train of reflection came back to the last words Barron spoke that morning.
He had called her his kind little friend. It was very wonderful, Joan
thought, and a statement not to be explained at all. Her stepmother's voice
cut these pleasant memories sharply, and she returned home to find that
Uncle Chirgwin had already arrived--a fact his old gray horse, tethered in
the orchard, and his two-wheeled market cart, drawn up in the side-lane,
testified to before Mrs. Tregenza announced it.
"Out again, of coorse, just because you knawed I was to be drove off my
blessed legs to-day. I'll tell your faither of 'e, so I will. Gals like you
did ought to be chained 'longside theer work till 'tis done."
Uncle Chirgwin sat by the fireside with a placid if bored expression on his
round face. His hands were folded on his stomach; his short legs were stuck
out before him; his head was quite bald, his color high, his gray eyes
weak, though they had some laughter hidden in them. His double chin was
shaved, but a very white bristle of stubbly whisker surrounded it and
ascended to where all that remained of his hair stuck, like two patches of
cotton wool, above his ears. The old man wore a suit of gray tweed and
blinked benignly through a pair of spectacles. He had already heard enough
of Mrs. Tregenza's troubles to last some time, and turned with pleasure to
Joan as she entered. So hearty indeed was the greeting and a kiss which
accompanied it that his niece felt the displeasure which her uncle had
recorded by post upon the occasion of her engagement to Mary Chirgwin's
former sweetheart existed no more.
"My ivers! a braave, bowerly maid you'm grawin', sure 'nough! Joan'll be a
wummon 'fore us can look round, mother."
"Iss--an' a fine an' lazy wummon tu. I wish you could make her work like
what Mary does up Drift."
"Well, I dunnaw. You see there's all sorts of girls, same as plants an'
'osses an' cetera. Some's for work, some's for shaw. You 'specks a flower
to be purty, but you doan't blame a 'tater plant 'cause 'e ed'n particular
butivul. Same wi' 'osses, an' wi' gals. Joan's like that chinee plate 'pon
the bracket, wi' the pickshers o' Saltash Burdge 'pon en, an' gold writin'
under; an' Mary's like that pie-dish, what you put in the ubben a while
back. Wan's for shaw, t'other's for use--eh?"
"Gwan! you'm jokin', Uncle Thomas!" said Joan.
"An' a poor joke tu, so 'tis. You'd turn any gal's 'ead wi' your stuff,
Chirgwin. Wheer's the gude of a fuzz-pole o' yeller hair an' a pair o' blue
eyes stuck 'pon top of a idle, good-for-nothin' body? Maidens caan't live
by looks in these paarts, an' they'll find theerselves in trouble mighty
quick if they tries to."
Uncle Chirgwin instantly admitted that Mrs. Tregenza had the better of the
argument. He was a simple man with a soft heart and no brains worth naming.
Most people laughed at him and loved him. As sure as he went to Penzance on
market-day, he was cordially greeted and made much of, and robbed. People
suspected that his shrewd, black-eyed niece stood between him and absolute
misfortune. She never let him go to market without her if she could help
it; for, on those infrequent occasions when he jogged to town with his gray
horse and cart alone, he always went with a great trust of the world in his
heart and endeavored to conduct the sale of farm produce in the spirit of
Christianity, which was magnificent but not business. Mr. Chirgwin's simple
theories had kept him a poor man; yet the discovery, often repeated, that
his knowledge of human nature was bad, never imbittered him, and he mildly
persisted in his pernicious system of trusting everybody until he found he
could not; unlike his neighbors who trusted nobody until they found that
they could. The farmer had blazed with indignation when Joe Noy flung over
Mary Chirgwin because she would not become a Luke Gospeler. But the matter
was now blown over, for the jilted girl, though the secret bitterness of
her sorrow still bred much gall in her bosom, never paraded it or showed a
shadow of it in her dark face. Uncle Thomas greatly admired Mary and even
feared her; but he loved Joan, for she was like her dead mother outwardly
and like himself in character: a right Chirgwin, loving sunshine and
happiness, herself sunshiny and happy.
"'Pears I've comed the wrong day, Joan," he said presently, when Mrs.
Tregenza's back was turned, "but now I be here, you must do with me as you
can."
"Mother's gwaine to town wi' Tom bimebye; then me an' you'll have a talk,
uncle, wi'out nothin' to let us. You'm lookin' braave, me auld dear."
He liked a compliment, and anticipated pleasure from a quiet afternoon with
his niece. She bustled about, as usual, to make up for lost time; and
presently, when the cloth was laid, walked to the cottage door to see if
her father's lugger was at its moorings or in sight. Meantime Mrs.
