Chapter 1

The opening scene of this tale took place in a little village on the southern coast of Cornwall. Treby (by that name we choose to designate a spot whose true one, for several reasons, will not be given) was, indeed, rather a hamlet than a village; although, being at the seaside, there were two or three houses which, by dint of green paint and chints curtains, pretended to give the accommodation of “Apartments Furnished” to the few bathers who, having heard of its cheapness, seclusion, and beauty, now and then resorted thither from the neighbouring towns.

This part of Cornwall shares much of the peculiar and exquisite beauty which every Englishman knows adorns “the sweet shire of Devon.” The hedges near Treby, like those round Dawlish and Torquay, are redolent with a thousand flowers; the neighbouring fields are pranked with all the colours of Flora—its soft air—the picturesque bay in which it stood, as it were, enshrined—its red cliff’s, and verdure reaching to the very verge of the tide—all breathe the same festive and genial atmosphere. The cottages give the same promise of comfort, and are adorned by nature with more luxurious loveliness than the villas of the rich in a less happy climate.

Treby was almost unknown; yet whoever visited it might well prefer its sequestered beauties to many more renowned competitors. Situated in the depths of a little bay, it was sheltered on all sides by the cliffs. Just behind the hamlet the cliff made a break, forming a little ravine, in the depth of which ran a clear stream, on whose banks were spread the orchards of the villagers, whence they derived their chief wealth. Tangled bushes and luxuriant herbage diversified the cliffs, some of which were crowned by woods; and in “every nook and coign of ‘vantage” were to be seen and scented the glory of that coast—its exhaustless store of flowers. The village was, as has been said, in the depth of a bay; towards the east the coast rounded off with a broad sweep, forming a varied line of bay and headland; to the west a little promontory shot out abruptly, and at once closed in the view. This point of land was the peculiarity of Treby. The cliff that gave it its picturesque appearance was not high, but was remarkable for being crowned by the village church, with its slender spire.

Long may it be before the village churchyard ceases to be in England a favoured spot—the home of rural and holy seclusion. At Treby it derived a new beauty from its distance from the village and the eminence on which it was placed, overlooking the wide ocean, the sands, the village itself, with its gardens, orchards, and gayly-painted fields. From the church a straggling, steep, yet not impracticable path led down to the sands by way of the beach; indeed, the distance from the village to the church was scarcely more than half a mile; but no vehicle could approach except by the higher road, which, following the line of coast, measured nearly two miles. The edifice itself, picturesque in its rustic simplicity, seemed at the distance to be imbosomed in a neighbouring grove. There was no house, nor even cottage, near. The contiguous churchyard contained about two acres; a light white paling surrounded it on three sides; on the fourth was a high wall, clothed thickly with ivy: the trees of the near wood overhung both wall and paling, except on the side of the cliff’. The waving of their branches, the murmur of the tide, and the occasional scream of seafowl, were all the sounds that disturbed, or rather harmonized with, the repose and solitude of the spot.