there was a dish with a cold leg of boiled mutton on it at the head.
Cheese, butter, and bread were dispersed, not arranged, on the surface
of the table. In the centre stood a plated cruet-stand with old mustard
turned brown in a pot, and a bottle of sauce down whose sides the sauce
had trickled and caked.
Mirelle entered with Orange, pale, her long dark lashes drooping on her
cheek. She was ashamed, perhaps afraid, to look up. Herring thought he
saw something on the lash. A tear?--hardly a whole tear. A brilliant,
not a diamond.
The room was comfortable. It was panelled with painted wood of Queen
Anne's period, the mouldings heavy and the panels large. The room was
low. A fire burnt in the grate.
Orange Tramplara came up to Herring.
'You have had a long journey--tedious also,' she said.
'Not tedious by any means. That was impossible in such company.'
'Well, long. I wish we had known for certain that my cousin would be
here to-night, then we would have had a warm supper ready.'
'Don't bother with excuses,' burst in old Tramplara. 'Men do not heed
what they eat, but what they drink. Cold mutton is a very good thing,
especially with a glass of hot grog on the top.'
Herring looked steadily at Orange. She was a tall, stoutly built,
handsome girl, with black hair, florid complexion, and very beautiful
dark eyes. Her lips were crimson, ripe and sensuous. She had a fine
throat and a swelling bust. Herring could make out nothing more. Men
cannot read women's characters from their faces. It is well that they
are denied this faculty, or the race would become extinct. Marriages,
says a proverb, are made in heaven. No--marriages are made in
Paradise--the paradise of fools.
Whilst Herring studied Orange ineffectually, she was making her own
comments on him. She read more of his character than he had been able
to decipher of hers. But he had deciphered nothing. She saw that he
was good-looking, honest, and amiable, and that he did not lack ability.
She read good-nature in every curve, and turned contemptuously away.
Good-nature is weakness.
'Come along.' said Mr. Tramplara, 'the travellers want to peck. Sit you
all down. "For what we are going to receive." Under-done, missie? or
tasting of the butcher's fingers, eh?'
*CHAPTER X.*
*A MUSICAL WALKING-STICK.*
As Herring sat at table, he noticed opposite him, hung against the wall,
a large pastille portrait of a gentleman in a red coat, with powdered
hair. The face was refined.
By way of conversation, Herring asked Orange, who sat next him, whether
this were a family picture.
'What--this, this?' said Tramplara, taking the answer out of his
daughter's mouth. 'Nobody knows who the red man is.'
'An ancestor, however, I presume,' said Herring.
'Lord bless you! no; he don't look like an ancestor of our family. No
flesh and blood and muscle and go-ahead there; all thinness and fine
bone and whimsy, very well for show, but no use for work. Though I do
not know who the party was, yet I do know something queer about the
picture. This house don't belong to me, I rent it; and in the lease
that picture goes with the house, and so does a bundle of old
walking-sticks that we keep in the attic. Now ain't that curious? I
reckon the sticks belonged to that old fellow in the red coat, but I
can't say. He and the house and the sticks go together. You can't rent
the house without the sticks and the picture. The sticks are not worth
much; they would not fetch half a crown, the whole lot of them, at a
sale. There is one with a head I thought was silver gilt, but it is no
such thing, it is gilded copper; there is a second, mottled with things
like trees on it; and there is one, and that the queerest of all, has an
ivory handle with holes in it, like a flute, but with tongues to them
like those in an accordion, so that any one up to that sort of thing
might play a tune on it. Sampson could do it if he tried, but there is
a reason why he don't try. It is all cursed superstition, but still it
won't do to tempt Providence; that's my doctrine, and I challenge
Scripture to make better. What--no appetite?' he asked, when Mirelle
declined a slab of cold mutton placed before her. 'Come, come, we must
get hearty to our meat in Old England, and have no pecking of crumbs and
nibbling of salads here, like birds and rabbits.' He ate himself and
said, 'Missie! you don't get mutton like this in France. I've been in
Paris, and I ought to know. I dined in the Palley-royal, and I said to
the garcon--garcon! By the way, missie! what is the name you call
yourself by? Garcon, garcon?'
'Garcia,' answered Mirelle, haughtily.
'Garcia, is it. Well, garcon means waiter, so I take it Garcia means
bar-maid, eh? Why, there are the boys. I hear them in the hall. Excuse
me a moment, I want a word with Sampson.' Down went his knife and fork,
and the great fellow dashed noisily out of the room.
