The news did not seem to interest him greatly. Herring saw with concern
that he was looking feeble and old. He had fallen back sadly after the
flicker of last night.
'I am not strong,' said the Squire; 'I cannot speak loud or long to-day.
Come here.' He took John Herring by the hand. 'Come, Sissy.' He
beckoned Cicely to draw near. 'John, I fear my time is coming to an end.
I have been trying to-day to become interested in Upaver, but I cannot.
I can only fix my mind on one thing. Perhaps when that is settled, then
I may be able to hear about Upaver, but not till then.'
'Do not lose heart, Mr. Battishill, now that you are on the threshold of
success.'
'It is this, John. Should I have another stroke, or be unable to attend
to matters, what is to become of Cicely? What is to become of West
Wyke? I want your promise that you will stand by her and the old
place.'
'I will do all I can for her, and for West Wyke. You may rely on me,
sir.'
'I felt convinced in my own mind that I might do so, and yet I desired
your promise. I became troubled, and clouds came over my spirits. As
Sebastian says, "My determinate voyage is mere extravagancy." It always
has been so with me. I have set my mind on the wrong things, and gone
the wrong ways to work when I took anything in hand. But it is not so
now. Owls can see in the dark, and so can I. If I have made blunders
hitherto, I will hit straight this time. I have your promise, have I
not, John?'
'Yes, Mr. Battishill.'
'You will not desert poor Sissy. She has no relations, and I have
positively no one in the world to look to except yourself, whom, upon my
word, I have come to love and regard as a son.' The old man patted
Herring affectionately on the shoulder.
'I give you my promise, sir.'
'There! that makes me content,' said the old man. He had taken Cicely's
hand in his left, he held John by the right. All at once he put their
hands together. 'There!' he said, and chuckled, 'as Hamlet says, "There
is a kind of confession in your looks, which your modesties have not
craft enough to colour." I know you love each other. I give Cicely to
you, John, and my blessing. You will take care of her--and, you will
quarter the owls.'
He leaned back and his eyes closed. He was satisfied that at last he
had done the right thing at the right time. The fatal faculty of making
muddle and mischief followed him to the end.
Herring turned to Cicely and released his hand. She was trembling.
'You, Cicely, insisted that we were cousins. You have heard your father:
he has made the relationship closer. We are henceforth brother and
sister.'
She looked up, then her eyes fell, and the colour rose and sank in her
face.
'Yes,' she said faintly; 'I understand perfectly, _brother John_.'
*CHAPTER XLIX.*
*CAST UP.*
'It be good for the soul to see men die,' said Genefer, entering
Mirelle's room. 'Come along of me, mistress.'
'What is it, Genefer? Do not frighten me.'
'In the midst of life we are in death. It teaches us how frail and
uncertain our life be. Come and see 'em die afore your naked eyes.'
'Genefer, I will not!' Mirelle held back in alarm.
'You must come. The wreck is drifted right into Welltown cove, and it
will be your own rocks as will break the ribs of the vessel and cut the
flesh off the bones of the drownded. If there be a chance to save any
of the poor creatures on board of her, then you must be there to direct
what is to be done. You be mistress here now. I know my duty; so do
Hender. When the master weren't here, and afore you comed, it were
different. But now, it be not Hender nor me as be answerable. It be you
as is put in authority, and have to say to this man, Come, and he
cometh, and to another, Go, and he goeth. If you bide at home and do
nothing, then let 'em be drownded, and them as has done good shall enter
into life, and them as has done evil shall go into everlasting death,
and the blood of the souls that be lost shall rest on your head.'
'But what is it?'
'I tell you there be a vessel drove by the storm right in, and her be
drifting into Welltown cove. It be no good her trying to get into
Boscastle Harbour, with the white horses galloping. Her comes side on
upon the reef, and will go scatt afore your eyes.'
'Can nothing be done?'
'You must be there and see,' answered Genefer Benoke: 'if there be lives
to be saved, they will be saved, but you must be there to see to it.'
Mirelle put on her cloak and hat, and went forth. This was a duty, and
Mirelle had a strong sense of obligation to do her duty, whenever it was
presented before her.
The storm of last night had subsided, and the wind had shifted. A thaw
had set in, and the sun was streaming over the melting snow. The blue
sea was strewn with foam streaks. Though the wind had abated, the sea
was still churning. The passion of the night could not abate at once;
the pulses of the Atlantic were throbbing. The sight was magnificent.
The billows that rolled upon the headland were at once shattered, and
sent up columns of foam white as the snow upon the ground. Earlier, the
morning sun had painted rainbows in the salt drift, but now the sun hung
over the sea, and, if he painted them still, did so unseen by those on
land. The whole coast was fringed with a deep border of fluttering white
lace. The air was salt, and the lips of all who faced it became briny.
