CHAPTER

XLI. White Favours

XLII. The Snow Bride

XLIII. Hunting the Devil

XLIV. Willapark

XLV. 'Kinkum-kum'

XLVI. A Bar of Ice

XLVII. Welcome Home!

XLVIII. Two Bequests

XLIX. Cast Up

L. Two Disobediences

LI. Two Exits

LII. The Return of the Wanderer

LIII. A Private Interview

LIV. The Porch Room

LV. Nemesis

LVI. A Dead Man

LVII. An Arrest

LVIII. R.I.P.

LIX. Dividing the Spoils

LX. Introductory

*JOHN HERRING.*

*CHAPTER XLI.*

*WHITE FAVOURS.*

The weather had changed abruptly. The wind had turned north-east, had

become rough and frozen, and whirled snow before it over a white world.

Eight days had elapsed, and the marriage ceremony had been performed in

the chapel of Trecarrel. The Captain was not present at the ceremony:

he was in bed, indisposed.

The carriage was at the door of Dolbeare to convey the bride and

bridegroom to Welltown. A hasty breakfast had been taken. No friends

had been invited. The journey was long, and the horses must be rested

midway for an hour. The days were short, and there was no chance of

reaching Welltown before dark. It was bad travelling over fresh snow,

and along an exposed road swept by the furious gale. The horses stamped

and pawed the snow, the post-boys were impatient. Herring was anxious to

start. Mirelle was upstairs in her room alone. All the boxes were

corded and in place. Then Orange, who was in the hall, called her

cousin.

Mirelle appeared, slowly and uncertainly descending the stairs. Orange

uttered an exclamation of surprise. 'My dear, you are still in white!

You have not put on your travelling dress.'

'I did not know.'

'But what in the world have you been doing?'

She had been weeping and praying. Her eyes were red and full of tears,

and there was that exalted, luminous look in the white face of one whose

soul has just descended from heaven, as there was in the face of Moses

when he came down from the Mount. In her white dress, with her white

veil over her dark hair, and a bunch of snowdrops in her bosom, just as

she had stood at the altar, so she was going forth into the stormy

world--as white as one of the snow-flakes, as fragile, altogether as

pure.

Her travelling dress was in the box, and the box was on the carriage.

There was no help for it; the box could not be taken down and unpacked.

She must go as she was, wrapped round with many cloaks.

She was reluctant to depart. She had not spent happy days in Dolbeare;

but, nevertheless, she did not like to leave it for the unknown. The

future was strange and feared. Orange and her mother had not been

congenial friends, but they were of her own sex. What would become of

the Trampleasures now? They were without money. She turned to her

husband.

'Mr. Herring,' she said timidly, 'my mother and my sister, what of

them?'

'Dearest Mirelle, that is as you like.'

'Oh, Orange! and you, Mrs. Trampleasure! Will you come and live with me

where I am going? I entreat you to do so. Make my home your own. I do

not think you will be happy here, where you have met with so many

sorrows. And I--I shall miss you.'

She looked at Herring, asking with her eyes if she had done right.

This was not what he wished. Orange was not the sort of companion he

relished for his wife. There was an indescribable something about her

which he disliked. Then an idea struck him. He called Orange and

Mirelle aside into the little drawing-room.

'Mirelle, everything I have is yours. You may dispose of all at your

pleasure. I know what has happened here. Orange is engaged to be

married to Captain Trecarrel; but, through the sad disaster that has

taken place, her little fortune is lost. Is it your wish, Mirelle, that

this sum should be made up to her? The loss of this fortune stands in

the way of her happiness and that of Captain Trecarrel.'

Mirelle trembled, looked down for a moment, and then said, 'Yes, dear

Orange, it shall be so. All that sum which was to have been yours, but

which was lost, shall be given to you. Be happy with Captain

Trecarrel.'

Then Orange flamed up. Her eyes sparkled, her cheeks flushed, and she

clenched her hands.

'Never, never!' she exclaimed. 'He deserted and insulted me. Never,

never, will I take him.'

'Well, Orange,' said Herring, 'you do as you think best. The same sum

that was lodged by your father in my hands in trust for you, to be paid

over on your marriage, shall be placed in the bank in your name. If you

can forgive the Captain, well, so be it. None will be better pleased to

hear it than Mirelle and I; but if not, you will find a welcome at

Welltown. I must not delay longer. We have a lengthy drive before us,

and cannot reach our destination while there is light in the sky.'

He handed Mirelle into the carriage, and stepped in himself.

The post-boys wiped their lips--they had been given a tumbler each of

spiced wine--they cracked their whips, and away whirled the carriage.

'Orange, Orange! throw rice!' called Mrs. Trampleasure.

Orange stooped, picked up a handful of snow, and flung it after them, in

at the carriage window, and it fell over Herring and Mirelle, a cold

shower.

But the maid was more vehement and strict in her adhesion to traditional

usage. First one slipper--a red one, then another--black, whirled

through the snowy air, and fell in their track.

'What are you about, Bella!' exclaimed Mrs. Trampleasure. 'That's my

dear 'usband's slipper--that red one is, and the other is Sampson's.'

'Look!' said Orange. The red slipper and the black had fallen with the

toes pointing in the direction taken by the carriage, and lay between

the wheel-marks.

'Mother, it looks just as though the dead father and the runaway son

were after them.'

Hark! what is that? A faint, low music, scarce audible, and when heard

at once caught and puffed away by the frozen blast. Was that the wind,

playing a weird aeolian strain through the spines of the Scotch fir?

But if so, strange that the vibrations should frame themselves into a

strain like that of Ford's old glee:--

Since first I saw your face, I resolv'd

To honour and renown you!

'Come in, mother, the wind is cold. It freezes to the marrow.'

*CHAPTER XLII.*

*THE SNOW BRIDE.*

A wild road that which leads from Launceston to Boscastle, up hill

continuously, for miles after miles, across barren moor unrelieved by

rocks, studded at intervals by cairns under which dead primaeval

warriors lie. In summertime the road is rendered tolerable by the

distant views; the rugged range of Cornish tors, Brown Willy and Row Tor

on the left; far away south the dome of Hengistdun, where the Britons

made their last stand against Athelstan, and which to the present day is

studded with the cairns that cover their dead. To the south-east the

grand distant range of Dartmoor lost in cobalt blue.

But that road, on such a day as this, was unendurable. There was no

shelter whatever; not a hedge, not a tree; not a village was passed

through. Llaneast, Tresmeer, Treneglos, Egloskerry, lie buried in

valleys where trees grow and the sun sleeps on smooth greenswards. The

road seemed to be slowly mounting into the skies, into the bosoms of the

snowclouds which shed their cold contents over it. White favours! The

horses were plastered with them, the post-boys were patched with them,

the carriage encrusted with them, the windows frosted over with them.

Mirelle sat on the east side; she tried to look through the glasses, but

could see nothing but snow crystals.

Herring spoke to her, but conversation was impossible; the wind howled

and beat at the windows, as with icy hands, striving to smash them in.

There was no keeping the wind out; it drove in between the frames and

the glass, it worked its way through below and chilled the feet on the

matting.

