'What--Mirelle!' The name dropped involuntarily from his lips.
'You may take your hand away,' she said, 'I know what I wanted to know.'
'What did you want to know, Joyce?--the name?'
'Ah! I wanted to know more nor that; and I've a learned all in a
minute.' She paused, still intently watching him. Presently she asked,
'Where did you take her to? Where do you live? Did'y take her to your
own home?'
'No, Joyce, of course I did not.'
'Why of course? You likes her more than any other.'
'I--I--Joyce! are you daft?'
'I bain't daft,' answered the girl. 'What I've a found out I know. My
elbow told me the truth. When you had your hand on my arm one day I
said to'y something about Miss Cicely, and your hand were quiet as if I
spoke about a tatie to one wi' a full belly. But when I axed about the
Whiteface--I cannot mind her name--then you gave a start, and your hand
shocked. We'm friends, you and I, and you won't hide nothing from me.
Where be Whiteface to now?'
'I took her to some relations--cousins of hers.'
'Ah! we've folks (kindred) too out to Nymet, but ours be reg'lar
savages. We have clothes to our backs, and taty ground, and a new take.
I reckon Whiteface's folk be of other sort.'
'Of course they are. She is comfortable and well cared for by them.'
'Why didn't they come and fetch her away when her father broke his neck,
instead of leaving you to take care of her and take her away?'
That was not a question Herring could easily answer.
Joyce did not wait for a reply. 'No,' she went on, ''twere you as cared
for her and did iverything for her, as you've a cared for and done
iverything for me. But me you think on just now and then, and her
you'll be thinking on night and day, I know that very well. It be
natural, and I say nort against it. And how be't wi' her I wonder. Did
her tell you afore her left how good you'd been, and how her'd niver
niver forget what you'd a done for her?'
'No, Joyce.'
'Didn't her then look you in the face as I do now, and if her didn't say
it in words, let you see in her eyes that her thought and felt it?'
'No, she did not look at me at all.'
'See there now!' exclaimed Joyce. 'I be nort but a poor savage, but I
be better nor her. I know what be right and vitty (fitting)--and her
don't.'
'Of course you know what is right, with the guidance of wooddoves.'
'It were the raven, not the wooddoo,' said Joyce, eagerly. 'The wooddoo
told me wrong. The wooddoo sed "Tak two, Joyce, tak two." But that's no
count. It'll come right wi' Whiteface and you in the end. Her'll find
them folk of hers not like you, always a thinking and caring for her,
and then her'll remember you and think on you, just as I do lying here.
Be you a going?'
Herring had risen from his knee as if to leave.
'Stay a bit longer,' pleaded Joyce. 'Do'y know what it be after it hev
been raining all day, and cold and wisht, out comes the sun afore he
goes down, and the clouds roll away, and Dartmoor seems to be all
alight, and then for the glory and the beauty and the warmth you forget
all the time o' cold and darkness and rain? It be so wi' me. Here I
lies and I sees none but vaither, and her grumbles becos I can't work,
and when vaither bain't here I sees nobody, and it be wisht, I reckon,
till you comes; and then I be that full o' gladness and joy I remember
no more the time o' loneness and pain and trouble. You'll bide a bit
longer, won't'y?'
'I really cannot stay, Joyce, with the best will to pleasure you, I
cannot.' The demonstrative admiration and affection of the poor
creature confounded and distressed him.
'I've more to tell'y,' Joyce continued. 'I've that to tell'y which be
most partikler. Do'y know what vaither did to make mother lie quiet? He
gived her some'ut. But her bain't no more a child to be amused wi' toys
like them. May be for a night or two her sat and turned 'em over and
was kept quiet wi' looking at 'em. But it bain't the likes o' them as
will make mother still and sleep o' nights, instead of rooting about in
the earth under the table like a mole.'
'What does she want, Joyce?'
'Her wants you to do it. You mun lift the hearthstone and say glory
rallaluley, and Our Vaither--kinkum kum over her. Her told me so
herself. I cannot do it. I don't know the words. I've just picked up
a word here and there when the Methodies ha' been out on the down,
singing and preaching, and hugging and praying. You can say kinkum kum
over mother and make her lie quiet and sleep.'
