a girl for you, Tom, and then you let me alone with Joe.'
Orange flung her off with scorn, and ran along the road. A burst of
laughter and jeers followed her.
'She be going after her young man down to the lane end,' cried the girl.
Orange's cheek burned. That was true--hatefully true. She was going to
seek her lover, but only because he did not come to see her. After this
incident she was unmolested. She met no one else on her long walk to
Trecarrel.
Would she find the Captain up? She hoped so, she supposed so, for she
knew that he sat up late; he had often told her as much. It was as she
had conjectured and hoped. When she reached the house, she saw a light
from his smoking-room, a comfortable room, where he kept his whips and
guns; a room ornamented with stuffed foxes' heads and their tails, and
with the antlers of red deer. A door from this little room opened on to
the lawn. Orange went to the window, but the blind was down and she
could not see in; but she heard Trecarrel within whistling an air; it
was an operatic air he had recently heard in Exeter, and which had
caught his fancy. How splendidly La Fontana had sung! What schooling
her voice had gone through, and what quality was in it! How graceful
she was, and what passionate action she showed. 'You never get that
sort of a thing out of an Englishwoman,' he mused. 'Our countrywomen
cannot act; they have no fire, no passion, they are dolls, and move
mechanically. Their voices, moreover---- Good heavens! Who is that?'
He started up. The door opened, and Orange came in. He had been seated
over his fire, with his cravat off, a bottle of claret and a glass on
the table at his side; he had just finished a pipe.
'No fire, no passion in an English girl!'
There were both before him, flaming in Orange's eye, and heaving in her
bosom.
'Bless my soul, Orange, what on earth has brought you here?'
'You, Harry, you!' She was out of breath, and choking with emotion.
'Oh, Harry, dear Harry, why have you not been to see me?'
'Come over to the fire. You must be cold.'
'I--I, cold!' she laughed bitterly. 'I am burning; feel my hand. I
have run; but it is not that. The flame is here.' She touched her
heart. 'It is eating its way, it is consuming me. Oh, Harry, why have
you not been to see me? You do not know what I have suffered.'
'We have both suffered,' he answered: but there was not much token of
pain in his blue eyes, nor tone in his voice. 'Come over here; I am
sure you must be damp with the night air. This is most indiscreet of
you, Orange; I hope you have come attended.'
'I am alone.'
'You ought not to have come. It is wrong--it is indelicate.' He was
fitting on his cravat as he spoke. 'Good heavens, what would be said
had you been seen?'
'No one has seen me; no one knows where I am.'
'This is madness,' he said. He twirled his moustache; he was greatly
discomposed. 'I wish you had been more reasonable, Orange.' Then to
himself, 'I wish I had remained in Exeter, or gone to bed.'
'I dare say it is madness and unreasonable,' she said; 'I am mad. Do
you know, Harry, all that has happened? Do you know that my mother and
I are beggars? We have nothing left to us.'
'My good Orange, I have been myself on the verge of that same condition
all my life, and so can sympathise with you.'
'You have a house of your own, we have none. You have land that no man
can take from you, and you can at least dig that and live on its
produce. But my mother and I have nothing; no house, no land, no money.
We eat the bread of charity, and how long is it to last? Harry, I ask
you?'
He was silent, engaged on his cravat. It offended his delicacy to be
seen and to converse with a lady without his cravat.
'You do not answer me, Harry; you are not going to desert me now I am
down. If you had been poor and an outcast, would not I have taken you,
though I were wealthy?'
'But there is the rub,' said the Captain, interrupting her. 'If I were
rich I would share it with you and welcome, but I am not rich; I am
miserably poor, hardly able to keep my head out of a debtor's prison.'
'Harry, I do not mind that. You are bound to me; you cannot desert me
in my misery. No, I know you too well. You are too good, too noble,
too true a gentleman. I cannot, I will not believe it. Take me as I am.
We can but be poor together, and I will work as your slave. With love
labour is light, and poverty is made rich.'
'That is rather a pretty sentiment, Orange, but it is impracticable.'
'It is not impracticable. Try me.'
'That is absurd. I cannot try you, and, if the experiment fails,
dissolve the partnership.'
She was silent, and looked him full in the face. Then her feelings
overcame her. She stretched out her arms to him. 'Harry,' she gasped,
'Harry, I love you!'
He did not put out his arms to encircle her, to take her to his heart;
but he put his hand to his pipe and began to scrape out the ashes with a
bit of stick--a toothpick that was on the mantelpiece.
