The storm had passed away, almost suddenly. The clouds had broken; in
the west the moon hung unveiled, and cast a ray of purest silver into
the little room, and bathed in her stainless light the poor savage and
the young soldier, kneeling and praying together.
*CHAPTER XLVI.*
*A BAR OF ICE.*
Next morning John Herring returned to Welltown. He was a changed man.
His lightheartedness, his simplicity of character, were gone for ever.
Hitherto he had been a big boy, with buoyant spirits and with a belief
that the world was a paradise. He was a man now, seeing life before him
as a sad desert that must be tramped over, where he must meet with
suffering, and count himself happy if, at long intervals, he reached and
could rest by a brackish pool. The world is no paradise, it is a vale
of Sodom, where the pits are bitterness and the rivers brine. It is no
playground, it is a convict establishment. It is a theatre in which all
act tragedies, and the lookers-on mistake them for farces.
Herring had spent the remainder of the night by his fire, revolving in
his mind what must be done. Joyce slept soundly on his bed in the
corner, tired out with her trudge through the snow. Herring had made
her take off her gown, and had thrown an old fishing coat of his over
her. Though he sat over the fire thinking of his own future and
Mirelle's, he cared also for Joyce's boots and gown and stockings, that
were drying by the stove, and turned them, and took thought that they
were not burnt.
In the morning he sent Joyce into the village of Boscastle to detain the
chaise in which he had come to Welltown the previous evening. Then he
went to see Mirelle once more.
He was, as Joyce had observed, greatly oldened and altered. One night
had worked the change in the outer as well as in the inner man. There
comes a time to all when the rose-coloured spectacles must be laid aside
for those of blue glass. The time comes sooner to some than to others.
It had come now to John Herring, and the aspect of everything was
changed to him.
Mirelle was unaltered. She was pale, indeed, but that was her usual
complexion, and her eyes were red, but they had been red the day of her
marriage. She was more collected than on the previous evening, and
Herring was more composed.
He entered the house without Genefer perceiving him, and went upstairs
to the little porch-room. Whilst he was in the hall he heard Mirelle's
steps above, and knew she was there.
She did not seem surprised to see him. She received him with ease and
gentle kindness, not as a husband, but as a friend. There was in her
heart a sense of relief; she could speak with him on an understood
footing, and she would not be subjected to demonstrative affection.
Herring was prepared for this. She saw that he was looking worn and ill,
but she made no remark. She was the cause of the change in his
appearance, and she knew it. She regretted it, but it was inevitable.
Mirelle was dressed in a sober dark gown. Every trace of bridal white
had been put away. When he entered, she was engaged on her trunks.
'Your jewels are here,' he said, showing her a secret drawer in a large
old cabinet. 'I give you the key. Do not leave it about; though nothing
is to be feared from Genefer or Hender, yet it is wise to keep articles
of value under lock and key, and not to trust the key to any one.'
'They are of no value. They are paste.'
'I beg your pardon, they are not. I took them to a jeweller, who
examined them. Some of the stones had been abstracted at some time, and
replaced by artificial diamonds, by whom and when, I cannot, of course,
say. I have had all these taken out, and true stones of good quality
put in their places. The necklet and diadem are now perfect as at
first.'
Mirelle was surprised.
'You think the set of diamonds was originally complete.'
'I am convinced it was so.'
'And that the stones had been removed and paste substitutes put instead
into the sockets.'
'I believe so.'
'Then you do not think my father gave what was worthless to my mother?'
'I cannot suppose so. It is not likely. The pendant was tampered with
more thoroughly than the rest of the set, because it was removable.
Probably after that had been altered, one by one the stones of the
necklace were removed. Some person in need of money disposed of the
stones as the need came.'
Mirelle thought.
'Yes,' she said, 'I have no doubt it was done by Antoinette.'
'Who was Antoinette?'
'My mother's maid, who did everything for her. I am glad to think that
my father was not guilty of a mean act. I thank you for clearing his
memory from such a stain. Henceforth I shall believe that Antoinette was
guilty.'
'So be it; and from henceforth I hope you will realise the necessity of
keeping precious stones under lock and key. Show them to nobody
unnecessarily, and, above all, show nobody where they are kept.'
