who occupied it for three generations, and, having married women with a
little money, had got on some little way, not far, in the social scale.
The slate-quarry had brought in money, not much, for the demand was
limited. The neighbourhood was thinly populated, and little building was
done. But the equinoctial gales came to the assistance of the Herrings,
for after every gale carts came for slates to repair the devastation
done to roofs by the wind. The sale of slates enabled the Herrings to
enlarge their dairy by the purchase of additional cows. They salted
their butter, and sent it in firkins to Bristol by the little boats that
plied up the Channel from the port of Boscastle.
John Herring had let the farm, on his father's death, to an old hind,
Hender[1] Benoke, who had married John's nurse, Genefer; and this couple
lived in the house, and when he was there attended to him.
[1] Hender is the modern Cornish form of Enoder. There was a Cornish
saint of the name. Genefer is Gwenever.
Now that Herring was interested in the slate-quarry, he built himself an
office near it, on the cliff above a deep gulf called Blackapit, gnawed
by the waves in the headland of Willapark. In this office were a
fireplace and a bed.
Welltown had to be done up to receive the bride, and whilst it was in
the hands of plasterers, carpenters, and painters, Herring lived in his
office by the slate-quarry. He was comfortable and independent there.
Genefer came there every day to attend to his wants; but he dined at
Welltown in the evening, after the quarrymen had left work.
One morning, after Genefer had made his breakfast, she stood beside the
table, with her hands folded, watching him.
Genefer Benoke was a handsome woman still, though over fifty. She had
very thick brown hair, high cheekbones, a dark complexion, and large,
wild, pale grey eyes. She was a tall, well-built woman, abrupt in
manner and capricious in temper. Hender, her husband, was a gloomy,
sour man, always nursing a grievance and grumbling against some one; a
man who considered himself wronged by every one with whom he dealt; by
his master, who treated him liberally; by his wife, whom, however, he
feared; by his workmen, because they were idle. He was dragged by his
wife to chapel, and he grumbled because he was obliged to pay for his
pew, and he was angry with the minister because he was making a good
thing out of the credulity of his congregation. He was jealous of the
storekeepers at Boscastle, because they were making unfair profit on
their goods. He was sulky with his pigs because they ran to bone rather
than to fat, and with his poultry because they laid their eggs where
they were not readily found. He growled at his Bible because the
printing was too small for his eyes, and was bitter against his clothes
because they wore out.
Genefer was a strange woman. The Keltic blood in her veins was pure. A
wild, dreamy woman, who had acted as white witch till she thought the
profession sinful and had given it up, to throw herself with all the
vehemence of her nature into one of those fantastic forms of dissent
that thrive so vigorously on Keltic soil. She prophesied, she saw
visions, and dreamed. None hunted the devil with more vehemence and
pertinacity than Genefer Benoke--the devil-hunting with her was no
pretence; she saw him, she smelt him, and she pursued him, now with a
broom, then with her bare hands.[1] She went into fits, she had the
'jerks,' she foamed at the mouth, she rolled on the floor and shrieked,
and exhibited all the outward signs of a regenerate and converted
person.
[1] Devil-hunting is a favourite feature among some of the wilder sects
in Cornwall. Very extraordinary scenes may be witnessed at one of these
chases.
There was no hypocrisy in her. If there had been the least tinge of
unreality, her husband would have fastened on it, and her power over him
would have been at an end. But her trances and fits and visions were
real, and he regarded her as a person of superior spiritual powers,
almost inspired, gifted with supernatural clearness of vision.
'Master John,' said Genefer, 'you've a-told me sure enough why there be
all that havage (disturbance) in the old house, fit to worry a saint of
God out of life, what with the smeech (smell) of paint, and the
hammerings, and the sawings, and the plasterings. You've a-told me,
right enough, that there be a new mistress coming, and I be not that
footy to go against it. The Lord said, "It is not good for man to be
alone," and that settles the matter; but I want to know what she be
like.'
'Oh, dear Jenny, she is everything that she ought to be. You may take
my word for that.'
