treacle. She ate heartily, and her happy humor seemed catching, at least so
far as Tom was concerned. A bright color warmed Joan's cheek; the cloud
that had dimmed her eyes was there no longer; and more than once Mr.
Tregenza looked at his wife inquiringly, for the tale she had been telling
of Joan's recent moods and disorder was at variance with her present
spirits and appetite. After breakfast she went to her room while her father
waited; and then it was that Joan snatched a moment to open John Barron's
letter. There would be no time to read it then, she knew: that delicious
task must take many hours of loving labor; but she wanted to count the
pages and see "Mister Jan's" name at the end. She knew that crosses meant
kisses, too. There might be crosses somewhere. So she opened the envelope
in a fever of joyous excitement, being careful, however, not to tear a
letter of the superscription. And from it there came a fat, folded pile of
tissue paper. Joan knew it was money, and flung it on her bed and fumbled
with sinking heart for something better. But there was nothing else--only
ten pieces of tissue-paper. She remembered seeing her father with similar
pieces; and her mother saying there was nothing like Bank of England notes.
But they had been crumpled and dirty, these were snowy white. Each had a
hundred pounds marked upon it; and Joan was aware that ten times a hundred
is a thousand. But a thousand pounds possessed no more real meaning for her
than a million of money does for the average man. She could not estimate
its significance in the least or gauge its possibilities. Only she knew
that she would far rather have had a few words from "Mister Jan" than all
the money in the world.
Mr. Tregenza's voice below broke in upon the girl's disappointment, and,
hastily hiding the money under some linen in a little chest of drawers,
where the picture of Joe's ship was also concealed, she hurried to join her
father. But the empty envelope, with her name printed on it, she put into
her pocket that it might be near her.
Joan did not for an instant gather what meaning lay under this great gift
of money, and to her the absence of a letter was no more than a passing
sorrow. She read nothing between the lines of this silence; she only saw
that he had not forgotten, and only thought that he perhaps imagined such
vast sums of money would give her pleasure and make the waiting easier.
What were banknotes to Joan? What was life to her away from him? She
sighed, and fell back upon the thought of his wisdom and knowledge. He must
be in the right to delay, because he was always in the right. A letter
would presently come to explain why he had sent the money and to treat of
his return. The girl felt that she had much to thank God for, after all. He
had sent her the letter; He had answered her prayer in His own way. It ill
became her, she thought, to question more deeply. She must wait and be
patient, however hard the waiting.
So thinking, she joined her father. Tom was away up the village, Mrs.
Tregenza found plenty to occupy her mind and body indoors; Joan and Mr.
Tregenza had the garden to themselves. He was silent until they reached the
wicket, then, going through it, he led the way slowly up a hill which wound
above the neighboring stone quarry; and as he walked he addressed Joan.
She, weary enough already, prayed that her parent intended going no further
than the summit of the hill; but when he spoke she forgot physical fatigue,
for his manner was short and stern.
"Theer's things bein' hid 'twixt you an' me, darter, an' 'tis time you
spoke up. Every parent's got some responsibility in the matter of his
cheel's sawl, an', if theer's aught to knaw, 'tis I must hear it. 'The
faither waketh for the darter when no man knaweth,' sez the Preacher, an'
he never wrote nothin' truer. I've waked for you, Joan. 'Keep a sure watch
over a shameless darter,' sez the Preacher agin; but God forbid you'm that.
Awnly you'm allus wool-gatherin', an' roamin', an' wastin' time. An' time
wance squandered do never come agin. I hear tell this has been gwaine
forrard since Joe went to sea. What's the matter with 'e? Say it out plain
an' straight an' now this minute."
Joan had particularly prayed by the Madron altar that the Everlasting would
keep her from lying. She remembered the fact as her father put his
question; and she also recollected that John Barron had told her to say
nothing about their union until he returned to her. So she lied again, and
that the more readily because Gray Michael's manner of asking his question
put a reasonable answer into her head.
"I s'pose as it might be I'm wisht 'cause o' Joe Noy, faither."
"Then look 'e to it an' let it cease. Joe's in the hand o' the Lard same as
we be. He's got to work out his salvation in fear an' tremblin' same as us.
