silence. 
 
 It was only while holding out his plate for a 
 second hel2:)ing of the pasty that Job spoke with 
 a full mouth. 
 
 " Who d'ee reckon I ran across to-day, down 
 in Troy ? " 
 
 Miss Marty cut the slice without troubling 
 to say that she had not a notion. 
 
 " Why, that fellow Amos Trudgeon," he 
 went on.
 
 EGG-STEALING. 226 
 
 "Yes?" 
 
 " 'Pears to me you must be failin' if you clis- 
 remembers 'en : son of old Sal Trudgeon, that 
 used to keep the jurable-shop 'cross the water : 
 him that stole our eggs back-along, when father 
 was livin'." 
 
 " I remember." 
 
 " I thought you must. Why, you gave evi- 
 dence, to be sure. Be dashed ! now I come to 
 mind, if you wasn' the first to wake the house 
 an' say you heard a man hollerin' out down 
 'pon the mud." 
 
 " Iss, I was.!' 
 
 " An' saved his life, though you did get 'en 
 two months in Bodmin Gaol by it. Up to the 
 arm-pits he was, an' not five minutes to live, 
 when we hauled 'en out, an' wonderin' what he 
 could be doin' there, found he'd been stealin' 
 our eggs. He inquired after you to-day." 
 
 '' Did he ? " 
 
 " Iss. ' How's Miss Marty ? " says . he. 
 ' Agein' rapidly,' saj^s I. The nerve that 
 some folks have ! Comes up to me as cool as 
 my lord and holds out a hand. He've a-gro\vn 
 into a sort of commercial ; stomach like a bow- 
 window, ^\'\i\\ a watch-guard l()0[)ed across. I'd
 
 226 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 a mind to say 'Eggs' to 'en, it so annoyed 
 me." 
 
 " I hope you didn't." 
 
 " No. 'Twould have seemed like bearin' 
 malice. 'Tis an old tale, after all, that feat of 
 his." 
 
 " Nine an' thh^ty year, come seventeenth o' 
 September next. Did he say any more ? " 
 
 " Said the weather-glass was risin', but too 
 fast to put faith in." 
 
 " I mean, did he ask any more about me?" 
 
 " Iss : wanted to know if you was married. I 
 reckon he meant that for a bit o' pleasantness." 
 
 " Not that ! Ah, not that ! " 
 
 Job laid down knife and fork with their 
 points resting on the rim of his plate, and, with 
 a lump of pasty in one cheek, looked at his 
 sister. She had pushed back her chair a bit, 
 and her fingers were plucking the edge of the 
 table-cloth. 
 
 " Not that ! " she repeated once more, and 
 hardly above a whisper. She did not lift her 
 eyes. Before Job could speak — 
 
 " He was my lover," she said, and shivered. 
 
 " Mar— ty — " 
 
 She looked up now, hardened her uglv,
 
 EGG-STEALING. 227 
 
 twitching face, forced her eyes to meet her 
 brother's, and went on breathlessly — 
 
 " I swear to you, Job — here, across this 
 table — he was my lover ; and I ruined 'en. He 
 was the only man, 'cept you and father, that 
 ever kissed me ; and I betrayed 'en. As the 
 Lord liveth, I stood up in the box and swore 
 away his name to save mine. An' what's 
 more, he made me." 
 
 " Mar— ty Lear ! " 
 
 " Don't hinder me. Job. It's God's truth I'm 
 tellin' 'ee. His folks were a low lot, an' father'd 
 have broken every bone o' me. But we used to 
 meet in the orchard 'most every night. Don't 
 look so, brother. I'm past sixty, an' nothin' 
 known ; an' now evil an' good's the same to 
 me." 
 
 "Goon." 
 
 "Well, the last night he came over 'twas 
 spring tides, an' past the flood. I was waitin' 
 for 'en in the orchard, down in the corner by 
 the Adam's Pearmain. We could see the white 
 front o' the house from there, and us in the 
 dark shadow^: and there was the gap handy, 
 that Amos could snip through at a pinch — 
 you fenced it up yoursel' the very summer that
 
 228 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 father died in the fall. That night, Amos was 
 late an' the dew heavy, an' no doubt I lost my 
 temper waitin' out there in the long grass. We 
 had words, I know ; an' I reckon the tide ran 
 far out w^hile we quarrelled. Anyway, he left 
 me in wrath, an' I stood there under the apple- 
 tree, longin' for 'en to come back an' make 
 friends again. But the time Avent on, an' I 
 didn' hear his footstep — no, nor his oars 
 pullin' away — though hearkenin' with all my 
 ears. 
 
 "An' then I heard a terrible sound." Miss 
 Marty paused and drew the back of her hand 
 across her dry lips before proceeding. 
 
 " — a terrible sound — a sort of low breathin', 
 but fierce ; an' something worse, a suck-suckin' 
 of the mud below ; an' I ran down. I suppose, 
 in his anger, he took no care how he walked 
 round the point (for he al'ays moored his boat 
 round the point, out o' sight), an' went wide an' 
 was taken. There he was, above his knees in 
 it, and far out it seemed to me, in the light o' 
 the young moon. For all his fightin', he heard 
 me, and whispers out o' the dark — 
 
 " ' Little girl, it's got me. Hush ! don't shout, 
 or they'll catch you.'
 
 EGG-STEALING. 229 
 
 " ' Can't you get out ? ' I whispered back. 
 
 " ' No,' says he, ' I'm afraid I can't, unless 
 you run up to the linhay an' fetch a rope.' 
 
 "It was no more I stayed to hear, but ran 
 up hot-foot to the linhay and back inside the 
 minute, with the waggon rope. 
 
 " ' Hold the end,' he panted, ' and throw with 
 all your strength.' And I threw, but the rope 
 fell short. Twice again I threw, but missed 
 each cast by a yard and more. He wouldn't 
 let me come near the mud. 
 
 " Then I fell to runnin' to an' fro on the edge 
 o' the firm ground, an' sobbin' between my 
 teeth because I could devise nothin'. And all 
 the while he was fightin' hard. 
 
 " ' I'll run an' call father an' Job,' says I. 
 
 " ' Hush 'ee now ! Be you crazed ? Do you 
 want to let 'em know all ? ' 
 
 " 'But it'll kill 3^ou, dear, won't it ? ' 
 
 " ' Likely it will,' said he. Then, after a 
 while of battlin', he whispers again, 'Little 
 girl, I don't want to die. Death is a cold end. 
 But I reckon you shall save me an' your name 
 as well. Take the rope, coil it as you run, and 
 hang it back in the linhay, quick ! Then run 
 you to the hen-house an' bring me all the eggs
 
 230 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 you can find. Be quick and ax no questions, 
 for it's little longer I can hold up. It's above 
 my waist,' he says. 
 
 "I didn' know what he meant, but ran for 
 my life to the linhay, and hung up the rope, 
 an' then to the hen-house. I could tell prety 
 well where to find a dozen eggs or more in the 
 dark, an' in three minutes I'd groped about an' 
 gathered 'em in the lap o' my dress. Then 
 back I ran. I could just spy 'en — a dark spot 
 out there in the mud. 
 
 " ' How many ? ' he axed, an' his voice was 
 like a rook's. 
 
 " ' A dozen, or near.' 
 
 " ' Toss 'em here. Don't come too nigh, an' 
 shy careful, so's I can catch.' 
 
 " I stepped down pretty nigh to the brim o' 
 the mud an' tossed 'em out to him. Three fell 
 short in my hurry, but the rest he got hold of 
 somehow. 
 
 " ' That's right,' he calls, hoarse and low, 
 ' they'll think egg-stealin' nateral to a low 
 family like our'n. Now back to your room — 
 undress — an' cry out, sayin', there's a man 
 shoutin' for help down 'pon the mud ; and, 
 dear, be quick ! When you wave your
 
 EGG-STEALING. 231 
 
 candle twice at tlie \vindow, I'll shout like a 
 Trojan.' 
 
 " An' I did it, Job ; for the cruelt}^ in a fear- 
 ful woman passes knowledge. An' you rescued 
 'en, an' he went to gaol. For he said 'twas 
 the only way. An' his mother took it as quite 
 reasonable that her husband's son should take 
 to the bad^ — ^ 'twas the way of all them Trud- 
 geons. Father to son, they was of no account. 
 Egg-stealin' was just the little hole-an'-corner 
 wickedness that 'd come nateral to 'era.'' 
 
 " I rec'lect now," said Job Lear very slowly, 
 " that the wain-rope was wet i' my hands when 
 I unhitched 'en that night from the hook, an' 
 I wondered, it bein' the end of a week's dryth. 
 But in the dark an' the confusion o' savin' 
 the wastrel's life it slipped my thoughts, 
 else — " 
 
 " Else you'd ha' wetted it wi' the blood o' 
 my back. Job. But the rope's been frayed to 
 powder this many year. An' you needn't look 
 at me like that. I'm past sixty, an' I've done 
 my share of repentin'. He didn't say if he was 
 married, did he ? "
 
 SEYEN-AN'-SIX. 
 
 The old fish-market at Troy was just a 
 sao-g-ed lean-to roof on the northern side of the 
 Town Quay, resting against the dead wall of 
 the harbour-master's house, and propped in 
 front by four squat granite columns. This 
 roof often let in rain enough to fill the pits 
 worn in the paving-stones by the feet of gos- 
 siping generations ; and the whole was wisely 
 demolished a few years back to make place for 
 a Working Men's Institute — a red building, 
 where they take in all the chief London news- 
 papers. Nev^ertheless I have, in some moods, 
 caught myself hankering after the old shelter, 
 where the talk was unchartered always, and 
 Avhere no notices were suspended against smok- 
 ing; and I know it used to bo worth visiting 
 on dirty evenings about the time of the Equi- 
 nox, when the town-folk assembled to watch 
 the high tide and the chances of its flooding 
 the streets about the quay. 
 233
 
 234 ' THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 Early one September afternoon, about two 
 years before its destruction, a small group of 
 watermen, a woman or two, and a fringe of 
 small children were gathered in the fish-market 
 around a painter and his easel. The painter — 
 locally known as Seven-an'-Six — was a white- 
 haired little man, with a clean-shaven face, a 
 complexion of cream and roses, a high un- 
 wrinkled brow, and blue eyes that beamed an 
 engaging trustfulness on his fellow-creatures, of 
 whom he stood ready to paint any number at 
 seven shillings and sixpence a head. As this 
 method of earning a livelihood did not allow 
 him to sojourn long in one place — which, 
 indeed, was far from his desire — he spent a 
 great part of his time upon the clieaper seats 
 of obscure country vehicles. He delighted in 
 this life of perennial transience, and enjoyed 
 painting the portraits which justified it; and 
 was, on the whole, one of the happiest of men. 
 
 Just now he was enjoying himself amaz- 
 ingly, being keenly alive not merely to the 
 crowd's admiration, but to the rare charm of 
 that which he was trying to paint. Some six 
 paces before him there leant against one of 
 the granite pillars a woman of exceeding
 
 SEVEN-AN'-SIX. 235 
 
 beauty : her figure tall, supple, full of strength 
 in every line, her face brown and broad-browecl, 
 witli a heavy chin that gave character to the 
 rest of her features, and large eyes, black as 
 sloes, that regarded the artist and the group 
 at his elbow with a sombre disdain. The 
 afternoon sunshine slanted down the pillar, 
 was broken by the mass of dark hair she 
 rested against it, and ran down again along 
 her firm and rounded arm to the sun-bonnet 
 she dangled by its strings. Behind her, the 
 quay's edge shone bright against the green 
 water of the harbour, where, half a cable's 
 length from shore, a small three-masted 
 schooner lay at anchor, with her Blue Peter 
 fluttering at the fore. 
 
 " He's gettin' her to-rights," observed one of 
 the crowd. 
 
 A 'woman said, "I wish I'd a-been took in 
 my young days, when I w^as comely." 
 
 " Then, whyever wasn't 'ee, Mrs. Slade ? " 
 
 " Well-a-well, my dear, I'm sure I dunno. 
 Three ha'af-crowns is a lot o' money to see 
 piled in your palm, an' say ' Fare thee "well ; 
 increase ! ' Store 's no sore, as my old mother 
 used to say."
 
 236 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 " But," argued a man, " when once you've 
 made up your mind to the gallant speckilation, 
 you never regret it — danged if you do ! " 
 
 " Then why hasn't 'ee been took, Thomas, 
 in all these years ? " 
 
 "Because that little emmet o' doubt gets 
 the better o' me every time. 'Tis like holdin' 
 back from the Fifteen Balls : you feel sure 
 in your own mind you'll be better wi'out the 
 drink, but for your life you durstn't risk the 
 disapp'intment. Over this matter I'll grant ye 
 that I preaches what I can't practise. But my 
 preachin' is sound. Therefore, I bid ye all 
 follow the example o' Cap'n Hosken here, who, 
 bein' possessed wi' true love for 'Liza Saunders, 
 is havin' her portrait took for to hang up in 
 his narrow cabin out to sea, an' remind hissel' 
 o' the charms that bide at home a-languish- 
 in'. " 
 
 "That's not my reason, though," said Cap- 
 tain Hosken, a sunburnt and serious man, at 
 the painter's elbow. 
 
 " Then what may it be, makin' so bold ? " 
 
 " I'll tell ye when the painting's done." 
 
 " A couple of strokes, and it's finished," said 
 the artist;, cocking his head on one side and
 
 SEVEN-AN'-SIX. 237 
 
 screwing up his blue eyes. " There, Til tell 
 you plainly, iTiend, that my skill is but a seven- 
 and-six])enny matter, or a trifle beyond. It 
 does well enough what it pretends to do; but 
 this is a subject I never ought to have touched. 
 1 know my limits. You'll see, sir," he went on, 
 in a more business-like tone, "I've indicated 
 your ship here in the middle distance. I 
 thought it would give the portrait just that 
 touch of sentiment you would desire." 
 
 The faces gathered closer to stare. 'Liza 
 left the pillar, stretched herself to her full 
 height, and came forward, tying the strings of 
 her sun-bonnet. 
 
 " 'Tis the very daps of her ! " was Captain 
 Hosken's comment as he pulled out liis three 
 half-crowns. "' As for the Iiare Plant, what 
 you've put in might be took for a vessel ; and 
 if a man took it for a vessel, he might go on to 
 take it for a schooner ; but I'd be tolerable sorry 
 if he took it for a schooner o' which I was 
 master. Hows'ever, you've put in all 'Liza's 
 good looks an' enticingness. 'Tis a picture I'm 
 glad to own, an' be dashed to the sentiment 
 you talked about ! " 
 
 He took the portrait carefully from the
 
 238 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 easel, and held it before hhn, between his 
 open palms. 
 
 " I^eighbours all," he began, his rather stupid 
 face overspread with an expression of satisfied 
 cunning, " I promised to tell 'ee my reasons for 
 havin' 'Liza's portrait took. They're rather 
 out o' the common, an' 'Liza hersel' don't guess 
 what they be, no more than the biggest fool 
 here present amongst us." 
 
 He looked from the man Thomas, from 
 whose countenance this last innuendo glanced 
 off as from a stone wall, to 'Liza, who answered 
 him with a puzzled scowl. Her foot began to 
 tap the paving-stone impatiently. 
 
