Dark days of clouds with gloomy days of rain, such as washes the fertile
soil from the tops of the granite hills, leaving all bare and desolate,
with nothing to break the savage desolation of the Cornish prospect but
a few projecting blocks, and here and there a grim-looking, desolate
engine-house standing up like a rough mausoleum erected to the memory of
so much dead coin.
There were several of these in the neighbourhood of Hakemouth, records
of mining adventures where blasting and piercing had gone on for years
in search of that rich vein of copper or tin, which experts said existed
so many feet below grass, but which always proved to be a few feet lower
than was ever reached, and instead of the working leading to the
resurrection of capital, it only became its grave.
The rain fell, and on the third day the wind beat, and much soil was
washed down into the verdant, ferny gullies, and out to sea. The waves
beat and eddied and churned up the viscous sea-wrack till the foam was
fixed and sent flying in balls and flakes up the rocks and over the
fields, where it lay like dirty snow.
In and out of the caverns the sea rushed and bellowed and roared,
driving the air in before it, till the earth seemed to quiver, and the
confined air escaped with a report like that of some explosion. Then
the gale passed over, the stars came out, and in the morning, save that
the sea looked muddy instead of crystal clear and pure, all was sunshine
and joy.
During the storm there had been an inquest, and with the rain pouring
down till there were inches of water in the grave, the body of the
unfortunate man was laid to rest.
Duncan Leslie had been busy for a couple of hours in a restless, excited
way, till, happening to look down from up by his engine-house, he caught
sight of a grey-looking figure seated upon a stone by the cliff-path.
Giving a few orders, he hurried along the track.
Uncle Luke saw him coming, out of the corner of one eye, but he did not
move, only sat with his hands resting upon his stick, gazing out at the
fishing-boats, which seemed to be revelling in the calm and sunshine,
and gliding out to sea.
"Good morning."
"Bah! nothing of the kind," said Uncle Luke, viciously. "There isn't
such a thing."
"No?" said Leslie, smiling sadly.
"Nothing of the kind. Life's all a mistake. The world's a round ball
of brambles with a trouble on every thorn. Young Harry has the best of
it, after all. Get wet?"
"Yesterday at the funeral? Yes, very."
"Hah! Saw you were there. Horrible day. Well, good job it's all
over."
Leslie was silent, and stood watching the old man.
"Something upset you?" he said at last.
"Upset me? Do you think it's possible for me to go to my brother's
without being upset?"
"No, no. It has been a terrible business for you all."
"Wasn't talking about that," snapped out Uncle Luke. "That's dead and
buried and forgotten."
"No, sir; not forgotten."
"I said, `and forgotten.'"
Leslie bowed.
"Confound that woman!" continued Uncle Luke, after a pause. "Talk about
Huguenot martyrs, sir; my brother George and that girl have lived a life
of martyrdom putting up with her."
"She is old and eccentric."
"She has no business to be old and eccentric. Nobody has, sir; unless--
unless he shuts himself up all alone as I do myself. I never worry any
one; I only ask to be let alone. There, you needn't sneer."
"I did not sneer, sir."
"No, you didn't, Leslie. I beg pardon. You're a good fellow, Leslie.
True gentleman. No man could have done more for us. But only to think
of that woman attacking poor George and me as soon as we got back from
the funeral. Abused him for degrading his son, and driving him to his
terrible death. It was horrible, sir. Said she would never forgive
him, and drove Louise sobbing out of the room."
Duncan Leslie winced, and Uncle Luke gave him a stern look.
"Ah, fool--fool--fool!" he exclaimed. "Can't you keep out of those
trammels? Louise? Yes, a nice girl--now; but she'll grow up exactly
like her aunt. We're a half-mad family, Leslie. Keep away from us."
"Mr Luke Vine--"
"No, no. You need not say anything. Be content as you are, young man.
Women are little better than monkeys, only better-looking. Look at my
sister. Told George last night that he was living under false
pretences, because he signed his name Vine. Bah! she's an idiot. Half
mad."
He turned sharply round from gazing out to sea, and looked keenly in
Leslie's face.
"Very well," he said quickly. "I don't care if you think I am."
"Really, Mr Luke Vine, I--"
"Don't trouble yourself to say it. You thought I wasn't much better
than my sister. I could see you did. Very well; perhaps I am not, but
I don't go dancing my lunacy in everybody's face. Ah, it's a queer
world, Leslie."
"No, sir; it is the people who are queer."
"Humph! That's not bad for you, Leslie. Yes; you are about right. It
is the people who are queer. I'm a queer one, so my folks think,
because I sent my plate to the bank, had my furniture in a big town
house sold, and came to live down here. My sister says, to disgrace
them all. There, I'm better now. Want to speak to me?"
