He kept his word. He went even faster than he intended, and the way he
went was this.
He was sitting over the fire one evening. He had his stone jar under his
arm, and he was patting it.
'Her be running dry, her be,' said he. 'Poor thing! let me hold'y up and
try again.' He spoke to inanimate objects as though they were endowed
with souls as reasonable as his own. 'There!' said he, as he cast a few
drops on the fire, and laughed at the flames that leaped up; 'that be
the blue blazes I've a swore by all my live and never knowed 'n, to see
to, I reckon. Now there bain't another drop left. What ever shall I
do? I have got more money, but no more spirits, and what be I to do all
night long? Ah! I be a poor lorn creetur, I be. My old woman, her
deserted me first, and a mighty shabby trick that were. Do'y hear me a
speaking of 'y, old cat? Then my daughter Joyce, her left me--that is,
I sold her when her'd a gone of herself. 'Twere good for me I got some
money out of the deal: if I hadn't, her'd have cut and run all the
same.' He sat and poked the red turves together. 'I wonder,' he said,
'what there be in thicky barrel I took from Ophir? Like enough there be
first-rate drink in her. Old Tramplara weren't one to do things by
halves. Her be hid away under the fern. I reckon I'll have her out and
try.'
He groped beneath the straw to a nether layer of bracken, and from under
that rolled a small keg.
'There ain't much comfort to be got out of she,' he said, 'her be so
gashly small. I wonder what there be in her? Her be hard to open.'
He put the little barrel down by the fire.
'I reckon I could manage a hole wi' my old stone knife. Then he got the
flint tool, and worked it between his palms on the end of the keg. The
fire was getting low; he threw on some more turves. Then he ventured on
a wisp of straw to make a blaze and assist his eyes.
'Oh, rallaluley!' he exclaimed, 'I've got the hole drilled through at
last.'
He had stolen this little barrel from Ophir during the disorder
occasioned by the discovery of the imposition. It was the only thing
that he thought might possibly be of service to him. He took it away,
and hid it under the fern at the back of the dolmen, intending to
examine its contents at his leisure.
'Why, there be no drink here at all,' said he in disgust, when he had
put his lips to the hole he had made. 'What be this? I've a got my
mouth full of grit; it be black as coal. Blast me blue, but I will let
my old woman taste it too.'
He let the contents run out in a little stream; then he gathered a
handful of the grains and cast it in the fire to his 'old woman.' The
contents of the keg then found their way out in a more expeditious
manner than through the hole he had bored. The keg contained blasting
powder.
Thus it came about that he fulfilled his promise faster than he had
intended. Thus also it is that one of the most interesting monuments of
a prehistoric age will not appear on the Ordnance Map of Devonshire now
in process of execution.
*CHAPTER LII.*
*THE RETURN OF THE WANDERER.*
John Herring bad fulfilled his promise. He had made over five thousand
pounds to Orange Tramplara. No sooner was this effected than it was
whispered in the ear and the same day proclaimed on the housetops of
Launceston. The proclamation reached Trecarrel. When Captain Trecarrel
heard it, and had satisfied himself that this was not an empty report,
he began to reconsider the state of his feelings towards Miss Orange.
Five thousand pounds was a sum for which he might dispose of himself.
It was not much, but more was not to be had in that neighbourhood. The
Captain was without sisters and cousins scattered over the country,
beating the covers for heiresses for him and blowing the horn when they
had started one. He was forced to hunt for himself.
Five thousand pounds at five per cent. is two hundred and fifty pounds a
year. Two hundred and fifty pounds per annum would enable him to keep
his head above water--only his head, not his shoulders, but that would
be better than to be overwashed by every wavelet. Now that old Mr.
Tramplara was dead, there was no one to look closely after
settlements--that was something. Captain Trecarrel was then in very
particular want of money, and there was no money to be got through any
other channel than the hymeneal ring. The property was already
mortgaged, and the Captain could not encumber it further without cutting
off his only means of subsistence.
He heard that Orange, followed after a fortnight by her mother, had
moved to Welltown, near Boscastle, and was staying with Mr. and Mrs.
Herring. The report was not quite accurate, for Mr. Herring, as we
know, was not there. Report has the knack of interjecting into the best
substantiated information an element of inaccuracy. He knew Herring,
and thought that through him he might get the quarrel with Orange
patched up--at least, through him he would obtain admission to the house
where she lived. Herring would know nothing of the flirtation with
Mirelle, and therefore would not scruple to admit him; and, once in, he
would manage Orange. What girl could resist his handsome profile, his
moustache and blue eyes!