 ""When I gazes 'pon 'Liza," he pursued, 
 " my eyes be fairly dazzled wi' the looks o' her. 
 I allow that. She's got that build, an' them 
 lines about tlie neck an' waist, an' them red- 
 ripe lips, that I feels no care to look 'pon any 
 other woman. That's why I took up wi' her, 
 an' offered her my true heart. But strike me 
 if I'd counted 'pon her temper; an' she's got 
 the temper of Old Nick ! Why, only last even- 
 in' — the very evenin' before I sailed, mark 
 ye — she slai>ped my ear. She did, though ! 
 Says I, down under my breath, ' Right you
 
 SEVEN-AN 'SIX. 239 
 
 are, my lady ! we'll be quits for that.' But, 
 you see, I couldn' bear to break it off wi' her, 
 because I didn' want to iniss her beautiful 
 looks." 
 
 The women began to titter, and 'Liza's face to 
 flame, but her lover proceeded with great com- 
 placency : 
 
 " Well, I was beset in my mind till an hour 
 agone, when — as I walked down here with 
 'Liza, half mad to take leave of her, and sail for 
 Rio Grande, and likewise sick of her temper — 
 I sees this gentleman a-doin' pictures at seven- 
 an'-six ; and thinks I, ' If I can get 'en to make 
 a copy of 'Liza's good looks, then I shall take 
 off to sea as much as I want of her, an' the rest, 
 temper included, can bide at home till I calls 
 for it. That's all I've got to say. 'Liza's a 
 beauty beyond compare, an' her beauty I wor- 
 ships, an' means to worship. But if any young 
 man wants to take her, I tell him he's welcome. 
 So long t' ye all ! " 
 
 Still holding the canvas carefully a foot from 
 his waistcoat, to avoid smearing it, he sauntered 
 off to the quay-steps, and hailed his boat to 
 carry him aboard the i?«;'6 Plant. As he passed 
 the girl he had thus publicly jilted, her fingers
 
 240 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 contracted for a second like a hawk's talons ; but 
 she stood still, and watched him from under her 
 brows as he descended the steps. Then with a 
 look that, as it travelled in a semi-circlcj^ obliter- 
 ated the sympathy which most of the men put 
 into their faces, and the sneaking delight which 
 all the women wore on theirs, she strode out 
 of the fish-market and up the street. 
 
 Seven-an'-Six squeezed the paint out of his 
 brushes, packed up his easel and japanned box, 
 wished the company good-day, and strolled back 
 to his inn. He was sincerely distressed, and 
 regretted a hundred times in the course of that 
 evening that he had parted with the portrait 
 and received its price before Captain Hosken 
 had made that speech. He would (he told him- 
 self) have run his knife through the canvas, and 
 gladly forfeited the money. As it was, he 
 lingered long over the supper it procured, and 
 ate heartily. 
 
 A mile beyond the town, next morning, 
 Boutigo's van, in which he was the onl}^ pas- 
 senger, pulled up in front of a roadside cottage. 
 A bundle and a tin box were hoisted up by 
 Boutigo, and a girl climbed in. It was 'Liza.
 
 SEVEN-AN'-SIX. 241 
 
 " Oh, good morning ! '■ stammered the little 
 painter. 
 
 "I'm going to stay with my aunt in 
 Truro, and seek service," the girl announced, 
 keeping her eye upon him, and her colour 
 down with an effort. " "Where are 3^ou 
 bound ? " 
 
 " I ? Oh, I travel about, now in one place, 
 next day in another — always moving. It's 
 the breath of life to me, moving around.'' 
 
 " That must be nice ! I often wonder why 
 men tie themselves up to a wife when they 
 might be free to move about like you, and see 
 the world. What does a man want to tack a 
 wife on to him when he can always carry her 
 image about?" She laughed, without much 
 bitterness. 
 
 "But — " began the amiable painter, and 
 checked himself. He had been about to con- 
 fess that he himself owned a wife and four 
 healthy children. He saw this family about 
 once in two months, and it existed by letting 
 out lodgings in a small unpaintable town. lie 
 was sincerely fond of his wife, who made 
 every allowance for his mercurial nature ; but 
 it suddenly struck Jiim tliat her portrait hung
 
 242 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 in the parlour at home, and had never accom- 
 panied him on his travels. 
 
 He Avas silent for a minute or two, and then 
 began to converse on ordinary topics.
 
 THE REGENT'S WAGER. 
 
 BouTiGo's van — officially styled The Vivid 
 — had just issued from the Packhorse Yard, 
 Tregarrick, a leisurely three-quarters of an hour 
 behind its advertised time, and was scaling the 
 acclivity of St. Fimbar's Street in a series of 
 short tacks. Now and then it halted to take 
 up a passenger or a parcel ; and on these occa- 
 sions Boutigo produced a couple of big stones 
 from his hip-pockets and slipped them under 
 the hind-wheels, while we, his patrons within 
 the van, tilted at an angle of 15° upon cushions 
 of American cloth, sought for new centres of 
 gravity, and earnestly desired the summit. 
 
 It was on the summit, where the considerate 
 Boutigo gave us a minute's pause to rearrange 
 ourselves and our belongings, that we slipped 
 into easy and general talk. An old country- 
 man, with an empty poultry-basket on his 
 knees, and a battered top-hat on the back of 
 his head, gave us the cue. 
 
 " When Boutigo's father had the accident — 
 243
 
 24-4 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 that was back in ' fifty-six,' and it broke his 
 leg an' two ribs — the van started from close 
 'pon the knaj) o' the hill here, and scat itself 
 to bits against the bridge at the foot just two 
 and a half minutes after." 
 
 I suggested that this was not very fast for 
 a runa"\vay horse. 
 
 "I dessa}^ not," he answered; "but 'twas 
 })retty sjDry for a van slippin' haclmjards, and 
 the old mare diggin' her toes in all the way to 
 hold it up." 
 
 One or two of the passengers grinned at ray 
 expense, and the old man pursued — 
 
 " But if you want to know how fast a boss 
 can get down St. Fimbar's hill, I reckon you've 
 lost your chance by not axin' Dan'l Best, that 
 died up to the 'Sylum twelve years since; 
 though, poor soul, he'd but one answer for 
 every question from his seven-an'-twentieth 
 year to his end, an' that was ' One, two, three, 
 four, five, six, seven." 
 
 " Ah, the poor body ! his was a wisht case," 
 a woman observed from the corner furthest 
 from the door. 
 
 " Ay, Selina, and fast forgotten, like all the 
 doin's and sufferin's of the men of old time."
 
 THE regent's ]VAGEIi. 245 
 
 He reached a hand round his basket, and 
 touching me on tlie knee, pointed back on 
 Tregarrick. " There's a wall," he said, and I 
 saw by the direction of his finger that he meant 
 the wall of the county prison, "and beneath 
 that wall's a road, and across that road's a 
 dismal pool, and beyond that pool's a green 
 hillside, with a road athurt it that comes down 
 and crosses by the pool's head. Standin' 'pon 
 that hillside you can see a door in the wall, 
 twenty feet above the ground, an' openin' on 
 nothing. Leastways, you could see it once; 
 an' even now, if ye've good e3^esight, ye can 
 see where tliey've bricked it up." 
 
 I could, in fact, even at our distance, detect 
 the patch of recent stone-work ; and knew 
 something of its history. 
 
 " Kow," the old man continued, " turn your 
 looks to the right and mark the face of Tre- 
 garrick town-clock. You see it, hey ? " — and 
 I had time to read the hour on its dial before 
 Boutigo jolted us over the ridge and out of 
 sight of it — " AVell, carry them two things in 
 your mind : for they mazed Dan'l Best an' 
 murdered his brother Hughie." 
 
 And, much as I shall repeat it, he told me
 
 246 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 this tale, pausing now and again to be corrobo- 
 rated b}" the woman in the corner. The history, 
 my dear reader, is accurate enough — for Bouti- 
 go's van. 
 
 There lived a young man in Tregarrick in 
 the time of the French War. His name was 
 Dan'l Best, and he had an only brother Hughie, 
 just three years younger than himself. Their 
 father and mother had died of the small-pox 
 and left them, when quite young children, upon 
 the parish : but old Walters of the Packhorse 
 — he was great-grandfather of the Walters that 
 keeps it now — took a liking to them and 
 employed them, first about his stables and in 
 course of time as post-boys. Yery good post- 
 boys they were, too, till Hughie took to 
 drinking and wenching and cards and other 
 deviPs tricks. Dan'l was always a steady sort : 
 walked with a nice young woman that was 
 under-hoasemaid up to the old Lord Bellarmine's 
 at Castle Cannick, and was saving up to be 
 married, when Hughie robbed the mail. 
 
 Hughie robbed the mail out of doubt. He 
 did it up b\^ Tippet's Barrow, just beyond the 
 cross-roads where the scarlet gig used to meet
 
 THE liEGENT'S WAGER. 247 
 
 the coach and take the mails for Castle Cannick 
 and beyond to Tolquite. Billy Phillips, that 
 drove the gig, was found in the ditch with his 
 mouth gagged, and swore to Ilugliie's being the 
 man. The Lord Chief Justice, too, summed up 
 dead against him, and the jury didn't even leave 
 the box. x\nd the moral was, " Ilughie Best, 
 you're to be taken to the place whence you 
 come from, ancetera, and may the Lord have 
 mercy upon your soul ! " 
 
 You may fancy what a blow this was to 
 Dan'l ; for though fine and vexed with Hughie's 
 evil courses, he'd never guessed the worst, nor 
 anything like it. Xot a doubt had he, nor 
 could have, that Ilughie was guilty ; but he 
 went straight from the court to his young- 
 woman and said, "I've saved money for us 
 to be married on. There's little chance that I 
 can win Ilughie a reprieve ; and, whether or 
 no, it Avill eat up all, or nearly all, my savings. 
 Only he's my one brother. Shall I go ? " And 
 she said, " Go, my dear, if I wait ten years for 
 you." So he borrowed a horse for a stage or 
 two, and then hired, and so got to London, on 
 a fool's chase, as it seemed. 
 
 The fellow's purpose, of course, was to see
 
 248 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 King George. But King George, as it happened, 
 was daft just then ; and George his son leigned 
 in his stead, being called the Prince Kegent. 
 Weary days did Dan'l air his heels with one 
 Minister of the Crown after another before he 
 could get to see this same Regent, and 'tis to 
 be supposed that the great city, being new to 
 him, weighed heavy on his sphits. And all 
 the time he had but one plea, that his brother 
 was no more than a boy and hadn't an ounce 
 of vice in his nature — which was well enouo-h 
 beknown to all in Tregarrick, but didn't go 
 down with His Majesty's advisers : while as 
 for the Prince Regent, Dan'l couldn't get to 
 see him till the Wednesday evening that Hughie 
 was to be hanged on the Friday, and then his 
 Royal Highness spoke him neither soft nor 
 hopeful. 
 
 " The case was clear as God's daylight," sajd 
 he : " the Lord Chief Justice tells me that the 
 jury didn't even quit the box," 
 
 " Your Royal Highness must excuse me," 
 said Dan'l, " but I never shall be able to respect 
 that judge. My o])inion of a judge is, he should 
 be like a stickler and see fair play ; but this 
 here chap took sides against Hughie from the
 
 THE REGENTS WAGER. 249 
 
 first. If I was you," he said, " 1 wouldn't trust 
 him with a Petty Sessions." 
 
 Well, you may tliink how likely this kind 
 of speech was to please the Prince Regent. 
 And I've heard that Dan'l was in the very 
 article of being pitched out, neck and crop, 
 Avhen he heard a regular caprouse start up in 
 the antechamber behind him, and a lord-in-wait- 
 ing, or whatev^erhe's called, comes in and speaks 
 a word very low to the Prince. 
 
 "Show him in at once," says he, dropping 
 poor Dan'l's petition upon the table beside him ; 
 and in there walks a young officer with his 
 boots soiled with riding and the sea-salt in his 
 hair, like as if he'd just come off a ship ; and 
 hands the Prince a big letter. The Prince 
 hardly cast his eye over w^hat was written 
 before he outs with a lusty hurrah, as well he 
 might, for this was the first news of the taking 
 of St. Sebastian. 
 
 " Here's news," said he, " to fill the country 
 with bonfires this night." 
 
 " Begging your Royal Highness's pardon," 
 answers the officer, pulling out his watch ; " but 
 the mail coaches have left St. Martin's Lane" — 
 that's where they started from, as Pve heard 
 tell — " these twenty minutes."
 
 250 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 " Damn it ! " says Dan'l Best and the Prince 
 Regent, both in one breath. 
 
 " Hulloa ! Be yon here still ? " says the 
 Prince, turning sharp round at the sound of 
 Dan'l's voice. "And what be you waiting for ? " 
 
 " For my brother Hughie's reprieve," says 
 Dan'l. 
 
 " Well, but 'tis too late now, anyway," says 
 the Prince. 
 
 " I'll bet 'tis not," says Dan'l, " if you'll look 
 slippy and make out the paper." 
 
 "You can't do it. 'Tis over two hundred 
 and fifty miles, and you can't travel ten miles 
 an hour all tlie way like the coach." 
 
 " It'll reach Tregarrick to-morrow night," 
 says Dan'l, "an' they won't hang Hughie till 
 seven in the morning. So I've an hour or two 
 to spare, and being a post-boy myself, I know 
 the ropes." 
 
 " Well," says his Poyal Highness, " I'm in a 
 very good temper because of this here glorious 
 storming of St. Sebastian. So I'll wager your 
 brother's life you don't get there in time to stop 
 the execution." 
 
 "Done with you, O King!" says Dan'l, and 
 tlie reprieve was made out, quick as lightning.
 
 THE REGENT'S WACER. 251 
 
 Well, sir, Dan'l knew the ropes, as lie said ; 
 and, moreover, I reckon there was a kind of 
 freemasonry among post-boys ; and the two to- 
 gether, taken with liis knowledge o' horseflesh, 
 helped him down the road as never a man was 
 helped before or since. 'Twas striking nine at 
 night when he started out of London with the 
 reprieve in his pocket, and by half-past five in 
 the morning he spied Salisbury spire lifting out 
 of the morning liglit. Tliere was some hitch 
 here — the first he met — in getting a relay ; 
 but by six he was off again, and passed through 
 Exeter early in the afternoon. Down came a 
 heaAy rain as the evening drew^ in, and before 
 he reached Okehampton the roads w^ere like a 
 bog. Here it was that the anguish began, and 
 of course to Dan'l, who found himself for the 
 first time in his life sitting in the chaise instead 
 of in the saddle, 'twas the deuce's own torment 
 to hold himself still, feel the time slipping away, 
 and not be riding and getting every ounce out 
 of the beasts : though, even to his eye, the rider 
 in front was no fool. But at Launceston soon 
 after daybreak he met wdth a misfortune indeed. 
 A lot of folks had driven dow^n overnight to 
 Tregarrick to witness the day's sad doings, and
 
 252 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 there wasn't a chaise to be had in the town for 
 love or money. 
 
 " What do I want with a chaise ? " said Dan'l, 
 for of course he was in his own country now, 
 and everybody knew him. " For the love of 
 God, give me a horse that'll take me into 
 Tregarrick before seven and save Hughie's 
 life ! Man, I've got a reprieve ! " 
 
 '' Dear lad, is that so '{ " said the landlord, 
 who had come down, and was standing by 
 the hotel door in nightcap and bedgown. " I 
 thought, maybe, you was hurrying to see the 
 last of your brother. Well, there's but one 
 horse left in stable, and that's the grey your 
 master sold me two months back ; and he's a 
 screw, as you must know. But here's the 
 stable key. Run and take him out yourself, 
 and God go with 'ee ! " 
 
 None knew better than Dan'l that the grey 
 was a screw. But he ran down to the stable, 
 fetched the beast out, and didn't even wait to 
 shift his halter for a bridle, but caught up the 
 half of a broken mop-handle that lay by the 
 stable door, and with no better riding whip 
 galloped off bare-back towards Tregarrick. 
 