The horses went slowly; the snow balled under their hoofs, and the

post-boys had to descend repeatedly to clear their shoes. The road was

no post-road, and no change of horses was to be had half-way. There was

no choice, therefore, but to rest the jaded beasts at the wretched

little tavern on the heath, called 'Drunkards all.' There is a legend

to account for the name. A traveller came one Sunday to the pothouse,

with its little cluster of cottages around, and saw the people reeling

from the tavern to their homes in the morning. 'What!' he asked. 'Does

no one go to church here?' 'No,' was the hiccuped reply. 'Sundays we

drinks and drinks--here we be drunkards all.' He passed the same way

one weekday, and found the cottagers staggering from the tavern to the

fields. 'What!' he asked. 'Is no work done here weekdays?' 'No,' was

the answer. 'We drinks and we drinks--here we be drunkards all.' Once

again he passed that way, and it was midnight; but the road was

encumbered with tipsy men and women. 'Does nobody sleep here?' 'Sleep!'

was the reply. 'No, we drinks and we drinks--we be drunkards all.' And

as he went through the churchyard of Davidstow, he saw tombstones

inscribed "D.o.D.--D.A."; and when he asked the meaning, the sexton

said, with his thumb over his shoulder. 'Them from where you came from;

Died o' drink--Drunkards all.' So the hamlet got its name, and has kept

it to the present day.

Herring begged that a great fire might be made up, and some smouldering

turf was put on the hearth in the little guest room. Firewood was an

unattainable luxury in this treeless waste; the only fuel was peat. The

walls were whitewashed, the floor was slate, on which milk had been

spilled, and was frozen. The turf had not taken the chill out of the

air in the room when the hour for resting the horses was passed.

Herring had ordered dinner, but nothing was to be had to eat, save fried

ham and eggs, nothing to drink but hard cyder and muddy beer. Mirelle

had no appetite. She sat in her white dress by the low fire, deadly

pale, with dark rings about her eyes, shivering. She held her hands to

the dull ashes, and thought of the sunny garden of the Sacre Coeur. How

the bees hummed there, and the hyacinths, blue and pink, bloomed early

and filled the air with fragrance, and against the wall gold-green

glistening flies preened their wings, loving the sun, and happy basking

in it.

'It is time for us to move on, dear Mirelle,' said Herring; 'we have

only made half of our way, but the worst half is done. The rest is, for

a part at least, down hill.' She rose mechanically. He wrapped the

shawls well round her, but there was no warmth in the slender white form

to be wrapped in. There was no colour in her lips, none in the

transparent cheek, only the blue icelike veins in her temples.

He led her to the carriage; again the post-boys wiped their lips, this

time of sour cyder, and cracked their whips. The wheels went round

noiselessly, and the carriage was lost to sight in the driving snow.

Not only did the wheels revolve noiselessly, but the footfalls of the

horses produced no sound; the postilions were silent, and those within

the carriage did not speak. Verily that might have been taken for a

bleached phantom coach drawn by phantom horses, conveying phantom bride

and bridegroom from the grave of one at Launceston to the grave of

another at Boscastle.

Herring took Mirelle's hand. She made no resistance. He held it in

his, hoping that his warmth might thaw those frozen fingers. He pressed

them, but met with no answering pressure; the hand was possibly too

numbed to feel.

Now ensued hedges. They saw a woman, head down against the snow,

stalking along the top of one--the usual footpath in these parts, where

the lanes are often deep in water. Here and there came walls, and here

and there ragged thorns; then moor again, and then the carriage began to

descend.

Mirelle held her breath. Darkness had set in already; the post-boys lit

their lamps at a cottage that was passed, and through the windows could

be seen the snowflakes falling as flashes of white fire, in the radius

of light cast by the lamps. The steam of the horses was blown back and

formed haloes.

Mirelle's hand trembled in that of Herring. She looked round at him. He

saw, by the reflection of the lamp-lights, that her eyes were wide with

fear.

'What is the matter, dear Mirelle?'

'That noise--that terrible noise!'

'What! the roar of the ocean?'

The thunder of the Atlantic filled the air. Driven before the gale, the

mighty billows dashed themselves to dust upon the adamantine cliffs and

flung their shivers high into the air. The roar was continuous, but

with pulsations in it, as the wind rose and fell. It seemed to Mirelle

as if she and Herring were drifting in the vast void where there was no

earth, no creation, no planets, no light, no life, no God; in chaos

filled with howling winds and thundering unseen forces that clashed

purposeless and self-destructive. But worse still, to the outer

answered an inner desolation. There also, chaos was. She was drifting

in spirit in a void, without a hope, without an interest, without a

purpose, with heart and brain dead.

The carriage whirled down a rapid descent, and the roar waxed louder,

more hungry, more terrible. No rocks could withstand the weight of

water hurled against them. The iron walls must yield before those

Titanic blows, and all the world dissolve and sink beneath the angry,

inky ocean.

'Will that not cease?' asked Mirelle, timidly.

'The waves can always be heard here,' answered John Herring, 'but, of

course, only as a pleasant mutter in still weather.'

'At night--does it go on all night?'

'To be sure; the sea never sleeps. In time you will come to love the

sound. It will be a lullaby, soothing my darling to sleep.'

Mirelle shuddered.

Lights were visible, twinkling below.

'There is a little town, Boscastle, lying in that glen,' said he; 'we

shall pass above it on our way home.'

Home! The word conveyed no warmth to the heart of Mirelle. Home is a

quiet nook in the sun, among roses and mignonette, with a kitten purring

at your feet, and a blackbird singing out of a syringa hard by, and the

white cap of Josephine seen through the kitchen window, and her pleasant

voice singing a _cantique_ of the Mois de Marie whilst she shells peas.

Home! A cold house in a void world, without a bush or tree, without

stillness, in the midst of blackness and storm, and with salt spray and

the boom of breaking billows filling the air with bitterness and

thunder.

A scream over the carriage. Mirelle cried out in an agony of fear at

that Banshee note.

'Do not be frightened,' said Herring. 'That was a gull driven in by the

storm. Poor Mirelle! you will be glad when we reach home. This has been

a trying day for you.'

She could not answer. She did not think she would be glad to reach

Welltown; she was indifferent whether she got there or not. It was all

one to her whether she alighted in a cold home or went on for ever and

ever thus in storm and snow. Would it not be best of all to be allowed

to descend and lie down on the white bank, and wrap the white fleeces

round her, and so go to sleep? Then, indeed, she would go home--to a

home she knew, to a home peopled with dear friends, saints and angels,

with whom she had spoken from early childhood.

The longest day has its ending. The carriage drew up at last at the

porch door of Welltown. Herring sprang out; no lights were in the

windows. He looked along the front of the house; all was dark. No

cheering welcome of twinkling candles, of ruddy fireflash through the

panes. He knocked loudly. Then Genefer came to the door with a stable

lanthorn.

'What! Master John! Well, to be sure. I never thought it. The day

were so wisht and wild.'

'Jenny,' said Herring, impatiently, 'open at once. Let me in; you knew

that we were to arrive this evening.'

'The storm raged so bad, I thought sure you'd put it off.'

'Come in, dear Mirelle,' said Herring, greatly incensed, and led his

bride into the porch out of the wind.

'Have you no fires lighted? Nothing ready?' he asked, angrily, of

Genefer.

