Mirelle hesitated a moment, and then said, 'If necessary I will do so.'

'It is necessary. Sampson must not be taken here. The mate is mortally

wounded; Sampson must be helped to escape. If he wants money and means

of escape he must be provided with them.'

'I will not assist him with money or means of escape. He has done

wrong, and must take the consequences.'

'You are right, no doubt, in principle, but the world cannot go on upon

principle, it must have its workings eased to suit convenience. It will

never do that he should be taken here, and your relationship to the

scoundrel come out.'

'It cannot be helped.'

'But you must consider Orange and her mother. By the way, there is

another matter I must mention. I have had a talk with Sampson--of

course, before this last unpleasant affair with the mate of the

"Chough." He was not shy of me, for he knew I would not betray him.

During our conversation he let drop some insinuations against

your--against Mr. Herring. He says that Mr. Herring robbed you of the

greater portion of your fortune, without either you or Mr. Tramplara,

your guardian, knowing or suspecting it.'

'Stop,' said Mirelle, haughtily; 'not another word, Captain Trecarrel.

Mr. John Herring is incapable of acting otherwise than honourably, and I

refuse absolutely to listen to slanders that issue from the mouth of

Sampson Trampleasure.'

'You are right, Countess, quite right. I was as indignant as you are

now. I positively refused to believe it. But he proceeded to enforce

his hints with circumstances.'

'Captain Trecarrel, you must have understood me very imperfectly. I

refuse to hear another word on this offensive and insulting topic. If

you have done speaking about the escape of Mr. Sampson Trampleasure, let

me say what I desire to say. Mr. John Herring is an honourable man, and

in his absence I am the guardian of his honour.'

'I also shut my ears when Sampson said what he did,' continued Captain

Trecarrel; 'I had no intention of saying anything to you about the

reflections he cast on the character of your husband which might be

disagreeable for you to hear, I mention this only as supplying an

additional reason for getting Sampson Tramplara out of the way, even by

helping him with money. It would be most unpleasant for you were he to

make disclosures affecting John Herring's character----'

'He can make no such disclosures. John Herring's character cannot be

impeached.'

'Certainly--I used the wrong term: were he to hint----'

'The hints of such as he can do no harm.'

'There you are wrong; they would be eagerly listened to, and believed.

John Herring is not here to defend himself, and as you say you are the

guardian of his honour, I think it is your duty to save him this

annoyance.'

'If that be so, let him escape. It goes against my conscience, but, to

save my husband unpleasantness, I will do what you ask. I will give him

money. You may take my purse.'

'Excuse me. I shall not see the fellow. He is not likely to show again

at the Ship, nor am I likely to come across him anywhere in my walks.

But he will not leave without having seen Orange. She must have

provided him with money before, and his return to Boscastle now means

that he has spent all she let him have, and wants more.'

'I will speak to Orange, and give her money. But now that this hateful

subject is settled, you will allow me to speak to you about Orange.'

'I am ready to hear anything you may say.'

Mirelle hesitated. She began to tremble, and cast her eyes on the

ground. 'Orange,' she began--'that is to say, I mean--but, Captain

Trecarrel, it is hard for me to say what I want, and you ought not to

have put the necessity on me of saying it. You are not acting fairly by

Orange, or--by me. I am sure that--that Orange regards you very, very

much; you were engaged to marry her, and I think--I do think you are

bound in honour to do so. She is not happy; I can see that she frets.

You are trifling with her heart. Why are you here? Why do you not

prosecute your journey? Time presses; you must finish your series of

sketches whilst the fine weather lasts. Why, then, do you remain here,

and come up to Welltown every day, and make excursions with us, and--why

do you not leave us in peace?'

'You, you, Mirelle, urge me to make Orange Trampleasure my wife

after----'

She cut him short. 'You are bound to marry her. Do you not see that

yourself? You were engaged to her before that miserable affair of Ophir

intervened to destroy her happiness.'

'After what I told you, Mirelle, that Christmas Day?'

'Forbear!' said Mirelle; 'never recur to, nor allude to that again. I

have forgotten it--that is, I try, I pray to forget it. Yes, I entreat

you to take Orange.'

'There are several objections,' said Trecarrel. 'In the first place, I

cannot afford it.'

'Orange has five thousand pounds.'

'Has she no more?'

'Not that I am aware of.'

'What puzzles me is, how did she come by the money? I thought

everything had gone when that scamp Sampson bolted.'

'That is easily explained. John Herring gave her the money.'

'He gave Orange five thousand pounds! This is incredible. What claim

had she on him?'

'She had been kind to me. I asked him to do it.'

'An exemplary husband! But how the deuce did he come by so much money?

I know what Welltown is worth. He cannot have saved it--men in the army

spend, they do not save; he cannot have made it. He did not inherit it.

Whence did it come?'

'That concerns neither you nor me to know.'

'Orange then really has, of her own, five thousand pounds.'

'Yes.'

'Has she prospects of more?'

'I believe not.'

'Five thousand pounds! By the way, would it be possible to organise a

picnic conjointly with the Misses Phyllack to Crackington Cove? The old

knight to stay at home.'

'Captain Trecarrel, you are evading the point. You are trying to turn

the subject. I am anxious; I am troubled. Do not play with me. It cost

me a severe struggle to make up my mind to speak to you alone, and on

this subject.'

'Why should it cost you a struggle?'

'It has--that is enough. Do you not see? I am pleading for a--a

sister; for her happiness. Can you not understand that I am shy of

doing this, and that I only do it as a duty, and for the sake of a

sister?'

'Mirelle!' said the Captain, slowly. He looked hard at her. 'That is

not it. I can read your heart more clearly than you think. You are

desirous of getting me to marry Orange so as to erect a double wall of

duty between yourself and me--it is because you doubt your own fortitude

unless double-steeled with a sense of twofold duty----'

'Captain Trecarrel!' exclaimed Mirelle, in deadly terror--for he had

divined and given expression to her real motive. 'I pray you say

nothing about me. Put me altogether out of your thoughts. Speak only

of Orange.'

'You see there is this confounded business about Sampson in the way.

Suppose the fellow be apprehended--and the whole of Boscastle is alive

and out after him--and suppose the mate dies, as is most probable,

Sampson will swing. Do you not see that I cannot well quarter the

chevronels with a gallows?'

'He shall escape--he must escape. Orange shall have the money! Captain

Trecarrel, either take Orange, or go your way to the Land's End.'

'I want time to consider.'

'Take time, but not too much. Now leave me.'

'Oh, Mirelle, is not this cruel of you--of you who knew the state of my

heart, what I have suffered, and am suffering still--

'Leave me!' said Mirelle. She trembled in every limb. 'Leave

me!--leave me!'

He hesitated a moment, and then went out.

She stood looking at the door. Then her pent-up feelings burst forth.

She cast herself on her knees, and sobbed and cried, 'My God! my God!

forgive me! I love him still! I have striven against it! Thou knowest

the secrets of the heart. I love him still!' Then the door burst open,

and Orange came in, her face livid with rage, and her large eyes

flashing hate.

'What is this?--is this?--you meet Captain Trecarrel in secret and alone

here?'

'I beg your pardon, Miss Trampleasure,' said Herring, stepping forward;

'not in secret, nor alone. I have a right, I presume, to see any one or

two in my own room that I choose.'

Mirelle looked up dazed. Her eyes were blind with tears. She

understood nothing of what was going on, neither how Orange had come in,

nor whence Herring had risen.

Orange looked first at Herring, then at Mirelle, still kneeling and with

tears in her eyes and on her cheeks, and laughed scornfully.

'I apologise, Mr. Herring. I have intruded on the confession of a

penitent.'

*CHAPTER LIV.*

*THE PORCH ROOM.*

Herring gave his arm to Mirelle to conduct her back to Welltown. He did

not say much to her, as his own heart was full, and she, he knew, needed

time to recover herself.

Now he knew all. He had never suspected an attachment for the Captain,

but had supposed that she had lost her heart to some one in France.

What he now learned increased his trouble. Separation from a lover on

the other side of the Channel might, in time, have effaced or obscured

his image, but Trecarrel was too near to be forgotten. Herring saw that

Trecarrel had perceived that Mirelle's efforts to bring about a

reconciliation and re-engagement with Orange were dictated by alarm for

herself, by her desire to erect a double barrier between herself and the

man she loved, so as to afford her conscience a double reason for

mastering her affection for him.

Herring did not wish to speak with Mirelle on this subject till

later--till he had had time to think over the situation in which he and

she were now placed. He therefore said a few words on ordinary topics

during the walk to Welltown. He observed that she seemed even frailer

and more bloodless than before. The strong air of the coast had not

braced her into vigorous life, but seemed to overpower the feeble life

that pulsated in her veins.

'You do not grow stronger, Mirelle?'

'I am well in body,' she said.

'I do not think so. You ought to see a doctor--you look so thin and

white.'

'The only doctor I need is the sun,' she answered, 'and his visits are

so few that they must be costly.'

'But this wonderful stimulating air----'

'There is too much air. It is never at rest--always blowing. I dislike

the wind. And the sea is always tossing and thundering. The leaves on

the plants, the blades of grass, are never still, but always fluttering

and swaying. The waves are ever battering and gnawing at the rocks. O

for a Mediterranean--a tideless sea! I want peace, stillness, a calm;

with the sun shining, and no sea near, and no noise save the hum of

bees. Here there are no bees; the wind carries them out to sea and they

drown in the brine. You do not understand me. Here there are no

butterflies; the wind breaks their wings. You do not comprehend my

state of mind.'

'Yes, I think so. You like a hot climate.'

'I love warmth, but I love stillness better. That is what my soul craves

for and cannot obtain. Here the flowers do not bloom--they blow away.

Here the birds do not sing--they scream. Here we have weeks of gloomy

skies. I want no shadow at all save that of a cross flung over a hot

white road. But one sees no crosses here, only signposts. We bear our

own crosses hammered red-hot into our lives.'

The evening was beautiful. The sun was setting over the sea, making a

road of quivering gold upon the waves. The air was warm. Herring looked

round. The scene was grandly beautiful. He wondered that Mirelle could

not love it.

He went into the house, and had tea in the hall with her and Mrs.

Trampleasure. Orange feigned a headache and did not appear.

Then he ascended the stairs with Mirelle to the little boudoir or porch

room; he must have a conversation with her in private before again

leaving.

The room was small; it was pleasant, prettily furnished with

rose-coloured satin curtains, the walls white and gold. But the damp

had come through the paper and formed black fungoid stains, disfiguring

all one side. There was no fireplace in the room, so that it could only

be used in summer. In the corner stood the bureau in which Mirelle kept

the jewels, a bureau of inlaid wood, with ornamental brasswork about the

locks and handles. The chairs were white and gold. Herring had spent a

good deal of money on this room, hoping that it would please Mirelle,

and that she would be happy in it.

He took a chair. She seated herself in the window on the low seat. She

opened the casement, and the summer air was wafted in, bearing on its

wings the murmur of the sea.

'Mirelle,' he said, 'I overheard all that passed in the office on

Willapark. I was there when you came in, but I did not show myself,

lest by so doing I should cause you embarrassment. Excuse my saying it,

but I do not think you acted wisely in inviting Captain Trecarrel to

meet you there.'

