Project Gutenberg's The Love That Prevailed, by Frank Frankfort Moore This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. Title: The Love That Prevailed Author: Frank Frankfort Moore Illustrator: H. B. Matthews Release Date: May 2, 2016 [EBook #51971] Last Updated: March 13, 2018 Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LOVE THAT PREVAILED *** Produced by David Widger from page images generously provided by the Internet Archive THE LOVE THAT PREVAILED By Frank Frankfort Moore Author of “The Jessamy Bride,” “I Forbid the Bans,” “The Fatal Gift,” “The Millionaire,” “Our Fair Daughter,” etc., etc. Illustrated By H. B. Matthews New York Empire Book Company Publishers 1907 0001 0008 T 0009 CONTENTS CHAPTER I CHAPTER II CHAPTER III CHAPTER IV CHAPTER V CHAPTER VI CHAPTER VII CHAPTER VIII CHAPTER IX CHAPTER X CHAPTER XI CHAPTER XII CHAPTER XIII CHAPTER XIV CHAPTER XV CHAPTER XVI CHAPTER XVII CHAPTER XVIII CHAPTER XIX CHAPTER XX CHAPTER XXI CHAPTER XXII CHAPTER XXIII CHAPTER XXIV CHAPTER XXV CHAPTER I he old church ways be good enough for me,” said Miller Pendelly as he placed on the table a capacious jug of cider, laying a friendly left hand on the shoulder of Jake Pullsford, the carrier, as he bent across the side of the settee with the high back. “I ne'er could see aught that was helpful to the trade of a smith in such biases as the Quakers, to name only one of the new- fangled sects,” said Hal Holmes, the blacksmith, shaking his head seriously. “So I holds with Miller.” “Ay, that's the way too many of ye esteems a religion—' Will it put another crown in my pocket?' says you. If't puts a crown in your pocket, 'tis a good enough religion; if't puts half-a-crown in your pocket, 'tis less good; if't puts naught in your pocket, that religion is good for naught.” The speaker was a middle-aged man with a pair of large eyes which seemed to vary curiously in colour, sometimes appearing to be as grey as steel, and again of a curious green that did not suit everybody's taste in eyes. But for that matter, Jake Pullsford, the carrier, found it impossible to meet everybody's taste in several other ways. He had a habit of craning forward his head close to the face of anyone to whom he was speaking, and this movement had something of an accusing air, about it—occasionally a menacing air—which was distinctly distasteful to most people, particularly those who knew that they had good reason to be accused or to be menaced. “Jake Pullsford goes about the world calling his best friends liars without the intent to hurt their feelings,” was the criticism passed upon him by Miller Pendelly. Other critics were not so sure on the subject of his intent. He had never shown himself to be very careful of the feelings of his friends. “The religion that puts naught in thy pocket is good for naught—that's what you be thinking of, Hal Holmes,” he said, thrusting his head close to the face of the smith. But the smith did not mind. The man that spends most of his days hammering out and bending iron to his will, usually thinks good-naturedly of one who uses words and phrases as arguments. “I don't gainsay thee, Jake,” he replied. “If you know what's in my thought better than I do myself, you be welcome to the knowledge.” “I meant not thee in special, friend,” said Jake. “What I say is that there are too many in these days that think of religion only for what it may bring to them in daily life—folk that make a gain of godliness.” “And a right good thing to make a gain of, says I,” remarked the miller with a confidential wink into the empty mug which he held— it had been full a moment before. “Ay, you be honest, miller: you allow that I am right and you have courage enough to praise what the Book condemns,” said Jake. “Look'ee here, friend,” said the miller, in his usual loud voice—the years that he had spent in his mill had caused him to acquire a voice whose tone could successfully compete with the creaking and clattering of the machinery. “Look'ee here, friend Jake, 'twould be easy enough for you or me that has done moderate well for ourselves in life, to turn up our eyes in holy horror at the bare thought of others being godly for what they may gain in daily life, but for myself, I would not think that I was broaching a false doctrine if I was to say to my son, 'Young man, be godly and thou 'll find it to bring gain to thee.' What, Jake, would 'ee have a man make gain out of ungodliness?” “Ay, that's a poser for him, miller: I've been thinking for that powerful proposal ever since the converse began,” said a small man who had sat silently smoking in a high-backed chair. He was one who had the aspect of unobtrusiveness, and a figure that somehow suggested to strangers an apologetic intention without the courage ever to put it in force. His name was Richard Pritchard, and he was by profession a water-finder—a practitioner with the divining rod, but one whose successes were never startling. When he had spoken, all the room, to the number of three, turned anxious eyes upon him, as if they were surprised at his having gone so far and feared a painful sequel. He seemed to feel that he had justified their worst forebodings, and hastened to relieve their minds. “I'm all friendly, friends, and Jake in especial,” he said. “Don't forget that though a man on the spur of the moment, and in the fierce stress of argyment, may say a bitter hard word or two, there may still be naught in his bosom's heart but neighbourly friendship, meaning no offence to you, Jake, that be a travelled man, viewing strange cities quite carelessly, where plain and simple men would gape and stare.” Jake, the carrier, gave no sign of having heard the other speak. “There's a many o' us in these parts as strong as in other parts, that be ready and willing to take things as they come,” said he; “to take the parson's preaching as they take the doctor's pills.” “Ay, wi' a wry face,” acquiesced the blacksmith with a readiness that one could see the carrier thought meant no good. He leant across the table once more until his face was close to the smith's, and said: “That's where you be wrong, Hal Holmes. You