'No, Master John. It be bad luck to wed in snow and storm: snow cools

love and wind blows it away. I reckoned you knew that well enough, and

would have put it off till the sun shone.'

A cold reception. The hall dark; only a little turf smouldering on the

hearth, giving out neither light nor heat.

Mirelle came in. She did not look round; she was stupefied. It was all

one to her. She had not expected much, and was not disappointed.

Genefer put the lanthorn on the table and proceeded to light a couple of

wax candles. Herring divested Mirelle of her dark wraps.

Then the old woman looked at her. In the large gloomy hall Mirelle

stood like a spectral figure, illumined by the candles, the white veil

hanging; over her shoulders and back.

'Lord of mercy bless us!' exclaimed Genefer, starting back. 'It be the

same--the same! O God!--the same I dreamed! The Snow Bride.'

She looked at her with dismay, then raised her hands and said, 'That

ever I should have seen the day! O Master John! Master John! But the

Lord sends strong delusions on them whom He will bring to naught.'

'Go at once, Jenny, and get supper ready. Heap up wood on the hearth.

Is there a fire upstairs?'

'I don't know whether there be--there was, to dry the rooms; but there

be nothing ready. It be a thousand pities you cannot get it all undone,

and, if it must be done, do it another day, when the sun shines and the

air be plum' (warm).

'This is intolerable,' said Herring, now thoroughly roused. 'You are

determined, Jenny, to drive me beyond the limits of forbearance.'

'The Lord ordains,' answered Genefer: 'what will be will be. There!

I'll have the fire up directly. Now, Hender'--aloud, and with her head

through the kitchen door--'look spry, and bring in a faggot, and clap it

on the turves. Take the bellows,' she said to Mirelle; 'blow away at

them turves, and they'll glow. I'll be off and get something warm

directly.' But, instead of going directly, she stood in the door, and

looked at Herring, and said: 'The sheep always goes before the wind.

You may put them in a loo place, but they won't bide there: they go with

the wind to where they will freeze and die. It be all the same wi' men.

When the Lord blows, they goes before His breath to their destruction,

and not all the wisdom of the wise will avail to keep them loo.'

'Would you like to go upstairs, Mirelle, to your room?' asked Herring.

She lifted her sad eyes to his face and nodded. He took a candle and

led the way. The boards creaked as they went up the uncarpeted stairs,

and the wind wailed through the staircase window, clinking the little

diamond panes; the draught was so great that the candle was nearly blown

out. Against the glass the snow was patched in masses, as though the

window had been pelted with snowballs, and the white patches reflected

back the candle-light.

Upstairs was a bedroom, above the hall, and adjoining it a small boudoir

over the porch. There was a fire on the hearth, and the bedding was

ranged as a wall round it, to be well aired. Some billets of wood were

heaped up beside the chimney-piece, and these Herring put on. He plied

the bellows, and soon a yellow flame danced up. The room began to look

more cheery. It was a pretty room; Herring had thought much about

making it pleasant. The paper was bright, with roses in sprigs over the

walls, and over the window were sprigged curtains lined with

forget-me-not blue.

'There, dear Mirelle,' he said, 'I will have the boxes brought up; and I

hope, in half an hour, Jenny will have dinner ready for us. I am sorry

for her neglect. She is a tiresome, self-opinionated old woman, but you

will come in time to value her. She is a Cornish crystal--and rough.'

He did not leave the room at once, but stood and looked round it; he had

not seen it before, since it had been done up, with firelight flickering

and candles lighted. He was pleased, and said, 'It is pretty--is it

not, Mirelle?'

She looked up wonderingly at him. What was pretty? What could be

pretty in such a place?

He had lighted candles on the dressing-table and on the mantelpiece.

Over that hung a picture of his mother--a sweet young face, with a

pleasant smile on it.

'That is my mother,' he said; 'she is looking down on you out of heaven.

This was her room: I was born in it, and she died here.'

In a corner, near the fire, was a little _prie-dieu_, and over it a

crucifix. Herring had procured that, because he made sure it would

please Mirelle; but she did not observe it. She was cold, and crept near

to the fire.

'I should like to show you the boudoir. I have done it up very nicely

for you.'

'Oh, not now! another time.'

'Very well, Mirelle. I will go and hasten Genefer.'

He left the room, a little disappointed that no expression of pleasure

had escaped her on seeing how he had thought and prepared for her. Then

he descended to the hall to stimulate Genefer to activity, and to see to

his wife being given her boxes immediately.

More than half an hour passed before dinner was ready; when it was on

the table, and the room was bright with candles, and a dancing fire was

gambolling through a faggot of dry sticks, Herring went upstairs to call

Mirelle. He found her sitting, still dressed in white, by the fire,

looking into it, lost in a dream, with her hands folded in her lap, and

tears on her cheeks. A little colour had returned to her lips, and the

flickering firelight, reflected in her large dark eyes, gave them a

fictitious life. She did not hear Herring enter, and when he spoke she

started and shivered, as though frightened. She speedily recovered

herself, and descended with him. She had removed her veil, but was

otherwise unchanged in dress. The snowdrops in her bosom were crushed,

and their bruised heads hung despondingly. Herring removed the bunch

and put it in his button-hole. Mirelle could not eat much; she did not

speak, except in brief answers to his questions. She was apparently

thinking, and it was with an effort that she attended to what her

husband said.

Genefer watched her intently. The old woman's face was grim and

dissatisfied. She was respectful, and attended to her, but without the

alacrity and cordiality in her manner that might have been looked for in

an old family servant when welcoming to her home her master's bride.

When dinner was over, and Genefer had withdrawn, Herring said to

Mirelle, 'Now, dearest, come into the ingle-nook, and sit on the settle.

The great back will cut off every draught, and you will become warm

there. I will bring my chair beside you.'

She rose, without answering, and took the place he indicated. The

settle was of oak, dark and well polished, with the four cardinal

virtues carved in panels above the heads of those who sat in it. It had

stamped and gilt leather at the back, a little way up, and a crimson

cushion on the seat. Herring thrust a footstool under Mirelle's feet,

and, taking a chair, drew it near her.

'Dear Mirelle,' he said, 'welcome to your future home.'

'Thank you, Mr. Herring.'

'You must not call me _Mr._ Herring.'

'No, I know I must not. I will do my duty. I will call you by your

Christian name. But you must not be angry with me it will not come at

once. I will do my best, if you will have patience.'

'Mirelle!--nothing could make me angry with you.'

'Nothing?' Then she sighed and looked into the fire.

'Is there something troubling your mind?' he asked, unable to understand

her manner.

'Yes,' she said, and looked up timidly at him, then withdrew her glance

before his eyes; 'I will do my duty. You are my husband, and I must let

you see all my heart. It is proper that you should. I will do what I

know in my conscience to be right.'

'I will gladly look into that dear heart, and all I ask and hope is that

I may find there a little sparkle of love for me.'

She shivered, and was silent again, still looking into the flames,

broodingly.

'Dear, dear Mirelle,' he said, 'although you are now my wife, bound to

me for ever, you have not yet given me, or received from me, a kiss.

You have not once told me that you love me.'

Then she looked round full at him, with her large, sad, dark eyes, and

rested them on him for full a minute without a word; but he saw that

something was stirring in her heart. Then she said gravely, 'I respect

you very much, John Herring.'