'No, I do not think I did, but I could not in any other way get a word

in private with him.'

'And you wished to urge him to marry Orange. I think with you that in

honour he is bound to take her.'

'Yes, I wish that very much.'

'At the same time I think your interference ill-calculated to advance

the cause you have at heart. It was indiscreet of you, Mirelle.'

'Perhaps so. You are always right, and know what ought to be done, and

do it.' After a pause, she said: 'Yes, it was not wise of me. I will

never do it again. But then, consider, I was alone, and had no one to

advise me, for in this matter I could not consult Orange. When I was at

the Sacre Coeur, I knew my way about the dear home in the dark, but here

I am in a world without orientation. All the familiar landmarks fail

me, all the ways lead in unknown directions. I am translated, morally,

into a country that I am expected to travel through without a map or a

guide.'

'Mirelle, if you like, you have only to say the word and I will stay

here as your adviser. You are too weak.'

'No, my good friend, I am not weak.'

'Weak in body, Mirelle--not weak in character.'

'No; I will always do my duty, as I see it.'

'You are too inexperienced to be left alone.'

'I have Orange with me.'

'But what is Orange as an adviser? You confessed as much just now when

you admitted you were without a guide. Mirelle! I am sure Orange does

not like you. She is'--he was about to add 'jealous,' but he checked

himself--'she is not a desirable person to have about you perpetually.

I do not trust her sincerity.'

'I do. I have never done anything to make her dislike me.'

He remained silent. It was difficult for him to speak the truth, and

yet it must be spoken for her sake.

'Orange is strongly attached to Captain Trecarrel; that you know,' said

Herring. 'Now a loving woman is a suspicious woman. He will not renew

his engagement with her, he shirks doing so; and she seeks an

explanation of his conduct, and finds it where she has no right to look

for it.'

Mirelle turned her face to Herring.

'I told you all, that evening after we had been married. You know that

something passed between him and me, not much, just enough to----'

'Yes, Mirelle, you told me that your heart was a treasure I might not

possess, but you did not inform me to whom you had surrendered it.'

'I did not! I failed in my duty. I intended to do so, my friend.'

'You did not, but now I have found it out.'

'Oh, John Herring, do not say that I surrendered my heart. That I never

did. It was drawn from me, and I fought against it, I prayed against

it. God help me! I have been very miserable: I am miserable still. You

are not angry with me? I could not help myself.'

'I--I angry with you? No, Mirelle, never; you have done me no wrong.

If wrong has been done, it has been done by me to you.'

'I have suffered, because since I married you I knew it was wrong to

think of another man, and I do believe I should have conquered in the

end had not Captain Trecarrel come here. I thought he came after

Orange, and I have done my best to promote her interests. I want him to

go away, and then I will begin my battle over again. He will leave now,

and in time I shall have conquered the thoughts I ought not to harbour.'

'Mirelle--one word. Shall I stay here? I shall not trouble you with my

presence more than is absolutely necessary. My old office shall be my

home, but I shall be at hand to advise and to help you.'

She shook her head.

'I have no right to say Go, or Stay. You must act as you see fit. You

are master here; you are my husband; this is your house. But if you

will listen to my prayer, I will ask you to go away again--not for long,

for a little while. I want rest; I want to be quite alone with God and

my own heart. I have got a wrestle to go through, and I had rather

undertake it without a spectator. Do not be afraid for me. I shall

come out victorious in the end, I do not doubt that. Only, these

wrestles take a great deal of strength out of me. When I feel better,

and know that the worst is over, I will write to you, and then come and

I shall be able to see you. You are still my friend--nothing I have

said or done has altered that?'

'No, no--Mirelle.'

'I always respect and honour you. I know that you are upright and good,

and I would love you if I could. I may do so some day, but the weed

must be rooted out before the grain is sown.'

'Very well, Mirelle. You said as we walked back from Willapark that

here we have the cross hammered into our lives. You have yours, I have

mine. It must be so. Perhaps a better time may be in store for both of

us.'

'Perhaps.' She looked sadly out of the window. The sun had set, and

the golden path on the sea was turned to quicksilver. She rose and moved

towards the door into her own room.

'I am very tired. Shall we say Good night?'

'And good-bye. I leave before morning.'

'It is best so.'

She hung about the door, looking timidly at him. Her hand was on the

latch, and it shook; she removed it, but presently put it on again.

'When am I to return? In a month, or two months?' he asked.

She shook her head. 'I cannot say; I will write to you. Give me your

address before you leave.'

'There are one or two little matters connected with our affairs here

that ought to be discussed.'

'Here is the key of my bureau. Will you write your instructions? They

shall be carried out faithfully. I am very tired. You said I was weak;

I am weak in body. Write at my desk, and leave the note in it, and the

key in the lock.'

'Very well, Mirelle; good-bye!'

Then she raised her great dark eyes to him, and came tremblingly towards

him.

'Kiss me,' she said; 'you have a right to that.'

He took her pale face between his hands, and reverently kissed her

cheek, and a salt tear off it was received by his lips. He knew that

she did not love him. He knew that her cheek was offered him only

because of the strong sense of duty at her heart, and because she felt

that some reparation was due for the bitter pain she had caused him.

When he had let her go she bowed her head, and with lowered eyes and a

hectic spot of colour on the cheek that he had touched, without another

word or look, she disappeared through the door.

Herring sat for a few moments with his hands over his face, and then

went to the bureau, opened it, and, taking some paper, wrote on it his

address, and various memoranda relative to the house and quarry. When

he had done he closed the desk, turned the key, descended the stairs,

and left the house. As he went through the gate he thought he saw a man

behind the wall near the entrance to the yard, and, supposing this was

Hender, Herring cast him a good-night. There was no reply, but this

caused him no surprise; Hender was a surly man, not addicted to the

courtesies of life. Herring did not give him another thought; he had

enough to trouble his mind without care for Hender's manners.

His conversation with Mirelle had been, in a measure, satisfactory; as

satisfactory as he could expect. There was some faint hope before him;

she was doing her best to overcome that unfortunate passion which stood

as a dividing wall between them. Time would assist her efforts, which

Herring knew were sincere, and then perhaps she might come to care for

him. She valued him now; she had not shrunk from him as before, but had

freely volunteered a kiss. She had assured him that but a short while

would elapse before she would recall him. When the weed was eradicated

then the corn would grow. The hope set before him was not a great one;

still it was something to have a hope at all. He went back to

Willapark, resolved to examine the quarry accounts, write instructions

to the captain, and depart that night on his return to West Wyke. He

would walk back, and therefore not go by Launceston, but strike across

country into the Holsworthy and Okehampton road.

Not many minutes after Herring had left Welltown, that man whom he had

observed behind the yard wall crept forth with a ladder that he had

taken from an outhouse. He looked cautiously about him, and then

planted the ladder noiselessly against the porch. He threw off his

shoes, and swiftly ascended. The window of the boudoir was open, as

Mirelle had left it, and the man lifted himself in through it. He stole

across the room over the soft carpet to the bureau. The sky was full of

twilight, and everything in the room could be distinguished. The window

faced north, and the northern sky was illumined with silvery light. A

streak of yellow light beneath the door showed that Mirelle's candle was

burning in her bedroom. The man listened. He heard steps coming along

the passage. Then a door was opened. It was that into the adjoining

bedroom, and a voice was heard speaking. The man smiled; he knew the

voice well, it was that of Orange Trampleasure, and she was speaking to

Mirelle.

Then he turned the key in the bureau, opened it, and searched the well.

He soon found the secret drawer, and removed from it the diamonds. He

was about to close the desk when he noticed the papers Herring had

written, his address, and memoranda. The man caught these up hastily,

and then with a low, bitter laugh, and a look full of malignity in the

direction of Mirelle's door, he put in their place the packet containing

Herring's confession to his wife, written the night of his marriage, and

stolen from his drawer by Sampson Tramplara. That man who now placed

the letter where Mirelle must find it was the same who had stolen

it--Sampson Tramplara.

All this was the work of a few minutes. As rapidly as he had ascended

the ladder and entered the room, so did he descend, replace the ladder

where he had found it, and disappear.

*CHAPTER LV.*

*NEMESIS.*

John Herring was engaged on the accounts in the office for some hours.

Whilst thus engaged he heard the door open behind him, and, when he

turned to look who had come in, saw Sampson Tramplara.

'What brings you hither?' he asked, springing to his feet, and flushing

with anger.

'What brings me hither?' repeated Sampson, and laughed. 'You, Mr. John

Herring. I want a quiet talk with you.'

'Go away at once; I have nothing to say to you.'

'But I have something to say to you, Mister John. In the first place, I

want a change of clothes.'

'You must go elsewhere for them.'

'No, I am going nowhere else. I have set my heart on a boating suit

hanging in yonder cupboard, or wardrobe, or whatever you call it. I

have come for that. There are reasons that prevent my appearing in

public, and in the costume that I now wear, becoming though you may

think it. Those reasons are, that if I am seen, I shall be arrested,

first for that confounded Ophir, and secondly, because last night I

stuck a knife into a man with whom I had a brawl in a tavern. So now I

call you to find me the suit of clothes in which I may escape. The

reason, because it is not to your advantage that I should be taken here.

Remember, I am the cousin of your wife; you have married into my family.

Mirelle gave me shelter when shipwrecked, and though she knew who I was,

like a sensible girl, she held her tongue. My mother and sister are

your guests. If you refuse me clothes, I shall go to your house, and be

taken there, in the society, in the presence, of Mrs. John Herring and

her cousins. That will be nice and creditable to the family, will it

not? That will be highly entertaining to the ladies, will it not? I

reckon that fellow whom I stuck will hardly recover, and if he dies I

must swing for it. Creditable to the family, to be able to boast of

Cousin Sampy who was gallowsed. I suppose I shall be hung in chains

here. Pleasant to have a cousin of Mrs. John so exalted within a sniff

whenever she walks abroad.'

'Take the clothes you want,' said Herring; 'be quick, and be off.'

Tramplara went to the recess, and took the garments he required, and

proceeded to divest himself of his own clothes, and invest himself in

Herring's boating and shooting suit.

'They fit me as if made for me,' said Sampson. 'A good substantial suit

this. And here is J.H. on the buttons; that is in style. Look at me.

We are the same height, and about the same build; we have about the same

coloured hair. It is a d--d pity that I have not your luck. I want

something more now.'

Sampson proceeded to roll up his old suit.

'It will not do to leave these garments about; they would betray my

change of skin. I must throw them over the cliffs. It is a fortunate

thing that there are no sands here on which a bundle confided to the

waves can be washed ashore. Here the waves and rocks worry what is

given them past all recall, within a surprising short time. Look at me.

This suit becomes me. We might be brothers. Now, brother John, I want

something wherewith to line the pockets, which I find are empty.'

Whilst talking, Sampson transferred the contents of the pockets of his

old coat to the breast pocket of the waistcoat of his new suit--an inner

pocket. As he did so he laughed, and looked contemptuously at Herring,

who was not observing him. That which he transferred was the case

containing Mirelle's diamonds. He put that in the inner pocket of his

waistcoat, which he buttoned tightly over it.

