|It was a beautiful July morning, and Colin Churchill and Minna Wroe
were playing together in the fritillary fields at Wootton Mandeville. At
twelve years old, the intercourse of lad and maiden is still ingenuous;
and Colin was just twelve, though little Minna might still have been
some two years his junior. A tall, slim, fair-haired boy was Colin
Churchill, with deep-blue eyes more poetical in their depth and
intensity than one might have expected from a little Dorsetshire peasant
child. Minna, on the other hand, was shorter and darker; a gipsy-looking
girl, black-haired and tawny-skinned; and with two little beady-black
eyes that glistened and ran over every moment with contagious merriment.
Two prettier children you wouldn't have found anywhere that day in the
whole county of Dorset than Minna Wroe and Colin Churchill.
They had gathered flowers till they were tired of them in the
broad spongy meadow; they had played hide-and-seek among the
eighteenth-century tombstones in the big old churchyard; they had
quarrelled and made it up again half a dozen times over in pure
pettishness: and now, by way of a distraction, Minna said at last
coaxingly: 'Do 'ee, Colin, do 'ee come down to the lake yonder and make
I a bit of a vigger-'ead.'
'Don't 'ee worrit me, Minna,' Colin answered, like a young lady who
refuses to sing, half-heartedly (meaning all the time that one should
ask her again): 'Don't 'ee see I be tired? I don't want vor to go makin'
no vigger-'eads vor 'ee, I tell 'ee.'
But Minna would have one: on that she insisted: 'What a vinnid lad 'ee
be,' she cried petulantly, 'not to want to make I a vigger-'ead. Now
do 'ee, Cohn, ther's a a good boy; do 'ee, an' I'll gee 'ee 'arf my
peppermint cushions, come Saturday.'
'I don't want none o' your cushions, Minna,' Colin answered, with a
boy's gallantry; 'but come along down to the lake if 'ee will: I'll make
'ee dree or vower vigger-'eads, never vear, an' them vine uns too, if so
be as you want 'em.'
They went together down to the brook at the corner of the meadow (called
a lake in the Dorsetshire dialect); and there, at a spot where the
plastic clay came to the surface in a little cliff at a bend of the
stream, Colin carved out a fine large lump of shapeless raw material
from the bank, which he forthwith proceeded to knead up with his
hands and a sprinkling of water from the rill into a beautiful sticky
consistency. Minna watched the familiar operation with deepest interest,
and added from time to time a word or two of connoisseur criticism: 'Now
thee'st got it too wet, Colin;' or, 'Take care thee don't putt in too
much of thik there blue earth yonder; or, 'That's about right vor the
viggeread now, I'm thinkin'; thee'd better begin makin' it now avore the
clay gets too dried up.'
As soon as Colin had worked the clay up to what he regarded as the
proper requirements of his art, he began modelling it dexterously with
his fingers into the outer form and fashion of a ship's figure-head:
'What'll 'ee 'ave virst, Minna?' he asked as he roughly moulded the mass
into a bold outward curve, that would have answered equally well for any
figure-head in the whole British merchant navy.
'I'll 'ave the Mariar-Ann,' Minna answered with a nod of her small black
head in the direction of the mouth in the valley, where the six petty
fishing vessels of Wootton Mandeville stood drawn up together in a long
straight row on the ridge of shingle. The Mariar-Ann was the collier
that came monthly from Cardiff, and its figure-head represented a gilded
lady, gazing over the waves with a vacant smile, and draped in a flowing
crimson costume of no very particular historical period.
Cohn worked away at the clay vigorously for a few minutes with fingers
and knife by turns, and at the end of that time he had produced a very
creditable figure-head indeed, accurately representing in its main
features the gilded lady of the Mariar-Ann.
'Oh, how lovely!' Minna cried, delighted. 'Thik's the best thee'st made,
Colin. Let's bake un and keep un always.'
'Take un 'ome an' bake un yourself, Minna,' the boy answered. 'We ain't
got no vire 'ere. What'll I make 'ee now? 'Nother vigger-'ead?'
'No!' Minna cried, with a happy inspiration.
'Make myself, Colin.'
The boy eyed her carefully from head to foot. 'I don't s'pose I can do
'ee, Minna,' he answered after a pause. 'Howsonedever, I'll try;' and he
took a fresh lump of the kneaded clay, and began working it up loosely
into a rough outline of the girl's figure. It was his first attempt at
modelling from life, and he went at it with careful deliberation. Minna
posed before him in her natural attitude, and Colin called her back
every minute or two when she got impatient, and kept his little sitter
steadily posed till the portrait statuette was fairly finished. Critical
justice compels the admission that Colin Churchill's first figure from
life was not an entirely successful work of sculpture. Its expression
was distinctly feeble; its pose was weak and uncertain; its drapery was
marked by a frank disregard of folds and a bold conventionalism; and,
last of all, it ended abruptly at the short dress, owing to certain
mechanical difficulties in the way of supporting the heavy body on a
pair of slender moist clay legs. Still, it distinctly suggested the
notion of a human being; it remotely resembled a little girl; and it
even faintly adumbrated, in figure at least, if not in feature, Minna
Wroe herself.
