'With all my heart, precious!' and the old woman kissed her fondly on
the cheek, and then raised and kissed both her hands in succession.
Then Genefer left. It was not possible for her to tarry longer with
Mirelle. There was much that had to be done: the supper things to be
removed and washed up, some kindling to be got ready for the fire next
morning; the kitchen fire to be put out, and a little tidying to be done
in the parlour and the hall. Genefer would have enough to do next
morning, getting breakfast ready, and she would leave nothing till then
that she could possibly get done that night.
Whilst she was in the dining-room clearing away the supper things, she
looked hard at the pastille portrait.
'Whatever did the old man mean by walking, and standing in the doorway
with that warning gesture?'
She stood in front of the picture for some time, trying to decipher
something in it which escaped her. At last, hopeless of discovering
what she sought, she resumed her work.
'There, there!' she said, 'I've been wasting the one bit of candle I
have, and her'll hardly last me out all I have to do. Whatever be hidden
now from me, the day will bring forth.'
After the old woman had finished the washing-up in the kitchen and had
extinguished that fire and raked out the fire in the parlour, she went
into the hall, which was littered with packages, boxes, trunks, cloaks,
and calashes. Genefer disliked disorder, and she set to work putting
the sundry articles into some sort of order, though the next day all
would again be removed to the carriage for the continuation of the
return journey to Welltown.
'I wonder what time of night it be!' she said, as she looked up at the
clock. 'Twelve! But no, sure it cannot be. Her's not ticking. Her's
standing still. To be sure, her's not been wounded up for ever so long.
Loramussy! the candle will never last me out. I shall have to go to bed
in the dark, and that ain't pleasant where there be spirits of dead men
walking. But'--she shook herself--'is that seemly of thee, Genefer
Benoke, to be afeared of spirits? The Lord is my light and my
salvation, whom shall I fear? The Lord is the strength of my life, of
whom shall I be afraid?'
Genefer's confidence was somewhat shaken by hearing a door opened, and
by seeing a white figure on the stairs, slowly descending.
'Lord, mistress!' she said, after she had recovered from the first shock
of alarm, when she recognised Mirelle; 'sure enough you did give me a
turn.'
Mirelle was in her long white nightdress, her dark hair was unbound, and
fell over her shoulders. The white, delicate feet were bare.
'What be the matter, darling?'
Mirelle took each step on the stair hesitatingly, with foot poised
before her, as though feeling in the air, before she lowered it. She
descended in this way very leisurely, as one walking in a dream, or one
blind, groping the way in an unknown place. Her hand was on the
banister, and the bar trembled.
She reached the landing, and stood under the clock. She made no attempt
to descend farther.
'Oh, Genevieve, the fire is gone out.'
'I reckon the wood were damp,' said the old woman. 'It be too late, and
not possible to light it again now.'
'And the candles are flickering in their sockets.'
'There is not another in the house. Look at mine.'
'It will be so dark.'
'Do not be afraid. The Lord will give you light.'
'It will be so cold.'
'You will be warm in bed.'
'O no! it is colder there than outside.'
She remained without speaking, waiting for Genefer to say something, but
the old woman offered no remark, not knowing what to say.
Still she stood there, hesitating, and the banister rattled under her
hand laid on it.
'There, there!' said Genefer, 'lie down and shut your eyes, and you will
soon be asleep.'
'I cannot sleep.'
She still stood there, irresolute.
'Is the fire burning in the parlour? I should like to go in there, and
sit there.'
'I've just put him out.'
'Then--that in the kitchen.'
'He's out likewise. There, there, go to bed like a good dear. There is
no help--it must be.'
'Genevieve, I asked Mr. John Herring to send you away. You frightened
me. I am very sorry. Will you forgive me for doing so?'
'To be sure I will. I am not one to bear malice.'
'Do you really think, Genevieve, that he is alive?'
'I do. I cannot doubt it.'
'Oh, promise me, if ever you see him, and I not, tell him'--she
paused--'tell him that now I wish, with all my heart, I had loved him as
he deserved.'