'Look here!' said he; 'this is all the cash I have, a crown and a

halfpenny. Is a crown and a halfpenny enough to carry me across

Cornwall and out of England? I want some blunt, and I will trouble you

to find me some.'

'Go along, you scoundrel! It is enough for me to have allowed you my

old clothes--I will give you no further assistance.'

'That is a pretty name to give me--scoundrel! Pray what reason have you

for thus entitling me?'

'Every reason. You and yours robbed Mirelle of what her father had

left.'

Sampson laughed.

'Oh, this is beautiful! Virtuous innocence condemns impenitent vice.

Brother John, we are both in the same box. It don't become you to ride

the virtuous horse; it trots beautifully along a smooth road, but I

think I can lay something in its way will trip and tumble it over. You

have had your pickings, and a d--d richer find yours was than mine.'

Herring looked at him speechless. Was this a random shot, or did he

know anything?

'You are a proper person to act the moral character. James Strange left

my father sole trustee of everything, did he not? How much of all he

left did you allow him to finger, eh? How much did you keep back for

yourself?' Sampson paused for a reply. He stood opposite Herring, with

his hands on his hips. 'Don't you think it possible that Cousin

Strange, in leaving Brazil, sent over as much ready money as he thought

he might want, and put the bulk of his property into diamonds, which he

could dispose of in London at any time? By his will he constituted my

father sole trustee of everything--that is, of money and diamonds. My

father never caught sight of the diamonds, never laid a finger on one of

them, for a very good reason, they were stolen by virtuous John

Herring.'

'This is false.'

'No, it is true. You did not rummage the trunk of Cousin Strange, or

take them out, that I'll allow; but you received the stolen jewels, and

the receiver is as bad as the thief, is he not?'

Herring could not speak.

'My father was constituted trustee. If you had been honest, when you

received these diamonds you would at once have taken them to him. You

were not honest. You kept them.'

'Sampson Trampleasure, I kept them only for Mirelle, in her interest. I

knew the character of your father, I knew what he was doing with the

rest of the money intrusted to him, and I would not risk the rest of her

property.'

'Who authorised you to keep it?'

'I acted as my conscience directed.'

'Conscience!' exclaimed Sampson, derisively, 'I like to hear that word

pleaded; it always means, when interpreted, self-interest. Some men

follow their consciences as a gardener follows a wheelbarrow, by pushing

it along before him. Answer me, would the law have authorised you to

keep back the diamonds?'

'No; the law would not.'

'Then who authorised you? Did Mirelle? Did you consult her about them?

I am at a loss to know what other authorisation you could find.'

'No, I did not speak of them to her--and that for reasons of my own.'

'No, I know you did not. You acted on what you call conscience, and I,

self-interest. I will tell you what you did with Mirelle's money. You

were soft and sweet on Cicely Battishill----'

'Hold,' said Herring, angrily; 'I dare you----'

'I will not be stayed. You pitied the girl; you were constantly with

her, you were tender and foolish. I do not dispute your good taste.

White and roses, and auburn hair--a young fellow might do worse than

pick up with Cicely. Well, for her sake you sold some of the stones,

and bought up the mortgages on West Wyke, held by my father. Was that

fair? My father had refused to invest Mirelle's money in that, and you

took her money unknown to him and thus employed it--only for the sake of

pretty Cicely.'

'I will not suffer such words to be spoken,' said Herring; 'I have never

regarded Miss Battishill in any other light than that of a sister.'

'A very affectionate brother you have been! So very fond of this dear

pink-and-white sister that you desert your wife and spend all your time

with her. You ran away the day after your marriage, and have not shown

your face to your wife since till this day, and now you are off again,

allured back to West Wyke by the superior attractions of Cicely

Battishill.'

Herring's blood boiled up, and he struck Sampson in the face between the

eyes, and sent him staggering back against the wall.

'Dare to say another such word again!'

'I will dare,' answered Sampson, when he had gathered himself together.

He quivered with rage. 'I will dare, because it is true. Are you not

going back now to Cicely? You know you are.' How did he know this,

Herring wondered. He had no idea that Sampson had possessed himself of

the address left in the bureau.

'Who bought his wife with her own money, eh?' pursued the enraged

Sampson. 'Cobbledick told me once of a man who bought a wife in

Okehampton market for a crown. You have bought Mirelle. That man paid

a crown for her out of his own pocket; but you, you picked Mirelle's

pocket for the purchase money. Is not this true? Was ever a more

dastardly act done than that? You called me a scoundrel. I may not

have always acted on the square, but, by God, I never did such a crooked

job as this. Did you know that Mirelle was over head and ears in love

with Captain Trecarrel? Of course you did. You knew that well enough,

and, lest he should marry her, you kept from her the secret of her

wealth. You let her and the Captain suppose they were too poor to

marry, and so he was ready to sell himself to Orange for five thousand

pounds, when in heart he was tied to Mirelle. Was that honourable--was

that gentlemanly--was that honest? Eh! Answer me that. No, no, my

friend, virtuous John. You were too clever. You wanted to steal the

fortune and wipe the guilt off your conscience, and so you marry Mirelle

whilst spooning that other one. But how do you manage this? Mirelle

don't care a snap of the fingers for you. When the failure of Ophir

brought ruin on my family you allowed my lady to feel the misery of

beggary, and then you came to the rescue and overwhelmed her with your

generosity--mind you, generous you were with her money. You relieved

her necessities out of her own purse, and never let her suspect it, in

the hopes of rousing in her the feeling of gratitude to her

great-hearted protector. What could the poor girl do but accept you as

a husband? She could not live on your alms; that would not be decent,

would it? A lady cannot receive four hundred a year and a house from a

young officer and preserve her character. She must marry him, or

relinquish what he has given her, and that latter alternative she cannot

take without involving Orange and my mother in poverty. Thus it was

that you drove Mirelle to accept you. A very ingeniously contrived

plan, certainly. Look how all the parts hang together, very perfect,

and faulty only in this, that I was not consulted. A very ingenious

plan, but cursedly wicked. By God! Even I would have shrunk from so

dirty and scoundrelly a trick, and I am not squeamish. Give me some

money.'

Herring held out his purse--a steel purse of interwoven links, with

steel clasp, a present from Mirelle. His head had fallen on his breast;

he was broken with shame and humiliation. This that Sampson had said

was true, but Herring had never seen his conduct in the light that

Sampson turned on it. It had never occurred to him that Mirelle could

not accept his bounty without accepting him--that he had, as Sampson had

said, driven her to take him, using her necessities as the whip, and

that he had in fact bought her with her own money. He saw this now

vividly, and the sight overcame him. He had been led by his conscience

into conduct unworthy of a man of honour; he was degraded in his own

eyes. Sampson took the purse, counted the money in his hand, returned

it to the purse, snapped it, and slipped it into his pocket.

'That will do for a time. Well! you called me a scoundrel. Which is

the biggest scoundrel of the two, Blackguard Sampson or Virtuous John?

You regard my father as a robber of orphans; which robbed the orphan

most? My father lost her six thousand pounds, you plundered her of more

than twice that amount, and with it you carried off her happiness.

Faugh! Virtuous John! even I turn away in disgust from you. I stand

white and shining as an angel beside you. Nor is this all. No sooner

is Mirelle yours and you can conscientiously keep her money, than you

break her heart by deserting her for another girl with more pink in her

cheeks than my Lady White Lily.'

Herring looked up; he was deadly pale, and his lips trembled. 'This is

false.'

'What! is it false that you left Mirelle directly you had brought her

hither?' Sampson waited for an answer. There could be none. It was

true.

'Is it false that you returned at once to West Wyke?' He waited again.

It was true, Herring had returned.

'Did you inform your wife whither you were going?' Silence again.

Herring had not told her; he had declined to do so.

'No, you evaded telling her. You went back to West Wyke--to Cicely the

rosebud, and you have been with her--your pretty pink-and-white

sister--ever since. How kind to Mirelle to rescue her rival from ruin

with her money! You think Mirelle will appreciate this when told. And

told the whole story of your dealings she shall be this very night.'

'Have done,' said Herring, in a low tone. 'Leave me alone.'

'No, not yet,' answered Sampson, triumphantly. 'You have insulted and

injured me, and I shall not leave you till I have made you sting and

writhe. You robbed Mirelle of that which ought to have been put into

the hands of my father and me, her diamonds; that is offence number one.

You insulted me at West Wyke, and threatened me with a ruler; that was

offence number two. I took a fancy to Mirelle, and might have contrived

to win her and her money, but you stood in the way by retaining her

diamonds, and with them you kept a hold over her destiny; that was

offence number three. You exposed Ophir--you brought that pretty and

flourishing affair to an end before it was ripe; that was a bad offence,

number four. To you I owe the vagabond life I have been living ever

since, number five; and to you a blow just now received, to make up the

number to six. Shall not I repay these when I may? Do you not know that

now my father is dead I step into his position as trustee of Mirelle's

fortune, till she is three-and-twenty? There is no provision in the

will relative to marriage. If you, curse you, had not brought the dogs

of justice out of kennel and set them after me, I would claim the

diamonds of you, and exact every penny you have spent. I cannot do it

now, situated as I am. You have hunted me down for that very

reason--you dreaded me, lest I should find out your fraud as you found

out mine; you forestalled me, and now you drive me out of England to

prevent me from reclaiming from you what you have no right to retain.

You are very clever; I never gave you credit for half your talent. But

for all your cleverness, you shall not escape. You think that your wife

need know nothing of what has taken place. She shall know everything.

Do you remember a confession you wrote to her? Well, I took it from the

drawer where you had hidden it, and I have given it into her hands.

That was the first mouthful, she shall receive next my commentary on

it.'

'What!' exclaimed Herring, white, trembling, the sweat standing in beads

on his brow.

'Ah! you may well be scared at the thought. That trustful Mirelle, who

believed in you as the most honourable of men, has learned this night

what you are--a despicable thief. She has discovered what you really

are, and how you circumvented her, and robbed her of her liberty, and

forged out of her own gold the chain that binds her to you. She knows

now the man she has married--and from this night forward she loathes

him.'

Herring could not speak; his heart stood still.

'She is now, I doubt not, pacing her bedroom, cursing that man whom she

once respected, but whom she now knows to be dishonest, untruthful, and

treacherous, the man who has blighted her entire life.'

Then Sampson laughed at the poor, paralysed, broken wretch before him,

eyed him from head to foot, turned his back, and with his one hand in a

pocket, and the other swinging his bundle of old clothes, he left the

office.

Without was night, black and starless.

'I have given him a worse blow than he gave me, I guess,' said Sampson;

'now all I have to do is to dispose of this bundle and then make off to

Falmouth as fast as I can. By heavens, I wish the night had not fallen

so dark, I cannot make out whither I am going. I can hear the sea, and

when I reach the edge I shall see the foam, and then over goes the

bundle. It makes me laugh to think how John Herring looked. I might

have been stabbing him all the time with a little knife; but, faith, I

reckon my words went deeper than knives. I wish it were not so

confoundedly dark. Curse it!--where am I?'

Where?

Below was Blackapit, with the waves leaping in that cauldron of

darkness.

