*HERRING'S STOCKINGS.*
Joyce was unable to retain Herring. Those who had pursued her father
saw him lying in the old cromlech, and the secret was out. Moreover, she
herself began to see that it was not possible for her to keep him in the
den. Her father's behaviour, when left in charge of the patient, had
shown her how utterly untrustworthy he was, and Joyce could not always
be there.
Ophir had exerted a deteriorating effect on Grizzly. He had become
idle; he had learned to beg; he had acquired a taste for rum. He
expected Joyce to do everything for him, that he might lounge away his
time about the mine, repeating his parrot story to the visitors, putting
the dust into the water, and watching them find it.
Old Tramplara and young Sampson had given him money, and the workmen,
supposed all to be sworn abstainers, had indulged him from their bottles
of cold alcoholic tea. Like a savage brought suddenly into association
with civilised man, he learned their vices, and unlearned none of his
own brutality.
When it was known at West Wyke that John Herring was lying ill under the
Giant's Table, Mr. Battishill and Cicely sent to have him removed to
their house, and poor Joyce offered only a faint, though sullen,
resistance. She knew she could not keep him, but she was reluctant to
lose him. She knew that it was good for him to go, and she did violence
to her own heart in suffering him to be carried away. She followed him
to the doorway of West Wyke, holding his hand, and without taking her
eyes off him.
'Come, Joyce,' said Cicely, 'you have been so good and devoted hitherto,
that you had best remain as nurse. Come in and attend to Mr. Herring
till he is well.'
But Joyce shook her head.
'I'll not go under no hellens [slates], or I should smother,' she said.
'Where be you a-going to take 'n to?'
'We shall put him in that room,' answered Cicely, indicating the window.
'There'll be a light there of nights, I reckon. I shall see 'n. And of
day, when vaither don't want nort a-doing, I'll just hop over and sit
down outside, in thicky corner o' the garden wall.' Then Joyce grasped
Herring's hand in both hers, and the tears filled her eyes. 'It were I,
your poor Joyce, as saved you. You'll not forget that, will'y now?'
Then she turned away, and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.
Cicely looked after her. Joyce did not turn back; she walked on with
her peculiar free stride, her head down, and her arm across her face.
Herring had been jarred and contused by his fall, and he suffered
greatly for a few days. Every movement caused pain. The doctor visited
him, and insisted on quiet, and that his head should be kept cool and
his mind unoccupied.
The news of Mr. Trampleasure's death and of Sampson's evasion were not
communicated to him till it was seen that he troubled his mind about the
result of the exposure of Ophir. Nothing could be done, at least by
him, in the matter.
Every day Joyce came and sat in a nook of the garden against the wall,
looking up at the window. Her hands were unoccupied; she could neither
knit nor sew. She platted her fingers about one knee and remained in
the corner as still as though carved out of stone, almost as rugged as
though cut out of granite. Herring's bed was near the window, and he
went to the casement, and leaning on the sill looked forth and spoke to
her. Then her eyes, in which a strange wistfulness had risen up,
lighted, and she smiled. She had brought him something, a little bunch
of late wild flowers, some coral lichen daintily folded in green moss, a
cluster of blackberries, old and inedible, but the sole cluster she
could find. These little gifts she would intrust to no one to convey to
Herring. No other hand should touch them and divert from him the
something which went out from her with them. When he came to the window
and looked out, she threw them up at him with so sure an aim that the
bunch of borage and crane's-bill, the sprig of heather, or the
blackberries, always reached his open hand.
This devotion of Joyce was embarrassing to Herring. As he lay in his
bed he thought about her, whether something could not be done to bring
her out of her rude life. He spoke his thoughts to Cicely, and she
promised co-operation.
Next day, Cicely took a chair into the garden, and seated herself beside
Joyce. The poor girl did not seem pleased with the visit, she had
rather be alone.
'I do not think you will see Mr. Herring to-day, Joyce. His head is
worse, and he will not be able to rise and speak to you from the
window.'
'Why don't he get well faster?' asked Joyce. 'He'd ha' been right by
this time wi' me.'
'Well, certainly, you treated him very well. He tells me you gave him
capital boiled chicken. How did you manage to get that?'
'I took her,' answered Joyce.
'You stole it!' exclaimed Cicely. 'From whom?'
'From you. I know'd the young maister must have 'n, and so I took 'n.
If he'd hev chanced to want milk, I'd ha' milked anybody's cow for 'n.
If he'd ha' wanted your head, I'd ha' cut 'n off for him--my own
likewise, for that matter. Would you?'