Some do the Lard's work ashore, some afloat, some--sich as me--do it by
land an' sea both. You doan't work Joe no good trapsing 'bout inland, here,
theer, an' everywheers; an' you do yourself harm, 'cause it makes 'e oneasy
an' restless. Mendin' holes an' washin' clothes an' prayin' to the Lard to
'a' mercy on your sinful sawl's what you got to do. Also learnin' to cook
'gainst the time you'm a wife an' the mother o' childern, if God so wills.
But this ban't no right way o' life for any wan, gentle or simple, so mend
it. A gad-about, lazy female's hell-meat in any station. Theer's enough of
'em as 'tis, wi'in the edge o' Carnwall tu. What was you doin' this
marnin'? Mother sez 'er heard you stirrin' 'fore the birds."
"I went out a long walk to think, faither."
"What 'e want to think 'bout? Your plaace is to du, not to think. God'll
think for 'e if 'e ax; an' the sooner you mind that an' call 'pon the
A'mighty the better; 'cause the Devil's ready an' willin' to think for 'e
tu. Read the Book more an' look about 'e less. Man's eyes, an' likewise
maid's, is best 'pon the ground most time. Theer's no evil writ theer. The
brain of man an' woman imagineth ill nearly allus, for why? 'Cause they
looks about an' sees it. Evil comes in through the eyes of 'em; evil's
pasted large 'pon every dead wall in Newlyn. Read the Book--'tis all summed
up in that. You've gotten a power o' your mother in 'e yet. Not but you've
bin a good darter thus far, save for back-slidin' in the past; but I saved
your sawl then, thanks be to the voice o' God in me, an' I saved your
mother's sawl, though theer was tidy wraslin' for her; an' I'll save yourn
yet if you'll do your paart."
Here Gray Michael paused and turned homeward, while Joan congratulated
herself upon the fact that a conversation which promised to be difficult
had ended so speedily and without misfortune. Then her father asked her
another question.
"An' what's this I hear tell 'bout you bein' poorly? You do look so well as
ever I knawed 'e, but mother sez you'm that cranky with vittles as you
never was afore, an' wrong inside likewise."
"Ban't nothin', faither. 'Tis awver an' done. I ate tu much or some sich
thing an' I be bonny well agin now."
"Doan't be thinkin' then. 'Tis all brain-sickness, I'll lay. I doan't want
no doctor's traade in my 'ouse if us can keep it outside. The Lard's my
doctor. Keep your sawl clean, an' the Lard'll watch your body. 'E's said as
much. 'E knaws we'm poor trashy worms an' even a breath o' foul air'll take
our lives onless 'E be by to filter it. Faith's the awnly medicine worth
usin'."
Joan remembered her morning bath and felt comforted by this last
reflection. Had she not already found the magic result? For a moment she
thought of telling her father what she had done, but she changed her mind.
Such faith as that would have brought nothing but wrath upon her.
While Mr. Tregenza improved the hour and uttered various precepts for his
daughter's help and guidance, Thomasin was occupied at home with grave
thoughts respecting Joan. She more than suspected the truth from signs of
indisposition full of meaning to a mother; but while duly mentioning the
girl's illness, Mrs. Tregenza did not dare to breathe the color of her own
explanation. She prayed to God in all honesty to prove her wrong, but her
lynx eyes waited to read the truth she feared. If things were really so
with Joan, then they could not be hid from her eyes much longer; and in the
event of her suspicions proving correct, Mrs. Tregenza told herself, as a
right Luke Gospeler, she must proclaim her horrid discovery and let the
perdition of her husband's daughter be generally made manifest. She knew so
many were called, so few chosen. No girl had ever been more surely called
than Joan: her father's trumpet tongue had thundered the ways of
righteousness into her ears from her birth; but, after all, it began to
look as though she was not chosen. The circumstance, of course, if proved,
would rob her of every Luke Gospeler's regard. No weak pandering with
sentiment and sin was permitted in that fold. And Mrs. Tregenza had little
pity herself for unfortunate or mistaken women. Let a girl lose her
character and Thomasin usually refused to hear any plea of mercy from any
source. Only once did she find extenuating circumstances: in a case where a
ruined farmer's daughter brought an action for breach of promise and won
it, with heavy damages. But money acted in a peculiar way with this woman.
