the old stone crosses, which came to her afterward, had not grown into a
live passion. Her present pilgrimages were short, her shrines those of
Nature's building. Much she loved the arm of an ancient apple-tree hid in
the very heart of the orchard. A great gnarled limb bent abruptly out, grew
long and low, and was propped at a distance of three yards from the parent
tree. Midway between the stem and support, a crooked elbow of the bough
made a pleasant seat for Joan; and here, when life at the farm looked more
gray than common, she came and sometimes sat long hours. Her perch raised
her above a velvet scented sea of wall-flowers which ran in regular waves
beneath the apple-trees, under murmuring of many bees. The blossom above
Joan's head was all a lacework of sunny rose and cream; and the sun painted
glorious russet harmonies below, glinted magically in the green and white
above, turned the gray lichens, which clustered on the weather side of the
trunks and boughs, to silver. The glory of life here always heartened Joan.
She felt the immortality of Nature, who, from naked earth and barren
boughs, thus at the sun's smile splendidly awakened, and teemed and
overflowed with bewildering, inexhaustible luxuriance. Nor seldom this
aspect of her Mother's infinite wealth touched her blood, and a strange
sensation as of very lust of life made her wild. At such times she would
pick the green things and tear them and watch the colorless life ooze from
their wounds; she would gather blossoms and scatter them against the wind,
break buds open and pluck their hearts out, fill her mouth with sorrel and
young grass-shoots, and feel the cool saps of them upon her palate. And
sometimes her Mother frightened her, for the dim clouds hid beneath the
horizon of maternity were moving now and their color was dark. Nature had
as many moods as Joan and often looked distant and terrible. Poor little
blue-eyed "sister of the sun and moon!" She likened herself so bravely to
the other children of her Mother--to the stars, to the fair birch-trees,
where emerald showers now twinkled down over the silver stems, to the
uncurling fronds of the fern, to the little trout in the coomb-stream; and
yet she was not content as they were.
"Her's good, so good, but oh! if her was a bit nigher--if I could sit in
her lap an' feel her arms around me an' thread the daisies into chains like
when I was a lil maid! But I be a grawed wummon now--an' yet caan't feel it
so--not yet. Her'll hold my hand, maybe, an' lead me 'pon the road past
pain an' sorrow. I can trust her, 'cause Mister Jan did say as Nature never
lies--never."
So the child's thoughts wandered on a day when she sat upon the bough and
brought a shower of pale petals down with every movement. But as yet only
the shadows of shadows clouded her thoughts when she thought about herself.
It was the loneliness brought real care--the loneliness and the waiting.
She spent time, too, in Uncle Chirgwin's old walled garden. This place and
its products went for little in the traffic of the farm, though every year
its owner was wont to count upon certain few baskets of choice fruit as an
addition to his income, and every year his hopes were blighted. For the
walls whereon his peaches and nectarines grew had stood through
generations, their red brick work was much fretted by time, and the
interstices between the bricks made snug homes for a variety of insects.
Joan once listened to her uncle upon this subject, and henceforth chose to
make his scanty fruit her special care.
"'Tis like this," he explained, "an' specially wi' the necter'ns. The
moment they graws a shade, an' long afore they stone, them dratted lil auld
sow-pigs [Footnote: _Sow-pigs_--Woodlice.] falls 'pon 'em cruel. Then
they waits theer time till the ripenin', an', blame me, but the varmints do
allus knaw just a day 'fore I does, when things be ready, an' they eats the
peaches an' necter'ns by night, gouging 'em shameful, same as if you'd done
it wi' your nails. 'Tis a terrible coorious wall for sow-pigs, likewise for
snails; an' I be allus a gwaine to have en repaired an' pinted, but yet
somehow 'tedn' done. But your sharp eyes'll be a sight o' use wi' creepin'
things. 'Tis a reg'lar Noah's Ark o' a wall, to be sure; not but what I lay
theer's five pound worth o' stone fruit 'pon it most years if 'twas let
bide."