But if the work of art failed a little when judged by the stern tribunal
of adult criticism, it certainly more than satisfied both the young
artist and the subject of his plastic skill. They gazed at the completed
figure with the deepest admiration, and Minna even ventured to express
a decided opinion that anybody in the world would know it was meant
for her. Which high standard of artistic portraiture has been known to
satisfy much older and more exalted critics, including many ladies and
gentlemen of distinction who have wasted the time of good sculptors by
'having their busts taken.'
Meanwhile, down in the village by the shore, Geargey Wroe, Minna's
father, was standing by a little garden gate, where Sam Churchill the
elder was carefully tending his cabbages and melons. 'Zeen our Minna,
Sam!' he asked over the paling. 'Wher's 'er to, dost know? Off zumwhere
with yer Colin, I'll be bound, Sammy. They're always off zumwhere
together, them two is, I vancy. 'E's up to 'is drawin' or zummat down
to lake there. Such a lad vor drawin' an' that I never did zee. 'Ow's
bisness, Sammy?'
'Purty good, Geargey, purty good. Volks be a-comin' in now an' takin'
lodgin's, wantin' garden stuff and such like. First-rate family from
London come yesterday down to Walker's. Turble rich volk I should say
by the look o' un. Ordered a power o' fruit and zum vegetables.'Ow's
vishin', Geargey?' 'Bad,' Geargey answered, shaking his head ominously:
'as bad as ur could be. Town's turble empty still: nobody come 'ceptin'
a lot o' good-vor-nothin' meetingers. 'Ootton ain't wot it 'ad used to
be, Sammy, zince these 'ere rail-rawds. Wot we wants is the rail-rawd to
come 'ere to town, so volks can get 'ere aisy, like they can to Sayton.
Then we'd get zum real gintlevolk who got money in their pockets to
spend, an'll spend it vree and aisy to the tradesmen, and the boatmen,
and the vishermen; that's wot we wants, don't us, Sammy?'
'Us do, us do,' Sam Churchill assented, nodding.
'Ah, I do mind the time, Sammy,' Geargey said regretfully, wiping his
eyes with the corner of his jersey, 'w'en every wipswile I'd used to
get a gintleman to go out way, who'd gi' us share an' share alike o' his
grub, and a drap out o' his whisky bottle: and w'en we pulls ashore, he
sez, sez'e: “I don't want the vish, my man,” sez'e; “I only wants the
sport, raly.” But nowadays, Lard bless 'ee, Sam, we gets a pack o'
meetingers down from London, and they brings along a hunk o' bread and
some fat pork, or a piece o' blue vinny cheese, as 'ard as Portland
stone. Now I can't abare fat pork without a streak o' lean in it,
'specially when I smells the bait; and I can't tackle the blue vinny,
'cos I never 'as my teeth with me: thof my mate, Bill-o'-my-Soul, 'e
can putt 'isself outside most things in the way o' grub at a vurry
short notice, as you do well know, Sam, and I never seed as bate made
no difference to 'e nohow. But these 'ere meetingers, as I was a sayin'
(vor I've got avore my story, Sammy), they goes out an' haves vine
sport, we'll say; and then, w'en we comes 'ome they out and lugs out
dree or vower shillin's or so, vor me an' my mate, an' walks off with
'arf-a-suvren's worth o' the biggest vish, quite aisy-like, an' layves
all the liddle fry an' the blin in the boat; the chattering jackanapes.'
''Ees,'ees, lad, times is changed,' Sam murmured meditatively, half
to himself; 'times is changed turble bad since old Squire's day. Wot
a place 'Ootton 'ad used to be then, 'adn't ur, Geargey? Coach from
Darchester an' 'bus from Tilbury station, bringin' in gurt folks from
London vor the sayson every day; dinner party up to vicarage with green
paysen an' peaches, an' nectarines,------''An' a 'ole turbat,' Geargey
put in parenthetically. 'Ay, lad, an' a 'ole turbot every Saturday. Them
was times, Geargey; them was times. I don't s'pose they ther times ull
never come again. Ther ain't the gentry now as ther'd used to be in old
Squire's day. Pack o' trumpery London volk, with one servant, comin'
down 'ere vor the sayson--short sayson--six week, or murt be seven--an'
then walkin' off agin, without so much as spending ten poun' or so
in the'ole parish. I mind the times, Geargey, when volks used to say
'Ootton were the safety valve o' the Bath sayson. Soon as sayson were
over up to Bath, gentlevolk and ladies a-comin' down 'ere to enj'y
thesselves, an' spendin' their money vree and aisy, same as if it were
water. Us don't see un comin' now, Geargey: times is changed turble: us
don't see un now.'