'Be reasonable, Orange; it is impossible for us to marry now. There is
this terrible scandal about Ophir barring it for one thing; there is my
poverty for another. We must wait.'
'I knew it,' she said, relieved; 'I knew the delay was for a time only.
But, Harry, in the meanwhile I have no home. Where am I to live? What
roof is to cover me from the rain and the snow? Where am I to get food
to put in my mouth, whence the clothes to cover me? Whilst you are
waiting for Ophir to be forgotten, I am starving.'
'This calls for consideration,' he said, still cleaning his pipe; and
now he blew through it, to assure himself that the passage was clear.
'Harry, you have an aunt at Penzance, take me to her. I will live with
her a few years, till this trouble about Ophir is passed, and then you
shall marry me from her house.'
'That is not possible, Orange. My aunt strongly disapproved of my
engagement. She is a most bigoted Catholic, and could not endure the
thought of my taking a Protestant to wife.'
'I will be a Catholic; I do not care.'
'But,' said he, coldly, 'that is not all. Our families are so wide apart
in the social scale. My aunt is very proud of her race, and you know
your stock is not--well, neither ancient nor gentle. You may change
your creed, but not your blood. I think nothing of this. If I had
considered it, I would not have sought to marry you, but my aunt--you
see we are speaking of her, and you propose that I should take you to
her--my aunt is very stiff in these matters. I cannot force you into
her house. So you see this scheme is impracticable also.'
'Where am I to go?' asked Orange, desperately; 'I must live somewhere.
You are my proper protector, to whom I fly. I ask you, find me, give me
a home. See, Harry, I am poor now, but it may not always be so. The
directors of Ophir have left us some thousands of pounds in Patagonian
bonds.'
'Oh! I know them. They were left because worthless.'
'They are worthless now, but they may become valuable hereafter. Let us
wait till then; I will be patient, and in time you will marry me.'
'Oh, certainly, when the Patagonians are at par.'
'But in the meantime, Harry, what is to become of me?'
'Really, I am at a loss to know. I am at my wits' end what to propose.'
Then her cheek and brow became crimson.
'Harry! I am sunk so low that I care not what the world says, and what
becomes of me. I will stay here; you shall not send me away. I have no
pride left. Let me be a poor serving maid, a kitchen-wench in the
house, and work for you. If the world talks, let it--I defy it.'
Trecarrel sprang back. This was indeed madness. She must be cured.
'Orange!' he said, 'I am too honourable to listen to such words with
composure. Go back whence you came. Here! I will accompany you. You
must not be alone.'
'No, I came alone, and I can go alone. But--what is to become of me?'
'You think only of yourself, Orange; you are selfish. Poor Mirelle! how
she must suffer also. What is to become of that sweet and fragile
flower?'
Orange looked him full in the eyes. A light flickered and flashed in
hers, a terrible light. She stood as a statue before him for a moment.
Fierce thoughts, wild, dark, like smoke from the bottomless pit, rose,
and rolled over and obscured her brain.
'Poor Mirelle! Sweet and fragile flower!' At that moment, with her,
Orange, pleading before him, with her in an agony and in abasement
before him, he could think of Mirelle, and throw Mirelle in her teeth.
Then she turned to the door. All hope was gone.
'Let me attend you home,' he said.
'I have no home,' she answered hoarsely.
'Let me go with you to where you are lodging.'
'I came alone, I will return alone,' she said, and left the room.
She hurried into the road. When there, however, she stood and waited.
Would he come after her? She waited on; the light in his smoking-room
disappeared, it reappeared at another window, and travelled upwards,
then shone out of an upstair room. Captain Trecarrel was going to bed.
Then Orange ran back to Launceston.
As she passed the low public-house, she stumbled over something. It was
the young woman, drunk, lying in the road. She reached the house of the
Flamanks, and thrust open the drawing-room window and went in.
'Hah!' exclaimed Mrs. Flamank, standing there, with Mrs. Trampleasure
trembling and sniffling behind her; 'this is fine goings on in my house.
Out to one o'clock in the morning, cutting about, heaven knows where,
and with whom. This is a Christian habitation. Out of my house you go
to-morrow.'
'Betsy Delilah!' remonstrated Mr. Flamank from the door, 'the poor souls
have no house to go to.'
'She,' exclaimed Mrs. Flamank, indicating Orange--'she don't want one.
She likes the street at night, apparently.'