Then she went upstairs again, in the same slow, reluctant manner, step
by step, ascending backward, feeling each step behind her with her bare
foot before planting it, and raising herself to the higher level, and
she kept her eyes fixed on Genefer as though dreading to lose sight of
her. At last Mirelle's hand, feeling behind her, touched the latch of
her door, and the chill of the metal sent a shiver through her.
Slowly, very slowly, she pressed the door open behind her, walking
backwards still, with a sad despairing look in her large dark eyes fixed
on Genefer.
And Genefer, standing below, said, 'Sweetheart, go to your bed, and, MAY
YOU REST IN PEACE!'
*CHAPTER LIX.*
*DIVIDING THE SPOILS.*
'Never was more shocked in my life!' said Captain Trecarrel; 'I really
have not recovered it yet. So young, so beautiful, so good! and you, my
sweet Orange, I observe, are greatly overcome. It does you credit; it
does, upon my life.'
Captain Trecarrel was seated in the parlour at Dolbeare with Orange; the
latter was looking haggard and wretched. 'And it was heart that did
it,' said the Captain; 'I always said that heart was her weak point, and
that it must be economised to the utmost, spared all excitement,
everything distressing. There has always been that transparent look
about her flesh that is a sure sign of the heart being wrong. Poor
angel! I have no doubt in the world that she was greatly tried. She
has not been happy ever since she came to England; one thing or another
has risen up to distress her, circumstances have conspired to keep her
in incessant nervous tension. She felt the death of poor John Herring
severely; that alone was enough to kill her. Do not take on so much,
Orange; there is moderation in all things, even in sorrow for the dead.'
'Leave me alone,' said Orange, hoarsely. 'Do not notice me.'
'I see this painful occurrence has shaken you,' continued Captain
Trecarrel. 'I knew you regarded her; I had no idea that you loved her.
Indeed----'
'Leave me alone,' said Orange, emphatically.
'Well, well! When will be the funeral?'
'To-morrow.'
'I shall certainly attend, to show the last tribute of respect to one
whom I greatly esteemed. Indeed I may say that next to you, Orange, I
never admired any woman so much. She has taught us one lesson, poor
thing, and that is not to trifle with the heart, which is a most
susceptible organ, and must be guarded against strong feeling and
excitement. Do not be so troubled about this matter, Orange; it is bad
for the health, over much sorrow debilitates the constitution. You are
really not looking yourself. Think that every cloud has its silver
lining, and this fleeting affliction, I make no scruple to affirm, is
trimmed throughout with gold. Have you reversed it? Have you studied
the other side? Have you looked into matters at all?'
'What matters?'
'Well, to put it broadly, pecuniary matters. One is reluctant to advert
to such things at such a solemn time, but it is necessary. The sweet
luxury of grief cannot be indulged in till these concerns are settled,
and they considerably accentuate or moderate it. You and I, Orange, are
practical persons: we feel for what we have lost, but we do not let slip
the present or overlook the future. You are her nearest of kin, and
therefore of course everything she had will fall to you. By the
greatest good luck her husband predeceased, and Welltown came to her,
and from her will doubtless pass to you. Beside Welltown, what was she
worth?'
'I do not know--I do not care,' answered Orange, in a tone of mingled
impatience and indifference.
'This will not do, Orange,' said Captain Trecarrel; 'you really must not
succumb. Good taste imposes its limits on sorrow as on joy. If you come
in for ten thousand pounds you do not dance and shout, and if you lose a
friend you do not sink into the abyss of sulky misery--that is, if you
make any pretence to good breeding. I know what a sensible, practical
girl you are. Come, pluck up heart and help me to look into her
concerns. I have done my best, my very best, for you so far, and I will
not desert you now. The moment I heard of the event I flew to your
assistance, I offered my aid, and I have been invaluable to you. You
cannot dispute it. But for me there might have been an inquest, which
would have been offensive to your delicacy of sentiment. I explained to
the doctor her constitution, and the troubles she has gone through; how
she felt her husband's sudden death, the languor that has since
oppressed her, her fainting fits, the swoon into which she fell after
her exhausting journey; and he saw at once that heart was at the bottom
of it all. I settled with the undertaker, saw to everything, made every
arrangement, and you have not been troubled in the least. I even went
after the milliner about your mourning. You cannot deny that I have
been of service to you, and I am ready to do more. All that is nothing:
now comes the most trying and difficult task of all--the settlement of
her affairs; but I am ready to undertake that also, to save my dear
Orange trouble, only I ask, as a preliminary, that all the requisite
information shall be placed at my disposal.'
