Old Delabole

OLD
DELABOLE

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EDEN PHILLPOTTi

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THE LIBRARY

OF

THE UNIVERSITY

OF CALIFORNIA

LOS ANGELES

Of!

I

Old Delabole

NEWSIX SHILLING NOFELS

OF HUMAN BONDAGE. By JVilliam
Somenit Maugham

THE FREELANDS. By J o/m Gals-worthy

MUSLIN. By George Moort

THE LATER LIFE. By Louis Couperus

OFF SANDY HOOK. By Richard Dehan

THE LITTLE ILIAD. By Maurice Hewlett.
Illustrated by Sir Philip Burne-Jones, Bart.

CARFRAE'S COMEDY. By Gladys Parrish

BEGGARS ON HORSEBACK. By
F. Tennyson Jesse

THE IMMORTAL GYMNASTS. By
Marie Cher

THE BOTTLE-FILLERS. By Edward

Noble

CHAPEL. By D. Miles Lewis

MRS. CROFTON. By Marguerite Bryant

LONDON : WILLIAM HEINEMANN
21 Bedt'ord Street, W.C.

Old Delabole

By

Eden Phillpotts

London
William Heinemann

LONDON : WILLIAM HEINEMANN. I915

Copyright, 1915, in the United States 0/ America
by Eden PhiVpotts.

PI

oi^

TO

THOMAS HARDY

IN HONOUR OF HIS UNAPPEOACHABLE ART

AND WITH AFFECTION

FOR HIS MOST APPROACHABLE SELF

628535

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

I. PRELUDE 1

n. DRIvrNG HOME 6

in. GRANDFATHER NUTE 15

rv. IN THE QUARRIES 24

V. AT NEWHALL MILL 32

VI. THE NEW DINNER-HOUSE 45

VII. TREBARWITH SAND 51

Vin. SPEECH IN THE DARK 61

IX. THE FREE LUNCH 66

X. LOVE AMONG THE TOMBSTONES 76

XI. THE MEETING 84

Xn. THE POINT OF VIEW 90

Xm. A TRUSTEE APPOINTED 103

XIV. AT LANTEGLOS 113

XV. NED'S HOLIDAY 123

XVI. THE WRITING ON THE EARTH 132

xvn. CALAanTY 137

XVm. RIGHT AND WRONG 146

XIX. pooley's sermon 155

XX. IN THE QUARRIES 164

XXI. A CHRISTMAS BOX FOR NANJULIAN 171

XXn. JULITTA LAUNCHED 181

XXIU. THE GUILLOTINE 190

XXrV. MAKING READY 198

vii

viii CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

XXV. THE FAI,L 207

XXVI. CHANGE 217

XXVn. THE PROBLEM 223

XXVrU. WOMAN PROPOSES 232

XXIX. TO THE SOUND OF THE MILL-WHEEL 243

XXX. A MEETING OF MOTHERS 251

XXXI. SAFE IN THE ARMS OF SARAH 257

XXXn. AN INNOVATION 266

XXXrn. THE SCHOOL TREAT 274

XXXIV. THE OLD ORDER CHANGES 286

XXXV. FELLOW-TRAVELLERS PASS BY 294

XXXVI. WITHOUT FEAR OR REPROACH 302

CHAPTER I

PRELUDE

There is a land that borders the Atlantic and stretches for
many a league against the setting sun. You may regard this
far-flung coastline of the West Country as nothing but a bleak
and inclement region of undulating hills, that are lifted some
hundred feet above the sea, to repeat monotonously and tyran-
nously their contours, to extend for mile upon mile, feature-
less, pitiless, despotic. Thej^ ascend inland to a naked horizon ;
they fall seaward upon a range of sad-coloured promontories
and cliffs. There is, moreover, something lacking from this
landscape — an essential, elemental feature, part of earth's
familiar garb — and the absence of it is felt to waken a want
and add to that uneasiness the spectacle possibly provokes.
There are no trees upon these hills; only stones and hump-
backed hedges break field from field, and should a dwarfed
oak or ash become visible in some hollow below land-level, it
lurks there, an alien thing, that lifts its stunted branches
secretly and lives on sufferance.

For this is the home of the West Wind. Hither from
Labrador he comes, that ancient of ages, ranging for ever the
Atlantic, ordering for ever the way of the wave and the path-
way of the cloud. This land is bared for his welcome, pre-
served in primal simplicity by the impact of his landing.
Here terrifically he alights and sets his impress ujaon the solid
earth, even as he models the green breakers beneath it and
herds the flocks of the cumuli above. He is the overlord, the
master, and with him lies the secret of the land. Apprehend
that and this earth, that welcomed you so coldly from wilder-
ness or lonely antre, doffs the garment of desolation and shines
luminous and explicit. It is discovered as an outwork of the
world, framed to brace its barriers against the ocean and
spread its boaom to the gigantic wind. It is found to be a
great land — great in its simpHcity, great in its economy of

2 OLD DELABOLE

effect, great in its propriety of means to an end. To the spirit
of man it appeals with the force that comes by stealth. As a
fugue, that winds into the soul like a serpent, at first conveying
nothing, then wakening into something, finally embodying
everj^thing, so North Cornwall conquers. She banishes the
first chill doubt, arouses a gradual interest that waxes to
enthusiasm, wins final worship in measure of the understanding
brought to her courts. She is solemn as the desert, sublime as
mountains are. There is nothing rhetorical in her voice or
sentimental in her features; but both are subtle and full of
grace. Her landscape is restrained, reserved, and sober
— a spectacle emerging directly from the forces that have
moulded it before the advent of conscious intelligence; and
now man colours the great picture according to his need, and
paints upon its inexorable face with the fruits of the earth.
For while the West Wind denies to the tree his immense
amphitheatres, to the roof-tree he grants them, to the least
flower and herb, to the corn and root and meadow grasses.
A great grazing-ground rolls to cliff edge, the bellow of kine and
the bleat of sheep mingle with the song of the surges below.
The wind breaks the rain-cloud here to bless the land with
increase ; the summer sun burns into its heart ; there is music
of bell and bird and pageant of the seasons. The furzes and
whitethorns and blackthorns bring their gold and silver to
young Spring, and the eagle-fern unfurls for her kirtle.
Presently there are poppies and gips3^-roses in the corn, and
the wind, running in amber billows through the harvest,
sets the wild-flowers flashing. Autumn brings the stubble and
the smoke of field-fires, the clank of the plough, and the grey
companies of the gulls behind it ; Winter, the old nurse, lowers
the light, and draws her curtain of cloud and rain, beneath
which all living things sleep awhile or die.

Here generations of mankind have lifted their homes
regardless of Zephjor's primal claim, have justified their exist-
ence by land and sea ; then laid them down and returned their
gift of dust to the unchanging earth that lent it.

They are the crown and diadem of this lonely world, the
fairest of its fruits, the best of its treasure. They breathe the
breath of the West Wind, and, as the land under their feet,
attain to strength and power by the restraint he orders and
ensues. They dwell undaunted on the edge of earth, and

PRELUDE 3

know no other world than this; they are satisfied with their
environment, and influenced thereby. And not only its stern
conditions and exactions make them what they are: their
lives embrace a greater messenger than the West Wind, and
where other men in other climes win their joy of the sun
and dwell with Nature in her melting moods, this people,
ignorant of much that life may mean and finding Nature but
a stern mother, niggard and grudging, set a god over her and
worship him. To religion they tm-n for their light and
warmth; religion is their romance and inspiration; they are
divided by many puerile distinctions, yet join in this: that
prayer represents their vital need, and the right to worship
and to praise their first demand. Religion is their daily bread,
and music the wine that washes it down. They pray and
sing to the God they have established; other aesthetic or
spiritual predilection they have none.

They are Christians from the fold of those who protested,
and their holy places are in perfect keeping with their lives
and their land — stern and naked, full of cool, white day-
light, unlovely no longer when understood. All faiths
are fleeting, only faith is eternal; but here and now the
Christianity practised by these men and women, from force
of habit and loyalty to what their fathers practised, rings
with the music of reaHty, fills their need, and fortifies the
majority to sustain the battle of living with soberness and
self-respect. They are temperate and reserved, and they
promise less than they perform ; but they are natural, and do
not conceal emotions or appetites. Schooled to ask little and
hope little from existence, they are not disappointed with it;
fearing little, they are at ease. Cheerfulness and content are
no uncommon inheritance; while the free spirit who can feel
neither here departs to seek them elsewhere.

Strong drink tempts few; but the Celt remains a Celt no
matter to what god he lifts his song. He has never been a
stranger to passion, and we find among these people many
children who have no name, many who are called now one
name, now another. They recognize themselves in this matter ;
their faith does not blind them. Love-children are not
flouted, and their mothers are no more cast out than their
fathers. An observer of this frequent phenomenon among so
God-worshipping and devout a community is puzzled by it.

4 OLD DELABOLE

Yet light may be thrown upon a seeming contradiction, for
where religion is stern and joyless, offering little appeal to
sense and ruling by fear, then will the j^ounger generation, and
those with whom Nature can still plead, fight a very resolute
and winning battle against it. Geneva and Scotland of old
bear witness. The excesses of a Calvin were met b}' the
retaliation of Nature in secret and triumphant rebellion. And
those who are now cooled by the passing of years, those who
in middle age are not so far removed from youth but they
can still remember it, exercise a charity far greater than their
creeds. There was a time when they, too, were not broken,
but put out their hands to reality and, perchance, tasted the
joys of the flesh in revolt. Therefore they bear with the young
and feel for them, and suffer not the fire of the fathers to
scorch the children's hearts. Perceiving that the religion of
Christ has never j'^et stood permanently between man and
his nature, to silence the cry of his blood, or stay his feet when
the drums of war are calling, these wise, patient people pardon
the lapses from their Church's rule, and, with a humanist
instinct absent from the pietist middle class, condone and
pardon, and make their forgiveness no matter of words alone,
for their culprits receive social recognition and the little ones
such a welcome as their own undiscriminating Saviour would
not have withheld. The law of the land, not the heart of the
land, denies them their birthright.

The Christian doctrine of forgiveness of sins is, of course,
the very last principle to lessen their commission; it must,
indeed, provoke just the licence that agnostic ethics retard;
and this fact, practised rather than perceived, renders these
Cornish Nonconformists a rational and logical folk. Uncon-
sciously they triumph over their own dogmas, and reveal a
charity and tolerance with which the eternal sj^irit of human
compassion, the Aidos of the Greek, rather than any super-
natural faith must be credited.

Proceeding now upon a central point of this unpopulous
region, one finds a stone, unfamiliar generally save in one
connection, apparent everywhere and playing many parts.
Between the fields partitions are thrown of great slates,
irregular in form and set edgewise. They awaken an emotion
of mournfulness because they strike upon memory and remind
the eye of forgotten graves. Everywhere they stand; at the

PRELUDE 5

stile of the field, beside the cottage door, or thrown across
the water-tables. They make the pigsty of the farm, the
mowstead of the rick. As fence and boundary and wall they
play their part, and in the garden patches they rise, elongated
into narrow strips, that take the place of poles and prop
the clothes-line. Every alley-way is paved with them, every
well-head is surrounded by them; the sweet water runs
through slate launders. In smaller, solid masses they build
the houses and chapels of a whole village; in thin laminse
they are split to cover its roofs and walls.

For this is Delabole, a hamlet created by one industry,
whose men and boys to the number of five hundred work in
the slate quarries, as their forefathers have done and their
children's children will do. Since Tudor times the slate of
Delabole has come to market, for men worked here before
Shakespeare wrote.

But the theatre of their toil is not immediately visible.

CHAPTER II

DRIVING HOME

After a November day of storm, earth and sky, that had
merged into one grey gloom for many hours, fell apart
at sunset time. They cleaved true, and between the
horizontal darkness and the heavy clouds, whose bases were
planed parallel to earth by the wind, there opened a ribbon of
angry light. It widened, and the lead and purple above it
were shot with fiery colours; while below, the darkness of
earth, rendered greater for this sudden illumination, flashed
where the radiance fell upon a long wet road. The naked
weald spread out more gloomj^ than the heaviest storm-clouds
that lowered above, and its blackness took the form of
hedges, deserted fields, and water-logged waste lands, with
the road winding in the midst, each puddle and cart-rut a
jewel.

Between earth and the great band of stormy, orange
light there rolled the little roof-line of Delabole, like the
ragged teeth of a saw, silhouetted against flame. It fell
from west to east in one slope, whose highest point was a
stunted church spire. Then the buildings, chapels, schools,
and cottages — here scattered, here strung close together —
sanli gently in two parallel streets, with fields between and
farm-lands round about. Beneath the village there ascended
chimney-stacks and the black arms and elbows of machinery,
outlined against the heave of low hills that faded to the west.

Gulls flew overhead, crying of the invisible sea near at hand ;
a cloud of starlings warped together, and their myriad wings
made the shout of a falling wave ; then suddenly the sun poured
out molten splendour from the upper purple as he sank
beneath it, and his light turned the road and the water-tables
on either side of it into tattered ribbons of pale gold, while the
little wet roofs of Delabole flashed and trickled down the

6

DRIVING HOME 7

hillside like a necklet of topaz beads. The slates that separ-
ated the fields and the road-metal piled here and there sparkled
also, while far distant above the quarries a feather of steam
caught the brave light too.

Then a whistle sounded, and two men driving towards
Delabole in a dogcart, heard the signal.

One was iron-grey and stout. He looked near sixty, but
had worn ill, and numbered little more than forty-five years.
His face was genial and florid; he had black eyes, round
shoulders, a short neck, and a tall, somewhat ungainly, frame.
Wilberforce Retallack was first foreman at Old Delabole, and
now he drove homeward with the manager of the quarries
beside him.

The younger man, while also a native of North Cornwall, had
enjoyed advantages of education and possessed intellect.
His understanding was receptive, and he had taken all care to
profit by his opportunities. The only son of Thomas Hawkey,
a quarryman, Thomas Hawkey, the younger, won the fruits
of thrifty forbears, went to a school for those above him in
station, and advanced himself accordingly. At twenty he was
ready for the immemorial work of a Delabole native; but
while he had been educated far beyond the labour of a rock-
man or dresser, the love and lore of slate was in his blood, and
he desired nothing better than work in his native village at the
great industry which had called Delabole into being. His
father represented the case to the manager, and, being a man
of authority, received all consideration. But since no ade-
quate appointment for the moment offered at Delabole, young
Hawkey considered America and the great slate quarries in
Pennsylvania, where many hundreds of Cornishmen prospered.
Then, after he had determined to go, a director of the
quarry found work for him in Wales, and thither he went as
a foreman to Penryn. His success was great, for he proved
himself a man of character, probity, and power. For five
j^ears he laboured there, his heart at Delabole; then, when
eight-and-twenty, the manager of Old Delabole retired, and
before doing so urged upon his masters the qualifications of
Thomas Hawkey's son. The young man was offered the
appointment, not as a permanent one, but for six months
on trial, and he declined it on those terms, since his record

8 OLD DELABOLE

in Wales promised certain preferment at no distant date.
Unwilling to let a good servant escape them, the Delabole
directors met him and appointed Thomas Hawkey. It was
a bold experiment, but the event justified it.

Accident ordered a period of great prosperity at Old Delabole
to synchronize with the reign of the new chief officer; but
when a meeting of the Board considered his application for
increased salary, two years afterwards, and reminded him of
his good fortune in this respect, his answer, typical of the man,
silenced the objectors.

"It is true, gentlemen, that we began to open the ' Grey-
Abbey ' f eam just as I came to you. But you know, gentle-
men, that a winning hand is the hardest to play. I submit
that I have played it well."

They could not deny this, and he won his increase, founded
on a reasonable and moderate basis, the justice of which he
proved by figures.

Now Thomas Hawkey's father was dead and his mother had
long departed. He dwelt at the manager's house alone, with
old Betsy Ann Bunt to look after him and beg him daily, for
the love of the Lord and out of charity to her rheumatism, to
take a wife.

Thomas was dark and hatchet-faced, with a hard mouth
and gentle eyes. He shaved clean, and always wore a knicker-
bocker suit and Norfolk jacket. At thirty-two — his present
age — his activity was boundless. His heart and soul and
energy were dedicated to the quarries. They were never out
of his mind, and he took the literature of the business every-
where, deeming the briefest holiday ill spent if it did not bring
an order or two for Delabole. He laboured to extend the
radius of commissions and interest architects especially in the
quality and colour of his slate.

His work met with great success — a success largely due to
prosperity below ground, for the famous ' Grey-Abbey ' seam
promised to be inexhaustible, and Delabole, through all its
lengthy records, had never furnished a finer stone.

Now into the life of this energetic spirit deep personal
emotions had found a way to creep, and Wilberforce Retallack,
who esteemed him, knew it.

By the men Hawkey was respected very completely. They

DRIVING HOME 9

were proud of him, for he was one of themselves, and each in
his heart said: ' I might stand in his shoes, given his chances.'
This was not true, since to his advantages Hawkey had brought
gifts very much greater than those of the average man, either
in a quarry or anywhere else ; but it pleased the workers so to
regard him: theii' attitude contributed to their own self-
respect. He lifted them all by his own- greatness, and their
interests were his. He understood their good, and sought and
shunned what they sought and shunned. He prayed with
them, sang with them, shared their welfare, and set no barrier
between himself and them. Therefore they valued him, and
took pride in his good fortune. He had enemies, but they
were few. The staff at Old Delabole consisted of five hundred
men and boys, and when Thomas thought upon them he
could not number a dozen who were not upon his side.

But now he loved, and Mr. Retallack, desiring to speak ujion
the subject, yet dreading to do so, felt that this drive in
the manager's company must now be turned to account.
Nevertheless he was unwilling, for the elder little liked to hurt
a fellow-man. He stood next under Hawkey at the quarries,
and though of a more genial disposition, had fewer admirers
than the other.

The steam whistle shrilled and the steam flew.

" Knocking off," said the manager. " Nature wastes a lot
of our time, Wil, when the short days come."

" She makes up for it with the long ones. Mister Tom."

As ' Mister Tom ' did Delabole address Thomas Hawkey.
There was that in him which made it impossible to accost
with perfect familiarity, yet his fellow-countrymen would not
grant him the fullest respect possible, and thus entirely trans-
late him out of their own circle. They compromised with
' Mister Tom,' and he liked it. For himself he would have
been ' Hawkey ' willingly enough, save for the question of
discipline and respect demanded for the authority he repre-
sented.

" We work quite long enough," continued Retallack.
" Labour's labour, and though you never knew manual labour,
I did, and I remember what a day's work felt like. Never
forget. Mister Tom, that a man's made of muscle and bone,
not iron and steel."

10 OLD DELABOLE

" Not I, Wil, though we don't see quite alike there and
never shall. To level all doAvn and fix a mean, and say to the
strong man, ' You shan't do more work than the weak one ' —
it's not fair to human ambition."

They talked of Trades Unions, and Hawkey declared
them a doubtful blessing. But this the elder would not
admit.

" If the masters feared God like they fear Labour, there
might be no need for 'em," said Wilberforce. " But they
don't, so God have sharpened our wits, and taught us how
to arm ourselves against 'em. But God's put the fear of
Labour into their hearts for His own good reasons, and put
pluck and resource into ours likewise. We're going to be top
dog — and it's time. Our children will live to see themselves
pensioned by Capital and a minimum wage for all. Yes, they
will. Not by the State as it is now — I don't say that, but by
Capital."

" It's no use killing the goose that lays the golden eggs.
Capital must live too."

" Why for ? Capital must die, Mister Tom. 'Tis an
invention built up on an order of things that is out of date.
Might has always been right and always will be, and when
might was on the side of Capital, Labour was a slave; but
now might is turning over to the side of Labour, and they
won't waste time making a slave of Capital; they'll chop the
head off the tyrant and have done with him."

" Like the frogs," answered Hawkey. " But if that hap-
pened. Labour would live to find King State was a worse
tyrant than their fellow-men. I hate and fear the State,
though I'm all for law and order, as you know."

" So do I hate the State — as it is now," replied the elder.
" But when we get our say, and when Labour can hear its own
voice — but there, you're a Conservative, Mister Tom — a
Conservative at heart."

The other laughed contemptuously.

" Not I. But there's a middle road."

" Leading to nowhere. The world's in the hands of the red
Radicals and Methodies now. And so it should be. Fine
things both, and I'm glad Delabole be both."

'• Yes — granted. Delabole is both."

DRIVING HOME 11

" You're as lonely as the church," continued Retallack,
pointing to it with his whip.

"I'm not lonely. A place with empty church and empty
pubs stands in the very forefront of progress, I say, though we
do belong to the other end of the world."

They laughed and chaffed. Then Wilberforce plunged into
the matter weighing on his mind. He was not, however, quite
direct.

" I suppose 3^ou'll renew the contract with the Bakes ?" he
asked.

" Certainly. Why not ? Newhall Mill has had the quarry-
men's corn to grind time out of mind."

" That's right. Did you ever hear tell of the fun at
Padstow ? Our grain was stopjjed there owing to some
railway trouble, and they wouldn't let it through. Then down
went Delabole, five hundred strong, and the authorities were
powerless against them, and very soon yielded up the corn.
I may tell j^ou, Mister Tom, we at Quarry Cottage are a
good bit interested in Newhall Mill just now."

" Why, Wil ?"

" What think you of Wesley Bake ?" asked Mr. Retallack
without answering the other's question.

" A very good man — clever, keen, honest as the daylight.
Sometimes you can see Providence working, Wil — sometimes
the ways of it are hid. But at Newhall any man may read the
wisdom of God made manifest. It was a mighty good thing
for the mill and the Bake family when Nicholas Bake dropped
and his younger brother filled his shoes."

" Not his shoes — a very different pair, so to say. Nicholas
was a weak man— lazy and hazy in his mind, and doubtfully
straight in his dealings. But Wesley is a bit out of the
common — so my Edith thinks."

Silence fell between them, and it was some time before
Hawkey spoke.

Then all he said was: " Yes, yes — a rare good man."

Retallack regarded him from the corner of his eye without
turning his head. Utmost sympathy sat on his face.

" It was time to name it, Mister Tom. I won't say I'm
sorry, for that wouldn't be fair to Wesley, but I'm terrible
sorry — for you."

12 OLD DELABOLE

The younger made no attempt to conceal his deep emotion,
but he did not answer. Wilberforce talked on, as the best
thing to do.

" The Bakes are a very ancient race. In fact, high in the
land once on a time. They've got tombstones at St. Teath
two hundred years old. They've come down, like a lot of
them ancient families; but they have been honourably con-
nected with Newhall IMill for a hundred year and more, and
the first Bake in living memory to threaten trouble and blot
the name was Nicholas. And it looked almost as if the
Almighty held 'em a favoured people, and so took Nicholas
out of mischief. For 'tis the kindest act of God to cut off a
sinner sometimes. That means the greatest good to the
greatest number as a rule, and the righteous never suffer for
the guilty in the long run — else God wouldn't be all-powerful.
And no man ever had anything against- Wesley Bake to my
knowledge. And — and love will out. Mister Tom."

" So it will. Somehow I thought "

Then Hawkey stopped. Circumstances amply justified his
consternation and surprise before the news that Retallack's
eldest daughter, Edith, was thinking about Wesley Bake, for
he had reason to suj)pose that she was thinking about
himself. But it appeared impossible to discuss such a matter
with Edith's father. He broke off therefore and asked a
question, almost under his breath,

" Are they engaged, Wil ?"

" I can't tell you that. I don't think they are, but 'tis all
over bar the shouting. So my wife says."

Hawkey could not speak, and desired to be alone. The
other guessed how hard he was hit. He had indeed planned
to meet the manager at CameKord and drive him home,
that he might break what he knew must be painful
news.

Now they drew up at a little inn, and both men alighted.
Hawkey took his portmanteau and proceeded to the manager's
house hard by, while the other led the horse and trap into the
inn yard, handed them over to an ostler, and went into the
bar to drink. He had just come through a trying ordeal and
needed refreshment.

But the matter was not quite done with. Indeed, the first

DRIVING HOME • 13

words that the newcomer heard as he entered the ' One and
All ' concerned his daughter.

" What's this I hear about your eldest and Miller Bake ?"
inquired Richard Male from behind the counter.

" A drop of special Scotch, Dick, and what do you hear ?"
A man who was in the bar made answer while Mr. Male
served his customer.

" We hear that Edith Retallack's the favoured wench, and
that they be tokened, Wil."

It was a short, hard-featured veteran who spoke. His
expression was sour, his hair thin and grizzled ; the lower" lid
of his right eye hung down and showed the red, while his eyes
themselves were small and dim and surly. He was underhung,
and his face suggested both a mastiff and a bulldog. This
canine person worked in the quarry still, and had done so for
more than fifty years.

" It looks a good bit like it, Moses."

" We thought 'twas going to be the manager, however. And
so did he !"

Moses Bunt vented an explosion which indicated merriment,
and Wilberforce drank his whisky at a draught and looked
glum.

" Another, Dick — yes, things fall out so. Surely never a
maiden had to make choice between two such men. Both
good as gold, and both a husband in ten thousand. And the
mischief is she liked 'em both."

" You can't be surprised at that, Wil — two such fine arid
promising fellows as them. 'Tis a thousand pities that one
of 'em didn't go for your next girl — then you'd have had 'em
both. Though I dare say that's almost too much fortune
for one family."

" I haven't heard that anyone wants Julitta,' confessed the
father, " though to my eye she's the finer piece."

" You say that because she's like your old woman,"
declared Moses Bunt. " You watch her, foreman," he added.
" Because you haven't heard that anj^one wants Julitta it
don t follow nobody do. 'Tis always they dark creatures that
make history. The fire be in 'em. That's why such a cruel
lot of our girls get into trouble."

" You're an evil-speaking old devil, Bunt," retorted Wil-

14 OLD DELABOLE

berforce. " Not a spark of charity in you. A proper old
sclum-cat that scratches with j'our tongue if you don't with
your paws. You ought to go to school to your sister, for she's
got more human nature in her finger-nail than you have in
your whole carcass."

"Betsy Bunt's a damned fool," retorted Moses. "She
was born a fool, and have lived a fool, and will die one, accord-
ing to her Maker's will and ordinance."

" A pity there ain't more fools like her, then," declared the
innkeeper.

CHAPTER III

GRANDFATHER NUTE

If Wilberforce Retallack was old for his age and had worn ill,
it could be said with equal truth of his father-in-law, James
Nute, that time treated him lightly. Given a constitution, it
is the personal factor of disposition that decides, for anxious
mind and fretful spirit gnaw the flesh that holds them, as a
sharp acid corrodes the vessel that contains it.

Grandfather Nute's tranquil soul looked out of blue eyes,
and his seventy-two years of life still found him straight in
the back, full of energy, steadfast of heart, and rich in faith.
' If you believe in God, you be bound to believe in man,'
declared Grandfather Nute, and he lived up to the conviction.
But he was no mere optimist, and his philosophy embraced a
second axiom. ' If you believe in man, you be bound to
believe in the Devil,' was another of his reiterated observa-
tions. But in his opinion the powers of evil retreated. The
world was a better place than he remembered it in his youth.
His sphere of action had been entirely limited to North
Cornwall, yet he judged the whole from a part, and affirmed
with confidence that while Delabole moved steadily in the
right direction, the rest of the earth could not be lagging very
far behind. Whether his native village merely took jaart in
the upward drift, or actually occupied a place in the van,
James Nute would have admitted himseK incompetent to
Judge; but at his heart he believed that Old Delabole did
rather more than its share in the advance movement. He
attributed this fact to John Wesley. The spirit of the great
evangehst still moved in the heart of the land. It ran through
the minds of men as the slate-beds ran through the earth on
which they dwelt, and none proclaimed it more triumphantly
than Grandfather Nute.

He was a little man with white whiskers and white hair,
still thick and shining. His wife had died thirty years ago,

Id

16 OLD DELABOLE

and when that happened he came to live with his only child,
Anna Retallack, the wife of Wilberforce. Now he said that
he was growing up with his grandchildren, and, in secret, his
daughter and son-in-law sometimes confessed that Grand-
father proved as great a handful as the rising generation.
The old man's encrgj^ was unbounded; he shamed his grand-
sons and granddaughters, still lifted his quavering alto at the
chapel of the United Methodists, still played his flute in
season and out, still was ready with advice and caution,
encouragement or disapproval, in the affairs of all who
sought him.

Some found him helpful and comforting; some did not. Of
the latter party were his son-in-law and daughter. " A
prophet is without honour in his own country," confessed
Grandfather. " Wil tells me nothing about himself, and
never wants my opinion — no more does Anna."

There were plenty, however, who rated his ^\'isdom high
enough, and as a local preacher he had enjoyed great reputation
in his circle during the past. He had worked in the quarries
as a slate- dresser until the death of his wife; then he retired.
He was worth a hundred a year, but retained only twentj^ for
his own needs, and had handed the rest to Retallack in
exchange for his food and lodging.

Now Grandfather, full of business, bustled up the little
street of Delabole. It was nine o'clock, and the tsbrdy sun
still swung low easterly over the black bulk of Brown Willy
and Rough Tor, where they were piled upon the horizon ; but
Mr. Nute had been up for hours, and his day was already far
advanced.

Now he visited the manager's house without the quarrj^
precincts, walked into the kitchen, and accosted a stout,
elderly woman who was washing china.

" Good-morning, Betsy Bunt, and how are 3'ou faring ?" he
asked, then answered his own question : " Well, without a
doubt. We Uniteds make our own good air, as I always
say."

" And very stuffy air 'tis sometimes," she said.

" The odour of sanctitj^ be a human odour, my dear,"
decla-red Grandfather. " Where two or three are gathered
together "

GRANDFATHER NUTE 17

" The Uniteds don't take enough baths," declared Betsy.
" There's a lot of things that come after godliness, but cleanli-
ness ain't second — not in Delabole."

" You're a masterpiece in that direction, as we all know,"
admitted ]\Ir. Nute, " but it ain't given to everybodj^ to have
your great talent for it. Your brother Moses, for instance — a
dirtier old man don't live, to say it kindly."

" Dirty inside as well as out," declared the sister of Moses
Bunt. " Surely to God j^ou don't want for people to be like
him?"

" Far from it, yet a stout Methodist full of good faith."

" Full of beastly pride and conceit," said Betsy. " I
wonder you praise him — it makes your praise cheap if you
can do that. A man who would buy his own gravestone and
spend his spare time decorating it. Sm"ely never was heard
such a vain thing. But well I understand why he's done it."

" Then tell me, Betsy, for I've often wondered."

" Just because right well he knows that nobody else would !
If he was to drop first, should I buy a bit of the best Delabole
slate and cover it with gold letters, and spend pounds on the
stonecutters for a man that's treated me like my brother ?
Not likely. And there's none else to lift a finger, so in his
pride and vanity he's going to do it himself. But whether
they'll put up his own flovu-ish of trumpets over the old toad
when he dies, I don't know. I wouldn't."

" 'Tis a nice question for the future," declared Mr. Nute,
" and we'll leave it for the futm-e. I assure you, Betsy Bunt,
that 'tis just as foolish a thing to be too much beforehand
with some matters as it is to be behindhand with others.
There's great wisdom in not helping a hen to hatch her own
eggs, and the future's a hen that will save us a lot of trouble
if we leave her to hatch a good few of the questions that time
will put to her. But that's not to say we must blind our eyes
and take no thought for to-morrow. Far from it. Why am
I here now V

" Lord knows," said Betsy Bunt. " To waste my morning
seemingl3^"

" There's another lunch in the wind," declared Grandfather.
" As you will remember, the last United eighteenpenny lunch
fetched in the brave sum of five pounds and ten shilHngs, or
thereabout ; but we want another five, and as it is going to be

2

18 OLD DELABOLE

spent entirely on ventilation, you ought to be the first to be
pleased. I've ordained an eighteenpenny lunch for January
the fifteenth, and I'm looking up for promises."

Betsy Bunt nodded.

" 'Tis rather soon after the last," she said, " but no doubt
you know best."

" Mister Tom is always willing to oblige, as well he may be."

" There's no difficulty here. 'Twas a brace of ducks last
time."

" Let it be something else, then," advised the elder. " A
duck don't go far, and them that fail to get a bit often feel
disappointed. I heard Mrs. Bake say last time, when the
duck finished with her right-hand neighbour — and a good
plate, too— that, in her Judgment, where all paid equal, all
should feed equal. There's a good deal in that, eh ? You
want ten ducks for a complete round, and they can't be
counted on this year."

" How would a couple of my cold rabbit pies do ?"

" Make it four."

" And if I'd said ' four,' you'd have asked me to make it
six — you know you would."

" Perhaps it's only greediness on my part," said crafty
Grandfather. " Your cold rabbit pies are very well known —
farther than Delabole. I've seen a pair of eyes brighten at
'em so far off as Boscastle."

Miss Bunt attempted to conceal her pleasure and failed.

" Four it shall be, then."

" And of course you're good for a ticket — you and Mister
Tom ?"

" No doubt he will be there, if I'm not."

" Mind you come, however. I mean it to be a bit out of
the common."

" You always say that every time."

" There's to be a concert after. And a good bit of fun, I
shouldn't wonder."

Then Grandfather noted Miss Bunt's promise in his little
black pocket-book, bade her a very good-morning, and went
his way.

He visited Richard Male at the ' One and AH,' and won a
promise of three dozen bottles of lemonade.

GRANDFATHER NUTE 19

" I'd make it beer," said the publican, " but I know you
never have intoxicating liquor at a United feed."

The gift was duly noted, and Grandfather, having extracted
a further promise that Mr. Male and his wife and son would
take tickets for the luncheon, proceeded on his quest. He
tramped out into the country now, and visited half a dozen
outlying farms. One only was drawn blank, for the master
of it happened to be ill with bronchitis, so Grandfather, w^hose
tact rarely failed him, said nothing about the lunch, but a great
deal about patience and fortitude, and the wisdom that sees
in temporal ills a watchful Father's purpose. He prayed
heartity by the sick man, cheered his wife, and then started
off again.

Presently he returned to Delabole, and entered a little shop
where various things were sold. Sweetmeats, chocolate, and
cheap editions of story-books filled the window; while within
the shelves were filled with stationery and the counter was
covered with newspapers. Here dwelt John Sleep, his sister
Sarah, and others of that family.

Sarah stood behind her counter. She was a neat, thin
woman of sixty, with a wrinkled brown face and sharp black
eyes. Her hair was grey but ample, though she wore a little
black cap upon it. A plaid shawl was over her shoulders, and
her dress was made of dark red stuff. She was reading when
Mr. Nute entered, but rose instantly, and her concentrated
glance at the printed page gave place to a bright and genial
smile. She took off her spectacles with one hand, and shook
Grandfather's outstretched palm with the other. She
made no attempt to hide her extreme pleasure at sight
of him.

" Morning, James. Nice open weather, and you so peart
as ever, I see."

" Never better, Sarah, and never busier. I say ' never
busier,' but, of course, at my age one can't do a young
man's work. But there's a good few things the old can
do better than the young still, though the young don't
believe it."

She nodded and admired him frankly.

" And there's some things the old might do and won't,
which the young oughtn't to do and will," said Sarah. " By

20 OLD DELABOLE

' old ' I mean them who have come to understanding. You're
not old, for all your seventy years, Jimmy."

" I'm not," he confessed. " I surprise myself. It's the
plain living and close thinking. I'm a close thinker, Sarah,
and if you keep your brains from growing rusty it sets a good
example to the body. Look at you — a reader and thinker
from your youth up. You'll never grow old. 'Tis the mortal
surroundings of a man or woman age 'em — not their years. I
grant your brother John be ageing to live with, however
Take his wife — died at forty-five, and older than you at
sixty."

" 'Twas her wayward son killed her, not her husband."

" By the same token do you hear from him ?"

" Not for years now. His wife bides here — Jane."

" I know her well enough."

" She took to singing when my nephew ran away to America.
Took to singing, like some take to drink. It saved her."

" A very tower of strength at it," declared Mr. Nute.
" Then there's her daughter, Philippa. I'll give you a caution
there. Philippa Sleep is a very on-coming maiden, and sees
a bit too much of my grandson Edward."

" Philippa ! She's not seventeen."

" Exactly so, and Ned's little more — not wife-old nor hus-
band-high, that pair. You said a very wise word two minutes
agone, namely, ' there's some things the old might do and
won't, which the young ought not to do and will.' So enough
said. Make Philippa work in the shop and improve her
intellects. Nature's a very wiKul invention, Sarah, as some
of us know to our cost. She will be pushing — can't let us
alone, so to speak. She pushes the young into mischief and
the old into their graves. She's always moving us on till she
moves us off altogether — a very impatient party, and won't
have no laggards if she can help it."

" A pity your grandson, Ned, ain't more like his brother
Pooley, and not so fond of dolly-mopping with the girls,"
said the shopkeeper.

" Pooley has the Methodist mind and Ned has not," ad-
mitted Mr. Nute. " Ned's gifts run in another chamiel. He's
feeling out for the joy of youth, while Pooley wants the joy
of truth. The fire has come to him early. But we're too

GRANDFATHER NUTE 21

hard on youth, as I've always said. There's too little pleasure
in the life of the j^oung at Delabole. So Nature gets her way
too often, and they seek their fun in the "WTong place. And
there's a free luncheon for January the fifteenth — no news to
you, for you put the idea into my head."

Sarah nodded.

" We'll help and we'll be there."

She looked out of the window, for the austere but large
chapel of the United Methodists stood on the other side of the
road. It was of yellow brick under a roof of Delabole slate.
A large notice-board hung on the right side of the entrance,
and an iron railing separated it from the street.

" It's for the ventilation, as you know."

" Yes, John will be pleased at that, for he always says his
breathing be fogged for an hour after every service."

" What shall it be, my dear ?"

" A sirloin of beef from John and a hundred oranges from
me — how will that do ?"

The black pocket-book was in Grandfather's hand.

" Handsome is as handsome does," he said. " You're a
large-hearted woman, Sarah, and others beside the Lord know
it very well."

She looked kindly at the gaffer as he made his notes.

"Any news?" he asked, glancing at the papers spread
neatly before her.

" The social tea at Padstow was a great failure seemingly.
They make all the fuss they can; but figures speak."

" The tea at Padstow a failure !" exclaimed Grandfather.
" That's frosty news ! They Padstow Wesleyans be too stiff-
necked. They're young and self-confident, and they quarrel
among themselves. But I'm terrible sorry their tea was a
failure."

He bought a newspaper and shook Sarah's hand at parting.

" Name the lunch to your customers," he said; " I like to
see all the persuasions at our lunches. The Father's house
has many mansions, and them that dwell therein should go in
and out freely among one another: we may be sure of that."

Tired and hungrj^ IVIr. Nute prepared to retiurn home to
Quarry Cottage, for the hour was noon and his dinner awaited
him. But he knew everybody, and most of the men and

22 OLD DELABOLE

lads, now streaming out of the quarries, saluted him as they
passed.

Again he stopped to talk to one who was building a house
by the wayside. It stood in a green croft all alone, and had
reached to the height of the builder's head.

" Ah, Antipas, it moves, I see," said Mr. Nute, and the
builder set down his trowel and nodded.

" It moves as I can make it. We're getting on. There'll
be some surprises."

" The surprising thmg is that such a busy man as Antipas
Keat have time and courage for the task, in my opinion. To
build a house with your own hands is a thing few, if any, can
boast," replied the old man.

" Every stone, every floor, every lintel, every pane of
glass shall I put in place," declared Antipas. " If I was a
stonemason, or carpenter, or suchlike man, it would be won-
derful enough; but being, as I am, a baker, you may call it
something a bit out of the common, no doubt."

Antipas surveyed his future abode with keen satisfaction.
His grey eyes flashed. He was a spare man with an intelligent,
keen face.

" I stood by while you laid the foundation stone, and I hope
1 shall live to see you finish it," said Grandfather. " You'll
want your fellow-creatures to help you with the scaffold-poles,
Antipas, and you mustn't grudge them that. I shouldn't
think better of you if you did, because that would be to pu£f
yourself up. Man must call on man; 'tis only the Almighty
can do anything smgle-handed. Don't forget that bad fall
you had when you broke your thumb backalong."

" I know," admitted Mr. Keat ; " but still I'm very unwilling
that anybody should touch it but me. To my mind the
mastery I've shown will be a good bit spoiled if I have any
help. I'm thinking out a plan by which I can work without
scaffold-poles. If it comes off, there's no doubt I shall be
on the track of another of my inventions. Anyway I won't
be helped. I'll fight for it."

" There's the fire of genius in your eye, as I've always said,"
answered Mr. Nute, " and if one didn't see the strain on your
face we've only got to look at your wife's. A very anxious
thing bemg the partner of such a quick-witted man as you."

GRANDFATHER NUTE 23

" She's proud of me."

" Yes, and the hedge-sparrow's proud of the young cuckoo
she rears, but it don't prevent her being a bit careworn."

Grandfather patted the amateur builder on the back a Kttle
longer, and then reminded him that he was a professional
baker.

With a promise of ten quartern loaves for the United
luncheon he presently returned home.

CHAPTER IV

IN THE QUARRIES

Beneath Delabole an artificial mountain of shining stone
rolls out upon the slope of the meadows, and creates a land-
mark to be seen for many miles. Behind these mounds the
earth vanishes suddenly, and there yawns an immense crater.
It sinks below the surface of the land, and the mouth of it is
more than a quarter of a mile across. Round about the pit
stand ofl&ces, shops, and engine-houses. An iron structure
ascends upon the landing-stage, or papi)ot-head, above a stark
precipice of six hundred feet, and every way at the surface
there threads and twists a network of little rails. They run
round about to the shops, to the larger gauge of the main line,
to the forehead of the mountains of waste stuff, whose feet are
far beneath in the green fields. Here open the quarries of
Delabole, and though they have been yielding slate for some
hundred years, the supply continues to meet all demand. Of
old a dozen separate workings stood in proximity; now they
have run together, and their circumference is a mile.

It is an oval cup with surfaces that slope outward from the
bottom. The sides are precipices, some abrupt and beetling
with sheer falls of many hundred feet, while others reveal a
gentler declivity, and their sides are broken by giant steps.
Here and there the over-bmrden has fallen in, and moraines
of rubbish tower cone-shaped against the quarry sides. They
spread from a point high up on the cliff face and ooze out in
great wedges of waste, whose worthless masses smother good
slate. The sides of the crater are chased with galleries, and
burnished with bright colours spread and splashed over the
planes of the cliffs. Some of these rock-cut galleries are now
disused, others are bare and raw, with the bright thread of
tram-lines glittering along them; but in the neglected regions
Nature has returned to weather the stone with wonderful
colour and trace rich harmonies of russet and amber upon it.

24

IN THE QUARRIES 25

Here, too, growing things have found foothold, and bird-
borne, air-borne, water-borne seeds have germinated in the high
crags and lonely workings. Saplings of ash, beech, and willow
make shift to grow, and the rust of deserted tramways or
obsolete machinery is hidden under ferns and grasses and wild
blossoms. To the east, where falling waters sheet a great red
rock-surface, wakens the monkey-flower in spring-time to
fling a flash of gold amid the blues and greys, while elsewhere
iron percolations and the drippings from superincumbent
earth stain the sides of this great embouchure to a medley
and mosaic of rich colour. Evening fills the quarry with wine-
purple that mounts to the brim as night falls upon it; dawn
chases its sides with silver, and sunrise often floods it with
red-gold. Sometimes, at seasons of autumnal rain, the cliffs
spout white waterfalls that thread the declivities with foam
and swell the tarn at the bottom; while in summer the sea
mists find it, fill it, conceal the whole wonder of it, and muffle
the din of the workers at the bottom.

The active galleries wind awa}^ to present centres of attack,
and terminate at the new-wi*ought and naked faces of the
slate. These spots glitter steel-bright in contrast with the
older workings. They open grey and blue where man's labour
is fretting the face of the quarries at a dozen different points.
Chief activity was now concentrated upon the great ' Grey
Abbey ' seam, under the northern precipice, and there laboured
two hundred men to blast the rock and fill the tumbrils that
came and went.

The great slate cup is full of light ; it is gemmed and adorned
so that no plane or scarp lacks beauty. On a bluff westward
still stand half a dozen trees that bring spring green hither
in April, and make a pillar of fire at autumn-time, until the
shadows swallow them, or the winds that scour the quarry find
their dead leaves and send them flying. Along the galleries
that circle the sides of Old Delabole are sheds and pent-roofs,
where a man may shelter against the hail of the blastings;
whfle aloft, beside the trees on the knoll, stands a whitewashed
cottage, high above the bottom of the quarries, but far below
their surface. Other dwellings once stood here, but they have
vanished away for the sake of the good slate seams on which
they stood. Now only Wilberforce Retallack's home remained,
and that, too, with the cluster of trees beside it, was doomed

26 OLD DELABOLE

presently to vanish. The house and its garden of flowers and
shrubs might exist for a few more years, then it would follow
its neighbours that once clustered beside it, like sea-birds'
nests upon an ocean-facmg crag.

Beside the cottage there fell the great main entrance to the
quarries — a steep plane of eight hundred feet that ran straight
into the lowest depths and bore four main lines of tramway to
the bottom, with other shorter lines that branched uj^on the
sides. Up and do-WTi this great artery the little tumbrils ran.
Steel ropes drew and lowered them. They rushed down
swiftl}'', and slowly toiled up again laden with treasure or
rubbish.

Beneath the cottage, against a cliff that fell abruptly from
the edge of the foreman's garden, stood two great water-
wheels, jutting from the rock, and a steam-pump also panted
beside them. These fought the green-eyed tarn beneath and
sucked away its substance, that it might not increase and
drown the lowermost workings. At the bottom of all things
it la J' and stared up, like a lidless eye, from the heart of the cup.

Besides the great plane that bore the chief business of the
quarries and by which the rock-men descended and ascended
from their work, there existed another means of liftmg the
stone and ' deads ' to the surface. From the pappot-head
there slanted threads of steel to the ' Grey Abbey ' seams, and
by these also the little trolleys came and went, or the great
blocks swam aloft — a mass of a hundredweight flying upward
as lightly as down of thistles on a puff of air. To the earth
they rose, then the flying waggons alighted upon the tram-
lines, and a locomotive carried the trucks away.

Against the cliff-faces these steel ropes stretch like gos-
samers, and behind them, upon the rosy and grey stone, light
paints as on a canvas, and makes the quarry magical with
sunshine and vapour, the shadows of clouds and rainbow
colours after rain. From the pappot-head the immensity of
the space beneath may best be observed. Like mites in a ripe
cheese the men move, and among them, shrunk to the size of
black spiders, stand cranes and engines, and a great steam-
shovel scooping debris from a fall. From these engines come
puffs of white steam, and sometimes a steam-whistle squeaks.
The din of work arises thinly, like hum and stridulation of
insects; but Old Delabole is never silent. By day the blast

IN THE QUARRIES 27

and steam- whistle echo, and the noise of men, the quarry man's
chant at his work, the chink of picks and tampers, the hiss of
air-drills and chime of jackdaws cease not; while night knows
an endless whispering and trickle of httle sounds. Water for
ever tinkles through the darkness, and there is a murmur of
moving earth and rustle of falling stone obeying the drag of
gravitation through nocturnal silences. That iron law is
written on more than senseless matter, for Delabole has its
full story of human accident. You shall not walk through the
streets without seeing maimed men who have lost an arm or
leg in the battle, and the long years of quarry chronicle are
punctuated by black-letter days of disaster and death.

The rock-men are scattered everywhere — white, grey, and
black. Now they combine to heave a block on to a trolley,
now they hang aloft on ropes or ladders, now they push the
tumbrils to and from the cranes, now they control the engines
and handle the great steam-shovel. Into a moraine it drives
with a grinding crash, then strains upwards, and scoops a ton
of rubbish at a thrust. Pick and shovel are at work every-
where. The long snakes of the air-drills twine down the
quarry sides to fresh places of attack, and a distinctive, steady
screech arises where their steel teeth gnaw holes into the rock,
and the dust flies in little puffs.

From time to time a whistle sounds, and the midgets take
cover. From a pit or ledge the last man leaps hurriedly,
having hghted a fuse before departing ; then a billow of smoke
bursts outward, and the ignition of black blasting-powder or
dynamite rends the stubborn rock-face. First comes the
roar of the explosion, then the crash and clatter of the falling
stone — a sound like the cry of a receding wave on some
pebbly beach. The cup of the quarry catches and retains the
din, reverberating its concussions round and round until they
fade and die.

Toward noon on this winter day the rock-men began to
assemble at the foot of the great plane, and when a hooter
sounded to cease work trolleys laden with men and boys crept
to ground from below. The living freight sat or stood tightly
packed upon the Httle wains, and from time to time dropped
off when a gallery was reached. Soon strings of men hm-ried
away from the quarries by various routes to their outlying
homes; but Wilberforce Retallack, who had ascended from

28 OLD DELABOLE

the ' Grey Abbey ' seam, jumped off his trolley as it climbed
past the white cottage on the cliff. At the door he met his
son Pooley, who worked in a dressing-shed. The foreman
entered his home at once; the lad stopped to wash his face
and hands at a little sink outside the kitchen door.

The family, save one, was assembled for dinner. Grand-
father James Nute sat at the foot of the table, and his nieces,
Edith and Julitta, occupied places to his right and left. Next
came the younger boy, Edward, while the mother, Anna
Retallack, sat at the head of the table with Wilberforce on
one side and her son Pooley on the other. They often joked
about tliis arrangement, and it was on Julitta's side of the
table that four sat, because she was thin and occupied but
little room.

As for the master, he gladly ceded the head of the board
to his wife, for he disliked the trouble of serving dishes.

Edward only was missing now, but he came to his place
a few minutes after Grandfather had called a blessing on the
meal. There was a great ' herby ' pie of mingled vegetables
under a crust of flour at one end of the table, and cold bacon
at the other end. The men had plates of both together; the
woman ate the pie alone. A bread-and-butter pudchng
followed, but only Mr. Nute and his nieces partook of this.
The other men and Anna ate bread and cheese. All drank
water.

Edward Retallack had been to the shop of the Sleeps —
for a newspaper — and now he handed the sheet to his father,
who read as he ate.

The Retallack lads were very different, for while Pooley had
a thin Celtic cast of featiu*es, with dark eyes and black hair,
like his parents, Ned was much fairer, and reverted to some
more blond racial strain. His mother's brother was a flaxen
type, and her grandfather also had been fair. Edward
differed from Pooley in every respect, and lacked the elder's
gravity, earnestness, and sabbatical order of mind. The blue-
eyed Ned concerned himself little with solemn subjects, and
religion held only an outward part of his observation. He
sang for joy of singing, not for any instinct of praising, and
he attended chapel regularly because he had to obey his
parents, but he never worshipped therein. Indeed, he had
never worshipped anything in his life save the girl Philippa

IN THE QUARRIES 29

Sleep. He was light-minded and light-hearted. He knew
no care, and took no joy in work. But the joy of life filled him
to the brim, and his family loved him, for that he was always
merry and always sanguine.

Pooley, as IVIr. Nute had said of him on his twelfth birthday,
' was born a Methody.' He stood exemplar and type of that
spirit still acute and alive in the land that bore him. He
loved his rehgion; it was his resource and solace, the business
of his mind and the occupation of his leisure. He had no
sense of humour, but he was by no means narrow-minded, and
felt a charity and good-will to his more worldly neighbours
which is rarely revealed in the pious young. He did not
thrust his opinions upon his fellows, but he lived them, and
only the baser sort laughed at him. His elders respected
him, and prophesied that he would some day fill his father's
shoes. Pooley, however, held other ambitions. He much
desired to enter the ministry, and both his mother and father
knew it; but he had never explicitly declared this hope, and
since the family's means were small and none could offer
help, Pooley 's dream was not recognized or encouraged.
That he would soon be a local preacher all knev/. He had,
indeed, preached privately to Julitta and his grandfather;
and Mr. Nute declared that for a boy of eighteen the per-
formance was more than creditable.

" The doctrine is there, and the fire is there," said Grand-
father to Anna, when she inquired concerning Pooley's effort;
" but as yet the words ain't there. He was feeling out, and
now and again I helped him — not so much with a thought, you
understand, but with a word to clothe the thought. In fact,
his ideas are too big for his power of speech as yet. And that's
a very good fault in a nipper. 'Tis generally the other way,
and they chatter like parrots, but say nothing. He'll make a
fine preacher in fulness of time."

The talk at table did not concern the quarries.

Mrs. Retallack discussed Christmas, which was approaching,
Ned debated with Julitta as to the length of holidays that
might be expected; Pooley considered the subject of choir
practices with Edith; Mr. Nute foretold success for the commg
free lunch. His efforts and those of others had won many
generous promises, and the feeding promised to be triumphant.

"The luncheon's getting on brave," he said; "but the

30 OLD DELABOLE

concert must be up to the mark also. For the moment I
don't see very many good items — nothing out of the common,
that is to say/'

" How would a bit of boxing do V asked Ned.

" Not afore females," answered his grandfather. " For my
part, I'm very well inclined to boxing among the young men.
It takes the steam out of 'em, and larns 'em to keejD their
tempers. But it would never do to stage a boxing bout at a
free lunch."

" The trustees would not allow it," declared Wilberforce,
putting down his paper. Then he turned to Pooley, and asked
him a question concerning his work. The young man was a
slate-dresser.

Meantime Grandfather continued to speak of the coming
entertainment.

" Singing it must be," he declared. " We can't go out of
the beaten track. I hear that at a free lunch in St. Teath, not
so long ago, one of the slate-men home on a holiday from
America danced a negro dance and played his own measure
on a banjo. It raised a good deal of excitement, chiefly
because he blacked his face and had a red seat to his pants;
but those who knew best felt, though harmless in itself, it
wasn't in keeping with the occasion."

" Dancing is the way the Devil goes," said Anna Retallack;
" and you're wrong to say 'tis lawful at any time, father, and
well you know it."

But Mr. Nute defended himself against this attack.

" I grant the Devil has had a lot to do with dancing," he
said; " but 'tis the art of him — to spoil many a perfectly
proper and innocent contrivance by meddling with it. David
danced before the ark, and nothing was said, though such is
the feeling against it now crept into serious minds, that you
and many others don't think the better of David for doing so."

" He was a light man and a bit of a buffle-head," said Anna,
" and them that would dance would do the other wrong things
he did."

" All human cleverness can be put to poor purpose, how-
ever, and even singing, which is our stand-by and dear to us
as the shadow of a great rock in a thirsty land — even singing
may do the Devil's work. 'Tis the spirit that quickens.
Think of the songs that old, dead bedman* to Tintagel used to

* Bedman — sexton.

IN THE QUARRIES 31

sing. And report saj^s that he used to give 'em tongue at his
work, though I'd never have beheved that against the man
unless I had heard it with my own ears. 'Twas naughty stuff
remembered from the old droll-tellers. I mind the last of
them. A crowdy he carried and sang to his scraping — songs
we wouldn't suffer in these nicer times."

" But singing to our Maker be the mainstay of the Uniteds,
and always have been," said Anna.

" Song takes the place of di'ink in Delabole," declared Wil-
berforce Retallack. " And I've known it to have very much
the same effect in some cases."

" You shouldn't say that," answered his wife, whose serious
spirit no ray of humour or imagination had ever lighted.

" I do say it. A good volume of harmony along with fine
words of praise or prayer to God do often get into the head —
don't they. Grandfather ?"

" It can't be denied, Wil. Song do make our choir's
members more genial and more gentle and more viplifted.
And more hopeful. And drink can do all that, too. I'll go
further, and say that after a proper fiery practice, long drawn
out, we know what it is to wake with a headache in the
morning !"

Ned laughed and Pooley listened. At this stage in the
young man's experience he usually found himself on his
mother's side against the larger and more tolerant outlook of
his father and grandfather.

Their meal ended, Wilberforce and his boj^s returned to
work as the hooter blew. Mr. Nute took the newspaper to a
window corner, and the women washed up.

CHAPTER V

AT NEWHALL MILL

When Ned Retallack offered to join his sisters on Sunday
afternoon they were surprised. It was seldom that he accom
panied them for a walk or desired their society, but on hearing
that they were going to tea with the Bakes, at Newhall Mill,
he graciously proposed to escort them.

" There's always a doubt whether Thomas lets his bull run
in the path-field," he said, " and I'll see you through it."

The bull was a myth, but Julitta thanked him, and hoped
he would also join the tea-party.

" They'll be gay and proud to see you, Ned," she assured
her brother.

" I might, or I might not," he answered.

They started in their best attire.

Edith was a big auburn girl, with deep brown eyes and a
clear-cut, pale face, faintly freckled. She possessed beauty,
and her gracious figure and free gait did not detract from an
air of refinement and distinction that belonged to her. Her
hands and ankles were not small, but finely modelled. Her
face reflected something of the soulless perfection of a Greek
statue. There was a large placidity of forehead, a stolidity
of the beautiful features that showed at once something
higher and lower than a sculptor's dream. Only time's chisel
could finish the fair thing, and make or mar it. She wore a
dark russet gown and a jacket of the same colour. A little
muff of brown fur she carried, with a wrapper round her neck
to match it, and on her head a brown fur hat, quite unadorned.
The hair that waved out from beneath was the colour of the
dead brake fern when wet — a splendid true auburn, dark as
the waters of a burn in spate. Only sunshine could wake the
hidden fire of it, but in shade something akin to purple brushed
the beautiful colour. Her face was clear-cut and strong, with

32

AT NEWHALL MILL 33

a firm round chin and a mouth cleanly modelled and waved to
the corners. But the lips, though full, lacked colour.

Julitta had nothing in common with her elder sister. She
was dark and slight, and three inches shorter than Edith. She
had dressed herself in a stout Avinter jacket of bright red
cloth, and kept her hands in the pockets of it. Her hair was
black and her bright Httle face highly coloured.

With Ned between them they passed down beneath the
great rubbish-shoot of the quarries, where its mass arose above
the meadows and its feet trampled the valley beneath. Here
spread a wide combe that opened westerly f)etween the hills.
Within it, under the lee of the land, trees grew to maturity,
woods tlirove and sank to deep dingles by a streamlet. Beech
and oak, spruce and fir flourished, and from the larches, at
every breath of the winter wind, flew the dead needles, like
a cloud of gold dust.

Away below stretched a vale watered by the brook, and at
a hamlet by forest edge a bridge spanned the stream and cot-
tages climbed the eastern hill together. Then spread water-
meadows and waste land about the passage of the rivulet, while
beyond, earth rolled away in undulating leagues to the grey
mists that hung low above the horizon. St. Teath's squat
tower rose at the bottom of the valley among the last autumn
brightness of trees; but Edith, Ned, and Julitta were not
bound thither. They followed a field-path or two, climbed a
few slate stiles, and skirted the wood.

Here presently a meadow opened, and their way ran through
it to a point where the Newhall brook purred into a brake of
fern and briar and dead meadowsweet. The mill-stream soon
emerged upon a flat of rushes, the haunt of moorhens and
water-voles.

Then came the mill-pond, a respectable reach of open water
upon whose tide sailed white ducks, and whose grassy banks
were scattered with feathers and puffs of down. Alders rose
upon the farther side of the pool, and beyond them extended
an orchard, where a few red and yellow apples still clung to
the boughs, though most of the harvest had been garnered for
the cider-presses. ,

Now rose the Uchened roof of Newhall Mill House, the
ancestral home of the Bakes; but the mill itself hung on the
slope of a gentle hill fifty yards distant, and the stream,

3

34 OLD DELABOLE

curved in a narrow launder of Delabole slate, gained force as
it fell to leap upon the wheel.

In sight of their destination a girl met the party — a blue-
eyed, small, dark-haired thing of sturdy, solid build. Her
face was attractive but not pretty; her Sunday finery sat
untidily upon her.

" Here's Philippa Sleep !" said Edith, and her brother
pretended astonishment.

" Why, so 'tis !" he said. " What be she doing down here ?"

But he did not deceive Julitta.

" Waiting for you by the looks of it," she answered. " Now
we know why you were so kind as to see us through the
meadow where the bull runs."

He laughed, and they greeted Philippa.

" You needn't pretend," began Ned's younger sister. " We
know you haven't come by accident."

Philippa peeped at them.

" Nothing happens by accident, I reckon," she answered.
" I wasn't going to pretend, Julitta."

" The flickets* are in your cheeks, however."

" I'm always red — 'tis nature."

" And now you won't come to the mill, I suppose ?" asked
Edith of her brother.

" I suppose not," he answered. " Of coiu-se, I can't let
this poor child go through the field, where a savage bull might
lie behind a blade of grass somewhere."

They joked for two mmutes, then Edith and Julitta went
on their way, and Ned sauntered ofi with his sweetheart.
But when the other maidens were ought of sight, Philippa
and the lad turned into a woodman's path and sought a
familiar haunt under the spruce firs. They loved one another
with the heedless, hearty, brainless ardour of youth. They
lived in the joy of their present attachment, and were sub-
limely indifferent to the future, its cares and calls. Ned voiced
the exact situation in a sentence.

" I never seem to get a bit of fun in the world unless I'm
along with you, Phil," he said.

" Same here," she assured him. " There ain't no fun in
Delabole out of sight of you. Everything that's worth doing
be wicked — except singing, and I can't sing."

* Flickets — blushes.

AT NEWHALL MILL 35

" I'd sooner hear thicky wood-dove sing than all the choirs
in all the chapels," he answered.

" Why can't the people wait ?" said Philippa, with a twink-
ling mouth. " They'll be able to shout their heads off in the
next world by all accounts. There'll be streams of music all
day long there. But they won't be able to do a lot of fine
things there that they could do here."

Her unconscious appeal to the senses pleased him.

" The cleverness ! Sometimes I think I'll smash my savings
and break loose and take you to Plymouth, and we'll go to
theatres and music-halls every night till I'm broke ; then we'll
come home and face 'em. They couldn't do anything when
all's said."

" I'd go," she declared, " if 'twas only to see Aunt Sarah's
face when I came back."

They entertained themselves for a long time by planning
the detaus of this devilry, and by considering the comments
of Delabole upon it when they returned.

Meanwhile Edith and Julitta reached the wicket of the
Mill House, ascended a path of cobblestones flanked with
' Cornish diamonds ' — great lumps of glittering quartz — and
knocked at a door garlanded with a monthly rose, which still
presented a few weather-worn clusters of flowers.

Within, a harmonium was grunting and children's voices
accompanied the dreary sound. But the music ceased at their
summons; there was a scurry of smaU feet and the swift
tramp of heavy ones. Then the door opened, and a young
man stood there with a little gii'l on each side of him.

Wesley Bake was a fair youth, with straw-coloured hair,
bright grey eyes, and a sanguine complexion. His features
were regular, his small, pale moustache did not conceal his
mouth, which was strong. He stood six feet, and his limbs
were muscular, but loosely put together. For a man of but
eight-and-twenty he was inclined to be stout; but his energy
was tremendous, and he proved well able to undertake the
burden of life that had somewhat unexpectedly fallen upon
his shoulders.

Within two years his father and elder brother had died,
and the mastership of Newhall Mill accrued to him. It was
an important industry, for all the quarrymen's corn was
ground here. Now, with two widows, Wesley dwelt, for his

36 OLD DELABOLE

mother and the wife of his dead, elder brother kept him
company, and the httle girls that stood beside him as he
welcomed Edith were his nieces. The bright-faced children
of nine and ten 5^ears old resembled each other, but their
natures differed, and while the elder, Mary, had never given
her mother one uneasy thought, Betty revealed an original
spirit. Originality in children is always a nuisance to the
mind framed for peace, and Susan Bake, the mother of the
little girls, loved Mary best, because she gave least trouble.
Mary belonged to the order of those who do right because they
are never inclined to do wrong; Betty was wayward and
wilful. Mary was often an unconscious humbug; Betty
proved indifferent to the feelings of her elders, and had less
tact and more pluck.

Now Mary fastened on Edith and Betty upon Julitta ; then
they all went into the big kitchen of the mill, where tea was
spread.

" Wesley was for the parlour, but I said you girls would
make no bones about that," began the miller's mother as she
shook hands. " The parlour strikes cruel cold from October
to April, though a very nice room in summer."

A generous meal was spread, and Nancy Bake poured out
the tea while Susan looked after the guests. Edith sat beside
Wesley, and he ministered to her needs and watched her eat
with frank enjoyment. The elder IVIrs. Bake also set Edith
first, for she knew what was coming. She was a large woman
and corpulent. From her the young man had received his
great limbs and Saxon colouring.

The children chattered.

" Did 'e thank IVIiss Julitta for the story-book ?" asked their
grandmother, and Mary answered :

" We did, Granny. And I told her 'twas a brave book.
And I like it more than any book ever I read — except the
Bible."

" And I like it better," said Betty, " 'cause it ain't so terrible
long and there's pixies in it."

" And we hope Miss Julitta will tell us one of her beauti-
ful stories come presently, don't we, Betty ?" asked her
sister.

" Yes, we do," said Betty ; " and we hope it won't be a
Sunday one."

AT NEWHALL MILL 37

" Oh, Betty— how wicked !"

Mary's eyes grew round and sought her mother's face; but
Susan Bake, unheeding the children, was steaUng many a
glance at Edith. Her own romance had been cut short sud-
denly, but she was still young, and the thought of Edith
presently reigning where she had thought to reign moved her.

People spoke respectfully of Edith. None knew very much
about her character outside her own home.

Susan had studied the girl before, and learned little save
that she was beautiful, and had a stronger character and
better education than she could claim. The widow was not
jealous, but she was anxious for the future of herself and her
children when the change came. Wesley, a modest and
ingenuous spirit, true and honest as light, had not hidden
from his mother or Susan the thing in his heart. They knew
he loved Edith, and guessed that she loved him; but of this
they could not be sure.

" She idden too good for you, Wesley, for the maid ain't
born that be; but she's a cut above me and Susan in her
intellects, and I don't suppose, if it happened, that her and
me would be so friendly and understanding as me and Susan.
But that's not to tell a word against her."

So said Mrs. Bake, who was always a plain speaker, and
liked nothing hidden or mysterious in her relations with her
fellows.

Her view, however, did not commend itself to her son.

" If she takes me," he said, " she'll be a proper, perfect
daughter to you. That goes without a thought. She thinks
a lot of you, and has said it in so many words."

The party was a success, and Wesley, when he found what
a good tea Edith was making, followed her example.

" The United are to have another lunch, I hear," said Susan
Bake. " Sarah Sleep at the paper-shop tells me your grand-
father, as usual, is the moving spirit. He's been the most
wonderful man in Delabole for twenty years, and long may he
80 continny."

" He is wonderful," answered Edith. " Almost too wonder-
ful we find him sometimes. The energy in him would light
Delabole with electricity, father says."

" Satan never found no mischief for his idle hand," declared
Nancy. " For why ? He never found his hand idle. If the

38 OLD DELABOLE

man's resting in his chair, his hands be waving a knife and
fork or playing the flute."

Edith and Julitta looked at each other and simultaneously
sighed.

" It's a sore subject, Mrs. Bake. We love him dearly; but
oh, that flute !"

" Gets on the nerves, I dare say. Yet he's a great musicker
and seldom blows a wrong note, they tell me."

" Ask him to tea one day and bid him bring it," suggested
Julitta. " Mary and Betty would love him — even if you
didn't."

" I do love him," declared Betty. " He's my best friend
in the world."

" We all love him, for he's made of sense and charity. I'll
go further than that, and say that a middle-aged woman here
and there be in love with him. I'm sure 'tis no disgrace to
'em neither, for you can't call him old, except to the eye of
youth."

" We wish he was older," answered Edith, " don't we,
Julitta ? He's an unrestful dear."

After tea Wesley took Edith out to look at some puppies,
and Julitta stopped with the children. They sat, Betty on
her lap and Mary beside her, in the deep embrasure of the
kitchen window, while Nancy and her daughter-in-law
cleared up.

" Don't let 'em torment you, Julitta," said Susan Bake.
" The toads never give you no rest, I'm sure."

Betty eyed her mother until she judged her out of earshot.
Then she whispered to Julitta :

" Tell us a tale, but not about God."

" Why not ?" asked the story-teller, and Betty whispered

again.

" I don't much like what I hear about God.

Betty — you wicked child !" cried Mary.

But Betty only pouted and shook her head.

" I don't care. It's all very well for Mary, because she
suits Him, and I don't suit Him, so mother says. And we
never like people we don't suit."

"I'm sure you suit Him beautifully when you're good,
Betty."

" I never am," said the little girl. " Leastways I feel good.

AT NEWHALL MILL 39

but I didn't ought, seemingly. I'm clicky-pawed,* and 'tis
very much against me, mother says. But why for did God
make me clicky-pawed if He don't like it ?"

Julitta felt unequal to answering this difificult question.

" 'Twill come right, be sure, if you make your right hand
work," she said; " and now I'm going to tell you about good
Saint Petroc, the greatest of all the Cornish saints."

Mary viewed the prospect hopefully, but it was clear that
her sister expected small pleasure from the narrative.

" Let me stroke Edith's muff, then, while 3^oudo," saidBetty,
" I suppose as it's Sunday it's got to be a Sundayfied story."