'Respect will not do for me. I want love,' he said with vehemence.

'I esteem you above all men.'

'That is insufficient. I will be satisfied with nothing short of love.'

'I do not love you.'

Those few words went like a bullet through his heart. He could not

speak.

She saw that she had pained him unutterably. She went on. 'I am bound

to speak the truth. I cannot lie; I cannot dissemble. What I say is

true. I give you everything that is in my power to give. I am yours.

I believe you to be the best, the noblest, the truest of men. But

love----'

She slowly shook her head and sighed, and relapsed into looking into the

burning wood.

His power of speech was gone from him.

'You must not expect too much from me,' she said; 'I will do my duty.'

'Duty!' he cried, and sprang to his feet. 'Duty is not what I ask for.

I know you will do your duty--as an angel of God will do his duty. But

I ask for, and must have--love.'

'I cannot, I cannot,' she said, in a desolate, despairing tone, and

again shook her head.

'Why not? Is it so impossible to love a man whose whole heart is yours,

who thinks of and cares only for you?'

'I would love you if I could! It is not my fault. I am willing, but I

have not the power. I _cannot_.'

'Why can you not?'

She raised her large, dark eyes and looked at him, with a dull despair

in them, and her lips quivered as she answered, 'Because I love

another.'

That went like a second bullet through his heart, and rendered him

speechless again.

'You are my husband. I know my duty. I am bound to conceal nothing from

you. I am bound to tell you all that is on my heart. My love is for

another. I cannot help it; you have nothing to fear. None can suffer

from this as I do. I will try from day to day to deaden it. I will be

true to you in thought as in deed. What I have promised, I will

perform. But there it is--in my heart, burning, consuming. You could

not put out that roaring fire on the hearth; it must blaze till it has

eaten itself away. In time the fire here,' she touched her bosom, 'that

fire, will have consumed itself and be white ashes, and the hearth cold.

Then you may light another fire on it, but not till then.'

Herring had been standing looking at her, with one hand on his brow.

Now he turned away.

'Are you angry?' she asked piteously. 'I felt in my conscience that I

ought to conceal nothing from my husband; I knew that I was bound to

tell you all. Are you angry?'

'I am in pain,' he said. His hand was on his heart. 'I am in deadly

pain.'

'And I--I too,' she whispered, and her head drooped towards her lap,

like one of her broken snowdrops.

Herring walked through the hall to the main door. There he turned.

'Mirelle!' His face was almost as white as hers.

'Yes, John.'

'God be with you. Good-bye!'

He opened the door. The wind tore in, and brought snow with it, and the

thunder of the mad sea--mad that it had found a barrier which it could

not demolish nor overleap, and in its madness tearing itself to spray.

Then the door shut, and Mirelle was alone.

*CHAPTER XLIII.*

*HUNTING THE DEVIL.*

Mirelle sat over the fire, looking into it. Had she done right in

telling John Herring all her mind? She supposed that she had, and yet

she was not quite sure. Her nature was so entirely frank, she had such

a horror of concealment, that it had seemed to her a duty, an imperative

duty, to lay bare her heart before her husband. She spoke out

everything, without disguise, to her confessor, and the husband stood to

her, she supposed, in much the same light. She would be guilty of a

fraud, an impiety, if she allowed him to live with her without knowing

the true state of her affections. She had thought this over a great

deal, and she had satisfied her conscience that she was bound to tell

him all. But now that the confession was made, she was frightened at the

results. She had driven Herring from her. Whither was he gone? Would

he return? Was it always right to speak the truth? Was not perfect

openness the most refined form of cruelty?

Mirelle began dimly to see that she had acted unwisely; that she had

been selfish in her desire to do her duty, and keep her own conscience

clear. She owed a duty to her husband, a paramount duty, and the duty

she owed him was to make him happy. In her effort to do her duty to

herself she had run counter to her duty to him.

So she sat over the fire, in her white bridal dress, with her white

face, and cold tears distilled slowly from her eyes.

Without, the wind raged, and splashes of snow were thrown, like mortar

from a trowel, against the window panes. There was a red carpet on the

hall floor, but the wind got under it, and it rolled like a sea of

blood. She could see the first roller begin by the door and travel the

whole length of the room. The curtains over the window swayed as though

some one were in the embrasure stirring from side to side and pulling at

the curtains to keep himself covered, and yet was seeking a place

through which he might peep unperceived at the Snow Bride by the fire,

melting away in tears.

The hall door creaked, and the latch, to her fancy, was tried; but no

hand was there. It was the wind that thrust against the oaken boards and

rattled the latch.

How the ocean roared! No doors nor windows could exclude that terrible

all-pervading thunder. The sound was not in the wind alone, it was in

the solid earth. It was not heard through the ear alone, it was felt by

every nerve, for the foundations and the walls vibrated. In one of the

hall windows was a cracked pane, and through it the wind screamed, and

sobbed, and wailed. Were there ships at sea, this awful night? Were they

near the coast? If so, there was no hope for the vessels, none for the

crew. The stoutest ships must be broken against the iron cliffs, and the

sailors dashed out of human shape.

There were souls drifting in that fierce wind and bitter cold--souls of

drowned men on their way to purgatory and hell. What was that piping,

and sighing, and crying at the window? Poor drowned souls peering in,

and pleading to be admitted; poor souls still wet with the brine,

shivering with cold, feeling their desolation, their nakedness, torn

from the bodies they had so long and so happily tenanted; poor souls

wailing and gnashing their teeth, because cast into the outer darkness

and eternal cold.

A dog outside began to bark savagely. Had it seen the wan train of

weeping souls sweep by? Then he lapsed into an occasional bark of

distress, then was silent, then barked again.

What ailed the dog? The snow was drifting into his kennel, and he was

cold and could not sleep.

There were rats in the old house. The cold had driven them in, and they

were racing through the walls in quest of warm corners and of food. In

one place glass had been put down to block a run; but the rats had

broken their way through. Every rat that passed over the glass made it

clink. They were between the ceiling and the floor overhead.

One--two--three, one--two--three. One of the rats was three-legged, he

had lost a foot in a gin. His footfalls could be distinguished from

those of the other rats. He went slower than the rest, that old

cripple; one--two--three, one--two--three.

Where was John Herring? What had become of him? Was he still walking

in the snow and wind? Would he press on, thinking only of his misery,

till, numbed with frost and weary of battling with the wind, he fell in

the snow and slept his life away?

Whither would he go? What would he seek? Rest, and the lulling of the

terrible pain from the wound she had dealt him. How could rest be got?

Only in one way.

Then Mirelle sprang up, terrified at her own thoughts, and clasped her

hands over her face to hide from her the horrible picture that rose

before her fancy. She fell on her knees, faint with fear.

The three-legged rat had found a bit of tallow-candle end that had been

thrust by a child through a knot in the flooring, and he skipped about

on three paws, uncouthly, in an ecstasy of delight. But a rat with four

legs came by and lusted after the candle end, and fell on the cripple,

and bit him. He screamed with pain and for aid. Then other rats, sound

in limb, ran to the scene, and, finding the cripple getting the worst of

it, took sides against him, and bit and mangled him, he screaming with

rage and pain all the while; and, after that, they divided the candle

end between themselves, as their perquisite for having come to the aid

of their four-legged brother, and left him the rush-wick, which he could

not digest.