It put her conscience and her judgment out of focus, softened the outlines
of events, furnished excuses for unusual practices, gilded with a bright
lining even the blackest cloud of wrongdoing. Where Mrs. Tregenza could see
money she could see light. Money made her charitable, broad-minded, even
tolerant. She knew she loved it, and was careful to keep the fact out of
Gray Michael's sight as far as possible. She held the purse, and he felt
that it was in good hands, but cautioned her from time to time against the
awful danger of letting a lust for this world's wealth come between the
soul and God.
And now a course long indicated in Thomasin's mind was being by her
pursued. Having convinced herself that under the present circumstances any
step to found or dispel her fears concerning Joan would be just and proper,
she took the exceptional one of searching the girl's little room while her
stepdaughter was out with Michael. Even as Mr. Tregenza turned to go
homeward again, his wife stood in the midst of Joan's small sanctuary, and
cast keen, inquiring eyes about her. She rarely visited the apartment, and
had not been in it for six months. Now she came to set doubt at rest if
possible, or confirm it. Her own secret opinion was that Joan had come to
serious trouble with her superiors. In that case letters, presents or
tokens had probably passed into her hands; and, if such existed, in this
room they would be.
"God send as I'm makin' a mistake an' shaan't find nothin' 'tall," said
Mrs. Tregenza to herself. And then she began her scrutiny.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE TRUTH
Thomasin saw that all things about Joan's room were neat, spotless, and in
order. For one brief moment a sense of disquiet at the action before her
touched the woman's heart and head; but duty alike to her husband and her
stepdaughter demanded the search in her opinion. Should there be nothing to
find, so much the better; if, on the other hand, matters affecting Joan's
temporal and eternal welfare were here hidden, then they could not be
uncovered too quickly. She looked first through the girl's little wooden
trunk, the key of which was in the lock, but nothing save a childish
treasure or two rewarded Mrs. Tregenza here. In a broken desk, which had
belonged to her mother, Joan kept a few Christmas cards, and two
silhouettes: one of Uncle Thomas, of Drift, one of Mary Chirgwin. Here were
also some cooking recipes copied in her mother's writing, an agate marble
which Joan had found on Penzance beach, lavender tied up in a bag, and an
odd toy that softened Thomasin's heart not a little as she picked it up and
looked at it. The thing brought back to her memory a time four years
earlier. It was a small, grotesque figure on wires, built up of chestnuts
and acorns with a hazel-nut for its head and black pins stuck in for the
eyes. She remembered Tom making it and giving it to Joan on her birthday.
Then the memory of Joan's love for Tom from the time he was born came like
a glow of sunshine into the mother's heart, and for a moment she was minded
to relinquish her unpleasant task upon the spot; but she changed her
intention again and proceeded. The box held little else save a parcel of
old clothes tied up with rosemary in brown paper. These the woman surveyed
curiously, and knew, without being told, that they had belonged to Joan's
mother. For some reason the spectacle killed sentiment and changed her
mood. She shut down the box, and then, going to the chest of drawers,
pulled out each compartment in turn. Nothing but Joan's apparel and her few
brooches and trinkets appeared here. The history of each and all was
familiar to Mrs. Tregenza. But on reaching the bottom drawer of the chest,
she found it locked and the key absent. To continue her search, however,
was not difficult. Nothing separated the drawers, and by removing that
above the last, the contents of the lowest lay at her mercy, It was full of
linen for the most part, but hidden at the bottom, Thomasin made a
discovery, and found certain matters which at once spoke of tremendous
mystery, and, to her mind, indicated the nature of it. First she came upon
the little picture of Joe's ship in its rough gilded frame. This might be
an innocent gift from some of the young men who had asked in the past to be
allowed to paint Joan and received a curt negative from Gray Michael. But
the other discovery meant more. Pushing her hand about the drawer she found
a pile of paper, felt the crackle of it, and pulled it eagerly to the
light. Then, and before she learned the grandeur of the sum, she was seized
with a sudden palpitation and sat down on Joan's bed. Her mouth grew full
as a hungry man's before a feast, her lips were wet, her hand shook as she
opened and spread the notes. Then she counted them and sat gasping like a
landed fish. Thomasin had never seen so much money before in her life. A
thousand pounds! Unlike Joan, to whom the sum conveyed no significance,
Mrs. Tregenza could estimate it. Her mind reached that far, and the
bank-notes, for her, lay just within the estimation of avarice. Every snowy
fragment meant a hundred pounds--a hundred sovereigns--two hundred
ten-shilling pieces. The first shock overpast, and long before she grew
sufficiently calm to associate the treasure with its possessor, Mrs.