" There's nothing Sundayfied about it; and get off my lap,
Betty, you're too heavy." Then she proceeded, with a child
nestling close on either side.

" When dear St. Petroc went to India, he was very, very
tired one day, and, finding himself on a beautiful, white,
sandy shore, where blue waves broke gently and made a
pleasant, murmuring sound, he thought it would be rather
nice to have a nap. Along the edge of the silvery sands there
grew cocoanut-trees, with great leaves hanging down and
nearly reaching the earth. There was beautiful shade under
them, so the holy man found a snug corner and put his head
on his arm and curled up, and soon went to sleep.

" I don't know how long he slept, but when he woke up the
sun had gone and the moon was shining and making the shore
as white as snow. Then St. Petroc walked down to the
sea and, much to his surprise, found that while he had slept,
a beautiful silver bowl had floated to the beach. It was like
a junlvct bowl, only a thousand times bigger. He much
wondered what the bowl could mean, and then he heard a
voice telling him to take off his robe and drop his staff and
get into the bowl. So he obeyed, and then away went the
bowl with St- Petroc in it over the sea.

" All night the bowl floated over the dark waves, but when
the sun rose St. Petroc saw a little cloud which seemed to be
coming towards him, and presently it came nearer, and grew
larger and lovelier, and turned into an island. And the bowl
stranded in the foam on the shore, and St. Petroc got out and
walked through the crystal water to the beach. He thought

* Clicky-pawed — left-handed.

40 OLD DELABOLE

that he would just have a look round and get a drink from a
spring and oranges from the trees, and then return to the
bowl and pursue his travels. But after he had eaten some
oranges and grapes and prepared to start again, what was
his surprise to find that the bowl had vanished !

" So then of course he knew that it was meant for him to
stop on the island. He stojDped, and as there was nobody else
there, he had all his time on his hands to think fine thoughts
and become very wise. In a lovely pool — like the pools you
know among the rocks at Trebarwith Sand — he found a fish —
just large enough for one good meal. So he caught it and
made a fire and cooked it and ate it, and flung its bones back
into the pool. But the moment the bones went back into
this magic pool they all joined together at once, and the fish
became alive and well again. So the holy man had no trouble
about his breakfast, for he caught and ate the fish every
morning regularly, and he never felt hungry after eating it
until the next morning.

" For seven whole years he lived there all by himself, getting
wiser and wiser every minute. And then he began to feel
that he was ready to go into the world with all his wisdom
and help other people, who had not had such a splendid oppor-
tunity to grow wise as God had given to him.

" Then he prayed to go back into the world to help it,
and the very next morning after his prayer he found the
great silver bowl waiting for him, just where he had left it
seven years before !

" So he prepared to set sail, and said good-bye to the fish,
for he did not eat it that morning. And he thanked the fish
with all his heart for its extraordinary kindness ; and the fish
begged him not to mention it, and said it had been quite a
pleasure. It even wished him good luck, and hoped that they
might meet again some day.

" The second voyage lasted just as long as the first, and
when the moon came out, the bowl touched ground again on
the silver beach under the cocoanut-trees. And there lay
St. Petroc's robe and staff, just where he had thrown them
down !

" But of course they would have been stolen by somebody
in the course of seven years had no messenger been sent to
guard them, and when the traveller returned he found that

AT NEWHALL MILL 41

a very large and beautiful wolf was watching his property.
And the wolf wagged his brush, and was perfectly thankful to
see him, because to keep guard seven years in one spot is
rather a dull duty for a busy, bustling creature like a wolf.
He stretched his hind paws and then he stretched his front
ones, and then he yawned till his jaws cracked, and rollicked
about and howled with happiness, because his long and
faithful vigil was ended. And his green eyes glittered with joy
in the moonlight.

" The saint was very pleased indeed, and he patted the
good wolf on the head, and said that he should never lose
sight of him again. Which, of course, made him a very
proud wolf. Then St. Petroc and the wolf set sail in the
bowl together, and came presently, after a long voj^age, to
Cornwall. And there the holy man began to be a saint in
real earnest, so that everybody in Cornwall was happier and
better for his coming. And the kind and good and wise
things that he did in Cornwall would take a thousand books
to tell. But to this day the beautiful emblems of St. Petroc
are a silver bowl and a splendid wolf. And that's the end
of the story."

The children glowed, and Betty paid the warmest tribute
she knew to the story-teller's powers.

" You dear, precious Julitta !" she said, and flung herself
into Julitta's arms and kissed her. Then, while the more
sober Mary j^ut questions, inspired by St. Petroc 's earlier
adventures, Betty huddled up with her secret thoughts and
stared before her, seeing nothing.

At intervals she whispered under her breath: " Darling
fish ! Darling wolf !"

Elsewhere Edith and Wesley Bake, in a gathering gloaming,
followed the stream to the valley levels, where it sank away
through bottoms of sedge and blackthorn and sallows to little
muddy backwaters loved by the woodcock. He talked fit-
fully, as a man in love talks, and was watchful for her every
step. Now he held back a briar, now offered his hand at a
stepping-stone. She praised the sunset light, and he agreed.
Then he ventured to be personal.

" It burns on your hair something wonderful, Edith."

" To think you can like my red hair !"

" ' Red ' ! I'd kill the man who said it was red. There

42 OLD DELABOLE

never was such a colour before. I've puzzled this autumn-
time a good bit to match it, if 3'ou'll excuse me for saying so —
but I can't; it changes every minute. Now, when you catch
the red sun going down, your hair is very near as splendid as
the cherry-leaves; and then again it 'minds me of the bright
agate stone my mother wears at her throat Sundays; and
then, Avhen the brook under Brown Willy's in spate, as it was
the last time I fished there, I called home your hair in a
minute. But nothing gets near it really."

She smiled at him, and wondered how long the diffident
man would postpone his inevitable word. For herself she was
still uncertain, though her parents had believed that her mind
was affirmed.

Between Thomas Hawdcey, manager of Delabole Quarries,
and Wesley Bake, of Newhall, it proved exceeding^ difficult
to decide. They were alike in an outlook upon life that
appealed to Edith ; they were both strong and pleasing to the
eye ; they both courted her with a modesty and delicacy that
made her happy in their company. And while the one was
of livelier soul and more cheerful disposition, that advantage
seemed fairly lost against the better education and wider
outlook of the other. That she could thus hesitate between
them might have led a student to guess that in reality she
loved neither ; but the truth was that Edith had found in each
those qualities demanded by her own nature from a man.
She might have loved either, the other away; either might
have found in her a wife to complete his life and make him a
happy man; but since both had entered into her existence, a
certain stability and balance of mind that belonged to Edith
now created in her no small perplexity. So contrary was
the situation from all that seemed proper to love, so improper
did it appear to her that a woman should care for two men
to the verge of love, that secretly she was somewhat ashamed
of herself, and suspected a very abnormal and undesirable
weakness of mind. She felt that, for one of her decided
opinions, doubt on such a question was extraordinary, and
she threw the blame upon herself rather than the psychologic
situation.

So absolute was her impartiality that for a time she told
herself she would accept the man who first asked to wed ; and
now a man did offer.

AT NEWHALL MILL 43

Wesley had framed the momentous words a thousand times,
and doubted not that his memory would stand firm at the
crucial moment; but the fine phrases rehearsed on sleepless
nights are apt to vanish in the storm centre of a proposal,
with a woman listening and life hanging on her answer.

He came well out of it, however, stood quite still, looked
Edith square in the eyes, and told her that the happiness of
his life depended henceforth upon her will. He was brief,
but clear and forcible.

" I'll beat about the bush no more," he said, as thej^ turned
to go back. " 'Tidden dignified, Edith, and a poor compli-
ment to my pluck and your beauty and goodness. I must
hear it now — this living hour. I want you with all my soul
and strength, and I love you with all my soul and strength.
You know me — just an everyday man, but capable of rising
if I had you to rise to. You'd lift me up a lot, Edith. You
have already. And I hope, please God, you feel that you
could wed me, and if you can, I'll leave no stone unturned
to make a husband worthy of you, so far as such a man as I
am can do."

He stretched out his hand to her and was silent, while she
felt the words were exactly what he ought to have said and
exactly what she knew he would say. Yet thej^ sounded a
little tame. Men whom she had liked less had offered marriage
with greater charm. She was silent for a moment, though she
took his hand and let him hold hers. Then she recollected
her own determination: to accept the first of these two who
offered. She was perfectly calm — so calm that she could find
time to feel shocked to think she had ever come to such a cold-
blooded decision. He waited eagerly. His face put her in
mmd of a dog's that was begging for a biscuit. Her thoughts
ran, and he spoke again.

" Don't say ' no ' all in a moment. Think it out. I've no
right to expect an instant answer."

This offer was too good to be rejected.

" That's like you, Wesley, and I don't think the worse of
you for saying it. I think the better of you for saying it.
Give me a few days; then I'll come over and we'll tell about
it."

" Thank you, Edith. Days will be years, however," he
answered, a little chilled that she should agree with his sug-

44 OLD DELABOLE

gestion so swiftly. " Of course, a man's but a man. Would
it be going too far to ask you if there was hope ? But yes —
of course, it would. You'll answer me when you can."

" Don't fear I'll keep you long," she said. " I care a lot
for you, Wesley. I dare say I could say ' yes ' this minute,
and be happier for saying it ; but ' yes ' or ' no ' is a mighty
matter, and the word once given could never be unsaid again
by such as I am. So I'll take your offer, and turn it over and
pray to God about it."

" That's all right," he answered. " All the same, I'm mortal
sorry now that ever I gave you the chance ! It was meant
well, but it was a weakness, and I'll dare swear men have
paid a long price for such weakness before to-night !"

" I think no worse of you for saying it," she repeated; then,
with silence between them, in a dusky gloaming where the
blackbirds cried ' Good-night, good-night, good-night !' shrilly,
they went back together.

CHAPTER VI

THE NEW DINNER-HOUSE

The immensity of the quarries might well be marked from
below. Over the green pool at the bottom of the pit there
passed a trestle-bridge, and around it the space, that appeared
shrunk to nothing when seen from above, spread out in some
acres of apparent confusion and chaos. A village might have
stood here. The main incline sloped upward like a mountain-
side, and the whole bewildering region was scored with
glittering tram-lines on different planes, that ran hither and
thither, rose and fell, and ended at the various centres and
galleries where work progressed. The pappot-head towered
six hundred feet above on the western cliffs, and rovind
about wheeled the amphitheatre of crags and precipices, now
lifted in giant steps, now stark, now furrowed and wrinkled,
and overhanging with threats of implicit peril. At this season
much water was finding its way into the quarries, and the
pool often rose a foot in a night. Many a rill spouted against
the purple and olive sides of the slate, and from rifts and cracks
in the quarry walls came threads of water. Elsewhere, over
ledges and old workings, a thin rain of scattered torrents
misted, and sometimes, when the low sun burned into the
depths, it touched these vapours and set a rainbow there.
Then the faces of the rock were transformed, and their wetness
shone orange-tawny, gold, and crimson. One heard the
eternal whisper and murmur of many waters, the clank of
the pump, and the steady thud of the great water-wheels
that sucked day and night at the tarn beneath them. The
floods were drawn off by unseen ways through the side of the
quarries, and the water was used aloft for the steam-engines
that hoisted the slate from beneath and ran the machinery
for cutting and dressing above.

To-day an event was to mark the dinner-hour, and instead
of assembling at noon to ascend as usual, a large number of

45

46 OLD DELABOLE

the rock-men collected about a new stone building of one large
room that had been built at the bottom of the quarry.

Here were Thomas Hawkey, the manager, Grandfather
Nute, Wilberforce Retallack, the foreman, and his colleague,
Sidney Nanjulian, a thin, romantic-looking man of five-and-
thirty. Certain of the elders — masters of gangs and so forth —
stood beside Hawkey, and among them were Moses Bunt, a
crusty and carping spirit already mentioned, Noah Tonkin,
Jack Keat, and a score of others, all grey-headed now after a
life of service at Old Delabole. A few of the hill-men — dressers
and splitters — had also descended, though the new building
at the quarry bottom did not concern them. Among these
came Pooley Retallack, with the priestlike eyes. He stood
beside his brother Ned and listened to Thomas Hawkey.
Rain fell and filled the quarry with a grey veil while the
manager spoke, but no man heeded it.

" This is hardly matter for a ceremony, neighbours," said
Hawkey. " As you know, for those who did not want to
return home to dinner, the Directors made this gift of the
dinner-house, which has been built here for our comfort. And
before we go in, it is our duty to record a due sense of the kind
spirit that put up this shelter."

Then Mr. Keat spoke for the men. He was a local preacher,
and possessed the gift of oratory.

" Such things were not done or thought of for the workers
in my young days," he began, " and it shows that the world
is moving on to a better understanding of the great truth that
Jesus Christ brought into it ; and when you hear of discontents
and strikes in the land, we may be glad that our time has
fallen here, where the spirit of kindness and understanding is
alive between us, whose lot is to work, and them whose lot is
to be masters. ' Render to Caesar the things that are Caesar's,'
as we have always done "

" Dinner's getting cold. Jack Keat !" said a thin voice
sharply, but he was greeted with ' Hush !' ' Shut up, Bunt !'
and, ' Where's your maimers ?'

Mr. Keat flowed on.

" And if that rule was observed between labour and capital;
if the stormy petrels of labour were caught and put in cages
a bit quicker, we should have less troubles than we do have.
And I voice you one and all, brothers, when I ask Mister

THE NEW DINNER-HOUSE 47

Tom to tell the Directors that we're glad to have this room
do^vn here — we old chaps, whose labours are nearly at an end.
And I hope that many generations of rock -men will find the
house come handy in rough weather, and not forget the good
spirit that built it for 'em. And for us, dear brothers, as
Christian men in a Christian land — for us, we have got to look
deeper than the goodwill of our masters, to the God who put
that goodwill in their hearts and to the spirit that it shows.
And as one sparrow cannot fall unmarked of the Lord, so
be sure one rock-man don't lose life or limb without God
Almighty's visitation and for His purpose. He is always
with us, and what He doeth we know not now, but we shall
know hereafter, for Jesus Christ's sake. Amen."

' Amen !' ' Amen !' said the men, and Hawkey opened the
door.

It was exceedingly characteristic of those for whom he stood
that this trifling matter should have been thus conducted.
The ceremony tj^oified the mind of Delabole, where the least
function becomes a ceremony, develops into a solemnity, and
takes a religious turn at the first excuse. Even now Mr. Keat
was not satisfied, and desired to sing the verse of a familiar
hymn; but Antipas Keat, the baker, who had charge of the
free meal, and who had been at work in the dinner-room for
some time, begged him to delay any singing until the food
was eaten. They were cousins, and Antipas spoke freely.

" Chuck it. Jack — else the mutton will be rags," he said.

Now five-and-thirty men of the seniors followed Hawkey,
who took his seat at the head of a long table, while the rest
returned to the tumbrils, signalled aloft, and were soon drawn
up out of the quarries. With them went Mr. Nute and his
grandsons.

" I'm glad they've got it," said Grandfather. " 'Twas time,
for the seeds of a lot of rheumatics have been sowed in the
dinner-hour at Delabole. Now 'twill be different."

Retallack and Nanjulian sat on each side of Hawkey, and
Mr. Keat occupied the bottom of the table, while Antipas and
an assistant served them. The meal had been cooked in the
quarry, for among the advantages of the new chamber was
a good kitchen stove.

Two courses comprised the dinner, and plenty of tea was
drunk with it. The meal occupied but five-and-twenty

48 OLD DELABOLE

minutes, then most of those present lighted their pipes. Tom
Hawkey and the foremen departed ; Antipas began to pack up
his baskets.

" And how's the house getting on ?" asked Noah Tonkin.
" To my eye it hangs fire a bit."

" I'm busy inside," answered the baker. " It won't be no
ordinary house, you may take my word for that. I was
showing my wife a surprise or two last Sunday. I've got a
sure feeling that we don't have enough cupboards in our
houses; but my house will be a proper nest of cupboards."

" And what did IVIrs. Keat say ?" asked Moses Bunt.
" You'll be a clever man if you build a house to suit a woman."

" She said that it would be a terrible difficult place to keep
clean, but, coming from her, that's nothing," answered
Antipas. " She's got a mania in that matter, and sees dirt
where none else do. You must have reason in everything,
and Nature will be heard. To speak unkindly of dirt is to
lift your voice against the Lord in my opinion."

" The world is His workshop, and He can't make and un-
make without a bit of a mess, or if He can. He don't," declared
Jack Keat.

" And, after all, dirt is only how you look at it," argued
his cousin. " 'Tis only a human word for a lot of stuff that
happens. Dirt to my wife means a happ3^ home for a black-
beetle, and her savage feeling against a beetle goes outside
charity and religion, as I've often told her, for we may be sure
the Almighty didn't plan even a cockroach for nothing."

" A very deep question," said Noah Tonkin, " and I've
often wondered, when I see human nature up against other
nature, where the fault was. House-beetles couldn't have
come in the world before there was houses for 'em to dwell in,
and they wouldn't have been sent into our houses without
their Maker had sent 'em, and yet 'tis a common human
opinion that they're much better away. Same with mice —
and worse than mice. In a sense you may say that when we
take life we disagree wath God. At least, so it looks to me."

" Then my bake-house be a scene of daily sin," confessed
Antipas. " I've gone among 'em of a night like Samson
among the Philistines. No, you're out there, Noah Tonkin.
Because, if that was pushed home, 'twould be wTong to uproot
a weed, or shoot a hawk, or teel a trap for a rat."

THE NEW DINNER-HOUSE 49

" It's like this," argued the preacher, " we share the earth
with a lot of other things, and they're put here, not for their
own purposes, but for their bearing on our characters. The
Lord, in His Avisdom, said, after our first parents failed so
fearful, that too much ease and contentment was a bad thing
for men and women. The Almighty saw with half an eye
that Adam and Eve couldn't carry corn, as we say. So
out they went, to a life of toil and grief and pain — to make a
man and woman of them. And the Everlasting didn't build
up no more grown folk from a rib of the man — that being an
easy and painless business; but He invented cheeldin, and
gave the weaker vessel the work. And, in His wisdom, He
called up nettles and thistles from the earth, and frost and
tempest down from the air. He made the bug and the east
wind and the viper, and the peril that flies by day and the
danger that lies hid by night. Many such unloved things He
created — all for the chastening of man. And 'twas not hate
but love that quickened the Almighty's wits — be sure of that.
He saw, if we were to be saved, that we'd got to fight hard
for it; He discovered, much to His sorrow, no doubt, that
we weren't by any means so close to the angels as He had
hoped and planned we should be. You might say, to speak
it in all humility, that the Almighty was a lot disappointed
with Eve. She didn't come off as He'd meant her. In fact,
He thought she was made of finer stuff, or else He'd never
have trusted her — a green, new-created creatm'e — with the
Old Serpent. But she failed Him, as her daughters have
failed a good many people since, and as a rib of Adam was
pretty sure to do. And so God saw 'twas a case of spare the
rod and spoil the child, and He treated them accordingly."

" What's that to do with house-beetles ?" asked Moses Bunt.

" Just this, my dear. These painful things I've named be
sent in this world to remind us it is this world and not the
next. And we're expected to fight them like brave men,
and conquer 'em, and come through the fires of tribulation
purified and ready for the wedding garment of the Lamb.
Life's a battle, and we've got to fight the least as well as the
greatest; and as our souls are called to fight the Devil, so our
bodies are called to fight all the earthly evils and dangers.
Beetles be put in the houses to raise our ideas of cleanliness,
and weeds in our gardens to challenge us and remind us that

4

50 OLD DELABOLE

we can only win the fruits of the earth by the sweat of our
brow."

" And we do it and rise above such things," declared the
baker. " We're a powerful race — we Cornishmen — and more
than equal to our stations in my opinion. A strong people,
as we deserve to be, seeing where we draw our strength."

The talk di'ifted to striking and the Trades Unions. Upon
this subject they were not agreed, though for the most part
the local preacher, who was a Conservative of reactionary
ideals, found himself in a minority of one.

They were still arguing when the hooter blew from aloft
and work began again.

A trolley descended for Antipas Keat presently, and he,
with his dishes and plates, knives and forks, teapots and
kettles, ascended. He had never in his life before been at the
bottom of the quarry, and he declared on reaching home that
it was a remarkable experience he would not willingly have
missed.

CHAPTER VII

TREBARWITH SAND

Cornwall is the freest county in England, and the field-paths
are legion. Everywhere along the northern coast, stiles of
Delabole slate open cheerfully to the pedestrian, and invite
him to leave the highway for the meadow and the down.

Now Edith Retallack, face to face with problems that none
could solve but herself, set forth to spend some hours alone,
and so, if possible, come to conclusions concerning the
momentous business of making up her mind. ' I must get
out of my heart and climb up into my head, and stop there
till I've decided,' thought Edith; ' or else I must — no, it's no
use saying that my heart must decide, because it can't.' The
situation so stated cast her down, and she blamed her heart
in that it held the balance so evenly. Had Wesley Bake and
Thomas Hawkey represented different emotional interests,
had they stood for opposite or diverse attractions in that
many-sided experience, a woman's life, she might have found
material to work upon, and balanced the promise of the one
against the promise of the other. But they appealed to no
different needs of her nature; they did not represent the
practical against the ideal, or working life on the one hand,
high-days and holidays on the other. They were alike, and
challenged the whole of her. She was not versatile herself.
These sober-minded, steadfast men both chimed with her
outlook, both promised to suffice her needs and happily crown
her ambition of home, husband, family.

She was puzzled, and could not explain her own impartiality.
And now she set out against a stiff north-westerly breeze with
her face to the sea and her mind affirmed to make itself up.
She was not impervious to Nature, as are most who live in the
lap of Nature ; indeed, she loved the sea, and often trusted the
open air to sweeten thought and clarify thinking. She was
sensible, indeed, almost sensitive, to the moods of earth and

51

52 OLD DELABOLE

sky; they would lead her away from the matter in hand, and.
yet, b}' most devious and unforeseen channels, influence her
opinions uj^on it. This happened now. The westering sun
shine and fierce wind fortified her, the thunder of the sea
invigorated her, as she sanlc towards it through Trcbarwith
Coombe.

Edith had hoped to take a favourite tramp along the
sands and let the salt wind sting her where she walked by the
fringes of the waves; but the tide was high, and a welter of
shouting breakers beat against the land. Therefore she sat
on a rock in simshine, overlooked the water, and watched the
waves from a little bluff above them.

Ridge upon ridge the deep-breathing rollers came and swept
the shore. They swelled to their greatest on the shoals, then
towered to onset. As their crests thinned and a ribbon of
dim emerald glittered translucent under their white manes,
their necks bent; above them the foam was torn off and sent
ahead in a dust of gold, then each watery mass fell and toppled,
to mingle its might with the tumult of the wave that preceded
it. There was a movement and shout of battle. The be-
siegers were alive and alert ; deep called to deep, and the great
captains of the sea brought up their allied armies to make
common war upon the land. It seemed that the majesty of
the earth shook and throbbed, but stirred not, while its van
of ocean-facing rocks tore gaps in the green waves, and its
crags and precipices and massive planes beat back the waters,
churned them, scattered their masses into an agony of impo-
tent foam, hurled them down again indifferently, all torn and
stricken, into the ranks that followed. Over every rock still
unsubmerged the broken water swept irresistibly and buried
them a fathom deep under each billow, then, like leviathans,
they heaved up out of the white water, and a thousand
streams bearded their flanks and boiled back to the labouring
sea; while against the cliffs those waves that escaped imjaact
with the outlying rocks leapt with thunder and spouted
upward in heavy columns and sheaves of silver. These seemed
to open at the crown and bloom in brief rainbows ; then, with
a sob and a sigh, to the surges they tumbled again.

Organ-music of wind and water fitly accompanied this huge
unrest and strife, while the patient sea toiled without ceasing
and loosed the pent-up forces of Atlantic winds upon the land.

TREBARWITH SAND 53

To the ephemeral observation of man these forces raged in
vain, yet the ocean better understood the secret argument
and di'ift of that wide war. She knew that not one of all her
legions had burst and broken in vain, not one of all the myriad
waves but had written its story on the stone, not one of all
her earth-shaking billows but had added another throb to
that eternal energy for ever moulding earth's confines anew,
for ever changing earth's contours, for ever driving back the
battlements of the land. Human ears marked only the roar
of the invader, and in that thunder the lesser tinkle of falling
stone and crumbling earth was lost; human eyes saw nothing
but the turmoil of the sea and the confusion of shattered
waves that spread a pattern and fret of white froth far out
upon the green waters; but to the eyes of the stars earth
showed a movement as active and complicated, planets might
note whole precipices sink and the forehead of each headland
wrinkle into a new frown. Such gigantic secrets written on
the frontiers of continents are hidden, behind their own
immensity, from human measure. The significance of a
century showed nothing to the creature, but the rocks knew
in their dark clefts and crannies, and their conqueror likewise
knew, that in a battle where time is nought and aeons avail for
the issue, the dynamic must conquer the static, as surely as a
summer ripple saps and swallows a child's little castle of sand.
Life lies in the forces that hold the power of change, and
when earth grew solid she accepted mutability as a condition
of her seeming immortal steadfastness. For the rock samphire
on her forehead and seaweed in her lap, the least flower at her
throat and the bird that nests upon her finger shall last longer
than her own mightiness, now lifted, in far-flung coastlines
of light and darkness, to stem the unconquerable sea.

Edith Retallack breathed the wind and reflected upon her
own approaching adventure. The immediate issue evaded her,
and before the riotous spectacle of waves under a stormy
sunset; she concerned her mind with matrimony itself rather
than the choice between those who desired to share it with
her. She surprised herself by the similes struck out of the
place and hour.

A little stream ran doAvn the coombe to the waves and was
swallowed in the foam. So, thought Edith, a girl is lost in
matrimony, and her maidenhood engulfed by the turbulent

64 OLD DELABOLE

waves of married life. The idea depressed her, for she loved
her individuality and was proud of it. Surely no husband
could suffer a loved woman to be but one more ripple in the
sea of his activities and interests ? No, she must heighten,
deepen, strengthen him. She must be herself still, and
marriage for her should never be eclipse of personality and
power — only the means of its finest expression. She was no
little thread of fresh water to be consumed and forgotten in
an ocean of salt. No woman worth calling one could live
content as the shadow or the echo of a man.

She chose a happier image presently, and compared
herself to a rock of fine symmetry moulded by the waves
into a shape best able to resist them. Again and again
it was smothered by the flood, only to emerge cheerful and
gleaming to the kiss of the sunset — the brighter and more
beautiful for its drowning. Marriage should not drown her.
She would emerge from it still herself, for would not the man
she chose wed herself ? Would he not expect her to be still
herself after marriage ? If she changed, might not the man
grumble and blame her for not keeping the bargain ?

She was very wise with maiden wisdom, and doubted not
that if women would only continue to keep their souls virgin,
after their bodies had met man's, that there would be fewer
unhappy marriages and sad homes. ' They wed maidens,'
she thought, ' and we ought to go on keeping the hearts of
maidens in our breasts, and look at life and laugh at life
with the spirit of maidens. It's because we change so, and
get anxious and worried about the babies, and forget our-
selves, and give up nice clothes, and care no more for our
teeth and hair, that the men get out of love with us. But
can we be the same ? Perhaps we can't. Anyway, I mean to. '

These great aspirations cheered her, and the salt spindrift
off the sea flecked her face. She watched the sun go down,
and for a brief while, where emerald had glittered along the
thin wave-crests, now ruby flushed them. Then darkness
gathered, and as she turned to tramp away Edith saw through
the welter southward a Ughthouse wink its red eye on Trevose
Head.

There was a cottage in the coombe where dwelt Aunt Mercy
Inch — an old widow and no relation to anybody at Delabole,
but she was always ' Aunt Mercy ' to her little world. Edith

TREBARWITH SAND 55

called now, and the ancient but energetic woman made a pot
of tea, and insisted upon the visitor remaining for a meal.

" Put home the door and bide a bit," she said. " Nowadays
I don't see a soul but poor tootling* Davie from up over, and
though the Lord's chosen do often say very deep and clever
things with more in 'em than meets the thought, yet 'tis
vitty us should have a tell with quick-witted folk now and
again."

Aunt Mercy was grey and withered, and had a weeping eye.
This affliction somewhat correctly indicated her character,
for she wept on one side of her face at a sad world, and laughed
on the other at a mad one.

" They tell me you'm so good as tokened to Tom Hawkey,"
she said. " Now that's a brave bit of news, if it's true; and if
'tidden, then you must pardon my manners."

" It isn't true," declared Edith. " I'm not engaged to
anybody."

" Well, well — people will be talking — especially when
there's naught to talk about. 'Tis a human failing, my dear.
You can tire out every member of the body but the tongue,
and since it don't want no rest seemingly, no doubt we
was meant to talk. Mister Tom's a very nice man, how-
ever."

" There's lots of interesting things to talk about beside other
people's affairs. Aunt Mercy."

" Of course, my dear; never a truer word, I'm sure. There's
your own affairs to begin with, and Lord He knows they're
interesting enough, with the holiday people gone and the
money spent, and winter staring us in the face. Not that I've
got anything much to grumble about, and shouldn't if I had,
for grumbling don't make you friends in my experience.
How's your family ? All pretty clever, I hope."

" Yes — all well, though father isn't all we'd have him."

" They short-necked men have a good deal to suffer after
middle life," said Aunt Mercy. " 'Twas so with my own
father. A barrel-ribbed chap he was, with too much room in
his breast for his lungs, and his tubes a bit too short. He'd
choke with coughing sometimes of a night, but a visitor gave
him a packet of lozenges, and you might say they added a

* Tootling — weak-witted«

56 OLD DELABOLE

year to his life. They'd go straight to the tubes and clear
'em, like a sweep's brush clears a chimney !"

" I'd very much like to know about them," said Edith.
" They might comfort father."

Aunt Mercy rose, fetched a box, and emptied some pins and
buttons out of it.

" There's the name on the lid," she said. " You can take
it down in wTiting, or I'll give 'e the box if you mind to."

But Edith noted necessary particulars, and did not need
the box.

" Your family oflered a good bit of food for thought in
bygone generations," declared Mrs. Inch. " It's different
now, and 'twas your own father, Wilberforce Retallack, that
changed the luck, so to call it; but when I was young and
knew all about everybody, you could always see, much to
your surprise, that the good Retallacks were always terrible
unfortunate and the bad ones lucky. Time and again the
chapel-goers came to grief through no fault of their own, while
the rash and reckless members got took up by their betters
and made much of. The bad ones was always the best-looking
by the wonderful will of Providence, and your — let's see —
your great-uncle on your father's side — his Uncle Bob — from
being a gamekeeper, married a lady, the only child of his
master."

" Ran away with her," said Edith.

" He did, and though by all the law and the prophets it did
ought to have ended in fearful disasters and the Hand of God,
it didn't. He was forgiven, and so was she, and their stock
goes among the gentlefolk to Bodmm to this day."

" They don't know us, however," said Edith.

" Of course they don't. The parents be gone, and the
childer came into their mother's rank and place. Most women
drop down when they look dowii ; but such was her cleverness
and your great-uncle's charm and modesty that nobody ever
snubbed him much, and his wife held with the bettermost
for all her folly."

" Yes, because her father forgave her and left her all that he
had, which was a great deal," said Edith.

" So the world goes round, my dear. But I was saying that
your fine father is the first proper good Retallack to find his
reward here. 'Tis a great thing to justify the ways of God

TREBARWITH SAND 57

to man, as you'll find in years to come. Of course, it ought to
be our pride and pleasure so to do; but a terrible lot of the
triers don't manage it somehow."

" As to that, my father's got plenty to trouble him,"
declared Edith. " He doesn't put much trust in me — though
seeing the education I've got, he might do so without hurting
himself; but, of course, he tells mother, and they'll often lie
awake till the small hours talking of things that are not
pleasant."

" Nobody do talk of pleasant things in the small hours,"
said Aunt Mercy. " If the mind goes to its rest at peace, it
goes to sleep, and when you hear married folk awake chittering
at two in the morning, you may lay your life they ain't
amusing each other."

" Come to the quarry and have tea with mother next time
you're in Delabole," begged Edith, as she prepared to start
for home. " We were talking of you a day or two since, and
she said that she hadn't seen you this longful time."

" I certainly wiU do so," promised Aunt Mercy; " but not
till this here tempest be tired out. 'Twill blow me to Delabole
like a. leaf, but 'tis the getting home against it — onless I can
count on a lift. I've promised your grandfather a fine
stubble-fed goose for the free lunch, and you might tell him
I ain't forgot it."

Edith ascended the hills and went back through the
gloaming. Now Trevose light flashed through the murk a
ruby red, and the shout of the sea slowly died behind her as
she climbed away from it. The woman was standing to rest
a moment, after mounting the steep road that led from
Trebarwith Coombe, when she fell in with one of the men who
occupied her mind. Thomas Hawkey ajDiDeared on his big
bay horse.

" Just come from Tintagel," he said. " Wish I could give
you a lift; I'd have brought the dogcart if I'd guessed we
were to meet."

" Don't stop," she begged; but he dismounted and walked
beside her.

At that moment had the man been pleased to plead his
cause Edith might have considered it, but he did not. Since
the time when Wilberforce Retallack had hinted that his
daughter's affections were engaged at Newhall Mill, Thomas

68 OLD DELABOLE

had taken the truth of the foreman's statement for granted,
and modified his love-making. Once he thought that Edith
was puzzled by the change in him, and hope dawned again;
then he had asked her to come for a Sunday walk, and she had
replied that she was going by appointment to the Bakes upon
the day he named. Since then he had fought with himself to
abandon the ambition of his life and cease to court her.

" I've been watching the sea," said Edith. " It makes you
feel small and lonely to look at the sea all by yourself."

" I wish I'd " he broke off. " It's a good thing some-
times to size yourself up and clear your mind."

" What were j'ou going to say when you began ?" she asked.

" Nothing that mattered. In fact, I hardly know. A
lonely walk is rather wise sometimes if your lot is thrown in
a big f amity like yours."

'' You're always lonely, I suppose ? Education makes you
lonely if you don't share your life with other peoj)le as clever
as yourself. Even I know that."

" Of course you do. But there's a lot of people in Delabole
can teach me. Books only "

" Oh, don't say obvious things like that ! I'm not a
fool."

He was startled, but did not answer. They walked in
silence for some distance, each waiting for the other to speak
again. Edith's patience exceeded Mr. Hawkey's, and at
length he spoke.

" The free lunch promises to be a great success," he said,
and she was disappomted. She did not guess that her father
had spoken to him ; she still wanted him to be personal, to be
tender, to assume the mood that always drew her ; but he was
indifferent. Not so would Wesley Bake have walked beside
her.

" You shght education," she said, " you slight it now you've
got it; but you don't know all it means, or you might even
slight it more."

" I don't understand that," he said.

" We hide behind education," she explained. " You do —
I do. The people here don't. They can't — they've got to
be themselves. You always know where you are with — with
mieducated people. You never know where you are with
trained minds. I'm just half and half, you see — not perfectly

TREBARWITH SAND 59

educated or perfectly trained; but I've learned enough and
seen enough of educated people to understand the difference.
And, if anything, my sj'mpathy is with the sort I sprang
from. Education hasn't done much for me beyond making
me discontented."

" Don't say that."

" It's true. Educated people make quite as many mistakes
as the other sort — stupid mistakes, too. For instance, they
hide themselves at the wrong times and retreat behind their
education just when they ought to come out into the open
and be themselves. Do you understand that ?"

" Blessed if I do, Edith."

" Then you're duller than I thought."

" I am dull — with you — always."

" Not always. Not — well, yes, on the whole I think you
are. I don't strike the sparks out of you. No doubt it takes
a man to do that — an educated man."

Again he was silent, only dimly feeling the challenge. Then
he gave an inward gasp, forgot Mr. Retallack's warning, and
took up the glove that Edith had thrown down. But it was
too late. In the long minute that elapsed between her last
speech and his next one her whim had changed.

" You're so subtle; but if you mean I'm different with you
— there's a reason."

" I don't want to know it if there is. I'm not at all subtle —
just an everyday girl, who finds life beat her at every turn —
like everybody else. Here's my stile. I'll cut off the corner."

He hesitated. Had he asked her to keep on the road with
him it might have changed the tenor of his life. But he felt
light-headed and giddy at a suspected discovery. He believed
now with all his soul that she was not lost to him; that she
might yet be won. He wanted to be alone, and was actually
glad for the moment that she intended to leave him.

" It will save you a quarter of a mile," he said. " Good-
night, then. I'm more glad than you can tell to have met you,
Edith."

She had grown hot that he consented thus to leave her
without a murmur, and she scarcely heard the latter part of
his remark after the first sentence. A wave of indignation
touched her, and, profoundly ignorant of the emotion in his
heart, her own grew very hard.

60 OLD DELABOLE

She left him without a word, nor did she answer again when
he shouted ' Good-night ' from the dark. Then he mounted,
and she heard him galloi^ away. Hawkey found himself
excited and happier than he had been for two months. The
clouds seemed to be breaking from his sky and letting a gleam
of sunshine through them. It had never occurred to him to
suspect that Wilberforce Retallack was mistaken. Now, in
the light of Edith's enigmatic utterances and a certain petu-
lance that accompanied them, he believed that it might be so.
Therefore he rejoiced while she, all ignorant of how she had
succeeded, and shamefaced that she had even attempted to
waken him, decided with herself and felt this interview provi-
dential.

" The bitter truth is that I like them both so well I don't
love either," she told herself, " for till now it was always the
one who had my ear suited me best. By rights, then, I
shouldn't take either. But now — now that man has shown —
glad to go — glad to get the excuse to leave me ! How heartily
he said ' Good-night !' as if it was a weight off his mind.
Would Wesley have let me save my feet a quarter of a mile ?
Not him ! He'd have picked me up on the horse willy-nilly,
and made me ride pillion, and put his arms round me tight--
for safety. Of course, you wouldn't ask an educated man to
do that, or even think of it, and that's the difiference between
an educated man and an educated maid, I dare say. A man
can't hark back to the common ways when once he's schooled
above 'em: a woman always can — if her heart says it's good
enough."

She decided to wed Wesley Bake.

CHAPTER VIII

SPEECH IN THE DARK

Sometimes when the clironic catarrh from which he suffered
kept Wilberf orce awake at night, and the noise of his coughing
prevented Anna from her sleep, they would fall into conversa-
tion, and though their speech at these times was not always of
a mournful tenor, it happened not seldom in the hours of
lowest vitality that talk ran on painful themes.

There fell such a night, and Anna rated her husband.

" I know you inside out, as a wife ought," she said, " and
very well svu'e am I there's something on your mind, and
if 'tis money you'd better tell me, and by now you ought
to have found out it's always wiser so to do."

" There's two things on my mind," he answered, " and one
you know very well a'ready, and t'other you do not. There's
the thousand to Jane Lobb, and the thought of that don't get
no lighter."

" You do make me wild," she retorted, waking up instantly,
" To see a clever man bemg such a buffle-head, and him your
husband ! 'Tis enough to make angels wild. Didn't Abraham
Lobb say in so many words, and didn't his wife hear him say,
that he remitted and renounced the debt once for all ? He
was your kinsman, and when his own aunt died didn't he
come into five thousand pound — a thing he never dreamed
about ? And then man to man, and quite properly, too,
didn't he feel your thousand was well spent, and say as clear
as man could say that he wouldn't take it back ?"

" That's all true, but look at it. From the time he got his
old aunt's money the luck turned against Abraham Lobb,
and when he died, his wife told me in so many words that he'd
cut \x\^ very different from what she hoped and expected.
When he died 'twas found he'd put his money into Cornish
tin — every stiver — and now tin's down in the depths in more
ways than one, and poor Jane Lobb hasn't got a penny more

Gl

62 OLD DELABOLE

than two pounds a week to bless herself with — and her house,
of course."

" I don't believe it," answered Anna. " She's a thriftless,
silly sort of woman, and having lived in the lap of luxury all
her life, be very put about because things ain't the same now
her husband's dead. Things never are the same when a
husband dies — we women all know that — and if we've got any
sense, we look ahead and face it. If you had more than you
knew what to do with, which a man like you never will have
and never could, I'd be the first to say, ' Give Mrs. Lobb a
thousand pounds and be done with it ' ; but you can't. We've
had an expensive family, and you know the size of your
savings quite so well as I do — perhaps better. The gift was
a plain, honest gift, and there's no obligation whatever and
no call whatever for you to think of the matter again. Tin
or no tin, Jane Lobb is a mighty sight more prosperous than
us. Haven't she just taken into her home that nameless little
boy — reared at St. Tid's Farm ? People don't adopt orphans
if they be short of cash."

" She's an impulsive creature, and she took the little child
for something to do," answered Wilberforce. " She's a woman
all nerves, and seeing the child was homeless and the folk at
St. Tid going to send him to the Union Workhouse, because
the money have stopped and the people interested in him
have gone away, Widow Lobb stepped forward. She's got
no childer of her own, and if she hadn't took him she'd have
kept dogs or cats or birds for company. It don't alter the
fact that she's come down a lot in the world."

" Did she ever name that thousand ?"

" Yes, she did. Not nasty, understand me, but she thinks
that I'm a lot better off than I am, and she just said once
'twas funny her husband doing that and then going straight
into a run of bad luck himself. She said: ' Of course, a
thousand's naught to you nowadays.' "

" Little she knows ! All the same you might have told her
that we ain't no luckier than other people."

" I couldn't do that. If her property was all sold, she'd
come out with three thousand or thereabout, so the lawyer
told her."

" And should we ?" asked Mrs. Retallack.

He did not answer.

SPEECH IN THE DARK 63

((

No — we should not," she continued. " And us with
four childer and her with none. You look at home and
remember the uncertainty of life — that's what you've got to
do. There's no more call to think yourself in her debt than
there is to think yourseK in any other body's debt."

" I've never owed any man a penny — I can say that."

" Well, say it, then, and put the thing out of your mind.
Life's been one long battle for money in this house since I
came into it, and you've spent dollops on other people, one way
and another; and it's time now to get a bit back and begin
saving in earnest. You cast your bread on the waters for
Edith, and gave her more learning than people in our state
of life dream about for their childer, and now she's going to
marry Wesley Bake, I suppose, so that's to the good, and
fair interest showing on your money; and for the others,
it's all clear — the boys, I mean. Julitta's a puzzle and
always have been to both of us."

He granted this, and she smothered a sigh of thankfulness
that she had turned his mind from one needless anxiety.

" She's a puzzle, as you say. Wife-old now and pretty
as a picture — the sort some men set greater store by than
even Edith, so fine and splendid as Edith is. But Julitta's
heart's a stone seemingly. No use for a man, and never will
have."

" 'Tisn't as if she was a mother's right-hand sort of girl
either," argued Anna, " because she idden. She don't take
kindly to woman's work, though she does her part. But it
ain't meat and drink to her. I can't see into her heart, and
never could. She's different from the others, though like
me to the eye."

" A very romantic mind, I beheve," said Julitta's father;
" A great reader, I notice, and very thick with Sarah Sleep
to the paper-shop."

" Story - books be the bane of the rising generation,"
declared Mrs. Retallack. " She knows I hate 'em, and she's
dutiful enough not to flaunt 'em voider my eyes; but she's
got her hiding-places, and she burns two candies for Edith's
one — that I know."

" Grandfather's a thought to blame there. He upholds
her."

" He's a regular old mumphead where JuHtta's concerned.

64 OLD DELABOLE

I was grumbling but yesterday, and saying 'twas time and
more than time she was tokened, and he upheld her, and
argued that freedom's a very fine thing for a spirit like
hers."

"As to being tokened, there's nobody even after her,"
asserted Wilberforce. " There's that about her — Lord knows
what — that chills the men instead of drawing them. Always
bright and civil and smiling, for that matter; but men
have their instincts. They get no forwarder, and they
know they ain't going to. You never hear a man on her
lips."

" Not that I worry now, but I look ahead," declared Anna,
" and I'm pretty sure she's one of the neuter sort, and never
will have no use for a man."

" Such a lovely thing as her, too 1 You don't often see a
real pretty woman unwed."

" Oh j'es, you do, unless you're blind. The world's full of
handsome old maids. I could name a score, I believe."

He was breathing easily now, and she bade him try to
sleep.

" Get off while your chest is clear," she said.

" No, I'm not in a sleeping mood. There's another thing
looming ahead, and it may mean big trouble, too — in the
quarries."

" Trouble in the quarries !"

" This Saturday business. The men are wanted on Saturday
afternoons for two months."

" They'll never do it."

" So I say, and so Nanjulian says, and a good few others
who know them. It's madness to ask them, and they'll make
a proper bawk* about it."

" Is it necessary ?"

" It's desirable, but you can't exactly say necessary.
Some are willing enough. Keat is for it, but even he allows
the danger of asking. They'll think it is being aimed at their
old liberties — just the thin end of the wedge. There'll be an
upstore."

" What does Tom Hawkey say ?"

" I haven't asked him — it's too ticklish. He stands for

* Bawk — Obstacle.

SPEECH IN THE DARK 65

the Company, of course. I wouldn't be in his shoes for a
good bit."

A clock beneath them struck two.

" For the Lord's love go to sleep, or let me," said Anna.
" To-morrow's washing-day. Time enough to face tliis if it
comes. So like as not they'll change their minds — the
Directors, I mean — when Mister Tom shows them the
danger."

" It's only in the air, and I hope it may stop there," con-
cluded Wilberforce. Then he was silent, and his wife soon
slept. But the man pondered his affairs for a long while.
His savings were smaller than his wife knew, and his health
gave him cause for anxiety.

CHAPTER IX

THE FREE LUNCH

Thanks to the energy of Grandfather Nute and the generosity
of the congregation, the Free Lunch of the United Methodists
promised to be a success. Indeed, before the company sat
down, at two o'clock on a Saturday afternoon in the big new
schoolroom of the sect, it was understood that from seven to
eight pounds would be produced for the excellent purpose of
improved ventilation.

About a hundred people came to the feast, and there was
ample for all in the variety provided. An unwnritten law
ordered that the women should have the choicest viands,
though the men and children also partook of them when there
was sufficient.

" A feature of this meal is the geese," said Grandfather,
who presided at one of the two long tables. " I've never seen
such a brave lot of birds on one board before. Six there are,
and there ought to be goose for half of us."

Thomas Hawkey took the second table, while Wilberforce
Retallack, with his family round him, sat at the foot thereof.
Hawkey, as the company settled down, asked Edith if she
would sit beside him, but already her right hand was allotted,
to Wesley Bake, while her brother, Pooley, sat on her left.

With Wesley came his mother, Nancy Bake, and his sister-
in-law, Susan. Her children, Mary and Betty, sat on each
side of her.

Anna Retallack sat beside her husband, with Julitta on
her right; but Edward had deserted his family for the Sleeps.
Philippa sat on one side of him, her Aunt Sarah on the other ;
while John Sleep, the newsvendor, took the end of the table
opposite Grandfather Nute.

Mr. Sleep was one of the leaders of the United Methodists.
He asked a blessing on the banquet before all sat down.
Then rose the din of the feed and steam soon settled heavily

66

THE FREE LUNCH 67

on the glass of the windows. Some chattered and laughed
from the beginning, but few were there to waste their time,
and the feeding proceeded steadily. Antipas Keat controlled
the staff of girls who waited, and with two other men did the
carving. He helped his wife and family very carefully, and
issued directions that the dishes should reach them. He also
set aside a plate of goose for himself, when his turn should
come. Presently tea went round in large cups and ginger-
beer began to pop.

Aunt Mercy Inch from Trebarwith, in a moment of friend-
ship that she afterwards regretted, had taken her place beside
Moses Bunt from the quarries. None desired to sit near
that crusty member, and when Aunt Mercy arrived, some-
what late, the place was vacant.

He grumbled from the beginning because the goose did
not reach him.

" I don't want that belly- vengeance stuff," he said, when
a maiden offered him lemonade. " 'Tis the blot on these
feeds that they idden washed down with something seemly.
We be so frightened of beer in this village as if the devil
brewed it."

"Some people say he do," declared Mrs. Inch; "though
for my part I never see no harm in it along with victuals
It don't make a man tadly-oodly* except on an empty
stomach."

" There's more chapels than pubs in this place," answered
Moses. " 'Tis all very well to put the fear of beer in the
young men; but surely to God when we're up in years we
can be trusted with a pint ? We ban't school-children,"

" How's the tombstone ?" asked Aunt Mercy.

" As for that, I've got un," answered the old man. " Ten
year it have took me to find a piece of slate to my liking;
but now I have, and I'm working on it. Bought, mind you —
they didn't give it to me, though you might think that after
very near fifty years in the quarries they'd make a man
a present of his own gravestone. Not that I'd have took
it if they had. I shall buy my grave, and I've bought the
stone, and now I'm to work on it."

" I lay there'll be some great invention on it," said Mercy,

* Tadly-oodly — tipsy.

68 OLD DELABOLE

glad that her goose was gone, for Moses regarded the plate
moodily.

" It won't be no common words, yon may bet your life,"
he said. " I'm at the Scriptures, and if they fail me I shall
do it out of my own head,"

Grandfather Nute spoke with the foreman, Sidney Nan-
julian, who sat beside him.

" 'Twas very good of you to promise a song, Sidney,"
he said. " For you be among our best in that line. The
piano's round behind the screen, and from the sound Keat's
using it to put dishes upon, which he oughtn't to do."

" Who's going to play the accompaniments ?" asked
Nanjulian. " A good deal depends on that."

" Mv granddaughter, Julitta."

" Can she play ?"

" ' Can she play ' ! To think you didn't know ! Why,
the cleverest at it in Delabole, if you leave out the Vicar's
wife."

" I sang at the Church of England concert for their new
organ," declared the foreman. " I felt sorry they didn't
ring in more people."

" It's a nice question, Sidney. You see, we like to keep
our sixpences for our own chapels; and though I'm sure
we're all wishful for their singing to be as good as ours, yet
you can't expect us to make it a matter of money. The
best items they had didn't come from Delabole, 'tis whispered
— excepting you. And I admire you for being so high-
minded as to sing. Not that I wouldn't have done the

same."

Mary and Betty Bake had never been to a free lunch before.
They ate enormously, and joined in a ripple of merriment
which continually rose from the children scattered among
their elders. But the room was familiar to them, for here
they learned their lessons.

A thought presently depressed Betty, and she stopped in
the middle of a plate of apple-tart and cream.

" It won't look like this on Monday," she said. " If it
always looked like this, I'd never mind lessons; but the
flags and flower-pots in the windows will be gone on Monday,
and the maps will be up on the walls, and the blackboard
and Miss Male out again."

THE FREE LUNCH 69

" Miss Male's here to-day, for that matter," answered
Betty's grandmother. " And a very nice lady too."

Betty glowered up the table.

" She won't look like that on Monday, either. She'll
show her teeth till the gold in 'em glitters on Monday. And
when the gold shows, it's ' look out '!"

" Oh, Betty, how can you ?" cried her sister. It was a
question that Mary often asked.

Anna Retallack's pleasure in the free luncheon was spoiled
owmg to the attitude of her younger son. When she found
that he intended to sit with the Sleejis, her large face grew
red and her eyes clouded. She cast many glances across at
Edward, and little liked the terms on which he and Philippa
appeared to be. But none saw their hands meet under the
table sometimes, or his boot press against her shoe. Ned,
at any rate, looked after his little friend well, and saw that
plates of the choicest courses stopped before her.

Grandfather Nute ate but little. From his presidential
seat he ruled the feast and directed the waiters. Once he
caught the murmur of a subject ill-fitted to the occasion,
and shook his head at Noah Tonkin and Jack Keat, who
sat together. They were discussing the possibility of Satur-
day afternoon work in the quarries and disagreeing on the
subject.

" It's capital and labour in a nutshell," declared Mr. Tonkin,
" and I've always had a very sharp eye on capital, as you
know."

" I wouldn't call it that," argued the other. " Old Delabole
idden like that, and masters and men stand to each other
as friendly folk united in their interests and moved by a
common idea. And that idea is to get all mortal man can
get from the quarries and sell in the best market the world
offers us. Their good's ours and our good's theirs."

" That's the point," replied Tonkin, putting down his
knife and fork. " Is our good theirs 1 And even if it was,
don't you see that work on Saturday afternoon, though it
may mean a few more shillmgs for us and pounds for them,
idden for our good in the long run ? Men as work with
their hands want quite as much rest as them as work with
their brains — more, in fact. Ess fay. Jack Keat, more !
For why ? Because muscle gets weary quicker than brain

70 OLD DELABOLE

and takes longer to build up — especially when you're on in
years. So now, then !"

Mr. Tonkin drank a cup of tea at a draught and watched
Mr. Keat as he did so.

" As to brains, Noah, I've no doubt they wouldn't allow
it for a moment," replied the other; " and, whether or no,
you won't make me believe that four hours' work more or
less is going to make our arms and legs weary out .of reason.
Cornishmen ain't so nice as that. What about your garden
patch ? I lay such a man for herbs as you work quite as
hard with your hands of a Saturday afternoon as we're
working with our jaws and stomachs just now."

" Just so. And what about it ? Who's going to look
after my vegetables if I idden there to do it ? Mind you,
I'm a just man. Jack — never a juster. I don't say nothing
against one Saturday, nor yet two; but it's the principle.
It never was, and therefore it never did ought to be."

Here Grandfather caught Noah Tonkin's eye, as several
others had already caught his voice, for he raised it. Tom
Hawkey was also endeavouring to still Noah, and felt relief
when the subject dropped.

An unusual feature of free luncheons was greeted with
satisfaction by the younger United Methodists, for two
prosperous greengrocers had promised a head of bananas
apiece. Miss Sleep sent a hundred oranges, and certain farmers
were able to supply apples. Thus the dessert formed a great
attraction.

Grandfather Nute was pressed to eat a "banana, but refused.

" I've nothing against them," he explained, " but before
playing the flute my custom is to keep the stomach as empty
as possible. The flute on a full meal amounts to nothing.
That's why I like to play before breakfast, and my family
will tell you that the sound of my flute is often and often
what rouses them of a morning. My daughter and her hus-
band are heavy sleepers, but I'm light as a bird in that matter,
and you'll often hear my flute before the sparrows begin to
twitter. As I always say, for wind music, you want your
wind, and if I'd loaded up with goose and bananas this after-
noon, my playing would have been thin as a lamb's bleat."

Those that heard him praised the self-denying old man;
but some secretly sympathized with his family.

THE FREE LUNCH 71

" You always was a great musicker, and what you do
you do thorough," said Miss Sarah Sleep.

The people were now moving about, and she had heard his
remark.

" And so I was; and when my voice ran up thin, along
of gathering years that pinched the tlu'oat, I took very stead-
fast to the flute. Julitta and me open the programme;
and I dare say, after I've done my little lot, I'll pick a bone
with Antipas Keat behind the screen."

The piano was thrust forth, the tables were cleared and
the concert started.

But nothing of a public nature could begin or end at
Delabole without a solemnity, and before the music Mr.
John Sleep made a few remarks. Others listened critically,
for opinions were divided as to his oratorical powers. Jack
Keat held him to be dull. He never said anything that he
was not expected to say, and this provoked an indifference
that sometimes led to somnolency on a summer morning in
chapel. But he was ' terrible sound ' — even Jack Keat
allowed that. Mr. Keat, however, argued that the essence
of preaching was surprise. The mind must be arrested,
shaken out of itself, disarmed, and so led to God. He per-
mitted himself some extravagance of diction when preaching,
and had a luminous way of j)ressing the passing hour into
his discourses. People never quite knew what old Jack
would say next, and he confessed that he never did himself.
' If I did,' he declared, ' then everybody else would know
too; and when I feel myself gomg too fluent and regular
and like a book, then I pull up. A sermon didn't ought to
be all canter, or all trot, or all gallop, but a clever mixture.'
Mr. Sleep, on the contrary, was classically minded and framed
his addresses on a model that often prompted the young and
giddy to link them with his name.

To-day, however, he spoke but briefly, announced the sum
achieved by the entertainment, and hoped that all were well
filled and well satisfied. He proposed a vote of thanks to
the givers of the feast and to those who were now about to
sing and play ; and he warned the younger members not to
leave the schoolroom until all had sung the hymn destined
to conclude the afternoon's work.

Then Mr. Hawkey seconded the vote of thanks, which

72 OLD DELABOLE

was carried with acclamation, and Grandfather and Julitta
opened the programme of music.

Both were quite collected, and Julitta waited upon the old
man, whose time left much to be desired. He played old
country dance music to the best of his poor powers, and
his eyes goggled and his veins swelled in the course of the
performance.

Mrs. Bake whispered a criticism to Anna Retallack, who
now sat beside her.

" I don't like to see your father doing that. It id den
worthy of him. A very masterly thing m an old man, I grant
you, seeing as he never touched a flute till over fifty; but- "

" I wish he never had touched it," answered Grandfather's
daughter. " His awful energy do bring him out of bed
with the birds, and often sooner. Then he casts loose on that
thing and shatters our morning sleep. The Trump of Doom
won't be no hardship for us, my husband says — not after
father."

" He's a great wonder, and years sit light on him — almost
too grand a sort of man to stand up there like that for a show,"
declared Miss Sleep, who sat on Anna's right; but Mrs.
Retallack knew her weakness in that direction and pursued
the subject in a spirit of warning.

" I'd sooner far have your brother in the house," she
declared. " John Sleep, though a busy and a prayerful
well-doer, would be peace beside my dear father. A very
tiresome man, and an ordinary woman who was called to
do for him would soon find herself worn to the bone and
an invalid for life. Like a running flame in the house, I
do assure you."

" But Wisdom made alive. You've got Wisdom in the
chair so long as he's with you."

Anna smiled. Her answer was lost, for Grandfather had
shot his bolt and his tootling was at an end. The folk
applauded him, and Julitta, turning round on the music-
stool, clapped her hands with the rest. Whereupon the soloist
bowed, smiled, and nodded, shook the moisture from his
flute upon the floor and came down among the people.

Mr, Antipas Keat looked round a corner of the screen
with his mouth full. He beckoned Grandfather, and the
old man disappeared.

THE FREE LUNCH 73

" Now you've got it off your chest, you can let down a bit
of food," said the baker, and Grandfather Nute joined him
in a slice of goose.

The concert progressed, and Thomas Hawkey sang a
sea song in a deep bass voice. He was popular, and Edith
rather liked to hear the applause.

" A pity you don't sing," she said to Wesley Bake, who
sat beside her.

"So 'tis," he admitted; "but the mischief with me is
I can do nothmg but grind corn and ."

"And what?"

" Haunt you."

She laughed.

" You'll soon be tired of that. When you marry, you
should choose a girl who can sing."

" I have."

Hawkey approached them through the applause, and sat
clown on a chair beside Edith. But he noticed that her
animation ceased on his arrival, and Wesley fell silent.

" An old song," he said. " Your sister's wonderfully clever
at music-reading. Not a note wrong."

" She can read anything, she "

" Order !" cried a snappy voice; " order for Moyse, if you
please !"

It was Moses Bunt who had silenced Edith and Mr. Hawkey.
They subsided and Moses triumphed. He had but one
friend in the world — a man of like outlook upon life; but
Benny Moyse was younger than IVIr. Bunt, and he had music
to lessen his asperity and support him against an unfortu-
nate marriage. Bemiy played the English concertina, and
now gave an exceedingly long solo on that depressing
instrument.

Grandfather Nute, who soon returned, listened critically
and contributed to the applause that awaited the stolid
and gloomy Moyse when he had done.

" A very fine accomplishment, Benny," said Grandfather,
"and a very clever touch; but it wants tuning. There's
some flat notes in and out — half a score, if my ear don't
deceive me — and they fall on the trained ear something
cruel and spoil all."

Mr. Moyse, or ' Mr. Parsons,' for he was called indiscrim-

74 OLD DELABOLE

inately by the names of his parents, though 'his wife regarded
herself as Mrs. Moyse, nodded and granted that the con-
certina was out of tune.

" My ear have got to allow for her. I know what's coming,
and if you expect it, it don't hurt; but doubtless to you she
came as an ugly surprise now and again. If ever I can run
to it, I'll have her tuned."

Then Sidney Nanjulian sang a love song of the most senti-
mental character to be imagined. There was some whispering
between him and Julitta over the music score, and he con-
fessed it a very difficult achievement both for himself and
for her; but she showed no lack of confidence, and acquitted
herself with the utmost credit.

Nanjulian could sing well, and his tenor was a feature of
the United Methodists' choir. He won an encore now, and
then he sang a patriotic piece of his OAvn composition, entitled,
' One and All.' It was well known and always gave plea'fem'e.
Whence the air came none knew, but most people credited
Sidney with that as well as the words. He stood up by the
piano, tall and flashing-eyed, with dark, thick hair and long,
thin hands. It seemed absurd to imagine him as the foreman
of a quarry, for he looked an artist, and nothing but an artist,
to his finger-tips. Indeed, at heart he was an artist, yet
knew it not, nor understood the emotions which often filled
his fierce bosom and poured from it into another and
gentler breast. Art in him took the form of adventure, and
he desired for its expression secrets and mysteries and an
existence whose sweetest moments were hidden from all eyes
save two — as dark and flashing as his own.

It rejoiced him in that assemblage to think that he was
singing to one pair of precious ears and pouring out his heart
for the joy of one fellow-creature. While he sang ' One
and All ' he thought of one alone — his own, his very own ;
and nobody knew it but herself. His secret exalted Mr.
Nanjulian in his own eyes. He felt that he moved on a
higher plane than the people, breathed loftier and rarer
air, had risen to heights of love and romance beyond the
imagination of ordinary men and women. But he was gentle
with them and did not blame them for lacking his finer feelings
and inspirations. He was at peace with the world, and
exceedingly thankful to Providence that within the restricted

THE FREE LUNCH 75

limits of Delabole he had found a nature which could not
only share his flights, but itself soar to altitudes where only
he was able to follow. This secret possession had done
a great deal to improve Mr. Nanjulian. The joy of finding
a kindred spirit had sweetened his spirit and improved his
manners. Of old he had been somewhat austere and con-
ducted his department of the quarries with severity; but
during the last six months an increased sympathy and
geniality appeared — to the satisfaction of those over whom
he was set in authority.

A few more items completed the concert, and a general
restlessness indicated that the people had now received their
fill of entertainment and wanted to go home. Men, evading
Grandfather Nute's eye, slipped out, and mothers departed
with their children ; but a fair crowd remained for the hymn
with which the entertainment ended. It was a popular item
froni the United Methodists' hymn-book, and most of the
singers knew it by rote.

CHAPTER X

LOVE AMONG THE TOMBSTONES

St. Teath is a cheerful village of neat houses in rows and
clusters. Many of the cots have little gardens before them,
wherein grow fuchsias and yellow jasmines, roses and holly-
hocks, with world-old herbs — balm and marjoram, tarragon
and sorrel. In the midst, among good trees, for St. Teath
lies in a dimple of the hills, and is protected from the west,
there stands the stout, grey church with a golden weather-
cock perched on the northern turret of the tower. The
dead have called for more room than the original burying-
ground could furnish. On either side of the highway they
now repose, and the later cemetorium has a lofty Cornish
cross to mark the portal. The original churchyard is a
place of many slates, some upright and some aslant, some
covering flat tombs of crumbling brick, wherein little ferns
have found a dwelling. But those to whom are granted
no memorials far outnumber the recorded dead, and rest
as well beneath the trampled herbage. The homes of the
living cluster about the sleepers and ring them round. Close
to the lich-gate the ' White Hart ' inn offers its smart face
to the sun and the main street stretches ; while round the village
spread farmlands, larger dwellings and homesteads, with a
schoolhouse that looks too great for such a little thorp.

One Sunday morning, when the catkins on the willows
were swelling silvery, Edith Retallack walked here beside
Weslej^ Bake. From within the church there came organ
music and the singing of psalms; while across the way from
a Wesleyan chapel other melody ascended; but the man and
woman played truant from all worship save that of each other.
The hour had struck, and they knew it. Edith accepted an
invitation to dinner at Newhall Mill and had arrived early
by appointment. She had then started with Wesley for the

76

LOVE AMONG THE TOMBSTONES 77

United Methodist service at St. Teath; but when they arrived,
he had persuaded her to stop out of doors instead. Now
they roamed through the churchyard together, and he was
showing her the graves of his yeoman ancestors. First,
from his mother, he laid a Httle bunch of lenten Klies on his
brother's tomb, and they regarded pensively the recent
slate that marked it.

" Cut off in his prime," said Wesley. " A kind chap,
though difficult. None of us ever could understand him.
We all loved him, you know— sometimes. He's learning
now what he couldn't learn here."

" Who wrote the verse ?" she asked.

' Sidney Nanjulian at the quarry. He's got a very clever
touch at such things — quite the poet, you might sa5^"

She nodded, and scanned the simple lines :

" Just in the flower of my age
I was called off this mortal stage,
And I pray that my God will bless
The widow and fatherless."

" Be sure He will," said Edith. " I should think Susan
will marry again, such a comely woman."

" I don't think so. She says she loves him a lot more
than when he was alive. You can't marry a man if you love
another man — even though the man j^ou love is dead —
so Susan says."

" A big question, Wesley. Some couldn't, of course."

" You couldn't, I'll warrant."

" The wish on the grave will hold for Mary, that's certain.
I never saw such a good, sensible little girl as she is. Betty's
different — more her father in her. I always feel that Mary
and Betty are like Julitta and me. I'm quite solid and
sensible and straightforward, like Mary — the dull, good
sort — the sort that parents say have never given them one
troubled moment. But Julitta and Betty — I don't know
how to put it : they feel more, and they fight more, and there's
more of them hidden. Nobody understands them — no
woman at least. It takes a man to understand that sort;
and if they find the right man they're lucky; generally they
don't. But often they think they have, only to find they're

78 OLD DELABOLE

mistaken. It has got to be a clever man and a man with
patience in him and understanding in him, and, above all,
fun in him. Women haven't much fun in them as a rule,
but if a man hasn't, he can never manage them — at least, not
the Julitta sort."

Wesley did not in the least desire to discuss Julitta.

" What a wonder you are for reading character," he said.
" Now, I can't do that. I take people at their own valuation,
until something happens to prove me wrong."

" You judge others by yourself, and that lands many an
honest man in a mess," she declared.

" The rogues have the pull of us there," he admitted.
" A rogue's a better judge of character than a man like me,
and he can trust an honest man to be honest. When a rogue
wants his chestnuts pulled out of the fire, he seeks an honest
man, if he can. Not that there's much virtue in honesty.
You must be honest — if you've got a conscience."

She remembered that speech long afterwards.

" Julitta puzzles even mother, who knows us pretty well.
We often talk about her, and wonder how such a lovely thing
should have a stone for a heart. Nature's done everything
she could, and then forgotten her heart altogether. Men
are less than dust under her feet to her."

" Leave her," he said. " I want — now — before the people
come out of church "

" Let me look at the famous stone — the old one to Robert
Bake. To show you the cleverness of Julitta, I'll tell you
something about it that nobody has ever guessed but
her."

They sought an oblong and ancient slate fastened upon
the outer wall of the church. It stood at the North side
of the East end, and, though it dated from January in the
year 1686, the lettering was still clear and sharp, and the
legend easy to be deciphered.

" A rare good stone," said Wesley. " Never a better
came out of Delabole quarries, you may be siure. The Bakes
were the masters there in those days, and this man dropped
when James the Second was King. There was another hero
centuries later, who lies at Lanteglos, and his slate tells of
him that he bore the character of an honest man. 'Twas

LOVE AMONG THE TOMBSTONES 79

he who gave John Wesley slate and stone from the quarry,
and forty pounds from his pm-se to build the first Methodist
chapel in Delabole — that nigh the quarries at Pengelly.
He was Church of England himself, but held such a man as
Wesley could do no wrong; and for that matter, Wesley
was Church of England too, and would have been a good bit
put about if anybody had shown him the future drift of
his work."

" Read the verse and I'll tell you what Julitta foimd,"
said Edith.

He obeyed, and recited the following rhyme:

"But . what . cheerup . altho . oure . sonne , begone ,
Altho . his . body . must . be . racke . and . toren .
With . filthy . bitter . bitinge . worms . of . dust .
And . be . consumed . as . all . oure . bodies . must .
Yet . still . cheerup . comforte . youre-selves . in . this .
The . the . bodiy , died . the . soule . emmortal . is .
And . now . in . heaven . most . joyfully . shall . singe .
O . grave . where, is . thy . strength . death . where . is .

thy . victory .
And . so . shall . reign . in . immortallite .
With . God . above . for . all . eternytie."

" I used to shake like a leaf when I was a little lad and
read about the worms," said Wesley, laughing, " and it
ain't pleasant reading even now."

She agreed with him, and he asked what Julitta had dis-
covered.

" A bad rhyme and the right one," explained Edith. " In
the last line but two, you may be sure the poet didn't write
' victory,' because he had to rhyme with ' singe ' in the line
before. But the stonecutter had the Bible in his mind,
and so got mixed up, and put down ' victory,' and couldn't
alter it afterwards."

" The cleverness ! Fancy Julitta noting that."