 Aye, sir, and he almost won his race in spite
 
 THE REGENT'S WAGEE. 253 
 
 of all. The hands o' the town clock were close 
 upon seven as he came galloping over the knu}) 
 of the hill and saw the booths below him and 
 sweet-stalls and standings — for on such days 
 'twas as good as a fair in Tregarrick — and the 
 crowd under the prison wall. And there, above 
 them, he could see the little open doorway in 
 the wall, and one or two black figures there, 
 and the beam. Just as he saw this the clock 
 struck its first note, and Dan'l, still riding like 
 a madman, let out a scream, and waved the 
 paper over his head ; but the distance "was too 
 great. Seven times the clapper struck, and 
 with each stroke Dan'l screamed, still riding 
 and keeping his eyes upon that little doorway. 
 But a second or two after the last stroke he 
 dropped his arm suddenly as if a bullet had 
 gone through it, and screamed no more. Less 
 than a minute after, sir, he pulled up by the 
 bridge on the skirt of the crowd, and looked 
 round him with a silly smile. 
 
 " Neighbours," says he, " I've a-got great 
 news for ye. We've a-taken St. Sebastian, and 
 by all acounts the Frenchies '11 be drove out 
 of Spain in less 'n a week.''
 
 254 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 There was silence in Boutigo's van for a full 
 minute ; and then the old woman spoke from 
 the corner : 
 
 " "Well, go on, Sam, and tell the finish to the 
 company." 
 
 " Is there more to tell ? " I asked. 
 
 " Yes, sir," said Sam, leaning forward again 
 and tapping my knee very gently, " there were 
 two men condemned at Tregarrick, that Assize ; 
 and two men put to death that morning. The 
 first to go was a sheep-stealer. Ten minutes 
 after, Dan'l saw Hughie his brother led forth ; 
 and stood there and watched, with the reprieve 
 in his hand. His wits were gone, and he chit- 
 chattered all the time about St. Sebastian.
 
 LOVE OF NAOMI. 
 
 The house known as Yellan's Rents stands 
 in the Chy-pons over the waterside, a stone's 
 throw be3'ond the ferry and the archway where 
 the toll-keeper used to live. You may know it 
 by its exceeding dilapidation and by the clouds 
 of steam that issue on the street from one of its 
 windows. The sill of tliis window stands a 
 bare foot above the causeway, and glancing 
 down into the room as you pass, you will see 
 the shoulders of a woman stooping over a 
 wash-tub. AVhen first I used to pass this 
 window the w^oman was called Naomi Brick- 
 nell ; later it was Sarah Ann Polgrain ; and 
 now it is (euphemistically) Pretty Alice. One 
 goes and makes way for another, but the wash- 
 tub is always there and the rheumatic fever; 
 and Avhile these remain they Avill never lack, as 
 they have never lacked yet, for a woman to do 
 battle for dear life between them. 
 
 255
 
 256 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 But my story concerns the first of these only, 
 Naomi Briclcnell. She and her mother occupied 
 two rooms in Yellan's Eents as far back as I 
 can remember, and were twisted with the fever 
 about once in every six months. For this they 
 paid one shilling a week rent. If you lift the 
 latch and push the front door open, you seem 
 at first to be looking down a well ; for a flight 
 of thirty-two steps plunges straight from the 
 threshold to the quay door and a square of 
 green water there. And when the sun is on 
 the water at the bottom of this funnel, the 
 effect is pretty. But taking note of the cold 
 wind that rushes up this stairway and into the 
 steaming room Avhere the wash-tub stands, you 
 will understand how it comes that each new 
 tenant takes over the rheumatic fever as one 
 of the fixtures. 
 
 In a room to the right of the stairway, and 
 facing Naomi's, lived a middle-aged man who 
 was always known as Long Oliver. This man 
 was a native of the poi't, and it was understood 
 that he and Naomi had been well acquainted, 
 years ago, before he started on his first voyage 
 and some time before Naomi married. Tiring 
 of the sea in time, he had found work on the
 
 LOVE OF NAOMI. 257 
 
 jetties and rented this room for sixpence a 
 week. In these days he and Naomi rarely 
 spoke to each other beyond exchanging a " Good- 
 morning " when they met on the stairway, nor 
 did he show any friendliness beyond tapping at 
 her mother's door and iiKpiiring about her once 
 a day whenever she happened to be down with 
 the fever. I have made researches and find 
 that the rest of the house was tenanted at that 
 time by a working block-maker, with his wife 
 and four children ; a widow and her son just 
 returned from sea with an injured spine ; a 
 young couple without children. But these do 
 not come into the tale. 
 
 Now the history of Naomi was this. She 
 was married at three-and-twenty to Abe Brick- 
 nell, a young sailor of the port, and as steady as 
 a woman could wish. In the third year of their 
 married life, and a week after obtaining his 
 certificate, he sailed out of Troy as mate of a 
 fruit-ship, a barque, that never came back, noi' 
 was sighted again after passing the Lizard lights. 
 
 Naomi — a tall up-standing woman with deep, 
 gentle eyes, like a cow's, and a firm mouth that 
 seldom spoke — took her affliction oddly. She 
 neither wailed nor put on mourning. She
 
 258 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 looked upon it as a matter between herself 
 and her Maker, and said : 
 
 " God has done this thing to me ; therefore 
 I have finished with Him. I am no man to 
 go and revenge myself by breaking all the 
 Commandments. But I am a woman and can 
 suffer. Let Him do His worst : I defy Him." 
 
 So she never set foot inside church again, 
 nor offered any worship. The week long she 
 Avorked as a laundress, and sat through the 
 Sundays with her arms folded, gloomily fight- 
 ing her duel. When the fever wrenched hei* 
 arms and lips as she stood by the wash-tub, she 
 set her teeth and said, " I can stand it. I can 
 match all this with contempt. He can kill, but 
 that's not beating me." 
 
 Her mother, a large and pale-faced woman 
 of sixty, with an apparently thoughtful con- 
 traction of the lips, in reality due to a habit 
 of carrying pins in her mouth, watched Naomi 
 anxiously during this period of her life. And 
 Long Oliver watched her too, though secretly, 
 with eyes screwed up after the fashion of men 
 who have followed the sea. 
 
 One day he stopped her on the stairs and 
 asked, abruptly :
 
 LOVE OF NAOMI. 269 
 
 " When be you thinkin' to marry again ? " 
 
 "Never," she answered, straight and at once, 
 halting with a hand on her hip and eyeing 
 him. 
 
 " Dear me ; but you will, I hope." 
 
 " Not to you, anyway." 
 
 " Laws me, no ! I don't want 'ee ; haven't 
 wanted 'ee these ten years. But I'd a reason 
 for askin'." 
 
 '' Then I'm sure I don't know what it can be." 
 
 "True — true. Look 'ee here, my dear; 'tis 
 ordained for you to marry agen." 
 
 "Aw? Who by?" 
 
 " Providence." 
 
 Naomi had treated Long Oliver badly in days 
 gone by, but could still talk to him with more 
 freedom than to other men. Still standing with 
 a hand on her hip, she let fall a horrible sen- 
 tence about the Almighty — all the more hor- 
 rible in that it came deliberately, without 
 emphasis, and from quiet lips. 
 
 " Woman I " cried a voice above them. 
 
 They turned, looked up, and saw the bent 
 figure of a man framed in the street doorway. 
 This was William Geake, who walked in from 
 Gantick every Saturday to collect the sixpences
 
 260 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 and shillings of Yellan's Eents for its landlord, 
 a well-to-do wine and spirit merchant at Tre- 
 garrick. As a man of indisputable probity and 
 an unwearying walker, Geake was entrusted 
 with many odd jobs of this kind in the country 
 round, filling in with them such idle corners as 
 his trade of carpenter and undertaker to Gan- 
 tick village might leave in the six working days. 
 On Sundays he put on a long black coat, and 
 became a Rounder, or Methodist local-preacher, 
 walking sometimes twenty miles there and back 
 to terrify the inhabitants of outlying hamlets 
 about their future state. 
 
 " Woman ! " cried William Geake, " Down 
 'pon your knees an' pray God the roof don't 
 fall on 'ee for your vile words." 
 
 " I reckon," retorted Naomi quietly, with a 
 glance up at the worm-riddled rafters, "you'd 
 do more good by speakin' to the landlord." 
 
 William Geake had a high brow and bright, 
 nervous eyes, betokening enthusiasm ; but he 
 had also a long and square jaw that meant 
 stubbornness. This jaw now began to protrude 
 and his lips to straighten. 
 
 " Down 'pon your knees ! " he repeated. 
 
 Naomi turned her eyes from him to Long
 
 LOVE OF NAOMI. 261 
 
 Oliver, who leant against the staircase wall with 
 his arms crossed and a veiled amusement in his 
 face. With a slightly heightened colour, but 
 no flutter of the voice, she repeated her 
 blasphemy ; and then, pulling a sliilling from 
 her ^vorn purse, tendered it to Geake. This, of 
 course, meant " Mind your own business " ; but 
 he waved her hand aside. 
 
 " Down 'pon your knees, woman ! " he 
 shouted thunderously. Then, as she showed 
 no disposition to obey, he added, grimly, " Eh ? 
 but somebody shall intercede for thee afore 
 thou'rt a minute older." 
 
 And pulling off his hat there and then, he 
 knelt down on the doorstep, with the soles of 
 his hob-nailed boots showing to the street. 
 
 " Get up, an' don't make yoursel' a may- 
 game," said Naomi hurriedly, as one or two 
 children stopped their play, and drew around 
 to stare. 
 
 "Father in heaven," began "William Geake, 
 in a voice that fetched the women-folk, all up 
 and down the Chy-pons, to their doors, " Thou, 
 whose property is ever to have mercy, forgive 
 this blaspheming woman ! Suffer one who is 
 Thy servant, though a grievous sinner, to inter-
 
 262 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 cede for her afore she commits the sin that can- 
 not be forgiven ; to pluck her as a brand from 
 the bm^ning — " 
 
 By this, the women and a loafing man or 
 two had clustered round, and Colliver's coal- 
 cart had rattled up and come to a standstill. 
 The Chy-pons is the narrowest street in Troy, 
 and Colliver's driver could hardly pass now, 
 except over William Geake's legs. 
 
 " Draw in your feet, brother Geake," he 
 called out, "or else pray short." 
 
 One or two women giggled at this. But 
 Geake did not seem to hear. For five good 
 minutes he prayed vociferously, as was his 
 custom in meeting-house ; then rose, replaced 
 his hat, dusted his knees, held out his hand 
 for Naomi's shilling, and wrote her the cus- 
 tomary voucher in his most business-like man- 
 ner, and without another word. But there 
 was a triumphant look in his eyes that dared 
 IS'aomi to repeat her offence, and she very 
 nearly wept as she felt that the words would 
 not come. This and the shame of publicity 
 drove her back into her room as Geake passed 
 down the stairs to collect the other rents. A 
 few women still hung about the doorway as he
 
 LOVE OF NAOMI. 268 
 
 emerged, some twenty minutes later. But he 
 marched down Chy-pons with head erect and 
 eyes fixed straight ahead. 
 
 II. 
 
 On the following Saturday, when Geake 
 called, Naomi was standing at her wash-tub. 
 She had seen him pass the window, and, hur- 
 riedly wiping her hands, and pulling out her 
 shilling, placed it ostentatiously in the very 
 centre of the deal table by the door; then 
 had just time to plunge her hands in the 
 soap-suds again before he knocked. Try as 
 she would, she could not keep back a blush 
 at the remembrance of last week's scene, and 
 half looked for him to make some allusion 
 to it. 
 
 His extremely business-like air reassured her. 
 She nodded towards the shilling Avithout re- 
 moving her hands from the tub. He took it, 
 including in a polite good-morning both Naomi 
 and her mother, who was huddled in an arm- 
 chair before the fire and recovering from an 
 attack of the fever, wrote out his voucher 
 solemnly, set it in the exact spot where the
 
 264 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 shilling had stood, took up his hat, hesitated 
 for less than a second, replaced his hat on the 
 table, and, pulling a chair towards him, dropped 
 on his knees, and began to pray aloud. 
 
 The old woman by the fire slewed her head 
 painfully round and stared at him, then at 
 Naomi. But Naomi was standing with her 
 back to them both, and her hands soaping the 
 linen in the tub — gently, however, and without 
 any splashing. She therefore let her head sink 
 back on the cushion, and assumed that pecuHarh^ 
 dejected air, commonly reserved by her for the 
 consolations of religion. 
 
 On this occasion William Geake prayed in a 
 low and level tone, and very briefly. He made 
 no allusion to last Saturday, but put up an 
 earnest petition for blessings upon " our two 
 sisters here," and that they might learn to 
 accept their appointed portion with resignation, 
 yea, even with a holy joy. At the end of two 
 minutes he rose, and was about to dust his 
 knees, after his usual custom, but, becoming 
 suddenly aware of the difference in cleanliness 
 between Naomi's lime-ash and the floors of the 
 various meeting-houses of his acquaintance, 
 refrained. This little piece of delicacy did not
 
 LOVE OF NAOMI. 266 
 
 escape Naomi, though her shoulders were still 
 bent over the tub, to all seeming as resolutely 
 as ever. 
 
 "Well, I swow that was very friendly of 
 Mister Geake I " the old woman ejaculated, as 
 the door closed behind him. " 'Tisn't every- 
 body 'd ha' thought what a comfort a little 
 scrap o' religion can be to an old woman in my 
 state." 
 
 " He took a great liberty," said Naomi 
 snappishly. 
 
 " AVell, he might ha' said as much as ' By 
 your leave,' to be sure ; an' now you say so, 
 "twas makin' a bit free to talk about our de- 
 pendence — an' in my own kitchen too." 
 
 " He meant our dependence on th' Almighty," 
 Naomi corrected, still more snappishly. " Will- 
 iam Geake's an odd-fangied man, but you 
 might give 'en credit for good-feelin'. An', 
 what's more, though I don't hold wi' Christian 
 talk, if a man have a got beliefs, I respect 'en 
 for standin' to 'em without shame." 
 
 " But I thought, a moment ago — " her 
 mother began, and then subsided. She was 
 accustomed to small tangles in her own pro- 
 cesses of thought, and quite incapable, after
 
 266 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 years of blind acceptance, of correcting Naomi's 
 logic, 
 
 No more was said on the matter. The next 
 Saturday, after receiving his shilling, Mr. Geake 
 knelt down without any hesitation. It was 
 clear he wished this prayer to be a weekly 
 institution, and an institution it became. 
 
 The women never knelt. Naomi, indeed, 
 had never sanctioned the innovation, unless 
 by her silence, and her mother assisted only 
 with a very lugubrious " Amen," being too 
 weak to stir from her chair. As the months 
 passed, it became evident to Geake that her 
 strength would never come back. The fever 
 had left her, apparently for good ; but the 
 rheumatism remained, and closed slowly upon 
 the heart. The machine was worn out. 
 