know as well as the most knowledgable——” “Meaning yourself, Jake?” said the smith drily. “You know well that though you may make a wry face when gulching down the doctor's pill, ye dursn't so much as show a wrinkle or a crinkle on your face when Parson Rodney is in his pulpit,” replied the carrier with emphasis. “'Cause why?” said the miller. “I'll tell ye truly—'tis because the parson gives us no bitter pills, only——” “That's what I've been leading up to,” cried the carrier triumphantly. “The parson, like thousands of the rest of his cloth throughout the length and breadth o' the land, is content to preach pleasant things only, even as the false prophets of Israel prophesied fair things.” “And why shouldn't he be content to preach pleasant things, friend Jake, if so be that we be content to hear them? and for myself I would muchly listen to an hour of pleasant things—ay, rather than half an hour of unhappy ones.” “Ah, miller, what would you say if the doctor, who, when he saw your body suffering from a canker, gave you a sugar-plum and withheld his knife from cutting out the plague spot because you were apt to be squeamish at the sight of bloodletting!” There was an uneasy pause when the carrier had asked this rehearsed question. He asked it with a triumphant air, and, as if he felt it to be too large a question to be answered by the miller singlehanded, he, as it were, swept the whole company by a glance into his interrogation. The water-finder made a motion with his hands as if trying to smooth away an imaginary roughness in the air. There was a general feeling that the carrier had triumphed in his argument. He was one of those people who, by speaking in an air of triumph, succeed in making some people believe that they have triumphed. The farmer shook his head with the disinterestedness of an arbitrator. The smith continued looking into the empty mug from which he had just drunk. The silence lasted several seconds, and every second of course added to the triumph of the carrier. The man was not, however, adroit enough to perceive this. He was indiscreet enough to break the silence. When his eyes had gone round the company they returned to the miller. “Answer me that question, man!” he cried, and then everyone knew that he had not triumphed: the last word had not been said. “I'll answer you when you tell me if you wouldn't bear friendly feelings for a doctor who gives you a sugar plum instead of blooding you when he finds you reasonable well,” said the miller. “'Tis when a man feels healthiest that he stands most in need of blooding,” said Jake, not very readily and not very eagerly. “And so it is in the health of the soul. 'Let him that thinketh he stand take heed lest he fall.' Friends, is there one among us that can lay his hand on his heart and say that he believes that our parsons do their duty honestly and scripturally.” “It took you a deal o' time to lead us up to that point: you'd best ha' blurted it out at once,” remarked Hal Holmes. “Nay, we all knew that it was a-coming,” said the farmer. “Since Jake found himself as far away from home as Bristol city, he has never lost a chance of a dig at the parsons.” “I don't deny that my eyes were opened for the first time at Bristol,” said Jake. “Bristol was my Damascus, farmer.” The farmer gave a jerk to his head, for the carrier had laid undue emphasis upon the first syllable of the name. “So bad as that?” he whispered. The blacksmith laughed. “Not so bad, farmer,” he said. “'Tis only our neighbour Jake that compares himself with St. Paul, the Apostle.” “I heard the profanity. He would ha' done better to abide at home,” said the farmer severely. The blacksmith laughed again. “There fell, as it were, scales from my eyes when I heard preaching for the first time—when I heard a parson for the first time,” resumed the carrier, looking out of a window, and apparently unconscious of any of the remarks of his friends. “Ay, 'twas for the first time, albeit I had scarce missed church for a whole Sunday since I were a lad. That was what struck me most, neighbours—that I could go Sunday after Sunday, in good black cloth, too, and hear the holy service read, in a sort of way, and the sacred psalms sung, while the fiddle and the double bass and the viol made sweet music, and yet have no real and true yearning after the truth, seems little short of a miracle, doesn't it?” “Not when one knows that your heart was hard, Jake—ay, sir, it must ha' been harder than steel,” said the blacksmith, shaking his head in mock gravity. “You scoff, smith, you scoff, I know; but you speak the truth unwittingly,” said the carrier with some sadness. “My heart was like the nether millstone—your pardon, miller, I meant not to say a word that would cast a slight upon your calling: 'tis right for your nether millstone to be hard.” “The harder the better, and no offence, neighbour,” said the miller generously. “None was meant, sir,” said the carrier. “We were discoursing of my heart—hard—hard. And I was a reader o' the Book all my life. That's the strange thing; but I sought not to understand what I read and I got no help from parson—-no, nor yet from Archdeacon Eaton, that I listened to twice—no, nor the Dean himself in his own Cathedral at Exeter. With the new light that came to me, I was able to perceive that their discourse was a vain thing—not helpful to a simple man who thought something of himself, albeit jangling with the other tinkling cymbals every Sunday, kneeling (on the knees of my body) when we called ourselves miserable sinners. Miserable sinners! I tell ye, friends, I gave no thought to the words. I slurred through the General Confession at a hand gallop—just the pace that parson gets into when he warms to his work.” “There's few left of the cloth and none of the laity can pass parson when he gets warmed to it. To hear him in the Litany is like watching him go 'cross country when he be mounted on King George, his big roan,” said the blacksmith reflectively. “There's none rides straightlier,” said the farmer. “And there's no better or steadier flyer than King George, first foal to my mare Majesty. When I heard