HRONICLES OF ST, T 
 
 EDEN PHILLPOTTS 
 
(![atmll Ittioeraitg ffiibrarg 
 
 3ltl;ara, Sltm Qorh 
 
 BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME Bi^ THE 
 
 SAGE ENDOWMENT FUND 
 
 THE GIFT OF 
 
 HENRY W. SAGE 
 
 1891 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PR 5177.C55 1918 
 
 Chronicles of St. Tid, 
 
The original of tliis book is in 
 tlie Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013535764 
 
CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 KIW YORK • BOSTON • CHICAGO • DALLAS 
 ATLANTA • SAN FRANCISCO 
 
 MACMILLAN & CO., Limited 
 
 LONDON • BOMBAY • CALCUTTA 
 
 MELBOURNE 
 
 THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Lniu 
 TORONTO 
 
CHRONICLES OF 
 ST. TID 
 
 BY 
 
 EDEN I'HILLPOTTS 
 
 Author of 
 "Old Delabole," "Brunei's Tower," etc. 
 
 Nettt ^ork 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 1918 
 
 i.n ritMt reterved 
 
COPTBIGHT, 1918 
 
 By the MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 Set up and printed. Published, February, 1918 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 The Church Grim 1 
 
 Silver Thimble Farm 31 
 
 The Dream 52 
 
 The House in Two Parishes 65 
 
 The Reed Eond 83 
 
 The Rare Poppy 109 
 
 The Revolver 128 
 
 " The Green Man " and " The Tiger " . . . .157 
 
 The Legacy 179 
 
 The Saint and the Lovers 196 
 
 The Better Man 217 
 
 The Lie to the Dead 233 
 
 Farmer Sleep's Savings 251 
 
 Jenifer and the Twain 271 
 
 Panting After Christopher 292 
 
 A Touch of " Fearfulness " 306 
 
CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 THE CHURCH GRIM 
 
 Coknwall's a place that idden very well known by for- 
 eigners, and there's many things happen there that sur- 
 prise people a good deal when they hear about them. 
 And this identical tale may well raise the hair on a per- 
 son's head, for it is a savage, strange tale, in a manner 
 of speaking, and goes far back to past time. In fact, 
 the roots of the tale spring from another age than ours, 
 when the folk believed in all manner of dark and doubt- 
 ful contrivances that you never hear tell about now; 
 though whether these hidden powers be stiU working 
 in secret and unseen amongst us, or whether the virtue 
 be gone out of them, or whether they've vanished off the 
 earth altogether at the will of their Creator, be ques- 
 tions far beyond us common mortals to answer. 
 
 But one thing is clear as light to a thinking man, 
 and that is that our ancient forbears, who lifted our 
 churches, had a very different set of opinions from us, 
 who worship in 'em to-day. I doubt they was a more 
 religious people than us : anyway, they believed a lot of 
 things we shy at ; and though they may not have been 
 so terrible clever as this generation, one sort of clever- 
 
a CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 ness they certainly had which we have lost. And that 
 was to take life easier and get more fun and happiness 
 into their days. 'Twas machinery and Oliver Cromwell 
 ruined " Merrie England." And the beastly machinery 
 you can't blame, for it ain't got neither brains nor soul ; 
 so the blame must go to them rogues who cut off the 
 King's head and played hell with this country in the 
 name of the Lord. 
 
 We was always very proud of our church at St. 
 Luce's. 'Tis a little, old church town a few mile from 
 St. Tid, where the slate quarries gape in the midst of 
 the earth ; but St. Tid's church be a thing of yesterday, 
 whereas ours of St. Luce dates back to the times of the 
 Seventh Henry, or some such far-away age as that. 
 'Twas a funny old place, and stories was still handed 
 down about it, and one fine yam reported that a very 
 rich and rare treasure had been hid in the church ; and, 
 of course, nobody could say it wasn't true. 
 
 But you must hear the tale because the strange story 
 I am going to tell you hangs thereon. In fact, they be 
 one, in a manner of speaking, and if it hadn't been for 
 the first, the second could never have fallen out. 
 
 The lord of the Manor, when King Charles, the 
 Martyr, reigned over us, was a hero by the name of Sir 
 Tobias Polglaze — a famous knight who struck for the 
 King and very near lost his life up country at Bristol, 
 when Fairfax beat Prince Rupert. Then, seeing all was 
 lost, Sir Tobias came back home along to Cornwall, and 
 knew afore long that he'd be like to lose his houses and 
 manors, if not his head. So the good knight fell to 
 prayers, and the story went that St. Luce herself came 
 
THE CHURCH GRIM 3 
 
 to him and bade the man bring his treasures to mother 
 church and hide 'em therein safe and snug against the 
 wrath to come. For in them wild days it was a very 
 common thing for rich folk to leave their jewels in the 
 keeping of the churches, because they were accounted 
 the safest store-houses. 
 
 Whether the knight actually buried his treasures in 
 the church at the saint's advice, or no, cannot be told, 
 though what soon followed belongs to history, and it is 
 set down in books how Sir Tobias Polglaze, a few weeks 
 after that time, again fought against Fairfax in the 
 West, and at last fell gloriously for his ruined King. 
 They brought the man's bones back to his native land, 
 and he was buried at St. Luce under the chancel, and 
 the brass set upon his grave may still be read ; for our 
 last vicar, being a scholar and a very learned creature, 
 took good care that such ancient monuments were well 
 cherished. 
 
 So there it was, and it looked as if it might be true 
 that Sir Tobias had obeyed the saint and hid his chief 
 treasures in the church afore he went off to death or 
 victory; but there was nothing to prove it, and some 
 people believed and some di4 not, according to their 
 bent of mind. Some thought the story was true, but 
 that the precious things had doubtless been taken away 
 after the death of Sir Tobias ; while others, including 
 the Reverend Tremayne, our parson, in the days of 
 which I write, held stoutly to it that the treasure might 
 be there, where Sir Toby had put it at the direction of 
 St. Luce. His reason was a good one, you may say; 
 because, in the first place, the knight was known to 
 
* CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 have been a bachelor, in itself a remarkable thing in 
 them days; for bachelor men be a modem invention, 
 if I hear true, and in the olden times they were as 
 rare as white crows. And they didn't bear a very 
 good character neither, though today I could name 
 half a score of men in this parish alone, who carry the 
 bachelor state without suspicion and are just so re- 
 spectable and well thought upon as the best of us. 
 And in the second place, you see, Sir Toby had died a 
 sudden death, and perhaps never had no time to tell 
 his secrets, if he had got any. And so' it seemed a fair 
 argument that if he'd hid his treasure where St. Luce 
 directed — doubtless a pretty cunning hiding-place — 
 it had been done for the saint's good purpose. Of 
 course, that purpose might have been already carried 
 out after so many years ; but the Reverend Tremayne — 
 a very sanguine sort of man where Cornish saints were 
 concerned — had an idea that the treasure might still 
 be there; and he took a great pride in the story and 
 liked to believe it, and was cruel vexed if people laughed 
 at it as a vain invention. 
 
 So there it stood — a yam to take or leave — and 
 then, after so many long years, that happened to settle 
 the vexed question and put it to rest for ever more in a 
 very queer sort of fashion. 
 
 II 
 
 A name clings to a district like mud to a hob-nailed 
 boot, and though Sir Tobias had been gone for hundreds 
 and hundreds of years and his lands had passed to many 
 
THE CHURCH GRIM 6 
 
 families in course of time, yet there were Polglazes still 
 in St. Luce and round about. But they wasn't of the 
 quality — just humble people on the land for the most 
 part. A good few of that name worked in the quarries 
 of St. Tid also; indeed, 'twas an everyday name in 
 Cornwall. And we'd even got a Tobias, too, the son 
 of Mary Polglaze ; and she was a widow and he was her 
 prop and stay. 
 
 An odd sort of chap — in fact a very unusual pat- 
 tern of young man, and people couldn't believe some- 
 times that his blood had run through his father's veins, 
 for the father had been a terrible, humble sort of chap, 
 as broke stones and tacked hedges and put his mark 
 to a document when necessary ; for he never learned to 
 read to his dying day, nor yet to write. But the boy 
 had a brain very farways out of the common, and was 
 a high-strung, nervy sort of chap with a hand like a 
 gentleman and a quick way and very civil manners and 
 a most inquiring mind. In fact, he might have made a 
 name for himself and been the pride of his native village 
 if he hadn't been such a lazy good-f or-nought ; but his 
 nature was blended of mixed material; he weren't like 
 his mother, nor yet his father, but a sort of throw- 
 back ; and no doubt, if it had been possible to trace his 
 havage for a few generations into the past, we should 
 have found some remarkable character had had a hand 
 in Toby on one side or t'other. His qualities were 
 strong; but they balanced, and so left the man pretty 
 much like other men. 
 
 And that was unfortunate for him, because, with all 
 his rare cleverness, if he'd been a trier instead of a 
 
6 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 slacker, he might have gone far; and if a lazy nature 
 and a proper hatred of anything that looked like work 
 hadn't counter-balanced his pride in himself and his 
 consciousness that he was cleverer and quicker-witted 
 than most other young fellows, none can tell where he'd 
 have reached up to. Again, with his good brains and 
 loose morals, he only lacked one thing to have made him 
 a nuisance to law-abiding people. In fact, he might 
 have been a dangerous sort of character if h«'d had 
 pluck. But he was a coward, and I believe that acci- 
 dent of nature stood between Toby and a good lot of 
 wickedness. As a smart young apty-cock of a boy, 
 he was a proper craftsman at sending the other boys 
 through the hedge to strub the apple-trees; and he'd 
 minch from school and find the skill and cunning every 
 time, so long as some other young rip foimd the pluck. 
 And it stood to him as he grew up, for the cowardly are 
 cautious, and Toby always came out on the safe side 
 of the fence both as man and boy. 
 
 People knew his ways and didn't like him over-much, 
 for they felt there was something to him they couldn't 
 measure. They dreaded his cleverness; but they em- 
 ployed him, for he was a thatcher by trade and a very 
 clever man with reed and straw. And first-rate thatch- 
 ers were coming to be a rare race of men, even in those 
 times; so knowing that a man, whose business lies in 
 thatching ricks and cottages, can't do much harm to 
 the community, they kept him employed. He was an 
 artist in a way, and he'd labour by fits and starts and 
 do beautiful work when he was in a mind to. And if he 
 didn't feel like it, then he wouldn't lift a finger, and 
 
THE CHURCH GRIM 7 
 
 nothing would make him. He was tricky about prices, 
 too, and you had to get your bargain in black and 
 white with Toby, or else he'd be very like to go back on 
 it when the work was done. 
 
 But he also had a fancy for queer, old book-laming 
 and fansical nonsense about the old days and old 
 places. And it was that that proved to be his best 
 strength, for he won over Parson Tremayne from his 
 earliest youth and got on the reverend gentleman's 
 blind side before he'd left the Sunday school. Not that 
 it was a very difficult thing to do, for, like many very 
 learned men, parson was kind and trusting; and if any 
 lad promised to make a scholar and took an interest in 
 the church bench-ends and old stones and the inscrip- 
 tions on the bells in the belfry, or any old rubbige like 
 that, then he might be as sly and double-faced as you 
 please, but the Reverend Tremayne would hear no word 
 against him. 
 
 Toby Polglaze once found a splinter of flint up over 
 on Brown Willy — the great tor that crowns they 
 lonely, homy-winky, old moors eastward of our vil- 
 lage. He liked to moon about up there when he was a 
 lad, among the cairns and " long stones," though he 
 always feared the wild-haired cattle with gert horns 
 that roamed there, and wouldn't go nigh 'em for any- 
 thing. The flint was just a little flake fashioned in 
 shape of an arrow-head, and made by the heathen old 
 men long afore the dawn of honest history. And be- 
 ing flint it couldn't perish. A rabbit scratching had 
 thrown it out of its hole, and Toby came across it with 
 great wonder and joy. Well, you'd think 'twas noth- 
 
8 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 ing to make no fuss about, for if the old men shot ar- 
 rows with flint heads to *em, they was bound to come 
 to hand again some day; but he raised a proper 
 upstore about it and took his trash to parson, and 
 the Reverend swore by him from that day onward. 
 In fact, he always took his part against the parish, 
 if need be, ever after, and made a lot more fuss than 
 he would have made if Toby had found a coal mine, 
 or some such useful contrivance. I do believe, after 
 that, if young Polglaze had broke loose and knocked 
 somebody on the head, or set fire to a wheat-rick, or 
 what not, that Parson Tremayne would still have 
 supported him, and held it no great odds, and reck- 
 oned most steadfast that a young youth as could 
 bring him a heathen arrow-head from mid-most moor, 
 must be a wonder and quite above law and order and 
 such like everyday ideas. 
 
 He properly spoiled the thatcher, and poured his 
 own learning into him until Toby knew everything 
 about the church, and the ancient remains round about, 
 and the tin-streamers' clearings on the moor, and the 
 hut circles and barrows and the logging stones, and all 
 the other silliness from savage times. For my part, I 
 think such stuff better forgot ; but, once led away in this 
 manner, Tobias began to make his own discoveries, too, 
 and took the greatest pleasure in chucking his work 
 and showing curious things to the holiday people, who 
 came in summer-time to see the quarries of St. Tid and 
 King Arthur's Castle, at Tintagel, and such like won- 
 drous sights. He got money by it, Toby did — a good 
 penny, I reckon — for he was a mixture of the dove and 
 
THE CHURCH GRIM 9 
 
 the sarpent, you might say ; and when he found the flint 
 fragments and old stone implements was worth a trifle, 
 he always seemed to have a few on hand for any fool that 
 would purchase them. He'd sell an ancient granite tin- 
 mould from the moor, or a flint arrow-head, or a stone 
 butterfly from the quarries, or a brave lot of Cornish 
 diamonds and many other curiosities; though whether 
 some of 'em was as ancient as they looked, only he knew. 
 
 But Vicar, he held by Toby and uplifted him tremen- 
 dous as he grew to manhood. Then he'd go digging 
 and delving with his reverence for rubbish in the tombs 
 of the old men on the moors ; and he'd read the lessons in 
 church of a Svmday sometimes, besides taking round the 
 alms-dish after. And all this made a better man of 
 Tobias in some directions, no doubt, though those who 
 knew him best were much afraid he did these holy things 
 for business more than pleasure, and to keep in with the 
 vicarage. 
 
 Young Polglaze was tall, slim, and lantern-jawed, 
 with very fine black eyes, slack black hair, and a black 
 moustache. He was a light-boned man and not sturdy 
 and stuggy like .the most of us. But he was a real good- 
 looking chap with an air about him, though he had 
 rather a small voice and turned his eyes away for the 
 most part when he spoke to you. But his language was 
 beyond anything, and he'd use book words like second 
 nature. And he was vain as a peacock really, though 
 he pretended not to be. 
 
 When he was up home five-and-twenty, or there-about, 
 fate over-got Tobias in the usual fashion and he fell in 
 love with a bowerly girl by the name of Netty Sleep. 
 
10 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 She was Simon Sleep's only one, and he was a small 
 farmer down Padstow way. He only rented, however, 
 and was always hard up, and feared quarter-day worse 
 than death or judgment. 
 
 The courting went very suent and they made a nice- 
 looking pair, for she was straight and well set-up and 
 comely, with rosy cheeks and a good mound of flax-white 
 hair. Netty seemed rather well suited to the young 
 man, too, being a bit devious and downy herself, and 
 they had their little jokes at the expense of us every- 
 day people, I doubt not. Besides, she was quick to 
 see his fine parts and well-turned wrists and ankles, and 
 she flattered him a lot, and even talked stuff about the 
 ancient Polglaze race, and told Toby, no doubt, if 
 it could be seen into, 'twould be found he came of very 
 fine stock in the far past. All of which things he was 
 very willing to credit. But Farmer Sleep proved not 
 quite of the same mind, for he counted Netty as about 
 his only hope, and trusted she might be good for a 
 chimney-comer in a snug farm house some day. He 
 was a widow-man, and knew that when he got too old 
 to work, the Union would be his portion, unless his girl 
 made a good match and married a husband strong 
 enough to help him over his latter end. 
 
 But there didn't seem no great promise of no chim- 
 ney-comer with Toby Polglaze, for Toby was poor him- 
 self, though some whispered he was putting by a little 
 on the quiet. At any rate, he wasn't prepared to offer 
 Netty anything more exciting than to share his wid- 
 owed mother's cottage for the present; so Sleep turned 
 him down short and sharp, and even went so far as to 
 
THE CHURCH GRIM 11 
 
 say it was fair impudence such a poor man oiFered for 
 his girl. But Netty, of course, was poor as a church 
 mouse, too, and she wanted Tobias and meant to go to 
 him, even if she had no more than a smicket to her bact. 
 The farmer's views weighed light with both of them, 
 therefore; and presently the girl got talking a lot of 
 hopeful nonsense, and the man was only too ready to 
 believe it. They had no particular ideas ; but a vague 
 opinion, which started in her mind, found very quick 
 root-hold in his; and then that happened to turn the 
 opinion into a belief, and the belief into a shadowy idea 
 for action. For such is the power of love that it makes 
 even the weak man braver than his wont and fires the 
 coward to take risks he'd never dream about in his 
 everyday senses. 
 
 First, however, when he found Simon Sleep flouted 
 him, Toby, seeing no immediate trick to get round 
 farmer, went to his life-long friend. Parson Tremayne, 
 in good hope to find support in that quarter and very 
 like a bit of money, too. But he drew a blank there, 
 much to his surprise, for the reverend gentleman, though 
 a Christian to his toenails, was human and could be as 
 selfish as humbler men when touched on a tender point. 
 And he feared that Toby's great usefulness to him would 
 be gone for ever if he took a wife and became a family 
 man and had a woman and children round his neck. 
 Parson was a bachelor himself, being far too taken up 
 with old stones and old books and old saints to want a 
 wife; and so, when he heard what Polglaze was minded 
 to do, and how he was tokened to Netty Sleep, and how 
 her father refused him until he could show five shillings 
 
12 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 a week more wages, the reverend took it in a very un- 
 favourable spirit and didn't offer Toby assistance or 
 consolation. In fact, he turned proper ugly about it. 
 
 " This is moonshine and madness in you, Polglaze," 
 said the good man. " Far, far too young, and, I should 
 hope, too intelligent are you to dream of any such reck- 
 less step for many years to come. I will be no party 
 to it ; on the contrary, I protest ; I forbid ; I urge you, 
 as one to whom you owe much, to put this thing away 
 from you as a temptation of the devil. Your destiny 
 lies on a higher plane than marriage, Tobias Polglaze ; 
 you have natural gifts of a rare order; to hide them, 
 under such a bushel as marriage so often proves to be, 
 would lose you my friendship and your own good con- 
 science. Think no more of it, for nothing so unfortu- 
 nate as a wife could happen to you at present. Soon 
 you will be wise enough to know better and live to thank 
 me for preserving you from the state." 
 
 So he got no comfort there, and more did Netty ; and 
 she, being a hot-tempered girl, took it as a personal 
 insult to herself. So they was turning over the subject 
 and working themselves into a very rash and reckless 
 spirit, when a remarkable thing fell out at the church 
 and presently landed Toby in the adventure of his life. 
 In fact, it changed the colour of his days for ever ; and 
 some, looking ahead, said that perhaps, after all, it was 
 good for the man and showed Providence knew his 
 character and acted according; while others, blessed 
 with less faith and trust in the Almighty, thought quite 
 otherwise, and reckoned that Toby had got a bit over 
 and above what he deserved. 
 
THE CHURCH GRIM 13 
 
 For that matter, every man's lot do look unequal to 
 human eyes. And who can say where the shoe pinches 
 but him who wears it, and who knows the cupboard 
 where the skeleton's hid but him that have got the key 
 in his pocket? At any rate, there's skeletons and skele- 
 tons, and poor Toby's, when it came, was a terrible 
 wisht, monstrous sort of skeleton, without a doubt. 
 
 in 
 
 Parson Tremayne got a legacy left to him, and told 
 us aU about it in his next sermon; for the man was 
 open as the face of the sky and hadn't a secret in the 
 world. His sermons were often no more than friendly 
 talks to the parish assembled, and if he dressed us down 
 one Sunday, so like as not he'd tell us some of his own 
 faults the next. He never hesitated to mention man, 
 woman, or chUd, by name, from the pulpit, and he'd 
 think nothing of axing old Wesley Retallack, the clerk, 
 a question in the middle of service, or telling us to ope, 
 or shut the winders, or not to blow our noses so loud, 
 or what not. He was a man who made himself one of us 
 in church, as well as out, and he'd begin about the 
 weather, or the crops, or the lambing season, or the pil- 
 chard fishery, and so on, and then soar to higher things 
 by gradual degrees. And a wonderful practical man 
 and nothing funny to him, you understand — not really 
 — though strangers, as might be sitting under him for 
 the first time, would often very near die of laughing, 
 because he was that rare and uncommon, and different 
 from other holy men. I remember once he caught sight 
 
14. CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 of Simon Sleep, and axed him right out, after the sec- 
 ond lesson, if it was true he'd turned off young Noah 
 Nan Julian for picking blackberries after Sunday 
 School, and farmer answered from his place in the 
 congregation : — 
 
 " Yes, your honour, I have done so." 
 
 " And are you wiser, Simon, than One Who let the 
 disciples pick ears of com on the Sabbath.? No, my 
 son, you are not," says his reverence. " I can assure 
 you all, there's no harm for lad or maid to pick a nut or 
 blackberry on the Lord's Day, if he, or she, has been to 
 church and Sunday School first. And I hope, Simon 
 Sleep, you'll reconsider it and take Noah back 
 again." 
 
 " Certainly I will do so, and glad to, if your honour 
 says so," repHed the farmer; and with that the Vicar 
 says, " Good for you, Simon," and goes on with the 
 service. 
 
 So you may be sure, when he got his come-by-chance 
 of two thousand pounds from an old friend, our parson 
 told us all about it. And more than that, for he said 
 how he was going to spend the windfall. And some 
 thought he was right, but many didn't hold with the 
 idea. And more didn't I, for two thousand pounds is 
 a proper dollop of money — good for seventy-five pound 
 a year for evermore in wise hands ; but he was going to 
 spend his capital, having no more use for money himself 
 than a barn-owl. 
 
 Upon the church of St. Luce he intended to pour 
 out his cash, and he got a faculty, or some such thing, 
 from the Bishop, I heard tell, and set out with a light 
 
THE CHURCH GRIM 15 
 
 heart to put the House of God out of winders, and turn 
 the ancient place upside down. 
 
 " It has always been my hope and wish, though I 
 never expected to have the power," he told us. " But 
 now Providence, doubtless knowing the worthy purpose 
 in my heart, has sent this loving thought of a dear 
 old friend, at rest in the Lord ; and he knew well enough 
 to what use I should put his magnificent bequest. 
 
 " In a word, friends, I am going to restore our beau- 
 tiful church, and by that I do not design to make it hid- 
 eous, which restoration too often means. I shall not 
 sweep away the noble efforts of those who raised this 
 fane in Tudor times ; but I shall destroy the horrors 
 that sprang up here at the so-called ' restoration ' of 
 many years ago. I shaU endeavour to bring back the 
 purity of line and the chaste severity that obtained 
 before certain misguided sons of Mulciber ruined St. 
 Luce's in the reign of Anne — a reign architecturally 
 distressing to all right-minded antiquaries." 
 
 That's how he let us have it ; and then he told us what 
 he was going to do ; and among other things he proposed 
 to remove a very peculiar and ancient lump of stone 
 and mortar from which sprang one of the pillars of the 
 nave. It was an unsightly block supposed to be a 
 tomb ; but there was nought to show it — no name or 
 memorial stone nor nothing — and the lump, besides 
 being an eyesore, had rather a baleful sort of repute 
 among us. Nobody could say whyfore, yet to sit 
 alongside it made a body feel wisht and brought bad 
 luck ; and, indeed, many wouldn't go nigh it, for people 
 held to it some bad influence came out of it ; and if any- 
 
16 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 body got a chill in church, or a touch of rheumatics, 
 or even the headache, you'd always find they'd been 
 sitting by " the pUe," as it was called. And some even 
 said it meant death inside the year to sit alongside of it, 
 and many of us wouldn't go nearer than twelve chairs 
 off at any time. But the Reverend Tremayne gave no 
 ear to these superstitions, and was very vexed when he 
 heard of 'em. He had an idea about it, which he kept 
 to himself, and he'd hear no grumbling. He often made 
 the school children sit there, and it didn't seem to hurt 
 them like it did the grown-ups. In fact, they liked it 
 very well, because behind the pile they was out of sight 
 of Parson's reading desk, and all the cheerfuller for 
 that. 
 
 Now, however, it was hoped the unsightly lump would 
 go, and if it hid a mystery, we were soon like to know it. 
 But presently we learned that, far from making our 
 church any warmer and smarter and more comfortable, 
 as we thought the restoration meant. Vicar intended to 
 pull down a lot of mason's work, and do away with a 
 gallery at the west end, and open out the little north 
 aisle, which had been walled up for a century, if not 
 longer. Nobody wanted it, for the place was more than 
 large enough for all who came thereto. Indeed, the 
 Wesleyan chapels was gaining on us year after year; 
 but the reverend gentleman had his own ideas, and they 
 was exceeding different from ours. He told us also 
 that there was a painting over the east end window 
 under some ancient whitewash; and this, too, he was 
 going to restore if it could be done. Then there was the 
 waggon roof with bosses carved in the ancient arms of 
 
THE CHURCH GRIM 17 
 
 the bygone family of Polyglaze — an airey-mouse^ with 
 wings outspread. For the most part they'd rotted 
 away, but Parson knew all about 'em and was going to 
 have 'em all carved again in fine oak. And many such- 
 like things he was out for. In fact, the man properly 
 let himself loose on our church, and presently, after a 
 score of chaps got to work, and he found his money was 
 holding out well, he sprang stitt more fansical notions, 
 and started exploring the walls and probing the floors, 
 and a lot of little games that hadn't nothing to do with 
 restoring St. Luce's, but only wasted money and minis- 
 tered to his own pleasure and curiosity. It got on the 
 nerves of some of the old worshippers after a bit, be- 
 cause there was a cruel lot of dirt in the place, and the 
 draughts came in through the holes, and the organ was 
 stopped and the pipes took down to be cleaned, and it 
 looked as if law and order would never come back to the 
 holy building. In fact, we was all in a miz-maze to see 
 such a sight. But Parson told us what was doing every 
 Sunday, and kept hopeful as a cricket; and now and 
 then, if a workman found a bit of wrought stone, or an 
 old nail, or a coffin-handle, or what not, his reverence 
 properly glowed over the pulpit cushion and cheered us 
 up, and always threw out great hopes of what the next 
 week might bring forth. He was more than a thought 
 crafty over it, and whetted our appetites, and raised 
 our drooping spirits by reminding us of the old tale of 
 Sir Tobias and St. Luce, and declaring that, for his 
 part, he never had said, and never would say, there was 
 nothing in it. 
 
 1 Airey-motue. Bat 
 
18 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 " These oral traditions are often founded on truth," 
 he declared to us ; " and though it is the present fashion, 
 among the young principally, to scoff at the wisdom of 
 their forefathers and vaunt the wit of their own empty 
 heads, yet let me tell them that the difference between 
 youth and age is this. The young men think the old 
 men fools ; but the old men know the young men are. In 
 a word, then, the opportunity is such that I should be 
 disregarding my duty if I neglected to verify the ancient 
 story, together with other profound problems our res- 
 toration enables us to solve., With respect to the treas- 
 ure of Sir Tobias, we may or may not succeed in dis- 
 covering it. The knight's possessions may have long 
 been removed by our forerunners, and it may have been 
 the privilege of an earlier generation to make good the 
 saintly story — possibly the architects of Aime, though 
 I should grieve to think so. On the other hand, we 
 ourselves may be the fortunate antiquaries to establish 
 the truth of the legend and lift it from the misty shad- 
 ows of a bygone age into the frank daylight of the nine- 
 teenth century." 
 
 He rambled on like this, with such a hopeful glow on 
 his red face and white whiskers, that a good few grew 
 excited besides himself; though, as our clerk, Wesley 
 Retallack, said behind his back, if he found a sackful 
 of sovereigns and a dozen golden crowns and candle- 
 sticks, he didn't see how us of the congregation would 
 get any benefit of it, except the fame. 
 
 " And when you're in sight of four-score, fame's but 
 a dead leaf," said Retallack. He was never a hopeful 
 man himself, however, and had outlived his own fame 
 
THE CHURCH GRIM 19 
 
 such a devil of a long time, that he spoke what he knew. 
 But there was one who didn't take the clerk's opinion, 
 nor shut himself out of the treasure by any means. 
 In fact, a certain man began to build in secret on that 
 rainbow gold, and though, in his sober and honest 
 senses, no doubt Toby Polglaze might have been a long 
 sight too sane to do any such thing, he was now be- 
 trothed, as you'll remember, to Farmer Sleep's girl, 
 Netty. And history repeated itself, and the woman 
 tempted him. 
 
 IV 
 
 Not her fault altogether neither; in fact, when you 
 come to throw the blame, you can't spare parson him- 
 self, because he'd talked a lot to Tobias in his time about 
 the ancient house of Polglaze, and told him that many 
 and many a yeoman of Devon and Cornwall had rare 
 good blood running in his veins and came of fine, loyal 
 stock broke in the wars. 
 
 And Netty Sleep built on that idea, and presently 
 she got Toby very sure about himself and very full of 
 non-sensical notions. . 
 
 " Of course, you be sprung from the ancient lords of 
 the manor," vowed Netty. " Why, us have only to look 
 at you to see it, and if you was in gentleman's clothes, 
 what with your nice hands and small feet, and choice of 
 language and laming, anybody would say you was bom 
 of the best. Without doubt, you're a set-back to the 
 old blood, though it may have run through common 
 people here and there," she said, " and so you've every 
 right to reckon yourself in the line." 
 
20 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 And all this tomfoolery was for a purpose, of course, 
 and Tobias felt only too glad to fall in with it. She 
 spurred him on, and presently in sober seriousness he 
 reckoned he was the lawful heir to Sir Toby Polglaze's 
 treasure — when and wherever it turned up. He and 
 she soon got to believe this as gospel truth; but they 
 took very good care not to tell other people; for they 
 knew none else would list to such a fool's tale for a mo- 
 ment. 
 
 And since he very well understood he couldn't put 
 in no such ridiculous claim. Master Toby began to cud- 
 gel his brains, and so did his maiden. He had his own 
 ideas, but kept them close, and it weren't till afterwards 
 that we began to remember how he was always about in 
 the church during the alterations. It was thought the 
 Reverend Tremayne had appointed him to look after 
 the workmen and see nothing was taken behind his back 
 and nought of value hidden that might come to hand 
 during the researches ; but inquiry proved this was not 
 the case, and it turned out that Toby just gave over 
 his thatching and invited himself to the work of poking 
 and prying and watching the restoration of St. Luce. 
 Of course, he was feared of his life that they'd find the 
 treasure, and for several nights he offered to watch, so 
 that nothing should be took behind the reverend's back ; 
 and so pleased was parson that he greatly applauded 
 Toby for his zealous behaviour, and said he was a lesson 
 to the other young men, not one of which would have 
 spared an hour of their sleeping-time for such a high 
 purpose. 
 
 So the work went on, and the Queen Anne mess was 
 
THE CHURCH GRIM 21 
 
 shot out, and the people fairly rubbed their eyes to see 
 the little north aisle — a sight long lost and new to this 
 generation. But some of the old folk liked it not at all, 
 because there was an echo in it that made 'em jump; 
 and the church now being a third so big again and the 
 evenings drawing on to December and getting mighty 
 cold, the hotting stove and pipes proved far too weak 
 to warm it. And some, headed by old Moses Keat, the 
 cordwainer, got at his reverence to set up a new stove 
 with mightier power, to keep the winter cold out of the 
 people at worship ; but he defied them, and said a stove 
 was an abomination in his opinion, and a great sign of 
 weakness in them who desired it. 
 
 " There's a lot too much talked about warmth and 
 comfort in the House of God," he said in a sermon at 
 that time, " and I want for Moses Keat and some of his 
 friends who feel like him, to know that we do not come 
 to St. Luce's to be warm and comfortable. Such mean 
 pleasures are lawful enough and within the reach of all 
 of us, thank God, Who careth for the sparrow. There's 
 plenty of houses where we can toast our feet and ease 
 our backs and partake of a pipe and a glass of cordial 
 of a night; and why not, so long as we only yield to 
 these luxuries when the day's work is done and no call 
 of duty remains to be answered.'' But this — this is the 
 terrible House of the Lord," says the Reverend Tre- 
 mayne in his biggest voice, " and the nfan, or woman, 
 whose thoughts wander to their feet, or their backs, or 
 who feels a draught chilling their marrow when they 
 ought to be waiting in fear and trembling to hear the 
 whisper of the Still Small Voice in their hearts — such 
 
22 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 people shall have no sympathy from me. Their faith 
 is weak ; their danger is great, and they stand in peril 
 of a warmth, without comfort, that may endure through 
 eternity ! " 
 
 In this valiant manner he talked to us, and then, 
 scarcely were the words out of his mouth, when he re- 
 lented, and out of consideration for the weaker brethren 
 declared that the work was nearly complete, and that 
 by the New Year for sure all would be neat and vitty 
 again. For flesh is grass, as well he knowed, and a lot 
 of us, poor worms that we are, can't pray properly with 
 a rick in the back, or a wind in our earholes, or a cold 
 blast creeping up our legs. 
 
 The work was, in fact, very nearly done, and little 
 more than that unsightly, suspicious thing we called 
 " the pile " remained to be demolished. The north aisle 
 was all right with new chairs there and all the rents in 
 the wall made good, and the windows knocked out and 
 glazed again ; while as for the whitewash on the ancient 
 picture of St. Luce, plastered over it by baggering 
 scamps in the Commonwealth times, so parson said, 
 'twas cleaned oiF, and there started out upon us a very 
 woe-begone saint, all eyes, with a body like a "natomy, 
 and hair like a bush, and clad in a garment like a 
 ploughboy's smock. And most people wished the white- 
 wash back, for the credit of the parish, and Wesley 
 Retallack said'that if that was a proper picture of St. 
 Luce, they ought never to have painted such a wisht 
 scarecrow of a creature. Certainly the forlorn object 
 only made the grown-ups puzzle and the childer laugh ; 
 but his reverence set high store upon it, and raised a 
 
THE CHURCH GRIM 23 
 
 brave fuss. Learned men came from far ways off to 
 see it, and some photographed it, and some even argued 
 against the Vicar's opinions, and grew hot about it 
 when he flouted 'em. But none got the bettermost of 
 him, because of course, he knew best; and them that 
 didn't agree with him very soon went off with their tails 
 between their legs when he broke loose upon 'em in all 
 the wonder of his laming. 
 
 Then came in Tobias Polglaze — the live thatcher, 
 not the dead knight. For now all was explored to the 
 last rat-hole, and nought was left but " the pile." And 
 there Toby most steadfastly believed would be found 
 the treasure, though his reverence himself had given 
 up all hope of it by now. At any rate there comed 
 a moment when the very next day would see the 
 mystery solved; and though Toby knew enough to 
 understand he wouldn't find Bank of England notes 
 and sovereigns there, he felt dead sure that precious 
 things would appear — things he could veiy easy 
 turn into cash. And cash meant marriage for him 
 and Netty. For long before now he regarded the 
 treasure as his own property to treat as he liked and 
 sneak if he could. 
 
 So what he done was this : he took night-watchman's 
 place again, and parson approved, because he had his 
 own ideas about the pile and didn't want any risk run. 
 In fact, he gave it out that none was to take a dig at it 
 till he stood on the spot next day. Therefore Tobias 
 had it all to himself in the holy building, and he chuckled, 
 no doubt, to think on his night's work. He meant to 
 explain next morning that, for interest and zeal, he'd 
 
M CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 laboured by night and fetched down the side of the pile, 
 and so got all ready for his reverence next morning. 
 And of course if he found any valuables, his purpose 
 was to take 'em for his own use ; and then he'd be ready 
 to teU his reverence that he'd had a good search and 
 found the inside of the pile empty. For hollow it was : 
 that much they knew by the sound when they struck 
 against it. 
 
 But what happened was all very diiferent, and Toby's 
 plans miscarried something shocking. No less a man 
 than the Reverend Tremayne himself told the rest of the 
 tale — what he knew of it that was ; for nobody but 
 Netty Sleep ever heard the real truth while Tobias lived. 
 You see the man wanted all his scanty pluck, and more, 
 to bide that night in the church alone, with nought save 
 a horn lantern for company; and certain it is he'd 
 never have offered for such unkid work, without his great 
 desire to wed and his firm belief in the treasure. But 
 what happened to the sly toad was enough, and more 
 than enough, to scare a bom hero, I'm sure, and there's 
 few men living in St. Luce today, and not one in Toby's 
 days, if you except the vicar himself, who would have 
 faced such a come-along-of-it and kept his courage, 
 even if he kept his senses. Anyhow Toby didn't keep 
 neither, and but for Parson Tremayne I doubt the man 
 would never have come out alive. 
 
 You see paVson, by good chance, was called to old 
 Grandfather Nute's death-bed and Nute flickered a long 
 time before he went. Indeed it was two of the clock 
 and a rough winter's night, before the ancient man gave 
 up his spirit to his Maker. After which the Reverend 
 
THE CHURCH GRIM 26 
 
 went home and took the short cut through the lich-gate 
 and among the graves. Tramping along slow and not 
 thinking of anything but his old parishioner, parson 
 suddenly heard a duU, heavy sound in the church, and 
 saw a dim light through the window, and called to mind 
 that Tobias was there. But the noise was a bit of a 
 puzzle to him, so he walks among the graves to have a 
 look in. 'Twas a muffled sort of hammering he heard, 
 and it could only mean that Polglaze was exceeding in- 
 structions and doing a bit of work on his own. So par- 
 son peeped in the window, and there, sure enough, was 
 Toby, with his lantern hung beside him, hard at work 
 pulling down the pile! Parson grinned to see the zest 
 of the man, who couldn't wait till morning afore this 
 mystery ; but he felt like it himself for that matter, and 
 so he nipped round quiet to the vestry door and let him- 
 self in. He didn't want to fright Toby, for he knew 
 he was a netrous soul, and he was just going to call out 
 and proclaim himself, when as he stepped into the nave, 
 round the organ, there rose up the awfullest screech 
 that ever fell on mortal ear. 'Twas a howl as of some 
 human that had suddenly took leave of his senses, and 
 there was Toby creeming with fear, and yelling the roof 
 off the church, and calling upon the saints and angels 
 to protect him. A proper maniac, I warn you, and 
 such was his fearful terror of mind that when parson 
 called to him from the darkness, he took on worse than 
 ever and thought 'twas the devil himself. Then, flying 
 for his life, he had poor speed and catched his foot over 
 the steps of the vamp-dish ^ nigh the west door, and 
 1 Vamp-dith. Font. 
 
26 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 there he lay yowling with his face to the floor till 
 parson got to him. 
 
 V 
 
 The Reverend soon found the man was demented for 
 the time being, and raised him up, and set him down in 
 a pew and fetched the lantern to him. And then he 
 called upon God to let the evil spirit out of the wretch, 
 for it looked as if, when he broke ope the pile, something 
 had flew from it and got into Tobias. He laughed and 
 gibbered and went on like a woman in hysterics for 
 twenty minutes, and then his reverence managed tO' sober 
 him down and fetch a streak of sense back. By fits and 
 gasps Toby explained that he'd just broke through the 
 stone-work to the hollow within when what should he see 
 but a dreadful spectrum glaring out at him ! 
 
 " God's my judge, but he's there! " squeaked Tobias, 
 " and he's the keeper of the treasure, and I've seen him, 
 and 'tis any odds I shall die afore the year's out. No- 
 body could see nothing like that and live." 
 
 He whimpered and whined and swore by all the holy 
 things he knew that he never meant to take a three- 
 penny-piece for himself, and was only working in a 
 proper and prayerful spirit for parson. Of course his 
 own bad conscience made him say so, for Lord knows 
 the other would never have accused him of any such 
 crime. And even then parson didn't see how Tobias 
 had gived himself away, for he kept his faith in the man 
 to the end. 
 
 " I fear no spectrum," he said. " But I've had my 
 opinions of the pile for many years, though I've never 
 
THE CHURCH GRIM 27 
 
 voiced them, for dread of frighting the people. It may, 
 however, be no more than some ancient gargoyle or 
 mediaeval monster of stone. FoUow me in the name of 
 God, Tobias Polglaze, and fear no evil." 
 
 Then his reverence took the lantern and went to see 
 for himself what had knocked the wits out of the younger 
 man. 
 
 And he found the hollow place broke open to about 
 the size of an oven mouth; and sure enough, staring 
 through it, was a gashly great death's head without any 
 eyes. A bit of hair stiU clung to the skuU, but for the 
 rest 'twas just a dead bone, and vicar, with his far- 
 reaching knowledge, understood in a moment that he 
 stood before a great treasure — though not the sort 
 of treasure Toby thought to find. In fact, the skeleton 
 that had shook up Tobias so bad, properly delighted 
 Parson Tremayne; and if he'd found a barrel of gold 
 he wouldn't have been half so pleased. Indeed, so ex- 
 cited was he that he set to work then and there and 
 pulled down a bit more of the masonry himself; for 
 Toby's limbs was turned to water; and the kick and 
 sprawl had gone out of him, so that he could work no 
 more. 
 
 By the lantern his reverence toiled and found a proper 
 rogue's roost of a hole, and the skull of a man stuck on 
 an iron nail drove through his jaws, and the rest of his 
 bones all in a heap down under. And the reverend 
 fairly sang praises at this horrible sight, and couldn't 
 understand for the life of him why Toby weren't equally 
 joyful. For he vowed 'twas the most interesting thing 
 that had ever happened to him in his interesting career, 
 
28 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 and, better still, the skeleton man had proved a secret 
 opinion which he had long held. 
 
 He saw Tobias to his home, for the thatcher was still 
 weak as a goose-chick and bivvering like a babe; and 
 the next Sunday, of course, parson was full of the won- 
 der. But Polglaze weren't there to hear, for they had 
 to take him to hospital after his shaking adventure, and 
 he bided there a good while afore he returned among us. 
 And if the sin planned be just as bad as the sin per- 
 formed, then Master Toby had earned worse than hos- 
 pital and that was klink. 
 
 As for parson, he told us that for all these years 
 we'd had a grand old church grim among us ; and I dare 
 say you mightn't know what a church grim is, for they 
 be a branch of knowledge very much out of the common. 
 I'm sure if we hadn't seen it with our eyes, and heard 
 tell of its fame and powers, we never should have be- 
 lieved it — not one of us. 
 
 " Friends," says parson, " the mystery of ' the pile ' 
 has at last been cleared up, and those who declared that 
 an evil and strange influence exuded from those ancient 
 stones spoke wiser than they knew. Of old, I may tell 
 you, the custom always was to have a watcher in every 
 place of worship by night and day, because in the good, 
 past days, the churches were far richer than now, and 
 before the Reformation — which lamentable upheaval 
 would never have occurred if I had had any voice in the 
 matter — our own holy places were full of plate and 
 fine linen, and silver candlesticks and golden altar ves- 
 sels, and precious jewels, and many such-like things, 
 poured into them by the pious for their souls' sakes. 
 
THE CHURCH GRIM 29 
 
 So there were watch-lofts set up, in which religious and 
 trusty men kept guard to see that thieves did not break 
 through and steal. 
 
 " But presently," continues parson, " some ingenious 
 and imaginative spirit, trading doubtless on the super- 
 stition of the time, bethought him that a dead watchman 
 might be just as potent as a live one, and considerably 
 cheaper. For in those days the belief in ghosts was 
 general; and the people were none the worse for it. 
 Then, therefore, there came in a fashion of church 
 grims. They were generally the bodies of evil-doers, 
 cut off in the midst of their sins, or put out of life by 
 rope or axe for crimes of commission. And doubtless 
 it was thought by Christian men of religious mind that 
 such unruly and wicked members might thus atone in 
 their defunct flesh for the crimes of their lives, and so 
 obtain peace and pardon by the merciful wisdom of our 
 Lord God, which passeth all understanding. Thus their 
 corpses were inunured, or walled up, to watch till doom 
 and the Day of Judgment." 
 
 We listened with our eyes round and our mouths 
 open; and for my part I reckon 'twas all done on the 
 principle of setting a rogue to catch a rogue, and the 
 thought of a dead spectrum after him doubtless frighted 
 many a rascal from church-breaking, as it had Tobias 
 Polglaze for that matter. But whether our bony hero 
 did his work well in his own generation, who can say.? 
 Anyway, the reverend gave him Christian burial and put 
 up a stone to the creature, after being in two minds 
 whether he wouldn't let him stop in his old roost. But 
 the sense of the parish was all against that; and we 
 
30 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 were very glad to be rid of the terror from our midst. 
 
 Tobias was never the same again, and his hair went 
 white afore he turned fifty. But out of evil came good 
 — at least it looked so at the time ; for such was the 
 man's coUapse that he couldn't sleep in his bed alone no 
 more after that night, and for sheer gratitude to him, 
 and quite forgetting that the church grim would have 
 turned up next day whether or no, parson took up his 
 case. 
 
 Iss, fay, he did ; and finding how the affair had told 
 upon him, he exalted Toby into his own service as man- 
 of-all-work, and gave him wages enough to wed upon. 
 He reckoned the thatcher was a martyr to learning, you 
 see; and so the man got to wed his Netty, and as far 
 as anybody ever heard to the contrary, he went straight 
 as a line ever after. 
 
 Not till he came to his own death-bed, however, did 
 he confess that he was up to no good that night, and 
 then 'twas another than Parson Tremayne who heard 
 the crime, for he, worthy man, had long been took to 
 his fathers. And them that heard the truth never 
 blamed Toby over-much, because, though at first sight 
 it looked as though he had been rewarded for wrong- 
 doing, yet you had to remember the price. His nerve 
 was never stronger than a girl child's from that night; 
 and he never had no childer, owing doubtless to the shock 
 to his manhood ; and besides that, he was heard to whis- 
 per he had no luck with his wife after all. Very likely 
 she didn't hold herself a terrible fortunate woman either, 
 even if she had too much spirit to teU it out. 
 
SILVER THIMBLE FAKM 
 
 Jaije Tresidda had the sort of faith that goes to the 
 roots of life and makes the soul flourish afore the sight 
 of all men. A true, working Christian, you might say, 
 steadfast and patient — which Lord He knows she 
 needed to be — and with a spark of fun in her, too, 
 which life couldn't quench. For she had that blessed 
 gift to see that our days at their worst and hardest have 
 always got something a thought comical to 'em; and 
 though it don't take a great sense of fun to laugh at 
 your neighbour's misfortunes, it do take a tidy lot to 
 laugh at your own. 
 
 Jane Tresidda — a Pierce by birth — wedded her 
 husband as a young maiden girl; and there's no doubt 
 that, knowing nothing about love, she done it to please 
 her mother — a very good reason for doing a lot of 
 things, but doubtful when it comes to your partner for 
 life. But so it was. Samuel Tresidda wedded late, and 
 his keen eye had marked down Jane as a comely creature, 
 with a lot of sense and enough cleverness to make six- 
 pence do the work of a shilling. 
 
 His masterful will soon won over Eliza Pierce — a 
 widow with one daughter; and when she put it to Jane 
 — then turned eighteen — that farmer Tresidda was 
 wishful for her to wife, Jane thought upon it and know- 
 ing nought of men and liking the strong, hard chap 
 
 rather, because he had power and was a man of note 
 
 31 
 
82 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 in them parts, she went into it, as innocent as a mouse 
 into a trap, and took him. 
 
 When she was thirty-eight, she died, and didn't mind 
 going neither. She made him a wife far better than he 
 deserved, and her sweet temper and large patience under 
 the affliction of a grasping, cruel and soulless partner 
 was a very fine lesson for St. Tid and all the country 
 round. Of course, she soon found out that Tresidda 
 was long ways short of what she thought and hoped; 
 and she soon fotmd out that his idea of a wife wasn't 
 far removed from his idea of a cow, or a beast of bur- 
 den. She learnt also, as time went on, what a mean, 
 greedy nature the man had, and how cowardly he was. 
 
 One son she bore to the farmer, and luckily for Teddy 
 Tresidda, he favoured Jane. At least, it was both lucky 
 and unlucky for the lad; lucky, because to be like his 
 mother was to be made in a useful, brave and honoura- 
 ble pattern that promised to justify his existence; and 
 unlucky, because his father never forgave him for being 
 cast in a different mould from himself. 
 
 Samuel would have liked to see the boy keen about 
 money, hard at a bargain, shrewd in all his dealings and 
 with a mind that set cash first and the rest nowhere ; so 
 when Ted turned out quite a different order of creation 
 — fond of a bit of sport, fond of the girls, and with a 
 sharp sense of justice and what every man owes to his 
 neighbours and his country, old Sam was a good bit 
 disappointed and couldn't understand for the life of him 
 how he came to be the father of such a chap. He was 
 always growling and grumbling against the boy, yet 
 he couldn't in reason find no fault, because, though he 
 
SILVER THIMBLE FARM 33 
 
 hated Ted's easy and trustful disposition and properly 
 detested his strict feelings about the rights of weaker 
 men, yet he dared not make a grievance of these quali- 
 ties, or expect other people to lament that his son wasn't 
 a grasping, stingy, sour-tempered toad like his father. 
 
 Then when he was turned nineteen, his mother died, 
 and never an unlucky lad lost his best friend at a 
 worse moment. Jane had stood up for the boy all his 
 life, and tempered the wind of his father's beastly nature 
 for him, and taught him to be patient and keep his tem- 
 per and see the funny side, and the sad side, too, of an 
 elderly man living for money and caring not who suf- 
 fered so long as the money came in. But when she was 
 gone, Ted began to get a taste of what life could be, and 
 he very soon felt that if he was to be a man and respect 
 himself and justify his mother's blood in his veins, he'd 
 have to cut and run and leave Silver Thimble Farm for 
 good and all. But though dead and at peace, Jane 
 never seemed dead exactly to Teddy. She worked on 
 him in the properly wonderful way women can work on 
 their children long after the grass be growed over their 
 graves; and many and many a time, when fretted past 
 bearing by his surly parent, the youth would think on 
 his mother and her patience and her smiles, and so keep 
 going and hoping for better times. 
 
 And one he had to help him, for six months before 
 Jane went, Teddy had dared to fall in love with a very 
 fine girl by name of Milly Jago. His father very near 
 had a fit when he heard tell about it and said if ever Ted 
 brought her over the threshold of home, he'd set the 
 dogs against her. In a word, he denied and defied the 
 
34. CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 match and dared Teddy ever to name Milly Jago in his 
 hearing. He even went over to Milly's father, Samson 
 Jago, second foreman at St. Tid's slate quarries, and 
 used a bit of coarse language and made a show of him- 
 self. But Samson Jago knew the man he'd got to deal 
 with and very well understood how it was. 
 
 " You didn't ought to get in such a rage about a silly 
 boy and girl, Mr. Tresidda," he said. " I'm sure such 
 a thing's quite beneath your notice. You know what it 
 is at choir practice, when the young things get singing 
 out of the same hymn-book. Or if you don't, we chapel 
 people do. 'Tis all in nature, and youth will be served. 
 Milly's only eighteen and your boy but a year older, 
 and no doubt they'll change their silly minds a score 
 of times yet afore they find the right one. For that 
 matter," went on Samson, " my Milly's the sort to suit 
 you a lot better than your own child in my opinion. 
 She's a fiery little devil with a will of her own and a 
 heart that can be quite as hard as yours." 
 
 " Let me hear no more of it, then," answered the 
 farmer. " And if your daughter's got sense, rub this 
 into her, that she'll dance on my grave long afore she'll 
 have my son ; and if I hear a whisper more of it, I'U leave 
 every stiver away from him. I was forty when I mar- 
 ried and that's full young. 'Tis a fool's trick to think 
 of it in youth, and my money don't go to a fool, nor yet 
 a pair of fools." 
 
 " Never did I hear a more sensible word," said Mr. 
 Jago ; and when Tresidda had rode off on a rat-tailed, 
 flea-bitten old mare with a temper as bad as his own, 
 Samson laughed and went in the house and told Milly. 
 
SILVER THIMBLE FARM 35 
 
 She was a dark, gipsy-looking girl, pretty as a pic- 
 ture, but with a chin and a temper. Bright brown eyes 
 she'd got and a lovely mouth, a solid, stuggy figure, a 
 round bosom and a strong arm. 
 
 " The game's up, MiUy," says her father, winking at 
 her. " Old boy wants me to teU you as you'll dance on 
 his grave afore you wed your Teddy." 
 
 " No such luck, I reckon," she answered ; " but I hope 
 I shall some day. I knew he was coming : he told Ted he 
 was. I daresay Ted will run away from Silver Thimble 
 afore long. That'll show the pig his son puts me before 
 his money-bags." 
 
 " Don't let Ted do nothing siUy," said Samson to his 
 girl. " Remember Jane Tresidda's gift of patience." 
 
 " I won't let Teddy do nothing mean," she answered. 
 " He knows the sort I am, and I know the sort he is. 
 I'm not made of milk and honey to stand being black- 
 guarded by a godless old rip Hke Tresidda, and no 
 more's Teddy. We'll wait till he's twenty-one — that's 
 what we've ordained to do. Then, when he's a man by 
 law, he'U have to act like a man, or I'U know the reason 
 why." 
 
 Little she knew that in a fortnight from that day it 
 would be up to Teddy to act like a man ! 
 
 For then, like a bolt from the blue, bloody war burst 
 upon us and we woke up one fine morning to find Ger- 
 many at our throats. " Men," was the cry, for in the 
 last resort 'tis always numbers must win the day; and 
 so 'twas up to the British nation to come forward. And 
 needless to say it came — the cream and pick of our 
 manhood rose up for the old country — not because it 
 
S6 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 liked fighting, but because there weren't no choice if 
 England and all she stood for was to win against the 
 armed might of Germany. 
 
 " I'm off tomorrow to enlist at Launceston, father," 
 Teddy said, cheerful as a cricket, one evening, " and the 
 chaps of age here, twenty of 'em, are going in along 
 with me. 'Tis lucky we've got in the hay all right, and 
 'tis lucky there's going to be a rare crop of wheat, 
 though I shan't be here to help with the harvest, I'm 
 fearing." 
 
 However, Tresidda very soon spoke his mind on that 
 subj ect. 
 
 " I dare any man to leave Silver Thimble," he said. 
 " 'Tis all noise and splutter, and this war will be over 
 before we caji look round, and I'm not going to have 
 my autumn work upset by you excitable young folks 
 running off just when I want you. By the time you 
 know one end of a gun from the other the war will be 
 ended," declared Tresidda, " so I'll thank you to stop 
 where you are and say no more about it." 
 
 However, Teddy, for once in a way, found that there 
 was no possible chance of seeing eye to eye with his 
 father. In fact, he didn't try, and 'twas thanks to him 
 the two farm hinds of right age to join the colours also 
 went despite the master's threats. 
 
 Tresidda, finding his boy firm, swore to cut him out of 
 his inheritance. 
 
 " Mark me," he said, " and well you know I'm the dog 
 that bites without barking first, if you disobey and go 
 in the Army, I turn my back on you for evermore and 
 
SILVER THIMBLE FARM S7 
 
 fling you over. 'Tis not for the likes of you, the only 
 son of your father, to go, and though I don't care a cuss 
 for you and never did, because there's nothing of me in 
 you, yet I do so far respect you as to leave what's mine 
 to you when I die, if you obey me in all things, as I've a 
 right to expect and demand. So now you know where 
 you stand, and you leave me at your everlasting peril." 
 
 " There's bigger things than Silver Thimble and your 
 money, father," said Teddy. " It looks as if Cornwall 
 was hanging back too much from enlisting, in my opin- 
 ion, and Mr. Nan Julian, the schoolmaster, says there's 
 a lot of bad pressure being put by farmers on their men ; 
 and I'm sure you be too good an Englishman to want 
 to see me setting a bad example for England." 
 
 " England be damned," answered Tresidda. " I pay 
 my taxes, don't I? And if they're doubled, as seems 
 likely, still I shall pay them. And I ain't going to 
 argue with you, whether or no. You come to heel and 
 don't talk to me like an equal, because you ain't, and 
 never will be." 
 
 He had the evil trick to sting and insult folk like that, 
 but Teddy was civil to the end. He never sauced his 
 father back, but he did right before the people and left 
 his home and joined the new army. In two months the 
 man was a sergeant, and St. Tid, as heard all about 
 him through Milly Jago, felt proud of him. And once 
 we saw him, for there was a beat-up for recruits in our 
 district, and Teddy came along with a battalion of fine 
 chaps and a band ; and never did I see a better set up 
 lot of hardy young fellows than went through the vil- 
 
38 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 lage on that occasion. By chance Tresidda was in St. 
 Tid at the time ; but he took no more notice of the splen- 
 did boys than if they'd been a flight of starlings. 
 
 " There's your son, Mr. Tresidda ! " said a woman 
 to him as they went by. 
 
 " I ain't got no son ! " he snapped back at her. 
 
 Then time passed and the war went its slow, cruel 
 way, and we heard at the turn of the year that Teddy's 
 regiment was off to France. As for the lad's father, he 
 minded his business and garnered his wheat, and I think 
 he knew, almost before any of us, that prices were going 
 to run up pretty stiff as soon as the winter came. 
 Which they did do, and them as kept their corn in stack 
 began to see that for honesty they ought to put it in 
 market so quick as possible, if for gain they were 
 tempted to hang on. 
 
 You couldn't call Samuel Tresidda a pro-German 
 exactly, but you couldn't call him a pro-Englishman 
 neither, nor yet even a pro-Comishman, for the Cornish 
 motto of " One and All " weren't anything to him at any 
 time. But one " pro " he was, first and last and always ; 
 and that was pro-Tresidda. 
 
 The opinion of other people, of course, weren't more 
 to him than the muck on his boot, so he went his way, 
 and though he knew very well by February that every- 
 body thought and said he ought to thresh his com ricks 
 and sell the com, he didn't do it. And his bad example 
 was followed by not a few other men, who ought to have 
 known better. 
 
 Of course, nothing ever brow-beat the beggar, and 
 
SILVER THIMBLE FARM 39 
 
 he'd come into the "Hearty Welcome" just as usual 
 for his pint of beer or whack of whisky, and such was 
 the fear he put into people that some of us men, so to 
 call us, never talked about nothing to hurt Tresidda 
 when he was present. We made up for it, no doubt, 
 after he was gone ; but in the matter of wheat, most of 
 'em said that to talk of wheat before him just now was 
 much like naming sage and onions to a goose. 
 
 However, it weren't in nature we could keep off the 
 problem of prices, and for my part I'd talk of com as 
 willingly before him as I would of coals or sugar. And 
 so did Nick Nanjulian, the schoolmaster, as didn't fear 
 him neither; and so did John Peters, who kept the 
 " Hearty Welcome," and set no store on the custom of 
 Tresidda, since he only took his own drink and never 
 offered one to any man, or»got one offered to him. 
 