Joan enjoyed watching the peaches grow. First they peeped like pearls from
the dried frills of their blossoms; then they expanded and cast off the
encumbrance of dead petals and nestled against the red bricks that sucked
up sunshine and held it for them when the sun had gone. She found the
garden wall was a whole busy world, and, taught by her vanished master, she
took interest in all that dwelt thereon. But the snails and woodlice she
slew ruthlessly that her uncle might presently come by his five pounds'
value of fruit.
Mary Chirgwin speedily discovered the task of reforming her cousin was like
to be lengthy and arduous. There appeared no foundations upon which to
work, and while the certainty of Barron's return still remained with Joan
as a vital guide to conduct, no other gospel than that which he had taught
found her a listener. She refused to go to church, to Mary's chagrin and
Uncle Chirgwin's sorrow; but he explained the matter correctly and indeed
found a clew to most of Joan's actions at this season. Mary saw the old
man's growing love for the new arrival, and a smaller mind might have sunk
to jealousy quickly enough under such circumstances, but she, deeply
concerned with Joan's eternal welfare, rose above temporary details, At the
same time her uncle's mild and tolerant attitude caused her pain.
"As to church-gwaine," he said, on a Sunday morning when he and his elder
niece had driven off to Sancreed as usual, leaving Joan in the orchard;
"she've larned to look 'pon it from a Luke Gosp'ler's pint o' view. Doan't
you fret, Polly. Let her bide. 'Twill come o' itself bimebye wan o' these
Sundays. Poor tiby lamb! Christ's a watchin' of her, Polly. An' if this
here gen'leman, by the name o' Mister Jan, doan't come--"
"You make me daft!" she interrupted, with impatience. "D'you mean as you
ever thot he would?"
"I hopes. Theer's sich a 'mazin' deal o' good in human nature. Mayhap he'm
wraslin' wi' his sawl to this hour. An' the Lard do allus fight 'pon the
side o' conscience. Iss fay! Some 'ow I do think as he'll come."
Mary said no more. She was quite positive that her cousin and her uncle
were alike mistaken; but she saw that, until the hard truth forced itself
upon Joan, the girl would go her present way. It was not that Joan lacked
goodness and sweetness, but, in Mary's opinion, she took an obstinate and
wrong-headed course upon the one vital subject of her own salvation. Mary
fought with herself to love Joan, and the battle now was only hard when Joe
Noy came within the scope of her thoughts. She banished him as much as she
could, but it never grew easy, and the complex problems bred of reflections
on this theme maddened her. For she had always loved him, and that
affection, thrust away as deadly-sin, when he left her for another, could
not be wholly strangled now.
Time hung heavily and more heavily with Joan at Drift. A fortnight passed;
but the hope of the ignorant and trustful dies very hard and the faith
which is bred of absolute love has a hundred lives. The girl walked into
Penzance every second day, and hope blazed brightly on the road to the
post-office, then sank a little deeper into the hidden places of her heart
as she plodded empty-handed back to Drift.
Slowly, and so gradually that she herself knew it not, her thoughts grew
something less occupied with John Barren, something more concerned about
herself. For the world was full of happy mothers now. One "Brindle"--a
knot-cow of repute--dropped a fine bull-calf in a croft hard by the
orchard, and Joan looked into "Brindle's" solemn eyes after the event, and
learned. She marveled to see the little brown calf stand on his shaking
legs within an hour of his birth; then his mother licked him lovingly,
while Uncle Chirgwin himself drew off her "buzzy milk." There was another
mother in a disused pigsty. There Joan found a red and white tortoise-shell
cat with four blind, squeaking atoms beside her, and as the cat rolled over
and the atoms sucked life, Joan saw her shining eyes, afore-time so bright
and hard, full of a new strange light, like the cloud that glimmers over
the fires of an opal. The cat's green orbs were full of mystery: of pain
past, of joy present. So again Joan learned. But a black tragedy blotted
out that little happy family in the pigsty, and Death, in the shape of Amos
Bartlett, Mr. Chirgwin's head man, fell upon them. Then the farmer learned
that his niece could be angry. One morning Joan found the mother cat
running wildly here and there, with a world of misery in its cry; while a
moment afterward she came upon the kittens in a duck pond. Mr. Bartlett was
present and explained.