Trecarrel knew that Orange loved him, and he knew also that when a woman
loves, her pride and resentment give way whenever it pleases the lover
to resume the assault. He would not be precipitate; he would be friendly
at first, with a tinge of restraint and a savour of coldness in his
manner towards her. This would yield by degrees, and they would soon
recover their old intimacy and stand towards each other on the same
footing as of old.
'I know perfectly well,' said the Captain, 'that there are hundreds, I
may say thousands, of girls with fortunes who would give their ears for
me, but the provoking thing is that they have never heard of me, nor can
I obtain access to them. There are Birmingham and Manchester
manufacturers' daughters, there are the girls of Bristol and Liverpool
merchants, without family position, and with vulgar names, who would
jump with all their moneybags into my arms, if I could only offer myself
to them. But how am I to do so? I know nobody in Birmingham,
Manchester, or Liverpool moneyed society, and I am unacquainted with any
bridges. Between me and them there is a great gulf fixed, and though I
would fain go to them, and they as gladly come to me, yet my tongue must
parch in penury, and they must yawn in the bosom of Croesus. The means
of intercommunication fail. I am getting on in life, I am thirty-four,
and I ought to be doing something towards paying off my mortgages. I
had rather have a girl with ten thousand than one with five, for then I
should be twice as comfortable and connubial affection twice as strong;
but if the girl with ten be not obtainable, I must be content with her
who has only five. I wonder whence that five thousand came? I suspect
old Tramplara put away money in his wife's name, and she has it; and
that this five thousand has been placed to her daughter's account as a
bait to draw me. If the old woman has money, it will come to Orange in
the end; she is bad every winter with her throat, and this is a trying
climate for throats, the temperature changes with such rapidity. The
old woman would surely not be such a fool as to act the King Lear, and
make over all she has to her daughter. She must have a reserve fund of
at least five thousand more. By George, I'll risk it!'
So Captain Trecarrel took the Camelford coach as far as 'Drunkards all,'
and walked from that point to Boscastle, making a man carry his valise.
This was the cheapest way of travelling, and the Captain did everything
as cheaply as he could, not because he liked it, but because he could
not help himself. He put up at the Ship, where was a cosy little parlour
and a clean bedroom. He would be comfortable there. He had brought his
drawing materials with him, for the purpose of making water-colour
sketches. When making his drawings he painted his subject in Indian
ink, and then gave a Prussian blue wash to the sea, and a wash of
Prussian blue and gamboge together over the grass and trees, and a wash
of sepia to the rocks. Then he imagined a woman in a red cloak to be
standing in a suitable position, and the picture would be complete.
Gulls could be added 'to taste' by two little wet dabs with the brush
and flicks with his handkerchief. When an evening light was wanted, by
way of variety, the picture was submitted to a wash of pink-lake and
gamboge in equal proportions. That was how water-colours were managed
seventy years ago.
Captain Trecarrel sketched in the harbour, then he sketched in
Willapark, and crept on to Welltown, where he found the old house so
picturesque that he sketched it also. But the hedge was damp to sit on,
so he ventured to the front door to borrow a chair, and having got one
from Genefer he seated himself opposite the house, and began his
drawing. He was a long time over it, as he was scrupulous about the
details, and before it was completed Orange Tramplara came towards him.
She was returning from Boscastle, where she had been making a few
purchases. It was not possible for her to reach the front door without
passing Trecarrel, and she had no hesitation in doing so, as she had no
idea who was there sketching. He had an umbrella open to screen him from
the wind; but there was a little hole in the umbrella, and through that
he had perceived her. She was abreast of the Captain before she
recognised him. He uttered an exclamation of surprise, started, and
upset his sketchbook, box of colours, and glass of water into the road.
'I am very sorry, Captain Trecarrel,' said Orange, much agitated. 'I
fear I knocked your things over with my cloak.'
'Not at all, Orange. Bless my soul! Who would have expected to see you
here? In the name of all the seven wonders, what has brought you to
this place, which I supposed was inhabited by wreckers only?'
Orange had recovered herself, and made as though she would pass on with
a bow.