The situation for Herring was not pleasant, but young Tramplara relieved
him of his embarrassment the moment he entered by going directly to him
with extended hand: 'Very sorry I wasn't polite t'other day; but there,
forgive and forget, as the foot-pad said to the traveller when he
relieved him of his purse.'
'No, no, Sampy,' put in his father; 'you are out there, my boy. Verify
your quotations, say I. That same sentiment proceeds from
Shakespeare--one of the writers of the Apocrypha,' he added, in
explanation to Mirelle; 'not quite a prophet, but tinged with the
prophetic fire.'
Herring frankly accepted the apology. Young Tramplara was followed into
the room by a gentleman, tall, with light hair and very light moustache,
a military air, and a handsome face and figure.
'Miss Strange,' said old Tramplara, 'let me introduce my friend, Captain
Trecarrel. Captain Trecarrel, Miss Strange, _alias_ the Countess Garcia
de Something-or-other-unpronounceable. Same, Mr. Herring. Take a chair,
Trecarrel, and try your teeth on the mutton. Miss Strange is the
daughter of my first cousin, Jimmy Strange. "Though lost to sight, to
memory dear," as the sacred penman has it. The young lady don't fancy
her name somehow, it isn't high-flavoured enough for her foreign ideas;
however, she is a Strange, so sure as lamb is young mutton.'
Captain Trecarrel declined.
'What--no meat! Oh, a Friday. You Catholics----'
'Vous etes Catholique, monsieur?' asked Mirelle, suddenly waking into
interest.
'Si, mademoiselle.'
'Et vous parlez Francais?'
'Assez bien.'
'Tenez. Quand on sait penser en Francais, on n'est plus bete, et quand
on est Catholique, voila l'ame qui vit.'
Herring noticed the look of surprised admiration with which Captain
Trecarrel contemplated the wax-like face before him. He saw also the
smile that leaped into her eyes when the Captain confessed his religion
and spoke in French. She had accorded _him_ no smile. Orange also
noticed the admiration awakened in the Captain, and the encouragement
given him by Mirelle. Her cheek darkened and she bit her lip.
'No parley-vous here, please!' said old Trampleasure. 'No one any more
mutton? Well, a merciful man is merciful to his beast, says Holy Writ,
and so say I. Bella, take out the meat for your own supper.' When the
red-haired servant, who walked from her shoulders, had cleared the
table, and had put another log on the fire, and impregnated the
atmosphere of the room with a scent of yellow soap, Tramplara said: 'Now
for some music. Do you tum-tum, missie?'
Mirelle did not notice the question.
'Beg pardon, Countess Garcia de Candelstickio. If you don't play
yourself, perhaps you will enjoy good music when you hear it? Now then,
Orange, sit you down. Sampson, get out your flute, and here is my bass
viol, big and burly, and sound in the wind as jolly old Trampleasure
himself.'
'Do you play at all, Countess?' asked Herring.
'Occasionally; according to where I am. I am not Orphee. I do not
pretend to tame the beasts.'
'Come along, Captain, you must not absent yourself from the concerto.
Can you manage any other music than blowing your own trumpet?'
'If Miss Orange will supply me with a comb and some silver paper, I can
give you a rude imitation of the pan-pipes.'
Orange became grave at once. 'Do not jest on that subject, Captain
Trecarrel.'
'No, no,' threw in Trampleasure, 'it is all cursed superstition, but
still, "Let sleeping dogs lay," as Chalker observes in the "Canterbury
Tales."
'What do you mean?'
'You have heard of the old gentleman in red who is said to walk here,'
answered Orange, in a subdued tone. 'The tenants who had Dolbeare
before us let the walking-sticks lie at the agent's, and they were
fairly routed out of the house by the noises.'
'It was rats,' said Trampleasure; 'women are cowards about noises.'
'What has this to do with my impromptu musical instrument?' asked
Captain Trecarrel.
'This,' answered Orange; 'whenever there is any great misfortune about
to befall those in the house, a sound is heard going through it such as
that you proposed to make. What is singular is that one of the
walking-sticks that goes with the house has some such a musical
instrument in the handle.'
'Who is supposed to walk and pipe woe to the house?' asked the Captain.
'That red man hanging on the wall behind you.'
Every one turned to look at the picture.
'He appears harmless enough,' said Trecarrel.
'Has any one heard his music?'
'None of us have,' answered Orange; 'but it has been heard by others
before we came here.'