that parson had need of a flyer that was a flyer, after poor Gossip broke her neck at the Lyn and her master's left arm, I held back, not being wishful to put myself for'ard, though I knew what I knew, and knew that parson knew all I knew and maybe more; but he got wind o' the foal, and then——” “One at a time, farmer—one at a time is fair play between friends,” said the miller, nodding in the direction of Jake, who had suffered the interruption very meekly. “Your pardon, friend,” said the farmer. “Only 'twas yourself brought in the parson's pace. For myself, I think all the better of the cloth that rides straight to hounds.” “'Miserable sinners,'” said the carrier, picking up the thread which he had perforce dropped. “I tell ye, neighbours, that there's no need for any parson, be he a plain Vicar or of high rank such as a Dean—nay, a consecrated Bishop—no, I'm not going too far, miller —I say in cool blood and in no ways excited, a consecrated Lord Bishop—I say that not one of them need travel in discourse all his pulpit life, beyond that text 'Miserable sinners.' That was his text—the one I heard at Bristol. 'Miserable sinners.' For the first time in my life I knew what the words meant. I felt them—I felt them—words of fire—I tell ye that I felt them burn into me. That was at first— when he began to preach; a red-hot iron brand stinging me all over, and before he had done I felt as if all my poor body had been seared over and over again with red-hot letters that go to the spelling of 'miserable sinners' You mind Joe Warden's trial when we were lads, and how he was branded in the forehead and right hand before he was sent to the pillory. He uttered neither cry nor moan when the hot iron burst his skin——” “I smell the smell o' 't in my nose this moment,” said the water-finder gently. The farmer nodded. “But the look that was on his face when he stood up there a marked man forever!” cried the original speaker. “It told everyone that N had eyes what the man felt, and that was how I felt, multiplied an hundred fold, when my preacher had done with me. I felt from the first that he had singled out me—only me out of all that assembly, and when he had done with me, I say that I could feel myself feeling as Joe Warden felt, the rebel who suffered for slandering the King's Majesty.” “'Tis no marvel that the man has had most of the church doors banged in's face, if so be that he makes genteel churchgoers with ordinary failings to feel so unwholesome,” remarked the smith. “And so you comed away,” said the farmer. “Well, I wouldn't look back on it as if I was satisfied. If I want that sort o' preaching I'll e'en throw myself prone on my nine-acre field when the seed's in, and command my man Job to pass the harrow o'er the pelt o' my poor carcase.” “I've only told you of that part of his sermon that made one feel sore and raw with hot wounds all over,” said Jake. “That was one part. I told you not of the hand that poured soothing oil and precious ointment into the wounds—that came after. And the oil was as holy soothing as what ran down over Aaron's beard even unto the skirts of his garment, and the ointment was as precious as Mary Magdalen's of spikenard—in the alabaster box, whose odour filled the whole house. The whole life of me became sweetened with the blessed words that fell from his lips. I felt no longer the sting of the brand of the truth that had made me to tingle all over. Oh, the dew of Hermon's holy hill was not more soothing than the words of gracious comfort that came from him. I had a sense of being healed and made whole. The joy of it! A cup of cold spring water when one has toiled through a long hot harvest day. Oh, more than that. The falling of a burden from off my shoulders like the great burden of Christian, the Pilgrim; and then the joy—the confidence—the surety —I cannot tell you how I felt—'tis over much for me, neighbours—over much for me to attempt.” “Say no more, Jake; you have made a good enough trial for such as us,” said the miller, laying his hand on the carrier's shoulder, and speaking only after a long pause. The others of the party began to breathe again, some of them very audibly. The carrier's eyes were shining with an expression his friends had never before seen them wear. He had been swept away by the force and fervour of his words, and like one who has been breathing of a rarer atmosphere than that of the plain, he gasped for several moments, and then there was a sob in his throat. He went quickly to the door and, letting into the room the sudden glow of a beautiful Spring sunset, he passed into the open air, without speaking another word. CHAPTER II o one in the room had watched the man except in a furtive way, after he had spoken, although while he was speaking every eye had been fixed upon him. The sight of the effect of a great emotion makes some people feel strangely abashed, and the miller and his friends were among such persons. When the carrier had gone they remained silent for some time. Each of them seemed to be thinking his thoughts. “Poor Jake!” said the miller at last. “He was ever the sort of man that would be like to have a twist, and he hath got one now. He's made us forget the cider, lads. Blest if the jug has been touched since Jake began his story! Hal, man, pass the jug to your neighbour.'Tis Jake that should have swallowed a mouthful before he left: talking is drouthier work than listening.” The smith passed on the jug of cider without replenishing his own mug; and then knocked the ashes out of the bowl of his pipe. “I don't know that there's a deal in all this,” he remarked. “What do you say, miller?” “I don't say nought: I only looks on,” replied the miller cautiously. “Ay, that may be,” said the smith. “We all know Jake. He never wronged his fellow—nay, there's some of us knows that if the worst came to the worst with us, Jake 'ud be the first to hold out a helping hand, with a guinea or two in it, as the case may be. Still there may be something in what he said about being brought to feel himself a miserable sinner.” “He allowed that the preacher on'y kept him in that suspensory way