him. He is a Cornish lawyer, who lived at Falmouth, till Falmouth
passed him on to Launceston, having had enough of him. He has lent me
money. He knew that I wanted to improve my property; I was hot on
draining at one time, and thought if I drained my marshes I should fill
my purse. But, Herring, draining does not pay in all lands. It don't
pay in clay at all. The only thing I drained effectually was my pocket.
Then I was drawn on to speculate in Cornish mines that old Tramplara
whispered great things of to me. As a particular favour he put me up to
splendid investments before they were opened to the public. By all the
saints in Cornwall--and they are more numerous than those in
Paradise--that mining did for me completely.' The old man stamped his
gouty foot on the ground. 'It was a swindle. And now I am entangled in
the toils of old Tramplara, and cannot get out. Ah! Herring, if I could
but work the lead mine myself, I should clear myself of Tramplara. But
I cannot do it; the cursed rascal robs me of all my rents, and I am
unable to nurse the mine until it can run on its own legs. I must call
in strangers to form a company, and that means they are to swallow the
cup and give me the dregs. Moreover, I am afraid of Tramplara finding
it out. If he does; if he suspects what a lode there is at Upaver, he
will foreclose, take the property, and work the mine himself.'
'I have no capital at my disposal,' said Herring.
'I do not suppose you have. But only think! Supposing that Mr. Strange
had come here alone, to recover of his fall, and that I could have
induced him to sink some of his thousands here! Come along with me; I
will take you to Upaver and you shall judge for yourself.' The old man
jumped up, and walked across the hall to his hat.
'Your gout, sir!'
'Oh, that is all right now. A walk will do it good.'
'Another time, Mr. Battishill. Just at present we must examine the
desk, and see if we can find any clue to the family of Mr. Strange.'
'To be sure, to be sure,' said Mr. Battishill, returning to his chair.
'You drew me off our business. Open the box and get the matter over.'
Herring was trying the keys. Before he had found the right key, Mr.
Battishill put his hand on the bunch and said, 'By the way, before we go
on with our inquiry, tell me, do you belong to the Herrings of
Codrington?'
'I did not know there were Herrings there.'
'No; I do not mean now. In 1620 Hugh Manning, of Newton Bushell,
married Elizabeth, daughter of John Herring, of Codrington, in Devon; so
it stands in the Visitation, under the Manning pedigree. I do not think
much of your family not appearing in that Visitation, as some good Devon
families just emerging from the yeoman class, or not caring to appear at
the court of the heralds, are left unregistered. It was so in this
parish. Neither the Oxenhams nor the Northmores appeared, and yet they
held lands here from time immemorial.'
'Had we not better seek out the Strange family, instead of exploring the
past of the Herrings? The latter will keep.'
'You are right, quite right, my young friend. Good Lord, what
pertinacity you have. It is like that of a ferret hanging on to a rat.
Open the desk.'
The desk contained a considerable number of papers, almost all connected
with business, and in a foreign language--Portuguese--which Herring
could not read.
Mr. Battishill leaned back in his chair and looked before him out of the
hall window, lost in his meditations. He muttered something
impatiently.
'I beg your pardon,' said Herring, looking up. 'Did you address me?'
'I?--no,' answered Mr. Battishill. 'I merely said, Damn old Tramplara!'
Herring resumed his examination.
'The scoundrel has his claws in my neck, and the mischief is he is
dragging more than myself down. There is poor Cicely as well.'
'Can you decipher these letters?' asked Herring, holding out a couple of
papers to the old gentleman; 'they are written either in Spanish,
Italian, or Portuguese.'
'I cannot say. My knowledge is limited. "Ignorance is the curse of God,
knowledge the wing whereby we fly to heaven." I once read Latin, but
that was long ago. I may remember a few words of French. "Dieu et mon
droit," that means "God and my right." "Honi soit qui mal y pense,"
that means something about the Duchess of Gloucester's garter. No, this
is Chinese to me. "There is no darkness but ignorance."'
'Hold!' exclaimed Herring; 'here is his will. Shall we look at it?'
'By all means. No other document is so likely to help you to what you
want to discover. Give it to me.'
The will was very short. Mr. Strange had drawn it up himself before
sailing for Europe. The substance has been already given. Mr. Strange
left everything he possessed to Mr. Eustace Smith, of Avranches,
gentleman, and Mr. Sampson Trampleasure, of Falmouth, solicitor, in
trust for his daughter, Mirelle, till she attained the age of
twenty-three, and empowering them to expend from it such moneys as were
needed for her entertainment and education. They were constituted sole
guardians, trustees, and executors.
Mr. Battishill uttered a groan.