On the stairs was a clock--a very noisy clock, that ticked loud, and

made a great whir before it struck the hours. This clock had dropped

its weight, which fell with a crash the night John's mother died. The

weight came down but once again, when Jago Herring, his father, died. A

quaint old clock, with a figured face representing a drooping flower and

a winged hourglass, and underneath the inscription--

The flower fadeth,

The hour runneth.

Sic transit gloria mundi.

Twelve o'clock! Midnight had come, the hour when the dead are abroad.

Against the wall was a mirror. Mirelle was afraid to look in it. She

knew that dead men peered over the shoulders of the living when they

looked incautiously into the glass after twelve at night. What face

might she see there? She took her handkerchief to put over it; the

handkerchief was too small, and was, moreover, wet with her tears. She

had a little shawl; she took that up--a black shawl--and went with it to

the mirror, with head averted.

As she was engaged in hitching the ends of the shawl over the glass, she

suddenly heard piercing cries, then howls and loud words shouted

shrilly.

The shawl fell at her feet; she stood frozen to the floor; her heart

stood still. The cries continued, waxing louder, more agonising; she

heard feet racing along the passage upstairs, and then a man's voice, in

gruff tones, raised in remonstrance. Then the door of her room was

shaken, and again the man spoke. She could distinguish now what he

said.

'Genefer! stand off. You may not go in and scare them wi' your

screeching and devil visions.'

But the door was beaten open in spite of his protest, and the feet were

audible rushing over the floor of the room. Then again a cry, a wail,

and loud exclamations in shrill tones; and in another moment down the

stairs came the feet, with sobs and moans, and Genefer Benoke burst into

the hall, with a great cloak cast over her, her hair loose and flowing

wildly about her shoulders, her large grey eyes wide open, and staring

blankly before her, and both her hands extended in front of her, now

scrabbling in the air, then expanded wide, with every finger apart. Her

feet were bare.

'I see un! I see un! Look where he goes! Ah! thou foul devil! thou

spirit of the bottomless pit! See, see! where he goes, the accursed

one, with the smoke of the everlasting torment swaling round and round

him!'

She stooped and picked up the black shawl, and lashed with it before

her.

'Where goest thou? Do'y see un, Hender? Do'y see un? He be like a

black shadow with no sartain shape, stealing along, and now I sees a bit

clear and then another bit. There be one fiery eye peer out, and now it

be gone, and there shoots out another. Look in thicky corner, where he

stands, and gapes and mows and tosses his arms. The Lord is my light

and my salvation, whom then shall I fear? See, Hender! he has his

fingers in his mouth and is drawing out the corners,

out--wide--wider--like gum elastic, the whole width o' the room, and the

fire comes out--it be the mouth of hell! Hender, Hender! see where he be

writing on the wall, and the letters be letters of fire?'

Then she uttered a piercing shriek, and clasped her hands over her eyes,

and buried her face in the black shawl.

Hender Benoke followed his wife.

'Come, come back to bed, Genefer. What do the devil mean by walking o'

nights like this when it be freezing hard, and folks wants to be warm

between the blankets? Come back, and if you must run arter 'un, run o'

a summer night, ondeacent though it be--in your smock.'

'My boy! my John! O master, dear Master John! O the day, the day!'

'Come back to bed; you're frightening the young lady.'

'Her! her! the Snow Maiden that'll freeze the blood in the heart of un!

Where be she? I cannot stay, it will be too late. I've a read the

writing in fire. Let go, Hender; do not hold me back! I see the devil;

he be making for the door, and I must after him, and smite him with the

Lord's word. Come on, you--you!' She grasped Mirelle by the arm. 'It

were you as brought the devil here to tempt us, and you must strive

along of me to drive un, or he will carry the dear maister away.'

She made for the porch door, drawing Mirelle after her. Hender again

interposed.

'Genny,' he said, 'you cannot; you must not.'

'Very well then--no!' exclaimed the woman, letting go her hold of

Mirelle. 'No, no, it be none o' you can drive the devil, for you be an

idolater, and idolaters has their portion in the lake that burneth wi'

fire for ever and ever. I must drive un with the Word of God. Run,

Hender! bring me the great black Bible; quick, man. The devil be gone

out at the porch door.'

She dashed to the window, tore aside the curtains, and cried: 'I see un,

I see un on the snow, going like a puff o' smoke, and at every step he

takes the snow glints white as a flash of moon. Bring me my black

Bible, that I may pursue un, and catch un up, and smite un atcross the

horns, and fell un like an ox.' Then she came into the midst of the

room, and stood before Mirelle, and fixed her eyes sternly on her.

'Down on your knees, maiden,' she said, and pointed to the floor. 'Down

on your knees if you know how to pray, and pray to the Lord for a soul,

a poor, despairing, human soul as is brought to great temptation, and

heaven or hell stands on the turn o' a hair. The Lord hath revealed to

me that this night be fought the battle of Armageddon, and Apollyon and

I must wrestle together for a human soul. Jacob wrestled with an angel

till the break of day, and he would not let him go till he had blessed

him. And I be called to wrestle, not wi' an angel but wi' a devil, and

I will not let un go till I have tooked the soul that he be seeking out

o' his hands. Down on your knees and help me if you can. Give me the

Book.'

Hender had come in with the Bible. She snatched it out of his hands,

and in another moment had slammed the door behind her, and was flying

through the snow, with bare feet, and her black hair lashed by the wind,

regardless of the cold and storm, holding the great Bible above her head

with both hands, and crying after the black shadow that went like a puff

of smoke before her, in whose treadings the snow glinted like flakes of

moonlight.

Hender stood in the porch looking after her and muttering. But Mirelle

was kneeling on the red carpet in the midst of the room, and the wind

got in beneath and lifted and rolled this carpet about her, so that she

seemed to be kneeling on a red sea.

All at once, Genefer stood still, threw up the Bible, caught it, and

clasped it to her bosom. Both she and Hender heard a shot. A gun had

been discharged; the report entered the room where Mirelle knelt, and

she heard it.

'Glory be to God!' cried Genefer; 'he be driven back, but not by me.

Sisera were slain by the hand of a woman, and it were revealed to

Deborah that so it should be. So she went wi' Barak to the battle, for

she reckoned that the woman into whose hand the Lord would sell Sisera

were herself. But it were not so. Glory be to God! The devil be

driven back, though not by me! I saw Satan as a stream o' smoking pitch

run down Willapark and fall into Blackapit.'

Then she came quickly back, all her excitement over.

*CHAPTER XLIV.*

*WILLAPARK.*

Forth into the storm John Herring had gone. That day so desired had

ended thus! He had gained her whom he loved--whom he had long loved,

but only to know that her heart could never be his. He had taken the

Snow Bride to him, and, as Genefer had warned him, she was about to

chill him to death. No light would rise in those eyes for him; no smile

come on those cheeks for him. Those lips would not meet his; that heart

not beat for him. She respected him, but she feared him. Now he

understood her conduct towards him through their engagement and that

day. She stood in terror of him; she shrank from his love, because she

had no love to give in return for it.

