to me, will 'e? Then us can let the past lie, same as us lets sleepin'
dogs. I called 'pon God to blight your life, Joan Tregenza, when--you
knaw. I thot I weer gwaine to die, an' I read the cussin' psalm
[Footnote: _The Cursing Psalm--Psalm CIX_. If read by a wronged person
before death, it was, and is sometimes yet, supposed to bring
punishment upon the evil-doer.] agin you. 'Feared to me as you'd
stawl the awnly thing as ever brot a bit o' brightness to my life. But
that's all over. Love weern't for me; I awnly dreamed it weer. An' I
larned better an' didn't die; an' prayed to God a many times to
forgive that first prayer agin you. The likes o' you doan't know nort
'bout the grim side o' life or what it is to lose the glory o'
lovin'. But I doan't harbor no ill agin you no more."
"You'm good to hear, Polly, an' kind words is better'n food to me now. I'll
tell 'e 'bout myself bimebye. But I must speak to uncle fust. Things has
happened."
"Nothin' wrong wi' your folks?"
"I ain't got no folks no more. But I'll tell 'e so soon's I've tawld Uncle
Thomas."
"He'm in the croft somewheers. Better bide till dinner. Uncle'll be back by
then."
"I caan't, Mary--not till I've spoke wi' en. I'll gaw long down Green Lane,
then I shall meet en for sure. An' if a box o' mine comes by the omblibus,
'tis right."
"A box! Whatever is there in it, Joan?"
"All's I've gotten in the world--leastways nearly. Doan't ax me nothin'
now. You'll knaw as soon as need be."
Without waiting for more words Joan departed, hastened through the gate on
the inner wall of the farmyard and walked along the steep hillside by a
lane which wound muddily downward to the grasslands, under high hazel
hedges. The new leaves dripped showers at every gust of the wind, then a
gleam of wan sunlight brightened distant vistas of the way, while Joan
heard the patter of a hundred hoofs in the mud, the bleat of lambs, the
deeper answer of ewes, the barking of a shepherd's dog. Soon the cavalcade
came into view--a flock of sheep first, a black and white dog with a black
and white pup, which was learning his business, next, and Uncle Chirgwin
himself bringing up the rear. The first sunshine of the day seemed to have
found him out. It shone over his round red face and twinkled in the dew on
his white whiskers. He stumped along upon short, gaitered legs, but went
not fast, and stayed at the steep shoulder of the hill that his lambs might
have rest and time to suck.
Mary Chirgwin meantime speculated on this sudden mystery of her cousin's
arrival. She spread the cloth for dinner, bid her maid lay another place
for Joan and wondered much what manner of news she brought. There were
changes in Joan's face since she saw it last--not changes which might have
been attributed to the possession of Joe Noy, but an alteration of
expression betokening thought, a look of increased age, of experiences not
wholly happy in their nature.
And Joan had also marked the changes in Mary. These indications were clear
enough and filled her with sorrow. A river of tears will leave its bed
marked upon a woman's face; and Joan, who had never thought overmuch of her
cousin's sorrows until then, began to feel her heart fill and run over with
sudden sympathy. She asked herself what life would look like for her if
"Mister Jan"; changed his mind now and never came back again. That was how
Mary felt doubtless when Joe Noy left her. Already Joan grew zealous in
thought for Mary. She would teach her something of that sweet wisdom which
was to support her own burden in the future; she would tell her about
Nature--the "All-Mother" as "Mister Jan" called her once. And, concerning
Joe Noy--might it be within the bounds of possibility, within the power of
time to bring these two together again? The thought was good to Joan, and
wholly occupied her mind until the sight of Uncle Chirgwin with his sheep
brought her back to the present moment and her own affairs.
CHAPTER SEVEN
A PROBLEM
When Mr. Chirgwin caught sight of Joan his astonishment knew no bounds, and
his first thought was that something must certainly be amiss. He stood in
the roadway, a picture of surprise, and, for a moment, forgot both his
sheep and lambs.
"My stars, Joan! Be it you really? Whatever do 'e make at Drift, 'pon such
a day as this? No evil news, I hope?"
"Uncle," she answered, "go slow a bit an' listen to what I've got to say.
You be a kind, good sawl as judges nobody, ban't you? And you love me
'cause your sister was my mother?"
"Surely, surely, Joan; an' I love you for yourself tu--nobody better in
this world."
"You wouldn' go for to send me to hell-fire, would 'e?"
"God forbid, lass! Why, whatever be talkin' 'bout?"
