Delphi Collected Works of Richard Marsh (Illustrated)

By Richard Bernard Heldman and Richard Marsh

Richard Marsh, best-selling author of the late 19th century and Edwardian period, is best known for his supernatural novel ‘The Beetle’, which initially outsold Bram Stoker's ‘Dracula’. Marsh produced nearly 80 volumes of novels and short stories, in genres including horror, crime, romance and humour; recently the rediscovered works of this ‘lost author’ have attracted increased attention. Presenting the largest collection of Marsh’s works ever compiled, this comprehensive eBook features numerous illustrations, rare novels and tales and concise introductions. (Version 1)

* Beautifully illustrated with images relating to Marsh’s life and works
* Concise introductions to the novels and other texts
* 26 novels, with individual contents tables
* Features rare novels appearing for the first time in digital publishing
* Images of how the books were first published, giving your eReader a taste of the original texts
* Excellent formatting of the texts
* Rare horror and thriller novels and tales
* Special chronological and alphabetical contents tables for the short stories
* Easily locate the short stories you want to read
* Scholarly ordering of texts into chronological order and literary genres

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CONTENTS:

The Novels
THAT MASTER OF OURS
DAINTREE
THE DEVIL’S DIAMOND
THE MYSTERY OF PHILIP BENNION’S DEATH
THE CRIME AND THE CRIMINAL
THE DUKE AND THE DAMSEL
THE BEETLE: A MYSTERY
TOM OSSINGTON’S GHOST
THE DATCHET DIAMONDS
THE WOMAN WITH ONE HAND AND MR ELY’S ENGAGEMENT
THE CHASE OF THE RUBY
THE GODDESS: A DEMON
A HERO OF ROMANCE
A SECOND COMING
ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS
THE JOSS: A REVERSION
THE TWICKENHAM PEERAGE
THE MAGNETIC GIRL
MISS ARNOTT’S MARRIAGE
A DUEL
A SPOILER OF MEN
THE CONFESSIONS OF A YOUNG LADY
A WOMAN PERFECTED
THE COWARD BEHIND THE CURTAIN
VIOLET FORSTER’S LOVER
THE MASTER OF DECEPTION

The Shorter Fiction
FRIVOLITIES
THE SEEN AND THE UNSEEN
AMUSEMENT ONLY
BETWEEN THE DARK AND THE DAYLIGHT
UNDER ONE FLAG
JUDITH LEE: SOME PAGES FROM HER LIFE
SAM BRIGGS: HIS BOOK
THE ADVENTURES OF JUDITH LEE
SAM BRIGGS V.C.

The Short Stories
LIST OF SHORT STORIES IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER
LIST OF SHORT STORIES IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Delphi Classics
• Release date: Nov 19, 2016
• ISBN: 9781786560599

Book preview

The Collected Works of

RICHARD MARSH

(1857-1915)

Contents

The Novels

THAT MASTER OF OURS

DAINTREE

THE DEVIL’S DIAMOND

THE MYSTERY OF PHILIP BENNION’S DEATH

THE CRIME AND THE CRIMINAL

THE DUKE AND THE DAMSEL

THE BEETLE: A MYSTERY

TOM OSSINGTON’S GHOST

THE DATCHET DIAMONDS

THE WOMAN WITH ONE HAND AND MR ELY’S ENGAGEMENT

THE CHASE OF THE RUBY

THE GODDESS: A DEMON

A HERO OF ROMANCE

A SECOND COMING

ADA VERNHAM, ACTRESS

THE JOSS: A REVERSION

THE TWICKENHAM PEERAGE

THE MAGNETIC GIRL

MISS ARNOTT’S MARRIAGE

A DUEL

A SPOILER OF MEN

THE CONFESSIONS OF A YOUNG LADY

A WOMAN PERFECTED

THE COWARD BEHIND THE CURTAIN

VIOLET FORSTER’S LOVER

THE MASTER OF DECEPTION

The Shorter Fiction

FRIVOLITIES

THE SEEN AND THE UNSEEN

AMUSEMENT ONLY

BETWEEN THE DARK AND THE DAYLIGHT

UNDER ONE FLAG

JUDITH LEE: SOME PAGES FROM HER LIFE

SAM BRIGGS: HIS BOOK

THE ADVENTURES OF JUDITH LEE

SAM BRIGGS V.C.

The Short Stories

LIST OF SHORT STORIES IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER

LIST OF SHORT STORIES IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER

The Delphi Classics Catalogue

© Delphi Classics 2016

Version 1

The Collected Works of

RICHARD MARSH

By Delphi Classics, 2016

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COPYRIGHT

Collected Works of Richard Marsh

First published in the United Kingdom in 2016 by Delphi Classics.

© Delphi Classics, 2016.

All rights reserved.  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form other than that in which it is published.

ISBN: 9781786560599

Cover illustration: Nightfall on the Thames by John Atkinson Grimshaw, 1880; Leeds City Art Gallery.

Delphi Classics

is an imprint of

Delphi Publishing Ltd

Hastings, East Sussex

United Kingdom

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www.delphiclassics.com

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The Novels

St John’s Wood, North-West London — Richard Bernard Heldmann, more familiar under his pseudonym Richard Marsh, was born at 23 Adelaide Road in 1857.

Hammersmith, London, in late Victorian times — Marsh moved to Hammersmith with his parents after bankruptcy forced his father to accept a post as a schoolmaster.

