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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
D4-5
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UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA
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