Eureka! I have had an adventure at last; and yet, after all, what am
I talking about? It is no adventure at all, but only a commonplace
incident. This is how it happened.
“I was seated this morning before my easel, out in the open air,
painting busily, when I thought I heard a movement behind me.
“I should have premised, by the way, that Tim had gone off on another
excursion into the Jones’s territory, on the quest for more eggs and
milk.
“I glanced over my shoulder, and saw, peering round the corner of my
white sunshade, a pair of large eager eyes--fixed, not upon me, but upon
the canvas I was painting.
“Not in the least surprised, I thought to myself, ‘At last! The caravan
has exercised its spell upon the district, and the usual audience is
beginning to gather.’ So I went tranquilly on with my work, and paid no
more attention.
“Presently, however, fatigued with my work, I indulged in a great yawn,
and rose to stretch myself. I then perceived that my audience was more
select than numerous, consisting of only one individual--a young person
in a Welsh chimney-pot hat. Closer observation showed me that said hat
was set on a head of closely cropped curly black hair, beneath which
there shone a brown boyish face freckled with sun and wind, a pair of
bright black eyes, and a laughing mouth with two rows of the whitest of
teeth. But the face, though boyish, did not belong to a boy. The young
person was dressed in an old cotton gown, had a coloured woollen shawl
or scarf thrown oyer the shoulders, and wore thick woollen stockings and
rough shoes, the latter many sizes too large. The gown was too short for
the wearer, who had evidently outgrown it; it reached only just below
the knee, and when the young person moved one caught a glimpse of
something very much resembling a dilapidated garter.
“The young person’s smile was so bright and good-humoured that I found
myself answering it with a friendly nod.
“‘How are you?’ I said gallantly. ‘I hope you are quite well?’
“She nodded in reply, and stooping down, plucked a long blade of grass,
which she placed in her mouth and began to nibble--bashfully, I thought.
“‘May I ask where you come from?’ I said. ‘I mean, where do you live?’
“Without speaking, she stretched out her arm and pointed across the
lake in the direction of the sea. I could not help noticing then, as an
artist, that the sleeve of her gown was loose and torn, and that her arm
was round and well-formed, and her hand, though rough and sun-burned,
quite genteelly small.
“‘If it is not inquisitive, may I ask your name?’
“‘Matt,’ was the reply.
“‘Is that all? What is your other name?’ “‘I’ve got no other name. I’m
Matt, I am.’
“‘Indeed. Do your parents live here?’
“‘Got no parents,’ was the reply.
“‘Your relations, then. You belong to some one, I suppose?’
“She gave me another nod.
“‘Yes,’ she answered, nibbling rapidly. ‘I belong to William Jones.’
“‘Oh, to _him_,’ I said, feeling as familiar with the name as if I had
known it all my life. ‘But he’s not your father?’
“She shook her head emphatically.
“‘But of course he’s a relation?’
“Another shake of the head.
“‘But you belong to him?’ I said, considerably puzzled. ‘Where were you
born?’
“‘I wasn’t born at all,’ answered Matt. ‘I come ashore.’
“This was what the immortal Dick. Swiveller would have called a
‘staggerer.’ I looked at the girl again, inspecting her curiously from
top to toe. Without taking her eyes from mine, she stood on one leg
bashfully, and fidgeted with the other foot. She was certainly
not bad-looking, though, evidently a very rough diamond. Even the
extraordinary head-gear became her well. “‘I know what you are doing
there,’ she cried suddenly, pointing to my easel. ‘You, was painting!’
The discovery not being a brilliant one, I took no trouble to confirm
it; but Matt thereupon walked over to the canvas, and, stooping down,
examined it with undisguised curiosity. Presently she glanced again at
me.
“‘I know what _this_ is,’ she cried, pointing. ‘It’s water. And that’s
the sky. And that’s trees. And these here’--for a moment she seemed in
doubt, but added hastily--‘pigs.’
“Now, as the subject represented a flock of sheep huddling together
close to a pond on a rainy common, this suggestion was not over
complimentary to my artistic skill. I was on the point of correcting my
astute critic, when she added, after a moment’s further inspection--
“‘No; they’re sheep. Look ye now, I know! They’re sheep.’
“‘Pray, don’t touch the paint,’ I suggested, approaching her in some
alarm. ‘It is wet, and comes off.’
“She drew back cautiously; and then, as a preliminary to further
conversation, sat down on the grass, giving me further occasion
to remark her length and shapeliness of limb. There was a
free-and-easiness, not to say boldness, about her manner, tempered
though it was with gusts of bashfulness, which began to amuse me.
“‘Can you paint faces?’ she asked dubiously.
“I replied that I could even aspire to that accomplishment, by which I
understood her to mean portrait painting, if need were. She gave a quiet
nod of satisfaction.
“There was a painter chap came to Aberglyn last summer, and he painted
William Jones.’
“‘Indeed?’ I said, with an assumption of friendly interest.