Out at sea stood the Meachard, an islet of inaccessible black rock,
capped with turf. On this no snow rested. The waves besieged the
Meachard on all sides, like the rabble of Paris attacking the Bastille;
they appeared to explode on touching the rock into volumes of white
steam, that rushed up, whirling, and swept the crown. The reflection of
the sun in the sea was shivered into countless, ever-changing flakes of
fire. Over the surface of the water the gulls were fluttering in vast
numbers--they seemed like sea foam vivified.
This was the sea after the storm, already exhausted, and with relaxed
power. What must it have been in the height of its rage, during the
night?
'Where is the ship?' asked Mirelle, looking in vain for a vessel on the
uneasy surface.
'Look!' old Genefer pointed.
'What, that? It is so small.'
'There be men aboard, living and calling on God now, and in ten minutes
they'll be standing afore their Judge. They can look out of their eyes
now, and see you up here on the cliff in your black gown, and in ten
minutes their eyes will be full of salt water, and able to see nothing.
They can cry aloud for mercy now, and in ten minutes the time of mercy
will be over for each, and the time of retribution will be begun!'
Mirelle could hardly believe that the little cockleshell drifting on the
rocks before her could contain men in jeopardy of their lives. It was
but a cockleshell, a child's ship made of a walnut. But there were men
and women on the headland watching intently and with interest the fate
of that petty boat, and an excise officer stood there with his telescope
to his eye.
'She is the "Susanna" of Bristol,' said he.
'Her's never been in our harbour,' observed a Boscastle man. 'I reckon
there be about four aboard. Her be about the size to carry four.'
'What be the lading, Pentecost?'
'That don't matter to you or I, Gerans,' answered Pentecost. 'Times be
altered when an honest man might profit by what the Lord sent us.'
'It do seem a deadly shame that a man may not accept the good gifts
Providence showers upon him, but the Government must interfere.'
'Ah!' put in Genefer, 'that be the way of things. The sower sows his
seed, and the fowls come and carry it away. The Lord sows His word, and
the Church passons come and take it away that it can bring forth no
fruit, and leave nort in its place. It is the same when He sends a
storm and casts a ship ashore. A Christian man may not stoop and take
up a keg of brandy the Lord has rolled to his feet, but the 'xisemen
must come and take it away, so to speak, out of his mouth.'
'There be five shillings for every corpse as be picked up and brought to
burial,' said another. 'But I'd rather have a keg of spirits than a
corpse any day. Besides, who's to earn a crown like that? They may do
it on the shores of Essex that be mud and sand. But here! old Uncle
Zacky goes about after a storm with a sack, and picks up what gobbets of
human flesh he can find on the shore, but the parish won't give un more
than half a crown for as much as he can carry up the cliffs, and that
takes a sight more picking up than would a whole corpse. These bain't
times in which honest men may live.'
'I say, maister!' called Pentecost to the preventive man; 'spose her be
laiden with sea coal, and the coal come ashore. Do'y put your foot down
on that and say nobody ain't to shovel that up, it belongs to his
Majesty, God bless him? And next tide the coal be all licked down into
the belly of the ocean, and is no good to none.'
'What be the good of us keeping donkeys?' asked Gerans; 'I reckon they
cost us something for hay in winter. Us don't keep donkeys for nort; us
keep 'em to bring up the cliffs whatever comes ashore. And us is to
have the expense of keeping donkeys and not to put 'em to no use! We
are to keep the donkeys for the delight of our eyes, as beautiful
objecks of nature.'
'I reckon her be laden with cloam' (earthenware) 'ovens,' said
Pentecost. 'I wish his Majesty joy of them when they comes ashore. If
Job were here and wanted a shard to scratch himself withal, and ventured
to pick up a bit of scatted cloam off the beach, you'd be down on him in
a jiffy, wouldn't you now, maister?'
The preventive officer took no notice of the gibes cast at him; he kept
his telescope on the vessel.
'Her be on the breakers now,' said one of the men.
'What be the good of staying here?' asked another. 'There be no chance
of getting nothing unless us was to chuck this chap over the cliffs
first.'
'Don't say that, Pascho; there'll be five shillings for every corpse we
can bring up the cliffs. And if we manage to save one alive, surely the
young lady here will give us a trifle and a drop of cyder to drink her
health and the corpse's. I seez it in her eye.'
'I will give you ten guineas for every man you save,' said Mirelle,
vehemently, 'and as much as you can eat and drink.'
