Lying Prophets | Page 6

he meant to approach the girl herself at the
first opportunity, and not her parents. Barron did not carry "artist"
stamped upon him. He was plainly attired in a thick tweed suit and
wore a cap of the same material. The man appeared insignificantly
small. He was clean-shaved and looked younger than his five-and-thirty
years seen a short distance off, but older when you stood beside him.
He strolled now onward toward the sea, and his cheeks took some color
from the fine air. He walked with a stick and carried a pair of
field-glasses in a case slung over his shoulder. The field-glasses had
become a habit with him, but he rarely used them, for his small
slate-colored eyes were keen.
Once and again John Barron turned to look at St. Michael's Mount,
seen afar across the bay. The magic of morning made it beautiful and
the great pile towered grandly through a sunny haze. No detail
disturbed the eye under this effect of light, and the mount stood vast,
dim, golden, magnified and glorified into a fairy palace of romance
built by immortal things in a night. Seen thus, it even challenged the
beholder's admiration, of which he was at all times sparing. Until that
hour, he had found nothing but laughter for this same mount, likening
the spectacle of it, with its castle and cottages, now to a senile monarch
with moth-eaten ermine about his toes and a lop-sided crown on his
head, now to a monstrous sea-snail creeping shoreward.
Barron, having walked down the hill to Mouse-hole, breasted slowly
the steep acclivity which leads therefrom toward the west. Presently he
turned, where a plateau of grass sloped above the cliffs into a little
theater of banks ablaze with gorse. And here his thoughts and the image
they were concerned with perished before reality. Framed in a halo of
golden furze, her hands making a little penthouse above her brow, and

in her blue eyes the mingled hue of sea and sky, stood a girl looking out
at the horizon. The bud of a wondrous fair woman she was, and Barron
saw her slim yet vigorous figure accentuated under its drab-brown
draperies by a kindly breeze. He noted the sweet, childish freshness of
her face, her plump arms filling the sleeves of rusty black, and her feet
in shoes too big for them. Her hair was hidden under a linen sun-bonnet,
but one lock had escaped, and he noted that it was the color of wheat
ripe for the reaping. He regretted it had not been darker, but observed
that it chimed well enough with the flaming flowers behind it. And then
he frankly praised Nature in his heart for sending her servant such a
splendid harmony in gold and brown. There stood his picture in front of
him. He gazed a brief second only, and then his quick mind worked to
find what human interest had brought Joan Tregenza to this place and
turned her eyes to the sea. It might be that herein existed the possibility
of the introduction he desired. He felt that victory probably depended
on the events of the next two or three minutes. He owed a supreme
effort of skill and tact to Fate, which had thus befriended him, and he
rose to the occasion.
The girl looked up as he came suddenly upon her, but his eyes were
already away and fixed upon the horizon before she turned. Observing
that he was not regarding her, she put up her hands again and continued
to scan the remote sea-line where a thin trail of dark smoke told of a
steamer, itself apparently invisible. Barron took his glasses from their
case, and seeing that the girl made no movement of departure, acted
deliberately, and presently began to watch a fleet of brown sails and
black hulls putting forth from the little harbor below. Then, without
looking at her or taking his eyes from the glasses, he spoke.
"Would you kindly tell me what those small vessels are below there
just setting out to sea?" he asked.
The girl started, looked round, and, realizing that he had addressed her,
made answer:
"They'm Mouzle [Footnote: Mouzle--Mousehole.] luggers, sir."
"Luggers, are they? Thank you. And where are they sailing to? Do you

know?"
"Away down-long, south'ard o' the Scillies mostly, arter mackerl.
Theer's a power o' mackerl bein' catched just now--thousands an'
thousands--but some o' they booats be laskin'--that's just fishin' off
shore."
"Ah, a busy time for the fishermen."
"Iss, 'tis."
"Thank you. Good-morning."
"Good-marnin', sir."
He started as though to continue his walk along the cliffs beyond the
plateau and the gorse; then he stopped suddenly, actuated, as it seemed,
by a chance thought, and turned back to the girl. She was looking out to