on his neck and laughing. "An' my auld wummon's fine an' braave, edn' her?
That's cause I cleared a thousan' pound in wan trip. Christ was aboard, an'
He bid me shoot the nets by munelight off the islands. He do look arter His
awn somethin' butivul, as I tawld En. An' now I be a feesher o' men, which
is better, an' high 'mong the salt o' the airth, bein' called to walk along
wi' James an' John an' the rest."
"He sits theer chitterin', ding dong, ding dong, all the wisht day. Tom's
death drove en cracked, but 'e ban't no trouble, 'cept at feedin' times.
Besides, I keeps a paid servant girl now," said Mrs. Tregenza.
Joe Noy had heard neither the man nor the woman. From the moment that he
knew the truth concerning Joan his own thoughts barred his ears to all
utterances.
"Who weer it? Tell me the name. I want no more'n that," he said.
"'Tis Anne Bundle's darter," answered Mrs. Tregenza, her mind on her maid.
"The man!" thundered Noy, "the man who brot the thing about--the man what
ruined--O God o' Hosts, be on my side now! Who weer 'e? Give me the name of
en. That's all as I wants."
"Us doan't knaw. You see, Joan was away up Drift wi' the Chirgwins, an'
theer she was took when they found her arter the drownin'. She never knawed
the true name of en herself, poor dear. But 'twas a paintin' man--a artist.
It comed out arter as he'd made a picksher of her, an' promised to marry
her, an' stawl all she'd got to give 'pon the strength of the lie. Then
theer was a letter--"
"From the man?"
Mrs. Tregenza grew frightened at the thought of mentioning the money, and
now adroitly changed the first letter from Barron, which was in her mind
when she spoke, to the second, which Joan had received from him on the
night of her death.
"Iss, from him; an' Mary Chirgwin found it 'pon the dead frame o' the poor
gal, but 'twas partly pulp, along o' the water; an' Mary burned it wi'out
readin' a word--so she said, at least, though that's difficult to credit,
human nature bein' as 'tis."
"Then my work's the harder; but I'll find en, s'elp me God, even if us be
grawed gray afore we meet."
"Think twice, Joe; you caan't bring back your lass, nor wash her sins
white. 'Tis tu late."
"No, not that, but I can--I'm in God's hand for this. Us be tools, an' He
uses all for His awn ends. I sees whereto I was born now, an' the future be
writ clear afore my eyes. Thicky madman theer said the word; an' I lay the
Lard put it in en for my better light. Er said 'Let'n come home an' call
the devil as did it to account.' He was thinkin' o' me when he said it,
though he dedn' knaw me."
"Iss fay, 'tis generally allowed he be the lips o' God A'mighty now. But
you, Joe--doan't 'e waste life an' hard-won money huntin' down a damned
man. Leave en to his deserts."
"'Tis I that be his deserts, wummon--'tis I, in the hand o' the God o'
Vengeance. That's my duty now standin' stark ahead o' me. The Lard's
pleased to pay all my prayers an' good livin' like this here. His will be
done, an' so it shall to the dregs of it; an' if I be for the pit arter
all, theer's wan livin' as gaws along wi' me."
"That's worse than a fool's thot. Bide till you'm grawed cool anyways. 'Tis
very hard this fallin' 'pon a virtuous member like what you be; but 'tedn'
a straange tale 'tall. The man was like other men, I doubt; the maid was
like other maids. You thot differ'nt. You was wrong; an' you'll be wrong
again to break your heart now. Let en go--'tis best."
"Let en go! Blast en--I'll let heaven go fust! Us'll see what a wronged
sawl's patience can do now. Us'll see what the end of the road'll shaw! O
God o' the Righteous, fester this here man's bones in his body, an' eat his
life out of en wi' fiery worms! Tear his heartstrings, God o' Hosts, rob en
of all he loves, stamp his foul mind wi' memories till he shrieks for death
an' judgment; punish his seed forever; turn his prayers into swearin';
torture en, rot en sawl an' body till you brings me to en. Shaw no mercy,
God o' Heaven, but pile agony 'pon agony mountains high for en; an' let
mine be the hand to send his cussed sawl to hell, for Christ's sake, Amen!"
"Oh, my Guy Faux! theer's cussin'! An' yet 'tedn' gwaine to do a happard
[Footnote: _Happard_--Halfpennyworth.] o' good; an' you wouldn' be no
happier for knawin' sich a prayer was granted," said Thomasin; but Gray
Michael applauded the outburst, and his words ended that strange spectacle
of two men, for the time both mad.
"Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Braave prayin'! Braave savor for the Lard's
nose--sweeter than the blood o' beasts. You'm a shinin' light, cap'n--a
trumpet in the battle, like the sound o' the sea-wind when it begins to
sting afore heavy weather, an' the waters roll to the top o' the bulwarks
an' awver. 'The snorting of his horses was heard from Dan'--sea-horses us
calls 'em nowadays. Mount an' ride, mount an' ride! 'Cursed be the man that
trusteth in man,' saith the Lard; but the beasts be truer, thanks to the
wickedness o' God, who's spared 'em the curse o' brain paarts, but stricken
man wi' a mighty intelligence. 'Twas a fine an' cruel act, for the more
mind the more misery. 'Twas a damned act sure 'nough! Doan't 'e let on
'bout it, mate, but theer'll be clever surprises at Judgment, an' the fust
to be damned'll be the God o' the Hebrews Hisself for givin' o' brains to
weak heads. Then the thrawn o' heaven'll stand empty--empty--the plaace
'tween the cherubims empty; an' they'll call 'pon me to fill it so like's
not. Tarraway, I shall be named, same as the devil in the droll--a purty
word enough tu."
He broke into laughter, and Joe Noy, saying a few hasty words to Thomasin,
departed.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A NIGHT VISIT
He who less than an hour before had hastened hot-footed through the Newlyn
streets, whose habitual stern expression had softened before the well-known
sights and smells of the gray village, whose earnest soul was full of
happiness under the rain of the night, now turned back upon his way and
skulked through the darkness with a murderer's heart in him. The clear
spectacle of his revenge blinded lesser presentations and even distracted
his sorrow. There was no space now vacant in Noy's brain to hold the full
extent of his loss; and the fabric of happiness which for weary months on
various seas he had been building up in imagination, and which a madman's
word had now sent spinning to chaos, yet remained curiously with him, as an
impression stamped by steadfast gazing remains upon the eye. It recurred as
of old: a joy; and not till the former emotion of happiness had again and
again reappeared to be blunted, as a dream, at waking, by the new
knowledge, did truth sink into this man's mind and become part of memory.
Now he was dazed, as one who has run hard and well to a goal, and who,
reaching it, finds his prize stolen. Under these circumstances, Joe Noy's
natural fatalism--an instinct beyond the power of any religion to
destroy--appeared instant and strong. Chance had now fed these
characteristics, and they grew gigantic in an hour. But the religious habit
made him turn to his Maker in this pass, and the merely primitive passions,
which were now breaking loose within him, he regarded as the direct voices
of God. They proclaimed that solitary duty the world still held for him;
they marked out his road to the lurid end of it.
Thus Noy's own furious lust for revenge was easily and naturally elevated
into a mandate from the Highest--into a message echoed and reiterated upon
his ear by the multitudinous voices of that wild night. The rain whispered
it on the roof-trees, the wind and sea thundered it; out of elemental chaos
the awful command came, as from primal lips which had spoken since creation
to find at last the ultimate destination of their message within a human
ear. To Noy, his purpose, not yet an hour old, seemed ancient as eternity,
a fixed and deliberate impression which had been stamped upon his mind at a
period far earlier than his life in time. For one end had he been created;
that by some sudden short cut he should hurry to its close a vile life,
fill up God's bitter curse upon this man, destroy the destroyer, and speed
a black soul into the torment awaiting it.
Irresolute and deep in thought as to his future actions, Joe Noy walked
unconsciously forward. He felt unequal to returning to his home in
Mousehole after what he had learned at Newlyn; and he wandered back,
therefore, toward Penzance. A glare of gas lamps splashed the wet surface
of the parade with fire; while below him, against the sea wall, a high tide
spouted and roared. Now and again, after a heavy muffled thud of sea
against stone, columns of glimmering, gray foam shot upward, like gigantic
ghosts out of the water. For a moment they towered in the air, then,
wind-driven, swept hissing across the black and shining surfaces of the
deserted parade.
Noy stood here a moment, and the cold wind cooled him, and the riot and
agony of the sea boiling against the granite face of the breakwater chimed
with the riot and agony of his mind, whose hopes were now rent in tatters,
riven, splintered and disannulled by chance. He turned a moment where the
Newlyn harbor light flashed across the darkness to him. From his standpoint
he knew that a line drawn through that light must fall upon the cottage of
the Tregenzas beyond it on the shore, and, fixing his eyes where the
building lay hidden, he stretched out his hand and spoke aloud.