'Didn't I tell you so?' exclaimed Pentecost. 'Look alive, boys! There
be the ship gone scatt! Down the cliffs with you all, and see if we
cannot earn a few gold guineas and drink long life to the lady and the
corpse as we brings up alive.'
The ship had struck. The waves and foam swept over her, and in a few
moments she went to pieces. Some figures were discernible battling with
the water. It seemed to Mirelle impossible that these tiny ants were
sufferers, that they were of human flesh and feelings like herself--they
seemed so small. There was nothing horrible in the sight: it was not so
shocking as the drowning of mice turned out of a trap into a bucket.
When Gulliver cried with pain in Brobdingnag, the giants laughed. In a
microscopic creature the agony of death must be microscopically small.
Mirelle looked on the drowning pigmies, quite unable to realise the
awfulness of the event, her sympathy stirred by her reason, not by her
heart, for the appeal was not such as could move the sympathy save
through the brain.
The first to sink was the mate. We will fly over the water with the
gulls, instead of straining our eyes from the cliffs. Are the gulls
about us screaming or laughing? The first to sink was the mate. He was
an old seaman, a godfearing man, honest of heart, who had left the sea
because he had earned enough to maintain himself on land in his old age.
But he had lent his money to a younger brother, to enable him to set up
a small shop in Bristol. The brother failed and ran away, leaving a
wife and four little children wholly unprovided for. So the old man
went to sea again to earn enough to support his brother's deserted wife
and children. He sank. The gulls are cynics--they laughed.
The second that sank was the captain; a fine man, upright, rough in
exterior, but soft-hearted. He had been an unlucky man. Engaged to a
girl he had long loved, after many years of waiting, in which both
turned the corner of life, he was now making his last voyage before he
married her. She was at Bristol, preparing the little house they had
taken. She had put flower-pots in the window, and was this morning
setting a geranium there, to make the place look bright for the return
of William and her own marriage. Then he sank. She would not see him
again. The gulls laughed.
The third who sank was a boy, the only son of a widow. The boy had
wanted much to go to sea, but he was the darling of his mother, and she
would not suffer him to go with any but our captain, whom she knew and
could trust with the only being on earth she loved. Now he was gone,
and the widow must weep. The gulls laughed.
The fourth who went down was a sailor, a careless fellow, drinking and
heeding neither angel nor devil; but there was a vein of gold in his
heart waiting to be brought to the surface. It is said that on
midsummer night all buried treasures rise and shine. Midsummer night had
not come to him yet. Another year, and he would be a better man, but
this other year was denied him. He sank, and the gulls laughed.
These were all who sank, but there was one who came ashore. He and the
boy were clinging to the same piece of timber. Then this man kicked the
boy on the chest and so he fell off and went down, and this man had the
balk to himself. The waves went over him, and he lost consciousness,
but not his hold. He was saved, and the gulls, wheeling above, laughed
and scoffed more loudly than before.
Up the narrow track cut in the face of the cliff this man was carried.
'By goll!' said Pascho, 'I hope the chap ain't dead, but he looks cruel
bad. It makes all the difference to us between five shillings and ten
guineas.'
'Now look here, you niggers!' exclaimed Pentecost, angrily. 'What be
all you a coming up and making believe you are helping? You've had nort
to do with the saving of this chap, and so don't you come putting in
your claims for a share. Go back and see if you can't pick up a corpse
or two as will find you in liquor or backie for a week or a fortnight.
The ten guineas is to share between five of us? and that will be four
too many. I lugged un out of the water.'
'Ah, but I squeedged the water out of his chest,' said Pascho.
'And if I hadn't held the rope,' said Gerans, 'you'd have all been swept
into the water and become crowners' sittings.'
'There!' said Pentecost, 'chuck him across a barrel, and let the water
run out of him.'
'There be no barrel here; lay him flat.'
'Yes, in the snow indeed. Do you think I want to risk my honest
earnings that way? He must be took to bed and hot bricks be put to his
feet.'
'Where is he to go to?' asked Pascho.
'To Welltown, of course; where else? There ain't no other house nigh.'
'Let the young lady see un,' said Genefer. 'It be a rare fine sight for
the soul to see a man hanging atween life and death. Let her see un.'
The men laid their unconscious burden at the feet of Mirelle.
She looked into the face with mingled sympathy and terror. The figure
seen battling with the waves had grown big--human size now, it was no
longer an ant. She could feel pity.
As she looked, she started and shrank away, holding up her hands to shut
out what she saw.
'There!' said Genefer, 'it be a brave and improving sight. I reckon it
do as much good to the soul as a lump of sugar with a drop of peppermint
on it does to the stomick when out of sorts. It warms and strengthens
and gives tone. He be a young man. Well, the Lord, I reckon, has got a
work in store for he, as He has called him out of the deep, and has
given him the life back as were trembling at the door of his heart to
leave. As for the rest, they be cut off in their sins. Take him to
Welltown.'