'I do not think I would, Joyce.'
'Then he ought to hev been with us out to the Giant's Table, not here.'
'You profess great readiness to do anything for him, Joyce. He was
speaking to me about you yesterday, and wishing I could teach you
something.'
'I don't want no teaching of nort,' said Joyce, sullenly.
'But would you not like to learn to knit?'
'No,' answered Joyce, 'I don't want to larn nort. What do'y knit with
them long sticking pins?'
'Stockings, Joyce.'
'Vaither don't wear none; I don't, neither. Them's no good to us.'
Then the upper casement opened and Herring leaned out.
'What, Joyce!' he called; 'is Miss Cicely teaching you to knit? That is
right. You are going to knit my stockings for me in future. I promise
you I will wear none but those of your knitting.'
'Give me the pins,' said Joyce, vehemently. 'I'll larn.'
'Go back, Mr. John,' said Cicely; 'you know you are forbidden to rise
to-day. Go back, or you will be worse to-morrow.'
'Is the maister not getting better?' asked Joyce, anxiously.
'He is; but his recovery is slow. His head has been injured, and we
must take care that there be no relapse. We can pray to God for him,
Joyce.'
The girl looked round full in her face inquiringly.
'Will that make 'n well?'
'I trust so.'
'Better than the doctor's medicine?'
'It helps the doctor to cure him.'
'I know nothing about it,' said Joyce. 'Did the maister pray for me when
I were scat?'
Cicely could not take on herself to answer.
'I be sure he did,' said Joyce, confidently. 'Why did I ax you about it?
If that would hev made me well, he'd a done it. You don't know the
maister as I do.'
'Do you know about God?' asked Cicely.
'See there, now!' exclaimed Joyce, with animation, 'that be 'zackly what
the maister once axed of I; and I sed, Sure I do, I see 'n every day
when it bain't raining and there be no clouds. I reckon I thought he
meant the sun. But I know better now, and I'll tell'y how I comed to
know. Thicky night as the maister were thrown down and hurted by Cap'n
Sampson, I thought he were sure to die in my airms. And I felt then
that I must say something and ax some one for help--some one as wouldn't
want to take 'n away from me. It weren't the sun as I spoke to, for the
sun had gone down. I don't know 'zackly what and where he was I called
to, but I knowed very well he were up where the sun be by daytime, but
he as I mean were there o' night time ekally well. Then, after that,
when the young maister were able to open his eyes and speak, I were that
lifted up with gladness that my heart were nigh to starting, and I could
do nort but cry tears, and tell he as I mean--but I don't know a mite
who he be--how glad I were. I know very well he weren't the sun, for,
you sees, the sun were then a-sinking, and I never gave 'n a thought for
a minute to look at 'n. I looked right up, up, up; and there were over
me the great covering table stone, and I seemed to go right through
thicky and see above the clouds as well, and the stars, and I'm blessed
if I know where to. I be no skollard I can say nort but glory
rallaluley and kinkum-kum.'
'Kinkum-kum!' repeated Cicely, with a puzzled look.
'Sure--what else? I reckon he begins with Our Vaither, and he goes on
to kinkum-kum; but I know nort more nor that. I ha' heard the Methody
vellers a say it at their meetings on the moor.'
Cicely laughed; she could not help it--she was tickled.
'You have made a comical muddle of it,' she said, and turned her head to
conceal her amusement.
'I don't know, and I don't care,' said Joyce, doggedly. 'He heard it,
up there, when I said it, that I knows, sure-ly; and he didn't laugh,
that I knows also.'
'Shall I teach you what it really is?'
'No,' said Joyce, resentfully; 'you laugh. If it be good for me, I'll ax
the young maister to larn me when he be well. I sed them same words to
he once--what make you giggle--and he didn't laugh; he didn't even
smile, but I saw that in his eyes was more like tears. However, the
words be good as they be, and I sez them scores and scores of times by
day and by night, thinking of him as is sick, and he up there;' she
pointed with her finger--not to the window, but far, far above it. 'He
as I knows nort about, don't laugh, but listens, just as the maister
listened when I said them to he at first; and he takes off his hat, as
did the maister.'
'I wish I could persuade you to come indoors, Joyce. It is cold out
here, the wind blows keenly over the garden wall, and I cannot remain
here.'
'I bain't cold,' said Joyce; 'you can go in, I don't want'y here. I'll
bide here alone a bit. But I'll larn the knitting and make the maister
his stockings. I will, sure. He sed he'd never wear none but what I
made, and what he sez he sticks to.'