"Them chets had to gaw, missy. 'Tis a auld word an' it ban't wise to take
no count of sayings like that. 'May chets bad luck begets.' You've heard
tell o' that? Never let live no kittens born in May. They theer dead chets
comed May Day."
"You'm a cruel devil!" she said hotly; "how'd you like for your two lil
children to be thrawed in the water, May or no May? Look at thicky cat,
breakin' her heart, poor twoad!"
Mr. Bartlett was justly angry that Joan could dare to thus class his
priceless red-headed twins with a litter of dead kittens, and he said more
than was wise, ramming home a truth, and that coarsely.
"Theer's plenty more wheer them comed from, I lay. Nachur's so free, you
see--tu free like sometimes. Ban't no dearth o' chets or childern as I've
heard on. They comes unaxed, an' unwanted tu. You might a heard tell o'
some sich p'raps?"
She blushed and shook with passion at this sudden new aspect of affairs.
Here was a standpoint from which nobody had viewed her before. Worse--far
worse than her father's rage or Uncle Chirgwin's tears was this. Amos
Bartlett represented the world's attitude. The world would not be angry
with her, or cry for her; it would merely laugh and pass on, like Mr.
Bartlett. So Joan learned yet again; and the new knowledge cowed her for
full eight-and-forty hours. But the eyes of the mothers had taught Joan
something of the secret of pain, and a thread of gravity ran henceforth
through all thoughts concerning the future. She much marveled that "Mister
Jan" had never touched upon this leaf in the book. Beauty was what he
invariably talked about, and he found beauty hidden in many a strange
matter too; but not in pain. That was because he suffered himself
sometimes, Joan suspected. And yet, to her, pain, though she had never felt
it, seemed not wholly hideous. She surprised herself mightily by the depth
of her own thoughts now. She seemed to stand upon the brink of deep matters
guessing dimly at things hidden. Then her moods would break again from the
clouds to brightness. Hot sunshine on her cheek always raised her young
spirits, and her health, now excellent, threw joy into life despite the
ever-present anxiety. Then came a meeting which roused interest and brought
very genuine delight with it.
It happened upon a fine Sunday afternoon, when Joan was walking through the
fields on the farm--those which extended southward--that she reached a
stile where granite blocks lay lengthwise, like the rungs of a ladder,
between two uprights. Here she stopped a while, and sat her down, and
looked out over the promise of fine hay. The undulating green expanse was
studded with the black knobs of ribwort plantain and gemmed with
buttercups, which here were dotted like sparks of fire, here massed in
broad bunches and splashes of color. The wind swept over the field, and its
course was marked by sudden flecks and ripples of transient sheeny light,
paler and brighter than the mass of the herbage. Then a figure appeared
afar off, following the course of the footpath where it wound through the
gold of the flowers and the silver of the bending grasses. It approached,
resolved itself into a fisher-boy and presently proved to be Tom Tregenza.
Joan ran forward to meet him as soon as the short figure, with its
exaggerated nautical roll, became known to her. She kissed her half-brother
warmly, and he hugged her and showed great delight at the meeting, for he
loved Joan well.
"I've stealed away, 'cause I was just burstin' to get sight of 'e again,
Joan. Faither's home an' I comed off for a walk, creepin' round here an'
hopin' as we'd meet. 'Tis mighty wisht to home now you'm gone, I can tell
'e. I've got a sore head yet along o' you."
"G'wan, bwoy! Why should 'e?"
