commit a dishonourable action. The diamonds were as safe in his hands
as in the strongest bank cellar. He believed the trust was given to him
by Providence. He was a simple-hearted young man, and believed in
Providence. He recognised in this rescue of the jewels, and their
committal to his custody, an interposition of Heaven in behalf of the
orphan. Whom could Providence have chosen more trustworthy than himself,
and more interested in the welfare of Mirelle? The more he considered
the situation the more convinced he became that a finger out of heaven
was pointing to him a plain duty, and that he could not shirk that duty
justifiably. But he had no desire to shirk it. He was anxious and
interested about Mirelle. He was certain that Tramplara would risk her
fortune in some rash venture. He had heard of the man. He now
remembered that his father had lost money by him. Tramplara would take
the coin intrusted him, put it in a handkerchief over the table before
the eyes of his victim, and, presto! it was gone, and the kerchief
empty. A clink under the table told that the coin had fallen into the
conjuror's pocket. It was not possible for John Herring, knowing the
character of Tramplara, and suspecting that the deceased had desired to
cancel his will, it was impossible, morally, for John Herring to
surrender to him the trust now committed to him. Of all men, he, John
Herring, was the most calculated to look after Mirelle's interests, for
he loved her better than any one else in the world could love her. John
Herring being, as has been said, very simple, thought that duties rose
to the surface like earthworms to be taken by the crows. Here was an
obvious duty which had worked up under his eye, and he swooped down on
it, and made it his own immediately.
But if Mirelle was his first care, the Battishills formed his second.
Without any seeking on his part, they had thrown themselves on him, and
he could not without cruelty withdraw his support. He saw a good and
kind, if somewhat fantastical old man and his sweet helpless daughter,
menaced with the greatest of evils--banishment from their home, to
become outcasts in the world, with no income, or very little, to sustain
them; he struck down by sickness, and she too ignorant of life to know
how to meet it, weighted with the burden of a paralysed father.
What was he to do?
Then a bright idea struck him. He would try to help Mirelle and Cicely
at once. To do this he must go to Launceston, and to go to Launceston
he must obtain leave of absence from Joyce.
John Herring was now, for the first time, opening his eyes to the fact
that to be good-natured and ready to oblige all those appealing to him
was to involve himself in many difficulties. Among swimmers they who
are drowning lay hold of him who maintains himself above water; it is
necessary, though painful, to give each a kick in the face and send him
to the bottom, if the swimmer will reach the shore himself alive. It is
only the selfish man who can sing as he walks in the face of the robber.
He has nothing to give, what he has is too ingeniously stowed away to be
discoverable. Life is a Hounslow Heath where footpads beset every road,
and, where they leave a gap, beggars step in. And these demand and take
from the traveller everything he has, and kick him, when stripped, off
the heath, with a jeer, into the black beyond.
A kind-hearted man such as John Herring does good to others as he
_would_ be done by. Would is in the optative and ever unfulfilled mood.
It is not the criminal who is stung by remorse; the only crime that
brings self-reproach is generosity to a brother in need. The glow that
succeeds a good deed is the sting of repentance for having done it.
Of all this Herring was ignorant. Puppies are born blind, but when
thrown into the water that is to drown them they open their eyes.
Herring was beginning life. He must pay his footing.
If Herring had not been ridiculously simple, he would not have gone to
the Giant's Table and explained to Joyce that he could not attend to her
arms for a couple of days. Would young Sampson have done this, or
Captain Trecarrel? They had their eyes open, and allowed none to catch
their ankles as they swam. Herring took pains to make Joyce understand
that she must be patient, and not by impatience undo the good already
done her.
She was stubborn and despotic.
'Joyce,' said he, 'I am going to see Mr. Trampleasure. Do you know
him?'
'I know'n,' she replied. 'He were here yesterday along with vaither.
Vaither went off with 'n up the Coomb by Rayborough.'
'Mr. Tramplara was here!'
'Yes, he were. He came down on vaither hard, and sed he were going to
turn us out of our land, and tear down the Table, and send us out
without home or ground of our own.'
'This is strange. He did not come near West Wyke.'
'I reckon not. He said as how he were going to turn the Squire and the
young lady out as well. He said we might give 'em shelter under the
Table for a bit till he knocked that all abroad too.'
'Why did he go to Rayborough?'
'I reckon he were searching after some mine. But I don't know. He
scared vaither pretty smart; but he got vaither at last as meek he would
do anything he were axed. Then Tramplara made 'n come along of he on to
the moors, and I seed mun no more.'