'That scoundrel again!'
'But, sir, this is Trampleasure, not Tramplara.'
'It is the same. He writes himself Trampleasure, but nobody dreams of
calling him anything but Tramplara.'
'He is constituted her guardian.'
'Yes; but associated, fortunately, with another, Mr. Eustace Smith.'
'But should he renounce?'
'Then good-bye to Mirelle's six thousand pounds. It will go down Wheal
Polpluggan.'
'Wheal what?'
'Wheal Polpluggan, that engulfed my money, and me.'
*CHAPTER VII.*
*THAT YOUNG TRAMPLARA.*
'What is to be done?' asked Herring. There was a small black square
ruler on the table, belonging to Mr. Strange's desk. He took it up and
played with it, now balancing it across his finger, then standing it up
on the table, with the end in his palm.
'Let things take their course,' answered Mr. Battishill. 'I advise with
Gloucester, "Thy greatest help is quiet."'
'I will write to Mr. Eustace Smith at once.'
'Do so. If he renounces, mark my words, Polpluggan swallows the young
lady's fortune. Friend Herring, I have the eyes of my heraldic
cognizance, and can see in the dark. A wonderful mine, Polpluggan. The
amount of capital sunk in it must have constituted a silver lode
somewhere.'
'When I have heard from Mr. Eustace Smith I will communicate with Mr.
Trampleasure--not before. I suppose I am justified in doing this?'
'Justified! Certainly. I have never seen Polpluggan myself. It is
situated in the Scilly Isles. Of these there be forty; but I have been
unable myself to make out in which Polpluggan lies, whether in Presher,
or Bryher, or Annette, or Tean, or Great Gannilly, or Little Gannilly,
or Gweal, or Withial, or Ganniornich, or----'
'I beg your pardon. May I borrow some notepaper?'
'By all means. There is some. The beauty, or the mischief of the
matter is, that the lode of tin is in the granite and under the sea.
Mining in granite is costly, and the proximity to the sea dangerous,
entailing extraordinary precautions. The water gets in. Now when this
takes place there follows a call on the shareholders for pumping it out.
Every great storm drowns the mine and fills the shareholders with
despair; the pump goes down into their pockets. Then the tin vein does
not yield as at first. Once there were bunches like those of Eshcol,
the dividends were seven, seven-and-a-half, eight, eight-and-a-quarter,
going, going, going up, and then, slow but sure, as the miners sank
their shaft so did the shares sink, and the dividends with them, till
they reached zero. After that, a rapidly swelling minus quantity.'
'I have written the letter. Have you sealing-wax?'
'There it is. Now the beauty, or the mischief is--beauty from the
Tramplara, mischief from the Battishill point of view--that old rascal
so fired my imagination, and was so accommodating, that I borrowed the
money of him to sink in Polpluggan. If I had speculated with my own
little savings--but no! I had no savings--that would have been bad
enough, but to speculate on borrowed capital is ruinous. That rascally
old Tramplara led me on till he led me into his trap, and then snap, the
door shut behind me, and I am fast. Poor West Wyke! Poor Cicely!
Poor--' he looked at the stained coat in the window, 'poor ancestral
owls!'
A shadow fell across the table from some one passing the window.
'Good God!' exclaimed Mr. Batishill; 'here comes that young Tramplara.'
A rap with the handle of a riding-whip on the hall door, and, without
waiting for a response, Tramplara entered. He was a young man, good
looking, with dark hair and eyes, and a dark moustache. His cheeks were
florid. He had been drinking, and that gave a gloss to his face and an
uncertainty to his eye. He came in with his hat on. He wore a short
coat, knee breeches, and tall boots.
'I say,' he began roughly, 'what is the meaning of this? There have
been those--with an oath--Cobbledicks inclosing a fresh piece of the
down. I won't have it. They will establish rights, and it will be hard
to displace them. Their fences must be tore down.' His pronunciation
was West country, his grammar occasionally so.
'Have you observed that Mr. Battishill is in the room?' asked Herring,
quietly. He had just sealed the Avranches letter.
'I see him right enough. I was addressing him, not you.'
Herring looked at the old gentleman; he had become limp. His jaw had
fallen, and his hands trembled as he laid them on the arms of his chair.
'Then perhaps you will remove your hat, Mr. Tramplara.'
'I object to be so called,' answered the young man sharply. 'My name,
sir, is Trampleasure, and only those who can't spell call me otherwise.'
'Very well, Mr. Trampleasure; will you remove your hat?'
'Who are you? I don't know you. Never had the pleasure of seeing your
face that I am aware of. What may your d--d name be, hey?'