Marsh began his writing career under his real name, Bernard Heldmann, writing adventure and school stories for boys’ papers like Union Jack – a paper for which he served as a sub-editor until 1893

THAT MASTER OF OURS

This novel was published anonymously in 1908. The story revolves around a schoolmaster that arrives in a small coastal village, where he suffers terrible persecutions for his religious mania. Despite this, he finds popularity among the boys of the local school — and a final act of heroism ultimately wins over the adult population as well.

The novel is an interesting example of both Marsh’s complex literary identity and his canny knowledge of the literary marketplace. His first pieces of fiction (both novels and short stories) had been published during the 1880’s under his real name – Bernard Heldmann. These had been stories of schoolboy life and adventure written with a young audience in mind and were often serialised in boys’ magazines before being published in book form. Later, Heldmann changed his name to Richard Marsh under which name he penned a vast quantity of popular fiction in an equally large range of genres. The reason for this change of name was Heldmann’s imprisonment, in 1884, for forging cheques – a crime for which he received a sentence of eighteen months’ hard labour. After his release, a new literary identity was required to avoid the taint of his criminal past.

Despite being published anonymously, however, this novel of 1908 is attributed to ‘the author of Dorrincourt, Boxall School, Expelled, etc.’ – all novels published more than two decades earlier under the name ‘Bernard Heldmann’. It would appear that Marsh wished to remind readers of his expertise as a writer of boys’ stories, whilst also continuing to distance himself from the name of Heldmann.

CONTENTS

BOOK I. WHY HE CAME

CHAPTER I

CHAPTER II

CHAPTER III

CHAPTER IV

CHAPTER V

CHAPTER VI

CHAPTER VII

CHAPTER VIII

CHAPTER IX

BOOK II. WHAT HE DID

CHAPTER X

CHAPTER XI

CHAPTER XII

CHAPTER XIII

CHAPTER XIV

CHAPTER XV

CHAPTER XVI

CHAPTER XVII

CHAPTER XVIII

BOOK III. HOW HE WENT

CHAPTER XIX

CHAPTER XX

CHAPTER XXI

CHAPTER XXII

CHAPTER XXIII

CHAPTER XXIV

CHAPTER XXV

CHAPTER XXVI

CHAPTER XXVII

A Victorian schoolroom, like the one featured in the story; it was in this environment that Marsh’s father was employed as a schoolmaster. His experiences may have influenced Marsh’s early writing as Bernard Heldmann.

BOOK I. WHY HE CAME

It was now dark, and Jesus had not come to them.

CHAPTER I

THE PROLOGUE TO THE STORY

BOYS were boys then, and queer things at the best of it. You tell me that they are boys now! Aye, but I tell you that they were boys then — you’ll never see the like of them again; you’ll never have the turbulent, topsy-turvy spirits which drove this parish to its wits’ ends, the recklessness, the carelessness, the utter disregard of punishment; and punishment was punishment in those days too. But wait a bit, and you’ll hear all about it.

I am speaking now of 1745. I never was much of a hand at dates, and it might have been’46 or’47, but what fixes’45 in my mind is that that was the year of the Great Rebellion; and I mind well that down in our parts we were all in a ferment long after it was over and done. Not that we had any fighting, not we — we had fighting, and that I’m coming to, but it was not fighting for the King; and when I say we hadn’t any fighting I mean that we never struck a blow either for King or Young Chevalier. Because, you see, down in Cornwall it was as though we were alone, as though we were cut off from all the rest of England, and there was many a law made and observed in Cornwall which they knew nothing of in the next shire. We were restless too with strangers, and jealous of their coming; and any one who interfered with us, or busied himself with our affairs, he was a lucky man if he got back safe and whole to the place from whence he came. I tell you we were a rare and a restless people, and wild and desperate, and it was up with your hand and down with your man whenever a contrary word was spoken. Cornwall now and Cornwall then — why, it’s like the difference between hot and cold; and you may think I lie, but it’s true every word of it, when I tell you of what happened in my time.

Redruth was my town. I don’t know that it has altered much since then — at least, not outside; it wasn’t much to look at then, and it isn’t now. The winding High Street, up and down the hill, as though you climbed a mountain-top, the bare stone houses on either side of it, Carn Brea frowning down upon the right — these things were then just as they are now; and though you might not think it, it was busy even then, and there was money in the town, and passing through it, and spreading out into all the corners of the world — for all we were so clannish Redruth money went far and wide; and there were warm men then as now, and men who were warm one day and cold and with empty pockets on the next, for speculation was as rife in those days as ever it has been since, and what was called gambling too; and as the standards went up or down, and the yield of tin was heavier or lighter, and the markets flat or buoyant, so were men’s hearts and faces — up or down, light or heavy, flat or buoyant, just according as it was with tin.

My father was captain of a mine, the Norwath (the Great Norwath mine); it’s young now, but it was old then, for a few years more or less makes little difference to such a mine as that, for I have heard tell that they were working at that mine even before the great and blessed day on which Christ was born. My father came from an old Cornish stock, as old almost, I have heard him say, as this mine; and all of them, fathers and sons, and sometimes mothers and daughters too, had been miners, and had had something to do with mines, since the time when first they were. He was a type of a class of men now gone. I am not here to say a word against my father, and sorrow be on the lads or on the lasses who have nothing good to say of those who gave them birth; and I mean no disrespect to him when I say he was one of a class of men common enough in those parts in those days, but whose days have now gone for ever.

