terror to the evildoer; an' he'm a terror to the righteous-doer; an' to
hisself no less, I reckon; an' to God A'mighty tu, so like's not. The
friends of en be as feared of en as his foes be. An' that's awful wisht,
'cause he goes an' comes purty nigh alone. The Gosp'lers be like fry flyin'
this way an' that 'fore a school o' mackerl when Michael's among 'em. Even
minister, he do shrivel a inch or two 'longside o' Michael. I've seen en
wras'lin' wi' the Word same as Jacob wras'led wi' the angel. An' yet, why?
Theer's a man chosen for glory this five-an'-forty years, an' he knaws it
so well as I do, or any wan."
"He knaws nothin' o' the sort. The best abbun no right to say it," declared
Mary.
Then Mrs. Tregenza fired up, for she resented any criticism on this subject
other than her own.
"An' why not, Polly Chirgwin? Who's a right to doubt it? Not you, I reckon,
Ban't your plaace to judge a man as walks wi' God, like Moses done. If
Michael edn' saved, then theer's no sawl saved 'pon land or sea. You
talk--a young maiden! His sawl was bleedin' an' his hands raw a batterin'
the gate o' heaven 'fore you was born, Polly--ay, an' he'd got the
bettermost o' the devil wance for all 'fore you was conceived in the womb;
you mind that."
"Us caan't get the bettermost o' the devil wance for all," said Mary,
changing the issue, "no--not no more'n us can wash our skin clean wance for
all. But you an' me thinks differ'nt an' allus shall, Mrs. Tregenza."
"Iss, though I s'pose 'tis the same devil as takes backslidin' church or
chapel folks. Let that bide now. Wheer's Joan to? I've got to thank 'e
kindly for lookin' arter Tom t'other Sunday night. Tis things like that
makes religion uncomfortable. But you gived the bwoy some tidy belly-timber
in the small hours o' day, an' he comed home dog-tired, but none the worse.
An' thank 'e for they apples an' cream an' eggs, which I'm sorry they had
sich poor speed. A butivul basket as hurt me to the heart to paart with.
But I wasn't asked. No offense, I hope, 'bout it? Maybe uncle forgot 'twas
the Lard's day?"
"He'm the last ever to do that."
Joan entered at this point in the conversation and betrayed some slight
emotion as her stepmother kissed her. It was nearly five months since they
had met, and Mary now departed, leaving them to discuss Joan's physical
condition.
"I be doin' clever," said Joan, "never felt righter in body."
Mrs. Tregenza poured forth good advice, and after a lengthy conversation
came to a secret ambition and broached it with caution.
"I called to mind some baaby's things--shoes, clouts, frocks an' sich-like
as I've got snug in lavender to home. They was all flam-new for Tom, an' I
judged I'd have further use for 'em, but never did. Theer they be, even to
a furry-cloth, as none doan't ever use nowadays, though my mother did, and
thot well on't. So I did tu. 'Tis just a bit o' crimson red tailor's cloth
to cover the soft plaace 'pon a lil baaby's head 'fore the bones of en graw
together. An' I reckon 'tis better to have it then not. I seem you'd do
wise to take the whole kit; an' you'm that well-to-do that 'twouldn' be
worth thinkin' 'bout. 'Twould be cheaper'n a shop; an' theer's everything a
royal duke's cheel could want; an' a butivul robe wi' lacework cut 'pon it,
an' lil bits o' ribbon to tie in the armholes Sundays. They'm vitty
clothes."
Joan's eyes softened to a misty dreaminess before this aspect of the time
to come. She had thought so little about the baby and all matters
pertaining thereto, that every day now brought with it mental novelty
and a fresh view of that experience stored for her in the future.
"Iss, I do mind they things when Tom was in 'em. What be the value in
money?"
Mrs. Tregenza answered shyly and almost respectfully.
"Well, 'tis so difficult to say, not bein' a reg'lar seller o' things. They
cost wi'out the robe, as was a gift from Mrs. Blight, more'n five pound."
"Take ten pound, then. I'll tell uncle."
Thomasin's red tongue-tip crept along her lips and her bright eyes blinked,
but conscience was too strong.
"No, no--a sight too much--too much by half. I'll let 'e have the lot for a
fi'-pun' note. An' I'd like it to be a new wan, if 'tis the same to you."
Joan agreed to this, and ten minutes afterward Uncle Chirgwin was opening
his cash-box and handing Thomasin the snowy, crackling fragment she
desired.