Poor dark soul! Joyce had no knowledge of God, and very dim, perverted
conceptions of right and wrong. Her only faith was in troubled spirits,
and that was no faith, but a confusion of mind between death and life,
and dreaming visions and sight when waking. Her sole idea of prayer was
a spell to lay the restless dead. Herring's heart was softened by
compassion for the girl. She watched the expression of his face very
intently, somewhat mistrustfully, fearful of a refusal, and, worse than
all, of ridicule. But though Herring did meditate refusal, no thought
of the ludicrous in her request stirred a muscle of his mouth. He was
grieved for her, and he was touched by her ignorant simplicity.
'Poor Joyce!' he said, and knelt down by her again. 'Poor Joyce!'
Then he tried to soothe her and turn her thoughts into another channel.
She, however, persisted in forcing the task on him of saying sacred
words over a dead and buried woman. When Joyce had made up her mind to
anything she was inflexible. Herring was being forced into one
position, then into another, for which he was unsuited. Joyce had made
him her doctor, her nurse, her guardian, and now she made him her
priest. He was good-natured, and good nature is weakness.
After holding back he at length, out of pity, and to humour the
headstrong girl, did as she required. She made him raise the
hearthstone, and trig it up with a piece of granite. He could not lift
the stone out of its place, though Old Grizzly had been able-armed
enough to do this unaided. Then Herring knelt and gravely said a
prayer--the prayer.
Joyce was satisfied.
'That be right,' she said. 'Now mother don't want her toys no more.
There be a stick wi' a crook to the end i' thicky corner.'
'I see there is.'
'Fetch 'n, and scrabble with 'n under the hearthstone.'
'What for?'
'Do as I tell'y. You'll see what for fast enough. Hav'y got the stick?
Now thrust it well in, and poke about till you comes to some'ut hard.
Herring groped as bidden, rather uneasy in his mind at what he was
doing, lest he should rake out the bones of the dead woman.
'Do'y feel nort?'
'Yes; there is something there hard and heavy.'
'Vang 'n in to'y.'
Herring obeyed. There certainly was something there. As the crook
struck it, it sounded like a metal box. After some working with the
stick he managed to get it out. It was a small box of japanned iron,
which had been locked, but had been battered till the lock had given
way. The lid accordingly was loose.
'Open it,' said Joyce. 'Vaither found 'n the night o' the axidenk. He
found 'n in one of the boxes that had gone scatt wi' falling from the
carriage. He thought there might be some'ut in him, and so he tooked 'n
away and brought 'n here, and wi' a bit of stone knacked the lock all
abroad. I see 'n do it. That were after he'd a broke me to pieces, When
I came by my wits I seed old vaither sitting by the fire and working
till he'd a got the lid started, and then he looked in and seed what
were there, and he sed he'd give me some if I'd take 'em. But they wos
no good to me, and I couldn't a done nort wi' 'em with both my arms
broke. I couldn't move my fingers, and I were that deadly ill I didn't
care for nort but to lie quiet and die right on end. So then, after a
bit, vaither said he knowed what he'd do wi' 'em as they were no good to
he. He'd give 'n to mother, her'd play wi' 'em o' nights and be quiet.
So he heaved up the hearthstone--vaither be a deal stronger than
you--and he shoved the box under, just over where mother's heart be.
There, look'y what brave fine things they be.'
Herring had opened the box. He looked in in speechless amazement. Then
he raised a tray and looked further, and beneath the tray was more
still.
Presently he found his tongue, drew a heavy breath, and said, 'Good
heavens, Joyce, these are diamonds. There are thousands of pounds worth
of diamonds here.'
'They be brave shiney stones.'
'They are diamonds.'
'Well, you may take 'em. They belongs o' rights to the Whiteface. You
can take 'em and give 'em to her or keep 'em yourself, just as you
likes.'
*CHAPTER XV.*
*EHEU, BUBONES!*
When Balboa, from a peak in Darien, discovered an ocean untroubled by
waves, unstained by the shadow of a cloud, he named it the Pacific.
John Herring's exploration of life was the reverse of Balboa's course;
he had left behind him the Pacific Ocean, in which he had hitherto
sailed, and he had sighted the sea of storms. Balboa had little idea of
the extent of the watery tract he discovered, and Herring had but a
faint suspicion of the nature and fretfulness of the sea on which he was
about to embark. A few weeks ago the problem of life had seemed to him
a simple addition sum; he was about to discover that it consisted in the
extraction of surds, which when extracted prove dead and dry symbols.