For everything has changed since then. Why, I stand on my little hill in Cornwall, and I see upon the right or upon the left, and sometimes upon either hand of me, buildings raised to the praise and the glory of God, and in those days I believe you could have counted the churches in all the county upon the fingers of your hands, and there was hardly one of them with more than a dozen worshippers upon the Sabbath.

He was a strong man, my father, tall and strong, with a black beard which reached almost down to his waist; a passionate man, a man who in his passion would stop at nothing. He has flung me from him as good as dead many a time from the beating he has given me; and there would come a look into his eyes which I used to dread — aye, how I used to dread it; and there were few things, let me tell you, which I used to dread in the days when I was young. He was a Cornishman, he was, to the backbone — it was his perpetual boast; and if one listened to his creed of all the strange things in human nature a Cornishman was pretty well the strangest; a Cornishman would drink, and fight, and swear; a Cornishman would scorn all parsons and all psalm-singing; a Cornishman would train his dogs to fight, and kill them if they happened to be beaten; it was a word and a blow with him; it was a lifting up on high of the strength and muscles of a man. A weakling was a fool with him, a scholar a madman, a gentle and though pure yet a timid soul an idiot. He had scant respect for any qualities of a man but those of his hand or of his arm. He who could thrash a couple single-handed — that was the man for him; he who could drink strong drink all night and yet sit straight in his seat when morning dawned — that was the man for him; swiftness of foot, quickness of eye, strength of arm, deftness of hand, these were manly attributes with him. Goliath was his hero; he would have been with those who laughed at David.

But, mind you, with all this you must not think my father was naught but a bear or a brute — far otherwise; in knowledge of metals he was far in advance of others then; his fame as a man wise in the secrets of the rocks was spread throughout the county; he could tell at a glance if a lode was worth the working, or if it was but a blind. He was a just man, a man who scorned to tell a lie, and was ashamed of debt; he was a brave man, his principles were strange, some of them, but such as they were he stood up for them through good report and evil; his duty was to him more sacred than his life; he was ever at his post, he would at any moment face death to save another. I have heard men talk with bated breath of the gallant deeds he did: how, with the waters in the mine, or foul gases burning, he had gone down alone and borne up more men than one upon his back; and there was a story told of a great and mighty storm, in which a vessel, being in sore distress off Godrevy rocks, he with two others had gone out in a little cockleshell of a boat and piloted the ship to a safe anchorage, and that despite the wreckers with their false lights burning on the cliffs to lure it to destruction; for of all those bred and born upon the sea few knew the tides and currents, shoals and sandbanks, of that dread coast better than did he, and he held it scorn that any sought to snare a vessel to its undoing for the sake of gain.

Now my father’s name was Thomas — Captain Peter Thomas — and the names of those two who went with him in the boat that night were Jonathan Reddy and Stephen Pengellick; they three were sworn friends, and by reason of their strength were known as the Three Strong Men of Cambrea, being, each man of them, born under the shadow of this hill. I was my father’s only son — Young Peter Thomas I was called, to know me from my father, who was Captain Peter. I had a sister, Ellen. There were no more of us in family, since my mother died the day that I was born, so that I never knew a mother’s voice, nor was I ever strengthened by a mother’s care. They tell me I was a giant even as a boy, and I can believe it well, else had I not been my father’s son; a boy there was no taming, a boy of boys, for ever since the day when first I crawled I had been, to all intents and purposes, and save on rare occasions, my own father and mother too; for there was none in whom I could confide, none to whom I could come in trouble, none, so far as I knew, who loved me in all the wide, wide world but Ellen, for boys and girls were not known to my father’s philosophy.

Not, mind you, that I wanted love or confidant, or one to whom to come in time of trouble; not I, I was too strong, too independent, too true a boy to want such things as that — they were for fools and women, and of no account at all to me. We were boys together; and what a set we were! If the men were strange and wild and headstrong in their ways, what were the lads, and, mark you, sometimes the lasses too? I doubt if ever such a set was known before; and if you bear in mind the wild, stern land, the bare, bleak country, the rugged, sagged cliffs and rocks, the furious and mighty seas, the separation from all the world besides, the sort of life we lived, the nature of the influences brought to bear upon us, the customs to which we were bred up, the traditions amidst which we moved and had our being, the standard of living which was handed down to us, you will not find it wonderful that we were what we were. If aught went wrong, sure, it was the boys; if any trick was played, it was the brats; in any mischief that was done the lads must have their shares.

There was hardly one of us who was not already as much his own master as if he were twice as old; we were free, and knew no government; few cared what we did, or how we did it; we were like young colts turned out upon the hills to graze. It was only now and then that the reins were tightened, or that we felt the curb; only when some mischance brought us in too particular a manner under our elders’ eyes that we woke to the stern truth that there were after all some to whom we owed submission; and just such a mischance had happened when my tale begins. No less a mischance than the burning of a witch out of house and home; for there were witches in those days, or we believed there were, and every hill had its own legend, and every dale its tale of mysteries.

Those were the days of fairies, of sprites, of visions from the dead, of things unseen, who had their dwellings in trunks of trees, or who crouched beneath the shadow of the mantel, working for us mortals strange spells for good or ill; of charms and incantations, and all that variety of magic-lore which even wisdom held in reverent respect.