'Ah! all fowl be good fowl till you come to pluck 'em. There be maidens
and maidens, and you must not take 'em by what they purfess, but by what
they be. When the Lord were by the Sea of Tiberias, He seed a poor man
coming out of the tombs, exceeding fierce, and He axed, What be thy
name? Then he answered, Legion, which means six thousand. But the Lord
knowed better than that, and He sed, sed He; "Come out of him thou one
unclean spirit, and go into the swine." Ah! if you listen to what they
sez of themselves, they be Legion--six thousand. Loramussy! with their
airs and their graces, and their good looks, and their fortune, and
their learning, and their pianny-playing, and their flower-painting, and
this and that--they'd make you believe they was possessed with a legion
of graces, but when you come to get hold and look close, there be naught
there but one mean and selfish spirit, bad enough to make a pig mazed.'
'My dear Jenny, I hope and trust your future mistress will please you,
but you don't expect that I should put the choosing into your hands.'
'I don't that 'xactly, Master John. No, I don't go so far as that. But
you might have done worse. There be none but a woman as can see into a
woman. It be just the same as with the Freemasons. They knows one
another wherever they be, and in the midst of a crowd; but you as bain't
in the secret have no idea how. It be just the same with women. Us
knows one another fast enough, and what is hid from you men be clear to
we. There were a battle against Ephraim, and the men of Gilead took the
passages of Jordan, and when the Ephraimites were a-flying, then said
the Gileadites to 'em, "Say Shibboleth!" and they said Sibboleth, for
they could not frame to pronounce it right. So they took them and slew
them there. I tell you, Master John, there don't at no time meet two
women wi'out one putting the Shibboleth to the other and finding out
whether her belongs to Ephraim or Gilead. I'd like to know of the
missis as be coming what her be like, but I know very well it be no good
my axing of you. You've not took her down to the passages of Jordan and
tried her there.'
'Ask me what I can tell you, and I will satisfy you to the best of my
power.'
'Master John, it be a false beginning papering the porch room with white
and gold. The bare whitewash were good enough for your mother and your
grandmother, and it would be good enough for your wife, I reckon, if her
were of the proper sort. And if her be not, let her take herself off
from Welltown. Will you tell me this, Master John; be she a Cornish
woman?'
'No, Jenny, I do not think she is.'
'Be she strong and hearty, wi' brave red rosy cheeks and a pair of
strong arms?'
'She is slender and pale, Jenny.'
'A fine wife that for Welltown! Pale and weak: that be as I dreamed.
But it were no dream--it were a revelation. What sort be her as to her
religion? Be her a Churchwoman, or one of God's elect?'
'That is an unfair way of putting it,' laughed Herring.
'I put it the way it be written in the Book of Light,' answered Genefer,
doggedly.
'She is a Roman Catholic,' said Herring. 'I hope now you are satisfied.'
'See there!' exclaimed Genefer. 'What sez the Scriptur?--"Thou shalt
not plough with the ox and the ass together." What do that mean but
that two of a sort should run together under the same yoke of matrimony?
If you be Church, take a Church wife; if you be a Cornishman, don't
fetch an ass out of Devon to plough the lands of Welltown wi' you. What
sez the prophet?--"Can two walk together except they be agreed?" Here
be you two arn't agreed about what be chiefest of all, and how will you
walk together along the way of life?'
'My dear Jenny, you have had the management so long that you presume. I
am not any longer a boy to be ordered about, and I must insist on no
more of this sort of interference with my affairs. You acted as a
mother to me when I was deprived as an infant of my own natural mother,
and I shall ever love you dearly for all you have done for me. But,
Jenny, there are limits to forbearance, and you transgress.'
'Ah, sure!' exclaimed Genefer Benoke, 'it were I as made you what you 'm
be. I didn't spoil you as some would have done. You 'm a good and
proper squire, because I trained the sapling. "Spare the rod, spoil the
child," said the wise king, Master John, when the old miners were
seeking a lode they took a hazel-rod in their hands, and they went over
the ground a holding of thicky. And when they passed above a lode the
rod turned in their hands. It were all the same wi' hidden treasure.
I've a heard of a Trevalga man, as he went over the mounds of Bosinney
wi' such a divining-rod, and it turned, and he dug and found King
Arthur's golden crown and table. It be all the same with mortal earth.
If you want to bring to light the pure ore, the hidden treasure, you
must go over it wi' a stick. There be good metal in you, Master John,
and you may thank your old nurse that her didn't spare the rod. Her
explored you pretty freely with the divining-wand.'
'I am thankful, Genefer,' said Herring, laughing; 'I recall many of
these same explorations, and they have left on me an ineffaceable
respect for you, and some fear is mingled with the love I bear you.'