 When the end came, Naomi had been doing 
 the work single-handed for close upon twelve 
 months. She could always get a plenty of 
 work, and now took in a deal too much for 
 her strength, to settle the doctor's and under- 
 taker's bills, and buy herself a black gown, 
 cape, and bonnet. The funeral, of course, took 
 place on a Sunday. Geake, on the Saturday 
 afternoon, knocked gently at Naomi's door.
 
 LOVE OF NAOMI. 267 
 
 His single intent was to speak a word or two 
 of sympathy, if she would listen, llemember- 
 ing her constant attitude under the Divine 
 scourge, he felt a trifle nervous. 
 
 But there lay the shilling in the centre of 
 the table, and there stood Naomi in a cloud of 
 steam, hard at work on an immoderate pile 
 of washing — even a man's miscalculating eye 
 could see that it was immoderate. 
 
 "■ I didn't call — - " he began, with a glance 
 towards the shilling. 
 
 " No ; I know you didn't. But you may so 
 well take it all the same." 
 
 Geake had rehearsed a small speech, but 
 found himself making out and signing the 
 voucher as usual ; and, as usual, when it was 
 signed, he drew over a chair, and dropped on 
 his knees. In prayer-meeting he was a great 
 hand at "improving" an occasion of bereave- 
 ment ; but here again his will to speak im- 
 pressively suddenly failed him. His Avords 
 Avere : 
 
 " Lord, there were two w^omen grinding at a 
 mill ; the one was taken, and t'other left. She 
 that you took, you've a-carr'd beyond our 
 prayers; but O. be gentle, be gentle, to her 
 that's left!''
 
 268 THE DELECTABLE BUCHY. 
 
 He arose, and looked shyly, almost shame- 
 facedly, at Naomi. She had not turned. But 
 her head was bowed ; and, drawing near, he 
 saw that the scalding tears were falling fast 
 into the wash-tub. She had not wept when 
 her husband was lost, nor since. 
 
 " Go away ! " she commanded, before he 
 could speak, turning her shoulders resolutely 
 towards him. 
 
 He took up his hat, and went out softly, 
 closing the door softly behind him. 
 
 His eye, which was growing quick to read 
 Naomi's face, saw at once, as he entered the 
 room a week later, that she deprecated even 
 the slightest reference to her weakness. It 
 also told him — he had not guessed it before — 
 that her emotional breakdown had probably 
 more to do with physical exhaustion than with 
 any eloquence of his. The pile of washing 
 had grown, and the woman's face was grey 
 with fatigue, 
 
 Geake, as he made out the voucher, cast 
 about for a polite mode of hinting that this 
 kind of thing must not go on. Nevertheless 
 it was Naomi who began.
 
 LOVE OF NAOMI. 269 
 
 " Look here," she said, as he put clown the 
 voucher ; " there ain't goin' to be no more 
 prayin', eh ? " 
 
 "Why, to be sure there is," he answered with 
 a show of great cheerfulness ; and reached for 
 a chair. 
 
 " I'd liefer you didn't. I don't want it. 1 
 don't hold by any o't. You'ni very kind," 
 she went on, her voice trembling for an in- 
 stant and then recovering its firmness, "and 
 I reckon it soothed mother. But I reckon 
 it don't soothe me. I reckon it rubs me the 
 wrong way. There's times, when I hears a 
 body prayin', that I wishes we was Papists 
 again and worshipped images, that I might 
 throw stones at 'em ! " 
 
 She paused, looked up into Geake's devour- 
 ing eyes, and added, witli a poor attempt at a 
 laugh : 
 
 " So you see, I'm wicked, an' don't want to 
 be saved." 
 
 Then the man broke forth : 
 
 " Saved ? No, I reckon you don't ! Wicked ? 
 Iss, I reckon you be! But saved you shall 
 be — ay, if you was twice so wicked. AVho'll 
 do it i I'll do it — I alone. I don't Avant
 
 270 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 your help. I want to do it in spite of 'ee : 
 an' I'll lay that I do! Be your wickedness 
 deep as hell, an' I'll reach down a hand to 
 the roots and pluck it up : be your salvation 
 stubborn as Death, I'll Avrestle wi' the Lord 
 for it. If I sell my own soid for't, yours shall 
 be redeemed ! " 
 
 He slammed down his fist on the rickety 
 deal table, which promptly collapsed flat on 
 the floor, with its four legs splayed under the 
 circular cover, 
 
 "Bein' a carpenter — " Geake began to 
 stammer apologetically, and in a totally difi'er- 
 ent tone. 
 
 For a second — two seconds — the issue hung 
 between tears and laughter. An hysterical 
 merriment twinkled in Naomi's eyes. 
 
 But the strength of Geake's passion saved 
 the situation. He stepped up to Naomi, laid 
 a hand on each shoulder, and shook her gently 
 to and fro. 
 
 "Listen to me! As I hold 'ee now, so I 
 
 take your fate in my hands. Naomi Bricknell, 
 
 you've got to be my wife, so make up your 
 
 mind to that." 
 ,1 
 
 She cowered a little under his grasp ; put
 
 LOVE OF NAOMI. 271 
 
 out a hand to push him off ; drew it back ; and 
 broke into helpless sobbing. But this time she 
 did not command him to go away. 
 
 Fifteen minutes later William Geake left 
 Vellan's Rents with joy on his face and a 
 broken table under his ai'm. 
 
 And two days later Naomi's face wore a 
 look of demure happiness when Long Oliver 
 stopped her on the staircase and asked, 
 
 " Is it true, what I hear ? " 
 
 " It is true," she answered. 
 
 " An' when be the banns called ? " 
 
 " There ain't goin' to be no banns." 
 
 "Hey?" 
 
 " There ain't goin' to be no banns ; leastways, 
 there ain't goin' to be none called. We'm 
 goin' to the Registry Office. You look all 
 struck of a heap. AYas you liopin' to be best 
 man '"i " 
 
 "Well, I reckoned I'd take a hand in the 
 responses," he answered ; and seemed about to 
 say more, but turned on his heel and went 
 back to his room, shutting the door behind 
 him.
 
 272 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 III. 
 
 AYe pass to a Saturday morning, two years 
 later, and to William Geake's cottage at the 
 western end of Gantick village. 
 
 JSTaomi had plucked three fowls and trussed 
 them, and wrapping each in a white napkin, 
 had packed them in her basket with a dozen 
 and a half of eggs, a few pats of butter, and 
 a nosegay or two of garden-flowers- — Sweet 
 Williams, marigolds, and heart' s-ease : for it 
 was market-day at Tregarrick. Then she put 
 on boots and shawl, tied her bonnet, and slung 
 a second pair of boots across her arm : for the 
 roads were heavy and she would leave the 
 muddy pair with a friend who lived at the 
 entrance of the to^vn, not choosing to appear 
 untidy as she walked up the Fore Street. 
 These arrangements made, she went to seek 
 her husband, who was busy planing a coffin- 
 lid in the workshop behind the cottage, and 
 ruminating upon to-morrow's sermon. 
 
 " You'll be about startin'," he said, lifting his 
 head and pushing his spectacles up over his 
 eye-brows.
 
 LOV-E OF NAOMI. 273 
 
 Naomi set her basket down on his work- 
 table, and drew her breath back between her 
 teeth — which is the Cornish mode of saying 
 "Yes." "I want you to make me a couple of 
 skivers," she said. " Aun' Ilambly sent over 
 word she'd a brace o' chicken for me to sell, 
 an' I was to call for 'em : an' I'd be ashamed 
 to sell a fowl the way she skivers it." 
 
 William set down his plane, picked up an 
 odd scrap of wood and cut out the skewers 
 with his pocket-knife; while Naomi watched 
 with a smile on her face. Whether or no 
 William had recovered her soul, as he promised, 
 she had certainly given her heart into his keep- 
 ing. The love of such a widow, he found, is 
 as the surrender of a maid, with wisdom added. 
 
 The skewers finished, he walked out through 
 the house with her and down the garden-path, 
 carrying the basket as far as the gate. The 
 scent of pine-shavings came with him. Half- 
 way down the path Naomi turned aside and 
 picking a sprig of Boy's Love, held it up for 
 him to smell. The action Avas trivial, but as 
 he took the sprig they both laughed, looking in 
 each other's eyes. Then they kissed ; and the 
 staid woman went her way down the road,
 
 274 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 while the staid man loitered for a moment 
 by the gate and watched her as she went, 
 
 Now as he took his eyes away and glanced 
 for an instant in the other direction, lie was 
 aware of a man who had just come round the 
 angle of the garden hedge and, standing in the 
 middle of the road, not a dozen yards off, was 
 also staring after his wife. 
 
 This stranger was a broad-shouldered fellow 
 in a suit of blue seaman's cloth, the trousers of 
 which were tucked inside a pair of Wellington 
 boots. His complexion was brown as a nut, 
 and he wore rings in his ears : but the features 
 were British enough. A perplexed, ingratiat- 
 ing and rather silly smile overspread them. 
 
 The two men regarded each other for a bit, 
 and then the stranger drew nearer. 
 
 "I do believe that was JSTa'mi," he said, nod- 
 ding his head after the woman's figure, that 
 had not yet passed out of sight. 
 
 William Geake opened his eyes wide and 
 answered curtly, "Yes: that's my wife — 
 Naomi Geake. What then ? " 
 
 The man scratcliod liis head, contemplating 
 William as he might some illegible sign-post 
 set up at an unusually bothersome cross-road.
 
 LOVE OF NAOMI. 275 
 
 " She keeps very han'some, I will say." His 
 smile grew still more ingratiating. 
 
 " Was you wisliin' to speak wi' her ? " 
 
 " Well, there ! I was an' yet I wasn't. 'Tis 
 terrible puzzlin'. You don't know me, I des- 
 say." 
 
 "No, I don't." 
 
 '' I be called Abe Bricknell — A-bra-ham 
 Bricknell. I used to be Na'mi's husband, one 
 time. There now" — with an accent of genu- 
 ine contrition — "I felt sure 'twould put you 
 out." 
 
 The tongue grew dr}^ in William Geake's 
 mouth, and the sunlight died off the road 
 before him. He stared at a blister in the green 
 paint of the garden-gate and began to peel it 
 away slowly with liis thumb-nail : then, pulling 
 out his handkerchief, picked away at the paint 
 that had lodged under the nail, very carefully, 
 while he fouglit for speech. 
 
 " I be altered a brave bit," said Naomi's first 
 husband, still with his silly smile. 
 
 " Come into th' house," William managed to 
 say at last ; and turning, led the way to the 
 door. On his way he caught himself wonder- 
 ing why the hum of the bees had never sounded
 
 276 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 SO loudly in the garden before : and this was 
 all he could think about till he reached the 
 doorstep. Then he turned. 
 
 " Th' Lord's ways be past findin' out," he 
 said, passing a hand over his eyes. 
 
 " That's so : that's what / say mysel'," the 
 other assented cheerfully, as if glad to find 
 their wits jumping together. 
 
 " Man ! " William rounded on him fiercely. 
 "What's kept 'ee, all these years? Aw, man, 
 man ! do 'ee know what you've done ? " 
 
 " I'd a sun-stroke," said the wanderer, tap- 
 ping his head and still wearing his deprecatory 
 smile ; " a very bad sun-stroke. I sailed in the 
 John 8. Hancock. I dessay Na'mi told you 
 about that, eh?" 
 
 " Get on wi' your tale." 
 
 " Pete Hancock was cap'n. The vessel was 
 called after Ids uncle, you know, an' the Han- 
 cocks had a-bought up most o' the shares in 
 her. That's how Pete came to be cap'n. We 
 sailed on a Friday — unlucky, I've heard that 
 is. But Pete said them that laid th' Atlantic 
 cable had started that day an' broke the spell. 
 Pete had a lot o' tales, but he made a poor 
 cap'n ; no head."
 
 LOVK OF yAOMI. 277 
 
 "Look here," })ut in William with desperate 
 cahn, " I don't want to know about Peter Han- 
 cock." 
 
 " There's not nuich to know if you did. He 
 made a very poor cap'n, though it don't become 
 one to say so, now he's gone. An affectionate 
 man, though, for all his short-comin's. The 
 last time he brought his vessel home from New 
 Orleans he was in that pore to get back to his 
 wife an' childer, he ripped along the Gulf 
 Stream and pretty well ribbed the keelson out 
 of her. Thought, I reckon, that since all the 
 shareholders belonged to his family th' expense 
 wouldn' be grudged. But T guess it made her 
 tender. That's how she came to go down so 
 suddent." 
 
 " She foundered ? " 
 
 " I'm comin' to that. We'd just run our 
 nose into the tropics an' was headin' down for 
 Kingston Harbour — slippin' along at five knots 
 easy an' steady, an' not a sign of troul^le. The 
 time, so far as I can tell, was somewhere near 
 five bells in the middle watch. I'd turned in, 
 leavin' Pete on deck, an' Avas fast asleep ; when 
 all of a suddent a great jolt sent me ^)n\ out 
 o' the berth. As soon as I got my legs an'
 
 278 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 wits again I was up on deck, and already the 
 barque was settlin' by the head like a burst 
 crock. She'd crushed her breastbone in on a 
 sunken tramp of a derelict — a dismasted water- 
 logged lump, that maybe had been w^ashin' 
 about the Atlantic for twenty year' an' more 
 before her app'inted time came to drift across 
 our fair- way an' settle the hash o' the John S. 
 Rancock. Sir, I reckon she went down inside 
 o' five minutes. We'd but bare time to get out 
 one boat and push clear o' the whirl of her. 
 All hands jumped in ; she was but a sixteen 
 foot boat, an' we loaded her down to the gun'l 
 a'most. There was a brave star-shine, but no 
 moon. Cruel things happen 'pon the sea." 
 