They spoke to each other with perfect coolness and self-possession.
Pyramus and Thisbe met and conversed with a wall between; John Herring
and Mirelle were separated by an invisible wall, but it was one of ice.
'I have brought you, as well, the key of my office on Willapark. I keep
there my accounts of the slate-quarry. Should anything from the office
be required, the foreman will come to you. If not asking too much, I
would wish him not to be given free run over it, and that you should be
present when he wants anything. There are things there which I do not
care for him to turn over, papers and accounts among which I do not wish
him to rummage. You will do me this favour?'
'Certainly. Are you going away?'
'I am going away for a while. You know that I am working a valuable
silver lead mine on the borders of Dartmoor, and it must be looked
after.'
Why did he not say where it was--'near West Wyke? where you and I first
met, where your father died?' He did not say this, because it would be
painful for him to say it, and for her to hear it. The name would call
up recollections they must endeavour to crush out of their minds.
'You will return again?'
'I will come back to see how the slate-quarry progresses. I had
purposed building a breakwater, but I shall not now carry out this
purpose.'
'Why not?'
'The lead mine is sure to engross nay time and attention. I shall be
here but little. My interests will be centred in the silver lead.'
'Very well.'
'I shall provide for your comfort. You will have, as before, your own
account in the bank, under the same name, Mirelle Garcia de Cantalejo.
You will draw from the bank what you require.'
'I thank you, Mr. Herring. You are very kind.'
'You will do with the money what you like; you are entire mistress of
it. You will pay for the expenses of the house from it, and keep what
company you like. There are not many neighbours, but such as there are
will call, and they will be hospitable to you, and glad to receive
hospitality from you. I dare say you will require additional servants.
Genefer----'
'I beg your pardon, I do not wish to have that woman in the house. She
frightens me.'
'She is a worthy, devoted soul. You are sure to like her when once you
have learned her value.'
'She frightens me; I thought I should have died of fear last night.'
'I cannot consent to her dismissal. She was my nurse, she has been with
me from my birth, and loves me as if I were her own child. When I look
back I see how her life has been devoted to me. Besides, the home farm
is let to Hender, and he and she must live here: there is no other house
for them, and the outbuildings are included in the lease. It is
unavoidable. If I could have gratified you in this particular I would
have done so, but I cannot.'
Mirelle became, if possible, colder. She bowed her head stiffly.
'Very well,' she said, after a pause, awkward to both: 'if it cannot be,
I must endure this cross also. But I entreat you, do not say me nay to
my next petition.'
'I will not. I would refuse you nothing, you may be very confident, but
the impossible.'
'It will not be impossible for Orange and her mother to come here and
reside with me.'
Herring took a hasty turn up and down the room. The request vexed him
greatly. There was something in Orange he did not like, something in her
manner towards Mirelle which made him mistrust her professions of
affection, something--a coarseness of mind which he suspected rather
than perceived, which he shrank from voluntarily bringing into contact
with the unsullied purity and delicacy of Mirelle's soul.
'Is this also refused me?' asked Mirelle. Then her coldness giving way,
the assumed stiffness yielding to her natural emotion, 'Oh, John
Herring, do not be unkind to me! You have been so good, so much better
to me than I deserve.'
'I--I unkind to you, Mirelle!' In a moment also his assumed coldness
cracked, and the warm suffering heart showed its blood through the rent,
as the black crust of lava that descends Vesuvius breaks, and the fire
of the core is seen glowing between the rough edges.
'I tell you the truth, my friend,' she said. 'I will call you my friend;
that you have been ever since we have known each other--that you are
still.'
'Yes,' said Herring, regaining his composure, 'what I have been, that I
am and shall be, your friend--nothing more.'
'I tell you the truth, that woman Genefer nearly killed me last night.
I was sitting over the fire till late, after----' she hesitated.
'After I left you; yes, go on.'
'After you left me, after I had driven you away, my friend, my poor
friend!' She looked up into his eyes piteously. He turned his away; he
could not bear to look into the soul that was not his, that never could
be his. She went on: 'After you were gone, I sat on till very late,
thinking. I was unhappy, and I cried. I sat by the fire; you can
understand, I was in trouble about myself and about you. After midnight
I was roused by hearing the most dreadful shrieks and the rushing of
feet along the passage overhead.'