'It is right it should be so. What 'ud you have been without me? Your
mother died when you was a baby. Your father couldn't be a nursing of
you by night and day. It were I as did all that. I'd had a chance
child,'--in a self-exculpatory tone, 'the lambs o' the Lord must play;'
then louder: 'and I'd a lost it. I did everything for you, I were a
proper mother to you, and so it be that I love you as my own child; and
as the Lord has not seen fit to give me none of my own body, saving that
chance child as died--and I reckon the stock of Hender be too crabbed
and sour to be worth perpetuating--what have I to live for, and care
for, and provide for, but you? And see this, Master John. King David
said as the Lord rained snares out of heaven: snares be ropes with
nooses at the end; and King David sez the Lord hangs these out of every
cloud, whereby them as walks unawares may hang themselves. What be them
hangman's ropes dangling about, thick as rain-streaks, but all those
things God has made, and with which he surrounds us, by which we may
lift ourselves above the earth if we be prudent; but if we be fools,
then we shall strangle ourselves therein. I reckon the new mistress be
one of the Lord's snares hanging down out of heaven. If you use a wife
properly, and lay hold of her, and pull yourself up by her, then you
will mount to heaven; but if you let her get round your throat, her'll
sure to throttle you. That be what makes me badwaddled' (troubled)
'about you, now I see you wi' such a rope before you. Keep your feet
and hands a working up her, and don't you never let her knot herself
round you.'
Such was the house and such were the persons destined to receive
Mirelle. John Herring loved Welltown; he had been born there and bred
there. Every stone was dear to him. The dreary scenery was full of
romance and beauty because associated with early memories. Old Genefer
he loved; she had been his nurse, his guide, his friend. She was
masterful, and exercised the authority of a mistress; but this had grown
with years, and was at first endured, at last disregarded. It had become
a part of Welltown, and was sacred accordingly. Herring was too full of
content with his own home, of admiration for the barren coast scenery,
to suppose that the same would not equally delight Mirelle. He would
explain to Mirelle the good points in Genefer's character, the greatness
of the debt due to her, and for the sake of these she would overlook her
faults.
Alas! the place and the persons that were to receive Mirelle were the
most uncongenial to her nature that could have been selected.
But to return to the office on Willapark, and Genefer standing at the
table before her foster child.
'I told you,' said the old woman, 'that I had dreamed; but it weren't a
dream, but a vision, falling into a trance, but having my eyes open. I
thought, Master John, that it were a wisht' (wild) 'night, and the wind
were a tearing and a ramping over the hills and driving of the snow
before it in clouds. And I saw how that, in the whirl of the wind, the
snow heaped herself up like the pillar of salt between Zoar and Sodom.
And I saw how you, Master John, thought it were wonderful and beautiful,
that you stood before it mazed. And when the night were gone, and the
sun came out, and it glittered like a pillar of diamonds, then you cast
your arms round it, to hold it to your heart; and you looked up to it
for all the world as though expecting something as never came and never
could come. And you laid your heart against that pillar of snow, and
when I would have drayed you away you sed, "See, Jenny, how fair and
pure she be!" But I could not take you away; and still you looked up
into the snow, asking wi' your eyes for something that never came, and
in nature never could come. But wi' the warmth of your heart it all
began to melt away; and still you looked; and it ran between your
fingers, and dripped in streams from your heart, and trickled down your
face like tears; and so it thawed slowly away, and still you held to the
snow, and looked, and nothing came. That be the way the heat went out
of your heart, and the colour died from your cheek, and your lips grew
dead, and your hands stiff, and the tears on your cheeks were frosted to
icicles, and your hair waxed white as wool; and when all had melted
clean away still you was the same, wi' your arms stretched out and your
eyes uplifted--not now to the snow bride, for that were gone, but to a
star that twinkled aloft over where she had been, and I touched you, for
I were troubled, but could not move you--you were hard ice.'
*CHAPTER XL.*
*NOEL! NOEL!*
Christmas had come, not a day of frost or snow, but of warm south
breezes charged with rain; no sun shining, but grey light struggling
through piles of vapour. Mirelle was so much better that she was able
to go in a coach to Trecarrel to mass. A priest was staying there for a
few days.
The mass was early, and she left before dawn, but the day broke while
she was at Trecarrel, and there was as much light in the sky, when she
prepared to leave, as there would be throughout the day.