"Uncle Thomas, faither's not my faither no more now. He've turned me out
his house an' denied me. I ban't no darter of his henceforrard; an' he'm no
faither o' mine. He don't mean never to look 'pon my faace agin, nor me
'pon his. The cottage edn' no home for me no more."
"Joan, gal alive! what talk be this?"
"'Tis gospel. I'm a damned wummon, 'cordin' to my faither as was."
"God A'mighty! You--paart a Chirgwin--as comed, o' wan side, from her as
loved the Lard so dear, an', 'pon t'other, from him as feared un so much.
Never, Joan!"
"Uncle Thomas, I be in the fam'ly way; an' faither's damned me, an'
likewise the man as loves me, an' the cheel I be gwaine to bring in the
world. I've comed to hear you speak. Will you say the same? If you will,
I'll pack off this instant moment."
The old man stood perfectly still and his jaw went down while he breathed
heavily; a world of amazement and piteous sorrow sat upon his face; his
voice shook and whistled in the sound as he answered.
"Joan! My poor Joan! My awn gal, this be black news--black news. Thank God
she'm not here to knaw--your mother."
"I've done no wrong, uncle; I ban't 'shamed of it. He'm a true, good man,
and he'm comin' to marry me quick."
"Joe Noy?"
"No, no, not him. I thot I loved en well till Mister Jan comed, an' opened
my blind eyes, an' shawed me what love was. Mister Jan's a gen'leman--a
furriner. He caan't live wi'out me no more; he's said as he caan't. An' I'm
droopin' an' longin' for the sight o' en. An' I caan't bide in the streets,
so I axes you to keep me till Mister Jan do come to fetch me. I find words
hard to use to 'splain things, but his God's differ'nt to what the Luke
Gosp'lers' is, an' I lay 'tis differ'nt to yourn. But his God's mine
anyways, an' I'm not afeared o' what I done, nor 'shamed to look folks in
the faace. That's how 'tis, Uncle Thomas. 'Tis Nature, you mind, an' I be
Nature's cheel no--wi' no faither nor mother but her."
The old man was snuffling, and a tear or two rolled down his red face,
gathered the damp already there and fell. He groaned to himself, then
brought forth a big, red pocket-handkerchief, and wept outright, while Joan
stood silently regarding him.
"I'd rather a met death than this; I'd rather a knawn you was coffined."
"Oh, if I could awnly 'splain!" she cried, frantically; "if I awnly could
find his words 'pon my tongue, but I caan't. They be hid down deep in me,
an' by them I lives from day to day; but how can I make others see same as
I see? I awnly brings sorrer 'pon sorrer now. Theer's nothin' left but him.
If you could a heard Mister Jan! You would understand, wi' your warm heart,
but I caan't make 'e; I've no terrible, braave, butivul words. I'll gaw my
ways then. If any sawl had tawld me as I'd ever bring tears down your faace
I'd never b'lieved 'em--never; but so I have, an' that's bitterness to me."
He took her by the hand and pressed it, then put his arm round her and
kissed her. His white bristles hurt, but Joan rejoiced exceedingly, and now
it was her turn to shed tears.
"He'll come back--he'm a true man," she sobbed; "theer ban't the likes o'
Mister Jan in Carnwall, an'--an' if you knawed en, you'd say no less. You'm
the fust as have got to my heart since he went; an' he'd bless 'e if he
knawed."
"Come along with me, Joan," answered Uncle Chirgwin, straightening himself
and applying his big handkerchief to her face. "God send the man'll be
'longside 'e right soon, as you sez. Till he do come, you shaan't leave me
no more. Drift's home for you while you'm pleased to bide theer. An' I'll
see your faither presently, though I wish 'twas any other man."
"I knawed you was all us the same; I knawed you'd take me in. An' Mister
Jan shall knaw. An' he'll love you for't when he do."
"Come an' see me put the ewes an' lambs in the croft; then us'll gaw to
dinner, an' I'll hear you tell me all 'bout en."
He tried hard to put a hopeful face upon the position and, himself as
simple as a child, presently found Joan's story not hopeless at all. He
seemed indeed to catch some of her spirit as she proceeded and painted the
manifold glories of "Mister Jan" in the best language at her command. To
love Nature was no sin; Mr. Chirgwin himself did so; and as for the money,
instead of reading the truth of it, he told himself very wisely that the
giver of a sum so tremendous must at least be in earnest. The amount
astounded him. Fired by Joan's words, for as he played the ready listener
her eloquence increased, he fell to thinking as she thought, and even
speaking hopefully. The old farmer's reflections merely echoed his own
simple trust in men and had best not been uttered, for they raised Joan's
spirits to a futile height. But he caught the contagion from her and spoke
with sanguine words of the future, and even prayed Joan that, if wealth and
a noble position awaited her, she would endeavor to brighten the lives of
the poor as became a good Cornish woman. This she solemnly promised, and
they built castles in the air: two children together. His sheep driven to
their new pasture, Uncle Chirgwin led the way home and listened as he
walked to Joan's story. She quite convinced him before he reached his
kitchen door--partly because he was very well content to be convinced,
partly because he could honestly imagine no man base enough to betray this
particular blue-eyed child.