'That was nothing,' said Herring, forcing a smile. 'My good Genefer has
strange fancies that take her perversely at unsuitable seasons. She was
only driving the devil.'
'But I cannot bear hearing the devil driven in the depth of the night,
in a lonely house, in the midst of a raging storm. It will kill me. I
have been very ill, you must remember, with a nervous fever, and it has
left me weak and liable to be shaken by strange events. I fear that I
cannot bear such an event again. I cannot stand much.' She looked now
full of entreaty and helplessness--a frightened, feeble girl, in dread
of strange things, she knew not what.
'That is true. I will see and speak to Genefer before I leave. I must
give some explanation of, and excuse for, my hurried departure, and at
the same time I will be peremptory with her on this point. She must not
do such a thing again. If she wants to drive the devil, she must drive
him in her own chapel.'
'This house is so lonely and cold. I must have some one always with me,
some one whose presence will be a protection against fears, some one
whom I can consult about matters that concern the house. I am wholly
ignorant about these; I am only a girl just come from school, and come
into a strange land. When I was at Dolbeare I slept with Orange, and I
should like to have her here to sleep with me again. Then, if I heard
noises in the night, I would cling to her, and she is so strong and so
brave that she would protect me and revive my courage.'
'I do not like Orange.'
'May I not have her here? I must have some one, and I had rather have
her than any one else.'
Herring again paced the room. A great repugnance to this proposal rose
up in his heart: he had no real and reasonable grounds for it, but he
had an instinctive dread of the plan.
'You will not refuse me this,' pleaded Mirelle. 'See! I did not ask
you for all those generous and kind things you have devised for me. But
a man does not understand the feelings of a woman. You are strong and
unable to comprehend my terrors. To you they are childish and absurd,
but they are very real and serious to me. I only ask you this one
thing--if Genefer must remain, let Orange come.'
He could not resolve to give his consent.
'Would it not be better if I were to find you a suitable companion, some
lady, young, and, if you desired it, of your own faith?'
'How can I tell that she would suit me? There were many girls, my
schoolfellows, at the Sacre Coeur. They were of my own age, and all
were good Catholics, but with several of them I could not live, and with
some I should not care to live. How can I tell that you would find me
just the very girl that I should like? No, I know Orange. We do not
think alike. She has not faith. She is older than I am, and though
companions we are not intimates; but I know her, and she loves me; she
has good sense and she can advise. That is all I want.'
'Was there no girl at your old school whom you would like to ask to come
to you? You must have had some dear friend there.'
'Yes, there was la Princesse Marie de la Meillerie; we were close
friends. But conceive! I could not invite her to this place of
banishment, where there is not a tree nor a flower. This world here is
not nature in flesh and clothing, it is the skeleton of nature, and it
demands the enthusiasm of a geologist to admire such a country. My
companions, again, were of the _haute noblesse_, and were not of the
sort to become _gouvernantes_ to young unprotected ladies.'
'No, I see that.'
'Moreover, who would come here, where you have a church picked bare to
the bones of all that surrounds and sweetens religion? My friends are
Catholics, and love a living church, not one which is only bones, though
the smallest of bones be preserved and _in situ_, and the entire
skeleton be well set up.'
'I dare say it is so.'
'Then you will allow Orange Trampleasure and her mother to come to me.
See you! they are at Launceston, and are left without money.'
'I promised in your name to place five thousand pounds to the account of
Miss Orange.'
'Yes, I do wish that. But that is not sufficient. They are not
comfortable at Launceston. It was there that they met with their great
reverse. It was in that house that Mr. Trampleasure died. The people
of Launceston suffered by the failure of the gold mine, and they will
not forgive Mrs. Trampleasure and Orange, though only the old man and
Mr. Sampson were guilty of wrong towards them. I know that Orange and
her mother would like to leave the town, and go elsewhere, where they
are not known. That also is a reason why I wish them to come to me.'
'Very well,' said Herring: 'if it must be so, let it be so. It is a
compromise, and a compromise is never satisfactory. I retain Genefer
and you Orange. Ask them to come here to you on a visit of a couple or
three months--temporarily--not as a permanence, and only till they have
made up their minds where they will finally settle.'