'It is a strange story,' said Trecarrel. 'It reminds me of the tenure
of Tresmarro, not far from here. There the house is let with a human
skull. The farmer there, not liking the object, buried it; but noises
of all sorts, voices, knockings, tramplings, heard at night, made the
place unbearable, so he dug up the skull and restored it to its niche in
the apple chamber, where it stands now, and then the disturbance
ceased.'
'Come, never mind about the ghosts,' shouted old Tramplara, 'we want
music;' and he drew his bow across the bass viol, making the room
resound.
Captain Trecarrei drew his chair beside Mirelle. Orange saw this, and
said, 'Captain, to your post of duty. I want you to turn over the
leaves whilst I play.'
A look of annoyance came over his face; he rose, and took his place by
the piano.
The concert began. The flute was out of tune, the bass viol roared and
drowned the piano. Mirelle shuddered, and drew back against the wall.
'Are you fond of music?' asked Herring, during a pause.
'Of music, yes. Of noise, no.'
'Countess,' said he in an undertone, 'before I leave allow me to ask of
you a favour. I go to-morrow, and perhaps shall not see you again.
'Most probably not.'
'It pains me to see you thus left with uncongenial surroundings. Your
position here may become unendurable. Should you, at any time, need
help, and you think I can give you assistance, do not fail to summon
me.'
'You are very good to make me the offer, but I am hardly likely to make
use of it. I shall not remain in this house a moment longer than I am
obliged. I have another guardian living at Avranches. As we passed
through the place, on our way to England, my father called on him. When
he is ready to receive me I will go to him, and leave England for ever.'
'But suppose he declines to act.'
'He cannot decline. My father saw him at Avranches.'
'We will hope for the best. But on the chance of your desiring
independent advice, will you take and keep my card? My address is on
it--that is, the address from which letters will be forwarded to me.'
'I thank you. I will preserve it,' said Mirelle, stiffly. 'For myself
it will be needless, but I will recommend your firm to my acquaintances,
and I hope obtain some orders.'
Herring looked puzzled. Mirelle took the card and twirled it in her
fingers without glancing at it. She was annoyed with what she regarded
as an impertinence.
With a crash on the piano, a shriek from the flute, and a bellow from
the bass viol, the symphony concluded.
John Herring rose to depart. The musicians were engaged on their
instruments. Captain Trecarrei was leaning over the piano, talking to
Orange. As Herring rose, Mirelle rose also. She knew he was going to
depart, and that, perhaps, for ever.
She was relieved to think so.
He ventured to hold out his hand. Purposely she avoided seeing it, but,
raising her eyes, she looked him in the face. Wondrous, mysterious eyes
they were. They dazzled Herring. This was the second time only that he
had met her look.
'I am very anxious about your future, Countess.'
'I pray you give it no thought. My future is in my own hands alone; it
cannot concern you.' She slightly curtseyed.
Then there came a faint musical strain as on some reedy instrument
stealing through the house. It was heard outside the door, in the hall,
then it passed round the room and went on into Mr. Trampleasure's office
beyond; a strange music, distant yet near, so distant that the ear was
sensible of an effort to hear it, yet so near that the vibration could
be felt. The air played was familiar; a solemn, quaint old melody,
associated with these words:--
Since first I saw your face, I resolv'd
To honour and renown you;
If now I be disdain'd, I wish
My heart had never known you.
Orange turned pale. Old Tramplara was startled. Mirelle and Herring
did not at first realise that this was the music that had been alluded
to at table. Some moments elapsed before those in the room had
recovered from their surprise sufficiently to speak, and then only
Orange had the courage to refer to it. She turned sharply, almost
fiercely, on Mirelle, and said, 'It is you--you! who have brought this
on us.'
'Brought what?'
Orange was too agitated to explain. 'I have told you what this means,'
she said.
'What have we here on the floor?' asked Tramplara, in a shaking voice.
'A card,' answered Mirelle. 'Mr. Herring's address.' She raised it and
read:--
'Lieut. Herring, 25th Reg.
Welltown,
N. Cornwall.'
'Why!' she exclaimed, supremely shocked, 'he is an officer in the army,
and I thought he was a _commis voyageur_ for some grocery or drapery
business. Where is he?'
John Herring was gone. She had not even thanked him for what he had
done for her, and he had done for her, and would do for her, far more
than she knew. However proudly she may have resolved to hold her future
in her own hands, that future was in his.