" It should be ' sting,' " declared Edith.

He applauded, and they examined the slate.

" More than two hundred years old, and good for another
two hundred, I should say," prophesied Wesley.

They strolled in the churchyard a little longer, and turned
to the graves of those they had known. Then, after a silence,
the man braced himself and spoke.

80 OLD DELABOLE

" All the same, I didn't come here about the dead. I came
about the living — you and me, in fact. What's the good of
hanging round it ? Come on home, Edith. I can't say what
I want to say hero. It wouldn't be lucky."

" I know what you want to say. I've heard it already.
Say it agam."

" Sit here for a minute, then. They're at the sermon now."

There was an old crumbling tomb in the sun, and a prim-
rose had opened beside it. Wesley picked the flower and
gave it to Edith. Then he came close to her. Her hands
were in her lap, and she looked straight before her and sat
stiff and motionless as a graven thing.

" You know, you know; of course you know, you lovely,
glorious Edith. For Christ's sake marry me. I can't go
on much longer without you. You're everything in the world
to me. The thought of you and the hope and the longing —
they run tlu^ough every hour of the day — and the night too.
Properly terrifying it is, Edith. Life's a sort of dream, and
you're the only real thing in it. Naught else matters ; naught
else is real. Not the people, nor my work, nor my prayers,
nor nothing All a mist, and God knows how I keep going
and treat life as if it was real. I can't do it much longer —
it's fire one minute and ice the next — fire and ice trickling
through my veins instead of blood. It's like as if I was mad,
I believe — one throb from head to foot. Oh, Edith, you
wonderful, blessed thing — come and be my Edith for ever
and ever. Little to offer — little to offer but love; but
oceans of that, Edith."

He stopped, for she had turned and was looking straight
into his face. His words had served a greater purpose than
he dreamed.

" I've wondered if I loved you, Wesley," she said; " I've
wondered ever since I knew you loved me. But I don't won-
der any more. You're greater far than me, you humble
man. But you'll have your love back with interest — if
that's anything."

" ' Anything !' — by God, it's everything ! The love of
you and me will shake the solid earth !"

He leapt up panting and she rose also. Then, standing
together, he put his arms round her, not fiercely, but gently,

LOVE AMONG THE TOMBSTONES 81

wonderingly. Neither was their first kiss a flame between
them, but a slow, solemn rite. She loved his reverence.
" Beautiful Wesley," she said, " how well you understand !"
" Come," he answered. " I can't talk no more for a bit.
'Tis almost too great a thing to happen to a man."

They went away quietly together, and passed through
the deep, empty lanes that led up the valley to Newhall.
For a long time neither spoke; then Edith broke the
silence.

" It has brought the spring nearer for me," she said.
" And the summer for me. I can't believe it yet. To
think how I went out of doors this morning, and how I came
home again ! A lonely wretch torn with all manner of doubts
and fears— and now never lonely no more — married — married
to the woman of all women in the world."
She smiled.

" How clever you are at words to-day ! And they're
true ones. I married you when I kissed you, my own dear
man."

They walked hand in hand. Then came Moses Bunt

in his broadcloth, tramping down to St. Teath alone. He

gave them the slightest nod, but did not answer their greeting.

" Sorry we met him," said Wesley. " I'd sooner have

met a pleasanter creature for the first after the great change."

" He reminds us that life isn't all love."

" Please God it will be for us — warmed through and through

I'd have it."

" How glad they'll be. Especially father. He thinks
the wide world of you. He wants to put his affairs in your
hands. The boys are too young."

" I'll gladly pleasure him in that matter."
" The Retallacks are not a long-lived folk, you know."
" Don't say that, Edith !"

" The men, I mean. Father always feels he's going to
drop out in a few years, and he'd be glad If you promised to
look after things and wind up his affairs for mother when
he is gone. It sounds brutal even to think of such a thing
on such a day."

"I'll gladly pleasure him," repeated Wesley; "and for
that matter I want to pleasure you all. I'm sure Grandfather

82 • OLD DELABOLE

Nute and j^our mother will never forgive me for taking you
out of the home nest."

" Oh yes, they will," she answered. " It's rather a tight
fit is the home nest, as you call it ; and though they'll miss
rii}'' company, they'll value my room."

" You won't be far off. 1 shall do the Mill up from top
to bottom for you, Edith."

She laughed.

" That's the last thing I'd wish. You'll find me very well
content if I can get on with your mother and Susan and the
little girls. Mary likes me, but Betty does not."

" What nonsense !"

" No ; she likes Julitta. You'll find she'll be very much
annoyed at this news."

Wesley laughed; then nigh the stream they came in sight
of Newhall, and Edith stood still a moment.

" My new home !" she said.

" A poor little palace for such a queen as you."

" 'Tis the queen makes the palace, not the palace the
queen, dear heart. A happy home is always a palace, I
reckon."

His eyes burned as he looked at her, and they went in
together.

Their news was not delayed, and both received the affec-
tionate kisses of Wesley's mother. As for Susan, she hid
her heart and prepared to say ' good-bye ' to Newhall ; while
her children took it as Edith had foretold. Mary rejoiced,
Betty showed no pleasure whatever.

When the dinner was eaten, and the betrothed had departed
to bring theii- mighty news to Edith's folk, the man's mother
and her daughter-in-law discussed the situation.

Nancy Bake viewed the engagement happily. She even
showed a spark of imagination.

" Mark me, their childer will be so red as squirrels," she
said; " and there'll be a proper crowd of 'em."

" I must go in service, I reckon," answered the other.

" Don't you meet trouble half-way, however. There's
plenty of time to think about you."

There was a secret spot whither Betty was wont to with-
draw and enjoy her own company. It stood nigh the mill-
pond, and she had woven boughs and brought dead fern

LOVE AMONG THE TOMBSTONES 83

and made herself a ' cubby hole,' as she called it. Here
now she knelt alone and prayed aloud.

" Oh, dear Lord," she said, " please change Uncle Wesley's
mind and make him marry dear Julitta, because it would
be ever so much nicer for me. I have not asked for many
things, dear Lord, but I do hope you will do this, for Jesua
Christ's sake, Amen."

CHAPTER XI

THE MEETING

Thomas Hawkey had found life comi^licated at a critical
moment. While his private affairs and the prospect and
hope of all his future demanded grave attention, unfortu-
nate chance thrust uj)on him other considerations. He
pensively regretted the circumstance, and even felt mildly
amused at the irony of events that had delayed their fruition
until the most inopportune moment. But love was a per-
sonal matter ; the passing discontents in the quarry belonged
to his duty, and had to be set first. They meant certain
interviews and discussions and a considerable demand upon
his time and thought. Incidentally his business thrust
between him and Edith Retallack. He had seen very little
of her since their meeting in the twilight above Trebarwith
Combe, and she had found it impossible to make any appoint
ment when he proposed one. But on the morning after
her definite engagement to Wesley Bake the manager saw
a few clear hours ahead, when his presence would not be de-
manded at the quarries or elsewhere, and since a stroll
represented the ordinary means of private communion betAveen
men and maids at Delabole, he proceeded now during the
dinner-hour to Quarry Cottage, that he might engage Edith
in a moment's conversation and beg her to walk with him
on the following Thursday afternoon.

The day was Tuesday of the week of Edith's betrothal, and
as yet the great news had not reached Tom Hawkey's ears.

But he did not arrive at her home, for on the slant path
that descended to it he met the girl herself. Therefore he
turned and walked beside her.

" Well met," he said. " I was just coming with a petition.
Do say you're disengaged on Thursday and will give me the
delight of a little walk. Or we'll drive if you'd rather.
Let me drive you to Brown Willy, and Ave'll have tea there.

84

THE MEETING 85

I've been wanting to see you badly, but life's come between.
There's a good deal on my mind just now."

She was concerned to find him ignorant of her great news.
Yet there flitted through her thoughts that whatever his desire
towards her, he had set other things above it. He said
that 'life had come between.' Therefore she felt no par-
ticular regret for him now, though his request told her that
his purpose was unchanged.

" I'm so sorry. Perhaps another time if — if You

don't know ?"

"Know what?"

" I'm engaged to marry Wesley Bake."

He stood still, and after a long pause, she heard him give
a deep expiration. Then he passed his hand over his eyes
and held it there a moment.

"This rather staggers me, you know; and yet — your
father told me it might happen. But when "

He stopped, and she did not speak.

" I give you joy — I hope you'll be a gloriously happy
woman, Edith."

" Thank you, Tom; I'm sure you do."

He had nothing more to say, nor had she.

They ascended side by side, then stood a moment at
the top.

" I'm sure everybody will be very glad."

" Yes; my family and his are pleased about it."

" You're going to Newhall this minute, I expect ?"

" Yes, I am."

It seemed a hundred years now since he had met her. He
forgot what he had said three minutes before and repeated
it word for word.

" I give you joy — I hope you'll be a gloriously happy
woman, Edith."

The words woke a memory, and he wondered where he
had heard them.

" I'm sure you do. I'll go this way by the path over
the mound."

"Yes, do; it's shorter. It cuts of! a quarter of a mile,
I should think."

" Good-bye."

" Good-bye; God bless you."

86 OLD DELABOLE

She was moved and turned her back on him, while he stood
and watched her walk away. When she knew that she was
out of sight Edith drew out a handkerchief and wiped her
wet eyes ; while he still stood looking at. the spot where she
had disappeared. Presently he came to himself, and strolled
back upon the tram-lines. The works were silent and
deserted during the dinner-hour. A few engine-men sat by
their machinery eating their lunches, and here and there in
the sheds a man or two was doing the same; but unusually
few appeared; and, proceeding to the pappot-head. Hawkey
found the reason. He was not thinking of the quarries now, or
the problems for the moment thrown upward by passage of
events. His mind had fallen in upon itself, and he faced the
ruin of the great fabric that hope had builded there. A
certain quality of his mind, to hold as of minor importance
affairs directly affecting himself, had ever driven this dream
into the background; but of late, fired by the meeting on
the cliffs, forgetting how long ago it was, and still stimulated
by something in Edith's attitude to life on that distant
occasion, he had been very busy, and even sanguine that his
ambjtions did not swell in vain. He perceived his mistake,
and the revelation was bitter. He considered whether he
was himself to blame for this crushing tribulation; and he
decided that he was. Doubtless Edith had in reality said
nothing which, rightly translated, meant that she still felt
more than friendship for him. Drearily he recalled the inci-
dents of that conversation, and as he did so in the light of
his present knowledge he felt puzzled.

Certainly she had shown indecision and a measure of dis-
satisfaction with life. She had said that it beat her at every
turn. Then words kept ringing in his ears : ' It cuts off a
quarter of a mile ! You save a quarter of a mile.' When
had he told her that ? Was it just now, or on the occasion

of the previous meeting ? She had left him at a stile — she

He turned it over and remembered. He and his horse kept
the road and she went by the fields. And now he had used
those words again, a few moments before. The futile coinci-
dence held his thoughts. He found himself turning it over,
as though there were something in it. Then, impatiently,
he shook his mind free.

Unexpected voices fell on his ear nigh the pappot-head,

THE MEETING 87

and to his astonishment he found that a hundred men and
more were holding a meeting in a large, disused building
which stood here. It had been a trimming and sawing
house ; but now a new shop had taken its place, and the older
erection was waiting to come down. As he passed. Hawkey
saw through the entrance, where tram-lines ran into the
place, that the men were grouped about an old saw-table
and that Benny Moyse stood perched upon it.

Fearful that they might suppose he was eavesdropping,
the manager hastened away unobserved. Indeed, the
quarry men were much too interested in their subject to
bestow thought on him at that moment. Manj^ had sacrificed
their dinner to be present, and the sense of the meeting
was clearly with the speaker. Beneath Benny's feet was
a great iron saw-table with a rusty Hunter's saw rising in
the midst. Its steel teeth, like screws, set round the wheel,
were broken and yellow. Light fell through a glass roof
overhead, and on the beams and broken white-washed glass
were many names and initials written there by generations
of vanished hill-men and dressers. It had been a pastime
of old to climb the beams and leave a sign aloft, and now
elderly quarrymen, their days of activity ended, could point
to past evidence of it above theix heads. Ribald inscriptions
were scrawled there also, beyond the reach of any Puritan
to efface.

Bemiy was all against the proposed work on Saturday
afternoon, and he had just invited his hearers to pass a
vote and chronicle their agreement with his opinions.

" It's the thin end of the wedge, neighbours," he declared.
" I don't say there's any harm in it in itself, but we be a part
of the great whole of Labour, and the Directors be a part of
the great whole of Capital. I'm speaking now in a very
large spirit that reaches far out beyond Delabole to the mines
and railways and manufacturing districts; and though you
might think that was going too far "

" I do, Benny — I say it's going much too far," interrupted
Jack Kcat.

" And I sa}' it ain't going a rap too far," vowed Noah
Tonkin.

" Hear me, and then you'll have your turn," answered
Mr. Moyse. " I say we're all members of one body, same as

88 OLD DELABOLE

we're all members of one Christ in the spirit ; and that body
is Labour, And if we be commanded to work on Saturday
afternoon, it's no good telling us that we've got to do it for
special reasons, and shall benefit in our way just as much
as the Company will benefit in its way. It's no good telling
us that; because we don't want to benefit in that way,"
" I do," said Jack Keat. " And a lot of the older generation

do. What I say "

Mr. Keat was shouted down.

" You'll have your turn. Jack," snapped Mr. Bunt. " Why
the hell do you keep throwing the man out of his stride ?"
" It's for the meeting," explained Mr. Moyse. " If they
don't want to listen to me, I've done. I only say that
we're out for a principle, if you know what I mean. To
work of a Saturday afternoon is against our principles and
our practice, and I say we must tell the Company that in
a firm and proper spirit. I've nothing to say against them
for asking us to do so. But I say we oughtn't to do so;
because if you give Capital an inch, it will take a foot afore
you can look round. Let there be no feeling and naught
unpleasant to it; but let us just tell Mister Tom that we
shan't see our way if axed to do it. And then, in my opinion,
we shan't hear no more about it."

Benny was applauded. He descended from the saw-table,
and, before silence had fallen, Mr. Keat mounted the rostrum
and began to argue for obedience. He spoke temperately
and to the purpose; but the meeting would not be influenced.
The men fired countless objections at his argument, and
refused to admit that any compromise could be made which
must not leave open the way to a future attack on their
liberties. Perfect good-temper marked the moment. They
approached the problem without heat or animus. None but
spoke with friendship and understanding of the management
and personal goodwill to the manager; but upon the crucial
point the majority inclined to the opinion of Tonkin and
Moyse. Tonkin, indeed, addressed them after Jack Keat
had done. Then, since ten minutes only remained before
the hooters shouted to work, a vote was taken, and a very
large majority decided that Saturday afternoon must be held
sacred. The tyranny of custom unconsciously ruled them.
They granted that nothing but personal advantage would

THE MEETING 89

accrue to those who fell in with the coming requirements;
but for the most part the}^ were disposed against it, animated
by a fear that acquiescence in this matter, if only for a week
or two of special stress, was certain to establish a precedent
and cripple them against possible subsequent demands.
So they passed the vote and, with fun and jesting, returned
to their labours at the appointed time.

An hour later Wilberforce Retallack visited Tom Hawkey
at his office and gave him every particular of the meeting
and the decision to which it had come. He had learned the
facts from Mr. Keat.

CHAPTER XII

THE POINT OF VIEW

The issue of the trifling difference between employer and
emploj^ed was interesting for several reasons. First, it
threw a benignant light on the relations obtaining between
them, and showed that a foundation existed which no trans-
itory opposition of ideals could destroy; in the second place,
it illuminated character. The dispute was fought out in
a laudable spirit. Neither side imported acrimony or bitter-
ness into it; both displayed a tolerance rarely manifested
at such collisions.

In Retallack's cottage talk drifted to the matter, and his
mind fairly represented the minds of most quarry men.

" Be it as 'twill," he said, " there's little to pull long faces
about, as a few here and there are doing. Good- temper's
the vital thing, and so long as man and master keeps his
temper, you'll seldom find the way out barred. There's
no go-between here, unless you can say Mister Tom's the
go-between; but he's got the confidence of both sides —
that's the point. In the big disputes j^ou'll seldom find that.
The men's representatives — professional fighters — come in
from outside to voice them; and the masters' representatives,
when they consent to have representatives, are chosen because
they stand for the interests of capital. It's the secret of half
these bitter, long-drawn-out rows, that masters don't meet
men, but only middlemen meet middlemen."

" This is the biggest thing Mister Tom has had to do," said
Grandfather; " and such is my belief in him and the Power
that leads him, that I view the result without a pinch of fear."

Edith was practical. For subtle reasons she felt a little
jealous that Tom Hawkey was bulking so large in the eyes
of Delabole. She wished — or would have done so if she
could have formulated her self-conscious thought — that
it was Wesley Bake, rather than the other man, who now
challenged attention.

90

THE POINT OF VIEW 91

((

It's no good being vague like that, Grandfather," she
said. " There's a difference of opinion about facts, and I
don't see how Tom can do such wonders as you all seem to
think. He's cleverness made alive, as we all know; but —
why, you yourself, Grandfather — suppose it was you ? How
could you reconcile such a flat difference of opinion as to
whether they're going to work next Saturday afternoon,
or whether they're not ? And if you couldn't, with all your
knowledge and experience, or if father couldn't, how can he ?"

" The final answer lies with the men, of course," replied
Grandfather Nute; " but it's the spirit that they'll find them-
selves in when they've got to decide — that's the point. And
Mister Tom will inspire that spirit in a sort of way. That's
where his nature is ahead of mine, or your father's."

" It's not his nature at all," declared Edith. " It's his
education. He's no stronger than you, or father, or Wesley
Bake, for that matter. He's been brought up differently
and taught to look all round a thing."

" And sometimes these people who look all round a thing
only end where they started," said Anna Retallack. " I don't
see what he'll do."

" He'll keep both sides in the best of spkits and temper,
at any rate," prophesied Grandfather. " That's half the
battle — to call it a battle. But battle it ain't."

They agreed with him, save Edith. She stood for the men
against the masters and declared that Hawkey did not.

" He can't," she said. " He'd like to, but in this case
he has no choice. He represents the Du-ectors."

" And so does everybody," declared Wilberforce Retallack.
" That's the fine thing about it. There's never been any
class-feeling here. We stand for their good and they stand
for ours, and we all stand for Old Delabole. And is a differ-
ence of opinion going to break down a spirit of friendship
like that ? Is our Cornish motto of ' One and All ' going
to fail us because a question's got two sides ? Old Delabole
is the point we've got to think on — men and masters alike —
and for my part I'm astonished we've found ourselves in
two minds. For the good of the quarries, which is the good
of the place, we must do some work of a Saturday afternoon
now and again. The trade demands it. Then whore's the
argument against ? It's life.

}5

92 OLD DELABOLE

" That's right," declared Grandfather Nute. " Life's all
a question of not being frightened ; so's death for that matter.
There's no sting to either for the man who keeps his head.
We've got to keep our heads; and I've too much respect for
us to think we'll do anything different."

" It sounds ail right," said Edith; " but they won't work on
Saturday afternoon. A man's self-respect is a bigger thing
than the welfare of the place he lives in."

" It ain't bigger than the welfare of his wife and children,
though," answered her father.

" Yes, it is — all strikes show that. The women and children
are the first to go to the wall."

"Exactly," declared Anna. "And that's where the
pinch will come in. And the wives are on their men's side.
Nobody likes being asked to do what he's never done before.
It's lengthening the working hours — that's what it is — call
it by any name j^ou Uke; and labour will always fight that."

" You take too small a view," replied her husband. " You
women always look at a question through a microscope.
That shows you one little bit of the problem out of all propor-
tion to the rest, and you think that's all there is to it."

Pooley spoke.

" They prayed about it — to be shown right — at the Primi-
tives last Sunday," he said; " and so ought we to have."

" Not a case for that," declared Grandfather Nute. " Where
there's doubt, then pray for light; but God gave us our reason
to use, and most of the things that come into life are for the
reason to tackle. We don't take magistrates' cases to the
High Courts of the land, or to Parliament; and we oughtn't
to go to God unless the wits He's given us are too small for
the problem He's set us."

Thus the women were left on the side of the men, and the
men on the side of the masters. Mrs. Retallack had indeed
regarded the question as an abstract one; but Edith, though
she would have denied it indignantly, was perhaps a little
disposed for unconscious reasons to take the opposite side
from Tom Hawkey. But, in common with the rest, she was
quite ignorant of the manager's real attitude, opinions, and
intentions.

They presently appeared, for, two days before the expected
order, notices were posted in the quarries that work would

THE POINT OF VIEW 93

be continued on the afternoon of Saturdays during the next
six weeks. The announcement was courteous and not
peremptory. It gave ample reasons for the demand and
recorded the fact that it was not the creation of a precedent,
but a temporary measure to meet trade requirements.

The men held another meeting after hours, but the con-
clusions arrived at were not divulged until Saturday came.
Then, at noon the hooters whistled for the dinner-hour, and
at one o'clock they whistled the men back to work again.
But the men did not come. About fifty or sixty appeared,
but no more. The number was not sufficient to proceed with
any useful work, and Hawkey sent them home after noting
their names.

Then he returned to the office, where the managing dii-ector
awaited him. There came also Wilberforce Retallack,
Sidney Nanjulian, and Jack Keat. Hawkey sought some
representative of the men for this informal conference; but
not one was in the works.

" Everybody's in his garden this afternoon," said Nan-
julian. " They've all suddenly found plenty to do there.
In fact a lot of 'em told me the end of the world would come
if they didn't work among their cabbage-stumps to-day."

He was indignant with the men, and so was Retallack.
The managing director, an old soldier, declared disappointment
and surprise at the line taken; only Tom Hawkey appeared
to estimate the situation at its exact value. He frankly
sympathized with the men.

" I'm sorry that Tonkin, and another here and there, who
ought to have understood, did not do so," he said; " but to
expect the men to understand was not reasonable. This
place has been run on such close and friendly terms between
us and you, that after a generation or two has passed the
tradition becomes settled. It was just as much a part of the
basis on which we live, and just as much to be taken for
granted, as sunrise. But when the old tradition had to be
broken and unheard-of demands made, a staff that's never
had to think about the relations of capital and labour is
shook up and startled into anger and dismay. Now, as they
can't grasp the situation all in a minute, you'll have to be
patient and help them to see it from another point of
view."

94 OLD DELABOLE

" It's such a bore — all these hands " began Major Pol-
warn, and then he stopped. He was a kindly man, but lacked
imagination and loved metaphysics.

Hawkey uttered a short laugh.

" So it is, Major, when what we thought were merely hands
turn into bodies — when what we thought was a machine
drops to pieces and turns into men just like ourselves — yes;
it's a bore."

" Not like ourselves, Mister Tom," corrected Jack Keat;
" they haven't got our reason."

" Nor yet our power of synthesis and many-sided vision,"
said the Major. " They only see their liberties threatened,
and don't perceive that we must often step back in order
to jump forward."

" To step back into the pit on Saturday afternoon will
help us to jump forward, no doubt, Major; but the difficulty
is to make them see that it will help them too."

" It does directly, in the shape of money. It is for you
to explain to them that, as a matter of fact, they are the
first solid gainers," declared the soldier.

" You undervalue them," answered Hawkey. " They
take a very high hand where money's concerned. The rich
can't believe there's anything lies out of range of a silver
bullet; but it isn't so. We North Cornwall folk are very
independent. We've got what money can't buy, and so
we don't put a false value on money, like the rich. Money
makes a man material — that's the curse of it. So the rich
are subdued by their riches and worship them. Probably
money really can buy all that most rich men want, because
it's ruined their higher senses and made them cease to care
for the things it can't buy."

" An interesting argument, and there's something in it,"
admitted the soldier. " But for the moment it is beside the
question. You must ask them to listen to you. Hawkey."

" They won't listen," said Jack Keat. " I've proved that.
The mob has got hands and legs and throats, but no ears.
And so I told 'em."

" That wasn't the way to make 'em listen. Jack," answered
Retallack. " The mob's got a stomach anywaj^, and you
can always make a man's belly hear, however deaf his head
may be."

THE POINT OF VIEW 95

" I hope they will listen, I do indeed," said Major Polwarn.
" I never guessed that our discipline hung on a thread, so
to speak. The point is what to do about it. You say their
temper is amiable. Good. Then let us not be the first to
lose our temper. But if you suspect violence, or sabotage,
we must be prepared. We are responsible to the Company."

" There will be no violence," said Hawkey. " The men
are straight and honourable and for the most part just.
I'd trust them with my life, let alone my property; and so
would Retallack here, or Keat."

" They'll make this a matter of prayer to-morrow," added
Wilberforce. " Be sure they'll pray in their chapels to be
shown their duty."

" For us to be shown ours more probably," suspected
the Major. " Theirs is evidently quite clear to them. With
their present narrow outlook they are in no doubt whatever.
So far as I can see, this lies on your shoulders for the moment,"
he continued, turning to Tom Hawkey. " But if you feel
it is more than you can fairly be expected to tackle "

" On the contrary, I wish for the responsibility. I believe
I can put this right."

" They'll come back to work on Monday ?"

" Assuredly — as things stand."

" You would not call it a strike ?"

" No," answered the manager. " I'd beg every reasonable
man to keep that word off his lips most steadfastly. There's
no strike, only a difference of opinion on the subject of an
order — a difference between me and them. I ask to have
the whole responsibility. I want it and I want them to feel
it is mine, and that I'm the cause of all."

The Major considered.

" What do you design to do ?"

" I'll tell you, of course, if you wish it; but I'd much rather
not. I'd rather have a free hand and the absolute trust of
the Company. Then, if I fail, you can repudiate every-
thing."

" That would mean serious trouble for you, I'm afraid."

" It would mean ' good-bye.' I know that. My only
concern is for the quarries, and if I fail, the Company will
have no choice but to drop me."

" Do you want to take such unnecessary risks ?"

93 OLD DELABOLE

" Yes, I do," answered Hawkey. " I don't think the risk
is very great; but, such as it is, I court it. I make a favour
of being allowed to take it. If I'm right, then no harm is
done; if I'm wrong, then I'm the sole sufferer, and the Com-
pany can make mo the scapegoat; but if I act, as I mean to
act, without the knowledge of the Company "

" The Company is not a coward, my dear Hawkey. The
Company either trusts you and stands behind you, or it
does not."

But Hawkey declined to involve the Company and presently
he had his way.

" I love these men and I understand them. If I fail,
then I will resign," he said.

" You will work single-handed ?"

" If you will grant me that privilege."

" No physical assistance ?"

"It is not a phj^sical matter."

" And what do you rely upon ?" asked the Major.

" On himself," answered Retallack.

" No — on them," declared the manager. . . " I know them
as employers seldom can know their people. I belong to
them; I'm on their side, and see what they see and feel what
they feel. I'm going to open their eyes — that's all. It
makes a deal of difference when we don't see alike, if we know
what the opposition is really thinking. This isn't right up
against wrong. It's right up against right; and when right
clashes with right, you'll often find terrible wrong is bred
of it. And that's what I'm out to avoid."

" I need not ask you to be perfectly firm," said the mana-
ging director; " and I need not ask you not to make terms,
or anything of that sort; because you are not empowered
to do so. You are working without the Company at your
own wish."

" And at my own risk. That's what I beg, and I think
it generous of you to permit it."

The Major nodded.

" That idea of yours — of right clashing with right and
breeding wrong— there's a good deal in that. I suppose
that's the bitter fruit that every big strike bears. We know
that two wrongs don't make a right; but it would seem
that two rights may, and often do, make a wrong."

THE POINT OF VIEW 97

Such a problem delighted the old man. He would have
liked to examine it on the spot; but Hawkey was practical.

" It's not a strike and we're not within sight of a strike,"
he said. " We're up against a difference of opinion, where
neither side is wrong, but where one side naturally don't
see as far ahead as the other. There's no question of terms —
merely a question of throwing some light on the relations
of capital to labour. They are bitter clear in most industrial
places, but here centuries of good-fellowship and kindly
feeling have dimmed them a trifle — that's all."

" Do nothing to imperil that kindly feeling — nothing,"
urged Retallack. " But we can trust you there, Mister Tom."

" If I don't increase it, then I fail," answered the other,
and the informal meeting closed.

An hour later Tom Hawkey was on his way to Launceston,
and before midnight, thanks to special influence, procured
certain large bills in heavy type which he actually brought
home with him to Delabole. He drove both ways and did
not return until the small hours of Sunday. But he was
in chapel as usual, and the focus of many interested eyes.

He designed an act that would upset every home in
Delabole; and he knew it; but thanks to an understanding
of his material — an understanding and estimate that was
as perfect as a man's knowledge of men well could be — he
felt not even a shadow of concern about the result. He
saw his plan in action, and no argument would have shaken
his assurance of its triumphant sequel.

At one o'clock on Monday morning, when Delabole slept,
Hawkey himself went out with his bills and posted them
up at the entrances of the quarry — in Medrose and Pengelley
and other districts round about the mighty pit.

Probably Grandfather Nute was the first to read them,
and he coiifessed afterwards that he had received the surprise
of his life. He rushed home with the tremendous news that
the quarries were closed.

" A lock-out," he said, " and by the manager's orders —
only the manager !"

None believed him, but when Retallack and his sons reached
the nearest bill at the main entrance to the works, they found
fifty men already at a standstill before it. The quarries
were closed by the order of Thomas Hawkey, manager.

7

98 OLD DELABOLE

Old Delabole soon hummed like a beehive. Large crowds
collected at all the places of entrance and men began
to swarm on the pappot-head. A gang of a dozen had walked
down into the quarries, but Hawkey himself descended
and directed them to leave. The pappot-head was also
cleared. There was no display of force. Not a policeman
appeared.

At noon Retallack and Nanjulian went to the office, where
Hawkey was working quite alone.

" You've got the bettermost of them. Mister Tom. But
■what's it to be ? They want to know."

" I've not got the bettermost of them," answered the
manager. " Don't let them talk like that, or think like
that. It's all the point of view, Wil. They didn't see with
my eyes on Saturday, and I don't see with their eyes this
morning. But we're going to see alike presently."

" Is there anything more to tell them than the notice
does ?" asked Nanjulian.

" Only this. Of course they know it is very unusual
for a big company to hand over the whole conduct of the
works to one of the men. But that's what has been done. Tell
them they are not differing from the Company; they are only
differing from one of themselves. I've undertaken to get the
point of view to my friends here, as I'm on the spot, and belong
to them, and can make them understand, I hope and beUeve."

" And if you fail ?" asked the younger foreman.

" If I fail, Sidney, I go. That's a thing I thought beyond
the power of life to make me do once. But who knows how
powerful life can be, or the driving force let loose by accidents
of good and bad luck ? If I fail, I go; but I'm not going to
fail. I know us too well."

" You're the last they want away," said Sidney Nanjulian.

" All the same, don't let them lie in any doubt. This is
my work and only mine. I've got a free hand and they're
dealing with me and only me. There's nobody behind me.
I wouldn't let anybody share the responsibility; because I
want the men to feel this begins and ends with me."

" How long is it for ? They've a right to know that."

" Can't tell 'em, Sidney: I don't know myself yet."

They left him, and in the course of the day Hawkey moved
about among the men in the friendliest spirit. He spoke

THE POINT OF VIEW 99

of everything but the quarries, and when they were men-
tioned deplored the necessity for stopping work, and hoped
it would soon cease. He puzzled them, but they showed no
anger against him, for the tale of his work at Delabole could
not be told without proving him a hundred times their-
friend. He had always been so, and the most jealous of his
power could cite no occasion when Hawkey had pressed upon
their liberties, or unjustly sought to strengthen the Company's
position at their expense. It had always been the other
way

On the evening of Monday the manager was at home
when Noah Tonkin called, and Betsy Bunt asked if Hawkey
would see him.

" Of course, and glad to."

Noah explained that he stood for the men

" And who doesn't, Noah ?"

" Delabole can't put up with this," said Mr. Tonkin,
" and nobody knows that better than you."

" D'you think that I want Delabole to put up with it ?
I know I don't."

"You say so; but it's your work — single-handed you've
done it, by all accounts. Mister Tom ?"

" That's so, Noah. But don't make any mistake about
the reason."

" We can't see it."

" I beheve you can; I believe you do — clever men like
you."

Noah was sUent a moment,

" Have a nip of whisky," said the manager. " You look
tired, and your throat's hoarse."

" We've been doing a good bit of talking — us leaders."

" And thinking, too, I'll bet."

Hawkey poured out some sph'its for Mr. Tonkm, and drank
with him.

Then the visitor took up his hat.

" I must be gone," he said. " They're waiting for me.
The question was. Will you see a deputation to-morrow morn ?
Say a dozen— a leader from each department; but notRetallack
or Nan Julian ?"

Hawkey considered.

" It's real good of the men to want to help me," ho said.

100 OLD DELABOLE

" I know they appreciate how difficult this is for me — single-
handed, too. Tell them I think it real sporting. But I
won't see them. I've got my own ideas. I didn't do this
without plenty of thought. It's a big thing, you know, and a
serious loss of money."

" You won't see a deputation ?"

"No, Noah. They'd help me if they could; but they
can't."

" The question in their minds is whether they can help
themselves and their wives and children," answered Tonkin
bluntly.

" They'll soon be able to say ' yes ' to that, I'm very sure,"
declared the other.

He shook hands, and Noah returned to his friends, more
puzzled than ever.

They debated it until midnight, but saw no light.

The lock-out continued on the following day, and con-
sternation increased. But it was soon diminished, for the
foremen were able to announce resumption of work on the
morrow.

" It's all the point of view," explained Retallack at the
' One and All ' to a full bar. " Mister Tom tells me that he
hadn't been able quite to see the point of view between the
Company and the men, and how each depends and looks to
the other. He said that he had never quite realized that
capital and labour are a pair of cogged wheels working in and
for each other — one no good unless the other turns. And he
wondered a lot how to bring it home to his mind, so as he
should never forget it again. And so, being all-powerful with
you chaps and the friend of every man and boy — at least he
likes to think so — he hit on an idea which should make it
clear to himself and everybody else. ' There's nothing like
an object-lesson, Wil,' he said to me, ' and so that I may get
a real grip of this problem and never put one point of view
up at the expense of the other, I'm going to lose two days
of my salary — just to drive it home. You see, the men drove
home their point of view on Satm-day and made me see their
idea ; and now, always wanting for the increase of knowledge
and understanding among us, I'm showing them and myself
the other point of view. And whichever point of view you
take, it comes out to the same conclusion: that one cogged

THE POINT OF VIEW 101

wheel can't move without the other.' He put it something
like that," concluded Wilberforce Retallack, " though in better
language. Still, I've made his meaning clear, I believe."

The event proved that he had.

Next morning, when the whistles blew, work began as
usual, and proceeded as usual; and on the following Saturday,
when the notices setting forth the need for Saturday afternoon
work were posted again, unseen hands did not tear them
down as on the first occasion. Not a word was said concern-
ing the past; but the workers stopped in the quarries.

Chance took the manager past Noah Tonkin on this occa-
sion.

The old man grinned at him, and spoke.

" And what do 'e think of it, Mister Tom ?"

" 'Tis well a' fine, Noah, and I believe we've all done dead
right," he answered. " I never thought it was possible we
could be better friends with the Company than we always
have been; but there's no doubt we shall be after to-day.
'Twas well worth a few pounds to bring it about."

" They be sajdng we'm bested, however."

" Then tell them not to talk such rot, Noah. We and the
Company have only wiped a bit of dust out of each other's
eyes, that's all. Each has been a friend to the other, my dear
man. There are stars in the sky, Noah, that circle around
each other — twin stars they're called. And so it should be
with master and man. Socialism wants to put out one of
those stars ; but nature's built her bedrock to endure for ever,
and equality is no part of it."

" More's security," answered Tonkin. " There's no security
in nature — till the gamekeeper comes to side with the game-
bird against the hawk. But the workers rise above nature
in that matter, and look to their own security; so why can't
they soar higher still, Mister Tom, and reach equality also ?"

" The ideals start on different ground, Noah. Security
makes appeal to the justice in man. There's reason behind
that. But equality takes no account of reason. It's not
rational and it's not instinctive — neither heart nor head
stands for it. Brains have got to be more and more the
measure of men, and till brains are all turned in the same
mould, and will is ruled out and character levelled down, you
can't have socialism. The ideal for progress is to see that

102 'OLD DELABOLE

every man and woman born into this world starts fair and
is not handicapped out of the race at the start by evil
circumstances and bad blood ; but, given a fair start,
the race must still be to the strong; and to ask the few
strong to lie at the mercy of the many weak is to
flout human nature. Greatness will always be greatness.
But the reason of mankind is going to see presently that
greatness is founded on worth and power earned by a man's
own brain and sweat, not through the sweat and brain of his
forbears."

" Brains be just as much an accident as birth, however."
" So equality is folly an5rway, and great brains, along with
great hearts, will ever be the masters. Mastery lies at the
root of progress, and from evil mastery we rise, steady and
slow and sure, to good mastery," foretold the manager. " The
ideal State will be that where only the pure in heart can get
to the top; but he'll have to be great in head too. At present
the pitfalls for the self-seeker and the knave with brains are
too few. But hedge about power with right and honour ;
make it a sacred thing ; and then only the real big men will
get to the top, where they're badly wanted, and where all
history shows they've been terrible scarce and terrible
misunderstood. That's the secret of education — to know
our great men when we see them, not to mistake ourselves
for their equals."

So the manager preached tinocracy, but the other hardly
comprehended.

CHAPTER XIII

A TRUSTEE APPOINTED

There came a day, long postponed, when Wesley Bake
visited the quarry cottage to talk with Wilberforce Retallack.
Both were very busy men, and the opportunity to discuss and
arrange their business relations was long in coming, since
neither would enter into secular undertakings on a Sunday.

Edith had showed no immediate desire for marriage, and,
rather to the miller's disappointment, proposed that a year
should pass before she wedded. She came to the little con-
ference on a summer day, and her mother and grandfather
were also present at it. Indeed, Wilberforce himself was the
last to arrive, for an accident had happened in the quarry,
and he was called to it.

Ignorant of the cause for this delay, the others talked, and,
by unlucky chance, in all ignorance, Wesley said things that
hurt his betrothed. They should not have troubled her, and
she knew it : and that troubled her the more and annoyed her
with herself as well as her lover. Talk ran on the quarries,
and Grandfather chronicled the great period of success through
which they were now passing.

" I say ' passing ' because it's contrary to nature it should
go on for ever. We must have light and shade, Wesley, same
as we must have rain after fine, and winter after summer.
But there's no doubt all goes well, and there's more first-class
stone in sight than I ever remember."

" Mister Tom's a wonder," declared Anna Retallack; " and,
what's better far than being clever, he's amazing lucky. It
properly bumfoozles me how fortune smiles on that man.
He can't go wrong."

" I wouldn't say 'twas luck," answered Bake. " Call it
brains, and more than brains. 'Tis will-power, in my opinion.
He's got a will and a heart, and has the wit to run the two in
double harness. He's a leader of men, and he \vins them as

103

104 OLD DELABOLE

well as leads them. If I envy any man his character, 'tis
Hawkey."

Edith bit her lip behind his back, and, unconsciously, her
grandfather voiced something of the emotion in her mind.

"You mustn't say that, Wesley. 'Tis a thought poor-
spirited in you to envy another man his character — even a
good man. I don't like to hear a young fellow giving anybody
best so meek and humble as that. Hawkey's been tested and
proved a very useful man, and it was right and to be expected
that such a religious chap should find support in the hour of
trial ; but for you to say you wish you was as fine is as much
as to say you ain't. You mustn't allow that even to yourself,
let alone other people."

Wesley laughed at this lecture.

" I never did have a very great conceit of myself. At
wrasling, in my wrasling days, the stickler* would say
I was throwed by my mistrust of myself oftener than by
t'other man. But I hope in things that matter, grandfather,
there's no doubt in my mind. I'm not such a big man as
Tom Hawkey, and it would be vain pride of me to say I was."

" Have done !" cried Edith. She had turned a little pale,
and the delicate freckles showed on her pure skin. " If
you're going to sing small before folk, don't let me be one of
them. 'Tis poor speed for a woman to hear the man she's
going to wed mistrust himself."

Bake was bewildered at this strenuous attitude. He
laughed nervously and expressed regret, while Mr. Nute
preached self-reliance.

" Modesty's a virtue," he said, " but only in reason. A
Wesleyan has always got to remember what's behind him;
and to cry stinking fish, as you're inclined to do, is as much as
to say the weapon in your hands is not to be trusted."

Retallack returned at this moment.

" Another cripple," he said. " There's naught more
mournful in Delabole than the number of halt and maimed
that crawl our streets."

"Who's hurt ?" asked Anna. "Can me or Edith go to
the poor chap ?"

"No; he's been carried away. The doctor's going along

* Stickler — umpire.

A TRUSTEE APPOINTED 105

with him. It's Adam Rush. A tumbril came down the
incline, and he was on the line and didn't hear the shouting.
It knocked him over and broke his pin-bone* and a rib or two.
A wonder he wasn't killed."

" A pity it happened to him," said Anna, " because his
mother's such a fusser. 'Twill weaken her faith, very like.
Adam is the apple of her eye. She's always made a hero of
him."

" And yet a very stupid man, really," declared Grandfather
Nute. " And this proves it. Nobody but a weak-witted
chap would be so fond as to stand on the down-line with his
back turned to the incline."

" I sent for Pooley," explained Retallack. " When we'd
got him up to the top in the engine-room, poor Adam was
terrible feared that he might die there and then, and he called
for Pooley, who is a great friend, to come and say a word or
two. And the boy knelt beside him, like an old un, and
put up as good and comforting a prayer as you could wish to
hear."

" If he's got a fault, it is that he's too personal to the
Almighty," declared Grandfather Nute.

" How d'you mean, father ?" asked Pooley's mother; for
Pooley was her favourite child, and anything concerning him
challenged her at once.

" I mean he don't mark the gulf between creature and
creator enough. He allows himself to get too close to God."

" You can't be too close to God, surely ?" asked Wesley
Bake.

" I mean — well, it's rather a nice shade of meaning. It's
more the letter than the spirit, and only education saves you
from being so familiar. We local preachers get too familiar.
We're prone to talk to the Almighty as if He was only one step
higher than a director of the Company. In fact, some of us
be less respectful to our Maker than to our master. It's
education. It ain't vulgarity — I wouldn't say that; but it's
ignorance. Because God made man in His own image, we
take it for granted He made our minds in His own image too,
and what's the result ? Why, we've got to apologize for God
every time we open a newspaper, because He's been doing

* Pin-bone — thigh-boue.

106 OLD DELABOLE

things we wouldn't do ! We judge Him by our standards, and
that's sheer insolence. That's what I mean by getting too
close to Him. You never hear a professional do that, along
of their theological education."

" Pooley would dearly like to go into the ministry," said
Wesley Bake. " He's told me time and again that he feels
the call."

" 'Tis never out of his head," declared Anna.

" He might so well seek the stars," declared Pooley 's
father; " and now we'll get to business, please. I wanted my
wife to be joint trustee of my estate along with you, Wesley;
but she don't wish it. She feels to you as I feel to you. and
we all do. Grandfather included. You understand business,
having had so much upon your hands, and you've proved
yourself well able to tackle it."

" Though such a mistrustful man and so fearful of your-
self," said Edith.

They were assembled round the kitchen table, and Wesley,
who sat next to her, patted her shoulder.

" Don't rub it in no more," he said. "I'm not frightened
of myself — if I was I shouldn't have got you ; and I shouldn't
be undertaking this job. If you trust me — such people as
you — then I can trust mj^self."

They talked awhile, and presently Wilberforce bade the
women leave them.

" I wish there was more money to go along with my eldest
daughter," he said when Edith and Anna were gone; " but,
to be plain with you, the money's sunk in her already. It Avas
a choice between hoarding for her and spending on her, and at
seventeen she was so terribly set on higher education that we
let her have her way — at some cost too."

" Don't name it. I'd rather have her as clever as she is
than worth a thousand pounds."

" I doubt as to that. It's what they've got by nature,
not what they learn from books, make women useful to men.
Though what they've learned of late years no doubt will
make women a good bit more useful to themselves. From
our point of view they are little bettered by learning; for
it alters their outlook on us a lot — and for the worse.
I wouldn't say that it makes for their own happiness
either."

A TRUSTEE APPOINTED 107

a

That's old-fashioned talk, father. Happiness is power.
Edith's a lot more powerful for her knowledge."

" I doubt about happiness being power, however," chimed
in Grandfather.

They discussed this, then returned to the matter in hand.

" She'll have a hundred pounds and her new clothes, and
no more," said Retallack.

He was depressed and now discussed his own affairs ; but a
reticence marked his speech. He clearly desired Grandfather
to go, yet did not like to ask him.

" I shan't be here ten years," he said. " I don't like to tell
the women, but I know it. There's body evils gaining upon
me. I'm living m}'- father again in my own flesh. Things
happen to me that remind me of things that happened to
him I've forgot. The machine's wearing out. Not that I
grumble."

" The length of a man's life's what he gets into it, not the
time it stretches over," said Mr. Nute.

"Why don't you put yourself in the doctor's hands?"
asked Wesley. " You look right, master."

" I want to leave all suent and no trouble for anybody.
Nat Forrester, in the engine-house, owes me fifty pound. That's
the only thing outstanding to credit. And I've got debts —
little ones with Sleep at the paper-shop and with Farmer
Tresidda to Bodmin, and half a dozen others. All little ones.
They'll be paid inside two years. Tavo hundred, all told, I
dare say. Sometimes I think Forrester's forgot that fift3^"

" He ain't forgot it and he ain't forgived it," declared
Grandfather Nute. " Nat Forrester's that common tjrpe of
man that can't get over a kindness. There be many that turn
sour under favours — a very common littleness. Jealousy of
the power behind the favour is the trouble."

" Forrester's a very religious man," said Wesley; " they
men that have to do with steam machinery often are."

" Exactly," answered the veteran. " 'Tis the strength and
goodness that made Wilberforce help him that he recognizes.
And he gets out of his obligation by putting it on God — and
only Him. As to the agent, the Lord's minister — Wilberforce
Retallack — all Nat has to say of him is that he ought to have
done twice as much as he did do. There's no gratitude except
to God. He regards the debt as a debt to his Maker, and we're

108 OLD DELABOLE

all in debt in that quarter and can't pay. So he salves a very
mean sort of conscience by ignoring my son-in-law."

At this moment Edith returned with a message for Mr. Nute.
Sarah Sleep had called and desired to see him at once. He
hastened away, and Retallack, glad that he was gone, con-
tinued :

" The law will have it out of Forrester when I'm dead," he
said. " I don't bear no grudge against the man ; but I shall cut
up a good few pounds worse than folk think, and I order you
to get that money for my family's sake."

Then he went into figures, and handed Wesley Bake his
papers.

" We'll go to lawyer when we're next in Launceston to-
gether," he said, " and have you put in your place under hand
and seal all regular. I may not die these good few years, and
I'd like to think that the estate will be a bit fatter before I
do. Of course, you keep everything to yourself. I don't
want for Anna to be cast down about it. She's no woman of
business, though full of sense. But she'll be very well content
to know it's all in your keeping."

" I respect the trust," declared the miller ; " and you needn't
be told when the time comes — and far ways off I hope it is —
that I'll do the very best in my power for all concerned."

Wilberforce thanked him and they went out together.

Meanwhile Grandfather had spoken with Sarah Sleep and
departed with her.

" A proper confloption !" she said, " and all in the middle
of the night. My brother called me half after two of the clock,
and I found him creaming all over and so white as a dog's
tooth. With that I made a fire in his chamber, though the
night was warm enough, and sent Jane off for the doctor. He
came and said 'twas a grave upset, but he could make nothing
of it, and thought it had to do with John's stomach and what
he'd been eating. He'd been to Padstow and had a lobster to
his dinner, but they Padstow lobsters are sweet as a shrimp,
and I haven't heard tell of one hurting a man afore."

" Not straight out of the sea, certainly," said Mr. Nute.
"I've eaten scores of dozens in my time, and never a
pang."

" Doctor's coming again — in fact he'll be there when we
get back ; but John, though he's had a brave sleep, was terrible

A TRUSTEE APPOINTED 109

restless and most wishful for your company. He little liked
to trouble you, but, knowing you, I came right off the minute
he longed to see you. Of course, I wouldn't have sent Jane
nor yet Philippa; but I thought if I came, mayhap you
wouldn't say ' no '."

Grandfather's answer was to get his hat and stick.

" Can we do anything or help in any way ?" asked Anna
Retallack, who had heard the news.

" You would if you could and well I know it, but we're
doing all that's to do. Little enough. We can only be full
of hope that 'tis nothing and the danger's past."

They departed together, and in order to distract Sarah's
mind from her great anxieties the old man talked on general
subjects. He even stopped a moment before the ascending
walls of Antipas Keat's new dwelling.

" There's genius in Keat," he declared, " but it's linked
to something we'd call childish in anybody else."

" He's a chattering tim-doodle in my opinion," declared
Sarah, " and he'll never finish his house, because he knows the
minute the roof's on all interest in him will go out and he'll
be like anj^body else — just a baker and no more."

" Far from that. You undervalue the brain of Keat,"
declared Grandfather. " Once he's finished this, he'll be on
to something else. He'll never let his intellect lie idle. Al-
ready he's got ideas and spends a good few evening hours
drawing out plans on paper. No ; what I mean by ' childish '
is just that quality in him which refuses all help and will do
everything with his own hand. That's small; besides, it
wastes a lot of time. There's rather a silly sort of pride in
that, and a larger man would not object to help where help
was natural and proper."

A trowel clinked, and Antipas looked down from a scaffold.

" I hear your voices," he said. " Come up the ladder, Mr.
Nute. You'll find from up here you can see the plan in all
its parts."

But Grandfather would not ascend.

" Another time," he said. "I'm none too sure of your
scaffolding, neighbour. There's some things one pair of
hands can't do, however clover the head that runs 'em.^ Re-
member the past."

" D'you think I'd trust myself if it wasn't safe ?" asked the

110 OLD DELABOLE

baker. "I set a value on my bones, I promise you. My
accidents were never my own fault."

" Everybody's so coorious in Delabole," declared Miss
Sleep, as they proceeded. " Was ever such a place for odd
characters 1 I believe you're the only man in it without a
bee in your bonnet; though that's not to say you ain't a won-
derful sort of man, because you are."

" 'Tis only my age and experience and a good digestion
and a good memory," he explained modestly. Then he
asked a question.

' ' Do 'e see much of my grandson, Ned 1"

" We do — too much, I was going to say. He's after
Philippa, of course. She denies it, but her mother, Jane,
sees through her. Jane was married herself — to her cost — and
she says that Philippa's her father over again."

' ' Why can't they be tokened and have done with it ? "
asked Grandfather.

" Just what I said to the giglet girl in so many words; but
there 'tis : she tosses her head and twinkles her eyes and says
'tis no good talking any foolishness like that. She don't
want to be married — says she's seen too much what goes to
it — axes her mother if she'd marry again if she could go back.
And Jane's a truthful creature, and isn't going to pretend
that marriage is all it might be."

" Not that we should judge of the state from our own ex-
perience alone," said Grandfather. " You must strike an
average, and not say 'tis a failure just because you've found
it so."

" No doubt you're right. Yet most humans judge of
things as they find them. My poor niece can't be expected
to praise marriage — her with a runaway husband in Penn-
sylvania."

" Doesn't he send her money ?"

" Not him. But he's got the cheek to send her advice ; and
he tells her she can draw a bill of divorcement any time she
likes, and he'll be only too pleased to help the execution of
justice. That's the sort of man he is. He sent home twenty
shillings a bit ago, to pay for Philippa's likeness, which he was
very desirous to have ; and Jane, in one of them queer moods
that come over her, went and got photographed herself, and
sent him that instead !"

((

A TRUSTEE APPOINTED 111

What did he say ?"

I don't know what he said. We didn't hear anything.
And now, if you please, Philippa is all for going out to him.
There's no doubt she's more her father's child than her
mother's. And if you could keep Ned oil her, you'd be
doing poor Jane a kindness. Her life's none too gay, and
her ej'es be troubling her. You see the cast more and more."

" I'll put it to Ned," promised Grandfather Nute. " Ned
is a good-hearted sort of boy, and I understand him pretty
well. There's no vice in him, and your Jane needn't fear
danger from his wickedness, only from his weakness."

" That's it — Philippa's twice so strong as him, and what
she wants she'll have out of him. I don't think any grand-
child of yours is likely to be wicked; but a child of Philip
Sleep is very likely indeed to be wicked. 'Tis a case of
' Satan finds some mischief still,' for she's as idle as they
make 'em."

But Grandfather was nothing if not didactic. At the name
of Satan he always pricked up his ears, and his attitude to
the Enemy of Mankind never changed. He entertained a
profound respect for him, as a result of living in the world for
threescore years and ten; but, fortified by the true light,
'Mi. Nute believed that he was able to see the Evil One's
fundamental errors in his campaign against humanity. He
noted where he was wrong; and he also noted where he was
right. He analyzed the fiend's sweeping successes and re-
gretted mournfull}^ that the history of mankind so much
abounded in them. On this occasion he upheld Satan
against the familiar criticism.

" You must give the devil his due," said Grandfather Nute.
" It can't be denied him, and to scoff at him is only to blind
ourselves to his power. It idden only idle hands he finds work
for. The biggest blackguards I've known have always been
the busiest. In fact, you may take it from me that the devil's
far too good a student of character to waste much time on
the idle. 'Tis the busy folk — them that never let the grass
grow under their feet — be most useful to him. The busy man
has got character, and you can no more draw real, useful
wickedness — to speak in the devil's words — from a weak and
lazy nature than you can get any real, high goodness."

She listened to his reasoning and praised it.

112 OLD DELABOLE

The way you turn a thing mside out is a lesson to us
smaller minds," she said.

Then they reached the newspaper-shop and met the doctor
walking out of it.

" Sleep's going on very well," he told them. " In fact he's
cured. It was something he'd eaten. Keep him on milk food
for twenty-four hours and he'll feel no more of it."

They went in, to find John Sleep shedding tears and Jane
Sleep patting his hand.

" The Lord has saved me; the Lord has given me back my
life," he said. " 'Twas just a message, Grandfather, just a
reminder that in the midst of life we are in death. But I'm
to be useful a bit longer and I thank the Giver for allowing it,
for I'm only sixty -four, and it would have been a terrible shock
to go."

Mr. Nute offered to say a few words, but John Sleep declined
to hear them.

" Not now," he answered, drying his tears. " The Lord's
done His work single-handed, and it would only be thrusting
in for you to say anything now. 'Tis just a case for my own
personal thanksgiving to the Throne, and so soon as I
have had some weak brandy-and-water and a good sleep,
I shall be able to say all that's called for myself."

" And nobody could say it better," answered the visitor,
" and I'm properly glad, as we all shall be, that it wasn't the
Call, neighbour,"

CHAPTER XIV

AT LANTEGLOS

IVIk. Moses Bunt found little in the affairs of the world
or his fellow-creatures to commend; but he had not much
personally to complain about, because his own circle was
extremely limited, and none chose to enter it unless driven to
do so by circumstances. He was avoided as the wasp is avoided.

But now the old man clashed with his betters and smarted
under a reverse.

On a Sunday morning Moses called at the manager's house,
entered the kitchen, and found his sister, Betsy, making an
apple-pie.

" Leave that mess and list to me," he said. " A thing have
been done that will make the county ring with shame. That
beast at St. Teath — the parson."

" Good Lord, Moses, you idden calling the Reverend Tucker
a beast ?"

Betsy set down an apple half-peeled and stared at her
brother.

" Yes, I am; and so he is. Us all knew he was no better
than a fool; but us didn't know he was a wicked, audacious
creature. But I'll show him up. St. Teath shall properly
heave with it afore I'm a week older."

" What's he done to you V asked Betsy.

" I went to the man a month ago and told him as I meant
to lie at St. Teath when my time came, and I wanted to buy
my place. He was cold about it from the first, but civil. I
said all my folk were teeled* at Lanteglos, and that I didn't
want to go in with them, as they'd never been anything but
a trouble and a drain on my pocket, and that I couldn't think
with patience to this day of all the good money wasted keeping
my father and mother out of the union Workhouse. Then I
told him my stone was in hand and that I'd got a very hand-

* Teeled — buriod.

113 8

114 OLD DELABOLE

some slate a bit bigger than some people's. I was civil to the
man, and promised the slate would be a credit to St. Teath
yard, and the parish, for that matter."

" Well, what could he say ?"

" He said he'd come and see it at my invitation when next
he was up to Delabole, and I told the man he'd have a treat and
was welcome. I went out of my way to be civil to the wretch ;
and he came, and all he said was that my stone was too big
by half ! ' You must have a stone like other people,' the
creature said to me, and put it in plain, brutal words, that if
I didn't take twelve good inches off it, he wouldn't have it at
St. Teath."

" He's all-powerful of course," said Betsy.

" Is he ? I very soon showed him he weren't. ' If you
think you're going to dictate to me about the size of my tomb-
stone, Reverend Tucker,' I said, ' you be damn well mistaken.
And 'tis like you Church of England parsons to dare to do it.
Not a grain of slate do I take off for you, or any man, and a
more ondacent offer I never heard. You ought to blush,' I
said, ' because well you know if it had been the squire, or
yourself, or any of the so-called bettermost people, you'd have
raised no quarrel whatever. You can't cabobble* me,' I said.
' I see through j^ou ; and now, if you was to go down on your
knees to me, I wouldn't lie at St. Teath. You've done for
yourseK now ! 'Tis a slate in a thousand,' I told the fool,
' and it shan't stand in your churchyard not if you was to
offer me a pound to let it do so.' "

" What does your friend Benny Moyse say about it ?"

" I've just left him. He says I'm right. He says I was too
patient and gentle with the creature, and did ought to have
given him all the law and the prophets."

" And what did the Reverend Tucker say 1" asked Betsy.
" I warrant he answered back."

" He did. Not a particle of self-control in that man. He
was properly mad to think that I'd seen through him and
found him out. He tried to hide it; but I could mark it in his
eye. He pretended he wasn't angry, and said: ' We shall be
sorry to lose you, Mr. Bunt '; but that was just to put me off
the scent. I dare say he'll think better of it presently, and

* Cabobble — deceive.

AT LANTEGLOS 115

come back; but I'll not listen if he do. I go in at Lanteglos
now."

'• The Bunts all lie there."

" That's why I wanted to lie somewheres else. But it don't
matter when you be dead. Our family be all huddled together
at the bottom of the hill. I can have my grave up top."

He left her then, to publish his news more widely, and timed
his way to be outside the meeting-house of the United
Methodists at the moment when morning service was ended.
He arrested Jack Keat and Wilberforce Retallack as they
emerged, and others stopped to listen, including Antipas
Keat, the baker, and Aunt Mercy Inch from Trebarwith
Sand. Moses, however, failed to waken that sense of outrage
in their minds under which his own bosom panted.

" You'm too greedy, Mr. Bunt," declared Aunt Mercy, who
remembered the free luncheon. " You want more'n your
share of the earth. 'Tis a common thing among the living,
but I never heard of a dead man hungering after grave enough
for two. I call you dead, because you will be then."

" We're all equal in the grave," declared Jack Keat, " and
why for you want to catch the eye of the living public more
than anybody else, I can't see."

" For my part, all this taking of thought about your tomb
idden to your credit," continued Aunt Mercy. " 'Tis as
much as to say you can't trust the living to see you properly
put away."

" More I can't," answered Mr. Bunt. " Who cares a
tinker's damn except myself if I have a decent monument ?
My own generation haven't got no more use for me than I
have for them. But that's no reason why I should be slighted
by the next. 'Tis all very well for you to say I can trust
the living, Mercy Inch; but please tell me which of 'em I can
trust. I don't know 'em."

The congregation thinned away, and some laughter fell on
Mr. Bunt's ear and annoyed him. He went home, where he
lived alone in a cottage at Medrose, and after his dinner he set
ofif to Lanteglos to see the sexton.

Accident willed that he met Mercy Inch again, for she had
come to Delabole for the day, had dined with friends at Med-
rose, and was going to the quarry cottage at Anna Retallack's
invitation for tea.

116 OLD DELABOLE

Mr. Bunt resumed the conversation where it had ended
outside the chapel.

" I be going to see bedman Billy Jose at Lanteglos this
minute," he said. " I've ordained to lie there now, though
not for choice."

Beside the waters of the infant Camallen stood Lanteglos
church, in a cradle of little hills. Great sycamores with grey
stems threw shade over the church porch in summer, and
scattered the graves in autumn with a myriad leaves. The
churchyard sloped steeply, and the rows of the dead lay above
each other's heads on the side of it. A fountain broke from
the hedge, and great ferns sprang beside the sparkling water.
Some venerable Cornish crosses, rescued from elsewhere,
lifted their battered heads among the slate gravestones, and
beside the church porch there stood a still more ancient relic,
an inscribed monolith, or family pillar, whose legend, trans-
lated into modern English, was set beside it.

From a bough of one of the sycamores hung a scythe, which
the sexton had left there until he should use it again on the
morrow. Mr. Bunt perambulated the churchyard. He
favoured the upper reaches of the burying-ground, and noted
vidth satisfaction that there was plenty of room where the
slope ascended to the southern hedge. His own people
clustered below, and he went down presently and regarded
them. They were neglected, but the mark of the scythe
approached, and to-morrow they would be clipped.

Moses struck a match on his mother's tombstone and lit his
pipe. Presently he spat on the resting-place of a paternal
aunt, and tm^ned away to salute a tall, thin man who ap-
proached.

" The very item I wanted to see," he said. "' I was running
my eye over my graves, Billy Jose."

The sexton shook hands.

" If you'd made it next Sunday, you'd have found them
tidier," he said. " I work out the yard by rule, and take
each part in turn. They'll be gone over to-morrow."

" I ain't troubling about them. You'll mind I told you
I was going to be buried down to St. Teath; but that's off.
I've had a bit of a flare-up with Tucker. He's getting too
large for his place, and must needs decide how big the grave-
stones are to be. He'll tell us how big our coffins are to be

AT LANTEGLOS 117

next, and when 'twill be convenient for him for us to
die."

" Our Reverend ain't like that," said Mr. Jose. " A very
gentle, learned man — ^wiser than all the rest of the county
put together, and can read all living and dead tongues so easy
as we can read the Bible."

" So much the better. Then no doubt he minds his own
business, which be a rare feat in these parts. I may tell you
that I shall lie here; but not along with the Bunts. There's
lots of room up over, I see, and I've got my gravestone very
near ready."

" A great piece of forethought in you, for certain."

" Ess, and you can come and see it next time you be in
Delabole, if you mind to," said Moses.

Billy Jose promised to do so.

" I shall be very pleased indeed to set it up," he said simply.

" 'Tis a majestic stone — too big for St. Teath, if j^ou please.
'Tis very near done now — all but the text and date. I won't
have no rhj'mes out of Wesley, nor nothing like that. But
just naked Bible, telling the man I was. I be working through
the Book from eiid to end to find the fitting word. It ain't
too easy neither. Then there's a skull and bat's wings up
top. I've copied them, line for line, from an old stone at
St. Teath set up to a man of renown."

Billy Jose nodded.

" I like they skulls," he said. " They be a good bit out o'
fashion in these days, yet I never know why. They stand
for the King of Terrors, and call home what lies afore us all.
Have 'e got any other adornments ?"

" No, I ain't. I don't want no fantastic flummeries. Just
' Moses Bunt ' and ' God ' in gold, and the rest plain and
simple. 'Tis the size that carries it. And that anointed
rogue at St. Teath wanted twelve inches off, because I'm one
of the people and not a gentleman ! And God'Il judge him
for it; and I wish I had the making of his tomb. If I had,
I'd put up a bit of ugly truth over the man, and cut it so
deep in the slate that it would still be holding out at
Judgment."

Mr. Jose was not easily roused to wrath. His work had
affected his character, and he lived a contemplative and pen-
sive life. He spoke of the dead as his neighbours spoke of the

118 OLD DELABOLE

living, and went on terms of amity with the dust. He was
not more than fifty, but cared little for pleasure or amuse-
ment. He lived near the churchyard, with a childless wife,
ten years older than himself, and they were contented.

" The silent people idden the worst company in the world,"
Jose said now% and Mr. Bunt agreed with him.

" There's no more hateful backbiting and lying and slander-
ing among 'em, anyway," he said.

" And lucky there ain't, seeing how close they be called to
lie sometimes," answered the bedman. " You can get a lot
of interesting thoughts out of the way they go in, Moses Bunt.
Chance will often bring opposites together and draw them
close beneath the earth who shivered to pass each other on
top of it. And, again, you'll find them who were crossed in
love, with fate and a sword between them all their days, will
sometimes go in so nigh and neighbourly that hand could
touch hand in the dark below. 'Tis well all passion dies with
death."

Bunt was looking at a new grave. The turf gaped, and a
little bouquet of columbines and a moss-rose lay upon it.

" Who be that, then ?" he asked.

" ' Old Turk.' Edwards was his name, but he'll be called
' Old Turk ' till he's forgot."

" That baggering poacher ?"

" Yes, him. And I can't help feeling how well content he'd
be lying there between two fine women. Such an eye he had
for 'em."

" More than an eye, the damned old scamp !"

" He was very fond of 'em to the end. His wife forgave
him, however. She put that nosegay there with her own
hands, because columbines was his favourite flower."

Suddenly there appeared a man and a woman. They came
from behind the edge of the church tower, and knew not that
others were so near. Julitta Retallack and Sidney Nanjulian
hesitated, but there was no escape, so they strolled on.

Sidney had heard Mr. Bunt outside the chapel in the morn-
ing, and now plunged into the conversation.

" Better luck here, Moses, I hope ?"

" There's justice here, as I expected to find it," answered
the old man. " I don't want no luck, and you didn't ought
to use the word."

AT LANTEGLOS 119

" How's yourself, Jose ?"

" Verj' well, thank j'ou, Mr. Nanjulian. Taking a walk,
I see."

" We met by chance, Miss Retallack and I."

Bunt sniffed. Julitta had strolled away.

" We was talking of the histories on gravestones and the
waj^ you can link 'em up and put two and two together,"
explained the sexton.

Nanjulian nodded.

" There's often tragedy in a bare date," he admitted;
" just one date seen along with another."

" And queer natural things," added Billy Jose. " Look
here now. This is Henry Tresilion's mound. You'll always
find a crop of fine mushrooms here every fall. A terrible
curious thing — eh ?"

" Wh}^ curious ?" asked the quarry foreman.

" Because the man was so addicted to 'em ! His favourite
food, as he always vowed," replied Jose. " I don't say
there's anything to it, and I don't say there ain't ; but why the
mischief did I never find a mushroom here till we teeled
Tresilion ?"

" Perhaps you never looked," said Julitta. She had re-
turned, and was listening to Mr. Jose.

" The man would have seen 'em, whether he'd looked or not,"
snapped Moses Bunt. " You don't look for sovereigns on the
highroad, unless you be weak in your head, but if they're there,
you find 'em."

" I don't think you can explain it away," continued the
sexton mildly.

" Not unless 3^ou're an atheist," declared Mr. Bunt. " They
explain everything; but they won't explain hell fire."

" So there it is," summed up Billy Jose. " Afore he went
in, not a mushroom ; and since, a good crop every year. Just
another mystery. And life's full of such puzzles, I believe.
Anyway, death is."

They parted, and the younger pair went their wa}' together.

There was a lane that ran up the hill westerly. It
had been an old pack-horse track in medieval times, and
generaticms had worn it down and down until the hedges
towered above it. The way was lonely and seldom used.
Now Nanjulian sought this path, and in the cool silence and

120 OLD DELABOLE

shade beneath the twined branches of the hazels he put his
arm round Julitta and kissed her with passion.

" How stupid meeting that old wretch," she said.

" He'll forget it. He's too full of his grave."

" Not he. Didn't you sec his snake's eyes when you
said we'd met by chance ?"

They were lovers, and had been lovers for three months.
Their intimacy was complete and their romance the salt and
glory of their lives. By mutual consent they kept their
attachment the profoundest secret — not because there ex-
isted the smallest need to do so, but because it added enor-
mously to the splendour and fascination thereof.

They amused themselves now by recalling the little joyous
incidents and ludicrous accidents of their compact. They
laughed over the free luncheon and Sidney's guile, when he
pretended to Grandfather Nute that he did not know Julitta
was a musician. A thousand cunning things Nanjulian had
done, and Julitta had even excelled him in her delightful
impostures.

" Edith thinks I've got a stone heart — so does mother,"
said she. " Edith is funny. She honestly believes that she
knows all about love, and is quite sorry, in her cold, stately
way, for me because I've missed it. She pities me, and I try
to look sad and say I've got no use for the men, and know
they don't like me. And father tries to cheer me up, and
says the right one will come along some day. And I — I just
whisper, ' Sidney — darling — heavenly Sidney !' to my heart,
and conjure up the place where we met last."