'No, Orange, I will not permit you to slip away thus. I want you to be
in the foreground of my picture, as you have ever been in my thoughts.
A marvellous piece of good fortune has brought us face to face. On a
desert island those who have been cast up by the sea forget old grudges
and shake hands. I will not be thrust aside in this wild and lonely
spot, because once upon a time we had a lovers' quarrel.'
'I am surprised to see you here, Captain.'
'The surprise is mutual. I heard that you and Mrs. Tramplara had
retired to Falmouth. Are you lodging at this old farmhouse for your
mother's health?'
'This is Welltown, the house of Mr. Herring.'
'This! bless my soul! I thought he lived in a stately mansion in a deer
park, not in an old ramshackle box like this. The world is smaller than
I imagined. I have been making a sketching tour of the North Coast from
Hartland to Boscastle, and I intend continuing it to the Land's End. I
have some thought of publishing my sketches in mezzotint, coloured by
hand. You know my impecuniosity. I thought to turn an honest penny
this way without degradation.'
'Have you been long here?'
'Only a few days.'
'Where are you staying?'
'At the Ship.'
'What sort of entertainment do you meet with there?'
'Ham and eggs to-day; to-morrow, by way of variety, eggs and ham. Those
are the changes. Nothing else is procurable all down the coast from
Hartland to the Land's End. I am told, wherever I go, that next week a
sheep or a cow will be killed, and then mutton-chop or beef-steak will
be had. But the cow or sheep moves before me as I proceed on my journey,
and I never overtake it.'
'We dine early. Will you join us?'
So peace was concluded. The difficulty in concluding it was not great,
as Orange was as inclined to meet the Captain as he had been to meet
her. Indeed, her readiness to strike hands and forget the past alarmed
him. He was of a suspicious character, and her manifest desire to renew
the old acquaintanceship made him dread a trap.
He did not know that Orange was getting deadly tired of Boscastle. Of
society in the neighbourhood there was little. The only gentlefolks of
county position were the Phyllacks of the manor. Old Sir Jonathan was a
stately gentleman of the past generation, somewhat pompous, who moved
surrounded by his seven daughters, as the judge encircled by the javelin
men. The daughters were extraordinarily alike, and though the utmost
effort had been made to distinguish them at the first by giving each two
or three names, nevertheless Orange felt she might spend a lifetime in
their company without being able to know Miss Grace Pomeroy from Miss
Anna Maria Amy, or Miss Elizabeth Gilbert from either or from Miss
Catherine Penhelligan. They never called separately, but called, all
seven together, with Sir Jonathan in the midst. They never walked in
batches, but walked in a system rotating round Sir Jonathan like the
planets round the sun. When Mirelle and Orange returned their call,
they found Sir Jonathan sitting at the fire in a hollow square composed
by his daughters, and when one rose to shake hands, her place was
occupied by another, whilst Sir Jonathan remained, bowing but
inaccessible, behind their petticoats. The extraordinary thing about
the Misses Phyllack was that they all seemed of the same age; their
manners were alike, the expression of their faces equally sweet, the
tones of their voices equally soft, like the cooing of wood-pigeons.
They were all equally resolute never to admit a stepmother.
Even if Orange had contemplated it seriously, it was hopeless to break
through this bodyguard of daughters, capture and carry off Sir Jonathan.
After the call the old gentleman ventured to remark, 'A fine girl that!'
whereupon Miss Grace Pomeroy objected that she was coarse, and Miss Anna
Maria Amy that she had bad feet, and Miss Elizabeth Gilbert that she had
a temper, and Miss Catherine Penhelligan that she was inelegant in her
postures, and so on to the seventh, when Miss Grace Pomeroy took up the
subject again, and poor Orange would have been picked to the bone, had
not Sir Jonathan withdrawn his provocative remark with, 'Very true, my
dears, very true; my eyes deceived me.'
Orange would have been glad enough to become Lady Phyllack, but to
become Lady Phyllack the knight must be got at, and to get at him the
circle must be broken. There was no Arnold of Winkelried at Boscastle
to open a road through which Orange might dash in. Not a single Miss
Phyllack had been lured from her post, all still were Misses Phyllack
and coheiresses. It cannot be said that the ladies looked upon marriage
as an evil to be avoided in their own persons, but, unfortunately for
them, there were no marriageable young gentlemen in the neighbourhood.