'I must accept this,' said Mirelle, with a sigh: 'you were so very, very
kind to me _before_--now that we are married, you are only half as
kind.'
'Do not speak like this,' said Herring, hastily. 'I am what I was
before, a friend, nothing further--I can be nothing further.'
'You will be always my friend?'
'Always.'
He drew a long breath. His heart was swelling and likely again to rend
the crust and show its fires. He conquered himself and held out his
hand.
'You will find that one drawer of my desk in the office is locked; I
keep the key to that. Everything else is open to you. Good-bye!'
'What, so soon?'
'I am going away in the carriage that brought us to this place
yesterday.'
'Ah, well!--to the silver lead mine.'
'Yes.'
'What will be your address?'
'You will not need it.'
'Shall you soon return?'
'I do not know. Good-bye.'
They shook hands. Mirelle's lips trembled and her eyes filled. She
bore Herring a sincere regard; she felt her deep indebtedness to him.
She had treated him with great cruelty, and had caused him unspeakable
suffering. This was a chilly separation. She felt inclined to say
something better than 'good-bye'--that is, to say 'Stay.' But she could
not do this.
They touched hands through the walls of ice that intervened, and that
froze the word on her tongue.
*CHAPTER XLVII.*
*WELCOME HOME!*
The weather changed with the capriciousness proverbial in the West of
England. There a week of continuous frost and east winds is almost
unknown. No sooner has the snow been shaken over the hills than the sky
repents of its cruelty, and brings a warm breath over the face of the
land, before which the white mantle vanishes as if by magic, and the
grass comes forth greener than before.
It was so now. The wind had changed after midnight, and a rapid thaw
had set in. Herring returned to Launceston in the carriage in which he
had left the day before. The post-boys had removed their favours, and
the earth was putting off hers as well. Herring took poor Joyce back
with him. When she came to Launceston, she desired to push on. She
wished, she said, to go to Coombow and see Mistress Facey. Herring was
obliged to remain the night in Launceston; he had to make the
arrangements with the bank that he had undertaken.
He did not go to Dolbeare. He saw no one but the banker; and then he
went on his way by coach. He did not pick up Joyce. Perhaps he overtook
and passed her on the road without noticing her; his mind was full of
his own troubles, and he had no attention to bestow on the road and
those who were on it.
When he passed Okehampton his thoughts took a turn. The grand bulk of
Cosdon rose before him. The soft glory of the evening sun was on it,
the snow had not thawed off the mighty head, though it had gone from the
valleys, except where drifted and screened from the wind and sun. The
rooks were wheeling and cawing, they anticipated fine weather, and were
thinking of overhauling their last year's nests. Valentine's Day, for
birds as well as for maids and men, was only a month off. The rooks
blackened a field, the worms had come out after the frost to enjoy the
sun and soft breeze, and the rooks were enjoying the worms. 'Caw, caw!'
Then the guard blew his horn, and away they went, a rush of black wings,
but to no great distance. They settled in a couple of oak trees, and
waited till the coach had gone by. The coachman cracked his whip. That
alarmed them more than the horn, it resembled the report of a gun, and
they sprang into the air with loud remonstrances against a repetition of
the St. Bartholomew's Day of last rook-shooting. 'Caw, caw!' They
danced a minuet against the blue sky overhead, a minuet of incomparable
intricacy. There be three things, said the wise king, too wonderful for
me--the way of a bird in the air, the way of a ship in the sea, and the
way of men and maids. The ship darts from side to side, tacking against
adverse winds, aiming at a port which she seems to avoid; and the way of
maids with men sweethearting, in the Valentine days, in sweet spring, is
much the same, full of tricks and evasions, disguises and cross
purposes, wonderful as the way of a ship, wonderful as the mystic dances
of the rooks overhead.