Herring could think of nothing continuously. The gnawing pain at his

heart was too intense to suffer him to think connectedly. He was like

one walking in semi-consciousness, staggering after a stunning blow,

seeing nothing clearly, thinking no thought out. He did not know

whither he was going.

He was without hat, he was without greatcoat. He had gone forth in his

despair, without a thought of himself, what he should do, whither he

should go. Did it matter whither he went? Wherever he went he must

carry this pain with him. What should he do? He could do nothing, he

could not staunch the wound that had been dealt him; the wound had cut

too deep and had severed the main artery of life. There was no balm in

Gilead for such a wound as that; it must bleed, bleed hope, energy,

desire out of him. He cared nothing for life now. Life was a torture

chamber, and the poor sufferer on the rack turns and cries out, 'Put an

end to my agonies. Use the dagger, _la misericorde_!' What is life, if

granted, worth? After the rack, what is life with disjointed limbs and

riven heart-strings? Who would receive as a boon so worthless a gift?

No; in the torture chamber none ask for life, there but one desire is

harboured, and that for death.

Herring had gone unconsciously towards Willapark, the headland that

starts into the sea, gnawed half through by vast gulfs, in which the

waves boil as in a cauldron. Willapark, white with snow, shelved up

towards the sky; beyond was the void whence came thunderings and

roarings, where nothing could be seen. So hitherto had he been going

contentedly up his white way that led to heaven, expecting felicity at

the top, and all at once he found himself at the edge of an unfathomed

gulf, and a loved hand touched and thrust him over, and now he was

falling into the awful void; whither he knew not, how it would end he

only guessed.

By Blackapit was his little office, a small wooden erection; he could

see it rising out of the snow. He had lived so much there of late, had

slept there so frequently, that on leaving Welltown he instinctively

took this direction.

He drew the key from his pocket and unlocked the door. Inside all was

dark, and the smell was musty; the office had not been opened for some

days. He shut the door, and went directly to his chair near the

fireplace. There was, of course, no fire there, but that did not matter;

he preferred sitting in the dark. How the gulls screamed around the

house. The storm frightened them, even them, accustomed to wind and

waves, and they cried and wailed as they fluttered disconsolately over

the mainland. Perhaps they thought that in such a raging sea no fish

would live, that all would be beaten to pulp, and their hope of food

destroyed.

Herring seated himself in the chair; it was an arm-chair. He placed his

elbow on the arm, and rested his throbbing temples in his hand.

This was the end. She did not love him, she loved another. Who was

that other? That he did not know; she had not told him, and it did not

concern him. All that concerned him was the one fact that she was not

his. He had purchased to himself a precious heart, and when he knocked

to be admitted he was told to abide outside, the key had been given to

another.

He sat on in his wretchedness, not knowing how the time passed. He was

becoming dead and cold in his chair, as Genefer had foreseen.

He stood up at last and struck a light. He kept tinder-box and candles

in the Willapark office--tallow-candles they were--and he lighted one

and placed it on his table.

Then he opened his desk and took paper, and a pen. His hand was so cold

that he could not write. He tried to warm it with his breath, but in

vain. He must write to Mirelle. If she had told him her secret, he

must no longer conceal his--he must let her know that he had taken care

of her fortune, and that it was now her own to do with it what she

liked. Had she known that she was wealthy, she would never have

accepted him, John Herring, now in purgatory, suffering for the wrong he

had done her--a wrong done unconsciously and in good faith. She had

taken him only because she believed herself to be destitute and

dependent on his bounty. He had acted wrongly from the first. Light

came to him, as to others, when too late to walk by it. Now he saw what

the proper course would have been. If he mistrusted Tramplara, he

should have confided all to Mirelle, and allowed her to choose her own

trustee. But no! that would not have done, for, had the secret of the

diamonds come out, old Tramplara would have claimed them as the legal

guardian. He was bewildered; he did not know in what way he had acted

wrongly, and yet what he had done, conscientiously believing he was

doing right, had led to disaster--had landed him in a position from

which there was but one escape. He had been to Mirelle a worse enemy

than Tramplara. The trustee of her father's appointment had robbed her

of the money intrusted to him; he, John Herring, the trustee of his own

nomination, had robbed her of her life's happiness. Could he doubt for

a moment that had she been free she would have refused him and have

given her hand and fortune to the man of her choice? Now there lay

before him no remedy save one. He had chained her to him, and whilst

that chain remained she must suffer. Till it was broken, happiness was

impossible to her. 'Oh, Mirelle! Mirelle!' the cry broke from, his

heart. Here was bitterness past enduring, to be on the threshold of

happiness, and to be thrust back; to have the cup at his lips, and to

have it snatched from him and spilled on the ground.

He lit the fire in his grate, and warmed his fingers; he did not care

for the comfort of the fire, he sought only to thaw his hand, to enable

it to write. In his despair it seemed that there was but one course

open to him--to restore to Mirelle the liberty of which he had deprived

her. When able to write, he took the pen and ink, and slowly, with many

pauses, gave her in full the story of the diamonds stolen by Grizzly

Cobbledick from Mr. Strange's trunk, then given to him by Joyce. He

assured Mirelle that he had acted as he supposed best, with no thought

of reaping advantage to himself, certainly with none of gaining her by

means of her own fortune. She would do him this justice. He confessed

his mistake, and made the only amends in his power by restoring her the

freedom of which he had deprived her. He did not date the account, but

he signed it, and folded it. Then he made an abstract of all her money.

He stated where the remainder of the uncut diamonds might be found, and

what the amount of money was which he had received for those he had

sold, and how he had disposed of this money. The room was his office,

and his books were in it. He consulted them; and as he went over the

accounts he recovered, to some extent, his composure; but his purpose

never swerved.

When he had finished his task, he put the account with the letter,

inclosed both in one wrapper, and sealed it. J.H. was his stamp; no

arms, for he had no right to bear any.

Then he rose and went out, closing his door after him. He walked

through the snow, which was thin on the headland, for the gale carried

it away, and shook it into the sea or heaped it in the valleys. He

could see, or he thought he could see, the distant lights of Welltown.

Mirelle was not gone to bed yet; the light was red, shining through the

hall curtains. What was Mirelle doing?

The snow had ceased to fall, and the air was clear of everything save

spray which was driven over the land in scuds. The headland shook under

the blows of the ocean. On the left hand was that awful gulf,

Blackapit, an almost circular well with sheer cliffs descending three

hundred feet into the boiling foam and fury. He approached it; there

was no rail, nothing to prevent any one from falling over. On a dark

night, when no snow covered the ground, any one stepping astray would,

in a moment, plunge into that horrible abyss never penetrated by the

sun. At low water there was an inky tarn below, but now, through the

narrow entrance, mountains of water beat their way, and when within tore

themselves to froth in their agony to escape, and rolled back to the

entrance, there to clash against another intruding billow. Then there

rushed up into the air a white pillar of whirling foam that fell back

again upon the contending surf below, unable to escape upwards. The

roar of the raging water in this abyss was as the roar from the mouth of

hell. There came upon Herring the thought of himself falling down that

chasm, the hands extended, clutching at the rocks, and the nails torn to

the quick in frantic effort to cling; kittiwakes, gulls, and skuas

shrieking and dashing about him as he went down into that raging,

ravening, thundering void. Rest there!--there--there! in that frantic

turmoil, the very thought of which made a whirlpool in the brain!