"N-no, nothing very particular, Mr Vine."
Uncle Luke tightened his lips, and stared fiercely out to sea.
"Even he can't tell the truth," he said. "Stupid fellow! Just as if I
couldn't read him through and through."
The meeting was assuming an unpleasant form when there was a diversion,
Poll Perrow coming slowly up, basket on back, examining each face keenly
with her sharp, dark eyes.
"Morning, Master Leslie," she said in her sing-song tone. "Nice
morning, my son. Morning, Master Luke Vine, sir. Got any fish for me
to-day?"
Leslie nodded impatiently; Uncle Luke did not turn his head.
"I said to myself," continued the old woman, "Master Luke Vine saw that
shoal of bass off the point this morning, and he'll be sure to have a
heavy basket for me of what he don't want. Dessay I can sell you one,
Mr Leslie, sir."
"Can't you see when two gentlemen are talking?" said Uncle Luke,
snappishly. "Go away."
"Ay, that I will, Master Luke, only let's have the fish first."
"I told you I haven't been fishing."
"Nay, not a word, Master Luke. Now, did he, Master Leslie? No fish,
and I've tramped all the way up here for nothing."
"Shouldn't have come, then."
"It's very hard on a poor woman," sighed Poll, sinking on a stone, and
resting her hands on her knees, her basket creaking loudly. "All this
way up and no fish."
"No; be off."
"Iss, Master Luke, I'll go; but you've always been a kind friend to me,
and I'm going to ask a favour, sir. I'm a lone woman, and at times I
feel gashly ill, and I thought if you'd got a drop of wine or
sperrits--"
"To encourage you in drinking."
"Now listen to him, what hard things he can say, Master Leslie, when I'm
asking for a little in a bottle to keep in the cupboard for medicine."
"Go and beg at my brother's," snarled Uncle Luke.
"How can I, sir, with them in such trouble? Give me a drop, sir; 'bout
a pint in the bottom of a bottle."
"Hear her, Leslie? That's modest. What would her ideas be of a fair
quantity? There, you can go, Poll Perrow. You'll get no spirits or
wine from me."
"Not much, sir, only a little."
"A little? Ask some of your smuggling friends that you go to meet out
beyond the East Town."
The woman's jaw dropped, and Leslie saw that a peculiar blank look of
wonder came over her countenance.
"Go to meet--East Town?"
"Yes; you're always stealing out there now before daybreak. I've
watched you."
"Now think of that, Master Leslie," said the woman with a forced laugh.
"I go with my basket to get a few of the big mussels yonder for bait,
and he talks to me like that. There, see," she continued, swinging
round her basket and taking out a handful of the shellfish, "that's the
sort, sir. Let me leave you a few, Master Luke Vine."
"I don't believe you, Poll. It would not be the first time you were in
a smuggling game. Remember that month in prison?"
"Don't be hard on a poor woman," said Poll. "It was only for hiding a
few kegs of brandy for a poor man."
"Yes, and you're doing it again. I shall just say a word to the
coastguard, and tell them to have an eye on some of the caves yonder."
"No, no: don't, Master Luke, sir," cried the woman, rising excitedly,
and making the shells in her basket rattle. "You wouldn't be so hard as
to get me in trouble."
"There, Leslie," he said with a merry laugh; "am I right? Nice, honest
creature this! Cheating the revenue. If it was not for such women as
this, the fishermen wouldn't smuggle."
"But it doesn't do any one a bit of harm, Master Luke, sir. You won't
speak to the coastguard?"
"Indeed, but I will," cried Uncle Luke, "and have you punished. If you
had been honest your daughter wouldn't have been charged with stealing
down at my brother's."
"And a false charge too," cried the woman, ruffling up angrily. Then
changing her manner, "Now, Master Luke, you wouldn't be so hard. Don't
say a word to the coastguard."
"Not speak to them? Why, time after time I've seen you going off after
some game."
"And more shame for you to watch. I didn't spy on you when you were
down the town of a night, and I used to run against you in the dark
lanes by the harbour."
Uncle Luke started up with his stick in his hand, and a curious grey
look in his face.
"Saw--saw me!" he cried fiercely. "Why, you--but there, I will not get
out of temper with such a woman. Do you hear? Go, and never come here
again."
"Very well, Master Luke, sir, I'm going now," said the woman, as she
adjusted the strap across her forehead; "but you won't be so hard as to
speak to the coastguard. Don't sir, please."