She was an aged crone, withered and shrivelled up; bent double beneath the weight of many years; with hair upon her chin, and tangled locks untended by the comb hanging careless down her back. By Zunny Waters was her home, a little hut close to the mill, and when the rains were at the full the waters would rise up and trespass in her dwelling, while she, poor soul! would sit and watch them with helpless, frightened eyes, and moan and sigh lest they should bear her home away. So came Steve to me one day; it was the end of summer, and autumn tints were turning nature sober with their wealth of russet brown.

Peter, said he, what have you to do this afternoon?

Nothing, said I, which indeed was all I had to do, not on that afternoon alone, but, for the matter of that, on most days of the week besides.

Then, said he, let’s take vengeance on the witch; she’ll be the death of us if we’re not quick; there’s Tommy Rosewarne fallen from a tree and broke his arm, and all because she laid her curse on him; don’t you remember she said evil would be his lot, and all because he knocked her crutch from under her, and left her lying on the road; think of Tommy falling from a tree — he who never tumbled down before.

And that was true enough; it was as Steve said, she had laid her curse on him, and not on him alone, but on many more of us, and indeed she had been more than mortal had she done otherwise, for we were to her what were the plagues to Egypt, more than she could bear. She was a witch; we had settled that among us; we knew she was a witch because she was so old and ugly, and lived alone, and knew no happiness in life; and since she was a witch we did no harm in using her as one. We stole her crutch, without which she could not move even from her chair; we cut it dexterously in the middle so that when she leant on it it brought her with it to the ground; we drowned her cat, the accomplice of her crimes; we stuffed rubbish down her chimney, so that she came near to choke with smoke; we took the door from off the hinges, so that she lay open to all comers; we stole her firewood, so that in the winter she was well-nigh frozen dead with cold; we knocked holes in her kettle and her pan so that they would hold no water; in short we played all the tricks which were right and proper to play upon a witch; and in return she showered curses on our heads.

And here had Tommy Rosewarne, because of them, fallen from a tree and broke his arm. Surely here was proof she was a witch. That was plain enough; we lads saw it with half an eye, and we came together in a crowd and declared that vengeance should be taken on her for her crime.

She ought to burn! she ought to burn! we cried; but since we had not arrived in action so far as that, and since, seemingly, the time had not yet come for her to burn, we decided that we would burn her out of house and home instead.

The place will just burn like a stack of hay, said Steve; it will flare up as though it were made of tinder; it will be the best bonfire ever we have had — we’ll burn the witch out of her hole.

For my part, said Ben Trelyat — he was short, and thick, and dark, and taciturn was Ben, not fond of many words, of a temper cold yet passionate, of a nature we could not understand; he had no bosom friend, for none could find him out; he studied books, and wrote as writes a clerk; he had a thirst for books and would beg or borrow means to buy them; he was not one to quarrel with, and we had known him kill a dog that once was not obedient to his word, and when we fell out with him for his severity, It is a kindness I have done, he said, it were better he should die, and he turned and left us, unable to find out the meaning of his words — and now, For my part, he said, I would burn her in her hole; it would be pleasant sport to see her burn; almost as pleasant sport for her as us.

We looked at him, not knowing whether to laugh or not, but there was no sign upon his face, which was, as it nigh always was, grave and quiet.

But Steve said, It would not do, if she were burnt we should hear of it again; better wait till she is fairly tried for witchcraft — it cannot be long that we shall have to wait — that will be the time to burn her then.

So we all agreed; it would not be well to burn her on our own account; it might go ill with us if it were noised abroad; better wait for a fair trial and a public burning.

It was that night we burned her out of house and home; there was a host of us, thirty perhaps, or more; and we had all declared that we would have a finger in the pie. It was a night as dark as any we had had; there was no moon, and the stars seemed faint and distant; clouds were here and there, and there was a wind which swept them fast across the heavens.

This is just the sort of wind we want, said Steve, to fan the flames.

And so it was, for never saw I flames burn more merrily. Save for us the place was lone and solitary as the grave; I doubt if we had ever had the courage to venture on so dark a night in so desolate a place, and in such close neighbourhood to the witch’s dwelling, had there not been so large a company of us. The trees overhead awed us, the stream stole by with sullen murmurs, the hills rose high on either side of us; it was no cheerful trysting-place at so gloomy and so sullen a season.

Is she abed? asked one, as we approached with doubtful and cautious steps, even though we were so large a band.

I think she is, said Steve, all’s still; it’s eight o’clock, and she sleeps with the sun.

If she sleeps, said Ben, we will not rouse her, it were a shame to wake her on so cold a night; where would she go but out into the air? and that at her years would chill her to the bones.

All were silent; no one had a word to say to Ben; why should she not burn? it was only a little sooner, for the measure of her crimes was full, and surely they would burn her ere the year were older; we did not wish to burn her, but if she chose to still sleep on while the place was all in flames whose fault was that but hers? So no one took it on himself to wake her.

Pile the sticks up on one side, said Steve, who was the leader through it all; throw them in one heap; heap them up until they reach the roof — they shall all blaze off together.

Each of us had his arms full of sticks and heather and brushwood, the whole as dry as it would be; in silence first one threw down his heap, then another his on that, then all the rest till there was a great stack reaching almost to the cottage roof. The hut — for hut it was rather than cottage since it but contained one room — was all built of wood; indeed it was nothing but a bam; and the wood from age was dry as tinder, so that there could be no doubt as to whether it would or would not burn.