Tregenza began spending in her mind's eye. The points in house and garden,
outhouse and sty, whereon money might be advantageously expended, rose up
one after the other. Then she put aside eight hundred and fifty out of the
grand total and pictured herself taking it to the bank. She thought of a
nest-egg that would "goody" against the time Tom should grow into a man;
she saw herself among the neighbors, pointed at, whispered of as a woman
with hundreds and hundreds of pounds put by; she saw the rows of men
sitting basking about in Newlyn, as their custom is when off the sea; and
she heard them drop words of admiration at the sight of her. Presently,
however, this gilded vision vanished, and she began to connect the money
with Joan. She solved the mystery then with a brutal directness which hit
the mark in one direction; as to the source of the money, but went wide of
it in some measure upon the subject of the girl. Thomasin held briefly that
her stepdaughter had fallen, and now, knowing her condition, had informed
some man of it, with the result that from him came this unutterable gift.
That the money made an enormous difference to Mrs. Tregenza's mental
attitude must be confessed. She found herself fashioning absolute excuses
for Joan. Girls so often came to ill through no fault of their own. The man
must at least have been a gentleman to pay for his pleasure in four
figures. Four figures! Here she stopped thinking in order to picture the
vision of a unit followed by three ciphers. Then she marveled as to what
manner of man he was who could send a girl like Joan a thousand pounds. She
never heard of such a price for the value received. Her respect for Joan
began to increase when she realized that the money was hers. Probably there
was even more where that came from. "Anyway," she reflected, "it ban't no
use cryin' ower spilt milk. What's done's done. An' a thousand pounds'll go
long ways to softenin' the road. She might travel up-long to Truro to my
cousin an' bide quiet theer till arter, an' no harm done, poor lass. When
all's said, us knaws the Lard Hissel weer mighty easy wi' the like o' she,
an' worser wenches tu. But Michael--God A'mighty knaws he won't be easy.
She'm a damned wummon, I s'pose, but she's got to live through 'er life
here--damned or saved; an' she's got a thousand pound to do't with. A
terrible braave dollop o' money, sure 'nough. To think 'ow 'ard a man's got
to work 'fore he earns five of 'em!" But her imagination centered upon Gray
Michael now, and she almost forgot the banknotes for a moment. She thought
of his agony and trembled for the result. He might strike Joan down and
kill her. The man's anger against evil-doers was always a terrific thing;
and he had no idea of the value of money. She hazarded guesses at the
course he would pursue, and each idea was blacker than the last. Then
Thomasin fell to wondering what Michael would be likely to do with the
money. She sighed at this thought, and then she grew pale at the imaginary
spectacle of her husband tearing the devil-sent notes to pieces and
scattering them over the cliff to the sea. This horrible possibility stung
her to another train of ideas. Might it be within her power to win Joan's
secret, share it, and keep it from the father? Her pluck, however, gave way
when she looked a little deeper into the future. She would have done most
things in her power for a thousand pounds, but she would not have dared any
treachery to Michael. The woman put the notes together and stroked them and
listened to the rustle of them and rubbed her hard cheek with them. Then,
looking from the little window of Joan's garret, she saw the girl herself
approaching with Mr. Tregenza. They were nearly home again, so Thomasin
returned the money and the picture to their places in the chest of drawers,
smoothed the bed, where she had been sitting for half an hour, and went
downstairs still undetermined as to a course of action.
Before dinner was eaten, however, she had decided that her husband must
know the truth. Even her desire toward the money cooled before the prospect
of treachery to him. Fear had something to do with this decision, but the
woman's own principles were strong. It is unlikely that in any case they
would have broken down. She sent Joan on an errand to the village after the
meal was ended; and upon her departure addressed her husband hurriedly.
"You said I was 'mazed to dinner, an' so I was. I've gotten bad news for
'e, Michael, touchin' Joan."
"No more o' that, mother," he answered, "I've talked wi' she an' said a
word in season. She'm well in body an' be gwaine to turn a new leaf, so
theer's an end o' the matter."
"'Tedn' so," she declared, "I've bin in the gal's room an' I've found--but
you bide here an' I'll bring 'em to 'e. Hold yourself back, Michael, for us
caan't say nothin' sure till us knaws the truth from Joan."