Herring sprang back with convulsive shrinking before such an end. No,

he could not plunge down Blackapit!

He returned to his wooden house. It was warm and bright, and the sight

of the fire and of the candle composed his nerves after that horrible

dream of Blackapit. Over the fireplace was his gun--he had shot gulls

with it from his window. On a summer day he had taken a boat and rowed

about Blackapit and Welltown cove, and with a bullet killed porpoises.

There were seals also in these bays. How horrible was the head of a

seal, so human, rising straight out of the waves. He had never been

able to kill one, the human eyes had unnerved him when he took aim.

He resumed his seat; his candle had a thief in it, a fungus, and burned

dull. He snuffed the candle. Then he put some fuel on the fire, and

looked musingly into it. He thought of how he had first known Mirelle,

of her coldness towards him, how she had thrown away, or lost, his sprig

of white heath. He remembered the very tones of her voice when she

laughed at his name, Herring. He recalled her manner, as she scorned

the idea of his being other than bourgeois. He recollected how she had

cast reproach on the memory of her dead father, because he, being

bourgeois, had dared to mate with her noble mother. And he had done the

same thing--had taken advantage of her distress to tie her to him,--her

the ideal of nobility, purity, beauty, to himself a humble yeoman's son,

of no merit, and with few qualifications to attach any woman to him.

His breathing was short; the pain at his heart was very real and

physical. His head had been clear whilst he was working at the

accounts, but now his brain began again to cloud over.

Then he stood up, and took down his gun. It was loaded with swanshot

for the gulls. He had bullets in his drawer--for porpoises.

He drew the shot and went to his drawer; the bullets were not there. He

turned over papers, and fishing tackle, and sundry odds and ends. He

came upon a little book of sketches--how came they there? They were

drawings he had made as a child of six and seven, very rude, and gaily

painted with gamboge and carmine and Prussian blue. There was Noah's

Ark, and the most marvellous beasts of all kaleidoscopic colours,

marching up a plank into it. There was the Burning Fiery Furnace, and

the three men being cast in at the top, comical little figures, with

very little bodies, and very big hands and feet, all the toes and

fingers extended. Herring remembered painting these pictures, at a

table in a window, whilst Genefer was sewing, and his father was in the

hall below, practising on his violin. He had painted these daubs in the

little porch room, now done up in white and gold for Mirelle. No, the

bullets were not in the drawer. He could not think where he had put

them; his head was confused. He sat down again, with the gun across his

knees. When had he last gone out porpoise-shooting? He could not

remember. Not last summer, for he had been too fully engaged then at

Upaver, and only making flying visits to Welltown, and then busy with

the slate-quarry. As he sat thinking, the bunch of snowdrops Mirelle

had worn fell at his feet. He had put them in his buttonhole when he

removed them from her bosom, and now that he stooped they dropped.

He picked up the little bunch. Poor, bruised, broken flowers, crushed

and withered like his hopes; pure flowers, white as Mirelle. They had

rested all day in her bosom. He put them to his lips, and a great

trembling like an ague attack came over him. If he had asked her to

give him the flowers, would she have given them to him? Yes, but with a

needle in them to pierce his hand. She had given him herself, but with

herself his death-wound.

Now, all at once, he remembered where the bullets were--on a shelf in a

sort of recess or cupboard at the foot of the bed. He went to the place

and found them. He took one, dropped it down the barrel, and rammed it

home.

'God forgive me,' he said, 'but there is no help for it. So alone can I

undo the wrong I have done; so alone restore to Mirelle the liberty and

the happiness of which I have defrauded her.'

He leaned his head on the barrel; the steel was cold to his hot and

heavy brow. He rested it there some moments, thinking. Then he raised

it, and the round red ring marked his forehead.

The gnawing pain was not there; there was trouble there, but the pain

was in his heart, Then he lowered the butt end of the musket on the

floor, and, leaning forward, placed the mouth of the barrel against his

heart, and slid his hand down it towards the trigger. A sense of

alleviation of pain, a foretaste of rest, came to him, from the pressure

of the gun on his heart.

'God pardon me, it cannot be otherwise! May He be with her and bless

her! Mirelle! Mirelle!'

He touched the trigger.

At that moment the door flew open.

'Maister! dear maister!'

With the start, the gun was discharged, but not through his heart; the

bullet whizzed past his ear, and penetrated the roof.

Then ensued silence for a minute. Herring was leaning back, hardly

knowing what had happened, and whether he were alive or dead.

The smoke filled the little room. As it cleared away, his eyes saw

Joyce.

'Maister! sure you have frighted of me dreadful; but--I've a brought'y

the stockings.'

He did not speak. He understood nothing.

'Dear maister! what be thicky gun for? Did'y think I were a robber, and

you fired at me? No, no! I be no robber, I be come a long way. See!

I ha' done it all myself. I sed as I would. I've a brought'y a pair o'

stockings all of my own knitting.'

He remained speechless.

'Look!' she persisted; 'put thicky gashly gun away. There be no robbers

here; I be your Joyce, your own poor Joyce. Look! the stockings be

warm, of lambswool, and vitty, and I did knit mun every bit and croom

myself.'

*CHAPTER XLV.*

*'KINKUM-KUM.'*

'It be warm and comfortable in here,' said Joyce, looking round her.

'Surely, I used to think it snug under the Table when the winds were

loud; but there us had always a door open for the smoke to go out at.

There were no chimney there, and there couldn't be none, for because of

the great stone overhead.'

Herring put his hands to his brow. He was dazed. He could not

understand Joyce's presence there and then.

'What a mighty long time you've a been away from West Wyke, maister!

But, sure, I have been away a bit too. I've a been with Farmer Facey to

Coombow. I sed I'd go to 'n, and work out the hire of the waggon as

brought you home after you were nigh upon killed by Cap'n Sampson

Tramplara, and I did it. I went there, and I were there two whole months

by the moon. Both Farmer Facey and his wife sed I did more work than

two men. But, sure, this fire be beautiful. I've a been out in the

snow and wind all day, and the most of the night too.'

Herring looked inquiringly at her.

'Where have you come from, Joyce?'

'Where have I come from? Where else, sure, but from West Wyke. I be

come to look for you, and to bring'y the stockings I've a knitted. I

sed I would, and I've a done it.

'I do not understand, Joyce. From West Wyke?'

'Sure-ly.'

'Not to-day, and in this storm?'

'I've not done this all in a day once for all, but I've been a foot all

to-day, I can tell'y. It were hard walking. But see----' she held out

her feet; they were stockinged and shod. 'Bain't that vitty' (tidy),

'and bain't I peart' (smart)? 'You should ha' seen mun, though, when

they was new and beautiful; but I've a been so stogged in snow that they

be now wetted through and through, and all their beauty washed out of

'em.'

'You have walked here?' Herring was coming out of his dazed condition

into one of wonder at Joyce.

'Sure I have. I'll tell'y all about it, but I must sit me down by the

fire; I be that stiff and tired I can scarce stand.'

'Joyce, what is the meaning of your coming?'

'I'll tell'y all right on end from beginning till now. I sed I'd a been

working for Farmer Facey to Coombow.'

'What for?'