Mr. Chirgwin's extremely unworldly review of the position was balm to Joan.
Her heart grew warm again, and the old man's philosophy brightened her
face, as the sun, now making a great clearness after rain, brightened the
face of the land. But the recollection of Mary Chirgwin sobered her uncle
not a little. How she would take this tremendous intelligence he failed to
guess remotely. Opportunity to impart it occurred sooner than he expected,
for Joan's box had just arrived. During dinner the old man explained that
his niece was to be a visitor at Drift for a term of uncertain duration;
and after the meal, when Joan disappeared to unpack her box and make tidy a
little apple-room, which was now empty and at her service, Uncle Chirgwin
had speech with Mary. He braced himself to the trying task, waited until
the kitchen was empty of those among his servants who ate at his table, and
then replied to the question which his niece promptly put.
"What do this mean, Uncle Thomas? What's come o' Joan that she do drop in
'pon us like this here wi' never a word to say she was comin'?"
"Polly," he answered, "your cousin Joan have seen sore trouble, in a manner
o' speakin', an' you'd best to knaw fust as last. Us must be large-minded
'bout a thing like this She'm tokened to a gen'leman from Lunnon."
"What! An' him--Joe Noy?"
"To be plain wi' you, Polly, she've thrawed en over. Listen 'fore you
speaks. 'Twas a match o' Michael Tregenza's makin', I reckon, an', so
like's not, Joe weern't any more heart-struck than Joan. I finds it hard to
feel as I ought to Gray Michael, more shame to me. But Joan's failed in
love wi' a gen'leman, an' he with her, an' he'm comin' any mornin' to fetch
'er--an'--an'--you must be tawld--'tis time as he did come. An' he've sent
Joan a thousand pound o' paper money to shaw as 'e means the right thing."
But the woman's mind had not followed these last facts. Her face was white
to the lips; her hands were shaking. She put her head down upon them as she
sat by the fire, and a groan which no power could strangle broke from her
deep bosom. She spoke, and regretted her words a moment later. "Oh, my God!
an' he brawk off wi' me for the likes o' she!"
"Theer, theer, lass Mary, doan't 'e, doan't 'e. You've hid your tears that
cunnin', but my old eyes has seen the marks this many day an' sorrered for
'e. 'Tis a hard matter viewed from the point what you looks 'pon it; but I
knaws you, my awn good gal; I knaws your Saviour's done a 'mazin' deal to
hold you up. An' 'twont be for long, 'cause the man'll come for her mighty
soon seemin'ly. Can 'e faace it, the Lard helpin'? Poor Joan's bin kicked
out the house by her faither. I do _not_ like en--never did. What do
'e say? She doan't count it no sin, mind you, an' doan't look for no
reprovin', 'cause the gen'leman have taught her terrible coorious ideas;
but 'tis just this: we'm all sinners, eh, Polly? An' us caan't say 'sactly
what size a sin do look to God A'mighty's eye. An' us have got the Lard's
way o' handlin' sich like troubles writ out clear--eh? Eh, Polly? He dedn'
preach no sermon at the time neither."
The old man prattled on, setting out the position in the most favorable
light to Joan that seemed possible to him. But his listener was one no
longer. She had forgotten her cousin and the present circumstances, for her
thoughts were with a sailor at sea. One tremendous moment of savage joy
gripped her heart, but the primitive passion perished in its birth-pang and
left her cold and faint and ashamed. She wondered from what unknown,
unsecured corner of her soul the vile thing came. It died on the instant,
but the corpse fouled her thoughts and tainted them and made her feel faint
again. The irony of chance burst like a storm on the woman, and mazes of
tangled thoughts made her brain whirl in a chaos of bewilderment. She sat
motionless, her face dark, and much mystery in her wonderful eyes, while
Mr. Chirgwin, with shaking head and scriptural quotation and tears, babbled
on, pleading for Joan with all his strength. Mary heard little of what he
said. She was occupied with facts and asking herself her duty. From the
storm in her mind arose a clear question at last, and she could not answer
it. The point had appeared unimportant to anybody but Mary Chirgwin, but no
question of conduct ever looked trivial to her. At least the doubt was
definite and afforded mental occupation. She wondered now whether it was
well or possible that she and Joan could live together under the same roof.