 He passed a hand over his eyes, as .if to 
 brush off the film his sufferings had drawn 
 across them. Then he pursued : 
 
 " Cruel things happen 'pon the sea. We'd 
 no food nor drink ])ut a tin o' preserved pears ; 
 Lord knows how that got there ; but 'twas soon 
 done. Pete had a small compass, a gimcrack 
 affair hangin' to his watch-chain, an' we pulled 
 by it west-sou'-west towards the nighest land, 
 which we made out must be some one or 
 another o' the Leeward Islands ; but 'twas
 
 LOVE OF NAOMI. 279 
 
 more to keep ourselves busy than for aught 
 else : the boat was so low in tlie Avater that 
 even with the Trade to help us, we made but 
 a mile an hour, an' had to be balin' all day 
 and all night. The third day, as the sun grew 
 hot, two o' the men went mad. We had to 
 pitch 'em overboard an' beat 'em off wi' the 
 oars till they drowned : else they'd ha' sunk 
 the boat. This seemed to hang on Pete's 
 mind, in a way. All the next night he talked 
 light-headed ; said he could hear the dead men 
 hailin' their names. About midnight he jumped 
 after 'em — to fetch 'em, he said — an' was 
 drowned. He took his compass with him, but 
 that didn't make much odds. Tlie boat was 
 lighter now, an' we hadn' to bale. Pretty 
 soon I got too weak to notice how the men 
 went. I was hnn' wi' my head under the 
 stern sheets an' onlv pulled niA'sel' up, now an' 
 then, to peer out over the gun'l. I s'pose 'twas 
 the splashes as the men went over that made 
 me do this. I don't know for certain. There 
 was sharks about : cruel things happen 'pon the 
 sea. The boat was in a gashly cauch of blood 
 too. One cha]) — Jeff Tresawna it was: his 
 mother lived over to Looe ^ had tried to open
 
 280 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 a vein, to drink, an' had made a mess o't an' 
 bled to death. Far as I kno\v there was no 
 fightin' to eat one another, same as one hears 
 tell of now an' then. The men just went mad 
 and jumped like sheep : 'twas a reg'lar disease. 
 Two would go quick, one atop of t'other; an' 
 then there'd be a long stillness, an' then a 
 yellin' again an' two more splashes, maybe 
 three. All through it I was dozin', off an' on ; 
 an' I reckon these things got mixed up an' 
 repeated in my head : for our crew was only 
 sixteen all told, an' it seemed to me I'd heard 
 scores go over. Anj^way I opened my eyes 
 at last — night it was, an' all the stars blazin' 
 — an' the boat was empty all except me an' 
 Jeff Tresawna, him that had bled to death. He 
 was lying up high in the bows, wi' his legs 
 stretched out towards me along the bottom- 
 boards. There was a twinkle o' dew 'pon the 
 thwarts an' gun'l, an' I managed to suck my 
 shirt-sleeve, that was wringin' wet, an' dropped 
 off dozin' again belike. The nex' thing I 
 minded was a sort o' dream that I was home 
 to Carne again, over Pendower beach — that's 
 where my father an' mother lived. I heard 
 the breakers quite plain. The sound of 'em
 
 LOVE OF NAOMI. 281 
 
 woke me up. This was a little after daybreak. 
 The sound kept on after I'd opened my eyes, 
 though not so loud. I took another suck at 
 my shirt-sleeve an' pulled myself up to my 
 knees by the thwart an' looked over. 'Twas 
 the sound o' broken water, sure enough, that 
 I'd been hearing ; an' 'twas breakin' round half 
 a dozen small islands, to leeward, between me 
 an' the horizon. I call 'em islands ; but they 
 was just rocks stickin' up from the sea, and 
 birds on 'em in plenty ; but otherwise, if you'll 
 excuse the liberty, as bare as the top o' your 
 head." 
 
 Geake nodded gravely, with set face. 
 
 "I've heard since," went on the seaman, 
 "that these were bits, so to sa}^ belongin' to 
 the Leeward Islands, about eighty miles sou'- 
 west o' St. Kitt's. Our boat must ha' driven 
 past St. Kitt's, but just out o' sight ; or perhaps 
 we'd passed a peep of it in the night-time. 
 Well, as 3'ou'll be guessin' the boat was pretty 
 nigh to one o' these islands, or I shouldn' ha' 
 heard the wash. Half a mile off it was, I 
 dessay, an' a pretty big wash. This was caused 
 by the current, no doubt, for the wind was nex' 
 to nothin', an' no swell around the boat. What's
 
 282 TRE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 more, the current was takin' us, broadside on, 
 pretty well straight for the rocks. There was 
 no rudder an' only one oar left i' the boat ; an' 
 that was broke off short at the blade. But I 
 managed to slip it over the starn an' made shift 
 to keep her head straight. Her nose went bump 
 on the shore, an' then she swung round an' went 
 drivin' past : me not havin' strength left to put 
 out a hand, much less to catch hold an' stop the 
 way on us. We might ha' driven past an' off 
 to sea again, if it hadn' been for a spit o' rock 
 that reached out ahead. This brought us u]) 
 short, an' there we lay an' bump'd for a bit. I 
 dessay it took me half an hour to get out over 
 the side : an' all the time I kept hold o' the 
 broken oar. I dunno why I did this : but it 
 saved my life afterwards. Hav 'ee got such a 
 thing as a drop o' cider in the house ? " 
 
 " We go upon temperance principles here," 
 said Geake. He rose and brought a jug of 
 water and a glass. 
 
 " That'll do," said the wanderer, and helped 
 himself. " Ka'mi used to take a glass o' beer 
 wi' her meals, I remember. Well, as I was 
 agoin' to tell you, havin' got out o' the boat, I'd 
 just sense enough left to clamber up above high-
 
 LOVE OF NAOMI. 283 
 
 water mark, an' there I sat starin' stupid-like 
 an' wonderin' how TM (h^ne it. Down below, 
 the boat was heavin' i' the wash an' joltin' 'pon 
 the rocks, an' I watched her — bump, bump, up 
 an' down, up an' down — wi' Jeff jamm'd by 
 the shoulders i' the bows, and glazin' u]) at me 
 wi' a silly blank face, like as if he couldn' make 
 it all out. As the tide rose him up nearer,.! 
 crawled away further up. Seemed to me he an' 
 the boat was after me like a sick dream, an' I 
 grinned every time the timbers gave an extry 
 loud crack. At last her bottom Avas stove, an' 
 she filled very quiet an' went down. The 'wind 
 was fresher by this an' some heavy clouds 
 comin' up. Then it rained. I don't rightl}' 
 know if this was the same day or no: can't fit 
 in the days an' nights. But it rained heavy. 
 There was a quill-feather hnn' close b}'" my 
 hand — the rock was strewed wi' feathers an' 
 the birds' droppin's — an' with it I tried to get 
 at the 7'ain-water that was caught in the cran- 
 nies o' the rocks. While I was searchin' about 
 I came across an egg. It was stinkin', but I 
 ate it. iVfter that, feelin' a bit stronger, I'd a 
 mind to fix up the oar for a mark, in case any 
 vessel passed near an' me asleep or too weak to
 
 284 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 make a signal. I found a handy chink i' the 
 rock to plant it in, an' a rovin' pain I had in my 
 stomach while I was fixin' it. That was the 
 egg, I dessay. An' my head in a maze, too : 
 but I'd sense enough to think now what a fool 
 I was not to have took Jeff's shirt off'n, to 
 serve me for a flag. Hows'ever, my own bein' 
 wringin' wet, an' the sun pretty strong just then, 
 I slipped it off an' hitched it atop o' the oar to 
 dry an' be a flag at the same time, till I could 
 rig up some kind o' streamer, out o' the seaweed. 
 An' then I was forced to vomit. And that's 
 about the last thing, Mister Geake, I can mind 
 doin'. 'Tis all foolishness after that. They 
 tell me that a 'Merican schooner, the Shaioanee, 
 sighted my shirt flappin', an' sent a boat an' 
 took me off an' landed me at New Orleens. My 
 head was bad — oh, very bad — an' they put 
 me in a 'sylum an' cured me. But they took 
 eight year' over it, an' I doubt if 'tis much of a 
 job after all. I wasn' bad all the time, I must 
 tell you, sir; but 'tis only lately my mem'ry 
 would work any further back 'n the Avreck o' 
 the barque. Everything seemed to begin an' 
 end wi' that. 'Tis about a year back that some 
 visitors came to the 'sylum. There was a lady
 
 LOVE OF NAOMI. 285 
 
 in the party, an' something in her face, "wlien 
 she spoke to nie, put nie in mind o' Na'mi, an' 
 I remembered I was a married man. Inside of 
 a fortnight, part by thinkin' — 'tis hard work 
 still for me to think — part by dreamin', I'd 
 a-worried it all out. I was betterin' fast by 
 that. Soon as I was well enough to be dis- 
 charged, I worked my passage lionie in a grain 
 ship, the Druid, o' Liverpool. I was reckonin' 
 all the way back that Na'mi W be main glad 
 to see me agen. But now I s'pose she won't." 
 
 " It'll come nigh to killin' her." 
 
 " I dessay, now, you two have got to be very 
 fond ? She used to be a partic'lar lovin' sort 
 o' w^oman." 
 
 " I love her more 'n heaven ! " William broke 
 out; and then cowered as if he half expected 
 to be struck with lightning for the words. 
 
 " I heard of her havin' married, down at the 
 Fifteen Balls, at Troy. I dropped in there to 
 pick up the news." 
 
 " What ! You've been tellin' folks who you 
 be!" 
 
 " JSTot a word. First of all I was minded to 
 play off a little surprise 'pon old Toms, the 
 landlord, who didn' know me from Adam. But
 
 286 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 hearin' this, just as I was a-leadin' up to my 
 little joke, I thought maybe 'twould annoy 
 Na'mi. She used to be very strict in some of 
 her notions." 
 
 William Geake took two hasty turns up and 
 down the little parlour. His Bible, in which 
 before breakfast he had been searching for a 
 text, lay open on the side table. Behind its 
 place on the shelf was a small skivet he had 
 let into the wall ; and in that drawer was stored 
 something over twenty-five pounds, the third of 
 his savings. Geake kept a bank-account, and 
 the balance lay at interest with Messrs. Climo 
 and Hodges, of St. Austell. But he had the 
 true countryman's aversion to putting all his 
 eggs in one basket ; and although Messrs. Climo 
 and Hodges were safe as the Bank of England, 
 preferred to keep this portion of his wealth in 
 his own stocking. He closed the Bible hastily ; 
 rammed it back, upside down, in its place ; then 
 took it out again, and stood holding it in his 
 two hands and trembling. He was living in 
 sin : he was minded to sin yet deeper. And 
 yet what had he done to deserve Naomi in 
 comparison with the unspeakable tribulations 
 this simple mariner had suffered? Sure, God
 
 LOVE OF yAOML 287 
 
 must have preserved the fellow with especial 
 care, and of wise purpose brought hiui through 
 shipwreck, famine, and madness home to his 
 lawful wife. The man had made Naomi a 
 good husband. Had William Geake made her 
 a better? (Husband?) — here lie dropped the 
 Bible down on the table again as if it burned 
 his fingers. "Whatever had to be done must be 
 done quickly. Here was the innocent wrecker 
 of so much happiness hanging on his lips for 
 the next word, watching wistfully for his orders, 
 like any spaniel dog. And IS^aomi would be 
 back before nightfall. God was giving him no 
 time : it was unfair to hustle a man in this Avay. 
 In the whirl of his thoughts he seemed to hear 
 I^aomi's footfall drawing nearer and nearer 
 home. He could almost upbraid the Almighty 
 here for leaving him and Naomi childless. A 
 child would have made the temptation irresis- 
 tible. 
 
 "I wish a'most that Td never called, if it 
 puts you out so terrible," was the Avanderer's 
 plaintive remark after two minutes of silent 
 waiting. 
 
 This sentence settled it. The temptation 
 was irresistible. Geake unlocked the ski vet,
 
 288 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 plunged a hand in and banged down a fistful 
 of notes on the table. 
 
 "Here," said he; "here's five-an'-twent}' 
 pound'. You shall have it all if you'll go 
 straight out o' this door an' back to America." 
 
 lY. 
 
 Half-an-houe later, William Geake was 
 standing by his garden-gate again. Every now 
 and then he glanced down the road towards 
 St. Austell, and after each glance resumed his 
 nervous picking at the blister of green paint 
 that had troubled him earlier in the day. He 
 was face to face with a new and smaller, but 
 sufficiently vexing, difficulty. Abe Bricknell 
 had gone, taking with him the five five-pound 
 notes. So far so good, and cheap at the price. 
 But the skivet was empty : and the day was 
 Saturday : and every Saturday evening, as 
 regularly as he wound up the big eight-day 
 clock in the kitchen, Naomi and he would sit 
 down and count over the money. True he had 
 only to go to St. Austell and Messrs. Climo and 
 Hodges would let him draw five new notes. 
 The numbers would be different, and Naomi
 
 LOVE OF NAOMI. 289 
 
 (prudent woman) always took note of the nuni- 
 bei's : but some explanation might be invented. 
 The problem was: How to get to St. Austell 
 and back before Naomi's return ? The distance 
 was too great to be walked in the time ; and 
 besides, the coffin must be ready b}'" nightfall. 
 He had promised it; he was known for a man 
 of his word ; and owing to the morning's inter- 
 ruption it would be a tough job to finish, at 
 the best. There was no help for it ; and — so 
 easy is the descent of Avernus — Geake's unac- 
 customed wits were already wanderine: in a 
 wilderness of improbable falsehoods, when he 
 heard the sound of wheels up the road, and 
 Long Oliver came along in Farmer Lear's red- 
 wheeled trap and behind Farmer Lear's dun- 
 coloured mare. As he drew near at a trot he 
 eyed Geake curiously, and for a moment seemed 
 inclined to pull up, but thought better of it, 
 and was passing with no more than a nod of 
 the head and " good-day.'' 
 
 It was unusual, though, to see Long Oliver 
 driving a horse and trap ; and Geake, more- 
 over, had a sudtlen notion. 
 
 " Good-mornin'," he answered ; " whither 
 bound ? "
 
 290 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 " St. Austell. I've a bit of business to do, 
 so I'm takin' a holiday ; in style, as you see." 
 
 " I wonder now," Geake suggested, forgetting 
 all about the coffin, "if you'd give me a lift. 
 I was just thinkin' this moment that Td a bit 
 o' business there that had clean slipped my 
 mind this week." 
 
 This was transparently false to any one ac- 
 quainted with Geake's methodical habits. Long 
 Oliver screwed up his eyes. 
 
 "Can't, V\n afraid, I'm engaged to take up 
 old Missus Oke an' her niece at Tippet's corner; 
 an' the niece's box. The gal's goin' in to St. 
 Austell, into service. So there's no room. 
 But if there's any little message I can take — " 
 
 " When'll you be back 'i " 
 
 " Somewiiere's about five I'll be passin'." 
 
 "Would 'ee mind waitin' a moment? I've 
 a cheque I want cashed at Climo and Hodges 
 for a biggish sum : but you'm a man I can trust 
 to bring back the money safe." 
 
 " Sutt'nly," said Long Oliver. 
 
 Geake went into the house and wrote a short 
 letter to the bankers. He asked them to send 
 back by messenger, and in return for cheque 
 enclosed, the sum of twenty-five pounds, in five
 
 LOVE OF NAOMI. 291 
 
 new five-pound notes. He was aware (he said) 
 that the balance of his running account was but 
 a pound or two : but as the}^ held something 
 over fifty pounds of his on deposit, he felt sure 
 they would oblige him and enable him to meet 
 a sudden call. 
 
 "Twenty-five pounds is the sum," he ex- 
 plained ; " an' you must be sure to get it in 
 five-pound notes — new jive-poiLnd notes. You'll 
 not forget that ?" He closed the envelope and 
 handed it up to Long Oliver, Avho buttoned it 
 in his breast-pocket. 
 
 "You shall have it, Mr. Geake, by five o'clock 
 this evenin'," said he, giving the reins a shake 
 on the mare's back ; so 'long ! " and he rattled 
 off. 
 
 A mile, and a trifle more, beyond Geake's 
 cottasre, he came in sioht of a man clad in blue 
 sailor's cloth, trudging briskly ahead. Long- 
 Oliver's lips shaped themselves as if to whistle ; 
 but he made no sound until he overtook the 
 pedestrian, wdien he pulled up, looked round 
 in the man's face, and said — 
 
 " Abe Bricknell ! " 
 
 The sailor came to a sudden halt, and went 
 very white in the face.
 
 292 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 "■ How do you know my name ? " he asked, 
 uneasily. 
 
 " 'Recognised 'ee back in Troy, an' borrowed 
 this here trap to driv^e after 'ee. Get up along- 
 side. I've summat to say to 'ee." 
 
 Bricknell climbed up without a word, and 
 they drove along together. 
 
 " Where was you goin' ? " Long Oliver asked, 
 after a bit. 
 
 " To Charlestown/' 
 
 " To look for a ship ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Goin' back to America ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " You've been callin' on AYilliam Geake : an' 
 you didn' find Naomi at home." 
 
 " Geake don't want it known." 
 