Are you ready? asked Steve, when the pile was made. We all said that we were. Let no one make a noise; it is not for us to rouse her from her sleep — who are we to do even a witch so ill a turn? get back under the shadow of the trees — it will not do to be too plainly seen.

We did his bidding, and went back to where the shadow of the trees made the place beneath so black you could not see your hand held out before your face. He alone remained close to the hut; stooping, tinder-box held in his hand, he struck a light, while we held our breath and watched him; once it went out, and then again; the third time the sparks fell on a little heap of tindery grass which he had previously prepared; with his hands he shaded them, he fanned them with his breath; for an instant they lay dormant, then burst into a blaze; the heap of grass was all ablaze; fanned by the wind the flames passed on, they caught the brushwood, from the brushwood passed to the thicker sticks. It was like a dream. A moment back and all was dark; now the lurid glare made it lighter than the day. It was a splendid blaze.

The house has not got caught, said one; what if the pile burns out before it catches?

No fear of that, said Steve; wait a bit and she’ll be roasting in her own fire.

He was right, there was no fear of such an accident; for even as he spoke we saw that the wood at that side where we were standing glowed red hot, and quickly it too had burst into a flame. Yes, it was indeed a splendid blaze! So swiftly did it burn that scarcely had it begun to be alight than it was all one furious fire.

It warms one, said Steve.

And that it did; it was chilly standing there, and it put life into our veins. It was exciting too; as it burned and blazed our blood rose up and our spirits with it; we smiled, and rubbed our hands, which before were cold, and were all agog to shout.

It burns too fast, said Ben, in that grave, cold voice of his, so that you could never tell if he meant jest or earnest, the pleasure will be short; she will burn before she has time to find her crutch.

But he was wrong; for, even as he spoke, there rose a shriek out of the burning hut; not one shriek but many, one after the other, swiftly treading on each other’s heels; they ring in my ears sometimes still; the cries of one in mortal agony of mind and body; it was the witch burning in the hut. We listened, as we could not help but do; we looked into each other’s faces; we had not bargained quite for that; we had not supposed that she would scream.

I wish, said Steve, and there was a tremble in his voice, that we had roused her.

It was too late for that; the flames had done that for us. The hut tottered to its foundations; it would quickly fall, and the witch would be buried in the ruins. My blood boiled within me, and a great fury burned within my heart. I had not supposed that I should feel like that; but while I hesitated one sprung from among us, and while the roof and walls fell in as falls a house of cards, leaped into the flames. It was Ben. That same moment some one came from behind and laid a hand on Steve’s shoulder and on mine; startled, we turned — it was the miller from the mill.

CHAPTER II

MILLER TRUIN

Now it was the miller’s hut which we had burned; we had not thought of that. In our haste we had not remembered that it was he allowed the witch to dwell in it free from rent. Nicholas Truin was the miller’s name; scarcely a Cornishman although of Cornish birth, for most of his life he had lived in cities and in far quarters of the world. He had been a wild one, so men said, and a rover too; be that how it may, back he had come to the place where he was born and taken to the mill which had been his father’s once, and built it up again, so that it was a better mill now than it had ever been. But he was not like his neighbours, and they were few who found him to their liking. He would not drink, he would not fight, he would not swear; he was a milksop said some, he was a cur said others; so poor a sample of a man, they all agreed, was not fit to grind their corn!

If any one, said Bull Trelyat — his name was Benjamin and he was the father of our Ben, but they called him Bull for certain reasons— sends his com to him to grind I’ll put him down with Train and foot them both together — they’ll be fit company! A psalm-singing, snivelling gawk! he’s a disgrace to all these parts — what shall we be coming to if we have many more like him? His father was the sort to call a man; go to church on Sunday! — why, he’d fight more mains on Sunday than in all the week besides — he always kept the best of his cocks for then. Talk of parsons! if any parson had talked to him, that parson would have had to fight or else to run; not that I say anything against parsons in the lump, for there are some of them as good as any souls alive.

It was in the market-place he said it, and the Rev. William Wilkins of St. Stithians happened to be standing by; so Bull slapped him on the back, and stretched out his hand, crying, Give me your hand, Will, my lad, for you’ve the blood for me. And the Rev. William gave him his hand, laughing, and they shook hands upon it amid the applause of those around.

Now the story of what Bull said and how he said it, came, as such stories are apt to do, and as perhaps Bull meant that it should do, to the miller’s ears. The miller was neither tall nor broad, but short and slight in build, with a thin, dark face and short brown beard, very quiet in look and manner, and one whom you would have said you would have twisted round your finger like a child. Bull was in strength and build and nature bovine; as bad-tempered as a bull and as obstinate as one; a huge man, who, in his cups, little recked what he did or who he did it to; the terror of quiet people, held in respect by all who did not wish to be continually at strife. The word of such a man to some extent was law; and when it was known that those who sent their com to Miller Train’s would have hard words if nothing more from Bull not a few people ceased to send it.

It was the second market-day after Bull had expressed his opinion of the miller. It was a pleasant day, and there were many there. Bull stood in the centre of a crowd talking, as was his wont, with this one and with that, when on a sudden there was a noise behind, and that hum which rises in a crowd when anything strange is happening. Bull was the last to notice it, and it was not until some one touched him on the shoulder that he learned he was the observed of all observers. Turning, he saw the miller standing by his side.

I want a word with you, the miller said.

As many as you please, and as few as well, was Bull’s reply.

