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Jan of the Windmill, a novel by Juliana Horatia Ewing |
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Chapter 39. George Again.--The Painter's Advice... |
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_ CHAPTER XXXIX. GEORGE AGAIN.--THE PAINTER'S ADVICE.--"HOME BREWED" AT THE HEART OF OAK.--JAN CHANGES THE PAINTER'S MIND Master Swift's death was a great shock to the windmiller, who was himself in frail health; and Jan gave as much time as he could to cheering his foster-father. He had been spending an afternoon at the windmill, and the painter had been sketching the old church from the water-meadows, when they met on the little bridge near Dame Datchett's, and strolled together to the Heart of Oak. Master Chuter met them at the door. "There be a letter for you, Jan," said he. "'Twas brought by a young varment I knows well. He belongs to them that keeps a low public at the foot of the hill, and he do be for all the world like a hudmedud, without the usefulness of un." The letter was dirty and ill-written enough to correspond to the innkeeper's account of its origin. Misspellings omitted, it ran thus: -
"Sir,--If so be you wants to know where you come from, and where to look for them as belongs to you, come to the public at the foot of the hill this evening, with a few pounds in your pocket to open the lips of them as knows. But fair play, mind. Gearge bean't such a vool as a looks, and cart-horses won't draw it out of un, if you sets on the police. Don't you be took in by that cusnashun old rascal Cheap John. You may hold your head as high as the Squire yet, if you makes it worth the while of ONE WHO KNOWS. I always was fond of you, Jan, my dear. Keep it dark."
If George's face bore some tokens of change, he seemed otherwise the same as of old. Cunning and stupidity, distrust and obstinacy, joined with unscrupulous greed, still marked his loutish attempts to overreach. Indeed, his surly temper would have brought the conference to an abrupt end but for the interference of the girl at the inn. She had written the letter for him, and seemed to take an interest in his fate which it is hardly likely that he deserved. She acted as mediator, and the artist was all the more disposed to credit her assurance that "Gearge did know a deal about the young gentleman, and should tell it all," because her appearance was so very picturesque. She did good service, when George began to pursue his old policy of mixing some lies with the truth he told, by calling him to account. Nor was she daunted by his threatening glances. "It be no manners of use thee looking at me like that, Gearge Sannel," said she, folding her arms in a defiant attitude, which the painter hastily committed to memory. "Haven't I give my word to the gentleman that he should hear a straight tale? And it be all to your advantage to tell it. You wants money, and the gentleman wants the truth. It be no mortal use to you to make up a tale, beyond annying the gentleman." Under pressure, therefore, George told all that he knew himself, and what he had learned from the Cheap Jack's wife, and part of the purchase-money of the pot boiler was his reward. Master Lake confirmed his account of Jan's first coming to the mill. He took the liveliest interest in his foster-son's fate, but he thought, with the artist, that there was little "satisfaction" to be got out of trying to trace Jan's real parentage. It was the painter's deliberate opinion, and he impressed it upon Jan, as they sat together in Master Chuter's parlor. "My dear Giotto, I do hope you are not building much on hopes of a new home and new relatives. If all we have heard is true, your mother is dead; and, if your father is not dead too, he has basely deserted you. You have to make a name, not to seek one; to confer credit, not to ask for it. And I don't say this, Giotto, to make you vain, but to recall your responsibilities, and to dispel useless dreams. Believe me, my boy, your true mother, the tender nurse of your infancy, sleeps in the sacred shadow of this dear old church. It is your part to make her name, and the name of your respectable foster-father, famous as your own; to render your windmill as highly celebrated as Rembrandt's, and to hang late laurels of fame on the grave of your grand old schoolmaster. Ah! my child, I know well that the ductile artistic nature takes shape very early. The coloring of childhood stains every painter's canvas who paints from the heart. You can never call any other place home, Giotto, but this idyllic corner of the world!" It will be seen that the painter's rose-colored spectacles were still on his nose. Every thing delighted him. He was never weary of sketching garrulous patriarchs in snowy smocks under rickety porches. He said that in an age of criticism it was quite delightful to hear Daddy Angel say, "Ay, ay," to every thing; and he waxed eloquent on the luxury of having only one post a day, and that one uncertain. But his highest flights of approbation were given to the home-brewed ale. That pure, refreshing beverage, sound and strong as a heart of oak should be, which quenched the thirst with a certain stringency which might hint at sourness to the vulgar palate, had--so he said--destroyed for ever his contentment with any other malt liquor. He spoke of Bass and Allsopp as "palatable tonics" and "non-poisonous medicinal compounds." And when, with a flourish of hyperbole, he told Master Chuter's guests that nothing to eat or drink was to be got in London, they took his word for it; and it was without suspicion of satire that Daddy Angel said, "The gen'leman do look pretty middlin' hearty too--con-sid'rin'." It was evident that the painter had no intention of going away till the pot boiler fund was exhausted, and Jan was willing enough to abide, especially as Master Lake had caught cold at the schoolmaster's funeral, and was grateful for his foster-son's company and care. Jan was busy in many ways. He was Master Swift's heir; but the old man's illness had nearly swallowed up his savings, and Jan's legacy consisted of the books, the furniture, the gardening tools, and Rufus, who attached himself to his new master with a wistful affection which seemed to say, "You belong to the good old times, and I know you loved him." Jan moved the schoolmaster's few chattels to the windmill, and packed the books to take to London. With them he packed the little old etching that had been bought from the Cheap Jack. "It's a very good one," said the painter. "It's by an old Dutch artist. You can see a copy in the British Museum." But it was not in the Museum that Jan first saw a duplicate of his old favorite. He was nailing up this box one afternoon, and humming as he did so, -
"Stop that doleful strain, Giotto, I beg; you've been painfully sentimental the last day or two." "It's an old song they sing about here, sir," said Jan. "Never mind the song, you've been doleful yourself, Giotto! I believe you're dissatisfied that we do not push the search for your father. Is it money you want, child? Believe me, riches enough lie between your fingers and your miller's thumb. Or do you want a more fashionable protector than the old artist?" "No, no, sir!" cried Jan. "I never want to leave you; and it's not money I want, but" - "Well, my boy? Don't be afraid." "It's my mother, sir," said Jan, with flushed cheeks. "My real mother, I mean. She didn't desert me, sir; she died--when I was born. I doubt nobody sees to her grave, sir. Perhaps there's nobody but me who would. I can't do any thing for her now, sir, I know; but it seems as if I hardly did my duty in not knowing where she lies." The painter's hands were already deep in his loose pockets, from which, jumbled up with chalk, india-rubber, bits of wash-leather, cakes of color, reed pens, a penknife, and some drawing-pins, he brought the balance of his loose cash, and became absorbed in calculations. "Is that box ready?" he asked. "We start to-morrow, mind. You are right, and I was wrong; but my wish was to spare you possible pain. I now think it is your duty to risk the possible pain. If those rascally creatures who stole you are in London, the police will find them. Be content, Giotto; you shall stand by your mother's grave!" _ |
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