Why such a problem had arisen she knew not; but it stood in the path, a
fact to be dealt with. Her heart told her that Joan and her uncle alike
erred in the supposition that the girl's seducer would ever return. She
read the great gift of money as Thomasin had read it--rightly; and the
thought of living with Joan was at first horrible to her.
Mr. Chirgwin talked and Mary reflected. Then she rose to leave the room.
"'Tis tu gert a thing for me to say--no wummon was ever plaaced like what I
be now. I do mean to see passon at Sancreed, uncle. He'll knaw what's right
for me. If he bids me stay, I'll stay. 'Tis the thot o' Joe Noy maddens me.
My head'll burst if I think any more. I'll go to passon."
"Whether you'll stay, Polly! Why shouldn't 'e stay? Surely it do--"
"Doan't 'e talk no more 'tall, uncle. You caan't knaw what this is to me,
you doan't understan' a wummon faaced wi' a coil like this here. Joe--Joe
as loved 'er, I s'pose, differ'nt to what 'e did me. An' she, when his back
weer turned--an'--an'--me--God help me!--as never could do less than love
en through all!"
She was gone before he had time to answer, but he realized her mighty agony
of mind and stood dumb and frightened before it. Then a thought came
concerning Joan and he felt that, at all costs, he must speak to Mary again
before she went out. Mr. Chirgwin waited quietly at the stair-foot until
she came down. The turmoil was in her eyes still, but she spoke calmly and
listened to him when he replied.
"Doan't 'e say nuthin' to Joan, Uncle Thomas. I be gwaine to larn my duty,
as is hidden from me. An' my duty I will do."
"An' so you alias have, Polly, since you was a grawed gal; an' God knaws
it. But--do'e think as you could--in a manner o' speakin'--hide names from
passon? Ban't no call to tell what's fallen out to other folks. Joan--eh,
Polly? Might 'e speak in a parable like--same as Scripture--wi'out namin'
no names. For Joan's sake, Mary--eh?"
She was silent a full minute, then answered slowly.
"I see what you mean, uncle. I hadn' thot o' she just then. Iss fay, you'm
right theer. Ban't no work o' mine to tell 'bout her."
She hesitated, and the old man spoke again.
"I s'pose that a bit o' prayer wouldn' shaw light on it--eh, Polly? Wi'out
gwaine to Sancreed. The Lard knaws your fix better'n what any words 'ud put
it clear to passon. An' theer's yourself tu. 'Pears to me, axin' your
pardon, for you'm clever'n what I am, that 'tedn' a tale what you can put
out 'fore any other body 'sactly--even a holy man like him."
She saw at once that it was not. Her custom had been to get the
kind-hearted old clergyman of her parish church to soothe the doubts and
perplexities which not seldom rose within her strenuous mind. And before
this great, crushing problem, with the pretext of the one difficulty which
had tumbled uppermost from the chaos and so been grasped as a reality, she
had naturally turned to her guide and friend. But, as her uncle spoke, she
saw that in truth this matter could not be laid naked before any man.
Another's hidden life was involved; another's secret must come out if all
was told, and Mary's sense of justice warned her that this could not be.
She had taken her own mighty grief to the little parsonage at Sancreed, and
a kindly counselor, who knew sorrow at first hand, helped her upon the road
that henceforth looked so lonely and so long; but this present trial,
though it tore the old wounds open, must be borne alone. She saw as much,
and turned and went upstairs again to her chamber.
"Think of her kindly," said Uncle Chirgwin as Mary left him without more
words. "She'm so young an' ignorant o' the gert world, Polly. An' if the
worst falls, which God forbid, 'tis her as'll suffer most, not we."
"Us have all got to suffer an' suffer this side our graaves," she said,
mounting wearily.
"So young an' purty as she be--the moral o' her mother. I doan't knaw--'tis
sich a wonnerful world--but them blue eyes--them round blue eyes couldn't
do a thing as was wrong afore God as wan might fancy," he said aloud, not
knowing she was out of earshot. Then he heaved a sigh, returned to the
kitchen, and presently departed to the fields.