 Just when the com question had reached to a proper 
 scandal and 'twas said the other fainners were climbing 
 down and had sent for the threshing machine and were 
 going to sell, Tresidda came in the inn where we was all 
 hard at it, and Nanjulian was explaining the situation. 
 
 " 'Tis this way," he said, " The British farmers hold- 
 ing up wheat are small men mostly, but in New York 
 and Chicago there are mighty big men buying and sell- 
 ing for rises. The world price of wheat don't depend 
 on us. We've got to pay it, or see the wheat go to 
 those that will. Therefore, Tresidda here, and another 
 round about, won't alter our fix whether they sell or 
 not." 
 
 " 'Tis the spirit, however," said Peters, " and the 
 
40 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 spirit that holds on over forty shillings for a rise is a 
 spirit of ill-gotten gains and an evil spirit, and Gov- 
 ernment ought to come down on such men." 
 
 " That's quite right," granted Nanjulian, " and I 
 allow that if all these unpatriotic rogues — I say it to 
 your face, Tresidda — sold as they should, it would be 
 on the right side, anyway, and might do a bit to keep 
 down the price. But when high prices are the rule and 
 speculation is running up American wheat to a starva- 
 tion figure for the poor, the right way and the quick 
 way to make our wheat come in is for Government to use 
 its power and regulate prices." 
 
 " And how could that be done, Nick ? " I asked the 
 man. 
 
 " By tackling freights," he answered. " Shipowners 
 naturally take all they can get, like everybody else, and 
 so 'tis for Government to see they get no more of this 
 fancy money." 
 
 Tresidda laughed. 
 
 " You Socialists talk through your hats," he said. 
 " 'Tis a free country still, however, and we haven't 
 come to the pitch when we shall be told what to grow 
 and what to charge for it." . 
 
 " When are you going to thresh.'' — that's the ques- 
 tion for you, if you're an honest man," answered Nan- 
 julian. " Socialism or no Socialism, there'll be no 
 place for chaps like you in the new world after the war, 
 and one thing's certain, if your wheat was took from 
 you for a scrap of paper, as it would be in Germany, 
 not a soul in Cornwall but would laugh to see you 
 smart." 
 
SILVER THIMBLE FARM 4.1 
 
 " 'Tis you are the robber, not me," retorted fanner. 
 " You talk like a rogue, and 'tis an abomination to 
 think that you are teaching the children at your school. 
 And I'd have you out of it if I could." 
 
 Then others chipped in, and we was a fair nest of 
 hornets at Tresidda's ears ; but a plucky lot he cared ! 
 In fact, I think he liked it and enjoyed to set us at 
 loggerheads over his bare-faced opinions. It got about 
 presently that the man was taking German money, and 
 a whisper to boycott him gathered in St. Tid. But 
 then that happened to switch the interests oif him for a 
 bit. 
 
 News came that Teddy Tresidda, who'd been among 
 the first of the new army to find himself in the firing 
 line, was wounded, and next time we met I asked farmer 
 if 'twas true. 
 
 He looked at me scornful and answered. 
 
 " I don't know nobody by the name of Teddy Tre- 
 sidda, so I can't say whether 'tis true or not." 
 
 " We thought he was your son," said I, and he shook 
 his head. 
 
 " I've got no son, nor yet daughter," he answered. 
 
 Then Milly Jago heard from Ted, after the poor girl 
 had suffered two days of hell, and grown pretty well 
 light-headed, so her father told me; and Teddy asked 
 if his father had forgiven him and if he might come 
 home. And Jago warned his girl very serious against 
 what she determined to do ; but she had her way and 
 done a very courageous deed. 
 
 " I can't write and tell Ted his father's not forgiven 
 him until I know," she said, " and I won't take no 
 
43 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 second-hand talk from the ' Hearty Welcome ' about 
 it neither, so I'm going to see the man face to face; 
 then I'll write and tell Teddy." 
 
 And she did it, brave as a lion, and walked into 
 Silver Thimble Farm and up to Tresidda where he sat 
 at his dinner. He turned properly purple with rage 
 at the sight of her, and purpler still afore she'd 
 done. 
 
 " I only want a word with you," she said, " and you 
 can give me a civil answer, or not, as you mind to. 
 Your son, my sweetheart, Teddy — he's wounded in the 
 shoulder, and he'll come back to England in a fortnight 
 from now, and he's wishful to know if you've forgiven 
 him, and if he can come home-along for me to nurse him 
 well again.'' " 
 
 He scowled and clutched his knife, but she weren't 
 feared, and kept her black, scornful eyes on the man 
 and gave him look for look. 
 
 " Get out of this, you imperent young whelp, or, 
 girl as you are, I'll give you a good hiding ! " 
 
 That's what he said to her, and she said : 
 
 " Then you haven't forgiven him.'' " 
 
 " Forgive him ! " he cried out. " I'd see him blown 
 to dust by German guns afore I'd forgive him. He's 
 less to me than the crust of my bread, and I wish he 
 was filling a nameless grave at this minute, for his body 
 will do more good under the earth than ever it will on 
 top of it." 
 
 She flared up at that. 
 
 " You beast ! " she cried out. " If the German bullet 
 have let your blood out of Teddy, so much the better 
 
SILVER THIMBLE FARM 43 
 
 for him. You vile dog to say such things of a man 
 that's too good to breathe the same air with you! 
 Curse you, you evil blight — him falling for his country 
 and you hoarding your grain, though God knows any- 
 thing that went through your foul hands would be like 
 to poison the man that ate it after ! " 
 
 With that he lost his temper and flung his knife at 
 her where she stood, a proper tragedy queen, by the 
 door. If it had gone home there'd have been a pretty 
 story to tell Ted Tresidda presently, but it missed 
 MiUy's neck by six inches and stuck all a-quiver in the 
 dern of the door. 
 
 " You snake," she said, white with rage and looking 
 as if she'd fly at him ; " you brutal, cowardly wretch, 
 you'U pay for that, and if God don't smite you for it, 
 the devil shaU!" 
 
 Very like a young witch she looked as she said it, 
 and the woman that kept house for Tresidda and was 
 there at the time, told me after that a nest of vipers 
 couldn't have hissed out the threat fiercer than what 
 MiUy did. 
 
 She was gone afore Tresidda could answer, and 
 there's no doubt that either her words, or alarm at what 
 he'd very nearly done in his rage, kept the master of 
 Silver Thimble pretty low. 
 
 We didn't see him for a week; then wheat was up 
 to fifty shillings, and he the only man in our parts still 
 holding on. For a bit we had a spell of rare wet 
 weather, with rain rolling in ofl' the Atlantic and prop- 
 erly drowning North Cornwall, so he couldn't have 
 threshed if he'd wanted to; but then came March and 
 
44. CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 brave drying winds and everything right for the busi- 
 ness. 
 
 Meantime, Samson Jago, greatly daring, had told 
 Teddy Tresidda by the hand of Milly that, though his 
 father didn't own him no more, he might come to his 
 future father-in-law as soon as ever he liked. And it 
 was understood that when Teddy was well enough, he 
 should find a home along with the Jagos at St. Tid. 
 
 Yet, so strange are the ways of Providence, that 
 when Teddy did come back in a hospital ship to South- 
 ampton only ten days later, it was to Silver Thimble 
 Farm down by the cliffs he went, after all, and not to 
 his sweetheart's home. 
 
 For a lot may happen in ten days where you've got 
 determined wills working ; and a lot did happen. 
 
 And more happened to Milly Jago than most, and 
 still more befell farmer Tresidda, but what happened to 
 the girl came from her own nature, where terrible things 
 was working now, and what happened to Tresidda came 
 from without, and the man that would hear no human 
 voice was called to listen to a louder. 
 
 Milly, I must tell you, felt properly outraged by what 
 the old rascal had done to her, and none blamed her for 
 that ; but she wanted to go a good step further and hit 
 back. 
 
 She said the old rip had aimed at her life, and she 
 commanded her father to have the law of him and get 
 him put away in prison for a bit, to show him that he 
 couldn't go flinging knives at young women that way ; 
 but Samson, he was ever an easy man, who didn't know 
 how to nurse his rage and keep it warm, and though at 
 
SILVER THIMBLE FARM 45 
 
 first he talked of going over and breaking farmer's neck 
 for him, he soon cahned down and did no such thing. 
 
 " A miss is as good as a mile," he said, " and to the 
 likes of that man no doubt your speech was punishment 
 enough ; and, whether or no, we're going to have Teddy 
 here come presently, and that'll sting the wretch more 
 than anything we can do against him, if his own con- 
 science don't." 
 
 MiUy was savage about it, however, and went on her 
 own to Lawyer Pierce — a relation of Teddy's on his 
 mother's side. But Pierce, though Milly didn't know it, 
 was used to do a lot of Httle odd jobs for Tresidda, and 
 he tried to calm her down and explain that old men will 
 be cranky, and strongly advised her for the sake of her 
 future to let sleeping dogs lie. 
 
 He felt kindly enough to the girl and kinder still to 
 Teddy Tresidda, and he told her what might have 
 soothed any young thing less of a tigress than Milly 
 was ; but it made no mark on her. 
 
 " I'll let you into a secret," said Lawyer Pierce, " if 
 you'll promise to keep it one. Mr. Tresidda is on to me 
 about his new wiU, and if 'tis made as he means, then 
 'tis good-bye Silver Thimble for Teddy. But Tresidda 
 hasn't got nobody but his son to leave his place to, 
 and I'm putting him off with the law's delays so long 
 as I dare, because I'm hopeful when your sweetheart's 
 home, he'll go and see his father and work on him and 
 save the situation. I don't say there's much chance of 
 it, but we never know when hvunan nature will surprise 
 us, and every lawyer can tell you blood's thicker than 
 water when it comes to the pinch." 
 
46 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 A very kindly man, you see, with proper lawyer's 
 instincts about the rights of property and so on; but 
 Milly was past all that. 
 
 She went home and sulked ; and then things happened. 
 For 'tis a certain fact that if the Lord helps those who 
 help themselves, the devil's quite as clever at it. 
 
 Very well I remember that great night, for it hap- 
 pened I left the "Hearty Welcome" just as Tresidda 
 did. He'd told us he'd sent for the machine and was 
 going to thresh his wheat next morning, but he could 
 hardly get a man to pass the time of day with him now, 
 and I shouldn't have walked by his side for a yard on 
 purpose. However, my road lay all fours with his for 
 a matter of three hundred yards, and he talked and said 
 he was in a mind to sell Silver Thimble and get out of 
 the country. 
 
 " People ain't buying farms, nowadays," I told him, 
 " and 'tis very certain you'll have to whistle for the 
 sort of price you'll ask." 
 
 Then, after a long silence, we came to a slate stile, 
 where there was right of way over a field. The place 
 stood high up above the cliffs. Tresidda went ahead 
 and suddenly 'pon top of the stile he stood stock still 
 staring afore him. 
 
 " What's that light.? " he shouts out. 
 
 " The lighthouse on Trevose Head," I answered. 
 
 " Not there, you zany — there, down there ! " 
 
 He pointed where Silver Thimble lay a mile below, 
 and there, sure enough, was a dollop of steady red flame 
 where no flame did ought to have been. 
 
SILVER THIMBLE FARM 4T 
 
 " You'd best trot along," I said. " That's terrible 
 near your place by the look of it." 
 
 He was gone afore I'd done speaking, and being a fine 
 night, with a steady, northerly breeze, I followed after 
 — not for no regard for Tresidda ; but fire's fire, and 
 duty's duty, and I felt I couldn't well go home if man's 
 work had to be done. I ain't so young as I was, how- 
 ever, and can't travel very fast at best of times, let 
 alone on a rough road by starlight, so it was best part 
 of a half-hour afore I got to the trouble. Long before 
 I reached it I saw there was big mischief doing, for the 
 flames rolled up sky-high, and you could hear the shout 
 of 'em far ways off, like the noise of the sea through the 
 night. Silver Thimble was rather a lonely house mid- 
 way between Trebarwith Stand and St. Tid, and so 
 Tresidda couldn't count on no help save that from his 
 own men. The young chaps had gone to the war, of 
 course, and there was only two oldish men left, for the 
 lads he got to help by day went home to Trebarwith by 
 night. 
 
 Well, 'twas the man's wheat sure enough, and I don't 
 think the sea would have put out they stacks, for 
 every one of them was alight to the heart long afore 
 Tresidda got home ; and though his chaps was working 
 with buckets, they dared not get near enough for fear 
 of getting their eyes scorched out of their heads. Five 
 great stacks there were, and every one of 'em burning 
 like a tar-barrel. 'Twas very clear it weren't no acci- 
 dent, for in that case one would have catched first, and 
 it might have been possible to save three of the five very 
 
48 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 likely ; but they was all afire — every jack one of 'em — 
 and the men as had gone to their beds swore the din of 
 the fire had woke them from their sleep, and they hadn't 
 been to work five minutes before their master came back. 
 To save a grain of all that rare crop was impossible 
 from the first; but Tresidda wouldn't see it, and he 
 fought like a demon and drove his men to do the like. 
 
 For my part I turned my attention to the fanner 
 himself, and when another man or two, drawn by the 
 fire, came up presently, we did our best to keep Tresidda 
 out of harm. But he shook us off, and cussed us for a 
 lot of lazy rascals, and raved and rushed around like a 
 cat on hot bricks wearing himself out with fruitless 
 labour. At last he fell backwards over a pig's trough 
 before a flap of fire that thrust out in his face, and 
 just then the St. Tid fire-engine got down with a good 
 few friends to do what they might. But there weren't 
 much before them except to see the farm was safe, for 
 the stacks were burnt out by now, and nothing but 
 great, red-hot, panting heaps of ashes. 
 
 After the flames died I mind how terrible dark it 
 seemed; but we lit up in the farm and carried in Tre- 
 sidda, who'd gone fainty and was in a bad way by now. 
 We got some brandy into the man, and one of the chaps 
 that came with the engine mounted a hoss and galloped 
 up over, hell for leather, to fetch doctor. And when 
 he came an hour later he found that Tresidda had put 
 out his thigh and strained his vitals into the bargain. 
 
 I'd gone home afore him, and next morning — Sun- 
 day it was — half St. Tid went down to see the night's 
 work. Then we heard how Samuel Tresidda was in a 
 
SILVER THIMBLE FARM 49 
 
 terrible poor way, and doctor didn't much like the looks 
 of him. 
 
 O' Monday my wife saw a nurse, for two nurses he 
 had from the first, and she heard as the master of Silver 
 Thimble was a proper terrifying sight, with his hair 
 half singed off and a burnt arm, and all sorts of trouble 
 working inside him. He'd got wetted, too, messing 
 about with the buckets, and what with his thigh and 
 his rage, for he was like a fury along with his losses, and 
 his great anxiety to know if the villains what done it 
 had been catched, the man went from bad to worse, 
 and in three days' time 'twas known as he had a double 
 pneumonia — which by all accounts is a very deep- 
 reaching and fatal thing. 
 
 He sent to Lawyer Pierce then, because the doctor 
 told him it might finish him off ; but Pierce — as had 
 serpent and dove very nicely mixed in him — knew well 
 why Tresidda wanted him. So he put off going, and 
 warned the nurses in secret not to let the old chap write 
 anything, nor sign anything, nor let anybody help him 
 to do so. 
 
 'Twas straining law above a bit, I believe, and with 
 a man at the mercy of his fellow-creatures like Tresidda 
 was, I daresay you might call it cowardly ; but you see 
 when you know a sick person in sight of death wants 
 to do a cruel and wicked wrong, there's a good argu- 
 ment against helping him. Anyway, the nurses 
 wouldn't, no more would doctor, and when Tresidda sent 
 for his farm men, neither of 'em would go; because 
 everybody knew what his game was, and none meant to 
 lend him a hand with it. 
 
50 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 The fage of not being able to cut Teddy out of the 
 farm didn't help the sick man to get better neither; 
 and then, just when we heard up at St. Tid he was at 
 his last gasp, and only hanging to life by an eyelid, 
 there came the evening when Teddy Tresidda was home 
 again. In fact, he got back from Southampton a day 
 or two sooner than was intended when he heard of the 
 trouble, and though Milly wanted him to come to her 
 father's and go down to Silver Thimble next day, he 
 wouldn't. He'd take no denial, but reckoned, come 
 what might, it was his duty to go there and then to his 
 home. They drove him down in the trap from the 
 " Hearty Welcome," and he got there in the last of the 
 dimpsy light, and breathed his native air off the Atlan- 
 tic, and marked where five hundred pounds' worth of 
 good com had gone scat in the fire. 
 
 Then he went in to the sick chamber, and though he 
 knew his father, his father didn't know him, for Samuel 
 Tresidda was insensible and dead to the world. 
 
 He never came to no more, and at three o'clock next 
 morning he went home, wherever that was ; and St. Tid 
 couldn't help saying and feeling 'twas a very good thing 
 he'd been took ; for if he'd got well again, he'd doubtless 
 have had a properly fearful revenge on everybody for 
 trying to stop him over the business of his will. 
 
 And then was another nice question for the law after- 
 wards, because Milly Jago — shameless piece that she 
 was — owned up to the fire. She'd done it, and it very 
 near broke her parents' heart, I believe ; but such is St. 
 Tid that, barring the sorrow for good corn wasted, no- 
 body worried the least bit, and it seemed that, except 
 
SILVER THIMBLE FARM 51 
 
 Teddy himself, there was none to have her up and get her 
 five years in gaol, which she'd very well earned. The 
 police might have made a case 'twas thought, but the 
 Inspector had had his troubles with Tresidda, like most 
 people, and he said he didn't know nothing about Milly 
 doing it, and declared that often people will claim the 
 blame for a crime just because they're weak-minded. 
 So he wasn't prepared to take her word for it ! 
 
 And Milly said to Ted : 
 
 " There 'tis — and I killed your father instead of his 
 killing me ; and I've earned five years or maybe more — 
 if not hanging, and you can send me to prison if you 
 mind to, or have me strung up. And I shall love you 
 just the same." 
 
 And he said: 
 
 " Well, us'U be married first, MiUy, and then us'U 
 settle about what's got to be done to you." 
 
 So there it was, and a month afore he went back to 
 the war he wedded her. In fact, she's reigning down to 
 Silver Thimble at this minute, and hoping to hear the 
 war's in sight of the end, and Teddy soon coming home- 
 along for good and all. But whether Teddy or his 
 wife's babby will be the first to arrive at Silver Thimble, 
 none can say for the minute. 
 
 He's going to set up a good piece of St. Tid slate to 
 Samuel Tresidda, and he won't put no lies on it neither, 
 but just the date of his father's birth and the date of his 
 death, and no more. Nor was the dead man planted in 
 the ground along with Jane, his wife. It didn't seem 
 vitty somehow. 
 
THE DREAM 
 
 They say you can judge of a man by the company he 
 keeps, and no doubt 'tis a very good test; but I say 
 you can judge of a man by his view of Providence, for 
 no two people take quite the same view, and according 
 as a man is humble or vain, wise or foolish, so he'll 
 look at Providence. And some, of course, you'll find 
 modest and religious, and all they should be when they 
 name the subject; others will be doubtful, and they're 
 the godless sort; and others, patronising, and they're 
 the witless sort; and others again be always snapping 
 and snarling at Providence, and always got a new 
 grievance against it and never a good word for the 
 thing. Then some fawn on it, like a dog on its master, 
 and take everything Providence sends — good or bad — 
 lying down as you say. And others just speak of 
 Providence as they find it ; and if all goes well, they are 
 glad and say kind words about it, and if all goes wrong, 
 then they keep quiet and wait for better times. But 
 that sort don't pretend nothing, and if Providence 
 treats 'em shameful, as it often will the very best, with- 
 out a reason that eye of man can see, then they just 
 bend to the blow; but they won't kiss the hand that 
 smites 'em, and they won't go about saying it's all right, 
 when they know it's all wrong. That sort don't help 
 parson at the time of Harvest Thanksgiving, if there's 
 
 no harvest ; because to say thank you for nothing seems 
 
 62 
 
THE DREAM 63 
 
 a bit unmanly, in their opinion. Others again whisper 
 the name as if it wa^ all ears ; and when they're having 
 a bit of luck, or things be going extra vitty with them, 
 they keep close as the grave about it and hate even 
 their fellow-man should know, for fear Providence gets 
 wind of their good fortune and swoops down upon 'em 
 and upsets the applecart, as it so often will. Such 
 people don't trust Providence a yard, and there's a 
 great many like that ; and, to be quite open and honest, 
 I was one of 'em. 
 
 'Tis different now, of course, for by the time you'm 
 up home seventy-five years there's no playing about 
 with Providence no more, and you've got to trust it, 
 for by that time there's little else left to a man he can 
 trust ; but in middle age, when I was going through my 
 " fifties " or thereabout, I wasn't near so respectful to 
 Providence as I be nowadays, and many a sharp and 
 bitter thing I've said against it. God forgive me, I 
 used to dress down Providence something shameful, for 
 I had no patience with the creature; but 'twas all sil- 
 liness and weakness of mind on my part, for, of course. 
 Providence be like the Parish Council, or a Board of 
 Directors — there's only just the name, and the thing 
 haven't got no body to kick and no soul to lose. I used 
 to call Providence an " iron devil " in hot simuners, 
 when the springs ran dry and the earth grew brick hard 
 and the grey bird couldn't get a worm out of the 
 ground for love or money; and then in winter time, 
 when the farm was up to your knees in muck, I'd call 
 Providence a " muddy old swine." 
 
 Looking back I can see I was a bit wilful like, though 
 
54> CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 no vice, you understand. But my farm was a bit too 
 much for me, and the strain and anxiety got on my 
 nerves and soured my temper sometimes. 
 
 If my first wife had lived, 'tis any odds I should 
 have gone to the deuce; but she didn't, and my second, 
 being a far different pattern of woman, made life at 
 Tregulva more difficult, but a lot more healthy too. 
 In fact, looking back, I can see the turning point was 
 Jane Mary. 
 
 One of them women who hides her flavour like an ap- 
 ple, for who can teU what the finest fruit be like till he's 
 bitten it? And who knows the gospel truth about a 
 female till he's married her.'' And to say it not un- 
 kindly, Jane Mary's flavour at first was long ways short 
 of her looks, and my heart sank after two years of mar- 
 ried life to call home her family history ; for she was a 
 Tonkin, and they Tonkins of St. Tid be forged of steel, 
 especially the women, and live to four score and ten 
 full often. We made poor speed in double harness for 
 a few years, and without a doubt she was a peculiar 
 woman. Her charge against me was that I would keep 
 bringing up my first wife and talking of her great suc- 
 cess. I done it a-purpose to spur on Jane Mary, and 
 any other female would have took shame to be beat by a 
 woman in her grave ; but my second didn't care, and all 
 she ever felt about it was that I made a hole in my man- 
 ners every time I named Julitta, which was my first. 
 And she knew she was a lot better for me really than 
 Julitta had ever been. 
 
 Jane Mary always said she weren't a fair-weather 
 wife, and that was true. I will give her credit for 
 
THE DREAM 65 
 
 great bravery in time of trouble; indeed, such was her 
 nature that she liked to be up against a few hard prob- 
 lems. A most contradictory woman, in fact, for when 
 all was suent and proper, and I felt I could see my 
 money six months ahead, and enjoy a bit of extra com- 
 fort here and there in consequence — just at those good 
 times Jane Mary would be at her worst — dumpish and 
 bored and snappy in company and a proper handful 
 behind the scenes at Tregulva. But let things look 
 threatening and the weather ugly, or a run of bad luck 
 with the beasts come along — then, if you'll believe it, 
 she would perk up and be a very present help in time of 
 trouble, and a most sensible and self-contained human 
 creature. 
 
 " How the mischief is it," I once axed her, " that 
 when the farm runs on oUed wheels and everything's 
 right, and prices up and joy and gladness in my heart 
 and the fruits of the earth all coming along just right,- 
 you find yourself bored to death and without a bit of 
 kick and sprawl in your nature; while, when all's 
 wrong and no hope nowhere, and the union workhouse 
 fairly in sight, you wake up and get going and have the 
 time of your life till we've straightened out the coil and 
 can breathe again.'' " 
 
 And Jane Mary said: 
 
 " That's where me and Julitta be different, I reckon. 
 For when the luck's good and all running so smooth 
 as wedding bells, I'm always feared of my life that 'tis 
 too good to last, and I see trouble hiding behind every 
 hedge and know the crash must come. But if all's lost 
 and not a blink of hope nowhere, then I feel the end is 
 
56 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 in sight, and a change of luck's due, and every day 
 brings us nearer to it." 
 
 A very unreasoning sort of woman, you see, yet she 
 was always right in a manner of speaking, and though 
 we went through some fairly tight pinches together at 
 Tregulva, yet we came out unharmed and turned many 
 a hopeless dawn into a tidy evening. I got in time to 
 feel like she felt, that life in reality be a bit of a sport- 
 ing fixture, and that every morning when you open your 
 eyes, you don't know whether you'll win or lose the race 
 you've got to run afore another sundown. 
 
 And that brings me to the dream, which, needless 
 to say, was no work of mine; for I never dreamed a 
 dream in my hfe, and don't waste nO' time from sleep 
 dreaming; whereas my second wife hardly sleeps 
 through a night without seeing strange things and hear- 
 ing strange voices. 'Twas just as much a part of her 
 life as eating her breakfast, and the things she dreamed 
 were mostly silliness, though often they'd come out true 
 in the upshot. In fact, a bit of second sight went along 
 with her dreams, as when she saw Nancy Bake come 
 into chapel wearing a bonnet with a yellow poppy in it ; 
 and Nancy Bake, sure enough, did so the very next 
 Sunday. And so, when, as sometimes happened, my 
 second wife dreamed of the future, I always gave due 
 weight to the fact. Not that it was any credit to her, 
 being just a gift, like blue eyes or any other fine thing; 
 yet it proved a useful accomplishment sometimes, and 
 when she dreamed who stole my William pears one 
 summer, I took her at her word and walloped the right 
 boy — to his undying surprise. And then came that 
 
THE DREAM 67 
 
 black year in the nineties, and again she dreamed a bit 
 of luck for me, and my soul hungered to believe her, 
 though my sense rebelled against doing so. 
 
 A black year I call it, and so it was in a sort of way, 
 for we had such a drought as never was known by living 
 man in North Cornwall before or since. The very dew 
 forgot how to fall, and the dryth struck down and down 
 till the solid earth was 'baked so hard as a brick a foot 
 under the grass, and the trees began to ripe their wood 
 and fling down their leaves while yet it was July. As 
 for our streams, they had fairly dried up to the springs, 
 and the beastly east wind, that blew hot on your cheek 
 week after week, brought all manner of plagues out of 
 the pitiless blue sky. For every blight and mildew and 
 canker that God ever loosed on a wicked world for its 
 sins, came to St. Tid that year. The broad beans was 
 black with fl.y, and the rust got in the com, and the 
 stoning fruit shrivelled on the bough and fell off after 
 great promise. For the hope of May only cast us down 
 all the more when the drought came, and one by one 
 we lost the chickens we'd counted afore they were 
 hatched. The hay went to glory, and the best was thin 
 as an old man's hair and not worth the saving. And 
 the roots only broke through to perish. The mangel 
 and swede were alike in vain, and a time arrived when 
 we knew that hope was dead for the roots and that 
 Noah's deluge wouldn't save them. 
 
 Day after day of blistering sunshine we had till the 
 country was brown as a dead leaf and the people as 
 black as niggers, and great fear growing in men's minds 
 for the com. But I was at my last gasp long before 
 
58 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 harvest, for I had more stock than usual that year — 
 far more than I could afford to feed while the drought 
 held — and, of course, nobody would buy the things 
 for love or money; so I was reduced to a terrible low 
 ebb, and uttered many rash words against Providence 
 that I've felt ashamed of since. But to go from March 
 to middle of July without enough rain to float a tad- 
 pole — 'twas enough to make any man of the soil say 
 harsh things ; and be sure I weren't the only one who 
 shook his fist at the sun and doubted the sense of the 
 sun's Maker. 
 
 Of course, through this awful catastrophe, my wife 
 was at her very best and took a wonderful cheerful 
 and Christian line of conduct. She'd got the faith that 
 moves mountains, and the lighter grew my purse the 
 brighter appeared to grow her hope and trust. 
 
 The great trouble to me was my stock, for I'd raised 
 a rare lot of fine young bullocks that year, and when the 
 trouble came and I found I couldn't feed the creatures, 
 and cast about to sell 'em, not a bid could I get. In 
 fact everybody was selling and none wanted to buy. 
 'Twas all we could do to water the things, let alone 
 find grass for 'em. 
 
 And then, in my darkest hour you might say, when 
 it looked 4^s though I'd got to kill all my creatures to 
 save 'em from dying a natural death, Jane Mary had 
 her far-famed dream. So great was her trust in dreams 
 and such-like fansical and dangerous things, that you 
 couldn't help echoing it a bit, and though, as a reason- 
 able man with my share of sense, I believe, and a bit 
 over at the service of other people, yet there it was, 
 
THE DREAM 59 
 
 and so dead sure felt my wife that the dream was bound 
 to come true, that she put a spark of her hopefulness 
 into me. No doubt the wish was father to the thought, 
 as they say; but be it as 'twill, when Jane Mary woke 
 one red-hot July mom and told me I'd get my money 
 for my cattle by the last day of the month, I made my- 
 self believe her. And once I fairly got to believe, I felt 
 a good bit of comfort. 'Twas a great act of faith, no 
 doubt, but in my judgment faith is well worth fighting 
 for, and because a thing don't seem within the bounds 
 of chance, there's no good reason for refusing to be- 
 lieve it may hap. And the harder a holy fact is to 
 swallow, the greater the comfort if you can once get it 
 down. 
 
 So I shared my wife's sure trust that I was going to 
 get my money for the bullocks, and nobody was more 
 surprised than her to find I could do so. She was a 
 good bit flattered, in fact, and said it was quite a new 
 thing for me to give Providence a free hand in such a 
 ticklish matter. 
 
 " But you'll never regret it," she said, " and when it 
 happens, I hope you'll pay quicker heed to me in fu- 
 ture, not for my sake but your own. Once get into the 
 way of believing me," she said, " and you'll never regret 
 it." 
 
 So I put my bottom dollar on the bullocks, and kept 
 'em fed at bitter cost to my savings for a fortnight. 
 Then the end of the month was in sight, but stiU none 
 came forward to make Jane Mary's dream come true. 
 What did happen, however, was the break-up of the 
 drought, and, along with it, the most awful tempest 
 
60 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 that any man in North Cornwall had ever seen. Not 
 the oldest could call to mind such a proper trouble of 
 the elements, and 'twill go dawn to history, no doubt, 
 as a fair masterpiece of a thunderstorm. 
 
 The air was sickly from dawn onward, and it growed 
 worse every minute. The sun rose like a bad florin, 
 and there was a sort of scum of thin cloud, yellowish 
 and sulphury, drawed over the blue sky by noon, and 
 the very air grew so hot as the breath of an oven. 
 Men sweated and the beasts ran about fearfully; then 
 the horizon to the north grew dark as a wolf's mouth, 
 and, coming up right against the sick, hot wind, there 
 heaved up a proper terror of clouds. In fact it seemed 
 as if night was rising from a strange quarter to swal- 
 low the day. The birds began to go to roost, and aU 
 living things, humans included, grew restless and per- 
 plexed. But at bottom the farmers were properly 
 thankful and welcomed the storm; and each hoped the 
 rain wouldn't miss his land. 
 
 The thunder grew from a growl far ways off to a 
 harsh rumble, as it came nearer, and the lightning 
 began to trickle down the clouds — proper ribbons of it. 
 In fact, it looked as if it had come up out of the earth 
 as well as dropped from the sky ; and then a sound grew 
 — a gentle, steady sound between the thunderclaps. 
 Some might not have known what that sound was ; but I 
 knew and blessed it, for 'twas the cisterns of the sky 
 breaking up and the rain falling in torrents and water- 
 spouts ten miles off. It came quickly, however, and I 
 was just going out into five acre meadow — a big level 
 field behind Tregulva — when the sky properly opened. 
 
THE DREAM 61 
 
 Like a great, grey veil it came, and I'l swear the light- 
 ning ran over my hands like hot water when I ran out 
 with Tom Keat, my head man. The sheep dogs 
 wouldn't face it, and the pair of 'em fairly turned tail 
 and howled. But we held on, because there was a great 
 danger growing in the meadow, and my stock — five- 
 and-twenty fine young bullocks and heifers — would be 
 sure to do the wrong thing, as cattle always wiU in a 
 thunderstorm, and make for the shelter of the trees. 
 For sheep and cattle be terrible put about afore light- 
 ning and thunder. To rain they'll turn tail and take 
 no count of it ; but against lightning they'll always bolt 
 for cover. 
 
 You couldn't see a hundred yards in front of you 
 through that curtain of rain, and the storm was right 
 overhead. Such was the rage of the elements that my 
 voice wouldn't carry to Keat, and I lost him in the 
 midst of the field. Then I got a bit dazed-like myseU, 
 and there came a flash of lightning that seemed to fall 
 right alongside of me and a crash of thunder that prop- 
 erly burst my earholes. I went down all ends up, for 
 the smash throwed me off my feet. I thought, of 
 course, it was the end, and quite counted to open my 
 eyes in kingdom come; but the Lord kept me for an- 
 other time, and I got my senses back in half a minute, 
 and found no harm had overtook me. But I'd had 
 enough now, for I was drownded, and the electric fluid 
 had got in my bones, and I felt five-acre meadow was no 
 place for a Christian man just then. So home-along I 
 went and shouted for the brandy; and I told Tom 
 Keat's wife that she must prepare for the worst. 
 
62 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 " I'm cruel afeared Tom's a goner," I said. " The 
 lightning took me oif my feet like a babe, and though 
 it spared my life, 'tis any odds your husband weren't 
 so fortunate. For 'twas a terrible far-reaching flash, 
 and if he was in the midst of it, he must have gone to 
 his reward, for certain." 
 
 Just as I spoke, however, and gulched a drop of 
 spirits to steady my nerves, Tom came in sight, and we 
 thanked God for His mercies. He'd been served pretty 
 much like me, though no worse ; but he was a very faith- 
 ful man, and his one thought was for me ; and when he 
 found me saved, his one thought was for the cattle. 
 In fact, he wanted to go out again and drive 'em into 
 the open ; but I wouldn't suffer it, for I knew the things 
 would be mad with fright, and very likely turn on Tom 
 if he got rounding 'em up at sijch a moment. 
 
 When the storm passed an hour later, and before it 
 had time to come round again, we went out; but not 
 until the lightning struck Tregulva. It came down 
 the chimney of an upper chamber, where our maiden 
 slept, but fortunately she was down house and so es- 
 caped. The lightning sent half the chimney into the 
 yard and broke out the fire grate and mantelshelf and 
 flung 'em on the girl's bed ! Then it went out through 
 the wall and didn't do no more damage to the dwell- 
 ing. But that wasn't aU its work, for when me and 
 Keat got out a very fearful sight met our eyes under 
 the elm. Not a bullock stood, and the dogs, who was 
 feared no more, ran out and tried to make 'em get up. 
 But 'twas fated they should never get up again, for 
 every beast was dead, and the great elm, where the 
 
THE DREAM 63 
 
 silly things had run for aid, stood torn all down one 
 side and the bark stripped away for twenty feet. I 
 couldn't believe my eyes. 
 
 There lay my poor bullocks and heifers in a ring 
 just dropped in their tracks by the jwle-axe of the 
 lightning, and I stood dazed afore my fearful loss, and 
 so did Keat. For flesh struck to death in a thunder- 
 storm is worthless. None can eat it, because it turns 
 black and the dead beast swells so big as a mountain 
 in no time. 
 
 We went home-along, and Keat took my arm, for I 
 was terrible down-daunted and sick at heart, and not 
 even the rare smell of the wet earth in my nostrils could 
 rouse me. It looked as if this was the last straw to 
 break my back and that I'd have to throw up the 
 sponge and go bankrupt when quarter-day came round 
 again. 
 
 But then came Jane Mary and heard the fatal news 
 and took it as if I'd got a legacy. 
 
 " How wonderful be the hidden workings of the 
 Lord," she said. " Every creature gone? Then that 
 makes my dream come true ! " 
 
 I stared at her and thought her wits were flown. 
 
 " Don't you see," she said. " You'll get your cash 
 for your cattle now they're dead, though you couldn't 
 while they was living. 'Tis true theyll be but small use 
 to the owner, save for their skins and horns and hoofs ; 
 but they're yours no more; they're insured against 
 death by lightning and you'U draw the insurance money 
 next week, no doubt, when they've sent to see the fatal 
 
64 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 I do declare that, owing to the shock of the storm 
 and the disaster of the thunderbolt, I'd forgot all about 
 the insurance: but it came true just as my wife said, 
 and for the poor stricken carcases I got their full value 
 and was a made man for the time being. 
 
 " Providence has saved its bacon for once," I said 
 to Jane Mary. 
 
 " 'Twould be more civil to say that Providence has 
 saved yours," she answered me. 
 
 And, of course, that was the right and proper way 
 to look at it. 
 
THE HOUSE IN TWO PARISHES 
 
 How one thing bears upon another is the greatest 
 mystery about life in my opinion, and no doubt if we 
 could see the network of cause and effect spun and 
 spinning round us, it would be a very interesting and 
 wonderful spectacle. But while helpful to us in some 
 ways, it would cast us down in others; for aU effort 
 would cease and hope, too often, die, if we could rightly 
 understand we are the creatures of circumstance, and 
 must follow out the path marked for us by unseen 
 forces working for our good, or evil. For did he know 
 he was going to reach the goal of his hopes, a man 
 would give up troubling about the journey; and so he 
 would if he knew he wasn't going to reach it. In fact 
 'tis the uncertainty of life that is its salt, and if we 
 had wits enough to understand how, given the warp and 
 woof, a certain pattern must be wove, then we should 
 know more than is given to us to know and so fail of 
 duty. 
 
 " Red Larches " was our farm, and you wouldn't see 
 much to note about it if you'd passsed that road on 
 your way to St. Tid, because it's a commonplace sort 
 of dwelling — two-storied with thick walls and a tar- 
 pitched roof to keep out the rain and the west winds 
 from the sea. We stand pretty high and most of our 
 
 land slopes away to the cliffs; but south there's a 
 
 65 
 
66 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 coomb, where a tree or two manages to raise its head 
 and a stream winds down to join a river eastward. A 
 good furze brake lies that way also, and is generally 
 safe for a brace of rabbits if your dog knows his bus- 
 iness. 
 
 But the queer thing about " Red Larches " is this : 
 the farm-house lies in two parishes and half the house- 
 place is in St. Tid and t'other half in Lanteagle. So 
 it foUows that the parlour and dairy and rooms up over 
 belong to the one ; while the rest of the house belongs to 
 the other. Same with the land; but the bulk of our 
 two hundred acres is St. Tid's and we only pay tithes 
 to Lanteagle for a water meadow and ten acres of 
 arable. 
 
 Well, of course, there's scores and scores of other 
 dwelling-houses that must have their foundations in 
 two parishes, or two counties for that matter; and I 
 myself have stood before today with one foot in Devon 
 and the other in Cornwall, but the very strange tale to 
 be told hangs upon this peculiar accident and makes 
 good my first remark, that the way things bear upon 
 each other is the greatest mystery of life. It is not 
 often given to us to' see the mysteries working, I grant, 
 and when once in a way we do so, then we learn much 
 worth knowing from it and see how the Lord uses even 
 such little accidents as a house in two parishes for His 
 own good purpose. 
 
 When this thing happened there were three Nathaniel 
 Jagos all at " Red Larches " together ; namely, my 
 grandfather, my father and myself. For " Nathaniel " 
 was always the name of the eldest son in our family, and 
 
THE HOUSE IN TWO PARISHES 67 
 
 so it came about that there was Mr, Jago Senior, or 
 " Uncle Nathan," as everybody called him, and Mr. 
 Jago, which meant my father, and just Nat, which 
 meant me. As for father, he'd been an only child, but 
 I had three brothers, two gone for sailors and one in 
 the slate quarries at St. Tid. Grandmother was dead 
 and my mother ran the farm and looked after us men. 
 Nor was grandfather a bed-lier, or past work for all 
 his eighty years. He'd do his share as peart as any old 
 man; and best he loved to labour in haytime and har- 
 vest. To be on the machine mower and cut the hay 
 was his particular delight. 
 
 He was a sunny old man to his dying day and always 
 looked at the hopeful side, which is a rare gift in those 
 who work on the land. But at twenty year old and 
 earlier than that I had sense to mark the difference 
 between him and father, and I determined on the quiet 
 to grow up like grandfather and put a good face on 
 things and not shout out before I was hit, and fancy 
 everybody was an enemy, same as father did. They 
 were both very Godfearing men; but with a difference, 
 for father feared more than he trusted and grandfather 
 trusted more than he feared. Father was close and 
 grandfather was open; father never seemed to think 
 other people was doing the fair thing by him; grand- 
 father often wondered if he was doing the fair thing by 
 other people. 
 
 The old man kept the reins too — not for lack of love 
 for my father, but because he held to it that while a 
 body had his wits and sense and energy he'd got no 
 right to lay down his burden. So he was master, and 
 
68 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 my father, who, despite all his temper and suspicious 
 ways, loved grandfather and honoured him higher than 
 all men, was very pleased to serve him, as he had served 
 all his life, and didn't look forward at all to the day 
 when he'd own " Red Larches." No more did I for that 
 matter. Father himself was up home fifty-five and I 
 was two-and-twenty when these things fell out. 
 
 Life was going along very steady when, owing to my 
 father's cranky temper, an awkward and unpleasant 
 event happened. Our head man, Aaron Chirgwin, 
 decided to get married, and after being tokened to a 
 maiden for three year, he set out into double harness. 
 But he had no mind to leave grandfather and weren't 
 going to. His wife was Jane Polwam, from " Lower 
 Ford," in Lanteagle parish — a very good dairymaid 
 and a church-goer, like Aaron himself; and as my 
 mother had long been crying out for a new dairymaid, 
 it all suited very well. 
 
 Then began father's famous feud with the Reverend 
 Mr. White, vicar of Lanteagle ; for that gentleman, see- 
 ing that Jane Polwam was one of his parishioners and 
 had taught in his Sunday School, was very wishful that 
 she should be married in his church, but my father, who 
 had more than one breeze with the reverend gentleman 
 over tithes, didn't wish it and was very anxious for the 
 wedding to take place at St. Tid's. 
 
 " He's only after the fees," said father to Chirgwin. 
 " He's one of them grasping men and grabs all he can 
 put his hands on, and devours widows' houses, as we 
 all know. As if that glebe to Lanteagle wasn't enough, 
 and more than enough, for any man short of a miser." 
 
THE HOUSE IN TWO PARISHES 69 
 
 This was true, I dare say, for there were plenty of 
 stories to show the vicar of Lanteagle a keen customer 
 where pounds, shillings and pence were concerned. 
 And father declared the Reverend White had bested 
 Jane Polwarn's master over a horse, only six months 
 before her wedding was announced, and grandfather 
 blamed him a good deal and said it was going too far 
 and a most unchristian thing to say so. 
 
 At any rate Aaron felt quite willing to be married 
 where my father pleased, for so long as it was in a place 
 of worship in the Church of England, he didn't mind 
 and was always wishful to please the family. He agreed 
 to be wed at St. Tid, and then, a week later, he met the 
 Reverend White and the gentleman talked him round 
 and convinced him that he ought to be married at 
 Lanteagle. 
 
 Aaron explained when he came back to " Red 
 Larches," and said he didn't want no fuss with quality 
 and so he'd better, perhaps, fall in with the vicar of 
 Lanteagle and be married in Jane Polwarn's parish; 
 but that didn't suit father at all. He told Aaron to 
 his face he was a weak worm and not worthy of us, and 
 he went further and ordered him to put up the banns at 
 St. Tid the very next Sunday. 
 
 " You sleep in the west dormer attic anyway," said 
 father, " and that's in St. Tid, so you've got nothing 
 to do with Lanteagle. I make it a personal matter and 
 Jane Polwarn's not such a fool as to stand out against 
 me, I should hope." 
 
 He was very much annoyed and, as fate willed, he 
 met Parson White two days later in the train going to 
 
TO CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 Launceston. And by all accounts father must have 
 said some sharp things; for the reverend gentleman 
 changed carriages at Camelford, and it was five years 
 ^before he ever spoke to father again. 
 
 He came back from market triumphant, did father, 
 and told grandfather what he'd said; and grandfather 
 was a good bit vexed about it and thought father had 
 done wrong. 
 
 " I let him have the ugly truth," said father. 
 " There was none in the compartment but me and him, 
 and I told the man he'd got a very bad character in 
 North Cornwall and not worse than he deserved." 
 " ' You're a lot too sharp after the dibs for a man of 
 God ' — that's what I told him," said father. " ' You 
 use religion like a cloak,' I said, ' to hide your worldly 
 mind and your grasping nature. And what's the re- 
 sult.'' You're driving the people to chapel and mak- 
 ing the Church of England a laughing-stock. 'Tis 
 a most iU-convenient thing I can tell you, and a good 
 few of us thinking men are a lot put about over it. 
 And you'll empty your church — that's what you'll do. 
 And I don't speak without the book, because I know 
 what you tried to do against us about my tithes and 
 what you succeeded in doing about the hoss you sold to 
 Jack Baskerville at " Lower Ford." And these things 
 are recorded. And as to the girl that's going to marry 
 my head-man, I'll have you to know that they wed in 
 St. Tid's, where I worship — and why not? ' " 
 
 So father had spoken and then Parson White, who 
 was a younger man than father, had lost his temper, 
 and threatened to have father up for libel and said 
 
THE HOUSE IN TWO PARISHES 71 
 
 'twas a shame such a man should be running loose to 
 backbite his neighbours. 
 
 " Do so," said father. " Have the law of me by all 
 means. I'm ready and willing to testify to what I've 
 said. And I teU you that you ill become your cloth. 
 And Jane Polwam and Aaron Chirgwin don't marry 
 from your church, whether or no, because I've defied 
 them to do so." 
 
 Then the train stopped at Camelford and the vicar of 
 Lanteagle said not another word, but just looked at 
 father and changed his carriage. 
 
 Of course father had gone much too far; he always 
 did when he was excited. And grandfather blamed 
 him sharply for letting his tempter run away with him 
 and strongly advised him to ride over to Lanteagle at 
 the first opportunity and say he was sorry. But father 
 scorned the thought. He'd been wanting to get his own 
 back from the Reverend White for a long time ; and now 
 he considered they were quits. 
 
 We aU went to the wedding, which was duly cele- 
 brated at St. Tid's, and a good rally of neighbours 
 came to the feast at " Lower Ford " after, for the Bas- 
 kervilles were very fond of Aaron's bride and sent her 
 off as handsome as if she'd been their own daughter. 
 
 Father hoped that Parson White would do something 
 about it and, in one of his excited moments, he went 
 so far as to picture himself called up afore a judge to 
 talk about his enemy; but even I knew it was aU non- 
 sense ; because if Parson White was fond of the money, 
 that weren't to make him out the rascal father declared 
 him to be. For that matter father was a pretty close 
 
72 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 bird himself, and he always said he had to be, because 
 grandfather was so terrible open-handed. 
 
 There was chipping in letters every year over the 
 tithes, and then parson and father met on a committee 
 called together to decide how we should celebrate the 
 coronation of his late Majesty, King Edward VII. 
 And the Reverend White, being in the chair on that 
 occasion, had his knife into father before some of the 
 leaders in the district and made him look foolish and 
 got a laugh at his expense. So that kept the famous 
 feud going between 'em, and father, after the meeting, 
 which turned down all his ideas how best to celebrate 
 the coronation, said that them laughed longest who 
 laughed last, and that he'd be even with the holy man 
 yet. His only regret was we'd got, a foot in Lanteagle, 
 and if it had been possible, I'm sure he'd have uprooted 
 " Red Larches," so as not a brick of the farm-house, or 
 a rood of the land, should lie in that parish. 
 
 Then there fell a dark day when trouble broke in 
 upon us like an armed man and we were faced with a 
 cruel and sudden shock. 'Twas a thing that had surely 
 to be by the laws of Nature, and yet it crushed us when 
 it came, for there's many and many a grief we know 
 lies ahead, and for which we are well enough prepared, 
 and yet, when it happens, our human nature ain't proof 
 against suffering and it turns the heart to water. 
 
 Grandfather had been doing the work his soul de- 
 lighted in all day, and that was sitting on the mowing 
 machine and driving the pair of horses that drew it. 
 He enjoyed that task and would be up with the larks 
 when there was mowing to be done. The first to start 
 
THE HOUSE IN TWO PARISHES 73 
 
 and the last to knock off when the day ended was he at 
 such times. He often vexed father, because he would 
 put in such a long spell at hay harvest; but it didn't 
 seem to hurt him, and as each year came round grand- 
 father would say the same thing. 
 
 " ' The night cometh,' " he'd say, "and then no man 
 may work, so as this may very likely be my last year 
 among you, I must do my bestest, souls, as usual." 
 
 And so the game old boy would toil on until he was 
 so weary that we pretty near had to help him off his 
 seat on the mower. 
 
 The third day of hay cutting it was, and he seemed 
 much as usual till after supper; then he said he felt as 
 perhaps he'd overdone it a bit and had better get to bed. 
 And father burst out at him and said that it was no 
 better than shortening his hfe and might very likely end 
 in suicide if he persisted. But grandfather only 
 laughed and went to his rest ; and my mother looked in 
 at him the last thing and put a little eggy pudden by his 
 side, which he was in the habit of having ; for he always 
 ate very light and slept very light; and sometimes a 
 mouthful in the small hours would stay his stomach and 
 help him to slumber again. 
 
 Mother came down in two minutes and said he was 
 sleeping very comfortable, so we troubled no more 
 about him and went to our beds as usual. 
 
 Not a sound did we hear in the night neither; but 
 when day came and my mother, according to her cus- 
 tom, took the old bird an early cup of tea at half after 
 five o'clock, she gave a loud cry, and father and me, at 
 breakfast below, dropped our food and rushed up over 
 
74. CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 the stairs so fast as we could run. And there was 
 grandfather on his back, calm and smiling and looking 
 twenty years younger than when he went to bed. Cold 
 as a quilkin ^ was he, and though I'd never seen death 
 before, I knew at a glance the dear old man must be a 
 goner. Mother wept bitter tears over him and so did I, 
 for it seemed as though the world couldn't go on without 
 grandfather; but my father for once kept his head 
 better than any of us, and he told mother to make all 
 seemly and he bade me get on a horse and ride off to 
 Lanteagle for the doctor and call and tell Mrs. Bake- 
 well, the nurse, to come and help mother lay grand- 
 father out. So, glad of something to occupy my mind, 
 I went and rode off at a gallop, though well I knew fifty 
 doctors couldn't bring back the life to grandfather. 
 
 And when, an hour or two later, the doctor came, he 
 said 'twas a very good death for the old man, though a 
 curious one. And indeed sudden death is only terrible 
 for them that be left behind, and no doubt that's why 
 the living pray against it. The doctor said that in all 
 likelihood 'twas heart failure from so much over-exertion 
 the day before; and I think father was glad in a way 
 that was the cause, for he'd told grandfather time and 
 again not to work so hard. So he had nought on his 
 conscience. Doctor looked the old man over and 
 thought there were queer points about it and reckoned 
 we might have to call an inquest. He was busy just 
 then, but said he'd call in again. 
 
 Of course we was all over the place that day and 
 forgot about the hay and everything ; and from being 
 I Qmlkin. Frog. 
 
THE HOUSE IN TWO PARISHES 76 
 
 pretty sensible, father grew more and more flustered as 
 the time wore on, and 'twas all mother could do to keep 
 him calm. For anything like a surprise always threw 
 father out of his gait, and now, what with the lawyer 
 and the undertaker, and all the needful writing to call 
 relations to the funeral and break the black news to 
 'em, let alone the hay crying out to be made, my poor 
 father lost his self-control something shocking. And 
 when mother chid him and told him to face his duty in 
 a more manful spirit and not run about wringing his 
 hands like a girl, he let loose his anger on her, and said 
 some crooked words, and made me so savage that for 
 two pins I'd have said undutiful things to the man and, 
 lio doubt, repented of 'em ever after. 
 
 When she'd took a cup of tea to steady her nerves, 
 mother went in the garden to calm herself and pick 
 some flowers for the death chamber; and father was 
 just saying that we ought to put a bit of crape on the 
 bee-butts, because 'tis very unlucky and leads to great 
 trouble if you don't tell the bees of a death, when that 
 happened you might say was worse than anything that 
 had gone before. 
 
 For, looking out of the window, what should I see 
 walking up the flower garden but the form of the 
 Reverend White! 
 
 " Good Lord, father ! " I said, " if here ain't parson 
 from Lanteagle coming to call upon you." 
 
 And father, who read far deeper into that than I did, 
 very near choked over a mug of tea he was drinking at 
 the time and started to his feet in a proper frenzy of 
 excitement. 
 
76 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 " That's the limit of endurance ! " he said. " A very 
 little more and I shall lose my reason. And, as it is, 
 I envy the dead, for they be out of the fret and torment 
 of their fellow creatures." 
 
 " He's only coming to oiFer the comfort of his holy 
 calling, you may be sure," I told father. " 'Tis the 
 man's business to visit the house of the dead and say 
 words that will calm you down and dry mother's tears." 
 
 But father took a much darker view than that. 
 
 "Not him!" he said. "That's not why he's here. 
 He wants to see where father breathed his last, and he 
 be come to have a look at the blessed dead for his own 
 dark ends and wicked reasons. I know him — the 
 rogue ! " 
 
 The vicar of Lanteagle was at the door by now and 
 he'd already given a gentle knock; but father forbade 
 the maiden to answer. 
 
 " I won't let him in," he said. " God's my judge, 
 but he shan't enter this house nor see my father's 
 dust." 
 
 " Why for not ? " I asked. " He can't do no harm 
 to poor grandfather. He never had no quarrel with 
 him; and grandfather would like to think a holy man 
 had put up a prayer over his clay. You may be sure 
 of that." 
 
 " Stuff ! " said father, " You speak like a ninny- 
 hammer and don't know nothing of the world. He's 
 come to see whether the old man died in his parish, or 
 St. Tid's, and when he knows that it was in Lanteagle 
 his bedchamber stands, he'll grab him for his graveyard 
 and get the fees." 
 
THE HOUSE IN TWO PARISHES 77 
 
 Well, somehow, I never thought upon such a thing as 
 that. Besides, us Jagos had all been laid in the bury- 
 ing-ground at Lanteagle for years and years, and my 
 grandmother was there, and a row of the family dating 
 back to the first Greorge. So I said, 
 
 " Surely he'll be teeled ^ along with grandmother? " 
 
 Then parson knocked again, a bit louder, and I felt 
 positive from the first that he'd merely come to say the 
 word in season and had no thought of burial fees nor 
 nothing like that; but father was working himself up 
 into a proper flame, and I used my wits and made a 
 suggestion. 
 
 " If you think so," I said, " us had better to circum- 
 vent the holy man while there's time. And so you'd 
 best tell Jenifer to let him in the parlour and keep him 
 there for five minutes ; and meanwhile you and me can 
 carry poor old grandfather across and put him in my 
 bedroom, which be in St. Tid parish. Then the reverend 
 gentleman's done; because if grandfather lies in St. 
 Tid's, he dursn't lay hands upon him." 
 
 We found out afterwards that it was all nonsense on 
 my father's part and that nobody had no power over 
 the corpse, no matter where he'd died ; but at the time, 
 properly flummoxed as he was, father catched at the 
 idea, and we went upstairs and Jenifer let the parson 
 in. 
 
 And me and father set about to carry our dead across' 
 from Lanteagle into St. Tid. 
 
 FuU twenty yards we had to take him, by some wind- 
 ing passages with a step or two, and at one step, which 
 1 TeeUd. Buried. 
 
78 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 father forgot, he tripped and fell to his knees and gave 
 the blessed dead a proper shaking. In fact, if father 
 hadn't let go of the old man's feet, he'd ha,ve broke his 
 own neck. And I dare say, feeling as he was, he 
 wouldn't have been sorry if he had. But he saved him- 
 self and used the awfulest language and then picked up 
 the feet of the poor old man. And so we carried him to 
 my chamber. Then we put him in my bed and composed 
 him, and covered his old eyes again with two penny 
 pieces, for him though they were, they was open and 
 had a haunting touch of life about 'em still; and I 
 knew I should creep to my last day when I thought 
 upon them. In the excitement I hadn't time to spare 
 a moment to the future; but, as I went down house 
 again and calmed father before he marched in to see the 
 enemy, I couldn't help but feel that my sleeping room 
 would be haunted for evermore by the spectrum of poor 
 grandfather. 
 
 Now we were in the room just over that in which 
 Parson White waited for my father to see him, and the 
 deed done, father grew a bit easier, and was so self- 
 possessed as to ask Jenifer for a brush and smoothed 
 down his hair before he went into the parlour. 
 
 And at the same moment my mother returned from 
 the garden with a very fine nosegay of stocks and 
 monthly roses to put on the old man's breast. 
 
 Parson began on 'em instantly. 
 
 " In his sleep, last night, I hear that our dear old 
 friend passed away,'-' he said. " A beautiful end for 
 one so well prepared." 
 
 "So it was then," answered my mother. " And if 
 
THE HOUSE IN TWO PARISHES 79 
 
 you wish to look upon him, sir, you'll see a corpse that 
 shows death have got no sting." 
 
 " I should like to do so — and kneel beside him," 
 said parson. " The presence of death should always 
 bring its solemn message to the living, my friends, 
 and I can honestly say I have won many a valuable 
 lesson from the death chamber of even a little 
 child." 
 
 Well, what could have been nicer than that.'' For 
 my part I'm sure the reverend gentleman meant nothing 
 but good to us and spoke with no mean thought of 
 gain; and I'm certain sure he didn't care a button 
 whether grandfather had died in Lanteagle or St. Tid. 
 Mother was of the same opinion, as she said after; 
 but father read all manner of devilry into the speech, 
 and when he said he'd like to see grandfather, of course 
 my poor father was certain sure he wanted to mark the 
 corpse down in Lanteagle and claim it for his burying- 
 ground. 
 
 " He died in St. Tid, I must teU you," says father, 
 scowling at mother to keep her mouth shut. " He lies 
 in the chamber over this room, and that's St. Tid. Yes, 
 his usual room was the other side of ope-way, I grant ; 
 but he'd changed it, you see." 
 
 Parson White weren't troubled by this whopper from 
 father, and I don't suppose he knew or cared where our 
 old man was in the habit of sleeping. Mother stared 
 and very near let fall her nosegay, and then that hap- 
 pened far more wonderful yet, for just as father was 
 starting through the open door and parson after him, 
 what should we hear above us but a voice ! 
 
80 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 A thin, weak voice sure enough ; but my grandfather's 
 for a million; and he said: 
 
 " Guy Fawkes and angels, where be I got to? " 
 
 Mother went down lumpus in a faint, and I set about 
 her, and knowing the thing to do was to bum a feather 
 under the nose of a fainting creature, took a feather 
 from the mantelshelf, where they stand for us to clean 
 out pipes with, and lit up under mother's nose; and 
 father rushed up over-stairs with his hair on end and 
 the Reverend White followed after. 
 