It is not many that I want, the miller said, and he was, as he ever was, calm and quiet; and his voice was as a foreigner’s, clear and musical, gentle as his manner, and he had nothing in his hands, which were loosely clasped behind his back. And those around saw him with surprise, for in size he could not be compared with Bull, and crowded closer, wondering what brought him there at such a time in such a way. What wrong have I done you that you should seek to work my ruin?

What! your ruin! what do I care for the ruin of such a rat as you! And Bull flamed up, raising the hand which held his whip and shook it in the air. The miller for a moment held his peace, looking at him; and those round held their peace too, wondering what would be the sequence of this strange affair.

So, said Truin at last, when the spectators saw that Bull would not much longer bear the examination of his eyes, that is the sort of man you are; rumour for once has told the truth; being big and strong you think to trample on the weak; being coarse in the manner of your living you seek to make others coarse as well — in short, you are a bully. I will instruct you upon one point; one need not, because one is weak, therefore, be a cur; to prove it you shall do yourself the pleasure of beating me where we now stand.

All this the miller said with the same sweet and gentle voice, and calmly as though it was nothing strange. He took off his coat and vest, neatly folding them, and laid them by him on the ground. The folks were thunderstruck, expecting to see Bull fall on him and break his every bone. But, choking back his rage —

What, you whipper-snap! cried Bull, is it a thrashing that you want, a beating and a basting? — I’ll cook your goose for you! I’ll give you flavour for your sauce! — here, catch my coat! and with that he flung off coat and vest to right and left of him. Although it is market-day, I’ll do my marketing with you, and beat you in the bargain for a thousand pounds.

And with that he turned his shirt sleeves to the shoulder, showing an arm thick as the thighs of many a man, with the muscles standing out on it like iron bars.

Then all the market knew there was to be a fight; all ceased their chaffering, all left their stalls and forms and flocked to see the fray; there was little business done that day. Never before were seen two combatants so much unlike, never two so poorly matched; it was as when David came forth and stood before Goliath; yet was not the issue like unto the issue of that day, for when it was all done and over — and it was not long in doing — the miller was all bruised and beaten, battered nigh to death, lost to sense, bleeding from many wounds, and in as sore a strait as he could well have been, while Bull had scarce a scratch upon his skin. For, as all had easily foreseen, with strength and bigness went the day, and Bull had the easiest task which ever yet was set him to give the miller the beating he desired.

They took him to an inn and tended him, for though he had never stood a chance to win yet had he borne him like a man; then they placed him in a cart, and thus they bore him home. It was a week ere the miller stirred from his bed, and a fortnight ere he set foot abroad. A month went by, and well-nigh had the miller faded from the public mind, when on the fifth market-day since that on which he had had his famous beating, who should walk quietly into the market-place but Miller Truin. Not a few came crowding to him — remembering how well he had borne himself — to wish him well on his recovery; but giving little heed to any, he strolled this way and that until at last he came to Bull Trelyat. Just as he had done before, straight up he went to Bull, and touched him on the shoulder. Turning, Bull was amazed to see him there, as well he might be, for though again abroad the miller was not yet by any means his former self.

Well, and what do you want with me? he thundered.

What evil have I done you that you should seek to work my ruin? asked the miller.

Bull looked at him and stared, saying never a word, for was not this the question which he had asked, in the same calm and quiet fashion, upon that other day?

Is the man mad? he cried; what does he want with me? Has he not had beating enough, or what is it he would have?

I am not, the miller said, in the same soft tones, so gentle and so musical, by habit or by nature a man of battle, for, for the most part, my life has been spent in the companionship of books; but, since I have my bread to earn, having but scant means of my own, it shall be no fault of mine if I do not earn it. Certain words of yours have caused my mill to cease to grind for want of corn for grinding; I therefore desire you to take them back or prove them to be true.

What words were those? cried Bull, for the miller’s speech was so strange, and his manner was so calm that he for once was taken aback.

Among the chief, you said I was a cur; now since the people in these parts will not send their corn to a cur to grind, I desire you to tell the world you were mistaken, for I am no cur.

Do you want me to eat my words? asked Bull, to whom this manner of man was strange, and who could not for the life of him conceive what any one could gain by bearding him; what do you take me for? Do you think I care if they come to you with corn to grind or no? what affair is it of mine?

Then, if you will not deny it, I will make you prove it, else will I tell the world upon my own account you are a liar. And he quietly took off his coat and vest as he had done before, and began to fold them.

Trelyat’s face, I more than once have heard, was worth the seeing; he stared and stared and got no further on than staring; was this man a madman that he thus gave his body to the slaughter? And all the crowd was astonished into silence, and, with Trelyat, did nothing else but stare. But Jonathan Reddy, who was in the market on that day, came out from among the crowd and stood between the two and said —

There shall be no fighting here to-day, for the plain reason it would not be fighting, ’twould be murder, neither more nor less; the man, at his best, is no fighting man, now he is no fitter than a child. Joseph Reynolds, who also was standing in the crowd, cried out and said, in those thin acid tones in which he always spoke —

What has it to do with you? Leave the thing alone; you’re always over ready, Reddy, to poke your finger in another’s pie.

But Jonathan paid no heed to him, for it was well known Reynolds was as Trelyat’s shadow, with a tongue as bitter and as long as Bull’s arm was strong.

