News from the Duchy   By: Arthur Thomas Quiller-Couch (1863-1944)

NEWS FROM THE DUCHY.

by

A. T. Quiller Couch (Q).

To My Friend AUSTIN M. PURVES of Philadelphia and Troy Town.

Contents.

PART I.

PIPES IN ARCADY.

OUR LADY OF GWITHIAN.

PILOT MATTHEY'S CHRISTMAS.

THE MONT BAZILLAC.

THE THREE NECKLACES.

THE WREN.

NOT HERE, O APOLLO.

FIAT JUSTITIA RUAT SOLUM.

THE HONOUR OF THE SHIP.

LIEUTENANT LAPENOTIERE

THE CASK ASHORE.

PART II.

YE SEXES, GIVE EAR.

FRENCHMAN'S CREEK.

PART I.

PIPES IN ARCADY.

I hardly can bring myself to part with this story, it has been such a private joy to me. Moreover, that I have lain awake in the night to laugh over it is no guarantee of your being passably amused. Yourselves, I dare say, have known what it is to awake in irrepressible mirth from a dream which next morning proved to be flat and unconvincing. Well, this my pet story has some of the qualities of a dream; being absurd, for instance, and almost incredible, and even a trifle inhuman. After all, I had better change my mind, and tell you another

But no; I will risk it, and you shall have it, just as it befel.

I had taken an afternoon's holiday to make a pilgrimage: my goal being a small parish church that lies remote from the railway, five good miles from the tiniest of country stations; my purpose to inspect or say, rather, to contemplate a Norman porch, for which it ought to be widely famous. (Here let me say that I have an unlearned passion for Norman architecture to enjoy it merely, not to write about it.)

To carry me on my first stage I had taken a crawling local train that dodged its way somehow between the regular expresses and the "excursions" that invade our Delectable Duchy from June to October. The season was high midsummer, the afternoon hot and drowsy with scents of mown hay; and between the rattle of the fast trains it seemed that we, native denizens of the Duchy, careless of observation or applause, were executing a tour de force in that fine indolence which has been charged as a fault against us. That we halted at every station goes without saying. Few sidings however inconsiderable or, as it might seem, fortuitous escaped the flattery of our prolonged sojourn. We ambled, we paused, almost we dallied with the butterflies lazily afloat over the meadow sweet and cow parsley beside the line; we exchanged gossip with station masters, and received the congratulations of signalmen on the extraordinary spell of fine weather. It did not matter. Three market women, a pedlar, and a local policeman made up with me the train's complement of passengers. I gathered that their business could wait; and as for mine well, a Norman porch is by this time accustomed to waiting.

I will not deny that in the end I dozed at intervals in my empty smoking compartment; but wish to make it clear that I came on the Vision (as I will call it) with eyes open, and that it left me staring, wide awake as Macbeth.

Let me describe the scene. To the left of the line as you travel westward there lies a long grassy meadow on a gentle acclivity, set with three or four umbrageous oaks and backed by a steep plantation of oak saplings. At the foot of the meadow, close alongside the line, runs a brook, which is met at the meadow's end by a second brook which crosses under the permanent way through a culvert. The united waters continue the course of the first brook, beside the line, and maybe for half a mile farther; but, a few yards below their junction, are partly dammed by the masonry of a bridge over which a country lane crosses the railway; and this obstacle spreads them into a pool some fifteen or twenty feet wide, overgrown with the leaves of the arrow head, and fringed with water flags and the flowering rush.