 Such an upstore there never was on land or sea, I 
 reckon, and when mother come to, I let her be and went 
 to the kitchen for the brandy bottle and galloped aloft 
 to find grandfather sitting up in father's arms dazed 
 like, but alive as need be. 'Twas clear he'd failed in a 
 catalepsy, and but for the shake up we gave the dear 
 old man trundling him into my sleep room, he'd surely 
 have gone to his coffin and his grave in that state, and 
 none any the wiser but him and his Maker till the Day 
 of Judgment ! 
 
 Of coui'se we couldn't conceal from grandfather the 
 terrible disaster that had overtook him ; but when he 
 heard all about it, he felt it might have been such a lot 
 worse, and, like the wise old chap he was, he didn't take 
 on overmuch. And such was his love of a joke, that 
 when parson had gone, after congratulating us aU very 
 properly on getting our old hero back out of the jaws 
 of the grave, and hoping that grandfather wouldn't 
 forget to return thanks for his great escape, weak 
 though he was, the sick man laughed like anything when 
 
THE HOUSE IN TWO PARISHES 81 
 
 he heard the steps that father and me had took so as he 
 should sleep his last sleep at St. Tid. 
 
 And he gave father a facer, too, for he said it was a 
 very clever thought of Providence to bring him back to 
 life again in that case, because he'd always fully wished 
 and intended to be buried along with grandmother at 
 Lanteagle. 
 
 " 'Twas a most rash and vmruly thought, Nathaniel," 
 he said to father, " and without a doubt you do take a 
 lot too much upon yourself, boy. And you let your 
 notorious feelings against that good man run away with 
 you. But it's quite clear the Lord used you to save me 
 from a dreadful doom, and I hope, if anything of the 
 sort overtakes me again, you'll all be properly careful 
 not to put me underground until the seal of death be 
 wrote visible upon me." 
 
 We promised that faithful enough, you may be sure ; 
 but when doctor came in towards evening and shook the 
 old man by the hand, and said 'twas the best thing that 
 had happened to him that day, he told us all that we 
 need have felt no fear of any fearful mistake of that 
 sort. 
 
 " I wasn't none too happy about him this morning," 
 said doctor, " for there were queer symptoms I couldn't 
 understand at the time, and I certainly wouldn't have 
 let you put Mr. Jago away till I had satisfied myself 
 the life was out of him never to return. 'Tis an un- 
 common state, no doubt," he said; "but such things 
 do happen, and 'tis a doctor's place always to have his 
 eyes open for fear of accidents." 
 
82 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 He said that without doubt the shock of falling had 
 brought the suspended life back again; and then he 
 told us that we must look after grandfather properly 
 careful and bade the old man stop in his bed for a good 
 few days till he'd fetched up his strength again. And 
 he dared him to go on the mowing-machine any more. 
 
 And as for father and mother and me, we praised 
 God, and carried grandfather back to his own room. 
 And we didn't drop him that time neither. 
 
 Father and mother sat up with him every night for a 
 week, and by then, to use his own words, he was like a 
 giant refreshed with wine, and crying to be up and 
 about. 
 
 He didn't die in earnest for two years after that, 
 and then, up to his old games, he went out on a bitter 
 cold evening to look at some pigs ; and the frost worked 
 down into his breathing parts and he was gathered, like 
 a flower of the field, in forty-eight hours. 
 
 But he lieb to Lanteagle along with the rest of us that 
 have gone before ; and a thing to note is that my father, 
 from the day of the famous catalepsy, changed his 
 mind about the Reverend White, so that, without being 
 friends exactly, no man can say they are enemies any 
 longer. 
 
 And that's what I mean when I tell you the greatest 
 mystery in human life, so far as I can see, is the way 
 in which different things bear upon one another, and 
 the strange accidents that God Almighty will sometimes 
 employ to work out His amazing plans. 
 
THE REED ROND 
 I 
 
 By the little reed rond under the wood there grew old, 
 
 pollarded willows ; and now, at mid-March, these massy 
 
 stimips were like giants' heads on which bristled golden 
 
 and horrent hair full three feet long. 
 
 An old woman regarded them and measured the value 
 
 of the twigs. Already her grandson was reaping in 
 
 the withy beds, close at hand. Beside the ancient stood 
 
 a girl, and one had marked that contrast of centripetal 
 
 and centrifugal in the expressions of age and youth. 
 
 For the gammer was stricken, and life had drawn her 
 
 features together, even as rheumatism and other ills 
 
 had contracted her limbs, thrust one shoulder higher 
 
 than the other and dragged her withered fingers into 
 
 the palms of her hands. Brown, gnarled, weathered 
 
 and time-foundered was she, and dim were her brown 
 
 eyes. They, too, had grown centripetal, and were 
 
 veiled behind the curtain of the past; they saw both 
 
 less and more than the frank grey orbs of the girl. 
 
 The younger face was inquiring, expectant, hungry 
 
 for new experiences, full of life and the joy of it. Her 
 
 shoulders were open, her bosom challenging, her body 
 
 ready for action. The old had nothing to give away. 
 
 She hugged her lean carcase, nursed each footfall and 
 
 went gingerly to cheat pain ; the yoimg strode light of 
 
 83 
 
84. CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 limb and lithe of step, with pain as yet a stranger, with 
 hope for her dower and love's immeasurable vista for 
 her kingdom. 
 
 Charity Bickford had stood up to life, against long 
 odds of ill-fortune and grief for seventy-five years. 
 Her romance reads raw thrust into a few sentences, 
 stripped from the f idl book of her days and abbreviated. 
 Art is challenged to round it, draw the seemly veil, 
 lower the light somewhat and suffer the red work to be 
 done out of sight. There was so much red work. She 
 had moved through a drama of heredity and known 
 death better than she had known many of her human 
 acquaintance; for it was her own who had died: the 
 human weaklings born of her body to an unhealthy 
 mate. Her children had risen fair and promised well; 
 then, smitten from within and without, they had sunk 
 and gasped away their broken lives. Some died upon 
 her bosom ; one passed away far from her. 
 
 When Charity was nineteen she feU in love with 
 Edward Bickford, the owner of a little osier farm and 
 reed bed hid in the lap of Cornish hills. But she knew 
 not that it was death that made her man's eyes so bright 
 and his cheeks so red; she remembered not that Bick- 
 ford had one brother in a hospital and a sister in the 
 grave. 
 
 Six children were bom to them, and one died in 
 infancy; then the father reached his tether, coughed 
 for six months and bled to death on a winter night in 
 Charity's arms. She was thirty-eight now and might 
 swiftly have wedded again and escaped the swamp that 
 was her home. But there were her children — three 
 
THE REED ROND 86 
 
 boys, two girls. No sane man, for all her sense and 
 charm, desired to burden himself with the sicMy family 
 of another's getting. The eldest son, Tom, a lad of 
 eighteen, was her right hand and fought to keep the 
 roof of the cottage over them and food in their mouths. 
 But arundo straw was ceasing to find a market and the 
 prosperity of the farm, never great, began to wane. 
 
 Children of a phthisical father could hardly have been 
 bom into a worse environment. They needed abundant 
 food and here was poverty; they required healthy air 
 of the uplands and the sweet freshness of the hills ; but 
 here the summer bred miasma and foul humours of 
 stagnant water; the winter was dank and the atmos- 
 phere both humid and chill. Tom Bickford showed the 
 storm signal first, though for a time the vitality of 
 youth made nought of nightly coughs and sweats. He 
 held on till he was two-and-twenty. Then he died as 
 his father had died — with his head on Charity's bosom. 
 The second son was threatened and went to sea; but 
 he took death with him and was caried ashore at Sydney 
 on his second voyage. They sent home his kit and a 
 locket of gun-metal with the face of an unknown girl 
 in it. Then the third boy, of stouter build and much 
 like his mother, worked for her, and in his hidden heart 
 called himself master of the osier farm and counted to 
 live for ever. He had neither ache nor pain and was 
 cast in a mightier mould than his brothers. And he 
 was cleverer. He took warning, went heedfully, 
 changed his clothes when he came in wet from the withy 
 beds and permitted the threat of evil to make him 
 selfish. Charity ministered to him day and night. 
 
86 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 Her ignorance was extreme; therefore she coddled him, 
 kept him too warm, denied fresh air entrance tp their 
 little home by the reed rend. 
 
 Of her daughters, Sally, the elder, married at seven- 
 teen, and went to live in South Devon. Her husband 
 worked on the Teign in the clay barges, and she only 
 exchanged one low-lying cot for another. When the 
 river was out, mud, starred with wild asters and sali- 
 comia, spread almost from her cottage door for miles 
 down the estuary; when it was up, the grey gulls 
 floated there; and the hump-backed heron stood knee 
 deep so close that Sally Tutt could see his eyes. Here 
 she bore two children, a boy and a girl, before the curse 
 strangled her also. Charity was with her when she 
 died, and she and Jacob Tutt, the breaved bargeman, 
 quarrelled as to whether the dead should lie with 
 Charity's husband and son, or beside Jacob's mother. 
 The man would not yield and his wife was buried where 
 he willed. 
 
 " Leave room," said Charity, pointing to the little 
 ones. " Look at their eyes — and their skin, like egg- 
 shell china. 'Tis there! Leave room by her." 
 
 The father cursed Charity for a witch of iU omen, 
 and indeed she proved mistaken. Her granddaughter 
 and grandson lived and survived her. 
 
 Her other daughter, Grace, was eighteen at the time 
 of Sally Tutt's death, and her sister's end preyed upon 
 a feeble spirit, haunted her and shortened her life. The 
 folk vowed that Grace might have escaped, had she not 
 frightened herself into consumption. She lingered long 
 and died in her sleep at last, worn to a shadow, like a 
 
THE REED ROND 87 
 
 poplar leaf that falls in autumn, and whose transparent 
 ghost the wind blows out of some cranny when spring 
 has come again. 
 
 There remained selfish Alfred, and the reed rond did 
 him no hurt. His health was good and his mind serene. 
 His mother's own life was concentrated here and every 
 sense fastened tigerishly upon him. She did not like 
 him out of her sight. She got on his nerves, as he con- 
 fessed to friends, and men called him " mother's boy " 
 at the public-house. If he was late, her anxious, brown 
 face peeped into the bar; on Sundays she brought him 
 to church, on Saturdays she accompanied him to mar- 
 ket. She stuffed him and went hungry; clad him and 
 went cold to keep his great limbs warm. He kicked at 
 last for shame, after finding her primitive, maternal 
 instinct proof against all argument and all reason. 
 She could not let him alone ; therefore he sought a wife, 
 to rescue him from his mother, and became betrothed to 
 a gamekeeper's daughter, who lived in the woods nigh 
 at hand. The gamekeeper little liked this match, for 
 he was a prosperous man compared with Alfred and his 
 osier bog. 
 
 " Bickford's only customers nowadays be a handful 
 of damned gypsies, who buy half the withy wands and 
 steal t'other half," said the gamekeeper to his girl. 
 " Why do 'e want to marry a pauper — and hag-ridden 
 at that, for his mother won't let the man out of her 
 sight, wife or no wife.'' " 
 
 " I love him," answered she. " And we're tokened, 
 and the old woman will very soon pack her sticks and 
 clear once I reign over him." 
 
88 CHRONICLES QF ST. TID 
 
 But the marriage did not take place. The death this 
 hale and hearty man had defied at one gate of the 
 fortress, found entrance by another, beyond his power 
 to bar. He met with an accident and badly bruised his 
 back by falling off a slippery board on to a stump in 
 the reed rond. He laughed at first; but in a few 
 months it was broken to Charity that tuberculosis of 
 the spine had overtaken her son. His engagement was 
 broken off, and the mother he had tried to escape re- 
 tained her power over him, for he was a cripple hence- 
 forth. Sometimes he flattered hope, rose from his bed 
 and appeared stronger. But presently he died. 
 
 Charity was light-headed for a year and had to be 
 put into an asylum. She used to cry out over the wall 
 of the recreation ground, and passers-by would hear a 
 pleasant voice calling to them, " Look at me — me 
 that's bred food for six graves — six graves I've 
 fiUed ! " 
 
 Then gazing up they would see a fine, brown woman 
 of five and fifty beaming and nodding to them. 
 
 She recovered and returned to the osiers. A man 
 worked for her who had worked for her husband and her 
 sons. He was called Philip Masterman and understood 
 the reeds and withies. But the arundo proved not 
 worth cutting and stacking nowadays, for none wanted 
 it and thatching ceased to be practised in that dis- 
 trict. 
 
 Next there came a ray of brightness and something 
 to love again, for the bargeman, Jacob Tutt, was 
 married once more, and having two other children and a 
 masterful wife, desired to be free of the son by his first. 
 
THE REED ROND 89 
 
 Mrs. Bickford welcomed the boy, fanned dead fires and 
 found a little bleak sunshine in the joy of ministering 
 to him. When he had done with school, he set to work 
 at the osiers, learned all there was to learn and exulted 
 in secret, as his dead uncle before him, that the 
 marsh and willows and reed bed, where the coots and 
 moorhens nested, would presently be his own. 
 
 The place was Charity's, and she strove year after 
 year to be rid of it ; but no purchaser could be found, 
 because it was almost worthless as it stood and to drain 
 it had proved too costly. Therefore she stopped on, 
 since the workhouse was her only alternative. 
 
 Young Jacob Tutt grew and prospered. Then there 
 woke within him love, and he won Melinda Deane, a 
 pedlar's daughter from St. Tid — she who now walked 
 beside Charity, gave her an arm over a bridge in the 
 osier beds and came presently beside her to the old 
 woman's cottage. 
 
 The dwelling-house stood lifted a little higher than 
 the marshes, with a cabbage patch of half an acre behind 
 it and the fens in front. Beyond the cabbages there 
 spread great woods, and the foxes harboured within, 
 where a quarry opened, so that Charity's poultry was 
 snugly caged by night. 
 
 " Jacob's down in the reeds to work, I reckon. But 
 he knows you be coming, so he'll be punctual," said Mrs. 
 Bickford. 
 
 Her voice was mellow and pleasant still. 
 
 " Did you fetch the charm for my face from your 
 father, Melindy.? " 
 
 " So I did, mother," answered the girl. " He says 
 
90 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 there be nine sorts of erysapalis but the same charm 
 will cure 'em all." 
 
 " A proper herb-doctor he is." 
 
 " He does his share ; but the patients have got to do 
 their share too, and father says there's not a herb of 
 the field be proof against want of faith. If you don't 
 believe in 'em, they be powerless to pleasure you, or 
 touch the iU. ' Faith have got to go along with physic ' 
 — that's what father says." 
 
 " He's a very clever man, and I believe in him," 
 declared Charity. " He knows the vartues in many a 
 weed we tread under our feet." 
 
 " But this is diiferent. 'Tis a very old charm and 
 plenty don't believe in it, though father says it never 
 fails when you come to it trusting." 
 
 Melinda considered and frowned, a process that 
 helped her wits. 
 
 " I've got it ! 'Tis like this, mother, and aU the 
 things are easily to be had. You must take milk from 
 a red cow and a fleck of wool from a black sheep — 
 from under his left ear the wool must come. Then you 
 dab the wool in the milk, and dress your erysapalis with 
 it, and say a prayer. Here's the words. Father wrote 
 'em for you. 'Twas a moorman he got the charm from, 
 and you mustn't give him nothing but thanks for it, else 
 it won't work." 
 
 Charity, whose brown face was smeared with a red 
 patch of erysipelas, took the paper thankfully. 
 
 " God knows if there's one thing life haven't filched 
 away from me, Melindy, 'tis faith," she said. " I've 
 had the faith to move mountains, and please God if 'tis 
 
THE REED ROND 91 
 
 ever allowed me, in another world than this, to compare 
 my life with that tortured man. Job, He'll find that 
 there wasn't overmuch to choose between me and him. 
 Ess fay ! my case was worse than his, for what the Lord 
 took from Job, He gave again while yet the man was in 
 the flesh. But that can't hap to me, because I'm old, 
 and miracles aren't worked in our time. The general 
 public haven't got the faith for 'em. No, I shall see my 
 family again, as sure as I see you this minute; but the 
 tender joys of the body will be over and done with, 
 worse luck. For I won't pretend I han't sorry. There 
 may be comforts that go along with being a shining 
 spirit ; but I shan't hug my boys and girls in my arms, 
 and feel the flesh of them firm and healthy, and press 
 my lips to their cheeks. I shan't do nothing like that. 
 I shall never even be able to see 'em eat. For us shall 
 aU be spirits together." 
 
 Melinda was puzzled by these reflections. 
 
 " Lord, mother ! " she said, " what a terrible queer 
 way to look ait it J " 
 
 " It may be my dear, but you can't look at it no 
 other way," answered Charity. " Spirits be spirits, 
 and no doubt they gain more than they lose, poor crea- 
 tures, and be helped to forget the fine blessings of flesh 
 and bones, as well as the horrors of *em." 
 
 Then came Jacob Tutt, a hearty young man, brawny 
 and well put together. He was blue-eyed, curly-headed, 
 full-lipped, and he looked far less than his five-and- 
 twenty years. 
 
 " I've catched a proper fish ! " he said, and showed 
 them a great dace of half a pound weight. 
 
92 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 Charity clapped her old hands. 
 
 " Well done, Jacob ! Now we shall have a brave din- 
 ner for Melindy." 
 
 He handed the fish to his grandmother, and she, tell- 
 ing them that the meal would be ready in half an hour, 
 went within to prepare it. But Jacob and his sweet- 
 heart dawdled by the water. They sat down on a 
 withy bundle presently, and he put his arm round her 
 and rubbed his face against hers. She fondled his hand 
 and picked the silver scales of the dace off it. Then she 
 kissed it. They were both amorous, and presently he 
 rose, yawned, stretched his arms over his head, and 
 looked down at her with a mouth that watered. 
 
 " 'Tis wisht work waiting for 'e," he said ; " but so 
 far as I can see, it's got to be, till granny drops. And 
 tough as leather she is — good for ten year unless we 
 have a bit of luck." 
 
 " Why must you wait for her? " 
 
 " Because it is just all we can do to keep food in our 
 mouths and clothes on our backs and scrape up fifteen 
 bob a week for Phil Masterman. I've looked round on 
 the quiet to see if I could find a man as wotild do his 
 work for less ; but I can't." 
 
 " Offer him a thought less. He's only got his wife, 
 and his cottage be rent free." 
 
 " Granny won't offer him less — for two pins she'd 
 give him more. She's a bit tootlish over money — al- 
 ways was. Them at the end of their tether can't feel 
 for the like of us." 
 
 " I wish to Christ I'd got a bit of money," said 
 Melinda; " but you know how 'tis with us." 
 
THE REED ROND 93 
 
 " Sometimes I thixik I will up and away." 
 
 " You can't leave her." 
 
 " I could leave her all right ; but the withy beds are 
 just worth waiting for, and it's all I shall ever get in 
 the world. There'll be nothing out of father." 
 
 " Then we must wait. Of course she don't guess 
 she's standing in the way." 
 
 " Not her." 
 
 " 'Tis certain we can't tell her, so fond of you " as 
 she is." 
 
 " She's got no sense — all knocked out of her by 
 trouble I reckon. She's on to me to marry again and 
 again, and it often takes me all my time not to slap out 
 the reason." 
 
 " Have she got anything put by ? " 
 
 " Yes — for her funeral. So she says, but I reckon 
 there's a tidy Uttle bit been goodying for twenty year. 
 She's close and never talks about it. Her grave's 
 bought years and years ago, alongside her other graves. 
 Her little lot all dropped pretty young, and none had 
 no children but my mother." 
 
 Mehnda reflected, but saw no light. 
 
 " I'm that useless," she said. " If I'd gone in service, 
 I might have saved a few pounds, but father won't let 
 me leave him till I marry." 
 
 " Did he send that charm for the old woman.'' " 
 
 " I've gived it to her." 
 
 " I wouldn't wish her dead," said Jacob, " for she's 
 all right, and I reckon she's having the time of her Ufe, 
 poor old baggage. She wearies me with tales of her 
 husband and children, and can remember to a pang how 
 
94 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 each of 'em died, and to a whisper the last word each 
 of 'em said. She maimders over it by the hour. Yet 
 they'll slip her memory for ten minutes at a time, and I 
 can even make her laugh off and on. And for the 
 moment you'm laughing, you'm happy. So I wouldn't 
 wish her dead, Melindy, though 'twill be a red-letter 
 day — a proper revel for me and you when it hap- 
 pens." 
 
 " I wish there was another way than her going," said 
 the girl. " 'Tis like four carrion crows I seed a bit 
 ago. They was waiting for an old hoss to die in a field, 
 and walking round and round him to have the first dig 
 at his eyes." 
 
 Charity's voice quavered out from the house door 
 and they went in. 
 
 They ate the great dace and some bacon and potatoes, 
 some bread and cheese, and a tapioca pudding. It was 
 a meal unusually ample. The women drank tea and 
 Jacob drank water. Then Melinda helped Mrs. Bick- 
 ford to wash up, and the man lighted his pipe and 
 returned to work. 
 
 In the evening, over a meal of bread and pork 
 dripping. Charity, grown cheerful, pleaded with them 
 to wed. 
 
 " 'Tis the last wish of my life to see a great grand- 
 child in my lap," she said. " 'Tisn't as if you couldn't 
 do with me in the house, Melindy, for well you know we 
 understand each other cruel close, and we've unfolded 
 our feelings, so we should never have no difference. 
 You'd be missis, and I'd sit in the chimney-comer 
 and " 
 
THE REED ROND 95 
 
 Her grandson cut her short, 
 
 " That won't do, my old dear," he said. " You ban't 
 the lazy, bed-lying sort. You'll hop about, so spry as 
 a frog and busy as a mouse, for ten year yet, for all 
 your rheumatics. And three into two won't go, so all's 
 said. It can't be." 
 
 Melinda listened for the answer with her mouth open. 
 If Mrs. Bickford really desired her to wed Jacob and 
 share this home, and if, as her lover suspected, she had 
 money saved, now surely was the time to hint at it. 
 But her grandson's blunt summary of the situation 
 seemed to strike Charity into sUenoe. Her smiles per- 
 ished, her animation departed, her customary centrip- 
 etal attitude overtook her, and she shrank. She was 
 like a snail, who, whUe making unexampled progress, is 
 suddenly touched upon the horns. A strange expres- 
 sion crossed her face, which showed that she perfectly 
 understood Jacob. Then she grew listless, stretched 
 out her hand for a piece of watercress from the table, 
 bent her head over it, chewed it and mumbled something 
 to herself which they could not hear. 
 
 Jacob, rather alarmed at his own plain speaking, 
 strove to cheer her! but she would not be cheered, and 
 presently the young man and maiden left her. The girl 
 kissed Charity on both cheeks and thanked her for a 
 happy day; but the old woman only nodded and said 
 she had been welcome. 
 
 " You touched her up," said Melinda to her lover 
 presently, as he saw her home. 
 
 " I hardly thought that she was so quick-witted," 
 he answered. " The old bird saw what I meant all 
 
96 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 right, and I'm not sorry now I said it, because 'twill 
 keep her from always twittering about us getting mar- 
 ried. If she wants to see a great grandchild, she must 
 pay for the fun and dip in her money-bag and give 
 me another half-crown a week — then we can go 
 ahead." 
 
 " 'Tis only your notion that she's got a money-bag, 
 however? " 
 
 " I grant that. She may have nought." 
 
 Next day Charity was still in a sombre mood and 
 Jacob strove hard to cheer her. He procured milk 
 from a red cow and a lock of wool from under a black 
 sheep's left ear wherewith to apply it. 
 
 Her interest in the charm, however, waned, and she 
 only attempted the application on two occasions. 
 
 " Let it bide," she ^aid, when Jacob begged her to 
 give the cure a chance. " 'Tis no use now — my faith 
 have gone weak." 
 
 II 
 
 An unfamiliar melancholy stole over Charity Bick- 
 ford from the day in spring when Jacob caught the big 
 dace and Melinda came to dinner. 
 
 The lovers could not fail to mark it, and the girl 
 feared that the old woman must have taken her 
 grandson's jest to heart; but this he refused to 
 believe. 
 
 " If I thought that, I'd be so down in the mouth as 
 her," he said. " No, 'tis only old age and aches and 
 sleepless nights. She's a poor, old go-by-the-ground 
 now ; but she won't drop none the quicker for my fun. 
 
THE REED ROND 97 
 
 Come summer she'll buck up. And even if I hurt her, 
 she'U soon forget it. Her memory's like a sieve these 
 days." 
 
 But Charity did not find the summer bring anodyne. 
 The reply to her pleading that Jacob should take 
 Mplinda had fallen with crushing weight and left a 
 bruise. It was the more painful because spoken in jest, 
 the more pregnant because Jacob never dreamed of 
 attaching any significance to it. He did not wish her 
 away; she clung to that conviction; but he made it 
 clear that until she was away no wife would come to his 
 arms. The hope of a great grandchild went out and 
 left her spirit dark. It had been a rare ambition and 
 served to brighten her days and dreams. 
 
 She reluctantly abandoned the thought of Melinda 
 at the osier farm. On reflection she perceived how 
 impossible it must be, for the pedlar could give his 
 daughter no dowry and Charity's own savings, con- 
 cerning which Jacob had speculated, did not exist. 
 Ten pounds was locked up in her desk for her burial, 
 dhd that was all she owned. 
 
 They lived from hand to mouth. She had done so 
 all her life and knew no security ; the chronic state of 
 the poor. Only today are they awakening to the 
 unreason and impropriety of that state, only today do 
 they demand to rise above the level of the bird, the fish, 
 and all wild creatures that depend on health for exist- 
 ence. She brooded and walked by the summer waters 
 and moved through the margins of the wood. She 
 would pick up sticks there, and creep about among the 
 trees until she had collected a burden. 
 
98 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 But her heart grew heavier and the visits of Melinda 
 woke no happiness in her eyes as of yore. She was no 
 longer glad to kiss her and touch her young lips with 
 her old ones. Physically Mrs. Bickford herself grew 
 stronger as the summer advanced; her rheumatism 
 relented, the erysipelas quite disappeared. In some 
 moods she regretted this increase of health, for it made 
 her thoughts more difficult. There was growing an 
 ugly phantom beside her, and it would not depart. It 
 fretted her nerves, angered her and tortured her. For 
 it was cruel and unjust. What had she done through 
 all her suffering years to be troubled thus? What 
 crime had she committed to find this hideous shadow 
 of the mind growing daily, gripping at her moral sense 
 and sapping her faith like a spiritual cancer.? She 
 defied it and fell back upon religion ; but that failed her, 
 for although a woman of great faith, as she truly de- 
 clared to Melinda, the staple of her beliefs was not knit 
 very closely into any controlling creed. 
 
 She had often criticized Heaven in her heart and had 
 come to the conclusion that, for her, the hereafter must 
 indeed be gorgeous if common justice were to be done. 
 
 She marvelled now, when the shadow beckoned, that 
 there should be any reluctance and annoyance on her 
 part to follow it. Death had been regarded by her as 
 a release for so long that the idea had dwindled to a 
 commonplace. Yet, now that she examined it, in the 
 light of this agitation, she found despite her age, her 
 infirmities, her slight hold on life, that death had 
 changed his aspect and offered no immediate attraction. 
 When her death mattered to none, she longed for it; 
 
THE REED ROND 99 
 
 now that it did matter to this boy and girl, she resented 
 any serious consideration of it. That her life should 
 possess a sort of consequence for the living had aston- 
 ished her a great deal, for she had long felt that it was 
 useless, save for the temporary convenience of her 
 grandson; but now her eyes were opened and she per- 
 ceived that even this poor fag end of days, not wholly 
 unhappy, with old, wild griefs softened to a memory, 
 might be enjoyed in ease no more. She had sunk to a 
 state of contentment — Heaven drawing daily nearer 
 and the great meeting drifting gently closer — and she 
 loved to picture that meeting and imagine the order of 
 her precious spirits as they advanced on the threshold 
 to hail her — husband, daughters and sons. But the 
 waiting time had come to be actually pleasant. The 
 interest awakened by Jacob was keen and, the hope 
 great, that this last scion of her own blood, having 
 escaped the curse, would build on sure foundations and 
 create another generation while she was yet beside him 
 to take joy therein. 
 
 Now it was made clear that standing between him and 
 his love, she blocked his work of husband and father. 
 The suspicion grew to certainty and pricked her into 
 fretfulness and bad temper. Jacob was not always 
 patient, and sometimes she wept. She puzzled to know 
 why life could still be good to her under these circum- 
 stances. She grew careless of it and ate things that 
 were not wholesome for her and got wet and neglected 
 her health. But these accidents left no mark. The 
 shadow only laughed at her for her pains. 
 
 She heaped secret contempt on Heaven for plaguing 
 
100 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 her last days with such cruelty. To bully a woman in 
 sight of eighty seemed poor fun for Omnipotence ; and 
 yet it was no new thing. Had not the Supreme Being 
 bullied her all her Hfe.'' 
 
 She asked Philip Masterman this question, when they 
 met in the osier beds on an autumn day. 
 
 " Hasn't he, Philip .'' Have He ever gived me an 
 hour's peace? And haven't I took it patient and 
 always bowed afore the blast? " 
 
 " No doubt. So do we all," said Mr. Masterman. 
 " For why? We can't do nothing else. Humans can't 
 kick against the pricks of God. The wounds got that 
 way fester and never heal no more. We must bend to 
 Him and be thankful we're built to bend." 
 
 Philip, a bald, old man, humped in the shoulders, 
 could never speak without accompaniment of action. 
 He had to be using his feet, or hands, and if not at work, 
 made physical movement. Now he chopped with a bill 
 hook till the white splinters flew. 
 
 " 'Tis only the hard go down," he said. " If I whip 
 these twigs with my hook, they take no hurt, because 
 they give afore it and I lose my labour; but if I let go 
 on the hard wood, then the hook bites and the timber 
 falls. What I say is, God don't bite worth a damn, if 
 you throw up the sponge and take it lying down. For 
 my part I yowl out long afore I'm hit, like a dog do, 
 when I see God coming ; and I've often been let oS with 
 a fright just for that reason. 'Tis a tip worth giving 
 a man, but I never heard no parson name it." 
 
 He lashed away and opened up a thicket above a 
 watercourse. 
 
THE REED ROND 101 
 
 " The brambles be growed here more'n I thought," 
 he said. 
 
 She was in a mind to tell him of her trouble. 
 
 " It have come over me of late a bit sharp that my 
 boy and his girl won't be able to wed till I'm gone, 
 Philip." 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " That's cause and effect, Charity Bickford. It's 
 always going on, though we don't always see it working 
 — lucky for us." 
 
 " And I wish I hadn't seen it working, for it's a deep 
 trouble to me." 
 
 He considered. 
 
 " You can't help it. It falls out so. There's not 
 enough for another here. 'Tisn't like it was when you 
 wedded, five-and-fifty years agone. The world wanted 
 grass for its thatches. But reeds be no more account 
 than rexens ^ nowadays, and even the withies don't fetch 
 what they did." 
 
 " 'Twill all be Jacob's when I'm gone." 
 
 " A pity you told him, however. With the best feel- 
 ings in the world, a chap can't forget a thing like that. 
 It fouls his mind a bit — 'tis nature. However, you 
 never was so spry and peart. I haven't seen you go so 
 light on your feet for five year. So no decent mind 
 have any right to look forward to what wiU happen. 
 These things ain't in our hands — or shouldn't be." 
 
 Mrs. Bickford felt a little comforted by the reflection. 
 She determined to be more Christian in future and go to 
 church sometimes. 
 
 1 Rushes. 
 
102 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 Autumn was on the reed rond and the birches misted 
 gold over their silver ; the leaves fell into the water ; the 
 cherry shed her scarlet, and it dropped, red as 
 blood, where the wild ducks cackled after sunset and 
 the woodcock returned very weary from the secret way 
 of his long flight. The willow foliage still clung thinly 
 on the golden wands of the withies and made a flash of 
 fire against the purple background of the woods. Fogs 
 of autumn rose by night and crept lazily over the water. 
 The fungus folk were afoot again and their cowls 
 and canopies — purple and scarlet, olive and am- 
 ber — studded the denes and dingles with many a lit- 
 tle lodge and wigwam, like the encampments of gipsy 
 fairies. 
 
 Charity stood and looked over the water. The 
 leaves fluttered around her and a cock pheasant rock- 
 eted and soared over the tree tops. At her feet a little 
 vole sat up and nibbled a sedge. There were dab chicks 
 diving at the edge of the arundo canes. The plumes of 
 the reed, that had shone wine-purple at high summer, 
 were fading away. The brake was singing to the sere 
 and would soon be beaten down over the empty nests of 
 the moorhens within it. 
 
 A robin sang to Charity — a little under-song, as it 
 seemed, for her ear alone. 
 
 Then came Jacob, cheerful and jolly. He carried a 
 gun and a dead woodpigeon. 
 
 " His craw be fuU of acorns," he said ; " but he's fat 
 — there's fine eating on him. I know you doat on a 
 woodpigeon, my old dear." 
 
THE REED ROND 103 
 
 in 
 
 Through the winter and the sad, short days that 
 promised nothing, the old woman lived on still dom- 
 inated by a conviction that she lagged selfishly ; that in 
 her grandson's hidden heart there surely burned re- 
 sentful fires at her delay. She grew nervous and almost 
 afraid to meet him. She felt that each morning, when 
 she descended tO' get him his breakfast, an apology was 
 due from her for still being alive and hearty. Church- 
 going failed to calm her and she abandoned it. 
 
 But she lived and weathered the winter well, and 
 perceived that no link was loosened, no warning sign 
 visible to indicate that the terminus was in sight. For 
 reasons that psychology conceals, the darkness and 
 gloom of winter left Charity stuborn, unmoved, a will 
 to live still quick Tvithin her. The famiHar phenomena 
 crawled past in slow procession, but it was not until 
 the sun climbed again and the bud swelled that the 
 lowest notes of her ancient heart sounded and the now 
 familiar shadow began to conquer. She knew that 
 spring works with blood as well as sap, and felt that in 
 the mating world none panted for a partner worse than 
 Jacob and Melinda. Therefore spring smote her like 
 an arrow, and then the shadow grew into a cruel, unre- 
 sisting tyrant to be resisted no longer. 
 
 She sought pretexts and excuses for delay and 
 welcomed the least of them. Jacob had an attack of 
 bronchitis and she nursed him through it; a clutch of 
 eggs were hatched out and the chickens required tend- 
 ing. There were letters to write about the withies, for 
 
104, CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 her grandson was a poor penman. But these and other 
 chores all came to an end in May, Then she met Me- 
 linda moping, and the girl, rendered selfish by her own 
 unfinished love, confessed with tears that it was hard to 
 wait for Jacob. 
 
 " He's just told me what the withies be going to fetch, 
 and it has cast me down a good bit," confessed the 
 maiden. 
 
 Her struggle went on for another week, and then 
 Charity yielded and began to think of a way. There 
 was only one necessity to consider. The event must 
 appear to come as a mishap, not by deliberate inten- 
 tion. She cast about for a means. Then Jacob 
 warned her of a danger in the withy beds, and his uncon- 
 scious speech affirmed her purpose, for she argued that 
 Providence had thus planned to point a road over the 
 last difficulty. Providence bullied her to the end and 
 left her in no doubt of its direction. She resented her 
 fate, but accepted it. 
 
 On a day in early May she rose with dawn, walked 
 out through the gates of the morning and examined the 
 world curiously — her mind for a moment innocent of 
 its purpose. She was glad that the day broke fine and 
 that the birds were singing. She Ustened for the reed 
 warbler, whose note her husband had taught her five- 
 and-fifty years ago. The warblers grew old and died 
 doubtless, as all living things, but their song awoke 
 punctually with budbreak and was eternal. It thrilled 
 out now from the mazes of the reed rond; and above, 
 the blackbird throbbed his music from the larch. 
 
 The ash has shaken out grape-purple inflorescence; 
 
THE REED ROND 105 
 
 the lemon catkins were on the oak; the ehns had 
 thickened with a million flowers to hide the nest of the 
 storm thrush; but they were gone and young green 
 leaves now hid the ramage of the boughs. Beneath, the 
 first bluebells began to weave Demeter's own veil 
 through the underwood, and in the waters of the lee a 
 pride of mary-buds flashed and reflected their gold. 
 The sallow folk — osiers and wiUows — shone with sil- 
 ver tassels and the young green of the reed beds speared 
 strong over the wreckage of last year. She heard the 
 warning cry of the moorhen, and saw the water streaked 
 with light, where the black coots swam to cover at her 
 approach. 
 
 The maiden birches held her sight a moment, for the 
 emerald flowed again over their purple branches and 
 about the shining whiteness of their trunks. 
 
 Then she came to the place of her passing, and looked 
 into the deep water here, and saw a fish speed away, 
 frightened at her shadow. A plank spanned the water, 
 and the plank was rotten. Her grandson had warned 
 her against it. The water wound away in deep, oily 
 eddies touched with light; and sometimes a submerged 
 grass, answering to the current, flung up a long, green 
 lock from the depths. It would spread shimmering 
 through the crystal, then sink again. 
 
 Fifty yards away, at the edge of the bluebells, Philip 
 Masterman worked about a woodstack. He marked 
 Charity, supposed that she was out thus early for 
 watercress, and, not seeking speech with her, hid behind 
 the stack until she should be gone. Presently he heard 
 a noise and peei)ed out. She had dragged up the rotten 
 
106 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 plank from the water-crossing and, using her strength, 
 had struck it hard upon the ground and broken it in 
 half. Wondering what this might mean, Philip 
 watched with his mouth open. Then he shut it and 
 started violently, for the unexpected happened. 
 
 He saw the old woman throw both pieces of the 
 broken board into the water, and then she opened her 
 arms and sank forward. There was no splash: she 
 seemed to settle upon the stream lightly as a withered 
 leaf. He saw a swirl and a sharp ripple that opened 
 out in wavelets and just touched the bank. Once the 
 old gladiator's hand came up and seemed to appeal to 
 the audience in the blue sky above her, then the current 
 swept all smooth again and ran peacefully on. The 
 broken board floated out upon the water and one frag- 
 ment was brought up against a knot of kingcups that 
 made an islet there ; the other piece drifted forward. A 
 small black thing also rose to the surface and followed 
 the stream. But it was waterlogged and made poor 
 progress. The staring man knew it for Charity's bon- 
 net. In the silence the birds shouted their songs. 
 Philip ran forward; then he drew up, thirty yards 
 from the water; and then he turned back to the wood- 
 stack. 
 
 He drew a stick out of the stack and beat the earth 
 with it fiercely. It was a safety valve to ease him of 
 emotion. He swore and cursed and hammered the 
 bluebells and wild garlic. He addressed his hand — a 
 habit, for he often spoke to himself when alone, and at 
 such times lifted his right hand and directed his speech 
 at it. 
 
THE REED ROND 107 
 
 " I've minded my own business for sixty years," he 
 said angrily, " and I'll go on doing it. She wanted 
 for to clear out, and who be going to blame the poor 
 old toad for going? " 
 
 He went home to his breakfast presently, and when 
 Jacob Tutt hastened over, an hour later, to know if the 
 Mastermans had seen his grandmother, Philip answered 
 that he had not. 
 
 " I'm terribly feared for her, for there's a bridge 
 broke down, and she's nowheres about. I warned her 
 against it, so 'tis no fault of mine if the worst has hap- 
 pened." 
 
 " I've got a new plank ready for that matter. I 
 knowed 'twas wanted. If the old lady have failed in 
 there, us must wait for nature to take its course. The 
 current will run her to the deep part; but you can't 
 drag the middle of the lee — 'tis fifty feet and more. 
 However she'll be up in seven or eight days." 
 
 " I can't believe it," declared Jacob. " I can't pic- 
 ture it without her." 
 
 " I'll lay you often have, however. This lets your 
 Melindy in, I suppose? Me and my wife will wish you 
 joy, I'm sure." 
 
 They walked to the water, and Jacob marked his 
 grandmother's bonnet stranded at a clump of growing 
 reed-mace. 
 
 " It's all up," he said — " look there ! " 
 
 " She's a goner sure enough. I'U go up for police- 
 man, and you'd best to get out the punt and poke about. 
 Please God she'll rise again. Did you ever hear teU 
 about her teeth? " 
 
108 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 " Her teeth? " asked the distracted young man, his 
 eyes on the bonnet. 
 
 " Yes — there was two pounds worth of gold in her 
 mouth — put there in her palmy days ; but worth 
 money stiU, no doubt, to an understanding man. Gold 
 be gold — whether 'tis in your teeth or your pocket." 
 
 Jacob ran to the punt and Mr. Masterman followed 
 him. 
 
 " You might promise me one thing to ease my mind 
 in this terrible come-along-of-it," said the veteran. 
 " You be master now, but you won't turn me off, will 
 you.? 'Tis th« last thing the poor old lady would have 
 wished." 
 
THE RARE POPPY 
 
 Wesley Keat was never what you might call a sociable 
 young man to his fellow-creatures; but, like a good 
 few other people, though he didn't take too kindly to 
 his own race, he wajs friendly enough to other orders 
 of creation. And when we say a man or woman's 
 unsociable, it's just our conceit, if you understand me, 
 and we mean no more than that they're unsociable to 
 ourselves. But if a party here and there finds some- 
 thing else more interesting than us, and better company, 
 and more uplifting to the mind ajid soothing to the 
 nerves, why shouldn't he seek it? I've known shepherds 
 a lot happier with their sheep than with their kind, ajid 
 horsemen better content along with their team than 
 their fellow ploughboys; while as for dogs, there's 
 scores of people who like 'em better and trust 'em better 
 than humans. Again, 'tis a most commonplace and 
 everyday thing to see the old maids wrapped up in 
 cats and birds ; and I've heard one of they neuter sort 
 of females say in all sober honesty that she'd sooner 
 live with a cage of song birds than a nursery of little 
 children. And many there are who feel the same, 
 though lacking the courage to tell it out. 
 
 Wesley Keat was set on none of these things, however. 
 His mind turned to science, and from his youth up he 
 loved growing things — the trees and herbs and ferns 
 and grasses, and all the flower-bearing, fruit-bearing. 
 
110 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 and seed-bearing creatures of the field. 'Twas in his 
 blood to gather 'em and try to understand *em; seeing 
 which a schoolmaster, who had the training of the child, 
 showed a rare spark of sense and encouraged him. For 
 'tis only the teacher with great wisdom looks out for 
 the signposts in a child's nature, and suffers the young 
 thing to bring out what's in it. 'Tis all very well to 
 say, " Train up a child in the way he should go," but 
 first you've got to find the way he should go; and the 
 worst of schoolmasters is that they don't know any 
 other way than their own, and when the child shows 
 a bud here or a shoot there that's out of their experi- 
 ence and doubtful in their eyes, the first thing they're 
 tempted to do is to prime it off. 
 
 Wesley Keat had luck, however, and fell in with an 
 understanding man, who found the child's instiact 
 turned to the science of flowers ; so his great natural 
 cleverness came to understanding ears in good time, 
 and the boy rose from strength to strength till he was 
 took on, at twenty years of age, at the famous nurseries 
 to Launceston. Cumow's nurseries were known far 
 and wide fifty years ago, before our flower gardens were 
 thought so much about as now, and Curnow, a far- 
 seeing and shrewd old man, summed up young Keat and 
 reckoned to get his money's worth out of him and a 
 bit more in course of time. 
 
 So Keat went to Cumow's, and, along of his knowl- 
 edge and natural cleverness in the matter of green 
 things, he soon raised the value of the stock, and showed 
 he had a hand for the Cape heaths and other difficult 
 hard-wooded shrubs, that was second to none. The 
 
THE RARE POPPY 111 
 
 more tricky a plant might be, the harder Keat worked 
 at it. And all the time he spent his evenings in study, 
 and laboured at his botany, and crammed his head with 
 the subject. And when he took his holiday, to Kew 
 Gardens in London town he went, and put in his days 
 there and increased his knowledge. He even rose so 
 high as to write for a garden newspaper, and Cumow, 
 who'd never done that, got to be properly proud of 
 Wesley, because, along of his newspaper writings, he 
 brought more fame to Curnow's, and more money like- 
 wise. 
 
 Yet, for all his success, you couldn't call Keat a bit 
 of a sociable creature. He was put in authority at 
 Curnow's after his second year, and if he'd shown half 
 the kindness and unwearied patience with men and boys 
 that he showed with fussy and difficult plants, no doubt 
 the people would have been quite content; but he did 
 not. He'd put himself a lot more out of the way for a 
 seed, or a cutting, than he would for a feUow-being 
 with an immortal soul; and so it came about that his 
 equals, though they respected him, didn't like him, 
 and those who were under him for the most part hated 
 him. 
 
 And that brings me to Noah Tonkin's daughter, 
 Mercy Tonkin. They both worked to Curnow's nur- 
 series, and Noah himself was head out-of-door man, and 
 very skilled in the business of the flowers ; but Mercy, 
 who had high education, was in the office, and kept the 
 books. A pretty maid she was, yet frosty — dark, 
 with a pale skin and brown eyes, and a strong charac- 
 ter. But, strange to say, she was, for a woman, pretty 
 
112 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 much what Wesley Keat was for a man. She hadn't 
 the art of making friends, and didn't miss 'em, either. 
 Yet she was fond of plants, too; but in her own little 
 garden at home you could see her character by the very 
 way she tended it. 
 
 She kept house for old Noah, who was a widow-man, 
 and they were happy together, and he felt pretty hope- 
 ful she'd be an old maid. And if anybody doubted it, 
 he'd point to her own little garden, and ask 'em if 
 a girl who stamped her character on growing things, 
 same as Mercy had done, would ever so far relax as to 
 love a man. 
 
 " She rules her garden with a rod of iron," said old 
 Noah, who loved a joke, but could never make his 
 daughter see one. " You'll not find a weed dare to 
 show its head there, and every plant has its appointed 
 place, and be tied to its appointed stick, and have to 
 bloom to its appointed day for fear of her displeasure. 
 And you won't find an invalid plant, nor yet a sickly, 
 nor yet a poor doer, for if a thing looks down in the 
 mouth, out he comes. She won't have nothing die a 
 natural death in her garden." 
 
 That was the girl's nature. And she was also shy 
 and a bit hesitating with humans, though she never 
 hesitated with plants. 
 
 And though both she and Wesley were as busy as 
 bees, yet they met often enough on business, and people 
 said that they might make a very good match, for they 
 had a lot in common, seemingly. But others thought 
 they had too much in common, and 'twould be flint on 
 steel if they ever tried courting. 
 
THE RARE POPPY 113 
 
 The truth about love be this : it very seldom strikes 
 two hearts simultaneous. A man either gets the start 
 of the woman, or the woman begins quicker than the 
 man. And often only the love of the one made visible 
 will start it in t'other party. For there's some plain- 
 featured women will fall in love most furious if they find 
 a man look at 'em twice; because to think a man could 
 ever love 'em at all be quite enough to turn their 
 heads and start them with a fine and lasting passion. 
 And that's why ugly women make better wives most 
 times than pretty ones, for they be bent on showing 
 the man that loved 'em he made no mistake. 
 
 Sure enough there grew up to be a sort of under- 
 standing between Keat and Mercy. He was above her 
 in his position, but her cleverness and character put 
 her on level terms, and a thing like that didn't count 
 anyway where love is. They were practical about it, 
 however, and didn't keep company or anything of that 
 sort, but just worked hard and saved money, and had 
 their eyes on each other, and minded their own am- 
 bitions meanwhile. They met at choir practice, for 
 both were chapel members, and singing was the only 
 pleasure they allowed themselves. A rather fishy sort 
 of courting, in the judgment of everyday people, and 
 some folks prophesied they'd never come together and 
 be man and wife till they was too old to work, or shine 
 in any way. But others said it would happen on a sud- 
 den, and doubted not they understood each other, and 
 would announce they was tokened some fine day when 
 we least expected it. How far they'd got, however, 
 none knew, when the surprising thing happened, and 
 
114. CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 Wesley Keat was oifered a great task by his master. 
 
 For Cumow was making a bid then to be one of the 
 first in the land for new and choice plants, and as all 
 other tip-top concerns were sending out collectors to 
 foreign lands for plants and seeds and rare things, he 
 decided to sink a bit of money and do the same. And 
 though Keat had never been out of England before, 
 he was so well up in plants and their ways, and so 
 learned in all the best collections in England, that they 
 reckoned that they couldn't do better than send this 
 native son. He had character, you see, which was the 
 vital thing. He was strong, and knew his own mind, 
 and showed himself to be a leader of men; so old Cur- 
 now went " nap " on him, as they say, and arranged 
 an expedition to an outlandish part of the world, and 
 engaged a young Cornish doctor called Trecarrow to 
 go along with Wesley to Thibet. They was to get the 
 niggers there, and everything was planned out, and an 
 arrangement made with the Government. A formidable 
 task, you might say, but the man rose to it like a trout 
 to a fly. He didn't show much, being the sort that 
 never winks an eyelid before good fortune or bad ; but 
 no doubt he glowed in secret to think of his great 
 chance, and no doubt he reckoned he'd do wonders, and 
 astonish the gardening world with his finds when he 
 came home-along. 
 
 So he went, and, though busy enough before the 
 start, he had time to see a bit of Mercy Tonkin, and 
 come to an understanding with her. From her father 
 I heard it, and how he got it was exceptional, for he 
 weren't in Mercy's secrets more than anybody else. 
 
THE RARE POPPY 115 
 
 But just after Keat set forth on his travels, she must 
 have been in a soft mood for a minute; and she told 
 old Noah that if aU went well with the expedition, and 
 Wesley covered himself with glory, as seemed like 
 enough, then she and he were to be tokened before the 
 world on his return. 
 
 " A frosty bargain, in my opinion," Tonkin said to 
 his girl. " Couldn't you give him no more hope than 
 that.'' 'Tis poor love-making that hangs on a man's 
 luck." 
 
 And Mercy had answered her father in these words — 
 
 " That's what he said, and it weren't for me to say 
 more. He knows best." 
 
 Well, they understood each other, no doubt, and 
 Noah didn't argue about it. But he guessed that 
 Mercy wouldn't have let the future hinge on young 
 Keat's good fortune if he'd offered for her in a less cold- 
 blooded and calculating sort of way. He doubted, too, 
 for it struck him that an ambitious man like Keat, if he 
 came home famous, might find himself a good peg higher 
 in the world after; and then he might forget what he'd 
 proposed to Mercy, and look a bit higher for his 
 fortune. 
 
 However, that was a thing that could only be 
 thought, aqd I didn't think it. To my mind it looked 
 as if Keat might be acting from a sporting motive not 
 to tie the girl if he failed; and as Mercy seemed to be 
 satisfied with the arrangement, her father shut his 
 mouth about it, and hoped, as an honourable and right- 
 eous man, the traveller would not disappoint her when 
 he came home again. 
 
116 CHRONICLES OF ST. TLD 
 
 She heard from Wesley — very short letters — and 
 his master got long ones. We learned in the nurseries 
 that aU was going fine with the hunt, and that Keat and 
 Trecarrow and a third white man, a scientific chap, 
 had got together twenty experienced savages, who 
 knew the wilds, and that they'd started ia good trim 
 and full of hopes. And then there was a long time when 
 we heard nought, whUe they was in the wilderness, 
 grubbing up fine things that no white man had ever 
 yet set eyes upon for certain. And then came wonder- 
 ful good news, and we'd hardly done being pleased about 
 it, when cruel bad news followed on top. For first we 
 heard that Keat had come through all right, and got 
 twenty cases of precious plants, and was making for 
 the coast, to ship 'em off so quick as possible ; and then, 
 a fortnight later, came the shattering tale that all was 
 lost, and that some heathen hUlmen had fallen foul of 
 the people and stopped the expedition, and killed two 
 or three of his niggers, and took him and the doctor 
 and the scientific chap prisoners. 
 
 It got to be a Government affair, and it was six 
 months before Wesley and Trecarrow and the other 
 white man came back to England in a very poor state of 
 mind and body. For they'd been treated terrible bad, 
 and they told a shameful tale of their sufferings. And 
 then it came out how, according to Trecarrow, it was aU 
 Keat's fault that they had messed it up ; while, accord- 
 ing to Keat, it was all the doctor's fault. 
 
 I heard Trecarrow myself, for I was in the office 
 when he came to see Mr. Cumow, and he looked ten 
 
THE RARE POPPY 117 
 
 years older than when he started — a proper wreck, in 
 fact. 
 
 " That fool," he said, meaning Wesley Keat, " spoiled 
 all by his overbearing and bullying ways. He treated 
 the niggers as though they were a lot of dogs, and 
 worked them off their legs, and never cared a button 
 about their own manners and customs, which are the 
 first things you've got to consider if you want foreign- 
 ers to please you. He kept bleating about ' England,' 
 and the way Englishmen work, and all that nonsense — 
 as if the Thibetans from the mountains cared a cuss 
 about England and what we did at home ! Why should 
 they? He said they must be shown what he expected 
 from the first, and he treated 'em like machines instead 
 of friends, tmtil they got to hate the man, and I was 
 often afraid they would knock him on the head. And 
 then, when we'd come through, and hadn't twenty-five 
 more miles to get down, we ran up against a rough-and- 
 ready race of folk, who hadn't any use for white men 
 anyway, and wanted most careful handling and flatter- 
 ing. He ought to have made a fuss over them, and 
 given them presents, and buttered them up. Instead of 
 which, finding they were a lot of cut-throat dogs, Keat 
 goes and treats them according, and tries to browbeat 
 'em and talk ' England ' to *em. And, before we knew 
 it, they were on to us. Our expedition didn't care a 
 straw. They told the enemy niggers that I was a good 
 man, and that Keat was a bad one; and our own beg- 
 gars helped to bum the plant cases, and danced round 
 the bonfires with the rest ! Six months of the hardest 
 
118 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 work mortal men ever did was all gone in smoke and 
 flame in an hour ! I thought they put us on top of the 
 cases ; but the chief of the gang was a smart old devil, 
 and contented himself with a little gentle torture. 
 Then it became a question of money, and then of 
 threats, and at last the soldiers came up and took us 
 away. And every bit of the trouble is Keat's fault, for 
 a more obstinate, pig-headed, tactless ass never went 
 out of England to worry a lot of niggers. And if there 
 were many whites like him in the East, it would soon be 
 ' good-bye ' to the Empire. He's got no more than he 
 deserved, and it's thanks to me he's alive today." 
 
 Cumow knew very well the tale might be true. For 
 he'd only thought of Keat as a strong man, who could 
 make himself obeyed. He never calculated that his 
 way, which did aU right in Cornwall, mightn't suit the 
 savages in Thibet. But so it was ; and as for Wesley, 
 his story, of course, took quite a different shape. It 
 was all Trecarrow's fault, according to him, because 
 the doctor never supported him, and didn't care a but- 
 ton for discipline, and backed up the niggers and their 
 head man, and gave them liquor from the stores, and 
 was often as drunk as a fly himself of an evening. In 
 fact, a task difficult enough at best had been made 
 doubly difficult by Trecarrow, and Trecarrow had dis- 
 graced the name of Englishman and made it a byword 
 in Thibet. And then, when the final trouble came, 
 instead of standing together like one man and putting 
 a firm face on it, the niggers had taken their cue from 
 Trecarrow, and made friends with the enemy, and sided 
 against him and let him down. 
 
THE RARE POPPY 119 
 
 Wesley was terrible bitter about it, and never spoke 
 to the doctor no more. 
 
 " One thing's certain," he said to Cumow a bit later, 
 " if I'd brought back all I collected, there'd have been 
 a stir made, for the country is rich in amazing stuff 
 not known to cultivation, let alone new species alto- 
 gether. And I shall go again, as sure as I stand here, 
 whether it's for you or for somebody else." 
 
 " You certainly won't go for me, my son," said old 
 Curnow. " This racket has run into four figures, and 
 I'm not going to try again — too old." 
 
 " It's a cruel tragedy," declared Keat, " a shameful 
 thing, when I was actually through with it, as you may 
 say, and I knew your name and mine would be tacked 
 to a dozen new plants in a year's time. But I'm not 
 beat. I'll go again and I'll take a man next time, not 
 a drunken, worthless dog like Trecarrow." 
 
 Old Curnow looked at him. He was a kindly master, 
 and always patient with young fellows, and a good 
 working Christian, if ever I met one. 
 
 " Next time you go, Wesley, you take a pinch of 
 sense and a larger patience, and the wit to understand 
 that black men ain't white ones," he said. " And when 
 you talk of ' England,' remember that England haven't 
 made her way in the world by ordering the folk about, 
 but by the good old motto of ' Live and let live.' We 
 can't all be teetotal because you are; we can't all live 
 on ambition and the thought of fame because you do; 
 and we can't all run about to do your bidding, if you 
 ask us to do things that's against our customs and our 
 daily use. Learn from this to be larger-minded and see 
 
120 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 other points of view beside your own. There's a lot 
 of difference between being a leader of men and a driver 
 of men, my boy; and while the world wiU always have 
 use for leaders, it very soon won't have no use for driv" 
 ers. The drivers wiU find themselves driven ere long, 
 and you'll live to see it, if I don't. And that's about 
 all there is to it. So get to work ; there's plenty wait- 
 ing for your cleverness." 
 
 I think Keat was grateful, even if he hadn't the art to 
 show it. He changed a bit from that time, and was 
 milder in his manners. He even allowed he might have 
 made a mistake here and there; but his pride didn't 
 slack, and you couldn't say he got more friendly to the 
 men. They weren't broken-hearted over his bad luck, 
 by any means, and the kindest and easiest among 'em 
 had a bit of a laugh at his expense. 
 
 Only one heart burned for him, as Noah Tonkin told 
 ine, when we was digging tulip bulbs together, and that, 
 was his daughter's. 
 
 " She'd like to tear the eyes out of our heads when 
 she hears us chaffing about it," he said. 
 
 " Consoled the man, no doubt? " I answered. 
 
 " As to that, I can't tell. You know what secret 
 birds they be. I wouldn't say they've done more than 
 pass the time of day since he came back. And my 
 own impression is that the stiff-necked beggar is going 
 to keep the bargain he made before he went, and say 
 no more about it." 
 
 Well, that was an astonishing thing. 
 
 " In face of the way she champions him.'' " I asked. 
 
 " He don't know that Mercy champions him," an- 
 
THE RARE POPPY 121 
 
 sweerd the girl's father. " She'd rather die than let 
 him think she was fighting his battles." 
 
 " They beat me," I said. " Never heard tell about 
 such an uncomfortable pair. No human nature in 'em 
 that I can see." 
 
 " They'll do what they'll do," prophesied Noah. 
 
 " Hast heard about his poppy ? " I asked. And Ton- 
 kin had not, so I told him. 
 
 Wesley came into the propagating house a week after 
 he was home, and brought with him three poppy heads 
 — small, hairy things. 
 