"May God strike me blind and daft if ever I looks 'pon yon light an' yonder
cot again till the man be dead."
Then he turned, and was about to seek the station, with a vague purpose to
go straight to London at the earliest opportunity, when a wiser thought
arrested this determination. He must learn all that it was possible to
learn concerning the last days of Joan. Mrs. Tregenza had explained her
stepdaughter's life at Drift. To Drift, therefore, the sailor determined to
go; and the stress upon his mind was such that even the prospect of
conversation with Mary Chirgwin--a thing he had certainly shrunk from under
other circumstances--caused him no uneasiness.
Over the last road that Joan had ever walked, and under similar conditions
of night and storm, he tramped up to Drift, entered through the side gate,
and surprised Mr. Chirgwin and his niece at their supper. As before with
the Tregenzas, so now again in company of Uncle Thomas and Mary, Joe Noy
formed the third in a trio of curious significance. Though aware that the
sailor was due from his voyage, this sudden apparition of him at such a
time startled his former friends not a little. Mary indeed was unnerved in
a manner foreign to her nature, and the candle-lighted kitchen whirled in
her eyes as she felt her hand in his. Save for an ejaculation from the old
man, which conveyed nothing beyond his astonishment, Noy was the first to
speak; and his earliest words relieved the minds of his listeners in one
great particular; he already knew the worst that had happened.
"I be come from Newlyn, from the Tregenzas. Thomasin have tawld me of all
that's falled out; but I couldn't bide in my awful trouble wi'out comin'
up-long. I reckon you'll let the past be forgot now. I'm punished ugly
enough. You seed her last, dead an' alive; you heard the last words ever
she spoke to any of her awn folks. That drawed me. If I must ax pardon for
comin', then I will."
"Nay, nay, my poor sawl; sit you down an' eat, Joe, an' take they wet boots
off a while. Our hearts have bled for 'e this many days, Joe Noy, an' never
more'n now."
"I thank you, uncle; an' you, Mary Chirgwin--will 'e say as much? 'Tis you
I wants to speak with, 'cause you--you seed Joan arter 'twas awver."
"I wish you well, Joe Noy, an' if I ever done differ'nt 'tis past an'
forgot. What I can tell 'e 'bout our poor lass, as lived the end of her
days along wi' me an' uncle, you've a right to knaw."
"An' God bless 'e for sayin' so. I comed rough an' ready, an' thrust in
'pon you; but this news be but two hour auld in my heart, you see, an'
'tedn' easy for such as me to make choice o' words at a time like this."
"Eat, my son, an' doan't 'e fancy theer's any here but them as be friends.
Polly an' me seed more o' Joan through her last days than any; an' I do say
as she was a lamb o' God's foldin', beyond all manner o' doubt; an' Polly,
as feared it mightn't 'sactly be so, be of my 'pinion now. Them as suffered
for the sins o' other folk, like what she done, has theer hell-fire 'pon
this side o' the graave, not t'other."
"I lay that's a true sayin'," declared Noy shortly. "I won't keep 'e
ower-long from your beds," he added. "If you got a drink o' spirits I'll
thank you for it; then I'll put a question or two to she--to Mary Chirgwin,
if she'll allow; an' then I'll get going."
The woman was self-possessed again now, although Joe's voice and
well-remembered gestures moved her powerfully and made it difficult to keep
her voice within absolute control.
"All you can ax that I knaw, I'll tell 'e, though Joan shut her thots purty
close most times. Us awnly got side views of her mind, and them not often."
"The man," he said. "Tell me all--every-thin' you can call home--all what
her said of him."
"Fust she thot a 'mazin' deal 'bout en," explained the farmer; "then time
made her mind get stale of en, an' she begin to see us was right. He sent
money--a thousand pound, an' I--poor fool--thot Joan weern't mistook at
fust. But 'twas awnly conscience money; an' now Thomasin's the better for't
by will."
But this sensational statement was not appreciated, Joe's mind being
elsewhere.
"You never heard the name of en?"
"Awnly the christening name, as was 'Jan.' You may have heard tell she got
a letter the night she passed. Us found the coverin' under the table next
day, an' Mary comed across the letter itself in her pocket at the last."
"'Tis that I be comed for. If you could tell so much as a word or two out
of it, Mary? They said you burned it an' the crowner was mighty angry, but
I thot as p'raps you'd looked at it all the same, awnly weern't pleased to
say so."
"No," she answered. "Tis true I found a letter, an' I might a read some of
it if I would, but I judged better not. 'Tweern't fair to her like."