I am obliged, sir, for your care, the miller said, just as quiet and as calm as ever, but I am in another’s hands; it is only for my livelihood I strive; com I must have for grinding.

Jonathan turned and looked down at him; it was the giant and the pigmy, for the miller was under the usual height of men, while Jonathan, they say, was nearer seven feet than six.

You are a curious and a singular man, he said; I cannot pretend to understand you, for I have not seen your like before; but this I think may be fairly said, that you are neither a coward nor a cur. Bull, and with that he crossed to where Trelyat stood and placed his hand upon his shoulder, and there were they two giants side by side, though Jonathan was both the taller and the broader of the two, since you have given him so good a basting once, and he has now come to you for another, you fairly may allow him to be neither a coward nor a cur.

Bull put Reddy on one side, and stepped out in front of him, and stood before the miller and looked at him from top to toe, and all about, as it might seem.

So you want another basting, do you now? Well, my lad, I won’t deny you’re fond of it, though it’s the first time I’ve known a man fond of it before. Go home; go to your mill; thank your stars you have a bone that’s whole. You’re not built for fighting; you’re more a woman than a man, though I call you neither a coward nor a cur.

That suffices, the miller said. Good people, you hear on authority so good that I am neither a coward nor a cur; send therefore your corn once more to me; I will grind it finely and well; I will not keep back a single ear; I will charge you no more than do my neighbours. My mill is clean and wholesome, give me therefore the custom which once was mine, since it is now allowed that I am neither a coward nor a cur. And with that he put on his vest and coat and left the crowd.

Such was the miller who had the mill by Zunny Waters; unlike his fellows, with tastes and manners of his own and with a will which, once set to a certain point, was not easily to be turned aside. Else never had Old Madge the witch dwelt in a house of his. From all the country had they chased her; none would have her on their land, none would rest under the same roof which sheltered her, for all said that where the witch was would be trouble also. Homeless was she, and spumed by old and young, by rich and poor; it was foreseen that so old a crone would die from mere exposure; for, for three whole days and nights did she lie under a hedge by the roadside, and all were satisfied that in such a way there should be an end of her, and thus the neighbourhood would be saved from the great scandal of harbouring a witch. But just as the thing was going well and every one was looking hourly to hear that she was dead, who should come into the matter and spoil it all but Miller Truin. For what should he do, chancing to pass by, and seeing her lie there, just at the point of death, but lift her with his own hands into his cart, and take her to the mill, and lay her, so folks said, on his own bed, and there he kept her till the hut close by was fit for her reception. And then, although she paid him not one penny of rent, did he insist that she should stay. In vain did all let him know their mind about so scandalous a thing; he listened not to any, or if he listened he heeded not their words.

She is no witch, he said to one or two who went down to have speech with him upon the matter, but an old and feeble woman who has had children in her time, who have used her ill, and left her in her age to die alone. I say nothing of her temper, it is not too sweet a one; and as for her cursing — is it so strange she should rain curses upon those who would hunt her to her death? Is it a crime to have left her youth behind her? Is it wicked to grow old? Nay, sirs, there is not so much pleasure in old age that we should grudge it any there may be. God’s own good time will come that she should die; leave her to Him. I will answer to you for any mischief she may do.

And from that they could not move him, although they tried for an hour or more; nor had the arguments, coupled, as in truth they were, more than once with threats, of all the country-side the least effect on him; in the hut by the water-side Old Madge lived on.

And now we had burned her and her home, and the miller had Steve and I fast by the collar, and Ben had sprung into the flames.

What, asked the miller, as he looked into our faces, and I know that I for one trembled before his calm and gentle look, my lads, is this?

We answered never a word; of Stephen I know nothing, but of myself I know that I could not have spoken then had any one given me a golden guinea; my head hung forward, and there was a cold shiver down my back the like of which I do not think that I had ever felt before. As for the rest of them, there was a rustling among the trees and a scrambling of feet, and although I never turned my head to see I knew as well as anything that they had done what I should have been very glad to do — taken to their heels and run. So there were Steve and I and the miller and the hut and Ben and never a word among the whole of us. Down fell the hut with a mighty crash and a cloud of sparks and smoke rose to the sky, and there was Ben half hidden and wholly blinded by the smoke stooping amidst the flames. Quickly almost as he sprung into the fiery furnace did he spring out again, and we saw he staggered and that he bore something in his arms. The miller loosed his hold of us and ran to him; I saw him reach his side and take him by the arm, and, as in a dream, I stood still and watched him. As the miller touched him, Ben stooped down and placed the something which he bore in his arms upon the ground, and that same moment, standing straight up again, he staggered and would have fallen had not the miller caught him.

What ails you, boy? the miller asked; and Ben, gathering himself together, took himself out of the miller’s arms.

Nothing, nothing, he said, smoke is blinding, and fire warm — that is all. I think the witch is dead, and so has put an end to all the sport which we might still have had with her.

Dead! cried the miller, and he again put out his hand towards Ben, adding in a low voice, which was very stem and earnest, Then, boy, you and your friends have murdered her.

Ben made no reply, and both knelt on the ground beside her.

Let’s go and see, said I, unable to keep silence any longer; I cannot stand here like a dummy.

No, said Steve, and I saw that his face was white and that his lips were trembling, and that he was very different to what he was before he set fire to the heap; let’s run; what is the use of staying? What affair is it of ours if she is dead? We did not want to kill her, besides, they would have burned her later, if not now.