 " All I brought home," said Keat. " From where I 
 found it, and by certain signs, I believe it's a great 
 wonder. I held those capsules in my closed hand for 
 three days, while they were ill-treating me. I never 
 parted from them. I kept 'em hid in my cheek half 
 a day once. It's a sacred poppy out there, and some of 
 the men had seen it; but they wouldn't gather it, or 
 let me. So I stole out of my tent by night and got 'em, 
 and never let 'em go again." 
 
 His story came to be known through the gardens, and 
 the seed sprang all right, and there was a good deal of 
 interest to find what it would turn to. It came up like 
 a weed, and made strong plants, with nothing much out 
 of the common about them. But Cumow was as keen 
 as any of us, for if it turned out a fine thing and made 
 good, there was money in it, of course. And meantime 
 Noah Tonkin spoke to me again about his daughter. 
 
 " Nothing's happened," he said. " The man holds 
 off, and don't say a word about the past, and she's far 
 too proud to do so ; but in secret I know he's more to 
 
122 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 her than ever, and it may or may not be the same 
 with him ; but one thing's certain — he'll never come to 
 her a defeated man." 
 
 " You can only leave it to nature," I told him. 
 " Perhaps he's waiting for the poppy. It won't go far 
 to pay Curnow for his losses, but it may do a bit for 
 Keat, and lessen the smart." 
 
 However, as luck would have it, the rare poppy was 
 a failure, for a poorer, meaner little creature you never 
 saw — bad colour, bad shape, bad everything — and it 
 seemed strange to think a man had gone through fire 
 and water for such rubbish, and dreamed dreams about 
 it, no doubt, and thought he was bringing home a 
 wonder, very likely. Sacred it might have been in 
 Thibet, but it weren't worth twopence in England. 
 
 Curnow laughed when he saw it out — a little, dingy 
 weed that wouldn't have tempted a butterfly or called 
 to a bee. 
 
 " Well, Wesley, if your other treasures were no 
 better than this, my son," he said, in a kind voice and 
 with a twinkling eye, that robbed his words of their 
 sting, " 'tis as weU you left 'em behind, I'm thinking." 
 So the poppy was cast out on the rubbish heap, and, 
 after a bit of chaff, it was forgot. And time moved on, 
 and Keat wrote a little book about his travels that was 
 published. But it didn't make no stir. He gave one or 
 two of the best educated amongst us his book, and he 
 gave a copy to Mercy Tonkin. And she fed on it in 
 secret, so her father told me, and wrote afterwards to 
 Wesley and thanked him, and said it was very interest- 
 
THE RARE POPPY 123 
 
 ing. Just a cold sort of letter, like herself, yau may 
 be sure, for though I daresay the girl fairly panted 
 to write some nice, pretty things about it, that self- 
 conscious was she, and that frightened of showing a 
 glimpse of her hidden heart, that she let it go with scant 
 thanks, and instead of praising it up hill and down dale, 
 and saying what a wonder he was to have done such 
 things, and mourning his bad luck, and so on, she only 
 ended up by telling him the misprints, of which she 
 found five. 
 
 Then, I suppose, they must have drifted apart, 
 though there's no doubt all the time the man was long- 
 ing for a sign which Mercy couldn't give, and she was 
 hungering for a word which he couldn't speak. They 
 were built so; and with that sort the mischief is that 
 none can help them. Once let 'em get together, and 
 they'll face the world and fight for themselves like a 
 pair of mis sel- thrushes ; but to bring 'em together is 
 impossible for outsiders. They must follow their own 
 natures, and, oft as not, with such peculiar and wilful 
 creatures, their qualities keep 'em apart, for all their 
 sense, and they're quite powerless to break through the 
 barriers that character has built up round 'em. Keat 
 went on his way, and worked harder than ever, and grew 
 more silent, if possible. But we saw signs that he'd 
 learned his lesson, for he seemed to begin gradually to 
 recognize that every man has his rights and his hopes 
 and his fears, and 'tis every other man's part to respect 
 his neighbour's interests. I went so far as to praise 
 him once, being old enough for his grandfather, though, 
 
124. CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 of course, only a gardener, without all his learning. 
 
 " Keat," I said, " I do believe you begin to see that 
 one man's as good as another." 
 
 " No," he said, " not that. There's no equality. 
 But I begin to see the worst have their rights, same as 
 the best." 
 
 Then came the upshot, and the terrible curious acci- 
 dent that makes this tale worth telling. Not till next 
 spring did it happen, and meantime that ridiculous man 
 and woman went on with nothing between them but 
 their silly selves. And then it happened that old Ton- 
 kin fell ill, with a tissick on his chest that kept him a 
 bed-lier for a week. And three days after he was taken 
 sick, Wesley Keat called to know how he fared. It may 
 have been for hidden reasons that he done so, or it may 
 have been just for friendship and nought else, though 
 not the sort of things one would have expected from 
 him ; but he went. He called on his way to Curnow's, 
 though it took him half a male out of the road, and, 
 being early, he found Mercy Tonkin giving a touch to 
 her garden before she went to work. 
 
 She was bending down, training some poor creature 
 to a stick, that would much rather have gone free, 
 no doubt, and, hearing Wesley click the latch of the 
 gate, she jumped round. But she couldn't rise quick 
 enough, and he was beside her, and stretched out his 
 hand, and waited while she took off her garden glove. 
 
 He saw she was startled, and appeared worried about 
 something, so he doubted not that old Noah might be 
 worse. 
 
 " Good morning, Mercy," he said. " I thought I'd 
 
THE RARE POPPY 125 
 
 start early, and look in here on my way, to know how 
 your father was, before I went to work." 
 
 " He's no worse. Doctor isn't troubled about him. 
 He'll be aU right in a few days." 
 
 " I'm glad to hear it. My, how your garden's 
 grown ! I haven't seen it for a good while now." 
 
 " Not since you came home." 
 
 He cast his eye over it, and she flushed up, all about 
 nothing, seemingly, and kept getting between him and 
 the flowers. 
 
 " Don't you stop now ; you'U be late, and so shall 
 I, if I don't go in and get ready. Good-bye, and thank 
 you for coming." 
 
 But though no doubt he'd have taken the hint quick 
 enough any other time, she found herself talking in 
 vain. The man stood staring like a stuck pig. 
 
 " What ! Good Powers ! " he said, his eyes on her 
 garden. " Get out of the way, Mercy — let me see ! " 
 
 Now she was red as a rose, and I'll lay she'd never 
 been so put about in all her life before. 
 
 " There's nothing to see. I've asked you to go, 
 haven't I.?" 
 
 With that he did a most amazing thing, for he took 
 her by the shoulders and fairly spun her round out of 
 the way. Then he went alongside the flower-beds, where 
 everything was standing to attention in the morning 
 light — all stiff and straight, presenting arms like 
 flower-soldiers, and not a leaf or bud out of place. 
 
 " How dare you .'' " she cried. " You ought to bt 
 ashamed ! " 
 
 " My poppy ! Oh, Mercy — you wonder ! " 
 
126 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 Right in the midst of the garden it was lording it 
 there, the poor little, miserable weed, as if it was the 
 queen of the show. And for certain it was — to Mercy 
 Tonkin. 
 
 " How could you.'' " he asked, just dumbfoundered 
 and simple and human, and knocked off his high horse 
 for once, like a common man. 
 
 " Because — because I'm a siUy fool, I suppose." 
 
 " I know better," he said. " 'Tis because I had it 
 in my hand for three days, and because I suffered for 
 it, and, above all, because it is worthless to all the rest 
 of the world — all but you and me. And, before God, 
 'tis the most precious flower that He ever made, and 
 dearer to me than aU the flowers in the world from this 
 day forward, Mercy ! " 
 
 That was pretty tall for Wesley — a proper bit of 
 hmnan nature — and I'm sure the maiden would have 
 rose to like heights if it had been in her to do so ; but 
 she couldn't. 
 
 There was tears in her eyes, however, and her voice 
 was broke, but aU she said was : " I'd never have put 
 it there — never — only — only I thought you'd not 
 see my garden again ! " 
 
 So, after all, the man had brought his poppy home 
 for something better than gold or fame. 
 
 They were married in three months from that time, 
 and what their love-making was like is only known to 
 their guardian angels, for no man or woman ever 
 saw them so much as smile into each other's faces. But 
 they vanished from among us before very long, for 
 Keat, he won high advancement a year after, and was 
 
THE RARE POPPY 127 
 
 taken on at Kew Gardens. And now he lives up that 
 way with Mercy, and they've got a brace of very nice 
 children, and are quite the Londoners, so old Noah tells 
 us. 
 
 He went to pay 'em a visit last year, and said they 
 was grown so fine that he feared for himself, and scarce 
 liked to sit on their velvet chairs. 
 
 " They have a little garden, however," he told me, 
 " and if you'd seen it at the other end of the world, 
 you'd still have known it for my Mercy's. Some brave, 
 fine things in it, however, and some I've never seen, for 
 all my experience." 
 
 " Be the rare poppy there.'' " I asked. 
 
 " It's there in a place of honour," he said. 
 
 " 'Tis the link betweeen 'em and ordinary humans," 
 I told Noah. " So long as that ugly little beast be in 
 their garden, you needn't fear for ''em." 
 
THE REVOLVER 
 I 
 
 It is a very common thing for a business to run in 
 families. You'll find it with kings, and you'll find it 
 with tinkers, and you'll find it with all manner of call- 
 ings in life below the one and above the other; yet, as 
 a curious fact, you'll find that it don't happen with 
 policemen. Very seldom do you hear of a constable's 
 son going into his business, and so I'm one of the excep- 
 tions that make the rule, for not only my father, but 
 my grandfather before him, were both in the Force; 
 and very good men, I doubt not, though, along of one 
 thing and another, they never rose to be inspectors like 
 myself. " Peelers," they were called, or " Bobbies," 
 after the famous man that invented them; but that 
 name is dying out in our time, though there's stiU plenty 
 of slang terms for us in common mouths. 
 
 Grandfather Thomas Lobb and his son, Thomas 
 Lobb, both worked in the place of their birth, St. Tid, 
 a Cornish church-town famous the world over for its 
 slate quarries ; and when my turn came I, Thomas Lobb, 
 of the third generation, done the same, though I can 
 well remember how my mother begged me to go into the 
 quarries, where most of our rising generation of young 
 men went as a matter of course. 
 
 But there it was ; the feeling for law and order had 
 
 128 
 
THE REVOLVER 129 
 
 got deep in me through my f orehears, and I took to the 
 truncheon as a matter of course. To Plymouth I went 
 to learn my business, and then to Launceston ; and then 
 in the fulness of my powers, and with a very good record 
 of fifteen years, I got promoted to' be inspector of St. 
 Tid, and, thank God, my father lived to see it. 
 
 'Twas like Moses and the Promised Land for father ; 
 because, though his brain power had never lifted him 
 to be inspector, and he retired on his pension as a plain 
 constable, yet he was permitted to live long enough 
 to see his own son uplifted; and he often said 'twas 
 just as good as if he'd got the advancement himself. 
 He departed this life in great peace and content three 
 years after I came to St. Tid. 
 
 And now the line of us will break, for I've got nought 
 but girl childer, though so fast the world wags, that 
 they say by the time they've growed we shall have 
 female constables as a matter of course. None of my 
 maids feel inclined that way, however, and I hope no 
 such upheaval as women in blue will happen in a Chris- 
 tian land — at any rate, in my time. 
 
 Of course I've seen my share of strange things, and 
 lamed a bit about the wonders of human nature and 
 the dark ways of crime, but never no stranger thing 
 than the business of Ned Treby and Jack Tonkin came 
 to my notice. For it showed — what policemen, as 
 well as common people, are too apt to forget — that as 
 a chain's no stronger than the weakest link, so a man's 
 no stronger than the worst blood in his veins, though 
 the worst may be qualified by the best. But our na- 
 tures are not brand new things handed to us at birth ; 
 
130 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 they are a mixture of other natures that went before 
 ours — a mixture of many ingredients, some good and 
 some bad. And the proportions of the mixture no man 
 can tell, or how the mixing is done, or why this man 
 resembles his grandfather in his manners and customs, 
 while his brother takes after some other relation — on 
 his mother's side so likely as not. 'Tis a hidden book 
 of wisdom, and whether mortal man will ever be wise 
 enough to read it, who can tell? 
 
 Take Ned Treby, for instance. To the very colour 
 of him he was different from his family. They were 
 dark, like most of us Cornish folk, but he was fair; 
 they were cheerful and everyday people in their ways 
 and ideas, but he was stand-offish, lonely, and melan- 
 choly. Never had no use for company, kept his own 
 counsel, listened a lot, but spoke seldom. 
 
 His mother said he was the spit of her great-uncle — 
 a man hung for sheep-stealing a hundred year ago. 
 Her own grandmother had said so a year or two after 
 Ned was bom. But, of course, Mrs. Treby never told 
 her son when he grew up, because it would have hurt 
 his feelings. He was her eldest, and then came Arthur 
 — as like his father as two peas in mind and body — 
 and then followed two sisters and another brother, all 
 dark and cheerful and commonplace. 
 
 But Ned had the brains, and at thirty-two the man 
 rose to be second foreman at the quarries, and was in 
 very good repute and renown with his masters, though 
 little liked by his mates. He was hard and unsociable, 
 and all for the Company rather than the staff; and 
 another thing was that he went neither to church nor 
 
THE REVOLVER 131 
 
 chapel, which made his mother and father very uneasy 
 about him. 
 
 In St. Tid, to our pride, we can say that there's 
 more chapels than public houses — a very rare achieve- 
 ment for any English village — and though a sprin- 
 kling of us were Church of England, by far the greater 
 number went to chapel. There were various persua- 
 sions, of course, but the Wesyelans came out strongs 
 est, as you'd expect, for the great Wesley himself 
 preached the glad tidings to St. Tid, and there's a gal- 
 lery in the quarries to this day known as " Wesley's 
 Pulpit," because from that spot he preached a fiery 
 sermon to our great-grandfathers, and the echoes of 
 those brave words still resound through North Corn- 
 wall. 
 
 We love our chapels, and scheme to make 'em invit- 
 ing, not with vain shows, but with comfortable pews 
 and heating apparatus and organs and such-like. And 
 we're great singers, for choir practice is our first pleas- 
 ure, and in our singing competitions you'll find the 
 St. Tid men and maidens do' oftentimes come out first 
 in the county. 
 
 But Ned Treby was no chapel member nor yet did 
 he go to church, and though none could point a finger at 
 him, or question his conduct or morals, all felt that he 
 hadn't got grace, and would find himself in a parlous 
 fix if the hour of temptation came. 
 
 I knew him very well, and never found nothing to 
 quarrel with beyond a certain liberty of speech he 
 allowed himself. He'd say, for instance, that good 
 behaviour was a matter of nature, not religion, and talk 
 
132 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 about human beings in a way I quite agreed with, but 
 didn't approve of hearing on his lips. Because there's 
 much we older men must conceal, and though young 
 Treby was a thinker, and had arrived at certain opin- 
 ions which couldn't hurt you, nor yet me, the fact re- 
 mained that those opinions were no good to boys and 
 girls, and might have led the younger people into law- 
 lessness if followed. 
 
 So I watched him, feehng there might be danger in 
 the man, and I tried to make him take up a bit of sport, 
 so as to mingle with other men, and not lead such a sol- 
 itary life. And I went out of my way to bring him 
 acquainted with Jack Tonkin, an open-hearted sort of 
 chap, strong where Ned was weak. 
 
 Of course, they knew one another well enough, for 
 Jack was a rockman at the quarries, and under Treby's 
 orders at any time; but outside the works they seldom 
 met, though next door neighbours, and I felt that with 
 a little skill they might be brought together and become 
 friends, as men so different in character often will. 
 
 I thought to myself that sandy, silent Ned, with the 
 grey eyes and white eyelashes and cold, clever voice, 
 might get a little heat and heart from the red-faced, 
 black-haired Jack, who had the nature of a nice dog, 
 and took every man, woman and child for his friend as a 
 matter of course. And I also reckoned that if Treby 
 won a little mUk of himian kindness from Tonkin, Tonkin 
 in his turn might get a bit of wisdom from Ned. 
 Because, with his genial disposition and trustful 
 character. Tonkin hadn't more sense than, please God, 
 he should have. He suffered from a fiery temper 
 
THE REVOLVER 133 
 
 that threatened danger sometimes, though 'twas always 
 gone like a thunderstorm the next minute, and no man 
 was quicker to beg pardon for wrong done than him. 
 
 WeU, I figured it out that these two might work 
 each other a power of good, and to this day I won't 
 admit that I was mistaken. If Jack had tempted Treby 
 to play cricket, or try his hand at a bit of wrestling or 
 shooting, and if Ned had been interested enough in 
 Jack to give him some advice and enlarge his opinions, 
 and make him more broad-minded, much good might 
 have happened to both. 
 
 In fact, I believe the good was in sight, and Treby 
 had gone so far one spring as to say he'd join the cricket 
 club, when the trouble begaoa. Then, from standing 
 on the brink of friendship, as you might say, the men 
 became fierce enemies. They both got interested in a 
 girl at the same time, and, as the devil's own luck 
 would have it, she was the same girl. Little PhiKppa 
 Bunt — sexton Bunt's grandchild she was — an orphan 
 who came to keep house for sexton after his wife 
 died. A very nice lass no doubt, and the men both took 
 a liking to her at the same time, so all my cleverness was 
 wasted. 
 
 11 
 
 For with two such strong characters in their different 
 ways, it was quite impossible that any friendship could 
 hold between 'em under those circumstances, and just 
 as I began boasting to my wife what a clever thing 
 I'd done, and how Ned Treby and Jack Tonkin would 
 live to thank me some day, if the trouble didn't begin. 
 
134. CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 And, of course, my wife knew all about it long before 
 I did. 
 
 " 'Twill take a pearter chap than you to make them 
 men friends, for they'll be biting enemies before har- 
 vest," says Emma, my wife, to me. And when I asked 
 her why for, she explained her meaning. " It's like 
 this," she said. " We women know, if you men do not, 
 that Treby's been after little Philippa Bunt ever since 
 she came here. And he's not the man to take ' No ' for 
 an answer, neither. He didn't get up to be quarry fore- 
 man at his age without something behind it. He's 
 clever and he's crafty, and he's very much in love — so 
 there you are." 
 
 "What then?" I asked her. "Why not? And 
 what's that got to do with Jack Tonkin, anyhow ? " 
 
 " Only this," she answered. " Coming up along from 
 Silver Thimble Farm two nights agone in the dimpsy 
 light, I over-got a pair of lovers mooning side by side, 
 and dead to the world, as lovers will be. 'Twas by the 
 short cut nigh Dead Horse Hole — you know — and I 
 was going past, not recking who they might be, when 
 both of 'em gave me good-evening. And Philippa was 
 one and Jacky Tonkin t'other ! So there you have it." 
 
 "To think," I said, "that a girl barely wife-old 
 should be carrying on with two men at her tender age ! " 
 
 " She's that sort," declared my Emma. " When you 
 get them slim maidens, so quick-eared and quick-eyed 
 as a mouse, with full lips that move and twinkle to their 
 thoughts, and pretty, sly, sleepy eyes, same as Philippa 
 have got, then you can take it that men interest 'em 
 more than any created thing. And they interest men, 
 
THE REVOLVER 135 
 
 because nothin's so lightning quick as a man to answer 
 that sort of signal. Now, with the plump, slow-moving, 
 nice-minded maidens like our Jenny, or Sarah 'tis dif- 
 ferent. iVIen be only just a detail of life to them — not 
 everything. Not that I'm saying a word against old 
 Bunt's grandchild. She's quite right to take her time, 
 and taste both of 'em before she takes either. For her 
 peace and happiness I'd advise Jacky, but if she wants 
 to go up in the world and be a lady some day, then the 
 sandy one's most like to suit her." 
 
 " Twill be a nice choice, and I hope she'll choose 
 well," I said : " and, whichever she chooses, her husband 
 will have an enemy, I'm afraid. But the difference is 
 that, if Ned Treby loses her, he'll never forgive; but 
 if Jack does, he'U rage hke the sea for a bit, but he'll 
 get over it before a month of Sundays." 
 
 " 'Tis for her to decide, and I hope the beaten chap 
 will be reasonable," said my wife. 
 
 A very good wish, too, but vain as it proved, for the 
 men soon found out what had happened, and were at 
 each other's throats in no time. In fact, Ned met 
 Plulippa sitting down by the sea at Trebarwith vrith 
 Tonkin, and, not a week after, when he was up over 
 Brown Willhayes way, rabbit shooting with some friends 
 on the moors. Jack came across the girl and the fore- 
 man taking a long walk together of a Saturday after- 
 noon. 
 
 No doubt they both put it very straight to her, and 
 no doubt she was quite equal to 'em, being that sort 
 of girl. Then my wife, knowing the young thing had 
 no women to advise her, talked with Philippa, and 
 
136 CHRONICLES OF ST, TID 
 
 warned her that 'twas playing with fire to keep two such 
 men running after her at one and the same time. 
 
 " If you once get a name for philandering, my dear, 
 you'll end by keeping that name — as well as your own," 
 says Emma. " Love is love, and a parlous invention at 
 best, and if there's two men love you — want you, as all 
 the church-town knows — then don't try playing off one 
 against the other, or anything like that, for you're far 
 too young for them May games." 
 
 Philippa looked up under her black eyebrows, and 
 smiled a smile that would soften a flint. 
 
 " I'm not up to no May games, Mrs. Lobb," she said. 
 " I like Ned and I like Jack, and I'm just going on in a 
 very quiet and proper way till I see which I like best. 
 And I tell 'em I won't be hurried. They've both got 
 their good points, and their bad ones, I reckon ; and if 
 I could have one to work for me and t'other to play for 
 me, I'd take both." 
 
 And her only just eighteen ! 
 
 My wife gave her all the law and the prophets after 
 that, and warned her that such shameful ideas very ill 
 became the daughter of a parish clerk and the grand- 
 daughter of a sexton. For she was Church of England, 
 I must tell you, and, as it came out after, that wjis one 
 of the things that most inclined the girl to Ned Treby. 
 Because, with his easy opinions, he said that after they 
 were married, she might worship where she liked, and 
 he'd never trouble her; whereas Jack Tonkin was a 
 Wesleyan to the marrow in his bones and a tower of 
 strength in the choir. And he always declared to 
 Philippa 'twould be an unkind thing of a Sunday if she 
 
THE REVOLVER 137 
 
 was to go to pray to God in one place while he done the 
 same in another. She granted that in the end, I believe, 
 and told the man it shouldn't come between them, and 
 that she'd say her prayers where he pleased. And she 
 also told him that religion weren't her strongest point, 
 whether or no, and that if ever she loved a man with a 
 proper fierce and fiery love, she'd pray to any god he 
 fancied — or the devil if he liked that better. Which 
 shook up Tonkin quite a good bit, no doubt. 
 
 Well, this queer tale be about what happened after 
 Philippa made up her mind, not what went before. We 
 were mildly interested tO' see which it would be and some 
 said that with a girl like this — a proper changeling, so 
 to say, and packed full of cleverness, but quite different 
 from most St. Tid girls — she'd end by flinging over 
 both men. But some again doubted not that like would 
 go to like, and that Ned, with his fine prospects and 
 money in the bank and outrageous opinions, would most 
 attract her. For they thought that such a girl might 
 find a straightforward, sporting character as Jack 
 too much like all other fine fellows, without quite enough 
 spice of mischief and lawlessness and novelty to suit 
 her. 
 
 But, of course, everybody was wrong, and with a 
 creature like Philippa you might be sure they would be. 
 She took Jack, and in twenty-four hours the men had 
 their first bitter row over it. And a bloodstained row, 
 too. They lived side by side, and had long been in 
 and out of each other's houses any time morning or 
 night, thanks to the friendship I was working up be- 
 tween 'em; and on the day that Jack gave out at the 
 
138 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 quarries he'd got tokened to Philippa Bunt, Treby 
 stood in wait for him at his own door, and insulted him 
 before the people, and told him it never should be, and 
 a lot of other bare-faced things. Cold as a snake he 
 was, though red-hot inside, no doubt; but the upshot 
 came to blows, and they fought there and then, and 
 though Tonkin was the stronger and heavier man, such 
 was the fury of Ned in that hour that he beat t'other 
 cruel about the head, and finally knocked him out with a 
 right cross on the jaw. A few looked on, and Arthur 
 Treby tried all he knew to stop his brother ; but Tonkin 
 wouldn't have that. He bade no man interfere, and 
 none did ; though one chap — Amos Hawke it was — 
 had sense enough to come to the police-station for me. 
 I was there under five minutes; but by that time Jack 
 had been knocked out and Ned was gone into his own 
 home. 
 
 Tonkin soon came to his senses, and I felt sorry I 
 had stopped to see him do so, for he uttered a lot of 
 very rash and reckless threats against t'other man — 
 such things as a chap does say when he's got a rare 
 good hiding and hasn't deserved it. I bade him shut up 
 at last, and took him in his house to his aunt ; and we 
 cleaned him up and reasoned with him. But it looked 
 only .too sure he'd break the peace at the first oppor- 
 tunity and get a bit of his own back. 
 
 Three days later, however, a strange thing happened, 
 for he met Treby in the street and kept his temper, and 
 asked the foreman if he'd fight him again man to man, 
 fair and open, with fists or gloves, which he liked ; and 
 
THE REVOLVER 139 
 
 Ned said he was sorry for what he'd done in a temper, 
 and meide a frank and honourable apology. 
 
 " 'Twas only the devil helped me to lick you," he said. 
 " You understand, I hope, that my life's ruined. But 
 that ain't your fault, John Tonkin. And I'm sorry for 
 what I've done. And I want peace." 
 
 Well, seeing he'd won Philippa, Jack couldn't very 
 well do more to the other man. He'd have dearly liked 
 to fight again, but as Treby gave him best and wouldn't 
 take him on, there was nothing more for a good chapel 
 member to do but forgive him, and let it go at that. 
 Which Tonkin did do, in a large and friendly spirit; 
 though behind the scenes he wasn't so amiable, and a 
 good few could testify afterwards, including Retallack, 
 at the Grey Horses, and Polwam, at the Green Man, 
 that Tonkin said it wasn't a fair thing, and he'd dearly 
 like to let the coward know what it felt like to be ham- 
 mered and knocked out. Then bad blood was made by 
 others, and the position grew very dangerous in my 
 opinion, for Ned got at Philippa again, and tried all 
 he knew to make her change her mind, and said many 
 foul things against Tonkin to her. But she was already 
 feared at what had happened, and kept straight enough, 
 and was true to Jack. At last the girl grew in fear of 
 her life from the foreman, for I believe he went a bit 
 queer in his brain at this time, and haunted Philippa, 
 and threatened her with all manner of fearful things if 
 she didn't marry him. The men had another row in the 
 Grey Horses a fortnight later, and it took half the 
 chaps in the bar to keep 'em apart. Then, when I 
 
140 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 expected every day to get an ugly job and was just 
 going to take my wife's advice and talk to the manager 
 of the quarries about it, the knot was cut in a very 
 mysterious manner, and Ned Treby suddenly disap- 
 peared from St. Tid. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Of course that was where I came in, though I'm boimd 
 to say nothing that I could do threw much light on the 
 case. 
 
 For it was a very strange event, and on inquiry it 
 looked as though Ned hadn't planned to go or made 
 any arrangements for so doing. 
 
 Arthur Treby brought me the news — him and his 
 mother. They came to the station at an early hour, 
 and said as the foreman's bed hadn't been pressed that 
 night. For when his mother called him, just afore six, 
 he made no answer, not being there, and 'twas clear he 
 hadn't been home. I asked how it was they didn't know 
 he was missing the night afore, and the distracted 
 woman explained. 
 
 " We never sit up for him," she said. " Of late, 
 since his trouble, he's took to wandering about of a 
 night, and comes home at all hours. Arthur was last 
 in yesterday, wasn't you, Arthur.'' " 
 
 " I was," replied Ned's brother. " I came in some- 
 where about ten o'clock, or a thought after, and seeing 
 Ned wasn't home, I left the door unlocked for him. 
 But he never came back." 
 
 I asked 'em when he'd been last seen, and they said 
 
THE REVOLVER 141 
 
 after his tea. Then he was down in the garden digging 
 for a bit, and, by the same token, his mother was glad, 
 for it looked as if he was getting back his peace of mind 
 and taking to his old ways. 
 
 I made inquiries round about, but not a soul appeared 
 to know anything of Treby, and none had seen him the 
 night afore. He hadn't been to any of the drinking 
 shops, neither. At the quarries all was right, and his 
 books in perfect order, and at Bolitho's Bank, where he 
 kept his money, they'd not seen him and nothing had 
 been took out. So 'twas clear he'd not gone of his own 
 free will, and, for my part, I reckoned he hadn't gone 
 far. I figured it out in my policeman mind to my wife, 
 for Emma's a good listener, and more than that. She'll 
 often come by a short cut to a point where the man's 
 brain goes step by step, and though short cuts ain't 
 much good to a constable, and slow and sure is best, 
 yet my wife often sees daylight afore I do, and I never 
 deny her the credit of a witty thought, you may be 
 sure. 
 
 " 'Tis one of two things," I argued. " Either the 
 man's met with an accident, or else he's done away with 
 himself. If 'tis an accident, he'll be found, and if he's 
 took his life, he may be found ; but, on the other hand, 
 he may not. For my part, I believe he's done himself 
 in. But time will show." 
 
 Emma didn't agree, however. 
 
 " He's not that sort," she said; " too strong-minded. 
 He wouldn't throw up the sponge and leave Tonkin and 
 that girl to be happy ever afterwards. If he'd reached 
 such a fearful pitch of mind that he didn't want to live 
 
14.2 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 no more, be sure he'd see that Jack Tonkin didn't live 
 neither — nor yet the girl." 
 
 " I've never had a murder and suicide," I said. 
 " Murder, yes, and suicide, yes ; but never the two 
 together. However, Jack's all right, and so's his sweet- 
 heart." 
 
 Good search was made, and no stone left unturned 
 for five miles round about. But not a clue oifered. 
 The man was spirited from our midst, as it seemed, and 
 we at the station soon heard the usual silly questions 
 as to what we were there for, and how we thought we 
 earned our money. 
 
 Then Ned Treby was found, and though I didn't find 
 him, 'twas my own youngest daughter, Betty, that did. 
 
 She was blackberrying along with a few other little 
 girls on the seaward slope above Trebarwith Strand, 
 and working up nigh Dead Horse Hole, as the deserted 
 quarries were called, she sat to rest a bit on a fence that 
 ran roimd the pit, to keep the sheep and cattle from 
 falling in. On one side the place was steep and fell 
 sheer to the water in the hole, and 'twas up there our 
 Betty was got; but on the other side, though the fall 
 to the water might have been twenty feet, all lay open 
 — a place of broken slate — along the edge of the pit. 
 A lonely spot it was, favoured by lovers and hemmed in 
 by stunted trees that rose above the surrounding 
 thickets. And then my little girl saw what nearly 
 made her jump off the fence into the dark water down 
 under, for there was a human floating there, face, up- 
 ward. In fact, little more than his head was to be seen, 
 and he 'peared to be looking up at her out of the pool. 
 
THE REVOLVER 143 
 
 Betty went cold, but she was a policeman's daughter, 
 and a very intelligent child. And I gave her fvdl 
 praise for what she done that day, and so did St. Tid 
 when it came to be known. Not a word she said, but 
 called t'other little things and led 'em away from Dead 
 Horse Hole up the hill ; and she kept dumb about what 
 she'd seen. But when she got home, she was white as 
 a dog's tootii, poor little tibby lamb, and hardly had 
 wind to tell us the ugly thing she'd seen. 
 
 I doubted little who 'twas, and, though cruel sorry 
 for all concerned, had to pat myself on the back, because 
 it was very clear to all understanding people that I'd 
 been right, and that poor Treby had took his life. 
 
 After dark we went over — me and two other men 
 and the doctor. For I went to him first, and he was 
 greatly interested and glad to come. A cart we bor- 
 rowed at Treholne Farm, up top of the hiU, and Farmer 
 Northey came along with us. Then we got to the place 
 — under the hunter's moon, it was, and very near so 
 light as day. 
 
 And there was the poor chap, who'd risen to the sur- 
 face in the course of nature, and without any great 
 trouble we flung a rope over him and fetched him in. 
 'Twas Ned, sure enough, and his dead eyes were more 
 at peace and his white face better content than ever 
 I'd seen 'em while he lived. 
 
 We got him back, and took him to the shed where 
 Dt. Mason kept his motor-car. And there we left him 
 for the doctor to make his examination. Then I went 
 off to report the news of the find, and I was writing my 
 notes to headquarters and the coroner when Dr. Mason 
 
144 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 came round. 'Twas very near one o'clock in the 
 morning, and I'd just done my job. And doctor ap- 
 peared to be more excited than he'd been yet, and puffed 
 at his pipe like a furnace. 
 
 " Don't be in no hurry, Lobb," he said. " There's 
 more in this business than you thought." 
 
 " No, there ain't, sir," I answered. " I always fore- 
 told the man had committed suicide, or met with an 
 accident, and so it has fallen out." 
 
 " Depends what you call an accident," he answered. 
 " If to be murdered is to meet with an accident, then 
 you're right." 
 
 " Murdered, doctor ! " I cried out. 
 
 And with that he brought a pUl-box from his pocket. 
 
 " Ned Treby wasn't drowned," he said. " He was 
 shot through the heart, and that's the bullet that shot 
 him. You'd better take charge of it." 
 
 He gave me a small, round bullet — revolver size. 
 
 IV 
 
 I doubt not many men would have got terrible excited 
 before such a come-along-of-it — but I can say that I 
 didn't turn a hair. There's an instinct in policemen to 
 doubt the opinion of everybody else at a crisis, for bit- 
 ter experience shows 'em how mistaken people usually 
 are when anything out of the common happens. So my 
 first feeling -was that I might be right after aU, and that 
 'twas no murder yet. 
 
 We kept it quiet for the moment, to give me time 
 
THE REVOLVER 145 
 
 to ask some questions, and at cocklight next day I went 
 to poor Mrs. Treby and broke the sad news. Touching 
 the bullet in Ned's heart I said nought, however, but 
 I had a talk with the family, and inquired in a general 
 way if he'd got firearms, or was known to have a re- 
 volver, or pistol, or any such thing. 
 
 " Never," said his mother ; " he hated any sudden 
 noise like that, and often asked Jack Tonkin how he 
 could be such a shotsman as he was. For Tonkin's 
 always firing at something, if it's only at the small 
 birds, and often he'd blaze away in his garden suddenly, 
 and Ned used to jump and cuss him when he did." 
 
 I knew, of course, that Tonkin was a famous shots- 
 man with firearms for all occasions, but I little liked to 
 hear it now. In fact, a dark fear was growing in my 
 mind, and I had hoped that my visit to the Trebys might 
 bring that fear to nought. Far from it, however, and 
 I found my manhood shrink from what my duty now 
 demanded. That was to call in on Tonkin before he 
 went to work, and also before he knew we'd found the 
 dead man in the water. 
 
 Both he and Philippa had taken the disappearance of 
 Ned in a very thankful spirit, and neither pretended 
 they were sorry he'd gone. And neither knew anything 
 whatever about him, though I'd questioned 'em pretty 
 dose, and now, in the early morning after the find, it 
 was certain that Tonkin hadn't heard about it yet, 
 though he would know as soon as he got to the quarries. 
 
 He was having his breakfast when I called at six 
 o'clock, and I went in hope that my gathering fears 
 
146 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 against him might prove vain. But I came away with 
 them sadly increased, and faced with the most painful 
 task my business had ever set me. 
 
 You might say I was astonished at my own cleverness 
 that morning, and I'm very sure all Scotland Yard 
 couldn't have gone to work more skilful with Tonkin. 
 Nor yet half sO' witty as me, for that matter, because 
 I knew the man and his ways, and was able to put all 
 manner of natural questions without wakening his 
 suspicions. 
 
 At first I had to give a reason for coming. 
 " Morning, Jack ! " I said. " I wanted to catch you 
 afore you went to work, if I could. And I'm wishful 
 to borrow your revolver and a handful of cartridges, 
 if I may. My service revolver's out of order, and I'm 
 giving a lesson to the constables in the use of small 
 arms, so you'll be doing me a service if you can lend the 
 machine to me." 
 
 " WilHngly ! " he said. 
 
 " And you'll be crowning your kindness if you come 
 roimd yourself one evening," I added. " A tip or two 
 from you would be a godsend to the men, for you're 
 the best revolver shot in the county — so tiiey say." 
 
 He was pleased at that, and we talked a bit, and he 
 touched on Ned Treby, and said how oft, in their 
 friendly days, Ned had wondered at Jack's love for 
 firearms and his sporting passion for slaying all furred 
 and feathered creatures. 
 
 " A curious man he was," declared Tonkin ; " I'd give 
 
 a month's screw to know what he's done with hisself." 
 
 " I wonder if fear of you helped to send him ofi? " 
 
THE REVOLVER 14.7 
 
 I said, in a casual sort of voice. " Sometimes I've 
 thought the warnings you gave out and the threatenings 
 and slaughters you breathed against him got on his 
 nerves at last, and made him cut and run for fear of 
 trouble." 
 
 But Tonkin laughed at that. 
 
 " He was going to do quite as awful things to me as I 
 was to him, for that matter," he said. " But he didn't 
 fright me and I didn't fright him. He frighted my girl, 
 however, and 'twas that kept my anger hot against the 
 man. He was a beastly coward — cunning as a snake 
 at meeting Philippa, ajid he so worked on her that lat- 
 terly she was almost afraid to be alone after dark. She 
 even wanted me to take my revolver sometimes, for fear 
 he might lie in wait to do us a mischief." 
 
 " But you never did, I should hope? " I said. 
 
 " Not me ! I never feared him, and at worst he 
 wasn't so mad as to have done anything like that,' poor 
 devil. But he's spoiled a good deal of my courting, 
 I may tell you, and since the night he disappeared 
 Philippa Bunt won't go out after dark. She's got a 
 creepy feeling he's not far off, but just hid like a tiger 
 near at hand, and only waiting his time to spring. The 
 very night he went she was in great fear, and that for 
 no apparent reason. We met at Dead Horse Hole — 
 you know — a wisht place, but not if you've got the 
 company of your girl. And she was all nerves, poor 
 toad. She'd come up from her cousin's house at Tre- 
 barwith, and I was waiting for her at the Hole; and 
 even with my arm round her she wouldn't stop there. 
 An owl hooted from the woods, and Philippa very near 
 
148 CHRONICLES OF ST. TTD 
 
 fainted. We've never been there again. She couldn't 
 explain it, neither, but just said she'd got a sudden chiU 
 of fear into her bones. And yet she'd never known the 
 meaning of fear till then, and had been up past that 
 place a score of times after dark. That was before 
 we knew Ned was missing, too." 
 
 " Some folks have got a second sense," I told Tonkin. 
 " They can't explain it, nor yet put a name to it, but 
 they've got it. They'll see things we common men 
 can't see, and feel far more than we can feel. No doubt 
 she's got that gift, and had a foretoken of coming iU." 
 
 We talked a little longer, and my heart was heavy as 
 lead, and yet I hoped against hope that what looked 
 so black might prove to have no bottom. 
 
 " I'U keep you no more. Give me the revolver and 
 I'll be off," I said. 
 
 Whereupon Tonkin rose from his meal and went over 
 to a chest of drawers — one of them bureaus with brass 
 handles of old-fashioned make — a terrible ancient 
 thing, in fact, and said to be worth money, though none 
 had ever offered Tonkin money for it. He pulled open 
 the bottom drawer and put in his hand, expecting ap- 
 parently to find the weapon. But it weren't there, and 
 he frowned and looked puzzled. 
 
 " Who the mischief — " he began ; and then he broke 
 off. " I swear it was there a week ago," he said, " for 
 I had it out, and was blazing away to keep my hand 
 in at some of those little paper targets." 
 
 " Lots of ammunition, anyway," I said, for the 
 drawer was half full. 
 
 He thought a minute, with his lips pursed up hard. 
 
THE REVOLVER 149 
 
 " Have any one borrowed it? " I asked; but he shook 
 his head. 
 
 " It may be in the pocket of a coat overstairs, and 
 that's the only place it can be," he answered; " and if 
 not there, then heaven knows where it is." 
 
 He went to seek it ; and his aunt, with whom he lived, 
 talked to me. But afore that, and imseen by her, I'd 
 put a couple of cartridges in my pocket. For that was 
 all I wanted, and as valuable to me as the revolver 
 itself. Of course, Master Jack didn't find his weapon, 
 and I reckoned at that moment I knew as well as he 
 knew where it lay, and that was at the bottom of Dead 
 Horse Hole. 
 
 He came down house in three minutes, bothered-like ; 
 and I took my leave and said it didn't matter, and that 
 I hoped he'd find it, because such a thing was worth 
 money, and might also be a danger in unskilled hands. 
 
 He was perfectly frank and open throughout this 
 talk, and never betrayed by a look, or a change of col- 
 our, or a falter of voice, that he was fretted, or that I 
 had took him on to dangerous ground. Yet, so far as 
 I could see, thus far he'd woven a good strand of rope 
 for his own neck, for he admitted without a thought 
 that he'd been at Dead Horse Hole on the night of 
 Treby's disappearance, before his girl came to him, and 
 he admitted that his revolver was gone from its place. 
 
 Half an hour later I'd proved the bullet that killed 
 Ned was the same bore as those* in Jack's revolver, 
 and I felt that on such circumstantial evidence there 
 was only one thing left to do. Which I did do. I went 
 up over to Mr. Mark Fox, who was in residence at the 
 
150 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 time and a Justice of the Peace, and I got a warrant 
 for Tonkin's arrest, and took him at his own home in 
 the dinner-hour. I dare say some oiBcers would have 
 arrested him at his work, afore the whole five hundred 
 men and boys in St. Tid's quarries, but I couldn't do 
 that. I just popped in while the village was indoors 
 at dinner, and he went over all dazed and came away 
 as quiet as a lamb, and few knew till nightfall that he 
 was locked up. 
 
 The same evening, when, of course, the murder was 
 out, young Philippa ran into the police-station, fairly 
 tearing her hair, and demanding to he locked up also. 
 She said she'd been along with Jack that night, and 
 must share what danger and blame attached to him. 
 But I calmed her down and sent her home. I'd got my 
 ideas about her, you may be sure, by now ; but she 
 wasn't going to run away, and I felt for the minute that 
 she might be safer loose than locked up. I'd have 
 staked my life she knew something, but I couldn't yet be 
 sure how much she knew, or how deep she was in it her- 
 self. 
 
 Jack vowed he was innocent, and most people believed 
 him, despite the evidence. Anyway, the coroner's jury 
 brought it in " Murder by person or persons unknown," 
 and Tonkin was committed to the assizes at Bodmin. 
 Meantime there came an order from the Home Office 
 to pump out Dead Horse Hole, and it was done at the 
 cost of thirty-three pounds to the State. And, sure 
 enough. Jack's revolver, loaded but with one barrel 
 
THE REVOLVER 151 
 
 fired, came to light at the bottom. But nothing else 
 of any account turned up, save the bones of a sheep. 
 There'd always been a story in St. Tid that there was 
 some huge fish in the hole, but there were not. 
 
 When the case against Tonkin was prepared, we had 
 evidence all pointing one way, while his character and 
 record and family history all pointed the other. On 
 the one side was Ned Treby in his grave, and the fact 
 that Jack had been heard to threaten him, and the fact 
 that Jade's revolver had done the fatal deed, and the 
 fact that Tonkin had admitted being beside Dead Horse 
 Hole on the very night that Treby lost his life. And 
 against that we had his fjime as a good sportsman, and 
 a good chapel member, and a steady and honest worker 
 at the quarries. As for Philippa, it seemed pretty clear 
 she had no hand in it, after all, for it couldn't be proved 
 what she knew and what she didn't. We knew when 
 she left her cousin at Trebarwith on the fatal night, 
 and when she got home to her grandfather, and between 
 those times she had met Jack by the pool, according 
 to appointment. What she said was that she felt 
 creepy and down-daunted on the night in question, and 
 had made Jack come away from the pool because an 
 old owl was hooting there, and she couldn't stand it no 
 more, even with him beside her. She swore they 
 weren't there ten minutes before they came away, and 
 that they saw no sign of anybody there. 
 
 'Twas nothing but surprises to the end, and in the 
 sequel the most amazing thing of all happened in the 
 court-house to Bodmin, after Tonkin was convicted. 
 For, in due course, the judge and jury, as didn't know 
 
152 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 anything about Jack's private character, took the face 
 value of the facts, and no doubt asked themselves very 
 naturally that if Tonkin hadn't shot Treby, who had? 
 'Tis true that Jack's lawyer showed Ned might have 
 gone into Jack's house easily and got the revolver out 
 of his drawer, and none be the wiser, and that he might 
 have shot himself in such a way as to make it seem 
 that Jack had done it ; but a jury of common-sense men 
 reckoned that idea was too far-fetched altogether, and 
 so they brought in Tonkin guilty, with a strong recom- 
 mendation to mercy. And the judge had said that the 
 recommendation should go to the proper quarter, and 
 he had gone so far as to pick up the black cap as a 
 dreadful first step to the death sentence, when the court 
 was flung upside down and everybody thrown into a 
 proper tantara. 
 
 For who should jump up in the well of the court but 
 young Arthur Treby! So wild as a hawk the youth 
 looked, and he shouted : 
 
 "I must be heard, your Honour! 'Tis all wrong; 
 Jack never done it, and he mustn't swing for it ! " 
 
 Well, you may guess what a business it was after 
 that, and, in all my experience, I never saw no such scene 
 in a court of law before or since. There was the judge, 
 calm and patient, and his pulse not going a beat 
 quicker, and the lawyers all on end, and the jury star- 
 ing at the boy, and the people humming like a hive of 
 hornets, and young Arthur, white to his eyes, standing 
 panting in the midst. 
 
 " Who are you.'' " asked the judge, when the clerk 
 had quelled the people. 
 
THE REVOLVER 163 
 
 " The brother of the dead man, your Honour." 
 
 " Why didn't you come forward before if you knew 
 anything about this ? " 
 
 " I'd ordained to say nought if Tonkin got off, but 
 seeing you be intent to hang him, I must speak." 
 
 'Twas very irregular, of course, but no man utters 
 sentence of death against his fellow-man if he can avoid 
 it in a Christian land. His lordship considered for a 
 bit, then he bade young Arthur go up in the witness- 
 box. 
 
 " If, however, you would rather speak in private to 
 me, you may do so," said the judge. 
 
 But Arthur weren't feared of the people, and he went 
 in the box gladly and told his tale in scraps and bits. 
 But it hung together, and had the solemn stamp of 
 truth upon it, and the upshot of his speech was this. 
 
 On the day before Ned's death, Arthur surprised him 
 with Tonkin's revolver. 'Twas clear he'd gone in at a 
 time when Jack's house-place was empty, and had taken 
 the revolver out of the drawer. He'd been very wild 
 and strange for a good bit, and Arthur strove with him 
 and begged him to give up the weapon, fearing he meant 
 to kill himself. On that Ned had said to him that 
 'twasn't for himself he'd borrowed it. 
 
 " Don't you fear I'm going to shoot myself," he said 
 to his brother, " but 'tis that blackguard thief and that 
 foul girl I be going to shoot! They shan't live a day 
 longer. Tomorrow night they meet, where I know, and 
 they'll meet for the last time, so sure as I'm a living 
 man ! And if you whisper a word you'll die, too ! " 
 
 That was the awful fix young Arthur found himself 
 
154. CHRONICLES OF ST. TTD 
 
 in, and, instead of running to me while there was time, 
 he hoped his brother was only talking nonsense to fright 
 him; and, for Ned's credit and the family name, he 
 kept silent and took the matter into his own weak hands. 
 He tried next day to get Ned into another frame of 
 mind, and he swore to the judge that he never lost sight 
 of his brother through that day, and went on his knees 
 to him to give up the revolver and forget the awful 
 things that he planned to do. And at last Ned turned 
 on him, and said that if he named the matter again, he'd 
 put daylight into him also. And Arthur feared that 
 he'd took leave of his senses. So when, after their eve- 
 ning meal, Arthur was just going into Tonkin's house 
 to give up his fearful secret and warn him to keep at 
 home, then, in the very same minute, his brother went 
 forth and sped up the village. The boy found Jack 
 was out, too, and guessing that Ned was going to his 
 black work, he ran after him and kept him in sight. 
 
 Arthur couldn't tell the judge how his brother had 
 got to know that Jack and Philippa were to meet that 
 night by Dead Horse Hole, but evidently the man did 
 know, for there he went, with Arthur behind him. The 
 younger stole along over the stiles and down the field 
 paths, and finally saw Ned go in the bushes by the pool 
 and lie in wait there. And then Arthur guessed the 
 lovers would come along pretty soon to their doom, 
 and he swore that this is what happened. 
 
 It was borne in upon him that the revolver was the 
 vital thing, and that bloodshed might yet be saved and 
 his brother preserved from murder and the man and the 
 girl from death if he could but get the weapon away 
 
THE REVOLVER 156 
 
 from Ned. He was very near so big and strong as the 
 other, and it entered his mind that by a sudden dash he 
 might do the ti^ck and wrench the revolver away. 
 Once it was in his hands, the other would be harmless 
 and powerless to commit his crime, and Arthur would 
 save 'em all. 
 
 So the brave young fellow came sauntering along, 
 and pretended to be terrible surprised to see Ned; and 
 aU of a sudden, before Treby guessed what he was up 
 to, he closed with him and grabbed for the revolver. 
 They fought for half a minute like two wild cats, and 
 then, with all their four hands on the revolver, the thing 
 went off, and there was only one man there. For Ned 
 got shot through his heart, and standing where they 
 did, on the brink of the hole, he fell back and fell in. 
 TTie poor boy, shocked out of his life very near, climbed 
 down to the water's edge as close as he dared, but the 
 face of the pool was soon stiU. His brother had sunk, 
 so Arthur knew he must certainly be dead. He poked 
 about as well as he could, and very near fell in himself ; 
 and then, just after he'd crawled up again, and was 
 sitting shivering above and calling on Grod to help him, 
 he heard Jack Tonkin whistling a merry tune as he 
 came along, and he got in among the bushes and bided 
 there till Philippa had come. He testified they stopped 
 but a short time, and soon went away together. Then 
 he got home, and went to bed, and he kept his fearful 
 secret, and never opened his mouth again till Jack 
 Tonkin was going to be sentenced to death. 
 
 Of course, one could see where the lad went wrong, 
 and the terrible mistakes he made, and all he ought to 
 
156 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 have done; but that's what he had done, according to 
 his youth and ignorance, and his story was generally 
 taken for truth. 
 
 The court rose after Arthur's tale, and he was kept 
 in custody and locked up till the next day. And then 
 Tonkin and him were both brought up again and set 
 free, and the hidden ways of God made clear to man 
 for once. Because nobody could declare but what the 
 right thing hadn't happened, and not a law was broken, 
 you might say, which is always a great satisfaction to 
 the well-trained human conscience. For Ned hadn't 
 committed suicide, and he hadn't committed murder, 
 and the lovers were proved innocent without a stain on 
 their characters ; and Arthur, poor lad, had done what 
 he thought to be right, and, in fact, was a hero to some 
 people. 
 
 As for the dead man, he'd merely met with a fatal 
 accident, as a result of probably falling weak in his 
 head; and, anyway, he'd gone to a world where his 
 frantic thoughts and intentions would be understood, 
 and where the faulty blood in his veins would no doubt 
 be taken into account to lessen his sin and sentence. 
 For I'm very sure, and so's my wife, that though little 
 care is given to a man's father and grandfather when 
 he comes before the majesty of the law, yet such things 
 carry their value afore the Throne of Grace, and crimes 
 are weighed up aloft in nicer scales than human justice 
 knows, even at County Assizes. For the All-seeing Eye 
 wiU look deeper than human evidence, and not only 
 search the secrets of men's hearts, but the blood that 
 beats in 'em. 
 
"THE GREEN MAN" AND. "THE 
 TIGER" 
 
 CoNsrDERiNG how wondcrful few public-houses we could 
 number at St. Tid, it seemed a curious thing that two 
 of 'em should stand' exactly opposite each other; but 
 so they did, and as Quarry Lane, where they happened 
 to be, was a narrow sort of street, their signs very near 
 made an arch over the he£ids of the passers-by and there 
 wasn't six feet of room between 'em. And one was 
 " The Tiger " and the other was " The Green Man " ; 
 and as a green man be a gamekeeper, it seemed as if the 
 hunter on one sign was after the beast of prey on the 
 other. The same sign-writer had done both, and still 
 they swayed when the wind blew north and found 
 Quarry Lane; but they'd gone pretty dark from age, 
 and you coiddn't see much of the green man but his 
 face, which was a shade Hghter than the rest; while as 
 for the tiger, you might mark his yellow stripes if you 
 knew where to look for him, but the rest of him was 
 pretty well gone with grime and blackness. 
 
 Indeed, the master at " The Green Man " and the 
 misses at " The Tiger " were quite agreed they must 
 have their signs painted again when one clever enough 
 to do it should come along, though, as Matthew Pol- 
 warn truly said, neither his house nor Mrs. Nute's 
 wanted advertisement, for both was well enough known 
 by the high character of its refreshment and the good 
 
 157 
 
158 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 quality of its company. There was no rivalry but 
 quite the opposite, for Nancy Nute's husband had been 
 a life-long friend to Polwam, and he wore black for 
 him when he died; while as for Nancy herself, it was 
 believed she was a sort of relation of Polwam's, because 
 before marriage she'd been a Trecarrow, and everybody 
 knows that Trecarrows and Polwams were always re- 
 lated somehow, if you could trace 'em far enough back. 
 
 Near of an age they must have been, and Matt was 
 on the sixty mark, or thereabout, and Nancy Nute 
 might have been a year or two more, though on her 
 good days slie'd often seem to be a bit less. They was 
 both very well thought of, though I never heard that 
 anybody set a higher value on them than they did 
 themselves ; but they had a right to be satisfied, for they 
 prospered and won credit for honesty and good will 
 and good sense. 
 
 And each inn boasted its own strong point. " The 
 Tiger " was famed for a very fine garden full of flowers, 
 with such hoUyhocks as are seldom seen in the border, 
 and a mulberry tree, which is a very rare fruit-bearer 
 in Cornwall, and a fine swing for the children. Because 
 for ninepence at " The Tiger " you could get a tea 
 with cream and jam and cake; and in summer time, 
 when holiday folk was about pleasuring at Trebarwith 
 Strand and Tintagel and so on, scores of dozens would 
 come to tea at Mrs. Nute's, and no man, woman or 
 child was ever heard to grumble at what she gave them. 
 Then, over the way, " The Green Man " was popular 
 for sterner victuals, and men favoured it and travellers 
 could be put up there and their horses and traps like- 
 
"THE GREEN MAN" AND "- TIGER" 159 
 
 wise. Matthew Polwarn had a wonderful stable-yard 
 and a wonderful stable-boy in the shape of old Billy 
 Inch. And behind the house there was a garden, too 
 — not such a beautiful place as Mrs. Nute's pleasure 
 garden; but good potato ground and famous for its 
 small fruits. In fact Polwam's " Golden Drop " 
 gooseberries often took a prize at the flower show, and 
 his black currants did amazing well also. 
 
 A very busy, prosperous pair you might say, and 
 each thought highly of the other, and the man never 
 hesitated to praise the woman openly, and the woman 
 couldn't say enough friendly things of the man. They 
 played into each other's hands in a manner of speak- 
 ing, and when customers came to Nancy who seemed 
 better like to be suited by Matthew, to him she sent 
 'em ; while when folk trailed into " The Green Man " 
 for tea and light refreshments in general, Matthew 
 would often bring 'em across the road to " The Tiger," 
 and explain that they'd be a lot happier in Nancy's 
 garden than his bar parlour. 
 
 So it stood, when disquieting things fell out, and 
 though you'd have thought no power was ever hatched 
 to make them two people uneasy, or shake 'em from 
 their busy and bustling existence, yet it so happened, 
 and owing to a very honest, well-meaning and respect- 
 able third person, the spirit of adventure woke betwixt 
 Matt and Nancy and thoughts came into their heads 
 that otherwise would never have found room there. 
 Nor was it rivalry, nor envy, nor any distracting evil 
 of that sort, but quite the contrary. The new ideas 
 ran upon very different lines and pointed to a great 
 
160 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 increase of friendship. And, of course, the only great 
 increase of friendship possible in a Christian land be- 
 tween a bachelor man and a widow must lead to mat- 
 rimony. But certain it is that neither Matthew nor 
 yet Mrs. Nute would ever have let their minds dwell 
 upon such a sensational idea if chance and the behav- 
 iour of a third party had not opened the way to it. 
 
 It was Bartholomew Keat who, all unguessing, 
 wrought the change. He'd been potman at " The 
 Tiger " for twenty-five soKd years and served Nancy's 
 husband most faithful, and continued so to serve her 
 when her husband died. A clean-shaved, quiet man, 
 with wonderful nice manners and a kind face and grey 
 eyes, as small as they were sensible. A man of great 
 good sense and religion also ; and though accident had 
 made him a potman, he was teetotal himself and had 
 never touched a drop of liquor in his life. So quiet 
 and regular was he that he was undervalued if any- 
 thing, and Nancy always said that she never knew what 
 " The Tiger " would be without him till it happened 
 his uncle died up the country and Bart asked for leave 
 and was away a week burying the man and settling his 
 afiFairs. 
 
 They say his mistress very near kissed him when he 
 came back and weren't ashamed to tell him she had 
 missed him at every turn. 
 
 " I never did understand all you mean, Bart," she 
 said, for a franker creature you couldn't meet. " You 
 was in my mind every minute of the day and when it 
 come to night, and I had to do the fifty thousand things 
 you do, I began to see what there is to you. And this 
 
" THE GREEN MAN " AND " TIGER " 161 
 
 I'll say, yau haven't been getting enough money along 
 with me, and you'll have to get more." 
 
 He didn't expect nothing like that, and his face 
 flickered up a bit, for he'd sooner have had a word of 
 praise from Mrs. Nute than anybody alive. They was 
 very friendly and familiar and really fond of each 
 other ; and he knew how much, but she didn't. In fact, 
 as it came out after, Bart had often dreamed dreams 
 about Nancy and wondered if they would ever come to- 
 gether. And he confessed to her when the murder was 
 out, that his ambition had risen by night to the highest 
 flights ; but by day, when he stood before her once more, 
 his hopes would sink again and he'd wonder how he 
 dared, even under cover of darkness, to harbour such 
 high resolves. In a word he loved her, and there's no 
 doubt that Nancy was very much attached to him and 
 put great faith in him ; but along of his being so quiet 
 and modest and regular, she'd never thought of him as 
 anything different from her potman and right-hand 
 man. Then came his holiday and she found, much to 
 her surprise, what a big part of the machine Bart had 
 become; but though she was frank enough to say how 
 she'd missed him, she couldn't go farther and confess 
 that it weren't only for what he did, but also for what 
 he was. But Keat's uncle, now gone to rest, had left 
 him two hundred pounds a year for evermore; and 
 even such a shy and hiunble bird as Bart felt that the 
 case was altered and with that dollop of money behind 
 him the manly thing to do would be to have a dash. 
 