To find them they must go afield to Exeter or Bath, but to go there was
to expose Sir Jonathan to fascinating widows and designing old maids;
and though the knight occasionally suggested a migration to some
fashionable resort, the daughters unanimously refused their consent, in
their dread of it leading to a stepmother.
The seven young ladies received Mirelle readily into their society, but
were cool towards Orange. The seven bosoms instinctively and together
felt suspicious of Orange, and, after the remark their father had made,
hostile towards her, as a dangerous person who must be kept out of Sir
Jonathan's sight.
Orange had found that storm-beaten coast a very dull world. When
Captain Trecarrel appeared in it, she felt relief and saw a chance of
escape from it. Poor Mirelle was not prepared to receive the Captain
with composure. The remembrance of what had passed between them on
Christmas morning was too fresh, and she felt too keenly that it was her
confession of love for him that had separated her from her husband, and
would remain as a barrier keeping him away. She had been living a
peaceful and lonely life at Welltown, and from seeing no more of
Trecarrel her feelings towards him had become less intense. In time she
hoped that this acuteness would be sufficiently blunted to enable her to
think more of John Herring. She knew that it was her duty to love him,
and she would try to do so, but to do so she must first forget
Trecarrel. She was struggling with her heart, to hold it down, and bend
it towards her husband. She allowed no thought to recur to Trecarrel.
She shut her eyes against every flash of recollection that illumined
him, as if to remember him were a sin. None suspected what was passing
within, under that frozen exterior. She seemed wholly emotionless, and
yet Orange knew that she was unhappy, was suffering, though she neither
knew the extent nor the occasion of her suffering. Orange, who had never
striven against any inclination or current of thought, had no suspicion
of the systematic, deliberate, and obstinate battle Mirelle was fighting
with her own heart.
And now, when the first resistance was broken, when she had gained some
little successes, preludes of a complete victory, the Captain
reappeared, introduced into the house by Orange to turn the scale of
battle against her conscience. Mirelle received him with courtesy, but
with coldness. She listened to his conversation without seeming to take
interest in it, but out of civility she ventured to say a few words and
ask a question, and directly dinner was over she withdrew to her boudoir
with an apology, and without a request that he would renew his visit.
Captain Trecarrel was a little disappointed at his reception. He had
been profuse in his expressions of delight at accidentally renewing
acquaintanceship, and had been pathetic on his distaste for ham and eggs
alternating with eggs and ham.
When Mirelle left the hall, she hastened to her own room, and threw
herself on her knees. The trial was more than she could bear. The
sight of Trecarrel had undone in one moment the work of months.
Orange made amends for Mirelle's neglect. She begged the Captain to come
there again for early dinner, whenever he was sketching in that
direction; and as Captain Trecarrel found that the beauties of the
portion of the coast south-west of Boscastle were superior to those on
the north-east, he was there a good deal. He was surprised to find that
neither Mirelle nor Orange knew anything of the sights of the
neighbourhood. He volunteered to escort them. He insisted on taking
them to S. Kneighton's Kieve, on driving them to Tintagel, and on their
exploring the ruins of King Arthur's Castle together. They must visit
Blackapit in a boat. There was a seal-cave that ought to be seen--it
was a long way off and must be visited by boat--but the weather was
splendid, and the sea was as calm as the Atlantic can be on this coast.
The weather was indeed delightful, and the saddest heart could not
resist the spring influence which swelled the buds and inspired the
birds with song.
