I'm going to paint the gorse. But if you just stood here, you'd make a sort
of contrast with your brown frock. Not a portrait at all, only just a
figure to help the color. Besides, you mustn't think I'm an artist, I
shouldn't go selling the picture or hanging it up for everybody to stare at
it. I'm certain your father wouldn't mind, and I'll tell him all about it
afterward, if you like."
She hesitated and reflected with trouble in her eyes, while Barron quietly
took the picture he had brought her and wrapped it up in a piece of paper.
His object was to remind her without appearing to do so of her obligation
to him, and Joan was clever enough to take the hint, though not clever
enough to see that it was an intentional one.
"Would it be a long job, sir?" she asked at length.
"Yes, it would; because I'm a slow painter and rather stupid. But I should
think it very, very kind of you. I'm not strong, you know, and I daresay
this is the last picture I shall ever paint."
"You ed'n strong, sir?"
"Not at all."
She was silent, and a great sympathy rose in her girl's heart, for frail
health always made her sad.
"You don't judge 'tis wrong then for a maiden to be painted in a picksher?"
"Certainly not, Joan. I should never suggest such a thing to you if I
thought it was in the least wrong. I _know_ it isn't wrong."
"I seed you issterday," she said, changing the subject suddenly, "but you
dedn see me, did 'e?"
"Yes, I did, and your father. He is a grand-looking man. By the way, Joan,
I think I never told you my name. I'm called John; that's short and simple,
isn't it?"
"Mister Jan," she said.
"No, not 'mister'--just 'Jan,'" he answered, adopting her pronunciation. "I
don't call you 'Miss' Joan."
She looked at once uncomfortable and pleased.
"We must be friends," the man continued calmly, "now you have promised to
let me put you here among the gorse bushes."
"Sure, I dunnaw 'bout the picksher, Mister Jan."
"Well, you would be doing me a great service. I want to paint you very much
and I think you will be kind."
He looked into her eyes with a steady, inquiring glance, and Joan
experienced a new emotion. Joe had never looked like that; nor yet her
father. She felt a will stronger than her own was busy with her
inclinations. Volition remained free, and yet she doubted whether under any
circumstances could she refuse his petition. As it happened, however, she
already liked the man. He was so respectful and polite. Moreover, she felt
sad to hear that he suffered in health. He would not ask her to do wrong
and she felt certain that she might trust him. A trembling wish and a
longing to comply with his request already mastered her mind.
"You'm sure--gospel truth--theer ed'n no harm in it?"
"Trust me."
In five minutes he had posed her as he wished and was drawing, while every
word he spoke put Joan more at her ease. The spice of adventure and secrecy
fired her and she felt the spirit of romance in her blood, though she knew
no name for it. Here was a secret delight knocking at the gray threshold of
every-day life--an adventure which might last for many days.
Barron, to touch the woman in her if he could, harped upon her gown and the
color of it, on her shoes and sun-bonnet--on everything but herself.
Presently he reaped his reward.
"Ban't you gwaine to paint my faace as well, Mister Jan."
"Yes, if I can. But your eyes are blue, and blue eyes are hard to paint
well. Yours are so very blue, Joan. Didn't Joe ever tell you that?"
"No--that's all fulishness."
"Nothing that's true is foolish. Now I'm going to make some little sketches
of you, so as to get each fold and shadow in your dress right."
Barron drew rapidly, and Joan--ever ready to talk to a willing listener
when her confidence was won--prattled on, turning the conversation as usual
to the matters she loved. Upon her favorite subjects she dared not open her
mouth at home, and even her lover refused to listen to the legends of the
land, but they were part of the girl's life notwithstanding, drawn into her
blood from her mother, a thousand times more real and precious than even
the promised heaven of Luke Gospeldom, not to be wholly smothered at any
time. Occasionally, indeed, uneasy fears that discussion of such concerns
was absolutely sinful kept her dumb for a week, then the religious wave
swept on, and Cornish folk-lore, with its splendor and romance, again
filled her heart and bubbled from her lips. Her little stories pleased
Barron mightily. Excitement heightened Joan's beauty. Her absolute
innocence at the age of seventeen struck him as remarkable. It seemed
curious that a child born in a cottage, where realities and facts are apt
to roughly front boy and girl alike, should know so little. She was a
beautiful, primitive creature, with strange store of fairy fable in her
mind; a treasury which brought color and joy into life. So she prattled,
and the man painted.