 It took him a bit of time to come to the scratch even 
 then ; but at last he spoke and did it in his usual gentle 
 
162 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 way. She knew by many signs how terrible much in 
 earnest he was, and she felt more than a thought drawn 
 to him and imderstood very well what a capital and 
 trustworthy husband the man would make for her au- 
 tumn time. Yet her pride couldn't quite see her marry- 
 ing her potman. She was a woman and had a female 
 bent of mind about things, and so she didn't say " No " 
 and didn't say " Yes," but thanked him for offering and 
 said she'd think it over. Whatever she said must mean 
 a great change, and for a time it looked the least of 
 evils to keep Keat by marrying him; for, of course, if 
 she said " No " to the man, it was clear he couldn't be 
 her right hand no more, but must leave the inn. And 
 her heart sank, at the thought of another potman at 
 her age. 
 
 She asked for a week to consider it and one fine day, 
 unbeknown'st to Bart, slipped over to have a tell along 
 with Matthew. 
 
 " Bartholomew Keat wants to marry me," she said, 
 " and what d'you think of it.? " 
 
 Well, the natural instinct at such times is to advise 
 against. I don't know for why, but when man or 
 woman asks a fellow creature as to the wisdom of wed- 
 ding, they'll always pull a long face and find fifty rea- 
 sons why not. And as Matthew took the common view 
 of Bart Keat and undervalued him a lot, just because 
 he did his work so perfect that nobody ever noticed it, 
 he advised Nancy to put the idea from her and turn 
 the man down. 
 
 " Good powers ! " says Matthew Polwam. " A sim- 
 ple, everyday chap like him to offer for you ! He must 
 
" THE GREEN MAN » AND " TIGER " 163 
 
 have a cheerful conceit of himself! And for my part 
 I should look to see people of much greater importance 
 offering for you; and, anyway, why can't you bide as 
 you are? Look at me, I'm right enough unmarried, 
 and with all you can say for the state, one thing you 
 can always say against it, and that is it's not good for 
 business." 
 
 There was no argument against Keat in that, of 
 course, and, being a bachelor, Matthew's opinion didn't 
 carry much weight with Mrs. Nute, though she greatly 
 respected his judgment on general questions; but he 
 didn't leave it there, for it was clear she had put a lot 
 of new ideas into his napper-case by her question, and 
 that very same evening he walked into her house and 
 sat in her garden along with her for fuU twenty min- 
 utes. And the stun of what he said was to ask her not 
 to decide about Keat till he'd seen her again. 
 
 For, to be frank, the sudden reminder that Nancy 
 Nute was a comely and a marriageable woman had 
 acted in a very surprising manner on the mind of Mat- 
 thew Polwarn, and though until then the notion of 
 offering his heart and hand had never occurred to him, 
 when suddenly faced with the thought of Nancy mar- 
 ried to somebody else, he found the idea exceeding 
 unpleasant. In fact it made him troubled, and so he 
 got to Mrs. Nute again and wouldn't let her do any- 
 thing definite about Bart until she'd given Matthew 
 himself time to turn over the unexpected problem. 
 
 Which he did do, and after a lot of thinking, he came 
 to the startling conclusion that he could do with Nancy 
 himself; and the more he thought upon her, the more 
 
164 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 he grew to feel that nobody else must have her but him. 
 And then he began to want her and grew more and more 
 fierce for her, so that the next time they met, the poor 
 potman weren't so much as mentioned, and Matthew 
 fairly swept Nancy off her feet. 
 
 " Since you think of getting married, then it's time I 
 stirred myself," began Mr. Polwam, " and as I ain't 
 going to have you marrying any Dick, Tom, or Harry 
 that be daring enough to lift his eyes to you and cheeky 
 enough to offer, I must do it myself. And when I come 
 to think of the great feeling I have towards you, Nancy, 
 and the great admiration I've always felt for your 
 judgment and good sense and fine appearance, the won- 
 der is I've held off all these years and never asked you 
 to take me. But one good result is that no time need 
 to be wasted. We know each other well and haven't 
 no secret from each other and have been good friends 
 for a quarter of a century, so there it is. And if 
 you've got half the opinion of me that I've got of you, 
 then without a doubt you'll thank your God to hear 
 what I'm saying and answer according." 
 
 He put it like that in his downright way and he 
 wouldn't let Nancy turn it over in her mind and give 
 him his answer later. In fact, when she suggested so 
 doing, he was a good deal hurt and gave it as his opin- 
 ion that any hesitation was a reflection on him. 
 
 " 'Tis no case for beating about the bush," he said, 
 " and you're not the woman I take you for if you can't 
 make up your mind in a big thing as quick as you can 
 in a small one. Keat was different. You had to let 
 him down by degrees and so soften the blow; but in 
 
" THE GREEN MAN " AND " TIGER » 165 
 
 my case things have long been between us of a very 
 delicate and tender nature, even though we didn't know 
 it, and looking back I see amazing clear that we were 
 made for each other from the beginning and only failed 
 to find it out along of being so busy and hard-working. 
 In fact, I ain't going to take ' No ' for an answer, 
 Nancy, so you'll be wasting your wind to say it. I 
 haven't waited sixty years to hear a negative from a 
 female when I came to offer for her, and you know as 
 well as I do that we should be exceeding happy together 
 and you'd only be a thought less fortunate than myself 
 if you took me." 
 
 He rattled on, and Nancy, who was a mighty lot 
 flattered by the offer, felt her strength of will fairly 
 oozing out of her before him. And indeed she couldn't 
 see any reason against it for that matter. She liked 
 and respected the man; she approved of his forceful 
 ways ; and she didn't see any reason why she shouldn't 
 love him if he invited her so to do. 
 
 She begged, however, rather feeble like, for time; 
 but that was just what he wouldn't give her, and so it 
 came about, most strangely I'm sure, that within less 
 than a week of Bart Keat's offer of marriage, Mrs. Nute 
 was tokened to Matthew. 
 
 And in sober honesty she had to confess to her friends 
 that if it hadn't been for Bart's proposal she never 
 would have had Matthew's. 
 
 And Matthew didn't deny it. 
 
 " The Lord often chooses a fool to light the road of 
 the wise," he declared, " and I shall always feel kindly 
 to your potman for showing me my duty. Not that 
 
166 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 Bart's a fool by any means, for a more self-respecting 
 man you won't find. But he don't move on our level 
 and I'm sure, though it was put into him by Providence 
 to offer for you, he was only used as a humble tool to 
 lift you to higher things." 
 
 That's what Matthew said, and without a doubt 
 that's what he believed. 
 
 But 'tis certain Nancy had her nice feelings like 
 another, and when Bart came to hear his fate, she did 
 suffer above a bit when she broke to the man that she'd 
 taken somebody else. 
 
 " But you must understand this, Bart," she said, 
 " if it had been any lesser man than Mr. Polwam, I 
 wouldn't have taken him, I think a very great deal 
 of you and, for your comfort, I don't mind confessing 
 that I was much inclined towards you ; but when 
 Matthew offered — well, you're among the clever ones 
 and I'm sure you'd be the last to put yourself up 
 against a man of his position and fame. Besides which, 
 he was my husband's life-long friend. And though it 
 might seem strange to some people, I feel pretty sure 
 that it won't seem strange to you." 
 
 Well, Bart took it lying down, as we say, and 
 whether it was true he was among the clever ones and 
 looked on to the end from the beginning, or simply 
 happened to be the meek and mild sort that are bom 
 for other folk to clean their boots upon, I can't say. 
 Anyway he heard the widow and confessed frankly that 
 he couldn't stand up against such a rival as Matthew. 
 
 " All I can say is that since it had to be, I wish he'd 
 offered sooner and not led me into this terrible mis- 
 
« THE GREEN MAN " AND " TIGER » 167 
 
 fortune," said Bart, looking very long in the jaw. " Of 
 course him and me aren't in the same street, Nancy, 
 and I wouldn't pretend it, for none would be deceived 
 if I did. But I tell you again it is very imfortunate he 
 left it till I'd been tempted to offer. For if he'd spoke 
 first, I'd have held my peace and gone on my way and 
 stopped here; but now it's all over and the course of 
 my life is changed and I shall leave St. Tid, though 
 where else a person could live comfortably, God 
 knows." 
 
 " Don't you leave, my dear man," urged Nancy, 
 glad enough he'd took it so gentle and never liking him 
 better than at that moment. " St. Tid wouldn't be 
 St. Tid without you and you've always been a true 
 and valued friend to me and a helpful and sensible crea- 
 ture, and always will be. And, between us, I don't see 
 no reason at all why you shouldn't go on as my pot- 
 man. I'll even go further than that and say I don't 
 see why you shouldn't marry a nice woman yourself 
 and bring her here, if you've got a mind to it." 
 
 " There's only one for me in this world," declared 
 poor Bart. " There never was but one woman for me 
 and never wiU be; and as to stopping here, I might 
 or I might not, for I've always had my feelings imder 
 very nice control and never let you see by a word or a 
 sigh what I had in my mind. But you won't be here 
 yourself much longer and I certainly don't serve in 
 ' The Tiger ' under any other but you. In fact," said 
 Bart, " the pub could only be a deserted wilderness 
 without you to my way of feeling." 
 
 It would have been a very cunning speech in any man 
 
168 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 but Bart ; but, of course, a simple soul like him meant 
 nothing by it. 
 
 Anyway, he'd given her something to think over, and 
 her face grew troubled and she looked into his little 
 eyes with a frown. 
 
 "Me gone!" she said. "What d'you mean.'' Me 
 leave this house after thirty-four years.'' " 
 
 " No doubt your first would turn in his grave if you 
 did," admitted Bart, sad like; "but what about it.'' 
 When you're mistress of ' The Green Man ' — well, then 
 you're mistress of ' The Green Man ' ; and you can't be 
 in two places at once, clever as you are." 
 
 She didn't say no more, but he'd shook her, though no 
 doubt he didn't know it. As a fact, that side of the 
 future hadn't struck on Nancy. She was so excited 
 at the change and the prospects of being wife of 
 Matthew, that she'd forgot a good bit what it meant, 
 and though there was the splendour of being his wife 
 and so on, yet against that rose the harsh certainty 
 that she'd have to play second for the rest of her life, 
 instead of being first. And somehow she'd always 
 regarded " The Tiger " as being rather a higher-class 
 estabUshment than " The Green Man," along of the tea- 
 garden and pleasure ground. And now, turning it 
 over she began to feel pretty certain that Matthew 
 wouldn't be of her opinion on that subject. 
 
 When she had got so far, Bart poked his head into 
 her little private room. 
 
 He'd only come for a bunch of keys, which she gave 
 him ; but before he went out again, he let drop one very 
 telling remark. It didn't seem to have much bearing 
 
" THE GREEN MAN » AND " TIGER » 169 
 
 on what they'd been talking about, and yet, if Bart 
 hadn't been such a simple man, you'd have thought he 
 knew exactly what was in her mind at that minute. 
 
 All he said was, " You can't have anything for noth- 
 ing, Nancy — not in this weary world." Then he dis- 
 appeared. 
 
 Well, doubt in a situation of this sort seemed more 
 than Mrs. Nute was built to endure, and the same 
 evening, when Matthew dropped in for half an hour 
 to do his bit of courting, she came to it. She weren't 
 too hopeful naturally and she knew he must have his 
 way in the end ; but she fell back upon a bit of bluff, as 
 women will when they're up against a difficult position. 
 In her heart, being a very reasonable and sensible crea- 
 ture, she knew the game was up so far as " The Tiger " 
 was concerned, because you can't eat your cake and 
 have it both ; and it was very clear she couldn't be Mr. 
 Polwam's partner and reign on her own also; but 
 she put out a feeler, though at the same time quite 
 ready to climb dawn. However, the world is full of 
 surprises, and you never know when you begin talking 
 where the gift of speech will land you. There's a sort 
 of people who only like to talk for the sake of argument 
 and if you say twice two is four they won't let it rest at 
 that; and there's another sort of people who can't 
 keep their eyes on a conversation and their own temper 
 at the same time, and that sort think if you don't 
 agree with them, you mean to quarrel. In fact the art 
 of conversation isn't given to all and the spirit of fair 
 give and take in that matter is much rarer than we 
 humans would like to believe, or than it ought to be. 
 
170 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 " I be looking on ahead a good bit, my dear," began 
 Nancy. " This is a great upheaval at my time of life, 
 and I'm wondering all manner of things. Will you be 
 so happy and comfortable along with me as what you 
 are over there at ' The Green Man '.'' You must put 
 that to yourself, Matthew." 
 
 That was her bluff, you see — an innocent thing 
 enough — and if he'd seen through it, and just laughed, 
 and answered as a loving heart in a male bosom ought, 
 no harm could have happened; but Matt, with all his 
 virtues, hadn't much sense of fun, nor yet knowledge 
 of women. So, by way of reply, he jumped as if he'd 
 sat down on a wasp and snorted in what you might 
 call a very contemptuous fashion. 
 
 " Woman comes to man, I believe, not man to 
 woman," he said. 
 
 " That is so, but you must think all round it," she 
 answered, with a touch of colour, for she didn't like 
 his contempt. 
 
 He laughed now, but it was in the wrong place, so 
 that didn't please her neither. 
 
 "Where's the fun?" she asked. "I thought, of 
 course, that you'd be business-like as well as lover-like 
 and see ' The Green Man ' had got less to it and was 
 less every way than ' The Tiger.' " 
 
 She oughtn't to have said it, but she did. 
 
 "You thought that, Nancy .>' " he asked, too aston- 
 ished for the minute to be vexed. " ' The Green Man ' 
 less to it than ' The Tiger '.? " 
 
 " Surely." 
 
« THE GREEN MAN " AND " TIGER " 171 
 
 " Because you get a few tea-parties at ninepence a 
 head on your little bit of grass ? " 
 
 Well, that meant the gloves off, of course. 
 
 " What might you mean by my ' little bit of grass ' 
 then? Not the best garden in St. Tid, I suppose.'' " 
 
 " Be damned ! " he said. " If this ain't the funniest 
 thing I've ever heard." 
 
 " You never was one to see a joke," she answered, 
 " and if that's the funniest thing you ever heard, you 
 ain't heard many. And you'U forgive me, Matthew, if 
 I say there's nothing funny in me speaMng about my 
 garden, though it do sound funny to hear it called ' a 
 bit of grass ' by a man that's got nothing but a few 
 apple trees past bearing and a strip of potatoes and 
 weeds and a fowl run. But as you've got no use for a 
 garden, perhaps you'U remember the inn yard and how 
 many bosses you can put up, and how many I can." 
 
 " It's the number of bosses that come, not the number 
 that you put up," he answered. " My inn yard — so 
 terrible small no doubt to your eye — can yet hold half 
 a dozen vehicles; and you'll generally find 'em there, 
 and the bosses in the stalls." 
 
 " Half a dozen I You know better, Matthew. 
 'Twould puzzle you to get in four market carts. And 
 how many times have you led 'ran into my yard — and 
 never thanked me neither? " 
 
 Mr. Polwam was getting up his steam by now and 
 Mrs. Nute was losing her temper. 
 
 He dropped the market carts and came to the point. 
 
 "And did you really think I was going to chuck 
 
172 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 ' The Green Man ' and coming over to your shop? Did 
 you really think that, Nancy? That's the point for 
 the minute." 
 
 She never had, of course; but she weren't going to 
 say so now. She'd rather have died on the spot than 
 throw up the sponge after what he'd said. 
 
 " You've often told me I was the sensiblest she you 
 ever met with, Matthew, and being so, I naturally 
 thought you'd drop your bar-loafer's place and come 
 over to me — and glad to come." 
 
 " Good God! " said Mr. Polwam, and stared at her 
 as if she was a spider dropped in his glass of beer. 
 
 I think Mrs. Nute felt that was about the limit, 
 and she'd said enough, if not too much. Anyway she 
 began to make peace from that point ; though it weren't 
 too easy. But women often have more sense of propri- 
 ety in a row than what men have; and after they've 
 got in a fatal thrust, they'll soften — especially if 
 they think they've won the battle and come out victor- 
 ious. 
 
 " I'm sorry," said Nancy. " 'Tis a shame upon us 
 — two old people with some credit for sense — to be 
 dressing one another down like this. I'm sorry, 
 Matthew, if I've hurt your feelings ; but 'tis your fault, 
 for you didn't ought to have scoffed at my garden and 
 called it a patch of grass. It may seem nought to you ; 
 but it's a lot to me — my life-blood, you might say." 
 
 " You needn't apologise now," he answered. 
 " You've opened my eyes — right or wrong. ' A bar- 
 loafer's place ' is ' The Green Man.' Well, well ! No 
 
"THE GREEN MAN" AND "TIGER" 173 
 
 wonder you thought I'd come and live along with you." 
 
 " I didn't really," she confessed. " I knew very well 
 you wouldn't ; but I had to say it. And if I'd remem- 
 bered that a joke was nought to you, I might have 
 thought twice." 
 
 " I laughed, however," he said. 
 
 " Yes ; you laughed. And a proper blood-curdling 
 laugh it was." 
 
 Then Mr. Polwam got up to take his leave. 
 
 " Well, that lets me out," he replied to her. " We'd 
 better turn this over in a prayerful spirit; and since 
 you've told me you're sorry for what you said, I won't 
 be behind you and I'll say that I'm sorry for what I 
 said — though it was whips to your scorpions." 
 
 " We'll meet again in a week," said Nancy. 
 
 " I was going to say a fortnight," he answered, and 
 her lips tightened and her eyes grew hard. 
 
 " Make it a month," she suggested. 
 
 Then he began to feel he was overdoing his indiffer- 
 ence; but he didn't mean to eat no more humble pie 
 for Nancy that evening, and so he agreed they'd take 
 a month to think on it. 
 
 " And one point we'd better have clear," he said. 
 " If you marry me, you come to ' The Green Man.' 
 That's my last word on that subject." 
 
 " I'll bear it in mind, Matthew." 
 
 " Bar-loafers or no bar-loafers." 
 
 " Just so. Nothing could be clearer, I'm sure." 
 
 They didn't take an affectionate leave of each other, 
 and there's no doubt their hearts were very full about 
 
174 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 it. 'TVas six of her and half a dozen of him, I reckon, 
 and both knew they'd been wrong; but each blamed 
 the other most. 
 
 Matthew kept his mouth shut on his trouble, for he 
 was a proud man and he'd have suffered much rather 
 than confess he'd made any mistake in his judgment of 
 Mrs. Nute ; but she wasn't proud ; and she'd got Bart, 
 of course, to listen to her adventures, and he had the 
 art to say the word in season and calm her down. 
 
 He heard the tale, and to Nancy's credit there's no 
 doubt he heard it truthfuUy told; for she didn't ex- 
 aggerate, and she didn't hide her part in the argument ; 
 but Mr. Keat entirely supported her and said that, in 
 his opinion, such a self-respecting woman could have 
 done and said no less. He declared that Matthew had 
 brought this disaster upon himself ; and he feared that 
 his action and impatience showed a very poor under- 
 standing of female nature in general and Nancy's in 
 particular. 
 
 " It isn't as if you was a difficult and notorious sort 
 of woman," explained Bart ; " for then the man might 
 have sympathy; but for a man to misunderstand you 
 is to give himself away and show he's got but a low 
 order of brain; because you always speak clearly and 
 you're always honest and straight, and your word is as 
 good as your bond. And, for my part, I don't see at all 
 that it was an unfair thing to do to ask him to come and 
 live with you, considering what a remarkable house 
 this is. And you've got a perfect right to consider 
 ' The Green Man ' a lower-class public than ' The 
 Tiger,' and to speak of your renowned garden as ' a 
 
" THE GREEN MAN » AND « TIGER " 175 
 
 patch of grass ' was very far from a gentlemanly thing 
 and, if it weren't such a wicked falsehood, you might 
 laugh at such jealousy. For jealousy no doubt it is 
 back of it." 
 
 In this way Bart soothed Mrs. Nute, and, for such an 
 ordinary man, his choice of words was worthy of all 
 praise. She went so far as to ask Bart if he'd speak 
 to Matthew for her; but he didn't see his way to 
 that. 
 
 " No," he said ; " there's few things I wouldn't do 
 for you, on the earth or on the waters under the earth; 
 but for me to see Mr. Polwam on such a sacred subject 
 is out of the question. It's far too delicate a matter," 
 Bart told her; " and you must always remember that 
 at the present time I'm suifering myself from great grief 
 and sorrow, because all is lost for me. No," he said, 
 " I'm sure in a calmer moment you'll understand that 
 if there's one man in the world can't go to Matthew 
 and demand reparation on your account, Nancy, I'm 
 that man." 
 
 Of course she did see it. 
 
 " Be honest," she said. " I think a very great deal 
 of you, and if Matthew dazzled me a bit, Bart, that's 
 only to say I was weak and no discredit to you. And 
 I dare say your calm manner and good temper and so 
 on, would wear better in the long run than his overbear- 
 ing way and cruel self-conceit. But be honest, do you 
 think ' The Green Man's ' a more important and more 
 famous house than what mine is.^" " 
 
 " This house," declared Bart, " have got the natural 
 advantages and Matthew have got the puU in the matter 
 
176 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 of capital. My candid opinion is that if ' The Green 
 Man ' had a hundred pounds spending on it, and a 
 brave advertisement to the holiday people put in the 
 newspapers now and again, that in six months we 
 shouldn't hear no more about ' The Green Man.' 
 'Twould as good as vanish off the face of the earth. 
 There's not the exclusiveness, nor yet the class there, 
 and never was ; and we all know when gentlefolks come 
 to St. Tid — to see the quarries and what not — which 
 house they bring their custom to." 
 
 In another man this would have been craft without 
 a doubt; but in Bart 'twas just an honest opinion, and 
 Nancj' found herself entirely of his mind. 
 
 " 'Tis amazing how we think alike," she told him; 
 and he went on to say that if she hadn't cast his offer 
 aside so quick, he was going to have talked about a bit 
 of outlay on " The Tiger " from his windfall. , 
 
 " This place be my life in a manner of speaking," 
 he explained. " I feel so much part of it as the front 
 door, Nancy, and my first thought, when uncle died 
 and left me his useful bit of money, was your public. 
 Or should I say it was my second thought, for my first 
 was you, a^ I've made clear." 
 
 " If that man could only be made to see he's wrong 
 about ' The Tiger,' " said Nancy, " I should have a bit 
 more peace of mind. At present he thinks I'm only 
 a silly woman and my goose is a duck; but if he knew 
 a clear-seeing man, like you, felt the same, it might open 
 his eyes." 
 
 " It would depend a good deal how we all stood," 
 
" THE GREEN MAN " AND " TIGER " 177 
 
 answered Bart. " I'm not clever, but I'm clever enough 
 not to go edging in between husband and wife, as I 
 suppose it will soon be ; but if you should reach a point 
 where you can say you're free to the nation once more 
 and not bound to Matthew, then, if you was to give 
 me the right, I'd very soon let him know that there's 
 a gulf fixed between ' The Green Man ' and ' The Tiger,' 
 and I'd make the gulf broader in a week." 
 
 " I'll turn it over," she promised him, and sure enough 
 she did, and it was less than a month, after all, before 
 she and Matthew met again; for she walked over and 
 spoke with him inside two days. They had a very 
 friendly ten minutes too, for both was on their best 
 behaviour and both a bit ashamed of losing their tem- 
 pers. And as they'd come to exactly the same conclu- 
 sion, each was very thankful indeed to hear what the 
 other had got to say. 
 
 They parted the best of friends; but they parted, 
 and it was understood that they felt sure they'd be 
 happier and more self-respecting and finer ornaments 
 of society altogether if they didn't wed, but just kept 
 on — good neighbours, as before. 
 
 And Nancy took Bart after a decent interval; but 
 the interval was Bart's own idea ; and though he hadn't 
 the wit to see how valuable his suggestion really was, 
 it worked out very well indeed for him, because, after 
 six months had passed, Nancy had grown quite cool 
 again, and entirely forgiven Matthew, and no longer felt 
 any wish that Bart should go over and give him a bit 
 of his mind, or anything uncomfortable like that. So 
 
178 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 not a cloud was upon the marriage and Mr. Polwam 
 gave Nancy a nice present of crockery when the time 
 came. 
 
 And what's more, after Bart was married, he put 
 twice a hundred pounds into " The Tiger " and also 
 saw he got his money's worth. 
 
 You'll not find a happier couple of middle-aged 
 people anywhere ; and though now and again I've heard 
 a man say that Bart's not such a meek and mild 
 customer as he seems to be, and Nancy knows it — be 
 sure that's only a little bit of human spite; for there's 
 many people in the world who can't see their neighbours 
 happy and prosperous without wanting to drop vinegar 
 in the oil. 
 
THE LEGACY 
 
 'TwAs something surprising how interested the Tonkin 
 fanuly got in old Miss Sleep after she had her 
 stroke. Afore that, people always said such a sparse, 
 tough old creature would live to be a hundred and 
 one, if not more; but when, like a bolt from the blue, 
 came her trouble, and she woke up with her left arm 
 dead as a stick and her eyelid down and her speech un- 
 certain, then the Tonkin people were up and at her 
 like a swarm of bees. 'Twas " poor, dear Aunt Sarah," 
 and " that saint of God, Aunt Sarah," and so on ; and 
 if chattering and calves' foot jelly could have finished 
 her, out she'd have gone. But she was a proper old 
 bit of Cornish oak, Sarah Sleep was, and, stroke or no 
 stroke, I reckon she saw through MiUy Tonkin and Jane 
 and Nettie, her daughters, and likewise Amos and Spry, 
 her sons. 
 
 But there was one who didn't see through 'em, natu- 
 rally enough, and that was Lucinda Parsons. For 
 Lucinda was tokened to Spry Tonkin, and thought 
 the world of himi and his mother and his sisters. And 
 she liked old Sarah very well too ; but when the sick 
 woman in her thick, broken voice poked fun at Milly 
 Tonkin and her childer, and told Lucinda she knew 
 very well why they was all on the buzz, little Lucinda, 
 who believed every soul on earth to be as simple and 
 straightforward as herself, wouldn't credit it and 
 
 179 
 
180 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 assured the ancient woman that nobody could be so mean 
 and hateful as to come fussing round her for what they 
 might get. 
 
 " We all know you're a poor woman, because you've 
 said so," declared Lucinda, " and I'm sure, even if they 
 was so evil inclined, your poor sticks wouldn't make 'em 
 pretend they cared about you." 
 
 " They think I've got dollops of money," answered 
 Sarah, " and they won't believe the bitter truth, that 
 I lost very near all of it in Cam Brea tin mine years 
 and years agone." 
 
 " Of course they believe it, my old dear; for whoever 
 wouldn't believe you? " asked Lucinda. 
 
 " Nobody believes nobody," answered Miss Sleep ; 
 " and for your own future happiness and peace of mind 
 I wish you wasn't so trustful. And this I'll tell you 
 yet once more: your own young man. Spry Tonkin, 
 is the worst of the lot, and I'd be properly glad if I 
 lived to see you break with him, for then I'd say, ' Lord, 
 let Thy servant depart in peace.' " 
 
 " I'm sure you didn't ought to feel such things against 
 him," declared Lucinda, " For he's the straightest man 
 in St. Tid, besides the best-looking ; and never was such 
 another." 
 
 It stood like this, you see. Lucinda was an orphan 
 and Sarah Sleep, who'd known her people, took Lucinda 
 into her house for a friend and servant when the girl's 
 mother died. And Lucinda got ten pounds a year wages, 
 and Sarah was so fond of her that sharp-eyed people 
 always said she'd leave her all as she'd got to leave. 
 Some declared, as Miss Sleep herself did, that the lot 
 
THE LEGACY 181 
 
 was nothing but a few bits of worn-out furniture; but 
 others hinted at a useful little stock of money hid in a 
 stocking somewhere. Sarah had been to service with 
 the Trelawnys for fifty year before she came back to 
 her birth-place, and knowing the close, saving sort she 
 was, people guessed that she must have plenty of good 
 money put by, and very like a pension too ; but she'd 
 tell some that she'd lost it all in a mine, and she'd tell 
 others that she'd bought an annuity, so it was very 
 vague and uncertain ; and while some believed her, some, 
 including her cousins, the Tonkins, did not. They were 
 her next of kin and, though she'd snubbed them when 
 first she came to St. Tid, now she was down and like 
 to be a bed-lier for the rest of her days, they had an- 
 other go at her and tried every way they knew to win her 
 friendship. In fact you may say they left no stone 
 unturned so to do, and it looked as if they was safe for 
 any leavings, whatever happened, because Spry Tonkin 
 had tinkered up to Lucinda and made her properly fond 
 of him, so his mother felt that come what might, Sarah 
 Sleep's savings — if there were any — would stop in the 
 family. 
 
 Lucinda was a bright-eyed flaxen thing, cheerful as 
 a sparrow and very glad to be alive. A good, true heart 
 she had and a brave, sensible way with her; but she 
 hadn't more sense than most pretty girls of eighteen, 
 and so, when Spry Tonkin came along in his masterful 
 way and kept company for a bit, and then actually 
 offered himself, she was properly dazzled and made the 
 mistake of her life. He wasn't right down bad exactly, 
 but he was selfish and a bit shifty in his mind, though he 
 
182 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 stood well at the slate quarries, where he worked, and 
 none could bring any charge against him. He went to 
 chapel with his people and all that; and so far as he 
 could love anybody but himself, he loved Lucinda. 
 But, at the bottom of his heart, he most certainly 
 thought she was luckier than him and had got a very 
 good bargain for her pretty face and pretty figure and 
 nice, gentle disposition. He knew she'd be a loving, 
 true wife; and he also knew he'd have the whip hand 
 from the start and never have no trouble in imposing 
 his will and his ways upon her. 
 
 All of which Sarah Sleep marked very clearly, and 
 she never did smile upon Spry Tonkin and often wished 
 that Lucinda had been tokened to a different chap ; and 
 that different chap was one of the rock-men at St. Tid 
 quarry — a young, silent fellow with black hair and 
 brown eyes — the strongest man of his hands that ever 
 comed out of the village — a proper giant for strength 
 in fact and well set up with it. But he was plain and 
 little given to speech, and though he'd courted Lucinda 
 in his quiet way for a good bit — ever since she was or- 
 phaned, and went to live with Miss Sleep — yet he'd 
 never gone so far as to offer himself, and though like 
 enough he'd have got her if he'd been more pushing, 
 especially since Sarah Sleep was on his side, yet he 
 weren't pushing by no means, and when Spry Tonkin — 
 head-engineman he was — came to the front with all 
 his fine speeches and swagger, little Lucinda went down 
 before him and very soon lived for him and only him. 
 
 Stephen Kellow, the other man was called, and a few 
 older people knew why old Sarah liked him; for his 
 
THE LEGACY 183 
 
 father, in the far past, had worked for the Trelawnys 
 and been their coachman, and the only romantic affair 
 in Miss Sleep's life happened along of him. It was 
 said, in fact, that he'd offered for her, and some thought 
 she'd actually took him and quarrelled after. But at 
 any rate Tom Kellow never married her, for he took the 
 kitchen-maid instead, and though Sarah forgave him, 
 she never forgot him; and when he went away from 
 service and lived and died at Lanteagle, nigh St. Tid, 
 Miss Sleep kept her eye on him to the last and, as a 
 widower, he was on pretty friendly terms with her 
 before he dropped. They whispered that she was at 
 his death-bed and closed his eyes, but that was only 
 hearsay. Anyway she aJways showed a friendly spirit 
 to his two boys, Mike and Stephen, who both worked in 
 St. Tid. So when Stephen began to pay attention 
 to Lucinda, the old woman helped him all she could, 
 and when Lucinda fell to her own nephew. Spry Tonkin, 
 she was sorry and didn't hide it. She couldn't forbid 
 the match, but she made a favour of one thing and 
 asked Lucinda, for consideration for all she'd done for 
 her, not wed the man till six months after she was 
 dead. And Lucinda, a most grateful girl, promised to 
 obey. As for Spry, he didn't like the condition at all, 
 and was just getting restive about it when his aunt had 
 her stroke and things looked brighter from his point 
 of view. 
 
 During her illness she was wayward and some people 
 she wouldn't suffer by her and others she commanded 
 to attend; and among them she would see was the 
 young youth, Stephen Kellow. She liked to have the 
 
184 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 great, strong monster of a man at her side; and of an 
 evening, or on a Sunday, when he wasn't to work, he'd 
 sit along with her and read the newspaper to her and 
 listen to tales about the old Trelawny days, and how 
 clever his father was with a horse, and what a fool he 
 was with a woman. 
 
 " They be difficult toads at best," she told him — 
 " the women, I mean ; and I daresay I was like the 
 others and didn't know my place; but there's a good 
 few sensible girls in the world for all that, and, if I know 
 anything, Lucinda Parsons be one of them." 
 
 Stephen agreed very heartily with that. He heaved 
 a sigh and rubbed his great hand through his hair and 
 told Miss Sleep that he'd always thought the same. 
 
 " Never was a maiden like her," he said. " I'd have 
 given my right hand to win her. Miss Sleep, and well 
 she knew it ; but these things ain't in our keeping." 
 
 " Not if we let 'em go out of our keeping," she 
 answered. " You was always too backward and humble 
 and silly. Girls choose a man as the blackbird chooses 
 a cherry — by the outside — and you hid your heart 
 so close and kept such a guard on your foolish tongue 
 that, with all the will in the world, Lucinda could never 
 get to know nothing about you. 'Tis only one girl in 
 a thousand likes a sUent man, and 'tis no good going 
 courting as if you'd got a toothache all the time, or 
 something on your mind, or your stomach, as don't 
 agree with it." 
 
 " 'Tis too late now," he said, " and I'm properly 
 punished for being such a fool, for though she's all right 
 and got the man of her choice, I'm all wrong and always 
 
THE LEGACY 185 
 
 shall be. There was only one woman for me and I shall 
 never see another." 
 
 But Miss Sleep wouldn't grant it was too late. In 
 fact she went on most outrageous over it. She was 
 always dragging up Stephen KeUow to Lucinda and 
 always dragging up her to him; and she'd have 'em 
 together by her bedside and lecture 'em like two children. 
 Out of her sight Stephen would apologise to Lucinda for 
 it and say it weren't his doing, and she'd say she knew 
 it weren't, and that they must both suffer it for the sake 
 of the sick woman. They explained their feelings to 
 one another and Lucinda admitted that, but for her 
 lover, she might in time have got to like Stephen, and 
 he gave her sweetheart best for a clever and a brilliant 
 man, and never said no hard word against Spry Tonkin ; 
 which didn't make Lucinda think any worse of him, of 
 course. 
 
 So it went on till Sarah Sleep got in sight of her end ; 
 and presently she had another stroke, and on Michael- 
 mas Day she died. Sauce to the goose at the Tonkins 
 that was, and they could hardly wait for the funeral 
 and the will. 
 
 Then, when they'd put her away and drunk a bottle 
 of brown sherry between 'em and ate a pound of fancy 
 biscuits, which be the right thing for a funeral seem- 
 ingly, they sat in a row, like a lot of black crows — 
 MiUy Tonkin with her daughters one on each side of 
 her, and Spry by Jane and Amos beside Nettie. There 
 was one or two other relations come from Boscastle and 
 St. Teath ; but they didn't hope much and found them- 
 selves a good bit surprised in consequence. For Sarah 
 
186 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 Sleep left nearly every blessed thing to relatives that 
 she hadn't set eyes on for twenty-five years. It turned 
 out her cottage was her own, which nobody knew but 
 the former owner, and at her wish he hadn't mentioned 
 it; but beyond that, all that she had wasn't worth 
 fifty pound. The Tonkins got nought but a bit of 
 nasty advice, and Lucinda got nought save a little, old, 
 three-cornered cabinet as stood in the parlour. She'd 
 often admired it, so Sarah Sleep left it to her under her 
 will ; and as for Stephen Kellow, much to his amazement, 
 he got the house. 'Twas pretty well falling down, for 
 Sarah wouldn't spend no money on it — saying, what 
 seemed true enough, that she haA nothing to spend. 
 And so there it was, and it looked as if she'd told the 
 truth after all and been living on an annuity; though 
 there weren't no papers to show for it, and the lawyer 
 didn't know nothing about it. There was a bit of sly 
 fun poked at the Tonkins afterwards, till Spry got 
 nasty and hit a man down in the dinner hour in the 
 quarry for laughing at him about the will. Then the 
 nine days' wonder died, and Stephen set about repairing 
 his house in his spare time, and Lucinda, puzzled and 
 sorrowful like, tried to console the Tonkins and found 
 she coiildn't. 
 
 In fact, very much to her grief, she discovered they 
 were growing none too friendly to her, and after going 
 in a good bit of doubt, she asked Nettie straight out 
 what was the matter. And then she heard that they 
 suspected she'd got the money on the quiet before 
 Sarah Sleep died; and that was such a proper eye- 
 opener for poor Lucinda that she very near fainted on 
 
THE LEGACY 187 
 
 the floor. She poured her troubles into' Spry's ear next 
 time she got him alone; but he was moody and didn't 
 take 'em much to heart, nor have a row with Nettie for 
 saying such wicked things to Lucinda. 
 
 " I rather hoped it was true," he confessed. " It 
 looks powerful like as if somebody had her money, for 
 money there must have been, I'll swear; and I fancied, 
 perhaps, as you'd got it and the old fool had told you 
 to keep quiet about it till a bit later." 
 
 " Good powers, my dear ! " cried Lucinda ; " well, she 
 knew I had no secret in the world from you, and never 
 would have." 
 
 But Spry judged others by himself and didn't exactly 
 believe her. 
 
 She bided in Kellow's cottage all aJone for a bit, as 
 Stephen begged her to do ; and meanwhile expected 
 that every time she met Spry Tonkin he'd ax her to 
 name the day. But he didn't — not even when she told 
 him she was going into service. AU he did, when he 
 heard that news, was to nod his head and say that no 
 doubt for the minute she couldn't do better. And she 
 went home and wept a bucket of tears about it. That 
 it was the beginning of a big trouble, however, she 
 couldn't see, and such is the muddle of mind that taost 
 men live in, I don't believe Spry Tonkin himself quite 
 knew what he was doing in them days. Behind the 
 scenes his mother and sisters would grumble at their dis- 
 appointment and whisper still that Lucinda knew more 
 about the truth than she pretended. In fact they 
 worked themselves up till they felt positive she'd got the 
 money, and then, building on moonshine, as women be 
 
188 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 very prone to do, wanted to find out why Lucinda made 
 a mystery of it and why, at any rate, she wouldn't 
 confide in her sweetheart. Their buzzing influenced 
 Spry a lot — more than he knew, in fact — yet, when 
 he was alone with Lucinda and her voice in his ears 
 and her eyes on his face, he couldn't somehow believe 
 she wasn't straight, or telling him less than the truth 
 when she said she hadn't got a secret in the world. 
 
 Presently she found work and went to Mrs. Retallack 
 at the Old Farm. And seeing that she couldn't take her 
 three-cornered cabinet with her, she asked Stephen 
 Kellow if he'd let it bide with him. And he was willing. 
 He lived with an old aunt and they meant to come and 
 dwell at Stephen's new cottage, as soon as he had got 
 the papering and painting done and the leaks mended 
 and so on. 
 
 Then happened the great adventure that altered the 
 face of the earth for three people and made history in 
 a small way for St. Tid. History, I say, because, if 
 you think on it, the unborn be the great thing in all 
 history, and 'tis the coming together of men and women 
 in this generation that lay the foundations of the next ; 
 and just the accident of love and the mingling of char- 
 acter settle what sort of men and women be going to 
 run the world when their fathers and mothers are dead 
 and gone. 
 
 Lucinda had been a fortnight at the Old Farm and 
 was well liked there and might have been happy enough 
 if it hadn't been for her own affairs. But, slow and 
 deadly sure, her simple mind began to fear there was a 
 screw loose with Spry Tonkin. She couldn't bring her- 
 
THE LEGACY 189 
 
 self to say the words, nor yet even to think them ; yet 
 down in her heart she felt a pain and knew too well 
 what had put it there. 
 
 There came a Sunday when they met by appointment 
 by Newhall MiU in the woods, and Lucinda flew there 
 light-foot with her eyes aglow and her heart happy as 
 a song-bird, for a proper fine thing had happened to her 
 — a wonderful stroke of fortune had come her way at 
 last — and she was full of the most amazing bit of news 
 you can weU imagine. 
 
 That very morning it had come — 'twas in her bosom 
 at that moment — and time dragged to eternity till she 
 was free to be off to her tryst and pour her splendid 
 story into Spry Tonkin's ear. And again and again 
 she'd put up her hand to her breast, where something 
 was stored away under her Sunday frock — a wonder- 
 ful something to be put into her lover's hand with joy 
 and thankfulness. 
 
 By the mUl pool she walked and her dreams were so 
 bright as the falling cherry leaves on the water, for 
 'twas autumn time and Newhall Mill pool's never braver 
 than when the trees are yellow and gold and the leaf 
 flying in October. 
 
 Spry Tonkin was late, in fact the girl began to faint 
 for the sight of his body and the sound of his voice. 
 She tramped for half an hour and more, yet couldn't 
 run to meet him, for she wasn't sure which way he 
 might come. And then, when she began to grow fearful 
 that he'd forgot about it altogether, he came down by 
 the spinney side, and she hurried up to greet him, and 
 even in that great moment of excitement, she couldn't 
 
190 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 but note that he was dragging his feet and looking cruel 
 glum. 
 
 She was going to kiss him and pour out her fine tale ; 
 but to her horror Spry held off. His face was flushed 
 and he appeared to be in a terrible nervous frame of 
 mind, and though she was in a tearing hurry to speak, 
 it seemed that he was in still more of a hurry. In fact 
 he meant to have the first word ; and so he did ; and he 
 had the last also. For his news came down on Lucinda 
 like a shoe on a black beetle. 'TVas as though an 
 earthquake had opened under her feet and a thunder- 
 bolt had fallen atop of her at the same moment. She 
 heard the beginning and that was aU that mattered for 
 Lucinda. The rest didn't signify no more than the 
 dead leaves in the water. 
 
 " Let me speak and get it over," he said. " 'Tis a 
 wisht, cruel thing for both of us, and I shall never be 
 the same again, and my life's ruined for evermore. But 
 I can't go on with this — I can't wed you, Lucinda. 
 You're free. Marriage ain't in sight and never will be 
 and — oh, there's a thousand good reasons why we 
 shouldn't go no further. And the truth is that love's 
 a damned, tricky, uncertain thing, and it comes and 
 goes. In fact I don't love you no more. My misfor- 
 tune, not my fault. But life's life and no man knows 
 what may happen to him." 
 
 She stared, but kept her senses. Her hand went up 
 to her dress, where the secret was hid; then it came 
 down again. She swayed a bit and leaned against a 
 tree behind her, while he went on talking about duty 
 and the need to face disappointment and the shortness 
 
THE LEGACY 191 
 
 of money, and whatever else his mean brains could tel- 
 egraph to his tongue. And she answered never a word 
 — not one word did she say, but just gazed before her, 
 unseeing, unknowing, like a woman woke suddenly from 
 sleep. 
 
 He wearied presently, for he'd expected a bit of a 
 counterblast, no doubt. 
 
 " Will you walk along, Lucinda, and give me your 
 views, please.'' I've talked enough," he said presently. 
 
 " I ain't got no views," she answered him. " And 
 you've talked enough, as you say. And I'll ax you to 
 leave me, Mr. Tonkin." 
 
 He messed about a little longer and said he hoped 
 to God they'd always respect each other and be good 
 friends; but she didn't speak again, so presently he 
 took off his hat and said he'd wish her " Good evening." 
 
 And then he crept off. 
 
 She held upright and game till he was round the edge 
 of the wood, and then her knees went and she came 
 over giddy for a minute and slipped down and sat on 
 the ground. She was properly stunned, without a 
 doubt ; yet her woman's sense had saved her ; her brain 
 never stopped working in that terrible moment, and 
 while her heart had cried to her that she might have 
 won him back with a word, her head told her that to 
 do so would be a terrible mistake. For every woman 
 knows, or did ought to know, that the man who can be 
 bought ain't worth buying. 
 
 So she kept her mouth shut, and the handsome price 
 she got for that wonderful feat was her future hap- 
 piness. 
 
192 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 She took a little flat parcel out of her breast pres- 
 ently and was in a mind to fling it in the mUl pool and 
 herself after it. But she didn't. She just went back 
 to the water and, feeling weak in the knees, sat beside 
 it and stared and watched the voles on the banks and 
 a mother moorhen with her chicks. The outside of 
 her mind idly followed the creatures ; the inside just 
 throbbed, like a dying fire when the ashes rustle and the 
 last sparks fade. 
 
 She went back to the farm presently and the awful 
 thing returned and returned, like the memory of a 
 sudden death. For this was death to her hope and her 
 love. It crushed her and bent her head and dimmed her 
 eyes ; and the great news of the morning was all Dead 
 Sea fruit now and life looked no more than a dreary 
 count of lonely, grey years not worth living. 
 
 But if, as Spry Tonkin truly said, " life's life," so we 
 may say as truly that " youth's youth." And youth 
 will be served. Lucinda came to herself after a bit, 
 and what her wits had whispered in that terrible moment 
 her neighbours didn't hesitate to say out loud. Mrs. 
 Retallack, properly pleased at heart to find she weren't 
 going to lose Lucinda after all, assured the girl that she 
 was well out of it, and that her luck had stuck to her 
 far better than she thought. 
 
 You see it happened this way: that very Sunday 
 morning at chapel, who should be there but Stephen 
 Kellow.? and after service he'd walked a bit of her road 
 beside Lucinda and put a packet in her hand and ex- 
 plained how he'd come by it. 
 
THE LEGACY 193 
 
 " 'Tis yours," he said, " and you'll find twenty-five 
 golden sovereigns in a little, wool pence- jug, and seven 
 hundred-pound notes and four five-pound notes pinned 
 together with a safety pin. That makes seven hundred 
 and forty-five pounds; and I'U thank you to count it 
 over afore I go and give me a line on a bit of paper 
 saying as you've got the money." 
 
 He was always cautious like that, Stephen Kellow 
 was. 
 
 Mrs. Retallack made him come in the Old Farm and 
 eat his Sunday dinner with them and teU his tale. But 
 there was very little to tell. On the afternoon before, 
 he'd taken down Lucinda's cabinet because he was stick- 
 ing up some fresh wall-paper in the parlour; and then 
 noticing 'twas shabby and wanted a poUsh up, he'd 
 opened it and started to clean it. And inside he found 
 a little drawer locked and the lock hidden under a 
 beading. There weren't no key, but he'd got it open 
 with a bit of wire and found the money. And that 
 made Lucinda remember something which she'd forgot 
 till then. Six months and more before she died, Sarah 
 Sleep had given the girl a key and told her to store 
 it safe, because she'd want it some day. But Lucinda 
 had never called it back to her mind till this moment. 
 
 " I'm glad to hear that," said Stephen, " because if 
 that's the key, 'tis good evidence of what Miss Sleep 
 meant, and now none can doubt the money was intended 
 to be yours." 
 
 So there it stood and time proved the key was right, 
 though only pure luck ever got Sarah's legacy to 
 
194. CHRONICLES OF ST. TED 
 
 Lucinda. They puzzled after to know why she'd made 
 such a secret of it ; but Mrs. Retallack threw light on 
 that and so did a good few others. 
 
 " She done it because she saw through Master Spry," 
 said Mrs. Retallack, comforting Lucinda that night. 
 " She was a long-sighted woman and a good judge of 
 a body's worth, and she hoped that if you was left with 
 nought when she died, he'd throw you over; and she 
 was right, for he did. And I'll tell you another thing: 
 'twouldn't fiU me with amazement if I heard that silent 
 Stephen Kellow wasn't in the secret from the first and 
 knew all about it. And if he did, he was a fool to 
 let it out so soon. If you'd took your good news 
 to Spry Tonkin a week sooner, you'd have heard no 
 more about his flinging you over; and if you'd ever 
 got in your own oar first and spoke to him before he 
 spoke to you, he would have changed his mind and 
 you'd have married a man as had already decided to 
 chuck you." 
 
 The horror of that thought kept Lucinda awake 
 every night for a week. 
 
 Of course the end was boimd to be just what that 
 dead woman had wanted and planned for. KeUow 
 swore most solemn he'd never heard of the money before 
 he came across it, and a bit later he foimd his tongue in 
 earnest and asked Lucinda to come and see her old 
 home. And when she came, he fairly begged her to 
 stop in it ; and she agreed to do so. 
 
 They was tokened in a week after Spry Tonkin had 
 said his say, and if he'd hit down every man who laughed 
 at him then, he'd have had his hands full for a month 
 
THE LEGACY 19S 
 
 o' Sundays. The Tonkins never forgave her, of course, 
 and never believed the story. They held to it she was 
 a sly, evil minx, and had hid the money till she made 
 Spry give her up. And no doubt they honestly thought 
 so. But none else ever did — not even another girl 
 that Spry got tinkering after afore he chucked Lucinda. 
 He got left there, too, and then, he found himself fairly 
 fed up with St. Tid and went off to the quarries in 
 Pennsylvania, where plenty of St. Tid men are working 
 at American slate. As for Lucinda and Stephen, they 
 wedded at Christmas tind only Mrs. Retallack was sorry 
 about it. 
 
THE SAINT AND THE LOVERS 
 
 When my mother died, father, as had waited very 
 patient till then, made tracks and was never seen no 
 more. He closed her eyes, and said, " Thank God she's 
 a goner." Then he went to the cupboard and mixed 
 a Samson, which be a drink of brandy and cider; and 
 then he packed his fardel, and took his tools and 
 marched out of Madron for ever. 
 
 Father was called Thomas Chirgwin, and he'd been a 
 mine-captain once and very well thought upon; but 
 he fell to drink, and got lower and lower, till when 
 mother went, after a cruel bad time of it, he was sunk 
 to day-labourer's work on the roads. After he cleared 
 out there wasn't money to pay for burying mother, and 
 but for Uncle William I should have had to go in the 
 workhouse; but he came forward then, though I was 
 only a little chap — twelve year old, and no good for 
 nought but keeping crows from com and such like. 
 
 I'd w^orked at that for him afore, and got a penny a 
 day and my victuals by it; and now, since I was left 
 alone in the world, the man took me over, and I went 
 along to his farm between Madron church-town and the 
 moors. Journey's End the place was called — a little 
 low house in a parcel o' trees, wi' good tilth round 
 about, though not much of it. 'Twas Uncle William's 
 own, and he'd bought it after fifty year of work, and he 
 
 198 
 
THE SAINT AND THE LOVERS 19T 
 
 was terrible proud of it and of himself for winning 
 it. 
 
 Billy Chirgwin was one of them little go-by-the- 
 ground men — a podgy, short, and stumpy chap. Red 
 in the face and blue in the eye he was, and he wore his 
 hair in a fringe under his double chin; but his crown 
 was bald, and stood up over his red, wrinkled neck and 
 forehead, like an egg out of its cup. 
 
 A lot of sense he had to him, but he was obstinate, 
 and when he made up his mind, 'twas a thing no more to 
 be changed than what happened yesterday. He hated 
 women, and had a mistaken fancy they was aU after him 
 — for the sake of the farm ; so the woman's work to 
 Journey's End was done by married ones. For a long 
 time the head man and his wife, Mrs. Polglaze, lived 
 with Uncle William; but when Tim Polglaze found a 
 job he liked better, of course, they went, and the master 
 was in a great quandary what to do. He might have 
 had a score of widdy-women, but he mistrusted that 
 sort worst, so at last he tried a fisherman's wife from 
 Newlyn. But she failed him cruel, and drank his 
 spirits, and was always asking her husband up to tea. 
 Then imcle sent her packing, and swore by the saints 
 that he wouldn't have no more females about him. 
 
 " Us'U do wi'out 'em, and a good riddance," he said. 
 " It shall be St. Tibb's Eve ^ afore another petticoat 
 comes here. You've got to learn to cook, Samuel, and 
 the sooner the better." 
 
 I never went against nothing he said, and I did my 
 bestest, but I turned out a terrible bufflehead at it, and 
 1 St. TihVs Eve. Never. 
 
198 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 after uncle had been took bad twice with a feeling like 
 a cannon ball in his left side, he saw that cooking wasn't 
 in my way. 
 
 " What the mischief you do to the meat and puddings 
 I don't know, Samuel," he said to me ; " but I want 
 twopen'orth o' peppermint every time I let down a 
 dish you've cooked; and so, no doubt, 'tis true that 
 only Frenchmen can cook, and Englishmen can't lam 
 it." 
 
 Neither of the other two chaps at Journey's End 
 would take the kitchen work on, and both said that if 
 such belly-vengeance food was to be the rule they'd have 
 to go. 
 
 Uncle was a good bit put out, but he saw the reason 
 of it, though he had a slap at me afore he changed his 
 plans. 
 
 " I thought you was going to be a useful chap, 
 Samuel," he said to me one morning. " Ess fay, I 
 declare to myself that you would prove a blessing in 
 disguise; but as things are, I be like the Mayor of 
 Falmouth — him as gave God the praise when they 
 doubled the size of the gaol. You'm a terror, and 
 you'm paying me for my kindness by trying to shorten 
 my life." 
 
 " Wait till dinner. Uncle WiUiam," I said. 
 
 I'd made a star-gazing pie for dinner that day, and 
 it promised so well as ever a pie did promise. 'Tis a 
 pie of paste and pilchards, and you bake it wi' the fish 
 pokin' their noses through the crust. Pretty eating, 
 too ; but, of course, it have got to be handled clever, and 
 I failed again. The dowl knows what I'd done to the 
 
THE SAINT AND THE LOVERS 199 
 
 pie, but 'twas as hard as granite outside, and the fish 
 was raw underneath. 
 
 Uncle he got it open, and me and t'other men looked 
 hopefully upon it ; and then uncle dashed down his knife 
 and fork and shouted out: 
 
 " Fetch in the bread and cheese, and take this here 
 ondacent mess to the pigs." 
 
 'Twas the last straw,, you might say, and after all 
 his great speeches in the village and out. Uncle Chirg^ 
 win was forced to go back on his word, and seek a 
 woman for the farm. 
 
 " 'Tis a matter of life and death," I heard him say 
 to Mrs. Tressider at our outer gate the next evening. 
 
 " 'Tis life or death, or I wouldn't do it. But I've lost 
 two teeth out of my false lot — snapped off like stub- 
 ble in yonder boy's parlous cooking — and my innards 
 be just one everlasting strife, and my sleep's forsaking 
 me. So it have got to end. And if you know a re- 
 spectable married woman that can handle a bit of bacon 
 and a potato without disgracing herself, you'll do me a 
 kindness to name her." 
 
 Mrs. Tressider thought, and, motherlike, cast her 
 mind over her own first. She had ten, and the first 
 batch, by her husband Thomas Cardew — him as was 
 killed in Cam Brea Mine — were all doing well, and the 
 youngest was turned sixteen; but the second lot, by 
 Michael Tressider, they were only coming on, and the 
 eldest of 'em had reached no more than thirteen at this 
 time. Mrs. Tressider thought a bit, knowing Uncle 
 William's weakness ; then she spoke. 
 
 " I suppose now as you wouldn't be afeared of a 
 
200 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 maiden not seventeen year old? I understand very 
 well how 'tis with you, Mr. Chirgwin, and I know the 
 females are cunning toads, and I've always thought you 
 was terrible clever to keep out of their way same as you 
 have done ; but there's my darter. Cherry — she 
 couldn't have no designs on 'e at her tender age, and 
 what that girl don't know about cooking idden worth 
 knowing. She's the nessel-bird ^ of my first husband's 
 family, and a towser for work, and very understanding 
 every way." 
 
 " If she ban't seventeen, she wouldn't think to catch 
 a man very near seventy, of course," says Uncle 
 William. 
 
 " That she would not. And my advice to you is to 
 give her a trial. Clean as a new pin. Cherry is, and 
 always cheerfulj and always to work." 
 
 " She'll be a gallavanter at her age," said uncle 
 doubtfully. 
 
 But Mrs. Tressider pressed it, and sang Cherry Car- 
 dew's praises, and added that if she was a failure, the 
 girl coiold easily be sent home again. 
 
 And so it fell out that she came along to see if she 
 was clever enough to please the master of Journey's 
 End. 
 
 But uncle he went to old Mother Trewoof afore he 
 closed with the offer. She was the only woman he ever 
 believed in, and seeing that she was the wisest creature 
 on the countryside, he couldn't choose but do so. A 
 sort of white witch many called her, and for certain 
 she knowed a cruel lot of strange things. But her 
 1 Netiel-bird. The youngest 
 
THE SAINT AND THE LOVERS 201 
 
 advice was run after, and she was very large-minded, 
 and didn't care a pin whether you took it or left it, so 
 long as you paid her fee. 
 
 Mother Trewoof sjiid no harm could come of trying 
 Cherry Cardew, and so Cherry came, and it idden too 
 much to say that she managed all us men from the first. 
 Such wits no young thing ever had afore; and as for 
 cooking, Uncle William found hisself unwell again after 
 she'd been in the house three days; but this time he 
 said that 'twas only a testament to the girl's skill, be- 
 cause the food was so proper he'd ate far too much of it. 
 
 So she stayed and much came of that. Cherry was 
 tall, and straight, and slim to look at, but she had dear 
 little womanly rounds about her, and a womanly smaU- 
 ness of hands and feet. She wore a pink print work- 
 days, and had a very fine blue gown when she went out. 
 Her eyes were large, and so grey as glass, but she kept 
 her eyelids down over 'em a lot, and her lashes spread 
 out in a very pretty fashion. She had a nubby nose 
 and a lovely colour to her cheeks, which were very near 
 so bright as blotting paper. And her mouth was large, 
 but a lovely shape. She'd a regular stack of corn- 
 coloured hair, as she wore piled up so bright as a little 
 barleymow 'pon top of her head; and she was always 
 cheerful and willing. 
 
 But she kept herself to herself a good bit, and you 
 couldn't tell she was in the house half the day but for 
 her singing. Uncle was troubled about the singing 
 at first, but he put up with it, for he soon found out his 
 luck and didn't want to do nothing to drive the girl 
 away. 
 
202 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 And then, after she'd been along with us nine or ten 
 months, and drawing six pound a year for it, a terrible 
 queer thing happened to me. 
 
 I was up eighteen old by now — a gert, hidkin' chap, 
 over six foot, and terrible strong; and me and a good 
 few others was wont to meet of a Sunday nigh Madron 
 church, and smoke and air our opinions, and watch the 
 passers-by. It happened one afternoon, as I stood 
 there along with half a score of others, that Peter Noy, 
 from Gulval, was amongst us, and he made a scornful 
 speech in my hearing. A terrible chap for the maidens, 
 he was — had a sort of bullying, God- Almighty way 
 with him they couldn't stand against. Like spaniels 
 they bore themselves afore him, though whatever they 
 saw in the red-headed creature none of us other men 
 could guess. 
 
 " Who be that wench wi' the green eyes .'' " suddenly 
 asked Peter. 
 