 "That's likely enough. You've got twenty- 
 five pound' o' his in your pocket." 
 
 Abe Bricknell involuntarily put up a hand 
 to his breast. 
 
 " Ay, it's there," said Long Oliver, nodding. 
 " It's odd now, but I've got twenty-five pound 
 in gold in my pocket ; an' I want you to 
 swop." 
 
 " I don't take ye, Mister — "
 
 LOVE OF yAo^fI. 293 
 
 " Long Oliver, I'm called in common. Maybe 
 you remembers me ? " 
 
 "Why, to be sure I I thought I minded 
 your face. But still I don't take your meanin' 
 azactly." 
 
 "I didn' suppose you would. So I'm goin' 
 to tell 'ee. Fourteen year' back I courted 
 Naomi, an' she used me worse 'n a dog. Twelve 
 year' back she married you. Nine year' back 
 you went to sea in the Jo/ni S. Hancock^ an' Avas 
 wrecked off the Leeward Isles an' cast up on 
 a spit o' rock. Fd been hangin' about New 
 Orleens, just then, at a loose end, an' bein' in 
 want o' cash, took a scamper in the Shawanee^ a 
 dirty tramp of a schooner knockin' in an' out 
 and peddlin' notions among the West Indy 
 Islanders. As you know we caught sight o' 
 your signal an' took you off, an' you went to a 
 mad-house. You was clean off your head an' 
 didn' know me from Adam ; an' I never let on 
 that I knew you or the ship youil sailed in. 
 'Seemed to me the hand o' God was in it, an' 1 
 saw my way to cry quits wi' Naomi." 
 
 " I don't see." 
 
 " I don't suppose you do. But 'twas this 
 way : — Naomi (thinks I) '11 be givin' this man
 
 294 THE DELECTABLE BUCHY. 
 
 up afore long. She's a takeable woman, an' 
 bv-'n-bye, some new man '11 set e3'es on her. 
 Then, thinks I, her banns '11 be called in 
 Church, an' I'll be there an' forbid 'em. Do 
 'ee see now ? " 
 
 "That was very clever o' you," replied the 
 simple seaman, and added with obvious sincer- 
 ity, " I'm sure I should never ha' thought 'pon 
 anything so clever as that. But why didn' you 
 carry it out ? " 
 
 "Because God Almighty was cleverer. 
 Times an' times I'd pictured it up in my head 
 how 'twould aU work out ; an' the parson in his 
 surplice stuck all of a heap ; an' the heads 
 turnin' to look ; an' the women faintin'. An' 
 when the moment came for a man to claim her, 
 what d'ye think she did I But there, a head 
 like yours 'd never guess — why she loent to a 
 Registry Office, an'' there werenH no hanns at 
 all. That overcame me. I seed the wisdom o' 
 Providence from that hour. I be a converted 
 man. An' I'm damned if I'll let you come 
 along an' upset the apple-cart after all these 
 years. Can 'ee write ? " 
 
 " Tolerable, though I'm no hand at spellin'." 
 
 " Yery well. We'll have a drink together at
 
 LOVE OF ^'AOMI. 295 
 
 St. Austell, an' while we're there you shall do 
 up Geake's notes in an envelope with a note 
 sa>an' your compliments, but on second 
 thoughts you couldn't think o' takin' his 
 money." 
 
 Bricknell's face fell somewhat. 
 
 " You gowk ! You'll have twenty-five pound' 
 o' mine in exchange : solid money, an' my 
 own earnin's. I've more 'n that in ray pocket 
 here." 
 
 "But I don't see why you should want to 
 give me money." 
 
 "An' you'm too mad to see if I explained. 
 'Tis a matter o' conscience, an' you may take it 
 at that. When the letter's wrote — best not 
 sign it, by the way, for fear of accidents — you 
 give it to me an' I'll see Geake gets it to-night. 
 After that's written I'll pay your fare to Liver- 
 pool, an' then you'll get a vessel easy. Now I 
 see your mouth openin' and makin' ready to 
 argue — " 
 
 "I was goin' to say. Long Oliver, that you 
 seem to be actin' very noble, now : but 'twas a 
 bit hard on me, your holdin' your tongue as you 
 did." 
 
 " So 'twas, so 'twas. T reckon some folks
 
 296 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 is by nature easy forgotten, an' you'm one. If 
 that's your character, I hope to gracious you'm 
 goin' to lieep it up. An' twenty-five pound' 
 is a heap o' money for such a man as you." 
 
 " It is," the wanderer asserted. " Ay, I feel 
 that." 
 
 At twenty minutes to five that evening, Long 
 Oliver pulled up again by the green garden- 
 gate. William Geake from his workshop had 
 caught the sound of the mare's hoofs three 
 minutes before, and awaited him. 
 
 " One, two, three, four, five." The notes 
 were counted out deliberately. Long Oliver, 
 having been thanked, gathered up his reins 
 and suddenly set them down again. 
 
 " Dear me," said he, " if I hadn' almost for- 
 got ! I've a letter for 'ee, too." 
 
 " Eh ? " 
 
 " Iss. A kind of a sailor-like lookin' chap 
 came up to me i' the Half Moon yard as I was 
 a takin' out the mare. ' Do you come from 
 Gantick 'I ' says he, seein' no doubt Farmer 
 Lear's name 'pon the cart. ' There or there- 
 abouts,' says I. ' Know Mister W. Geake ? ' 
 says he. ' Well,' says 1. ' Then, if you're
 
 LOVE OF NAOMI. 297 
 
 passin', I wish you'd give 'en this hei-e letter,' 
 says he, an' that's all 'e said." 
 
 " I wonder who 'twas," said Geake. But his 
 face was white. 
 
 " Don't know 'en by sight. Said 'e was in a 
 great hurry for to catch the up train. Which 
 puts me i' mind I must be movin' on. Good- 
 night t'ye, neighbour ! " 
 
 As soon as he had turned the corner, Geake 
 opened the letter. 
 
 When Naomi returned, half-an-hour later, 
 she found him standing at the gate as if he had 
 spent the day there : as, indeed, he might have, 
 for all the work done to the coffin. 
 
 " I must bide up to-night an' finish that job," 
 he said, when they were indoors and she began 
 asking how in the world he had been spending 
 his time. " I've been worryin' mysel' all day." 
 
 " It's those sermons agen," Naomi decided. 
 " They do your head no good, an' I wish you'd 
 give up preachin'." 
 
 " Now that's just what I'm goin' to do," he 
 answered, pushing the Bible far into the shelf 
 till its edges knocked on the wood of the skivet- 
 drawer.
 
 THE PRINCE OF ABYSSINIA'S 
 POST-BAG.
 
 1. — AN INTERRUPTION. 
 
 From Algernon Dexter^ writer of Vers de 
 Societe, London, to Rasselas, Prince of 
 Ahyssinia. 
 
 My Dear Prince, — Our correspondence has 
 dwindled of late. Indeed, I do not remember 
 to have heard from you since I wrote to 
 acknowledge your kindness in standing god- 
 father to my boy Jack (now rising two), and 
 the receipt of the beautiful scimitar which, as 
 a christening present, accompanied your con- 
 sent. Still I do not forget the promise you 
 exacted from " Q." and nwself after lunch at 
 the Mitre, on the day when we took our bach- 
 elors' degrees together — that if in our paths 
 through life Ave happened upon any circum- 
 stance that seemed to throw fresh light on the 
 dark, complex workings of the human heart, or 
 at least likely to prove of interest to a student 
 of his fellow men, we would write it down and 
 despatch it to you, under cover of The Negus. 
 
 301
 
 302 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 During the months of my engagement to 
 Yiolet these communications of mine (you 
 will allow) were frequent enough : since our 
 marriage they have grown shamefully fewer. 
 Possibly I lose alertness while I put on flesh: 
 it is the natural hebetudus of happiness. " Q." 
 
 — who is never seen now upon London stones 
 
 — no doubt sends you a plentv of what passes 
 for news in that parish which it is his humour 
 to prefer to the Imperial City. But, believe 
 me, the very finest romance is still to be had in 
 London : and to prove this I am going to tell 
 you a story that, upon my soul, Prince, will 
 make you sit up. 
 
 Until last night the Seely-ITardwickes were 
 a force in this capital. They were three, — 
 Seely-Hardwicke himself, who owned a million 
 or more, and to my knowledge drank Hollands 
 and smoked threepenny Returns in his Louis 
 Quinze library ; Mrs. Seely-Hardwicke, as beau- 
 tiful as the moon and clever to sinfulness ; and 
 Billy, their child, aged seven-and-a-half. To-day 
 their whereabouts would be as difficult to find 
 as that of the boy in Mrs. Hemans's ballad. 
 You jump to the guess that they have lost 
 their money. You are wrong.
 
 AN INTERRUPTION. 803 
 
 It was amassed in the canned-fruit trade, 
 which, I understand, does not fluctuate severely, 
 though doubtless in the last instance dependent 
 on the crops. Seely-IIardwicke and his wife 
 were ready to lose any amount of it at cards, 
 which accounts for a measure of their success. 
 It had been found (with Mrs. Seely-IIardwicke) 
 somewhere on the Pacific Slope, by a destitute 
 Yorkshireman who had tired of driving rivets 
 on the Clyde and betaken himself across the 
 Atlantic, for a change, in front of a furnace 
 some thirty-odd feet beloAV decks. Of his 
 adventures in the Great Kepublic nothing is 
 known but this, that he drove into the silence 
 of its central plain at the tail of a traction 
 engine and emerged on its western shore, three 
 years later, with a wife, a child and a growing- 
 pile. With this pile there grew a desire to 
 spend it in his own country ; and the family 
 landed at Liverpool on Billy's sixth birthda3\ 
 I think their double-barrelled name must have 
 been invented by Mrs. Seely-Hardwicke on the 
 voyage. 
 
 I first made Billj^'s acquaintance in the Row, 
 where a capable groom was teaching him to 
 ride a very small skewbald pony. This hap-
 
 304 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 pened in the week after our Jack was born, 
 when I was perforce companionless : but as 
 soon as Yiolet could ride again, she too fell 
 a victim to the red curls and seraphic face of 
 this urchin. And so, when Billy's mother 
 began, later in the season, to appear in the 
 Row, Billy (now promoted to a larger pony) 
 introduced us in his own fashion and we quickly 
 made friends. By this time she had been 
 " presented," and was fairly on her feet in 
 London : and henceforward her career re- 
 sembled not so much a conquest as the prog- 
 ress of a Roman Emperor. I am not referring 
 to the vulgar achievements of mere wealth. 
 Wherever these people went, to be sure, they 
 left outposts — a Mediterranean villa, a deer 
 forest behind the Gram})ians, small Saturday- 
 to-Monday establishments beside the Thames 
 and the North Sea, and furnished abodes on 
 short leases near Newmarket and Ascot Heaths ; 
 not to mention nomadic trifles such as house- 
 boats and yachts. Any one with money can 
 purchase these, and any one having a cook can 
 fill them with people of a sort. The quality of 
 Mrs. Seely-llardwicke's success was seen in 
 this, that from the first she knew none but
 
 AN INTERRUPTION. 305 
 
 the light people : and thougli, as her circle 
 widened, it included names of higher and yet 
 higher lustre, yet (if I may press a somewhat 
 confused metaphoi') its rings were concentric 
 and hardly distinct. She never, I believe, was 
 forced to drop an old acquaintance because 
 she had found a new one. The just estimate 
 of our Western manners which you, my dear 
 Prince, formed at Balliol, will enable 3^ou to 
 grasp the singularity of such a triumph. Its 
 rapidity, I must admit, perplexes me still. 
 But in those old days we studied Arnold 
 Toynbee overmuch and neglected the civilising 
 influences of the card-table. By the time the 
 Seely-Ilardwickes took their house near Hyde 
 Park Corner, philanthropy Avas beginning to 
 stale and our leaders to perceive that the 
 rejuvenation of society must be effected (if at 
 all) not by bestowing money on the poor, but 
 by losing it to the rich. Seely-Hardwicke 
 himself was understood to spend most of his 
 time in the City, looking after the interests of 
 canned fruits and making small fortunes out of 
 his redundant cash. 
 
 You will readil}^ understand that we soon 
 came to see little of our new acquaintances.
 
 306 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 A small private income and the trivial wage 
 commanded by society verses in this country 
 (so different in many respects from Abyssinia) 
 confined us to a much narrower orbit. But we 
 were invited pretty often to their dinners, and 
 the notes I have given you were taken on these 
 occasions. Last night there were potentates at 
 Mrs. Seely-Hardwicke's — several imported, and 
 one of British growth. . To-day — but you shall 
 hear it in the fewest words. 
 
 Three days back, Billy failed to turn up in 
 the Row. We met his mother riding alone 
 and asked the reason. She told us the child 
 had a cough and something of a sore throat 
 and she thought it wiser to keep him at home. 
 
 On the next day, and yesterday, he was 
 still absent. In the evening we went to the 
 Seely-Hardwicke's dance. The thing was won- 
 derfully done. An exuberant vegetation that 
 suggested a virgin forest was qualified by the 
 presence of several hundred people. It was 
 impossible to dance or to feel lonely ; and our 
 hostess looked radiant as the moon in the 
 reflected rays of her success. We shook hands 
 with her and were swallowed in the crowd. 
 
 About half-an-hour later, as I watched the
 
 AN INTEREUPTION. 307 
 
 crush from a recess beside an open window 
 and listened to the waltz that the band was 
 playing, Seely-IIardwicke himself thrust his 
 way towards me. He was crumpled and per- 
 spiring copiously : but the glory of it all sat 
 on his blunt face yet more openly than on his 
 wife's lovely features. 
 
 "I've not been here above ten minutes," he 
 explained. " Had to run down to Liverpool 
 suddenly last night, and only reached King's 
 Cross something less 'n an hour back. Quick 
 work." 
 
 " How's Billy ? " I asked, after a few com- 
 monplace words. 
 
 "• Off colour, still. I went up to see him, 
 just now^ : but the nurse wouldn't let him be 
 disturbed ; said he was sleepin'. Best thing for 
 him. You'll see him out, as lively as a lark, 
 to-morrow." 
 
 " And getting stopped, as usual, by the 
 police for expounding his idea of a canter in 
 the Ladies' Mile." 
 
 He laughed. "Hey? I like that. I like 
 spirit. He looks fragile — he's like his mother 
 for that — but they're game every inch, the 
 pair of 'em. You may think me silly, but I
 
 308 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 don t know that I can last out this without 
 runnin' up to have a look at him. I haven't 
 seen him for two days." 
 
 I believe he was on the point of launching 
 out into any number of fatherly confidences. 
 But at this point he was claimed by an 
 acquaintance some ten paces off; and, plung- 
 ing among his guests, was lost to me. 
 
 I cannot tell you, my dear Prince, how much 
 time elapsed between this and the arrival of 
 the home-grown Potentate — as you must allow 
 me to call him until we meet and I can whisper 
 his august name. But I know that shortly 
 after his arrival, while I still loafed in my recess 
 and hoped that Yiolet would soon drift in my 
 direction and allow herself to be taken home, 
 the throng around me began to thin in a most 
 curious manner. How it happened — whence 
 it started and how it spread — I cannot tell 
 you. Only it seemed as if something began 
 to be whispered, and the whisper melted the 
 crowd like sugar. Almost before I grew aware 
 of what was happening, I could see the far side 
 of the room, and the Potentate there by Mrs. 
 Seely-Hardwicke's side ; and could mark their 
 faces. His was cast in a polite, but slightly
 
 AN INTERRUPTION. 309 
 
 rigid smile. His eyes wandered. That super- 
 numerary sense which all his faniil}'^ possesses 
 had warned him that somethino- was wrono:. 
 Mrs. Seely-IIardwicke's face was white as 
 chalk, though her eyes returned his smile. 
 