Tregenza, having brought forth dinner from the oven, called at the back
door to her son in a voice harsh and shrill beyond customary measure, as
became her exceptional tribulations.
"Come in, will 'e, an' ait your food, bwoy. Theer ed'n no call to kick out
they boots agin' the pig's 'ouse because I be gwaine to buy new wans for 'e
presently."
Fired by a word which she had heard from John Barron, that flowers became
the house as well as the garden, Joan plucked an early sprig of pink ribe
and the first buds of wall-flower before returning to the kitchen. These
she put in a jug of water and planted boldly upon the dinner-table as Mrs.
Tregenza brought out a pie.
"Butivul, sure 'nough," said Mr. Chirgwin, drawing in his chair. His eye
was on the pie-dish, but Joan thought he referred to her bouquet.
"Lard! what'll 'e do next? Take they things off the table to wance, Joan."
"But Uncle Thomas sez they'm butivul," she pleaded.
"They be pleasant," admitted Mr. Chirgwin, "but bloody-warriors [Footnote:
_Bloody-warrior_--Wall-flower.] be out o' plaace 'pon the
dinner-table. I was 'ludin' to this here. You do brown a 'tater to rights,
mother."
Mrs. Tregenza's shepherd's pies had a reputation, and anybody eating of one
without favorable comment was judged to have made a hole in his manners.
Now she helped the steaming delicacy and sighed as she sat down before her
own ample share.
"Lard knaws how I done it to-day. 'Tis just a enstance how some things
comes nachrul to some people. You wants a light hand wi' herbs an' to knaw
your ubben. Get the brandy, Joan. Uncle allus likes the edge off drinkin'
water."
The Tregenzas were teetotalers, but a bottle of brandy for medicinal
purposes occupied the corner of a certain cupboard.
"You puts it right, mother. 'Tis just the sharpness I takes off. I can't
drink no beer nowadays, though fond o' it, 'cause 'tis belly-vengeance
stuff arter you gets past a certain time o' life. But I'd as soon have
tea."
"That's bad to drink 'long wi' vlaish," said Mrs. Tregenza. "Tea turns
mayte leather-hard an' plagues the stomach cruel, as I knaws to my cost."
They ate in silence a while, then, having expressed and twice repeated a
wish that Mary could be taught to make shepherd's pies after the rare
fashion of his hostess, Mr. Chirgwin turned to Tom.
"So you'm off for a sailor bwoy, my lad?"
"Iss, uncle, an' mother gwaine to spend fi' puns o' money on my kit."
"By Golles! be she now? I lay you'll be smart an' vitty!"
"That he will!" said Joan, but Mrs. Tregenza shook her head.
"I did sadly want en to be a landsman an' 'prenticed to some good body in
bizness. It's runnin' 'gainst dreams as I had 'fore the bwoy was born, an'
the voice I heard speakin' by night arter I were churched by the Luke
Gosp'lers. But you knaw Michael. What's dreams to him, nor yet voices?"
"The worst paart 'bout 'em, if I may say it, is that they'm so uncommon
well acquainted like wi' theer awn virtues. I mean the Gosp'lers an' all
chapel-members likewise. It blunts my pleasure in a good man to find he
knaws how good he is. Same as wan doan't like to see a purty gal tossin'
her head tu high."
"You caan't say no sich thing o' Michael, I'm sure," remonstrated Mrs.
Tregenza instantly; "he'm that modest wi' his righteousness as can be. I've
knawn en say open in prayer, 'fore the whole chapel, as he's no better'n a
crawlin' worm. An' if he's a worm, what's common folks like you an' me?
Awnly Michael doan't seem to take 'count in voices an' dreams, but I knaws
they'm sent a purpose an' not for nort."
Mr. Chirgwin admitted his own ridiculous religious insignificance as
contrasted with Gray Michael. Indeed the comparison, so little in his
favor, amused him extremely. He sipped his brandy and water and enjoyed a
treacle-pudding which followed the pie. Then, when Joan was clearing up and
Mrs. Tregenza had departed to prepare for her visit to Penzance, Uncle
Thomas began to puff out his cheeks, and blow, and frown, and look uneasily
to the right and left--actions invariably performed when he contemplated
certain monetary achievements of which he was only too fond. The sight of
Mary's eyes upon him had often killed such indiscretions in the bud, but
she was not present just then, so, with further furtive glances, he brought
out his purse, opened it, and found a half-sovereign which reposed alone in
the splendor of a separate compartment. Uncle Chirgwin then beckoned to
Tom, who had gone into the garden till his mother should be ready to start.