'It's the dree terms as 'as ruined 'Ootton,' Geargey said,
philosophically--the research of the cause being the true note of
philosophy.
'It's they dree terms as 'as done it, vor sartin.'
'Why, 'ow's that, Gearge?'
'Well, don't 'ee see, Sam, it's like o' thik. W'en they used to 'ave
'arf-years at the schools, bless 'ee, volks with families 'ad used to
bring down the children vrom school so soon as the 'arf-year were over.
Then the gurt people ud take the young gentlemen out vishin', might be
in June, or July may-be, and gee a bit o' work to honest visher-people
in the off-sayson. Then in August, London people ud come an' take
lodgin's and gee us a bit more work nice and tidy. So the sayson 'ad
used to last off an' on vrom June to October. Well, bime-by, they
meddlesome school people, they goes an' makes up these 'ere new-vangled
things o' dree terms, as they calls 'em, cuttin' up the year
unnat'ral-like into dree pieces, as 'adn't used to be w'en we was
children. Wot's the consequence? Everybody comes a-rushin' and
a-crushin' permixuous, in August, the 'ole boilin' o' 'em together,
wantin' rooms an' boats and vishermen, so as the parish baint up to it.
Us 'as to work 'ard vor six or seven week, and not give satisfaction
nayther; and then rest o' the year us 'as to git along the best us can
on the shart sayson. I can't abare they new-vangled ways, upsettin' all
the constitooted order of things altogither, an' settin' poor vishermen
at sixes and sevens for arf their lifetime.'
'It's the march of intellect, Geargey,' Sam Churchill answered,
deprecatingly (Sam understood himself to be a Liberal in politics, and
used this convenient phrase as a general solvent for an immense number
of social difficulties). 'It's the march of intellect, no doubt,
Geargey: there's a sight o' progress about; board-schools an' sich like:
an' if it cuts agin us, don't 'ee see, w'y us 'as got to make the best
of it, however.'
'It murt be, an' agin it murtn't; and agin it murt,' Geargey murmured
dubiously.
'But any way, wher's Minna to, Sammy?--that's wot I comed vor to ax
'ee.'
'Down to vield by lake, yander, most like,' Sam answered with a nod of
his head in the direction indicated.
'I'll go an' vetch her,' said Geargey; 'dinner's most ready.'
'An I'll come an' zee wot Colin's up to,' added Sam, laying down his
hoe, and pulling together his unbuttoned waistcoat.
They walked down to the brook in the meadow, and saw the two children
sitting in the corner so intent upon their artistic performances that
they hardly noticed the approach of their respective fathers. Old Sam
Churchill went close up and looked keenly at the clay figure of Minna
that Colin was still moulding with the last finishing touches as the
two elders approached them. 'Thik ther vigger baint a bad un, Colin,' he
said, taking it carefully in his rough hand.
''ee'aven't done it none so ill, lad; but it don't look so livin' like
as it 'ad ought to. Wot do 'ee think it is, Geargey, eh? tell us?'
'Why, I'm blowed if that baint our Minna,' Geargey answered, with a
little gasp of open-mouthed astonishment. 'It's her vurry pictur, Colin:
a blind man could see that, of course, so soon as 'e set eyes on it. 'Ow
do 'ee do it, Colin, eh? 'Ow do 'ee do it?' 'Oh, that baint nothin','
Colin said, colouring up. 'Only a little bit o' clay, just made up vor
to look like Minna.'
'Look 'ee 'ere,' Colin,' his father went on, glancing quickly from the
clay to little Minna, and altering a touch or two with his big clumsy
fingers, not undeftly. 'Look 'ee 'ere; 'ee must putt the dress thik way,
I should say, with a gurt dale more flusterin' about it; it do zit too
stiff and starchy, somehow, same as if it wur made o' new buckram. 'ee
must put in a fold or two, 'ere, so as to make un sit more nat'ral.
Don't 'ee see Minna's dress do double itself up, I can't rightly say
'ow, but sununat o' tkik there way?' And he moulded the moist clay a
bit with his hands, till the folds of the drapery began to look a little
more real and possible.
'I'd ought to 'ave drawed it first, I think,' Colin said, looking at the
altered dress with a satisfied glance. ''ave 'ee got such a thing as a
pencil about 'ee, father?'
Old Sam took a piece of pencil from his pocket, and handed it to Colin.
The boy held it tightly in his fingers, with a true artistic grasp,
like one who knows how to wield it, and with a few strokes on a scrap
of paper hit off little Minna far better than he had done in the plastic
material. Geargey looked over his shoulder with a delighted grin on his
weatherbeaten features. 'I tell 'ee, Sam,' he said to the old gardener,
confidentially, 'it's my belief that thik ther boy'ull be able one o'
these vine days to paint rale picturs.'