'Joyce, I hope to save West Wyke for Mr. Battishill, and that is why I
am going to Launceston. If I succeed, then you also will be safe from
disturbance. Your Table will not then be thrown down.'
'Squire won't hurt of us--t' I know by; he never did nobody harm, he.'
'Then, Joyce, you understand, I shall not return till the day after
to-morrow, and you must let the doctor or Miss Battishill attend to your
arms.'
'I won't.'
'But you must. I tell you I cannot be here.'
'You may go.'
'Thank you for giving me my furlough,' he said with a smile. 'But, as
you see, when I am absent you will have to be attended by some one
else.'
'Neither vaither, nor doctor, nor Miss Cicely shan't touch me, not by
the blue blazes. I tell'y you may go, and my arms shall bide as they
be. They won't take no hurt, I shan't do nort to 'em till you comes
back. There, that's settled.'
Herring informed Mr. Battishill and Cicely of his meditated expedition
to Launceston to see Mr. Trampleasure. He told them that he was in
hopes of bringing him to another mind about the mortgages, but he did
not enter into the particulars of his scheme, nor did he tell them what
he had learned from Joyce relative to Mr. Trampleasure's visit the day
before and exploration of Upaver. Herring conjectured that the old man
had seen the ore brought up from the mine recently opened, and was eager
by foreclosing to secure it for himself, having formed a high opinion of
its value. Herring went again that evening to Upaver and explored the
workings, taking with him one of the labourers Mr. Battishill had
employed on it. The man was familiar with mines, and was confident that
the lode was good. The 'shode' had led to as beautiful a 'bunch' as a
man might hope to see in a lifetime. A fortune was to be made at
Upaver.
To his surprise, Herring learned from the man that though Mr.
Trampleasure had passed the workings, he had not paid them any
attention, but had gone further up the glen. But then, as the miner
said, with a jerk of the chin, there was nothing lying about which might
lead any one to suspect what was below. All the samples were buried or
hidden in the gorse brakes.
Herring carried off with him some of the best specimens of pure ore,
and, on his return to West Wyke, showed them to Mr. Battishill, and told
him his opinion of the mine. He said that he was confident, if a respite
could be obtained from Tramplara, and a company be formed to work the
mine, that the royalties on the lead extracted would speedily clear the
property of its burdens.
The old man was elated. He talked over the prospect, offering many
suggestions, some utterly unpractical, and his hollow cheek flushed with
excitement.
'Ah!' said he, 'if Tramplara knows about that lead he'll not grant a
respite, but be down on me at once if he sees profit to be got by it.
I'll have my bond: I will not hear thee speak:
I'll have my bond; and therefore speak no more.
I'll not be made a soft and dull-eyed fool,
To shake the head, relent, and sigh, and yield
To Christian intercession.'
The old man shook his head. 'No, Herring, you will not prevail on him
with prayers. "It is the most impenetrable cur that ever kept with men."
No, you must attack his self-interest if you will bend him, and how you
will manage that passes my conception.'
'But suppose I say to Tramplara, Here is the money.'
Cicely looked sharply up from her work.
'Mr. Herring, you made me a promise.'
'My dear,' said Mr. Battishill, 'you have often let me see that you
disapproved of my speculations, as if I must be blind. But see! here at
last, in Upaver, I have hit on one that will succeed.'
'You have hit on it, father, for others to make fortunes out of it. You
have hit on it as West Wyke is slipping from us.'
*CHAPTER XVII.*
*IN THE SUMMER-HOUSE.*
As John Herring entered the gates of Dolbeare, he saw Mirelle go into
the summer-house. This summer-house stood at the edge of the terrace
between the garden-gate and the house.
He desired to see her alone, and therefore, before going to the front
door, he turned to the garden lodge and stood in the doorway.
Mirelle saw him and bowed slightly. Herring went in, and up to her.
Then, after a moment's hesitation, she held out her hand.
He took it, but he might as well have touched an icicle. No token of
pleasurable recognition appeared in her face.
'You are surprised to see me,' said Herring, 'I dare say.'
'Not at all,' she answered. 'Why should I be? I know nothing of your
movements. If you had told me you were going to Moscow, and I had seen
you start in that direction, I should be surprised to see you here now;
but as I know neither where you live nor what places you frequent, there
is nothing in your reappearance to justify surprise.'
'I have come to-day from West Wyke.'
'Indeed! I hope you left all well there.'