"'Tis the fust bit o' money ever I kept unbeknawnst to Michael," she said,
"an', 'pon me life, Chirgwin, I be a'most 'feared on't."
"You'll soon get awver that," declared Uncle Thomas. "I'll send the trap
home with 'e, an' you can look out the frippery; an' you might send a nice
split bake back-along with it, if you've got the likes of sich a thing
gwaine beggin' to be ate."
Presently Mrs. Tregenza drove away and Joan went to her room to think.
Magic effects had risen from the spectacle of the well-remembered face,
from the sound of the sharp, high voice. A new sensation grew out of them
for Joan. Home rose like a vision, with the sighing of the sea, the crying
of the gulls, the musical rattle of blocks in the bay, the clink, clink of
picks in the quarry, the occasional thunder of a blast. Many odors were
with her: the smell of tar and twine and stores, the scent of drying fish.
She saw the low cliffs all gemmed at this season with moon-flowers--the
great white convolvulus which twinkled there. A red and purple fuchsia in
the garden, had blossomed also. She could see the bees climbing into its
drooping bells. She remembered their music, as it murmured drowsily from
dead and gone summers, and sounded sweeter than the song of the bees at
Drift. She heard the tinkle of a stream outside the cottage, where it ran
under the hedge through a shute and emptied itself into a great
half-barrel; and then, turning her thoughts to the house, her own attic,
with the view of St. Michael's Mount and the bay, rose in thought, with
every detail distinct, even to the glass scent-bottle on the mantel-piece,
and the colored print of John Wesley being rescued in his childhood from a
burning house. These and kindred memories made a live picture to Joan's
eyes. For the first time since she had left her home the girl found in her
heart a desire to return to it. She awoke next morning with the old
recollections increased and multiplied; and the sensation bred from
continued contemplation was the sensation of a loss.
BOOK THREE
CHANCE
CHAPTER ONE
OF THE CROSSES
The significance of the ancient crosses in Joan Tregenza's latest phase of
mental growth becomes much finer after learning somewhat more concerning
them than she could ever know. The ephemeral life of one unhappy woman
viewed from these granite records of Brito-Celtic pagan and Christian
faith, examined in its relation to these hoary splinters of stone, grows an
object of some pathetic interest. Such memorials of the past as are here
indicated, vary mightily in age. The Christian monuments are not older than
the fifth century, but many have been proved palimpsests and rise on pagan
foundations dating from a time far more ancient than their own. The relics
are divided into two classes by antiquarians: Pillar Stones and Sculptured
Crosses. The former occur throughout the Celtic divisions of Great Britain,
and are sometimes marked with the Chi Rho monogram, or early rude cross
form. In most cases these earlier erections indicated a grave, while the
sculptured crosses either denoted boundaries of sanctuary, or were raised
promiscuously where men and women passed or congregated, their object being
to encourage devotion and lead human thoughts heavenward. The designs on
these monuments are usually a bad imitation of Irish key patterns and
spirals; but many, in addition, show crucifixes in their midst, with
pre-Norman figures depicting the Christ in a loose tunic or shirt, his head
erect and his body alive, after the Byzantine fashion. The mediaeval mode
of carving a corpse on the cross is of much later date and may not be
observed before the twelfth century.
More than three hundred of these sculptured crosses have been discovered
within the confines of Cornwall. In churchyards and churchyard walls they
stand; they have even been discovered wrought into the fabric of the
churches themselves; the brown moor likewise knows them, for they stud its
wildernesses and rise at the crossways of many lonely roads; while
elsewhere, villages hold them in their hearts, and the emblem rises daily
before the sight of generation upon generation. In hedges they are also to
be seen, and in fields; many have been rescued from base uses; and all have
stood through the centuries as the sign and testimony of primitive Cornish
faith, even as St. Piran's white cross on a black ground, the first banner
of Cornwall, bore aloft the same symbol in days when the present emblem,
with its fifteen bezants and its motto, "One and All," was not dimly
dreamed of.
These ancient crosses now rose like gray sentinels on the gray life of Joan
Tregenza. At Drift she was happily placed among them, and many, not
necessary to separately name, lay within the limit of her daily wanderings,
and her superstitious nature, working with the new-born faith, wove
precious mystery into them. Much she loved the more remote and lonely
stones, for beside them, hidden from the world's eye, she could pray. Those
others about which circled human lives attracted her less frequently. To
her the crosses were sentient creatures above the fret of Time, eternally
watching human affairs. The dawn of art as shown in early religious
sculpture generally amuses an ignorant mind, but, to Joan, the little
shirted figures of her new Saviour, which opened blind eyes on the stones
she loved, were matter for sorrow rather than amusement. They did by no
means repel her, despite the superficial hideousness of them; indeed, with
a sort of intuition, Joan told herself that human hands had fashioned them
somewhere in the dawn of the world when yet her Lord's blood was newly
shed, at a time before men had learned skill to make beautiful things.