'Stay, stay!' exclaimed Mirelle, interposing with vehemence. 'He shall
not--he shall never go thither. Never, so long as I am mistress there.'
'Is he to lie here on the snow?' asked Genefer. 'You will have to give
an account of it if he do, and die in consequence.'
'He shall not be taken to Welltown.'
The men looked at each other.
'Where be we to carry un to, then?' asked Pentecost.
'If he die, I'm danged if it be fair if you deny us the ten guineas. He
has life in him now, and if he lose it, it will be your fault, young
lady. We've done our parts and earned our money.'
'Take him where you will, but not to Welltown.'
'There is no other house near.'
'Here,' said Mirelle, her hand trembling: 'here is the key; take him
into the slate-quarry office. There is a bed there.'
'Ay, let him go there,' said Genefer; 'he can be cared for there just as
well as at Welltown.'
The men stooped and raised the unconscious man again. Mirelle covered
her eyes--the man saved was Sampson Tramplara.
She had promised ten guineas--and that ten guineas had saved his
worthless life. Well for her had she at this juncture offered fifty to
have him tossed back into the sea. The men would not have done it for
twenty--there were too many present; they would have hesitated for
thirty. But for fifty, he would have troubled her no more.
*CHAPTER L.*
*TWO DISOBEDIENCES.*
Next day Orange arrived. Mirelle had sent for her; she could not remain
longer alone at Welltown, especially now that young Sampson was so near.
She did not go to the office on Willapark to see him; she did not
inquire after him. But she told Genefer that he was to be supplied with
whatever he needed, and was to remain where he was till he was well
enough to leave, and then he was to go his way.
As soon as Orange arrived Mirelle told her that Sampson had been saved
from drowning after shipwreck, and was at the office; and Orange went
immediately to see him.
Sampson was now quite recovered from his submersion. The fire was
lighted in the stove, and the room was warm.
'Oh! you have come, have you?' he asked, when Orange entered. 'Not
wise, I reckon, unless you are bent on bringing observation on me. What
is this I hear? I am on Herring's land and in his office! This is a
queer state of affairs; but the wheel of fate in its revolutions lands
one in strange places, and places where one would least like to be. How
came you here?'
Orange explained to him what had taken place since his disappearance;
how Mirelle had been married to John Herring, and she had been brought
to Welltown.
'That's queer. I haven't seen either him or her.'
'I am told that he has been called away on business--military, I
suppose--and you cannot be surprised if she has not chosen to see you.
She knows well enough who you are. But now, Sampson, about yourself.
How came you here? And--are you safe, quite safe, here?'
'No, I arn't, that's the cussedness of it all. I can't stay here,
especially now the Countess Candlesticks knows of my presence and has
got a tongue in her head. If I stay here I shall be taken, and I can't
go, because I have no money to go with.'
'How came you here?'
'Cast up by the sea, I reckon,' answered Sampson.
'But how came you to be wrecked?' asked Orange.
'Why, because I was aboard ship.'
'You may as well answer me civilly,' said his sister. 'If you get away
from this place, it will be by my help, and I must know all about you,
and whither you want to go.'
'Curse it,' said Sampson, 'if you want to know whence I have come I will
tell you--from Bristol, and if you want to know why I left, it is
because Polly Skittles has blown on me. If you want to know where I am
going, you must be content to remain in ignorance, for I don't know
myself.'
'But, Sampson, how came you to be in Bristol?'
'Because it was not my intention to run to France, or any place where I
could not speak a word of their damned parleyvous. I don't see why a
fellow should not lie snug in England instead of going into exile
abroad. So, when I had to leave Launceston, I cut off first to Plymouth;
but there I became funky, that was too near home, and so I made for
Bristol, and there I've been enjoying myself ever since, and might have
been living at ease like a fighting cock but for Polly Skittles.'
'You behaved abominably, Sampy. You carried off all the money that was
in the house, and left mother and me absolutely destitute.'
'Oh, ah! I was not such a fool as to leave anything. Every one for
himself is my maxim. But be reasonable; if I had left money you would
not have had it, the creditors would have been down on you and have
carried off everything. By George! I have had many a laugh over that
Ophir since I have washed my hands of it. That was a rare plant, better
than Polpluggan. And father did come out splendid in it. The way in
which he beat old Flamank's covers and bagged his game was superlative.
Well, he died like Wolfe at Quebec. "They run! Who run?" "The
Ophirites." And didn't they run!'
Sampson clapped his knees and roared.
'It strikes me that it was you who ran,' said Orange, sullenly. 'Now,
tell me, what are you going to do?'
