GEORGE AGAIN.—THE PAINTER’S ADVICE.—“HOME BREWED” AT THE HEART OF
OAK.—JAN CHANGES THE PAINTER’S MIND.
Master Swift’s death was a great shock to the windmiller, who was himself
in frail health; and Jan gave as much time as he could to cheering his
foster-father.
He had been spending an afternoon at the windmill, and the painter had
been sketching the old church from the water-meadows, when they met on
the little bridge near Dame Datchett’s, and strolled together to the
Heart of Oak. Master Chuter met them at the door.
“There be a letter for you, Jan,” said he. “’Twas brought by a young
varment I knows well. He belongs to them that keeps a low public at the
foot of the hill, and he do be for all the world like a hudmedud, without
the usefulness of un.” The letter was dirty and ill-written enough to
correspond to the innkeeper’s account of its origin. Misspellings
omitted, it ran thus:—
“MASTER JAN FORD,
“Sir,—If so be you wants to know where you come from, and where to
look for them as belongs to you, come to the public at the foot of
the hill this evening, with a few pounds in your pocket to open the
lips of them as knows. But fair play, mind. Gearge bean’t such a
vool as a looks, and cart-horses won’t draw it out of un, if you sets
on the police. Don’t you be took in by that cusnashun old rascal
Cheap John. You may hold your head as high as the Squire yet, if you
makes it worth the while of _One who knows_. I always was fond of
you, Jan, my dear. Keep it dark.”
The painter decided to accept the invitation; but when George Sannel’s
face loomed out of the smoke of the dingy little kitchen, all the terrors
of his childhood seemed to awake again in Jan. The face looked worn and
hungry, and alarmed; but it was the face of the miller’s man. In truth,
he had deserted from his regiment, and was in hiding; but of this Jan and
his master knew nothing.
If George’s face bore some tokens of change, he seemed otherwise the same
as of old. Cunning and stupidity, distrust and obstinacy, joined with
unscrupulous greed, still marked his loutish attempts to overreach.
Indeed, his surly temper would have brought the conference to an abrupt
end but for the interference of the girl at the inn. She had written the
letter for him, and seemed to take an interest in his fate which it is
hardly likely that he deserved. She acted as mediator, and the artist
was all the more disposed to credit her assurance that “Gearge did know a
deal about the young gentleman, and should tell it all,” because her
appearance was so very picturesque. She did good service, when George
began to pursue his old policy of mixing some lies with the truth he
told, by calling him to account. Nor was she daunted by his threatening
glances. “It be no manners of use thee looking at me like that, Gearge
Sannel,” said she, folding her arms in a defiant attitude, which the
painter hastily committed to memory. “Haven’t I give my word to the
gentleman that he should hear a straight tale? And it be all to your
advantage to tell it. You wants money, and the gentleman wants the
truth. It be no mortal use to you to make up a tale, beyond annying the
gentleman.”
Under pressure, therefore, George told all that he knew himself, and what
he had learned from the Cheap Jack’s wife, and part of the purchase-money
of the pot boiler was his reward.
Master Lake confirmed his account of Jan’s first coming to the mill. He
took the liveliest interest in his foster-son’s fate, but he thought,
with the artist, that there was little “satisfaction” to be got out of
trying to trace Jan’s real parentage. It was the painter’s deliberate
opinion, and he impressed it upon Jan, as they sat together in Master
Chuter’s parlor.
“My dear Giotto, I do hope you are not building much on hopes of a new
home and new relatives. If all we have heard is true, your mother is
dead; and, if your father is not dead too, he has basely deserted you.
You have to make a name, not to seek one; to confer credit, not to ask
for it. And I don’t say this, Giotto, to make you vain, but to recall
your responsibilities, and to dispel useless dreams. Believe me, my boy,
your true mother, the tender nurse of your infancy, sleeps in the sacred
shadow of this dear old church. It is your part to make her name, and
the name of your respectable foster-father, famous as your own; to render
your windmill as highly celebrated as Rembrandt’s, and to hang late
laurels of fame on the grave of your grand old schoolmaster. Ah! my
child, I know well that the ductile artistic nature takes shape very
early. The coloring of childhood stains every painter’s canvas who
paints from the heart. You can never call any other place home, Giotto,
but this idyllic corner of the world!”