CHAPTER EIGHT
WAITING FOR "MISTER JAN"
With searching of heart, Mary Chirgwin spent time during that afternoon. In
one room Joan, happier than she had been for many days, set out her few
possessions, boldly hung the picture of Joe Noy's ship upon the wall and
gazed at it with affection, for it spoke of the painter, not the sailor, to
her; while, in a chamber hard by, Mary solved the problem of the day,
coming at her conclusion with great struggle of mind and clashing of
arguments. She resolved at last to abide at Drift with her uncle and with
Joan. The reason for those events now crowding upon her life was hidden
from her; and why Providence saw fit to awaken or mightily intensify the
sorrows which time was lulling to sleep, she could not divine. She accepted
her position, none the less, doubted nothing but that the secret hidden in
these matters would some day be explained, and, according to her custom
before the approach of all mundane events and circumstances affecting
herself, viewed the present trial as heaven-sent to purify and strengthen.
So your religious egotists are ever wont to read into the great waves of
chance, as here and there a ripple from them sets their own little vessels
shaking, as here and there some splash of foam, a puff of wind, strikes the
nutshell which floats their lives, a personal, deliberate intervention, an
event designed by the Everlasting to test their powers, ripen their
characters, equip their souls for an eternity of satisfaction.
At tea time the cousins met again, and Uncle Chirgwin, returning from his
affairs, was rejoiced to learn Mary's decision. No outward sign marked her
struggle. She was calm, even stately, with a natural distinction which
physically appeared in her bearing and carriage. She chilled Joan a little,
but not with intention. Yet Joan was bold for her love and spoke no less
than the truth when she asserted that she viewed her position without shame
and without remorse. She spoke of it openly, fearlessly, and kept Uncle
Chirgwin on thorns between the cold silence of his elder niece and the
garrulous chatter of the younger. The saint was so stern, the sinner so
happy and so perfectly impressed with her own innocence, which latter fact
Mary too saw clearly; and it instantly solved half the problem in her mind.
Joan had obviously been sent to Drift that the truth might reach her heart.
She came a heathen from the outer darkness of sin, with vain babbling on
her lips and a mind empty. She called herself "Nature's child" and the
theatric thunders of Luke Gospeldom had never taught her that she was
God's. Here, then, was one to be brought into the fold with all possible
dispatch, and Mary, who loved religious battle, braced herself to the task
while silently listening to Joan, that she might the better learn what
manner of spiritual attack would best meet this sorry case.
Uncle Chirgwin took charge of his niece's bank-notes, and, after some
persuasion, consented to accept the weekly sum of three shillings and
sixpence from Joan. He made many objections to any such arrangement, but
the girl overruled them, declaring absolutely that she would not stop at
Drift, even until her future husband's return, unless the payment of money
was accepted from her. It bred a secret joy in Joan to feel that "Mister
Jan's" wealth now enabled her to enjoy an independence which even Mary
could not share. She much desired to give more money, but Uncle Chirgwin
reduced the sum to three shillings and sixpence weekly and would take no
more. This wealth was viewed with very considerable loathing by Mary
Chirgwin, and she criticised her uncle's decision unfavorably; but he
accepted the owner's view, arguing that it was only justice to all parties
so to do, until facts proved whether Joan was mistaken. The notes did not
cause him uneasiness--at any rate during this stage of affairs--and he took
them to Penzance upon the occasion of his next visit. Mr. Chirgwin's lawyer
saw to the safe bestowal of the money; and when she heard that her nine
hundred pounds would produce about five-and-twenty every year and yet not
decrease the while, Joan was much astonished.
Meantime John Barren neither came to fetch her, nor sent any writing to
tell of the causes for his delay. The girl was fruitful of new reasons for
his silence, and then grew a black fear which answered all doubts and, by
its reasonableness, terrified her. Perhaps "Mister Jan" was ill--too ill
even to write. He had but little strength--that she knew, and few
friends--of that Joan was also aware, for he had told her so. Yet, surely,
there were those, if only his servants, who might have written to bid her
hasten. A line--a single word--and she would get into the train and stop in
it until she saw "London" written on a board at a station. Then she would
leap out and find him and get to his heart and warm it and kiss life back
to his body, light to his loved gray eyes. So thinking, time dragged, and
as the novelty of the new life abated, and wore thin, Joan's spirits
wavered until long and longer intervals of gloomy sadness marked the
duration of each day for her. But she was young, and hope yet held revels
in her heart when the mood favored, when the wind was soft, the sun bright,
and Mother Nature seemed close and kind, as often happened. Joan worked
too, helping Mary and the maids, but after a wayward manner of her own.
There was no counting upon her and she loved better to be with her uncle,
abroad upon the land, or by herself, hidden in the orchard, in the fruit
garden, or in the secret places of the coomb.