o' thought for a brief space,” said the miller. “Ay, there's men that be mortal sinners, and for all that their luck is tremendous and saves 'em from the eye of their fellow-men,” said the smith. “I feel bound to say this to the credit o' parson,” remarked the water-finder with deprecatory suavity: “he never makes a simple countryman feel himself to be a miserable sinner. He is of such a good nature that he slurs over the General Confession so genteelly that I defy the wickedest of his churchful to feel in any ways as if parson was dictating the words to him.” “That shows that parson's heart be in the right place,” nodded the farmer. “He gives us all to understand at a glance that he reads the words 'cause they are set down for him in the solemn prayer book, and hopes that there's none among his hearers who will hold him responsible as a man for their ungentility.” “True, sir, true; parson's an am'able gentleman, always 'cepting when the cock he has hatched from the noblest game strain fails him in the first main,” said the blacksmith. “And who is he that would be different, tell me that?” cried the miller, who had fought a few cocks in the course of his life. “Ay, we be well content wi' parson, we be so; but I don't say that if Jake's Bristol preacher came within earshot I would refuse to listen to him —only out o' curiosity—only out o' curiosity. But I do wonder much that a man o' the steadiness o' Jake Pullsford owning himself overcome by a parson that has no church of his own.” “'Tis as humble as allowing a toothache to be cured by a quack at a fair, when a wholesome Doctor of Physic, like Mr. Corballis, has wrestled, with it for a whole week,” said the water-finder. “I hope I haven't offended any friend by my homeliness when the talk was serious,” he added, glancing around, not without apprehension. No one took the trouble to say a word that might place him at his ease. The farmer took a hasty drink out of his mug, and sighed after. The blacksmith cut up some tobacco and rolled it between his palms. There was a long silence in the room. It seemed as if the weakness which Jake, the carrier, had displayed had saddened the little company. It was pretty clear that they were all thinking of it. “Hey, neighbours,” cried the miller at last, with a loud attempt to pull his friends together. “Hey lads, what's amiss? These be doleful dumps that have fallen on us. A plague on Jake and his quack preacher! Now, if I'm not better satisfied than ever with parson may I fail to know firsts from seconds by a sniff of the dust. Come, farmer, tell Hal what answer you gave to Squire's young lady when she asked you if you made the cows drink wine wouldn't they milk syllabub? He told me before you looked in, Hal! Droll, it was surely. You'd never think that the farmer had it in him.” “Nay, nay,” said the farmer with a smile that broke up his face into the semblance of a coloured diagram of the canals in Mars. “Nay, miller, 'twas on the spur o' the moment. I had no time to think o' some ready reply that a young miss might think suitable to her station in life coming from a humble yeoman that has no learning but of tillage.” “I'll swear you'll esteem it neat as a sheep's tongue,” said the miller. “Come, farmer, out with it, and don't force me to spoil it i' the telling.” “Oh, well——” began the farmer, pursing out his lips and assuming the expression of one who is forced into a position of enviable prominence. “Oh, well, 'twas o' Tuesday last—or was it Monday, miller?” “You told me Monday,” replied the miller. “Did I? Well, if I said Monday I sticks to it whatever may hap; for as ye know me, friends, I don't go back on my word, even though I be wrong, that being my way, so to speak, that came natural to me ever since poor father said to me——” But the revelation as to the terms of his father's discourse which had produced so lasting an impression upon him, was not to be made at that time; for before the slow farmer had spoken, the porch door was opened, and there appeared against the background of the spring green side of the little valley slope, the figure of a young girl, rather tall, wearing a cloak by the lined hood of which her pretty face was framed. “Hey,” cried the miller, “this be an improvement. After all we won't need your story, farmer.” “Your servant, Master Miller—gentlemen, I am your most obedient to command now as ever,” said the girl, dropping a curtsey first to the miller, then to his guests. “Oh, Master Hal, black but comely as usual, and rather more idle than usual. And Farmer Pendelly, too —fresh as a new-washed cherub on a tombstone. Master Pritchard, with his magic wand up his sleeve, I doubt not. I didn't know that you was entertaining a party, miller, or I—I——” “Don't tell us that you would ha' tarried, Nelly; that would be to pay a bad compliment to my company as well as to me,” said the miller. “I was about to say that I would have hurried, not tarried. Maybe I'll not tarry even now, in spite of the attractions you hold out, sir.” While she spoke the girl conveyed the impression of making another general curtsey to the company, though she had merely glanced around at them with an inclusive smile. She made a pretty pretence of drawing her cloak around her—she had thrown back the hood immediately after entering the room—and made a movement towards the door. “Don't you dare to think of fleeing, hussy,” said the miller. “If you was to flee just now, there's not one of us here that wouldn't hale thee back by the hair o' the head—and a nobler tow line couldn't be found.” He had put his arms about her and patted her hair, which was the lightest chestnut in colour, and shining like very fine unspun silk. “Hey, Nelly, where did ye pick up that head of hair, anyway? All your household be black as night,” he continued. “Where's the puzzle, sir?” said she, without a suggestion of sauciness. “I favour the night, too, only a moonlight night. My hair is the flash o' moonlight.” “The lass never was slack in speaking up for herself,” said the blacksmith. “True, friend Hal; but haven't I ever been moderate? Have I ever gone even half-way to describe my own