Pure artistic interest filled Barron's brain at this season; not a shadow
of passion made his pencil shaky or his eye dim; he began to learn the girl
with as little emotion as he had learned the gorse. He asked her to
unfasten the top button of her dress that he might see the lines of her
plump throat, and she complied without hesitation or ceasing from her
chatter. He noted where the tan on her neck faded to white under her dress,
and occupied himself with all the artistic problems she unconsciously
spread before him; while she merely talked, garnered in his questions and
comments on all she said, and found delight in the apparent interest and
entertainment her conversation afforded him.
"I seed a maggotty-pie [Footnote: _Maggotty-pie_--Magpie.] comin'
along this marnin'," she said. "Wan's bad an' a sign o' sorrer; but if you
spits twice over your left shoulder it doan't matter so much. But I be
better off than many maidens, 'cause I be saint-protected like."
"That's interesting, Joan."
"Faither'd be mad if I let on 'bout it to him, so I doesn't. He doan't
b'lieve much in dead saints, though Carnwall's full of 'em. Have 'e heard
tell 'bout Saint Madern?"
"Ah, the saint of the well?"
"Iss, an' the brook as runs by the Madern chapel."
"I sketched the little ruin of the baptistery some time ago."
"'Twas tho't a deal of wance, an' the holy water theer was reckoned better
for childern than any doctor's traade as ever was. My mother weer a Madern
cheel; an' 'er ordained I should be as well, an' when faither was to sea,
as fell out just 'pon the right day, mother took me up theer. That was my
awn mother as is dead. More folks b'lieved in the spring then than what do
now, 'cause that was sebenteen year agone. An' from bein' a puny cheel I
grawed a bonny wan arter dipping. But some liked the crick-stone better for
lil baabies than even the Madern brook."
"Mên-an-tol that stone is called?"
"So 'tis, awnly us knaws it as the crick-stone. Theer's a big hole in en,
an' if a cheel was passed through nine times runnin', gwaine 'gainst the
way of the sun every time, it made en as strong as a lion. An' 'tis good
for grawn people tu, awnly folks is afeared to try now 'cause t'others
laugh at en. But I reckon the Madern brook's holy water still. An' theer's
wonnerful things said 'bout the crick-stones an' long stones tu. A many of
'em stands round 'bout these paarts."
"D'you know Mên Scryfa--the stone with the writing on it? That's a famous
long stone, up beyond Lanyon Farmhouse."
"I've seed en, 'pon the heath. 'Tis butivul an' solemn an' still, all aloan
out theer in a croft to itself. I trapsed up-long wan day an' got beside of
en an' ate a pasty wi' Joe. But Joe chid me, an' said 'tweer a heathenish
thing sticked theer by the Phoenicians, as comed for tin in Solomon's
times."
"Don't you believe that, Joan. Mên Scryfa marks the memory of a good
Briton--one who knew King Arthur, very likely. I love the old stones too.
You are right to love them. They are landmarks in time, books from which we
may read something of a far, fascinating past."
"Iss, but I ded'n tell 'e all 'bout the Madern waters. The best day for 'em
be the fust Sunday in May; an' come that, the mothers did use to gaw up to
the chapel--dozens of 'em--wi' poor lil baabies. They dipped 'em naked in
the brook, an' 'twas just a miracle for rashes and braggety legs and sich
like. An', arterward, the mothers made offerin's to the saint. 'Twas awnly
the thot like, but folks reckoned the saint 'ud take the will for the act,
'cause poor people couldn' give a saint nothin' worth namin'."
Barren had heard of the votive offerings left by the faithful in past days
at St. Madron's shrine, but felt somewhat surprised to find the practice
dated back to a time so recent as Joan's infancy. He let her talk on, for
the subject was evidently dear to the girl.
"And what did the mothers give the saint?"
"Why, rags mostly. Just a rag tored off a petticoat, or some sich thing.
They hanged 'em up around about on the thorn bushes to shaw as they'd a
done more for the good saint if they'd had the power. An' theer's another
marvelous thing as washin' in thicky waters done: it kep' the fairies
off--the bad fairies, I mean. 'Cause theer'm gude an' bad piskeys, same as
gude an' bad men folks."
"You believe in fairies, Joan?"
She looked at him shyly, but he had apparently asked for information and
was not in the least amused.
"I dunnaw. P'raps. Iss, I do, then! Many wiser'n me do b'lieve in 'em. You
arsk the tinners--them as works deep. They knaws; they've 'eard the
knackers an' gathorns many a time, an' some's seen 'em. But the mine
fairies be mostly wicked lil humpetty-backed twoads as'll do harm if they
can; an' the buccas is onkind to fishermen most times; an' 'tis said they
used to bide in the shape of a cat by day. But theer be land fairies as is
mighty good-hearted if a body behaves seemly."