One minute more and the leaping waters were flinging Sampson Tramplara

from side to side, and the gulls were flapping their wings and screaming

applause over a bruised and lifeless body.

*CHAPTER LVI.*

*A DEAD MAN.*

Herring was back at West Wyke. Everything went on there as usual. The

mine was worked systematically. The absence of John Herring for a few

days mattered little. West Wyke never altered. Since it had been built,

no Squire had added a room or an outhouse. But from year to year it

ripened and mellowed, the lichens spread over the stones in wider

patches of orange and white, and the stones became more wrinkled, and

the ribs of the roof more prominent through the slopes of small slate.

Cicely was the same--sweet, sunny, simple. Herring thought that nowhere

in the wide world could a more restful spot be found than this, or more

soothing society. Cicely saw that he looked more broken after this last

visit to Welltown than after the former. What was the mystery that hung

over his life--what the grief that consumed his heart? His former visit

had transformed him from a youth to a man, but this had aged him almost

to decrepitude. Cicely observed this, but she said nothing. She

troubled him with no inquiries, she did not even allow him to perceive

that she noticed a change. The change was not so much in his exterior

as within. A cleavage had gone down into his moral nature. On the

former occasion his hopes had been shattered, now his faith was shaken.

Before he had been broken-hearted, now he was broken-spirited. His

interview with Sampson had shaken his confidence in himself, he could no

longer rely on conscience as a safe guide, and he knew of no other

prompter to action. He reviewed his course of conduct again and again,

and always came to the same conclusion, that he was justified in what he

had done. What was the alternative course--the course from which

conscience had turned him? That was to have given up the box to

Trampleasure and washed his hands of all responsibility. But that would

have been selfish conduct; it would have been cruel as it was heartless.

No doubt he had been influenced by his love for Mirelle when he

concealed his discovery from the legal trustee, but he would have done

the same for any other helpless person similarly situated, knowing as he

did that to betray the secret was to ruin the ward. And to what had he

been led? To the wrecking of two lives, of his own and that of Mirelle.

If he had acted according to legal instead of moral right, this would

not, perhaps, have taken place. How is a man to govern his life--what

is to be the mainspring of his actions? The statute law, or the law of

God written in the heart? Herring had lost faith in the guidance of

conscience, in the directing hand of Providence. He remembered the words

of Mirelle on the walk to Welltown, 'All the familiar landmarks fail me,

all the ways lead in unknown directions, I am translated into a country

that I am expected to travel through without a map or guide.' Those

words, which were void of meaning to him when spoken, precisely

described his present condition. The framework of his moral

consciousness was shaken and out of joint. In time, perhaps, he would

recover, but at present the shock had thrown him out of his

perpendicular. In Japan, the land of earthquakes, every tower is held

upright and together by a huge pendulum of beamwork hanging free. The

moral conscience is the pendulum in man. When that is strapped and

braced to the girders and buttresses without, a little shock throws the

whole system into ruin. It must hang free if it is to serve as a source

of stability, otherwise it precipitates ruin. The human heart can

endure any amount of disappointment so long as it maintains its faith in

the eternal Providence, but, when that fails, its powers of endurance

are at an end. Then the wave of bitterness rises and washes over the

soul and leaves it like the Desert of Nitre, strewn with bones. The dew

of heaven may drop, the showers may fall on it, but the white, bitter

surface thenceforth can never laugh into verdure.

John Herring did his work mechanically. He took neither pleasure nor

interest in it. The mine might prosper, it probably would, and the

result would be evil. He would clear the estate of Cicely from its

encumbrances. What for?--good; nothing led to good--to find that he had

done mischief in his effort to help her. Everywhere men and women are

striving to amend wrongs, and only succeed in shifting the suffering

from the shoulders of one class on to another. Everywhere dirty pools

are being scraped out, only to discolour and defile the water that is

disturbed. Everywhere tortured humanity is being inoculated with matter

that will expel one disease by preparing the soil for another.

'Please, miss,' said Joyce, one Sunday, to Cicely, who had just returned

from church, 'there be that fool of a Jim White from Coombow have a come

all the way, and what he be come for I don't know.'

'What Jim White?'

'A buffleheaded sort of a chap,' said Joyce, in a tone between shyness

and disgust; 'he it were as brought me and the master here that day as

he were nigh upon killed by Sampson Tramplara.'

Herring looked up; he was at the table. He had not been to church; why

should he go to church to be bidden follow conscience when conscience

leads astray? Why should he seek for light when the only light afforded

is that of Jack o'lanthorns that lead into mires? He said bitterly,

'Joyce, why did you bring me hither?'

'I couldn't do nort other--I did it to make you well again.'

She had followed her conscience, and her poor light had led her to save

his life. What for?--to make Mirelle miserable and himself miserable.

Better a thousand times had he died then.

'But, Joyce, what about Jim White? What does he want?'

'Well, miss, I dunnow exactly what he wants, but he've a walked all

these miles, and he've a got to go back again, so what I want to know

is, may he have his meat here, as he ain't a going to get nort else?'

'Certainly.'

'And he may have a drop o' cyder to his meat? Jim White be one as can't

get on without that. And he smells o' cyder now like as old vaither's

cask did when it were fresh.'

'By all means, Joyce,' said Cicely, 'and you may invite him to come here

once a month.'

Joyce flushed up. 'I--I don't want the bufflehead to be coming here.

I've a told 'n so scores and scores o' times, and I'll tell him if he

comes again he'll get neither meat nor cyder. He were here about a

month ago, I reckon, and he sed he'd that partikler to say as could only

be said between four eyes. So he sat in the kitchen on one chair, and I

on another, a full two hours by the clock, and he never opened his mouth

all that time but once, to ax why the great beam went across the

ceiling. There! he shall have his meat this Sunday, and, by the blue

blazes, he shan't have it of me no more.' Then she stepped up to

Herring. 'Please, maister,' she said, 'Jim White have a brought you a

paper from Okehampton, a "Saturday News"; he sez he thought you'd a like

to see 'n. I didn't think the chap had it in 'n.'

'Thank you, Joyce, and thank Jim White, and here is a present to him for

his mistaken kindness to me on a former occasion.'

'But,' said Joyce, 'I may tell 'n that you don't want the paper again.

He be that stupid he might make the bringing of a paper an excuse to

come here every Sunday. I know,' she exclaimed brightly--'I know what

I'll do. I'll tell 'n if he comes again you'll up with your gun and

bang off wi' it as you did at me to Welltown that night.'

'Very well; as you like.'

When Joyce had retired, Herring took up the paper indifferently. It

could not interest him, for nothing interested him now.

'I wish you had been at church to-day, John,' said Cicely; 'Mr.

Harmless-Simpleton preached us a very good sermon.'

'Indeed--on what text?' asked John Herring, carelessly.

'After death, the judgment.'

Herring laughed bitterly. 'Cicely,' he said, 'the order is inverted.

The judgment comes first, and after that--after a long and weary

interval--death. At least that is my experience.'

She looked at him with a distressed and puzzled expression. 'Dear

Cousin John, what has come over you? you are so different from what you

were.'

'What has come over me?' he echoed; 'the judgment and condemnation.

There! ask no more questions. Take the paper and look at it; there is

nothing in it to interest me.' He pushed it across the table to her.

'Do you take no interest in politics, John?'

'No; they are only Ophir over again.'

'John, I cannot understand you. Why are you so changed in your view of

life? At one time you were hopeful and believed in good, and now you

despair and believe only in evil. You make me unhappy.'

'Then I am fulfilling my destiny. The curse is laid on me to blight all

I come across.'

'That is utterly untrue.'

'We see life in different lights, Cicely. In after years you will

recognise that my view is the true view. Fortunately, the young who

start in life are nursed in delusions, or they would refuse the race.'

'John,' said Cicely, 'what is the meaning of this?' She had been

turning listlessly over the paper, listening to Herring's words, and

troubled in her mind about him. 'Here stands your name--and Welltown,

your place in Cornwall.'

'What!' he asked; 'let me look.' And he took the paper hastily out of

her hands.

He read of the discovery of Mr. John Herring, late of Welltown, who had

disappeared from home on a certain night, but without any suspicions

having been raised till his body was found in Plackapit at low water a

few days later, terribly mangled and defaced. It would not have been

possible to identify the body but for the clothes worn by the deceased,

and which had been taken from the place in his office where they usually

hung. Moreover, the pocket contained a steel purse known to have

belonged to the deceased gentleman, and in the breast-pocket was

discovered a magnificent set of diamonds, the property of his wife,

which she always kept in a concealed drawer, the secret of which was

known only to herself and Mr. Herring. According to what had transpired,

the last time the deceased was seen alive was by his wife, seated at the

bureau in which these diamonds were. Apparently he had removed the

jewels before leaving; for what purpose it was impossible to conjecture,

especially as it was suspected that the deceased gentleman had committed

suicide. It was reported that he had written a farewell letter to his

wife at the bureau where she saw him, intimating his intention; but this

letter she absolutely refused to produce at the inquest. This

melancholy event had cast a deep gloom over the entire neighbourhood,

&c. &c.

Herring read this paragraph over twice before he could understand it,

and even then he understood it only imperfectly. But the main points

flashed out. Sampson Tramplara had fallen over the rocks, and his body

had been mistaken for that of himself because of the clothes he wore and

the purse in his pocket. How Sampson had obtained the diamonds he was

unable to divine, but he suspected that the letter alluded to was that

containing his confession, which Sampson had told him he had given to

Mirelle. He sat looking mutely at the paper, his mind working.

'What is it, John?' asked Cicely; but he did not hear. Then she came to

him and looked over his shoulder.

'John,' said she, putting her hand on him and shaking him; 'John, what

is the meaning of this?'

'Cicely, it is as I said--after judgment, death. Do you see? I am a

dead man.'

There was silence in the room. She was collecting her thoughts. What

did this all mean?

'John,' she exclaimed, 'what is this?--you have a wife!'

'No--a widow.'

Then he stood up, and walked twice up and down the room, his face white

as ashes, his hands behind his back, and his head bowed. Cicely

followed him with her eyes; she was bewildered.

'It is best as it is,' said he to himself. 'Mirelle is set free. John

Herring is dead.'

Then the truth rushed in on Cicely's mind.

'Oh, John, John! Was she--Mirelle, your wife?'

He looked at her. He did not answer; she saw the mute agony in his

face.

'Oh, John, poor John! now I understand all! Now I know why you have

been so unhappy. I am sure she never loved you.'

'No, Cicely, she never loved me.'

'She could love no one.'

'You are wrong; she loved another.'

Again there was silence. Cicely's eyes filled.

Herring paced the room again. Cicely could not see him now, her eyes

were too full.

'Oh, John! dear, poor John!'

'Cicely,' he said, standing still in the midst of his tramp, 'what has

happened is best for every one. Let it be. From henceforth John

Herring is dead. If you will, I am John Battishill, your brother.'

*CHAPTER LVII.*

*AN ARREST.*

A blustering day; the rain splashing against the windows of an inn at

Plymouth. Mirelle sat in the window; there was a balcony with

balustrade before it, and the water dripped incessantly from the rail

upon the swimming balcony.