The air was warm, the sounds were spring-like, the beautiful moor was
glorified by the sun, setting in a web of golden vapour. The scene was
familiar to Herring, associated with pleasant days. He got off the
coach at the bridge over the Taw, that he might walk quietly up the hill
and over the downs to West Wyke. Windows were glittering in the sun
like gold leaf. There was one that was open and swinging in the light
air. It flashed across the valley shafts of fire, welcoming flashes to
the broken-hearted man toiling up the hill. In a thorn-bush the
sparrows were chattering--hundreds holding parliament, all their little
voices going together, and none attending to what the other sang or
said. Lo! in the hedge, already, a celandine, the glossy petals as
glorious as those flickering windows. A sense of rest after long
trouble came upon Herring. He stooped and picked the
celandine--January, and these bright heralds of sunshine out already,
come forth to welcome him home to West Wyke.
How soothing in his ear sounded the murmur of the Taw, rushing over the
old grey granite boulders, breaking from the moor to run a quiet course
through rich meadows and among pleasant groves. The gentle rush had a
lullaby effect on the troubled heart of the walker. A very different
sound this from the boom of the Atlantic against Willapark and the
churning of the imprisoned billows in Blackapit.
A track led off the road to Upaver. How was the mine getting on? The
track was well trampled and the wheel marks many; that was a cheering
sign. Hard by stood a post which Tramplara had set up, painted white,
with a board on it and a hand pointing moorwards, 'To the Gold Mines of
Ophir.' Some one had scrambled up the post, scratched out the 'To,' and
written in its place 'Damn,' giving thereby coarse but emphatic
expression to the general sentiment. Herring smiled bitterly as he
noticed this. Next he came to the cottages.
'Good evening, sir! Glad to see you home again.'
The speaker was a labourer returning to his fireside, his day's work
over. Herring did not remember him, but the man knew him, and his tone
showed pleasure.
Home!--was this home?
'How is all going on with you?' asked Herring.
'Well, sir, my missus hev given me another little maiden. That makes
fourteen childer. Eight maidens and six boys, but we've a buried three.'
'You have your quiver full.'
'They bring their love wi' them, sir; and that, I reckon, you'll find
when you've a home of your own, and a wife, and the little uns coming
every year.'
Herring sighed.
'Good evening, sir. Here be my nest.'
'Good-night.' Then Herring went on--home? Before him was West Wyke, and
the last glimpse of the sun was on it. The window of West Wyke it was
that had flashed the welcome to him.
The old ash trees, the old gateway with the grey owls, the old chimneys,
the old ivy-mantled porch, the old firelight flickering through the hall
window. A moment more, and the old welcome.
With an exclamation of delight, Cicely sprang from a stool by the fire
to meet him, as he entered without knocking; entered as he would to his
home. He was no stranger, to knock and ask for admission. He went
straight in, and in a moment felt that he ought to have more hands than
two to give to those who grasped them.
The old Squire and Cicely held him.
'Oh, John, dear cousin John, you have come at last!'
'John, John, I am so glad to see you again.'
But who was that, also, on her knees, insisting on having his hand to
cover it with kisses, sobbing and laughing, with tears and joy in eyes
and voice? 'Oh, rallaluley. The maister be come back from that whist
place!' Yes--Joyce. The true, devoted Joyce, who had only stayed an
hour at Coombow with Mrs. Facey, and then had walked on, all night, and
had come in--nay, burst in, on the Battishills in the morning, with the
tidings that the master was on his way back to West Wyke. Over the
chimney-piece, about the pictures, wherever it could be stuck, was
bright holly with red berries. And see! hanging from the black beam, a
bunch of mistletoe.
Herring's heart was full. He could not speak, but he took Cicely's head
between his hands and kissed her; he stooped and lifted Joyce and
pressed his lips to her cheek; and the old Squire's arm encircled him,
and drew the young head down beside the old grey one.
The tongues of all failed. Herring raised his eyes, over which a mist
was forming, and saw above the doorway an inscription in red holly
berries--
Welcome Home.
By degrees only did the flush and fever of joy in these good simple
souls subside, and Herring was able to recover his composure.
Then the young man stood by the Squire's chair and looked at him. His
heart reproached him for having deserted him for so long a time.
'We hoped you would have dropped in and eaten your Christmas dinner with
us, John,' said Mr. Battishill. 'We set your chair at the table, and a
sprig of holly by your plate, in hopes you would arrive.'