" It never grows flat," he said; " I wake in the night and
say, soft and gentle, but not loud: ' She loves me — she's my
very, very own — the precious !' And Edith's sorry for you ?
That's a rare joke. Why, good God, you've forgotten more
about love than she ever knew, or ever will know. Your
little finger could make a man madder than her whole body."

The}' caressed fervently. Then he put her hat straight.
I often ask myself why we don't tell people," she said.

I wish we could go on for ever keeping it a secret. If it
wasn't a secret, I've got a horrid fear it wouldn't be so fine."

" Fine for ever, secret or not," he assured her, " because
we're fine. But different when known to all. It's romance,
and we were born romantic. That's what drew us and

AT LANTEGLOS 121

brought our arms round each other. We'd both been feeling
out in the dark for something off the beaten track — some-
thing alive and real. It's poetrj^ and poetry never can be
an everydaj' thing. Any pair of fools can make love in the
open, and show the world they are tokened. The birds can
do that. But it was in our blood to make the thmg a secret
and a wonderful mystery. And we've proved the joy of it,
and it lifts us above the common people and makes us the
equal of the famous lovers in the story-books."

" There's such a lot of fun to it too," said Julitta. " I
often die of laughing very near to hear the maidens talk and
the married women sigh and shut their secrets away in their
hearts. And it's beautiful — beautiful — the trust on both
sides."

He nodded.

" I know that — the honour you pay me in that trust —
putting yourself in my hands without a chain."

" The chains are there," she said; " but they'll never gall
us. They're woven of little links, Sidney, links that don't
fret even a woman's tender flesh. The little confidences, the
little understandings, the shared hope, the shared faith, the
shared fun. Never did man and woman understand each
other so well or close as we."

" I'm sorry for Ned," he said presently, " because he's like
you, only without the brain power. He wants a ray of light
too, and a bit of freedom and the taste of the joy of living."

" You needn't be sorry for him," she said. " Of course, I
can't tell him I know all that's in his mind, because that's not
to play my part. I've got to be the frosty maiden, even to
him; but I understand him very well, and I know what he's
after. It's as funny as anything to see myself reflected in
Ned, or to feel him reflected in me. And he's hiding it too —
not for the delight of hiding it like you and me ; but for fear
of trouble if he doesn't. He's in love with Philippa Sleep —
little sly thing — and she's as sharp as a needle, whatever Ned
may be. Of course Ned can't afford to marry; but they'll be
tokened before long if she can bring it about."

" He's too young."

" He doesn't think so. They've got their plots, no doubt.
I'd love to help Ned. Perhaps some day I shall."

They wandered along together, sublimely content and

122 OLD DELABOLE

happy. Marriage would be the inevitable sequel: they ad-
mitted that; but they were pagans, and regarded the goal as
utterly unimportant contrasted with the sunny road that
meandered with many a twist and t\irn towards it.

Before they reached the open fields, and not until dusk had
fallen, they bade each other farewell, and returned to Delabole
by different roads.

CHAPTER XV

ned's holiday

The dressing-shed and saw-house at Delabole was a long,
lofty bviilding, full of light and air. Tramways ran into it
from every side, and conveyed the great blocks of raw slate
from the quarries to the hillmen. Aloft the beams of this
workshop were whitewashed, and a revolving rod, from the
giant steam-engine of the works, ran the length of the shed.
Wheels spun upon this rod at regular intervals, and from them
fell a system of endless bands to the machines beneath.
Some dropped to the saw-tables, some to the dressers sitting
behind their guillotines. The main tramway separated these
operations, and from time to time little tumbrils entered,
dragged by a horse. They brought fresh slate, and removed
the masses of splinters and debris. The air was misty with
slate-dust, and through the haze whirled the endless straps,
flashed the steel wheels from which they came and moved
the drab figures of a hundred men and boys. The prevalent
colour of the shed and all therein was a grey-blue, dim
on dull days, brightened from the glass roof on sunny
ones. Then golden light winnowed down through the dusty
air, flashed on the faces of the saw-tables, and struck brightly
along the surfaces of polished metal and the wet planes of the
slate. Beside each saw-table stood the great masses of native
rock, and men prepared them for the saw. First a steel
gouge made room for the cutter, then followed the picker,
and as it divided the main masses into thinner layers one
might mark the consummate skill and accuracy that accom-
panied the labour of the splitters. Old Moses Bunt, looking
like a muddy beetle in his working clothes, held the picker,
while a young giant smote with a great hammer upon its
head. Each blow crashed down within half an inch of Bunt's
hand. Had he quivered, or had the great hammer deviated
by a fraction from its perfect stroke, Moses, with fingers

123

124 OLD DELABOLE

smashed to pulp, would have been ready for hospital. But
the nerve and skill of both men made the possibility of acci-
dent remote. Anon the mass was flaked to a thickness for
the saw-table. The great slab was lifted upon it and wedged
there. The table started. Inch by inch the stone crept to
the revolving saw on the midst of the table. Then slate
touched steel; there was a hiss and a puff of vapour; a jet of
water played on the friction-point, and the saw slipped
through the stone as though it had been cardboard.

A terrific din filled the dressing-sheds, and each worker of
the hundred contributed his share of the noise in staccato
pulses against the steady roar of the engines that brought
life to the machinery and set the leathern belts whirling. To
the chatter of the saws, the rattle of the hammers and beetles,
and the shout of the workers, another sound was added when
the trolleys came; but the paramount, hideous noise that
punctuated all this uproar was the ceaseless jar and jolt of the
knives that edged the slate and trued it on the dressers'
guillotines. The crashing of the revolving knives hurt an
unfamiliar ear with its cruel, harsh percussion. Against it the
ringing of the hammers was a harmony and the shout of the
overhead wheels a song.

The ' hollaboys ' came and went, for ever collecting the
debris and rubbish into mounds for the trolleys ; while through
the great length of the shop, where the splitters sat, ran a
rhythmic uplifting of arm and fall of blow where beetle fell
on chisel — the slate-man's historic tools. To these workers
came the slabs from the saw, and with a broad-nosed chisel
and a heavy mallet of wood they split the slices of slate into
thinner slices, and divided and divided again until the laminae
had attained the requisite thinness.

Great expert knowledge is demanded by this work, and
good splitters know, by an instinct bred from experience, the
grain of every slab that falls to their share. The art is to
divide it in proper thickness, for if a block be split — say for
six slates — then, after the first splitting, a man is left with two
layers for three slates each. But the thickness of two will
break the thickness of one, and good slate is sacrificed. If
the splitter splits for eight slates, he gets two ' fours,' then
two ' twos.' The right-handed splitter works on his left
side and jjresses his mass of slate against his knee.

NED'S HOLIDAY 125

protected against the stone by a knee-leather — a shield
to prevent his trousers wearing out. The day's ' journey '
of an expert Avill represent from thirty to forty dozen of
slates ready for the dressing -machines, which square them on
the guillotines in various sizes, according to measure.

But slates are still cut or dressed by hand in the old way
sometimes, and certain men of the past generation were labour-
ing with ancient tools, though their results appeared small
beside the work of the guillotines.

Benny Moyse was one of these, and worked with old-time
' cutting-horse ' and ' zex.' The horse was a block of wood
fitted with a travel iron; the zex, a heavy knife, like a long
meat-chopper. Benny was cutting ' scantles,' the smallest
slate sent forth from Delabole.

Elsewhere Pooley Retallack worked at a guillotine. He
sat on a wooden seat, and the knife revolved in a trough
before him, while he held the slates to its edge and it bit them
true with a crash, lopping the ragged pieces into form. Round
and round it sped, and at each turn Pooley presented an edge
of the slate-flake. Four crashes and the slate was ' trued,' to
stand with a growing pile of others like itself, while from
beneath the knife oozed out a pile of fragments, to be gathered
up from time to time by the boys.

A previous operator at this guillotine had decorated the
wall behind and the beam above with pictures of football
players and noted boxers. The portraits doubtless served
to enliven his mind and cheer it ; but Pooley won nothing from
them. Steadily he worked, though his thoughts were far
away, and he proceeded with his mechanical labours while in
his brain moved sentences of prayer and phrases that had
flashed to him during the labours of religious composition.
For a great event dawned on the life of the young slate-
dresser. His grandfather had heard him preach, and ap-
proved. He had reported to the Trustees of the United
Methodists, and Pooley was aware that presently he would
be invited to address a congregation. Rapture and joy
filled him; he glowed at the great opportunity, and his
thoughts were never far from the coming ordeal. But as an
ordeal he hardly regarded it. He did not trust in himself,
but felt a very perfect belief that his words would flash
straight from the fountains of all wisdom, and that, though

126 OLD DELABOLE

the messenger was of no account, the message could not fail.
He opened his heart, lived with the Bible, and so identified
every waking hour with the tremendous privilege before him,
that real life, as represented by the squaring of slates, the
eating of food, his attitude to his family and fellow-creatures,
became a dream. He passed through it daily; but only when
the dark came and he was alone did reality awaken for him.
Then, on his knees, or in his bed, the preparation for his first
public prayer roused both heart and soul into full and sleep-
less energy.

Dreaming now, and turning over a choice of opening
phrases, the lad was reminded of reality and his metaphysical
mind brought up sharp against the physical force of steel
driven by steam.

He erred by a hair's-breadth in the handling of a slate, and
the whirling knife touched his knuckle. It was but a scrape,
but it tore the skin away to the bone. He dropped his slate,
stared at the guillotine as though it were a strange creature
never seen till now, and drew out a red cotton handkerchief,
which he bound round his hand. For some moments he
looked straight in front of him, moved by thoughts that made
him give an unconscious shudder. His glance at the knife
changed. Before, there had been resentment in it; now there
was interest. And then a very strange expression came into
the lad's dark face — an expression of respect, almost of awe.
His mind ran into a dark channel, for dangerous thoughts had
found it and strove to harbour there; but he thrust the im-
pulse away, and was just picking up another slate when
Benny Moyse, setting down his zex, lumbered over to him.

" What have you done ?" he asked, seeing the handker-
chief.

" Touched my hand — 'tis nothing."

" 'Nothing ?' Don't you say it's nothing," said the elder,
looking serious. " These here blasted things have made
more cripples than the quarry, and if I was beginning again
and had to choose between them and the pit, I'd go down.
You keep wider awake, my son, and mind there's a place
for everything, and the guillotines ain't the place for wool-
gathering."

Pooley was apologetic, and blamed himself.

" Don't mention it," he said. " They'd think me a fool."

NED'S HOLIDAY 127

" And they'd think right," declared Benny. " All work has
its dangers, though not much work here is dangerous, I
reckon. Carelessness makes more trouble than bad luck ; not
but what bad luck has a share. If you set a flawed slate
under the knife, for instance, it will burst and very likely put
your ej^e out, as happened to Aaron Thomas. Or in the pits
bad luck may drop a stone on a man's head and kill him.
But carelessness is different, and the man that gets under the
guillotine, or in reach of a blast, is careless."

" The Employers' Liability is good for all," said Pooley,
and Mr. Moyse admitted it.

" Most times it is, I grant. 'Tis man's duty to save the
fool from the consequences of his folly, because the staple of
men are fools, and must be treated with the same thought and
care as the clever ones. But we've got to shelter the clever
ones too — not against silliness, because they ain't silly, but
against bad luck, which is the Will of God and beyond the
wittiest human to escape if it is sent."

Then Moyse spoke upon the subject which had brought
him, concerning the ' scantles,' and while he was doing so,
Wilberforce Retallack appeared and approached his son.

" Hast heard anything of Ned since breakfast ?" he asked.
" He's not to work."

Pooley shook his head.

" No, father. He was down early and away. I haven't
seen him."

" More has mother, nor anybody."

" Not grandfather ?"

" No."

" His holiday was coming round. Maybe that's something
to do with it."

" For sure he'd have said something ?"

But Pooley was not certain.

" He likes a bit of mystery, I believe. I've heard him say
the only bit of fun you can have in Delabole is secrets."

Ned's father went elsewhere ; but it was not until the dinner-
hour that some light appeared on the disappearance of Ned.
Then Mr. Nuto brought it from the village.

" I've got a bit of a shock for you, Anna," he began, as they
sat down. " Your children was always marked by a very
original turn of mind, as we all know, and in the case of the

128 OLD DELABOLE

girls and Pooley — I say it to their faces — we've got nothing
against them; and I'm not going to blame Edward neither —
until we know more."

' ' What we do know," said Wilberforce, " is this : that Ned's
got his holiday beginning to-day; and what we also know is
that he never whispered a word about it. I've just been to
the office and found out he's off till Thursday."

" And the first time in his life that he did such a thing
without telling us," added Ned's mother.

"That's nothing," declared Grandfather Nute. "Any
young lad would do that much ; but now I must tell you that
Ned's took a friend with him on his holiday; and that's very
unusual and out of the common."

" Who is it ?" asked Edith. "I should have thought he
was a lot more likely to go off by himself."

" Here comes in the originality," said IVIr. Nute calmly;
" and I want you to remember, Anna, and you, girls, and you,
Wilberforce, that evil be to him who evil thinks. Ned's been
brought up in a good, hard school, and he's a clean-living,
clean-thinking boy; but he's fearless, and because a thing has
never been done before, it don't follow that to do it is wrong
or unrighteous."

" What on earth are you going to come to, grandfather ?"
asked Julitta.

" Just this. I've been round to the Sleeps for a newspaper,
to see if the Liberal got in at Truro, and I'm sorry to say he
didn't; but it's like this: Philippa Sleep is a very great friend
of Ned's, and she left a letter for her mother; and I'm going
to see the mother after dinner and lift her to a higher point
of view. At present she's quick to think evil and fear the
worst."

" But Ned ?"

" Well, Anna, I'll call upon you not to think evil neither.
In a word, they two have gone off together. Philippa says
that they have long wanted to have a bit of fun, and they've
miched off to Plymouth, as brother and sister, to spend a
pound or two and see the sights. I grant 'tis a very out-of -the -
way invention on Master Ned's part; but I don't see we've
got any call to look like you're looking now, Wilberforce, or
to cry neither, Anna."

" I'm not crying," answered his daughter; " but I'm a good

NED'S HOLIDAY 129

bit cast down, because for anything like that to happen in our
family is a facer."

They argued long uj)on Ned's unconventional achievement,
and while Poolej^ took his cue from IMr. Nute and was merciful,
his heart secretly condemned. Edith did not hesitate to say
that Ned was wrong and that Philippa was ruined ; but Julitta
protested at so harsh a view.

" How can you say that, or think it ?" she asked. " Why
do your thoughts always run that way ? They're only a boy
and girl stretching out for a little of the joy of life. And why
not 1 And why can't they go and have a lark at Plymouth
without all the world saying they're disgraced for ever ? I
call it mean and small and nasty-minded. There's nothing
mean and small about Ned, and because he just does what his
instinct prompts, and because he cares a lot for Philippa and
wants her to have a great time with him, so that his own fun
may be doubled, why should we all think the end of the world
has come ?"

Wilberforce flushed and his jaw grew hard.

" You're as lax as him seemingly," he answered, " and I
little like to hear such easy opinions in your mouth. It's
very well for a cold and frosty nature like yours to talk so;
and I'd rather think you argued from ignorance of human
nature than from lightness of mind; but be that as it may,
men and women in the lump will judge this one way, and only
one way. Edith's right: the girl's done for herself."

" It isn't as if she was a fool, either," declared Anna,
" She's a very sharp piece, and knows perfectly well what
this means, and how it will be understood. She'll hope to
catch Ned on it, of course, and so he'll have a millstone round
his neck for evermore."

Some heat was struck out of the argument, and it might be
said that Julitta and her grandfather found themselves in a
minority. With the old man Anna and her husband did not
attempt to argue : it was enough that they hinted pretty openly
that he was sinking beneath his creed in taking so favourable
a view of such a discreditable proceeding ; but they resented
Julitta's support of her pleasure-loving brother, and presently
her father told her to shut her mouth. She obeyed, and the
meal was finished in general silence.

Then Grandfather took his hat and returned to the home of

9

130 OLD DELABOLE

the Sleeps. There a conventional attitude obtained towards
the runaways, and from their exijerience of life did Mr. Sleep
and Sarah, his sister, judge the incident. They blamed the
lad; while Jane, Philippa's mother, adopted a very fatalistic
attitude. But she wept and exhibited sore distress. She
was a j'oung woman with a face stronger than her character.
She had deep-set, blue eyes, one of which squinted, a broad
brow, and dark eyebrows. Only her pretty, small mouth and
chin reported her truly.

" We must put our faith in their upbringing, and pray to
their Maker to keep them straight, though, for my part, 'tis a
poor chance," said Mr. Sleep.

" Not at all, and I wonder at you," replied Grandfather.
" The Law — even the Law — holds a man innocent till he's
proved guilty; and if this young pair have been properly
behaved at Delabole, why should they misbehave at Ply-
mouth ?"

" 'Tis human nature," answered John Sleep. " When a

man and woman, or boy and girl, run away But I won't

pursue it."

" Little good to pray to God to change the blood in our
veins," said Philippa's mother. " She's her father again — a
rash and reckless thing — and so like as not she'll pay men
back what men have paid me, and break somebody's heart
same as her father broke mine."

" My dear creature !" cried Grandfather. " Idden the
Lord of Hosts stronger than a drop of blood in a maiden's
veins ? Can't Him as turned water into wine turn bad
blood into good ? You do make me wild, Jane ! 'Tis mad-
ness to look at the childer through the sins of the fathers,
instead of through the might of God Who made 'em. Wasn't
you her mother ? Ain't your blue eyes in her head ? Then
why not your virtues in her heart 1"

" Because they ain't, Gran'father Nute," answered Jane;
" and what if they were ? He'd soon have made her like
himself. My virtues be only woman's virtues — shared with
my donkey. Patience — everlasting patience — that's all."

" 'Tis contrary to nature that the young should be patient,"
answered Mr. Nute; " but it ain't contrary to nature for the
j^oung to be good. They often are; for my part, I'm sur-
prised to find how good. I'll lay my flute they'll come back

NED'S HOLIDAY 131

as they went; and if 'twas a recognized thing in the world
that a boy and girl could go pleasui-ing together without
shame, then 'tis a gain to the race and to freedom in general.
Two's company and three's none, and nobody knows that
better than the Devil."

" Ah, my old dear, if we was all so fine and high-minded as
you, and put such faith in human nature, it might be so,"
answered John; " but the Devil's never very far off when a
man and woman get together on their own."

" 'Tis my way to back human nature," answered the veteran.
" We must judge of it as we find it, and I've got a great
respect for it. I believe Ned and Philippa love one another
so nice as need be, and I also believe, along of their education
and so on, that they are quite alive to what they owe them-
selves and the parish. I talked to Ned awhile ago, as I
promised to do, Sarah, and he opened out a bit. I don't say
he's a saint; but who is a saint at eighteen ? But because
you ain't a saint, it don't follow you're a sinner."

" And if he is, charity covers a multitude," murmured Sarah.

]\Ii\ Nute beamed upon her.

" You always say the right word in season," he declared;
" and 'tis a very unusual and splendid thing to see an old
maid — from choice, however, as we all know — so large-
minded."

Then he and Miss Sleep strove to cheer Philippa 's mother;
but they did not succeed.

" They come home Thursday, and then we shall know the
worst," she said.

" Don't you say it, or think it, Jane," answered Grand-
father. " Such is my opinion of them young people, that
I'd have a band waiting to welcome them and congratulate
them on a bold stroke for freedom. Yes, I would. Mind
you, I don't say I should feel like that if they were up home
in their thirties or forties. That's the fearsome age, when
passion roars like a raging lion, and men and women have
learned the cunning of life ; but these children — no — I believe,
on my conscience, that they've just gone off for a frolic and
ain't up to no more mischief than a pair of lambs playing in
a field."

" If I ain't a grandmother inside a year, I'll believe you,"
answered Jane Sleep; " but very well I know I shall be."

CHAPTER XVI

THE WRITING ON THE EAETH

Great things may take their date from small ones, and Ned
Retallack's escapade was always remembered by his family
in connection with the dawn of a much mightier business.

Wilberforce spoke with Tom Hawkey concerning the inci-
dent on the following day, and was surprised in some measure
to find that the manager did not regard the incident with very
great indignation.

" Time enough to judge him when he comes back," said
Tom. " Whatever happens, don't fret yourself. We want
all your energy and will-power at the quarries. I was in them
yesterday, and I shall be glad to meet you and Nanjulian at
the ' Grey Abbey ' to-morrow."

" What's doing ?"

" Well, we're in far enough. I've raised the question of
tunnelling as they do in Wales; but I know we like our own
ways, and Delabole has always been worked in the open."

Retallack undertook to meet Hawkey at noon on the
following day and investigate the workings of the ' Grey
Abbey ' seam; but the appointment was never kept, for a
greater matter soon occupied the heads of the quarry.

Wilberforce left the office and proceeded presently to
where two men with an air-drill were cutting holes for blast-
ing. They hung over the eastern edge of the quarries, and
were breaking ojien the slate bed of a working that had been
long neglected. In the ancient archives of Old Delabole — a
mass of documents and memoranda from the past upon which
Tom Hawkey often pored — was mention of these seams.
They extended round a region called ' Wesley's Hole,' because
here, a hundred years earlier in the history of the quarries,
John Wesley had been wont to preach to the men in their
dinner hour.

Retallack witnessed a blast and examined the naked blue

132

I

THE WRITING ON THE EARTH 133

face of the stone when the work was done. But the slate was
of a character too hard for useful purpose, and he directed
them to make further examination ten yards lower. They
went for ropes, and meantime he travelled round the lip of
the quarry, over great mounds of shining debris, across which
narrow tracks, stamped by the feet of the men, ran here and
there. The day was fine, but a thunderstorm had swept the
district by night, and a good deal of water had found its way
into the pit. Beneath, the wheels and pumps toiled to
reduce it.

To the north of the pit the railway runs, and here
Retallack passed over a barren stretch of naked earth above
a cHfE five hundred feet in height. From this point the whole
immense amphitheatre of the quarries swept in a circle
before him. On the opposite side were the manager's office
and sundry shops, where the larger slates were worked. To
the right came the great plane that sloped into the quarries
and carried the main artery of the whole. Above them rose
the dressing-sheds and engines; while to his right wound
crags and scarps that extended to where Retallack's own house
nestled on the side of the pit. At hand towered the pappot-
head, to which steel ropes ascended from the ' Grey Abbey '
seam under the precipice on which he stood.

Wilberforce saw all, but he perceived nothing. His mind
was turned in upon itself and occupied with his own affairs.
For some time he stood inert, concerned entirely with his son
Ned, and the attitude that religion demanded he should
adopt towards him. Then he drifted forward with his hands
in his pockets and his neck bent. His face was turned to the
ground, and he walked slowly some twelve or fifteen yards
from the edge of the cliff.

The time was early autumn and the hour approaching noon.

Suddenly he stopped, bent his eyes on the earth, and
started back as though he had been about to tread upon a
snake. A layman's glance would have marked nothing but
muddy soil and debris of stone scattered over it; but Retal-
lack's eye saw more. He knelt down and stared at what
appeared to be a black hair stretched on the ground. So like
a hair it looked, that he made sure it was not. Then he rose
and, stooping low, quartered the cliff-top carefully for fifty
yards, and left not a square foot of the surface unexamined.

134 OLD DELABOLE

Two more of the hair-lines he found. They were disposed at
a considerable distance from the first discovery, and lay
farther inward from the quarry edge.

The man had gone purple in the face, partly from con-
tinued stooping and partly from the tremendous emotions
excited by his discovery. His feet shook under him and his
breathing became difficult. He panted and sat down suddenly
upon a shelf of slate, where the ground was broken by a two-
foot step. For a moment he closed his eyes; then he opened
them again, drew out a pocket-handkerchief, and mopped his
wet brow. He looked round him, and his expression was
dazed. He drew deep breaths that lifted his big chest; he
stared blankly at the earth. The sound of blasting ascended
from far below. First came the thunder of the explosion,
then the hiss and rattle of falling stone, lastly the echo and
reverberation as the noise swept round the quarry and faintly
died. The explosion aroused him, and he came to himself,
stood up, and drew a whistle from his pocket. Thrice he i
blew it, and one of the ' hollaboys ' at the pappot-head
marked him and ran to do his bidding.

" Get round to the landing-stage," he said, " and stop Mr.
Tonkin and Mr. Nanjulian. They'll be coming up in a minute.
And tell them I want them on the top of the ' Grey Abbey.' "

A steam-hooter announced noon as he spoke, and the boy
ran off, to intercept Noah Tonkin and Retallack's colleague
when they reached the surface. Five minutes later they
came up in the same trolley, received their message, and
proceeded to join Wilberforce where he stood on the cliff.
Behind them, along a path beside the railway, strings of men
were hastening away to dinner, and Wilberforce said nothing
until they were gone. Then he spoke.

" I can't trust mj^self to-day," he declared. " I'm not
very well, and I've got private troubles on my mind. I'm
hoping my eyes are out of order, and that I'm seeing what's
not there. Just look this way, you two, and tell me if there's
anything the matter with me, or if it's true."

He had marked the hair-lines with stones, and now let
Nanjulian and Tonkin see if they, too, observed them. They
did. Then only in lesser degree than Retallack they exhibited
their alarm.

" My God ! it's all up— it's ' good-bye,' " said Tonkin.

i;

THE WRITING ON THE EARTH 135

" This means the end of the ' Grey Abbey '; and that means
the end of Delabole !"

To the older minds the tremendous discovery promised to
put a period to their ancient industry; to Nanjulian, one of a
younger generation, the impact of this discovery, while crush-
ing enough, did not unman him.

" You never know how these things are going," he said.
" It may be a good fall."

Retallack was impatient.

" Man alive, don't talk foolishness," he answered. " This
can't be a good fall. At best it's the end of ' Grey Abbey ';
at worst it's the end of the quarries."

" However did you come to find 'em ?" asked Noah.
Limp and dejected, he sat on the ground, with his ej^es fixed
before him where the phenomena appeared.

" Just by a mumchance I was passing this way — a thing I
don't do once in six months ; and my head was down and my
thoughts the Lord knows where. And I saw 'em."

Nanjulian was measuring the distance to the quarry edge
and casting up and down. His anxiety began to increase.

" It'll be a big thing — a fearful big thing," he said. " It
may be a million tons — it can't be less than half a million."

" Has Mister Tom heard tell ?" asked Tonkin.

" Not yet," answered Retallack. " I wanted to see if I
was in my senses."

" Wipe 'em out and keep dumb and see how it is in a week,"
said Noah ; but Wilberf orce declined.

" What's the sense of that ? ' Wipe 'em out !' Have this
turned your head ? You might as soon talk of wiping the
sim out of the sky. There's no power in Nature can hold up
this cliff now, nor yet in man."

" Prayer can, however," said Tonkin.

" Nor prayer neither," answered Retallack, " for God don't
work miracles no more. Only His hand could stop this ; but
His hand won't be put out. The cliff's coming down."

" 'Tis the shadow of death over Delabole," groaned Noah
Tonkin. " 'Twill fill the whole pit, I shouldn't wonder, and
then we shall be forgotten out of the land."

" Hawkey must know," declared Nanjulian. " He'll be
gone to his home now. We'd better run right along and tell
him, Wil."

136 OLD DELABOLE

Bidding Tonkin saj^ nothing for the moment, they let him
depart; then they started for the manager's house, a quarter
of a mile distant.

" We was to have met him to-morrow and looked into what
we were doing below," said Wilberforce. " He began to think
we'd gone in about far enough. 'Tis a shattering piece of
history — the end of the tale in my opinion. Give me your
arm, Sidney; I be gone so weak as a goose-chick."

He stopped to rest after they had walked two hundred
yards.

" ' The Lord's doing, and marvellous in our eyes,' " he said.

CHAPTER XVII

CALAMITY

Foe the space of a week silence was kept respecting the
pending catastrophe; then the hair-lines had expanded and
were a tliird of an inch across. They extended over a surface
of seventy yards, and indicated pretty accurately the nature
of the imminent disaster. The overburden of the quarry was
coming in, and the fall was unfortunately destined to sub-
merge the ' Grey Abbey ' seam. Months might elapse before
the landslijD: Hawkey gave it four, and Retallack calculated
that it would take six; but the end was inevitable, and no
phj^sical powers within the control of man could have held
up that enormous cliff-face. The greatest fall ever recorded
in the history of Delabole was coming; but when it would
come remained a matter of doubt. The writing on the earth
might be expected to afford data and tell the nearer approach
of the downfall from week to week.

According to their minds and bent of perception, men
measured the doom hanging over the works. Some appeared
quite incapable of believing it at all. They put it from them,
as a bad dream at waking. They refused the evidence of
their eyes and their reason, and for a little while pretended
that so colossal a disaster was beyond the power of Nature to
effect. Only the voices of their wives brought them to their
senses, for the women very correctly measured the truth as
soon as they heard it. They learned Avhat those best able to
judge had to say, and for the most part took the darkest
view. Some, however, were not so cast down, and some,
though they dared not show by any sign that they welcomed
the catastrophe, in reality did so. For at worst it meant the
end of Delabole; at best a probable crippling of the output
and decrease of the staff. Therefore a feminine spirit here
and there, who longed to be free of the place and begin life
anew, guessed that her men would soon be called to seek

137

138 OLD DELABOLE

work in another sphere, and at heart was glad. These, how-
ever, were exceptions. For the most part, as the full sig-
nificance of the future was grasped. Old Delabole grew pro-
foundly anxious. An active season of lamentation marked
the first reception of the news. The folk took their trouble to
their God, and the chapels were full of it. Then, as the cracks
in the earth steadily grew wider, a period of apathy followed
the first stroke. The larger number of the men were content
to do nothing but labour on and find in work distraction for
their thoughts; but some, looking ahead, already began to
seek fresh fields. There was a rumour that many designed
to emigrate with their Mdves and families to America, yet few
individuals admitted this when asked if it were so.

Many turned to the leaders and strove to win comforting
words from Tom Hawkey, Retallack, or Nanjulian; but the
manager and foremen were unusually occupied at this season,
and only Wilberforce permitted himself any spoken opinions.
He took the darkest possible view from the first, and did not
attempt to hide his hopelessness. He spoke no encouraging
word, and his family endured much from him, for he was ill,
and his mind acted on his body and made him worse. His
pessimism caused men to fly him, and Nanjulian's silence
also offered little consolation. It was to Hawkey the quarries
turned, and when he spoke he always maintained an even
mind, and heartened the men rather than cast them down.

His activities were devoted to two points, and one the many
eyes that were now upon him could appreciate ; but the other
formed matter for debate, and there were different theories
respecting it. His first and obvious care was the coming fall.
Upon that depended present work, and the length of weeks or
months it might still be safe to have men and machinery in
the ' Grey Abbey ' workings. Daily the manager visited the
head of the cliffs and measured the opening clefts. The earth
movement was irregular, and after a rapid preliminary advance
it hung fire for a considerable time. Within a month from
Retallack 's discovery the seams gaped three inches wide;
then for a month they made scarcely an appreciable increase.
But then came a period of heavy rain, and the rifts steadily
opened. As far as Hawkey could at present judge, it would
be several months before the first danger threatened. There-
fore he turned the whole strength of the rock men's forces on

CALAMITY 139

to the ' CTrey Abbey ' run, and kept as many working there
as could find room upon the face of the slate.

Immense activity marked the quarries. The men welcomed
labour, and were glad to escape from their homes and the
torrent of anxious questions their wives poured upon them.
And none laboured harder than Hawkey. His mind was
hidden indeed, and the masses of the men could only speculate
upon what passed therein; but his body had never been so
active, and his presence cheered the workers. He was in the
quarry as regularly as the rock-men. He was everywhere —
above and below. He proceeded alone, and once, high up on
an old working, found himself in difficulties, having climbed to
a ledge from which he could neither move up nor down. He
signalled with his whistle, and a rope was soon lowered to
him from above.

The object of these inquiries was not at first apparent, nor
could any but Retallack or Nanjulian understand why Hawkey
consumed sleepless nights with the quarry archives. There
were masses of documents no living man had ever read.
They extended back for more than three hundred years, and
recorded the history of Delabole from earliest times. Into
these he now plunged, and lived with them while others slept.
The history of every forgotten hole and corner of the quarries
he strove to collect, with the tale of all it had to tell and the
reason for its desertion. Weeks of research proved unavailing,
but from time to time memoranda that cheered him would
come to light from the mass, and the next day would see him
climbing in the quarries alone, or with one workman for
company. He needed a helping hand on these explorations,
and it happened that often he chose Ned Retallack to wait
upon him. His adventure on the cliff-face warned him of
peril that he had forgotten ; so Ned was generally in attendance,
and once Hawkey spoke to him as they went to work.

" Your father told me about your pranks on holiday," he
said. " Young people can't do that sort of thing without
making talk, if not trouble."

" I swear to God I'm straight, Mister Tom," the j^outh
answered. " I'm very fond of Philippa Sleep, and, come she's
wife-old, I'm going to marrj^ her. And we had the time of our
Uves, and a pity more chaps don't do the same. You can
learn a terrible lot in Plymouth worth knowing, and wo did.

140 OLD DELABOLE

We went to nine picture palaces and three theatres, and saw
the soldiers and the battleships, and had a moonlight trip to
the Eddy stone Lighthouse, and enjoyed ourselves something
tremendous. And I looked after her like her brother, and
she's told her peojile the same; and they haven't believed it,
though it's true."

" I do believe it," said Hawkey. " You've done a very
unusual sort of thing, and if the girl's father was home, no
doubt you'd get your jacket dusted for your fun; but I believe
you're telling me the truth, Ned; and if you are, then I can't
say that you've done anything very wicked from my point
of view."

" I wish you could make father and mother feel the same.
Only my sister Julitta and my grandfather are on my side.
I've been thankful to this coming trouble, because it's dis-
tracted their silly minds a bit. Mother thinks what I done
was a lot worse than the quarry falling in, and so does Edith
and my brother Poole}^ Father balances one against t'other
— the fall that's coming and what I've done — and don't see
a pin to choose between them for horror and terror. He's
fearful down-daunted, and talks of nothing but death and the
grave."

Hawkey, however, only heard that Edith had taken a
sinister view of her brother's escapade. He did not answer,
but reflected upon that.

He knew something of her character, and was aware that
she took an introspective view of life, but she had never struck
him as a girl with a narrow bent of mind, or one given to great
strictness in criticism of other people. She was wont even to
smile at her brother Pooley's outlook upon life.

He speculated somewhat drearily of how love alters environ-
ment. He was humble enough, yet suspected that any
approach to a censorious outlook in Edith might have been
modified if she could have cared for him. But henceforth
Wesley Bake would help to mould her character and influence
her point of view. He knew the miller for an honourable
man, and guessed that certain disasters connected with
Wesley's dead brother had done their part to make him more
strict and tender in all matters of justice and plain dealing
than had otherwise been the case. Hawkey was reserved
even with himself. There were some subjects he resolutely

CALAMITY 141

put nvray when they knocked at the arcannm of his heart.
And Edith was one of them now. He had lost her after she
seemed to stand at the verj^ portals of his Ufe, and the blow
had been very severe, for the man knew how to love. She
was the onlj^ woman for him; life revolved around her for a
season, and when she departed he had drunk a bitter cup
to the dregs. But of a stoic spirit, he rebelled against the
shadow of self-pity, shut his grief out of his own sight, and
fought to frustrate and conquer the empty outlook, the dull
pang that throbbed through his mind daily at waking. He
reiterated words of reason to his baffled heart, reminded it
that he loved her and desired the woman's highest good,
asserted that Wesley Bake was a better, because a happier
and more contented man than himself, and would doubtless
make for Edith a finer husband than ever he could. She had
a tinge of Celtic melancholy in her mind, and that he was not
built to banish. Indeed, he might have intensified it, for the
streak of sobriety which belonged to his own character grew
deeper rather than less. But Bake was different. He took
happiness where he found it, and now, in the halcyon hours
of his successful love, was a joj^ful man well calculated to
brighten Edith's outlook and lift her from the somewhat
morbid fancies that often haunted her spirit. It was very
good for her to have won the miller, and what was good for
her was good for Tom Hawkey. vSo he argued and faced his
own loss with the repetition of this assurance.

Now he came back to himself, and he and Ned Retallack
went about their business.

" I'm going over every one of the old galleries," he said,
" and I'm leaving my mark where I shall open the slate later.
There's coming something that's going to stop work for a
good term of years on the north face; but I'm not satisfied
that because we've forgotten the rest of the quarry of late it
deserved to be forgotten. Time will show that. You can
keep this information to yourself for the present, Ned. I'm
reading up the old days in the quarries, and what was doing
here in the far past. And very interesting it is."

The youth felt flattered at this confidence, and his heart
warmed to Hawkey. Thus did the manager win lesser men
to himself — with no calculated effort, but by his own nature
and his attitude to his fellows. There was a trick in him to

142 OLD DELABOLE

trust men for choice, yet thanks to some native quality of
reading character, he seldom erred in putting trust where
the event proved him mistaken.

The approaching calamity continued to absorb the thoughts
of Delabole, and a European war had interested the c^uarry-
men less than the widening cracks above the north face. For
a time these ceased to open. They were now a foot across;
but Hawkey judged the trouble increased below, and so it
proved, for with the advent of some heavy rain the rifts again
began to stretch. In a fortnight they had increased by six
inches.

Company met at the ' One and All ' on a Saturday night,
and the situation was debated by Richard Male, the landlord,
by Jack Keat and Noah Tonkin, by Benny Moyse and his
friend Moses Bunt, by Antipas Keat, the baker, and others.

" It's all over with the works, and we know it, anJ 'tis
silliness to pretend different," said Tonkin. " And if I wasn't
so old, I'd go to America to-morrow."

" A good few of the young men are looking into it," declared
Male, refilling Tonkin's mug. " There's been a foreigner
chap very busy among 'em."

" There has, and Sidney Nanjulian turned him out of the
dressing-shop yesterday," asserted Jack Keat. " He says
it will be plenty of time for that after the rock comes down
and we see where we are."

" AU the same, you can't blame men with wives and
families for looking on ahead, surely ?" asked Male. " A man
don't sit down and wait for doom with a woman and childer
to work for."

" You trust Hawkey," advised the baker. " I'm a pretty
good judge of folk, I believe, and if he haven't thrown in the
towel, 'tis no sense you others doing it."

" It don't depend on him. It depends on the adventurers,"*
declared Moses Bunt. " They've got the last word. And if
they be full up with Delabole and won't put in no more money,
then it's got to go. And if I was one of them, I'd cut a loss
and have no more truck with it."

" I hope they think different," retorted Jack Keat. " When
you consider the dividends we've paid the last five years, I
don't see they've got much to grumble at. There's always

* Adventurers — shareholders.

CALAMITY 143

ups and downs in works, whether 'tis slate, or iron, or tin, or
biscuits, or bacon, or anything else; and you've got to take
the rough with the smooth, and remember there's no human
outlook without its rainy day."

" Adventurers be scarey folk," said Antipas. " Thej^ ain't
got no bowels for anything but dividends. Old Delabole
idden a charity institution, and if the managers tell 'em they
can say good-bye to any interest on their money for ten year
and ax 'em for more cash to keep the thing afloat, they'll chuck
it. And I don't blame 'em."

" What about all the wives and children, Antipas ?" asked
Tonkin. " 'Tis a Christian land still by all accounts, and
Christianity reaches farther than Delabole."

" Not if 3'ou go East," answered Benny Moyse. " Christi-
anity's a dead thing in London."

" And besides that, the people with money in the quarries
have got Avives and childer so well as us. You must remember
that," said Richard Male. " It never was and never will be
that a man puts the welfare of another man's family above
his own."

" It's the pensions be fretting my gizzard," growled Mr.
Bunt. " I'm coming to my pension time, and, of course, the
first that will be struck is the old. They'll go into bankruptcy,
or some suchlike damned contrivance, and everybody will
get a bit off the bones but us old men."

They exhausted the subject, and retraced ancient problems.

" There's a fault somewhere. The thing didn't ought to
have happened," said Beiuiy Moyse. " Here we was on the
track of fortune and too greedy, in my opinion. Overburden
be overburden, and 'tis the natural instinct of overburden to
come in if you don't watch it."

" Such stone, too," murmured Jack Keat pensively.
" 'Twas a joy to handle it apart from its worth. The best
that ever came out of Delabole, and that's saying a lot. Rings
like a bell if you touch it, and splits clean as peas out of a pod.
The greatest run that ever was."

" We ain't done yet," promised Moyse, " The end must
come; but we'll fetch out a good few thousand tons before
we're called off."

" That's as may bo, Benny. One thing's certain. Mister
Tom won't take no risk; We shall stop a good bit before the

144 OLD DELABOLE

fall. He won't run it fine. That would be murder against
him if anything happened," answered Keat.

" I dare say the adventurers would keep us there till the
earth began to drop, if they could," said Bunt. " It may be
dangerous now. Only God knows when it's going to come
down; and He won't tell us. He's smashed a good few
honest men as feared and obeyed Him before to-day."

Jack Keat shook his head.

" You let your thoughts run away with j'ou as usual,
Moses. You forget the Tower of Siloam. The just and the
unjust be taken, according to the Almighty's pleasure, and
it ain't for j^ou, or any other worm, to question that right be
at the bottom."

" The ToM'cr of Siloam ain't no consolation, if you find
yourself buried under fifty ton of earth, or your head blown
off by djaiamite," answered IVIr. Bunt. " And I always have
said, and will again — at Judgment, if need be — that I don't
see eye to eye with God Almighty in the matter of sudden
death. We pray against it, but 'tis His favourite trick and
common as dirt. And if 'tis wrong for us mortal men to
avoid it, and if 'tis murder in you or me to send a fellow-
creature to his account with his sins on his head, then 'tis
murder for God Almighty to do it. Wrong be ^vrong, and
what's wrong for a man be wrong for a God; and 'tis no good
for God to say to me, ' You do what I tell you and not what I
do,' because I won't hear it from Him. So now, then !"

A moment's silence greeted these staggering observations.
The men were uneasy. They looked to Jack Keat as a
leading religious thinker. He panted and prepared to wrestle
with such defiance.

" Good Powers ! you're a atheist, Moses Bunt !" he gasped.

" Nothmg of the sort," answered the old man. " I'm as
good as you — and better, though I don't make such a noise
to chapel. I know there's a God so well as I know there's a
nose on my face; but I'm not going to knuckle under, and I
ain't a worm, though you called me one just now. And don't
you call me a worm again, Keat, because I won't have it.
We've got a right to the brains in our heads, ain't we ? And
if our brains be of opinion that another party, high or low,
is going wrong, then we've got a right to say so. 'Tis cowar-
dice and hypocrisy to bleat the bettermost be always right,

CALAMITY . 145

just because they be the bettermost. We'll say our say, and
we ban't afeared to say the King on his throne may be out of
bias here and there. And what's God but the King of kinss ?
And if my brain be wrong to say, 'tis a pity He kills men,
and leaves their wives and children to the parish, and sends
their girls on the streets, then I ax you who gave me that brain
and who built it to think as I do, and look at facts and decide
according ?"

" It ain't your brain, 'tis the maggot in it, and that maggot
goes by the name of Satan," answered Keat stoutly. " The
Lord have given us thinking parts, and, for His own good
reasons, above our knowledge, He's given Satan the latchkey
to 'em. And when you be tempted to doubt the watchful
mercy and far-sighted loving-kindness of your Maker, that's
only to say you've let the Dowl pop in and not kicked him
out again."

The landlord was looking at the clock. He much disliked
all argument on religious subjects, but since his customers
seldom argued about anything else, he was obliged to tolerate
their favourite themes. To-night, however, he smelled
danger, and was exceedingly thankful when closing-time
came.

Keat, Tonkin, and Bunt went out together, still arguing,
and after they were gone Mr. Male turned to Antipas Keat,
who remained a moment to finish his glass.

" I've seen danger in that hateful old man these many
days," he said, " and I could wish, for his own sake, the grave
would close over him while there's yet hope for his eternity.
He's drifting into sin terrible fast, however, and if he's spared
much longer he'll go to the wrong place as sure as he's born."

" He'll take good care to keep on the windy side," prophesied
the baker. " For the sake of his baggering old slate in the
churchyard he'll do that. Why, if it was whispered against
him the man wasn't a Christian, he well knows they'd never
put it up."

10

CHAPTER XVIII

EIGHT AND WRONG

Edith Retallack went to Newhall Mill on a Sunday in the
fall of the year. She had promised Wesley to decide the time
for their marriage, but circumstances were such that she felt
in no mood to do so.

" I can't yet — life's too uncertain," she said, when he met
her by the mill -pool and kissed her under the alders. " You
know it isn't I who hold back; but everything seems to be
happening at once. There's the quarry coming in, and we
don't seem to be able to breathe at Delabole till that happens
and we know the worst And in our home it is the same.
Father is ill — worse than he will say — and mother's fretted
about it. Then there's the business of Ned — they can't feel
the same to him again, and it has made a cloud. And Julitta
takes his part, which they don't like. And grandfather's
inclined to take Ned's part too. And I don't know what I
should do without you, Wesley."

He comforted her and they went in together.

" Relations are always the most difficult fellow-creatures,"
he said. " Because they reckon they're justified in putting
aside all the common decencies of reserve that lie between us
and other people. They always want your secrets, and
think they've a right to know how you stand at the bank, and
with the Lord, and everybody else. But if there's one person
more than another that you ought to feel on tender ground
with, it's a relation. And that's why I'm glad I haven't got
many."

Mrs. Bake met Edith with friendship. She had learned to
know her better, and found that they saw alike. For the
most part the younger woman's outlook was large and placid,
but both Nancy Bake and her daughter-in-law, Susan, the
mother of the two little girls, went somewhat in awe of her
learning and wisdom.

146

RIGHT AND WRONG 147

They did not know Edith's attitude to the recent adventures
of Ned and Philippa, but now they were to learn it.

Judging that she would regard the matter much as Wesley
did, they took it lightly.

" The pair of 'em was in here last week full of their fun.
My word ! what they saw. Didn't waste a minute. A
proper education Plymouth can be, seemingly."

" And so clever with it. Pretended they was brother and
sister," said Susan. " I lay now other young people will
foUow their example. And why not ?"

But the visitor stared.

" I wonder at you, Susan," she said. " Surely if they can't
see it was an outrageous thing, that's no reason to aj^plaud
them ?"

" There was no harm you can put a name to."

" How do we know that ? The mere act of pretending was
the harm. Thej' knew they were doing what nobody would
have agreed to let them do. And so they went by stealth.
All stealth is harm. And as for the rest, how can you take
their word for it, when they don't know the difference between
right and wi'ong ?"

" They must know that," said Nancy.

" Ned says openly he doesn't. And that's enough to break
mother's heart."

Wesley spoke.

" It's a difficult subject, and you can have different
opinions about it. Some people have got no sense of smell,
and some no sense of music, and some no sense of sin."

" Yes, it's that," declared his betrothed, " and it's interest-
ing in a way. Ned's got no sense of sin at all. He doesn't
feel that he was born a sinner — he actually said he didn't,
and mother wept to hear him. I don't believe he knows
what sin is — not even deadly sin. It takes a mind like
Pooley's to shade off sin and give every sort its proper height
and depth. You wouldn't expect that from everyday
people. But not to know sin when you see it, and not to
have a sense of it when j'ou do it; and that after being bred
in Christianity for two thousand years ! Julitta's the same
in a sort of way."

" It's commoner than you think for," declared Wesley.
" I've known a lot without any sense of sin. My brother was

148 OLD DELABOLE

such a man — to say it kindly. The sense of sin is dying out
of people, by the look of it."

" Then Christianity will die out of them," answered Edith,
" for the sense of sin is the backbone of Christianity. That's
what it works on. Without it we should just go back to the
pagans, who felt no sense of sin. They allowed for crime and
passion and suchlike great impulses, but they didn't under-
stand sin."

" A great escape for them," murmured Susan. " But it's
true that there be those about us who feel the same. No doubt
they wouldn't dare to confess it; but there it is. Take my
childer. Mary's a proper little Christian, and will sob her
heart out and fairly yowl to God for forgiveness if she's done
■oTong — and it ain't once in a month o' Sundays she do — but
Betty — a fair tartar she can be. She miched from school last
week, along with some other naughty ones, and went gathering
filberds. Brought home a pinny-full, and can't see to this
minute what she'd done."

" Surely you and the schoolmistress could make her see ?"
asked Edith.

" Not us. Miss Male made her feel, however; for she was
whipped the next day, and came home like a little devil. 'Tis
no good making 'em feel, in my opinion, if you can't make 'em
see too."

" If Miss Male couldn't make her see, she's a fool," said
Edith. " Her cane covers a lot of her own ignorance."

Susan applauded this.

" And so I say, and, but for mother here, I'd have gone up
to the school-house and give her a bit of my mind," she
declared.

" I believe in the whip," declared Wesley. " I had it, and
am none the worse. We was talking about right and ^vrong,
and I do honestly believe they're often very hard to part,
however good a Christian you may be."

" You oughtn't to say that," replied Edith. " The fault
is in us, not Christianity, if we feel a doubt "

" Perhaps so," he admitted, " but when you get two points
of view it often confuses a fair mind."

" You're the last to say that," answered his mother, " for
none sees clearer. Else you wouldn't have been chosen
stickler for the wrestlers as often as you have. Justice be

RIGHT AND WRONG 149

your strong point, I reckon; there's a great sense of justice
in j'ou, and all men iinow it."

The children came in at this moment, for it was tea-time.
Mary had been tidying Betty, with fair si;ccess.

" We've been catching pagety-paws,"* she said, " and
Betty wonldn't wear her ' save-all,' and got a bit of mud on
her frock; but I've washed it clean again."

" And I've found a dear little nanny-viper with a green
tail," cried Bettj'-, producing a large caterpillar from a match-
box. " It knows me a'ready, and I be going to be kind to it."

" And us seed a hugeous gert raven down the vale," said
Mary; " didn't we, Betty ?"

" Ess, we did, and a went ' crunk ! crunk ! crunk !' "

They chattered, and their elders listened to them.

'• I hoped Aunt Julitta was coming, and I hope very much,
as she haven't, that you'll tell us a story, Aunt Edith," said
Betty.

She promised to do so.

" But I can't tell stories like Aunt Julitta," she added.

"No, you can't," admitted Betty; "but you tell better
ones than mother."

" I ain't got any left to tell," declared Susan.

" Then you did ought to invent 'em, like what Aunt JuHtta
does."

" We haven't all got the cleverness, my dear."

" Betty invented a story last night," said Mary. " 'Twas
about a little girl as went nutting, and got along with the
fairies and never come to school again."

" I wish it was true," said Betty.

•' So do Miss Male, I dare say," answered her grandmother.

Betty's face hardened.

" When I'm growed, I'll have it out with that beast," she
said.

Edith changed the subject.

" How are the samplers getting on V she asked.

" Mine's half done," answered Mary; " but Betty's found
some new words, and given up the old one and begun another."

She got up and fetched the incomplete works for Edith to
see. Mary was chronicling in red worsted letters on a green
ground that ' The Fear of the Lord is the Beginning of Wis-

* Pagety-'pawa — newts.

150 OLD DELABOLE

dom ' ; Betty's sampler began, ' A pleasant thing it is '

She had done no more.

" How does yov;rs go on, Betty ?" asked Edith.

The little girl beamed and repeated her choice.

" ' A pleasant thing it is to see
Our dear relations come to tea,
And better still it is to know,
That when they've had their tea, they'll go,' "

Wesley laughed heartily.

" You sly toad !" he said, " That's pretty much on all
fours with what we were telling a bit ago — eh, Edith ?"

" Not a very kind thought for a child, all the same,"
answered his betrothed.

" It's true, because I've heard mother say it," replied
Betty. " And I'm working it for a Christmas present for
Grandfather Nute. He's the best friend I've got in the
world. And Grandmother Nute would have been a good
friend to me if she hadn't died."

" She died before you were born," said Edith.

" Ess; but I know she'd have befriended me."

" No doubt, no doubt; and you've got me still, you know,
Betty," said Grandmother Bake.

" And I love you dearly, grandmother," answered Betty.
" Some days I love everybody, and some days I hate every-
body; but I always love Grandfather Nute."

" Because he's always got sweeties in his pocket for you,
perhaps," said Wesley.

The promised story had to be told before Edith could
escape, and after tea she told it.

" A story about the quarry," she said, " and a beautiful
story too."

" Is it true ?" asked Betty.

" I think it is."

Betty sighed.

' ' I hate true stories ; but Aunt Julitta always puts in a few
little things that aren't true, when she tells them. Then
they're better."

" I think this is true," declared Edith, " because it's too
beautiful not to be true. There was a quarryman once,
and it was the dinner -hour, and he brought out his dinner and
sat down to eat it. You know how the jackdaws fly about

RIGHT AND WRONG 151

in the quarry and make their nests in the cb'ffs ? Well, at
dinner-time, which the jackdaws know quite as well as the
men, they get very bold and hop about ready to swoop down
on any fragments that are left about or flung away."

Betty looked at Mary.

" Hush !" said Mary.

" The quarrj^man had a big pasty for his dinner, and he
broke it in half," continued the story-teller. " He meant to
eat it half at a time; but just as he set to work on the first
half, a jackdaw — with blue eyes and a grey head — hopped
down from a rock that overhung the place where he sat, and
actuallj^ took the second half of the pasty and walked away
with it !"

Betty sighed and wriggled.

"And then?"

" And then," continued Edith, " the quarrj^man, who was
very angry to see half his dinner being taken away, jumped
up and ran after the bird. He had hardly left his seat when
the great overhanging rock fell with a crash; and if he had
stopped there a second longer he would have been crushed
to pieces underneath it ! And doesn't that show how
God "

" We know the rest," interrupted Betty. " We didn't say
anything till you'd got there, but Aunt Julitta told us the
story ages ago — didn't she, Mary ?"

" Yes, she did; but where's your manners, Betty, with Aunt
Edith so kindly telling it again, and stopping her just when
she's coming to the Sunday part ?" asked Mary.

" It's very hard to listen to a story twice," said Betty;
" and I did listen, didn't I, Aunt Edith ? And we hadn't
forgot the Sunday part, so you needn't tell it over again.
And I hope as that jackdaw had the bit of pasty for
his trouble. Because he properly deserved it."

" Tell us another," suggested Mary; but Wesley intervened,

" Aunt Edith came to see me to-day, and we're going for a
walk," he declared. " And if I hear you've been good
children, I'll tell you a fine tale afore you go to bed."

At this they let Edith depart, and presently she and her
lover walked through the lanes in the gathering gloaming
together.

" You can't say when it is to be, then, after all ?"

152 OLD DELABOLE

" You see I can't. The will's not lacking, my dear — only
the power. We must wait a bit till the end of the year.
Then we shall know how we stand. You see for yourself how
difficult it is, with father so poorty and the great doubt about
the quarries."

" I met Mister Tom a bit backalong," he began; but Edith
stopped him.

" You needn't call him ' Mister Tom,' surely ?" she said.
" You're as good as he is, and can trace your family a lot
fvu'ther back, for that matter."

" One gets in the way of it. What's in a name ? I met
Tom Hawkey, then, and asked him how it was to be, and he
told me frankly that from the present the future was hid.
He felt hope, however, and said in his opinion the fall wouldn't
mean the end. ' There's as good fish in the sea as ever came
out,' he said; ' and I believe there's as good stone in Delabole
as the fall will bury.' He's at work now, high and low, to
see if he can strike a good bunch of slate; and if it's there,
he being what he is will find it."

" And if it isn't, he won't."

" That's true; but I've got a sort of faith in that man that
goes deeper than reason. I could almost believe "

He broke off, for he remembered that Edith did not like
him to over-praise the other.

" There was a thing I said at tea you might have wondered
at," he went on. " And I dare say it did sound a bit doubtful.
About right and wrong being mixed up according to the point
of view. Of course, it depends most times upon the other
party, and if a crooked man, or a double-dealer, questions you,
then you feel all the more certain that you're in the right.
But suppose a man quite as straight as yourself, and older
and wiser into the bargain, don't see eye to eye over a matter
that rises as high as right and wrong — suppose that ? Then
you see how difiicult a thing may come to be."

" He's not older and wiser," answered Edith, " Or if he's
older, he's not wiser."

" I'm not speaking of Hawkey," he answered. " Hawkey's
on your nerves, seemingl3\ I'm speaking of your father,
Wilberforce Retallack,"

She was astonished,

" Why, he made you his trustee just because he trusted you

RIGHT AND WRONG 153

so w^ll, and knew you always looked at things the same as he
does.'^

" I know, and that's it. I can't go into the matter, because
it's private, and he wished it to be so ; but he bade me study
his papers very carefully, and — and — I have, and found
things that puzzled me."

" Go to him with them, then."

" I did do so, and that's why I say that right and wrong
often get tangled up when least you expect it."

" They ought not when two honest men tackle them,"
answered Edith. " Truth's truth, and two like you and
father, who love truth and honesty — why, I'd never believe
you could differ."

He nodded doubtfull}^, but did not rei3ly.

" Be it as it will," she sa.id, '' there's nothing for you to
feel anxious about there. Father's the most honourable man
you'll find, seek where you like, and when he speaks, you can
very easity say ditto, and feel you're safe enough."

She cheered him, and he admitted that it must be so.

" I'll talk it out with him some day. He's a most reason-
able, religious man. He granted there was a difficulty, when
I raised it, and he was glad I raised it, and he said the same
thing had struck him; but it seems that when he laid the
problem before j^our mother, which he did do, a good bit ago,
she saw very clear indeed about it, and didn't leave the
objections a leg to stand upon."

" She would," answered Edith. " But if she persuaded
father, you may be sure it was not against his conscience.
Mother is a very good woman, and as straight as any woman
with a family can be, but she's not as high-minded as father."

" You see he's not well, and when you're sick " began

Wesley; but again he broke off. " I'm sure it will come right,
and 'tis silly talking about it," he said. " Let's talk about
you. That's all I want to think on now."

Edith was loverly.

" I'm dearly longing to wed you, Wesley. You're pretty
well all I've got, you know, for my family, save father, ain't
much to me, and somehow I know he's going to pass out of it
before very long. It's hanging over us. Mother knows it too.
I can see it in her face ; but the others don't. Even my grand-
father doesn't see it, or feel it."

154 OLD DELABOLE

" How does the old man take the coming trouble ?"

" Patiently. It must be a matter of prayer without ceasing,
he says. It's one of those things that is out of man's hands
altogether. So we must take it to God. Pooley feels like
that, too, of course."

" He's to preach, I'm told."

" Sunday fortnight."

" Doesn't he dread it ?"

" He's thirsting for it."

" I wouldn't be in his shoes."

" Don't always belittle yourself," she prayed him. " It
vexes me. You could preach quite as well as Pooley — or any
local preacher in Delabole — if you were called iipon to do it."

" I wish I was half the man you think me, Edith. Then I
should be a wonder without doubt."

i..

CHAPTER XIX

pooley's sermon

Aunt Mercy Inch from Trebarwith met Anna Retallack
outside the United Methodist chapel on Sunday morning.

" By good chance I was able to get a lift ujd over, and here
I be to listen to the boy," she said.

Anna was pleased.

" A good few are coming out of compliment to his father,
if not to me. He's run over the heads of his discourse with
his grandfather, and it promises very well. He'll strike a good
blow for God, I believe, if he idden too nervous."

The meeting-house was generally full on Sunday morning,
but to-day fewer attended than was usual. A good many
indeed came who were not accustomed to do so, out of interest
in the Retallacks; but still more regular worshippers, knowing
that a youth was to preach for the first time, and inspired by
no special knowledge of him and his famity, went elsewhere to
hear preachers of established power.

Pooley saw many friends as he prepared to deliver his dis-
course, and his grandfather contrived to take a seat as close
to him as possible. Beside Mr. Nute sat the practised preacher,
Jack Keat, and others of the chapel trustees; while in the
body of the congregation were Pooley's family, the Sleeps
from the newspaper-shop, the Bakes from Newhall Mill,
Antipas Keat and his family, Richard Male with his wife from
the inn, and many of the quarrymen. Indeed, hardl}^ a man
was missing from the dressing-shop in which Pooley worked.

There was no little rivalry among the local preachers of Old
Delabole, and the hillmen were somewhat jealous of those
who worked in the pit. Jack Keat at present stood easily
foremost among the rock-men; but aloft it was hoped that in
Pooley Retallack a new star was about to rise, and perhaps,
in time, eclipse the fluent and fervid Keat.

Pooley stood forth under the clean bright illumination of

155

15G OLD DELABOLE

a sunny morning, and looked over the faces lifted to him. A
pattern of light and shadow lay upon them, for the hour
was near noon, and the sunshine came dazzling in. Then
Richard Male, signalling to Antipas, rose, and together they
pulled down the southern blinds over the windows and modified
the glare. The preacher handled a little bundle of notes. He
had, however, TATitten his sermon and largely committed it to
memory, for a manuscript was not deemed desirable, and was
thought to kill spontaneity.

His theme was peace, and he took two events of the moment
and built upon them. The first was the approaching catas-
trophe at the quarries ; the second, a recent camp of Territorial
forces that had been stationed for evolutions on the neighbour-
ing wastes about Brown Willy and Rough Tor.

He was nervous at first, and his mother confessed after-
wards that save for her husband's presence she would have
stolen away; but the youth soon grew steady, and after a
faulty and hesitating phrase or two forgot his audience and
only concerned himself with his own thought. The words
committed to memory were also forgotten, and he admitted
when the service ended that the best he could do with pen
on paper was very tame compared with the spoken word as
it flashed to him at the moment of delivery. He was a natural
preacher. He stood well, kept his head lifted, and managed
a strong and pleasant voice with fair precision and control.
Practice alone seemed his need. The pause and inflection
only required use to perfect them, and it was noticed that
Pooley shone most in his more fervent passages. His language
was of the simjDlest, and he repeated himself a little, and copied
certain faults familiar in the preachers he had heard ; but he
had something that many of them lacked : an unconscious art
that helped to lift his discourse occasionally to higher planes,
a graphic touch and a sense of vision. These were his own
gifts, capable of very great development. He preached in
the vernacular, for he had received no secondary education
beyond that of his own reading ; but while homely, he was also
dignified, and his earnestness made criticism vain. The most
doubtful could not deny his extraordinarj'^ aptitude, his choice
of words, or his effective delivery. Nor was it possible to
undervalue what he said. He had thought and reflected for
himself. His sermon was no mere echo of what elder men

POOLEY'S SERMON 157

had written and thought before him. Grandfather Nute,
indeed, foretold that it would not be. But Grandfather
himself was surprised at the actual address, which differed
for the better from what he had heard and approved. He
praised a jDassage afterwards which had run somewhat
as follows.

" 'Tis no good being religious on Sunday," urged the
preacher, " if you're going to put it off with your black coat,
and not don it again till Sunday week. Religion isn't a
matter of Sunday medicine, it's weekday, working-day food.
You ought to take it with everything, and mix it with every-
thing, and let it colour your mind and clear your thought and
strengthen your soul, same as meat and drink strengthens
your arm. Coming to this chapel idden religion, any more
than Avalking into the quarry is work. 'Tis what you take out
of the chapel is religion, same as what we send out of the
quarry is work. ' By their light ye shall know them,' and it
is the outlook of a man to everything that happens that will
tell you if he's got religion. And I'll say this: there's often
a danger in a thing that we've got accustomed to praise. We
say, ' He's a large-minded man, and don't fly into a passion
at evil, because he knows human nature, and knows that
we've got to forgive it till seventy times seven.' That's all
very well; but if the sinner knows that he's going to be for-
given till seventy times seven, 'tis a great temptation to him
to sin to seventy times eight. You mustn't put too much
faith in the easy, tolerant man, because it's far easier to forgive
than to condemn, and the instinct in us is to follow our
Saviour, and say, ' Go and sin no more ' ; but we've got to
keep our light shining before men, we've got to remember that
every one of us is an example. We can't help it. We can't
sit on the fence. We've got to take sides, and it ain't enough
to hate the sinner and forgive the sin; the sinner's our business
all the time, and if he persists in his sin, then we're playing a
very dangerous part if we hold out the hand of friendship.
Tolerance is a virtue, but Christ's self knew when to use the
scourge. And the world is full of people who want scourging —
the liars and hypocrites, the clever ones, who make sin a
science and do evil, but know so much that they escape the
results of evil ; the strong ones, who use their power to abuse
the weak and hide their wickedness under the cloak of piety;

158 OLD DELABOLE

them that lay foundation-stones of new chapels to-day and
devour widows' houses to - morrow ; and many suchhke
WTetches.

" If a sinner don't know better, then forgive him and teach
him better; but don't forgive them who sin and know they
sin. 'Tis only for their God to pardon them, when they've
paid His price."

He spoke of the Territorials and patriotism, and warned
his hearers that patriotism did not mean battleships and
armies.

" You've got to ask yourselves what is your country," he
said, " and whether it's bounded by the black and Avhite cliffs
of England, or whether it embraces every faithful follower of
our Master. You've got to ask yourself if patriotism means
England, or if it means this world and the next. People are
terrible confvised over patriotism. They mix it up with kings
and flags and dying for their country; but they never stop
to ask themselves what is their country. We're Englishmen
first and Christians after, and I say we ought to be Christians
first and Englishmen after. And if we were — in truth and
not only in name — and if the French and the Russians and the
Germans and the Italians were all Christians first too — then
the world would be another place, brothers — another place,
root, stock, and branch, and the flower of it would be fairer
to see, and the fruit sw^eeter and finer far than we know it. For
this is how it is : we call ourselves a Christian people and the
servants of the Prince of Peace, and yet the lords of Parliament
wouldn't dare to put their Christianit}^ above their politics for
an instant, because if they did, they'd be swept out of power
in a twinkling. In Parliament you've got to be a Liberal, or
a Unionist, or a Labour member, and only that, and every
man there — every man — chapel members included — has put
his Christianity in his pocket and lied to the Prince of Peace.
He's got to do it. He's sent there to do it. When he offers
himself for election to Parliament, he knows, as sure as he
knows the sun be going to rise, that time and again he'll have
to vote against his Saviour, because his party demands that
he shall do so, and because what's good for England ain't
good for Heaven. That's party politics, and no man's a right
to parade his Christianity again after he's fouled his hands

POOLEY'S SERMON 159

and his heart with it. We don't back Christianity, we don't
trust Christianity, we don't look to it to conquer the world.
Religion's a station off the main line, and mightj^ few pas-
sengers call there nowadaj^s. There's no soul in England — only
a huge, fat, rich, frightened body, that goes shivering, with its
eyes on its ill-gotten gains, and builds battleships and bleeds
its poor to keep its carcass safe. We've got to fight for the
rich or starve — that's what the rich call ' patriotism ' in us —
and where that can happen it's not a Christian nation, and the
sooner we know it and grant it and confess it, and begin again
to be one, the better for our land. And if we want to be
patriots in the true sense, we shan't talk battle and murder
and sudden death, and how to send more honest men to their
Maker in the next war than ever we did afore; but we shall
talk Christ crucified and try to make Parliament believe in
Him, and only send men there who do. We shall try to
make England something to be proud of, instead of something
to be ashamed of; we shall strive to say we are citizens of a
great country, and fight to lift England till we can feel she's
a good sending-off place for Heaven. Then to be children of
England will be a blessed privilege; but now England's way
makes us turn our eyes from her, and only think of our heritage
above, and not our home below."

After these considerations, it appeared that young Pooley
had put the coming tribulation at the quarry into a new
perspective and diminished its significance. He spoke of it
now, but not as the paramount and master thought, not as the
dominating factor of affairs, in which light it was regarded by
other people. It was a quality of his mind to balance tem-
poral and eternal against each other directly, and create anti-
theses of ideas. These were primitive, without light or shade,
or any of the crepuscule of metaphysic; but, seen as he
presented them, they were effective in their stark appeal to
simple minds.

" A good few tons of earth and stone are going to fall in
the quarries presently by the Lord's will," he said. " There
are natural laws and there are supernatural laws. By a natural
law the overburden must come down, and we cannot say how
our work will look when it has fallen. I heard a man speak
coming up from the pit yesterday ; and he said : ' God knows

160 OLD DELABOLE

what'll become of Delabole.' Well, that was true, and there's
nothing more to be said about it. Only the man said it as if
it wasn't true. A sparrow does not fall to the ground without
God, and no more does the side of a quarry. We're content,
as Cliristian men and women, to trust our Maker most times ;
but in this matter there's a great lack of trust and a great
spirit of doubt among us. And what does that show ? Weak
faith, and I hope we'll hear less about it in future."

Then by an inspiration he was subtle, and looking back,
afterwards, he declared himself not less surprised at the thing
he said than those who heard it.