 At this moment Violet came towards me. 
 
 "Take me home," she commanded, but 
 under her breath. As she said it she shivered. 
 
 " What on earth is the matter ? " I de- 
 manded. 
 
 She pulled me by the sleeve. I looked up 
 and saw a white-haired man, of military car- 
 riage, walking towards His Koyal Highness. 
 He came to a halt, a pace off, and stood as if 
 anxious to speak. I saw also that Mrs. Seely- 
 Hardwicke would not allow him a chance, but 
 talked desperately. I saw groups of people, 
 up and down the room, regarding her even as 
 we. And then the door was flung open. 
 
 Seely-Hardwicke came running in with Billy 
 in his arms — or rather, with Billy's body. 
 The child had died at four that' afternoon, of 
 diphtheria. 
 
 I got Violet out of the room as soon as 
 I could. The man's language was frightful — 
 filthy. And his wife straightened herself up
 
 310 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 and answered him back. It was a babel of 
 obscene Frisco curses: but I remember one 
 clear sentence of hers from the din — 
 
 " You , you ! And d'ye think my heart 
 
 won't go to pieces when my stays are cut?" 
 
 All the way home Violet kept sobbing and 
 crying out that she was never driven so slowly. 
 She was convinced that some harm had hap- 
 pened to her own Jack. She ran up to the 
 night-nursery at once and woke your god-child 
 out of a healthy sleep. And he arose in his 
 full strength and yelled.
 
 II. — THE GREAT FIRE ON FREETHY'S 
 QUAY. 
 
 From "^." 
 
 Troy Town. 
 
 New Year's Eve, 1892. 
 
 My Deak Pkince, — The New Year is upon 
 us, a season which the devout Briton sets aside 
 for taking stock of his short-comings. I know 
 not if Prester John introduced this custom 
 among the Abyssinians : but we find it very 
 convenient here. 
 
 In particular I have been vexing myself 
 to-day over the gradual desuetude of our cor- 
 respondence. Doubtless the fault is mine : and 
 doubtless I compare very poorly with Dexter, 
 whose letters are bound to be bright and fre- 
 quent. But Dexter clings to London; and 
 from London, as from your own Africa, serajper 
 aliquid novi. But of Troy during these twelve 
 months there has been little or nothing to 
 delate. The small ]3ort has been enjoying a 
 
 311
 
 312 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 period of quiet which even the General Election, 
 last summer, did not seriously disturb. As you 
 know, the election turned on the size of mesh 
 proper to be used in the drift-net fishery. "We 
 wore favours of red, white and blue, symbol- 
 ising our hatred of the mesh favoured by Mr. 
 Gladstone; and carried our man. Had other 
 constituencies as sternly declined to fritter 
 away their voting strength upon side issues, 
 Lord Salisbury would now be in power with 
 a solid majority at his back. 
 
 My purpose, however, is not to talk of poli- 
 tics, but to give you a short description of an 
 event which has greatly excited us, and re- 
 deemed from monotony (though at the eleventh 
 hour) the year Eighteen ninety-two. I refer to 
 the great fire on Freethy's Quay, where Mr. 
 Wm. Freethy has of late been improving his 
 timber-store with a number of the newest 
 mechanical inventions; among others, with a 
 steam engine which operates on a circular saw, 
 and impels it to cut up oak poles (our winter 
 fuel) with incredible rapidity. It was here 
 that the outbreak occurred, on Christmas Eve 
 — of all days in the year — between five and six 
 o'clock in the afternoon.
 
 FIRE ON FREETUY'S QUAY. 313 
 
 But I should first tell you that our town 
 has enjoyed a long immunity from fires ; and 
 although we possess a Volunteer Fire Brigade, 
 at once efficient and obliging, and commanded 
 by Mr. Patrick Sullivan (an Irishman), the 
 men have had little or no opportunity of 
 combating their sworn foe. The Brigade Avas 
 founded in the early autumn of 1873, and 
 presented by public subscription with a hand- 
 some manual engine and a wooden house to 
 contain it. This house, painted a bright ver- 
 milion, is a conspicuous object at the top of 
 the hill above the town, as you turn off towards 
 the Rope-walk. The firemen, of course, wear 
 an appropriate uniform, with brazen helmets 
 and shoulder-straps and a neat axe apiece, 
 suspended in a leathern case from the Avaist- 
 band. But the spirit of make-believe has of 
 necessity animated all their public exercise, 
 if I except the 13th of April, 1879, when a fire 
 broke out in the back premises of Mr. Tippett, 
 carpenter. His shop was (and is) situated in 
 the middle of the town, and in those days a 
 narrow gatehouse gave, or rather prevented, 
 access to the town on either side. These 
 houses stood, one at the extremitv of Xorth
 
 314 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 Street, beside the Ferry Slip, the other at the 
 south end of the Fore Street, where it turns 
 the corner by the Ship Inn and mounts Lost- 
 withiel Hill. With their low-browed arches, 
 each surmounted by a little chamber for the 
 toll-keeper, they recalled in an interesting 
 manner the days when local traffic was carried 
 on solely by means of pack-horses ; but by an 
 unfortunate oversight their straitness had been 
 left out of account by the donors of the fire- 
 engine, which stuck firmly in the passage below 
 Lostwithiel Hill and could be drawn neither 
 forwards nor back, thus robbing the Brigade 
 of the result of six years' practice. For the 
 engine filled up so much of the thoroughfare 
 that the men could neither climb over nor 
 round it, but were forced to enter the town 
 by a circuitous route and find, to their chagrin, 
 Mr. Tippett's premises completely gutted. For 
 three days all our traffic entered and left the 
 town perforce by the north side ; but two years 
 after, on the completion of the railway line to 
 Troy, these obstructive gatehouses were re- 
 moved, to give passage to the new Omnibus. 
 
 Let me proceed to the story of our more recent 
 alarm. At twenty minutes to five, precisely,
 
 FIRE ON FREETHY'S QUAY. 315 
 
 on Christmas Eve, Mr. Wm. Freethy left his 
 engine-room by the door which opens on the 
 Quay ; turned the key, which he immediately 
 pocketed ; and proceeded towards his mother's 
 house, at the western end of the town, where 
 he invariably takes tea. The wind was blowing 
 strongly from the east, where it had been fixed 
 for three days, and the thermometer stood at 
 six degrees below freezing. Indeed, I had 
 remarked, early in the morning, that an icicle 
 of quite respectable length (for a small provin- 
 cial town, depended from the public water-tap 
 under the Methodist Chapel. About twenty 
 minutes after Mr. Freethy's departure, some 
 children, who were playing about the Quay, 
 observed dense volumes of smoke (as they 
 thought) issuing from under the engine-room 
 door. They gave the alarm. I happened to be 
 in the street at the time, purchasing muscatels 
 for the Christmas snap-dragon, and, after rush- 
 ing up to the Quay to satisfy myself, proceeded 
 with all haste to Mr. Sullivan, Captain of the 
 Brigade. 
 
 I found him at tea, but behaving in a some- 
 what extraordinary manner. It is well known 
 that Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan suffer occasionally
 
 316 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 from domestic disagreement, due, in great meas- 
 ure, to the lady's temper. Mr. Sullivan was 
 sitting at the table with a saucer inverted upon 
 his head, a quantity of tea-leaves matted in 
 his iron-grey hair, and their juice trickling 
 down his face. On hearing my alarming intel- 
 ligence, he said : 
 
 "I had meant to sit there for some time; 
 indeed, until my little boy returns with the 
 Yicar, whom I have sent for to witness the 
 effects of my wife's temper. I was sitting down 
 to tea when I heard a voice in the street calling 
 ' Whiting ! ' — a fish of which I am extremely 
 fond — and ran out to procure three-penny 
 worth. On my return, my wife here — I sup- 
 pose, because she objects to clean the fish — 
 assaulted me in the manner you behold." 
 
 With praiseworthy public spirit, however, 
 Mr. Sullivan forewent his revenge, and, having 
 cleansed his hair, ran with all speed to get out 
 the fire-engine. 
 
 Eeturning to the Quay, at about 5 p.m., I 
 found a large crowd assembled before the 
 engine-room door, from which the vapour was 
 pouring in dense clouds. The Brigade came 
 rattling up with their manual in less than ten
 
 FIRE ON FBEETHY'S QUAY. 317 
 
 minutes. As luck -would have it, this was just 
 the hour when the mummers, guise dancers 
 and darkey-parties were dressing up for their 
 Christmas rounds; and the appearance pre- 
 sented by the crowd in the deepening dusk 
 would, in less serious cii^cumstances, have been 
 extremely diverting. Two of the firemen wore 
 large moustaches of burnt cork beneath their 
 helmets, and another (who was cast to play the 
 Turkish Knight) had found no time to remove 
 the bright blue dye he had been applying to 
 his face. The pumpmaker had come as Father 
 Christmas, and the blacksmith (who was forc- 
 ing the door) looked oddly in an immense white 
 hat, a flapping collar and a suit of pink chintz 
 wit^i white bone buttons. He had not accom- 
 plished his purpose when I heard a shout, and, 
 looking up the street, saw Mr. Wm. Freethy 
 approaching at a brisk run. He is forty-three 
 years old, and his figure inclines to rotundity. 
 The wind, still in the east, combined with the 
 velocity of his approach to hold his coat-tails 
 in a line steadily horizontal. In his right hand 
 he carried a laro-e slice of his mother's home- 
 made bread, spread with yellow plum jam ; a 
 semicircular excision of the crumb made it
 
 318 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 plain that he had been disturbed in his first 
 mouthful. The crowd parted and he advanced 
 to the door ; laid his slice of bread and jam 
 upon the threshold ; searched in his fob pocket 
 for the key ; produced it ; turned it in the lock ; 
 picked up his bread and jam again ; opened 
 the door; took a bite; and plunged into the 
 choking clouds that immediately enveloped his 
 person. 
 
 While the concourse waited, in absolute 
 silence, the atmosphere of the engine-house 
 cleared as if by magic, and Mr. Wm. Freethy 
 was visible again in the converging rays of six 
 bull's-eye lanterns held forward by six members 
 of the Fire Brigade. One hand still held the 
 bread and jam ; the other grasped a stop-cock 
 which he had that instant turned, shutting off 
 the outpour of steam we had taken for smoke. 
 Some one tittered ; but the general laugh was 
 prevented by a resounding splash. The recoil- 
 ing crowd had backed against the fire-engine 
 outside, and inadvertently thrust it over the 
 Quay's edge into two fathoms of water ! 
 
 "We left it there till the tide should turn, and 
 forming into procession, marched back through 
 the streets. I never witnessed greater enthu-
 
 FIIiE ON FREETllY'S QUAY. 319 
 
 siasm. I do not believe Troy held a man, 
 woman, or child that did not turn out of doors 
 to cheer and laugh. Presently' a verse sprang 
 np : — 
 
 " The smoke came out at Freethxj's dooj\ 
 An^ doion came Salli'van with his corps. 
 '■My dears^ says Freethy, ^ donH ^eepour! 
 For the smoke he steam an^ oiothin^ more — 
 But ivhat hav' ^ee done wi'' the En-ginef' " 
 
 Antl the firemen, by shouting it as heartil}' as 
 the rest, robbed the epigram of all its sting. 
 
 But the best of it, my dear Prince, Avas still 
 to come. For at half-past eight (that being 
 the time of low water) a salvage corps assembled 
 and managed to drag the engine ashore by 
 means of stout tackle hitched round the granite 
 pedestal that stands on Freethy's Quay to com- 
 memorate the visit of Queen Victoria and 
 Prince Albert, who landed there on the 8th 
 of September, 1846. The guise-dancers paraded 
 it throuoli the streets until midnio-ht, when 
 they gave it over to the carollers, who fed it 
 with buckets; and as the poor. machine was 
 but little damaged, brisk jets of water were 
 made to salute the citizens' windows simulta-
 
 320 THE DELECTABLE DUCHY. 
 
 neously with the season's holy songs. I, who 
 have a habit of sleeping with my window open, 
 received an icy shower-bath with the opening 
 verse of " Christians, awake ! Salute the Happy 
 Morn. . . ." 
 
 On Saturday next the Brigade assembles for 
 a Grand Salvage Banquet in the Town Hall, 
 There will be speeches. Accept, m.y dear Prince, 
 all possible good wishes for the New Year. . . . 
 
 THE END.
 
 LIST OF WORKS 
 
 BY 
 
 MR. F. MARION CRAWFORD. 
 
 A NEW NOVEL. 
 
 PIETRO GHISLERI. 
 
 12mo, cloth, 11.00. In the uniform editiou of Mr. Crawford's 
 Novels. 
 
 THE NOVEL. WHAT IT IS. 
 
 By F. Marion Crawfoud, author of "Children of the King," 
 " Saracinesca," etc., etc. Uuiforui with the pocket edition of 
 Willian Winter's Works. With photogravure portrait. 18mo, 
 cloth, 75 cents. 
 
 *** Also a large-paper limited edition. 12nio, $2.00. 
 " Mr. Crawford in thf course of tliis readable little essay toiiclies upon such 
 topics as realism and roinanlicisrn. the use of dialect, tlie aluise of scientific 
 information, the delects of liistorical fictioa. 5Ir. Crawford's di.sciission of 
 wliat does and what does not constitute the novel will be lead with eager 
 interest by the large company of his sincere admirers in this country." — Beacon. 
 
 CHILDREN OF THE KING. 
 
 A Tale of Southern Italy. 12mo, cloth, $1.00. 
 
 " A sympathetic reader cannot fail to be impressed with the dramatic power 
 of this story. The simplicity of nature, tlie imcorrupted trutli of a soul, have 
 been portrayed by a master-hand. The suddenness of the unforeseen tragedy 
 at tlie last renders the incident of the storj- powerful beyond description. One 
 can only feel such sensations as the last scene of the story incites. It may be 
 added that if Mr Crawford has written some stories unevenly, lie has made no 
 mistakes in tlie stories of Italian life. A reader of them cannot fail to gain a 
 clearer, fuller acquaintance with the Italians and the artistic spirit that per- 
 vades the country." — M. L. B. in Sijracttse Journal. 
 
 Mac>iill.\n & Co. take pletisnre in announcing that they have 
 added the following volumes (with the author's latest revisions) to 
 their uniform edition of the Works of Mr. F. Marion Crawfoid, 
 thereby enabling them to issue a complete editiou of all his novels : 
 
 A ROMAN SINGER. New Edition, revLsed and corrected. 
 
 TO LEEWARD. PAUL PATOFF. 
 
 AN AMERICAN POLITICIAN. New Edition, revised 
 and parti}' rewritten. 
 
 MACMILLAN & CO., Publishers, 
 
 66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.
 
 THE SARAC1NE5CA SERIES. 
 
 DON ORSINO. 
 
 A Continuation of "Saracinesca" and "Sant' Ilario." 
 
