The Delectable Duchy Part 9

"Fetch a ladder!" it said: "fetch a ladder! It's meself that's found ut, glory be to G.o.d! Holy queen av heaven! but me mouth is full av sand, an' it's burstin' I'll be if ye don't fetch a ladder quick!"

They brought a ladder and set it against the mound. Three of the men climbed up. At the top they found a big round hole, from the lip of which they sc.r.a.ped the sand away, discovering a patch of s.h.i.+ngle roof, through which St. Piran--whose weight had increased of late--had broken and tumbled heels over head into his own church.

Three hours later there appeared on the eastern sky-line, against the yellow blaze of the morning, a large cavalcade that slowly p.r.i.c.ked its way over the edge and descended the slopes of Newlyn Downs. It was the Visitation. In the midst rode St. Petroc, his crozier tucked under his arm, astride a white mule with scarlet ear-ta.s.sels and bells and a saddle of scarlet leather. He gazed across the sands to the sea, and turned to St. Neot, who towered at his side upon a flea-bitten grey.

"The parish seems to be deserted," said he: "not a man nor woman can I see, nor a trace of smoke above the chimneys."

St. Neot tightened his thin lips. In his secret heart he was mightily pleased.

"Eight in the morning," he answered, with a glance back at the sun.

"They'll be all abed, I'll warrant you."

St. Petroc muttered a threat.

They entered the village street. Not a soul turned out at their coming. Every cottage door was fast closed, nor could any amount of knocking elicit an answer or entice a face to a window. In gathering wrath the visiting saints rode along the sea-sh.o.r.e to St. Piran's small hut.

Here the door stood open: but the hut was empty. A meagre breakfast of herbs was set out on the table, and a brand new scourge lay somewhat ostentatiously beside the platter. The visitors stood nonplussed, looked at each other, then eyed the landscape. Between barren sea and barren downs the beach stretched away, with not a human shape in sight. St. Petroc, choking with impotent wrath, appeared to study the hollow green breakers from between the long ears of his mule, but with quick sidelong glances right and left, ready to jump down the throat of the first saint that dared to smile.

After a minute or so St. Enodar suddenly turned his face inland, and held up a finger.

"Hark!" he shouted above the roar of the sea.

"What is it?"

"It sounds to me," said St. Petroc, after listening for some moments with his head on one side, "it sounds to me like a hymn."

"To be sure 'tis a hymn," said St. Enodar, "and the tune is 'Mullyon,'

for a crown." And he pursed up his lips and followed the chant, beating time with his forefinger--

_When, like a thief, the Midianite Shall steal upon the camp, O, let him find our armour bright, And oil within our lamp!_"

"But where in the world does it come from?" asked St. Neot.

This could not be answered for the moment; but the saints turned their horses' heads from the sea, and moved slowly on the track of the sound, which at every step grew louder and more distinct.

"_It is at no appointed hours, It is not by the dock, That Satan, grisly wolf, devours The unprotected flock_"

The visitors found themselves at the foot of an enormous sand-hill, from the top of which the chant was pouring as lava from a crater.

They set their ears to the sandy wall. They walked round it, and listened again.

"_But ever prowls th' insidious foe, And listens round the fold_"

This was too much. St. Petroc smote twice upon the sand-hill with his crozier, and shouted--

"Hi, there!"

The chant ceased. For at least a couple of minutes nothing happened; and then St. Piran's bald head was thrust cautiously forward over the summit.

"Holy St. Petroc! Was it only you, after all? And St. Neot--and St.

Udy O, glory be!"

"Why, who did you imagine we were?" St. Petroc asked, still in amazement.

"Why, throat-cutting Danes, to be sure, by the way you were comin'

over the hills when we spied you, three hours back. An' the trouble we've had to cover up our blessed church out o' sight of thim marautherin' thieves! An' the intire parish gathered inside here an'

singin' good-by songs in expectation of imminent death! An' to think 'twas you holy men, all the while! But why didn't ye send word ye was comin', St. Petroc, darlint? For it's little but sand ye'll find in your mouths for breakfast, I'm thinkin'."

IN THE TRAIN.

I.--PUNCH'S UNDERSTUDY.