Mirelle was in mourning; her face looked preternaturally white in her

black dress. Her eyes were sunken, her lips thin and tremulous; but

there were spots of almost colour in her cheeks, speaking of feverish

excitement, not of health. Genefer Benoke was with her.

'Mistress,' said the old woman, 'be it still too late to bid you turn

back? I tell'y I don't believe as the master be dead. I don't believe

it, though I saw him dead with my own eyes. For the eyes of the

understanding be keener and clearer than they of the flesh. When Saul

the persecutor were cast to the ground on his way to Damascus, he opened

his eyes and saw no man. That be the state of most. They've their eyes

open, but they sees naught that they ought to see. They goes through

the world and they don't see the snares that be set on every side, and

the angels that compass them about, and the Providence as is leading of

them. The eyes of the flesh be open, but the eyes of the understanding

see nothing. With the eyes of the soul I see the master still alive.

Afore you came to Welltown I saw you; and I saw what was to be, in a

vision, and whether I were in the body or out of the body at the time I

cannot tell--God knoweth; but this I do say, that what I then saw with

the spiritual eye don't accord no ways with what the natural eye

declares. But what do I speak of this to you for as if you knowed

naught about the spiritual eye? Sure alive, you lead a life of prayer

as do I. Well, I will tell'y what were revealed to me. I fell into a

trance, having my eyes open, and I saw the master with his arms round

you--the Bride of Snow--and he looked up to you, seeking in you that he

never saw.'

Mirelle bowed her face in her hands.

'And with the warmth of his heart you melted away, drop by drop. I've a

seen how you've a been thawing right away ever since the day he brought

you to Welltown, tear by tear--as see! you be melting now. And in my

vision I saw that you dissolved clean away and your place knew you no

more; but nevertheless the master remained, with his arms extended and

his eyes uplifted, as though still seeking you, till he grew cold, and

his hair white, and his tears ice, and his heart were frozen dead. You

was gone first, and, after a space, he; it be against the truth of my

vision that he should die first and you after.'

'Genevieve, there can be no doubt whatever about what has happened. I

would cheerfully give my life to restore his, but that cannot be. I

know for certain that he is dead. I have many and weighty reasons for

so believing.'

'What reasons? It be true enough that your diamonds and the purse were

found on him, as well as his own old clothes that I've a sewed the brass

buttons on--I know them well. But what about that? The devil be

crafty, and given power to deceive.'

'I have other reasons.'

'I ask you what? You may tell me, for we shall never meet in the flesh

again.'

'He wrote to me the night he died. He had been talking to me in my

boudoir, and was very unhappy. Then he told me he would write me

something, and I gave him the key of my cabinet, where were my diamonds

and my writing materials. When I opened the desk next morning the

jewels were gone, and I found his letter. In that letter he told me

that he bade me farewell for ever.

'He meant to go abroad.'

'No, Genevieve, the letter said more than that. It intimated that, when

I received it, I should be----'

'What?'

'What I now am--a widow.'

'It be a temptation of the devil,' said Genefer, 'who is mighty to

deceive, who be come down with great wrath for that he hath a short

time. You never let no one see the letter?'

'No. Unfortunately I spoke of it to Orange, and that is how anything

come out about it. I thought she would have been more discreet.'

'Well, well!' sighed Genefer; 'the world be full of delusions. Now you

be going back to France and to wicked idolatry. There be no call of God

in that, to leave the land of light for that of darkness.'

'Genevieve, do not speak on this subject. You and I cannot see alike. I

am seeking rest, I am weary, utterly weary of the life I have led in

England. It is useless your attempting to argue with me, and to

dissuade me from it. I am weary of the wind and the clouds and the rain

and the roar of waves without, and of the troubles that toss and

overcast the soul within. I must go back. I must find peace. I count

the hours till I am within those blessed happy doors of the Sacre Coeur

again; and, when once within, I will never, never, never leave that

home. Come, Genevieve, help me on with my cloak and hood. I mast go

out; the rain has ceased, and I will see if there be a chance of the

storm abating.'

'Mistress, the packet won't sail with a gale on shore such as this. It

would be tempting of Providence.'

'You will come with me. I am impatient of the delay. I must see what

the sky and sea look like, and you must attend me, as I cannot stand

unassisted against the force of the wind. Oh, Genevieve! where I am

going I shall feel no storms--I shall be in perfect shelter, and at

rest.'

Mirelle was, as she said, on her way to France. From the time that she

knew she was free, one absorbing desire had taken hold of her--the

desire to fly from England and return to the convent of the Sacred

Heart, there to bury herself from the world. The world, against which

the sisters had warned her, she had seen. It was full of unrest,

brutality, self-seeking, and imposture. She thought all day of her

escape, she dreamt of her return all night. So completely had this idea

taken hold of her that it excluded all other thoughts; it possessed her

like a fever. She could not think of John Herring. Even Captain

Trecarrel was far from her mind. She wanted nothing for the future but

perfect quiet within the sacred walls of the Sacre Coeur.

Those of old who were accused of witchcraft were kept without sleep till

they confessed. They were denied a moment's doze, till, in the craving

for rest, they admitted whatever they were charged with, ready to face

the flames if only they might first fold their hands and close their

eyes and sigh away their spirits into oblivion.

Some such a craving had come over Mirelle. She had been denied the rest

she desired, she had been distracted by responsibilities she did not

understand, buffeted by rude associates, placed in situations full of

bewilderment, deprived of the ministrations of religion, and, now that

the possibility of escape opened to her, she became almost mad to seize

it.

Mirelle had told her intention to Orange, who warmly approved of it, and

Orange and Genefer had accompanied her to Plymouth, where she wras to

take passage to France. They had spent a night on the way at Dolbeare,

and Genefer was to return with Orange the day after Mirelle had

departed.

An arrangement had been proposed by Orange, and readily acquiesced in by

Mirelle, that Mrs. Trampleasure and Orange were to remain at Welltown,

at least for a while, and take charge of the estate; they were to retain

a certain portion of the receipts, and forward the rest to Mirelle.

Mirelle was to have sailed on the day when we have reintroduced her to

the reader, seated in the inn window at Plymouth, but the storm had

prevented the packet from sailing. Her passage was paid, her berth

taken, and her luggage was on board. If the weather abated, she would

leave England for ever on the morrow.

Attended by Genefer Benoke, Mirelle went out upon the Hoe and looked

forth on the noble bay. There was then no breakwater across its

entrance, arresting the violence of the swell. The waves, driven by a

south-westerly gale, rolled in from the sea and foamed about the

headlands that jutted into the harbour. They tossed and danced about

Drake Island and Mount Batten, and ran hissing upon the white marble

shore beneath the Hoe. The rain had abated, but fresh showers were

coming on, stalking over the angry sea and staining it to ink beneath

them. There was no sign of a cessation in the gale. It came on in

furious gusts, before which Mirelle cowered and clung to Genefer. As

she turned on one occasion, a gentleman standing near, also observing

the sea, saw her face, and uttered an exclamation of surprise. She

raised her eyes and met those of Captain Trecarrel.

'Mirelle!' he exclaimed, and hastened to interpose his umbrella between

her and the wind. 'How unexpected! What brings you to Plymouth? It is

my fate to light on you where least anticipated. I have completed my

excursion and filled my portfolio. I returned by the south coast to see

whether it furnished material for a second issue of pictures, and here I

am at Plymouth meditating a return to Launceston as soon as the weather

clears. I was so shocked to hear of your loss. I always respected John

Herring as a worthy, well-meaning man. There was no pretence about him,

no affectation of being other than he was. I have no doubt that his

death was an awful blow to you--so sudden, and the manner so dreadful.

You have my warmest sympathy. Poor fellow! poor fellow! Well, well,

the world is short of a good sterling man it could ill afford to lose.

I hope his circumstances were all right, no money trouble?'

Mirelle shook her head.

'You do not think that distress about over-expenditure can have affected

his brain? Inability to meet calls?'

'He was well off--rich--much richer than I thought,' said Mirelle,

sadly. 'But pray, Captain, spare me now.'

'Allow me your arm,' said Trecarrel; 'the wind is so high that I am in

momentary fear of your being blown off the cliff and being carried out

to sea.'

'The wind is on shore,' said Mirelle, drily.

'True, true; I had not observed it. Bah! here comes the rain, driving

as you say on shore, and irresistible. Under these circumstances there

is no cowardice in beating a retreat and evacuating the Hoe to the

enemy. Shall we descend? Where are you staying? At the Royal? Let me

accompany you home. What! Genefer Benoke here? How do you do,

Genefer? Sad time you have had at Welltown. My heart has bled for you

all. I would have flown to the spot to offer my services, but some

sorrows are too sacred to be intruded on. I never was more shocked in

my life than when I heard of the accident, if accident it may be called,

but I suppose it really was that, if he was unembarrassed in

circumstances.' So talking, asking questions and getting no answers,

Captain Trecarrel accompanied Mirelle back to the inn. He did not wait

to be invited to enter, but accompanied Mirelle upstairs.

'Now tell me all about it,' he said. 'I would not return to Welltown

after the sad event, through delicacy of sentiment; I thought it might

augment your trouble. So I continued my sketching tour, and really made

some capital drawings. The weather, however, proved detestable, and

after a while I gave up the north coast and took a flying survey of the

south. And now, tell me why you are here. What can have brought you to

Plymouth?'

'Captain Trecarrel, I am on my way to France, to the convent of the

Sacre Coeur, where I was educated.'

'Nothing of the sort. You are going to stay in England.'

Mirelle shook her head. 'No; my mind is made up. Indeed, from the

moment that I knew my husband was dead, and that I was a free agent, I

had no doubt as to what I must do.'

'You are not dreaming of shutting yourself up in a convent?'

'I am going home.'

'Home! what do you mean by home?'

'I mean whatever you associate with rest and fragrance and holiness,

with love and innocence and happiness. Some find this ideal in a

family. I have never had any experience of home in this sense; the only

family I have been with was that of the Trampleasures, and that in no

way comes up to my ideal. I will not say more about that. No! what I

mean by home is that which I know--the convent of the Sacre Coeur.'

Trecarrel rubbed his chin musingly, and then pulled his moustache. 'If

you become a nun, what is to become of Welltown? You are, I presume,

well off. Herring had no brothers and sisters, and that falls to you I

suppose. Are you thinking of selling John Herring's property, of

calling in all your available funds, and bestowing everything on the

convent and the bears of Paris?'

'I have not this thought. Orange and her mother will reside at Welltown

and manage the estate, and let me have the money I need.'

'And who will check their accounts--who look after your interests?'

'Orange will send me what I want. I do not require much.'

'What did my poor friend John Herring die worth? That is--how much has

come to you, Mirelle?'

'I do not know the value of the Welltown estate.'

'But I do,' said Trecarrel, sharply. 'Six hundred nett, on the outside.

Is that all?'

'No,' answered Mirelle, 'there is a great deal more money than that.

Many thousand pounds. There are the mortgages on West Wyke, and there

is a mine somewhere about there, and money beside.'

'All yours?' asked Trecarrel, turning his melting blue eye on Mirelle,

and stroking his moustache.

'I suppose so.'

'And this is all to be left to the unchecked management of Orange?'

'Yes, Orange is so kind and sensible, she will know better than I what

ought to be done, and how to do it.'