'I'll tell you one thing I have learned, and I had to go to Bristol to
learn it. Orange, never trust a woman. I might have been all right now
but for Polly Skittles. I was an ass, I allow that. I sent word to her
at the Pig and Whistle where I was, and asked her to come to me and
share my fortune with me. Well, she couldn't keep her tongue in her
head, but was bragging about the rich man she was going to marry, and so
from hint to circumstance, and all was blown. The beaks were on the
scent and after me, and I had to make a run for it. I got on board the
"Susanna" for Port Isaac. I thought if I managed to get there, I might
give them the slip again. And now, damn it all, here am I stranded at
Boscastle, and when the news reaches Bristol that the "Susanna" has been
lost, it will be known also that I am saved, and the beaks will be after
me again.'
'What has become of the money, Sampson?'
'Oh, blast it! there is the mischief. I brought away all I had with me,
and it has gone down in the "Susanna." I did have some trifle about me
when I came ashore, but those who saved my life relieved me of my purse.
That was natural, and I cannot complain; I'd have done the same. But I
am mad to think that all the gold of Ophir lies at the bottom of the
Atlantic.'
'What is to be done now?'
'You must provide me with money.'
'Nonsense, Sampy. I--I have nothing. You know that well enough.'
'I don't know anything about it. You're clever enough to get what you
want. You hooked Captain Trecarrel fast enough when you had set your
mind on having him.'
Orange became scarlet. 'You are cruel, Sampson; you are worse, you are
brutal. I will have nothing more to say to you.'
'Yes, you will,' said he, insolently. 'If you don't I'll go myself to
Welltown, and force that pale-faced fool to give me money.'
'You know that she was plundered as well as others. Her money was sunk
in Ophir.'
'I know that she can take her husband's money now. I suppose she has
wit enough to keep the keys of his cash-box. Women are not such fools
as to omit that.'
'I cannot ask her for money; indeed I cannot, Sampy.'
'Look here, Orange. How the devil am I to get away from this place
without blunt? And how am I to live when I get away without ditto? You
don't suppose I can dig and plough, do you?'
'I tell you I have nothing.'
'Then you must get me something. I've been overhauling this office and
I can find nothing in it. There is a drawer locked in the desk that I
have not opened and examined, but I shall know its contents before long,
even if I have to break the lock. I don't, however, expect to get much
out of it. A man does not leave money in such an uninhabited place as
this.'
'If I get you a little you must be content with that.'
'If you get me a little I will be content with it only as long as it
lasts, and when spent, then I shall want more.'
'What folly this is! You carried off every penny you could lay hands
on, and now you ask for money from those you have plundered.'
'I do not ask you for your own money, I know you have none to give. I
want some of Mirelle's money, or her husband's--it is all the same. Get
me her diamonds if you can. Do you not understand? I dare not remain
here above a day longer; I must be off before the beaks are on my track.
How is a man to get away without a penny in his pocket? He must halt
and beg on his road, and where he begs there he is observed. I must
double on the hounds on their way hither. If I make for Bath I shall
do. They are sure to run to Port Isaac, whither the "Susanna" was
bound.'
'I wish you were safe away. I do not relish your being here. It would
be exceedingly unpleasant for me were you taken whilst I am at Welltown.
I do not want ugly stories to get about this neighbourhood, for here my
mother and I will have to live.'
'I don't suppose you do,' answered Sampson; 'more the reason why I
should be given facilities for clearing off.'
'I really do not know what to do. I might represent to Mirelle that you
had lost everything, and ask her for a little money, a few pounds; but I
cannot, I will not, entreat for a large sum.'
'Why not?'
'Because it is against my own interest. I am not yet settled into the
house. I have but arrived to-day, and if my mother and I are to take up
our quarters here, I must not begin by making myself disagreeable to the
hostess. You know what Mirelle is. She is simple in some things, but
when you think you are going to turn her round your fingers, you
discover that she is the most impracticable person you ever had to deal
with.'
'I say, Orange, what about those diamonds of hers?'
'They are paste.'
'I don't believe it.'
'She gave me part of the set, the pendant, and the stones in that were
all artificial.'
'You fool,' said Sampson, 'that was why she gave you the brooch. If
they had been real, do you suppose that she would have made you such a
handsome present?'