“‘Yes; I wanted him to paint _me_, but he wouldn’t. He painted William
Jones’s father though, along o’ William Jones.’
“This with an air of unmistakable disgust and recrimination. I looked at
the girl more observantly. It had never occurred to me till that moment
that she would make a capital picture,--just the sort of ‘study’ which
would fetch a fair price in the market. I adopted her free and easy
manner, which was contagious, and sat down on the grass opposite to her.
“‘I tell you what it is, Matt,’ I said familiarly, ‘I’ll paint you,
though the other painter chap wouldn’t.’
“‘You will!’ she cried, blushing with delight.
“‘Certainly; and a very nice portrait I think you’ll make. Be good
enough to take off your hat that I may have a better look at you.’
“She obeyed me at once, and threw the clumsy thing down on the grass
beside her. Then I saw that her head was covered with short black curls,
clinging round a bold white brow unfreckled by the sun. She glanced at
me sidelong, laughing and showing her white teeth. Whatever her age was
she was quite old enough to be a coquette.
“Promptly as possible I put the question: ‘You have not told me how old
you are?’
“‘Fifteen,’ she replied without hesitation.
“‘I should have taken you to be at least a year older.’
“She shook her head.
“‘It’s fifteen year come Whitsuntide,’ she explained, ‘since I come
ashore.’
“Although I was not a little curious to know what this ‘coming ashore’
meant, I felt that all my conversation had been categorical to monotony,
and I determined, therefore, to reserve further inquiry until another
occasion. Observing that my new friend was now looking at the caravan
with considerable interest, I asked her if she knew what it was, and if
she had ever seen anything like it before. She replied in the negative,
though I think she had a tolerably good guess as to the caravan’s uses.
I thought this a good opportunity to show my natural politeness. Would
she like to look at the interior? She said she would, though without
exhibiting much enthusiasm.
“I thereupon led the way up the steps and into the vehicle. Matt
followed; but, so soon as she caught a glimpse of the interior, stood
timidly on the threshold. What is there in the atmosphere of a house,
even the rudest, which places the visitor at a disadvantage as compared
with the owner? Even animals feel this, and dogs especially, when
visiting strange premises, exhibit most abject humility. But I must
not generalize. The bearings of this remark, to quote my friend Captain
Cuttle, lie in the application of it. Matt for a moment was awed.
“‘Come in, Matt; come in,’ I said.
“She came in by slow degrees; and I noticed for the first time--seeing
how near her hat was to the roof,--that she was unusually tall. I then
did the honours of the place; showed her my sleeping arrangements, my
culinary implements, everything that I thought would interest her. I
offered her the armchair, or turned-up bedstead; but she preferred a
stool which I sometimes used for my feet, and sitting down upon it,
looked round her with obvious admiration.
“‘Should you like to live in a house like this?’ I asked encouragingly.
“She shook her head with decision.
“‘Why not?’ I demanded.
“She did not exactly know why, or at any rate could not explain. Wishing
to interest and amuse her, I handed her a portfolio of my sketches,
chiefly in pencil and pen-and-ink, but a few in water-colours. Her
manner changed at once, and she turned them over with little cries of
delight. It was clear that Matt had a taste for the beautiful in Art,
but her chief attraction was for pictures representing the human face or
figure.
“Among the sketches she found a crayon drawing of an antique and
blear-eyed gentleman in a skull cap, copied from some Rembrandtish
picture I had seen abroad.
“‘I know who this is!’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s William Jones’s father!’
“I assured her on my honour that William Jones’s father was not
personally known to me, but she seemed a little incredulous. Presently
she rose to go.”
“‘I can’t stop no longer,’ she explained; ‘I’ve got to go up to
Monkshurst for William Jones.’
“‘Monkshurst? Is that where the polite Mr. Monk resides?’
“‘Yes; up in the wood,’ she replied, with a grimace expressive of no
little dislike.
“‘Is Mr. Monk a friend of yours?’
“Her answer was a very decided negative. Then, slouching to the door,
she swung herself down to the ground. I followed, and stood on the
threshold, looking down at her.
“‘Don’t forget that I’m to paint your picture,’ I said. ‘When will you
come back?’
“‘To-morrow, may be.’
“‘I shall expect you. Good-by!’
“‘Good-by, master,’ she returned, reaching up to shake hands.
“I watched her as she walked away toward the road, and noticed that she
took bold strides like a boy. On reaching the road, she looked back and
laughed, then she drew herself together, and began running like a
young deer, with little or nothing of her former clumsiness, until she
disappeared among the sand-hills.
“Thursday.--This morning, just after breakfast, when I had entered the
Caravan to prepare my materials for the day’s painting, Tim appeared at
the door with a horrid grin.
“‘There’s a young lady asking for ye,’ he said.
“I had forgotten for the moment my appointment of the day before, and,
when I leaped from the Caravan, I perceived, standing close by, with her
back to me, and her face toward the lake, the figure of a young woman.