Captain Trecarrel came to her, to insist on her coming into the house
and having some breakfast. It would not do for her, in her delicate
condition, recovering from illness, to remain so long without food. She
declined, gently, and the utmost he could bring her to accept was a cup
of coffee and some bread, brought to the carriage in which she had
seated herself, wrapped in shawls, for her return journey.
Captain Trecarrel, standing at the coach-door, thought her lovelier than
he had ever seen her. There was none of the proud self-reliance in her
face now that had marked her when she first came to Launceston. She was
thin, tremulous, and frail as a white harebell; with a frightened,
entreating look in her large dark eyes, a look that seemed to confess
weakness, and entreat that she might be left to herself.
Captain Trecarrel knew nothing about her engagement to John Herring. If
it had been known in Launceston, it would have come to his ears, for the
Captain was a great gossip. The secret had been well kept; it was not
only not known, it was unsuspected. Orange had not spoken of it, and
her mother had been restrained from cackling by sharing in the general
ignorance.
'In case I do not see you before the new year, I must wish you a happy
one,' said Mirelle, holding out her hand. 'Now, please tell the
coachman to drive on.'
'The year can hardly be nappy for me,' said the Captain, and sighed.
'Dear Countess Mirelle, suffer me to take a place beside you. I want to
go into Launceston on business, and I shall be grateful for a lift.'
'Business to-day! Do not these English keep the feast? I have heard
Orange and her mother anticipate Christmas, but almost wholly because of
the plum-pudding.'
'The bells are ringing,' answered Trecarrel. And on the warm air came a
merry peal of village bells. Captain Trecarrel saw the supplicating
look in her eyes, a look entreating him not to take advantage of her
weakness; but he was too selfish to regard it, he accepted her silence
as consent, jumped into the chaise, and told the coachman to drive on.
There was no sign in the manner of either that a thought was given to
the return of the visiting cards. That was Christmas day, a day of joy
and reconciliation, of peace on earth, and general goodwill. Why rip up
a sore? Let the past be forgotten, at least for a day. Captain Trecarrel
was puzzled about those cards. Were they Mirelle's answer to the letter
he had written to her? His offer of protection under the wing of his
aunt at Penzance had been unnecessary, because Mirelle was not
penniless. She had means at her disposal of which he knew nothing.
Probably her father's money in Brazil had been forwarded to her, and
reached her, fortunately, after the death of her trustee.
Trecarrel was not a man to love deeply any one but himself. His
feelings for Orange had never been strong; if he cared for any one
beside himself, it was for Mirelle. Had he offended her by his letter?
Was it really she who had sent the cards back to him? He was determined
to find out.
'You directed a letter to me some weeks ago,' he said.
'Yes; Orange had sprained her wrist, and she asked me to address the
letter for her.'
'I was disappointed on opening it. I knew your handwriting at once; it
was so unlike that of an Englishwoman, so French in its neatness. An
Englishwoman scrawls, a Frenchwoman writes.'
'I have noticed that.'
'I was disappointed on opening the cover. I thought it might contain
your reply to my letter.'
'What letter?'
'That which I wrote to you when you were at Mr. Flamank's house.'
'I did not receive it.'
'The loss is not great. It was sent to inform you that I was confined
to my bed, and that I was too gravely indisposed to follow the dictates
of my heart and fly to your succour.'
'Orange, I am sure, felt your absence greatly.'
'You, also, would have been thankful for my assistance, surely.'
'Yes; but I had no right to expect it. Orange had a right to exact it.'
Trecarrel bit his lip.
'You seem, dear Countess, to have been very ill. You look terribly
fragile and white.'
'I have been unwell----'
'More than unwell--ill; dangerously ill?'
'Yes; my head was bad. I did not know anything or any person for
several days.'
'I fear these wretched troubles have been the cause. O that I could
have been near to give advice and protection; but important
business--military, of course--called me to Exeter, and when I returned
to Trecarrel, I was prostrated by a nervous attack for a week. I fear
you have been embarrassed for money, but now, I understand, matters are
settled agreeably.'
'We are not troubled about money matters any more, nor likely to be so.'
'I trust not.'
'Because, if you were, I would say, command me. I am not a rich man,
but still, bless my soul, I can help a friend at a pinch, and am proud
to do so.'
'There is no occasion, Captain Trecarrel. All fear of pecuniary
embarrassment is at an end.'