'I am very sorry, sir, that I was not here. I should have been far
happier here among such dear, kind friends.'
'It is you, John, who have been a kind friend to us,' said the old man.
'Just consider. If you had not rescued the mortgages out of Tramplara's
hands when you did, they would have fallen to the creditors, the
directors of Ophir, and we should have been turned into the cold.'
'You repay what little I have done for you a thousand fold,' answered
Herring.
There was a flush on the old man's cheek, caused by excitement.
'Now we have you here again,' he said, 'you must remain with us, at all
events, for some time. Consider this as your home.'
'Yes,' answered Herring, 'I have no home elsewhere.' He spoke sadly.
Cicely looked hard at him. He went on, 'I will stay on with you till I
tire you out with my society.'
'That can never be. There is Upaver crying out for you; I am past
attending to that. I am not what I was a few months ago. The wheels
are becoming rusty and the gear breaks.'
Cicely looked from her father to Herring questioningly. Did John note
the change in the old man? A change there was; he was failing in many
ways. Just now the delight of seeing Herring again had revived him,
nevertheless the change was observable enough. The eager look had gone
out of the eyes, and the lips had become more tremulous than ever.
As Cicely turned her eyes from one to the other, there dawned on her the
truth that a change had come over John Herring--a change greater than
that which had passed upon her father. She had not been apprised of
this by Joyce, and was unprepared for it. She noticed it first with
incredulity, then with perplexity, and she resolved to speak with him on
the subject. The man was not the same. The same in outward feature, in
colour of hair and eyes, but he was not the same in expression. He was
aged. A wave had passed over his head, and he had come forth half
drowned. The elasticity was gone from his tread, the sparkle from his
eye, the dimple from his cheek, the laugh from his lips. The eye had
become more steady, lines had formed on his brow and in his cheeks; the
lips had lost their flexibility, they were closed and firm. He no
longer held his head erect with strong self-consciousness; he seemed to
have acquired a slight stoop, the head was somewhat bowed.
It was clear to Cicely that Herring had undergone some grievous trial,
of what sort she could not guess, and that he had emerged from it with a
strengthened character, though with a saddened heart. Cicely did not
indeed take this in all at once. Her curiosity was roused and her
attention fixed, and by degrees the greatness and significance of the
change forced themselves upon her.
The old man observed nothing. But now Joyce, who had been thrust into
the background, insisted on asserting herself.
'See, dear maister, what be come to your Joyce. Do'y look here!'
She stood forward in the light--the light of several candles, lit to
welcome Herring home. She wore a dark-blue serge gown, and a white
kerchief round her neck, and crossed over her bosom. Her luxuriant dark
hair was combed and pruned, and fastened up under a white cap. The gown
was short, and showed white stockings and black shoes. Her wild face
was subdued and softened, the rudeness had gone out of it, and a strange
tinge of sweetness and modesty had come in place of the savagery. She
was really a handsome girl, of splendid physique, easy in every motion.
'Did'y ever see wonder like this?' asked Joyce, holding out her skirts
and apron, and showing her white stockings. 'And see how grand my hair
be. What do'y say to this, maister dear?'
'Why, Joyce, I congratulate you with all my heart. This is what I have
been wishing for, but never hoped to see.'
'You have wished for it--you! O glory and blazes! I be glad.'
'I told you as much, Joyce,' said Cicely Battishill.
'I know you did, miss, but I couldn't believe it. I thought you sed it
just to persuade me on.'
'Cousin John, we have enlarged our household to-day. We have taken
Joyce in. Her dread of going under the "hellens" has given way. She
will learn to make herself useful. Now, Joyce, you may go back to the
kitchen, and help Charity to get supper ready.'
'What has become of the old man--Grizzly?'
'We allow him to sleep in one of the linneys, and he is given broken
meat once a day. He has fallen into bad ways of late. Ophir injured him
as much as it injured his superiors, only in a different way. He
learned from the workmen to drink, and now he loafs about the country
trying to get something given him by inconsiderate persons to keep his
throat wet. He is at Upaver a good deal; there the miners make game of
him, and treat him. He has taken to smoking. I have threatened that if
he carries his pipe into the shippon, I shall refuse him the linney as a
bedroom, and he will have to return to the Giant's Table.'