Mirelle allowed herself to be drawn on these excursions only with
extreme reluctance. Orange was bent on going, and it was not proper to
allow Orange to go alone with the Captain. A third person must
accompany them, and Mrs. Trampleasure could not be induced to leave the
house, her Blair's Sermons, and Rollin's 'Ancient History.' Mirelle
felt that the place was dull for Orange, who, with her fulness of life
and spirits, needed amusement. She was unable herself to provide her
with distractions, and she therefore yielded to Orange's solicitations
that they should accept the Captain's offers, and make these expeditions
with him. But Mirelle hoped that each would be the last. The Captain
was always on the eve of leaving to prosecute his tour, nevertheless
there he remained. This was becoming unendurable to Mirelle; the strain
on her was too great. Captain Trecarrel was very civil to Orange, but
in her presence never more than very civil. Orange gave him every
possible encouragement, but he still hesitated. He would not speak till
he had sounded Mirelle as to the source and extent of Orange's property
and expectations, and Mirelle never gave him the opportunity of speaking
with her alone. Till he knew for certain what Orange was worth, and
whether the five thousand pounds were really hers, or merely fluttered
in his face to lure him on, he would not commit himself. Nor was this
the only cause of his hesitation. Since he had come to Boscastle, he
had heard of the Misses Phyllack, seven coheiresses, and he had done
himself the honour of calling on Sir Jonathan. There was some remote
connection between the families which justified him in paying a visit
now that he was in the neighbourhood. He was graciously received by the
young ladies, whose hearts were set in a flutter by his languishing blue
eyes, and cordially by Sir Jonathan, who was delighted to have some one
to talk to. So he dropped into the manor-house of an evening to take a
hand at whist, and to talk about remote cousins, and to be an apple of
discord among the seven sisters. If the seven Misses Phyllack had but
one hand between them on which he could put the ring, Captain Trecarrel
would not have hesitated to marry them all; but one out of seven
coheiresses meant one seventh of Sir Jonathan's property when Sir
Jonathan was dead, and the old knight looked remarkably robust; it meant
also very little indeed, should the old gentleman marry again, and beget
a son. Now, over the walnuts and wine one evening, when the daughters
were out of hearing, Sir Jonathan had ventured on a remark about Orange:
'Fine woman that--deuced good-looking; my daughters won't let me look at
a handsome face, but I may give them the slip some day.' This made
Trecarrel uneasy, and next day he redoubled his attentions to Orange,
and made no call at the manor.
Orange watched Mirelle, and saw that she loved Captain Trecarrel. She
saw it in the struggle made by Mirelle to escape his society, by her
reluctance to join in the excursions he proposed. Orange was suspicious
of the Captain. Was he there for her sake, or because he was still
attracted by Mirelle? She watched him closely. He was attentive to
Mirelle, and his eye rested on her inquiringly now and then, when he
thought he was unobserved.
Why, unless he still loved Mirelle, did he not ask Orange to be to him
what she had been before? What stood in his way? That he was waiting
till he knew all the particulars about her five thousand pounds, and
till he had made up his mind about the Misses Phyllack, never occurred
to her.
*CHAPTER LIII.*
*A PRIVATE INTERVIEW.*
For some time the stress of work at Upaver, and anxiety about both the
success of the mine and the decline of Mr. Battishill's health, had kept
under the yearning of John Herring's heart to see Mirelle again. Love
was ever paramount, pain ever present, but he resolutely suppressed his
desire to be with her. Duty kept him at West Wyke, and away from
Welltown.
When, however, Mr. Battishill's life had ebbed away, and the first grief
of Cicely was overpassed, and when Upaver mine was in full working
order, when the spring was well on, and earth and sky were full of love,
and joy, and hope, then the hunger of his heart became exacting. He
must return to Welltown, see Mirelle, and may-be renew his pain.
The spring flowers were very lovely, and he brought bunches of them to
Cicely; but that was not the same as offering them to Mirelle. It was
pleasant to hear Cicely's gentle voice, with the faintest touch of
Devonshire brogue in it; but that was nothing to the delight of
listening to the tones of Mirelle's English tinged with French. He must
see and hear her again. He could endure his banishment no longer.
The lodestone mountain drew ships to it, and when they came near
extracted from them their bolts and nails, and the vessels went to
pieces at its feet. Mirelle was his lodestone, and, even at the risk of
a final and fatal wreck to his happiness, he must see her.
He still entertained the hope that in time Mirelle might learn to desire
his presence, might come to think that life at Welltown would be
pleasanter were he there to enliven it, might cease to shrink from him
in that vague terror she had shown when he had told her his love, and
when he had married her. She regarded him. Might not this regard deepen
into a warmer sentiment?
Herring had told Cicely nothing. She had not made a second attempt to
force her way into his confidence. It is difficult to say to what
extent she suspected the state of his heart. She certainly had no
knowledge of his marriage. Mirelle was never mentioned by either of
them. He knew that Cicely instinctively disliked her, and she knew that
he admired her, though she hardly suspected that he did more than
greatly admire her.