"Good speed to 'e, bwoy," he said, "an' may the Lard watch over 'e by land
an' sea. Take you this lil piece o' money to buy what you've a mind to; an'
knaw you've got a auld man's blessin' 'long wi' it."
"Mother," said Tom, a minute later, "uncle have gived me a bit o' gawld!"
She took the coin from him and her eyes rested on it lovingly while the
outlines of her face grew softer and she moistened her lips.
"First gawld's ever I had," commented Tom.
"You'm 'mazin' generous wi' your moneys, uncle, an' I thank 'e hearty for
the bwoy. Mighty good of 'e--so much money to wance," said Thomasin,
showing more gratification than she knew.
"I wants en to be thrifty," answered the old man, very wisely. "You knaws
how hard it is to teach young people the worth o' money."
"Ay, an' some auld wans! Blest if I doan't think you'd give your head away
if 'e could. But I'll take this here half-suvrin' for Tom. 'Tis a nest-egg
as he shall add to as he may."
Tom did not foresee this arrangement, and had something to say as he
tramped off with his mother to town; but though he could do more with her
and get more out of her than anybody else in the world, money was a subject
concerning which Mrs. Tregenza always had her way. She understood it and
loved it and allowed no interference from anybody, Michael alone excepted.
But he cared not much for money and was well content to let his wife hold
the purse; yet when he did occasionally demand an account, it was always
forthcoming to the uttermost farthing, and he fully believed what other
people told him that Thomasin could make a sixpenny-piece go further than
any other woman in Newlyn.
Mother and son presently departed; while Mr. Chirgwin took off his coat,
lighted his pipe, and walked with Joan round about the orchard. He foretold
great things for the plums, now in full flower; he poked the pigs with his
stick and spoke encouragingly of their future also. Then he discussed
Joan's prospects and gladdened her heart by telling her the past must be
let alone and need never be reverted to again.
"Mary's gettin' over it tu," he said, "least-ways I think she is. Her knaws
wheer to look for comfort, bless her. Us must all keep friendly for life's
not long enough to do 'nough good in, I allus says, let alone the doin' o'
bad."
Then he discussed Joe Noy, and Joan was startled to find, when she came to
think seriously upon the subject, that though but a week and three days had
passed since she bid her lover "good-by," yet the picture of him in her
mind already grew a trifle dim, and the prospect of his absence for a year
held not the least sorrow in it for her.
Presently, after looking to his horse, Uncle Thomas hinted at forty winks,
if the same would be quite convenient, and Joan, settling him with some
approach to comfort upon a little horsehair sofa in the parlor, turned her
attention to the making of saffron cakes for tea.
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE MAKING OF PROGRESS
John Barron held strong theories about the importance of the mental
condition when work was in hand. Once fairly engaged upon a picture, he
painted very fast, labored without cessation, and separated himself as far
as might be from every outside influence. No new interests were suffered to
intrude upon his mind; no distractions of any sort, intellectual or
otherwise, were permitted to occupy even those leisure intervals which of
necessity lay between the periods of his work. On the present occasion he
merely fed and slept and dwelt solitary, shunning society of every sort and
spending as little time in Newlyn as possible. Fortunately for his
achievement the weather continued wonderfully fine and each successive day
brought like conditions of sunshine and color, light and air. This
circumstance enabled him to proceed rapidly, and another fact also
contributed to progress; the temperature kept high and the cow-byre,
wherein Barren stored his implements and growing picture, proved so
well-built and so snug withal that on more than one occasion he spent the
entire night there. Sweet brown bracken filled a manger, and of this he
pulled down sufficient quantities to make, with railway rugs, an ample bed.
The outdoor life appeared to suit his health well; some color had come to
his pale cheeks; he felt considerably stronger in body and mentally
invigorated by the strain of work now upon him.
But though he turned his back on his fellow-men they sought him out, and
rumors at length grew to a certainty that Barron was busy painting
somewhere on the cliffs beyond Mousehole. Everybody supposed he had
abandoned his ambition to get a portrait of Joan Tregenza; but one man was
in his confidence: Edmund Murdoch. The young artist had been useful to
Barron. On many occasions he tramped out from Newlyn with additions to the
scanty larder kept at the cow-byre. He would bring hard-boiled eggs,
sandwiches, bottles of soda-water and whisky; and once he arrived at six
o'clock in the morning with a pony cart in which was a little oil stove.