'Sir,' said Herring, rising, 'I will stand no insolence. When you ask
my name properly, you shall have it.'
'O Lord! who cares a brass button what you be called? Keep your name to
yourself if you like.'
Herring walked straight up to him, composedly and firmly, looked him
full in the eyes, and said, 'You have been drinking. Remove your hat, or
I will knock it off.'
Tramplara took off his beaver and put it testily on the table.
'I am not a bad fellow,' he said, 'when asked a civil question, but I
object to be bullied.'
Then he seated himself near the table, looking sulky.
'I am Mr. Sampson Trampleasure, junior, gentleman,' he said. 'Now
perhaps you will tell me your name.'
Herring gave him in return his sur and Christian names.
'Never heard of you,' said Tramplara. 'What are you doing here?'
Herring made no reply to his impertinence.
'I say,' began the young man again, in a loud tone, 'I won't have those
Cobbledicks encroaching. I saw that old Bufflehead, Grizzly, but could
not make him understand, or leastways he wouldn't understand.'
Mr. Battishill bridled up feebly. 'You are premature, Mr. Sampson; West
Wyke is my property, and I have the right to settle on it whom I
choose.'
'Oh, ah! that's good,' said young Tramplara. 'Yours on sufferance. You
know well enough that my governor has his foot under your chair, and can
kick you over any day he has a mind to.'
'When he does that he can deal with the Cobbledicks as well. Naked came
we into the world, and naked we shall go out, Battishills and
Cobbledicks together.'
'That'll soon take place unless you shell out. You know what I have
come about.'
Mr. Battishill's brief indignation and assumption of dignity expired.
He put his hand into his pocket, and drew forth his handkerchief, and
wiped his lips.
'You have come on an unfortunate day, Mr. Sampson. We have had a death
in the house.'
'I don't care whether there be a death or a birth,' answered the young
man rudely. 'I know one thing, if I do not go back with the interest
due last Lady in my pocket, there'll be pretty summary dealings in a
place and with persons not the other side of London, nor in China, nor
New Zealand, nor Bra----! Why! how in the name of Ginger came this into
your hands?'
His eye was resting on the will that lay open as John Herring had left
it when extracting from it the address of Mr. Eustace Smith. He put out
the crook of his whip and drew it over to him. 'Ten thousand
crocodiles! There is my name in it. Sampson Trampleasure, of Falmouth,
Solicitor. No! that is my father. Last will and testament of James
Strange, of Bahia, Brazil! Why, that's a kinsman of ours. My
grandmother was a Strange. How the devil came this into your hands?'
Mr. Battishill looked at Herring. Herring was disconcerted. The
surprise and indignation caused by the intrusion and insolence of the
young man had prevented him from recollecting to fold up and put away
the document.
'Writing to one trustee,' said young Tramplara, taking up the letter,
'and in duty bound about to write to the other when interrupted by me.
I will save you the trouble. But how came this into your hands? Will
you answer me that?'
'I have already told you, Mr. Sampson, that there has been a death in
the house. An unfortunate and melancholy accident took place last
Friday, a carriage was upset near this house, and a strange gentleman
killed. He was brought here, and has been buried to-day.'
'That was Mr. James Strange?'
'It was. He was a gentleman who, according to his daughter's account,
had lived many years in Brazil as a diamond merchant.'
'I know that. He was my father's first cousin; consequently he
was--blowed if I know--but cousin of some sort, and about the only
relative on that side I had. What did he die worth?'
'That will be for your father to ascertain,' said Herring.
'It seems to me a most extraordinary thing to find a will of one not
even remotely belonging to you lying on your table where it might be
torn to light pipes with.'
'The reason is very simple,' said Herring. 'Mr. Battishill and I knew
nothing about Mr. Strange, and his daughter seemed to be equally in the
dark about his relatives.'
'What, is that pretty girl in the garden along of Miss Cicely his
daughter?'
'That young lady is his daughter. Mr. Battishill and I examined the
papers of the deceased. Most were in Portuguese, which we were unable
to read. From the will we gathered who were the trustees and guardians
of the lady. That was what we sought, and that was what we have
ascertained.'
'Well, this is a rise,' said young Tramplara. 'This is like going out
after a partridge and starting a pheasant. But never mind. I keep my
game in my eye. You will have to unburthen your pockets, Battishill,
old boy!'
'Has the sea broken in on Polpluggan?' asked Mr. Battishill dolefully.
He knew well enough that the visit did not relate to Polpluggan, but he
tried to put off the worst.
'Polpluggan,' said the young man, with a touch of melancholy in his
voice; 'Polpluggan is swamped outright. The mighty Atlantic has got on
top of him, and is pouring himself down his throat. There ain't no more
pumping to be done there, more's the pity.'