 'Twas Cherry, and her mother, Mrs. Tressider, had 
 just gone in to worship along with her and three or four 
 children. 
 
 He couldn't have meant no girl else, so I answered 
 him. 
 
 " 'Tis Miss Cherry Cardew," I said, " and her eyes 
 ban't no more green than your hair." 
 
 " So green as a leaf," he answered. " If I don't 
 know what colour a girl's eyes be, 'tis pity." 
 
 " You'm a liard, Peter Noy," I said. 
 
 Well, he was an upstanding chap, a good few year 
 older than me, and a bit heavier, though not so tall. 
 He didn't know how terrible strong I was, or he might 
 
THE SAINT AND THE LOVERS 
 
 have thought again; but when I told him plump out 
 that he was a liard, he didn't much like it, and come 
 over and put his face within an inch of mine. 
 
 " You say that again and I'l drop you in the ditch,V 
 says Peter. 
 
 " Come up to the wood and you shall hear it again 
 so oft as you like to hear it," I answered him. 
 
 So we made a move up over, where Madron woods 
 come to the tilth, and seven or eight of us went in a 
 nice thicket out of harm's way ; and then I told the man 
 he was a liard and a siUy fool in the bargain, if he 
 didn't know the difference betwixt grey and green. 
 
 With that we took off our coats and waistcoats, and 
 our Sunday collars and ties. I was for fighting, but 
 Peter said the case didn't call for that and he was going 
 to wrastle ; and 'twas all one to me, for I could do either. 
 
 We cockled up to each other, and I gave him a Corn- 
 ish hug that bent in his ribs a bit ; and, afore he knowed 
 we was beginning, the man found hisself on his back in 
 the thorns. Thrice I felled him, and then he shook 
 hands very friendly and I did the same; and we was 
 good companions ever after and no harm done ; and he 
 finished by saying that the girl's eyes might be any 
 colour I pleased and be damned to her. So we left it 
 at that, and the job wouldn't have been worth mention- 
 ing but for one thing. It told me a wonderful queer 
 bit of news. 
 
 I said to myself going home that evening, " If you can 
 get sparring over a thing like that, Sam Chirgwin, and 
 if you care whether a maiden's eyes be green or grey, 
 there's something in it." And then it corned over me. 
 
204 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 like a flash of lightning, that I cared for Cherry. I'd 
 felt a sort of uneasy hankering to put my arms around 
 her and squeeze her for six months very near; but she 
 wasn't that sort and I knowed it. Then, with time, 
 I'd growed to feel different and now I'd no more have 
 dared to touch her than strike her. " You'm a gert 
 gaby, and you'd best to put such foolery out of yur 
 head," I told myself. And I tried, but I couldn't do it. 
 
 Besides, she changed herself at this time. Some 
 chap — Freddy Lanine I think 'twas — told her about 
 my fun with Peter Noy, and the reason for it — and it 
 appeared to vex her something terrible, for she growed 
 all woman in a day and cold-shouldered me as if I'd 
 done a wicked act. I thought at first that Peter Noy 
 had catched her, but 'twasn't that. She knowed all 
 about him and said she'd rather go to the grave a 
 maiden than have anything to do with a carrot-headed 
 man. 
 
 So times was changed, and I soon knowed I loved her 
 furious. My eyes watered afore her, and my mouth, 
 too, for that matter. She was a bowerly piece, and of 
 course I weren't the only one by many. But she went 
 her way, as if there weren't a man in the world; and, 
 come her day out, to her mother she always would go. 
 
 Then I took my courage, after a sweaty night o' 
 fear, and axed her, in so many words, if she'd go for a 
 walk some evening. She looked sideways under them 
 lovely little frills of eyelash and said she'd think of it, 
 and I noticed when I talked to her now that my voice 
 was all over the shop. Two days later I axed her again 
 and she said she'd come ; and she did come. 'Twas the 
 
THE SAINT AND THE LOVERS 205 
 
 dimpsy of a summer evening, and we went up over past 
 St. Madron's well and chapel on the hill. We walked 
 out in the moor presently, and pitched on a stone and 
 watched the light fade out of the sky. 'Twas still and 
 fine, and the engine-stack of Wheal Darkness looked so 
 black as ink against the sunset, and the airy-mice was 
 winging and squeaking very lively along the edge of 
 the woods. 
 
 Yet try as I might, I couldn't find nothing to tell 
 about. 
 
 'Twas a very silent walk in fact, but I kept looking 
 upon her a lot, and for the most part she held her eyes 
 to the ground. 
 
 " That's a terrible big dew-snail," I said once, point- 
 ing to a great black creature crawHng -over the grass. 
 
 " So 'tis then," she answered. 
 
 " You don't sing about the house so much as you did 
 use," I said again, ten minutes later. 
 
 "Don't I.?" she asked. 
 
 " No," I answered, " you do not." 
 
 But nothing came of it. 
 
 Then I had a slap at another subject. " The eve- 
 ning star be wonderful bright," I said. 
 
 " Not brighter than usual," thought Cherry. But 
 I declared that it was and she wouldn't argue about it 
 and allowed I might be in the right. Then I had a 
 happy idea and asked her why for she was called 
 Cherry, and she said, " I idden. My true name's Char- 
 ity. But Mr. Tressider took a great dislike to it — 
 him being a Socialist — and 'twas him as ordained to 
 change it." 
 
206 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 This was a bit of news to me, and I sat and thought 
 upon the point for a half hour I dare say. Then, far 
 oiF, us heard Madron church clock tell nine. 
 
 " 'Tis time we was gwaine back along," I said. 
 
 Presently a night bird began hollering, and another 
 answered it, and I told Cherry 'twas owls, but she 
 thought 'twas more like crying children. I made some 
 joke then about the pisgies and the spriggans; but she 
 grew comical-tempered in a minute, and I found that 
 she took aU such matters very serious. 
 
 " You don't mean for to say you believe in the Httle 
 people? " I asked her, and she told me to mind my own 
 business. It promised to spoil the end of the walk, but 
 she forgived me afore we'd got home, though not tiU 
 I apologized very humble. I said: 
 
 " I'm a know-naught gert fool, Cherry, and I dare 
 say there's millions of fairies in Cornwall yet, and why 
 not? And I'm sure you be so wonderful as a fairy 
 yourself for that matter." 
 
 I felt that was pretty smart, and she liked it, too, 
 and said as none could prove there wasn't fairies, while 
 a lot of very clever people knowed for certain that there 
 was. Her own father had heard the spriggans knock- 
 ing in the mine two days afore he was killed, and her 
 grandfather had been pisgey-led two different times in 
 his life, and could swear to it on the Book. 
 
 I said as the walk had done me a power of good, and 
 made so bold as to hope she'd come up over and pitch 
 on thicky stone again sometimes; and she said that if 
 us had such another fine evening she didn't know but 
 what she might. 
 
THE SAINT AND THE LOVERS 207 
 
 At day-down a week later we went again, and I had 
 terrible poor speed. They say that " perfect love cast- 
 eth out fear," but I'll be blessed if mine did. I was a 
 strong, hulking giaiit of a man and could face anything 
 on four legs, or anything on two for that matter — 
 anything but Cherry. 
 
 I don't know what 'twas, but I was dumb as a quU- 
 kin ^ when along with her, and yet right down miserable 
 when out of her sight. I felt it couldn't go on, and yet 
 something told me to try and please her and I toiled to 
 do it ; and sometimes I got a smile and a kind word, and 
 sometimes she growed that short and impatient with 
 me that I felt any minute she might slap my face. 
 
 'Twas an up and down sort of time, and I very near 
 ran away once or twice, for the strain was cruel. Now 
 and then I'd get forwarder, and then all the good was 
 done away; and now and then I'd almost feel bold 
 enough to speak and offer for her ; but that was gener- 
 ally of a night, and when the morning come my spirit 
 was gone. 
 
 She was that uncertain. 
 
 She'd do terrible kind things one day and cut me to 
 the heart the next. And then she went out twice along 
 with Johnny Vingoe, and I felt things was at a climax. 
 
 Uncle William got a tissick on the chest about then 
 — 'twas springtime again — and he wanted tO' see 
 Mother Trewoof for it, and she comed in one evening 
 and looked at the man. 
 
 In her clever way she'd guessed what was amiss with 
 him afore she saw him, and she brought along marjo- 
 ^QvUkin, Frog. 
 
208 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 ram and elder and a few suchlike herbs to make a valiant 
 drink. And seeing what 'twas, she bade Cherry hot the 
 kettle and fetch a saucepan. 
 
 Then she began to make the physic; and while she 
 made it she talked. 
 
 Uncle, he crouched a gurglin' and chockin' in his 
 dog-eared chair one side the fire ; Mother Trewoof , she 
 knelt at the hearth and stirred ; Cherry sat by the table 
 darning socks, and I was not far off making rabbit 
 nets — a job at which I was pretty spry. T'other men 
 weren't in, and us sat there silent as mice, but for un- 
 cle's wheezin', and listened to Mother Trewoof. 
 
 Cruel fine talk she made. Few were the hidden things 
 that woman didn't know, and she was terrible vexed 
 with life as it was, and much wished us could all go back 
 to life as it used to be. 
 
 " Along of these here fansical schools," she said, " the 
 children doan't believe in nothing at all, and the old, 
 ripe wisdom of us ancient folk be dust in the balance 
 to 'em. 
 
 " As if we didn't know and hadn't seen with our eyes 
 and our forefathers afore us ! Take charms for in- 
 stance, who can cure wild-fire, or burning, or toothache 
 like I can.'' Who can staunch blood so quick as me.'' 
 Yet, where fifty in a year was wont to come to me for 
 such service, five don't now. And look at the holy 
 stones up over — the stone with a hole in un, called the 
 crick-stone, and the written stone and other sacred and 
 magic things — aU idle — all idle. Who visits the 
 crick-stone now.'' Who goes there for lumbagey or 
 rheiunatism, or other cricks, and crawls through the 
 
THE SAINT AND THE LOVERS 209 
 
 hole again and again against the way of the sun? 
 What mothers take their babes there to make 'em strong 
 and lusty ? Yet well I know the hidden vartue and have 
 proved it a thousand times." 
 
 " We'm forgetting the clever things our fathers did. 
 'Pears as if the world was to be saved by electricity 
 nowadays," said Uncle WiUiam. Then he coughed fit 
 to die. 
 
 " Doan't you be talking : list to me," answered 
 Mother Trewoof. 
 
 " As for electricity a time will come when us shall 
 pray to our God to take it away again. 'Tis playing 
 with lightning at best and the devil's weapon in my 
 opinion. Didn't the saints know? When the holy 
 men comed hither in a boat-load from Ireland, 'twasn't 
 electricity they brought but the power of God, and the 
 trick of doing miracles in the Name. 
 
 " They didn't quarrel with nobody. They let the 
 conjurers and white witches and small people alone, 
 and them as wanted the Light of Christianity was wel- 
 come to it, and them as didn't, could go their own dark 
 way, so long as they had no truck with God's chosen. 
 But 'tis all gone now — swept away by the board- 
 schools and city-bred teachers, as have no faith in noth- 
 ing but themselves and machinery." 
 
 She poured the herby tea in a basin and told Cherry 
 to set it upon the window-siU to cool. 
 
 " They saints done a power of good no doubt," said 
 my uncle. 
 
 " Iss fay ! and would again tomorrow if anybody had 
 the faith to trust 'em," answered the old woman. 
 
210 CHRONICLES OF ST, TID 
 
 " Take our own — take St. Madron — us don't want to 
 go not a step further for healing wonders. Yet who 
 tramps up along to his chapel now.'' Who dips there 
 in the running water — once blessed, always blessed? 
 Who bathes there for the thing their heart wanteth, and 
 calls to the listening saint for it, and then goeth home 
 rejoicing? " 
 
 " Not a soul," admitted Uncle William. " Yet when 
 I was a young man 'twas a deed not seldom practised, 
 and many a mother dipped her babby in the old font 
 and left a rag hanging in the thorn tree over the altar- 
 stone. I can mind so many as twenty rags dancing 
 there to a time ; and the birds would come and pluck at 
 'em for their nestes." 
 
 " The magic be there," declared Mother Trewoof . 
 " The good belongs to the water for ever more, and 
 that's why it don't run dry in the hottest summer like 
 other common streams. 
 
 " Tis blessed, and it ban't the saint's fault, nor yet 
 mine, that the people don't make use of it. But there 
 'tis, with all its vartue, running to waste year after 
 year. All I know is this, I wouldn't be without a bottle 
 in my house for untold gold." 
 
 Uncle said 'twas meat and drink to him to hear tell 
 such things, and I stole a look at Cherry to see what 
 she thought; but she was darning for dear life, and 
 didn't 'pear to be interested. And I was glad of it, 
 because there had come in my head a dashing thought. 
 I stared at her, but my mind was lifting far beyond 
 Journey's End and the people in it. I felt a wonner- 
 ful call. I felt so strong as a team of horses. 'Twas 
 
THE SAINT AND THE LOVERS 211 
 
 borne in upon me, like the Light was borne in on Paul, 
 that this here St. Madron might be the very man for 
 my business. And I said to myself, " If a wise woman 
 like this here, and a wise man like uncle, can believe in 
 the holy saint, what right have a gert silly like me to 
 dare to' doubt ? " 
 
 And then I cast my eyes upon Cherry again, wi' her 
 hair bright as gold in the cannel-light, and her head 
 standing out like a picksher against the old cloam, and 
 butterprints and glass and the like on the dresser be- 
 hind her. Mother Trewoof talked a bit more ; then she 
 had a drink of uncle's spirits, and he had a dose of her 
 physic, and the night ended. 
 
 But sleep wouldn't come to me, and I was already 
 thirstin' for the light of day, being full of St. Madron 
 and his chapel and his well. 'Twas my resolve at dawn 
 to be up over and get in the ruin and dip for luck, and 
 call upon the saint with aU my might to give me what 
 I wanted — in the shape of Cherry Cardew. I knowed 
 very well 'twas time and more than time I axed, and 
 yet the awful fear of getting a frosty answer had held 
 me back. But somehow, after hearing Mother Tre- 
 woof, I burned wi' strength and resolution, and did be- 
 lieve most steadfast that the saint would give heed. I 
 argued long with myself upon it, too. I weren't asking 
 the holy man for no impossibilities. For instance, if 
 Cherry had been tokened to any other chap, I wouldn't 
 have done it; but, for all I knowed to the contrary, she 
 was heart-whole and free as air; and I felt that if she 
 had secrets about Johnny Vingoe then, be it as it would, 
 'twas time I knowed 'em. For one thing had got to be 
 
2ia CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 deathly sure in my mind; and that was, if I couldn't 
 get Cherry, I should have to sling my hook beyond 
 sight and sound of her. 
 
 At peep o' day I was sleeping like a pig, and didn't 
 wake tiU nearly four o'clock. But I got in my clothes 
 very quick, and was soon away to St. Madron's chapel 
 — a homy-winky, lonesome place 'pon the moor-edge, 
 a mile from Journey's £nd. 
 
 Up I went through a strong easterly breeze, and the 
 spring was in the air, and green things breaking out 
 of the dead grey ones under my feet and all round 
 about. An early lark had gone aloft to catch the first 
 sunlight, and he'd catched it and hung, like a spark o' 
 fire, far ways up in the blue pouring his heart out. So 
 I came to the holy well and ruined chapel. 'Tis a queer 
 little broken-down spot wi' walls no higher than a man's 
 shoulder, and stone seats running inside. Briers and 
 grass and moss be over all, and above the altar-stone 
 there standeth a great white-thorn girt with an ivy-tod. 
 Furze and heather bind the niin together; the stone 
 floor is broke up with green grass and daisies, and on 
 the altar be a hole that had catched rain from the 
 last shower, and flashed back the brightness of the sky. 
 
 St. Madron's stream ran behind aglint and fuU of 
 noise, and the wild parsley was budding beside it, and 
 the forget-me-nots twinkling blue above the water, and 
 the furze towering up in a bank of gold above. And as 
 I came here, at the first red sunrise light, I was struck 
 into a gert terror, for upon the altar-stone I saw clothes 
 and a woman's white smicket and a pair of shoon and 
 stockings. Then, bending down, I peered out through 
 
THE SAINT AND THE LOVERS 213 
 
 a hole in the wall, and my knees knocked, and I went 
 biwering over with cold, as though I'd been struck with 
 frost. 
 
 For there was Cherry just rising mother-naked out 
 of St. Madron's stream. Her hair was blowing round 
 her, like the merry-dancers, and the morning light 
 touched it and she herself flashed through it, white as 
 curds. Her eyes were brighter than any stars; and 
 that's all I knowed, for I went so weak as a goose-chick 
 afore that wonnerful sight, because I'd never seen a 
 girl unrayed in all my life afore, and 'tis a most 
 amazing thing. I dropped then, as if I'd been shot, 
 and crawled off, and she come to the altar-stone, and I 
 heard her singing like a grey bird, and getting back in 
 her clothes. 
 
 I didn't dare to move, but hid in a brake close by 
 outside the chapel, till she was off and away. I lie there 
 thinking and wondering and sweating with jealousy, for 
 somehow I guessed very well she had come to pray to 
 the saint ; and what her prayer had been about I'd have 
 give ten year off my life to know. 
 
 Presently I crept forth and looked around. She'd 
 left a rag of her dress on the white-thom tree for luck, 
 and 'twas fluttering there on the wind ; and in the sand 
 by the stream I found a clear print of her foot — five 
 little toes and heel ; and such was my cruel state o' mind 
 that I knelt down and kissed it ! 
 
 Somehow I couldn't go back that minute. My 
 tongue was dry as a chip, and I drank a drop of St. 
 Madron's brook. Then I wandered about an hour and 
 more, and then I went home-along. But I turned 
 
214 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 against breakfast, and the thought of seeing Cherry 
 put me in a regular terror, so I just went to the stable 
 and fetched out a hoss and marched off to my morning's 
 work. 'Twas harrowing, I remember, and hour after 
 hour I followed the machine, and felt as if the tines were 
 running over me instead of the earth ; and yet somehow 
 I knowed myself to be a long sight more of a man than 
 ever I had been until that morning. 
 
 'Twas the first and last time in my life as I didn't 
 feel what 'twas to be hungry at noon. But I didn't, 
 and when I saw Cherry clambering up over the field 
 wi' a frail, I very near jumped over the hedge and ran 
 for it. 
 
 But the man in me had done with that nonsense, 
 thank God, and I stood my ground, so stiff as a stake, 
 and said to myself, " I'll ax her or die." 
 
 In a minute she was there, cool and cheerful ; and she 
 soon oped the basket and fetched out a pasty and my 
 little wood runlet, as I kept for cider. 
 
 " Why for didn't you come to breaksis ? " she says. 
 " What a timdoodle of a chap you be ! " 
 
 " I know that very well," I answers her. " But there 
 was a reason." 
 
 " I've brought 'e dinner." 
 
 " And cruel kind of you to bring it." 
 
 She was going then, but I nerved myself and begged 
 her if she'd be so kind as to bide while I ate it. 
 
 She didn't seem much astonished at the idea, and I 
 gave his nosebag to the hoss and spread my coat for 
 Cherry on the lew side of a hedge, and us sat down 
 together. 
 
THE SAINT AND THE LOVERS 215 
 
 I knowed if I once began talking on general subjects 
 my courage would fade, so I dashed head-first into it, 
 afore I had time to quail, and I said : 
 
 " Look here. Cherry, I'm very near out of my seven 
 senses about you, and I love you like a burning fire, and 
 there 'tis — will 'e keep company and be Cherry Chirg- 
 win presently ? And if you don't — if you don't — 
 God's my judge but I'll jump down a mine, for I can't 
 live without 'e, and wouldn't if I could ! " 
 
 'Twas out, and once out I felt so brave as a leash o' 
 lions, and stared straight in her face and felt my arms 
 tingling to be round her. 
 
 She flickered up till her cheeks was red as herb robert, 
 and gave me one precious look, and then her eyes went 
 down, and her little lovely head went down too. 
 
 " I know'd you'd ax me today, Sam," she said in a 
 small voice. " Yes, I very well knowed you would come 
 to it today." 
 
 " And what do 'e say to me? " 
 
 " I love you, I love you, I love you ! " 
 
 Three times she spoke it, and would have said it a 
 fourth, but she hadn't no more time, for I was on her 
 like a tiger. 
 
 " 'Tis all St. Madron," she said, when I let her draw 
 breath; and then she confessed that she'd been up to 
 the chapel and called upon the holy man to give me a 
 helping hand. 
 
 I made as if I was terrible astonished, and that night 
 I put it afore Uncle William very crafty. 
 
 " She'm wife-old," I said, " and you well remember 
 you always wanted a married woman to look after you, 
 
216 CHRONICLES OF ST. TLD 
 
 so 'twill fit in all right. And you know better than I 
 can tell that you wouldn't be without Cherry for the 
 world, nor yet without me, so there it lies." 
 
 He hadn't got much kick in him just then, along of 
 the tissick in his chest. Therefore he soon gave in 
 about it. 
 
 And six months later me an' Cherry was wedded, to 
 the Wesleyan chapel, though as she said, she'd far 
 sooner have had it done up to St. Madron's ruin. 
 
 Never a word of the great adventure did she hear till 
 our marriage night, and then I told her, but it didn't 
 shake her faith in the saint — nor yet in me. 
 
THE BETTER MAN 
 
 When Julitta Bunt lost her husband 'twas merely a 
 question in the minds of St. Tid what man she would 
 take next. Not that she had ever been anything but a 
 very good wife to the poor chap; and, indeed, on his 
 death-bed he had said that he'd been greatly blessed in 
 her and was cruel sorry to leave her and his little girl. 
 Death can come welcome or unwelcome, as the case may 
 be ; and in Tom Bunt's case it weren't welcome by any 
 means, for he was only eight and twenty, in the fulness 
 of strength and prosperity, with a fair future and good 
 money, and well thought of at the slate quarry, where 
 he was a rockman. The rockmen, of course, be those 
 who go down into the pit and break or blast out the 
 slate, while the hillmen be those that work above at the 
 pappot head, or in the slate dressing sheds, or at the 
 engines, and so on. 
 
 And poor Tom Bunt, in the course of his regular 
 business, came to grief; for he'd lit oflF a fuse and was 
 getting clear in good time, as he thought, when some- 
 thing went wrong and the charge was exploded within 
 ten feet of him. Even then only one rock hit him ; but 
 that was enough, and he died four days after, leaving 
 Julitta and his little three-year-old, Betsy, to fend for 
 themselves. 
 
 And none was better able to do so than his widow; 
 for she was a comely piece, and had good brains and 
 
 217 
 
218 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 held her head high. The dark sort she was, with a 
 brave colour in her face, and brown eyes and brown 
 hair to match 'em. A quick, decided way with her and 
 a good conceit of herself; but it never ran over into 
 pride, for she was sensible and self-respecting. And 
 another virtue she had; for she loved a bit of fun and 
 could take a joke in the right spirit, which you'll find is 
 a very rare gift in any woman under seventy. 
 
 Four and twenty was Julitta when the joy of her life 
 was taken from her, and she mourned with all her heart, 
 and kept in black weekdays as well as Sundays, and put 
 up a very good piece of St. Tid slate to Tom. 
 
 A man or two offered for her before her husband's 
 grave was green; and so ashamed of 'em was she that 
 they could lower themselves to do so, that she told 'em 
 that if they were worth their weight in gold she wouldn't 
 take such indecent creatures. But those who knew a 
 bit about her, including her godfather, old Jimmy Nute 
 of the quarries, rather thought that it was going to be 
 a case of virtue rewarded for Simon Keat, a hillman as 
 worked at one of the guillotines in a dressing shed. He 
 was a bachelor, up home thirty years old, a fair and 
 flaxen man, and very famous for his strength. Simon 
 felled every middleweight wrestler in Cornwall three 
 years running and few heavyweights had ever thrown 
 him. He shone also as a stickler [umpire] ; for none 
 beat the man in judgment of the game, or in his sense 
 of justice. He was a very quiet ajid unassuming chap 
 in company, and oped his mouth so seldom that many 
 people, especially the females, thought him a bit of a 
 
THE BETTER MAN £19 
 
 tnumphetid ; but it weren't so by any means. He had a 
 lot of sense and a fair amount of general knowledge, 
 which he'd picked up thanks to his habit of listening 
 instead of talking. 
 
 And he knew his own mind very well, and he'd known 
 ever since she was seventeen that he wanted to marry 
 Julitta. On his twenty-second birthday he'd first 
 offered to do so, and on his twenty-third he done the 
 same ; and he meant to do the like again the next year, 
 and hoped that the third time would be lucky. But 
 meajiwhile came along Tom Bunt. So there was an end 
 of Simon ! He lost with good grace, for he was a levd- 
 minded man and had fine sporting instincts; but he 
 felt, ag he couldn't have Julitta, that he'd go without 
 anybody, and he stopped along with his parents quiet 
 and fairly contented with his lot, and he was always a 
 very good friend to the Bunts. 
 
 And then Julitta came in the market again. But 
 Simon held off in a very gentlemanly way ; for he knew 
 the depth of her grief, and not only as a matter of 
 proper feeling did he respect it, but as a matter of 
 business also, because it quickly came out what she'd 
 said to the rash men who thrust in with offers of mar- 
 riage upon her green widowhood. 
 
 So he waited, and just gave Julitta the time of day, 
 and brought a toy for little Betsy sometimes, and 
 planted some very nice pansies of his own raising on 
 Tom Bunt's grave. But more than that he didn't do, 
 and she liked him all the better for holding off. Indeed 
 she'd always liked him; but it was that deadly sort of 
 liking that can't very easy quicken into anything else. 
 
£20 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 She knew his game, of course, and had plenty of time 
 to think it over and make up her mind about the future 
 so far as Simon was concerned. And then, just as the 
 young woman began to feel it had to be and was getting 
 herself in tune to the necessary effort of rising to love 
 Simon Keat, there rose up another man in her sight — 
 and a very dazzling figure of a man he was. 
 
 The Nan Julians were a very old and respected family 
 at St. Tid, and they had been connected with the quar- 
 ries for time out of mind; but many an adventurous 
 youth among "em had found his heart beat too high 
 for North Cornwall, and not a few, after learning the 
 quarryman's business at home, had left St. Tid for 
 the bigger world outside and gone where slate was 
 calling to be worked. Many went to Wales ; but more 
 to Pennsylvania in America, because the United States 
 have got the greatest slate quarries in the world, — 
 same as they have everything else of the greatest, — and 
 in Pennsylvania this day you'll find more St. Tid men 
 and women than in St. Tid church town itself. 
 
 Billy Nan Julian was one of the wandering sort, and 
 he went to his uncle, Paul Nanjulian, in Pennsylvania 
 and got good work there. And then, just at the crit- 
 ical time in the lives of Julitta and Simon, back came 
 Billy in all his world-wide wisdom to take a wife from 
 St. Tid; for not a few of the young fellows did that, 
 though some married American women and never came 
 home no more. 
 
 The truth was that Master Billy had wanted to do 
 the same; and we heard long after, through another 
 
THE BETTER MAN 321 
 
 source, that he'd just been cold-shouldered by a terrible 
 clever maiden in Pennsylvania, who saw through him in 
 time for her own salvation and found it was her father's 
 dollars and not she herself that young Nan Julian was 
 really after. She'd hit out from the shoulder after that 
 and told handsome Billy the truth about his character, 
 and, liking it little, home he'd come to forget her and 
 to play the hero a bit and try for better luck; for he 
 knew that he was terrible good-looking and a fair mark 
 for the women. He was the sort of man the females 
 will spoil, who, under a terrible gracious and smiling 
 way and great humility before them, hides a keen look- 
 out for the main chance and a determination to sell him- 
 self only at the top of the market. And that the 
 maiden in Pennsylvania had found out and put it bitter 
 clear before the man; so he'd come home to heal his 
 bruises and see if there was anything in the female line 
 worthy of him in his birthplace. 
 
 And what happened surely showed that there's good 
 in every man, and love will conquer every meaner 
 passion sometimes; for Nan Julian, whatever he'd pre- 
 tended before to other females, soon found himself 
 properly set on Julitta. She was a kinswoman of his 
 on the spindle side, and they had relations in common ; 
 so it was easy for him to see a lot of her. He was 
 holiday-making too, and afore he'd been home six weeks 
 his one aim and object in life was to win her and take 
 her back along to Pennsylvania. She was poor as a 
 mouse and also had her little woman child to keep ; but 
 he didn't care for that. Though a man of common 
 pattern under his fine outside, love her he did with the 
 
CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 finest worship and affection of which he was capable, 
 and there's no doubt that Julitta took a very great 
 interest and liking to his outside from the first. 
 
 A splendid man he was, with curly hair and the 
 strength of a horse, — one of they broad-chested, big 
 fellows, well barrelled up, and sturdy as an oak tree; a 
 dark, blue-chinned man, who shaved twice a day now 
 he was courting, and wore very fine clothes from 
 America that made the garments of St. Tid look homely. 
 A diamond ring he had also, and other adornments, and 
 the chaps of St. Tid, as run rather undersized and 
 slight built, looked mere go-by-the-grounds seen along- 
 side Master BiUy. , He was fond of sports too, and 
 though Simon Keat could beat him at wrestling, none 
 was so clever as the returned native in the water. 
 There he properly shone, — salt or fresh 'twas all the 
 same to him, — and the time being summer, Nan Julian 
 went about to the swimming races, where they was held, 
 and made a great show. And sometimes Julitta would 
 go along with him and, liking him very well by now, 
 was pleased to hear the people praise his cleverness. 
 And once the man won an electro teapot and begged 
 her to take it for a keepsake ; which she did do. 
 
 Of course Simon Keat marked what was doing; but 
 by a curious accident he didn't take it near so serious 
 as the case required, for he set too much store by 
 Julitta's sense, and, sizing up the real character of Billy 
 Nanjulian pretty clever, thought, of course, that the 
 widow had done the same. And that's where he made 
 
THE BETTER MAN 
 
 a big mistake, because, witty though she may be, and a 
 judge of character too, no woman looks at a man same 
 as a man looks at a man. Nature prevents that; and 
 when you add the complication that Billy was mad 
 in love with her and she knew it, then it's plain to see 
 Julitta couldn't regard him with the same critical sort 
 of view that Simon did, or anybody else. 
 
 While Keat, therefore, seeing that Billy was a windy 
 chap without much behind his big voice and big talk, 
 doubted not that clever Julitta had come to the same 
 conclusion, the truth was that she had not. She was a 
 good bit attracted to the stranger; and she liked what 
 she heard about Pennsylvania; and she wasn't sure 
 but what she agreed with him when he told her that she 
 was a head and shoulders too fine a piece to waste her 
 cleverness and beauty in a one-horse hole like St. Tid. 
 He had large views about money too, which rather 
 impressed Julitta, and when he offered for her he said 
 that there was pretty well no limit to his earning pow- 
 ers, and swore that with him to make the dollars and 
 her to save them, there was little doubt that a very 
 great future awaited the pair of 'em in America. For 
 offer he did, after he'd been home two months ; and she 
 said no, but doubtful like, with a pretty good loophole 
 for him to try again. 
 
 And then it was that old Jimmy Nute, who liked 
 Simon Keat and much wanted for Julitta, his god- 
 daughter, to take him, rated the man pretty strongly 
 for holding back and hanging fire in the face of dan- 
 ger. 
 
 " Jimmery," said old Nute, " this here BuU of Bashan 
 
224. CHRONICLES OF ST. TED 
 
 from foreign parts will properly undo you, Simon, if 
 you waste more time about it. The woman's took by 
 him, and if she's not keeping company with the noisy 
 fellow, 'tis the next thing to it. And properly sorry 
 I'd be to see that happen. And, so like as not, all your 
 own stupid fault for holding off it if it does." 
 
 " BiUy Nanjulian ! She couldn't do it, Jimmy," says 
 Simon. 
 
 " And why for couldn't she? " axes old Nute. 
 " Women be cruel clever at doing the things men say 
 they can't do; and for all her brains, she's caught by 
 the showy creature, and 'tis your business to go ahead 
 afore Billy lands her. There's not a day to lose, and 
 'tis touch and go in my opinion, if you're not too late 
 a'ready." 
 
 Simon was fairly scared at that, be sure. " I was 
 waiting for my birthday to come round," he said. 
 
 " Waiting for your grandmother to come round ! " 
 answered the ancient man, who had a wonderful store of 
 fire for three score and ten. " You wait no more, or 
 you'll wait forever. The School Treat's tomorrow, 
 and all the children are going to be took to King 
 Arthur's Castle, at Tintagel; so you go too, and run 
 her to earth as best you can. And don't take no for 
 an answer, else I'll never speak to you no more — nor 
 her either ! " 
 
 " I be going," confessed Simon. " Me and a good 
 few men from our chapel are going to look after the 
 boys." 
 
 "You look after my goddaugther," advised Jimmy 
 Nute, " and if the big feUow comes to queer your pitch, 
 
THE BETTER MAN 225 
 
 give him a proper Cornish hug. Don't you stand no 
 nonsense from him, nor yet from Julitta. Be a man 
 afore her ! " 
 
 For a modest chap, such as Simon Keat, the prospect 
 looked very unpleasant. 'Twas a great shock to hear 
 that Julitta felt a liking for BiUy; but of course he 
 didn't blame her, and doubted not that the stranger's 
 big talk about th& States had rather deceived Mrs. 
 Bunt as to his true character. Anyway, he ordained 
 to follow Jimmy's advice and lose no more time. 
 
 The United Methodists had their School Treat next 
 day, and Simon, with a lot of other grown-up members, 
 made holiday to help give the young 'uns a bit of fun. 
 Julitta was taking Betsy, he knew, and he laid himself 
 out to get in the same two-horse brake with them, when 
 the start was made from St. Tid. But he failed there. 
 And what was worse than the failure followed immedi- 
 ately; for he found that BiUy Nan Julian was coming. 
 Among Billy's other gifts was a pretty touch on the 
 comet. He was a great musicker in fact, and he sat 
 alongside the driver of Julitta's brake and from time 
 to time played American music that made the feet 
 of the children properly tingle to be dancing. And 
 Julitta, from under her eyelashes, admired the back of 
 his head no doubt. 
 
 The School Treat, simply regarded as such, was a 
 very great success; but the event itself was of course 
 quite swallowed up and forgotten by the far-famed 
 thing what happened at it. 
 
 Tintagel is a very fine spot, and the ruins of King 
 
226 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 Arthur's Castle still rise up on a bluff for all the world 
 to see. The land runs out into a knob over the ocean, 
 with hugeous precipices roundabout, and part of the 
 castle stands here — just a door and a window or two, 
 and broken-down walls all covered with stone-crops and 
 the like. And foxgloves grow bravely there, and the 
 sheep browse on the parlous places at cliff edge, and the 
 seagulls build their nests in crannies and on the ledges 
 of the cliffs. You'll see a red-legged Cornish chough 
 there too sometimes ; though that fine bird be grown 
 terrible scarce of late. 'Tis like a slim, well made crow, 
 with scarlet beak and legs, and there's an old, fond tale 
 as says how King Arthur was turned into one when he 
 died — not that I hold with nonsense Uke that being 
 told to the young people; though nowadays, of course, 
 they wouldn't believe it. 
 
 A fine afternoon they had for their fun, and the sea 
 being smooth as glass, which it seldom is on these savage 
 shores, a few boats put out, and to add to their pleasure 
 a lot of boys and girls went out fishing, to see if they 
 could catch a pollack or two. Then, after the great 
 business of tea, Simon Keat, who had eyes for one alone, 
 saw the folk scatter, and marked where Julitta, wander- 
 ing aside with her little one, had crossed the steep place 
 to King Arthur's Castle. He saw them again presently 
 on the top of the grassy down above the ruins ; and he 
 knew it was them because, though Julitta looked like 
 anybody else at that distance, her little Betsy, in a 
 bright, scarlet frock, could be seen for a mile. 
 
 With that, his work done for a moment, Keat started 
 the boys playing cricket, and then slipped off after 
 
THE BETTER MAN 227 
 
 Julitta. The day and the time didn't seem to him 
 overmuch suited to such a delicate piece of work; but 
 he'd got Jimmy Nute's warning ringing in his ears, and 
 so he took his chance and delayed no more. 
 
 But the fact was, as came out after, that Julitta had 
 gone to a lonely spot on t'other side of King Arthur's 
 Head to be out of sight of the land and to meet some- 
 body else. 'Twas Billy Nan Julian's idea, and he'd bade 
 her slip off that way and promised to follow after. A 
 lew comer she found, and watched the sun begin to come 
 down to the sea, while Betsy picked the purple sea 
 lavender as grew there and made a little nosegay of 
 flowers and gulls' feathers for her mother. 
 
 Julitta knew what was coming, and this time she 
 intended to say yes. Deep in thought she was, with the 
 great, shining sea spread afore her and the music of the 
 birds and the glory of the evening catching fire from the 
 sun. And then she heard a man's footstep just behind 
 the stone where she sat, and lifted her head, and smiled, 
 and saw — Simon ! 
 
 He- was there only ten minutes before Billy ; but ten 
 minutes proved quite long enough to do his business. 
 
 'Twas like old times, and when she refused him gently, 
 it seemed to Simon as if the years had rolled back and 
 it was his twenty-second birthday again. She respected 
 him something wonderful, and was always going to be a 
 friend to him in the future, as she had been in the past, 
 and so on. But she felt, taking it all round, that he 
 wasn't the husband for her, and was sure she'd never 
 make him half so happy as he deserved to be. A bit 
 more to the same purpose she said. In fact, she talked 
 
g28 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 more about it than Simon did. He only listened with 
 his mouth open. 
 
 And then came along the conquering hero and told 
 Simon very pleasantly that two was company and three 
 none; and Simon, a man of amazing self-possession, 
 took it very quiet, and was just going oif with his 
 tail between his legs, when that happened to stay his 
 steps. 
 
 Keat had got his back turned and was slouching 
 away, and Billy had just axed Julitta if she knew what 
 he was going to tell her, when a sound louder than the 
 seagulls struck her ears, and the mother knew what it 
 meant if the men did not. 
 
 " 'Tis Betsy t " she screamed out. " Oh, my God ! 
 she's over the cliff ! " 
 
 And true it was. Along of her own affairs, Julitta 
 had forgot aU about the little one, and, seeing her red 
 frock a minute before close at hand, forgot how far a 
 child can go in half a minute. The three of them rushed 
 down a steep place, and then the men went over a ledge 
 or two and the woman scrambled after them. The gulls 
 properly shouted at 'em and swung about across their 
 ears very near close enough to touch 'em with their 
 wings ; and some of the birds laughed, as sea birds will, 
 and it sounded as if they was laughing at their trouble. 
 For forty feet and more below, down in the green 
 water, like a red poppy in a cornfield, was the babby. 
 
 " Thank God 'tis you ! " said Simon to t'other man. 
 " 'Tis a Providence you was sent ! " 
 
 He thought Billy would be in the water afore he could 
 
THE BETTER MAN 229 
 
 finish speaking ; but he thought wrong. 'Twas neck or 
 nothing, of course, and a good chance of death for any 
 man to dive down; but that had not struck Simon. 
 It didn't miss Billy, however — doubtless because he 
 was far cleverer in the sea than the other man. 
 
 " 'Tis a million to one she's dead," he said, and then 
 he turned so white as a dog's tooth. " 'Tis no use los- 
 ing two lives for one. I'll run round to the boats. 'Tis 
 the only chance. No man could go over there and 
 live!" 
 
 Of course such a clever chap was quite right, and 
 Simon ought to have took his word for it. But there 
 was the blessed child sinking and the mother screaming 
 fit to split the cliffs, and, what with one thing and 
 another, before Billy had gone ten yards on his errand 
 of mercy, young Keat took off his coat and his shoes 
 and went over. 
 
 'Twas a fearful drop for a full-grown man; but he 
 kept his wits, and hit the water with his hands well 
 together over his head. And Julitta saw him sink like 
 a stone not three yards from her child — and she always 
 said after that her hair began to grow grey between 
 the time that Simon went under and the time he come 
 up again. She thought he'd struck the bottom and 
 stopped there; but up he rose presently, like a cor- 
 morant, five yards from where he went in, and blew the 
 water from his lips and shook his head and saw the child 
 and got to her. Meantime Master Billy, a bit sur- 
 prised to find that Keat wasn't at his shoulder, did a 
 very fine bit of running indeed, and when he got to the 
 beach under the castle he did a fine bit of rowing also 
 
230 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 and properly knocked the wind out of a sailorman that 
 helped him. Fifteen minutes it was from the time that 
 Betsy tumbled over the cliff to the time the boat came 
 alongside her — time enough for a babby to drown 
 thrice over. She was quickly took out of Simon's arms 
 and put into the boat. And then Simon was pulled in 
 himself ; for he'd had to keep afloat all the time, because 
 there was no landing place ; only deep water to the foot 
 of the great, dawn-facing cliffs. 
 
 And all Simon said, when he catched his wind, was to 
 bellow up to Julitta, " The little child's alive ! " 
 
 And the boatman said, " Thank God the sea was 
 smooth, else you'd have been broke to mincemeat against 
 the rocks." 
 
 And Billy didn't say nothing at all — a very un- 
 usual thing for him to do. The child was insensible; 
 but she lived and got over it. They emptied the water 
 out of her, and the sailor worked at her, and she came to 
 afore they landed. And she knew her mother when 
 Julitta got her arms round her. 
 
 Providence is stronger than us, you see, and 'twas no 
 good Billy planning to wed Julitta after Providence had 
 meant for Simon to do so. And I'm sure nobody but 
 Providence could have thought of such a way to head 
 off that pushing man. Indeed, Billy weren't done with 
 yet, and two days later, when Betsy was out of danger 
 and amazing little the worse for her fearful shock, 
 Nanjulian went into Mrs. Bunt's so bold as brass with 
 a fine new toy for the child. 
 
 He hadn't seen her since the adventure, and she'd 
 
THE BETTER MAN 231 
 
 never thanked him for all he'd done, and she didn't 
 even now; for women be very imreasoning toads, 
 especially where their childer's concerned. She forgot 
 all Nan Julian's trouble, I do believe, and just because 
 he wouldn't go over the cliff at danger of his precious 
 life, her opinions entirely changed about the man. 
 
 " Now we'll start where we left off when Betsy had 
 her adventure," began BiUy, cheerful as ever. 
 
 " And Simon Keat risked his life for her," said 
 Julitta, " and you turned white." 
 
 " That's as may be," began William, little liking her 
 tone of voice ; but she saved him further doubts. 
 
 " You'd best to hear my news first," she said. 
 " You're a very fine swimmer, Mr. Nan Julian, and have 
 won a score of prizes; but the prize that Simon Keat 
 won was more to me than your plated teapot. And 'tis 
 there wrapped up in paper for you. I'm going to ask 
 you to take it back again, because I shan't have no use 
 for it now. 'Twould choke me to drink out of it, I be- 
 lieve. And I'm going to marry Simon. And I stepped 
 over to his house and told him so this morning before he 
 went to work. He wished it, and one good turn 
 desen^es another, and 'tis the very least I can do, in my 
 opinion." • 
 
 So that dashing Billy was disappointed in love once 
 more. 
 
 Old Jimmy Nute declared himself terrible pleased 
 about it. " I told you to be a man afore her, and you 
 was," he said to Simon, " and she knew a man when she 
 saw one ; so you got her." 
 
 Keat also had his little joke over Billy Nan Julian in 
 
232 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 after years. " A mighty fine hero, sure enough, and a 
 much greater swimmer than me of course; but he 
 couldn't dive so well, could he, Julitta? " 
 
 Mrs. Keat had three children, all boys; but I do 
 believe, and so did she, that her husband was just as 
 fond of her first. 
 
 " And well I may be," he'd say to his wife ; " for if 
 there'd been no Betsy for you, there'd have been no 
 Julitta for me." 
 
THE LIE TO THE DEAD 
 
 We was sifting sense and exchanging our opinions at 
 " The One and All " public-house, kept by Richard 
 Male; and, according to the custom of St. Tid, we 
 differed a good bit about deep questions and the right 
 way and the wrong way to read *em. 
 
 Sidney Nosworthy, second foreman at the slate 
 quarries, started, as usual, on one of them tricky prob- 
 lems, so easy to solve at first sight and such a puzzler 
 when you fairly tackle it. He was great for putting 
 posers to the company, having a quick mind and a very 
 romantic disposition. And he could sing, along with 
 his other gifts ; but as a local preacher he wasn't in the , 
 first flight. He*d start very clever, but one thing 
 always led to another with Sidney, when he was preach- 
 ing, and he'd go off, like a feather in a gale of wind, and 
 pile words on words until the idea he started out with 
 was properly lost under the mass of 'em. Then he'd 
 try back, and hunt about and get messed up, though aU 
 in beautiful language ; but no more use to the soul than 
 cheese-cakes to a pig. Not but what his doctrine was 
 sound. In all his flights he never said anything he 
 didn't ought ; but there was nothing to it, if you under- 
 stand me. 'Twas like starting to let down a glass of ale 
 and finding a tmnbler of froth. 
 
 Often, however, he'd start solider men on the track 
 
 of a notion, and sometimes his questions would lead to 
 
 233 
 
CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 a good tale, or put one of our older members in mind 
 of something worth repeating. And so it was on this 
 particular night, for when Sidney raised a nice point, it 
 minded me how the very same kicklish question had 
 come before me in a critical case, and what I'd done 
 about it. 
 
 " There's lots of questions in this world that can 
 only be answered in the next," so Nosworthy was say- 
 ing, and old Moses Bunt, who always contradicted him 
 on principle, and everybody else, too, for that matter, 
 denied it. 
 
 " There's no question ever comes up an understanding 
 human can't answer," he replied ; " and because you 
 see a lot of things happen to puzzle you, it don't follow 
 that a bald-headed old ancient man, like me, would be 
 puzzled. 
 
 " Because you wouldn't have enough brains to under- 
 stand the question," answered Sidney, who much dis- 
 liked old Bunt. " No doubt you'd answer it. You're 
 the sort would always think you knew. But would you, 
 answer right? Look here, now: be it ever proper to 
 break your promise to the dead.'' That's what I want 
 to know ; and don't you think, because it looks so mighty 
 easy, that it is." 
 
 " If it ain't easy, then you're no Christian," retorted 
 Bunt upon Sidney. " For my part I never heard any- 
 thing easier, and the man who can be in doubt about it 
 idden no friend of mine." 
 
 " Not that I ever heard anybody ever wanted to be," 
 answered Nosworthy, who was far too quick of tongue 
 for Moses. " But since it's so terrible easy, perhaps 
 
THE LIE TO THE DEAD 235 
 
 you'll give us the answer, and see if we be all of one mind 
 about it." 
 
 " The answer is," declared Bunt, holding out his pint 
 pot for Richard Male to fill again — " the answer is 
 ' No.' Never under any manner of chances, no matter 
 what the size of 'em, did a mortal man ought to lie to 
 the dead." 
 
 I listened and said nought, while they all agreed with 
 Moses, except Nosworthy. He didn't disagree, neither, 
 but wouldn't let it go at that. 
 
 " You may be in the right," he allowed, " but there's 
 a lot might happen, and we know that the spirit often 
 conflicts with the letter and the letter with the spirit." 
 
 But Moses wouldn't hear it. 
 
 " A lie's a lie," he said, " and a lie to them in their 
 graves be the wickedest, cowardest sort of lie. No fay 
 — nothing ever could happen to make it right. And 
 him as told such a lie would go haunted to his own 
 grave without a doubt." 
 
 'Twas just candle-teening, I remember, and Richard 
 Male struck a light as I spoke. 
 
 " I'm with Sidney," I said, " and I'm as old as you, 
 Moses, so you may take it I don't differ for the sake 
 of differing. There's times," I said, " when it might 
 be in seemly good reason to break your promise to a 
 dead man; and I don't say it lightly, for it happened 
 to me, and so you may be sure I've had to iace the 
 trouble in a way none of you chaps ever had, or ever be 
 likely to have." 
 
 They was terrible interested, for I'm a silent member, 
 as. a rule, and would sooner list than tell. 
 
CHRONICLES. OF ST. TID 
 
 Then Nosworthy said one of the cleverest things that 
 ever he did say. 
 
 " To break a promise might be the best way to keep 
 it sometimes," he declared, and all the other men thought 
 he was only talking foolishness ; but with my experience 
 behind me, I knew 'twas a very deep saying. 
 
 'Twas a bit backalong and beyond the memory of 
 most of 'em; but Moses Bunt remembered the parties, 
 and when I named Benj amin Nute, a scornful expression 
 came in his countenance. 
 
 " That antic," he said. " Who wants to hear tell 
 about him.'' " 
 
 He'd been a quarryman, Ben had — one of the rock- 
 men, as we call 'em — and his work had took him down 
 into the pit. He served the drill very clever; but not 
 the air-drill which is in use nowadays. In Ben's time 
 it was all hand work, and he'd make the holes for gun- 
 powder or dynamite, as the need happened to be, and 
 always knew by a sort of instinct where to put 'em. 
 He was ever the last to run from the lighted fuse, when 
 the whistle went for a blasting, and he took a bit of risk, 
 too, sometimes — to put a little salt in his life, as he 
 said. For he was a man much like Nosworthy in a 
 fashion, and had ideas beyond quarrying, and felt a 
 pleasure in bud-break and the fall of the leaf, and other 
 such-like everyday things, that most folk don't heed 
 more than a cow heeds the rain. 
 
 Then came salt into Ben's life with a ^vengeance — 
 and pepper and mustard, too. And they took the usual 
 shape, for the thing that be sure to hit that dreamy, 
 fanciful sort of chap sooner or later is a female ; and a 
 
THE LIE TO THE DEAD 
 
 girl it was that taught Master Ben how life had some- 
 thing in it more exciting than gunpowder, or even 
 dynamite. They be poor explosives, after all, com- 
 pared to the " weaker sex," as some joker have called 
 'em ; and, for that matter, women varies in their powers 
 of a bust-up just so much as black powder and nitro- 
 glycerine, or that terror by the name of cordite. For 
 the powder heaves gently, and the dynamite scats all 
 abroad like the lightning, and the cordite properly puts 
 the house out of windows and shakes a man to his boot- 
 soles and turns the cliff-face into dust. 
 
 Janet she was called, one of the Parsons family, 
 and she had two brothers rock-men, and her father was 
 in the dressing-sheds — a slate-splitter and a very clever 
 man. They were a fiery race, dark-haired and red- 
 faced, and good chapel people, save Janet, who always 
 minched when she could. But she loved singing, and 
 was a great loss to the chapel choir. Like a bird she 
 could trill ; but hadn't no use for Wesley's hymns, more 
 shame to her. She properly beat her family and went 
 her own way, and was a lazy, lovely good-for-nothing. 
 Vain, too. She'd frape herself in at the waist like a 
 wasp, and crimp her hair and read story-books; but 
 no wickedness was in her — only foolishness. Her 
 father, Harry Parsons, spoiled her from the cradle and 
 never chid her, so it wasn't her fault altogether. Her 
 mother was dead, and she looked after her father and 
 brothers. 
 
 Then she got acquainted with Ben Nute. There was 
 a field where a bull was wont to run down under Mel- 
 rose, which be a part of St. Tid, and Ben he often went 
 
CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 that way and crossed the field, just for the salt of the 
 thing. And once the bull was there and pressed him 
 hard; but he escaped. Then, passing that way, in a 
 mild hope the creature might be round-about, he met a 
 girl fleeing to him in a proper terror with the bull 
 behind her. But Ben kept his wits, and bade her run 
 for her life, and got between her and the buU ; and then 
 Nute ran t'other way and put Bulley in two minds, and 
 by the time he'd decided and was off with his head down 
 after the girl again, she'd got to the hedge and 
 scrambled through it. 
 
 Ben saw her home after that, and, being very well 
 known to her brothers as a good sort, they asked him to 
 tea come Sunday ; and he went. 
 
 It began like that, and in a month, or six weeks, him 
 and Janet was walking out. Not tokened, of course, 
 nor nothing like that, but just to size each other up and 
 see what they thought of one another's ideas. 
 
 I wouldn't say 'twas all one way by any means, for 
 she liked him a lot from the first, and though the poetry 
 in the man puzzled her, she thought it rather fine ; and 
 she liked a lot else about him, including his dark eyes 
 and deep voice. Besides, he was given to doubting 
 accepted things, and disinclined to believe a plan was 
 right just because it had been followed for hundreds of 
 years. A bit of a rebel, in fact, and that alone drew 
 Janet. She loved to hear him laugh at the accepted 
 order of creation at St. Tid, and, finding she wasn't 
 bound down to things as they were, he opened out a 
 bit and fairly astonished her with his opinions, for he 
 was a man of gentle nature. But he frightened her 
 
THE LIE TO THE DEAD 239 
 
 also, and when she told her father how terrible bold Ben 
 Nute could be, the man was properly shocked, and 
 advised Janet to steer clear of such a rash and reckless 
 thinker. So she kept her mouth shut after that; and 
 then Ben, who was chin-deep in love by now, offered 
 himself and proposed marriage, and said that if she'd 
 come and live along with him and his old mother, she'd 
 never repent it. Janet didn't want no old mothers, 
 however; but, of course, she couldn't say so, and as 
 Mrs. Nute was a very ailing woman and might drop any 
 time, she didn't let that stand in the way for the moment. 
 She'd got conditions to put, but felt it wasn't the time, 
 besides being perfectly sure he'd fall in with them when 
 she liked to name them. And so, loving the man very 
 well for the minute, she took him, and he said, " Glory 
 be ! " and walked on air. 
 
 Ben certainly did love her with all his heart, and she 
 knew it, and doubted not she'd be able to twist him 
 round her finger as easily as her wedding-ring when the 
 time came. 
 
 But it never did, and the path of his true love ran 
 skew from the start. He'd hardly got Janet afore he 
 lost her again, and that in a very unexpected fashion. 
 For when it came to the conditions, much to her surprise 
 and mine, for that matter — because I was his friend 
 and knew his secrets — he couldn't see his way. 
 
 She asked for a thing you might have thought, know- 
 ing Ben, he'd have found as easy as splitting slate; 
 and yet, such is the contrariness of human nature, he 
 wouldn't agree, for all his love. My own impression 
 is that it were less the thing than Janet's manner of 
 
240 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 asking for it; and yet, again, that's doubtful, too, for 
 you'd never have thought he could have denied her. It 
 showed guiding strings deep down in his nature and 
 an instinct that was stronger than his love. In a word, 
 she wanted Ben to promise he'd up stick and away from 
 St. Tid the minute his mother was teeled.-*^ 
 
 " You'll be so glad to go as me, I reckon," she told 
 the man. " I'm sick to death of this stuffy hole, and 
 want to go to America. There's more Comishmen in 
 Pennsylvania slate quarries than at St. Tid nowadays, 
 and I'm for America — so you've got to promise to 
 chuck St. Tid. You'll have a bit of cash when your 
 mother dies, I suppose, so there you are ; and I've a 
 right to ax it and I do ax it." 
 
 He allowed she'd a right to ax, and added that he'd 
 a right to refuse; but this she didn't see, and I be- 
 lieve from the very first minute, she felt he was not 
 going to do her bidding in that particular. They talked 
 for and against for a week, and then Janet put it to 
 her father, and he sided with Ben. She'd told Mr. 
 Parsons and her brothers that, if they'd got a bit of 
 pluck, they'd come too ; but her father was weU up at 
 St. Tid, and Ben himself stood to be under-foreman in 
 five years, so they was both against her, and though her 
 brothers were willing enough to go, she couldn't go 
 without a husband. 
 
 Then she turned nasty. 
 
 " You're a silly old buffle-head," she said to Ben. 
 " We can't all bide here for ever, like mites in a cheese, 
 1 Tteled. Buried. 
 
THE LIE TO THE DEAD 241 
 
 and if I'd known you were so mean-spirited, I'd never 
 have taken you — no fay, I wouldn't." 
 
 " Use your sense," he answered. " You be the 
 wittiest woman in St. Tid, and I can't believe my ears to 
 hear you telling so foolish." 
 
 He was patience made alive with her, for he loved the 
 ground she walked upon ; but he felt, with his position 
 and prospects, it would be a great mistake to leave St. 
 Tid for her sake. But she wouldn't hear him, and took 
 a very scornful line indeed, and ridiculed him for a 
 stay-at-home gawk, with no more sense than a silly 
 school-girl. Then his pride and his love clashed a bit, 
 and afore one had got the bettermost of the other, a 
 startling thing happened. They'd had another long 
 wrangle, and when he came into my cottage a few days 
 later, I could see he was pretty well beat about it. He 
 axed my advice — a thing no sensible man offers to 
 lovers any more than he would to married people — but 
 I felt a bit hot for him, because the girl had been calling 
 him rude names and showing a very unamiable tem- 
 per, and so I said that, if he wanted my view, he could 
 have it. 
 
 " You've got your self-respect, I believe, Ben," I 
 said, " and there's few things be worse to lose, especially 
 for a married man. Don't you stand it, and don't you 
 hear no more about it. If she's going to put her fun 
 and love of gadding before your welfare and her future 
 prosperity, then she's a fool. You take my tip and 
 hold off her altogether for a month, and let her silly 
 head cool, and let her see what life's like without you. 
 
M2 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 And then, when next you go walking, and she begins on 
 it again — but there, she won't. She'll know, if you 
 hold off, you're niffed ^ and she'll be sorry, and tread a 
 bit softer in future." 
 
 " 'Tis as much for her sake I'm firm as for my 
 own," explained poor Ben. " I'm thinking of her 
 future, and I'll never go so high in a new place as I 
 shall here; besides, money don't run half so far out 
 there. All the chaps that come back will tell you 
 that." 
 
 He talked sensible, but did the other thing. He 
 started to take my advice, and it played the very mis- 
 chief with him, which I'U own, for after he'd kept away 
 from her for a week, he was fairly dying of love for the 
 girl, and the experiment was hurting him a lot worse 
 than her. It made him lose his self-respect, which was 
 just what I wanted to save for him, and it made her 
 properly wicked. In fact, her love was a pretty poor 
 sample, in my opinion, and didn't stand the strain he 
 put on it. He stuck to it for a fortnight, and then 
 called on me late one evening ; in a fearful frame of mind 
 he was, with perspiration fairly streaming down his 
 face and his heart broken. 
 
 " It's all over," he said. " I've done it now." 
 
 " Begin at the beginning," I answered, " and take a 
 dollop of spirits afore you start. You'm wisht as a 
 winnard, and your eyes be bulging." 
 
 " I've seen her. I've just left her. I've told her I 
 can't live like this no more, and that 'tis living death 
 without her. I've thrown it up and promised to go to 
 1 Niffed. Vexed. 
 
THE LIE TO THE DEAD 
 
 the ends of the earth, if she likes, as soon as my mother's 
 dead." 
 
 " Aw jimmery ! " I said. " You'll make a bally-muck 
 of married life if you do that, Ben." 
 
 " No, I shan't, " he said ; " but I'll make a bally-muck 
 of single life. I shan't be wedded now." 
 
 " Not wedded ! " I cried out. 
 