Barron had confided in Murdoch, but begged he would let it be known that he
courted no society for the present. As the work grew he spent more and more
time upon it. He explained to his friend quite seriously that he was
painting the gorse, but that Joan Tregenza had consented to fill a part of
the picture--a statement which amused the younger artist not a little.
"But the gorse is extraordinary, I'll admit. You must have worked without
ceasing. She will be exquisite. Where shall you get the blue for her eyes?"
"Out of the sky and the sea."
"Does the girl inspire you herself, John? I swear something has. This is
going to be great."
"It's going to be true, that's all. No, Joan is a dear child, but her
body's no more than a perfect casket to a commonplace little soul. She
talks a great deal and I like nothing better than to listen; for although
what she says is naught, yet her manner of saying it does not lack charm.
Her voice is wonderfully sweet--it comes from her throat like a
wood-pigeon's, and education has not ruined her diction."
"She's as shy as any wood-pigeon, too--we all know that; and you've done a
clever thing to tame her."
"God forbid that I should tame her. We met and grew friendly as wild things
both. She is a child of Nature, her mind is as pure as the sea. Moreover,
Joan walks saint-guided. Folklore and local twaddle does not appeal
overmuch to me, as you know, yet the stories drop prettily from her lips
and I find pleasure in listening."
Murdoch whistled.
"By Jove! I never heard you so enthusiastic, so positive, so personally
alive and awake and interested. Don't fall in love with the girl before you
know it."
To this warning Barron made a curious reply.
"Everything depends on my picture. You know my rule of life; to sacrifice
all things to mood. I shall do so here. The best I can do must be done
whatever the cost."
A shadow almost sinister lay behind the utterance, yet young Murdoch could
not fathom it. Barren spoke in his usual slow, unaffected tones, and
painted all the time; for the conversation took place on Gorse Point.
"Not sure if I quite understand you, old man," said Murdoch.
"It doesn't matter in the least if you don't, my dear fellow."
His words were hardly civil, but the tone in which Barren spoke robbed the
utterance of any offense.
"All you need do," he continued, "is to keep silent in the interests of art
and of Joan. I don't want her precious visits to me to get back to her
father's ears or they will cease, and I don't wish to do her a bad turn in
her home, for I owe her a great debt of gratitude. If men ask what I'm
doing, lie to them and beg them not to disturb me, for the sake of Art.
What a glint the east wind gives to color! Yet this is hardly to be called
an east wind, so soft and balmy does it keep."
"Well, you seem to be the better for your work, at any rate. You're getting
absolutely fat. If Newlyn brings you health as well as fame, I hope you'll
retract some of the many hard things you have said about it."
"It has brought me an interest, and for that at any rate I am grateful.
Good-by. I shall probably come down to-night, despite the fact that you
have replenished my stores so handsomely."
Murdoch started homeward and met Joan Tregenza upon the way. She had given
Barron one further sitting after Uncle Chirgwin's call at Newlyn, but since
the last occasion, and for a period of two days, chance prevented the girl
from paying him another visit. Now she arrived, however, as early as
half-past ten, and Murdoch, while he passed her on the hill from Mousehole,
envied his friend the morning's work before him.
Joan was very hot and very apologetic upon her arrival.
"I began to fear you had forgotten me," the artist said, but she was loud
in protestations to the contrary.
"No, no, Mister Jan. I've fretted 'bout not comin' up like anything; ay,
an' I've cried of a night 'cause I thot you'd be reckoning I waddun comin'
no more. But 'tweern't my doin' no ways."
"You hadn't forgotten me?"
"Indeed an' I hadn't. An' I'd be sorrerful if I thot you thot so."
She walked to the old position before the gorse and fell naturally into it,
speaking the while.
"Tis this way: mother's been bad wi' faace ache arter my brother Tom went
to sea wi' faither. An' mother grizzled an' worrited herself reg'lar ill
an' stopped in bed two days an' kep on whinin' 'bout what I was to do if
she died; cause she s'posed she was gwained to. But so soon as Tom comed
off his first trip, mother cheered wonnerful, an' riz up to see to en, an'
hear tell 'bout how he fared on the water."
"Your head a wee bit higher, Joan. Well, I'm thankful to see you again. I
was getting very, very lonely, I promise you. And the more I thought about
the picture the more unhappy I became. There's such a lot to do and only
such a clumsy hand to do it. The better I know you, Joan, the harder become
the problems you set me. How am I going to get your soul looking out of
your eyes, d'you think? How am I to make those who may see my picture some
day--years after you and I are both dead and gone, Joan--fall in love with
you?"
"La! I dunnaw, Mister Jan."