"Iss so. 'Twas like this. When us comed back from sea wan mornin' a week
arter you'd gone I ups an' sez, ''Tis 'bout as lively as bad feesh ashore
now Joan ban't here.' I dedn' knaw faither was in the doorway when I said
it, 'cause he'd give out you was never to be named no more. But mother seed
en an' sez to me, 'Shut your mouth.' An', not knawin' faither was be'ind
me, I ups agin an' sez, 'Why caan't I, as be her awn brother, see Joan
anyway an' hear tell what 'tis she've done? I lay as it ban't no mighty
harm neither, 'cause Joan's true Tregenza!'"
"Good Lard! An' faither heard 'e?"
"Iss, an' next minute I knawed it. He blazed an' roared, an' comed over an'
bummed my head 'pon the earhole--a buster as might 'a' killed some lads. My
ivers! I seed stars 'nough to fill a new sky, Joan, an' I went down tail
over nose. I doubt theer's nobody in Newlyn what can hit like faither. But
I got up agin an' sot mighty still, an' faither sez, 'She as was here ban't
no Tregenza, nor my darter, nor nothin' to none under my hellings
[Footnote: _Hellings_--Roof.] no more--never more, mark that.' Then
mother thrawed her apern over her faace an' hollered, 'cause I'd got such a
welt, an' faither walked out in the garden. I was for axin' mother then,
but reckoned not for fear as he might be listenin' agin. But I knawed you
was up Drift, 'cause I heard mother say that much; an' now I've sot eyes on
you agin; an' I knaw you'll tell me what's wrong wi' you; an' if I can do
anything for 'e I will, sink or swim."
"Faither's a cruel beast, an' he'll come to a bad end, Tom, 'spite of they
Gosp'lers. He'm all wrong an' doan't knaw nothin' 'tall 'bout God. I do
knaw what I knaw. Theer's more o' God in that gert shine o' buttercups 'pon
the grass than in all them whey-faced chapel folks put together."
"My stars, Joan!"
"'Tis truth, an' you'll find 'tis some day, same as what I have."
"I doan't see how any lad be gwaine to make heaven myself," said Tom
gloomily. "Us had a mining cap'n from Camborne preach this marnin', an', by
Gollies! 'tweer like sittin' tu near a gert red'ot fire. Her rubbed it in,
I tell 'e, same as you rubs salt into a hake. Faither said 'twas braave
talk. But you, Joan, what's wrong with 'e, what have you done?"
"I ain't done no wrong, Tom, an' you can take my word for't."
"Do 'e reckon you'm damned, like what faither sez?"
"Never! I doan't care a grain o' wheat what faither sez. What I done
weern't no sin, 'cause him, as be wiser an' cleverer an' better every way
than any man in Carnwall, said 'tweern't; an' he knawed. I've heard wise
things said, an' I've minded some an' forgot others. None can damn folks
but God, when all's done, an' He's the last as would; for God do love even
the creeping, gashly worms under a turned stone tu well to damn 'em. Much
more humans. I be a Nature's cheel an' doan't b'lieve in no devil an' no
hell-fire 'tall."
"I wish I was a Nachur's cheel then."
Joan flung down a little bouquet of starry stitchworts she had gathered
upon the way and turned very earnestly to Tom.
"You _be_, you _be_ a Nature's cheel. Us all be, but awnly a few
knaws it."
Tom laughed at this idea mightily.
"Well, I'll slip back long, Joan; an' if I be a Nachur's cheel, I be; but I
guess I'll keep it a secret. If I tawld faither as I dedn' b'lieve in no
auld devil, I guess he'd hurry me into next world so's I might see for
myself theer was wan."
They walked a little way together. Then Tom grew frightened and stopped his
companion. "Guess you'd best to be turnin'. Folks is 'bout everywheer in
the fields, bein' Sunday, an' if it got back to faither as I'd seed you,
he'd make me hop."
"D'you like the sea still, Tom?"
"Doan't I just! Better'n better; an' I be grawin' smart, 'cause I heard
faither tell mother so when I was in the wash'ouse an' they thot I wasn't.
Faither said as I'd got a hawk's eye for moorin's or what not. An' I licked
the bwoy on Pratt's bwoat a fortnight agone. A lot o' men seed me do't. I
hopes I'll hit so hard as faither hisself wan day, when I'm grawed.