'Mirelle!' exclaimed the Captain, standing up, and placing himself

before the fire, occupying the entire rug; 'you are not going to leave

England. You are not going to shirk your duty.'

'My duty! I have done that to the best of my powers, which are small.

No, Captain Trecarrel, I must go back whence I came. You cannot conceive

how abhorrent to me has been the life I have led since I came to

England. It has nearly killed me. Look at my hands; they were plump

when I left France, compared to what they are now. My strength is gone;

a very short walk now tires me out. I was strong before. I have had no

illness whatever except that fever at Dolbeare before I was married, but

my soul has been sick ever since I left France, and now I feel a sort of

instinct in me that if I am to live I must spread my wings and escape

over the water to dear France and nestle into the old convent home

again.'

'No, Mirelle, you would not find rest there, you may take my word for

it. You would carry thither something in your heart which would forbid

your finding rest there. Look me in the face and say that this is not

so.' She could not do this; there was truth in his words. 'No, dear

Mirelle, that old convent life is no more to be returned to than

childhood. You may, as an adult, go back into the nursery, and buy a

rattle and feed yourself with pap out of a spoon; but you cannot revive

the old childish buoyancy of heart and brightness of hope, you go back

into infantine surroundings with the care-furrowed heart of age. You

would not be happy in the convent, because you return to it a woman and

you went out a child. There is something more to be considered; you

have contracted obligations which you have no right to cast off. You

own an estate and a fortune, and this gives you influence and power for

good; this you have no right to ignore. You have been transplanted by

Providence to a place where religion is as dead or diseased as when

Saint Morwenna came to the same coast twelve hundred years ago. Do you

suppose she came to it by choice? Do you think that she never yearned

to be back in the stillness and indolence of her dear convent at Burton?

She came to our Cornish coast from a sunny home in the midlands, among

lime-trees and buttercup pastures, and from a church where there was

sweet music and rich sculpture and all the splendours of Catholic

worship, and inhabited a rude hovel overhanging the sea, into which the

storm drove between the ill-jointed stones; away from trees and flowers,

and music and worship, simply and solely because she was called to live

there, and duty tied her to the spot. Now we venerate Saint Morwenna as

a Virgin Apostle of the Cornish Coast, as one who brought light to those

in darkness, the truth to those in error. You are a Catholic. Was it

any choice of yours which took you to Welltown? You were taken there by

Providence, and Providence has set you a task which you have no right to

leave undone, has given you a post which you dare not desert. Those poor

wretched Cornish are like shipwrecked men lost in night and storm, not

knowing whither to steer, and led astray by wreckers' lanthorns. You

are sent among them as a second Morwenna, to lead them to the true port,

to show them the only true light.'

'I--I--I!' Mirelle trembled, and her heart sank within her: she had not

strength and courage to execute such a task.

'Yes, you. With your means and position you can do a great deal. Who

is there at Boscastle to oppose you? Sir Jonathan? He will do nothing.

How do you know but that you may win his daughters, and so save their

souls? Who is there of influence for miles round except yourself and

the Phyllacks? Build a Catholic Chapel at Boscastle, down in the midst

of the people. Establish there a priest and a mission, and every soul

brought into the true fold will bless you.'

Mirelle was silent.

'I am pointing out to you a duty. You have seen no priest since you

were married; you must suffer me to be your director. Has not what I

urge struck you before?'

'No,' answered Micelle, faintly. 'But see! I can do much that you say,

and yet live in France. I will endow a mission at Boscastle and build

there a church.'

'You cannot set a missioner there without a soul to support him. He

must have one or two Catholics near, or he can do nothing. Now you

understand what I said. If you fly abroad you take trouble along with

you, and you will not rest in your convent. It is the story of Jonah

over again, and see--see this storm sent to arrest you, to send you back

to Nineveh, from which you were flying.'

'How cruel you are--how cruel! I have been so hoping, longing, sighing

to escape.'

Cruel indeed he was, and mean beneath conception. He used the words and

arguments which he knew would tell with her, not that he cared for the

souls of the Boscastle people, or for the advance of the Catholic

Church, but because he coveted her money and the estate of Welltown.

'That is not all,' continued Captain Trecarrel, and his tone changed

from that of exhortation to that of pleading. His voice melted, and

sounded as though tears were welling up in it; it became soft and

tremulous. 'You have no right to run away, dear Mirelle, for another

reason. You know--you know'--his voice became broken; then, with a

gulp, swallowing his agitation--'you know what I mean.'

Mirelle trembled. She did know what he meant.

'You have no right to sacrifice another as well as yourself. You know,

Mirelle, how I have loved you---'

'Stay, stay!' exclaimed Mirelle, piteously. 'Do not speak to me again

like this. I must--I must go. If only to pray for my poor husband's

soul, I must go.'

'Mirelle, tell me--do you believe that he wilfully destroyed himself?'

'I do.'

'For what reason? There were no money troubles?'

'None whatever.'

'Why, then, did he commit suicide?'

She was silent. She could not explain. He considered for a while, and

then said, 'How is it that there had been such an estrangement between

you from the beginning? I understand he left you the day after the

marriage, and did not return till that day which ended in his death.

This is very mysterious, and points to some great cause of trouble

between you. Did he love you?'

'Indeed he did. Too well.'

'Did you love him?'

She did not answer, but her head sank on her bosom.

'Tell me, Mirelle--is it true that he wrote to you the night of his

death? I heard a report to that effect.'

'Yes, it is true.'

'What did he say in that letter?

She hesitated. 'He said that he bade me farewell for ever. He said

that when I read the letter I should be free.'

'Why did he write thus?'

She made no answer, but covered her face.

'Tell me, Mirelle--did he know of my--of our----'

'Spare me--spare me! Oh, Captain Trecarrel, if you must know all, he

knew that I did not love him in the way in which he loved me, and the

knowledge of this made him so miserable that---- You know the rest. And

now, do you not see that I have his death on my conscience, and I must

do what I can to expiate this sin, and do what I can for the poor

despairing soul that I drove to despair?'

'Set your mind at ease. I do not in the least believe in his

self-destruction. A man about to commit suicide does not first fill his

pocket with diamonds worth several thousand pounds. The finding of the

jewels upon him is conclusive evidence that he did not meditate

self-destruction, but, on the contrary, meant to live comfortably on the

proceeds of their sale elsewhere. John Herring--you may take my word

for it--made up his mind, as he could not be happy with you, that he

would go elsewhere, probably to America. Now, a man cannot start afresh

in life penniless without great inconvenience and discomfort: so he laid

his hand on that which was convertible into money, to start him in the

New World. You do not suppose John Herring intended to strangle himself

with a diamond necklace, do you? If he did not, the supposition of his

having meditated self-destruction is untenable beside the fact of his

having taken the jewels. No; he possessed himself of them because he

had not sufficient cash in hand, and as he made his way over the

cliffs--it was a dark night--he missed his path and fell down Blackapit.

There you have the solution of the entire mystery. Set your mind at

ease; the guilt of his death does not weigh on you, and there is no need

for you to expiate it in a convent.'

Mirelle breathed more freely. This explanation did really seem the

correct one, and the relief it gave her was great.

'Now, then,' said the Captain, 'I have knocked this nonsense of

cloistering yourself on the head.' He rang the bell, and, when the

servant appeared, he said, 'Send to the packet, and have the Countess

Garcia's boxes brought back. She is not going to sail in her.'

Mirelle raised her hand in protest, but in vain. The strong will and

determination of the Captain was more than she could resist in her

present weak condition.

'Listen now to me, dear Mirelle,' he said, and, leaving the fire, came

towards her. 'The barrier that has stood between us has fallen. What is

there now to hinder you from becoming my wife? I have loved you from

the first moment that I saw you, and--do not deny it--you have loved me.

You married a man for whom you did not care--a worthy man, but not one a

heart like yours could cling to, even if disengaged; and disengaged it

was not. Duty obliged you--obliged both of us--to smother and conceal

our mutual love. But the fire was not extinguished, and, now that the

obligation to keep it under exists no longer, it bursts forth in flame

once more. You shall not go to France. If you do, in spite of me, I

will follow you, and claim you from the sisters of the Sacred Heart.

You have no right to run away; you owe me reparation for the suffering I

have undergone. Shall I own to you something? I knew that you were

going to sail in the packet; I knew what you purposed doing; and I came

to Plymouth to prevent it.'

Mirelle looked up at him with surprise.

'Yes, dearest, when I knew that you were free I had no rest. I saw my

hopes of happiness revive. Hender Benoke was in my pay. He kept me

informed of what was taking place and what was meditated at Welltown. In

love as in war, all things are lawful.'

Mirelle was now standing near the window, leaning against the angle of

the window splay, with the curtain behind her. Her face was turned

away. She could not look at the Captain, but she saw nothing through

the window panes.

Captain Trecarrel came towards her. She felt his approach, she did not

see it, and she trembled violently. She was powerless. The events of

her short life in the world had broken down her force of character and

power of resistance to a superior and resolute will.

'Mirelle, dearest Mirelle,' he said, in a voice vibrating with pathos,

'you said, a little while ago, that the only knowledge you had of home

was a cloister; there is another and a fonder home--in the arms, on the

heart, of a good and honourable man.' He put his arms round her and

clasped her to him.

At the same moment the door opened, and Orange came in, very wet, with

cheeks glowing with exercise; but when she saw the Captain holding

Mirelle in his arms, and stooping to imprint a kiss on her lips, she

turned the colour of parchment.

'Orange!' exclaimed the Captain, recovering himself at once. 'Delighted

to see you. Mirelle is not going to France; she is not going to immure

herself in a cloister; she returns to Launceston, and thence to Welltown

to-morrow, and she has very kindly offered me a place in her carriage as

far as Launceston. I do not in the least object to a seat with my back

to the horses.'

*CHAPTER LVIII.*

*R.I.P.*

The chaise was ready to take Mirelle back again. She was depressed. A

strange sinking, a sickening fear had come over her heart, the reaction

after the excitement she had gone through, the eager expectation of a

return to the convent, and then the arrest on the threshold of escape.

She had painfully schooled herself not to think of the Captain, and even

now she shrank from thinking of him, lest she should be committing a

mortal sin. Even now, with the knowledge before her that he whom she

had loved would claim her and be to her more than friend and support,

she failed to feel anything but disappointment that she was not on her

way back to the Sacre Coeur. She loved Trecarrel, but her love for him

was not now the predominating feeling of her heart; her craving for rest

and shelter prevailed over the other passion. Even now, if she could,

she would have prosecuted her journey, and it was with a lingering,

longing look that she gazed on the sea. Only duty, that supreme sense

of submission to duty, drove her back. Captain Trecarrel knew her

character perfectly when he appealed to this. The prospect of enjoying

his love, of leaning on him, blunted the edge of her disappointment: it

did no more than that.

Mirelle had not slept that night. Indeed she had not slept for several

nights. Hitherto she had been kept awake by her fever of excitement at

the prospect of return to the home of her childhood; last night she had

been wakeful from other causes, disappointment, and bewilderment at the

new landscape spread before her eyes. She looked like a girl

convalescent from a long and dangerous sickness.