"Nor do I. How shall I make the picture so true that generations unborn
will delight in the portrait and deem it great and fine?"
"I dunnaw."
"And yet you deserve it, Joan, for I don't think God ever made anything
prettier."
She blushed and looked softly at him, but took no alarm; for though such a
compliment had never before been paid her, yet, as Barron spoke the words,
slowly, critically, without enthusiasm or any expression of pleasure on his
face, they had little power to alarm. He merely stated what he seemed to
regard as a fact. There was almost a suggestion of irritation in his
utterance, as though his model's rare beauty only increased his own
artistic difficulties; and, perhaps fearing from her smile that she found
undue pleasure in his statement, he added to it:
"I don't say that to natter you, Joan. I hate compliments and never pay
them. I told you, remember, that your wrists were a thought too big."
"You needn't be sayin' it over an' over, Mister Jan," she answered, her
smile changing to a pout.
"But you wouldn't like me any more if I stopped telling you the truth. We
have agreed to love what is true and to worship Mother Nature because she
always speaks the truth."
The girl made no answer, and he went on working for a few moments, then
spoke again.
"I'm selfish, Joan, and think more of my picture than I do of my little
model. Put down your arm and take a good rest. I tried holding my hand over
my eyes yesterday to see how long I could do so without wearying myself. I
found that three minutes was quite enough, but I have often kept you posed
for five."
"It hurted my arm 'tween the shoulder an' elbow a lil bit at first, but
I've grawed used to it now."
"How ever shall I repay you, kind Joan, for all your trouble and your long
walks and pretty stories?"
"I doan't need no pay. If 'twas a matter o' payin', 'twould be a wrong
thing to do, I reckon. Theer's auld Bascombe up Paul--him wi' curls o' long
hair an' gawld rings in's ears. Gents pays en to take his likeness; an'
theer's gals make money so, more'n wan; but faither says 'tis a heathenish
way of livin' an' not honest. An'--an' I'd never let nobody paint me else
but you, Mister Jan, 'cause you'm different."
"Well, you make me a proud man, Joan. I'm afraid I must be a poor
substitute for Joe."
He noticed she had never mentioned her sweetheart since their early
interviews, and wanted to ascertain of what nature was Joan's affection for
the sailor. He did not yet dream how faint a thing poor Joe had shrunk to
be in Joan's mind, or how the present episode in her life was dwarfing and
dominating all others, present and past.
Nor did the girl's answer to his remark enlighten him.
"In coorse you an' Joe's differ'nt as can be. You knaws everything
seemin'ly an' be a gen'le-man; Joe's only a seafarin' man, an' 'e doan't
knaw much 'cept what he's larned from faither. But Joe used to say a sight
more'n what you do, for all that."
"I like to hear you talk, Joan; perhaps Joe liked to hear himself talk.
Most men do. But, you see, the things you have told me are pleasant to me
and they were not to Joe, because he didn't believe in them. Don't look at
me, Joan; look right away to the edge of the sea."
"You'm surprised like as I talks to ye, Mister Jan. Doan't ladies talk so
free as what I do?"
"Other women talk, but they are very seldom in earnest like you are, Joan.
They don't believe half they say, they pretend and make believe; they've
got to do so, poor things, because the world they live in is all built up
on ancient foundations of great festering lies. The lies are carefully
coated over and disinfected as much as possible and quite hidden out of
sight, but everybody knows they are there--everybody knows the quaking
foundations they tread upon. Civilization means universal civility, I
suppose, Joan; and to be civil to everybody argues a great power of telling
lies. People call it tact. But I don't like polite society myself, because
my nose is sensitive and I smell the stinking basis through all the pretty
paint. You and I, Joan, belong to Nature. She is not always civil, but you
can trust her; she is seldom polite, but she never says what is not true."
"You talk as though 'e ded'n much like ladies an' gen'lemen, same as you
be."
"I don't, and I'm not what you understand by 'a gentleman,' Joan. Gentlemen
and ladies let me go among them and mix with them, because I happen to have
a great deal of money--thousands and thousands of pounds. That opens the
door to their drawing-rooms, if I wanted to open it, but I don't. I've seen
them and gone about among them, and I'm sick of them. If a man wishes to
know what polite society is let him go into it as a very wealthy bachelor.
I'm not 'a gentleman,' you know, Joan, fortunately."
"Surely, Mister Jan!"
"No more than you're a lady. But I can try to be gentle and manly, which is
better. You and I come from the same class, Joan; from the people. The only
difference is that my father happened to make a huge fortune in London.
Guess what he sold?"
"I dunnaw."