Good-by, sister Joan. I'll see 'e agin when I can, an' bring up a feesh
maybe. Doan't say nothin' 'bout me to them at the farm, else it may get
back."
So Tom marched off, speculating as to what particular lie would best meet
the case if cross-questioning awaited him on his return, and Joan watched
the thickset little figure very lovingly until it was out of sight.
CHAPTER NINE
MEADOWSWEETS
June came. The wall-flowers were long plucked or dead, the last snows of
apple-blossom had vanished away, and the fruit was setting well. The
woodlice were already ruining the young nectarines. "They spiles 'em in
the growth an' scores 'em wi' their wicked lil teeth, then, come August
an' they ripens, they'll begin again. But the peaches they won't touch
now, 'cause of the fur 'pon 'em. Awnly they'll make up for't when the
things is ready for eatin'." So Uncle Thomas explained the position to
Joan. He, good man, had fulfilled his promise to see Michael Tregenza.
It happened that a load of oar-weed was wanted on the farm, and Mr.
Chirgwin, instead of sending one of the hands with horse and cart to
Newlyn according to his custom when seaweed was needed, went himself.
His elder niece expostulated with him and explained that such a trip
would be interpreted to mean straitened circumstances on the farm; but
her uncle was not proud, and when he explained that his real object was
an opportunity to speak with Joan's father Mary said no more.
Screwing courage to the sticking-point, therefore, the old man went down to
Newlyn on a morning when Joan was not by to question his movements. Fortune
favored him. Michael had landed at daylight and was not sailing again till
dusk. The fisherman listened patiently, but Mr. Chirgwin's inconsequent and
sentimental conversation sounded as tinkling brass upon his ear. Both
argued the question upon religious grounds, but from an entirely different
standpoint. Michael was not at the trouble to talk much, for his visitor
seemed scarce worthy of powder and shot. He explained that he deemed it
damnation to hold unnecessary converse with sinners; that, by her act, Joan
had raised eternal barriers between herself and those of her own home, and,
indeed, all chosen people; that he had walked in the light from the dawn of
his days until the present time, and could not imperil the souls of his
wife, his son and himself by any further communion with one, in his
judgment, lost beyond faintest possibility of redemption. Uncle Chirgwin
listened with open mouth to these sentiments. He longed to relate how Joan
had repented of her offense, how she had thrown herself upon the Lord, and
found peace and forgiveness. No such thing could be recorded, however, and
he felt himself at a disadvantage. He prayed for mercy on her behalf, but
mercy was a luxury Gray Michael deemed beyond the reach of man. He showed
absolutely no emotion upon the subject, and his chill unconcern quenched
the farmer's ardor. Mr. Chirgwin mourned mightily that he held not a
stronger case. Joan had tied his hands, at any rate, for the present. If
she would only come round, accept the truth and abandon her present
attitude--then he knew that he would fight like a giant for her, and that,
with right upon his side, he would surely prevail. His last words upon the
subject shadowed this conviction.
"Please God time may soften 'e, Tregenza; an', maybe, soften Joan tu. Her
heart's warm yet, an' the truth will find its plaace theer in the Lard's
awn time; but you--I doubt 'tedn' in you to change."
"Never, till wrong be right."
"You makes me sorry for 'e, Tregenza."
"Weep for yourself, Thomas Chirgwin. You'm that contented, an' the
contented sawl be allus farthest from God if you awnly knawed it. Wheer's
your fear an' tremblin' too? I've never seed 'e afeared or shaken 'fore the
thrawn o' the Most High in your life. But I 'sure 'e, thee'll come to it."
"An' you say that!' You'm 'mazin' blind, Tregenza, for all you walk in the
Light. The Light's dazed 'e, I'm thinkin', same as birds a breakin' theer
wings 'gainst lighthouse glasses. You sez you be a worm twenty times a day,
an' yet you'm proud enough for Satan hisself purty nigh. If you'm a worm,
why doan't 'e act like a worm an' be humble-minded? 'Tis the lil childern
gets into heaven. You'm stiff-necked, Michael Tregenza. I sez it respectful
an' in sorrer; but 'tis true."