 " Everything be scat abroad now," he went on, and 
 the tears were streaming down his face. " She just 
 turned round — 'twas outside the churchyard I met her 
 — she turned round and said I'd comed to my senses too 
 late, and I didn't suppose as she'd bided to be a laugh- 
 ing-stock till I cared to speak to her again. ' You poor 
 chitter-faced thing,' she said, ' do 'e think I've been 
 waiting with my 'ankercher to my eyes for you to mend 
 your beastly manners ? Not me — I ain't that sort. 
 I'm tokened to Tom Retallack — that's what I am — a 
 man whose boots you bain't worthy to black. And 
 never you speak to me no more, because I won't have 
 it ! ' So there it is, and my life's ruined." 
 
 "Tom Retallack!" I said. "Why he's no older 
 than her, and be so poor as a beetle. She started 
 walking out with him a year ago, and her father stopped 
 it the minute he heard of it." 
 
 Then I told Ben to keep up his pecker, and offered to 
 take forty shillings or a month out of Tom myself — 
 just for friendship; but somehow he knowed it was all 
 up from the first, and time proved he was right. The 
 woman was like a vixen, and not her father nor anybody 
 would make her budge. She stuck to Retallack and 
 went her way, though she calmed down in a month, and 
 
244 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 sought out Ben and axed his forgiveness, which he 
 granted. But she didn't throw Tom over, and there 
 was nothing more to say about it. A curious case of a 
 woman doing a thing in a passion and sticking to the 
 consequences when she was cool again. She told me, 
 long after, that it was all for the best, because she'd 
 always liked Tom, and reckoned his nature was better 
 suited to her own than Ben's. 
 
 " I should always have bullied Ben," she confessed. 
 " He's built for some one to bully ; and that would have 
 made a lot of trouble, and he'd have hated me in course 
 of time." 
 
 'Twas easy to arrange it all like that ; but Ben never, 
 never got over it, and was a changed man from that 
 day. He went about as though he'd had an accident 
 and broken himself up, and so he had — where he 
 couldn't be mended ; for to his dying hour his love for 
 that woman didn't waver. He'd made a picture of her 
 in his heart, and time couldn't wipe it out or put another 
 there. 
 
 They was all friends again in six months, and, of 
 course, Tom Retallack promised Janet that, when the 
 time came, he'd be up and away with her to America. 
 But it was a safe thing to promise, because well he knew 
 the time never would come. He only earned eighteen 
 bob a week, and it looked as though the pair of 'em 
 would be grey-headed afore ever he'd get enough to put 
 a roof over her head, let alone fly across the sea. 
 
 But Janet trusted to time, and told Ben one day — 
 the day he buried his mother, it was, and a great rally 
 of neighbours beside the grave — ' that she'd never given 
 
THE LIE TO THE DEAD 245 
 
 up the hope and the longing to go abroad and see the 
 world. And he was gentle with her, and said that for 
 her sake he hoped it would happen some day. Because 
 they'd got to be quite good friends, and he could bear 
 to talk to her and see her along with Retallack. They'd 
 even got so far that she would beg him to look round 
 and find a maiden to share his home now his mother 
 was gone. But he'd smile at her, and thank her for the 
 good advice, and say there was none bom could ever do 
 that. 
 
 A few months later happened a nine days' wonder, 
 and Tom Retallack fell in with his famous windfall. 
 Just the most amazing come-by-chance that ever was 
 heard tell about, and a thing that even got into the 
 newspapers — as well it might. A Bank Holiday 'twas, 
 and him and Janet took their food and tramped to 
 Brown-Willy — the great tor that you see rising up 
 over the Cornish moors to the east of St. Tid. A fine 
 place, sure enough, and good for a holiday and a breath 
 of air, but desolate as sin — the home of the fox and 
 the hawk. Yet in that barren place if Retallack didn't 
 come by his money! 'Twas after him and Janet had 
 ate their food and was playing about, and she was pick- 
 ing whortleberries and he was smoking his pipe, when 
 he seed a little tin box, rusty and battered, 'pon top of 
 a boulder. He flung stones at it to knock it down, and 
 presently he did so, and the box fell twenty feet into the 
 green grass under, and scat open when it struck the 
 turf. 'Twas full of white paper, and when they come 
 to look, they found the paper was money! All good 
 Bank of England notes, and the girl counted 'em, and 
 
246 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 they stood for five hundred and fifteen pound! They 
 thought they must be drunk or dreaming, but there 
 weren't no mistake — 'twas real live cash, and they took 
 it home and built pretty castles in the air as they went, 
 no doubt. But when the time came, and they'd got 
 used to it, Tom, being a very straight man, advertised 
 the find and doubted not that the owner would come 
 forward and the queer thing be explained. The only 
 question in his mind was how much he'd be likely to 
 get for the recovery. But nought happened and none 
 came forward ; so, after leaving it at that for three 
 months, it looked as though all was right, and Retallack 
 might fairly claim the money. Which he did do, 
 naturally, and everybody wished him joy of it, and we 
 had a good few free drinks along with the man, you may 
 be sure. 
 
 Then, come winter, he wedded, and Ben and me was 
 at the wedding with a good few other friends. And 
 Tom Retallack took his wife away to America — to the 
 quarries in Pennsylvania — and we heard little more 
 about 'em for five years. But from time to time came a 
 letter from the woman to her father. She bore chil- 
 dren, and weren't none too happy, by all accounts. 
 Nothing to catch hold of, but it read as if her and 
 her husband didn't always see alike. He'd got work, 
 but nothing wonderful, and it began to look presently 
 as if the pair of 'em was homesick, and might return to 
 St. Tid afore they was much older. 
 
 Then we lost Ben Nute. He was struck down by an 
 empty tumbril running fast from the top of the hill to 
 the pit. He'd got his back to it, and was standing in 
 
THE LIE TO THE DEAD M7 
 
 the line dreaming, and didn't hear the warning. The 
 poor chap had his pin-bone ^ broke, and a good few of 
 his ribs, and his left arm. 'Twas a pretty hopeless case 
 from the first, and I don't think he much wanted to get 
 over it, for he'd have been a crooked cripple to his 
 dying day if he'd lived. Anyhow, he made no fight to 
 live, and sank away and perished ten days after his 
 fatal smash. 
 
 We was all terrible sorry, and the quarry fairly 
 turned out to the burying, and we lined the grave with 
 moss and daffadowndillies for the man. So he went 
 in along with his mother, and his place knew him no 
 more. I never lost a better friend or a kinder neigh- 
 bour. 
 
 Then — a year after, it might have been — the Retal- 
 lacks came home, with three very nice little children. 
 But there was a cloud had come up between them, 
 owing to differences of nature, and though Tom got 
 work and was taken on again, and found a cottage to 
 suit him and all, yet it weren't a happy home, and he 
 said to me more than once that he wished he'd bided out 
 to America and let Janet return with her little ones. 
 And she'd" talk to me, too, and often wish her cake was 
 dough again and she a maiden still. They'd make me 
 listen to their secrets, though little I wanted to do 
 so, and I took a lot of interest in 'em for their own 
 sakes as well as for the sake of a dead man. It seemed 
 to me there was no very deep difference between 'em; 
 but they jarred on each other over the children more 
 than anything, and the right and wrong way to bring 
 1 Pin-bone. Thigh-bone. 
 
MS CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 'em up. And the eldest, he was called Ben, after Nute, 
 who'd stood gossip to him ; because, differ as they might, 
 neither Tom nor Janet ever spoke his name without 
 kindness. 
 
 So there it was, and after they'd been back in Delabole 
 a year, it might be, the crash came, and Tom dropped 
 in upon me one fine night and told me he was off. 
 
 " Can't stand no more," he said. " It be telling on 
 my nerve, and a quarryman's no' good to nobody with- 
 out that. I'm going to leave my wife — it's all over 
 bar shouting. She'll have my money and not my 
 company, and all's for the best. I'm cruel sorry about 
 it, and she's a lot put about; but I've threatened too 
 often, and now I'm going to perform. I shall seek work 
 at Penrhyn in Wales, so as not to be too far off my 
 childer ; but if it's not to be got there, I go back to the 
 States." 
 
 Well, I was properly shocked and much troubled to 
 know how far things had drifted; and just then, just 
 while I was talking sense to the man, in came his wife 
 with the same story, not knowing he was along with me. 
 
 And then, neighbours, it all came over me in a flash, 
 and I lied to the dead, 
 
 I dare say your quick wits can put the rest of the tale 
 together very suent ; but, of course, they'd never guessed 
 it, and no more had any other mortal. For pure love 
 of the girl, Ben Nute had played his little trick, and, 
 after his mother died, had planned to give her the money 
 that then belonged to him. He couldn't just hand it 
 over, of course, for she'd never have took it; but he 
 cudgelled his brains, and finally hit on the thought to 
 
THE LIE TO THE DEAD 249 
 
 stick it under the eyes of the man, or woman, on some 
 occasion when and where they was bound to see. And 
 so, after he knew where they was oiF that Bank Holiday, 
 he overgot 'em, and reached the tor afore they did, and 
 put his old box and his money where they wasn't likely 
 to miss it. It might have bided in that homy-winky 
 spot half a year without any eye but a raven's 
 seeing it; so, to make all safe, Ben himself hid not far 
 distant till he marked that all was right ; then he sloped 
 off home unseen and unguessed. And he told me the 
 story, and made me swear that not on my very death- 
 bed would I ever tell it again to mortal ear. 
 
 And yet I broke that oath, and I'll always hold to 
 it that a Voice louder than my own senses ordered me 
 so to do. I told the pair of 'em how Ben Nute had 
 plotted for 'em and planned for 'em to wed and to go 
 where Janet willed ; and how money was nothing to the 
 lonely man, but that, knowing what it would be to 
 them, he had gived it all up gladly for their happiness 
 and welfare. 
 
 " And now," I said, " knowing that, I dare you — I 
 properly dare you two to make his beautiful deed a 
 thing of nought. For honour and love of that good 
 chap, you can't break up all he planned for you. 
 You've got to bide together and puU together — by God, 
 you have ! I've broke my oath," I said, " and I'm in 
 my Maker's Hand ; but I leave it to you to judge if such 
 a far-reaching and dangerous thing as that is all to go 
 in vain." 
 
 They didn't think much of me, however ; they was far 
 too much occupied with what Ben Nute had done. 
 
250 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 " We was all surprised but me when he didn't die 
 worth twopence," I said, " and now you two people 
 know the reason; and you also know, I should hope, 
 what to do about it. You've got to be reconciled for 
 the memory of that proper man, and if you part now, 
 knowing what I've told 'e, you ain't the creatures I've 
 took 'e for." 
 
 They was hot-hearted, hot-headed things, and in the 
 emotion of the moment I could see I'd got my way. 
 Janet cried a bucket, and they went home together, 
 and though I'm bound to say in cold blood the next 
 morning I doubted if I'd not told my great lie to Ben 
 Nute in vain, yet Him as made me tell it was wiser than 
 us, and the story turned out as well as I could have 
 wished. They saw it and they felt it; and though it 
 seemed, perhaps, a far-away, dead thing to breed such 
 a living result — there it was : it worked and held them 
 together — the cement of a dead man's love. 
 
 That was the story I told in " The One and All," and 
 Sidney Nosworthy, who started me, declared that I'd 
 proved very clever how a lie might be justified even to 
 the dead; but Moses Bunt and another here and there 
 were far from convinced, and Moses said that to teU a 
 dead man's secret for the sake of a pair of cranky fools, 
 like they Retallacks, was not a thing he should ever 
 forgive me, for one. And he never did. 
 
 So the question still remains to answer, though for 
 my part, if it all happened over again tomorrow, I 
 shouldn't do no different. I don't say it's right, and I 
 don't say it's wrong; but I just say that's how I'd act — 
 as we aJl must, according to our natures. 
 
FARMER SLEEP'S SAVINGS 
 
 The Lord's hand goeth light here and heavy there, 
 
 and His ways with man are full of mystery; for none 
 
 can say why for He'll be gentle with the wicked and 
 
 hard with the virtuous man, or why for He chastens 
 
 them He loves best, or lets the famous sinner flourish 
 
 like the green bay-tree in the sight of the nation. But 
 
 this I know from my own amazing experience, that He 
 
 tackles good and bad in one fashion only, and that idden 
 
 according to human manners and customs, but because 
 
 He can see the end from the beginning, and knows the 
 
 manner of mind we be moulded in, and what firing each 
 
 man and woman needs to make them useful crockery, 
 
 so as they shall justify their existence in this world and 
 
 save their souls in the next. 
 
 To look at me, an old chapel member and useful in 
 
 the pulpit, a man well thought upon and known to be 
 
 honest and patient and trustworthy, and a man ever 
 
 ready to advise the young out of long experience, and a 
 
 father of a grown family doing good work in the world 
 
 — to look at me, Tobias Hawke of St. Tid, you'd think 
 
 you saw an old chap as had been blessed with sense and 
 
 religion and wise parents and a good disposition from 
 
 his youth up ; and yet if you thought so, you'd think 
 
 as wrong as could be. For till I was one and twenty 
 
 years of age I'd got no sense nor yet religion, but a 
 
 proper wilful temper and a rebellious character, and 
 
 251 
 
252 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 didn't care no more about doing my duty to my neigh- 
 bour than a tom-cat does. Right down wicked, in fact. 
 And as for my parents, they be underground now, and 
 so enough said; but truth's truth, and it won't hurt 
 'em to tell it, and the truth is that my father spent half 
 his time locked up for poaching or worse, and my poor 
 mother, as might have been good with another sort of 
 man, was wicked with father, and she lost her self- 
 respect and went down hill, and died afore she was fifty 
 along of being intemperate. She took to the bottle to 
 drown her sorrows, poor woman, and, as often happens 
 with females, the bottle soon drowned her. So the 
 people said I had bad blood in me, which was true, 
 and when they turned me out of the quarries for no 
 fault but laziness and slackness, it looked as if I should 
 have to wait longer than I wanted to get more work. 
 
 My mother was dead then, and my father happened 
 to be going straight for the minute and making a sort 
 of living doing a bit of fish jowstering, and he cussed me 
 for losing my job proper, and said I was a disgrace to 
 him and such like. But I took no 'count of him, be- 
 cause it was his way to be cruel virtuous between his 
 lapses. What I had to do was to get work or go for 
 an emigrant to Canada, and if it hadn't been for a girl 
 by the name of Betty Bake — one of the Bakes of New- 
 hall Mill — I dare say I should have gone. Only seven- 
 teen year old she was, but she and me were tokened on 
 the quiet. Her mother never would have allowed it if 
 she'd knowed; but she didn't know, and nobody knew, 
 because Betty liked mystery, so we kept company in 
 secret, and meant to marry some day and surprise St. 
 
FARMER SLEEP'S SAVINGS 253 
 
 Tid. That couldn't be, however, till I'd scraped a bit 
 of cash, and when I lost my quarry job, Betty pulled 
 a face, and I was half afeared she'd throw me over. 
 Terrible fond of money she was, and no more particular 
 than me how she comed by it; and if there'd been any 
 way at St. Tid for me to get a bit, little she'd have cared 
 how I did. But there weren't no doubtful silver to be 
 picked up in our church-town, for 'twas always a poor 
 and God-fearing place, with more chapels than pubs in 
 it. So, though I'd have done wrong for money just as 
 soon as right in them evil days of my youth, there didn't 
 seem none to tempt me, and I wore out a pair of boots 
 looking for honest work, and at last I found some along 
 with Farmer WiUiam Sleep of Lanteglos Meadows. 
 
 A hundred acres and no more the man had, but it 
 was his own, and he made a bare living out of it, and 
 after getting a fortnight's job in the hay-fields, and 
 working harder than ever I worked before, and behaving 
 so good as gold, you may say, to gain my own ends, I 
 asked him to let me stop, and swore he'd never regret 
 it if he did. 
 
 He was an old man, thin as a new-come woodcock, 
 and rather bird-like himself, for that matter ; for he had 
 a pointed nose and a sloping brow and a bald head and 
 a mouth like a slit in a money-box. An excitable, bird- 
 witted sort of man. A suspicious chap, too, and 
 wouldn't trust nobody. Easily scared off an opinion 
 and prone to distrust his own judgment, and much given 
 to fretting and grizzling and prophesying bad luck that 
 never happened. And when some other old chap would 
 laugh at him afterward, and point out how he'd worried 
 
S54. CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 for naught, Fanner Sleep would say it was his undying 
 custom to look on the dark side, because it was better 
 not to be disappointed, and if things didn't fall out so 
 bad as he feared, then he'd get a mite of comfort, which 
 was all to the good. A widow-man he was, and thought 
 to be harmless enough. 
 
 " Why for did they chuck you from the quarries .'' " 
 he asked me when I begged to be took on regular. 
 
 " Because I didn't neighbour to the work, Master," 
 I told him. " I was a rock man, and I hated it, and my 
 heart weren't in it. But I'm properly fond of the land 
 and very wishful to lam farming, for my nature goes 
 out to it." 
 
 I discovered after that he'd been in two minds for a 
 good bit about sacking his second man; and as he 
 believed my yam and liked the look of me, he took me 
 on. He drove a pretty tight bargain for a start, but 
 he said, if I was so good as my promises, he'd rise me 
 after six months, so I left the room where I'd lodged in 
 St. Tid with my mother's sister, and took up my quar- 
 ters in a little dormer attic in the roof of Lanteglos 
 Meadows Farm. And I worked hard, and soon found 
 that the way to please old Sleep was to keep my mouth 
 shut and stick to my job. 
 
 I didn't get much time to play about, but me and 
 Betty met Sundays, and I was always on the lookout 
 on the quiet to find something with more money to it 
 and less work. After six months I got fifteen shilling a 
 week, and after another six I got a pound, and when he 
 gave it to me, farmer said I mustn't count on no more 
 rises for a month o' Sundays and more, because things 
 
FARMER SLEEP'S SAVINGS 255 
 
 were terrible tight and he'd had proper bad luck with 
 his lambs. Which was true. 
 
 And Betty was getting a bit restive and wondering 
 if we could wed on fifty-two pound a year, and I was 
 half in a mind to try, when a bank broke, and •! took to 
 crooked ways and did evil in the sight of the Lord. 
 The parties are all gone but me now, so I can tell the 
 story, and seeing that I'm the villain of the tale and 
 covered with confusion and shame, you might very well 
 wonder how I care to do it. But I do it for conscience' 
 sake, and for a lesson to the young men and maidens to 
 go straight and fear their Maker. 
 
 'Twas Trebow and Trelissick's bank that broke — a 
 private affair, held so safe as the Bank of England by 
 folk in North Cornwall ; and it hit a lot of poor people 
 cruel hard and frightened the rest. And Trelissick got 
 two years in prison, for 'twas proved he knew in good 
 time what was coming and hadn't been straight; but 
 Trebow was in his grave ten years before, so he was 
 taken from the wrath to come. 
 
 Well, as I say, not only them that were hit, but them 
 that escaped, fovmd themselves in a rare flutter over 
 this sad come-along-of-it, and nobody was in a greater 
 terror than my master. He hadn't lost a penny, but 
 he properly lost his nerve, and he declared most stead- 
 fast that when one broke, 'twas deathly certain you'd 
 very soon hear a lot more would follow after. 
 
 " No more banks for me," he said. " I'U have my 
 money where I know where to put my hands on it in 
 future." 
 
 And the very next day he donned his market clothes 
 
256 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 and went to Launceston, and come back presently with 
 a very heavy hand-bag, what I had to carry for him 
 from the station. 
 
 Then the silly old man had another fright, for no 
 sooner was his cash safe hid somewhere — none knew 
 where — than Orchard Farm, betwixt our place and St. 
 Tid, was broke into by night, and a bit of money took, 
 and some Sheffield plate. 
 
 It properly worried William Sleep, I do assure *e; 
 and if he'd had any hair left, I doubt it would have 
 turned white with fear. 
 
 Mrs. Beale, our housekeeper at Lanteglos Meadows, 
 spoke to me about it. 
 
 " He's between the dowl and the deep sea, poor soul," 
 she said, " and his nerves be all over the place. For 
 if he keeps his money, so like as not 'twill be stolen 
 from him, for they thieves always smell it out; and if 
 he puts it in a bank, the bank will be sure to break. 
 So he's in a proper tantara; and that shows money's 
 a cuss, whichever way you look at it, and the more 
 cash the more worrit." 
 
 " How much might he have, ma'am .'' " I a^ked. 
 
 " He might have a million from the way it frets him," 
 she told me. " But what 'tis I don't know and don't 
 want to know." 
 
 Farmer fussed and fumed for two days and was al- 
 ways running up to his sleeping-room at all sorts of odd 
 times ; then a terrible queer thing happened, and my 
 troubles and temptations began. 
 
 There weren't no blind to my window, and I was 
 lying awake one night bothering about Betty Bake, 
 
FARMER SLEEP'S SAVINGS 257 
 
 for we'd had words, when I see a light flash up against 
 the ceiling over my head. The clock downstairs had 
 just gone two, so that I knew no common thing was 
 afoot, and as the light moved and disappeared* I went 
 to my little window and looked out. 'Twas rainy, 
 with a hidden moon, and I very clearly saw a man 
 moving below, and thought as the burglar had found 
 us at last. But in a minute I saw 'twas no burglar, 
 but Farmer Sleep himself. He carried a lantern in one 
 hand and a lump of something in t'other, and I saw 
 him go across the farm-yard into a byre, where the 
 hand tools was kept, and a minute later he came out 
 with a spade. Then he stood and listened for half a 
 minute, and then he went off by the lane to the orchard. 
 
 Of course I guessed very quick what he was up to, 
 and the spirit of adventure got hold of me ; so I pulled 
 on my trousers and my coat and took my boots in my 
 hand and slipped down-house and out. He'd shut the 
 front door after him, but I went in the scullery and 
 out o' the window as quiet as an owl. Then I got on 
 my boots, and very soon was in the orchard. I stood 
 still for a bit, and presently, a good ways off, heard the 
 old man digging. So I crept forward on my hands 
 and knees, and soon saw he was very busy under an old 
 walnut-tree that stood in the comer of the orchard. 
 There was a pile of " deads " and rubbish under the 
 tree, as had been there time out of mind. 'Twas a cor- 
 ner no good for nothing, and us went there but once a 
 year, when the walnuts was ripe, to beat the tree and 
 gather *em. 
 
 I watched, and didn't have to wait long, for the old 
 
258 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 chap had soon dug a hole a yard into the rubbish-heap. 
 And that done, he thrust in his parcel, and rammed 
 it home with his foot, and made all same as it was before. 
 He held up his lantern then to see that everything was 
 suent, and evidently felt he'd done a mighty clever 
 thing, for he gave a grunt, which he only did when he 
 was pleased, and then he douted the lantern and crept 
 back home. Not ten yards did he walk away from me ; 
 but I was lying curled up like a hedgehog, and silent 
 as a stone, you may be sure. 
 
 I gave him a long start back and sat and thought 
 a mighty good while as to what I should do next. God 
 forgive me ! 'twas no fear of wrong-doing that re- 
 strained me, but only wicked cunning to know how I 
 could best get his savings and be off to safety. 
 
 I decided that I'd leave it for the minute and have 
 a tell with my Betty; because in such a matter she'd 
 be cleverer than me. And so when I reckoned farmer 
 was safe to bed and asleep, I went back through the 
 window and hitched it after me and crept up to my 
 chamber so quiet as a beetle. 
 
 And the next Sunday I see Betty Bake and let her 
 in the secret. 
 
 It came in the nick of time, you might say, for by 
 signs and tokens I had got to see of late that my girl 
 was properly tired of courting. I wouldn't say she was 
 cooling off exactly, but I did know she began to grow 
 a bit fretful and impatient with me. And once and 
 again she threw the name of another chap at me, a man 
 in the quarries who stood pretty high, and was likely 
 to get a still better job afore long. Teddy Lobb was 
 
FARMER SLEEP'S SAVINGS 269 
 
 his name, and after she'd mentioned him once or twice, 
 I got nasty and told her I didn't want to hear no 
 more on that score and reminded her of a thing or two 
 she'd forgot. We came in sight of a quarrel, in fact, 
 and so I was very glad the next time we met to distract 
 her mind with the tale about Farmer Sleep's savings. 
 
 Betty was terrible interested and said, wicked crea- 
 ture, that no doubt 'twas my lucky star had kept me 
 awake that night and not her sharp tongue, as I 
 thought. And she didn't advise me to take the money ; 
 she ordered me to do it. 
 
 " There's hundreds so like as not," she said ; " and all 
 us have got to do is to help ourselves. There's no 
 power on earth will ever guess 'twas you, and very like 
 when he goes that way and sees the rubbish-heap all 
 right, he'll not seek the stuff till we've took it beyond 
 his reach for evermore." 
 
 For plotting you never saw that girl's equal! Her 
 mind moved as quick as thought, and she planned it 
 all ajid worked out the details that clever you'd have 
 thought she'd been doing such like sinful crimes all 
 her life. 
 
 Farmer went to Launceston market every second 
 Saturday, and he was due to be off three days from 
 that time, so 'twas settled on that afternoon, if the 
 coast was clear, I would see what he had put away 
 in his box, and hide it careful somewheres else till I'd 
 told Betty about it. 
 
 And that was what I did do, for the place was lone- 
 some as the top of Brown WiUy, and I picked my way, 
 so as not to bruise a nettle, tind got to the rubbish- 
 
S60 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 heap, and soon fetched out the treasure with naught 
 but a blackbird on a bough to see me do it. A heavy 
 box it was that opened with a hasp, and in half a min- 
 ute it lay open in my lap, and I see more money than 
 ever I'd see before. Two hundred pounds, and ten 
 was in the box, and half was in gold, and half in five- 
 pound notes. I properly gasped, but knew it was a 
 time to keep my nerve well in hand, and so in ten min- 
 utes or less I'd made the place look same as it did be- 
 fore to a dead stick. And the box I wrapped up very 
 careful in a newspaper and put it under my arm and 
 went my way to a little wood not fifty yard from the 
 high roEid to Camelford. And there I hid the stuff 
 in a drain-pipe, where I could find it in the dark, if 
 need be. 
 
 My brain properly reeled after that, but the feeling 
 soon wore off, and I kept saying to myself, " You be 
 worth two hundred and ten pounds, Toby Hawke, and 
 the world's yours to conquer ! " 
 
 Farmer Sleep was home by supper-time in a very 
 cheerful frame of mind. He'd sold a score of sheep 
 to great advantage, and he'd had an extra drop on the 
 strength of it and seemed wonderful pleased with him- 
 self, which was a bit unusual. But the next morning 
 the drink got home on him, and he'd changed his tune ; 
 so I felt glad 'twas Sunday and but little work calling 
 to be done. I guessed that he might have a look to 
 his money during the day, but it didn't seem very 
 likely he'd do it till nightfall, and, anyway, there 
 weren't no danger for me; so I went to see Betty Bake 
 as usual and brought her the glad news. And she was 
 
FARMER SLEEP'S SAVINGS 261 
 
 proper pleased, and full of plots in a minute. Her 
 great idea was to cut and run for it. 
 
 " With a dollop of money like that," she said, 
 " there's nothing beyond our power. And we'll go to 
 Liverpool and sail to America or Canada, wherd you 
 can take up a bit of land and get out of this stuffy 
 hole; for I'm sick to death of it and want to live in a 
 larger world. And if we can slip it pretty quick and 
 get clear afore he gets to his money-box again, so much 
 the better." 
 
 As to my giving a month's warning, she wouldn't 
 hear of it. 
 
 " If not tonight, then tomorrow night," she said, 
 " and not a day later. We'll catch the early morning 
 train to Okehampton, and then get to Exeter, and 
 change there for Bristol, and change to Bristol for 
 Liverpool, and then be on the way to foreign parts the 
 first moment we can." 
 
 She'd thought it all out, you see, and when I re- 
 minded her we weren't married, she said that didn't 
 matter a button, and we'd be brother and sister till we 
 got to America and then get married there. I couldn't 
 but admire her cleverness, and afore we parted 'twas all 
 settled that o' Monday night I should meet her at a 
 cross-roads not far from where the money was hid, and 
 we'd tramp it to Camelford and pick up the work- 
 men's train. It looked good, and any doubt I might 
 have felt was soon swept away by her confidence and 
 pluck. For a maiden not eighteen I reckon she was 
 the hardest piece of goods you might have found in 
 Cornwall, and I was filled with admiration at her; but 
 
CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 if she amazed me then, 'twas nothing like what she did 
 after. 
 
 Farmer Sleep weren't home to supper, for he spent 
 Sunday in St. Tid as a rule, and we was gone to bed 
 afore he came home. And somehow I fancied that 
 he'd go out to his treasure that night, so I kept awake 
 till the small hours, expecting to see his light on my 
 ceiling and mark him sneak off to the orchard; but 
 he didn't stir, and with light I went to sleep, and slept 
 that sound that the head-man, Sam Nute, came up over 
 the stairs to call me. 
 
 Farmer laughed at me for a sluggard and said he'd 
 take an alarm-clock out of my wages if I was late again. 
 He'd got over Jiis extra drop of whisky by now, and 
 talked as usual, and, to my amazement, he spoke of his 
 savings. To Sam he spoke, for he thought a lot of 
 Sam, as had been with him ten year; but I couldn't 
 help hearing while I ate my breakfast. 
 
 " No more trouble with my money now, Nute," he said. 
 " 'Tis safe at last, and a great weight off my mind." 
 
 " Very glad of it," answered Samuel, " for 'twas on 
 your nerves a lot." 
 
 " It was," confessed farmer ; " but I've made a bit 
 of an experiment since I drawed it out of the bank, 
 and the experiment have been very successfxil. I hid 
 half my cash in a mighty snug place, Sam, to see how 
 it would affect my mind, and the moment 'twas done, 
 I got a lot calmer and felt a proper weight off my chest. 
 And some fine night afore very long I shall put t'other 
 half with the rest, and then, I believe, I shan't have a 
 
FARMER SLEEP'S SAVINGS 263 
 
 " A very clever thought," said Samuel Nute in his 
 slow way ; " but there's a danger to it, because if you 
 was took sudden, as the best of us may be, nobody 
 would know where the money was to, and it might be 
 lost." 
 
 Farmer Sleep nodded. 
 
 " I never thought on that," he said. " But if any- 
 body knowed where the money was, my peace would be 
 gone." 
 
 " You did ought to write it down and lock up the 
 writing, only to be oped when you be dead," suggested 
 Nute, and master allowed it was a very witty thought, 
 
 " I'll do that," he promised, " and put the secret 
 place in a sealed envelope, only to be broken when I'm 
 took. And thank you for the tip, Sam; and I may 
 tell you you're down for a momentum in my will when 
 the time comes." 
 
 " I'm very near so old as you," said Samuel, " and 
 just as like to go first." 
 
 This talk wasn't meant for me, of course, but I took 
 it in, and it cheered me a good bit, because it showed 
 the old man hadn't been tq his treasure since I had, 
 and evidently didn't mean to go to it for a bit ; but it 
 also showed me he'd be visiting the rubbish-heap under 
 the walnut-tree before very long; so I was glad Betty 
 and me had fixed that night to be off. 
 
 'Twas long coming; but come it did, and at three 
 in the morning I rose up and put on my best clothes 
 and took my mother's photograph, which was the only 
 thing in the world I valued, and slipped out by the 
 scullery window. They'd think I was oversleeping 
 
264. CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 again, no doubt, and Sam would come up and call me 
 at half after five ; but by that time me and Betty would 
 be in the train on the way to Okehampton. 
 
 So it looked then; yet, strange to relate, I hadn't 
 been at the cross-roads half an hour along with my girl 
 before all was changed, and her lightning-quick mind 
 made another plan far more brilliant than the last. 
 
 We met at the appointed place, and I went in the 
 little wood and found the money, and then we sat and 
 talked for a bit, because we'd got nearly two hour to 
 go four miles, and there weren't no hurry. And I 
 told Betty about old Sleep and what a lucky thing it 
 was that I'd heard him talking to Samuel. She listened 
 very quiet, and then she started up all of a tremble 
 with excitement. An awl was hooting in the trees over 
 our heads, and I shall think of that moment all my life 
 when I hear one of them night-birds hollering. 
 
 " Good gracious ! " cried out Betty so loud that the 
 owl went off in a hurry. " D' you mean to say you're 
 going off with me after hearing that.'' " 
 
 " Of course," I said, " and the sooner the better." 
 
 " You silly gawk ! " she answered me. " You must 
 be three parts a fool. Here's money properly flung at 
 your head, and you turn your back on it." 
 
 I couldn't see for my life what she was driving at, 
 but she very soon made it clear. 
 
 " Why, the old man's going to put two hundred more 
 in his rubbish-heap, ain't he.'' " 
 
 " Yes," I said, " and when he does, he'll find the rest 
 have took wing." 
 
 " For two pins, Toby, I'd throw you over," she de- 
 
FARMER SLEEP'S SAVINGS 266 
 
 clared, much to my amazement. " Why, can't you see? 
 You've got to go back this instant moment and put 
 this here box where you took it from. And then, come 
 presently, instead of us having two hundred-odd 
 pounds, we'll have four hundred ! " 
 
 I fairly gasped with astonishment. 
 
 " You marvel ! " I said, " I never should 'a' thought 
 of that." 
 
 " If I am going to marry a fool," said Betty, " I'd 
 better think twice afore I do it." 
 
 But it weren't, of course, that I was a fool ; only that 
 she was a wonder and far beyond the common pattern 
 of clever girl. 
 
 " I'm no fool," I said, " and to show you I'm not, 
 we'll nip back^this instant moment afore dawn breaks, 
 and I'll pop the box in its place and get up to bed afore 
 cock-light. And the sooner we go the better." 
 
 So it fell out that not an hour later she was running 
 home to Newhall Mill like a lapwing, and I was in the 
 orchard. I'd soon got the money back in the rubbish- 
 heap and was in my bed again, and such was my pres- 
 ence of mind that I didn't even forget my mother's pic- 
 ture, but put it on the mantel-shelf afore I turned in. 
 And I weren't late rising, either, but got up with the 
 birds, and was down-house afore Samuel Nute or the 
 master. 
 
 And then come the time of waiting, and I never wish 
 to go through nothing like it again. For three nights 
 I made myself bide awake, hoping to hear William Sleep 
 go out in the small hours to add to his treasure; and 
 then I remembered that he might do it just as easy by 
 
266 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 day as by night, for nothing ever called me or Nute 
 to the back end of the orchard. And then, after a Sun- 
 day talk with Betty, she said 'twas very certain by now 
 the balance of the cash was stored and we must try our 
 luck again. So the night was fixed, and once more we 
 set out, and once more we went home aagin, for the 
 adventure came to naught. On the second time of 
 asking a proper fearful thing fell upon us, at least so 
 it seemed, and our plans and projects was cut short in 
 a very crushing manner. All went well at the start, 
 and I didn't take twO' bites at the cherry next time; 
 but left the farmer's saving till the very night I was 
 going to run away. And then I went, as before, and 
 the weight of the box told me I'd got the lot sure 
 enough. 
 
 And there was Betty with her bag, and 'twas her 
 thought to ope the box there and then and fill our 
 pockets with the money and hide the box careful, so as 
 no clue should ever be found against us. She lighted a 
 match, and I scat open the box — and it was full of 
 stones ! 
 
 Not a penny, but only the stones and a piece of paper 
 with five words from Scripture, " Go and sin no more." 
 
 The perspiration properly burst out on me, and 
 Betty very near fainted, for anybody could see 'twas a 
 wicked plot against us, and that farmer, finding his 
 money was gone, had hit on this dirty trick to get it 
 back. And he'd catched me; and, if you'll believe it, 
 Betty Bake, instead of comforting me, as a woman 
 should against such a shattering misfortune, turned 
 round on me, £ind said cruel words, and called me a 
 
FARMER SLEEP'S SAVINGS 267 
 
 slack-twisted fool and a gawk and a gaby and every- 
 thing else she could put her tongue to ! 
 
 " Shut your mouth ! " I said to her, getting pretty 
 savage by then. " 'S truth ! " I said, " 'tis you be to 
 blame, not me, for 'twas your notion to put the money 
 back, and I never should have thought on any such plan 
 myself. So you be the fool; arid now you've over- 
 reached yourself, you grasping creature, and so like as 
 not I shall lie in clink tomorrow." 
 
 " And I hope you will," she dared to say. " You'm 
 the man, and you ought to have had the sense ; and now 
 you put the blame on a poor girl, like the mean coward 
 you are; and never you speak to me again so long as 
 you live. And if you try to drag me in, I'll have the 
 law on you." 
 
 Well, that showed me bitter clear that Betty weren't 
 what I thought, and I went so far as to tell her so on 
 the spot. In fact, I got her in a proper rage, and she'd 
 have liked to scratch my eyes out. But the dawn had 
 broke by then, and so she just picked up her bag and 
 turned her back upon me and went home; and 'twas 
 many a long year after that before I passed the time of 
 day with her again. 
 
 And meantime she married Teddy Lobb. Within 
 three months of the fatal night she took him! And 
 such was the power of that man and his way of handling 
 her, that by all accounts she made him a very useful 
 wife and mother, and turned into the narrow path, and 
 never had a breath against her at St. Tid. 
 
 But as for me, I went home sick at heart, and a great 
 shame came upon me, and the stiU small voice woke. 
 
CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 and afore breakfast-time, such is the amazing contrari- 
 ness of human nature, I was glad that the thing had 
 happened. I knew I was a wicked rogue at last, and 
 the discovery made me feel lighter-hearted than I'd felt 
 for a month of Sundays. For you mustn't think I'd 
 had no bad moments over the job. I had; and now 
 that Providence had saved me from myself in a manner 
 of speaking, I saw my escape, and felt that I couldn't 
 be too thankful to my Maker for His great and unde- 
 served goodness. 
 
 But I knew I couldn't leave it at that if I was to put 
 the job right with Heaven, and it was borne in upon me 
 I must confess all and take the consequences. I didn't 
 rise to such a height of virtue all in a minute, however, 
 and it weren't, in fact, till I thought upon the text as 
 Farmer Sleep had left in his box for the thief that I 
 decided to make a clean breast of it. For it seemed to 
 me that out of gratitude for getting his money back 
 farmer might find himself in a very Christian frame of 
 mind, and might even forgive, though 'twas beyond 
 reason to ask him to forget. 
 
 So I owned up to him, and he weren't much surprised, 
 either. 
 
 " I thought 'twas you," he said, " and I'm very glad 
 that God have put it into your heart to confess your 
 wicked crime. And I'll ax you one question, Tobias 
 Hawke, if you please. How did you find out.^" " 
 
 " I see your lantern light on my bedroom ceiling, 
 Master ; and with that I rose up and followed you." 
 
 " I won't pretend I was clever enough to catch you 
 
FARMER SLEEP'S SAVINGS 269 
 
 out," he answered ; " but Uncle Retallack to St. Tid 
 was the man. When I found out on a Saturday night, 
 going to put in another ten pound, that I'd been robbed, 
 I went to Uncle Retallack with the trouble, and he told 
 me how I might very like get back my money, for though 
 the devil's a clever party, there's quite as clever as 
 him, if not more so ; and so he was bested, and the wit 
 of man and the will of God have come between you and 
 your damnation, Tobias." 
 
 " I'm a changed creature from this moment," I said 
 to Farmer Sleep ; " and if you don't give me up to 
 justice, I'll richly reward you." 
 
 " What did my text in the box say.'' " he asked. 
 
 " ' Go and sin no more,' " I answered. 
 
 " Then you can do it," he said. " You can go this 
 instant moment, for I've done with you; but I won't 
 take no action, ajid I won't tell nobody but Uncle 
 Retallack, who has a right to hear how his cleverness 
 was rewarded. You go and seek other work far ways 
 off from here, and get your soul right with God, and 
 thank Him many times on your knees for His long- 
 suffering mercy. The way of the sinner be hard most 
 times, but in your case it's been cruel easy, and the least 
 you can do is to thank your Maker for your luck. 
 And if so be as you reform and justify your existence 
 and save a bit of money, don't you hide it in no rubbish- 
 heap for the first knave to find, but take it to Uncle 
 Retallack, or some other sensible man, who understands 
 what to do with it. I was a fool and deserved to lose 
 my stuff, and you were a wicked rascal and deserved a 
 
270 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 lot more than you're getting, so we've both good cause 
 to be thankful ; and you can be gone by midday, if you 
 please." 
 
 So I went, and though 'tis too much to say that I 
 was so good as the holy text and sinned no more from 
 that day to this — for who can say they've been sinless 
 from one and twenty to seventy and three? — yet I'm 
 known today as a straight old man, with a good wife 
 and good children, and money in the bank, and very well 
 thought on as a lay preacher for miles around. I was 
 brought to the fold by an easy path, sure enough, and 
 never shall be sufficiently thankful it was so. 
 
 Five years after I left Lanteglos Meadows, I met 
 Betty Lobb, so she was then, at a wedding, and had a 
 minute's talk with the woman. A mother of three by 
 that time she had become, and so good a chapel member, 
 thanks to her husband, as I myself. 
 
 " Things have changed with us, Betty," I said, 
 " since that bitter night when we thought to do wicked- 
 ness, and was saved by the watching Lord." 
 
 And she looked through me like a pane of glass and 
 said, " What bee's in your bonnet, Toby Hawke ? I 
 don't know from Adam what you be talking about. 
 But if you're trying to make out that I ever did a wrong 
 thing, or thought a wrong thing, or anything like that, 
 you'd better tell my husband and hear what he's got to 
 say about it." 
 
 Defiant like she spoke, with a flash in her eyes ; so I 
 just shrugged my shoulders and went my way, and felt 
 sorry the woman weren't so near grace as I could have 
 wished. 
 
JENIFER AND THE TWAIN 
 
 Them that come to St. Tid for the first time be often 
 a good bit surprised to see what a lot of maimed men 
 we've got. You'll scarce go round the village without 
 finding a chap or two on crutches, or short of an arm 
 or a leg. And the reason is that the great slate quar- 
 ries, where five hundred men and boys get their living, 
 have their dangers and perils, for not only the rock- 
 men below, who handle the slate and break it out with 
 dynamite and send it to the surface, but the hill-men 
 also come to grief sometimes. For nought's perfect, 
 and in the battle with the forces of Nature, they'll 
 break loose now and again and turn on us that think we 
 have tamed them. In fact, a man wants to be watchful 
 and wary all his time in a slate quarry, because the 
 accident happens when least expected, and the slate's 
 always ready to fall, or the land to slip; and the guil- 
 lotine, that " trues " the slates, is always bitter quick 
 to take your fingers off, if you forget what you're about 
 for a second and get 'em under the knife. 
 
 Such untoward happenings, as well as them that end 
 in death, we very properly account the work of God; 
 and when you've said that, you've said all you can say 
 about them. But in the long history of St. Tid's quar- 
 ries, which runs back to Queen Bess, so they tell me, a 
 
 271 
 
272 CHRONICLES OF ST, TID 
 
 few dark deeds have to be chronicled; and if God Al- 
 mighty be answerable for many a sad come-along-of-it, 
 there's no manner of doubt that the Devil must be 
 blamed now and again for others ; because 'tis fantastic 
 and out of all nature to suppose, where five hundred 
 humans pursue their daily task, that the Evil One won't 
 find good hunting now and again. 
 
 A very curious, tangled tale is this of Jenifer Keat, 
 daughter of farmer Harry Keat. She was a superior 
 young maiden, well educated and clever without a 
 doubt; and she was a bit too clever for her father, I 
 reckon, for I've heard him openly declare that you can 
 educate a girl out of all usefulness. 
 
 " 'Tis a fact," farmer said, "that learning may be a 
 great danger to the female mind, and my Jenifer have 
 now reached a pitch of education that soars high above 
 the Fifth Commandment. Too much book-learning 
 have made her selfish, and she's no more good to help 
 her mother, or me, than a bird in a bush." 
 
 However, the fact that she weren't a domestic sort 
 of maiden didn't prevent her being very handsome, and 
 her own generation had no quarrel with her. Plenty 
 of girl friends she had ; and presently the usual sort of 
 thing happened, and she fell in love with one young 
 chap, while another young chap feU in love with her. 
 
 Tommy Jago was only a rock-man in the quarries, 
 and, though a very fine youth, strong and well set up, 
 and a good enough specimen of a boy, yet 'twas just 
 pure cheek him falling in love with Jenifer, because she 
 was much above him in every way, for the Jagos were 
 very hiunble folk, with a bad record at that, while 
 
JENIFER AND THE TWAIN £73 
 
 Harry Keat owned a thousand acres, and his big place 
 between the coast and St. Tid was his own freehold. 
 But Tommy happened to be one of they dark, dour, 
 obstinate chaps, and there's no doubt that his masterful 
 way rather appealed to Jenifer, who was masterful her- 
 self. Yet, all the same, it wasn't Tommy that she 
 loved, and when this story began, nobody but Jenifer 
 herself knew where she'd lost her heart. For she kept 
 her secret very close, and bided in patience and hope. 
 
 And meantime Tommy Jago courted her, for he got 
 two chances every week of his life, because him and 
 Jenifer were both in the chapel choir of the Little 
 Baptists; and so they met, not only on Sundays, but 
 also on practice nights. Often and often they'd sing 
 out of the same hymn-book, which be a very favourite 
 Cornish way of love-making, and has led to matrimony 
 oftentimes. 
 
 Jenifer most certainly liked Tommy for his qualities, 
 and, if t'other chap hadn't been there, I doubt not 
 young Jago would have won her against her family, 
 and wore her father and mother down. But she never 
 could get the vision of Andrew Polwam out of her 
 mind, and it ain't strange that a girl educated well, 
 and a bit of an artist in her way also, should have found 
 Andy, as he was called, an attractive object. There's 
 no doubt he was amazing good to look at, and after- 
 wards, when the murder ym.s out and she could speak 
 about it, Jenifer said that Andy happened to be the 
 living likeness of a Greek statue of great fame by the 
 name of " Mr. Hermes," whoever he was. And, seeing 
 that Andy had crisp hair and a beautiful nose and a 
 
274) CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 gentle, kindly expression — like the statue, so Jenifer 
 said — she'd fallen utterly in love with him. So had 
 other girls, for that matter, though none, of course, 
 would own thereto. Yet, for his part, Andrew Polwam 
 didn't respond to one girl more than another. He was 
 a rare pattern of chap, without a doubt, for not only 
 could you say he was amazing handsome, but you had 
 to grant him rare modesty. He set no store at aU on 
 being out of the common good-looking, and, if anybody 
 had told him so, he'd have laughed at their nonsense. 
 He weren't very clever, and knew it; but he respected 
 brains in other people, and he thought a lot of Tommy 
 Jago, because he was such a sharp blade and full of 
 ideas. 
 
 Andy was a rock-man at the quarries also — from 
 choice, not need; for there was no reason, but his love 
 of hard, open-air work, why he should have gone into 
 them at all. But he enjoyed it, and stuck to the heavy 
 labour of splitting out slate rock in all weathers, 
 though, if he'd so minded, he might have been in a 
 grocer's shop with a promised share in the business. 
 But his father was at the quarries, and Andy took to 
 the work, and meant to stick to it, despite the fact that 
 his uncle, a prosperous tradesman at Launceston, 
 wanted him in his shop. 
 
 Polwams were well thought of, and good friends of 
 the Keat family; but they were Church folk, and that 
 makes a difference in a lot of ways, for worshipping in 
 the same place and sitting under the same minister 
 draws people together, if 'tis only for the pleasure of 
 saying what they think about their pastor. 
 
JENIFER AND THE TWAIN 275 
 
 So there it stood, and while Tommy courted Jenifer 
 for all he was worth, she dreamed dreams about Andy 
 all the time, eind counted it a red-letter day when she 
 met him, and often wondered if any maiden would ever 
 be named with him. He was always terrible pleasant 
 to her when they chanced together, and sometimes she 
 fancied he showed a thought more civility to her than 
 other girls; but whether that was so or not, he never 
 let on about it, and, for all anybody could tell, he was 
 heart-whole and without a care. 
 
 Nothing seemed to happen for a bit, but Jenifer got 
 tidings of Andy pretty frequent, because he and Tommy 
 Jago worked together on the " Grey Abbey " slate seam 
 in the quarry, and Jago, little knowing that the girl he 
 loved was full of secret interest in his mate, often spoke 
 of Andy. 'Tis true he was a bit contemptuous of the 
 other's brain power and simple outlook on life, but he 
 never said anything against his fellow-worker, and 
 frankly praised his mighty muscles and great strength. 
 
 " If he'd lam now, he'd be the finest wrestler in 
 Cornwall," confessed Tommy ; " but, as 'tis, though I'm 
 very near two stone lighter and not half his huge 
 strength, I could throw him inside five minutes every 
 time. But he's a peace-lover and as gentle as a woman, 
 though strong as a giant. He'll never do no good at 
 the quarries, nor rise to be a leader same as I shall, 
 because I've got more will-power and more intellects 
 than him." 
 
 Which was all very interesting to Jenifer. And an- 
 other thing Tommy said interested her still more, for 
 he scoffed at Andy's humble nature. 
 
276 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 " He's properly frightened of the girls, I do believe," 
 declared young Jago, " and how ever he'll summon 
 courage to fall in love, or find the pluck to tell a maiden 
 so when he do, be gormed if I know." 
 
 " He ain't in love, then .'' " asked Jenifer, and the 
 young man flouted the idea. 
 
 " Don't know the meaning of the word," he assured 
 her. 
 
 Then things began to move soon after that, and 
 Tommy, who weren't made of patience, but had a good 
 spice of the devil in him, and a great trick to fight for 
 his own hand, proposed marriage for the fourth time 
 to Jenifer, seeing her home from choir practice. And 
 he varied his offer of heart and hand a bit, and made it 
 clear he was getting fed up with Jenifer's delays and 
 postponements. 
 
 " Why the mischief can't you say ' Yes ' and have 
 done with it ? " he asked. " You care a lot for me, or 
 you'd never keep me on the hooks like this and go out 
 walking Sundays, and all the rest of it. And nobody 
 knows her own mind better than what you do in most 
 things, so it's time you took me in the face of the par- 
 ish ; and then I know where I am, and can set on to your 
 father about it. For I'll mighty soon get him to see 
 I'm the right one, so soon as you have." 
 
 Well, the girl granted he had some reason on his 
 side, and promised him that she'd settle the matter 
 afore long; but when she began seriously to think on 
 him, she found herself weighing his faults against his 
 virtues, and turning him over in such a cold-blooded 
 and indifferent fashion, that it was quite certain that 
 
JENIFER AND THE TWAIN 277 
 
 she didn't love him in the least, and could never marry 
 him. Then she was struck with remorse, for there's no 
 doubt she had let him see a lot of her, and led him to 
 think she was very well content in his company. And, 
 having reached that stage, Jenifer began to relent a bit, 
 and ask herself whether Tommy wouldn't do as well as 
 anybody else for a husband, if she must have one. But 
 her proper instinct rebelled against that, for to marry 
 for the sake of marrying be a vain thing; and so she 
 had decided that Tommy must be sent about his busi- 
 ness once for all. And after she had made up her 
 mind, a great and remarkable adventure happened to 
 her. 
 
 It chanced that Jenifer had been down the valley 
 and she was coming home from Newhall Mill by the 
 woods. She had taken a short cut, which meant a jump 
 over a stream ; but when she got to it, the stream was up 
 over the banks, for there'd been a proper thunderstorm 
 twenty-four hours earlier, and the little river was in 
 flood. It meant two mile more on to her walk afore 
 she could get home, and she was just turning back, 
 none too pleased with the accident, when who should 
 come through Newhall Wood but Andy Polwam. He 
 was bound same way as her, and she bade him stop. 
 
 " No use, Mr. Polwam," she said ; " the river be up 
 over the banks. You can't get across." 
 
 But he laughed at that. 
 
 " 'Twill take more'n a drop of water to turn me back. 
 Miss Keat," he answered. And then he made her an 
 offer. 
 
 " If I take off my boots and socks and turn up my 
 
278 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 trousers, I shall get over very easy," he told Jenifer; 
 " and if you don't feel it beneath your dignity for me to 
 carry you over, I'm very willing to do so. 'TwiU save 
 you two good mile o' walking and take but five seconds." 
 
 Well, there 'twas. And if anybody else had offered, 
 I doubt the girl would have said " No " very quick. 
 But she loved him, and nature will out, and the thought 
 that she'd be in Andy's arms for once in her life, any- 
 way, was too much for Jenifer Keat. It do sound bold 
 and forward, without a doubt, on paper, but there 'tis ; 
 she felt so, and thanked him for his sporting offer, but 
 dursn't look in his face while she did. As for him, when 
 she agreed, he was very well pleased to pleasure her, and 
 took off his shoon and his socks and turned up his 
 trousers to the knee. 
 
 " Perhaps you'U be so kind as to carry my gear while 
 I carry you," he suggested ; " but, all the same, if you'd 
 rather not do so, I can come back for 'em." 
 
 " Of course I'll carry 'em," she answered. " 'Tis the 
 least I can do, I'm sure." 
 
 So he picked her up like a baby, and it must be 
 confessed, though he'd said he'd be through the water 
 in five seconds, when the time came he took a good bit 
 more. In fact Jenifer, after he found the fine weight of 
 her in his arms, acted upon Andy in a very remarkable 
 manner. For he'd never had a maiden so close to him 
 afore ; and he liked it amazing, and he was much inter- 
 ested and delighted to look in her eyes and see the 
 rosen in her cheeks and her bosom rise and fall, because 
 she was panting a bit with excitement. In fact, both 
 of 'em enjoyed it something wonderful, and Andy, for 
 
JENIFER AND THE TWAIN 279 
 
 the first time in his life, found he could be artful. For 
 he pretended the water was too deep here and there, 
 and paddled about in mid-stream till Jenifer got fright- 
 ened and commanded him to get across and have done 
 with it, or else go back. 
 
 " If you don't, I'll drop your shoes in the water," she 
 said. 
 
 With that he took her over and released her terrible 
 reluctantly; and then he blamed himself for a silly 
 toad, and said he'd lost the chance of a lifetime. 
 
 "And wh^t might you have lost.''" she axed; but 
 he only shook his head and wouldn't tell her. So she 
 went on her way in a proper miz-maze, and knew very 
 well now that it must be Andy Polwarn, or nobody. 
 While, as for the young man, he felt it would be awful 
 nice to have Jenifer in his arms again, and from that 
 day forward he found her in his thoughts a lot. 
 
 Soon afterwards him and Tommy was working side 
 by side in the quarries on the " Grey Abbey " seam in 
 a deep hole, and Andy, in his simple way, told of his 
 adventure. Of course, he didn't know nothing of 
 Tommy's hopes, and he just prattled as to how he'd 
 carried Jenifer over the brook, and how nicely she'd 
 thanked him for so doing. 
 
 " 'Tis a very fine thing seemingly to have a maiden 
 in your arms," said Polwam, " and I'll tell you in 
 secret, Tom, I might have took her across that water 
 much quicker than what I did; but, God forgive me, 
 I dallied a bit." 
 
 The other was using his iron at the time, and tapping 
 a hole in the rock for a stick of dynamite ; and I dare 
 
280 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 say, if Andy had known how near his mate was to 
 lifting that bar of steel and bringing it down on his 
 own curly hair, he'd have felt a good bit of surprise; 
 but Tommy hid his savage heart and said nothing. 
 
 A steam whistle sounded soon after, which was the 
 signal for blasting. So they loaded the holes they had 
 driven in the rock-face, and lit the fuses and ran off, 
 to take shelter against the explosions. There's regu- 
 lar times for blasting at St. Tid, and when the whistle 
 went, other men from many different parts of the 
 quarry also lighted their fuses and sought safety. 
 Then, in due time, from all round the quarries there 
 burst out volumes of yellow smoke, and rocks and 
 rubbish were hurled high up in the air, where the slate 
 was torn out of the bed. And a great volume of sound, 
 like a thunderstorm held on a chain, jolted and roared 
 and rattled round and round and round the quarry 
 cliffs. Then slowly the echoes died down and the riot 
 ceased, and the rock-men got back to their work, and 
 found the masses of stone ready for 'em to handle and 
 lever out of the smashed-up beds. 
 
 But Tommy said nought in return for the secrets 
 he'd heard from Andrew Polwam, and when Andy axed 
 young Jago whether he'd ever felt any sort of fancy 
 for a maiden, the other shook his head. 
 
 " No, I ain't," he answered, " and I hope I never 
 shall, for women be all oncertain, tricky creatures at 
 best, and the less a chap has to do with 'em the better 
 for his self-respect and his peace of mind." 
 
 " No doubt you're right," admitted Andy ; and Tom 
 said no more on the subject, but shut his mouth and 
 
JENIFER AND THE TWAIN 281 
 
 kept his rage warm for Jenifer next time he should fall 
 in with her. 
 
 He ordained to give her a bit of his mind about such 
 a rash and outrageous thing; for by now he reckoned 
 he was properly tokened to her, and he meant to make 
 it mighty clear to her understanding, once for all, that 
 if she wanted for a chap to go carrying her over streams 
 and such-like proceedings, she must come to him hence- 
 forth and only him. 
 
 II 
 
 But, when Tommy tackled Jenifer in earnest, he got 
 an ugly surprise. 
 
 " I've made up my mind," she said, " as I promised 
 you I would do, and I feel terrible sure we wasn't meant 
 for one another, as you thought, Tom Jago. We can 
 be very good friends, I hope, and admire each other, and 
 so on, but marriage is different. So I'll say ' No,' if 
 you please." 
 
 He was patient, to begin with, but patience weren't 
 his strong point best of times, and, against her fixed 
 determination, he soon lost his temper and got to the 
 bottom of things short, sharp, and brutal. 
 
 " You'm mad," he said, " and you'm wicked and cun- 
 ning with it, for you think to deceive me, but you don't. 
 This means another man, and you know it." 
 
 " If it do, what then ? 'Tis a free country," she told 
 him. " And, anyway, you've got no right to say it 
 means another man. I never said I'd wed you, and 
 again and again, when you've pressed it, I told you 
 not to hope for any such thing." 
 
CHRONICLES OF ST. TED 
 
 " You was coming to it so fast as you could," he 
 declared, " and you was in two minds when last I 
 offered, else you wouldn't have took time to think ; but 
 now, just because a certain fool — However, I'm not 
 here to talk of anybody else — I'm here to talk of you ; 
 and if you turn me down now, 'tis as good as jilting me, 
 and you'll be disgraced so long as you Uve." 
 
 But Jenifer wouldn't allow that. 
 
 " You're a coward and a bully to say any such 
 thing," she told him, " and, what's more, you know it 
 isn't true, or anywhere near true. There's no call to 
 give you reasons : it's enough for you to know I'm not 
 going to marry you. And if you go round saying I've 
 jilted you, there may be ' a certain fool,' as you put it, 
 who'U want to know the reason why." 
 
 " Let him come, then," answered Tommy. " I ban't 
 afeard of your friends, I assure you." 
 
 She was going from him as fast as her legs could 
 carry her by that time, and so he changed his note and 
 calmed down, and begged her to forgive him. 
 