'Did you not hear me say it? He lent his waggon to dray you home to

West Wyke, after you was nigh upon killed.'

'Well, what then?'

'Sure he wanted to be paid for it. There were a waggon and two horses

for a day, and there were that boy, Jim White, along of them.'

'Why did you not tell me? I would have paid.'

'No,' answered Joyce, 'it were I as had the care of you. I sed I would

do that, and I did it. I went and worked out the hire of the waggon and

of Jim White myself.'

Herring looked at her with amazement.

'I cannot allow this,' he said.

'It be done,' she said, with an air of triumph. 'It be paid and all; I

paid with my arms, by work; and the farmer sed I worked better than two

able-bodied men, he did. And Farmer Facey's wife, her were a good un;

her larned me to knit. It came about so. When as first I went there, I

were that shy of going under the hellens, I thought I'd smother; so I

sed I'd lie in the linney, and I did lie there a night or two. It were

comfortable in the straw. But at last I seed the woman knitting

stockings, and I sed I wished her'd larn me that; and her said her would

if I'd come inside of the evenings--it were late in the fall, and the

nights were long. Well, I were that set on larning that I did; I went

in. I sed to you as I'd knit your stockings, and I've a done so. See,

there they be. That Jim White were a worrit. If he'd a let me alone I'd

have larned a deal faster; but I larned at last, I did. It wern't so

bad and spifflicating after all in the house by the great fire. The

smoke didn't fill the room; her went right on end up the chimney.

Maister! when I were larning to knit stockings. I were that set up I

thought I wern't like a savage no more as I used to be, but were dacent

like other folk, and I found like that I could abide and breathe under

hellens. Miss Cicely would hev taught me to knit, but I couldn't wait.

I had to go to Coombow and work out the waggon and Jim White. I worked

mun all out, and the farmer sed I were better to he than two labouring

men. When I comed away at last, Mistress Facey her gived me thicky

stockings, her'd a knit mun herself, and thicky shoes, they be brave and

beautiful. Her gived them to me, and would take nothing for 'em. I

didn't reckon much of 'em at fust, but I sees now I couldn't have walked

here with bare feet in the snow. So they be good for more than to look

to.'

'Why have you come here?'

'I've brought you the stockings I've knitted. I sed I would, and I've

done it. You never came nigh to West Wyke for a long time, and Miss

Cicely were lost to know what had become of you, and the old Squire be

took worse; and I'd done the stockings, and I thought as you'd never

come to see 'em. One day when the Squire were very bad, Miss Cicely

comed to I, and said as how her wondered why you never came, and as how

her wished you could know how the Squire were, and that he were axing

every day after you. Then I sed, the stockings were done, and as you

didn't come for mun, I'd carry mun to you. Her told me where you lived.

I were to go right forward to Launceston, and there to ax my way to

Boscastle. So I sed I'd go, and I'd take your stockings. The wind were

up and there were going to be ice and snow, and you'd be wanting them to

keep your feet warm. So I came.'

'But, Joyce, how did you find your way here, to this house?'

'I came about dark to Boscastle, and I went about and inquired after

you, and some sed they didn't think you was here, and some sed, if I

wanted to find you, I must go to the office, you were there mostly, and

always of nights; and they gave me directions, and so I came.'

'But, Joyce, it is now past midnight.'

'I dare say it be. I couldn't get in at the door when first I found the

little house, and tried, and there was no light in the windows, and I

thought you might not be come yet, and I'd wait about a bit. So I

waited on the lew side, but the wind were so wild, and the snow drifted,

and I were forced to go away. But I came again after a while, and still

the door were fast. So then I thought I'd go and find a haystack or a

linney, where I might sleep, and I'd come again in the morning. But I

rambled about for miles, and never found nothing of a place where I

might lie. I got to one house, where there were lights in the windows,

but a dog began to bark, and I were feared he might bite me as Farmer

Freeze's dog had bitten and tore me--you mind that time as I hearkened

to the hooddoo,--so I didn't venture into the shippon but comed away,

and then I don't know exactly where and for how long I wandered about,

but at last I saw a light here, and I found my way back to the office,

but I had rare tumbles and climbings over walls and into ditches.

However, I have found you here to last, dear maister, and I be glad, I

be glad.'

'Good heavens, Joyce! is all this true?'

'Sure-ly. Did I ever tell you a lie?'

'Since when have you been afoot?'

'I started afore light, I reckon about five o'clock.'

'My poor, poor Joyce!'

'I be none so poor now. See my stockings and shoes! And do'y look here

what a sight o' brave clothes I have, as Miss Cicely gave me.'

'Have you had anything to eat?'

'Sure. A woman at a cottage gave me some bread and a bowl of skimmed

milk.'

'When?'

'I reckon at noon.'

'Twelve hours ago. Have you had nothing since?'

'No; I couldn't wait when I comed to Boscastle, I were that longing to

get on and find you.'

'Joyce, you must be starving.' He sprang up and went to the cupboard,

the same whence he had taken the bullet. A week ago he had a loaf and

some cheese there. The bread was stale, but still it was edible. He

brought it out, with the cheese and a knife.

'Joyce, off with these soaking shoes and stockings. Sit down at the

table and eat what you can. I will get you something warmed over the

fire to drink as quickly as I can.'

The thought of what Joyce had gone through distracted his attention from

his own misery. There were others in the world beside Mirelle, others

demanding his consideration and sympathy.

'The Squire be took cruel bad,' said Joyce, 'and Miss Cicely be very

desirous to see you, and that you should come to the Squire. There be

Upaver mine. Squire have a looked after things so long as he could, but

there be nobody to do that now.'

'What is the matter with Mr. Battishill?'

'I dun know, but he be cruel bad; and the mistress were looking along

the Okehampton road every day, and hoping as you would come. You've

been such a long, long time away, and us can't get on without you no

ways, that you knows very well.'

He was a help to some. His presence was desired by some. Only to

Mirelle he was unwelcome.

'Be this house yours?' asked Joyce, looking round. 'I won't say but

her's comfortable wi' fire and can'l and all sorts; but her's none so

big as West Wyke, and not such a wonderful sight bigger than the Giant's

Table. I know when I gets back, Miss Cicely will be asking of me about

it; what sort of a place her be, and whether her be big or small, and

built of stone. Her's all of board, just like some of them places they

runned up to Ophir, where the gold was. But that be all tore abroad

now.'

Poor girl, she was hungry. The bread was hard as biscuit, but she ate

it eagerly. Herring gave her some hot wine and water.

'The old Squire be axing after you the first thing in the morning. And

he do fret wonderful for you. Miss Cicely do say it be like a child

wanting his nurse. He be gone a 'bit tottle' (foolish), 'I reckon.'

'I shall go back to West Wyke to-morrow, Joyce.'

'O glory rallaluley! I be glad. I'll have a wink of sleep, and then

I'll be fresh as a buttercup to go wi' you. I may go along of you,

mayn't I now, maister dear?'

'Yes, Joyce. You shall not walk, you shall ride.'

'I rided once afore wi' you,' she answered, 'but you know nort about

that. It were when you were nigh upon dead, and I held your head in my

arms all the way, and you never waked but once, and that were on Sourton

Down, and then you held out your hands, entreating like, and cried

something, and that were all, and never spoke no more.'

'What did I cry out?'