charms?” said the girl with a mock seriousness that set everyone laughing—they roared when she looked at them more seriously still, as if reproving their levity. “I'll not stay here to be flouted,” she cried with a pout, giving the miller a pat on the cheek. “Ah, here comes Sue to protect me. Dear Sue, you come in good time. Tell these gentlemen that I haven't a red hair in my head, and as for its being good only to make towing lines of——” Here she broke down and fell sobbing into the arms of Susan Pendelly, a girl of about her own age, who had entered the room by the door that led to the parlour. For a few moments Susan was puzzled, for Nelly went through her piece of acting extremely well, but the laughter of the miller and the smith—the farmer and the water-finder were not quite sure, so they remained solemn—quickly let her know that Nelly was up to a prank, so she put her arms about her and pretended to soothe her, calling the men ill-mannered wretches, and shaking her fist at them. Susan was a little heavy and homely in her comedy. “Towing line indeed!” she said, looking indignantly over Nelly's bowed head at the men. “Towing line indeed! Why 'tis the loveliest hair in Cornwall.” “A towing line,” said her father, laughing. “A towing line that has drawn more craft in its wake than any twenty-oared galley of a man-o'-war. Oh, the poor fools that try to get a grip o' that towing line! Let me count them. First there was Spanish Roderick——” The girl lifted up her head from her friend's shoulder. L “Spanish Roderigo the first!” she cried. “Oh, miller, I did think that my reputation was safe in your keeping! Why, sir, there were three after me long before Roderigo showed his face at the Cove.” “I ask your pardon, madam; I did you an injustice; you began the towing business when you were twelve——” “Ten, miller—ten, if you love me. You would not accuse a simple girl of wasting her time.” “Once again, your pardon, miss. I'll make it nine, if so be that you wish.” “I have no wish in the matter, sir. I'm nought but a simple country wench with no wish but to be let live in peace.” “Tell us how many lads are dangling after you at the present moment, Nell—dangling like mackerel on the streamers?” “How could I possibly tell, sir? Do you suppose that my father knows to a fish how many mackerel are on his cast of streamers at any time? You should have more sense, miller. The most that I can speak for is the five that I angled for.” “The impudence of the girl! She allows that she angled for five!” “Miller, you would not have me treat them like trout and whip for them with a rod and a single hook. Oh, no, sir, that would not be worth the while. You see, miller, there are so many of them swimming about—and—and—well, life is brief.” “'Tis my belief, Nelly, that there's a hook on every hair of your head and a foolish lad wriggling on it.” “You compliment my fishing too highly, sir. If I thought that——” “Well, what would happen if you thought that, madam?” “Oh, well, I believe that I would e'en weave my hair into a reasonable fishing-net to save time and a diffusion of wriggling. There now, miller, we have had said the last word between us of this nonsense. I know what I am, and you know what I am—a healthy, wholesome country wench, that two or three lads think well of, and as many more think ill of—they don't get distraught about me on the one hand, and they don't have any particular enmity of me on the other hand. That's the way with all girls, even such as are black- browed, and hard-voiced, which no one has yet accused me of being, and I've walked seven miles from Porthawn within the two hours to give you my father's message about Rowan's corner, and when I've given it to you, I have to trudge back with a six-pound bag of your best seconds to keep us from starvation for a day or two.” “You'll not trudge back before the morning if I have any say in the matter,” cried the miller's daughter, catching up the other's cloak and throwing it over one arm. “Come hither, Nelly, and we'll have a chat in the parlour, like the well-to-do folk that we be; these men can have this place to themselves till the time comes to lay out supper.” “Supper! what good pixie made you say that word?” cried the other girl. “If you hadn't said it it would have clean gone from my mind that I brought with me a stale fish or two that was left over from our dinner on Sunday week. What a memory I lack, to be sure!” She picked up a rush basket which she had placed on the floor when she was taking off her cloak, and handed it to Susan. “You young rapparee!” said the miller. “Did it not cross your foolish pate that a basket of fish a week old and more is fully capable of betraying its presence without the need for a laboured memory?” “I know that that basket betrayed its presence to me more than once as it hung on my arm after the first three mile hither,” said the girl. “As I live'tis a seven-pound pink salmon, and 'twas swimming in the sea at noon this day,” said Susan when she had opened the basket. “She must ha' heard that we were supping at the mill this eve'n, and that I was of the company,” said the blacksmith. “Mistress Polwhele, my respects to you!” “Nay, Master Hal, had I known that you were to be of the company, the salmon would ha' been a fifteen-pounder at least—that is if I wanted any of the others to have a mouthful,” laughed the girl. She was out of the room before the blacksmith had ceased rattling his chair in his pretence of rising to carry out the menace he made with his fist when she was speaking. The miller and his guests watched in silence the door through which she had gone. “A bit of a change from Jake Pullsford, eh, friends!” remarked Hal. “That's what we needed sorely,” said the miller. CHAPTER III ife did not seem to be strenuous in the valley of the Lana, seven miles from the fishing village of Porthawn, and thirty from Falmouth, when the eighteenth century still wanted more than ten years of completing its first half. To be sure, the high road to Plymouth was not so very far away, and coaches with passengers and luggage flew daily across the little bridge of the Lana