'No more calls, then, on the shareholders?'
'No.'
'Nor dividends either?'
'Oh dear no. What's lost is lost. Polpluggan was a very pretty thing;
but there--his day is over, more's the pity.' He sighed. 'He was as
fine a fellow in the way of tin as you might wish to look on. But with
the best intentions you can't go after a lode into the bowels of the
stormy deep. The public don't like it; and when you call on them every
month to pump out the ocean, they turn unpleasant, and apply live coals
to your tail and make you squeak. No--Polpluggan is no more.' Then
with a boisterous laugh and a slap on the table, 'Never mind the death
of Polpluggan, old chap. We aren't seen the end of Cornish mining yet.
There are many more, bigger nor Polpluggan, looming in the future. But
that's neither here nor there. What I've come about is the interest that
ought to have been paid last Lady.'
'It has been a bad time, Mr. Sampson. The sheep have been cawed, and I
have done all I could to save them. It was the rain last fall and all
the winter that did it. I kept them off the clay land, and I tried
every remedy I could think of. The last, and that which promised best,
was bruised box leaves. We cut off all our box borders in the garden,
used every green sprout and leaf, but it was not sufficient. The poor
beasts picked up a little on it, but no lasting cure was effected, and
they just rotted away.'
'Oh, blow the sheep!' said young Tramplara, coarsely. 'It ain't them I
want, but the money.'
'But I have not got the money,' sighed Mr. Battishill. 'If I could have
sold my sheep I could have paid. But not only so. The farmer at Upaver
has lost his sheep as well, and several bullocks to boot, so that he has
fallen behind with his rent. It is a very extraordinary thing that my
sheep should get cawed, for I have never known such a thing happen
before in this high land. Down in the valley on the clay is another
matter. But you never saw any of that blue grass on my upland, which is
the signal Nature throws out that no sheep are to draw nigh. It has
always been said that peat----'
'Faith! it is only a matter of time. A year or two don't matter
particularly,' said Sampson Tramplara, 'sooner or later scatt you go.
If you chose to speculate you must look out for the consequences. You
ought to know what mining means at your age. You don't think to walk
over a bog, and not get stogged.'
'Your own father urged me on. But for him I would have had nothing to
do with Polpluggan.'
'Nor with draining either?'
'That was my blunder. Polpluggan was the pit down which I fell
hopelessly, and your father led me to the brink and pushed me over.'
'There are plenty to keep you company, if that be a consolation,' said
young Sampson. 'Now it has just come to this. You don't suppose my
father hasn't lost also in Polpluggan, do y'. I can tell you he has--a
brave bit of money too. He wants his money as much as you do; and he
will have it too.'
'You must have patience; all seasons are not bad.'
'But if you nip your fingers you squeak. My father is nipped pretty
tight, all along of Polpluggan. You see he has another mine in view,
and it wants capital to get that floated.'
'Look here,' said Mr. Battishill, desperately. 'If it comes to that, and
he wants another mine to start upon, let him come to me. I will put him
upon a lode, a real lode, and I stake my life there is silver lead, and
plenty of it, at Upaver.'
'That won't do,' said Tramplara. 'It isn't what comes out of a mine
that makes it pay, but what is put into it. You don't understand these
things, or you would never have gone head over heels down Polpluggan.
There is nothing to be had from you, so I don't mind saying it. And you
are an old friend, and are sucked dry, and about to be turned inside
out.
'There is no water that can drown my mine.'
'More is the pity. It is just the water that makes it pay. But come!
It is too late for you to learn the alphabet of mining.'
The bottle of sherry that had been purchased for the funeral was on the
table, along with some glasses. Without invitation the young man poured
out and drank.
'There's twenty pounds goes home in my pocket, or it don't. And if it
don't, worse luck for you.' He put his hand to the bottle. Herring drew
the decanter from his reach.
'What do you mean?' asked Tramplara. 'Give me the sherry this moment.'
'You have been drinking before coming here,' said Herring, 'and you
shall not further insult Mr. Battishill by becoming drunk in his
presence.'
'What is that?' shouted young Sampson. 'Hey! what a moral man we have
here. All for total abstinence, I presume.'
He jumped up, whip in hand, and switched the whip two or three times
before him; then, looking Herring full in the face, with an insolent
smirk on his lips, clapped his hat on one side of his head, and planted
himself before him with legs astride, his left hand on his hip, and the
right hand brandishing the whip.