'I am glad that he and his daughter are parted.'
'There was no chance for her as long as she remained under his thraldom.
Fortunately she had set her head on going for two months to a place
called Coombow, and that opened the way to her leaving Grizzly
altogether. He is a hopeless savage. We did believe at one time that he
was capable of improvement. He worked hard on his patch of land. But
Ophir diverted him from the upward path, and since then he has been
going down hill nearly as fast as his barrel when it broke from its
tether.'
'Well, John,' said Mr. Battishill, 'I must not let Cicely engross you.
Come and talk to me. I will tell you what we have been doing at Upaver.
We have got the leat cut, and the wheel and crushers in place, and a
smelting house run up. I have not been able to go there myself, but the
foreman, a very worthy, sensible fellow, comes up every other day and
reports progress. I have seen to the accounts as you desired; but I am
not what I was. My head has become confused, and I have had to ask
Cicely to help me out with the accounts. I hope you will not find them
in a great muddle, but I was never very precise, and ladies do not
understand the difference between debit and credit sides of a balance
sheet. The table of work is left with me, and I pretend to look it
over, but have not the means of verifying it. I do not think much has
come out of the mine yet. I cannot say the profits are large. Indeed,
the credit side of the book is blank.'
'I do not expect anything yet. I am content that the machinery should
be in place and in working order. Now I am here, we will attack the
lode.'
'There is the rub, John; the machinery is up, but not in working order,
the leat is cut, but the water won't run along it.'
'That will soon be rectified, and then the profits will come in freely.'
'I hope so, John.'
'I am sure of it, sir. Do not you lose heart.'
'I have made such a failure of life, John, that I have ceased to be
sanguine. I can see nothing in the retrospect but blunders and losses.'
'No, sir, you have made mistakes, but all must do that before reaching
success. Upaver was your own discovery.'
'That is true, very true. I think we will christen this mine Wheal
Battishill.'
'Do you not think Wheal Cicely would sound better?' asked John Herring.
'My suggestion is the best,' said Cicely, colouring. 'Let it be Wheal
Friendship.'
A bright and cosy supper. The great fireplace full of crackling flame.
A white cloth on the black oak table near the fire, and silver and glass
upon it sparkling in the candlelight, and the flicker of the flames
embracing a huge faggot.
'Good luck never comes alone,' said the Squire. 'What do you think! My
dear old friend, John Northmore, has sent me a couple of pheasants. I
have not seen him for many years, and I do not know how he comes to
remember me now; however that may be, he has, and most opportunely.
Here comes one of his pheasants to table. I thought I was forgotten of
all the world, but--I hope it is an omen of coming success to Wheal
Friendship--old friends are beginning to remember that there is such a
man as Richard Battishill, J.P.'
'Shall we sit down?' asked Cicely. 'Everything is ready.'
'Although my cates be poor, take it in good part,
Better cheer may you have, but not with better heart,'
quoted the Squire. 'You are godfather to the wine, John. It is some of
the case you ordered down from Exeter. We will drink in it success to
Wheal Friendship.'
The old man was garrulous and cheerful during supper. The family plate
was brought out in honour of John Herring, and the Spode china, red with
burnished gold in leaf and scroll. How bright and comfortable the table
was, how warm and cheery the room! What kindly happy faces were round
the table! This was something like home.
The pain did not leave John Herring's heart, the cloud did not remove
from his brain, but, under the influences now brought to bear upon him,
the pain lost its first poignancy, and the cloud hung less deep. At the
conclusion of supper, Cicely persuaded her father to go to bed. The old
man was obstinate at first. 'He liked to be with John, and to chat with
him over the fire. He had just begun to enjoy his wine. The room had
only now become warm--why should he be banished to his cold chamber
upstairs? He had not seen John for months, he had business to discuss
with him. There was a good story he remembered, which he wished to tell
him;' and so on, a string of reasons why he should not go to bed. But
he was weak, and, though he was obstinate for a few minutes, yielded to
his daughter's perseverance, and she helped him upstairs. John Herring
remained by the fire. He was glad to be alone; he stood with his back
to the fire, thinking. Two nights ago--forty-eight hours only--had
passed since he had gone home to Welltown with his bride. Home!--was
that home? The house half buried in snow was cold within, the reception
was cheerless, no fire, no table spread, and, worst of all, no love from
her whom he had taken to be his wife. He had been driven from that home
with despair in his heart. He returned to West Wyke: the sun was
shining, the birds singing, the flowers opening, the house was decked to
receive him, and the kind hearts therein bounded to meet him.