at the rate sometimes of as much as nine miles an hour; and the consciousness of this made the people of the village of Ruthallion think rather well of themselves—so at least the dwellers in the more remote parts of the region were accustomed to affirm. The generous were ready to allow that the most humble-minded of people would think well of themselves if they were so favourably situated in regard to the great world as to be able to get news from London only a few days old, simply by waiting at the turn of the Plymouth road until a coach came up. But of this privilege the people of that most scattered of all Cornish villages, Ruthallion, did not avail themselves to any marked extent, except upon occasions of great national importance; such as the achievement of a victory by King George's army in the Low Countries, or by the King's ships in the West Indies. In the latter case the news usually came from the Plymouth side of the high road. For the sober discussion of such news in all its bearings, it was understood that the Lana Mill, situated as it was in the valley within a few hundred yards of the village, and having a little causeway off the Porthawn road all to itself, occupied a most favourable position. There was no inn with a well-lighted bar-parlour within four miles of the place, and the miller was hospitable. He was said to be the inheritor of an important secret in regard to the making of cider, and it was no secret that his autumnal brew had a flavour that was unsurpassed by any cider produced in Cornwall, or (as some people said) in the very apple-core of Devonshire itself. Miller Pendelly was known to be a warm man in more senses than one. He had not only a considerable amount of property apart from the mill, which the unfailing waters of the Lana fed; he was a warm-hearted man, though one of the most discreet that could be imagined. When it was a charity to give, he gave freely, but he showed himself to be well aware of the fact that sometimes charity consists in withholding one's hand. He was not a man that could be easily imposed upon; though, like all shrewd people, he allowed three or four ne'er-do-wells to borrow from him—once. He talked of every such case with great bitterness on his tongue, but with a twinkle in his eye that assured his confidants that he knew what he was about. To rid the neighbourhood of an idle youth who was robbing an easy-going father, was surely worth the disbursement of five guineas; and the expatriation of a hard-drinking husband was not dear at six. He, himself, was a good husband to a good wife, and the father of a girl, who, though well favoured, was discreet—a girl who loved her home and all it contained better than she did any possible lover. The miller's friends were just equal in number to the inhabitants of the valley and of the villages of Porthawn and Ruthallion. Even the mother of the worthless youth who had disappeared with the five guineas, and the wife of the bibulous husband who had not returned after contracting his loan of six, became, in the course of time, his friends, and almost forgave him for his exercise of generosity. But among his neighbours there were none whom he met on such friendly terms as those to whom he turned with a side-nod of his head when the girls had gone. “They may spare their breath who would tell me that the ill-favoured ones are the best daughters,” said he. “I'll not be the first to advance that doctrine to the father of Susan Pendelly,” said the blacksmith. The miller laughed. “Sue was not in my thought,” he cried—“at least not when I spoke, though thinking of her now only makes me stronger in my opinion.'Twas the sight of t'other lass. Merry she be and with a sharp enough tongue, but was there ever a better daughter than Nelly Polwhele, tell me that, Hal?” “A fine salmon fish it be surely,” said the blacksmith. “Seven pounds, I'll wager, if 'tis an ounce.” “Out upon thee for a curmudgeon,” shouted the miller, giving the blacksmith a push of a vehemence so friendly that he with difficulty retained his place on the settee. “'Tis a mortal pity that so spirited a mare foal will be tamed sooner or later—that's the way with all female flesh whether well- favoured or black-a-vised,” remarked the farmer.. Richard Pritchard, who was the only single man present, shook his head with as great a show of gravity as if he had spent his life taming spirited things. His arrogance aroused his host. “And what are you that gives yourself airs, my man?” he cried. “What call has a worm of a bachelor to let his tongue wag on a matter that might well make owdacious fathers o' families keep dead silence? Richard Pritchard, my good man, this talk is not for such as thee. Thou beest a middling silent man by nature, Dick, and for that thou shouldst be thankful when wild words be flying abroad on household matters.” “I allow that I went too far, neighbour, though I call all to witness that I did not open my mouth to speak,” said the water-finder, with great humility. “You are aye over daring, though never all through immoral, Dick,” said the blacksmith gravely. “I allow that I earned reproof, friend,” said Richard.' “We all be human, and many have frail thought of high language, and a proud heart at the hope of wisdom and ancient learning. But I take reproof with no ill-feeling.” The miller roared at the success of his jest. “Richard Pritchard, if I didn't know you for a brave Welshman, I would take you for a Dorset dairyman that's so used to the touch o' butter they say it wouldn't melt in their mouths,” he cried when he found breath. At this point Mistress Pendelly bustled into the room, which was not the kitchen, but only a sort of business-room of the mill, with the message that supper would not be ready so soon as she could wish; the salmon steaks took their own time to cook, she affirmed, and expressed the hope that her friends would be able to hold out for another half hour. “Make no excuses, mother,” said her husband. “Why, good wife, the very sound of the frizzling will keep us alive in hope, and the smell that creeps through the crevices of the kitchen door is nigh as