The first-cla.s.s smoking compartment was the emptiest in the whole train, and even this was hot to suffocation, because my only companion denied me more than an inch of open window. His chest, he explained curtly, was "susceptible." As we crawled westward through the glaring country, the sun's rays reverberated on the carriage roof till I seemed to be crushed under an anvil, counting the strokes. I had dropped my book, and was staring listlessly out of the window. At the other end of the compartment my fellow-pa.s.senger had pulled down the blinds, and hidden his face behind the _Western Morning News_. He was a red and choleric little man of about sixty, with a protuberant stomach, a prodigious nose, to which he carried snuff about once in two minutes, and a marked deformity of the shoulders. For comfort--and also, perhaps, to hide this hump--he rested his back in the angle by the window. He wore a black alpaca coat, a high stock, white waistcoat, and trousers of shepherd's plaid. On these and a few other trivial details I built a lazy hypothesis that he was a lawyer, and unmarried.

Just before entering the station at Lostwithiel, our train pa.s.sed between the white gates of a level crossing. A moment before I had caught sight of the George drooping from the church spire, and at the crossing I saw it was regatta-day in the small town. The road was thick with people and lined with sweet-standings; and by the near end of the bridge a Punch-and-Judy show had just closed a performance. The orchestra had unloosed his drum, and fallen to mopping the back of his neck with the red handkerchief that had previously bound the panpipes to his chin. A crowd still loitered around, and among it I noted several men and women in black--ugly stains upon the pervading suns.h.i.+ne.

The station platform was cram-full as we drew up, and it was clear at once that all the carriages in the train would be besieged, without regard to cla.s.s. By some chance, however, ours was neglected, and until the very last moment we seemed likely to escape. The guard's whistle was between his lips when I heard a shout, then one or two feminine screams, and a company of seven or eight persons came charging out of the booking-office. Every one of them was apparelled in black: they were, in fact, the people I had seen gaping at the Punch-and-Judy show.

In a moment one of the men tore open the door of our compartment, and we were invaded. One--two--four--six--seven--in they poured, tumbling over my legs, panting, giggling inanely, exhorting each other to hurry--an old man, two youths, three middle-aged women, and a little girl about four years old. I heard a fierce guttural sound, and saw my fellow-pa.s.senger on his feet, choking with wrath and gesticulating.

But the guard slammed the door on his resentment, and the train moved on. As it gathered speed he fell back, all purple above his stock, s.n.a.t.c.hed his malacca walking-cane from under the coat-tails of a subsiding youth, stuck it upright between his knees, and glared round upon the intruders. They were still possessed with excitement over their narrow escape, and unconscious of offence. One of the women dropped into the corner seat, and took the little girl on her lap. The child's dusty boots rubbed against the old gentleman's trousers. He s.h.i.+fted his position, grunted, and took snuff furiously.

"That was nibby-jibby," observed the old man of the party, while his eyes wandered round for a seat.

"I declare I thought I should ha' died," panted a robust-looking woman with a wart on her cheek, and a yard of c.r.a.pe hanging from her bonnet.

"Can't 'een find nowhere to sit, uncle?"

"Reckon I must make s.h.i.+ft 'pon your lap, Susannah."

This was said with a chuckle, and the woman t.i.ttered.

"What new-fang'd game be this o' the Great Western's? Arms to the seats, I vow. We'll have to sit intimate, my dears."

"'Tis First Cla.s.s," one of the young men announced in a chastened whisper: "I saw it written on the door."

There was a short silence of awe.

"Well!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Susannah: "I thought, when first I sat down, that the cus.h.i.+ons felt extraordinary plum. You don't think they'll fine us?"

"It all comes of our stoppin' to gaze at that Punch-an'-Judy," the old fellow went on, after I had shown them how to turn back the arm-seats, and they were settled in something like comfort. "But I never _could_ refrain from that antic, though I feels condemned too, in a way, an'

poor Thomas laid in earth no longer ago than twelve noon. But in the midst of life we are in death."

"I don't remember a more successful buryin'," said the woman who held the little girl.

"That was partly luck, as you may say, it bein' regatta-day an' the fun o' the fair not properly begun. I counted a lot at the cemetery I didn' know by face, an' I set 'em down for excursionists, that caught sight of a funeral, an' followed it to fill up the time."

"It all added."