Once, beside the foot of the cross which stood in Sancreed [Footnote: This
fine sculptured cross has since these events been placed within the said
churchyard, at the desire of Mr. A. G. Langdon, the greatest living
authority on the subject of Cornish remains.] churchyard wall, between two
tree-trunks under a dome of leaves, the girl found growing a spotted
persicaria, and the force of the discovery at such a spot was great to her.
Familiar with the legend of the purple mark on every leaf of the plant,
nothing doubting that it had aforetime grown at the foot of the true cross
and there been splashed with the blood of her Master, Joan accepted the old
story that henceforth the weed was granted this proud livery and badge of
blood. And now, finding it here, the fable revived with added truth and
conviction, the legend of the persicaria was as true to her as that other
of the Lord's resurrection from death. Thus her views of Nature suffered
some approach to debasement in a new direction, but this degradation, so to
call it, brought mighty comfort to her soul, daily rounded the ragged edges
of life, woke merciful trust and belief in a promised life of bliss beyond
the grave, and embroidered thereupon a patchwork, not unbeautiful, built of
fairy folk-lore, saintly legend and venerable myth. Her credulous nature
accepted right and left; anything that harbored a promise or was lovely or
wonderful in itself found acceptance; and Joan read into the very pulses of
the summer world the truth as she now understood it. Cornwall suddenly
became a new Holy Land to the girl. Here the circumstances of life chimed
with those recorded in the New Testament, and it was an easy mental
achievement to transplant her Saviour from a historical environment into
her own. She pictured Him as walking amid Uncle Chirgwin's ripening corn;
she saw Him place His hands on the heads of the little children at cottage
doors; she imagined Him standing upon one of the stranded luggers in Newlyn
harbor with the gulls floating round His head and the fishermen listening
to his utterance.
The growing mother instincts in Joan also developed about this season. They
leaped from comparative quiescence into activity; they may indeed be
recorded as having arisen within her after a manner not less sudden than
had the new faith itself, which was exhibited to you as blossoming with an
abruptness almost violent, because it thus occurred. Now most channels of
thought led Joan to her unborn infant, and there came at length an occasion
upon which she prayed for the first time that her child might be justified
in its existence.
The petition was raised where, in the past, she had uttered one widely
different: at the altar-stone in the ruined baptistery of Saint Madron.
Thither on a day in early August, Joan traveled by short cuts over fields
which brought the chapel within reach of Drift. The scene had changed from
that of her former visit, and summer was keeping the promises of spring.
Yellow stars of biting stone-crop covered the walls of the ruin; the fruit
of the blackthorn was growing purple, of the hawthorn, red; the lesser
dodder crept, like pink lacework, over furze and heather; bright-eyed
euphrasy and sweet wild thyme were murmured over by many bees; at the
altar's foot grew brake fern and towering foxgloves; while upon the sacred
stone itself brambles laid their fruit, a few ripe blackberries shining
from clusters of red and green. Seeding grasses and docks likewise
nourished within the little chapel, and ragged robins and dandelions
brought the best beauty they had. Among which matters, hid in loneliness,
to the sound of that hymn of life which rises in a whisper from all earth
at summer noon, Joan prayed for her baby that it might not be born in vain.
CHAPTER TWO
HOME
Among the varied ambitions now manifested by Joan was one already hinted
at--one which increased to the displacement of smaller interests: she much
desired to see again her home, if but for the space of an hour. The days
and weeks of an unusually smiling summer brought autumn, and with it the
cutting of golden grain; but the bustle and custom of harvest failed to
draw Joan among her kind. Human life faded somewhat, even to the verge of
unreality with her. Silence fell upon her, and a gravity of demeanor which
was new to the beholders. Uncle Chirgwin and Mary were alike puzzled at
this sign, and, misunderstanding the nature of the change, feared that the
girl's spiritual development must be meeting unseen opposition. Whims and
moods were proper to her condition, so the farmer maintained; but the fancy
of eternally sequestering herself, the conceit of regarding as friends
those ancient stones of the moor and crossroads, was beyond his power to
appreciate. To Mary such conduct presented even greater elements of
mystery. Yet the fact faced them, and the crosses came in time to be one of
the few subjects which Joan cared to talk upon. Even then it was to her
uncle alone she opened her heart concerning them: Mary never unlocked the
inner nature of her cousin.