At first I failed to identify her, for she wore a black hat and a white
feather, a cloth jacket, and a dress which almost reached the ground;
but she turned round as I approached her, and I recognized my new
acquaintance.
“I can not say that she was improved by her change of costume. In
the first place, it made her look several years older--in fact,
quite young-womanly. In the second place, it was tawdry, not to say,
servant-gally, if I may coin such an adjective. The dress was of thin
silk, old and frayed, and looking as if it had suffered a good deal from
exposure to the elements, as was indeed the actual case. The jacket was
also old, and seemed made of the rough material which is usually
cut into sailors’ pea-jackets; which was the case also. The hat was
obviously new, but, just as obviously, home-made.
“‘So you have come,’ I said, shaking hands. ‘Upon my word, I didn’t know
you.’
“She laughed delightedly, and glanced down at her attire, which clearly
afforded her the greatest satisfaction.
“‘I put on my Sunday clothes,’ she explained, “cause I was going to have
my likeness took. Don’t you tell William Jones.’
“I promised not to betray her to that insufferable nuisance, and
refrained from informing her that I thought her ordinary costume far
more becoming than her seventh-day finery.
“‘That’s a nice dress,’ I said, hypocritically. ‘Where did you buy it?’
“‘I didn’t buy it. It come ashore.’
“‘What! When you “come ashore” yourself?’
“‘No fear!’ she answered. ‘Last winter when the big ship went to bits
out there.’
“‘Oh, I see! Then it was a portion of a wreck?’
“‘Yes, it come ashore, and, look ye now, this jacket come ashore too. On
a sailor chap.’
“‘And the sailor chap made you a present of it, I suppose?’
“‘No fear!’ she repeated, with her sharp shake of the head. ‘How could
he give it me, when he was drownded and come ashore? William Jones gave
it to me, and I altered it my own self, look ye now, to make it
fit.’
“She was certainly an extraordinary young person, and wore her
mysterious finery with a coolness I thought remarkable, it being quite
clear, from her explanation, that all was fish that came to her net,
or, in other words, that dead men’s clothes were as acceptable to her
unprejudiced taste as any others. However, the time was hastening on,
and I had my promise to keep. So I got my crayon materials, and made
Matt sit down before me on a stool, first insisting, however, that she
should divest herself of her head-gear, which was an abomination, but
which she discarded with extreme reluctance. Directly I began, she
became rigid, and fixed herself, so to speak, as people do when being
photographed--her eyes glaring on vacancy, her whole face lost in
self-satisfied vacuity.
“‘You needn’t keep like that,’ I cried, ‘I want your face to have some
expression. Move your head about as much as you like, laugh and talk--it
will be all the better.’
“‘Last time I was took,’ she replied, ‘the chap said I mustn’t move.’
“‘Ah! I suppose he was a travelling photographer.’
“He had a little black box, like, on legs, and a cloth on top of it, and
he looked at me through a hole in the middle. Then he cried, ‘Now,’
and held up his hand for me to keep still as a mouse; then he counted
fifty--and I was took.’
“‘Ah! Indeed! Was it a good likeness?’”
“‘Yes, master. But I looked like the black woman who come ashore last
Easter was a year.’”
“With conversation like this we beguiled the time, while I proceeded
rapidly with my drawing. At the end of a couple of hours Matt had become
so fidgety that I thought it advisable to give her a rest. She sprang up
and ran over to inspect the picture. The moment her eyes fell upon it,
she uttered a rapturous cry.
“‘Look ye now, ain’t it pretty? Master, am I like _that?_’
“I answered her it was an excellent likeness, and not too flattering.
Her face fell however a little as she proceeded.
“‘Are my cheeks as red as that, master?’”
“‘You are red, Matt,’ I replied, flippantly; ‘so are the roses.’”
“She looked at me thoughtfully. ‘When it’s finished, will you give it to
me to keep?’
“‘Well, we shall see.’
“‘I gave t’other chap a shilling for his, frame and all, but I’ve got no
more money,’ she continued, with an insinuating smile, which, as a man
of gallantry, I could not resist. So I promised that, if she behaved
herself properly, I would in all probability make her the present she
coveted.
“‘You must come again to-morrow,’ I said, as we shook hands, ‘and I’ll
finish the thing off.’
“’ All right, master, I’ll come.’
“And, with a nod and a bright smile, she walked away.
“During the whole of this interview, Tim had not been unobservant, and
so soon as I was left alone he looked up from the work he was engaged
upon, viz. potato-washing, and gave a knowing smile.
“‘Sure she’s a fine bold colleen,’ he said. ‘Does your honour know who
she is?’
“‘I have not the slightest idea.’
“‘They’re saying down beyant that she’s a say-fondling, and has neither
father nor mother, nor any belongings.’
“‘Pray who was your informant?’
“‘The man who picked her from the say--William Jones hisself.’
“That name again. It was becoming too much for flesh and blood to bear.
From the first moment of my arrival I had heard no other, and I had
begun to detest its very sound.”