Herring's position at West Wyke was anomalous. The people--that is, the
workmen at the mine, and the farmers and cotters on the estate--called
him the young Squire, and supposed that he was a near relative, and the
heir to the property. They sometimes spoke of him as young Squire
Battishill. There were few neighbours of the class of the Battishills,
and those that were had long ceased to call on the old gentleman and his
daughter. They themselves were mounting in the world, and the
Battishills were falling. He gave no entertainments, and kept no
carriage, not even a gig. This class therefore did not concern itself
with the affairs at West Wyke, after it had done the civil thing of
attending his funeral. Nevertheless John Herring felt that the
situation was unsatisfactory. He would have liked to take Cicely to
Welltown to stay with Mirelle, for change of air and scene, and to have
persuaded Mirelle to return with them to West Wyke, when he was recalled
by the concerns of the mine. But, as matters stood between him and his
wife, this was not possible.
At times he fell into a daydream, which brightened his spirits for a few
hours. He thought that perhaps now Mirelle might bid him stay by her.
Then his future would be changed, the spring would burst forth in his
heart, as in surrounding nature. Till then the frost must lie within.
He must go home and learn his fate. He could stay away no longer.
No--no! West Wyke was not home. He must see if the ice were thawing at
Welltown.
So he bade farewell to Cicely and Joyce, set the men at Upaver their
tasks, and departed.
There was another motive in his heart drawing him back to
Welltown--another beside his desire of again seeing Mirelle. In the
locked drawer of his office desk he had left his confession to
Mirelle--his confession of the fact that all the money that had been
spent to buy up the West Wyke mortgages, that had been sunk in Upaver,
and that which had been given to Orange, and that also which Mirelle was
now enjoying, was her own, the proceeds of the sale of the uncut
diamonds her father had brought to England from Brazil--the diamonds in
which he had invested his fortune as a convenient and portable form in
which to transfer it from one country to another. He did not wish
Mirelle to see this. He did not wish it, for his own sake and for hers.
For good or for ill--it seemed wholly for ill--the thing had been done,
and could not be recalled. By no means could the effects of the mistake
be avoided. If she knew the circumstances, nothing she could do would
alter them, and the knowledge would only give her additional and renewed
pain, for she might well suppose that had it come to her earlier she
would have been saved from taking the fatal step that could not now be
retraced. Putting his own wishes aside entirely, Herring could see that
the only chance of happiness open to Mirelle was for her to accept the
situation, draw towards him, and learn to love him. Were the truth now
to break on her, the breach would become irreparable. He knew that he
had acted towards her unselfishly and conscientiously, and the error
into which he had fallen had been an error of judgment. But would she
believe this? Was it not far more probable that she would suppose he
had acted with selfish premeditation from the first, and thus become for
ever embittered against him?
His anxiety about the confession grew as he thought this over and
fevered him as he walked. He resolved directly on his arrival to
destroy the document. Why had he not done so before instead of leaving
it? Because he had been flurried at leaving, and had thought that it
might be useful on some future occasion. The drawer was locked, and
therefore he had no cause for fear, but nevertheless he was uneasy.
Other keys besides his own might unlock it, and though he did not
believe that Mirelle would wilfully and knowingly pry into what he
wished to keep concealed, yet it was possible that his words relative to
the locked drawer when he left her had been unheeded, and that, finding
a key wherewith to open it, she might look in for some mislaid paper or
account needed by the foreman of the slate-quarry, and when the drawer
was opened she would see the packet lying in it addressed to herself.
Herring went accordingly to Willapark first, and with his private key
unlocked the office, and then locked himself in. The office was much as
he had left it, and yet not entirely. Some one had been there. The
chairs were in unusual places. The position of the desk was changed.
Probably Genefer had done this in dusting or cleaning. He opened the
drawer immediately, and saw that the packet was gone.
Herring sat down on his bed to think. He was almost certain that the
letter had been put in the locked drawer, and yet, when he came to
revolve in his mind the events of the night and morning when the letter
had been written and put away, he found that he could be certain of
nothing about it save that he had written, made up, and addressed the
packet. He had purposed putting it in the drawer and locking it up. He
believed he had done as he purposed, but it was possible that, in the
confusion and distress in which he then was, he might have omitted to do
so. If the letter had been put elsewhere, it must have been put in his
cupboard. This cupboard consisted of a set of shelves that had been run
up in a recess, combined with an extemporised wardrobe, where he kept
his suit in which he went out boating and shooting.