"I got names o' my awn for each of 'em," Joan confessed, "an' I seem they
do knaw my comin' an' my secrets an' my troubles. They teach me the force
o' keepin' my mouth shut; an' much mixin' wi' other folks arter the silence
o' the stones 'mazes me--men an' wummen do chatter so."
"An' so did you, lassie, an' weern't none the worse. Us doan't hear your
purty voice enough now."
"'Tis better thinkin' than talkin', Uncle Thomas. I abbun nort to talk
'bout, you see, but a power o' things to think of. The auld stones speaks
to me solemn, though they can't talk. They'm wise, voiceless things an'
brings God closer. An' me, an' all the world o' grass an' flowers, an' the
lil chirruping griggans [Footnote: Grasshoppers.] do seem so young beside
'em; but they'm big an' kind. They warm my heart somethin' braave; an' they
let the gray mosses cling to 'em an' the dinky blue butterflies open an'
shut their wings 'pon 'em, an' the bramble climb around theer arms. They've
tawld me a many good things; an' fust as I must be humbler in my bearin'.
Wance I said I'd forgive faither, an' I thot 'twas a fair thing to say; now
I awnly wants en to forgive me an' let me come to my time wi' no man's
anger hot agin me. If I could win just a peep o' home. I may never see it
no more arter, 'cause things might fall out bad wi' me."
"'Tis nachrul as you harp on it; an', blame me, if I sees why you shouldn'
go down-long. Us might ride in the cart an' no harm done."
"Ay, do 'e come, theer's a dear sawl. Just to look upon the plaace--"
"As for that, if us goes, us must see the matter through an' give your
faither the chance to do what's right by 'e."
"He'll not change; but still I'd have en hear me tell I'm in sorrer for the
ill I brot 'pon his name."
"Ay, facks! 'Tis a wise word an' a right. Us'll go this very arternoon. You
get a odd pound or so o' scald cream, an' I'll see to a basket o' fruit wi'
some o' they scoured necterns, as ban't no good for sellin', but eats so
well as t'others. Iss, we'll go so soon as dinner be swallowed. Wishes
doan't run in a body's head for nothin'."
Uncle Chirgwin's old market-cart, with the gray horse and the squeaking
wheel, rattled off to Newlyn some two hours later, and the ordeal, longed
for at a distance, towered tremendous and less beautiful at nearer
approach. When they started, Joan had hoped that her father might be at
home; as they neared Newlyn she felt a growing relief in the reflection
that his presence ashore was exceedingly improbable. Her anxieties were
forgotten for a few moments at sight of the well-known outlines of the
hills above the village. Now arrish-mows--little thatched stacks some eight
feet high--glimmered in the pale gilded stubbles of the fields; the
orchards gleamed with promise; the foliage of the elms was at its darkest
before the golden dawn of autumn. Well-remembered sights rose on Joan's
misty eyes with the music proper to them; then came the smell of the sea
and the jolting of the cart, going slowly over rough stones. Narrow, steep
streets and sharp corners had to be traversed not only with caution but at
a speed which easily placed Joan within the focus of many glances. Troubles
and humiliation of a sort wholly unexpected burst suddenly upon her,
bringing the girl's mind rudely back from dreams born of the familiar
scene. Newlyn women bobbed about their cottage doors with hum and stir, and
every gossip's mouth was full of news at this entry. Doors and windows
filled with curious heads and bright eyes; there was some laughter in the
air; fishermen got up with sidelong looks from the old masts or low walls
whereon, during hours of leisure, they sat in rows and smoked. Joan, all
aflame, prayed Uncle Chirgwin to hasten, which he did to the best of his
power; but their progress was of necessity slow, and local curiosity
enjoyed full scope and play. Tears came to the girl's eyes long before the
village was traversed; then, through a mist of them, she saw a hand
stretched to meet her own and heard a voice which rang kindly on her ears.
It was Sally Trevennick, who faced the spiteful laughter without flinching
and said a few loud, friendly words, though indeed her well-meant support
brought scant comfort with it for the victim.
"Lard sakes! Joan, doan't 'e take on so at them buzzin' fools! 'Tedn' the
trouble, 'tis the money make 'em clatter! Bah! Wheer's the wan of them
black-browed gals as 'alf the money wouldn' buy? You keep a bold faace, an'
doan't let 'em see as their sniggerin's aught more to 'e than dog-barking."