'Later,' said Orange, uneasily; 'after the funeral.'
'No,' answered Captain Trecarrel, 'not after the funeral, but now. My
time is valuable. I shall have to go to Exeter in three days, and I
should like to have everything ready to take with me. If there be a
will, which I do not suppose there is, I will prove it for you. If
there be not, I will obtain letters of administration for you. You must
really let me know what her estate was worth. Have you the means of
ascertaining?'
'I do not know.'
'But you must know, or rather you must put me in the way of
ascertaining. Have you looked whether there is a will?'
'No, I have not.'
'Have you got her desk?'
'It is upstairs.'
'Bring it down, and we will overhaul it together.'
Orange rose and left the room. She returned a few minutes later, with
the large desk that had belonged to Mr. Strange, and after his death had
been appropriated by Mirelle. Mirelle had removed from it all his
Portuguese letters, tied them in bundles and put them away, and had
transferred to it her own treasures from a school writing-desk full to
overflowing. It was a strange thing that this desk was thus explored in
search of a will at so small an interval of time since we saw John
Herring seated at it, at the opening of this story.
'This is the sort of thing I detest,' said the Captain. 'It jars with
one's feelings and vulgarises bereavement. However, it does not become
us to give way to our emotions, we must do our duty. Give me the key.'
He unlocked the desk, and turned over the contents; he removed many
articles and placed them on the table. What trifles were
there!--trifles that had been collected at school and were preserved as
treasures, each made precious by some innocent association and sunny
memory. A little book in which her school companions had inscribed
verses and signed their names. Wrapped up in silver paper and tied with
white silk, a lock of hair from the head of Marie de la Meillerie, cut
on the day of her first Communion. In a pill-box a raisin out of
Mirelle's birthday cake, many years old. Some lace-edged pictures of
saints, spangled red, and blue, and gold with foil stars, a medal of
Notre-Dame de Bon Secours; some feathers off a pet bullfinch that had
died and cost many tears, a twig of blessed palm, John Herring's notes,
and some little presents he had made her--but not one relic of Captain
Trecarrel--all such had been burned on her marriage, she had kept them
till then. Also a little deal box in which, softly nested in
cotton-wool, was a glass peacock with spun glass tail--a memorial of one
happy day spent at the house of the Countess La Gaye, who had taken
Mirelle and her daughters to see a glass-blower, and the man had made
the peacock under their eyes, and had presented it to Mirelle. All this
rubbish Captain Trecarrel tossed aside carelessly. If it ever had any
value, it had it only to her who could appreciate those trifles no more.
Then he pounced, with trembling hand, on a paper in John Herring's
handwriting statement of the property of the Countess Mirelle Garcia de
Cantalejo; and with it a much larger paper in many folds. He opened
this latter, glanced at it, and tossed it aside with an expression of
disgust. It was a pedigree of the family of Garcia de Cantalejo with
heraldic blazonings. The smaller paper soon engrossed his whole
attention; Captain Trecarrel's eyes opened very wide. John Herring's
confession was not there. Mirelle had destroyed it, lest it should ever
be seen by any one but herself. She had, however, preserved the
statement.
'My dear Orange!--my dear, dear Orange!' his voice shook with emotion
and excitement. 'I had no idea that the lining was so warm and so rich.