satisfying as a full meal in itself.” “Speak for yourself if you are so minded, miller,” cried Hal Holmes. “Sup off the sound of a frizzle mixed with the sniff of a well- greased pan, if you so please, but give me a flake or two o' salmon flesh, good mother, the pink o' the body just showing through the silver o' the scales. Oh, a lady born is your sea salmon with her pink complexion shining among the folds o' her silver lace!” “Ay, sir, better than that your praise should be, for the fish's beauty is more than skin deep,” said the housewife, as she stood with the kitchen door half open. The miller winked at his friends when she had disappeared. “Canst better that, Hal?” he enquired. “Vanity to try,” replied the blacksmith. “A man's good enough maybe for the catching o' a salmon, but it needs a woman's deft fingers to cook it. You see through my proverb, miller?” “It needs no spying glass, Hal,” said the miller. “The interpretation thereof is in purpose that it needs a woman's nimble wit to put a finishing touch to a simple man's discourse, howsoever well meant it may be. Eh, farmer?” “'Tis different wi' pilchards, as is only natural, seeing what sort of eating they be,” said the farmer shrewdly; he found that he had been wittier than he had any notion of being, and he added his loudest chuckles (when he had recovered from his surprise) to the roaring of the miller's laughter. It was Nelly Polwhele who demanded to be let into the secret of the merriment so soon as she had returned to the room with Susan, and when the miller told her, with an illuminating wink and a shrewd nod, she laughed in so musical a note with her hands uplifted that the farmer pursed out his lips in pride at his own wit. He was not without a hope that he might find out, in the course of the evening, wherein the point of it lay. Meantime Nelly was looking anxiously around the room. “What's gone wrong wi' the girl?” said the miller. “Oh, I see how things be: 'tis so long since she was here the place seems strange to her. Is't not so, Nelly?” “Partly, sir,” replied the girl. “But mainly I was looking to see where Mr. Pullsford was hiding. You can't be supping in good style and he absent.” “Give no heed to Mr. Pullsford, whether he be here or not; spend your time in telling us where you yourself have been hiding for the past month,” cried the miller. “She has not been hiding, she has been doing just the opposite—displaying herself to the fashionable world,” said Susan. “Hey, what's all this?” said the miller. “You don't mean to tell us that you've been as far as Plymouth?” “Plymouth, indeed! Prithee, where's the rank and fashion at Plymouth, sir?” cried Nelly. “Nay, sir, 'tis to the Bath I have been, as befits one in my station in life.” “The Bath?—never,” exclaimed the miller, while the girl, lifting up her dress with a dainty finger and thumb to the extent of an inch or two, went mincing past him down the room, followed by the eyes of the blacksmith and the others of the party. “'Tis in jest you speak, you young baggage—how would such as you ever get as far as the Bath?” “It sounds like a fancy freak, doth it not truly; and yet 'tis the sober truth,” said Nelly. “At the Bath I was, and there I kept for a full month, in the very centre core of all the grandest that the world has in store. I didn't find myself a bit out of place, I protest.” “Hear the girl!” exclaimed the miller. “She talks with the cold assurance of a lady of quality—not that I ever did meet with one to know; but—and the fun of it is that she wouldn't be out of place in the most extravagant company. Come, then, tell us how it came about. Who was it kidnapped thee?” And then the girl told how it was that Squire Trelawny's young ladies at Court Royal, having lost their maid, owing to her marrying in haste, asked her to take the young woman's place for a month or two until they should get suited. As she had always been a favourite with them, she had consented, and they had forthwith set out for the Bath with the Squire's retinue of chariots and horsemen, and there they had sojourned for a month. “'Tis, indeed, like a story o' pixies and their magic and the like,” said the miller. “I knew that the young ladies and you was ever on the best o' terms, but who could tell that it would come to such as this? And I'll wager my life that within a day and a night you could tire their hair and dust it wi' powder with the best of their ladyships' ladies. And, prithee, what saw you at the Bath besides the flunkies o' the quality?” “Oh, sir, ask me not to relate to you all that I saw and noted,” said the girl. “Every day of my life I said, 'What a place the world is to be sure!'” “And so it be,” said the farmer approvingly. “Oh, the rank and fashion, farmer, such as would astonish even you, and you are a travelled man,” said she. “Ay, I have been as wide afield as Falmouth on the west and Weymouth on the east,” said the farmer. “Ay, I know the world.” “Your travels have ever been the talk of the six parishes, sir,” said the girl. “But among all the strange people that have come-under your eyes, I'll warrant you there was none stranger than you might find at the Bath. Have you ever in your travels crossed ladies sitting upright in stumpy sentry boxes with a stout fellow bearing it along the streets, winging 'twixt the pair o' poles?” “Naught so curious truly; but I've seen honest and honourable men that had heard of such like,” said the farmer. “And to think that I saw them with these eyes, and link boys, when there was no moon, and concerts of music in the Cave of Harmony, night by night, and two gentlemen fighting in a field—this was by chance, and my lady passing in a chariot sent forth a shriek, so that one pistol exploded before its time, and the bullet graded a peaceful gentleman, who they said was a doctor of physic coming quick across the meadow, scenting a fee!” “Pity is 'twasn't a lawyer. I hoard the thought that in case o' a fight 'twixt friends, the lawyers hurry up as well as the doctors in hope of a job,” said the miller. “Well, you've seen the world a deal for one so young, Nelly,” he added. “And the concerts