'Vanity of vanities,' said the Preacher, after he had worked at the sum
all his days; the conclusion of the whole matter is, 'all is vanity.'
With a sense of alarm Herring became aware that Joyce had put into his
hands more destinies than her own. Mirelle's future was contained in a
little casket of which the lock was broken, and which was placed at his
unchallenged disposal. The fortune that had been confided to the
trustee under the will was certain to be engulfed as the ship that
strikes the Goodwins. Here, however, was the bulk of her property,
providentially saved from the grip of Tramplara, and lodged in honest
hands. What was he to do with this? Was he justified in retaining it
till Mirelle should need it, and then delivering it to her untouched, or
was he bound to deliver it to him who was constituted legal trustee by
the will of her father?
The conflict stood between moral and legal obligation. It was a
question whether, if he acted in accordance with legal obligation, he
would not be morally guilty were Mirelle's entire fortune made away
with.
A week or two ago, had the question been proposed, If you find a guinea,
should you return it immediately to the owner or keep it till you think
the owner needs it? Herring would have been ready with an answer that
cost him little consideration. Now he was not sure that the ready
answer was the right answer. Life is not a simple matter; it is a
veritable problem. The problem of life is the Pons Asinorum.
He met Cicely at the gate of West Wyke. She was looking distressed, and
she touched his arm. 'I want a word with you. Look here.' She held
out a letter.
'I have ventured to open it. The letter is addressed to my father, but
as it has the Launceston postmark, and I knew the handwriting to be that
of Mr. Tramplara, I did not show it to my father. I opened it. Was I
right? I feared it might contain something to distress him, and I found
the contents more distasteful than I had anticipated. I was right, was
I not, to open the letter?'
A week ago, if asked, Is any one justified in opening another person's
letter? Herring would have answered in the negative. But now, all the
cut and dried precepts of morality he had learned began to fail him.
They did for copybook slips, not for rules of life.
'You have something in your hand, Mr. Herring,' said Miss Battishill,
observing the iron box. 'Is that yours?'
He hesitated. Is it justifiable ever to tell a lie? Is it justifiable
to evade the truth, and so deceive? He had no doubts on this head a
week ago. He doubted now, and did evade giving a direct answer.
'The box is broken, and I am going to have the lock mended.'
'But, Mr. Herring, you have just come from the Cobbledicks.'
'Yes,' he answered, and then hesitated. He was unaccustomed to fence
with the truth. 'When the accident took place, the box was lost somehow,
and Joyce has found and restored it me.'
'I hope you have lost nothing of value from it.'
'I have lost nothing from it,' he replied. 'But never mind the box now,
Miss Battishill. Tell me what it is that now occasions you trouble.'
'Old Mr. Tramplara has written a peremptory letter to my father, calling
up all the money that he has advanced him on the security of the
property.'
'And your father is not in a position to pay?'
'I am sure he is not. The letter must be answered, and that speedily.
I need your advice. I dare not let my dear father see the letter; the
result might be fatal in his present state.'
'No,' answered Herring, 'he must know nothing of the demand.'
'But if we do not meet this call, and meet it we cannot, Mr. Tramplara
will turn us out and sell the estate.'
'Is there no way of avoiding this? Cannot a portion be sold to clear
the rest of incumbrance? What amount does your father owe?'
'I do not know. Will you ascertain that from him, and then consider
with me what must be done? If we are forced to leave West Wyke, it will
kill papa.' Then her tears came.
'Miss Battishill,' said Herring, in great distress--he was unaccustomed
to woman's tears, and therefore moved by them--'dear Miss Battishill, do
not give way. We will find some mode of escape. I will do my utmost
for you; be very sure of that.' He took her hand and pressed it. She
returned the pressure, and, looking up into his eyes through her tears,
said, 'You give me confidence, you are so strong and sure.'
'I strong! I sure!' exclaimed Herring. At that moment he was feeling
the weakness of his principles and the uncertainty of his course.
'Go in, and talk to my father,' she said, 'whilst I try to forget my
troubles among my flowers.' Then with a relapse, 'Oh, Mr. Herring, I do
so love this sunny south garden, and the old house, and the heathy
moors, and Cosdon reigning like a king over all. It will go nigh, to
break my heart as well as my father's, if I am forced to leave West
Wyke.'
'We must put faith in the future,' he said.