'Do you think, miss, her be fit to travel?' asked the hostess,

compassionately, of Orange. 'Her looks a'most like death herself.'

'She suffers from the heart,' answered Orange, coldly.

Orange Trampleasure was not herself. A hard look had come over her

face. The ripe, sensual lips were set and contracted, and a threatening

light glimmered in her eyes.

'That other young lady do have a temper. I wouldn't be the one to cross

her,' said the hostess to the chambermaid when the chaise departed.

Nor was Genefer herself the confident person she had been. Genefer was

wont to speak as the oracle of the truth, to speak and act as though

whatever she said and did was inspired. She had no doubt about her own

infallibility, and every contrary opinion to hers she regarded as

instigated by the devil. But this morning her confidence was gone;

almost for the first time in her life she did not see her way clear

before her. She had urged Mirelle to return to Welltown, and Mirelle

was returning; but now Genefer doubted whether the advice she had given

was wise and good. She did not like the Captain, and the Captain had

succeeded in convincing her mistress when she had failed.

'The Lord have hid the thing from me!' she muttered as she mounted the

box. She sat looking before her, waiting for the light, that she might

see her way; but it did not come. At intervals she sighed, and

muttered, 'I misdoubt me sore. But the Lord have closed my eyes that I

cannot see.'

Strange as it may seem, the old woman had taken a strong liking for

Mirelle, and it was not only because she thought Mirelle's object in

returning to an idolatrous land was wrong that she opposed it, but also

because in her rugged but warm heart she was attached to her and did not

like to lose her. There was a singleness of mind and a spirituality of

vision in the Snow Bride which impressed as well as puzzled Genefer.

How one who was not a Dissenter could live an inner life, and pray much,

perplexed her, but she recognised in Mirelle a good deal that was akin

to herself, and she found that Mirelle entered into her spiritual

experiences with interest and sympathy.

Orange sat by Mirelle, and Captain Trecarrel was opposite the latter.

He made himself very agreeable, had a fund of conversation on a variety

of topics, but found his companions in no responsive mood. He tried to

interest Mirelle in the scenery, which was lovely, but Mirelle was

absorbed in her thoughts and disinclined for conversation. The day was

fine, the views looking back over Plymouth Bay and the woods of Mount

Edgcumbe, the Hamoaze crowded with ships, and the winding estuary of the

Tamar, were charming--hardly less beautiful were those in front, of

Dartmoor. Mirelle leaned back in the chaise, the hood of which was

thrown back, and the air fanned her face and soothed her.

Captain Trecarrel could hardly withdraw his eyes from her; she seemed to

him the most lovely woman he had ever seen. He had an artist's

appreciation of beauty of feature. The delicate and perfect chiselling

of the nose and nostril, the finely formed, sensitive mouth, the pure

brow, and, when she looked up, the solemn depth of her large eyes,

filled him with admiration. A little lock of her dark hair had strayed

over her forehead, and the soft warm air trifled with it in a tender,

playful manner. Mirelle put up her fingers to put it in place, but

unsuccessfully; it stole forth again, again to flutter in the light air.

Orange watched Trecarrel jealously; she saw how his eyes turned to

Mirelle whenever he dare look at her without rudeness, and how his

admiration of her beauty grew. The Captain spoke to her occasionally,

but only by the way, his remarks were mainly directed to Mirelle, and

when he turned to Orange she felt that he was doing so out of civility

alone. His thoughts were not with her, but with her companion. Orange

was not herself on this day; her usual colour had deserted her, and the

sensuous fulness of life which throbbed in her seemed to have ebbed, and

left her flaccid and pulseless.

Captain Trecarrel was aware that he had behaved badly to Orange, and had

incurred her resentment; this made him nervous in her presence, and to

hide his discomfort he redoubled his efforts to be agreeable. Finding

that no conversation was to be got out of Mirelle, he finally turned his

efforts to Orange, and endeavoured to amuse her with his adventures at

the little inns on his sketching tour.

But still, as he talked, his eyes reverted to the face of Mirelle, and

Orange's life returned in a throb of spleen. She rose in her seat and

said sharply, 'We will change places, if you please, Captain Trecarrel.'

'Hush!' said he; 'do not disturb her. She sleeps.'

The fresh air puffing in her face, and the warm sun, after the sleepless

nights, had operated on the weary brain, and Mirelle had dropped off

into unconsciousness. Orange was aware of this without looking round,

by the confidence with which the Captain allowed his eyes to rest on her

face. Mirelle was breathing gently, and her face had become wonderfully

peaceful and deathlike under the influence of sleep. The stray lock

wantoned in the air on the pure white brow, but could not wake her.

'Do you really wish to sit with your back to the horses?' asked

Trecarrel in an undertone. 'You will then have the sun in your eyes.'

'Yes, let us change places.' Her voice was metallic.

'Then, for the love of Heaven, do not wake her with moving. Stay! here

we are at a long hill. I will get out and walk up it to relieve the

horses, and then you can change without disturbing Mirelle.'

'If you are going to walk, I will walk also.'

They both alighted at the bridge over the Walkham, and fell behind the

carriage. Trecarrel was uneasy; he feared that Orange was going to speak

to him unpleasantly, on an unpleasant subject.

'She is so deficient in breeding,' said he to himself, 'that she

persists in forcing herself and what she regards as her wrongs upon

one.'

'How lovely she is!' exclaimed the Captain, with want of tact; 'but

terribly fragile. She looks as if she were as likely never to wake out

of the sleep into which she has fallen, as she is again to unclose her

beautiful eyes.'

Orange made no answer. Her heart was beating; the rush of life had

returned to her veins. She walked at his side in silence for some

little way, then suddenly burst forth with, 'What is the meaning of

this, Captain Trecarrel?'

'The meaning of what, my good Orange? You must be more explicit.'

'Why is Mirelle returning? How have you succeeded in changing her from

her purpose? What inducement have you held out to her to lure her back

to hated Welltown?'

'The highest, the purest of all,' answered the Captain, with dignity.

'For what is higher and purer than duty?'

Orange looked round at him.

'What do you mean by that?' she asked harshly. 'Duty--duty to whom?'

'To self--to conscience. I have pointed out to her obligations she must

not cast off.'

'Duty--obligations!' echoed Orange, roughly. 'What farce is this? Have

you turned preacher?'

'I have advised Mirelle as a friend. She has no one else capable of

giving her counsel.'

'Indeed! I am nothing!'

'I beg your pardon, Orange. I do not ignore your high qualifications

for advising her as to her social duties; but when we step out on moral

ground, there I must beg leave to observe that only one of her own faith

is calculated to direct her.'

Orange stood still and stamped her foot. Her hands clenched

convulsively.

'Captain Trecarrel! do you suppose me such a fool as to believe you when

you take up this tone? I know you too well. I have suffered too

severely from your selfishness and cruelty not to know that you are

working in your own interest, disregarding everything and every one save

some mean and selfish aim. Captain Trecarrel, you were bound to me by

the most sacred vows, short of those made at the altar; you took a base

advantage of my misfortunes to shake me off, when a man of honour and

chivalry would have blushed to desert me. I humbled myself before you

into the dust. I am covered with shame at the thought of such

self-abasement before one so unworthy. You were without feeling for me,

without love, without compassion, without generosity. After that you

sought me again, when I had fled from Launceston to conquer my own heart

in seclusion. You sought me out, you followed me to mv place of

retreat, to trifle with me again, to waken up in me what was going to

sleep, to torture me, and to sting me to madness. Take care! take care!

What have I done to you, that you should do this great wrong to me? I

was a good-hearted and gay girl, without gall and bitterness, and you

have turned my heart into a cauldron boiling with furious and hateful

passions. Take care, I say; take care lest you drive me to

desperation.'

'My dear, dear Orange----'

'Have done with "my dear, dear Orange!"' she almost shouted. The anger

was boiling in her heart and puffing out the veins in her throat and

temples. 'I am "dear" to you no more. Captain Trecarrel, you have had

no mercy on me, and I appeal no more to you to consider my wrongs; but I

do appeal to you on behalf of Mirelle, whom you so greatly admire, whom

you profess to consider so lovely, whom you are guiding in the way of

moral obligation. Have you no pity? Do you know to what you are

driving her back? Can you not let her alone and allow her to escape

whilst she may? Her heart is set on return to France and to her

convent. Why should she not follow her heart and go? Why should you

stand in the way, and lay your hand on her and arrest her? Let her go.

It is not now too late. Let her follow her own wishes and leave

England. Do you not see that, tossed as she has been into a turmoil of

troubles, they are killing her? It is a whirlpool sucking her in and

suffocating her. Do not you incur the guilt of her destruction, as well

as mine, you moral instructor! You have ruined my happiness, and with

it my moral sense. You are thrusting her back out of happiness into

death. She has been like a captive escaping from a dungeon, catching a

glimpse of sun and laughing for joy, and now you, as a savage gaoler,

come and drive her back into the rayless vault again, and cast a stone

over the door. Cruel! cruel man!' She panted for breath. 'See,' she

continued, 'see how fine the day is! The packet is now at sea with her

prow turned towards France. But for your interference Mirelle would be

on board, she would be standing on deck looking eagerly forward to catch

the first sight of the loved land, her heart beating high with hope, her

eye bright with returning happiness, her cheek flushed with renovated

life. Let her go back to Plymouth and take the next packet.'

Captain Trecarrel said nothing, but, drawing a silk handkerchief from

his pocket, he dusted his boots and faintly hummed a tune.

Orange's passion increased at his insulting indifference.

'Captain Trecarrel,' she said, 'have you no regard for any one but

yourself? You think, do you, that some day Mirelle will be yours, and

with her all she has?'

'Orange,' said the Captain, coldly, 'as you pretend to know me, I may

return the compliment, and admit that I know you. Now what is the

meaning of this sudden sympathy with Mirelle? I know you do not love

her; I have eyes in my head which have long ago convinced me that you do

not even like her. This outbreak of zeal for her welfare and happiness,

I am led to believe, covers--as you were pleased coarsely to remark to

me--some selfish aim. And that aim I can discern without difficulty. I

understand,' he added with a sneer, 'that Mirelle had constituted you

treasurer and agent and plenipotentiary over all her property, landed

and funded and invested, with perfect liberty to deal with it as you

listed, and without any one to control your proceedings and check your

accounts. And _that_ after her experience of how the Trampleasure

family deals in trust matters! _O sancta simplicitas!_'

Orange looked at him sullenly.

'Think so if you will, but I tell you you are mistaken.' She stepped

before him, barring his road, and held out her hands. 'Captain

Trecarrel, I give you one chance more. Let her go. Send her to her

convent. Have pity upon both her and me.' Then her rage swelled into a

paroxysm; she grasped his shoulders with her strong hands, and shook

him. 'Captain Trecarrel, will you be advised, will you be ruled? Do

not think in your heart that ever she will be yours, and Welltown joined

to Trecarrel! That will never, never be. Let her go. You alone can

save her. The carriage has halted for us at the top of the hill. Now

call to the postilion to turn his horses and drive back to Plymouth.'

Captain Trecarrel released himself, with a feeling of disgust at her

violence and ill-breeding.