"Was theer anything else as shawed anything 'bout en?"
"No--awnly a picksher of a ship he painted for her. I burned that tu; an'
I'd a burned his money if I could. He painted her--I knaw that much. She
tawld us wan night--a gert picksher near as large as life. He took it to
Lunnon--for a shaw, I s'pose."
"I'd think of en no more if I was you, Joe," said Uncle Chirgwin. "Leave
the likes of en to the God of en. Brace yourself agin this sore onset an'
pray to Heaven to forgive all sinners."
Noy looked at the old man and his great jaw seemed to spread laterally with
his thought.
"God have gived the man to me! that's why I be here: to knaw all any can
teach me. I've got to be the undoin' o' that devil--the undoin' an' death
of en. I'll be upsides wi' the man if it takes me fifty year to do it.
Awnly 'more haste, more let.' I shall go slow an' sure. That's why I comed
here fust thing."
Mr. Chirgwin looked extremely alarmed, and Mary spoke.
"This be wild, wicked talkin', Joe Noy, an' no mort o' sorrer as ever was
can excuse sich words as them. 'Tedn' no task o' yourn to take the Lard's
work out His hand that way. He'll pay the evil-doer his just dues wi'out no
help from you."
"I've got a voice in my ear, Mary--a voice louder'n any human voice; an' it
bids me be doin' as the instrument of God A'mighty's just rage. If you can
help me, then I bid you do it, if not, let me be away. Did you read any o'
that theer letter--so much as a word, or did 'e larn wheer 'twas writ
from?"
"If I knawed, I shouldn't tell 'e, not now. I'd sooner cut my tongue out
than aid 'e 'pon the road you'm set. An' you a righteous thinkin' man
wance!"
He looked at her and there was that in his face which showed a mind busy
with time past. His voice had changed and his eyes softened.
"I be punished for much, Mary Chirgwin. I be punished wi' loss an' wi' sich
work put on me as may lead to a terrible ugly plaace at the end. But theer
'tis. Like the chisel in the hand o' the carpenter, so I be a sharp tool in
the Lard's grip."
"Never! You be a poor, dazed worm in the grip o' your awn evil thots! You'm
foxing [Footnote: _Foxing_--Deceiving.] yourself, Joe; you'm listenin'
to the devil an' tellin' yourself 'tis God--knawin' 'tedn' so all the
while. Theer's no religion as would put you in the right wi' sich notions
as them. Listen to your awn small guidin' voice, Joe Noy; listen to me, or
to Luke Gosp'lers or any sober-thinkin', God-fearin' sawl. All the world
would tell 'e you was wrong--all the wisdom o' the airth be agin you, let
alone heaven."
"If 'twas any smaller thing I'd listen to 'e, Mary, for I knaw you to be a
wise, strong wummon; but theer ban't no mistakin' the message I got
down-long when they told me what's fallen 'pon Joan Tregenza. No fay; my
way be clear afore me; an' the angel o' God will lead my footsteps nearer
an' nearer till I faace the man. Windin' ways or short 'tis all wan in the
end, 'tis all set down in the Book o' the Lard."
"How can the likes o' you dare to up an' say what be in the Book o' the
Lard, Joe?" asked Uncle Chirgwin, roused to words by the other's
sentiments. "You've got a gashly, bloody-minded fit on you along of all
your troubles. But doan't 'e let it fasten into your heart. Pray to God to
wipe away these here awful opinions. Else they'll be the ruin of 'e, body
an' sawl. If Luke Gosp'ling brot 'e to this pass in time o' darkness an'
tribulation, 'tis a cruel pity you didn't bide a church member."
"I wish I thot you was in the right, uncle," said the sailor calmly, "but I
knaws you ban't. All the hidden powers of the airth an' the sea edn' gwaine
to keep me from that man. Now I'll leave 'e; an' I'm sorry, Mary Chirgwin,
as you caan't find it in your heart to help me, but so the Lard wills it. I
won't ax 'e to shake my hand, for theer'll be blood on it sooner or
later--the damnedest blood as ever a angry God called 'pon wan o' His
creatures to spill out."
"Joe, Joe, stay an' listen to me! For the sake of the past, listen!"
