"An' that reminds me," she went on, "of 'ow the warnin' came to me yesterday when I was a-goin' out to my wash-tub an' I slipt on a bit o' potato peelin'. That's allus a sign of a partin' 'twixt friends. Put that together with the lump o' clinkers as flew out o' the fire last week and split in two in the middle of the kitchen, an' there ye 'ave it all writ plain. I sez to Twitt—'Suthin's goin' to 'appen'—an' 'e sez in 'is fool way—'G'arn, old woman, suthin's allus a-'appenin' somewheres'—then when Mister Reay looked in all smiles an' sez 'Good-mornin', Twitt! I'm goin' to marry Miss Mary Deane! Wish us joy!' Twitt, 'e up an' sez, 'There's your suthin', old gel! A marriage!' an' I sez, 'Not at all, Twitt—not at all, Mister Reay, if I may make so bold, but slippin' on peel don't mean marriage, nor yet clinkers, though two spoons in a saucer does convey 'ints o' the same, an' two spoons was in Twitt's saucer only this very mornin'. Which I wishes both man an' woman as runs the risk everlastin' joy!' An' Twitt, as is allus puttin' in 'is word where 'taint wanted, sez, 'Don't talk about everlastin' joy, mother, 'tis like a hepitaph'—which I answers quick an' sez, 'Your mind may run on hepitaphs, Twitt, seein' 'tis your livin', but mine don't do no such thing, an' when I sez everlastin' joy for man an' wife, I means it.' An' then Mister Reay comes an' pats me on the shoulder cosy like an' sez, 'Right you are, Mrs. Twitt!' an' 'e walks off laughin', an' Twitt 'e laughs too an' sez, 'Good luck to the bridegroom an' the bride,' which I aint denyin', but there was still the thought o' the potato peel an' the clinker, an' it's come clear to-day now I've 'eerd as 'ow poor old David's gone!" She paused to take breath, and shook her head solemnly. "It's my opinion 'e'll never come back no more!"
"Oh, don't say that!" exclaimed Mary, distressed. "Don't even think it!"
But Mrs. Twitt was not to be shaken in her pronouncement.
"'E'll never come back no more!" she said. "An' the children on the shore 'ull miss 'im badly, for 'e was a reg'lar Father Christmas to 'em, not givin' presents by any manner o' means, 'avin' none to give, but tellin' 'em stories as kep' 'em quiet an' out of 'arms way for 'ours,—an' mendin' their toys an' throwin' their balls an' spinnin' their tops like the 'armless old soul 'e was! I'm right sorry 'e's gone! Weircombe 'll miss 'im for sartin sure!"
And this was the general feeling of the whole village when the unexpected departure of "old David" became known. Angus Reay, returning in the afternoon, reported that he had walked half the way, and had driven the other half with a man who had given him a lift in his trap, right into Minehead, but had seen and heard nothing of the missing waif and stray. Coming back to Weircombe with the carrier's cart, he had questioned the carrier as to whether he had seen the old man anywhere along the road, but this inquiry likewise met with failure.
"So the only thing to do, Mary," said Angus, finally, "is to believe his own written word,—that he will be back with us before Sunday. I don't think he means to leave you altogether in such an abrupt way,—that would be churlish and ungrateful—and I'm sure he is neither."
"Oh, he's anything but churlish!" she answered quickly. "He has always been most thoughtful and kind to me; and as for gratitude!—why, the poor old dear makes too much of it altogether—one would think I had given him a fortune instead of just taking common human care of him. I expect he must have worked in some very superior house of business, for though he's so poor, he has all the ways of a gentleman."
"What are the ways of a gentleman, my Mary?" demanded Angus, gaily. "Do you know? I mean, do you know what they are nowadays? To stick a cigar in one's mouth and smoke it all the time a woman is present—to keep one's hat on before her, and to talk to her in such a loose, free and easy fashion as might bring one's grandmother out of her grave and make her venerable hair curl! Those are the 'ways' of certain present-time 'gentlemen' who keep all the restaurants and music-halls of London going—and I don't rank good old David with these. I know what you mean—you mean that he has all the fine feeling, delicacy and courtesy of a gentleman, as 'gentlemen' used to be before our press was degraded to its present level by certain clowns and jesters who make it their business to jeer at every "gentlemanly" feeling that ever inspired humanity—yes, I understand! He is a gentleman of the old school,—well,—I think he is—and I think he would always be that, if he tramped the road till he died. He must have seen better days."
"Oh yes, I'm sure of that!" said Mary. "So many really capable men get turned out of work because they are old——"
"Well, there's one advantage about my profession," interrupted Angus. "No one can turn me out of literature either for young or old age, if I choose to make a name in it! Think of that, my Mary! The glorious independence of it! An author is a law unto himself, and if he succeeds, he is the master of his own fate. Publishers are his humble servants—waiting eagerly to snatch up his work that they may get all they can for themselves out of it,—and the public—the great public which, apart from all 'interested' critical bias, delivers its own verdict, is always ready to hearken and to applaud the writer of its choice. There is no more splendid and enviable life!—if I could only make a hundred pounds a year by it, I would rather be an author than a king! For if one has something in one's soul to say—something that is vital, true, and human as well as divine, the whole world will pause to listen. Yes, Mary! In all its toil and stress, its scheming for self-advantage, its political changes, its little temporary passing shows of empires and monarchies, the world will stop to hear what the Thinker and the Writer tells it! The words of old Socrates still ring down the ages—the thoughts of Shakespeare are still the basis of English literature!—what a grand life it is to be among the least of one of the writing band! I tell you, Mary, that even if I fail, I shall be proud to have at any rate tried to succeed!"