'I hear everything at Dolbeare was bought by you.'
'All was bought in my name.'
'And the Trampleasures, _mere et fille_, are your guests. How long will
this continue?'
'I do not know.'
'It is not pleasant to be sponged on, especially----'
'I beg your pardon. I feel it a duty and a pleasure to do everything I
can for them. They have been kind to me.'
'Then you saddle yourself with them indefinitely. I hope the load will
not crush you.'
Mirelle made no reply. She did not like the contemptuous tone in which
he spoke of the Trampleasures, and Orange was to be his wife. She
looked out of the coach window on her side.
'Old Tramplara's death was, of course, a great shock to me,' continued
Trecarrel; 'so sudden, too, arresting me on the threshold of my
marriage. It was a trial to my nervous system; but I am frank to
confess, it was to some extent a relief.'
Mirelle looked round with surprise.
'I may as well tell you the whole truth,' said the Captain. 'You are in
the midst of cross purposes, and do not understand the game. It is only
fair that I should give you your orientation. I always admired Orange;
she is a handsome, genial girl, somewhat brusque and wanting in polish,
but good-hearted. I called a good deal at Dolbeare, not only to see
her, but to keep Mr. Trampleasure in good humour. I am a man of very
small income and with good position in the county, which I am expected
to live up to. I have been pinched for money, and I wanted Mr.
Trampleasure to advance me a loan. So I got on intimate terms with the
family, and, somehow, he made my prospects contingent on my taking
Orange as wife. Then the sum I wanted would be given as her dower. You
understand. Well, being a light-hearted, giddy young fellow, I fell
into the arrangement, and all went smoothly enough till you came.'
Mirelle gasped for breath. She put her hand to the window.
'You want air,' said the Captain. 'I will let down the glasses.'
Mirelle thanked him with a bend of the head; she could not speak. A
great terror had come over her.
'When you came,' continued Trecarrel, 'then I woke to the fact that I
had never loved Orange. I had admired her beauty as I might admire a
well-built horse or spaniel, but my heart had not been touched.'
'Oh, Mr. Trecarrel!' exclaimed Mirelle, putting her white fingers
together, 'let me out of the carriage. I must walk; I shall faint; I
feel very ill.'
'Dear Mirelle--you will let me call you Mirelle?--you must not walk; you
are not strong enough.'
'I pray you! I pray you!'
Then he stopped the coach, opened the door, and had the steps lowered.
'The lady is faint. Go slowly, coachman. She wishes to walk a little
way.'
Then he helped Mirelle to alight, and pressed her fingers as he did so,
and looked at her tenderly out of his beautiful blue eyes.
'No,' she said, as he offered her his arm, 'I must walk alone. The road
is rough. I shall be better presently. The carriage jolts.'
'You cannot walk,' answered the Captain; 'I see that you have not the
strength. I insist on your taking my arm, or stepping back into the
carriage. I am very thankful that I came with you. You are not in a
fit state to be alone.'
She turned and looked at him. 'Oh, Mr. Trecarrel, I should have been
far better alone.'
'Why so, Mirelle?'
'I cannot say. I need not have talked.'
'Do not talk now; listen, whilst I speak to you.'
'Speak then of something else--not of Orange.'
'I do not wish to speak of Orange. I will speak only of yourself.'
She held up her hands again, in that same entreating manner. 'I am too
weak,' she whispered.
Her ankle turned as she stepped on the loose stones. A mist drifted
across her eyes, so that she could not see the road. The air was rich
with the music of church bells, the merry Christmas peal of Launceston
tower and the village churches round, calling and crying, Noel! Noel!
Noel! Glad tidings of great joy! Roast beef and plum pudding and
mince-pies! Good Christian men rejoice! Pudding sprigged with holly,
and over the pudding brandy sauce, blazing blue! Noel! Roast beef
garnished with horse-radish! Noel! Mince-pies piping hot. Turn again,
Whittington, to your Christmas dinner. Noel! Noel! Noel!
Mirelle did not hear the bells.
'No, I cannot walk,' she said.
Then Captain Trecarrel helped her back into the coach.
'I shall be better alone,' she said.
'You must not be left alone,' he replied. 'I cannot in conscience allow
you to go on without me to look after you. As you are so weak after
your illness, it was madness to come out this Christmas morning.'
She sighed and submitted. He stepped in beside her and closed the door.