'Only fairly so. You have not heard what happened to poor Joyce.'
'I do not know who poor Joyce is.'
'Joyce is that wild girl who helped you to West Wyke on the evening of
the accident.'
'I remember an uncouth and unmannerly _paysanne_. Is her name Joyce? I
did not know it. If I had heard it, the name escaped my memory. Joyce!
what is the derivation of the name Joyce?[1] Joieuse, I presume--a
singularly inappropriate name in this case.'
[1] In the South Tawton Register stands this entry under Baptisms:
'Jocosa, anglice Joyce, daughter of ----,' &c. It was formerly a common
name in Devon.
'Very much so, poor child. That brutal father of hers broke her arms,
and otherwise seriously injured her.'
'Indeed! These savages have their ways.'
Herring was shocked at her want of feeling.
'You do not seem to feel for her, and yet she helped you, as you may
remember.'
'Of course I am very sorry. I am sorry when I hear a mason has fallen
off a scaffold, or a child has tumbled into a well, or a horse has
broken his knees; I am sorry when a donkey is roughly treated. But
unless I am acquainted with the mason, and the child, and the horse, and
the ass, I do not feel more than a transient pity. You possibly have
seen sufficient of this wild girl to possess some interest in her; I
know absolutely nothing of her. How, then, can I feel for her more than
I do when I say I am sorry?'
'May I take a chair?'
'Certainly. Sit down, and we will talk. I have something I wish
particularly to say to you. I am sorry that I let you go the other time
without thanking you formally for having rescued me from the broken
carriage, for having seen to the funeral of my poor father, and for
having conveyed me hither to the care of these people here.'
She spoke without any expression in her tone, simply as though repeating
a lesson learned by rote. When she had spoken, she drew a long breath
like a sigh of relief. She had discharged a duty. It was off her mind,
and she was free.
'You see for yourself, Mr. Herring, that the feelings of the heart are
too sacred to be dispersed over the earth, to be scattered like coins
amidst a crowd of beggars. One meets with some thousands of persons in
the course of existence, and cannot cut one's heart into little bits and
present each with a portion. We must reserve it for true friends, and
give it them entire. Those who pass us by, and whom we see but for a
while, are like the figures of a mastic-lantern slide: they make us
laugh, or they interest us for the moment, and then are forgotten. When
we hear that a slide is broken, we ask, which? The man driving a
wheelbarrow, or the old woman who desired she were pope, or the cabbage
that becomes a tailor? When we are informed, we do not weep, we merely
say, It can be replaced.'
'I hope you do not class the Battishills among your magic-lantern
slides.'
'No, I know them, and they have been kind to me. I even like Mr.
Battishill. He has his ideas.'
'And Miss Cicely?'
'She is rustic and good-hearted. But she does not think. She has no
knowledge of books. She could be made passable if sent to school, but
must be recreated to be given ideas. Besides, I am not fond of the
plump and the _ingenue_.'
'You have not asked after Mr. Battishill. If it be not too great an
effort for your memory, you will recall that he had a stroke before you
left West Wyke.'
'Do not be sarcastic. I remember that perfectly well. If you will
trouble your memory, you will recall that I did, on first learning you
came from West Wyke, ask after Mr. and Miss Battishill. I remember that
he had a paralytic stroke, but I recall as well that he showed good
signs of recovery.'
'I am afraid, Countess, that he stands the chance of another stroke; for
he is menaced with a great evil, and any profound agitation is likely to
bring on a second seizure.'
'I am very sorry to hear it.'
'His affairs are involved to such an extent that it will be necessary
for his property to be sold, and he will have to leave West Wyke.'
'Then he can go and live in France; anywhere must be better than that
dismal old house on a barren moor. It is best that it should be so. He
will escape from a dungeon.'
'You do not understand that his heart is bound up with West Wyke, and
that to transplant him from the home of his ancestors will be to kill
him.'
'He thinks West Wyke a Paradise only because he has never crossed the
Channel. When he reaches a nook where the sun shines and the flowers
ever bloom, he will thank Heaven for having released him from his prison
and exile in that wretched house and on that howling waste.'
'Countess, you are young, and have no conception of the power that
association has on the old. You can begin life anywhere, and everywhere
hopes and interests start up. To the old it is not so, they are without
hopes, and their only pleasure is in recollection. To the aged the
looking back is almost as sweet as the looking forward is to the young.'
'Then let him sit down in an arbour of roses, and dream of the past
there; not in a dingy old parlour with smoked ceiling, and the rain
pattering against the window.'
