Lying Prophets Part 33

"Then you'd best be movin'," said Mrs. Tregenza. "I judged bad-fas.h.i.+oned weather was comin' tu when I touched the string o' seaweed as hangs by the winder. 'Tis clammy to the hand. G.o.d save us!" she continued, turning from the door, "theer's ourn at the moorin's! They've been driv' back 'fore us counted 'pon seein' 'em by the promise of storm. Get you gone, for the love o' the Lard; an' go Mouzle way, else you'll run on top o' Michael for sure."

"Ban't no odds if us do. Joan had a mind to see en," answered the farmer; but Joan spoke for herself. She explained that she now wished to depart without seeing her father if possible.

It was, however, too late to escape the meeting. Even as the twain bade Mrs. Tregenza a hasty farewell, heavy feet sounded on the cobbles at the cottage door and a moment later Tregenza entered. His oilskins were wet and s.h.i.+ny; half a dozen herrings, threaded through the gills on a string, hung from his right hand.

CHAPTER THREE

"THE LORD IS KING"

Michael Tregenza instantly observed Joan where she sat by the window, and, seeing her, stood still. The fish fell from his hand and dropped slithering in a heap on the stone floor. There was a silence so great that all could hear a patter of drops from the fisherman's oilskins as the water rolled to the ground. At the same moment gusts of rising wind shook the cas.e.m.e.nt and bleared the gla.s.s in it with rain. Joan, as she rose and stood near Mr.

Chirgwin, heard her heart thump and felt the blood leap. Then she nerved herself, came a little forward, and spoke before her father had time to do so. He had now turned his gaze from her and was looking at the farmer.

"Faither," she said very gently, "faither dearie, forgive me. I begs it so hard; 'tis the thing I wants most. I feared to see 'e, but you was sent off the waters that I might. I comed in tremblin' an' sorrer to see wheer I've lived most all my short days. I'm that differ'nt now to what I was. Uncle Thomas'll tell 'e. I know I'm a sinful, wicked wummon, an' I'm heart-broke day an' night for the shame I've brot 'pon my folks. I'll trouble 'e no more if 'e will awnly say the word. Please, please, faither, forgive."

She stood without moving, as did he. Uncle Chirgwin watched silently. Mrs.

Tregenza made some stir at the fire to conceal her anxiety. No relenting glimmer softened either the steel of Gray Michael's eyes or one line in his great face. The furrows knotted between his eyebrows and at the corners of his eyes. His sou'wester still covered his head. At his mouth was a down-drawing, as of disgust before some offensive sight or smell, and the hand which had held the fish was clinched. He swallowed and found speech hard. Then Joan spoke again.

"Uncle's forgived me, an' Mary, an' Tom, an' mother here. Caan't 'e, caan't 'e, faither? My road's that hard."

Then he answered, his words bursting out of his lips sharply, painfully at first, rolling as usual in his mighty chest voice afterward. The man twisted Scripture to his narrow purposes according to Luke Gospel usage.

"'Forgive'? Who can forgive but the Lard, an' what is man that he should forgive them as the A'mighty's d.a.m.ned? 'Tis the sinners' bleat an' whine for forgiveness what's crackin' the ear o' G.o.d whensoever 'tis bent 'pon airth. Ain't your religion taught you that--you, Thomas Chirgwin? If not, 'tis a brawken reed, man. Get you gone, you f.a.got, you an' this here white-haired sawl, as is foolin' you an' holdin' converse wi' the outcast o' heaven. I ban't no faither o' yourn, thank G.o.d, as shawed me I weern't--never, never. Gaw! Gaw both of 'e. My G.o.d! the sight of 'e do sicken me as I stand in the same air. You--an auld man--touchin' her an'

her devil-sent, filthy moneys. 'Twas a evil day, Thomas Chirgwin, when I fust seed them o' your blood--an ill hour, an' you drives it red-hot into my brain with your actions. Bad, bad you be--bad as that lyin', false, lost sinner theer--a-draggin' out your cant o' forgiveness an' foolin' a d.a.m.ned sawl wi' falsehoods. _You_ knaws wheer she'm gwaine; an' your squeakin', time-servin' pa.s.son knaws; an' you both tells her differ'nt!"

"Out on 'e, you stone-hearted wretch o' a man!" began Uncle Chirgwin in a small voice, shaking with anger; but the fisherman had not said his last word, and roared the other down. Gray Michael's self-control was less than usual; his face had grown very red and surcharged veins showed black on the unwrinkled sides of his forehead.