"Us'll be theer in a minute," added Mr. Chirgwin, "an' I'll drive back agin
by Mouzle; then you'll 'scape they she-cats. I never thot as you'd a got to
stand that dressin' down in a plaace what's knawed you an' yours these many
years."
Joan asked Sally Trevennick whether she could say if Gray Michael was on
the water, and she felt very genuine thankfulness on learning that Sally
believed so. Two minutes later the spring-cart reached level ground above
the sea, then, whipping up his horse, Uncle Chirgwin increased the pace,
and very quickly Joan found herself at the door of home.
Thomasin was within, and, hearing the sound of wheels cease before the
cottage, came forth to learn who had arrived. Her surprise was only equaled
by her alarm at sight of Joan and Mr. Chirgwin. So frightened indeed did
she appear that both the newcomers supposed Mr. Tregenza must be within.
Such, however, was not the case, and Joan's stepmother explained the nature
of her fears.
"He'm to sea, but the whole world do knaw you be come, I'll lay; an' he'll
knaw tu. Sure's death some long-tongued female will babble it to en 'fore
he's off the quay. Then what?"
"'Tedn' your fault anyways," declared Uncle Thomas. "Joan's wisht an' sad
to see home agin, as was right an' proper; an' in her present way she've
got to be humored. So I've brot her, an' what blame comes o't my shoulders
is more'n broad enough to carry. I wish, for my paart, as Michael was home,
so's I might faace en when Joan says what her've comed to say. I be gwaine
to Penzance now, 'pon a matter o' business, an' I'll come back here in an
hour or so an' drink a dish o' tea along with you 'fore we staarts."
He drove away immediately, and for a while Joan was left with Mrs.
Tregenza. The latter's curiosity presently soothed her fears, and almost
the first thing she began to talk about was that "will and testament" which
she had long since urged upon her stepdaughter. But the girl, moving about
in the well-known orchard, had no attention for anything but the sights,
sounds and scents around her. Silently and not unhappily she basked in old
sensations renewed; and they filled her heart. Meanwhile Thomasin kept up a
buzz of conversation concerning Joan's money and Joan's future.
"Touchin' that bit o' writin'! Do 'e see to it, soas; 'tis awnly wisdom.
Theer's allus a fear wi' the fust, specially in the case o' a pin-tail
built lass like you be. An' if you was took, which God forbid, theer'd be
that mort o' money to come to Michael, him bein' your faither--that is,
s'pose the cheel was took tu, which God forbid likewise. An' he'd burn
it--every note--I mean Michael. Now if you was to name Tom--just in case o'
accidents--? He'm of your awn blood by's faither."
"But my baaby must be fust."
"In coorse er must. 'Tis lawful an' right. Love childern do come as sweet
an' innercent on to the airth as them born o' wedlock--purty sawls. 'Tis
the fashion to apprentice 'em to theer faithers mostly, an' they be a sort
o' poor cousins o' the rightful fam'ly; but your lil wan--well--theer edn'
gwaine to be any 'poor cousin' talk 'bout en--if en do live. But I was
talkin' o' the will."
"I've writ it out all fair in ink 'cordin' as Uncle Chirgwin advised," said
Joan. "Fust comes my cheel, then Tom. Uncle sez theer ban't no call to name
others. I wanted hisself to take a half on it, but he said theer weren't no
need an' he wouldn't nohow."
"Quite right," declared Thomasin. "Iss fay! He be a plain dealer an' a good
righteous man."
Joan's thoughts meanwhile were mainly concerned with her surroundings, and
when she had walked thrice about the garden, visited the pigs, peeped into
the tool-house to smell the paint and twine, noted the ripening plums and a
promising little crop of beets coming on in the field beyond, she went
indoors. There a pair of Michael's tall sea-boots stood in the chimney
corner, with a small pair of Tom's beside them; the old, well-remembered
crockery shone from the dresser; geraniums and begonias filled the window;
on a basket at the right of the fireside stood a small blue plate with gold
lettering upon it and a picture of Saltash Bridge in the middle. The legend
ran--_A present for a good girl_. It was a gift from her father to
Joan, on her tenth birthday. She picked it up, polished it, and asked for a
piece of paper to wrap it in, designing to carry the trifle away with her.
Every old nook and corner had been visited by the time that Uncle Chirgwin
returned. Then all sat down to eat and drink, and the taste of the tea went
still further to quicken Joan's memory.
Mrs. Tregenza gave them such information as suggested itself to her during
the progress of the meal. She was chiefly concerned about her son.