'I fear that he will be turned destitute into the world, or, if not
destitute, nearly so; and to a broken and sick man that means death.'
'He can hardly be worse off elsewhere than he is now.'
'He will have to go into a new home and accommodate himself to that, at
a time of life and in a condition of health unfitting him for a change.
You are unfeeling, Countess.'
'Pardon me, I am not. I know Mr. Battishill, and I respect his many
good qualities, but I cannot put myself in his frame of mind. It seems
to me that, were I he, all thought of being allowed to leave such a
spot, with the world before me, would fill me, if sick and dying, with
new life. I would start up in my bed and cry out, Take me to France;
there I know I shall be well.'
'As he does not know France, he has no such desire. And he is too old
to acquire new tastes. There comes a time when the mind as well as the
body is tired, and all it asks is to be given rest. New scenes, new
associates, new habits exact too much of the exhausted spirit. Have you
not seen a feeble flame extinguished by fresh fuel being put round it
with the hope of coaxing it into a blaze? This is not all; the rupture
of old associations is the rupture of the thousand filaments the tree
root has woven in the soil about it. Break these, and though the tree
be transplanted from cold clay to richest loam, it will die. Think of
your own forefather when he lost Cantalejo. Think how his heart ached,
how he turned to take a last look at the ancient walls, and could see
nothing, for, strong man as he was, his eyes were full of tears. He
knew that with him his entire posterity was banished for ever.'
'I can understand that,' said Mirelle, sadly; 'never more able to coin
his own money, nor hang any one on his own gallows.'
'And your ancestor went forth hale and able to meet the world, and
conquer himself a new place in it.'
'Yes,' said Mirelle, raising her head proudly, 'he was a brave soldier.
He fought, and was killed in the wars.'
'But this poor old man is broken with years and infirmities.'
'It is the will of God.'
'He dies, and his daughter is cast adrift, without means, and ignorant
of the world.'
'Do not speak to me of her. She is the embodiment of prose--pleasing
and entertaining, but still prose. The world is prosaic, and she will
always find a hole in it into which she can fit. It is those with
ideas, the originals and the poets, who are adrift and homeless. Every
gate is closed to them.'
'Countess, think of that evening when the accident took place, and your
poor father was killed. You were left on the moor, knowing nothing of
the place where you were, or of the people among whom your lot was to be
cast. What if, by an unlucky chance, I had not been present to assist
you, and the Battishills had not been ready to receive you? What would
you have done on that moor, alone, without adviser, without home, and
without money? The savages would have fallen upon you--that ruthless man
who has smashed the bones of his own daughter would not have spared
you.'
Mirelle shivered.
'You may well shudder; I do not know what would have become of you. But
a merciful Providence interposed in your behalf, and raised up to you
friends who have cared for you.'
'Yes,' she said, 'I see that. I see that now.'
'Cicely Battishill is like to be placed in a very similar position; to
be left homeless and friendless in the world, standing by a father, who,
if not dead, is as bad as dead for all the help he can afford her. She
cannot become a governess and earn her bread, she has her father to
nurse. Now, Countess, when you think of your own condition on that
eventful night, and of what might have become of you unless the
Battishills had thrown open their door to you and cherished you, then,
perhaps, you will be able to realise the condition of Miss Battishill,
who, though she may be prosaic, as you say, is a delicate maiden, and
has the nurture of a gentlewoman.'
'Mon Dieu! quo puis-je faire, moi! You speak to me as though I could
save them. I can do nothing, with the best desire to help them. I
cannot invite them to make this their refuge. This is not my home. It
is simply a menagerie in which I am allowed a cage among the bears.'
'I think it is your _duty_ to do what you can to assist the
Battishills.'
'Show me the way, and I will not shrink from performing any duty. But
you must see I am unable to help these good people.'
'Not altogether unable, Countess. Your father has left you several
thousand pounds, which are in the hands of Mr. Trampleasure, in trust.
He must invest them for you. He is also the man who has a hold on the
estate of the Battishills. Get him to take your money, or as much of it
as is needed, in payment of the sum owed him by Mr. Battishill. and to
transfer to you his claims on the property. That is, let him transfer
the mortgage on West Wyke from himself personally to himself as trustee
for you. Then you will be mistress over the estate of the Battishills,
and if you will not foreclose, I can promise you that the interest shall
be regularly and punctually paid. I am certain that the investment is
sound. By this means you will be benefiting the Battishills and
yourself simultaneously.'
