FARMER BROWN IS PHOTOGRAPHED
My studio is complete at last, and I have already had one customer, not
counting Mother Hubbard, who had the privilege of performing the
opening ceremony, and who was my first sitter. I insisted upon that,
all the more because the dear old soul had never been photographed
before in her life, and was disposed to regard the transaction in the
light of an adventure.
She is altogether too gentle and pliant to oppose her will to mine on
anything less important than a matter of principle, but I could see
that she was grievously disappointed when I would not let her put on
her very best garment, a remarkable black satin dress in the fashion of
a past generation, which she keeps in lavender and tissue paper at the
bottom of the special drawer which is full of memories and fading
grandeur.
I wanted her just as she was, with the shawl loose upon her shoulders,
and the knitting-needles in her hand, and that pleasant expression of
countenance which makes all soulful people fall in love with her at
first sight.
I succeeded in the end, and the delight of the old lady when I showed
her a rough print a day or two later was good to see.
"But I wish you could have taken me in my satin, love, and with the
lace collar. Matthew always thought I looked nice in them."
"You look nice in anything," I replied, "and I am sure your husband
thought so; but _I_ want the dear old Mother Hubbard of to-day; for, do
you know, I am going to send you to a big News Agency, and if you are
accepted you and I will make holiday, and do it right royally."
But my real customer arrived on the second Wednesday in October. My
board had been in position for several days, and had attracted a good
deal of curiosity but no clients, which was as much as one had a right
to expect. I knew, of course, that sitters would be rare, but I had my
own plans for turning the studio to profitable use, and I did not
worry. "Everything comes to him who waits."
I was busy with my miniatures, and was just deciding to lay them aside
for a time and do a little re-touching on Mother Hubbard's negatives,
when I happened to glance out of the window, and saw an elderly man
stop to read my board. He stood quite a long time looking at it, and
then turned in at the gate.
I went to the door to meet him, and asked if he would like me to take
his portrait, and he replied: "Ay, if it doesn't cost too much, I
should."
I led the way into the studio and asked him to sit down, but he would
not do so until we had discussed terms. I soon satisfied him on this
point, for, of course, high charges in Windyridge would be ridiculous,
and then I inquired how he would like to be "taken."
"I shan't make much of a picter, miss," he said, "but there's them
'at'll like to look at my face, such as it is. If you can make ought
o' my head and shoulders it'll do nicely."
I looked at him as I made my preparations, and was puzzled. He was a
tall man, somewhat bent and grey, his face tanned with exposure to the
weather. It was clean shaven, and there was character in the set of
his features--the firm mouth, the square jaw, and the brown eyes. They
were dreamy eyes just now, and I wondered why, and was surprised that
he should seem so natural and free from constraint. I judged him to be
a farmer clad in his Sunday clothes, but why he should be so garbed on
a bright afternoon in mid-week I could not guess. That he was no
resident in the village was certain, for by this time I know them all;
or rather I should say that I can recognise them all--to know them is
another thing.
He gave me no trouble, except that I had some difficulty in driving the
sad look away from his eyes. It went at last, however, though only
momentarily, yet in that moment I got my negative. It was in this way.
"Cheer up!" I said, when I was ready for the exposure. "Your friends
would think me a poor photographer if I should send them home such a
sad-looking portrait."
"Ay, right enough," he agreed; "that 'ud never do. But I'm not much of
a hand at looking lively."
"I want to do you justice for my own sake as well as yours," I said.
"Now if _I_ wanted to have a pleasing expression I should just think of
the moors, radiant in gold, and the cloud-shadows playing leap-frog
over them, and that would be sufficient."
"Ay, ay, I can follow that," he said; and before the glow left his eyes
I had gained my point.
"Shall I post the proof to you?" I asked. He did not understand, and I
explained.
"No, no," he replied; "if you're satisfied 'at they'll do it'll be
right to me, miss. This is your line, not mine, and there's nobody at
our end 'at knows ought much about photygraphs. And there's one thing
more 'at I want to say, only I hardly know how to say it. But it comes
to this: I don't want you to send any o' these photygraphs home until
you hear from Dr. Trempest. When he lets you know, just send 'em on,
and put a bit of a note in, like, to say 'at they're paid for. It'll
none be so long--a matter o' five weeks, maybe."
He unbuttoned a capacious pocket and drew out a bag of money, from
which he carefully counted out the amount of my bill, but when I
offered him a receipt he declined to take it.
"Nay, nay," he said, "I want nowt o' that sort. I can trust you; but
you'll have 'em ready when t' time comes, won't you?"
I assured him confidently, and as he turned to leave I expressed the
hope that he would like the prints when he saw them. Then it all came
out.
"I shall never see 'em. I shall be on t' moorside, with t'
cloud-shadows you talk about playing loup-frog aboon me by then.
That's why I wanted t' photygraphs. I only thought on 't when I passed
t' board, but there's them at home 'at 'll be glad to have 'em when I'm
gone."
Tears filled my eyes, for I am a woman as well as a photographer, and I
felt that I was face to face with a tragedy.
"Cannot you tell me about it?" I asked. "Believe me, I am very sorry.
Perhaps I could help. But please don't say anything if you would
rather not."
"There's not much to tell," he responded, "but what there is 'll soon
be all round t' moorside. You see, I've lived at yon farm, two miles
off, all my life, and I'm well known, and folks talk a good deal in
these country places, where there isn't much going on.
"I walked into Fawkshill to see Dr. Trempest this morning, and he's
been with me to Airlee to see a big doctor there--one o' these
consulting men--and he gives me a month or happen five weeks at t'
outside. There's nought can be done. Summat growing i' t' inside 'at
can't be fairly got at, and we shall have to make t' best on 't. But
it'll be a sad tale for t' missus and t' lass, and telling 'em is a job
I don't care for.
"You see, we none of us thought it was ought much 'at ailed me, for
I've always been a worker, and I haven't missed many meals i' five and
fifty year, and it comes a bit sudden-like at t' finish."
What could I say? I saw it all and felt the pity of it. God knows I
would have helped him if I could. The old wave of emotion which used
to sweep over me so often surged forward again; and again I was
powerless in the presence of the enemy.
I said something of this, but my friend shook his head in protest.
"Nay, but I don't look at it i' that way. I'm no preacher, but there's
One above 'at knows better than us, and I wouldn't like to think 'at t'
Old Enemy 'ad ought to do wi' it. I've always been one to work wi' my
hands, and book-learning hasn't been o' much account to me, but there's
_one_ Book, miss, 'at I have read in, and it says, 'O death, where is
thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory? Thanks be to God which
giveth _us_ the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.'"
I sat with my head in my hands for a long time after Farmer Brown had
left, and when at length I raised my eyes the shadows had left the
moor, and I saw that the sun would set in a clear sky.