Lying Prophets Part 2

"From Newlyn. I ed'n a Mouzle maid," she answered.

"Is the 'Anna' coming home again soon?"

"No, sir. Her's bound for the Gulf of Californy, round t'other side the world, Joe sez. He reckons to be back agin' come winter."

"That's a long time."

"Iss, 'tis."

But there was no sentiment about the answer. Joan gazed without a shadow of emotion at the vanis.h.i.+ng s.h.i.+p, and alluded to the duration of her sweetheart's absence in a voice that never trembled. Then she gave the gla.s.s back to Barron with many thanks, and evidently wanted to be gone, but stopped awkwardly, not quite knowing how to depart.

Meanwhile, showing no further cognizance of her, Barron took the gla.s.ses himself and looked at the distant s.h.i.+p.

"A splendid vessel," he said. "I expect you have a picture of her, haven't you?"

"No," she answered, "but I've got a lil s.h.i.+p Joe cut out o' wood an'

painted butivul. Awnly that's another vessel what Joe sailed in afore."

"I'll tell you what I'll do," he said, "because you were good enough to explain all about the fis.h.i.+ng-boats. I'll make a tiny picture of the 'Anna'

and paint it and give it to you."

But the girl took fright instantly.

"You'm a artist, then?" she said, with alarm in her face and voice.

He shook his head.

"No, no. Do I look like an artist? I'm only a stranger down here for a day or two. I paint things sometimes for my own amus.e.m.e.nt, that's all."

"Pickshers?"

"They are not worth calling pictures. Just sc.r.a.ps of the sea and trees and cliffs and sky, to while away the time and remind me of beautiful things after I have left them."

"You ban't a artist ezacally, then?"

"Certainly not. Don't you like artists?"

"Faither don't. He'm a fisherman an' caan't abear many things as happens in the world. An' not artists. Genlemen have arsked him to let 'em take my picksher, 'cause they've painted a good few maidens to Newlyn; an' some of 'em wanted to paint faither as well; but he up an' sez 'No!' short.

Paintin's vanity 'cordin' to faither, same as they flags an' cannels an'

moosic to Newlyn church is vanity. Most purty things is vanity, faither reckons."

"I'm sure he's a wise man. And I think he's right, especially about the candles and flags in church. And now I must go on my walk. Let me see, shall I bring you the little picture of Joe's s.h.i.+p here? I often walk out this way."

He a.s.sumed she would take the picture, and now she feared to object.

Moreover, such a sketch would be precious in her eyes.

"Maybe 'tis troublin' of 'e, sir?"

"I've promised you. I always keep my word. I shall be here to-morrow about mid-afternoon, because it is lonely and quiet and beautiful. I'm going to try and paint the gorse, all blazing so brightly against the sky."

"Them p.r.i.c.kly fuzz-bushes?"

"Yes; because they are very beautiful."

"But they'm everywheres. You might so well paint the bannel [Footnote: _Bannel_--Broom.] or the yether on the moors, mightn't 'e?"

"They are beautiful, too. Remember, I shall have Joe's s.h.i.+p for you to-morrow."

He nodded without smiling, and turned away until a point of the gorse had hidden her from sight. Then he sat down, loaded his pipe, and reflected.

"'Joe's s.h.i.+p,'" he said to himself, "a happy t.i.tle enough."

And meantime the girl had looked after him with wonder and some amus.e.m.e.nt in her eyes, had rubbed her chin reflectively--a habit caught from her father--and had then scampered off smiling to herself.

"What a funny gent," she thought, "never laughs nor nothin'. An' I judged he was a artist! But wonnerful kind, an' wonnerful queer, wi' it, sure 'nough."

CHAPTER THREE

THE TREGENZAS

Joan Tregenza lived in a white cottage already mentioned: that standing just beyond Newlyn upon a road above the sea. The cot was larger than it appeared from the road and extended backward into an orchard of plum and apple-trees. The kitchen which opened into this garden was stone-paved, cool, comfortable, sweet at all times with the scent of wood smoke, and frequently not innocent of varied fishy odors. But Newlyn folk suck in a smell of fish with their mothers' milk. 'Tis part of the atmosphere of home.