'I did believe in the future till of late, but now my path lies under
eclipse.' She paused and sighed. 'But after all, is it worth while
deferring to tell my father? He must shortly know the truth. It is
only a matter of weeks.' She made a little effort to control her
emotion. 'You decide whether he is to be told or not. I am not
competent to form an opinion. I shrink from agitating papa, lest it
lead to another stroke; if however this must be done----' She turned
sharply away, and signed to him with her hand to leave her and go
indoors.
Herring entered the hall.
Mr. Battishill was in his arm-chair. He was much enfeebled by his
seizure, but though his utterance was not as clear as formerly, his
loquacity was undiminished.
'Mr. Herring,' he said somewhat peevishly, 'I have been left a long
while alone, and yet not altogether alone, I have had Shakespeare and my
own thoughts to company. But alas! as Lear says, "My wits begin to
turn--I will be a pattern of all patience, I will say nothing."
Herring, sit down in that chair and have a talk. I wish you had known
us in better days, and when my wife was living. We had more of an
establishment then. Now there is only a maid-of-all-work, then we had a
cook and housemaid, and a nurse for Cicely. I do not think we were the
happier for having so large an establishment. I believe it killed my
wife.'
'What, sir?'
'The servants killed her. I have puzzled my brain to know which were
created first, the beasts, or the parasites on their backs; but, of
course it was the beasts, for they could do without the parasites, but
not the parasites without the beasts. So I believe that the common ruck
of humanity was made to feed on the noble specimens of the kind. We,
the aristocracy, exist not for ourselves, to enjoy our lives and follow
our wills, but for our servants, to support them and be subject to their
whims. That which the palmer worm hath left hath the locust eaten, and
that which the locust hath left hath the canker worm eaten, and that
which the canker worm hath left hath the caterpillar eaten. My dear
wife always insisted that this was an Oriental and prophetical manner of
describing the servant nuisance. That which the housemaid has left the
cook carries off, and what the cook spares the kitchen-maid embezzles,
and what the kitchen-maid leaves the charwoman whips off in her basket
under her shawl. My poor dear wife fought a long battle to keep the
house up, but in vain. The aristocracy I explained to her are the pigs
and poultry of mankind, kept and fattened to be eaten. She succumbed at
last, and when, dear soul, she was dying, almost the last words she said
were, "Where I am going there will be no servants." In this hope she
made a happy end.' The old man paused and wiped his eyes. 'When the
first woe was ended, then came the second.'
'What was that?' asked Herring.
'That was Tramplara, of course. I was pretty well in Tramplara's web
before the first woe was overpassed.'
'May I ask the amount of your indebtedness to Mr. Train pleasure?'
'Lord bless you!--you ask me more than I can answer. I have borrowed so
often, and when I have not paid as I expected, I contracted an
additional loan,--like an owl that I was. Pace, Bubones!' the old man
touched his forehead as he looked at the heraldic glass. 'However, if it
be an amusement to you I give you full liberty to overhaul my desk.'
'It would be as well if I were to get your indebtedness into shape,'
said Herring. 'If I can be of any help to you in this way, command me.'
'I don't see that you can help me; I am past that.'
'It struck me, sir, that by the sale of a portion of your property you
might be able to wipe off some of the debt.'
'Wipe off the debt! as soon wipe a child's nose dry. I said to a little
urchin one day, "Blow your nose, and cease snuffling." "Please,
Squire," he answered, "it ain't no good, it won't bide blowed." It is
the same with my accounts. I have tried to wipe off my debts several
times, but the debtor side keeps running. Look at my books, you will
find the figures show as remarkable a tendency to turn one way as do the
heads of the trees at this elevation.'
'You will then allow me to overhaul them.'
'Certainly, if it will give you pleasure. There is no accounting for
tastes. There is an old woman in one of my cottages who has a bad leg,
and insists on showing it me. I say to her, "Betty, keep that for the
doctor, it revolts me." It is the same with a gentleman's accounts.
They are his running sore. But he is wiser than Betty, he covers it up.
If you are a doctor of sick ledgers, by all means examine, and I wish
you joy.'
Herring was now staying at West Wyke. He went carefully over the
accounts of Mr. Battishill, and found them to be in utter confusion.