 "The third in a rather remarkable series of novels dealing with 
 three generations of the Saracinesca family, entitled respectively 
 ' Saracinesca,' ' Sant' Ilario ' and ' Don Orsino,' and these novels present 
 an important study of Italian life, customs, and conditions during the 
 present century. Each one of these novels is \\ orthy of very careful 
 reading and offers exceptional enjojonent in many ways, in the 
 fascinating absorption of good fiction, in interest of faithful historic 
 accuracy, and in charm of style. The ' new Italy ' is strikingly 
 revealed in 'Don Orsino.' " — Boston Budget. 
 
 " We are inclined to regard the book as the most ingenious of all 
 Mr. Crawford's fictions. Certainly it is the best novel of the season." 
 — Evening Bulletin. 
 
 SANT' ILARIO. A Sequel to "Saracinesca." 
 
 " The author shows steady and constant improvement in his art. 
 ' Sant' Ilario ' is a continuation of the chronicles of the Saracinesca 
 family. ... A singularly powerful and beautiful story. . . . Ad- 
 mirably developed, with a naturalness beyond praise. ... It must 
 rank with ' Greifenstein ' as the best work the author has produced. 
 It fulfils every requirement of artistic fiction. It brings out what is 
 most impressive in human action, without owing any of its effective- 
 ness to sensationalism or artifice. It is natural, fluent in evolution, 
 accordant with experience, graphic in description, penetrating in 
 analysis, and absorbing in interest." — New York Tribune. 
 
 SARACINESCA. 
 
 "His highest achievement, as yet, in the realms of fiction. The 
 work has two distinct merits, either of which would serve to make 
 it great, — that of telling a perfect story in a perfect way, and of giv- 
 ing a graphic picture of Roman society in the last days of the Pope's 
 temporal power. . . . The story is exquisitely told." — Boston 
 Traveller. 
 
 "One of the most engrossing novels we have ever read." — Boston 
 Times. 
 
 The three volumes in a box, $3.00. 
 Half morocco, $8.00. Half calf, $7.50. 
 
 2
 
 THE THREE FATES. 
 
 " The strength of the story lies iu its portrayal of the aspirations, 
 disciplinary efforts, trials and triumphs of the man who is a born 
 writer, and who, by long and i)ainful experiences, learns the good 
 that is in liim and the way in which to give it effectual expression. 
 The analytical quality of the book is excellent, and the individuality 
 of each one of the very dissimilar three fates is set fortli in an entirely 
 satisfactory manner. . . . Mr. Crawford has manifestly brought his 
 best qualities as a student of human nature and his finest resources 
 as a master of an original and picturesque style to bear upon this 
 story. Taken for all in all it is one of the most pleasing of all his 
 productions in fiction, and it affords a view of certain phases of Amer- 
 ican, or perhaps we should say of New York, life that have not 
 hitherto been treated with anything like the same adequacy and 
 felicity." — Boston Beacon. 
 
 THE WITCH OF PRAGUE. 
 
 A Fantastic Tale. 
 Illustrated by W. J. Hennessy. 
 
 " ' The Witch of Prague ' is so remarkable a book as to be certain 
 of as wide a popularity as any of its predecessors. The keenest inter- 
 est for most readers will lie in its demonstration of the latest revela- 
 tions of hypnotic science. . . . But ' The Witch of Prague ' is not 
 merely a striking exposition of the far-reaching possibilities of a new 
 science ; it is a romance of singular daring and power. " — London 
 Academy. 
 
 " Mr. Crawford has written in man}' keys, but never in so strange 
 a one as that which dominates 'The Witch of Prague.' . . . The 
 artistic skill with which this extraordinary story is constructed and 
 carried out is admirable and delightful. . . . Mr. Crawford has 
 scored a decided triumph, for the interest of the tale is sustained 
 throughout. ... A very remarkable, powerful, and interesting 
 story." — jVcw York I'nbune. 
 
 "But Mr. Crawford has not lost his oft-proved skill in holding 
 his readers' attention, and there are single scenes and passages in this 
 book that rival in intensity anytbing he has ever written." — C/iiistian 
 Union.
 
 A CIGARETTE-MAKER'S ROMANCE. 
 
 "It is a touching romance, filled with scenes of great dramatic 
 power/' — Boston Commercial Bulletin. 
 
 "It is full of life and movement, and is one of the best of Mr. 
 Crawford's books." — Boston Saturday Evening Gazette. 
 
 "The interest is unllagging throughout. Never has Mr. Craw- 
 ford done more brilliant realistic work than here. But his realism 
 is only the case and cover for those intense feelings which, placed 
 under no matter what humble conditions, produce the most dramatic 
 and the most tragic situations. . . . This is a secret of genius, to 
 take the most coarse and common material, the meanest surround- 
 ings, the most sordid material prospects, and out of the vehement 
 passions which sometimes dominate all human beings to build up 
 with these poor elements scenes and passages, the dramatic and emo- 
 tional power of which at once enforce attention and awaken the pro- 
 foundest interest." — New York Tribune. 
 
 " In the 'Cigarette-maker's Romance ' Mr. Crawford may be said 
 to have given new evidence of the novel-maker's art. . . . It is to be 
 hoped that every one who reads Mr. Crawford's tale will heed of the 
 rare finish of his literary work, a model in its kind." — The Critic. 
 
 GREIFENSTEIN. 
 
 " ' Greifenstein ' is a remarkable novel, and while it illustrates 
 once more the author's unusual versatility, it also shows that he has 
 not been tempted into careless writing by the vogue of his earlier 
 books. . . . There is nothing weak or small or frivolous in the story. 
 The author deals with tremendous passions working at the height of 
 their energy. His characters are stern, rugged, determined men and 
 women, governed by powerful prejudices and iron conventions, types 
 oi a military people, in whom the sense of duty has been cultivated 
 until it dominates all other motives, and in whom the principle of 
 ' noblesse oblige ' is, so far as the aristocratic class is concerned, the 
 fundamental rule of conduct. What such people may be capable of 
 is startlingly shown." — New York Tribune. 
 
 "... Another notable contribution to the literature of the day. It 
 possesses originality in its conception and is a work of unusual abil- 
 ity. Its interest is sustained to tlie close, and it is an advance even 
 on the previous work of this talented author Like all Mr. Craw- 
 ford's work this novel is crisp, clear, and vigorous, and will be read 
 with a great deal of interest." — New York Evening Telegram. 
 
 4
 
 MR. ISAACS. 
 
 A Tale of Modern India. 
 
 " The writer first shows the hero in relation with the people of 
 the East and then skilfully brings into connection the Anglo-Saxon 
 race. It is in this showing of the different effects which the two 
 classes of minds have upon the central figure of the story that one of 
 its chief merits lies. The characters are original and one does not 
 recognize any of the hackneyed personages who are so apt to be con- 
 sidered indispensable to novelists, and which, dressed in one guise or 
 another, are but the marionettes, which are all dominated by the 
 same mind, moved by the same motive force. The men are all 
 endowed with individualism and independent life and thought. . . . 
 There is a strong tinge of mysticism about the book which is one of 
 its greatest charms." — Boston Transcript. 
 
 " No story of human experience that we have met with since 
 ' John Inglesant ' has such an effect of transporting the reader into 
 regions differing from his own. ' Mr. Isaacs ' is the best novel that 
 has ever laid its scenes in our Indian dominions." — The Daily News, 
 London. 
 
 " This is a fine and noble story. It has freshness like a new and 
 striking scene on which one has never looked before. It has character 
 and individuality. It has meaning. It is lofty and uplifting, It is 
 strongly, sweetly, tenderly written. It is in all respects an uncommon 
 novel, ... In fijae, ' Mr. Isaacs ' is an acquaintance to be made." 
 
 — The Literary World. 
 
 DR. CLAUDIUS. 
 
 A True Story, 
 
 "There is a suggestion of strength, of a mastery of facts, of a 
 fund of knowledge, that speaks well for future production. ... To 
 be thoroughly enjoyed, however, this book must be read, as no mere 
 cursory notice can give an adequate idea of its many interesting 
 points and excellences, for without a doubt 'Dr. Claudius' is the 
 most interesting book that has been published for many montlis, and 
 richly deserves a high place in the public favor. "St. Louis Spectator. 
 
 " 'Dr. Claudius' is surprisingly good, coming after a story of so 
 much merit as 'Mr. Isaacs.' The hero is a magnificent specimen of 
 humaiiitv, and sympathetic readers will be fascinated by his chival- 
 rous wooing of the beautiful American countess." — Boston Traveller. 
 
 " To our mind it by no means belies the promises of its predecessor. 
 The storv, an exceedingly improbable and romantic one, is told with 
 much skill ; the characters are .strongly marked without any suspi- 
 cion of caricature, and the author's ideas on social and political sub- 
 jects are often brilliant and always .striking. It is no exaggeration to 
 say that there is not a dull page in the book, which is peculiarly adapted 
 for the recreation of student or thinker."— Living Chtirch. 
 
 5
 
 WITH THE IMMORTALS. 
 
 "Altogether an admirable piece of art worked in the spirit of a 
 thorough artist. Every reader of cultivated-tastes will find it a book 
 prolific in entertainment of the most refined description, and to all 
 such we commend it henTtily. "—Bosto)i Saturday Evening Gazette. 
 
 ' ' The strange central idea of the story could have occurred only 
 to a writer whose mind was very sensitive to the current of modern 
 thought and progress, while its execution, the setting it forth in 
 proper literary clothing, could be successfully attempted only by one 
 whose active literary ability should be fully equalled by his power of 
 assimilative knowledge both literary and scientific, and no less by 
 his courage and capacity for hard work. The book will be found to 
 have a fascination entirely new for the habitual reader of novels. 
 Indeed Mr. Crawford has succeeded in taking his readers quite above 
 the ordinary plane of novel interest." — Boston Advertiser. 
 
 MARZIO'S CRUCIFIX. 
 
 "We take the liberty of saying that this work belongs to the 
 highest department of character-painting in words." — Churchman. 
 
 "'Marzio's Crucifix' is another of those tales of modern Rome 
 which show the author so much at his ease. A subtle compound of 
 artistic feeling, avarice, malice, and criminal frenzy is this carver of 
 silver chalices and crucifixes." — Tlie Times. 
 
 "We have repeatedly had occasion to say that Mr. Crawford pos- 
 sesses in an extraordinary degree the art of constructing a story. His 
 sense of proportion is just, and his narrative flows along with ease 
 and perspicuity. It is as if it could not have been written otherwise, 
 so naturally does the story unfold itself, and so logical and consistent 
 is the sequence of incident after incident. As a story ' Marzio's Cru- 
 cifix' is perfectly constructed." — Neio York Commercial Advertiser. 
 
 KHALED. 
 
 A Story of Arabia. 
 
 "Throughout the fascinating story runs the subtlest analysis, 
 suggested rather than elaborately worked out, of human passion and 
 motive, the building out and development of the character of the 
 woman who becomes the hero's wife and whose love he finally wins 
 being an especially acute and highly-finished example of the story- 
 teller's art. . . . That it is beautifully written and holds the interest 
 of the reader, fanciful as it all is, to the very end, none who know 
 the depth and artistic finish of Mr. C'rawford's work need be told. 
 
 — The Chicago Times. 
 
 "It abounds in stirring incidents and barbaric picturesqueness ; 
 and the love struggle of the unloved Khaled is manly in its simplicity 
 and noble in its ending. Mr. Crawford has done notliing better than, 
 if he has done anything as good as, ' Khaled.' " — The Mail and Ex- 
 press.
 
 ZOROASTER. 
 
 
 
 "The novel opens with a magnificent description of the march of 
 the Babylonian court to Belshazzar's feast, with the sudden and awful 
 ending of the latter by the marvellous writing on the wail which 
 Daniel is called to interpret. From that point the story moves on in a 
 series of grand and dramatic scenes and incidents which will not fail 
 to hold the reader fascinated and spell-bound to the end." — Christian 
 at Work. 
 
 "The field of Mr. Crawford's imagination appears to be un- 
 bounded. ... In 'Zoroaster' Mr. Crawford's winged fancy ventures 
 a daring flight. . . . Yet ' Zoroaster ' is a novel rather than a drama. 
 It is a drama in the force of its situations and in the poetry and 
 dignity of its language ; but its men and women are not men and 
 women of a play. By the naturalness of their conversation and be- 
 havior they seem to live and lay hold of our human sjnnpathy more 
 than the same characters on a stage could possibly do." — The 
 
 " As a matter of literary art solely, we doubt if Mr. Crawford has 
 ever before given us better work than the descrijjtion of Belshazzar's 
 feast with which the story begins, or the death-scene with which it 
 closes." — The Christian Union. 
 
 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 " It is a pleasure to have anything so perfect of its kind as this 
 brief and vivid story. ... It is doubly a success, being full of human 
 sympathy, as well as thoroughly artistic in its nice balancing of the 
 unusual with the commonplace, the clever juxtaposition of innocence 
 and guilt, comedy and tragedy, simplicity and intrigue." — Critic. 
 
 "Of all the stories Mr. Crawford has written, it is the most dra- 
 matic, the most finished, the most compact. . . . The taste which is 
 left in one's mind after the story is finished is exactly what the fine 
 reader desires and the novelist intends. ... It has no defects. It is 
 neither trifling nor trivial. It is a work of art. It is perfect." 
 
 —Boston Beacon. 
 
 " The plot is unfolded and the character-drawing given with the 
 well-known artistic skill of Mr. Crawford, and to those who have not 
 before read it this story will furnish a rare literary treat. " 
 
 — Home Journal 
 7
 
 MACMILLAN'S DOLLAR NOVELS. 
 
 MACMILLAN & CO. beg to announce that they are now pub- 
 lishing a SERIES OF COPYRIGHT NOVELS, by well-known 
 authors, at the uniform price of one dollar per volume. 
 
 THE THREE FATES. By F. Marion Crawford. Ready. 
 
 HELEN" TREVERYAN; or, The Ruling Race. By John 
 Roy. In the Press. 
 
 THE STORY OF DICK. By Major E. Gambier Parry. 
 
 In the Press. 
 
 DENZIL QUARRIER. By George Gissing, author of 
 " Demos," " The Nether World," etc. Ready. 
 
 THE LESSON OF THE MASTER, and Other Stories. By 
 Henry James. Ready. 
 
 GRANIA. The Story of an Island. By the Hon. Emily Law- 
 less. Ready. 
 
 NEVERMORE. By Rolf Boldrewood, author of " Robbery 
 under Arms," etc. Ready. 
 
 THE HISTORY OF DAVID GRIEVE. By Mrs. Humphry 
 Ward. Ready. 
 
 A STRANGE ELOPEMENT. By W. Clark Russell. With 
 Illustrations by W. H. Overend. Ready. 
 
 MARIAM. By Horace Victor. Ready. 
 
 ARNE and THE FISHER LASSIE. By Bjornson. Trans- 
 lated from the Norse. Ready. 
 
 THE BURNING OF ROME. A Story of the Days of Nero. 
 
 With Coloured Illustrations. By the Rev. Prof. A. J. 
 Church. Ready.. 
 
 TIM : A Story of School Life. By a New Writer. Ready.- 
 CECILIA DE NOEL. By Lanoe Falconer, author of " Made- 
 moiselle I.xe." Ready. 
 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE. By J. H. Shorthouse, author 
 of " John Inglesant." Ready. 
 
 LIFE'S HANDICAP. Stories of Mine Own People. By 
 
 Rudyard Kipling. Ready. 
 
 THE WITCH OF PRAGUE. A Fantastic Tale. By F. 
 
 Marion Crawford. With numerous Illustrations. Ready. 
 
 MACMILLAN & CO., 
 
 66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK.
 
 PR 
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