There are the West Wyke mortgages, there is a silver lead mine, about
which I knew nothing--well, I was aware some time ago that he was
paddling in something of the sort near Ophir, but I did not know that it
was being worked; when I heard of it, it was not begun. Then there are
uncut diamonds. Bless my soul! uncut diamonds! How did they escape the
fingers of your excellent father, I wonder? Where can they be? Oh, I
see, at the bank. We must take out letters of administration to
authorise you to withdraw and realise. Why, Orange! my dear, dear, dear
Orange,' he put his hand under the table, took that of Miss
Trampleasure, and pressed it with fervent affection; 'the barrier that
has stood between us has fallen. Happiness is in view before us. You
will forgive and forget any little past lovers' quarrels. _Amantium
irae amoris integratio est_, as the syntax says. Let me tott all up as
well as I can. Welltown is worth six hundred nett, as far as I can
judge, and it is unencumbered. Then there are your five thousand, which
will bring in, say, two hundred and fifty. It is impossible for me to
estimate the value of Mirelle's own property, as the silver lead mine is
only now beginning to give dividends, I suppose--I see by the paper that
money has been sunk, and there is no entry of return, but then Upaver is
quite a new affair. What it is worth I cannot conjecture. Then there
are the West Wyke mortgages, and the uncut diamonds, and I suppose money
in the bank. The estate must be worth at least a thousand per annum,
without including Welltown. My dear, dear, dear Orange, my heart
overflows with affection. I will tell you, Orange, what will be the
best plan of all for both of us. Let us get a special licence and be
married at the earliest time possible, privately, of course, because of
the affliction under which you are suffering, and then I can manage all
the matter of Mirelle's estate with the utmost simplicity, as my own.
It will save a world of trouble, and possibly some expense. By Jove!
this is not all. We had left out of our calculation the set of
diamonds. Where is it? Oh, here it is in its _etui_ on the other side
of the desk. Orange, do look at the stones! they are magnificent.
They must be worth a great deal of money. I am no judge of stones, but
these strike my uninitiated eye as being of the purest water--not a
tinge of yellow, not a flaw in them. I can see this, Orange, that our
income is likely to be some two thousand a year. I could cry tears of
joy at the thought. Did you ever hear anything so ridiculous as the
supposition that John Herring had committed suicide with this set of
diamonds in his pocket? The thing is psychologically impossible. With
such a source of wealth in one's pocket one would begin to live; all
previous existence would be tadpolism, now only would one stretch out
legs and arms and begin to jump. My dear, dear Orange, I do believe
that you and I are only now about to sip the nectar of life. Here--try
on these jewels.'
'I had rather not,' said Orange, shrinking back.
'I insist. I want to see you in them. Lord bless you! they never could
become that pale little thing; colour, warmth, flesh and life are wanted
to carry this. Here, Orange, let me try it on.'
He rose to put the diamond chain about her neck, when a hand interposed
and grasped it.
Trecarrel and Orange looked round, startled, and saw John Herring
standing before them, with hard, bitter face, very pale, with contracted
brows. He had entered the room without their hearing him. The Captain
had been too much engrossed in his discoveries to have ear for his
footfall on the carpet, and Orange too abstracted in her own gloomy
thoughts.
At the sight of Herring, Trecarrel drew back, and his jaw fell. He
looked at Herring, then at Orange, then at the diamonds, and, lastly, at
the schedule of Mirelle's property.
'By heavens!' he gasped. 'Confound it! you alive! Then Orange is only
worth five thousand.'
Orange had recoiled into a corner, blank, trembling, speechless.
Herring was perfectly collected.
'Put everything down,' he said in hard tones. 'Do not lay finger on
anything again. Leave the house at once.' He looked at the Captain with
contempt and anger.
'And you, Orange Trampleasure, already engaged in dividing the spoils of
the dead before she is laid in her grave! You will find a carriage at
the gate. Rejoin your mother at Welltown, and leave me in the house
alone with Genefer and--my wife. I cannot suffer another presence
here.'
He gathered the little scattered trifles together, the lock of hair, the
raisin, the glass peacock, the tinsel pictures, with soft and reverent
touch, and placed all together in the desk. The jewels he re-laid in
their _etui_, and relegated it to its proper compartment. Then he
locked up the desk. His face was cold, collected, with hard lines about
the mouth, and a hard look in the eyes, in which no sign of a tear was
manifest. He removed the desk to a shelf in the cabinet, then he went
out and ascended the stairs.
At the sound of his step, a door at the head of the staircase opened,
and Genefer came out, with her eyes red, and tears glittering on her
cheek.
'It be you, to last, Master John. I knew it. I knew you wasn't dead.