The woman spoke in a low, appealing way, and after trying in vain to
catch Luke Vine's eye, she went slowly up the hill.
"Bad lot--a bad family," muttered Uncle Luke uneasily, as he glanced
sharply up at Leslie from time to time. "Good thing to rid the place of
the hag. Begging at my brother's place for food and things every time
I've been there. Yes. Good morning, Leslie, good morning."
He nodded shortly and went into the cottage, cutting short all further
attempts at being communicative.
Leslie walked steadily back up the hill to his works, and had not been
at his office five minutes before Poll Perrow's basket was creaking
outside.
"I know you won't be so gashly hard on a poor woman, Master Leslie," she
said. "It arn't true about me getting brandy, sir. Let me have a drop
in the bottom of a bottle, sir. You'll never miss it, and you don't
know what good you'll do a poor soul as wants it bad."
"Look here," said Leslie, "I'll give you some on one condition; that you
do not come here again to beg."
"Not if I can help it, sir; but a well-off gentleman like you will never
miss a drop. A pint will be plenty, sir, in as small a bottle as you
can."
Leslie could not help laughing at the woman's impudence, but he said
nothing, only went into the house and returned with a pint bottle filled
with the potent spirit.
"And bless you for it, Master Leslie!" cried Poll Perrow, with her eyes
sparkling. "Now, sir, only one little thing more."
"No," said Leslie, sternly. "I have given you what you asked; now go."
"I only want you to put in a word for me to Master Luke, sir. Don't let
him speak to the coastguard."
"Don't be alarmed; the old man is too good-hearted to do anything of the
kind. But I should advise you to give up all such practices. There:
good-day."
"Good-day, and bless you, my son!" cried Poll eagerly. "I shan't forget
this."
"I was foolish to give it to her," said Leslie to himself, as he watched
the woman's slowly retiring figure; and then he turned his eyes in the
direction of the Vines', as it stood peaceful and bright-looking on its
shelf by the cliff, across the intervening valley.
"Might venture to-night. Surely they would not think it intrusive?
Yes: I will."
Duncan Leslie felt better after coming to this determination, and went
busily about his work at the mine.
Poll Perrow went straight down into the little town and then up the path
at the back, trudging steadily along and at a very good pace, till she
saw about fifty yards in front a figure going in the same direction.
"Miss Madlin!" she said to herself. "I'd know her walk anywhere. And
all in black, too. Ah!"
Poll Perrow stopped short with her mouth open.
"How horrid!" she ejaculated. "It killed him then, after all. Poor
Master Van Heldre! Poor Master Harry Vine!"
She rubbed a tear away with her rough brown hand. Then starting up, she
made the mussels in her basket rattle.
"What nonsense!" she said. "Why, Master Crampton told me last night,
and down the street, that Master Van Heldre was much better, and he
couldn't ha' died and Miss Madlin gone in mourning since last night.
They couldn't ha' got the gownd made."
By this time Madelaine had reached the Vines' gate and gone in.
"Phew!"
Poll Perrow gave vent to a low whistle, something like the cry of a
gull.
"Why, I know!" she muttered. "Miss Madlin's gone into mourning all
along o' Master Harry. Then my Liza's a great goose. She was fond of
him after all. Why! only to think!"
She turned off down a narrow path, so as to get round to the back door,
where she was met by Liza, looking very red and angry.
"Now, what have you come for again? I saw you coming as I let Miss
Madlin in, and it's too bad."
"Oh, Liza, Liza!" said the fish-woman, "what a wicked girl you are to
talk to your poor mother like that!"
"I don't care whether it's wicked or whether it arn't wicked, but I just
tell you this: if you come begging again, you may just go back, for
you'll get nothing here. It's disgraceful; you taking to that."
"No, no, not begging, my clear," said Poll, staring at her daughter's
red-brown face, as if lost in admiration. "Lor', Liza, what a hansum
gal you do grow!"
"Now, do adone, mother, and don't talk like that."
"I can't help it, Liza. I wonder half the fisher-lads in port arn't
half mad after you."
"Now, mother, be quiet; you'll have Miss Margreet hear!"
"Nay, she'll be down-stairs with the company, won't she? Yes, Liza, you
do grow more and more hansum every day."
"Then you oughtn't to tell me so, mother. It'll only make me prouder
than I am. Now, what do you want again? This is four times you've been
here this week."
"Is it, my clear? Well, you see, I've got some of them big mussels as
you're so fond on, and I brought you a few to cook for your supper."
"It's very good of you. Well, there: give them to me, and do please
go."
"Yes, my dear, there you are. That's right. Haven't got a bit o' cold
meat, and a bit o' bread you could give me, have you, Liza?"