of singing and the assemblies and the beautiful polite dance which they call the minuet were as nought when placed alongside the plays in the playhouse,” cried Nelly. The miller became grave. “There be some who see a wicked evil in going to the playhouse,” he remarked, with a more casual air than was easy to him. “That I have heard,” said the girl. “They say that a part o' the playhouse is called the pit,” suggested the farmer. “Ay, I saw the name over the door at Plymouth, as it maybe did you, miller.” “And some jumped at the notion that that pit led to another of a bottomless sort?” said the girl. “Well, I don't say that'twas the remembrance of that only that drew me to the playhouse. I did get something of a shock, I allow, when my young ladies bade me attend them to the playhouse one night, but while I sought a fair excuse for 'biding at our lodging on the Mall, I found myself inventing excuses for obeying my orders, and I must say that I found it a good deal easier doing this than t'other.” “Ay, ay, I doubt not that—oh, no, we doubt it not,” cried the miller, shaking his head. Richard Pritchard shook his head also. “I found myself saying, 'How can the playhouse be a place of evil when my good young ladies, who are all that is virtuous, find it a pleasure to go?'” The miller shook his head more doubtfully than before. “I think that you left the service of your young ladies in good time,” muttered the miller. “Do not dare to say a word against them—against even Mistress Alice, who, I allow, hath a tantrum now and again, when the seamstress fails her in time or mode,” said the girl. “Of course when I reflected that I was but a servant, so to speak, and that my duty was to obey my mistresses, I would hesitate no longer. Duty is a virtue, sir, so I submitted without a complaint.” “Ay, you would do that,” murmured the blacksmith. “I said to myself——” “Oh,” groaned the miller. Nelly ignored the groan. She went on demurely from where she was interrupted. “I said to myself, 'Should there be evil in it none can hold me blameworthy, since I was only obeying the order of them that were set over me.' I went and I was glad that I went, for I saw no evil in word or act.” “I'm grieved to hear it, Nelly,” said the miller. “What, you are grieved to hear that I saw nothing of evil? Oh, sir!” “I mean that I don't like to think of a girl like thee in such a place, Nelly. But let's make the best of a bad matter and recount to us what you saw. It may be that by good fortune we may be able to find out the evil of it, so that you may shun it in future.” “Alack, I fear the chance will not come to me in the future,” said Nelly mournfully. “I trust not. Who was the actor that night, do you mind?” asked the miller. “Her name was Mistress Woffington, and now I mind that one of my ladies said that Mr. Long had told her that Mistress Woffington had been to dinner with the learned provost of Dublin College in Ireland—a parson and a scholar.” “Oh, an Irishman!” was the comment of the miller. “Let the girl be, miller,” said Hal Holmes. “She's making a brave fight in the way of excusing herself. Go thy gait, Nell; give us a taste of the quality of this Mistress Woffington.” “Oh, Hal, she is a beauty—I never thought that the world held such. The finest ladies of quality at the Bath, though they all copy her in her mode, are not fit to hold a candle to her. And her clothing and her modesty withal. They say she does the modest parts best of all.” “Ay, I've heard that the likes of her are best in parts that have the least in common with themselves,” murmured the miller. “Oh, to see her when she vowed that she would be true to her lover albeit that her ancient father, stamping about with a cudgel and a mighty wig, had promised her to a foolish fellow in yellow silk and an eyeglass with a long handle, and a foppish way of snuff-taking and a cambric handkerchief! La! how the lady made a fool of him under his very nose. This is Mistress Woffington: 'I protest, Sir, that I am but a simple girl, country bred, that is ready to sink into the earth at the approach of so dangerous a gentleman as your lordship.' And she make a little face at her true lover, who is getting very impatient, in blue and silver, at the other side of the room. 'Stap my vitals, madam,' lisps the jessamy, dangling his cane in this fashion—you should see them do it on the Mall—” She picked up a light broom that lay at the side of the hearth and made a very pretty swagger across the room with her body bent and her elbow raised in imitation of the exquisite of the period, quite unknown to Cornwall. “'Egad, my dear, for a country wench you are not without favour. To be sure, you lack the mode of the haut ton, but that will come to you in time if you only watch me—that is, to a certain extent. My lady, the Duchess says, “Charles is inimitable.” Ah, her Grace is a sad flatterer, 'fore Gad, but she sometimes speaks the truth.' 'What, Sir,' says the lady, 'do you think that in time I should catch some of your grand air? I beseech you, Sir, have pity on a poor simple maiden; do not raise false hopes in her breast.' 'Nay, pretty charmer, I do not dare to affirm that you will ever quite catch the full style —the air of breeding, so to speak; but you may still catch——' 'the smallpox, and faith, I think I would prefer it to him,' says Mrs. Woffington in a whisper, that all in the playhouse can hear. 'Eh, what's that?' lisps Mr. Floppington. 'Oh, sir, I was just saying that I fear I am sickening for the smallpox, which runs in our family as does the gout, only a deal faster.' 'Eh, what, what! keep away from me, girl, keep away, I tell you.' He retreats with uplifted hands; she follows him, with her own clasped, imploring him not to reject her. He waves his cane in front of her as if she was a bull ready to toss him. They both speak together, they run round the table, he springs upon the table, she tilts it over—down he goes crying, 'Murder—murder—stop her—hold her back!' He is on his feet again, his fine coat torn in half at the back. She catches at it and one whole side rips off in-her hand. He makes for the window—find...