But Noy rose as Mary cried these words, and before she had finished
speaking he was gone.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE SEEKING OF THE MAN
Thus the sailor, Noy, wholly imbued with one idea, absolutely convinced
that to this end it had pleased Providence to give him life, went forth
into the world that he might seek and slay the seducer of Joan. After
leaving Drift he returned to Penzance, lay there that night, and upon the
following morning began a methodical visitation of the Newlyn studios. Five
he called at and to five artists he stated something of his case in general
terms; but none of those who heard him were familiar with any of the facts,
and none could offer him either information or assistance. Edmund Murdoch
was not in Newlyn, Brady had gone to Brittany; but at the seventh studio
which he visited, Joe Noy substantiated some of his facts. Paul Tarrant
chanced to be at home and at work when he called; and the artist would have
told Joe everything which he wished to learn, but that Noy was cautious and
reserved, not guessing that he stood before one who knew his enemy and
entertained no admiration for him.
"Axing pardon for taking up any of your time, sir," he began, "but theer'm
a matter concerning a party in your business as painted a maiden here, by
name o' Joan Tregenza. She weern't nobody--awnly a fisherman's darter, but
the picksher was said to be done in these paarts, an' I thot, maybe, you'd
knaw who drawed it."
Tarrant had not heard of Joan's death, and, indeed, possessed no
information concerning her, save that Barron had prevailed upon the girl to
sit for a portrait. The question, therefore, struck him as curious; and one
which he put in return, merely to satisfy his own curiosity, impressed Joe
in a similar way. His suspicious nature took fright and Tarrant's dark,
bright eyes seemed to read his secret and search his soul.
"Yes, a portrait of Joan Tregenza was painted here last spring, but not by
a Newlyn man. How does that interest you?"
"Awnly sideways. 'Tedn' nothin' to me. I knaws the parties an' wanted to
see the picksher if theer weern't no objection."
"That's impossible, I fear, unless you go to London. I cannot help you
further than to say the artist lives there and his picture is being
exhibited at an art gallery. Somebody told me that much; but which it is I
don't know."
This was enough for Noy. Ignorant of the metropolis or the vague import of
the words "a picture gallery," he deemed these directions amply sufficient,
and, being anxious to escape further questioning, now thanked Tarrant and
speedily departed. Not until half way back again to Penzance did he realize
how slight was the nature of this information and how ill-calculated to
bring him to his object; the man he wanted lived in London and had a
painting of Joan Tregenza in a picture gallery there.
Yet upon these directions Joe Noy resolved to begin his search, and as the
train anon bore him away to the field of the great quest he weighed the
chances and considered a course of action. Allowing the ample margin of ten
picture galleries to London, and assuming that the portrait of Joan once
found would be easily recognized by him, the sailor considered that a
fortnight of work should bring him face to face with the picture. That
done, he imagined that it would not be difficult to learn the name and
address of the painter. He had indeed asked Tarrant this question
pointblank, but the artist's accidental curiosity and Joe's own caution
combined to prevent any extension of the interview, or a repetition of the
question. A word had at least placed him in possession of John Barron's
name, but Chance prevented it from being spoken, as Chance had burned
Barron's letter and prevented his name appearing at the inquest. Now Noy
viewed the task before him with equanimity. The end was already assured,
for, in his own opinion, he walked God-guided; but the means lay with him,
and he felt that it was his duty to spare no pains or labors and not to
hesitate from the terrible action marked for him when he should reach the
end of his journey. Mary's last words came to his ear like a whisper which
mingled with the jolt and rattle of the railway train; but they held no
power to upset his purpose or force to modify his rooted determination. Her
image occupied his thoughts, however, for a lengthy period. Then, with some
effort, he banished it and entered upon a calculation of ways and means,
estimating the capabilities of his money.
Entering the great hive to accomplish that assassination as he supposed
both planned and predestined for him before God made the sun, Noy set about
his business in a deliberate and careful manner. He hired a bedroom in a
mean street near Paddington, and, on the day after his arrival in London,
purchased a large map and index of the city which gave ample particulars of
public buildings and mentioned the names and positions of the great
permanent homes of art. By the help of newspaper advertisements he also
ascertained where to find some of the numerous private dealers' galleries
and likewise learned what public annual exhibitions chanced to be at that
time open. Whereupon, though the circumstance failed to quicken his pulse,
he discovered that the extent of his labors would prove far greater than he
at first imagined. He made careful lists of the places where pictures were
to be seen, and the number quickly ran up to fifty, sixty, seventy
exhibitions. That he would be able to visit all these Joe knew was
impossible, but the fact caused him no disquiet. The picture he sought and
the name of the man who painted it must be presented to him in due season.
For him it only remained to toil systematically at the search and allow no
clew to escape him. As for the issue, it was with the Lord.