'Herring!--Welltown!' echoed Mr. Trampleasure: 'why, he is the son of
old Jago Herring after all.'
'Twenty-fifth!' echoed Captain Trecarrel: 'why, he must have been at
Waterloo.'
'Waterloo, by all the rules of military science, ought to have been a
victory to the Emperor,' said Mirelle. 'Indeed, it was a victory, but
the arrival of the Prussians, and thereby the preponderating numerical
power brought to bear against our troops when exhausted, compelled them
to retreat.'
'Sampy,' said Trampleasure, in an undertone to his son, 'I had a peck or
two at old Jago, and there must be flesh on the bones of the son. The
old fool has sent his son into the army to make a gentleman of him.
Quick! run after him, my lad, and beg him, whenever he passes through
Launceston, to give us a call, and see how the Countess Candelstickio is
picking up her crumbs.'
*CHAPTER XI.*
*THE GIANT'S TABLE.*
Herring drove back next day to West Wyke. He was not in good spirits; he
had not slept much the night before. The thoughts of Mirelle, of her
isolation in the midst of coarse, sordid natures, of her exposure to the
impertinence of Sampson, junior, and the vulgarity of the elder
Tramplara, had kept him awake. His sole hope lay in Orange, that she
might prove a refuge and protection for Mirelle. The Countess had
repelled him. She had not even thanked him for what he had done for
her. She had treated him as a travelling bag-man, had absolutely
declined his proffers of friendship. Was it likely that they would meet
again--that he should again look into those dark, inscrutable eyes? She
filled all his thoughts. He could give attention to nothing else. Poor
Mirelle! Unsuited utterly by her bringing up for battling with the
realities of life. Reared in purest cloudland she was translated to
grossest proseland. Nursed in a convent, she found herself suddenly at
its spiritual and moral antipodes. She had spent her life hitherto
secluded from the rush and roar of life. Now she was plunged in the
swirl of the current, and knew not how to swim. Poor Mirelle! Herring
sighed. He was thinking of her when he reached West Wyke, and Cicely's
cheerful voice roused him from abstraction.
She met him in her frank and genial manner, and showed how pleased she
was to see him. What a contrast between his reception to-day and his
dismissal over night! Then a frost had fallen on his heart, now a
sunbeam thawed it. And yet he could not avoid contrasting Cicely
unfavourably with Mirelle. Cicely was eminently sober, sensible, and
practical; perfectly natural, entirely without disguise. Mirelle was
dreamy, unreasonable, unpractical; her nature altered by her education,
her character a riddle. Cicely had her congeners everywhere. Herring
had met a thousand equally fresh and charming girls; hers was the type
found in every manor house and parsonage of Old England. These girls
are sweet, wholesome, but not piquant. Every one knows what they are;
the sounding line goes to the bottom of their souls at once, and all the
way through fresh and crystal waters. But Mirelle was mysterious.
Herring had never met with one like her. He could not fathom her; he
dare not even cast the plumb. That she had a shrewd spirit he saw; that
she had depth of character he suspected; that she was good as an angel
of God he was so convinced that he would have died for his faith. He
liked Cicely, he loved Mirelle. He could imagine nothing about Cicely;
he knew all. He knew nothing about Mirelle; his imagination could soar
in contemplation of her, and see her still above him.
Mr. Battishill was delighted to see Herring. He took the young man's
hand in his. He would not let it go, but kept shaking it, and repeating
how pleased he was to see him. Herring was touched. There was something
in this reception like a coming home. Then they got to talking about
Mirelle. A letter had come from Mr. Eustace Smith, a peppery, indignant
letter, refusing to have anything to do with executorship to the
deceased's will, trusteeship of his property, and guardianship of his
child. Consequently Mirelle was left wholly at the mercy of Tramplara.
Nothing further could be done by Mr. Battishill or by John Herring.
'Do you understand Mirelle?' asked Cicely of the young man.
'What do you mean by understand? I cannot answer you without a
definition of terms.'
'I mean---- What is your opinion of her?'
'I should like to know yours first, Miss Battishill.'
'That is not fair. However, you shall have it. I think Mirelle has no
heart. She has been brought up by a selfish mother, and by sisters who,
in their religious way, are selfish also. She is one of those persons
whom it is impossible to love, for there is nothing lovable in her. But
it is quite possible to pity her, and pity her I do from the bottom of
my heart. Her character is as cold and colourless as her exterior.'
