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Updated: June 2, 2025
This stood beside the fireplace, and in it sat Gray Michael. "Why, so 'tis! Mr. Tregenza sure 'nough!" the traveler exclaimed, setting down his bag and coming forward with hand outstretched. "Here I be at last arter nine months o' salt water! An' Newlyn do smell pleasant in my nose as I come back to it, I tell 'e!"
Tregenza herself became presently imbued with something of this morbid and ignorant opinion. Her deep wounds time promised to heal at the first intention, and the significance now attributed to her insane husband grew to be a source of real satisfaction to her. She dispensed the honor of interviews with Michael as one distributes great gifts.
She found much matter for wonder and for fear. Visible Nature had grown to be a smiling curtain behind which raged eternal struggles for life. Every leaf sheltered a tragedy, every bough was a battlefield. The awful frailty of all existence began to dawn upon Joan Tregenza, and the discovery left her helpless, lonely, longing for new gods. She knew not where to turn.
Not until half way back again to Penzance did he realize how slight was the nature of this information and how ill-calculated to bring him to his object; the man he wanted lived in London and had a painting of Joan Tregenza in a picture gallery there.
I read to en 'bout that theer bwoy, the awnly son o' his mother, an' her a widder-wumman, an' how as the Lard brought en round arter he'd gone dead." Gray Michael sniffed and made no comment. "I'll see en an' put up a prayer or so," he said. "An' the Lard'll reward it, Mr. Tregenza." Young Albert Vallack greeted the visitor with even greater reverence than his mother had done.
His mother had left them, feeling that her presence might hinder conversation and lessen the comfort which Mr. Tregenza had brought. "I did ought to be chap-fall'n, I s'pose." "Iss, you did, my son, nobody more'n you. Maybe you'll live; maybe you'll die; but keep humble. I doan't wish to deceive 'e. Us ain't had time to make no certainty 'bout things.
An' how is it wi' you, Mr. Tregenza? I s'pose the Lard do look to His awn in such a pass?" Gray Michael regarded the speaker a moment and then made answer. "I be that sleepy, my son, an' hungry wi' it. Iss fay, I could eat a bloody raw dog-fish an' think it no sin. See to this, but doan't say nothin' 'bout it.
The brighter burned his own shining light, the blacker the shadows it threw upon the future of all sinners. As Tregenza finished and put down his Bible, the other spoke and quoted eagerly: "'Incline your ear an' come unto Me; fear, an' your sawl shall live! Theer do seem a hope in that if it ed'n awver-bold me thinkin' so?" he asked.
I can't drink no beer nowadays, though fond o' it, 'cause 'tis belly-vengeance stuff arter you gets past a certain time o' life. But I'd as soon have tea." "That's bad to drink 'long wi' vlaish," said Mrs. Tregenza. "Tea turns mayte leather-hard an' plagues the stomach cruel, as I knaws to my cost."
I know I'm a sinful, wicked wummon, an' I'm heart-broke day an' night for the shame I've brot 'pon my folks. I'll trouble 'e no more if 'e will awnly say the word. Please, please, faither, forgive." She stood without moving, as did he. Uncle Chirgwin watched silently. Mrs. Tregenza made some stir at the fire to conceal her anxiety.
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