God be praised! Even out of the belly of the whale; when the waters
compass me about, even to the soul; when the depth hath closed me round
about, and the weeds are wrapped about my head. I will say, Salvation
is of the Lord.'
Herring was about to pass her, but she stayed him, barring the door,
looking hard into his face.
'Oh, Master John! you must not go in looking like that, as the fleece of
Gideon without dew. Stay and let me tell you, afore you see the sweet
flower of God, His white lily, what was her message to you, the last
words her uttered in this world. Her was standing where I be now, and
her said to me: "Promise me, if ever you see him, to tell him that I
wish with all my heart I had loved him as he deserves." That were the
olive leaf in the mouth of the dove as her flew back to the ark.'
The old woman opened the door and went forward, leading the way, with
her arms uplifted, saying, 'The dove found no rest for the sole of her
foot, and she returned into the ark, for the waters were on the face of
the whole earth: then He put forth His hand, and took her, and pulled
her in unto Him into the ark.' As the old woman said these last words,
she touched the crucifix and the right, transfixed hand of the figure on
it.
The white blinds were down in the room, the atmosphere was sweet with
the scent of violets. At the head of the little bed was a table covered
with a linen cloth, and the crucifix between bunches of white flowers
and lighted wax candles was on it. Upon the bed lay Mirelle, her face
as the purest wax, and a wreath of white and purple violets round her
head, woven by the loving hands of old Genefer. The hands, contrary to
the usual custom, were crossed over the breast. Genefer had seen this
on a monument 'of the old Romans,' and she had thus arranged the hands
of Mirelle, thinking it would be right so for her.
Herring stood by the bed looking at the pure face. Then he signed with
one hand to Genefer to leave. The old woman went out softly. Herring
still looked, and drawing forth a little case opened it and took out a
sprig of white heath and laid it in the bosom of his dead wife.
'Mirelle! once you refused it when I offered it you, once you refused it
when offered you by Trecarrel, now you will keep and carry with you into
eternity my good luck which I now give you.'
*CHAPTER LX.*
*INTRODUCTORY.*
Several weeks had passed. John Herring was back at West Wyke, grave,
calm, with a gentle expression in his face and a far-off look in his
eyes. The hardness and bitterness had gone, never to return. The Snow
Bride would not freeze him to ice. He, in time, would thaw away like
her. On his first return to West Wyke he had come back with blasted
hopes, on his second with dislocated faith. Now he returned with
recovered moral balance, not indeed hopeful, for hope is a delusion of
youth, but able to look life in the face without a sneer.
Cicely received him with her usual brightness and sympathy. It was
always pleasant to see her kind, sweet face, and to know what a good and
honest heart beat in her bosom.
Herring had never been to her other than uncommunicative, partly out of
natural modesty, partly because they were out of harmony over Mirelle.
But Cicely had a woman's curiosity, and would not be left in the dark as
to what had taken place; and she felt real sympathy for John Herring,
only she did not know how to exhibit it, because she did not know what
course it should take. So she put to him questions, and with tact drew
from him the entire story.
'Where does she lie, John?' she asked in her soft tones, full of tender
feeling for his sorrow. They were sitting together in the porch,
looking out on the old walled garden, with its honesty, and white
rocket, and love-lies-bleeding all ablow. 'Have you laid her in
Launceston churchyard, or removed her to Welltown?'
He shook his head. 'No, Cicely. Neither under the shadow of Launceston
church, nor exposed to the winds and roar of Boscastle. She lies in the
sunny cemetery of the Sacre Coeur.'
Cicely said nothing. Indeed, neither spoke for some time. Presently,
however, Cicely, who had laid her needlework in her lap, and had rested
her folded hands on it, and was looking dreamily across the garden,
said, 'Mirelle was your ideal, John.'
'She _is_ my ideal, Cicely.'
Miss Battishill looked round at him. She was very pretty, with her
copper-gold hair, and the reflection of the sunlight in the garden
illumining her sweet face of the most delicate white and purest pink.
'I remember your speaking to me--almost when first I knew you, about
Mirelle as your ideal, and I thought what you said was extravagant and
unreal. But I was in fault. There was no exaggeration, and all was real
to you.'