'I do not know,' answered Orange, sullenly. She was angry with Sampson,
and she wanted to get rid of him. It would suit her very well to live
with Mirelle. She hated Launceston, and wished to leave it. She trusted
that something was going to be done for her by Mirelle in fulfilment of
the promise made by John Herring on the wedding day, but she was not
certain. At all events it was most convenient for her to live with
Mirelle, and, if she were given money, to lay it by. She had
indignantly rejected the suggestion of taking Captain Trecarrel, but she
loved him still, and she entertained a lingering hope of future
reconciliation. If he wanted her, he would come after her. She had
sufficient sound sense to know that he could not marry her if she was
without private means, because he was poor himself. She was jealous of
Mirelle. The Captain had hovered about her; Mirelle had drawn him off
from her. She was not at all sure that the Captain would desist from
his attentions now that Mirelle was married. She wished, therefore, to
be with her rival so as to watch her.
'Orange!'
'Well, Sampson.'
'I say. We were always allies.'
'To what does this introduction lead?'
'Where does Mirelle keep her diamonds?'
'I do not know. I have come here to-day for the first time.'
'I wish you would find out.'
'I can find out fast enough.'
'I say, Orange. If I could finger them, you wouldn't see much of me for
many a day, and that is what your sisterly heart desires.'
'I wish I could be sure of that.'
'You are not over fond of the Countess Candlesticks, I reckon.'
'I hate her,' answered Orange, vehemently.
'You would not mind getting those diamonds for me, would you? She don't
want them. What use can she make of them in a desert like this? She
would not miss them.'
'I tell you, Sampy, I do not know where they are, and what is more, if I
did know, I would not give them to you. I am not going to risk my place
in the house for you.'
'Who is to see you take them? Lay the blame on me. Find out where they
are and tell me, and if accessible I will work my way into the house and
get them.'
'It won't do; it won't do indeed. If I knew where the stones were, I
would not mind telling you; and if you could get them without risk of
detection, and without in any way involving me, I would not care. But I
will not help you to them.'
'If I had them, I'd be off to America at once.'
'There--I must go now,' said Orange, rising. 'I will try to get you
something, but you must not expect much.' She turned to go out. She
was flushed and annoyed. The presence of Sampson was vexatious to her,
and might prove inconvenient.
'Stay a moment, Orange. Have you any keys about you?'
'I must go--yes, I have. I brought away the bunch from Dolbeare, in my
haste. What will mother do without them?'
'She can send for the blacksmith, I cannot. Leave them with me. I want
to look inside that drawer. There is a file in the cupboard, and I can
make a key fit the lock I intend to open. Thank you, Orange. You are a
good sister--worthy of me. You do credit to your father also. Now you
may go.'
In the night a tap sounded at the door of Willapark office. Sampson had
been working hard and was tired. He was snoozing in the chair over the
fire. He started instantly to full consciousness and in alarm. His
fears subsided when the door opened, and he saw Orange enter, very white
and trembling.
'Well,' he said, 'what have you brought me?'
'A little money,' she answered, 'not much. I could not get much for you.
I have had a quarrel with Mirelle--about you.'
'Have you brought me the diamonds?'
'No, and did not intend to do so; but I know where they are, and they
are where you cannot get them.'
'Where is that?'
'In a very strong oak bureau in the room over the porch, and in a secret
drawer in the well of that. That room cannot be entered except through
the hall, main stairs, and Mirelle's bedroom. So put the thought of the
diamonds out of your head. The bureau is always locked, and Mirelle
keeps the key. Even if you got into the room, which is not possible,
unobserved, you would not be able to open the cabinet. There--that is
the end of that foolish dream, and I am glad of it. Had you taken them,
I might have been suspected. I have had a quarrel with Mirelle--about
you. But I must sit down moment, Sampson, and then run back.' She was
out of breath; she spoke in short sentences, breathing hard between
each. 'When we were together, she began to speak about the pendant she
had given me, and to ask for it back. She said she would have the paste
diamonds removed, and real stones put in their places. She told me that
her necklace had been examined, and that it had been found that some
only of the stones in it were false. A lady's maid of her mother had
tampered with the jewels. Then she desired to compare my brooch, with
its paste diamonds, with the real stones in her necklace; she got up and
went to the bureau; she took the key out of her purse. There was a
secret drawer opening out of a sort of well in the middle, and she
brought the set of stones out of that. After that we had compared the
false with the real diamonds she returned the necklace to its place,
relocked the cabinet, and replaced the key in her purse. Then we began
to speak about you. I told her that you were without any money, that
you had lost everything in the ship, and had been further robbed by the
men who saved your life. She asked what of?--of the stolen money? I
then begged her to let you have something to help you to get away. She
set her lips, and put on that stubborn look I know so well. She would
give nothing. You had robbed Mr. Flamank and many others, and it was
your duty to surrender yourself and suffer for your misdeeds. If you
had any conscience and honour, that was what you would do, and she would
not help you to evade the consequences of your own acts. My blood rose,
and I spoke sharply. She was cold, hard, and obstinate. At last I got
her to give me something, not for you, but for myself. She and her
husband had made me a promise on their wedding day to give me some
trifle, and I asked her if she purposed fulfilling that engagement, or
whether it was only an empty promise. Then she replied that Herring had
made the promise and would fulfil it, and that, if I was in immediate
want of money, she would give me a small sum, all she could spare, for
she had not more coin in the house. I was forced to be content. Here
are twelve guineas; take them and be off. I can get you no more. There
is no more to be got.'