" God have worked miracles at Old Delabole, and given us
and our forefathers stone for bread. And good bread, too,
for ourselves and our children. The quarry has run under
God's direction for near three hundred years, and if He's going
to shut it, shall we say ' No ' ? God's a good employer,
brothers, and He never turns off any that's willing to
work for Him. David never saw a righteous man begging
his bread. And shall we beg our bread while the Almighty's
our Master ? Don't think it; don't fear it ! He knows to a
pebble what's coming, and He knows, to the last little hollaboy
that works at Delabole, what employment He's planned for
our future. Trust Him ! He's given us a grand faith — the
only true and everlasting faith brought into the world by
Christ, and we're never grateful enough for it ; we never think
of the millions of heathen and them that sat in darkness and
died in darkness before it came. And are we, with this
Light in our hands, to go groping because the north side is
going to fall ? Is our God going to fall with it, like a graven
image ? Are we to find our faith in ruins because the ' Grey
Abbey ' seam is to be lost to us ? Take heart and look over
these tottering cliffs to the sky above them ! That's not going
to fall ! Him that sits above the clouds don't slumber nor
sleep. Does a child cry because his father fires a gun ? No.
The little one knows that the weapon was let off for his
father's purpose. 'Tis part of the order of things, and done
with due forethought. And if we can look ahead, can't God ?
What He does we know not now, but we shall know hereafter,
and it may be that not a man, woman, or child that sits here
to-day but will soon see as clear as God Himself that it was

POOLEY'S SERMON 161

well this is to happen, and welcome it as His will and plan.
God don't work against us — always remember that. He
works for us, and if your heart doubts, look back as well
as forward, and ask yourself where Delabole would be without
Him. Keep your hands in His, and He'll not let them
slip, nor yet your feet, no matter how difficult the way. And
if He wills to lead his sheep to fresh pastures, we will praise
Him; and if He means to let us bide where we were born,
then still we will praise Him. God helps those who help them-
selves, and He little likes to see anxious eyes and fretful fore-
heads and shaking heads before the sight of His plans. Stand
up to it, then, and do your part; trust the Lord of Life, and
show Him that He can trust you !"

He made an end with this, and when they had sung a hymn,
which thanked God for His manifold and wonderful gifts,
Pooley prayed.

The prayer was pitched in a quieter key; it acknowledged
the weakness of man, and called for strength and patience
from the eternal fountain of strength and patience. Then the
service came to its close, and the people passed out. Some
took an unfavourable view of young Retallack's efforts, but
some were greatly pleased, and remained to shake his mother's
hand and wish her joy of the preacher.

" He's got the giit," declared Jack Keat; " the tongues of
fire have come down on him, and the faults are natural to the
young. He's too one-sided about politics and "

" No; j^ou've got to be one-sided if you're a Christian, Jack.
I'll take the blame for that," said Pooley's father. " I've
brought him up to see there's no truck between politics and
religion, and never has been really, and them that pretend
there is humbug themselves. You can't touch pitch without
being defiled, and politics is pitch; and the true Christian
knows it before he's been in Parliament a month, if he didn't
before. And since my Pooley was a reader, he's found that
out for himself."

" The details matter little. 'Tis the spirit," said Jack Keat ;
" and I tell you that boy is going to be very useful to the
Uniteds. He held 'em — that's the test. There was something
a bit fresh about him. He kept off doctrine, and that was
good sense in him, for oftener than not a young un will go for

11

162 OLD DELABOLE

that and think to throw light on subjects of which his hearers
have forgot more than he ever knew. Doctrine is for us men,
not the bo3'S, to expound. But he gave us a peep into his
young mind, and a very good peep it was."

" And a good delivery," declared Antipas Keat. " You
could hear him, and there was nothing about his actions and
manners to distract your mind from what he was saying."

" I helped him there," declared Grandfather Nute. " ' Your
actions show your mind,' I told him, ' and if you've got digni-
fied thoughts, yovi'll have dignified actions to go with 'em; and
if you've got empty thoughts, you'll have empty actions.'
There's nothing worse than a clown in the pulj^it, and the
wisdom of Solomon wouldn't stand against some of the
antics I've seen."

Others came up, and Anna grew flushed and excited under
praise.

" We shan't be ourselves any more," said Julitta, as they
went home. " We shall only be Pooley's family."

" He ought to go into the ministry," declared the mother.
" I've always said so, and who can doubt after to-day ? He's
got the face for it."

But her husband was annoyed.

" No more of that," he said. " We've made all the sacri-
fices we can for oiu: children. I've spoke on that subject
once for all, and Pooley has the strength to understand, if you
have not."

It was very seldom that Wilberforce spoke roughly to Anna,
even in private, and to hear him thus address her startled
the party as it returned home.

Edith looked almost with fear at her father, and Anna grew
red.

"It's natural that a mother " she began; but he

silenced her.

" No more of it, I say ! I've done what man could do for
all my family. I can do no more. I shan't be here long,
and "

'• Don't, don't, father !" burst out Edith. " Don't say
things like that. 'Tis more than we can bear."

They went in silently together, and when Pooley arrived
only Julitta kissed him and congratulated him. There was a

POOLEY'S SERMON 163

cloud in the house, and he felt troubled at dinner-time to see
that his mother had been weeping.

He had hungered for their praise, and not until a silent
meal was ended did his Grandfather explain to him the un-
fortunate incident. But when he did hear it, it cast him down
too, for he had dreamed and hoped that the day's work might
advance his master ambition and incline his father more
favourably towards it.

CHAPTER XX

IN THE QUARRIES

The quarries were full of darkness, and only dimly mi^ht the
bottom be seen through the murk. The rain poured down
as though it would fill the cup, and the lightning flung
diamond-bright arches over the abyss. Above rolled the
thunder, and its reverberation died hard in the haunts of a
thousand echoes. Presently the centre of the storm drifted
south to Brown Willy and the moors; light strengthened and
water flashed tlirough it, dropping off the precipices. Beneath
men streamed out from the shelters and returned to work.

The great rifts on the north face now gaped a yard wide
and descended far into the earth. The pending fall could be
roughly computed, and the whold side of the quarry was
doomed for a length of more than fifty yards. Hawkey
judged that work might progress for another six weeks with
safety at the present rate of progress, but to-day he doubted,
for thunderstorms had broken up a season of good weather;
much water was moving, and any marked increase of the
apertures above would mean that the ' Grey Abbey ' slate
seams must be abandoned

He stood now in shining tarpaulins and a ' sou' -wester,'
gazing where the cavities yawned. Then he took the measure
that stood thrust into the earth beside them, and applied it to
the range of rifts. Some had enlarged by an inch; some were
not increased.

It was the dinner-hour, and a good few men, on their way
to their homes, left the footpath and approached him.

" Be the rain opening 'em, Mister Tom ?" asked Noah
Tonkin.

" No — nothing much doing 5^et, Noah."

" Us can trust you to watch 'em. There's a few down
under who begin to feel shy of it. When it comes, it'll come
in a hurry without ' by your leave.' "

164

IN THE QUARRIES 165

" They needn't think twice about that. I wouldn't play
with the life of a quarry rat, let alone a man. Don't they
know it ?"

" Of course, of course. But some of 'em be little better
than mumpheads, and they're all tail on end for what's going
to come next now. If a stone falls, they fly afore it."

" Tell 'em to keep their nerve and be cheerful. I may have
a bit of good news before long."

" If you have, you won't hide it — we know that."

Wilberforce Retallack approached and Tonkin, with the
little group that had listened to this conversation, went on
his way. Then the foreman stood by Hawkey. His coat
was wet, and he coughed. Something wild and feverish
marked his manner.

" You ought to be home, Wil," said the manager. " Every-
bodj" knows you're a sick man, and you'll knock up in earnest
if you don't take more care of yourself."

" No time for tliinking of self," said the other. " My
troubles are like these holes — they open wider and wider; but
open as they will, you can't see the bottom."

" I'm properly sorry. I thought ail was pretty right with
you."

Wilberforce shook his head.

" It may look right, but it's far ways short of being right."

" Come down with me to the south galleries," said Hawkey.
" I want to show you something. We can talk as we go."

They started, and Retallack spoke.

" For the minute there's a thing dividing our house a bit.
Ought I to let my eldest boy go in the ministry ?"

Hawkey considered.

" I heard him. He's got a gift and a brain. You see, it's
rather difficult to advise without knowing your position.
There's no hurry. What does Mrs. Retallack say ?"

" She's for it, and Edith's for it. Grandfather says it's
up to me, and they can't for the life of 'em understand why I
say ' no.' "

" Why do you ? It's reasonable on their part, and on
Pooley's, to wish it; but no doubt you've got very good
reasons against."

" The best, but "

He hesitated, coughed, and spoke again.

166 OLD DELABOLE

" I'll tell you, because if I don't tell somebody, I shall go
wild. It's money. I can't afford it."

" Well, surely that's sufficient reason ? They could say no
more if you told them that "

" I can't tell 'em. It means a proper downfall. I haven't
the heart. They think I've got tons more money than I
have."

The delicacy of such a situation struck Hawkey silent.

" Things have gone very bad with my investments," con-
fessed the foreman. " I moved my bit of money into some-
thing that promised a better return, and it's all up, seemingly.
I've had no luck but bad luck, and I haven't the heart to tell
'em."

" Well, Pooley can't be kept back. He's full young, and
what is right to happen for him will happen. He knows that,
with all his faith. He's wise — you can trust him to keep
your secrets. I should tell him the reason. Let him go on
doing the work to his hand and preaching sometimes. He'll
get as much of that as is good for him at his age."

' ' If God Almighty means him for a minister, a minister he
will be— eh?"

" That's certain. Put it to him. If he's on your side,
you'll have no further trouble."

" Of course, things may mend, but there's little hope, and
if the quarry is going to be finished "

" I won't think it," declared Hawkey. " It's unthinkable,
as they say. A certain amount of overburden is coming
down, and, with our system of outside work, that's got to
happen from time to time. It may be a blessing in disguise.
It may show the men that tunnelling is just as well suited to
Cornwall as Wales."

Retallack shook his head.

" Outside work is in their blood for generations. They
stick to the old ways. You can do miracles, but you'll
never make Delabole men take to tunnelling, or go under-
ground."

" It may be the only way of keeping the quarries open
presently. Convince them of that, and they'll go underground
fast enough."

They descended to the southern galleries and walked beside
a stream of water that ran along a wooden chute supported by

IN THE QUARRIES 167

trestles. At a point on their way Wilberforce stopped,
sounded some timber, and took out his pocketbook.

" Wood's going sleepy," he said.

He examined the trestles, condemned six, and made a note.

" I'll tell carpenter. I marked you very busy with the
air-drill up over last week, Mister Tom, and my son Ned told
us you was a good bit interested. Be anything like to come
of it ?"

They were in ' Wesley's Hole,' at a point where hung an
ancient tree from the cliff above them.

" Here, by all accounts, the man preached to our great-
grandfathers a hundred years ago," added Retallack, as
Hawkey did not answer his question.

The other nodded, but his thoughts were elsewhere.

" The veins of slate here," he said, " run north and south,
while those in Wales are nearer the horizontal, and dip east to
west, with only a slight fall from north to south. That's why
they quarry differently. I thought I was into a promising
vein last week, but it broke up in spar quartz and silver-lead
through the el van. The cleavage had been destroyed by
heat "

Wilberforce regarded an exploration and nodded.

" It takes away the nature of the slate and makes it refrac-
tory. 'Tis all about the same round this side — too hard for
any use."

" You can't be sure."

" My father-in-law — old James Nute — has got an idea,
though I never put it to proof. He was talking in his way —
you know him — turning common things into wisdom and
drawing a moral out of the stones. And he said that men
were like the different quarry slates — good and bad and
rubbish. ' There's the good and very good,' he said, ' and
the " commons " and the " hardah," good for naught, and
the " shortahs," of no worth in themselves but " good feeders
of slate," as we say, because where they be you'll often find
valuable stuff at hand.' He was going rambling on, but I
stopped him, and asked if that was true as a fact, and he
said it was."

"I believe him," answered Hawkey, "and that's why I
haven't done here, though there's little very promising opened
yet. If we could only find something on this side, it won't

168 OLD DELABOLE

mean the end of us when the other side comes down. I'm set
on running tunnels presently, if there's anything to justify it,
and if I can once make Delabole take to that, I shan't have
lived in vain."

" If you died to-morrow you wouldn't have lived in vain,"
answered Retallack. " You're a good man, and you've done
great things for the quarries."

" I've only begun, I hope. You see such a lot hangs to it if
we can onlj^ stem the tide and pay our way. There's half a
million tons coming down, and maybe more; but if we can
find and work paying slate for fifteen years, we may get it
all away, or our children may. It all depends on finding
enough. There are plenty of good bunches, but without a
big seam there'd be nothing to show."

" It'll have to be a strong showing to make them keep it
open."

"As to that, the directors are very wide awake to the
situation. They know how much depends upon it. They'll
do everything men can do. They know about the human
side. It's been rather good to me, Wil, to see their spirit.
They hold most of the shares themselves. For practical
purposes they are the company. That's where the great
hope lies. They're prepared to lose in reason, and will be
very willing to go on if there's a rational excuse for so
doing."

" There's something in the Conservatives after all, Mister
Tom."

" They won't do it because they're Conservatives; they'll
do it because they're fine men with a fine feeling about what
the country owes to the might and dignity of labour. They'll
do to others as they would be done by, which is the last spirit
you'll find moving in party politics."

" It's the mean-minded men without tradition or honour
behind 'em that are dipping into the pockets of the rich," said
Retallack hotly. " If the managers of this quarry were
Radicals, they'd work the ' Grey Abbey ' till the men flung
down their tools to save their lives, and then they'd shut down
all and sack the lot of us."

Hawkey laughed.

" Don't think so badly of my side, Wil."

" You can't think too badly of it," declared the foreman.

IN THE QUARRIES 169

" And I hope I'll live to see it out, for it would add another
pang to death to know it was still at its wickedness."

" You must get away after the fall and rest for a bit."

" ' Rest ' ! There's no rest for me — night or da3^ By day
I long for night, and when night comes my sleep, so to call
it, is such a worthless and broken thing that I call for day to
come again and welcome the light."

Hawkey condoled with the other's physical miseries.

" They're naught, however, against the mind. I'd laugh
at bad breathing and bad sleep, and all the rest, if only my
mind was more at peace," continued Retallack; " but there's
things even your own flesh and blood can't be asked to share.
And, of course, the quarry's the last straw on my back.
There's only hope left. Hope never turns sour with me, else
I shouldn't be here now."

" Get home and eat your meat," answered the manager,
" and don't go about in wet clothes. They'll do you little
good, I'm thinking."

They left the quarries together, and while Anna presently
blamed her husband for letting his dinner spoil and made
him doff his jacket, Betsy Bunt similarly protested when
Hawkey returned home.

" I wish the dratted quarry would fall in and have done
with it," she said. " There won't be no peace for you till it
has, and not a decent meal seemingly. The spoiled victuals is
properly cruel in this house, and you can't scoff at Nature,
same as you're doing, without paying for it."

" It's a busy time, Betsy," he answered, " and there's
many things to be thought about. Great changes may be
coming, and my mind has got to run on."

" Yes, and Delabole's like a stuck pig — at a standstill,
squealing. Everybody's afeared to breathe, or blow his nose,
seemingly. Here's Antipas stopped building his house — I
I wonder he don't stop baking his bread; and my old fool of
a brother, Moses, be going about saying 'tis manslaughter to
keep the men in the pit; and John Sleep can't understand
why the newspapers idden ringing with it. Everybodj^'s daft
but me and a few other ancient women. Haven't the silly
old quarry failed in before ? If the end of the world was in
sight, we couldn't make more fuss."

" You're quite right, Betsy — you always are," answered the

170 OLD DELABOLE

manager. " You tell the people not to make fools of them-
selves."

" We be all run to nerves, seemingly," continued she. " I
was dog-trotting along by Trebarwith a bit ago, and fell in
with Aunt Mercy Inch, and the foolish creature confessed
she couldn't sleep by night for fear of being woke by the
crash of the downfall. And she lives five mile off, if a yard !
Where's God — that's what I want to know ? Not in the
people's hearts, anyway. They did ought to call home what
that fiery-eyed young boy — Wilberforce Retallack's son — said
to chapel. 'Tis a proper disgrace to the church-town the way
we're taking this, and a wisht poor show for Methodism. We
want another John Wesley to stand up in the midst and
shame us. That's what Sarah Sleep said to me not an hour
agone, and I said. ' Right !' And if Jack Keat and John
Sleep and a few others that preach Sundays were to take that
line, instead of shouting afore we're hurt, it would be a
manlier thing, and a better tone of voice to put on when you
speak to the Lord."

" A pity you can't give them a sermon, Bets3^"

" It is and it idden," she answered. " I'd rub it in; but I
should lose my temper for a certainty, and chapel's no place
for that. All the same, they're looking for more than trouble.
Because the Book shows us that 'tis well in God's power to
lose His own holy temper now and again, when humans pass
the limit. And if we don't watch ourselves closer than we're
doing, that's what will happen. He's trying our faith, for no
doubt it had come to the Everlasting Eye that our faith was
growing weak along of being too prosperous. And if Delabole
don't mend and remember it's a stronghold of Methodies first
and a quarry afterwards, there'll come bigger trouble than a
fall of mud and stones."

Tom Hawkey ate a good dinner while she chattered, and the
spectacle of his meal, together with the expression of her own
opinions, relieved Betsy Bunt's emotion and put her into a
pleasanter frame of mind.

CHAPTER XXI

A CHRISTMAS BOX FOR NANJULIAN

The dawn of Christmas morning came like an army under
banners of fire. A frost had touched the earth, and every
green croft and fallow field was white and glittering. The
birds were humped like feather balls in the hedges. A robin
saluted the day. Presently the sky grew red behind Bro^vn
Willy, and the tor rose black against the gathering splendour
of the south-east. The ground rang and flashed. Dim blue
planes, flushed from the sky and touched with woolly flakes
of frost, spread where the duckponds had rippled and shivered
under the east wind's breath on yester-night ; but now the
wind was still, an awful silence reigned over the earth.

It had already been broken at Quarry Cottage by the sound
of Grandfather Nute's wooden flute. Before half-past five,
while yet it was night, the old man awoke, remembered that
it was the anniversary of his Saviour's birth, arose at once,
and dressed. Then, with a fearful energy, he began to play
' Christians, awake, salute the happy morn !' He stood at
the bottom of the staircase, and shattered sleep for six
people.

Wilberforce Retallack had slept ill, and his bad breathing
only eased in the small hours. He woke to the aubade and
cursed.

" Damn the old fool !" he said. " Now I shan't slumber
again !"

Anna bounced out of bed and met Edith on the landing.

" Julitta's got a bad headache — please stop, grandfather,"
said Edith.

But his daughter spoke more sharply to the old man.

" Where's your sense ?" she cried. " Here's Wil been
fighting for his breath all night and only just got off, and you
wake him with that screaming horror ! Cruel silly, I call it,
and only past five o'clock. And a holiday for a little more

171

172 OLD DELABOLE

rest than usual. I couldn't have believed it of you. Go back
to bed, father, and don't let's hear no more of it."

The coughing of the husband punctured her speech, and
she turned back into her bedroom and slammed the door.

IVIr. Nute made no answer. He stood with his fingers on
the holes of the flute and his eyes lifted upward to the white
shadows of Edith and her mother on the landing. When
they had disappeared, he put on his coat, his scarf, and his hat,
and went out into the morning. He took his flute.

The quarry was dark and full of vapours. A dim light
marked the east. The old man considered, and turned up the
inclined way from the cottage to the village. The frost in the
air invigorated him. When well out of range of his home he
played again, and his breath puffed like steam upon the air.
He won a resj)onse, for from two fowl-houses came muffled
but defiant crows. Grandfather smiled, and was filled with
an inspiration. He walked up the slumbering village, and
stopped at John Sleep's newspaper -shop. He knew that the
master of it slept in a front room, therefore he drew up and
played once more. His fingers were a little stiff with the
cold, and he brought a pair of red mittens out of his pocket
and put them on. Then again he began to play ' Christians,
awake !"

Two Clu-istians instantly obeyed his summons, and two
white blinds over Grandfather's head were agitated. One
went up, and the form of John Sleep was revealed. The other
moved from the side, and the head of Sarah Sleep, with a
shawl round it, peered into the morning dusk. She smiled
and nodded doubtfully. Then Mr. Sleep opened his window.
He was by no means awake, and seemed less genial than his
words .

" Morning ! Morning, Nute ! A merry Christmas ! Don't
you bide no more— there's a good man. 'Tis a late morning,
and we want our extra sleep."

He shut his window and drew down the blind ; wdiile at the
same moment Sarah opened the bottom of hers behind the
blind and addressed him.

" A merry Christmas, James Nute; but do you get home,
like a dear soul, else you'll catch your death. You're too
wonderful altogether, and tidden the morning for you to be
wandering about in this here piercing frost."

A CHRISTMAS BOX FOR NAN JULIAN 173

" A happy Christmas to j^ou, Sarah Sleep, and plenty of
them ! D'you know the Merry Dancers were in the sky last
night ? Even the works of Nature understand the glad day.
The Lord of our Salvation's born again, and not one but me
up to welcome Him, seemingly."

" We all shall come presently. Now get home, I do beg
and pray of you."

She shut the window, looked round the blind again, nodded
a,nd smiled, and watched him hurry dow^n the road. Grand-
father was damped. Not a chimney as yet sent its smoke
into the breathle.-s dawn He considered further experiments
and abandoned them. He began to feel his epiphany energies
a failure. But he did not blame the world: he blamed
himself.

" I belong to a past generation," he considered. " This
here excitement about Christmas morning grows out of date.
The weather's all against it, too."

The cold, indeed, proved mtense, but silver light had
threaded into the east, though the morning star still shone like
a lamp. Mr. Nute turned and proceeded down a lane home-
ward. The lane ran through two rows of back-gardens, and
at a broken fence in the corner of a little field was a pigsty.
There were j'Oung pigs in it, and they grunted and sent up
steam from their nostrils. The spirit of St. Francis touched
Grandfather; he drew out his flute and played ' Christians,
awake !' to the pigs. They crowded together and looked up
out of their little eyes. They stood with their feet in an
empty trough and grunted apparent approval.

" They know — they know !" thought Grandfather.

Heartened by this adventure, he proceeded to the quarries,
examined the rifts above the north face, which had not
widened of late, and then went back to his home.

Anna and Pooley were down, and the fire was alight
Grandfather expressed sincere regret at having wakened his
son-in-law, and felt relieved to learn that Wilberforce had
gone to sleep again. He shivered somewhat, and was glad to
drink some hot tea. Edith came ' down house ' presently,
and then Ned appeared. It seemed that there were two
invalids, for Julitta wanted breakfast in bed, and Mr. Retal-
lack, so his wife determined, was not to be awakened. Edith
took her sister's meal upstairs when it was ready, and Anna's

174 OLD DELABOLE

husband presently awoke, whereupon she bade him stay
where he was, and brought his breakfast to his bedside.

Nobody appeared in a very seasonable spuit. Grandfather
found himself a little weary and subdued. Anna was restless
and anxious; even Ned felt perturbed, because he desired to
ask a great favour, and suspected that the sense of the house
that morning would set against favours. Edith soon dis-
appeared; she was going to spend the day with the Bakes at
Newhall Mill, and departed, somewhat thankfully, to do so.
But she saw her father first, and asked him wl other she should
stop. He was up and shaving when she r ,ne to wish him a
merr}^ Christmas, and he hid his heart a ^ assumed a cheerful
demeanour. Indeed, all cheered u^j presently, and even
Julitta, rising superior to her pain, came down and presented
the httle presents she had planned for the household. She
heartened Ned and lessened the gloom. Wilberforce would
not hear of Edith sacrificing herself, so she departed, and
presently when Ned, who was now openly tokened to Philippa
Sleep, asked if his maiden might eat her Christmas dinner
with his family, permission was granted. Whereon Ned's
heart grew glad, and he declared his intention of going to
chapel with his mother. This reward served to cheer Anna's
Christmas, and presently she started with Wilberforce, who
insisted on coming, her sons, and her father, while Julitta
stopped at home' to begin preparations for the great meal.
They were to dine at two o'clock, and her mother would be
home again before the cooking reached a critical period.

A little before noon Julitta had a visitor. With immense
precautions Sidney Nanjulian entered the lonely purlieus of
the workings, and, looking down, saw a white towel hanging
from a window of the Quarry Cottage, This was the signal
that Julitta would be alone. She had promised to feign
indisposition, and let the rest of the family go to chajDel
without her. Seeing the coast clear, Sidney hastened down
and entered boldly, to find his lover in the kitchen.

She kissed him, and then went upstairs to take in the
towel.

" Funny," she said on returning to him. " I'd jDlotted to
have a sham headache this morning, and I woke up with a
real one — cruel neuralgia."

He expressed his sorrow, hoped that it was better, and

A CHRISTI^IAS BOX FOR NANJULIAN 175

strove to amuse her. Sidney occupied Grandfather Nute's
chair by the fire, and made Julitta come and sit in his lap.

" I'll tell you a funny story," he said, " showing the fools
there are in the world. I met a man from Launceston yester-
day— a cousin of mine — and he'd heard about the trouble in
the quarry. A sensible man, too, I'd always thought. I
showed him what's coming, and he said quite seriously:
' But it's high time you took steps to prevent it, surely !' It's
just as if he'd said we ought to take steps to prevent the
moon turning full on Monday week. I asked him what he
advised us to do about it, and he said there ought to be some
way to prop it wp !"

Nanjulian laughed at this story, but found Julitta in no
laughing mood. She was indeed strangely silent, and sat
with her arms round his neck and her eyes upon his. He, too,
relajDsed into silence at last, and just cuddled her and rubbed
his cheek against hers. Then a clock struck noon, and the
sound broke Julitta's dreaming.

" I kept your Christmas present till now," she said. " I
know you're just full of wonder to hear what it is. And thank
you for the six handkerchiefs with ' J. R.' on them, Sidney.
They're lovely, but the ' R ' will have to be changed into
' N.' "

She spoke whimsically and affected a woebegone speech,
though the intonation and expression that accompanied it
were not woebegone. She regretted her news, but was aware
that he would delight in it ; therefore no concern accompanied
her speech.

" Of course, it will be ' N ' some day. You are Julitta
Nanjulian really, and have been, thank the Lord, for many a
day. I sometimes wonder what it will feel like when the
secret's out. You say the romance will end then, Julitta.
But I don't believe it will. We've had a pretty glorious
time loving in secret; but there's nothing like a bit of novelty,
and to be married and free, and to go and come — it's got a
bright side after all."

" I've loved the stealthy love-making," she murmured.
" There was a day we spent on Brown Willy last summer I
shall never forget."

" We'll spend many such another. The game's not up
yet."

176 OLD DELABOLE

" Yes, it is," she answered. " We shan't go to Brown
Willy alone next August, Sid."

" We certainly shan't go with anybody else," he said.

" If we go at all, there'll be another with us."

" You're full of puzzles to-day. And who will it be, I
wonder — a man or woman ?"

" Neither — something in a j)erambulator."

" Good Lord ! Julitta — you mean it ?"

" Yes, faith. I told you a fortnight ago that I'd got a
Christmas present for you. And I'm sorry, Sid."

" ' Sorry ' ! 'Tis the best news I've heard for a long month
of Sundays !"

" We must be married, I suppose."

" And make quick sticks about it, too," he said.

" I thought it would seem natural if you broke the news
that we were engaged to-day. They'll come home in half an
hour.

Nanjulian revelled in the situation.

" Properly romantic," he said. " Now, if anj^body had
told me the big things that were going to happen to me

to-day But I must run first and tell Antipas Keat that

I can't eat my Christmas dinner with him. He'd planned for
me to do so, and then go over his new house and see his
inventions. I'll be back in twenty minutes. Just you tell
your people there is another coming to Christmas dinner.
They'll never guess who it is."

Julitta, cheered that the murder was out and glad to see
the man's pleasure, talked now of matrimony and their new
home. He could ill contain himself, for this was an adventure
he had long desired. He had not dared to confess to Julitta
that their clandestine courtship began to bore him. Indeed,
he delighted in their meetings, and worshipped her as of old;
but all the petty business and discomfort of secrecy had lost
charm of late, especially since the winter. He wanted Julitta
for his own, and he wanted her in comfort. His mind began
to perceive that there was a ridiculous side to this romance,
but he had not confessed as much, for fear that Julitta would
blame him as a traitor to their poetic ideals. But now
he was glad, and felt that even reality might be gloriously
romantic when pursued in the spirit which inspired Julitta
and himself. He rushed off to Antipas Keat, and found

A CHRISTMAS BOX FOR NANJULIAN 177

that he was at chapel, so his wife heard that Nanjulian could
not be their guest.

" Master will be a good bit disappointed," she said; " but
no doubt you've got your reasons, Sidney."

" The best," he assured her. " I dare say I and another
person will be round in the afternoon to look at the new house.
For that matter, nothing interests me more than new houses
for the moment."

She stared, but he was gone before she had time to ask
any questions.

He did not return to the home of the Retallacks, however,
until the hour for dinner; then, knowing that his appearance
would have all the charm of mystery and sensation, he
appeared at Quarrj^ Cottage.

Julitta, meanwhile, had astounded her family by explaining
that an outsider had accepted her invitation to dinner.

" He's well known to you all," she said, " but you'll be a
good bit surprised, I dare say. Anyway, he's my guest to
dinner, and will be here at two ; and if j^ou've got any quarrel
with me about it, you must keep it till afterwards, because it
won't be fair to him to make a fuss while he's here."

Thus romance did not die with Julitta's confession, and
very active excitement filled the minds of her family when
Sidney Nanjulian's knock fell on the door.

The theatrical effect of this entrance was entirely in keeping
with Sidney's spirit. He loved it. He was supremely de-
lighted at the turn of events, and had he planned things to
suit his own romantic ideas, they could not have fallen out
more agreeably. He appeared, entered, drew himself up in
the kitchen door, and bowed to the company. He had pre-
pared a little speech.

" I come among you as an old friend and as a new one," he
said. " And I trust that you will regard me in that light.
Julitta and I have long felt a great respect and admiration
for each other, and it has ripened into affection. I hojDe you
will let me be a son and a brother."

They were much taken aback.

"The slydom ! You cunning creatures!" cried Anna.
'' And what becomes of my Christmas appetite after that ?"

" He's like a flame of fire !" declared Julitta, putting her
arms round Sidney's neck. " It isn't enough that he's won me.

12

178 OLD DELABOLE

He wants to wed this instant moment. And we kept the
secret, not from disrespect to you, father, or you, mother, but
just for joy of having a secret. We neither of us ever had a
secret before, and never shall again; but we thought it was
so lovely that we'd just hold it up till Christmas Day as a big
surprise."

Wilberforce Retallack regarded Nanjulian \^dth moist
eyes.

" To think of it ! And here's Ned and Philippa tokened
too ! What a marrying family ! Well, bless you both, I'm
sure."

" And I'll set them all an example," declared Nanjulian.
" I'll take no denial. In three weeks, or less, I wed."

" That's for me to decide," declared Julitta. " Perhaps
I'll say six months; perhaps Edith won't let me wed before she
does, and that's next summer. Perhaps mother won't let
me go at all."

" Have you thought what happens after the fall, Sidney ?"
asked Retallack.

" Yes, be sure I have. If we shut down here, I can easily
get work in Wales or America. So we needn't trouble about
that."

' ' There's only Pooley and grandfather going to be left
single in the family now," cried Julitta. She was a little
hysterical.

" And grandfather's more like to wed than Pooley, ain't
you, grandfather ?" asked Ned.

" That's as may be," declared the old man. " But with
three weddings in sight, Pooley and I can afford to wait a
while."

They went to dinner with good appetite save Anna, who
could not get over this astonishing event. She had long
regarded Julitta as one of the cold women who die unwedded
and unsought. That her own opinion should have been so
mistaken, bewildered her. She looked back for the signs and
v/onders that seeing eyes never fail to observe in such cases,
but she could remember none. Julitta had hidden her
romance completely.

" The slydom !" murmured Anna from time to time, more
to herself than for any listening ear. She looked oftener at
Julitta than at Sidney Nanjulian during the Cliristmas dinner,

A CHRISTMAS BOX FOR NANJULIAN 179

and the look was not one of pure affection. Another also
regarded Julitta curiously from under her eyelashes. This
was Philippa, who sat very silently between Ned and Pooley.
Julitta, too, looked at her, and knew that Philippa was ex-
ceedingly interested. They caught each other's eyes some-
times, and signalled a dawn of new friendship.

Nanjulian talked a great deal, and devoted his remarks to
his future mother-in-law. But she was abstracted, and paid
him no particular attention, Anna wanted her daughter
alone. The air begotten of this revelation was fortunate for
Philippa. She had feared to be the embarrassed centre of the
family and the alien of the company; but she and Ned were
quite unimportant people to-day. The focus was shifted to
Nanjulian, who proved much better able to endure it. As for
Philippa, she felt quite like an established member of the
family before this shock.

Nanjulian's masterful way impressed them all.

" Mark me," said Grandfather Nute, when the young
couples had gone out walking after dinner. " That man
won't take ' no ' for an answer. And Julitta won't give him
' no/ neither. He'll wed the first minute he can. The
Nanjulian race was a very useful one in its time, and has
nearly died out. I dare say he'll revive it to good purpose,
and very certain it is that he couldn't have found a better
wife. Though how he found her, and when and where they
went courting, be as great a mystery as the love of the little
birds."

Anna's dinner had not agreed with her, and she was sitting
by the fire.

" The slydom !" she repeated. " It ain't like any child of
ours to be so double."

" I wouldn't call it ' double,' " argued Wilberforce. " It's
no more than what she said herself — just the fine novelty of
having a secret. The young are very fond of secrets. They
only get a cursed trouble to the elderly."

Pooley was holding a service for children, and presently
he went up the village with Grandfather Nute.

When they were gone Retallack exhibited a rare cheerful-
ness, for of late he had much fallen into gloom.

" This makes me forget my ill health, mother. Think
nothing but good of it," he said, " A very great relief to me

180 OLD DELABOLE

— both girls provided for — and well provided for Nan-

julian's all right, and steady too."

" I've nothing against him, of course," she answered.

" Nothing particular for him and nothing particular against

him. In fact, I hardly know the man."

" He's a very good, straight, saving sort of man."

" Good he may be ; straight he isn't. No more than Julitta.

That's what's given me heartburn without a doubt: not the

engagement, but the slydom !"

CHAPTER XXII

JULITTA LAUNCHED

JuLiTTA and Sidney declared themselves superior to a
honeymoon.

" It's no time for it," said Mr. Nanjulian, " with the quarry
coming in and the future so uncertain."

He took a little house that stood upon the road to St.
Teath. It was one of four, and Antipas Keat, a friend of
Naujulian's who considered himself an expert in the matter
of house-building, approved of it. Julitta chose new wall-
paper and Sidney promised her a bathroom if he stopped at
Delabole.

" No use spending money on luxuries like that until we know
what happens to the quarries," he said. This she admitted
and amused herself with planning the new garden.

The betrothal had been so sudden that, even a week before
the wedding, Mrs. Retallack failed to realize what was upon
her; while Wilberforce, before the anxieties of his public
position and private affairs, continually forgot all about the
business and had to be reminded that on such a day, now fast
approaching, Julitta would be wedded.

Edith was rather pained at the ckcumstance and expos-
tulated.

" A girl's wedding-day is an event," she said, " and I think
we ought to fuss more over Julitta."

" It's her own fault," answered Anna. " If she had come to
it easy and natural, as you did, and let the thing grow up in
our minds slow and sure in the usual way, then we should have
took it as became parents ; but springing it like that and then
rushing it like this — who the mischief can be expected to rise
to it ? The idea haven't gone home yet, no more than a death
do in the first few weeks ; and when you tell me our Julitta's
going to be married Thursday fortnight, I can't grasp it — no
more can father."

181

182 OLD DELABOLE

" Yes, I can," declared Wilberforce. " I didn't until I
wrote out her cheque for fifty pounds for needfuls. I've
grasped it all right since then; and so have my banking
account."

There certainly was a spirit abroad that might have chilled
some j^oung lovers; but when Nanjulian professed to deplore
it, Julitta only laughed at him.

" That was bound to be," she said; " and I think it's rather
interesting — almost funny. As a matter of fact, we were
married a year ago — privately — and this business is all ridicu-
lous pretence really in our eyes. But its got to be, because
unmarried mothers and their children are treated with less
respect in England than anywhere else in the world. Of
course my people don't know the truth, but they feel that
there's something in the air. They've always been a thought
uneasy about me, and our engagement and wedding being out
of the common, it makes them look at it with doubt. They feel
a sort of dim discomfort, because we kept our secret to our-
selves and didn't run after each other down the road and
make love for every fool to see. Then father never likes to
be hurried either. If you take him out of his stride, he's
done. We shall all be very glad when it's over."

" And this spirit stretches out beyond your home," said
Sidney. " It's wonderful how conservative a Radical can be.
Here we pride ourselves on being ahead of all North Cornwall
in our political opinions, and a proper stronghold of progress,
and yet let any little social matter go a step forward, like
Ned's bit of fun, or our wedding without the usual keeping
company — as they suppose — and some shake their heads and
some protest as if we were injuring society in its tenderest
place."

"And I dare say some even guess the truth," she said;
" and if they did, you may be sure their consciences would
blame them for being uncharitable and quick to think evil
against us."

" A thing all depends upon circumstances whether it's evil
or not," he answered. " For instance, if you'd been a trust-
ing fool, instead of a wonderful clever girl born ahead of all
the opinions of the age, and if I'd been a rascal and a philan-
derer, instead of a man full of romance and quick to under-
stand your worth and wonder, then this thing might have been

JULITTA LAUNCHED 183

evil and the people would have been right. You'd have been
disgraced and I should have stopped a bachelor. But because
we are what we are, there's no evil in it — owing to our wisdom
in bending to the opinions of our fellow-creatures — silly
though we know them to be. Still, you can't build a rule on
exceptions."

" We shall be neither more nor less to each other," declared
Julitta; " but a child's a child, and for the parents to marry
after it's born doesn't help it in England, though it puts
the little, defenceless thing all right in most other civilized
countries."

" We'll have two and no more," declared Nanjulian. " My
children are going to get a chance in the world and a proper
education and a proper send-oii'. I don't want you to bring
more children here than I can start well on their way."

Thus they talked, and elsewhere the young couple were in
many mouths, for the coming marriage had wakened some
interest even at this moment, when one idea and dread domin-
ated the people.

A companj^ met in the new dinner-house at the bottom of
the quarry and ate their food and debated a proposition
arising from Sidney Nanjulian's approaching wedding.

" Ought we, or ought we not, to give the man a gift ?"
asked Jack Keat. " In my opinion we ought. I don't say
he's hit on a proper time for his adventure, and I do say it
would have been better and showed a finer spirit in the man
to put off pleasuring until we know where we stand; but it's
a free country, and as he's fixed next week for marriage, and
as marriage is marriage, and he's been a very fair foreman, it
might be a good thing to send round the hat and buy him an
inkstand, or some such thing, and her a tea-service — her, of
course, belonging to the quarry too."

They listened, and Noah Tonkin spoke

" The thing have moved in my mind also," he said, " and
Benny Moyse, and Richard Male at the public-house will
both bear witness, for we spoke of it in the bar and left it an
open question. And for my part I think we ought to do it."

" I lay Benny didn't think so: no friend of mine would
think so," declared Mr. Bunt.

" He did not," admitted Tonkin. " He said it weren't the
time."

184 OLD DELABOLE

a

It's never the time," vowed Moses Bunt. " No man, nor
yet woman, will ever cabooble me with that nonsense. If
you want to make a bally muck of your life, hitch it to a
woman's ; and the man who can look at marriage from outside
and then walk into it is a buffle-headerj fool every time. And
you see it all around you. And ever y inarried man knows he
has lost his tail, like the foxes in +^V3 fable; but they're all
in a conspiracy to keep it dark."

" We was in the keel -alley* on Friday eve," said Tonkin,
" and I put it to Benny and Mr. Male, same as Jack have put
it to us, and Male said he didn't know but what we might, and
Benny said he wasn't going to be touched for a penny for
such a cause."

" And why should he ?" asked Moses.

" You talk as if marriage was a mistake instead of an
institution ordained by God Almighty," answered Keat,
" And you an old bachelor, too. What the mischief do you
know about it ?"

" What them as look at a thing from outside do know —
and that's the truth. I never put a woman before beer but once
in my life; and that was once too often. And you'll never
catch me rewarding marriage with a gift. And I'll go further
and say that marriage is contrary to nature."

" That's silliness, Moses, and you be judging the world from
your own cranky self," declared Tonkin. " Because you
haven't ever felt love for the opposite sex, and because such
a thing is contrary to your nature, it don't follow that it's
contrary to the rest of us. You go tlirough the world, like a
lot of other narrow creatures, thinking you're the rule and
everybody else is the exception. And all the time the bitter
English of it is that you're the exception and everybody else
is the rule."

" No such thing," answered Bunt. " I've never pretended
I was the rule — quite the opposite. Sense ain't the rule, and if
you've got sense you don't neighbour with the fools — men or
women. And least of all neighbour with a woman for life.
Nine out of ten women be fools, and their friends be fools, and
if you marry one, you get drawn in and find yourself hemmed
round by fools and choked by fools before you can blow your
nose. Keep single if you're a clever man; if you ain't, it don't

* Ked-alley — skittle-alley.

JULITTA LAUNCHED 185

matter a damn Vv'hat you do — because in that case you're
bound to make a mess of it in the long run."

" It isn't contrary to nature, whether or no," argued jack
Keat. " You can't say that; for nature works in that pattern
and love makes the world go round. 'Tis by pairing we keep
life in the world."

" Pairing's one thing and marrying's another," answered
Bunt. " A brace of thrushes will have a hand in the next
generation of thrushes and do their duty by the little birds
and launch 'em in the world ; and then they part — and damn
glad to part most times, I reckon — and properly thankful to
think they'll never see each other's faces no more."

"What about bullfinches, then ?" asked Tonkin. " 'Tis
well known the3^ never part, but keep so close together tlu'ough
the year as in the nesting season."

" Just a siltything bullfinches would do," answered ]\Ir. Bunt.
" A bullfinch is a beastty bird all the year round, and never
beastlier than when the pear-tree buds be swelling. And if
they've got nasty human habits, so much the better reason
for shooting 'em at sight, as the gardeners do."

" You be past praying for, Moses, and you've made Benny
Moyse as stiffnecked as yourself, though I remember a time
when he had a little human nature in him," declared Keat.
" But the question is a wedding gift for Nanjulian and Wil's
daughter; and I'm for it."

Others who listened to this conversation agreed with Jack
Keat, and in the end a sum sufficient for the ink-bottle and tea-
service appeared. Julitta, indeed, was surprised and touched
by the number of the gifts, for unexpected people remem-
bered her. Aunt Mercy Inch from Trebarwitli sent a tea-cosy
worked with her own hand; Jane Sleep, Philippa's mother,
and Philippa herself both brought a present, and Sarah Sleep
and her brother between them produced a memento in the
shape of a ' Dore ' Bible. Hawkey and the Bakes sent gifts,
and Betsy Bunt, whose heart was larger than that of her
brother, gave Julitta six pairs of stockings.

An unexpected present was received from Julitta's
kinswoman, Mrs. Jane Lobb — she whose husband had once
assisted Wilberforce with cash and afterwards made it a gift.
That Jane Lobb should have recognized the occasion sur-
prised the Bctallacks somewhat, for they heard little of her;

186 OLD DELABOLE

but the gift was not wholly disinterested, and Wilberforce
knew it, though his family did not. The widow sent a cabinet
photograph of her late husband in an ornate frame, and she
knew, or guessed, that the familiar features of his benefactor
would remind Mr. Retallack of events now fifteen years old.
Jane Lobb wrote with her gift, and took occasion to mention
that it Avas the best that she could afford, owing to her reduced
circumstances. It appeared that she had been called upon
to give up the little boy she had adopted, and was indeed a
good deal pressed in the battle of life. Fortune, not content
with deserting her husband before his death, had ill-used her
since, and with all the will to give Julitta a finer present, she
lacked the power.

This communication cast down Wilberforce a good deal,
and when Jane Lobb refused an invitation to the wedding,
on the grounds of anxiety, poor health, and no clothes, he
was still more concerned. But he strove to banish care and
put a bright face on the coming event for his daughter's sake.
A further difficulty presented itself when he discussed the
marriage with Sidney Nanjulian, for it was a weakness of
Retallack's to suggest greater prosperity than he really
enjoyed. He liked to feel that people thought him a snug
man, and seldom refused a subscription to the many calls
that echoed about Delabole; but from time to time arose
the necessity of stating facts, and now Nanjulian was added
to the hst of those who knew the truth. He felt surprised
that Julitta would come to him without a dower ; he also had
imagination enough to see the discomfiture of his father-in-
law before need for the confession. He made light of it,
however, for his sense of humour stood him in good stead,
and the contrast between j)oor Wilberforce's flamboyant
pretence of means and crestfallen confession of poverty
amused him.

" He little knew, when he used to blow to me about his
good fortune and many blessings, that some day he'd have to
make a clean breast of it," said Sidney to Julitta. " I was
far sorrier for him than for myself. It cut him to the quick —
poor man ! — being called to confess that he couldn't give you
any money — especially after his talk in the past, when he
never dreamed there'd rise a need to tell me the truth. But
I relieved his mind, and showed him I wasn't at all vexed. A

JULITTA LAUNCHED 187

man's wife is his first care, and it's right and proper that your
mother should have all he can leave her for her life."

Julitta, however, felt much disappointed on Sidney's
account. Her father was abject and humble before her, and
made her very uncomfortable. He apologized to her as
though he had done her a wrong. Then Anna flamed up,
bade him not be so craven, and adopted a defiant manner
to Julitta, which hurt the girl, since she had uttered no word
of lamentation. She resented her mother's attitude, and a
coolness sprang between them begot of nothing but human
stupidity on Anna's part. Grandfather Nute strove to
banish this cloud, and failed. Then mother and daughter
came together, and Anna, in a melting mood, wept and asked
for Julitta's forgiveness. Whereupon Julitta also wept, and
they were friends.

Indeed, ]\Irs. Retallack might have been pardoned at this
moment for a little loss of self-control. Life weighed heavily
upon her. That Wilberforce could give Julitta no more than
he had was an implicit confession of a position worse
than Anna guessed. But she never mentioned it, for the
man was too sick to trouble. Other cares she also har-
boured, because Pooley, with that self-centred egotism
common where a streak of genius hides, made no secret
of his own desires. She alone was sympathetic, and had
to bear the brunt of his spirit's needs. But his confidences
did not bore her; she shared his ambition, and entertained
maternal admiration for his gifts. That one so endowed
should be doomed to work in the quarries caused Anna
ceaseless regret. She turned over the problem of helping
Pooley, and proposed to devote all her energies to it
when Julitta was out of hand. But here again she was
met by uncertainty and the doubt that hung over all
future plans until the fate of Delabole should be known.
What the womb of earth concealed none might determine,
and life and hope continued suspended upon the brink of the
approaching tragedy.

At Newhall Mill Julitta's nuptials formed matter for much
conversation. Wesley Bake, Nancy, his mother, and his
sister-in-law, Susan, combined to give a wedding present, and
it took the shape of a piece of furniture that Julitta always
much admired. This had belonged to the Bakes from old

188 OLD DELABOLE

time, but none of them entertained much admiration Tor it;
and after Nancy had proved that both she, her son, and Susan
might be regarded as joint owners in the fine Georgian side-
board, they decided that tliis should be their gift. Julitta
was overjoyed, for she loved the beautiful thing; but she
hesitated to accept so great a treasure, not out of consideration
for the Bakes, for she knew they delighted to give it, but from
a suspicion that Edith, who would reign at Newhall Mill anon,
might regard the gift as a loss to herself.

Edith, however, cared nothing for such a possession, and
was onty surprised that her sister could win such joy of it.

The chilcken, Mary and Betty Bake, held conferences con-
cerning their wedding present; but Mary arranged the matter,
for the approaching wedding met with Betty's hearty dis-
approval. She had long been praying to God to change her
uncle's mind and turn him from Edith to Julitta, and now
that Julitta was lost to her Betty felt disheartened and out
of spirits. She became exceedingly naught}^ and was often
in disgrace.

Once, when Sidney Nanjulian, his mind full of affairs, passed
by the school-house yard in playtime, he chanced to glance up
and saw a small and malignant face glowering at him over the
wall. A dark-haired little girl, with black eyes, was insulting
him. But he knew her not.

" Don't you poke your tongue at me, you imp," he said, " or
I'll box j^our ears."

" I hate you," declared Betty. " Aunt Julitta's going to
marry you because you've overlooked her, and I hate you !"

He laughed.

" She's overlooked me, more likely. You're one of those
little Bakes from the corn-mill, I suppose ? Don't you be
silly, or we shall call you ' half -bake.' You'll see plenty of
Aunt Julitta and Uncle Sidney too, if you're a good girl."

" I'm not good," said Betty, " and I never will be good if I
can help it, because I heard Aunt Julitta tell my mother that
she liked a spice of the devil in her friends. And I'm her best
friend, and she's my best friend in the world, after Grandfather
Nute."

" I'll be your friend, too."

" Will you let Aunt Julitta come and see me when she's a
mind to ?"

JULITTA LAUNCHED 189

a

Of course I will. She'll alwaj^s do what she's a mind to,
I hope."

" May I come and see her in her house ?"

" So oft as you like."

Bettjr ^VTiggled over the wall, revealing a good deal of her
long, slim person as she did so. He helped her down. Then
she kissed him.

" Then I'll give up everj^body in the world for you — all
except Grandfather Nute," she said.

" Don't do that. You can't have too many friends."

" I don't want no more friends but you three. I'd come
and live along with you if you could get grandmother and
mother to agree to it."

" Very kind of you to offer," he answered, " but I'm sure
your mother couldn't spare you."

" 'Tis all according as I go on," explained Betty. " I've
heard her say sometimes she couldn't, and other times she
very well could. If you'll take me, I know just how to make
mother feel she can let me go — and grandmother, too."

Julitta's wedding was quiet, and the company not large.
A party of a dozen sat down to breakfast after the ceremony,
and a spirit of somewhat forced cheerfulness marked the event.
But none could escape from the cloud now hanging low and
heavy over Delabole. It was darkening men's minds and
invading every hearth like a presence. Perhaps only two
hearts beat with pure happiness on the occasion, for Betty
and her sister were Julitta's bridesmaids, and both wore new
frocks of blue serge and light blue ribbons.

The wedding was on Thursday, and the bride and bride-
groom went off to Tintagel. But on Monday morning they
returned. Then, and not till then, Julitta Nanjulian was
happy. Despite reason, inherited instincts, far stronger than
reason's power to shake, had made her unsettled and disquiet
until she lay, a wife, in her husband's arms.

CHAPTER XXIII

THE GUILLOTINE

Over Pooley Retallack the events of real life passed like a
dream, for the only reality in his mind belonged to the soul,
and he regarded existence on earth as but a stepping-stone,
or series of stepping-stones, that led from time to eternity.
Before this tremendous conception, so often declared by devout
persons and so seldom displayed, young Pooley stood, and
his heart was torn and his conscience troubled.

A temptation haunted him during his working hours, and
often, in the midst of night, he woke with fearful agitation
from dreams that made him think he had fallen to it. But as
a temptation he did not always regard this allurement. From
some angles and in some ethical lights the yearning, that now
so deeply stained his mind, called to him rather as a command
than repelled him as an offence. It might, indeed, be regarded
as a cowardly means of reaching to his soul's desire; but, on
the other hand, it was possible to view it and exalt it into a
noble martynrdom and act of splendid self-sacrifice. To give
your life for your friend was always great; to maim your
body for your neighbour's soul — might not that be a very
notable and praiseworthy surrender ?

There lived once a man in Delabole who had worked in the
quarries when he was young. An accident struck off his arm,
but he made a good recovery, and, since he possessed great
gifts and was famed as a local preacher before the misfortune,
his friends had come forward to assist him. The man had
been tamping, or ramming, a charge of powder, which exploded
and maimed him very seriously. It was, of com'se, an accident,
but it had resulted in the sufferer winning strong support,
and what at first appeared the destruction of his usefulness
in reality ojsened the door to it, for he was helped to enter
the ministry, and had done noteworthy work on a wide
circuit for many years.

190

THE GUILLOTINE 191

This instance now dominated Pooley's hieratic mind, and for
many days he laboured under the belief that what came to
his predecessor by accident might fall upon him even more
grandly by deliberate sacrifice. He was blinded for a season,
and yet in his honest heart there existed instincts which made
him hesitate. Reason cannot be entirely destroyed until
man has moved far along a fanatic path, and reason, battling
with Pooley, laboured to defeat the sophisms that a deep and
noble ambition wove about his mind.

He desired to injure himself physically in such a manner
that he could no more work in the quarries, for if this hap-
pened to him he felt very sure that swift help would be forth-
coming and the door to the ministry thrown open. He had
preached again and commanded a wide hearing. Everybody
said that he was marked for service, and he believed it.
But only his own exertions could challenge the necessary
attention and win the necessary aid. And since his father was
powerless and none offered, it remained for him to take the
first step. He inquired, but could learn of no means to win
his object save one, and that, from being a shadow long latent
in a crann}^ of his thoughts, had now emerged and bulked into
an active obsession from which escape was impossible. Nor
did he feel at all times the need to escape. It has already
been explained that what was to-day a temptation to do evil
that good might come appeared to-morrow in the light of a
great duty — a trial to be faced, a demand from on high, to
be obeyed for heavenly purposes connected with his destiny.

There was a text that haunted him like the melody of a
song, and when that rose uppermost in his mind, he felt im-
pelled to act and end this dreadful season of dark nightly
di'eams and painful waking hours.

" Wherefore if thy hand or thy foot offend thee, cut them off,
and cast them from thee : it is better for thee to enter life halt
or maimed, rather than having tivo hands or two feet to be cast
into everlasting fire."

These words appealed with fearful force to Pooley; but
even at the hour of its most triumphant insistence, reason
would stoutly challenge the command and cast him down.
For did it apply to him ? Gradually he perceived that the
direct injunction could only be followed at a cost of breaking
all natural instincts, and, perhaps, by ignoring other sacred

192 OLD DELABOLE

injunctions equally vital and valid. Was his eye quite single
in this matter ? The very longing to maim himself and cast
his hand from him made him doubt. No self-sacrifice would
the action be, no act of martyrdom could it be called by the
secret voice of his own heart. For he longed to do it; he
hungered horribly to feel the knife of the guillotine, and know
that, through that sharp pang, the door of his delivery would
be unlocked. It was harder far to do his daily work properly
than to abandon it, and with it a hand. Then, did the text
apply to his dilemma ? If he met with an accident and so
entered into the calling, none could gainsay him, and the
deliberate work of his Maker would appear and be justified to
men; but if he took the law into his own keeping and destroyed
a member for his own purposes, could that be similarly justified
as admirable and fore-ordained ? In some moods he answered
that it could, since all things were fore-ordained, and man can
only do what God puts into his heart to do ; but he believed in
free will, and when other trains of thought rose uppermost,
Pooley perceived that accident and intent could by no means
be regarded as of equal significance in this matter. For what
must be the sequel ? What must be his own attitude to the
situation when the deed was done ? It would not be an acci-
dent, and he could not lie and say that it was. Yet would he
come into his kingdom without a lie ? What would the people
say when he told them that he had cut off his hand and cast
it from him, that he might go into the ministry ? Would they
not rather suspect that the madhouse should be his portion ?
Some, indeed, might support him and proclaim him a martyr
for the faith, but others would as surely say that a man
must not cut off his hand to force God's.

Thus, without a falsehood, the ultimate success of such a
stratagem was threatened, and the young man knew that
any action must be of doubtful import, no matter the
nobility of its object, if the achievement of that object
depended in the last resort upon a lie.

Having reached this position, great gloom settled upon his
spirit, and his family observed it. But all were gloomy at
present, and they supposed the general doubt and darkness had
touched Pooley too, despite his protest against it and assertion
that Delabole lacked faith.

He sat at the guillotine and squared slate daily. With

THE GUILLOTINE 193

meticulous care he did his work, and sometimes caught him-
self looking at the long knife-blade as one looks in doubt upon
a stranger, who may be a friend, or who may be a foe. He
sometimes longed for a sign to decide him. He would have
leapt at any oracle or omen as a portent from on high. He
strove to read such a thing into the trivial events of passing
days, and failed.

Then accident opened another channel to his yearning
heart, and a course of action that he had once considered and
put away rushed suddenly upon him. By surprise the
prompting mastered him, and he yielded to it and set his
problem before another. Even as he did so, he guessed what
the answer would be; but it proved more precious than he
expected. Already he had thought of speaking to his grand-
father concerning the subject; but desisted. Now, however,
the accident of sudden impulse made him take another into
his confidence, and the issue enlarged his mind and lifted his
faith in man to loftier heights. Until the present he had
believed only in God and doubted of humanity; henceforth,
under the light of what now unexpectedly happened to
him, Pooley Retallack found his opinion of humanity
ennobled.

There was a great chamber of the works where endless
bands ran from a revolving rod aloft as in the dressing-sheds ;
but the purposes of this workshop and the implements within
it were different from those elsewhere. Great ' Hunter's ' saws
worked here, and steel planes cleaned the surface of the largest
slates. Other machines put a face on the stone with sand,
and examination of the purposes for which these slabs and
squares were prepared had surprised most people by their
great variety.

For wall coverings and dairy benches they were cut; for
floors and flag-pavements, for hearths and skirting-stones,
lintels, sills, and steps. They were used for platforms and
lighthou.se floors, for copings, cisterns, corn-chests, tanks and
troughs. Brewers' squares and vats and stillions were made
from them, and launders for waterways and leats. They
were employed for lavatories, mortuary tables, refrigerators,
and milk coolers; while the slate of finest substance and grain
was usually reserved for graves. In this capacity it outUves
most other material and defies decay. So enduring is it that

13

194 OLD DELABOLE

fragments of slate may not seldom be seen set in mosaic upon
less dm"able marbles and granite.

Pooley, coming hither with a friend's chisel, watched the
operation of sharpening upon a great grindstone. The fire
flew, and the tool was quickly set.

Then walked Tom Hawkey through the shop and, seeing
young Retallack, entered into conversation.

" How's your father ?" he asked.

■' Pretty bad. Mister Tom."

" I wish he'd go away for a bit. This east wind is punishing
him."

" It's the governor's mind," said Pooley; " my family have
got fidgety sort of minds."

The other nodded.

" It's only a very large or a very small pattern of
mind that don't fidget, Pooley. We can only do our best.
If we do our share, there's nothing to charge against
ourselves."

" He's done more than his share, I reckon. I don't mean
in his work, but in his way of going through life."

" A very generous, high-minded man."

" Too generous, mother says. Don't fancy she blames
him; but sometimes, when she thinks of — what might have
been done if he hadn't been so ready to help the world in
general "

" I understand. It's a delicate matter, and a man must
judge for himself how far charity should take him outside his
own door. Your father is goodness made alive, and he has a
heart bigger than his head, as I've often told him." He put
his hand on Pooley's shoulder.

" I know what's in your mind, Retallack. It's natural you
should feel that way. But practise the trust you preach, ;- If
you're meant for the ministry, into the ministrj' you'll surely

The sympathy of the voice inspired Pooley to speak.

" It's a very great thing to be so understanding as you.
When I speak to you. Mister Tom, I know what education
means. I'm just clever enough to see what a great thing it
is to be educated. Of late I've got to long for knowledge.
And things have come of it — queer things that puzzle me a
lot."

THE GUILLOTINE 195

" That's all to the good, Pooley. We're called — every one
of us — to fight two battles all the time — the battle of the
body and the battle of the soul. There's the battle of life, as
we call it, and the battle for eternal life. And sometimes
we've got to let one go for the sake of winning the other."

It was at this point in their conversation that the younger
man felt suddenly drawn to put a part of his trouble on the
elder's shoulders. Hawkey was strong and wise. For a
moment the j^outh doubted whether he might with propriety
trouble a busy man about his own affairs ; but he trusted the
impulse, and put aside a suspicion of selfishness for the blessing
that confession might bring.

■■ May I take up a bit of your time, Mister Tom ?" he asked
suddenly. " Well I know its value, but you'd do me a very
great kindness if you would let me speak."

Hawkey looked at his watch.

" Come and share my dinner," he said. " It's Just noon.
Then you can talk while we eat."

" I'll wash and come over," answered the lad, " and thank
you dearly."

A quarter of an hour later, having hastened to the Quarry
House and told his mother of the invitation, Pooley proceeded
to the manager's. He had polished himself up before
doing so.

They ate in silence for five minutes, then his host bade
Pooley speak.

" It's like this, I want to go out of the shops I want open-
air work — away from the guillotine."

Hawkey was much surprised.

" Why, you're one of the best cutters at Delabole ! It's
taken you some useful years to know what j^ou know.
What do you want to waste all that skill for, now you've
got it ?"

Then Retallack emptied his heart and told how the guillo-
tine offered a means of escape, how mutilation might mean
the ministry, how he had been sorely tempted to injm'e himself
irreparably, that he might reach to the mission in life for which
he was born.

" You said a minute ago that we might have to lose one
battle to win the other. Mister Tom, and that's how I've felt
this longful time. And I don't know now; but yet deep in

196 OLD DELABOLE

me there's a feeling against. Something pulls me away;
something makes me feel the guillotine is from hell and not
the true friend I'd like to think it was. If I do it, then what ?
I can't say I've done it on purpose, for then the tiling I want
to happen won't happen, and I can't say it was an accident,
for then I should get into the ministry on a lie."

Hawkey was deeply interested.

" Be very sure the devil's behind this," he said. " And
I'll tell you what would happen if you gave way to it. Once
you'd done it and sacrificed your member and ruined your
body, then you'd have begim the downward road, and the
next thing would be that you'd lie, for you'd be weakened to
lying when you looked ahead and saw your sacrifice was all
in vain without a lie to buttress it. You'd lie and go into the
Church with your soul poisoned for evermore. And your life
would be a lie, and the higher you got, the more awful it would
be. You shall come out of the dressing-shed next Monday.
You can go into the pit or into the engine-house. You'll lose
money, but that's nothing against what you'd lose by this."

" You think it's an evil temptation, Mister Tom ?"

" The wonder is you could doubt for an hour. Your own
sense showed you. In dealing with God we've got to play
the game, as we have in dealing with men. You must always
have things on a proper business footing with your Maker,
and you know that a lie's no sure foundation for any deal. I
like you, Pooley, for telling me about this. It's a great com-
pliment to me. Take heart. You can judge of a man by the
size of his temptations, and the devil never wastes his strength
on anybody. When a heart's small and mean, he comes to it
with small and mean whispers. When it's big and strong and
aims high, then he puts out his awful power. He wouldn't
tempt many men to cut a hand off. He comprehends human
nature, and he won't goad on a soul to face an enemy from
the front when he knows that it is only strong enough to
stab from behind. But you can always withstand evil if you
hate a lie. A lie's at the back of most of the devil's inventions
— and he knows it, though it takes a good man sometimes to
see the lie hid in the trap."

It was five minutes to one, and they rose to return to the
quarries.

" Come to me first thing on Monday," said the manager,

THE GUILLOTINE 197

and Pooley promised to do so ; but before Monday — on Sunday
after chapel — Retallack was stopped by his friend, and they
spoke together for ten minutes.

" Walk this way out of the people. I won't keep you,"
began Hawkey, and when they were in a side-lane from the
street, he spoke.

" We're all wrong," he said. " We're not tackling this
business of ours like men, but like cowards."

It was his fashion to identify himself thus with any indi-
vidual who came before him. Another would have told
Pooley that he was a coward ; but this man shared the blame
arising from his discovery. Indeed, he felt that he must
share it.

Pooley stared.

" How Mister Tom ?"

" We're running away, my son. We're throwing up the
sponge. We'd never forgive ourselves when we looked back
and saw what we'd done."

The younger instantly comprehended.

" Ah ! I must stick to the guillotine."

" That 3'ou must, Retallack. We were blind to think of
any other way. That's the right answer to this — and the only
answer. The big men are those that frighten the devil, not
them he can fright."

CHAPTER XXIV

MAKING READY

There came a morning when, after examination of the cliffs,
Tom Hawkej^, Retallack, and Nanjulian decided that work
beneath them must cease. Preparations had long been in
hand for the approaching fall, and it was now judged that
within a week or ten days the huge mass would come down.
Ample margins of safety were, of course, allowed. The last
stroke was struck, the last load of the famous ' Grey Abbey '
slate was drawn away. It seemed unlikely that the living
generation would ever look upon these galleries again.

One by one the steam-enginas were drawn back from their
places, and the cranes and great steam-shovel taken bej^ond
reach of danger. The tram-rails were also pulled up and all
appliances of value removed. Hawkey and Nanj ulian devoted
themselves to personal superintendence of this work, and the
former calculated that the fall would cover an expanse of not
much less than fifty yards, and go far to fill the green lake at
the bottom of the workings. Beyond this gulf it could not
reach, though it was probable that single blocks and masses of
stone precipitated from the great height of the cliffs might fly
or ricochet to bombard a more extended area. For this reason
all machinery was drawn back to the foot of the great inclined
plane that descended into the quarries; the steel ropes, that
fell to the foot of the ' Grey Abbey ' seams from the pappot-
head, were also cast loose and drawn out of harm's way.

The work of making all clear for the avalanche took a week,
and Hawkey, knowing that upon its completion two hundred
men would be at leisure, had already opened up three separate
tracts of stone in the region known as ' Wesley's Hole.' Two
promised little; the third awakened his hopes. In the cliffs
whereon perched Retallack's home was also high-grade slate,
and the manager had a private opinion concerning his
future operations here — a plan hidden for the present in his

198

MAKING READY 199

own mind, because it was possible the place might be affected
by the coming fall. He set a large number of idle men to
various temporary works round about the quarries, and took
the opportunity of their freedom to apply them upon
desirable labours. The fact heartened many, for they
argued that if Hawke}^ and those for whom he stood were
not sanguine concerning the future, this minor business
of removing rubbish and cleansing and cleaning would not
have been put upon them. But all application proved diffi-
cult at this crisis, and those in authority were the last to expect
it. The great rifts on the north face now gaped six feet across,
and drew a jagged line between the solid earth and that which
was to fall. Shrewd surveys revealed the probable extent of
the slip; but its exact dimensions none could predict, for if
the rock cleavage bent inward out of sight, the obvious fall
might create another great over-burden and so precede another
fall, the range of which nothing as yet existed to reveal.
Hawkey, judging by the run of the cliff strata, feared
no such additional catastrophe. Already he could see the
new quarry that would display its features after the fall. A
gigantic moraine must be created, extending high up the north
face and opening fan wise into the quarry bottom; but above
it another north precipice would appear between land level and
the newly created heap below. The bulk of the fallen matter
must be ' deads,' and, given regular work in the quarries —
work sufficient to provide the sinews of war and keep all going
at a profit — then an attack, to last for a doubtful number of
years, would begin upon this unfruitful mass. Thousands of
tons would be distributed upon the bottom of the quarry
through depths to be explored no farther; thousands of tons
would be drawn out of it to augment those mountains of
stone where waste heaps rose above the green valley to the
west. The great problem centred in the ability of Delabole to
stem the disaster and pay its way without the ' Abbey ' slate.
Hawkey, upon careful calculation of what was certainly to
come, believed that this would be possible. He even allowed
a margin against more extended troubles than tlireatened ; but
for his subsequent operations he depended no little upon human
factors, and these could not be calculated exactly. Future
prosperity must at best be delayed, and the way to it led
through great changes. Whether the workers would consent

200 OLD DELABOLE

to' make such changes, whether the rock-men would abandon
immemorial traditions and meet Hawkey's appeal when the
time came to put it, remained a doubtful question. But he was
not unhopeful, for the argument to the pocket is stronger than
most sentimental objections with a working man. Indeed,
Delabole had no choice, and would never let custom and old
use come between its children and their bread. The manager
therefore felt that, assuming the extent of the approaching
crash had been approximately judged, ultimate good might
emerge from present evil. At any rate, no time more fitting
than that to follow the fall could be chosen for his appeal ; no
better hour in the history of Delabole would ever strike in
which to urge those reforms and improvements the manager
had long considered and desired. He had hinted the same to
Retallack and Nanjulian, and submitted them at a meeting
of the directors, but the sense, both of the foremen and the
company, had stood against him. Those able to judge
admitted the value of Hawkey's theories, but estimating the
Cornish slate-men in the lump, were of opinion that they would
never willingly desert the footsteps of their fathers, or with
good will consent to overthrow of their historic procedure.

" You might as well ask a tirmer to work on the earth as to
tell a slater to go under it," declared Sidney Nanjulian when,
some years earHer in the historj^ of the quarries. Hawkey
had hinted of his thoughts ; and at that time the argu-
ment was strong enough ; but now the path of the future
receded into doubtful clouds, and if Delabole was called to go
underground, or cease to exist, Tom Hawkey felt confident that
the rising generation of rock-men at least would not hesitate.
Upon them he pinned his faith. They were larger-minded and
better educated than their fathers; they were children of
change, and found the taste of progress not bitter. Hawkey
accepted the need for a gradual advance, and had no intention
of erring by haste. Indeed, the physical aspect of his
design was such that only by slow steps could it be brought
about. Unlike Emancipation, for instance, which was a
radical change created in a flash to cause injustice that
none foresaw, the evolution of an industry cannot but develop
by gradual stages. In order to send the quarrymen under-
ground, tunnels must be driven after the good slate, and that
was an operation involving great extent of time.