When Joan returned from her visit to Gorse Point, she found a hard-faced woman, thin of figure, with untidy hair, wrinkled brow and sharp features, engaged about a pile of was.h.i.+ng in the garden at the kitchen-door. Mrs.

Tregenza heard the girl arrive, and spoke without lifting her little gray eyes from the clothes. Her voice was hard and high and discontented, like that of one who has long bawled into a deaf man's ear and is weary of it.

"Drabbit you! Wheer you bin? Allus trapsing out when you'm wanted; allus caddlin' round doin' nothin' when you ban't. I s'pose you think breakfus'

can be kep' on the table till dinner, was.h.i.+ng-day or no?"

"I don't want no breakfus', then. I tuke some bread an' drippin' long with me. Wheer's Tom to?"

"Gone to schule this half-hour. 'Tis nine o'clock an' past. Wheer you bin, I sez? 'Tain't much in your way to rise afore me of a marnin'."

"Out through Mouzle to Gorse P'int to see Joe's s.h.i.+p pa.s.s by; an' I seen en butivul."

"Thank the Lard he's gone. Now, I s'pose, theer'll be a bit peace in the house, an' you'll bide home an' work. My fingers is to the bone day an'

night."

"He'll be gone a year purty nigh."

"Well, the harder you works, the quicker the time'll pa.s.s by. Theer's nuthin' to grizzle at. Sea-farin' fellers must be away most times. But he'm a good, straight man, an' you'm tokened to en, an' that's enough. Bide cheerful an' get the water for was.h.i.+n'. If they things of faither's bant dry come to-morrer, he'll knaw the reason why."

Joan accepted Mrs. Tregenza's comfort philosophically, though her sweetheart's departure had not really caused her any emotion. She visited the larder, drank a cup of milk, and then, fetching an iron hoop and buckets, went to a sunken barrel outside the cottage door, into which, from a pipe through the road-bank, tumbled a silver thread of spring water.

Of the Tregenza household a word must needs be spoken. Joan's own mother had died twelve years ago, and the anxious-natured woman who took her place proved herself a good step-parent enough. Despite a disposition p.r.o.ne to worry and to dwell upon the small tribulations of life, Thomasin Tregenza was not unhappy, for her husband enjoyed prosperity and a reputation for G.o.dliness unequaled in Newlyn. A great, weather-worn, gray, hairy man was he, with a big head and a furrowed cliff of a forehead that looked as though it had been carved by its Creator from Cornish granite. Tregenza indeed might have stood for a typical Cornish fisher--or a Breton. Like enough, indeed, he had old Armorican blood in his veins, for many hundreds of Britons betook themselves to ancient Brittany when the Saxon invasion swept the West, and many afterward returned, with foreign wives, to the homes of their fathers. Michael Tregenza had found religion, of a sort fiery and unlovely enough, but his convictions were definite, with iron-hard limitations, and he looked coldly and without pity on a d.a.m.ned world, himself saved. Gray Michael had no sympathy with sin and less with sinners. He found the devil in most unexpected quarters and was always dragging him out of surprising hiding-places and exhibiting him triumphantly, as a boy might show a bird's egg or b.u.t.terfly. His devil dwelt at penny readings, at fairs and festivals, in the brushes of the artists, in a walk on a Sunday afternoon undertaken without a definite object, sometimes in a primrose given by a boy to a girl. Of all these bitter, self-righteous, censorious little sects which raise each its own ladder to the Throne of Grace at Newlyn, the Luke Gospelers was the most bitter, most self-righteous, most censorious. And of all those burning lights which reflected the primitive savagery of the Pentateuch from that fold, Gray Michael's beacon flamed the fiercest and most b.l.o.o.d.y red. There was not a Gospeler, including the pastor of the flock, but feared the austere fisherman while admiring him.