Instantly Herring twisted the whip out of his hand, and knocked his hat
off his head with it, across the hall. Then he handed him the whip
again, coolly, in a manner that meant. 'Touch me with it, if you dare.'
Tramplara's face became mottled.
'Thank you, Mr. Herring, thank you.' said Cicely, who entered at that
moment with Mirelle. Her cheeks were prettily dimpled, the brightest
colour glowed in her face, and her eyes danced with delight.
Tramplara drew back, grasping the whip by the middle, clenching his
teeth, and looking quickly from one to another in the group.
'Come into the little drawing-room,' said Mirelle, composedly. 'I
dislike being present at vulgar brawls. These two young men have
forgotten themselves: perhaps next they will proceed to box, which is a
disgusting sight.'
'Stay one moment,' said young Sampson. 'Ladies, you must hear the truth
at once. Miss Strange is my cousin. My father is her guardian. She
shall not remain in this house any longer. I will take her away with me
to Launceston, where my mother and sister will receive her. I have just
read her father's will. It is all right, ain't it, Mr. Battishill?
Besides, this house is not likely to be able to afford her hospitality
and shelter any more. Is it not so, Mr. Battishill? So pack up your
duds, missie, and be ready to start to-morrow. I will bring a chaise out
of Okehampton.'
'I am not going with you,' answered Mirelle, coldly, and without looking
at him.
'Oh, ain't you, though? I am your cousin, Miss Strange, and am come to
fetch you away.'
'I know nothing about you,' said Mirelle with perfect composure. 'You
are not my cousin. I am not Miss Strange. I am the Countess Mirelle
Garcia de Cantalejo.'
'You have had your answer,' said Herring to the young man. Then,
turning to the ladies, 'Now, Countess, and you, Miss Battishill, I must
ask to withdraw. I want a word myself with this--person.'
Cicely smiled at him, and drew Mirelle away.
Herring watched them depart, but his eyes were upon Mirelle, not Cicely.
Then, going to the table, he drew a cheque book from his pocket, and
wrote on it an order for sixty pounds, payable to Mr. Battishill.
'Will you kindly endorse this, sir?' he asked of the old gentleman.
Mr. Battishill, hardly comprehending his purpose, complied.
'Now,' said Herring to young Sampson Tramplara, 'take this, and write
out at once a receipt to Mr. Battishill.'
'I refuse it,' said Sampson, sullenly. 'How am I to know that you have
so much money in the bank, and how do I know that your cheque will not
be dishonoured?'
Herring pointed to the little black ruler.
'You will sign the receipt at once, or I will break this ruler across
your head.'
Tramplara made no further remonstrance. With a hand that shook partly
with anger and partly with fear, he complied.
'Very well,' said Herring, 'now go. Pick up your hat, it is in the
corner, and take yourself off.'
Tramplara sulkily obeyed. When he reached the door he turned, his face
white, his hands quivering with passion.
'The time will come, Mr. Herring, when it will be in my power to repay
you this, and then, by God, I swear----'
'What do you swear?' Herring held up the black ruler.
Tramplara shut the door, and was gone.
*CHAPTER VIII.*
*CICELY.*
When John Herring turned to look at Mr. Battishill, he found the old
gentleman fallen back in his chair, his face distorted, and scarcely
conscious. He saw at once what had happened. The excitement had
brought on a stroke.
Herring went into the kitchen and called the maid.
'Make no noise; help me.' She assisted him to remove the master
upstairs. He sent her for the doctor, and then tapped at the door of
the parlour that he might break the news to Cicely.
Two days later, Mr. Battishill was sitting up in his own room, decidedly
on the mend. The attack had been slight, nevertheless it was a seizure,
a first--and such are warnings of others in store. Cicely came down
into the hall to meet Herring, who had walked up to West Wyke from Zeal,
where he was staying. She went up to him, and he noticed that there
were tears in her eyes.
'Mr. Herring,' she said, 'my father is better. I am glad to have a
moment in which I can leave him and speak with you alone.'
'I am entirely at your service,' he said.
She looked into his eyes with her frank, bright smile--a luminous smile
that flickered through a veil of tears.
'I know that perfectly, Mr. Herring, and have no scruple in making use
of you. Here you have remained in our neighbourhood, instead of going
on your way about your own concerns; you have spent the greater part of
every day with us, instead of seeking to amuse yourself--all because you
knew that your assistance was needed. That is not the way with many
young men. Another in your place would have taken his valise and gone
by the next coach after the accident, and left Mirelle to shift for
herself. You have been everything that is kind and considerate to
Mirelle--I beg her pardon--the Countess Garcia.' A smile twinkled in
her pleasant face. 'And this emboldens me to appeal to you in my
trouble.'