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Updated: June 20, 2025
The Sunday-school mistress had a letter from him only yesterday saying how much better he felt, and that he hoped to be home again with us very soon." Mrs. Twitt pursed her lips and shook her head. "That may be!" she observed "I aint a-sayin' nuthin' again it. I sez to Twitt, there's trouble comin' for the Church, an' so there is.
"He's much better, quite out of danger now," replied Mary "He's going to get up to-day." "David's 'is name, so I 'ears," continued Mrs. Twitt; "I've never myself knowed anyone called David, but it's a common name in some parts, speshul in Scripter. Is 'e older than yer father would 'a bin if so be the Lord 'ad carried 'im upright to this present?"
"Well, don't get too close," said Twitt, kindly "We'll be havin' ye washed away if ye don't take care! There's onny an hour to tea-time, an' Mary Deane's a punctooal 'ooman!" "I shall not keep her waiting never fear!" and Helmsley smiled as he said good-day, and jogged slowly along his favourite accustomed path to the beach.
"I love him very dearly," she said simply "And I know he's a great deal too good for me." Mrs. Twitt sniffed meaningly. "Well, I'm not in any way sure o' that," she observed. "When a man's too good for a woman it's what we may call a Testymen' miracle. For the worst wife as ivir lived is never so bad as a bad 'usband.
Poor old David had no friends, and probably the few papers he has left are only for some relative who would not do anything for him while he was alive, but who, all the same, has to be told that he is dead." "Maybe so!" and Mrs. Twitt nodded her head profoundly "But that cinder worn't made in the fire for nowt! Such a shape as 'twas don't grow out of the flames twice in twenty year!"
Twitt irreverently. "They talks a lot they talks yer 'ed off but they doos onny 'arf the labour as they spends in waggin' their tongues. An' for a hepitaph, they none of 'em aint got an idee. It's allus Scripter texes with 'em, they aint got no 'riginality.
Indeed," here she paused for a second then went on "I don't know whether it's because I've been nursing him so long and have got accustomed to watch him and take care of him but I've really grown quite fond of him!" Mrs. Twitt gave a short laugh.
Twitt, to quote Scriptural thanksgiving on all necessary occasions! E's a good little chap, our parson, but 'e's that weak on his chest an' ailing that 'e's goin' away this year to Madeira for rest and warm an' a blessid old Timp'rance raskill's coming to take dooty in 'is place. Ah! none of us Weircombe folk 'ill be very reg'lar church-goers while Mr. Arbroath's here."
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.
But oh lor'! to think o' that grey-'aired rascal Arbroath with a fav'rite gel on the sly! Ha-ha-ha-he-he-he! We'se be all mortal!" and Twitt shook his head with profound solemnity. "Ef I was a-goin' to carve a tombstone for that 'oly 'igh Churchman, I'd write on it the old 'ackneyed sayin', 'Man wants but little 'ere below, Nor wants that little long! Ha-ha-ha-he-he-he!"
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