'You misread her,' said Herring, 'or I am vastly mistaken. She has a
heart, a very warm and tender heart, but it sleeps like a flower-bed
under the snow. It is a heart full of promise----'
'How can you say that? Have you dug through the snow to explore it?'
'I should say, full of possibilities. She is not really selfish--I
mean, she is not naturally selfish, but she has not been placed in a
position where she can attach herself to any person. She has been
reared to love ideas, not individuals--the Church and la belle France,
and to these ideas she has attached herself warmly. With us the object
of education is to enlarge the sympathies; with those who have trained
her it has been the object to narrow them. Each system has its
advantages, and each its defects. If we enlarge the sympathies they run
shallow, if they be narrowed they become intense; and the men and women
who make their mark, who influence the destinies of their fellow-men,
are those of one idea and fiery prejudice. Mirelle is self-restrained
without being reserved. She is frank as to her thoughts and
impenetrable as to her feelings. What she believes to be true she
speaks with crudeness, because she is unaware that the world will only
accept the truth cooked and sauced. She is wholly ignorant of life,
more so than a child with us of fourteen, because an English child lives
in its horae, with brothers and sisters, and its associates are of every
sort and degree. Mirelle has had no home, all her associates have been
of one type, of one class, and of her own sex. She has never been
brought into contact with the poor, and has never associated with men.
The defects you notice are superficial, and will fade as she grows older
and gains experience.'
'You judge her more kindly than I,' said Cicely. 'But that is like you.
You are always generous. Men see the good side of women, and women only
the worst side of their sisters. Woman is to man like the moon, always
showing one face, and that serene and luminous. That there is another,
systematically turned from him, passes his philosophy.'
'I grant the likeness,' said Herring vehemently. 'But why should that
other side be dark and unsightly? No; Paradise is on the unseen face.'
'Omne ignotum pro magninco,' said Mr. Battishill; 'I remember so much
Latin.'
'You would like, Miss Battishill, to drag the moon down out of the sky
and turn her round and show me a desert of lava.'
'I should like to see exactly what the moon is made of. I see volcanoes
and chasms on this face, I cannot suppose green hills and flowery plains
on the other. She naturally shows us the only decent face she has.'
'There we differ as the poles,' said Herring, warmly. 'I prefer to see
her far, far above me, and I do not wish to bring her down to my level.
I idealise her hidden side, and believe I do not see it because of my
own unworthiness.'
'Let us change the topic,' said Cicely, 'or we shall quarrel, and I
cannot afford that.'
'By all means,' answered Herring, 'and so, tell me, has anything been
seen of that strange girl who helped me to carry the Countess to your
door?'
'What! Joyce?'
'Yes, I think that was the name you gave her.'
'No, I have been too occupied with my father to think of her. She is
more than half a savage, and lives with her old father in a Druidical
monument called the Giant's Table, not far from here.'
'If I had not come to the rescue in time, the wretched old man would
have killed her. I am not altogether easy in my mind. The father was
beside himself with rage, though what had angered him did not
transpire.'
After he had eaten--for Cicely insisted he should not go out till he had
been given a meal--Herring went in search of Joyce. His purpose was to
give her a crown for her assistance; he judged from her appearance that
she was wretchedly poor. Moreover he was desirous to see that the girl
had not been ill-treated by her father after his protection was
withdrawn.
The moor was ablaze with the gorse in full flower. The air that is
wafted from the Spice Islands cannot be more fragrant than that which
played over these masses of growing gold.
Herring had no difficulty in finding the Giant's Table. The little
clearing effected by the Cobbledicks lay as an island in the moor. Their
rude stone fences walled out the gorse gold and the rosy heather.
Adjoining this inclosure was the grey mass of granite stones set on
edge, capped by an enormous block; the interstices were filled in with
moss. Herring looked round. Not a human being was visible; no one
worked in the clearing. A faint sweet smoke hung about the mysterious
old monument, showing that a peat fire burned within.
The young man walked round the cromlech and discovered the entrance.
Within it was dark. His eyes were dazzled with the gorse bloom. He saw
the smouldering embers of a turf fire, and the smoke crept out at the
doorway, which served equally the purposes of chimney, window, and door.
Then he stooped and entered.
'Is any one here?'
'Here be I,' answered a voice from the further end.
'Who? Joyce?'
'Yes, sure.'
'Why, Joyce, what are you doing here? What! lying down? Are you ill?'
'I be broked all to pieces,' she answered; 'I be going to die.' Her
voice was hoarse.
'Good heavens, Joyce! how has this occurred?'