MAKING READY 201

Tom Hawkey now concerned himself almost entirely with
the future, and none longed for the tension to end and the
cliff to come down more heartily than did he.

A new tram-line was being laid into the ' Wesley's Hole '
workings, and Hawkey watched it. As he did so there came
running Ned Retallack with a face that showed strange
emotions. For Ned had known neither fear nor grief, but
now exhibited both.

His father was suddenly fallen ill. He had stopped at home
after dinner under stress of physical discomfort, and his
daughter Edith had run for Ned and Pooley. Before the
doctor came the sufferer endured a great spasm, and seemed
likely to die of it. The medical man was now beside him, and
declared his condition grave. But the news, Ned said, had
come as no siurprise to his father, because Wilberforce Retallack
knew his family history very well. He had grown calm, and
sent messages to Wesley Bake, to Sidney Nanjulian, and to
Hawkey.

Ned now begged the manager to visit his father without
delay, and Hawkey accompanied him at once.

He found Retallack conscious and clear-minded, but very
depressed. The foreman had suffered a stroke; his right leg
was powerless, his right arm involved, and his speech
thickened.

Wilberforce spoke of himself.

" This is the end," he said. " I'm just the age to a month
when my grandfather died. My father lived to be five years
older than me; then he went the same way. Trouble has
hastened what was bound to happen. It's no great odds to
the man dying whether he gets a year or two more* or less,
for years are much like each other at my age; but in my
case, for the sake of my family, I should have liked to
struggle on a bit. And, of course, for the quarries. I'm
terrible vexed to go just now. But I shall be away before
the faU."

' ' Don't look on the dark side. You've been crying out for
rest this many months. Maybe this is a blessing, though it
don't seem so. A proper rest and proper nursing will do
wonders."

" Not against a stroke — I know."

" It's only the first, and a little one at that. You're like the

202 OLD DELABOLE

quarry, Wil, one stroke isn't going to shake you. I'll wager
you'll be on your pins in a month — or less."

Tom strove to cheer the other, but found it difficult. He
stopped till Wesley Bake eame, then left the sick man, promis-
ing to look in again before night.

Wesley had mounted a pony and galloped from the mill.
He came straight out of his work, and was dusty with flour
of corn. His face had perspired, and the fine powder on it run
down his cheeks. Retallack bade the rest leave him, and was
closeted with the miller for an hour. Then Anna brought
Bake some tea, and ministered to her husband. She found
him ver}' tired, while Wesley strove to be cheerful, but failed.
He was uneasy, and glad to go when Wilberforce declared that
he desired to sleep.

Presently Edith and her betrothed went out together. She
cried for exercise, and bade him come and walk with her.

Though fear had often filled her heart when she looked at
her father, the sudden illness of that day came as a shock, and
left her in deep distress. She needed comfort and consolation
now, and Wesley knew it. But he was not inspired; his own
mood fell into depression. It seemed to Edith that he even
failed of tact. Instead of striving to cheer her, instead of
dwelling on Mr. Retallack's virtues and the extent of the loss
with which all who loved him were threatened, the miller
appeared to be concerned most inopportunely with another
asj)ect of Wilberforce's character.

A silence had come between him and his betrothed as they
walked on the cliffs nigh the little village of Treligga seaward
of Delabole. Then suddenly the man broke it.

" He's very set in his own opinions, and, of course, I don't
blame him; but there are some things, Edith, I can't see with
his eyes."

" So much the worse for yours, then, if you mean father.
Never was such another. The soul of generosity and gentle-
ness— Christianity made alive. That's what grandfather called
him this very day, and that's what ought to be set on his grave.
He's a lesson to every other man I ever met."

" I know that well enough."

' ' Then try to be like him, if you love me. And don't you
let me hear you say an unkind word of him, or I'll never forgive

you."

MAKING READY 203

" God forbid!"

" You ought to be feeling for me to-day — for me and all of us
in sight of this awful loss. When Tom Hawkey came in, the
first thing he saw was what this meant to mother. You
can't rise to a big issue in a flash like he can."

" I know — I give him best always."

" More shame to you, then. I hate that spirit of yours,
always to be giving other people best. But if you want to —
then give father best. I wouldn't blame that, for there was
never such another man as he is. To say you can't see with
his eyes ! And if you were arguing with him to-day, you
ought to be ashamed of yourself."

" I didn't argue, Edith. I only put a few points. He was
quite clear in his mind, and wanted to go over some things.
Don't think I don't know his greatness."

" He's trusted you to stand for us. And the least you can
do, I should think, would be to follow his directions to the
letter, whatever they may be, and not argue about them."

" I didn't argue," he repeated. " I only — as my duty "

" Do his wish and you'll do your duty," she answered. " It's
wicked to doubt that, and father perhaps dying."

" I couJd wish that he would "

But she interrupted him again.

" Leave it — leave it and comfort me, for God's sake. Don't
you know what this means to me ? Don't you know what
I'm going to lose ? Can't you use your imagination a bit and
try to look into my heart 1"

" My darUng girl — of course. Somehow I never say the
right thing at the right moment. You'll have to work at me
and make my mind move quicker. 'Tis just because I always
want to be at my best and cleverest with you that I fail. I
get nervous, and yet, bless you, you're not always hard to
please."

But she was inexorable to-night.

" Now you want me to comfort you," she said; " you men
are all selfish; you're always wanting us to back you up, or
applaud you, or forgive you, or something. There's an instinct
in every man to take the upper hand with women."

" And there's an instinct in every woman to think better of
them if they do."

" Then why don't you ? Fine women like me don't really

204 OLD DELABOLE

like the gentle sort. They prefer the men who can tame
wild animals and face danger."

" There are worse troubles than wild animals and harder
things to face than danger. But I must try and growl
a bit — eh ? And yet a minute ago you wanted me jio
purr."

" I didn't," she answered. " I wanted you to use your wits
and make me purr. Haven't you seen a cat come in cold
and worried and looking for sympathy, and marching up to
its friends to get it ? And haven't you heard the creature
express its pleasure at a stroke of the hand and a kind word ?
You're all right, but you haven't got the knack of under-
standing what I want without my telling you ; and when a
woman has to tell a man what she wants, the act of doing so
makes her not want. A woman feels it's an outrage to have
to tell anything to a man that loves her. If he's worth his
salt and loves in earnest, then love ought to quicken his wits
and make him know what she wants before she does herself.
But it's only other men understand these things — never your
own man apparently."

For once Wesley was seized with a happy inspiration. He
put out his arm, drew Edith to himself, and kissed her.

They stood where, grey, into a pale, still sea, the ragged
clifiE line fell — point upon point to precipice and headlady
and detached rocks dotted darkly on the waters. The sun
had set, but the last gold still made a background of light
for lumbering cumuli that came laden with rain from the
south. They were silver-grey, like the sea, while strata of
vapour in loftier regions of the air struck bright horizontal
lines above their billowy masses and wrought a pattern of
light as high as the zenith. This radiance only died where
night's deepening blue spread clear and unstained. Landward
the earth fell hugely from south to north and drew a dark
descending line across the sea. Here spread great meadows
and gloomy fallow and waste land, where the dead fern still
spread masses of tawny light upon the dusk. Many a coomb
broke the earth and dropped downward to its hidden mouth
in the cliffs; and here widely scattered cots thrust the sharp
line of their roofs above the falling foreground, and here corn-
ricks made a spot of colour. A ploughman traced his last
furrow, then unlimbered his horses, mounted one of them, and

MAKING READY 205

jogged homeward. Two niiich cows lowed at a gate and
waited for the milker.

Then faded the rocky slopes, and Tintagel's little squat
tower was swallowed on its distant hill. A girl's voice lifted
in song as she came to the cows, a blackbird chinked among
the great furzes on the cliff, and the voice of waves, sunk to a
murmur, uttered their ceaseless sigh, against which the little
sounds of girl and bird struck thinly.

Darkness fell by stealth till land and sea were merged in
another night, and earthborn fires glimmered in valley and
on hill.

Edith returned Wesley's kiss, and for a time they were
silent and walked, as they loved to walk, hand in hand.

" We'll go up and call on Julitta," said the girl. " Then
we'll go home."

They climbed the hills, and in an hour reached the brand-new
dwelling of the Nanjulians. Julitta had seen her father since
Edith left Delabole, and was able to report that he appeared
better. Aunt Mercy Inch sat with Julitta, and they had just
finished tea. Aunt Mercy expressed herself as delighted with
Mrs. Nanjulian's house, but she did not like the pictures.

" However, you've got to live with them, and if you and
your husband admire 'em, it's nobody's business."

Julitta made fresh tea for Edith and Wesley, and begged
them to stop a little while.

Sidney Nanjulian had found marriage a delightful surprise,
and was, so far, well pleased with the novelty of his
sensations.

" I should like for a neighbour of mine to see this house,"
said Aunt Mercy. " She never changed her state. She's
acid, and says unkind things about matrimony. In her
opinion every married woman's home is a prison so long as
the gaoler lives."

" Grapes are sour, no doubt," suggested the miller.

" Why, wives are very near as free as widows nowadays,"
declared Julitta. " That's one thing education has done."

'■ It was bound to be so," answered Aunt Mercy. " For
why, my dears ? Because the law of Christianity is the
greatest good to the greatest number, and women are the
greatest number by all accounts. And if God wills 'em to be
so free as men, then, of cour.se, it will happen."

206 OLD DELABOLE

As they returned to Quarry Cottage, Wesley grew enthusi-
astic on the home life of the Nanjulians.

" A happier couple won't be in the world — till we're wedded.
'Tis the understanding between them, and the faith and trust.
Lovers never look into each other's eyes like married people,"
he said.

" Faith and trust are fine things— eo long as they last,"
she admitted.

" We've built on 'em — they're at the foundation, and so
they must last for ever with us, Edith."

" Please God, they will, dear Wesley."

She was happier now, and praised her sister's home.

"We shall never make Newhall look so pretty," she said;
but he would not hear of this.

" A thousand times better it shall be," he promised her.
" And if you can't do it single-handed, then Julitta will have
to help you. She's got just the cleverness to put a thing in the
right place. But no doubt you're just as good at it."

A

CHAPTER XXV

THE FALL

For some days the face of the rocks had begun to shed
fragments. Here a load of earth sHpped from above; here a
ton of stone, its support removed, would descend, dragging
lesser boulders with it. But now an abyss opened between
solid earth and the tottering precipices. They looked as
though the push of a child would fling them headlong, yet
they weathered some nights of storm through which the village
slumbered but little, for every man and woman expected to
hear the thunder of the falling cliff before dawn, and many
slept not, but abode in the quarry to witness theV tre-
mendous spectacle, as far as a clouded moon would show it.

Yet morning after morning found the cliffs still standing,
and now daily the high ground above the quarries clear of the
north face was crowded with people who lined each edge and
waited, expecting that at any moment the end might^^come.
Work was practically suspended now, and in the village itself
all business appeared to be at a standstill save the business of
eating and drinking.

Then, on the actual day of the fall a spirit seemed to
get into the air and an impulse drove Delabole to the quarries.
It was contrary to nature that the precipice should longer
stand. Night had seen a minor slip and the folk knew,
without being told, that the end had come ; they poured into
the quarry and gathered along the terraces to the west and
south, as though attending some great spectacle timed for
a punctual hour. The workers lined the banks, and half
the village accompanied them.

From his bedroom window Wilberforce Retallack enjoyed
a view of the quarry, and at an early hour. Hawkey, who had
not seen him for two days, called at the cottage to know how
he fared. No hopeful news rewarded him, for Retallack 's
days were numbered. Complications and an epileptic stroke

208 OLD DELABOLE

had destroyed him, and it was now a question whether first
the chff would fall or the foreman pass. Anna, who held her
husband's life was linked with his life's work, declared that
the events must happen simultaneously. Her husband's days
were dependent on the north face, and she uttered a conviction
that when the cliff fell, and not sooner, Wilberforce would
die.

As he proceeded from his office along the landing-place.
Hawkey met the crowd drifting in knots and clusters to points
of vantage; and among them came Antipas Keat.

" It's coming down, Mister Tom," declared the baker. " Be
sure it's coming down before noon."

' ' Why should it now ? Who can tell ? ' '

" Nobody can tell," answered the other; " and nobody can
say why; and yet everybody knows that it is so. Look at
them — all warping and turning together like a flock of starhngs.
They couldn't explain what's sent them: I couldn't explain
what's sent me; yet here I am. There's a force dragging us
from om: work, and many who have never been near the
place for months are out to-day. Old bed-liers are creeping
out of their holes, and ancient creatures you don't see more
than if they were in their graves already, have got abroad, like
bluebottles that have weathered winter and are creeping forth
at the call of the sun."

The village schoolmaster was with Antipas, and he
spoke.

" It's true, Hawkey — it's in the air, and we're breathing
it in. It isn't as if one man told another and the news ran,
as news generally does run: no, every man knows it in his
bones. These things are mysteries. The force that's pulling
down the cliff has pulled us out to see it fall. I've given the
children a holiday to-day that they may view the historic sight.
It's good for the imagination, and if I talked to them about
the law of gravitation for a month, they wouldn't know what it
meant as they will to-night."

Children were indeed on the mounds and ledges above the
quarry. They whistled and shouted and were from time to
time cuffed and driven back into safety.

Hawkey met Grandfather Nute a moment later.

" 'Tis like a wreck at Bude that I mind when I was a little
one," said the old man. " Why, the houses were left empty

THE FALL 209

and the whole chiirch-to\VTi poured out on to the downs to see
men saved or drowned. At such times, if they were known
beforehand, a rogue could fill his pockets from fifty tills,
for the very shop-people ran from behind their counters
to see the dreadful sight. And so it will be here The people
are swarming out like bees, and the hills will soon be black
with them."

Grandfather hurried on and met a party of his own
acquaintance, who congregated under the office walls over
against the tottering face of the quarries.

Here were Jack Keat and Noah Tonkin, Moses Bunt and
his friend Benny Moyse. Betsy Bunt stood by her brother and
beside her were Jane Sleep and her uncle, John Sleep, who had
left Sarah to mind the shop. Now, however, Sarah too joined
the group and explained that she had locked the door before
leaving. Sarah presently found herself near Grandfather
Nute, who, not without difficulty, made a place for her beside
him. Near at hand, Philippa Sleep and Ned survej'^ed the
scene together; but Pooley was not there. He believed in his
mother's presentiment, that the fall of the cliS would see
his father's death, and remained at home by the sick man's
bedside. Edith also stopped with Wilberf orce ; but Julitta sat
on a little hill in an old waggon, and Nanjulian came and went
from her. He had desired her to bide at home, because he
suspected this experience might ill serve the child she was to
bear ; but Julitta thought otherwise and, sharing the implicit
impression that the cliffs were to fall, had followed the unseen
magnet that drew to the quarry.

The crowds increased and the best points of view were be-
sieged. Pressure became exerted, and when a hundred tons
of rock and earth suddenly fell from the forehead of the north
face, the people, supposing the great spectacle about to begin,
made a rush for certain points. On the open ground between
the cliff edge and the office a great congestion occurred and the
crowd swayed and massed. The awe and fear that had domin-
ated so many minds in the past seem strangely to have lifted,
and here, in the shadow of the crisis, a cheerful spu'it was ap-
parent. An unconscious feeling that they were assembled at
a show got hold upon them. The excitement of the actual
demonstration for a time made them forget its significance,
and not until afterwards did dread and despair reawaken.

14

210 OLD DELABOLE

For the hour they were almost merry. Some sang and jested.
Salutations passed, and men and women who had not met
for months came together in the crowd and talked with anima-
tion of common friends and the events of their private lives.
Laughter rang out in the crushes and a woman's shrill voice
entertained those who heard it.

" For God's sake make a bit of room, Gran'fer Nute !"
cried Betsy Bunt. " Us be scroudged up here like pilchards
in a barrel."

That the lean ancient should thus be accused of crowding
his neighbours appealed to the people.

Elsewhere Tom Hawkey spoke with Mrs. Retallack before
seeing her husband.

" How does Wil go on ?" he asked.

" He's changing," she answered, " changing and growing
weak. His voice have gone so thin as the wind in the
the window. He used to boom like a tern and be full of fire
and fight when he struggled for his breathing; but now the
fight's out of him. No kick and sprawl left in the man. He's
sunk away into a gentle sort of state. He'll just tootle, and
puts me in mind of Pooley when he was a little boy. 'Tis all
' Edith' — he must have Edith beside him. Such secrets come
out when a man's too weak to hide 'em longer. Edith's his
favourite child and he puts her before me now — a thing I'd
not have expected."

" Don't you fancy that. Does he know the end's come and
the fall's at hand ?"

" Not he — and don't care neither. That's God's work with-
out a doubt, and for that I'm thankful. He never names the
quarry."

" ' Never names the quarry ' ! He was full of it last time I
saw him."

" That's a bit ago. He woke up the morning after you was
here with his mind empty. He was very wisht thinking of the
quarries the night before; but, come morning, 'twas all gone,
and when my father mentioned it, he took no heed. Every-
thing was broke away out of his head for fifteen year and he
dwelt on our far-away, happy time, when the future looked
all right and the present full of promise. It stabs, I can tell 'e,
to hear him ; but that's my selfishness, for its only the point of
view hurts me. When you hear a dying man laughing over

THE FALL 211

the little happy things that fell to his lot long, long ago, and
weaving his peace and content out of the faded past, you be
glad for his sake, of course ; but there's a bitter side to it for
them that have to stand up to life still — for God He knows how
many years. I could envy my master to-day."

" Don't you let yourself go," said Hawkey. " I guess it's
painful, but it oughtn't to be, for if he's pretty happy again
and the load of care he's suffered of late is lightened, that's
greatly to the good. A peaceful death is what we wish aU
men."

" He's peaceful enough. We're funny creatures, Mister
Tom — made of contradictions. Don't you think I'm not
thankful that he's at peace, and don't you think I haven't
thanked God for blotting out his life — all the troubled part of
it. I've done all that. But there it is — just human nature —
a feeling — a sort of justice in a way — though it's a left-handed
hit at me he should only want to remember the childer playing
long ago and our litt Je bits of fun, and take no heed for my
part in the past and my hope in the future. I'm glad it is so;
but it hurts. He can go back— I can't. Good God Almighty !
he calls home little, empty things, silly things that life's
buried under reality — same as the quarry will be buried in a
minute ! He digs 'em out and laughs at 'em; and if you pull
a long face at 'em, he's sad and puzzled."

She dried her ej^es.

" Come and have a look at him," she said; " and don't be
serious and down-daunted, else he'll grow fretful."

They ascended to the bedroom, and Hawkey glanced first
through the window. It seemed as though the quarry-side
already moved; but the sick man and Edith were laughing
together.

Retallack shook the manager's hand.

" Tell mother," he said.

" We were remembering when we all went for a picnic to
Trebarwith Sand, mother, and Ned fell in a pool and I fished
him out, and he stood on the rocks and cried, ' Be I drownded ?
Be I drownded ?' "

" Laugh ! How we all laughed," said Wilberforce; " and,
by the same token, we'll have another day down there — the
family party and grandfather too. I'd like nothing better, and
a bottle of beer or two. So soon as the sand has caught a bit

212 OLD DELABOLE

of heat from the sun we'll go. And you shall come, Mister
Tom, if you've a mind to it."

"So we will, then," said Hawkey.

" Or else it might be Tintagel," declared the sick man. " A
very fine place, and the sea-pinks will soon be peeping out in
the ruins. We might fetch home a brave root or two for the
garden. My Edith's our gardener — ain't you, Edith ?"

The visitor stopped but a short while. His heart was sad
at the women's sorrow, but content for Retallack. He knew
much of the foreman's later days and how weakness of character
and unreasonable generosity had tended to complicate life for
him. He Avas glad, therefore, that his last hours were to be
darkened by no more care. The man's affairs rested entirely
in the hands of Wesley Bake, and Hawkey doubted not that
none could administer them to better purpose. When he re-
tiu-ned to the quarry the fall was imminent and instinctively
he climbed upon a little place apart from the people to watch
it alone. Many eyes were on him but he knew it not. To
the crowd it seemed right that he should thus separate himself
from them. He was above them, and though they judged
that to such a man the future would present no difficulties,
many among them perceived, if dimly, what this great moment
must be to him.

" He be like Moses on the mount," whispered Tonkin to
Jack Keat.

" He may be," answered Bunt, who overheard, " but it
ain't much of a Promised Land he's looking at. The quarry's
going to be scat abroad for evermore. 'Twill be full of
scoUucks* to the brim in a minute, and then good-bye us."

Suddenly a jagged rift, shaped like a flash of lightning, was
torn across the face of the falling rocks. It appeared half-
way up the precipice and began to widen as the stone slipped
down. The sound of a low hissing accompanied this pheno-
menon; but it was not so loud as the murmur of the people.
The rock slid down; then a face of harder rock that slightly
overhung the ' Grey Abbey ' seams withstood the rush of it and
cast it to the right and left as the bow of a moving ship parts
the water. In a gigantic ripple of earth and stone, with in-
creasing roar the land slipped downward, and it seemed that
an invisible finger broke the avalanche and cast it to the right
* Scollucks — refuse and rubbish.

THE FALL 213

and left. The precipices had not fallen and as yet no more
than a huge mass of their lower planes was broken away.
The sound of the descending stone was not so great as a
dynamite explosion.

" 'Tis no more than if the bottom of the clifE had rose up
and sat down again !" cried Noah Tonkin.

A cloud of dust rose thinly as the falling masses spread
upon the bottom ; but it was not dense enough to conceal the
workings. They were unhurt, and debris flowed in great
rivers to the right and left, while a flood of stone and dust,
thrown clear, as water over the apron of a fall, jumped the
' Grey Abbey ' and dropped into the green eye of the little
tarn far beneath.

The watchers could not believe their eyes. Inexperienced
men laughed for joy.

"Good fall!" "Good fall!" " All's right !" "Praise
God !"

Three hundred happy men lifted their voices, and some began
to sing a hymn; while among the younger not a few started to
descend. But Jack Keat at one point, Nanjulian at another,
called them back.

" You buffle-heads ! — ain't you got eyes ? It's not down
yet !" shouted Keat; and Hawkey from his standpoint also
shouted to the men to come ba«k.

As yet no more than the foam of the wave had fallen.

There was disorder; hope dwindled and the hymn ceased.
Then fell more rock, and the great, solid canopy of the ' Grey
Abbey/ that had cast the first fall aside so easily and pro-
tected its precious trust, now seemed itself to move It
bellied, as though some imprisoned monster was bursting
through the solid rock; it crumpled and opened; then those
stationed below the level of the quarry saw the horizon line of
the north face change. At first it seemed to rise rather than
fall and the entire surface of clifE lifted. The effect was
terrific, and men said afterward that it looked as though the
railway and the houses and the church, far behind them, must
all inevitably follow. The cliff arched, like an enormous wave,
and as spindrift bursts from the crest when a billow arches,
so now, along the toppling land in its tremendous descent,
much lighter matter leapt and fell. Clouds of stone and earth
seemed to lift with a spring into the blue sky and sunshine,

214 OLD DELABOLE

and to gleam along its crown for a second. Then the preci-
pice arched and its own great purple shadow darkened its
base. At first it seemed that the enormous bulk of stone
would cross the breadth of the quarry to assail the galleries on
the other side, and many beholders struggled back in un-
reasoning panic ; but a moment later, as it sank and fell head-
first into the gulf below, the mass appeared to recede again and
shrink into the depths that yawned to swallow it. For a
few tremendous seconds the whole quarry face writhed and
opened with rents and fissures all bursting downward. Light
streamed upon it and no explosions or detonations marked
the fall. It uttered the long-drawn and deepening growl of a
stormy sea heard afar off. The quarry was skinned to the
bone and grit its teeth in agony. More cliff fell than any
man had expected to fall, and the very bases of the world
seemed shaken before such irresistible might. The earth lifted
its murmur to heaven and the desolation was swiftly concealed
by enormous volumes of dust that billowed upward and
ascended high above the beholders in a grey volume. The
folds of it gleamed as the sun shone upon them, and the quarry
was quite hidden, as an active volcano crater is concealed with
smoke. The watchers could see no more, but through the
murk there still came the murmur and groan of earth falling
and settling and readjusting itself.

There was no rush into the quarries now. The men feared
the strange noises and invisible movements beneath them.
They understood the ways of falling stone and knew that the
pant and hiss and whistling from below meant a battle of rock
masses beatmg and crushing and hurtlmg down upon each
other, crashing together, rending and grinding each other's
faces, splitting and tearing and tumbling with increased speed
where the splintered slopes were smoothed and ground clear
by the down-rush from above. The pant and growl of all this
movement died slowly, and sometimes moments of profound
stillness broke it. Then agam it began and lifted and lulled,
now dying, now deepening. It was as though in a great
theatre, made dark for a moment, one heard the hurryings
and tramplings of many feet changing the scene before
light should again be thrown upon the stage.

None of the thousand people who beheld this scene had
witnessed or dreamed of such an event. It affected them

THE FALL 215

differently and they increased its solemnity and gran-
deur by their presence. Some wept and here and there a
woman clung to a man for comfort and found none. The
majority of the men remained quite dumb before the spectacle.
None cared to speak first. Then apprehension and under-
standing returned; they came to themselves gradually as the
solemn sounds died away beneath.

They looked into each other's faces, and some laughed fool-
ishly and some bragged that it was a poor show after all
and they were going home to dinner. Hundreds prepared to
rush into the quarry as soon as they could see their way and
the clouds had thinned; then, by a sort of simultaneous
instinct, their eyes were turned upon Tom Hawkey, where he
stood alone regarding the new face of the quarry now for the
first time slowly limning through the sunlit dust. Everybody
began to regard him ; everybody began to suspend their interest
in the fall and awake their interest in him. This excitement
increased magnetically; pent feeling was poured into it; his
attitude suddenly became a matter of profoundest interest.
How he was lookmg ! What was he feeling ? In what
direction, sanguine or hopeless, might opinion be guided by
the spectacle of the manager and his view of the terrific thing
that had happened ?

Such a wave of emotion could not be directed upon the man
without his becoming conscious of it. It struck him home and
he knew, without turning his head, that the people were re-
garding him. He must indicate something to them, inspire
them, if possible, with an impulse of self-control, a message that
all was not lost. He felt profoundly moved himself at the
immensity of the event and could not as yet judge its full
significance better than another. But apart from all that the
catastrophe might mean, there was the actual, stupendous
phenomenon itself. He had often pictured it and wondered
what it would be like. And now it had come and transcended
imagination and presented a spectacle of quickened natural
forces that struck him as dumb as the rest. He contrasted
the downfall of the north face with the dismay running
through the midgets that beheld it; and for a moment the
immensity of moving matter and the awful disaster to the
rocks swelled largest in his mind. So doubtless the earth was
smitten in still mightier scale at times of earthquake and the

216 OLD^DELABOLE

eruption of her inner fires. Then he looked at the people and
felt that not the chaos of rent stones, but the chaos of their
hearts was the weighty matter ; not the new quarry presently
to be revealed, but the men he led, who now, by some impulse
that ran like a fire tlu-ough their hearts, stared upon him and
strove if possible to glean reflection of their fate from his bear-
ing at this supreme moment. He stood for more than he
guessed, yet knew that the eyes of many waited upon him in
hope to win a spark of confidence, or in dread to be further
cast down. The cloud had risen above all their heads from
the quarry, and whereas before the sunshine lighted it, now it
dimmed the sunshine.

Hawkey's thoughts flashed quickly. There was no time to
delay, and he felt called upon for some simple action or gesture.
More than indifference was demanded. His inspiration took
a shape so trifling that in narration it is almost ridiculous,
though in fact it was not so. He drew a tobacco pipe and
pouch from his pocket, loaded the pipe, lighted it, and cheered
five hundred hearts.

Edith Retallack had come out to seek him for her father,
and arrived in time to witness the fall. Now she witnessed
a greater thing: the wave of human feeling that broke over
the people. They cheered Tom Hawke3^ Not a man knew
why he expressed himself in this fashion; there existed no
reason for doing so ; but the act liberated breath and relaxed
tension; so they did it and meant it, and Edith admned him
who received their greeting. But he laughed and shook his
head.

" 'Tis for me to cheer you chaps !" he shouted.

Then he joined them, and the watching woman, who felt she
could not thrust herself upon him at this moment, marked
while the men began to pour down into the quarry. Soon only
the old and women and children were left above. They gazed
upon a new world as the dust-clouds slowly thinned away.
The ' Grey Abbey ' seams had vanished under a million tons
of earth. Perhaps no living eye would ever look upon them
again.

CHAPTER XXVI

CHANGE

The colossal character of the landslip could not be appre-
ciated in a moment. The workers now entered upon a new
quarry wherein familiar landmarks, the centres of attack, the
tramways, aerial ways and familiar paths upon the cliffs were
all swept away. A new cliff now rose upon the north side of
the pit— a stark, unweathered precipice of stone towered aloft
nakedly, while about its feet, like raiment shed from the body
of a Titan, the huddled masses of the moraines oozed out
into great hills. The fall had filled the green tarn at the
bottom of the quarry, had extended in a billow half across the
bottom of the pit and crushed the trestle bridge, had thinned
away in debris of huge blocks that fell not ten yards distant
from the quarrymen's dinner-house. Seen closely, the great
new mounds glistened with moisture. Masses of rock thrust
out of them, and here planes of stone gleamed red where
iron had stained them, and here the blocks shone with
quartz crystals and flashed with broken runs of silver-lead.
For the most part the cliffs had fallen perpendicularly, and the
sides of the enlarged cup towered stark and naked from
the slopes of the new moraine. They were firm enough, but
farther east the ground was doubtful still, and the explorers,
perceiving the fact, kept clear of that corner.

A spirit awakened in the younger men — a spirit of
adventure. It arose from the fact that in some degree all
minds were eased by Hawkey's attitude. Feeling assurance,
wordless but actual, that such a man would not have lighted
his pipe and looked cheerful without reasons hidden from them,
the quarriers, relieved from supreme fear, found their hearts
sufficiently sanguine to take interest in the lesser matter of
this physical wonder, now that the greater dread of what it
might stand for was lessened. They swarmed upon the
region piled in fantastic disorder before them; they explored

217

218 OLD DELABOLE

the novel configuration of the quarry, and while Tonkin and
Keat, with the foreman, Nanjulian, and Tom Hawkey himself,
moved from place to place, examined the nature of the fallen
blocks and estimated what value attached to the stone that
was visible, others scaled the moraine and endeavoured to
judge of the quality of the slate revealed in the cliff faces above
it. Less responsible men hunted over the debris, searched the
clefts and cavities and crumpled corners of this mighty gar-
ment the earth had cast down, and sought for mementoes and
curiosities that should for ever record the day.

It was not diflQcult to find interesting things. Tons of
quartz of good water had been broken out and masses of fair
crystals, built through vanished ages in the dark workshops of
the Mother, were now sparkling in daylight for the first time.
Fair cubes and pyramids of transparent gems, clustering on
matrix of rock, now broke the sunshine in their virgin prisms;
and some were stained with fairy colours of amethyst and
topaz, some were auburn and russet, and some diamond-bright
and pure. Varied specimens of many minerals had also been
broken out of their secret places, and unusual masses of silver-
lead flashed like points of fire where their implicated system
of polished planes caught the sun. And other treasures there
were, for the tombs of living things from the remote ages of
geological time had opened and the impress of their vanished
bodies was revealed. No great fossils appeared, but a fami-
liar object from these measures might now be seen. Often,
when splitting the slate, men came across the dark silhouettes
of creatures they called ' butterflies.' These in reality
were not winged things, but fossil shells of spirifer verneuli
from the Upper Devonian age. Now not a few fine specimens
of this venerable treasure appeared on the nude rocks, and
many other strange objects also rewarded the searchers.

A thousand tons of rotten cliff slipped suddenly at the east
end, where danger still threatened; then the great fall was
ended.

Until dusk men still wandered through the quarry, and the
boys went skylarking hither and thither. But then fell peace
at the last, darkness spread its wing, and night's purple wine
filled the great cup under a starry sky. Yet whispers of sound
never ceased, and through that night was heard the continual
rustle and murmur of the moraine and the sound of earth

CHANGE 219

settling to the new conditions of its tremendous displacement.
Its groans had dwindled to a whisper now — a sigh, as of some
gigantic spirit sinking again into rest after such torment as
only a world can suffer and survive.

Hawkey left the quarries when he had spent a couple of
hours in them, and, as he rea<3hed that point beside the ascend-
ing tram-lines where the Retallacks' cottage stood, he found
Grandfather Nute waiting for him.

" I marked your coming and waited to catch you, Mister
Tom. WUl you step in for a minute, or maybe you can't spare
time ?"

" I'll come, grandfather. But only for a minute. I want
to write the day's work for the company while it's all fresh in
my mind. How's Wil taken it ?"

" He hasn't taken it," answered IVIr. Nute. " The quarry's
a thing of the past to him. He didn't even want to look out
of the window. The Lord's blocked his thinking parts. A
great act of mercy. He heard the noise and thought it was
the sea."

" It sounded like the sea more than anything."

" Yes, fay — like a storm at sea. And he's more wishful now
for the sight of the sea than anything. ' Talk about the
sea,' he says. He's all right, so to speak — just fading away
easy and nothing on his mind — that's the best of it. Full of
plans for a jaunt to Trebarwith, and asked me, half an hour
after the fall, if I'd step over to Richard Male and hire his
trcip for this day week !"

Hawkey went in for a little while, and found Edith and
Pooley with Mr. Retallack. Wilberforce declared him-
self much better, but his mind was emptied of all present
affairs.

" The sea's been calling me. Mister Tom, and such calls did
ought to be answered. Properly roaring it have been — the
noise when i^ shouts a question to the land and the land shouts
back an answer. The zawns and holes of the cliffs are full
of strange voices when the sea runs into them, but we
don't know what they are saying, because we can't tell their
language. I hope you'll come pleasuring with us presently
when I'm on my feet again; for such a clever man as you
might even understand the sea."

" I'll come with pleasure," declared Hawkey. " And it

220 OLD DELABOLE

won't be the first time. I remember a good bit of fun there
years and years ago. Edith, a little maid then, got up the
cliff after wild flowers and I had to help her down."

Edith smiled a somewhat sickly smile. Her father's failing
intellect embarrassed her when others were present and nearly
broke her heart when she was alone with him. She felt that
he was gone and would never say 'good-bye.' A strange
new father had taken his place — a father who remembered
her well enough, but only as a little child, before she could
remember him.

She went out with Hawkey presently and walked as far
as his home with him. She felt that she must praise him
and show him that she had sense and wit to appreciate him
when the cliffs fell.

" You were fine," she said abruptly after they had spoken
of Wilberforce and Anna. " You were fine, Tom — standing
there with everybody staring and wanting to know how you
felt about it. A splendid thing to do — I knew how splendid
if none else did."

He laughed.

" I felt somehow the boys were all looking at me."

" Of course they were."

" Did it look rather weak-minded, lighting my pipe ? I
couldn't think of just the right thing; but I wanted them to
see I wasn't knocked out."

" Splendid, I tell you. You should have heard them. It's
wonderful how they trust you — at least not wonderful, but
fine."

He was moved by her enthusiasm.

" Thank you, Edith," he said. " Praise from you is worth
having."

She asked him his real opinion, and he declared that he
felt sanguine.

" Changes must come in the quarries," he said. " And this
is a very good time for them. When people are shaken up
out of the old ruts by chance or accident, that's the moment
to lead them into new paths. Our heads are progressive,
but our hearts are reactionary; our heads stand for advance
and brave adventure and the march to the unknown; our
hearts hang back with the women and children. One can't
speak certainly; but, making all fair allowance, we've a right

CHANGE 221

to be hopeful. Things look as if they were going to adjust
themselves without a very great clash of interests. But far-
reaching changes are ahead and cannot be escaped."

" Father, before he fell ill, told us that it was likely we
should have to go."

Hawkey nodded.

" I never mentioned it to him; but he guessed it himself.
Many cottages used to stand alongside yours — a regular
little colony under the lip of the quarry ; but the others have
vanished and the knoll and the trees will come down in the
autumn — and then "

She understood.

" Father knew it as soon as he found out the fall was coming.
He told grandfather and me, but not mother. I know what
you mean: things have to adjust themselves and change is
everywhere."

" Yes; you stand on good slate, and presently that slate has
got to be tackled from above and below. Don't mention it
to your mother yet, however. She's sad enough for the
minute."

" When father dies she'll want to go."

" Yes — it will be easy then, I hope."

The thought none the less overwhelmed Edith, though she
had known that, in any case, Quarry Cottage must be her own
home but little longer. She left him, returned pensively to
the place where she was born and looked down upon it. Dimly,
as a child, she recollected the other cottages which had van-
ished before the need for the good slate on which they stood ;
and now she saw how the nest on the cliff where she and her
brothers and sister were born would soon be swept bare — the
garden destroyed, the house jnilled down.

Her father had hinted at the probability and many
others had contemplated it; but their tact prevented
any mention of the matter before members of Retallack's
family.

Now he was about to pass, and it seemed natural that the
change should follow. She regarded the familiar scene and
mourned for her mother. Anna loved her home and was
responsible for a thousand little improvements and additions.
The garden was Edith's creation, and she had filled it with
flowers. She pictured the knoll and the trees that crowned

222 OLD DELABOLE

her home all gone; and perceived how forlornly the little
dwelling would then perch on the naked clifif. And at last she
imagined the scene when her home had vanished and the
whitewashed Avails and green things were all stripped away
to the slate on which they stood.

Change, that had seemed no more than an abstract idea in
Hawkey's mouth, now grew into an intense reality. She
saddened at the thought, yet found time to rejoice that her
father would never be called upon to endure it.

CHAPTER XXVII

THE PROBLEM

Within a month Wilberforce Retallack perished with his
reason still clouded. He died planning little holidays for his
children.

In the quarries the workmen were hard at work at ' Wesley's
Hole ' ; but some wrought upon the great new moraines,
where certain masses of marketable slate proved to be within
reach. Other gangs attacked the knoll and cut down the trees
upon it ; but Hawkey allowed sentiment to delay this matter
until his foreman had departed.

For the benefit of Delabole, pronouncement had been made
that the quarries would continue to be worked for twelve
months certainly; while after that period circumstances
would dictate policy.

Many persons attended the funeral of Wilberforce Retal-
lack, and Anna was rendered at once gratified and uneasy by
the number of letters from humble folk recording sympathy
and registering obligation in the past. She felt proud that
so many loved the dead man's name; she was anxious
when she thought upon the number and nature of his secret
benefactions.

Etiquette demanded no consideration of her position until
after her husband's funeral; then, when the ceremony was
ended, when Anna and her children had seen the coffin
of Wilberforce lowered into his grave at St. Teath, while
the west wind blew fiercely and a storm-thrush shouted
from the swaying elms above, the party returned home
with Wesley Bake. They drove, as the way was long, but
he chose to walk with his own people. Mary and Betty
each held a hand of her uncle, and the latter was downcast
because her little gift of flowers had not been buried with
the dead man.

" The flowers on a grave soon quail and look horrid," she

223

224 OLD DELABOLE

said; " but if they go in the grave on the coffin, the fairies
tend 'em and keep 'em sweet and fresh under the earth."

Nancy Bake and her daughter-in-law, Susan, admired the
funeral.

" A hugeous crowd and all properly sad," said Wesley's
mother. " And Mister Tom stood for the directors, and
Tonkin stood for the men, and the heads of departments
was pall-bearers. And black suits Edith something wonderful.
But pale as a lily she was and the tears would fall."

" What do they murfles* mean on a girl's face ?" asked
Susan.

" I can't tell 'e. 'Tis a delicacy of the skin and no blemish
but an adornment to some eyes. Mrs. Nanjulian haven't
wasted no time seemingly. Did you mark her ?"

Wesley left his family at Newall and proceeded to Delabole.
He greatly desired the day to end, for painful duties awaited
him and he knew that he was called to bring disappointment
on many hearts.

They made him drink a glass of sherry when he arrived.
And then the parlour blinds were pulled up and a fire lighted.
The parlour was the proper place in which to hear the will,
and to the parlour, therefore, they went. A lawyer's clerk
was present and Wesley brought his papers also.

When the family had settled round the room the clerk read
the will, which was trivial but not very brief. Wilberforce
had set aside the sum of one hundred pounds for bequests, and
since these mementoes of him were individually small, in some
cases being no more than ten shillings, the reading of them
offered opportunity for patience and self-control. The list
appeared interminable, and Anna, whose indignation grew
steadily, was not a little relieved when the lawyer informed
her of the total amount. For the rest everything was left to
her. The young man then withdrew and Wesley made his
statement.
Before he did so, however, Anna spoke.

" Don't beat about the bush," she said. " I've stood
enough to-day, and I only want to know how much it is and
what I can count upon. Thank God there's a bit and to spare,
and only me and grandfather to be considered. What does
my dear husband owe and what has he left ? That's just

* Murfles — freckles.

THE PROBLEM 225

plain question and answer, Wesley. From what I could pick
up of a night before he was struck, I made out that there was
somewhere about five hundred to the bad and two thousand
or more to the good. I hope it's better and can't think it's
worse."

" It's a lot worse, mother," answered Wesley, " and it's
the saddest hour of my life to have to tell you. Poor IVIr.
Retallack was the unluckiest man that ever lived — always
casting his bread upon the waters and never seeing it
retm-n."

" You may cast your own bread where you please; but you've
no right to play with your children's bread," she said. " He
never would have done that."

" He had his ideas. He felt that he'd given his children
their share and more in education."

" Wliat about me, then ? Didn't I scrimp for the school-
ing ? If he made the money, 'twas I saved it."
The others sat quite silently listening.
" He was very unfortimate in his investments," repeated
Wesley, " as well as in his little loans and so on. He lost a lot
like that, being too willing to credit other men with his own
honesty. Here are the figures in round numbers. He owes
just short of a thousand pounds and he's worth two thousand
and fiity. That leaves a thousand and fifty; but, of coiu-se,
there's Widow Lobb, whose husband lent Mr. Retallack a
thousand backalong."

" Gave it to him, not 'lent' it," said Edith. "We're all
perfectly clear about that, aren't we, mother ?"

" Perfectly clear," said Anna. " That was all cut and dried
long before Lobb went under. What do you say, father ?"

" I can't speak upon the subject," answered Grandfather
Nute. " What Wesley says has took my breath. I gave up
all, having no use for money, and making it over to my son-in-
law in exchange for a home and food and no earthly cares.
Before we go further, perhaps you'll tell me what line he took
about me, Wesley ? I don't want to be pushing, but there's
my future as long as God wills to spare me."

" He never mentioned your name. Grandfather. I didn't
know anything about your arrangements with him."

" I only asked. Go on, then, with the argument," said the
old man. He had grown pale. Julitta took his hand.

15

226 OLD DELABOLE

Wesley became nervous. Anxious eyes regarded him on
every side.

" You don't say what you understood about the thousand
pounds from Mr. Lobb, father."

" I don't know anything about it, Anna," answered Mr.
Nute. " It didn't concern me, and I can't say I ever gave
it a thought."

" I told 3^ou years ago it was given and the debt relin-
quished," declared his daughter.

" Very like, very like, my dear."

" I don't see it so," answered the Trustee. " Mr. Eetal-
lack was always very vague upon it. I grant you that in
his opinion it wasn't a call against the estate, and since there
are no papers or anything one way or the other, it may be
that he'd got to think it was all right."

" If he thought so, it was your place to think so too," said
Ned. " It looks to me as if you were doubting my father
and "

" Be quiet, Ned, please, and let Wesley go on."

Anna spoke, and the youth was silent.

' ' Well, God forbid that I should doubt the best man I ever
met," answered Bake. " But he put his trust in me to do all
that was right, and I must do it. Feeling that he was far from
himself latterly, I tried to clear the thing up, but he was a
weary man and we never got through with it. So long as he
was clear in his mind I grant we couldn't see alike, and two
days before he died I went to Widow Lobb. It wasn't the first
time I went. I'd been before and found her ver}^ clear about
the matter. Her words were — the first time "

He broke off and took a paper from his pocket.

" I put them down so as I couldn't make any mistake at all.
She said, ' I shan't ever raise the question, being far too proud
and too tender for my husband's memor3^ And if Retallack
doesn't let me have the money, then I shall go without it.'
' What's your own honest feeling ?' I asked Mrs. Lobb; and
she said, ' My own honest feeling is that it was a loan, and
that my husband let it go at that for ]Mr. Retallack to
pay back just when he pleased. My husband was prospering
then and thought the world of Wilberforce. And after, when
we came down in the world, I often named it ; but he said,
" Wil knows and he'll do the right thing." ' Then I asked

THE PROBLEM 227

IVIrs. Lobb if she had any papers or documents about it, and she
said she had not. That's howitwas the first time I went to her."

"And what did my husband say when he heard tell ?"
inquired Anna.

" It vexed him a great deal and he was for going to Mrs.
Lobb. But just then all the trouble in the quarries began,
and, though I reminded him, he never went. It was a great
grief to me to keep on about it, seeing he was so restive under
it. But there it was : he'd made me his trustee, and his life,
as well he knew, was growing terrible uncertain. At last I
feared to touch the subject at all, for it made him go red and
his veins show. ' Do justice and fear nothing, and for Christ's
sake never name it to me no more.' That was the verj^ last
word he spoke about it."

" Then you went to Mrs. Lobb again ?" asked Edith.

" I did. I went to tell her plainly and clearly that Mr.
Retallack, though he had nothing in writing, yet could not see
with her eyes and was under the impression that the matter had
ended in her husband's lifetime. And she said, ' Then let it
be so. I didn't expect that from him; but I'll say no
more.' "

" She took my husband's word, and never lived man or
woman who didn't," declared Anna. " So we needn't say
no more about it."

" Your husband was a sick man and sore troubled. And
there's a great deal more must be said," replied the other
firmly. " I'm terribly concerned for my part in this; but he
chose me for straightness and for trust."

" What did he say about your second visit to Widow Lobb ?"
asked Grandfather.

" He never knew of it. I went to her the second time two
days before Mr. Retallack had his stroke, and he couldn't
talk sense after that, or understand."

" And when you speak of your part in this, what do you
mean ?" inquired Ned.

" I mean the memory of the last word your father ever
sf>oke about it, Ned. ' Do justice and fear nothing.' That
was what he ordered me."

" And can there be two questions about justice ?" asked
Edith. " Can you see this with any other eyes than ours ?"

Her lover stared.

228 OLD DELABOLE

" Surely not, Edith. I never thought — I never dreamed
for a minute we should see different. It's a cruel disappoint-
ment for your mother, and for all of you; but there's a bigger
thing than money. The future is all right, because there's
my home and Nanjulian's home, and I know what he thinks,
and what Julitta thinks. But the present is very sad. I'm
only thankful, however, that the main thing is gained and the
cost will come to little when it's spread over those willing to
bear it."

" And what do you call the main thing ?" asked Ned.
" And you needn't go hinting at charity neither. We don't
want you or Nanjulian, or anybody else, to come between us
and our mother. What do you call the main thing ?"

There was hostility on Edith's face also, and Wesley began
to grow unnerved. He was hot, and he mopped his forehead
and stammered as he answered Ned.

"The main thing, Ned, is your father's memory. That's
the sacred thing about which there can't surely be more views
than one. And if I said anything rude about the future, and
what I felt and meant to do about it, then I'm sorry. This is
a terrible position for me, because I was called to it at your
father's will. But I can't go back on the trust he put in me.

I thought you'd all see that. If you all see different "

" Tell us exactly your view and what you think ought to
be done," said Edith; " then we'll tell you our view and
what is going to be done."

She spoke very coolly, but she hurt him much. He was
silent and recovered his self-command. While he hesitated
]Mr. Nute spoke.

" You mustn't put it like that, Edith. Mr. Bake will
decide, not us. He's the Trustee and ail-powerful by your
father's will and command."

" We must talk till we agree, then," said Ned. " If he knows
our father's intentions better than we do and has a properer
sense of justice than mother and Pooley, then I'll agree with
him."

" You ask what my view is, Edith," began Wesley — " and
I — I hope Mr. Nute won't call me ' Mi'. Bake ' as if I was a
stranger. I took for granted that my view must be yours
too. The sorrow was that, along of his infirmities and troubles,
Wilberforce Eetallack couldn't quite see. And that I put

THE PROBLEM 229

down to illness. But I'm bold to believe all you people must
see that the debt should be paid."

" It's not a debt," cried Anna. " How dare you say it's
a debt when I proved to my husband time and again it was
not ? 'Twas only his brain-sickness ever made him name the
thing to you at all, and if you was half so clever, or honest, as
you think, you'd have seen it was all nonsense and set his
mind at ease, instead of fussing and fretting him and shorten-
ing his days. It's not a debt and I'll hear no more about it.
Forty pounds a year is all he's left me, and that's all I want
to know — and God forgive him."

" It's either a debt, or else it's not," said Edith; " and if
we, his family, tell you clearly that it is not, I hope you'll get
back your peace of mind about it and leave us to face the
bitter truth. I'll ask you to go now, Wesley, if you please."

The man regarded them with deep distress. Julitta strove
to comfort her mother, who was weeping; Edith and Pooley
spoke together and were arguing without any further refer-
ence to Wesley Bake. The miller judged the size of their
shock, but felt bewildered by their attitude to him. It was
indeed the first time that he perceived the possibility of
two opinions. Something akin to dismay overtook him. He
had lived so long with the problem and exhausted it so
completely that he failed to realize how it struck on the ear
of Anna Retallack and her children for the first time. He
had planned the future and busied himself for them. Lacking
imagination, he had not guessed that his plans would fail to
commend themselves to the dead man's family. It looked so
easy and proper for IMrs. Retallack to come and live at Newhall
Mill and for Mr. Nute to join the Nanjulians. But he never
got as far as these proposals; he was conscious that he had
committed a social outrage in the eyes of Edith and her mother.
Ned, too, shared their opinion, and he could not be sure that
Pooley and Julitta did not also.

Grandfather came to his rescue.

" You'll do wisely to trot off, Wesley, my dear. You've
fired a bit of a bombshell into the camp, you understand.
You'd better let us turn it over carefully among ourselves
and look at it in all its bearings. It was rather a big thing to
be thrown on your shoulders, and I dare say, with more ex-
perience, you'd have done it cleverer. But nobody's doubting

230 OLD DELABOLE

your good sense — don't think that. Only, perhaps, your
judgment may be found faulty. You get home and think it
over, and so will we. You're young and can't, of course, see
how this looks from my daughter's point of view and from
mine. We're quite as hot for justice, however, as you are.
And one thing I may say to open your eyes. We need not
trouble ourselves about a dead man's honour. The dead are
in the hand of God, and you may be very sure their Creator
won't let them be misread and misjudged. Nobody doubts
Wilberforce's high sense of honour, though his heart may some-
times have fogged his judgment. I say even that under
correction, for God's scales weigh different from man's. Our
chaff be often his grain, remember. But my son-in-law's
character and credit are quite safe with us — understand that.
And be sure we shan't say a word about you to your back we
wouldn't say to your face, after you're gone."

Bake rose.

" I can't say what I feel about this," he assured them.
"I'm much put about. I'll go through it all again from the
begmning. It isn't as if Mrs. Lobb wasn't a woman of good
character and "

" Would she agree not to make a claim if she knew she had
the right ? Answer that," said Anna.

" She waives the right. She hasn't a shadow of doubt about
it — more have I."

" Then best begone till you come to your senses," cried Ned
hotly. " Good God, you make me want to smash things !
My mother left with only a thousand pounds in the world,
and you get hold of some crack-bramed rot about debts that
don't exist and never did. Why did you wait till father
was dead ? Why didn't you have it out with him and hear
what he wished to be done ?"

" I did that, Ned. I've told you. I went into it till he
bade me leave it alone."

" Then why don't you leave it alone ?" asked Edith, " He
honoured you by making you his trustee, and then you insult
his memory the minute the grave's closed over him."

" Don't — don't for Christ's sake say such things," implored
Wesley. " 'Tis cruel and long ways off justice."

" You go," urged Grandfather. " You be off, my son.
We've reached a temper where nothing but lasting trouble may

THE PROBLEM 231

rise if you stop any longer. We're all arguing in a circle, and
that's a vain thing. You clear out and take it to the throne
of Grace; and so shall we. 'Tis very well and right to pray
that the Lord's will be done ; but it's our business to help to
do it — all of us. And the first thing is for each to find out on his
knees, or on her knees, what the Lord's will is. And so enough
said."

" I'll go," answered the miller. " I'll certainly go, and
I'll turn it all over again; and if I've been wrong, I've been
punished for it to-day. Never did I think to live through such
a wisht bad hour as this; and I hope you'll all try to see from
my side a bit and feel what I've been through."

" You needn't be sorry for j^ourself," said Edith. " It's
for you to look at it with your eyes open and not shut. And
the sooner you do, the better for your peace of mind."

Her cold voice struck him dumb. He felt that he was
struggling through a nightmare. But Edith's tone stung him
into a final word which only angered them when he had gone.

" Open your own eyes and keep a guard on your tongue,"
he said to her quietly. " It is you, not me, that's blinded.
You've said many unjust and improper things to me to-day,
Edith, and, but that you're smarting under your mother's
great loss, I'd answer you as you ought to be answered. I
forgive you for yom: unkind words and thoughts; but be very
sure they won't come between me and my duty."

He gathered up his papers and left them then, and he
heard their voices clashmg when he had gone. His resolute
bearing lasted only until he was on his way home again. Then
his head sank and his feet grew irresolute. He began to fear
that he had dreadfully erred, and he was also alarmed for him-
self. He had never seen Edith in such a mood. His wave of
of anger vanished long before he reached his home and some-
thing very like fear knocked at his ribs.

CHAPTER XXVIII

WOMAN PROPOSES

Gkandfather Nute on his way to Delabole fell in with Betty
Bake. The children were in the schoolyard for the moment,
between classes, and Betty, observing her greatest friend,
promptly got over the wall and kissed him.

" Well, my dinky maid," he said — " haven't seen you for
a month of Sundays, I'm sure. And how have you been keep-
ing— good, I hope ?"

" Not so good as you'd like," she confessed. " I'm a bit
too busy to be good, dear Grandfather. There's such a lot
doing."

" How's that, then ?" he asked.

" Why, everything interesting be bad, seemingly. You
can't do anything interesting without dirtying yourself. You
can't even catch tom-toddies* without dirtj^ing yourself.
And why do it matter such a lot to other people, and why for
shouldn't I go dirty if I like to be dirty ? If you was in a
muck all day, nobody would say anything."

" But cleanliness is next to godliness, you know, Betty."

"I don't call myself 'Betty' no more, dear Grandfather
Nute. I call myself ' devil-angel ' now."

"Why ?" he asked.

" Because sometimes they call me one and sometimes
t'other — just according as they feel."

" Just according as you do, more like."

" I always do much the same. 'Tis them that change, not
me. I be often properly sorry God made me a girl. There's
a great many better things than being a girl."

" Being a boy, perhaps ?"

" No ! Even a girl's better than a boy. She's prettier,
and nicer, and she's cleverer most times. Stupid, noisy
toads, boys be. If I could be made again and choose for

* Tom-toddies — tadpoles.
232

WOMAN PROPOSES 233

myself, I'd be one of two things — a larch-tree, or a cris-hawk.
IfGod promised that nobody should cut me down, I'd be a
larch-tree, and if He promised that nobody should shoot me,
I'd be a cris-hawk, for they're both beautiful things — only
they've got such enemies."

"' Well, you must make the best of it, my pretty. Perhaps
you'll live to see that God was right, as usual."

" He ain't always right," she said, " else Uncle Wesley
wouldn't be so properly sorry for himself. He don't know
what to be at, seemmgly. I believe he's found oatAunt
Edith's no good and feels fairly mad that another chap's got
Aunt Julitta now 'tis too late."

" You oughtn't to say things like that, Betty. I hope all
wUl come right with your Uncle Wesley soon. 'Tis the point
of view, and often very sensible and right-thinking people
can't see the same about a thing. Sometimes sorrow blinds
our judgment. Its very sad for us all to think that Mr.
Wnberforce has gone."

" He used to make a noise in his chest like a kettle boiling,"
said Betty, " and it was very hard not to laugh, and I'm glad
he's dead."

Grandfather Nute reproved her.

" You oughtn't to feel like that," he declared; " we Chris-
tians are taught to bear one another's burdens, Betty, and
mourn with the afflicted."

"It's a great job to be sorry for people — especially if
you're told to be," she answered. " When people are so
fearful sorry for themselves, I never can be sorry for them,
somehow. Anyway, it's terrible tiring trying to be."

He shook his head as the school-bell rang and she had to
leave him.

" I'll be cruel sorry and cry buckets when you're took, dear,
dear Grandfather Nute," she promised him, and he thanked
her humbly and went on his way.

Chance led him to the scene of an accident and his opinions
made it necessary for the ancient to utter further remon-
strance— this time to a grown man. But Grandfather's usual
tact failed. Indeed of late even his steadfast mind and assured
outlook upon affairs had been put to very severe trial. His
sleep had been disturbed and he had been reminded that he
was getting old- That he might talk to sympathetic and

234 OLD DELABOLE

understanding listeners, he was now about to visit the Sleeps,
and he had reason to believe that John Slee^:) was from home.
This would insure private speech with Sarah — the thing he
desired. For she, m his opinion, possessed the quickest mind
of the village and had the happiest tongue to express her mean-
ing and the readiest wit to understand another's.

Accident, however, delayed Grandfather's arrival at the
newspaper-shop. Opposite the house which Antipas Keat
was lifting with his own hand a little crowd had assembled.
People ran to join it, and loud voices were lifted issuing orders
that none obeyed. From time to time a groan punctuated the
noise. Mr. Nute approached, and lesser people made way for
him. He found Antipas Keat stretched upon the ground,
and his wife was kneeling beside him. The baker had turned
very white and evidently suffered great pain. Engaged in
some complicated task aloft, he had slipped his foothold, or
handhold, and fallen from the scaffolding to the ground. So
he declared ; but subsequent exammation showed that it was
his own scaffolding that had failed hun and given way be-
neath his weight.

His leg was broken above the ankle and he declined to be
moved until the doctor came.

" Give him ak," said IMr. Nute, " and go back about your
business. And you run and fetch a cushion for his head,
Mrs. Keat; and you'd best to bring an umbrella also, because
it's going to rain."

They obeyed him and, after Antipas had again refused to be
moved, the people thinned away and his wife returned to their
home that she might brhig cushions, a rug and an umbrella.

" Tell 'em all to go and you bide," said Antipas. " They
ain't here for kindness — only because a martyred man is a free
show and they like to hear me groan."

Grandfather sat down on an upturned bucket and patted
Mr. Keat's shoulder.

" Don't you say things you'll be sorry for when you're on
your legs again, my dear. 'Tis a great shock and a great re-
mmder that all flesh is grass, when we break the frame same as
you have ; but naught's gained by temper. The people meant
■vvell — only ignorance always comes out in an accident, and,
of course, well-meaning's powerless before a broken leg."
" Not my fault, however, and you needn't think that I'll

WOMAN PROPOSES 235

stop building my house for fifty broken legs," said Mr. Keat
with defiance. '' I'll rise above it and I'll finish the damned
house if I've onl}^ got a finger left to do it with."

" I'm sorry you feel like that," answered Grandfather,
" because it's a wrong spirit and won't help you. As I've
always said, Antipas, the man who thinks that he can do
every job beside his own is giving way to the sin of vainglory.
A house is a very complicated invention, and though for a
baker to set about to build one may show him a brave thinker
and a hero in some eyes, I've always told you there's a limit,
and you can't do skilled work properly if you am't skilled.
This is a warning, and the thu'd you've had, if I remember
rightly. You're trying to do what it would take ten men to
do, and it's contrary to nature to find an architect and a navvy
and a bricklayer and a bricklayer's labourer, and a carpenter
and plumber and glazier and slater, and all the rest of them
house-building people, in the skin of one man — and him a
baker. And nature will have the last word, and so you've
tumbled do'mi and broke your leg. And, instead of breath-
ing out threatenings and slaughters, you ought to thank
God you didn't fall into the limepit and burn the flesh oflE
your bones."

" Go !" er'ed Keat. " Damn you, go ! Get up off my
bucket and clear out. And whatever else you may have lost,
you've lost j^our character and sense and Christian charity
along with it. For an old mumphead like you to preach to a
man like me ! WTiat do I care for my leg 1 When I took on
building a house, d'you think I didn't count the cost ? You go
and play 3"our silly flute and see if you can keep your bones
out of the workhouse with it, for that's where you're bound
by all accounts. I scorn you !"

Antipas was much annoyed, and turned to his wife and a
neighbour woman who came with comforts for him.

" ' Vainglorious ' — that's what I am. Not the most re-
markable man that ever came out of Delabole, or ever will, but
just a vainglorious fool that deserved to break his neck in-
stead of his leg. That's old Nute's opinion, and he chooses
this minute to tell me so — and him a man not worthy to black
my boots !"

Mrs. Keat turned on Grandfather at these words.

She also was rude and personal. There flew rumour that

236 OLD DELABOLE

Grandfather would soon have to appeal to the nation to
support him, and IVIrs. Keat assumed this disaster as an
accomplished fact.

All he could say was:

" I forgive you ; I forgive you both. You'll live to be sorry
— you'll live to apologize to me."

Then he hurried awaj^ and was thankful to see the doctor's
trap approach as he departed. He took the news to Sarah
Sleep, who sent her niece, Jane, out on an errand upon Grand-
father's arrival and entertained him alone in the little dwelling-
room behind the shop.

" My brother's to Launceston to-day, so we can have a tell
if you mind to," she said.

" For that very reason I'm here," he answered. '' There's
times when the wisest of us feel the need of understanding and
helpful words. There's things that only God can say to the
heart, Sarah, and He never fails to say them when needful;
and there's things our fellow-creatures can say to us ; and when
God knows it's a case for our own kind and not for Him, then
He leads us where we ought to go and turns our feet accord-
ingly. And so it is."

Somewhat fluttered that Supreme Power had guided her
friend to her, Sarah made him take her brother's easy chair
Then she offered to light the fire.

" We still have it of an evening, but have left it off by day,"
she said.

" And right to. I'm warm enough, I assure you. I've just
heard a broken man speak very strong, not to say harsh,
words. Keat have come to grief once again, and he's taking
his trouble in the wrong spirit."

" So I hear — broke his leg trying to do other people's work."

" It's Communion Sunday next week, so we shall have our
minister here, and he'll steady the poor creature, I hope,"
answered Mr. Nute. " I threw myseLE into Keat's affairs and
showed him that he was trying to get a quart out of a pint pot ;
but I hurt his feelings and I'm sorry I spoke. It wasn't a
time to draw a moral."

" You did what was right and said what was right — I'm very
sure of that," she answered. '' I don't like Antipas Keat —
he's too windy and too vain and won't take a lesson. Some
fine day, instead of falling off his house, his blessed house will

WOMAN PROPOSES 237

fall on him — then 'twill be too late to be sorry. And if he
was rude to j^ou, may God forgive him, for I won't."

" He'll soon regret it. I shall go in presently — this day
week, perhaps — and count to hear the man contrite."

" As if you hadn't enough on your mind," continued Sarah.
" Of course we hear tell through Philijjpa, who gets it all
from Ned. We're a lot troubled for you and yours, James
Nute."

Grandfather reviewed the situation placidly.

" A vevj sad come-along-of-it," he admitted. " You see,
most times, in the clash of opinions, you feel one side's right
and one mistaken ; and then you take one side accordingly and
cleave to it. But this is the terrible rare case where even a
man of my great experience can't quite see surely which side
is in the right."

' ' I don't care a button about right or wrong," she answered.
" All I want to know is who's looking after your future and
your fame and dignity. All Delabole ought to rush to the
rescue of such a man as you, in my opinion."

" Very kind of you to say that, and just what I'd expect
from you, Sarah," he answered; " but let me flow on. I want
to put it before you — and before myself, for that matter,
because if you tell a thing out loud, you'll sometimes see a new
point of view that you missed when you only thought it. The
case stands thus: we're a house divided against itself. My
daughter, Anna, and her son, Ned, and her daughter, Edith,
take one view."

" Against Wesley Bake, of course ?"

" They do, and W>sley being betrothed to marry Edith,
naturally makes the situation very painful. They think that
he ought to abandon the position that the estate owes Jane
Lobb a thousand pounds, and they go fiurther and declare
it's a monstrous maggot got in his brain that he should imagine
I such a thing."

J " Ned is properly savage about it, and he says if Mr. Bake
^ persists, he'll have forty shillings or a month out of him.
And I'm the same way of thinking. Surely to God a man
can't take all her money from his future mother-in-law ?"

" Wait a minute, Sarah. You're begging the question, my
dear — a common thing in argument, but fatal to a proper
understanding. You see, the whole point lies just there.

238 OLD DELABOLE

Anna and Edith and Ned say the money is mj'^ daughter's;
but Wesley Bake, with just as much show of right, declares
that it is not."

" And what do the rest say — you and Poolej^ and Mrs.
Nanjulian ?"

" Julitta and myself are of a mind. We quite see the miller's
point of view, and so does Sidney Nanjulian. We hold
that Jane Lobb and Anna ought to come together and try to
find a middle course — peace with honour, in fact; but Bake
says that he fears it's a case where honour can't mean peace.
He's up for the good name of the dead."

" Like his cheek ! Everybody knows that Wilberforce
Retallack was all he should be."

" Most certainly — a fore-right man in speech and action.
And in thought also, no doubt; for them who think straight
don't speak crooked. But there it is — just life. Life's the
tempter. Life too often shakes our outlook and draws the
straightest of us from our steady purpose. Life plunges
us into puzzles beyond our power to solve, and suddenly runs
us up against problems of conduct where our right course
goes twisting through such a maze that the most honourable
man may lose his way — through no lack of goodness, but just
from simple lack of wits. Retallack fell upon much bad for-
tune, and his health bore heavy upon him also ; and a man in
that case must be frankly and freely pardoned if sometimes
his way got lost in a fog. Dying, he left his honour in the
hand of Wesley Bake."

" And why should Bake's be the only opinion of any worth ?
Isn't your daughter quite so jealous for her husband's honour
as him ?"

" Most certainly; but there, again, she's got to face poverty
and charity — a nastj^ pair — quite outside the experience of the
Nute family. And afore the threat of such a fate, any woman's
judgment may well waver."

" And what has Pooley to say ?"

" Pooley, according to his good rule, prayed over it and
asked for light. And now he's got it, and he's gone over to
Bake and says there's no question about the matter.
Widow Lobb must have the thousand, in his opinion. He
even feels a doubt if she ought not to have interest likewise. I
argued him out of that; because interest was never put up or

WOI^IAN PROPOSES 239

required from the day of the loan. ' Loan,' I call it, but of
course Anna and Edith won't hear the word."

" And what does Jane Lobb say ?"

" Nought. Just holds off. I wanted for her to discuss it
and went over for that purpose. But she's got her pride
and she refused to talk a word about the matter. ' I know
what's right. Grandfather,' she said to me, 'and trusting in God
as I do, I know right will be done.' More she wouldn't say."

" And what about you ?" asked Sarah. " That's all that I
think upon. Your daughter have got prosperous children to
look after her. But what about you ? As a friend I ask, and
a good friend — you know that. You gave all your money to
the Retallacks for your board and lodging and a home among
your own. And where do you come in — thousand pounds or
no thousand pounds ?"

" I haven't thought about it, Sarah. I've always such a lot
to think upon for other people, that in honesty I never get
time to bother about myself. If a thing about myself crops
up, I always say, ' I'll think about that to-night when I go to
bed;' and then of course I go to sleep instead. And if more
of us went to bed and to sleep instead of thinking about our-
selves, we'd be happier people."

" I know," answered Sarah. " It's very nice to go to sleep;
but a time comes when you've got to wake up, and got to get
up, and got to wash yourself and do your hair and go on
living."

" And the Lord looks after the sparrows, Sarah."

" Just the very birds that can best look after themselves.
You ain't a sparrow, and you haven't got the selfish, grasping,
number one point of view of a sparrow,"

" I'm not too old to take what comes. They who can't
scheme must louster, and ' louster ' is old Cornish for work."

" You're not too old to shine," she said, " but you are
too old to work. For that matter, your life's all work. To
shine be to work, and such an example as yours "

" No, no — I like to hear you praise me, Sarah, for praise
from such a praiseworthy creature as you is worth a lot. But
'tis only death that can put my light out — not what lies in
store for me. I grant at first I kept awake a bit, and I may
have wept an old man's painful tears, but it was just human
weakness. Now I'm up for anything, and if my Master be

240 OLD DELABOLE

going to lead me to the Union Workhouse, I'll hold His hand
firm and ray footsteps shan't flinch. Didn't Christ preach to
the spirits in prison ? And if, in my small way, I be called to
do the like and help a few old ' white-coats ' to bear their lot
with patience — well, 'tis a useful and beautiful thing to do,"

" Drat the ' white-coats,' and you for talking such stuff !