'Madam,' said Mirelle, stepping forward, and speaking with composure,
'give us but two days' shelter, and then we will trouble you no more, I
undertake. I have a friend to whom I will appeal.'
Then she went upstairs, and wrote:--
'Mr. Herring!--Come to us. Help us!--MIRELLE.'
*CHAPTER XXXIII.*
*TRANSFORMATION.*
Grizzly Cobbledick and Joyce carried John Herring to the Giant's Table.
Joyce had not the smallest intention of surrendering her charge to
Cicely. She had feared lest the farmer should accompany the waggon, and
insist on the injured man being conveyed to West Wyke House.
Fortunately, the chance of making a bargain with the Squire had arrested
him at Bridestowe, and the young lout who acted as driver was easily
managed.
Grizzly consented to receive Herring into his den, not because he felt
gratitude to him for having saved him from imprisonment, and for having
cured Joyce of her injuries, but because he thought that 'backie' might
be extracted from him.
Gratitude is not a savage virtue; but then, is gratitude to be found
anywhere? It is a figment of the poet and moralist, like the unicorn
and the mermaid. A simulation of this ideal virtue is assumed by those
who are cultured, but the genuine plant grows on no human soil and under
no known climate.
Grizzly bore Herring no ill-will, and he thought it possible that the
tobacco which was lost to him through the insolvency of Tramplara might
be made up to him by the indebtedness of Herring. He would see to that;
he would hold Herring in captivity till as much 'backie' was produced as
could be counted on the toes and fingers, with the head thrown in. If
he died, he died. Speculations succeed or fail; there are blanks and
prizes in the lottery, disappointments and luck in life.
'Cut off,' said Grizzly to his daughter, 'and go and wire a rabbit. The
young maister, if he comes round, will want some'ut to eat, sure.'
'But what if he wakes up whilst I be gone?'
'Then he wakes--that be all.'
'You'll be good and kind to 'n, vaither,' entreated Joyce.
'Why not? He ain't done me no hurt,' answered Grizzly.
It took a little persuading and threatening on Grizzly's part before
Joyce could be induced to relinquish her place. She would not have
gone, but have sat on in unreasoning jealousy and fear of losing
Herring, unless her father had insisted on her giving him proper food.
'What'll the likes o' he say to turnips, eh? He ain't one to eat num.
The quality eat nort but meat. You may give a horse the best
beef-steak, and you may set before a man the choicest hay, and neither
will begin to bite. You must give mun what them likes, not what you
think best. So wi' the maister; he be quality, and, when you offers 'n
your turnip and cabbidge, that be there a biling over the turves, he'll
turn his head away. It be all the same to he as giving 'n hay or a
horse beef. You must give to ivery creeter its proper food.'
When Joyce was gone, old Cobbledick surveyed Herring carefully and
examined his bones. No bones were broken. His head was suffering from
concussion, not from fracture. The old fellow had wit enough to
ascertain this. Then he proceeded to partly undress him. It was not
the custom of the Cobbledick tribe to unclothe themselves when they
retired to rest; but then they were hardly clothed when about by day.
If Cobbledick now stripped Herring it was not in the interest of the
patient, but in his own. Having removed a portion of the garments of
the still unconscious man, he proceeded to vest himself in them.
Inexperience made him put on the clothes clumsily, and neither in their
traditional order nor in their proper manner. Still, the general effect
was one of transformation. He tried on Herring's boots, but was unable
to compress his great flat feet into them; so he flung them aside; but
he laboriously removed the spurs, and buckled them on his own heels.
The stockings he left on Herring's legs; he knew he would be unable to
wear them. His own limbs, from the knees downwards, were swathed in
hay-bands. He assumed the waistcoat, but not the shirt, and was careful
to set the watch in the pocket--the wrong pocket, of course--and let the
seals dangle from the fob. The waistcoat was open, and his brown, dirty
skin showed dark against the nankin. The coat was rather tight,
high-collared, with a roll; Cobbledick was mightily pleased with it. He
jumped and swung the tails from side to side, and ran after them, round
and round, like a kitten pursuing its own tail. He sallied forth to a
pond and contemplated himself in it. The effect was not perfect. He
went back and deprived Herring of his cravat, which till now he had left
about his neck. This he wrapped about his own throat, making it very
stiff, and holding his chin high in the air. Herring's hat was there;
it had not been left in the road; Farmer Facey had picked it up and
tossed it into the waggon as it departed. Cobbledick put the beaver on,
somewhat on one side, as he had seen Sampson Tramplara cock his hat when
tipsy; and he took up the hunting-whip Joyce had brought with her, and,
so accoutred, he lounged in the door of his den. But Grizzly was not
satisfied with himself. His hay-swathings were not in character. He
proceeded to divest himself of these. Then his bare legs looked
incongruous with the remainder of his equipment. Now Herring had worn
cloth gaiters over his stockings. Grizzly had unbuttoned these with
much difficulty. Indeed, it can hardly be said that he had unbuttoned
them; he had rather torn them off, sending the buttons flying. To
button them on his own calves was a feat beyond his powers. His fingers
were incapable of performing such work as passing a button through a
hole. He tried, and abandoned the attempt in despair.