"I believe in the fairies too," said Barren gravely, "but I've never seen
one."
"Do 'e now, Mister Jan! Then I'm sure theer is sich things. I ne'er seed
wan neither; but I'd love to. Some maids has vanished away an' dwelt 'mong
'em for many days an' then comed home. Theer's Robin o' the Carn as had a
maiden to work for en. You may have heard the tale?"
"No, never."
"'Tis a fine tale; an' the gal had a braave time 'mongst the lil people
till she disobeyed 'em an' found herself back 'mongst men folk agin. But in
coorse some of them--the piskeys, I mean--works for men folk themselves. My
gran'mother Chirgwin, when she was very auld, seed 'em a threshin' corn in
a barn up Drift. They was tiny fellers wi' beards an' red faaces, an' they
handled the flails cruel clever. Then, arter a bit, they done the threshin'
an' was kickin' the short straw out the grain, which riz a gert dust; an'
the piskeys all beginned sneezin'. An' my gran'mother, as was peepin'
through the door unbeknown to 'em, forgot you must never speak to a piskey,
an' sez, 'God bless 'e, hi men!' 'cause that's what us allus sez if a body
sneezes. Then they all took fright an' vanished away in the twinkle of a
eye. Which must be true, 'cause my awn gran'mother tawld it. But they ded'n
leave the farm, though nobody seed 'em again, for arter that 'tis said as
the cows gived a wonnerful shower o' milk, better'n ever was knawn before.
An' I 'sure 'e I'd dearly like to be maiden to good piskeys if they'd let
me work for 'em."
"Ah, I'm certain you would suit them well, Joan; and they would be lucky to
get you, I think; but I hope they won't go and carry you off until I've
done with you, at any rate."
She laughed, and he bid her put down her hand from her eyes and rest. He
had brought some oranges for her, but judged the friendship had gone far
enough, and first decided not to produce them. Half an hour later, however,
when the sitting was ended, he changed his mind.
"Can you come to-morrow, Joan? I am entirely in your hands, remember, and
must consider your convenience always. In fact, I am your servant and shall
wait your pleasure at all times."
Joan felt proud and rather important.
"I'll come at 'leben o'clock to-morrow, but I doubt I caan't be here next
day, Mister Jan."
"Thank you very much. To-morrow at eleven will do splendidly. By the way, I
have an orange here--two, in fact. I thought we might be thirsty. Will you
take one to eat going home?"
He held out the fruit and she took it.
"My! What a butivul orange!"
"Good-by until to-morrow, Joan; and thank you for your great kindness to a
very friendless man. You'll never be sorry for it, I'm sure."
He bowed gravely and took off his cap, then turned to his easel; and she
blushed with a lively pleasure. She had seen gentlemen take off their hats
to ladies, but no man had ever paid her that respect until then, and it
seemed good to her. She marched off with her picture and her orange, but
did not eat the fruit until out of sight of Gorse Point.
The man painting there already began to fill a space in Joan's thoughts. He
knew so much and yet was glad to learn from her. He never laughed or talked
lightly. He put her in mind of her father for that reason, but then his
heart was soft, and he loved Nature and beautiful things, and believed in
fairies and spoke no ill of anybody. Joan speculated as to how these
meetings could be kept a secret and came to the conclusion it would not be
difficult to hide them. Then, reaching home, she hid her picture behind the
pig-sty until opportunity offered for taking it indoors to her own bedroom
unobserved.
As for John Barren, he felt kindly enough toward his model. He could hold
himself with an iron hand when he pleased, and proposed that the growing
friendship should ripen into a fine work of art and no more. But what might
go to the making of the picture could not be foretold. He would certainly
allow nothing to check inspiration or stand between him and the very best
he had power to achieve. No sacrifice could be too great for Art, and
Barron, who was now awake and alive for an achievement, would, according to
his rule, count nothing hard, nothing impossible that might add a grain of
value to the work. His own skill and Joan's beauty were brought in contact
and he meant to do everything a man might do to make the result immortal.
But the human instruments necessary to such work counted for nothing, and
their personal prosperity and welfare would weigh no more with him than the
future of the brushes which he might use, after he had done with them.
CHAPTER SEVEN
UNCLE CHIRGWIN
Joan's first announcement upon the following morning was a regret that the
sitting must be short.