'Well, Orange, I must take what I can get. The diamonds can wait. I
have found something better than them in the locked drawer.'
'What is it, Sampson? Money?'
'No, not money. Do you like John Herring, Orange?'
'No.'
'I hate him,' said Sampson. 'You do not love Mirelle, I believe?'
'I hate her!' answered Orange, passionately.
'What I have found may serve to wipe off mutual grudges.'
'I am glad of it; use your knowledge.'
'I intend to do so on the proper occasion.'
'Well, good-bye, Sampson; I must return. Mirelle must not know that I
have been here. I hope I have seen the last of you for some time.'
'I do not know. I must have a word with John Herring before I disappear
entirely.'
O foolish Mirelle! Herring, before leaving, had laid on her two
injunctions, to intrust no one with the secret of where she kept her
jewels, and to allow no one to enter his office unattended by herself.
She had disregarded and disobeyed both injunctions.
*CHAPTER LI.*
*TWO EXITS.*
John Herring said nothing to Cicely in allusion to what had passed. He
could not do so. He was naturally reserved about himself, and he could
not tell her of his marriage without telling her also of his separation
from his wife. The questions would spring to her lips: 'When were you
married? Why have you left her? Why are you now staying at West Wyke
instead of at Welltown?' These were questions she would naturally ask,
and which it would be impossible for him to explain to her. His trouble
was his own. The heart knoweth its own bitterness, and a stranger
intermeddleth not therewith. A woman delights in pouring forth her
griefs into a sympathetic ear. A man hides his sufferings, and resents
sympathy as an insult. Herring had said enough to let Cicely understand
the position in which he stood towards her--that of a brother, a
position he would never abandon; she had recognised this, and had
accepted it.
Herring thought night and day of Mirelle. He could not shake the burden
off his heart, and, whatever his distractions, it remained oppressing
him, an ever-gnawing pain. He wondered what Mirelle was doing; whether
she liked Welltown--that place he loved so well. When the sun shone out
of a clear sky he thought, it is fine to-day at Welltown, and Mirelle
will go upon the cliffs and hear the gulls scream and look at the
twinkling sea; she will inhale that wondrous air which to him who
breathes it is the inspiration of life in long draughts. Would she dare
to go in a boat to Blackapit, when the sea was still, and look up those
walls of inky rock striped with ledges on which the sea birds nested, up
into the blue sky above, in which even by day stars can be discerned?
Had she wandered to Minster Church, down in a valley embowered in trees,
with the ruins of the old monastery crumbling about it? O how happy he
would have been to be able to accompany her to the loved spots, wild and
picturesque, that had been his delight in boyhood! Would she venture on
an excursion to S. Kneighton's Kieve, and pick there the maiden-hair
fern, dancing in the draught of the falling water? Would she visit
Pentargon, that glorious cove with precipitous walls of rock black as
night, over which a stream bounds in a long fall to meet the sea?
He thought of her sitting by the fire, in her white bridal dress, so
lovely, so sad, so like a phantom, from another world. Mirelle haunted
him. She filled his whole heart. Later, he would return to Welltown,
when he and she had had time to realise the relation in which they stood
to each other, and the first poignancy of the disenchantment was past.
Mirelle was to him the ideal of purity and perfection. He knew his own
unworthiness. He was not the man who ought to own her as wife; he was
rude and simple. She should be placed on a pedestal in a temple, to be
approached by worshippers on bended knees. The snowdrops were out in the
West Wyke garden. Herring plucked one every morning and wore it all
day. Mirelle had worn snowdrops in her bosom when she married him. The
snowdrop was her appropriate flower, white and fragile.
Herring was at Upaver all day. The mine was turning out better than
even he had anticipated. There was no question now about the extinction
of the debt on West Wyke. Mr. Battishill's profits would blot that out
and redeem the mortgages. Mirelle's money sunk in the machinery would
yield a dividend before the year was half out. Herring saw to
everything himself. He inspired the men with energy. The contractor's
bad work at the buildings was made good. His mind was occupied from
morning to night; but he never forgot his trouble for one moment. It
was ever there rankling in his heart: it took the gloss off success.