'Let us catch up the carriage, Orange,' he said coldly: 'we have dropped

far behind. You are excited, and hot, and unreasonable. If you wish to

hear what directions I shall give to the driver, you must wait.'

They walked on hastily, side by side, without speaking. Orange's breath

was like a flame between her lips.

The post-boy had drawn up the horses at the head of the hill. As they

prepared to step into the chaise, Captain Trecarrel remarked--

'She is asleep still. Bless me, she looks as if she might sleep away

into death without those looking on being conscious of the change.'

Orange took her place opposite Mirelle, and Captain Trecarrel sat by the

sleeper's side.

'You really wish this?' he asked of Orange.

'Yes; give the word to the post-boy,' she answered, looking him hard in

the face.

'Drive straight on,' shouted the Captain; 'we are ready.'

Orange sank back in her seat and said no more. Trecarrel looked about

him, and admired the richness of the scenery, as the road descended to

the beautiful valley of the Tavy, rich in woods, with glimpses of

granite moor ridges rising picturesquely above it, and below the little

town of Tavistock, with its grey church and abbey nestling by the

foaming moorland river. The scene was charming, and the Captain wished

he had time to sketch it.

Presently Mirelle woke--woke with a start and shiver.

'Orange!' she said, 'you frighten me. Why do you look at me in that

strange manner?'

'I did not know that I was looking at you at all,' answered Orange, and

she turned away her face.

'I am cold,' said Mirelle; 'we have our backs to the sun.'

'You have been asleep, and have become chilled,' said the Captain,

sympathetically. 'Let me wrap my warm cloak about your shoulders; you

must not catch cold. We are now half-way to Launceston.'

Then Genefer murmured, 'The Lord put a lying spirit in the mouth of the

prophets, and they said unto Ahab, Go up unto Ramoth Gilead and take it;

and he went up and fell there. I cannot see; my eyes are holden. The

Lord hath not spoken unto me by word or sign or revelation, and I know

not if I counselled right when I said, Return.'

Nothing of interest and worthy of record occurred during the rest of the

journey. Mirelle was brighter, refreshed by her sleep, and she tried to

enter into conversation with the Captain, but Orange remained obdurately

mute. At the gate of Launceston Trecarrel descended and offered profuse

thanks to Mirelle for the drive which had saved him the expense of

coaching home. The evening had fallen and it was dusk; the chaise was

driven rapidly into the gate of Dolbeare, and drew up on the terrace.

The house was locked; no one now lived in it. Orange had taken the key

with her to Plymouth; she handed it to Genefer, whilst the post-boy let

down the steps, and she descended. Genefer went, with the key in her

hand, towards the door, when suddenly she stopped, uttered a cry of

terror, and fell back.

'What is the matter?' asked Orange, impatiently.

'Do'y see un? Do'y see un? There he stands.'

'Who? what? No one is there,' answered Orange in a tone of irritation.

'You foolish woman, go on.

'I see an old man in red; he be there standing with his walking-stick

waving it, and signing to us not to come in. He has his hand out, as

though to thrust us back. He stands in the doorway.'

'This is sheer crazy folly,' exclaimed Orange. 'Here, give me the key!'

She snatched it from Genefer's hand, and thrusting her aside went

forward.

Genefer turned her head and uttered another cry. Mirelle had fainted.

'She saw him too, I reckon--that man in a red coat, with the white hair

and the gold-headed cane,' said the old woman. 'O Lord, enlighten me!

What be the meaning of all this, I cannot tell.'

Orange threw the house door open, and the unconscious Mirelle was borne

into the hall by Genefer and the post-boy, and placed in an arm-chair,

where she gradually recovered.

'I'll be quick, darling,' said Genefer, 'and get a fire lighted and

something warm, and I'll bring you your supper up to your own room.'

'You are over tired,' said Orange. 'Genefer is right; go to bed.'

When the Trampleasures had removed to Welltown nothing definite was

settled as to where they would permanently take up their abode; the

furniture and all the contents of Dolbeare had therefore been left there

undisturbed, to be removed should they elect to live elsewhere. It was

convenient to them to have the house in condition to receive them at any

time for a short or lengthy stay as suited them. On their way to

Plymouth Mirelle and Orange had spent the night there, and Genefer had

attended to their requirements. Now that they had returned, the old

servant's hands were full of work. She lighted the fire in the kitchen

and in the dining-room, filled the kettle and set it on to boil, and

began to prepare for supper. This occupied some time, during which she

was unable to attend to Mirelle. When the supper was ready she brought

it into the dining-room, and found Orange there seated musing by the

hearth.

'How be the mistress now?' asked Grenefer.

'I do not know. I have not been upstairs.'

Genefer looked up at the pastille portrait above her head, and said,

'Him it was that I saw in the doorway with a warning wave of the hand,

and he sought to bar the door entrance with the stick, that we might not

come in. I durst not have passed, but when you went forward, Miss

Orange, then he seemed to vanish away like smoke. I reckon the mistress

saw un too, for her fainted with fright at the same moment. Did'y ever

hear, now, who he might be?'

'No, I know nothing of him,' answered Orange, shortly.

'I reckon he don't come for naught,' said Genefer. 'But a veil is on my

face in the reading of events, as there be on the hearts of the Jews in

the study of Scripture, and till that veil be taken away I see naught

plain.'

'Go about your work,' said Orange, impatiently, 'and do not trouble me

with your foolish fancies.'

Genefer looked at Orange, and shook her head, and muttered, 'There be

some folks like the fleece of Gideon on which the dew never falls though

the grass around be wet.'

Then she prepared a tray, and carried some supper upstairs to Mirelle.

'Ah!' she continued, 'and there be others on whom the dew drops in

plenty whilst all around is dry.'

She found her mistress seated in a high-backed, old-fashioned chair

covered with red baize. She had her shawl wrapped about her. 'There, my

pretty,' said the old woman; 'see, I've a brought you something at

last.'

'Oh, Genevieve, I am very cold,' said Mirelle.

'Shall I light the fire, darling?'

'I should like it. I do not think I am well. I am exhausted, and sick

at heart. Feel my hand how it shakes.'

Genefer took the little white hand between her own, stroked it, raised

it to her lips and kissed it.

'You love me, Genevieve?' Mirelle lifted her large eyes and looked

earnestly into the old woman's face.

'Ah, I do, I do, sure-ly.'

'I am so glad, Genevieve, because I do not think there are many who love

me.'

'Do'y think it was the red man in the doorway that frightened you?'

asked Genefer. 'You seed un, did you not?'

'I do not know,' answered Mirelle. 'I hardly remember what occurred. I

had a sense of a great wave of terror coming over me, but what caused it

I no more remember, for my consciousness went from me.'

'He've a got a kindly enough face, there be no vice in it,' said

Genefer, as she knelt at the hearth and was engaged on the fire. 'I

reckon he don't walk for naught; it ain't only the bad as wanders.

Samuel appeared to Saul before the battle of Gilboa. Many of the saints

that slept arose, and appeared in the holy city. We have Scripture to

show that it be not the bad only as walks. I've a seen my mother scores

of times, and her were a God-fearing woman. But father were a darning

blaspheming drunkard, and I've never seen him once. I reckon the red

man were a peaceable sort of a chap, and if he walks, 'tain't along of

his sins, but because he be sent to fulfil the wise purposes of Heaven.'

Genefer put the poker against the bars of the grate.

'There, mistress, I hope you'll be warmer soon, but the kindling be damp

and the chimney has cold air in it, and the fire won't draw kindly. Now

I must go.'

'Oh, Genevieve, must you really go? I do not like to be alone, I am

frightened.'

'Is it the red man you fear? Do'y think he'll walk through the room

while you be lying in bed? Lord bless'y, I think naught of such

spirits. It be the black devils is the chaps to scare one; I've a seed

them and hunted 'em many a time.'

'No,' said Mirelle, 'I am not afraid of him. I do not know exactly what

I fear, but something that I cannot describe has come over me. Oh,

Genevieve, I wish that you could sleep in this room with me.'

'I don't see how to manage that, my dear. I couldn't move my bed myself

up here. But you've no occasion for it, neither. There be Miss Orange

close at hand, and only a door between. You ask her, and her'll leave

the door open between you.'

'No, no,' said Mirelle, nervously. 'Could you fasten that door,

Genevieve?'

'Which? There be but two doors, one is on to the landing, and the other

into Miss Orange's bedroom.'

'I mean the latter door.'

Genefer went to it.

'I cannot fasten it. It be locked already, and the key on the other

side.'

'Is there no bolt?'

'No, mistress.'

'Never mind, it cannot be helped,' with a sigh.

Then the lock was turned, the door opened, and Orange came through

carrying a bolster.

'You like to lie with your head well raised. I have brought you this;

you will sleep the sounder for it.'

Then she went up to Mirelle's bed and placed it with the pillows.

'Thank you, Orange. How very kind and thoughtful you are!' said

Mirelle.

Orange went up to her. Orange had lost her colour, and a hard,

restrained look had come over her face.

'How are you now?'

'A little better; not much. I feel very cold.'

'It is heart,' said Orange, 'that ails you. That will stop some day--or

night. Stop in a moment when least expected.' And without another word

she went back through her door and re-locked it.

'Shall I unpack your box, mistress?' asked the old woman. 'It won't do

for you to stoop. It might bring the swimming in your head again. It

is only for me to stay up a bit later to finish the housework.'

'Thank you, dear, kind Genevieve. I am much obliged, I shall be very

glad of it.'

Genefer uncorded and unlocked the trunk and removed from it what she

thought would be necessary for the night.

'Shall I bring out this Christ on the cross?' she asked, holding up the

crucifix Herring had bought for his bride.

'Oh, please do so. I shall be glad to have it.'

'Ah!' said the old woman, 'if the fear and sickness of heart come over

you again, you can look to that and take comfort. I be not that set

against images such as this, that I would forbid and destroy them.

Since you've been to Welltown I've a looked on this here many scores of

times, and it have done me a deal of good, it have.'

Then she planted the crucifix in the middle of a small table at the head

of the bed, between a couple of wax lights that were burning there.

Mirelle shivered. 'Oh, Genevieve! what have you done? Do you know that

with us we put a crucifix and candles in that way at the head of a bed

where some one is lying dead?'

'Let be,' said Genefer. 'Sleep is a figure of death, and if you cannot

sleep under the cross you are not fit to die under it. Remember what

Miss Orange said. You suffer from the heart, and it may stop at any

hour; so be always ready.' She went again to the hearth. 'Drat the

fire, it won't burn, leastwise not readily; there be too much cold air

in the flue. There, mistress, now I must go; I've my work to do

downstairs.'

'May I have a rushlight for the night, Genevieve?'

'My dear, there be none in the house; I'd go gladly and fetch you one,

but the shops be all shut in the town. There, good night, and God be

with you.'

'Where do you sleep, Genevieve?'

'At the far end of the house, up the other flight of stairs.'

'If I should want you? If I should call in the night?' Mirelle looked

anxiously, pleadingly at her.

'My darling, it would be no good. I should never hear. But what do

that matter? Miss Orange be close at hand, and you've but to call if you

feel ill, and her'll run and wake me up, and I'll go for the doctor fast

as lightning, so there, don't'y fear any more.'