"She've tawld me the truth out a walkin' an' I've shawed her the narrer
path. What should you find?"
"Money--no lil come-by-chance neither; more money than ever you or me seed
in our born days afore or shall agin."
"You'm dreamin', wummon!" he said.
"God knaws I wishes it weer so," she answered, and went once more to Joan's
room.
Gray Michael was walking up and down the kitchen when she returned, and
Thomasin said nothing, but put money and picture upon the table. Her
husband fought with himself a moment, as it appeared, then seemed to pray a
while, standing still with his hand pressed over his eyes, and finally sat
himself down beside the things which Thomasin had brought.
"I'd no choice but to tell 'e," she said.
Gray Michael's eyes were on the picture and utter astonishment appeared in
them.
"Why! 'tis Joe Noy's ship. Us seed her off the islands, outward bound! He
might 'a' gived it her hisself surely?"
"But t'other thing; the money. Count them notes. Noy never gived Joan
them."
He spread the parcel, counted the money, and sat back thunderstruck.
"God in heaven! A thousan' pound, an' notes as never went through no dirty
hands neither! What do it mean?"
"How should I tell what it means? I found the whole fortune hid beneath her
smickets. Lard knaws how she comed by it. What have the likes o' she to
give for money?"
"What do 'e mean by that?" he blazed out, rising to his feet and clinching
his fists.
"Ax your darter. Do 'e think I'd dare to say a word onless I was sartain
sure? You'd smash me, your own wife, if I weer wrong, like enough. I ban't
wrong. Joan's wi' cheel or I never was. Maybe that thraws light on the
money, maybe it doan't. I did pray as it might 'a' comed out to be her man
at sea. But you'll find it weern't. God help 'e, Michael, my heart do bleed
for 'e. Can 'e find it in 'e to be merciful same as the Lard in like case,
or--?"
He raised his hand to stop her. He was sitting back in his chair with a
face that had grown gray even to the skin, with eyes that looked out at
nothing. There was a moment's silence save for the tall clock in the
corner; then Tregenza brushed beads of water off his forehead and dried his
hand on his trousers. He raised his eyes to the roof and gripped his hands
together on his chest and slowly spoke a text which his wife had heard upon
his lips before, but only at times of deep concern or emotion.
"'The Lard is king, be the people never so impatient; He sitteth between
the cherubims, be the airth never so unquiet.'"
Few saw any particular meaning in this quotation applied in moments of
stress, as Michael usually employed it; but to the man it was a supreme
utterance, the last word to be spoken in the face of all the evil and
wickedness of the world. Come what might, God still reigned in heaven.
He spoke aloud thus far, and afterward, by the movement of his beard and
lip, Thomasin could see he was still talking or praying.
"Let the Lard lead 'e, husband, in this hard pass," she said. "'Vengeance
is Mine,' the Book sez."
He turned his eyes upon her. His brows were dragged down upon them; he had
brushed his gray hair like bristles upright on his head; across the mighty
wall of his forehead jagged cross-lines were stamped, like the broken
strata over a cliff-face.
"Ay, you say it. Vengeance be God's awn, an' mercy be God's awn. 'Tedn' for
no man to meddle wi' them. Us caan't be aught but just. She'll have justice
from me--no more'n that. 'Tis all wan now. Wanton or no wanton, she've
flummoxed me this day. The giglot lied an' said the thing that was not.
She'm not o' the Kingdom--the fust Tregenza as ever lied--the fust."
"God send it edn' as bad as it do look, master. 'Er caracter belike ban't
gone. S'pose as she'm married?"
"Hould your clack, wummon. I be thinkin'."
He was thinking, indeed. In the face of this discovery, the ghost of an
idea, which had haunted Gray Michael's mind more than once during the
upbringing of Joan, returned a greater and more pronounced shadow than ever
before. The conviction carried truth stamped upon it from the standpoint of
his present horrid knowledge. To an outsider his thought had appeared
absolutely devilish, to the man himself it was as a buoy thrown to one
drowning. The belief flooded his mind, swept him away, convinced him. Its
nature presently appeared as he answered Thomasin. She was still thinking
of the thousand pounds.
"Theer's no word in the Book agin mercy, Michael. Joan's your awn
darter--froward or not froward."