"No, I haven't, mother; and you ought to be ashamed to ask."
"So I am, my dear, almost. But you have got some, or half a chicken and
some ham."
"Chicken! Oh, the idea!"
"Yes. There's a good girl; and if there's a bit o' cold pudden, or
anything else, let's have it too. Put it all together in a cloth."
"Now, mother, I won't. It's stealing, and I should feel as if I'd stole
it."
"Oh, what a gal you are, Liza! Why, didn't I wash and iron and bring
home that last napkin, looking white as snow?"
"Yes, but--"
"And so I will this."
"But you won't bring back the cold chicken and ham," retorted Liza.
"Why, how could I, my dear? You know they won't keep."
"Well, once for all, mother, I won't, and there's an end of it."
"You'll break my heart, Liza, 'fore you've done," whimpered the
fish-woman. "Think o' the days and days as I've carried you 'bout in
this very basket, when I've been out gathering mussels or selling fish."
"Now, don't talk stuff, mother. You weared out half-a-dozen baskets
since then."
"P'r'aps I have, Liza, but I haven't weared out the feeling that you're
my gal, as lives here on the fat o' the land, and hot puddens every day,
and refuses to give your poor mother a bit o' broken wittle to save her
from starving. Oh!"
"Mother, don't!" cried Liza, stamping her foot. "If you cry like that
they'll hear you in the parlour."
"Then give me a bit o' something to eat, and let me go."
"I won't, and that's flat, mother."
"Then I shall sit down on the front doorstep, and I'll wait till Miss
Louie comes; and she'll make you give me something. No, I won't; I'll
stop till cook comes. Where is she?"
"A-cleaning herself."
"Then I shall wait."
"Oh, dear! oh, dear!" cried Liza, stamping about, and speaking in a
tearful whisper. "I do wish I never hadn't had no mother, that I do."
"There's a ungrateful gal," said the fish-woman; "and you growed up so
beautiful, and me so proud on you."
"Well, will you promise to go away, mother, and never come and ask no
more if I give you something this time?"
"To be sure I will, my dear, of course. There, be quick, before any one
comes, and do it up neat in a napkin, there's a good gal, and I'll bring
you a lobster next time I come."
"There, now, and you promised you wouldn't come no more."
"Ah, well, I won't then, my dear."
"Then I'll get you a bit this time; but mind, never no more."
"No, never no more, my beauty. Only be quick."
Liza disappeared, and Poll Perrow took off her basket and sat down on
the edge, rubbing her knees and laughing heartily to herself, but
smoothing her countenance again directly, as she heard her daughter's
step.
"There, mother," whispered Liza, "and I feel just as if there was the
police after me, same as they was after Master Harry. This is the last
time, mind."
"Yes, my beauty, the last time. What is there?"
"No, no, don't open it," cried the girl, laying her hand sharply upon
the parcel she had given to her mother. "There's half a pork pie, and a
piece of seed cake, and a bit o' chicken."
"Any bread?"
"Yes, lots. Now hide it in your basket, and go."
"To be sure I will, Liza." And the white napkin and its contents were
soon hidden under a piece of fishing-net. "There, goodbye, my dear.
You'll be glad you've helped your poor old mother, that you will, and--
Good mornin', Miss Margreet."
"Put that basket down," said the old lady sharply, as she stood gazing
imperiously at the detected pair.
"Put the basket down, miss?"
"Yes, directly. I am glad I came down and caught you in the act.
Shameful! Disgraceful! Liza, take out that parcel of food stolen from
my brother."
"No, no, Miss Margreet, only broken wittles, as would be thrown away."
"Quick! Take it out, Liza. Now go."
Liza stooped down, sobbing, and pulled the bundle out of the basket.
"I always said you'd be the ruin of me, mother," she sobbed.
"No, no, my dear," cried the woman; "Miss Margreet won't be hard on us.
Let me have it, miss, do, please."
"Go away!" cried Aunt Marguerite fiercely.
"Pray, pray do, miss," cried the woman imploringly.
"Go away, I say!" cried Aunt Marguerite, "and if you set foot on these
premises again, you shall leave with the police. Go!"
Poor Liza stood inside the door, sobbing, with the bundle of good things
neatly pinned up in her hand, while Aunt Marguerite stood pointing
imperiously with her closed fan, as if it were a sceptre, till Poll
Perrow, with her basket swung once more upon her back, disappeared out
of the gate.
"Now, madam," said Aunt Marguerite, "the moment that young person in the
drawing-room has gone, you shall receive your dismissal, and in
disgrace."
Volume 2, Chapter XX.