Which was his real home? He raised his eyes to the door as it opened to
readmit Cicely Battishill, and read over it, in scarlet letters,
'Welcome home!'
Cicely seated herself opposite him in the ingle nook, and the soft
firelight played over her pleasant face and glowing auburn hair. She was
a thrifty body, and she had put out all the candles save two on the
great table. These were not really needed--the firelight filled the
room.
'How do you think my father is looking?' she asked.
'He is greatly altered. I fear that his anxiety about both Ophir and
Upaver has been too much for him.'
'Ophir did upset him greatly, but Upaver--Wheal Friendship, I mean--has
done him good; it has occupied him, and taken his thoughts from his own
infirmities. He thinks he is deep in business, and that amuses him. He
schemes all sorts of things and suggests them to the foreman, who is too
civil to say that they are impracticable. No, Upaver has been to him
not a care but a distraction. That which ails him is general failure of
power. The doctor has visited him and is very kind, and he can do
nothing. The new parson at Tawton, Mr. Harmless Simpleton, has also
called, and seen my father. He is a very admirable and agreeable
gentleman.'
'Your father seemed cheerful this evening.'
'Yes, he was excited by your return. It has given him the greatest
pleasure to see you here again. You do not know how he clings to you.
Cousin John, I cannot express myself as I ought, but I feel very deeply
thankful to you for having relieved and brightened the closing days of
my father's life. We were threatened with disaster, and it seemed at
one time as if he would sink, and utter ruin would cover and blot us
both out. You have saved us, and now the dear old man's evening is like
one which succeeds a day of cloud, when suddenly all the vapours roll
away, and a blaze of golden sun glorifies the landscape. I believe that
my father is as happy as he possibly can be now that he has you here.'
Herring made some commonplace remark in reply.
'Yes, we owe a great deal to you--more than we can ever repay,' said
Cicely.
'You are going to make my fortune at Upaver,' said he, half jestingly.
'Oh, John! that is nothing to you. You do not care about that.' She
paused for a couple of minutes, with her eyes on the fire, rocking her
foot, her hands clasped over her knee. Presently she turned towards
him, with sympathy in her honest eyes and in her trembling mouth. 'Do
not be offended if I tell you what I have observed. There is a great
change in you. I am sure you have gone through a time of great trouble.
We were selfish, and vexed, and impatient, because you did not come to
us. We thought you were amusing yourself elsewhere, and had forgotten
us, and how much we depended on you. We had no suspicion that you were
unhappy. I can see that you have had your cup of bitterness. Neither
my father nor I have asked you any questions about yourself at any time,
and we really know nothing about yourself and your belongings. I do not
want to know anything now that you do not wish to tell me. Indeed,
indeed, I would do or say my best to comfort you, if I thought that I
were capable of making you happier by my interference. There was
something you said just now to my father--it was only one sentence, but
I saw that it contained in it the kernel of much trouble. My father bade
you look on this house as your home. Then you answered that this was
the only home you had. Did you really mean what you said?'
'Yes, Cicely. I have no home anywhere, except this that you offer me.'
'You have lost Welltown?'
He hesitated. Then he said in a low tone, 'I have lost it in one sense.
It has ceased to be a home to me; the acres remain--that is all.'
'Oh, John, I am so sorry for you. I know you loved the place. I know
what an ache it would give me to lose West Wyke.' She did not in the
least understand what his loss really was. He did not enlighten
her--indeed, it was not possible for him to do so.
Presently she returned to the charge.
'Have you any brothers or sisters?'
'None.'
'And your father and mother are dead?'
'Yes. My mother died when I was born, and I was reared by a nurse. I
know her only by her picture.'
'John, tell me,' she looked at him very earnestly, and with her
expressive and sweet face full of compassion; 'tell me--have you no one
then to love you?'