You don't go there, James Nute — not if " She broke oS

and put her hand on his arm. Then she braced herself to a
tremendous statement. " I wish to God you cared for me
so much as I care for you !" she said.

" I care for you a lot. You're part of my regular life, and
poor Wil used to chaff me sometimes on that score. D'you
mind when, in a rash and boyish moment, uplifted by the
Day, I played you awake with my flute on Christmas morning ?
I've often thought of the way you took it. Though full of
sleep, your senses worked and you bade me run home and not
catch my death of cold. I often thought of it. And don't you
fret about me. I'm very well able to take care of myself, and
if I ain't God is. This comes from heaven, remember — and
once grant that, there's nothing left to vex me; because the
things that come from heaven are never so bad as the things
that come from earth. The blackest thundercloud you ever
saw wasn't so black as the earth or sea spread under it. I am
concerned for my daughter, because her pride is going to make
the future a bit difficult; but I'm not in the least concerned
for myseK."

" Well, I've got my pride too," answered Sarah, " and
there's some things a woman can't do unless she's the Queen,
I believe. But I'm properly glad you care for me, and it's a
compliment for any woman; and this I'll say, James, and as
you value my sense, so turn it over. Don't put it ofif till
you're dog-tired and going to sleep. Think of it when you're
awake. And that is that the workhouse ain't the only house
in the world, and God's not got any special wish to lead you
there if you don't want to go."

He stared at her.

" 'Tis one of the great blessings of age that we can say what
we feel without lowering ourselves in sensible eyes," she con-
tinued, " and more I needn't say. A nod's as good as a wink
to a blind horse."

Still he was silent and she ran on.

WOMAN PROPOSES 241

" If anybody had ever told me I should put it so clear to
a person of the other sex, I should have laughed 'em to scorn;
but when you're in easy sight of seventy, such things rise up
to a higher level of thinking than that where the young and
the middle-aged move."

" You're not in sight of seventy," declared Grandfather,
" and 'tis straining your own humility to pretend it. You're
a wonderful woman ; and never so wonderful as to-day ; and now
I'm going. MorC;, if more there is, will come from me. 'Tis a
case^ seemingly, of a man and a woman and the Lord. And the
man is threescore years and ten, though he don't look it nor
yet feel it; and the woman's in the little sixties, though we
all know figures lie; and the Lord's — just the Lord. I've
listened to you with a great deal of attention, Sarah,
as I always do, for you handle a subject, great or small, with a
nice, womanl}^ touch. But now it's my turn, and I should be
untrue to myself if I went on with it until I've turned it over.
Because, God's my judge, I never thought of anything so out
of the common. But upon one point I must correct you,
Sarah. I dare say you'd think we have reached up to an age
when such a point don't count. But it always counts, and in
my view the ancient man who marries for a nurse is doing a
doubtful thing. And how much more doubtful to change
your state for a home ! I'm old, but I'm a man still, and you're
a woman. And if I was a hundred, I wouldn't marry a
woman unless I loved her. Love there's got to be; and
why not ? Love between the likes of us would move on a
very majestical height, above the understanding of thej^ounger
generations; but it would none the less be there. So we'll
look in our hearts and let God throw His light in and see how
it is."

" What do you think I spoke for ?" she asked rather
snappily.

" That's hidden in your own heart," he answered. " I'm a
modest man, and never set much value on my parts even in my
prime. You never know what people speak for. They don't
always know themselves. You may have spoke from respect,
or just pity, or out of a warm woman's heart. Or you might
have dreamed of mo in the workhouse and felt that, as my
lifelong friend, you'd sacrifice your former opinions to prevent
it. For well we all know, Sarah, that you've kept single from

IG

242 OLD DELABOLE

choice and not need. So we'll leave it there. Abraham ain't
the only man that have found a ram caught in a thicket at a
critical moment. I know that. And don't think I'm the sort
to miss any blessing — once I'm sure it is a blessing. But we
must satisfy ourselves that these likely looking things that
come to our hands sometimes are put there by the Lord and
not the — Good-bye, Sarah. You're a rare woman — one of the
fine, fearless sortr — too good for me, or any man."

" Good-bj'e — and don't you think no worse of me."

" I shall think of very little else but you, till we meet again,"
he said; " and I couldn't think better of you and I never shall
think worse. But what I've got to do is to think all round
you, and all round what you've said to me."

"Go to the Lord, of course," said Sarah; " but I needn't
ask you to go to nobody else."

" Most certainly not," he promised. " The way your mind
runs — like the wind !"

He left her, brisk, cheerful, alert, and she gazed doubtfully
but tenderly after him. Her mind ran like the wind, as he had
truly said.

" If it happened," she thought, " he'd be Wisdom in the chair
for me and the sun on my darkest day. And I'd clear out of
this, and let Jane keep house for John. And that would suit
them both, because they don't like my busy ways so well as
their easy ones. And then — and then "

CHAPTER XXIX

TO THE SOUND OF THE MILL WHEEL

" Two rights can make wrong, then, it seems," said Wesley Bake
to Edith. ' ' For you mean nothing but right, as you always do ,
and I mean nothing but right."

They stood in the mill-house at Newhall. It was raining,
and they had gone in there to escape a shower. Separated
from them by a wall, the water-wheel revolved in dripping
gloom where fronds of ferns trembled to the spout and flash
of the stream; within, the place shook at the tlu"ob of the
machinery above them. Every rafter and dim window was
white with dust of corn.

" I'll try again, then," she answered him. " You can't say
I'm not patient about it. I know a thing looks different from
different points; but I want to make you see what you're
doing, if I can."

" You shouldn't talk like that, Edith, I know what I'm
doing — only I can't show you and you people what I'm
doing. It isn't as if I was alone in my opinion, either. Pooley
thinks the same."

" I don't want to hear any more about Pooley," she an-
swered. " Pooley's a fanatic : once let an idea get into his head
and no power of reason or argument will ever get it out again.
You can leave him. He's hopeless; but I don't want to feel
you're hopeless, Wesley. You see that would be awfully
serious for both of us."

Her tone made him uneasy ; but he lived in an atmosphere of
uneasiness just now. The duty before him had turned him mto
a very miserable man, and he much desired to see with Edith's
eyes; but he could not. Justice, in his judgment, made it
impossible for him to ignore the claim of Widow Lobb, and the
fact that there was nothing in existence upon which that claim
could be based, excepting the situation as reported to him by a

243

244 OLD DELABOLE

dead man, made him all the more sensitive. At first the view
entertained by Anna Retallack and others of her family had
astounded him ; now he began to see that it was most reasonable.
He also perceived the exceeding gravity of the situation from
their standpoint; but with every desire and every inducement
to meet them, his own instinct rebelled and his own obstinate
view of justice to the dead, as well as the living, thrust him
into direct opposition with those who were all the world to him
now. His mother had striven with him and failed. In her
opinion his line was very foolish and dangerous. Why must
his view of necessity be the right one, and, in any case, was it
worth while endangering his own future by crossing Edith in
such a delicate matter ? Nancy Bake asked her son that, and
added another weight to his load, for until now, however it
might end, he had not dreamed of the possibility that Edith
could let the sequel come between their love. She was within
her right to argue about it and take her mother's side; but that
she should make it a personal thing and suffer it to obscure her
love of him — the chance of that Wesley had not considered
until his mother pointed it out. He protested and told her
that she did not know Edith, and that such an idea had not
occurred to her. But his mother feared otherwise, for she had
noted a growing acrimony of late and a bitterness of tongue
gaining upon the Retallacks. The problem reached an acute
stage and further delay would soon be impossible.

He felt to-day, in the mill, that some sort of definite
understanding must be reached, and he had proposals to make.
They were clumsy and he knew it, yet he hoped that Edith
would be reasonable and help him. Her own view he was now
convinced that he could never share. It appeared to him
unjust. Here was a definite claim on her father's estate, and
it was idle to evade or ignore it. True, nothing existed upon
which the claim could be enforced; but, on the other hand,
nothing existed which could dissolve or disprove it. He mar-
velled that they did not see how Wilberforce Retallack's name
was involved; while they on their side, resented his obstinacy
and, above all, suffered exasperation from the fact that Wesley
should suppose his own sense of rectitude superior to theirs.
That her husband's honour was not held safe with her had
rendered Anna very angry. Her face was turned from Wesley
Bake and her heart had grown hard against him.

TO THE SOUND OF THE MILL WHEEL 245

This fact Edith now reported to the miller. Then she spoke
for herself.

■' Mother's done with you," she said presently. " I'm sorry,
but I'm not surprised. It's a bit of a shock, of course, to find
you taking sides against us."

" Don't put it in that way, Edith."

" I'm here to talk straight and not to waste any more time.
I should have thought it was as easy as a child's picture-book,
myself. Anyway, you can reduce it to a very simple shape.
There are two points of view about a question of fact. And
one is Jane Lobb's and one is my mother's and mine. You're
always harping about my father's honour. Well, that can
take care of itself, and it's quite as safe with us as with you, if
not safer. As a matter of fact his honour isn't in question, and,
whatever happens, my dear dead father's honour is without
spot. If those who talk of his honour were worthy to tend his
grave ! So you can leave his memory where it is — high in the
esteem and admiration of every just and good man."

" But he said to me "

li

I know — I'm tired of hearing that. I don't doubt it.
Dying men may in their weakness think to put things on the
strong and well. But that matter was past and done, and
only an ailing man with a sick mind would have gone back to it.
The money was given to him by his uncle once for all, without
provisions or obligations of any sort or kind. We know it —
all of us — and if he'd left us ten thousand pounds instead of
one thousand, we'd still be under no shadow of obligation to
Jane Lobb."

" That's what you say; and she says thr.t she never heard
her husband speak of the money as a gift, but always as
a debt."

" Then it's for you to decide if you believe a stranger, or
your future wife and her mother. It makes me feel a bit
hard and cruel to you, Wesley, that I should even have
to put it so. But so it is, seemingly. So far as I can see,
you are deliberately throwing us over and listening to her.
It seems almost unthinkable. It makes me feel rather
wicked."

" Keep calm and argue it out. Your mind is deeper and
clearer than mine. Be patient with me. Granted there's
your side and her side; but that's not all. I've got to remem-

246 OLD DELABOLE

ber your father's anxiety and doubt. He wasn't ill when
first he named it. He was quite clear. He wanted my opinion.
He couldn't be sure about it. He inclined, of course, to your
mother's idea, that there was no obligation; but he'd found
out that Jane Lobb was very uncertain in her mind, and so
he got uncertain too."

" Leave father out," she said. " You're mad to keep on
di'agging in a dead man. I won't have it. Don't you see
what a cowardly thing it is — what a senseless thing ? This is
a matter of live people, not dead ones. Here's my mother
left with a bare fifty pounds a year, owing to dear father's
difficulties and troubles. Weil I can understand now why he
was so sad and haunted with care of late years ; well I can see
why the old love of fun and jokes all died out of him. It
wasn't his health; it was the grief of knowing that his long
fight for mother had failed. But he left his little to her, and
you are going to take it away."

" No, Edith, I won't hear that. You shan't say it. You've
no right to put it so."

" I've every right to put it so, and every sane man, or
woman, would put it so."

" I can't take away what you haven't got. If a man owes a
thousand pounds, it has to be paid before you can talk about
what he's got to leave to his family. You'll grant, I suppose,
that I'm not taking this line for fun. Every beat of my heart
goes against it. But when your father came to me, he said,
' I know you're straight — straight as a line, Wesley, and I know
that, whatever happens, you'll see justice done.' That's why
he came to me, and I'm not going to abuse my trust."

" Doesn't it ever occur to you that you may be abusing it ?
Your judgment is not the only judgment in the world; j^our
idea of honour and justice may not be the same as that of other
men quite as honest and much larger-minded and better
educated than you are."

" I know it. But I'm not going to run about asking other
men what they think. It's a fearful thing to be faced with
this, and what's made it more fearful still is that you don't
see it as I do. I always thought you would. Now you must
listen to me, Edith. I'm going to do it, because I believe that
it's my duty to do it. I've got complete power, and that
money's going to Jane Lobb."

TO THE SOUND OF THE MILL WHEEL 247

Then-

" Wait till I've finished. Now think how I might have got
out of this. I might have treated you and your mother like
children and done it without telling you, and bade JVIrs. Lobb
be quiet about it, and pretended that you had your father's
money. I might have paid her and then invested a thousand
pounds of my own money for Mrs. Retallack, and none the
wiser. But that would have been to insult you."

" Yes, it would — an insult you'd have had to pay for.
It's insult enough even to think of it."

" Not to think of it, and not to do it, if I come frankly and
beg you to let me do it as a favour. Of course everything
I've got in the world is yours — you know that — and it won't
be me giving your mother fifty pounds a year : it will be you
giving it to her. And so you must feel it that way — that your
father's name is cleared of what I, rightly or wrongly, think
would be a shadow on it, and you come forward and make it
good to your mother. For God's sake, don't refuse that,
Edith. I've worn out my wits thinking what to do, and that
seems the only possible way."

She stared at him. He put his arm round her, but she
moved away from him.

" Do I hear you ?" she said. " Is that a sort of thing to say
to a proud woman ? Is it a sort of thing to saj' to a decent
woman ? You talk of treating me and my mother like
children; but what have I ever done — what has she ever
done — to make you think we could behave like children ?
'Tis you are the child. Perhaps even an average child might
have sense to see the stupidity of this. You've worn out
your wits, certainly — as you say. I'm ashamed of myself —
not you. You've got to be yourself, I suppose, and don't
see that you're insulting me and mother, and making a shame-
ful show of yourself. But I said I'd marry you. I said I'd
marry a man who can make an offer of that sort and doesn't
see what a disgraceful thing it is. Your money ! Your
charity ! My mother to live on her son-in-law's charity !
And you try to pretend it's my money, and think that silly
little juggle of words makes it all right. I blush for you !
My mother doesn't want your money; she wants her own.
She doesn't want gifts, and she doesn't want thefts."
" Don't be angry — that's no use."

248 OLD DELABOLE

" Nothing's any use Avith you. Good God ! As if my
mother's position wasn't cruel enough for a proud woman,
without all this foolery ! I wonder how you've got it in you
to bully a woman like this ! And all this cant about justice —
I'm sick of it !"

" We'd better leave it, then, Edith — as we have such a lot
of times before. It's got to be, and I can't do more than
offer to make good. I always meant that."

" Showing what a coarse mind you've got. You're always
for yourself, and your own conscience, and its comfort. You
never think that what may make your conscience comfortable
may make other people's sick. You go trampling on, like a
cart-horse in blinkers, and it's nothing to you that finer feel-
ings than your own suffer bitterly, and finer creatures than
you are bruised."

" I'm sorry for that, then. I meant well. I thought
coming from me — one of the family, and the best-to-do — it
might be reasonable."

" ' Reasonable ' ! What does it matter that a thing's
reasonable if it's impossible ? You thmk like— oh, common
— common. Let me go. It's all so mean and vulgar. I
want a bath. After hearing what you've said, I'm not
clean."

" I'm sorry — if you can think of anything better."

" I can think of a great many things better — so could
anybody. But it's time wasted. I've had enough and I've
heard enough. You've got to have a thing straight, or else
you don't understand it. You've made me sorry for you
over this — and sorry for myself too. I can't go on with it —
I won't. If you're not going to find yourself mistaken about
this — if you're not going to give in and grant that your
betrothed wife knows more about her father than you do,
then you can go. If you take mother's money, I won't
marry you, and no girl on earth who had any credit for
proper feeling or proper pride would marry you. I'll forget
your nasty ideas and suggestions — I'll forgive those — though
my mother wouldn't. But she needn't hear them. But
I'm as strong as you, Wesley, and life's forced me to show it.
You like plain speaking, so there it is. If you do this, I
won't marry you, because, as sure as you do it, I shall hate
and despise you. And no woman can be called to wed a

TO THE SOUND OF THE MILL WHEEL 249

man she hates and despises. I'm not threatening, or anything
Mke that. I'm calm again now. So we can leave it there.
You've got so little imagination, unfortunately, that you
can't see what you're doing more than your water-wheel.
But I'll tell you what you're doing, and that may help you to
decide."

" Stop," he said. " I've heard enough. I've insulted
you; I've shown myself a blockhead and common and vulgar.
I've made you feel so properly shocked and unclean with my
nastiness that you feel as if you wanted to go and wash
yourself Go and wash yourself, and be clean again, then.
I know what it is to be dirty. I'm sorry I've dirtied you,
Edith. But the world's full of better men who will be glad

to There, go ! You bade me go when I was at the

Quarry Cottage — and I went. Now I'll ask you to go and
leave me and my water-wheel to blunder on. And if my
conscience requires for its peace the pain of other people — so
much the worse for them ! D'you hear me ? I don't care —
I don't care no more. I've grieved and stopped awake and
fretted myseK till I couldn't eat my food over it. But I'll
fret no more. Why should a fool fret ? 'Tis the privilege
of the fool that he never frets. I'll do what I will to do to
the dregs, and God knows I don't want to wed a woman
that — that has to wash after she's heard my opinions.
That's about the limit. No imagination, I dare say, and
I haven't looked round the subject and seen all it means,
of course — nothing like that. You know me so damned

well — that There ! — this is indecent. Why don't you

go?"

She had never heard him swear before. She went straight
out into the rain, and in a moment he was after her.

" Forgive me — I wasn't master of myself for the moment,"
he began.

Then she turned on him.

" Never speak to me again," she said. " Never look at
me again, and never utter my name again. And that's how
I shall treat j^ou. You're dead to me — far more dead than
the father you're going to wrong and outrage. You're every-
thing I hate and loathe in a man, and I never want to see so
much as your shadow again as long as I live. You can make
love to your own conscience in future, for no decent girl will

250 OLD DELABOLE

ever look at you after this. I'd die of shame to marry you
now, and I thank God this happened before and not after,
for if it had happened after, I'd have gone out of your house,
never to come into it again."

He stared, and after she had done speaking she walked
away and did not turn again.

The indifferent wheel thundered on as the rushing water
from the mill-race leapt upon it.

CHAPTER XXX

A MEETING OF MOTHERS

It was quickly known that Edith had broken her engagement
with the miller, and most of her friends agreed that she had
done rightly. His attitude as the trustee of Wilberforce
Retallack was in everybody's mouth, and while a few agreed
with Wesley, the greater number did not. Decisions of this
sort largely depend upon the source of information whence
they spring, and since Anna did not keep her grievance hidden,
the many who heard it from her felt that she had been
terribly wronged. Those who approved the action of Wesley
Bake generally heard the story from his mother, Nancy Bake;
but she mentioned the matter to few. As for the miller him-
self, he kept silent. He was dazed and bewildered at the turn
that things had taken. He could not grasp this terrific
disaster ; and yet he would not abate his purpose. He suffered
some harsh criticism, and lost a customer or two; but he did
what seemed good to him, and, with respect to Edith, wrote
her a letter. He made no concession in it, but confined
himself to apologizing for any harsh word that he might
have spoken at their last meeting. He added that he hoped
and prayed she did not mean all that she had said, and
implored her to reconsider her determination and bid him
come to her.

He received his letter again unopened — a frosty fact that
revealed to him the nature of his sweetheart's feeling.
Thenceforward he spun no more hopes of a reconciliation.

Once in the village a party of quarrymen groaned and
uttered expressions of contempt as he passed them, and he
received an anonymous postcard with the words, ' Cursed be
they who devour widows' houses ' upon it.

When the postcard came Mrs. Bake put on her bonnet and
went to call on Mrs. Retallack. Aima herself answered the
door, and upon seeing the visitor, hesitated. They had been

251

252 OLD^DELABOLE

acquainted for forty years, and became good friends after the
betrothal of their children.

" Don't say I'm not to come in, Anna," pleaded the elder
widow.

" Come in, of course — though I can't see it's much good,
Nancy."

Mrs. Bake sat down in the kitchen, took off her thread
gloves, and for some time regarded the other without speech.
Then she began.

" Many painful things have happened to me, but nothing
like this. Death and such-like certainties we know how to
meet; but a trouble of this sort is outside all experience."

" I'm as sorry for you as I am for myself, I assure you,"
answered Anna; " because well I know that you're a sensible
and high-minded woman, and this must be as great a grief to
you as a shock to me."

" Certainly it is."

" You can't move him, I suppose ?"

" How d'you mean ?"

" Move him to see his own silly brains are a poor guide in
such a thing."

" He knows that. You ought to understand him better.
D'you think a man faces the ill-will of the countryside on the
strength of his own brains ? And they ain't silly brains
either, Anna. He's got as good wits as anybody else, and a
better temper than some of us."

" If you've come to stand up for him, Nancy, you may as
well go again. I thought, as a sensible woman, you'd be my
side."

" You don't know half there is to Wesley; and more don't
Edith. If you'd try to look at this from his point of
view "

Mrs. Retallack reddened and rose.

" Listen to me, Nancy Bake, and save your wind. My
husband left me a thousand pounds, and before the flowers
were quailed on his grave, your son puts his hand in my
pocket and takes it out to give it to somebody else. And
well may every honest man hoot him in the street and take
their custom from him. I'm more charitable than charity.
I've never had a quarrel with any living creature in my life
till now; but I know what justice means. It's beyond belief

A MEETING OF MOTHERS 253

— it's so much beyond belief that I don't believe it. And I
say openly, as a Christian woman, that your son's mad.
Out of my great charity I say it. Your other son was a
rogue, and nobody's going to whitewash him; and the only
way to whitewash Wesley is to say he's mad. And if the
law was just, instead of being crooked as a sickle, as we all
know it is, and full of pitfalls for plain-dealers — then the law
would take this power from your son's hands and give me
my money, and lock him up in the asylum. But the law
don't know he's mad, and gives him the wicked power to
take all my dead husband left me. And if it wasn't for my
sons and daughters and my son-in-law also, I should be driven
into the union workhouse by a lunatic. And that's all about
it; and if you think that's a proper order of creation, then
you're just the mother for such a son. But you don't, you
don't ! You know I'm right and he's wrong. You know it
would be a proper scandal if my daughter took such a man."

" Ease up and hear me now. One side's only good till the
other is out. And though it may do you good to insult my
son to his mother, Anna Retallack, it won't do your eternal
hope good, or bring you any nearer peace at the last. You're
wronging the dead and wronging the living both, and behaving
in a way that makes me gasp to see. Your man was honest
and true and so straight as life let him be; but he wasn't
lucky, and he wasn't clear-minded latterly, so in a fit of un-
common good sense he put his affairs into Wesley's hands —
well knowing my son to be a man after his own heart. And
Wesley ain't going to betray him — not for his own wife. You
and your childer value the memory of the dead lower than
what my son does. ' Your childer,' I say, but your eldest
son and Julitta see with our eyes — and so do this man."

Grandfather Nute had entered and stood still — surprised
to find this visitor.

" Nothing of the sort," answered Anna, " or if he do, this
is the first I've heard of it. I say the highest form of charity,
and Christ couldn't go further, is to call your son a luny. I
forgive him because he knows not what he does; but I don't
forgive the law for letting him loose to steal my money."

" Don't use that word again !" cried Mrs. Bake. " 'Tis
very unwomanly and improper, and I might have the law of
you for it. 'Tis you would steal, not my son. He can't take

254 OLD DELABOLE

Widow Lobb's money and give it to j^ou — you know that.
He's offered you a thousand of his own."

" Well knowing that I'd rather die a thousand deaths than
touch it."

" Don't glare at me, anyway," said Mrs. Bake. " I come
to offer peace. He'll do anything — anything the wit of man
can do to put this right. But he ain't going against his con-
science, whatever the answer."

" We must take it in a large and patient spirit," declared
Grandfather Nute; " and as for my view, Anna, j^ou know it,
and if Mrs. Bake don't, she shall. She's out to say that I
agree with Wesley altogether. In my opinion, on the evi-
dence, the money was given, and it should lie with my
daughter, not j^our son, to decide "whether it goes back or not.
I think if Jane Lobb and Amia had met and gone down on
their knees together to be shown aright, that they would have
been shown aright. But Wesley isn't mad, nor anything
like that. He is a man of good repute and well thought upon,
and he's got the right to his own opinions, for this reason,
that he's got the courage of 'em. If he shrank from 'em and
was in two minds and doubtful and distracted, then I should
tell him to go to cleverer and stronger men than himself
about it; but he don't change, though he's got everything to
gain by changing and everything to lose by going on. This
business may cost him more than the money. It may cost
him my granddaughter to begin with; and there again, so
level and cool do I find m3'Self about it, that I'm not blaming
her neither. She and her mother think alike, and so she's
got to give him up — unless they can come to terms — cruel sad
for both though it is. And such is his strength of character,
that he can suffer that fearful loss for the right — as he sees it.
One must respect that. In fact, I respect both sides."

" And will get left yourself," said Mrs. Bake.

" Far from it," answered Grandfather. " I've never de-
pended for m}' comfort on a worldly foundation. I go my
own way, or, rather, not my own, but my heavenly Father's."

Mrs. Bake rose.

" Then I'll be off," she said. " I came fully hoping to get
nearer a settlement, and I may tell you I'm here unbeknownst
to Wesley. I shan't tell him what you've said, Anna, because
I hope in fulness of time you'll be sorry for it. I'll only

A MEETING OF MOTHERS 255

say that to tell the mother of a man like my son that he's
mad, shows a great loss of proper feeling in you; and to
pretend that it was Christian charity to say it, is taking
Christ's name in vain. And you'll no doubt be spared to
repent in dust and ashes. And to call my other son a rogue
was going too far also, because a dead son have alwaj^s got a
friend while his mother lives. And I hope you'll be called
upon to eat them words in the next world if not this one."

" There's a skeAV of rain coming down off Brown Willy
Mrs. Bake, and I wouldn't have you get wet," said Grand-
father.

Anna did not speak, and Mr. Nute led Nancy away. Out
of earshot, he expressed a pious hope that all might yet be
well; but Mrs. Bake held his impartial attitude mean, and
took unfriendly farewell of him. Nor was his daughter
pleased with the old man.

" I little like you for taking such a line," she said. " You,
who lived under the same roof with Wil for countless years."

" You mustn't criticize me, Anna," he answered. " I do
honestly believe, and I can't say more, that I'm directed to
hold the scales between you and see both sides. I'm going
the Lord's way."

" And in your best clothes, seemingly," she said, regarding
his Sunday black, which he had donned since dinner. " You're
going the Lord's way, no doubt, in your own opinion, and I
suppose He knows what you've got to be so chirpy about of
late, for I'm sure nobody else does."

" To vex and fret the parties to it was never yet the way to
help a trouble. Trust and patience and a cool head and con-
tented heart — that's the state to aim at. And I may say
that's how I find myself."

'' You always fall on your feet — we all know that. But
you may call it a contented heart. I call it a poor spirit.
There's proper pride as well as false."

" I know," answered Grandfather. " And I don't lack for
proper pride, Anna — believe me, I don't lack for proper pride.
No man blessed with Christian light but must have that.
But my great strength lies in taking no thought for to-morrow.
That may seem short-sighted to the careful and troubled
people; but the discovery of my life has been this: that if
you're a good man or woman, and do the thing nearest to

256 OLD DELABOLE

your hand, that's enough. So sure as you do to-day's work
properly, God will look after to-morrow's. Once grasp that,
and you'll be surprised how it simplifies life. You say I
always fall on my feet. I do. For why ? Because I trust
the Lord with the next step. ' Therefore take no thought,
saying, What shall we eat ? or, What shall we drink ? or.
Wherewithal shall we be clothed?' "
" You're clothed in your Sundays, however."
" I am, Anna, ' For your Heavenly Father knoweth that
ye have need of all these things.' And why I'm in my Sundays
won't be hidden longer than supper-time. I'm rayed in
these clothes for a reason. Faith doesn't sit down with her
hands in her lap — nor more does Hope. I may have news
this evening. And it will be good news — whatever colour it
takes it will be good. And I'm glad you said that I always fall
on my feet. It's an uplifting thought, in a way. And I say
the same of you, Anna, though you can't see it for the minute.
Given the right point of view, which is God's, and not always
within our reach, we're all falling on our feet every minute
we draw breath. And where there's an ugly tumble — as in
the case of Antipas Keat last week — be sure 'tis the creature's
own fault. And where our neighbours fall in such a manner
that 'tis beyond the power of this life to set them up again,
we stiil know that we shall find them restored to their
balance and comfort in the next life. For that's the Ever-
lasting promise."

With these vague but comforting reflections, IVIr. Nute
went his way, and Anna, who was in absolute ignorance of
his affairs, suspected that her father must be seeking for
work. It touched her, and she shed some needless tears on
his account.

CHAPTER XXXI

SAFE IN THE ARMS OF SARAH

Grandfather had come to a conclusion with himself, and
being a man of great common sense, he was now proceeding
upon his adventure in a very proper spirit. Convinced, after
due prayer and deliberation, that there was no reasonable
objection to marrying again, given a woman of such character
and wisdom as Sarah Sleep, Mr. Nute decided to proceed, and
his own nice judgment directed his future steps. He was
prepared to be sincere and serious, but he had no intention of
being unseasonably solemn. He was not going to make love
like a boy; but he was going to make love. Sarah should
understand from the first that a man and not a human fossil
offered for her hand. The man might be old, but his manhood
was still a reality. He stood in the happy position of knowing
the issue. Therefore fears of failure neither chastened his
attack nor moderated his ardour of approach. True it was
that Sarah might have changed her mind on cool reflection;
but in that case he felt quite equal to making her change it
again. Besides, she was a woman of very definite principles:
she would never have gone so far had she contemplated the pos-
sibility of retreat. For a moment he considered the voice of
his fellow-men, and suspected that the baser sort might link
this action with his own unexpected circumstances. He could
hear Moses Bunt on the subject and guess how that cynic would
say he only sought marriage as an escape from the workhouse,
and had chosen the greater of two evils. But Grandfather
never troubled himself much about the opinion of his fellow-
men, and did not propose to do so now. His soul was right
with God ; his heart was high ; he came before Sarah in a spirit
at once cheerful and ardent.

He had given her notice that he would appear on early
closing day, and she had arranged for his coming. The shop
was shut and Sarah sat in her parlour alone. She had hesitated

257 17

258 OLD DELABOLE

about a touch or two to her toilet and decided against any
such weakness. Indeed, she was feeling and looking older
than usual, for since her last meeting with Grandfather, Miss
Sleep had suffered some tumult of mind.

He shook her hand and struck a light note.

" My life ! you're cold as a quilkin,* Sarah !"

" 'Tis this skeeny wind," she said. " It bites to the bone."

"So it does — siire enough, now you say so. But so full has
my mind been of late, that the weather passed over me like a
shadow."

" You ought to have your muffler on."

" Like you to think of it. But when the heart is warm the
system is proof against cold. How is it with you ? You look
a thought wisht."

" I'm all right. Only — I dunno."

With excellent tact Mr. Nute entirely ignored the past. He
proceeded as though it had never been, and Sarah's spirits
rose. She feared that he would begm at the beginning, and she
wanted to forget the beginning. She soon caught his mood.

" I'm not going to beat about the bush," he said, " because
at my time of life that would be out of keeping. If you know
what you want, you take the shortest way to get it at three-
score-and-ten. That's my age, and on the wrong side too,
though why man should talk of the 'WTong side of a date, when
he knows that it's the right side for meeting God, I can't say.
Anyhow take it as a figure of speech only. But the patriarchs
come to my mind and their ways. I've got a long road to go yet
by all signs, and it's borne in upon me, Sarah, that travelled in
the company of a good woman, that road would be a lot easier
and brighter and happier. I may be \\Tong, but I've put it
before the Throne and haven't been turned down. If I was a
poor piece; if time had got his wedges into me and was only
waiting for a touch of bronchitis, or what not, to hammer 'em
home, then the case would he different. Marriage weren't or-
dained to let us escape the hospital. What it was ordained
for we very well know in the first place, and we needn't
touch that ; but the question is whether it may also be entered
into for friendship and understanding and the fine, high-
minded sort of love that exists between you and me. I
use the word ' love ' in the highest sense naturally. You

* Quilkin — a frog.

SAFE IN THE ARMS OF SARAH 259

and me love one another in exactly the same spirit that we
love our Maker, though on a lowlier plane. If I'm wi'ong,
say so."

" You couldn't put it nicer, James."

" Well, what do you think ? I don't want to say the words
unless you consider they are well in keeping with our char-
acters, Sarah. That's not to say I'm not prepared to say
them until I know your answer; because that would be
holding a pistol to yoiar head, and a very ungentlemanly thing
in my judgment. But before I go on, I merely want to know
whether you think such a man as I am, sound as old port-wine
and religious and cheerful-minded, has a right to offer himself
to such a woman as you. Don't look at it in a personal sjiirit,
my dear, but just as an open C[uestion put to you for your views
as an experienced and thoughtful creature."

" Put like that, I can't see any reason against. It's a
dignified thing, and, at your age and mine, people don't run
about for advice. They do what's right in their own eyes and
answer to themselves."

" Good !" said Grandfather. " That's pretty much what I
should have expected from a reader and thinker and a woman
famed for her judgments. So far so good, then. That clears
the air a lot. But now, before I go tlu-ough with it, Sarah,
I'm bound to touch on another point. Be quite honest with
yourself, because its a pomt where affection mustn't blind you.
There's a complication. We all know the path of true love
never runs smooth, and though you might think where you're
dealing with a pair whose united ages would run up into three
figures there ought not to be any great impediments from
outside, yet so it is."

"I'd very much like to see the man or woman who had a
right to come between," said Miss Sleep.

" Not a man or woman, my dear. But a fact — a plain fact
that can't be got over and can't be ignored. I'm a pauper."

' ' Well, I ain't, so enough said. We all know you had money
and gave it away. You're a pauper by bad chance and
through no fault of your own. Between us a thing like
that won't breed trouble. You ain't marrying me for my
money."

" God forbid ! — 'tis the last thing I'd marry for. I've
always disliked and distrusted the stuff."

260 OLD DELABOLE

" Then you can let that part go. I've saved for fifty years
— not with any object in view, but simply because I come
of the saving sort. When I leave my brother "

" Stop there," he said. " We haven't got so far as that.
Now, Sarah, I want you to do me the blessing and honour of
giving up your maiden state. I want you to take my hand
and join me in holy matrimony, so that we may go down the
hill together in happiness and dignity and heart to heart.
You mustn't think I'm doing this and offering myself on the
spur of the moment. For fifteen years I've put you above
any other woman in the world and held my minutes with you
better spent than any others, except them spent on my knees.
I even went so far as to picture us wedded. But as I saw it
then, it was too late for that step, because I'd thrown in my
lonely lot with my daughter's people and couldn't leave them
without making a feeling. But now time and chance break up
that home and I'm free. I dearly like the thought of it, and I'd
wish to talk about making a home for you and taking you away
from the work of the shop, because the time has come for yor
to give up that and take your dignified rest. But 'twill be
you, not me, makes the home."

' No — you'll make a home," she said. " You'll be the home,
for that matter. What odds which of us brings the chair, so
long as Wisdom sits in it ? Any fool can buy the sticks.
They don't make the home. We've seen enough of life to
know that."

To his amazement Grandfather found tears in his eyes.
He rose and bent over Sarah and put his arms round her and
kissed her cheek.

" God bless you !" he said.

" I don't know what it is to have a home since my parents
died. I've lived in my brother's home. But you and me
and your flute — 'twill be a proper nest, James."

"This is a very moving minute for me," he declared; "a
second spring, I assure you, Sarah."

" Call it the Indian summer," she said. " A rare come-
along-of-it. sure enough. 'Tis done, and may the Lord view
it well. I know how my brother John will."

" You're out there, Sarah. He won't turn ugly when he
hears me. I shall get the bettermost of him without any
trouble."

SAFE IN THE ARMS OF SARAH 261

"As to my leaving, yes; but what about my leavings ?
There's where the shoe be going to pinch John."

" After what I've done and won to-day, that'll be a very
small matter," declared Grandfather. " In fact, I'll wait and
see him before I go."

" 'Tis candle-teening time," she said. " I'll light up if my
hand's not too shaky to do it."

He helped her, and they discussed the future over a cup of
tea. They were both elated, but Sarah returned again and
again to what the people would think, while Mr. Nute attached
little importance to that.

" They'll say I'm a goose and you're a grabber," murmured
Sarah; " and I shan't like it, and I'm not sure if we shouldn't
do better to live away from Delabole."

" What matters their opinions ? You know you ain't a
goose, and I know I ain't a grabber, so there's an end of that
so far as it concerns us. If they say silly things, that's their
affair, and naught to you and me, who are going to do wise
thuigs. And John will be our side, Sarah — make no mistake
there. I shall throw a light on his mind in more ways than
one."

He kept his word, and when John Sleep presently appeared.
Grandfather directed Sarah to leave them. Then he broke
his news, and Mr. Sleep listened and glowered at the recital.

" It ain't altogether a surprise," he said, " I've had a
sort of feeling this was in the air ever since your son-in-lav.?
died. But until now I always thought it was just Sarah's
wild idea — her being addicted to you and very proud of yoiir
good parts and friendship. And so was I, and even when I
found that she had such tender feelings I never worried,
because I shared her high opinion of you, and thought you
were a self-respecting old man. I gave you too much credit
to dream of anything like this. And I will say, James Nute,
that I seem you're old enough to know better. You may
have lifted yourself up in her eyes by this silly thing, but
you've cast yourself down in mine, and in the eyes of all
sensible people. It's too bitter clear what you're after, of
course; and if you can reconcile such a brazen deed with your
fame for religion, then you're foxing yourself, and I say
it's all humbug. Not a month ago you was telling me and
half a dozen other men, after service, that you had no fear

262 OLD DELABOLE

of the workhouse; and yet as it came closer, 'tis easy to see
you grew so proper terrified that you fau-ly fled into the arms
of the first woman, and no doubt the only woman, who'd
take you. And if you think it's a part worthy of an aged man,
then I'll be so bold as to tell you you're wrong. It's a very
nasty thing to do, and you'll find I ain't the only person who
thinks so."

" Very well put, John," answered Grandfather. " I know
no man who can say what he means in straighter language
than you can — when you take the trouble to do it. And
another fine gift you've got. In argument you'll always
listen to what the other party has to say. That's very
helpful, and quite uncommon in my experience. So there it
stands, and now I'll ask you a question. How old are you ?"

" What does that signify ?"

" You'll see in a minute."

" I'm sixty-five."

" And well preserved at that. Though if you took more
exercise you'd be the gainer. And how old's Sarah ?"

" Sixty."

" Very well, then. I've got close on twelve years' start of
her and seven of you. And that probably means that you'll
both outlive me by many years. Money is money, John, and, as
such, a thing I've got no use for ; but, seeing the circumstances,
and finding, after prayer, that I can wed your sister —
not on a money basis, but on a proper basis of respect
and affection, and seeing that she's of the same mind, it
follows that we must think of the worldly side. I bring
nothing but myself."

" And your old-age pension ?"

Mr. Nute flushed slightly.

" I'm sorry you allowed yourself to say that. I come of
old stock, John — very fine old Liberal stock — and my manners
and opinions are far removed from the Liberal ideas of the
present day. I went very near so far as Gladstone, but not
an inch farther, and the modern policy is against all my
opinions. The poor we have with us always; but that's no
reason why we should always have paupers. Old-age pensions
are not for the like of me, and I won't apply for any such
thing. I won't lay bare my private affairs to the pitiless
eyes of paid officials. I'm proud, and I hate and despise

SAFE IN THE ARMS OF SARAH 263

such doings, same as I hate and despise the Guardians with
their coarse ways of looking into sad human hearts."

' ' You ain't too proud to live on my sister's money, how-
ever ?"

" I am not, because husband and wife are one, and Sarah
and I understand each other. I'm not willing to argue
with you about that, or explain what your bent of mind
wouldn't easily understand. I only want to lighten that
mind and not puzzle it. The money's the thing to you, and
in that matter I want you clearly to know that I don't
handle a penny. We make a home, and Sarah reigns in it.
And we live on the per centum of her savings. Her savings,
John, not yours. She's been a good saleswoman to you, and
what she's put into your pocket, as an honest man you know.
And now the time has come for her to rest from her labours.
And she wants to rest from her labours along with me. But
not a penny of capital am I going to let her spend. And when
she goes, everything she owns will come back to your family.
She's willed it all to you and Jane and Fhilippa. Her will is
made, and when she marries me, she'll make it over again
just the same to a hair. Only with this provision : that if
the unexpected happens and she goes to her rest before I
do, then for my balance of days I'm to enjoy the per centum.
But every farthing of the capital returns to your family, and
you shall read the will and keep it, if you like. I shall con-
tinue to have a black Sunday suit and a second-best and an
every-day. I shall have boots to walk on, a hat on my head,
and food in my mouth, but nothing more — nothing more but
a good and loving wife and a decent funeral when the tale is
told. And what Sarah gets is me — ' just as I am, without
one plea,' as the hj^mn says, John; and though in modesty
I grant it's a one-sided bargain, in justice you must hear her
also ; and, at her age, you've got no fair right or reason to argue
against her judgment."

" That's rather different from what I expected, I grant,"
said Mr. Sleep.

" You'll let me remind you of another thing also. Jane
Sleep is very clever in the shop now, and it's been fairly clear
to Sarah for a good while that Jane's outlook on life falls in
pretty well with your own."
" That's so."

264 OLD DELABOLE

" Then, with Sarah away, business won't suffer, and your
peace of mind won't suffer."

" Not now — not if I've got your word that you are not
after the stuff."

" That you should have thought I was, knowing me so well
as you do, is a painful surprise to me, John. In fact, I'm
glad this has happened, if only to open your eyes to me. We
shan't delay. We know our own minds. Sarah's for going
away from Delabole, but I'm going to show her she's mis-
taken there. We shall stop."

" The Kellows are leaving my house by the chapel. You
might find that suit you."

" Very likely. Sarah will decide everything."

" We'll leave it at that, then," summed up IVIr. Sleep. " I
see you are reasonable in the details, James, and I won't say
no more against it."

" You can't — as an intelligent and religious man, you can't,
John. I was pretty sure you'd find out that, when I made all
clear. It's a great source of strength to have you for a
brother-in-law. I quite value you, John. And now I'm
going home to tell my family. I wish I could straighten out
other people's affairs so easily as I can always straighten out
my own. It's very sad about Edith and Wesley Bake."

" It's very proper — he's behaved shameful."

" There again, no doubt, you'd be the first to listen to
reason if you heard it, John. Another time we'll talk about
that. You voice the general opinion, but general opinion's
a very unreasonable creature. Why for ? Because them with
least mind are always the first to make it up. Good-night.
I shall see you again in twenty-four hours. Such is the
simple way in which I live, John, that I can do a thing at an
hour's notice — whether it be to marry or to die. I've arranged
my life for fifteen years now, so that any call will find me
ready to answer at once. I've made it a rule, ever since I
went to live with my daughter Anna, that I would never own
any more than would go into my box. And that box is no
more than four feet long and two feet six high, John. From
such a box you can go to a new earthly home or your eternal
one as easy as eat your breakfast."

" It sounds all right — though you might just as well be a
cat or dog, for all I can see."

SAFE IN THE ARMS OF SARAH 265

" There'll be no possessions in heaven, John."

" You can't say that; but I ain't going to argue. You're
one too many for me. Have a drink ? And if Sarah can
marry and nothing said, why shouldn't I wed again, James ?"

'■' No reason at all, John, provided you feel the call and go
to the right female in the right spirit."

Full of this sudden inspiration, Mr. Sleep became almost
cordial. He saw Grandfather to the street after some re-
freshment.

" And you can rely on this," he said : " I'll uphold you with
the people. There's no just cause why the young uns should
have all the adventures. After all, a man's a fool to let a
chronical rheumatism stand between him and what the world
can still offer. There's more to life than physic, even if you're
an invalid."

CHAPTER XXXII

AN INNOVATION

Sidney Nanjulian refused to believe that because a thing
had never been done it must never be done. A custom ob-
tained to decorate the churches of the Nonconformists at
Delabole for harvest festivals, but at Christmas and Easter
the like was not attempted, and Nanjulian's aesthetic instincts
protested against this loss of opportunity. He had raised
the question more than once, only to find the trustees of the
United Methodists unprepared to consider it; but at last he
won the majority to his way of thinking, and when the feast
of Easter came round again, he was permitted to adorn their
chapel for that great Christian anniversary.

All who grew them knew that flowers would be welcome,
and, as a result, on the Saturday before Easter Sunday a
great many worshippers brought blossoms from their gardens
to brighten the house of prayer. Other sects viewed this
innovation with some doubt, and Sidney was the more moved
to make it a success. He loved flowers and the culture of
them. He had built a little glass-house against his new
dwelling, and Julitta began to grow as fond of plants
as her husband had always been. The romance of bloom-
ing things, the dawning of a flower-bud, its growth and
ultimate triumphant expression, added much to Sidney's
joy in life.

Now the congregation brought gifts, and Sidney, who
superintended the decorations, was pleased at the extent of
them.

" We can do even more than I thought," he said, " for
the flowers come without stint, and I won't refuse any."

Even Aunt Mercy Inch brought a contribution from Trebar-
with Sand.

" 'Tis only a bunch of they pink thrifts, my dear," she said;

266

.i .

AN INNOVATION 267

" but they'll fill a corner, for every little helps. There's no
reason why the church-folk should have it all their own way
at Easter and Christmas."

Aunt Mercy delivered her bouquet and stopped to gossip.
Betsy Bunt had come with a bunch of late daffodils from the
manager's garden, and now she spoke with the traveller from
Trebarwith.

" Dabbety fay ! the things that happen," said Betsy. " To
think such a woman as Anna Retallack should have no place
to lay her head !"

" But surely her sons ?"

" I mean that her home is took from her; her pride have
had a fall; and a fall at her age is never cured. Yes, it have
got to such a pass that her nessel-bird, her very youngest,
have to make the poor woman a home."

" The others will help, however ?"

" I don't know no details as to that. Ned's going to marry
Philippa Sleep, and his mother's going to live along with them.
And Pooley, the preacher, is to have a room with Noah
Tonkin and his wife, whose lodger has left them."

" And Grandfather Nute weds again — that's the chief
wonder."

" He does; for worldly cleverness, combined with the
truths of religion, you won't beat that old man. Sarah
Sleep's a lucky woman, and I don't care who hears me say so."

" Without a doubt you're right — if it ain't too much like
serving God and Mammon."

" You can't do that," declared Betsy. " There was a talk
of grandfather and grandson wedding at one time, seeing
they was both marrying into the same family; but the old
man was far too nice to fall in with it. He's got high feelings,
and he said that nothing would be more unseemiy than to
have two such different ceremonies run in together."

" The decorum of the man !" said Aunt Mercy.

" Pooley will help the home with money, because he's got
a rise," continued Betsy Bunt. " In fact, you may say that
they're all fixed up now but Edith. I understand she keeps
her.self very much to herself of late days. She'll most likely
look for work, and with such an education as she've had, she
will easily find it."

268 OLD DELABOLE

" Surely there's a hope that she and young Bake can come
together again ?" asked the other.

" Not a chance — too proud for that. And who shall
blame her ? He's come out something shameful and abused
a dead man's trust."

" What does Mister Tom say ?"

" That I can't tell you. I've opened the subject more
than once to him in my cunning way, but he won't talk upon
it. Last time I touched it he bade me stop my mouth rather
sharp. Of course, we're not blind, and we know how it was
in the past between him and Edith Retallack. Don't
you breathe a word as yet, Aunt Mercy; but remember,
when you hear an old tale revived, who 'twas that first
whispered it."

" Her and Mister Tom ! I always thought that."

" Perhaps, and, again, perhaps not. But I think that's
how it will be like to happen. Edith Retallack was a lot
drawn to him, you must remember. It was just whip-and-
go which she took, and, in my opinion, if she gives him the
ghost of a chance now, Mister Tom will be after her like a
tiger."

" And being the man's housekeeper, of course you have
great advantages in studying the situation," said Aunt Mercy.

" I have, and I use 'em, and why shouldn't I ? I'm terrible
fond of Mister Tom, and know more about him than most
people. If you mend a man's clothes and cook his food and
make his bed, you get at him in a way no outsider can. Such
is my sight that I can tell by the very fling of the counterpane
if he's slept well or ill. And he's slept ill of late. And I
know at this minute his mind is cruel busy. He eats without
appetite, and grows terrible late of a night, and don't smoke
half what he generally does. He got wet through not long
since and never noticed it, and he was so stiff as Barker's knee
next morning. But he set naught upon it — never thought
on it till the pain scourged up his backbone. His heart's
full of Edith Retallack, and though he won't hear the matter
mentioned, he knows what the people think. No doubt he'd
not hide his own opinion of Wesley Bake if it weren't too
delicate a subject — him being after the miller's old sweet-
heart."

AN INNOVATION 269

" I'm sorry that ever the man was called by that holy name,"
said Aunt Mercy. " To call a young boy by the name of
' Wesley ' ought to be a tower of strength to him, and yet by
all accounts he's disgraced it."

" He has, and, knowing what a stickler for justice Edith
is, of course Tom Hawkey feels that she's not done such a big
thing lightly. He knows, as we all do, that she was right.
How could she have lived with that man and borne his
childer after he'd robbed her mother ?"

" Echo answers ' How V I'm sure," answered Aunt Mercy.
' 'Twould be quite beyond human nature, I should think.
A fearful thing for Nancy Bake. A proper anti-Christ she've
got for a son."

" I wouldn't go so far as that. And you needn't pity Nancy
Bake, because she's took the miller's part, and says he's in
the right. She won't hear a word against him. In fact, if
you look over there, you'll see a strange sight to your eyes, I
dare say."

She pointed among the company that was busy in the
chapel, and Aunt Mercy saw Susan Bake talking amicably to
a young man.

" vSusan have brought up a brave bunch of Lent rosen from
Newhall and a bit of pink riby along with it, and there's
Pooley Retallack talking to her, you see, as if there was nothing
between the families."

" Surely he ain't against his sister ?"

" Yes, he is. He's on Wesley's side, and that shows how
justice and religion are two very different things. Fairly
hoodwinked is Pooley over this trouble, and his mother, who
thought he was a saint, poor soul ! don't think so any more.
In fact, when Pooley said he reckoned Bake was right, Anna
had a sort of convulsion, and, in her wrath, told him she
had but one son now. No doubt that's why she ordains to
go and live with Ned."

Benny Moyse, the accordion-player, joined them.

" Where's Moses to, Betsy ?" he asked. " I ain't seen him
this longful time."

" You're his one and only friend, Mr. Moyse — so I've heard
him say — and he's home with a tissick in the chest and a good
bit put about that j^ou haven't been to call."

270 OLD DELABOLE

" I thought he was taking his holiday."

" He never takes no holiday."

" To-night I'll visit the man, then," promised Benny,
" He was wanting a load of good meat earth for his garden,
and I can let him have it, and, since he's sick, I'll dig it in
for him mj^self."

" You'll be welcome."

Nan Julian annoyed some of those who had brought flowers,
for upon the holy table he set the wildings, while geraniums
and a pot of scarlet cactus he rated lower and arranged under
the windows and elsewhere. Jack Keat came in with a bunch
of tulips. He bore new honours now, and could not act as
though whollj' indifferent to them. On Wilberforce Re-
tallack's death, Mr. Keat was raised to be joint foreman with
Sidney Nanjulian. Jack wanted his tulips on the holy table,
and Nanjulian explained that only the flowers of the field
were to be set there.

" The idea is that God Himself grew them, Jack, and so
they ought to go in the best place ; while the things that men
have grown are put in humbler spots."

" I catch your meaning, Sidney," answered Jack Keat,
" and the idea's good, no doubt; but the effect will be bad.
You want the showy things on the table, where they'll be best
seen, and if you're going to draw God in — and I've no objec-
tion to that — then you must see that His hand made these
tulips so well as they wild pinks. You mustn't think that
God only works in the hedge and ditch. He helps the garden
likewise and the kitchen garden also; and the peony couldn't
open and the cauliflower couldn't draw a breath if He turned
His back on them."

Nanjulian, however, had arguments to support his purpose,
and would not be convinced.

Elsewhere, as they decorated a window together, Pooley
and Susan Bake talked of Edith. Mary helped her mother,
but Betty had not been allowed to come owing to her recent
record, which was much tarnished.

" We can only wait and hope and put it in our jDraj^ers,"
said Pooley. " The future may make us happier, and I trust
they will be brought together again."

" It rests with your sister," she answered; " and she'll

AN INNOVATION 271

forgive Wesley on St. Tibb's Eve, I reckon, and that's

never."

" Our house is divided against itself," he declared, " and
that's very sad, and can't last. If anybody had ever told
me I should fall out with my mother, I should have laughed
at them; but so it is. All her pride in me has fallen to the
ground. She thinks I'm wilfully blind to justice and right."

" If you can't make her see, nobody can."

" She'll see," he assured Susan. " She'll see — it may be
to-morrow, or it may not be till her death-bed; but such
things are never allowed to go unseen. Her eyes will certainly
be opened ; but whether I shall be allowed to open them I
can't say. If it wasn't for Ned, I dare say I might weigh
with her: but he's properly mad about it, and says it's treason
against mother even to think that Wesley's right."

Richard Male, from the ' One and All,' brought a massive
bunch of wallflowers, and stopped to judge of the growing
efiect.

" Of course, it's all quite on a different line from harvest;
and I won't say but what it may be more beauitful to the eye,
though not so interesting to the mind," he observed.

'■ Harvest is the first-fruits of the autumn, and flowers are
the first-fruits of the spring," said Nanjulian.

" Flowers go before fruits, certainly; but the}' are a little
bit thin and poor-like against all the solid wealth of harvest,"
added Jack Keat.

" In my opinion we've been overdoing the harvest a trifle
of late 3'ears," declared Benny Moyse. " You must draw the
line somewhere. You see, the old Cornish toast is ' Fish —
copper — tin,' and we of Delabole add ' slate,' which is our
great harvest, of course; but reason is reason, and if the fisher
people put their harvest in the chapels for harvest-home, so
might the tinners, and we might just so well fill up with a
hundred dozen ' queens ' and ' princesses '* on the Lord's
table."

" There's no just reason against," declared Nanjulian.

" Except that everybody would laugh," answered Richard
Male." For my part I often feel uneasy at what the fishermen
are allowed to do."

* Queens and princesses — the largest sizes of slates.

272 OLD DELABOLE

" They go pretty far," admitted Benny Moyse, " and yet
you can't deny them. A fish-jouster from Port Isaac told
me that last year they had fish and nets and lobster-pots in
the windows, and lobsters in 'em — live ones ! Now, that's
a disgrace, surely. How ever could you ask a man to praise
his Maker while he was afraid of his life all the time he'd have
a lobster's claw in his whiskers ?"

" They ought to boil 'em first," declared Jack Keat.
" There's no doubt about that. It would be kinder to the
creatures, and much more showy. So red as a soldier's coat
they'd be, and add a great brilliance to the scene."

" 'Tis very improper, and once go so far as living things,
or dead ones, and I don't see where you are going to stop,"
argued Richard Male. " For if lobsters, why not legs of
mutton, or a row of little choogy pigs ?"

"Well, why not ?"

" You don't want the Lord's house to be turned into a
meat-stall or a fish-market ?"

" You're all for corn and roots, we know, Richard; but
you must look at it with the eyes of other men. Why should
a lobster be more shameful than a brave vegetable marrow,
or a string of pollack not so fine as a barley-mow ? Port
Isaac have as much right to ofifer the first-fruits of a haul
of herring as Delabole to offer wheat and apples and
plums."

" 'Tis use," summed up Benny Moyse; " without a doubt
'tis use that reconciles the mind to one thing, while the lack
of it makes another thing sound queer. A farmer could pray
before the sight of the fruits of the earth, but he'd very likely
be distracted off his Maker if the fruits of the sea was under
his nose and he saw a goggle-eyed hake or what not staring
down at him from the winder-sill; but to the seafaring man
'twould be just the other way round."

" And the God of the corn is the God of the pilchard, and
the God of the tin and slate also, and all manner of workers
and toilers can unite in praising Him," said Mr. Keat.

The people came and went, and many brought gifts,
until the chapel of the United Methodists had lost its
austere lines and was transformed into a bower of vernal
blossoms. The simplicity and humility of the flowers chimed

AN INNOVATION 273

with the place. The frank light from the white glass windows
shone down upon the banks of bloom, and when Sunday
came, not only the sunshine but the sweetness of spring
reigned in the meeting-house.

Nanjulian's success none questioned, and even those who
had doubted were ready to admit that the bravery of the
flowers had added something to the day.

18

CHAPTER XXXIII

THE SCHOOL TREAT

Edith, forgetting her treatment of his last letter, now waited
in daily expectation of some message from Wesley Bake. But
weeks passed and none came. She hardly considered what
form the approach must take — whether he would write to her
or ask to see her ; and presently, from desiring a communica-
tion, she grew to dread one. She longed for time to pass and
deaden her very poignant suffering; and she felt that any
attempt on Wesley's part to win her back to him would only
open deep wounds she desired that time should heal. She had
loved the man, and a nature cold and ambitious had been
warmed by his good-hearted and genial outlook on life, if at
the same time chilled by certain features of his character. For
he was not ambitious except to do right and live an honourable
life, and though his humility had made her smart not seldom,
before her father's death she had begun to see that his own
way was best suited to her betrothed 's genius. She had been
content, therefore, to show no further impatience, and irovble
him no more, but wait until she came to Newhall Mill. Now
all was changed, and for her mother's sake she could not go
back, yet still hoped that Wesley might abae his p\irpose.
It was part of his character to yield, not so hers. She con-
soled herself by considering that she did not stand alone in
this; that, indeed, the majority of her friends and acquaint-
ance agreed with her. One opinion, and that a very vital
one in her regard, she had yet to learn; but Tom Hawkey
was known to avoid the subject and refuse to discuss it with
anybody. This he did on principle. None was more deeply
and personally interested in the problem, and for that reason
he chose to evade it and thrust it from him. A woman here
and there guessed why, but those most involved did not, and
Edith's family had wondered as much as she herself had
wondered, to learn that Hawkey would utter no opinion upon

274

THE SCHOOL TREAT 275

the outrage. For her part Edith Retallack resented this
attitude in him. He had cared much for her and she had
admired him greatly, and he knew it. She had exhibited a
flash of warmth to him after the great quarry fall, and she
was surprised that he could not even declare the sympathy he
doubtless felt for her in her sorrow. That he might not feel
it possible to speak to her, she understood; but she could
imagine no reason why he should decline to trouble himself
even to form an opinion or hear the facts of the case. He
had silenced both Ned and Pooley when they brought the
subject to him; for each had done so in respect for his judg-
ment and desire to find Hawkey on his side.

In truth the vital possibilities of this estrangement had
prompted the manager to avoid even thought upon it. He
knew neither the rights nor the wrongs of the matter, and did
not wish to know them. Only the tremendous result concerned
him. Edith had freed herself, and if, after reasonable lapse
of time, she continued to be free, there was nothing to prevent
him from coming to her again. He worshipped her afar off,
and the fact that she had loved and promised to marry else-
where could not destroy his overmastering regard. From the
day that she had told him she meant to wed the miller, Tom
Hawkey abandoned hope, and being a man of self-control
and steadfast spirit, had not suffered his loss to ruin his
usefulness or kill his interest in life ; but what he felt for Edith
could not perish, and no shape of woman had ever obliterated
hers. Now, therefore, his mind was in tremendous ferment,
and if Edith prayed for time to pass. Hawkey did so v/ith no
less fervour. The temptation to approach her at this junc-
ture must have proved too much for most men, for there is an
instinct in love to choose the right moment and offer itself at
such pregnant junctures. He believed that he might well win
her sad heart, and the effort necessary to deny himself an
attempt was a mighty one. The fact that he did not do so
was wrongly read by her. He admired her still and valued
her friendship; that she knew; but she judged by his absten-
tion at this crisis that he loved her no ioitger, and his refusal to
discuss the conduct of Wesley Bake, instead of being judged
correctly, only led her to feel the more confident that Hawkey's
passion for her was a thing of the past. An incident went far
to confirm this opinion, for ihe walked often alone of late and
the sea drew her. Its unrest chimed with her own, and she

276 OLD DELABOLE

would traniiD for miles beside the cliffs or upon the sands,
and win some consolation from the exercise.

An interesting thing resulted from this practice on her part,
for Hawkey knew of it. From her own lips he heard it,
because, meeting her one day, she had told him her mind was
very restless and troubled, and that she found the restless and
troubled sea understood her better than anybody. From that
hour he knew where she might easily be found alone, and
there came a day when, yearning terribly to see her and speak
to her, he sought her on the cliffs. A sense of guilt accom-
panied him. There was a battle before he went, and he lost
it. After all, she might not be there; and if she were, was not
he schooled to control himself ? She wanted a friend at this
pass in her life, and was the love he cherished for her of such
selfish staple that he could not meet her without showing it ?
But his conscience smote him, and when, present^, he saw her,
half a mile away, standing upon a headland alone, he hesitated.
He was swinging along fast towards her when she came in
sight. Then he stood still; and then he turned and went
slowly in the opposite direction. He thought that she had
not seen him, but he was mistaken. Her eyes were on him
when he discovered her; and she had marked him stop, hesi-
tate, and then retreat.

The act first puzzled her, then it awoke a sense of injustice.
What had she done to make Hawkey, of all men, avoid her ?
It was apiece with his refusal to judge between her and Wesley
Bake. His extraordinary indifference awoke an interest in
Edith, and at this stagnant time, when every interest seemed
dead, her agitation did the woman a sort of good. She re-
sented the manager's attitude and determined to change it.
She had possessed power — paramount power — over him in the
past and, in a spirit she herself could hardly explain, deter-
mined now to corner Hawkey on this matter and extract an
expression of opinion from him. That he was apparently so
callous, and could awaken to no lively emotion on her account
in this great grief, puzzled Edith. Then it piqued her. She
determined that, at any rate, he should hear her side and, if he
declined to do so, she would make a personal matter of it. He
was a just man and a strong man, and she became suddenly
inspired with an active wish to win his support against her
old lover. She believed that her motive was single and that

THE SCHOOL TREAT 277

she felt no personal reawakening interest in Hawkey himself;
but anon, when she sat beside him, she found that she could
not examine that question longer.

An opportunity promised to occur at an early day, and Edith,
who had declined to attend the approaching school treat of the
United Methodists, now changed her mind and determined
to do so. For she knew that Tom Hawkey would certainly
be there to help with the boys' games, and it was probable
enough that Wesley Bake, with his nieces and their mother,
would also join the festivity. For pleasure she would not
have gone so soon after her father's death; indeed, a
children's school treat offered little hope of entertainment for
Edith at any time; but now she determined to go, and, when
the day came, she and her brothers joined the holidaj^-making
crowd of happy children.

In four big brakes the United Methodists set forth for
Trebarwith Sand, and Aunt Mercy, aware of what was re-
quired of her, had made full preparations and engaged half
a dozen energetic maidens to assist her through the arduous
duties of the occasion.

Benny Moyse sat with his concertina beside the driver of
one brake, while a rock -man from the quarries, called
Nicholas Stanlake, who played the cornet, made melody on
another. A hundred children came to the treat, and some
carried little flags and all were dressed in their finery.

As Edith expected, Wesley Bake, with Susan and her chil-
dren, was of the party, while among others to attend appeared
Jack Keat and Noah Tonkin from the quarry. Pooley
Retallack accompanied his own Bible class of boys, and
in the same brake with him, rode Tom Hawkey and the school-
master. Edith sat with her brother Ned and Philippa Sleep.
The latter watched with interest to see Wesley Bake and his
party in the next brake. She had, of course, taken Ned's
view of the situation. He and she were to be married during
the coming autumn, and his mother was going to live with
them — a plan little liked by Philippa. Indeed, she hoped
very heartily that, before the event, circumstances might
conspire to change it.

" Look at schoolmistress !" whispered Philippa to Ned.
" She's fraped herself in like a wasp. Poor little Betty Bake !
— I'm sorry for her."

278 OLD DELABOLE

" By gollies ! so am I," said Ned.

For by unhappy chance Betty's special aversion was in the
same brake with her and her family. Indeed, Miss Male sat
exactly opposite Susan Bake's younger daughter, and being in
holiday mood, complimented Betty on her frock and engaged
Wesley in light conversation.

The concertina gurgled, the cornet blared, and the brakes
rattled down the green coomb to Trebarwith. Then came the
business of pleasure, and the children scattered to play until tea
was ready for them. Like bright birds they flew about the
rocks and sands. By good chance the sea was still, and a boat
or two put out full of little passengers. Others hunted the
cliflfs for wild-flowers and made bouquets of blossoms and sea-
gulls' feathers. Some of the boys went bathing, with a man
or two to watch them ; some played cricket on the hard sand ;
the infants sat and grubbed in little galaxies.

Edith took her part and watched Wesley and Hawkey with
the boys. She noted that they were quite friendly. Ned
played cricket too, and Philippa looked on. Miss Male con-
ducted a class on the cliffs and explained the mysteries of calyx
and corolla to certain sycophantic young people who accom-
panied her. Of this company was Mary Bake, but unwilling
Betty lagged behind and presently made a botanical experi-
ment on her own account.

A bitter wail brought her sister running back to her, and she
found that Betty had fallen into a cluster of rampant nettles.
Mary hastened to find dock-leaves and soon did so.

" There, rub it — rub it — rub your face and your hands and
say, ' In dock, out nettle !' " cried Mary; but her sister refused
the palliative. She danced with anger and pain.

" Beasts ! Beasts !" she cried. " They shall pay for it —
I'll kill 'em — every one of 'em !"

With tears streaming Betty hunted for a stick, found one,
and then fell upon the nettles hip and thigh.

" Are you sorry for me ? Are you sorry for me ? " she asked
Mary.

" Yes — cruel sorry for 'e," declared Mary. " But give over
and take these here leaves. Your face is a sight."

" I'll go on till I've killed every one of them," cried Betty.
" And 'tis all that Miss Male's fault. Why for did she want
to come in our brake ? And I'll beat the nettles till tea-

THE SCHOOL TREAT 279

time; and if there's no scald-cream I won't have no tea
either."

" Of com'se there'll be scald-cream. You can't have a
school treat without it."

Then Edith Retallack walked that way and came upon
the children.

They gazed at her doubtfully, like young rabbits surprised ;
but she had no quarrel with them, and her face told them
that she was friendly.

" If you f>lease, Aunt Edith, Betty has stung herself all
over with nettles, and she's in a fearful tantara," said Mary.

" Poor Betty ! Get a dock-leaf, quick !"

" I've got a score, but she won't touch 'em."

" Come here and I'll do you good," said Edith.

" I'm beating the beastly nettles to death," sobbed Betty.
Then she stopped and came over to Edith.

" Be you sorry for me ?" she asked.

" Of course I am. Sit down here and get cool, and I'll
rub your face with docks."

Betty gave a great sigh and obeyed.

" 'Tis all along of seeing one maggoty pie* this morning,"
she declared. " You never have no more luck that day if
you see one. I knew it was all over when schoolmistress got
in our brake."

" Come down to the beach and find mermaids' purses,"
suggested Mary when her sister had calmed down; but Betty
declined.

" I know they mermaids' purses," she said. " They've
never got any money in 'em. And everything's horrid; and
now you ain't going to marry Uncle Wesley he never looks
at us, nor tells us a tale, nor takes us in the mill or anything.
And Aunt Julitta's going to have a baby, and then she'll never
be friends with me no more."

" Oh yes, she will," promised Edith. " She's very fond of
you, Betty."

" You can't be fond of two people," answered Betty;
" and she'll go daft over her baby, and I hope it will die."

" Oh, Betty, how can you 1" cried Mary. Then she turned
to Edith, whose gentle attitude made her feel brave.

" Be it out of all bounds you can forgive Uncle Wesley ?"

* Maggoty pie — magpie.

280 OLD DELABOLE

she asked. " He's terrible put about, Aunt Edith. I'm sure
he'd do anything to pleasure you if he could."

" He seemed to be very happy playing cricket, Mary."

" 'Tis all put on. Aunt Edith, so as the people shouldn't
know what a state he's in. Me and Betty have watched him
sometimes in secret, and he ain't happy when nobody's
looking at him. I promise you."

" It's not a thing for little girls to understand," answered
Edith. " Now it's getting on to tea-time. Let's walk slowly
back."

She rather wanted Susan Bake and Wesley to see her with
the children, that they might understand no small feelings
moved her against her old sweetheart's race.

" I don't want no tea," declared Betty, " I want to be all
alone by myself in some horny -winky, lonesome place."

" Nonsense ! The thing is to forget the stings, and then
they'll forget you."

" You've given it to 'em proper, I'm sure," added Mary,
regarding the desolated nettle-bed.

They returned, and presently the feast began, and the long
tables, set out of doors about the cottage of Aunt Mercy,
were soon occupied.

The children sang a grace and then fell to. For three parts
of an hour they ate and drank; then returned to their games.
It was after the meal that Edith found herself beside Tom
Hawkey, and asked him if he would walk with her. He was
surprised, and agreed to do so.

" Let me get the cricket going again, and then I'll come,"
he said. " They'll have to stop soon for the tide."