A few days later Herring came down. He was now much better, though
still stiff and bruised. His mind was perfectly clear, and he was
impatient of his confinement.
'Mr. Battishill,' said he, 'now is our opportunity; Ophir is done, and
Upaver begins. I will make a bid for the plant of Ophir, and remove it
to the silver lead. I will rent Upaver of you, and mine there on my own
account.'
'Very well,' answered Mr. Battishill, 'I can say with the shepherd in
the "Winter's Tale," "Now, bless thyself, I meet with things dying, thou
with things new-born." I was set on Ophir; you never doubted in
Upaver.'
'You forget, sir, you were the finder of the silver lead.'
'Ah, yes; but I was drawn aside by the glitter of the gold of Ophir. I
am sorry for Ophir, too. It was a dream of splendour. But again, with
Paulina, "To the noble heart, what's gone and what's past help, should
be past grief."'
'You have been at your Shakespeare, sir, whilst I have been upstairs.'
'To whom else should I go, John? "For I do love that man," said rare
Ben Jonson of him; and who that has mind and heart does not say the
same. Shakespeare is the common and personal friend of humanity. By the
way, John, there are some letters for you. We would not let you have
them before now, as, no doubt, they are on business--they come from
Launceston.'
Herring looked at them. Their purport is already known. They were from
the directors of Ophir.
'If Miss Cicely will write for me a letter about the machinery at Ophir,
I will sign it,' he said; 'we had better secure it at once. I knew that
Ophir would fail, and that was the reason why I did not hurry to get
machinery for the silver lead. Now we shall secure the entire plant
under half-price.'
'Oh, John, how far further ahead you see than do I! But you are
calculating on working the mine yourself. How can you combine a
mineralogical captaincy with military duties?'
'I have sold out,' said Herring, slightly colouring.
'Sold out, my boy! sold out after having been in the army only a few
years! That is a very rash and inconsiderate proceeding.'
'I could hardly help myself,' he answered. 'I got into trouble. When
the accident to Mr. Strange and his daughter took place I was on my way
to Exeter to rejoin my regiment. I had been summoned back. I could not
desert the Countess Mirelle, with her father dead and without a
protector; and so I wrote to my Colonel for a short extension of leave.
He refused it; but addressed his reply to Welltown, my little place in
Cornwall, to which he had written before. At Welltown my presence here
was unknown, and the letter was forwarded to Exeter, and it lay at my
quarters till I went there, which, as you know, was not for some time.
When I got to Exeter at last, I found that my neglect had got me into a
serious scrape. Not only so, but the regiment was at Portsmouth, under
immediate orders to sail for Honduras. I had difficulty in exchanging.
Moreover, I felt that I must be here, to superintend the working of the
silver lead mine; so I sold out.'
'John,' exclaimed Mr. Battishill, 'it is all very fine your pretending
that interest in the icy Countess and enthusiasm over a mine detained
you. Nothing of the sort. You found us in trouble and unable to help
ourselves, and so you sacrificed your own prospects for the sake of
pulling us through.' He pressed the young man's hand. 'I owe you a
debt I can never repay.'
Mr. Battishill did not know all. He knew nothing of Mirelle's diamonds
consigned to Herring's trust. He entertained no suspicion of the
interest Herring felt in that cold and haughty girl. He little dreamed
that Herring had taken on himself the double office of guardian angel to
Mirelle as well as to the house of Battishill. He did not suppose that
even care for that poor savage, Joyce, had mingled with the other
motives in deciding the young man on abandoning his military career.
When Herring came out of doors for the first time, he found Joyce in the
garden awaiting him. She was crying and laughing for joy.
'Maister,' she said, 'you will keep your word about them stockings.'
'Certainly,' he replied with a smile. 'I give you three months in which
to learn to knit, and after that I will wear no stockings but those of
your knitting.'
'Good-bye,' she said abruptly.
'Whither are you going?'
'To larn to knit,' she answered.
*CHAPTER XXXV.*
*BEGGARY.*
Hope is hard to kill. One last desperate effort Orange made to recover
the Captain. That same night, whilst Mirelle was writing to John
Herring, Orange wrote to Trecarrel, but her letter was not as brief as
that of Mirelle.