"No more, not a word. Get you gone an' never agin set foot 'pon this here draxel. [Footnote: _Draxel_--Threshold.] Never--never none o' Chirgwin breed. Gaw! or auld as you be, I'll force 'e! G.o.d's on the side o' right!"

Hereupon Joan, not judging correctly of the black storm signs on her father's face or the force of the voice, now grating into a shriek as pa.s.sion tumbled to flood, prayed yet again for that pardon which her parent was powerless to grant. The boon denied grew precious in her eyes. She wept and importuned, falling on her knees to him.

"G.o.d can do it, G.o.d can do it, faither. Please--please, for the sake o' the G.o.d as leads you, forgive. Oh, G.o.d in heaven, make en forgive me--'tis all I wants."

But a religious delirium gripped Tregenza and poisoned the blood in him.

His breast rose, his fists clinched, his mouth was dragged sidewise and his underlip shook. A d.a.m.ned soul, looking up with wild eyes into his, was all he saw--the very off scouring and filth of human nature--h.e.l.l tinder, to touch which in kindness was to risk his own salvation.

"Gaw, gaw! Else the Lard'll make me His weapon. He's whisperin'--He's whisperin'!"

There was something horribly akin to genuine madness in the frenzy of this utterance. Mrs. Tregenza screamed; Joan struggled to her feet in some terror and her head swam. She turned to get her hat from the dresser-ledge, and, as she did so, the little blue plate, tied up in paper beside it, fell and broke, like the last link of a snapping chain. Gray Michael was making a snorting in his nostrils and his head seemed to grow lower on his shoulders. Then Mr. Chirgwin found his opportunity and spoke.

"I've heard you, an' it ban't human nachur to knuckle down dumb, so I be gwaine to speak, an' you can mind or not as you please."

He flung his old hat upon the ground and walked without fear close beside the fisherman who towered above him.

"G.o.d be with 'e, I sez, for you need En fine an' bad for sartain--worse'n that poor 'mazed lamb shakin' theer. _You_ talk o' the ways o' G.o.d to men an' knaw no more 'bout 'em than the feesh what you draw from the sea!

You'm choustin' yourself cruel wi' your self-righteousness--take it from me. _You'm_ saved, be you? _You_ be gwaine to heaven, are 'e? Who tawld 'e so, Michael Tregenza? Did G.o.d A'mighty send a flyin' angel to tell 'e a purpose? Look in your heart, man, an' see how much o' Christ be in it.

Christ, I tell 'e, Christ--Christ--Jesus Christ. It's _Him_ as'll smuggle us all into heaven, not your psalm-smitin', knock-me-down, ten-commandment, cussin' G.o.d. I'm grawin' very auld an' I knaw what I knaw.

Your G.o.d's a _devil_, fisherman--a graspin', cruel devil; an' them the devil saves is d.a.m.ned. 'Tis Christ as you've turned your stiff back 'pon--Christ as'll let this poor la.s.s into heaven afore ever you gets theer! You ban't in sight o' the gates o' pearl, not you, for all your cold prayers. You'm young in well-doin'; an' 'tis a 'ard road you'll fetch home by, I'll swear; an' 'tis more'n granite the Lard'll use to make your heart bleed. He'll break you, Tregenza--you, so bold, as looks dry-eyed 'pon the sun an' reckons your throne'll wan day be as bright. He'll break you, an'

bring you to your knees, an' that 'fore your gray hairs be turned, as mine, to white. Oh, Christ Jesus, look you at this blind sawl an' give en somethin' better to lay hold 'pon than his poor bally-muck o' religion what's nort but a gert livin' lie!"

Thomas Chirgwin seemed mightily transfigured as he spoke. The words came without an effort, but he uttered them with pauses and in a loud voice not lacking solemnity. His head shook, yet he stood firm and motionless upon his feet; and he made his points with a gesture, often repeated, of his open right hand.

As for Tregenza, the man listened through all, though he heard but little.

His head was full of blood; there was a weight on his tongue striking it silent and forcing his mouth open at the same moment. The world looked red as he saw it; his limbs were not bearing him stiffly. Thomasin had her eye upon him, for she was quite prepared to throw over her previous statements and support her husband against an attack so astounding and unexpected. And the more so that he had not himself hurled an immediate and crus.h.i.+ng answer.

Meantime the old farmer's sudden fires died within him; he shrank to his true self, and the voice in which he now spoke seemed that of another man.