The old man kept receipts sometimes, but not invariably. He received
his rent when he could get it, and by instalments; his tenants were
always behindhand because punctuality of payment was not insisted on. It
took Herring some time to arrive at a just idea of what the old
gentleman owed, and he was startled at the amount. He also obtained an
approximate value of the estate. It was clearly impossible for him to
meet his liabilities.
Herring saw no course open except the disposal of the property, or of
part of it.
The estate was small, it had been reduced, and the land was of inferior
quality. It was possible that the sale of Upaver alone might suffice to
clear off the mortgages, but then it was doubtful whether Mr. Battishill
and his daughter could live on at West Wyke, farming the barton, when
Upaver was sold. To farm without capital, and without being able to
superintend the workmen, meant to sink deeper into the bog after having
been extricated from it. The wisest course for Mr. Battishill would be
to sell the entire estate, and retire to a cottage on what remained of
the purchase-money, after all the liabilities he had contracted had been
discharged. He was reluctant to propose this, and yet it was the
proposal which would be most advantageous to the old man.
'Well,' asked Mr. Battishill, a few days later, 'my good friend, what
has come of this pondering over my papers? You have grown portentously
dull, and left all the talking to me.'
'The case is hopeless,' said Herring, sadly.
'I knew it was,' said the old man, with a look and air of
discouragement. In spite of his words, he had nursed a hope that
Herring would by some feat of ingenuity find a mode of relief, and would
assure him that the situation was not desperate. '"I by neglecting
worldly ends, all dedicated to closeness and the bettering of my mind
... by being so retired, in old Tramplara waked an evil nature." My
situation is not unlike that of Prospero--here I dwell with my Miranda.
Well, well! what will be must be--
He that has and a little tiny wit,--
With heigh, ho, the wind and the rain,--
Must make content with his fortunes fit,
Though the rain it raineth every day.'
The old man, though discouraged, did not believe that the case was
desperate.
'Never mind,' he said, 'the world of West Wyke will hold out my time.
There is but one thing that I ask of Providence, and that I am sure
Providence will not deny me. I desire nothing but to die here and be
laid with my ancestors. Do you know what our motto is? You would never
guess, "Eheu! Eheu! Eheu!" I suppose that was given as resembling the
hoot cf an owl, but it was ominous. Poor Cicely! she will not be able
to carry the ancestral house with her when some Ferdinand comes to carry
her off. She will take with her nothing but the owls, and he who
marries her will bear those owls on an escutcheon of pretence on his own
coat. So at last, at last, it will come to this, that the white owls
who have nested here in honour for so many centuries will spread their
wings and seek a perch elsewhere. Eheu! Eheu! Eheu, Bubones!'
*CHAPTER XVI.*
*TRUSTEE NOT EXECUTOR.*
Although John Herring had been devoting his attention as closely as
possible to the affairs of Mr. Battishill, and had found them an
engrossing study from the confusion which pervaded them, he had not been
able to shake off the sense of responsibility incurred by the possession
of Mirelle's diamonds. Joyce had constituted him trustee of the fortune
of this maiden. Mirelle had two trustees now, as her father had
intended, but John was trustee without the knowledge of the other, and
over a fortune of the existence of which that other was happily
ignorant. Tramplara was trustee by virtue of the testament of Mr.
Strange, John Herring by virtue of the caprice of Joyce.
Herring satisfied his conscience that he was acting rightly in retaining
the jewels. He knew that they could not be safely intrusted to Mr.
Tramplara. When he turned the matter over in his mind, he thought he
could make out the course of events which had influenced Mr. Strange.
This gentleman had called at Avranches on Mr. Eustace Smith, the
co-trustee, but he had not called on Mr. Trampleasure when he passed
through Launceston. There must have been a reason for this. He had
probably heard in Falmouth sufficient as to the character of Tramplara
to determine him to cancel his name from the will, as a person not to be
trusted with the fortune and destiny of his only child. It was clear
from Mr. Eustace Smith's letter that he had not been consulted when Mr.
Strange saw him at Avranches. The deceased must, therefore, have
determined, when renewing his acquaintance with him, not to trouble him
with the executorship or guardianship of his child. Mr. Strange had, no
doubt, intended to draw up a fresh will when he reached Exeter. As we
know, Herring's conclusions were correct. Cruel fate had cut the father
off before he could rectify the error into which he had fallen. Now a
happy accident had constituted Herring guardian of the major portion of
Mirelle's property.