'Harry,--Now the last shelter is refused us. We must leave this house
the day after to-morrow. That is, the day when the sale at Dolbeare
takes place. We cannot go thither, we cannot stay here. We have none
to look to for advice but you. You must give it us; you are bound to
assist us. Remember, had the disclosure and death of my father taken
place one hour later, everything would have been changed, and I should
have been your wife; then I would have opened Trecarrel to my poor
mother. You cannot take advantage of an accident which intervened to
break off our marriage. I do not ask you now to renew that contract; I
ask you only to come to the aid of a widow and an orphan, and to help
them to find shelter for their heads.'
She sent this note to Trecarrel by a boy next morning. He brought
answer that the reply would arrive later. Then Orange went out. She
was not sanguine of success with the Captain, for she had failed in a
personal interview, and it is easier to refuse by letter than by word of
mouth. Still, some sort of hope fluttered in her heart. She could not
believe that the Captain would be so mean as wholly to desert them, and
deny them his advice. She had not asked in her letter for more than
that. Perhaps she had been too exacting when she forced her presence
upon him last night.
She went to visit her friend Miss Bowdler. If the Captain had failed
her, Miss Bowdler would not. Miss Bowdler was a well-to-do young lady,
who lived with her 'Pa' in a large, handsome, red-brick house of Queen
Anne's period, a house rich within with plaster-work of exquisite design
and wood-carving by Grinling Gibbons. The house was one of many rooms,
and it was solely tenanted by the young lady with the red eyelashes and
her 'Pa.' They were rich, but were not received into county society; a
source of vexation to Miss Bowdler, though her 'Pa' was indifferent so
long as his creature comforts were attended to. Surely Miss Bowdler
would give her friends shelter for a few days. Orange was not aware that
Miss Bowdler had reckoned on using her (Orange) when Mrs. Trecarrel as
her door into society of a superior class; and that now the marriage was
broken off and this door was shut, the disappointment was bitter.
Orange rang the bell, and the summons was answered by the footman,
working himself into his coat, with unbuttoned waistcoat. He looked at
Miss Trampleasure superciliously, and proceeded leisurely to button his
waistcoat.
'Is Miss Bowdler at home?'
'I don't know.' Then, with a jerk, he brought a red hand through the
sleeve.
'I asked if your mistress were in,' said Orange, with indignation.
'I ain't deaf--I heard,' replied the footman. 'I don't think she is what
is called "At Home."'
'She is to be seen?'
'I can't take on myself to say that. You can stop in the 'all, and I'll
go and inquire.'
Slowly, still buttoning himself, the serving man stalked away.
Orange's cheek flamed, and the tears mounted. This man had been all
obsequiousness before the crash.
Suddenly a loud voice in her ear startled her.
'You're a beggar, you're a beggar! Oh, shock-ing, shock-ing! Not a
penny. Cluck, cluck, cluck!'
Orange recovered herself at once. Near the door on a perch sat a white
cockatoo with pink feathers on her face, and cold, hard, unsympathetic
eyes, staring at her.
'Polly,' said Orange, bitterly, 'what you say is too true.'
'Oh, shock-ing! Does your mother know you are out? What o'clock, you
beggar? Oh, oh! Notapen-ny! Hot cockles! Cluck, cluck!'
'Polly, Polly, don't make such a noise! Pa!--oh!'
A door opened, and a red-haired head appeared. It was that of Miss
Bowdler. The moment she saw Orange she started back. The footman had
gone to the greenhouse in quest of her.
'Oh, Sophy! dear Sophy!' exclaimed Orange, springing forward.
Miss Bowdler recoiled from the outstretched hands.
'Good gracious, Miss Trampleasure, what a time of day for a call! My
dear Pa does not like to be interrupted at this time; I read to him his
newspaper of a morning. You will not, I know, detain me. Yes, Pa!
coming, Pa! coming in an instant! There have been disturbances in the
North among the cotton-spinners. Pa is in a fever to hear the
particulars.'
'Hot cockles!' said the parrot, sentimentally, putting her head on one
side and winking.
'Oh, Sophie, do listen to me. I want so much to see you. I have a
favour I wish to ask you.'
'Pa, Pa! I'm coming.'
'Tol-de-rol-de-rol!' said the parrot. Then, swinging herself round on
her perch, she went into convulsions of laughter.
'I pray you excuse me,' said Miss Bowdler; 'I told John Thomas expressly
to say I was not at home in the morning, because Pa is so particular.'
'Do you hear?' asked the footman, who had appeared on the scene, now in
full condition, every button in its place. 'Miss Bowdler is NOT AT
'OME.' Then he opened the door pompously. The red-haired lady took the
opportunity to dart back into her room.