Mr. Battishill had sunk into a condition of mental feebleness and bodily
exhaustion that engaged his daughter's constant attention. The old man
could not be left alone. He no longer rose from his bed to take his old
seat in the hall.
When Herring came back from Upaver, he went upstairs to the Squire's
room, where he found Cicely knitting, and he sat there for an hour
talking to the sick man, trying to interest him in what was going on at
the mine. After dinner with Cicely in the hall, he went up again, and
read Shakespeare to Mr. Battishill. The Squire was always ready for
that. He had his favourite passages, and these he repeated after
Herring, but his power to follow the movement of a scene and to
distinguish characters was gone. Old familiar sentences caught his ear,
and he murmured them after Herring, as he might follow a prayer, but his
mind did not take in the sense. Yet he never wearied of this
Shakespeare reading; it was like well-remembered melodies striking his
ear and lulling him to sleep.
When the Squire had had enough, he always laid his thin hand across the
book, and said in the words of Coriolanus, 'I am weary; yea, my memory
is tired.' Then Cicely, John Herring, and Joyce knelt together by the
old man's bed, and he folded his hands and said the one familiar prayer;
and then Cicely and the rest bade him good night and left him.
Sometimes the old man would become uneasy, and ask John whether he would
protect Cicely. 'You will always stand by her, will you not, John?'
Herring was obliged to give him the assurance he required.
'You are my children.'
'Yes, sir; brother and sister.'
'Brother and sister,' repeated Cicely.
Then the old man murmured, 'And she is fair, and, fairer than that word,
of wondrous virtues.'
The Vicar of Tawton, the Reverend Harmless-Simpleton, was frequent in
his calls. He was an amiable and well-intentioned man. The Simpletons
are a large family, that have never thriven at the bar, in medicine, in
the army and the navy, but the Harmless-Simpletons (the two surnames
united by a hyphen) have for several generations made the Church their
happy hunting ground. They have gone up in the Church like corks in
water. The fattest livings, prebendal stalls, and even bishoprics have
been showered upon them. As Napoleon won all his battles by one rule, so
the Harmless-Simpletons acquired promotion by one simple principle. In
the field of doctrine they never taught a truth without first treating
it as a taxidermist treats a frog, killing, disembowelling, then blowing
out the fleshless, boneless skin with wind, and varnishing the empty
nothing. In the field of morals they never attacked a real enemy, but
discharged their parks of ordnance, brought down charges of heavy
dragoons, and displayed the most skilful strategy against imaginary
foes.
When the Reverend Harmless-Simpleton called, he divided his visit into
two parts, one of which was devoted to Mr. Battishill and the other to
Miss Cicely, in the ratio of three to seven. Mr. Battishill was pleased
to see and hear him, and Miss Cicely became deeply impressed with the
reverend gentleman's amiability and good intentions.
So, little by little, the old Squire faded away.
There was another old man, who, much about the same time, made his exit
from the stage, but in an altogether different manner.
Grizzly Cobbledick had been denied the linney in which to lie at night,
'like a heckamal in a haystack.' He was obliged, much as he objected to
it, to return to the Giant's Table. As he feared that his old woman
would be disposed to trouble his repose there, he provided himself with
the means of sleeping soundly, in the shape of a stone jar full of
spirits. Moreover, he paid a libation to her manes every night. He
threw some drops of gin into the fire, saying, 'There, old cat! take
that, and lie quiet.'
Grizzly was so far civilised by association with men that he knew the
value of money. He had lost his shyness in the presence of men and his
reluctance to appear in the neighbourhood of houses, and he would go
into Zeal and hang about the taverns for drink and tobacco.
Now he had money of his own, and he launched into extravagance. He
purchased a jar of Hollands, and carried it off with him to the Table,
to comfort him at night--that he might lie in the straw and suck and
nod, then suck and doze, open an eye and suck once more, and then drop
off into a drunken stupor.
That which amused and puzzled him greatly was to see the spirit flame
when he cast some drops on the lire. Water quenched fire: how came a
liquor to leap into flame? This was more than his dull mind could take
in. But it seemed to him that the essence of fire must be in the
spirit, that was why it warmed him within, and danced and glowed in his
veins. John Herring had been as good as his word. He had sent him
straw, and the straw was heaped up at the back of the chamber.
'Take care, Grizzly,' said the man who brought him the bundles. 'Take
care that your fire don't get to it; keep it well off.'
Grizzly had sense enough to do this. When he was sleepy the old man went
backwards into the straw, disappearing entirely with the exception of
his head and the hand that held the stone jar. The only firing was
peat, and that did not flame.
When Herring cast him his purse, it was with the words: 'Some men cannot
be helped. One must let them go to the devil their own way. You are
one, and the sooner you go the better.'