He flung his own rags over Herring, and went forth to examine himself
again in the pool. The brown shins and calves did not please him. He
sat down and thought.
Then he remembered that the masons engaged at Ophir had been mixing lime
for whitewashing. What if he stole down there and whitewashed his legs!
That would complete his transformation. The old man was as conceited as
a young buck newly accoutred by a fashionable tailor.
So Cobbledick started for the mine, walking with difficulty. The
constraint of the garments encasing his nether limbs was to him as great
as that caused by Saul's armour to David. David, finding he could not
go in this, put it off him. Grizzly was less wise; he waddled on in
suffering and constraint, and was caught and thrown occasionally by the
spurs that dangled at his bare heels. The gorse scratched his shins,
usually protected by hay-bands; but he heeded not these inconveniences.
With his head in the air, one arm akimbo, and the hand holding the
riding-whip resting on his hip, he strutted on, wishing, and yet fearing
to be seen--desirous of admiration, and yet shy of the reception he
might meet with from those accustomed to see him half-naked.
He mounted a flat slab of granite, and, taking off his hat, bowed and
waved it, as he had seen old Tramplara salute distinguished and wealthy
visitors to Ophir. Imitation is strong in the savage and in the idiot.
By the help of this faculty the social world gets on without jars, for
there are savages and idiots in all ranks of life, and the deeper their
savagery and their idiocy the more pronounced is the development of
their imitative powers. They copy the manners of those around them,
simulate their breeding and virtues, and so disguise their nature and
pass muster. Social education consists in the training of neophytes
what to copy and what to disregard in the bearing and manners of those
with whom they associate. But such as are left without instructors pick
up and imitate all that they ought to avoid, and overlook what they
should copy. Thus it is that servant maids reproduce in themselves the
pretences and follies of their mistresses, and not their thrift and good
sense; and the butler apes his master's vices and eschews his virtues.
Left alone in the den, lying on the fern, with the smoke of the peat
fire and the reek of stewing vegetables filling it, Herring opened his
eyes and looked about him.
It was some time before he recognised where he was, and then he was
unable to account for his being there. The evening was stealing on, the
sun was setting; there was a glow of golden light outside the door, and
a streak of yellow glory came from a notch in the stone at the back of
the table, unfilled with moss. Herring's head was painful, and all his
limbs ached. He could scarce move his arms; they were sprained and
bruised. He tried to stand up, but the effort gave him torture, and he
was forced to lie down again. He was, however, satisfied that he was
sound in limb, though sprained and bruised. He could close his hands
and move his feet. Then he thought of the events that had recently taken
place. He could follow the thread to one point--after that it was
broken off. He had borrowed a horse at Bridestowe, he had ridden hard in
pursuit of Sampson Tramplara--and then ensued darkness and a blank.
Had Sampson shot him? He tore open his shirt and felt; there was no
wound. He felt his head; it was not bandaged.
How came he in the den of the Cobbledicks? As he was puzzling over this
question, the entrance was darkened, and Joyce entered, carrying a fowl
by the legs. The moment she saw that he was conscious, she uttered a
cry of joy, and was at his side, on her knees, grasping his hands, with
tears and flashes of delight in her eyes.
'Oh, maister! the dear maister! you be alive and not going to sleep away
dead! You can see who be here--your own poor Joyce. Right glad I be to
see the life in your eyes and the blood in your cheeks again. Oh, glory
rallaluley! I be joyful! I could sing my heart up over my lips, and
away through this great covering stone.'
'Joyce!' said Herring, 'I do not understand. What is the meaning of
this? How came I here?'