"We'm mighty busy, come wan thing an' another," she said. "Mother's gwaine
to Penzance wi' my brother to buy his seafarin' kit; and Uncle Chirgwin, as
keeps a farm up Drift, be comin' to dinner, which he ain't done this long
time; an' faither may by chance be home tu, so like as not, for the first
bwoats be tackin' back from the islands a'ready."
"You shall stop just as short a time as you choose, Joan. It was very good
of you to come at all under these circumstances," declared the artist.
"Us be fine an' busy when uncle comes down-long, an' partickler this time,
'cause theer've bin a differ'nce of 'pinion 'bout--'bout a matter betwixt
him and faither, but now he's wrote through the post to say as he'm comin',
so 'tis all right, I s'pose, an' us'll have to give en a good dinner
anyways."
"Of course you must," admitted Barren, working steadily the while.
"He'm a dear sawl, an' I likes en better'n anybody in the world, I think,
'cept faither. But he's easier to please than faither, an' so humble as a
beggar-man. An' I wants to make some cakes for en against tea-time, 'cause
when he comes, he bides till candle-lighting or later."
Presently the artist bid her rest for a short while, and her thoughts
reverted to him and the picture.
"I hope as you'm feelin' strong an' no worser, Mister Jan," she said
timidly.
He was puzzled for a moment, then recollected that he had mentioned his
health to her.
"Thank you very much for asking, Joan. It was good and thoughtful. I am no
worse--rather better if anything, now I come to think about it. Your
Cornish air is kind to me, and when the sun shines I am happy."
"How be the picksher farin'?"
"I get on well, I think."
"'Tis cruel clever of 'e, Mister Jan. An' you'll paint me wi' the fuzz all
around?"
"That is what I hope to do; a harmony in brown and gold."
"You'll get my likeness tu, I s'pose, same as the photograph man done it
last winter to Penzance? Me an' Joe was took side by side, an' folks
reckoned 'twas the moral of us, specially when the gen'leman painted Joe's
hair black an' mine yeller for another shillin' cost."
"It must have been very excellent."
"Iss, 'twas for sartain."
"What did Mr. Tregenza say of it?"
"Well, faither, he'm contrary to sich things, as I tawld 'e, Mister Jan.
Faither said Joe'd better by a deal keep his money in his purse; but he let
me have the picksher, an' 'tis nailed up in a lil frame, what Joe made, at
home in the parlor."
She stopped a moment and sighed, then spoke again.
"Faither's a wonnerful God-fearin' man, sure 'nough."
"Is he a God-loving man too, Joan?"
"I dunnaw. That ed'n 'sackly the same, I s'pose?"
"As different as fear and love. I'm not an atom frightened of God
myself--no more than I am of you."
"Lard! Mister Jan."
"Why should I be? You are not frightened of the air you breathe--yet that
is part of God; you are not frightened of the gold gorse or the blue
sky--yet they are part of God too. God made you--you are part of God--a
deliberate manifestation of Him. What's the use of being frightened? You
and I can only know God by the shapes He takes--by the bluebells and the
ferns and the larks in the sky, and the rabbits and wild things."
His effort to inspire the girl with Nature-worship, though crudely cast in
a fashion most likely to attract her, yet failed just then, and failed
ludicrously. Her mind comprehended barely enough to accept his idea in a
sense suggested by her acquaintance with fable, and when he instanced a
rabbit as an earthly manifestation of the Everlasting, she felt she could
cap the example from her own store of knowledge.
"I reckon I sees what you'm meanin', Mister Jan. Theer's things us calls
witch-hares in these paarts up-long. The higher-quarter people have seed
'em 'fore now; nothin' but siller bullets will kill 'em. They goes
loppettin' about down lawnly lanes on moonlight nights, an' they draws
folks arter 'em. But if you could kill wan of 'em 'tis said as they'd turn
into witches theer an' then. So you means that God A'-mighty' takes shaapes
sometimes same as they witches do, doan't 'e?"
"Not quite that, Joan. What I want you to know is that the great Being you
call God is nearer to you here, on Gorse Point, than in the Luke Gospelers'
meeting-house, and He takes greater delight in a bird's song than in all
your father's prayers and sermons put together. That is because the great
Being taught the bird to sing Himself, but He never taught your father to
pray."
"I dunnaw 'sackly what you means, Mister Jan, but I judges you ban't so
religious like as what faither is."
"Religion came from God to man, Joan, because man wanted it and couldn't
get on comfortably without it; but theology--if you know what that
means--man invented for himself. Religion is the light; theology is the
candlestick. Never quarrel with any man's candlestick as long as you can
see his light burning bravely. Mr. Tregenza thinks all men are mistaken but
the Luke Gospelers--so you told me. But if that is the case, what becomes
of all your good Cornish saints? They were not Luke Gospelers--at least I
don't think they were."