"Give heed to what I've said to 'e, Michael, an' be humble afore the Lard same as your darter be. Go in fear, as you be forever biddin' all flaish to go. Never say no sawl's lost while you give all power to the Maker o'

sawls. Go in fear, I sez, else theer'll come a whirlwind o' G.o.d-sent sorrer to strike wheer your heart's desire be rooted. 'Tis allus so--allus--"

Tom entered upon these words, and Uncle Chirgwin's eyes dropping upon him as he spoke, his utterance sounded like a prophecy. So the boy's mother read it, and with a half sob, half shriek, she turned in all the frenzy of sudden maternal wrath. Her sharp tongue dropped mere vituperation, but did so with boundless vigor, and the woman's torrent of unbridled curses and threats swept that scene of storm to its close. Joan went first from the door, while Mr. Chirgwin, picking up his hat and b.u.t.toning his coat, retreated after her before the volume of Thomasin's virago attack. Tom stood open-mouthed and silent, dumfounded at the tremendous spectacle of his mother's rage and his father's stricken silence. Then, as Mrs. Tregenza slammed the door and wept, her husband sunk slowly down with something strangely like terror in his eyes. The man in truth had just pa.s.sed through a physical crisis of alarming nature. He sat in his easy-chair now, removed his hat, and wiped the perspiration from his forehead with hands that shook. It was not what he had heard or beheld that woke alarm in a spirit which had never known it till then, but what he had felt: a horror which crowded down upon every sense, gripped his volition with unseen hands, blinded him, stopped his ears, held his limbs, stirred his brains into a whirling waste. He knew now that in his moment of pa.s.sion he had stood upon the very brink of some terrific, shattering evil, possibly of death itself.

Body or brain or both had pa.s.sed through a great, unknown danger; and now, dazed and for the time much aged, he looked about him with slow eyes--mastered the situation, and realized the incident was ended.

"The Lard--'the Lard is King,'" he said, and stopped a moment. Then he slowly rose to his feet and with the old voice, though it shook and slurred somewhat upon his tongue, spoke that text which served him in all occasions of unusual stress and significance.

"'The Lard is King, be the people never so impatient; He sitteth between the cherubims, be the airth never so unquiet'!"

Then he sat again and long remained motionless with his face buried in his hands.

Meantime the old horse dragged Uncle Chirgwin and his niece away along the level road to Mousehole. Joan was wrapped in a tarpaulin and they proceeded silently a while under cold rains, which swept up from a leaden south over the sea. The wind blew strong, tore green leaves from the hedges, and chimed with the thoughts of the man and his niece.

"How did you come to speak so big an' braave, Uncle Thomas? I couldn' say no more to en, for the lights rose up in my throat an' choked me; but you swelled out somethin' grand to see, an' spawk as no man ever yet spawk to faither afore."

"'Twas put in me to say; I doan't knaw how ever I done it, but my tongue weern't my awn for the time. Pull that thing tighter about 'e. This rain would go through a barn door."

At the steep hill rising from Mousehole to Paul, Uncle Chirgwin got out and walked, while the horse, with his shoulders to the collar, plodded forward.

Then, down the road came the laboring man, Billy Jago, mentioned aforetime as one who had worked for Mr. Chirgwin in the past. He touched his hat to his old master and greeted him with respect and regard. For a moment the farmer also stopped. No false sentiment tied Billy's tongue and he spoke of matters personal to those before him, having first mournfully described his own state of health.

"But theer, us gaws down to the tomb to make way for the new born. I do say, an' swear tu, that the butivulest things in all wild nachur be a s.h.i.+p in full sail an' a wummon in the fam'ly way. Ban't nothin' to beat 'em. An'

I'll say it here, 'pon this spot, though the rain's bitin' into my bones like teeth. So long to 'e, maaster, an' good cheeldin' to 'e, miss!"

The man rolled with loutish gait down the hill; the darkness gathered; the wind whistled through high hedges on the left; farmer Chirgwin made sounds of encouragement to his horse, which moved onward; and Joan thought with curious interest of those things that Billy Jago had said.

"'Tis straange us met that poor, croony antic at sich a moment," mused Uncle Thomas; "the words of en jag sore 'pon a body's mind, comin' arter what's in our thots like."

"Maybe 'tis paart o' the queerness o' things as us should fall 'pon en now," answered Joan.

Then, through a stormy gloaming, they returned in sadness to the high lands of Drift.

CHAPTER FOUR

A GLEN-ADER