She pointed the way and left him, and in twenty minutes
he followed her. They sat presently on a stone perched up
upon the side of the coomb. The spot was conspicuous, and
many marked them together and drew conclusions. None
suffered more than Wesley Bake, who stuck to the boys and
played like a Spartan with his heart hid.

" We're old friends, Tom," began Edith when he reached
her, " and you mustn't let any fancied reason make you
forget j^our friendship now, when most I want it."

" That's little likely."

" You know what's happened ?"

He nodded.

THE SCHOOL TREAT 281

" But all the ins and outs you don't know, and you won't
hear. You refuse to discuss the subject."

"It's wisest, Edith. A thing like that — so private and
intimate and — sacred, j^ou may say. The less outsiders
think or talk, the better."

" Perhaps. You're the last to think or say anything to
hurt anybody. But your good opinion means something to
me — more than you know. I want you to understand what
has happened and why it has happened."
"Must I ?"

" Not if it bores you, of course. You have plenty to think
upon, no doubt. But — but — oh, Tom, you can't help hearing
about this, and you can't help thinking a little about it for
old time's sake. You were so good, and it hurts me among
all the other hurts — it hurts me to know you don't know, and
don't care."

" It's because I care I didn't want to know," he answered.
" Of course I care. Your good means a great deal to me,

and "

" Then listen," she said. " If you can still feel you want
me to be a happy woman, listen. Because till you know and
till you can say I'm right and fully justified in doing what I
have done, I shan't be a happy woman. I put your opinion
as high as ever I did, and I don't care a button about any
other, and that's the truth. You mustn't think that's strange :
it's natural. Anybody in Delabole would feel the same.
It's just your unconscious power. At any rate, I ask you to
hear me, as a friend. I don't want advice, or anything. I
only want you to say that I am fully exonerated in your
mind."

" You're little likely to have made a mistake," he ad-
mitted. " You were always the soul of justice, Edith."

" But justice in the abstract is nothing. It's when
we're called to do justice that difficulties begin. We never
know what will happen when we are called to do justice,
especially if we're involved — vitally involved ourselves
I thought Wesley Bake was the soul of justice — so did

you— so did everybody. Yet May I tell you about

it ? Don't refuse to hear, Tom, for I'm a very unhaj)py
woman, and it will be the last straw if you won't try to
help me."

282 OLD DELABOLE

He did not answer at once. She appeared to be speaking
from motives of mere egotism and for her soul's peace. He
imagined that nothing beyond the support of his opinion was
in her mind, and Edith would have told herself the same if
she had for an instant considered the thing she was about to
do. But whether in honesty she could now have believed her-
self is doubtful. She did not stop to consider of what subtle
strands her purpose was woven. But hidden from her own
heart were new ideas inspired by his near presence — ideas she
would not care to have faced. She was back again where she
had stood a year ago : between two men.

For his part Hawkey would willingly have persisted in his
former attitude, and declined to hear more of the matter from
Edith, as he had declined to hear it from all others; but in
face of her direct appeal it was difficult longer to refuse.
Moreover, he began to see there was no reason why he should
do so. He felt that to hesitate meant weakness in himself
and unkindness to her. The dissension had mystified him
utterly, because he was aware of the standards of both parties,
and could not imagine any such cleavage on a question of
right and Avrong between two just persons. At length he
answered.

" It's enough if you want to know what I think, Edith.
There's no reason why you shouldn't. If it was any man

alive but Bake I'd However, go ahead. That'll come

after."

Then, on the impulse of his own hungry heart, he added:

" It would be strange if you and I didn't think alike."

She flushed a little with pleasure, but he was sorry he had
given her cause to do so. He found himself agitated by
her. There was an aura about her that made him almost
forget to breathe. He turned a little aside and looked at
the sea.

" Go ahead, then."

She began slowly and carefully. She weighed her words,
and was scrupulously exact. With meticulous precision she
imfolded the story, and her narration was premeditated, for
she had rehearsed it many times. But, as the tale advanced,
Edith herself crept in, and her heart beat high and her colour
rose to the old anger. Passion tinctured her words. She

THE SCHOOL TREAT 283

stopped once to wipe away some tears. But Hawkey made
no comment when she broke off. He merely waited for her
to go on. After her crescendo of emotion Edith grew cool
again. She summed up upon the circumstances, declared
how she found it utterly impossible to see that her lover
could be right from any point of view, and felt that, for her
mother's honour, and, indeed, for her father's also, she found
it impossible to keep her engagement.

Her story rang true to the listener. Even her anger struck
a righteous note. Every instinct of his own desires urged
him to believe and acclaim and sympathize, to applaud her
conduct as seemly and worthy of her. And just because this
was so, and the man felt that the accident of justice might
presently bring the woman into his arms, he fought himself
desperately and fell back upon the reserves of his own nature.
When, therefore, she made an end and lifted her beautiful
eyes to his face, he restrained himself, and while he longed to
praise the splendour of her decision, declare that she had
done well and fill her sad heart with a ray of content, instead
he disappointed her harshly, exhibited a balance and imparti-
ality that he was far from feeling, and chilled his own heart
as well as hers. Her face asked for bread and he gave her a
stone. He felt at that moment his own fate might hang upon
his answer. He knew that a gesture would have sufficed her
without a word, but he uttered a platitude. For her long
narrative and for the dumb question in her eyes that finished
it, he answered that he felt deeply interested, and that one
story was only good till another was told. He hastened to
modify the statement ; but the ointment of explanation could
not allay the pain of the blow. She changed and rose. She
appeared almost frightened. There came a wistful look into
her face that he had never seen before. It hurt him terribly,
for he felt as though he had deliberately injured some crea-
ture not strong enough to defend itself.

She did not answer his remark, but showed her astonish-
ment and pain.

" It's a figure of speech, Edith. Naturally, you feel it a
poor compliment after all you've said to me, and, God knows,
I'm little likely to hear any story that will make yours look
less than it does at this moment."

284 OLD DELABOLE

" There was a time when you'd never have wanted to hear
any side but mine, or feel with any other heart but mine, or
see with any other eyes but mine," she said.

" That's as true to-day as yesterday, or a year ago. There's
many things I want. Not so many, neither; but one. For-
give me. Trust me. You came to me for trust. And I'll
not abuse that trust. You seek to know what I think,
Edith."

" I seek to know what you feel, Tom."

" You know what I feel well enough. And you shall hear
what I think, too, before very long. I'm proud that you
cared for what I thought. Nothing could have made me feel
so proud as that. And I'll do you the honour to think of it
as I never yet thought of anything — with my heart and my
brain and my living soul, Edith."

"It's not worth all that. I don't want to waste your
time over my affairs."

" My time should be yours and my eternity," he said,
" if There, leave it. Trust me."

" You're not ashamed of me coming with my cares to
you ?"

"I'm proud, I tell you — mortal proud — too proud almost
for a man to be — that you could ask me."

She felt comforted now.

" Don't keep me long in doubt, then."

" Be sure I shan't."

"It's natural, in a way, that I should like to know you are
on my side."

" It's certain as my life that I want to be — hunger
to be."

" And yet my word's only good till — no, I won't go back
to that. It hurt, and it was unreasonable for a woman like
me to let it hurt. It oughtn't to have hurt."

" It was the blunt way I put it."

" Come down now," she said. " Whatever will they
say ?"

They returned to the shore and separated.

Then, when twilight came and the sun burned over the
west and sank splendidly into the sea, the holiday party
started homeward.

THE SCHOOL TREAT 285

But two men with full hearts, their duty to the children
done, chose rather to walk back alone by the cliffs.

Only chance prevented Wesley Bake and Tom Hawkey
from meeting at once, for they pursued the same path;
but the miller started first, and was half a mile ahead
before Hawkey set out. Had Tom recognized the figure
visible in the gathering dusk ahead, he might have joined
him.

CHAPTER XXXIV

THE OLD ORDER CHANGES

Under a precipice beneath a beetling crag, upon whose
flat summit stood the garden of the Retallacks' dwelling,
there began to yawn the mouth of a tunnel. Above it the
rocks were curiously streaked with perpendicular scratches,
which showed where vanished generations of rock-men
had driven their blasting-holes. Beneath this excavation
a new tramway extended. The tunnel already ran fifteen
feet into the clifi. A ceiling of hard slate supported the
opening — a shelf smooth and flawless; solid pillars stood to
right and left, while the floor of the tunnel was another
stratum of slate.

Hawkej', in the cave-mouth, spoke with Jack Keat and
other men. Some of them viewed the hole with uneasiness.

'^* You want no astills* here," explained the manager.
" The slate's a better ceiling than timber."

" 'Tis an unkid sort of place to find in a quarry, and there'll
be no daylight come they go fifty feet," said a man.

" There'll be electric light by that time."

The chamber was square rather than round, for the slate
now being blasted therefrom came out in solid cubes, and left
the tunnel of regular form. The trend of the slate ran in a
steady slope from east to west, and the purpose of the great
experiment was to drive a tunnel and then branch it, and follow
the slate if it should prove worthy of following. None as yet
could tell that, but the promise appeared reasonable; the
bed now being broken out was very hard, and quartz veins
spoiled it; but good live stone might lie behind, and a chance
of increased prosperity lurked within. For those who are
raised above absolute daily care, chance of sudden success and
betterment is the salt to the dish of life; while the element

* Astills — a ceiling of boards in a mine.
286

THE OLD ORDER CHANGES 287

of chance is not salt, but poison, to many who live upon
chance, and would thankfully exchange doubt for cer-
tainty. Yet even among such as are suddenty lifted to
security, you shall meet not a few who miss the battle and find
the fight with the storm was better than the peace of the
haven. And that order of spirit must suffer when Socialism
spreads its procrustean bed for all to toss upon.

High up in the square hole, their perches reached by a
steel rope, two men were working, and now Hawkey made the
ascent and joined them. A pijje wound like a serpent into
the opening and brought compressed air, which set a steel
drill hissing in the slate. Ned Retallack and his mate bored
holes, now ahead of them, now to the right, and now to the
left. They were using gunpowder. For some days they
had fought with a curtain of quartz, hard as flint, but they
were through it; a rent was made, and the quartz had been
cut out" so that only the ragged white fringe of it hung over
their heads across the slate ceiling. Beyond was slate again,
broken by glittering veins of useless ore.

Hawkey shook his head when the workers showed him
samples of the silver-lead; nor did he smile at blocks of slate
the last blast had loosened. It was disappointing, and the
desired improvement could not be reported. But they had
only just begun, and he expected nothing yet. Nature so
greatly assisted them in her rock formations that the work
was not costly. But the stone had to be removed. It was
the eternal business of driving rubbish that ate up money
and increased the enormous burrow-mounds with their foot-
hills in the meadows half a mile away. Trolleys ran along
the tram-lines, and a lofty trident straddled its legs over
them. With chains the masses of useless stone were lifted
by it, and then lowered into the trucks, and dragged away
by the quarry horse. He had his own travelling-box, and
came and went from the pit like the men.

From the new hole the works gleamed like a picture set in
a black frame. Activit}- marked all sections ; there was move-
ment ever}' where, and the steel gossamers from the pappot-
head now ran elsewhere than to the hidden " Grey Abbey "
seam. Already the enormous moraine had been attacked,
and was being reduced at the rate of a hundred tons a day. A
month's work represented a mere scratch at its base. At one

288 OLD DELABOLE

point, however, good stone had been found high on the mass
of the avalanche, and preparations were being made to
approach it. It peeped out like a hopeful blue eye in the
midst of the mountain of fallen over-burden.

Men also swarmed on the ' Wesley Hole ' seam, and in the
heart of the quarry another gang laboured where paying
slate was known to lie. To a point on the dizzy wires above
them descended the trolleys. Then they loosened a catch,
and fell perpendicularly, as spiders from their webs, into the
quarry bottom. Anon they climbed aloft once more, regained
their aerial tramway, and floated upward like brown birds
to the heights above.

Ned and his fellow-worker had bored their holes, and now
they poured coarse black gunpowder into them. They charged
them and set the time fuses, then climbed down the steel
rope and ran clear. A steam whistle from a crane cried that
the blasting-time had come, and a dozen charges in different
parts of the quarry were simultaneously ignited. The
workers went to cover, and in two minutes a succession of
explosions rang round the quarries, and puffs of heavy white
smoke ascended from cavities and ledges. Here and there no
visible effect followed, but elsewhere in some steej) place a
charge broke away tons of stone, and sent them leaping
with increasing speed to the floors beneath. Then, after the
great cup had flung the riot back and forth a while, and every
echo had sunk to a whisper and so ceased, the men reappeared,
returned to their work, and began the business of " breaking
out " the dislocated slate. Often, in order to shake clear
some huge fragment, half a dozen rock-men would heave on
their irons together, and apply simultaneous force, as sailors
upon a rope. Then rose the quarryman's immemorial cry,
lifted by the leader of the gang: " Hip ! Hip ! Hoy ! Hip !
Hip ! Hoy !" — three musical notes, of which the first and
second were short and sharp, the third long-drawn-out and
loud.

From the tunnel a dense volume of smoke bellowed, for
three charges had exploded there ; and soon Ned and his mate
climbed back, to find useful havoc wrought.

They and the majority of the younger men favoured
innovation, and argued great hope that tunnelling would
increase the output of the works; their elders doubted, and

THE OLD ORDER CHANGES 289

professed no sanguine anticij)ation. They declared that with
an}* other manager they would rather have sought new open-
air quarries, than assist at an experiment their judgment dis-
approved. As for the old men, they cried out openly, and
held the attempt not only vain, but impious. It was not for
them to dictate to their Maker, and seek other paths than
those along which He had successfully led their forefathers.
They adopted an attitude common a hundred years ago, when
the new roads created by the genius of Macadam horrified
England, and the clergy preached from their pulpits against
the iniquity of such a change. Some of the ancient quarry-
men frankly desired poor speed for the tunnelling, and Moses
Bunt, who never lacked the courage of his reactionary opinions,
openly wished for failure. He, too, had steadfastly opposed
the installation of the electric light that was to brighten the
next winter darkness of Delabole.

" Who the mischief wants to see by night if he ain't an
owl ?" asked Moses. " The night be the time for darkness
and resting the eyes, and the God that made it will strike
the next generation with blindness, so like as not, for trying
to turn night to day. I would if I was Him."

Tom Hawkey lived as much for himself as for the quarries
at this season. While he exerted all energy and powers of
persuasion to wdn enthusiasm for the changes and excite all
to work for them in a sanguine spirit, his own affairs served
to banish sleep from his couch and hunger from his board.
A thousand times he weighed the significance of the scene
with Edith ; a thousand times he assured himself that such a
woman could hardly err in so grave a matter. She was
impetuous, but she was very just. So, at least, he had always
found her. He longed to take his stand by her side once for
all, and proclaim himself as her supporter. The temptation
to do so was very great, for, modest though he might be, he
had keen powers of observation, and he guessed by her bearing
on the occasion of the school treat that he might win her
after he had exonerated her action and approved it. He
knew that his judgment carried weight in Delabole, and he
guessed that as soon as it was found he stood for the Retal-
lacks many would go over to their side, content that he — a
man who always weighed his opinions — pronounced them in
the right. But self-interest, though it had never striven with

19

290 OLD DELABOLE

him as now it did, was long atrophied by his manner of life
and his own nature. He was a generous man with a bent of
mind too impartial to be deceived in this great crisis, for his
sight remained clear, and his personal desires could not blind
it. To say that Edith was right meant much more than the
assertion. It implied that Wesley Bake was wrong, that
Poolej^ Retallack was wrong, that not a few other responsible
people were wrong. To proclaim them wrong without satis-
fying himself was impossible for Hawkey. That Edith should
be mistaken seemed also impossible; but the very fact that
his conclusion might be vital to himself made him morbid
about it. He wasted nightly hours in examining the problem
from a thousand points of view. Sometimes he satisfied him-
self that Edith could not be mistaken, since her decision was
built on facts; sometimes, allowing all force to the conclusions
of the other side, he told himself that, in the sequel, he might
come to her and assure her it was impossible for a man with
his order of mind to decide between her and Wesle}^ Bake.
He regarded this as the worst that could happen. He con-
sidered Bake, and, without belittling him, reminded himself
that the miller was one of average ability and might possess a
certain, common obstinacy to cling to his opinions, once formed,
in face of reasonable arguments. This was an everyday human
failing. He did not doubt Bake's motives, but tried to believe
that the question had shifted, and become, for Wesley, tinged
with personal feeling before Edith's resolute stand. He
dwelt on this, and comforted himself with the idea that Bake
had suffered passion to rouse a foolish obstinacy in him;
that now, rather than admit himself mistaken, he had wrecked
his own hopes of happiness. It was certain that Bake Avould
never have proved an ideal husband for Edith Retallack if he
could act so.

Thus far he went, weakened by a calenture of love. He
was not at his best to withstand the shock. Events had
sapped his resources and overtaxed him. His life's work,
into which for many months were poured every ounce of his
physical strength and wits, had left him now weary and weaker
than he knew. Upon this condition suddenlj^ opened the
prospect of a precious, personal triumph that he had believed
was lost for ever, and all ways of thought that led towards
that triumph were welcome.

THE OLD ORDER CHANGES 291

But his disciplined mind (grounded in those grey principles
of renunciation proper to his religious creed, stablished on
inherent mental characteristics for which, indeed, his beliefs
were not responsible, but which chimed with them) could
not thus be satisfied. He had not only to reckon with others,
but himself, and he knew, when each morning broke, that
many of the ideas woven in darkness would not endure.
But that supreme selfishness and resolute battle for one's
own self-expression and welfare may be justified, he was able
to see, and he told himself that, under certain conditions, he
would have thrown in his vote for Edith without troubling
to examine the opposition's claims. Had Bake been a worth-
less man — had his record been light or doubtful But

when he began to think seriously of Bake, his first theories
concerning the miller vanished. He now judged him by him-
self, and began to measure the size of the obstacle that must
have made Wesley stick to his own determination at any
cost rather than agree with Edith. Hawkey asked himself
whether he could have resigned Edith on such a cause of
quarrel, supposing that he had won her. Then he began to
feel respect for Wesley Bake. Wrong though the miller might
be, it was very certain that nothing but mighty convictions
and a sure sense that he was not wrong would have made him
pay this price. Such a man could not be put aside without
sufficient reason; and while from a personal standpoint more
than sufficient reason existed to ignore Bake, no reason could
justify such a course for Hawkey. To decide against the
man without hearing him was impossible, and, looking back
from this conclusion to his previous deliberations, Tom felt
ashamed that he had ever entertained the possibility of so
doing. His life, for good or ill, must stand on sure founda-
tions, and the justice of his conclusions be open to public
examination.

He sought Wesley, therefore; and not only him he sought.
He went to the lawyers first, and gathered their opinion.
They knew the manager, and were glad to oblige him. Their
view was absolutely impartial. They held that the Trustee
stood free to take either course. None could quarrel with
his decision or control it. He was at liberty to deny the
claim of Jane Lobb or to satisfy it. Personally, the solicitors
of Retallack's will gave it as their opinion that they should

292 OLD DELABOLE

not have acted as Bake had now acted. Had they been
empowered to administer, they would have divided the
money and given each claimant half of it. But, while stating
their view, they desired to make it clear they did not for an
instant reflect on Wesley's action, or suggest that he had
taken a course imperfectly justified. That it was impossible
to impugn Bake's motives Hawkey of course perceived for
himself. He determined, therefore, to see Bake and risk a
snub.

The miller might tell him to mind his own business,
but Hawkey hoped that he would rather meet him in a
friendly spirit. For he designed to be frank with Wesley,
and explain that he had heard Edith's side, as a friend of long
standing, that Edith much desired to know his personal view,
and that, though he had not willingly entered into the discus-
sion, now that he was in it, he could proceed no further
towards a conclusion without hearing the other side. Some
men might have felt the need to warn Wesley before such
an interview that they were, if anything, influenced against
him for private reasons, and that their own affairs intruding
were likely to prejudice them, if only subconsciously, against
his arguments; biit Hawkey felt no need to do this. Had he
suspected such a danger, he might have declared it. But for
him the danger did not exist. Far more likely was he to err
in an opposite direction, and, knowing what lived in his heart,
discount too severely his own emotion and desire. For there
is a nobility of mind that handicaps a man out of life's race
altogether — a grandeur that denies even the splendours of
saintship or martyrdom ; and if the Omnipotent Justice of our
dreams should ever open for us the heaven of our hopes,
therein many a nameless and forgotten man and woman
would be found unwillingly enthroned above the salt of the
earth.

There came a day when Hawkey asked Edith to make
holiday with him.

" You love to be in sight of the sea," he said. " I'll bring
food and drink for you, and we'll go to King Arthur's Castle
and have a proper talk."

" You've seen Wesley ?"

" I have."

" And your mind's made up ?"

THE OLD ORDER CHANGES 293

" Will you come and hear ?"

She hesitated, looked into his eyes, and thought she read
them,

" A place where great people lived and suffered long ago,
so why shouldn't little people take themselves and their
affairs to it ?" he asked.

" I like the castle," she answered. " I go there oftener
than anybody guesses."

" On Saturday, then. We'll meet at the stile above
Treholme Farm. You know. If fine, of course."

She promised, and hid her interest, seeing that he concealed
his.

A slight sense of Jubilation stole upon Edith after that
brief interview; but it subsided swiftly, and she found that
it left her sadder than she had ever been before. It was not
of Hawkey that she thought now — there would be plenty of
time for that — but her mind was occupied with the miller, and
she mourned him as one already dead.

CHAPTER XXXV

FELLOW-TRAVELLERS PASS BY

Grandfather Nute found that a lifetime of self-restraint
and simple living now stood him in good stead, and he faced his
change of environment with a nerve that many men of fifty
might have envied.

Indeed his approaching marriage heightened his energies,
increased an unfailing sense of humour, which even his reli-
gious convictions had never diminished, and mellowed his
philosophy.

He walked now with Ned Retallack to drink a glass at the
' One and All.' They had been packing through the day, for
Ned's new home was prepared to welcome his mother. She
would come to keep house for him until he wedded in six
months' time, and Grandfather had already left Quarry
Cottage. His nuptials were to be celebrated in a month and,
for the moment, he occupied a room at the ' One and All ' and
took his meals with Richard Male, the landlord. Pooley had
gone to Noah Tonkin's. His wages had been raised; he had
won the friendship of Tom Hawkey and believed the goal of
his hope and ambition would, in the good time of Providence,
be reached. He was content therefore, did the work to his
hand and prayed daily for one blessing : that he might be re-
conciled with his mother. As for Anna, she found the emo-
tions of leaving her home and losing her family more poignant
day by day. Hourly she declared the situation to be harder
than she could bear; but she bore it, and the people consoled
her with the reflection that never had a woman been
called to endure so much, or answered so bravely to the
call. Edith was going to Julitta, whose child would soon be
born.

" The first and greatest thing for us human creatures is to
keep our self-respect," said Grandfather Nute to Ned. " And
I make it a proud boast that all of us — everyone with my

294

FELLOW-TRAVELLERS PASS BY 295

blood in their veins — has clone so through this great upheaval.
Many migiit have lost their self-command and run about and
been very undignified. You'll find that only human beings
can lose their self-respect, Ned. Natural creatures, without
the inner light, never lose it. And how much the more ought
we with souls to keep it ?"

" The creatures don't know they're born," answered Ned.
" So they can't lose what they haven't got. Look at them
bullocks in the field. Not one of 'em knows he's a bullock."

" True, and well put," admitted Grandfather. " I dare say
if they did know, they'd die of shame. Take the starlings hop-
ping round 'em. 'Tis the same there ; not one of 'em knows he's
a starling, and so they go on their way and ain't cast down."

" What do they think they are ?" asked Ned.

" We can't tell that. They maj^ not even know they're
birds — si;ch is their ignorance. We can't get into their minds
— though no doubt they've got minds. For bullock knows
bullock and starling knows starling; so they must have some
idea of what they are and all agree about it."

" They might very like have wrong opinions — such poor
creatures as them," said Ned.

" That's only to say they're mortal," answered Mr. Nute.
" If they never made a mistake, then they're better than us,
which they are not."

" I dare say they think themselves a lot more important
than they really are, grandfather."

" And not the only ones if they do, Ned. But they can
teach if they can't learn, and we may pick up wisdom from
them, and get a jar to our self-conceit also sometimes. We
say, in our pitying way, that there's no security in nature, and
the creatures live from hand to mouth and can't count on no
support when they get up too old to work for their living ; but
do we help to give 'em security ? Far from it."

Moses Bunt met them and proceeded with them

" Good-evening, Moses," said Grandfather. " I was just say-
ing that 'tis a reflection on man in the lump that his fellow-
creatures — birds, beasts, and so on — don't trust him. The
moment they know a bit about his ways, they trust him
no more. And now it has got to be a regular instinct in 'em,
and a young rabbit is just as timid and doubtful of us as aa
old one."

296 OLD DELABOLE

" Why should they trust men ?" asked :Mr. Bunt. " Why
should they want to breathe the same ak with men ? They're
right, for his good is their evil most times, and even them we
treat well we nourish for food, not love. I trusted men once;
but that's a damned long time ago. Not for fifty years have
I trusted the creature — know too much about him."

" You trust Benny Moyse," said Ned.

" No more. I did, but not now. He's like the rest — kept
away from me when I was ill and then came along with his
concertina and pretended he'd only just heard of it. ' You're
a liar, Benny,' I said. ' You knew it well enough and you
kept away because you're so base as the rest, and thought I
was going to die and so not worth bothering about. And now
you may go to the devil,' I said to the man, ' for I'll not neigh-
bour with you no more — not another drink will you get out of
me !' His jaw dropped and he tucked his instrument under
his arm and he went. That's my last so-called friend gone —
good riddance too."

" 'Tis very unseemly to be a friendless man — especially when
the fault's all your own," declared Grandfather. "I'm sorry
to say so, Moses, but you're no credit to human nature."

" Don't want to be," retorted Mr. Bunt. "I see through
human nature and despise it, James. 'Tis built on humbug
and lies — all lies. We be all stuck together with lies to make
a village, like bricks be stuck together with mortar to make a
house. And him who tells naked, fearless truth and shames
the devil same as I do — he's out in the cold; and even a fairly
sensible old man like you can say he's no credit to human
nature !"

" You ought to get up to chapel and have a go at 'em, like
my brother, Pooley," said young Retallack. " Come in the
keel-alley and have a game, Moses."

They had reached the inn.

At the bar stood Noah Tonkin, Antipas Keat, who was on
his legs again, and John Sleep from the newspaper-shop.

They were talking of food.

" Us was just saying what we best liked to eat," said Tonkin,
" and it shows how true it is that one man's meat is another
man's poison. A greedy subject, but taste was put in us for
a purpose."

" We can't live without victuals," said Grandfather, " and

FELLOW-TRAVELLEES PASS BY 297

'twould be false to pretend that they are all one to us. We
have our likes and dislikes."

]Mr. Male spoke from behind the bar.

" Give me a breast of veal and green sauce — so much as I can
gather in — and a pint of black-wine-toddy to wash it down.
I don't want to sleep on nothing better than that," he said.

" A meal for heroes, no doubt," declared Tonkin.

" Yes, but not for us middle-aged ones," argued Antipas
Keat. " I like a marinaded pilchard to my supper and a
glass of eggy hot along wdth it. If I was to take in a lot of
butcher's meat of a night, I should get no ideas, but a
nightmare instead."

" You gather your ideas of a night, I dare say," said Grand-
father Nute civilly. Mr. Keat had expressed regret at a scene
in the past and the old man had blamed himself and forgiven
the inventor.

" They flash to me by night," admitted Antipas. " They
come as unexpected as a thunderbolt. Sometimes they'll rise
above a train of deep and solid thought, like the gold weather-
cock on a church steeple, and put the finishing touch; but
oftener, they just flash like lightning."

" And Avhat do you do then ?" asked Tonkin.

" I light the candle and reach for my notebook and pencil,
and scratch it down, so as it shan't be lost."

" And what do your wife do about it ?" inquired Moses
Bunt.

" She's used to it."

" And what do your great ideas look like by daylight,
Antipas ?" asked Grandfather.

" Unequal," admitted the baker. " I grant that. Some-
times the waking mind shows they're no use, or call for too
many other inventions to back 'em ; or they may be too large
and expensive to work out."

" And when do you get at your house again ?"

" So soon as I can stand to it. I've promised my missis
that we eat our Christmas dinner there."

" Be you going to tackle the slates single-handed, if it's
not a rude question, Antipas ?" asked Grandfather Nute
mildly.

" I may and I may not," answered Mr. Keat evasively.

" Nobody doubts you could; a mechanical thing like that

298 OLD DELABOLE

is child's play to you," continued Grandfather. " But the
question for your mind should be, knowing your great powers
and usefulness, whether the gift of your time oughtn't to
be put to higher things."

Antipas declared the same idea had occurred to him.

" What do you say, Moses ?" asked Tonkin; and the cynic
took his nose out of his mug.

" Some fool have got to put on the slates," he said, " and
if Keat wants to be the fool, let him. A proper slater would
get through the job without falling on his head and breaking
his neck, and very like Antipas won't — that's all the
difference."

The talk Avandered and broke up. Ned and another lad
went out together ; Grandfather talked to John Sleep about
family affairs. They spoke of the Nanjulians, and in a lull
the rest heard them.

" She's cheeldin'," said Mr. Nute, " and the trouble's begun.
'Tis to be a seven months' child. I'm rather sorry for that,
because, though sometimes a seventh month's child turns out
a fair wonder, and leaves the world better than he found it,
more often they are poor, chitter-faced, useless antics, and
squinny -eyed as like as not."

" She must hope for the best," answered Noah Tonkin.
Then Bunt spoke. He had become animated, and his little
eyes flashed.

" Don't you worry, James. There's nothing to fret about
on that score. Your granddaughter's babe will be a nine
months' child all right. I didn't see 'em mooning about in
Lanteglos churchyard last fall for nothing. And Billy Jose,
the sexton, will bear me out."

They protested very heartily, and Male spoke. He seldom
permitted himself to be angry with a customer, but now he
scorned prudence.

" You hateful old canker !" he said. " I don't even like
to think my mugs have been between your lips. For back-
biting, lying, and slandering, your equal don't live. And I
wish you'd take yourself and your evil thoughts out of my
bar, and never come back no more."

" There !" cried Moses. " What did I tell you a minute
agone. Grandfather ? Truth makes the people hiss like a
frighted goose."

FELLOW-TRAVELLERS PASS BY 299

" It isn't truth, you bitter-weed," answered Mr. Nute.
" You're always grovelling and grubbing in the cesspits of
your own heart, and crying out that what you find there is
truth. You can't reach the truth if your mind is poisoned
and you come to your fellow-creatures with hate instead of
love. You're a bad old man. Bunt, and you ought to look
to yourself before it's too late, and ask the Almighty to
send His angels with a besom to scour your soul, for it
wants it."

" Baa ! Baa !" answered Mr. Bunt. " A lot of silly sheep,
that's what you be; and the soul of a man that's going to
marry at seventy -three to 'scape the workhouse be just as
much in need of a besom as mine. And as for you, Richa»d
Male, I'll come in your drinking-shop and use your mugs and
let down your beer just when I choose and so often as I choose,
and woe betide you if you refuse to serve me !"

He then permitted himself a very vulgar gesture, designed
to pour insult on the whole company, spat at Grandfather's
feet, and withdrew.

Tonkin alone could speak. The others were dumb with
indignation.

" Crossed in love, I reckon," he said dryly.

The idea restored them, and Mr. Nute was the first to
laugh.

" There's nobody like you for a good joke, when the subject
flushes it," he said. " If you can knock a laugh out of a
trouble, so often as not you'll draw its sting at the same time.
Life without a sense for the funny side be a salad without
oil. The only way with such a man as Bunt is to laugh at
him, or pray for him. In fact there's no reason why you
shouldn't do both."

" I've thought sometimes," answered Tonkin, " that to
pray for a man — in public, I mean — might often be the saving of
him. If he does ^vrong, we hale him up before justice, and
so why shouldn't we hale him up before his Maker ? It would
often be a fair eye-opener for a sinner if he found his fellow-
creatures knew all about it, and he suddenly heard his name
called out in church, with the hope that God would soften his
heart, or mend his wits, as the case might be."

" A very kicklish experiment," said Grandfather, "and it
would all depend on the character of the erring man. ' Man/

300 OLD DELABOLE

I say; but it might be a woman, for what's sauce for the goose
is sauce for the gander, Noah Tonkin; and when you say
' woman,' you're up against a difficulty in a moment."

" Why ?" asked the innkeeper. " They're ^vrong so often
as men."

" You ask ' why,' Richard. And the answer is custom
and tradition, and feeling and respect for the weaker
vessel. 'Tis only females themselves can kill that feeling;
and not even them, I should hope, for it runs through
nature down to the fishes. And to hear a woman named in
a church congregation, and herself among 'em ! Think of
the hysterics, if no worse. No, we couldn't do it. There's
no minister yet born who would do it. In fact, there's some-
thing cowardly to it. 'Twould turn the doubters and back-
sliders away from church, and them that feared a reprimand
would take very good care to escape it, and them that didn't
would bring libel actions against the ministry."

" 'Tis alwa3^s a very pretty question between helping your
fellow-men and minding your own business," declared John
Sleep. " As one who reads a good deal and have made a
study of police news for many years, I can't help seeing that
friendship is a terrible tricky affair. The best of us do
mighty few things out of pure goodwill. We may start like
that, but it often ends in self-seeking and getting something
for our trouble. The number of simple friendships between
well-meaning men and women that end in the divorce court
is a fair caution. Again and again you read how the male
was introduced to the female in mixed company; and then
they meet again; and then he tells her that she's the only
woman in the world that ever understood him, and she tells
him that the wonderful beauty of his character is the joy of
her lonely life; and then, before you can blow your nose, it's
a visit to a hotel together under an alias."

" All along of the higher education," declared Mr. Male.

Now Grandfather prepared to retire, and wished the com-
pany good-night.

They spoke of him when he had gone, and praised him.

" A wonderful old man," said Tonkin, " and brisk as an
airey-mouse. You don't often see an ancient with such kick
and sprawl in him at his age."

" He's earned his reward," declared John Sleep, " and in

FELLOW-TRAVELLERS PASS BY 301

my sister he has got a treasure, though perhaps I oughtn't to
praise her."

"I've heard you do the other thing, however, John,"
murmured Antipas Keat.

" I own it," admitted Sarah's brother. " Being as I am,
rather an easy man, and — God forgive me — not particular
clean, I often vex her with my untidy ways ; and she will come
down upon me, where another woman I could name here and
there wouldn't worrit. But though I set no great store on
cleanliness and order myself, and find I can get on with less
steady buzzing than be natural to Sarah, that's not in fairness
to say anything against her. We may admire much that we
don't practise, Antipas; and James Nute, being by nature
as spry as a lizard and most orderly in mind and body, won't
feel hurt when he finds that Sarah and soap and water are
two names for the same thing. If I spoke against my sister,
no doubt 'twas on some day when she properly drowned me
out of house and home."

" 'Tis the bettermost of 'em that do so," said Mr. Male.
" We can't have it both ways."

A long dusk died, and the customers departed, for
Delabole goes early to bed. Soon the last light twinkled out,
and peace brooded over the little streets and under the stars.
Far away in the woods, nigh Newhall Mill, a goatsucker
whirred, until his ceaseless stridulation made the night throb.
Then a grey fog, that fringed night's delicate mantle, stole
to his tryst, and he was silent.

CHAPTER XXXVI

WITHOUT FEAR OR REPROACH

R-AGGED curtains of castellated stone climbed up the northern
side of a promontory, and stretched their fretted grey across
the sea and sky. They were pierced with a Norman door, and
far beyond it danced blue waters to the horizon ; above it shone
a summer sky, against whose silver and blue the ruin sparkled
brightly. Beneath, a little bay opened, and the dark preci-
pices that fell to it were fringed with a trembling lace of foam ;
while beyond, ' by Bude and Boss,' the coastline flung out
hugely, cliff on cliff and ness on ness, until Hartland lay like a
cloud upon the sea, and little Lundy peeped above the waters.
The milky summer air lapped all, melted the ragged crags
together, breathed on the white foam light, and touched
many flowers. Direct sunshine penetrated this opal haze
from point to point, now bringing a headland out from among
its neighbours, now accentuating the rocky islands that stood
scattered seaward, now flushing a grey gull's wing.

Shadow played its own sleight ; the cliff that was sun-kissed
faded and gloomed, the sombre scarps smiled out suddenly
with foreheads of gold to spread splendour along the land.
Light and darkness ran over the waves also, and now far-off
foam-fringes, streaking the distant bases of earth, sparkled
in sunshine; now cloud shadows dimmed their whiteness and
spread purple on the blue.

A ewe and a lamb came through the gateway in the castle
wall. They climbed surefooted over the green slopes and
browsed along together. Overhead the gulls glided, and a
robber gull chased a jackdaw who carried a piece of food in his
beak. The gull pressed hard upon the smaller bird until jack,
after many an aerial turn and twist, was driven to drop his
treasure. Whereupon the gull swooped downward and
caught the morsel in mid-air before it had fallen a dozen yards.
King Arthur's Castle is perched on a noble crag whose

302

WITHOUT FEAR OR REPROACH 303

strata of marble and slate and silvery quartz slope from east to
west downward until they round into sea-worn steps and
buttresses that dip into the water. The story of gigantic
upheavals is written here, and the weathered rocks are cleft,
serrated, torn into wonderful convolutions for dawn and sunset
to play upon and reveal. Wild-flowers find foothold on their
faces, and in their wTinkles the wild birds and the samphire
home. Aloft, where the skull of the crag broke through
the green turf, were ridges and knobs of stone lit by the
lemon ant hy His and the starry shine of white campions.
Pennyworts and blue jasiones throve here also, with eye-
bright and cushion-pink; but the unsleeping west wind had
afPected all of them, as altitude dwarfs Alpine plants. The
flowers were reduced to exquisite miniatures, where they
nestled in the clefts and crannies of the rocks, and flashed their
clean, bright jewels against the grey and olive and orange
and ebony of lichens, that washed the boulders with rich
colour.

On a ledge that stood seaward and low, so that it was hidden
from the summit of the head, sat Edith Retallack, and beside
her on the grass Tom Hawkey lay. Far below, in the caverns
of the cliffs, the sea purred gently, where oftentimes it growled
and roared. Even on this peaceful day the rollers touched
earth with force, and from time to time ascended a gentle
thud of impact, or spouted a feather of foam aloft from some
ocean-facing rock.

They had made an end of the little meal that Hawkey had
brought with them in a rush basket, and at last the great
matter that occasioned the picnic, the mighty business post-
poned by implicit consent till now, was upon his lips.
Edith sat and toyed with a little bunch of sea-pinks, picked
with memories of her father, Avho had talked of the flower
when he was dying ; Tom assumed an attitude of lazy comfort,
designed to suggest that his spirit was also at ease. And to
increase the force of the illusion, he lighted his pipe. The
action reminded her of another great occasion on which he had
done the like.

They talked awhile and stole gradually to the question,

" You're looking ill," she said, but he shook his head.

" Not I — never better. I'm off for a holiday soon — to
Wales."

304 OLD DELABOLE

" Only to look at slate, and talk slate, and think slate."
" No, not only for that — a rest, too. Now Nanjulian's
mind's at peace, he can take over the works very well for a
fortnight."

" Why don't you go for a month ?"
" A fortnight's long enough. How's your sister ?"
" Splendid; and a good thing happened yesterday. Mother
was there when Pooley came in, and he spoke to her, and they
nearly made it up — at least, it promised so. Things will soon
come all right now, I believe. A baby makes people gentle
and forgiving, apparently. Why should it ?"
" I don't know."

" It does. Mother couldn't say hard things to Pooley with
her first grandchild in her arms. It's rather beautiful, you
know — for the mother : a baby, I mean. Julitta's in heaven.
She's grown quite commonplace and like every other mother.
She forgets to say clever things. She just hugs it and stares
at it as the rest do. It's a good thing that mother and Pooley
are going to be reconciled, isn't it 1"

" A very good thing. Your brother was distressed about
that. A good example — to others. Eh, Edith ?"

She started and looked at him almost with fear. The colour
surged up to her face.

" Go on," she said. " I want you to say just what you feel.
You needn't spare — anybody. I invited you into it. Now
you can throw the blame where it lies. When I say Pooley
and my mother are going to make it up, you must understand
that's only for decency and seemliness. Neither has changed."

" As to Pooley, Edith, I've had a long talk with him, too;
but that's nothing now. Wesley Bake is the matter. I'm
glad this has happened — glad, for it's opened my eyes to him."

" Ah !"

" I always thought he was a very fine, straight man."

"So did I."

" I knew he'd had a lot of bother when his brother died
and had come well out of it. I regarded him as above-board,
and just — what every Christian man should be, in fact — no
more or less."

"And now?"

He did not answer immediately. Then his eyes met hers.

" Now," he said, " I find I was mistaken. He's much finer

WITHOUT FEAR OR REPROACH 305

than that. He's a great man in my judgment. He's a grand
man, with a strength that any lesser man might well envy.
He's done a bigger thing than ever I heard tell about — a
properly splendid thing, Edith."

" You're on his side !"

" It's little matter whether I'm on his side or not; and since
you ask the question, I tell you that I'm no more on his side
than on yours. It's impossible to say that he's wrong in his
opinion, and it's impossible to say that you're wrong in yoiu^s.
As far as that goes — it's quite a minor thing really — as far as
that goes you must think, not that you are absolutely right,
but that you may be wi'ong; and not that he's absolutely
wrong, but that he may be right. Where you're mistaken is to
miss the perfect purity of his motives. You knew him, and
yet could harbour a doubt there. That puzzles me. Even
if you hadn't known him before, wouldn't what he's done con-
vince you — just as it convinced me ?"

" How has he convinced you, if you say you doubt whether
he's right?"

" He's convinced me of his aim and motive. What he has
done convinces me of them. Perhaps nobody on earth can
appreciate the size of what he's done better than I can. He's
a moral giant. It's magnificent !"

She stared at such enthusiasm. To hear Wesley Bake
exalted by this man was good to her, but she did not perceive
or guess what it meant for him who uttered the praise.

Hawkey went on :

" Ask yourself if you've ever heard of a braver action for
conscience' sake. Think what it meant to him to stick to his
honest convictions, when you challenged him and promised to
leave him if he did so. You take yourself so lightly that per-
haps you cannot measure the immensity of it. But for him
to do this, or not to do it, meant death or life. Yes, you're his
life. You have imagination and can see, if you think, that it
meant nothing less. He looked ahead and saw all his days
turned to dust and ashes, and yet, rather than baulk his con-
science, he yielded up everything — everything for right. Your
father's honour was in his hands — so he saw it — and he went
on, at the most awful cost to himself it is possible to imagine.
He had all to gain by falling in with your view of it, and all
to lose by doing what he did. But he made the tremendous

20

306 OLD DELABOLE

sacrifice. I am proud to know such a man, Edith. It makes
you hope for men at large to know there are such real big chaps
among us still. For didn't he do the biggest thing of all and
lay down his life for his friend ? Yes, he did that — not in hot
blood, not because the cry came to him from one in danger —
anybody could do that; but in cold blood he acted — for a
memory, for a promise to do what was right after j-our father
died."

She did not answer, and he spoke again.

" Never forget how to forgive, Edith. Indeed, there's noth-
ing to forgive, for there's no right or wrong in the actual point
of difference. The wit of man cannot prove that he's wrong
any more than it can prove you're wrong. I allow amply for
your natural dismay at what he did. It was bound to be an
awful shock to you and yours. But you must see what an
awful shock it was for him, too. To have to do that single-
handed, with hardly a voice raised on his side, and the whole
weight of general opinion against him — to do it when he might
have given way so naturally, you'd think. It was fine, I tell
you ! I could envy him the opportunity to do anything half
so big. Think of it like that, and soon you'll see "

She interrupted him.

" Soon I'll see that I ought to beg his pardon, not he mine.
You mean that ?"

His silence was answer sufficient. But he would not allow
the possibility of doubt to hang over the point. So after a
moment's reflection he spoke again.

" Yes, I mean that. You'll guess that I wouldn't go so far
if I wasn't moved pretty deep about it. But, after hearing
Wesley, I do most honestly believe that the line you have taken
was unworthy of you and an injustice to him."

" And j^et you don't think he is right and I am viTong ?"

" No; I think you have both a perfect right to your own
opinion. And since it was for him to act, I do not blame him
— I greatly praise him — for acting. But it's not what gave
rise to your conduct that I think wrong; it's the conduct itself.
From such a cause no such event ought to have sprung. You
loved the man, and can love die over a difference of opinion ?
The effect is far too big for the cause. Do you break with
even an acquaintance because he or she makes what, in your
judgment, is a mistake ? You were too near to this to see it;

WITHOUT FEAR OR REPROACH 307

you couldn't get it into focus It belonged too much to those
sacred and precious to you. Perhaps it was impossible really
to see it impartially — even to you. Yet you, of all your family,
are the best endowed to be impartial. Pooley is not impartial
either. He can no more see any other way out than Bake
could."

She followed him carefully. She disliked him a little at the
bottom of her heart for his extraordinary self-restraint. She
believed now that his love had indeed perished and that, even
if he had decided against Bake, he would not have approached
her again himself. And she told herself that she was glad of
it. If he could be cold at such a moment, then she could be
cold. In one respect she was just to him. She gave him the
credit of uttering his honest opinion after bringing all his
powers of thought to bear on the problem. Yet, perversely,
she twisted Hawkey's dictum and now presented it to him in a
light she half hoped might puzzle him.

" It comes to this, then: that though, if anything, you think
I'm in the right, I must none the less say I'm sorry for
what I've done ?"

But he would not condescend to explain.

" You know better," he said. " We've just been over that.
You were right to have your own opinions about the money ;
but you were dead wrong not to respect his. I grant the cost
to those you love was cruel; but you're far too big to have
done what you did. It was clean outside your character to do
it. And that's interesting, because you'll say nobody can go
outside their character."

" So you praise me too much. I wasn't as fine as you
thought, you see."

She struggled with herself for a while; then looked up to
mark his eyes upon her. He smiled,

" You did me the honour to ask me to tell you how I viewed
it. And I do you the honour to think you're too wise and
brave to run away from a mistake. You must be a pretty
glorious woman, you know, Edith, for a man as big as Wesley
Bake to love you. He wouldn't find many women to share
his life with him — perhaps he'll never find another. You'll
judge how high I rate him when I say I think you are worthy
to wed him. That's to praise you both as much as I can."

" And if I refuse to go back ?"

308 OLD DELABOLE

" D'you really want to know what I should think then ?"

" Yes, Tom, please."

" If you didn't go back, then I should say you weren't half
big enough or — or good enough for that man."

She blushed again. Her mouth grew hard. She heartily
disliked Hawkey for a moment. She did not answer and mar-
shalled her thoughts about her. He rose and walked away for
twenty paces and looked down at the sea. A rare bird flew
past. He came back to her after observing the bird.

" Did you see it — that Cornish chough — black with a long
red bill and red legs ? A beautiful creature. You seldom
see them now. The old story says that King Arthur was
turned into a Cornish crow when he died, and still haunts his
birthplace in that shape."

" Men have shrunk a lot since then," she said. " They don't
do big things nowadays."

" Your man has," he answered.

" You take it for granted then ?"

" Knowing you, I do."

" And you'll go about and claim you brought us together
again ?"

" That's not Edith said that."

" You make me ashamed and I almost hate j^ou," she said.

" No, no, you don't. I'm a blunderer, but not such a blun-
derer as that. Shame only comes from inside us, not from
out."

" I shall always be in your debt now."

" Never — it's the other way. I'm in yours. We can't be
less than friends, you know, and to be your friend is to be in
your debt."

She was surprised at his coolness and really ashamed of
herself — not at her treatment of Bake, but because she had
dreamed Hawkey was still to be won. He had deceived her
apparently, and she felt a gulf was fixed between them and
resented it. She dropped the main matter of their conversation
and was about to probe this subject. A feeling of listlessness
overtook her. She was conscious of a great reaction. But she
found her attitude to Wesley changed. Her hardness was break-
ing up. She felt suspicious that both these men were bigger
than she. Instead of asking him, therefore, why he had lost
his old interest in her, she merely uttered her last conviction.

WITHOUT FEAR OR REPROACH 309

"I'm not worth a thought from him or you either," she
said. " I've got hateful ideas. Fancy saying a moment ago
that men were poor things nowadays compared to the old
heroes — just after what you've told me of Weslej^ !"

" It was a joke — you know better. There are plenty of
good men that never get songs sung about them."

" The lives of such men are songs — and poetry too."

" That's just what you wpuld think. And you could read
the poetry and help to make it."

" To make poetry of your own life is beautiful. I shall
never do that. I'm too commonplace; but Julitta can."

" And your miller has."

She thought upon Wesley and her heart began to soften.
She cried.

The other made no effort to stay her tears. He spoke as
though he did not notice them.

" Bake is the sort of man who goes far, because he sees clear.
To be tried like this falls to the lot of few and, I dare say, to
come out of the furnace as he has falls to the lot of very few.
It was a very teaching thing for me to hear him about it. Be-
cause he was quite unconscious of the size of the deed that he
had done. He felt it keenly enough; but the thing that
weighed with him was, not his own suffering and loss, but the
right. He w^ould have been glad, I believe, if I could have
seen it as he did ; but if I hadn't felt absolutely impartial and
not drawn to one side or the other — if I'd told him straight out
that I thought he was wrong, it would have only been another
regret to him : I couldn't have changed him, any more than I
could change you."

" You have changed me," she said.

" Not I — only the point of view and hearing a little about
him. That was my privilege — to tell you a little about Wesley.
And it was your good sense — it was the real Edith — to listen
and let me tell it. Just my good luck to be the one to tell it."

" Why shouldn't you have the credit, then ?"

" There's no credit due. It's my luck. Plenty of others
could have done it as well or better, only you came to me. I
told him you had come, and he was glad."

It ended quietly, soberly, tamely between them, and she
thought she was being generous when she thanked him.

" I owe you a great deal more than I can ever pay, Tom.

310 OLD DELABOLE

It was kind of you to do this. And you've got the pleasure of
knowing you did a good thing. Yes — a good thing you have
done. You shan't lose your credit either. I'll never forget it,
and he'll never forget it. Wesley is a man — a man any woman
ought to feel proud of — and hopeful. He will do big things —
won't he ?"

" He has done big things. I don't see how he can do a
bigger thing than this."

Her thoughts began to be entirely occupied with Wesley
Bake. She was concerned with his character and its promise.
Everything had been made smooth. She could return
to him without even the necessity for an apology. But she was
prepared to make one. She confessed to herself that a differ-
ence of opinion, even on such a serious question, should not
have made her break with him. She had held a pistol to his
head and he had not flinched.

A longing to see Wesley Bake mastered her. She thought of
the nearest way and made a calculation. It was possible to be
at Newhall Mill in two hours from that moment ; and the walk
would enable her to collect her ideas.

Tom Hawkey seemed to know what was passing in her mind.
He had seen her eyes roam over the land southward and
guessed her new desire.

" Why not go to him ?" he asked. " If you follow the cliffs
and then turn down into St. Teath, you'd be there by tea. A
fine thing to do — eh 1"

" But our picnic ?"

" That's over. And I should be rather glad if you could
manage it ; because I'm well on the road to Boscastle here, and
if I go to-day, I needn't go next week."

" I believe you're right. You're always right, Tom."

He laughed and looked at his watch.

" I'm afraid the builder at Boscastle won't think so. D'you
know your way ?"

" Yes, I know it."

She rose with her eyes cast in the direction that she desired
to follow. She was anxious to be gone.

" Thank you ever so much. I envy you sometimes. I
envy anyone who can give more than he gets as he goes through
life. Only the big people do that."

" Not I. I'm much in the world's debt."

WITHOUT FEAR OR REPROACH 311

" You're like Wesley — I — I can't praise you more than that,
can I ?"

" Indeed you cannot. Good-bye, Edith."

" Never ' good-bye ' between us," she said: " and thank yon
for the lunch. It was lovely."

She nodded and smiled and set off, while he sat and watched
her. At a turn of the cliff path she looked back and waved her
hand. He rai§ed his in answer. When she was out of sight,
he picked up the frail that had held their meal. He put back
the two plates and the knives and forks and two little glasses.
Then lie went on his way.

THE END

BILLING AND 60N8, LTD., PRINTERS, GUILDFORD, ENGLAND.

Br THE SAME AUTHOR

BRUNEL'S TOWER

THE JUDGE'S CHAIR

THE JOY OF YOUTH

THE OLD TIME BEFORE THEM

WIDECOMBE FAIR

THE FOREST ON THE HILL

THE BEACON

DEMETER'S DAUGHTER

TALES OF THE TENEMENTS

THE THIEF OF VIRTUE

THE HAVEN

FUN OF THE FAIR
THE THREE BROTHERS

THE VIRGIN IN JUDGMENT

THE WHIRLWIND

THE MOTHER

KNOCK AT A VENTURE

THE PORTREEVE

THE SECRET WOMAN

THE STRIKING HOURS

THE AMERICAN PRISONER

THE RIVER

SONS OF THE MORNING

CHILDREN OF THE MIST

LYING PROPHETS

A LIST OF

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Author of "Keddy," "Sir Guy and Lady Rannard," eto.

"His tale is undoubtedly refreshing. He is obviously
sincere. . . . His whole book is a plea for the personal
responsibility of all landowners and employers of labour.
Distinctly this is a novel to be read, for it is the work
of one who has the courage of conviction, and who
thinks for himself." — Standard

"Mr. H. N. Dickinson's new novel is one of the most
humorous books we have met with for a long time.
' The Business of A Gentleman ' is a satire on that grand-
motherly legislation which seeks to regulate the lives
of the poor — their amusements, their morals, their
family and the upbringing of their children. . . . Wittily
written with an atmosphere of laughter, touched with
pungent satire, we cordially recommend this clever novel."

— ^oer^man.

BRUNEL'S TOWER

by EDEN PHILLPOTTS 6/-

"Time and again Mr. Phillpotts has given us proof of his
wonderful keenness and observation and of the loving
care with which he gives expression to it. But there has
never been a finer instance of it than in the exquisite
descriptions in this story of the potter in all the stages of
his work. One could read * Brunei's Tower ' for that
alone, even if there were no other interests in it. If is
a beautifully told stoi-y and there is something austere in
the style, though exquisitely sensitive. It is the master
potter at work."— Pa// Mall Qazette.

21 BEDFORD STREET, LONDON, W.G.

MR. WILLIAM HEINEMANN'S NEW FICTION

THE MERCY OF THE LORD

by FLORA ANNIE STEEL 6/-

Mrs. Steel's ever-delightful pen is here employed in
giving us pictures as it were from her experience — stories
of India, stories of the Highlands, quick impressions of
modern life — each a rounded, well-defined tale, written
with so sane a touch, with so pleasant a mind behind them
that she makes the strongest appeal to her public.

Author of

A PRINCE OF DREAMERS MISS STUART'S LEGACY

THE FLOWER OF FORGIVE- ON THE FACE OF THE

NESS WATERS

FROM THE FIVE RIVERS THE POTTER'S THUMB

THE HOSTS OF THE LORD RED ROWANS

IN THE GUARDIANSHIP OF A SOVEREIGN REMEDY

GOD VOICES IN THE NIGHT
IN THE PERMANENT WAY and other stories.

KING ERRANT

THE STEPPE

AND OTHER STORIES

by ANTON TCHEKOV 6/-

On account of his simplicity, his tender humour, and his
power of delineating character, Tchekov holds a very
high place in Russian literature. In this volume, which
contains longer and more important stories than any
which have hitherto appeared in English, he portrays
with peculiar fidelity the resignation and patient idealism
which is so characteristic of the Russian spirit.

" These tales have not only the simplicity of genius, but
give a most remarkable insight into the Russian
character." — Globe.

21 BEDFORD STREET, LONDON, W.G.

MR. WILLIAM HEINEMANN'S NEW FICTION

THE HOUSE IN
DEMETRIUS ROAD

by J. D. BERESFORD 6/-

This story is the study of a mysterious ^man, a man of
undoubted mental force, subtly and skilfully written. The
three chief characters, Greg, the mystery, Mary, his
sister-in-law, and Martin Bond, are real and living ; the
medley of something like genius, cunning, weakness of
will and force of personality in Greg being extraordinarily
well depicted.

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

GOSLINGS 6/-

"Many of the scenes of his book will live long in the
imagination. The book is packed with such striking
episodes, which purge the intellect, if not always the soul,
with pity and terror and wonder. Mr. Beresford has, in
fact, proved once again that, even if he may appear some-
what unsympathetic on the emotional side, he has an
intellectual grasp as strong and as sure as that of any
living novelist."— Mornm^ Post.

JOHN CHRISTOPHER :

I. Dawn and Morning. 11. Storm and Stress.

III. John Christopher in Paris

IV. The Journey's End

by ROMAIN ROLLAND each 6/-

Translated by GILBERT G ANN AN. Author of "Little Brother," etc.

" A noble piece of work, which must, without any doubt
whatever, ultimately receive the praise and attention
which it so undoubtedly merits. . . . There is hardly a
single book more illustrative, more informing and n-ce
inspiring . . . than M. Romain Rolland's creative
work, Mohn Christopher:"— The Daih Telegraph.

21 BEDFORD STREET, LONDON, W.C.

MR. WILLIAM HEINEMANN'S NEW FICTION

VEILED LIFE

by Mrs. GOLDIE 6/-

This charming story, which is remarkable for its clear-
ness of conception, simplicity of v/riting. and restraint,
opens in life below stairs ; but soon, not without shadow
and not without sunshine, broadens into the larger life of
the world, with its ups and downs, its cruel passions and
its saving pleasures.

"It is of the liveliest interest ... a very able study." —

Bookman,

"The story has real and unusual merit." —

Publishers' Circular.

THE LIFE MASK 61-

by the Author of '* He Who Passed."

" A highly remarkable novel, with a plot both striking
and original, and written in a style quite distinctive and
charming."

" Seldom, if ever, has a tale given me so genuine a
surprise or such an unexpectedly creepy sensation."

Punch.

HE WHO PASSED

To M. L. G. 6/-

"As a story, it is one of the most enthralling I have read
for a long time. . . . Six — seven o'clock struck — half-
past-seven — and yet this extraordinary narrative of a
woman's life held me absolutely enthralled. . . . I forgot
the weather; I forgot my own grievances; I forgot every-
thing, in fact, under the spell of this wonderful book.
. . . In fact the whole book bears the stamp of reality
from cover to cover. There is hardly a false or strained
note in it. It is the ruthless study of a woman's life. . • .
If it is not the novel of the season, the season is not likely
to give us anything much better." — The Taller.

ALSO POPULAR EDITION, 2/- NET.

21 BEDFORD STREET, LONDON, W.C.

MR. WILLIAM HEINEMANN'S NEW FICTION

STORIES OF INDIA

by ROSE REINHARDT ANTHON 6/-

"In her ' Stones of India ' Miss Rose Reinhardt Anthon
has given us a remarkable book . . . wonderfully stimu-
lating to the imagination. The stories are told with a
quaint compelling charm, and their directness and sim-
plicity are infinitely refreshing to the jaded mind of the
reviewer, tired by the trivialities of much modern fiction."

— Everyman.
"The stories will be appreciated for their novelty and
freshness, and for the insight they afford into the Indian
mind." — ylcademy.

"The stories are always picturesque and pointed. They
interest apart from their elusive and charming suggestions
of deep and hidden truth . . . and the book has a
fine flavour of mythology."— Sco/smcn.

THE ISLAND

by ELEANOR MORDAUNT 6/-

Author of "The Cost of It," " The Garden of Contentment," etc.
This charming volume of stories shows the whole range
of this author's talents. It is a book that will be bought
and read by all admirers of the "Garden of Contentment,"
and they should not be disappointed, for it is full of the
spirit which has made this author so popular.

BY THE SAME AUTHOR.

LU OF THE RANGES 6/-

"Miss Eleanor Mordaunt has the art, not only of visual-
izing scenes with such imminent force that the reader
feels the shock of reality, but of sensating the emotions
she describes. A finely written book, full of strong
situations. "—Everyman.

21 BEDFORD STREET, LONDON, W.C.

MR. WILLIAM HEINEMANN'S NEW FICTION

YES

by MARY AGNES HAMILTON 6/-

*' There is a poignancy of human and artistic feeling in the
book which gives distinction to the style and easily leads
us captive."— Pa// Mall Gazette.

"To the solid merits of a story worth the telling the
author adds the advantage of sound feeling and a genuine
gift of humour. Our verdict on ' Yes ' is complete
concurrence." — Bookman.

The GARDEN WITHOUT WALLS

by CONINGSBY DAWSON 6/-

"... work of such genuine ability that its perusal
is a delight and its recommendation to others a duty. . . .
It is a strong book, strong in every way, and it is con-
ceived and executed on a large scale. But long as it is,
there is nothing superfluous in it ; its march is as orderly
and stately as the pageant of life itself . . . and it is a
book, too, that grows on you as you read it . . . and
compels admiration of the talent and skill that have gone
to its writing and the observation and reflection that have
evolved its philosophy of life." — QlasgoW Herald.

A COUNTRY HOUSE COMEDY

by DUNCAN SWANN 6/-

" A vivid picture of society in some of its phases, a picture
evidently drawn from close observation and actual
experience, and pervaded throughout with a delicate
hvimour, keen satire, and racy cynicisms which make the
whole book exceptionally well worth reading." —

Bookseller.

UNTILLED FIELD

by GEORGE MOORE 6/-

"A thing of quite exquisite art. . . . Each of the
fourteen stories in the book will be read with enjoyment
by every lover of good literature and every student of
national types . . . admirable volume." — Observer.

21 BEDFORD STREET, LONDON, W.G.

II

MR. WILLIAM HEINEMANN'S NEW FICTION

THE SHUTTLE

by Mrs. HODGSON BURNETT

Author of " The Secret Garden," etc. (New Edition) 2/" net

"Now and then, but only now and then, a novel is given
to English literature that takes its place at once and
without dispute among the greater permanent works of
fiction. Such a novel is ' The Shuttle.' Breadth and
sanity of outlook, absolute mastery of human character
and life, bigness of story interest place Mrs. Hodgson
Burnett's new book alongside the best work of George
Eliot, and make one keenly aware that we are in danger
of forgetting the old standards and paying too much homage
to petty work. The dignity and strength of a great novel
such as this put to the blush all but a very few English
storytellers."— Pa// Mall Gazette.

THE WEAKER VESSEL

by E. F. BENSON 6/-

"Among the writers of the present day w^ho can make
fiction the reflection of reality, one of the foremost is Mr.
E. F. Benson. From the very beginning the interest is
enchained."— Da//y Telegraph.

JUGGERNAUT *THE LUCK OF THE VAILS

•ACCOUNT RENDERED *MAMMON & CO.

AN ACT IN A BACKWATER *PAUL

*THE ANGEL. OF PAIN THE PRINCESS SOPHIA

*THE BOOK OF MONTHS *A REAPING

*THE CHALLONERS THE RELENTLESS CITY

*THE CLIMBER *SGARLET AND HYSSOP

THE HOUSE OF DEFENCE *SHEAVES
*THE IMAGE IN THE SAND

Each Crn. 8vo. Price 6/-.

Those Volumes marked * can also be obtained in the Two Shilh'ng
net Edition, and also the following volumes

THE OSBORNES THE VINTAGE DODO

*»* "The Book of Months "and "A Reaping" form one volume

in this Edition.

21 BEDFORD STREET, LONDON, W.C.

12

MR. WILLIAM HEINEMANN'S NEW FICTION

THE WOMAN THOU
GAYEST ME

by HALL CAINE 6/-

'"The filling in of the story is marked by all Mr. Hall
Gaine's accustomed skill. There is a wealth of varied
characterisation, even the people who make but brief and
occasional appearances standing out as real individuals,
and not as mere names. ... In description, too, the
novelist shows that his hand has lost nothing of its
cunning. . . . Deeply interesting as a story — perhaps
one of the best stories that Mr. Hall Caine has given us —
the book will make a further appeal to all thoughtful
readers for its frank and fearless discussion of some of the
problems and aspects of modern social and religious life."

— Daily Telegraph.

"Hall Gaine's voice reaches far; in this way 'The
Woman Thou Gavest Me ' strikes a great blow for
righteousness. There is probably no other European
novelist who could have made so poignant a tale of such
simple materials. In that light Mr. Hall Gaine's new
novel is his greatest achievement." — Dail^ Chronicle.

Other NOVELS of HALL CAINE

(of which over 3 million copies have been sold),

" These volumes are in everyway a pleasure to read. Of
living authors, Mr. Hall Gaine must certainly sway as
multitudinous a following as any living man. A novel from
his pen has become indeed for England and America
something of an international event." — Times.

Author ot

THE BONDMAN 6/-, 2/-, 7d. net. THE ETERNAL CITY 6/-, 2/-

CAPT'N DAVEYS HONEY- THE MANXMAN 6/-, 2/-

MOON 2/- THE PRODIGAL SON 6/-

MY STORY 6/-, 2/- net. THE SCAPEGOAT 6/-, 7d. net.

THE WHITE PROPHET 6/- THE CHRISTIAN 6/-, 2/-

21 BEDFORD STREET, LONDON, W.G.

13

MR. WILLIAM HEINEMANN'S NEW FICTION

KATYA

by FRANZ DE JESSEN (2nd impression) 6/-

'* To a certain number of readers in this country the writ-
ings of M. de lessen are known as those of a brilHant war
correspondent and traveller, a man who has kept tryst
with danger and adventure in many lands. This is the
first time that he has appeared in England, at any rate, as
a writer of fiction. His novel, * Katya,' possesses a three-
fold value : in the first place he has woven into it. in very
intimate fashion, some of the tragic and exciting happen-
ings that took place in Russian and Balkan lands some
dozen and less years ago ; secondly, the story itself is one
of intense human interest ; and lastly, it gives as brilliant
and true a picture of modern Russian life as any that one
can remember in a recent work of fiction."

— Morning Post.

WHAT A WOMAN WANTS

by Mrs. HENRY DUDENEY 6/-

" High as has always been our opinion of Mrs. Dudeney's
work, she has certainly never written anything to compare
in interest with ' What a Woman Wants.' The narrative
and description are vivid, the thought is impressive, and
the character of Christmas Hamlyn has been drawn with
great power and with all the author's peculiar skill. . . .
Her work is admirably well done." — Standard.

SMALL SOULS

by LOUIS GOUPERUS 6/-

Translated by ALEXANDER TEIXEIRA DE MATTEOS.

"We most cordially hope the reception will justify the
translation of all four, for the taste of the first makes us
hunger for the others. ... A master of biting comedy,
a psychologist of rare depth and finesse, and a supreme
painter of manners."— Pa// Mall Qazette.

21 BEDFORD STREET. LONDON, W.C.

14

MR. WILLIAM HEINEMANN'S NEW FICTION

hJEW IMOVELS FOR 1915.

THE IMMORTAL GYMNAST

By MARIE CHER

CARFRAE'S COMEDY

By GLADYS PARRISH

OLD DELABOLE

By EDEN PHILLPOTTS

THE PUSH ON THE

S.S. " GLORY " By FREDERICK NIVEN

Illustrated by FRED HOLMES

THE BOTTLE FILLERS

By EDWARD NOBLE
MUSLIN By GEORGE MOORE

THE LITTLE ILIAD

By MAURICE HEWLETT
Illustrated by Sir PHILIP BURNE-JONES

BEGGARS ON HORSEBACK

By F. TENNYSON JESSE

LATER LIVES

By LOUIS COUPERUS
21 BEDFORD STREET, LONDON, W.C.

MR. WILLIAM HEINEMANN'S NEW FICTION

THE IMOl/ELS OF aOSTOEVSKV

Translated by CONSTANCE GARNETT

Gr. 8vo, 8/6 net each

"By the genius of Dostoevsky you are always in the
presence of living, passionate characters. They are not
puppets, they are not acting to keep the plot in motion.
They are men and women— I should say you can hear
them breathe— irresistibly moving to their appointed
ends."— (Evening U^ews.

I. THE BROTHERS KARAMAZOV

II. THE IDIOT

III. THE POSSESSED

IV. GRIME AND PUNISHMENT

V. THE HOUSE OF THE DEAD

VI. INSULTED AND INJURED

Other volumes to follow

THE^OVELS OF LEO TOLSTOV

Translated by CONSTANCE GARNETT

ANNA KARENIN 3/6 net

WAR AND PEAGE 3/6 net

THE DEATH OF IVAN ILYVITGH

3/6snet

"Mrs. Garnett's translations from the Russian are always
distinguished by most careful accuracy and a fine literary
flavour."— r/je Bookman.

" Mrs. Garnett's translation has all the ease and vigour
which Matthew Arnold found in French versions ot
Russian novels and missed in English. She is indeed
so successful that, but for the names, one might easily
forget he was reading a foreign author."

— The Contemporaru Review.

21 BEDFORD STREET, LONDON, W.C,
15

UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY

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