'I understand nothing about mortgages, investments, or interest, I leave
that to others. If this proposal of yours enable me to wipe off an
obligation I owe to those who have been kind to me, I accept it gladly,
and if it be a duty I shall make it a matter of conscience to fulfil
it.'
'It is a duty. At least I think it is. Judge for yourself. You see
your benefactors the Battishills in distress, and you have it in your
power to rescue them from ruin at no cost to yourself. It seems to me
that no duty could be put in a plainer form before you.'
'Mr. Trampleasure is in the house. He will have to be consulted. We
cannot act without him. Will you summon him hither, and we will arrange
the matter on the spot. You will not find me one to shrink from the
discharge of a duty.'
John Herring left Mirelle, and did as she desired. He found Mr.
Trampleasure at home, as she had said. He was engaged with his son in
the dining-room on some plans, and they had a bottle of spirits and a
jug of hot water on the table at their elbows, though the time was early
in the afternoon.
Old Tramplara greeted Herring with effusion, the young one sulkily.
Herring told the father that the Countess wanted to speak to him in the
summer-house for a few moments, if he would oblige her with his
presence.
'See what comes of having a live Countess in the house,' said the old
man, laughing; 'I have to dance after her. Now, if she had been plain
missie, she would have come here to see me.'
Then he accompanied Herring to the summer-house. This house was, in
fact, a room of fair size, furnished with a fireplace and carved
mantelpiece, that contained a quaint old painting on panel. The windows
were large, and that to the south-east overhung the precipice, and
commanded a magnificent view down the valley of the Tamar and up that of
the Lyd to the range of Dartmoor, which rose as a wall against the
horizon, broken into many rocky peaks, a veritable mountain chain.
Mirelle had a chair and table in this window, and was engaged on the
manufacture of tinsel flowers for the chapel at Trecarrel.
The table was covered with scraps of foil and bits of coloured silks;
and the snippings strewed the floor.
'Well, Serene Highness de Candlestickio!' exclaimed the old man,
noisily, as he came in, with a burst of laughter; 'what does your
consequentialness desire? Some wires to stick them gewgaws on?'
Mirelle shrank before the uproarious old man, and spoke in her coldest
and most reserved manner.
'I have sent for you, Mr. Trampleasure, about my money which has been
intrusted to you. Mr. Herring has been advising me how to dispose of
it.'
'Oh, indeed; very good of Mr. Lieutenant Herring.'
'I do not myself understand these matters, and so I have requested Mr.
Herring to explain my wishes to you. It seems that Mr. Battishill is in
trouble, and owes you money!'
'That is true as gospel,' said Tramplara; 'he owes me an imperial bushel
of it. There are some persons who have a liking for borrowing, and much
prefer that to paying. Mr. Battishill is one of these, and I have been
his victim. And although David does say, "Blessed is he that borroweth
and payeth not again," yet that is one point on which David and Sampson
Trampleasure are at issue.'
'Mr. Battishill is prepared to pay regularly the interest on the loans
he has contracted,' said Herring.
'But, my dear lieutenant,' said Tramplara, 'I happen at this moment to
be in immediate want of a very large sum of ready money. I call on
Battishill to refund what he has borrowed. He can't do it, and I sell
up.'
'You are very hard. Are you aware that he has had a seizure, and is
ill?'
'Can't help that, lieutenant, I want money. You saw sweet Sampy and me
engaged on some plans when you came into the room. Well, we are in for a
venture, and shall want money to carry it out.'
'What the Countess proposes----'
'Oh, blow your Countesses,' said young Tramplara, putting his head in,
and then following with his body. 'There are no Countesses in this
shop. The lady yonder is Miss Strange, only daughter and heiress to
James Strange, Esquire, of Bahia, Brazil.'
'Shut your trap, Sampy,' said his father. 'No impertinence here.
Manners before ladies of the tip-top aristocracy, please. What do you
say, sir, about the proposal of the Countess?'
'I decline to discuss this matter before your son,' said Herring,
indignantly. 'It in no way concerns him, and he was not invited to be
present.'
'The business is Trampleasure and Son,' said young Sampson. 'The firm
bears that name throughout the county.'
'But the firm has nothing to do with the affairs of the Countess Mirelle
Garcia.'
'Oh! I beg pardon,' said the young man. 'The trustees and guardians of
her ladyship are Trampleasure and Herring--more correctly, Herring and
Trampleasure.'