"I hope the Lard won't lay thy sin to thy charge, my poor sawl," answered
the fisherman with perfect indifference. "You--you dares to speak agin me!
I wish I could give 'e a hand an' drag 'e a lil higher up the ladder o'
righteousness, Chirgwin; but you'm o' them as caan't dance or else won't,
not if God A'mighty's Self piped to 'e. Go your ways, an' knaw you'm in the
prayers of a man whose prayers be heard."
"Then pray for Joan. If you'm so cocksure you gets a hearin' 'fore us
church folks, 'tis your fust duty to plead for her."
"It was," he said. "Now it is too late, I've sweated for her, an' wrastled
wi' principalities an' powers for her, an' filled the night watches by sea
an' shore wi' gert agonies o' prayer for her. But 'tweern't to be. Her
name's writ in the big Book o' Death, not the small Book o' Life. David
prayed hard till that cheel, got wrong side the blanket, died. Then he
washed his face an' ate his meat. 'Twas like that wi' me. Joan's dead now.
Let the dead bury theer dead."
"'Tis awful to hear 'e, Tregenza."
"The truth's a awful thing, Chirgwin, but a lie is awfuler still. 'Tis the
common fate to be lost. You an' sich as you caan't grasp the truth 'bout
that. Heaven's no need to be a big plaace--theer 'edn' gwaine to be no
crowdin' theer. 'Tis hell as'll fill space wi' its roominess."
"I be gwaine," answered Mr. Chirgwin. "Us have talked three hour by the
clock, an' us ain't gotten wan thot in common. I trusts in Christ; you
trusts in yourself. Time'll shaw which was right. You damn the world; I
wouldn't damn a dew-snail. [Footnote: _Dew-snail_--A slug.] I awnly
sez again, 'May you live to see all the pints you'm wrong.' An' if you do,
'twill be a tidy big prospect."
They exchanged some further remarks in a similar strain. Then Tom informed
Uncle Chirgwin that his cart with a full load of oar-weed was waiting at
the door. Whereupon the old man got his hat, loaded his pipe, wished
Thomasin good-by, and drove sorrowfully away. Mrs. Tregenza had secretly
inquired after Joan's health and wealth. That the first was excellent, the
second carefully put away in the lawyer's hands, caused her satisfaction.
She told Mr. Chirgwin to make Joan write out a will.
"You never knaws," she said. "God keep the gal, but they do die now an'
agin. 'Tweer better she wrote about the money 'cordin' to a lawyer's way.
And, say, for the Lard's love, not to leave it to Michael. So well light a
fire wi' it as that. He bawled out as the money had lit a fire a'ready,
when I touched 'pon it to en--a fire as was gwaine to burn through
eternity; but Michael's not like a human. His ideas 'pon affairs is all
pure Bible. You an' me caan't grasp hold o' all he says. An' the money's
done no wrong. So you'll drop in Joan's ear as it might be worldly-wise to
save trouble by sayin' what should be done if anything ill failed 'pon
her--eh?"
Uncle Chirgwin promised that he would do so, and Mrs. Tregenza felt a
weight off her mind which had distressed it for some while. She was
thinking of Tom, of course. She knew that Joan loved him, and though the
prospect of his ever coming by a penny of the money appeared slender, yet
to think that he might be in a will, named for hundreds of pounds, was a
shadowy sort of joy to her.
That night Joan's uncle told the girl of his afternoon's work, and she
expressed some sorrow that he should have thus exerted himself on her
behalf.
"Faither's dirt beside the likes of you," she said. "'Twas wastin' good
time to talk to en, an' I wouldn't go back to Newlyn, you mind, if he was
to ax me 'pon his knees. I'm a poor fool of a gal, but I knaws enough to
laugh at the ignorance o' faither an' that fiddle-faaced crowd to the Luke
Gospel Chapel."