It will be seen that the painter’s rose-colored spectacles were still on
his nose. Every thing delighted him. He was never weary of sketching
garrulous patriarchs in snowy smocks under rickety porches. He said that
in an age of criticism it was quite delightful to hear Daddy Angel say,
“Ay, ay,” to every thing; and he waxed eloquent on the luxury of having
only one post a day, and that one uncertain. But his highest flights of
approbation were given to the home-brewed ale. That pure, refreshing
beverage, sound and strong as a heart of oak should be, which quenched
the thirst with a certain stringency which might hint at sourness to the
vulgar palate, had—so he said—destroyed for ever his contentment with any
other malt liquor. He spoke of Bass and Allsopp as “palatable tonics”
and “non-poisonous medicinal compounds.” And when, with a flourish of
hyperbole, he told Master Chuter’s guests that nothing to eat or drink
was to be got in London, they took his word for it; and it was without
suspicion of satire that Daddy Angel said, “The gen’leman do look pretty
middlin’ hearty too—con-sid’rin’.”
It was evident that the painter had no intention of going away till the
pot boiler fund was exhausted, and Jan was willing enough to abide,
especially as Master Lake had caught cold at the schoolmaster’s funeral,
and was grateful for his foster-son’s company and care. Jan was busy in
many ways. He was Master Swift’s heir; but the old man’s illness had
nearly swallowed up his savings, and Jan’s legacy consisted of the books,
the furniture, the gardening tools, and Rufus, who attached himself to
his new master with a wistful affection which seemed to say, “You belong
to the good old times, and I know you loved him.”
Jan moved the schoolmaster’s few chattels to the windmill, and packed the
books to take to London. With them he packed the little old etching that
had been bought from the Cheap Jack. “It’s a very good one,” said the
painter. “It’s by an old Dutch artist. You can see a copy in the
British Museum.” But it was not in the Museum that Jan first saw a
duplicate of his old favorite.
He was nailing up this box one afternoon, and humming as he did so,—
“But I alone am left to pine,
And sit beneath the withy tree,
For truth and honesty be gone”—
when the painter came in behind him.
“Stop that doleful strain, Giotto, I beg; you’ve been painfully
sentimental the last day or two.”
“It’s an old song they sing about here, sir,” said Jan.
“Never mind the song, you’ve been doleful yourself, Giotto! I believe
you’re dissatisfied that we do not push the search for your father. Is
it money you want, child? Believe me, riches enough lie between your
fingers and your miller’s thumb. Or do you want a more fashionable
protector than the old artist?”
“No, no, sir!” cried Jan. “I never want to leave you; and it’s not money
I want, but”—
“Well, my boy? Don’t be afraid.”
“It’s my mother, sir,” said Jan, with flushed cheeks. “My real mother, I
mean. She didn’t desert me, sir; she died—when I was born. I doubt
nobody sees to her grave, sir. Perhaps there’s nobody but me who would.
I can’t do any thing for her now, sir, I know; but it seems as if I
hardly did my duty in not knowing where she lies.”
The painter’s hands were already deep in his loose pockets, from which,
jumbled up with chalk, india-rubber, bits of wash-leather, cakes of
color, reed pens, a penknife, and some drawing-pins, he brought the
balance of his loose cash, and became absorbed in calculations. “Is that
box ready?” he asked. “We start to-morrow, mind. You are right, and I
was wrong; but my wish was to spare you possible pain. I now think it is
your duty to risk the possible pain. If those rascally creatures who
stole you are in London, the police will find them. Be content, Giotto;
you shall stand by your mother’s grave!”