The cupboard was not closed with a door, but had a curtain on an iron
bar in front of it, which latter turned on a crook. He went at once to
this closet and thrust the bar and curtain aside so as to get into the
recess and examine the shelves. To this place he had gone for the
bullets on that turning night in his life. He mounted a stool to
explore the upper shelves. He would not leave one unsearched till he
had found the missing packet. Whilst thus engaged he heard a key put
into the lock, and the door opened. He was surprised, and remained
where he was, screened from view.
Then he heard Mirelle say: 'Captain Trecarrel, I sent for you to meet me
here in private, as I have something to say to you which I do not wish
Orange to hear, because it concerns Orange.'
'Mirelle,' replied the Captain, 'I also have been desirous of seeing you
in private, as I also have something to say to you which is not for
Orange's ears.'
The first impression on Herring's mind on hearing these words was
surprise at Mirelle's indiscretion in arranging a private interview with
the Captain. Not a shadow of suspicion of other motives than what were
honourable crossed him. It had never occurred to him that Trecarrel was
the man Mirelle loved. Had he known this, nevertheless not a thought of
anything unworthy of her would have entered his mind. He saw that she
had acted in ignorance of conventional proprieties. His first impulse
was to step forward and show himself. On second thoughts he refrained
from doing so. He refrained for Mirelle's own sake. If he were suddenly
to emerge from behind the curtain it would bring home to her at once the
impropriety of her conduct, embarrass and distress her, and place both
her and the Captain in a very awkward position. The interview was about
Orange, and there could be no reason why he should not overhear it, and
indeed take part in it, unless it were, as he supposed, concerning the
Captain's engagement to Orange. If that were so it would be kindest to
allow Mirelle to have her few words about it with Trecarrel, and
he--John Herring--would tell her immediately after that he had overheard
the conversation.
'Je vous donne le pas, Monsieur le Capitaine.'
'Je le prends de bon gre, madame,' replied Trecarrel. 'But as I think
in English and not in French, perhaps you will allow me to say what I
want in my native tongue.'
'Certainly.'
'In the first place, then, let me speak about my book on the Cornish
Coast scenery. I think it advisable that you should possess early
copies--proofs before the plates are worn. I think you offered to take
three copies at five guineas.'
'I believe I did. Have you secured a publisher?'
'No, not yet, but that is a matter of secondary importance. A publisher
can always be secured for drawings such as mine, of scenery that has
such historic interest--King Arthur, Uther Pendragon, Gwenever, and so
on.'
'No doubt.'
'If not inconvenient to you, would you mind letting me have your
subscription at once? I want, you understand, to secure you unrubbed
copies.'
'You shall have the money to-morrow.'
'You quite see that I am pressing this entirely in your own interest.
There is a material difference between early copies and late
impressions, and first subscribers who have paid up will, as a matter of
strict justice, be given the best and sharpest copies.'
'Quite so.'
'There was another matter on which I wished to speak to you. A man was
saved from the wreck of the "Susanna" in the winter. That man gave out
his name as George Bidgood. You, I understand, gave him shelter. You
are aware who he is?'
'I saw him brought ashore.'
'You know then that he is no more George Bidgood than I am. George
Bidgood was the seaman on board the "Susanna," and was lost in it. The
man who was rescued from the waves was Sampson Tramplara, but, as he
desired to disguise the fact that he had been saved and was alive, he
took for the occasion the name of the drowned man, and there was no one
in Boscastle who knew otherwise except yourself. Sampson disappeared
after that, but he has just turned up again, as it happens, at an
awkward moment for himself, for the "Chough" has come into harbour, and
the mate of the "Chough"--a little smack that trades between this place
and Bristol--knew Bidgood intimately, and the same man had learned in
Bristol that a swindler had made off in the "Susanna," and was supposed
to have been lost in her. Last night Sampson was at the Ship Inn
drinking, when the mate of the "Chough" came in and joined the party.
In the course of conversation Sampson was spoken of as Bidgood; this led
to an explanation, and then the mate charged him with being the man whom
justice was pursuing, disguising himself under Bidgood's name. There
was a disturbance, Sampson was drunk, and in the scuffle he stabbed the
mate, and made his escape.'
'Mon Dieu! le pauvre homme! est-il mort?'
'No. The man is not dead, but he has been mortally wounded. However,
the condition of the mate concerns us only in a secondary manner--the
fate of Sampson is that with which we have to do.'
'He must suffer for what he has done.'
'Will you speak to Orange, and tell her what has taken place?'