I scarcely listened to his words, and paid no heed unto their sense, for on my heart a great fear had fallen, which stopped its beating; if the witch was dead then we had killed her, and I had had a hand in it, and her blood was on my head. Run! I could not have run a yard for all the tin in Cornwall; I was like one stunned, and my feet as though they were glued to the ground; heavily I staggered to where she lay, and as I did so, was conscious that Steve stole off and vanished under the shadow of the trees.

She has not improved in beauty, said Ben as I came up; the fire has not added to her good looks.

Boy, said the miller, and his every word thrilled me with a curious pain, she is where neither you nor I can know aught of her looks; she is with the Lord; it is well with her at last — rest and peace for ever and a day.

He spoke as one who speaks at a distance, and his eyes looked out across the stream; the remnants of the hut still burned, and the trembling, uncertain flames cast a strange light upon the scene.

The world and its weeping gone, who shall judge of even a witch’s looks in the land of endless day?

In the meantime Ben bent over her as she lay there.

She is not dead, all at once he cried; she lives. I felt her tremble underneath my hand, and her breath upon my face.

As he spoke the miller came back to the things of earth and began to examine her as well; and through my veins there rushed so hot a stream of blood that I stumbled and all but fell; if she was not dead — why, then, I thought that it was the best news which ever I had heard. For she was not dead, there could be no doubt of that, for soon she moved, and sighed and groaned, and suddenly threw back her arms, striving to sit up, and gave just such another scream as she had screamed when burning in the hut. It was terrible standing and listening to her.

Poor soul, the miller said, she is in agony; what can we do for her? We cannot leave her here, and to move her carelessly might be her death. Stay! come with me, we will get a bed and carry her on that.

This he said to Ben, then, turning, he saw me at his side.

So! you are still here? Well, stay by her and watch; we shall not be absent long.

They went, he and Ben, and I stayed there, and all the time in agony of body and of mind she screamed and cried. Never was there so terrible a watch; I stuffed my fingers in my ears, I hung my head, I shut my eyes, I turned aside from her; had it not been for very shame I would have followed Steve and run, to hear her was so horrible. And to think that I should be left there with her all alone, I who had just had a hand in burning her. If she was indeed a witch, as who could doubt? what evil might she not do now that she was struggling with death? And should they not return? should I be left there alone on watch till morning came? The very thought chilled me to the bones: in every leaf I saw a hidden thing, in every shadow was a host, at every rustle of the trees I shook so that I could hardly stand. If this was fun, or anything like sport, then it was the grimmest sport which ever yet was known, and the less I had of it the better I should be pleased.

They came back at last, after they had seemed for hours gone; they bore a mattress, and on it they placed the witch. When they touched her she shrieked the more. Never have I heard such shrieks before or since.

Poor soul! poor soul! was what the miller said; it were almost better that she had died. O Lord! and in the flickering light of the dying fire he stood with head upturned and bare, and hands clasped in front of him, have mercy on Thy servant, have mercy! nevertheless, not our will but Thy will be done. And as he spoke I saw that Ben stood watching him with curious eyes, and I know that I had never heard the like before.

We bore her to the mill, all three of us, speaking not a word upon the way, and all the while she shrieked. We took her in; the miller lived in the mill alone — so far as we knew, he had neither wife nor child, neither kith nor kin. We carried her into a spacious chamber in which there was a mighty bed; on it we laid her down. For some moments we stood by the bed and watched and waited, no one saying a word; by degrees she grew more still; the bed was easy, and she was at rest. The miller came round to the side on which we stood, and laid a hand on each of us.

Lads, he said, before you go it would be well for us to pray. And he gently forced us on our knees and knelt between. I know not what he prayed, I have not the faintest memory of a single word he used; indeed I listened as one listens in a dream — never had I heard a prayer before. I knew not what it meant to pray, and can only call to mind the strangeness of the scene, his sweet and gentle voice, his hands which lay clasped before him on the bed; all else is lost, it was not present even then; as I have said, it was as though it happened in a dream.

CHAPTER III

THE MEETING IN THE EXCHANGE

THE next day the tale was told through all the country-side — the witch was burned, and the boys had burned her. There was a pretty talking of it over; you may take my word for that — no one had anything else to say.

Did any one ever hear the like? They set fire to the hut, with her inside of it, and roasted her in her own fire.

More than one of those who had figured so gloriously upon the scene were missing; they had not come home at all, none knew where they might be; and long before the day was over I had wished with all my heart and soul that I was missing too. Never had such a tempest rained upon my head before. Tired and troubled had I crept home; all had long since gone to bed, and the bar was dropped across the door. Such a state of things was nothing strange to me, for not seldom did I stay out and steal in when all were hushed in sound repose; at such times it was understood with Ellen that a window should be left unlatched through which I might make my entry. But tonight, for some cause or another, and to my great amazement and disgust, all the windows, like the doors, were barred and shuttered too.

I was in a fix; there was nothing for it, if I did not wish to spend the night out in the open air, but to rouse up Ellen. I was cold and hungry, tired out and out, and, to tell the truth, more than half afraid; I was in a state of nervous agitation, the night’s adventures were still vividly present to my mind, and I could not shake off, although I tried, a simple fear of things uncanny hovering on every side of me. I tried each window — all were fast. I hesitated, crouching in the shadow of the door; the wind sighed through the trees. In my haste I had left the gate unfastened; it swung to with a crash: had all the dead sprung from their graves I could scarce have