 " 'Tis small wonder I lost my temper, Jenifer, for 
 this properly ruins my life," he said. But she had been 
 rubbed up the wrong way too much to calm down very 
 easy. She began to distrust him, and it was some time 
 before she got gentle again. Then, finding him contrite 
 seemingly, she forgave him on condition he'd say no 
 more on the subject. They parted, calm to the eyes, 
 though she smarted still, and he had ten wakeful and 
 revengeful devils hid in his breast. 
 
 Already he was looking on ahead, and his lawless 
 nature broke loose, and he began to think evil things 
 
JENIFER AND THE TWAIN 283 
 
 against Jenifer and the innocent man who had carried 
 her across the stream. For, from the first minute, 
 Tommy had left a loophole for himself, and while an- 
 other man would have plumped out what he knew, and 
 accused the girl of changing her mind because of the 
 adventure with Andy Polwam, this man was too cau- 
 tious for that. He'd thought it out before he went 
 to Jenifer, and now, as the result of keeping his mouth 
 shut on that subject, he found himself in a safe and 
 strong position to do the evil in his heart. For he 
 argued that Andy had come between him and the hope 
 of his life, and he also argued that, if Andy weren't 
 there, Jenifer would very soon see sense again and take 
 him. 
 
 And meantime t'other man found himself in love, head 
 over tail, and it made him melancholy and doubtful. 
 For he was never one to set much store on himself, and 
 now, when he pictured oifering for such a piece as 
 Jenifer, he felt his own unworthiness, and doubted not 
 that such a bold thought could never come to anything 
 at all. And first he done a very clever thing, and went 
 to his sister, and bade her find out if Jenifer was a 
 heart-whole maid, or if, as seemed more likely, such a 
 beautiful creature was tokened to a man worthy of 
 her. Because, if that was so, Andy felt he'd better give 
 up his dreams at once. But Jane Polwam, who knew 
 Jenifer very well, felt sure that she was free to be 
 courted, though she also knew that Tommy Jago was 
 a friend of hers, and told Andy as much. 
 
 " Never ! " said her simple brother. " Why, I men- 
 tioned the maiden's name to Jago not long ago, and he 
 
284 CHRONICLES OF ST. TED 
 
 said that he'd never wed one of 'em, and had no use for 
 the girls ! " 
 
 " To put you off, no doubt," answered Jane. 
 
 However, she knew Jenifer well enough to be personal, 
 and, guessing that Andy was thinking about her seri- 
 ous, Jane soon took occasion to go into the question. 
 Then she told her brother the truth about it. 
 
 " Her and your mate in the quarry are good friends, 
 and have walked out together a bit, and think the same 
 about a good many subjects, both being very clever in 
 the matter of brains," said Jane ; " but there's nothing 
 between them on Jenifer's side, though Tommy may 
 wish there was. He's after her very fierce, without a 
 doubt, but there's nought to it at present so far as 
 Jenifer Keat's concerned." 
 
 From that day forward Andy began to fret and 
 worrit, because he had a terrible fair pattern of mind, 
 and, even in love, didn't find himself as selfish as you'd 
 expect. He wondered a lot if he had a right to try and 
 cut Tommy out, and he couldn't make up his mind. 
 Then he told himself it was impossible, and Jenifer 
 would never look at him beside such a clever man as 
 Jago. He lost his sleep, and grew wonderful restless, 
 and gave himself away in the eyes of his mother, who 
 very soon saw the change that had come over him. 
 
 Then a most curious thing happened, for one night, 
 sick of tossing sleepless in his bed, Andy rose up, rayed 
 himself, and went out of doors in the moonlight to calm 
 his thoughts and decide, once for all, if he would go on 
 with it and ax Jenifer to take a walk, or give it up and 
 put hope out of his mind. 
 
JENIFER AND THE TWAIN 285 
 
 And the moon decided him to go on with it. He was 
 walking round the lip of the quarry at the time — 
 tramping round over the broken groimd above the great 
 precipices that fall to the workings far below and then, 
 suddenly, just as he had begun to get ashamed of 
 his silliness, and decided to go to Jenifer red-hot and 
 chance it, he heard a most unexpected sound far down 
 below him. 'Twas the note of a tamping iron driving 
 a drill, and though a very common, everyday noise to 
 any quarryman's ear, to hear it then, at two in the 
 morning, rising softly from the black depths of the 
 quarries when every man of all those hundreds of work- 
 ers was in bed and asleep except himself, surprised 
 Andy amazing. At first he thought he fancied it; 
 but there was no mistake, and for a minute he even 
 forgot Jenifer before such a startling thing. He didn't 
 believe in fairies, good or bad, nor yet in the old stories 
 about friendly pixies helping the men in the works; 
 but now his doubt was shook. He ordained with him- 
 self to go down, and down he went; and then, finding 
 himself in the works, all so deserted and strange under 
 the moon, half silver bright and half dead black in the 
 shadow, Andy admitted afterwards that a funny sen- 
 sation came over him, like as if things was crawling on 
 his skin, and he shouted, to keep up his courage, and 
 bawled out to know who was there and what they was 
 doing. 
 
 'Twas a queer sort of adventure altogether, because 
 the place, so familiar by day, had altered by night, and 
 everything looked different. A rat or two squeeiked 
 away before him in the bottom, for there's lots of rats 
 
286 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 in the quarries ; but the sound of the tamping iron 
 ceased the moment he shouted, and then happened a 
 thing that brought back Andy's nerve, for, though 
 terrible odd in itself, it showed that a man, and not a 
 ghost or a fairy, was responsible for the noise he'd 
 heard. Suddenly, under the white, moony light, he saw 
 a figure making off afore him. 'Twas a man, and that 
 was all he could tell about it; and the man seemed in a 
 good bit of a hurry, for he climbed up the east side of 
 the great pit, along old, disused galleries and ledges, 
 and made no answer to Andy when he shouted again and 
 axed him who he was. In less than no time the fellow 
 vanished, and, wondering a good bit who it might be, 
 young Polwam climbed out himself and went home. 
 
 He'd turned back to his own thoughts before he crept 
 to his bed, and the night wandering had done one thing 
 for him. It determined him to have a dash at Jenifer, 
 because he'd heard the saying that all is fair in love, 
 and since there weren't nobody tokened to her, he felt 
 he had so good a right to offer as any other man. 
 
 And next day he told his adventure to Tommy Jago ; 
 but he forgot that the story had two sides, and was a 
 bit flustered when his mate put a question. 
 
 Tommy laughed the tale to scorn and said as the 
 other must have dreamed it. Then he asked : 
 
 " And if 'tis true as you think, and you was out there 
 mooning about at two in the morning, perhaps you'll 
 tell me why? " 
 
 Andy, being the soul of fairness, had to grant it a 
 fair question, but he weren't prepared to answer all the 
 truth. 
 
JENIFER AND THE TWAIN 287 
 
 " No doubt it seems strange," he said ; " but I'd got 
 something a good bit on my mind, and couldn't sleep, 
 so I slipped on my clothes and came for a walk." 
 
 The other laughed sourly at that, and very weU knew 
 what Andy didn't tell him. 
 
 " You'd better take your secrets to them with more 
 wits than what you got yourself," he answered, " then, 
 perhaps, you'll get light thrown on 'em." 
 
 " I shall, for that matter," answered Polwam. " I 
 was in doubt what to do about a certain thing, but now 
 I ain't, I be going to take my secrets to somebody 
 mighty soon." 
 
 His resolves, however, all came to nought, for a 
 proper fearful tragedy overtook the young man two 
 days after, and, but for the watching Lord, his thread 
 would have been cut afore the next Sunday came round. 
 Anyway, he didn't go courting for many a long month 
 after that. 
 
 It happened like this. Andy and Tom were working 
 in a bit of a tunnel drove in the solid face of the rock, 
 where Andy's father, the foreman, reckoned there was 
 a very fine bunch of slate, if only it could be got at. 
 But tunnel work weren't favoured at St. Tid, because 
 for countless generations the men had toiled in open 
 quarries, and when the new way was tried, same as 
 they do in Wales and Pennsylvania, where there's 
 many a Comishman working from the Old Country, the 
 men grumbled a bit. 
 
 However, them in command hoped to prove them- 
 selves right, so the tunnel was going in, and Andy 
 Polwarn and Tommy Jago were at it. And there came 
 
288 CHRONICLES OF ST, TID 
 
 a fatal day when Andy was at the face of the rock, 
 twenty feet inside the mouth, up on a ledge, breaking 
 through a curtain of quartz to get to better things 
 beyond. He was hammering away, with his thoughts 
 on Jenifer, no doubt, and quite by chance he happened 
 to stop a minute and look round. God had turned his 
 head at the critical moment. Then, not six yards 
 from him and down below, he saw a fearful thing. For 
 there was a time-fuse burning briskly, and evidently 
 joined up to a charge of dynamite in the solid rock 
 under his feet. And beyond it he saw Jago creeping 
 away out of the tunnel so fast as he could go. 
 
 Andy gave a shout, worse luck, for, if he'd kept his 
 mouth shut and jiunped for it, he might have gqt clear 
 in time; but the shout brought Tommy back, and he 
 saw in a flash that his plot had failed. He had drove a 
 drill, you see, where no drill ought to have been, and he 
 knew that if he could explode a charge there, with his 
 rival to work, the whole back end of the tunnel would 
 come in and Andy be crushed to pulp. And 'twas him, 
 of course, that Polwam had heard tamping in secret. 
 He had hid up his drill hole by day, and now, taking 
 the moment when Polwam was up top out of the way, 
 he fired a charge and was slipping out when he found 
 himself and his wickedness discovered. 
 
 An awful fight began between them then, for, as 
 Andy bent for the fuse, Jago catched him behind and 
 dragged him away. 
 
 " If I've got to die, too, you shall ! " screamed the 
 wretch, and he hung on to his rival and pinioned his 
 
JENIFER AND THE TWAIN 289 
 
 arms, so as he couldn't get one free to smite him. 
 Within five yards of the fuse they fought, and other men, 
 hearing the rumpus, ran up ; but Andy shouted to 'em 
 to keep away. The time seemed long to him, no doubt, 
 hanging on the brink of eternity; but it weren't above 
 thirty seconds all told, from the moment he jumped off 
 the ledge to the moment the dynamite exploded. There 
 was a proper roar in the tunnel, and smoke and thunder 
 belched out, and solid tons of rock was fetched down 
 and pitched about like pats of butter. But a moment 
 before the explosion Tommy had got a wrestler's hold 
 on t'other, and throwed him flat. And that made all 
 the difference between death and life for the innocent 
 man. 
 
 When the smoke was clear, fifty chaps set to work 
 and got to the pair inside; and they found that Jago 
 was not there. The wretched creature had been blown 
 to ribbons, and they only got him out in pieces; but 
 Polwam, though badly battered and to all seeming dead 
 as t'other, was whole. They picked him up and carried 
 him to the trolleys, and ran him up to the pappot head 
 so quick as might be. And that night he lay in his 
 home insensible and one leg gone, but a living creature 
 still, with his great strength and clean life behind him 
 to offer the doctors a morsel of hope. 
 
 They didn't give none, however, and said afterwards 
 that it was not their skill, but the nursing Andy got 
 from his mother that kept the flicker in him for the 
 flrst four-and-twenty hours. But live he did, by a 
 miracle, and though a shadow rather than a man for 
 
290 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 six months afterwards, he got a bit of his old strength 
 back at last, and when his wooden leg came he was 
 ready for it. 
 
 For a week his wits was lost, and when he came back 
 to them, he told his story, and showed terrible clear how 
 the dead man had plotted to take his life. But why 
 for, none in the world knew, unless it was Jenifer Keat. 
 Andy, however, had gived up all thought of her when 
 he came to his senses and found a leg gone. He was 
 terrible weak, and confided in his sister, while she sat 
 by him to mind him, after he'd turned the comer out of 
 danger. 
 
 " I confess to you," he said, " that I'd lifted my eyes 
 to her. But I weren't good enough even as a whole 
 man, and to offer the girl half a man woxild be only to 
 insult such a wonder as Jenifer." 
 
 Jane listened and said little. But she had her ideas, 
 and, though she didn't contradict Andy, she told the 
 story to somebody else, with far-reaching results. 
 Because it didn't make no matter of difference to 
 Jenifer that the man she loved had lost a leg. She was 
 only cruel sorry that the leastest bit of such a precious 
 creature had gone. 
 
 " But there's enough left to love, I reckon," she said 
 to Jane, fierce-like. 
 
 " His face be spared, you must know," Andy's 
 cunning sister told Jenifer^ " and doctor says, when 
 the stitches come out of his cheek, there'll be nought 
 but a scar or two." 
 
 " Scarred or not, he's Andy, and that's enough for 
 me," confessed Jenifer; and so the strange thing hap- 
 
JENIFER AND THE TWAIN 291 
 
 pened that she took the first step, as if she was a royal 
 queen, and when she come to see the sick man in 
 fuhiess of time, 'twas she as told him plump out that 
 she loved him and couldn't live without him. He 
 was so weak that he very near fainted at the great 
 news ; but it done him a world of good, notwithstanding, 
 and helped the doctors at their work on the man without 
 a doubt. 
 
 And now, if you was to go to Launceston some day 
 and call at the big grocer's shop in Market Street, 'tis 
 any odds but you'd see Andy Polwam behind the coun- 
 ter, for he's partner with his uncle, and he'll have it all 
 when the old man drops. 
 
 He lives nigh his work, in a very nice little house 
 along with Jenifer, and she worships every hair of his 
 head, and sets him high above their three childer, though 
 very fond of them, too, specially the eldest boy, who be 
 the daps of his father. But his three-year-old maid is 
 Andy's favourite, because she's got her mother's eyes 
 and her mother's way of holding her head. 
 
PANTING AFTER CHRISTOPHER 
 
 Meecy Parsons was bom with a masterful nature. 
 It looked as if Providence knowed she would be a power 
 at St. Tid, and gave her the proper disposition accord- 
 ingly. At seventeen, when her grandfather died and 
 left her all his money — fifteen hundred pound — she 
 hoarded it very clever and didn't touch a penny of the 
 capital, but left it to goody. To Christopher Tonkin 
 she took it, under-f oreman at the slate quarry ; and that 
 showed her sense even at seventeen, for Christopher was 
 the cleverest man at St. Tid though but five-and-twenty. 
 To be under-foreman at that age was a record of a 
 wonder in itself ; and, more than that, he was a leading 
 local preacher with the United Methodists, and stood 
 for St. Tid in the Parish Council. At figures none 
 could touch him, and Mercy, when she got her wind- 
 fall, went to the man and asked him to look into the 
 money for her. Which he did do, and found it was 
 only drawing three and a half per centum, and soon 
 put it out where it was good for four. They'd known 
 each other all their lives, and Christopher always 
 thought Mercy was a child ; but now he found that she'd 
 grown up. In fact, she showed an uncommon lot of 
 sense, and he respected her strength of character. 
 Because it takes a strong person to like a strong one. 
 
 When weak folk run against a strong one, it irks them, 
 
 292 
 
PANTING AFTER CHRISTOPHER 293 
 
 because we all would rather herd with our own kind for 
 choice. 
 
 Christopher was an orphan and lived with his old 
 aunt, who had to choose between the union and keeping 
 house for Christopher. And then Mercy became an 
 orphan too, along of her mother dying, and she was left 
 a good cottage and another clear two hundred a year 
 above what she got from her grandfather's money. 
 Two hundred and sixty she drew, and everybody knew 
 it and wondered who would be the lucky man. 
 
 She was one of them strong^faced, healthy girls — 
 flaxen and full-bosomed — with blue eyes as bright as 
 they were hard. The people respected her, and knew 
 her head was screwed on the right way, and felt she'd 
 be a credit to the parish and never make no mistakes or 
 do the wrong thing ; but they didn't go to her for help, 
 or offer to borrow a shilling now and then, or anything 
 like that, because they felt without words she wasn't 
 that sort. 
 
 She had a high hand and kept her own secrets and 
 never gossiped about anything or anybody. And if 
 she had, I dare say the people would have liked her 
 better. But a secret she held, though it was such a 
 terrible queer one, that she wouldn't have whispered it 
 to her own heart, let alone the ear of anybody else. She 
 was eighteen when her mother died, and she took a maid- 
 of-all-work and had the cottage done up from floor to 
 basement, and sold a good bit of the old furniture and 
 bought new and lived like a lady. 'Twas a great source 
 of admiration to St. Tid, I do assure you, to see such a 
 young thing so commanding. No airs or graces 
 
294 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 exactly, yet a way with her — a sort of keep-your- 
 distance and mind-your-own-business sort of way. Not 
 that she was unfriendly or ungracious. Christopher 
 Tonkin said that she was a fine, self-respecting creature, 
 and a very good example to all the young folk of St. 
 Tid in his opinion, so presently the people, seeing 'em 
 together once or twice — at a free luncheon of the 
 United Methodists and so on — gave it out that like 
 would to like, and that they'd be tokened some fine 
 day in the eyes of the nation. But others, who knew 
 Christopher better, said that he was far too ambitious 
 a man to hamper hisself with a wife before he was thirty ; 
 while as for money, it weren't no temptation to him, 
 because he had no vices and never drank, nor smoked, 
 nor went away for week-ends, nor nothing like that. 
 He just lived for the quarries and worked early and 
 late ; and he never missed chapel, and he never missed a 
 meeting of the Parish Council. Every minute of his 
 time was put into work, and, even if he'd wanted to go 
 courting, it didn't look as if it would fit into the life he'd 
 planned for himself. StiU, the busiest man can find time 
 for that, and in truth Christopher had thought a bit 
 about Mercy — the more so because, not being blind, 
 he could see she was addicted to him and always pleased 
 to see him. But he had his ideas about what a wife 
 should be, and he reckoned there was lots of time to 
 watch Mercy and mark how her character went on. 
 Maybe he undervalued her through ignorance, for 
 his bulldog knew more about women than he did. In 
 fact, his views on the female question were very old- 
 fashioned indeed. However, that didn't interfere with 
 
PANTING AFTER CHRISTOPHER 295 
 
 his usefulness, for he was a tower of sense, and once, 
 when the chairman of the Council was away, he took 
 the chair, and they all agreed none could have done it 
 better. He was heart and soul for St. Tid, and it was 
 thanks to him that the village got the electric light from 
 the quarries, and our streets were bright as day in the 
 winter evenings. And other good things he also did. 
 A dark, hatchet-faced man he was, with keen, black 
 eyes and little whiskers and moustache, and a thin figure 
 of middle height. Always very nice in his manners and 
 always bright and cheerful to the greatest and least. 
 But a good conceit of himself and quite alive to what 
 the people owed him. 
 
 And Mercy Parsons loved him — that was the 
 English of it. She knew it, and she knew more than 
 that. She'd summed him up to a hair, and felt positive 
 certain that she was the woman for him. Her love 
 didn't blind — she wasn't the sort to be blinded by 
 anything; but it quickened her fine understanding, and 
 she looked at herself from the outside, if you under- 
 stand me, and saw quite clear that she was the very 
 mate for Christopher, and would double his strength 
 and help him on the ambitious road he was going. She 
 felt positive that she would see with his eyes most times, 
 and didn't doubt but that she would be right herself, 
 when he happened to be wrong. There was something 
 of a mother's love in it, I believe, for there's a bit of 
 the mother mixed up in every real woman's love for a 
 man. Despite all his common sense and strength, she 
 felt older than him in many things, and was more and 
 more impressed with the fact that she'd dearly like to 
 
296 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 wed him, and that 'twould be the cleverest day's work 
 of all his clever ones if he took her. 
 
 But the time went on and he didn't. 'Tis a sign of 
 your own strength, of course, to find yourself opposed, 
 and Mercy didn't let her secret hurt her. She waited 
 and watched, and wasn't sorry when Christopher had 
 a rival. In fact, it interested her above a bit, and she 
 was gentle and patient with the man who now came into 
 her life. She'd rather have died than marry Billy 
 Blane, the miller, who now came along and began to 
 court her, because he wasn't her sort by a thousand 
 miles ; but none covdd question his right to offer, for he 
 was a well-to-do man, in a good way of business, and, 
 though a bit old for Mercy, not too old in the eyes of 
 the people or his own. 
 
 Five-and-forty Billy might have been. He was a 
 pale-faced widower, and folk said that along of being in 
 the dust of ground com all his life, he'd took the colour. 
 In fact, he was always dusty up to his hair. He had no 
 children, and was whispered to be weak- in the lungs ; but 
 he was a straightforward sort of man, and held his head 
 high, and took himself serious. 
 
 Billy wasn't at the age when a man wastes time, and 
 he showed very soon that he meant business with Mercy. 
 And everybody wondered what Christopher Tonkin 
 would do about it, and Mercy most of all. But he did 
 nothing. Of course, he knew what was afoot — nothing 
 escaped him — but he didn't love Mercy, and he wasn't 
 jealous, and he felt that if she took the miUer that was 
 proof positive that she wasn't the wife for him ; and that 
 
PANTING APTER CHRISTOPHER 297 
 
 if she didn't take the miller, things were as before and 
 no harm done. So he went his busy way. 
 
 Then Mercy did a proper outrageous thing, and it 
 wasn't for years afterwards that anybody ever got to 
 hear tell about it. There happened a Sunday evening, 
 after Christopher had preached a very good sermon and 
 prayed a very far-reaching prayer at the chapel, and 
 when he came out the girl waylaid him. 
 
 " If you've got a few spare minutes," she said, " I'll 
 thank you to have a bit of talk with me, Christopher." 
 
 " And welcome," he answered. " Come in to supper 
 with me and my atmt." 
 
 She expected that, and went along with him. 
 
 " How did you find the sermon ? " he asked. 
 
 " I didn't listen to it," she answered. " I've got a 
 good bit on my mind for the minute." 
 
 " So we all have," he said, " but we ought to put it 
 away when we come to chapel, and go afore the Throne 
 of Grace with an open heart." 
 
 " I know all that," she said. " You're an amazing 
 man, Christopher. I don't believe there's a calling in 
 life you wouldn't have shone at. Whatever you had 
 took up you'd have gone on with it till you came out 
 top." 
 
 " You was always too kind in your opinions of me, 
 Mercy," he answered ; " and for that matter, so far as 
 one can say it of such a young woman, you're as 
 wonderful as I am. 'Tis character, and, thank the 
 Lord, we've both got it." 
 
 " So we have," she said, " and so far as I can see, 
 
a98 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 only us in all St. Tid. It mazes me to mark what slack- 
 twisted, siUy minds the men and women have. You're 
 a tower of strength among the men, and if I was called 
 to public life, I'd be the same among the women." 
 
 " Not that I hold with public life for females," he 
 answered her. " A woman's best place is at the right- 
 hand of a strong man." 
 
 " So I think," she said, quick as lightning, " and 
 that's what I want to talk about. There's a man wants 
 me — cruel bad he wants me, and — I " 
 
 " Leave it till we've had supper," he advised. " I 
 know who 'tis very well. I'll go a bit further and say 
 I'm a bit surprised at his cheek." 
 
 Well, that was a remark that pleased Mercy Parsons. 
 Perhaps Christopher couldn't have said anything to 
 have pleased her better for the moment; so she left it, 
 and they talked of Christopher and what he was doing, 
 and what he was meaning to do; which are the subjects 
 that always interest a strong man most. And then, 
 after she'd took supper with him, and his aunt was in 
 the scullery washing up, he invited her to speak. 
 
 " Of course we all know 'tis Billy Blane," he said. 
 " He's a very good miller, I doubt not ; but — however, 
 it ain't for me to say nothing against Billy." 
 
 " He came over two nights agone and offered mar- 
 riage. You've got to see a man in love to understand 
 his character, Christopher, and I may say that Mr. 
 Blane astonished me. Under all that flour he's dusted 
 over with, he's a fierce creature. He was very much in 
 earnest. He offered for me very nice, and as I weren't 
 in the least excited myself and expected it, I kept calm 
 
PANTING AFTER CHRISTOPHER 299 
 
 and cool, and was able to criticize the man in his fiery 
 moments. It was rather fine in a way to see a middle- 
 aged person in such a frame of mind. His eye flashed 
 and his forehead got dewy and he looked ten years 
 younger than his age. I daresay that a good many 
 maidens would have taken him. But in his highest 
 moments I couldn't help thinking of you somehow, and 
 picturing you offering a woman marriage. It ought to 
 be a dignified thing, in my opinion. And so, no doubt, 
 it would be if you was courting." 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 " Ess fay — an offer for a life-long partnership 
 ought to be dignified — not to say cautious. And what 
 did you answer, if I may ask.? " 
 
 " You don't need to ask surely ? You, of aU men ! 
 We're not childer, and there's no false pride about me, 
 though plenty of proper pride, I believe." 
 
 " Plenty, I should hope." 
 
 " I told him that he paid a great compliment to me, 
 but that it couldn't be." 
 
 " Of course not — a man old enough for your father. 
 And what next? " 
 
 " He mopped himself and sighed, and said he had a 
 right to know if there was another had come between." 
 
 "He hadn't," declared Christopher. "That just 
 shows Billy. You gave him ' no,' and there was an end 
 of it." 
 
 " Well, I felt, somehow, I owed him something. I'm 
 a cruel, honest woman, and couldn't tell a lie to a snail, 
 let alone a man. There was another, of course, and I 
 told him so." 
 
SOO CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 Christopher flushed up at that, 
 
 " And you know who it was, I should hope," she said. 
 
 " I might and I might not," he replied. " I may 
 have thought perhaps." 
 
 " Why — you, you, you, are the man f And well you 
 know it. I've loved you all my life, I believe. And I've 
 often wondered whether you'd be better with me at your 
 elbow, or better without. You're too busy to think of 
 such things, but I've got plenty of time, owing to being 
 so methodical, and I've often felt that very thing you 
 said just now so positive." 
 
 He was cool again and watchful as a hawk, 
 
 " And what did I say just now.? " he asked. 
 
 " That a strong man was stronger for a strong 
 woman at his elbow." 
 
 " ' Better,' not ' stronger,' " he corrected her. 
 
 There was a bit of a pause then. 
 
 " To be better is to be stronger," she said. " How- 
 ever, it ain't for me to say no more. Perhaps I've said 
 too much." 
 
 " You have and you haven't," he answered, like a 
 lawyer. He was always balancing his words that way. 
 " You've been very generous and oncoming, and for 
 Kiy part I don't see why not. You're rich and you've 
 got a barrel-load of sense, and you don't let little silly 
 manners and customs come between you and what's in 
 your mind. And that's to the good: I'm with you 
 there. But when it came to BiUy Blane asking you to 
 name the man, you ought to have withstood him. Now 
 he'll go about saying that we're engaged ; and we ain't." 
 
 She hadn't got nothing to answer, so she didn't 
 
PANTING AFTER CHRISTOPHER 301 
 
 answer nothing. She felt that she'd fired her shot and 
 missed. She got up to go and he got up likewise. Both 
 were cool as fishes outwardly, whatever they were 
 inside. 
 
 " I feel a lot flattered about it, however," he said. 
 " I don't think none the worse of you, Mercy — far from 
 it. I'm a very busy man and playing a big game, but 
 I find myself exceedingly proud of being your friend. 
 I shan't forget what you've said. And this I can tell 
 you : I've set you a lot higher than any other woman on 
 earth. We'll leave it at that, if you please. And if 
 you can help me at any time, I shall let you know. 
 And if I can help you, I shall be very proud to do it." 
 
 Then they parted, and she went off proper mad with 
 anger at herself, and he turned it over very serious 
 indeed. He was pleased in a quiet sort of way with the 
 night's work, for he thought the world of her — when 
 he'd got time to think of her at all, which wasn't often ; 
 but she didn't know how he was regarding her offer of 
 marriage, and it got on her nerves presently, and she 
 began to fret to think how she'd demeaned herself before 
 him. But, of course, he didn't know she was fretting. 
 He thought she'd done a thing that was quite becoming 
 in a rich and handsome woman, and didn't know that 
 what's in a man's blood to do, as a matter of course, 
 be often only done by a woman at fearful cost and 
 against her instinct. Impulsive people always have to 
 pay a long price, sooner or late. 
 
 Mercy met him a month later and asked him to forgive 
 her for talking as she had done; and he was much 
 astonished. 
 
S02 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 " Lord bless you, my dear woman," he said. " Don't 
 take it like that, or I shall think le'ss of you. You were 
 quite right. Queens drop the handkerchief," he said; 
 " and you're a queen in my opinion, so why for shouldn't 
 you.'' " 
 
 That comforted her no doubt and she cheered up a 
 bit in secret, for she'd got terrible wisht after her 
 failure, and the people marked it. What's more, they 
 guessed at the truth, though in justice to the man, that 
 wasn't Billy Blane's fault, for he kept her secret very 
 honest and he didn't love her less for knowing it and 
 still had a bit of hope. 
 
 Then BiUy went for Christopher Tonkin — not sav- 
 age and open of course, for he had no quarrel with any 
 man he could put a name to; but crafty like. He 
 wanted to show Mercy that Christopher weren't the only 
 man of character and renown in St. Tid, and he reck- 
 oned he was quite as popular and clever and famed for 
 sense as Tonkin was, or any other man round about; 
 and so, when the next election for the Parish Council 
 came on, which it did do six months afterwards, Billy 
 Blane decided in secret to stand and offer himself for 
 the post. 
 
 Christopher heard about it as a rumour, but he didn't 
 give a second thought to the matter, because Billy was 
 a reactionary in politics, and St. Tid was thought to be 
 progressive. He'd romped in hands down before and 
 reckoned his election again was a certainty and all over 
 bar shouting. He only laughed when he heard tell that 
 Blane was up against him, and he didn't take no trouble 
 
PANTING AFTER CHRISTOPHER 
 
 to do anything, being quite content to know himself a 
 sure winner. 
 
 It wanted but a fortnight to the election and Chris- 
 topher was deep one night in the quarry accounts, when 
 much to his surprise Mercy Parsons dropped in. He 
 was rather vexed about it, because he was terrible busy 
 and feared she took his poetical talk about the queen 
 dropping a pocket handkerchief too serious. In fact 
 he guessed she'd come to do the same again. 
 
 " I'm properly busy," he said, handing a chair to 
 her, " but I daresay you ain't going to keep me very 
 long." 
 
 " No, I ain't," she said ; " only you may like to know 
 that others are properly busy beside you. I daresay 
 you've forgot all about the election.'' " 
 
 " Very near," he told her. " 'Tis a matter of form 
 and no more." 
 
 " I can't work for you, because you wouldn't let me," 
 she answered. " But I've got ears and eyes, and I've 
 been using them both of late. It's like this, and you 
 ought to hear it. There's a lot of people going to vote 
 for Mr. Blane — a lot more than you've got any idea 
 of. He's been talking against the progressives, and 
 giving figures, and explaining from his point of view; 
 and I went to one of his meetings, and I can tell you 
 that the people are lot taken by him. And the Church 
 parson be working hard for him too. But where are 
 you.'' And of a night, when he isn't airing his opinions 
 in public, -Mr. Blane's going round with a lantern and 
 a piece of paper making a house to house visitation. 
 
304* CHRONICLES OF ST, TID 
 
 And he's promising everything and making a lot of 
 ignorant people believe that 'twill be proper ruination 
 to St. Tid if they don't put him in. I've marked him a 
 lot of nights and heard the people talk about him; and 
 the long and short is if you don't stir yourself while 
 there's time, he'U out you, Christopher." 
 
 The man stared with amazement, and she took a 
 breath and ran on. 
 
 " I've done what I can, and steadied down a good few 
 doubtful ones ; but it ain't my work. Why, this very 
 night he's out up over in Wesley Terrace, and welcome 
 everywhere as the flowers in May. You can go and see 
 for yourself if you like." 
 
 Well, Tonkin pulled himself together, left his papers 
 and got on his legs. 
 
 " I will," he said. He was too much excited to thank 
 her or look at her. Before she knew it he was gone; 
 and then she went home and wondered what he'd do 
 next. 
 
 She soon found out, for in twenty-four hours there 
 was an advertisement in all the shop windows saying 
 that Mr. Christopher Tonkin, the people's friend, was 
 going to hold a meeting in the big schoolroom on the 
 subject of the election, and he was very wishful to put 
 his views and what he'd done and what he meant to do 
 before the honoured voters. 
 
 And the man held his meeting and started round of 
 nights with a lantern and a piece of paper; and he 
 worked during the fortnight afore the election like a 
 team of bosses. Everywhere he found what a strong 
 thing it is to get in first with a crowd of empty-minded 
 
PANTING AFTER CHRISTOPHER S05 
 
 folk — ready most times as sheep for the slaughter — 
 and everywhere he found what a powerful lot of voters 
 had inclined to Blane and his, politics and promises. In 
 fact, when the election day arrived, Christopher Tonkin 
 for the first time in his life was very doubtful of success. 
 He found himself in a new frame of mind and couldn't 
 let down his breakfast — a thing which mortally 
 troubled him, for he doubted not that he must be 
 parlous bad. 'Twas touch and go without a doubt, and 
 to the last the issue hung in the balance. But he won. 
 Only fourteen votes more than Billy Blane did Chris- 
 topher receive, however, and he got the shock of his 
 life, as he afterwards confessed. When the numbers 
 were out and he said a few words and won a cheer from 
 his supporters, he bethought of Mercy, and being a very 
 fair-minded man, couldn't help seeing that she'd won the 
 election for him. 
 
 His mind went up and down about it a good bit; 
 but at last it began slowly to settle itself in her favour. 
 He didn't hurry, and to the end I believe he was a 
 thought regretful to take the plunge; but looking all 
 round it and seeing the sort of girl she'd shown herself, 
 he couldn't help feeling there was a lot in her favour and 
 mighty little against. So he went over to her one 
 evening, after waiting a week to see if she'd come to him, 
 which she didn't. 
 
 They had a pleasant talk about it, and for the first 
 time in his life Master Christopher found what it was 
 like to have a woman in his arms and her lips on his 
 mouth. 
 
A TOUCH OF " FEARFULNESS " 
 
 A auiET, easy chap was Amos Barton — a man very 
 well content to live and let live. In fact the last on 
 earth that would have left his uncle's farm and gone 
 for a soldier at any other time than this. 
 
 But left an orphan, he had been brought up by a 
 very clever aunt — one of the old sort with a streak of 
 toughness in her — and seeing her nephew's fault was 
 like to- be that he'd sacrifice most anything for the sake 
 of peace, she'd worked at his character in that matter 
 and taught him that there were times when peace and 
 self-respect couldn't drive in double harness. So it 
 came about that when war broke upon us, Amos Barton 
 found his aunt's teaching hold to him, and he didn't 
 wait to be called, but offered. Indeed he was one of the 
 first in all St. Tid parish to throw up the land and go in 
 the army. 
 
 Of course in those dark days of the year 1914 — 
 which seem as far away as Noah's Flood now — we none 
 of us knew the height and depth of what the nation was 
 in for; and there was a lot of fun and chaff to the 
 recruiting, and many thought by the time the boys were 
 drilled and knew their job the war would be over. 
 
 So there was plenty of laughter when we heard gentle 
 
 Amos was going to the war — a chap, mind you, that 
 
 even shirked sport, for his uncle, when speaking to a 
 
 few of us at " The Green Man " one evening, declared 
 
 306 
 
A TOUCH OF " FEARFULNESS " 307 
 
 he could never get his nephew to touch a gun, or kill 
 anything bigger than a wasp. 
 
 " But his sense of duty has called him to the wars," 
 said Matthew Barton, " and though 'tis vain to think 
 Amos can ever shine as a soldier, yet we may be sure 
 he'll do his duty to the best of his limited powers." 
 
 Amos was Matthew's heir, you must know, if he didn't 
 forfeit his hopes in the future. 
 
 " Why didn't he go in the Ambulance Corps ? " asked 
 Tom Chick, whose own son had also enlisted. 
 
 " He was told that what the nation wanted was 
 fighting foot-soldiers," explained Matthew, " so a foot- 
 soldier he'll be; though seeing how skilled he is along 
 with horses and what a clever touch he has to tame 'em, 
 I think he'd be doing more good in the cavalry myself. 
 That gentle chap have a wiU of iron with horses. I've 
 never known one beat him." 
 
 But Amos wasn't a hero in one pair of eyes by any 
 means, and it came out presently that his sweetheart, 
 Lucy Vale, felt a good bit put about when he joined up. 
 She didn't wish it, and she reckoned Amos ought to 
 have considered her feeling first. For people began to 
 say that quite enough young men had volunteered for 
 the new armies, and so Lucy, who knew Amos was a 
 peaceful, soft-hearted chap by nature, reckoned he'd 
 never shine at the front, or be a credit to her, or any- 
 body. So she felt he'd better far keep out of harm's 
 way and continue to be his uncle's horseman and leave 
 war to such as had a better stomach for it. 
 
 " Good powers ! " she said to Amos. " What should 
 a man like you do in battle? Your one thought would 
 
308 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 be to hurt nobody, and you'd stop to say you were sorry 
 if you trod on anybody's toes, let alone run a bayonet 
 into them. You'll only disgrace yourself if you go, 
 and if you hear a shot fired in anger, such a tender 
 creature as you will lose your nerve altogether and 
 very Hkely run away, or do something dangerous." 
 
 " I'm sorry you feel like that, Loo," said Amos to 
 her ; " and I hope you're mistaken. I hate the thoughts 
 of war and I ain't ashamed to say it ; but I don't think 
 I should be frightened; because if a man's doing his 
 duty, there's no room for him to be frightened that I 
 can see." 
 
 She kept at him, however, and made it a bit painftil 
 for Amos ; but she didn't change his mind and, once in 
 khaki, of course she could do nothing. The change 
 dated from then, however, and there's no doubt Lucy 
 Vale never felt quite the same to Amos after he joined 
 the colours. She was a very fine figure of a girl with 
 red hair and a complexion like a wild rose ; but she had 
 no large ideas and couldn't look much farther ahead 
 than her own interests. For that matter that's the 
 limit of more eyes than Lucy's. 
 
 So when she'd made a rare good match for a poor 
 widow's daughter and won Amos Barton, she little 
 liked to think she might lose him again, and didn't give 
 the man any credit for the sacrifice, but blamed him for 
 it instead. And perhaps what troubled her as much 
 as anything was that Amos withstood her; for he'd 
 never denied her before, and she was already thinking 
 in her heart that the grey mare would be the better 
 horse when they came to wed. 
 
A TOUCH OF " FEARFXJLNESS " 309 
 
 However she hid her mind, and I daresay it would 
 have been all right, as more and more joined up. In- 
 deed before long Lucy might have been the first to 
 grumble if she'd been called to go out walking with a 
 civilian. But there was another in it, and when young 
 Jacob Warner, the gamekeeper, found that Lucy was a 
 bit under the weather about Amos, he took very good 
 care for his own ends to harp on it and make out a 
 black case against the girl's betrothed. 
 
 He was a big, fine fellow, to the eye, but he hadn't 
 no use whatever for the war and he let his master apply 
 for him, and the Tribunal gave him six months, not for 
 his own sake, but for Squire Trecarrow's. And when 
 Amos was fairly off to France, Master Jacob began his 
 games with Lucy and tried his very best to get her 
 away from the absent man. 
 
 What went on between them nobody ever knew; but 
 a gamekeeper's a chap that can amuse himself out of 
 sight of other people by reason of his calling, and there's 
 no doubt Lucy often met Jacob by appointment and 
 listened to his nonsense. 
 
 She was weak but not wicked, and she didn't think 
 she was doing wrong to listen to Jacob's love-making, 
 more especially as she didn't feel none too forgiving to 
 Amos for joining up; but we couldn't believe that she 
 meant more than to amuse herself, and so Tom Chick, 
 who was a friend of Amos Barton, decided he'd speak 
 to Lucy. 
 
 He was a middle-aged man and had got a good few 
 daughters of his own, so he felt he could say the word 
 in season. 
 
310 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 But he found Lucy Vale in rather a haughty spirit. 
 To be plain, she told him to mind his own business. 
 And then came the amazing thing, for suddenly two 
 matters fell out simultaneously and we heard that Lucy 
 had thrown over Amos and was tokened to the game- 
 keeper, and next we heard that Amos himself, who 
 had now been in the trenches for six months, was 
 getting a bit of leave and returning home to his uncle 
 and aunt. 
 
 Leave comes along by chance when it can, you see, 
 and a man don't know much beforehand when he is 
 to get back; so it fell out that Lucy's letter to Amos, 
 telling him she'd changed her mind, never reached him, 
 and the first he heard about the adventure was at the 
 railway station, where Tom Chick went to meet him. 
 
 He found Amos changed and yet the same. He was 
 thinner, but a mighty lot harder; his gentle eyes had 
 taken a diiferent expression, and there'd come a sharp 
 line between ''em. His voice was different too, and 
 him that had gone to the wars a kindly boy came back 
 a man and one that knew his own mind, be sure. He 
 had come through without a scratch and seen some 
 properly awful service. He'd killed men with his own 
 weapons, and hoped to kill more and weren't ashamed to 
 say so. His outlook on life was altered by the horrors 
 that life had showed him, and he told Tom that he'd 
 never known the meaning of reality before he went to 
 France. 
 
 That gave Tom his chance. 
 
 " There's a bit of reality waiting here for you all the 
 
A TOUCH OF " FEARFULNESS " Sll 
 
 same," he said, " and I'm very sorry to say it's in the 
 shape of some proper bad news." 
 
 " Not aunt or uncle? " asked Amos. 
 
 " No, they're all right." 
 
 " Lucy, then.? She ought to be here to meet me." 
 
 Then Tom told him that Lucy had gone over to 
 Jacob Warner, that the thing had been done not a 
 fortnight before, and that there was a letter waiting in 
 France that minute with the fatal news. Knowing the 
 gentle nature of Amos, Chick feared he'd be properly 
 torn to pieces by this fearful mishap ; but the outward 
 change had crept to the inner man also as it seemed. 
 Anyway Amos didn't take on much to the eye. When 
 he heard who the other man was he just gave a short 
 laugh and bade Tom Chick come along with him to 
 " The Green Man " and have a drink. He'd got a very 
 fine German helmet as a trophy and in ten minutes he 
 was showing it to a dozen men in the bar of the inn 
 and getting a lot of congratulations from his old 
 acquaintance. 
 
 They found the change in him, too, for the work his 
 hand had been called to perform was reflected not only 
 in his voice and his eyes, but in his manner of looking 
 at things and in his opinions. He didn't show off or 
 talk big, for nothing could have made him do that, 
 but 'twas plain to the least observing that life had 
 lifted Amos into a pretty keen blade. He didn't contra- 
 dict nor argue about the war, but he just told 'em; and 
 he made it exceeding clear that the old world and the 
 old interests and amusements — the farm work and the 
 
312 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 quarry work and the chapel teas and so on — had a 
 took another place in his mind from what they did bef o: 
 the war. He didn't scorn nothing or laugh at anybody 
 yet there was the far-reaching change in him, and tl 
 home-staying people who saw and heard, felt it and kne 
 that Amos had got to be a leader of men and one whoi 
 word did ought to be respected and obeyed. For thi 
 matter he had risen from private to sergeant in si 
 months and the stripes was on his arm. 
 
 Nobody touched on the man's great misfortun 
 though it was common knowledge by now; and then b 
 chance who should saunter into the bar, with his gu 
 under his arm, but Jacob Warner, the keeper ! An 
 the people fairly held their breath, for Tom had alread 
 whispered them that the murder was out and Amos kne 
 what had happened. 
 
 And then they saw a very remarkable scene. 
 
 "Hullo, Jacob, how's yourself.''" asked Amos. 
 
 " I'm all right," answered the other, but he showe 
 an inclination to be off and away that instant momen 
 
 " Shake hands and don't you go. I want to spea 
 to you," said Amos, and the other put a bold face on 
 and shook hands and set down his gun. 
 
 " Still shooting rabbits instead of Germans, I see. 
 remarked Amos. 
 
 " The world's work can't stand still for the war, 
 answered Jacob, lofty like. 
 
 " ' The world's work ' ! Are you a rabbit yourseli 
 What is the world's work but the war? You're so ba 
 as the neutrals, who sit still and whimper and see the 
 
A TOUCH OF " FEARFULNESS " 313 
 
 ships sent to the bottom of the sea and bleat for peace, 
 instead of giving the Allies a helping hand to win it. 
 ' The world's work ! ' Much you know of the world's 
 work, you hulking great zany." 
 
 Jacob stood three inches taller than Amos and was a 
 broader, bigger, heavier man; but he looked a loose- 
 built, shambling sort of figure against the soldier, and 
 his voice hadn't the same clean ring in it, and his words 
 didn't carry weight like the smaller man's, which was 
 natural, because, of course, Jacob stood in the wrong 
 and Amos had right behind him. 
 
 " What's the matter with you ? " asked the keeper. 
 
 " I'll tell you," answered Amos. " The matter with 
 me is that I've just heard my girl, in a passing fit of 
 weak-mindedness, have thought that you was better like 
 to suit her as a husband than what I shall. And that 
 means that you've been messing about after her when 
 you ought to have been doing your master's work. So 
 you can't even be trusted to shoot rabbits seemingly. 
 And now you're up against it, and I've got to knock 
 this tomfoolery out of your head and out of hers afore 
 I go to sleep tonight. And I'm going to do it." 
 
 " How? " asked Jacob. But he'd got his tail down 
 already, and he knew by the other man's voice and 
 straight eye that he was in for a bad time. 
 
 " I'll show you how. When you're a soldier, you 
 learn to make up your mind double quick, for your life 
 often hangs on it. And my life hangs on Lucy Vale 
 for that matter, as the baggage very weU knows. So 
 now you drink your beer and come along with me." 
 
314 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 "And if I don't?" 
 
 " There's no don't about it. I've had to handle your 
 sort a dozen times under enemy's fire, Jacob Warner, 
 and if I could do it there, I can do it here. You're 
 dust to me — dust I tell you — in will and strength 
 and everything. I'm ashamed to waste words on an 
 over-grown, good-for-nothing lout like you. You've 
 got to march along with me to Widow Vale's house and 
 tell Lucy you've been a wicked young fool. And you 
 can take off that cap and put on this German helmet. 
 It came off the head of a braver man than you, so you 
 needn't be ashamed of it." 
 
 Jacob threw his eyes around to find a friend ; but 
 of the dozen odd men in the bar at that minute, not 
 one was his side. He blustered and cursed a good bit; 
 but Amos was hard as a rock and, as Tom Chick said 
 after, you felt he'd got a bit of the tiger-tamer in 
 him at that moment and was good to handle man or 
 beast. There weren't much of the tiger in Jacob 
 Warner, whether or no, and before you could rub your 
 eyes the battle of wills was over, and there stood the 
 keeper with a dead German's helmet on his head. 
 
 " Shoulder arms ! " said Amos, and Jacob had to put 
 his gun over his shoulder, though he'd liked to have 
 emptied both barrels into his enemy if he'd dared. 
 
 But he was a lost man afore the other, and there 
 came a proper terrified look in his face as he went out 
 and down the street. He pretended afterwards he 
 thought Amos was mad. Barton let up a little then, 
 and as we crowded to the door to see 'em go, we m-arked 
 that he didn't drive the keeper in front of him, as if 
 
A TOUCH OF « FEARFULNESS " S16 
 
 he'd took a prisoner, but just walked in a friendly way 
 by his side and talked as if there weren't a shadow 
 between them. Leastways he did the talking, for Jacob 
 was dumb. 
 
 Then they went to Widow Vale's cottage and it was 
 Lucy's turn. 
 
 She came out to the door when Amos knocked, and 
 before she knew it, was in his arms with a kiss on each 
 cheek. Then he spoke afore she'd time to faint. 
 
 " Here I am, you see, never better, and in the pink, 
 my dear. And I'm sorry to find that you and Jacob 
 here have been playing at some sort of naughty pretence 
 behind my back, like a couple of silly children. But I 
 forgive you, because it's all make-believe here at home, 
 and your letters are just as bad as you. But I've woke 
 Jacob up, and he's come to say he's sorry for his sins ; 
 and I'll hope you'll forgive him as you'd wish to be 
 forgiven yourself by me for such -bad conduct. Now 
 speak, Jacob, and then you can sling your hook." 
 
 He talked as calmly as ever ; but the pair knew ,there 
 was a force behind far beyond their power to cope 
 with. 
 
 And Jacob cut a poor show before Lucy. He 
 couldn't bluff and he couldn't talk big with a dead 
 German's helmet on his head and a dozen school chil- 
 dren peeping over the garden wall, so he did the wisest 
 thing and threw up the sponge and felt least said, 
 soonest mended. 
 
 " You hear Amos," said Jacob, " and that's all there 
 is to it, Lucy. He's come home like a regiment of 
 soldiers all in one man, and he will be obeyed and he 
 
316 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 don't regard your engagement to me as binding 
 and " 
 
 Lucy looked at him and then at Amos, standing there 
 like the figure of Doom, and she saw the new power 
 that had cast Jacob in the dust. For a moment she 
 thought of putting her will against his, and perhaps if 
 Jacob had put up a fight she'd have helped him; but 
 seeing him down and out, as you may say, and the other 
 so calm and resolute, she felt in a flash what a cruel 
 mistake she'd made. 
 
 Then Amos took his helmet off Jacob's head and bade 
 him be gone; but all quite pleasant without a spark 
 of anger; and when the gamekeeper had disappeared, 
 the steadfast soldier went into Lucy Vale's house. Her 
 mother was out and they had it to themselves, and then 
 she got a taste of the new Amos Barton. He listened 
 to her shame-faced talk, like a father listens to a child 
 caught out in a naughty deed, and he pardoned her, and 
 then he said his say. 
 
 " I forgive you very willing, Lucy, but a thing like 
 this have got to leave its mark, and 'tis no good your 
 crying out, because I shouldn't hear you if you did. 
 My ears don't take no account of much less than a 
 ' Jack Johnson ' nowadays. Jacob couldn't have been 
 wicked if you hadn't helped him ; and now you're going 
 to catch it too." 
 
 She doted on his firmness and felt like kneeling down 
 and kissing his boots by that time. But with all the 
 will to pleasure him and the thankfulness to be forgiven, 
 she was more than a bit shaken up when she heard what 
 he said next. 
 
A TOUCH OF « FEARFULNESS " S17 
 
 " On Sunday next we'll go to chapel as usual, my 
 dear, and sit side by side and sing out of the same book. 
 And you'll wear this here helmet instead of your go-to- 
 meeting hat. 'Tis an officer's helmet and will look very 
 fine on your brave red hair. And that's not all neither. 
 I've got a fortnight before I return to France. And 
 during that fortnight two things will happen to me. 
 I shall receive the Distinguished Conduct Medal, known 
 as the D.C.M. for shortness, and I shall marry Lucy 
 Vale. That's where we stand. And now you can give 
 me a kiss and sit on my knee for a bit and tell me you 
 feel thankful to God that you're going to marry a man 
 after all." 
 
 He stopped with her for half an hour, and such was 
 the potent force of him, and the look in his eyes, and 
 the way he held her to him and rubbed his lean cheek 
 against her round one, that Lucy never even argued 
 about it. She'd not seen or felt such a driving power 
 in her life, of course. 
 
 He went off to his relations presently and never even 
 reminded Lucy about the helmet. But he let her choose 
 the wedding day, and when he came to fetch her to 
 worship the next Sunday she was wearing the helmet 
 all right. But she'd softened it down with a bit of 
 flimsy and he made no objection to that. In fact he 
 never mentioned the subject again either then or ever 
 after. 
 
 They were married so soon as possible, and then 
 went to London for a few days, on one of which Amos 
 visited Buckingham Palace and got his medal from His 
 Majesty's own hand. 
 
318 CHRONICLES OF ST. TID 
 
 'Twas a nine days' wonder you may say, and, before 
 he returned to fight, Tom Chick asked Amos how it 
 came about that such an easy chap could take such a 
 high hand and sweep others before him like the wind 
 sweeps the leaves; and he said, as calm and gentle as 
 ever, how it was. 
 
 " 'Tis like this, Chick," he answered. " Out there, 
 you must know, everything's so terrible real that it 
 makes everyday life at St. Tid a dream by comparison. 
 Out there all the senses play such a part as never before 
 were they called to play. They're lifted up and 
 increased, and you feel that you've only been half alive 
 before. You hear and you see and you smell and you 
 touch, and by God! you taste too, in a way you can't 
 imagine if you haven't been there. Your feet turn into 
 ice under you; your blood runs out of your ears and 
 nose for nothing but the noise. Everything's in deadly 
 extremes, Tom Chick; and after you've had a spell of 
 it, you find you take a new view of life in general. 
 And coming back from the front to all you peaceful 
 people, and such mice as Jacob Warner, I feel that — 
 no disrespect to you. Chick — you're all tame cats, or 
 grown-up children, just fiddling on with your silly little 
 lives and thinking your silly little thoughts and doing 
 your siUy little actions. And I was the same; but I 
 shall never sink down into the same again if I'm spared 
 to come through the fighting. And for the minute, 
 being strung up as you may say to see things with the 
 eyes of the Great War, 'twas nothing to me to handle 
 Jacob as I did, and Lucy as I did. I've give 'em both 
 a pinch of reality. And what's the result, my dear.!" 
 
A TOUCH OF " FEARFULNESS " 319 
 
 Why, that stupid gamekeeper if off to the wars himself, 
 and a very fine soldier he'll make no doubt; while as 
 for my precious girl, she understands a bit of the truth 
 of me as she never did before; and when she married 
 me, I got a wife in a thousand without a doubt, and 
 she got a man as is a man I hope." 
 
 And if he's spared to the finish and takes up his 
 Uncle Matthew's farm when the time comes, Amos 
 Barton will be a power of good among us; for though 
 the war's brought out his manhood, it haven't altered 
 his nature, and he'll always be gentle to the weak and 
 kind to the humble, and thoughtful for his fellow man 
 and woman. Because he's built so. 
 
 THE END 
 
 fBINTBD IS THK DNITED BTATE« OF AMEBIOA 
 
""HE following pages contain advertisements of a 
 few of tlie Macmillan novels. 
 
The Banks of Colne 
 
 By EDEN PHILLPOTTS 
 Author of "Green Alleys," "Old Delabole," etc, 
 
 12°, $1.50 
 
 The plot and characters of Mr. Phillpotts' new 
 novel, "The Banks of Colne" are drawn from two in- 
 tensely interesting industries of the Devonshire coun- 
 try — ^a great flower nursery and landscape gardening 
 concern, and the oyster fisheries on the coast. 
 
 The story develops in a leisurely way with the re- 
 markable descriptions of nature which have character- 
 ized all of Mr. Phillpotts' writings. The people are 
 real. They have grown up out of the soil on which 
 they play out their little drama, and the natural set- 
 tings seem to envelop and color their souls. This 
 quality is partly a result of Mr. Phillpotts' way of 
 working. He goes to the locality which is to be the 
 scene of his story, and there he lives among the people, 
 getting to know them intimately and discovering the 
 fundamental relations between the people and back- 
 ground. 
 
 "As long as we have such novelists as Mr. Phill- 
 potts we need have no fears for the future of Eng- 
 lish fiction." — Boston Transcript. 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 Pulilisbers 64-66 Mitb. Avenne New York 
 
The Human Boy and the War 
 
 By EDEN PHILLPOTTS 
 
 Cloth, ismo, $1^5 
 
 In this book of stories Mr. Phillpotts uses his genial gift 
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 on the impressionable minds of boys — English school-boys 
 far away from anything but the mysterious echo of the strange 
 terrors and blood-stirring heroisms of battle, who live close 
 only to the martial invitation of a recruiting station. There 
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 who go — perhaps without running ; the school's contest for a 
 prize poem about the war, and snow battles, fiercely belligerent, 
 mimicking the strategies of Flanders and the Champagne. 
 They are deeply moving sketches revealing the heart and 
 mind of English youth in war-time. 
 
 "The book is extraordinary in the skill with which it gets 
 into that world of the boy so shut away from the adult world. 
 It is entirely unlike anything else by Phillpotts, equal as it is 
 to his other volumes in charm, character study, humor and in- 
 terest. It is one of those books that every reader will want to 
 recommend to his friends, and which he will only lend with 
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 "In this book Mr. Phillpotts pictures a boy, a real human 
 boy. The boy's way of thinking, his outlook upon life, his 
 ambitions, his ideals, his moods, his peculiarities, these are 
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 York Sun. 
 
 " Mr. Phillpotts writes from a real knowledge of the school- 
 boy's habit of thought. He writes with much humor and the 
 result is as delightful and entertaining a volume as has come 
 from his pen for some time." — Buffalo Evening News. 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 Publishers 64-66 Fifth Avenne New Yoik 
 
The Green Alleys 
 
 EDEN PHILLPOTTS' NEW NOVEL 
 
 $i.So 
 
 " As long as we have such novels as Tke Green Alleys and 
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 future of English fiction. Mr. Phillpotts' latest novel is a repre- 
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 creator and of his abiUty as an interpreter of life." — Boston 
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 " The Green Alleys is the best of all, as good a story as Mr. 
 phillpotts has written." — New York Globe. 
 
 "A drama of fascinating interest, lightened by touches of 
 delicious comedy . . . one of the best of the many remarkable 
 books from the pen of this clever author. " — Boston Globe. 
 
 " Mr. Phillpotts has the gift of conveying atmosphere in a re- 
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 delphia Public Ledger. 
 
 " Strongly individualized characters, each the vessel of some 
 human drama, crowd the pages, . . . revealed by a thousand 
 delicate and subtle lines of portrayal." — Mw York Times. 
 
 THE M ACM ILL AN COMPANY 
 
 FnblislierB 64-66 Fifth Avenue Kew York 
 
Brunei's Tower 
 
 By EDEN PHILLPOTTS 
 
 Cloth, ismo, $1.50 
 
 The regeneration of a faulty character through association with 
 dignified honest work and simple,, sincere people is the theme 
 which Mr. Phillpotts has chosen for his latest novel. Always an 
 artist, he has, in this book, made what will perhaps prove to 
 be his most notable contribution to literature. Humor and a 
 genuine sympathetic understanding of the human soul are re- 
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 shelter and work. Under the influence of the gentle, kindly folk 
 of the community he comes in a measure to realize himself. 
 
 BY THE SAME AUTHOR 
 
 Old Delabole 
 
 Cloth, izmo, $1.50 
 
 " Besides being a good story, richly peopled, and brimful of 
 human nature in its finer aspects, the book is seasoned with quiet 
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 thinks truth and faces truth. We are told that when he began his 
 story of the pottery industry ('Brunei's Tower') he lived for 
 three months among the potters, making friends of them, learning 
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 earthenware on the wheel, until the red color of the clay got into 
 the blood of the characters he was creating. With no less atten- 
 tion to detail was ' Old Delabole ' conceived." 
 
 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
 Fnblishers 64-66 Eifth Avenue New York 
 
OTHER OF MR. EDEN PHILLPOTTS' NOVELS 
 
 The Three Brothers 
 
 Cloth, i2mo, $r.5<j 
 " ' The Three Brothers' seems to us the best yet of the long 
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 — New York Sun. 
 
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 Sketches of the rustic life of Devon, rich in racy, quaint, 
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 THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
 
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The Tree of Heaven 
 
 By may SINCLAIR 
 
 Cloth, $i.6o 
 
 A singularly penetrating story of modem life, written 
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K-^w'