Joan frowned over this tremendous problem, then dismissed it for the
pleasanter and simpler theme John Barron's last remark suggested.
"Them saints was righteous men anyhow, an' they worked miracles tu, so it
ban't no gude sayin' they wasn't godly in their ways, the whole boilin' of
'em. Theer's St. Piran, St. Michael, St. Austell, St. Blazey, St. Buryan,
St. Ives, St. Sennen, St. Levan, an' a many more, I could call home if I
was to think. Did 'e ever hear tell 'bout St. Neot, Mister Jan?"
"'No, Joan; I'm afraid I don't know much about him."
"Not 'bout they feesh?"
"Tell me, while you rest a minute or two."
"'Tis a holy story, an' true as any Bible tale, I should guess. St. Neot
had a well, an' wan day he seed three feesh a swimmin' in it an' he was
'mazed to knaw how they comed theer. So a angel flew down an' tawld en
that they was put theer for his eatin', but he must never draw out more'n
wan at a time. Then he'd all us find three when he comed again. An' so he
did; but wance he failed sick an' his servant had to look arter his vittles
meantime. He was a man by the name of Barius, an' he judged as maybe a
change of eatin' might do the saint good. So he goes an' takes two o' them
feesh 'stead o' wan as the angel said. An' he b'iled wan feesh, an' fried
t'other, an' took 'em to St. Neot; an' when he seed what his man been
'bout, he was flustered, I tell 'e. Then the saint up and done a marvelous
straange thing, for he flinged them feesh back in the well, just as they
was, and began praayin' to the Lard to forgive his man. An' the feesh
comed alive ag'in and swimmed around, though Barius had cleaned 'em, I
s'pose, an' took the guts out of 'em an' everything. Then the chap just
catched wan feesh proper, an' St. Neot ate en, an' grawed well by sundown.
So he was a saint anyways."
"You can't have a miracle without a saint, of course, Joan?"
"Or else the Lard. But I'll hold in mind what you sez 'bout Him bein' hid
in flowers an' birds an' sich like, 'cause that's a butivul thing to knaw."
"And in the stars and the sun and the moon, Joan; and in the winds and
clouds. See how I've got on to-day. I don't think I ever did so much work
in an hour before."
She looked and blushed to note her brown frock and shoes.
"You've done a deal more to them fuzzes than what you have to me,
seemin'ly," she said.
"That's because the gorse is always here and you are not. I work at the
gorse morning after morning, when the sun is up, until my fingers ache.
You'll see great changes in the picture of yourself soon though."
But she was not satisfied, of course misunderstanding the unfinished work.
"You mustn't say anything yet, you know, Joan," added the artist, seeing
her pouting lips.
"But--but you've drawed me as flat as a cheeld, an' I be round as a wummon,
ban't I?" she said, holding out her hands that he might see her slight
figure. Her blue eyes were clouded, for she deemed that he had put an
insult upon her budding womanhood. Barren showed no sign of his enjoyment,
but explained as clearly as possible that she was looking at a thing wholly
unfinished, indeed scarce begun.
"You might as well grumble with me for not painting your fingers or your
face, Joan. I told you I was a slow artist; only be patient; I'm going to
do all fitting honor to every scrap of you, if only you will let me."
"Warmer words had come to his lips, but he did not suffer them to pass.
Then the girl's beautiful face broke into a smile again.
"I be nigher eighteen than sebenteen, you knaw, Mister Jan. But, coorse, I
hadn't no bizness to talk like that to 'e, 'cause what do I knaw 'bout sich
things?"
"You shan't see the picture again till it is finished, Joan. It was my
fault for showing it to you like that, and you had every right to protest.
Now you must go, for it's long past twelve o'clock."
"I'm afeared I caan't come to-morrer."
"As you please. I shall be here every day, ready and only too glad to see
you."
"An'--an' you ban't cross wi' me for speakin' so rude, Mister Jan?"
"Cross, Joan? No, I'm never cross with anybody but myself. I couldn't be
cross with my kind little friend if I tried to be."
He shook hands; it was the first occasion that he had done so, and she
blushed. His hand was cold and thin, and she heard one of the bones in it
give a little crack as he held her palm within his own for the briefest
space of time. Then, as usual, the moment after he had said "good-by," he
appeared to become absolutely unconscious of her presence, and returned to
his picture.