'Sure, my maister, it were I as brought you here. The young Cap'n
Sampson Tramplara would ha' killed'y, but I fought 'n for'y, and I were
too much for 'n. You mended my arms and made them strong, and they were
strong enough to keep 'n off from killing of you. He'd ha' done it. He
had that in his hand would ha' scatted your head all to smash, and he
were about to do it, but I were too strong for he, thanks be to you for
mending of me up. Glory rallaluley!'
'But how came I here, Joyce?'
'Sure enough, because I brought'y in a waggon as grand as a king.
Sure,' she said, laughing and crying in one breath, 'I never went on
nothing but my own bare feet afore, and but for the grandness, I'd
rather walk any day. But I could not ha' carried you thus far. That
were why I were forced to hire a waggon. Not but as though I wouldn't
ha' done it. I'd ha' carried you the world over in my airms, if I
could, and never let you drop till I died. But--Loramussy! what have
become of your clothes? By the blue blazes! this be vaither's doing.'
'Joyce, how did this take place? I cannot understand.'
'The horse were throwed and you with him. Cap'n Sampson had put a gate
across the road; and you rode quite innocent like right on to it. After
you were down, he came out from behind the hedge, and would ha' killed
you, but your own poor Joyce were there, and her fought 'n, and her tore
at 'n. He might ha' cut her flesh off her bones, and scat her bones, but
her'd not hev let 'n hurt you no more.'
Then she seized his hands in a paroxysm of joy and covered them with
kisses, and pressed them to her beating heart. 'It were I, your own
Joyce, as saved'y.'
See what self-respect will do--how it lifts out of the slough! Once
Joyce had licked his hand like a dog. Now she had learned her own
worth, she had battled for and saved his dear life; and her pride had
heaved her from the low estate of bestiality to the level of a human
being. She kissed his hand, she no longer licked it. That marked a
distinct stride in civilisation.
'But,' she added, as she knelt over him, still holding his hand to her
bosom, and looked out of her wet and burning eyes into his face, 'it
were none for Joyce, nor for Miss Cicely, I did all this--it were for
you and the Whiteface.'
Joyce loved him; her love for him filled her whole dim soul with light.
She was perfectly humble; she knew she was a poor savage, and as widely
removed from him on one side as she was from the fox or badger on the
other. There was no self-seeking in her love. It was in this simple,
pure, unselfish devotion that the human soul broke into flame and
transformed Joyce. She looked up to Herring as she might to a star; she
had no thought of attaining to either. It was enough for her to look up
and be led by the light each shed on her way.
Her father was also transformed externally, but remained the same low
brute at heart. There was no outer change in the girl, the same foul
rags, only more ragged than before, the same dishevelled wretchedness of
aspect; but within, all was different. God spake, and there was light.
Herring looked up at her, wondering, but still much confused; his head
could not endure much thought. She was swaying herself from side to
side, still holding his hand between hers in her bosom; and the tears
ran down her tanned cheeks and fell over him--a soft and soothing rain,
a rain bearing balm and blessing. She had raised her eyes, and her lips
moved.
'What are you saying, Joyce?' he asked, thinking she was speaking to
him, but that he could not hear.
'I were saying nort to you,' she said; 'I do not know hardly what I were
saying, but my heart were that nigh to bursting wi' joy, that I felt I
must speak--but not to you--sure I didn't know to whom I were speaking
and saying that I were so happy as I never was afore and never will be
again. And I tried to say glory rallaluley turned backsy-foremost but
the words wouldn't out, and I just cried for gladness, and looked
up--that were all.'
'What is that noise?' asked Herring.
'What?' she asked, dropping his hand and listening.
There were shouts and cries approaching. Then the crash of a stone
against the supporters of the table. Next moment in dashed old Grizzly,
without the hat, wild with alarm, and threw himself on the ground, where
he tore off his coat and neckcloth, waistcoat and breeches, and,
screaming with rage and terror, threw each article, as it came off, in
the faces of the men that peered in at the entrance.
'Take mun! take mun! I will none of 'em! I will never have none o' the
sort again.'
His legs were torn and bleeding. One was smeared with white to the
knee, the other was of its natural tan.
Some of the miners had seen Cobbledick engaged in adorning his shins
with whitewash, dressed out in his borrowed garb, and had set upon him
with jeers. He had fled and been pursued.
'I'll hev none of it never more,' he cried, and swore horribly. 'Give
me my rags again.'
That was the end of the transformation of Grizzly. But the
transformation of Joyce, which was from within, was more enduring.