'It was, and is so still.'
'Now, tell me the truth, honestly, cousin, does the possession of such
an ideal in the heart conduce to happiness?'
'On the contrary, it saddens.'
'Then why do you not shut your eyes to such alluring but unsatisfying
fancies? Why are you not satisfied with what _is_, instead of sighing
after what _may be_?'
'Cicely, it seems to me that the world is divided between those with
ideals and those without. When I say without, I mean that the great
bulk of mankind are, as you say, content with things as they are. They
are without ambition after the perfect, they are satisfied with the
defective. Such men put forth their hands, and without effort gather
happiness. They ask for nothing very high, and certainly nothing above
them. They are vulgarly happy, enjoying what is on their level and
attained without effort. But there are others who are not thus easily
satisfied. They form in their minds an ideal from which every
imperfection is cast off, and the formation of this ideal in their
hearts deals it its death-wound. The ideal is the ever-unattainable,
and if happiness consists in obtaining the desired, happiness can never
be theirs, because the ideal can never be reached. Hope also is killed
along with happiness, for how can you hope for the unobtainable? The
ideal may be of various sorts--it may be sought in moral, social,
political, religious perfection; in Woman, in the State, in the Church,
in Art; but is always pursued with disappointment--I had almost said
with despair. When I was a child, I was told by my nurse that under the
root of the rainbow lay a golden bowl, and many is the rainbow I have
run after in hopes of finding the golden chalice from which could be
quaffed immortality. As I grew older and always failed, I found that the
rainbow moved before me as I advanced, and that the cup of supreme
felicity could never be pressed by my lips. That is the picture of all
idealists. We have given up every hope of attaining the Iris we look
on, but we still follow it.'
'I think yours is a sad story, John.'
'Perhaps so, but I do not know. Mirelle has been my ideal, and
therefore unattainable.'
'But, John, suppose she had really loved you, and been everything you
could wish as a wife--you would have been happy.'
'I should have been happy--yes. But my ideal would have died. I
remember a story that Genefer--by the way, you do not know her--my old
nurse told me many years ago of a man of Trevalga, who saw a pixy, a
beautiful fairy who haunted the glen and waterfall of S. Kneighton. He
saw her when she was bathing, and took away her white garment, and
refused to restore it till she allowed him to kiss her lips. She wept
and pleaded, but in vain. Then she suffered him to draw her to him and
to touch her lips, but the touch of mortal flesh withered her. She
shrivelled like a faded rose, and lost all beauty, and became as a
wizened hag. And he went from his mind and drowned himself in the
Kieve. I cannot conceive of Mirelle other than one far, far above and
distant from me. It is possible, had things been as you say, that I
might have discovered imperfections.'
'Of course she had her imperfections,' interrupted Cicely, with a slight
touch of impatience in her tone. 'I do not wish to say a word that may
wound you, but, my dear John, nothing human is perfect, and certainly
Mirelle had her short-comings apparent enough to me.'
'Then, better a thousand times that things should be as they are, that
these imperfections should not have been seen by me; and now, I know
they are swallowed up in a faultless splendour. If Heaven gave me my
choice, I would choose this.'
'Do you mean seriously to tell me that you would not have Mirelle
restored, and restored to be yours entirely?'
'I would not. I had rather have my unapproachable ideal shining down
upon me from afar, than have my ideal dissolve in my arms into the
commonplace. The ship sails by the star but never attains to it. I can
look up, and I am content. I ask for nothing more.'
'This frame of mind is to me inexplicable. It is unworthy of a man of
reason to strive for the unreachable. When a person of sense sees that
what he or she has wished is not to be had, that person makes an effort
and accommodates herself to circumstances.' She coloured a little.
'That is to say--some weary of pursuing an ideal, and settle themselves
down to enjoy what they can obtain. I can quite understand that; and
perhaps it is the most practical course, but it is, to some,
impossible.'
'But that is the most--it is the only, sensible course. The other
offers a mere treadmill round of duties, without hope to spur you on,
and happiness to reward you.'