'You're a beggar!' shouted the cockatoo, with a look of devilry in her
eye; 'you're a beggar! Not a pen-ny! Shock-ing, shock-ing! Oh, oh!'
and then screamed and ran round and round her perch, laughing.
The door shut with a slam behind Orange. She set her teeth and stamped
her foot.
'Would that I were Mrs. Trecarrel for one day only,' she said, 'that I
might insult this wretched girl before county people.'
Her mother had a friend in the town, a very intimate confidante, a stout
old lady, Mrs. Trelake, widow of a mayor of Launceston, a brewer. Mrs.
Trampleasure had insisted on her daughter going to this old lady, and
asking her to receive them for a week. Orange went thither, with her
heart on fire from the humiliations she had undergone at Miss Bowdler's
house. Orange was received at once with cordiality by Mrs. Trelake.
She was a lady of moderate stature, with an immense throat. The throat
was not a column supporting the head, but the face was sculptured out of
the column. There was something good-natured in the face. Possibly she
may have been good-looking when young; but it was now impossible, on
seeing her, to observe anything but the solid trunk of throat. The old
lady was stout, but neither her stoutness nor her throat incommoded her;
she moved with nimbleness. She was, moreover, robust in health. Mrs.
Trelake was a woman destitute of vanity. She had a neat hand, and was
ignorant of it. She was aware that her neck was ugly, but she took no
pains to hide it. She was one of those persons who make no effort to
please, and are themselves easily pleased. She liked every one with
whom she was brought in contact, but she loved nobody. She was the same
genial person with every one, rich and poor, with her servants and with
her guests. All she asked of her acquaintances was that they should
amuse her, and of her servants that they should give her no trouble.
Her sympathy was superficial. If an acquaintance spoke to her of trouble
or good fortune, of embarrassment or great expectations, she entered
into the situation from the outside, and without the smallest internal
appreciation. If she cried with a companion, it was not because her
friend had occasion for tears, but because her friend was in tears. If
she laughed, it was not at a joke which she made no effort to
understand, but because the joker laughed.
If you who knew her so well had told her your wife was dead with
inexpressive voice, she would have received the information with
indifference; if you had told her the same news with broken utterance,
she would have sobbed; if you had told her the same fact with a smile on
your lips, she would have sniggered. And your wife, remember, was her
intimate friend.
People of this description are more common than is generally supposed.
We have occupied some time over the portrait of Mrs. Trelake, not
because she acts a prominent part in this story, but because we desire
to inform our readers what to expect from the Mrs. Trelakes of their
acquaintance when they appeal to them for help in their troubles.
Mrs. Trelake received Orange with warmth and pity. She saw that the
girl was in trouble. The heart of Orange was full of her reception at
Miss Bowdler's, and she recounted it to the old lady. Mrs. Trelake was
shocked: she held up her hands, she blessed her stars, she vowed she
could never look on Miss Bowdler again with regard; she undertook to cut
her in the streets. (Mrs. Trelake dined with Miss Bowdler the same
evening, and, when Miss Sophy told her version of the story, Mrs.
Trelake was indignant over the dinner table at the audacity of Orange in
presuming to thrust herself upon the Bowdlerian privacy.)
'To-morrow is the sale at Dolbeare,' said Orange.
'The sale, my dear! How dreadful!' Mrs. Trelake looked round the room
at her pretty china and her case of stuffed hummingbirds. 'I could not
bear to part with my things. Every article sold, I suppose. Will those
pretty china jars go, with the dragons on them? I wonder whether I
could get them cheap?'
'Even to the beds and chairs. The house still belongs to us. That is,
we have the lease, but we shall have to let it, so as to pay the rent.'
'Not able to let the house nor pay the rent! Oh, my dear, how
dreadful!'
'I said that we should have to let it.'
'I understood perfectly, my sweet child.'
'We cannot go into the house stripped of everything. We cannot stay
longer at Mr. Flamank's. It was very good of him to take us in, but we
are unable to trespass further on his kindness.'
'Certainly, my poor child, it would not do.'
'Then--to-morrow, whither are we to go?'
'Really, my dear, I don't know. I have a bad head at guessing
conundrums. Is it a conundrum, though?' asked Mrs. Trelake, doubtfully.
She had not been listening. She was calculating her chance of securing
the dragon vases at the sale.
'You knew and loved my mother. I am sure you love her now.'
'Ardently, tenderly,' said Mrs. Trelake, effusively.
'Will you take it ill if I ask a favour of you?'
'Not at all.'
'Would you receive us for a week? I do not ask for more. In a week we
shall have had time to settle something as to our future.'