'No doubt you are right; and yet it is impossible to some. I have set
up pure and perfect womanhood as my ideal; but others have ideals of
different nature. The young politician starts with an ideal of a
perfect commonwealth before him, and he is sanguine of redressing
grievances, of elevating politics to a noble patriotic passion instead
of mean party rivalry. But after a while he finds that every reform
brings in fresh evils, and, if it does away with some wrongs, it
inflicts others; he finds that it is impossible to be patriotic without
partisanship, and that those whom he strives to raise are unworthy of
being raised. I believe the leaders of the Revolution in France were
earnest men with their ideal before them, and, striving after a perfect
state of liberty and fraternity, they called up a Reign of Terror. I
saw once an enthusiast who had taken to educate a pig; he taught it
letters, he washed the beast clean, and dressed it in a coat, but, when
left to itself, it wallowed in the next mire and forgot its alphabet. I
have no doubt that a young curate starts on his sacred duties with the
sincere hope and belief that he will do good: he preaches with
earnestness, thinking to waken the religious sense of his people, he
establishes schools to instruct the young, and presently finds that all
he has done is absolutely useless--the people will not be regenerated,
his sermons are profitless, and his educated children read only vicious
literature. It is the same---- But I see I weary you.'
'I do not understand you.'
They were silent awhile.
Presently Cicely said: 'John, do you not think your own weakness may be
at the bottom of all the trouble you have met with? I do not speak with
any intention to be unkind. You will allow that.'
Herring thought a moment. 'I do not know, Cicely, that I could have
acted other than I have, and been true to my conscience. I might have
taken the selfish line, and cast aside those responsibilities which
seemed to me to be forced upon me, and, no doubt, then I should have
been light-hearted and boyish to the present moment, laughing, shooting,
riding, spending money, a careless young officer without much thought of
the morrow. But I had rather have my sorrows and walk uprightly. I am
better for having an ideal and following it, though I shall never catch
it up.'
Cicely did not pursue the subject: she stooped over her work, took it
up, and averting her pretty face said, as the colour mantled her white
throat and deepened in her rosy cheek, 'John, you have been candid with
me: I will be equally frank with you. I will make a confession to you.'
She hesitated a moment, and then said, 'Mr. Harmless-Simpleton has asked
me to be his wife.'
'I wish you joy with all my heart, dear Cicely,' said Herring, warmly.
'He is a good, well-intentioned, amiable man, with whom you are sure to
be happy.'
'Vulgarly happy,' said Cicely, drily.
Herring coloured. 'I beg your pardon. I meant no disparagement when I
used that term. I meant only ordinarily happy, happy as the buttercups,
and the birds and bees, as all nature that is content with the place God
has given it, and the sunshine and sweet air that surround it. Why
should you not be so? It is no privilege to have an ever-aching void in
the heart, to be ever stretching after the moon. You will be happy in a
sphere where you will do good and be beloved. When do you intend to be
married?'
'I do not know. There is no occasion for delay, and there is nothing to
precipitate matters. But now--when I am married and settled into the
Vicarage at Tawton, what is to become of that queer Joyce? Is she to
come with me?'
'I--I!' Joyce was there in the door to answer for herself. 'Wherever
the maister be, there be I too. He sed as how he'd never wear no
stockings more but what I'd knit; and you wouldn't have he go barefoot?'
John Herring turned his head, and looked at Joyce.
'You had better remain with Miss Cicely. I do not want you.'
'I will not,' answered Joyce, resolutely. 'I go with you.'
'Then, I dare say, Genefer will find work for you on the farm, or in the
house at Welltown. But you will not be so comfortable or happy as here.'
'I care not,' said the girl. 'I must follow you. I belongs to you.
You bought me of vaither for shining gold. No, Miss Cicely, I follow
the maister.'
'Go your ways,' said Cicely: 'you are each of you, in your several ways,
idealists, and each following the unattainable.'
'And now, beginning life,' said Herring, 'all that has gone before is
introductory to the real life; a rough and painful initiation into the
axioms on which the problem will have to be worked out. We know now
where we stand, and which is the direction in which we must set our
faces, to plod on our way forward, hopeless indeed, but still,
conscientiously forward.'